the happy prince.
high above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the happy prince.
he was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt.
he was very much admired indeed.
“he is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the town councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not.
“why can’t you be like the happy prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon.
“the happy prince never dreams of crying for anything.”
“i am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue.
“he looks just like an angel,” said the charity children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores.
“how do you know?” said the mathematical master, “you have never seen one.”
“ah!
but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the mathematical master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming.
one night there flew over the city a little swallow.
his friends had gone away to egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful reed.
he had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her.
“shall i love you?” said the swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the reed made him a low bow.
so he flew round and round her, touching the water with his wings, and making silver ripples.
this was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer.
“it is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”; and indeed the river was quite full of reeds.
then, when the autumn came they all flew away.
after they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love.
“she has no conversation,” he said, “and i am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.”  and certainly, whenever the wind blew, the reed made the most graceful curtseys.
“i admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but i love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.”
“will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home.
“you have been trifling with me,” he cried.
“i am off to the pyramids.
good-bye!” and he flew away.
all day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city.
“where shall i put up?” he said; “i hope the town has made preparations.”
then he saw the statue on the tall column.
“i will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position, with plenty of fresh air.”  so he alighted just between the feet of the happy prince.
“i have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing a large drop of water fell on him.
“what a curious thing!” he cried; “there is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining.
the climate in the north of europe is really dreadful.
the reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.”
then another drop fell.
“what is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “i must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away.
but before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up, and saw—ah!
what did he see?
the eyes of the happy prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks.
his face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little swallow was filled with pity.
“who are you?” he said.
“i am the happy prince.”
“why are you weeping then?” asked the swallow; “you have quite drenched me.”
“when i was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “i did not know what tears were, for i lived in the palace of sans-souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter.
in the daytime i played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening i led the dance in the great hall.
round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but i never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful.
my courtiers called me the happy prince, and happy indeed i was, if pleasure be happiness.
so i lived, and so i died.
and now that i am dead they have set me up here so high that i can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead yet i cannot chose but weep.”
“what!
is he not solid gold?” said the swallow to himself.
he was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud.
“far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a little street there is a poor house.
one of the windows is open, and through it i can see a woman seated at a table.
her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse, red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress.
she is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next court-ball.
in a bed in the corner of the room her little boy is lying ill.  he has a fever, and is asking for oranges.
his mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying.
swallow, swallow, little swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt?
my feet are fastened to this pedestal and i cannot move.”
“i am waited for in egypt,” said the swallow.
“my friends are flying up and down the nile, and talking to the large lotus-flowers.
soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great king.
the king is there himself in his painted coffin.
he is wrapped in yellow linen, and embalmed with spices.
round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.”
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “will you not stay with me for one night, and be my messenger?
the boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.”
“i don’t think i like boys,” answered the swallow.
“last summer, when i was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me.
they never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, i come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.”
but the happy prince looked so sad that the little swallow was sorry.
“it is very cold here,” he said; “but i will stay with you for one night, and be your messenger.”
“thank you, little swallow,” said the prince.
so the swallow picked out the great ruby from the prince’s sword, and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town.
he passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured.
he passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing.
a beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover.
“how wonderful the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!”
“i hope my dress will be ready in time for the state-ball,” she answered; “i have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.”
he passed over the river, and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships.
he passed over the ghetto, and saw the old jews bargaining with each other, and weighing out money in copper scales.
at last he came to the poor house and looked in.
the boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired.
in he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble.
then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings.
“how cool i feel,” said the boy, “i must be getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber.
then the swallow flew back to the happy prince, and told him what he had done.
“it is curious,” he remarked, “but i feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.”
“that is because you have done a good action,” said the prince.
and the little swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep.
thinking always made him sleepy.
when day broke he flew down to the river and had a bath.
“what a remarkable phenomenon,” said the professor of ornithology as he was passing over the bridge.
“a swallow in winter!”  and he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper.
every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand.
“to-night i go to egypt,” said the swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect.
he visited all the public monuments, and sat a long time on top of the church steeple.
wherever he went the sparrows chirruped, and said to each other, “what a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much.
when the moon rose he flew back to the happy prince.
“have you any commissions for egypt?” he cried; “i am just starting.”
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“i am waited for in egypt,” answered the swallow.
“to-morrow my friends will fly up to the second cataract.
the river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the god memnon.
all night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent.
at noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink.
they have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.”
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “far away across the city i see a young man in a garret.
he is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets.
his hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes.
he is trying to finish a play for the director of the theatre, but he is too cold to write any more.
there is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.”
“i will wait with you one night longer,” said the swallow, who really had a good heart.
“shall i take him another ruby?”
“alas!
i have no ruby now,” said the prince; “my eyes are all that i have left.
they are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of india a thousand years ago.
pluck out one of them and take it to him.
he will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.”
“dear prince,” said the swallow, “i cannot do that”; and he began to weep.
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “do as i command you.”
so the swallow plucked out the prince’s eye, and flew away to the student’s garret.
it was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof.
through this he darted, and came into the room.
the young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets.
“i am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great admirer.
now i can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy.
the next day the swallow flew down to the harbour.
he sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes.
“heave a-hoy!” they shouted as each chest came up.
“i am going to egypt”!
cried the swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose he flew back to the happy prince.
“i am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried.
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?”
“it is winter,” answered the swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be here.
in egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them.
my companions are building a nest in the temple of baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them, and cooing to each other.
dear prince, i must leave you, but i will never forget you, and next spring i will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away.
the ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.”
“in the square below,” said the happy prince, “there stands a little match-girl.
she has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled.
her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying.
she has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare.
pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.”
“i will stay with you one night longer,” said the swallow, “but i cannot pluck out your eye.
you would be quite blind then.”
“swallow, swallow, little swallow,” said the prince, “do as i command you.”
so he plucked out the prince’s other eye, and darted down with it.
he swooped past the match-girl, and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand.
“what a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing.
then the swallow came back to the prince.
“you are blind now,” he said, “so i will stay with you always.”
“no, little swallow,” said the poor prince, “you must go away to egypt.”
“i will stay with you always,” said the swallow, and he slept at the prince’s feet.
all the next day he sat on the prince’s shoulder, and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands.
he told him of the red ibises, who stand in long rows on the banks of the nile, and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels, and carry amber beads in their hands; of the king of the mountains of the moon, who is as black as ebony, and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree, and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves, and are always at war with the butterflies.
“dear little swallow,” said the prince, “you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women.
there is no mystery so great as misery.
fly over my city, little swallow, and tell me what you see there.”
so the swallow flew over the great city, and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates.
he flew into dark lanes, and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets.
under the archway of a bridge two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm.
“how hungry we are!” they said.
“you must not lie here,” shouted the watchman, and they wandered out into the rain.
then he flew back and told the prince what he had seen.
“i am covered with fine gold,” said the prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.”
leaf after leaf of the fine gold the swallow picked off, till the happy prince looked quite dull and grey.
leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street.
“we have bread now!” they cried.
then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost.
the streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs, and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice.
the poor little swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the prince, he loved him too well.
he picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when the baker was not looking and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings.
but at last he knew that he was going to die.
he had just strength to fly up to the prince’s shoulder once more.
“good-bye, dear prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss your hand?”
“i am glad that you are going to egypt at last, little swallow,” said the prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for i love you.”
“it is not to egypt that i am going,” said the swallow.
“i am going to the house of death.
death is the brother of sleep, is he not?”
and he kissed the happy prince on the lips, and fell down dead at his feet.
at that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken.
the fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two.
it certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.
early the next morning the mayor was walking in the square below in company with the town councillors.
as they passed the column he looked up at the statue: “dear me!
how shabby the happy prince looks!” he said.
“how shabby indeed!” cried the town councillors, who always agreed with the mayor; and they went up to look at it.
“the ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,” said the mayor in fact, “he is litttle better than a beggar!”
“little better than a beggar,” said the town councillors.
“and here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the mayor.
“we must really issue a proclamation that birds are not to be allowed to die here.”  and the town clerk made a note of the suggestion.
so they pulled down the statue of the happy prince.
“as he is no longer beautiful he is no longer useful,” said the art professor at the university.
then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the mayor held a meeting of the corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal.
“we must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.”
“of myself,” said each of the town councillors, and they quarrelled.
when i last heard of them they were quarrelling still.
“what a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry.
“this broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace.
we must throw it away.”  so they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead swallow was also lying.
“bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said god to one of his angels; and the angel brought him the leaden heart and the dead bird.
“you have rightly chosen,” said god, “for in my garden of paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the happy prince shall praise me.”
the nightingale and the rose.
“she said that she would dance with me if i brought her red roses,” cried the young student; “but in all my garden there is no red rose.”
from her nest in the holm-oak tree the nightingale heard him, and she looked out through the leaves, and wondered.
“no red rose in all my garden!” he cried, and his beautiful eyes filled with tears.
“ah, on what little things does happiness depend!
i have read all that the wise men have written, and all the secrets of philosophy are mine, yet for want of a red rose is my life made wretched.”
“here at last is a true lover,” said the nightingale.
“night after night have i sung of him, though i knew him not: night after night have i told his story to the stars, and now i see him.
his hair is dark as the hyacinth-blossom, and his lips are red as the rose of his desire; but passion has made his face like pale ivory, and sorrow has set her seal upon his brow.”
“the prince gives a ball to-morrow night,” murmured the young student, “and my love will be of the company.
if i bring her a red rose she will dance with me till dawn.
if i bring her a red rose, i shall hold her in my arms, and she will lean her head upon my shoulder, and her hand will be clasped in mine.
but there is no red rose in my garden, so i shall sit lonely, and she will pass me by.
she will have no heed of me, and my heart will break.”
“here indeed is the true lover,” said the nightingale.
“what i sing of, he suffers—what is joy to me, to him is pain.
surely love is a wonderful thing.
it is more precious than emeralds, and dearer than fine opals.
pearls and pomegranates cannot buy it, nor is it set forth in the marketplace.
it may not be purchased of the merchants, nor can it be weighed out in the balance for gold.”
“the musicians will sit in their gallery,” said the young student, “and play upon their stringed instruments, and my love will dance to the sound of the harp and the violin.
she will dance so lightly that her feet will not touch the floor, and the courtiers in their gay dresses will throng round her.
but with me she will not dance, for i have no red rose to give her”; and he flung himself down on the grass, and buried his face in his hands, and wept.
“why is he weeping?” asked a little green lizard, as he ran past him with his tail in the air.
“why, indeed?” said a butterfly, who was fluttering about after a sunbeam.
“why, indeed?” whispered a daisy to his neighbour, in a soft, low voice.
“he is weeping for a red rose,” said the nightingale.
“for a red rose?” they cried; “how very ridiculous!” and the little lizard, who was something of a cynic, laughed outright.
but the nightingale understood the secret of the student’s sorrow, and she sat silent in the oak-tree, and thought about the mystery of love.
suddenly she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
she passed through the grove like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed across the garden.
in the centre of the grass-plot was standing a beautiful rose-tree, and when she saw it she flew over to it, and lit upon a spray.
“give me a red rose,” she cried, “and i will sing you my sweetest song.”
but the tree shook its head.
“my roses are white,” it answered; “as white as the foam of the sea, and whiter than the snow upon the mountain.
but go to my brother who grows round the old sun-dial, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing round the old sun-dial.
“give me a red rose,” she cried, “and i will sing you my sweetest song.”
but the tree shook its head.
“my roses are yellow,” it answered; “as yellow as the hair of the mermaiden who sits upon an amber throne, and yellower than the daffodil that blooms in the meadow before the mower comes with his scythe.
but go to my brother who grows beneath the student’s window, and perhaps he will give you what you want.”
so the nightingale flew over to the rose-tree that was growing beneath the student’s window.
“give me a red rose,” she cried, “and i will sing you my sweetest song.”
but the tree shook its head.
“my roses are red,” it answered, “as red as the feet of the dove, and redder than the great fans of coral that wave and wave in the ocean-cavern.
but the winter has chilled my veins, and the frost has nipped my buds, and the storm has broken my branches, and i shall have no roses at all this year.”
“one red rose is all i want,” cried the nightingale, “only one red rose!
is there no way by which i can get it?”
“there is a way,” answered the tree; “but it is so terrible that i dare not tell it to you.”
“tell it to me,” said the nightingale, “i am not afraid.”
“if you want a red rose,” said the tree, “you must build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with your own heart’s-blood.
you must sing to me with your breast against a thorn.
all night long you must sing to me, and the thorn must pierce your heart, and your life-blood must flow into my veins, and become mine.”
“death is a great price to pay for a red rose,” cried the nightingale, “and life is very dear to all.
it is pleasant to sit in the green wood, and to watch the sun in his chariot of gold, and the moon in her chariot of pearl.
sweet is the scent of the hawthorn, and sweet are the bluebells that hide in the valley, and the heather that blows on the hill.
yet love is better than life, and what is the heart of a bird compared to the heart of a man?”
so she spread her brown wings for flight, and soared into the air.
she swept over the garden like a shadow, and like a shadow she sailed through the grove.
the young student was still lying on the grass, where she had left him, and the tears were not yet dry in his beautiful eyes.
“be happy,” cried the nightingale, “be happy; you shall have your red rose.
i will build it out of music by moonlight, and stain it with my own heart’s-blood.
all that i ask of you in return is that you will be a true lover, for love is wiser than philosophy, though she is wise, and mightier than power, though he is mighty.
flame-coloured are his wings, and coloured like flame is his body.
his lips are sweet as honey, and his breath is like frankincense.”
the student looked up from the grass, and listened, but he could not understand what the nightingale was saying to him, for he only knew the things that are written down in books.
but the oak-tree understood, and felt sad, for he was very fond of the little nightingale who had built her nest in his branches.
“sing me one last song,” he whispered; “i shall feel very lonely when you are gone.”
so the nightingale sang to the oak-tree, and her voice was like water bubbling from a silver jar.
when she had finished her song the student got up, and pulled a note-book and a lead-pencil out of his pocket.
“she has form,” he said to himself, as he walked away through the grove—“that cannot be denied to her; but has she got feeling?
i am afraid not.
in fact, she is like most artists; she is all style, without any sincerity.
she would not sacrifice herself for others.
she thinks merely of music, and everybody knows that the arts are selfish.
still, it must be admitted that she has some beautiful notes in her voice.
what a pity it is that they do not mean anything, or do any practical good.”
and he went into his room, and lay down on his little pallet-bed, and began to think of his love; and, after a time, he fell asleep.
and when the moon shone in the heavens the nightingale flew to the rose-tree, and set her breast against the thorn.
all night long she sang with her breast against the thorn, and the cold crystal moon leaned down and listened.
all night long she sang, and the thorn went deeper and deeper into her breast, and her life-blood ebbed away from her.
she sang first of the birth of love in the heart of a boy and a girl.
and on the top-most spray of the rose-tree there blossomed a marvellous rose, petal following petal, as song followed song.
pale was it, at first, as the mist that hangs over the river—pale as the feet of the morning, and silver as the wings of the dawn.
as the shadow of a rose in a mirror of silver, as the shadow of a rose in a water-pool, so was the rose that blossomed on the topmost spray of the tree.
but the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
“press closer, little nightingale,” cried the tree, “or the day will come before the rose is finished.”
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and louder and louder grew her song, for she sang of the birth of passion in the soul of a man and a maid.
and a delicate flush of pink came into the leaves of the rose, like the flush in the face of the bridegroom when he kisses the lips of the bride.
but the thorn had not yet reached her heart, so the rose’s heart remained white, for only a nightingale’s heart’s-blood can crimson the heart of a rose.
and the tree cried to the nightingale to press closer against the thorn.
“press closer, little nightingale,” cried the tree, “or the day will come before the rose is finished.”
so the nightingale pressed closer against the thorn, and the thorn touched her heart, and a fierce pang of pain shot through her.
bitter, bitter was the pain, and wilder and wilder grew her song, for she sang of the love that is perfected by death, of the love that dies not in the tomb.
and the marvellous rose became crimson, like the rose of the eastern sky.
crimson was the girdle of petals, and crimson as a ruby was the heart.
but the nightingale’s voice grew fainter, and her little wings began to beat, and a film came over her eyes.
fainter and fainter grew her song, and she felt something choking her in her throat.
then she gave one last burst of music.
the white moon heard it, and she forgot the dawn, and lingered on in the sky.
the red rose heard it, and it trembled all over with ecstasy, and opened its petals to the cold morning air.
echo bore it to her purple cavern in the hills, and woke the sleeping shepherds from their dreams.
it floated through the reeds of the river, and they carried its message to the sea.
“look, look!” cried the tree, “the rose is finished now”; but the nightingale made no answer, for she was lying dead in the long grass, with the thorn in her heart.
and at noon the student opened his window and looked out.
“why, what a wonderful piece of luck!” he cried; “here is a red rose!
i have never seen any rose like it in all my life.
it is so beautiful that i am sure it has a long latin name”; and he leaned down and plucked it.
then he put on his hat, and ran up to the professor’s house with the rose in his hand.
the daughter of the professor was sitting in the doorway winding blue silk on a reel, and her little dog was lying at her feet.
“you said that you would dance with me if i brought you a red rose,”
cried the student.
“here is the reddest rose in all the world.
you will wear it to-night next your heart, and as we dance together it will tell you how i love you.”
but the girl frowned.
“i am afraid it will not go with my dress,” she answered; “and, besides, the chamberlain’s nephew has sent me some real jewels, and everybody knows that jewels cost far more than flowers.”
“well, upon my word, you are very ungrateful,” said the student angrily; and he threw the rose into the street, where it fell into the gutter, and a cart-wheel went over it.
“ungrateful!” said the girl.
“i tell you what, you are very rude; and, after all, who are you?
only a student.
why, i don’t believe you have even got silver buckles to your shoes as the chamberlain’s nephew has”; and she got up from her chair and went into the house.
“what a silly thing love is,” said the student as he walked away.
“it is not half as useful as logic, for it does not prove anything, and it is always telling one of things that are not going to happen, and making one believe things that are not true.
in fact, it is quite unpractical, and, as in this age to be practical is everything, i shall go back to philosophy and study metaphysics.”
so he returned to his room and pulled out a great dusty book, and began to read.
the selfish giant.
every afternoon, as they were coming from school, the children used to go and play in the giant’s garden.
it was a large lovely garden, with soft green grass.
here and there over the grass stood beautiful flowers like stars, and there were twelve peach-trees that in the spring-time broke out into delicate blossoms of pink and pearl, and in the autumn bore rich fruit.
the birds sat on the trees and sang so sweetly that the children used to stop their games in order to listen to them.
“how happy we are here!” they cried to each other.
[picture: decorative graphic of children in garden]
one day the giant came back.
he had been to visit his friend the cornish ogre, and had stayed with him for seven years.
after the seven years were over he had said all that he had to say, for his conversation was limited, and he determined to return to his own castle.
when he arrived he saw the children playing in the garden.
“what are you doing here?” he cried in a very gruff voice, and the children ran away.
“my own garden is my own garden,” said the giant; “any one can understand that, and i will allow nobody to play in it but myself.”  so he built a high wall all round it, and put up a notice-board.
trespassers
will be
prosecuted
he was a very selfish giant.
the poor children had now nowhere to play.
they tried to play on the road, but the road was very dusty and full of hard stones, and they did not like it.
they used to wander round the high wall when their lessons were over, and talk about the beautiful garden inside.
“how happy we were there,” they said to each other.
then the spring came, and all over the country there were little blossoms and little birds.
only in the garden of the selfish giant it was still winter.
the birds did not care to sing in it as there were no children, and the trees forgot to blossom.
once a beautiful flower put its head out from the grass, but when it saw the notice-board it was so sorry for the children that it slipped back into the ground again, and went off to sleep.
the only people who were pleased were the snow and the frost.
“spring has forgotten this garden,” they cried, “so we will live here all the year round.”  the snow covered up the grass with her great white cloak, and the frost painted all the trees silver.
then they invited the north wind to stay with them, and he came.
he was wrapped in furs, and he roared all day about the garden, and blew the chimney-pots down.
“this is a delightful spot,” he said, “we must ask the hail on a visit.”
so the hail came.
every day for three hours he rattled on the roof of the castle till he broke most of the slates, and then he ran round and round the garden as fast as he could go.
he was dressed in grey, and his breath was like ice.
“i cannot understand why the spring is so late in coming,” said the selfish giant, as he sat at the window and looked out at his cold white garden; “i hope there will be a change in the weather.”
but the spring never came, nor the summer.
the autumn gave golden fruit to every garden, but to the giant’s garden she gave none.
“he is too selfish,” she said.
so it was always winter there, and the north wind, and the hail, and the frost, and the snow danced about through the trees.
one morning the giant was lying awake in bed when he heard some lovely music.
it sounded so sweet to his ears that he thought it must be the king’s musicians passing by.
it was really only a little linnet singing outside his window, but it was so long since he had heard a bird sing in his garden that it seemed to him to be the most beautiful music in the world.
then the hail stopped dancing over his head, and the north wind ceased roaring, and a delicious perfume came to him through the open casement.
“i believe the spring has come at last,” said the giant; and he jumped out of bed and looked out.
what did he see?
he saw a most wonderful sight.
through a little hole in the wall the children had crept in, and they were sitting in the branches of the trees.
in every tree that he could see there was a little child.
and the trees were so glad to have the children back again that they had covered themselves with blossoms, and were waving their arms gently above the children’s heads.
the birds were flying about and twittering with delight, and the flowers were looking up through the green grass and laughing.
it was a lovely scene, only in one corner it was still winter.
it was the farthest corner of the garden, and in it was standing a little boy.
he was so small that he could not reach up to the branches of the tree, and he was wandering all round it, crying bitterly.
the poor tree was still quite covered with frost and snow, and the north wind was blowing and roaring above it.
“climb up!
little boy,” said the tree, and it bent its branches down as low as it could; but the boy was too tiny.
and the giant’s heart melted as he looked out.
“how selfish i have been!” he said; “now i know why the spring would not come here.
i will put that poor little boy on the top of the tree, and then i will knock down the wall, and my garden shall be the children’s playground for ever and ever.”  he was really very sorry for what he had done.
so he crept downstairs and opened the front door quite softly, and went out into the garden.
but when the children saw him they were so frightened that they all ran away, and the garden became winter again.
only the little boy did not run, for his eyes were so full of tears that he did not see the giant coming.
and the giant stole up behind him and took him gently in his hand, and put him up into the tree.
and the tree broke at once into blossom, and the birds came and sang on it, and the little boy stretched out his two arms and flung them round the giant’s neck, and kissed him.
and the other children, when they saw that the giant was not wicked any longer, came running back, and with them came the spring.
“it is your garden now, little children,” said the giant, and he took a great axe and knocked down the wall.
and when the people were going to market at twelve o’clock they found the giant playing with the children in the most beautiful garden they had ever seen.
all day long they played, and in the evening they came to the giant to bid him good-bye.
“but where is your little companion?” he said: “the boy i put into the tree.”  the giant loved him the best because he had kissed him.
“we don’t know,” answered the children; “he has gone away.”
“you must tell him to be sure and come here to-morrow,” said the giant.
but the children said that they did not know where he lived, and had never seen him before; and the giant felt very sad.
every afternoon, when school was over, the children came and played with the giant.
but the little boy whom the giant loved was never seen again.
the giant was very kind to all the children, yet he longed for his first little friend, and often spoke of him.
“how i would like to see him!” he used to say.
years went over, and the giant grew very old and feeble.
he could not play about any more, so he sat in a huge armchair, and watched the children at their games, and admired his garden.
“i have many beautiful flowers,” he said; “but the children are the most beautiful flowers of all.”
one winter morning he looked out of his window as he was dressing.
he did not hate the winter now, for he knew that it was merely the spring asleep, and that the flowers were resting.
suddenly he rubbed his eyes in wonder, and looked and looked.
it certainly was a marvellous sight.
in the farthest corner of the garden was a tree quite covered with lovely white blossoms.
its branches were all golden, and silver fruit hung down from them, and underneath it stood the little boy he had loved.
downstairs ran the giant in great joy, and out into the garden.
he hastened across the grass, and came near to the child.
and when he came quite close his face grew red with anger, and he said, “who hath dared to wound thee?”  for on the palms of the child’s hands were the prints of two nails, and the prints of two nails were on the little feet.
“who hath dared to wound thee?” cried the giant; “tell me, that i may take my big sword and slay him.”
“nay!” answered the child; “but these are the wounds of love.”
“who art thou?” said the giant, and a strange awe fell on him, and he knelt before the little child.
and the child smiled on the giant, and said to him, “you let me play once in your garden, to-day you shall come with me to my garden, which is paradise.”
and when the children ran in that afternoon, they found the giant lying dead under the tree, all covered with white blossoms.
the devoted friend.
one morning the old water-rat put his head out of his hole.
he had bright beady eyes and stiff grey whiskers and his tail was like a long bit of black india-rubber.
the little ducks were swimming about in the pond, looking just like a lot of yellow canaries, and their mother, who was pure white with real red legs, was trying to teach them how to stand on their heads in the water.
“you will never be in the best society unless you can stand on your heads,” she kept saying to them; and every now and then she showed them how it was done.
but the little ducks paid no attention to her.
they were so young that they did not know what an advantage it is to be in society at all.
“what disobedient children!” cried the old water-rat; “they really deserve to be drowned.”
“nothing of the kind,” answered the duck, “every one must make a beginning, and parents cannot be too patient.”
“ah!
i know nothing about the feelings of parents,” said the water-rat; “i am not a family man.
in fact, i have never been married, and i never intend to be.
love is all very well in its way, but friendship is much higher.
indeed, i know of nothing in the world that is either nobler or rarer than a devoted friendship.”
“and what, pray, is your idea of the duties of a devoted friend?” asked a green linnet, who was sitting in a willow-tree hard by, and had overheard the conversation.
“yes, that is just what i want to know,” said the duck; and she swam away to the end of the pond, and stood upon her head, in order to give her children a good example.
“what a silly question!” cried the water-rat.
“i should expect my devoted friend to be devoted to me, of course.”
“and what would you do in return?” said the little bird, swinging upon a silver spray, and flapping his tiny wings.
“i don’t understand you,” answered the water-rat.
“let me tell you a story on the subject,” said the linnet.
“is the story about me?” asked the water-rat.
“if so, i will listen to it, for i am extremely fond of fiction.”
“it is applicable to you,” answered the linnet; and he flew down, and alighting upon the bank, he told the story of the devoted friend.
“once upon a time,” said the linnet, “there was an honest little fellow named hans.”
“was he very distinguished?” asked the water-rat.
“no,” answered the linnet, “i don’t think he was distinguished at all, except for his kind heart, and his funny round good-humoured face.
he lived in a tiny cottage all by himself, and every day he worked in his garden.
in all the country-side there was no garden so lovely as his.
sweet-william grew there, and gilly-flowers, and shepherds’-purses, and fair-maids of france.
there were damask roses, and yellow roses, lilac crocuses, and gold, purple violets and white.
columbine and ladysmock, marjoram and wild basil, the cowslip and the flower-de-luce, the daffodil and the clove-pink bloomed or blossomed in their proper order as the months went by, one flower taking another flower’s place, so that there were always beautiful things to look at, and pleasant odours to smell.
“little hans had a great many friends, but the most devoted friend of all was big hugh the miller.
indeed, so devoted was the rich miller to little hans, that he would never go by his garden without leaning over the wall and plucking a large nosegay, or a handful of sweet herbs, or filling his pockets with plums and cherries if it was the fruit season.
“‘real friends should have everything in common,’ the miller used to say, and little hans nodded and smiled, and felt very proud of having a friend with such noble ideas.
“sometimes, indeed, the neighbours thought it strange that the rich miller never gave little hans anything in return, though he had a hundred sacks of flour stored away in his mill, and six milch cows, and a large flock of woolly sheep; but hans never troubled his head about these things, and nothing gave him greater pleasure than to listen to all the wonderful things the miller used to say about the unselfishness of true friendship.
“so little hans worked away in his garden.
during the spring, the summer, and the autumn he was very happy, but when the winter came, and he had no fruit or flowers to bring to the market, he suffered a good deal from cold and hunger, and often had to go to bed without any supper but a few dried pears or some hard nuts.
in the winter, also, he was extremely lonely, as the miller never came to see him then.
“‘there is no good in my going to see little hans as long as the snow lasts,’ the miller used to say to his wife, ‘for when people are in trouble they should be left alone, and not be bothered by visitors.
that at least is my idea about friendship, and i am sure i am right.
so i shall wait till the spring comes, and then i shall pay him a visit, and he will be able to give me a large basket of primroses and that will make him so happy.’
“‘you are certainly very thoughtful about others,’ answered the wife, as she sat in her comfortable armchair by the big pinewood fire; ‘very thoughtful indeed.
it is quite a treat to hear you talk about friendship.
i am sure the clergyman himself could not say such beautiful things as you do, though he does live in a three-storied house, and wear a gold ring on his little finger.’
“‘but could we not ask little hans up here?’ said the miller’s youngest son.
‘if poor hans is in trouble i will give him half my porridge, and show him my white rabbits.’
“‘what a silly boy you are!’ cried the miller; ‘i really don’t know what is the use of sending you to school.
you seem not to learn anything.
why, if little hans came up here, and saw our warm fire, and our good supper, and our great cask of red wine, he might get envious, and envy is a most terrible thing, and would spoil anybody’s nature.
i certainly will not allow hans’ nature to be spoiled.
i am his best friend, and i will always watch over him, and see that he is not led into any temptations.
besides, if hans came here, he might ask me to let him have some flour on credit, and that i could not do.
flour is one thing, and friendship is another, and they should not be confused.
why, the words are spelt differently, and mean quite different things.
everybody can see that.’
“‘how well you talk!’ said the miller’s wife, pouring herself out a large glass of warm ale; ‘really i feel quite drowsy.
it is just like being in church.’
“‘lots of people act well,’ answered the miller; ‘but very few people talk well, which shows that talking is much the more difficult thing of the two, and much the finer thing also’; and he looked sternly across the table at his little son, who felt so ashamed of himself that he hung his head down, and grew quite scarlet, and began to cry into his tea.
however, he was so young that you must excuse him.”
“is that the end of the story?” asked the water-rat.
“certainly not,” answered the linnet, “that is the beginning.”
“then you are quite behind the age,” said the water-rat.
“every good story-teller nowadays starts with the end, and then goes on to the beginning, and concludes with the middle.
that is the new method.
i heard all about it the other day from a critic who was walking round the pond with a young man.
he spoke of the matter at great length, and i am sure he must have been right, for he had blue spectacles and a bald head, and whenever the young man made any remark, he always answered ‘pooh!’
but pray go on with your story.
i like the miller immensely.
i have all kinds of beautiful sentiments myself, so there is a great sympathy between us.”
“well,” said the linnet, hopping now on one leg and now on the other, “as soon as the winter was over, and the primroses began to open their pale yellow stars, the miller said to his wife that he would go down and see little hans.
“‘why, what a good heart you have!’ cried his wife; ‘you are always thinking of others.
and mind you take the big basket with you for the flowers.’
“so the miller tied the sails of the windmill together with a strong iron chain, and went down the hill with the basket on his arm.
“‘good morning, little hans,’ said the miller.
“‘good morning,’ said hans, leaning on his spade, and smiling from ear to ear.
“‘and how have you been all the winter?’ said the miller.
“‘well, really,’ cried hans, ‘it is very good of you to ask, very good indeed.
i am afraid i had rather a hard time of it, but now the spring has come, and i am quite happy, and all my flowers are doing well.’
“‘we often talked of you during the winter, hans,’ said the miller, ‘and wondered how you were getting on.’
“‘that was kind of you,’ said hans; ‘i was half afraid you had forgotten me.’
“‘hans, i am surprised at you,’ said the miller; ‘friendship never forgets.
that is the wonderful thing about it, but i am afraid you don’t understand the poetry of life.
how lovely your primroses are looking, by-the-bye!”
“‘they are certainly very lovely,’ said hans, ‘and it is a most lucky thing for me that i have so many.
i am going to bring them into the market and sell them to the burgomaster’s daughter, and buy back my wheelbarrow with the money.’
“‘buy back your wheelbarrow?
you don’t mean to say you have sold it?
what a very stupid thing to do!’
“‘well, the fact is,’ said hans, ‘that i was obliged to.
you see the winter was a very bad time for me, and i really had no money at all to buy bread with.
so i first sold the silver buttons off my sunday coat, and then i sold my silver chain, and then i sold my big pipe, and at last i sold my wheelbarrow.
but i am going to buy them all back again now.’
“‘hans,’ said the miller, ‘i will give you my wheelbarrow.
it is not in very good repair; indeed, one side is gone, and there is something wrong with the wheel-spokes; but in spite of that i will give it to you.
i know it is very generous of me, and a great many people would think me extremely foolish for parting with it, but i am not like the rest of the world.
i think that generosity is the essence of friendship, and, besides, i have got a new wheelbarrow for myself.
yes, you may set your mind at ease, i will give you my wheelbarrow.’
“‘well, really, that is generous of you,’ said little hans, and his funny round face glowed all over with pleasure.
‘i can easily put it in repair, as i have a plank of wood in the house.’
“‘a plank of wood!’ said the miller; ‘why, that is just what i want for the roof of my barn.
there is a very large hole in it, and the corn will all get damp if i don’t stop it up.
how lucky you mentioned it!
it is quite remarkable how one good action always breeds another.
i have given you my wheelbarrow, and now you are going to give me your plank.
of course, the wheelbarrow is worth far more than the plank, but true, friendship never notices things like that.
pray get it at once, and i will set to work at my barn this very day.’
“‘certainly,’ cried little hans, and he ran into the shed and dragged the plank out.
“‘it is not a very big plank,’ said the miller, looking at it, ‘and i am afraid that after i have mended my barn-roof there won’t be any left for you to mend the wheelbarrow with; but, of course, that is not my fault.
and now, as i have given you my wheelbarrow, i am sure you would like to give me some flowers in return.
here is the basket, and mind you fill it quite full.’
“‘quite full?’ said little hans, rather sorrowfully, for it was really a very big basket, and he knew that if he filled it he would have no flowers left for the market and he was very anxious to get his silver buttons back.
“‘well, really,’ answered the miller, ‘as i have given you my wheelbarrow, i don’t think that it is much to ask you for a few flowers.
i may be wrong, but i should have thought that friendship, true friendship, was quite free from selfishness of any kind.’
“‘my dear friend, my best friend,’ cried little hans, ‘you are welcome to all the flowers in my garden.
i would much sooner have your good opinion than my silver buttons, any day’; and he ran and plucked all his pretty primroses, and filled the miller’s basket.
“‘good-bye, little hans,’ said the miller, as he went up the hill with the plank on his shoulder, and the big basket in his hand.
“‘good-bye,’ said little hans, and he began to dig away quite merrily, he was so pleased about the wheelbarrow.
“the next day he was nailing up some honeysuckle against the porch, when he heard the miller’s voice calling to him from the road.
so he jumped off the ladder, and ran down the garden, and looked over the wall.
“there was the miller with a large sack of flour on his back.
“‘dear little hans,’ said the miller, ‘would you mind carrying this sack of flour for me to market?’
“‘oh, i am so sorry,’ said hans, ‘but i am really very busy to-day.
i have got all my creepers to nail up, and all my flowers to water, and all my grass to roll.’
“‘well, really,’ said the miller, ‘i think that, considering that i am going to give you my wheelbarrow, it is rather unfriendly of you to refuse.’
“‘oh, don’t say that,’ cried little hans, ‘i wouldn’t be unfriendly for the whole world’; and he ran in for his cap, and trudged off with the big sack on his shoulders.
“it was a very hot day, and the road was terribly dusty, and before hans had reached the sixth milestone he was so tired that he had to sit down and rest.
however, he went on bravely, and as last he reached the market.
after he had waited there some time, he sold the sack of flour for a very good price, and then he returned home at once, for he was afraid that if he stopped too late he might meet some robbers on the way.
“‘it has certainly been a hard day,’ said little hans to himself as he was going to bed, ‘but i am glad i did not refuse the miller, for he is my best friend, and, besides, he is going to give me his wheelbarrow.’
“early the next morning the miller came down to get the money for his sack of flour, but little hans was so tired that he was still in bed.
“‘upon my word,’ said the miller, ‘you are very lazy.
really, considering that i am going to give you my wheelbarrow, i think you might work harder.
idleness is a great sin, and i certainly don’t like any of my friends to be idle or sluggish.
you must not mind my speaking quite plainly to you.
of course i should not dream of doing so if i were not your friend.
but what is the good of friendship if one cannot say exactly what one means?
anybody can say charming things and try to please and to flatter, but a true friend always says unpleasant things, and does not mind giving pain.
indeed, if he is a really true friend he prefers it, for he knows that then he is doing good.’
“‘i am very sorry,’ said little hans, rubbing his eyes and pulling off his night-cap, ‘but i was so tired that i thought i would lie in bed for a little time, and listen to the birds singing.
do you know that i always work better after hearing the birds sing?’
“‘well, i am glad of that,’ said the miller, clapping little hans on the back, ‘for i want you to come up to the mill as soon as you are dressed, and mend my barn-roof for me.’
“poor little hans was very anxious to go and work in his garden, for his flowers had not been watered for two days, but he did not like to refuse the miller, as he was such a good friend to him.
“‘do you think it would be unfriendly of me if i said i was busy?’ he inquired in a shy and timid voice.
“‘well, really,’ answered the miller, ‘i do not think it is much to ask of you, considering that i am going to give you my wheelbarrow; but of course if you refuse i will go and do it myself.’
“‘oh!
on no account,’ cried little hans and he jumped out of bed, and dressed himself, and went up to the barn.
“he worked there all day long, till sunset, and at sunset the miller came to see how he was getting on.
“‘have you mended the hole in the roof yet, little hans?’ cried the miller in a cheery voice.
“‘it is quite mended,’ answered little hans, coming down the ladder.
“‘ah!’ said the miller, ‘there is no work so delightful as the work one does for others.’
“‘it is certainly a great privilege to hear you talk,’ answered little hans, sitting down, and wiping his forehead, ‘a very great privilege.
but i am afraid i shall never have such beautiful ideas as you have.’
“‘oh!
they will come to you,’ said the miller, ‘but you must take more pains.
at present you have only the practice of friendship; some day you will have the theory also.’
“‘do you really think i shall?’ asked little hans.
“‘i have no doubt of it,’ answered the miller, ‘but now that you have mended the roof, you had better go home and rest, for i want you to drive my sheep to the mountain to-morrow.’
“poor little hans was afraid to say anything to this, and early the next morning the miller brought his sheep round to the cottage, and hans started off with them to the mountain.
it took him the whole day to get there and back; and when he returned he was so tired that he went off to sleep in his chair, and did not wake up till it was broad daylight.
“‘what a delightful time i shall have in my garden,’ he said, and he went to work at once.
“but somehow he was never able to look after his flowers at all, for his friend the miller was always coming round and sending him off on long errands, or getting him to help at the mill.
little hans was very much distressed at times, as he was afraid his flowers would think he had forgotten them, but he consoled himself by the reflection that the miller was his best friend.
‘besides,’ he used to say, ‘he is going to give me his wheelbarrow, and that is an act of pure generosity.’
“so little hans worked away for the miller, and the miller said all kinds of beautiful things about friendship, which hans took down in a note-book, and used to read over at night, for he was a very good scholar.
“now it happened that one evening little hans was sitting by his fireside when a loud rap came at the door.
it was a very wild night, and the wind was blowing and roaring round the house so terribly that at first he thought it was merely the storm.
but a second rap came, and then a third, louder than any of the others.
“‘it is some poor traveller,’ said little hans to himself, and he ran to the door.
“there stood the miller with a lantern in one hand and a big stick in the other.
“‘dear little hans,’ cried the miller, ‘i am in great trouble.
my little boy has fallen off a ladder and hurt himself, and i am going for the doctor.
but he lives so far away, and it is such a bad night, that it has just occurred to me that it would be much better if you went instead of me.
you know i am going to give you my wheelbarrow, and so, it is only fair that you should do something for me in return.’
“‘certainly,’ cried little hans, ‘i take it quite as a compliment your coming to me, and i will start off at once.
but you must lend me your lantern, as the night is so dark that i am afraid i might fall into the ditch.’
“‘i am very sorry,’ answered the miller, ‘but it is my new lantern, and it would be a great loss to me if anything happened to it.’
“‘well, never mind, i will do without it,’ cried little hans, and he took down his great fur coat, and his warm scarlet cap, and tied a muffler round his throat, and started off.
“what a dreadful storm it was!
the night was so black that little hans could hardly see, and the wind was so strong that he could scarcely stand.
however, he was very courageous, and after he had been walking about three hours, he arrived at the doctor’s house, and knocked at the door.
“‘who is there?’ cried the doctor, putting his head out of his bedroom window.
“‘little hans, doctor.’
“’what do you want, little hans?’
“‘the miller’s son has fallen from a ladder, and has hurt himself, and the miller wants you to come at once.’
“‘all right!’ said the doctor; and he ordered his horse, and his big boots, and his lantern, and came downstairs, and rode off in the direction of the miller’s house, little hans trudging behind him.
“but the storm grew worse and worse, and the rain fell in torrents, and little hans could not see where he was going, or keep up with the horse.
at last he lost his way, and wandered off on the moor, which was a very dangerous place, as it was full of deep holes, and there poor little hans was drowned.
his body was found the next day by some goatherds, floating in a great pool of water, and was brought back by them to the cottage.
“everybody went to little hans’ funeral, as he was so popular, and the miller was the chief mourner.
“‘as i was his best friend,’ said the miller, ‘it is only fair that i should have the best place’; so he walked at the head of the procession in a long black cloak, and every now and then he wiped his eyes with a big pocket-handkerchief.
“‘little hans is certainly a great loss to every one,’ said the blacksmith, when the funeral was over, and they were all seated comfortably in the inn, drinking spiced wine and eating sweet cakes.
“‘a great loss to me at any rate,’ answered the miller; ‘why, i had as good as given him my wheelbarrow, and now i really don’t know what to do with it.
it is very much in my way at home, and it is in such bad repair that i could not get anything for it if i sold it.
i will certainly take care not to give away anything again.
one always suffers for being generous.’”
“well?” said the water-rat, after a long pause.
“well, that is the end,” said the linnet.
“but what became of the miller?” asked the water-rat.
“oh!
i really don’t know,” replied the linnet; “and i am sure that i don’t care.”
“it is quite evident then that you have no sympathy in your nature,” said the water-rat.
“i am afraid you don’t quite see the moral of the story,” remarked the linnet.
“the what?” screamed the water-rat.
“the moral.”
“do you mean to say that the story has a moral?”
“certainly,” said the linnet.
“well, really,” said the water-rat, in a very angry manner, “i think you should have told me that before you began.
if you had done so, i certainly would not have listened to you; in fact, i should have said ‘pooh,’ like the critic.
however, i can say it now”; so he shouted out “pooh” at the top of his voice, gave a whisk with his tail, and went back into his hole.
“and how do you like the water-rat?” asked the duck, who came paddling up some minutes afterwards.
“he has a great many good points, but for my own part i have a mother’s feelings, and i can never look at a confirmed bachelor without the tears coming into my eyes.”
“i am rather afraid that i have annoyed him,” answered the linnet.
“the fact is, that i told him a story with a moral.”
“ah!
that is always a very dangerous thing to do,” said the duck.
and i quite agree with her.
the remarkable rocket.
the king’s son was going to be married, so there were general rejoicings.
he had waited a whole year for his bride, and at last she had arrived.
she was a russian princess, and had driven all the way from finland in a sledge drawn by six reindeer.
the sledge was shaped like a great golden swan, and between the swan’s wings lay the little princess herself.
her long ermine-cloak reached right down to her feet, on her head was a tiny cap of silver tissue, and she was as pale as the snow palace in which she had always lived.
so pale was she that as she drove through the streets all the people wondered.
“she is like a white rose!” they cried, and they threw down flowers on her from the balconies.
[picture: decorative graphic of young man kissing the princess’ hand]
at the gate of the castle the prince was waiting to receive her.
he had dreamy violet eyes, and his hair was like fine gold.
when he saw her he sank upon one knee, and kissed her hand.
“your picture was beautiful,” he murmured, “but you are more beautiful than your picture”; and the little princess blushed.
“she was like a white rose before,” said a young page to his neighbour, “but she is like a red rose now”; and the whole court was delighted.
for the next three days everybody went about saying, “white rose, red rose, red rose, white rose”; and the king gave orders that the page’s salary was to be doubled.
as he received no salary at all this was not of much use to him, but it was considered a great honour, and was duly published in the court gazette.
when the three days were over the marriage was celebrated.
it was a magnificent ceremony, and the bride and bridegroom walked hand in hand under a canopy of purple velvet embroidered with little pearls.
then there was a state banquet, which lasted for five hours.
the prince and princess sat at the top of the great hall and drank out of a cup of clear crystal.
only true lovers could drink out of this cup, for if false lips touched it, it grew grey and dull and cloudy.
“it’s quite clear that they love each other,” said the little page, “as clear as crystal!” and the king doubled his salary a second time.
“what an honour!” cried all the courtiers.
after the banquet there was to be a ball.
the bride and bridegroom were to dance the rose-dance together, and the king had promised to play the flute.
he played very badly, but no one had ever dared to tell him so, because he was the king.
indeed, he knew only two airs, and was never quite certain which one he was playing; but it made no matter, for, whatever he did, everybody cried out, “charming!
charming!”
the last item on the programme was a grand display of fireworks, to be let off exactly at midnight.
the little princess had never seen a firework in her life, so the king had given orders that the royal pyrotechnist should be in attendance on the day of her marriage.
“what are fireworks like?” she had asked the prince, one morning, as she was walking on the terrace.
“they are like the aurora borealis,” said the king, who always answered questions that were addressed to other people, “only much more natural.
i prefer them to stars myself, as you always know when they are going to appear, and they are as delightful as my own flute-playing.
you must certainly see them.”
so at the end of the king’s garden a great stand had been set up, and as soon as the royal pyrotechnist had put everything in its proper place, the fireworks began to talk to each other.
“the world is certainly very beautiful,” cried a little squib.
“just look at those yellow tulips.
why!
if they were real crackers they could not be lovelier.
i am very glad i have travelled.
travel improves the mind wonderfully, and does away with all one’s prejudices.”
“the king’s garden is not the world, you foolish squib,” said a big roman candle; “the world is an enormous place, and it would take you three days to see it thoroughly.”
“any place you love is the world to you,” exclaimed a pensive catherine wheel, who had been attached to an old deal box in early life, and prided herself on her broken heart; “but love is not fashionable any more, the poets have killed it.
they wrote so much about it that nobody believed them, and i am not surprised.
true love suffers, and is silent.
i remember myself once—but it is no matter now.
romance is a thing of the past.”
“nonsense!” said the roman candle, “romance never dies.
it is like the moon, and lives for ever.
the bride and bridegroom, for instance, love each other very dearly.
i heard all about them this morning from a brown-paper cartridge, who happened to be staying in the same drawer as myself, and knew the latest court news.”
but the catherine wheel shook her head.
“romance is dead, romance is dead, romance is dead,” she murmured.
she was one of those people who think that, if you say the same thing over and over a great many times, it becomes true in the end.
suddenly, a sharp, dry cough was heard, and they all looked round.
it came from a tall, supercilious-looking rocket, who was tied to the end of a long stick.
he always coughed before he made any observation, so as to attract attention.
“ahem!
ahem!” he said, and everybody listened except the poor catherine wheel, who was still shaking her head, and murmuring, “romance is dead.”
“order!
order!” cried out a cracker.
he was something of a politician, and had always taken a prominent part in the local elections, so he knew the proper parliamentary expressions to use.
“quite dead,” whispered the catherine wheel, and she went off to sleep.
as soon as there was perfect silence, the rocket coughed a third time and began.
he spoke with a very slow, distinct voice, as if he was dictating his memoirs, and always looked over the shoulder of the person to whom he was talking.
in fact, he had a most distinguished manner.
“how fortunate it is for the king’s son,” he remarked, “that he is to be married on the very day on which i am to be let off.
really, if it had been arranged beforehand, it could not have turned out better for him; but, princes are always lucky.”
“dear me!” said the little squib, “i thought it was quite the other way, and that we were to be let off in the prince’s honour.”
“it may be so with you,” he answered; “indeed, i have no doubt that it is, but with me it is different.
i am a very remarkable rocket, and come of remarkable parents.
my mother was the most celebrated catherine wheel of her day, and was renowned for her graceful dancing.
when she made her great public appearance she spun round nineteen times before she went out, and each time that she did so she threw into the air seven pink stars.
she was three feet and a half in diameter, and made of the very best gunpowder.
my father was a rocket like myself, and of french extraction.
he flew so high that the people were afraid that he would never come down again.
he did, though, for he was of a kindly disposition, and he made a most brilliant descent in a shower of golden rain.
the newspapers wrote about his performance in very flattering terms.
indeed, the court gazette called him a triumph of pylotechnic art.”
“pyrotechnic, pyrotechnic, you mean,” said a bengal light; “i know it is pyrotechnic, for i saw it written on my own canister.”
“well, i said pylotechnic,” answered the rocket, in a severe tone of voice, and the bengal light felt so crushed that he began at once to bully the little squibs, in order to show that he was still a person of some importance.
“i was saying,” continued the rocket, “i was saying—what was i saying?”
“you were talking about yourself,” replied the roman candle.
“of course; i knew i was discussing some interesting subject when i was so rudely interrupted.
i hate rudeness and bad manners of every kind, for i am extremely sensitive.
no one in the whole world is so sensitive as i am, i am quite sure of that.”
“what is a sensitive person?” said the cracker to the roman candle.
“a person who, because he has corns himself, always treads on other people’s toes,” answered the roman candle in a low whisper; and the cracker nearly exploded with laughter.
“pray, what are you laughing at?” inquired the rocket; “i am not laughing.”
“i am laughing because i am happy,” replied the cracker.
“that is a very selfish reason,” said the rocket angrily.
“what right have you to be happy?
you should be thinking about others.
in fact, you should be thinking about me.
i am always thinking about myself, and i expect everybody else to do the same.
that is what is called sympathy.
it is a beautiful virtue, and i possess it in a high degree.
suppose, for instance, anything happened to me to-night, what a misfortune that would be for every one!
the prince and princess would never be happy again, their whole married life would be spoiled; and as for the king, i know he would not get over it.
really, when i begin to reflect on the importance of my position, i am almost moved to tears.”
“if you want to give pleasure to others,” cried the roman candle, “you had better keep yourself dry.”
“certainly,” exclaimed the bengal light, who was now in better spirits; “that is only common sense.”
“common sense, indeed!” said the rocket indignantly; “you forget that i am very uncommon, and very remarkable.
why, anybody can have common sense, provided that they have no imagination.
but i have imagination, for i never think of things as they really are; i always think of them as being quite different.
as for keeping myself dry, there is evidently no one here who can at all appreciate an emotional nature.
fortunately for myself, i don’t care.
the only thing that sustains one through life is the consciousness of the immense inferiority of everybody else, and this is a feeling that i have always cultivated.
but none of you have any hearts.
here you are laughing and making merry just as if the prince and princess had not just been married.”
“well, really,” exclaimed a small fire-balloon, “why not?
it is a most joyful occasion, and when i soar up into the air i intend to tell the stars all about it.
you will see them twinkle when i talk to them about the pretty bride.”
“ah!
what a trivial view of life!” said the rocket; “but it is only what i expected.
there is nothing in you; you are hollow and empty.
why, perhaps the prince and princess may go to live in a country where there is a deep river, and perhaps they may have one only son, a little fair-haired boy with violet eyes like the prince himself; and perhaps some day he may go out to walk with his nurse; and perhaps the nurse may go to sleep under a great elder-tree; and perhaps the little boy may fall into the deep river and be drowned.
what a terrible misfortune!
poor people, to lose their only son!
it is really too dreadful!
i shall never get over it.”
“but they have not lost their only son,” said the roman candle; “no misfortune has happened to them at all.”
“i never said that they had,” replied the rocket; “i said that they might.
if they had lost their only son there would be no use in saying anything more about the matter.
i hate people who cry over spilt milk.
but when i think that they might lose their only son, i certainly am very much affected.”
“you certainly are!” cried the bengal light.
“in fact, you are the most affected person i ever met.”
“you are the rudest person i ever met,” said the rocket, “and you cannot understand my friendship for the prince.”
“why, you don’t even know him,” growled the roman candle.
“i never said i knew him,” answered the rocket.
“i dare say that if i knew him i should not be his friend at all.
it is a very dangerous thing to know one’s friends.”
“you had really better keep yourself dry,” said the fire-balloon.
“that is the important thing.”
“very important for you, i have no doubt,” answered the rocket, “but i shall weep if i choose”; and he actually burst into real tears, which flowed down his stick like rain-drops, and nearly drowned two little beetles, who were just thinking of setting up house together, and were looking for a nice dry spot to live in.
“he must have a truly romantic nature,” said the catherine wheel, “for he weeps when there is nothing at all to weep about”; and she heaved a deep sigh, and thought about the deal box.
but the roman candle and the bengal light were quite indignant, and kept saying, “humbug!
humbug!” at the top of their voices.
they were extremely practical, and whenever they objected to anything they called it humbug.
then the moon rose like a wonderful silver shield; and the stars began to shine, and a sound of music came from the palace.
the prince and princess were leading the dance.
they danced so beautifully that the tall white lilies peeped in at the window and watched them, and the great red poppies nodded their heads and beat time.
then ten o’clock struck, and then eleven, and then twelve, and at the last stroke of midnight every one came out on the terrace, and the king sent for the royal pyrotechnist.
“let the fireworks begin,” said the king; and the royal pyrotechnist made a low bow, and marched down to the end of the garden.
he had six attendants with him, each of whom carried a lighted torch at the end of a long pole.
it was certainly a magnificent display.
whizz!
whizz!
went the catherine wheel, as she spun round and round.
boom!
boom!
went the roman candle.
then the squibs danced all over the place, and the bengal lights made everything look scarlet.
“good-bye,”
cried the fire-balloon, as he soared away, dropping tiny blue sparks.
bang!
bang!
answered the crackers, who were enjoying themselves immensely.
every one was a great success except the remarkable rocket.
he was so damp with crying that he could not go off at all.
the best thing in him was the gunpowder, and that was so wet with tears that it was of no use.
all his poor relations, to whom he would never speak, except with a sneer, shot up into the sky like wonderful golden flowers with blossoms of fire.
huzza!
huzza!
cried the court; and the little princess laughed with pleasure.
“i suppose they are reserving me for some grand occasion,” said the rocket; “no doubt that is what it means,” and he looked more supercilious than ever.
the next day the workmen came to put everything tidy.
“this is evidently a deputation,” said the rocket; “i will receive them with becoming dignity” so he put his nose in the air, and began to frown severely as if he were thinking about some very important subject.
but they took no notice of him at all till they were just going away.
then one of them caught sight of him.
“hallo!” he cried, “what a bad rocket!” and he threw him over the wall into the ditch.
“bad rocket?
bad rocket?” he said, as he whirled through the air; “impossible!
grand rocket, that is what the man said.
bad and grand sound very much the same, indeed they often are the same”; and he fell into the mud.
“it is not comfortable here,” he remarked, “but no doubt it is some fashionable watering-place, and they have sent me away to recruit my health.
my nerves are certainly very much shattered, and i require rest.”
then a little frog, with bright jewelled eyes, and a green mottled coat, swam up to him.
“a new arrival, i see!” said the frog.
“well, after all there is nothing like mud.
give me rainy weather and a ditch, and i am quite happy.
do you think it will be a wet afternoon?
i am sure i hope so, but the sky is quite blue and cloudless.
what a pity!”
“ahem!
ahem!” said the rocket, and he began to cough.
“what a delightful voice you have!” cried the frog.
“really it is quite like a croak, and croaking is of course the most musical sound in the world.
you will hear our glee-club this evening.
we sit in the old duck pond close by the farmer’s house, and as soon as the moon rises we begin.
it is so entrancing that everybody lies awake to listen to us.
in fact, it was only yesterday that i heard the farmer’s wife say to her mother that she could not get a wink of sleep at night on account of us.
it is most gratifying to find oneself so popular.”
“ahem!
ahem!” said the rocket angrily.
he was very much annoyed that he could not get a word in.
“a delightful voice, certainly,” continued the frog; “i hope you will come over to the duck-pond.
i am off to look for my daughters.
i have six beautiful daughters, and i am so afraid the pike may meet them.
he is a perfect monster, and would have no hesitation in breakfasting off them.
well, good-bye: i have enjoyed our conversation very much, i assure you.”
“conversation, indeed!” said the rocket.
“you have talked the whole time yourself.
that is not conversation.”
“somebody must listen,” answered the frog, “and i like to do all the talking myself.
it saves time, and prevents arguments.”
“but i like arguments,” said the rocket.
“i hope not,” said the frog complacently.
“arguments are extremely vulgar, for everybody in good society holds exactly the same opinions.
good-bye a second time; i see my daughters in the distance and the little frog swam away.
“you are a very irritating person,” said the rocket, “and very ill-bred.
i hate people who talk about themselves, as you do, when one wants to talk about oneself, as i do.
it is what i call selfishness, and selfishness is a most detestable thing, especially to any one of my temperament, for i am well known for my sympathetic nature.
in fact, you should take example by me; you could not possibly have a better model.
now that you have the chance you had better avail yourself of it, for i am going back to court almost immediately.
i am a great favourite at court; in fact, the prince and princess were married yesterday in my honour.
of course you know nothing of these matters, for you are a provincial.”
“there is no good talking to him,” said a dragon-fly, who was sitting on the top of a large brown bulrush; “no good at all, for he has gone away.”
“well, that is his loss, not mine,” answered the rocket.
“i am not going to stop talking to him merely because he pays no attention.
i like hearing myself talk.
it is one of my greatest pleasures.
i often have long conversations all by myself, and i am so clever that sometimes i don’t understand a single word of what i am saying.”
“then you should certainly lecture on philosophy,” said the dragon-fly; and he spread a pair of lovely gauze wings and soared away into the sky.
“how very silly of him not to stay here!” said the rocket.
“i am sure that he has not often got such a chance of improving his mind.
however, i don’t care a bit.
genius like mine is sure to be appreciated some day”; and he sank down a little deeper into the mud.
after some time a large white duck swam up to him.
she had yellow legs, and webbed feet, and was considered a great beauty on account of her waddle.
“quack, quack, quack,” she said.
“what a curious shape you are!
may i ask were you born like that, or is it the result of an accident?”
“it is quite evident that you have always lived in the country,” answered the rocket, “otherwise you would know who i am.
however, i excuse your ignorance.
it would be unfair to expect other people to be as remarkable as oneself.
you will no doubt be surprised to hear that i can fly up into the sky, and come down in a shower of golden rain.”
“i don’t think much of that,” said the duck, “as i cannot see what use it is to any one.
now, if you could plough the fields like the ox, or draw a cart like the horse, or look after the sheep like the collie-dog, that would be something.”
“my good creature,” cried the rocket in a very haughty tone of voice, “i see that you belong to the lower orders.
a person of my position is never useful.
we have certain accomplishments, and that is more than sufficient.
i have no sympathy myself with industry of any kind, least of all with such industries as you seem to recommend.
indeed, i have always been of opinion that hard work is simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do.”
“well, well,” said the duck, who was of a very peaceable disposition, and never quarrelled with any one, “everybody has different tastes.
i hope, at any rate, that you are going to take up your residence here.”
“oh!
dear no,” cried the rocket.
“i am merely a visitor, a distinguished visitor.
the fact is that i find this place rather tedious.
there is neither society here, nor solitude.
in fact, it is essentially suburban.
i shall probably go back to court, for i know that i am destined to make a sensation in the world.”
“i had thoughts of entering public life once myself,” remarked the duck; “there are so many things that need reforming.
indeed, i took the chair at a meeting some time ago, and we passed resolutions condemning everything that we did not like.
however, they did not seem to have much effect.
now i go in for domesticity, and look after my family.”
“i am made for public life,” said the rocket, “and so are all my relations, even the humblest of them.
whenever we appear we excite great attention.
i have not actually appeared myself, but when i do so it will be a magnificent sight.
as for domesticity, it ages one rapidly, and distracts one’s mind from higher things.”
“ah!
the higher things of life, how fine they are!” said the duck; “and that reminds me how hungry i feel”: and she swam away down the stream, saying, “quack, quack, quack.”
“come back!
come back!” screamed the rocket, “i have a great deal to say to you”; but the duck paid no attention to him.
“i am glad that she has gone,” he said to himself, “she has a decidedly middle-class mind”; and he sank a little deeper still into the mud, and began to think about the loneliness of genius, when suddenly two little boys in white smocks came running down the bank, with a kettle and some faggots.
“this must be the deputation,” said the rocket, and he tried to look very dignified.
“hallo!” cried one of the boys, “look at this old stick!
i wonder how it came here”; and he picked the rocket out of the ditch.
“old stick!” said the rocket, “impossible!
gold stick, that is what he said.
gold stick is very complimentary.
in fact, he mistakes me for one of the court dignitaries!”
“let us put it into the fire!” said the other boy, “it will help to boil the kettle.”
so they piled the faggots together, and put the rocket on top, and lit the fire.
“this is magnificent,” cried the rocket, “they are going to let me off in broad day-light, so that every one can see me.”
“we will go to sleep now,” they said, “and when we wake up the kettle will be boiled”; and they lay down on the grass, and shut their eyes.
the rocket was very damp, so he took a long time to burn.
at last, however, the fire caught him.
“now i am going off!” he cried, and he made himself very stiff and straight.
“i know i shall go much higher than the stars, much higher than the moon, much higher than the sun.
in fact, i shall go so high that—”
fizz!
fizz!
fizz!
and he went straight up into the air.
“delightful!” he cried, “i shall go on like this for ever.
what a success i am!”
but nobody saw him.
then he began to feel a curious tingling sensation all over him.
“now i am going to explode,” he cried.
“i shall set the whole world on fire, and make such a noise that nobody will talk about anything else for a whole year.”  and he certainly did explode.
bang!
bang!
bang!
went the gunpowder.
there was no doubt about it.
but nobody heard him, not even the two little boys, for they were sound asleep.
then all that was left of him was the stick, and this fell down on the back of a goose who was taking a walk by the side of the ditch.
“good heavens!” cried the goose.
“it is going to rain sticks”; and she rushed into the water.
“i knew i should create a great sensation,” gasped the rocket, and he went out.
andersen's fairy tales
the emperor's new clothes
many years ago, there was an emperor, who was so excessively fond of new clothes, that he spent all his money in dress.
he did not trouble himself in the least about his soldiers; nor did he care to go either to the theatre or the chase, except for the opportunities then afforded him for displaying his new clothes.
he had a different suit for each hour of the day; and as of any other king or emperor, one is accustomed to say, “he is sitting in council,” it was always said of him, “the emperor is sitting in his wardrobe.”
time passed merrily in the large town which was his capital; strangers arrived every day at the court.
one day, two rogues, calling themselves weavers, made their appearance.
they gave out that they knew how to weave stuffs of the most beautiful colors and elaborate patterns, the clothes manufactured from which should have the wonderful property of remaining invisible to everyone who was unfit for the office he held, or who was extraordinarily simple in character.
“these must, indeed, be splendid clothes!” thought the emperor.
“had i such a suit, i might at once find out what men in my realms are unfit for their office, and also be able to distinguish the wise from the foolish!
this stuff must be woven for me immediately.” and he caused large sums of money to be given to both the weavers in order that they might begin their work directly.
so the two pretended weavers set up two looms, and affected to work very busily, though in reality they did nothing at all.
they asked for the most delicate silk and the purest gold thread; put both into their own knapsacks; and then continued their pretended work at the empty looms until late at night.
“i should like to know how the weavers are getting on with my cloth,” said the emperor to himself, after some little time had elapsed; he was, however, rather embarrassed, when he remembered that a simpleton, or one unfit for his office, would be unable to see the manufacture.
to be sure, he thought he had nothing to risk in his own person; but yet, he would prefer sending somebody else, to bring him intelligence about the weavers, and their work, before he troubled himself in the affair.
all the people throughout the city had heard of the wonderful property the cloth was to possess; and all were anxious to learn how wise, or how ignorant, their neighbors might prove to be.
“i will send my faithful old minister to the weavers,” said the emperor at last, after some deliberation, “he will be best able to see how the cloth looks; for he is a man of sense, and no one can be more suitable for his office than he is.”
so the faithful old minister went into the hall, where the knaves were working with all their might, at their empty looms.
“what can be the meaning of this?” thought the old man, opening his eyes very wide.
“i cannot discover the least bit of thread on the looms.” however, he did not express his thoughts aloud.
the impostors requested him very courteously to be so good as to come nearer their looms; and then asked him whether the design pleased him, and whether the colors were not very beautiful; at the same time pointing to the empty frames.
the poor old minister looked and looked, he could not discover anything on the looms, for a very good reason, viz: there was nothing there.
“what!” thought he again.
“is it possible that i am a simpleton?
i have never thought so myself; and no one must know it now if i am so.
can it be, that i am unfit for my office?
no, that must not be said either.
i will never confess that i could not see the stuff.”
“well, sir minister!” said one of the knaves, still pretending to work.
“you do not say whether the stuff pleases you.”
“oh, it is excellent!” replied the old minister, looking at the loom through his spectacles.
“this pattern, and the colors, yes, i will tell the emperor without delay, how very beautiful i think them.”
“we shall be much obliged to you,” said the impostors, and then they named the different colors and described the pattern of the pretended stuff.
the old minister listened attentively to their words, in order that he might repeat them to the emperor; and then the knaves asked for more silk and gold, saying that it was necessary to complete what they had begun.
however, they put all that was given them into their knapsacks; and continued to work with as much apparent diligence as before at their empty looms.
the emperor now sent another officer of his court to see how the men were getting on, and to ascertain whether the cloth would soon be ready.
it was just the same with this gentleman as with the minister; he surveyed the looms on all sides, but could see nothing at all but the empty frames.
“does not the stuff appear as beautiful to you, as it did to my lord the minister?” asked the impostors of the emperor's second ambassador; at the same time making the same gestures as before, and talking of the design and colors which were not there.
“i certainly am not stupid!” thought the messenger.
“it must be, that i am not fit for my good, profitable office!
that is very odd; however, no one shall know anything about it.” and accordingly he praised the stuff he could not see, and declared that he was delighted with both colors and patterns.
“indeed, please your imperial majesty,” said he to his sovereign when he returned, “the cloth which the weavers are preparing is extraordinarily magnificent.”
the whole city was talking of the splendid cloth which the emperor had ordered to be woven at his own expense.
and now the emperor himself wished to see the costly manufacture, while it was still in the loom.
accompanied by a select number of officers of the court, among whom were the two honest men who had already admired the cloth, he went to the crafty impostors, who, as soon as they were aware of the emperor's approach, went on working more diligently than ever; although they still did not pass a single thread through the looms.
“is not the work absolutely magnificent?” said the two officers of the crown, already mentioned.
“if your majesty will only be pleased to look at it!
what a splendid design!
what glorious colors!” and at the same time they pointed to the empty frames; for they imagined that everyone else could see this exquisite piece of workmanship.
“how is this?” said the emperor to himself.
“i can see nothing!
this is indeed a terrible affair!
am i a simpleton, or am i unfit to be an emperor?
that would be the worst thing that could happen oh!
the cloth is charming,” said he, aloud.
“it has my complete approbation.” and he smiled most graciously, and looked closely at the empty looms; for on no account would he say that he could not see what two of the officers of his court had praised so much.
all his retinue now strained their eyes, hoping to discover something on the looms, but they could see no more than the others; nevertheless, they all exclaimed, “oh, how beautiful!”
and advised his majesty to have some new clothes made from this splendid material, for the approaching procession.
“magnificent!
charming!
excellent!” resounded on all sides; and everyone was uncommonly gay.
the emperor shared in the general satisfaction; and presented the impostors with the riband of an order of knighthood, to be worn in their button-holes, and the title of “gentlemen weavers.”
the rogues sat up the whole of the night before the day on which the procession was to take place, and had sixteen lights burning, so that everyone might see how anxious they were to finish the emperor's new suit.
they pretended to roll the cloth off the looms; cut the air with their scissors; and sewed with needles without any thread in them.
“see!” cried they, at last.
“the emperor's new clothes are ready!”
and now the emperor, with all the grandees of his court, came to the weavers; and the rogues raised their arms, as if in the act of holding something up, saying, “here are your majesty's trousers!
here is the scarf!
here is the mantle!
the whole suit is as light as a cobweb; one might fancy one has nothing at all on, when dressed in it; that, however, is the great virtue of this delicate cloth.”
“yes indeed!” said all the courtiers, although not one of them could see anything of this exquisite manufacture.
“if your imperial majesty will be graciously pleased to take off your clothes, we will fit on the new suit, in front of the looking glass.”
the emperor was accordingly undressed, and the rogues pretended to array him in his new suit; the emperor turning round, from side to side, before the looking glass.
“how splendid his majesty looks in his new clothes, and how well they fit!” everyone cried out.
“what a design!
what colors!
these are indeed royal robes!”
“the canopy which is to be borne over your majesty, in the procession, is waiting,” announced the chief master of the ceremonies.
“i am quite ready,” answered the emperor.
“do my new clothes fit well?”
asked he, turning himself round again before the looking glass, in order that he might appear to be examining his handsome suit.
the lords of the bedchamber, who were to carry his majesty's train felt about on the ground, as if they were lifting up the ends of the mantle; and pretended to be carrying something; for they would by no means betray anything like simplicity, or unfitness for their office.
so now the emperor walked under his high canopy in the midst of the procession, through the streets of his capital; and all the people standing by, and those at the windows, cried out, “oh!
how beautiful are our emperor's new clothes!
what a magnificent train there is to the mantle; and how gracefully the scarf hangs!” in short, no one would allow that he could not see these much-admired clothes; because, in doing so, he would have declared himself either a simpleton or unfit for his office.
certainly, none of the emperor's various suits, had ever made so great an impression, as these invisible ones.
“but the emperor has nothing at all on!” said a little child.
“listen to the voice of innocence!” exclaimed his father; and what the child had said was whispered from one to another.
“but he has nothing at all on!” at last cried out all the people.
the emperor was vexed, for he knew that the people were right; but he thought the procession must go on now!
and the lords of the bedchamber took greater pains than ever, to appear holding up a train, although, in reality, there was no train to hold.
the swineherd
there was once a poor prince, who had a kingdom.
his kingdom was very small, but still quite large enough to marry upon; and he wished to marry.
it was certainly rather cool of him to say to the emperor's daughter, “will you have me?” but so he did; for his name was renowned far and wide; and there were a hundred princesses who would have answered, “yes!” and “thank you kindly.” we shall see what this princess said.
listen!
it happened that where the prince's father lay buried, there grew a rose tree a most beautiful rose tree, which blossomed only once in every five years, and even then bore only one flower, but that was a rose!
it smelt so sweet that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by him who inhaled its fragrance.
and furthermore, the prince had a nightingale, who could sing in such a manner that it seemed as though all sweet melodies dwelt in her little throat.
so the princess was to have the rose, and the nightingale; and they were accordingly put into large silver caskets, and sent to her.
the emperor had them brought into a large hall, where the princess was playing at “visiting,” with the ladies of the court; and when she saw the caskets with the presents, she clapped her hands for joy.
“ah, if it were but a little pussy-cat!” said she; but the rose tree, with its beautiful rose came to view.
“oh, how prettily it is made!” said all the court ladies.
“it is more than pretty,” said the emperor, “it is charming!”
but the princess touched it, and was almost ready to cry.
“fie, papa!” said she.
“it is not made at all, it is natural!”
“let us see what is in the other casket, before we get into a bad humor,” said the emperor.
so the nightingale came forth and sang so delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humored of her.
“superbe!
charmant!” exclaimed the ladies; for they all used to chatter french, each one worse than her neighbor.
“how much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our blessed empress,” said an old knight.
“oh yes!
these are the same tones, the same execution.”
“yes!
yes!” said the emperor, and he wept like a child at the remembrance.
“i will still hope that it is not a real bird,” said the princess.
“yes, it is a real bird,” said those who had brought it.
“well then let the bird fly,” said the princess; and she positively refused to see the prince.
however, he was not to be discouraged; he daubed his face over brown and black; pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door.
“good day to my lord, the emperor!” said he.
“can i have employment at the palace?”
“why, yes,” said the emperor.
“i want some one to take care of the pigs, for we have a great many of them.”
so the prince was appointed “imperial swineherd.” he had a dirty little room close by the pigsty; and there he sat the whole day, and worked.
by the evening he had made a pretty little kitchen-pot.
little bells were hung all round it; and when the pot was boiling, these bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody,
“ach!
du lieber augustin,     alles ist weg, weg, weg!”*
* “ah!
dear augustine!
all is gone, gone, gone!”
but what was still more curious, whoever held his finger in the smoke of the kitchen-pot, immediately smelt all the dishes that were cooking on every hearth in the city this, you see, was something quite different from the rose.
now the princess happened to walk that way; and when she heard the tune, she stood quite still, and seemed pleased; for she could play “lieber augustine”; it was the only piece she knew; and she played it with one finger.
“why there is my piece,” said the princess.
“that swineherd must certainly have been well educated!
go in and ask him the price of the instrument.”
so one of the court-ladies must run in; however, she drew on wooden slippers first.
“what will you take for the kitchen-pot?” said the lady.
“i will have ten kisses from the princess,” said the swineherd.
“yes, indeed!” said the lady.
“i cannot sell it for less,” rejoined the swineherd.
“he is an impudent fellow!” said the princess, and she walked on; but when she had gone a little way, the bells tinkled so prettily
“ach!
du lieber augustin,     alles ist weg, weg, weg!”
“stay,” said the princess.
“ask him if he will have ten kisses from the ladies of my court.”
“no, thank you!” said the swineherd.
“ten kisses from the princess, or i keep the kitchen-pot myself.”
“that must not be, either!” said the princess.
“but do you all stand before me that no one may see us.”
and the court-ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out their dresses the swineherd got ten kisses, and the princess the kitchen-pot.
that was delightful!
the pot was boiling the whole evening, and the whole of the following day.
they knew perfectly well what was cooking at every fire throughout the city, from the chamberlain's to the cobbler's; the court-ladies danced and clapped their hands.
“we know who has soup, and who has pancakes for dinner to-day, who has cutlets, and who has eggs.
how interesting!”
“yes, but keep my secret, for i am an emperor's daughter.”
the swineherd that is to say the prince, for no one knew that he was other than an ill-favored swineherd, let not a day pass without working at something; he at last constructed a rattle, which, when it was swung round, played all the waltzes and jig tunes, which have ever been heard since the creation of the world.
“ah, that is superbe!” said the princess when she passed by.
“i have never heard prettier compositions!
go in and ask him the price of the instrument; but mind, he shall have no more kisses!”
“he will have a hundred kisses from the princess!” said the lady who had been to ask.
“i think he is not in his right senses!” said the princess, and walked on, but when she had gone a little way, she stopped again.
“one must encourage art,” said she, “i am the emperor's daughter.
tell him he shall, as on yesterday, have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the ladies of the court.”
“oh but we should not like that at all!” said they.
“what are you muttering?” asked the princess.
“if i can kiss him, surely you can.
remember that you owe everything to me.” so the ladies were obliged to go to him again.
“a hundred kisses from the princess,” said he, “or else let everyone keep his own!”
“stand round!” said she; and all the ladies stood round her whilst the kissing was going on.
“what can be the reason for such a crowd close by the pigsty?” said the emperor, who happened just then to step out on the balcony; he rubbed his eyes, and put on his spectacles.
“they are the ladies of the court; i must go down and see what they are about!” so he pulled up his slippers at the heel, for he had trodden them down.
as soon as he had got into the court-yard, he moved very softly, and the ladies were so much engrossed with counting the kisses, that all might go on fairly, that they did not perceive the emperor.
he rose on his tiptoes.
“what is all this?” said he, when he saw what was going on, and he boxed the princess's ears with his slipper, just as the swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss.
“march out!” said the emperor, for he was very angry; and both princess and swineherd were thrust out of the city.
the princess now stood and wept, the swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down.
“alas!
unhappy creature that i am!” said the princess.
“if i had but married the handsome young prince!
ah!
how unfortunate i am!”
and the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown color from his face, threw off his dirty clothes, and stepped forth in his princely robes; he looked so noble that the princess could not help bowing before him.
“i am come to despise thee,” said he.
“thou would'st not have an honorable prince!
thou could'st not prize the rose and the nightingale, but thou wast ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything.
thou art rightly served.”
he then went back to his own little kingdom, and shut the door of his palace in her face.
now she might well sing,
“ach!
du lieber augustin,     alles ist weg, weg, weg!”
the real princess
there was once a prince who wished to marry a princess; but then she must be a real princess.
he travelled all over the world in hopes of finding such a lady; but there was always something wrong.
princesses he found in plenty; but whether they were real princesses it was impossible for him to decide, for now one thing, now another, seemed to him not quite right about the ladies.
at last he returned to his palace quite cast down, because he wished so much to have a real princess for his wife.
one evening a fearful tempest arose, it thundered and lightened, and the rain poured down from the sky in torrents: besides, it was as dark as pitch.
all at once there was heard a violent knocking at the door, and the old king, the prince's father, went out himself to open it.
it was a princess who was standing outside the door.
what with the rain and the wind, she was in a sad condition; the water trickled down from her hair, and her clothes clung to her body.
she said she was a real princess.
“ah!
we shall soon see that!” thought the old queen-mother; however, she said not a word of what she was going to do; but went quietly into the bedroom, took all the bed-clothes off the bed, and put three little peas on the bedstead.
she then laid twenty mattresses one upon another over the three peas, and put twenty feather beds over the mattresses.
upon this bed the princess was to pass the night.
the next morning she was asked how she had slept.
“oh, very badly indeed!” she replied.
“i have scarcely closed my eyes the whole night through.
i do not know what was in my bed, but i had something hard under me, and am all over black and blue.
it has hurt me so much!”
now it was plain that the lady must be a real princess, since she had been able to feel the three little peas through the twenty mattresses and twenty feather beds.
none but a real princess could have had such a delicate sense of feeling.
the prince accordingly made her his wife; being now convinced that he had found a real princess.
the three peas were however put into the cabinet of curiosities, where they are still to be seen, provided they are not lost.
wasn't this a lady of real delicacy?
the shoes of fortune
i. a beginning
every author has some peculiarity in his descriptions or in his style of writing.
those who do not like him, magnify it, shrug up their shoulders, and exclaim there he is again!
i, for my part, know very well how i can bring about this movement and this exclamation.
it would happen immediately if i were to begin here, as i intended to do, with:
“rome has its corso, naples its toledo” “ah!
that andersen; there he is again!” they would cry; yet i must, to please my fancy, continue quite quietly, and add: “but copenhagen has its east street.”
here, then, we will stay for the present.
in one of the houses not far from the new market a party was invited a very large party, in order, as is often the case, to get a return invitation from the others.
one half of the company was already seated at the card-table, the other half awaited the result of the stereotype preliminary observation of the lady of the house:
“now let us see what we can do to amuse ourselves.”
they had got just so far, and the conversation began to crystallise, as it could but do with the scanty stream which the commonplace world supplied.
amongst other things they spoke of the middle ages: some praised that period as far more interesting, far more poetical than our own too sober present; indeed councillor knap defended this opinion so warmly, that the hostess declared immediately on his side, and both exerted themselves with unwearied eloquence.
the councillor boldly declared the time of king hans to be the noblest and the most happy period.
*
* a.d. 1482-1513
while the conversation turned on this subject, and was only for a moment interrupted by the arrival of a journal that contained nothing worth reading, we will just step out into the antechamber, where cloaks, mackintoshes, sticks, umbrellas, and shoes, were deposited.
here sat two female figures, a young and an old one.
one might have thought at first they were servants come to accompany their mistresses home; but on looking nearer, one soon saw they could scarcely be mere servants; their forms were too noble for that, their skin too fine, the cut of their dress too striking.
two fairies were they; the younger, it is true, was not dame fortune herself, but one of the waiting-maids of her handmaidens who carry about the lesser good things that she distributes; the other looked extremely gloomy it was care.
she always attends to her own serious business herself, as then she is sure of having it done properly.
they were telling each other, with a confidential interchange of ideas, where they had been during the day.
the messenger of fortune had only executed a few unimportant commissions, such as saving a new bonnet from a shower of rain, etc.
; but what she had yet to perform was something quite unusual.
“i must tell you,” said she, “that to-day is my birthday; and in honor of it, a pair of walking-shoes or galoshes has been entrusted to me, which i am to carry to mankind.
these shoes possess the property of instantly transporting him who has them on to the place or the period in which he most wishes to be; every wish, as regards time or place, or state of being, will be immediately fulfilled, and so at last man will be happy, here below.”
“do you seriously believe it?” replied care, in a severe tone of reproach.
“no; he will be very unhappy, and will assuredly bless the moment when he feels that he has freed himself from the fatal shoes.”
“stupid nonsense!” said the other angrily.
“i will put them here by the door.
some one will make a mistake for certain and take the wrong ones he will be a happy man.”
such was their conversation.
ii.
what happened to the councillor
it was late; councillor knap, deeply occupied with the times of king hans, intended to go home, and malicious fate managed matters so that his feet, instead of finding their way to his own galoshes, slipped into those of fortune.
thus caparisoned the good man walked out of the well-lighted rooms into east street.
by the magic power of the shoes he was carried back to the times of king hans; on which account his foot very naturally sank in the mud and puddles of the street, there having been in those days no pavement in copenhagen.
“well!
this is too bad!
how dirty it is here!” sighed the councillor.
“as to a pavement, i can find no traces of one, and all the lamps, it seems, have gone to sleep.”
the moon was not yet very high; it was besides rather foggy, so that in the darkness all objects seemed mingled in chaotic confusion.
at the next corner hung a votive lamp before a madonna, but the light it gave was little better than none at all; indeed, he did not observe it before he was exactly under it, and his eyes fell upon the bright colors of the pictures which represented the well-known group of the virgin and the infant jesus.
“that is probably a wax-work show,” thought he; “and the people delay taking down their sign in hopes of a late visitor or two.”
a few persons in the costume of the time of king hans passed quickly by him.
“how strange they look!
the good folks come probably from a masquerade!”
suddenly was heard the sound of drums and fifes; the bright blaze of a fire shot up from time to time, and its ruddy gleams seemed to contend with the bluish light of the torches.
the councillor stood still, and watched a most strange procession pass by.
first came a dozen drummers, who understood pretty well how to handle their instruments; then came halberdiers, and some armed with cross-bows.
the principal person in the procession was a priest.
astonished at what he saw, the councillor asked what was the meaning of all this mummery, and who that man was.
“that's the bishop of zealand,” was the answer.
“good heavens!
what has taken possession of the bishop?” sighed the councillor, shaking his head.
it certainly could not be the bishop; even though he was considered the most absent man in the whole kingdom, and people told the drollest anecdotes about him.
reflecting on the matter, and without looking right or left, the councillor went through east street and across the habro-platz.
the bridge leading to palace square was not to be found; scarcely trusting his senses, the nocturnal wanderer discovered a shallow piece of water, and here fell in with two men who very comfortably were rocking to and fro in a boat.
“does your honor want to cross the ferry to the holme?” asked they.
“across to the holme!” said the councillor, who knew nothing of the age in which he at that moment was.
“no, i am going to christianshafen, to little market street.”
both men stared at him in astonishment.
“only just tell me where the bridge is,” said he.
“it is really unpardonable that there are no lamps here; and it is as dirty as if one had to wade through a morass.”
the longer he spoke with the boatmen, the more unintelligible did their language become to him.
“i don't understand your bornholmish dialect,” said he at last, angrily, and turning his back upon them.
he was unable to find the bridge: there was no railway either.
“it is really disgraceful what a state this place is in,” muttered he to himself.
never had his age, with which, however, he was always grumbling, seemed so miserable as on this evening.
“i'll take a hackney-coach!” thought he.
but where were the hackney-coaches?
not one was to be seen.
“i must go back to the new market; there, it is to be hoped, i shall find some coaches; for if i don't, i shall never get safe to christianshafen.”
so off he went in the direction of east street, and had nearly got to the end of it when the moon shone forth.
“god bless me!
what wooden scaffolding is that which they have set up there?” cried he involuntarily, as he looked at east gate, which, in those days, was at the end of east street.
he found, however, a little side-door open, and through this he went, and stepped into our new market of the present time.
it was a huge desolate plain; some wild bushes stood up here and there, while across the field flowed a broad canal or river.
some wretched hovels for the dutch sailors, resembling great boxes, and after which the place was named, lay about in confused disorder on the opposite bank.
“i either behold a fata morgana, or i am regularly tipsy,” whimpered out the councillor.
“but what's this?”
he turned round anew, firmly convinced that he was seriously ill. he gazed at the street formerly so well known to him, and now so strange in appearance, and looked at the houses more attentively: most of them were of wood, slightly put together; and many had a thatched roof.
“no i am far from well,” sighed he; “and yet i drank only one glass of punch; but i cannot suppose it it was, too, really very wrong to give us punch and hot salmon for supper.
i shall speak about it at the first opportunity.
i have half a mind to go back again, and say what i suffer.
but no, that would be too silly; and heaven only knows if they are up still.”
he looked for the house, but it had vanished.
“it is really dreadful,” groaned he with increasing anxiety; “i cannot recognise east street again; there is not a single decent shop from one end to the other!
nothing but wretched huts can i see anywhere; just as if i were at ringstead.
oh!
i am ill!
i can scarcely bear myself any longer.
where the deuce can the house be?
it must be here on this very spot; yet there is not the slightest idea of resemblance, to such a degree has everything changed this night!
at all events here are some people up and stirring.
oh!
oh!
i am certainly very ill.”
he now hit upon a half-open door, through a chink of which a faint light shone.
it was a sort of hostelry of those times; a kind of public-house.
the room had some resemblance to the clay-floored halls in holstein; a pretty numerous company, consisting of seamen, copenhagen burghers, and a few scholars, sat here in deep converse over their pewter cans, and gave little heed to the person who entered.
“by your leave!” said the councillor to the hostess, who came bustling towards him.
“i've felt so queer all of a sudden; would you have the goodness to send for a hackney-coach to take me to christianshafen?”
the woman examined him with eyes of astonishment, and shook her head; she then addressed him in german.
the councillor thought she did not understand danish, and therefore repeated his wish in german.
this, in connection with his costume, strengthened the good woman in the belief that he was a foreigner.
that he was ill, she comprehended directly; so she brought him a pitcher of water, which tasted certainly pretty strong of the sea, although it had been fetched from the well.
the councillor supported his head on his hand, drew a long breath, and thought over all the wondrous things he saw around him.
“is this the daily news of this evening?” he asked mechanically, as he saw the hostess push aside a large sheet of paper.
the meaning of this councillorship query remained, of course, a riddle to her, yet she handed him the paper without replying.
it was a coarse wood-cut, representing a splendid meteor “as seen in the town of cologne,” which was to be read below in bright letters.
“that is very old!” said the councillor, whom this piece of antiquity began to make considerably more cheerful.
“pray how did you come into possession of this rare print?
it is extremely interesting, although the whole is a mere fable.
such meteorous appearances are to be explained in this way that they are the reflections of the aurora borealis, and it is highly probable they are caused principally by electricity.”
those persons who were sitting nearest him and heard his speech, stared at him in wonderment; and one of them rose, took off his hat respectfully, and said with a serious countenance, “you are no doubt a very learned man, monsieur.”
“oh no,” answered the councillor, “i can only join in conversation on this topic and on that, as indeed one must do according to the demands of the world at present.”
“modestia is a fine virtue,” continued the gentleman; “however, as to your speech, i must say mihi secus videtur: yet i am willing to suspend my judicium.”
“may i ask with whom i have the pleasure of speaking?” asked the councillor.
“i am a bachelor in theologia,” answered the gentleman with a stiff reverence.
this reply fully satisfied the councillor; the title suited the dress.
“he is certainly,” thought he, “some village schoolmaster some queer old fellow, such as one still often meets with in jutland.”
“this is no locus docendi, it is true,” began the clerical gentleman; “yet i beg you earnestly to let us profit by your learning.
your reading in the ancients is, sine dubio, of vast extent?”
“oh yes, i've read something, to be sure,” replied the councillor.
“i like reading all useful works; but i do not on that account despise the modern ones; 'tis only the unfortunate 'tales of every-day life' that i cannot bear we have enough and more than enough such in reality.”
“'tales of every-day life?
'” said our bachelor inquiringly.
“i mean those new fangled novels, twisting and writhing themselves in the dust of commonplace, which also expect to find a reading public.”
“oh,” exclaimed the clerical gentleman smiling, “there is much wit in them; besides they are read at court.
the king likes the history of sir iffven and sir gaudian particularly, which treats of king arthur, and his knights of the round table; he has more than once joked about it with his high vassals.”
“i have not read that novel,” said the councillor; “it must be quite a new one, that heiberg has published lately.”
“no,” answered the theologian of the time of king hans: “that book is not written by a heiberg, but was imprinted by godfrey von gehmen.”
“oh, is that the author's name?” said the councillor.
“it is a very old name, and, as well as i recollect, he was the first printer that appeared in denmark.”
“yes, he is our first printer,” replied the clerical gentleman hastily.
so far all went on well.
some one of the worthy burghers now spoke of the dreadful pestilence that had raged in the country a few years back, meaning that of 1484. the councillor imagined it was the cholera that was meant, which people made so much fuss about; and the discourse passed off satisfactorily enough.
the war of the buccaneers of 1490 was so recent that it could not fail being alluded to; the english pirates had, they said, most shamefully taken their ships while in the roadstead; and the councillor, before whose eyes the herostratic [*]
event of 1801 still floated vividly, agreed entirely with the others in abusing the rascally english.
with other topics he was not so fortunate; every moment brought about some new confusion, and threatened to become a perfect babel; for the worthy bachelor was really too ignorant, and the simplest observations of the councillor sounded to him too daring and phantastical.
they looked at one another from the crown of the head to the soles of the feet; and when matters grew to too high a pitch, then the bachelor talked latin, in the hope of being better understood but it was of no use after all.
* herostratus, or eratostratus an ephesian, who wantonly      set fire to the famous temple of diana, in order to      commemorate his name by so uncommon an action.
“what's the matter?” asked the hostess, plucking the councillor by the sleeve; and now his recollection returned, for in the course of the conversation he had entirely forgotten all that had preceded it.
“merciful god, where am i!” exclaimed he in agony; and while he so thought, all his ideas and feelings of overpowering dizziness, against which he struggled with the utmost power of desperation, encompassed him with renewed force.
“let us drink claret and mead, and bremen beer,”
shouted one of the guests “and you shall drink with us!”
two maidens approached.
one wore a cap of two staring colors, denoting the class of persons to which she belonged.
they poured out the liquor, and made the most friendly gesticulations; while a cold perspiration trickled down the back of the poor councillor.
“what's to be the end of this!
what's to become of me!” groaned he; but he was forced, in spite of his opposition, to drink with the rest.
they took hold of the worthy man; who, hearing on every side that he was intoxicated, did not in the least doubt the truth of this certainly not very polite assertion; but on the contrary, implored the ladies and gentlemen present to procure him a hackney-coach: they, however, imagined he was talking russian.
never before, he thought, had he been in such a coarse and ignorant company; one might almost fancy the people had turned heathens again.
“it is the most dreadful moment of my life: the whole world is leagued against me!” but suddenly it occurred to him that he might stoop down under the table, and then creep unobserved out of the door.
he did so; but just as he was going, the others remarked what he was about; they laid hold of him by the legs; and now, happily for him, off fell his fatal shoes and with them the charm was at an end.
the councillor saw quite distinctly before him a lantern burning, and behind this a large handsome house.
all seemed to him in proper order as usual; it was east street, splendid and elegant as we now see it.
he lay with his feet towards a doorway, and exactly opposite sat the watchman asleep.
“gracious heaven!” said he.
“have i lain here in the street and dreamed?
yes; 'tis east street!
how splendid and light it is!
but really it is terrible what an effect that one glass of punch must have had on me!”
two minutes later, he was sitting in a hackney-coach and driving to frederickshafen.
he thought of the distress and agony he had endured, and praised from the very bottom of his heart the happy reality our own time which, with all its deficiencies, is yet much better than that in which, so much against his inclination, he had lately been.
iii.
the watchman's adventure
“why, there is a pair of galoshes, as sure as i'm alive!” said the watchman, awaking from a gentle slumber.
“they belong no doubt to the lieutenant who lives over the way.
they lie close to the door.”
the worthy man was inclined to ring and deliver them at the house, for there was still a light in the window; but he did not like disturbing the other people in their beds, and so very considerately he left the matter alone.
“such a pair of shoes must be very warm and comfortable,” said he; “the leather is so soft and supple.” they fitted his feet as though they had been made for him.
“'tis a curious world we live in,” continued he, soliloquizing.
“there is the lieutenant, now, who might go quietly to bed if he chose, where no doubt he could stretch himself at his ease; but does he do it?
no; he saunters up and down his room, because, probably, he has enjoyed too many of the good things of this world at his dinner.
that's a happy fellow!
he has neither an infirm mother, nor a whole troop of everlastingly hungry children to torment him.
every evening he goes to a party, where his nice supper costs him nothing:
would to heaven i could but change with him!
how happy should i be!”
while expressing his wish, the charm of the shoes, which he had put on, began to work; the watchman entered into the being and nature of the lieutenant.
he stood in the handsomely furnished apartment, and held between his fingers a small sheet of rose-colored paper, on which some verses were written written indeed by the officer himself; for who has not, at least once in his life, had a lyrical moment?
and if one then marks down one's thoughts, poetry is produced.
but here was written:
oh, were i rich!
“oh, were i rich!
such was my wish, yea such       when hardly three feet high, i longed for much.
oh, were i rich!
an officer were i,        with sword, and uniform, and plume so high.
and the time came, and officer was i!
but yet i grew not rich.
alas, poor me!
have pity, thou, who all man's wants dost see.
“i sat one evening sunk in dreams of bliss,       a maid of seven years old gave me a kiss,        i at that time was rich in poesy        and tales of old, though poor as poor could be;        but all she asked for was this poesy.
then was i rich, but not in gold, poor me!
as thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
“oh, were i rich!
oft asked i for this boon.
the child grew up to womanhood full soon.
she is so pretty, clever, and so kind      oh, did she know what's hidden in my mind
a tale of old.
would she to me were kind!
but i'm condemned to silence!
oh, poor me!
as thou dost know, who all men's hearts canst see.
“oh, were i rich in calm and peace of mind,       my grief you then would not here written find!
o thou, to whom i do my heart devote,        oh read this page of glad days now remote,        a dark, dark tale, which i tonight devote!
dark is the future now.
alas, poor me!
have pity thou, who all men's pains dost see.”
such verses as these people write when they are in love!
but no man in his senses ever thinks of printing them.
here one of the sorrows of life, in which there is real poetry, gave itself vent; not that barren grief which the poet may only hint at, but never depict in its detail misery and want: that animal necessity, in short, to snatch at least at a fallen leaf of the bread-fruit tree, if not at the fruit itself.
the higher the position in which one finds oneself transplanted, the greater is the suffering.
everyday necessity is the stagnant pool of life no lovely picture reflects itself therein.
lieutenant, love, and lack of money that is a symbolic triangle, or much the same as the half of the shattered die of fortune.
this the lieutenant felt most poignantly, and this was the reason he leant his head against the window, and sighed so deeply.
“the poor watchman out there in the street is far happier than i. he knows not what i term privation.
he has a home, a wife, and children, who weep with him over his sorrows, who rejoice with him when he is glad.
oh, far happier were i, could i exchange with him my being with his desires and with his hopes perform the weary pilgrimage of life!
oh, he is a hundred times happier than i!”
in the same moment the watchman was again watchman.
it was the shoes that caused the metamorphosis by means of which, unknown to himself, he took upon him the thoughts and feelings of the officer; but, as we have just seen, he felt himself in his new situation much less contented, and now preferred the very thing which but some minutes before he had rejected.
so then the watchman was again watchman.
“that was an unpleasant dream,” said he; “but 'twas droll enough altogether.
i fancied that i was the lieutenant over there: and yet the thing was not very much to my taste after all.
i missed my good old mother and the dear little ones; who almost tear me to pieces for sheer love.”
he seated himself once more and nodded: the dream continued to haunt him, for he still had the shoes on his feet.
a falling star shone in the dark firmament.
“there falls another star,” said he: “but what does it matter; there are always enough left.
i should not much mind examining the little glimmering things somewhat nearer, especially the moon; for that would not slip so easily through a man's fingers.
when we die so at least says the student, for whom my wife does the washing we shall fly about as light as a feather from one such a star to the other.
that's, of course, not true: but 'twould be pretty enough if it were so.
if i could but once take a leap up there, my body might stay here on the steps for what i care.”
behold there are certain things in the world to which one ought never to give utterance except with the greatest caution; but doubly careful must one be when we have the shoes of fortune on our feet.
now just listen to what happened to the watchman.
as to ourselves, we all know the speed produced by the employment of steam; we have experienced it either on railroads, or in boats when crossing the sea; but such a flight is like the travelling of a sloth in comparison with the velocity with which light moves.
it flies nineteen million times faster than the best race-horse; and yet electricity is quicker still.
death is an electric shock which our heart receives; the freed soul soars upwards on the wings of electricity.
the sun's light wants eight minutes and some seconds to perform a journey of more than twenty million of our danish [*] miles; borne by electricity, the soul wants even some minutes less to accomplish the same flight.
to it the space between the heavenly bodies is not greater than the distance between the homes of our friends in town is for us, even if they live a short way from each other; such an electric shock in the heart, however, costs us the use of the body here below; unless, like the watchman of east street, we happen to have on the shoes of fortune.
* a danish mile is nearly 4 3/4 english.
in a few seconds the watchman had done the fifty-two thousand of our miles up to the moon, which, as everyone knows, was formed out of matter much lighter than our earth; and is, so we should say, as soft as newly-fallen snow.
he found himself on one of the many circumjacent mountain-ridges with which we are acquainted by means of dr. madler's “map of the moon.” within, down it sunk perpendicularly into a caldron, about a danish mile in depth; while below lay a town, whose appearance we can, in some measure, realize to ourselves by beating the white of an egg in a glass of water.
the matter of which it was built was just as soft, and formed similar towers, and domes, and pillars, transparent and rocking in the thin air; while above his head our earth was rolling like a large fiery ball.
he perceived immediately a quantity of beings who were certainly what we call “men”; yet they looked different to us.
a far more correct imagination than that of the pseudo-herschel* had created them; and if they had been placed in rank and file, and copied by some skilful painter's hand, one would, without doubt, have exclaimed involuntarily, “what a beautiful arabesque!”
*this relates to a book published some years ago in germany, and said to be by herschel, which contained a description of the moon and its inhabitants, written with such a semblance of truth that many were deceived by the imposture.
probably a translation of the celebrated moon hoax, written by richard a. locke, and originally published in new york.
they had a language too; but surely nobody can expect that the soul of the watchman should understand it.
be that as it may, it did comprehend it; for in our souls there germinate far greater powers than we poor mortals, despite all our cleverness, have any notion of.
does she not show us she the queen in the land of enchantment her astounding dramatic talent in all our dreams?
there every acquaintance appears and speaks upon the stage, so entirely in character, and with the same tone of voice, that none of us, when awake, were able to imitate it.
how well can she recall persons to our mind, of whom we have not thought for years; when suddenly they step forth “every inch a man,” resembling the real personages, even to the finest features, and become the heroes or heroines of our world of dreams.
in reality, such remembrances are rather unpleasant: every sin, every evil thought, may, like a clock with alarm or chimes, be repeated at pleasure; then the question is if we can trust ourselves to give an account of every unbecoming word in our heart and on our lips.
the watchman's spirit understood the language of the inhabitants of the moon pretty well.
the selenites* disputed variously about our earth, and expressed their doubts if it could be inhabited: the air, they said, must certainly be too dense to allow any rational dweller in the moon the necessary free respiration.
they considered the moon alone to be inhabited: they imagined it was the real heart of the universe or planetary system, on which the genuine cosmopolites, or citizens of the world, dwelt.
what strange things men no, what strange things selenites sometimes take into their heads!
* dwellers in the moon.
about politics they had a good deal to say.
but little denmark must take care what it is about, and not run counter to the moon; that great realm, that might in an ill-humor bestir itself, and dash down a hail-storm in our faces, or force the baltic to overflow the sides of its gigantic basin.
we will, therefore, not listen to what was spoken, and on no condition run in the possibility of telling tales out of school; but we will rather proceed, like good quiet citizens, to east street, and observe what happened meanwhile to the body of the watchman.
he sat lifeless on the steps: the morning-star,* that is to say, the heavy wooden staff, headed with iron spikes, and which had nothing else in common with its sparkling brother in the sky, had glided from his hand; while his eyes were fixed with glassy stare on the moon, looking for the good old fellow of a spirit which still haunted it.
*the watchmen in germany, had formerly, and in some places they still carry with them, on their rounds at night, a sort of mace or club, known in ancient times by the above denomination.
“what's the hour, watchman?” asked a passer-by.
but when the watchman gave no reply, the merry roysterer, who was now returning home from a noisy drinking bout, took it into his head to try what a tweak of the nose would do, on which the supposed sleeper lost his balance, the body lay motionless, stretched out on the pavement: the man was dead.
when the patrol came up, all his comrades, who comprehended nothing of the whole affair, were seized with a dreadful fright, for dead he was, and he remained so.
the proper authorities were informed of the circumstance, people talked a good deal about it, and in the morning the body was carried to the hospital.
now that would be a very pretty joke, if the spirit when it came back and looked for the body in east street, were not to find one.
no doubt it would, in its anxiety, run off to the police, and then to the “hue and cry” office, to announce that “the finder will be handsomely rewarded,” and at last away to the hospital; yet we may boldly assert that the soul is shrewdest when it shakes off every fetter, and every sort of leading-string the body only makes it stupid.
the seemingly dead body of the watchman wandered, as we have said, to the hospital, where it was brought into the general viewing-room:
and the first thing that was done here was naturally to pull off the galoshes when the spirit, that was merely gone out on adventures, must have returned with the quickness of lightning to its earthly tenement.
it took its direction towards the body in a straight line; and a few seconds after, life began to show itself in the man.
he asserted that the preceding night had been the worst that ever the malice of fate had allotted him; he would not for two silver marks again go through what he had endured while moon-stricken; but now, however, it was over.
the same day he was discharged from the hospital as perfectly cured; but the shoes meanwhile remained behind.
iv.
a moment of head importance an evening's “dramatic readings” a most strange journey
every inhabitant of copenhagen knows, from personal inspection, how the entrance to frederick's hospital looks; but as it is possible that others, who are not copenhagen people, may also read this little work, we will beforehand give a short description of it.
the extensive building is separated from the street by a pretty high railing, the thick iron bars of which are so far apart, that in all seriousness, it is said, some very thin fellow had of a night occasionally squeezed himself through to go and pay his little visits in the town.
the part of the body most difficult to manage on such occasions was, no doubt, the head; here, as is so often the case in the world, long-headed people get through best.
so much, then, for the introduction.
one of the young men, whose head, in a physical sense only, might be said to be of the thickest, had the watch that evening.
the rain poured down in torrents; yet despite these two obstacles, the young man was obliged to go out, if it were but for a quarter of an hour; and as to telling the door-keeper about it, that, he thought, was quite unnecessary, if, with a whole skin, he were able to slip through the railings.
there, on the floor lay the galoshes, which the watchman had forgotten; he never dreamed for a moment that they were those of fortune; and they promised to do him good service in the wet; so he put them on.
the question now was, if he could squeeze himself through the grating, for he had never tried before.
well, there he stood.
“would to heaven i had got my head through!” said he, involuntarily; and instantly through it slipped, easily and without pain, notwithstanding it was pretty large and thick.
but now the rest of the body was to be got through!
“ah!
i am much too stout,” groaned he aloud, while fixed as in a vice.
“i had thought the head was the most difficult part of the matter oh!
oh!
i really cannot squeeze myself through!”
he now wanted to pull his over-hasty head back again, but he could not.
for his neck there was room enough, but for nothing more.
his first feeling was of anger; his next that his temper fell to zero.
the shoes of fortune had placed him in the most dreadful situation; and, unfortunately, it never occurred to him to wish himself free.
the pitch-black clouds poured down their contents in still heavier torrents; not a creature was to be seen in the streets.
to reach up to the bell was what he did not like; to cry aloud for help would have availed him little; besides, how ashamed would he have been to be found caught in a trap, like an outwitted fox!
how was he to twist himself through!
he saw clearly that it was his irrevocable destiny to remain a prisoner till dawn, or, perhaps, even late in the morning; then the smith must be fetched to file away the bars; but all that would not be done so quickly as he could think about it.
the whole charity school, just opposite, would be in motion; all the new booths, with their not very courtier-like swarm of seamen, would join them out of curiosity, and would greet him with a wild “hurrah!” while he was standing in his pillory: there would be a mob, a hissing, and rejoicing, and jeering, ten times worse than in the rows about the jews some years ago “oh, my blood is mounting to my brain; 'tis enough to drive one mad!
i shall go wild!
i know not what to do.
oh!
were i but loose; my dizziness would then cease; oh, were my head but loose!”
you see he ought to have said that sooner; for the moment he expressed the wish his head was free; and cured of all his paroxysms of love, he hastened off to his room, where the pains consequent on the fright the shoes had prepared for him, did not so soon take their leave.
but you must not think that the affair is over now; it grows much worse.
the night passed, the next day also; but nobody came to fetch the shoes.
in the evening “dramatic readings” were to be given at the little theatre in king street.
the house was filled to suffocation; and among other pieces to be recited was a new poem by h. c. andersen, called, my aunt's spectacles; the contents of which were pretty nearly as follows:
“a certain person had an aunt, who boasted of particular skill in fortune-telling with cards, and who was constantly being stormed by persons that wanted to have a peep into futurity.
but she was full of mystery about her art, in which a certain pair of magic spectacles did her essential service.
her nephew, a merry boy, who was his aunt's darling, begged so long for these spectacles, that, at last, she lent him the treasure, after having informed him, with many exhortations, that in order to execute the interesting trick, he need only repair to some place where a great many persons were assembled; and then, from a higher position, whence he could overlook the crowd, pass the company in review before him through his spectacles.
immediately 'the inner man' of each individual would be displayed before him, like a game of cards, in which he unerringly might read what the future of every person presented was to be.
well pleased the little magician hastened away to prove the powers of the spectacles in the theatre; no place seeming to him more fitted for such a trial.
he begged permission of the worthy audience, and set his spectacles on his nose.
a motley phantasmagoria presents itself before him, which he describes in a few satirical touches, yet without expressing his opinion openly: he tells the people enough to set them all thinking and guessing; but in order to hurt nobody, he wraps his witty oracular judgments in a transparent veil, or rather in a lurid thundercloud, shooting forth bright sparks of wit, that they may fall in the powder-magazine of the expectant audience.”
the humorous poem was admirably recited, and the speaker much applauded.
among the audience was the young man of the hospital, who seemed to have forgotten his adventure of the preceding night.
he had on the shoes; for as yet no lawful owner had appeared to claim them; and besides it was so very dirty out-of-doors, they were just the thing for him, he thought.
the beginning of the poem he praised with great generosity: he even found the idea original and effective.
but that the end of it, like the rhine, was very insignificant, proved, in his opinion, the author's want of invention; he was without genius, etc.
this was an excellent opportunity to have said something clever.
meanwhile he was haunted by the idea he should like to possess such a pair of spectacles himself; then, perhaps, by using them circumspectly, one would be able to look into people's hearts, which, he thought, would be far more interesting than merely to see what was to happen next year; for that we should all know in proper time, but the other never.
“i can now,” said he to himself, “fancy the whole row of ladies and gentlemen sitting there in the front row; if one could but see into their hearts yes, that would be a revelation a sort of bazar.
in that lady yonder, so strangely dressed, i should find for certain a large milliner's shop; in that one the shop is empty, but it wants cleaning plain enough.
but there would also be some good stately shops among them.
alas!” sighed he, “i know one in which all is stately; but there sits already a spruce young shopman, which is the only thing that's amiss in the whole shop.
all would be splendidly decked out, and we should hear, 'walk in, gentlemen, pray walk in; here you will find all you please to want.'
ah!
i wish to heaven i could walk in and take a trip right through the hearts of those present!”
and behold!
to the shoes of fortune this was the cue; the whole man shrunk together and a most uncommon journey through the hearts of the front row of spectators, now began.
the first heart through which he came, was that of a middle-aged lady, but he instantly fancied himself in the room of the “institution for the cure of the crooked and deformed,” where casts of mis-shapen limbs are displayed in naked reality on the wall.
yet there was this difference, in the institution the casts were taken at the entry of the patient; but here they were retained and guarded in the heart while the sound persons went away.
they were, namely, casts of female friends, whose bodily or mental deformities were here most faithfully preserved.
with the snake-like writhings of an idea he glided into another female heart; but this seemed to him like a large holy fane.
[*] the white dove of innocence fluttered over the altar.
how gladly would he have sunk upon his knees; but he must away to the next heart; yet he still heard the pealing tones of the organ, and he himself seemed to have become a newer and a better man; he felt unworthy to tread the neighboring sanctuary which a poor garret, with a sick bed-rid mother, revealed.
but god's warm sun streamed through the open window; lovely roses nodded from the wooden flower-boxes on the roof, and two sky-blue birds sang rejoicingly, while the sick mother implored god's richest blessings on her pious daughter.
* temple
he now crept on hands and feet through a butcher's shop; at least on every side, and above and below, there was nought but flesh.
it was the heart of a most respectable rich man, whose name is certain to be found in the directory.
he was now in the heart of the wife of this worthy gentleman.
it was an old, dilapidated, mouldering dovecot.
the husband's portrait was used as a weather-cock, which was connected in some way or other with the doors, and so they opened and shut of their own accord, whenever the stern old husband turned round.
hereupon he wandered into a boudoir formed entirely of mirrors, like the one in castle rosenburg; but here the glasses magnified to an astonishing degree.
on the floor, in the middle of the room, sat, like a dalai-lama, the insignificant “self” of the person, quite confounded at his own greatness.
he then imagined he had got into a needle-case full of pointed needles of every size.
“this is certainly the heart of an old maid,” thought he.
but he was mistaken.
it was the heart of a young military man; a man, as people said, of talent and feeling.
in the greatest perplexity, he now came out of the last heart in the row; he was unable to put his thoughts in order, and fancied that his too lively imagination had run away with him.
“good heavens!” sighed he.
“i have surely a disposition to madness 'tis dreadfully hot here; my blood boils in my veins and my head is burning like a coal.” and he now remembered the important event of the evening before, how his head had got jammed in between the iron railings of the hospital.
“that's what it is, no doubt,” said he.
“i must do something in time: under such circumstances a russian bath might do me good.
i only wish i were already on the upper bank.” [*]
*in these russian (vapor) baths the person extends himself      on a bank or form, and as he gets accustomed to the heat,      moves to another higher up towards the ceiling, where, of      course, the vapor is warmest.
in this manner he ascends      gradually to the highest.
and so there he lay on the uppermost bank in the vapor-bath; but with all his clothes on, in his boots and galoshes, while the hot drops fell scalding from the ceiling on his face.
“holloa!” cried he, leaping down.
the bathing attendant, on his side, uttered a loud cry of astonishment when he beheld in the bath, a man completely dressed.
the other, however, retained sufficient presence of mind to whisper to him, “'tis a bet, and i have won it!” but the first thing he did as soon as he got home, was to have a large blister put on his chest and back to draw out his madness.
the next morning he had a sore chest and a bleeding back; and, excepting the fright, that was all that he had gained by the shoes of fortune.
v. metamorphosis of the copying-clerk
the watchman, whom we have certainly not forgotten, thought meanwhile of the galoshes he had found and taken with him to the hospital; he now went to fetch them; and as neither the lieutenant, nor anybody else in the street, claimed them as his property, they were delivered over to the police-office.
*
*as on the continent, in all law and police practices nothing is verbal, but any circumstance, however trifling, is reduced to writing, the labor, as well as the number of papers that thus accumulate, is enormous.
in a police-office, consequently, we find copying-clerks among many other scribes of various denominations, of which, it seems, our hero was one.
“why, i declare the shoes look just like my own,” said one of the clerks, eying the newly-found treasure, whose hidden powers, even he, sharp as he was, was not able to discover.
“one must have more than the eye of a shoemaker to know one pair from the other,” said he, soliloquizing; and putting, at the same time, the galoshes in search of an owner, beside his own in the corner.
“here, sir!” said one of the men, who panting brought him a tremendous pile of papers.
the copying-clerk turned round and spoke awhile with the man about the reports and legal documents in question; but when he had finished, and his eye fell again on the shoes, he was unable to say whether those to the left or those to the right belonged to him.
“at all events it must be those which are wet,” thought he; but this time, in spite of his cleverness, he guessed quite wrong, for it was just those of fortune which played as it were into his hands, or rather on his feet.
and why, i should like to know, are the police never to be wrong?
so he put them on quickly, stuck his papers in his pocket, and took besides a few under his arm, intending to look them through at home to make the necessary notes.
it was noon; and the weather, that had threatened rain, began to clear up, while gaily dressed holiday folks filled the streets.
“a little trip to fredericksburg would do me no great harm,” thought he; “for i, poor beast of burden that i am, have so much to annoy me, that i don't know what a good appetite is.
'tis a bitter crust, alas!
at which i am condemned to gnaw!”
nobody could be more steady or quiet than this young man; we therefore wish him joy of the excursion with all our heart; and it will certainly be beneficial for a person who leads so sedentary a life.
in the park he met a friend, one of our young poets, who told him that the following day he should set out on his long-intended tour.
“so you are going away again!” said the clerk.
“you are a very free and happy being; we others are chained by the leg and held fast to our desk.”
“yes; but it is a chain, friend, which ensures you the blessed bread of existence,” answered the poet.
“you need feel no care for the coming morrow: when you are old, you receive a pension.”
“true,” said the clerk, shrugging his shoulders; “and yet you are the better off.
to sit at one's ease and poetise that is a pleasure; everybody has something agreeable to say to you, and you are always your own master.
no, friend, you should but try what it is to sit from one year's end to the other occupied with and judging the most trivial matters.”
the poet shook his head, the copying-clerk did the same.
each one kept to his own opinion, and so they separated.
“it's a strange race, those poets!” said the clerk, who was very fond of soliloquizing.
“i should like some day, just for a trial, to take such nature upon me, and be a poet myself; i am very sure i should make no such miserable verses as the others.
today, methinks, is a most delicious day for a poet.
nature seems anew to celebrate her awakening into life.
the air is so unusually clear, the clouds sail on so buoyantly, and from the green herbage a fragrance is exhaled that fills me with delight.
for many a year have i not felt as at this moment.”
we see already, by the foregoing effusion, that he is become a poet; to give further proof of it, however, would in most cases be insipid, for it is a most foolish notion to fancy a poet different from other men.
among the latter there may be far more poetical natures than many an acknowledged poet, when examined more closely, could boast of; the difference only is, that the poet possesses a better mental memory, on which account he is able to retain the feeling and the thought till they can be embodied by means of words; a faculty which the others do not possess.
but the transition from a commonplace nature to one that is richly endowed, demands always a more or less breakneck leap over a certain abyss which yawns threateningly below; and thus must the sudden change with the clerk strike the reader.
“the sweet air!” continued he of the police-office, in his dreamy imaginings; “how it reminds me of the violets in the garden of my aunt magdalena!
yes, then i was a little wild boy, who did not go to school very regularly.
o heavens!
'tis a long time since i have thought on those times.
the good old soul!
she lived behind the exchange.
she always had a few twigs or green shoots in water let the winter rage without as it might.
the violets exhaled their sweet breath, whilst i pressed against the windowpanes covered with fantastic frost-work the copper coin i had heated on the stove, and so made peep-holes.
what splendid vistas were then opened to my view!
what change what magnificence!
yonder in the canal lay the ships frozen up, and deserted by their whole crews, with a screaming crow for the sole occupant.
but when the spring, with a gentle stirring motion, announced her arrival, a new and busy life arose; with songs and hurrahs the ice was sawn asunder, the ships were fresh tarred and rigged, that they might sail away to distant lands.
but i have remained here must always remain here, sitting at my desk in the office, and patiently see other people fetch their passports to go abroad.
such is my fate!
alas!” sighed he, and was again silent.
“great heaven!
what is come to me!
never have i thought or felt like this before!
it must be the summer air that affects me with feelings almost as disquieting as they are refreshing.”
he felt in his pocket for the papers.
“these police-reports will soon stem the torrent of my ideas, and effectually hinder any rebellious overflowing of the time-worn banks of official duties”; he said to himself consolingly, while his eye ran over the first page.
“dame tigbrith, tragedy in five acts.” “what is that?
and yet it is undeniably my own handwriting.
have i written the tragedy?
wonderful, very wonderful!
and this what have i here?
'intrigue on the ramparts; or the day of repentance: vaudeville with new songs to the most favorite airs.'
the deuce!
where did i get all this rubbish?
some one must have slipped it slyly into my pocket for a joke.
there is too a letter to me; a crumpled letter and the seal broken.”
yes; it was not a very polite epistle from the manager of a theatre, in which both pieces were flatly refused.
“hem!
hem!” said the clerk breathlessly, and quite exhausted he seated himself on a bank.
his thoughts were so elastic, his heart so tender; and involuntarily he picked one of the nearest flowers.
it is a simple daisy, just bursting out of the bud.
what the botanist tells us after a number of imperfect lectures, the flower proclaimed in a minute.
it related the mythus of its birth, told of the power of the sun-light that spread out its delicate leaves, and forced them to impregnate the air with their incense and then he thought of the manifold struggles of life, which in like manner awaken the budding flowers of feeling in our bosom.
light and air contend with chivalric emulation for the love of the fair flower that bestowed her chief favors on the latter; full of longing she turned towards the light, and as soon as it vanished, rolled her tender leaves together and slept in the embraces of the air.
“it is the light which adorns me,” said the flower.
“but 'tis the air which enables thee to breathe,” said the poet's voice.
close by stood a boy who dashed his stick into a wet ditch.
the drops of water splashed up to the green leafy roof, and the clerk thought of the million of ephemera which in a single drop were thrown up to a height, that was as great doubtless for their size, as for us if we were to be hurled above the clouds.
while he thought of this and of the whole metamorphosis he had undergone, he smiled and said, “i sleep and dream; but it is wonderful how one can dream so naturally, and know besides so exactly that it is but a dream.
if only to-morrow on awaking, i could again call all to mind so vividly!
i seem in unusually good spirits; my perception of things is clear, i feel as light and cheerful as though i were in heaven; but i know for a certainty, that if to-morrow a dim remembrance of it should swim before my mind, it will then seem nothing but stupid nonsense, as i have often experienced already especially before i enlisted under the banner of the police, for that dispels like a whirlwind all the visions of an unfettered imagination.
all we hear or say in a dream that is fair and beautiful is like the gold of the subterranean spirits; it is rich and splendid when it is given us, but viewed by daylight we find only withered leaves.
alas!” he sighed quite sorrowful, and gazed at the chirping birds that hopped contentedly from branch to branch, “they are much better off than i!
to fly must be a heavenly art; and happy do i prize that creature in which it is innate.
yes!
could i exchange my nature with any other creature, i fain would be such a happy little lark!”
he had hardly uttered these hasty words when the skirts and sleeves of his coat folded themselves together into wings; the clothes became feathers, and the galoshes claws.
he observed it perfectly, and laughed in his heart.
“now then, there is no doubt that i am dreaming; but i never before was aware of such mad freaks as these.” and up he flew into the green roof and sang; but in the song there was no poetry, for the spirit of the poet was gone.
the shoes, as is the case with anybody who does what he has to do properly, could only attend to one thing at a time.
he wanted to be a poet, and he was one; he now wished to be a merry chirping bird: but when he was metamorphosed into one, the former peculiarities ceased immediately.
“it is really pleasant enough,” said he: “the whole day long i sit in the office amid the driest law-papers, and at night i fly in my dream as a lark in the gardens of fredericksburg; one might really write a very pretty comedy upon it.” he now fluttered down into the grass, turned his head gracefully on every side, and with his bill pecked the pliant blades of grass, which, in comparison to his present size, seemed as majestic as the palm-branches of northern africa.
unfortunately the pleasure lasted but a moment.
presently black night overshadowed our enthusiast, who had so entirely missed his part of copying-clerk at a police-office; some vast object seemed to be thrown over him.
it was a large oil-skin cap, which a sailor-boy of the quay had thrown over the struggling bird; a coarse hand sought its way carefully in under the broad rim, and seized the clerk over the back and wings.
in the first moment of fear, he called, indeed, as loud as he could “you impudent little blackguard!
i am a copying-clerk at the police-office; and you know you cannot insult any belonging to the constabulary force without a chastisement.
besides, you good-for-nothing rascal, it is strictly forbidden to catch birds in the royal gardens of fredericksburg; but your blue uniform betrays where you come from.”
this fine tirade sounded, however, to the ungodly sailor-boy like a mere “pippi-pi.” he gave the noisy bird a knock on his beak, and walked on.
he was soon met by two schoolboys of the upper class that is to say as individuals, for with regard to learning they were in the lowest class in the school; and they bought the stupid bird.
so the copying-clerk came to copenhagen as guest, or rather as prisoner in a family living in gother street.
“'tis well that i'm dreaming,” said the clerk, “or i really should get angry.
first i was a poet; now sold for a few pence as a lark; no doubt it was that accursed poetical nature which has metamorphosed me into such a poor harmless little creature.
it is really pitiable, particularly when one gets into the hands of a little blackguard, perfect in all sorts of cruelty to animals: all i should like to know is, how the story will end.”
the two schoolboys, the proprietors now of the transformed clerk, carried him into an elegant room.
a stout stately dame received them with a smile; but she expressed much dissatisfaction that a common field-bird, as she called the lark, should appear in such high society.
for to-day, however, she would allow it; and they must shut him in the empty cage that was standing in the window.
“perhaps he will amuse my good polly,” added the lady, looking with a benignant smile at a large green parrot that swung himself backwards and forwards most comfortably in his ring, inside a magnificent brass-wired cage.
“to-day is polly's birthday,” said she with stupid simplicity: “and the little brown field-bird must wish him joy.”
mr. polly uttered not a syllable in reply, but swung to and fro with dignified condescension; while a pretty canary, as yellow as gold, that had lately been brought from his sunny fragrant home, began to sing aloud.
“noisy creature!
will you be quiet!” screamed the lady of the house, covering the cage with an embroidered white pocket handkerchief.
“chirp, chirp!” sighed he.
“that was a dreadful snowstorm”; and he sighed again, and was silent.
the copying-clerk, or, as the lady said, the brown field-bird, was put into a small cage, close to the canary, and not far from “my good polly.” the only human sounds that the parrot could bawl out were, “come, let us be men!” everything else that he said was as unintelligible to everybody as the chirping of the canary, except to the clerk, who was now a bird too: he understood his companion perfectly.
“i flew about beneath the green palms and the blossoming almond-trees,”
sang the canary; “i flew around, with my brothers and sisters, over the beautiful flowers, and over the glassy lakes, where the bright water-plants nodded to me from below.
there, too, i saw many splendidly-dressed paroquets, that told the drollest stories, and the wildest fairy tales without end.”
“oh!
those were uncouth birds,” answered the parrot.
“they had no education, and talked of whatever came into their head.
“if my mistress and all her friends can laugh at what i say, so may you too, i should think.
it is a great fault to have no taste for what is witty or amusing come, let us be men.”
“ah, you have no remembrance of love for the charming maidens that danced beneath the outspread tents beside the bright fragrant flowers?
do you no longer remember the sweet fruits, and the cooling juice in the wild plants of our never-to-be-forgotten home?” said the former inhabitant of the canary isles, continuing his dithyrambic.
“oh, yes,” said the parrot; “but i am far better off here.
i am well fed, and get friendly treatment.
i know i am a clever fellow; and that is all i care about.
come, let us be men.
you are of a poetical nature, as it is called i, on the contrary, possess profound knowledge and inexhaustible wit.
you have genius; but clear-sighted, calm discretion does not take such lofty flights, and utter such high natural tones.
for this they have covered you over they never do the like to me; for i cost more.
besides, they are afraid of my beak; and i have always a witty answer at hand.
come, let us be men!”
“o warm spicy land of my birth,” sang the canary bird; “i will sing of thy dark-green bowers, of the calm bays where the pendent boughs kiss the surface of the water; i will sing of the rejoicing of all my brothers and sisters where the cactus grows in wanton luxuriance.”
“spare us your elegiac tones,” said the parrot giggling.
“rather speak of something at which one may laugh heartily.
laughing is an infallible sign of the highest degree of mental development.
can a dog, or a horse laugh?
no, but they can cry.
the gift of laughing was given to man alone.
ha!
ha!
ha!” screamed polly, and added his stereotype witticism.
“come, let us be men!”
“poor little danish grey-bird,” said the canary; “you have been caught too.
it is, no doubt, cold enough in your woods, but there at least is the breath of liberty; therefore fly away.
in the hurry they have forgotten to shut your cage, and the upper window is open.
fly, my friend; fly away.
farewell!”
instinctively the clerk obeyed; with a few strokes of his wings he was out of the cage; but at the same moment the door, which was only ajar, and which led to the next room, began to creak, and supple and creeping came the large tomcat into the room, and began to pursue him.
the frightened canary fluttered about in his cage; the parrot flapped his wings, and cried, “come, let us be men!” the clerk felt a mortal fright, and flew through the window, far away over the houses and streets.
at last he was forced to rest a little.
the neighboring house had a something familiar about it; a window stood open; he flew in; it was his own room.
he perched upon the table.
“come, let us be men!” said he, involuntarily imitating the chatter of the parrot, and at the same moment he was again a copying-clerk; but he was sitting in the middle of the table.
“heaven help me!” cried he.
“how did i get up here and so buried in sleep, too?
after all, that was a very unpleasant, disagreeable dream that haunted me!
the whole story is nothing but silly, stupid nonsense!”
vi.
the best that the galoshes gave
the following day, early in the morning, while the clerk was still in bed, someone knocked at his door.
it was his neighbor, a young divine, who lived on the same floor.
he walked in.
“lend me your galoshes,” said he; “it is so wet in the garden, though the sun is shining most invitingly.
i should like to go out a little.”
he got the galoshes, and he was soon below in a little duodecimo garden, where between two immense walls a plumtree and an apple-tree were standing.
even such a little garden as this was considered in the metropolis of copenhagen as a great luxury.
the young man wandered up and down the narrow paths, as well as the prescribed limits would allow; the clock struck six; without was heard the horn of a post-boy.
“to travel!
to travel!” exclaimed he, overcome by most painful and passionate remembrances.
“that is the happiest thing in the world!
that is the highest aim of all my wishes!
then at last would the agonizing restlessness be allayed, which destroys my existence!
but it must be far, far away!
i would behold magnificent switzerland; i would travel to italy, and ”
it was a good thing that the power of the galoshes worked as instantaneously as lightning in a powder-magazine would do, otherwise the poor man with his overstrained wishes would have travelled about the world too much for himself as well as for us.
in short, he was travelling.
he was in the middle of switzerland, but packed up with eight other passengers in the inside of an eternally-creaking diligence; his head ached till it almost split, his weary neck could hardly bear the heavy load, and his feet, pinched by his torturing boots, were terribly swollen.
he was in an intermediate state between sleeping and waking; at variance with himself, with his company, with the country, and with the government.
in his right pocket he had his letter of credit, in the left, his passport, and in a small leathern purse some double louis d'or, carefully sewn up in the bosom of his waistcoat.
every dream proclaimed that one or the other of these valuables was lost; wherefore he started up as in a fever; and the first movement which his hand made, described a magic triangle from the right pocket to the left, and then up towards the bosom, to feel if he had them all safe or not.
from the roof inside the carriage, umbrellas, walking-sticks, hats, and sundry other articles were depending, and hindered the view, which was particularly imposing.
he now endeavored as well as he was able to dispel his gloom, which was caused by outward chance circumstances merely, and on the bosom of nature imbibe the milk of purest human enjoyment.
grand, solemn, and dark was the whole landscape around.
the gigantic pine-forests, on the pointed crags, seemed almost like little tufts of heather, colored by the surrounding clouds.
it began to snow, a cold wind blew and roared as though it were seeking a bride.
“augh!” sighed he, “were we only on the other side the alps, then we should have summer, and i could get my letters of credit cashed.
the anxiety i feel about them prevents me enjoying switzerland.
were i but on the other side!”
and so saying he was on the other side in italy, between florence and rome.
lake thracymene, illumined by the evening sun, lay like flaming gold between the dark-blue mountain-ridges; here, where hannibal defeated flaminius, the rivers now held each other in their green embraces; lovely, half-naked children tended a herd of black swine, beneath a group of fragrant laurel-trees, hard by the road-side.
could we render this inimitable picture properly, then would everybody exclaim, “beautiful, unparalleled italy!” but neither the young divine said so, nor anyone of his grumbling companions in the coach of the vetturino.
the poisonous flies and gnats swarmed around by thousands; in vain one waved myrtle-branches about like mad; the audacious insect population did not cease to sting; nor was there a single person in the well-crammed carriage whose face was not swollen and sore from their ravenous bites.
the poor horses, tortured almost to death, suffered most from this truly egyptian plague; the flies alighted upon them in large disgusting swarms; and if the coachman got down and scraped them off, hardly a minute elapsed before they were there again.
the sun now set: a freezing cold, though of short duration pervaded the whole creation; it was like a horrid gust coming from a burial-vault on a warm summer's day but all around the mountains retained that wonderful green tone which we see in some old pictures, and which, should we not have seen a similar play of color in the south, we declare at once to be unnatural.
it was a glorious prospect; but the stomach was empty, the body tired; all that the heart cared and longed for was good night-quarters; yet how would they be?
for these one looked much more anxiously than for the charms of nature, which every where were so profusely displayed.
the road led through an olive-grove, and here the solitary inn was situated.
ten or twelve crippled-beggars had encamped outside.
the healthiest of them resembled, to use an expression of marryat's, “hunger's eldest son when he had come of age”; the others were either blind, had withered legs and crept about on their hands, or withered arms and fingerless hands.
it was the most wretched misery, dragged from among the filthiest rags.
“excellenza, miserabili!” sighed they, thrusting forth their deformed limbs to view.
even the hostess, with bare feet, uncombed hair, and dressed in a garment of doubtful color, received the guests grumblingly.
the doors were fastened with a loop of string; the floor of the rooms presented a stone paving half torn up; bats fluttered wildly about the ceiling; and as to the smell therein no that was beyond description.
“you had better lay the cloth below in the stable,” said one of the travellers; “there, at all events, one knows what one is breathing.”
the windows were quickly opened, to let in a little fresh air.
quicker, however, than the breeze, the withered, sallow arms of the beggars were thrust in, accompanied by the eternal whine of “miserabili, miserabili, excellenza!” on the walls were displayed innumerable inscriptions, written in nearly every language of europe, some in verse, some in prose, most of them not very laudatory of “bella italia.”
the meal was served.
it consisted of a soup of salted water, seasoned with pepper and rancid oil.
the last ingredient played a very prominent part in the salad; stale eggs and roasted cocks'-combs furnished the grand dish of the repast; the wine even was not without a disgusting taste it was like a medicinal draught.
at night the boxes and other effects of the passengers were placed against the rickety doors.
one of the travellers kept watch while the others slept.
the sentry was our young divine.
how close it was in the chamber!
the heat oppressive to suffocation the gnats hummed and stung unceasingly the “miserabili” without whined and moaned in their sleep.
“travelling would be agreeable enough,” said he groaning, “if one only had no body, or could send it to rest while the spirit went on its pilgrimage unhindered, whither the voice within might call it.
wherever i go, i am pursued by a longing that is insatiable that i cannot explain to myself, and that tears my very heart.
i want something better than what is but what is fled in an instant.
but what is it, and where is it to be found?
yet, i know in reality what it is i wish for.
oh!
most happy were i, could i but reach one aim could but reach the happiest of all!”
and as he spoke the word he was again in his home; the long white curtains hung down from the windows, and in the middle of the floor stood the black coffin; in it he lay in the sleep of death.
his wish was fulfilled the body rested, while the spirit went unhindered on its pilgrimage.
“let no one deem himself happy before his end,” were the words of solon; and here was a new and brilliant proof of the wisdom of the old apothegm.
every corpse is a sphynx of immortality; here too on the black coffin the sphynx gave us no answer to what he who lay within had written two days before:
“o mighty death!
thy silence teaches nought,        thou leadest only to the near grave's brink;       is broken now the ladder of my thoughts?
do i instead of mounting only sink?
our heaviest grief the world oft seeth not,       our sorest pain we hide from stranger eyes:
and for the sufferer there is nothing left      but the green mound that o'er the coffin lies.”
two figures were moving in the chamber.
we knew them both; it was the fairy of care, and the emissary of fortune.
they both bent over the corpse.
“do you now see,” said care, “what happiness your galoshes have brought to mankind?”
“to him, at least, who slumbers here, they have brought an imperishable blessing,” answered the other.
“ah no!” replied care.
“he took his departure himself; he was not called away.
his mental powers here below were not strong enough to reach the treasures lying beyond this life, and which his destiny ordained he should obtain.
i will now confer a benefit on him.”
and she took the galoshes from his feet; his sleep of death was ended; and he who had been thus called back again to life arose from his dread couch in all the vigor of youth.
care vanished, and with her the galoshes.
she has no doubt taken them for herself, to keep them to all eternity.
the fir tree
out in the woods stood a nice little fir tree.
the place he had was a very good one: the sun shone on him: as to fresh air, there was enough of that, and round him grew many large-sized comrades, pines as well as firs.
but the little fir wanted so very much to be a grown-up tree.
he did not think of the warm sun and of the fresh air; he did not care for the little cottage children that ran about and prattled when they were in the woods looking for wild-strawberries.
the children often came with a whole pitcher full of berries, or a long row of them threaded on a straw, and sat down near the young tree and said, “oh, how pretty he is!
what a nice little fir!” but this was what the tree could not bear to hear.
at the end of a year he had shot up a good deal, and after another year he was another long bit taller; for with fir trees one can always tell by the shoots how many years old they are.
“oh!
were i but such a high tree as the others are,” sighed he.
“then i should be able to spread out my branches, and with the tops to look into the wide world!
then would the birds build nests among my branches: and when there was a breeze, i could bend with as much stateliness as the others!”
neither the sunbeams, nor the birds, nor the red clouds which morning and evening sailed above him, gave the little tree any pleasure.
in winter, when the snow lay glittering on the ground, a hare would often come leaping along, and jump right over the little tree.
oh, that made him so angry!
but two winters were past, and in the third the tree was so large that the hare was obliged to go round it.
“to grow and grow, to get older and be tall,” thought the tree “that, after all, is the most delightful thing in the world!”
in autumn the wood-cutters always came and felled some of the largest trees.
this happened every year; and the young fir tree, that had now grown to a very comely size, trembled at the sight; for the magnificent great trees fell to the earth with noise and cracking, the branches were lopped off, and the trees looked long and bare; they were hardly to be recognised; and then they were laid in carts, and the horses dragged them out of the wood.
where did they go to?
what became of them?
in spring, when the swallows and the storks came, the tree asked them, “don't you know where they have been taken?
have you not met them anywhere?”
the swallows did not know anything about it; but the stork looked musing, nodded his head, and said, “yes; i think i know; i met many ships as i was flying hither from egypt; on the ships were magnificent masts, and i venture to assert that it was they that smelt so of fir.
i may congratulate you, for they lifted themselves on high most majestically!”
“oh, were i but old enough to fly across the sea!
but how does the sea look in reality?
what is it like?”
“that would take a long time to explain,” said the stork, and with these words off he went.
“rejoice in thy growth!” said the sunbeams.
“rejoice in thy vigorous growth, and in the fresh life that moveth within thee!”
and the wind kissed the tree, and the dew wept tears over him; but the fir understood it not.
when christmas came, quite young trees were cut down: trees which often were not even as large or of the same age as this fir tree, who could never rest, but always wanted to be off.
these young trees, and they were always the finest looking, retained their branches; they were laid on carts, and the horses drew them out of the wood.
“where are they going to?” asked the fir.
“they are not taller than i; there was one indeed that was considerably shorter; and why do they retain all their branches?
whither are they taken?”
“we know!
we know!” chirped the sparrows.
“we have peeped in at the windows in the town below!
we know whither they are taken!
the greatest splendor and the greatest magnificence one can imagine await them.
we peeped through the windows, and saw them planted in the middle of the warm room and ornamented with the most splendid things, with gilded apples, with gingerbread, with toys, and many hundred lights!”
“and then?” asked the fir tree, trembling in every bough.
“and then?
what happens then?”
“we did not see anything more: it was incomparably beautiful.”
“i would fain know if i am destined for so glorious a career,” cried the tree, rejoicing.
“that is still better than to cross the sea!
what a longing do i suffer!
were christmas but come!
i am now tall, and my branches spread like the others that were carried off last year!
oh!
were i but already on the cart!
were i in the warm room with all the splendor and magnificence!
yes; then something better, something still grander, will surely follow, or wherefore should they thus ornament me?
something better, something still grander must follow but what?
oh, how i long, how i suffer!
i do not know myself what is the matter with me!”
“rejoice in our presence!” said the air and the sunlight.
“rejoice in thy own fresh youth!”
but the tree did not rejoice at all; he grew and grew, and was green both winter and summer.
people that saw him said, “what a fine tree!”
and towards christmas he was one of the first that was cut down.
the axe struck deep into the very pith; the tree fell to the earth with a sigh; he felt a pang it was like a swoon; he could not think of happiness, for he was sorrowful at being separated from his home, from the place where he had sprung up.
he well knew that he should never see his dear old comrades, the little bushes and flowers around him, anymore; perhaps not even the birds!
the departure was not at all agreeable.
the tree only came to himself when he was unloaded in a court-yard with the other trees, and heard a man say, “that one is splendid!
we don't want the others.” then two servants came in rich livery and carried the fir tree into a large and splendid drawing-room.
portraits were hanging on the walls, and near the white porcelain stove stood two large chinese vases with lions on the covers.
there, too, were large easy-chairs, silken sofas, large tables full of picture-books and full of toys, worth hundreds and hundreds of crowns at least the children said so.
and the fir tree was stuck upright in a cask that was filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a cask, for green cloth was hung all round it, and it stood on a large gaily-colored carpet.
oh!
how the tree quivered!
what was to happen?
the servants, as well as the young ladies, decorated it.
on one branch there hung little nets cut out of colored paper, and each net was filled with sugarplums; and among the other boughs gilded apples and walnuts were suspended, looking as though they had grown there, and little blue and white tapers were placed among the leaves.
dolls that looked for all the world like men the tree had never beheld such before were seen among the foliage, and at the very top a large star of gold tinsel was fixed.
it was really splendid beyond description splendid.
“this evening!” they all said.
“how it will shine this evening!”
“oh!” thought the tree.
“if the evening were but come!
if the tapers were but lighted!
and then i wonder what will happen!
perhaps the other trees from the forest will come to look at me!
perhaps the sparrows will beat against the windowpanes!
i wonder if i shall take root here, and winter and summer stand covered with ornaments!”
he knew very much about the matter but he was so impatient that for sheer longing he got a pain in his back, and this with trees is the same thing as a headache with us.
the candles were now lighted what brightness!
what splendor!
the tree trembled so in every bough that one of the tapers set fire to the foliage.
it blazed up famously.
“help!
help!” cried the young ladies, and they quickly put out the fire.
now the tree did not even dare tremble.
what a state he was in!
he was so uneasy lest he should lose something of his splendor, that he was quite bewildered amidst the glare and brightness; when suddenly both folding-doors opened and a troop of children rushed in as if they would upset the tree.
the older persons followed quietly; the little ones stood quite still.
but it was only for a moment; then they shouted that the whole place re-echoed with their rejoicing; they danced round the tree, and one present after the other was pulled off.
“what are they about?” thought the tree.
“what is to happen now!” and the lights burned down to the very branches, and as they burned down they were put out one after the other, and then the children had permission to plunder the tree.
so they fell upon it with such violence that all its branches cracked; if it had not been fixed firmly in the ground, it would certainly have tumbled down.
the children danced about with their beautiful playthings; no one looked at the tree except the old nurse, who peeped between the branches; but it was only to see if there was a fig or an apple left that had been forgotten.
“a story!
a story!” cried the children, drawing a little fat man towards the tree.
he seated himself under it and said, “now we are in the shade, and the tree can listen too.
but i shall tell only one story.
now which will you have; that about ivedy-avedy, or about humpy-dumpy, who tumbled downstairs, and yet after all came to the throne and married the princess?”
“ivedy-avedy,” cried some; “humpy-dumpy,” cried the others.
there was such a bawling and screaming the fir tree alone was silent, and he thought to himself, “am i not to bawl with the rest?
am i to do nothing whatever?” for he was one of the company, and had done what he had to do.
and the man told about humpy-dumpy that tumbled down, who notwithstanding came to the throne, and at last married the princess.
and the children clapped their hands, and cried.
“oh, go on!
do go on!”
they wanted to hear about ivedy-avedy too, but the little man only told them about humpy-dumpy.
the fir tree stood quite still and absorbed in thought; the birds in the wood had never related the like of this.
“humpy-dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he married the princess!
yes, yes!
that's the way of the world!” thought the fir tree, and believed it all, because the man who told the story was so good-looking.
“well, well!
who knows, perhaps i may fall downstairs, too, and get a princess as wife!”
and he looked forward with joy to the morrow, when he hoped to be decked out again with lights, playthings, fruits, and tinsel.
“i won't tremble to-morrow!” thought the fir tree.
“i will enjoy to the full all my splendor!
to-morrow i shall hear again the story of humpy-dumpy, and perhaps that of ivedy-avedy too.” and the whole night the tree stood still and in deep thought.
in the morning the servant and the housemaid came in.
“now then the splendor will begin again,” thought the fir.
but they dragged him out of the room, and up the stairs into the loft: and here, in a dark corner, where no daylight could enter, they left him.
“what's the meaning of this?” thought the tree.
“what am i to do here?
what shall i hear now, i wonder?” and he leaned against the wall lost in reverie.
time enough had he too for his reflections; for days and nights passed on, and nobody came up; and when at last somebody did come, it was only to put some great trunks in a corner, out of the way.
there stood the tree quite hidden; it seemed as if he had been entirely forgotten.
“'tis now winter out-of-doors!” thought the tree.
“the earth is hard and covered with snow; men cannot plant me now, and therefore i have been put up here under shelter till the spring-time comes!
how thoughtful that is!
how kind man is, after all!
if it only were not so dark here, and so terribly lonely!
not even a hare!
and out in the woods it was so pleasant, when the snow was on the ground, and the hare leaped by; yes even when he jumped over me; but i did not like it then!
it is really terribly lonely here!”
“squeak!
squeak!” said a little mouse, at the same moment, peeping out of his hole.
and then another little one came.
they snuffed about the fir tree, and rustled among the branches.
“it is dreadfully cold,” said the mouse.
“but for that, it would be delightful here, old fir, wouldn't it?”
“i am by no means old,” said the fir tree.
“there's many a one considerably older than i am.”
“where do you come from,” asked the mice; “and what can you do?” they were so extremely curious.
“tell us about the most beautiful spot on the earth.
have you never been there?
were you never in the larder, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from above; where one dances about on tallow candles: that place where one enters lean, and comes out again fat and portly?”
“i know no such place,” said the tree.
“but i know the wood, where the sun shines and where the little birds sing.” and then he told all about his youth; and the little mice had never heard the like before; and they listened and said,
“well, to be sure!
how much you have seen!
how happy you must have been!”
“i!” said the fir tree, thinking over what he had himself related.
“yes, in reality those were happy times.” and then he told about christmas-eve, when he was decked out with cakes and candles.
“oh,” said the little mice, “how fortunate you have been, old fir tree!”
“i am by no means old,” said he.
“i came from the wood this winter; i am in my prime, and am only rather short for my age.”
“what delightful stories you know,” said the mice: and the next night they came with four other little mice, who were to hear what the tree recounted: and the more he related, the more he remembered himself; and it appeared as if those times had really been happy times.
“but they may still come they may still come!
humpy-dumpy fell downstairs, and yet he got a princess!” and he thought at the moment of a nice little birch tree growing out in the woods: to the fir, that would be a real charming princess.
“who is humpy-dumpy?” asked the mice.
so then the fir tree told the whole fairy tale, for he could remember every single word of it; and the little mice jumped for joy up to the very top of the tree.
next night two more mice came, and on sunday two rats even; but they said the stories were not interesting, which vexed the little mice; and they, too, now began to think them not so very amusing either.
“do you know only one story?” asked the rats.
“only that one,” answered the tree.
“i heard it on my happiest evening; but i did not then know how happy i was.”
“it is a very stupid story!
don't you know one about bacon and tallow candles?
can't you tell any larder stories?”
“no,” said the tree.
“then good-bye,” said the rats; and they went home.
at last the little mice stayed away also; and the tree sighed: “after all, it was very pleasant when the sleek little mice sat round me, and listened to what i told them.
now that too is over.
but i will take good care to enjoy myself when i am brought out again.”
but when was that to be?
why, one morning there came a quantity of people and set to work in the loft.
the trunks were moved, the tree was pulled out and thrown rather hard, it is true down on the floor, but a man drew him towards the stairs, where the daylight shone.
“now a merry life will begin again,” thought the tree.
he felt the fresh air, the first sunbeam and now he was out in the courtyard.
all passed so quickly, there was so much going on around him, the tree quite forgot to look to himself.
the court adjoined a garden, and all was in flower; the roses hung so fresh and odorous over the balustrade, the lindens were in blossom, the swallows flew by, and said, “quirre-vit!
my husband is come!” but it was not the fir tree that they meant.
“now, then, i shall really enjoy life,” said he exultingly, and spread out his branches; but, alas, they were all withered and yellow!
it was in a corner that he lay, among weeds and nettles.
the golden star of tinsel was still on the top of the tree, and glittered in the sunshine.
in the court-yard some of the merry children were playing who had danced at christmas round the fir tree, and were so glad at the sight of him.
one of the youngest ran and tore off the golden star.
“only look what is still on the ugly old christmas tree!” said he, trampling on the branches, so that they all cracked beneath his feet.
and the tree beheld all the beauty of the flowers, and the freshness in the garden; he beheld himself, and wished he had remained in his dark corner in the loft; he thought of his first youth in the wood, of the merry christmas-eve, and of the little mice who had listened with so much pleasure to the story of humpy-dumpy.
“'tis over 'tis past!” said the poor tree.
“had i but rejoiced when i had reason to do so!
but now 'tis past, 'tis past!”
and the gardener's boy chopped the tree into small pieces; there was a whole heap lying there.
the wood flamed up splendidly under the large brewing copper, and it sighed so deeply!
each sigh was like a shot.
the boys played about in the court, and the youngest wore the gold star on his breast which the tree had had on the happiest evening of his life.
however, that was over now the tree gone, the story at an end.
all, all was over every tale must end at last.
the snow queen
first story.
which treats of a mirror and of the splinters
now then, let us begin.
when we are at the end of the story, we shall know more than we know now: but to begin.
once upon a time there was a wicked sprite, indeed he was the most mischievous of all sprites.
one day he was in a very good humor, for he had made a mirror with the power of causing all that was good and beautiful when it was reflected therein, to look poor and mean; but that which was good-for-nothing and looked ugly was shown magnified and increased in ugliness.
in this mirror the most beautiful landscapes looked like boiled spinach, and the best persons were turned into frights, or appeared to stand on their heads; their faces were so distorted that they were not to be recognised; and if anyone had a mole, you might be sure that it would be magnified and spread over both nose and mouth.
“that's glorious fun!” said the sprite.
if a good thought passed through a man's mind, then a grin was seen in the mirror, and the sprite laughed heartily at his clever discovery.
all the little sprites who went to his school for he kept a sprite school told each other that a miracle had happened; and that now only, as they thought, it would be possible to see how the world really looked.
they ran about with the mirror; and at last there was not a land or a person who was not represented distorted in the mirror.
so then they thought they would fly up to the sky, and have a joke there.
the higher they flew with the mirror, the more terribly it grinned: they could hardly hold it fast.
higher and higher still they flew, nearer and nearer to the stars, when suddenly the mirror shook so terribly with grinning, that it flew out of their hands and fell to the earth, where it was dashed in a hundred million and more pieces.
and now it worked much more evil than before; for some of these pieces were hardly so large as a grain of sand, and they flew about in the wide world, and when they got into people's eyes, there they stayed; and then people saw everything perverted, or only had an eye for that which was evil.
this happened because the very smallest bit had the same power which the whole mirror had possessed.
some persons even got a splinter in their heart, and then it made one shudder, for their heart became like a lump of ice.
some of the broken pieces were so large that they were used for windowpanes, through which one could not see one's friends.
other pieces were put in spectacles; and that was a sad affair when people put on their glasses to see well and rightly.
then the wicked sprite laughed till he almost choked, for all this tickled his fancy.
the fine splinters still flew about in the air: and now we shall hear what happened next.
second story.
a little boy and a little girl
in a large town, where there are so many houses, and so many people, that there is no roof left for everybody to have a little garden; and where, on this account, most persons are obliged to content themselves with flowers in pots; there lived two little children, who had a garden somewhat larger than a flower-pot.
they were not brother and sister; but they cared for each other as much as if they were.
their parents lived exactly opposite.
they inhabited two garrets; and where the roof of the one house joined that of the other, and the gutter ran along the extreme end of it, there was to each house a small window: one needed only to step over the gutter to get from one window to the other.
the children's parents had large wooden boxes there, in which vegetables for the kitchen were planted, and little rosetrees besides: there was a rose in each box, and they grew splendidly.
they now thought of placing the boxes across the gutter, so that they nearly reached from one window to the other, and looked just like two walls of flowers.
the tendrils of the peas hung down over the boxes; and the rose-trees shot up long branches, twined round the windows, and then bent towards each other: it was almost like a triumphant arch of foliage and flowers.
the boxes were very high, and the children knew that they must not creep over them; so they often obtained permission to get out of the windows to each other, and to sit on their little stools among the roses, where they could play delightfully.
in winter there was an end of this pleasure.
the windows were often frozen over; but then they heated copper farthings on the stove, and laid the hot farthing on the windowpane, and then they had a capital peep-hole, quite nicely rounded; and out of each peeped a gentle friendly eye it was the little boy and the little girl who were looking out.
his name was kay, hers was gerda.
in summer, with one jump, they could get to each other; but in winter they were obliged first to go down the long stairs, and then up the long stairs again: and out-of-doors there was quite a snow-storm.
“it is the white bees that are swarming,” said kay's old grandmother.
“do the white bees choose a queen?” asked the little boy; for he knew that the honey-bees always have one.
“yes,” said the grandmother, “she flies where the swarm hangs in the thickest clusters.
she is the largest of all; and she can never remain quietly on the earth, but goes up again into the black clouds.
many a winter's night she flies through the streets of the town, and peeps in at the windows; and they then freeze in so wondrous a manner that they look like flowers.”
“yes, i have seen it,” said both the children; and so they knew that it was true.
“can the snow queen come in?” said the little girl.
“only let her come in!” said the little boy.
“then i'd put her on the stove, and she'd melt.”
and then his grandmother patted his head and told him other stories.
in the evening, when little kay was at home, and half undressed, he climbed up on the chair by the window, and peeped out of the little hole.
a few snow-flakes were falling, and one, the largest of all, remained lying on the edge of a flower-pot.
the flake of snow grew larger and larger; and at last it was like a young lady, dressed in the finest white gauze, made of a million little flakes like stars.
she was so beautiful and delicate, but she was of ice, of dazzling, sparkling ice; yet she lived; her eyes gazed fixedly, like two stars; but there was neither quiet nor repose in them.
she nodded towards the window, and beckoned with her hand.
the little boy was frightened, and jumped down from the chair; it seemed to him as if, at the same moment, a large bird flew past the window.
the next day it was a sharp frost and then the spring came; the sun shone, the green leaves appeared, the swallows built their nests, the windows were opened, and the little children again sat in their pretty garden, high up on the leads at the top of the house.
that summer the roses flowered in unwonted beauty.
the little girl had learned a hymn, in which there was something about roses; and then she thought of her own flowers; and she sang the verse to the little boy, who then sang it with her:
“the rose in the valley is blooming so sweet,      and angels descend there the children to greet.”
and the children held each other by the hand, kissed the roses, looked up at the clear sunshine, and spoke as though they really saw angels there.
what lovely summer-days those were!
how delightful to be out in the air, near the fresh rose-bushes, that seem as if they would never finish blossoming!
kay and gerda looked at the picture-book full of beasts and of birds; and it was then the clock in the church-tower was just striking five that kay said, “oh!
i feel such a sharp pain in my heart; and now something has got into my eye!”
the little girl put her arms around his neck.
he winked his eyes; now there was nothing to be seen.
“i think it is out now,” said he; but it was not.
it was just one of those pieces of glass from the magic mirror that had got into his eye; and poor kay had got another piece right in his heart.
it will soon become like ice.
it did not hurt any longer, but there it was.
“what are you crying for?” asked he.
“you look so ugly!
there's nothing the matter with me.
ah,” said he at once, “that rose is cankered!
and look, this one is quite crooked!
after all, these roses are very ugly!
they are just like the box they are planted in!” and then he gave the box a good kick with his foot, and pulled both the roses up.
“what are you doing?” cried the little girl; and as he perceived her fright, he pulled up another rose, got in at the window, and hastened off from dear little gerda.
afterwards, when she brought her picture-book, he asked, “what horrid beasts have you there?” and if his grandmother told them stories, he always interrupted her; besides, if he could manage it, he would get behind her, put on her spectacles, and imitate her way of speaking; he copied all her ways, and then everybody laughed at him.
he was soon able to imitate the gait and manner of everyone in the street.
everything that was peculiar and displeasing in them that kay knew how to imitate:
and at such times all the people said, “the boy is certainly very clever!” but it was the glass he had got in his eye; the glass that was sticking in his heart, which made him tease even little gerda, whose whole soul was devoted to him.
his games now were quite different to what they had formerly been, they were so very knowing.
one winter's day, when the flakes of snow were flying about, he spread the skirts of his blue coat, and caught the snow as it fell.
“look through this glass, gerda,” said he.
and every flake seemed larger, and appeared like a magnificent flower, or beautiful star; it was splendid to look at!
“look, how clever!” said kay.
“that's much more interesting than real flowers!
they are as exact as possible; there is not a fault in them, if they did not melt!”
it was not long after this, that kay came one day with large gloves on, and his little sledge at his back, and bawled right into gerda's ears, “i have permission to go out into the square where the others are playing”; and off he was in a moment.
there, in the market-place, some of the boldest of the boys used to tie their sledges to the carts as they passed by, and so they were pulled along, and got a good ride.
it was so capital!
just as they were in the very height of their amusement, a large sledge passed by: it was painted quite white, and there was someone in it wrapped up in a rough white mantle of fur, with a rough white fur cap on his head.
the sledge drove round the square twice, and kay tied on his sledge as quickly as he could, and off he drove with it.
on they went quicker and quicker into the next street; and the person who drove turned round to kay, and nodded to him in a friendly manner, just as if they knew each other.
every time he was going to untie his sledge, the person nodded to him, and then kay sat quiet; and so on they went till they came outside the gates of the town.
then the snow began to fall so thickly that the little boy could not see an arm's length before him, but still on he went: when suddenly he let go the string he held in his hand in order to get loose from the sledge, but it was of no use; still the little vehicle rushed on with the quickness of the wind.
he then cried as loud as he could, but no one heard him; the snow drifted and the sledge flew on, and sometimes it gave a jerk as though they were driving over hedges and ditches.
he was quite frightened, and he tried to repeat the lord's prayer; but all he could do, he was only able to remember the multiplication table.
the snow-flakes grew larger and larger, till at last they looked just like great white fowls.
suddenly they flew on one side; the large sledge stopped, and the person who drove rose up.
it was a lady; her cloak and cap were of snow.
she was tall and of slender figure, and of a dazzling whiteness.
it was the snow queen.
“we have travelled fast,” said she; “but it is freezingly cold.
come under my bearskin.” and she put him in the sledge beside her, wrapped the fur round him, and he felt as though he were sinking in a snow-wreath.
“are you still cold?” asked she; and then she kissed his forehead.
ah!
it was colder than ice; it penetrated to his very heart, which was already almost a frozen lump; it seemed to him as if he were about to die but a moment more and it was quite congenial to him, and he did not remark the cold that was around him.
“my sledge!
do not forget my sledge!” it was the first thing he thought of.
it was there tied to one of the white chickens, who flew along with it on his back behind the large sledge.
the snow queen kissed kay once more, and then he forgot little gerda, grandmother, and all whom he had left at his home.
“now you will have no more kisses,” said she, “or else i should kiss you to death!”
kay looked at her.
she was very beautiful; a more clever, or a more lovely countenance he could not fancy to himself; and she no longer appeared of ice as before, when she sat outside the window, and beckoned to him; in his eyes she was perfect, he did not fear her at all, and told her that he could calculate in his head and with fractions, even; that he knew the number of square miles there were in the different countries, and how many inhabitants they contained; and she smiled while he spoke.
it then seemed to him as if what he knew was not enough, and he looked upwards in the large huge empty space above him, and on she flew with him; flew high over the black clouds, while the storm moaned and whistled as though it were singing some old tune.
on they flew over woods and lakes, over seas, and many lands; and beneath them the chilling storm rushed fast, the wolves howled, the snow crackled; above them flew large screaming crows, but higher up appeared the moon, quite large and bright; and it was on it that kay gazed during the long long winter's night; while by day he slept at the feet of the snow queen.
third story.
of the flower-garden at the old woman's who understood witchcraft
but what became of little gerda when kay did not return?
where could he be?
nobody knew; nobody could give any intelligence.
all the boys knew was, that they had seen him tie his sledge to another large and splendid one, which drove down the street and out of the town.
nobody knew where he was; many sad tears were shed, and little gerda wept long and bitterly; at last she said he must be dead; that he had been drowned in the river which flowed close to the town.
oh!
those were very long and dismal winter evenings!
at last spring came, with its warm sunshine.
“kay is dead and gone!” said little gerda.
“that i don't believe,” said the sunshine.
“kay is dead and gone!” said she to the swallows.
“that i don't believe,” said they: and at last little gerda did not think so any longer either.
“i'll put on my red shoes,” said she, one morning; “kay has never seen them, and then i'll go down to the river and ask there.”
it was quite early; she kissed her old grandmother, who was still asleep, put on her red shoes, and went alone to the river.
“is it true that you have taken my little playfellow?
i will make you a present of my red shoes, if you will give him back to me.”
and, as it seemed to her, the blue waves nodded in a strange manner; then she took off her red shoes, the most precious things she possessed, and threw them both into the river.
but they fell close to the bank, and the little waves bore them immediately to land; it was as if the stream would not take what was dearest to her; for in reality it had not got little kay; but gerda thought that she had not thrown the shoes out far enough, so she clambered into a boat which lay among the rushes, went to the farthest end, and threw out the shoes.
but the boat was not fastened, and the motion which she occasioned, made it drift from the shore.
she observed this, and hastened to get back; but before she could do so, the boat was more than a yard from the land, and was gliding quickly onward.
little gerda was very frightened, and began to cry; but no one heard her except the sparrows, and they could not carry her to land; but they flew along the bank, and sang as if to comfort her, “here we are!
here we are!” the boat drifted with the stream, little gerda sat quite still without shoes, for they were swimming behind the boat, but she could not reach them, because the boat went much faster than they did.
the banks on both sides were beautiful; lovely flowers, venerable trees, and slopes with sheep and cows, but not a human being was to be seen.
“perhaps the river will carry me to little kay,” said she; and then she grew less sad.
she rose, and looked for many hours at the beautiful green banks.
presently she sailed by a large cherry-orchard, where was a little cottage with curious red and blue windows; it was thatched, and before it two wooden soldiers stood sentry, and presented arms when anyone went past.
gerda called to them, for she thought they were alive; but they, of course, did not answer.
she came close to them, for the stream drifted the boat quite near the land.
gerda called still louder, and an old woman then came out of the cottage, leaning upon a crooked stick.
she had a large broad-brimmed hat on, painted with the most splendid flowers.
“poor little child!” said the old woman.
“how did you get upon the large rapid river, to be driven about so in the wide world!” and then the old woman went into the water, caught hold of the boat with her crooked stick, drew it to the bank, and lifted little gerda out.
and gerda was so glad to be on dry land again; but she was rather afraid of the strange old woman.
“but come and tell me who you are, and how you came here,” said she.
and gerda told her all; and the old woman shook her head and said, “a-hem!
a-hem!” and when gerda had told her everything, and asked her if she had not seen little kay, the woman answered that he had not passed there, but he no doubt would come; and she told her not to be cast down, but taste her cherries, and look at her flowers, which were finer than any in a picture-book, each of which could tell a whole story.
she then took gerda by the hand, led her into the little cottage, and locked the door.
the windows were very high up; the glass was red, blue, and green, and the sunlight shone through quite wondrously in all sorts of colors.
on the table stood the most exquisite cherries, and gerda ate as many as she chose, for she had permission to do so.
while she was eating, the old woman combed her hair with a golden comb, and her hair curled and shone with a lovely golden color around that sweet little face, which was so round and so like a rose.
“i have often longed for such a dear little girl,” said the old woman.
“now you shall see how well we agree together”; and while she combed little gerda's hair, the child forgot her foster-brother kay more and more, for the old woman understood magic; but she was no evil being, she only practised witchcraft a little for her own private amusement, and now she wanted very much to keep little gerda.
she therefore went out in the garden, stretched out her crooked stick towards the rose-bushes, which, beautifully as they were blowing, all sank into the earth and no one could tell where they had stood.
the old woman feared that if gerda should see the roses, she would then think of her own, would remember little kay, and run away from her.
she now led gerda into the flower-garden.
oh, what odour and what loveliness was there!
every flower that one could think of, and of every season, stood there in fullest bloom; no picture-book could be gayer or more beautiful.
gerda jumped for joy, and played till the sun set behind the tall cherry-tree; she then had a pretty bed, with a red silken coverlet filled with blue violets.
she fell asleep, and had as pleasant dreams as ever a queen on her wedding-day.
the next morning she went to play with the flowers in the warm sunshine, and thus passed away a day.
gerda knew every flower; and, numerous as they were, it still seemed to gerda that one was wanting, though she did not know which.
one day while she was looking at the hat of the old woman painted with flowers, the most beautiful of them all seemed to her to be a rose.
the old woman had forgotten to take it from her hat when she made the others vanish in the earth.
but so it is when one's thoughts are not collected.
“what!” said gerda.
“are there no roses here?” and she ran about amongst the flowerbeds, and looked, and looked, but there was not one to be found.
she then sat down and wept; but her hot tears fell just where a rose-bush had sunk; and when her warm tears watered the ground, the tree shot up suddenly as fresh and blooming as when it had been swallowed up.
gerda kissed the roses, thought of her own dear roses at home, and with them of little kay.
“oh, how long i have stayed!” said the little girl.
“i intended to look for kay!
don't you know where he is?” she asked of the roses.
“do you think he is dead and gone?”
“dead he certainly is not,” said the roses.
“we have been in the earth where all the dead are, but kay was not there.”
“many thanks!” said little gerda; and she went to the other flowers, looked into their cups, and asked, “don't you know where little kay is?”
but every flower stood in the sunshine, and dreamed its own fairy tale or its own story: and they all told her very many things, but not one knew anything of kay.
well, what did the tiger-lily say?
“hearest thou not the drum?
bum!
bum!
those are the only two tones.
always bum!
bum!
hark to the plaintive song of the old woman, to the call of the priests!
the hindoo woman in her long robe stands upon the funeral pile; the flames rise around her and her dead husband, but the hindoo woman thinks on the living one in the surrounding circle; on him whose eyes burn hotter than the flames on him, the fire of whose eyes pierces her heart more than the flames which soon will burn her body to ashes.
can the heart's flame die in the flame of the funeral pile?”
“i don't understand that at all,” said little gerda.
“that is my story,” said the lily.
what did the convolvulus say?
“projecting over a narrow mountain-path there hangs an old feudal castle.
thick evergreens grow on the dilapidated walls, and around the altar, where a lovely maiden is standing: she bends over the railing and looks out upon the rose.
no fresher rose hangs on the branches than she; no appleblossom carried away by the wind is more buoyant!
how her silken robe is rustling!
“'is he not yet come?
'”
“is it kay that you mean?” asked little gerda.
“i am speaking about my story about my dream,” answered the convolvulus.
what did the snowdrops say?
“between the trees a long board is hanging it is a swing.
two little girls are sitting in it, and swing themselves backwards and forwards; their frocks are as white as snow, and long green silk ribands flutter from their bonnets.
their brother, who is older than they are, stands up in the swing; he twines his arms round the cords to hold himself fast, for in one hand he has a little cup, and in the other a clay-pipe.
he is blowing soap-bubbles.
the swing moves, and the bubbles float in charming changing colors: the last is still hanging to the end of the pipe, and rocks in the breeze.
the swing moves.
the little black dog, as light as a soap-bubble, jumps up on his hind legs to try to get into the swing.
it moves, the dog falls down, barks, and is angry.
they tease him; the bubble bursts!
a swing, a bursting bubble such is my song!”
“what you relate may be very pretty, but you tell it in so melancholy a manner, and do not mention kay.”
what do the hyacinths say?
“there were once upon a time three sisters, quite transparent, and very beautiful.
the robe of the one was red, that of the second blue, and that of the third white.
they danced hand in hand beside the calm lake in the clear moonshine.
they were not elfin maidens, but mortal children.
a sweet fragrance was smelt, and the maidens vanished in the wood; the fragrance grew stronger three coffins, and in them three lovely maidens, glided out of the forest and across the lake: the shining glow-worms flew around like little floating lights.
do the dancing maidens sleep, or are they dead?
the odour of the flowers says they are corpses; the evening bell tolls for the dead!”
“you make me quite sad,” said little gerda.
“i cannot help thinking of the dead maidens.
oh!
is little kay really dead?
the roses have been in the earth, and they say no.”
“ding, dong!” sounded the hyacinth bells.
“we do not toll for little kay; we do not know him.
that is our way of singing, the only one we have.”
and gerda went to the ranunculuses, that looked forth from among the shining green leaves.
“you are a little bright sun!” said gerda.
“tell me if you know where i can find my playfellow.”
and the ranunculus shone brightly, and looked again at gerda.
what song could the ranunculus sing?
it was one that said nothing about kay either.
“in a small court the bright sun was shining in the first days of spring.
the beams glided down the white walls of a neighbor's house, and close by the fresh yellow flowers were growing, shining like gold in the warm sun-rays.
an old grandmother was sitting in the air; her grand-daughter, the poor and lovely servant just come for a short visit.
she knows her grandmother.
there was gold, pure virgin gold in that blessed kiss.
there, that is my little story,” said the ranunculus.
“my poor old grandmother!” sighed gerda.
“yes, she is longing for me, no doubt: she is sorrowing for me, as she did for little kay.
but i will soon come home, and then i will bring kay with me.
it is of no use asking the flowers; they only know their own old rhymes, and can tell me nothing.” and she tucked up her frock, to enable her to run quicker; but the narcissus gave her a knock on the leg, just as she was going to jump over it.
so she stood still, looked at the long yellow flower, and asked, “you perhaps know something?” and she bent down to the narcissus.
and what did it say?
“i can see myself i can see myself!
oh, how odorous i am!
up in the little garret there stands, half-dressed, a little dancer.
she stands now on one leg, now on both; she despises the whole world; yet she lives only in imagination.
she pours water out of the teapot over a piece of stuff which she holds in her hand; it is the bodice; cleanliness is a fine thing.
the white dress is hanging on the hook; it was washed in the teapot, and dried on the roof.
she puts it on, ties a saffron-colored kerchief round her neck, and then the gown looks whiter.
i can see myself i can see myself!”
“that's nothing to me,” said little gerda.
“that does not concern me.”
and then off she ran to the further end of the garden.
the gate was locked, but she shook the rusted bolt till it was loosened, and the gate opened; and little gerda ran off barefooted into the wide world.
she looked round her thrice, but no one followed her.
at last she could run no longer; she sat down on a large stone, and when she looked about her, she saw that the summer had passed; it was late in the autumn, but that one could not remark in the beautiful garden, where there was always sunshine, and where there were flowers the whole year round.
“dear me, how long i have staid!” said gerda.
“autumn is come.
i must not rest any longer.” and she got up to go further.
oh, how tender and wearied her little feet were!
all around it looked so cold and raw: the long willow-leaves were quite yellow, and the fog dripped from them like water; one leaf fell after the other: the sloes only stood full of fruit, which set one's teeth on edge.
oh, how dark and comfortless it was in the dreary world!
fourth story.
the prince and princess
gerda was obliged to rest herself again, when, exactly opposite to her, a large raven came hopping over the white snow.
he had long been looking at gerda and shaking his head; and now he said, “caw!
caw!” good day!
good day!
he could not say it better; but he felt a sympathy for the little girl, and asked her where she was going all alone.
the word “alone” gerda understood quite well, and felt how much was expressed by it; so she told the raven her whole history, and asked if he had not seen kay.
the raven nodded very gravely, and said, “it may be it may be!”
“what, do you really think so?” cried the little girl; and she nearly squeezed the raven to death, so much did she kiss him.
“gently, gently,” said the raven.
“i think i know; i think that it may be little kay.
but now he has forgotten you for the princess.”
“does he live with a princess?” asked gerda.
“yes listen,” said the raven; “but it will be difficult for me to speak your language.
if you understand the raven language i can tell you better.”
“no, i have not learnt it,” said gerda; “but my grandmother understands it, and she can speak gibberish too.
i wish i had learnt it.”
“no matter,” said the raven; “i will tell you as well as i can; however, it will be bad enough.” and then he told all he knew.
“in the kingdom where we now are there lives a princess, who is extraordinarily clever; for she has read all the newspapers in the whole world, and has forgotten them again so clever is she.
she was lately, it is said, sitting on her throne which is not very amusing after all when she began humming an old tune, and it was just, 'oh, why should i not be married?'
'that song is not without its meaning,' said she, and so then she was determined to marry; but she would have a husband who knew how to give an answer when he was spoken to not one who looked only as if he were a great personage, for that is so tiresome.
she then had all the ladies of the court drummed together; and when they heard her intention, all were very pleased, and said, 'we are very glad to hear it; it is the very thing we were thinking of.'
you may believe every word i say,” said the raven; “for i have a tame sweetheart that hops about in the palace quite free, and it was she who told me all this.
“the newspapers appeared forthwith with a border of hearts and the initials of the princess; and therein you might read that every good-looking young man was at liberty to come to the palace and speak to the princess; and he who spoke in such wise as showed he felt himself at home there, that one the princess would choose for her husband.
“yes, yes,” said the raven, “you may believe it; it is as true as i am sitting here.
people came in crowds; there was a crush and a hurry, but no one was successful either on the first or second day.
they could all talk well enough when they were out in the street; but as soon as they came inside the palace gates, and saw the guard richly dressed in silver, and the lackeys in gold on the staircase, and the large illuminated saloons, then they were abashed; and when they stood before the throne on which the princess was sitting, all they could do was to repeat the last word they had uttered, and to hear it again did not interest her very much.
it was just as if the people within were under a charm, and had fallen into a trance till they came out again into the street; for then oh, then they could chatter enough.
there was a whole row of them standing from the town-gates to the palace.
i was there myself to look,” said the raven.
“they grew hungry and thirsty; but from the palace they got nothing whatever, not even a glass of water.
some of the cleverest, it is true, had taken bread and butter with them:
but none shared it with his neighbor, for each thought, 'let him look hungry, and then the princess won't have him.
'”
“but kay little kay,” said gerda, “when did he come?
was he among the number?”
“patience, patience; we are just come to him.
it was on the third day when a little personage without horse or equipage, came marching right boldly up to the palace; his eyes shone like yours, he had beautiful long hair, but his clothes were very shabby.”
“that was kay,” cried gerda, with a voice of delight.
“oh, now i've found him!” and she clapped her hands for joy.
“he had a little knapsack at his back,” said the raven.
“no, that was certainly his sledge,” said gerda; “for when he went away he took his sledge with him.”
“that may be,” said the raven; “i did not examine him so minutely; but i know from my tame sweetheart, that when he came into the court-yard of the palace, and saw the body-guard in silver, the lackeys on the staircase, he was not the least abashed; he nodded, and said to them, 'it must be very tiresome to stand on the stairs; for my part, i shall go in.'
the saloons were gleaming with lustres privy councillors and excellencies were walking about barefooted, and wore gold keys; it was enough to make any one feel uncomfortable.
his boots creaked, too, so loudly, but still he was not at all afraid.”
“that's kay for certain,” said gerda.
“i know he had on new boots; i have heard them creaking in grandmama's room.”
“yes, they creaked,” said the raven.
“and on he went boldly up to the princess, who was sitting on a pearl as large as a spinning-wheel.
all the ladies of the court, with their attendants and attendants'
attendants, and all the cavaliers, with their gentlemen and gentlemen's gentlemen, stood round; and the nearer they stood to the door, the prouder they looked.
it was hardly possible to look at the gentleman's gentleman, so very haughtily did he stand in the doorway.”
“it must have been terrible,” said little gerda.
“and did kay get the princess?”
“were i not a raven, i should have taken the princess myself, although i am promised.
it is said he spoke as well as i speak when i talk raven language; this i learned from my tame sweetheart.
he was bold and nicely behaved; he had not come to woo the princess, but only to hear her wisdom.
she pleased him, and he pleased her.”
“yes, yes; for certain that was kay,” said gerda.
“he was so clever; he could reckon fractions in his head.
oh, won't you take me to the palace?”
“that is very easily said,” answered the raven.
“but how are we to manage it?
i'll speak to my tame sweetheart about it: she must advise us; for so much i must tell you, such a little girl as you are will never get permission to enter.”
“oh, yes i shall,” said gerda; “when kay hears that i am here, he will come out directly to fetch me.”
“wait for me here on these steps,” said the raven.
he moved his head backwards and forwards and flew away.
the evening was closing in when the raven returned.
“caw caw!” said he.
“she sends you her compliments; and here is a roll for you.
she took it out of the kitchen, where there is bread enough.
you are hungry, no doubt.
it is not possible for you to enter the palace, for you are barefooted: the guards in silver, and the lackeys in gold, would not allow it; but do not cry, you shall come in still.
my sweetheart knows a little back stair that leads to the bedchamber, and she knows where she can get the key of it.”
and they went into the garden in the large avenue, where one leaf was falling after the other; and when the lights in the palace had all gradually disappeared, the raven led little gerda to the back door, which stood half open.
oh, how gerda's heart beat with anxiety and longing!
it was just as if she had been about to do something wrong; and yet she only wanted to know if little kay was there.
yes, he must be there.
she called to mind his intelligent eyes, and his long hair, so vividly, she could quite see him as he used to laugh when they were sitting under the roses at home.
“he will, no doubt, be glad to see you to hear what a long way you have come for his sake; to know how unhappy all at home were when he did not come back.”
oh, what a fright and a joy it was!
they were now on the stairs.
a single lamp was burning there; and on the floor stood the tame raven, turning her head on every side and looking at gerda, who bowed as her grandmother had taught her to do.
“my intended has told me so much good of you, my dear young lady,” said the tame raven.
“your tale is very affecting.
if you will take the lamp, i will go before.
we will go straight on, for we shall meet no one.”
“i think there is somebody just behind us,” said gerda; and something rushed past: it was like shadowy figures on the wall; horses with flowing manes and thin legs, huntsmen, ladies and gentlemen on horseback.
“they are only dreams,” said the raven.
“they come to fetch the thoughts of the high personages to the chase; 'tis well, for now you can observe them in bed all the better.
but let me find, when you enjoy honor and distinction, that you possess a grateful heart.”
“tut!
that's not worth talking about,” said the raven of the woods.
they now entered the first saloon, which was of rose-colored satin, with artificial flowers on the wall.
here the dreams were rushing past, but they hastened by so quickly that gerda could not see the high personages.
one hall was more magnificent than the other; one might indeed well be abashed; and at last they came into the bedchamber.
the ceiling of the room resembled a large palm-tree with leaves of glass, of costly glass; and in the middle, from a thick golden stem, hung two beds, each of which resembled a lily.
one was white, and in this lay the princess; the other was red, and it was here that gerda was to look for little kay.
she bent back one of the red leaves, and saw a brown neck.
oh!
that was kay!
she called him quite loud by name, held the lamp towards him the dreams rushed back again into the chamber he awoke, turned his head, and it was not little kay!
the prince was only like him about the neck; but he was young and handsome.
and out of the white lily leaves the princess peeped, too, and asked what was the matter.
then little gerda cried, and told her her whole history, and all that the ravens had done for her.
“poor little thing!” said the prince and the princess.
they praised the ravens very much, and told them they were not at all angry with them, but they were not to do so again.
however, they should have a reward.
“will you fly about here at liberty,” asked the princess; “or would you like to have a fixed appointment as court ravens, with all the broken bits from the kitchen?”
and both the ravens nodded, and begged for a fixed appointment; for they thought of their old age, and said, “it is a good thing to have a provision for our old days.”
and the prince got up and let gerda sleep in his bed, and more than this he could not do.
she folded her little hands and thought, “how good men and animals are!” and she then fell asleep and slept soundly.
all the dreams flew in again, and they now looked like the angels; they drew a little sledge, in which little kay sat and nodded his head; but the whole was only a dream, and therefore it all vanished as soon as she awoke.
the next day she was dressed from head to foot in silk and velvet.
they offered to let her stay at the palace, and lead a happy life; but she begged to have a little carriage with a horse in front, and for a small pair of shoes; then, she said, she would again go forth in the wide world and look for kay.
shoes and a muff were given her; she was, too, dressed very nicely; and when she was about to set off, a new carriage stopped before the door.
it was of pure gold, and the arms of the prince and princess shone like a star upon it; the coachman, the footmen, and the outriders, for outriders were there, too, all wore golden crowns.
the prince and the princess assisted her into the carriage themselves, and wished her all success.
the raven of the woods, who was now married, accompanied her for the first three miles.
he sat beside gerda, for he could not bear riding backwards; the other raven stood in the doorway, and flapped her wings; she could not accompany gerda, because she suffered from headache since she had had a fixed appointment and ate so much.
the carriage was lined inside with sugar-plums, and in the seats were fruits and gingerbread.
“farewell!
farewell!” cried prince and princess; and gerda wept, and the raven wept.
thus passed the first miles; and then the raven bade her farewell, and this was the most painful separation of all.
he flew into a tree, and beat his black wings as long as he could see the carriage, that shone from afar like a sunbeam.
fifth story.
the little robber maiden
they drove through the dark wood; but the carriage shone like a torch, and it dazzled the eyes of the robbers, so that they could not bear to look at it.
“'tis gold!
'tis gold!” they cried; and they rushed forward, seized the horses, knocked down the little postilion, the coachman, and the servants, and pulled little gerda out of the carriage.
“how plump, how beautiful she is!
she must have been fed on nut-kernels,” said the old female robber, who had a long, scrubby beard, and bushy eyebrows that hung down over her eyes.
“she is as good as a fatted lamb!
how nice she will be!” and then she drew out a knife, the blade of which shone so that it was quite dreadful to behold.
“oh!” cried the woman at the same moment.
she had been bitten in the ear by her own little daughter, who hung at her back; and who was so wild and unmanageable, that it was quite amusing to see her.
“you naughty child!” said the mother: and now she had not time to kill gerda.
“she shall play with me,” said the little robber child.
“she shall give me her muff, and her pretty frock; she shall sleep in my bed!” and then she gave her mother another bite, so that she jumped, and ran round with the pain; and the robbers laughed, and said, “look, how she is dancing with the little one!”
“i will go into the carriage,” said the little robber maiden; and she would have her will, for she was very spoiled and very headstrong.
she and gerda got in; and then away they drove over the stumps of felled trees, deeper and deeper into the woods.
the little robber maiden was as tall as gerda, but stronger, broader-shouldered, and of dark complexion; her eyes were quite black; they looked almost melancholy.
she embraced little gerda, and said, “they shall not kill you as long as i am not displeased with you.
you are, doubtless, a princess?”
“no,” said little gerda; who then related all that had happened to her, and how much she cared about little kay.
the little robber maiden looked at her with a serious air, nodded her head slightly, and said, “they shall not kill you, even if i am angry with you: then i will do it myself”; and she dried gerda's eyes, and put both her hands in the handsome muff, which was so soft and warm.
at length the carriage stopped.
they were in the midst of the court-yard of a robber's castle.
it was full of cracks from top to bottom; and out of the openings magpies and rooks were flying; and the great bull-dogs, each of which looked as if he could swallow a man, jumped up, but they did not bark, for that was forbidden.
in the midst of the large, old, smoking hall burnt a great fire on the stone floor.
the smoke disappeared under the stones, and had to seek its own egress.
in an immense caldron soup was boiling; and rabbits and hares were being roasted on a spit.
“you shall sleep with me to-night, with all my animals,” said the little robber maiden.
they had something to eat and drink; and then went into a corner, where straw and carpets were lying.
beside them, on laths and perches, sat nearly a hundred pigeons, all asleep, seemingly; but yet they moved a little when the robber maiden came.
“they are all mine,”
said she, at the same time seizing one that was next to her by the legs and shaking it so that its wings fluttered.
“kiss it,” cried the little girl, and flung the pigeon in gerda's face.
“up there is the rabble of the wood,” continued she, pointing to several laths which were fastened before a hole high up in the wall; “that's the rabble; they would all fly away immediately, if they were not well fastened in.
and here is my dear old bac”; and she laid hold of the horns of a reindeer, that had a bright copper ring round its neck, and was tethered to the spot.
“we are obliged to lock this fellow in too, or he would make his escape.
every evening i tickle his neck with my sharp knife; he is so frightened at it!” and the little girl drew forth a long knife, from a crack in the wall, and let it glide over the reindeer's neck.
the poor animal kicked; the girl laughed, and pulled gerda into bed with her.
“do you intend to keep your knife while you sleep?” asked gerda; looking at it rather fearfully.
“i always sleep with the knife,” said the little robber maiden.
“there is no knowing what may happen.
but tell me now, once more, all about little kay; and why you have started off in the wide world alone.” and gerda related all, from the very beginning: the wood-pigeons cooed above in their cage, and the others slept.
the little robber maiden wound her arm round gerda's neck, held the knife in the other hand, and snored so loud that everybody could hear her; but gerda could not close her eyes, for she did not know whether she was to live or die.
the robbers sat round the fire, sang and drank; and the old female robber jumped about so, that it was quite dreadful for gerda to see her.
then the wood-pigeons said, “coo!
coo!
we have seen little kay!
a white hen carries his sledge; he himself sat in the carriage of the snow queen, who passed here, down just over the wood, as we lay in our nest.
she blew upon us young ones; and all died except we two.
coo!
coo!”
“what is that you say up there?” cried little gerda.
“where did the snow queen go to?
do you know anything about it?”
“she is no doubt gone to lapland; for there is always snow and ice there.
only ask the reindeer, who is tethered there.”
“ice and snow is there!
there it is, glorious and beautiful!” said the reindeer.
“one can spring about in the large shining valleys!
the snow queen has her summer-tent there; but her fixed abode is high up towards the north pole, on the island called spitzbergen.”
“oh, kay!
poor little kay!” sighed gerda.
“do you choose to be quiet?” said the robber maiden.
“if you don't, i shall make you.”
in the morning gerda told her all that the wood-pigeons had said; and the little maiden looked very serious, but she nodded her head, and said, “that's no matter that's no matter.
do you know where lapland lies!” she asked of the reindeer.
“who should know better than i?” said the animal; and his eyes rolled in his head.
“i was born and bred there there i leapt about on the fields of snow.”
“listen,” said the robber maiden to gerda.
“you see that the men are gone; but my mother is still here, and will remain.
however, towards morning she takes a draught out of the large flask, and then she sleeps a little: then i will do something for you.” she now jumped out of bed, flew to her mother; with her arms round her neck, and pulling her by the beard, said, “good morrow, my own sweet nanny-goat of a mother.” and her mother took hold of her nose, and pinched it till it was red and blue; but this was all done out of pure love.
when the mother had taken a sup at her flask, and was having a nap, the little robber maiden went to the reindeer, and said, “i should very much like to give you still many a tickling with the sharp knife, for then you are so amusing; however, i will untether you, and help you out, so that you may go back to lapland.
but you must make good use of your legs; and take this little girl for me to the palace of the snow queen, where her playfellow is.
you have heard, i suppose, all she said; for she spoke loud enough, and you were listening.”
the reindeer gave a bound for joy.
the robber maiden lifted up little gerda, and took the precaution to bind her fast on the reindeer's back; she even gave her a small cushion to sit on.
“here are your worsted leggins, for it will be cold; but the muff i shall keep for myself, for it is so very pretty.
but i do not wish you to be cold.
here is a pair of lined gloves of my mother's; they just reach up to your elbow.
on with them!
now you look about the hands just like my ugly old mother!”
and gerda wept for joy.
“i can't bear to see you fretting,” said the little robber maiden.
“this is just the time when you ought to look pleased.
here are two loaves and a ham for you, so that you won't starve.” the bread and the meat were fastened to the reindeer's back; the little maiden opened the door, called in all the dogs, and then with her knife cut the rope that fastened the animal, and said to him, “now, off with you; but take good care of the little girl!”
and gerda stretched out her hands with the large wadded gloves towards the robber maiden, and said, “farewell!” and the reindeer flew on over bush and bramble through the great wood, over moor and heath, as fast as he could go.
“ddsa!
ddsa!” was heard in the sky.
it was just as if somebody was sneezing.
“these are my old northern-lights,” said the reindeer, “look how they gleam!” and on he now sped still quicker day and night on he went: the loaves were consumed, and the ham too; and now they were in lapland.
sixth story.
the lapland woman and the finland woman
suddenly they stopped before a little house, which looked very miserable.
the roof reached to the ground; and the door was so low, that the family were obliged to creep upon their stomachs when they went in or out.
nobody was at home except an old lapland woman, who was dressing fish by the light of an oil lamp.
and the reindeer told her the whole of gerda's history, but first of all his own; for that seemed to him of much greater importance.
gerda was so chilled that she could not speak.
“poor thing,” said the lapland woman, “you have far to run still.
you have more than a hundred miles to go before you get to finland; there the snow queen has her country-house, and burns blue lights every evening.
i will give you a few words from me, which i will write on a dried haberdine, for paper i have none; this you can take with you to the finland woman, and she will be able to give you more information than i can.”
when gerda had warmed herself, and had eaten and drunk, the lapland woman wrote a few words on a dried haberdine, begged gerda to take care of them, put her on the reindeer, bound her fast, and away sprang the animal.
“ddsa!
ddsa!” was again heard in the air; the most charming blue lights burned the whole night in the sky, and at last they came to finland.
they knocked at the chimney of the finland woman; for as to a door, she had none.
there was such a heat inside that the finland woman herself went about almost naked.
she was diminutive and dirty.
she immediately loosened little gerda's clothes, pulled off her thick gloves and boots; for otherwise the heat would have been too great and after laying a piece of ice on the reindeer's head, read what was written on the fish-skin.
she read it three times: she then knew it by heart; so she put the fish into the cupboard for it might very well be eaten, and she never threw anything away.
then the reindeer related his own story first, and afterwards that of little gerda; and the finland woman winked her eyes, but said nothing.
“you are so clever,” said the reindeer; “you can, i know, twist all the winds of the world together in a knot.
if the seaman loosens one knot, then he has a good wind; if a second, then it blows pretty stiffly; if he undoes the third and fourth, then it rages so that the forests are upturned.
will you give the little maiden a potion, that she may possess the strength of twelve men, and vanquish the snow queen?”
“the strength of twelve men!” said the finland woman.
“much good that would be!” then she went to a cupboard, and drew out a large skin rolled up.
when she had unrolled it, strange characters were to be seen written thereon; and the finland woman read at such a rate that the perspiration trickled down her forehead.
but the reindeer begged so hard for little gerda, and gerda looked so imploringly with tearful eyes at the finland woman, that she winked, and drew the reindeer aside into a corner, where they whispered together, while the animal got some fresh ice put on his head.
“'tis true little kay is at the snow queen's, and finds everything there quite to his taste; and he thinks it the very best place in the world; but the reason of that is, he has a splinter of glass in his eye, and in his heart.
these must be got out first; otherwise he will never go back to mankind, and the snow queen will retain her power over him.”
“but can you give little gerda nothing to take which will endue her with power over the whole?”
“i can give her no more power than what she has already.
don't you see how great it is?
don't you see how men and animals are forced to serve her; how well she gets through the world barefooted?
she must not hear of her power from us; that power lies in her heart, because she is a sweet and innocent child!
if she cannot get to the snow queen by herself, and rid little kay of the glass, we cannot help her.
two miles hence the garden of the snow queen begins; thither you may carry the little girl.
set her down by the large bush with red berries, standing in the snow; don't stay talking, but hasten back as fast as possible.”
and now the finland woman placed little gerda on the reindeer's back, and off he ran with all imaginable speed.
“oh!
i have not got my boots!
i have not brought my gloves!” cried little gerda.
she remarked she was without them from the cutting frost; but the reindeer dared not stand still; on he ran till he came to the great bush with the red berries, and there he set gerda down, kissed her mouth, while large bright tears flowed from the animal's eyes, and then back he went as fast as possible.
there stood poor gerda now, without shoes or gloves, in the very middle of dreadful icy finland.
she ran on as fast as she could.
there then came a whole regiment of snow-flakes, but they did not fall from above, and they were quite bright and shining from the aurora borealis.
the flakes ran along the ground, and the nearer they came the larger they grew.
gerda well remembered how large and strange the snow-flakes appeared when she once saw them through a magnifying-glass; but now they were large and terrific in another manner they were all alive.
they were the outposts of the snow queen.
they had the most wondrous shapes; some looked like large ugly porcupines; others like snakes knotted together, with their heads sticking out; and others, again, like small fat bears, with the hair standing on end: all were of dazzling whiteness all were living snow-flakes.
little gerda repeated the lord's prayer.
the cold was so intense that she could see her own breath, which came like smoke out of her mouth.
it grew thicker and thicker, and took the form of little angels, that grew more and more when they touched the earth.
all had helms on their heads, and lances and shields in their hands; they increased in numbers; and when gerda had finished the lord's prayer, she was surrounded by a whole legion.
they thrust at the horrid snow-flakes with their spears, so that they flew into a thousand pieces; and little gerda walked on bravely and in security.
the angels patted her hands and feet; and then she felt the cold less, and went on quickly towards the palace of the snow queen.
but now we shall see how kay fared.
he never thought of gerda, and least of all that she was standing before the palace.
seventh story.
what took place in the palace of the snow queen, and what happened afterward.
the walls of the palace were of driving snow, and the windows and doors of cutting winds.
there were more than a hundred halls there, according as the snow was driven by the winds.
the largest was many miles in extent; all were lighted up by the powerful aurora borealis, and all were so large, so empty, so icy cold, and so resplendent!
mirth never reigned there; there was never even a little bear-ball, with the storm for music, while the polar bears went on their hind legs and showed off their steps.
never a little tea-party of white young lady foxes; vast, cold, and empty were the halls of the snow queen.
the northern-lights shone with such precision that one could tell exactly when they were at their highest or lowest degree of brightness.
in the middle of the empty, endless hall of snow, was a frozen lake; it was cracked in a thousand pieces, but each piece was so like the other, that it seemed the work of a cunning artificer.
in the middle of this lake sat the snow queen when she was at home; and then she said she was sitting in the mirror of understanding, and that this was the only one and the best thing in the world.
little kay was quite blue, yes nearly black with cold; but he did not observe it, for she had kissed away all feeling of cold from his body, and his heart was a lump of ice.
he was dragging along some pointed flat pieces of ice, which he laid together in all possible ways, for he wanted to make something with them; just as we have little flat pieces of wood to make geometrical figures with, called the chinese puzzle.
kay made all sorts of figures, the most complicated, for it was an ice-puzzle for the understanding.
in his eyes the figures were extraordinarily beautiful, and of the utmost importance; for the bit of glass which was in his eye caused this.
he found whole figures which represented a written word; but he never could manage to represent just the word he wanted that word was “eternity”; and the snow queen had said, “if you can discover that figure, you shall be your own master, and i will make you a present of the whole world and a pair of new skates.” but he could not find it out.
“i am going now to warm lands,” said the snow queen.
“i must have a look down into the black caldrons.” it was the volcanoes vesuvius and etna that she meant.
“i will just give them a coating of white, for that is as it ought to be; besides, it is good for the oranges and the grapes.”
and then away she flew, and kay sat quite alone in the empty halls of ice that were miles long, and looked at the blocks of ice, and thought and thought till his skull was almost cracked.
there he sat quite benumbed and motionless; one would have imagined he was frozen to death.
suddenly little gerda stepped through the great portal into the palace.
the gate was formed of cutting winds; but gerda repeated her evening prayer, and the winds were laid as though they slept; and the little maiden entered the vast, empty, cold halls.
there she beheld kay: she recognised him, flew to embrace him, and cried out, her arms firmly holding him the while, “kay, sweet little kay!
have i then found you at last?”
but he sat quite still, benumbed and cold.
then little gerda shed burning tears; and they fell on his bosom, they penetrated to his heart, they thawed the lumps of ice, and consumed the splinters of the looking-glass; he looked at her, and she sang the hymn:
“the rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, and angels descend there the children to greet.”
hereupon kay burst into tears; he wept so much that the splinter rolled out of his eye, and he recognised her, and shouted, “gerda, sweet little gerda!
where have you been so long?
and where have i been?” he looked round him.
“how cold it is here!” said he.
“how empty and cold!” and he held fast by gerda, who laughed and wept for joy.
it was so beautiful, that even the blocks of ice danced about for joy; and when they were tired and laid themselves down, they formed exactly the letters which the snow queen had told him to find out; so now he was his own master, and he would have the whole world and a pair of new skates into the bargain.
gerda kissed his cheeks, and they grew quite blooming; she kissed his eyes, and they shone like her own; she kissed his hands and feet, and he was again well and merry.
the snow queen might come back as soon as she liked; there stood his discharge written in resplendent masses of ice.
they took each other by the hand, and wandered forth out of the large hall; they talked of their old grandmother, and of the roses upon the roof; and wherever they went, the winds ceased raging, and the sun burst forth.
and when they reached the bush with the red berries, they found the reindeer waiting for them.
he had brought another, a young one, with him, whose udder was filled with milk, which he gave to the little ones, and kissed their lips.
they then carried kay and gerda first to the finland woman, where they warmed themselves in the warm room, and learned what they were to do on their journey home; and they went to the lapland woman, who made some new clothes for them and repaired their sledges.
the reindeer and the young hind leaped along beside them, and accompanied them to the boundary of the country.
here the first vegetation peeped forth; here kay and gerda took leave of the lapland woman.
“farewell!
farewell!” they all said.
and the first green buds appeared, the first little birds began to chirrup; and out of the wood came, riding on a magnificent horse, which gerda knew (it was one of the leaders in the golden carriage), a young damsel with a bright-red cap on her head, and armed with pistols.
it was the little robber maiden, who, tired of being at home, had determined to make a journey to the north; and afterwards in another direction, if that did not please her.
she recognised gerda immediately, and gerda knew her too.
it was a joyful meeting.
“you are a fine fellow for tramping about,” said she to little kay; “i should like to know, faith, if you deserve that one should run from one end of the world to the other for your sake?”
but gerda patted her cheeks, and inquired for the prince and princess.
“they are gone abroad,” said the other.
“but the raven?” asked little gerda.
“oh!
the raven is dead,” she answered.
“his tame sweetheart is a widow, and wears a bit of black worsted round her leg; she laments most piteously, but it's all mere talk and stuff!
now tell me what you've been doing and how you managed to catch him.”
and gerda and kay both told their story.
and “schnipp-schnapp-schnurre-basselurre,” said the robber maiden; and she took the hands of each, and promised that if she should some day pass through the town where they lived, she would come and visit them; and then away she rode.
kay and gerda took each other's hand: it was lovely spring weather, with abundance of flowers and of verdure.
the church-bells rang, and the children recognised the high towers, and the large town; it was that in which they dwelt.
they entered and hastened up to their grandmother's room, where everything was standing as formerly.
the clock said “tick!
tack!” and the finger moved round; but as they entered, they remarked that they were now grown up.
the roses on the leads hung blooming in at the open window; there stood the little children's chairs, and kay and gerda sat down on them, holding each other by the hand; they both had forgotten the cold empty splendor of the snow queen, as though it had been a dream.
the grandmother sat in the bright sunshine, and read aloud from the bible: “unless ye become as little children, ye cannot enter the kingdom of heaven.”
and kay and gerda looked in each other's eyes, and all at once they understood the old hymn:
“the rose in the valley is blooming so sweet, and angels descend there the children to greet.”
there sat the two grown-up persons; grown-up, and yet children; children at least in heart; and it was summer-time; summer, glorious summer!
the leap-frog
a flea, a grasshopper, and a leap-frog once wanted to see which could jump highest; and they invited the whole world, and everybody else besides who chose to come to see the festival.
three famous jumpers were they, as everyone would say, when they all met together in the room.
“i will give my daughter to him who jumps highest,” exclaimed the king; “for it is not so amusing where there is no prize to jump for.”
the flea was the first to step forward.
he had exquisite manners, and bowed to the company on all sides; for he had noble blood, and was, moreover, accustomed to the society of man alone; and that makes a great difference.
then came the grasshopper.
he was considerably heavier, but he was well-mannered, and wore a green uniform, which he had by right of birth; he said, moreover, that he belonged to a very ancient egyptian family, and that in the house where he then was, he was thought much of.
the fact was, he had been just brought out of the fields, and put in a pasteboard house, three stories high, all made of court-cards, with the colored side inwards; and doors and windows cut out of the body of the queen of hearts.
“i sing so well,” said he, “that sixteen native grasshoppers who have chirped from infancy, and yet got no house built of cards to live in, grew thinner than they were before for sheer vexation when they heard me.”
it was thus that the flea and the grasshopper gave an account of themselves, and thought they were quite good enough to marry a princess.
the leap-frog said nothing; but people gave it as their opinion, that he therefore thought the more; and when the housedog snuffed at him with his nose, he confessed the leap-frog was of good family.
the old councillor, who had had three orders given him to make him hold his tongue, asserted that the leap-frog was a prophet; for that one could see on his back, if there would be a severe or mild winter, and that was what one could not see even on the back of the man who writes the almanac.
“i say nothing, it is true,” exclaimed the king; “but i have my own opinion, notwithstanding.”
now the trial was to take place.
the flea jumped so high that nobody could see where he went to; so they all asserted he had not jumped at all; and that was dishonorable.
the grasshopper jumped only half as high; but he leaped into the king's face, who said that was ill-mannered.
the leap-frog stood still for a long time lost in thought; it was believed at last he would not jump at all.
“i only hope he is not unwell,” said the house-dog; when, pop!
he made a jump all on one side into the lap of the princess, who was sitting on a little golden stool close by.
hereupon the king said, “there is nothing above my daughter; therefore to bound up to her is the highest jump that can be made; but for this, one must possess understanding, and the leap-frog has shown that he has understanding.
he is brave and intellectual.”
and so he won the princess.
“it's all the same to me,” said the flea.
“she may have the old leap-frog, for all i care.
i jumped the highest; but in this world merit seldom meets its reward.
a fine exterior is what people look at now-a-days.”
the flea then went into foreign service, where, it is said, he was killed.
the grasshopper sat without on a green bank, and reflected on worldly things; and he said too, “yes, a fine exterior is everything a fine exterior is what people care about.” and then he began chirping his peculiar melancholy song, from which we have taken this history; and which may, very possibly, be all untrue, although it does stand here printed in black and white.
the elderbush
once upon a time there was a little boy who had taken cold.
he had gone out and got his feet wet; though nobody could imagine how it had happened, for it was quite dry weather.
so his mother undressed him, put him to bed, and had the tea-pot brought in, to make him a good cup of elderflower tea.
just at that moment the merry old man came in who lived up a-top of the house all alone; for he had neither wife nor children but he liked children very much, and knew so many fairy tales, that it was quite delightful.
“now drink your tea,” said the boy's mother; “then, perhaps, you may hear a fairy tale.”
“if i had but something new to tell,” said the old man.
“but how did the child get his feet wet?”
“that is the very thing that nobody can make out,” said his mother.
“am i to hear a fairy tale?” asked the little boy.
“yes, if you can tell me exactly for i must know that first how deep the gutter is in the little street opposite, that you pass through in going to school.”
“just up to the middle of my boot,” said the child; “but then i must go into the deep hole.”
“ah, ah!
that's where the wet feet came from,” said the old man.
“i ought now to tell you a story; but i don't know any more.”
“you can make one in a moment,” said the little boy.
“my mother says that all you look at can be turned into a fairy tale: and that you can find a story in everything.”
“yes, but such tales and stories are good for nothing.
the right sort come of themselves; they tap at my forehead and say, 'here we are.
'”
“won't there be a tap soon?” asked the little boy.
and his mother laughed, put some elder-flowers in the tea-pot, and poured boiling water upon them.
“do tell me something!
pray do!”
“yes, if a fairy tale would come of its own accord; but they are proud and haughty, and come only when they choose.
stop!” said he, all on a sudden.
“i have it!
pay attention!
there is one in the tea-pot!”
and the little boy looked at the tea-pot.
the cover rose more and more; and the elder-flowers came forth so fresh and white, and shot up long branches.
out of the spout even did they spread themselves on all sides, and grew larger and larger; it was a splendid elderbush, a whole tree; and it reached into the very bed, and pushed the curtains aside.
how it bloomed!
and what an odour!
in the middle of the bush sat a friendly-looking old woman in a most strange dress.
it was quite green, like the leaves of the elder, and was trimmed with large white elder-flowers; so that at first one could not tell whether it was a stuff, or a natural green and real flowers.
“what's that woman's name?” asked the little boy.
“the greeks and romans,” said the old man, “called her a dryad; but that we do not understand.
the people who live in the new booths [*] have a much better name for her; they call her 'old granny' and she it is to whom you are to pay attention.
now listen, and look at the beautiful elderbush.
* a row of buildings for seamen in copenhagen.
“just such another large blooming elder tree stands near the new booths.
it grew there in the corner of a little miserable court-yard; and under it sat, of an afternoon, in the most splendid sunshine, two old people; an old, old seaman, and his old, old wife.
they had great-grand-children, and were soon to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of their marriage; but they could not exactly recollect the date: and old granny sat in the tree, and looked as pleased as now.
'i know the date,' said she; but those below did not hear her, for they were talking about old times.
“'yes, can't you remember when we were very little,' said the old seaman, 'and ran and played about?
it was the very same court-yard where we now are, and we stuck slips in the ground, and made a garden.'
“'i remember it well,' said the old woman; 'i remember it quite well.
we watered the slips, and one of them was an elderbush.
it took root, put forth green shoots, and grew up to be the large tree under which we old folks are now sitting.'
“'to be sure,' said he.
'and there in the corner stood a waterpail, where i used to swim my boats.'
“'true; but first we went to school to learn somewhat,' said she; 'and then we were confirmed.
we both cried; but in the afternoon we went up the round tower, and looked down on copenhagen, and far, far away over the water; then we went to friedericksberg, where the king and the queen were sailing about in their splendid barges.'
“'but i had a different sort of sailing to that, later; and that, too, for many a year; a long way off, on great voyages.'
“'yes, many a time have i wept for your sake,' said she.
'i thought you were dead and gone, and lying down in the deep waters.
many a night have i got up to see if the wind had not changed: and changed it had, sure enough; but you never came.
i remember so well one day, when the rain was pouring down in torrents, the scavengers were before the house where i was in service, and i had come up with the dust, and remained standing at the door it was dreadful weather when just as i was there, the postman came and gave me a letter.
it was from you!
what a tour that letter had made!
i opened it instantly and read: i laughed and wept.
i was so happy.
in it i read that you were in warm lands where the coffee-tree grows.
what a blessed land that must be!
you related so much, and i saw it all the while the rain was pouring down, and i standing there with the dust-box.
at the same moment came someone who embraced me.'
“'yes; but you gave him a good box on his ear that made it tingle!'
“'but i did not know it was you.
you arrived as soon as your letter, and you were so handsome that you still are and had a long yellow silk handkerchief round your neck, and a bran new hat on; oh, you were so dashing!
good heavens!
what weather it was, and what a state the street was in!'
“'and then we married,' said he.
'don't you remember?
and then we had our first little boy, and then mary, and nicholas, and peter, and christian.'
“'yes, and how they all grew up to be honest people, and were beloved by everybody.'
“'and their children also have children,' said the old sailor; 'yes, those are our grand-children, full of strength and vigor.
it was, methinks about this season that we had our wedding.'
“'yes, this very day is the fiftieth anniversary of the marriage,' said old granny, sticking her head between the two old people; who thought it was their neighbor who nodded to them.
they looked at each other and held one another by the hand.
soon after came their children, and their grand-children; for they knew well enough that it was the day of the fiftieth anniversary, and had come with their gratulations that very morning; but the old people had forgotten it, although they were able to remember all that had happened many years ago.
and the elderbush sent forth a strong odour in the sun, that was just about to set, and shone right in the old people's faces.
they both looked so rosy-cheeked; and the youngest of the grandchildren danced around them, and called out quite delighted, that there was to be something very splendid that evening they were all to have hot potatoes.
and old nanny nodded in the bush, and shouted 'hurrah!'
with the rest.”
“but that is no fairy tale,” said the little boy, who was listening to the story.
“the thing is, you must understand it,” said the narrator; “let us ask old nanny.”
“that was no fairy tale, 'tis true,” said old nanny; “but now it's coming.
the most wonderful fairy tales grow out of that which is reality; were that not the case, you know, my magnificent elderbush could not have grown out of the tea-pot.” and then she took the little boy out of bed, laid him on her bosom, and the branches of the elder tree, full of flowers, closed around her.
they sat in an aerial dwelling, and it flew with them through the air.
oh, it was wondrous beautiful!
old nanny had grown all of a sudden a young and pretty maiden; but her robe was still the same green stuff with white flowers, which she had worn before.
on her bosom she had a real elderflower, and in her yellow waving hair a wreath of the flowers; her eyes were so large and blue that it was a pleasure to look at them; she kissed the boy, and now they were of the same age and felt alike.
hand in hand they went out of the bower, and they were standing in the beautiful garden of their home.
near the green lawn papa's walking-stick was tied, and for the little ones it seemed to be endowed with life; for as soon as they got astride it, the round polished knob was turned into a magnificent neighing head, a long black mane fluttered in the breeze, and four slender yet strong legs shot out.
the animal was strong and handsome, and away they went at full gallop round the lawn.
“huzza!
now we are riding miles off,” said the boy.
“we are riding away to the castle where we were last year!”
and on they rode round the grass-plot; and the little maiden, who, we know, was no one else but old nanny, kept on crying out, “now we are in the country!
don't you see the farm-house yonder?
and there is an elder tree standing beside it; and the cock is scraping away the earth for the hens, look, how he struts!
and now we are close to the church.
it lies high upon the hill, between the large oak-trees, one of which is half decayed.
and now we are by the smithy, where the fire is blazing, and where the half-naked men are banging with their hammers till the sparks fly about.
away!
away!
to the beautiful country-seat!”
and all that the little maiden, who sat behind on the stick, spoke of, flew by in reality.
the boy saw it all, and yet they were only going round the grass-plot.
then they played in a side avenue, and marked out a little garden on the earth; and they took elder-blossoms from their hair, planted them, and they grew just like those the old people planted when they were children, as related before.
they went hand in hand, as the old people had done when they were children; but not to the round tower, or to friedericksberg; no, the little damsel wound her arms round the boy, and then they flew far away through all denmark.
and spring came, and summer; and then it was autumn, and then winter; and a thousand pictures were reflected in the eye and in the heart of the boy; and the little girl always sang to him, “this you will never forget.”
and during their whole flight the elder tree smelt so sweet and odorous; he remarked the roses and the fresh beeches, but the elder tree had a more wondrous fragrance, for its flowers hung on the breast of the little maiden; and there, too, did he often lay his head during the flight.
“it is lovely here in spring!” said the young maiden.
and they stood in a beech-wood that had just put on its first green, where the woodroof [*]
at their feet sent forth its fragrance, and the pale-red anemony looked so pretty among the verdure.
“oh, would it were always spring in the sweetly-smelling danish beech-forests!”
* asperula odorata.
“it is lovely here in summer!” said she.
and she flew past old castles of by-gone days of chivalry, where the red walls and the embattled gables were mirrored in the canal, where the swans were swimming, and peered up into the old cool avenues.
in the fields the corn was waving like the sea; in the ditches red and yellow flowers were growing; while wild-drone flowers, and blooming convolvuluses were creeping in the hedges; and towards evening the moon rose round and large, and the haycocks in the meadows smelt so sweetly.
“this one never forgets!”
“it is lovely here in autumn!” said the little maiden.
and suddenly the atmosphere grew as blue again as before; the forest grew red, and green, and yellow-colored.
the dogs came leaping along, and whole flocks of wild-fowl flew over the cairn, where blackberry-bushes were hanging round the old stones.
the sea was dark blue, covered with ships full of white sails; and in the barn old women, maidens, and children were sitting picking hops into a large cask; the young sang songs, but the old told fairy tales of mountain-sprites and soothsayers.
nothing could be more charming.
“it is delightful here in winter!” said the little maiden.
and all the trees were covered with hoar-frost; they looked like white corals; the snow crackled under foot, as if one had new boots on; and one falling star after the other was seen in the sky.
the christmas-tree was lighted in the room; presents were there, and good-humor reigned.
in the country the violin sounded in the room of the peasant; the newly-baked cakes were attacked; even the poorest child said, “it is really delightful here in winter!”
yes, it was delightful; and the little maiden showed the boy everything; and the elder tree still was fragrant, and the red flag, with the white cross, was still waving: the flag under which the old seaman in the new booths had sailed.
and the boy grew up to be a lad, and was to go forth in the wide world-far, far away to warm lands, where the coffee-tree grows; but at his departure the little maiden took an elder-blossom from her bosom, and gave it him to keep; and it was placed between the leaves of his prayer-book; and when in foreign lands he opened the book, it was always at the place where the keepsake-flower lay; and the more he looked at it, the fresher it became; he felt as it were, the fragrance of the danish groves; and from among the leaves of the flowers he could distinctly see the little maiden, peeping forth with her bright blue eyes and then she whispered, “it is delightful here in spring, summer, autumn, and winter”; and a hundred visions glided before his mind.
thus passed many years, and he was now an old man, and sat with his old wife under the blooming tree.
they held each other by the hand, as the old grand-father and grand-mother yonder in the new booths did, and they talked exactly like them of old times, and of the fiftieth anniversary of their wedding.
the little maiden, with the blue eyes, and with elder-blossoms in her hair, sat in the tree, nodded to both of them, and said, “to-day is the fiftieth anniversary!” and then she took two flowers out of her hair, and kissed them.
first, they shone like silver, then like gold; and when they laid them on the heads of the old people, each flower became a golden crown.
so there they both sat, like a king and a queen, under the fragrant tree, that looked exactly like an elder:
the old man told his wife the story of “old nanny,” as it had been told him when a boy.
and it seemed to both of them it contained much that resembled their own history; and those parts that were like it pleased them best.
“thus it is,” said the little maiden in the tree, “some call me 'old nanny,' others a 'dryad,' but, in reality, my name is 'remembrance'; 'tis i who sit in the tree that grows and grows!
i can remember; i can tell things!
let me see if you have my flower still?”
and the old man opened his prayer-book.
there lay the elder-blossom, as fresh as if it had been placed there but a short time before; and remembrance nodded, and the old people, decked with crowns of gold, sat in the flush of the evening sun.
they closed their eyes, and and !
yes, that's the end of the story!
the little boy lay in his bed; he did not know if he had dreamed or not, or if he had been listening while someone told him the story.
the tea-pot was standing on the table, but no elder tree was growing out of it!
and the old man, who had been talking, was just on the point of going out at the door, and he did go.
“how splendid that was!” said the little boy.
“mother, i have been to warm countries.”
“so i should think,” said his mother.
“when one has drunk two good cupfuls of elder-flower tea, 'tis likely enough one goes into warm climates”; and she tucked him up nicely, least he should take cold.
“you have had a good sleep while i have been sitting here, and arguing with him whether it was a story or a fairy tale.”
“and where is old nanny?” asked the little boy.
“in the tea-pot,” said his mother; “and there she may remain.”
the bell
people said “the evening bell is sounding, the sun is setting.” for a strange wondrous tone was heard in the narrow streets of a large town.
it was like the sound of a church-bell: but it was only heard for a moment, for the rolling of the carriages and the voices of the multitude made too great a noise.
those persons who were walking outside the town, where the houses were farther apart, with gardens or little fields between them, could see the evening sky still better, and heard the sound of the bell much more distinctly.
it was as if the tones came from a church in the still forest; people looked thitherward, and felt their minds attuned most solemnly.
a long time passed, and people said to each other “i wonder if there is a church out in the wood?
the bell has a tone that is wondrous sweet; let us stroll thither, and examine the matter nearer.” and the rich people drove out, and the poor walked, but the way seemed strangely long to them; and when they came to a clump of willows which grew on the skirts of the forest, they sat down, and looked up at the long branches, and fancied they were now in the depth of the green wood.
the confectioner of the town came out, and set up his booth there; and soon after came another confectioner, who hung a bell over his stand, as a sign or ornament, but it had no clapper, and it was tarred over to preserve it from the rain.
when all the people returned home, they said it had been very romantic, and that it was quite a different sort of thing to a pic-nic or tea-party.
there were three persons who asserted they had penetrated to the end of the forest, and that they had always heard the wonderful sounds of the bell, but it had seemed to them as if it had come from the town.
one wrote a whole poem about it, and said the bell sounded like the voice of a mother to a good dear child, and that no melody was sweeter than the tones of the bell.
the king of the country was also observant of it, and vowed that he who could discover whence the sounds proceeded, should have the title of “universal bell-ringer,” even if it were not really a bell.
many persons now went to the wood, for the sake of getting the place, but one only returned with a sort of explanation; for nobody went far enough, that one not further than the others.
however, he said that the sound proceeded from a very large owl, in a hollow tree; a sort of learned owl, that continually knocked its head against the branches.
but whether the sound came from his head or from the hollow tree, that no one could say with certainty.
so now he got the place of “universal bell-ringer,” and wrote yearly a short treatise “on the owl”; but everybody was just as wise as before.
it was the day of confirmation.
the clergyman had spoken so touchingly, the children who were confirmed had been greatly moved; it was an eventful day for them; from children they become all at once grown-up-persons; it was as if their infant souls were now to fly all at once into persons with more understanding.
the sun was shining gloriously; the children that had been confirmed went out of the town; and from the wood was borne towards them the sounds of the unknown bell with wonderful distinctness.
they all immediately felt a wish to go thither; all except three.
one of them had to go home to try on a ball-dress; for it was just the dress and the ball which had caused her to be confirmed this time, for otherwise she would not have come; the other was a poor boy, who had borrowed his coat and boots to be confirmed in from the innkeeper's son, and he was to give them back by a certain hour; the third said that he never went to a strange place if his parents were not with him that he had always been a good boy hitherto, and would still be so now that he was confirmed, and that one ought not to laugh at him for it: the others, however, did make fun of him, after all.
there were three, therefore, that did not go; the others hastened on.
the sun shone, the birds sang, and the children sang too, and each held the other by the hand; for as yet they had none of them any high office, and were all of equal rank in the eye of god.
but two of the youngest soon grew tired, and both returned to town; two little girls sat down, and twined garlands, so they did not go either; and when the others reached the willow-tree, where the confectioner was, they said, “now we are there!
in reality the bell does not exist; it is only a fancy that people have taken into their heads!”
at the same moment the bell sounded deep in the wood, so clear and solemnly that five or six determined to penetrate somewhat further.
it was so thick, and the foliage so dense, that it was quite fatiguing to proceed.
woodroof and anemonies grew almost too high; blooming convolvuluses and blackberry-bushes hung in long garlands from tree to tree, where the nightingale sang and the sunbeams were playing: it was very beautiful, but it was no place for girls to go; their clothes would get so torn.
large blocks of stone lay there, overgrown with moss of every color; the fresh spring bubbled forth, and made a strange gurgling sound.
“that surely cannot be the bell,” said one of the children, lying down and listening.
“this must be looked to.” so he remained, and let the others go on without him.
they afterwards came to a little house, made of branches and the bark of trees; a large wild apple-tree bent over it, as if it would shower down all its blessings on the roof, where roses were blooming.
the long stems twined round the gable, on which there hung a small bell.
was it that which people had heard?
yes, everybody was unanimous on the subject, except one, who said that the bell was too small and too fine to be heard at so great a distance, and besides it was very different tones to those that could move a human heart in such a manner.
it was a king's son who spoke; whereon the others said, “such people always want to be wiser than everybody else.”
they now let him go on alone; and as he went, his breast was filled more and more with the forest solitude; but he still heard the little bell with which the others were so satisfied, and now and then, when the wind blew, he could also hear the people singing who were sitting at tea where the confectioner had his tent; but the deep sound of the bell rose louder; it was almost as if an organ were accompanying it, and the tones came from the left hand, the side where the heart is placed.
a rustling was heard in the bushes, and a little boy stood before the king's son, a boy in wooden shoes, and with so short a jacket that one could see what long wrists he had.
both knew each other: the boy was that one among the children who could not come because he had to go home and return his jacket and boots to the innkeeper's son.
this he had done, and was now going on in wooden shoes and in his humble dress, for the bell sounded with so deep a tone, and with such strange power, that proceed he must.
“why, then, we can go together,” said the king's son.
but the poor child that had been confirmed was quite ashamed; he looked at his wooden shoes, pulled at the short sleeves of his jacket, and said that he was afraid he could not walk so fast; besides, he thought that the bell must be looked for to the right; for that was the place where all sorts of beautiful things were to be found.
“but there we shall not meet,” said the king's son, nodding at the same time to the poor boy, who went into the darkest, thickest part of the wood, where thorns tore his humble dress, and scratched his face and hands and feet till they bled.
the king's son got some scratches too; but the sun shone on his path, and it is him that we will follow, for he was an excellent and resolute youth.
“i must and will find the bell,” said he, “even if i am obliged to go to the end of the world.”
the ugly apes sat upon the trees, and grinned.
“shall we thrash him?”
said they.
“shall we thrash him?
he is the son of a king!”
but on he went, without being disheartened, deeper and deeper into the wood, where the most wonderful flowers were growing.
there stood white lilies with blood-red stamina, skyblue tulips, which shone as they waved in the winds, and apple-trees, the apples of which looked exactly like large soapbubbles: so only think how the trees must have sparkled in the sunshine!
around the nicest green meads, where the deer were playing in the grass, grew magnificent oaks and beeches; and if the bark of one of the trees was cracked, there grass and long creeping plants grew in the crevices.
and there were large calm lakes there too, in which white swans were swimming, and beat the air with their wings.
the king's son often stood still and listened.
he thought the bell sounded from the depths of these still lakes; but then he remarked again that the tone proceeded not from there, but farther off, from out the depths of the forest.
the sun now set: the atmosphere glowed like fire.
it was still in the woods, so very still; and he fell on his knees, sung his evening hymn, and said: “i cannot find what i seek; the sun is going down, and night is coming the dark, dark night.
yet perhaps i may be able once more to see the round red sun before he entirely disappears.
i will climb up yonder rock.”
and he seized hold of the creeping-plants, and the roots of trees climbed up the moist stones where the water-snakes were writhing and the toads were croaking and he gained the summit before the sun had quite gone down.
how magnificent was the sight from this height!
the sea the great, the glorious sea, that dashed its long waves against the coast was stretched out before him.
and yonder, where sea and sky meet, stood the sun, like a large shining altar, all melted together in the most glowing colors.
and the wood and the sea sang a song of rejoicing, and his heart sang with the rest: all nature was a vast holy church, in which the trees and the buoyant clouds were the pillars, flowers and grass the velvet carpeting, and heaven itself the large cupola.
the red colors above faded away as the sun vanished, but a million stars were lighted, a million lamps shone; and the king's son spread out his arms towards heaven, and wood, and sea; when at the same moment, coming by a path to the right, appeared, in his wooden shoes and jacket, the poor boy who had been confirmed with him.
he had followed his own path, and had reached the spot just as soon as the son of the king had done.
they ran towards each other, and stood together hand in hand in the vast church of nature and of poetry, while over them sounded the invisible holy bell: blessed spirits floated around them, and lifted up their voices in a rejoicing hallelujah!
the old house
in the street, up there, was an old, a very old house it was almost three hundred years old, for that might be known by reading the great beam on which the date of the year was carved: together with tulips and hop-binds there were whole verses spelled as in former times, and over every window was a distorted face cut out in the beam.
the one story stood forward a great way over the other; and directly under the eaves was a leaden spout with a dragon's head; the rain-water should have run out of the mouth, but it ran out of the belly, for there was a hole in the spout.
all the other houses in the street were so new and so neat, with large window panes and smooth walls, one could easily see that they would have nothing to do with the old house: they certainly thought, “how long is that old decayed thing to stand here as a spectacle in the street?
and then the projecting windows stand so far out, that no one can see from our windows what happens in that direction!
the steps are as broad as those of a palace, and as high as to a church tower.
the iron railings look just like the door to an old family vault, and then they have brass tops that's so stupid!”
on the other side of the street were also new and neat houses, and they thought just as the others did; but at the window opposite the old house there sat a little boy with fresh rosy cheeks and bright beaming eyes:
he certainly liked the old house best, and that both in sunshine and moonshine.
and when he looked across at the wall where the mortar had fallen out, he could sit and find out there the strangest figures imaginable; exactly as the street had appeared before, with steps, projecting windows, and pointed gables; he could see soldiers with halberds, and spouts where the water ran, like dragons and serpents.
that was a house to look at; and there lived an old man, who wore plush breeches; and he had a coat with large brass buttons, and a wig that one could see was a real wig.
every morning there came an old fellow to him who put his rooms in order, and went on errands; otherwise, the old man in the plush breeches was quite alone in the old house.
now and then he came to the window and looked out, and the little boy nodded to him, and the old man nodded again, and so they became acquaintances, and then they were friends, although they had never spoken to each other but that made no difference.
the little boy heard his parents say, “the old man opposite is very well off, but he is so very, very lonely!”
the sunday following, the little boy took something, and wrapped it up in a piece of paper, went downstairs, and stood in the doorway; and when the man who went on errands came past, he said to him
“i say, master!
will you give this to the old man over the way from me?
i have two pewter soldiers this is one of them, and he shall have it, for i know he is so very, very lonely.”
and the old errand man looked quite pleased, nodded, and took the pewter soldier over to the old house.
afterwards there came a message; it was to ask if the little boy himself had not a wish to come over and pay a visit; and so he got permission of his parents, and then went over to the old house.
and the brass balls on the iron railings shone much brighter than ever; one would have thought they were polished on account of the visit; and it was as if the carved-out trumpeters for there were trumpeters, who stood in tulips, carved out on the door blew with all their might, their cheeks appeared so much rounder than before.
yes, they blew “trateratra!
the little boy comes!
trateratra!” and then the door opened.
the whole passage was hung with portraits of knights in armor, and ladies in silken gowns; and the armor rattled, and the silken gowns rustled!
and then there was a flight of stairs which went a good way upwards, and a little way downwards, and then one came on a balcony which was in a very dilapidated state, sure enough, with large holes and long crevices, but grass grew there and leaves out of them altogether, for the whole balcony outside, the yard, and the walls, were overgrown with so much green stuff, that it looked like a garden; only a balcony.
here stood old flower-pots with faces and asses' ears, and the flowers grew just as they liked.
one of the pots was quite overrun on all sides with pinks, that is to say, with the green part; shoot stood by shoot, and it said quite distinctly, “the air has cherished me, the sun has kissed me, and promised me a little flower on sunday!
a little flower on sunday!”
and then they entered a chamber where the walls were covered with hog's leather, and printed with gold flowers.
“the gilding decays,    but hog's leather stays!”
said the walls.
and there stood easy-chairs, with such high backs, and so carved out, and with arms on both sides.
“sit down!
sit down!” said they.
“ugh!
how i creak; now i shall certainly get the gout, like the old clothespress, ugh!”
and then the little boy came into the room where the projecting windows were, and where the old man sat.
“i thank you for the pewter soldier, my little friend!” said the old man.
“and i thank you because you come over to me.”
“thankee!
thankee!” or “cranky!
cranky!” sounded from all the furniture; there was so much of it, that each article stood in the other's way, to get a look at the little boy.
in the middle of the wall hung a picture representing a beautiful lady, so young, so glad, but dressed quite as in former times, with clothes that stood quite stiff, and with powder in her hair; she neither said “thankee, thankee!” nor “cranky, cranky!” but looked with her mild eyes at the little boy, who directly asked the old man, “where did you get her?”
“yonder, at the broker's,” said the old man, “where there are so many pictures hanging.
no one knows or cares about them, for they are all of them buried; but i knew her in by-gone days, and now she has been dead and gone these fifty years!”
under the picture, in a glazed frame, there hung a bouquet of withered flowers; they were almost fifty years old; they looked so very old!
the pendulum of the great clock went to and fro, and the hands turned, and everything in the room became still older; but they did not observe it.
“they say at home,” said the little boy, “that you are so very, very lonely!”
“oh!” said he.
“the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, come and visit me, and now you also come!
i am very well off!”
then he took a book with pictures in it down from the shelf; there were whole long processions and pageants, with the strangest characters, which one never sees now-a-days; soldiers like the knave of clubs, and citizens with waving flags: the tailors had theirs, with a pair of shears held by two lions and the shoemakers theirs, without boots, but with an eagle that had two heads, for the shoemakers must have everything so that they can say, it is a pair!
yes, that was a picture book!
the old man now went into the other room to fetch preserves, apples, and nuts yes, it was delightful over there in the old house.
“i cannot bear it any longer!” said the pewter soldier, who sat on the drawers.
“it is so lonely and melancholy here!
but when one has been in a family circle one cannot accustom oneself to this life!
i cannot bear it any longer!
the whole day is so long, and the evenings are still longer!
here it is not at all as it is over the way at your home, where your father and mother spoke so pleasantly, and where you and all your sweet children made such a delightful noise.
nay, how lonely the old man is do you think that he gets kisses?
do you think he gets mild eyes, or a christmas tree?
he will get nothing but a grave!
i can bear it no longer!”
“you must not let it grieve you so much,” said the little boy.
“i find it so very delightful here, and then all the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them, they come and visit here.”
“yes, it's all very well, but i see nothing of them, and i don't know them!” said the pewter soldier.
“i cannot bear it!”
“but you must!” said the little boy.
then in came the old man with the most pleased and happy face, the most delicious preserves, apples, and nuts, and so the little boy thought no more about the pewter soldier.
the little boy returned home happy and pleased, and weeks and days passed away, and nods were made to the old house, and from the old house, and then the little boy went over there again.
the carved trumpeters blew, “trateratra!
there is the little boy!
trateratra!” and the swords and armor on the knights' portraits rattled, and the silk gowns rustled; the hog's leather spoke, and the old chairs had the gout in their legs and rheumatism in their backs: ugh!
it was exactly like the first time, for over there one day and hour was just like another.
“i cannot bear it!” said the pewter soldier.
“i have shed pewter tears!
it is too melancholy!
rather let me go to the wars and lose arms and legs!
it would at least be a change.
i cannot bear it longer!
now, i know what it is to have a visit from one's old thoughts, with what they may bring with them!
i have had a visit from mine, and you may be sure it is no pleasant thing in the end; i was at last about to jump down from the drawers.
“i saw you all over there at home so distinctly, as if you really were here; it was again that sunday morning; all you children stood before the table and sung your psalms, as you do every morning.
you stood devoutly with folded hands; and father and mother were just as pious; and then the door was opened, and little sister mary, who is not two years old yet, and who always dances when she hears music or singing, of whatever kind it may be, was put into the room though she ought not to have been there and then she began to dance, but could not keep time, because the tones were so long; and then she stood, first on the one leg, and bent her head forwards, and then on the other leg, and bent her head forwards but all would not do.
you stood very seriously all together, although it was difficult enough; but i laughed to myself, and then i fell off the table, and got a bump, which i have still for it was not right of me to laugh.
but the whole now passes before me again in thought, and everything that i have lived to see; and these are the old thoughts, with what they may bring with them.
“tell me if you still sing on sundays?
tell me something about little mary!
and how my comrade, the other pewter soldier, lives!
yes, he is happy enough, that's sure!
i cannot bear it any longer!”
“you are given away as a present!” said the little boy.
“you must remain.
can you not understand that?”
the old man now came with a drawer, in which there was much to be seen, both “tin boxes” and “balsam boxes,” old cards, so large and so gilded, such as one never sees them now.
and several drawers were opened, and the piano was opened; it had landscapes on the inside of the lid, and it was so hoarse when the old man played on it!
and then he hummed a song.
“yes, she could sing that!” said he, and nodded to the portrait, which he had bought at the broker's, and the old man's eyes shone so bright!
“i will go to the wars!
i will go to the wars!” shouted the pewter soldier as loud as he could, and threw himself off the drawers right down on the floor.
what became of him?
the old man sought, and the little boy sought; he was away, and he stayed away.
“i shall find him!” said the old man; but he never found him.
the floor was too open the pewter soldier had fallen through a crevice, and there he lay as in an open tomb.
that day passed, and the little boy went home, and that week passed, and several weeks too.
the windows were quite frozen, the little boy was obliged to sit and breathe on them to get a peep-hole over to the old house, and there the snow had been blown into all the carved work and inscriptions; it lay quite up over the steps, just as if there was no one at home nor was there any one at home the old man was dead!
in the evening there was a hearse seen before the door, and he was borne into it in his coffin: he was now to go out into the country, to lie in his grave.
he was driven out there, but no one followed; all his friends were dead, and the little boy kissed his hand to the coffin as it was driven away.
some days afterwards there was an auction at the old house, and the little boy saw from his window how they carried the old knights and the old ladies away, the flower-pots with the long ears, the old chairs, and the old clothes-presses.
something came here, and something came there; the portrait of her who had been found at the broker's came to the broker's again; and there it hung, for no one knew her more no one cared about the old picture.
in the spring they pulled the house down, for, as people said, it was a ruin.
one could see from the street right into the room with the hog's-leather hanging, which was slashed and torn; and the green grass and leaves about the balcony hung quite wild about the falling beams.
and then it was put to rights.
“that was a relief,” said the neighboring houses.
a fine house was built there, with large windows, and smooth white walls; but before it, where the old house had in fact stood, was a little garden laid out, and a wild grapevine ran up the wall of the neighboring house.
before the garden there was a large iron railing with an iron door, it looked quite splendid, and people stood still and peeped in, and the sparrows hung by scores in the vine, and chattered away at each other as well as they could, but it was not about the old house, for they could not remember it, so many years had passed so many that the little boy had grown up to a whole man, yes, a clever man, and a pleasure to his parents; and he had just been married, and, together with his little wife, had come to live in the house here, where the garden was; and he stood by her there whilst she planted a field-flower that she found so pretty; she planted it with her little hand, and pressed the earth around it with her fingers.
oh!
what was that?
she had stuck herself.
there sat something pointed, straight out of the soft mould.
it was yes, guess!
it was the pewter soldier, he that was lost up at the old man's, and had tumbled and turned about amongst the timber and the rubbish, and had at last laid for many years in the ground.
the young wife wiped the dirt off the soldier, first with a green leaf, and then with her fine handkerchief it had such a delightful smell, that it was to the pewter soldier just as if he had awaked from a trance.
“let me see him,” said the young man.
he laughed, and then shook his head.
“nay, it cannot be he; but he reminds me of a story about a pewter soldier which i had when i was a little boy!” and then he told his wife about the old house, and the old man, and about the pewter soldier that he sent over to him because he was so very, very lonely; and he told it as correctly as it had really been, so that the tears came into the eyes of his young wife, on account of the old house and the old man.
“it may possibly be, however, that it is the same pewter soldier!” said she.
“i will take care of it, and remember all that you have told me; but you must show me the old man's grave!”
“but i do not know it,” said he, “and no one knows it!
all his friends were dead, no one took care of it, and i was then a little boy!”
“how very, very lonely he must have been!” said she.
“very, very lonely!” said the pewter soldier.
“but it is delightful not to be forgotten!”
“delightful!” shouted something close by; but no one, except the pewter soldier, saw that it was a piece of the hog's-leather hangings; it had lost all its gilding, it looked like a piece of wet clay, but it had an opinion, and it gave it:
“the gilding decays,    but hog's leather stays!”
this the pewter soldier did not believe.
the happy family
really, the largest green leaf in this country is a dock-leaf; if one holds it before one, it is like a whole apron, and if one holds it over one's head in rainy weather, it is almost as good as an umbrella, for it is so immensely large.
the burdock never grows alone, but where there grows one there always grow several: it is a great delight, and all this delightfulness is snails' food.
the great white snails which persons of quality in former times made fricassees of, ate, and said, “hem, hem!
how delicious!” for they thought it tasted so delicate lived on dock-leaves, and therefore burdock seeds were sown.
now, there was an old manor-house, where they no longer ate snails, they were quite extinct; but the burdocks were not extinct, they grew and grew all over the walks and all the beds; they could not get the mastery over them it was a whole forest of burdocks.
here and there stood an apple and a plum-tree, or else one never would have thought that it was a garden; all was burdocks, and there lived the two last venerable old snails.
they themselves knew not how old they were, but they could remember very well that there had been many more; that they were of a family from foreign lands, and that for them and theirs the whole forest was planted.
they had never been outside it, but they knew that there was still something more in the world, which was called the manor-house, and that there they were boiled, and then they became black, and were then placed on a silver dish; but what happened further they knew not; or, in fact, what it was to be boiled, and to lie on a silver dish, they could not possibly imagine; but it was said to be delightful, and particularly genteel.
neither the chafers, the toads, nor the earth-worms, whom they asked about it could give them any information none of them had been boiled or laid on a silver dish.
the old white snails were the first persons of distinction in the world, that they knew; the forest was planted for their sake, and the manor-house was there that they might be boiled and laid on a silver dish.
now they lived a very lonely and happy life; and as they had no children themselves, they had adopted a little common snail, which they brought up as their own; but the little one would not grow, for he was of a common family; but the old ones, especially dame mother snail, thought they could observe how he increased in size, and she begged father, if he could not see it, that he would at least feel the little snail's shell; and then he felt it, and found the good dame was right.
one day there was a heavy storm of rain.
“hear how it beats like a drum on the dock-leaves!” said father snail.
“there are also rain-drops!” said mother snail.
“and now the rain pours right down the stalk!
you will see that it will be wet here!
i am very happy to think that we have our good house, and the little one has his also!
there is more done for us than for all other creatures, sure enough; but can you not see that we are folks of quality in the world?
we are provided with a house from our birth, and the burdock forest is planted for our sakes!
i should like to know how far it extends, and what there is outside!”
“there is nothing at all,” said father snail.
“no place can be better than ours, and i have nothing to wish for!”
“yes,” said the dame.
“i would willingly go to the manorhouse, be boiled, and laid on a silver dish; all our forefathers have been treated so; there is something extraordinary in it, you may be sure!”
“the manor-house has most likely fallen to ruin!” said father snail.
“or the burdocks have grown up over it, so that they cannot come out.
there need not, however, be any haste about that; but you are always in such a tremendous hurry, and the little one is beginning to be the same.
has he not been creeping up that stalk these three days?
it gives me a headache when i look up to him!”
“you must not scold him,” said mother snail.
“he creeps so carefully; he will afford us much pleasure and we have nothing but him to live for!
but have you not thought of it?
where shall we get a wife for him?
do you not think that there are some of our species at a great distance in the interior of the burdock forest?”
“black snails, i dare say, there are enough of,” said the old one.
“black snails without a house but they are so common, and so conceited.
but we might give the ants a commission to look out for us; they run to and fro as if they had something to do, and they certainly know of a wife for our little snail!”
“i know one, sure enough the most charming one!” said one of the ants.
“but i am afraid we shall hardly succeed, for she is a queen!”
“that is nothing!” said the old folks.
“has she a house?”
“she has a palace!” said the ant.
“the finest ant's palace, with seven hundred passages!”
“i thank you!” said mother snail.
“our son shall not go into an ant-hill; if you know nothing better than that, we shall give the commission to the white gnats.
they fly far and wide, in rain and sunshine; they know the whole forest here, both within and without.”
“we have a wife for him,” said the gnats.
“at a hundred human paces from here there sits a little snail in her house, on a gooseberry bush; she is quite lonely, and old enough to be married.
it is only a hundred human paces!”
“well, then, let her come to him!” said the old ones.
“he has a whole forest of burdocks, she has only a bush!”
and so they went and fetched little miss snail.
it was a whole week before she arrived; but therein was just the very best of it, for one could thus see that she was of the same species.
and then the marriage was celebrated.
six earth-worms shone as well as they could.
in other respects the whole went off very quietly, for the old folks could not bear noise and merriment; but old dame snail made a brilliant speech.
father snail could not speak, he was too much affected; and so they gave them as a dowry and inheritance, the whole forest of burdocks, and said what they had always said that it was the best in the world; and if they lived honestly and decently, and increased and multiplied, they and their children would once in the course of time come to the manor-house, be boiled black, and laid on silver dishes.
after this speech was made, the old ones crept into their shells, and never more came out.
they slept; the young couple governed in the forest, and had a numerous progeny, but they were never boiled, and never came on the silver dishes; so from this they concluded that the manor-house had fallen to ruins, and that all the men in the world were extinct; and as no one contradicted them, so, of course it was so.
and the rain beat on the dock-leaves to make drum-music for their sake, and the sun shone in order to give the burdock forest a color for their sakes; and they were very happy, and the whole family was happy; for they, indeed were so.
the story of a mother
a mother sat there with her little child.
she was so downcast, so afraid that it should die!
it was so pale, the small eyes had closed themselves, and it drew its breath so softly, now and then, with a deep respiration, as if it sighed; and the mother looked still more sorrowfully on the little creature.
then a knocking was heard at the door, and in came a poor old man wrapped up as in a large horse-cloth, for it warms one, and he needed it, as it was the cold winter season!
everything out-of-doors was covered with ice and snow, and the wind blew so that it cut the face.
as the old man trembled with cold, and the little child slept a moment, the mother went and poured some ale into a pot and set it on the stove, that it might be warm for him; the old man sat and rocked the cradle, and the mother sat down on a chair close by him, and looked at her little sick child that drew its breath so deep, and raised its little hand.
“do you not think that i shall save him?” said she.
“our lord will not take him from me!”
and the old man it was death himself he nodded so strangely, it could just as well signify yes as no.
and the mother looked down in her lap, and the tears ran down over her cheeks; her head became so heavy she had not closed her eyes for three days and nights; and now she slept, but only for a minute, when she started up and trembled with cold.
“what is that?” said she, and looked on all sides; but the old man was gone, and her little child was gone he had taken it with him; and the old clock in the corner burred, and burred, the great leaden weight ran down to the floor, bump!
and then the clock also stood still.
but the poor mother ran out of the house and cried aloud for her child.
out there, in the midst of the snow, there sat a woman in long, black clothes; and she said, “death has been in thy chamber, and i saw him hasten away with thy little child; he goes faster than the wind, and he never brings back what he takes!”
“oh, only tell me which way he went!” said the mother.
“tell me the way, and i shall find him!”
“i know it!” said the woman in the black clothes.
“but before i tell it, thou must first sing for me all the songs thou hast sung for thy child!
i am fond of them.
i have heard them before; i am night; i saw thy tears whilst thou sang'st them!”
“i will sing them all, all!” said the mother.
“but do not stop me now i may overtake him i may find my child!”
but night stood still and mute.
then the mother wrung her hands, sang and wept, and there were many songs, but yet many more tears; and then night said, “go to the right, into the dark pine forest; thither i saw death take his way with thy little child!”
the roads crossed each other in the depths of the forest, and she no longer knew whither she should go!
then there stood a thorn-bush; there was neither leaf nor flower on it, it was also in the cold winter season, and ice-flakes hung on the branches.
“hast thou not seen death go past with my little child?” said the mother.
“yes,” said the thorn-bush; “but i will not tell thee which way he took, unless thou wilt first warm me up at thy heart.
i am freezing to death; i shall become a lump of ice!”
and she pressed the thorn-bush to her breast, so firmly, that it might be thoroughly warmed, and the thorns went right into her flesh, and her blood flowed in large drops, but the thornbush shot forth fresh green leaves, and there came flowers on it in the cold winter night, the heart of the afflicted mother was so warm; and the thorn-bush told her the way she should go.
she then came to a large lake, where there was neither ship nor boat.
the lake was not frozen sufficiently to bear her; neither was it open, nor low enough that she could wade through it; and across it she must go if she would find her child!
then she lay down to drink up the lake, and that was an impossibility for a human being, but the afflicted mother thought that a miracle might happen nevertheless.
“oh, what would i not give to come to my child!” said the weeping mother; and she wept still more, and her eyes sunk down in the depths of the waters, and became two precious pearls; but the water bore her up, as if she sat in a swing, and she flew in the rocking waves to the shore on the opposite side, where there stood a mile-broad, strange house, one knew not if it were a mountain with forests and caverns, or if it were built up; but the poor mother could not see it; she had wept her eyes out.
“where shall i find death, who took away my little child?” said she.
“he has not come here yet!” said the old grave woman, who was appointed to look after death's great greenhouse!
“how have you been able to find the way hither?
and who has helped you?”
“our lord has helped me,” said she.
“he is merciful, and you will also be so!
where shall i find my little child?”
“nay, i know not,” said the woman, “and you cannot see!
many flowers and trees have withered this night; death will soon come and plant them over again!
you certainly know that every person has his or her life's tree or flower, just as everyone happens to be settled; they look like other plants, but they have pulsations of the heart.
children's hearts can also beat; go after yours, perhaps you may know your child's; but what will you give me if i tell you what you shall do more?”
“i have nothing to give,” said the afflicted mother, “but i will go to the world's end for you!”
“nay, i have nothing to do there!” said the woman.
“but you can give me your long black hair; you know yourself that it is fine, and that i like!
you shall have my white hair instead, and that's always something!”
“do you demand nothing else?” said she.
“that i will gladly give you!”
and she gave her her fine black hair, and got the old woman's snow-white hair instead.
so they went into death's great greenhouse, where flowers and trees grew strangely into one another.
there stood fine hyacinths under glass bells, and there stood strong-stemmed peonies; there grew water plants, some so fresh, others half sick, the water-snakes lay down on them, and black crabs pinched their stalks.
there stood beautiful palm-trees, oaks, and plantains; there stood parsley and flowering thyme: every tree and every flower had its name; each of them was a human life, the human frame still lived one in china, and another in greenland round about in the world.
there were large trees in small pots, so that they stood so stunted in growth, and ready to burst the pots; in other places, there was a little dull flower in rich mould, with moss round about it, and it was so petted and nursed.
but the distressed mother bent down over all the smallest plants, and heard within them how the human heart beat; and amongst millions she knew her child's.
“there it is!” cried she, and stretched her hands out over a little blue crocus, that hung quite sickly on one side.
“don't touch the flower!” said the old woman.
“but place yourself here, and when death comes i expect him every moment do not let him pluck the flower up, but threaten him that you will do the same with the others.
then he will be afraid!
he is responsible for them to our lord, and no one dares to pluck them up before he gives leave.”
all at once an icy cold rushed through the great hall, and the blind mother could feel that it was death that came.
“how hast thou been able to find thy way hither?” he asked.
“how couldst thou come quicker than i?”
“i am a mother,” said she.
and death stretched out his long hand towards the fine little flower, but she held her hands fast around his, so tight, and yet afraid that she should touch one of the leaves.
then death blew on her hands, and she felt that it was colder than the cold wind, and her hands fell down powerless.
“thou canst not do anything against me!” said death.
“but our lord can!” said she.
“i only do his bidding!” said death.
“i am his gardener, i take all his flowers and trees, and plant them out in the great garden of paradise, in the unknown land; but how they grow there, and how it is there i dare not tell thee.”
“give me back my child!” said the mother, and she wept and prayed.
at once she seized hold of two beautiful flowers close by, with each hand, and cried out to death, “i will tear all thy flowers off, for i am in despair.”
“touch them not!” said death.
“thou say'st that thou art so unhappy, and now thou wilt make another mother equally unhappy.”
“another mother!” said the poor woman, and directly let go her hold of both the flowers.
“there, thou hast thine eyes,” said death; “i fished them up from the lake, they shone so bright; i knew not they were thine.
take them again, they are now brighter than before; now look down into the deep well close by; i shall tell thee the names of the two flowers thou wouldst have torn up, and thou wilt see their whole future life their whole human existence: and see what thou wast about to disturb and destroy.”
and she looked down into the well; and it was a happiness to see how the one became a blessing to the world, to see how much happiness and joy were felt everywhere.
and she saw the other's life, and it was sorrow and distress, horror, and wretchedness.
“both of them are god's will!” said death.
“which of them is misfortune's flower and which is that of happiness?”
asked she.
“that i will not tell thee,” said death; “but this thou shalt know from me, that the one flower was thy own child!
it was thy child's fate thou saw'st thy own child's future life!”
then the mother screamed with terror, “which of them was my child?
tell it me!
save the innocent!
save my child from all that misery!
rather take it away!
take it into god's kingdom!
forget my tears, forget my prayers, and all that i have done!”
“i do not understand thee!” said death.
“wilt thou have thy child again, or shall i go with it there, where thou dost not know!”
then the mother wrung her hands, fell on her knees, and prayed to our lord: “oh, hear me not when i pray against thy will, which is the best!
hear me not!
hear me not!”
and she bowed her head down in her lap, and death took her child and went with it into the unknown land.
the false collar
there was once a fine gentleman, all of whose moveables were a boot-jack and a hair-comb: but he had the finest false collars in the world; and it is about one of these collars that we are now to hear a story.
it was so old, that it began to think of marriage; and it happened that it came to be washed in company with a garter.
“nay!” said the collar.
“i never did see anything so slender and so fine, so soft and so neat.
may i not ask your name?”
“that i shall not tell you!” said the garter.
“where do you live?” asked the collar.
but the garter was so bashful, so modest, and thought it was a strange question to answer.
“you are certainly a girdle,” said the collar; “that is to say an inside girdle.
i see well that you are both for use and ornament, my dear young lady.”
“i will thank you not to speak to me,” said the garter.
“i think i have not given the least occasion for it.”
“yes!
when one is as handsome as you,” said the collar, “that is occasion enough.”
“don't come so near me, i beg of you!” said the garter.
“you look so much like those men-folks.”
“i am also a fine gentleman,” said the collar.
“i have a bootjack and a hair-comb.”
but that was not true, for it was his master who had them: but he boasted.
“don't come so near me,” said the garter: “i am not accustomed to it.”
“prude!” exclaimed the collar; and then it was taken out of the washing-tub.
it was starched, hung over the back of a chair in the sunshine, and was then laid on the ironing-blanket; then came the warm box-iron.
“dear lady!” said the collar.
“dear widow-lady!
i feel quite hot.
i am quite changed.
i begin to unfold myself.
you will burn a hole in me.
oh!
i offer you my hand.”
“rag!” said the box-iron; and went proudly over the collar: for she fancied she was a steam-engine, that would go on the railroad and draw the waggons.
“rag!” said the box-iron.
the collar was a little jagged at the edge, and so came the long scissors to cut off the jagged part.
“oh!” said the collar.
“you are certainly the first opera dancer.
how well you can stretch your legs out!
it is the most graceful performance i have ever seen.
no one can imitate you.”
“i know it,” said the scissors.
“you deserve to be a baroness,” said the collar.
“all that i have is a fine gentleman, a boot-jack, and a hair-comb.
if i only had the barony!”
“do you seek my hand?” said the scissors; for she was angry; and without more ado, she cut him, and then he was condemned.
“i shall now be obliged to ask the hair-comb.
it is surprising how well you preserve your teeth, miss,” said the collar.
“have you never thought of being betrothed?”
“yes, of course!
you may be sure of that,” said the hair-comb.
“i am betrothed to the boot-jack!”
“betrothed!” exclaimed the collar.
now there was no other to court, and so he despised it.
a long time passed away, then the collar came into the rag chest at the paper mill; there was a large company of rags, the fine by themselves, and the coarse by themselves, just as it should be.
they all had much to say, but the collar the most; for he was a real boaster.
“i have had such an immense number of sweethearts!” said the collar.
“i could not be in peace!
it is true, i was always a fine starched-up gentleman!
i had both a boot-jack and a hair-comb, which i never used!
you should have seen me then, you should have seen me when i lay down!
i shall never forget my first love she was a girdle, so fine, so soft, and so charming, she threw herself into a tub of water for my sake!
there was also a widow, who became glowing hot, but i left her standing till she got black again; there was also the first opera dancer, she gave me that cut which i now go with, she was so ferocious!
my own hair-comb was in love with me, she lost all her teeth from the heart-ache; yes, i have lived to see much of that sort of thing; but i am extremely sorry for the garter i mean the girdle that went into the water-tub.
i have much on my conscience, i want to become white paper!”
and it became so, all the rags were turned into white paper; but the collar came to be just this very piece of white paper we here see, and on which the story is printed; and that was because it boasted so terribly afterwards of what had never happened to it.
it would be well for us to beware, that we may not act in a similar manner, for we can never know if we may not, in the course of time, also come into the rag chest, and be made into white paper, and then have our whole life's history printed on it, even the most secret, and be obliged to run about and tell it ourselves, just like this collar.
the shadow
it is in the hot lands that the sun burns, sure enough!
there the people become quite a mahogany brown, ay, and in the hottest lands they are burnt to negroes.
but now it was only to the hot lands that a learned man had come from the cold; there he thought that he could run about just as when at home, but he soon found out his mistake.
he, and all sensible folks, were obliged to stay within doors the window-shutters and doors were closed the whole day; it looked as if the whole house slept, or there was no one at home.
the narrow street with the high houses, was built so that the sunshine must fall there from morning till evening it was really not to be borne.
the learned man from the cold lands he was a young man, and seemed to be a clever man sat in a glowing oven; it took effect on him, he became quite meagre even his shadow shrunk in, for the sun had also an effect on it.
it was first towards evening when the sun was down, that they began to freshen up again.
in the warm lands every window has a balcony, and the people came out on all the balconies in the street for one must have air, even if one be accustomed to be mahogany!
* it was lively both up and down the street.
tailors, and shoemakers, and all the folks, moved out into the street chairs and tables were brought forth and candles burnt yes, above a thousand lights were burning and the one talked and the other sung; and people walked and church-bells rang, and asses went along with a dingle-dingle-dong!
for they too had bells on.
the street boys were screaming and hooting, and shouting and shooting, with devils and detonating balls and there came corpse bearers and hood wearers for there were funerals with psalm and hymn and then the din of carriages driving and company arriving: yes, it was, in truth, lively enough down in the street.
only in that single house, which stood opposite that in which the learned foreigner lived, it was quite still; and yet some one lived there, for there stood flowers in the balcony they grew so well in the sun's heat!
and that they could not do unless they were watered and some one must water them there must be somebody there.
the door opposite was also opened late in the evening, but it was dark within, at least in the front room; further in there was heard the sound of music.
the learned foreigner thought it quite marvellous, but now it might be that he only imagined it for he found everything marvellous out there, in the warm lands, if there had only been no sun.
the stranger's landlord said that he didn't know who had taken the house opposite, one saw no person about, and as to the music, it appeared to him to be extremely tiresome.
“it is as if some one sat there, and practised a piece that he could not master always the same piece.
'i shall master it!'
says he; but yet he cannot master it, however long he plays.”
* the word mahogany can be understood, in danish, as having two meanings.
in general, it means the reddish-brown wood itself; but in jest, it signifies “excessively fine,” which arose from an anecdote of nyboder, in copenhagen, (the seamen's quarter.)
a sailor's wife, who was always proud and fine, in her way, came to her neighbor, and complained that she had got a splinter in her finger.
“what of?” asked the neighbor's wife.
“it is a mahogany splinter,” said the other.
“mahogany!
it cannot be less with you!” exclaimed the woman and thence the proverb, “it is so mahogany!” (that is, so excessively fine) is derived.
one night the stranger awoke he slept with the doors of the balcony open the curtain before it was raised by the wind, and he thought that a strange lustre came from the opposite neighbor's house; all the flowers shone like flames, in the most beautiful colors, and in the midst of the flowers stood a slender, graceful maiden it was as if she also shone; the light really hurt his eyes.
he now opened them quite wide yes, he was quite awake; with one spring he was on the floor; he crept gently behind the curtain, but the maiden was gone; the flowers shone no longer, but there they stood, fresh and blooming as ever; the door was ajar, and, far within, the music sounded so soft and delightful, one could really melt away in sweet thoughts from it.
yet it was like a piece of enchantment.
and who lived there?
where was the actual entrance?
the whole of the ground-floor was a row of shops, and there people could not always be running through.
one evening the stranger sat out on the balcony.
the light burnt in the room behind him; and thus it was quite natural that his shadow should fall on his opposite neighbor's wall.
yes!
there it sat, directly opposite, between the flowers on the balcony; and when the stranger moved, the shadow also moved: for that it always does.
“i think my shadow is the only living thing one sees over there,” said the learned man.
“see, how nicely it sits between the flowers.
the door stands half-open: now the shadow should be cunning, and go into the room, look about, and then come and tell me what it had seen.
come, now!
be useful, and do me a service,” said he, in jest.
“have the kindness to step in.
now!
art thou going?” and then he nodded to the shadow, and the shadow nodded again.
“well then, go!
but don't stay away.”
the stranger rose, and his shadow on the opposite neighbor's balcony rose also; the stranger turned round and the shadow also turned round.
yes!
if anyone had paid particular attention to it, they would have seen, quite distinctly, that the shadow went in through the half-open balcony-door of their opposite neighbor, just as the stranger went into his own room, and let the long curtain fall down after him.
next morning, the learned man went out to drink coffee and read the newspapers.
“what is that?” said he, as he came out into the sunshine.
“i have no shadow!
so then, it has actually gone last night, and not come again.
it is really tiresome!”
this annoyed him: not so much because the shadow was gone, but because he knew there was a story about a man without a shadow.
* it was known to everybody at home, in the cold lands; and if the learned man now came there and told his story, they would say that he was imitating it, and that he had no need to do.
he would, therefore, not talk about it at all; and that was wisely thought.
*peter schlemihl, the shadowless man.
in the evening he went out again on the balcony.
he had placed the light directly behind him, for he knew that the shadow would always have its master for a screen, but he could not entice it.
he made himself little; he made himself great: but no shadow came again.
he said, “hem!
hem!”
but it was of no use.
it was vexatious; but in the warm lands everything grows so quickly; and after the lapse of eight days he observed, to his great joy, that a new shadow came in the sunshine.
in the course of three weeks he had a very fair shadow, which, when he set out for his home in the northern lands, grew more and more in the journey, so that at last it was so long and so large, that it was more than sufficient.
the learned man then came home, and he wrote books about what was true in the world, and about what was good and what was beautiful; and there passed days and years yes!
many years passed away.
one evening, as he was sitting in his room, there was a gentle knocking at the door.
“come in!” said he; but no one came in; so he opened the door, and there stood before him such an extremely lean man, that he felt quite strange.
as to the rest, the man was very finely dressed he must be a gentleman.
“whom have i the honor of speaking?” asked the learned man.
“yes!
i thought as much,” said the fine man.
“i thought you would not know me.
i have got so much body.
i have even got flesh and clothes.
you certainly never thought of seeing me so well off.
do you not know your old shadow?
you certainly thought i should never more return.
things have gone on well with me since i was last with you.
i have, in all respects, become very well off.
shall i purchase my freedom from service?
if so, i can do it”; and then he rattled a whole bunch of valuable seals that hung to his watch, and he stuck his hand in the thick gold chain he wore around his neck nay!
how all his fingers glittered with diamond rings; and then all were pure gems.
“nay; i cannot recover from my surprise!” said the learned man.
“what is the meaning of all this?”
“something common, is it not,” said the shadow.
“but you yourself do not belong to the common order; and i, as you know well, have from a child followed in your footsteps.
as soon as you found i was capable to go out alone in the world, i went my own way.
i am in the most brilliant circumstances, but there came a sort of desire over me to see you once more before you die; you will die, i suppose?
i also wished to see this land again for you know we always love our native land.
i know you have got another shadow again; have i anything to pay to it or you?
if so, you will oblige me by saying what it is.”
“nay, is it really thou?” said the learned man.
“it is most remarkable:
i never imagined that one's old shadow could come again as a man.”
“tell me what i have to pay,” said the shadow; “for i don't like to be in any sort of debt.”
“how canst thou talk so?” said the learned man.
“what debt is there to talk about?
make thyself as free as anyone else.
i am extremely glad to hear of thy good fortune: sit down, old friend, and tell me a little how it has gone with thee, and what thou hast seen at our opposite neighbor's there in the warm lands.”
“yes, i will tell you all about it,” said the shadow, and sat down: “but then you must also promise me, that, wherever you may meet me, you will never say to anyone here in the town that i have been your shadow.
i intend to get betrothed, for i can provide for more than one family.”
“be quite at thy ease about that,” said the learned man; “i shall not say to anyone who thou actually art: here is my hand i promise it, and a man's bond is his word.”
“a word is a shadow,” said the shadow, “and as such it must speak.”
it was really quite astonishing how much of a man it was.
it was dressed entirely in black, and of the very finest cloth; it had patent leather boots, and a hat that could be folded together, so that it was bare crown and brim; not to speak of what we already know it had seals, gold neck-chain, and diamond rings; yes, the shadow was well-dressed, and it was just that which made it quite a man.
“now i shall tell you my adventures,” said the shadow; and then he sat, with the polished boots, as heavily as he could, on the arm of the learned man's new shadow, which lay like a poodle-dog at his feet.
now this was perhaps from arrogance; and the shadow on the ground kept itself so still and quiet, that it might hear all that passed: it wished to know how it could get free, and work its way up, so as to become its own master.
“do you know who lived in our opposite neighbor's house?” said the shadow.
“it was the most charming of all beings, it was poesy!
i was there for three weeks, and that has as much effect as if one had lived three thousand years, and read all that was composed and written; that is what i say, and it is right.
i have seen everything and i know everything!”
“poesy!” cried the learned man.
“yes, yes, she often dwells a recluse in large cities!
poesy!
yes, i have seen her a single short moment, but sleep came into my eyes!
she stood on the balcony and shone as the aurora borealis shines.
go on, go on thou wert on the balcony, and went through the doorway, and then ”
“then i was in the antechamber,” said the shadow.
“you always sat and looked over to the antechamber.
there was no light; there was a sort of twilight, but the one door stood open directly opposite the other through a long row of rooms and saloons, and there it was lighted up.
i should have been completely killed if i had gone over to the maiden; but i was circumspect, i took time to think, and that one must always do.”
“and what didst thou then see?” asked the learned man.
“i saw everything, and i shall tell all to you: but it is no pride on my part as a free man, and with the knowledge i have, not to speak of my position in life, my excellent circumstances i certainly wish that you would say you* to me!”
* it is the custom in denmark for intimate acquaintances to use the second person singular, “du,” (thou) when speaking to each other.
when a friendship is formed between men, they generally affirm it, when occasion offers, either in public or private, by drinking to each other and exclaiming, “thy health,” at the same time striking their glasses together.
this is called drinking “duus”: they are then, “duus brodre,”
(thou brothers) and ever afterwards use the pronoun “thou,” to each other, it being regarded as more familiar than “de,” (you).
father and mother, sister and brother say thou to one another without regard to age or rank.
master and mistress say thou to their servants the superior to the inferior.
but servants and inferiors do not use the same term to their masters, or superiors nor is it ever used when speaking to a stranger, or anyone with whom they are but slightly acquainted they then say as in english you.
“i beg your pardon,” said the learned man; “it is an old habit with me.
you are perfectly right, and i shall remember it; but now you must tell me all you saw!”
“everything!” said the shadow.
“for i saw everything, and i know everything!”
“how did it look in the furthest saloon?” asked the learned man.
“was it there as in the fresh woods?
was it there as in a holy church?
were the saloons like the starlit firmament when we stand on the high mountains?”
“everything was there!” said the shadow.
“i did not go quite in, i remained in the foremost room, in the twilight, but i stood there quite well; i saw everything, and i know everything!
i have been in the antechamber at the court of poesy.”
“but what did you see?
did all the gods of the olden times pass through the large saloons?
did the old heroes combat there?
did sweet children play there, and relate their dreams?”
“i tell you i was there, and you can conceive that i saw everything there was to be seen.
had you come over there, you would not have been a man; but i became so!
and besides, i learned to know my inward nature, my innate qualities, the relationship i had with poesy.
at the time i was with you, i thought not of that, but always you know it well when the sun rose, and when the sun went down, i became so strangely great; in the moonlight i was very near being more distinct than yourself; at that time i did not understand my nature; it was revealed to me in the antechamber!
i became a man!
i came out matured; but you were no longer in the warm lands; as a man i was ashamed to go as i did.
i was in want of boots, of clothes, of the whole human varnish that makes a man perceptible.
i took my way i tell it to you, but you will not put it in any book i took my way to the cake woman i hid myself behind her; the woman didn't think how much she concealed.
i went out first in the evening; i ran about the streets in the moonlight; i made myself long up the walls it tickles the back so delightfully!
i ran up, and ran down, peeped into the highest windows, into the saloons, and on the roofs, i peeped in where no one could peep, and i saw what no one else saw, what no one else should see!
this is, in fact, a base world!
i would not be a man if it were not now once accepted and regarded as something to be so!
i saw the most unimaginable things with the women, with the men, with parents, and with the sweet, matchless children; i saw,” said the shadow, “what no human being must know, but what they would all so willingly know what is bad in their neighbor.
had i written a newspaper, it would have been read!
but i wrote direct to the persons themselves, and there was consternation in all the towns where i came.
they were so afraid of me, and yet they were so excessively fond of me.
the professors made a professor of me; the tailors gave me new clothes i am well furnished; the master of the mint struck new coin for me, and the women said i was so handsome!
and so i became the man i am.
and i now bid you farewell.
here is my card i live on the sunny side of the street, and am always at home in rainy weather!” and so away went the shadow.
“that was most extraordinary!” said the learned man.
years and days passed away, then the shadow came again.
“how goes it?” said the shadow.
“alas!” said the learned man.
“i write about the true, and the good, and the beautiful, but no one cares to hear such things; i am quite desperate, for i take it so much to heart!”
“but i don't!” said the shadow.
“i become fat, and it is that one wants to become!
you do not understand the world.
you will become ill by it.
you must travel!
i shall make a tour this summer; will you go with me?
i should like to have a travelling companion!
will you go with me, as shadow?
it will be a great pleasure for me to have you with me; i shall pay the travelling expenses!”
“nay, this is too much!” said the learned man.
“it is just as one takes it!” said the shadow.
“it will do you much good to travel!
will you be my shadow?
you shall have everything free on the journey!”
“nay, that is too bad!” said the learned man.
“but it is just so with the world!” said the shadow, “and so it will be!” and away it went again.
the learned man was not at all in the most enviable state; grief and torment followed him, and what he said about the true, and the good, and the beautiful, was, to most persons, like roses for a cow!
he was quite ill at last.
“you really look like a shadow!” said his friends to him; and the learned man trembled, for he thought of it.
“you must go to a watering-place!” said the shadow, who came and visited him.
“there is nothing else for it!
i will take you with me for old acquaintance' sake; i will pay the travelling expenses, and you write the descriptions and if they are a little amusing for me on the way!
i will go to a watering-place my beard does not grow out as it ought that is also a sickness and one must have a beard!
now you be wise and accept the offer; we shall travel as comrades!”
and so they travelled; the shadow was master, and the master was the shadow; they drove with each other, they rode and walked together, side by side, before and behind, just as the sun was; the shadow always took care to keep itself in the master's place.
now the learned man didn't think much about that; he was a very kind-hearted man, and particularly mild and friendly, and so he said one day to the shadow: “as we have now become companions, and in this way have grown up together from childhood, shall we not drink 'thou' together, it is more familiar?”
“you are right,” said the shadow, who was now the proper master.
“it is said in a very straight-forward and well-meant manner.
you, as a learned man, certainly know how strange nature is.
some persons cannot bear to touch grey paper, or they become ill; others shiver in every limb if one rub a pane of glass with a nail: i have just such a feeling on hearing you say thou to me; i feel myself as if pressed to the earth in my first situation with you.
you see that it is a feeling; that it is not pride:
i cannot allow you to say thou to me, but i will willingly say thou to you, so it is half done!”
so the shadow said thou to its former master.
“this is rather too bad,” thought he, “that i must say you and he say thou,” but he was now obliged to put up with it.
so they came to a watering-place where there were many strangers, and amongst them was a princess, who was troubled with seeing too well; and that was so alarming!
she directly observed that the stranger who had just come was quite a different sort of person to all the others; “he has come here in order to get his beard to grow, they say, but i see the real cause, he cannot cast a shadow.”
she had become inquisitive; and so she entered into conversation directly with the strange gentleman, on their promenades.
as the daughter of a king, she needed not to stand upon trifles, so she said, “your complaint is, that you cannot cast a shadow?”
“your royal highness must be improving considerably,” said the shadow, “i know your complaint is, that you see too clearly, but it has decreased, you are cured.
i just happen to have a very unusual shadow!
do you not see that person who always goes with me?
other persons have a common shadow, but i do not like what is common to all.
we give our servants finer cloth for their livery than we ourselves use, and so i had my shadow trimmed up into a man: yes, you see i have even given him a shadow.
it is somewhat expensive, but i like to have something for myself!”
“what!” thought the princess.
“should i really be cured!
these baths are the first in the world!
in our time water has wonderful powers.
but i shall not leave the place, for it now begins to be amusing here.
i am extremely fond of that stranger: would that his beard should not grow, for in that case he will leave us!”
in the evening, the princess and the shadow danced together in the large ball-room.
she was light, but he was still lighter; she had never had such a partner in the dance.
she told him from what land she came, and he knew that land; he had been there, but then she was not at home; he had peeped in at the window, above and below he had seen both the one and the other, and so he could answer the princess, and make insinuations, so that she was quite astonished; he must be the wisest man in the whole world!
she felt such respect for what he knew!
so that when they again danced together she fell in love with him; and that the shadow could remark, for she almost pierced him through with her eyes.
so they danced once more together; and she was about to declare herself, but she was discreet; she thought of her country and kingdom, and of the many persons she would have to reign over.
“he is a wise man,” said she to herself “it is well; and he dances delightfully that is also good; but has he solid knowledge?
that is just as important!
he must be examined.”
so she began, by degrees, to question him about the most difficult things she could think of, and which she herself could not have answered; so that the shadow made a strange face.
“you cannot answer these questions?” said the princess.
“they belong to my childhood's learning,” said the shadow.
“i really believe my shadow, by the door there, can answer them!”
“your shadow!” said the princess.
“that would indeed be marvellous!”
“i will not say for a certainty that he can,” said the shadow, “but i think so; he has now followed me for so many years, and listened to my conversation i should think it possible.
but your royal highness will permit me to observe, that he is so proud of passing himself off for a man, that when he is to be in a proper humor and he must be so to answer well he must be treated quite like a man.”
“oh!
i like that!” said the princess.
so she went to the learned man by the door, and she spoke to him about the sun and the moon, and about persons out of and in the world, and he answered with wisdom and prudence.
“what a man that must be who has so wise a shadow!” thought she.
“it will be a real blessing to my people and kingdom if i choose him for my consort i will do it!”
they were soon agreed, both the princess and the shadow; but no one was to know about it before she arrived in her own kingdom.
“no one not even my shadow!” said the shadow, and he had his own thoughts about it!
now they were in the country where the princess reigned when she was at home.
“listen, my good friend,” said the shadow to the learned man.
“i have now become as happy and mighty as anyone can be; i will, therefore, do something particular for thee!
thou shalt always live with me in the palace, drive with me in my royal carriage, and have ten thousand pounds a year; but then thou must submit to be called shadow by all and everyone; thou must not say that thou hast ever been a man; and once a year, when i sit on the balcony in the sunshine, thou must lie at my feet, as a shadow shall do!
i must tell thee: i am going to marry the king's daughter, and the nuptials are to take place this evening!”
“nay, this is going too far!” said the learned man.
“i will not have it; i will not do it!
it is to deceive the whole country and the princess too!
i will tell everything!
that i am a man, and that thou art a shadow thou art only dressed up!”
“there is no one who will believe it!” said the shadow.
“be reasonable, or i will call the guard!”
“i will go directly to the princess!” said the learned man.
“but i will go first!” said the shadow.
“and thou wilt go to prison!”
and that he was obliged to do for the sentinels obeyed him whom they knew the king's daughter was to marry.
“you tremble!” said the princess, as the shadow came into her chamber.
“has anything happened?
you must not be unwell this evening, now that we are to have our nuptials celebrated.”
“i have lived to see the most cruel thing that anyone can live to see!” said the shadow.
“only imagine yes, it is true, such a poor shadow-skull cannot bear much only think, my shadow has become mad; he thinks that he is a man, and that i now only think that i am his shadow!”
“it is terrible!” said the princess; “but he is confined, is he not?”
“that he is.
i am afraid that he will never recover.”
“poor shadow!” said the princess.
“he is very unfortunate; it would be a real work of charity to deliver him from the little life he has, and, when i think properly over the matter, i am of opinion that it will be necessary to do away with him in all stillness!”
“it is certainly hard,” said the shadow, “for he was a faithful servant!” and then he gave a sort of sigh.
“you are a noble character!” said the princess.
the whole city was illuminated in the evening, and the cannons went off with a bum!
bum!
and the soldiers presented arms.
that was a marriage!
the princess and the shadow went out on the balcony to show themselves, and get another hurrah!
the learned man heard nothing of all this for they had deprived him of life.
the little match girl
most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening the last evening of the year.
in this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet.
when she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that?
they were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.
one slipper was nowhere to be found; the other had been laid hold of by an urchin, and off he ran with it; he thought it would do capitally for a cradle when he some day or other should have children himself.
so the little maiden walked on with her tiny naked feet, that were quite red and blue from cold.
she carried a quantity of matches in an old apron, and she held a bundle of them in her hand.
nobody had bought anything of her the whole livelong day; no one had given her a single farthing.
she crept along trembling with cold and hunger a very picture of sorrow, the poor little thing!
the flakes of snow covered her long fair hair, which fell in beautiful curls around her neck; but of that, of course, she never once now thought.
from all the windows the candles were gleaming, and it smelt so deliciously of roast goose, for you know it was new year's eve; yes, of that she thought.
in a corner formed by two houses, of which one advanced more than the other, she seated herself down and cowered together.
her little feet she had drawn close up to her, but she grew colder and colder, and to go home she did not venture, for she had not sold any matches and could not bring a farthing of money: from her father she would certainly get blows, and at home it was cold too, for above her she had only the roof, through which the wind whistled, even though the largest cracks were stopped up with straw and rags.
her little hands were almost numbed with cold.
oh!
a match might afford her a world of comfort, if she only dared take a single one out of the bundle, draw it against the wall, and warm her fingers by it.
she drew one out.
“rischt!” how it blazed, how it burnt!
it was a warm, bright flame, like a candle, as she held her hands over it: it was a wonderful light.
it seemed really to the little maiden as though she were sitting before a large iron stove, with burnished brass feet and a brass ornament at top.
the fire burned with such blessed influence; it warmed so delightfully.
the little girl had already stretched out her feet to warm them too; but the small flame went out, the stove vanished: she had only the remains of the burnt-out match in her hand.
she rubbed another against the wall: it burned brightly, and where the light fell on the wall, there the wall became transparent like a veil, so that she could see into the room.
on the table was spread a snow-white tablecloth; upon it was a splendid porcelain service, and the roast goose was steaming famously with its stuffing of apple and dried plums.
and what was still more capital to behold was, the goose hopped down from the dish, reeled about on the floor with knife and fork in its breast, till it came up to the poor little girl; when the match went out and nothing but the thick, cold, damp wall was left behind.
she lighted another match.
now there she was sitting under the most magnificent christmas tree: it was still larger, and more decorated than the one which she had seen through the glass door in the rich merchant's house.
thousands of lights were burning on the green branches, and gaily-colored pictures, such as she had seen in the shop-windows, looked down upon her.
the little maiden stretched out her hands towards them when the match went out.
the lights of the christmas tree rose higher and higher, she saw them now as stars in heaven; one fell down and formed a long trail of fire.
“someone is just dead!” said the little girl; for her old grandmother, the only person who had loved her, and who was now no more, had told her, that when a star falls, a soul ascends to god.
she drew another match against the wall: it was again light, and in the lustre there stood the old grandmother, so bright and radiant, so mild, and with such an expression of love.
“grandmother!” cried the little one.
“oh, take me with you!
you go away when the match burns out; you vanish like the warm stove, like the delicious roast goose, and like the magnificent christmas tree!” and she rubbed the whole bundle of matches quickly against the wall, for she wanted to be quite sure of keeping her grandmother near her.
and the matches gave such a brilliant light that it was brighter than at noon-day: never formerly had the grandmother been so beautiful and so tall.
she took the little maiden, on her arm, and both flew in brightness and in joy so high, so very high, and then above was neither cold, nor hunger, nor anxiety they were with god.
but in the corner, at the cold hour of dawn, sat the poor girl, with rosy cheeks and with a smiling mouth, leaning against the wall frozen to death on the last evening of the old year.
stiff and stark sat the child there with her matches, of which one bundle had been burnt.
“she wanted to warm herself,” people said.
no one had the slightest suspicion of what beautiful things she had seen; no one even dreamed of the splendor in which, with her grandmother she had entered on the joys of a new year.
the dream of little tuk
ah!
yes, that was little tuk: in reality his name was not tuk, but that was what he called himself before he could speak plain: he meant it for charles, and it is all well enough if one does but know it.
he had now to take care of his little sister augusta, who was much younger than himself, and he was, besides, to learn his lesson at the same time; but these two things would not do together at all.
there sat the poor little fellow, with his sister on his lap, and he sang to her all the songs he knew; and he glanced the while from time to time into the geography-book that lay open before him.
by the next morning he was to have learnt all the towns in zealand by heart, and to know about them all that is possible to be known.
his mother now came home, for she had been out, and took little augusta on her arm.
tuk ran quickly to the window, and read so eagerly that he pretty nearly read his eyes out; for it got darker and darker, but his mother had no money to buy a candle.
“there goes the old washerwoman over the way,” said his mother, as she looked out of the window.
“the poor woman can hardly drag herself along, and she must now drag the pail home from the fountain.
be a good boy, tukey, and run across and help the old woman, won't you?”
so tuk ran over quickly and helped her; but when he came back again into the room it was quite dark, and as to a light, there was no thought of such a thing.
he was now to go to bed; that was an old turn-up bedstead; in it he lay and thought about his geography lesson, and of zealand, and of all that his master had told him.
he ought, to be sure, to have read over his lesson again, but that, you know, he could not do.
he therefore put his geography-book under his pillow, because he had heard that was a very good thing to do when one wants to learn one's lesson; but one cannot, however, rely upon it entirely.
well, there he lay, and thought and thought, and all at once it was just as if someone kissed his eyes and mouth: he slept, and yet he did not sleep; it was as though the old washerwoman gazed on him with her mild eyes and said, “it were a great sin if you were not to know your lesson tomorrow morning.
you have aided me, i therefore will now help you; and the loving god will do so at all times.” and all of a sudden the book under tuk's pillow began scraping and scratching.
“kickery-ki!
kluk!
kluk!
kluk!” that was an old hen who came creeping along, and she was from kjoge.
“i am a kjoger hen,” [*] said she, and then she related how many inhabitants there were there, and about the battle that had taken place, and which, after all, was hardly worth talking about.
* kjoge, a town in the bay of kjoge.
“to see the kjoge      hens,” is an expression similar to “showing a child london,”
which is said to be done by taking his head in both bands,      and so lifting him off the ground.
at the invasion of the      english in 1807, an encounter of a no very glorious nature      took place between the british troops and the undisciplined      danish militia.
“kribledy, krabledy plump!” down fell somebody: it was a wooden bird, the popinjay used at the shooting-matches at prastoe.
now he said that there were just as many inhabitants as he had nails in his body; and he was very proud.
“thorwaldsen lived almost next door to me.
* plump!
here i lie capitally.”
* prastoe, a still smaller town than kjoge.
some hundred paces from it lies the manor-house ny soe, where thorwaldsen, the famed sculptor, generally sojourned during his stay in denmark, and where he called many of his immortal works into existence.
but little tuk was no longer lying down: all at once he was on horseback.
on he went at full gallop, still galloping on and on.
a knight with a gleaming plume, and most magnificently dressed, held him before him on the horse, and thus they rode through the wood to the old town of bordingborg, and that was a large and very lively town.
high towers rose from the castle of the king, and the brightness of many candles streamed from all the windows; within was dance and song, and king waldemar and the young, richly-attired maids of honor danced together.
the morn now came; and as soon as the sun appeared, the whole town and the king's palace crumbled together, and one tower after the other; and at last only a single one remained standing where the castle had been before,* and the town was so small and poor, and the school boys came along with their books under their arms, and said, “2000 inhabitants!” but that was not true, for there were not so many.
*bordingborg, in the reign of king waldemar, a considerable place, now an unimportant little town.
one solitary tower only, and some remains of a wall, show where the castle once stood.
and little tukey lay in his bed: it seemed to him as if he dreamed, and yet as if he were not dreaming; however, somebody was close beside him.
“little tukey!
little tukey!” cried someone near.
it was a seaman, quite a little personage, so little as if he were a midshipman; but a midshipman it was not.
“many remembrances from corsor.
* that is a town that is just rising into importance; a lively town that has steam-boats and stagecoaches:
formerly people called it ugly, but that is no longer true.
i lie on the sea,” said corsor; “i have high roads and gardens, and i have given birth to a poet who was witty and amusing, which all poets are not.
i once intended to equip a ship that was to sail all round the earth; but i did not do it, although i could have done so: and then, too, i smell so deliciously, for close before the gate bloom the most beautiful roses.”
*corsor, on the great belt, called, formerly, before the introduction of steam-vessels, when travellers were often obliged to wait a long time for a favorable wind, “the most tiresome of towns.” the poet baggesen was born here.
little tuk looked, and all was red and green before his eyes; but as soon as the confusion of colors was somewhat over, all of a sudden there appeared a wooded slope close to the bay, and high up above stood a magnificent old church, with two high pointed towers.
from out the hill-side spouted fountains in thick streams of water, so that there was a continual splashing; and close beside them sat an old king with a golden crown upon his white head: that was king hroar, near the fountains, close to the town of roeskilde, as it is now called.
and up the slope into the old church went all the kings and queens of denmark, hand in hand, all with their golden crowns; and the organ played and the fountains rustled.
little tuk saw all, heard all.
“do not forget the diet,” said king hroar.
*
*roeskilde, once the capital of denmark.
the town takes its name from king hroar, and the many fountains in the neighborhood.
in the beautiful cathedral the greater number of the kings and queens of denmark are interred.
in roeskilde, too, the members of the danish diet assemble.
again all suddenly disappeared.
yes, and whither?
it seemed to him just as if one turned over a leaf in a book.
and now stood there an old peasant-woman, who came from soroe,* where grass grows in the market-place.
she had an old grey linen apron hanging over her head and back: it was so wet, it certainly must have been raining.
“yes, that it has,” said she; and she now related many pretty things out of holberg's comedies, and about waldemar and absalon; but all at once she cowered together, and her head began shaking backwards and forwards, and she looked as she were going to make a spring.
“croak!
croak!” said she.
“it is wet, it is wet; there is such a pleasant deathlike stillness in sorbe!” she was now suddenly a frog, “croak”; and now she was an old woman.
“one must dress according to the weather,” said she.
“it is wet; it is wet.
my town is just like a bottle; and one gets in by the neck, and by the neck one must get out again!
in former times i had the finest fish, and now i have fresh rosy-cheeked boys at the bottom of the bottle, who learn wisdom, hebrew, greek croak!”
* sorbe, a very quiet little town, beautifully situated, surrounded by woods and lakes.
holberg, denmark's moliere, founded here an academy for the sons of the nobles.
the poets hauch and ingemann were appointed professors here.
the latter lives there still.
when she spoke it sounded just like the noise of frogs, or as if one walked with great boots over a moor; always the same tone, so uniform and so tiring that little tuk fell into a good sound sleep, which, by the bye, could not do him any harm.
but even in this sleep there came a dream, or whatever else it was: his little sister augusta, she with the blue eyes and the fair curling hair, was suddenly a tall, beautiful girl, and without having wings was yet able to fly; and she now flew over zealand over the green woods and the blue lakes.
“do you hear the cock crow, tukey?
cock-a-doodle-doo!
the cocks are flying up from kjoge!
you will have a farm-yard, so large, oh!
so very large!
you will suffer neither hunger nor thirst!
you will get on in the world!
you will be a rich and happy man!
your house will exalt itself like king waldemar's tower, and will be richly decorated with marble statues, like that at prastoe.
you understand what i mean.
your name shall circulate with renown all round the earth, like unto the ship that was to have sailed from corsor; and in roeskilde ”
“do not forget the diet!” said king hroar.
“then you will speak well and wisely, little tukey; and when at last you sink into your grave, you shall sleep as quietly ”
“as if i lay in soroe,” said tuk, awaking.
it was bright day, and he was now quite unable to call to mind his dream; that, however, was not at all necessary, for one may not know what the future will bring.
and out of bed he jumped, and read in his book, and now all at once he knew his whole lesson.
and the old washerwoman popped her head in at the door, nodded to him friendly, and said, “thanks, many thanks, my good child, for your help!
may the good ever-loving god fulfil your loveliest dream!”
little tukey did not at all know what he had dreamed, but the loving god knew it.
the naughty boy
along time ago, there lived an old poet, a thoroughly kind old poet.
as he was sitting one evening in his room, a dreadful storm arose without, and the rain streamed down from heaven; but the old poet sat warm and comfortable in his chimney-corner, where the fire blazed and the roasting apple hissed.
“those who have not a roof over their heads will be wetted to the skin,”
said the good old poet.
“oh let me in!
let me in!
i am cold, and i'm so wet!” exclaimed suddenly a child that stood crying at the door and knocking for admittance, while the rain poured down, and the wind made all the windows rattle.
“poor thing!” said the old poet, as he went to open the door.
there stood a little boy, quite naked, and the water ran down from his long golden hair; he trembled with cold, and had he not come into a warm room he would most certainly have perished in the frightful tempest.
“poor child!” said the old poet, as he took the boy by the hand.
“come in, come in, and i will soon restore thee!
thou shalt have wine and roasted apples, for thou art verily a charming child!” and the boy was so really.
his eyes were like two bright stars; and although the water trickled down his hair, it waved in beautiful curls.
he looked exactly like a little angel, but he was so pale, and his whole body trembled with cold.
he had a nice little bow in his hand, but it was quite spoiled by the rain, and the tints of his many-colored arrows ran one into the other.
the old poet seated himself beside his hearth, and took the little fellow on his lap; he squeezed the water out of his dripping hair, warmed his hands between his own, and boiled for him some sweet wine.
then the boy recovered, his cheeks again grew rosy, he jumped down from the lap where he was sitting, and danced round the kind old poet.
“you are a merry fellow,” said the old man.
“what's your name?”
“my name is cupid,” answered the boy.
“don't you know me?
there lies my bow; it shoots well, i can assure you!
look, the weather is now clearing up, and the moon is shining clear again through the window.”
“why, your bow is quite spoiled,” said the old poet.
“that were sad indeed,” said the boy, and he took the bow in his hand and examined it on every side.
“oh, it is dry again, and is not hurt at all; the string is quite tight.
i will try it directly.” and he bent his bow, took aim, and shot an arrow at the old poet, right into his heart.
“you see now that my bow was not spoiled,” said he laughing; and away he ran.
the naughty boy, to shoot the old poet in that way; he who had taken him into his warm room, who had treated him so kindly, and who had given him warm wine and the very best apples!
the poor poet lay on the earth and wept, for the arrow had really flown into his heart.
“fie!” said he.
“how naughty a boy cupid is!
i will tell all children about him, that they may take care and not play with him, for he will only cause them sorrow and many a heartache.”
and all good children to whom he related this story, took great heed of this naughty cupid; but he made fools of them still, for he is astonishingly cunning.
when the university students come from the lectures, he runs beside them in a black coat, and with a book under his arm.
it is quite impossible for them to know him, and they walk along with him arm in arm, as if he, too, were a student like themselves; and then, unperceived, he thrusts an arrow to their bosom.
when the young maidens come from being examined by the clergyman, or go to church to be confirmed, there he is again close behind them.
yes, he is forever following people.
at the play, he sits in the great chandelier and burns in bright flames, so that people think it is really a flame, but they soon discover it is something else.
he roves about in the garden of the palace and upon the ramparts: yes, once he even shot your father and mother right in the heart.
ask them only and you will hear what they'll tell you.
oh, he is a naughty boy, that cupid; you must never have anything to do with him.
he is forever running after everybody.
only think, he shot an arrow once at your old grandmother!
but that is a long time ago, and it is all past now; however, a thing of that sort she never forgets.
fie, naughty cupid!
but now you know him, and you know, too, how ill-behaved he is!
the red shoes
there was once a little girl who was very pretty and delicate, but in summer she was forced to run about with bare feet, she was so poor, and in winter wear very large wooden shoes, which made her little insteps quite red, and that looked so dangerous!
in the middle of the village lived old dame shoemaker; she sat and sewed together, as well as she could, a little pair of shoes out of old red strips of cloth; they were very clumsy, but it was a kind thought.
they were meant for the little girl.
the little girl was called karen.
on the very day her mother was buried, karen received the red shoes, and wore them for the first time.
they were certainly not intended for mourning, but she had no others, and with stockingless feet she followed the poor straw coffin in them.
suddenly a large old carriage drove up, and a large old lady sat in it:
she looked at the little girl, felt compassion for her, and then said to the clergyman:
“here, give me the little girl.
i will adopt her!”
and karen believed all this happened on account of the red shoes, but the old lady thought they were horrible, and they were burnt.
but karen herself was cleanly and nicely dressed; she must learn to read and sew; and people said she was a nice little thing, but the looking-glass said:
“thou art more than nice, thou art beautiful!”
now the queen once travelled through the land, and she had her little daughter with her.
and this little daughter was a princess, and people streamed to the castle, and karen was there also, and the little princess stood in her fine white dress, in a window, and let herself be stared at; she had neither a train nor a golden crown, but splendid red morocco shoes.
they were certainly far handsomer than those dame shoemaker had made for little karen.
nothing in the world can be compared with red shoes.
now karen was old enough to be confirmed; she had new clothes and was to have new shoes also.
the rich shoemaker in the city took the measure of her little foot.
this took place at his house, in his room; where stood large glass-cases, filled with elegant shoes and brilliant boots.
all this looked charming, but the old lady could not see well, and so had no pleasure in them.
in the midst of the shoes stood a pair of red ones, just like those the princess had worn.
how beautiful they were!
the shoemaker said also they had been made for the child of a count, but had not fitted.
“that must be patent leather!” said the old lady.
“they shine so!”
“yes, they shine!” said karen, and they fitted, and were bought, but the old lady knew nothing about their being red, else she would never have allowed karen to have gone in red shoes to be confirmed.
yet such was the case.
everybody looked at her feet; and when she stepped through the chancel door on the church pavement, it seemed to her as if the old figures on the tombs, those portraits of old preachers and preachers' wives, with stiff ruffs, and long black dresses, fixed their eyes on her red shoes.
and she thought only of them as the clergyman laid his hand upon her head, and spoke of the holy baptism, of the covenant with god, and how she should be now a matured christian; and the organ pealed so solemnly; the sweet children's voices sang, and the old music-directors sang, but karen only thought of her red shoes.
in the afternoon, the old lady heard from everyone that the shoes had been red, and she said that it was very wrong of karen, that it was not at all becoming, and that in future karen should only go in black shoes to church, even when she should be older.
the next sunday there was the sacrament, and karen looked at the black shoes, looked at the red ones looked at them again, and put on the red shoes.
the sun shone gloriously; karen and the old lady walked along the path through the corn; it was rather dusty there.
at the church door stood an old soldier with a crutch, and with a wonderfully long beard, which was more red than white, and he bowed to the ground, and asked the old lady whether he might dust her shoes.
and karen stretched out her little foot.
“see, what beautiful dancing shoes!” said the soldier.
“sit firm when you dance”; and he put his hand out towards the soles.
and the old lady gave the old soldier alms, and went into the church with karen.
and all the people in the church looked at karen's red shoes, and all the pictures, and as karen knelt before the altar, and raised the cup to her lips, she only thought of the red shoes, and they seemed to swim in it; and she forgot to sing her psalm, and she forgot to pray, “our father in heaven!”
now all the people went out of church, and the old lady got into her carriage.
karen raised her foot to get in after her, when the old soldier said,
“look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”
and karen could not help dancing a step or two, and when she began her feet continued to dance; it was just as though the shoes had power over them.
she danced round the church corner, she could not leave off; the coachman was obliged to run after and catch hold of her, and he lifted her in the carriage, but her feet continued to dance so that she trod on the old lady dreadfully.
at length she took the shoes off, and then her legs had peace.
the shoes were placed in a closet at home, but karen could not avoid looking at them.
now the old lady was sick, and it was said she could not recover.
she must be nursed and waited upon, and there was no one whose duty it was so much as karen's.
but there was a great ball in the city, to which karen was invited.
she looked at the old lady, who could not recover, she looked at the red shoes, and she thought there could be no sin in it; she put on the red shoes, she might do that also, she thought.
but then she went to the ball and began to dance.
when she wanted to dance to the right, the shoes would dance to the left, and when she wanted to dance up the room, the shoes danced back again, down the steps, into the street, and out of the city gate.
she danced, and was forced to dance straight out into the gloomy wood.
then it was suddenly light up among the trees, and she fancied it must be the moon, for there was a face; but it was the old soldier with the red beard; he sat there, nodded his head, and said, “look, what beautiful dancing shoes!”
then she was terrified, and wanted to fling off the red shoes, but they clung fast; and she pulled down her stockings, but the shoes seemed to have grown to her feet.
and she danced, and must dance, over fields and meadows, in rain and sunshine, by night and day; but at night it was the most fearful.
she danced over the churchyard, but the dead did not dance they had something better to do than to dance.
she wished to seat herself on a poor man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew; but for her there was neither peace nor rest; and when she danced towards the open church door, she saw an angel standing there.
he wore long, white garments; he had wings which reached from his shoulders to the earth; his countenance was severe and grave; and in his hand he held a sword, broad and glittering.
“dance shalt thou!” said he.
“dance in thy red shoes till thou art pale and cold!
till thy skin shrivels up and thou art a skeleton!
dance shalt thou from door to door, and where proud, vain children dwell, thou shalt knock, that they may hear thee and tremble!
dance shalt thou !”
“mercy!” cried karen.
but she did not hear the angel's reply, for the shoes carried her through the gate into the fields, across roads and bridges, and she must keep ever dancing.
one morning she danced past a door which she well knew.
within sounded a psalm; a coffin, decked with flowers, was borne forth.
then she knew that the old lady was dead, and felt that she was abandoned by all, and condemned by the angel of god.
she danced, and she was forced to dance through the gloomy night.
the shoes carried her over stack and stone; she was torn till she bled; she danced over the heath till she came to a little house.
here, she knew, dwelt the executioner; and she tapped with her fingers at the window, and said, “come out!
come out!
i cannot come in, for i am forced to dance!”
and the executioner said, “thou dost not know who i am, i fancy?
i strike bad people's heads off; and i hear that my axe rings!”
“don't strike my head off!” said karen.
“then i can't repent of my sins!
but strike off my feet in the red shoes!”
and then she confessed her entire sin, and the executioner struck off her feet with the red shoes, but the shoes danced away with the little feet across the field into the deep wood.
and he carved out little wooden feet for her, and crutches, taught her the psalm criminals always sing; and she kissed the hand which had wielded the axe, and went over the heath.
“now i have suffered enough for the red shoes!” said she.
“now i will go into the church that people may see me!” and she hastened towards the church door: but when she was near it, the red shoes danced before her, and she was terrified, and turned round.
the whole week she was unhappy, and wept many bitter tears; but when sunday returned, she said, “well, now i have suffered and struggled enough!
i really believe i am as good as many a one who sits in the church, and holds her head so high!”
and away she went boldly; but she had not got farther than the churchyard gate before she saw the red shoes dancing before her; and she was frightened, and turned back, and repented of her sin from her heart.
and she went to the parsonage, and begged that they would take her into service; she would be very industrious, she said, and would do everything she could; she did not care about the wages, only she wished to have a home, and be with good people.
and the clergyman's wife was sorry for her and took her into service; and she was industrious and thoughtful.
she sat still and listened when the clergyman read the bible in the evenings.
all the children thought a great deal of her; but when they spoke of dress, and grandeur, and beauty, she shook her head.
the following sunday, when the family was going to church, they asked her whether she would not go with them; but she glanced sorrowfully, with tears in her eyes, at her crutches.
the family went to hear the word of god; but she went alone into her little chamber; there was only room for a bed and chair to stand in it; and here she sat down with her prayer-book; and whilst she read with a pious mind, the wind bore the strains of the organ towards her, and she raised her tearful countenance, and said, “o god, help me!”
and the sun shone so clearly, and straight before her stood the angel of god in white garments, the same she had seen that night at the church door; but he no longer carried the sharp sword, but in its stead a splendid green spray, full of roses.
and he touched the ceiling with the spray, and the ceiling rose so high, and where he had touched it there gleamed a golden star.
and he touched the walls, and they widened out, and she saw the organ which was playing; she saw the old pictures of the preachers and the preachers' wives.
the congregation sat in cushioned seats, and sang out of their prayer-books.
for the church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow chamber, or else she had come into the church.
she sat in the pew with the clergyman's family, and when they had ended the psalm and looked up, they nodded and said, “it is right that thou art come!”
“it was through mercy!” she said.
and the organ pealed, and the children's voices in the choir sounded so sweet and soft!
the clear sunshine streamed so warmly through the window into the pew where karen sat!
her heart was so full of sunshine, peace, and joy, that it broke.
her soul flew on the sunshine to god, and there no one asked after the red shoes.
the blue fairy book
the bronze ring
once upon a time in a certain country there lived a king whose palace was surrounded by a spacious garden.
but, though the gardeners were many and the soil was good, this garden yielded neither flowers nor fruits, not even grass or shady trees.
the king was in despair about it, when a wise old man said to him:
“your gardeners do not understand their business: but what can you expect of men whose fathers were cobblers and carpenters?
how should they have learned to cultivate your garden?”
“you are quite right,” cried the king.
“therefore,” continued the old man, “you should send for a gardener whose father and grandfather have been gardeners before him, and very soon your garden will be full of green grass and gay flowers, and you will enjoy its delicious fruit.”
so the king sent messengers to every town, village, and hamlet in his dominions, to look for a gardener whose forefathers had been gardeners also, and after forty days one was found.
“come with us and be gardener to the king,” they said to him.
“how can i go to the king,” said the gardener, “a poor wretch like me?”
“that is of no consequence,” they answered.
“here are new clothes for you and your family.”
“but i owe money to several people.”
“we will pay your debts,” they said.
so the gardener allowed himself to be persuaded, and went away with the messengers, taking his wife and his son with him; and the king, delighted to have found a real gardener, entrusted him with the care of his garden.
the man found no difficulty in making the royal garden produce flowers and fruit, and at the end of a year the park was not like the same place, and the king showered gifts upon his new servant.
the gardener, as you have heard already, had a son, who was a very handsome young man, with most agreeable manners, and every day he carried the best fruit of the garden to the king, and all the prettiest flowers to his daughter.
now this princess was wonderfully pretty and was just sixteen years old, and the king was beginning to think it was time that she should be married.
“my dear child,” said he, “you are of an age to take a husband, therefore i am thinking of marrying you to the son of my prime minister.
“father,” replied the princess, “i will never marry the son of the minister.”
“why not?” asked the king.
“because i love the gardener’s son,” answered the princess.
on hearing this the king was at first very angry, and then he wept and sighed, and declared that such a husband was not worthy of his daughter; but the young princess was not to be turned from her resolution to marry the gardener’s son.
then the king consulted his ministers.
“this is what you must do,” they said.
“to get rid of the gardener you must send both suitors to a very distant country, and the one who returns first shall marry your daughter.”
the king followed this advice, and the minister’s son was presented with a splendid horse and a purse full of gold pieces, while the gardener’s son had only an old lame horse and a purse full of copper money, and every one thought he would never come back from his journey.
the day before they started the princess met her lover and said to him:
“be brave, and remember always that i love you.
take this purse full of jewels and make the best use you can of them for love of me, and come back quickly and demand my hand.”
the two suitors left the town together, but the minister’s son went off at a gallop on his good horse, and very soon was lost to sight behind the most distant hills.
he traveled on for some days, and presently reached a fountain beside which an old woman all in rags sat upon a stone.
“good-day to you, young traveler,” said she.
but the minister’s son made no reply.
“have pity upon me, traveler,” she said again.
“i am dying of hunger, as you see, and three days have i been here and no one has given me anything.”
“let me alone, old witch,” cried the young man; “i can do nothing for you,” and so saying he went on his way.
that same evening the gardener’s son rode up to the fountain upon his lame gray horse.
“good-day to you, young traveler,” said the beggar-woman.
“good-day, good woman,” answered he.
“young traveler, have pity upon me.”
“take my purse, good woman,” said he, “and mount behind me, for your legs can’t be very strong.”
the old woman didn’t wait to be asked twice, but mounted behind him, and in this style they reached the chief city of a powerful kingdom.
the minister’s son was lodged in a grand inn, the gardener’s son and the old woman dismounted at the inn for beggars.
the next day the gardener’s son heard a great noise in the street, and the king’s heralds passed, blowing all kinds of instruments, and crying:
“the king, our master, is old and infirm.
he will give a great reward to whoever will cure him and give him back the strength of his youth.”
then the old beggar-woman said to her benefactor:
“this is what you must do to obtain the reward which the king promises.
go out of the town by the south gate, and there you will find three little dogs of different colors; the first will be white, the second black, the third red.
you must kill them and then burn them separately, and gather up the ashes.
put the ashes of each dog into a bag of its own color, then go before the door of the palace and cry out, ‘a celebrated physician has come from janina in albania.
he alone can cure the king and give him back the strength of his youth.’ the king’s physicians will say, this is an impostor, and not a learned man,’ and they will make all sorts of difficulties, but you will overcome them all at last, and will present yourself before the sick king.
you must then demand as much wood as three mules can carry, and a great cauldron, and must shut yourself up in a room with the sultan, and when the cauldron boils you must throw him into it, and there leave him until his flesh is completely separated from his bones.
then arrange the bones in their proper places, and throw over them the ashes out of the three bags.
the king will come back to life, and will be just as he was when he was twenty years old.
for your reward you must demand the bronze ring which has the power to grant you everything you desire.
go, my son, and do not forget any of my instructions.”
the young man followed the old beggar-woman’s directions.
on going out of the town he found the white, red, and black dogs, and killed and burnt them, gathering the ashes in three bags.
then he ran to the palace and cried:
“a celebrated physician has just come from janina in albania.
he alone can cure the king and give him back the strength of his youth.”
the king’s physicians at first laughed at the unknown wayfarer, but the sultan ordered that the stranger should be admitted.
they brought the cauldron and the loads of wood, and very soon the king was boiling away.
toward mid-day the gardener’s son arranged the bones in their places, and he had hardly scattered the ashes over them before the old king revived, to find himself once more young and hearty.
“how can i reward you, my benefactor?” he cried.
“will you take half my treasures?”
“no,” said the gardener’s son.
“my daughter’s hand?”
“no.”
“take half my kingdom.”
“no.
give me only the bronze ring which can instantly grant me anything i wish for.”
“alas!” said the king, “i set great store by that marvelous ring; nevertheless, you shall have it.” and he gave it to him.
the gardener’s son went back to say good-by to the old beggar-woman; then he said to the bronze ring:
“prepare a splendid ship in which i may continue my journey.
let the hull be of fine gold, the masts of silver, the sails of brocade; let the crew consist of twelve young men of noble appearance, dressed like kings.
st. nicholas will be at the helm.
as to the cargo, let it be diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and carbuncles.”
and immediately a ship appeared upon the sea which resembled in every particular the description given by the gardener’s son, and, stepping on board, he continued his journey.
presently he arrived at a great town and established himself in a wonderful palace.
after several days he met his rival, the minister’s son, who had spent all his money and was reduced to the disagreeable employment of a carrier of dust and rubbish.
the gardener’s son said to him:
“what is your name, what is your family, and from what country do you come?”
“i am the son of the prime minister of a great nation, and yet see what a degrading occupation i am reduced to.”
“listen to me; though i don’t know anything more about you, i am willing to help you.
i will give you a ship to take you back to your own country upon one condition.”
“whatever it may be, i accept it willingly.”
“follow me to my palace.”
the minister’s son followed the rich stranger, whom he had not recognized.
when they reached the palace the gardener’s son made a sign to his slaves, who completely undressed the new-comer.
“make this ring red-hot,” commanded the master, “and mark the man with it upon his back.”
the slaves obeyed him.
“now, young man,” said the rich stranger, “i am going to give you a vessel which will take you back to your own country.”
and, going out, he took the bronze ring and said:
“bronze ring, obey thy master.
prepare me a ship of which the half-rotten timbers shall be painted black, let the sails be in rags, and the sailors infirm and sickly.
one shall have lost a leg, another an arm, the third shall be a hunchback, another lame or club-footed or blind, and most of them shall be ugly and covered with scars.
go, and let my orders be executed.”
the minister’s son embarked in this old vessel, and thanks to favorable winds, at length reached his own country.
in spite of the pitiable condition in which he returned they received him joyfully.
“i am the first to come back,” said he to the king; now fulfil your promise, and give me the princess in marriage.
so they at once began to prepare for the wedding festivities.
as to the poor princess, she was sorrowful and angry enough about it.
the next morning, at daybreak, a wonderful ship with every sail set came to anchor before the town.
the king happened at that moment to be at the palace window.
“what strange ship is this,” he cried, “that has a golden hull, silver masts, and silken sails, and who are the young men like princes who man it?
and do i not see st. nicholas at the helm?
go at once and invite the captain of the ship to come to the palace.”
his servants obeyed him, and very soon in came an enchantingly handsome young prince, dressed in rich silk, ornamented with pearls and diamonds.
“young man,” said the king, “you are welcome, whoever you may be.
do me the favor to be my guest as long as you remain in my capital.”
“many thanks, sire,” replied the captain, “i accept your offer.”
“my daughter is about to be married,” said the king; “will you give her away?”
“i shall be charmed, sire.”
soon after came the princess and her betrothed.
“why, how is this?” cried the young captain; “would you marry this charming princess to such a man as that?”
“but he is my prime minister’s son!”
“what does that matter?
i cannot give your daughter away.
the man she is betrothed to is one of my servants.”
“your servant?”
“without doubt.
i met him in a distant town reduced to carrying away dust and rubbish from the houses.
i had pity on him and engaged him as one of my servants.”
“it is impossible!” cried the king.
“do you wish me to prove what i say?
this young man returned in a vessel which i fitted out for him, an unseaworthy ship with a black battered hull, and the sailors were infirm and crippled.”
“it is quite true,” said the king.
“it is false,” cried the minister’s son.
“i do not know this man!”
“sire,” said the young captain, “order your daughter’s betrothed to be stripped, and see if the mark of my ring is not branded upon his back.”
the king was about to give this order, when the minister’s son, to save himself from such an indignity, admitted that the story was true.
“and now, sire,” said the young captain, “do you not recognize me?”
“i recognize you,” said the princess; “you are the gardener’s son whom i have always loved, and it is you i wish to marry.”
“young man, you shall be my son-in-law,” cried the king.
“the marriage festivities are already begun, so you shall marry my daughter this very day.”
and so that very day the gardener’s son married the beautiful princess.
several months passed.
the young couple were as happy as the day was long, and the king was more and more pleased with himself for having secured such a son-in-law.
but, presently, the captain of the golden ship found it necessary to take a long voyage, and after embracing his wife tenderly he embarked.
now in the outskirts of the capital there lived an old man, who had spent his life in studying black arts alchemy, astrology, magic, and enchantment.
this man found out that the gardener’s son had only succeeded in marrying the princess by the help of the genii who obeyed the bronze ring.
“i will have that ring,” said he to himself.
so he went down to the sea-shore and caught some little red fishes.
really, they were quite wonderfully pretty.
then he came back, and, passing before the princess’s window, he began to cry out:
“who wants some pretty little red fishes?”
the princess heard him, and sent out one of her slaves, who said to the old peddler:
“what will you take for your fish?”
“a bronze ring.”
“a bronze ring, old simpleton!
and where shall i find one?”
“under the cushion in the princess’s room.”
the slave went back to her mistress.
“the old madman will take neither gold nor silver,” said she.
“what does he want then?”
“a bronze ring that is hidden under a cushion.”
“find the ring and give it to him,” said the princess.
and at last the slave found the bronze ring, which the captain of the golden ship had accidentally left behind and carried it to the man, who made off with it instantly.
hardly had he reached his own house when, taking the ring, he said, “bronze ring, obey thy master.
i desire that the golden ship shall turn to black wood, and the crew to hideous negroes; that st. nicholas shall leave the helm and that the only cargo shall be black cats.”
and the genii of the bronze ring obeyed him.
finding himself upon the sea in this miserable condition, the young captain understood that some one must have stolen the bronze ring from him, and he lamented his misfortune loudly; but that did him no good.
“alas!” he said to himself, “whoever has taken my ring has probably taken my dear wife also.
what good will it do me to go back to my own country?” and he sailed about from island to island, and from shore to shore, believing that wherever he went everybody was laughing at him, and very soon his poverty was so great that he and his crew and the poor black cats had nothing to eat but herbs and roots.
after wandering about a long time he reached an island inhabited by mice.
the captain landed upon the shore and began to explore the country.
there were mice everywhere, and nothing but mice.
some of the black cats had followed him, and, not having been fed for several days, they were fearfully hungry, and made terrible havoc among the mice.
then the queen of the mice held a council.
“these cats will eat every one of us,” she said, “if the captain of the ship does not shut the ferocious animals up.
let us send a deputation to him of the bravest among us.”
several mice offered themselves for this mission and set out to find the young captain.
“captain,” said they, “go away quickly from our island, or we shall perish, every mouse of us.”
“willingly,” replied the young captain, “upon one condition.
that is that you shall first bring me back a bronze ring which some clever magician has stolen from me.
if you do not do this i will land all my cats upon your island, and you shall be exterminated.”
the mice withdrew in great dismay.
“what is to be done?” said the queen.
“how can we find this bronze ring?” she held a new council, calling in mice from every quarter of the globe, but nobody knew where the bronze ring was.
suddenly three mice arrived from a very distant country.
one was blind, the second lame, and the third had her ears cropped.
“ho, ho, ho!” said the new-comers.
“we come from a far distant country.”
“do you know where the bronze ring is which the genii obey?”
“ho, ho, ho!
we know; an old sorcerer has taken possession of it, and now he keeps it in his pocket by day and in his mouth by night.”
“go and take it from him, and come back as soon as possible.”
so the three mice made themselves a boat and set sail for the magician’s country.
when they reached the capital they landed and ran to the palace, leaving only the blind mouse on the shore to take care of the boat.
then they waited till it was night.
the wicked old man lay down in bed and put the bronze ring into his mouth, and very soon he was asleep.
“now, what shall we do?” said the two little animals to each other.
the mouse with the cropped ears found a lamp full of oil and a bottle full of pepper.
so she dipped her tail first in the oil and then in the pepper, and held it to the sorcerer’s nose.
“atisha!
atisha!” sneezed the old man, but he did not wake, and the shock made the bronze ring jump out of his mouth.
quick as thought the lame mouse snatched up the precious talisman and carried it off to the boat.
imagine the despair of the magician when he awoke and the bronze ring was nowhere to be found!
but by that time our three mice had set sail with their prize.
a favoring breeze was carrying them toward the island where the queen of the mice was awaiting them.
naturally they began to talk about the bronze ring.
“which of us deserves the most credit?” they cried all at once.
“i do,” said the blind mouse, “for without my watchfulness our boat would have drifted away to the open sea.”
“no, indeed,” cried the mouse with the cropped ears; “the credit is mine.
did i not cause the ring to jump out of the man’s mouth?”
“no, it is mine,” cried the lame one, “for i ran off with the ring.”
and from high words they soon came to blows, and, alas!
when the quarrel was fiercest the bronze ring fell into the sea.
“how are we to face our queen,” said the three mice “when by our folly we have lost the talisman and condemned our people to be utterly exterminated?
we cannot go back to our country; let us land on this desert island and there end our miserable lives.” no sooner said than done.
the boat reached the island, and the mice landed.
the blind mouse was speedily deserted by her two sisters, who went off to hunt flies, but as she wandered sadly along the shore she found a dead fish, and was eating it, when she felt something very hard.
at her cries the other two mice ran up.
“it is the bronze ring!
it is the talisman!” they cried joyfully, and, getting into their boat again, they soon reached the mouse island.
it was time they did, for the captain was just going to land his cargo of cats, when a deputation of mice brought him the precious bronze ring.
“bronze ring,” commanded the young man, “obey thy master.
let my ship appear as it was before.”
immediately the genii of the ring set to work, and the old black vessel became once more the wonderful golden ship with sails of brocade; the handsome sailors ran to the silver masts and the silken ropes, and very soon they set sail for the capital.
ah!
how merrily the sailors sang as they flew over the glassy sea!
at last the port was reached.
the captain landed and ran to the palace, where he found the wicked old man asleep.
the princess clasped her husband in a long embrace.
the magician tried to escape, but he was seized and bound with strong cords.
the next day the sorcerer, tied to the tail of a savage mule loaded with nuts, was broken into as many pieces as there were nuts upon the mule’s back.
(1)
prince hyacinth and the dear little princess
once upon a time there lived a king who was deeply in love with a princess, but she could not marry anyone, because she was under an enchantment.
so the king set out to seek a fairy, and asked what he could do to win the princess’s love.
the fairy said to him:
“you know that the princess has a great cat which she is very fond of.
whoever is clever enough to tread on that cat’s tail is the man she is destined to marry.”
the king said to himself that this would not be very difficult, and he left the fairy, determined to grind the cat’s tail to powder rather than not tread on it at all.
you may imagine that it was not long before he went to see the princess, and puss, as usual, marched in before him, arching his back.
the king took a long step, and quite thought he had the tail under his foot, but the cat turned round so sharply that he only trod on air.
and so it went on for eight days, till the king began to think that this fatal tail must be full of quicksilver it was never still for a moment.
at last, however, he was lucky enough to come upon puss fast asleep and with his tail conveniently spread out.
so the king, without losing a moment, set his foot upon it heavily.
with one terrific yell the cat sprang up and instantly changed into a tall man, who, fixing his angry eyes upon the king, said:
“you shall marry the princess because you have been able to break the enchantment, but i will have my revenge.
you shall have a son, who will never be happy until he finds out that his nose is too long, and if you ever tell anyone what i have just said to you, you shall vanish away instantly, and no one shall ever see you or hear of you again.”
though the king was horribly afraid of the enchanter, he could not help laughing at this threat.
“if my son has such a long nose as that,” he said to himself, “he must always see it or feel it; at least, if he is not blind or without hands.”
but, as the enchanter had vanished, he did not waste any more time in thinking, but went to seek the princess, who very soon consented to marry him.
but after all, they had not been married very long when the king died, and the queen had nothing left to care for but her little son, who was called hyacinth.
the little prince had large blue eyes, the prettiest eyes in the world, and a sweet little mouth, but, alas!
his nose was so enormous that it covered half his face.
the queen was inconsolable when she saw this great nose, but her ladies assured her that it was not really as large as it looked; that it was a roman nose, and you had only to open any history to see that every hero has a large nose.
the queen, who was devoted to her baby, was pleased with what they told her, and when she looked at hyacinth again, his nose certainly did not seem to her quite so large.
the prince was brought up with great care; and, as soon as he could speak, they told him all sorts of dreadful stories about people who had short noses.
no one was allowed to come near him whose nose did not more or less resemble his own, and the courtiers, to get into favor with the queen, took to pulling their babies’ noses several times every day to make them grow long.
but, do what they would, they were nothing by comparison with the prince’s.
when he grew sensible he learned history; and whenever any great prince or beautiful princess was spoken of, his teachers took care to tell him that they had long noses.
his room was hung with pictures, all of people with very large noses; and the prince grew up so convinced that a long nose was a great beauty, that he would not on any account have had his own a single inch shorter!
when his twentieth birthday was passed the queen thought it was time that he should be married, so she commanded that the portraits of several princesses should be brought for him to see, and among the others was a picture of the dear little princess!
now, she was the daughter of a great king, and would some day possess several kingdoms herself; but prince hyacinth had not a thought to spare for anything of that sort, he was so much struck with her beauty.
the princess, whom he thought quite charming, had, however, a little saucy nose, which, in her face, was the prettiest thing possible, but it was a cause of great embarrassment to the courtiers, who had got into such a habit of laughing at little noses that they sometimes found themselves laughing at hers before they had time to think; but this did not do at all before the prince, who quite failed to see the joke, and actually banished two of his courtiers who had dared to mention disrespectfully the dear little princess’s tiny nose!
the others, taking warning from this, learned to think twice before they spoke, and one even went so far as to tell the prince that, though it was quite true that no man could be worth anything unless he had a long nose, still, a woman’s beauty was a different thing; and he knew a learned man who understood greek and had read in some old manuscripts that the beautiful cleopatra herself had a “tip-tilted” nose!
the prince made him a splendid present as a reward for this good news, and at once sent ambassadors to ask the dear little princess in marriage.
the king, her father, gave his consent; and prince hyacinth, who, in his anxiety to see the princess, had gone three leagues to meet her was just advancing to kiss her hand when, to the horror of all who stood by, the enchanter appeared as suddenly as a flash of lightning, and, snatching up the dear little princess, whirled her away out of their sight!
the prince was left quite unconsolable, and declared that nothing should induce him to go back to his kingdom until he had found her again, and refusing to allow any of his courtiers to follow him, he mounted his horse and rode sadly away, letting the animal choose his own path.
so it happened that he came presently to a great plain, across which he rode all day long without seeing a single house, and horse and rider were terribly hungry, when, as the night fell, the prince caught sight of a light, which seemed to shine from a cavern.
he rode up to it, and saw a little old woman, who appeared to be at least a hundred years old.
she put on her spectacles to look at prince hyacinth, but it was quite a long time before she could fix them securely because her nose was so very short.
the prince and the fairy (for that was who she was) had no sooner looked at one another than they went into fits of laughter, and cried at the same moment, “oh, what a funny nose!”
“not so funny as your own,” said prince hyacinth to the fairy; “but, madam, i beg you to leave the consideration of our noses such as they are and to be good enough to give me something to eat, for i am starving, and so is my poor horse.”
“with all my heart,” said the fairy.
“though your nose is so ridiculous you are, nevertheless, the son of my best friend.
i loved your father as if he had been my brother.
now he had a very handsome nose!”
“and pray what does mine lack?” said the prince.
“oh!
it doesn’t lack anything,” replied the fairy.
“on the contrary quite, there is only too much of it.
but never mind, one may be a very worthy man though his nose is too long.
i was telling you that i was your father’s friend; he often came to see me in the old times, and you must know that i was very pretty in those days; at least, he used to say so.
i should like to tell you of a conversation we had the last time i ever saw him.”
“indeed,” said the prince, “when i have supped it will give me the greatest pleasure to hear it; but consider, madam, i beg of you, that i have had nothing to eat to-day.”
“the poor boy is right,” said the fairy; “i was forgetting.
come in, then, and i will give you some supper, and while you are eating i can tell you my story in a very few words for i don’t like endless tales myself.
too long a tongue is worse than too long a nose, and i remember when i was young that i was so much admired for not being a great chatterer.
they used to tell the queen, my mother, that it was so.
for though you see what i am now, i was the daughter of a great king.
my father  ”
“your father, i dare say, got something to eat when he was hungry!”
interrupted the prince.
“oh!
certainly,” answered the fairy, “and you also shall have supper directly.
i only just wanted to tell you  ”
“but i really cannot listen to anything until i have had something to eat,” cried the prince, who was getting quite angry; but then, remembering that he had better be polite as he much needed the fairy’s help, he added:
“i know that in the pleasure of listening to you i should quite forget my own hunger; but my horse, who cannot hear you, must really be fed!”
the fairy was very much flattered by this compliment, and said, calling to her servants:
“you shall not wait another minute, you are so polite, and in spite of the enormous size of your nose you are really very agreeable.”
“plague take the old lady!
how she does go on about my nose!” said the prince to himself.
“one would almost think that mine had taken all the extra length that hers lacks!
if i were not so hungry i would soon have done with this chatterpie who thinks she talks very little!
how stupid people are not to see their own faults!
that comes of being a princess:
she has been spoiled by flatterers, who have made her believe that she is quite a moderate talker!”
meanwhile the servants were putting the supper on the table, and the prince was much amused to hear the fairy who asked them a thousand questions simply for the pleasure of hearing herself speak; especially he noticed one maid who, no matter what was being said, always contrived to praise her mistress’s wisdom.
“well!” he thought, as he ate his supper, “i’m very glad i came here.
this just shows me how sensible i have been in never listening to flatterers.
people of that sort praise us to our faces without shame, and hide our faults or change them into virtues.
for my part i never will be taken in by them.
i know my own defects, i hope.”
poor prince hyacinth!
he really believed what he said, and hadn’t an idea that the people who had praised his nose were laughing at him, just as the fairy’s maid was laughing at her; for the prince had seen her laugh slyly when she could do so without the fairy’s noticing her.
however, he said nothing, and presently, when his hunger began to be appeased, the fairy said:
“my dear prince, might i beg you to move a little more that way, for your nose casts such a shadow that i really cannot see what i have on my plate.
ah!
thanks.
now let us speak of your father.
when i went to his court he was only a little boy, but that is forty years ago, and i have been in this desolate place ever since.
tell me what goes on nowadays; are the ladies as fond of amusement as ever?
in my time one saw them at parties, theatres, balls, and promenades every day.
dear me!
what a long nose you have!
i cannot get used to it!”
“really, madam,” said the prince, “i wish you would leave off mentioning my nose.
it cannot matter to you what it is like.
i am quite satisfied with it, and have no wish to have it shorter.
one must take what is given one.”
“now you are angry with me, my poor hyacinth,” said the fairy, “and i assure you that i didn’t mean to vex you; on the contrary, i wished to do you a service.
however, though i really cannot help your nose being a shock to me, i will try not to say anything about it.
i will even try to think that you have an ordinary nose.
to tell the truth, it would make three reasonable ones.”
the prince, who was no longer hungry, grew so impatient at the fairy’s continual remarks about his nose that at last he threw himself upon his horse and rode hastily away.
but wherever he came in his journeyings he thought the people were mad, for they all talked of his nose, and yet he could not bring himself to admit that it was too long, he had been so used all his life to hear it called handsome.
the old fairy, who wished to make him happy, at last hit upon a plan.
she shut the dear little princess up in a palace of crystal, and put this palace down where the prince would not fail to find it.
his joy at seeing the princess again was extreme, and he set to work with all his might to try to break her prison; but in spite of all his efforts he failed utterly.
in despair he thought at least that he would try to get near enough to speak to the dear little princess, who, on her part, stretched out her hand that he might kiss it; but turn which way he might, he never could raise it to his lips, for his long nose always prevented it.
for the first time he realized how long it really was, and exclaimed:
“well, it must be admitted that my nose is too long!”
in an instant the crystal prison flew into a thousand splinters, and the old fairy, taking the dear little princess by the hand, said to the prince:
“now, say if you are not very much obliged to me.
much good it was for me to talk to you about your nose!
you would never have found out how extraordinary it was if it hadn’t hindered you from doing what you wanted to.
you see how self-love keeps us from knowing our own defects of mind and body.
our reason tries in vain to show them to us; we refuse to see them till we find them in the way of our interests.”
prince hyacinth, whose nose was now just like anyone’s else, did not fail to profit by the lesson he had received.
he married the dear little princess, and they lived happily ever after.
(1)
east of the sun and west of the moon
once upon a time there was a poor husbandman who had many children and little to give them in the way either of food or clothing.
they were all pretty, but the prettiest of all was the youngest daughter, who was so beautiful that there were no bounds to her beauty.
so once it was late on a thursday evening in autumn, and wild weather outside, terribly dark, and raining so heavily and blowing so hard that the walls of the cottage shook again they were all sitting together by the fireside, each of them busy with something or other, when suddenly some one rapped three times against the window-pane.
the man went out to see what could be the matter, and when he got out there stood a great big white bear.
“good-evening to you,” said the white bear.
“good-evening,” said the man.
“will you give me your youngest daughter?” said the white bear; “if you will, you shall be as rich as you are now poor.”
truly the man would have had no objection to be rich, but he thought to himself: “i must first ask my daughter about this,” so he went in and told them that there was a great white bear outside who had faithfully promised to make them all rich if he might but have the youngest daughter.
she said no, and would not hear of it; so the man went out again, and settled with the white bear that he should come again next thursday evening, and get her answer.
then the man persuaded her, and talked so much to her about the wealth that they would have, and what a good thing it would be for herself, that at last she made up her mind to go, and washed and mended all her rags, made herself as smart as she could, and held herself in readiness to set out.
little enough had she to take away with her.
next thursday evening the white bear came to fetch her.
she seated herself on his back with her bundle, and thus they departed.
when they had gone a great part of the way, the white bear said: “are you afraid?”
“no, that i am not,” said she.
“keep tight hold of my fur, and then there is no danger,” said he.
and thus she rode far, far away, until they came to a great mountain.
then the white bear knocked on it, and a door opened, and they went into a castle where there were many brilliantly lighted rooms which shone with gold and silver, likewise a large hall in which there was a well-spread table, and it was so magnificent that it would be hard to make anyone understand how splendid it was.
the white bear gave her a silver bell, and told her that when she needed anything she had but to ring this bell, and what she wanted would appear.
so after she had eaten, and night was drawing near, she grew sleepy after her journey, and thought she would like to go to bed.
she rang the bell, and scarcely had she touched it before she found herself in a chamber where a bed stood ready made for her, which was as pretty as anyone could wish to sleep in.
it had pillows of silk, and curtains of silk fringed with gold, and everything that was in the room was of gold or silver, but when she had lain down and put out the light a man came and lay down beside her, and behold it was the white bear, who cast off the form of a beast during the night.
she never saw him, however, for he always came after she had put out her light, and went away before daylight appeared.
so all went well and happily for a time, but then she began to be very sad and sorrowful, for all day long she had to go about alone; and she did so wish to go home to her father and mother and brothers and sisters.
then the white bear asked what it was that she wanted, and she told him that it was so dull there in the mountain, and that she had to go about all alone, and that in her parents’ house at home there were all her brothers and sisters, and it was because she could not go to them that she was so sorrowful.
“there might be a cure for that,” said the white bear, “if you would but promise me never to talk with your mother alone, but only when the others are there too; for she will take hold of your hand,” he said, “and will want to lead you into a room to talk with you alone; but that you must by no means do, or you will bring great misery on both of us.”
so one sunday the white bear came and said that they could now set out to see her father and mother, and they journeyed thither, she sitting on his back, and they went a long, long way, and it took a long, long time; but at last they came to a large white farmhouse, and her brothers and sisters were running about outside it, playing, and it was so pretty that it was a pleasure to look at it.
“your parents dwell here now,” said the white bear; “but do not forget what i said to you, or you will do much harm both to yourself and me.”
“no, indeed,” said she, “i shall never forget;” and as soon as she was at home the white bear turned round and went back again.
there were such rejoicings when she went in to her parents that it seemed as if they would never come to an end.
everyone thought that he could never be sufficiently grateful to her for all she had done for them all.
now they had everything that they wanted, and everything was as good as it could be.
they all asked her how she was getting on where she was.
all was well with her too, she said; and she had everything that she could want.
what other answers she gave i cannot say, but i am pretty sure that they did not learn much from her.
but in the afternoon, after they had dined at midday, all happened just as the white bear had said.
her mother wanted to talk with her alone in her own chamber.
but she remembered what the white bear had said, and would on no account go.
“what we have to say can be said at any time,” she answered.
but somehow or other her mother at last persuaded her, and she was forced to tell the whole story.
so she told how every night a man came and lay down beside her when the lights were all put out, and how she never saw him, because he always went away before it grew light in the morning, and how she continually went about in sadness, thinking how happy she would be if she could but see him, and how all day long she had to go about alone, and it was so dull and solitary.
“oh!” cried the mother, in horror, “you are very likely sleeping with a troll!
but i will teach you a way to see him.
you shall have a bit of one of my candles, which you can take away with you hidden in your breast.
look at him with that when he is asleep, but take care not to let any tallow drop upon him.”
so she took the candle, and hid it in her breast, and when evening drew near the white bear came to fetch her away.
when they had gone some distance on their way, the white bear asked her if everything had not happened just as he had foretold, and she could not but own that it had.
“then, if you have done what your mother wished,” said he, “you have brought great misery on both of us.” “no,” she said, “i have not done anything at all.” so when she had reached home and had gone to bed it was just the same as it had been before, and a man came and lay down beside her, and late at night, when she could hear that he was sleeping, she got up and kindled a light, lit her candle, let her light shine on him, and saw him, and he was the handsomest prince that eyes had ever beheld, and she loved him so much that it seemed to her that she must die if she did not kiss him that very moment.
so she did kiss him; but while she was doing it she let three drops of hot tallow fall upon his shirt, and he awoke.
“what have you done now?” said he; “you have brought misery on both of us.
if you had but held out for the space of one year i should have been free.
i have a step-mother who has bewitched me so that i am a white bear by day and a man by night; but now all is at an end between you and me, and i must leave you, and go to her.
she lives in a castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and there too is a princess with a nose which is three ells long, and she now is the one whom i must marry.”
she wept and lamented, but all in vain, for go he must.
then she asked him if she could not go with him.
but no, that could not be.
“can you tell me the way then, and i will seek you that i may surely be allowed to do!”
“yes, you may do that,” said he; “but there is no way thither.
it lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and never would you find your way there.”
when she awoke in the morning both the prince and the castle were gone, and she was lying on a small green patch in the midst of a dark, thick wood.
by her side lay the self-same bundle of rags which she had brought with her from her own home.
so when she had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and wept till she was weary, she set out on her way, and thus she walked for many and many a long day, until at last she came to a great mountain.
outside it an aged woman was sitting, playing with a golden apple.
the girl asked her if she knew the way to the prince who lived with his stepmother in the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and who was to marry a princess with a nose which was three ells long.
“how do you happen to know about him?” inquired the old woman; “maybe you are she who ought to have had him.” “yes, indeed, i am,” she said.
“so it is you, then?” said the old woman; “i know nothing about him but that he dwells in a castle which is east of the sun and west of the moon.
you will be a long time in getting to it, if ever you get to it at all; but you shall have the loan of my horse, and then you can ride on it to an old woman who is a neighbor of mine: perhaps she can tell you about him.
when you have got there you must just strike the horse beneath the left ear and bid it go home again; but you may take the golden apple with you.”
so the girl seated herself on the horse, and rode for a long, long way, and at last she came to the mountain, where an aged woman was sitting outside with a gold carding-comb.
the girl asked her if she knew the way to the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; but she said what the first old woman had said: “i know nothing about it, but that it is east of the sun and west of the moon, and that you will be a long time in getting to it, if ever you get there at all; but you shall have the loan of my horse to an old woman who lives the nearest to me:
perhaps she may know where the castle is, and when you have got to her you may just strike the horse beneath the left ear and bid it go home again.” then she gave her the gold carding-comb, for it might, perhaps, be of use to her, she said.
so the girl seated herself on the horse, and rode a wearisome long way onward again, and after a very long time she came to a great mountain, where an aged woman was sitting, spinning at a golden spinning-wheel.
of this woman, too, she inquired if she knew the way to the prince, and where to find the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
but it was only the same thing once again.
“maybe it was you who should have had the prince,” said the old woman.
“yes, indeed, i should have been the one,” said the girl.
but this old crone knew the way no better than the others it was east of the sun and west of the moon, she knew that, “and you will be a long time in getting to it, if ever you get to it at all,” she said; “but you may have the loan of my horse, and i think you had better ride to the east wind, and ask him: perhaps he may know where the castle is, and will blow you thither.
but when you have got to him you must just strike the horse beneath the left ear, and he will come home again.” and then she gave her the golden spinning-wheel, saying: “perhaps you may find that you have a use for it.”
the girl had to ride for a great many days, and for a long and wearisome time, before she got there; but at last she did arrive, and then she asked the east wind if he could tell her the way to the prince who dwelt east of the sun and west of the moon.
“well,” said the east wind, “i have heard tell of the prince, and of his castle, but i do not know the way to it, for i have never blown so far; but, if you like, i will go with you to my brother the west wind: he may know that, for he is much stronger than i am.
you may sit on my back, and then i can carry you there.” so she seated herself on his back, and they did go so swiftly!
when they got there, the east wind went in and said that the girl whom he had brought was the one who ought to have had the prince up at the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and that now she was traveling about to find him again, so he had come there with her, and would like to hear if the west wind knew whereabout the castle was.
“no,” said the west wind; “so far as that have i never blown; but if you like i will go with you to the south wind, for he is much stronger than either of us, and he has roamed far and wide, and perhaps he can tell you what you want to know.
you may seat yourself on my back, and then i will carry you to him.”.
so she did this, and journeyed to the south wind, neither was she very long on the way.
when they had got there, the west wind asked him if he could tell her the way to the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, for she was the girl who ought to marry the prince who lived there.
“oh, indeed!” said the south wind, “is that she?
well,”
said he, “i have wandered about a great deal in my time, and in all kinds of places, but i have never blown so far as that.
if you like, however, i will go with you to my brother, the north wind; he is the oldest and strongest of all of us, and if he does not know where it is no one in the whole world will be able to tell you.
you may sit upon my back, and then i will carry you there.” so she seated herself on his back, and off he went from his house in great haste, and they were not long on the way.
when they came near the north wind’s dwelling, he was so wild and frantic that they felt cold gusts a long while before they got there.
“what do you want?” he roared out from afar, and they froze as they heard.
said the south wind: “it is i, and this is she who should have had the prince who lives in the castle which lies east of the sun and west of the moon.
and now she wishes to ask you if you have ever been there, and can tell her the way, for she would gladly find him again.”
“yes,” said the north wind, “i know where it is.
i once blew an aspen leaf there, but i was so tired that for many days afterward i was not able to blow at all.
however, if you really are anxious to go there, and are not afraid to go with me, i will take you on my back, and try if i can blow you there.”
“get there i must,” said she; “and if there is any way of going i will; and i have no fear, no matter how fast you go.”
“very well then,” said the north wind; “but you must sleep here to-night, for if we are ever to get there we must have the day before us.”
the north wind woke her betimes next morning, and puffed himself up, and made himself so big and so strong that it was frightful to see him, and away they went, high up through the air, as if they would not stop until they had reached the very end of the world.
down below there was such a storm!
it blew down woods and houses, and when they were above the sea the ships were wrecked by hundreds.
and thus they tore on and on, and a long time went by, and then yet more time passed, and still they were above the sea, and the north wind grew tired, and more tired, and at last so utterly weary that he was scarcely able to blow any longer, and he sank and sank, lower and lower, until at last he went so low that the waves dashed against the heels of the poor girl he was carrying.
“art thou afraid?” said the north wind.
“i have no fear,” said she; and it was true.
but they were not very, very far from land, and there was just enough strength left in the north wind to enable him to throw her on to the shore, immediately under the windows of a castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; but then he was so weary and worn out that he was forced to rest for several days before he could go to his own home again.
next morning she sat down beneath the walls of the castle to play with the golden apple, and the first person she saw was the maiden with the long nose, who was to have the prince.
“how much do you want for that gold apple of yours, girl?” said she, opening the window.
“it can’t be bought either for gold or money,” answered the girl.
“if it cannot be bought either for gold or money, what will buy it?
you may say what you please,” said the princess.
“well, if i may go to the prince who is here, and be with him to-night, you shall have it,” said the girl who had come with the north wind.
“you may do that,” said the princess, for she had made up her mind what she would do.
so the princess got the golden apple, but when the girl went up to the prince’s apartment that night he was asleep, for the princess had so contrived it.
the poor girl called to him, and shook him, and between whiles she wept; but she could not wake him.
in the morning, as soon as day dawned, in came the princess with the long nose, and drove her out again.
in the daytime she sat down once more beneath the windows of the castle, and began to card with her golden carding-comb; and then all happened as it had happened before.
the princess asked her what she wanted for it, and she replied that it was not for sale, either for gold or money, but that if she could get leave to go to the prince, and be with him during the night, she should have it.
but when she went up to the prince’s room he was again asleep, and, let her call him, or shake him, or weep as she would, he still slept on, and she could not put any life in him.
when daylight came in the morning, the princess with the long nose came too, and once more drove her away.
when day had quite come, the girl seated herself under the castle windows, to spin with her golden spinning-wheel, and the princess with the long nose wanted to have that also.
so she opened the window, and asked what she would take for it.
the girl said what she had said on each of the former occasions that it was not for sale either for gold or for money, but if she could get leave to go to the prince who lived there, and be with him during the night, she should have it.
“yes,” said the princess, “i will gladly consent to that.”
but in that place there were some christian folk who had been carried off, and they had been sitting in the chamber which was next to that of the prince, and had heard how a woman had been in there who had wept and called on him two nights running, and they told the prince of this.
so that evening, when the princess came once more with her sleeping-drink, he pretended to drink, but threw it away behind him, for he suspected that it was a sleeping-drink.
so, when the girl went into the prince’s room this time he was awake, and she had to tell him how she had come there.
“you have come just in time,” said the prince, “for i should have been married to-morrow; but i will not have the long-nosed princess, and you alone can save me.
i will say that i want to see what my bride can do, and bid her wash the shirt which has the three drops of tallow on it.
this she will consent to do, for she does not know that it is you who let them fall on it; but no one can wash them out but one born of christian folk: it cannot be done by one of a pack of trolls; and then i will say that no one shall ever be my bride but the woman who can do this, and i know that you can.” there was great joy and gladness between them all that night, but the next day, when the wedding was to take place, the prince said, “i must see what my bride can do.” “that you may do,” said the stepmother.
“i have a fine shirt which i want to wear as my wedding shirt, but three drops of tallow have got upon it which i want to have washed off, and i have vowed to marry no one but the woman who is able to do it.
if she cannot do that, she is not worth having.”
well, that was a very small matter, they thought, and agreed to do it.
the princess with the long nose began to wash as well as she could, but, the more she washed and rubbed, the larger the spots grew.
“ah!
you can’t wash at all,” said the old troll-hag, who was her mother.
“give it to me.” but she too had not had the shirt very long in her hands before it looked worse still, and, the more she washed it and rubbed it, the larger and blacker grew the spots.
so the other trolls had to come and wash, but, the more they did, the blacker and uglier grew the shirt, until at length it was as black as if it had been up the chimney.
“oh,” cried the prince, “not one of you is good for anything at all!
there is a beggar-girl sitting outside the window, and i’ll be bound that she can wash better than any of you!
come in, you girl there!” he cried.
so she came in.
“can you wash this shirt clean?” he cried.
“oh!
i don’t know,” she said; “but i will try.” and no sooner had she taken the shirt and dipped it in the water than it was white as driven snow, and even whiter than that.
“i will marry you,”
said the prince.
then the old troll-hag flew into such a rage that she burst, and the princess with the long nose and all the little trolls must have burst too, for they have never been heard of since.
the prince and his bride set free all the christian folk who were imprisoned there, and took away with them all the gold and silver that they could carry, and moved far away from the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
(1)
the yellow dwarf
once upon a time there lived a queen who had been the mother of a great many children, and of them all only one daughter was left.
but then she was worth at least a thousand.
her mother, who, since the death of the king, her father, had nothing in the world she cared for so much as this little princess, was so terribly afraid of losing her that she quite spoiled her, and never tried to correct any of her faults.
the consequence was that this little person, who was as pretty as possible, and was one day to wear a crown, grew up so proud and so much in love with her own beauty that she despised everyone else in the world.
the queen, her mother, by her caresses and flatteries, helped to make her believe that there was nothing too good for her.
she was dressed almost always in the prettiest frocks, as a fairy, or as a queen going out to hunt, and the ladies of the court followed her dressed as forest fairies.
and to make her more vain than ever the queen caused her portrait to be taken by the cleverest painters and sent it to several neighboring kings with whom she was very friendly.
when they saw this portrait they fell in love with the princess every one of them, but upon each it had a different effect.
one fell ill, one went quite crazy, and a few of the luckiest set off to see her as soon as possible, but these poor princes became her slaves the moment they set eyes on her.
never has there been a gayer court.
twenty delightful kings did everything they could think of to make themselves agreeable, and after having spent ever so much money in giving a single entertainment thought themselves very lucky if the princess said “that’s pretty.”
all this admiration vastly pleased the queen.
not a day passed but she received seven or eight thousand sonnets, and as many elegies, madrigals, and songs, which were sent her by all the poets in the world.
all the prose and the poetry that was written just then was about bellissima for that was the princess’s name and all the bonfires that they had were made of these verses, which crackled and sparkled better than any other sort of wood.
bellissima was already fifteen years old, and every one of the princes wished to marry her, but not one dared to say so.
how could they when they knew that any of them might have cut off his head five or six times a day just to please her, and she would have thought it a mere trifle, so little did she care?
you may imagine how hard-hearted her lovers thought her; and the queen, who wished to see her married, did not know how to persuade her to think of it seriously.
“bellissima,” she said, “i do wish you would not be so proud.
what makes you despise all these nice kings?
i wish you to marry one of them, and you do not try to please me.”
“i am so happy,” bellissima answered: “do leave me in peace, madam.
i don’t want to care for anyone.”
“but you would be very happy with any of these princes,” said the queen, “and i shall be very angry if you fall in love with anyone who is not worthy of you.”
but the princess thought so much of herself that she did not consider any one of her lovers clever or handsome enough for her; and her mother, who was getting really angry at her determination not to be married, began to wish that she had not allowed her to have her own way so much.
at last, not knowing what else to do, she resolved to consult a certain witch who was called “the fairy of the desert.” now this was very difficult to do, as she was guarded by some terrible lions; but happily the queen had heard a long time before that whoever wanted to pass these lions safely must throw to them a cake made of millet flour, sugar-candy, and crocodile’s eggs.
this cake she prepared with her own hands, and putting it in a little basket, she set out to seek the fairy.
but as she was not used to walking far, she soon felt very tired and sat down at the foot of a tree to rest, and presently fell fast asleep.
when she awoke she was dismayed to find her basket empty.
the cake was all gone!
and, to make matters worse, at that moment she heard the roaring of the great lions, who had found out that she was near and were coming to look for her.
“what shall i do?” she cried; “i shall be eaten up,” and being too frightened to run a single step, she began to cry, and leaned against the tree under which she had been asleep.
just then she heard some one say: “h’m, h’m!”
she looked all round her, and then up the tree, and there she saw a little tiny man, who was eating oranges.
“oh!
queen,” said he, “i know you very well, and i know how much afraid you are of the lions; and you are quite right too, for they have eaten many other people: and what can you expect, as you have not any cake to give them?”
“i must make up my mind to die,” said the poor queen.
“alas!
i should not care so much if only my dear daughter were married.”
“oh!
you have a daughter,” cried the yellow dwarf (who was so called because he was a dwarf and had such a yellow face, and lived in the orange tree).
“i’m really glad to hear that, for i’ve been looking for a wife all over the world.
now, if you will promise that she shall marry me, not one of the lions, tigers, or bears shall touch you.”
the queen looked at him and was almost as much afraid of his ugly little face as she had been of the lions before, so that she could not speak a word.
“what!
you hesitate, madam,” cried the dwarf.
“you must be very fond of being eaten up alive.”
and, as he spoke, the queen saw the lions, which were running down a hill toward them.
each one had two heads, eight feet, and four rows of teeth, and their skins were as hard as turtle shells, and were bright red.
at this dreadful sight, the poor queen, who was trembling like a dove when it sees a hawk, cried out as loud as she could, “oh!
dear mr.
dwarf, bellissima shall marry you.”
“oh, indeed!” said he disdainfully.
“bellissima is pretty enough, but i don’t particularly want to marry her you can keep her.”
“oh!
noble sir,” said the queen in great distress, “do not refuse her.
she is the most charming princess in the world.”
“oh!
well,” he replied, “out of charity i will take her; but be sure and don’t forget that she is mine.”
as he spoke a little door opened in the trunk of the orange tree, in rushed the queen, only just in time, and the door shut with a bang in the faces of the lions.
the queen was so confused that at first she did not notice another little door in the orange tree, but presently it opened and she found herself in a field of thistles and nettles.
it was encircled by a muddy ditch, and a little further on was a tiny thatched cottage, out of which came the yellow dwarf with a very jaunty air.
he wore wooden shoes and a little yellow coat, and as he had no hair and very long ears he looked altogether a shocking little object.
“i am delighted,” said he to the queen, “that, as you are to be my mother-in-law, you should see the little house in which your bellissima will live with me.
with these thistles and nettles she can feed a donkey which she can ride whenever she likes; under this humble roof no weather can hurt her; she will drink the water of this brook and eat frogs which grow very fat about here; and then she will have me always with her, handsome, agreeable, and gay as you see me now.
for if her shadow stays by her more closely than i do i shall be surprised.”
the unhappy queen, seeing all at once what a miserable life her daughter would have with this dwarf could not bear the idea, and fell down insensible without saying a word.
when she revived she found to her great surprise that she was lying in her own bed at home, and, what was more, that she had on the loveliest lace night cap that she had ever seen in her life.
at first she thought that all her adventures, the terrible lions, and her promise to the yellow dwarf that he should marry bellissima, must have been a dream, but there was the new cap with its beautiful ribbon and lace to remind her that it was all true, which made her so unhappy that she could neither eat, drink, nor sleep for thinking of it.
the princess, who, in spite of her wilfulness, really loved her mother with all her heart, was much grieved when she saw her looking so sad, and often asked her what was the matter; but the queen, who didn’t want her to find out the truth, only said that she was ill, or that one of her neighbors was threatening to make war against her.
bellissima knew quite well that something was being hidden from her and that neither of these was the real reason of the queen’s uneasiness.
so she made up her mind that she would go and consult the fairy of the desert about it, especially as she had often heard how wise she was, and she thought that at the same time she might ask her advice as to whether it would be as well to be married, or not.
so, with great care, she made some of the proper cake to pacify the lions, and one night went up to her room very early, pretending that she was going to bed; but instead of that, she wrapped herself in a long white veil, and went down a secret staircase, and set off all by herself to find the witch.
but when she got as far as the same fatal orange tree, and saw it covered with flowers and fruit, she stopped and began to gather some of the oranges and then, putting down her basket, she sat down to eat them.
but when it was time to go on again the basket had disappeared and, though she looked everywhere, not a trace of it could she find.
the more she hunted for it, the more frightened she got, and at last she began to cry.
then all at once she saw before her the yellow dwarf.
“what’s the matter with you, my pretty one?” said he.
“what are you crying about?”
“alas!” she answered; “no wonder that i am crying, seeing that i have lost the basket of cake that was to help me to get safely to the cave of the fairy of the desert.”
“and what do you want with her, pretty one?” said the little monster, “for i am a friend of hers, and, for the matter of that, i am quite as clever as she is.”
“the queen, my mother,” replied the princess, “has lately fallen into such deep sadness that i fear that she will die; and i am afraid that perhaps i am the cause of it, for she very much wishes me to be married, and i must tell you truly that as yet i have not found anyone i consider worthy to be my husband.
so for all these reasons i wished to talk to the fairy.”
“do not give yourself any further trouble, princess,” answered the dwarf.
“i can tell you all you want to know better than she could.
the queen, your mother, has promised you in marriage  ”
“has promised me!” interrupted the princess.
“oh!
no.
i’m sure she has not.
she would have told me if she had.
i am too much interested in the matter for her to promise anything without my consent you must be mistaken.”
“beautiful princess,” cried the dwarf suddenly, throwing himself on his knees before her, “i flatter myself that you will not be displeased at her choice when i tell you that it is to me she has promised the happiness of marrying you.”
“you!” cried bellissima, starting back.
“my mother wishes me to marry you!
how can you be so silly as to think of such a thing?”
“oh!
it isn’t that i care much to have that honor,” cried the dwarf angrily; “but here are the lions coming; they’ll eat you up in three mouthfuls, and there will be an end of you and your pride.”
and, indeed, at that moment the poor princess heard their dreadful howls coming nearer and nearer.
“what shall i do?” she cried.
“must all my happy days come to an end like this?”
the malicious dwarf looked at her and began to laugh spitefully.
“at least,” said he, “you have the satisfaction of dying unmarried.
a lovely princess like you must surely prefer to die rather than be the wife of a poor little dwarf like myself.”
“oh, don’t be angry with me,” cried the princess, clasping her hands.
“i’d rather marry all the dwarfs in the world than die in this horrible way.”
“look at me well, princess, before you give me your word,” said he.
“i don’t want you to promise me in a hurry.”
“oh!” cried she, “the lions are coming.
i have looked at you enough.
i am so frightened.
save me this minute, or i shall die of terror.”
indeed, as she spoke she fell down insensible, and when she recovered she found herself in her own little bed at home; how she got there she could not tell, but she was dressed in the most beautiful lace and ribbons, and on her finger was a little ring, made of a single red hair, which fitted so tightly that, try as she might, she could not get it off.
when the princess saw all these things, and remembered what had happened, she, too, fell into the deepest sadness, which surprised and alarmed the whole court, and the queen more than anyone else.
a hundred times she asked bellissima if anything was the matter with her; but she always said that there was nothing.
at last the chief men of the kingdom, anxious to see their princess married, sent to the queen to beg her to choose a husband for her as soon as possible.
she replied that nothing would please her better, but that her daughter seemed so unwilling to marry, and she recommended them to go and talk to the princess about it themselves so this they at once did.
now bellissima was much less proud since her adventure with the yellow dwarf, and she could not think of a better way of getting rid of the little monster than to marry some powerful king, therefore she replied to their request much more favorably than they had hoped, saying that, though she was very happy as she was, still, to please them, she would consent to marry the king of the gold mines.
now he was a very handsome and powerful prince, who had been in love with the princess for years, but had not thought that she would ever care about him at all.
you can easily imagine how delighted he was when he heard the news, and how angry it made all the other kings to lose for ever the hope of marrying the princess; but, after all, bellissima could not have married twenty kings indeed, she had found it quite difficult enough to choose one, for her vanity made her believe that there was nobody in the world who was worthy of her.
preparations were begun at once for the grandest wedding that had ever been held at the palace.
the king of the gold mines sent such immense sums of money that the whole sea was covered with the ships that brought it.
messengers were sent to all the gayest and most refined courts, particularly to the court of france, to seek out everything rare and precious to adorn the princess, although her beauty was so perfect that nothing she wore could make her look prettier.
at least that is what the king of the gold mines thought, and he was never happy unless he was with her.
as for the princess, the more she saw of the king the more she liked him; he was so generous, so handsome and clever, that at last she was almost as much in love with him as he was with her.
how happy they were as they wandered about in the beautiful gardens together, sometimes listening to sweet music!
and the king used to write songs for bellissima.
this is one that she liked very much:
in the forest all is gay   when my princess walks that way.
all the blossoms then are found   downward fluttering to the ground,   hoping she may tread on them.
and bright flowers on slender stem   gaze up at her as she passes   brushing lightly through the grasses.
oh!
my princess, birds above   echo back our songs of love,   as through this enchanted land   blithe we wander, hand in hand.
they really were as happy as the day was long.
all the king’s unsuccessful rivals had gone home in despair.
they said good-by to the princess so sadly that she could not help being sorry for them.
“ah!
madam,” the king of the gold mines said to her “how is this?
why do you waste your pity on these princes, who love you so much that all their trouble would be well repaid by a single smile from you?”
“i should be sorry,” answered bellissima, “if you had not noticed how much i pitied these princes who were leaving me for ever; but for you, sire, it is very different: you have every reason to be pleased with me, but they are going sorrowfully away, so you must not grudge them my compassion.”
the king of the gold mines was quite overcome by the princess’s good-natured way of taking his interference, and, throwing himself at her feet, he kissed her hand a thousand times and begged her to forgive him.
at last the happy day came.
everything was ready for bellissima’s wedding.
the trumpets sounded, all the streets of the town were hung with flags and strewn with flowers, and the people ran in crowds to the great square before the palace.
the queen was so overjoyed that she had hardly been able to sleep at all, and she got up before it was light to give the necessary orders and to choose the jewels that the princess was to wear.
these were nothing less than diamonds, even to her shoes, which were covered with them, and her dress of silver brocade was embroidered with a dozen of the sun’s rays.
you may imagine how much these had cost; but then nothing could have been more brilliant, except the beauty of the princess!
upon her head she wore a splendid crown, her lovely hair waved nearly to her feet, and her stately figure could easily be distinguished among all the ladies who attended her.
the king of the gold mines was not less noble and splendid; it was easy to see by his face how happy he was, and everyone who went near him returned loaded with presents, for all round the great banqueting hall had been arranged a thousand barrels full of gold, and numberless bags made of velvet embroidered with pearls and filled with money, each one containing at least a hundred thousand gold pieces, which were given away to everyone who liked to hold out his hand, which numbers of people hastened to do, you may be sure indeed, some found this by far the most amusing part of the wedding festivities.
the queen and the princess were just ready to set out with the king when they saw, advancing toward them from the end of the long gallery, two great basilisks, dragging after them a very badly made box; behind them came a tall old woman, whose ugliness was even more surprising than her extreme old age.
she wore a ruff of black taffeta, a red velvet hood, and a farthingale all in rags, and she leaned heavily upon a crutch.
this strange old woman, without saying a single word, hobbled three times round the gallery, followed by the basilisks, then stopping in the middle, and brandishing her crutch threateningly, she cried:
“ho, ho, queen!
ho, ho, princess!
do you think you are going to break with impunity the promise that you made to my friend the yellow dwarf?
i am the fairy of the desert; without the yellow dwarf and his orange tree my great lions would soon have eaten you up, i can tell you, and in fairyland we do not suffer ourselves to be insulted like this.
make up your minds at once what you will do, for i vow that you shall marry the yellow dwarf.
if you don’t, may i burn my crutch!”
“ah!
princess,” said the queen, weeping, “what is this that i hear?
what have you promised?”
“ah!
my mother,” replied bellissima sadly, “what did you promise, yourself?”
the king of the gold mines, indignant at being kept from his happiness by this wicked old woman, went up to her, and threatening her with his sword, said:
“get away out of my country at once, and for ever, miserable creature, lest i take your life, and so rid myself of your malice.”
he had hardly spoken these words when the lid of the box fell back on the floor with a terrible noise, and to their horror out sprang the yellow dwarf, mounted upon a great spanish cat.
“rash youth!” he cried, rushing between the fairy of the desert and the king.
“dare to lay a finger upon this illustrious fairy!
your quarrel is with me only.
i am your enemy and your rival.
that faithless princess who would have married you is promised to me.
see if she has not upon her finger a ring made of one of my hairs.
just try to take it off, and you will soon find out that i am more powerful than you are!”
“wretched little monster!” said the king; “do you dare to call yourself the princess’s lover, and to lay claim to such a treasure?
do you know that you are a dwarf that you are so ugly that one cannot bear to look at you and that i should have killed you myself long before this if you had been worthy of such a glorious death?”
the yellow dwarf, deeply enraged at these words, set spurs to his cat, which yelled horribly, and leaped hither and thither terrifying everybody except the brave king, who pursued the dwarf closely, till he, drawing a great knife with which he was armed, challenged the king to meet him in single combat, and rushed down into the courtyard of the palace with a terrible clatter.
the king, quite provoked, followed him hastily, but they had hardly taken their places facing one another, and the whole court had only just had time to rush out upon the balconies to watch what was going on, when suddenly the sun became as red as blood, and it was so dark that they could scarcely see at all.
the thunder crashed, and the lightning seemed as if it must burn up everything; the two basilisks appeared, one on each side of the bad dwarf, like giants, mountains high, and fire flew from their mouths and ears, until they looked like flaming furnaces.
none of these things could terrify the noble young king, and the boldness of his looks and actions reassured those who were looking on, and perhaps even embarrassed the yellow dwarf himself; but even his courage gave way when he saw what was happening to his beloved princess.
for the fairy of the desert, looking more terrible than before, mounted upon a winged griffin, and with long snakes coiled round her neck, had given her such a blow with the lance she carried that bellissima fell into the queen’s arms bleeding and senseless.
her fond mother, feeling as much hurt by the blow as the princess herself, uttered such piercing cries and lamentations that the king, hearing them, entirely lost his courage and presence of mind.
giving up the combat, he flew toward the princess, to rescue or to die with her; but the yellow dwarf was too quick for him.
leaping with his spanish cat upon the balcony, he snatched bellissima from the queen’s arms, and before any of the ladies of the court could stop him he had sprung upon the roof of the palace and disappeared with his prize.
the king, motionless with horror, looked on despairingly at this dreadful occurrence, which he was quite powerless to prevent, and to make matters worse his sight failed him, everything became dark, and he felt himself carried along through the air by a strong hand.
this new misfortune was the work of the wicked fairy of the desert, who had come with the yellow dwarf to help him carry off the princess, and had fallen in love with the handsome young king of the gold mines directly she saw him.
she thought that if she carried him off to some frightful cavern and chained him to a rock, then the fear of death would make him forget bellissima and become her slave.
so, as soon as they reached the place, she gave him back his sight, but without releasing him from his chains, and by her magic power she appeared before him as a young and beautiful fairy, and pretended to have come there quite by chance.
“what do i see?” she cried.
“is it you, dear prince?
what misfortune has brought you to this dismal place?”
the king, who was quite deceived by her altered appearance, replied:
“alas!
beautiful fairy, the fairy who brought me here first took away my sight, but by her voice i recognized her as the fairy of the desert, though what she should have carried me off for i cannot tell you.”
“ah!” cried the pretended fairy, “if you have fallen into her hands, you won’t get away until you have married her.
she has carried off more than one prince like this, and she will certainly have anything she takes a fancy to.” while she was thus pretending to be sorry for the king, he suddenly noticed her feet, which were like those of a griffin, and knew in a moment that this must be the fairy of the desert, for her feet were the one thing she could not change, however pretty she might make her face.
without seeming to have noticed anything, he said, in a confidential way:
“not that i have any dislike to the fairy of the desert, but i really cannot endure the way in which she protects the yellow dwarf and keeps me chained here like a criminal.
it is true that i love a charming princess, but if the fairy should set me free my gratitude would oblige me to love her only.”
“do you really mean what you say, prince?” said the fairy, quite deceived.
“surely,” replied the prince; “how could i deceive you?
you see it is so much more flattering to my vanity to be loved by a fairy than by a simple princess.
but, even if i am dying of love for her, i shall pretend to hate her until i am set free.”
the fairy of the desert, quite taken in by these words, resolved at once to transport the prince to a pleasanter place.
so, making him mount her chariot, to which she had harnessed swans instead of the bats which generally drew it, away she flew with him.
but imagine the distress of the prince when, from the giddy height at which they were rushing through the air, he saw his beloved princess in a castle built of polished steel, the walls of which reflected the sun’s rays so hotly that no one could approach it without being burnt to a cinder!
bellissima was sitting in a little thicket by a brook, leaning her head upon her hand and weeping bitterly, but just as they passed she looked up and saw the king and the fairy of the desert.
now, the fairy was so clever that she could not only seem beautiful to the king, but even the poor princess thought her the most lovely being she had ever seen.
“what!” she cried; “was i not unhappy enough in this lonely castle to which that frightful yellow dwarf brought me?
must i also be made to know that the king of the gold mines ceased to love me as soon as he lost sight of me?
but who can my rival be, whose fatal beauty is greater than mine?”
while she was saying this, the king, who really loved her as much as ever, was feeling terribly sad at being so rapidly torn away from his beloved princess, but he knew too well how powerful the fairy was to have any hope of escaping from her except by great patience and cunning.
the fairy of the desert had also seen bellissima, and she tried to read in the king’s eyes the effect that this unexpected sight had had upon him.
“no one can tell you what you wish to know better than i can,” said he.
“this chance meeting with an unhappy princess for whom i once had a passing fancy, before i was lucky enough to meet you, has affected me a little, i admit, but you are so much more to me than she is that i would rather die than leave you.”
“ah, prince,” she said, “can i believe that you really love me so much?”
“time will show, madam,” replied the king; “but if you wish to convince me that you have some regard for me, do not, i beg of you, refuse to aid bellissima.”
“do you know what you are asking?” said the fairy of the desert, frowning, and looking at him suspiciously.
“do you want me to employ my art against the yellow dwarf, who is my best friend, and take away from him a proud princess whom i can but look upon as my rival?”
the king sighed, but made no answer indeed, what was there to be said to such a clear-sighted person?
at last they reached a vast meadow, gay with all sorts of flowers; a deep river surrounded it, and many little brooks murmured softly under the shady trees, where it was always cool and fresh.
a little way off stood a splendid palace, the walls of which were of transparent emeralds.
as soon as the swans which drew the fairy’s chariot had alighted under a porch, which was paved with diamonds and had arches of rubies, they were greeted on all sides by thousands of beautiful beings, who came to meet them joyfully, singing these words:
“when love within a heart would reign,        useless to strive against him ‘tis.
the proud but feel a sharper pain,        and make a greater triumph his.”
the fairy of the desert was delighted to hear them sing of her triumphs; she led the king into the most splendid room that can be imagined, and left him alone for a little while, just that he might not feel that he was a prisoner; but he felt sure that she had not really gone quite away, but was watching him from some hiding-place.
so walking up to a great mirror, he said to it, “trusty counsellor, let me see what i can do to make myself agreeable to the charming fairy of the desert; for i can think of nothing but how to please her.”
and he at once set to work to curl his hair, and, seeing upon a table a grander coat than his own, he put it on carefully.
the fairy came back so delighted that she could not conceal her joy.
“i am quite aware of the trouble you have taken to please me,” said she, “and i must tell you that you have succeeded perfectly already.
you see it is not difficult to do if you really care for me.”
the king, who had his own reasons for wishing to keep the old fairy in a good humor, did not spare pretty speeches, and after a time he was allowed to walk by himself upon the sea-shore.
the fairy of the desert had by her enchantments raised such a terrible storm that the boldest pilot would not venture out in it, so she was not afraid of her prisoner’s being able to escape; and he found it some relief to think sadly over his terrible situation without being interrupted by his cruel captor.
presently, after walking wildly up and down, he wrote these verses upon the sand with his stick:
“at last may i upon this shore        lighten my sorrow with soft tears.
alas!
alas!
i see no more        my love, who yet my sadness cheers.
“and thou, o raging, stormy sea,        stirred by wild winds, from depth to height,      thou hold’st my loved one far from me,        and i am captive to thy might.
“my heart is still more wild than thine,        for fate is cruel unto me.
why must i thus in exile pine?
why is my princess snatched from me?
“o!
lovely nymphs, from ocean caves,        who know how sweet true love may be,      come up and calm the furious waves        and set a desperate lover free!”
while he was still writing he heard a voice which attracted his attention in spite of himself.
seeing that the waves were rolling in higher than ever, he looked all round, and presently saw a lovely lady floating gently toward him upon the crest of a huge billow, her long hair spread all about her; in one hand she held a mirror, and in the other a comb, and instead of feet she had a beautiful tail like a fish, with which she swam.
the king was struck dumb with astonishment at this unexpected sight; but as soon as she came within speaking distance, she said to him, “i know how sad you are at losing your princess and being kept a prisoner by the fairy of the desert; if you like i will help you to escape from this fatal place, where you may otherwise have to drag on a weary existence for thirty years or more.”
the king of the gold mines hardly knew what answer to make to this proposal.
not because he did not wish very much to escape, but he was afraid that this might be only another device by which the fairy of the desert was trying to deceive him.
as he hesitated the mermaid, who guessed his thoughts, said to him:
“you may trust me: i am not trying to entrap you.
i am so angry with the yellow dwarf and the fairy of the desert that i am not likely to wish to help them, especially since i constantly see your poor princess, whose beauty and goodness make me pity her so much; and i tell you that if you will have confidence in me i will help you to escape.”
“i trust you absolutely,” cried the king, “and i will do whatever you tell me; but if you have seen my princess i beg of you to tell me how she is and what is happening to her.
“we must not waste time in talking,” said she.
“come with me and i will carry you to the castle of steel, and we will leave upon this shore a figure so like you that even the fairy herself will be deceived by it.”
so saying, she quickly collected a bundle of sea-weed, and, blowing it three times, she said:
“my friendly sea-weeds, i order you to stay here stretched upon the sand until the fairy of the desert comes to take you away.” and at once the sea-weeds became like the king, who stood looking at them in great astonishment, for they were even dressed in a coat like his, but they lay there pale and still as the king himself might have lain if one of the great waves had overtaken him and thrown him senseless upon the shore.
and then the mermaid caught up the king, and away they swam joyfully together.
“now,” said she, “i have time to tell you about the princess.
in spite of the blow which the fairy of the desert gave her, the yellow dwarf compelled her to mount behind him upon his terrible spanish cat; but she soon fainted away with pain and terror, and did not recover till they were within the walls of his frightful castle of steel.
here she was received by the prettiest girls it was possible to find, who had been carried there by the yellow dwarf, who hastened to wait upon her and showed her every possible attention.
she was laid upon a couch covered with cloth of gold, embroidered with pearls as big as nuts.”
“ah!” interrupted the king of the gold mines, “if bellissima forgets me, and consents to marry him, i shall break my heart.”
“you need not be afraid of that,” answered the mermaid, “the princess thinks of no one but you, and the frightful dwarf cannot persuade her to look at him.”
“pray go on with your story,” said the king.
“what more is there to tell you?” replied the mermaid.
“bellissima was sitting in the wood when you passed, and saw you with the fairy of the desert, who was so cleverly disguised that the princess took her to be prettier than herself; you may imagine her despair, for she thought that you had fallen in love with her.”
“she believes that i love her!” cried the king.
“what a fatal mistake!
what is to be done to undeceive her?”
“you know best,” answered the mermaid, smiling kindly at him.
“when people are as much in love with one another as you two are, they don’t need advice from anyone else.”
as she spoke they reached the castle of steel, the side next the sea being the only one which the yellow dwarf had left unprotected by the dreadful burning walls.
“i know quite well,” said the mermaid, “that the princess is sitting by the brook-side, just where you saw her as you passed, but as you will have many enemies to fight with before you can reach her, take this sword; armed with it you may dare any danger, and overcome the greatest difficulties, only beware of one thing that is, never to let it fall from your hand.
farewell; now i will wait by that rock, and if you need my help in carrying off your beloved princess i will not fail you, for the queen, her mother, is my best friend, and it was for her sake that i went to rescue you.”
so saying, she gave to the king a sword made from a single diamond, which was more brilliant than the sun.
he could not find words to express his gratitude, but he begged her to believe that he fully appreciated the importance of her gift, and would never forget her help and kindness.
we must now go back to the fairy of the desert.
when she found that the king did not return, she hastened out to look for him, and reached the shore, with a hundred of the ladies of her train, loaded with splendid presents for him.
some carried baskets full of diamonds, others golden cups of wonderful workmanship, and amber, coral, and pearls, others, again, balanced upon their heads bales of the richest and most beautiful stuffs, while the rest brought fruit and flowers, and even birds.
but what was the horror of the fairy, who followed this gay troop, when she saw, stretched upon the sands, the image of the king which the mermaid had made with the sea-weeds.
struck with astonishment and sorrow, she uttered a terrible cry, and threw herself down beside the pretended king, weeping, and howling, and calling upon her eleven sisters, who were also fairies, and who came to her assistance.
but they were all taken in by the image of the king, for, clever as they were, the mermaid was still cleverer, and all they could do was to help the fairy of the desert to make a wonderful monument over what they thought was the grave of the king of the gold mines.
but while they were collecting jasper and porphyry, agate and marble, gold and bronze, statues and devices, to immortalize the king’s memory, he was thanking the good mermaid and begging her still to help him, which she graciously promised to do as she disappeared; and then he set out for the castle of steel.
he walked fast, looking anxiously round him, and longing once more to see his darling bellissima, but he had not gone far before he was surrounded by four terrible sphinxes who would very soon have torn him to pieces with their sharp talons if it had not been for the mermaid’s diamond sword.
for, no sooner had he flashed it before their eyes than down they fell at his feet quite helpless, and he killed them with one blow.
but he had hardly turned to continue his search when he met six dragons covered with scales that were harder than iron.
frightful as this encounter was the king’s courage was unshaken, and by the aid of his wonderful sword he cut them in pieces one after the other.
now he hoped his difficulties were over, but at the next turning he was met by one which he did not know how to overcome.
four-and-twenty pretty and graceful nymphs advanced toward him, holding garlands of flowers, with which they barred the way.
“where are you going, prince?” they said; “it is our duty to guard this place, and if we let you pass great misfortunes will happen to you and to us.
we beg you not to insist upon going on.
do you want to kill four-and-twenty girls who have never displeased you in any way?”
the king did not know what to do or to say.
it went against all his ideas as a knight to do anything a lady begged him not to do; but, as he hesitated, a voice in his ear said:
“strike!
strike!
and do not spare, or your princess is lost for ever!”
so, without reply to the nymphs, he rushed forward instantly, breaking their garlands, and scattering them in all directions; and then went on without further hindrance to the little wood where he had seen bellissima.
she was seated by the brook looking pale and weary when he reached her, and he would have thrown himself down at her feet, but she drew herself away from him with as much indignation as if he had been the yellow dwarf.
“ah!
princess,” he cried, “do not be angry with me.
let me explain everything.
i am not faithless or to blame for what has happened.
i am a miserable wretch who has displeased you without being able to help himself.”
“ah!” cried bellissima, “did i not see you flying through the air with the loveliest being imaginable?
was that against your will?”
“indeed it was, princess,” he answered; “the wicked fairy of the desert, not content with chaining me to a rock, carried me off in her chariot to the other end of the earth, where i should even now be a captive but for the unexpected help of a friendly mermaid, who brought me here to rescue you, my princess, from the unworthy hands that hold you.
do not refuse the aid of your most faithful lover.” so saying, he threw himself at her feet and held her by her robe.
but, alas!
in so doing he let fall the magic sword, and the yellow dwarf, who was crouching behind a lettuce, no sooner saw it than he sprang out and seized it, well knowing its wonderful power.
the princess gave a cry of terror on seeing the dwarf, but this only irritated the little monster; muttering a few magical words he summoned two giants, who bound the king with great chains of iron.
“now,” said the dwarf, “i am master of my rival’s fate, but i will give him his life and permission to depart unharmed if you, princess, will consent to marry me.”
“let me die a thousand times rather,” cried the unhappy king.
“alas!” cried the princess, “must you die?
could anything be more terrible?”
“that you should marry that little wretch would be far more terrible,”
answered the king.
“at least,” continued she, “let us die together.”
“let me have the satisfaction of dying for you, my princess,” said he.
“oh, no, no!” she cried, turning to the dwarf; “rather than that i will do as you wish.”
“cruel princess!” said the king, “would you make my life horrible to me by marrying another before my eyes?”
“not so,” replied the yellow dwarf; “you are a rival of whom i am too much afraid; you shall not see our marriage.” so saying, in spite of bellissima’s tears and cries, he stabbed the king to the heart with the diamond sword.
the poor princess, seeing her lover lying dead at her feet, could no longer live without him; she sank down by him and died of a broken heart.
so ended these unfortunate lovers, whom not even the mermaid could help, because all the magic power had been lost with the diamond sword.
as to the wicked dwarf, he preferred to see the princess dead rather than married to the king of the gold mines; and the fairy of the desert, when she heard of the king’s adventures, pulled down the grand monument which she had built, and was so angry at the trick that had been played her that she hated him as much as she had loved him before.
the kind mermaid, grieved at the sad fate of the lovers, caused them to be changed into two tall palm trees, which stand always side by side, whispering together of their faithful love and caressing one another with their interlacing branches
little red riding hood
once upon a time there lived in a certain village a little country girl, the prettiest creature was ever seen.
her mother was excessively fond of her; and her grandmother doted on her still more.
this good woman had made for her a little red riding-hood; which became the girl so extremely well that everybody called her little red riding-hood.
one day her mother, having made some custards, said to her:
“go, my dear, and see how thy grandmamma does, for i hear she has been very ill; carry her a custard, and this little pot of butter.”
little red riding-hood set out immediately to go to her grandmother, who lived in another village.
as she was going through the wood, she met with gaffer wolf, who had a very great mind to eat her up, but he dared not, because of some faggot-makers hard by in the forest.
he asked her whither she was going.
the poor child, who did not know that it was dangerous to stay and hear a wolf talk, said to him:
“i am going to see my grandmamma and carry her a custard and a little pot of butter from my mamma.”
“does she live far off?” said the wolf.
“oh!
ay,” answered little red riding-hood; “it is beyond that mill you see there, at the first house in the village.”
“well,” said the wolf, “and i’ll go and see her too.
i’ll go this way and you go that, and we shall see who will be there soonest.”
the wolf began to run as fast as he could, taking the nearest way, and the little girl went by that farthest about, diverting herself in gathering nuts, running after butterflies, and making nosegays of such little flowers as she met with.
the wolf was not long before he got to the old woman’s house.
he knocked at the door tap, tap.
“who’s there?”
“your grandchild, little red riding-hood,” replied the wolf, counterfeiting her voice; “who has brought you a custard and a little pot of butter sent you by mamma.”
the good grandmother, who was in bed, because she was somewhat ill, cried out:
“pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up.”
the wolf pulled the bobbin, and the door opened, and then presently he fell upon the good woman and ate her up in a moment, for it was above three days that he had not touched a bit.
he then shut the door and went into the grandmother’s bed, expecting little red riding-hood, who came some time afterward and knocked at the door tap, tap.
“who’s there?”
little red riding-hood, hearing the big voice of the wolf, was at first afraid; but believing her grandmother had got a cold and was hoarse, answered:
“‘tis your grandchild, little red riding-hood, who has brought you a custard and a little pot of butter mamma sends you.”
the wolf cried out to her, softening his voice as much as he could:
“pull the bobbin, and the latch will go up.”
little red riding-hood pulled the bobbin, and the door opened.
the wolf, seeing her come in, said to her, hiding himself under the bed-clothes:
“put the custard and the little pot of butter upon the stool, and come and lie down with me.”
little red riding-hood undressed herself and went into bed, where, being greatly amazed to see how her grandmother looked in her night-clothes, she said to her:
“grandmamma, what great arms you have got!”
“that is the better to hug thee, my dear.”
“grandmamma, what great legs you have got!”
“that is to run the better, my child.”
“grandmamma, what great ears you have got!”
“that is to hear the better, my child.”
“grandmamma, what great eyes you have got!”
“it is to see the better, my child.”
“grandmamma, what great teeth you have got!”
“that is to eat thee up.”
and, saying these words, this wicked wolf fell upon little red riding-hood, and ate her all up.
the sleeping beauty in the wood
there were formerly a king and a queen, who were so sorry that they had no children; so sorry that it cannot be expressed.
they went to all the waters in the world; vows, pilgrimages, all ways were tried, and all to no purpose.
at last, however, the queen had a daughter.
there was a very fine christening; and the princess had for her god-mothers all the fairies they could find in the whole kingdom (they found seven), that every one of them might give her a gift, as was the custom of fairies in those days.
by this means the princess had all the perfections imaginable.
after the ceremonies of the christening were over, all the company returned to the king’s palace, where was prepared a great feast for the fairies.
there was placed before every one of them a magnificent cover with a case of massive gold, wherein were a spoon, knife, and fork, all of pure gold set with diamonds and rubies.
but as they were all sitting down at table they saw come into the hall a very old fairy, whom they had not invited, because it was above fifty years since she had been out of a certain tower, and she was believed to be either dead or enchanted.
the king ordered her a cover, but could not furnish her with a case of gold as the others, because they had only seven made for the seven fairies.
the old fairy fancied she was slighted, and muttered some threats between her teeth.
one of the young fairies who sat by her overheard how she grumbled; and, judging that she might give the little princess some unlucky gift, went, as soon as they rose from table, and hid herself behind the hangings, that she might speak last, and repair, as much as she could, the evil which the old fairy might intend.
in the meanwhile all the fairies began to give their gifts to the princess.
the youngest gave her for gift that she should be the most beautiful person in the world; the next, that she should have the wit of an angel; the third, that she should have a wonderful grace in everything she did; the fourth, that she should dance perfectly well; the fifth, that she should sing like a nightingale; and the sixth, that she should play all kinds of music to the utmost perfection.
the old fairy’s turn coming next, with a head shaking more with spite than age, she said that the princess should have her hand pierced with a spindle and die of the wound.
this terrible gift made the whole company tremble, and everybody fell a-crying.
at this very instant the young fairy came out from behind the hangings, and spake these words aloud:
“assure yourselves, o king and queen, that your daughter shall not die of this disaster.
it is true, i have no power to undo entirely what my elder has done.
the princess shall indeed pierce her hand with a spindle; but, instead of dying, she shall only fall into a profound sleep, which shall last a hundred years, at the expiration of which a king’s son shall come and awake her.”
the king, to avoid the misfortune foretold by the old fairy, caused immediately proclamation to be made, whereby everybody was forbidden, on pain of death, to spin with a distaff and spindle, or to have so much as any spindle in their houses.
about fifteen or sixteen years after, the king and queen being gone to one of their houses of pleasure, the young princess happened one day to divert herself in running up and down the palace; when going up from one apartment to another, she came into a little room on the top of the tower, where a good old woman, alone, was spinning with her spindle.
this good woman had never heard of the king’s proclamation against spindles.
“what are you doing there, goody?” said the princess.
“i am spinning, my pretty child,” said the old woman, who did not know who she was.
“ha!” said the princess, “this is very pretty; how do you do it?
give it to me, that i may see if i can do so.”
she had no sooner taken it into her hand than, whether being very hasty at it, somewhat unhandy, or that the decree of the fairy had so ordained it, it ran into her hand, and she fell down in a swoon.
the good old woman, not knowing very well what to do in this affair, cried out for help.
people came in from every quarter in great numbers; they threw water upon the princess’s face, unlaced her, struck her on the palms of her hands, and rubbed her temples with hungary-water; but nothing would bring her to herself.
and now the king, who came up at the noise, bethought himself of the prediction of the fairies, and, judging very well that this must necessarily come to pass, since the fairies had said it, caused the princess to be carried into the finest apartment in his palace, and to be laid upon a bed all embroidered with gold and silver.
one would have taken her for a little angel, she was so very beautiful; for her swooning away had not diminished one bit of her complexion; her cheeks were carnation, and her lips were coral; indeed, her eyes were shut, but she was heard to breathe softly, which satisfied those about her that she was not dead.
the king commanded that they should not disturb her, but let her sleep quietly till her hour of awaking was come.
the good fairy who had saved her life by condemning her to sleep a hundred years was in the kingdom of matakin, twelve thousand leagues off, when this accident befell the princess; but she was instantly informed of it by a little dwarf, who had boots of seven leagues, that is, boots with which he could tread over seven leagues of ground in one stride.
the fairy came away immediately, and she arrived, about an hour after, in a fiery chariot drawn by dragons.
the king handed her out of the chariot, and she approved everything he had done, but as she had very great foresight, she thought when the princess should awake she might not know what to do with herself, being all alone in this old palace; and this was what she did: she touched with her wand everything in the palace (except the king and queen) governesses, maids of honor, ladies of the bedchamber, gentlemen, officers, stewards, cooks, undercooks, scullions, guards, with their beefeaters, pages, footmen; she likewise touched all the horses which were in the stables, pads as well as others, the great dogs in the outward court and pretty little mopsey too, the princess’s little spaniel, which lay by her on the bed.
immediately upon her touching them they all fell asleep, that they might not awake before their mistress and that they might be ready to wait upon her when she wanted them.
the very spits at the fire, as full as they could hold of partridges and pheasants, did fall asleep also.
all this was done in a moment.
fairies are not long in doing their business.
and now the king and the queen, having kissed their dear child without waking her, went out of the palace and put forth a proclamation that nobody should dare to come near it.
this, however, was not necessary, for in a quarter of an hour’s time there grew up all round about the park such a vast number of trees, great and small, bushes and brambles, twining one within another, that neither man nor beast could pass through; so that nothing could be seen but the very top of the towers of the palace; and that, too, not unless it was a good way off.
nobody; doubted but the fairy gave herein a very extraordinary sample of her art, that the princess, while she continued sleeping, might have nothing to fear from any curious people.
when a hundred years were gone and passed the son of the king then reigning, and who was of another family from that of the sleeping princess, being gone a-hunting on that side of the country, asked:
what those towers were which he saw in the middle of a great thick wood?
everyone answered according as they had heard.
some said:
that it was a ruinous old castle, haunted by spirits.
others, that all the sorcerers and witches of the country kept there their sabbath or night’s meeting.
the common opinion was: that an ogre lived there, and that he carried thither all the little children he could catch, that he might eat them up at his leisure, without anybody being able to follow him, as having himself only the power to pass through the wood.
the prince was at a stand, not knowing what to believe, when a very good countryman spake to him thus:
“may it please your royal highness, it is now about fifty years since i heard from my father, who heard my grandfather say, that there was then in this castle a princess, the most beautiful was ever seen; that she must sleep there a hundred years, and should be waked by a king’s son, for whom she was reserved.”
the young prince was all on fire at these words, believing, without weighing the matter, that he could put an end to this rare adventure; and, pushed on by love and honor, resolved that moment to look into it.
scarce had he advanced toward the wood when all the great trees, the bushes, and brambles gave way of themselves to let him pass through; he walked up to the castle which he saw at the end of a large avenue which he went into; and what a little surprised him was that he saw none of his people could follow him, because the trees closed again as soon as he had passed through them.
however, he did not cease from continuing his way; a young and amorous prince is always valiant.
he came into a spacious outward court, where everything he saw might have frozen the most fearless person with horror.
there reigned all over a most frightful silence; the image of death everywhere showed itself, and there was nothing to be seen but stretched-out bodies of men and animals, all seeming to be dead.
he, however, very well knew, by the ruby faces and pimpled noses of the beefeaters, that they were only asleep; and their goblets, wherein still remained some drops of wine, showed plainly that they fell asleep in their cups.
he then crossed a court paved with marble, went up the stairs and came into the guard chamber, where guards were standing in their ranks, with their muskets upon their shoulders, and snoring as loud as they could.
after that he went through several rooms full of gentlemen and ladies, all asleep, some standing, others sitting.
at last he came into a chamber all gilded with gold, where he saw upon a bed, the curtains of which were all open, the finest sight was ever beheld a princess, who appeared to be about fifteen or sixteen years of age, and whose bright and, in a manner, resplendent beauty, had somewhat in it divine.
he approached with trembling and admiration, and fell down before her upon his knees.
and now, as the enchantment was at an end, the princess awaked, and looking on him with eyes more tender than the first view might seem to admit of:
“is it you, my prince?” said she to him.
“you have waited a long while.”
the prince, charmed with these words, and much more with the manner in which they were spoken, knew not how to show his joy and gratitude; he assured her that he loved her better than he did himself; their discourse was not well connected, they did weep more than talk little eloquence, a great deal of love.
he was more at a loss than she, and we need not wonder at it; she had time to think on what to say to him; for it is very probable (though history mentions nothing of it) that the good fairy, during so long a sleep, had given her very agreeable dreams.
in short, they talked four hours together, and yet they said not half what they had to say.
in the meanwhile all the palace awaked; everyone thought upon their particular business, and as all of them were not in love they were ready to die for hunger.
the chief lady of honor, being as sharp set as other folks, grew very impatient, and told the princess aloud that supper was served up.
the prince helped the princess to rise; she was entirely dressed, and very magnificently, but his royal highness took care not to tell her that she was dressed like his great-grandmother, and had a point band peeping over a high collar; she looked not a bit less charming and beautiful for all that.
they went into the great hall of looking-glasses, where they supped, and were served by the princess’s officers, the violins and hautboys played old tunes, but very excellent, though it was now above a hundred years since they had played; and after supper, without losing any time, the lord almoner married them in the chapel of the castle, and the chief lady of honor drew the curtains.
they had but very little sleep the princess had no occasion; and the prince left her next morning to return to the city, where his father must needs have been in pain for him.
the prince told him:
that he lost his way in the forest as he was hunting, and that he had lain in the cottage of a charcoal-burner, who gave him cheese and brown bread.
the king, his father, who was a good man, believed him; but his mother could not be persuaded it was true; and seeing that he went almost every day a-hunting, and that he always had some excuse ready for so doing, though he had lain out three or four nights together, she began to suspect that he was married, for he lived with the princess above two whole years, and had by her two children, the eldest of which, who was a daughter, was named morning, and the youngest, who was a son, they called day, because he was a great deal handsomer and more beautiful than his sister.
the queen spoke several times to her son, to inform herself after what manner he did pass his time, and that in this he ought in duty to satisfy her.
but he never dared to trust her with his secret; he feared her, though he loved her, for she was of the race of the ogres, and the king would never have married her had it not been for her vast riches; it was even whispered about the court that she had ogreish inclinations, and that, whenever she saw little children passing by, she had all the difficulty in the world to avoid falling upon them.
and so the prince would never tell her one word.
but when the king was dead, which happened about two years afterward, and he saw himself lord and master, he openly declared his marriage; and he went in great ceremony to conduct his queen to the palace.
they made a magnificent entry into the capital city, she riding between her two children.
soon after the king went to make war with the emperor contalabutte, his neighbor.
he left the government of the kingdom to the queen his mother, and earnestly recommended to her care his wife and children.
he was obliged to continue his expedition all the summer, and as soon as he departed the queen-mother sent her daughter-in-law to a country house among the woods, that she might with the more ease gratify her horrible longing.
some few days afterward she went thither herself, and said to her clerk of the kitchen:
“i have a mind to eat little morning for my dinner to-morrow.”
“ah!
madam,” cried the clerk of the kitchen.
“i will have it so,” replied the queen (and this she spoke in the tone of an ogress who had a strong desire to eat fresh meat), “and will eat her with a sauce robert.”
the poor man, knowing very well that he must not play tricks with ogresses, took his great knife and went up into little morning’s chamber.
she was then four years old, and came up to him jumping and laughing, to take him about the neck, and ask him for some sugar-candy.
upon which he began to weep, the great knife fell out of his hand, and he went into the back yard, and killed a little lamb, and dressed it with such good sauce that his mistress assured him that she had never eaten anything so good in her life.
he had at the same time taken up little morning, and carried her to his wife, to conceal her in the lodging he had at the bottom of the courtyard.
about eight days afterward the wicked queen said to the clerk of the kitchen, “i will sup on little day.”
he answered not a word, being resolved to cheat her as he had done before.
he went to find out little day, and saw him with a little foil in his hand, with which he was fencing with a great monkey, the child being then only three years of age.
he took him up in his arms and carried him to his wife, that she might conceal him in her chamber along with his sister, and in the room of little day cooked up a young kid, very tender, which the ogress found to be wonderfully good.
this was hitherto all mighty well; but one evening this wicked queen said to her clerk of the kitchen:
“i will eat the queen with the same sauce i had with her children.”
it was now that the poor clerk of the kitchen despaired of being able to deceive her.
the young queen was turned of twenty, not reckoning the hundred years she had been asleep; and how to find in the yard a beast so firm was what puzzled him.
he took then a resolution, that he might save his own life, to cut the queen’s throat; and going up into her chamber, with intent to do it at once, he put himself into as great fury as he could possibly, and came into the young queen’s room with his dagger in his hand.
he would not, however, surprise her, but told her, with a great deal of respect, the orders he had received from the queen-mother.
“do it; do it” (said she, stretching out her neck).
“execute your orders, and then i shall go and see my children, my poor children, whom i so much and so tenderly loved.”
for she thought them dead ever since they had been taken away without her knowledge.
“no, no, madam” (cried the poor clerk of the kitchen, all in tears); “you shall not die, and yet you shall see your children again; but then you must go home with me to my lodgings, where i have concealed them, and i shall deceive the queen once more, by giving her in your stead a young hind.”
upon this he forthwith conducted her to his chamber, where, leaving her to embrace her children, and cry along with them, he went and dressed a young hind, which the queen had for her supper, and devoured it with the same appetite as if it had been the young queen.
exceedingly was she delighted with her cruelty, and she had invented a story to tell the king, at his return, how the mad wolves had eaten up the queen his wife and her two children.
one evening, as she was, according to her custom, rambling round about the courts and yards of the palace to see if she could smell any fresh meat, she heard, in a ground room, little day crying, for his mamma was going to whip him, because he had been naughty; and she heard, at the same time, little morning begging pardon for her brother.
the ogress presently knew the voice of the queen and her children, and being quite mad that she had been thus deceived, she commanded next morning, by break of day (with a most horrible voice, which made everybody tremble), that they should bring into the middle of the great court a large tub, which she caused to be filled with toads, vipers, snakes, and all sorts of serpents, in order to have thrown into it the queen and her children, the clerk of the kitchen, his wife and maid; all whom she had given orders should be brought thither with their hands tied behind them.
they were brought out accordingly, and the executioners were just going to throw them into the tub, when the king (who was not so soon expected)
entered the court on horseback (for he came post) and asked, with the utmost astonishment, what was the meaning of that horrible spectacle.
no one dared to tell him, when the ogress, all enraged to see what had happened, threw herself head foremost into the tub, and was instantly devoured by the ugly creatures she had ordered to be thrown into it for others.
the king could not but be very sorry, for she was his mother; but he soon comforted himself with his beautiful wife and his pretty children.
cinderella, or the little glass slipper
once there was a gentleman who married, for his second wife, the proudest and most haughty woman that was ever seen.
she had, by a former husband, two daughters of her own humor, who were, indeed, exactly like her in all things.
he had likewise, by another wife, a young daughter, but of unparalleled goodness and sweetness of temper, which she took from her mother, who was the best creature in the world.
no sooner were the ceremonies of the wedding over but the mother-in-law began to show herself in her true colors.
she could not bear the good qualities of this pretty girl, and the less because they made her own daughters appear the more odious.
she employed her in the meanest work of the house: she scoured the dishes, tables, etc., and scrubbed madam’s chamber, and those of misses, her daughters; she lay up in a sorry garret, upon a wretched straw bed, while her sisters lay in fine rooms, with floors all inlaid, upon beds of the very newest fashion, and where they had looking-glasses so large that they might see themselves at their full length from head to foot.
the poor girl bore all patiently, and dared not tell her father, who would have rattled her off; for his wife governed him entirely.
when she had done her work, she used to go into the chimney-corner, and sit down among cinders and ashes, which made her commonly be called cinderwench; but the youngest, who was not so rude and uncivil as the eldest, called her cinderella.
however, cinderella, notwithstanding her mean apparel, was a hundred times handsomer than her sisters, though they were always dressed very richly.
it happened that the king’s son gave a ball, and invited all persons of fashion to it.
our young misses were also invited, for they cut a very grand figure among the quality.
they were mightily delighted at this invitation, and wonderfully busy in choosing out such gowns, petticoats, and head-clothes as might become them.
this was a new trouble to cinderella; for it was she who ironed her sisters’ linen, and plaited their ruffles; they talked all day long of nothing but how they should be dressed.
“for my part,” said the eldest, “i will wear my red velvet suit with french trimming.”
“and i,” said the youngest, “shall have my usual petticoat; but then, to make amends for that, i will put on my gold-flowered manteau, and my diamond stomacher, which is far from being the most ordinary one in the world.”
they sent for the best tire-woman they could get to make up their head-dresses and adjust their double pinners, and they had their red brushes and patches from mademoiselle de la poche.
cinderella was likewise called up to them to be consulted in all these matters, for she had excellent notions, and advised them always for the best, nay, and offered her services to dress their heads, which they were very willing she should do.
as she was doing this, they said to her:
“cinderella, would you not be glad to go to the ball?”
“alas!” said she, “you only jeer me; it is not for such as i am to go thither.”
“thou art in the right of it,” replied they; “it would make the people laugh to see a cinderwench at a ball.”
anyone but cinderella would have dressed their heads awry, but she was very good, and dressed them perfectly well they were almost two days without eating, so much were they transported with joy.
they broke above a dozen laces in trying to be laced up close, that they might have a fine slender shape, and they were continually at their looking-glass.
at last the happy day came; they went to court, and cinderella followed them with her eyes as long as she could, and when she had lost sight of them, she fell a-crying.
her godmother, who saw her all in tears, asked her what was the matter.
“i wish i could i wish i could “; she was not able to speak the rest, being interrupted by her tears and sobbing.
this godmother of hers, who was a fairy, said to her, “thou wishest thou couldst go to the ball; is it not so?”
“y es,” cried cinderella, with a great sigh.
“well,” said her godmother, “be but a good girl, and i will contrive that thou shalt go.” then she took her into her chamber, and said to her, “run into the garden, and bring me a pumpkin.”
cinderella went immediately to gather the finest she could get, and brought it to her godmother, not being able to imagine how this pumpkin could make her go to the ball.
her godmother scooped out all the inside of it, having left nothing but the rind; which done, she struck it with her wand, and the pumpkin was instantly turned into a fine coach, gilded all over with gold.
she then went to look into her mouse-trap, where she found six mice, all alive, and ordered cinderella to lift up a little the trapdoor, when, giving each mouse, as it went out, a little tap with her wand, the mouse was that moment turned into a fine horse, which altogether made a very fine set of six horses of a beautiful mouse-colored dapple-gray.
being at a loss for a coachman,
“i will go and see,” says cinderella, “if there is never a rat in the rat-trap we may make a coachman of him.”
“thou art in the right,” replied her godmother; “go and look.”
cinderella brought the trap to her, and in it there were three huge rats.
the fairy made choice of one of the three which had the largest beard, and, having touched him with her wand, he was turned into a fat, jolly coachman, who had the smartest whiskers eyes ever beheld.
after that, she said to her:
“go again into the garden, and you will find six lizards behind the watering-pot, bring them to me.”
she had no sooner done so but her godmother turned them into six footmen, who skipped up immediately behind the coach, with their liveries all bedaubed with gold and silver, and clung as close behind each other as if they had done nothing else their whole lives.
the fairy then said to cinderella:
“well, you see here an equipage fit to go to the ball with; are you not pleased with it?”
“oh!
yes,” cried she; “but must i go thither as i am, in these nasty rags?”
her godmother only just touched her with her wand, and, at the same instant, her clothes were turned into cloth of gold and silver, all beset with jewels.
this done, she gave her a pair of glass slippers, the prettiest in the whole world.
being thus decked out, she got up into her coach; but her godmother, above all things, commanded her not to stay till after midnight, telling her, at the same time, that if she stayed one moment longer, the coach would be a pumpkin again, her horses mice, her coachman a rat, her footmen lizards, and her clothes become just as they were before.
she promised her godmother she would not fail of leaving the ball before midnight; and then away she drives, scarce able to contain herself for joy.
the king’s son who was told that a great princess, whom nobody knew, was come, ran out to receive her; he gave her his hand as she alighted out of the coach, and led her into the ball, among all the company.
there was immediately a profound silence, they left off dancing, and the violins ceased to play, so attentive was everyone to contemplate the singular beauties of the unknown new-comer.
nothing was then heard but a confused noise of:
“ha!
how handsome she is!
ha!
how handsome she is!”
the king himself, old as he was, could not help watching her, and telling the queen softly that it was a long time since he had seen so beautiful and lovely a creature.
all the ladies were busied in considering her clothes and headdress, that they might have some made next day after the same pattern, provided they could meet with such fine material and as able hands to make them.
the king’s son conducted her to the most honorable seat, and afterward took her out to dance with him; she danced so very gracefully that they all more and more admired her.
a fine collation was served up, whereof the young prince ate not a morsel, so intently was he busied in gazing on her.
she went and sat down by her sisters, showing them a thousand civilities, giving them part of the oranges and citrons which the prince had presented her with, which very much surprised them, for they did not know her.
while cinderella was thus amusing her sisters, she heard the clock strike eleven and three-quarters, whereupon she immediately made a courtesy to the company and hasted away as fast as she could.
when she got home she ran to seek out her godmother, and, after having thanked her, she said she could not but heartily wish she might go next day to the ball, because the king’s son had desired her.
as she was eagerly telling her godmother whatever had passed at the ball, her two sisters knocked at the door, which cinderella ran and opened.
“how long you have stayed!” cried she, gaping, rubbing her eyes and stretching herself as if she had been just waked out of her sleep; she had not, however, any manner of inclination to sleep since they went from home.
“if thou hadst been at the ball,” said one of her sisters, “thou wouldst not have been tired with it.
there came thither the finest princess, the most beautiful ever was seen with mortal eyes; she showed us a thousand civilities, and gave us oranges and citrons.”
cinderella seemed very indifferent in the matter; indeed, she asked them the name of that princess; but they told her they did not know it, and that the king’s son was very uneasy on her account and would give all the world to know who she was.
at this cinderella, smiling, replied:
“she must, then, be very beautiful indeed; how happy you have been!
could not i see her?
ah!
dear miss charlotte, do lend me your yellow suit of clothes which you wear every day.”
“ay, to be sure!” cried miss charlotte; “lend my clothes to such a dirty cinderwench as thou art!
i should be a fool.”
cinderella, indeed, expected well such answer, and was very glad of the refusal; for she would have been sadly put to it if her sister had lent her what she asked for jestingly.
the next day the two sisters were at the ball, and so was cinderella, but dressed more magnificently than before.
the king’s son was always by her, and never ceased his compliments and kind speeches to her; to whom all this was so far from being tiresome that she quite forgot what her godmother had recommended to her; so that she, at last, counted the clock striking twelve when she took it to be no more than eleven; she then rose up and fled, as nimble as a deer.
the prince followed, but could not overtake her.
she left behind one of her glass slippers, which the prince took up most carefully.
she got home but quite out of breath, and in her nasty old clothes, having nothing left her of all her finery but one of the little slippers, fellow to that she dropped.
the guards at the palace gate were asked:
if they had not seen a princess go out.
who said: they had seen nobody go out but a young girl, very meanly dressed, and who had more the air of a poor country wench than a gentlewoman.
when the two sisters returned from the ball cinderella asked them: if they had been well diverted, and if the fine lady had been there.
they told her: yes, but that she hurried away immediately when it struck twelve, and with so much haste that she dropped one of her little glass slippers, the prettiest in the world, which the king’s son had taken up; that he had done nothing but look at her all the time at the ball, and that most certainly he was very much in love with the beautiful person who owned the glass slipper.
what they said was very true; for a few days after the king’s son caused it to be proclaimed, by sound of trumpet, that he would marry her whose foot the slipper would just fit.
they whom he employed began to try it upon the princesses, then the duchesses and all the court, but in vain; it was brought to the two sisters, who did all they possibly could to thrust their foot into the slipper, but they could not effect it.
cinderella, who saw all this, and knew her slipper, said to them, laughing:
“let me see if it will not fit me.”
her sisters burst out a-laughing, and began to banter her.
the gentleman who was sent to try the slipper looked earnestly at cinderella, and, finding her very handsome, said:
it was but just that she should try, and that he had orders to let everyone make trial.
he obliged cinderella to sit down, and, putting the slipper to her foot, he found it went on very easily, and fitted her as if it had been made of wax.
the astonishment her two sisters were in was excessively great, but still abundantly greater when cinderella pulled out of her pocket the other slipper, and put it on her foot.
thereupon, in came her godmother, who, having touched with her wand cinderella’s clothes, made them richer and more magnificent than any of those she had before.
and now her two sisters found her to be that fine, beautiful lady whom they had seen at the ball.
they threw themselves at her feet to beg pardon for all the ill-treatment they had made her undergo.
cinderella took them up, and, as she embraced them, cried:
that she forgave them with all her heart, and desired them always to love her.
she was conducted to the young prince, dressed as she was; he thought her more charming than ever, and, a few days after, married her.
cinderella, who was no less good than beautiful, gave her two sisters lodgings in the palace, and that very same day matched them with two great lords of the court.
(1)
(1) charles perrault.
aladdin and the wonderful lamp
there once lived a poor tailor, who had a son called aladdin, a careless, idle boy who would do nothing but play ball all day long in the streets with little idle boys like himself.
this so grieved the father that he died; yet, in spite of his mother’s tears and prayers, aladdin did not mend his ways.
one day, when he was playing in the streets as usual, a stranger asked him his age, and if he was not the son of mustapha the tailor.
“i am, sir,” replied aladdin; “but he died a long while ago.” on this the stranger, who was a famous african magician, fell on his neck and kissed him, saying, “i am your uncle, and knew you from your likeness to my brother.
go to your mother and tell her i am coming.” aladdin ran home and told his mother of his newly found uncle.
“indeed, child,” she said, “your father had a brother, but i always thought he was dead.” however, she prepared supper, and bade aladdin seek his uncle, who came laden with wine and fruit.
he presently fell down and kissed the place where mustapha used to sit, bidding aladdin’s mother not to be surprised at not having seen him before, as he had been forty years out of the country.
he then turned to aladdin, and asked him his trade, at which the boy hung his head, while his mother burst into tears.
on learning that aladdin was idle and would learn no trade, he offered to take a shop for him and stock it with merchandise.
next day he bought aladdin a fine suit of clothes and took him all over the city, showing him the sights, and brought him home at nightfall to his mother, who was overjoyed to see her son so fine.
the next day the magician led aladdin into some beautiful gardens a long way outside the city gates.
they sat down by a fountain and the magician pulled a cake from his girdle, which he divided between them.
they then journeyed onward till they almost reached the mountains.
aladdin was so tired that he begged to go back, but the magician beguiled him with pleasant stories, and led him on in spite of himself.
at last they came to two mountains divided by a narrow valley.
“we will go no farther,”
said the false uncle.
“i will show you something wonderful; only do you gather up sticks while i kindle a fire.” when it was lit the magician threw on it a powder he had about him, at the same time saying some magical words.
the earth trembled a little and opened in front of them, disclosing a square flat stone with a brass ring in the middle to raise it by.
aladdin tried to run away, but the magician caught him and gave him a blow that knocked him down.
“what have i done, uncle?” he said piteously; whereupon the magician said more kindly: “fear nothing, but obey me.
beneath this stone lies a treasure which is to be yours, and no one else may touch it, so you must do exactly as i tell you.” at the word treasure aladdin forgot his fears, and grasped the ring as he was told, saying the names of his father and grandfather.
the stone came up quite easily, and some steps appeared.
“go down,” said the magician; “at the foot of those steps you will find an open door leading into three large halls.
tuck up your gown and go through them without touching anything, or you will die instantly.
these halls lead into a garden of fine fruit trees.
walk on until you come to a niche in a terrace where stands a lighted lamp.
pour out the oil it contains, and bring it to me.” he drew a ring from his finger and gave it to aladdin, bidding him prosper.
aladdin found everything as the magician had said, gathered some fruit off the trees, and, having got the lamp, arrived at the mouth of the cave.
the magician cried out in a great hurry: “make haste and give me the lamp.” this aladdin refused to do until he was out of the cave.
the magician flew into a terrible passion, and throwing some more powder on to the fire, he said something, and the stone rolled back into its place.
the magician left persia for ever, which plainly showed that he was no uncle of aladdin’s, but a cunning magician, who had read in his magic books of a wonderful lamp, which would make him the most powerful man in the world.
though he alone knew where to find it, he could only receive it from the hand of another.
he had picked out the foolish aladdin for this purpose, intending to get the lamp and kill him afterward.
for two days aladdin remained in the dark, crying and lamenting.
at last he clasped his hands in prayer, and in so doing rubbed the ring, which the magician had forgotten to take from him.
immediately an enormous and frightful genie rose out of the earth, saying: “what wouldst thou with me?
i am the slave of the ring, and will obey thee in all things.”
aladdin fearlessly replied: “deliver me from this place!” whereupon the earth opened, and he found himself outside.
as soon as his eyes could bear the light he went home, but fainted on the threshold.
when he came to himself he told his mother what had passed, and showed her the lamp and the fruits he had gathered in the garden, which were, in reality, precious stones.
he then asked for some food.
“alas!
child,” she said, “i have nothing in the house, but i have spun a little cotton and will go and sell it.” aladdin bade her keep her cotton, for he would sell the lamp instead.
as it was very dirty she began to rub it, that it might fetch a higher price.
instantly a hideous genie appeared, and asked what she would have.
she fainted away, but aladdin, snatching the lamp, said boldly: “fetch me something to eat!” the genie returned with a silver bowl, twelve silver plates containing rich meats, two silver cups, and two bottles of wine.
aladdin’s mother, when she came to herself, said:
“whence comes this splendid feast?” “ask not, but eat,” replied aladdin.
so they sat at breakfast till it was dinner-time, and aladdin told his mother about the lamp.
she begged him to sell it, and have nothing to do with devils.
“no,” said aladdin, “since chance hath made us aware of its virtues, we will use it, and the ring likewise, which i shall always wear on my finger.” when they had eaten all the genie had brought, aladdin sold one of the silver plates, and so on until none were left.
he then had recourse to the genie, who gave him another set of plates, and thus they lived for many years.
one day aladdin heard an order from the sultan proclaimed that everyone was to stay at home and close his shutters while the princess, his daughter, went to and from the bath.
aladdin was seized by a desire to see her face, which was very difficult, as she always went veiled.
he hid himself behind the door of the bath, and peeped through a chink.
the princess lifted her veil as she went in, and looked so beautiful that aladdin fell in love with her at first sight.
he went home so changed that his mother was frightened.
he told her he loved the princess so deeply that he could not live without her, and meant to ask her in marriage of her father.
his mother, on hearing this, burst out laughing, but aladdin at last prevailed upon her to go before the sultan and carry his request.
she fetched a napkin and laid in it the magic fruits from the enchanted garden, which sparkled and shone like the most beautiful jewels.
she took these with her to please the sultan, and set out, trusting in the lamp.
the grand vizier and the lords of council had just gone in as she entered the hall and placed herself in front of the sultan.
he, however, took no notice of her.
she went every day for a week, and stood in the same place.
when the council broke up on the sixth day the sultan said to his vizier: “i see a certain woman in the audience-chamber every day carrying something in a napkin.
call her next time, that i may find out what she wants.” next day, at a sign from the vizier, she went up to the foot of the throne and remained kneeling till the sultan said to her: “rise, good woman, and tell me what you want.”
she hesitated, so the sultan sent away all but the vizier, and bade her speak frankly, promising to forgive her beforehand for anything she might say.
she then told him of her son’s violent love for the princess.
“i prayed him to forget her,” she said, “but in vain; he threatened to do some desperate deed if i refused to go and ask your majesty for the hand of the princess.
now i pray you to forgive not me alone, but my son aladdin.” the sultan asked her kindly what she had in the napkin, whereupon she unfolded the jewels and presented them.
he was thunderstruck, and turning to the vizier said: “what sayest thou?
ought i not to bestow the princess on one who values her at such a price?” the vizier, who wanted her for his own son, begged the sultan to withhold her for three months, in the course of which he hoped his son would contrive to make him a richer present.
the sultan granted this, and told aladdin’s mother that, though he consented to the marriage, she must not appear before him again for three months.
aladdin waited patiently for nearly three months, but after two had elapsed his mother, going into the city to buy oil, found every one rejoicing, and asked what was going on.
“do you not know,” was the answer, “that the son of the grand vizier is to marry the sultan’s daughter to-night?” breathless, she ran and told aladdin, who was overwhelmed at first, but presently bethought him of the lamp.
he rubbed it, and the genie appeared, saying, “what is thy will?” aladdin replied:
“the sultan, as thou knowest, has broken his promise to me, and the vizier’s son is to have the princess.
my command is that to-night you bring hither the bride and bridegroom.” “master, i obey,” said the genie.
aladdin then went to his chamber, where, sure enough, at midnight the genie transported the bed containing the vizier’s son and the princess.
“take this new-married man,” he said, “and put him outside in the cold, and return at daybreak.” whereupon the genie took the vizier’s son out of bed, leaving aladdin with the princess.
“fear nothing,”
aladdin said to her; “you are my wife, promised to me by your unjust father, and no harm shall come to you.” the princess was too frightened to speak, and passed the most miserable night of her life, while aladdin lay down beside her and slept soundly.
at the appointed hour the genie fetched in the shivering bridegroom, laid him in his place, and transported the bed back to the palace.
presently the sultan came to wish his daughter good-morning.
the unhappy vizier’s son jumped up and hid himself, while the princess would not say a word, and was very sorrowful.
the sultan sent her mother to her, who said: “how comes it, child, that you will not speak to your father?
what has happened?” the princess sighed deeply, and at last told her mother how, during the night, the bed had been carried into some strange house, and what had passed there.
her mother did not believe her in the least, but bade her rise and consider it an idle dream.
the following night exactly the same thing happened, and next morning, on the princess’s refusal to speak, the sultan threatened to cut off her head.
she then confessed all, bidding him to ask the vizier’s son if it were not so.
the sultan told the vizier to ask his son, who owned the truth, adding that, dearly as he loved the princess, he had rather die than go through another such fearful night, and wished to be separated from her.
his wish was granted, and there was an end to feasting and rejoicing.
when the three months were over, aladdin sent his mother to remind the sultan of his promise.
she stood in the same place as before, and the sultan, who had forgotten aladdin, at once remembered him, and sent for her.
on seeing her poverty the sultan felt less inclined than ever to keep his word, and asked his vizier’s advice, who counselled him to set so high a value on the princess that no man living could come up to it.
the sultan then turned to aladdin’s mother, saying: “good woman, a sultan must remember his promises, and i will remember mine, but your son must first send me forty basins of gold brimful of jewels, carried by forty black slaves, led by as many white ones, splendidly dressed.
tell him that i await his answer.” the mother of aladdin bowed low and went home, thinking all was lost.
she gave aladdin the message, adding:
“he may wait long enough for your answer!” “not so long, mother, as you think,” her son replied.
“i would do a great deal more than that for the princess.” he summoned the genie, and in a few moments the eighty slaves arrived, and filled up the small house and garden.
aladdin made them set out to the palace, two and two, followed by his mother.
they were so richly dressed, with such splendid jewels in their girdles, that everyone crowded to see them and the basins of gold they carried on their heads.
they entered the palace, and, after kneeling before the sultan, stood in a half-circle round the throne with their arms crossed, while aladdin’s mother presented them to the sultan.
he hesitated no longer, but said: “good woman, return and tell your son that i wait for him with open arms.” she lost no time in telling aladdin, bidding him make haste.
but aladdin first called the genie.
“i want a scented bath,”
he said, “a richly embroidered habit, a horse surpassing the sultan’s, and twenty slaves to attend me.
besides this, six slaves, beautifully dressed, to wait on my mother; and lastly, ten thousand pieces of gold in ten purses.” no sooner said than done.
aladdin mounted his horse and passed through the streets, the slaves strewing gold as they went.
those who had played with him in his childhood knew him not, he had grown so handsome.
when the sultan saw him he came down from his throne, embraced him, and led him into a hall where a feast was spread, intending to marry him to the princess that very day.
but aladdin refused, saying, “i must build a palace fit for her,” and took his leave.
once home, he said to the genie: “build me a palace of the finest marble, set with jasper, agate, and other precious stones.
in the middle you shall build me a large hall with a dome, its four walls of massy gold and silver, each having six windows, whose lattices, all except one which is to be left unfinished, must be set with diamonds and rubies.
there must be stables and horses and grooms and slaves; go and see about it!”
the palace was finished by the next day, and the genie carried him there and showed him all his orders faithfully carried out, even to the laying of a velvet carpet from aladdin’s palace to the sultan’s.
aladdin’s mother then dressed herself carefully, and walked to the palace with her slaves, while he followed her on horseback.
the sultan sent musicians with trumpets and cymbals to meet them, so that the air resounded with music and cheers.
she was taken to the princess, who saluted her and treated her with great honor.
at night the princess said good-by to her father, and set out on the carpet for aladdin’s palace, with his mother at her side, and followed by the hundred slaves.
she was charmed at the sight of aladdin, who ran to receive her.
“princess,” he said, “blame your beauty for my boldness if i have displeased you.” she told him that, having seen him, she willingly obeyed her father in this matter.
after the wedding had taken place aladdin led her into the hall, where a feast was spread, and she supped with him, after which they danced till midnight.
next day aladdin invited the sultan to see the palace.
on entering the hall with the four-and-twenty windows, with their rubies, diamonds, and emeralds, he cried: “it is a world’s wonder!
there is only one thing that surprises me.
was it by accident that one window was left unfinished?” “no, sir, by design,” returned aladdin.
“i wished your majesty to have the glory of finishing this palace.” the sultan was pleased, and sent for the best jewelers in the city.
he showed them the unfinished window, and bade them fit it up like the others.
“sir,”
replied their spokesman, “we cannot find jewels enough.” the sultan had his own fetched, which they soon used, but to no purpose, for in a month’s time the work was not half done.
aladdin, knowing that their task was vain, bade them undo their work and carry the jewels back, and the genie finished the window at his command.
the sultan was surprised to receive his jewels again, and visited aladdin, who showed him the window finished.
the sultan embraced him, the envious vizier meanwhile hinting that it was the work of enchantment.
aladdin had won the hearts of the people by his gentle bearing.
he was made captain of the sultan’s armies, and won several battles for him, but remained modest and courteous as before, and lived thus in peace and content for several years.
but far away in africa the magician remembered aladdin, and by his magic arts discovered that aladdin, instead of perishing miserably in the cave, had escaped, and had married a princess, with whom he was living in great honor and wealth.
he knew that the poor tailor’s son could only have accomplished this by means of the lamp, and traveled night and day until he reached the capital of china, bent on aladdin’s ruin.
as he passed through the town he heard people talking everywhere about a marvellous palace.
“forgive my ignorance,” he asked, “what is this palace you speak of?” “have you not heard of prince aladdin’s palace,”
was the reply, “the greatest wonder of the world?
i will direct you if you have a mind to see it.” the magician thanked him who spoke, and having seen the palace, knew that it had been raised by the genie of the lamp, and became half mad with rage.
he determined to get hold of the lamp, and again plunge aladdin into the deepest poverty.
unluckily, aladdin had gone a-hunting for eight days, which gave the magician plenty of time.
he bought a dozen copper lamps, put them into a basket, and went to the palace, crying: “new lamps for old!” followed by a jeering crowd.
the princess, sitting in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, sent a slave to find out what the noise was about, who came back laughing, so that the princess scolded her.
“madam,” replied the slave, “who can help laughing to see an old fool offering to exchange fine new lamps for old ones?” another slave, hearing this, said: “there is an old one on the cornice there which he can have.” now this was the magic lamp, which aladdin had left there, as he could not take it out hunting with him.
the princess, not knowing its value, laughingly bade the slave take it and make the exchange.
she went and said to the magician: “give me a new lamp for this.” he snatched it and bade the slave take her choice, amid the jeers of the crowd.
little he cared, but left off crying his lamps, and went out of the city gates to a lonely place, where he remained till nightfall, when he pulled out the lamp and rubbed it.
the genie appeared, and at the magician’s command carried him, together with the palace and the princess in it, to a lonely place in africa.
next morning the sultan looked out of the window toward aladdin’s palace and rubbed his eyes, for it was gone.
he sent for the vizier and asked what had become of the palace.
the vizier looked out too, and was lost in astonishment.
he again put it down to enchantment, and this time the sultan believed him, and sent thirty men on horseback to fetch aladdin in chains.
they met him riding home, bound him, and forced him to go with them on foot.
the people, however, who loved him, followed, armed, to see that he came to no harm.
he was carried before the sultan, who ordered the executioner to cut off his head.
the executioner made aladdin kneel down, bandaged his eyes, and raised his scimitar to strike.
at that instant the vizier, who saw that the crowd had forced their way into the courtyard and were scaling the walls to rescue aladdin, called to the executioner to stay his hand.
the people, indeed, looked so threatening that the sultan gave way and ordered aladdin to be unbound, and pardoned him in the sight of the crowd.
aladdin now begged to know what he had done.
“false wretch!” said the sultan, “come thither,” and showed him from the window the place where his palace had stood.
aladdin was so amazed that he could not say a word.
“where is my palace and my daughter?” demanded the sultan.
“for the first i am not so deeply concerned, but my daughter i must have, and you must find her or lose your head.” aladdin begged for forty days in which to find her, promising, if he failed, to return and suffer death at the sultan’s pleasure.
his prayer was granted, and he went forth sadly from the sultan’s presence.
for three days he wandered about like a madman, asking everyone what had become of his palace, but they only laughed and pitied him.
he came to the banks of a river, and knelt down to say his prayers before throwing himself in.
in so doing he rubbed the magic ring he still wore.
the genie he had seen in the cave appeared, and asked his will.
“save my life, genie,” said aladdin, “bring my palace back.” “that is not in my power,” said the genie; “i am only the slave of the ring; you must ask him of the lamp.” “even so,” said aladdin, “but thou canst take me to the palace, and set me down under my dear wife’s window.” he at once found himself in africa, under the window of the princess, and fell asleep out of sheer weariness.
he was awakened by the singing of the birds, and his heart was lighter.
he saw plainly that all his misfortunes were owing to the loss of the lamp, and vainly wondered who had robbed him of it.
that morning the princess rose earlier than she had done since she had been carried into africa by the magician, whose company she was forced to endure once a day.
she, however, treated him so harshly that he dared not live there altogether.
as she was dressing, one of her women looked out and saw aladdin.
the princess ran and opened the window, and at the noise she made aladdin looked up.
she called to him to come to her, and great was the joy of these lovers at seeing each other again.
after he had kissed her aladdin said: “i beg of you, princess, in god’s name, before we speak of anything else, for your own sake and mine, tell me that has become of an old lamp i left on the cornice in the hall of four-and-twenty windows, when i went a-hunting.” “alas!” she said, “i am the innocent cause of our sorrows,” and told him of the exchange of the lamp.
“now i know,” cried aladdin, “that we have to thank the african magician for this!
where is the lamp?” “he carries it about with him,”
said the princess.
“i know, for he pulled it out of his breast to show me.
he wishes me to break my faith with you and marry him, saying that you were beheaded by my father’s command.
he is for ever speaking ill of you but i only reply by my tears.
if i persist, i doubt not but he will use violence.” aladdin comforted her, and left her for a while.
he changed clothes with the first person he met in the town, and having bought a certain powder, returned to the princess, who let him in by a little side door.
“put on your most beautiful dress,” he said to her “and receive the magician with smiles, leading him to believe that you have forgotten me.
invite him to sup with you, and say you wish to taste the wine of his country.
he will go for some and while he is gone i will tell you what to do.” she listened carefully to aladdin and when he left she arrayed herself gaily for the first time since she left china.
she put on a girdle and head-dress of diamonds, and, seeing in a glass that she was more beautiful than ever, received the magician, saying, to his great amazement: “i have made up my mind that aladdin is dead, and that all my tears will not bring him back to me, so i am resolved to mourn no more, and have therefore invited you to sup with me; but i am tired of the wines of china, and would fain taste those of africa.” the magician flew to his cellar, and the princess put the powder aladdin had given her in her cup.
when he returned she asked him to drink her health in the wine of africa, handing him her cup in exchange for his, as a sign she was reconciled to him.
before drinking the magician made her a speech in praise of her beauty, but the princess cut him short, saying:
“let us drink first, and you shall say what you will afterward.” she set her cup to her lips and kept it there, while the magician drained his to the dregs and fell back lifeless.
the princess then opened the door to aladdin, and flung her arms round his neck; but aladdin put her away, bidding her leave him, as he had more to do.
he then went to the dead magician, took the lamp out of his vest, and bade the genie carry the palace and all in it back to china.
this was done, and the princess in her chamber only felt two little shocks, and little thought she was at home again.
the sultan, who was sitting in his closet, mourning for his lost daughter, happened to look up, and rubbed his eyes, for there stood the palace as before!
he hastened thither, and aladdin received him in the hall of the four-and-twenty windows, with the princess at his side.
aladdin told him what had happened, and showed him the dead body of the magician, that he might believe.
a ten days’ feast was proclaimed, and it seemed as if aladdin might now live the rest of his life in peace; but it was not to be.
the african magician had a younger brother, who was, if possible, more wicked and more cunning than himself.
he traveled to china to avenge his brother’s death, and went to visit a pious woman called fatima, thinking she might be of use to him.
he entered her cell and clapped a dagger to her breast, telling her to rise and do his bidding on pain of death.
he changed clothes with her, colored his face like hers, put on her veil, and murdered her, that she might tell no tales.
then he went toward the palace of aladdin, and all the people, thinking he was the holy woman, gathered round him, kissing his hands and begging his blessing.
when he got to the palace there was such a noise going on round him that the princess bade her slave look out of the window and ask what was the matter.
the slave said it was the holy woman, curing people by her touch of their ailments, whereupon the princess, who had long desired to see fatima, sent for her.
on coming to the princess the magician offered up a prayer for her health and prosperity.
when he had done the princess made him sit by her, and begged him to stay with her always.
the false fatima, who wished for nothing better, consented, but kept his veil down for fear of discovery.
the princess showed him the hall, and asked him what he thought of it.
“it is truly beautiful,” said the false fatima.
“in my mind it wants but one thing.” “and what is that?” said the princess.
“if only a roc’s egg,” replied he, “were hung up from the middle of this dome, it would be the wonder of the world.”
after this the princess could think of nothing but the roc’s egg, and when aladdin returned from hunting he found her in a very ill humor.
he begged to know what was amiss, and she told him that all her pleasure in the hall was spoiled for the want of a roc’s egg hanging from the dome.
“if that is all,” replied aladdin, “you shall soon be happy.” he left her and rubbed the lamp, and when the genie appeared commanded him to bring a roc’s egg.
the genie gave such a loud and terrible shriek that the hall shook.
“wretch!” he cried, “is it not enough that i have done everything for you, but you must command me to bring my master and hang him up in the midst of this dome?
you and your wife and your palace deserve to be burnt to ashes, but that this request does not come from you, but from the brother of the african magician, whom you destroyed.
he is now in your palace disguised as the holy woman whom he murdered.
he it was who put that wish into your wife’s head.
take care of yourself, for he means to kill you.” so saying, the genie disappeared.
aladdin went back to the princess, saying his head ached, and requesting that the holy fatima should be fetched to lay her hands on it.
but when the magician came near, aladdin, seizing his dagger, pierced him to the heart.
“what have you done?” cried the princess.
“you have killed the holy woman!” “not so,” replied aladdin, “but a wicked magician,” and told her of how she had been deceived.
after this aladdin and his wife lived in peace.
he succeeded the sultan when he died, and reigned for many years, leaving behind him a long line of kings.
(1)
(1) arabian nights.
the tale of a youth who set out to learn what fear was
a father had two sons, of whom the eldest was clever and bright, and always knew what he was about; but the youngest was stupid, and couldn’t learn or understand anything.
so much so that those who saw him exclaimed: “what a burden he’ll be to his father!” now when there was anything to be done, the eldest had always to do it; but if something was required later or in the night-time, and the way led through the churchyard or some such ghostly place, he always replied: “oh!
no, father: nothing will induce me to go there, it makes me shudder!” for he was afraid.
or, when they sat of an evening around the fire telling stories which made one’s flesh creep, the listeners sometimes said:
“oh!
it makes one shudder,” the youngest sat in a corner, heard the exclamation, and could not understand what it meant.
“they are always saying it makes one shudder!
it makes one shudder!
nothing makes me shudder.
it’s probably an art quite beyond me.”
now it happened that his father said to him one day: “hearken, you there in the corner; you are growing big and strong, and you must learn to earn your own bread.
look at your brother, what pains he takes; but all the money i’ve spent on your education is thrown away.” “my dear father,” he replied, “i will gladly learn in fact, if it were possible i should like to learn to shudder; i don’t understand that a bit yet.”
the eldest laughed when he heard this, and thought to himself: “good heavens!
what a ninny my brother is!
he’ll never come to any good; as the twig is bent, so is the tree inclined.” the father sighed, and answered him: “you’ll soon learn to shudder; but that won’t help you to make a living.”
shortly after this, when the sexton came to pay them a visit, the father broke out to him, and told him what a bad hand his youngest son was at everything: he knew nothing and learned nothing.
“only think!
when i asked him how he purposed gaining a livelihood, he actually asked to be taught to shudder.” “if that’s all he wants,” said the sexton, “i can teach him that; just you send him to me, i’ll soon polish him up.” the father was quite pleased with the proposal, because he thought: “it will be a good discipline for the youth.” and so the sexton took him into his house, and his duty was to toll the bell.
after a few days he woke him at midnight, and bade him rise and climb into the tower and toll.
“now, my friend, i’ll teach you to shudder,” thought he.
he stole forth secretly in front, and when the youth was up above, and had turned round to grasp the bell-rope, he saw, standing opposite the hole of the belfry, a white figure.
“who’s there?” he called out, but the figure gave no answer, and neither stirred nor moved.
“answer,” cried the youth, “or begone; you have no business here at this hour of the night.”
but the sexton remained motionless, so that the youth might think that it was a ghost.
the youth called out the second time: “what do you want here?
speak if you are an honest fellow, or i’ll knock you down the stairs.” the sexton thought: “he can’t mean that in earnest,” so gave forth no sound, and stood as though he were made of stone.
then the youth shouted out to him the third time, and as that too had no effect, he made a dash at the spectre and knocked it down the stairs, so that it fell about ten steps and remained lying in a corner.
thereupon he tolled the bell, went home to bed without saying a word, and fell asleep.
the sexton’s wife waited a long time for her husband, but he never appeared.
at last she became anxious, and woke the youth, and asked: “don’t you know where my husband is?
he went up to the tower in front of you.”
“no,” answered the youth; “but someone stood on the stairs up there just opposite the trap-door in the belfry, and because he wouldn’t answer me, or go away, i took him for a rogue and knocked him down.
you’d better go and see if it was he; i should be much distressed if it were.” the wife ran and found her husband who was lying groaning in a corner, with his leg broken.
she carried him down, and then hurried with loud protestations to the youth’s father.
“your son has been the cause of a pretty misfortune,”
she cried; “he threw my husband downstairs so that he broke his leg.
take the good-for-nothing wretch out of our house.” the father was horrified, hurried to the youth, and gave him a scolding.
“what unholy pranks are these?
the evil one must have put them into your head.” “father,” he replied, “only listen to me; i am quite guiltless.
he stood there in the night, like one who meant harm.
i didn’t know who it was, and warned him three times to speak or begone.” “oh!” groaned the father, “you’ll bring me nothing but misfortune; get out of my sight, i won’t have anything more to do with you.” “yes, father, willingly; only wait till daylight, then i’ll set out and learn to shudder, and in that way i shall be master of an art which will gain me a living.” “learn what you will,” said the father, “it’s all one to me.
here are fifty dollars for you, set forth into the wide world with them; but see you tell no one where you come from or who your father is, for i am ashamed of you.” “yes, father, whatever you wish; and if that’s all you ask, i can easily keep it in mind.”
when day broke the youth put the fifty dollars into his pocket, set out on the hard high road, and kept muttering to himself: “if i could only shudder!
if i could only shudder!” just at this moment a man came by who heard the youth speaking to himself, and when they had gone on a bit and were in sight of the gallows the man said to him: “look!
there is the tree where seven people have been hanged, and are now learning to fly; sit down under it and wait till nightfall, and then you’ll pretty soon learn to shudder.” “if that’s all i have to do,” answered the youth, “it’s easily done; but if i learn to shudder so quickly, then you shall have my fifty dollars.
just come back to me to-morrow morning early.”
then the youth went to the gallows-tree and sat down underneath it, and waited for the evening; and because he felt cold he lit himself a fire.
but at midnight it got so chill that in spite of the fire he couldn’t keep warm.
and as the wind blew the corpses one against the other, tossing them to and fro, he thought to himself: “if you are perishing down here by the fire, how those poor things up there must be shaking and shivering!” and because he had a tender heart, he put up a ladder, which he climbed unhooked one body after the other, and took down all the seven.
then he stirred the fire, blew it up, and placed them all round in a circle, that they might warm themselves.
but they sat there and did not move, and the fire caught their clothes.
then he spoke:
“take care, or i’ll hang you up again.” but the dead men did not hear and let their rags go on burning.
then he got angry, and said: “if you aren’t careful yourselves, then i can’t help you, and i don’t mean to burn with you”; and he hung them up again in a row.
then he sat down at his fire and fell asleep.
on the following morning the man came to him, and, wishing to get his fifty dollars, said: “now you know what it is to shudder.” “no,” he answered, “how should i?
those fellows up there never opened their mouths, and were so stupid that they let those few old tatters they have on their bodies burn.” then the man saw he wouldn’t get his fifty dollars that day, and went off, saying: “well, i’m blessed if i ever met such a person in my life before.”
the youth went too on his way, and began to murmur to himself: “oh!
if i could only shudder!
if i could only shudder!” a carrier who was walking behind him heard these words, and asked him: “who are you” “i don’t know,” said the youth.
“where do you hail from?” “i don’t know.” “who’s your father?” “i mayn’t say.” “what are you constantly muttering to yourself?” “oh!” said the youth, “i would give worlds to shudder, but no one can teach me.” “stuff and nonsense!” spoke the carrier; “come along with me, and i’ll soon put that right.” the youth went with the carrier, and in the evening they reached an inn, where they were to spend the night.
then, just as he was entering the room, he said again, quite aloud: “oh!
if i could only shudder!
if i could only shudder!” the landlord, who heard this, laughed and said: “if that’s what you’re sighing for, you shall be given every opportunity here.” “oh!
hold your tongue!” said the landlord’s wife; “so many people have paid for their curiosity with their lives, it were a thousand pities if those beautiful eyes were never again to behold daylight.” but the youth said: “no matter how difficult, i insist on learning it; why, that’s what i’ve set out to do.” he left the landlord no peace till he told him that in the neighborhood stood a haunted castle, where one could easily learn to shudder if one only kept watch in it for three nights.
the king had promised the man who dared to do this thing his daughter as wife, and she was the most beautiful maiden under the sun.
there was also much treasure hid in the castle, guarded by evil spirits, which would then be free, and was sufficient to make a poor man more than rich.
many had already gone in, but so far none had ever come out again.
so the youth went to the king and spoke: “if i were allowed, i should much like to watch for three nights in the castle.” the king looked at him, and because he pleased him, he said: “you can ask for three things, none of them living, and those you may take with you into the castle.” then he answered: “well, i shall beg for a fire, a turning lathe, and a carving bench with the knife attached.”
on the following day the king had everything put into the castle; and when night drew on the youth took up his position there, lit a bright fire in one of the rooms, placed the carving bench with the knife close to it, and sat himself down on the turning lathe.
“oh!
if i could only shudder!” he said: “but i sha’n’t learn it here either.” toward midnight he wanted to make up the fire, and as he was blowing up a blaze he heard a shriek from a corner.
“ou, miou!
how cold we are!” “you fools!” he cried; “why do you scream?
if you are cold, come and sit at the fire and warm yourselves.” and as he spoke two huge black cats sprang fiercely forward and sat down, one on each side of him, and gazed wildly at him with their fiery eyes.
after a time, when they had warmed themselves, they said: “friend, shall we play a little game of cards?” “why not?” he replied; “but first let me see your paws.” then they stretched out their claws.
“ha!” said he; “what long nails you’ve got!
wait a minute: i must first cut them off.” thereupon he seized them by the scruff of their necks, lifted them on to the carving bench, and screwed down their paws firmly.
“after watching you narrowly,” said he, “i no longer feel any desire to play cards with you”; and with these words he struck them dead and threw them out into the water.
but when he had thus sent the two of them to their final rest, and was again about to sit down at the fire, out of every nook and corner came forth black cats and black dogs with fiery chains in such swarms that he couldn’t possibly get away from them.
they yelled in the most ghastly manner, jumped upon his fire, scattered it all, and tried to put it out.
he looked on quietly for a time, but when it got beyond a joke he seized his carving-knife and called out: “be off, you rabble rout!” and let fly at them.
some of them fled away, and the others he struck dead and threw them out into the pond below.
when he returned he blew up the sparks of the fire once more, and warmed himself.
and as he sat thus his eyes refused to keep open any longer, and a desire to sleep stole over him.
then he looked around him and beheld in the corner a large bed.
“the very thing,” he said, and laid himself down in it.
but when he wished to close his eyes the bed began to move by itself, and ran all round the castle.
“capital,” he said, “only a little quicker.” then the bed sped on as if drawn by six horses, over thresholds and stairs, up this way and down that.
all of a sudden crash, crash!
with a bound it turned over, upside down, and lay like a mountain on the top of him.
but he tossed the blankets and pillows in the air, emerged from underneath, and said: “now anyone who has the fancy for it may go a drive,” lay down at his fire, and slept till daylight.
in the morning the king came, and when he beheld him lying on the ground he imagined the ghosts had been too much for him, and that he was dead.
then he said: “what a pity!
and such a fine fellow he was.” the youth heard this, got up, and said: “it’s not come to that yet.” then the king was astonished, but very glad, and asked how it had fared with him.
“first-rate,” he answered; “and now i’ve survived the one night, i shall get through the other two also.”
the landlord, when he went to him, opened his eyes wide, and said:
“well, i never thought to see you alive again.
have you learned now what shuddering is?” “no,” he replied, “it’s quite hopeless; if someone could only tell me how to!”
the second night he went up again to the old castle, sat down at the fire, and began his old refrain: “if i could only shudder!” as midnight approached, a noise and din broke out, at first gentle, but gradually increasing; then all was quiet for a minute, and at length, with a loud scream, half of a man dropped down the chimney and fell before him.
“hi, up there!” shouted he; “there’s another half wanted down here, that’s not enough”; then the din commenced once more, there was a shrieking and a yelling, and then the other half fell down.
“wait a bit,” he said; “i’ll stir up the fire for you.” when he had done this and again looked around, the two pieces had united, and a horrible-looking man sat on his seat.
“come,” said the youth, “i didn’t bargain for that, the seat is mine.” the man tried to shove him away, but the youth wouldn’t allow it for a moment, and, pushing him off by force, sat down in his place again.
then more men dropped down, one after the other, who fetching nine skeleton legs and two skulls, put them up and played ninepins with them.
the youth thought he would like to play too, and said: “look here; do you mind my joining the game?” “no, not if you have money.” “i’ve money enough,” he replied, “but your balls aren’t round enough.” then he took the skulls, placed them on his lathe, and turned them till they were round.
“now they’ll roll along better,” said he, “and houp-la!
now the fun begins.” he played with them and lost some of his money, but when twelve struck everything vanished before his eyes.
he lay down and slept peacefully.
the next morning the king came, anxious for news.
“how have you got on this time?” he asked.
“i played ninepins,” he answered, “and lost a few pence.” “didn’t you shudder then?” “no such luck,” said he; “i made myself merry.
oh!
if i only knew what it was to shudder!”
on the third night he sat down again on his bench, and said, in the most desponding way: “if i could only shudder!” when it got late, six big men came in carrying a coffin.
then he cried: “ha!
ha!
that’s most likely my little cousin who only died a few days ago”; and beckoning with his finger he called out: “come, my small cousin, come.” they placed the coffin on the ground, and he approached it and took off the cover.
in it lay a dead man.
he felt his face, and it was cold as ice.
“wait,” he said “i’ll heat you up a bit,” went to the fire, warmed his hand, and laid it on the man’s face, but the dead remained cold.
then he lifted him out, sat down at the fire, laid him on his knee, and rubbed his arms that the blood should circulate again.
when that too had no effect it occurred to him that if two people lay together in bed they warmed each other; so he put him into the bed, covered him up, and lay down beside him; after a time the corpse became warm and began to move.
then the youth said: “now, my little cousin, what would have happened if i hadn’t warmed you?” but the dead man rose up and cried out: “now i will strangle you.” “what!” said he, “is that all the thanks i get?
you should be put straight back into your coffin,” lifted him up, threw him in, and closed the lid.
then the six men came and carried him out again.
“i simply can’t shudder,” he said, “and it’s clear i sha’n’t learn it in a lifetime here.”
then a man entered, of more than ordinary size and of a very fearful appearance; but he was old and had a white beard.
“oh!
you miserable creature, now you will soon know what it is to shudder,” he cried, “for you must die.” “not so quickly,” answered the youth.
“if i am to die, you must catch me first.” “i shall soon lay hold of you,” spoke the monster.
“gently, gently, don’t boast too much, i’m as strong as you, and stronger too.” “we’ll soon see,” said the old man; “if you are stronger than i then i’ll let you off; come, let’s have a try.” then he led him through some dark passages to a forge, and grasping an axe he drove one of the anvils with a blow into the earth.
“i can do better than that,” cried the youth, and went to the other anvil.
the old man drew near him in order to watch closely, and his white beard hung right down.
the youth seized the axe, cleft the anvil open, and jammed in the old man’s beard.
“now i have you,” said the youth; “this time it’s your turn to die.” then he seized an iron rod and belabored the old man till he, whimpering, begged him to leave off, and he would give him great riches.
the youth drew out the axe and let him go.
the old man led him back to the castle and showed him in a cellar three chests of gold.
“one of these,” said he, “belongs to the poor, one to the king, and the third is yours.” at that moment twelve struck, and the spirit vanished, leaving the youth alone in the dark.
“i’ll surely be able to find a way out,” said he, and groping about he at length found his way back to the room, and fell asleep at his fire.
the next morning the king came, and said: “well, now you’ve surely learned to shudder?” “no,” he answered; “what can it be?
my dead cousin was here, and an old bearded man came, who showed me heaps of money down below there, but what shuddering is no one has told me.” then the king spoke: “you have freed the castle from its curse, and you shall marry my daughter.” “that’s all charming,” he said; “but i still don’t know what it is to shudder.”
then the gold was brought up, and the wedding was celebrated, but the young king, though he loved his wife dearly, and though he was very happy, still kept on saying: “if i could only shudder!
if i could only shudder!” at last he reduced her to despair.
then her maid said: “i’ll help you; we’ll soon make him shudder.” so she went out to the stream that flowed through the garden, and had a pail full of little gudgeons brought to her.
at night, when the young king was asleep, his wife had to pull the clothes off him, and pour the pail full of little gudgeons over him, so that the little fish swam all about him.
then he awoke and cried out: “oh!
how i shudder, how i shudder, dear wife!
yes, now i know what shuddering is.” (1)
rumpelstiltzkin
there was once upon a time a poor miller who had a very beautiful daughter.
now it happened one day that he had an audience with the king, and in order to appear a person of some importance he told him that he had a daughter who could spin straw into gold.
“now that’s a talent worth having,” said the king to the miller; “if your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her to my palace to-morrow, and i’ll put her to the test.” when the girl was brought to him he led her into a room full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel and spindle, and said: “now set to work and spin all night till early dawn, and if by that time you haven’t spun the straw into gold you shall die.” then he closed the door behind him and left her alone inside.
so the poor miller’s daughter sat down, and didn’t know what in the world she was to do.
she hadn’t the least idea of how to spin straw into gold, and became at last so miserable that she began to cry.
suddenly the door opened, and in stepped a tiny little man and said:
“good-evening, miss miller-maid; why are you crying so bitterly?” “oh!”
answered the girl, “i have to spin straw into gold, and haven’t a notion how it’s done.” “what will you give me if i spin it for you?” asked the manikin.
“my necklace,” replied the girl.
the little man took the necklace, sat himself down at the wheel, and whir, whir, whir, the wheel went round three times, and the bobbin was full.
then he put on another, and whir, whir, whir, the wheel went round three times, and the second too was full; and so it went on till the morning, when all the straw was spun away, and all the bobbins were full of gold.
as soon as the sun rose the king came, and when he perceived the gold he was astonished and delighted, but his heart only lusted more than ever after the precious metal.
he had the miller’s daughter put into another room full of straw, much bigger than the first, and bade her, if she valued her life, spin it all into gold before the following morning.
the girl didn’t know what to do, and began to cry; then the door opened as before, and the tiny little man appeared and said: “what’ll you give me if i spin the straw into gold for you?” “the ring from my finger,” answered the girl.
the manikin took the ring, and whir!
round went the spinning-wheel again, and when morning broke he had spun all the straw into glittering gold.
the king was pleased beyond measure at the sights but his greed for gold was still not satisfied, and he had the miller’s daughter brought into a yet bigger room full of straw, and said: “you must spin all this away in the night; but if you succeed this time you shall become my wife.”
“she’s only a miller’s daughter, it’s true,” he thought; “but i couldn’t find a richer wife if i were to search the whole world over.” when the girl was alone the little man appeared for the third time, and said:
“what’ll you give me if i spin the straw for you once again?” “i’ve nothing more to give,” answered the girl.
“then promise me when you are queen to give me your first child.” “who knows what may not happen before that?” thought the miller’s daughter; and besides, she saw no other way out of it, so she promised the manikin what he demanded, and he set to work once more and spun the straw into gold.
when the king came in the morning, and found everything as he had desired, he straightway made her his wife, and the miller’s daughter became a queen.
when a year had passed a beautiful son was born to her, and she thought no more of the little man, till all of a sudden one day he stepped into her room and said: “now give me what you promised.” the queen was in a great state, and offered the little man all the riches in her kingdom if he would only leave her the child.
but the manikin said: “no, a living creature is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world.” then the queen began to cry and sob so bitterly that the little man was sorry for her, and said: “i’ll give you three days to guess my name, and if you find it out in that time you may keep your child.”
then the queen pondered the whole night over all the names she had ever heard, and sent a messenger to scour the land, and to pick up far and near any names he could come across.
when the little man arrived on the following day she began with kasper, melchior, belshazzar, and all the other names she knew, in a string, but at each one the manikin called out: “that’s not my name.” the next day she sent to inquire the names of all the people in the neighborhood, and had a long list of the most uncommon and extraordinary for the little man when he made his appearance.
“is your name, perhaps, sheepshanks cruickshanks, spindleshanks?” but he always replied: “that’s not my name.” on the third day the messenger returned and announced: “i have not been able to find any new names, but as i came upon a high hill round the corner of the wood, where the foxes and hares bid each other good-night, i saw a little house, and in front of the house burned a fire, and round the fire sprang the most grotesque little man, hopping on one leg and crying:
“to-morrow i brew, to-day i bake,     and then the child away i’ll take;     for little deems my royal dame     that rumpelstiltzkin is my name!”
you can imagine the queen’s delight at hearing the name, and when the little man stepped in shortly afterward and asked: “now, my lady queen, what’s my name?” she asked first: “is your name conrad?” “no.” “is your name harry?” “no.” “is your name perhaps, rumpelstiltzkin?” “some demon has told you that!
some demon has told you that!” screamed the little man, and in his rage drove his right foot so far into the ground that it sank in up to his waist; then in a passion he seized the left foot with both hands and tore himself in two.
(1)
beauty and the beast
once upon a time, in a very far-off country, there lived a merchant who had been so fortunate in all his undertakings that he was enormously rich.
as he had, however, six sons and six daughters, he found that his money was not too much to let them all have everything they fancied, as they were accustomed to do.
but one day a most unexpected misfortune befell them.
their house caught fire and was speedily burnt to the ground, with all the splendid furniture, the books, pictures, gold, silver, and precious goods it contained; and this was only the beginning of their troubles.
their father, who had until this moment prospered in all ways, suddenly lost every ship he had upon the sea, either by dint of pirates, shipwreck, or fire.
then he heard that his clerks in distant countries, whom he trusted entirely, had proved unfaithful; and at last from great wealth he fell into the direst poverty.
all that he had left was a little house in a desolate place at least a hundred leagues from the town in which he had lived, and to this he was forced to retreat with his children, who were in despair at the idea of leading such a different life.
indeed, the daughters at first hoped that their friends, who had been so numerous while they were rich, would insist on their staying in their houses now they no longer possessed one.
but they soon found that they were left alone, and that their former friends even attributed their misfortunes to their own extravagance, and showed no intention of offering them any help.
so nothing was left for them but to take their departure to the cottage, which stood in the midst of a dark forest, and seemed to be the most dismal place upon the face of the earth.
as they were too poor to have any servants, the girls had to work hard, like peasants, and the sons, for their part, cultivated the fields to earn their living.
roughly clothed, and living in the simplest way, the girls regretted unceasingly the luxuries and amusements of their former life; only the youngest tried to be brave and cheerful.
she had been as sad as anyone when misfortune overtook her father, but, soon recovering her natural gaiety, she set to work to make the best of things, to amuse her father and brothers as well as she could, and to try to persuade her sisters to join her in dancing and singing.
but they would do nothing of the sort, and, because she was not as doleful as themselves, they declared that this miserable life was all she was fit for.
but she was really far prettier and cleverer than they were; indeed, she was so lovely that she was always called beauty.
after two years, when they were all beginning to get used to their new life, something happened to disturb their tranquillity.
their father received the news that one of his ships, which he had believed to be lost, had come safely into port with a rich cargo.
all the sons and daughters at once thought that their poverty was at an end, and wanted to set out directly for the town; but their father, who was more prudent, begged them to wait a little, and, though it was harvest time, and he could ill be spared, determined to go himself first, to make inquiries.
only the youngest daughter had any doubt but that they would soon again be as rich as they were before, or at least rich enough to live comfortably in some town where they would find amusement and gay companions once more.
so they all loaded their father with commissions for jewels and dresses which it would have taken a fortune to buy; only beauty, feeling sure that it was of no use, did not ask for anything.
her father, noticing her silence, said: “and what shall i bring for you, beauty?”
“the only thing i wish for is to see you come home safely,” she answered.
but this only vexed her sisters, who fancied she was blaming them for having asked for such costly things.
her father, however, was pleased, but as he thought that at her age she certainly ought to like pretty presents, he told her to choose something.
“well, dear father,” she said, “as you insist upon it, i beg that you will bring me a rose.
i have not seen one since we came here, and i love them so much.”
so the merchant set out and reached the town as quickly as possible, but only to find that his former companions, believing him to be dead, had divided between them the goods which the ship had brought; and after six months of trouble and expense he found himself as poor as when he started, having been able to recover only just enough to pay the cost of his journey.
to make matters worse, he was obliged to leave the town in the most terrible weather, so that by the time he was within a few leagues of his home he was almost exhausted with cold and fatigue.
though he knew it would take some hours to get through the forest, he was so anxious to be at his journey’s end that he resolved to go on; but night overtook him, and the deep snow and bitter frost made it impossible for his horse to carry him any further.
not a house was to be seen; the only shelter he could get was the hollow trunk of a great tree, and there he crouched all the night which seemed to him the longest he had ever known.
in spite of his weariness the howling of the wolves kept him awake, and even when at last the day broke he was not much better off, for the falling snow had covered up every path, and he did not know which way to turn.
at length he made out some sort of track, and though at the beginning it was so rough and slippery that he fell down more than once, it presently became easier, and led him into an avenue of trees which ended in a splendid castle.
it seemed to the merchant very strange that no snow had fallen in the avenue, which was entirely composed of orange trees, covered with flowers and fruit.
when he reached the first court of the castle he saw before him a flight of agate steps, and went up them, and passed through several splendidly furnished rooms.
the pleasant warmth of the air revived him, and he felt very hungry; but there seemed to be nobody in all this vast and splendid palace whom he could ask to give him something to eat.
deep silence reigned everywhere, and at last, tired of roaming through empty rooms and galleries, he stopped in a room smaller than the rest, where a clear fire was burning and a couch was drawn up closely to it.
thinking that this must be prepared for someone who was expected, he sat down to wait till he should come, and very soon fell into a sweet sleep.
when his extreme hunger wakened him after several hours, he was still alone; but a little table, upon which was a good dinner, had been drawn up close to him, and, as he had eaten nothing for twenty-four hours, he lost no time in beginning his meal, hoping that he might soon have an opportunity of thanking his considerate entertainer, whoever it might be.
but no one appeared, and even after another long sleep, from which he awoke completely refreshed, there was no sign of anybody, though a fresh meal of dainty cakes and fruit was prepared upon the little table at his elbow.
being naturally timid, the silence began to terrify him, and he resolved to search once more through all the rooms; but it was of no use.
not even a servant was to be seen; there was no sign of life in the palace!
he began to wonder what he should do, and to amuse himself by pretending that all the treasures he saw were his own, and considering how he would divide them among his children.
then he went down into the garden, and though it was winter everywhere else, here the sun shone, and the birds sang, and the flowers bloomed, and the air was soft and sweet.
the merchant, in ecstacies with all he saw and heard, said to himself:
“all this must be meant for me.
i will go this minute and bring my children to share all these delights.”
in spite of being so cold and weary when he reached the castle, he had taken his horse to the stable and fed it.
now he thought he would saddle it for his homeward journey, and he turned down the path which led to the stable.
this path had a hedge of roses on each side of it, and the merchant thought he had never seen or smelt such exquisite flowers.
they reminded him of his promise to beauty, and he stopped and had just gathered one to take to her when he was startled by a strange noise behind him.
turning round, he saw a frightful beast, which seemed to be very angry and said, in a terrible voice:
“who told you that you might gather my roses?
was it not enough that i allowed you to be in my palace and was kind to you?
this is the way you show your gratitude, by stealing my flowers!
but your insolence shall not go unpunished.” the merchant, terrified by these furious words, dropped the fatal rose, and, throwing himself on his knees, cried:
“pardon me, noble sir.
i am truly grateful to you for your hospitality, which was so magnificent that i could not imagine that you would be offended by my taking such a little thing as a rose.” but the beast’s anger was not lessened by this speech.
“you are very ready with excuses and flattery,” he cried; “but that will not save you from the death you deserve.”
“alas!” thought the merchant, “if my daughter could only know what danger her rose has brought me into!”
and in despair he began to tell the beast all his misfortunes, and the reason of his journey, not forgetting to mention beauty’s request.
“a king’s ransom would hardly have procured all that my other daughters asked.” he said: “but i thought that i might at least take beauty her rose.
i beg you to forgive me, for you see i meant no harm.”
the beast considered for a moment, and then he said, in a less furious tone:
“i will forgive you on one condition that is, that you will give me one of your daughters.”
“ah!” cried the merchant, “if i were cruel enough to buy my own life at the expense of one of my children’s, what excuse could i invent to bring her here?”
“no excuse would be necessary,” answered the beast.
“if she comes at all she must come willingly.
on no other condition will i have her.
see if any one of them is courageous enough, and loves you well enough to come and save your life.
you seem to be an honest man, so i will trust you to go home.
i give you a month to see if either of your daughters will come back with you and stay here, to let you go free.
if neither of them is willing, you must come alone, after bidding them good-by for ever, for then you will belong to me.
and do not imagine that you can hide from me, for if you fail to keep your word i will come and fetch you!” added the beast grimly.
the merchant accepted this proposal, though he did not really think any of his daughters could be persuaded to come.
he promised to return at the time appointed, and then, anxious to escape from the presence of the beast, he asked permission to set off at once.
but the beast answered that he could not go until next day.
“then you will find a horse ready for you,” he said.
“now go and eat your supper, and await my orders.”
the poor merchant, more dead than alive, went back to his room, where the most delicious supper was already served on the little table which was drawn up before a blazing fire.
but he was too terrified to eat, and only tasted a few of the dishes, for fear the beast should be angry if he did not obey his orders.
when he had finished he heard a great noise in the next room, which he knew meant that the beast was coming.
as he could do nothing to escape his visit, the only thing that remained was to seem as little afraid as possible; so when the beast appeared and asked roughly if he had supped well, the merchant answered humbly that he had, thanks to his host’s kindness.
then the beast warned him to remember their agreement, and to prepare his daughter exactly for what she had to expect.
“do not get up to-morrow,” he added, “until you see the sun and hear a golden bell ring.
then you will find your breakfast waiting for you here, and the horse you are to ride will be ready in the courtyard.
he will also bring you back again when you come with your daughter a month hence.
farewell.
take a rose to beauty, and remember your promise!”
the merchant was only too glad when the beast went away, and though he could not sleep for sadness, he lay down until the sun rose.
then, after a hasty breakfast, he went to gather beauty’s rose, and mounted his horse, which carried him off so swiftly that in an instant he had lost sight of the palace, and he was still wrapped in gloomy thoughts when it stopped before the door of the cottage.
his sons and daughters, who had been very uneasy at his long absence, rushed to meet him, eager to know the result of his journey, which, seeing him mounted upon a splendid horse and wrapped in a rich mantle, they supposed to be favorable.
he hid the truth from them at first, only saying sadly to beauty as he gave her the rose:
“here is what you asked me to bring you; you little know what it has cost.”
but this excited their curiosity so greatly that presently he told them his adventures from beginning to end, and then they were all very unhappy.
the girls lamented loudly over their lost hopes, and the sons declared that their father should not return to this terrible castle, and began to make plans for killing the beast if it should come to fetch him.
but he reminded them that he had promised to go back.
then the girls were very angry with beauty, and said it was all her fault, and that if she had asked for something sensible this would never have happened, and complained bitterly that they should have to suffer for her folly.
poor beauty, much distressed, said to them:
“i have, indeed, caused this misfortune, but i assure you i did it innocently.
who could have guessed that to ask for a rose in the middle of summer would cause so much misery?
but as i did the mischief it is only just that i should suffer for it.
i will therefore go back with my father to keep his promise.”
at first nobody would hear of this arrangement, and her father and brothers, who loved her dearly, declared that nothing should make them let her go; but beauty was firm.
as the time drew near she divided all her little possessions between her sisters, and said good-by to everything she loved, and when the fatal day came she encouraged and cheered her father as they mounted together the horse which had brought him back.
it seemed to fly rather than gallop, but so smoothly that beauty was not frightened; indeed, she would have enjoyed the journey if she had not feared what might happen to her at the end of it.
her father still tried to persuade her to go back, but in vain.
while they were talking the night fell, and then, to their great surprise, wonderful colored lights began to shine in all directions, and splendid fireworks blazed out before them; all the forest was illuminated by them, and even felt pleasantly warm, though it had been bitterly cold before.
this lasted until they reached the avenue of orange trees, where were statues holding flaming torches, and when they got nearer to the palace they saw that it was illuminated from the roof to the ground, and music sounded softly from the courtyard.
“the beast must be very hungry,” said beauty, trying to laugh, “if he makes all this rejoicing over the arrival of his prey.”
but, in spite of her anxiety, she could not help admiring all the wonderful things she saw.
the horse stopped at the foot of the flight of steps leading to the terrace, and when they had dismounted her father led her to the little room he had been in before, where they found a splendid fire burning, and the table daintily spread with a delicious supper.
the merchant knew that this was meant for them, and beauty, who was rather less frightened now that she had passed through so many rooms and seen nothing of the beast, was quite willing to begin, for her long ride had made her very hungry.
but they had hardly finished their meal when the noise of the beast’s footsteps was heard approaching, and beauty clung to her father in terror, which became all the greater when she saw how frightened he was.
but when the beast really appeared, though she trembled at the sight of him, she made a great effort to hide her terror, and saluted him respectfully.
this evidently pleased the beast.
after looking at her he said, in a tone that might have struck terror into the boldest heart, though he did not seem to be angry:
“good-evening, old man.
good-evening, beauty.”
the merchant was too terrified to reply, but beauty answered sweetly:
“good-evening, beast.”
“have you come willingly?” asked the beast.
“will you be content to stay here when your father goes away?”
beauty answered bravely that she was quite prepared to stay.
“i am pleased with you,” said the beast.
“as you have come of your own accord, you may stay.
as for you, old man,” he added, turning to the merchant, “at sunrise to-morrow you will take your departure.
when the bell rings get up quickly and eat your breakfast, and you will find the same horse waiting to take you home; but remember that you must never expect to see my palace again.”
then turning to beauty, he said:
“take your father into the next room, and help him to choose everything you think your brothers and sisters would like to have.
you will find two traveling-trunks there; fill them as full as you can.
it is only just that you should send them something very precious as a remembrance of yourself.”
then he went away, after saying, “good-by, beauty; good-by, old man”; and though beauty was beginning to think with great dismay of her father’s departure, she was afraid to disobey the beast’s orders; and they went into the next room, which had shelves and cupboards all round it.
they were greatly surprised at the riches it contained.
there were splendid dresses fit for a queen, with all the ornaments that were to be worn with them; and when beauty opened the cupboards she was quite dazzled by the gorgeous jewels that lay in heaps upon every shelf.
after choosing a vast quantity, which she divided between her sisters for she had made a heap of the wonderful dresses for each of them she opened the last chest, which was full of gold.
“i think, father,” she said, “that, as the gold will be more useful to you, we had better take out the other things again, and fill the trunks with it.” so they did this; but the more they put in the more room there seemed to be, and at last they put back all the jewels and dresses they had taken out, and beauty even added as many more of the jewels as she could carry at once; and then the trunks were not too full, but they were so heavy that an elephant could not have carried them!
“the beast was mocking us,” cried the merchant; “he must have pretended to give us all these things, knowing that i could not carry them away.”
“let us wait and see,” answered beauty.
“i cannot believe that he meant to deceive us.
all we can do is to fasten them up and leave them ready.”
so they did this and returned to the little room, where, to their astonishment, they found breakfast ready.
the merchant ate his with a good appetite, as the beast’s generosity made him believe that he might perhaps venture to come back soon and see beauty.
but she felt sure that her father was leaving her for ever, so she was very sad when the bell rang sharply for the second time, and warned them that the time had come for them to part.
they went down into the courtyard, where two horses were waiting, one loaded with the two trunks, the other for him to ride.
they were pawing the ground in their impatience to start, and the merchant was forced to bid beauty a hasty farewell; and as soon as he was mounted he went off at such a pace that she lost sight of him in an instant.
then beauty began to cry, and wandered sadly back to her own room.
but she soon found that she was very sleepy, and as she had nothing better to do she lay down and instantly fell asleep.
and then she dreamed that she was walking by a brook bordered with trees, and lamenting her sad fate, when a young prince, handsomer than anyone she had ever seen, and with a voice that went straight to her heart, came and said to her, “ah, beauty!
you are not so unfortunate as you suppose.
here you will be rewarded for all you have suffered elsewhere.
your every wish shall be gratified.
only try to find me out, no matter how i may be disguised, as i love you dearly, and in making me happy you will find your own happiness.
be as true-hearted as you are beautiful, and we shall have nothing left to wish for.”
“what can i do, prince, to make you happy?” said beauty.
“only be grateful,” he answered, “and do not trust too much to your eyes.
and, above all, do not desert me until you have saved me from my cruel misery.”
after this she thought she found herself in a room with a stately and beautiful lady, who said to her:
“dear beauty, try not to regret all you have left behind you, for you are destined to a better fate.
only do not let yourself be deceived by appearances.”
beauty found her dreams so interesting that she was in no hurry to awake, but presently the clock roused her by calling her name softly twelve times, and then she got up and found her dressing-table set out with everything she could possibly want; and when her toilet was finished she found dinner was waiting in the room next to hers.
but dinner does not take very long when you are all by yourself, and very soon she sat down cosily in the corner of a sofa, and began to think about the charming prince she had seen in her dream.
“he said i could make him happy,” said beauty to herself.
“it seems, then, that this horrible beast keeps him a prisoner.
how can i set him free?
i wonder why they both told me not to trust to appearances?
i don’t understand it.
but, after all, it was only a dream, so why should i trouble myself about it?
i had better go and find something to do to amuse myself.”
so she got up and began to explore some of the many rooms of the palace.
the first she entered was lined with mirrors, and beauty saw herself reflected on every side, and thought she had never seen such a charming room.
then a bracelet which was hanging from a chandelier caught her eye, and on taking it down she was greatly surprised to find that it held a portrait of her unknown admirer, just as she had seen him in her dream.
with great delight she slipped the bracelet on her arm, and went on into a gallery of pictures, where she soon found a portrait of the same handsome prince, as large as life, and so well painted that as she studied it he seemed to smile kindly at her.
tearing herself away from the portrait at last, she passed through into a room which contained every musical instrument under the sun, and here she amused herself for a long while in trying some of them, and singing until she was tired.
the next room was a library, and she saw everything she had ever wanted to read, as well as everything she had read, and it seemed to her that a whole lifetime would not be enough to even read the names of the books, there were so many.
by this time it was growing dusk, and wax candles in diamond and ruby candlesticks were beginning to light themselves in every room.
beauty found her supper served just at the time she preferred to have it, but she did not see anyone or hear a sound, and, though her father had warned her that she would be alone, she began to find it rather dull.
but presently she heard the beast coming, and wondered tremblingly if he meant to eat her up now.
however, as he did not seem at all ferocious, and only said gruffly:
“good-evening, beauty,” she answered cheerfully and managed to conceal her terror.
then the beast asked her how she had been amusing herself, and she told him all the rooms she had seen.
then he asked if she thought she could be happy in his palace; and beauty answered that everything was so beautiful that she would be very hard to please if she could not be happy.
and after about an hour’s talk beauty began to think that the beast was not nearly so terrible as she had supposed at first.
then he got up to leave her, and said in his gruff voice:
“do you love me, beauty?
will you marry me?”
“oh!
what shall i say?” cried beauty, for she was afraid to make the beast angry by refusing.
“say ‘yes’ or ‘no’ without fear,” he replied.
“oh!
no, beast,” said beauty hastily.
“since you will not, good-night, beauty,” he said.
and she answered, “good-night, beast,” very glad to find that her refusal had not provoked him.
and after he was gone she was very soon in bed and asleep, and dreaming of her unknown prince.
she thought he came and said to her:
“ah, beauty!
why are you so unkind to me?
i fear i am fated to be unhappy for many a long day still.”
and then her dreams changed, but the charming prince figured in them all; and when morning came her first thought was to look at the portrait, and see if it was really like him, and she found that it certainly was.
this morning she decided to amuse herself in the garden, for the sun shone, and all the fountains were playing; but she was astonished to find that every place was familiar to her, and presently she came to the brook where the myrtle trees were growing where she had first met the prince in her dream, and that made her think more than ever that he must be kept a prisoner by the beast.
when she was tired she went back to the palace, and found a new room full of materials for every kind of work ribbons to make into bows, and silks to work into flowers.
then there was an aviary full of rare birds, which were so tame that they flew to beauty as soon as they saw her, and perched upon her shoulders and her head.
“pretty little creatures,” she said, “how i wish that your cage was nearer to my room, that i might often hear you sing!”
so saying she opened a door, and found, to her delight, that it led into her own room, though she had thought it was quite the other side of the palace.
there were more birds in a room farther on, parrots and cockatoos that could talk, and they greeted beauty by name; indeed, she found them so entertaining that she took one or two back to her room, and they talked to her while she was at supper; after which the beast paid her his usual visit, and asked her the same questions as before, and then with a gruff “good-night” he took his departure, and beauty went to bed to dream of her mysterious prince.
the days passed swiftly in different amusements, and after a while beauty found out another strange thing in the palace, which often pleased her when she was tired of being alone.
there was one room which she had not noticed particularly; it was empty, except that under each of the windows stood a very comfortable chair; and the first time she had looked out of the window it had seemed to her that a black curtain prevented her from seeing anything outside.
but the second time she went into the room, happening to be tired, she sat down in one of the chairs, when instantly the curtain was rolled aside, and a most amusing pantomime was acted before her; there were dances, and colored lights, and music, and pretty dresses, and it was all so gay that beauty was in ecstacies.
after that she tried the other seven windows in turn, and there was some new and surprising entertainment to be seen from each of them, so that beauty never could feel lonely any more.
every evening after supper the beast came to see her, and always before saying good-night asked her in his terrible voice:
“beauty, will you marry me?”
and it seemed to beauty, now she understood him better, that when she said, “no, beast,” he went away quite sad.
but her happy dreams of the handsome young prince soon made her forget the poor beast, and the only thing that at all disturbed her was to be constantly told to distrust appearances, to let her heart guide her, and not her eyes, and many other equally perplexing things, which, consider as she would, she could not understand.
so everything went on for a long time, until at last, happy as she was, beauty began to long for the sight of her father and her brothers and sisters; and one night, seeing her look very sad, the beast asked her what was the matter.
beauty had quite ceased to be afraid of him.
now she knew that he was really gentle in spite of his ferocious looks and his dreadful voice.
so she answered that she was longing to see her home once more.
upon hearing this the beast seemed sadly distressed, and cried miserably.
“ah!
beauty, have you the heart to desert an unhappy beast like this?
what more do you want to make you happy?
is it because you hate me that you want to escape?”
“no, dear beast,” answered beauty softly, “i do not hate you, and i should be very sorry never to see you any more, but i long to see my father again.
only let me go for two months, and i promise to come back to you and stay for the rest of my life.”
the beast, who had been sighing dolefully while she spoke, now replied:
“i cannot refuse you anything you ask, even though it should cost me my life.
take the four boxes you will find in the room next to your own, and fill them with everything you wish to take with you.
but remember your promise and come back when the two months are over, or you may have cause to repent it, for if you do not come in good time you will find your faithful beast dead.
you will not need any chariot to bring you back.
only say good-by to all your brothers and sisters the night before you come away, and when you have gone to bed turn this ring round upon your finger and say firmly: ‘i wish to go back to my palace and see my beast again.’ good-night, beauty.
fear nothing, sleep peacefully, and before long you shall see your father once more.”
as soon as beauty was alone she hastened to fill the boxes with all the rare and precious things she saw about her, and only when she was tired of heaping things into them did they seem to be full.
then she went to bed, but could hardly sleep for joy.
and when at last she did begin to dream of her beloved prince she was grieved to see him stretched upon a grassy bank, sad and weary, and hardly like himself.
“what is the matter?” she cried.
he looked at her reproachfully, and said:
“how can you ask me, cruel one?
are you not leaving me to my death perhaps?”
“ah!
don’t be so sorrowful,” cried beauty; “i am only going to assure my father that i am safe and happy.
i have promised the beast faithfully that i will come back, and he would die of grief if i did not keep my word!”
“what would that matter to you?” said the prince “surely you would not care?”
“indeed, i should be ungrateful if i did not care for such a kind beast,” cried beauty indignantly.
“i would die to save him from pain.
i assure you it is not his fault that he is so ugly.”
just then a strange sound woke her someone was speaking not very far away; and opening her eyes she found herself in a room she had never seen before, which was certainly not nearly so splendid as those she was used to in the beast’s palace.
where could she be?
she got up and dressed hastily, and then saw that the boxes she had packed the night before were all in the room.
while she was wondering by what magic the beast had transported them and herself to this strange place she suddenly heard her father’s voice, and rushed out and greeted him joyfully.
her brothers and sisters were all astonished at her appearance, as they had never expected to see her again, and there was no end to the questions they asked her.
she had also much to hear about what had happened to them while she was away, and of her father’s journey home.
but when they heard that she had only come to be with them for a short time, and then must go back to the beast’s palace for ever, they lamented loudly.
then beauty asked her father what he thought could be the meaning of her strange dreams, and why the prince constantly begged her not to trust to appearances.
after much consideration, he answered: “you tell me yourself that the beast, frightful as he is, loves you dearly, and deserves your love and gratitude for his gentleness and kindness; i think the prince must mean you to understand that you ought to reward him by doing as he wishes you to, in spite of his ugliness.”
beauty could not help seeing that this seemed very probable; still, when she thought of her dear prince who was so handsome, she did not feel at all inclined to marry the beast.
at any rate, for two months she need not decide, but could enjoy herself with her sisters.
but though they were rich now, and lived in town again, and had plenty of acquaintances, beauty found that nothing amused her very much; and she often thought of the palace, where she was so happy, especially as at home she never once dreamed of her dear prince, and she felt quite sad without him.
then her sisters seemed to have got quite used to being without her, and even found her rather in the way, so she would not have been sorry when the two months were over but for her father and brothers, who begged her to stay, and seemed so grieved at the thought of her departure that she had not the courage to say good-by to them.
every day when she got up she meant to say it at night, and when night came she put it off again, until at last she had a dismal dream which helped her to make up her mind.
she thought she was wandering in a lonely path in the palace gardens, when she heard groans which seemed to come from some bushes hiding the entrance of a cave, and running quickly to see what could be the matter, she found the beast stretched out upon his side, apparently dying.
he reproached her faintly with being the cause of his distress, and at the same moment a stately lady appeared, and said very gravely:
“ah!
beauty, you are only just in time to save his life.
see what happens when people do not keep their promises!
if you had delayed one day more, you would have found him dead.”
beauty was so terrified by this dream that the next morning she announced her intention of going back at once, and that very night she said good-by to her father and all her brothers and sisters, and as soon as she was in bed she turned her ring round upon her finger, and said firmly, “i wish to go back to my palace and see my beast again,” as she had been told to do.
then she fell asleep instantly, and only woke up to hear the clock saying “beauty, beauty” twelve times in its musical voice, which told her at once that she was really in the palace once more.
everything was just as before, and her birds were so glad to see her!
but beauty thought she had never known such a long day, for she was so anxious to see the beast again that she felt as if suppertime would never come.
but when it did come and no beast appeared she was really frightened; so, after listening and waiting for a long time, she ran down into the garden to search for him.
up and down the paths and avenues ran poor beauty, calling him in vain, for no one answered, and not a trace of him could she find; until at last, quite tired, she stopped for a minute’s rest, and saw that she was standing opposite the shady path she had seen in her dream.
she rushed down it, and, sure enough, there was the cave, and in it lay the beast asleep, as beauty thought.
quite glad to have found him, she ran up and stroked his head, but, to her horror, he did not move or open his eyes.
“oh!
he is dead; and it is all my fault,” said beauty, crying bitterly.
but then, looking at him again, she fancied he still breathed, and, hastily fetching some water from the nearest fountain, she sprinkled it over his face, and, to her great delight, he began to revive.
“oh!
beast, how you frightened me!” she cried.
“i never knew how much i loved you until just now, when i feared i was too late to save your life.”
“can you really love such an ugly creature as i am?” said the beast faintly.
“ah!
beauty, you only came just in time.
i was dying because i thought you had forgotten your promise.
but go back now and rest, i shall see you again by and by.”
beauty, who had half expected that he would be angry with her, was reassured by his gentle voice, and went back to the palace, where supper was awaiting her; and afterward the beast came in as usual, and talked about the time she had spent with her father, asking if she had enjoyed herself, and if they had all been very glad to see her.
beauty answered politely, and quite enjoyed telling him all that had happened to her.
and when at last the time came for him to go, and he asked, as he had so often asked before, “beauty, will you marry me?”
she answered softly, “yes, dear beast.”
as she spoke a blaze of light sprang up before the windows of the palace; fireworks crackled and guns banged, and across the avenue of orange trees, in letters all made of fire-flies, was written: “long live the prince and his bride.”
turning to ask the beast what it could all mean, beauty found that he had disappeared, and in his place stood her long-loved prince!
at the same moment the wheels of a chariot were heard upon the terrace, and two ladies entered the room.
one of them beauty recognized as the stately lady she had seen in her dreams; the other was also so grand and queenly that beauty hardly knew which to greet first.
but the one she already knew said to her companion:
“well, queen, this is beauty, who has had the courage to rescue your son from the terrible enchantment.
they love one another, and only your consent to their marriage is wanting to make them perfectly happy.”
“i consent with all my heart,” cried the queen.
“how can i ever thank you enough, charming girl, for having restored my dear son to his natural form?”
and then she tenderly embraced beauty and the prince, who had meanwhile been greeting the fairy and receiving her congratulations.
“now,” said the fairy to beauty, “i suppose you would like me to send for all your brothers and sisters to dance at your wedding?”
and so she did, and the marriage was celebrated the very next day with the utmost splendor, and beauty and the prince lived happily ever after.
(1)
(1) la belle et la bete.
par madame de villeneuve.
the master-maid
once upon a time there was a king who had many sons.
i do not exactly know how many there were, but the youngest of them could not stay quietly at home, and was determined to go out into the world and try his luck, and after a long time the king was forced to give him leave to go.
when he had traveled about for several days, he came to a giant’s house, and hired himself to the giant as a servant.
in the morning the giant had to go out to pasture his goats, and as he was leaving the house he told the king’s son that he must clean out the stable.
“and after you have done that,” he said, “you need not do any more work to-day, for you have come to a kind master, and that you shall find.
but what i set you to do must be done both well and thoroughly, and you must on no account go into any of the rooms which lead out of the room in which you slept last night.
if you do, i will take your life.”
“well to be sure, he is an easy master!” said the prince to himself as he walked up and down the room humming and singing, for he thought there would be plenty of time left to clean out the stable; “but it would be amusing to steal a glance into his other rooms as well,” thought the prince, “for there must be something that he is afraid of my seeing, as i am not allowed to enter them.” so he went into the first room.
a cauldron was hanging from the walls; it was boiling, but the prince could see no fire under it.
“i wonder what is inside it,” he thought, and dipped a lock of his hair in, and the hair became just as if it were all made of copper.
“that’s a nice kind of soup.
if anyone were to taste that his throat would be gilded,” said the youth, and then he went into the next chamber.
there, too, a cauldron was hanging from the wall, bubbling and boiling, but there was no fire under this either.
“i will just try what this is like too,” said the prince, thrusting another lock of his hair into it, and it came out silvered over.
“such costly soup is not to be had in my father’s palace,” said the prince; “but everything depends on how it tastes,” and then he went into the third room.
there, too, a cauldron was hanging from the wall, boiling, exactly the same as in the two other rooms, and the prince took pleasure in trying this also, so he dipped a lock of hair in, and it came out so brightly gilded that it shone again.
“some talk about going from bad to worse,” said the prince; “but this is better and better.
if he boils gold here, what can he boil in there?” he was determined to see, and went through the door into the fourth room.
no cauldron was to be seen there, but on a bench someone was seated who was like a king’s daughter, but, whosoever she was, she was so beautiful that never in the prince’s life had he seen her equal.
“oh!
in heaven’s name what are you doing here?” said she who sat upon the bench.
“i took the place of servant here yesterday,” said the prince.
“may you soon have a better place, if you have come to serve here!” said she.
“oh, but i think i have got a kind master,” said the prince.
“he has not given me hard work to do to-day.
when i have cleaned out the stable i shall be done.”
“yes, but how will you be able to do that?” she asked again.
“if you clean it out as other people do, ten pitchforksful will come in for every one you throw out.
but i will teach you how to do it; you must turn your pitchfork upside down, and work with the handle, and then all will fly out of its own accord.”
“yes, i will attend to that,” said the prince, and stayed sitting where he was the whole day, for it was soon settled between them that they would marry each other, he and the king’s daughter; so the first day of his service with the giant did not seem long to him.
but when evening was drawing near she said that it would now be better for him to clean out the stable before the giant came home.
when he got there he had a fancy to try if what she had said were true, so he began to work in the same way that he had seen the stable-boys doing in his father’s stables, but he soon saw that he must give up that, for when he had worked a very short time he had scarcely any room left to stand.
so he did what the princess had taught him, turned the pitchfork round, and worked with the handle, and in the twinkling of an eye the stable was as clean as if it had been scoured.
when he had done that, he went back again into the room in which the giant had given him leave to stay, and there he walked backward and forward on the floor, and began to hum and sing.
then came the giant home with the goats.
“have you cleaned the stable?”
asked the giant.
“yes, now it is clean and sweet, master,” said the king’s son.
“i shall see about that,” said the giant, and went round to the stable, but it was just as the prince had said.
“you have certainly been talking to my master-maid, for you never got that out of your own head,” said the giant.
“master-maid!
what kind of a thing is that, master?” said the prince, making himself look as stupid as an ass; “i should like to see that.”
“well, you will see her quite soon enough,” said the giant.
on the second morning the giant had again to go out with his goats, so he told the prince that on that day he was to fetch home his horse, which was out on the mountain-side, and when he had done that he might rest himself for the remainder of the day, “for you have come to a kind master, and that you shall find,” said the giant once more.
“but do not go into any of the rooms that i spoke of yesterday, or i will wring your head off,” said he, and then went away with his flock of goats.
“yes, indeed, you are a kind master,” said the prince; “but i will go in and talk to the master-maid again; perhaps before long she may like better to be mine than yours.”
so he went to her.
then she asked him what he had to do that day.
“oh!
not very dangerous work, i fancy,” said the king’s son.
“i have only to go up the mountain-side after his horse.”
“well, how do you mean to set about it?” asked the master-maid.
“oh!
there is no great art in riding a horse home,” said the king’s son.
“i think i must have ridden friskier horses before now.”
“yes, but it is not so easy a thing as you think to ride the horse home,” said the master-maid; “but i will teach you what to do.
when you go near it, fire will burst out of its nostrils like flames from a pine torch; but be very careful, and take the bridle which is hanging by the door there, and fling the bit straight into his jaws, and then it will become so tame that you will be able to do what you like with it.” he said he would bear this in mind, and then he again sat in there the whole day by the master-maid, and they chatted and talked of one thing and another, but the first thing and the last now was, how happy and delightful it would be if they could but marry each other, and get safely away from the giant; and the prince would have forgotten both the mountain-side and the horse if the master-maid had not reminded him of them as evening drew near, and said that now it would be better if he went to fetch the horse before the giant came.
so he did this, and took the bridle which was hanging on a crook, and strode up the mountain-side, and it was not long before he met with the horse, and fire and red flames streamed forth out of its nostrils.
but the youth carefully watched his opportunity, and just as it was rushing at him with open jaws he threw the bit straight into its mouth, and the horse stood as quiet as a young lamb, and there was no difficulty at all in getting it home to the stable.
then the prince went back into his room again, and began to hum and to sing.
toward evening the giant came home.
“have you fetched the horse back from the mountain-side?” he asked.
“that i have, master; it was an amusing horse to ride, but i rode him straight home, and put him in the stable too,” said the prince.
“i will see about that,” said the giant, and went out to the stable, but the horse was standing there just as the prince had said.
“you have certainly been talking with my master-maid, for you never got that out of your own head,” said the giant again.
“yesterday, master, you talked about this master-maid, and to-day you are talking about her; ah, heaven bless you, master, why will you not show me the thing?
for it would be a real pleasure to me to see it,”
said the prince, who again pretended to be silly and stupid.
“oh!
you will see her quite soon enough,” said the giant.
on the morning of the third day the giant again had to go into the wood with the goats.
“to-day you must go underground and fetch my taxes,”
he said to the prince.
“when you have done this, you may rest for the remainder of the day, for you shall see what an easy master you have come to,” and then he went away.
“well, however easy a master you may be, you set me very hard work to do,” thought the prince; “but i will see if i cannot find your master-maid; you say she is yours, but for all that she may be able to tell me what to do now,” and he went back to her.
so, when the master-maid asked him what the giant had set him to do that day, he told her that he was to go underground and get the taxes.
“and how will you set about that?” said the master-maid.
“oh!
you must tell me how to do it,” said the prince, “for i have never yet been underground, and even if i knew the way i do not know how much i am to demand.”
“oh!
yes, i will soon tell you that; you must go to the rock there under the mountain-ridge, and take the club that is there, and knock on the rocky wall,” said the master-maid.
“then someone will come out who will sparkle with fire; you shall tell him your errand, and when he asks you how much you want to have you are to say: ‘as much as i can carry.’”
“yes, i will keep that in mind,” said he, and then he sat there with the master-maid the whole day, until night drew near, and he would gladly have stayed there till now if the master-maid had not reminded him that it was time to be off to fetch the taxes before the giant came.
so he set out on his way, and did exactly what the master-maid had told him.
he went to the rocky wall, and took the club, and knocked on it.
then came one so full of sparks that they flew both out of his eyes and his nose.
“what do you want?” said he.
“i was to come here for the giant, and demand the tax for him,” said the king’s son.
“how much are you to have then?” said the other.
“i ask for no more than i am able to carry with me,” said the prince.
“it is well for you that you have not asked for a horse-load,” said he who had come out of the rock.
“but now come in with me.”
this the prince did, and what a quantity of gold and silver he saw!
it was lying inside the mountain like heaps of stones in a waste place, and he got a load that was as large as he was able to carry, and with that he went his way.
so in the evening, when the giant came home with the goats, the prince went into the chamber and hummed and sang again as he had done on the other two evenings.
“have you been for the tax?” said the giant.
“yes, that i have, master,” said the prince.
“where have you put it then?” said the giant again.
“the bag of gold is standing there on the bench,” said the prince.
“i will see about that,” said the giant, and went away to the bench, but the bag was standing there, and it was so full that gold and silver dropped out when the giant untied the string.
“you have certainly been talking with my master-maid!” said the giant, “and if you have i will wring your neck.”
“master-maid?” said the prince; “yesterday my master talked about this master-maid, and to-day he is talking about her again, and the first day of all it was talk of the same kind.
i do wish i could see the thing myself,” said he.
“yes, yes, wait till to-morrow,” said the giant, “and then i myself will take you to her.”
“ah!
master, i thank you but you are only mocking me,” said the king’s son.
next day the giant took him to the master-maid.
“now you shall kill him, and boil him in the great big cauldron you know of, and when you have got the broth ready give me a call,” said the giant; then he lay down on the bench to sleep, and almost immediately began to snore so that it sounded like thunder among the hills.
so the master-maid took a knife, and cut the prince’s little finger, and dropped three drops of blood upon a wooden stool; then she took all the old rags, and shoe-soles, and all the rubbish she could lay hands on, and put them in the cauldron; and then she filled a chest with gold dust, and a lump of salt, and a water-flask which was hanging by the door, and she also took with her a golden apple, and two gold chickens; and then she and the prince went away with all the speed they could, and when they had gone a little way they came to the sea, and then they sailed, but where they got the ship from i have never been able to learn.
now, when the giant had slept a good long time, he began to stretch himself on the bench on which he was lying.
“will it soon boil?” said he.
“it is just beginning,” said the first drop of blood on the stool.
so the giant lay down to sleep again, and slept for a long, long time.
then he began to move about a little again.
“will it soon be ready now?”
said he, but he did not look up this time any more than he had done the first time, for he was still half asleep.
“half done!” said the second drop of blood, and the giant believed it was the master-maid again, and turned himself on the bench, and lay down to sleep once more.
when he had slept again for many hours, he began to move and stretch himself.
“is it not done yet?” said he.
“it is quite ready,” said the third drop of blood.
then the giant began to sit up and rub his eyes, but he could not see who it was who had spoken to him, so he asked for the master-maid, and called her.
but there was no one to give him an answer.
“ah!
well, she has just stolen out for a little,” thought the giant, and he took a spoon, and went off to the cauldron to have a taste; but there was nothing in it but shoe-soles, and rags, and such trumpery as that, and all was boiled up together, so that he could not tell whether it was porridge or milk pottage.
when he saw this, he understood what had happened, and fell into such a rage that he hardly knew what he was doing.
away he went after the prince and the master-maid so fast that the wind whistled behind him, and it was not long before he came to the water, but he could not get over it.
“well, well, i will soon find a cure for that; i have only to call my river-sucker,” said the giant, and he did call him.
so his river-sucker came and lay down, and drank one, two, three draughts, and with that the water in the sea fell so low that the giant saw the master-maid and the prince out on the sea in their ship.
“now you must throw out the lump of salt,” said the master-maid, and the prince did so, and it grew up into such a great high mountain right across the sea that the giant could not come over it, and the river-sucker could not drink any more water.
“well, well, i will soon find a cure for that,” said the giant, so he called to his hill-borer to come and bore through the mountain so that the river-sucker might be able to drink up the water again.
but just as the hole was made, and the river-sucker was beginning to drink, the master-maid told the prince to throw one or two drops out of the flask, and when he did this the sea instantly became full of water again, and before the river-sucker could take one drink they reached the land and were in safety.
so they determined to go home to the prince’s father, but the prince would on no account permit the master-maid to walk there, for he thought that it was unbecoming either for her or for him to go on foot.
“wait here the least little bit of time, while i go home for the seven horses which stand in my father’s stable,” said he; “it is not far off, and i shall not be long away, but i will not let my betrothed bride go on foot to the palace.”
“oh!
no, do not go, for if you go home to the king’s palace you will forget me, i foresee that.”
“how could i forget you?
we have suffered so much evil together, and love each other so much,” said the prince; and he insisted on going home for the coach with the seven horses, and she was to wait for him there, by the sea-shore.
so at last the master-maid had to yield, for he was so absolutely determined to do it.
“but when you get there you must not even give yourself time to greet anyone, but go straight into the stable, and take the horses, and put them in the coach, and drive back as quickly as you can.
for they will all come round about you; but you must behave just as if you did not see them, and on no account must you taste anything, for if you do it will cause great misery both to you and to me,” said she; and this he promised.
but when he got home to the king’s palace one of his brothers was just going to be married, and the bride and all her kith and kin had come to the palace; so they all thronged round him, and questioned him about this and that, and wanted him to go in with them; but he behaved as if he did not see them, and went straight to the stable, and got out the horses and began to harness them.
when they saw that they could not by any means prevail on him to go in with them, they came out to him with meat and drink, and the best of everything that they had prepared for the wedding; but the prince refused to touch anything, and would do nothing but put the horses in as quickly as he could.
at last, however, the bride’s sister rolled an apple across the yard to him, and said: “as you won’t eat anything else, you may like to take a bite of that, for you must be both hungry and thirsty after your long journey.” and he took up the apple and bit a piece out of it.
but no sooner had he got the piece of apple in his mouth than he forgot the master-maid and that he was to go back in the coach to fetch her.
“i think i must be mad!
what do i want with this coach and horses?” said he; and then he put the horses back into the stable, and went into the king’s palace, and there it was settled that he should marry the bride’s sister, who had rolled the apple to him.
the master-maid sat by the sea-shore for a long, long time, waiting for the prince, but no prince came.
so she went away, and when she had walked a short distance she came to a little hut which stood all alone in a small wood, hard by the king’s palace.
she entered it and asked if she might be allowed to stay there.
the hut belonged to an old crone, who was also an ill-tempered and malicious troll.
at first she would not let the master-maid remain with her; but at last, after a long time, by means of good words and good payment, she obtained leave.
but the hut was as dirty and black inside as a pigsty, so the master-maid said that she would smarten it up a little, that it might look a little more like what other people’s houses looked inside.
the old crone did not like this either.
she scowled, and was very cross, but the master-maid did not trouble herself about that.
she took out her chest of gold, and flung a handful of it or so into the fire, and the gold boiled up and poured out over the whole of the hut, until every part of it both inside and out was gilded.
but when the gold began to bubble up the old hag grew so terrified that she fled as if the evil one himself were pursuing her, and she did not remember to stoop down as she went through the doorway, and so she split her head and died.
next morning the sheriff came traveling by there.
he was greatly astonished when he saw the gold hut shining and glittering there in the copse, and he was still more astonished when he went in and caught sight of the beautiful young maiden who was sitting there; he fell in love with her at once, and straightway on the spot he begged her, both prettily and kindly, to marry him.
“well, but have you a great deal of money?” said the master-maid.
“oh!
yes; so far as that is concerned, i am not ill off,” said the sheriff.
so now he had to go home to get the money, and in the evening he came back, bringing with him a bag with two bushels in it, which he set down on the bench.
well, as he had such a fine lot of money, the master-maid said she would have him, so they sat down to talk.
but scarcely had they sat down together before the master-maid wanted to jump up again.
“i have forgotten to see to the fire,” she said.
“why should you jump up to do that?” said the sheriff; “i will do that!”
so he jumped up, and went to the chimney in one bound.
“just tell me when you have got hold of the shovel,” said the master-maid.
“well, i have hold of it now,” said the sheriff.
“then you may hold the shovel, and the shovel you, and pour red-hot coals over you, till day dawns,” said the master-maid.
so the sheriff had to stand there the whole night and pour red-hot coals over himself, and, no matter how much he cried and begged and entreated, the red-hot coals did not grow the colder for that.
when the day began to dawn, and he had power to throw down the shovel, he did not stay long where he was, but ran away as fast as he possibly could; and everyone who met him stared and looked after him, for he was flying as if he were mad, and he could not have looked worse if he had been both flayed and tanned, and everyone wondered where he had been, but for very shame he would tell nothing.
the next day the attorney came riding by the place where the master-maid dwelt.
he saw how brightly the hut shone and gleamed through the wood, and he too went into it to see who lived there, and when he entered and saw the beautiful young maiden he fell even more in love with her than the sheriff had done, and began to woo her at once.
so the master-maid asked him, as she had asked the sheriff, if he had a great deal of money, and the attorney said he was not ill off for that, and would at once go home to get it; and at night he came with a great big sack of money this time it was a four-bushel sack and set it on the bench by the master-maid.
so she promised to have him, and he sat down on the bench by her to arrange about it, but suddenly she said that she had forgotten to lock the door of the porch that night, and must do it.
“why should you do that?” said the attorney; “sit still, i will do it.”
so he was on his feet in a moment, and out in the porch.
“tell me when you have got hold of the door-latch,” said the master-maid.
“i have hold of it now,” cried the attorney.
“then you may hold the door, and the door you, and may you go between wall and wall till day dawns.”
what a dance the attorney had that night!
he had never had such a waltz before, and he never wished to have such a dance again.
sometimes he was in front of the door, and sometimes the door was in front of him, and it went from one side of the porch to the other, till the attorney was well-nigh beaten to death.
at first he began to abuse the master-maid, and then to beg and pray, but the door did not care for anything but keeping him where he was till break of day.
as soon as the door let go its hold of him, off went the attorney.
he forgot who ought to be paid off for what he had suffered, he forgot both his sack of money and his wooing, for he was so afraid lest the house-door should come dancing after him.
everyone who met him stared and looked after him, for he was flying like a madman, and he could not have looked worse if a herd of rams had been butting at him all night long.
on the third day the bailiff came by, and he too saw the gold house in the little wood, and he too felt that he must go and see who lived there; and when he caught sight of the master-maid he became so much in love with her that he wooed her almost before he greeted her.
the master-maid answered him as she had answered the other two, that if he had a great deal of money, she would have him.
“so far as that is concerned, i am not ill off,” said the bailiff; so he was at once told to go home and fetch it, and this he did.
at night he came back, and he had a still larger sack of money with him than the attorney had brought; it must have been at least six bushels, and he set it down on the bench.
so it was settled that he was to have the master-maid.
but hardly had they sat down together before she said that she had forgotten to bring in the calf, and must go out to put it in the byre.
“no, indeed, you shall not do that,” said the bailiff; “i am the one to do that.” and, big and fat as he was, he went out as briskly as a boy.
“tell me when you have got hold of the calf’s tail,” said the master-maid.
“i have hold of it now,” cried the bailiff.
“then may you hold the calf’s tail, and the calf’s tail hold you, and may you go round the world together till day dawns!” said the master-maid.
so the bailiff had to bestir himself, for the calf went over rough and smooth, over hill and dale, and, the more the bailiff cried and screamed, the faster the calf went.
when daylight began to appear, the bailiff was half dead; and so glad was he to leave loose of the calf’s tail, that he forgot the sack of money and all else.
he walked now slowly more slowly than the sheriff and the attorney had done, but, the slower he went, the more time had everyone to stare and look at him; and they used it too, and no one can imagine how tired out and ragged he looked after his dance with the calf.
on the following day the wedding was to take place in the king’s palace, and the elder brother was to drive to church with his bride, and the brother who had been with the giant with her sister.
but when they had seated themselves in the coach and were about to drive off from the palace one of the trace-pins broke, and, though they made one, two, and three to put in its place, that did not help them, for each broke in turn, no matter what kind of wood they used to make them of.
this went on for a long time, and they could not get away from the palace, so they were all in great trouble.
then the sheriff said (for he too had been bidden to the wedding at court): “yonder away in the thicket dwells a maiden, and if you can get her to lend you the handle of the shovel that she uses to make up her fire i know very well that it will hold fast.”
so they sent off a messenger to the thicket, and begged so prettily that they might have the loan of her shovel-handle of which the sheriff had spoken that they were not refused; so now they had a trace-pin which would not snap in two.
but all at once, just as they were starting, the bottom of the coach fell in pieces.
they made a new bottom as fast as they could, but, no matter how they nailed it together, or what kind of wood they used, no sooner had they got the new bottom into the coach and were about to drive off than it broke again, so that they were still worse off than when they had broken the trace-pin.
then the attorney said, for he too was at the wedding in the palace: “away there in the thicket dwells a maiden, and if you could but get her to lend you one-half of her porch-door i am certain that it will hold together.” so they again sent a messenger to the thicket, and begged so prettily for the loan of the gilded porch-door of which the attorney had told them that they got it at once.
they were just setting out again, but now the horses were not able to draw the coach.
they had six horses already, and now they put in eight, and then ten, and then twelve, but the more they put in, and the more the coachman whipped them, the less good it did; and the coach never stirred from the spot.
it was already beginning to be late in the day, and to church they must and would go, so everyone who was in the palace was in a state of distress.
then the bailiff spoke up and said:
“out there in the gilded cottage in the thicket dwells a girl, and if you could but get her to lend you her calf i know it could draw the coach, even if it were as heavy as a mountain.” they all thought that it was ridiculous to be drawn to church by a calf, but there was nothing else for it but to send a messenger once more, and beg as prettily as they could, on behalf of the king, that she would let them have the loan of the calf that the bailiff had told them about.
the master-maid let them have it immediately this time also she would not say “no.”
then they harnessed the calf to see if the coach would move; and away it went, over rough and smooth, over stock and stone, so that they could scarcely breathe, and sometimes they were on the ground, and sometimes up in the air; and when they came to the church the coach began to go round and round like a spinning-wheel, and it was with the utmost difficulty and danger that they were able to get out of the coach and into the church.
and when they went back again the coach went quicker still, so that most of them did not know how they got back to the palace at all.
when they had seated themselves at the table the prince who had been in service with the giant said that he thought they ought to have invited the maiden who had lent them the shovel-handle, and the porch-door, and the calf up to the palace, “for,” said he, “if we had not got these three things, we should never have got away from the palace.”
the king also thought that this was both just and proper, so he sent five of his best men down to the gilded hut, to greet the maiden courteously from the king, and to beg her to be so good as to come up to the palace to dinner at mid-day.
“greet the king, and tell him that, if he is too good to come to me, i am too good to come to him,” replied the master-maid.
so the king had to go himself, and the master-maid went with him immediately, and, as the king believed that she was more than she appeared to be, he seated her in the place of honor by the youngest bridegroom.
when they had sat at the table for a short time, the master-maid took out the cock, and the hen, and the golden apple which she had brought away with her from the giant’s house, and set them on the table in front of her, and instantly the cock and the hen began to fight with each other for the golden apple.
“oh!
look how those two there are fighting for the golden apple,” said the king’s son.
“yes, and so did we two fight to get out that time when we were in the mountain,” said the master-maid.
so the prince knew her again, and you may imagine how delighted he was.
he ordered the troll-witch who had rolled the apple to him to be torn in pieces between four-and-twenty horses, so that not a bit of her was left, and then for the first time they began really to keep the wedding, and, weary as they were, the sheriff, the attorney, and the bailiff kept it up too.
(1)
why the sea is salt
once upon a time, long, long ago, there were two brothers, the one rich and the other poor.
when christmas eve came, the poor one had not a bite in the house, either of meat or bread; so he went to his brother, and begged him, in god’s name, to give him something for christmas day.
it was by no means the first time that the brother had been forced to give something to him, and he was not better pleased at being asked now than he generally was.
“if you will do what i ask you, you shall have a whole ham,” said he.
the poor one immediately thanked him, and promised this.
“well, here is the ham, and now you must go straight to dead man’s hall,” said the rich brother, throwing the ham to him.
“well, i will do what i have promised,” said the other, and he took the ham and set off.
he went on and on for the livelong day, and at nightfall he came to a place where there was a bright light.
“i have no doubt this is the place,” thought the man with the ham.
an old man with a long white beard was standing in the outhouse, chopping yule logs.
“good-evening,” said the man with the ham.
“good-evening to you.
where are you going at this late hour?” said the man.
“i am going to dead man’s hall, if only i am on the right track,”
answered the poor man.
“oh!
yes, you are right enough, for it is here,” said the old man.
“when you get inside they will all want to buy your ham, for they don’t get much meat to eat there; but you must not sell it unless you can get the hand-mill which stands behind the door for it.
when you come out again i will teach you how to stop the hand-mill, which is useful for almost everything.”
so the man with the ham thanked the other for his good advice, and rapped at the door.
when he got in, everything happened just as the old man had said it would: all the people, great and small, came round him like ants on an ant-hill, and each tried to outbid the other for the ham.
“by rights my old woman and i ought to have it for our christmas dinner, but, since you have set your hearts upon it, i must just give it up to you,” said the man.
“but, if i sell it, i will have the hand-mill which is standing there behind the door.”
at first they would not hear of this, and haggled and bargained with the man, but he stuck to what he had said, and the people were forced to give him the hand-mill.
when the man came out again into the yard, he asked the old wood-cutter how he was to stop the hand-mill, and when he had learned that, he thanked him and set off home with all the speed he could, but did not get there until after the clock had struck twelve on christmas eve.
“where in the world have you been?” said the old woman.
“here i have sat waiting hour after hour, and have not even two sticks to lay across each other under the christmas porridge-pot.”
“oh!
i could not come before; i had something of importance to see about, and a long way to go, too; but now you shall just see!” said the man, and then he set the hand-mill on the table, and bade it first grind light, then a table-cloth, and then meat, and beer, and everything else that was good for a christmas eve’s supper; and the mill ground all that he ordered.
“bless me!” said the old woman as one thing after another appeared; and she wanted to know where her husband had got the mill from, but he would not tell her that.
“never mind where i got it; you can see that it is a good one, and the water that turns it will never freeze,” said the man.
so he ground meat and drink, and all kinds of good things, to last all christmas-tide, and on the third day he invited all his friends to come to a feast.
now when the rich brother saw all that there was at the banquet and in the house, he was both vexed and angry, for he grudged everything his brother had.
“on christmas eve he was so poor that he came to me and begged for a trifle, for god’s sake, and now he gives a feast as if he were both a count and a king!” thought he.
“but, for heaven’s sake, tell me where you got your riches from,” said he to his brother.
“from behind the door,” said he who owned the mill, for he did not choose to satisfy his brother on that point; but later in the evening, when he had taken a drop too much, he could not refrain from telling how he had come by the hand-mill.
“there you see what has brought me all my wealth!” said he, and brought out the mill, and made it grind first one thing and then another.
when the brother saw that, he insisted on having the mill, and after a great deal of persuasion got it; but he had to give three hundred dollars for it, and the poor brother was to keep it till the haymaking was over, for he thought: “if i keep it as long as that, i can make it grind meat and drink that will last many a long year.” during that time you may imagine that the mill did not grow rusty, and when hay-harvest came the rich brother got it, but the other had taken good care not to teach him how to stop it.
it was evening when the rich man got the mill home, and in the morning he bade the old woman go out and spread the hay after the mowers, and he would attend to the house himself that day, he said.
so, when dinner-time drew near, he set the mill on the kitchen-table, and said: “grind herrings and milk pottage, and do it both quickly and well.”
so the mill began to grind herrings and milk pottage, and first all the dishes and tubs were filled, and then it came out all over the kitchen-floor.
the man twisted and turned it, and did all he could to make the mill stop, but, howsoever he turned it and screwed it, the mill went on grinding, and in a short time the pottage rose so high that the man was like to be drowned.
so he threw open the parlor door, but it was not long before the mill had ground the parlor full too, and it was with difficulty and danger that the man could go through the stream of pottage and get hold of the door-latch.
when he got the door open, he did not stay long in the room, but ran out, and the herrings and pottage came after him, and it streamed out over both farm and field.
now the old woman, who was out spreading the hay, began to think dinner was long in coming, and said to the women and the mowers: “though the master does not call us home, we may as well go.
it may be that he finds he is not good at making pottage and i should do well to help him.” so they began to straggle homeward, but when they had got a little way up the hill they met the herrings and pottage and bread, all pouring forth and winding about one over the other, and the man himself in front of the flood.
“would to heaven that each of you had a hundred stomachs!
take care that you are not drowned in the pottage!” he cried as he went by them as if mischief were at his heels, down to where his brother dwelt.
then he begged him, for god’s sake, to take the mill back again, and that in an instant, for, said he: “if it grind one hour more the whole district will be destroyed by herrings and pottage.” but the brother would not take it until the other paid him three hundred dollars, and that he was obliged to do.
now the poor brother had both the money and the mill again.
so it was not long before he had a farmhouse much finer than that in which his brother lived, but the mill ground him so much money that he covered it with plates of gold; and the farmhouse lay close by the sea-shore, so it shone and glittered far out to sea.
everyone who sailed by there now had to be put in to visit the rich man in the gold farmhouse, and everyone wanted to see the wonderful mill, for the report of it spread far and wide, and there was no one who had not heard tell of it.
after a long, long time came also a skipper who wished to see the mill.
he asked if it could make salt.
“yes, it could make salt,” said he who owned it, and when the skipper heard that, he wished with all his might and main to have the mill, let it cost what it might, for, he thought, if he had it, he would get off having to sail far away over the perilous sea for freights of salt.
at first the man would not hear of parting with it, but the skipper begged and prayed, and at last the man sold it to him, and got many, many thousand dollars for it.
when the skipper had got the mill on his back he did not stay there long, for he was so afraid that the man would change his mind, and he had no time to ask how he was to stop it grinding, but got on board his ship as fast as he could.
when he had gone a little way out to sea he took the mill on deck.
“grind salt, and grind both quickly and well,” said the skipper.
so the mill began to grind salt, till it spouted out like water, and when the skipper had got the ship filled he wanted to stop the mill, but whichsoever way he turned it, and how much soever he tried, it went on grinding, and the heap of salt grew higher and higher, until at last the ship sank.
there lies the mill at the bottom of the sea, and still, day by day, it grinds on; and that is why the sea is salt.
(1)
(1) asbjornsen and moe.
the master cat; or, puss in boots
there was a miller who left no more estate to the three sons he had than his mill, his ass, and his cat.
the partition was soon made.
neither scrivener nor attorney was sent for.
they would soon have eaten up all the poor patrimony.
the eldest had the mill, the second the ass, and the youngest nothing but the cat.
the poor young fellow was quite comfortless at having so poor a lot.
“my brothers,” said he, “may get their living handsomely enough by joining their stocks together; but for my part, when i have eaten up my cat, and made me a muff of his skin, i must die of hunger.”
the cat, who heard all this, but made as if he did not, said to him with a grave and serious air:
“do not thus afflict yourself, my good master.
you have nothing else to do but to give me a bag and get a pair of boots made for me that i may scamper through the dirt and the brambles, and you shall see that you have not so bad a portion in me as you imagine.”
the cat’s master did not build very much upon what he said.
he had often seen him play a great many cunning tricks to catch rats and mice, as when he used to hang by the heels, or hide himself in the meal, and make as if he were dead; so that he did not altogether despair of his affording him some help in his miserable condition.
when the cat had what he asked for he booted himself very gallantly, and putting his bag about his neck, he held the strings of it in his two forepaws and went into a warren where was great abundance of rabbits.
he put bran and sow-thistle into his bag, and stretching out at length, as if he had been dead, he waited for some young rabbits, not yet acquainted with the deceits of the world, to come and rummage his bag for what he had put into it.
scarce was he lain down but he had what he wanted.
a rash and foolish young rabbit jumped into his bag, and monsieur puss, immediately drawing close the strings, took and killed him without pity.
proud of his prey, he went with it to the palace and asked to speak with his majesty.
he was shown upstairs into the king’s apartment, and, making a low reverence, said to him:
“i have brought you, sir, a rabbit of the warren, which my noble lord the marquis of carabas” (for that was the title which puss was pleased to give his master) “has commanded me to present to your majesty from him.”
“tell thy master,” said the king, “that i thank him and that he does me a great deal of pleasure.”
another time he went and hid himself among some standing corn, holding still his bag open, and when a brace of partridges ran into it he drew the strings and so caught them both.
he went and made a present of these to the king, as he had done before of the rabbit which he took in the warren.
the king, in like manner, received the partridges with great pleasure, and ordered him some money for drink.
the cat continued for two or three months thus to carry his majesty, from time to time, game of his master’s taking.
one day in particular, when he knew for certain that he was to take the air along the river-side, with his daughter, the most beautiful princess in the world, he said to his master:
“if you will follow my advice your fortune is made.
you have nothing else to do but go and wash yourself in the river, in that part i shall show you, and leave the rest to me.”
the marquis of carabas did what the cat advised him to, without knowing why or wherefore.
while he was washing the king passed by, and the cat began to cry out:
“help!
help!
my lord marquis of carabas is going to be drowned.”
at this noise the king put his head out of the coach-window, and, finding it was the cat who had so often brought him such good game, he commanded his guards to run immediately to the assistance of his lordship the marquis of carabas.
while they were drawing the poor marquis out of the river, the cat came up to the coach and told the king that, while his master was washing, there came by some rogues, who went off with his clothes, though he had cried out: “thieves!
thieves!”
several times, as loud as he could.
this cunning cat had hidden them under a great stone.
the king immediately commanded the officers of his wardrobe to run and fetch one of his best suits for the lord marquis of carabas.
the king caressed him after a very extraordinary manner, and as the fine clothes he had given him extremely set off his good mien (for he was well made and very handsome in his person), the king’s daughter took a secret inclination to him, and the marquis of carabas had no sooner cast two or three respectful and somewhat tender glances but she fell in love with him to distraction.
the king would needs have him come into the coach and take part of the airing.
the cat, quite overjoyed to see his project begin to succeed, marched on before, and, meeting with some countrymen, who were mowing a meadow, he said to them:
“good people, you who are mowing, if you do not tell the king that the meadow you mow belongs to my lord marquis of carabas, you shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot.”
the king did not fail asking of the mowers to whom the meadow they were mowing belonged.
“to my lord marquis of carabas,” answered they altogether, for the cat’s threats had made them terribly afraid.
“you see, sir,” said the marquis, “this is a meadow which never fails to yield a plentiful harvest every year.”
the master cat, who went still on before, met with some reapers, and said to them:
“good people, you who are reaping, if you do not tell the king that all this corn belongs to the marquis of carabas, you shall be chopped as small as herbs for the pot.”
the king, who passed by a moment after, would needs know to whom all that corn, which he then saw, did belong.
“to my lord marquis of carabas,” replied the reapers, and the king was very well pleased with it, as well as the marquis, whom he congratulated thereupon.
the master cat, who went always before, said the same words to all he met, and the king was astonished at the vast estates of my lord marquis of carabas.
monsieur puss came at last to a stately castle, the master of which was an ogre, the richest had ever been known; for all the lands which the king had then gone over belonged to this castle.
the cat, who had taken care to inform himself who this ogre was and what he could do, asked to speak with him, saying he could not pass so near his castle without having the honor of paying his respects to him.
the ogre received him as civilly as an ogre could do, and made him sit down.
“i have been assured,” said the cat, “that you have the gift of being able to change yourself into all sorts of creatures you have a mind to; you can, for example, transform yourself into a lion, or elephant, and the like.”
“that is true,” answered the ogre very briskly; “and to convince you, you shall see me now become a lion.”
puss was so sadly terrified at the sight of a lion so near him that he immediately got into the gutter, not without abundance of trouble and danger, because of his boots, which were of no use at all to him in walking upon the tiles.
a little while after, when puss saw that the ogre had resumed his natural form, he came down, and owned he had been very much frightened.
“i have been, moreover, informed,” said the cat, “but i know not how to believe it, that you have also the power to take on you the shape of the smallest animals; for example, to change yourself into a rat or a mouse; but i must own to you i take this to be impossible.”
“impossible!” cried the ogre; “you shall see that presently.”
and at the same time he changed himself into a mouse, and began to run about the floor.
puss no sooner perceived this but he fell upon him and ate him up.
meanwhile the king, who saw, as he passed, this fine castle of the ogre’s, had a mind to go into it.
puss, who heard the noise of his majesty’s coach running over the draw-bridge, ran out, and said to the king:
“your majesty is welcome to this castle of my lord marquis of carabas.”
“what!
my lord marquis,” cried the king, “and does this castle also belong to you?
there can be nothing finer than this court and all the stately buildings which surround it; let us go into it, if you please.”
the marquis gave his hand to the princess, and followed the king, who went first.
they passed into a spacious hall, where they found a magnificent collation, which the ogre had prepared for his friends, who were that very day to visit him, but dared not to enter, knowing the king was there.
his majesty was perfectly charmed with the good qualities of my lord marquis of carabas, as was his daughter, who had fallen violently in love with him, and, seeing the vast estate he possessed, said to him, after having drunk five or six glasses:
“it will be owing to yourself only, my lord marquis, if you are not my son-in-law.”
the marquis, making several low bows, accepted the honor which his majesty conferred upon him, and forthwith, that very same day, married the princess.
puss became a great lord, and never ran after mice any more but only for his diversion.
(1)
(1) charles perrault.
felicia and the pot of pinks
once upon a time there was a poor laborer who, feeling that he had not much longer to live, wished to divide his possessions between his son and daughter, whom he loved dearly.
so he called them to him, and said: “your mother brought me as her dowry two stools and a straw bed; i have, besides, a hen, a pot of pinks, and a silver ring, which were given me by a noble lady who once lodged in my poor cottage.
when she went away she said to me:
“‘be careful of my gifts, good man; see that you do not lose the ring or forget to water the pinks.
as for your daughter, i promise you that she shall be more beautiful than anyone you ever saw in your life; call her felicia, and when she grows up give her the ring and the pot of pinks to console her for her poverty.’ take them both, then, my dear child,” he added, “and your brother shall have everything else.”
the two children seemed quite contented, and when their father died they wept for him, and divided his possessions as he had told them.
felicia believed that her brother loved her, but when she sat down upon one of the stools he said angrily:
“keep your pot of pinks and your ring, but let my things alone.
i like order in my house.”
felicia, who was very gentle, said nothing, but stood up crying quietly; while bruno, for that was her brother’s name, sat comfortably by the fire.
presently, when supper-time came, bruno had a delicious egg, and he threw the shell to felicia, saying:
“there, that is all i can give you; if you don’t like it, go out and catch frogs; there are plenty of them in the marsh close by.” felicia did not answer, but she cried more bitterly than ever, and went away to her own little room.
she found it filled with the sweet scent of the pinks, and, going up to them, she said sadly:
“beautiful pinks, you are so sweet and so pretty, you are the only comfort i have left.
be very sure that i will take care of you, and water you well, and never allow any cruel hand to tear you from your stems.”
as she leaned over them she noticed that they were very dry.
so taking her pitcher, she ran off in the clear moonlight to the fountain, which was at some distance.
when she reached it she sat down upon the brink to rest, but she had hardly done so when she saw a stately lady coming toward her, surrounded by numbers of attendants.
six maids of honor carried her train, and she leaned upon the arm of another.
when they came near the fountain a canopy was spread for her, under which was placed a sofa of cloth-of-gold, and presently a dainty supper was served, upon a table covered with dishes of gold and crystal, while the wind in the trees and the falling water of the fountain murmured the softest music.
felicia was hidden in the shade, too much astonished by all she saw to venture to move; but in a few moments the queen said:
“i fancy i see a shepherdess near that tree; bid her come hither.”
so felicia came forward and saluted the queen timidly, but with so much grace that all were surprised.
“what are you doing here, my pretty child?” asked the queen.
“are you not afraid of robbers?”
“ah!
madam,” said felicia, “a poor shepherdess who has nothing to lose does not fear robbers.”
“you are not very rich, then?” said the queen, smiling.
“i am so poor,” answered felicia, “that a pot of pinks and a silver ring are my only possessions in the world.”
“but you have a heart,” said the queen.
“what should you say if anybody wanted to steal that?”
“i do not know what it is like to lose one’s heart, madam,” she replied; “but i have always heard that without a heart one cannot live, and if it is broken one must die; and in spite of my poverty i should be sorry not to live.”
“you are quite right to take care of your heart, pretty one,” said the queen.
“but tell me, have you supped?”
“no, madam,” answered felicia; “my brother ate all the supper there was.”
then the queen ordered that a place should be made for her at the table, and herself loaded felicia’s plate with good things; but she was too much astonished to be hungry.
“i want to know what you were doing at the fountain so late?” said the queen presently.
“i came to fetch a pitcher of water for my pinks, madam,” she answered, stooping to pick up the pitcher which stood beside her; but when she showed it to the queen she was amazed to see that it had turned to gold, all sparkling with great diamonds, and the water, of which it was full, was more fragrant than the sweetest roses.
she was afraid to take it until the queen said:
“it is yours, felicia; go and water your pinks with it, and let it remind you that the queen of the woods is your friend.”
the shepherdess threw herself at the queen’s feet, and thanked her humbly for her gracious words.
“ah!
madam,” she cried, “if i might beg you to stay here a moment i would run and fetch my pot of pinks for you they could not fall into better hands.”
“go, felicia,” said the queen, stroking her cheek softly; “i will wait here until you come back.”
so felicia took up her pitcher and ran to her little room, but while she had been away bruno had gone in and taken the pot of pinks, leaving a great cabbage in its place.
when she saw the unlucky cabbage felicia was much distressed, and did not know what to do; but at last she ran back to the fountain, and, kneeling before the queen, said:
“madam, bruno has stolen my pot of pinks, so i have nothing but my silver ring; but i beg you to accept it as a proof of my gratitude.”
“but if i take your ring, my pretty shepherdess,” said the queen, “you will have nothing left; and what will you do then?”
“ah!
madam,” she answered simply, “if i have your friendship i shall do very well.”
so the queen took the ring and put it on her finger, and mounted her chariot, which was made of coral studded with emeralds, and drawn by six milk-white horses.
and felicia looked after her until the winding of the forest path hid her from her sight, and then she went back to the cottage, thinking over all the wonderful things that had happened.
the first thing she did when she reached her room was to throw the cabbage out of the window.
but she was very much surprised to hear an odd little voice cry out:
“oh!
i am half killed!” and could not tell where it came from, because cabbages do not generally speak.
as soon as it was light, felicia, who was very unhappy about her pot of pinks, went out to look for it, and the first thing she found was the unfortunate cabbage.
she gave it a push with her foot, saying: “what are you doing here, and how dared you put yourself in the place of my pot of pinks?”
“if i hadn’t been carried,” replied the cabbage, “you may be very sure that i shouldn’t have thought of going there.”
it made her shiver with fright to hear the cabbage talk, but he went on:
“if you will be good enough to plant me by my comrades again, i can tell you where your pinks are at this moment hidden in bruno’s bed!”
felicia was in despair when she heard this, not knowing how she was to get them back.
but she replanted the cabbage very kindly in his old place, and, as she finished doing it, she saw bruno’s hen, and said, catching hold of it:
“come here, horrid little creature!
you shall suffer for all the unkind things my brother has done to me.”
“ah!
shepherdess,” said the hen, “don’t kill me; i am rather a gossip, and i can tell you some surprising things that you will like to hear.
don’t imagine that you are the daughter of the poor laborer who brought you up; your mother was a queen who had six girls already, and the king threatened that unless she had a son who could inherit his kingdom she should have her head cut off.
“so when the queen had another little daughter she was quite frightened, and agreed with her sister (who was a fairy) to exchange her for the fairy’s little son.
now the queen had been shut up in a great tower by the king’s orders, and when a great many days went by and still she heard nothing from the fairy she made her escape from the window by means of a rope ladder, taking her little baby with her.
after wandering about until she was half dead with cold and fatigue she reached this cottage.
i was the laborer’s wife, and was a good nurse, and the queen gave you into my charge, and told me all her misfortunes, and then died before she had time to say what was to become of you.
“as i never in all my life could keep a secret, i could not help telling this strange tale to my neighbors, and one day a beautiful lady came here, and i told it to her also.
when i had finished she touched me with a wand she held in her hand, and instantly i became a hen, and there was an end of my talking!
i was very sad, and my husband, who was out when it happened, never knew what had become of me.
after seeking me everywhere he believed that i must have been drowned, or eaten up by wild beasts in the forest.
that same lady came here once more, and commanded that you should be called felicia, and left the ring and the pot of pinks to be given to you; and while she was in the house twenty-five of the king’s guards came to search for you, doubtless meaning to kill you; but she muttered a few words, and immediately they all turned into cabbages.
it was one of them whom you threw out of your window yesterday.
“i don’t know how it was that he could speak i have never heard either of them say a word before, nor have i been able to do it myself until now.”
the princess was greatly astonished at the hen’s story, and said kindly:
“i am truly sorry for you, my poor nurse, and wish it was in my power to restore you to your real form.
but we must not despair; it seems to me, after what you have told me, that something must be going to happen soon.
just now, however, i must go and look for my pinks, which i love better than anything in the world.”
bruno had gone out into the forest, never thinking that felicia would search in his room for the pinks, and she was delighted by his unexpected absence, and thought to get them back without further trouble.
but as soon as she entered the room she saw a terrible army of rats, who were guarding the straw bed; and when she attempted to approach it they sprang at her, biting and scratching furiously.
quite terrified, she drew back, crying out: “oh!
my dear pinks, how can you stay here in such bad company?”
then she suddenly bethought herself of the pitcher of water, and, hoping that it might have some magic power, she ran to fetch it, and sprinkled a few drops over the fierce-looking swarm of rats.
in a moment not a tail or a whisker was to be seen.
each one had made for his hole as fast as his legs could carry him, so that the princess could safely take her pot of pinks.
she found them nearly dying for want of water, and hastily poured all that was left in the pitcher upon them.
as she bent over them, enjoying their delicious scent, a soft voice, that seemed to rustle among the leaves, said:
“lovely felicia, the day has come at last when i may have the happiness of telling you how even the flowers love you and rejoice in your beauty.”
the princess, quite overcome by the strangeness of hearing a cabbage, a hen, and a pink speak, and by the terrible sight of an army of rats, suddenly became very pale, and fainted away.
at this moment in came bruno.
working hard in the heat had not improved his temper, and when he saw that felicia had succeeded in finding her pinks he was so angry that he dragged her out into the garden and shut the door upon her.
the fresh air soon made her open her pretty eyes, and there before her stood the queen of the woods, looking as charming as ever.
“you have a bad brother,” she said; “i saw he turned you out.
shall i punish him for it?”
“ah!
no, madam,” she said; “i am not angry with him.
“but supposing he was not your brother, after all, what would you say then?” asked the queen.
“oh!
but i think he must be,” said felicia.
“what!” said the queen, “have you not heard that you are a princess?”
“i was told so a little while ago, madam, but how could i believe it without a single proof?”
“ah!
dear child,” said the queen, “the way you speak assures me that, in spite of your humble upbringing, you are indeed a real princess, and i can save you from being treated in such a way again.”
she was interrupted at this moment by the arrival of a very handsome young man.
he wore a coat of green velvet fastened with emerald clasps, and had a crown of pinks on his head.
he knelt upon one knee and kissed the queen’s hand.
“ah!” she cried, “my pink, my dear son, what a happiness to see you restored to your natural shape by felicia’s aid!” and she embraced him joyfully.
then, turning to felicia, she said:
“charming princess, i know all the hen told you, but you cannot have heard that the zephyrs, to whom was entrusted the task of carrying my son to the tower where the queen, your mother, so anxiously waited for him, left him instead in a garden of flowers, while they flew off to tell your mother.
whereupon a fairy with whom i had quarrelled changed him into a pink, and i could do nothing to prevent it.
“you can imagine how angry i was, and how i tried to find some means of undoing the mischief she had done; but there was no help for it.
i could only bring prince pink to the place where you were being brought up, hoping that when you grew up he might love you, and by your care be restored to his natural form.
and you see everything has come right, as i hoped it would.
your giving me the silver ring was the sign that the power of the charm was nearly over, and my enemy’s last chance was to frighten you with her army of rats.
that she did not succeed in doing; so now, my dear felicia, if you will be married to my son with this silver ring your future happiness is certain.
do you think him handsome and amiable enough to be willing to marry him?”
“madam,” replied felicia, blushing, “you overwhelm me with your kindness.
i know that you are my mother’s sister, and that by your art you turned the soldiers who were sent to kill me into cabbages, and my nurse into a hen, and that you do me only too much honor in proposing that i shall marry your son.
how can i explain to you the cause of my hesitation?
i feel, for the first time in my life, how happy it would make me to be beloved.
can you indeed give me the prince’s heart?”
“it is yours already, lovely princess!” he cried, taking her hand in his; “but for the horrible enchantment which kept me silent i should have told you long ago how dearly i love you.”
this made the princess very happy, and the queen, who could not bear to see her dressed like a poor shepherdess, touched her with her wand, saying:
“i wish you to be attired as befits your rank and beauty.” and immediately the princess’s cotton dress became a magnificent robe of silver brocade embroidered with carbuncles, and her soft dark hair was encircled by a crown of diamonds, from which floated a clear white veil.
with her bright eyes, and the charming color in her cheeks, she was altogether such a dazzling sight that the prince could hardly bear it.
“how pretty you are, felicia!” he cried.
“don’t keep me in suspense, i entreat you; say that you will marry me.”
“ah!” said the queen, smiling, “i think she will not refuse now.”
just then bruno, who was going back to his work, came out of the cottage, and thought he must be dreaming when he saw felicia; but she called him very kindly, and begged the queen to take pity on him.
“what!” she said, “when he was so unkind to you?”
“ah!
madam,” said the princess, “i am so happy that i should like everybody else to be happy too.”
the queen kissed her, and said: “well, to please you, let me see what i can do for this cross bruno.” and with a wave of her wand she turned the poor little cottage into a splendid palace, full of treasures; only the two stools and the straw bed remained just as they were, to remind him of his former poverty.
then the queen touched bruno himself, and made him gentle and polite and grateful, and he thanked her and the princess a thousand times.
lastly, the queen restored the hen and the cabbages to their natural forms, and left them all very contented.
the prince and princess were married as soon as possible with great splendor, and lived happily ever after.
(1)
(1) fortunee.
par madame la comtesse d’aulnoy.
the white cat
once upon a time there was a king who had three sons, who were all so clever and brave that he began to be afraid that they would want to reign over the kingdom before he was dead.
now the king, though he felt that he was growing old, did not at all wish to give up the government of his kingdom while he could still manage it very well, so he thought the best way to live in peace would be to divert the minds of his sons by promises which he could always get out of when the time came for keeping them.
so he sent for them all, and, after speaking to them kindly, he added:
“you will quite agree with me, my dear children, that my great age makes it impossible for me to look after my affairs of state as carefully as i once did.
i begin to fear that this may affect the welfare of my subjects, therefore i wish that one of you should succeed to my crown; but in return for such a gift as this it is only right that you should do something for me.
now, as i think of retiring into the country, it seems to me that a pretty, lively, faithful little dog would be very good company for me; so, without any regard for your ages, i promise that the one who brings me the most beautiful little dog shall succeed me at once.”
the three princes were greatly surprised by their father’s sudden fancy for a little dog, but as it gave the two younger ones a chance they would not otherwise have had of being king, and as the eldest was too polite to make any objection, they accepted the commission with pleasure.
they bade farewell to the king, who gave them presents of silver and precious stones, and appointed to meet them at the same hour, in the same place, after a year had passed, to see the little dogs they had brought for him.
then they went together to a castle which was about a league from the city, accompanied by all their particular friends, to whom they gave a grand banquet, and the three brothers promised to be friends always, to share whatever good fortune befell them, and not to be parted by any envy or jealousy; and so they set out, agreeing to meet at the same castle at the appointed time, to present themselves before the king together.
each one took a different road, and the two eldest met with many adventures; but it is about the youngest that you are going to hear.
he was young, and gay, and handsome, and knew everything that a prince ought to know; and as for his courage, there was simply no end to it.
hardly a day passed without his buying several dogs big and little, greyhounds, mastiffs, spaniels, and lapdogs.
as soon as he had bought a pretty one he was sure to see a still prettier, and then he had to get rid of all the others and buy that one, as, being alone, he found it impossible to take thirty or forty thousand dogs about with him.
he journeyed from day to day, not knowing where he was going, until at last, just at nightfall, he reached a great, gloomy forest.
he did not know his way, and, to make matters worse, it began to thunder, and the rain poured down.
he took the first path he could find, and after walking for a long time he fancied he saw a faint light, and began to hope that he was coming to some cottage where he might find shelter for the night.
at length, guided by the light, he reached the door of the most splendid castle he could have imagined.
this door was of gold covered with carbuncles, and it was the pure red light which shone from them that had shown him the way through the forest.
the walls were of the finest porcelain in all the most delicate colors, and the prince saw that all the stories he had ever read were pictured upon them; but as he was terribly wet, and the rain still fell in torrents, he could not stay to look about any more, but came back to the golden door.
there he saw a deer’s foot hanging by a chain of diamonds, and he began to wonder who could live in this magnificent castle.
“they must feel very secure against robbers,” he said to himself.
“what is to hinder anyone from cutting off that chain and digging out those carbuncles, and making himself rich for life?”
he pulled the deer’s foot, and immediately a silver bell sounded and the door flew open, but the prince could see nothing but numbers of hands in the air, each holding a torch.
he was so much surprised that he stood quite still, until he felt himself pushed forward by other hands, so that, though he was somewhat uneasy, he could not help going on.
with his hand on his sword, to be prepared for whatever might happen, he entered a hall paved with lapis-lazuli, while two lovely voices sang:
“the hands you see floating above        will swiftly your bidding obey;      if your heart dreads not conquering love,        in this place you may fearlessly stay.”
the prince could not believe that any danger threatened him when he was welcomed in this way, so, guided by the mysterious hands, he went toward a door of coral, which opened of its own accord, and he found himself in a vast hall of mother-of-pearl, out of which opened a number of other rooms, glittering with thousands of lights, and full of such beautiful pictures and precious things that the prince felt quite bewildered.
after passing through sixty rooms the hands that conducted him stopped, and the prince saw a most comfortable-looking arm-chair drawn up close to the chimney-corner; at the same moment the fire lighted itself, and the pretty, soft, clever hands took off the prince’s wet, muddy clothes, and presented him with fresh ones made of the richest stuffs, all embroidered with gold and emeralds.
he could not help admiring everything he saw, and the deft way in which the hands waited on him, though they sometimes appeared so suddenly that they made him jump.
when he was quite ready and i can assure you that he looked very different from the wet and weary prince who had stood outside in the rain, and pulled the deer’s foot the hands led him to a splendid room, upon the walls of which were painted the histories of puss in boots and a number of other famous cats.
the table was laid for supper with two golden plates, and golden spoons and forks, and the sideboard was covered with dishes and glasses of crystal set with precious stones.
the prince was wondering who the second place could be for, when suddenly in came about a dozen cats carrying guitars and rolls of music, who took their places at one end of the room, and under the direction of a cat who beat time with a roll of paper began to mew in every imaginable key, and to draw their claws across the strings of the guitars, making the strangest kind of music that could be heard.
the prince hastily stopped up his ears, but even then the sight of these comical musicians sent him into fits of laughter.
“what funny thing shall i see next?” he said to himself, and instantly the door opened, and in came a tiny figure covered by a long black veil.
it was conducted by two cats wearing black mantles and carrying swords, and a large party of cats followed, who brought in cages full of rats and mice.
the prince was so much astonished that he thought he must be dreaming, but the little figure came up to him and threw back its veil, and he saw that it was the loveliest little white cat it is possible to imagine.
she looked very young and very sad, and in a sweet little voice that went straight to his heart she said to the prince:
“king’s son, you are welcome; the queen of the cats is glad to see you.”
“lady cat,” replied the prince, “i thank you for receiving me so kindly, but surely you are no ordinary pussy-cat?
indeed, the way you speak and the magnificence of your castle prove it plainly.”
“king’s son,” said the white cat, “i beg you to spare me these compliments, for i am not used to them.
but now,” she added, “let supper be served, and let the musicians be silent, as the prince does not understand what they are saying.”
so the mysterious hands began to bring in the supper, and first they put on the table two dishes, one containing stewed pigeons and the other a fricassee of fat mice.
the sight of the latter made the prince feel as if he could not enjoy his supper at all; but the white cat, seeing this, assured him that the dishes intended for him were prepared in a separate kitchen, and he might be quite certain that they contained neither rats nor mice; and the prince felt so sure that she would not deceive him that he had no more hesitation in beginning.
presently he noticed that on the little paw that was next him the white cat wore a bracelet containing a portrait, and he begged to be allowed to look at it.
to his great surprise he found it represented an extremely handsome young man, who was so like himself that it might have been his own portrait!
the white cat sighed as he looked at it, and seemed sadder than ever, and the prince dared not ask any questions for fear of displeasing her; so he began to talk about other things, and found that she was interested in all the subjects he cared for himself, and seemed to know quite well what was going on in the world.
after supper they went into another room, which was fitted up as a theatre, and the cats acted and danced for their amusement, and then the white cat said good-night to him, and the hands conducted him into a room he had not seen before, hung with tapestry worked with butterflies’ wings of every color; there were mirrors that reached from the ceiling to the floor, and a little white bed with curtains of gauze tied up with ribbons.
the prince went to bed in silence, as he did not quite know how to begin a conversation with the hands that waited on him, and in the morning he was awakened by a noise and confusion outside of his window, and the hands came and quickly dressed him in hunting costume.
when he looked out all the cats were assembled in the courtyard, some leading greyhounds, some blowing horns, for the white cat was going out hunting.
the hands led a wooden horse up to the prince, and seemed to expect him to mount it, at which he was very indignant; but it was no use for him to object, for he speedily found himself upon its back, and it pranced gaily off with him.
the white cat herself was riding a monkey, which climbed even up to the eagles’ nests when she had a fancy for the young eaglets.
never was there a pleasanter hunting party, and when they returned to the castle the prince and the white cat supped together as before, but when they had finished she offered him a crystal goblet, which must have contained a magic draught, for, as soon as he had swallowed its contents, he forgot everything, even the little dog that he was seeking for the king, and only thought how happy he was to be with the white cat!
and so the days passed, in every kind of amusement, until the year was nearly gone.
the prince had forgotten all about meeting his brothers: he did not even know what country he belonged to; but the white cat knew when he ought to go back, and one day she said to him:
“do you know that you have only three days left to look for the little dog for your father, and your brothers have found lovely ones?”
then the prince suddenly recovered his memory, and cried:
“what can have made me forget such an important thing?
my whole fortune depends upon it; and even if i could in such a short time find a dog pretty enough to gain me a kingdom, where should i find a horse who would carry me all that way in three days?” and he began to be very vexed.
but the white cat said to him: “king’s son, do not trouble yourself; i am your friend, and will make everything easy for you.
you can still stay here for a day, as the good wooden horse can take you to your country in twelve hours.”
“i thank you, beautiful cat,” said the prince; “but what good will it do me to get back if i have not a dog to take to my father?”
“see here,” answered the white cat, holding up an acorn; “there is a prettier one in this than in the dogstar!”
“oh!
white cat dear,” said the prince, “how unkind you are to laugh at me now!”
“only listen,” she said, holding the acorn to his ear.
and inside it he distinctly heard a tiny voice say: “bow-wow!”
the prince was delighted, for a dog that can be shut up in an acorn must be very small indeed.
he wanted to take it out and look at it, but the white cat said it would be better not to open the acorn till he was before the king, in case the tiny dog should be cold on the journey.
he thanked her a thousand times, and said good-by quite sadly when the time came for him to set out.
“the days have passed so quickly with you,” he said, “i only wish i could take you with me now.”
but the white cat shook her head and sighed deeply in answer.
after all the prince was the first to arrive at the castle where he had agreed to meet his brothers, but they came soon after, and stared in amazement when they saw the wooden horse in the courtyard jumping like a hunter.
the prince met them joyfully, and they began to tell him all their adventures; but he managed to hide from them what he had been doing, and even led them to think that a turnspit dog which he had with him was the one he was bringing for the king.
fond as they all were of one another, the two eldest could not help being glad to think that their dogs certainly had a better chance.
the next morning they started in the same chariot.
the elder brothers carried in baskets two such tiny, fragile dogs that they hardly dared to touch them.
as for the turnspit, he ran after the chariot, and got so covered with mud that one could hardly see what he was like at all.
when they reached the palace everyone crowded round to welcome them as they went into the king’s great hall; and when the two brothers presented their little dogs nobody could decide which was the prettier.
they were already arranging between themselves to share the kingdom equally, when the youngest stepped forward, drawing from his pocket the acorn the white cat had given him.
he opened it quickly, and there upon a white cushion they saw a dog so small that it could easily have been put through a ring.
the prince laid it upon the ground, and it got up at once and began to dance.
the king did not know what to say, for it was impossible that anything could be prettier than this little creature.
nevertheless, as he was in no hurry to part with his crown, he told his sons that, as they had been so successful the first time, he would ask them to go once again, and seek by land and sea for a piece of muslin so fine that it could be drawn through the eye of a needle.
the brothers were not very willing to set out again, but the two eldest consented because it gave them another chance, and they started as before.
the youngest again mounted the wooden horse, and rode back at full speed to his beloved white cat.
every door of the castle stood wide open, and every window and turret was illuminated, so it looked more wonderful than before.
the hands hastened to meet him, and led the wooden horse off to the stable, while he hurried in to find the white cat.
she was asleep in a little basket on a white satin cushion, but she very soon started up when she heard the prince, and was overjoyed at seeing him once more.
“how could i hope that you would come back to me king’s son?” she said.
and then he stroked and petted her, and told her of his successful journey, and how he had come back to ask her help, as he believed that it was impossible to find what the king demanded.
the white cat looked serious, and said she must think what was to be done, but that, luckily, there were some cats in the castle who could spin very well, and if anybody could manage it they could, and she would set them the task herself.
and then the hands appeared carrying torches, and conducted the prince and the white cat to a long gallery which overlooked the river, from the windows of which they saw a magnificent display of fireworks of all sorts; after which they had supper, which the prince liked even better than the fireworks, for it was very late, and he was hungry after his long ride.
and so the days passed quickly as before; it was impossible to feel dull with the white cat, and she had quite a talent for inventing new amusements indeed, she was cleverer than a cat has any right to be.
but when the prince asked her how it was that she was so wise, she only said:
“king’s son, do not ask me; guess what you please.
i may not tell you anything.”
the prince was so happy that he did not trouble himself at all about the time, but presently the white cat told him that the year was gone, and that he need not be at all anxious about the piece of muslin, as they had made it very well.
“this time,” she added, “i can give you a suitable escort”; and on looking out into the courtyard the prince saw a superb chariot of burnished gold, enameled in flame color with a thousand different devices.
it was drawn by twelve snow-white horses, harnessed four abreast; their trappings were flame-colored velvet, embroidered with diamonds.
a hundred chariots followed, each drawn by eight horses, and filled with officers in splendid uniforms, and a thousand guards surrounded the procession.
“go!” said the white cat, “and when you appear before the king in such state he surely will not refuse you the crown which you deserve.
take this walnut, but do not open it until you are before him, then you will find in it the piece of stuff you asked me for.”
“lovely blanchette,” said the prince, “how can i thank you properly for all your kindness to me?
only tell me that you wish it, and i will give up for ever all thought of being king, and will stay here with you always.”
“king’s son,” she replied, “it shows the goodness of your heart that you should care so much for a little white cat, who is good for nothing but to catch mice; but you must not stay.”
so the prince kissed her little paw and set out.
you can imagine how fast he traveled when i tell you that they reached the king’s palace in just half the time it had taken the wooden horse to get there.
this time the prince was so late that he did not try to meet his brothers at their castle, so they thought he could not be coming, and were rather glad of it, and displayed their pieces of muslin to the king proudly, feeling sure of success.
and indeed the stuff was very fine, and would go through the eye of a very large needle; but the king, who was only too glad to make a difficulty, sent for a particular needle, which was kept among the crown jewels, and had such a small eye that everybody saw at once that it was impossible that the muslin should pass through it.
the princes were angry, and were beginning to complain that it was a trick, when suddenly the trumpets sounded and the youngest prince came in.
his father and brothers were quite astonished at his magnificence, and after he had greeted them he took the walnut from his pocket and opened it, fully expecting to find the piece of muslin, but instead there was only a hazel-nut.
he cracked it, and there lay a cherry-stone.
everybody was looking on, and the king was chuckling to himself at the idea of finding the piece of muslin in a nutshell.
however, the prince cracked the cherry-stone, but everyone laughed when he saw it contained only its own kernel.
he opened that and found a grain of wheat, and in that was a millet seed.
then he himself began to wonder, and muttered softly:
“white cat, white cat, are you making fun of me?”
in an instant he felt a cat’s claw give his hand quite a sharp scratch, and hoping that it was meant as an encouragement he opened the millet seed, and drew out of it a piece of muslin four hundred ells long, woven with the loveliest colors and most wonderful patterns; and when the needle was brought it went through the eye six times with the greatest ease!
the king turned pale, and the other princes stood silent and sorrowful, for nobody could deny that this was the most marvelous piece of muslin that was to be found in the world.
presently the king turned to his sons, and said, with a deep sigh:
“nothing could console me more in my old age than to realize your willingness to gratify my wishes.
go then once more, and whoever at the end of a year can bring back the loveliest princess shall be married to her, and shall, without further delay, receive the crown, for my successor must certainly be married.” the prince considered that he had earned the kingdom fairly twice over but still he was too well bred to argue about it, so he just went back to his gorgeous chariot, and, surrounded by his escort, returned to the white cat faster than he had come.
this time she was expecting him, the path was strewn with flowers, and a thousand braziers were burning scented woods which perfumed the air.
seated in a gallery from which she could see his arrival, the white cat waited for him.
“well, king’s son,” she said, “here you are once more, without a crown.” “madam,” said he, “thanks to your generosity i have earned one twice over; but the fact is that my father is so loth to part with it that it would be no pleasure to me to take it.”
“never mind,” she answered, “it’s just as well to try and deserve it.
as you must take back a lovely princess with you next time i will be on the look-out for one for you.
in the meantime let us enjoy ourselves; to-night i have ordered a battle between my cats and the river rats on purpose to amuse you.” so this year slipped away even more pleasantly than the preceding ones.
sometimes the prince could not help asking the white cat how it was she could talk.
“perhaps you are a fairy,” he said.
“or has some enchanter changed you into a cat?”
but she only gave him answers that told him nothing.
days go by so quickly when one is very happy that it is certain the prince would never have thought of its being time to go back, when one evening as they sat together the white cat said to him that if he wanted to take a lovely princess home with him the next day he must be prepared to do what she told him.
“take this sword,” she said, “and cut off my head!”
“i!” cried the prince, “i cut off your head!
blanchette darling, how could i do it?”
“i entreat you to do as i tell you, king’s son,” she replied.
the tears came into the prince’s eyes as he begged her to ask him anything but that to set him any task she pleased as a proof of his devotion, but to spare him the grief of killing his dear pussy.
but nothing he could say altered her determination, and at last he drew his sword, and desperately, with a trembling hand, cut off the little white head.
but imagine his astonishment and delight when suddenly a lovely princess stood before him, and, while he was still speechless with amazement, the door opened and a goodly company of knights and ladies entered, each carrying a cat’s skin!
they hastened with every sign of joy to the princess, kissing her hand and congratulating her on being once more restored to her natural shape.
she received them graciously, but after a few minutes begged that they would leave her alone with the prince, to whom she said:
“you see, prince, that you were right in supposing me to be no ordinary cat.
my father reigned over six kingdoms.
the queen, my mother, whom he loved dearly, had a passion for traveling and exploring, and when i was only a few weeks old she obtained his permission to visit a certain mountain of which she had heard many marvelous tales, and set out, taking with her a number of her attendants.
on the way they had to pass near an old castle belonging to the fairies.
nobody had ever been into it, but it was reported to be full of the most wonderful things, and my mother remembered to have heard that the fairies had in their garden such fruits as were to be seen and tasted nowhere else.
she began to wish to try them for herself, and turned her steps in the direction of the garden.
on arriving at the door, which blazed with gold and jewels, she ordered her servants to knock loudly, but it was useless; it seemed as if all the inhabitants of the castle must be asleep or dead.
now the more difficult it became to obtain the fruit, the more the queen was determined that have it she would.
so she ordered that they should bring ladders, and get over the wall into the garden; but though the wall did not look very high, and they tied the ladders together to make them very long, it was quite impossible to get to the top.
“the queen was in despair, but as night was coming on she ordered that they should encamp just where they were, and went to bed herself, feeling quite ill, she was so disappointed.
in the middle of the night she was suddenly awakened, and saw to her surprise a tiny, ugly old woman seated by her bedside, who said to her:
“‘i must say that we consider it somewhat troublesome of your majesty to insist upon tasting our fruit; but to save you annoyance, my sisters and i will consent to give you as much as you can carry away, on one condition that is, that you shall give us your little daughter to bring up as our own.’
“‘ah!
my dear madam,’ cried the queen, ‘is there nothing else that you will take for the fruit?
i will give you my kingdoms willingly.’
“‘no,’ replied the old fairy, ‘we will have nothing but your little daughter.
she shall be as happy as the day is long, and we will give her everything that is worth having in fairy-land, but you must not see her again until she is married.’
“‘though it is a hard condition,’ said the queen, ‘i consent, for i shall certainly die if i do not taste the fruit, and so i should lose my little daughter either way.’
“so the old fairy led her into the castle, and, though it was still the middle of the night, the queen could see plainly that it was far more beautiful than she had been told, which you can easily believe, prince,”
said the white cat, “when i tell you that it was this castle that we are now in.
‘will you gather the fruit yourself, queen?’ said the old fairy, ‘or shall i call it to come to you?’
“‘i beg you to let me see it come when it is called,’ cried the queen; ‘that will be something quite new.’ the old fairy whistled twice, then she cried:
“‘apricots, peaches, nectarines, cherries, plums, pears, melons, grapes, apples, oranges, lemons, gooseberries, strawberries, raspberries, come!’
“and in an instant they came tumbling in one over another, and yet they were neither dusty nor spoilt, and the queen found them quite as good as she had fancied them.
you see they grew upon fairy trees.
“the old fairy gave her golden baskets in which to take the fruit away, and it was as much as four hundred mules could carry.
then she reminded the queen of her agreement, and led her back to the camp, and next morning she went back to her kingdom, but before she had gone very far she began to repent of her bargain, and when the king came out to meet her she looked so sad that he guessed that something had happened, and asked what was the matter.
at first the queen was afraid to tell him, but when, as soon as they reached the palace, five frightful little dwarfs were sent by the fairies to fetch me, she was obliged to confess what she had promised.
the king was very angry, and had the queen and myself shut up in a great tower and safely guarded, and drove the little dwarfs out of his kingdom; but the fairies sent a great dragon who ate up all the people he met, and whose breath burnt up everything as he passed through the country; and at last, after trying in vain to rid himself of this monster, the king, to save his subjects, was obliged to consent that i should be given up to the fairies.
this time they came themselves to fetch me, in a chariot of pearl drawn by sea-horses, followed by the dragon, who was led with chains of diamonds.
my cradle was placed between the old fairies, who loaded me with caresses, and away we whirled through the air to a tower which they had built on purpose for me.
there i grew up surrounded with everything that was beautiful and rare, and learning everything that is ever taught to a princess, but without any companions but a parrot and a little dog, who could both talk; and receiving every day a visit from one of the old fairies, who came mounted upon the dragon.
one day, however, as i sat at my window i saw a handsome young prince, who seemed to have been hunting in the forest which surrounded my prison, and who was standing and looking up at me.
when he saw that i observed him he saluted me with great deference.
you can imagine that i was delighted to have some one new to talk to, and in spite of the height of my window our conversation was prolonged till night fell, then my prince reluctantly bade me farewell.
but after that he came again many times and at last i consented to marry him, but the question was how was i to escape from my tower.
the fairies always supplied me with flax for my spinning, and by great diligence i made enough cord for a ladder that would reach to the foot of the tower; but, alas!
just as my prince was helping me to descend it, the crossest and ugliest of the old fairies flew in.
before he had time to defend himself my unhappy lover was swallowed up by the dragon.
as for me, the fairies, furious at having their plans defeated, for they intended me to marry the king of the dwarfs, and i utterly refused, changed me into a white cat.
when they brought me here i found all the lords and ladies of my father’s court awaiting me under the same enchantment, while the people of lesser rank had been made invisible, all but their hands.
“as they laid me under the enchantment the fairies told me all my history, for until then i had quite believed that i was their child, and warned me that my only chance of regaining my natural form was to win the love of a prince who resembled in every way my unfortunate lover.
“and you have won it, lovely princess,” interrupted the prince.
“you are indeed wonderfully like him,” resumed the princess “in voice, in features, and everything; and if you really love me all my troubles will be at an end.”
“and mine too,” cried the prince, throwing himself at her feet, “if you will consent to marry me.”
“i love you already better than anyone in the world,” she said; “but now it is time to go back to your father, and we shall hear what he says about it.”
so the prince gave her his hand and led her out, and they mounted the chariot together; it was even more splendid than before, and so was the whole company.
even the horses’ shoes were of rubies with diamond nails, and i suppose that is the first time such a thing was ever seen.
as the princess was as kind and clever as she was beautiful, you may imagine what a delightful journey the prince found it, for everything the princess said seemed to him quite charming.
when they came near the castle where the brothers were to meet, the princess got into a chair carried by four of the guards; it was hewn out of one splendid crystal, and had silken curtains, which she drew round her that she might not be seen.
the prince saw his brothers walking upon the terrace, each with a lovely princess, and they came to meet him, asking if he had also found a wife.
he said that he had found something much rarer a white cat!
at which they laughed very much, and asked him if he was afraid of being eaten up by mice in the palace.
and then they set out together for the town.
each prince and princess rode in a splendid carriage; the horses were decked with plumes of feathers, and glittered with gold.
after them came the youngest prince, and last of all the crystal chair, at which everybody looked with admiration and curiosity.
when the courtiers saw them coming they hastened to tell the king.
“are the ladies beautiful?” he asked anxiously.
and when they answered that nobody had ever before seen such lovely princesses he seemed quite annoyed.
however, he received them graciously, but found it impossible to choose between them.
then turning to his youngest son he said:
“have you come back alone, after all?”
“your majesty,” replied the prince, “will find in that crystal chair a little white cat, which has such soft paws, and mews so prettily, that i am sure you will be charmed with it.”
the king smiled, and went to draw back the curtains himself, but at a touch from the princess the crystal shivered into a thousand splinters, and there she stood in all her beauty; her fair hair floated over her shoulders and was crowned with flowers, and her softly falling robe was of the purest white.
she saluted the king gracefully, while a murmur of admiration rose from all around.
“sire,” she said, “i am not come to deprive you of the throne you fill so worthily.
i have already six kingdoms, permit me to bestow one upon you, and upon each of your sons.
i ask nothing but your friendship, and your consent to my marriage with your youngest son; we shall still have three kingdoms left for ourselves.”
the king and all the courtiers could not conceal their joy and astonishment, and the marriage of the three princes was celebrated at once.
the festivities lasted several months, and then each king and queen departed to their own kingdom and lived happily ever after.
(1)
(1) la chatte blanche.
par madame la comtesse d’aulnoy.
the water-lily.
the gold-spinners
once upon a time, in a large forest, there lived an old woman and three maidens.
they were all three beautiful, but the youngest was the fairest.
their hut was quite hidden by trees, and none saw their beauty but the sun by day, and the moon by night, and the eyes of the stars.
the old woman kept the girls hard at work, from morning till night, spinning gold flax into yarn, and when one distaff was empty another was given them, so they had no rest.
the thread had to be fine and even, and when done was locked up in a secret chamber by the old woman, who twice or thrice every summer went a journey.
before she went she gave out work for each day of her absence, and always returned in the night, so that the girls never saw what she brought back with her, neither would she tell them whence the gold flax came, nor what it was to be used for.
now, when the time came round for the old woman to set out on one of these journeys, she gave each maiden work for six days, with the usual warning: “children, don’t let your eyes wander, and on no account speak to a man, for, if you do, your thread will lose its brightness, and misfortunes of all kinds will follow.” they laughed at this oft-repeated caution, saying to each other: “how can our gold thread lose its brightness, and have we any chance of speaking to a man?”
on the third day after the old woman’s departure a young prince, hunting in the forest, got separated from his companions, and completely lost.
weary of seeking his way, he flung himself down under a tree, leaving his horse to browse at will, and fell asleep.
the sun had set when he awoke and began once more to try and find his way out of the forest.
at last he perceived a narrow foot-path, which he eagerly followed and found that it led him to a small hut.
the maidens, who were sitting at the door of their hut for coolness, saw him approaching, and the two elder were much alarmed, for they remembered the old woman’s warning; but the youngest said: “never before have i seen anyone like him; let me have one look.” they entreated her to come in, but, seeing that she would not, left her, and the prince, coming up, courteously greeted the maiden, and told her he had lost his way in the forest and was both hungry and weary.
she set food before him, and was so delighted with his conversation that she forgot the old woman’s caution, and lingered for hours.
in the meantime the prince’s companions sought him far and wide, but to no purpose, so they sent two messengers to tell the sad news to the king, who immediately ordered a regiment of cavalry and one of infantry to go and look for him.
after three days’ search, they found the hut.
the prince was still sitting by the door and had been so happy in the maiden’s company that the time had seemed like a single hour.
before leaving he promised to return and fetch her to his father’s court, where he would make her his bride.
when he had gone, she sat down to her wheel to make up for lost time, but was dismayed to find that her thread had lost all its brightness.
her heart beat fast and she wept bitterly, for she remembered the old woman’s warning and knew not what misfortune might now befall her.
the old woman returned in the night and knew by the tarnished thread what had happened in her absence.
she was furiously angry and told the maiden that she had brought down misery both on herself and on the prince.
the maiden could not rest for thinking of this.
at last she could bear it no longer, and resolved to seek help from the prince.
as a child she had learned to understand the speech of birds, and this was now of great use to her, for, seeing a raven pluming itself on a pine bough, she cried softly to it: “dear bird, cleverest of all birds, as well as swiftest on wing, wilt thou help me?” “how can i help thee?” asked the raven.
she answered: “fly away, until thou comest to a splendid town, where stands a king’s palace; seek out the king’s son and tell him that a great misfortune has befallen me.” then she told the raven how her thread had lost its brightness, how terribly angry the old woman was, and how she feared some great disaster.
the raven promised faithfully to do her bidding, and, spreading its wings, flew away.
the maiden now went home and worked hard all day at winding up the yarn her elder sisters had spun, for the old woman would let her spin no longer.
toward evening she heard the raven’s “craa, craa,” from the pine tree and eagerly hastened thither to hear the answer.
by great good fortune the raven had found a wind wizard’s son in the palace garden, who understood the speech of birds, and to him he had entrusted the message.
when the prince heard it, he was very sorrowful, and took counsel with his friends how to free the maiden.
then he said to the wind wizard’s son: “beg the raven to fly quickly back to the maiden and tell her to be ready on the ninth night, for then will i come and fetch her away.” the wind wizard’s son did this, and the raven flew so swiftly that it reached the hut that same evening.
the maiden thanked the bird heartily and went home, telling no one what she had heard.
as the ninth night drew near she became very unhappy, for she feared lest some terrible mischance should arise and ruin all.
on this night she crept quietly out of the house and waited trembling at some little distance from the hut.
presently she heard the muffled tramp of horses, and soon the armed troop appeared, led by the prince, who had prudently marked all the trees beforehand, in order to know the way.
when he saw the maiden he sprang from his horse, lifted her into the saddle, and then, mounting behind, rode homeward.
the moon shone so brightly that they had no difficulty in seeing the marked trees.
by and by the coming of dawn loosened the tongues of all the birds, and, had the prince only known what they were saying, or the maiden been listening, they might have been spared much sorrow, but they were thinking only of each other, and when they came out of the forest the sun was high in the heavens.
next morning, when the youngest girl did not come to her work, the old woman asked where she was.
the sisters pretended not to know, but the old woman easily guessed what had happened, and, as she was in reality a wicked witch, determined to punish the fugitives.
accordingly, she collected nine different kinds of enchanters’ nightshade, added some salt, which she first bewitched, and, doing all up in a cloth into the shape of a fluffy ball, sent it after them on the wings of the wind, saying:
“whirlwind!
mother of the wind!
lend thy aid ‘gainst her who sinned!
carry with thee this magic ball.
cast her from his arms for ever,   bury her in the rippling river.”
at midday the prince and his men came to a deep river, spanned by so narrow a bridge that only one rider could cross at a time.
the horse on which the prince and the maiden were riding had just reached the middle when the magic ball flew by.
the horse in its fright suddenly reared, and before anyone could stop it flung the maiden into the swift current below.
the prince tried to jump in after her, but his men held him back, and in spite of his struggles led him home, where for six weeks he shut himself up in a secret chamber, and would neither eat nor drink, so great was his grief.
at last he became so ill his life was despaired of, and in great alarm the king caused all the wizards of his country to be summoned.
but none could cure him.
at last the wind wizard’s son said to the king: “send for the old wizard from finland he knows more than all the wizards of your kingdom put together.” a messenger was at once sent to finland, and a week later the old wizard himself arrived on the wings of the wind.
“honored king,” said the wizard, “the wind has blown this illness upon your son, and a magic ball has snatched away his beloved.
this it is which makes him grieve so constantly.
let the wind blow upon him that it may blow away his sorrow.” then the king made his son go out into the wind, and he gradually recovered and told his father all.
“forget the maiden,” said the king, “and take another bride”; but the prince said he could never love another.
a year afterward he came suddenly upon the bridge where his beloved met her death.
as he recalled the misfortune he wept bitterly, and would have given all he possessed to have her once more alive.
in the midst of his grief he thought he heard a voice singing, and looked round, but could see no one.
then he heard the voice again, and it said:
“alas!
bewitched and all forsaken,  ‘tis i must lie for ever here!
my beloved no thought has taken  to free his bride, that was so dear.”
he was greatly astonished, sprang from his horse, and looked everywhere to see if no one were hidden under the bridge; but no one was there.
then he noticed a yellow water-lily floating on the surface of the water, half hidden by its broad leaves; but flowers do not sing, and in great surprise he waited, hoping to hear more.
then again the voice sang:
“alas!
bewitched and all forsaken,        ‘tis i must lie for ever here!
my beloved no thought has taken        to free his bride, that was so dear.”
the prince suddenly remembered the gold-spinners, and said to himself:
“if i ride thither, who knows but that they could explain this to me?”
he at once rode to the hut, and found the two maidens at the fountain.
he told them what had befallen their sister the year before, and how he had twice heard a strange song, but yet could see no singer.
they said that the yellow water-lily could be none other than their sister, who was not dead, but transformed by the magic ball.
before he went to bed, the eldest made a cake of magic herbs, which she gave him to eat.
in the night he dreamed that he was living in the forest and could understand all that the birds said to each other.
next morning he told this to the maidens, and they said that the charmed cake had caused it, and advised him to listen well to the birds, and see what they could tell him, and when he had recovered his bride they begged him to return and deliver them from their wretched bondage.
having promised this, he joyfully returned home, and as he was riding through the forest he could perfectly understand all that the birds said.
he heard a thrush say to a magpie: “how stupid men are!
they cannot understand the simplest thing.
it is now quite a year since the maiden was transformed into a water-lily, and, though she sings so sadly that anyone going over the bridge must hear her, yet no one comes to her aid.
her former bridegroom rode over it a few days ago and heard her singing, but was no wiser than the rest.”
“and he is to blame for all her misfortunes,” added the magpie.
“if he heeds only the words of men she will remain a flower for ever.
she were soon delivered were the matter only laid before the old wizard of finland.”
after hearing this, the prince wondered how he could get a message conveyed to finland.
he heard one swallow say to another: “come, let us fly to finland; we can build better nests there.”
“stop, kind friends!” cried the prince.
“will you do something for me?”
the birds consented, and he said: “take a thousand greetings from me to the wizard of finland, and ask him how i may restore a maiden transformed into a flower to her own form.”
the swallows flew away, and the prince rode on to the bridge.
there he waited, hoping to hear the song.
but he heard nothing but the rushing of the water and the moaning of the wind, and, disappointed, rode home.
shortly after, he was sitting in the garden, thinking that the swallows must have forgotten his message, when he saw an eagle flying above him.
the bird gradually descended until it perched on a tree close to the prince and said: “the wizard of finland greets thee and bids me say that thou mayest free the maiden thus: go to the river and smear thyself all over with mud; then say: ‘from a man into a crab,’ and thou wilt become a crab.
plunge boldly into the water, swim as close as thou canst to the water-lily’s roots, and loosen them from the mud and reeds.
this done, fasten thy claws into the roots and rise with them to the surface.
let the water flow all over the flower, and drift with the current until thou comest to a mountain ash tree on the left bank.
there is near it a large stone.
stop there and say: ‘from a crab into a man, from a water-lily into a maiden,’ and ye both will be restored to your own forms.”
full of doubt and fear, the prince let some time pass before he was bold enough to attempt to rescue the maiden.
then a crow said to him: “why dost thou hesitate?
the old wizard has not told thee wrong, neither have the birds deceived thee; hasten and dry the maiden’s tears.”
“nothing worse than death can befall me,” thought the prince, “and death is better than endless sorrow.” so he mounted his horse and went to the bridge.
again he heard the water-lily’s lament, and, hesitating no longer, smeared himself all over with mud, and, saying: “from a man into a crab,” plunged into the river.
for one moment the water hissed in his ears, and then all was silent.
he swam up to the plant and began to loosen its roots, but so firmly were they fixed in the mud and reeds that this took him a long time.
he then grasped them and rose to the surface, letting the water flow over the flower.
the current carried them down the stream, but nowhere could he see the mountain ash.
at last he saw it, and close by the large stone.
here he stopped and said: “from a crab into a man, from a water-lily into a maiden,” and to his delight found himself once more a prince, and the maiden was by his side.
she was ten times more beautiful than before, and wore a magnificent pale yellow robe, sparkling with jewels.
she thanked him for having freed her from the cruel witch’s power, and willingly consented to marry him.
but when they came to the bridge where he had left his horse it was nowhere to be seen, for, though the prince thought he had been a crab only a few hours, he had in reality been under the water for more than ten days.
while they were wondering how they should reach his father’s court, they saw a splendid coach driven by six gaily caparisoned horses coming along the bank.
in this they drove to the palace.
the king and queen were at church, weeping for their son, whom they had long mourned for dead.
great was their delight and astonishment when the prince entered, leading the beautiful maiden by the hand.
the wedding was at once celebrated and there was feasting and merry-making throughout the kingdom for six weeks.
some time afterward the prince and his bride were sitting in the garden, when a crow said to them: “ungrateful creatures!
have you forgotten the two poor maidens who helped you in your distress?
must they spin gold flax for ever?
have no pity on the old witch.
the three maidens are princesses, whom she stole away when they were children together, with all the silver utensils, which she turned into gold flax.
poison were her fittest punishment.”
the prince was ashamed of having forgotten his promise and set out at once, and by great good fortune reached the hut when the old woman was away.
the maidens had dreamed that he was coming, and were ready to go with him, but first they made a cake in which they put poison, and left it on a table where the old woman was likely to see it when she returned.
she did see it, and thought it looked so tempting that she greedily ate it up and at once died.
in the secret chamber were found fifty wagon-loads of gold flax, and as much more was discovered buried.
the hut was razed to the ground, and the prince and his bride and her two sisters lived happily ever after.
the terrible head
once upon a time there was a king whose only child was a girl.
now the king had been very anxious to have a son, or at least a grandson, to come after him, but he was told by a prophet whom he consulted that his own daughter’s son should kill him.
this news terrified him so much that he determined never to let his daughter be married, for he thought it was better to have no grandson at all than to be killed by his grandson.
he therefore called his workmen together, and bade them dig a deep round hole in the earth, and then he had a prison of brass built in the hole, and then, when it was finished, he locked up his daughter.
no man ever saw her, and she never saw even the fields and the sea, but only the sky and the sun, for there was a wide open window in the roof of the house of brass.
so the princess would sit looking up at the sky, and watching the clouds float across, and wondering whether she should ever get out of her prison.
now one day it seemed to her that the sky opened above her, and a great shower of shining gold fell through the window in the roof, and lay glittering in her room.
not very long after, the princess had a baby, a little boy, but when the king her father heard of it he was very angry and afraid, for now the child was born that should be his death.
yet, cowardly as he was, he had not quite the heart to kill the princess and her baby outright, but he had them put in a huge brass-bound chest and thrust out to sea, that they might either be drowned or starved, or perhaps come to a country where they would be out of his way.
so the princess and the baby floated and drifted in the chest on the sea all day and night, but the baby was not afraid of the waves nor of the wind, for he did not know that they could hurt him, and he slept quite soundly.
and the princess sang a song over him, and this was her song:
“child, my child, how sound you sleep!
though your mother’s care is deep,   you can lie with heart at rest   in the narrow brass-bound chest;   in the starless night and drear   you can sleep, and never hear   billows breaking, and the cry   of the night-wind wandering by;   in soft purple mantle sleeping   with your little face on mine,   hearing not your mother weeping   and the breaking of the brine.”
well, the daylight came at last, and the great chest was driven by the waves against the shore of an island.
there the brass-bound chest lay, with the princess and her baby in it, till a man of that country came past, and saw it, and dragged it on to the beach, and when he had broken it open, behold!
there was a beautiful lady and a little boy.
so he took them home, and was very kind to them, and brought up the boy till he was a young man.
now when the boy had come to his full strength the king of that country fell in love with his mother, and wanted to marry her, but he knew that she would never part from her boy.
so he thought of a plan to get rid of the boy, and this was his plan: a great queen of a country not far off was going to be married, and this king said that all his subjects must bring him wedding presents to give her.
and he made a feast to which he invited them all, and they all brought their presents; some brought gold cups, and some brought necklaces of gold and amber, and some brought beautiful horses; but the boy had nothing, though he was the son of a princess, for his mother had nothing to give him.
then the rest of the company began to laugh at him, and the king said: “if you have nothing else to give, at least you might go and fetch the terrible head.”
the boy was proud, and spoke without thinking:
“then i swear that i will bring the terrible head, if it may be brought by a living man.
but of what head you speak i know not.”
then they told him that somewhere, a long way off, there dwelt three dreadful sisters, monstrous ogrish women, with golden wings and claws of brass, and with serpents growing on their heads instead of hair.
now these women were so awful to look on that whoever saw them was turned at once into stone.
and two of them could not be put to death, but the youngest, whose face was very beautiful, could be killed, and it was her head that the boy had promised to bring.
you may imagine it was no easy adventure.
when he heard all this he was perhaps sorry that he had sworn to bring the terrible head, but he was determined to keep his oath.
so he went out from the feast, where they all sat drinking and making merry, and he walked alone beside the sea in the dusk of the evening, at the place where the great chest, with himself and his mother in it, had been cast ashore.
there he went and sat down on a rock, looking toward the sea, and wondering how he should begin to fulfill his vow.
then he felt some one touch him on the shoulder; and he turned, and saw a young man like a king’s son, having with him a tall and beautiful lady, whose blue eyes shone like stars.
they were taller than mortal men, and the young man had a staff in his hand with golden wings on it, and two golden serpents twisted round it, and he had wings on his cap and on his shoes.
he spoke to the boy, and asked him why he was so unhappy; and the boy told him how he had sworn to bring the terrible head, and knew not how to begin to set about the adventure.
then the beautiful lady also spoke, and said that “it was a foolish oath and a hasty, but it might be kept if a brave man had sworn it.” then the boy answered that he was not afraid, if only he knew the way.
then the lady said that to kill the dreadful woman with the golden wings and the brass claws, and to cut off her head, he needed three things:
first, a cap of darkness, which would make him invisible when he wore it; next, a sword of sharpness, which would cleave iron at one blow; and last, the shoes of swiftness, with which he might fly in the air.
the boy answered that he knew not where such things were to be procured, and that, wanting them, he could only try and fail.
then the young man, taking off his own shoes, said: “first, you shall use these shoes till you have taken the terrible head, and then you must give them back to me.
and with these shoes you will fly as fleet as a bird, or a thought, over the land or over the waves of the sea, wherever the shoes know the way.
but there are ways which they do not know, roads beyond the borders of the world.
and these roads have you to travel.
now first you must go to the three gray sisters, who live far off in the north, and are so very cold that they have only one eye and one tooth among the three.
you must creep up close to them, and as one of them passes the eye to the other you must seize it, and refuse to give it up till they have told you the way to the three fairies of the garden, and they will give you the cap of darkness and the sword of sharpness, and show you how to wing beyond this world to the land of the terrible head.”
then the beautiful lady said: “go forth at once, and do not return to say good-by to your mother, for these things must be done quickly, and the shoes of swiftness themselves will carry you to the land of the three gray sisters for they know the measure of that way.”
so the boy thanked her, and he fastened on the shoes of swiftness, and turned to say good-by to the young man and the lady.
but, behold!
they had vanished, he knew not how or where!
then he leaped in the air to try the shoes of swiftness, and they carried him more swiftly than the wind, over the warm blue sea, over the happy lands of the south, over the northern peoples who drank mare’s milk and lived in great wagons, wandering after their flocks.
across the wide rivers, where the wild fowl rose and fled before him, and over the plains and the cold north sea he went, over the fields of snow and the hills of ice, to a place where the world ends, and all water is frozen, and there are no men, nor beasts, nor any green grass.
there in a blue cave of the ice he found the three gray sisters, the oldest of living things.
their hair was as white as the snow, and their flesh of an icy blue, and they mumbled and nodded in a kind of dream, and their frozen breath hung round them like a cloud.
now the opening of the cave in the ice was narrow, and it was not easy to pass in without touching one of the gray sisters.
but, floating on the shoes of swiftness, the boy just managed to steal in, and waited till one of the sisters said to another, who had their one eye:
“sister, what do you see?
do you see old times coming back?”
“no, sister.”
“then give me the eye, for perhaps i can see farther than you.”
then the first sister passed the eye to the second, but as the second groped for it the boy caught it cleverly out of her hand.
“where is the eye, sister?” said the second gray woman.
“you have taken it yourself, sister,” said the first gray woman.
“have you lost the eye, sister?
have you lost the eye?” said the third gray woman; “shall we never find it again, and see old times coming back?”
then the boy slipped from behind them out of the cold cave into the air, and he laughed aloud.
when the gray women heard that laugh they began to weep, for now they knew that a stranger had robbed them, and that they could not help themselves, and their tears froze as they fell from the hollows where no eyes were, and rattled on the icy ground of the cave.
then they began to implore the boy to give them their eye back again, and he could not help being sorry for them, they were so pitiful.
but he said he would never give them the eye till they told him the way to the fairies of the garden.
then they wrung their hands miserably, for they guessed why he had come, and how he was going to try to win the terrible head.
now the dreadful women were akin to the three gray sisters, and it was hard for them to tell the boy the way.
but at last they told him to keep always south, and with the land on his left and the sea on his right, till he reached the island of the fairies of the garden.
then he gave them back the eye, and they began to look out once more for the old times coming back again.
but the boy flew south between sea and land, keeping the land always on his left hand, till he saw a beautiful island crowned with flowering trees.
there he alighted, and there he found the three fairies of the garden.
they were like three very beautiful young women, dressed one in green, one in white, and one in red, and they were dancing and singing round an apple tree with apples of gold, and this was their song:
the song of the western fairies
round and round the apples of gold,        round and round dance we;      thus do we dance from the days of old        about the enchanted tree;      round, and round, and round we go,      while the spring is green, or the stream shall flow,        or the wind shall stir the sea!
there is none may taste of the golden fruit        till the golden new time come      many a tree shall spring from shoot,      many a blossom be withered at root,        many a song be dumb;      broken and still shall be many a lute        or ever the new times come!
round and round the tree of gold,        round and round dance we,      so doth the great world spin from of old,      summer and winter, and fire and cold,      song that is sung, and tale that is told,      even as we dance, that fold and unfold        round the stem of the fairy tree!
these grave dancing fairies were very unlike the grey women, and they were glad to see the boy, and treated him kindly.
then they asked him why he had come; and he told them how he was sent to find the sword of sharpness and the cap of darkness.
and the fairies gave him these, and a wallet, and a shield, and belted the sword, which had a diamond blade, round his waist, and the cap they set on his head, and told him that now even they could not see him though they were fairies.
then he took it off, and they each kissed him and wished him good fortune, and then they began again their eternal dance round the golden tree, for it is their business to guard it till the new times come, or till the world’s ending.
so the boy put the cap on his head, and hung the wallet round his waist, and the shining shield on his shoulders, and flew beyond the great river that lies coiled like a serpent round the whole world.
and by the banks of that river, there he found the three terrible women all asleep beneath a poplar tree, and the dead poplar leaves lay all about them.
their golden wings were folded and their brass claws were crossed, and two of them slept with their hideous heads beneath their wings like birds, and the serpents in their hair writhed out from under the feathers of gold.
but the youngest slept between her two sisters, and she lay on her back, with her beautiful sad face turned to the sky; and though she slept her eyes were wide open.
if the boy had seen her he would have been changed into stone by the terror and the pity of it, she was so awful; but he had thought of a plan for killing her without looking on her face.
as soon as he caught sight of the three from far off he took his shining shield from his shoulders, and held it up like a mirror, so that he saw the dreadful women reflected in it, and did not see the terrible head itself.
then he came nearer and nearer, till he reckoned that he was within a sword’s stroke of the youngest, and he guessed where he should strike a back blow behind him.
then he drew the sword of sharpness and struck once, and the terrible head was cut from the shoulders of the creature, and the blood leaped out and struck him like a blow.
but he thrust the terrible head into his wallet, and flew away without looking behind.
then the two dreadful sisters who were left wakened, and rose in the air like great birds; and though they could not see him because of his cap of darkness, they flew after him up the wind, following by the scent through the clouds, like hounds hunting in a wood.
they came so close that he could hear the clatter of their golden wings, and their shrieks to each other: “here, here,” “no, there; this way he went,” as they chased him.
but the shoes of swiftness flew too fast for them, and at last their cries and the rattle of their wings died away as he crossed the great river that runs round the world.
now when the horrible creatures were far in the distance, and the boy found himself on the right side of the river, he flew straight eastward, trying to seek his own country.
but as he looked down from the air he saw a very strange sight a beautiful girl chained to a stake at the high-water mark of the sea.
the girl was so frightened or so tired that she was only prevented from falling by the iron chain about her waist, and there she hung, as if she were dead.
the boy was very sorry for her and flew down and stood beside her.
when he spoke she raised her head and looked round, but his voice only seemed to frighten her.
then he remembered that he was wearing the cap of darkness, and that she could only hear him, not see him.
so he took it off, and there he stood before her, the handsomest young man she had ever seen in all her life, with short curly yellow hair, and blue eyes, and a laughing face.
and he thought her the most beautiful girl in the world.
so first with one blow of the sword of sharpness he cut the iron chain that bound her, and then he asked her what she did there, and why men treated her so cruelly.
and she told him that she was the daughter of the king of that country, and that she was tied there to be eaten by a monstrous beast out of the sea; for the beast came and devoured a girl every day.
now the lot had fallen on her; and as she was just saying this a long fierce head of a cruel sea creature rose out of the waves and snapped at the girl.
but the beast had been too greedy and too hurried, so he missed his aim the first time.
before he could rise and bite again the boy had whipped the terrible head out of his wallet and held it up.
and when the sea beast leaped out once more its eyes fell on the head, and instantly it was turned into a stone.
and the stone beast is there on the sea-coast to this day.
then the boy and the girl went to the palace of the king, her father, where everyone was weeping for her death, and they could hardly believe their eyes when they saw her come back well.
and the king and queen made much of the boy, and could not contain themselves for delight when they found he wanted to marry their daughter.
so the two were married with the most splendid rejoicings, and when they had passed some time at court they went home in a ship to the boy’s own country.
for he could not carry his bride through the air, so he took the shoes of swiftness, and the cap of darkness, and the sword of sharpness up to a lonely place in the hills.
there he left them, and there they were found by the man and woman who had met him at home beside the sea, and had helped him to start on his journey.
when this had been done the boy and his bride set forth for home, and landed at the harbor of his native land.
but whom should he meet in the very street of the town but his own mother, flying for her life from the wicked king, who now wished to kill her because he found that she would never marry him!
for if she had liked the king ill before, she liked him far worse now that he had caused her son to disappear so suddenly.
she did not know, of course, where the boy had gone, but thought the king had slain him secretly.
so now she was running for her very life, and the wicked king was following her with a sword in his hand.
then, behold!
she ran into her son’s very arms, but he had only time to kiss her and step in front of her, when the king struck at him with his sword.
the boy caught the blow on his shield, and cried to the king:
“i swore to bring you the terrible head, and see how i keep my oath!”
then he drew forth the head from his wallet, and when the king’s eyes fell on it, instantly he was turned into stone, just as he stood there with his sword lifted!
now all the people rejoiced, because the wicked king should rule them no longer.
and they asked the boy to be their king, but he said no, he must take his mother home to her father’s house.
so the people chose for king the man who had been kind to his mother when first she was cast on the island in the great chest.
presently the boy and his mother and his wife set sail for his mother’s own country, from which she had been driven so unkindly.
but on the way they stayed at the court of a king, and it happened that he was holding games, and giving prizes to the best runners, boxers, and quoit-throwers.
then the boy would try his strength with the rest, but he threw the quoit so far that it went beyond what had ever been thrown before, and fell in the crowd, striking a man so that he died.
now this man was no other than the father of the boy’s mother, who had fled away from his own kingdom for fear his grandson should find him and kill him after all.
thus he was destroyed by his own cowardice and by chance, and thus the prophecy was fulfilled.
but the boy and his wife and his mother went back to the kingdom that was theirs, and lived long and happily after all their troubles.
the story of pretty goldilocks
once upon a time there was a princess who was the prettiest creature in the world.
and because she was so beautiful, and because her hair was like the finest gold, and waved and rippled nearly to the ground, she was called pretty goldilocks.
she always wore a crown of flowers, and her dresses were embroidered with diamonds and pearls, and everybody who saw her fell in love with her.
now one of her neighbors was a young king who was not married.
he was very rich and handsome, and when he heard all that was said about pretty goldilocks, though he had never seen her, he fell so deeply in love with her that he could neither eat nor drink.
so he resolved to send an ambassador to ask her in marriage.
he had a splendid carriage made for his ambassador, and gave him more than a hundred horses and a hundred servants, and told him to be sure and bring the princess back with him.
after he had started nothing else was talked of at court, and the king felt so sure that the princess would consent that he set his people to work at pretty dresses and splendid furniture, that they might be ready by the time she came.
meanwhile, the ambassador arrived at the princess’s palace and delivered his little message, but whether she happened to be cross that day, or whether the compliment did not please her, is not known.
she only answered that she was very much obliged to the king, but she had no wish to be married.
the ambassador set off sadly on his homeward way, bringing all the king’s presents back with him, for the princess was too well brought up to accept the pearls and diamonds when she would not accept the king, so she had only kept twenty-five english pins that he might not be vexed.
when the ambassador reached the city, where the king was waiting impatiently, everybody was very much annoyed with him for not bringing the princess, and the king cried like a baby, and nobody could console him.
now there was at the court a young man, who was more clever and handsome than anyone else.
he was called charming, and everyone loved him, excepting a few envious people who were angry at his being the king’s favorite and knowing all the state secrets.
he happened to one day be with some people who were speaking of the ambassador’s return and saying that his going to the princess had not done much good, when charming said rashly:
“if the king had sent me to the princess goldilocks i am sure she would have come back with me.”
his enemies at once went to the king and said:
“you will hardly believe, sire, what charming has the audacity to say that if he had been sent to the princess goldilocks she would certainly have come back with him.
he seems to think that he is so much handsomer than you that the princess would have fallen in love with him and followed him willingly.” the king was very angry when he heard this.
“ha, ha!” said he; “does he laugh at my unhappiness, and think himself more fascinating than i am?
go, and let him be shut up in my great tower to die of hunger.”
so the king’s guards went to fetch charming, who had thought no more of his rash speech, and carried him off to prison with great cruelty.
the poor prisoner had only a little straw for his bed, and but for a little stream of water which flowed through the tower he would have died of thirst.
one day when he was in despair he said to himself:
“how can i have offended the king?
i am his most faithful subject, and have done nothing against him.”
the king chanced to be passing the tower and recognized the voice of his former favorite.
he stopped to listen in spite of charming’s enemies, who tried to persuade him to have nothing more to do with the traitor.
but the king said:
“be quiet, i wish to hear what he says.”
and then he opened the tower door and called to charming, who came very sadly and kissed the king’s hand, saying:
“what have i done, sire, to deserve this cruel treatment?”
“you mocked me and my ambassador,” said the king, “and you said that if i had sent you for the princess goldilocks you would certainly have brought her back.”
“it is quite true, sire,” replied charming; “i should have drawn such a picture of you, and represented your good qualities in such a way, that i am certain the princess would have found you irresistible.
but i cannot see what there is in that to make you angry.”
the king could not see any cause for anger either when the matter was presented to him in this light, and he began to frown very fiercely at the courtiers who had so misrepresented his favorite.
so he took charming back to the palace with him, and after seeing that he had a very good supper he said to him:
“you know that i love pretty goldilocks as much as ever, her refusal has not made any difference to me; but i don’t know how to make her change her mind; i really should like to send you, to see if you can persuade her to marry me.”
charming replied that he was perfectly willing to go, and would set out the very next day.
“but you must wait till i can get a grand escort for you,” said the king.
but charming said that he only wanted a good horse to ride, and the king, who was delighted at his being ready to start so promptly, gave him letters to the princess, and bade him good speed.
it was on a monday morning that he set out all alone upon his errand, thinking of nothing but how he could persuade the princess goldilocks to marry the king.
he had a writing-book in his pocket, and whenever any happy thought struck him he dismounted from his horse and sat down under the trees to put it into the harangue which he was preparing for the princess, before he forgot it.
one day when he had started at the very earliest dawn, and was riding over a great meadow, he suddenly had a capital idea, and, springing from his horse, he sat down under a willow tree which grew by a little river.
when he had written it down he was looking round him, pleased to find himself in such a pretty place, when all at once he saw a great golden carp lying gasping and exhausted upon the grass.
in leaping after little flies she had thrown herself high upon the bank, where she had lain till she was nearly dead.
charming had pity upon her, and, though he couldn’t help thinking that she would have been very nice for dinner, he picked her up gently and put her back into the water.
as soon as dame carp felt the refreshing coolness of the water she sank down joyfully to the bottom of the river, then, swimming up to the bank quite boldly, she said:
“i thank you, charming, for the kindness you have done me.
you have saved my life; one day i will repay you.” so saying, she sank down into the water again, leaving charming greatly astonished at her politeness.
another day, as he journeyed on, he saw a raven in great distress.
the poor bird was closely pursued by an eagle, which would soon have eaten it up, had not charming quickly fitted an arrow to his bow and shot the eagle dead.
the raven perched upon a tree very joyfully.
“charming,” said he, “it was very generous of you to rescue a poor raven; i am not ungrateful, some day i will repay you.”
charming thought it was very nice of the raven to say so, and went on his way.
before the sun rose he found himself in a thick wood where it was too dark for him to see his path, and here he heard an owl crying as if it were in despair.
“hark!” said he, “that must be an owl in great trouble, i am sure it has gone into a snare”; and he began to hunt about, and presently found a great net which some bird-catchers had spread the night before.
“what a pity it is that men do nothing but torment and persecute poor creatures which never do them any harm!” said he, and he took out his knife and cut the cords of the net, and the owl flitted away into the darkness, but then turning, with one flicker of her wings, she came back to charming and said:
“it does not need many words to tell you how great a service you have done me.
i was caught; in a few minutes the fowlers would have been here without your help i should have been killed.
i am grateful, and one day i will repay you.”
these three adventures were the only ones of any consequence that befell charming upon his journey, and he made all the haste he could to reach the palace of the princess goldilocks.
when he arrived he thought everything he saw delightful and magnificent.
diamonds were as plentiful as pebbles, and the gold and silver, the beautiful dresses, the sweetmeats and pretty things that were everywhere quite amazed him; he thought to himself: “if the princess consents to leave all this, and come with me to marry the king, he may think himself lucky!”
then he dressed himself carefully in rich brocade, with scarlet and white plumes, and threw a splendid embroidered scarf over his shoulder, and, looking as gay and as graceful as possible, he presented himself at the door of the palace, carrying in his arm a tiny pretty dog which he had bought on the way.
the guards saluted him respectfully, and a messenger was sent to the princess to announce the arrival of charming as ambassador of her neighbor the king.
“charming,” said the princess, “the name promises well; i have no doubt that he is good looking and fascinates everybody.”
“indeed he does, madam,” said all her maids of honor in one breath.
“we saw him from the window of the garret where we were spinning flax, and we could do nothing but look at him as long as he was in sight.”
“well to be sure,” said the princess, “that’s how you amuse yourselves, is it?
looking at strangers out of the window!
be quick and give me my blue satin embroidered dress, and comb out my golden hair.
let somebody make me fresh garlands of flowers, and give me my high-heeled shoes and my fan, and tell them to sweep my great hall and my throne, for i want everyone to say i am really ‘pretty goldilocks.’”
you can imagine how all her maids scurried this way and that to make the princess ready, and how in their haste they knocked their heads together and hindered each other, till she thought they would never have done.
however, at last they led her into the gallery of mirrors that she might assure herself that nothing was lacking in her appearance, and then she mounted her throne of gold, ebony, and ivory, while her ladies took their guitars and began to sing softly.
then charming was led in, and was so struck with astonishment and admiration that at first not a word could he say.
but presently he took courage and delivered his harangue, bravely ending by begging the princess to spare him the disappointment of going back without her.
“sir charming,” answered she, “all the reasons you have given me are very good ones, and i assure you that i should have more pleasure in obliging you than anyone else, but you must know that a month ago as i was walking by the river with my ladies i took off my glove, and as i did so a ring that i was wearing slipped off my finger and rolled into the water.
as i valued it more than my kingdom, you may imagine how vexed i was at losing it, and i vowed to never listen to any proposal of marriage unless the ambassador first brought me back my ring.
so now you know what is expected of you, for if you talked for fifteen days and fifteen nights you could not make me change my mind.”
charming was very much surprised by this answer, but he bowed low to the princess, and begged her to accept the embroidered scarf and the tiny dog he had brought with him.
but she answered that she did not want any presents, and that he was to remember what she had just told him.
when he got back to his lodging he went to bed without eating any supper, and his little dog, who was called frisk, couldn’t eat any either, but came and lay down close to him.
all night charming sighed and lamented.
“how am i to find a ring that fell into the river a month ago?” said he.
“it is useless to try; the princess must have told me to do it on purpose, knowing it was impossible.” and then he sighed again.
frisk heard him and said:
“my dear master, don’t despair; the luck may change, you are too good not to be happy.
let us go down to the river as soon as it is light.”
but charming only gave him two little pats and said nothing, and very soon he fell asleep.
at the first glimmer of dawn frisk began to jump about, and when he had waked charming they went out together, first into the garden, and then down to the river’s brink, where they wandered up and down.
charming was thinking sadly of having to go back unsuccessful when he heard someone calling: “charming, charming!” he looked all about him and thought he must be dreaming, as he could not see anybody.
then he walked on and the voice called again: “charming, charming!”
“who calls me?” said he.
frisk, who was very small and could look closely into the water, cried out: “i see a golden carp coming.” and sure enough there was the great carp, who said to charming:
“you saved my life in the meadow by the willow tree, and i promised that i would repay you.
take this, it is princess goldilock’s ring.” charming took the ring out of dame carp’s mouth, thanking her a thousand times, and he and tiny frisk went straight to the palace, where someone told the princess that he was asking to see her.
“ah!
poor fellow,” said she, “he must have come to say good-by, finding it impossible to do as i asked.”
so in came charming, who presented her with the ring and said:
“madam, i have done your bidding.
will it please you to marry my master?” when the princess saw her ring brought back to her unhurt she was so astonished that she thought she must be dreaming.
“truly, charming,” said she, “you must be the favorite of some fairy, or you could never have found it.”
“madam,” answered he, “i was helped by nothing but my desire to obey your wishes.”
“since you are so kind,” said she, “perhaps you will do me another service, for till it is done i will never be married.
there is a prince not far from here whose name is galifron, who once wanted to marry me, but when i refused he uttered the most terrible threats against me, and vowed that he would lay waste my country.
but what could i do?
i could not marry a frightful giant as tall as a tower, who eats up people as a monkey eats chestnuts, and who talks so loud that anybody who has to listen to him becomes quite deaf.
nevertheless, he does not cease to persecute me and to kill my subjects.
so before i can listen to your proposal you must kill him and bring me his head.”
charming was rather dismayed at this command, but he answered:
“very well, princess, i will fight this galifron; i believe that he will kill me, but at any rate i shall die in your defense.”
then the princess was frightened and said everything she could think of to prevent charming from fighting the giant, but it was of no use, and he went out to arm himself suitably, and then, taking little frisk with him, he mounted his horse and set out for galifron’s country.
everyone he met told him what a terrible giant galifron was, and that nobody dared go near him; and the more he heard, the more frightened he grew.
frisk tried to encourage him by saying: “while you are fighting the giant, dear master, i will go and bite his heels, and when he stoops down to look at me you can kill him.”
charming praised his little dog’s plan, but knew that this help would not do much good.
at last he drew near the giant’s castle, and saw to his horror that every path that led to it was strewn with bones.
before long he saw galifron coming.
his head was higher than the tallest trees, and he sang in a terrible voice:
“bring out your little boys and girls,   pray do not stay to do their curls,   for i shall eat so very many,   i shall not know if they have any.”
thereupon charming sang out as loud as he could to the same tune:
“come out and meet the valiant charming   who finds you not at all alarming;   although he is not very tall,   he’s big enough to make you fall.”
the rhymes were not very correct, but you see he had made them up so quickly that it is a miracle that they were not worse; especially as he was horribly frightened all the time.
when galifron heard these words he looked all about him, and saw charming standing, sword in hand this put the giant into a terrible rage, and he aimed a blow at charming with his huge iron club, which would certainly have killed him if it had reached him, but at that instant a raven perched upon the giant’s head, and, pecking with its strong beak and beating with its great wings so confused and blinded him that all his blows fell harmlessly upon the air, and charming, rushing in, gave him several strokes with his sharp sword so that he fell to the ground.
whereupon charming cut off his head before he knew anything about it, and the raven from a tree close by croaked out:
“you see i have not forgotten the good turn you did me in killing the eagle.
to-day i think i have fulfilled my promise of repaying you.”
“indeed, i owe you more gratitude than you ever owed me,” replied charming.
and then he mounted his horse and rode off with galifron’s head.
when he reached the city the people ran after him in crowds, crying:
“behold the brave charming, who has killed the giant!” and their shouts reached the princess’s ear, but she dared not ask what was happening, for fear she should hear that charming had been killed.
but very soon he arrived at the palace with the giant’s head, of which she was still terrified, though it could no longer do her any harm.
“princess,” said charming, “i have killed your enemy; i hope you will now consent to marry the king my master.”
“oh dear!
no,” said the princess, “not until you have brought me some water from the gloomy cavern.
“not far from here there is a deep cave, the entrance to which is guarded by two dragons with fiery eyes, who will not allow anyone to pass them.
when you get into the cavern you will find an immense hole, which you must go down, and it is full of toads and snakes; at the bottom of this hole there is another little cave, in which rises the fountain of health and beauty.
it is some of this water that i really must have: everything it touches becomes wonderful.
the beautiful things will always remain beautiful, and the ugly things become lovely.
if one is young one never grows old, and if one is old one becomes young.
you see, charming, i could not leave my kingdom without taking some of it with me.”
“princess,” said he, “you at least can never need this water, but i am an unhappy ambassador, whose death you desire.
where you send me i will go, though i know i shall never return.”
and, as the princess goldilocks showed no sign of relenting, he started with his little dog for the gloomy cavern.
everyone he met on the way said:
“what a pity that a handsome young man should throw away his life so carelessly!
he is going to the cavern alone, though if he had a hundred men with him he could not succeed.
why does the princess ask impossibilities?” charming said nothing, but he was very sad.
when he was near the top of a hill he dismounted to let his horse graze, while frisk amused himself by chasing flies.
charming knew he could not be far from the gloomy cavern, and on looking about him he saw a black hideous rock from which came a thick smoke, followed in a moment by one of the dragons with fire blazing from his mouth and eyes.
his body was yellow and green, and his claws scarlet, and his tail was so long that it lay in a hundred coils.
frisk was so terrified at the sight of it that he did not know where to hide.
charming, quite determined to get the water or die, now drew his sword, and, taking the crystal flask which pretty goldilocks had given him to fill, said to frisk:
“i feel sure that i shall never come back from this expedition; when i am dead, go to the princess and tell her that her errand has cost me my life.
then find the king my master, and relate all my adventures to him.”
as he spoke he heard a voice calling: “charming, charming!”
“who calls me?” said he; then he saw an owl sitting in a hollow tree, who said to him:
“you saved my life when i was caught in the net, now i can repay you.
trust me with the flask, for i know all the ways of the gloomy cavern, and can fill it from the fountain of beauty.” charming was only too glad to give her the flask, and she flitted into the cavern quite unnoticed by the dragon, and after some time returned with the flask, filled to the very brim with sparkling water.
charming thanked her with all his heart, and joyfully hastened back to the town.
he went straight to the palace and gave the flask to the princess, who had no further objection to make.
so she thanked charming, and ordered that preparations should be made for her departure, and they soon set out together.
the princess found charming such an agreeable companion that she sometimes said to him: “why didn’t we stay where we were?
i could have made you king, and we should have been so happy!”
but charming only answered:
“i could not have done anything that would have vexed my master so much, even for a kingdom, or to please you, though i think you are as beautiful as the sun.”
at last they reached the king’s great city, and he came out to meet the princess, bringing magnificent presents, and the marriage was celebrated with great rejoicings.
but goldilocks was so fond of charming that she could not be happy unless he was near her, and she was always singing his praises.
“if it hadn’t been for charming,” she said to the king, “i should never have come here; you ought to be very much obliged to him, for he did the most impossible things and got me water from the fountain of beauty, so i can never grow old, and shall get prettier every year.”
then charming’s enemies said to the king:
“it is a wonder that you are not jealous, the queen thinks there is nobody in the world like charming.
as if anybody you had sent could not have done just as much!”
“it is quite true, now i come to think of it,” said the king.
“let him be chained hand and foot, and thrown into the tower.”
so they took charming, and as a reward for having served the king so faithfully he was shut up in the tower, where he only saw the jailer, who brought him a piece of black bread and a pitcher of water every day.
however, little frisk came to console him, and told him all the news.
when pretty goldilocks heard what had happened she threw herself at the king’s feet and begged him to set charming free, but the more she cried, the more angry he was, and at last she saw that it was useless to say any more; but it made her very sad.
then the king took it into his head that perhaps he was not handsome enough to please the princess goldilocks, and he thought he would bathe his face with the water from the fountain of beauty, which was in the flask on a shelf in the princess’s room, where she had placed it that she might see it often.
now it happened that one of the princess’s ladies in chasing a spider had knocked the flask off the shelf and broken it, and every drop of the water had been spilt.
not knowing what to do, she had hastily swept away the pieces of crystal, and then remembered that in the king’s room she had seen a flask of exactly the same shape, also filled with sparkling water.
so, without saying a word, she fetched it and stood it upon the queen’s shelf.
now the water in this flask was what was used in the kingdom for getting rid of troublesome people.
instead of having their heads cut off in the usual way, their faces were bathed with the water, and they instantly fell asleep and never woke up any more.
so, when the king, thinking to improve his beauty, took the flask and sprinkled the water upon his face, he fell asleep, and nobody could wake him.
little frisk was the first to hear the news, and he ran to tell charming, who sent him to beg the princess not to forget the poor prisoner.
all the palace was in confusion on account of the king’s death, but tiny frisk made his way through the crowd to the princess’s side, and said:
“madam, do not forget poor charming.”
then she remembered all he had done for her, and without saying a word to anyone went straight to the tower, and with her own hands took off charming’s chains.
then, putting a golden crown upon his head, and the royal mantle upon his shoulders, she said:
“come, faithful charming, i make you king, and will take you for my husband.”
charming, once more free and happy, fell at her feet and thanked her for her gracious words.
everybody was delighted that he should be king, and the wedding, which took place at once, was the prettiest that can be imagined, and prince charming and princess goldilocks lived happily ever after.
(1)
(1) madame d’aulnoy.
the history of whittington
dick whittington was a very little boy when his father and mother died; so little, indeed, that he never knew them, nor the place where he was born.
he strolled about the country as ragged as a colt, till he met with a wagoner who was going to london, and who gave him leave to walk all the way by the side of his wagon without paying anything for his passage.
this pleased little whittington very much, as he wanted to see london sadly, for he had heard that the streets were paved with gold, and he was willing to get a bushel of it; but how great was his disappointment, poor boy!
when he saw the streets covered with dirt instead of gold, and found himself in a strange place, without a friend, without food, and without money.
though the wagoner was so charitable as to let him walk up by the side of the wagon for nothing, he took care not to know him when he came to town, and the poor boy was, in a little time, so cold and hungry that he wished himself in a good kitchen and by a warm fire in the country.
in his distress he asked charity of several people, and one of them bid him “go to work for an idle rogue.” “that i will,” said whittington, “with all my heart; i will work for you if you will let me.”
the man, who thought this savored of wit and impertinence (though the poor lad intended only to show his readiness to work), gave him a blow with a stick which broke his head so that the blood ran down.
in this situation, and fainting for want of food, he laid himself down at the door of one mr. fitzwarren, a merchant, where the cook saw him, and, being an ill-natured hussy, ordered him to go about his business or she would scald him.
at this time mr. fitzwarren came from the exchange, and began also to scold at the poor boy, bidding him to go to work.
whittington answered that he should be glad to work if anybody would employ him, and that he should be able if he could get some victuals to eat, for he had had nothing for three days, and he was a poor country boy, and knew nobody, and nobody would employ him.
he then endeavored to get up, but he was so very weak that he fell down again, which excited so much compassion in the merchant that he ordered the servants to take him in and give him some meat and drink, and let him help the cook to do any dirty work that she had to set him about.
people are too apt to reproach those who beg with being idle, but give themselves no concern to put them in the way of getting business to do, or considering whether they are able to do it, which is not charity.
but we return to whittington, who could have lived happy in this worthy family had he not been bumped about by the cross cook, who must be always roasting and basting, or when the spit was idle employed her hands upon poor whittington!
at last miss alice, his master’s daughter, was informed of it, and then she took compassion on the poor boy, and made the servants treat him kindly.
besides the crossness of the cook, whittington had another difficulty to get over before he could be happy.
he had, by order of his master, a flock-bed placed for him in a garret, where there was a number of rats and mice that often ran over the poor boy’s nose and disturbed him in his sleep.
after some time, however, a gentleman who came to his master’s house gave whittington a penny for brushing his shoes.
this he put into his pocket, being determined to lay it out to the best advantage; and the next day, seeing a woman in the street with a cat under her arm, he ran up to know the price of it.
the woman (as the cat was a good mouser) asked a deal of money for it, but on whittington’s telling her he had but a penny in the world, and that he wanted a cat sadly, she let him have it.
this cat whittington concealed in the garret, for fear she should be beat about by his mortal enemy the cook, and here she soon killed or frightened away the rats and mice, so that the poor boy could now sleep as sound as a top.
soon after this the merchant, who had a ship ready to sail, called for his servants, as his custom was, in order that each of them might venture something to try their luck; and whatever they sent was to pay neither freight nor custom, for he thought justly that god almighty would bless him the more for his readiness to let the poor partake of his fortune.
all the servants appeared but poor whittington, who, having neither money nor goods, could not think of sending anything to try his luck; but his good friend miss alice, thinking his poverty kept him away, ordered him to be called.
she then offered to lay down something for him, but the merchant told his daughter that would not do, it must be something of his own.
upon which poor whittington said he had nothing but a cat which he bought for a penny that was given him.
“fetch thy cat, boy,” said the merchant, “and send her.” whittington brought poor puss and delivered her to the captain, with tears in his eyes, for he said he should now be disturbed by the rats and mice as much as ever.
all the company laughed at the adventure but miss alice, who pitied the poor boy, and gave him something to buy another cat.
while puss was beating the billows at sea, poor whittington was severely beaten at home by his tyrannical mistress the cook, who used him so cruelly, and made such game of him for sending his cat to sea, that at last the poor boy determined to run away from his place, and having packed up the few things he had, he set out very early in the morning on all-hallows day.
he traveled as far as holloway, and there sat down on a stone to consider what course he should take; but while he was thus ruminating, bow bells, of which there were only six, began to ring; and he thought their sounds addressed him in this manner:
“turn again, whittington,   thrice lord mayor of london.”
“lord mayor of london!” said he to himself, “what would not one endure to be lord mayor of london, and ride in such a fine coach?
well, i’ll go back again, and bear all the pummelling and ill-usage of cicely rather than miss the opportunity of being lord mayor!” so home he went, and happily got into the house and about his business before mrs. cicely made her appearance.
we must now follow miss puss to the coast of africa.
how perilous are voyages at sea, how uncertain the winds and the waves, and how many accidents attend a naval life!
the ship that had the cat on board was long beaten at sea, and at last, by contrary winds, driven on a part of the coast of barbary which was inhabited by moors unknown to the english.
these people received our countrymen with civility, and therefore the captain, in order to trade with them, showed them the patterns of the goods he had on board, and sent some of them to the king of the country, who was so well pleased that he sent for the captain and the factor to come to his palace, which was about a mile from the sea.
here they were placed, according to the custom of the country, on rich carpets, flowered with gold and silver; and the king and queen being seated at the upper end of the room, dinner was brought in, which consisted of many dishes; but no sooner were the dishes put down but an amazing number of rats and mice came from all quarters and devoured all the meat in an instant.
the factor, in surprise, turned round to the nobles and asked if these vermin were not offensive.
“oh!
yes,” said they, “very offensive; and the king would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they assault him in his chamber, and even in bed, so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping, for fear of them.”
the factor jumped for joy; he remembered poor whittington and his cat, and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would despatch all these vermin immediately.
the king’s heart heaved so high at the joy which this news gave him that his turban dropped off his head.
“bring this creature to me,” said he; “vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say i will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her.” the factor, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of miss puss.
he told his majesty that it would be inconvenient to part with her, as, when she was gone, the rats and mice might destroy the goods in the ship but to oblige his majesty he would fetch her.
“run, run,” said the queen; “i am impatient to see the dear creature.”
away flew the factor, while another dinner was providing, and returned with the cat just as the rats and mice were devouring that also.
he immediately put down miss puss, who killed a great number of them.
the king rejoiced greatly to see his old enemies destroyed by so small a creature, and the queen was highly pleased, and desired the cat might be brought near that she might look at her.
upon which the factor called “pussy, pussy, pussy!” and she came to him.
he then presented her to the queen, who started back, and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such havoc among the rats and mice; however, when the factor stroked the cat and called “pussy, pussy!” the queen also touched her and cried “putty, putty!” for she had not learned english.
he then put her down on the queen’s lap, where she, purring, played with her majesty’s hand, and then sang herself to sleep.
the king, having seen the exploits of miss puss, and being informed that her kittens would stock the whole country, bargained with the captain and factor for the whole ship’s cargo, and then gave them ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to.
on which, taking leave of their majesties and other great personages at court, they sailed with a fair wind for england, whither we must now attend them.
the morn had scarcely dawned when mr. fitzwarren arose to count over the cash and settle the business for that day.
he had just entered the counting-house, and seated himself at the desk, when somebody came, tap, tap, at the door.
“who’s there?” said mr. fitzwarren.
“a friend,”
answered the other.
“what friend can come at this unseasonable time?” “a real friend is never unseasonable,” answered the other.
“i come to bring you good news of your ship unicorn.” the merchant bustled up in such a hurry that he forgot his gout; instantly opened the door, and who should be seen waiting but the captain and factor, with a cabinet of jewels, and a bill of lading, for which the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage.
then they told him the adventures of the cat, and showed him the cabinet of jewels which they had brought for mr. whittington.
upon which he cried out with great earnestness, but not in the most poetical manner:
“go, send him in, and tell him of his fame,   and call him mr. whittington by name.”
it is not our business to animadvert upon these lines; we are not critics, but historians.
it is sufficient for us that they are the words of mr. fitzwarren; and though it is beside our purpose, and perhaps not in our power to prove him a good poet, we shall soon convince the reader that he was a good man, which was a much better character; for when some who were present told him that this treasure was too much for such a poor boy as whittington, he said: “god forbid that i should deprive him of a penny; it is his own, and he shall have it to a farthing.” he then ordered mr. whittington in, who was at this time cleaning the kitchen and would have excused himself from going into the counting-house, saying the room was swept and his shoes were dirty and full of hob-nails.
the merchant, however, made him come in, and ordered a chair to be set for him.
upon which, thinking they intended to make sport of him, as had been too often the case in the kitchen, he besought his master not to mock a poor simple fellow, who intended them no harm, but let him go about his business.
the merchant, taking him by the hand, said: “indeed, mr. whittington, i am in earnest with you, and sent for you to congratulate you on your great success.
your cat has procured you more money than i am worth in the world, and may you long enjoy it and be happy!”
at length, being shown the treasure, and convinced by them that all of it belonged to him, he fell upon his knees and thanked the almighty for his providential care of such a poor and miserable creature.
he then laid all the treasure at his master’s feet, who refused to take any part of it, but told him he heartily rejoiced at his prosperity, and hoped the wealth he had acquired would be a comfort to him, and would make him happy.
he then applied to his mistress, and to his good friend miss alice, who refused to take any part of the money, but told him she heartily rejoiced at his good success, and wished him all imaginable felicity.
he then gratified the captain, factor, and the ship’s crew for the care they had taken of his cargo.
he likewise distributed presents to all the servants in the house, not forgetting even his old enemy the cook, though she little deserved it.
after this mr. fitzwarren advised mr. whittington to send for the necessary people and dress himself like a gentleman, and made him the offer of his house to live in till he could provide himself with a better.
now it came to pass when mr. whittington’s face was washed, his hair curled, and he dressed in a rich suit of clothes, that he turned out a genteel young fellow; and, as wealth contributes much to give a man confidence, he in a little time dropped that sheepish behavior which was principally occasioned by a depression of spirits, and soon grew a sprightly and good companion, insomuch that miss alice, who had formerly pitied him, now fell in love with him.
when her father perceived they had this good liking for each other he proposed a match between them, to which both parties cheerfully consented, and the lord mayor, court of aldermen, sheriffs, the company of stationers, the royal academy of arts, and a number of eminent merchants attended the ceremony, and were elegantly treated at an entertainment made for that purpose.
history further relates that they lived very happy, had several children, and died at a good old age.
mr. whittington served as sheriff of london and was three times lord mayor.
in the last year of his mayoralty he entertained king henry v and his queen, after his conquest of france, upon which occasion the king, in consideration of whittington’s merit, said: “never had prince such a subject”; which being told to whittington at the table, he replied: “never had subject such a king.” his majesty, out of respect to his good character, conferred the honor of knighthood on him soon after.
sir richard many years before his death constantly fed a great number of poor citizens, built a church and a college to it, with a yearly allowance for poor scholars, and near it erected a hospital.
he also built newgate for criminals, and gave liberally to st.
bartholomew’s hospital and other public charities.
the wonderful sheep
once upon a time in the days when the fairies lived there was a king who had three daughters, who were all young, and clever, and beautiful; but the youngest of the three, who was called miranda, was the prettiest and the most beloved.
the king, her father, gave her more dresses and jewels in a month than he gave the others in a year; but she was so generous that she shared everything with her sisters, and they were all as happy and as fond of one another as they could be.
now, the king had some quarrelsome neighbors, who, tired of leaving him in peace, began to make war upon him so fiercely that he feared he would be altogether beaten if he did not make an effort to defend himself.
so he collected a great army and set off to fight them, leaving the princesses with their governess in a castle where news of the war was brought every day sometimes that the king had taken a town, or won a battle, and, at last, that he had altogether overcome his enemies and chased them out of his kingdom, and was coming back to the castle as quickly as possible, to see his dear little miranda whom he loved so much.
the three princesses put on dresses of satin, which they had had made on purpose for this great occasion, one green, one blue, and the third white; their jewels were the same colors.
the eldest wore emeralds, the second turquoises, and the youngest diamonds, and thus adorned they went to meet the king, singing verses which they had composed about his victories.
when he saw them all so beautiful and so gay he embraced them tenderly, but gave miranda more kisses than either of the others.
presently a splendid banquet was served, and the king and his daughters sat down to it, and as he always thought that there was some special meaning in everything, he said to the eldest:
“tell me why you have chosen a green dress.”
“sire,” she answered, “having heard of your victories i thought that green would signify my joy and the hope of your speedy return.”
“that is a very good answer,” said the king; “and you, my daughter,” he continued, “why did you take a blue dress?”
“sire,” said the princess, “to show that we constantly hoped for your success, and that the sight of you is as welcome to me as the sky with its most beautiful stars.”
“why,” said the king, “your wise answers astonish me, and you, miranda.
what made you dress yourself all in white?
“because, sire,” she answered, “white suits me better than anything else.”
“what!” said the king angrily, “was that all you thought of, vain child?”
“i thought you would be pleased with me,” said the princess; “that was all.”
the king, who loved her, was satisfied with this, and even pretended to be pleased that she had not told him all her reasons at first.
“and now,” said he, “as i have supped well, and it is not time yet to go to bed, tell me what you dreamed last night.”
the eldest said she had dreamed that he brought her a dress, and the precious stones and gold embroidery on it were brighter than the sun.
the dream of the second was that the king had brought her a spinning wheel and a distaff, that she might spin him some shirts.
but the youngest said: “i dreamed that my second sister was to be married, and on her wedding-day, you, father, held a golden ewer and said: ‘come, miranda, and i will hold the water that you may dip your hands in it.’”
the king was very angry indeed when he heard this dream, and frowned horribly; indeed, he made such an ugly face that everyone knew how angry he was, and he got up and went off to bed in a great hurry; but he could not forget his daughter’s dream.
“does the proud girl wish to make me her slave?” he said to himself.
“i am not surprised at her choosing to dress herself in white satin without a thought of me.
she does not think me worthy of her consideration!
but i will soon put an end to her pretensions!”
he rose in a fury, and although it was not yet daylight, he sent for the captain of his bodyguard, and said to him:
“you have heard the princess miranda’s dream?
i consider that it means strange things against me, therefore i order you to take her away into the forest and kill her, and, that i may be sure it is done, you must bring me her heart and her tongue.
if you attempt to deceive me you shall be put to death!”
the captain of the guard was very much astonished when he heard this barbarous order, but he did not dare to contradict the king for fear of making him still more angry, or causing him to send someone else, so he answered that he would fetch the princess and do as the king had said.
when he went to her room they would hardly let him in, it was so early, but he said that the king had sent for miranda, and she got up quickly and came out; a little black girl called patypata held up her train, and her pet monkey and her little dog ran after her.
the monkey was called grabugeon, and the little dog tintin.
the captain of the guard begged miranda to come down into the garden where the king was enjoying the fresh air, and when they got there, he pretended to search for him, but as he was not to be found, he said:
“no doubt his majesty has strolled into the forest,” and he opened the little door that led to it and they went through.
by this time the daylight had begun to appear, and the princess, looking at her conductor, saw that he had tears in his eyes and seemed too sad to speak.
“what is the matter?” she said in the kindest way.
“you seem very sorrowful.”
“alas!
princess,” he answered, “who would not be sorrowful who was ordered to do such a terrible thing as i am?
the king has commanded me to kill you here, and carry your heart and your tongue to him, and if i disobey i shall lose my life.”
the poor princess was terrified, she grew very pale and began to cry softly.
looking up at the captain of the guard with her beautiful eyes, she said gently:
“will you really have the heart to kill me?
i have never done you any harm, and have always spoken well of you to the king.
if i had deserved my father’s anger i would suffer without a murmur, but, alas!
he is unjust to complain of me, when i have always treated him with love and respect.”
“fear nothing, princess,” said the captain of the guard.
“i would far rather die myself than hurt you; but even if i am killed you will not be safe: we must find some way of making the king believe that you are dead.”
“what can we do?” said miranda; “unless you take him my heart and my tongue he will never believe you.”
the princess and the captain of the guard were talking so earnestly that they did not think of patypata, but she had overheard all they said, and now came and threw herself at miranda’s feet.
“madam,” she said, “i offer you my life; let me be killed, i shall be only too happy to die for such a kind mistress.”
“why, patypata,” cried the princess, kissing her, “that would never do; your life is as precious to me as my own, especially after such a proof of your affection as you have just given me.”
“you are right, princess,” said grabugeon, coming forward, “to love such a faithful slave as patypata; she is of more use to you than i am, i offer you my tongue and my heart most willingly, especially as i wish to make a great name for myself in goblin land.”
“no, no, my little grabugeon,” replied miranda, “i cannot bear the thought of taking your life.”
“such a good little dog as i am,” cried tintin, “could not think of letting either of you die for his mistress.
if anyone is to die for her it must be me.”
and then began a great dispute between patypata, grabugeon, and tintin, and they came to high words, until at last grabugeon, who was quicker than the others, ran up to the very top of the nearest tree, and let herself fall, head first, to the ground, and there she lay quite dead!
the princess was very sorry, but as grabugeon was really dead, she allowed the captain of the guard to take her tongue; but, alas!
it was such a little one not bigger than the princess’s thumb that they decided sorrowfully that it was of no use at all: the king would not have been taken in by it for a moment!
“alas!
my little monkey,” cried the princess, “i have lost you, and yet i am no better off than i was before.”
“the honor of saving your life is to be mine,” interrupted patypata, and, before they could prevent her, she had picked up a knife and cut her head off in an instant.
but when the captain of the guard would have taken her tongue it turned out to be quite black, so that would not have deceived the king either.
“am i not unlucky?” cried the poor princess; “i lose everything i love, and am none the better for it.”
“if you had accepted my offer,” said tintin, “you would only have had me to regret, and i should have had all your gratitude.”
miranda kissed her little dog, crying so bitterly, that at last she could bear it no longer, and turned away into the forest.
when she looked back the captain of the guard was gone, and she was alone, except for patypata, grabugeon, and tintin, who lay upon the ground.
she could not leave the place until she had buried them in a pretty little mossy grave at the foot of a tree, and she wrote their names upon the bark of the tree, and how they had all died to save her life.
and then she began to think where she could go for safety for this forest was so close to her father’s castle that she might be seen and recognized by the first passer-by, and, besides that, it was full of lions and wolves, who would have snapped up a princess just as soon as a stray chicken.
so she began to walk as fast as she could, but the forest was so large and the sun was so hot that she nearly died of heat and terror and fatigue; look which way she would there seemed to be no end to the forest, and she was so frightened that she fancied every minute that she heard the king running after her to kill her.
you may imagine how miserable she was, and how she cried as she went on, not knowing which path to follow, and with the thorny bushes scratching her dreadfully and tearing her pretty frock to pieces.
at last she heard the bleating of a sheep, and said to herself:
“no doubt there are shepherds here with their flocks; they will show me the way to some village where i can live disguised as a peasant girl.
alas!
it is not always kings and princes who are the happiest people in the world.
who could have believed that i should ever be obliged to run away and hide because the king, for no reason at all, wishes to kill me?”
so saying she advanced toward the place where she heard the bleating, but what was her surprise when, in a lovely little glade quite surrounded by trees, she saw a large sheep; its wool was as white as snow, and its horns shone like gold; it had a garland of flowers round its neck, and strings of great pearls about its legs, and a collar of diamonds; it lay upon a bank of orange-flowers, under a canopy of cloth of gold which protected it from the heat of the sun.
nearly a hundred other sheep were scattered about, not eating the grass, but some drinking coffee, lemonade, or sherbet, others eating ices, strawberries and cream, or sweetmeats, while others, again, were playing games.
many of them wore golden collars with jewels, flowers, and ribbons.
miranda stopped short in amazement at this unexpected sight, and was looking in all directions for the shepherd of this surprising flock, when the beautiful sheep came bounding toward her.
“approach, lovely princess,” he cried; “have no fear of such gentle and peaceable animals as we are.”
“what a marvel!” cried the princess, starting back a little.
“here is a sheep that can talk.”
“your monkey and your dog could talk, madam,” said he; “are you more astonished at us than at them?”
“a fairy gave them the power to speak,” replied miranda.
“so i was used to them.”
“perhaps the same thing has happened to us,” he said, smiling sheepishly.
“but, princess, what can have led you here?”
“a thousand misfortunes, sir sheep,” she answered.
“i am the unhappiest princess in the world, and i am seeking a shelter against my father’s anger.”
“come with me, madam,” said the sheep; “i offer you a hiding-place which you only will know of, and where you will be mistress of everything you see.”
“i really cannot follow you,” said miranda, “for i am too tired to walk another step.”
the sheep with the golden horns ordered that his chariot should be fetched, and a moment after appeared six goats, harnessed to a pumpkin, which was so big that two people could quite well sit in it, and was all lined with cushions of velvet and down.
the princess stepped into it, much amused at such a new kind of carriage, the king of the sheep took his place beside her, and the goats ran away with them at full speed, and only stopped when they reached a cavern, the entrance to which was blocked by a great stone.
this the king touched with his foot, and immediately it fell down, and he invited the princess to enter without fear.
now, if she had not been so alarmed by everything that had happened, nothing could have induced her to go into this frightful cave, but she was so afraid of what might be behind her that she would have thrown herself even down a well at this moment.
so, without hesitation, she followed the sheep, who went before her, down, down, down, until she thought they must come out at the other side of the world indeed, she was not sure that he wasn’t leading her into fairyland.
at last she saw before her a great plain, quite covered with all sorts of flowers, the scent of which seemed to her nicer than anything she had ever smelled before; a broad river of orange-flower water flowed round it and fountains of wine of every kind ran in all directions and made the prettiest little cascades and brooks.
the plain was covered with the strangest trees, there were whole avenues where partridges, ready roasted, hung from every branch, or, if you preferred pheasants, quails, turkeys, or rabbits, you had only to turn to the right hand or to the left and you were sure to find them.
in places the air was darkened by showers of lobster-patties, white puddings, sausages, tarts, and all sorts of sweetmeats, or with pieces of gold and silver, diamonds and pearls.
this unusual kind of rain, and the pleasantness of the whole place, would, no doubt, have attracted numbers of people to it, if the king of the sheep had been of a more sociable disposition, but from all accounts it is evident that he was as grave as a judge.
as it was quite the nicest time of the year when miranda arrived in this delightful land the only palace she saw was a long row of orange trees, jasmines, honeysuckles, and musk-roses, and their interlacing branches made the prettiest rooms possible, which were hung with gold and silver gauze, and had great mirrors and candlesticks, and most beautiful pictures.
the wonderful sheep begged that the princess would consider herself queen over all that she saw, and assured her that, though for some years he had been very sad and in great trouble, she had it in her power to make him forget all his grief.
“you are so kind and generous, noble sheep,” said the princess, “that i cannot thank you enough, but i must confess that all i see here seems to me so extraordinary that i don’t know what to think of it.”
as she spoke a band of lovely fairies came up and offered her amber baskets full of fruit, but when she held out her hands to them they glided away, and she could feel nothing when she tried to touch them.
“oh!” she cried, “what can they be?
whom am i with?” and she began to cry.
at this instant the king of the sheep came back to her, and was so distracted to find her in tears that he could have torn his wool.
“what is the matter, lovely princess?” he cried.
“has anyone failed to treat you with due respect?”
“oh!
no,” said miranda; “only i am not used to living with sprites and with sheep that talk, and everything here frightens me.
it was very kind of you to bring me to this place, but i shall be even more grateful to you if you will take me up into the world again.”
“do not be afraid,” said the wonderful sheep; “i entreat you to have patience, and listen to the story of my misfortunes.
i was once a king, and my kingdom was the most splendid in the world.
my subjects loved me, my neighbors envied and feared me.
i was respected by everyone, and it was said that no king ever deserved it more.
“i was very fond of hunting, and one day, while chasing a stag, i left my attendants far behind; suddenly i saw the animal leap into a pool of water, and i rashly urged my horse to follow it, but before we had gone many steps i felt an extraordinary heat, instead of the coolness of the water; the pond dried up, a great gulf opened before me, out of which flames of fire shot up, and i fell helplessly to the bottom of a precipice.
“i gave myself up for lost, but presently a voice said: ‘ungrateful prince, even this fire is hardly enough to warm your cold heart!’
“‘who complains of my coldness in this dismal place?’ i cried.
“‘an unhappy being who loves you hopelessly,’ replied the voice, and at the same moment the flames began to flicker and cease to burn, and i saw a fairy, whom i had known as long as i could remember, and whose ugliness had always horrified me.
she was leaning upon the arm of a most beautiful young girl, who wore chains of gold on her wrists and was evidently her slave.
“‘why, ragotte,’ i said, for that was the fairy’s name, ‘what is the meaning of all this?
is it by your orders that i am here?’
“‘and whose fault is it,’ she answered, ‘that you have never understood me until now?
must a powerful fairy like myself condescend to explain her doings to you who are no better than an ant by comparison, though you think yourself a great king?’
“‘call me what you like,’ i said impatiently; ‘but what is it that you want my crown, or my cities, or my treasures?’
“‘treasures!’ said the fairy, disdainfully.
‘if i chose i could make any one of my scullions richer and more powerful than you.
i do not want your treasures, but,’ she added softly, ‘if you will give me your heart if you will marry me i will add twenty kingdoms to the one you have already; you shall have a hundred castles full of gold and five hundred full of silver, and, in short, anything you like to ask me for.’
“‘madam ragotte,’ said i, ‘when one is at the bottom of a pit where one has fully expected to be roasted alive, it is impossible to think of asking such a charming person as you are to marry one!
i beg that you will set me at liberty, and then i shall hope to answer you fittingly.’
“‘ah!’ said she, ‘if you really loved me you would not care where you were a cave, a wood, a fox-hole, a desert, would please you equally well.
do not think that you can deceive me; you fancy you are going to escape, but i assure you that you are going to stay here and the first thing i shall give you to do will be to keep my sheep they are very good company and speak quite as well as you do.
“as she spoke she advanced, and led me to this plain where we now stand, and showed me her flock, but i paid little attention to it or to her.
“to tell the truth, i was so lost in admiration of her beautiful slave that i forgot everything else, and the cruel ragotte, perceiving this, turned upon her so furious and terrible a look that she fell lifeless to the ground.
“at this dreadful sight i drew my sword and rushed at ragotte, and should certainly have cut off her head had she not by her magic arts chained me to the spot on which i stood; all my efforts to move were useless, and at last, when i threw myself down on the ground in despair, she said to me, with a scornful smile:
“‘i intend to make you feel my power.
it seems that you are a lion at present, i mean you to be a sheep.’
“so saying, she touched me with her wand, and i became what you see.
i did not lose the power of speech, or of feeling the misery of my present state.
“‘for five years,’ she said, ‘you shall be a sheep, and lord of this pleasant land, while i, no longer able to see your face, which i loved so much, shall be better able to hate you as you deserve to be hated.’
“she disappeared as she finished speaking, and if i had not been too unhappy to care about anything i should have been glad that she was gone.
“the talking sheep received me as their king, and told me that they, too, were unfortunate princes who had, in different ways, offended the revengeful fairy, and had been added to her flock for a certain number of years; some more, some less.
from time to time, indeed, one regains his own proper form and goes back again to his place in the upper world; but the other beings whom you saw are the rivals or the enemies of ragotte, whom she has imprisoned for a hundred years or so; though even they will go back at last.
the young slave of whom i told you about is one of these; i have seen her often, and it has been a great pleasure to me.
she never speaks to me, and if i were nearer to her i know i should find her only a shadow, which would be very annoying.
however, i noticed that one of my companions in misfortune was also very attentive to this little sprite, and i found out that he had been her lover, whom the cruel ragotte had taken away from her long before; since then i have cared for, and thought of, nothing but how i might regain my freedom.
i have often been in the forest; that is where i have seen you, lovely princess, sometimes driving your chariot, which you did with all the grace and skill in the world; sometimes riding to the chase on so spirited a horse that it seemed as if no one but yourself could have managed it, and sometimes running races on the plain with the princesses of your court running so lightly that it was you always who won the prize.
oh!
princess, i have loved you so long, and yet how dare i tell you of my love!
what hope can there be for an unhappy sheep like myself?”
miranda was so surprised and confused by all that she had heard that she hardly knew what answer to give to the king of the sheep, but she managed to make some kind of little speech, which certainly did not forbid him to hope, and said that she should not be afraid of the shadows now she knew that they would some day come to life again.
“alas!” she continued, “if my poor patypata, my dear grabugeon, and pretty little tintin, who all died for my sake, were equally well off, i should have nothing left to wish for here!”
prisoner though he was, the king of the sheep had still some powers and privileges.
“go,” said he to his master of the horse, “go and seek the shadows of the little black girl, the monkey, and the dog: they will amuse our princess.”
and an instant afterward miranda saw them coming toward her, and their presence gave her the greatest pleasure, though they did not come near enough for her to touch them.
the king of the sheep was so kind and amusing, and loved miranda so dearly, that at last she began to love him too.
such a handsome sheep, who was so polite and considerate, could hardly fail to please, especially if one knew that he was really a king, and that his strange imprisonment would soon come to an end.
so the princess’s days passed very gaily while she waited for the happy time to come.
the king of the sheep, with the help of all the flock, got up balls, concerts, and hunting parties, and even the shadows joined in all the fun, and came, making believe to be their own real selves.
one evening, when the couriers arrived (for the king sent most carefully for news and they always brought the very best kinds), it was announced that the sister of the princess miranda was going to be married to a great prince, and that nothing could be more splendid than all the preparations for the wedding.
“ah!” cried the young princess, “how unlucky i am to miss the sight of so many pretty things!
here am i imprisoned under the earth, with no company but sheep and shadows, while my sister is to be adorned like a queen and surrounded by all who love and admire her, and everyone but myself can go to wish her joy!”
“why do you complain, princess?” said the king of the sheep.
“did i say that you were not to go to the wedding?
set out as soon as you please; only promise me that you will come back, for i love you too much to be able to live without you.”
miranda was very grateful to him, and promised faithfully that nothing in the world should keep her from coming back.
the king caused an escort suitable to her rank to be got ready for her, and she dressed herself splendidly, not forgetting anything that could make her more beautiful.
her chariot was of mother-of-pearl, drawn by six dun-colored griffins just brought from the other side of the world, and she was attended by a number of guards in splendid uniforms, who were all at least eight feet high and had come from far and near to ride in the princess’s train.
miranda reached her father’s palace just as the wedding ceremony began, and everyone, as soon as she came in, was struck with surprise at her beauty and the splendor of her jewels.
she heard exclamations of admiration on all sides; and the king her father looked at her so attentively that she was afraid he must recognize her; but he was so sure that she was dead that the idea never occurred to him.
however, the fear of not getting away made her leave before the marriage was over.
she went out hastily, leaving behind her a little coral casket set with emeralds.
on it was written in diamond letters: “jewels for the bride,” and when they opened it, which they did as soon as it was found, there seemed to be no end to the pretty things it contained.
the king, who had hoped to join the unknown princess and find out who she was, was dreadfully disappointed when she disappeared so suddenly, and gave orders that if she ever came again the doors were to be shut that she might not get away so easily.
short as miranda’s absence had been, it had seemed like a hundred years to the king of the sheep.
he was waiting for her by a fountain in the thickest part of the forest, and the ground was strewn with splendid presents which he had prepared for her to show his joy and gratitude at her coming back.
as soon as she was in sight he rushed to meet her, leaping and bounding like a real sheep.
he caressed her tenderly, throwing himself at her feet and kissing her hands, and told her how uneasy he had been in her absence, and how impatient for her return, with an eloquence which charmed her.
after some time came the news that the king’s second daughter was going to be married.
when miranda heard it she begged the king of the sheep to allow her to go and see the wedding as before.
this request made him feel very sad, as if some misfortune must surely come of it, but his love for the princess being stronger than anything else he did not like to refuse her.
“you wish to leave me, princess,” said he; “it is my unhappy fate you are not to blame.
i consent to your going, but, believe me, i can give you no stronger proof of my love than by so doing.”
the princess assured him that she would only stay a very short time, as she had done before, and begged him not to be uneasy, as she would be quite as much grieved if anything detained her as he could possibly be.
so, with the same escort, she set out, and reached the palace as the marriage ceremony began.
everybody was delighted to see her; she was so pretty that they thought she must be some fairy princess, and the princes who were there could not take their eyes off her.
the king was more glad than anyone else that she had come again, and gave orders that the doors should all be shut and bolted that very minute.
when the wedding was all but over the princess got up quickly, hoping to slip away unnoticed among the crowd, but, to her great dismay, she found every door fastened.
she felt more at ease when the king came up to her, and with the greatest respect begged her not to run away so soon, but at least to honor him by staying for the splendid feast which was prepared for the princes and princesses.
he led her into a magnificent hall, where all the court was assembled, and himself taking up the golden bowl full of water, he offered it to her that she might dip her pretty fingers into it.
at this the princess could no longer contain herself; throwing herself at the king’s feet, she cried out:
“my dream has come true after all you have offered me water to wash my hands on my sister’s wedding day, and it has not vexed you to do it.”
the king recognized her at once indeed, he had already thought several times how much like his poor little miranda she was.
“oh!
my dear daughter,” he cried, kissing her, “can you ever forget my cruelty?
i ordered you to be put to death because i thought your dream portended the loss of my crown.
and so it did,” he added, “for now your sisters are both married and have kingdoms of their own and mine shall be for you.” so saying he put his crown on the princess’s head and cried:
“long live queen miranda!”
all the court cried: “long live queen miranda!” after him, and the young queen’s two sisters came running up, and threw their arms round her neck, and kissed her a thousand times, and then there was such a laughing and crying, talking and kissing, all at once, and miranda thanked her father, and began to ask after everyone particularly the captain of the guard, to whom she owed so much; but, to her great sorrow, she heard that he was dead.
presently they sat down to the banquet, and the king asked miranda to tell them all that had happened to her since the terrible morning when he had sent the captain of the guard to fetch her.
this she did with so much spirit that all the guests listened with breathless interest.
but while she was thus enjoying herself with the king and her sisters, the king of the sheep was waiting impatiently for the time of her return, and when it came and went, and no princess appeared, his anxiety became so great that he could bear it no longer.
“she is not coming back any more,” he cried.
“my miserable sheep’s face displeases her, and without miranda what is left to me, wretched creature that i am!
oh!
cruel ragotte; my punishment is complete.”
for a long time he bewailed his sad fate like this, and then, seeing that it was growing dark, and that still there was no sign of the princess, he set out as fast as he could in the direction of the town.
when he reached the palace he asked for miranda, but by this time everyone had heard the story of her adventures, and did not want her to go back again to the king of the sheep, so they refused sternly to let him see her.
in vain he begged and prayed them to let him in; though his entreaties might have melted hearts of stone they did not move the guards of the palace, and at last, quite broken-hearted, he fell dead at their feet.
in the meantime the king, who had not the least idea of the sad thing that was happening outside the gate of his palace, proposed to miranda that she should be driven in her chariot all round the town, which was to be illuminated with thousands and thousands of torches, placed in windows and balconies, and in all the grand squares.
but what a sight met her eyes at the very entrance of the palace!
there lay her dear, kind sheep, silent and motionless, upon the pavement!
she threw herself out of the chariot and ran to him, crying bitterly, for she realized that her broken promise had cost him his life, and for a long, long time she was so unhappy that they thought she would have died too.
so you see that even a princess is not always happy especially if she forgets to keep her word; and the greatest misfortunes often happen to people just as they think they have obtained their heart’s desires!
(1)
(1) madame d’aulnoy.
little thumb
there was, once upon a time, a man and his wife fagot-makers by trade, who had several children, all boys.
the eldest was but ten years old, and the youngest only seven.
they were very poor, and their seven children incommoded them greatly, because not one of them was able to earn his bread.
that which gave them yet more uneasiness was that the youngest was of a very puny constitution, and scarce ever spoke a word, which made them take that for stupidity which was a sign of good sense.
he was very little, and when born no bigger than one’s thumb, which made him be called little thumb.
the poor child bore the blame of whatsoever was done amiss in the house, and, guilty or not, was always in the wrong; he was, notwithstanding, more cunning and had a far greater share of wisdom than all his brothers put together; and, if he spake little, he heard and thought the more.
there happened now to come a very bad year, and the famine was so great that these poor people resolved to rid themselves of their children.
one evening, when they were all in bed and the fagot-maker was sitting with his wife at the fire, he said to her, with his heart ready to burst with grief:
“thou seest plainly that we are not able to keep our children, and i cannot see them starve to death before my face; i am resolved to lose them in the wood to-morrow, which may very easily be done; for, while they are busy in tying up fagots, we may run away, and leave them, without their taking any notice.”
“ah!” cried his wife; “and canst thou thyself have the heart to take thy children out along with thee on purpose to lose them?”
in vain did her husband represent to her their extreme poverty: she would not consent to it; she was indeed poor, but she was their mother.
however, having considered what a grief it would be to her to see them perish with hunger, she at last consented, and went to bed all in tears.
little thumb heard every word that had been spoken; for observing, as he lay in his bed, that they were talking very busily, he got up softly, and hid himself under his father’s stool, that he might hear what they said without being seen.
he went to bed again, but did not sleep a wink all the rest of the night, thinking on what he had to do.
he got up early in the morning, and went to the river-side, where he filled his pockets full of small white pebbles, and then returned home.
they all went abroad, but little thumb never told his brothers one syllable of what he knew.
they went into a very thick forest, where they could not see one another at ten paces distance.
the fagot-maker began to cut wood, and the children to gather up the sticks to make fagots.
their father and mother, seeing them busy at their work, got away from them insensibly, and ran away from them all at once, along a by-way through the winding bushes.
when the children saw they were left alone, they began to cry as loud as they could.
little thumb let them cry on, knowing very well how to get home again, for, as he came, he took care to drop all along the way the little white pebbles he had in his pockets.
then he said to them:
“be not afraid, brothers; father and mother have left us here, but i will lead you home again, only follow me.”
they did so, and he brought them home by the very same way they came into the forest.
they dared not go in, but sat themselves down at the door, listening to what their father and mother were saying.
the very moment the fagot-maker and his wife reached home the lord of the manor sent them ten crowns, which he had owed them a long while, and which they never expected.
this gave them new life, for the poor people were almost famished.
the fagot-maker sent his wife immediately to the butcher’s.
as it was a long while since they had eaten a bit, she bought thrice as much meat as would sup two people.
when they had eaten, the woman said:
“alas!
where are now our poor children?
they would make a good feast of what we have left here; but it was you, william, who had a mind to lose them: i told you we should repent of it.
what are they now doing in the forest?
alas!
dear god, the wolves have perhaps already eaten them up; thou art very inhuman thus to have lost thy children.”
the fagot-maker grew at last quite out of patience, for she repeated it above twenty times, that they should repent of it, and that she was in the right of it for so saying.
he threatened to beat her if she did not hold her tongue.
it was not that the fagot-maker was not, perhaps, more vexed than his wife, but that she teased him, and that he was of the humor of a great many others, who love wives to speak well, but think those very importunate who are continually doing so.
she was half-drowned in tears, crying out:
“alas!
where are now my children, my poor children?”
she spoke this so very loud that the children, who were at the gate, began to cry out all together:
“here we are!
here we are!”
she ran immediately to open the door, and said, hugging them:
“i am glad to see you, my dear children; you are very hungry and weary; and my poor peter, thou art horribly bemired; come in and let me clean thee.”
now, you must know that peter was her eldest son, whom she loved above all the rest, because he was somewhat carroty, as she herself was.
they sat down to supper, and ate with such a good appetite as pleased both father and mother, whom they acquainted how frightened they were in the forest, speaking almost always all together.
the good folks were extremely glad to see their children once more at home, and this joy continued while the ten crowns lasted; but, when the money was all gone, they fell again into their former uneasiness, and resolved to lose them again; and, that they might be the surer of doing it, to carry them to a much greater distance than before.
they could not talk of this so secretly but they were overheard by little thumb, who made account to get out of this difficulty as well as the former; but, though he got up very early in the morning to go and pick up some little pebbles, he was disappointed, for he found the house-door double-locked, and was at a stand what to do.
when their father had given each of them a piece of bread for their breakfast, little thumb fancied he might make use of this instead of the pebbles by throwing it in little bits all along the way they should pass; and so he put the bread in his pocket.
their father and mother brought them into the thickest and most obscure part of the forest, when, stealing away into a by-path, they there left them.
little thumb was not very uneasy at it, for he thought he could easily find the way again by means of his bread, which he had scattered all along as he came; but he was very much surprised when he could not find so much as one crumb; the birds had come and had eaten it up, every bit.
they were now in great affliction, for the farther they went the more they were out of their way, and were more and more bewildered in the forest.
night now came on, and there arose a terribly high wind, which made them dreadfully afraid.
they fancied they heard on every side of them the howling of wolves coming to eat them up.
they scarce dared to speak or turn their heads.
after this, it rained very hard, which wetted them to the skin; their feet slipped at every step they took, and they fell into the mire, whence they got up in a very dirty pickle; their hands were quite benumbed.
little thumb climbed up to the top of a tree, to see if he could discover anything; and having turned his head about on every side, he saw at last a glimmering light, like that of a candle, but a long way from the forest.
he came down, and, when upon the ground, he could see it no more, which grieved him sadly.
however, having walked for some time with his brothers toward that side on which he had seen the light, he perceived it again as he came out of the wood.
they came at last to the house where this candle was, not without an abundance of fear: for very often they lost sight of it, which happened every time they came into a bottom.
they knocked at the door, and a good woman came and opened it; she asked them what they would have.
little thumb told her they were poor children who had been lost in the forest, and desired to lodge there for god’s sake.
the woman, seeing them so very pretty, began to weep, and said to them:
“alas!
poor babies; whither are ye come?
do ye know that this house belongs to a cruel ogre who eats up little children?”
“ah!
dear madam,” answered little thumb (who trembled every joint of him, as well as his brothers), “what shall we do?
to be sure the wolves of the forest will devour us to-night if you refuse us to lie here; and so we would rather the gentleman should eat us; and perhaps he may take pity upon us, especially if you please to beg it of him.”
the ogre’s wife, who believed she could conceal them from her husband till morning, let them come in, and brought them to warm themselves at a very good fire; for there was a whole sheep upon the spit, roasting for the ogre’s supper.
as they began to be a little warm they heard three or four great raps at the door; this was the ogre, who had come home.
upon this she hid them under the bed and went to open the door.
the ogre presently asked if supper was ready and the wine drawn, and then sat himself down to table.
the sheep was as yet all raw and bloody; but he liked it the better for that.
he sniffed about to the right and left, saying:
“i smell fresh meat.”
“what you smell so,” said his wife, “must be the calf which i have just now killed and flayed.”
“i smell fresh meat, i tell thee once more,” replied the ogre, looking crossly at his wife; “and there is something here which i do not understand.”
as he spoke these words he got up from the table and went directly to the bed.
“ah, ah!” said he; “i see then how thou wouldst cheat me, thou cursed woman; i know not why i do not eat thee up too, but it is well for thee that thou art a tough old carrion.
here is good game, which comes very quickly to entertain three ogres of my acquaintance who are to pay me a visit in a day or two.”
with that he dragged them out from under the bed one by one.
the poor children fell upon their knees, and begged his pardon; but they had to do with one of the most cruel ogres in the world, who, far from having any pity on them, had already devoured them with his eyes, and told his wife they would be delicate eating when tossed up with good savory sauce.
he then took a great knife, and, coming up to these poor children, whetted it upon a great whet-stone which he held in his left hand.
he had already taken hold of one of them when his wife said to him:
“why need you do it now?
is it not time enough to-morrow?”
“hold your prating,” said the ogre; “they will eat the tenderer.
“but you have so much meat already,” replied his wife, “you have no occasion; here are a calf, two sheep, and half a hog.”
“that is true,” said the ogre; “give them their belly full that they may not fall away, and put them to bed.”
the good woman was overjoyed at this, and gave them a good supper; but they were so much afraid they could not eat a bit.
as for the ogre, he sat down again to drink, being highly pleased that he had got wherewithal to treat his friends.
he drank a dozen glasses more than ordinary, which got up into his head and obliged him to go to bed.
the ogre had seven daughters, all little children, and these young ogresses had all of them very fine complexions, because they used to eat fresh meat like their father; but they had little gray eyes, quite round, hooked noses, and very long sharp teeth, standing at a good distance from each other.
they were not as yet over and above mischievous, but they promised very fair for it, for they had already bitten little children, that they might suck their blood.
they had been put to bed early, with every one a crown of gold upon her head.
there was in the same chamber a bed of the like bigness, and it was into this bed the ogre’s wife put the seven little boys, after which she went to bed to her husband.
little thumb, who had observed that the ogre’s daughters had crowns of gold upon their heads, and was afraid lest the ogre should repent his not killing them, got up about midnight, and, taking his brothers’
bonnets and his own, went very softly and put them upon the heads of the seven little ogresses, after having taken off their crowns of gold, which he put upon his own head and his brothers’, that the ogre might take them for his daughters, and his daughters for the little boys whom he wanted to kill.
all this succeeded according to his desire; for, the ogre waking about midnight, and sorry that he deferred to do that till morning which he might have done over-night, threw himself hastily out of bed, and, taking his great knife,
“let us see,” said he, “how our little rogues do, and not make two jobs of the matter.”
he then went up, groping all the way, into his daughters’ chamber, and, coming to the bed where the little boys lay, and who were every soul of them fast asleep, except little thumb, who was terribly afraid when he found the ogre fumbling about his head, as he had done about his brothers’, the ogre, feeling the golden crowns, said:
“i should have made a fine piece of work of it, truly; i find i drank too much last night.”
then he went to the bed where the girls lay; and, having found the boys’
little bonnets,
“ah!” said he, “my merry lads, are you there?
let us work as we ought.”
and saying these words, without more ado, he cut the throats of all his seven daughters.
well pleased with what he had done, he went to bed again to his wife.
so soon as little thumb heard the ogre snore, he waked his brothers, and bade them all put on their clothes presently and follow him.
they stole down softly into the garden, and got over the wall.
they kept running about all night, and trembled all the while, without knowing which way they went.
the ogre, when he awoke, said to his wife: “go upstairs and dress those young rascals who came here last night.”
the wife was very much surprised at this goodness of her husband, not dreaming after what manner she should dress them; but, thinking that he had ordered her to go and put on their clothes, she went up, and was strangely astonished when she perceived her seven daughters killed, and weltering in their blood.
she fainted away, for this is the first expedient almost all women find in such cases.
the ogre, fearing his wife would be too long in doing what he had ordered, went up himself to help her.
he was no less amazed than his wife at this frightful spectacle.
“ah!
what have i done?” cried he.
“the wretches shall pay for it, and that instantly.”
he threw a pitcher of water upon his wife’s face, and, having brought her to herself, said:
“give me quickly my boots of seven leagues, that i may go and catch them.”
he went out, and, having run over a vast deal of ground, both on this side and that, he came at last into the very road where the poor children were, and not above a hundred paces from their father’s house.
they espied the ogre, who went at one step from mountain to mountain, and over rivers as easily as the narrowest kennels.
little thumb, seeing a hollow rock near the place where they were, made his brothers hide themselves in it, and crowded into it himself, minding always what would become of the ogre.
the ogre, who found himself much tired with his long and fruitless journey (for these boots of seven leagues greatly fatigued the wearer), had a great mind to rest himself, and, by chance, went to sit down upon the rock where the little boys had hid themselves.
as it was impossible he could be more weary than he was, he fell asleep, and, after reposing himself some time, began to snore so frightfully that the poor children were no less afraid of him than when he held up his great knife and was going to cut their throats.
little thumb was not so much frightened as his brothers, and told them that they should run away immediately toward home while the ogre was asleep so soundly, and that they should not be in any pain about him.
they took his advice, and got home presently.
little thumb came up to the ogre, pulled off his boots gently and put them on his own legs.
the boots were very long and large, but, as they were fairies, they had the gift of becoming big and little, according to the legs of those who wore them; so that they fitted his feet and legs as well as if they had been made on purpose for him.
he went immediately to the ogre’s house, where he saw his wife crying bitterly for the loss of the ogre’s murdered daughters.
“your husband,” said little thumb, “is in very great danger, being taken by a gang of thieves, who have sworn to kill him if he does not give them all his gold and silver.
the very moment they held their daggers at his throat he perceived me, and desired me to come and tell you the condition he is in, and that you should give me whatsoever he has of value, without retaining any one thing; for otherwise they will kill him without mercy; and, as his case is very pressing, he desired me to make use (you see i have them on) of his boots, that i might make the more haste and to show you that i do not impose upon you.”
the good woman, being sadly frightened, gave him all she had: for this ogre was a very good husband, though he used to eat up little children.
little thumb, having thus got all the ogre’s money, came home to his father’s house, where he was received with abundance of joy.
there are many people who do not agree in this circumstance, and pretend that little thumb never robbed the ogre at all, and that he only thought he might very justly, and with a safe conscience, take off his boots of seven leagues, because he made no other use of them but to run after little children.
these folks affirm that they are very well assured of this, and the more as having drunk and eaten often at the fagot-maker’s house.
they aver that when little thumb had taken off the ogre’s boots he went to court, where he was informed that they were very much in pain about a certain army, which was two hundred leagues off, and the success of a battle.
he went, say they, to the king, and told him that, if he desired it, he would bring him news from the army before night.
the king promised him a great sum of money upon that condition.
little thumb was as good as his word, and returned that very same night with the news; and, this first expedition causing him to be known, he got whatever he pleased, for the king paid him very well for carrying his orders to the army.
after having for some time carried on the business of a messenger, and gained thereby great wealth, he went home to his father, where it was impossible to express the joy they were all in at his return.
he made the whole family very easy, bought places for his father and brothers, and, by that means, settled them very handsomely in the world, and, in the meantime, made his court to perfection.
(1)
(1) charles perrault.
the forty thieves
in a town in persia there dwelt two brothers, one named cassim, the other ali baba.
cassim was married to a rich wife and lived in plenty, while ali baba had to maintain his wife and children by cutting wood in a neighboring forest and selling it in the town.
one day, when ali baba was in the forest, he saw a troop of men on horseback, coming toward him in a cloud of dust.
he was afraid they were robbers, and climbed into a tree for safety.
when they came up to him and dismounted, he counted forty of them.
they unbridled their horses and tied them to trees.
the finest man among them, whom ali baba took to be their captain, went a little way among some bushes, and said: “open, sesame!”(1) so plainly that ali baba heard him.
a door opened in the rocks, and having made the troop go in, he followed them, and the door shut again of itself.
they stayed some time inside, and ali baba, fearing they might come out and catch him, was forced to sit patiently in the tree.
at last the door opened again, and the forty thieves came out.
as the captain went in last he came out first, and made them all pass by him; he then closed the door, saying: “shut, sesame!” every man bridled his horse and mounted, the captain put himself at their head, and they returned as they came.
(1) sesame is a kind of grain.
then ali baba climbed down and went to the door concealed among the bushes, and said: “open, sesame!” and it flew open.
ali baba, who expected a dull, dismal place, was greatly surprised to find it large and well lighted, hollowed by the hand of man in the form of a vault, which received the light from an opening in the ceiling.
he saw rich bales of merchandise silk, stuff-brocades, all piled together, and gold and silver in heaps, and money in leather purses.
he went in and the door shut behind him.
he did not look at the silver, but brought out as many bags of gold as he thought his asses, which were browsing outside, could carry, loaded them with the bags, and hid it all with fagots.
using the words: “shut, sesame!” he closed the door and went home.
then he drove his asses into the yard, shut the gates, carried the money-bags to his wife, and emptied them out before her.
he bade her keep the secret, and he would go and bury the gold.
“let me first measure it,” said his wife.
“i will go borrow a measure of someone, while you dig the hole.” so she ran to the wife of cassim and borrowed a measure.
knowing ali baba’s poverty, the sister was curious to find out what sort of grain his wife wished to measure, and artfully put some suet at the bottom of the measure.
ali baba’s wife went home and set the measure on the heap of gold, and filled it and emptied it often, to her great content.
she then carried it back to her sister, without noticing that a piece of gold was sticking to it, which cassim’s wife perceived directly her back was turned.
she grew very curious, and said to cassim when he came home: “cassim, your brother is richer than you.
he does not count his money, he measures it.” he begged her to explain this riddle, which she did by showing him the piece of money and telling him where she found it.
then cassim grew so envious that he could not sleep, and went to his brother in the morning before sunrise.
“ali baba,” he said, showing him the gold piece, “you pretend to be poor and yet you measure gold.” by this ali baba perceived that through his wife’s folly cassim and his wife knew their secret, so he confessed all and offered cassim a share.
“that i expect,” said cassim; “but i must know where to find the treasure, otherwise i will discover all, and you will lose all.” ali baba, more out of kindness than fear, told him of the cave, and the very words to use.
cassim left ali baba, meaning to be beforehand with him and get the treasure for himself.
he rose early next morning, and set out with ten mules loaded with great chests.
he soon found the place, and the door in the rock.
he said: “open, sesame!” and the door opened and shut behind him.
he could have feasted his eyes all day on the treasures, but he now hastened to gather together as much of it as possible; but when he was ready to go he could not remember what to say for thinking of his great riches.
instead of “sesame,” he said: “open, barley!” and the door remained fast.
he named several different sorts of grain, all but the right one, and the door still stuck fast.
he was so frightened at the danger he was in that he had as much forgotten the word as if he had never heard it.
about noon the robbers returned to their cave, and saw cassim’s mules roving about with great chests on their backs.
this gave them the alarm; they drew their sabres, and went to the door, which opened on their captain’s saying: “open, sesame!” cassim, who had heard the trampling of their horses’ feet, resolved to sell his life dearly, so when the door opened he leaped out and threw the captain down.
in vain, however, for the robbers with their sabres soon killed him.
on entering the cave they saw all the bags laid ready, and could not imagine how anyone had got in without knowing their secret.
they cut cassim’s body into four quarters, and nailed them up inside the cave, in order to frighten anyone who should venture in, and went away in search of more treasure.
as night drew on cassim’s wife grew very uneasy, and ran to her brother-in-law, and told him where her husband had gone.
ali baba did his best to comfort her, and set out to the forest in search of cassim.
the first thing he saw on entering the cave was his dead brother.
full of horror, he put the body on one of his asses, and bags of gold on the other two, and, covering all with some fagots, returned home.
he drove the two asses laden with gold into his own yard, and led the other to cassim’s house.
the door was opened by the slave morgiana, whom he knew to be both brave and cunning.
unloading the ass, he said to her: “this is the body of your master, who has been murdered, but whom we must bury as though he had died in his bed.
i will speak with you again, but now tell your mistress i am come.” the wife of cassim, on learning the fate of her husband, broke out into cries and tears, but ali baba offered to take her to live with him and his wife if she would promise to keep his counsel and leave everything to morgiana; whereupon she agreed, and dried her eyes.
morgiana, meanwhile, sought an apothecary and asked him for some lozenges.
“my poor master,” she said, “can neither eat nor speak, and no one knows what his distemper is.” she carried home the lozenges and returned next day weeping, and asked for an essence only given to those just about to die.
thus, in the evening, no one was surprised to hear the wretched shrieks and cries of cassim’s wife and morgiana, telling everyone that cassim was dead.
the day after morgiana went to an old cobbler near the gates of the town who opened his stall early, put a piece of gold in his hand, and bade him follow her with his needle and thread.
having bound his eyes with a handkerchief, she took him to the room where the body lay, pulled off the bandage, and bade him sew the quarters together, after which she covered his eyes again and led him home.
then they buried cassim, and morgiana his slave followed him to the grave, weeping and tearing her hair, while cassim’s wife stayed at home uttering lamentable cries.
next day she went to live with ali baba, who gave cassim’s shop to his eldest son.
the forty thieves, on their return to the cave, were much astonished to find cassim’s body gone and some of their money-bags.
“we are certainly discovered,” said the captain, “and shall be undone if we cannot find out who it is that knows our secret.
two men must have known it; we have killed one, we must now find the other.
to this end one of you who is bold and artful must go into the city dressed as a traveler, and discover whom we have killed, and whether men talk of the strange manner of his death.
if the messenger fails he must lose his life, lest we be betrayed.” one of the thieves started up and offered to do this, and after the rest had highly commended him for his bravery he disguised himself, and happened to enter the town at daybreak, just by baba mustapha’s stall.
the thief bade him good-day, saying: “honest man, how can you possibly see to stitch at your age?” “old as i am,” replied the cobbler, “i have very good eyes, and will you believe me when i tell you that i sewed a dead body together in a place where i had less light than i have now.” the robber was overjoyed at his good fortune, and, giving him a piece of gold, desired to be shown the house where he stitched up the dead body.
at first mustapha refused, saying that he had been blindfolded; but when the robber gave him another piece of gold he began to think he might remember the turnings if blindfolded as before.
this means succeeded; the robber partly led him, and was partly guided by him, right in front of cassim’s house, the door of which the robber marked with a piece of chalk.
then, well pleased, he bade farewell to baba mustapha and returned to the forest.
by and by morgiana, going out, saw the mark the robber had made, quickly guessed that some mischief was brewing, and fetching a piece of chalk marked two or three doors on each side, without saying anything to her master or mistress.
the thief, meantime, told his comrades of his discovery.
the captain thanked him, and bade him show him the house he had marked.
but when they came to it they saw that five or six of the houses were chalked in the same manner.
the guide was so confounded that he knew not what answer to make, and when they returned he was at once beheaded for having failed.
another robber was dispatched, and, having won over baba mustapha, marked the house in red chalk; but morgiana being again too clever for them, the second messenger was put to death also.
the captain now resolved to go himself, but, wiser than the others, he did not mark the house, but looked at it so closely that he could not fail to remember it.
he returned, and ordered his men to go into the neighboring villages and buy nineteen mules, and thirty-eight leather jars, all empty except one, which was full of oil.
the captain put one of his men, fully armed, into each, rubbing the outside of the jars with oil from the full vessel.
then the nineteen mules were loaded with thirty-seven robbers in jars, and the jar of oil, and reached the town by dusk.
the captain stopped his mules in front of ali baba’s house, and said to ali baba, who was sitting outside for coolness: “i have brought some oil from a distance to sell at to-morrow’s market, but it is now so late that i know not where to pass the night, unless you will do me the favor to take me in.” though ali baba had seen the captain of the robbers in the forest, he did not recognize him in the disguise of an oil merchant.
he bade him welcome, opened his gates for the mules to enter, and went to morgiana to bid her prepare a bed and supper for his guest.
he brought the stranger into his hall, and after they had supped went again to speak to morgiana in the kitchen, while the captain went into the yard under pretense of seeing after his mules, but really to tell his men what to do.
beginning at the first jar and ending at the last, he said to each man: “as soon as i throw some stones from the window of the chamber where i lie, cut the jars open with your knives and come out, and i will be with you in a trice.” he returned to the house, and morgiana led him to his chamber.
she then told abdallah, her fellow-slave, to set on the pot to make some broth for her master, who had gone to bed.
meanwhile her lamp went out, and she had no more oil in the house.
“do not be uneasy,” said abdallah; “go into the yard and take some out of one of those jars.” morgiana thanked him for his advice, took the oil pot, and went into the yard.
when she came to the first jar the robber inside said softly: “is it time?”
any other slave but morgiana, on finding a man in the jar instead of the oil she wanted, would have screamed and made a noise; but she, knowing the danger her master was in, bethought herself of a plan, and answered quietly: “not yet, but presently.” she went to all the jars, giving the same answer, till she came to the jar of oil.
she now saw that her master, thinking to entertain an oil merchant, had let thirty-eight robbers into his house.
she filled her oil pot, went back to the kitchen, and, having lit her lamp, went again to the oil jar and filled a large kettle full of oil.
when it boiled she went and poured enough oil into every jar to stifle and kill the robber inside.
when this brave deed was done she went back to the kitchen, put out the fire and the lamp, and waited to see what would happen.
in a quarter of an hour the captain of the robbers awoke, got up, and opened the window.
as all seemed quiet, he threw down some little pebbles which hit the jars.
he listened, and as none of his men seemed to stir he grew uneasy, and went down into the yard.
on going to the first jar and saying, “are you asleep?” he smelt the hot boiled oil, and knew at once that his plot to murder ali baba and his household had been discovered.
he found all the gang was dead, and, missing the oil out of the last jar, became aware of the manner of their death.
he then forced the lock of a door leading into a garden, and climbing over several walls made his escape.
morgiana heard and saw all this, and, rejoicing at her success, went to bed and fell asleep.
at daybreak ali baba arose, and, seeing the oil jars still there, asked why the merchant had not gone with his mules.
morgiana bade him look in the first jar and see if there was any oil.
seeing a man, he started back in terror.
“have no fear,” said morgiana; “the man cannot harm you: he is dead.” ali baba, when he had recovered somewhat from his astonishment, asked what had become of the merchant.
“merchant!” said she, “he is no more a merchant than i am!” and she told him the whole story, assuring him that it was a plot of the robbers of the forest, of whom only three were left, and that the white and red chalk marks had something to do with it.
ali baba at once gave morgiana her freedom, saying that he owed her his life.
they then buried the bodies in ali baba’s garden, while the mules were sold in the market by his slaves.
the captain returned to his lonely cave, which seemed frightful to him without his lost companions, and firmly resolved to avenge them by killing ali baba.
he dressed himself carefully, and went into the town, where he took lodgings in an inn.
in the course of a great many journeys to the forest he carried away many rich stuffs and much fine linen, and set up a shop opposite that of ali baba’s son.
he called himself cogia hassan, and as he was both civil and well dressed he soon made friends with ali baba’s son, and through him with ali baba, whom he was continually asking to sup with him.
ali baba, wishing to return his kindness, invited him into his house and received him smiling, thanking him for his kindness to his son.
when the merchant was about to take his leave ali baba stopped him, saying: “where are you going, sir, in such haste?
will you not stay and sup with me?” the merchant refused, saying that he had a reason; and, on ali baba’s asking him what that was, he replied: “it is, sir, that i can eat no victuals that have any salt in them.” “if that is all,” said ali baba, “let me tell you that there shall be no salt in either the meat or the bread that we eat to-night.”
he went to give this order to morgiana, who was much surprised.
“who is this man,” she said, “who eats no salt with his meat?” “he is an honest man, morgiana,” returned her master; “therefore do as i bid you.” but she could not withstand a desire to see this strange man, so she helped abdallah to carry up the dishes, and saw in a moment that cogia hassan was the robber captain, and carried a dagger under his garment.
“i am not surprised,” she said to herself, “that this wicked man, who intends to kill my master, will eat no salt with him; but i will hinder his plans.”
she sent up the supper by abdallah, while she made ready for one of the boldest acts that could be thought on.
when the dessert had been served, cogia hassan was left alone with ali baba and his son, whom he thought to make drunk and then to murder them.
morgiana, meanwhile, put on a head-dress like a dancing-girl’s, and clasped a girdle round her waist, from which hung a dagger with a silver hilt, and said to abdallah: “take your tabor, and let us go and divert our master and his guest.” abdallah took his tabor and played before morgiana until they came to the door, where abdallah stopped playing and morgiana made a low courtesy.
“come in, morgiana,” said ali baba, “and let cogia hassan see what you can do”; and, turning to cogia hassan, he said: “she’s my slave and my housekeeper.” cogia hassan was by no means pleased, for he feared that his chance of killing ali baba was gone for the present; but he pretended great eagerness to see morgiana, and abdallah began to play and morgiana to dance.
after she had performed several dances she drew her dagger and made passes with it, sometimes pointing it at her own breast, sometimes at her master’s, as if it were part of the dance.
suddenly, out of breath, she snatched the tabor from abdallah with her left hand, and, holding the dagger in her right hand, held out the tabor to her master.
ali baba and his son put a piece of gold into it, and cogia hassan, seeing that she was coming to him, pulled out his purse to make her a present, but while he was putting his hand into it morgiana plunged the dagger into his heart.
“unhappy girl!” cried ali baba and his son, “what have you done to ruin us?”
“it was to preserve you, master, not to ruin you,” answered morgiana.
“see here,” opening the false merchant’s garment and showing the dagger; “see what an enemy you have entertained!
remember, he would eat no salt with you, and what more would you have?
look at him!
he is both the false oil merchant and the captain of the forty thieves.”
ali baba was so grateful to morgiana for thus saving his life that he offered her to his son in marriage, who readily consented, and a few days after the wedding was celebrated with greatest splendor.
at the end of a year ali baba, hearing nothing of the two remaining robbers, judged they were dead, and set out to the cave.
the door opened on his saying: “open sesame!” he went in, and saw that nobody had been there since the captain left it.
he brought away as much gold as he could carry, and returned to town.
he told his son the secret of the cave, which his son handed down in his turn, so the children and grandchildren of ali baba were rich to the end of their lives.
(1)
(1) arabian nights.
hansel and grettel
once upon a time there dwelt on the outskirts of a large forest a poor woodcutter with his wife and two children; the boy was called hansel and the girl grettel.
he had always little enough to live on, and once, when there was a great famine in the land, he couldn’t even provide them with daily bread.
one night, as he was tossing about in bed, full of cares and worry, he sighed and said to his wife: “what’s to become of us?
how are we to support our poor children, now that we have nothing more for ourselves?” “i’ll tell you what, husband,” answered the woman; “early to-morrow morning we’ll take the children out into the thickest part of the wood; there we shall light a fire for them and give them each a piece of bread; then we’ll go on to our work and leave them alone.
they won’t be able to find their way home, and we shall thus be rid of them.”
“no, wife,” said her husband, “that i won’t do; how could i find it in my heart to leave my children alone in the wood?
the wild beasts would soon come and tear them to pieces.” “oh!
you fool,” said she, “then we must all four die of hunger, and you may just as well go and plane the boards for our coffins”; and she left him no peace till he consented.
“but i can’t help feeling sorry for the poor children,” added the husband.
the children, too, had not been able to sleep for hunger, and had heard what their step-mother had said to their father.
grettel wept bitterly and spoke to hansel: “now it’s all up with us.” “no, no, grettel,” said hansel, “don’t fret yourself; i’ll be able to find a way to escape, no fear.” and when the old people had fallen asleep he got up, slipped on his little coat, opened the back door and stole out.
the moon was shining clearly, and the white pebbles which lay in front of the house glittered like bits of silver.
hansel bent down and filled his pocket with as many of them as he could cram in.
then he went back and said to grettel: “be comforted, my dear little sister, and go to sleep: god will not desert us”; and he lay down in bed again.
at daybreak, even before the sun was up, the woman came and woke the two children: “get up, you lie-abeds, we’re all going to the forest to fetch wood.” she gave them each a bit of bread and said: “there’s something for your luncheon, but don’t you eat it up before, for it’s all you’ll get.” grettel took the bread under her apron, as hansel had the stones in his pocket.
then they all set out together on the way to the forest.
after they had walked for a little, hansel stood still and looked back at the house, and this maneuver he repeated again and again.
his father observed him, and said: “hansel, what are you gazing at there, and why do you always remain behind?
take care, and don’t lose your footing.”
“oh!
father,” said hansel, “i am looking back at my white kitten, which is sitting on the roof, waving me a farewell.” the woman exclaimed:
“what a donkey you are!
that isn’t your kitten, that’s the morning sun shining on the chimney.” but hansel had not looked back at his kitten, but had always dropped one of the white pebbles out of his pocket on to the path.
when they had reached the middle of the forest the father said: “now, children, go and fetch a lot of wood, and i’ll light a fire that you may not feel cold.” hansel and grettel heaped up brushwood till they had made a pile nearly the size of a small hill.
the brushwood was set fire to, and when the flames leaped high the woman said: “now lie down at the fire, children, and rest yourselves: we are going into the forest to cut down wood; when we’ve finished we’ll come back and fetch you.” hansel and grettel sat down beside the fire, and at midday ate their little bits of bread.
they heard the strokes of the axe, so they thought their father was quite near.
but it was no axe they heard, but a bough he had tied on a dead tree, and that was blown about by the wind.
and when they had sat for a long time their eyes closed with fatigue, and they fell fast asleep.
when they awoke at last it was pitch dark.
grettel began to cry, and said: “how are we ever to get out of the wood?” but hansel comforted her.
“wait a bit,” he said, “till the moon is up, and then we’ll find our way sure enough.” and when the full moon had risen he took his sister by the hand and followed the pebbles, which shone like new threepenny bits, and showed them the path.
they walked on through the night, and at daybreak reached their father’s house again.
they knocked at the door, and when the woman opened it she exclaimed: “you naughty children, what a time you’ve slept in the wood!
we thought you were never going to come back.” but the father rejoiced, for his conscience had reproached him for leaving his children behind by themselves.
not long afterward there was again great dearth in the land, and the children heard their mother address their father thus in bed one night:
“everything is eaten up once more; we have only half a loaf in the house, and when that’s done it’s all up with us.
the children must be got rid of; we’ll lead them deeper into the wood this time, so that they won’t be able to find their way out again.
there is no other way of saving ourselves.” the man’s heart smote him heavily, and he thought:
“surely it would be better to share the last bite with one’s children!”
but his wife wouldn’t listen to his arguments, and did nothing but scold and reproach him.
if a man yields once he’s done for, and so, because he had given in the first time, he was forced to do so the second.
but the children were awake, and had heard the conversation.
when the old people were asleep hansel got up, and wanted to go out and pick up pebbles again, as he had done the first time; but the woman had barred the door, and hansel couldn’t get out.
but he consoled his little sister, and said: “don’t cry, grettel, and sleep peacefully, for god is sure to help us.”
at early dawn the woman came and made the children get up.
they received their bit of bread, but it was even smaller than the time before.
on the way to the wood hansel crumbled it in his pocket, and every few minutes he stood still and dropped a crumb on the ground.
“hansel, what are you stopping and looking about you for?” said the father.
“i’m looking back at my little pigeon, which is sitting on the roof waving me a farewell,”
answered hansel.
“fool!” said the wife; “that isn’t your pigeon, it’s the morning sun glittering on the chimney.” but hansel gradually threw all his crumbs on the path.
the woman led the children still deeper into the forest farther than they had ever been in their lives before.
then a big fire was lit again, and the mother said: “just sit down there, children, and if you’re tired you can sleep a bit; we’re going into the forest to cut down wood, and in the evening when we’re finished we’ll come back to fetch you.” at midday grettel divided her bread with hansel, for he had strewn his all along their path.
then they fell asleep, and evening passed away, but nobody came to the poor children.
they didn’t awake till it was pitch dark, and hansel comforted his sister, saying: “only wait, grettel, till the moon rises, then we shall see the bread-crumbs i scattered along the path; they will show us the way back to the house.” when the moon appeared they got up, but they found no crumbs, for the thousands of birds that fly about the woods and fields had picked them all up.
“never mind,” said hansel to grettel; “you’ll see we’ll find a way out”; but all the same they did not.
they wandered about the whole night, and the next day, from morning till evening, but they could not find a path out of the wood.
they were very hungry, too, for they had nothing to eat but a few berries they found growing on the ground.
and at last they were so tired that their legs refused to carry them any longer, so they lay down under a tree and fell fast asleep.
on the third morning after they had left their father’s house they set about their wandering again, but only got deeper and deeper into the wood, and now they felt that if help did not come to them soon they must perish.
at midday they saw a beautiful little snow-white bird sitting on a branch, which sang so sweetly that they stopped still and listened to it.
and when its song was finished it flapped its wings and flew on in front of them.
they followed it and came to a little house, on the roof of which it perched; and when they came quite near they saw that the cottage was made of bread and roofed with cakes, while the window was made of transparent sugar.
“now we’ll set to,” said hansel, “and have a regular blow-out.
(1) i’ll eat a bit of the roof, and you, grettel, can eat some of the window, which you’ll find a sweet morsel.” hansel stretched up his hand and broke off a little bit of the roof to see what it was like, and grettel went to the casement and began to nibble at it.
thereupon a shrill voice called out from the room inside:
“nibble, nibble, little mouse,   who’s nibbling my house?”
the children answered:
“tis heaven’s own child,   the tempest wild,”
and went on eating, without putting themselves about.
hansel, who thoroughly appreciated the roof, tore down a big bit of it, while grettel pushed out a whole round window-pane, and sat down the better to enjoy it.
suddenly the door opened, and an ancient dame leaning on a staff hobbled out.
hansel and grettel were so terrified that they let what they had in their hands fall.
but the old woman shook her head and said: “oh, ho!
you dear children, who led you here?
just come in and stay with me, no ill shall befall you.” she took them both by the hand and let them into the house, and laid a most sumptuous dinner before them milk and sugared pancakes, with apples and nuts.
after they had finished, two beautiful little white beds were prepared for them, and when hansel and grettel lay down in them they felt as if they had got into heaven.
(1) he was a vulgar boy!
the old woman had appeared to be most friendly, but she was really an old witch who had waylaid the children, and had only built the little bread house in order to lure them in.
when anyone came into her power she killed, cooked, and ate him, and held a regular feast-day for the occasion.
now witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but, like beasts, they have a keen sense of smell, and know when human beings pass by.
when hansel and grettel fell into her hands she laughed maliciously, and said jeeringly: “i’ve got them now; they sha’n’t escape me.” early in the morning, before the children were awake, she rose up, and when she saw them both sleeping so peacefully, with their round rosy cheeks, she muttered to herself: “that’ll be a dainty bite.” then she seized hansel with her bony hand and carried him into a little stable, and barred the door on him; he might scream as much as he liked, it did him no good.
then she went to grettel, shook her till she awoke, and cried: “get up, you lazy-bones, fetch water and cook something for your brother.
when he’s fat i’ll eat him up.” grettel began to cry bitterly, but it was of no use; she had to do what the wicked witch bade her.
so the best food was cooked for poor hansel, but grettel got nothing but crab-shells.
every morning the old woman hobbled out to the stable and cried: “hansel, put out your finger, that i may feel if you are getting fat.” but hansel always stretched out a bone, and the old dame, whose eyes were dim, couldn’t see it, and thinking always it was hansel’s finger, wondered why he fattened so slowly.
when four weeks had passed and hansel still remained thin, she lost patience and determined to wait no longer.
“hi, grettel,” she called to the girl, “be quick and get some water.
hansel may be fat or thin, i’m going to kill him to-morrow and cook him.” oh!
how the poor little sister sobbed as she carried the water, and how the tears rolled down her cheeks!
“kind heaven help us now!” she cried; “if only the wild beasts in the wood had eaten us, then at least we should have died together.” “just hold your peace,” said the old hag; “it won’t help you.”
early in the morning grettel had to go out and hang up the kettle full of water, and light the fire.
“first we’ll bake,” said the old dame; “i’ve heated the oven already and kneaded the dough.” she pushed grettel out to the oven, from which fiery flames were already issuing.
“creep in,” said the witch, “and see if it’s properly heated, so that we can shove in the bread.” for when she had got grettel in she meant to close the oven and let the girl bake, that she might eat her up too.
but grettel perceived her intention, and said: “i don’t know how i’m to do it; how do i get in?” “you silly goose!” said the hag, “the opening is big enough; see, i could get in myself,” and she crawled toward it, and poked her head into the oven.
then grettel gave her a shove that sent her right in, shut the iron door, and drew the bolt.
gracious!
how she yelled, it was quite horrible; but grettel fled, and the wretched old woman was left to perish miserably.
grettel flew straight to hansel, opened the little stable-door, and cried: “hansel, we are free; the old witch is dead.” then hansel sprang like a bird out of a cage when the door is opened.
how they rejoiced, and fell on each other’s necks, and jumped for joy, and kissed one another!
and as they had no longer any cause for fear, they went in the old hag’s house, and here they found, in every corner of the room, boxes with pearls and precious stones.
“these are even better than pebbles,”
said hansel, and crammed his pockets full of them; and grettel said:
“i too will bring something home,” and she filled her apron full.
“but now,” said hansel, “let’s go and get well away from the witch’s wood.”
when they had wandered about for some hours they came to a big lake.
“we can’t get over,” said hansel; “i see no bridge of any sort or kind.”
“yes, and there’s no ferry-boat either,” answered grettel; “but look, there swims a white duck; if i ask her she’ll help us over,” and she called out:
“here are two children, mournful very,   seeing neither bridge nor ferry;   take us upon your white back,   and row us over, quack, quack!”
the duck swam toward them, and hansel got on her back and bade his little sister sit beside him.
“no,” answered grettel, “we should be too heavy a load for the duck: she shall carry us across separately.” the good bird did this, and when they were landed safely on the other side, and had gone for a while, the wood became more and more familiar to them, and at length they saw their father’s house in the distance.
then they set off to run, and bounding into the room fell on their father’s neck.
the man had not passed a happy hour since he left them in the wood, but the woman had died.
grettel shook out her apron so that the pearls and precious stones rolled about the room, and hansel threw down one handful after the other out of his pocket.
thus all their troubles were ended, and they lived happily ever afterward.
my story is done.
see!
there runs a little mouse; anyone who catches it may make himself a large fur cap out of it.
(1)
(1) grimm.
snow-white and rose-red
a poor widow once lived in a little cottage with a garden in front of it, in which grew two rose trees, one bearing white roses and the other red.
she had two children, who were just like the two rose trees; one was called snow-white and the other rose-red, and they were the sweetest and best children in the world, always diligent and always cheerful; but snow-white was quieter and more gentle than rose-red.
rose-red loved to run about the fields and meadows, and to pick flowers and catch butterflies; but snow-white sat at home with her mother and helped her in the household, or read aloud to her when there was no work to do.
the two children loved each other so dearly that they always walked about hand in hand whenever they went out together, and when snow-white said, “we will never desert each other,” rose-red answered: “no, not as long as we live”; and the mother added: “whatever one gets she shall share with the other.” they often roamed about in the woods gathering berries and no beast offered to hurt them; on the contrary, they came up to them in the most confiding manner; the little hare would eat a cabbage leaf from their hands, the deer grazed beside them, the stag would bound past them merrily, and the birds remained on the branches and sang to them with all their might.
no evil ever befell them; if they tarried late in the wood and night overtook them, they lay down together on the moss and slept till morning, and their mother knew they were quite safe, and never felt anxious about them.
once, when they had slept all night in the wood and had been wakened by the morning sun, they perceived a beautiful child in a shining white robe sitting close to their resting-place.
the figure got up, looked at them kindly, but said nothing, and vanished into the wood.
and when they looked round about them they became aware that they had slept quite close to a precipice, over which they would certainly have fallen had they gone on a few steps further in the darkness.
and when they told their mother of their adventure, she said what they had seen must have been the angel that guards good children.
snow-white and rose-red kept their mother’s cottage so beautifully clean and neat that it was a pleasure to go into it.
in summer rose-red looked after the house, and every morning before her mother awoke she placed a bunch of flowers before the bed, from each tree a rose.
in winter snow-white lit the fire and put on the kettle, which was made of brass, but so beautifully polished that it shone like gold.
in the evening when the snowflakes fell their mother said: “snow-white, go and close the shutters,” and they drew round the fire, while the mother put on her spectacles and read aloud from a big book and the two girls listened and sat and span.
beside them on the ground lay a little lamb, and behind them perched a little white dove with its head tucked under its wings.
one evening as they sat thus cosily together someone knocked at the door as though he desired admittance.
the mother said: “rose-red, open the door quickly; it must be some traveler seeking shelter.” rose-red hastened to unbar the door, and thought she saw a poor man standing in the darkness outside; but it was no such thing, only a bear, who poked his thick black head through the door.
rose-red screamed aloud and sprang back in terror, the lamb began to bleat, the dove flapped its wings, and snow-white ran and hid behind her mother’s bed.
but the bear began to speak, and said: “don’t be afraid: i won’t hurt you.
i am half frozen, and only wish to warm myself a little.” “my poor bear,” said the mother, “lie down by the fire, only take care you don’t burn your fur.”
then she called out: “snow-white and rose-red, come out; the bear will do you no harm; he is a good, honest creature.” so they both came out of their hiding-places, and gradually the lamb and dove drew near too, and they all forgot their fear.
the bear asked the children to beat the snow a little out of his fur, and they fetched a brush and scrubbed him till he was dry.
then the beast stretched himself in front of the fire, and growled quite happily and comfortably.
the children soon grew quite at their ease with him, and led their helpless guest a fearful life.
they tugged his fur with their hands, put their small feet on his back, and rolled him about here and there, or took a hazel wand and beat him with it; and if he growled they only laughed.
the bear submitted to everything with the best possible good-nature, only when they went too far he cried: “oh!
children, spare my life!
“snow-white and rose-red,   don’t beat your lover dead.”
when it was time to retire for the night, and the others went to bed, the mother said to the bear: “you can lie there on the hearth, in heaven’s name; it will be shelter for you from the cold and wet.” as soon as day dawned the children led him out, and he trotted over the snow into the wood.
from this time on the bear came every evening at the same hour, and lay down by the hearth and let the children play what pranks they liked with him; and they got so accustomed to him that the door was never shut till their black friend had made his appearance.
when spring came, and all outside was green, the bear said one morning to snow-white: “now i must go away, and not return again the whole summer.” “where are you going to, dear bear?” asked snow-white.
“i must go to the wood and protect my treasure from the wicked dwarfs.
in winter, when the earth is frozen hard, they are obliged to remain underground, for they can’t work their way through; but now, when the sun has thawed and warmed the ground, they break through and come up above to spy the land and steal what they can; what once falls into their hands and into their caves is not easily brought back to light.”
snow-white was quite sad over their friend’s departure, and when she unbarred the door for him, the bear, stepping out, caught a piece of his fur in the door-knocker, and snow-white thought she caught sight of glittering gold beneath it, but she couldn’t be certain of it; and the bear ran hastily away, and soon disappeared behind the trees.
a short time after this the mother sent the children into the wood to collect fagots.
they came in their wanderings upon a big tree which lay felled on the ground, and on the trunk among the long grass they noticed something jumping up and down, but what it was they couldn’t distinguish.
when they approached nearer they perceived a dwarf with a wizened face and a beard a yard long.
the end of the beard was jammed into a cleft of the tree, and the little man sprang about like a dog on a chain, and didn’t seem to know what he was to do.
he glared at the girls with his fiery red eyes, and screamed out: “what are you standing there for?
can’t you come and help me?” “what were you doing, little man?” asked rose-red.
“you stupid, inquisitive goose!” replied the dwarf; “i wanted to split the tree, in order to get little chips of wood for our kitchen fire; those thick logs that serve to make fires for coarse, greedy people like yourselves quite burn up all the little food we need.
i had successfully driven in the wedge, and all was going well, but the cursed wood was so slippery that it suddenly sprang out, and the tree closed up so rapidly that i had no time to take my beautiful white beard out, so here i am stuck fast, and i can’t get away; and you silly, smooth-faced, milk-and-water girls just stand and laugh!
ugh!
what wretches you are!”
the children did all in their power, but they couldn’t get the beard out; it was wedged in far too firmly.
“i will run and fetch somebody,”
said rose-red.
“crazy blockheads!” snapped the dwarf; “what’s the good of calling anyone else?
you’re already two too many for me.
does nothing better occur to you than that?” “don’t be so impatient,” said snow-white, “i’ll see you get help,” and taking her scissors out of her pocket she cut off the end of his beard.
as soon as the dwarf felt himself free he seized a bag full of gold which was hidden among the roots of the tree, lifted it up, and muttered aloud: “curse these rude wretches, cutting off a piece of my splendid beard!” with these words he swung the bag over his back, and disappeared without as much as looking at the children again.
shortly after this snow-white and rose-red went out to get a dish of fish.
as they approached the stream they saw something which looked like an enormous grasshopper springing toward the water as if it were going to jump in.
they ran forward and recognized their old friend the dwarf.
“where are you going to?” asked rose-red; “you’re surely not going to jump into the water?” “i’m not such a fool,” screamed the dwarf.
“don’t you see that cursed fish is trying to drag me in?” the little man had been sitting on the bank fishing, when unfortunately the wind had entangled his beard in the line; and when immediately afterward a big fish bit, the feeble little creature had no strength to pull it out; the fish had the upper fin, and dragged the dwarf toward him.
he clung on with all his might to every rush and blade of grass, but it didn’t help him much; he had to follow every movement of the fish, and was in great danger of being drawn into the water.
the girls came up just at the right moment, held him firm, and did all they could to disentangle his beard from the line; but in vain, beard and line were in a hopeless muddle.
nothing remained but to produce the scissors and cut the beard, by which a small part of it was sacrificed.
when the dwarf perceived what they were about he yelled to them: “do you call that manners, you toad-stools!
to disfigure a fellow’s face?
it wasn’t enough that you shortened my beard before, but you must now needs cut off the best bit of it.
i can’t appear like this before my own people.
i wish you’d been in jericho first.” then he fetched a sack of pearls that lay among the rushes, and without saying another word he dragged it away and disappeared behind a stone.
it happened that soon after this the mother sent the two girls to the town to buy needles, thread, laces, and ribbons.
their road led over a heath where huge boulders of rock lay scattered here and there.
while trudging along they saw a big bird hovering in the air, circling slowly above them, but always descending lower, till at last it settled on a rock not far from them.
immediately afterward they heard a sharp, piercing cry.
they ran forward, and saw with horror that the eagle had pounced on their old friend the dwarf, and was about to carry him off.
the tender-hearted children seized hold of the little man, and struggled so long with the bird that at last he let go his prey.
when the dwarf had recovered from the first shock he screamed in his screeching voice:
“couldn’t you have treated me more carefully?
you have torn my thin little coat all to shreds, useless, awkward hussies that you are!” then he took a bag of precious stones and vanished under the rocks into his cave.
the girls were accustomed to his ingratitude, and went on their way and did their business in town.
on their way home, as they were again passing the heath, they surprised the dwarf pouring out his precious stones on an open space, for he had thought no one would pass by at so late an hour.
the evening sun shone on the glittering stones, and they glanced and gleamed so beautifully that the children stood still and gazed on them.
“what are you standing there gaping for?”
screamed the dwarf, and his ashen-gray face became scarlet with rage.
he was about to go off with these angry words when a sudden growl was heard, and a black bear trotted out of the wood.
the dwarf jumped up in great fright, but he hadn’t time to reach his place of retreat, for the bear was already close to him.
then he cried in terror: “dear mr.
bear, spare me!
i’ll give you all my treasure.
look at those beautiful precious stones lying there.
spare my life!
what pleasure would you get from a poor feeble little fellow like me?
you won’t feel me between your teeth.
there, lay hold of these two wicked girls, they will be a tender morsel for you, as fat as young quails; eat them up, for heaven’s sake.”
but the bear, paying no attention to his words, gave the evil little creature one blow with his paw, and he never moved again.
the girls had run away, but the bear called after them: “snow-white and rose-red, don’t be afraid; wait, and i’ll come with you.” then they recognized his voice and stood still, and when the bear was quite close to them his skin suddenly fell off, and a beautiful man stood beside them, all dressed in gold.
“i am a king’s son,” he said, “and have been doomed by that unholy little dwarf, who had stolen my treasure, to roam about the woods as a wild bear till his death should set me free.
now he has got his well-merited punishment.”
snow-white married him, and rose-red his brother, and they divided the great treasure the dwarf had collected in his cave between them.
the old mother lived for many years peacefully with her children; and she carried the two rose trees with her, and they stood in front of her window, and every year they bore the finest red and white roses.
(1)
(1) grimm.
the goose-girl
once upon a time an old queen, whose husband had been dead for many years, had a beautiful daughter.
when she grew up she was betrothed to a prince who lived a great way off.
now, when the time drew near for her to be married and to depart into a foreign kingdom, her old mother gave her much costly baggage, and many ornaments, gold and silver, trinkets and knicknacks, and, in fact, everything that belonged to a royal trousseau, for she loved her daughter very dearly.
she gave her a waiting-maid also, who was to ride with her and hand her over to the bridegroom, and she provided each of them with a horse for the journey.
now the princess’s horse was called falada, and could speak.
when the hour for departure drew near the old mother went to her bedroom, and taking a small knife she cut her fingers till they bled; then she held a white rag under them, and letting three drops of blood fall into it, she gave it to her daughter, and said: “dear child, take great care of this rag: it may be of use to you on the journey.”
so they took a sad farewell of each other, and the princess stuck the rag in front of her dress, mounted her horse, and set forth on the journey to her bridegroom’s kingdom.
after they had ridden for about an hour the princess began to feel very thirsty, and said to her waiting-maid: “pray get down and fetch me some water in my golden cup out of yonder stream: i would like a drink.” “if you’re thirsty,” said the maid, “dismount yourself, and lie down by the water and drink; i don’t mean to be your servant any longer.” the princess was so thirsty that she got down, bent over the stream, and drank, for she wasn’t allowed to drink out of the golden goblet.
as she drank she murmured:
“oh!
heaven, what am i to do?” and the three drops of blood replied:
“if your mother only knew,   her heart would surely break in two.”
but the princess was meek, and said nothing about her maid’s rude behavior, and quietly mounted her horse again.
they rode on their way for several miles, but the day was hot, and the sun’s rays smote fiercely on them, so that the princess was soon overcome by thirst again.
and as they passed a brook she called once more to her waiting-maid: “pray get down and give me a drink from my golden cup,” for she had long ago forgotten her maid’s rude words.
but the waiting-maid replied, more haughtily even than before: “if you want a drink, you can dismount and get it; i don’t mean to be your servant.”
then the princess was compelled by her thirst to get down, and bending over the flowing water she cried and said: “oh!
heaven, what am i to do?” and the three drops of blood replied:
“if your mother only knew,   her heart would surely break in two.”
and as she drank thus, and leaned right over the water, the rag containing the three drops of blood fell from her bosom and floated down the stream, and she in her anxiety never even noticed her loss.
but the waiting-maid had observed it with delight, as she knew it gave her power over the bride, for in losing the drops of blood the princess had become weak and powerless.
when she wished to get on her horse falada again, the waiting-maid called out: “i mean to ride falada: you must mount my beast”; and this too she had to submit to.
then the waiting-maid commanded her harshly to take off her royal robes, and to put on her common ones, and finally she made her swear by heaven not to say a word about the matter when they reached the palace; and if she hadn’t taken this oath she would have been killed on the spot.
but falada observed everything, and laid it all to heart.
the waiting-maid now mounted falada, and the real bride the worse horse, and so they continued their journey till at length they arrived at the palace yard.
there was great rejoicing over the arrival, and the prince sprang forward to meet them, and taking the waiting-maid for his bride, he lifted her down from her horse and led her upstairs to the royal chamber.
in the meantime the real princess was left standing below in the courtyard.
the old king, who was looking out of his window, beheld her in this plight, and it struck him how sweet and gentle, even beautiful, she looked.
he went at once to the royal chamber, and asked the bride who it was she had brought with her and had left thus standing in the court below.
“oh!” replied the bride, “i brought her with me to keep me company on the journey; give the girl something to do, that she may not be idle.” but the old king had no work for her, and couldn’t think of anything; so he said, “i’ve a small boy who looks after the geese, she’d better help him.” the youth’s name was curdken, and the real bride was made to assist him in herding geese.
soon after this the false bride said to the prince: “dearest husband, i pray you grant me a favor.” he answered: “that i will.” “then let the slaughterer cut off the head of the horse i rode here upon, because it behaved very badly on the journey.” but the truth was she was afraid lest the horse should speak and tell how she had treated the princess.
she carried her point, and the faithful falada was doomed to die.
when the news came to the ears of the real princess she went to the slaughterer, and secretly promised him a piece of gold if he would do something for her.
there was in the town a large dark gate, through which she had to pass night and morning with the geese; would he “kindly hang up falada’s head there, that she might see it once again?” the slaughterer said he would do as she desired, chopped off the head, and nailed it firmly over the gateway.
early next morning, as she and curdken were driving their flock through the gate, she said as she passed under:
“oh!
falada, ‘tis you hang there”;
and the head replied:
“‘tis you; pass under, princess fair:
if your mother only knew,   her heart would surely break in two.”
then she left the tower and drove the geese into a field.
and when they had reached the common where the geese fed she sat down and unloosed her hair, which was of pure gold.
curdken loved to see it glitter in the sun, and wanted much to pull some hair out.
then she spoke:
“wind, wind, gently sway,   blow curdken’s hat away;   let him chase o’er field and wold   till my locks of ruddy gold,   now astray and hanging down,   be combed and plaited in a crown.”
then a gust of wind blew curdken’s hat away, and he had to chase it over hill and dale.
when he returned from the pursuit she had finished her combing and curling, and his chance of getting any hair was gone.
curdken was very angry, and wouldn’t speak to her.
so they herded the geese till evening and then went home.
the next morning, as they passed under the gate, the girl said:
“oh!
falada, ‘tis you hang there;”
and the head replied:
“‘tis you; pass under, princess fair:
if your mother only knew,   her heart would surely break in two.”
then she went on her way till she came to the common, where she sat down and began to comb out her hair; then curdken ran up to her and wanted to grasp some of the hair from her head, but she called out hastily:
“wind, wind, gently sway,   blow curdken’s hat away;   let him chase o’er field and wold   till my locks of ruddy gold,   now astray and hanging down,   be combed and plaited in a crown.”
then a puff of wind came and blew curdken’s hat far away, so that he had to run after it; and when he returned she had long finished putting up her golden locks, and he couldn’t get any hair; so they watched the geese till it was dark.
but that evening when they got home curdken went to the old king, and said: “i refuse to herd geese any longer with that girl.” “for what reason?” asked the old king.
“because she does nothing but annoy me all day long,” replied curdken; and he proceeded to relate all her iniquities, and said: “every morning as we drive the flock through the dark gate she says to a horse’s head that hangs on the wall:
“‘oh!
falada, ‘tis you hang there’;
and the head replies:
“‘’tis you; pass under, princess fair:
if your mother only knew,      her heart would surely break in two.’”
and curdken went on to tell what passed on the common where the geese fed, and how he had always to chase his hat.
the old king bade him go and drive forth his flock as usual next day; and when morning came he himself took up his position behind the dark gate, and heard how the goose-girl greeted falada.
then he followed her through the field, and hid himself behind a bush on the common.
he soon saw with his own eyes how the goose-boy and the goose-girl looked after the geese, and how after a time the maiden sat down and loosed her hair, that glittered like gold, and repeated:
“wind, wind, gently sway,   blow curdken’s hat away;   let him chase o’er field and wold   till my locks of ruddy gold   now astray and hanging down,   be combed and plaited in a crown.”
then a gust of wind came and blew curdken’s hat away, so that he had to fly over hill and dale after it, and the girl in the meantime quietly combed and plaited her hair: all this the old king observed, and returned to the palace without anyone having noticed him.
in the evening when the goose-girl came home he called her aside, and asked her why she behaved as she did.
“i may not tell you why; how dare i confide my woes to anyone?
for i swore not to by heaven, otherwise i should have lost my life.” the old king begged her to tell him all, and left her no peace, but he could get nothing out of her.
at last he said: “well, if you won’t tell me, confide your trouble to the iron stove there,” and he went away.
then she crept to the stove, and began to sob and cry and to pour out her poor little heart, and said: “here i sit, deserted by all the world, i who am a king’s daughter, and a false waiting-maid has forced me to take off my own clothes, and has taken my place with my bridegroom, while i have to fulfill the lowly office of goose-girl.
“if my mother only knew   her heart would surely break in two.”
but the old king stood outside at the stove chimney, and listened to her words.
then he entered the room again, and bidding her leave the stove, he ordered royal apparel to be put on her, in which she looked amazingly lovely.
then he summoned his son, and revealed to him that he had got the false bride, who was nothing but a waiting-maid, while the real one, in the guise of the ex-goose-girl, was standing at his side.
the young king rejoiced from his heart when he saw her beauty and learned how good she was, and a great banquet was prepared, to which everyone was bidden.
the bridegroom sat at the head of the table, the princess on one side of him and the waiting-maid on the other; but she was so dazzled that she did not recognize the princess in her glittering garments.
now when they had eaten and drunk, and were merry, the old king asked the waiting-maid to solve a knotty point for him.
“what,” said he, “should be done to a certain person who has deceived everyone?” and he proceeded to relate the whole story, ending up with, “now what sentence should be passed?”
then the false bride answered: “she deserves to be put stark naked into a barrel lined with sharp nails, which should be dragged by two white horses up and down the street till she is dead.”
“you are the person,” said the king, “and you have passed sentence on yourself; and even so it shall be done to you.” and when the sentence had been carried out the young king was married to his real bride, and both reigned over the kingdom in peace and happiness.
(1)
(1) grimm.
toads and diamonds
there was once upon a time a widow who had two daughters.
the eldest was so much like her in the face and humor that whoever looked upon the daughter saw the mother.
they were both so disagreeable and so proud that there was no living with them.
the youngest, who was the very picture of her father for courtesy and sweetness of temper, was withal one of the most beautiful girls ever seen.
as people naturally love their own likeness, this mother even doted on her eldest daughter and at the same time had a horrible aversion for the youngest she made her eat in the kitchen and work continually.
among other things, this poor child was forced twice a day to draw water above a mile and a-half off the house, and bring home a pitcher full of it.
one day, as she was at this fountain, there came to her a poor woman, who begged of her to let her drink.
“oh!
ay, with all my heart, goody,” said this pretty little girl; and rinsing immediately the pitcher, she took up some water from the clearest place of the fountain, and gave it to her, holding up the pitcher all the while, that she might drink the easier.
the good woman, having drunk, said to her:
“you are so very pretty, my dear, so good and so mannerly, that i cannot help giving you a gift.” for this was a fairy, who had taken the form of a poor country woman, to see how far the civility and good manners of this pretty girl would go.
“i will give you for a gift,” continued the fairy, “that, at every word you speak, there shall come out of your mouth either a flower or a jewel.”
when this pretty girl came home her mother scolded her for staying so long at the fountain.
“i beg your pardon, mamma,” said the poor girl, “for not making more haste.”
and in speaking these words there came out of her mouth two roses, two pearls, and two diamonds.
“what is it i see there?” said the mother, quite astonished.
“i think i see pearls and diamonds come out of the girl’s mouth!
how happens this, child?”
this was the first time she had ever called her child.
the poor creature told her frankly all the matter, not without dropping out infinite numbers of diamonds.
“in good faith,” cried the mother, “i must send my child thither.
come hither, fanny; look what comes out of thy sister’s mouth when she speaks.
wouldst not thou be glad, my dear, to have the same gift given thee?
thou hast nothing else to do but go and draw water out of the fountain, and when a certain poor woman asks you to let her drink, to give it to her very civilly.”
“it would be a very fine sight indeed,” said this ill-bred minx, “to see me go draw water.”
“you shall go, hussy!” said the mother; “and this minute.”
so away she went, but grumbling all the way, taking with her the best silver tankard in the house.
she was no sooner at the fountain than she saw coming out of the wood a lady most gloriously dressed, who came up to her, and asked to drink.
this was, you must know, the very fairy who appeared to her sister, but now had taken the air and dress of a princess, to see how far this girl’s rudeness would go.
“am i come hither,” said the proud, saucy one, “to serve you with water, pray?
i suppose the silver tankard was brought purely for your ladyship, was it?
however, you may drink out of it, if you have a fancy.”
“you are not over and above mannerly,” answered the fairy, without putting herself in a passion.
“well, then, since you have so little breeding, and are so disobliging, i give you for a gift that at every word you speak there shall come out of your mouth a snake or a toad.”
so soon as her mother saw her coming she cried out:
“well, daughter?”
“well, mother?” answered the pert hussy, throwing out of her mouth two vipers and two toads.
“oh!
mercy,” cried the mother; “what is it i see?
oh!
it is that wretch her sister who has occasioned all this; but she shall pay for it”; and immediately she ran to beat her.
the poor child fled away from her, and went to hide herself in the forest, not far from thence.
the king’s son, then on his return from hunting, met her, and seeing her so very pretty, asked her what she did there alone and why she cried.
“alas!
sir, my mamma has turned me out of doors.”
the king’s son, who saw five or six pearls and as many diamonds come out of her mouth, desired her to tell him how that happened.
she thereupon told him the whole story; and so the king’s son fell in love with her, and, considering himself that such a gift was worth more than any marriage portion, conducted her to the palace of the king his father, and there married her.
as for the sister, she made herself so much hated that her own mother turned her off; and the miserable wretch, having wandered about a good while without finding anybody to take her in, went to a corner of the wood, and there died.
(1)
(1) charles perrault.
prince darling
once upon a time there lived a king who was so just and kind that his subjects called him “the good king.” it happened one day, when he was out hunting, that a little white rabbit, which his dogs were chasing, sprang into his arms for shelter.
the king stroked it gently, and said to it:
“well, bunny, as you have come to me for protection i will see that nobody hurts you.”
and he took it home to his palace and had it put in a pretty little house, with all sorts of nice things to eat.
that night, when he was alone in his room, a beautiful lady suddenly appeared before him; her long dress was as white as snow, and she had a crown of white roses upon her head.
the good king was very much surprised to see her, for he knew his door had been tightly shut, and he could not think how she had got in.
but she said to him:
“i am the fairy truth.
i was passing through the wood when you were out hunting, and i wished to find out if you were really good, as everybody said you were, so i took the shape of a little rabbit and came to your arms for shelter, for i know that those who are merciful to animals will be still kinder to their fellow-men.
if you had refused to help me i should have been certain that you were wicked.
i thank you for the kindness you have shown me, which has made me your friend for ever.
you have only to ask me for anything you want and i promise that i will give it to you.”
“madam,” said the good king, “since you are a fairy you no doubt know all my wishes.
i have but one son whom i love very dearly, that is why he is called prince darling.
if you are really good enough to wish to do me a favor, i beg that you will become his friend.”
“with all my heart,” answered the fairy.
“i can make your son the handsomest prince in the world, or the richest, or the most powerful; choose whichever you like for him.”
“i do not ask either of these things for my son,” replied the good king; “but if you will make him the best of princes, i shall indeed be grateful to you.
what good would it do him to be rich, or handsome, or to possess all the kingdoms of the world if he were wicked?
you know well he would still be unhappy.
only a good man can be really contented.”
“you are quite right,” answered the fairy; “but it is not in my power to make prince darling a good man unless he will help me; he must himself try hard to become good, i can only promise to give him good advice, to scold him for his faults, and to punish him if he will not correct and punish himself.”
the good king was quite satisfied with this promise; and very soon afterward he died.
prince darling was very sorry, for he loved his father with all his heart, and he would willingly have given all his kingdoms and all his treasures of gold and silver if they could have kept the good king with him.
two days afterward, when the prince had gone to bed, the fairy suddenly appeared to him and said:
“i promised your father that i would be your friend, and to keep my word i have come to bring you a present.” at the same time she put a little gold ring upon his finger.
“take great care of this ring,” she said: “it is more precious than diamonds; every time you do a bad deed it will prick your finger, but if, in spite of its pricking, you go on in your own evil way, you will lose my friendship, and i shall become your enemy.”
so saying, the fairy disappeared, leaving prince darling very much astonished.
for some time he behaved so well that the ring never pricked him, and that made him so contented that his subjects called him prince darling the happy.
one day, however, he went out hunting, but could get no sport, which put him in a very bad temper; it seemed to him as he rode along that his ring was pressing into his finger, but as it did not prick him he did not heed it.
when he got home and went to his own room, his little dog bibi ran to meet him, jumping round him with pleasure.
“get away!” said the prince, quite gruffly.
“i don’t want you, you are in the way.”
the poor little dog, who didn’t understand this at all, pulled at his coat to make him at least look at her, and this made prince darling so cross that he gave her quite a hard kick.
instantly his ring pricked him sharply, as if it had been a pin.
he was very much surprised, and sat down in a corner of his room feeling quite ashamed of himself.
“i believe the fairy is laughing at me,” he thought.
“surely i can have done no great wrong in just kicking a tiresome animal!
what is the good of my being ruler of a great kingdom if i am not even allowed to beat my own dog?”
“i am not making fun of you,” said a voice, answering prince darling’s thoughts.
“you have committed three faults.
first of all, you were out of temper because you could not have what you wanted, and you thought all men and animals were only made to do your pleasure; then you were really angry, which is very naughty indeed; and lastly, you were cruel to a poor little animal who did not in the least deserve to be ill-treated.
“i know you are far above a little dog, but if it were right and allowable that great people should ill-treat all who are beneath them, i might at this moment beat you, or kill you, for a fairy is greater than a man.
the advantage of possessing a great empire is not to be able to do the evil that one desires, but to do all the good that one possibly can.”
the prince saw how naughty he had been, and promised to try and do better in future, but he did not keep his word.
the fact was he had been brought up by a foolish nurse, who had spoiled him when he was little.
if he wanted anything he only had to cry and fret and stamp his feet and she would give him whatever he asked for, which had made him self-willed; also she had told him from morning to night that he would one day be a king, and that kings were very happy, because everyone was bound to obey and respect them, and no one could prevent them from doing just as they liked.
when the prince grew old enough to understand, he soon learned that there could be nothing worse than to be proud, obstinate, and conceited, and he had really tried to cure himself of these defects, but by that time all his faults had become habits; and a bad habit is very hard to get rid of.
not that he was naturally of a bad disposition; he was truly sorry when he had been naughty, and said:
“i am very unhappy to have to struggle against my anger and pride every day; if i had been punished for them when i was little they would not be such a trouble to me now.”
his ring pricked him very often, and sometimes he left off what he was doing at once; but at other times he would not attend to it.
strangely enough, it gave him only a slight prick for a trifling fault, but when he was really naughty it made his finger actually bleed.
at last he got tired of being constantly reminded, and wanted to be able to do as he liked, so he threw his ring aside, and thought himself the happiest of men to have got rid of its teasing pricks.
he gave himself up to doing every foolish thing that occurred to him, until he became quite wicked and nobody could like him any longer.
one day, when the prince was walking about, he saw a young girl who was so very pretty that he made up his mind at once that he would marry her.
her name was celia, and she was as good as she was beautiful.
prince darling fancied that celia would think herself only too happy if he offered to make her a great queen, but she said fearlessly:
“sire, i am only a shepherdess, and a poor girl, but, nevertheless, i will not marry you.”
“do you dislike me?” asked the prince, who was very much vexed at this answer.
“no, my prince,” replied celia; “i cannot help thinking you very handsome; but what good would riches be to me, and all the grand dresses and splendid carriages that you would give me, if the bad deeds which i should see you do every day made me hate and despise you?”
the prince was very angry at this speech, and commanded his officers to make celia a prisoner and carry her off to his palace.
all day long the remembrance of what she had said annoyed him, but as he loved her he could not make up his mind to have her punished.
one of the prince’s favorite companions was his foster-brother, whom he trusted entirely; but he was not at all a good man, and gave prince darling very bad advice, and encouraged him in all his evil ways.
when he saw the prince so downcast he asked what was the matter, and when he explained that he could not bear celia’s bad opinion of him, and was resolved to be a better man in order to please her, this evil adviser said to him:
“you are very kind to trouble yourself about this little girl; if i were you i would soon make her obey me.
remember that you are a king, and that it would be laughable to see you trying to please a shepherdess, who ought to be only too glad to be one of your slaves.
keep her in prison, and feed her on bread and water for a little while, and then, if she still says she will not marry you, have her head cut off, to teach other people that you mean to be obeyed.
why, if you cannot make a girl like that do as you wish, your subjects will soon forget that they are only put into this world for our pleasure.”
“but,” said prince darling, “would it not be a shame if i had an innocent girl put to death?
for celia has done nothing to deserve punishment.”
“if people will not do as you tell them they ought to suffer for it,”
answered his foster-brother; “but even if it were unjust, you had better be accused of that by your subjects than that they should find out that they may insult and thwart you as often as they please.”
in saying this he was touching a weak point in his brother’s character; for the prince’s fear of losing any of his power made him at once abandon his first idea of trying to be good, and resolve to try and frighten the shepherdess into consenting to marry him.
his foster-brother, who wanted him to keep this resolution, invited three young courtiers, as wicked as himself to sup with the prince, and they persuaded him to drink a great deal of wine, and continued to excite his anger against celia by telling him that she had laughed at his love for her; until at last, in quite a furious rage, he rushed off to find her, declaring that if she still refused to marry him she should be sold as a slave the very next day.
but when he reached the room in which celia had been locked up, he was greatly surprised to find that she was not in it, though he had the key in his own pocket all the time.
his anger was terrible, and he vowed vengeance against whoever had helped her to escape.
his bad friends, when they heard him, resolved to turn his wrath upon an old nobleman who had formerly been his tutor; and who still dared sometimes to tell the prince of his faults, for he loved him as if he had been his own son.
at first prince darling had thanked him, but after a time he grew impatient and thought it must be just mere love of fault-finding that made his old tutor blame him when everyone else was praising and flattering him.
so he ordered him to retire from his court, though he still, from time to time, spoke of him as a worthy man whom he respected, even if he no longer loved him.
his unworthy friends feared that he might some day take it into his head to recall his old tutor, so they thought they now had a good opportunity of getting him banished for ever.
they reported to the prince that suliman, for that was the tutor’s name, had boasted of having helped celia to escape, and they bribed three men to say that suliman himself had told them about it.
the prince, in great anger, sent his foster-brother with a number of soldiers to bring his tutor before him, in chains, like a criminal.
after giving this order he went to his own room, but he had scarcely got into it when there was a clap of thunder which made the ground shake, and the fairy truth appeared suddenly before him.
“i promised your father,” said she sternly, “to give you good advice, and to punish you if you refused to follow it.
you have despised my counsel, and have gone your own evil way until you are only outwardly a man; really you are a monster the horror of everyone who knows you.
it is time that i should fulfil my promise, and begin your punishment.
i condemn you to resemble the animals whose ways you have imitated.
you have made yourself like the lion by your anger, and like the wolf by your greediness.
like a snake, you have ungratefully turned upon one who was a second father to you; your churlishness has made you like a bull.
therefore, in your new form, take the appearance of all these animals.”
the fairy had scarcely finished speaking when prince darling saw to his horror that her words were fulfilled.
he had a lion’s head, a bull’s horns, a wolf’s feet, and a snake’s body.
at the same instant he found himself in a great forest, beside a clear lake, in which he could see plainly the horrible creature he had become, and a voice said to him:
“look carefully at the state to which your wickedness has brought you; believe me, your soul is a thousand times more hideous than your body.”
prince darling recognized the voice of the fairy truth and turned in a fury to catch her and eat her up if he possibly could; but he saw no one, and the same voice went on:
“i laugh at your powerlessness and anger, and i intend to punish your pride by letting you fall into the hands of your own subjects.”
the prince began to think that the best thing he could do would be to get as far away from the lake as he could, then at least he would not be continually reminded of his terrible ugliness.
so he ran toward the wood, but before he had gone many yards he fell into a deep pit which had been made to trap bears, and the hunters, who were hiding in a tree, leaped down, and secured him with several chains, and led him into the chief city of his own kingdom.
on the way, instead of recognizing that his own faults had brought this punishment upon him, he accused the fairy of being the cause of all his misfortunes, and bit and tore at his chains furiously.
as they approached the town he saw that some great rejoicing was being held, and when the hunters asked what had happened they were told that the prince, whose only pleasure it was to torment his people, had been found in his room, killed by a thunder-bolt (for that was what was supposed to have become of him).
four of his courtiers, those who had encouraged him in his wicked doings, had tried to seize the kingdom and divide it between them, but the people, who knew it was their bad counsels which had so changed the prince, had cut off their heads, and had offered the crown to suliman, whom the prince had left in prison.
this noble lord had just been crowned, and the deliverance of the kingdom was the cause of the rejoicing “for,” they said, “he is a good and just man, and we shall once more enjoy peace and prosperity.”
prince darling roared with anger when he heard this; but it was still worse for him when he reached the great square before his own palace.
he saw suliman seated upon a magnificent throne, and all the people crowded round, wishing him a long life that he might undo all the mischief done by his predecessor.
presently suliman made a sign with his hand that the people should be silent, and said: “i have accepted the crown you have offered me, but only that i may keep it for prince darling, who is not dead as you suppose; the fairy has assured me that there is still hope that you may some day see him again, good and virtuous as he was when he first came to the throne.
alas!” he continued, “he was led away by flatterers.
i knew his heart, and am certain that if it had not been for the bad influence of those who surrounded him he would have been a good king and a father to his people.
we may hate his faults, but let us pity him and hope for his restoration.
as for me, i would die gladly if that could bring back our prince to reign justly and worthily once more.”
these words went to prince darling’s heart; he realized the true affection and faithfulness of his old tutor, and for the first time reproached himself for all his evil deeds; at the same instant he felt all his anger melting away, and he began quickly to think over his past life, and to admit that his punishment was not more than he had deserved.
he left off tearing at the iron bars of the cage in which he was shut up, and became as gentle as a lamb.
the hunters who had caught him took him to a great menagerie, where he was chained up among all the other wild beasts, and he determined to show his sorrow for his past bad behavior by being gentle and obedient to the man who had to take care of him.
unfortunately, this man was very rough and unkind, and though the poor monster was quite quiet, he often beat him without rhyme or reason when he happened to be in a bad temper.
one day when this keeper was asleep a tiger broke its chain, and flew at him to eat him up.
prince darling, who saw what was going on, at first felt quite pleased to think that he should be delivered from his persecutor, but soon thought better of it and wished that he were free.
“i would return good for evil,” he said to himself, “and save the unhappy man’s life.” he had hardly wished this when his iron cage flew open, and he rushed to the side of the keeper, who was awake and was defending himself against the tiger.
when he saw the monster had got out he gave himself up for lost, but his fear was soon changed into joy, for the kind monster threw itself upon the tiger and very soon killed it, and then came and crouched at the feet of the man it had saved.
overcome with gratitude, the keeper stooped to caress the strange creature which had done him such a great service; but suddenly a voice said in his ear:
“a good action should never go unrewarded,” and at the same instant the monster disappeared, and he saw at his feet only a pretty little dog!
prince darling, delighted by the change, frisked about the keeper, showing his joy in every way he could, and the man, taking him up in his arms, carried him to the king, to whom he told the whole story.
the queen said she would like to have this wonderful little dog, and the prince would have been very happy in his new home if he could have forgotten that he was a man and a king.
the queen petted and took care of him, but she was so afraid that he would get too fat that she consulted the court physician, who said that he was to be fed only upon bread, and was not to have much even of that.
so poor prince darling was terribly hungry all day long, but he was very patient about it.
one day, when they gave him his little loaf for breakfast, he thought he would like to eat it out in the garden; so he took it up in his mouth and trotted away toward a brook that he knew of a long way from the palace.
but he was surprised to find that the brook was gone, and where it had been stood a great house that seemed to be built of gold and precious stones.
numbers of people splendidly dressed were going into it, and sounds of music and dancing and feasting could be heard from the windows.
but what seemed very strange was that those people who came out of the house were pale and thin, and their clothes were torn, and hanging in rags about them.
some fell down dead as they came out before they had time to get away; others crawled farther with great difficulty; while others again lay on the ground, fainting with hunger, and begged a morsel of bread from those who were going into the house, but they would not so much as look at the poor creatures.
prince darling went up to a young girl who was trying to eat a few blades of grass, she was so hungry.
touched with compassion, he said to himself:
“i am very hungry, but i shall not die of starvation before i get my dinner; if i give my breakfast to this poor creature perhaps i may save her life.”
so he laid his piece of bread in the girl’s hand, and saw her eat it up eagerly.
she soon seemed to be quite well again, and the prince, delighted to have been able to help her, was thinking of going home to the palace, when he heard a great outcry, and, turning round, saw celia, who was being carried against her will into the great house.
for the first time the prince regretted that he was no longer the monster, then he would have been able to rescue celia; now he could only bark feebly at the people who were carrying her off, and try to follow them, but they chased and kicked him away.
he determined not to quit the place till he knew what had become of celia, and blamed himself for what had befallen her.
“alas!” he said to himself, “i am furious with the people who are carrying celia off, but isn’t that exactly what i did myself, and if i had not been prevented did i not intend to be still more cruel to her?”
here he was interrupted by a noise above his head someone was opening a window, and he saw with delight that it was celia herself, who came forward and threw out a plate of most delicious-looking food, then the window was shut again, and prince darling, who had not had anything to eat all day, thought he might as well take the opportunity of getting something.
he ran forward to begin, but the young girl to whom he had given his bread gave a cry of terror and took him up in her arms, saying:
“don’t touch it, my poor little dog that house is the palace of pleasure, and everything that comes out of it is poisoned!”
at the same moment a voice said:
“you see a good action always brings its reward,” and the prince found himself changed into a beautiful white dove.
he remembered that white was the favorite color of the fairy truth, and began to hope that he might at last win back her favor.
but just now his first care was for celia, and rising into the air he flew round and round the house, until he saw an open window; but he searched through every room in vain.
no trace of celia was to be seen, and the prince, in despair, determined to search through the world till he found her.
he flew on and on for several days, till he came to a great desert, where he saw a cavern, and, to his delight, there sat celia, sharing the simple breakfast of an old hermit.
overjoyed to have found her, prince darling perched upon her shoulder, trying to express by his caresses how glad he was to see her again, and celia, surprised and delighted by the tameness of this pretty white dove, stroked it softly, and said, though she never thought of its understanding her:
“i accept the gift that you make me of yourself, and i will love you always.”
“take care what you are saying, celia,” said the old hermit; “are you prepared to keep that promise?”
“indeed, i hope so, my sweet shepherdess,” cried the prince, who was at that moment restored to his natural shape.
“you promised to love me always; tell me that you really mean what you said, or i shall have to ask the fairy to give me back the form of the dove which pleased you so much.”
“you need not be afraid that she will change her mind,” said the fairy, throwing off the hermit’s robe in which she had been disguised and appearing before them.
“celia has loved you ever since she first saw you, only she would not tell you while you were so obstinate and naughty.
now you have repented and mean to be good you deserve to be happy, and so she may love you as much as she likes.”
celia and prince darling threw themselves at the fairy’s feet, and the prince was never tired of thanking her for her kindness.
celia was delighted to hear how sorry he was for all his past follies and misdeeds, and promised to love him as long as she lived.
“rise, my children,” said the fairy, “and i will transport you to the palace, and prince darling shall have back again the crown he forfeited by his bad behavior.”
while she was speaking, they found themselves in suliman’s hall, and his delight was great at seeing his dear master once more.
he gave up the throne joyfully to the prince, and remained always the most faithful of his subjects.
celia and prince darling reigned for many years, but he was so determined to govern worthily and to do his duty that his ring, which he took to wearing again, never once pricked him severely.
(1)
(1) cabinet des fees.
blue beard
there was a man who had fine houses, both in town and country, a deal of silver and gold plate, embroidered furniture, and coaches gilded all over with gold.
but this man was so unlucky as to have a blue beard, which made him so frightfully ugly that all the women and girls ran away from him.
one of his neighbors, a lady of quality, had two daughters who were perfect beauties.
he desired of her one of them in marriage, leaving to her choice which of the two she would bestow on him.
they would neither of them have him, and sent him backward and forward from one another, not being able to bear the thoughts of marrying a man who had a blue beard, and what besides gave them disgust and aversion was his having already been married to several wives, and nobody ever knew what became of them.
blue beard, to engage their affection, took them, with the lady their mother and three or four ladies of their acquaintance, with other young people of the neighborhood, to one of his country seats, where they stayed a whole week.
there was nothing then to be seen but parties of pleasure, hunting, fishing, dancing, mirth, and feasting.
nobody went to bed, but all passed the night in rallying and joking with each other.
in short, everything succeeded so well that the youngest daughter began to think the master of the house not to have a beard so very blue, and that he was a mighty civil gentleman.
as soon as they returned home, the marriage was concluded.
about a month afterward, blue beard told his wife that he was obliged to take a country journey for six weeks at least, about affairs of very great consequence, desiring her to divert herself in his absence, to send for her friends and acquaintances, to carry them into the country, if she pleased, and to make good cheer wherever she was.
“here,” said he, “are the keys of the two great wardrobes, wherein i have my best furniture; these are of my silver and gold plate, which is not every day in use; these open my strong boxes, which hold my money, both gold and silver; these my caskets of jewels; and this is the master-key to all my apartments.
but for this little one here, it is the key of the closet at the end of the great gallery on the ground floor.
open them all; go into all and every one of them, except that little closet, which i forbid you, and forbid it in such a manner that, if you happen to open it, there’s nothing but what you may expect from my just anger and resentment.”
she promised to observe, very exactly, whatever he had ordered; when he, after having embraced her, got into his coach and proceeded on his journey.
her neighbors and good friends did not stay to be sent for by the new married lady, so great was their impatience to see all the rich furniture of her house, not daring to come while her husband was there, because of his blue beard, which frightened them.
they ran through all the rooms, closets, and wardrobes, which were all so fine and rich that they seemed to surpass one another.
after that they went up into the two great rooms, where was the best and richest furniture; they could not sufficiently admire the number and beauty of the tapestry, beds, couches, cabinets, stands, tables, and looking-glasses, in which you might see yourself from head to foot; some of them were framed with glass, others with silver, plain and gilded, the finest and most magnificent ever were seen.
they ceased not to extol and envy the happiness of their friend, who in the meantime in no way diverted herself in looking upon all these rich things, because of the impatience she had to go and open the closet on the ground floor.
she was so much pressed by her curiosity that, without considering that it was very uncivil to leave her company, she went down a little back staircase, and with such excessive haste that she had twice or thrice like to have broken her neck.
coming to the closet-door, she made a stop for some time, thinking upon her husband’s orders, and considering what unhappiness might attend her if she was disobedient; but the temptation was so strong she could not overcome it.
she then took the little key, and opened it, trembling, but could not at first see anything plainly, because the windows were shut.
after some moments she began to perceive that the floor was all covered over with clotted blood, on which lay the bodies of several dead women, ranged against the walls.
(these were all the wives whom blue beard had married and murdered, one after another.)
she thought she should have died for fear, and the key, which she pulled out of the lock, fell out of her hand.
after having somewhat recovered her surprise, she took up the key, locked the door, and went upstairs into her chamber to recover herself; but she could not, she was so much frightened.
having observed that the key of the closet was stained with blood, she tried two or three times to wipe it off, but the blood would not come out; in vain did she wash it, and even rub it with soap and sand; the blood still remained, for the key was magical and she could never make it quite clean; when the blood was gone off from one side, it came again on the other.
blue beard returned from his journey the same evening, and said he had received letters upon the road, informing him that the affair he went about was ended to his advantage.
his wife did all she could to convince him she was extremely glad of his speedy return.
next morning he asked her for the keys, which she gave him, but with such a trembling hand that he easily guessed what had happened.
“what!” said he, “is not the key of my closet among the rest?”
“i must certainly have left it above upon the table,” said she.
“fail not to bring it to me presently,” said blue beard.
after several goings backward and forward she was forced to bring him the key.
blue beard, having very attentively considered it, said to his wife,
“how comes this blood upon the key?”
“i do not know,” cried the poor woman, paler than death.
“you do not know!” replied blue beard.
“i very well know.
you were resolved to go into the closet, were you not?
mighty well, madam; you shall go in, and take your place among the ladies you saw there.”
upon this she threw herself at her husband’s feet, and begged his pardon with all the signs of true repentance, vowing that she would never more be disobedient.
she would have melted a rock, so beautiful and sorrowful was she; but blue beard had a heart harder than any rock!
“you must die, madam,” said he, “and that presently.”
“since i must die,” answered she (looking upon him with her eyes all bathed in tears), “give me some little time to say my prayers.”
“i give you,” replied blue beard, “half a quarter of an hour, but not one moment more.”
when she was alone she called out to her sister, and said to her:
“sister anne” (for that was her name), “go up, i beg you, upon the top of the tower, and look if my brothers are not coming over; they promised me that they would come to-day, and if you see them, give them a sign to make haste.”
her sister anne went up upon the top of the tower, and the poor afflicted wife cried out from time to time:
“anne, sister anne, do you see anyone coming?”
and sister anne said:
“i see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass, which looks green.”
in the meanwhile blue beard, holding a great sabre in his hand, cried out as loud as he could bawl to his wife:
“come down instantly, or i shall come up to you.”
“one moment longer, if you please,” said his wife, and then she cried out very softly, “anne, sister anne, dost thou see anybody coming?”
and sister anne answered:
“i see nothing but the sun, which makes a dust, and the grass, which is green.”
“come down quickly,” cried blue beard, “or i will come up to you.”
“i am coming,” answered his wife; and then she cried, “anne, sister anne, dost thou not see anyone coming?”
“i see,” replied sister anne, “a great dust, which comes on this side here.”
“are they my brothers?”
“alas!
no, my dear sister, i see a flock of sheep.”
“will you not come down?” cried blue beard
“one moment longer,” said his wife, and then she cried out: “anne, sister anne, dost thou see nobody coming?”
“i see,” said she, “two horsemen, but they are yet a great way off.”
“god be praised,” replied the poor wife joyfully; “they are my brothers; i will make them a sign, as well as i can, for them to make haste.”
then blue beard bawled out so loud that he made the whole house tremble.
the distressed wife came down, and threw herself at his feet, all in tears, with her hair about her shoulders.
“this signifies nothing,” says blue beard; “you must die”; then, taking hold of her hair with one hand, and lifting up the sword with the other, he was going to take off her head.
the poor lady, turning about to him, and looking at him with dying eyes, desired him to afford her one little moment to recollect herself.
“no, no,” said he, “recommend thyself to god,” and was just ready to strike...
at this very instant there was such a loud knocking at the gate that blue beard made a sudden stop.
the gate was opened, and presently entered two horsemen, who, drawing their swords, ran directly to blue beard.
he knew them to be his wife’s brothers, one a dragoon, the other a musketeer, so that he ran away immediately to save himself; but the two brothers pursued so close that they overtook him before he could get to the steps of the porch, when they ran their swords through his body and left him dead.
the poor wife was almost as dead as her husband, and had not strength enough to rise and welcome her brothers.
blue beard had no heirs, and so his wife became mistress of all his estate.
she made use of one part of it to marry her sister anne to a young gentleman who had loved her a long while; another part to buy captains commissions for her brothers, and the rest to marry herself to a very worthy gentleman, who made her forget the ill time she had passed with blue beard.
(1)
(1) charles perrault.
trusty john
once upon a time there was an old king who was so ill that he thought to himself, “i am most likely on my death-bed.” then he said, “send trusty john to me.” now trusty john was his favorite servant, and was so called because all his life he had served him so faithfully.
when he approached the bed the king spake to him: “most trusty john, i feel my end is drawing near, and i could face it without a care were it not for my son.
he is still too young to decide everything for himself, and unless you promise me to instruct him in all he should know, and to be to him as a father, i shall not close my eyes in peace.” then trusty john answered:
“i will never desert him, and will serve him faithfully, even though it should cost me my life.” then the old king said: “now i die comforted and in peace”; and then he went on: “after my death you must show him the whole castle, all the rooms and apartments and vaults, and all the treasures that lie in them; but you must not show him the last room in the long passage, where the picture of the princess of the golden roof is hidden.
when he beholds that picture he will fall violently in love with it and go off into a dead faint, and for her sake he will encounter many dangers; you must guard him from this.” and when trusty john had again given the king his hand upon it the old man became silent, laid his head on the pillow, and died.
when the old king had been carried to his grave trusty john told the young king what he had promised his father on his death-bed, and added:
“and i shall assuredly keep my word, and shall be faithful to you as i have been to him, even though it should cost me my life.”
now when the time of mourning was over, trusty john said to him: “it is time you should see your inheritance.
i will show you your ancestral castle.” so he took him over everything, and let him see all the riches and splendid apartments, only the one room where the picture was he did not open.
but the picture was placed so that if the door opened you gazed straight upon it, and it was so beautifully painted that you imagined it lived and moved, and that it was the most lovable and beautiful thing in the whole world.
but the young king noticed that trusty john always missed one door, and said: “why do you never open this one for me?” “there is something inside that would appall you,” he answered.
but the king replied: “i have seen the whole castle, and shall find out what is in there”; and with these words he approached the door and wanted to force it open.
but trusty john held him back, and said: “i promised your father before his death that you shouldn’t see what that room contains.
it might bring both you and me to great grief.” “ah!
no,” answered the young king; “if i don’t get in, it will be my certain destruction; i should have no peace night or day till i had seen what was in the room with my own eyes.
now i don’t budge from the spot till you have opened the door.”
then trusty john saw there was no way out of it, so with a heavy heart and many sighs he took the key from the big bunch.
when he had opened the door he stepped in first, and thought to cover the likeness so that the king might not perceive it; but it was hopeless: the king stood on tiptoe and looked over his shoulder.
and when he saw the picture of the maid, so beautiful and glittering with gold and precious stones, he fell swooning to the ground.
trusty john lifted him up, carried him to bed, and thought sorrowfully: “the curse has come upon us; gracious heaven!
what will be the end of it all?” then he poured wine down his throat till he came to himself again.
the first words he spoke were: “oh!
who is the original of the beautiful picture?” “she is the princess of the golden roof,” answered trusty john.
then the king continued: “my love for her is so great that if all the leaves on the trees had tongues they could not express it; my very life depends on my winning her.
you are my most trusty john: you must stand by me.”
the faithful servant pondered long how they were to set about the matter, for it was said to be difficult even to get into the presence of the princess.
at length he hit upon a plan, and spoke to the king: “all the things she has about her tables, chairs, dishes, goblets, bowls, and all her household furniture are made of gold.
you have in your treasure five tons of gold; let the goldsmiths of your kingdom manufacture them into all manner of vases and vessels, into all sorts of birds and game and wonderful beasts; that will please her.
we shall go to her with them and try our luck.” the king summoned all his goldsmiths, and they had to work hard day and night, till at length the most magnificent things were completed.
when a ship had been laden with them the faithful john disguised himself as a merchant, and the king had to do the same, so that they should be quite unrecognizable.
and so they crossed the seas and journeyed till they reached the town where the princess of the golden roof dwelt.
trusty john made the king remain behind on the ship and await his return.
“perhaps,” he said, “i may bring the princess back with me, so see that everything is in order; let the gold ornaments be arranged and the whole ship decorated.” then he took a few of the gold things in his apron, went ashore, and proceeded straight to the palace.
when he came to the courtyard he found a beautiful maiden standing at the well, drawing water with two golden pails.
and as she was about to carry away the glittering water she turned round and saw the stranger, and asked him who he was.
then he replied: “i am a merchant,” and opening his apron, he let her peep in.
“oh!
my,” she cried; “what beautiful gold wares!” she set down her pails, and examined one thing after the other.
then she said: “the princess must see this, she has such a fancy for gold things that she will buy up all you have.” she took him by the hand and let him into the palace, for she was the lady’s maid.
when the princess had seen the wares she was quite enchanted, and said:
“they are all so beautifully made that i shall buy everything you have.”
but trusty john said: “i am only the servant of a rich merchant, what i have here is nothing compared to what my master has on his ship; his merchandise is more artistic and costly than anything that has ever been made in gold before.” she desired to have everything brought up to her, but he said: “there is such a quantity of things that it would take many days to bring them up, and they would take up so many rooms that you would have no space for them in your house.” thus her desire and curiosity were excited to such an extent that at last she said: “take me to your ship; i shall go there myself and view your master’s treasures.”
then trusty john was quite delighted, and brought her to the ship; and the king, when he beheld her, saw that she was even more beautiful than her picture, and thought every moment that his heart would burst.
she stepped on to the ship, and the king led her inside.
but trusty john remained behind with the steersman, and ordered the ship to push off.
“spread all sail, that we may fly on the ocean like a bird in the air.”
meanwhile the king showed the princess inside all his gold wares, every single bit of it dishes, goblets, bowls, the birds and game, and all the wonderful beasts.
many hours passed thus, and she was so happy that she did not notice that the ship was sailing away.
after she had seen the last thing she thanked the merchant and prepared to go home; but when she came to the ship’s side she saw that they were on the high seas, far from land, and that the ship was speeding on its way under full canvas.
“oh!” she cried in terror, “i am deceived, carried away and betrayed into the power of a merchant; i would rather have died!” but the king seized her hand and spake: “i am no merchant, but a king of as high birth as yourself; and it was my great love for you that made me carry you off by stratagem.
the first time i saw your likeness i fell to the ground in a swoon.” when the princess of the golden roof heard this she was comforted, and her heart went out to him, so that she willingly consented to become his wife.
now it happened one day, while they were sailing on the high seas, that trusty john, sitting on the forepart of the ship, fiddling away to himself, observed three ravens in the air flying toward him.
he ceased playing, and listened to what they were saying, for he understood their language.
the one croaked: “ah, ha!
so he’s bringing the princess of the golden roof home.” “yes,” answered the second, “but he’s not got her yet.” “yes, he has,” spake the third, “for she’s sitting beside him on the ship.” then number one began again and cried: “that’ll not help him!
when they reach the land a chestnut horse will dash forward to greet them: the king will wish to mount it, and if he does it will gallop away with him, and disappear into the air, and he will never see his bride again.” “is there no escape for him?” asked number two.
“oh!
yes, if someone else mounts quickly and shoots the horse dead with the pistol that is sticking in the holster, then the young king is saved.
but who’s to do that?
and anyone who knows it and tells him will be turned into stone from his feet to his knees.” then spake number two: “i know more than that: even if the horse is slain, the young king will still not keep his bride: when they enter the palace together they will find a ready-made wedding shirt in a cupboard, which looks as though it were woven of gold and silver, but is really made of nothing but sulphur and tar: when the king puts it on it will burn him to his marrow and bones.”
number three asked: “is there no way of escape, then?” “oh!
yes,”
answered number two: “if someone seizes the shirt with gloved hands and throws it into the fire, and lets it burn, then the young king is saved.
but what’s the good?
anyone knowing this and telling it will have half his body turned into stone, from his knees to his heart.” then number three spake: “i know yet more: though the bridal shirt too be burnt, the king hasn’t even then secured his bride: when the dance is held after the wedding, and the young queen is dancing, she will suddenly grow deadly white, and drop down like one dead, and unless some one lifts her up and draws three drops of blood from her right side, and spits them out again, she will die.
but if anyone who knows this betrays it, he will be turned into stone from the crown of his head to the soles of his feet.” when the ravens had thus conversed they fled onward, but trusty john had taken it all in, and was sad and depressed from that time forward; for if he were silent to his master concerning what he had heard, he would involve him in misfortune; but if he took him into his confidence, then he himself would forfeit his life.
at last he said: “i will stand by my master, though it should be my ruin.”
now when they drew near the land it came to pass just as the ravens had predicted, and a splendid chestnut horse bounded forward.
“capital!”
said the king; “this animal shall carry me to my palace,” and was about to mount, but trusty john was too sharp for him, and, springing up quickly, seized the pistol out of the holster and shot the horse dead.
then the other servants of the king, who at no time looked favorably on trusty john, cried out: “what a sin to kill the beautiful beast that was to bear the king to his palace!” but the king spake: “silence!
let him alone; he is ever my most trusty john.
who knows for what good end he may have done this thing?” so they went on their way and entered the palace, and there in the hall stood a cupboard in which lay the ready-made bridal shirt, looking for all the world as though it were made of gold and silver.
the young king went toward it and was about to take hold of it, but trusty john, pushing him aside, seized it with his gloved hands, threw it hastily into the fire, and let it burn the other servants commenced grumbling again, and said: “see, he’s actually burning the king’s bridal shirt.” but the young king spoke: “who knows for what good purpose he does it?
let him alone, he is my most trusty john.” then the wedding was celebrated, the dance began, and the bride joined in, but trusty john watched her countenance carefully.
of a sudden she grew deadly white, and fell to the ground as if she were dead.
he at once sprang hastily toward her, lifted her up, and bore her to a room, where he laid her down, and kneeling beside her he drew three drops of blood from her right side, and spat them out.
she soon breathed again and came to herself; but the young king had watched the proceeding, and not knowing why trusty john had acted as he did, he flew into a passion, and cried: “throw him into prison.” on the following morning sentence was passed on trusty john, and he was condemned to be hanged.
as he stood on the gallows he said: “every one doomed to death has the right to speak once before he dies; and i too have that privilege?” “yes,” said the king, “it shall be granted to you.” so trusty john spoke: “i am unjustly condemned, for i have always been faithful to you”; and he proceeded to relate how he had heard the ravens’ conversation on the sea, and how he had to do all he did in order to save his master.
then the king cried: “oh!
my most trusty john, pardon!
pardon!
take him down.” but as he uttered the last word trusty john had fallen lifeless to the ground, and was a stone.
the king and queen were in despair, and the king spake: “ah!
how ill have i rewarded such great fidelity!” and made them lift up the stone image and place it in his bedroom near his bed.
as often as he looked at it he wept and said: “oh!
if i could only restore you to life, my most trusty john!” after a time the queen gave birth to twins, two small sons, who throve and grew, and were a constant joy to her.
one day when the queen was at church, and the two children sat and played with their father, he gazed again full of grief on the stone statue, and sighing, wailed: “oh, if i could only restore you to life, my most trusty john!”
suddenly the stone began to speak, and said: “yes, you can restore me to life again if you are prepared to sacrifice what you hold most dear.”
and the king cried out: “all i have in the world will i give up for your sake.” the stone continued: “if you cut off with your own hand the heads of your two children, and smear me with their blood, i shall come back to life.” the king was aghast when he heard that he had himself to put his children to death; but when he thought of trusty john’s fidelity, and how he had even died for him, he drew his sword, and with his own hand cut the heads off his children.
and when he had smeared the stone with their blood, life came back, and trusty john stood once more safe and sound before him.
he spake to the king: “your loyalty shall be rewarded,” and taking up the heads of the children, he placed them on their bodies, smeared the wounds with their blood, and in a minute they were all right again and jumping about as if nothing had happened.
then the king was full of joy, and when he saw the queen coming, he hid trusty john and the two children in a big cupboard.
as she entered he said to her: “did you pray in church?” “yes,” she answered, “but my thoughts dwelt constantly on trusty john, and of what he has suffered for us.” then he spake: “dear wife, we can restore him to life, but the price asked is our two little sons; we must sacrifice them.” the queen grew white and her heart sank, but she replied: “we owe it to him on account of his great fidelity.” then he rejoiced that she was of the same mind as he had been, and going forward he opened the cupboard, and fetched the two children and trusty john out, saying: “god be praised!
trusty john is free once more, and we have our two small sons again.”
then he related to her all that had passed, and they lived together happily ever afterward.
(1)
(1) grimm.
the brave little tailor
one summer’s day a little tailor sat on his table by the window in the best of spirits, and sewed for dear life.
as he was sitting thus a peasant woman came down the street, calling out: “good jam to sell, good jam to sell.” this sounded sweetly in the tailor’s ears; he put his frail little head out of the window, and shouted: “up here, my good woman, and you’ll find a willing customer.” the woman climbed up the three flights of stairs with her heavy basket to the tailor’s room, and he made her spread out all the pots in a row before him.
he examined them all, lifted them up and smelled them, and said at last: “this jam seems good, weigh me four ounces of it, my good woman; and even if it’s a quarter of a pound i won’t stick at it.” the woman, who had hoped to find a good market, gave him what he wanted, but went away grumbling wrathfully.
“now heaven shall bless this jam for my use,” cried the little tailor, “and it shall sustain and strengthen me.” he fetched some bread out of a cupboard, cut a round off the loaf, and spread the jam on it.
“that won’t taste amiss,” he said; “but i’ll finish that waistcoat first before i take a bite.” he placed the bread beside him, went on sewing, and out of the lightness of his heart kept on making his stitches bigger and bigger.
in the meantime the smell of the sweet jam rose to the ceiling, where heaps of flies were sitting, and attracted them to such an extent that they swarmed on to it in masses.
“ha!
who invited you?” said the tailor, and chased the unwelcome guests away.
but the flies, who didn’t understand english, refused to let themselves be warned off, and returned again in even greater numbers.
at last the little tailor, losing all patience, reached out of his chimney corner for a duster, and exclaiming: “wait, and i’ll give it to you,” he beat them mercilessly with it.
when he left off he counted the slain, and no fewer than seven lay dead before him with outstretched legs.
“what a desperate fellow i am!” said he, and was filled with admiration at his own courage.
“the whole town must know about this”; and in great haste the little tailor cut out a girdle, hemmed it, and embroidered on it in big letters, “seven at a blow.” “what did i say, the town?
no, the whole world shall hear of it,” he said; and his heart beat for joy as a lamb wags his tail.
the tailor strapped the girdle round his waist and set out into the wide world, for he considered his workroom too small a field for his prowess.
before he set forth he looked round about him, to see if there was anything in the house he could take with him on his journey; but he found nothing except an old cheese, which he took possession of.
in front of the house he observed a bird that had been caught in some bushes, and this he put into his wallet beside the cheese.
then he went on his way merrily, and being light and agile he never felt tired.
his way led up a hill, on the top of which sat a powerful giant, who was calmly surveying the landscape.
the little tailor went up to him, and greeting him cheerfully said: “good-day, friend; there you sit at your ease viewing the whole wide world.
i’m just on my way there.
what do you say to accompanying me?” the giant looked contemptuously at the tailor, and said: “what a poor wretched little creature you are!” “that’s a good joke,” answered the little tailor, and unbuttoning his coat he showed the giant the girdle.
“there now, you can read what sort of a fellow i am.” the giant read: “seven at a blow”; and thinking they were human beings the tailor had slain, he conceived a certain respect for the little man.
but first he thought he’d test him, so taking up a stone in his hand, he squeezed it till some drops of water ran out.
“now you do the same,” said the giant, “if you really wish to be thought strong.”
“is that all?” said the little tailor; “that’s child’s play to me,” so he dived into his wallet, brought out the cheese, and pressed it till the whey ran out.
“my squeeze was in sooth better than yours,” said he.
the giant didn’t know what to say, for he couldn’t have believed it of the little fellow.
to prove him again, the giant lifted a stone and threw it so high that the eye could hardly follow it.
“now, my little pigmy, let me see you do that.” “well thrown,” said the tailor; “but, after all, your stone fell to the ground; i’ll throw one that won’t come down at all.” he dived into his wallet again, and grasping the bird in his hand, he threw it up into the air.
the bird, enchanted to be free, soared up into the sky, and flew away never to return.
“well, what do you think of that little piece of business, friend?” asked the tailor.
“you can certainly throw,” said the giant; “but now let’s see if you can carry a proper weight.” with these words he led the tailor to a huge oak tree which had been felled to the ground, and said: “if you are strong enough, help me to carry the tree out of the wood.” “most certainly,”
said the little tailor: “just you take the trunk on your shoulder; i’ll bear the top and branches, which is certainly the heaviest part.” the giant laid the trunk on his shoulder, but the tailor sat at his ease among the branches; and the giant, who couldn’t see what was going on behind him, had to carry the whole tree, and the little tailor into the bargain.
there he sat behind in the best of spirits, lustily whistling a tune, as if carrying the tree were mere sport.
the giant, after dragging the heavy weight for some time, could get on no further, and shouted out: “hi!
i must let the tree fall.” the tailor sprang nimbly down, seized the tree with both hands as if he had carried it the whole way and said to the giant: “fancy a big lout like you not being able to carry a tree!”
they continued to go on their way together, and as they passed by a cherry tree the giant grasped the top of it, where the ripest fruit hung, gave the branches into the tailor’s hand, and bade him eat.
but the little tailor was far too weak to hold the tree down, and when the giant let go the tree swung back into the air, bearing the little tailor with it.
when he had fallen to the ground again without hurting himself, the giant said: “what!
do you mean to tell me you haven’t the strength to hold down a feeble twig?” “it wasn’t strength that was wanting,”
replied the tailor; “do you think that would have been anything for a man who has killed seven at a blow?
i jumped over the tree because the huntsmen are shooting among the branches near us.
do you do the like if you dare.” the giant made an attempt, but couldn’t get over the tree, and stuck fast in the branches, so that here too the little tailor had the better of him.
“well, you’re a fine fellow, after all,” said the giant; “come and spend the night with us in our cave.” the little tailor willingly consented to do this, and following his friend they went on till they reached a cave where several other giants were sitting round a fire, each holding a roast sheep in his hand, of which he was eating.
the little tailor looked about him, and thought: “yes, there’s certainly more room to turn round in here than in my workshop.” the giant showed him a bed and bade him lie down and have a good sleep.
but the bed was too big for the little tailor, so he didn’t get into it, but crept away into the corner.
at midnight, when the giant thought the little tailor was fast asleep, he rose up, and taking his big iron walking-stick, he broke the bed in two with a blow, and thought he had made an end of the little grasshopper.
at early dawn the giants went off to the wood, and quite forgot about the little tailor, till all of a sudden they met him trudging along in the most cheerful manner.
the giants were terrified at the apparition, and, fearful lest he should slay them, they all took to their heels as fast as they could.
the little tailor continued to follow his nose, and after he had wandered about for a long time he came to the courtyard of a royal palace, and feeling tired he lay down on the grass and fell asleep.
while he lay there the people came, and looking him all over read on his girdle: “seven at a blow.” “oh!” they said, “what can this great hero of a hundred fights want in our peaceful land?
he must indeed be a mighty man of valor.” they went and told the king about him, and said what a weighty and useful man he’d be in time of war, and that it would be well to secure him at any price.
this counsel pleased the king, and he sent one of his courtiers down to the little tailor, to offer him, when he awoke, a commission in their army.
the messenger remained standing by the sleeper, and waited till he stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, when he tendered his proposal.
“that’s the very thing i came here for,”
he answered; “i am quite ready to enter the king’s service.” so he was received with all honor, and given a special house of his own to live in.
but the other officers resented the success of the little tailor, and wished him a thousand miles away.
“what’s to come of it all?” they asked each other; “if we quarrel with him, he’ll let out at us, and at every blow seven will fall.
there’ll soon be an end of us.” so they resolved to go in a body to the king, and all to send in their papers.
“we are not made,” they said, “to hold out against a man who kills seven at a blow.” the king was grieved at the thought of losing all his faithful servants for the sake of one man, and he wished heartily that he had never set eyes on him, or that he could get rid of him.
but he didn’t dare to send him away, for he feared he might kill him along with his people, and place himself on the throne.
he pondered long and deeply over the matter, and finally came to a conclusion.
he sent to the tailor and told him that, seeing what a great and warlike hero he was, he was about to make him an offer.
in a certain wood of his kingdom there dwelled two giants who did much harm; by the way they robbed, murdered, burned, and plundered everything about them; “no one could approach them without endangering his life.
but if he could overcome and kill these two giants he should have his only daughter for a wife, and half his kingdom into the bargain; he might have a hundred horsemen, too, to back him up.” “that’s the very thing for a man like me,” thought the little tailor; “one doesn’t get the offer of a beautiful princess and half a kingdom every day.” “done with you,” he answered; “i’ll soon put an end to the giants.
but i haven’t the smallest need of your hundred horsemen; a fellow who can slay seven men at a blow need not be afraid of two.”
the little tailor set out, and the hundred horsemen followed him.
when he came to the outskirts of the wood he said to his followers: “you wait here, i’ll manage the giants by myself”; and he went on into the wood, casting his sharp little eyes right and left about him.
after a while he spied the two giants lying asleep under a tree, and snoring till the very boughs bent with the breeze.
the little tailor lost no time in filling his wallet with stones, and then climbed up the tree under which they lay.
when he got to about the middle of it he slipped along a branch till he sat just above the sleepers, when he threw down one stone after the other on the nearest giant.
the giant felt nothing for a long time, but at last he woke up, and pinching his companion said: “what did you strike me for?” “i didn’t strike you,” said the other, “you must be dreaming.” they both lay down to sleep again, and the tailor threw down a stone on the second giant, who sprang up and cried: “what’s that for?
why did you throw something at me?” “i didn’t throw anything,” growled the first one.
they wrangled on for a time, till, as both were tired, they made up the matter and fell asleep again.
the little tailor began his game once more, and flung the largest stone he could find in his wallet with all his force, and hit the first giant on the chest.
“this is too much of a good thing!” he yelled, and springing up like a madman, he knocked his companion against the tree till he trembled.
he gave, however, as good as he got, and they became so enraged that they tore up trees and beat each other with them, till they both fell dead at once on the ground.
then the little tailor jumped down.
“it’s a mercy,” he said, “that they didn’t root up the tree on which i was perched, or i should have had to jump like a squirrel on to another, which, nimble though i am, would have been no easy job.” he drew his sword and gave each of the giants a very fine thrust or two on the breast, and then went to the horsemen and said: “the deed is done, i’ve put an end to the two of them; but i assure you it has been no easy matter, for they even tore up trees in their struggle to defend themselves; but all that’s of no use against one who slays seven men at a blow.” “weren’t you wounded?” asked the horsemen.
“no fear,” answered the tailor; “they haven’t touched a hair of my head.” but the horsemen wouldn’t believe him till they rode into the wood and found the giants weltering in their blood, and the trees lying around, torn up by the roots.
the little tailor now demanded the promised reward from the king, but he repented his promise, and pondered once more how he could rid himself of the hero.
“before you obtain the hand of my daughter and half my kingdom,” he said to him, “you must do another deed of valor.
a unicorn is running about loose in the wood, and doing much mischief; you must first catch it.” “i’m even less afraid of one unicorn than of two giants; seven at a blow, that’s my motto.” he took a piece of cord and an axe with him, went out to the wood, and again told the men who had been sent with him to remain outside.
he hadn’t to search long, for the unicorn soon passed by, and, on perceiving the tailor, dashed straight at him as though it were going to spike him on the spot.
“gently, gently,” said he, “not so fast, my friend”; and standing still he waited till the beast was quite near, when he sprang lightly behind a tree; the unicorn ran with all its force against the tree, and rammed its horn so firmly into the trunk that it had no strength left to pull it out again, and was thus successfully captured.
“now i’ve caught my bird,” said the tailor, and he came out from behind the tree, placed the cord round its neck first, then struck the horn out of the tree with his axe, and when everything was in order led the beast before the king.
still the king didn’t want to give him the promised reward and made a third demand.
the tailor was to catch a wild boar for him that did a great deal of harm in the wood; and he might have the huntsmen to help him.
“willingly,” said the tailor; “that’s mere child’s play.” but he didn’t take the huntsmen into the wood with him, and they were well enough pleased to remain behind, for the wild boar had often received them in a manner which did not make them desire its further acquaintance.
as soon as the boar perceived the tailor it ran at him with foaming mouth and gleaming teeth, and tried to knock him down; but our alert little friend ran into a chapel that stood near, and got out of the window again with a jump.
the boar pursued him into the church, but the tailor skipped round to the door, and closed it securely.
so the raging beast was caught, for it was far too heavy and unwieldy to spring out of the window.
the little tailor summoned the huntsmen together, that they might see the prisoner with their own eyes.
then the hero betook himself to the king, who was obliged now, whether he liked it or not, to keep his promise, and hand him over his daughter and half his kingdom.
had he known that no hero-warrior, but only a little tailor stood before him, it would have gone even more to his heart.
so the wedding was celebrated with much splendor and little joy, and the tailor became a king.
after a time the queen heard her husband saying one night in his sleep:
“my lad, make that waistcoat and patch these trousers, or i’ll box your ears.” thus she learned in what rank the young gentleman had been born, and next day she poured forth her woes to her father, and begged him to help her to get rid of a husband who was nothing more nor less than a tailor.
the king comforted her, and said: “leave your bedroom door open to-night, my servants shall stand outside, and when your husband is fast asleep they shall enter, bind him fast, and carry him on to a ship, which shall sail away out into the wide ocean.” the queen was well satisfied with the idea, but the armor-bearer, who had overheard everything, being much attached to his young master, went straight to him and revealed the whole plot.
“i’ll soon put a stop to the business,”
said the tailor.
that night he and his wife went to bed at the usual time; and when she thought he had fallen asleep she got up, opened the door, and then lay down again.
the little tailor, who had only pretended to be asleep, began to call out in a clear voice: “my lad, make that waistcoat and patch those trousers, or i’ll box your ears.
i have killed seven at a blow, slain two giants, led a unicorn captive, and caught a wild boar, then why should i be afraid of those men standing outside my door?” the men, when they heard the tailor saying these words, were so terrified that they fled as if pursued by a wild army, and didn’t dare go near him again.
so the little tailor was and remained a king all the days of his life.
a voyage to lilliput
chapter i
my father had a small estate in nottinghamshire, and i was the third of four sons.
he sent me to cambridge at fourteen years old, and after studying there three years i was bound apprentice to mr. bates, a famous surgeon in london.
there, as my father now and then sent me small sums of money, i spent them in learning navigation, and other arts useful to those who travel, as i always believed it would be some time or other my fortune to do.
three years after my leaving him my good master, mr. bates, recommended me as ship’s surgeon to the “swallow,” on which i voyaged three years.
when i came back i settled in london, and, having taken part of a small house, i married miss mary burton, daughter of mr. edmund burton, hosier.
but my good master bates died two years after; and as i had few friends my business began to fail, and i determined to go again to sea.
after several voyages, i accepted an offer from captain w. pritchard, master of the “antelope,” who was making a voyage to the south sea.
we set sail from bristol, may 4, 1699; and our voyage at first was very prosperous.
but in our passage to the east indies we were driven by a violent storm to the north-west of van diemen’s land.
twelve of our crew died from hard labor and bad food, and the rest were in a very weak condition.
on the 5th of november, the weather being very hazy, the seamen spied a rock within 120 yards of the ship; but the wind was so strong that we were driven straight upon it, and immediately split.
six of the crew, of whom i was one, letting down the boat, got clear of the ship, and we rowed about three leagues, till we could work no longer.
we therefore trusted ourselves to the mercy of the waves; and in about half an hour the boat was upset by a sudden squall.
what became of my companions in the boat, or those who escaped on the rock or were left in the vessel, i cannot tell; but i conclude they were all lost.
for my part, i swam as fortune directed me, and was pushed forward by wind and tide; but when i was able to struggle no longer i found myself within my depth.
by this time the storm was much abated.
i reached the shore at last, about eight o’clock in the evening, and advanced nearly half a mile inland, but could not discover any sign of inhabitants.
i was extremely tired, and with the heat of the weather i found myself much inclined to sleep.
i lay down on the grass, which was very short and soft, and slept sounder than ever i did in my life for about nine hours.
when i woke, it was just daylight.
i attempted to rise, but could not; for as i happened to be lying on my back, i found my arms and legs were fastened on each side to the ground; and my hair, which was long and thick, tied down in the same manner.
i could only look upward.
the sun began to grow hot, and the light hurt my eyes.
i heard a confused noise about me, but could see nothing except the sky.
in a little time i felt something alive and moving on my left leg, which, advancing gently over my breast, came almost up to my chin, when, bending my eyes downward, i perceived it to be a human creature, not six inches high, with a bow and arrow in his hands, and a quiver at his back.
in the meantime i felt at least forty more following the first.
i was in the utmost astonishment, and roared so loud that they all ran back in a fright; and some of them were hurt with the falls they got by leaping from my sides upon the ground.
however, they soon returned, and one of them, who ventured so far as to get a full sight of my face, lifted up his hands in admiration.
i lay all this while in great uneasiness; but at length, struggling to get loose, i succeeded in breaking the strings that fastened my left arm to the ground; and at the same time, with a violent pull that gave me extreme pain, i a little loosened the strings that tied down my hair, so that i was just able to turn my head about two inches.
but the creatures ran off a second time before i could seize them, whereupon there was a great shout, and in an instant i felt above a hundred arrows discharged on my left hand, which pricked me like so many needles.
moreover, they shot another flight into the air, of which some fell on my face, which i immediately covered with my left hand.
when this shower of arrows was over i groaned with grief and pain, and then, striving again to get loose, they discharged another flight of arrows larger than the first, and some of them tried to stab me with their spears; but by good luck i had on a leather jacket, which they could not pierce.
by this time i thought it most prudent to lie still till night, when, my left hand being already loose, i could easily free myself; and as for the inhabitants, i thought i might be a match for the greatest army they could bring against me if they were all of the same size as him i saw.
when the people observed that i was quiet they discharged no more arrows, but by the noise i heard i knew that their number was increased; and about four yards from me, for more than an hour, there was a knocking, like people at work.
then, turning my head that way as well as the pegs and strings would let me, i saw a stage set up, about a foot and a half from the ground, with two or three ladders to mount it.
from this, one of them, who seemed to be a person of quality, made me a long speech, of which i could not understand a word, though i could tell from his manner that he sometimes threatened me, and sometimes spoke with pity and kindness.
i answered in few words, but in the most submissive manner; and, being almost famished with hunger, i could not help showing my impatience by putting my finger frequently to my mouth, to signify that i wanted food.
he understood me very well, and, descending from the stage, commanded that several ladders should be set against my sides, on which more than a hundred of the inhabitants mounted, and walked toward my mouth with baskets full of food, which had been sent by the king’s orders when he first received tidings of me.
there were legs and shoulders like mutton but smaller than the wings of a lark.
i ate them two or three at a mouthful, and took three loaves at a time.
they supplied me as fast as they could, with a thousand marks of wonder at my appetite.
i then made a sign that i wanted something to drink.
they guessed that a small quantity would not suffice me, and, being a most ingenious people, they slung up one of their largest hogsheads, then rolled it toward my hand, and beat out the top.
i drank it off at a draught, which i might well do, for it did not hold half a pint.
they brought me a second hogshead, which i drank, and made signs for more; but they had none to give me.
however, i could not wonder enough at the daring of these tiny mortals, who ventured to mount and walk upon my body, while one of my hands was free, without trembling at the very sight of so huge a creature as i must have seemed to them.
after some time there appeared before me a person of high rank from his imperial majesty.
his excellency, having mounted my right leg, advanced to my face, with about a dozen of his retinue, and spoke about ten minutes, often pointing forward, which, as i afterward found, was toward the capital city, about half a mile distant, whither it was commanded by his majesty that i should be conveyed.
i made a sign with my hand that was loose, putting it to the other (but over his excellency’s head, for fear of hurting him or his train), to show that i desired my liberty.
he seemed to understand me well enough, for he shook his head, though he made other signs to let me know that i should have meat and drink enough, and very good treatment.
then i once more thought of attempting to escape; but when i felt the smart of their arrows on my face and hands, which were all in blisters and observed likewise that the number of my enemies increased, i gave tokens to let them know that they might do with me what they pleased.
then they daubed my face and hands with a sweet-smelling ointment, which in a few minutes removed all the smarts of the arrows.
the relief from pain and hunger made me drowsy, and presently i fell asleep.
i slept about eight hours, as i was told afterward; and it was no wonder, for the physicians, by the emperor’s orders, had mingled a sleeping draught in the hogsheads of wine.
it seems that, when i was discovered sleeping on the ground after my landing, the emperor had early notice of it, and determined that i should be tied in the manner i have related (which was done in the night, while i slept), that plenty of meat and drink should be sent me, and a machine prepared to carry me to the capital city.
five hundred carpenters and engineers were immediately set to work to prepare the engine.
it was a frame of wood, raised three inches from the ground, about seven feet long and four wide, moving upon twenty-two wheels.
but the difficulty was to place me on it.
eighty poles were erected for this purpose, and very strong cords fastened to bandages which the workmen had tied round my neck, hands, body, and legs.
nine hundred of the strongest men were employed to draw up these cords by pulleys fastened on the poles, and in less than three hours i was raised and slung into the engine, and there tied fast.
fifteen hundred of the emperor’s largest horses, each about four inches and a half high, were then employed to draw me toward the capital.
but while all this was done i still lay in a deep sleep, and i did not wake till four hours after we began our journey.
the emperor and all his court came out to meet us when we reached the capital; but his great officials would not suffer his majesty to risk his person by mounting on my body.
where the carriage stopped there stood an ancient temple, supposed to be the largest in the whole kingdom, and here it was determined that i should lodge.
near the great gate, through which i could easily creep, they fixed ninety-one chains, like those which hang to a lady’s watch, which were locked to my left leg with thirty-six padlocks; and when the workmen found it was impossible for me to break loose, they cut all the strings that bound me.
then i rose up, feeling as melancholy as ever i did in my life.
but the noise and astonishment of the people on seeing me rise and walk were inexpressible.
the chains that held my left leg were about two yards long, and gave me not only freedom to walk backward and forward in a semicircle, but to creep in and lie at full length inside the temple.
the emperor, advancing toward me from among his courtiers, all most magnificently clad, surveyed me with great admiration, but kept beyond the length of my chain.
he was taller by about the breadth of my nail than any of his court, which alone was enough to strike awe into the beholders, and graceful and majestic.
the better to behold him, i lay down on my side, so that my face was level with his, and he stood three yards off.
however, i have had him since many times in my hand, and therefore cannot be deceived.
his dress was very simple; but he wore a light helmet of gold, adorned with jewels and a plume.
he held his sword drawn in his hand, to defend himself if i should break loose; it was almost three inches long, and the hilt was of gold, enriched with diamonds.
his voice was shrill, but very clear.
his imperial majesty spoke often to me, and i answered; but neither of us could understand a word.
chapter ii
after about two hours the court retired, and i was left with a strong guard to keep away the crowd, some of whom had had the impudence to shoot their arrows at me as i sat by the door of my house.
but the colonel ordered six of them to be seized and delivered bound into my hands.
i put five of them into my coat pocket; and as to the sixth, i made a face as if i would eat him alive.
the poor man screamed terribly, and the colonel and his officers were much distressed, especially when they saw me take out my penknife.
but i soon set them at ease, for, cutting the strings he was bound with, i put him gently on the ground, and away he ran.
i treated the rest in the same manner, taking them one by one out of my pocket; and i saw that both the soldiers and people were delighted at this mark of my kindness.
toward night i got with some difficulty into my house, where i lay on the ground, as i had to do for a fortnight, till a bed was prepared for me out of six hundred beds of the ordinary measure.
six hundred servants were appointed me, and three hundred tailors made me a suit of clothes.
moreover, six of his majesty’s greatest scholars were employed to teach me their language, so that soon i was able to converse after a fashion with the emperor, who often honored me with his visits.
the first words i learned were to desire that he would please to give me my liberty, which i every day repeated on my knees; but he answered that this must be a work of time, and that first i must swear a peace with him and his kingdom.
he told me also that by the laws of the nation i must be searched by two of his officers, and that as this could not be done without my help, he trusted them in my hands, and whatever they took from me should be returned when i left the country.
i took up the two officers, and put them into my coat pockets.
these gentlemen, having pen, ink, and paper about them, made an exact list of everything they saw, which i afterward translated into english, and which ran as follows:
“in the right coat pocket of the great man-mountain we found only one great piece of coarse cloth, large enough to cover the carpet of your majesty’s chief room of state.
in the left pocket we saw a huge silver chest, with a silver cover, which we could not lift.
we desired that it should be opened, and one of us stepping into it found himself up to the mid-leg in a sort of dust, some of which flying into our faces sent us both into a fit of sneezing.
in his right waistcoat pocket we found a number of white thin substances, folded one over another, about the size of three men, tied with a strong cable, and marked with black figures, which we humbly conceive to be writings.
in the left there was a sort of engine, from the back of which extended twenty long poles, with which, we conjecture, the man-mountain combs his head.
in the smaller pocket on the right side were several round flat pieces of white and red metal, of different sizes.
some of the white, which appeared to be silver, were so large and heavy that my comrade and i could hardly lift them.
from another pocket hung a huge silver chain, with a wonderful kind of engine fastened to it, a globe half silver and half of some transparent metal; for on the transparent side we saw certain strange figures, and thought we could touch them till we found our fingers stopped by the shining substance.
this engine made an incessant noise, like a water-mill, and we conjecture it is either some unknown animal, or the god he worships, but probably the latter, for he told us that he seldom did anything without consulting it.
“this is a list of what we found about the body of the man-mountain, who treated us with great civility.”
i had one private pocket which escaped their search, containing a pair of spectacles and a small spy-glass, which, being of no consequence to the emperor, i did not think myself bound in honor to discover.
chapter iii
my gentleness and good behavior gained so far on the emperor and his court, and, indeed, on the people in general, that i began to have hopes of getting my liberty in a short time.
the natives came by degrees to be less fearful of danger from me.
i would sometimes lie down and let five or six of them dance on my hand; and at last the boys and girls ventured to come and play at hide-and-seek in my hair.
the horses of the army and of the royal stables were no longer shy, having been daily led before me; and one of the emperor’s huntsmen, on a large courser, took my foot, shoe and all, which was indeed a prodigious leap.
i amused the emperor one day in a very extraordinary manner.
i took nine sticks, and fixed them firmly in the ground in a square.
then i took four other sticks, and tied them parallel at each corner, about two feet from the ground.
i fastened my handkerchief to the nine sticks that stood erect, and extended it on all sides till it was as tight as the top of a drum; and i desired the emperor to let a troop of his best horse, twenty-four in number, come and exercise upon this plain.
his majesty approved of the proposal, and i took them up one by one, with the proper officers to exercise them.
as soon as they got into order they divided into two parties, discharged blunt arrows, drew their swords, fled and pursued, and, in short, showed the best military discipline i ever beheld.
the parallel sticks secured them and their horses from falling off the stage, and the emperor was so much delighted that he ordered this entertainment to be repeated several days, and persuaded the empress herself to let me hold her in her chair within two yards of the stage, whence she could view the whole performance.
fortunately no accident happened, only once a fiery horse, pawing with his hoof, struck a hole in my handkerchief, and overthrew his rider and himself.
but i immediately relieved them both, and covering the hole with one hand, i set down the troop with the other as i had taken them up.
the horse that fell was strained in the shoulder; but the rider was not hurt, and i repaired my handkerchief as well as i could.
however, i would not trust to the strength of it any more in such dangerous enterprises.
i had sent so many petitions for my liberty that his majesty at length mentioned the matter in a full council, where it was opposed by none except skyresh bolgolam, admiral of the realm, who was pleased without any provocation to be my mortal enemy.
however, he agreed at length, though he succeeded in himself drawing up the conditions on which i should be set free.
after they were read i was requested to swear to perform them in the method prescribed by their laws, which was to hold my right foot in my left hand, and to place the middle finger of my right hand on the crown of my head, and my thumb on the top of my right ear.
but i have made a translation of the conditions, which i here offer to the public:
“golbaste mamarem evlame gurdile shefin mully ully gue, most mighty emperor of lilliput, delight and terror of the universe, whose dominions extend to the ends of the globe, monarch of all monarchs, taller than the sons of men, whose feet press down to the center, and whose head strikes against the sun, at whose nod the princes of the earth shake their knees, pleasant as the spring, comfortable as the summer, fruitful as autumn, dreadful as winter: his most sublime majesty proposeth to the man-mountain, lately arrived at our celestial dominions, the following articles, which by a solemn oath he shall be obliged to perform:
“first.
the man-mountain shall not depart from our dominions without our license under the great seal.
“second.
he shall not presume to come into our metropolis without our express order, at which time the inhabitants shall have two hours’
warning to keep within doors.
“third.
the said man-mountain shall confine his walks to our principal high roads, and not offer to walk or lie down in a meadow or field of corn.
“fourth.
as he walks the said roads he shall take the utmost care not to trample upon the bodies of any of our loving subjects, their horses or carriages, nor take any of our subjects into his hands without their own consent.
“fifth.
if an express requires extraordinary speed the man-mountain shall be obliged to carry in his pocket the messenger and horse a six days’ journey, and return the said messenger (if so required) safe to our imperial presence.
“sixth.
he shall be our ally against our enemies in the island of blefuscu, and do his utmost to destroy their fleet, which is now preparing to invade us.
“lastly.
upon his solemn oath to observe all the above articles, the said man-mountain shall have a daily allowance of meat and drink sufficient for the support of 1,724 of our subjects, with free access to our royal person, and other marks of our favor.
given at our palace at belfaburac, the twelfth day of the ninety-first moon of our reign.”
i swore to these articles with great cheerfulness, whereupon my chains were immediately unlocked, and i was at full liberty.
one morning, about a fortnight after i had obtained my freedom, reldresal, the emperor’s secretary for private affairs, came to my house, attended only by one servant.
he ordered his coach to wait at a distance, and desired that i would give him an hour’s audience.
i offered to lie down that he might the more conveniently reach my ear; but he chose rather to let me hold him in my hand during our conversation.
he began with compliments on my liberty, but he added that, save for the present state of things at court, perhaps i might not have obtained it so soon.
“for,” he said, “however flourishing we may seem to foreigners, we are in danger of an invasion from the island of blefuscu, which is the other great empire of the universe, almost as large and as powerful as this of his majesty.
for as to what we have heard you say, that there are other kingdoms in the world, inhabited by human creatures as large as yourself, our philosophers are very doubtful, and rather conjecture that you dropped from the moon, or one of the stars, because a hundred mortals of your size would soon destroy all the fruit and cattle of his majesty’s dominions.
besides, our histories of six thousand moons make no mention of any other regions than the two mighty empires of lilliput and blefuscu, which, as i was going to tell you, are engaged in a most obstinate war, which began in the following manner: it is allowed on all hands that the primitive way of breaking eggs was upon the larger end; but his present majesty’s grandfather, while he was a boy, going to eat an egg, and breaking it according to the ancient practice, happened to cut one of his fingers.
whereupon the emperor, his father, made a law commanding all his subjects to break the smaller end of their eggs.
the people so highly resented this law that there have been six rebellions raised on that account, wherein one emperor lost his life, and another his crown.
it is calculated that eleven hundred persons have at different times suffered rather than break their eggs at the smaller end.
but these rebels, the bigendians, have found so much encouragement at the emperor of blefuscu’s court, to which they always fled for refuge, that a bloody war, as i said, has been carried on between the two empires for six-and-thirty moons; and now the blefuscudians have equipped a large fleet, and are preparing to descend upon us.
therefore his imperial majesty, placing great confidence in your valor and strength, has commanded me to set the case before you.”
i desired the secretary to present my humble duty to the emperor, and to let him know that i was ready, at the risk of my life, to defend him against all invaders.
chapter iv
it was not long before i communicated to his majesty the plan i formed for seizing the enemy’s whole fleet.
the empire of blefuscu is an island parted from lilliput only by a channel eight hundred yards wide.
i consulted the most experienced seamen on the depth of the channel, and they told me that in the middle, at high water, it was seventy glumguffs (about six feet of european measure).
i walked toward the coast, where, lying down behind a hillock, i took out my spy-glass, and viewed the enemy’s fleet at anchor about fifty men-of-war, and other vessels.
i then came back to my house and gave orders for a great quantity of the strongest cables and bars of iron.
the cable was about as thick as packthread, and the bars of the length and size of a knitting-needle.
i trebled the cable to make it stronger, and for the same reason twisted three of the iron bars together, bending the ends into a hook.
having thus fixed fifty hooks to as many cables, i went back to the coast, and taking off my coat, shoes, and stockings, walked into the sea in my leather jacket about half an hour before high water.
i waded with what haste i could, swimming in the middle about thirty yards, till i felt ground, and thus arrived at the fleet in less than half an hour.
the enemy was so frightened when they saw me that they leaped out of their ships and swam ashore, where there could not be fewer than thirty thousand.
then, fastening a hook to the hole at the prow of each ship, i tied all the cords together at the end.
meanwhile the enemy discharged several thousand arrows, many of which stuck in my hands and face.
my greatest fear was for my eyes, which i should have lost if i had not suddenly thought of the pair of spectacles which had escaped the emperor’s searchers.
these i took out and fastened upon my nose, and thus armed went on with my work in spite of the arrows, many of which struck against the glasses of my spectacles, but without any other effect than slightly disturbing them.
then, taking the knot in my hand, i began to pull; but not a ship would stir, for they were too fast held by their anchors.
thus the boldest part of my enterprise remained.
letting go the cord, i resolutely cut with my knife the cables that fastened the anchors, receiving more than two hundred shots in my face and hands.
then i took up again the knotted end of the cables to which my hooks were tied, and with great ease drew fifty of the enemy’s largest men-of-war after me.
when the blefuscudians saw the fleet moving in order, and me pulling at the end, they set up a scream of grief and despair that it is impossible to describe.
when i had got out of danger i stopped awhile to pick out the arrows that stuck in my hands and face, and rubbed on some of the same ointment that was given me at my arrival.
i then took off my spectacles, and after waiting about an hour, till the tide was a little fallen, i waded on to the royal port of lilliput.
the emperor and his whole court stood on the shore awaiting me.
they saw the ships move forward in a large half-moon, but could not discern me, who, in the middle of the channel, was under water up to my neck.
the emperor concluded that i was drowned, and that the enemy’s fleet was approaching in a hostile manner.
but he was soon set at ease, for, the channel growing shallower every step i made, i came in a short time within hearing, and holding up the end of the cable by which the fleet was fastened, i cried in a loud voice: “long live the most puissant emperor of lilliput!” the prince received me at my landing with all possible joy, and made me a nardal on the spot, which is the highest title of honor among them.
his majesty desired that i would take some opportunity to bring all the rest of his enemy’s ships into his ports, and seemed to think of nothing less than conquering the whole empire of blefuscu, and becoming the sole monarch of the world.
but i plainly protested that i would never be the means of bringing a free and brave people into slavery; and though the wisest of the ministers were of my opinion, my open refusal was so opposed to his majesty’s ambition that he could never forgive me.
and from this time a plot began between himself and those of his ministers who were my enemies, that nearly ended in my utter destruction.
about three weeks after this exploit there arrived an embassy from blefuscu, with humble offers of peace, which was soon concluded, on terms very advantageous to our emperor.
there were six ambassadors, with a train of about five hundred persons, all very magnificent.
having been privately told that i had befriended them, they made me a visit, and paying me many compliments on my valor and generosity, invited me to their kingdom in the emperor their master’s name.
i asked them to present my most humble respects to the emperor their master, whose royal person i resolved to attend before i returned to my own country.
accordingly, the next time i had the honor to see our emperor i desired his general permission to visit the blefuscudian monarch.
this he granted me, but in a very cold manner, of which i afterward learned the reason.
when i was just preparing to pay my respects to the emperor of blefuscu, a distinguished person at court, to whom i had once done a great service, came to my house very privately at night, and without sending his name desired admission.
i put his lordship into my coat pocket, and, giving orders to a trusty servant to admit no one, i fastened the door, placed my visitor on the table, and sat down by it.
his lordship’s face was full of trouble; and he asked me to hear him with patience, in a matter that highly concerned my honor and my life.
“you are aware,” he said, “that skyresh bolgolam has been your mortal enemy ever since your arrival, and his hatred is increased since your great success against blefuscu, by which his glory as admiral is obscured.
this lord and others have accused you of treason, and several councils have been called in the most private manner on your account.
out of gratitude for your favors i procured information of the whole proceedings, venturing my head for your service, and this was the charge against you:
“first, that you, having brought the imperial fleet of blefuscu into the royal port, were commanded by his majesty to seize all the other ships, and put to death all the bigendian exiles, and also all the people of the empire who would not immediately consent to break their eggs at the smaller end.
and that, like a false traitor to his most serene majesty, you excused yourself from the service on pretence of unwillingness to force the consciences and destroy the liberties and lives of an innocent people.
“again, when ambassadors arrived from the court of blefuscu, like a false traitor, you aided and entertained them, though you knew them to be servants of a prince lately in open war against his imperial majesty.
“moreover, you are now preparing, contrary to the duty of a faithful subject, to voyage to the court of blefuscu.
“in the debate on this charge,” my friend continued, “his majesty often urged the services you had done him, while the admiral and treasurer insisted that you should be put to a shameful death.
but reldresal, secretary for private affairs, who has always proved himself your friend suggested that if his majesty would please to spare your life and only give orders to put out both your eyes, justice might in some measure be satisfied.
at this bolgolam rose up in fury, wondering how the secretary dared desire to preserve the life of a traitor; and the treasurer, pointing out the expense of keeping you, also urged your death.
but his majesty was graciously pleased to say that since the council thought the loss of your eyes too easy a punishment, some other might afterward be inflicted.
and the secretary, humbly desiring to be heard again, said that as to expense your allowance might be gradually lessened, so that, for want of sufficient food you should grow weak and faint, and die in a few months, when his majesty’s subjects might cut your flesh from your bones and bury it, leaving the skeleton for the admiration of posterity.
“thus, through the great friendship of the secretary the affair was arranged.
it was commanded that the plan of starving you by degrees should be kept a secret; but the sentence of putting out your eyes was entered on the books.
in three days your friend the secretary will come to your house and read the accusation before you, and point out the great mercy of his majesty, that only condemns you to the loss of your eyes which, he does not doubt, you will submit to humbly and gratefully.
twenty of his majesty’s surgeons will attend, to see the operation well performed, by discharging very sharp-pointed arrows into the balls of your eyes as you lie on the ground.
“i leave you,” said my friend, “to consider what measures you will take; and, to escape suspicion, i must immediately return, as secretly as i came.”
his lordship did so; and i remained alone, in great perplexity.
at first i was bent on resistance; for while i had liberty i could easily with stones pelt the metropolis to pieces; but i soon rejected that idea with horror, remembering the oath i had made to the emperor, and the favors i had received from him.
at last, having his majesty’s leave to pay my respects to the emperor of blefuscu, i resolved to take this opportunity.
before the three days had passed i wrote a letter to my friend the secretary telling him of my resolution; and, without waiting for an answer, went to the coast, and entering the channel, between wading and swimming reached the port of blefuscu, where the people, who had long expected me, led me to the capital.
his majesty, with the royal family and great officers of the court, came out to receive me, and they entertained me in a manner suited to the generosity of so great a prince.
i did not, however, mention my disgrace with the emperor of lilliput, since i did not suppose that prince would disclose the secret while i was out of his power.
but in this, it soon appeared, i was deceived.
chapter v
three days after my arrival, walking out of curiosity to the northeast coast of the island, i observed at some distance in the sea something that looked like a boat overturned.
i pulled off my shoes and stockings, and wading two or three hundred yards, i plainly saw it to be a real boat, which i supposed might by some tempest have been driven from a ship.
i returned immediately to the city for help, and after a huge amount of labor i managed to get my boat to the royal port of blefuscu, where a great crowd of people appeared, full of wonder at sight of so prodigious a vessel.
i told the emperor that my good fortune had thrown this boat in my way to carry me to some place whence i might return to my native country, and begged his orders for materials to fit it up, and leave to depart which, after many kindly speeches, he was pleased to grant.
meanwhile the emperor of lilliput, uneasy at my long absence (but never imagining that i had the least notice of his designs), sent a person of rank to inform the emperor of blefuscu of my disgrace; this messenger had orders to represent the great mercy of his master, who was content to punish me with the loss of my eyes, and who expected that his brother of blefuscu would have me sent back to lilliput, bound hand and foot, to be punished as a traitor.
the emperor of blefuscu answered with many civil excuses.
he said that as for sending me bound, his brother knew it was impossible.
moreover, though i had taken away his fleet he was grateful to me for many good offices i had done him in making the peace.
but that both their majesties would soon be made easy; for i had found a prodigious vessel on the shore, able to carry me on the sea, which he had given orders to fit up; and he hoped in a few weeks both empires would be free from me.
with this answer the messenger returned to lilliput; and i (though the monarch of blefuscu secretly offered me his gracious protection if i would continue in his service) hastened my departure, resolving never more to put confidence in princes.
in about a month i was ready to take leave.
the emperor of blefuscu, with the empress and the royal family, came out of the palace; and i lay down on my face to kiss their hands, which they graciously gave me.
his majesty presented me with fifty purses of sprugs (their greatest gold coin) and his picture at full length, which i put immediately into one of my gloves, to keep it from being hurt.
many other ceremonies took place at my departure.
i stored the boat with meat and drink, and took six cows and two bulls alive, with as many ewes and rams, intending to carry them into my own country; and to feed them on board, i had a good bundle of hay and a bag of corn.
i would gladly have taken a dozen of the natives; but this was a thing the emperor would by no means permit, and besides a diligent search into my pockets, his majesty pledged my honor not to carry away any of his subjects, though with their own consent and desire.
having thus prepared all things as well as i was able, i set sail.
when i had made twenty-four leagues, by my reckoning, from the island of blefuscu, i saw a sail steering to the northeast.
i hailed her, but could get no answer; yet i found i gained upon her, for the wind slackened; and in half an hour she spied me, and discharged a gun.
i came up with her between five and six in the evening, sept. 26, 1701; but my heart leaped within me to see her english colors.
i put my cows and sheep into my coat pockets, and got on board with all my little cargo.
the captain received me with kindness, and asked me to tell him what place i came from last; but at my answer he thought i was raving.
however, i took my black cattle and sheep out of my pocket, which, after great astonishment, clearly convinced him.
we arrived in england on the 13th of april, 1702. i stayed two months with my wife and family; but my eager desire to see foreign countries would suffer me to remain no longer.
however, while in england i made great profit by showing my cattle to persons of quality and others; and before i began my second voyage i sold them for 600l.
i left 1500l.
with my wife, and fixed her in a good house; then taking leave of her and my boy and girl, with tears on both sides, i sailed on board the “adventure.” (1)
(1) swift.
the princess on the glass hill
once upon a time there was a man who had a meadow which lay on the side of a mountain, and in the meadow there was a barn in which he stored hay.
but there had not been much hay in the barn for the last two years, for every st. john’s eve, when the grass was in the height of its vigor, it was all eaten clean up, just as if a whole flock of sheep had gnawed it down to the ground during the night.
this happened once, and it happened twice, but then the man got tired of losing his crop, and said to his sons he had three of them, and the third was called cinderlad that one of them must go and sleep in the barn on st. john’s night, for it was absurd to let the grass be eaten up again, blade and stalk, as it had been the last two years, and the one who went to watch must keep a sharp look-out, the man said.
the eldest was quite willing to go to the meadow; he would watch the grass, he said, and he would do it so well that neither man, nor beast, nor even the devil himself should have any of it.
so when evening came he went to the barn, and lay down to sleep, but when night was drawing near there was such a rumbling and such an earthquake that the walls and roof shook again, and the lad jumped up and took to his heels as fast as he could, and never even looked back, and the barn remained empty that year just as it had been for the last two.
next st. john’s eve the man again said that he could not go on in this way, losing all the grass in the outlying field year after year, and that one of his sons must just go there and watch it, and watch well too.
so the next oldest son was willing to show what he could do.
he went to the barn and lay down to sleep, as his brother had done; but when night was drawing near there was a great rumbling, and then an earthquake, which was even worse than that on the former st. john’s night, and when the youth heard it he was terrified, and went off, running as if for a wager.
the year after, it was cinderlad’s turn, but when he made ready to go the others laughed at him, and mocked him.
“well, you are just the right one to watch the hay, you who have never learned anything but how to sit among the ashes and bake yourself!” said they.
cinderlad, however, did not trouble himself about what they said, but when evening drew near rambled away to the outlying field.
when he got there he went into the barn and lay down, but in about an hour’s time the rumbling and creaking began, and it was frightful to hear it.
“well, if it gets no worse than that, i can manage to stand it,” thought cinderlad.
in a little time the creaking began again, and the earth quaked so that all the hay flew about the boy.
“oh!
if it gets no worse than that i can manage to stand it,” thought cinderlad.
but then came a third rumbling, and a third earthquake, so violent that the boy thought the walls and roof had fallen down, but when that was over everything suddenly grew as still as death around him.
“i am pretty sure that it will come again,” thought cinderlad; but no, it did not.
everything was quiet, and everything stayed quiet, and when he had lain still a short time he heard something that sounded as if a horse were standing chewing just outside the barn door.
he stole away to the door, which was ajar, to see what was there, and a horse was standing eating.
it was so big, and fat, and fine a horse that cinderlad had never seen one like it before, and a saddle and bridle lay upon it, and a complete suit of armor for a knight, and everything was of copper, and so bright that it shone again.
“ha, ha!
it is thou who eatest up our hay then,” thought the boy; “but i will stop that.” so he made haste, and took out his steel for striking fire, and threw it over the horse, and then it had no power to stir from the spot, and became so tame that the boy could do what he liked with it.
so he mounted it and rode away to a place which no one knew of but himself, and there he tied it up.
when he went home again his brothers laughed and asked how he had got on.
“you didn’t lie long in the barn, if even you have been so far as the field!” said they.
“i lay in the barn till the sun rose, but i saw nothing and heard nothing, not i,” said the boy.
“god knows what there was to make you two so frightened.”
“well, we shall soon see whether you have watched the meadow or not,”
answered the brothers, but when they got there the grass was all standing just as long and as thick as it had been the night before.
the next st. john’s eve it was the same thing, once again: neither of the two brothers dared to go to the outlying field to watch the crop, but cinderlad went, and everything happened exactly the same as on the previous st. john’s eve: first there was a rumbling and an earthquake, and then there was another, and then a third: but all three earthquakes were much, very much more violent than they had been the year before.
then everything became still as death again, and the boy heard something chewing outside the barn door, so he stole as softly as he could to the door, which was slightly ajar, and again there was a horse standing close by the wall of the house, eating and chewing, and it was far larger and fatter than the first horse, and it had a saddle on its back, and a bridle was on it too, and a full suit of armor for a knight, all of bright silver, and as beautiful as anyone could wish to see.
“ho, ho!” thought the boy, “is it thou who eatest up our hay in the night?
but i will put a stop to that.” so he took out his steel for striking fire, and threw it over the horse’s mane, and the beast stood there as quiet as a lamb.
then the boy rode this horse, too, away to the place where he kept the other, and then went home again.
“i suppose you will tell us that you have watched well again this time,”
said the brothers.
“well, so i have,” said cinderlad.
so they went there again, and there the grass was, standing as high and as thick as it had been before, but that did not make them any kinder to cinderlad.
when the third st. john’s night came neither of the two elder brothers dared to lie in the outlying barn to watch the grass, for they had been so heartily frightened the night that they had slept there that they could not get over it, but cinderlad dared to go, and everything happened just the same as on the two former nights.
there were three earthquakes, each worse than the other, and the last flung the boy from one wall of the barn to the other, but then everything suddenly became still as death.
when he had lain quietly a short time, he heard something chewing outside the barn door; then he once more stole to the door, which was slightly ajar, and behold, a horse was standing just outside it, which was much larger and fatter than the two others he had caught.
“ho, ho!
it is thou, then, who art eating up our hay this time,”
thought the boy; “but i will put a stop to that.” so he pulled out his steel for striking fire, and threw it over the horse, and it stood as still as if it had been nailed to the field, and the boy could do just what he liked with it.
then he mounted it and rode away to the place where he had the two others, and then he went home again.
then the two brothers mocked him just as they had done before, and told him that they could see that he must have watched the grass very carefully that night, for he looked just as if he were walking in his sleep; but cinderlad did not trouble himself about that, but just bade them go to the field and see.
they did go, and this time too the grass was standing, looking as fine and as thick as ever.
the king of the country in which cinderlad’s father dwelt had a daughter whom he would give to no one who could not ride up to the top of the glass hill, for there was a high, high hill of glass, slippery as ice, and it was close to the king’s palace.
upon the very top of this the king’s daughter was to sit with three gold apples in her lap, and the man who could ride up and take the three golden apples should marry her, and have half the kingdom.
the king had this proclaimed in every church in the whole kingdom, and in many other kingdoms too.
the princess was very beautiful, and all who saw her fell violently in love with her, even in spite of themselves.
so it is needless to say that all the princes and knights were eager to win her, and half the kingdom besides, and that for this cause they came riding thither from the very end of the world, dressed so splendidly that their raiments gleamed in the sunshine, and riding on horses which seemed to dance as they went, and there was not one of these princes who did not think that he was sure to win the princess.
when the day appointed by the king had come, there was such a host of knights and princes under the glass hill that they seemed to swarm, and everyone who could walk or even creep was there too, to see who won the king’s daughter.
cinderlad’s two brothers were there too, but they would not hear of letting him go with them, for he was so dirty and black with sleeping and grubbing among the ashes that they said everyone would laugh at them if they were seen in the company of such an oaf.
“well, then, i will go all alone by myself,” said cinderlad.
when the two brothers got to the glass hill, all the princes and knights were trying to ride up it, and their horses were in a foam; but it was all in vain, for no sooner did the horses set foot upon the hill than down they slipped, and there was not one which could get even so much as a couple of yards up.
nor was that strange, for the hill was as smooth as a glass window-pane, and as steep as the side of a house.
but they were all eager to win the king’s daughter and half the kingdom, so they rode and they slipped, and thus it went on.
at length all the horses were so tired that they could do no more, and so hot that the foam dropped from them and the riders were forced to give up the attempt.
the king was just thinking that he would cause it to be proclaimed that the riding should begin afresh on the following day, when perhaps it might go better, when suddenly a knight came riding up on so fine a horse that no one had ever seen the like of it before, and the knight had armor of copper, and his bridle was of copper too, and all his accoutrements were so bright that they shone again.
the other knights all called out to him that he might just as well spare himself the trouble of trying to ride up the glass hill, for it was of no use to try; but he did not heed them, and rode straight off to it, and went up as if it were nothing at all.
thus he rode for a long way it may have been a third part of the way up but when he had got so far he turned his horse round and rode down again.
but the princess thought that she had never yet seen so handsome a knight, and while he was riding up she was sitting thinking, “oh!
how i hope he may be able to come up to the top!” and when she saw that he was turning his horse back she threw one of the golden apples down after him, and it rolled into his shoe.
but when he had come down from off the hill he rode away, and that so fast that no one knew what had become of him.
so all the princes and knights were bidden to present themselves before the king that night, so that he who had ridden so far up the glass hill might show the golden apple which the king’s daughter had thrown down.
but no one had anything to show.
one knight presented himself after the other, and none could show the apple.
at night, too, cinderlad’s brothers came home again and had a long story to tell about riding up the glass hill.
at first, they said, there was not one who was able to get even so much as one step up, but then came a knight who had armor of copper, and a bridle of copper, and his armor and trappings were so bright that they shone to a great distance, and it was something like a sight to see him riding.
he rode one-third of the way up the glass hill, and he could easily have ridden the whole of it if he had liked; but he had turned back, for he had made up his mind that that was enough for once.
“oh!
i should have liked to see him too, that i should,” said cinderlad, who was as usual sitting by the chimney among the cinders.
“you, indeed!” said the brothers, “you look as if you were fit to be among such great lords, nasty beast that you are to sit there!”
next day the brothers were for setting out again, and this time too cinderlad begged them to let him go with them and see who rode; but no, they said he was not fit to do that, for he was much too ugly and dirty.
“well, well, then i will go all alone by myself,” said cinderlad.
so the brothers went to the glass hill, and all the princes and knights began to ride again, and this time they had taken care to roughen the shoes of their horses; but that did not help them: they rode and they slipped as they had done the day before, and not one of them could get even so far as a yard up the hill.
when they had tired out their horses, so that they could do no more, they again had to stop altogether.
but just as the king was thinking that it would be well to proclaim that the riding should take place next day for the last time, so that they might have one more chance, he suddenly bethought himself that it would be well to wait a little longer to see if the knight in copper armor would come on this day too.
but nothing was to be seen of him.
just as they were still looking for him, however, came a knight riding on a steed that was much, much finer than that which the knight in copper armor had ridden, and this knight had silver armor and a silver saddle and bridle, and all were so bright that they shone and glistened when he was a long way off.
again the other knights called to him, and said that he might just as well give up the attempt to ride up the glass hill, for it was useless to try; but the knight paid no heed to that, but rode straight away to the glass hill, and went still farther up than the knight in copper armor had gone; but when he had ridden two-thirds of the way up he turned his horse around, and rode down again.
the princess liked this knight still better than she had liked the other, and sat longing that he might be able to get up above, and when she saw him turning back she threw the second apple after him, and it rolled into his shoe, and as soon as he had got down the glass hill he rode away so fast that no one could see what had become of him.
in the evening, when everyone was to appear before the king and princess, in order that he who had the golden apple might show it, one knight went in after the other, but none of them had a golden apple to show.
at night the two brothers went home as they had done the night before, and told how things had gone, and how everyone had ridden, but no one had been able to get up the hill.
“but last of all,” they said, “came one in silver armor, and he had a silver bridle on his horse, and a silver saddle, and oh, but he could ride!
he took his horse two-thirds of the way up the hill, but then he turned back.
he was a fine fellow,”
said the brothers, “and the princess threw the second golden apple to him!”
“oh, how i should have liked to see him too!” said cinderlad.
“oh, indeed!
he was a little brighter than the ashes that you sit grubbing among, you dirty black creature!” said the brothers.
on the third day everything went just as on the former days.
cinderlad wanted to go with them to look at the riding, but the two brothers would not have him in their company, and when they got to the glass hill there was no one who could ride even so far as a yard up it, and everyone waited for the knight in silver armor, but he was neither to be seen nor heard of.
at last, after a long time, came a knight riding upon a horse that was such a fine one, its equal had never yet been seen.
the knight had golden armor, and the horse a golden saddle and bridle, and these were all so bright that they shone and dazzled everyone, even while the knight was still at a great distance.
the other princes and knights were not able even to call to tell him how useless it was to try to ascend the hill, so amazed were they at sight of his magnificence.
he rode straight away to the glass hill, and galloped up it as if it were no hill at all, so that the princess had not even time to wish that he might get up the whole way.
as soon as he had ridden to the top, he took the third golden apple from the lap of the princess and then turned his horse about and rode down again, and vanished from their sight before anyone was able to say a word to him.
when the two brothers came home again at night they had much to tell of how the riding had gone off that day, and at last they told about the knight in the golden armor too.
“he was a fine fellow, that was!
such another splendid knight is not to be found on earth!” said the brothers.
“oh, how i should have liked to see him too!” said cinderlad.
“well, he shone nearly as brightly as the coal-heaps that thou art always lying raking among, dirty black creature that thou art!” said the brothers.
next day all the knights and princes were to appear before the king and princess it had been too late for them to do it the night before in order that he who had the golden apple might produce it.
they all went in turn, first princes, and then knights, but none of them had a golden apple.
“but somebody must have it,” said the king, “for with our own eyes we all saw a man ride up and take it.” so he commanded that everyone in the kingdom should come to the palace, and see if he could show the apple.
and one after the other they all came, but no one had the golden apple, and after a long, long time cinderlad’s two brothers came likewise.
they were the last of all, so the king inquired of them if there was no one else in the kingdom left to come.
“oh!
yes, we have a brother,” said the two, “but he never got the golden apple!
he never left the cinder-heap on any of the three days.”
“never mind that,” said the king; “as everyone else has come to the palace, let him come too.”
so cinderlad was forced to go to the king’s palace.
“hast thou the golden apple?” asked the king.
“yes, here is the first, and here is the second, and here is the third, too,” said cinderlad, and he took all three apples out of his pocket, and with that drew off his sooty rags, and appeared there before them in his bright golden armor, which gleamed as he stood.
“thou shalt have my daughter, and the half of my kingdom, and thou hast well earned both!” said the king.
so there was a wedding, and cinderlad got the king’s daughter, and everyone made merry at the wedding, for all of them could make merry, though they could not ride up the glass hill, and if they have not left off their merry-making they must be at it still.
(1) asbjornsen and moe.
the story of prince ahmed and the fairy paribanou
there was a sultan, who had three sons and a niece.
the eldest of the princes was called houssain, the second ali, the youngest ahmed, and the princess, his niece, nouronnihar.
the princess nouronnihar was the daughter of the younger brother of the sultan, who died, and left the princess very young.
the sultan took upon himself the care of his daughter’s education, and brought her up in his palace with the three princes, proposing to marry her when she arrived at a proper age, and to contract an alliance with some neighboring prince by that means.
but when he perceived that the three princes, his sons, loved her passionately, he thought more seriously on that affair.
he was very much concerned; the difficulty he foresaw was to make them agree, and that the two youngest should consent to yield her up to their elder brother.
as he found them positively obstinate, he sent for them all together, and said to them: “children, since for your good and quiet i have not been able to persuade you no longer to aspire to the princess, your cousin, i think it would not be amiss if every one traveled separately into different countries, so that you might not meet each other.
and, as you know i am very curious, and delight in everything that’s singular, i promise my niece in marriage to him that shall bring me the most extraordinary rarity; and for the purchase of the rarity you shall go in search after, and the expense of traveling, i will give you every one a sum of money.”
as the three princes were always submissive and obedient to the sultan’s will, and each flattered himself fortune might prove favorable to him, they all consented to it.
the sultan paid them the money he promised them; and that very day they gave orders for the preparations for their travels, and took their leave of the sultan, that they might be the more ready to go the next morning.
accordingly they all set out at the same gate of the city, each dressed like a merchant, attended by an officer of confidence dressed like a slave, and all well mounted and equipped.
they went the first day’s journey together, and lay all at an inn, where the road was divided into three different tracts.
at night, when they were at supper together, they all agreed to travel for a year, and to meet at that inn; and that the first that came should wait for the rest; that, as they had all three taken their leave together of the sultan, they might all return together.
the next morning by break of day, after they had embraced and wished each other good success, they mounted their horses and took each a different road.
prince houssain, the eldest brother, arrived at bisnagar, the capital of the kingdom of that name, and the residence of its king.
he went and lodged at a khan appointed for foreign merchants; and, having learned that there were four principal divisions where merchants of all sorts sold their commodities, and kept shops, and in the midst of which stood the castle, or rather the king’s palace, he went to one of these divisions the next day.
prince houssain could not view this division without admiration.
it was large, and divided into several streets, all vaulted and shaded from the sun, and yet very light too.
the shops were all of a size, and all that dealt in the same sort of goods lived in one street; as also the handicrafts-men, who kept their shops in the smaller streets.
the multitude of shops, stocked with all sorts of merchandise, as the finest linens from several parts of india, some painted in the most lively colors, and representing beasts, trees, and flowers; silks and brocades from persia, china, and other places, porcelain both from japan and china, and tapestries, surprised him so much that he knew not how to believe his own eyes; but when he came to the goldsmiths and jewelers he was in a kind of ecstacy to behold such prodigious quantities of wrought gold and silver, and was dazzled by the lustre of the pearls, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, and other jewels exposed to sale.
another thing prince houssain particularly admired was the great number of rose-sellers who crowded the streets; for the indians are so great lovers of that flower that no one will stir without a nosegay in his hand or a garland on his head; and the merchants keep them in pots in their shops, that the air is perfectly perfumed.
after prince houssain had run through that division, street by street, his thoughts fully employed on the riches he had seen, he was very much tired, which a merchant perceiving, civilly invited him to sit down in his shop, and he accepted; but had not been sat down long before he saw a crier pass by with a piece of tapestry on his arm, about six feet square, and cried at thirty purses.
the prince called to the crier, and asked to see the tapestry, which seemed to him to be valued at an exorbitant price, not only for the size of it, but the meanness of the stuff; when he had examined it well, he told the crier that he could not comprehend how so small a piece of tapestry, and of so indifferent appearance, could be set at so high a price.
the crier, who took him for a merchant, replied: “if this price seems so extravagant to you, your amazement will be greater when i tell you i have orders to raise it to forty purses, and not to part with it under.”
“certainly,” answered prince houssain, “it must have something very extraordinary in it, which i know nothing of.” “you have guessed it, sir,” replied the crier, “and will own it when you come to know that whoever sits on this piece of tapestry may be transported in an instant wherever he desires to be, without being stopped by any obstacle.”
at this discourse of the crier the prince of the indies, considering that the principal motive of his travel was to carry the sultan, his father, home some singular rarity, thought that he could not meet with any which could give him more satisfaction.
“if the tapestry,” said he to the crier, “has the virtue you assign it, i shall not think forty purses too much, but shall make you a present besides.” “sir,” replied the crier, “i have told you the truth; and it is an easy matter to convince you of it, as soon as you have made the bargain for forty purses, on condition i show you the experiment.
but, as i suppose you have not so much about you, and to receive them i must go with you to your khan, where you lodge, with the leave of the master of the shop, we will go into the back shop, and i will spread the tapestry; and when we have both sat down, and you have formed the wish to be transported into your apartment of the khan, if we are not transported thither it shall be no bargain, and you shall be at your liberty.
as to your present, though i am paid for my trouble by the seller, i shall receive it as a favor, and be very much obliged to you, and thankful.”
on the credit of the crier, the prince accepted the conditions, and concluded the bargain; and, having got the master’s leave, they went into his back shop; they both sat down on it, and as soon as the prince formed his wish to be transported into his apartment at the khan he presently found himself and the crier there; and, as he wanted not a more sufficient proof of the virtue of the tapestry, he counted the crier out forty pieces of gold, and gave him twenty pieces for himself.
in this manner prince houssain became the possessor of the tapestry, and was overjoyed that at his arrival at bisnagar he had found so rare a piece, which he never disputed would gain him the hand of nouronnihar.
in short, he looked upon it as an impossible thing for the princes his younger brothers to meet with anything to be compared with it.
it was in his power, by sitting on his tapestry, to be at the place of meeting that very day; but, as he was obliged to stay there for his brothers, as they had agreed, and as he was curious to see the king of bisnagar and his court, and to inform himself of the strength, laws, customs, and religion of the kingdom, he chose to make a longer abode there, and to spend some months in satisfying his curiosity.
prince houssain might have made a longer abode in the kingdom and court of bisnagar, but he was so eager to be nearer the princess that, spreading the tapestry, he and the officer he had brought with him sat down, and as soon as he had formed his wish were transported to the inn at which he and his brothers were to meet, and where he passed for a merchant till they came.
prince ali, prince houssain’s second brother, who designed to travel into persia, took the road, having three days after he parted with his brothers joined a caravan, and after four days’ travel arrived at schiraz, which was the capital of the kingdom of persia.
here he passed for a jeweler.
the next morning prince ali, who traveled only for his pleasure, and had brought nothing but just necessaries along with him, after he had dressed himself, took a walk into that part of the town which they at schiraz called the bezestein.
among all the criers who passed backward and forward with several sorts of goods, offering to sell them, he was not a little surprised to see one who held an ivory telescope in his hand of about a foot in length and the thickness of a man’s thumb, and cried it at thirty purses.
at first he thought the crier mad, and to inform himself went to a shop, and said to the merchant, who stood at the door: “pray, sir, is not that man” (pointing to the crier who cried the ivory perspective glass at thirty purses) “mad?
if he is not, i am very much deceived.”
“indeed, sir,” answered the merchant, “he was in his right senses yesterday; i can assure you he is one of the ablest criers we have, and the most employed of any when anything valuable is to be sold.
and if he cries the ivory perspective glass at thirty purses it must be worth as much or more, on some account or other.
he will come by presently, and we will call him, and you shall be satisfied; in the meantime sit down on my sofa, and rest yourself.”
prince ali accepted the merchant’s obliging offer, and presently afterward the crier passed by.
the merchant called him by his name, and, pointing to the prince, said to him: “tell that gentleman, who asked me if you were in your right senses, what you mean by crying that ivory perspective glass, which seems not to be worth much, at thirty purses.
i should be very much amazed myself if i did not know you.” the crier, addressing himself to prince ali, said: “sir, you are not the only person that takes me for a madman on account of this perspective glass.
you shall judge yourself whether i am or no, when i have told you its property and i hope you will value it at as high a price as those i have showed it to already, who had as bad an opinion of me as you.
“first, sir,” pursued the crier, presenting the ivory pipe to the prince, “observe that this pipe is furnished with a glass at both ends; and consider that by looking through one of them you see whatever object you wish to behold.” “i am,” said the prince, “ready to make you all imaginable reparation for the scandal i have thrown on you if you will make the truth of what you advance appear,” and as he had the ivory pipe in his hand, after he had looked at the two glasses he said: “show me at which of these ends i must look that i may be satisfied.” the crier presently showed him, and he looked through, wishing at the same time to see the sultan his father, whom he immediately beheld in perfect health, set on his throne, in the midst of his council.
afterward, as there was nothing in the world so dear to him, after the sultan, as the princess nouronnihar, he wished to see her; and saw her at her toilet laughing, and in a pleasant humor, with her women about her.
prince ali wanted no other proof to be persuaded that this perspective glass was the most valuable thing in the world, and believed that if he should neglect to purchase it he should never meet again with such another rarity.
he therefore took the crier with him to the khan where he lodged, and counted him out the money, and received the perspective glass.
prince ali was overjoyed at his bargain, and persuaded himself that, as his brothers would not be able to meet with anything so rare and admirable, the princess nouronnihar would be the recompense of his fatigue and trouble; that he thought of nothing but visiting the court of persia incognito, and seeing whatever was curious in schiraz and thereabouts, till the caravan with which he came returned back to the indies.
as soon as the caravan was ready to set out, the prince joined them, and arrived happily without any accident or trouble, otherwise than the length of the journey and fatigue of traveling, at the place of rendezvous, where he found prince houssain, and both waited for prince ahmed.
prince ahmed, who took the road of samarcand, the next day after his arrival there went, as his brothers had done, into the bezestein, where he had not walked long but heard a crier, who had an artificial apple in his hand, cry it at five and thirty purses; upon which he stopped the crier, and said to him: “let me see that apple, and tell me what virtue and extraordinary properties it has, to be valued at so high a rate.”
“sir,” said the crier, giving it into his hand, “if you look at the outside of this apple, it is very worthless, but if you consider its properties, virtues, and the great use and benefit it is to mankind, you will say it is no price for it, and that he who possesses it is master of a great treasure.
in short, it cures all sick persons of the most mortal diseases; and if the patient is dying it will recover him immediately and restore him to perfect health; and this is done after the easiest manner in the world, which is by the patient’s smelling the apple.”
“if i may believe you,” replied prince ahmed, “the virtues of this apple are wonderful, and it is invaluable; but what ground have i, for all you tell me, to be persuaded of the truth of this matter?” “sir,” replied the crier, “the thing is known and averred by the whole city of samarcand; but, without going any further, ask all these merchants you see here, and hear what they say.
you will find several of them will tell you they had not been alive this day if they had not made use of this excellent remedy.
and, that you may better comprehend what it is, i must tell you it is the fruit of the study and experiments of a celebrated philosopher of this city, who applied himself all his lifetime to the study and knowledge of the virtues of plants and minerals, and at last attained to this composition, by which he performed such surprising cures in this town as will never be forgot, but died suddenly himself, before he could apply his sovereign remedy, and left his wife and a great many young children behind him, in very indifferent circumstances, who, to support her family and provide for her children, is resolved to sell it.”
while the crier informed prince ahmed of the virtues of the artificial apple, a great many persons came about them and confirmed what he said; and one among the rest said he had a friend dangerously ill, whose life was despaired of; and that was a favorable opportunity to show prince ahmed the experiment.
upon which prince ahmed told the crier he would give him forty purses if he cured the sick person.
the crier, who had orders to sell it at that price, said to prince ahmed: “come, sir, let us go and make the experiment, and the apple shall be yours; and i can assure you that it will always have the desired effect.” in short, the experiment succeeded, and the prince, after he had counted out to the crier forty purses, and he had delivered the apple to him, waited patiently for the first caravan that should return to the indies, and arrived in perfect health at the inn where the princes houssain and ali waited for him.
when the princes met they showed each other their treasures, and immediately saw through the glass that the princess was dying.
they then sat down on the carpet, wished themselves with her, and were there in a moment.
prince ahmed no sooner perceived himself in nouronnihar’s chamber than he rose off the tapestry, as did also the other two princes, and went to the bedside, and put the apple under her nose; some moments after the princess opened her eyes, and turned her head from one side to another, looking at the persons who stood about her; and then rose up in the bed, and asked to be dressed, just as if she had waked out of a sound sleep.
her women having presently informed her, in a manner that showed their joy, that she was obliged to the three princes for the sudden recovery of her health, and particularly to prince ahmed, she immediately expressed her joy to see them, and thanked them all together, and afterward prince ahmed in particular.
while the princess was dressing the princes went to throw themselves at the sultan their father’s feet, and pay their respects to him.
but when they came before him they found he had been informed of their arrival by the chief of the princess’s eunuchs, and by what means the princess had been perfectly cured.
the sultan received and embraced them with the greatest joy, both for their return and the recovery of the princess his niece, whom he loved as well as if she had been his own daughter, and who had been given over by the physicians.
after the usual ceremonies and compliments the princes presented each his rarity: prince houssain his tapestry, which he had taken care not to leave behind him in the princess’s chamber; prince ali his ivory perspective glass, and prince ahmed his artificial apple; and after each had commended their present, when they put it into the sultan’s hands, they begged of him to pronounce their fate, and declare to which of them he would give the princess nouronnihar for a wife, according to his promise.
the sultan of the indies, having heard, without interrupting them, all that the princes could represent further about their rarities, and being well informed of what had happened in relation to the princess nouronnihar’s cure, remained some time silent, as if he were thinking on what answer he should make.
at last he broke the silence, and said to them: “i would declare for one of you children with a great deal of pleasure if i could do it with justice; but consider whether i can do it or no.
‘tis true, prince ahmed, the princess my niece is obliged to your artificial apple for her cure; but i must ask you whether or no you could have been so serviceable to her if you had not known by prince ali’s perspective glass the danger she was in, and if prince houssain’s tapestry had not brought you so soon.
your perspective glass, prince ali, informed you and your brothers that you were like to lose the princess your cousin, and there you must own a great obligation.
“you must also grant that that knowledge would have been of no service without the artificial apple and the tapestry.
and lastly, prince houssain, the princess would be very ungrateful if she should not show her acknowledgment of the service of your tapestry, which was so necessary a means toward her cure.
but consider, it would have been of little use if you had not been acquainted with the princess’s illness by prince ali’s glass, and prince ahmed had not applied his artificial apple.
therefore, as neither tapestry, ivory perspective glass, nor artificial apple have the least preference one before the other, but, on the contrary, there’s a perfect equality, i cannot grant the princess to any one of you; and the only fruit you have reaped from your travels is the glory of having equally contributed to restore her health.
“if all this be true,” added the sultan, “you see that i must have recourse to other means to determine certainly in the choice i ought to make among you; and that, as there is time enough between this and night, i’ll do it to-day.
go and get each of you a bow and arrow, and repair to the great plain, where they exercise horses.
i’ll soon come to you, and declare i will give the princess nouronnihar to him that shoots the farthest.”
the three princes had nothing to say against the decision of the sultan.
when they were out of his presence they each provided themselves with a bow and arrow, which they delivered to one of their officers, and went to the plain appointed, followed by a great concourse of people.
the sultan did not make them wait long for him, and as soon as he arrived prince houssain, as the eldest, took his bow and arrow and shot first; prince ali shot next, and much beyond him; and prince ahmed last of all, but it so happened that nobody could see where his arrow fell; and, notwithstanding all the diligence that was used by himself and everybody else, it was not to be found far or near.
and though it was believed that he shot the farthest, and that he therefore deserved the princess nouronnihar, it was, however, necessary that his arrow should be found to make the matter more evident and certain; and, notwithstanding his remonstrance, the sultan judged in favor of prince ali, and gave orders for preparations to be made for the wedding, which was celebrated a few days after with great magnificence.
prince houssain would not honor the feast with his presence.
in short, his grief was so violent and insupportable that he left the court, and renounced all right of succession to the crown, to turn hermit.
prince ahmed, too, did not come to prince ali’s and the princess nouronnihar’s wedding any more than his brother houssain, but did not renounce the world as he had done.
but, as he could not imagine what had become of his arrow, he stole away from his attendants and resolved to search after it, that he might not have anything to reproach himself with.
with this intent he went to the place where the princes houssain’s and ali’s were gathered up, and, going straight forward from there, looking carefully on both sides of him, he went so far that at last he began to think his labor was all in vain; but yet he could not help going forward till he came to some steep craggy rocks, which were bounds to his journey, and were situated in a barren country, about four leagues distant from where he set out.
ii
when prince ahmed came pretty nigh to these rocks he perceived an arrow, which he gathered up, looked earnestly at it, and was in the greatest astonishment to find it was the same he shot away.
“certainly,” said he to himself, “neither i nor any man living could shoot an arrow so far,”
and, finding it laid flat, not sticking into the ground, he judged that it rebounded against the rock.
“there must be some mystery in this,”
said he to himself again, “and it may be advantageous to me.
perhaps fortune, to make me amends for depriving me of what i thought the greatest happiness, may have reserved a greater blessing for my comfort.”
as these rocks were full of caves and some of those caves were deep, the prince entered into one, and, looking about, cast his eyes on an iron door, which seemed to have no lock, but he feared it was fastened.
however, thrusting against it, it opened, and discovered an easy descent, but no steps, which he walked down with his arrow in his hand.
at first he thought he was going into a dark, obscure place, but presently a quite different light succeeded that which he came out of, and, entering into a large, spacious place, at about fifty or sixty paces distant, he perceived a magnificent palace, which he had not then time enough to look at.
at the same time a lady of majestic port and air advanced as far as the porch, attended by a large troop of ladies, so finely dressed and beautiful that it was difficult to distinguish which was the mistress.
as soon as prince ahmed perceived the lady, he made all imaginable haste to go and pay his respects; and the lady, on her part, seeing him coming, prevented him from addressing his discourse to her first, but said to him: “come nearer, prince ahmed, you are welcome.”
it was no small surprise to the prince to hear himself named in a place he had never heard of, though so nigh to his father’s capital, and he could not comprehend how he should be known to a lady who was a stranger to him.
at last he returned the lady’s compliment by throwing himself at her feet, and, rising up again, said to her:
“madam, i return you a thousand thanks for the assurance you give me of a welcome to a place where i believed my imprudent curiosity had made me penetrate too far.
but, madam, may i, without being guilty of ill manners, dare to ask you by what adventure you know me?
and how you, who live in the same neighborhood with me, should be so great a stranger to me?”
“prince,” said the lady, “let us go into the hall, there i will gratify you in your request.”
after these words the lady led prince ahmed into the hall.
then she sat down on a sofa, and when the prince by her entreaty had done the same she said: “you are surprised, you say, that i should know you and not be known by you, but you will be no longer surprised when i inform you who i am.
you are undoubtedly sensible that your religion teaches you to believe that the world is inhabited by genies as well as men.
i am the daughter of one of the most powerful and distinguished genies, and my name is paribanou.
the only thing that i have to add is, that you seemed to me worthy of a more happy fate than that of possessing the princess nouronnihar; and, that you might attain to it, i was present when you drew your arrow, and foresaw it would not go beyond prince houssain’s.
i took it in the air, and gave it the necessary motion to strike against the rocks near which you found it, and i tell you that it lies in your power to make use of the favorable opportunity which presents itself to make you happy.”
as the fairy paribanou pronounced these last words with a different tone, and looked, at the same time, tenderly upon prince ahmed, with a modest blush on her cheeks, it was no hard matter for the prince to comprehend what happiness she meant.
he presently considered that the princess nouronnihar could never be his and that the fairy paribanou excelled her infinitely in beauty, agreeableness, wit, and, as much as he could conjecture by the magnificence of the palace, in immense riches.
he blessed the moment that he thought of seeking after his arrow a second time, and, yielding to his love, “madam,” replied he, “should i all my life have the happiness of being your slave, and the admirer of the many charms which ravish my soul, i should think myself the most blessed of men.
pardon in me the boldness which inspires me to ask this favor, and don’t refuse to admit me into your court, a prince who is entirely devoted to you.”
“prince,” answered the fairy, “will you not pledge your faith to me, as well as i give mine to you?” “yes, madam,” replied the prince, in an ecstacy of joy; “what can i do better, and with greater pleasure?
yes, my sultaness, my queen, i’ll give you my heart without the least reserve.” “then,” answered the fairy, “you are my husband, and i am your wife.
but, as i suppose,” pursued she, “that you have eaten nothing to-day, a slight repast shall be served up for you, while preparations are making for our wedding feast at night, and then i will show you the apartments of my palace, and you shall judge if this hall is not the meanest part of it.”
some of the fairy’s women, who came into the hall with them, and guessed her intentions, went immediately out, and returned presently with some excellent meats and wines.
when prince ahmed had ate and drunk as much as he cared for, the fairy paribanou carried him through all the apartments, where he saw diamonds, rubies, emeralds and all sorts of fine jewels, intermixed with pearls, agate, jasper, porphyry, and all sorts of the most precious marbles.
but, not to mention the richness of the furniture, which was inestimable, there was such a profuseness throughout that the prince, instead of ever having seen anything like it, owned that he could not have imagined that there was anything in the world that could come up to it.
“prince,” said the fairy, “if you admire my palace so much, which, indeed, is very beautiful, what would you say to the palaces of the chief of our genies, which are much more beautiful, spacious, and magnificent?
i could also charm you with my gardens, but we will let that alone till another time.
night draws near, and it will be time to go to supper.”
the next hall which the fairy led the prince into, and where the cloth was laid for the feast, was the last apartment the prince had not seen, and not in the least inferior to the others.
at his entrance into it he admired the infinite number of sconces of wax candles perfumed with amber, the multitude of which, instead of being confused, were placed with so just a symmetry as formed an agreeable and pleasant sight.
a large side table was set out with all sorts of gold plate, so finely wrought that the workmanship was much more valuable than the weight of the gold.
several choruses of beautiful women richly dressed, and whose voices were ravishing, began a concert, accompanied with all sorts of the most harmonious instruments; and when they were set down at table the fairy paribanou took care to help prince ahmed to the most delicate meats, which she named as she invited him to eat of them, and which the prince found to be so exquisitely nice that he commended them with exaggeration, and said that the entertainment far surpassed those of man.
he found also the same excellence in the wines, which neither he nor the fairy tasted of till the dessert was served up, which consisted of the choicest sweetmeats and fruits.
the wedding feast was continued the next day, or, rather, the days following the celebration were a continual feast.
at the end of six months prince ahmed, who always loved and honored the sultan his father, conceived a great desire to know how he was, and that desire could not be satisfied without his going to see; he told the fairy of it, and desired she would give him leave.
“prince,” said she, “go when you please.
but first, don’t take it amiss that i give you some advice how you shall behave yourself where you are going.
first, i don’t think it proper for you to tell the sultan your father of our marriage, nor of my quality, nor the place where you have been.
beg of him to be satisfied in knowing you are happy, and desire no more; and let him know that the sole end of your visit is to make him easy, and inform him of your fate.”
she appointed twenty gentlemen, well mounted and equipped, to attend him.
when all was ready prince ahmed took his leave of the fairy, embraced her, and renewed his promise to return soon.
then his horse, which was most finely caparisoned, and was as beautiful a creature as any in the sultan of indies’ stables, was led to him, and he mounted him with an extraordinary grace; and, after he had bid her a last adieu, set forward on his journey.
as it was not a great way to his father’s capital, prince ahmed soon arrived there.
the people, glad to see him again, received him with acclamations of joy, and followed him in crowds to the sultan’s apartment.
the sultan received and embraced him with great joy, complaining at the same time, with a fatherly tenderness, of the affliction his long absence had been to him, which he said was the more grievous for that, fortune having decided in favor of prince ali his brother, he was afraid he might have committed some rash action.
the prince told a story of his adventures without speaking of the fairy, whom he said that he must not mention, and ended: “the only favor i ask of your majesty is to give me leave to come often and pay you my respects, and to know how you do.”
“son,” answered the sultan of the indies, “i cannot refuse you the leave you ask me; but i should much rather you would resolve to stay with me; at least tell me where i may send to you if you should fail to come, or when i may think your presence necessary.” “sir,” replied prince ahmed, “what your majesty asks of me is part of the mystery i spoke to your majesty of.
i beg of you to give me leave to remain silent on this head, for i shall come so frequently that i am afraid that i shall sooner be thought troublesome than be accused of negligence in my duty.”
the sultan of the indies pressed prince ahmed no more, but said to him:
“son, i penetrate no farther into your secrets, but leave you at your liberty; but can tell you that you could not do me a greater pleasure than to come, and by your presence restore to me the joy i have not felt this long time, and that you shall always be welcome when you come, without interrupting your business or pleasure.”
prince ahmed stayed but three days at the sultan his father’s court, and the fourth returned to the fairy paribanou, who did not expect him so soon.
a month after prince ahmed’s return from paying a visit to his father, as the fairy paribanou had observed that the prince, since the time that he gave her an account of his journey, his discourse with his father, and the leave he asked to go and see him often, had never talked of the sultan, as if there had been no such person in the world, whereas before he was always speaking of him, she thought he forebore on her account; therefore she took an opportunity to say to him one day: “prince, tell me, have you forgot the sultan your father?
don’t you remember the promise you made to go and see him often?
for my part i have not forgot what you told me at your return, and so put you in mind of it, that you may not be long before you acquit yourself of your promise.”
so prince ahmed went the next morning with the same attendance as before, but much finer, and himself more magnificently mounted, equipped, and dressed, and was received by the sultan with the same joy and satisfaction.
for several months he constantly paid his visits, always in a richer and finer equipage.
at last some viziers, the sultan’s favorites, who judged of prince ahmed’s grandeur and power by the figure he cut, made the sultan jealous of his son, saying it was to be feared he might inveigle himself into the people’s favor and dethrone him.
the sultan of the indies was so far from thinking that prince ahmed could be capable of so pernicious a design as his favorites would make him believe that he said to them: “you are mistaken; my son loves me, and i am certain of his tenderness and fidelity, as i have given him no reason to be disgusted.”
but the favorites went on abusing prince ahmed till the sultan said: “be it as it will, i don’t believe my son ahmed is so wicked as you would persuade me he is; how ever, i am obliged to you for your good advice, and don’t dispute but that it proceeds from your good intentions.”
the sultan of the indies said this that his favorites might not know the impressions their discourse had made on his mind; which had so alarmed him that he resolved to have prince ahmed watched unknown to his grand vizier.
so he sent for a female magician, who was introduced by a back door into his apartment.
“go immediately,” he said, “and follow my son, and watch him so well as to find out where he retires, and bring me word.”
the magician left the sultan, and, knowing the place where prince ahmed found his arrow, went immediately thither, and hid herself near the rocks, so that nobody could see her.
the next morning prince ahmed set out by daybreak, without taking leave either of the sultan or any of his court, according to custom.
the magician, seeing him coming, followed him with her eyes, till on a sudden she lost sight of him and his attendants.
as the rocks were very steep and craggy, they were an insurmountable barrier, so that the magician judged that there were but two things for it: either that the prince retired into some cavern, or an abode of genies or fairies.
thereupon she came out of the place where she was hid and went directly to the hollow way, which she traced till she came to the farther end, looking carefully about on all sides; but, notwithstanding all her diligence, could perceive no opening, not so much as the iron gate which prince ahmed discovered, which was to be seen and opened to none but men, and only to such whose presence was agreeable to the fairy paribanou.
the magician, who saw it was in vain for her to search any farther, was obliged to be satisfied with the discovery she had made, and returned to give the sultan an account.
the sultan was very well pleased with the magician’s conduct, and said to her: “do you as you think fit; i’ll wait patiently the event of your promises,” and to encourage her made her a present of a diamond of great value.
as prince ahmed had obtained the fairy paribanou’s leave to go to the sultan of the indies’ court once a month, he never failed, and the magician, knowing the time, went a day or two before to the foot of the rock where she lost sight of the prince and his attendants, and waited there.
the next morning prince ahmed went out, as usual, at the iron gate, with the same attendants as before, and passed by the magician, whom he knew not to be such, and, seeing her lie with her head against the rock, and complaining as if she were in great pain, he pitied her, turned his horse about, went to her, and asked her what was the matter with her, and what he could do to ease her.
the artful sorceress looked at the prince in a pitiful manner, without ever lifting up her head, and answered in broken words and sighs, as if she could hardly fetch her breath, that she was going to the capital city, but on the way thither she was taken with so violent a fever that her strength failed her, and she was forced to lie down where he saw her, far from any habitation, and without any hopes of assistance.
“good woman,” replied prince ahmed, “you are not so far from help as you imagine.
i am ready to assist you, and convey you where you will meet with a speedy cure; only get up, and let one of my people take you behind him.”
at these words the magician, who pretended sickness only to know where the prince lived and what he did, refused not the charitable offer he made her, and that her actions might correspond with her words she made many pretended vain endeavors to get up.
at the same time two of the prince’s attendants, alighting off their horses, helped her up, and set her behind another, and mounted their horses again, and followed the prince, who turned back to the iron gate, which was opened by one of his retinue who rode before.
and when he came into the outward court of the fairy, without dismounting himself, he sent to tell her he wanted to speak with her.
the fairy paribanou came with all imaginable haste, not knowing what made prince ahmed return so soon, who, not giving her time to ask him the reason, said: “princess, i desire you would have compassion on this good woman,” pointing to the magician, who was held up by two of his retinue.
“i found her in the condition you see her in, and promised her the assistance she stands in need of, and am persuaded that you, out of your own goodness, as well as upon my entreaty, will not abandon her.”
the fairy paribanou, who had her eyes fixed upon the pretended sick woman all the time that the prince was talking to her, ordered two of her women who followed her to take her from the two men that held her, and carry her into an apartment of the palace, and take as much care of her as she would herself.
while the two women executed the fairy’s commands, she went up to prince ahmed, and, whispering in his ear, said: “prince, this woman is not so sick as she pretends to be; and i am very much mistaken if she is not an impostor, who will be the cause of a great trouble to you.
but don’t be concerned, let what will be devised against you; be persuaded that i will deliver you out of all the snares that shall be laid for you.
go and pursue your journey.”
this discourse of the fairy’s did not in the least frighten prince ahmed.
“my princess,” said he, “as i do not remember i ever did or designed anybody an injury, i cannot believe anybody can have a thought of doing me one, but if they have i shall not, nevertheless, forbear doing good whenever i have an opportunity.” then he went back to his father’s palace.
in the meantime the two women carried the magician into a very fine apartment, richly furnished.
first they sat her down upon a sofa, with her back supported with a cushion of gold brocade, while they made a bed on the same sofa before her, the quilt of which was finely embroidered with silk, the sheets of the finest linen, and the coverlet cloth-of-gold.
when they had put her into bed (for the old sorceress pretended that her fever was so violent she could not help herself in the least) one of the women went out, and returned soon again with a china dish in her hand, full of a certain liquor, which she presented to the magician, while the other helped her to sit up.
“drink this liquor,”
said she; “it is the water of the fountain of lions, and a sovereign remedy against all fevers whatsoever.
you will find the effect of it in less than an hour’s time.”
the magician, to dissemble the better, took it after a great deal of entreaty; but at last she took the china dish, and, holding back her head, swallowed down the liquor.
when she was laid down again the two women covered her up.
“lie quiet,” said she who brought her the china cup, “and get a little sleep if you can.
we’ll leave you, and hope to find you perfectly cured when we come again an hour hence.”
the two women came again at the time they said they should, and found the magician up and dressed, and sitting upon the sofa.
“oh, admirable potion!” she said: “it has wrought its cure much sooner than you told me it would, and i shall be able to prosecute my journey.”
the two women, who were fairies as well as their mistress, after they had told the magician how glad they were that she was cured so soon, walked before her, and conducted her through several apartments, all more noble than that wherein she lay, into a large hall, the most richly and magnificently furnished of all the palace.
fairy paribanou sat in this hall on a throne of massive gold, enriched with diamonds, rubies, and pearls of an extraordinary size, and attended on each hand by a great number of beautiful fairies, all richly clothed.
at the sight of so much majesty, the magician was not only dazzled, but was so amazed that, after she had prostrated herself before the throne, she could not open her lips to thank the fairy as she proposed.
however, paribanou saved her the trouble, and said to her: “good woman, i am glad i had an opportunity to oblige you, and to see you are able to pursue your journey.
i won’t detain you, but perhaps you may not be displeased to see my palace; follow my women, and they will show it you.”
then the magician went back and related to the sultan of the indies all that had happened, and how very rich prince ahmed was since his marriage with the fairy, richer than all the kings in the world, and how there was danger that he should come and take the throne from his father.
though the sultan of the indies was very well persuaded that prince ahmed’s natural disposition was good, yet he could not help being concerned at the discourse of the old sorceress, to whom, when she was taking her leave, he said: “i thank thee for the pains thou hast taken, and thy wholesome advice.
i am so sensible of the great importance it is to me that i shall deliberate upon it in council.”
now the favorites advised that the prince should be killed, but the magician advised differently: “make him give you all kinds of wonderful things, by the fairy’s help, till she tires of him and sends him away.
as, for example, every time your majesty goes into the field, you are obliged to be at a great expense, not only in pavilions and tents for your army, but likewise in mules and camels to carry their baggage.
now, might not you engage him to use his interest with the fairy to procure you a tent which might be carried in a man’s hand, and which should be so large as to shelter your whole army against bad weather?”
when the magician had finished her speech, the sultan asked his favorites if they had anything better to propose; and, finding them all silent, determined to follow the magician’s advice, as the most reasonable and most agreeable to his mild government.
next day the sultan did as the magician had advised him, and asked for the pavilion.
prince ahmed never expected that the sultan his father would have asked such a thing, which at first appeared so difficult, not to say impossible.
though he knew not absolutely how great the power of genies and fairies was, he doubted whether it extended so far as to compass such a tent as his father desired.
at last he replied: “though it is with the greatest reluctance imaginable, i will not fail to ask the favor of my wife your majesty desires, but will not promise you to obtain it; and if i should not have the honor to come again to pay you my respects that shall be the sign that i have not had success.
but beforehand, i desire you to forgive me, and consider that you yourself have reduced me to this extremity.”
“son,” replied the sultan of the indies, “i should be very sorry if what i ask of you should cause me the displeasure of never seeing you more.
i find you don’t know the power a husband has over a wife; and yours would show that her love to you was very indifferent if she, with the power she has of a fairy, should refuse you so trifling a request as this i desire you to ask of her for my sake.” the prince went back, and was very sad for fear of offending the fairy.
she kept pressing him to tell her what was the matter, and at last he said: “madam, you may have observed that hitherto i have been content with your love, and have never asked you any other favor.
consider then, i conjure you, that it is not i, but the sultan my father, who indiscreetly, or at least i think so, begs of you a pavilion large enough to shelter him, his court, and army from the violence of the weather, and which a man may carry in his hand.
but remember it is the sultan my father asks this favor.”
“prince,” replied the fairy, smiling, “i am sorry that so small a matter should disturb you, and make you so uneasy as you appeared to me.”
then the fairy sent for her treasurer, to whom, when she came, she said:
“nourgihan” which was her name “bring me the largest pavilion in my treasury.” nourgiham returned presently with the pavilion, which she could not only hold in her hand, but in the palm of her hand when she shut her fingers, and presented it to her mistress, who gave it to prince ahmed to look at.
when prince ahmed saw the pavilion which the fairy called the largest in her treasury, he fancied she had a mind to jest with him, and thereupon the marks of his surprise appeared presently in his countenance; which paribanou perceiving burst out laughing.
“what!
prince,” cried she, “do you think i jest with you?
you’ll see presently that i am in earnest.
nourgihan,” said she to her treasurer, taking the tent out of prince ahmed’s hands, “go and set it up, that the prince may judge whether it may be large enough for the sultan his father.”
the treasurer went immediately with it out of the palace, and carried it a great way off; and when she had set it up one end reached to the very palace; at which time the prince, thinking it small, found it large enough to shelter two greater armies than that of the sultan his father’s, and then said to paribanou: “i ask my princess a thousand pardons for my incredulity; after what i have seen i believe there is nothing impossible to you.” “you see,” said the fairy, “that the pavilion is larger than what your father may have occasion for; for you must know that it has one property that it is larger or smaller according to the army it is to cover.”
the treasurer took down the tent again, and brought it to the prince, who took it, and, without staying any longer than till the next day, mounted his horse, and went with the same attendants to the sultan his father.
the sultan, who was persuaded that there could not be any such thing as such a tent as he asked for, was in a great surprise at the prince’s diligence.
he took the tent and after he had admired its smallness his amazement was so great that he could not recover himself.
when the tent was set up in the great plain, which we have before mentioned, he found it large enough to shelter an army twice as large as he could bring into the field.
but the sultan was not yet satisfied.
“son,” said he, “i have already expressed to you how much i am obliged to you for the present of the tent you have procured me; that i look upon it as the most valuable thing in all my treasury.
but you must do one thing more for me, which will be every whit as agreeable to me.
i am informed that the fairy, your spouse, makes use of a certain water, called the water of the fountain of lions, which cures all sorts of fevers, even the most dangerous, and, as i am perfectly well persuaded my health is dear to you, i don’t doubt but you will ask her for a bottle of that water for me, and bring it me as a sovereign medicine, which i may make use of when i have occasion.
do me this other important piece of service, and thereby complete the duty of a good son toward a tender father.”
the prince returned and told the fairy what his father had said; “there’s a great deal of wickedness in this demand?” she answered, “as you will understand by what i am going to tell you.
the fountain of lions is situated in the middle of a court of a great castle, the entrance into which is guarded by four fierce lions, two of which sleep alternately, while the other two are awake.
but don’t let that frighten you: i’ll give you means to pass by them without any danger.”
the fairy paribanou was at that time very hard at work, and, as she had several clews of thread by her, she took up one, and, presenting it to prince ahmed, said: “first take this clew of thread.
i’ll tell you presently the use of it.
in the second place, you must have two horses; one you must ride yourself, and the other you must lead, which must be loaded with a sheep cut into four quarters, that must be killed to-day.
in the third place, you must be provided with a bottle, which i will give you, to bring the water in.
set out early to-morrow morning, and when you have passed the iron gate throw the clew of thread before you, which will roll till it comes to the gates of the castle.
follow it, and when it stops, as the gates will be open, you will see the four lions:
the two that are awake will, by their roaring, wake the other two, but don’t be frightened, but throw each of them a quarter of mutton, and then clap spurs to your horse and ride to the fountain; fill your bottle without alighting, and then return with the same expedition.
the lions will be so busy eating they will let you pass by them.”
prince ahmed set out the next morning at the time appointed by the fairy, and followed her directions exactly.
when he arrived at the gates of the castle he distributed the quarters of mutton among the four lions, and, passing through the midst of them bravely, got to the fountain, filled his bottle, and returned back as safe and sound as he went.
when he had gone a little distance from the castle gates he turned him about, and, perceiving two of the lions coming after him, he drew his sabre and prepared himself for defense.
but as he went forward he saw one of them turned out of the road at some distance, and showed by his head and tail that he did not come to do him any harm, but only to go before him, and that the other stayed behind to follow, he put his sword up again in its scabbard.
guarded in this manner, he arrived at the capital of the indies, but the lions never left him till they had conducted him to the gates of the sultan’s palace; after which they returned the same way they came, though not without frightening all that saw them, for all they went in a very gentle manner and showed no fierceness.
a great many officers came to attend the prince while he dismounted his horse, and afterward conducted him into the sultan’s apartment, who was at that time surrounded with his favorites.
he approached toward the throne, laid the bottle at the sultan’s feet, and kissed the rich tapestry which covered his footstool, and then said:
“i have brought you, sir, the healthful water which your majesty desired so much to keep among your other rarities in your treasury, but at the same time wish you such extraordinary health as never to have occasion to make use of it.”
after the prince had made an end of his compliment the sultan placed him on his right hand, and then said to him: “son, i am very much obliged to you for this valuable present, as also for the great danger you have exposed yourself to upon my account (which i have been informed of by a magician who knows the fountain of lions); but do me the pleasure,”
continued he, “to inform me by what address, or, rather, by what incredible power, you have been secured.”
“sir,” replied prince ahmed, “i have no share in the compliment your majesty is pleased to make me; all the honor is due to the fairy my spouse, whose good advice i followed.” then he informed the sultan what those directions were, and by the relation of this his expedition let him know how well he had behaved himself.
when he had done the sultan, who showed outwardly all the demonstrations of great joy, but secretly became more jealous, retired into an inward apartment, where he sent for the magician.
the magician, at her arrival, saved the sultan the trouble to tell her of the success of prince ahmed’s journey, which she had heard of before she came, and therefore was prepared with an infallible means, as she pretended.
this means she communicated to the sultan who declared it the next day to the prince, in the midst of all his courtiers, in these words: “son,” said he, “i have one thing more to ask of you, after which i shall expect nothing more from your obedience, nor your interest with your wife.
this request is, to bring me a man not above a foot and a half high, and whose beard is thirty feet long who carries a bar of iron upon his shoulders of five hundredweight, which he uses as a quarterstaff.”
prince ahmed, who did not believe that there was such a man in the world as his father described, would gladly have excused himself; but the sultan persisted in his demand, and told him the fairy could do more incredible things.
the next day the prince returned to his dear paribanou, to whom he told his father’s new demand, which, he said, he looked upon to be a thing more impossible than the two first; “for,” added he, “i cannot imagine there can be such a man in the world; without doubt, he has a mind to try whether or no i am so silly as to go about it, or he has a design on my ruin.
in short, how can he suppose that i should lay hold of a man so well armed, though he is but little?
what arms can i make use of to reduce him to my will?
if there are any means, i beg you will tell them, and let me come off with honor this time.”
“don’t affright yourself, prince,” replied the fairy; “you ran a risk in fetching the water of the fountain of lions for your father, but there’s no danger in finding out this man, who is my brother schaibar, but is so far from being like me, though we both had the same father, that he is of so violent a nature that nothing can prevent his giving cruel marks of his resentment for a slight offense; yet, on the other hand, is so good as to oblige anyone in whatever they desire.
he is made exactly as the sultan your father has described him, and has no other arms than a bar of iron of five hundred pounds weight, without which he never stirs, and which makes him respected.
i’ll send for him, and you shall judge of the truth of what i tell you; but be sure to prepare yourself against being frightened at his extraordinary figure when you see him.” “what!
my queen,” replied prince ahmed, “do you say schaibar is your brother?
let him be never so ugly or deformed i shall be so far from being frightened at the sight of him that, as our brother, i shall honor and love him.”
the fairy ordered a gold chafing-dish to be set with a fire in it under the porch of her palace, with a box of the same metal, which was a present to her, out of which taking a perfume, and throwing it into the fire, there arose a thick cloud of smoke.
some moments after the fairy said to prince ahmed: “see, there comes my brother.” the prince immediately perceived schaibar coming gravely with his heavy bar on his shoulder, his long beard, which he held up before him, and a pair of thick mustachios, which he tucked behind his ears and almost covered his face; his eyes were very small and deep-set in his head, which was far from being of the smallest size, and on his head he wore a grenadier’s cap; besides all this, he was very much hump-backed.
if prince ahmed had not known that schaibar was paribanou’s brother, he would not have been able to have looked at him without fear, but, knowing first who he was, he stood by the fairy without the least concern.
schaibar, as he came forward, looked at the prince earnestly enough to have chilled his blood in his veins, and asked paribanou, when he first accosted her, who that man was.
to which she replied: “he is my husband, brother.
his name is ahmed; he is son to the sultan of the indies.
the reason why i did not invite you to my wedding was i was unwilling to divert you from an expedition you were engaged in, and from which i heard with pleasure you returned victorious, and so took the liberty now to call for you.”
at these words, schaibar, looking on prince ahmed favorably, said: “is there anything else, sister, wherein i can serve him?
it is enough for me that he is your husband to engage me to do for him whatever he desires.” “the sultan, his father,” replied paribanou, “has a curiosity to see you, and i desire he may be your guide to the sultan’s court.”
“he needs but lead me the way i’ll follow him.” “brother,” replied paribanou, “it is too late to go to-day, therefore stay till to-morrow morning; and in the meantime i’ll inform you of all that has passed between the sultan of the indies and prince ahmed since our marriage.”
the next morning, after schaibar had been informed of the affair, he and prince ahmed set out for the sultan’s court.
when they arrived at the gates of the capital the people no sooner saw schaibar but they ran and hid themselves; and some shut up their shops and locked themselves up in their houses, while others, flying, communicated their fear to all they met, who stayed not to look behind them, but ran too; insomuch that schaibar and prince ahmed, as they went along, found the streets all desolate till they came to the palaces where the porters, instead of keeping the gates, ran away too, so that the prince and schaibar advanced without any obstacle to the council-hall, where the sultan was seated on his throne, and giving audience.
here likewise the ushers, at the approach of schaibar, abandoned their posts, and gave them free admittance.
schaibar went boldly and fiercely up to the throne, without waiting to be presented by prince ahmed, and accosted the sultan of the indies in these words: “thou hast asked for me,” said he; “see, here i am; what wouldst thou have with me?”
the sultan, instead of answering him, clapped his hands before his eyes to avoid the sight of so terrible an object; at which uncivil and rude reception schaibar was so much provoked, after he had given him the trouble to come so far, that he instantly lifted up his iron bar and killed him before prince ahmed could intercede in his behalf.
all that he could do was to prevent his killing the grand vizier, who sat not far from him, representing to him that he had always given the sultan his father good advice.
“these are they, then,” said schaibar, “who gave him bad,” and as he pronounced these words he killed all the other viziers and flattering favorites of the sultan who were prince ahmed’s enemies.
every time he struck he killed some one or other, and none escaped but they who were not so frightened as to stand staring and gaping, and who saved themselves by flight.
when this terrible execution was over schaibar came out of the council-hall into the midst of the courtyard with the iron bar upon his shoulder, and, looking hard at the grand vizier, who owed his life to prince ahmed, he said: “i know here is a certain magician, who is a greater enemy of my brother-in-law than all these base favorites i have chastised.
let the magician be brought to me presently.” the grand vizier immediately sent for her, and as soon as she was brought schaibar said, at the time he fetched a stroke at her with his iron bar: “take the reward of thy pernicious counsel, and learn to feign sickness again.”
after this he said: “this is not yet enough; i will use the whole town after the same manner if they do not immediately acknowledge prince ahmed, my brother-in-law, for their sultan and the sultan of the indies.” then all that were there present made the air echo again with the repeated acclamations of: “long life to sultan ahmed”; and immediately after he was proclaimed through the whole town.
schaibar made him be clothed in the royal vestments, installed him on the throne, and after he had caused all to swear homage and fidelity to him went and fetched his sister paribanou, whom he brought with all the pomp and grandeur imaginable, and made her to be owned sultaness of the indies.
as for prince ali and princess nouronnihar, as they had no hand in the conspiracy against prince ahmed and knew nothing of any, prince ahmed assigned them a considerable province, with its capital, where they spent the rest of their lives.
afterwards he sent an officer to prince houssain to acquaint him with the change and make him an offer of which province he liked best; but that prince thought himself so happy in his solitude that he bade the officer return the sultan his brother thanks for the kindness he designed him, assuring him of his submission; and that the only favor he desired of him was to give him leave to live retired in the place he had made choice of for his retreat.
(1)
(1) arabian nights.
the history of jack the giant-killer
in the reign of the famous king arthur there lived in cornwall a lad named jack, who was a boy of a bold temper, and took delight in hearing or reading of conjurers, giants, and fairies; and used to listen eagerly to the deeds of the knights of king arthur’s round table.
in those days there lived on st. michael’s mount, off cornwall, a huge giant, eighteen feet high and nine feet round; his fierce and savage looks were the terror of all who beheld him.
he dwelt in a gloomy cavern on the top of the mountain, and used to wade over to the mainland in search of prey; when he would throw half a dozen oxen upon his back, and tie three times as many sheep and hogs round his waist, and march back to his own abode.
the giant had done this for many years when jack resolved to destroy him.
jack took a horn, a shovel, a pickaxe, his armor, and a dark lantern, and one winter’s evening he went to the mount.
there he dug a pit twenty-two feet deep and twenty broad.
he covered the top over so as to make it look like solid ground.
he then blew his horn so loudly that the giant awoke and came out of his den crying out: “you saucy villain!
you shall pay for this i’ll broil you for my breakfast!”
he had just finished, when, taking one step further, he tumbled headlong into the pit, and jack struck him a blow on the head with his pickaxe which killed him.
jack then returned home to cheer his friends with the news.
another giant, called blunderbore, vowed to be revenged on jack if ever he should have him in his power.
this giant kept an enchanted castle in the midst of a lonely wood; and some time after the death of cormoran jack was passing through a wood, and being weary, sat down and went to sleep.
the giant, passing by and seeing jack, carried him to his castle, where he locked him up in a large room, the floor of which was covered with the bodies, skulls and bones of men and women.
soon after the giant went to fetch his brother who was likewise a giant, to take a meal off his flesh; and jack saw with terror through the bars of his prison the two giants approaching.
jack, perceiving in one corner of the room a strong cord, took courage, and making a slip-knot at each end, he threw them over their heads, and tied it to the window-bars; he then pulled till he had choked them.
when they were black in the face he slid down the rope and stabbed them to the heart.
jack next took a great bunch of keys from the pocket of blunderbore, and went into the castle again.
he made a strict search through all the rooms, and in one of them found three ladies tied up by the hair of their heads, and almost starved to death.
they told him that their husbands had been killed by the giants, who had then condemned them to be starved to death because they would not eat the flesh of their own dead husbands.
“ladies,” said jack, “i have put an end to the monster and his wicked brother; and i give you this castle and all the riches it contains, to make some amends for the dreadful pains you have felt.” he then very politely gave them the keys of the castle, and went further on his journey to wales.
as jack had but little money, he went on as fast as possible.
at length he came to a handsome house.
jack knocked at the door, when there came forth a welsh giant.
jack said he was a traveler who had lost his way, on which the giant made him welcome, and let him into a room where there was a good bed to sleep in.
jack took off his clothes quickly, but though he was weary he could not go to sleep.
soon after this he heard the giant walking backward and forward in the next room, and saying to himself:
“though here you lodge with me this night,   you shall not see the morning light;   my club shall dash your brains out quite.”
“say you so?” thought jack.
“are these your tricks upon travelers?
but i hope to prove as cunning as you are.” then, getting out of bed, he groped about the room, and at last found a large thick billet of wood.
he laid it in his own place in the bed, and then hid himself in a dark corner of the room.
the giant, about midnight, entered the apartment, and with his bludgeon struck many blows on the bed, in the very place where jack had laid the log; and then he went back to his own room, thinking he had broken all jack’s bones.
early in the morning jack put a bold face upon the matter, and walked into the giant’s room to thank him for his lodging.
the giant started when he saw him, and began to stammer out: “oh!
dear me; is it you?
pray how did you sleep last night?
did you hear or see anything in the dead of the night?”
“nothing to speak of,” said jack, carelessly; “a rat, i believe, gave me three or four slaps with its tail, and disturbed me a little; but i soon went to sleep again.”
the giant wondered more and more at this; yet he did not answer a word, but went to bring two great bowls of hasty-pudding for their breakfast.
jack wanted to make the giant believe that he could eat as much as himself, so he contrived to button a leathern bag inside his coat, and slip the hasty-pudding into this bag, while he seemed to put it into his mouth.
when breakfast was over he said to the giant: “now i will show you a fine trick.
i can cure all wounds with a touch; i could cut off my head in one minute, and the next put it sound again on my shoulders.
you shall see an example.” he then took hold of the knife, ripped up the leathern bag, and all the hasty-pudding tumbled out upon the floor.
“ods splutter hur nails!” cried the welsh giant, who was ashamed to be outdone by such a little fellow as jack, “hur can do that hurself”; so he snatched up the knife, plunged it into his own stomach, and in a moment dropped down dead.
jack, having hitherto been successful in all his undertakings, resolved not to be idle in future; he therefore furnished himself with a horse, a cap of knowledge, a sword of sharpness, shoes of swiftness, and an invisible coat, the better to perform the wonderful enterprises that lay before him.
he traveled over high hills, and on the third day he came to a large and spacious forest through which his road lay.
scarcely had he entered the forest when he beheld a monstrous giant dragging along by the hair of their heads a handsome knight and his lady.
jack alighted from his horse, and tying him to an oak tree, put on his invisible coat, under which he carried his sword of sharpness.
when he came up to the giant he made several strokes at him, but could not reach his body, but wounded his thighs in several places; and at length, putting both hands to his sword and aiming with all his might, he cut off both his legs.
then jack, setting his foot upon his neck, plunged his sword into the giant’s body, when the monster gave a groan and expired.
the knight and his lady thanked jack for their deliverance, and invited him to their house, to receive a proper reward for his services.
“no,”
said jack, “i cannot be easy till i find out this monster’s habitation.”
so, taking the knight’s directions, he mounted his horse and soon after came in sight of another giant, who was sitting on a block of timber waiting for his brother’s return.
jack alighted from his horse, and, putting on his invisible coat, approached and aimed a blow at the giant’s head, but, missing his aim, he only cut off his nose.
on this the giant seized his club and laid about him most unmercifully.
“nay,” said jack, “if this be the case i’d better dispatch you!” so, jumping upon the block, he stabbed him in the back, when he dropped down dead.
jack then proceeded on his journey, and traveled over hills and dales, till arriving at the foot of a high mountain he knocked at the door of a lonely house, when an old man let him in.
when jack was seated the hermit thus addressed him: “my son, on the top of this mountain is an enchanted castle, kept by the giant galligantus and a vile magician.
i lament the fate of a duke’s daughter, whom they seized as she was walking in her father’s garden, and brought hither transformed into a deer.”
jack promised that in the morning, at the risk of his life, he would break the enchantment; and after a sound sleep he rose early, put on his invisible coat, and got ready for the attempt.
when he had climbed to the top of the mountain he saw two fiery griffins, but he passed between them without the least fear of danger, for they could not see him because of his invisible coat.
on the castle gate he found a golden trumpet, under which were written these lines:
“whoever can this trumpet blow   shall cause the giant’s overthrow.”
as soon as jack had read this he seized the trumpet and blew a shrill blast, which made the gates fly open and the very castle itself tremble.
the giant and the conjurer now knew that their wicked course was at an end, and they stood biting their thumbs and shaking with fear.
jack, with his sword of sharpness, soon killed the giant, and the magician was then carried away by a whirlwind; and every knight and beautiful lady who had been changed into birds and beasts returned to their proper shapes.
the castle vanished away like smoke, and the head of the giant galligantus was then sent to king arthur.
the knights and ladies rested that night at the old man’s hermitage, and next day they set out for the court.
jack then went up to the king, and gave his majesty an account of all his fierce battles.
jack’s fame had now spread through the whole country, and at the king’s desire the duke gave him his daughter in marriage, to the joy of all his kingdom.
after this the king gave him a large estate, on which he and his lady lived the rest of their days in joy and contentment.
(1)
(1) old chapbook.
the black bull of norroway
and many a hunting song they sung,        and song of game and glee;      then tuned to plaintive strains their tongue,        “of scotland’s luve and lee.”
to wilder measures next they turn        “the black, black bull of norroway!”
sudden the tapers cease to burn,        the minstrels cease to play.
“the cout of keeldar,” by j. leyden.
in norroway, langsyne, there lived a certain lady, and she had three dochters.
the auldest o’ them said to her mither: “mither, bake me a bannock, and roast me a collop, for i’m gaun awa’ to seek my fortune.”
her mither did sae; and the dochter gaed awa’ to an auld witch washerwife and telled her purpose.
the auld wife bade her stay that day, and gang and look out o’ her back door, and see what she could see.
she saw nocht the first day.
the second day she did the same, and saw nocht.
on the third day she looked again, and saw a coach-and-six coming along the road.
she ran in and telled the auld wife what she saw.
“aweel,”
quo’ the auld wife, “yon’s for you.” sae they took her into the coach, and galloped aff.
the second dochter next says to her mither: “mither, bake me a bannock, and roast me a collop, fur i’m gaun awa’ to seek my fortune.” her mither did sae; and awa’ she gaed to the auld wife, as her sister had dune.
on the third day she looked out o’ the back door, and saw a coach-and-four coming along the road.
“aweel,” quo’ the auld wife, “yon’s for you.” sae they took her in, and aff they set.
the third dochter says to her mither: “mither, bake me a bannock, and roast me a collop, for i’m gaun awa’ to seek my fortune.” her mither did sae; and awa’ she gaed to the auld witch-wife.
she bade her look out o’ her back door, and see what she could see.
she did sae; and when she came back said she saw nocht.
the second day she did the same, and saw nocht.
the third day she looked again, and on coming back said to the auld wife she saw nocht but a muckle black bull coming roaring alang the road.
“aweel,” quo’ the auld wife, “yon’s for you.” on hearing this she was next to distracted wi’ grief and terror; but she was lifted up and set on his back, and awa’ they went.
aye they traveled, and on they traveled, till the lady grew faint wi’
hunger.
“eat out o’ my right lug,” says the black bull, “and drink out o’ my left lug, and set by your leavings.” sae she did as he said, and was wonderfully refreshed.
and lang they gaed, and sair they rade, till they came in sight o’ a very big and bonny castle.
“yonder we maun be this night,” quo’ the bull; “for my auld brither lives yonder”; and presently they were at the place.
they lifted her aff his back, and took her in, and sent him away to a park for the night.
in the morning, when they brought the bull hame, they took the lady into a fine shining parlor, and gave her a beautiful apple, telling her no to break it till she was in the greatest strait ever mortal was in in the world, and that wad bring her o’t.
again she was lifted on the bull’s back, and after she had ridden far, and farer than i can tell, they came in sight o’ a far bonnier castle, and far farther awa’ than the last.
says the bull till her: “yonder we maun be the night, for my second brither lives yonder”; and they were at the place directly.
they lifted her down and took her in, and sent the bull to the field for the night.
in the morning they took the lady into a fine and rich room, and gave her the finest pear she had ever seen, bidding her no to break it till she was in the greatest strait ever mortal could be in, and that wad get her out o’t.
again she was lifted and set on his back, and awa’ they went.
and lang they gaed, and sair they rade, till they came in sight o’ the far biggest castle, and far farthest aff, they had yet seen.
“we maun be yonder the night,” says the bull, “for my young brither lives yonder”; and they were there directly.
they lifted her down, took her in, and sent the bull to the field for the night.
in the morning they took her into a room, the finest of a’, and gied her a plum, telling her no to break it till she was in the greatest strait mortal could be in, and that wad get her out o’t.
presently they brought hame the bull, set the lady on his back, and awa’ they went.
and aye they gaed, and on they rade, till they came to a dark and ugsome glen, where they stopped, and the lady lighted down.
says the bull to her: “here ye maun stay till i gang and fight the deil.
ye maun seat yoursel’ on that stane, and move neither hand nor fit till i come back, else i’ll never find ye again.
and if everything round about ye turns blue i hae beated the deil; but should a’ things turn red he’ll hae conquered me.” she set hersel’ down on the stane, and by-and-by a’ round her turned blue.
o’ercome wi’ joy, she lifted the ae fit and crossed it owre the ither, sae glad was she that her companion was victorious.
the bull returned and sought for but never could find her.
lang she sat, and aye she grat, till she wearied.
at last she rase and gaed awa’, she kedna whaur till.
on she wandered till she came to a great hill o’ glass, that she tried a’ she could to climb, bat wasna able.
round the bottom o’ the hill she gaed, sabbing and seeking a passage owre, till at last she came to a smith’s house; and the smith promised, if she wad serve him seven years, he wad make her iron shoon, wherewi’ she could climb owre the glassy hill.
at seven years’ end she got her iron shoon, clamb the glassy hill, and chanced to come to the auld washerwife’s habitation.
there she was telled of a gallant young knight that had given in some bluidy sarks to wash, and whaever washed thae sarks was to be his wife.
the auld wife had washed till she was tired, and then she set to her dochter, and baith washed, and they washed, and they better washed, in hopes of getting the young knight; but a’ they could do they couldna bring out a stain.
at length they set the stranger damosel to wark; and whenever she began the stains came out pure and clean, but the auld wife made the knight believe it was her dochter had washed the sarks.
so the knight and the eldest dochter were to be married, and the stranger damosel was distracted at the thought of it, for she was deeply in love wi’ him.
so she bethought her of her apple, and breaking it, found it filled with gold and precious jewelry, the richest she had ever seen.
“all these,” she said to the eldest dochter, “i will give you, on condition that you put off your marriage for ae day, and allow me to go into his room alone at night.” so the lady consented; but meanwhile the auld wife had prepared a sleeping-drink, and given it to the knight, wha drank it, and never wakened till next morning.
the lee-lang night ther damosel sabbed and sang:
“seven lang years i served for thee,   the glassy hill i clamb for thee,   the bluidy shirt i wrang for thee;   and wilt thou no wauken and turn to me?”
next day she kentna what to do for grief.
she then brak the pear, and found it filled wi’ jewelry far richer than the contents o’ the apple.
wi’ thae jewels she bargained for permission to be a second night in the young knight’s chamber; but the auld wife gied him anither sleeping-drink, and he again sleepit till morning.
a’ night she kept sighing and singing as before:
“seven lang years i served for thee,” &c. still he sleepit, and she nearly lost hope a’thegither.
but that day when he was out at the hunting, somebody asked him what noise and moaning was yon they heard all last night in his bedchamber.
he said he heardna ony noise.
but they assured him there was sae; and he resolved to keep waking that night to try what he could hear.
that being the third night, and the damosel being between hope and despair, she brak her plum, and it held far the richest jewelry of the three.
she bargained as before; and the auld wife, as before, took in the sleeping-drink to the young knight’s chamber; but he telled her he couldna drink it that night without sweetening.
and when she gaed awa’ for some honey to sweeten it wi’, he poured out the drink, and sae made the auld wife think he had drunk it.
they a’ went to bed again, and the damosel began, as before, singing:
“seven lang years i served for thee,   the glassy hill i clamb for thee,   the bluidy shirt i wrang for thee;   and wilt thou no wauken and turn to me?”
he heard, and turned to her.
and she telled him a’ that had befa’en her, and he telled her a’ that had happened to him.
and he caused the auld washerwife and her dochter to be burned.
and they were married, and he and she are living happy till this day, for aught i ken.
(1)
(1) chambers, popular traditions of scotland.
the red etin
there were ance twa widows that lived on a small bit o’ ground, which they rented from a farmer.
ane of them had twa sons, and the other had ane; and by-and-by it was time for the wife that had twa sons to send them away to seeke their fortune.
so she told her eldest son ae day to take a can and bring her water from the well, that she might bake a cake for him; and however much or however little water he might bring, the cake would be great or sma’ accordingly; and that cake was to be a’ that she could gie him when he went on his travels.
the lad gaed away wi’ the can to the well, and filled it wi’ water, and then came away hame again; but the can being broken the maist part of the water had run out before he got back.
so his cake was very sma’; yet sma’ as it was, his mother asked if he was willing to take the half of it with her blessing, telling him that, if he chose rather to have the hale, he would only get it wi’ her curse.
the young man, thinking he might hae to travel a far way, and not knowing when or how he might get other provisions, said he would like to hae the hale cake, com of his mother’s malison what like; so she gave him the hale cake, and her malison alang wi’t.
then he took his brither aside, and gave him a knife to keep till he should come back, desiring him to look at it every morning, and as lang as it continued to be clear, then he might be sure that the owner of it was well; but if it grew dim and rusty, then for certain some ill had befallen him.
so the young man set out to seek his fortune.
and he gaed a’ that day, and a’ the next day; and on the third day, in the afternoon, he came up to where a shepherd was sitting with a flock o’ sheep.
and he gaed up to the shepherd and asked him wha the sheep belanged to; and the man answered:
“the red etin of ireland        ance lived in bellygan,      and stole king malcolm’s daughter,        the king of fair scotland.
he beats her, he binds her,        he lays her on a band;      and every day he dings her        with a bright silver wand      like julian the roman      he’s one that fears no man.
it’s said there’s ane predestinate        to be his mortal foe;      but that man is yet unborn        and lang may it be so.”
the young man then went on his journey; and he had not gone far when he espied an old man with white locks herding a flock of swine; and he gaed up to him and asked whose swine these were, when the man answered:
“the red etin of ireland”
(repeat the verses above.)
then the young man gaed on a bit farther, and came to another very old man herding goats; and when he asked whose goats they were, the answer was:
“the red etin of ireland”
(repeat the verses again.)
this old man also told him to beware of the next beasts that he should meet, for they were of a very different kind from any he had yet seen.
so the young man went on, and by-and-by he saw a multitude of very dreadfu’ beasts, ilk ane o’ them wi’ twa heads, and on every head four horns.
and he was sore frightened, and ran away from them as fast as he could; and glad was he when he came to a castle that stood on a hillock, wi’ the door standing wide to the wa’.
and he gaed into the castle for shelter, and there he saw an auld wife sitting beside the kitchen fire.
he asked the wife if he might stay there for the night, as he was tired wi’ a lang journey; and the wife said he might, but it was not a good place for him to be in, as it belanged to the red etin, who was a very terrible beast, wi’ three heads, that spared no living man he could get hold of.
the young man would have gone away, but he was afraid of the beasts on the outside of the castle; so he beseeched the old woman to conceal him as well as she could, and not to tell the etin that he was there.
he thought, if he could put over the night, he might get away in the morning without meeting wi’ the beasts, and so escape.
but he had not been long in his hidy-hole before the awful etin came in; and nae sooner was he in than he was heard crying:
“snouk but and snouk ben,   i find the smell of an earthly man;   be he living, or be he dead,   his heart this night shall kitchen(1) my bread.”
(1) “kitchen,” that is, “season.”
the monster soon found the poor young man, and pulled him from his hole.
and when he had got him out he told him that if he could answer him three questions his life should be spared.
the first was: whether ireland or scotland was first inhabited?
the second was: whether man was made for woman, or woman for man?
the third was: whether men or brutes were made first?
the lad not being able to answer one of these questions, the red etin took a mace and knocked him on the head, and turned him into a pillar of stone.
on the morning after this happened the younger brither took out the knife to look at it, and he was grieved to find it a’ brown wi’ rust.
he told his mother that the time was now come for him to go away upon his travels also; so she requested him to take the can to the well for water, that she might bake a cake for him.
the can being broken, he brought hame as little water as the other had done, and the cake was as little.
she asked whether he would have the hale cake wi’ her malison, or the half wi’ her blessing; and, like his brither, he thought it best to have the hale cake, come o’ the malison what might.
so he gaed away; and everything happened to him that had happened to his brother!
the other widow and her son heard of a’ that had happened frae a fairy, and the young man determined that he would also go upon his travels, and see if he could do anything to relieve his twa friends.
so his mother gave him a can to go to the well and bring home water, that she might bake him a cake for his journey.
and he gaed, and as he was bringing hame the water, a raven owre abune his head cried to him to look, and he would see that the water was running out.
and he was a young man of sense, and seeing the water running out, he took some clay and patched up the holes, so that he brought home enough water to bake a large cake.
when his mother put it to him to take the half-cake wi’ her blessing, he took it in preference to having the hale wi’ her malison; and yet the half was bigger than what the other lads had got a’thegither.
so he gaed away on his journey; and after he had traveled a far way he met wi’ an auld woman, that asked him if he would give her a bit of his bannock.
and he said he would gladly do that, and so he gave her a piece of the bannock; and for that she gied him a magical wand, that she said might yet be of service to him if he took care to use it rightly.
then the auld woman, who was a fairy, told him a great deal that whould happen to him, and what he ought to do in a’ circumstances; and after that she vanished in an instant out o’ his sight.
he gaed on a great way farther, and then he came up to the old man herding the sheep; and when he asked whose sheep these were, the answer was:
“the red etin of ireland         ance lived in bellygan,       and stole king malcolm’s daughter,         the king of fair scotland.
he beats her, he binds her,         he lays her on a band;       and every day he dings her         with a bright silver wand.
like julian the roman,       he’s one that fears no man,       but now i fear his end is near,         and destiny at hand;       and you’re to be, i plainly see,         the heir of all his land.”
(repeat the same inquiries to the man attending the swine and the man attending the goats, with the same answer in each case.)
when he came to the place where the monstrous beasts were standing, he did not stop nor run away, but went boldly through among them.
one came up roaring with open mouth to devour him, when he struck it with his wand, and laid it in an instant dead at his feet.
he soon came to the etin’s castle, where he knocked, and was admitted.
the auld woman that sat by the fire warned him of the terrible etin, and what had been the fate of the twa brithers; but he was not to be daunted.
the monster soon came in, saying:
“snouk but and snouk ben,   i find the smell of an earthly man;   be he living, or be he dead,   his heart shall be kitchen to my bread.”
he quickly espied the young man, and bade him come forth on the floor.
and then he put the three questions to him, but the young man had been told everything by the good fairy, so he was able to answer all the questions.
when the etin found this he knew that his power was gone.
the young man then took up the axe and hewed off the monster’s three heads.
he next asked the old woman to show him where the king’s daughters lay; and the old woman took him upstairs and opened a great many doors, and out of every door came a beautiful lady who had been imprisoned there by the etin; and ane o’ the ladies was the king’s daughter.
she also took him down into a low room, and there stood two stone pillars that he had only to touch wi’ his wand, when his two friends and neighbors started into life.
and the hale o’ the prisoners were overjoyed at their deliverance, which they all acknowledged to be owing to the prudent young man.
next day they a’ set out for the king’s court, and a gallant company they made.
and the king married his daughter to the young man that had delivered her, and gave a noble’s daughter to ilk ane o’ the other young men; and so they a’ lived happily a’ the rest o’ their days.
(1)
the adventures of pinocchio
chapter 1
how it happened that mastro cherry, carpenter, found a piece of wood that wept and laughed like a child.
centuries ago there lived
“a king!” my little readers will say immediately.
no, children, you are mistaken.
once upon a time there was a piece of wood.
it was not an expensive piece of wood.
far from it.
just a common block of firewood, one of those thick, solid logs that are put on the fire in winter to make cold rooms cozy and warm.
i do not know how this really happened, yet the fact remains that one fine day this piece of wood found itself in the shop of an old carpenter.
his real name was mastro antonio, but everyone called him mastro cherry, for the tip of his nose was so round and red and shiny that it looked like a ripe cherry.
as soon as he saw that piece of wood, mastro cherry was filled with joy.
rubbing his hands together happily, he mumbled half to himself:
“this has come in the nick of time.
i shall use it to make the leg of a table.”
he grasped the hatchet quickly to peel off the bark and shape the wood.
but as he was about to give it the first blow, he stood still with arm uplifted, for he had heard a wee, little voice say in a beseeching tone:
“please be careful!
do not hit me so hard!”
what a look of surprise shone on mastro cherry’s face!
his funny face became still funnier.
he turned frightened eyes about the room to find out where that wee, little voice had come from and he saw no one!
he looked under the bench no one!
he peeped inside the closet no one!
he searched among the shavings no one!
he opened the door to look up and down the street and still no one!
“oh, i see!” he then said, laughing and scratching his wig.
“it can easily be seen that i only thought i heard the tiny voice say the words!
well, well to work once more.”
he struck a most solemn blow upon the piece of wood.
“oh, oh!
you hurt!” cried the same far-away little voice.
mastro cherry grew dumb, his eyes popped out of his head, his mouth opened wide, and his tongue hung down on his chin.
as soon as he regained the use of his senses, he said, trembling and stuttering from fright:
“where did that voice come from, when there is no one around?
might it be that this piece of wood has learned to weep and cry like a child?
i can hardly believe it.
here it is a piece of common firewood, good only to burn in the stove, the same as any other.
yet might someone be hidden in it?
if so, the worse for him.
i’ll fix him!”
with these words, he grabbed the log with both hands and started to knock it about unmercifully.
he threw it to the floor, against the walls of the room, and even up to the ceiling.
he listened for the tiny voice to moan and cry.
he waited two minutes nothing; five minutes nothing; ten minutes nothing.
“oh, i see,” he said, trying bravely to laugh and ruffling up his wig with his hand.
“it can easily be seen i only imagined i heard the tiny voice!
well, well to work once more!”
the poor fellow was scared half to death, so he tried to sing a gay song in order to gain courage.
he set aside the hatchet and picked up the plane to make the wood smooth and even, but as he drew it to and fro, he heard the same tiny voice.
this time it giggled as it spoke:
“stop it!
oh, stop it!
ha, ha, ha!
you tickle my stomach.”
this time poor mastro cherry fell as if shot.
when he opened his eyes, he found himself sitting on the floor.
his face had changed; fright had turned even the tip of his nose from red to deepest purple.
chapter 2
mastro cherry gives the piece of wood to his friend geppetto, who takes it to make himself a marionette that will dance, fence, and turn somersaults.
in that very instant, a loud knock sounded on the door.
“come in,” said the carpenter, not having an atom of strength left with which to stand up.
at the words, the door opened and a dapper little old man came in.
his name was geppetto, but to the boys of the neighborhood he was polendina,* on account of the wig he always wore which was just the color of yellow corn.
* cornmeal mush
geppetto had a very bad temper.
woe to the one who called him polendina!
he became as wild as a beast and no one could soothe him.
“good day, mastro antonio,” said geppetto.
“what are you doing on the floor?”
“i am teaching the ants their a b c’s.”
“good luck to you!”
“what brought you here, friend geppetto?”
“my legs.
and it may flatter you to know, mastro antonio, that i have come to you to beg for a favor.”
“here i am, at your service,” answered the carpenter, raising himself on to his knees.
“this morning a fine idea came to me.”
“let’s hear it.”
“i thought of making myself a beautiful wooden marionette.
it must be wonderful, one that will be able to dance, fence, and turn somersaults.
with it i intend to go around the world, to earn my crust of bread and cup of wine.
what do you think of it?”
“bravo, polendina!” cried the same tiny voice which came from no one knew where.
on hearing himself called polendina, mastro geppetto turned the color of a red pepper and, facing the carpenter, said to him angrily:
“why do you insult me?”
“who is insulting you?”
“you called me polendina.”
“i did not.”
“i suppose you think i did!
yet i know it was you.”
“no!”
“yes!”
“no!”
“yes!”
and growing angrier each moment, they went from words to blows, and finally began to scratch and bite and slap each other.
when the fight was over, mastro antonio had geppetto’s yellow wig in his hands and geppetto found the carpenter’s curly wig in his mouth.
“give me back my wig!” shouted mastro antonio in a surly voice.
“you return mine and we’ll be friends.”
the two little old men, each with his own wig back on his own head, shook hands and swore to be good friends for the rest of their lives.
“well then, mastro geppetto,” said the carpenter, to show he bore him no ill will, “what is it you want?”
“i want a piece of wood to make a marionette.
will you give it to me?”
mastro antonio, very glad indeed, went immediately to his bench to get the piece of wood which had frightened him so much.
but as he was about to give it to his friend, with a violent jerk it slipped out of his hands and hit against poor geppetto’s thin legs.
“ah!
is this the gentle way, mastro antonio, in which you make your gifts?
you have made me almost lame!”
“i swear to you i did not do it!”
“it was i, of course!”
“it’s the fault of this piece of wood.”
“you’re right; but remember you were the one to throw it at my legs.”
“i did not throw it!”
“liar!”
“geppetto, do not insult me or i shall call you polendina.”
“idiot.”
“polendina!”
“donkey!”
“polendina!”
“ugly monkey!”
“polendina!”
on hearing himself called polendina for the third time, geppetto lost his head with rage and threw himself upon the carpenter.
then and there they gave each other a sound thrashing.
after this fight, mastro antonio had two more scratches on his nose, and geppetto had two buttons missing from his coat.
thus having settled their accounts, they shook hands and swore to be good friends for the rest of their lives.
then geppetto took the fine piece of wood, thanked mastro antonio, and limped away toward home.
chapter 3
as soon as he gets home, geppetto fashions the marionette and calls it pinocchio.
the first pranks  of the marionette.
little as geppetto’s house was, it was neat and comfortable.
it was a small room on the ground floor, with a tiny window under the stairway.
the furniture could not have been much simpler: a very old chair, a rickety old bed, and a tumble-down table.
a fireplace full of burning logs was painted on the wall opposite the door.
over the fire, there was painted a pot full of something which kept boiling happily away and sending up clouds of what looked like real steam.
as soon as he reached home, geppetto took his tools and began to cut and shape the wood into a marionette.
“what shall i call him?” he said to himself.
“i think i’ll call him pinocchio.
this name will make his fortune.
i knew a whole family of pinocchi once pinocchio the father, pinocchia the mother, and pinocchi the children and they were all lucky.
the richest of them begged for his living.”
after choosing the name for his marionette, geppetto set seriously to work to make the hair, the forehead, the eyes.
fancy his surprise when he noticed that these eyes moved and then stared fixedly at him.
geppetto, seeing this, felt insulted and said in a grieved tone:
“ugly wooden eyes, why do you stare so?”
there was no answer.
after the eyes, geppetto made the nose, which began to stretch as soon as finished.
it stretched and stretched and stretched till it became so long, it seemed endless.
poor geppetto kept cutting it and cutting it, but the more he cut, the longer grew that impertinent nose.
in despair he let it alone.
next he made the mouth.
no sooner was it finished than it began to laugh and poke fun at him.
“stop laughing!” said geppetto angrily; but he might as well have spoken to the wall.
“stop laughing, i say!” he roared in a voice of thunder.
the mouth stopped laughing, but it stuck out a long tongue.
not wishing to start an argument, geppetto made believe he saw nothing and went on with his work.
after the mouth, he made the chin, then the neck, the shoulders, the stomach, the arms, and the hands.
as he was about to put the last touches on the finger tips, geppetto felt his wig being pulled off.
he glanced up and what did he see?
his yellow wig was in the marionette’s hand.
“pinocchio, give me my wig!”
but instead of giving it back, pinocchio put it on his own head, which was half swallowed up in it.
at that unexpected trick, geppetto became very sad and downcast, more so than he had ever been before.
“pinocchio, you wicked boy!” he cried out.
“you are not yet finished, and you start out by being impudent to your poor old father.
very bad, my son, very bad!”
and he wiped away a tear.
the legs and feet still had to be made.
as soon as they were done, geppetto felt a sharp kick on the tip of his nose.
“i deserve it!” he said to himself.
“i should have thought of this before i made him.
now it’s too late!”
he took hold of the marionette under the arms and put him on the floor to teach him to walk.
pinocchio’s legs were so stiff that he could not move them, and geppetto held his hand and showed him how to put out one foot after the other.
when his legs were limbered up, pinocchio started walking by himself and ran all around the room.
he came to the open door, and with one leap he was out into the street.
away he flew!
poor geppetto ran after him but was unable to catch him, for pinocchio ran in leaps and bounds, his two wooden feet, as they beat on the stones of the street, making as much noise as twenty peasants in wooden shoes.
“catch him!
catch him!” geppetto kept shouting.
but the people in the street, seeing a wooden marionette running like the wind, stood still to stare and to laugh until they cried.
at last, by sheer luck, a carabineer* happened along, who, hearing all that noise, thought that it might be a runaway colt, and stood bravely in the middle of the street, with legs wide apart, firmly resolved to stop it and prevent any trouble.
* a military policeman
pinocchio saw the carabineer from afar and tried his best to escape between the legs of the big fellow, but without success.
the carabineer grabbed him by the nose (it was an extremely long one and seemed made on purpose for that very thing) and returned him to mastro geppetto.
the little old man wanted to pull pinocchio’s ears.
think how he felt when, upon searching for them, he discovered that he had forgotten to make them!
all he could do was to seize pinocchio by the back of the neck and take him home.
as he was doing so, he shook him two or three times and said to him angrily:
“we’re going home now.
when we get home, then we’ll settle this matter!”
pinocchio, on hearing this, threw himself on the ground and refused to take another step.
one person after another gathered around the two.
some said one thing, some another.
“poor marionette,” called out a man.
“i am not surprised he doesn’t want to go home.
geppetto, no doubt, will beat him unmercifully, he is so mean and cruel!”
“geppetto looks like a good man,” added another, “but with boys he’s a real tyrant.
if we leave that poor marionette in his hands he may tear him to pieces!”
they said so much that, finally, the carabineer ended matters by setting pinocchio at liberty and dragging geppetto to prison.
the poor old fellow did not know how to defend himself, but wept and wailed like a child and said between his sobs:
“ungrateful boy!
to think i tried so hard to make you a well-behaved marionette!
i deserve it, however!
i should have given the matter more thought.”
what happened after this is an almost unbelievable story, but you may read it, dear children, in the chapters that follow.
chapter 4
the story of pinocchio and the talking cricket, in which one sees that bad children do not like to be corrected by those who know more than they do.
very little time did it take to get poor old geppetto to prison.
in the meantime that rascal, pinocchio, free now from the clutches of the carabineer, was running wildly across fields and meadows, taking one short cut after another toward home.
in his wild flight, he leaped over brambles and bushes, and across brooks and ponds, as if he were a goat or a hare chased by hounds.
on reaching home, he found the house door half open.
he slipped into the room, locked the door, and threw himself on the floor, happy at his escape.
but his happiness lasted only a short time, for just then he heard someone saying:
“cri-cri-cri!”
“who is calling me?” asked pinocchio, greatly frightened.
“i am!”
pinocchio turned and saw a large cricket crawling slowly up the wall.
“tell me, cricket, who are you?”
“i am the talking cricket and i have been living in this room for more than one hundred years.”
“today, however, this room is mine,” said the marionette, “and if you wish to do me a favor, get out now, and don’t turn around even once.”
“i refuse to leave this spot,” answered the cricket, “until i have told you a great truth.”
“tell it, then, and hurry.”
“woe to boys who refuse to obey their parents and run away from home!
they will never be happy in this world, and when they are older they will be very sorry for it.”
“sing on, cricket mine, as you please.
what i know is, that tomorrow, at dawn, i leave this place forever.
if i stay here the same thing will happen to me which happens to all other boys and girls.
they are sent to school, and whether they want to or not, they must study.
as for me, let me tell you, i hate to study!
it’s much more fun, i think, to chase after butterflies, climb trees, and steal birds’ nests.”
“poor little silly!
don’t you know that if you go on like that, you will grow into a perfect donkey and that you’ll be the laughingstock of everyone?”
“keep still, you ugly cricket!” cried pinocchio.
but the cricket, who was a wise old philosopher, instead of being offended at pinocchio’s impudence, continued in the same tone:
“if you do not like going to school, why don’t you at least learn a trade, so that you can earn an honest living?”
“shall i tell you something?” asked pinocchio, who was beginning to lose patience.
“of all the trades in the world, there is only one that really suits me.”
“and what can that be?”
“that of eating, drinking, sleeping, playing, and wandering around from morning till night.”
“let me tell you, for your own good, pinocchio,” said the talking cricket in his calm voice, “that those who follow that trade always end up in the hospital or in prison.”
“careful, ugly cricket!
if you make me angry, you’ll be sorry!”
“poor pinocchio, i am sorry for you.”
“why?”
“because you are a marionette and, what is much worse, you have a wooden head.”
at these last words, pinocchio jumped up in a fury, took a hammer from the bench, and threw it with all his strength at the talking cricket.
perhaps he did not think he would strike it.
but, sad to relate, my dear children, he did hit the cricket, straight on its head.
with a last weak “cri-cri-cri” the poor cricket fell from the wall, dead!
chapter 5
pinocchio is hungry and looks for an egg to cook himself an omelet; but, to his surprise, the omelet flies out of the window.
if the cricket’s death scared pinocchio at all, it was only for a very few moments.
for, as night came on, a queer, empty feeling at the pit of his stomach reminded the marionette that he had eaten nothing as yet.
a boy’s appetite grows very fast, and in a few moments the queer, empty feeling had become hunger, and the hunger grew bigger and bigger, until soon he was as ravenous as a bear.
poor pinocchio ran to the fireplace where the pot was boiling and stretched out his hand to take the cover off, but to his amazement the pot was only painted!
think how he felt!
his long nose became at least two inches longer.
he ran about the room, dug in all the boxes and drawers, and even looked under the bed in search of a piece of bread, hard though it might be, or a cookie, or perhaps a bit of fish.
a bone left by a dog would have tasted good to him!
but he found nothing.
and meanwhile his hunger grew and grew.
the only relief poor pinocchio had was to yawn; and he certainly did yawn, such a big yawn that his mouth stretched out to the tips of his ears.
soon he became dizzy and faint.
he wept and wailed to himself: “the talking cricket was right.
it was wrong of me to disobey father and to run away from home.
if he were here now, i wouldn’t be so hungry!
oh, how horrible it is to be hungry!”
suddenly, he saw, among the sweepings in a corner, something round and white that looked very much like a hen’s egg.
in a jiffy he pounced upon it.
it was an egg.
the marionette’s joy knew no bounds.
it is impossible to describe it, you must picture it to yourself.
certain that he was dreaming, he turned the egg over and over in his hands, fondled it, kissed it, and talked to it:
“and now, how shall i cook you?
shall i make an omelet?
no, it is better to fry you in a pan!
or shall i drink you?
no, the best way is to fry you in the pan.
you will taste better.”
no sooner said than done.
he placed a little pan over a foot warmer full of hot coals.
in the pan, instead of oil or butter, he poured a little water.
as soon as the water started to boil tac!
he broke the eggshell.
but in place of the white and the yolk of the egg, a little yellow chick, fluffy and gay and smiling, escaped from it.
bowing politely to pinocchio, he said to him:
“many, many thanks, indeed, mr. pinocchio, for having saved me the trouble of breaking my shell!
good-by and good luck to you and remember me to the family!”
with these words he spread out his wings and, darting to the open window, he flew away into space till he was out of sight.
the poor marionette stood as if turned to stone, with wide eyes, open mouth, and the empty halves of the egg-shell in his hands.
when he came to himself, he began to cry and shriek at the top of his lungs, stamping his feet on the ground and wailing all the while:
“the talking cricket was right!
if i had not run away from home and if father were here now, i should not be dying of hunger.
oh, how horrible it is to be hungry!”
and as his stomach kept grumbling more than ever and he had nothing to quiet it with, he thought of going out for a walk to the near-by village, in the hope of finding some charitable person who might give him a bit of bread.
chapter 6
pinocchio falls asleep with his feet on a foot warmer, and awakens the next day with his feet all burned off.
pinocchio hated the dark street, but he was so hungry that, in spite of it, he ran out of the house.
the night was pitch black.
it thundered, and bright flashes of lightning now and again shot across the sky, turning it into a sea of fire.
an angry wind blew cold and raised dense clouds of dust, while the trees shook and moaned in a weird way.
pinocchio was greatly afraid of thunder and lightning, but the hunger he felt was far greater than his fear.
in a dozen leaps and bounds, he came to the village, tired out, puffing like a whale, and with tongue hanging.
the whole village was dark and deserted.
the stores were closed, the doors, the windows.
in the streets, not even a dog could be seen.
it seemed the village of the dead.
pinocchio, in desperation, ran up to a doorway, threw himself upon the bell, and pulled it wildly, saying to himself: “someone will surely answer that!”
he was right.
an old man in a nightcap opened the window and looked out.
he called down angrily:
“what do you want at this hour of night?”
“will you be good enough to give me a bit of bread?
i am hungry.”
“wait a minute and i’ll come right back,” answered the old fellow, thinking he had to deal with one of those boys who love to roam around at night ringing people’s bells while they are peacefully asleep.
after a minute or two, the same voice cried:
“get under the window and hold out your hat!”
pinocchio had no hat, but he managed to get under the window just in time to feel a shower of ice-cold water pour down on his poor wooden head, his shoulders, and over his whole body.
he returned home as wet as a rag, and tired out from weariness and hunger.
as he no longer had any strength left with which to stand, he sat down on a little stool and put his two feet on the stove to dry them.
there he fell asleep, and while he slept, his wooden feet began to burn.
slowly, very slowly, they blackened and turned to ashes.
pinocchio snored away happily as if his feet were not his own.
at dawn he opened his eyes just as a loud knocking sounded at the door.
“who is it?” he called, yawning and rubbing his eyes.
“it is i,” answered a voice.
it was the voice of geppetto.
chapter 7
geppetto returns home and gives his own breakfast to the marionette
the poor marionette, who was still half asleep, had not yet found out that his two feet were burned and gone.
as soon as he heard his father’s voice, he jumped up from his seat to open the door, but, as he did so, he staggered and fell headlong to the floor.
in falling, he made as much noise as a sack of wood falling from the fifth story of a house.
“open the door for me!” geppetto shouted from the street.
“father, dear father, i can’t,” answered the marionette in despair, crying and rolling on the floor.
“why can’t you?”
“because someone has eaten my feet.”
“and who has eaten them?”
“the cat,” answered pinocchio, seeing that little animal busily playing with some shavings in the corner of the room.
“open!
i say,” repeated geppetto, “or i’ll give you a sound whipping when i get in.”
“father, believe me, i can’t stand up.
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
i shall have to walk on my knees all my life.”
geppetto, thinking that all these tears and cries were only other pranks of the marionette, climbed up the side of the house and went in through the window.
at first he was very angry, but on seeing pinocchio stretched out on the floor and really without feet, he felt very sad and sorrowful.
picking him up from the floor, he fondled and caressed him, talking to him while the tears ran down his cheeks:
“my little pinocchio, my dear little pinocchio!
how did you burn your feet?”
“i don’t know, father, but believe me, the night has been a terrible one and i shall remember it as long as i live.
the thunder was so noisy and the lightning so bright and i was hungry.
and then the talking cricket said to me, ‘you deserve it; you were bad;’ and i said to him, ‘careful, cricket;’ and he said to me, ‘you are a marionette and you have a wooden head;’ and i threw the hammer at him and killed him.
it was his own fault, for i didn’t want to kill him.
and i put the pan on the coals, but the chick flew away and said, ‘i’ll see you again!
remember me to the family.’ and my hunger grew, and i went out, and the old man with a nightcap looked out of the window and threw water on me, and i came home and put my feet on the stove to dry them because i was still hungry, and i fell asleep and now my feet are gone but my hunger isn’t!
oh!
oh!
oh!” and poor pinocchio began to scream and cry so loudly that he could be heard for miles around.
geppetto, who had understood nothing of all that jumbled talk, except that the marionette was hungry, felt sorry for him, and pulling three pears out of his pocket, offered them to him, saying:
“these three pears were for my breakfast, but i give them to you gladly.
eat them and stop weeping.”
“if you want me to eat them, please peel them for me.”
“peel them?” asked geppetto, very much surprised.
“i should never have thought, dear boy of mine, that you were so dainty and fussy about your food.
bad, very bad!
in this world, even as children, we must accustom ourselves to eat of everything, for we never know what life may hold in store for us!”
“you may be right,” answered pinocchio, “but i will not eat the pears if they are not peeled.
i don’t like them.”
and good old geppetto took out a knife, peeled the three pears, and put the skins in a row on the table.
pinocchio ate one pear in a twinkling and started to throw the core away, but geppetto held his arm.
“oh, no, don’t throw it away!
everything in this world may be of some use!”
“but the core i will not eat!” cried pinocchio in an angry tone.
“who knows?” repeated geppetto calmly.
and later the three cores were placed on the table next to the skins.
pinocchio had eaten the three pears, or rather devoured them.
then he yawned deeply, and wailed:
“i’m still hungry.”
“but i have no more to give you.”
“really, nothing nothing?”
“i have only these three cores and these skins.”
“very well, then,” said pinocchio, “if there is nothing else i’ll eat them.”
at first he made a wry face, but, one after another, the skins and the cores disappeared.
“ah!
now i feel fine!” he said after eating the last one.
“you see,” observed geppetto, “that i was right when i told you that one must not be too fussy and too dainty about food.
my dear, we never know what life may have in store for us!”
chapter 8
geppetto makes pinocchio a new pair of feet, and sells his coat to buy him an a-b-c book.
the marionette, as soon as his hunger was appeased, started to grumble and cry that he wanted a new pair of feet.
but mastro geppetto, in order to punish him for his mischief, let him alone the whole morning.
after dinner he said to him:
“why should i make your feet over again?
to see you run away from home once more?”
“i promise you,” answered the marionette, sobbing, “that from now on i’ll be good ”
“boys always promise that when they want something,” said geppetto.
“i promise to go to school every day, to study, and to succeed ”
“boys always sing that song when they want their own will.”
“but i am not like other boys!
i am better than all of them and i always tell the truth.
i promise you, father, that i’ll learn a trade, and i’ll be the comfort and staff of your old age.”
geppetto, though trying to look very stern, felt his eyes fill with tears and his heart soften when he saw pinocchio so unhappy.
he said no more, but taking his tools and two pieces of wood, he set to work diligently.
in less than an hour the feet were finished, two slender, nimble little feet, strong and quick, modeled as if by an artist’s hands.
“close your eyes and sleep!” geppetto then said to the marionette.
pinocchio closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep, while geppetto stuck on the two feet with a bit of glue melted in an eggshell, doing his work so well that the joint could hardly be seen.
as soon as the marionette felt his new feet, he gave one leap from the table and started to skip and jump around, as if he had lost his head from very joy.
“to show you how grateful i am to you, father, i’ll go to school now.
but to go to school i need a suit of clothes.”
geppetto did not have a penny in his pocket, so he made his son a little suit of flowered paper, a pair of shoes from the bark of a tree, and a tiny cap from a bit of dough.
pinocchio ran to look at himself in a bowl of water, and he felt so happy that he said proudly:
“now i look like a gentleman.”
“truly,” answered geppetto.
“but remember that fine clothes do not make the man unless they be neat and clean.”
“very true,” answered pinocchio, “but, in order to go to school, i still need something very important.”
“what is it?”
“an a-b-c book.”
“to be sure!
but how shall we get it?”
“that’s easy.
we’ll go to a bookstore and buy it.”
“and the money?”
“i have none.”
“neither have i,” said the old man sadly.
pinocchio, although a happy boy always, became sad and downcast at these words.
when poverty shows itself, even mischievous boys understand what it means.
“what does it matter, after all?” cried geppetto all at once, as he jumped up from his chair.
putting on his old coat, full of darns and patches, he ran out of the house without another word.
after a while he returned.
in his hands he had the a-b-c book for his son, but the old coat was gone.
the poor fellow was in his shirt sleeves and the day was cold.
“where’s your coat, father?”
“i have sold it.”
“why did you sell your coat?”
“it was too warm.”
pinocchio understood the answer in a twinkling, and, unable to restrain his tears, he jumped on his father’s neck and kissed him over and over.
chapter 9
pinocchio sells his a-b-c book to pay his way into the marionette theater.
see pinocchio hurrying off to school with his new a-b-c book under his arm!
as he walked along, his brain was busy planning hundreds of wonderful things, building hundreds of castles in the air.
talking to himself, he said:
“in school today, i’ll learn to read, tomorrow to write, and the day after tomorrow i’ll do arithmetic.
then, clever as i am, i can earn a lot of money.
with the very first pennies i make, i’ll buy father a new cloth coat.
cloth, did i say?
no, it shall be of gold and silver with diamond buttons.
that poor man certainly deserves it; for, after all, isn’t he in his shirt sleeves because he was good enough to buy a book for me?
on this cold day, too!
fathers are indeed good to their children!”
as he talked to himself, he thought he heard sounds of pipes and drums coming from a distance: pi-pi-pi, pi-pi-pi.
.
.zum, zum, zum, zum.
he stopped to listen.
those sounds came from a little street that led to a small village along the shore.
“what can that noise be?
what a nuisance that i have to go to school!
otherwise.
.
.”
there he stopped, very much puzzled.
he felt he had to make up his mind for either one thing or another.
should he go to school, or should he follow the pipes?
“today i’ll follow the pipes, and tomorrow i’ll go to school.
there’s always plenty of time to go to school,” decided the little rascal at last, shrugging his shoulders.
no sooner said than done.
he started down the street, going like the wind.
on he ran, and louder grew the sounds of pipe and drum: pi-pi-pi, pi-pi-pi, pi-pi-pi .
.
.zum, zum, zum, zum.
suddenly, he found himself in a large square, full of people standing in front of a little wooden building painted in brilliant colors.
“what is that house?” pinocchio asked a little boy near him.
“read the sign and you’ll know.”
“i’d like to read, but somehow i can’t today.”
“oh, really?
then i’ll read it to you.
know, then, that written in letters of fire i see the words: great marionette theater.
“when did the show start?”
“it is starting now.”
“and how much does one pay to get in?”
“four pennies.”
pinocchio, who was wild with curiosity to know what was going on inside, lost all his pride and said to the boy shamelessly:
“will you give me four pennies until tomorrow?”
“i’d give them to you gladly,” answered the other, poking fun at him, “but just now i can’t give them to you.”
“for the price of four pennies, i’ll sell you my coat.”
“if it rains, what shall i do with a coat of flowered paper?
i could not take it off again.”
“do you want to buy my shoes?”
“they are only good enough to light a fire with.”
“what about my hat?”
“fine bargain, indeed!
a cap of dough!
the mice might come and eat it from my head!”
pinocchio was almost in tears.
he was just about to make one last offer, but he lacked the courage to do so.
he hesitated, he wondered, he could not make up his mind.
at last he said:
“will you give me four pennies for the book?”
“i am a boy and i buy nothing from boys,” said the little fellow with far more common sense than the marionette.
“i’ll give you four pennies for your a-b-c book,” said a ragpicker who stood by.
then and there, the book changed hands.
and to think that poor old geppetto sat at home in his shirt sleeves, shivering with cold, having sold his coat to buy that little book for his son!
chapter 10
the marionettes recognize their brother pinocchio, and greet him with loud cheers; but the director, fire eater, happens along and poor pinocchio almost loses his life.
quick as a flash, pinocchio disappeared into the marionette theater.
and then something happened which almost caused a riot.
the curtain was up and the performance had started.
harlequin and pulcinella were reciting on the stage and, as usual, they were threatening each other with sticks and blows.
the theater was full of people, enjoying the spectacle and laughing till they cried at the antics of the two marionettes.
the play continued for a few minutes, and then suddenly, without any warning, harlequin stopped talking.
turning toward the audience, he pointed to the rear of the orchestra, yelling wildly at the same time:
“look, look!
am i asleep or awake?
or do i really see pinocchio there?”
“yes, yes!
it is pinocchio!” screamed pulcinella.
“it is!
it is!” shrieked signora rosaura, peeking in from the side of the stage.
“it is pinocchio!
it is pinocchio!” yelled all the marionettes, pouring out of the wings.
“it is pinocchio.
it is our brother pinocchio!
hurrah for pinocchio!”
“pinocchio, come up to me!” shouted harlequin.
“come to the arms of your wooden brothers!”
at such a loving invitation, pinocchio, with one leap from the back of the orchestra, found himself in the front rows.
with another leap, he was on the orchestra leader’s head.
with a third, he landed on the stage.
it is impossible to describe the shrieks of joy, the warm embraces, the knocks, and the friendly greetings with which that strange company of dramatic actors and actresses received pinocchio.
it was a heart-rending spectacle, but the audience, seeing that the play had stopped, became angry and began to yell:
“the play, the play, we want the play!”
the yelling was of no use, for the marionettes, instead of going on with their act, made twice as much racket as before, and, lifting up pinocchio on their shoulders, carried him around the stage in triumph.
at that very moment, the director came out of his room.
he had such a fearful appearance that one look at him would fill you with horror.
his beard was as black as pitch, and so long that it reached from his chin down to his feet.
his mouth was as wide as an oven, his teeth like yellow fangs, and his eyes, two glowing red coals.
in his huge, hairy hands, a long whip, made of green snakes and black cats’ tails twisted together, swished through the air in a dangerous way.
at the unexpected apparition, no one dared even to breathe.
one could almost hear a fly go by.
those poor marionettes, one and all, trembled like leaves in a storm.
“why have you brought such excitement into my theater;” the huge fellow asked pinocchio with the voice of an ogre suffering with a cold.
“believe me, your honor, the fault was not mine.”
“enough!
be quiet!
i’ll take care of you later.”
as soon as the play was over, the director went to the kitchen, where a fine big lamb was slowly turning on the spit.
more wood was needed to finish cooking it.
he called harlequin and pulcinella and said to them:
“bring that marionette to me!
he looks as if he were made of well-seasoned wood.
he’ll make a fine fire for this spit.”
harlequin and pulcinella hesitated a bit.
then, frightened by a look from their master, they left the kitchen to obey him.
a few minutes later they returned, carrying poor pinocchio, who was wriggling and squirming like an eel and crying pitifully:
“father, save me!
i don’t want to die!
i don’t want to die!”
chapter 11
fire eater sneezes and forgives pinocchio, who saves his friend, harlequin, from death.
in the theater, great excitement reigned.
fire eater (this was really his name) was very ugly, but he was far from being as bad as he looked.
proof of this is that, when he saw the poor marionette being brought in to him, struggling with fear and crying, “i don’t want to die!
i don’t want to die!” he felt sorry for him and began first to waver and then to weaken.
finally, he could control himself no longer and gave a loud sneeze.
at that sneeze, harlequin, who until then had been as sad as a weeping willow, smiled happily and leaning toward the marionette, whispered to him:
“good news, brother mine!
fire eater has sneezed and this is a sign that he feels sorry for you.
you are saved!”
for be it known, that, while other people, when sad and sorrowful, weep and wipe their eyes, fire eater, on the other hand, had the strange habit of sneezing each time he felt unhappy.
the way was just as good as any other to show the kindness of his heart.
after sneezing, fire eater, ugly as ever, cried to pinocchio:
“stop crying!
your wails give me a funny feeling down here in my stomach and e tchee!
e tchee!” two loud sneezes finished his speech.
“god bless you!” said pinocchio.
“thanks!
are your father and mother still living?” demanded fire eater.
“my father, yes.
my mother i have never known.”
“your poor father would suffer terribly if i were to use you as firewood.
poor old man!
i feel sorry for him!
e tchee!
e tchee!
e tchee!” three more sneezes sounded, louder than ever.
“god bless you!” said pinocchio.
“thanks!
however, i ought to be sorry for myself, too, just now.
my good dinner is spoiled.
i have no more wood for the fire, and the lamb is only half cooked.
never mind!
in your place i’ll burn some other marionette.
hey there!
officers!”
at the call, two wooden officers appeared, long and thin as a yard of rope, with queer hats on their heads and swords in their hands.
fire eater yelled at them in a hoarse voice:
“take harlequin, tie him, and throw him on the fire.
i want my lamb well done!”
think how poor harlequin felt!
he was so scared that his legs doubled up under him and he fell to the floor.
pinocchio, at that heartbreaking sight, threw himself at the feet of fire eater and, weeping bitterly, asked in a pitiful voice which could scarcely be heard:
“have pity, i beg of you, signore!”
“there are no signori here!”
“have pity, kind sir!”
“there are no sirs here!”
“have pity, your excellency!”
on hearing himself addressed as your excellency, the director of the marionette theater sat up very straight in his chair, stroked his long beard, and becoming suddenly kind and compassionate, smiled proudly as he said to pinocchio:
“well, what do you want from me now, marionette?”
“i beg for mercy for my poor friend, harlequin, who has never done the least harm in his life.”
“there is no mercy here, pinocchio.
i have spared you.
harlequin must burn in your place.
i am hungry and my dinner must be cooked.”
“in that case,” said pinocchio proudly, as he stood up and flung away his cap of dough, “in that case, my duty is clear.
come, officers!
tie me up and throw me on those flames.
no, it is not fair for poor harlequin, the best friend that i have in the world, to die in my place!”
these brave words, said in a piercing voice, made all the other marionettes cry.
even the officers, who were made of wood also, cried like two babies.
fire eater at first remained hard and cold as a piece of ice; but then, little by little, he softened and began to sneeze.
and after four or five sneezes, he opened wide his arms and said to pinocchio:
“you are a brave boy!
come to my arms and kiss me!”
pinocchio ran to him and scurrying like a squirrel up the long black beard, he gave fire eater a loving kiss on the tip of his nose.
“has pardon been granted to me?” asked poor harlequin with a voice that was hardly a breath.
“pardon is yours!” answered fire eater; and sighing and wagging his head, he added: “well, tonight i shall have to eat my lamb only half cooked, but beware the next time, marionettes.”
at the news that pardon had been given, the marionettes ran to the stage and, turning on all the lights, they danced and sang till dawn.
chapter 12
fire eater gives pinocchio five gold pieces for his father, geppetto; but the marionette meets a fox and a cat and follows them.
the next day fire eater called pinocchio aside and asked him:
“what is your father’s name?”
“geppetto.”
“and what is his trade?”
“he’s a wood carver.”
“does he earn much?”
“he earns so much that he never has a penny in his pockets.
just think that, in order to buy me an a-b-c book for school, he had to sell the only coat he owned, a coat so full of darns and patches that it was a pity.”
“poor fellow!
i feel sorry for him.
here, take these five gold pieces.
go, give them to him with my kindest regards.”
pinocchio, as may easily be imagined, thanked him a thousand times.
he kissed each marionette in turn, even the officers, and, beside himself with joy, set out on his homeward journey.
he had gone barely half a mile when he met a lame fox and a blind cat, walking together like two good friends.
the lame fox leaned on the cat, and the blind cat let the fox lead him along.
“good morning, pinocchio,” said the fox, greeting him courteously.
“how do you know my name?” asked the marionette.
“i know your father well.”
“where have you seen him?”
“i saw him yesterday standing at the door of his house.”
“and what was he doing?”
“he was in his shirt sleeves trembling with cold.”
“poor father!
but, after today, god willing, he will suffer no longer.”
“why?”
“because i have become a rich man.”
“you, a rich man?” said the fox, and he began to laugh out loud.
the cat was laughing also, but tried to hide it by stroking his long whiskers.
“there is nothing to laugh at,” cried pinocchio angrily.
“i am very sorry to make your mouth water, but these, as you know, are five new gold pieces.”
and he pulled out the gold pieces which fire eater had given him.
at the cheerful tinkle of the gold, the fox unconsciously held out his paw that was supposed to be lame, and the cat opened wide his two eyes till they looked like live coals, but he closed them again so quickly that pinocchio did not notice.
“and may i ask,” inquired the fox, “what you are going to do with all that money?”
“first of all,” answered the marionette, “i want to buy a fine new coat for my father, a coat of gold and silver with diamond buttons; after that, i’ll buy an a-b-c book for myself.”
“for yourself?”
“for myself.
i want to go to school and study hard.”
“look at me,” said the fox.
“for the silly reason of wanting to study, i have lost a paw.”
“look at me,” said the cat.
“for the same foolish reason, i have lost the sight of both eyes.”
at that moment, a blackbird, perched on the fence along the road, called out sharp and clear:
“pinocchio, do not listen to bad advice.
if you do, you’ll be sorry!”
poor little blackbird!
if he had only kept his words to himself!
in the twinkling of an eyelid, the cat leaped on him, and ate him, feathers and all.
after eating the bird, he cleaned his whiskers, closed his eyes, and became blind once more.
“poor blackbird!” said pinocchio to the cat.
“why did you kill him?”
“i killed him to teach him a lesson.
he talks too much.
next time he will keep his words to himself.”
by this time the three companions had walked a long distance.
suddenly, the fox stopped in his tracks and, turning to the marionette, said to him:
“do you want to double your gold pieces?”
“what do you mean?”
“do you want one hundred, a thousand, two thousand gold pieces for your miserable five?”
“yes, but how?”
“the way is very easy.
instead of returning home, come with us.”
“and where will you take me?”
“to the city of simple simons.”
pinocchio thought a while and then said firmly:
“no, i don’t want to go.
home is near, and i’m going where father is waiting for me.
how unhappy he must be that i have not yet returned!
i have been a bad son, and the talking cricket was right when he said that a disobedient boy cannot be happy in this world.
i have learned this at my own expense.
even last night in the theater, when fire eater.
.
.
brrrr!!!!!
.
.
.
the shivers run up and down my back at the mere thought of it.”
“well, then,” said the fox, “if you really want to go home, go ahead, but you’ll be sorry.”
“you’ll be sorry,” repeated the cat.
“think well, pinocchio, you are turning your back on dame fortune.”
“on dame fortune,” repeated the cat.
“tomorrow your five gold pieces will be two thousand!”
“two thousand!” repeated the cat.
“but how can they possibly become so many?” asked pinocchio wonderingly.
“i’ll explain,” said the fox.
“you must know that, just outside the city of simple simons, there is a blessed field called the field of wonders.
in this field you dig a hole and in the hole you bury a gold piece.
after covering up the hole with earth you water it well, sprinkle a bit of salt on it, and go to bed.
during the night, the gold piece sprouts, grows, blossoms, and next morning you find a beautiful tree, that is loaded with gold pieces.”
“so that if i were to bury my five gold pieces,” cried pinocchio with growing wonder, “next morning i should find how many?”
“it is very simple to figure out,” answered the fox.
“why, you can figure it on your fingers!
granted that each piece gives you five hundred, multiply five hundred by five.
next morning you will find twenty-five hundred new, sparkling gold pieces.”
“fine!
fine!” cried pinocchio, dancing about with joy.
“and as soon as i have them, i shall keep two thousand for myself and the other five hundred i’ll give to you two.”
“a gift for us?” cried the fox, pretending to be insulted.
“why, of course not!”
“of course not!” repeated the cat.
“we do not work for gain,” answered the fox.
“we work only to enrich others.”
“to enrich others!” repeated the cat.
“what good people,” thought pinocchio to himself.
and forgetting his father, the new coat, the a-b-c book, and all his good resolutions, he said to the fox and to the cat:
“let us go.
i am with you.”
chapter 13
the inn of the red lobster
cat and fox and marionette walked and walked and walked.
at last, toward evening, dead tired, they came to the inn of the red lobster.
“let us stop here a while,” said the fox, “to eat a bite and rest for a few hours.
at midnight we’ll start out again, for at dawn tomorrow we must be at the field of wonders.”
they went into the inn and all three sat down at the same table.
however, not one of them was very hungry.
the poor cat felt very weak, and he was able to eat only thirty-five mullets with tomato sauce and four portions of tripe with cheese.
moreover, as he was so in need of strength, he had to have four more helpings of butter and cheese.
the fox, after a great deal of coaxing, tried his best to eat a little.
the doctor had put him on a diet, and he had to be satisfied with a small hare dressed with a dozen young and tender spring chickens.
after the hare, he ordered some partridges, a few pheasants, a couple of rabbits, and a dozen frogs and lizards.
that was all.
he felt ill, he said, and could not eat another bite.
pinocchio ate least of all.
he asked for a bite of bread and a few nuts and then hardly touched them.
the poor fellow, with his mind on the field of wonders, was suffering from a gold-piece indigestion.
supper over, the fox said to the innkeeper:
“give us two good rooms, one for mr. pinocchio and the other for me and my friend.
before starting out, we’ll take a little nap.
remember to call us at midnight sharp, for we must continue on our journey.”
“yes, sir,” answered the innkeeper, winking in a knowing way at the fox and the cat, as if to say, “i understand.”
as soon as pinocchio was in bed, he fell fast asleep and began to dream.
he dreamed he was in the middle of a field.
the field was full of vines heavy with grapes.
the grapes were no other than gold coins which tinkled merrily as they swayed in the wind.
they seemed to say, “let him who wants us take us!”
just as pinocchio stretched out his hand to take a handful of them, he was awakened by three loud knocks at the door.
it was the innkeeper who had come to tell him that midnight had struck.
“are my friends ready?” the marionette asked him.
“indeed, yes!
they went two hours ago.”
“why in such a hurry?”
“unfortunately the cat received a telegram which said that his first-born was suffering from chilblains and was on the point of death.
he could not even wait to say good-by to you.”
“did they pay for the supper?”
“how could they do such a thing?
being people of great refinement, they did not want to offend you so deeply as not to allow you the honor of paying the bill.”
“too bad!
that offense would have been more than pleasing to me,” said pinocchio, scratching his head.
“where did my good friends say they would wait for me?” he added.
“at the field of wonders, at sunrise tomorrow morning.”
pinocchio paid a gold piece for the three suppers and started on his way toward the field that was to make him a rich man.
he walked on, not knowing where he was going, for it was dark, so dark that not a thing was visible.
round about him, not a leaf stirred.
a few bats skimmed his nose now and again and scared him half to death.
once or twice he shouted, “who goes there?” and the far-away hills echoed back to him, “who goes there?
who goes there?
who goes.
.
.
?”
as he walked, pinocchio noticed a tiny insect glimmering on the trunk of a tree, a small being that glowed with a pale, soft light.
“who are you?” he asked.
“i am the ghost of the talking cricket,” answered the little being in a faint voice that sounded as if it came from a far-away world.
“what do you want?” asked the marionette.
“i want to give you a few words of good advice.
return home and give the four gold pieces you have left to your poor old father who is weeping because he has not seen you for many a day.”
“tomorrow my father will be a rich man, for these four gold pieces will become two thousand.”
“don’t listen to those who promise you wealth overnight, my boy.
as a rule they are either fools or swindlers!
listen to me and go home.”
“but i want to go on!”
“the hour is late!”
“i want to go on.”
“the night is very dark.”
“i want to go on.”
“the road is dangerous.”
“i want to go on.”
“remember that boys who insist on having their own way, sooner or later come to grief.”
“the same nonsense.
good-by, cricket.”
“good night, pinocchio, and may heaven preserve you from the assassins.”
there was silence for a minute and the light of the talking cricket disappeared suddenly, just as if someone had snuffed it out.
once again the road was plunged in darkness.
chapter 14
pinocchio, not having listened to the good advice of the talking cricket, falls into the hands of the assassins.
“dear, oh, dear!
when i come to think of it,” said the marionette to himself, as he once more set out on his journey, “we boys are really very unlucky.
everybody scolds us, everybody gives us advice, everybody warns us.
if we were to allow it, everyone would try to be father and mother to us; everyone, even the talking cricket.
take me, for example.
just because i would not listen to that bothersome cricket, who knows how many misfortunes may be awaiting me!
assassins indeed!
at least i have never believed in them, nor ever will.
to speak sensibly, i think assassins have been invented by fathers and mothers to frighten children who want to run away at night.
and then, even if i were to meet them on the road, what matter?
i’ll just run up to them, and say, ‘well, signori, what do you want?
remember that you can’t fool with me!
run along and mind your business.’ at such a speech, i can almost see those poor fellows running like the wind.
but in case they don’t run away, i can always run myself.
.
.”
pinocchio was not given time to argue any longer, for he thought he heard a slight rustle among the leaves behind him.
he turned to look and behold, there in the darkness stood two big black shadows, wrapped from head to foot in black sacks.
the two figures leaped toward him as softly as if they were ghosts.
“here they come!” pinocchio said to himself, and, not knowing where to hide the gold pieces, he stuck all four of them under his tongue.
he tried to run away, but hardly had he taken a step, when he felt his arms grasped and heard two horrible, deep voices say to him: “your money or your life!”
on account of the gold pieces in his mouth, pinocchio could not say a word, so he tried with head and hands and body to show, as best he could, that he was only a poor marionette without a penny in his pocket.
“come, come, less nonsense, and out with your money!” cried the two thieves in threatening voices.
once more, pinocchio’s head and hands said, “i haven’t a penny.”
“out with that money or you’re a dead man,” said the taller of the two assassins.
“dead man,” repeated the other.
“and after having killed you, we will kill your father also.”
“your father also!”
“no, no, no, not my father!” cried pinocchio, wild with terror; but as he screamed, the gold pieces tinkled together in his mouth.
“ah, you rascal!
so that’s the game!
you have the money hidden under your tongue.
out with it!”
but pinocchio was as stubborn as ever.
“are you deaf?
wait, young man, we’ll get it from you in a twinkling!”
one of them grabbed the marionette by the nose and the other by the chin, and they pulled him unmercifully from side to side in order to make him open his mouth.
all was of no use.
the marionette’s lips might have been nailed together.
they would not open.
in desperation the smaller of the two assassins pulled out a long knife from his pocket, and tried to pry pinocchio’s mouth open with it.
quick as a flash, the marionette sank his teeth deep into the assassin’s hand, bit it off and spat it out.
fancy his surprise when he saw that it was not a hand, but a cat’s paw.
encouraged by this first victory, he freed himself from the claws of his assailers and, leaping over the bushes along the road, ran swiftly across the fields.
his pursuers were after him at once, like two dogs chasing a hare.
after running seven miles or so, pinocchio was well-nigh exhausted.
seeing himself lost, he climbed up a giant pine tree and sat there to see what he could see.
the assassins tried to climb also, but they slipped and fell.
far from giving up the chase, this only spurred them on.
they gathered a bundle of wood, piled it up at the foot of the pine, and set fire to it.
in a twinkling the tree began to sputter and burn like a candle blown by the wind.
pinocchio saw the flames climb higher and higher.
not wishing to end his days as a roasted marionette, he jumped quickly to the ground and off he went, the assassins close to him, as before.
dawn was breaking when, without any warning whatsoever, pinocchio found his path barred by a deep pool full of water the color of muddy coffee.
what was there to do?
with a “one, two, three!” he jumped clear across it.
the assassins jumped also, but not having measured their distance well splash!!!
they fell right into the middle of the pool.
pinocchio who heard the splash and felt it, too, cried out, laughing, but never stopping in his race:
“a pleasant bath to you, signori!”
he thought they must surely be drowned and turned his head to see.
but there were the two somber figures still following him, though their black sacks were drenched and dripping with water.
chapter 15
the assassins chase pinocchio, catch him, and hang him to the branch of a giant oak tree.
as he ran, the marionette felt more and more certain that he would have to give himself up into the hands of his pursuers.
suddenly he saw a little cottage gleaming white as the snow among the trees of the forest.
“if i have enough breath left with which to reach that little house, i may be saved,” he said to himself.
not waiting another moment, he darted swiftly through the woods, the assassins still after him.
after a hard race of almost an hour, tired and out of breath, pinocchio finally reached the door of the cottage and knocked.
no one answered.
he knocked again, harder than before, for behind him he heard the steps and the labored breathing of his persecutors.
the same silence followed.
as knocking was of no use, pinocchio, in despair, began to kick and bang against the door, as if he wanted to break it.
at the noise, a window opened and a lovely maiden looked out.
she had azure hair and a face white as wax.
her eyes were closed and her hands crossed on her breast.
with a voice so weak that it hardly could be heard, she whispered:
“no one lives in this house.
everyone is dead.”
“won’t you, at least, open the door for me?” cried pinocchio in a beseeching voice.
“i also am dead.”
“dead?
what are you doing at the window, then?”
“i am waiting for the coffin to take me away.”
after these words, the little girl disappeared and the window closed without a sound.
“oh, lovely maiden with azure hair,” cried pinocchio, “open, i beg of you.
take pity on a poor boy who is being chased by two assass ”
he did not finish, for two powerful hands grasped him by the neck and the same two horrible voices growled threateningly: “now we have you!”
the marionette, seeing death dancing before him, trembled so hard that the joints of his legs rattled and the coins tinkled under his tongue.
“well,” the assassins asked, “will you open your mouth now or not?
ah!
you do not answer?
very well, this time you shall open it.”
taking out two long, sharp knives, they struck two heavy blows on the marionette’s back.
happily for him, pinocchio was made of very hard wood and the knives broke into a thousand pieces.
the assassins looked at each other in dismay, holding the handles of the knives in their hands.
“i understand,” said one of them to the other, “there is nothing left to do now but to hang him.”
“to hang him,” repeated the other.
they tied pinocchio’s hands behind his shoulders and slipped the noose around his neck.
throwing the rope over the high limb of a giant oak tree, they pulled till the poor marionette hung far up in space.
satisfied with their work, they sat on the grass waiting for pinocchio to give his last gasp.
but after three hours the marionette’s eyes were still open, his mouth still shut and his legs kicked harder than ever.
tired of waiting, the assassins called to him mockingly: “good-by till tomorrow.
when we return in the morning, we hope you’ll be polite enough to let us find you dead and gone and with your mouth wide open.” with these words they went.
a few minutes went by and then a wild wind started to blow.
as it shrieked and moaned, the poor little sufferer was blown to and fro like the hammer of a bell.
the rocking made him seasick and the noose, becoming tighter and tighter, choked him.
little by little a film covered his eyes.
death was creeping nearer and nearer, and the marionette still hoped for some good soul to come to his rescue, but no one appeared.
as he was about to die, he thought of his poor old father, and hardly conscious of what he was saying, murmured to himself:
“oh, father, dear father!
if you were only here!”
these were his last words.
he closed his eyes, opened his mouth, stretched out his legs, and hung there, as if he were dead.
chapter 16
the lovely maiden with azure hair sends for the poor marionette, puts him to bed, and calls three doctors to tell her if pinocchio is dead or alive.
if the poor marionette had dangled there much longer, all hope would have been lost.
luckily for him, the lovely maiden with azure hair once again looked out of her window.
filled with pity at the sight of the poor little fellow being knocked helplessly about by the wind, she clapped her hands sharply together three times.
at the signal, a loud whirr of wings in quick flight was heard and a large falcon came and settled itself on the window ledge.
“what do you command, my charming fairy?” asked the falcon, bending his beak in deep reverence (for it must be known that, after all, the lovely maiden with azure hair was none other than a very kind fairy who had lived, for more than a thousand years, in the vicinity of the forest).
“do you see that marionette hanging from the limb of that giant oak tree?”
“i see him.”
“very well.
fly immediately to him.
with your strong beak, break the knot which holds him tied, take him down, and lay him softly on the grass at the foot of the oak.”
the falcon flew away and after two minutes returned, saying, “i have done what you have commanded.”
“how did you find him?
alive or dead?”
“at first glance, i thought he was dead.
but i found i was wrong, for as soon as i loosened the knot around his neck, he gave a long sigh and mumbled with a faint voice, ‘now i feel better!’”
the fairy clapped her hands twice.
a magnificent poodle appeared, walking on his hind legs just like a man.
he was dressed in court livery.
a tricorn trimmed with gold lace was set at a rakish angle over a wig of white curls that dropped down to his waist.
he wore a jaunty coat of chocolate-colored velvet, with diamond buttons, and with two huge pockets which were always filled with bones, dropped there at dinner by his loving mistress.
breeches of crimson velvet, silk stockings, and low, silver-buckled slippers completed his costume.
his tail was encased in a blue silk covering, which was to protect it from the rain.
“come, medoro,” said the fairy to him.
“get my best coach ready and set out toward the forest.
on reaching the oak tree, you will find a poor, half-dead marionette stretched out on the grass.
lift him up tenderly, place him on the silken cushions of the coach, and bring him here to me.”
the poodle, to show that he understood, wagged his silk-covered tail two or three times and set off at a quick pace.
in a few minutes, a lovely little coach, made of glass, with lining as soft as whipped cream and chocolate pudding, and stuffed with canary feathers, pulled out of the stable.
it was drawn by one hundred pairs of white mice, and the poodle sat on the coachman’s seat and snapped his whip gayly in the air, as if he were a real coachman in a hurry to get to his destination.
in a quarter of an hour the coach was back.
the fairy, who was waiting at the door of the house, lifted the poor little marionette in her arms, took him to a dainty room with mother-of-pearl walls, put him to bed, and sent immediately for the most famous doctors of the neighborhood to come to her.
one after another the doctors came, a crow, and owl, and a talking cricket.
“i should like to know, signori,” said the fairy, turning to the three doctors gathered about pinocchio’s bed, “i should like to know if this poor marionette is dead or alive.”
at this invitation, the crow stepped out and felt pinocchio’s pulse, his nose, his little toe.
then he solemnly pronounced the following words:
“to my mind this marionette is dead and gone; but if, by any evil chance, he were not, then that would be a sure sign that he is still alive!”
“i am sorry,” said the owl, “to have to contradict the crow, my famous friend and colleague.
to my mind this marionette is alive; but if, by any evil chance, he were not, then that would be a sure sign that he is wholly dead!”
“and do you hold any opinion?” the fairy asked the talking cricket.
“i say that a wise doctor, when he does not know what he is talking about, should know enough to keep his mouth shut.
however, that marionette is not a stranger to me.
i have known him a long time!”
pinocchio, who until then had been very quiet, shuddered so hard that the bed shook.
“that marionette,” continued the talking cricket, “is a rascal of the worst kind.”
pinocchio opened his eyes and closed them again.
“he is rude, lazy, a runaway.”
pinocchio hid his face under the sheets.
“that marionette is a disobedient son who is breaking his father’s heart!”
long shuddering sobs were heard, cries, and deep sighs.
think how surprised everyone was when, on raising the sheets, they discovered pinocchio half melted in tears!
“when the dead weep, they are beginning to recover,” said the crow solemnly.
“i am sorry to contradict my famous friend and colleague,” said the owl, “but as far as i’m concerned, i think that when the dead weep, it means they do not want to die.”
chapter 17
pinocchio eats sugar, but refuses to take medicine.
when the undertakers come for him, he drinks the medicine and feels better.
afterwards he tells a lie and, in punishment, his nose grows longer and longer.
as soon as the three doctors had left the room, the fairy went to pinocchio’s bed and, touching him on the forehead, noticed that he was burning with fever.
she took a glass of water, put a white powder into it, and, handing it to the marionette, said lovingly to him:
“drink this, and in a few days you’ll be up and well.”
pinocchio looked at the glass, made a wry face, and asked in a whining voice: “is it sweet or bitter?”
“it is bitter, but it is good for you.”
“if it is bitter, i don’t want it.”
“drink it!”
“i don’t like anything bitter.”
“drink it and i’ll give you a lump of sugar to take the bitter taste from your mouth.”
“where’s the sugar?”
“here it is,” said the fairy, taking a lump from a golden sugar bowl.
“i want the sugar first, then i’ll drink the bitter water.”
“do you promise?”
“yes.”
the fairy gave him the sugar and pinocchio, after chewing and swallowing it in a twinkling, said, smacking his lips:
“if only sugar were medicine!
i should take it every day.”
“now keep your promise and drink these few drops of water.
they’ll be good for you.”
pinocchio took the glass in both hands and stuck his nose into it.
he lifted it to his mouth and once more stuck his nose into it.
“it is too bitter, much too bitter!
i can’t drink it.”
“how do you know, when you haven’t even tasted it?”
“i can imagine it.
i smell it.
i want another lump of sugar, then i’ll drink it.”
the fairy, with all the patience of a good mother, gave him more sugar and again handed him the glass.
“i can’t drink it like that,” the marionette said, making more wry faces.
“why?”
“because that feather pillow on my feet bothers me.”
the fairy took away the pillow.
“it’s no use.
i can’t drink it even now.”
“what’s the matter now?”
“i don’t like the way that door looks.
it’s half open.”
the fairy closed the door.
“i won’t drink it,” cried pinocchio, bursting out crying.
“i won’t drink this awful water.
i won’t.
i won’t!
no, no, no, no!”
“my boy, you’ll be sorry.”
“i don’t care.”
“you are very sick.”
“i don’t care.”
“in a few hours the fever will take you far away to another world.”
“i don’t care.”
“aren’t you afraid of death?”
“not a bit.
i’d rather die than drink that awful medicine.”
at that moment, the door of the room flew open and in came four rabbits as black as ink, carrying a small black coffin on their shoulders.
“what do you want from me?” asked pinocchio.
“we have come for you,” said the largest rabbit.
“for me?
but i’m not dead yet!”
“no, not dead yet; but you will be in a few moments since you have refused to take the medicine which would have made you well.”
“oh, fairy, my fairy,” the marionette cried out, “give me that glass!
quick, please!
i don’t want to die!
no, no, not yet not yet!”
and holding the glass with his two hands, he swallowed the medicine at one gulp.
“well,” said the four rabbits, “this time we have made the trip for nothing.”
and turning on their heels, they marched solemnly out of the room, carrying their little black coffin and muttering and grumbling between their teeth.
in a twinkling, pinocchio felt fine.
with one leap he was out of bed and into his clothes.
the fairy, seeing him run and jump around the room gay as a bird on wing, said to him:
“my medicine was good for you, after all, wasn’t it?”
“good indeed!
it has given me new life.”
“why, then, did i have to beg you so hard to make you drink it?”
“i’m a boy, you see, and all boys hate medicine more than they do sickness.”
“what a shame!
boys ought to know, after all, that medicine, taken in time, can save them from much pain and even from death.”
“next time i won’t have to be begged so hard.
i’ll remember those black rabbits with the black coffin on their shoulders and i’ll take the glass and pouf!
down it will go!”
“come here now and tell me how it came about that you found yourself in the hands of the assassins.”
“it happened that fire eater gave me five gold pieces to give to my father, but on the way, i met a fox and a cat, who asked me, ‘do you want the five pieces to become two thousand?’ and i said, ‘yes.’ and they said, ‘come with us to the field of wonders.’ and i said, ‘let’s go.’ then they said, ‘let us stop at the inn of the red lobster for dinner and after midnight we’ll set out again.’ we ate and went to sleep.
when i awoke they were gone and i started out in the darkness all alone.
on the road i met two assassins dressed in black coal sacks, who said to me, ‘your money or your life!’ and i said, ‘i haven’t any money’; for, you see, i had put the money under my tongue.
one of them tried to put his hand in my mouth and i bit it off and spat it out; but it wasn’t a hand, it was a cat’s paw.
and they ran after me and i ran and ran, till at last they caught me and tied my neck with a rope and hanged me to a tree, saying, ‘tomorrow we’ll come back for you and you’ll be dead and your mouth will be open, and then we’ll take the gold pieces that you have hidden under your tongue.’”
“where are the gold pieces now?” the fairy asked.
“i lost them,” answered pinocchio, but he told a lie, for he had them in his pocket.
as he spoke, his nose, long though it was, became at least two inches longer.
“and where did you lose them?”
“in the wood near by.”
at this second lie, his nose grew a few more inches.
“if you lost them in the near-by wood,” said the fairy, “we’ll look for them and find them, for everything that is lost there is always found.”
“ah, now i remember,” replied the marionette, becoming more and more confused.
“i did not lose the gold pieces, but i swallowed them when i drank the medicine.”
at this third lie, his nose became longer than ever, so long that he could not even turn around.
if he turned to the right, he knocked it against the bed or into the windowpanes; if he turned to the left, he struck the walls or the door; if he raised it a bit, he almost put the fairy’s eyes out.
the fairy sat looking at him and laughing.
“why do you laugh?” the marionette asked her, worried now at the sight of his growing nose.
“i am laughing at your lies.”
“how do you know i am lying?”
“lies, my boy, are known in a moment.
there are two kinds of lies, lies with short legs and lies with long noses.
yours, just now, happen to have long noses.”
pinocchio, not knowing where to hide his shame, tried to escape from the room, but his nose had become so long that he could not get it out of the door.
chapter 18
pinocchio finds the fox and the cat again, and goes with them to sow the gold pieces in the field of wonders.
crying as if his heart would break, the marionette mourned for hours over the length of his nose.
no matter how he tried, it would not go through the door.
the fairy showed no pity toward him, as she was trying to teach him a good lesson, so that he would stop telling lies, the worst habit any boy may acquire.
but when she saw him, pale with fright and with his eyes half out of his head from terror, she began to feel sorry for him and clapped her hands together.
a thousand woodpeckers flew in through the window and settled themselves on pinocchio’s nose.
they pecked and pecked so hard at that enormous nose that in a few moments, it was the same size as before.
“how good you are, my fairy,” said pinocchio, drying his eyes, “and how much i love you!”
“i love you, too,” answered the fairy, “and if you wish to stay with me, you may be my little brother and i’ll be your good little sister.”
“i should like to stay but what about my poor father?”
“i have thought of everything.
your father has been sent for and before night he will be here.”
“really?” cried pinocchio joyfully.
“then, my good fairy, if you are willing, i should like to go to meet him.
i cannot wait to kiss that dear old man, who has suffered so much for my sake.”
“surely; go ahead, but be careful not to lose your way.
take the wood path and you’ll surely meet him.”
pinocchio set out, and as soon as he found himself in the wood, he ran like a hare.
when he reached the giant oak tree he stopped, for he thought he heard a rustle in the brush.
he was right.
there stood the fox and the cat, the two traveling companions with whom he had eaten at the inn of the red lobster.
“here comes our dear pinocchio!” cried the fox, hugging and kissing him.
“how did you happen here?”
“how did you happen here?” repeated the cat.
“it is a long story,” said the marionette.
“let me tell it to you.
the other night, when you left me alone at the inn, i met the assassins on the road ”
“the assassins?
oh, my poor friend!
and what did they want?”
“they wanted my gold pieces.”
“rascals!” said the fox.
“the worst sort of rascals!” added the cat.
“but i began to run,” continued the marionette, “and they after me, until they overtook me and hanged me to the limb of that oak.”
pinocchio pointed to the giant oak near by.
“could anything be worse?” said the fox.
“what an awful world to live in!
where shall we find a safe place for gentlemen like ourselves?”
as the fox talked thus, pinocchio noticed that the cat carried his right paw in a sling.
“what happened to your paw?” he asked.
the cat tried to answer, but he became so terribly twisted in his speech that the fox had to help him out.
“my friend is too modest to answer.
i’ll answer for him.
about an hour ago, we met an old wolf on the road.
he was half starved and begged for help.
having nothing to give him, what do you think my friend did out of the kindness of his heart?
with his teeth, he bit off the paw of his front foot and threw it at that poor beast, so that he might have something to eat.”
as he spoke, the fox wiped off a tear.
pinocchio, almost in tears himself, whispered in the cat’s ear:
“if all the cats were like you, how lucky the mice would be!”
“and what are you doing here?” the fox asked the marionette.
“i am waiting for my father, who will be here at any moment now.”
“and your gold pieces?”
“i still have them in my pocket, except one which i spent at the inn of the red lobster.”
“to think that those four gold pieces might become two thousand tomorrow.
why don’t you listen to me?
why don’t you sow them in the field of wonders?”
“today it is impossible.
i’ll go with you some other time.”
“another day will be too late,” said the fox.
“why?”
“because that field has been bought by a very rich man, and today is the last day that it will be open to the public.”
“how far is this field of wonders?”
“only two miles away.
will you come with us?
we’ll be there in half an hour.
you can sow the money, and, after a few minutes, you will gather your two thousand coins and return home rich.
are you coming?”
pinocchio hesitated a moment before answering, for he remembered the good fairy, old geppetto, and the advice of the talking cricket.
then he ended by doing what all boys do, when they have no heart and little brain.
he shrugged his shoulders and said to the fox and the cat:
“let us go!
i am with you.”
and they went.
they walked and walked for a half a day at least and at last they came to the town called the city of simple simons.
as soon as they entered the town, pinocchio noticed that all the streets were filled with hairless dogs, yawning from hunger; with sheared sheep, trembling with cold; with combless chickens, begging for a grain of wheat; with large butterflies, unable to use their wings because they had sold all their lovely colors; with tailless peacocks, ashamed to show themselves; and with bedraggled pheasants, scuttling away hurriedly, grieving for their bright feathers of gold and silver, lost to them forever.
through this crowd of paupers and beggars, a beautiful coach passed now and again.
within it sat either a fox, a hawk, or a vulture.
“where is the field of wonders?” asked pinocchio, growing tired of waiting.
“be patient.
it is only a few more steps away.”
they passed through the city and, just outside the walls, they stepped into a lonely field, which looked more or less like any other field.
“here we are,” said the fox to the marionette.
“dig a hole here and put the gold pieces into it.”
the marionette obeyed.
he dug the hole, put the four gold pieces into it, and covered them up very carefully.
“now,” said the fox, “go to that near-by brook, bring back a pail full of water, and sprinkle it over the spot.”
pinocchio followed the directions closely, but, as he had no pail, he pulled off his shoe, filled it with water, and sprinkled the earth which covered the gold.
then he asked:
“anything else?”
“nothing else,” answered the fox.
“now we can go.
return here within twenty minutes and you will find the vine grown and the branches filled with gold pieces.”
pinocchio, beside himself with joy, thanked the fox and the cat many times and promised them each a beautiful gift.
“we don’t want any of your gifts,” answered the two rogues.
“it is enough for us that we have helped you to become rich with little or no trouble.
for this we are as happy as kings.”
they said good-by to pinocchio and, wishing him good luck, went on their way.
chapter 19
pinocchio is robbed of his gold pieces and, in punishment, is sentenced to four months in prison.
if the marionette had been told to wait a day instead of twenty minutes, the time could not have seemed longer to him.
he walked impatiently to and fro and finally turned his nose toward the field of wonders.
and as he walked with hurried steps, his heart beat with an excited tic, tac, tic, tac, just as if it were a wall clock, and his busy brain kept thinking:
“what if, instead of a thousand, i should find two thousand?
or if, instead of two thousand, i should find five thousand or one hundred thousand?
i’ll build myself a beautiful palace, with a thousand stables filled with a thousand wooden horses to play with, a cellar overflowing with lemonade and ice cream soda, and a library of candies and fruits, cakes and cookies.”
thus amusing himself with fancies, he came to the field.
there he stopped to see if, by any chance, a vine filled with gold coins was in sight.
but he saw nothing!
he took a few steps forward, and still nothing!
he stepped into the field.
he went up to the place where he had dug the hole and buried the gold pieces.
again nothing!
pinocchio became very thoughtful and, forgetting his good manners altogether, he pulled a hand out of his pocket and gave his head a thorough scratching.
as he did so, he heard a hearty burst of laughter close to his head.
he turned sharply, and there, just above him on the branch of a tree, sat a large parrot, busily preening his feathers.
“what are you laughing at?” pinocchio asked peevishly.
“i am laughing because, in preening my feathers, i tickled myself under the wings.”
the marionette did not answer.
he walked to the brook, filled his shoe with water, and once more sprinkled the ground which covered the gold pieces.
another burst of laughter, even more impertinent than the first, was heard in the quiet field.
“well,” cried the marionette, angrily this time, “may i know, mr.
parrot, what amuses you so?”
“i am laughing at those simpletons who believe everything they hear and who allow themselves to be caught so easily in the traps set for them.”
“do you, perhaps, mean me?”
“i certainly do mean you, poor pinocchio you who are such a little silly as to believe that gold can be sown in a field just like beans or squash.
i, too, believed that once and today i am very sorry for it.
today (but too late!)
i have reached the conclusion that, in order to come by money honestly, one must work and know how to earn it with hand or brain.”
“i don’t know what you are talking about,” said the marionette, who was beginning to tremble with fear.
“too bad!
i’ll explain myself better,” said the parrot.
“while you were away in the city the fox and the cat returned here in a great hurry.
they took the four gold pieces which you have buried and ran away as fast as the wind.
if you can catch them, you’re a brave one!”
pinocchio’s mouth opened wide.
he would not believe the parrot’s words and began to dig away furiously at the earth.
he dug and he dug till the hole was as big as himself, but no money was there.
every penny was gone.
in desperation, he ran to the city and went straight to the courthouse to report the robbery to the magistrate.
the judge was a monkey, a large gorilla venerable with age.
a flowing white beard covered his chest and he wore gold-rimmed spectacles from which the glasses had dropped out.
the reason for wearing these, he said, was that his eyes had been weakened by the work of many years.
pinocchio, standing before him, told his pitiful tale, word by word.
he gave the names and the descriptions of the robbers and begged for justice.
the judge listened to him with great patience.
a kind look shone in his eyes.
he became very much interested in the story; he felt moved; he almost wept.
when the marionette had no more to say, the judge put out his hand and rang a bell.
at the sound, two large mastiffs appeared, dressed in carabineers’
uniforms.
then the magistrate, pointing to pinocchio, said in a very solemn voice:
“this poor simpleton has been robbed of four gold pieces.
take him, therefore, and throw him into prison.” the marionette, on hearing this sentence passed upon him, was thoroughly stunned.
he tried to protest, but the two officers clapped their paws on his mouth and hustled him away to jail.
there he had to remain for four long, weary months.
and if it had not been for a very lucky chance, he probably would have had to stay there longer.
for, my dear children, you must know that it happened just then that the young emperor who ruled over the city of simple simons had gained a great victory over his enemy, and in celebration thereof, he had ordered illuminations, fireworks, shows of all kinds, and, best of all, the opening of all prison doors.
“if the others go, i go, too,” said pinocchio to the jailer.
“not you,” answered the jailer.
“you are one of those ”
“i beg your pardon,” interrupted pinocchio, “i, too, am a thief.”
“in that case you also are free,” said the jailer.
taking off his cap, he bowed low and opened the door of the prison, and pinocchio ran out and away, with never a look backward.
chapter 20
freed from prison, pinocchio sets out to return to the fairy; but on the way he meets a serpent and later is caught in a trap.
fancy the happiness of pinocchio on finding himself free!
without saying yes or no, he fled from the city and set out on the road that was to take him back to the house of the lovely fairy.
it had rained for many days, and the road was so muddy that, at times, pinocchio sank down almost to his knees.
but he kept on bravely.
tormented by the wish to see his father and his fairy sister with azure hair, he raced like a greyhound.
as he ran, he was splashed with mud even up to his cap.
“how unhappy i have been,” he said to himself.
“and yet i deserve everything, for i am certainly very stubborn and stupid!
i will always have my own way.
i won’t listen to those who love me and who have more brains than i. but from now on, i’ll be different and i’ll try to become a most obedient boy.
i have found out, beyond any doubt whatever, that disobedient boys are certainly far from happy, and that, in the long run, they always lose out.
i wonder if father is waiting for me.
will i find him at the fairy’s house?
it is so long, poor man, since i have seen him, and i do so want his love and his kisses.
and will the fairy ever forgive me for all i have done?
she who has been so good to me and to whom i owe my life!
can there be a worse or more heartless boy than i am anywhere?”
as he spoke, he stopped suddenly, frozen with terror.
what was the matter?
an immense serpent lay stretched across the road a serpent with a bright green skin, fiery eyes which glowed and burned, and a pointed tail that smoked like a chimney.
how frightened was poor pinocchio!
he ran back wildly for half a mile, and at last settled himself atop a heap of stones to wait for the serpent to go on his way and leave the road clear for him.
he waited an hour; two hours; three hours; but the serpent was always there, and even from afar one could see the flash of his red eyes and the column of smoke which rose from his long, pointed tail.
pinocchio, trying to feel very brave, walked straight up to him and said in a sweet, soothing voice:
“i beg your pardon, mr. serpent, would you be so kind as to step aside to let me pass?”
he might as well have talked to a wall.
the serpent never moved.
once more, in the same sweet voice, he spoke:
“you must know, mr. serpent, that i am going home where my father is waiting for me.
it is so long since i have seen him!
would you mind very much if i passed?”
he waited for some sign of an answer to his questions, but the answer did not come.
on the contrary, the green serpent, who had seemed, until then, wide awake and full of life, became suddenly very quiet and still.
his eyes closed and his tail stopped smoking.
“is he dead, i wonder?” said pinocchio, rubbing his hands together happily.
without a moment’s hesitation, he started to step over him, but he had just raised one leg when the serpent shot up like a spring and the marionette fell head over heels backward.
he fell so awkwardly that his head stuck in the mud, and there he stood with his legs straight up in the air.
at the sight of the marionette kicking and squirming like a young whirlwind, the serpent laughed so heartily and so long that at last he burst an artery and died on the spot.
pinocchio freed himself from his awkward position and once more began to run in order to reach the fairy’s house before dark.
as he went, the pangs of hunger grew so strong that, unable to withstand them, he jumped into a field to pick a few grapes that tempted him.
woe to him!
no sooner had he reached the grapevine than crack!
went his legs.
the poor marionette was caught in a trap set there by a farmer for some weasels which came every night to steal his chickens.
chapter 21
pinocchio is caught by a farmer, who uses him as a watchdog for his chicken coop.
pinocchio, as you may well imagine, began to scream and weep and beg; but all was of no use, for no houses were to be seen and not a soul passed by on the road.
night came on.
a little because of the sharp pain in his legs, a little because of fright at finding himself alone in the darkness of the field, the marionette was about to faint, when he saw a tiny glowworm flickering by.
he called to her and said:
“dear little glowworm, will you set me free?”
“poor little fellow!” replied the glowworm, stopping to look at him with pity.
“how came you to be caught in this trap?”
“i stepped into this lonely field to take a few grapes and ”
“are the grapes yours?”
“no.”
“who has taught you to take things that do not belong to you?”
“i was hungry.”
“hunger, my boy, is no reason for taking something which belongs to another.”
“it’s true, it’s true!” cried pinocchio in tears.
“i won’t do it again.”
just then, the conversation was interrupted by approaching footsteps.
it was the owner of the field, who was coming on tiptoes to see if, by chance, he had caught the weasels which had been eating his chickens.
great was his surprise when, on holding up his lantern, he saw that, instead of a weasel, he had caught a boy!
“ah, you little thief!” said the farmer in an angry voice.
“so you are the one who steals my chickens!”
“not i!
no, no!” cried pinocchio, sobbing bitterly.
“i came here only to take a very few grapes.”
“he who steals grapes may very easily steal chickens also.
take my word for it, i’ll give you a lesson that you’ll remember for a long while.”
he opened the trap, grabbed the marionette by the collar, and carried him to the house as if he were a puppy.
when he reached the yard in front of the house, he flung him to the ground, put a foot on his neck, and said to him roughly: “it is late now and it’s time for bed.
tomorrow we’ll settle matters.
in the meantime, since my watchdog died today, you may take his place and guard my henhouse.”
no sooner said than done.
he slipped a dog collar around pinocchio’s neck and tightened it so that it would not come off.
a long iron chain was tied to the collar.
the other end of the chain was nailed to the wall.
“if tonight it should happen to rain,” said the farmer, “you can sleep in that little doghouse near-by, where you will find plenty of straw for a soft bed.
it has been melampo’s bed for three years, and it will be good enough for you.
and if, by any chance, any thieves should come, be sure to bark!”
after this last warning, the farmer went into the house and closed the door and barred it.
poor pinocchio huddled close to the doghouse more dead than alive from cold, hunger, and fright.
now and again he pulled and tugged at the collar which nearly choked him and cried out in a weak voice:
“i deserve it!
yes, i deserve it!
i have been nothing but a truant and a vagabond.
i have never obeyed anyone and i have always done as i pleased.
if i were only like so many others and had studied and worked and stayed with my poor old father, i should not find myself here now, in this field and in the darkness, taking the place of a farmer’s watchdog.
oh, if i could start all over again!
but what is done can’t be undone, and i must be patient!”
after this little sermon to himself, which came from the very depths of his heart, pinocchio went into the doghouse and fell asleep.
chapter 22
pinocchio discovers the thieves and, as a reward for faithfulness, he regains his liberty.
even though a boy may be very unhappy, he very seldom loses sleep over his worries.
the marionette, being no exception to this rule, slept on peacefully for a few hours till well along toward midnight, when he was awakened by strange whisperings and stealthy sounds coming from the yard.
he stuck his nose out of the doghouse and saw four slender, hairy animals.
they were weasels, small animals very fond of both eggs and chickens.
one of them left her companions and, going to the door of the doghouse, said in a sweet voice:
“good evening, melampo.”
“my name is not melampo,” answered pinocchio.
“who are you, then?”
“i am pinocchio.”
“what are you doing here?”
“i’m the watchdog.”
“but where is melampo?
where is the old dog who used to live in this house?”
“he died this morning.”
“died?
poor beast!
he was so good!
still, judging by your face, i think you, too, are a good-natured dog.”
“i beg your pardon, i am not a dog!”
“what are you, then?”
“i am a marionette.”
“are you taking the place of the watchdog?”
“i’m sorry to say that i am.
i’m being punished.”
“well, i shall make the same terms with you that we had with the dead melampo.
i am sure you will be glad to hear them.”
“and what are the terms?”
“this is our plan: we’ll come once in a while, as in the past, to pay a visit to this henhouse, and we’ll take away eight chickens.
of these, seven are for us, and one for you, provided, of course, that you will make believe you are sleeping and will not bark for the farmer.”
“did melampo really do that?” asked pinocchio.
“indeed he did, and because of that we were the best of friends.
sleep away peacefully, and remember that before we go we shall leave you a nice fat chicken all ready for your breakfast in the morning.
is that understood?”
“even too well,” answered pinocchio.
and shaking his head in a threatening manner, he seemed to say, “we’ll talk this over in a few minutes, my friends.”
as soon as the four weasels had talked things over, they went straight to the chicken coop which stood close to the doghouse.
digging busily with teeth and claws, they opened the little door and slipped in.
but they were no sooner in than they heard the door close with a sharp bang.
the one who had done the trick was pinocchio, who, not satisfied with that, dragged a heavy stone in front of it.
that done, he started to bark.
and he barked as if he were a real watchdog: “bow, wow, wow!
bow, wow!”
the farmer heard the loud barks and jumped out of bed.
taking his gun, he leaped to the window and shouted: “what’s the matter?”
“the thieves are here,” answered pinocchio.
“where are they?”
“in the chicken coop.”
“i’ll come down in a second.”
and, in fact, he was down in the yard in a twinkling and running toward the chicken coop.
he opened the door, pulled out the weasels one by one, and, after tying them in a bag, said to them in a happy voice: “you’re in my hands at last!
i could punish you now, but i’ll wait!
in the morning you may come with me to the inn and there you’ll make a fine dinner for some hungry mortal.
it is really too great an honor for you, one you do not deserve; but, as you see, i am really a very kind and generous man and i am going to do this for you!”
then he went up to pinocchio and began to pet and caress him.
“how did you ever find them out so quickly?
and to think that melampo, my faithful melampo, never saw them in all these years!”
the marionette could have told, then and there, all he knew about the shameful contract between the dog and the weasels, but thinking of the dead dog, he said to himself: “melampo is dead.
what is the use of accusing him?
the dead are gone and they cannot defend themselves.
the best thing to do is to leave them in peace!”
“were you awake or asleep when they came?” continued the farmer.
“i was asleep,” answered pinocchio, “but they awakened me with their whisperings.
one of them even came to the door of the doghouse and said to me, ‘if you promise not to bark, we will make you a present of one of the chickens for your breakfast.’ did you hear that?
they had the audacity to make such a proposition as that to me!
for you must know that, though i am a very wicked marionette full of faults, still i never have been, nor ever shall be, bribed.”
“fine boy!” cried the farmer, slapping him on the shoulder in a friendly way.
“you ought to be proud of yourself.
and to show you what i think of you, you are free from this instant!”
and he slipped the dog collar from his neck.
chapter 23
pinocchio weeps upon learning that the lovely maiden with azure hair is dead.
he meets a pigeon, who carries him to the seashore.
he throws himself into the sea to go to the aid of his father.
as soon as pinocchio no longer felt the shameful weight of the dog collar around his neck, he started to run across the fields and meadows, and never stopped till he came to the main road that was to take him to the fairy’s house.
when he reached it, he looked into the valley far below him and there he saw the wood where unluckily he had met the fox and the cat, and the tall oak tree where he had been hanged; but though he searched far and near, he could not see the house where the fairy with the azure hair lived.
he became terribly frightened and, running as fast as he could, he finally came to the spot where it had once stood.
the little house was no longer there.
in its place lay a small marble slab, which bore this sad inscription:
here lies      the lovely fairy with azure hair      who died of grief      when abandoned by      her little brother pinocchio
the poor marionette was heartbroken at reading these words.
he fell to the ground and, covering the cold marble with kisses, burst into bitter tears.
he cried all night, and dawn found him still there, though his tears had dried and only hard, dry sobs shook his wooden frame.
but these were so loud that they could be heard by the faraway hills.
as he sobbed he said to himself:
“oh, my fairy, my dear, dear fairy, why did you die?
why did i not die, who am so bad, instead of you, who are so good?
and my father where can he be?
please dear fairy, tell me where he is and i shall never, never leave him again!
you are not really dead, are you?
if you love me, you will come back, alive as before.
don’t you feel sorry for me?
i’m so lonely.
if the two assassins come, they’ll hang me again from the giant oak tree and i will really die, this time.
what shall i do alone in the world?
now that you are dead and my father is lost, where shall i eat?
where shall i sleep?
who will make my new clothes?
oh, i want to die!
yes, i want to die!
oh, oh, oh!”
poor pinocchio!
he even tried to tear his hair, but as it was only painted on his wooden head, he could not even pull it.
just then a large pigeon flew far above him.
seeing the marionette, he cried to him:
“tell me, little boy, what are you doing there?”
“can’t you see?
i’m crying,” cried pinocchio, lifting his head toward the voice and rubbing his eyes with his sleeve.
“tell me,” asked the pigeon, “do you by chance know of a marionette, pinocchio by name?”
“pinocchio!
did you say pinocchio?” replied the marionette, jumping to his feet.
“why, i am pinocchio!”
at this answer, the pigeon flew swiftly down to the earth.
he was much larger than a turkey.
“then you know geppetto also?”
“do i know him?
he’s my father, my poor, dear father!
has he, perhaps, spoken to you of me?
will you take me to him?
is he still alive?
answer me, please!
is he still alive?”
“i left him three days ago on the shore of a large sea.”
“what was he doing?”
“he was building a little boat with which to cross the ocean.
for the last four months, that poor man has been wandering around europe, looking for you.
not having found you yet, he has made up his mind to look for you in the new world, far across the ocean.”
“how far is it from here to the shore?” asked pinocchio anxiously.
“more than fifty miles.”
“fifty miles?
oh, dear pigeon, how i wish i had your wings!”
“if you want to come, i’ll take you with me.”
“how?”
“astride my back.
are you very heavy?”
“heavy?
not at all.
i’m only a feather.”
“very well.”
saying nothing more, pinocchio jumped on the pigeon’s back and, as he settled himself, he cried out gayly:
“gallop on, gallop on, my pretty steed!
i’m in a great hurry.”
the pigeon flew away, and in a few minutes he had reached the clouds.
the marionette looked to see what was below them.
his head swam and he was so frightened that he clutched wildly at the pigeon’s neck to keep himself from falling.
they flew all day.
toward evening the pigeon said:
“i’m very thirsty!”
“and i’m very hungry!” said pinocchio.
“let us stop a few minutes at that pigeon coop down there.
then we can go on and be at the seashore in the morning.”
they went into the empty coop and there they found nothing but a bowl of water and a small basket filled with chick-peas.
the marionette had always hated chick-peas.
according to him, they had always made him sick; but that night he ate them with a relish.
as he finished them, he turned to the pigeon and said:
“i never should have thought that chick-peas could be so good!”
“you must remember, my boy,” answered the pigeon, “that hunger is the best sauce!”
after resting a few minutes longer, they set out again.
the next morning they were at the seashore.
pinocchio jumped off the pigeon’s back, and the pigeon, not wanting any thanks for a kind deed, flew away swiftly and disappeared.
the shore was full of people, shrieking and tearing their hair as they looked toward the sea.
“what has happened?” asked pinocchio of a little old woman.
“a poor old father lost his only son some time ago and today he built a tiny boat for himself in order to go in search of him across the ocean.
the water is very rough and we’re afraid he will be drowned.”
“where is the little boat?”
“there.
straight down there,” answered the little old woman, pointing to a tiny shadow, no bigger than a nutshell, floating on the sea.
pinocchio looked closely for a few minutes and then gave a sharp cry:
“it’s my father!
it’s my father!”
meanwhile, the little boat, tossed about by the angry waters, appeared and disappeared in the waves.
and pinocchio, standing on a high rock, tired out with searching, waved to him with hand and cap and even with his nose.
it looked as if geppetto, though far away from the shore, recognized his son, for he took off his cap and waved also.
he seemed to be trying to make everyone understand that he would come back if he were able, but the sea was so heavy that he could do nothing with his oars.
suddenly a huge wave came and the boat disappeared.
they waited and waited for it, but it was gone.
“poor man!” said the fisher folk on the shore, whispering a prayer as they turned to go home.
just then a desperate cry was heard.
turning around, the fisher folk saw pinocchio dive into the sea and heard him cry out:
“i’ll save him!
i’ll save my father!”
the marionette, being made of wood, floated easily along and swam like a fish in the rough water.
now and again he disappeared only to reappear once more.
in a twinkling, he was far away from land.
at last he was completely lost to view.
“poor boy!” cried the fisher folk on the shore, and again they mumbled a few prayers, as they returned home.
chapter 24
pinocchio reaches the island of the busy bees and finds the fairy once more.
pinocchio, spurred on by the hope of finding his father and of being in time to save him, swam all night long.
and what a horrible night it was!
it poured rain, it hailed, it thundered, and the lightning was so bright that it turned the night into day.
at dawn, he saw, not far away from him, a long stretch of sand.
it was an island in the middle of the sea.
pinocchio tried his best to get there, but he couldn’t.
the waves played with him and tossed him about as if he were a twig or a bit of straw.
at last, and luckily for him, a tremendous wave tossed him to the very spot where he wanted to be.
the blow from the wave was so strong that, as he fell to the ground, his joints cracked and almost broke.
but, nothing daunted, he jumped to his feet and cried:
“once more i have escaped with my life!”
little by little the sky cleared.
the sun came out in full splendor and the sea became as calm as a lake.
then the marionette took off his clothes and laid them on the sand to dry.
he looked over the waters to see whether he might catch sight of a boat with a little man in it.
he searched and he searched, but he saw nothing except sea and sky and far away a few sails, so small that they might have been birds.
“if only i knew the name of this island!” he said to himself.
“if i even knew what kind of people i would find here!
but whom shall i ask?
there is no one here.”
the idea of finding himself in so lonesome a spot made him so sad that he was about to cry, but just then he saw a big fish swimming near-by, with his head far out of the water.
not knowing what to call him, the marionette said to him:
“hey there, mr. fish, may i have a word with you?”
“even two, if you want,” answered the fish, who happened to be a very polite dolphin.
“will you please tell me if, on this island, there are places where one may eat without necessarily being eaten?”
“surely, there are,” answered the dolphin.
“in fact you’ll find one not far from this spot.”
“and how shall i get there?”
“take that path on your left and follow your nose.
you can’t go wrong.”
“tell me another thing.
you who travel day and night through the sea, did you not perhaps meet a little boat with my father in it?”
“and who is you father?”
“he is the best father in the world, even as i am the worst son that can be found.”
“in the storm of last night,” answered the dolphin, “the little boat must have been swamped.”
“and my father?”
“by this time, he must have been swallowed by the terrible shark, which, for the last few days, has been bringing terror to these waters.”
“is this shark very big?” asked pinocchio, who was beginning to tremble with fright.
“is he big?” replied the dolphin.
“just to give you an idea of his size, let me tell you that he is larger than a five story building and that he has a mouth so big and so deep, that a whole train and engine could easily get into it.”
“mother mine!” cried the marionette, scared to death; and dressing himself as fast as he could, he turned to the dolphin and said:
“farewell, mr. fish.
pardon the bother, and many thanks for your kindness.”
this said, he took the path at so swift a gait that he seemed to fly, and at every small sound he heard, he turned in fear to see whether the terrible shark, five stories high and with a train in his mouth, was following him.
after walking a half hour, he came to a small country called the land of the busy bees.
the streets were filled with people running to and fro about their tasks.
everyone worked, everyone had something to do.
even if one were to search with a lantern, not one idle man or one tramp could have been found.
“i understand,” said pinocchio at once wearily, “this is no place for me!
i was not born for work.”
but in the meantime, he began to feel hungry, for it was twenty-four hours since he had eaten.
what was to be done?
there were only two means left to him in order to get a bite to eat.
he had either to work or to beg.
he was ashamed to beg, because his father had always preached to him that begging should be done only by the sick or the old.
he had said that the real poor in this world, deserving of our pity and help, were only those who, either through age or sickness, had lost the means of earning their bread with their own hands.
all others should work, and if they didn’t, and went hungry, so much the worse for them.
just then a man passed by, worn out and wet with perspiration, pulling, with difficulty, two heavy carts filled with coal.
pinocchio looked at him and, judging him by his looks to be a kind man, said to him with eyes downcast in shame:
“will you be so good as to give me a penny, for i am faint with hunger?”
“not only one penny,” answered the coal man.
“i’ll give you four if you will help me pull these two wagons.”
“i am surprised!” answered the marionette, very much offended.
“i wish you to know that i never have been a donkey, nor have i ever pulled a wagon.”
“so much the better for you!” answered the coal man.
“then, my boy, if you are really faint with hunger, eat two slices of your pride; and i hope they don’t give you indigestion.”
a few minutes after, a bricklayer passed by, carrying a pail full of plaster on his shoulder.
“good man, will you be kind enough to give a penny to a poor boy who is yawning from hunger?”
“gladly,” answered the bricklayer.
“come with me and carry some plaster, and instead of one penny, i’ll give you five.”
“but the plaster is heavy,” answered pinocchio, “and the work too hard for me.”
“if the work is too hard for you, my boy, enjoy your yawns and may they bring you luck!”
in less than a half hour, at least twenty people passed and pinocchio begged of each one, but they all answered:
“aren’t you ashamed?
instead of being a beggar in the streets, why don’t you look for work and earn your own bread?”
finally a little woman went by carrying two water jugs.
“good woman, will you allow me to have a drink from one of your jugs?”
asked pinocchio, who was burning up with thirst.
“with pleasure, my boy!” she answered, setting the two jugs on the ground before him.
when pinocchio had had his fill, he grumbled, as he wiped his mouth:
“my thirst is gone.
if i could only as easily get rid of my hunger!”
on hearing these words, the good little woman immediately said:
“if you help me to carry these jugs home, i’ll give you a slice of bread.”
pinocchio looked at the jug and said neither yes nor no.
“and with the bread, i’ll give you a nice dish of cauliflower with white sauce on it.”
pinocchio gave the jug another look and said neither yes nor no.
“and after the cauliflower, some cake and jam.”
at this last bribery, pinocchio could no longer resist and said firmly:
“very well.
i’ll take the jug home for you.”
the jug was very heavy, and the marionette, not being strong enough to carry it with his hands, had to put it on his head.
when they arrived home, the little woman made pinocchio sit down at a small table and placed before him the bread, the cauliflower, and the cake.
pinocchio did not eat; he devoured.
his stomach seemed a bottomless pit.
his hunger finally appeased, he raised his head to thank his kind benefactress.
but he had not looked at her long when he gave a cry of surprise and sat there with his eyes wide open, his fork in the air, and his mouth filled with bread and cauliflower.
“why all this surprise?” asked the good woman, laughing.
“because ” answered pinocchio, stammering and stuttering, “because you look like you remind me of yes, yes, the same voice, the same eyes, the same hair yes, yes, yes, you also have the same azure hair she had oh, my little fairy, my little fairy!
tell me that it is you!
don’t make me cry any longer!
if you only knew!
i have cried so much, i have suffered so!”
and pinocchio threw himself on the floor and clasped the knees of the mysterious little woman.
chapter 25
pinocchio promises the fairy to be good and to study, as he is growing tired of being a marionette, and wishes to become a real boy.
if pinocchio cried much longer, the little woman thought he would melt away, so she finally admitted that she was the little fairy with azure hair.
“you rascal of a marionette!
how did you know it was i?” she asked, laughing.
“my love for you told me who you were.”
“do you remember?
you left me when i was a little girl and now you find me a grown woman.
i am so old, i could almost be your mother!”
“i am very glad of that, for then i can call you mother instead of sister.
for a long time i have wanted a mother, just like other boys.
but how did you grow so quickly?”
“that’s a secret!”
“tell it to me.
i also want to grow a little.
look at me!
i have never grown higher than a penny’s worth of cheese.”
“but you can’t grow,” answered the fairy.
“why not?”
“because marionettes never grow.
they are born marionettes, they live marionettes, and they die marionettes.”
“oh, i’m tired of always being a marionette!” cried pinocchio disgustedly.
“it’s about time for me to grow into a man as everyone else does.”
“and you will if you deserve it ”
“really?
what can i do to deserve it?”
“it’s a very simple matter.
try to act like a well-behaved child.”
“don’t you think i do?”
“far from it!
good boys are obedient, and you, on the contrary ”
“and i never obey.”
“good boys love study and work, but you ”
“and i, on the contrary, am a lazy fellow and a tramp all year round.”
“good boys always tell the truth.”
“and i always tell lies.”
“good boys go gladly to school.”
“and i get sick if i go to school.
from now on i’ll be different.”
“do you promise?”
“i promise.
i want to become a good boy and be a comfort to my father.
where is my poor father now?”
“i do not know.”
“will i ever be lucky enough to find him and embrace him once more?”
“i think so.
indeed, i am sure of it.”
at this answer, pinocchio’s happiness was very great.
he grasped the fairy’s hands and kissed them so hard that it looked as if he had lost his head.
then lifting his face, he looked at her lovingly and asked:
“tell me, little mother, it isn’t true that you are dead, is it?”
“it doesn’t seem so,” answered the fairy, smiling.
“if you only knew how i suffered and how i wept when i read ‘here lies ’”
“i know it, and for that i have forgiven you.
the depth of your sorrow made me see that you have a kind heart.
there is always hope for boys with hearts such as yours, though they may often be very mischievous.
this is the reason why i have come so far to look for you.
from now on, i’ll be your own little mother.”
“oh!
how lovely!” cried pinocchio, jumping with joy.
“you will obey me always and do as i wish?”
“gladly, very gladly, more than gladly!”
“beginning tomorrow,” said the fairy, “you’ll go to school every day.”
pinocchio’s face fell a little.
“then you will choose the trade you like best.”
pinocchio became more serious.
“what are you mumbling to yourself?” asked the fairy.
“i was just saying,” whined the marionette in a whisper, “that it seems too late for me to go to school now.”
“no, indeed.
remember it is never too late to learn.”
“but i don’t want either trade or profession.”
“why?”
“because work wearies me!”
“my dear boy,” said the fairy, “people who speak as you do usually end their days either in a prison or in a hospital.
a man, remember, whether rich or poor, should do something in this world.
no one can find happiness without work.
woe betide the lazy fellow!
laziness is a serious illness and one must cure it immediately; yes, even from early childhood.
if not, it will kill you in the end.”
these words touched pinocchio’s heart.
he lifted his eyes to his fairy and said seriously: “i’ll work; i’ll study; i’ll do all you tell me.
after all, the life of a marionette has grown very tiresome to me and i want to become a boy, no matter how hard it is.
you promise that, do you not?”
“yes, i promise, and now it is up to you.”
chapter 26
pinocchio goes to the seashore with his friends to see the terrible shark.
in the morning, bright and early, pinocchio started for school.
imagine what the boys said when they saw a marionette enter the classroom!
they laughed until they cried.
everyone played tricks on him.
one pulled his hat off, another tugged at his coat, a third tried to paint a mustache under his nose.
one even attempted to tie strings to his feet and his hands to make him dance.
for a while pinocchio was very calm and quiet.
finally, however, he lost all patience and turning to his tormentors, he said to them threateningly:
“careful, boys, i haven’t come here to be made fun of.
i’ll respect you and i want you to respect me.”
“hurrah for dr. know-all!
you have spoken like a printed book!” howled the boys, bursting with laughter.
one of them, more impudent than the rest, put out his hand to pull the marionette’s nose.
but he was not quick enough, for pinocchio stretched his leg under the table and kicked him hard on the shin.
“oh, what hard feet!” cried the boy, rubbing the spot where the marionette had kicked him.
“and what elbows!
they are even harder than the feet!” shouted another one, who, because of some other trick, had received a blow in the stomach.
with that kick and that blow pinocchio gained everybody’s favor.
everyone admired him, danced attendance upon him, petted and caressed him.
as the days passed into weeks, even the teacher praised him, for he saw him attentive, hard working, and wide awake, always the first to come in the morning, and the last to leave when school was over.
pinocchio’s only fault was that he had too many friends.
among these were many well-known rascals, who cared not a jot for study or for success.
the teacher warned him each day, and even the good fairy repeated to him many times:
“take care, pinocchio!
those bad companions will sooner or later make you lose your love for study.
some day they will lead you astray.”
“there’s no such danger,” answered the marionette, shrugging his shoulders and pointing to his forehead as if to say, “i’m too wise.”
so it happened that one day, as he was walking to school, he met some boys who ran up to him and said:
“have you heard the news?”
“no!”
“a shark as big as a mountain has been seen near the shore.”
“really?
i wonder if it could be the same one i heard of when my father was drowned?”
“we are going to see it.
are you coming?”
“no, not i. i must go to school.”
“what do you care about school?
you can go there tomorrow.
with a lesson more or less, we are always the same donkeys.”
“and what will the teacher say?”
“let him talk.
he is paid to grumble all day long.”
“and my mother?”
“mothers don’t know anything,” answered those scamps.
“do you know what i’ll do?” said pinocchio.
“for certain reasons of mine, i, too, want to see that shark; but i’ll go after school.
i can see him then as well as now.”
“poor simpleton!” cried one of the boys.
“do you think that a fish of that size will stand there waiting for you?
he turns and off he goes, and no one will ever be the wiser.”
“how long does it take from here to the shore?” asked the marionette.
“one hour there and back.”
“very well, then.
let’s see who gets there first!” cried pinocchio.
at the signal, the little troop, with books under their arms, dashed across the fields.
pinocchio led the way, running as if on wings, the others following as fast as they could.
now and again, he looked back and, seeing his followers hot and tired, and with tongues hanging out, he laughed out heartily.
unhappy boy!
if he had only known then the dreadful things that were to happen to him on account of his disobedience!
chapter 27
the great battle between pinocchio and his playmates.
one is wounded.
pinocchio is arrested.
going like the wind, pinocchio took but a very short time to reach the shore.
he glanced all about him, but there was no sign of a shark.
the sea was as smooth as glass.
“hey there, boys!
where’s that shark?” he asked, turning to his playmates.
“he may have gone for his breakfast,” said one of them, laughing.
“or, perhaps, he went to bed for a little nap,” said another, laughing also.
from the answers and the laughter which followed them, pinocchio understood that the boys had played a trick on him.
“what now?” he said angrily to them.
“what’s the joke?”
“oh, the joke’s on you!” cried his tormentors, laughing more heartily than ever, and dancing gayly around the marionette.
“and that is ?”
“that we have made you stay out of school to come with us.
aren’t you ashamed of being such a goody-goody, and of studying so hard?
you never have a bit of enjoyment.”
“and what is it to you, if i do study?”
“what does the teacher think of us, you mean?”
“why?”
“don’t you see?
if you study and we don’t, we pay for it.
after all, it’s only fair to look out for ourselves.”
“what do you want me to do?”
“hate school and books and teachers, as we all do.
they are your worst enemies, you know, and they like to make you as unhappy as they can.”
“and if i go on studying, what will you do to me?”
“you’ll pay for it!”
“really, you amuse me,” answered the marionette, nodding his head.
“hey, pinocchio,” cried the tallest of them all, “that will do.
we are tired of hearing you bragging about yourself, you little turkey cock!
you may not be afraid of us, but remember we are not afraid of you, either!
you are alone, you know, and we are seven.”
“like the seven sins,” said pinocchio, still laughing.
“did you hear that?
he has insulted us all.
he has called us sins.”
“pinocchio, apologize for that, or look out!”
“cuck oo!” said the marionette, mocking them with his thumb to his nose.
“you’ll be sorry!”
“cuck oo!”
“we’ll whip you soundly!”
“cuck oo!”
“you’ll go home with a broken nose!”
“cuck oo!”
“very well, then!
take that, and keep it for your supper,” called out the boldest of his tormentors.
and with the words, he gave pinocchio a terrible blow on the head.
pinocchio answered with another blow, and that was the signal for the beginning of the fray.
in a few moments, the fight raged hot and heavy on both sides.
pinocchio, although alone, defended himself bravely.
with those two wooden feet of his, he worked so fast that his opponents kept at a respectful distance.
wherever they landed, they left their painful mark and the boys could only run away and howl.
enraged at not being able to fight the marionette at close quarters, they started to throw all kinds of books at him.
readers, geographies, histories, grammars flew in all directions.
but pinocchio was keen of eye and swift of movement, and the books only passed over his head, landed in the sea, and disappeared.
the fish, thinking they might be good to eat, came to the top of the water in great numbers.
some took a nibble, some took a bite, but no sooner had they tasted a page or two, than they spat them out with a wry face, as if to say:
“what a horrid taste!
our own food is so much better!”
meanwhile, the battle waxed more and more furious.
at the noise, a large crab crawled slowly out of the water and, with a voice that sounded like a trombone suffering from a cold, he cried out:
“stop fighting, you rascals!
these battles between boys rarely end well.
trouble is sure to come to you!”
poor crab!
he might as well have spoken to the wind.
instead of listening to his good advice, pinocchio turned to him and said as roughly as he knew how:
“keep quiet, ugly gab!
it would be better for you to chew a few cough drops to get rid of that cold you have.
go to bed and sleep!
you will feel better in the morning.”
in the meantime, the boys, having used all their books, looked around for new ammunition.
seeing pinocchio’s bundle lying idle near-by, they somehow managed to get hold of it.
one of the books was a very large volume, an arithmetic text, heavily bound in leather.
it was pinocchio’s pride.
among all his books, he liked that one the best.
thinking it would make a fine missile, one of the boys took hold of it and threw it with all his strength at pinocchio’s head.
but instead of hitting the marionette, the book struck one of the other boys, who, as pale as a ghost, cried out faintly: “oh, mother, help!
i’m dying!” and fell senseless to the ground.
at the sight of that pale little corpse, the boys were so frightened that they turned tail and ran.
in a few moments, all had disappeared.
all except pinocchio.
although scared to death by the horror of what had been done, he ran to the sea and soaked his handkerchief in the cool water and with it bathed the head of his poor little schoolmate.
sobbing bitterly, he called to him, saying:
“eugene!
my poor eugene!
open your eyes and look at me!
why don’t you answer?
i was not the one who hit you, you know.
believe me, i didn’t do it.
open your eyes, eugene?
if you keep them shut, i’ll die, too.
oh, dear me, how shall i ever go home now?
how shall i ever look at my little mother again?
what will happen to me?
where shall i go?
where shall i hide?
oh, how much better it would have been, a thousand times better, if only i had gone to school!
why did i listen to those boys?
they always were a bad influence!
and to think that the teacher had told me and my mother, too!
‘beware of bad company!’ that’s what she said.
but i’m stubborn and proud.
i listen, but always i do as i wish.
and then i pay.
i’ve never had a moment’s peace since i’ve been born!
oh, dear!
what will become of me?
what will become of me?”
pinocchio went on crying and moaning and beating his head.
again and again he called to his little friend, when suddenly he heard heavy steps approaching.
he looked up and saw two tall carabineers near him.
“what are you doing stretched out on the ground?” they asked pinocchio.
“i’m helping this schoolfellow of mine.”
“has he fainted?”
“i should say so,” said one of the carabineers, bending to look at eugene.
“this boy has been wounded on the temple.
who has hurt him?”
“not i,” stammered the marionette, who had hardly a breath left in his whole body.
“if it wasn’t you, who was it, then?”
“not i,” repeated pinocchio.
“and with what was he wounded?”
“with this book,” and the marionette picked up the arithmetic text to show it to the officer.
“and whose book is this?”
“mine.”
“enough.”
“not another word!
get up as quickly as you can and come along with us.”
“but i ”
“come with us!”
“but i am innocent.”
“come with us!”
before starting out, the officers called out to several fishermen passing by in a boat and said to them:
“take care of this little fellow who has been hurt.
take him home and bind his wounds.
tomorrow we’ll come after him.”
they then took hold of pinocchio and, putting him between them, said to him in a rough voice: “march!
and go quickly, or it will be the worse for you!”
they did not have to repeat their words.
the marionette walked swiftly along the road to the village.
but the poor fellow hardly knew what he was about.
he thought he had a nightmare.
he felt ill. his eyes saw everything double, his legs trembled, his tongue was dry, and, try as he might, he could not utter a single word.
yet, in spite of this numbness of feeling, he suffered keenly at the thought of passing under the windows of his good little fairy’s house.
what would she say on seeing him between two carabineers?
they had just reached the village, when a sudden gust of wind blew off pinocchio’s cap and made it go sailing far down the street.
“would you allow me,” the marionette asked the carabineers, “to run after my cap?”
“very well, go; but hurry.”
the marionette went, picked up his cap but instead of putting it on his head, he stuck it between his teeth and then raced toward the sea.
he went like a bullet out of a gun.
the carabineers, judging that it would be very difficult to catch him, sent a large mastiff after him, one that had won first prize in all the dog races.
pinocchio ran fast and the dog ran faster.
at so much noise, the people hung out of the windows or gathered in the street, anxious to see the end of the contest.
but they were disappointed, for the dog and pinocchio raised so much dust on the road that, after a few moments, it was impossible to see them.
chapter 28
pinocchio runs the danger of being fried in a pan like a fish
during that wild chase, pinocchio lived through a terrible moment when he almost gave himself up as lost.
this was when alidoro (that was the mastiff’s name), in a frenzy of running, came so near that he was on the very point of reaching him.
the marionette heard, close behind him, the labored breathing of the beast who was fast on his trail, and now and again even felt his hot breath blow over him.
luckily, by this time, he was very near the shore, and the sea was in sight; in fact, only a few short steps away.
as soon as he set foot on the beach, pinocchio gave a leap and fell into the water.
alidoro tried to stop, but as he was running very fast, he couldn’t, and he, too, landed far out in the sea.
strange though it may seem, the dog could not swim.
he beat the water with his paws to hold himself up, but the harder he tried, the deeper he sank.
as he stuck his head out once more, the poor fellow’s eyes were bulging and he barked out wildly, “i drown!
i drown!”
“drown!” answered pinocchio from afar, happy at his escape.
“help, pinocchio, dear little pinocchio!
save me from death!”
at those cries of suffering, the marionette, who after all had a very kind heart, was moved to compassion.
he turned toward the poor animal and said to him:
“but if i help you, will you promise not to bother me again by running after me?”
“i promise!
i promise!
only hurry, for if you wait another second, i’ll be dead and gone!”
pinocchio hesitated still another minute.
then, remembering how his father had often told him that a kind deed is never lost, he swam to alidoro and, catching hold of his tail, dragged him to the shore.
the poor dog was so weak he could not stand.
he had swallowed so much salt water that he was swollen like a balloon.
however, pinocchio, not wishing to trust him too much, threw himself once again into the sea.
as he swam away, he called out:
“good-by, alidoro, good luck and remember me to the family!”
“good-by, little pinocchio,” answered the dog.
“a thousand thanks for having saved me from death.
you did me a good turn, and, in this world, what is given is always returned.
if the chance comes, i shall be there.”
pinocchio went on swimming close to shore.
at last he thought he had reached a safe place.
glancing up and down the beach, he saw the opening of a cave out of which rose a spiral of smoke.
“in that cave,” he said to himself, “there must be a fire.
so much the better.
i’ll dry my clothes and warm myself, and then well ”
his mind made up, pinocchio swam to the rocks, but as he started to climb, he felt something under him lifting him up higher and higher.
he tried to escape, but he was too late.
to his great surprise, he found himself in a huge net, amid a crowd of fish of all kinds and sizes, who were fighting and struggling desperately to free themselves.
at the same time, he saw a fisherman come out of the cave, a fisherman so ugly that pinocchio thought he was a sea monster.
in place of hair, his head was covered by a thick bush of green grass.
green was the skin of his body, green were his eyes, green was the long, long beard that reached down to his feet.
he looked like a giant lizard with legs and arms.
when the fisherman pulled the net out of the sea, he cried out joyfully:
“blessed providence!
once more i’ll have a fine meal of fish!”
“thank heaven, i’m not a fish!” said pinocchio to himself, trying with these words to find a little courage.
the fisherman took the net and the fish to the cave, a dark, gloomy, smoky place.
in the middle of it, a pan full of oil sizzled over a smoky fire, sending out a repelling odor of tallow that took away one’s breath.
“now, let’s see what kind of fish we have caught today,” said the green fisherman.
he put a hand as big as a spade into the net and pulled out a handful of mullets.
“fine mullets, these!” he said, after looking at them and smelling them with pleasure.
after that, he threw them into a large, empty tub.
many times he repeated this performance.
as he pulled each fish out of the net, his mouth watered with the thought of the good dinner coming, and he said:
“fine fish, these bass!”
“very tasty, these whitefish!”
“delicious flounders, these!”
“what splendid crabs!”
“and these dear little anchovies, with their heads still on!”
as you can well imagine, the bass, the flounders, the whitefish, and even the little anchovies all went together into the tub to keep the mullets company.
the last to come out of the net was pinocchio.
as soon as the fisherman pulled him out, his green eyes opened wide with surprise, and he cried out in fear:
“what kind of fish is this?
i don’t remember ever eating anything like it.”
he looked at him closely and after turning him over and over, he said at last:
“i understand.
he must be a crab!”
pinocchio, mortified at being taken for a crab, said resentfully:
“what nonsense!
a crab indeed!
i am no such thing.
beware how you deal with me!
i am a marionette, i want you to know.”
“a marionette?” asked the fisherman.
“i must admit that a marionette fish is, for me, an entirely new kind of fish.
so much the better.
i’ll eat you with greater relish.”
“eat me?
but can’t you understand that i’m not a fish?
can’t you hear that i speak and think as you do?”
“it’s true,” answered the fisherman; “but since i see that you are a fish, well able to talk and think as i do, i’ll treat you with all due respect.”
“and that is ”
“that, as a sign of my particular esteem, i’ll leave to you the choice of the manner in which you are to be cooked.
do you wish to be fried in a pan, or do you prefer to be cooked with tomato sauce?”
“to tell you the truth,” answered pinocchio, “if i must choose, i should much rather go free so i may return home!”
“are you fooling?
do you think that i want to lose the opportunity to taste such a rare fish?
a marionette fish does not come very often to these seas.
leave it to me.
i’ll fry you in the pan with the others.
i know you’ll like it.
it’s always a comfort to find oneself in good company.”
the unlucky marionette, hearing this, began to cry and wail and beg.
with tears streaming down his cheeks, he said:
“how much better it would have been for me to go to school!
i did listen to my playmates and now i am paying for it!
oh!
oh!
oh!”
and as he struggled and squirmed like an eel to escape from him, the green fisherman took a stout cord and tied him hand and foot, and threw him into the bottom of the tub with the others.
then he pulled a wooden bowl full of flour out of a cupboard and started to roll the fish into it, one by one.
when they were white with it, he threw them into the pan.
the first to dance in the hot oil were the mullets, the bass followed, then the whitefish, the flounders, and the anchovies.
pinocchio’s turn came last.
seeing himself so near to death (and such a horrible death!)
he began to tremble so with fright that he had no voice left with which to beg for his life.
the poor boy beseeched only with his eyes.
but the green fisherman, not even noticing that it was he, turned him over and over in the flour until he looked like a marionette made of chalk.
then he took him by the head and .
.
.
chapter 29
pinocchio returns to the fairy’s house and she promises him that, on the morrow, he will cease to be a marionette and become a boy.
a wonderful party of coffee-and-milk to celebrate the great event.
mindful of what the fisherman had said, pinocchio knew that all hope of being saved had gone.
he closed his eyes and waited for the final moment.
suddenly, a large dog, attracted by the odor of the boiling oil, came running into the cave.
“get out!” cried the fisherman threateningly and still holding onto the marionette, who was all covered with flour.
but the poor dog was very hungry, and whining and wagging his tail, he tried to say:
“give me a bite of the fish and i’ll go in peace.”
“get out, i say!” repeated the fisherman.
and he drew back his foot to give the dog a kick.
then the dog, who, being really hungry, would take no refusal, turned in a rage toward the fisherman and bared his terrible fangs.
and at that moment, a pitiful little voice was heard saying: “save me, alidoro; if you don’t, i fry!”
the dog immediately recognized pinocchio’s voice.
great was his surprise to find that the voice came from the little flour-covered bundle that the fisherman held in his hand.
then what did he do?
with one great leap, he grasped that bundle in his mouth and, holding it lightly between his teeth, ran through the door and disappeared like a flash!
the fisherman, angry at seeing his meal snatched from under his nose, ran after the dog, but a bad fit of coughing made him stop and turn back.
meanwhile, alidoro, as soon as he had found the road which led to the village, stopped and dropped pinocchio softly to the ground.
“how much i do thank you!” said the marionette.
“it is not necessary,” answered the dog.
“you saved me once, and what is given is always returned.
we are in this world to help one another.”
“but how did you get in that cave?”
“i was lying here on the sand more dead than alive, when an appetizing odor of fried fish came to me.
that odor tickled my hunger and i followed it.
oh, if i had come a moment later!”
“don’t speak about it,” wailed pinocchio, still trembling with fright.
“don’t say a word.
if you had come a moment later, i would be fried, eaten, and digested by this time.
brrrrrr!
i shiver at the mere thought of it.”
alidoro laughingly held out his paw to the marionette, who shook it heartily, feeling that now he and the dog were good friends.
then they bid each other good-by and the dog went home.
pinocchio, left alone, walked toward a little hut near by, where an old man sat at the door sunning himself, and asked:
“tell me, good man, have you heard anything of a poor boy with a wounded head, whose name was eugene?”
“the boy was brought to this hut and now ”
“now he is dead?” pinocchio interrupted sorrowfully.
“no, he is now alive and he has already returned home.”
“really?
really?” cried the marionette, jumping around with joy.
“then the wound was not serious?”
“but it might have been and even mortal,” answered the old man, “for a heavy book was thrown at his head.”
“and who threw it?”
“a schoolmate of his, a certain pinocchio.”
“and who is this pinocchio?” asked the marionette, feigning ignorance.
“they say he is a mischief-maker, a tramp, a street urchin ”
“calumnies!
all calumnies!”
“do you know this pinocchio?”
“by sight!” answered the marionette.
“and what do you think of him?” asked the old man.
“i think he’s a very good boy, fond of study, obedient, kind to his father, and to his whole family ”
as he was telling all these enormous lies about himself, pinocchio touched his nose and found it twice as long as it should be.
scared out of his wits, he cried out:
“don’t listen to me, good man!
all the wonderful things i have said are not true at all.
i know pinocchio well and he is indeed a very wicked fellow, lazy and disobedient, who instead of going to school, runs away with his playmates to have a good time.”
at this speech, his nose returned to its natural size.
“why are you so pale?” the old man asked suddenly.
“let me tell you.
without knowing it, i rubbed myself against a newly painted wall,” he lied, ashamed to say that he had been made ready for the frying pan.
“what have you done with your coat and your hat and your breeches?”
“i met thieves and they robbed me.
tell me, my good man, have you not, perhaps, a little suit to give me, so that i may go home?”
“my boy, as for clothes, i have only a bag in which i keep hops.
if you want it, take it.
there it is.”
pinocchio did not wait for him to repeat his words.
he took the bag, which happened to be empty, and after cutting a big hole at the top and two at the sides, he slipped into it as if it were a shirt.
lightly clad as he was, he started out toward the village.
along the way he felt very uneasy.
in fact he was so unhappy that he went along taking two steps forward and one back, and as he went he said to himself:
“how shall i ever face my good little fairy?
what will she say when she sees me?
will she forgive this last trick of mine?
i am sure she won’t.
oh, no, she won’t.
and i deserve it, as usual!
for i am a rascal, fine on promises which i never keep!”
he came to the village late at night.
it was so dark he could see nothing and it was raining pitchforks.
pinocchio went straight to the fairy’s house, firmly resolved to knock at the door.
when he found himself there, he lost courage and ran back a few steps.
a second time he came to the door and again he ran back.
a third time he repeated his performance.
the fourth time, before he had time to lose his courage, he grasped the knocker and made a faint sound with it.
he waited and waited and waited.
finally, after a full half hour, a top-floor window (the house had four stories) opened and pinocchio saw a large snail look out.
a tiny light glowed on top of her head.
“who knocks at this late hour?” she called.
“is the fairy home?” asked the marionette.
“the fairy is asleep and does not wish to be disturbed.
who are you?”
“it is i.”
“who’s i?”
“pinocchio.”
“who is pinocchio?”
“the marionette; the one who lives in the fairy’s house.”
“oh, i understand,” said the snail.
“wait for me there.
i’ll come down to open the door for you.”
“hurry, i beg of you, for i am dying of cold.”
“my boy, i am a snail and snails are never in a hurry.”
an hour passed, two hours; and the door was still closed.
pinocchio, who was trembling with fear and shivering from the cold rain on his back, knocked a second time, this time louder than before.
at that second knock, a window on the third floor opened and the same snail looked out.
“dear little snail,” cried pinocchio from the street.
“i have been waiting two hours for you!
and two hours on a dreadful night like this are as long as two years.
hurry, please!”
“my boy,” answered the snail in a calm, peaceful voice, “my dear boy, i am a snail and snails are never in a hurry.” and the window closed.
a few minutes later midnight struck; then one o’clock two o’clock.
and the door still remained closed!
then pinocchio, losing all patience, grabbed the knocker with both hands, fully determined to awaken the whole house and street with it.
as soon as he touched the knocker, however, it became an eel and wiggled away into the darkness.
“really?” cried pinocchio, blind with rage.
“if the knocker is gone, i can still use my feet.”
he stepped back and gave the door a most solemn kick.
he kicked so hard that his foot went straight through the door and his leg followed almost to the knee.
no matter how he pulled and tugged, he could not pull it out.
there he stayed as if nailed to the door.
poor pinocchio!
the rest of the night he had to spend with one foot through the door and the other one in the air.
as dawn was breaking, the door finally opened.
that brave little animal, the snail, had taken exactly nine hours to go from the fourth floor to the street.
how she must have raced!
“what are you doing with your foot through the door?” she asked the marionette, laughing.
“it was a misfortune.
won’t you try, pretty little snail, to free me from this terrible torture?”
“my boy, we need a carpenter here and i have never been one.”
“ask the fairy to help me!”
“the fairy is asleep and does not want to be disturbed.”
“but what do you want me to do, nailed to the door like this?”
“enjoy yourself counting the ants which are passing by.”
“bring me something to eat, at least, for i am faint with hunger.”
“immediately!”
in fact, after three hours and a half, pinocchio saw her return with a silver tray on her head.
on the tray there was bread, roast chicken, fruit.
“here is the breakfast the fairy sends to you,” said the snail.
at the sight of all these good things, the marionette felt much better.
what was his disgust, however, when on tasting the food, he found the bread to be made of chalk, the chicken of cardboard, and the brilliant fruit of colored alabaster!
he wanted to cry, he wanted to give himself up to despair, he wanted to throw away the tray and all that was on it.
instead, either from pain or weakness, he fell to the floor in a dead faint.
when he regained his senses, he found himself stretched out on a sofa and the fairy was seated near him.
“this time also i forgive you,” said the fairy to him.
“but be careful not to get into mischief again.”
pinocchio promised to study and to behave himself.
and he kept his word for the remainder of the year.
at the end of it, he passed first in all his examinations, and his report was so good that the fairy said to him happily:
“tomorrow your wish will come true.”
“and what is it?”
“tomorrow you will cease to be a marionette and will become a real boy.”
pinocchio was beside himself with joy.
all his friends and schoolmates must be invited to celebrate the great event!
the fairy promised to prepare two hundred cups of coffee-and-milk and four hundred slices of toast buttered on both sides.
the day promised to be a very gay and happy one, but
unluckily, in a marionette’s life there’s always a but which is apt to spoil everything.
chapter 30
pinocchio, instead of becoming a boy, runs away to the land of toys with his friend, lamp-wick.
coming at last out of the surprise into which the fairy’s words had thrown him, pinocchio asked for permission to give out the invitations.
“indeed, you may invite your friends to tomorrow’s party.
only remember to return home before dark.
do you understand?”
“i’ll be back in one hour without fail,” answered the marionette.
“take care, pinocchio!
boys give promises very easily, but they as easily forget them.”
“but i am not like those others.
when i give my word i keep it.”
“we shall see.
in case you do disobey, you will be the one to suffer, not anyone else.”
“why?”
“because boys who do not listen to their elders always come to grief.”
“i certainly have,” said pinocchio, “but from now on, i obey.”
“we shall see if you are telling the truth.”
without adding another word, the marionette bade the good fairy good-by, and singing and dancing, he left the house.
in a little more than an hour, all his friends were invited.
some accepted quickly and gladly.
others had to be coaxed, but when they heard that the toast was to be buttered on both sides, they all ended by accepting the invitation with the words, “we’ll come to please you.”
now it must be known that, among all his friends, pinocchio had one whom he loved most of all.
the boy’s real name was romeo, but everyone called him lamp-wick, for he was long and thin and had a woebegone look about him.
lamp-wick was the laziest boy in the school and the biggest mischief-maker, but pinocchio loved him dearly.
that day, he went straight to his friend’s house to invite him to the party, but lamp-wick was not at home.
he went a second time, and again a third, but still without success.
where could he be?
pinocchio searched here and there and everywhere, and finally discovered him hiding near a farmer’s wagon.
“what are you doing there?” asked pinocchio, running up to him.
“i am waiting for midnight to strike to go ”
“where?”
“far, far away!”
“and i have gone to your house three times to look for you!”
“what did you want from me?”
“haven’t you heard the news?
don’t you know what good luck is mine?”
“what is it?”
“tomorrow i end my days as a marionette and become a boy, like you and all my other friends.”
“may it bring you luck!”
“shall i see you at my party tomorrow?”
“but i’m telling you that i go tonight.”
“at what time?”
“at midnight.”
“and where are you going?”
“to a real country the best in the world a wonderful place!”
“what is it called?”
“it is called the land of toys.
why don’t you come, too?”
“i?
oh, no!”
“you are making a big mistake, pinocchio.
believe me, if you don’t come, you’ll be sorry.
where can you find a place that will agree better with you and me?
no schools, no teachers, no books!
in that blessed place there is no such thing as study.
here, it is only on saturdays that we have no school.
in the land of toys, every day, except sunday, is a saturday.
vacation begins on the first of january and ends on the last day of december.
that is the place for me!
all countries should be like it!
how happy we should all be!”
“but how does one spend the day in the land of toys?”
“days are spent in play and enjoyment from morn till night.
at night one goes to bed, and next morning, the good times begin all over again.
what do you think of it?”
“h’m !” said pinocchio, nodding his wooden head, as if to say, “it’s the kind of life which would agree with me perfectly.”
“do you want to go with me, then?
yes or no?
you must make up your mind.”
“no, no, and again no!
i have promised my kind fairy to become a good boy, and i want to keep my word.
just see: the sun is setting and i must leave you and run.
good-by and good luck to you!”
“where are you going in such a hurry?”
“home.
my good fairy wants me to return home before night.”
“wait two minutes more.”
“it’s too late!”
“only two minutes.”
“and if the fairy scolds me?”
“let her scold.
after she gets tired, she will stop,” said lamp-wick.
“are you going alone or with others?”
“alone?
there will be more than a hundred of us!”
“will you walk?”
“at midnight the wagon passes here that is to take us within the boundaries of that marvelous country.”
“how i wish midnight would strike!”
“why?”
“to see you all set out together.”
“stay here a while longer and you will see us!”
“no, no.
i want to return home.”
“wait two more minutes.”
“i have waited too long as it is.
the fairy will be worried.”
“poor fairy!
is she afraid the bats will eat you up?”
“listen, lamp-wick,” said the marionette, “are you really sure that there are no schools in the land of toys?” “not even the shadow of one.”
“not even one teacher?”
“not one.”
“and one does not have to study?”
“never, never, never!”
“what a great land!” said pinocchio, feeling his mouth water.
“what a beautiful land!
i have never been there, but i can well imagine it.”
“why don’t you come, too?”
“it is useless for you to tempt me!
i told you i promised my good fairy to behave myself, and i am going to keep my word.”
“good-by, then, and remember me to the grammar schools, to the high schools, and even to the colleges if you meet them on the way.”
“good-by, lamp-wick.
have a pleasant trip, enjoy yourself, and remember your friends once in a while.”
with these words, the marionette started on his way home.
turning once more to his friend, he asked him:
“but are you sure that, in that country, each week is composed of six saturdays and one sunday?”
“very sure!”
“and that vacation begins on the first of january and ends on the thirty-first of december?”
“very, very sure!”
“what a great country!” repeated pinocchio, puzzled as to what to do.
then, in sudden determination, he said hurriedly:
“good-by for the last time, and good luck.”
“good-by.”
“how soon will you go?”
“within two hours.”
“what a pity!
if it were only one hour, i might wait for you.”
“and the fairy?”
“by this time i’m late, and one hour more or less makes very little difference.”
“poor pinocchio!
and if the fairy scolds you?”
“oh, i’ll let her scold.
after she gets tired, she will stop.”
in the meantime, the night became darker and darker.
all at once in the distance a small light flickered.
a queer sound could be heard, soft as a little bell, and faint and muffled like the buzz of a far-away mosquito.
“there it is!” cried lamp-wick, jumping to his feet.
“what?” whispered pinocchio.
“the wagon which is coming to get me.
for the last time, are you coming or not?”
“but is it really true that in that country boys never have to study?”
“never, never, never!”
“what a wonderful, beautiful, marvelous country!
oh h h!
!”
chapter 31
after five months of play, pinocchio wakes up one fine morning and finds a great surprise awaiting him.
finally the wagon arrived.
it made no noise, for its wheels were bound with straw and rags.
it was drawn by twelve pair of donkeys, all of the same size, but all of different color.
some were gray, others white, and still others a mixture of brown and black.
here and there were a few with large yellow and blue stripes.
the strangest thing of all was that those twenty-four donkeys, instead of being iron-shod like any other beast of burden, had on their feet laced shoes made of leather, just like the ones boys wear.
and the driver of the wagon?
imagine to yourselves a little, fat man, much wider than he was long, round and shiny as a ball of butter, with a face beaming like an apple, a little mouth that always smiled, and a voice small and wheedling like that of a cat begging for food.
no sooner did any boy see him than he fell in love with him, and nothing satisfied him but to be allowed to ride in his wagon to that lovely place called the land of toys.
in fact the wagon was so closely packed with boys of all ages that it looked like a box of sardines.
they were uncomfortable, they were piled one on top of the other, they could hardly breathe; yet not one word of complaint was heard.
the thought that in a few hours they would reach a country where there were no schools, no books, no teachers, made these boys so happy that they felt neither hunger, nor thirst, nor sleep, nor discomfort.
no sooner had the wagon stopped than the little fat man turned to lamp-wick.
with bows and smiles, he asked in a wheedling tone:
“tell me, my fine boy, do you also want to come to my wonderful country?”
“indeed i do.”
“but i warn you, my little dear, there’s no more room in the wagon.
it is full.”
“never mind,” answered lamp-wick.
“if there’s no room inside, i can sit on the top of the coach.”
and with one leap, he perched himself there.
“what about you, my love?” asked the little man, turning politely to pinocchio.
“what are you going to do?
will you come with us, or do you stay here?”
“i stay here,” answered pinocchio.
“i want to return home, as i prefer to study and to succeed in life.”
“may that bring you luck!”
“pinocchio!” lamp-wick called out.
“listen to me.
come with us and we’ll always be happy.”
“no, no, no!”
“come with us and we’ll always be happy,” cried four other voices from the wagon.
“come with us and we’ll always be happy,” shouted the one hundred and more boys in the wagon, all together.
“and if i go with you, what will my good fairy say?” asked the marionette, who was beginning to waver and weaken in his good resolutions.
“don’t worry so much.
only think that we are going to a land where we shall be allowed to make all the racket we like from morning till night.”
pinocchio did not answer, but sighed deeply once twice a third time.
finally, he said:
“make room for me.
i want to go, too!”
“the seats are all filled,” answered the little man, “but to show you how much i think of you, take my place as coachman.”
“and you?”
“i’ll walk.”
“no, indeed.
i could not permit such a thing.
i much prefer riding one of these donkeys,” cried pinocchio.
no sooner said than done.
he approached the first donkey and tried to mount it.
but the little animal turned suddenly and gave him such a terrible kick in the stomach that pinocchio was thrown to the ground and fell with his legs in the air.
at this unlooked-for entertainment, the whole company of runaways laughed uproariously.
the little fat man did not laugh.
he went up to the rebellious animal, and, still smiling, bent over him lovingly and bit off half of his right ear.
in the meantime, pinocchio lifted himself up from the ground, and with one leap landed on the donkey’s back.
the leap was so well taken that all the boys shouted,
“hurrah for pinocchio!” and clapped their hands in hearty applause.
suddenly the little donkey gave a kick with his two hind feet and, at this unexpected move, the poor marionette found himself once again sprawling right in the middle of the road.
again the boys shouted with laughter.
but the little man, instead of laughing, became so loving toward the little animal that, with another kiss, he bit off half of his left ear.
“you can mount now, my boy,” he then said to pinocchio.
“have no fear.
that donkey was worried about something, but i have spoken to him and now he seems quiet and reasonable.”
pinocchio mounted and the wagon started on its way.
while the donkeys galloped along the stony road, the marionette fancied he heard a very quiet voice whispering to him:
“poor silly!
you have done as you wished.
but you are going to be a sorry boy before very long.”
pinocchio, greatly frightened, looked about him to see whence the words had come, but he saw no one.
the donkeys galloped, the wagon rolled on smoothly, the boys slept (lamp-wick snored like a dormouse) and the little, fat driver sang sleepily between his teeth.
after a mile or so, pinocchio again heard the same faint voice whispering: “remember, little simpleton!
boys who stop studying and turn their backs upon books and schools and teachers in order to give all their time to nonsense and pleasure, sooner or later come to grief.
oh, how well i know this!
how well i can prove it to you!
a day will come when you will weep bitterly, even as i am weeping now but it will be too late!”
at these whispered words, the marionette grew more and more frightened.
he jumped to the ground, ran up to the donkey on whose back he had been riding, and taking his nose in his hands, looked at him.
think how great was his surprise when he saw that the donkey was weeping weeping just like a boy!
“hey, mr. driver!” cried the marionette.
“do you know what strange thing is happening here!
this donkey weeps.”
“let him weep.
when he gets married, he will have time to laugh.”
“have you perhaps taught him to speak?”
“no, he learned to mumble a few words when he lived for three years with a band of trained dogs.”
“poor beast!”
“come, come,” said the little man, “do not lose time over a donkey that can weep.
mount quickly and let us go.
the night is cool and the road is long.”
pinocchio obeyed without another word.
the wagon started again.
toward dawn the next morning they finally reached that much-longed-for country, the land of toys.
this great land was entirely different from any other place in the world.
its population, large though it was, was composed wholly of boys.
the oldest were about fourteen years of age, the youngest, eight.
in the street, there was such a racket, such shouting, such blowing of trumpets, that it was deafening.
everywhere groups of boys were gathered together.
some played at marbles, at hopscotch, at ball.
others rode on bicycles or on wooden horses.
some played at blindman’s buff, others at tag.
here a group played circus, there another sang and recited.
a few turned somersaults, others walked on their hands with their feet in the air.
generals in full uniform leading regiments of cardboard soldiers passed by.
laughter, shrieks, howls, catcalls, hand-clapping followed this parade.
one boy made a noise like a hen, another like a rooster, and a third imitated a lion in his den.
all together they created such a pandemonium that it would have been necessary for you to put cotton in your ears.
the squares were filled with small wooden theaters, overflowing with boys from morning till night, and on the walls of the houses, written with charcoal, were words like these: hurrah for the land of toys!
down with arithmetic!
no more school!
as soon as they had set foot in that land, pinocchio, lamp-wick, and all the other boys who had traveled with them started out on a tour of investigation.
they wandered everywhere, they looked into every nook and corner, house and theater.
they became everybody’s friend.
who could be happier than they?
what with entertainments and parties, the hours, the days, the weeks passed like lightning.
“oh, what a beautiful life this is!” said pinocchio each time that, by chance, he met his friend lamp-wick.
“was i right or wrong?” answered lamp-wick.
“and to think you did not want to come!
to think that even yesterday the idea came into your head to return home to see your fairy and to start studying again!
if today you are free from pencils and books and school, you owe it to me, to my advice, to my care.
do you admit it?
only true friends count, after all.”
“it’s true, lamp-wick, it’s true.
if today i am a really happy boy, it is all because of you.
and to think that the teacher, when speaking of you, used to say, ‘do not go with that lamp-wick!
he is a bad companion and some day he will lead you astray.’”
“poor teacher!” answered the other, nodding his head.
“indeed i know how much he disliked me and how he enjoyed speaking ill of me.
but i am of a generous nature, and i gladly forgive him.”
“great soul!” said pinocchio, fondly embracing his friend.
five months passed and the boys continued playing and enjoying themselves from morn till night, without ever seeing a book, or a desk, or a school.
but, my children, there came a morning when pinocchio awoke and found a great surprise awaiting him, a surprise which made him feel very unhappy, as you shall see.
chapter 32
pinocchio’s ears become like those of a donkey.
in a little while he changes into a real donkey and begins to bray.
everyone, at one time or another, has found some surprise awaiting him.
of the kind which pinocchio had on that eventful morning of his life, there are but few.
what was it?
i will tell you, my dear little readers.
on awakening, pinocchio put his hand up to his head and there he found
guess!
he found that, during the night, his ears had grown at least ten full inches!
you must know that the marionette, even from his birth, had very small ears, so small indeed that to the naked eye they could hardly be seen.
fancy how he felt when he noticed that overnight those two dainty organs had become as long as shoe brushes!
he went in search of a mirror, but not finding any, he just filled a basin with water and looked at himself.
there he saw what he never could have wished to see.
his manly figure was adorned and enriched by a beautiful pair of donkey’s ears.
i leave you to think of the terrible grief, the shame, the despair of the poor marionette.
he began to cry, to scream, to knock his head against the wall, but the more he shrieked, the longer and the more hairy grew his ears.
at those piercing shrieks, a dormouse came into the room, a fat little dormouse, who lived upstairs.
seeing pinocchio so grief-stricken, she asked him anxiously:
“what is the matter, dear little neighbor?”
“i am sick, my little dormouse, very, very sick and from an illness which frightens me!
do you understand how to feel the pulse?”
“a little.”
“feel mine then and tell me if i have a fever.”
the dormouse took pinocchio’s wrist between her paws and, after a few minutes, looked up at him sorrowfully and said: “my friend, i am sorry, but i must give you some very sad news.”
“what is it?”
“you have a very bad fever.”
“but what fever is it?”
“the donkey fever.”
“i don’t know anything about that fever,” answered the marionette, beginning to understand even too well what was happening to him.
“then i will tell you all about it,” said the dormouse.
“know then that, within two or three hours, you will no longer be a marionette, nor a boy.”
“what shall i be?”
“within two or three hours you will become a real donkey, just like the ones that pull the fruit carts to market.”
“oh, what have i done?
what have i done?” cried pinocchio, grasping his two long ears in his hands and pulling and tugging at them angrily, just as if they belonged to another.
“my dear boy,” answered the dormouse to cheer him up a bit, “why worry now?
what is done cannot be undone, you know.
fate has decreed that all lazy boys who come to hate books and schools and teachers and spend all their days with toys and games must sooner or later turn into donkeys.”
“but is it really so?” asked the marionette, sobbing bitterly.
“i am sorry to say it is.
and tears now are useless.
you should have thought of all this before.”
“but the fault is not mine.
believe me, little dormouse, the fault is all lamp-wick’s.”
“and who is this lamp-wick?”
“a classmate of mine.
i wanted to return home.
i wanted to be obedient.
i wanted to study and to succeed in school, but lamp-wick said to me, ‘why do you want to waste your time studying?
why do you want to go to school?
come with me to the land of toys.
there we’ll never study again.
there we can enjoy ourselves and be happy from morn till night.’”
“and why did you follow the advice of that false friend?”
“why?
because, my dear little dormouse, i am a heedless marionette heedless and heartless.
oh!
if i had only had a bit of heart, i should never have abandoned that good fairy, who loved me so well and who has been so kind to me!
and by this time, i should no longer be a marionette.
i should have become a real boy, like all these friends of mine!
oh, if i meet lamp-wick i am going to tell him what i think of him and more, too!”
after this long speech, pinocchio walked to the door of the room.
but when he reached it, remembering his donkey ears, he felt ashamed to show them to the public and turned back.
he took a large cotton bag from a shelf, put it on his head, and pulled it far down to his very nose.
thus adorned, he went out.
he looked for lamp-wick everywhere, along the streets, in the squares, inside the theatres, everywhere; but he was not to be found.
he asked everyone whom he met about him, but no one had seen him.
in desperation, he returned home and knocked at the door.
“who is it?” asked lamp-wick from within.
“it is i!” answered the marionette.
“wait a minute.”
after a full half hour the door opened.
another surprise awaited pinocchio!
there in the room stood his friend, with a large cotton bag on his head, pulled far down to his very nose.
at the sight of that bag, pinocchio felt slightly happier and thought to himself:
“my friend must be suffering from the same sickness that i am!
i wonder if he, too, has donkey fever?”
but pretending he had seen nothing, he asked with a smile:
“how are you, my dear lamp-wick?”
“very well.
like a mouse in a parmesan cheese.”
“is that really true?”
“why should i lie to you?”
“i beg your pardon, my friend, but why then are you wearing that cotton bag over your ears?”
“the doctor has ordered it because one of my knees hurts.
and you, dear marionette, why are you wearing that cotton bag down to your nose?”
“the doctor has ordered it because i have bruised my foot.”
“oh, my poor pinocchio!”
“oh, my poor lamp-wick!”
an embarrassingly long silence followed these words, during which time the two friends looked at each other in a mocking way.
finally the marionette, in a voice sweet as honey and soft as a flute, said to his companion:
“tell me, lamp-wick, dear friend, have you ever suffered from an earache?”
“never!
and you?”
“never!
still, since this morning my ear has been torturing me.”
“so has mine.”
“yours, too?
and which ear is it?”
“both of them.
and yours?”
“both of them, too.
i wonder if it could be the same sickness.”
“i’m afraid it is.”
“will you do me a favor, lamp-wick?”
“gladly!
with my whole heart.”
“will you let me see your ears?”
“why not?
but before i show you mine, i want to see yours, dear pinocchio.”
“no.
you must show yours first.”
“no, my dear!
yours first, then mine.”
“well, then,” said the marionette, “let us make a contract.”
“let’s hear the contract!”
“let us take off our caps together.
all right?”
“all right.”
“ready then!”
pinocchio began to count, “one!
two!
three!”
at the word “three!” the two boys pulled off their caps and threw them high in air.
and then a scene took place which is hard to believe, but it is all too true.
the marionette and his friend, lamp-wick, when they saw each other both stricken by the same misfortune, instead of feeling sorrowful and ashamed, began to poke fun at each other, and after much nonsense, they ended by bursting out into hearty laughter.
they laughed and laughed, and laughed again laughed till they ached laughed till they cried.
but all of a sudden lamp-wick stopped laughing.
he tottered and almost fell.
pale as a ghost, he turned to pinocchio and said:
“help, help, pinocchio!”
“what is the matter?”
“oh, help me!
i can no longer stand up.”
“i can’t either,” cried pinocchio; and his laughter turned to tears as he stumbled about helplessly.
they had hardly finished speaking, when both of them fell on all fours and began running and jumping around the room.
as they ran, their arms turned into legs, their faces lengthened into snouts and their backs became covered with long gray hairs.
this was humiliation enough, but the most horrible moment was the one in which the two poor creatures felt their tails appear.
overcome with shame and grief, they tried to cry and bemoan their fate.
but what is done can’t be undone!
instead of moans and cries, they burst forth into loud donkey brays, which sounded very much like, “haw!
haw!
haw!”
at that moment, a loud knocking was heard at the door and a voice called to them:
“open!
i am the little man, the driver of the wagon which brought you here.
open, i say, or beware!”
chapter 33
pinocchio, having become a donkey, is bought by the owner of a circus, who wants to teach him to do tricks.
the donkey becomes lame and is sold to a man who wants to use his skin for a drumhead.
very sad and downcast were the two poor little fellows as they stood and looked at each other.
outside the room, the little man grew more and more impatient, and finally gave the door such a violent kick that it flew open.
with his usual sweet smile on his lips, he looked at pinocchio and lamp-wick and said to them:
“fine work, boys!
you have brayed well, so well that i recognized your voices immediately, and here i am.”
on hearing this, the two donkeys bowed their heads in shame, dropped their ears, and put their tails between their legs.
at first, the little man petted and caressed them and smoothed down their hairy coats.
then he took out a currycomb and worked over them till they shone like glass.
satisfied with the looks of the two little animals, he bridled them and took them to a market place far away from the land of toys, in the hope of selling them at a good price.
in fact, he did not have to wait very long for an offer.
lamp-wick was bought by a farmer whose donkey had died the day before.
pinocchio went to the owner of a circus, who wanted to teach him to do tricks for his audiences.
and now do you understand what the little man’s profession was?
this horrid little being, whose face shone with kindness, went about the world looking for boys.
lazy boys, boys who hated books, boys who wanted to run away from home, boys who were tired of school all these were his joy and his fortune.
he took them with him to the land of toys and let them enjoy themselves to their heart’s content.
when, after months of all play and no work, they became little donkeys, he sold them on the market place.
in a few years, he had become a millionaire.
what happened to lamp-wick?
my dear children, i do not know.
pinocchio, i can tell you, met with great hardships even from the first day.
after putting him in a stable, his new master filled his manger with straw, but pinocchio, after tasting a mouthful, spat it out.
then the man filled the manger with hay.
but pinocchio did not like that any better.
“ah, you don’t like hay either?” he cried angrily.
“wait, my pretty donkey, i’ll teach you not to be so particular.”
without more ado, he took a whip and gave the donkey a hearty blow across the legs.
pinocchio screamed with pain and as he screamed he brayed:
“haw!
haw!
haw!
i can’t digest straw!”
“then eat the hay!” answered his master, who understood the donkey perfectly.
“haw!
haw!
haw!
hay gives me a headache!”
“do you pretend, by any chance, that i should feed you duck or chicken?”
asked the man again, and, angrier than ever, he gave poor pinocchio another lashing.
at that second beating, pinocchio became very quiet and said no more.
after that, the door of the stable was closed and he was left alone.
it was many hours since he had eaten anything and he started to yawn from hunger.
as he yawned, he opened a mouth as big as an oven.
finally, not finding anything else in the manger, he tasted the hay.
after tasting it, he chewed it well, closed his eyes, and swallowed it.
“this hay is not bad,” he said to himself.
“but how much happier i should be if i had studied!
just now, instead of hay, i should be eating some good bread and butter.
patience!”
next morning, when he awoke, pinocchio looked in the manger for more hay, but it was all gone.
he had eaten it all during the night.
he tried the straw, but, as he chewed away at it, he noticed to his great disappointment that it tasted neither like rice nor like macaroni.
“patience!” he repeated as he chewed.
“if only my misfortune might serve as a lesson to disobedient boys who refuse to study!
patience!
have patience!”
“patience indeed!” shouted his master just then, as he came into the stable.
“do you think, perhaps, my little donkey, that i have brought you here only to give you food and drink?
oh, no!
you are to help me earn some fine gold pieces, do you hear?
come along, now.
i am going to teach you to jump and bow, to dance a waltz and a polka, and even to stand on your head.”
poor pinocchio, whether he liked it or not, had to learn all these wonderful things; but it took him three long months and cost him many, many lashings before he was pronounced perfect.
the day came at last when pinocchio’s master was able to announce an extraordinary performance.
the announcements, posted all around the town, and written in large letters, read thus:
great spectacle tonight      leaps and exercises by the great artists      and the famous horses      of the      company
first public appearance
of the
famous donkey
called
pinocchio
the star of the dance
the theater will be as light as day
that night, as you can well imagine, the theater was filled to overflowing one hour before the show was scheduled to start.
not an orchestra chair could be had, not a balcony seat, nor a gallery seat; not even for their weight in gold.
the place swarmed with boys and girls of all ages and sizes, wriggling and dancing about in a fever of impatience to see the famous donkey dance.
when the first part of the performance was over, the owner and manager of the circus, in a black coat, white knee breeches, and patent leather boots, presented himself to the public and in a loud, pompous voice made the following announcement:
“most honored friends, gentlemen and ladies!
“your humble servant, the manager of this theater, presents himself before you tonight in order to introduce to you the greatest, the most famous donkey in the world, a donkey that has had the great honor in his short life of performing before the kings and queens and emperors of all the great courts of europe.
“we thank you for your attention!”
this speech was greeted by much laughter and applause.
and the applause grew to a roar when pinocchio, the famous donkey, appeared in the circus ring.
he was handsomely arrayed.
a new bridle of shining leather with buckles of polished brass was on his back; two white camellias were tied to his ears; ribbons and tassels of red silk adorned his mane, which was divided into many curls.
a great sash of gold and silver was fastened around his waist and his tail was decorated with ribbons of many brilliant colors.
he was a handsome donkey indeed!
the manager, when introducing him to the public, added these words:
“most honored audience!
i shall not take your time tonight to tell you of the great difficulties which i have encountered while trying to tame this animal, since i found him in the wilds of africa.
observe, i beg of you, the savage look of his eye.
all the means used by centuries of civilization in subduing wild beasts failed in this case.
i had finally to resort to the gentle language of the whip in order to bring him to my will.
with all my kindness, however, i never succeeded in gaining my donkey’s love.
he is still today as savage as the day i found him.
he still fears and hates me.
but i have found in him one great redeeming feature.
do you see this little bump on his forehead?
it is this bump which gives him his great talent of dancing and using his feet as nimbly as a human being.
admire him, o signori, and enjoy yourselves.
i let you, now, be the judges of my success as a teacher of animals.
before i leave you, i wish to state that there will be another performance tomorrow night.
if the weather threatens rain, the great spectacle will take place at eleven o’clock in the morning.”
the manager bowed and then turned to pinocchio and said: “ready, pinocchio!
before starting your performance, salute your audience!”
pinocchio obediently bent his two knees to the ground and remained kneeling until the manager, with the crack of the whip, cried sharply:
“walk!”
the donkey lifted himself on his four feet and walked around the ring.
a few minutes passed and again the voice of the manager called:
“quickstep!” and pinocchio obediently changed his step.
“gallop!” and pinocchio galloped.
“full speed!” and pinocchio ran as fast as he could.
as he ran the master raised his arm and a pistol shot rang in the air.
at the shot, the little donkey fell to the ground as if he were really dead.
a shower of applause greeted the donkey as he arose to his feet.
cries and shouts and handclappings were heard on all sides.
at all that noise, pinocchio lifted his head and raised his eyes.
there, in front of him, in a box sat a beautiful woman.
around her neck she wore a long gold chain, from which hung a large medallion.
on the medallion was painted the picture of a marionette.
“that picture is of me!
that beautiful lady is my fairy!” said pinocchio to himself, recognizing her.
he felt so happy that he tried his best to cry out:
“oh, my fairy!
my own fairy!”
but instead of words, a loud braying was heard in the theater, so loud and so long that all the spectators men, women, and children, but especially the children burst out laughing.
then, in order to teach the donkey that it was not good manners to bray before the public, the manager hit him on the nose with the handle of the whip.
the poor little donkey stuck out a long tongue and licked his nose for a long time in an effort to take away the pain.
and what was his grief when on looking up toward the boxes, he saw that the fairy had disappeared!
he felt himself fainting, his eyes filled with tears, and he wept bitterly.
no one knew it, however, least of all the manager, who, cracking his whip, cried out:
“bravo, pinocchio!
now show us how gracefully you can jump through the rings.”
pinocchio tried two or three times, but each time he came near the ring, he found it more to his taste to go under it.
the fourth time, at a look from his master he leaped through it, but as he did so his hind legs caught in the ring and he fell to the floor in a heap.
when he got up, he was lame and could hardly limp as far as the stable.
“pinocchio!
we want pinocchio!
we want the little donkey!” cried the boys from the orchestra, saddened by the accident.
no one saw pinocchio again that evening.
the next morning the veterinary that is, the animal doctor declared that he would be lame for the rest of his life.
“what do i want with a lame donkey?” said the manager to the stableboy.
“take him to the market and sell him.”
when they reached the square, a buyer was soon found.
“how much do you ask for that little lame donkey?” he asked.
“four dollars.”
“i’ll give you four cents.
don’t think i’m buying him for work.
i want only his skin.
it looks very tough and i can use it to make myself a drumhead.
i belong to a musical band in my village and i need a drum.”
i leave it to you, my dear children, to picture to yourself the great pleasure with which pinocchio heard that he was to become a drumhead!
as soon as the buyer had paid the four cents, the donkey changed hands.
his new owner took him to a high cliff overlooking the sea, put a stone around his neck, tied a rope to one of his hind feet, gave him a push, and threw him into the water.
pinocchio sank immediately.
and his new master sat on the cliff waiting for him to drown, so as to skin him and make himself a drumhead.
chapter 34
pinocchio is thrown into the sea, eaten by fishes, and becomes a marionette once more.
as he swims to land, he is swallowed by the terrible shark.
down into the sea, deeper and deeper, sank pinocchio, and finally, after fifty minutes of waiting, the man on the cliff said to himself:
“by this time my poor little lame donkey must be drowned.
up with him and then i can get to work on my beautiful drum.”
he pulled the rope which he had tied to pinocchio’s leg pulled and pulled and pulled and, at last, he saw appear on the surface of the water can you guess what?
instead of a dead donkey, he saw a very much alive marionette, wriggling and squirming like an eel.
seeing that wooden marionette, the poor man thought he was dreaming and sat there with his mouth wide open and his eyes popping out of his head.
gathering his wits together, he said:
“and the donkey i threw into the sea?”
“i am that donkey,” answered the marionette laughing.
“you?”
“i.”
“ah, you little cheat!
are you poking fun at me?”
“poking fun at you?
not at all, dear master.
i am talking seriously.”
“but, then, how is it that you, who a few minutes ago were a donkey, are now standing before me a wooden marionette?”
“it may be the effect of salt water.
the sea is fond of playing these tricks.”
“be careful, marionette, be careful!
don’t laugh at me!
woe be to you, if i lose my patience!”
“well, then, my master, do you want to know my whole story?
untie my leg and i can tell it to you better.”
the old fellow, curious to know the true story of the marionette’s life, immediately untied the rope which held his foot.
pinocchio, feeling free as a bird of the air, began his tale:
“know, then, that, once upon a time, i was a wooden marionette, just as i am today.
one day i was about to become a boy, a real boy, but on account of my laziness and my hatred of books, and because i listened to bad companions, i ran away from home.
one beautiful morning, i awoke to find myself changed into a donkey long ears, gray coat, even a tail!
what a shameful day for me!
i hope you will never experience one like it, dear master.
i was taken to the fair and sold to a circus owner, who tried to make me dance and jump through the rings.
one night, during a performance, i had a bad fall and became lame.
not knowing what to do with a lame donkey, the circus owner sent me to the market place and you bought me.”
“indeed i did!
and i paid four cents for you.
now who will return my money to me?”
“but why did you buy me?
you bought me to do me harm to kill me to make a drumhead out of me!”
“indeed i did!
and now where shall i find another skin?”
“never mind, dear master.
there are so many donkeys in this world.”
“tell me, impudent little rogue, does your story end here?”
“one more word,” answered the marionette, “and i am through.
after buying me, you brought me here to kill me.
but feeling sorry for me, you tied a stone to my neck and threw me to the bottom of the sea.
that was very good and kind of you to want me to suffer as little as possible and i shall remember you always.
and now my fairy will take care of me, even if you ”
“your fairy?
who is she?”
“she is my mother, and, like all other mothers who love their children, she never loses sight of me, even though i do not deserve it.
and today this good fairy of mine, as soon as she saw me in danger of drowning, sent a thousand fishes to the spot where i lay.
they thought i was really a dead donkey and began to eat me.
what great bites they took!
one ate my ears, another my nose, a third my neck and my mane.
some went at my legs and some at my back, and among the others, there was one tiny fish so gentle and polite that he did me the great favor of eating even my tail.”
“from now on,” said the man, horrified, “i swear i shall never again taste fish.
how i should enjoy opening a mullet or a whitefish just to find there the tail of a dead donkey!”
“i think as you do,” answered the marionette, laughing.
“still, you must know that when the fish finished eating my donkey coat, which covered me from head to foot, they naturally came to the bones or rather, in my case, to the wood, for as you know, i am made of very hard wood.
after the first few bites, those greedy fish found out that the wood was not good for their teeth, and, afraid of indigestion, they turned and ran here and there without saying good-by or even as much as thank you to me.
here, dear master, you have my story.
you know now why you found a marionette and not a dead donkey when you pulled me out of the water.”
“i laugh at your story!” cried the man angrily.
“i know that i spent four cents to get you and i want my money back.
do you know what i can do; i am going to take you to the market once more and sell you as dry firewood.”
“very well, sell me.
i am satisfied,” said pinocchio.
but as he spoke, he gave a quick leap and dived into the sea.
swimming away as fast as he could, he cried out, laughing:
“good-by, master.
if you ever need a skin for your drum, remember me.”
he swam on and on.
after a while, he turned around again and called louder than before:
“good-by, master.
if you ever need a piece of good dry firewood, remember me.”
in a few seconds he had gone so far he could hardly be seen.
all that could be seen of him was a very small black dot moving swiftly on the blue surface of the water, a little black dot which now and then lifted a leg or an arm in the air.
one would have thought that pinocchio had turned into a porpoise playing in the sun.
after swimming for a long time, pinocchio saw a large rock in the middle of the sea, a rock as white as marble.
high on the rock stood a little goat bleating and calling and beckoning to the marionette to come to her.
there was something very strange about that little goat.
her coat was not white or black or brown as that of any other goat, but azure, a deep brilliant color that reminded one of the hair of the lovely maiden.
pinocchio’s heart beat fast, and then faster and faster.
he redoubled his efforts and swam as hard as he could toward the white rock.
he was almost halfway over, when suddenly a horrible sea monster stuck its head out of the water, an enormous head with a huge mouth, wide open, showing three rows of gleaming teeth, the mere sight of which would have filled you with fear.
do you know what it was?
that sea monster was no other than the enormous shark, which has often been mentioned in this story and which, on account of its cruelty, had been nicknamed “the attila of the sea” by both fish and fishermen.
poor pinocchio!
the sight of that monster frightened him almost to death!
he tried to swim away from him, to change his path, to escape, but that immense mouth kept coming nearer and nearer.
“hasten, pinocchio, i beg you!” bleated the little goat on the high rock.
and pinocchio swam desperately with his arms, his body, his legs, his feet.
“quick, pinocchio, the monster is coming nearer!”
pinocchio swam faster and faster, and harder and harder.
“faster, pinocchio!
the monster will get you!
there he is!
there he is!
quick, quick, or you are lost!”
pinocchio went through the water like a shot swifter and swifter.
he came close to the rock.
the goat leaned over and gave him one of her hoofs to help him up out of the water.
alas!
it was too late.
the monster overtook him and the marionette found himself in between the rows of gleaming white teeth.
only for a moment, however, for the shark took a deep breath and, as he breathed, he drank in the marionette as easily as he would have sucked an egg.
then he swallowed him so fast that pinocchio, falling down into the body of the fish, lay stunned for a half hour.
when he recovered his senses the marionette could not remember where he was.
around him all was darkness, a darkness so deep and so black that for a moment he thought he had put his head into an inkwell.
he listened for a few moments and heard nothing.
once in a while a cold wind blew on his face.
at first he could not understand where that wind was coming from, but after a while he understood that it came from the lungs of the monster.
i forgot to tell you that the shark was suffering from asthma, so that whenever he breathed a storm seemed to blow.
pinocchio at first tried to be brave, but as soon as he became convinced that he was really and truly in the shark’s stomach, he burst into sobs and tears.
“help!
help!” he cried.
“oh, poor me!
won’t someone come to save me?”
“who is there to help you, unhappy boy?” said a rough voice, like a guitar out of tune.
“who is talking?” asked pinocchio, frozen with terror.
“it is i, a poor tunny swallowed by the shark at the same time as you.
and what kind of a fish are you?”
“i have nothing to do with fishes.
i am a marionette.”
“if you are not a fish, why did you let this monster swallow you?”
“i didn’t let him.
he chased me and swallowed me without even a ‘by your leave’!
and now what are we to do here in the dark?”
“wait until the shark has digested us both, i suppose.”
“but i don’t want to be digested,” shouted pinocchio, starting to sob.
“neither do i,” said the tunny, “but i am wise enough to think that if one is born a fish, it is more dignified to die under the water than in the frying pan.”
“what nonsense!” cried pinocchio.
“mine is an opinion,” replied the tunny, “and opinions should be respected.”
“but i want to get out of this place.
i want to escape.”
“go, if you can!”
“is this shark that has swallowed us very long?” asked the marionette.
“his body, not counting the tail, is almost a mile long.”
while talking in the darkness, pinocchio thought he saw a faint light in the distance.
“what can that be?” he said to the tunny.
“some other poor fish, waiting as patiently as we to be digested by the shark.”
“i want to see him.
he may be an old fish and may know some way of escape.”
“i wish you all good luck, dear marionette.”
“good-by, tunny.”
“good-by, marionette, and good luck.”
“when shall i see you again?”
“who knows?
it is better not to think about it.”
chapter 35
in the shark’s body pinocchio finds whom?
read this chapter, my children, and you will know.
pinocchio, as soon as he had said good-by to his good friend, the tunny, tottered away in the darkness and began to walk as well as he could toward the faint light which glowed in the distance.
as he walked his feet splashed in a pool of greasy and slippery water, which had such a heavy smell of fish fried in oil that pinocchio thought it was lent.
the farther on he went, the brighter and clearer grew the tiny light.
on and on he walked till finally he found i give you a thousand guesses, my dear children!
he found a little table set for dinner and lighted by a candle stuck in a glass bottle; and near the table sat a little old man, white as the snow, eating live fish.
they wriggled so that, now and again, one of them slipped out of the old man’s mouth and escaped into the darkness under the table.
at this sight, the poor marionette was filled with such great and sudden happiness that he almost dropped in a faint.
he wanted to laugh, he wanted to cry, he wanted to say a thousand and one things, but all he could do was to stand still, stuttering and stammering brokenly.
at last, with a great effort, he was able to let out a scream of joy and, opening wide his arms he threw them around the old man’s neck.
“oh, father, dear father!
have i found you at last?
now i shall never, never leave you again!”
“are my eyes really telling me the truth?” answered the old man, rubbing his eyes.
“are you really my own dear pinocchio?”
“yes, yes, yes!
it is i!
look at me!
and you have forgiven me, haven’t you?
oh, my dear father, how good you are!
and to think that i oh, but if you only knew how many misfortunes have fallen on my head and how many troubles i have had!
just think that on the day you sold your old coat to buy me my a-b-c book so that i could go to school, i ran away to the marionette theater and the proprietor caught me and wanted to burn me to cook his roast lamb!
he was the one who gave me the five gold pieces for you, but i met the fox and the cat, who took me to the inn of the red lobster.
there they ate like wolves and i left the inn alone and i met the assassins in the wood.
i ran and they ran after me, always after me, till they hanged me to the branch of a giant oak tree.
then the fairy of the azure hair sent the coach to rescue me and the doctors, after looking at me, said, ‘if he is not dead, then he is surely alive,’
and then i told a lie and my nose began to grow.
it grew and it grew, till i couldn’t get it through the door of the room.
and then i went with the fox and the cat to the field of wonders to bury the gold pieces.
the parrot laughed at me and, instead of two thousand gold pieces, i found none.
when the judge heard i had been robbed, he sent me to jail to make the thieves happy; and when i came away i saw a fine bunch of grapes hanging on a vine.
the trap caught me and the farmer put a collar on me and made me a watchdog.
he found out i was innocent when i caught the weasels and he let me go.
the serpent with the tail that smoked started to laugh and a vein in his chest broke and so i went back to the fairy’s house.
she was dead, and the pigeon, seeing me crying, said to me, ‘i have seen your father building a boat to look for you in america,’ and i said to him, ‘oh, if i only had wings!’ and he said to me, ‘do you want to go to your father?’ and i said, ‘perhaps, but how?’
and he said, ‘get on my back.
i’ll take you there.’ we flew all night long, and next morning the fishermen were looking toward the sea, crying, ‘there is a poor little man drowning,’ and i knew it was you, because my heart told me so and i waved to you from the shore ”
“i knew you also,” put in geppetto, “and i wanted to go to you; but how could i?
the sea was rough and the whitecaps overturned the boat.
then a terrible shark came up out of the sea and, as soon as he saw me in the water, swam quickly toward me, put out his tongue, and swallowed me as easily as if i had been a chocolate peppermint.”
“and how long have you been shut away in here?”
“from that day to this, two long weary years two years, my pinocchio, which have been like two centuries.”
“and how have you lived?
where did you find the candle?
and the matches with which to light it where did you get them?”
“you must know that, in the storm which swamped my boat, a large ship also suffered the same fate.
the sailors were all saved, but the ship went right to the bottom of the sea, and the same terrible shark that swallowed me, swallowed most of it.”
“what!
swallowed a ship?” asked pinocchio in astonishment.
“at one gulp.
the only thing he spat out was the main-mast, for it stuck in his teeth.
to my own good luck, that ship was loaded with meat, preserved foods, crackers, bread, bottles of wine, raisins, cheese, coffee, sugar, wax candles, and boxes of matches.
with all these blessings, i have been able to live happily on for two whole years, but now i am at the very last crumbs.
today there is nothing left in the cupboard, and this candle you see here is the last one i have.”
“and then?”
“and then, my dear, we’ll find ourselves in darkness.”
“then, my dear father,” said pinocchio, “there is no time to lose.
we must try to escape.”
“escape!
how?”
“we can run out of the shark’s mouth and dive into the sea.”
“you speak well, but i cannot swim, my dear pinocchio.”
“why should that matter?
you can climb on my shoulders and i, who am a fine swimmer, will carry you safely to the shore.”
“dreams, my boy!” answered geppetto, shaking his head and smiling sadly.
“do you think it possible for a marionette, a yard high, to have the strength to carry me on his shoulders and swim?”
“try it and see!
and in any case, if it is written that we must die, we shall at least die together.”
not adding another word, pinocchio took the candle in his hand and going ahead to light the way, he said to his father:
“follow me and have no fear.”
they walked a long distance through the stomach and the whole body of the shark.
when they reached the throat of the monster, they stopped for a while to wait for the right moment in which to make their escape.
i want you to know that the shark, being very old and suffering from asthma and heart trouble, was obliged to sleep with his mouth open.
because of this, pinocchio was able to catch a glimpse of the sky filled with stars, as he looked up through the open jaws of his new home.
“the time has come for us to escape,” he whispered, turning to his father.
“the shark is fast asleep.
the sea is calm and the night is as bright as day.
follow me closely, dear father, and we shall soon be saved.”
no sooner said than done.
they climbed up the throat of the monster till they came to that immense open mouth.
there they had to walk on tiptoes, for if they tickled the shark’s long tongue he might awaken and where would they be then?
the tongue was so wide and so long that it looked like a country road.
the two fugitives were just about to dive into the sea when the shark sneezed very suddenly and, as he sneezed, he gave pinocchio and geppetto such a jolt that they found themselves thrown on their backs and dashed once more and very unceremoniously into the stomach of the monster.
to make matters worse, the candle went out and father and son were left in the dark.
“and now?” asked pinocchio with a serious face.
“now we are lost.”
“why lost?
give me your hand, dear father, and be careful not to slip!”
“where will you take me?”
“we must try again.
come with me and don’t be afraid.”
with these words pinocchio took his father by the hand and, always walking on tiptoes, they climbed up the monster’s throat for a second time.
they then crossed the whole tongue and jumped over three rows of teeth.
but before they took the last great leap, the marionette said to his father:
“climb on my back and hold on tightly to my neck.
i’ll take care of everything else.”
as soon as geppetto was comfortably seated on his shoulders, pinocchio, very sure of what he was doing, dived into the water and started to swim.
the sea was like oil, the moon shone in all splendor, and the shark continued to sleep so soundly that not even a cannon shot would have awakened him.
chapter 36
pinocchio finally ceases to be a marionette and becomes a boy
“my dear father, we are saved!” cried the marionette.
“all we have to do now is to get to the shore, and that is easy.”
without another word, he swam swiftly away in an effort to reach land as soon as possible.
all at once he noticed that geppetto was shivering and shaking as if with a high fever.
was he shivering from fear or from cold?
who knows?
perhaps a little of both.
but pinocchio, thinking his father was frightened, tried to comfort him by saying:
“courage, father!
in a few moments we shall be safe on land.”
“but where is that blessed shore?” asked the little old man, more and more worried as he tried to pierce the faraway shadows.
“here i am searching on all sides and i see nothing but sea and sky.”
“i see the shore,” said the marionette.
“remember, father, that i am like a cat.
i see better at night than by day.”
poor pinocchio pretended to be peaceful and contented, but he was far from that.
he was beginning to feel discouraged, his strength was leaving him, and his breathing was becoming more and more labored.
he felt he could not go on much longer, and the shore was still far away.
he swam a few more strokes.
then he turned to geppetto and cried out weakly:
“help me, father!
help, for i am dying!”
father and son were really about to drown when they heard a voice like a guitar out of tune call from the sea:
“what is the trouble?”
“it is i and my poor father.”
“i know the voice.
you are pinocchio.”
“exactly.
and you?”
“i am the tunny, your companion in the shark’s stomach.”
“and how did you escape?”
“i imitated your example.
you are the one who showed me the way and after you went, i followed.”
“tunny, you arrived at the right moment!
i implore you, for the love you bear your children, the little tunnies, to help us, or we are lost!”
“with great pleasure indeed.
hang onto my tail, both of you, and let me lead you.
in a twinkling you will be safe on land.”
geppetto and pinocchio, as you can easily imagine, did not refuse the invitation; indeed, instead of hanging onto the tail, they thought it better to climb on the tunny’s back.
“are we too heavy?” asked pinocchio.
“heavy?
not in the least.
you are as light as sea-shells,” answered the tunny, who was as large as a two-year-old horse.
as soon as they reached the shore, pinocchio was the first to jump to the ground to help his old father.
then he turned to the fish and said to him:
“dear friend, you have saved my father, and i have not enough words with which to thank you!
allow me to embrace you as a sign of my eternal gratitude.”
the tunny stuck his nose out of the water and pinocchio knelt on the sand and kissed him most affectionately on his cheek.
at this warm greeting, the poor tunny, who was not used to such tenderness, wept like a child.
he felt so embarrassed and ashamed that he turned quickly, plunged into the sea, and disappeared.
in the meantime day had dawned.
pinocchio offered his arm to geppetto, who was so weak he could hardly stand, and said to him:
“lean on my arm, dear father, and let us go.
we will walk very, very slowly, and if we feel tired we can rest by the wayside.”
“and where are we going?” asked geppetto.
“to look for a house or a hut, where they will be kind enough to give us a bite of bread and a bit of straw to sleep on.”
they had not taken a hundred steps when they saw two rough-looking individuals sitting on a stone begging for alms.
it was the fox and the cat, but one could hardly recognize them, they looked so miserable.
the cat, after pretending to be blind for so many years had really lost the sight of both eyes.
and the fox, old, thin, and almost hairless, had even lost his tail.
that sly thief had fallen into deepest poverty, and one day he had been forced to sell his beautiful tail for a bite to eat.
“oh, pinocchio,” he cried in a tearful voice.
“give us some alms, we beg of you!
we are old, tired, and sick.”
“sick!” repeated the cat.
“addio, false friends!” answered the marionette.
“you cheated me once, but you will never catch me again.”
“believe us!
today we are truly poor and starving.”
“starving!” repeated the cat.
“if you are poor; you deserve it!
remember the old proverb which says:
‘stolen money never bears fruit.’ addio, false friends.”
“have mercy on us!”
“on us.”
“addio, false friends.
remember the old proverb which says: ‘bad wheat always makes poor bread!’”
“do not abandon us.”
“abandon us,” repeated the cat.
“addio, false friends.
remember the old proverb: ‘whoever steals his neighbor’s shirt, usually dies without his own.’”
waving good-by to them, pinocchio and geppetto calmly went on their way.
after a few more steps, they saw, at the end of a long road near a clump of trees, a tiny cottage built of straw.
“someone must live in that little hut,” said pinocchio.
“let us see for ourselves.”
they went and knocked at the door.
“who is it?” said a little voice from within.
“a poor father and a poorer son, without food and with no roof to cover them,” answered the marionette.
“turn the key and the door will open,” said the same little voice.
pinocchio turned the key and the door opened.
as soon as they went in, they looked here and there and everywhere but saw no one.
“oh ho, where is the owner of the hut?” cried pinocchio, very much surprised.
“here i am, up here!”
father and son looked up to the ceiling, and there on a beam sat the talking cricket.
“oh, my dear cricket,” said pinocchio, bowing politely.
“oh, now you call me your dear cricket, but do you remember when you threw your hammer at me to kill me?”
“you are right, dear cricket.
throw a hammer at me now.
i deserve it!
but spare my poor old father.”
“i am going to spare both the father and the son.
i have only wanted to remind you of the trick you long ago played upon me, to teach you that in this world of ours we must be kind and courteous to others, if we want to find kindness and courtesy in our own days of trouble.”
“you are right, little cricket, you are more than right, and i shall remember the lesson you have taught me.
but will you tell how you succeeded in buying this pretty little cottage?”
“this cottage was given to me yesterday by a little goat with blue hair.”
“and where did the goat go?” asked pinocchio.
“i don’t know.”
“and when will she come back?”
“she will never come back.
yesterday she went away bleating sadly, and it seemed to me she said: ‘poor pinocchio, i shall never see him again.
.
.the shark must have eaten him by this time.’”
“were those her real words?
then it was she it was my dear little fairy,” cried out pinocchio, sobbing bitterly.
after he had cried a long time, he wiped his eyes and then he made a bed of straw for old geppetto.
he laid him on it and said to the talking cricket:
“tell me, little cricket, where shall i find a glass of milk for my poor father?”
“three fields away from here lives farmer john.
he has some cows.
go there and he will give you what you want.”
pinocchio ran all the way to farmer john’s house.
the farmer said to him:
“how much milk do you want?”
“i want a full glass.”
“a full glass costs a penny.
first give me the penny.”
“i have no penny,” answered pinocchio, sad and ashamed.
“very bad, my marionette,” answered the farmer, “very bad.
if you have no penny, i have no milk.”
“too bad,” said pinocchio and started to go.
“wait a moment,” said farmer john.
“perhaps we can come to terms.
do you know how to draw water from a well?”
“i can try.”
“then go to that well you see yonder and draw one hundred bucketfuls of water.”
“very well.”
“after you have finished, i shall give you a glass of warm sweet milk.”
“i am satisfied.”
farmer john took the marionette to the well and showed him how to draw the water.
pinocchio set to work as well as he knew how, but long before he had pulled up the one hundred buckets, he was tired out and dripping with perspiration.
he had never worked so hard in his life.
“until today,” said the farmer, “my donkey has drawn the water for me, but now that poor animal is dying.”
“will you take me to see him?” said pinocchio.
“gladly.”
as soon as pinocchio went into the stable, he spied a little donkey lying on a bed of straw in the corner of the stable.
he was worn out from hunger and too much work.
after looking at him a long time, he said to himself: “i know that donkey!
i have seen him before.”
and bending low over him, he asked: “who are you?”
at this question, the donkey opened weary, dying eyes and answered in the same tongue: “i am lamp-wick.”
then he closed his eyes and died.
“oh, my poor lamp-wick,” said pinocchio in a faint voice, as he wiped his eyes with some straw he had picked up from the ground.
“do you feel so sorry for a little donkey that has cost you nothing?”
said the farmer.
“what should i do i, who have paid my good money for him?”
“but, you see, he was my friend.”
“your friend?”
“a classmate of mine.”
“what,” shouted farmer john, bursting out laughing.
“what!
you had donkeys in your school?
how you must have studied!”
the marionette, ashamed and hurt by those words, did not answer, but taking his glass of milk returned to his father.
from that day on, for more than five months, pinocchio got up every morning just as dawn was breaking and went to the farm to draw water.
and every day he was given a glass of warm milk for his poor old father, who grew stronger and better day by day.
but he was not satisfied with this.
he learned to make baskets of reeds and sold them.
with the money he received, he and his father were able to keep from starving.
among other things, he built a rolling chair, strong and comfortable, to take his old father out for an airing on bright, sunny days.
in the evening the marionette studied by lamplight.
with some of the money he had earned, he bought himself a secondhand volume that had a few pages missing, and with that he learned to read in a very short time.
as far as writing was concerned, he used a long stick at one end of which he had whittled a long, fine point.
ink he had none, so he used the juice of blackberries or cherries.
little by little his diligence was rewarded.
he succeeded, not only in his studies, but also in his work, and a day came when he put enough money together to keep his old father comfortable and happy.
besides this, he was able to save the great amount of fifty pennies.
with it he wanted to buy himself a new suit.
one day he said to his father:
“i am going to the market place to buy myself a coat, a cap, and a pair of shoes.
when i come back i’ll be so dressed up, you will think i am a rich man.”
he ran out of the house and up the road to the village, laughing and singing.
suddenly he heard his name called, and looking around to see whence the voice came, he noticed a large snail crawling out of some bushes.
“don’t you recognize me?” said the snail.
“yes and no.”
“do you remember the snail that lived with the fairy with azure hair?
do you not remember how she opened the door for you one night and gave you something to eat?”
“i remember everything,” cried pinocchio.
“answer me quickly, pretty snail, where have you left my fairy?
what is she doing?
has she forgiven me?
does she remember me?
does she still love me?
is she very far away from here?
may i see her?”
at all these questions, tumbling out one after another, the snail answered, calm as ever:
“my dear pinocchio, the fairy is lying ill in a hospital.”
“in a hospital?”
“yes, indeed.
she has been stricken with trouble and illness, and she hasn’t a penny left with which to buy a bite of bread.”
“really?
oh, how sorry i am!
my poor, dear little fairy!
if i had a million i should run to her with it!
but i have only fifty pennies.
here they are.
i was just going to buy some clothes.
here, take them, little snail, and give them to my good fairy.”
“what about the new clothes?”
“what does that matter?
i should like to sell these rags i have on to help her more.
go, and hurry.
come back here within a couple of days and i hope to have more money for you!
until today i have worked for my father.
now i shall have to work for my mother also.
good-by, and i hope to see you soon.”
the snail, much against her usual habit, began to run like a lizard under a summer sun.
when pinocchio returned home, his father asked him:
“and where is the new suit?”
“i couldn’t find one to fit me.
i shall have to look again some other day.”
that night, pinocchio, instead of going to bed at ten o’clock waited until midnight, and instead of making eight baskets, he made sixteen.
after that he went to bed and fell asleep.
as he slept, he dreamed of his fairy, beautiful, smiling, and happy, who kissed him and said to him, “bravo, pinocchio!
in reward for your kind heart, i forgive you for all your old mischief.
boys who love and take good care of their parents when they are old and sick, deserve praise even though they may not be held up as models of obedience and good behavior.
keep on doing so well, and you will be happy.”
at that very moment, pinocchio awoke and opened wide his eyes.
what was his surprise and his joy when, on looking himself over, he saw that he was no longer a marionette, but that he had become a real live boy!
he looked all about him and instead of the usual walls of straw, he found himself in a beautifully furnished little room, the prettiest he had ever seen.
in a twinkling, he jumped down from his bed to look on the chair standing near.
there, he found a new suit, a new hat, and a pair of shoes.
as soon as he was dressed, he put his hands in his pockets and pulled out a little leather purse on which were written the following words:
the fairy with azure hair returns      fifty pennies to her dear pinocchio      with many thanks for his kind heart.
the marionette opened the purse to find the money, and behold there were fifty gold coins!
pinocchio ran to the mirror.
he hardly recognized himself.
the bright face of a tall boy looked at him with wide-awake blue eyes, dark brown hair and happy, smiling lips.
surrounded by so much splendor, the marionette hardly knew what he was doing.
he rubbed his eyes two or three times, wondering if he were still asleep or awake and decided he must be awake.
“and where is father?” he cried suddenly.
he ran into the next room, and there stood geppetto, grown years younger overnight, spick and span in his new clothes and gay as a lark in the morning.
he was once more mastro geppetto, the wood carver, hard at work on a lovely picture frame, decorating it with flowers and leaves, and heads of animals.
“father, father, what has happened?
tell me if you can,” cried pinocchio, as he ran and jumped on his father’s neck.
“this sudden change in our house is all your doing, my dear pinocchio,”
answered geppetto.
“what have i to do with it?”
“just this.
when bad boys become good and kind, they have the power of making their homes gay and new with happiness.”
“i wonder where the old pinocchio of wood has hidden himself?”
“there he is,” answered geppetto.
and he pointed to a large marionette leaning against a chair, head turned to one side, arms hanging limp, and legs twisted under him.
after a long, long look, pinocchio said to himself with great content:
“how ridiculous i was as a marionette!
and how happy i am, now that i have become a real boy!”
the ugly duckling.
under          broke          does           keep           only           turkey           warm           ugly           water
a duck made her nest under some leaves.
she sat on the eggs to keep them warm.
at last the eggs broke, one after the other.
little ducks came out.
only one egg was left.
it was a very large one.
at last it broke, and out came a big, ugly duckling.
"what a big duckling!"
said the old duck.
"he does not look like us.
can he be a turkey?
we will see.
if he does not like the water, he is not a duck."
*       *
mother         jumped         duckling           splash         swim           bigger           called         began          little
the next day the mother duck took her ducklings to the pond.
splash!
splash!
the mother duck was in the water.
then she called the ducklings to come in.
they all jumped in and began to swim.
the big, ugly duckling swam, too.
the mother duck said, "he is not a turkey.
he is my own little duck.
he will not be so ugly when he is bigger."
then she said to the ducklings, "come with me.
i want you to see the other ducks.
stay by me and look out for the cat."
they all went into the duck yard.
what a noise the ducks made!
while the mother duck was eating a big bug, an old duck bit the ugly duckling.
"let him alone," said the mother duck.
"he did not hurt you."
"i know that," said the duck, "but he is so ugly, i bit him."
*       *
lovely        help            there           walked        bushes          afraid
the next duck they met, said, "you have lovely ducklings.
they are all pretty but one.
he is very ugly."
the mother duck said, "i know he is not pretty.
but he is very good."
then she said to the ducklings, "now, my dears, have a good time."
but the poor, big, ugly duckling did not have a good time.
the hens all bit him.
the big ducks walked on him.
the poor duckling was very sad.
he did not want to be so ugly.
but he could not help it.
he ran to hide under some bushes.
the little birds in the bushes were afraid and flew away.
*       *
because       house           would           away          hard            lived
"it is all because i am so ugly," said the duckling.
so he ran away.
at night he came to an old house.
the house looked as if it would fall down.
it was so old.
but the wind blew so hard that the duckling went into the house.
an old woman lived there with her cat and her hen.
the old woman said, "i will keep the duck.
i will have some eggs."
*       *
growl         walk           corner        animals
the next day, the cat saw the duckling and began to growl.
the hen said, "can you lay eggs?"
the duckling said, "no."
"then keep still," said the hen.
the cat said, "can you growl?"
"no," said the duckling.
"then keep still," said the cat.
and the duckling hid in a corner.
the next day he went for a walk.
he saw a big pond.
he said, "i will have a good swim."
but all of the animals made fun of him.
he was so ugly.
summer        away            cake           winter        swans           spring           flew          bread           leaves
the summer went by.
then the leaves fell and it was very cold.
the poor duckling had a hard time.
it is too sad to tell what he did all winter.
at last it was spring.
the birds sang.
the ugly duckling was big now.
one day he flew far away.
soon he saw three white swans on the lake.
he said, "i am going to see those birds.
i am afraid they will kill me, for i am so ugly."
he put his head down to the water.
what did he see?
he saw himself in the water.
but he was not an ugly duck.
he was a white swan.
the other swans came to see him.
the children said, "oh, see the lovely swans.
the one that came last is the best."
and they gave him bread and cake.
it was a happy time for the ugly duckling.
the little pine tree
pine          leaves          other           woods         needles         better           fairy         gold            sleep
a little pine tree was in the woods.
it had no leaves.
it had needles.
the little tree said, "i do not like needles.
all the other trees in the woods have pretty leaves.
i want leaves, too.
but i will have better leaves.
i want gold leaves."
night came and the little tree went to sleep.
a fairy came by and gave it gold leaves.
woke          cried           glass           little        again           pretty
when the little tree woke it had leaves of gold.
it said, "oh, i am so pretty!
no other tree has gold leaves."
night came.
a man came by with a bag.
he saw the gold leaves.
he took them all and put them into his bag.
the poor little tree cried, "i do not want gold leaves again.
i will have glass leaves."
*       *
night         sunshine        bright           looked        wind            blew
so the little tree went to sleep.
the fairy came by and put the glass leaves on it.
the little tree woke and saw its glass leaves.
how pretty they looked in the sunshine!
'no other tree was so bright.
then a wind came up.
it blew and blew.
the glass leaves all fell from the tree and were broken.
again         green           goat          hungry
again the little tree had no leaves.
it was very sad, and said, "i will not have gold leaves and i will not have glass leaves.
i want green leaves.
i want to be like the other trees."
and the little tree went to sleep.
when it woke, it was like other trees.
it had green leaves.
a goat came by.
he saw the green leaves on the little tree.
the goat was hungry and he ate all the leaves.
happy         best
then the little tree said, "i do not want any leaves.
i will not have green leaves, nor glass leaves, nor gold leaves.
i like my needles best."
and the little tree went to sleep.
the fairy gave it what it wanted.
when it woke, it had its needles again.
then the little pine tree was happy.
the little match girl.
almost        match           across           dark          running         bare           year          slippers        fell
it was very cold.
the snow fell and it was almost dark.
it was the last day of the year.
a little match girl was running in the street.
her name was gretchen.
she had no hat on.
her feet were bare.
when she left home, she had on some big slippers of her mama's.
but they were so large that she lost them when she ran across the street.
*       *
apron         curly           lights           bunch         about           smelled           could         matches         cooking
gretchen had a lot of matches in her old apron.
she had a little bunch in her hand.
but she could not sell her matches.
no one would buy them.
poor little gretchen!
she was cold and hungry.
the snow fell on her curly hair.
but she did not think about that.
she saw lights in the houses.
she smelled good things cooking.
she said to herself, "this is the last night of the year."
*       *
knew          window          fire           money         even            pile
gretchen got colder and colder.
she was afraid to go home.
she knew her papa would whip her, if she did not take some money to him.
it was as cold at home as in the street.
they were too poor to have a fire.
they had to put rags in the windows to keep out the wind.
gretchen did not even have a bed.
she had to sleep on a pile of rags.
*       *
frozen        candle          sitting           lighted       thought         stove           near          think           step
she sat down on a door step.
her little hands were almost frozen.
she took a match and lighted it to warm her hands.
the match looked like a little candle.
gretchen thought she was sitting by a big stove.
it was so bright.
she put the match near her feet, to warm them.
then the light went out.
she did not think that she was by the stove any more.
*       *
another       dishes          roast           table         cloth           ready           fork          knife           turkey
gretchen lighted another match.
now she thought she could look into a room.
in this room was a table.
a white cloth and pretty dishes were on the table.
there was a roast turkey, too.
it was cooked and ready to eat.
the knife and fork were in his back.
the turkey jumped from the dish and ran to the little girl.
the light went out and she was in the cold and dark again.
christmas     candles           many          until
gretchen lighted another match.
then she thought she was sitting by a christmas tree.
very many candles were on the tree.
it was full of pretty things.
gretchen put up her little hands.
the light went out.
the lights on the christmas tree went up, up until she saw they were the stars.
*       *
grandma       never           before           dying         going           been
then she saw a star fall.
"some one is dying," said little gretchen.
her grandma had been very good to the little girl.
but she was dead.
the grandma had said, "when a star falls some one is going to god."
the little girl lighted another match.
it made a big light.
gretchen thought she saw her grandma.
she never looked so pretty before.
she looked so sweet and happy.
*       *
take          goes
"o grandma," said the little girl, "take me.
when the light goes out you will go away.
the stove and the turkey and the christmas tree all went away."
then gretchen lighted a bunch of matches.
she wanted to keep her grandma with her.
the matches made it very light.
the grandma took the little girl in her arms.
they went up, up where they would never be cold or hungry.
they were with god.
*       *
found         next            burned           dead          froze           death
the next day came.
some men found a little girl in the street.
she was dead.
in her hand were the burned matches.
they said, "poor little thing, she froze to death."
they did not know how happy she was in heaven.
little red riding-hood.
six           take            cake           coat          butter          basket           hood          always          off
when may was six years old, her grandma made her a red coat with a hood.
she looked so pretty in it that the children all called her "red riding-hood."
one day her mama said, "i want you to take this cake and some butter to grandma."
red riding-hood was very glad to go.
she always had a good time at grandma's.
she put the things into her little basket and ran off.
*       *
wolf          mill            shall           going         first           wood
when red riding-hood came to the wood, she met a big wolf.
"where are you going?"
said the wolf.
red riding-hood said, "i am going to see my grandma.
mama has made her a cake and some butter."
"does she live far?"
said the wolf.
"yes," said red riding-hood, "in the white house by the mill."
"i will go too, and we shall see who will get there first," said the wolf.
*       *
short         flowers         soft           stopped       tapped          pull           pick          voice           string
the wolf ran off and took a short way, but red riding-hood stopped to pick some flowers.
when the wolf got to the house, he tapped on the door.
the grandma said, "who is there?"
the wolf made his voice as soft as he could.
he said, "it is little red riding-hood, grandma."
then the old lady said, "pull the string and the door will open."
the wolf pulled the string and the door opened.
he ran in and ate the poor old lady.
then he jumped into her bed and put on her cap.
*       *
tapped        thank           dear
arms          hug             called
when red riding-hood tapped on the door, the wolf called out, "who is there?"
red riding-hood said, "it is your little red riding-hood, grandma."
then the wolf said, "pull the string and the door will open."
when she went in, she said, "look, grandma, see the cake and butter mama has sent you."
"thank you, dear, put them on the table and come here."
*       *
better        hear            eyes           ears          how             teeth           ate           cruel           poor
when red riding-hood went near the bed, she said, "oh, grandma, how big your arms are!"
"the better to hug you, my dear."
"how big your ears are, grandma."
"the better to hear you, my dear."
"how big your eyes are, grandma."
"the better to see you, my dear."
"how big your teeth are, grandma!"
"the better to eat you."
then the cruel wolf jumped up and ate poor little red riding-hood.
*       *
just          hunter          scream           killed        heard           open
just then a hunter came by.
he heard red riding-hood scream.
the hunter ran into the house and killed the old wolf.
hood.]
when he cut the wolf open, out jumped little red riding-hood and her grandma.
the apples of idun.
once          hills           field           journey       rocks           cattle           walked        pieces          three
once upon a time three of the gods went on a journey.
one was thor and one was loki.
loki was ugly and mean.
the gods liked to walk over the hills and rocks.
they could go very fast for they were so big.
the gods walked on and on.
at last they got very hungry.
then they came to a field with cattle.
thor killed a big ox and put the pieces into a pot.
meat          share           talking           cross         eagle           right
they made a big fire but the meat would not cook.
they made the fire bigger and bigger, but the meat would not cook.
then the gods were very cross.
some one said, "give me my share, and i will make the meat cook."
the gods looked to see who was talking.
there in an oak tree was a big eagle.
the gods were so hungry that they said, "well, we will."
supper        stuck           enough           minute        claws           stones           pole          against         flew
the supper was ready in a minute.
then the eagle flew down to get his share.
he took the four legs and there was not much left but the ribs.
this made loki cross for he was very hungry.
he took a long pole to hit the eagle.
but the pole stuck to the eagle's claws.
the other end stuck to loki.
then the eagle flew away.
he did not fly high.
he flew just high enough for loki to hit against the stones.
please        giant           flying           tried         feathers        suit
loki said, "please let me go!
oh, please let me go!"
but the eagle said, "no, you tried to kill me.
i will not let you go."
and the eagle hit him against the stones.
loki said again, "please let me go!"
but the eagle said, "no, i have you now."
then loki knew the eagle was a giant and not a bird.
this giant had a suit of eagle's feathers.
he was flying in his eagle suit when he saw loki.
city          beautiful       apples           felt          growing         young
now the gods lived in a city named asgard.
in this city idun kept the beautiful golden apples.
when the gods felt they were growing old, they ate the apples and were young again.
the giant wanted to be like the gods.
so he said to loki, "i will let you go, if you will get me the apples of idun."
but loki said, "i can't do that."
bumped        gate            putting           stayed        golden          morning
so the eagle bumped him on the stones again.
then loki said, "i can't stand this.
i will get the apples for you."
loki and the eagle went to the city.
the eagle stayed by the gate, but loki went into the city.
he went up to idun.
she was putting the apples into a beautiful golden box.
loki said, "good morning, idun those are beautiful apples."
and idun said, "yes, they are beautiful."
"i saw some just like them, the other day," said loki.
strange       show           bring         picked
idun knew there were no other apples like these, and she said, "that is strange.
i would like to see them."
loki said, "come with me and i will show them to you.
it is only a little way.
bring your apples with you."
as soon as idun was out of the gates the eagle flew down.
he picked her up in his claws.
then he flew away with her to his home.
after         pale            falcon           passed        story           began
day after day passed and idun did not come back.
the gods did not have the golden apples to eat, so they began to get old.
at last they said, "who let the apples go?"
then loki looked pale and the gods said, "loki, you did it."
and loki said, "yes, i did."
he did not tell a story that time.
then loki said, "i will get idun and the apples back, if i may have the falcon suit."
changed       faster
the gods said, "you may have it, if you will bring the apples back."
loki put on the falcon suit and flew away.
he looked like a big bird flying.
when loki came to the giant's home, he was glad the giant was not there.
he changed idun into a nut and then flew away with the nut.
when the giant came home, idun was gone.
the golden apples were gone, too.
then the giant put on his eagle suit and flew after loki.
loki heard the eagle coming.
loki flew faster.
breath        over            changed           walls         blazed          burned
poor loki was all out of breath.
the eagle flew faster and faster.
then the gods got on the walls to look for loki.
they saw him coming and the eagle after him.
so they made fires on the walls.
at last loki flew over the walls.
then the gods lighted the fires.
the fires blazed up.
the eagle flew into the fire and was burned.
as soon as loki put the nut down, it changed to idun.
the gods ate the beautiful golden apples and were young again.
how thor got the hammer.
proud         porch           lying           journeys      tricks          wife           always        alone           asleep
sif was thor's wife.
sif had long golden hair.
thor was very proud of sif's golden hair.
thor was always going on long journeys.
one day he went off and left sif alone.
she went out on the porch and fell asleep.
loki came along.
he was always playing tricks.
he saw sif lying asleep.
he said, "i am going to cut off her hair."
so loki went up on the porch and cut off sif's golden hair.
where         around          crying           answer        found           somebody
when sif woke up and saw that her hair was gone, she cried and cried.
then she ran to hide.
she did not want thor to see her.
when thor came home, he could not find sif.
"sif!
sif!"
he called, "where are you?"
but sif did not answer.
thor looked all around the house.
at last he found her crying.
"oh, thor, look, all my hair is gone!
somebody has cut it off.
it was a man.
he ran away with it."
angry         mischief        right           getting       cutting         something
then thor was very angry.
he said, "i know it was loki.
he is always getting into mischief.
just wait until i get him!"
and thor went out to find loki.
pretty soon he found him.
thor said, "did you cut off sif's hair?"
loki said, "yes, i did."
"then you must pay for cutting off my wife's hair," said thor.
"all right," said loki, "i will get you something better than the hair."
ground        thumb           beads           dwarfs        crooked         crown                         worked
loki went down, down into the ground to the home of the dwarfs.
it was very dark down there.
the only light came from the dwarfs' fires.
the dwarfs were ugly little black men.
they were not any bigger than your thumb.
they had crooked backs and crooked legs.
their eyes looked like black beads.
loki said, "can you make me a gold crown that will grow like real hair?"
the dwarfs said, "yes, we can."
so the busy little dwarfs worked all night.
morning       showed          laughed           spear         wonderful       three           ship          standing        brother           nobody        stepped         else
when morning came the dwarfs gave loki his crown of golden hair.
they gave him a spear and a ship, too.
loki took the things up to asgard, where the gods all lived.
then the gods all came up to him.
he showed them the things.
the gods said, "they are very wonderful."
and loki said, "oh, nobody else can make such things as my little dwarfs."
a little dwarf, named brok, was standing near by.
he heard loki say that.
then he stepped up and said, "my brother can make just as good things as these."
loki laughed and said, "if you can get three things as wonderful as these, i will give you my head."
anywhere      misses           spear         mark
brok went down into the ground where his little dwarfs were working.
brok's brother was named sindre.
he said to his brother, "loki says that you can't make such nice things as his dwarfs can.
he said that he would give me his head if i could get him such wonderful things as his."
this made the dwarfs angry.
their eyes grew big.
they said, "he will see what we can do."
sindre wanted to know what the wonderful things were.
brok said, "loki has a golden crown that will grow like real hair.
a ship that can go anywhere.
a spear that never misses the mark."
"we will show him," said the dwarfs.
*
burning       blow            pigskin           bellows       blew            blowing
the dwarfs soon had the fires burning.
then sindre put a pigskin into the fire.
he gave the bellows to brok and said, "now blow as hard as you can."
then sindre went out.
brok blew and blew.
a little fly came in and bit him on the hand.
the fly bit him so hard that brok thought he would have to stop blowing, but he did not.
then sindre came back.
he took out a golden pig from the fire.
stand         lump            ring
he next put a lump of gold into the fire.
he said to brok, "blow and blow and blow, and do not stop."
then sindre went out again.
so brok blew as hard as he could.
then the same fly came in and bit him again.
brok thought that he could not stand it, but he kept on.
when sindre came back, he took a gold ring from the fire.
hard          forehead        brush           iron          blood           hammer           handle        spoiled         mean
then sindre put a lump of iron into the fire.
he said to brok, "now blow as hard as you can."
and sindre went out.
brok blew and blew.
the same mean fly came again, and bit him on the forehead.
it bit so hard that the blood ran into his eyes.
brok put up his hand to brush away the fly.
just then sindre came back.
he took the hammer out of the fire.
"there!"
he said, "you have almost spoiled it.
the handle is too short, but it cannot be helped now."
hurried       proud           came          pocket
brok hurried up to asgard with his things.
all the gods came around to see.
then loki came up to show his things.
he put the crown of gold on sif's head and it began to grow like real hair.
he gave the spear to odin and said, "this spear will never miss its mark."
then he took out the ship.
he said, "this is a wonderful ship.
it will sail on any sea, and yet you can fold it up and put it into your pocket."
loki felt very proud, for he thought his things were the best.
fold          sail            afraid           sorry         each            ring           shining       faster          gave
all the gods felt very sorry for little brok.
they thought loki's things were fine.
they were afraid brok's would not be so nice.
they said, "now, brok, show your things."
brok took out the gold ring.
he said, "each night this ring will throw off a ring just like it.
he gave the ring to odin."
then brok took out the golden pig.
he said, "this pig can go anywhere, on the ground or in the air.
it can go faster than any horse.
if the night is dark, the shining pig will make it light."
frost         giants           turned        blowing
then brok showed the hammer.
he said, "this is not a very pretty hammer.
when i was making it, loki turned himself into a fly and made me spoil it.
the fly bit me so hard that i had to stop blowing.
so the handle is a little short.
but it is a wonderful hammer.
if you throw it at anything, it will hit the mark and come back to you."
the gods picked up the hammer and passed it around.
they said, "it will be just the things with which to keep the frost giants out of asgard."
touch         neck           without       way
the gods said, "brok's things are the best."
brok gave the hammer to thor.
that is the way thor got his wonderful hammer.
then brok said to loki, "you said i could have your head if my things were the best."
and loki was angry and said, "yes, i told you that you could have my head.
but you can't touch my neck."
of course, brok could not get his head without touching his neck.
so brok did not get loki's head.
the hammer lost and found.
everything    planned
the frost giants did not like the sunshine.
they did not like to see the flowers.
they did not like to hear the birds sing.
they wanted to spoil everything.
the frost giants wanted to get into asgard.
but they did not know how.
they were afraid of thor and his hammer.
they said, "if we can only get the hammer, we can get into asgard."
they talked and planned all night.
at last one frost giant said, "i know how we can get the hammer.
i will dress in a bird suit.
then i will fly up to thor's house and get the hammer."
freyja
the next night the frost giant flew into the house while thor was asleep.
he took the hammer and flew away with it.
when thor woke, he put out his hand to get the hammer.
it was gone.
he said, "loki, the hammer is gone.
the frost giants have taken it.
we must get it back."
loki said, "i can get it back, if freyja will let me have her falcon suit."
so he went to freyja and said, "will you let me have your falcon suit?
i can get the hammer back if you will."
freyja said, "yes, of course i will.
if i had a gold suit you could have it.
any thing to get the hammer back."
people        city            thrym           strange       buried          eight           miles         deep            falcon
loki took the falcon suit and put it on.
he flew over the city.
all the people saw him flying.
they said, "what a strange bird!"
they did not know that it was loki going for the hammer.
when loki came to the city of the frost giants, he took off the falcon suit.
he walked and walked until he came to thrym's house.
thrym was the giant who took the hammer.
thrym was sitting on the porch, making gold collars for his dogs.
when he saw loki, he said, "what do you want?"
loki said, "i have come for the hammer."
the old giant laughed and said, "you will never get that hammer.
it is buried eight miles deep in the ground.
"but there is one way you can get it.
i will give you the hammer if you get freyja for my wife."
clothes       shook           necklace
so loki went back to asgard.
thor said, "well, did you get the hammer?"
"no, but we can get it if freyja will be thrym's wife."
then they went to freyja's house.
they said, "put on your very best clothes and come with us.
you must be thrym's wife."
freyja said, "do you think i will be the frost giant's wife?
i won't be his wife."
thor said, "we can get the hammer back if you will."
but freyja said, "no, i will not be his wife."
loki said, "you will have to, if we get the hammer back."
still freyja said, "i will not go."
and she was very angry.
she shook so hard that she broke her necklace and it fell to the floor.
bride         braided         wagon           vail          servant         goat
then the gods said, "thor, you must dress like freyja.
you will have to play you are the bride."
thor said, "i won't do it.
you will all laugh at me.
i won't dress up like a girl."
they said, "well, that is the only way we can get the hammer back."
thor said, "i do not like to dress like a girl, but i will do it."
then they dressed thor up like freyja.
they put on freyja's dress, necklace and vail, and braided his hair.
loki said, "i will dress up too, and be your servant."
they got into thor's goat wagon and went to the giants' home.
dinner        salmon          mead           whole         thirsty         barrels
when the frost giants saw them coming, they said, "get ready, here comes the bride!
we will sit down to the table as soon as they come."
the dinner was ready on time.
the table was full of good things.
all sat down.
the bride ate a whole ox and eight salmon before the others had a bite.
"she must be very hungry," the frost giants said.
"yes," loki said, "she was so glad to come.
she hasn't eaten anything for eight days."
then they brought in the mead.
the bride drank three barrels of mead.
"how thirsty she is!"
said the frost giants.
loki said, "yes, she is very thirsty.
she was so glad to come.
she did not drink anything for eight days."
kiss          stepped         whirled           lifted        shone           lap
old thrym said, "i had every thing i wanted but freyja.
now i have freyja."
and thrym went to kiss the bride.
he lifted her vail, but her eyes shone like fire.
thrym stepped back.
he said, "what makes freyja's eyes shine so?"
loki said, "oh, she was so glad to come.
she did not sleep for eight nights."
then loki said, "it is time for the hammer.
go and get it and put it in the bride's lap."
as soon as the hammer was in his lap, thor tore off the vail.
he took the hammer and whirled it around.
fire flew from it.
the fire burned the house and the frost giants ran away.
so thor got his hammer back.
the following stories by miss smythe were originally published under the title of "the golden fleece."
they have been carefully revised and illustrated for this book.
the story of the sheep.
ago           horns           fleece           king          greece          loved           playing       helle           grass           garden        catch           clouds
long, long ago there lived a king in greece.
he had two little children, a boy and a girl.
they were good children and loved each other very much.
one day they were playing in the garden.
"oh, helle, look!"
said the boy.
there on the grass was a fine large sheep.
this sheep had a fleece of gold and his horns were gold, too.
the children wanted to pat the sheep, but they could not catch him.
when they went near, he ran away on the clouds.
grew          golden          hold           tame          ride            tight
every day they played in the garden and every day the sheep came, too.
by and by he grew tame and let the children pat his golden fleece.
one day the boy said, "helle, let us take a ride."
first he helped his sister on the sheep's back.
then he got on and held to the horns.
"hold tight to me, helle," he said.
sky           dizzy           sea           sister        land            dragon           lose          nailed          colchis
the sheep went up, up into the sky, and ran a long way on the clouds.
but helle got dizzy and fell down into the sea.
the boy felt very bad to lose his sister, but went right on.
then he came to the land colchis.
he killed the sheep and gave the golden fleece to the king.
the king was glad to have it and nailed it to an oak tree.
by the tree was a dragon.
the dragon never went to sleep.
he would not let any one but the king come to the tree.
so no one could get the golden fleece.
the good ship argo.
across        untied          wade           jason         brave           party           rained        creek           bridge           shoe-strings                  invited
jason was a brave young man.
he lived a little way from the king's city.
one day the king gave a big party and invited jason.
it was a very dark night and it rained hard.
jason had to go across a creek, but there was no bridge.
the creek was full of water and jason had to wade.
one of his shoe-strings came untied and he lost his shoe in the water.
when he came to the king's house, he had but one shoe.
knew          bring           fight           wild          argo            asked           animals       shoe            argonauts
the king did not like this, for a fairy had said, "the man who shall come to your house with one shoe, will be king."
so he knew jason was to be king.
then he said to jason, "you may be king when you bring me the golden fleece."
jason was glad to go, and asked many brave men to go with him.
to get the golden fleece they would have to fight wild men and animals.
they made a big ship which they named "argo."
the men who went on the argo were called argonauts.
jason and the harpies.
wings         blind           nobody           strong        iron            hard           skin          drive           claws           scratched     brass           harpies
the ship argo sailed a long way.
there were two strong men on the ship.
they had wings and could fly.
one day the argo came to a land where the blind king lived.
this poor king had a hard time.
when he sat down to the table to eat, some ugly birds called harpies, came too.
the harpies had skin like brass and nobody could hurt them.
they had claws of iron, and scratched people when they tried to drive them away.
when the king's dinner was ready, the harpies came and took it away.
when jason and his men came, the king told them all about it.
jason said they would help him.
food          drowned         tired           swords        hurt            flying
they all sat down to the table.
when the food was put on the table, the harpies came flying in.
jason and his men took their swords.
they cut at the harpies but could not hurt them.
then the two men with wings flew up in the air.
the harpies were afraid and flew away.
the men flew after them.
at last the harpies grew very tired and fell into the sea and were drowned.
then the men with wings came back.
now the blind king could eat all he wanted.
thanked       rocks           moved           friends       helping         good-bye           over          apart           icebergs
it was now time for jason and his friends to go away.
the king thanked them over and over again for helping him.
when they said good-bye, he told them how to get to the land where they would find the golden fleece.
on the sea where jason and his men had to sail, were two big rocks.
these rocks moved on the waterlike icebergs.
they were as high as a big hill.
they would come close to each other, then they would go far apart.
fishes        pieces          dove           past          break           together           row           almost          rocks
when fishes swam in the water the rocks would come together and kill the fishes.
if birds flew in the air, the rocks would come together and kill birds.
if a boat sailed on the water, the rocks would come together and break the boat into little pieces.
these rocks had been put in the sea, so no one could go to the land where the golden fleece was.
when the ship argo came to the rocks, jason sent a dove out.
the rocks came together when the dove was almost past.
then they went far apart.
jason made his men row as hard as they could.
the rocks began to come together.
"row hard, my men," said jason.
just as they got past, the rocks hit, but jason and his men were all right.
so they came to colchis.
the brass bulls.
something     plow            bulls           stronger      chains          noses           mouths        smoke           plant           stone         flew            stall
when jason came to colchis, he went to the king and said, "will you give me the golden fleece?"
the king wanted to keep the fleece.
so he said to jason, "you may have it, but you must do something for me first."
"you must plow with the brass bulls, and plant the dragon's teeth."
the brass bulls looked like real bulls, but they were larger and stronger.
they blew out fire and smoke from their noses and mouths.
the bulls had a stall made of iron and stone.
they had to be tied with strong iron chains.
daughter      medea           carriage           snakes        through         pulled
when the dragon's teeth were planted, iron men grew up.
they always killed the one who had planted them.
the king wanted the bulls to kill jason.
he said, "if the bulls do not kill him the iron men will."
the king had a daughter named medea.
she saw jason was a brave young man and did not want him killed.
she knew how to help him.
she stepped into her carriage, which was pulled by flying snakes.
then medea flew through the air.
she went to hills and creeks and picked all kinds of flowers.
she took the flowers home and cooked them.
nothing       face            rub           juice         legs            cut
then medea went to jason when the king did not know it.
she said to jason, "rub your face and hands and legs with this juice."
when he did this, he was as strong as a giant.
nothing could hurt him then.
fire could not burn him, and swords could not cut him.
the next day jason had to plow with the brass bulls and plant the dragon's teeth.
climbed       early           tied           princess      seats           hold           untied        opened          place
early in the morning, the king and princess went out to the place.
they had good seats where they could see well.
all the people in the city came out to see jason plow.
the little boys climbed the trees so they could see better.
then jason came to the place.
the stall where the brass bulls were tied was not far off.
the door was opened and jason went in.
he untied the bulls and took hold of their horns.
then he made the bulls come out of their stall.
pushed        kicked          until
the bulls were very angry and blew fire and smoke from their mouths.
this made the cruel king glad.
but the people who saw it were afraid.
they did not want jason killed.
they did not know that the princess had helped him.
jason pushed the bulls' heads down to the ground.
then they kicked at him with their feet, but could not hurt him.
he held their heads down on the ground until the plow was ready.
handle        slowly          noon           wheat         lie             just
jason took the chains in one hand.
he took the handle of the plow in the other.
the bulls jumped and wanted to run away.
but jason held so hard they had to go very slowly.
when it was noon the ground was all plowed.
then jason let the bulls go.
they were so angry that they ran away to the woods.
now jason went to the king and said, "give me the dragon's teeth."
the king gave him his hat full.
then jason planted the dragon's teeth, just as a man plants wheat.
by this time he was very tired, so he went to lie down.
evening       knees           marble           threw         growing         fight
in the evening he came back.
the iron men were growing up.
some of the men had only their feet in the ground.
some of them were in the ground up to their knees.
some had only their heads out.
they all tried to get out so they could kill jason.
then jason did what medea told him he should do.
he took a giant's marble and threw it near the men.
all the iron men wanted to get the marble.
so they began to fight each other.
as soon as one had his feet out of the ground, he cut at the man next to him.
so they killed each other.
then jason took his sword and cut off all the heads that were out of the ground.
so all the iron men were killed and the king was very angry.
but medea and the people were glad.
jason and the dragon.
yourself      fond            father
the next day jason went to the king and said, "now, give me the golden fleece."
the king did not give it to him, but said, "come again."
then medea said, "if you want the golden fleece, you must help yourself.
my father will not give it to you.
a dragon is by the tree where the golden fleece is, and he never sleeps.
he is always hungry and eats people if they go near him.
i can not kill him but i can make him sleep.
he is very fond of cake.
i will make some cake and put in something to make the dragon sleep."
became        climbed         angry
so medea made the cakes and jason took them and threw them to the dragon.
the dragon ate them all and went to sleep.
then jason climbed over the dragon and took the nail out of the tree.
he put the golden fleece under his coat and ran to the ship argo.
medea went with him and became his wife.
oh, how angry the king was!
he had lost the golden fleece and the brass bulls and the dragon's teeth.
and now his daughter was gone.
through       nine            stones
he sent his men in ships to take jason, but they could not get him.
at last medea and jason and the other argonauts came to greece.
jason's father was there.
he was a very old man.
jason wanted his father to be king, so he asked medea to make the old man young.
then medea took her carriage and flew through the air.
she did not come back for nine days.
she picked flowers from the hills.
she found all kinds of stones, too.
stick         died            woke
when she went home she put all these things into a pot and cooked them.
then she put a stick into the pot and leaves grew on it.
some of the juice fell on the ground and grass grew up.
so medea knew the juice would make things grow.
jason's father went to sleep and medea put some of the juice into his mouth.
his white hair turned black and teeth grew in his mouth.
when he woke up, he looked and felt like a young man.
he lived many years and when he died jason was king.
1 the frog-king, or iron henry
in old times when wishing still helped one, there lived a king whose daughters were all beautiful, but the youngest was so beautiful that the sun itself, which has seen so much, was astonished whenever it shone in her face.
close by the king’s castle lay a great dark forest, and under an old lime-tree in the forest was a well, and when the day was very warm, the king’s child went out into the forest and sat down by the side of the cool fountain, and when she was dull she took a golden ball, and threw it up on high and caught it, and this ball was her favorite plaything.
now it so happened that on one occasion the princess’s golden ball did not fall into the little hand which she was holding up for it, but on to the ground beyond, and rolled straight into the water.
the king’s daughter followed it with her eyes, but it vanished, and the well was deep, so deep that the bottom could not be seen.
on this she began to cry, and cried louder and louder, and could not be comforted.
and as she thus lamented some one said to her, “what ails thee, king’s daughter?
thou weepest so that even a stone would show pity.” she looked round to the side from whence the voice came, and saw a frog stretching forth its thick, ugly head from the water.
“ah!
old water-splasher, is it thou?” said she; “i am weeping for my golden ball, which has fallen into the well.”
“be quiet, and do not weep,” answered the frog, “i can help thee, but what wilt thou give me if i bring thy plaything up again?” “whatever thou wilt have, dear frog,” said she—“my clothes, my pearls and jewels, and even the golden crown which i am wearing.”
the frog answered, “i do not care for thy clothes, thy pearls and jewels, or thy golden crown, but if thou wilt love me and let me be thy companion and play-fellow, and sit by thee at thy little table, and eat off thy little golden plate, and drink out of thy little cup, and sleep in thy little bed—if thou wilt promise me this i will go down below, and bring thee thy golden ball up again.”
“oh yes,” said she, “i promise thee all thou wishest, if thou wilt but bring me my ball back again.” she, however, thought, “how the silly frog does talk!
he lives in the water with the other frogs, and croaks, and can be no companion to any human being!”
but the frog when he had received this promise, put his head into the water and sank down, and in a short while came swimmming up again with the ball in his mouth, and threw it on the grass.
the king’s daughter was delighted to see her pretty plaything once more, and picked it up, and ran away with it.
“wait, wait,” said the frog.
“take me with thee.
i can’t run as thou canst.” but what did it avail him to scream his croak, croak, after her, as loudly as he could?
she did not listen to it, but ran home and soon forgot the poor frog, who was forced to go back into his well again.
the next day when she had seated herself at table with the king and all the courtiers, and was eating from her little golden plate, something came creeping splish splash, splish splash, up the marble staircase, and when it had got to the top, it knocked at the door and cried, “princess, youngest princess, open the door for me.” she ran to see who was outside, but when she opened the door, there sat the frog in front of it.
then she slammed the door to, in great haste, sat down to dinner again, and was quite frightened.
the king saw plainly that her heart was beating violently, and said, “my child, what art thou so afraid of?
is there perchance a giant outside who wants to carry thee away?” “ah, no,” replied she.
“it is no giant but a disgusting frog.”
“what does a frog want with thee?” “ah, dear father, yesterday as i was in the forest sitting by the well, playing, my golden ball fell into the water.
and because i cried so, the frog brought it out again for me, and because he so insisted, i promised him he should be my companion, but i never thought he would be able to come out of his water!
and now he is outside there, and wants to come in to me.”
in the meantime it knocked a second time, and cried,
“princess!
youngest princess!
open the door for me!
dost thou not know what thou saidst to me yesterday by the cool waters of the fountain?
princess, youngest princess!
open the door for me!”
then said the king, “that which thou hast promised must thou perform.
go and let him in.” she went and opened the door, and the frog hopped in and followed her, step by step, to her chair.
there he sat and cried, “lift me up beside thee.” she delayed, until at last the king commanded her to do it.
when the frog was once on the chair he wanted to be on the table, and when he was on the table he said, “now, push thy little golden plate nearer to me that we may eat together.” she did this, but it was easy to see that she did not do it willingly.
the frog enjoyed what he ate, but almost every mouthful she took choked her.
at length he said, “i have eaten and am satisfied; now i am tired, carry me into thy little room and make thy little silken bed ready, and we will both lie down and go to sleep.”
the king’s daughter began to cry, for she was afraid of the cold frog which she did not like to touch, and which was now to sleep in her pretty, clean little bed.
but the king grew angry and said, “he who helped thee when thou wert in trouble ought not afterwards to be despised by thee.” so she took hold of the frog with two fingers, carried him upstairs, and put him in a corner.
but when she was in bed he crept to her and said, “i am tired, i want to sleep as well as thou, lift me up or i will tell thy father.” then she was terribly angry, and took him up and threw him with all her might against the wall.
“now, thou wilt be quiet, odious frog,” said she.
but when he fell down he was no frog but a king’s son with beautiful kind eyes.
he by her father’s will was now her dear companion and husband.
then he told her how he had been bewitched by a wicked witch, and how no one could have delivered him from the well but herself, and that to-morrow they would go together into his kingdom.
then they went to sleep, and next morning when the sun awoke them, a carriage came driving up with eight white horses, which had white ostrich feathers on their heads, and were harnessed with golden chains, and behind stood the young king’s servant faithful henry.
faithful henry had been so unhappy when his master was changed into a frog, that he had caused three iron bands to be laid round his heart, lest it should burst with grief and sadness.
the carriage was to conduct the young king into his kingdom.
faithful henry helped them both in, and placed himself behind again, and was full of joy because of this deliverance.
and when they had driven a part of the way the king’s son heard a cracking behind him as if something had broken.
so he turned round and cried, “henry, the carriage is breaking.”
“no, master, it is not the carriage.
it is a band from my heart, which was put there in my great pain when you were a frog and imprisoned in the well.” again and once again while they were on their way something cracked, and each time the king’s son thought the carriage was breaking; but it was only the bands which were springing from the heart of faithful henry because his master was set free and was happy.
2 cat and mouse in partnership
a certain cat had made the acquaintance of a mouse, and had said so much to her about the great love and friendship she felt for her, that at length the mouse agreed that they should live and keep house together.
“but we must make a provision for winter, or else we shall suffer from hunger,” said the cat, “and you, little mouse, cannot venture everywhere, or you will be caught in a trap some day.” the good advice was followed, and a pot of fat was bought, but they did not know where to put it.
at length, after much consideration, the cat said, “i know no place where it will be better stored up than in the church, for no one dares take anything away from there.
we will set it beneath the altar, and not touch it until we are really in need of it.” so the pot was placed in safety, but it was not long before the cat had a great yearning for it, and said to the mouse, “i want to tell you something, little mouse; my cousin has brought a little son into the world, and has asked me to be godmother; he is white with brown spots, and i am to hold him over the font at the christening.
let me go out to-day, and you look after the house by yourself.” “yes, yes,” answered the mouse, “by all means go, and if you get anything very good, think of me, i should like a drop of sweet red christening wine too.” all this, however, was untrue; the cat had no cousin, and had not been asked to be godmother.
she went straight to the church, stole to the pot of fat, began to lick at it, and licked the top of the fat off.
then she took a walk upon the roofs of the town, looked out for opportunities, and then stretched herself in the sun, and licked her lips whenever she thought of the pot of fat, and not until it was evening did she return home.
“well, here you are again,” said the mouse, “no doubt you have had a merry day.” “all went off well,” answered the cat.
“what name did they give the child?” “top off!” said the cat quite coolly.
“top off!” cried the mouse, “that is a very odd and uncommon name, is it a usual one in your family?” “what does it signify,” said the cat, “it is no worse than crumb-stealer, as your god-children are called.”
before long the cat was seized by another fit of longing.
she said to the mouse, “you must do me a favour, and once more manage the house for a day alone.
i am again asked to be godmother, and, as the child has a white ring round its neck, i cannot refuse.” the good mouse consented, but the cat crept behind the town walls to the church, and devoured half the pot of fat.
“nothing ever seems so good as what one keeps to oneself,” said she, and was quite satisfied with her day’s work.
when she went home the mouse inquired, “and what was this child christened?”
“half-done,” answered the cat.
“half-done!
what are you saying?
i never heard the name in my life, i’ll wager anything it is not in the calendar!”
the cat’s mouth soon began to water for some more licking.
“all good things go in threes,” said she, “i am asked to stand godmother again.
the child is quite black, only it has white paws, but with that exception, it has not a single white hair on its whole body; this only happens once every few years, you will let me go, won’t you?” “top-off!
half-done!” answered the mouse, “they are such odd names, they make me very thoughtful.” “you sit at home,” said the cat, “in your dark-grey fur coat and long tail, and are filled with fancies, that’s because you do not go out in the daytime.” during the cat’s absence the mouse cleaned the house, and put it in order but the greedy cat entirely emptied the pot of fat.
“when everything is eaten up one has some peace,” said she to herself, and well filled and fat she did not return home till night.
the mouse at once asked what name had been given to the third child.
“it will not please you more than the others,” said the cat.
“he is called all-gone.” “all-gone,” cried the mouse, “that is the most suspicious name of all!
i have never seen it in print.
all-gone; what can that mean?” and she shook her head, curled herself up, and lay down to sleep.
from this time forth no one invited the cat to be god-mother, but when the winter had come and there was no longer anything to be found outside, the mouse thought of their provision, and said, “come cat, we will go to our pot of fat which we have stored up for ourselves—we shall enjoy that.” “yes,” answered the cat, “you will enjoy it as much as you would enjoy sticking that dainty tongue of yours out of the window.” they set out on their way, but when they arrived, the pot of fat certainly was still in its place, but it was empty.
“alas!” said the mouse, “now i see what has happened, now it comes to light!
you are a true friend!
you have devoured all when you were standing godmother.
first top off, then half done, then—.” “will you hold your tongue,”
cried the cat, “one word more and i will eat you too.” “all gone” was already on the poor mouse’s lips; scarcely had she spoken it before the cat sprang on her, seized her, and swallowed her down.
verily, that is the way of the world.
3 our lady’s child
hard by a great forest dwelt a wood-cutter with his wife, who had an only child, a little girl three years old.
they were so poor, however, that they no longer had daily bread, and did not know how to get food for her.
one morning the wood-cutter went out sorrowfully to his work in the forest, and while he was cutting wood, suddenly there stood before him a tall and beautiful woman with a crown of shining stars on her head, who said to him, “i am the virgin mary, mother of the child jesus.
thou art poor and needy, bring thy child to me, i will take her with me and be her mother, and care for her.” the wood-cutter obeyed, brought his child, and gave her to the virgin mary, who took her up to heaven with her.
there the child fared well, ate sugar-cakes, and drank sweet milk, and her clothes were of gold, and the little angels played with her.
and when she was fourteen years of age, the virgin mary called her one day and said, “dear child, i am about to make a long journey, so take into thy keeping the keys of the thirteen doors of heaven.
twelve of these thou mayest open, and behold the glory which is within them, but the thirteenth, to which this little key belongs, is forbidden thee.
beware of opening it, or thou wilt bring misery on thyself.” the girl promised to be obedient, and when the virgin mary was gone, she began to examine the dwellings of the kingdom of heaven.
each day she opened one of them, until she had made the round of the twelve.
in each of them sat one of the apostles in the midst of a great light, and she rejoiced in all the magnificence and splendour, and the little angels who always accompanied her rejoiced with her.
then the forbidden door alone remained, and she felt a great desire to know what could be hidden behind it, and said to the angels, “i will not quite open it, and i will not go inside it, but i will unlock it so that we can just see a little through the opening.” “oh no,” said the little angels, “that would be a sin.
the virgin mary has forbidden it, and it might easily cause thy unhappiness.” then she was silent, but the desire in her heart was not stilled, but gnawed there and tormented her, and let her have no rest.
and once when the angels had all gone out, she thought, “now i am quite alone, and i could peep in.
if i do it, no one will ever know.” she sought out the key, and when she had got it in her hand, she put it in the lock, and when she had put it in, she turned it round as well.
then the door sprang open, and she saw there the trinity sitting in fire and splendour.
she stayed there awhile, and looked at everything in amazement; then she touched the light a little with her finger, and her finger became quite golden.
immediately a great fear fell on her.
she shut the door violently, and ran away.
her terror too would not quit her, let her do what she might, and her heart beat continually and would not be still; the gold too stayed on her finger, and would not go away, let her rub it and wash it never so much.
it was not long before the virgin mary came back from her journey.
she called the girl before her, and asked to have the keys of heaven back.
when the maiden gave her the bunch, the virgin looked into her eyes and said, “hast thou not opened the thirteenth door also?” “no,” she replied.
then she laid her hand on the girl’s heart, and felt how it beat and beat, and saw right well that she had disobeyed her order and had opened the door.
then she said once again, “art thou certain that thou hast not done it?” “yes,” said the girl, for the second time.
then she perceived the finger which had become golden from touching the fire of heaven, and saw well that the child had sinned, and said for the third time “hast thou not done it?” “no,” said the girl for the third time.
then said the virgin mary, “thou hast not obeyed me, and besides that thou hast lied, thou art no longer worthy to be in heaven.”
then the girl fell into a deep sleep, and when she awoke she lay on the earth below, and in the midst of a wilderness.
she wanted to cry out, but she could bring forth no sound.
she sprang up and wanted to run away, but whithersoever she turned herself, she was continually held back by thick hedges of thorns through which she could not break.
in the desert, in which she was imprisoned, there stood an old hollow tree, and this had to be her dwelling-place.
into this she crept when night came, and here she slept.
here, too, she found a shelter from storm and rain, but it was a miserable life, and bitterly did she weep when she remembered how happy she had been in heaven, and how the angels had played with her.
roots and wild berries were her only food, and for these she sought as far as she could go.
in the autumn she picked up the fallen nuts and leaves, and carried them into the hole.
the nuts were her food in winter, and when snow and ice came, she crept amongst the leaves like a poor little animal that she might not freeze.
before long her clothes were all torn, and one bit of them after another fell off her.
as soon, however, as the sun shone warm again, she went out and sat in front of the tree, and her long hair covered her on all sides like a mantle.
thus she sat year after year, and felt the pain and the misery of the world.
one day, when the trees were once more clothed in fresh green, the king of the country was hunting in the forest, and followed a roe, and as it had fled into the thicket which shut in this part of the forest, he got off his horse, tore the bushes asunder, and cut himself a path with his sword.
when he had at last forced his way through, he saw a wonderfully beautiful maiden sitting under the tree; and she sat there and was entirely covered with her golden hair down to her very feet.
he stood still and looked at her full of surprise, then he spoke to her and said, “who art thou?
why art thou sitting here in the wilderness?” but she gave no answer, for she could not open her mouth.
the king continued, “wilt thou go with me to my castle?” then she just nodded her head a little.
the king took her in his arms, carried her to his horse, and rode home with her, and when he reached the royal castle he caused her to be dressed in beautiful garments, and gave her all things in abundance.
although she could not speak, she was still so beautiful and charming that he began to love her with all his heart, and it was not long before he married her.
after a year or so had passed, the queen brought a son into the world.
thereupon the virgin mary appeared to her in the night when she lay in her bed alone, and said, “if thou wilt tell the truth and confess that thou didst unlock the forbidden door, i will open thy mouth and give thee back thy speech, but if thou perseverest in thy sin, and deniest obstinately, i will take thy new-born child away with me.” then the queen was permitted to answer, but she remained hard, and said, “no, i did not open the forbidden door;” and the virgin mary took the new-born child from her arms, and vanished with it.
next morning when the child was not to be found, it was whispered among the people that the queen was a man-eater, and had killed her own child.
she heard all this and could say nothing to the contrary, but the king would not believe it, for he loved her so much.
when a year had gone by the queen again bore a son, and in the night the virgin mary again came to her, and said, “if thou wilt confess that thou openedst the forbidden door, i will give thee thy child back and untie thy tongue; but if you continuest in sin and deniest it, i will take away with me this new child also.” then the queen again said, “no, i did not open the forbidden door;” and the virgin took the child out of her arms, and away with her to heaven.
next morning, when this child also had disappeared, the people declared quite loudly that the queen had devoured it, and the king’s councillors demanded that she should be brought to justice.
the king, however, loved her so dearly that he would not believe it, and commanded the councillors under pain of death not to say any more about it.
the following year the queen gave birth to a beautiful little daughter, and for the third time the virgin mary appeared to her in the night and said, “follow me.” she took the queen by the hand and led her to heaven, and showed her there her two eldest children, who smiled at her, and were playing with the ball of the world.
when the queen rejoiced thereat, the virgin mary said, “is thy heart not yet softened?
if thou wilt own that thou openedst the forbidden door, i will give thee back thy two little sons.” but for the third time the queen answered, “no, i did not open the forbidden door.” then the virgin let her sink down to earth once more, and took from her likewise her third child.
next morning, when the loss was reported abroad, all the people cried loudly, “the queen is a man-eater.
she must be judged,” and the king was no longer able to restrain his councillors.
thereupon a trial was held, and as she could not answer, and defend herself, she was condemned to be burnt alive.
the wood was got together, and when she was fast bound to the stake, and the fire began to burn round about her, the hard ice of pride melted, her heart was moved by repentance, and she thought, “if i could but confess before my death that i opened the door.” then her voice came back to her, and she cried out loudly, “yes, mary, i did it;” and straight-way rain fell from the sky and extinguished the flames of fire, and a light broke forth above her, and the virgin mary descended with the two little sons by her side, and the new-born daughter in her arms.
she spoke kindly to her, and said, “he who repents his sin and acknowledges it, is forgiven.” then she gave her the three children, untied her tongue, and granted her happiness for her whole life.
4 the story of the youth who went forth to learn what fear was
a certain father had two sons, the elder of whom was smart and sensible, and could do everything, but the younger was stupid and could neither learn nor understand anything, and when people saw him they said, “there’s a fellow who will give his father some trouble!” when anything had to be done, it was always the elder who was forced to do it; but if his father bade him fetch anything when it was late, or in the night-time, and the way led through the churchyard, or any other dismal place, he answered “oh, no, father, i’ll not go there, it makes me shudder!” for he was afraid.
or when stories were told by the fire at night which made the flesh creep, the listeners sometimes said “oh, it makes us shudder!” the younger sat in a corner and listened with the rest of them, and could not imagine what they could mean.
“they are always saying ‘it makes me shudder, it makes me shudder!’ it does not make me shudder,” thought he.
“that, too, must be an art of which i understand nothing.”
now it came to pass that his father said to him one day “hearken to me, thou fellow in the corner there, thou art growing tall and strong, and thou too must learn something by which thou canst earn thy living.
look how thy brother works, but thou dost not even earn thy salt.” “well, father,” he replied, “i am quite willing to learn something—indeed, if it could but be managed, i should like to learn how to shudder.
i don’t understand that at all yet.” the elder brother smiled when he heard that, and thought to himself, “good god, what a blockhead that brother of mine is!
he will never be good for anything as long as he lives.
he who wants to be a sickle must bend himself betimes.”
the father sighed, and answered him “thou shalt soon learn what it is to shudder, but thou wilt not earn thy bread by that.”
soon after this the sexton came to the house on a visit, and the father bewailed his trouble, and told him how his younger son was so backward in every respect that he knew nothing and learnt nothing.
“just think,”
said he, “when i asked him how he was going to earn his bread, he actually wanted to learn to shudder.” “if that be all,” replied the sexton, “he can learn that with me.
send him to me, and i will soon polish him.” the father was glad to do it, for he thought, “it will train the boy a little.” the sexton therefore took him into his house, and he had to ring the bell.
after a day or two, the sexton awoke him at midnight, and bade him arise and go up into the church tower and ring the bell.
“thou shalt soon learn what shuddering is,” thought he, and secretly went there before him; and when the boy was at the top of the tower and turned round, and was just going to take hold of the bell rope, he saw a white figure standing on the stairs opposite the sounding hole.
“who is there?” cried he, but the figure made no reply, and did not move or stir.
“give an answer,” cried the boy, “or take thy self off, thou hast no business here at night.”
the sexton, however, remained standing motionless that the boy might think he was a ghost.
the boy cried a second time, “what do you want here?—speak if thou art an honest fellow, or i will throw thee down the steps!” the sexton thought, “he can’t intend to be as bad as his words,” uttered no sound and stood as if he were made of stone.
then the boy called to him for the third time, and as that was also to no purpose, he ran against him and pushed the ghost down the stairs, so that it fell down ten steps and remained lying there in a corner.
thereupon he rang the bell, went home, and without saying a word went to bed, and fell asleep.
the sexton’s wife waited a long time for her husband, but he did not come back.
at length she became uneasy, and wakened the boy, and asked, “dost thou not know where my husband is?
he climbed up the tower before thou didst.” “no, i don’t know,” replied the boy, “but some one was standing by the sounding hole on the other side of the steps, and as he would neither give an answer nor go away, i took him for a scoundrel, and threw him downstairs, just go there and you will see if it was he.
i should be sorry if it were.” the woman ran away and found her husband, who was lying moaning in the corner, and had broken his leg.
she carried him down, and then with loud screams she hastened to the boy’s father.
“your boy,” cried she, “has been the cause of a great misfortune!
he has thrown my husband down the steps and made him break his leg.
take the good-for-nothing fellow away from our house.” the father was terrified, and ran thither and scolded the boy.
“what wicked tricks are these?” said he, “the devil must have put this into thy head.” “father,” he replied, “do listen to me.
i am quite innocent.
he was standing there by night like one who is intending to do some evil.
i did not know who it was, and i entreated him three times either to speak or to go away.” “ah,” said the father, “i have nothing but unhappiness with you.
go out of my sight.
i will see thee no more.”
“yes, father, right willingly, wait only until it is day.
then will i go forth and learn how to shudder, and then i shall, at any rate, understand one art which will support me.” “learn what thou wilt,”
spake the father, “it is all the same to me.
here are fifty thalers for thee.
take these and go into the wide world, and tell no one from whence thou comest, and who is thy father, for i have reason to be ashamed of thee.” “yes, father, it shall be as you will.
if you desire nothing more than that, i can easily keep it in mind.”
when day dawned, therefore, the boy put his fifty thalers into his pocket, and went forth on the great highway, and continually said to himself, “if i could but shudder!
if i could but shudder!” then a man approached who heard this conversation which the youth was holding with himself, and when they had walked a little farther to where they could see the gallows, the man said to him, “look, there is the tree where seven men have married the ropemaker’s daughter, and are now learning how to fly.
sit down below it, and wait till night comes, and you will soon learn how to shudder.” “if that is all that is wanted,” answered the youth, “it is easily done; but if i learn how to shudder as fast as that, thou shalt have my fifty thalers.
just come back to me early in the morning.” then the youth went to the gallows, sat down below it, and waited till evening came.
and as he was cold, he lighted himself a fire, but at midnight the wind blew so sharply that in spite of his fire, he could not get warm.
and as the wind knocked the hanged men against each other, and they moved backwards and forwards, he thought to himself “thou shiverest below by the fire, but how those up above must freeze and suffer!” and as he felt pity for them, he raised the ladder, and climbed up, unbound one of them after the other, and brought down all seven.
then he stirred the fire, blew it, and set them all round it to warm themselves.
but they sat there and did not stir, and the fire caught their clothes.
so he said, “take care, or i will hang you up again.” the dead men, however, did not hear, but were quite silent, and let their rags go on burning.
on this he grew angry, and said, “if you will not take care, i cannot help you, i will not be burnt with you,” and he hung them up again each in his turn.
then he sat down by his fire and fell asleep, and the next morning the man came to him and wanted to have the fifty thalers, and said, “well, dost thou know how to shudder?” “no,” answered he, “how was i to get to know?
those fellows up there did not open their mouths, and were so stupid that they let the few old rags which they had on their bodies get burnt.” then the man saw that he would not get the fifty thalers that day, and went away saying, “one of this kind has never come my way before.”
the youth likewise went his way, and once more began to mutter to himself, “ah, if i could but shudder!
ah, if i could but shudder!” a waggoner who was striding behind him heard that and asked, “who are you?” “i don’t know,” answered the youth.
then the waggoner asked, “from whence comest thou?” “i know not.” “who is thy father?” “that i may not tell thee.” “what is it that thou art always muttering between thy teeth.” “ah,” replied the youth, “i do so wish i could shudder, but no one can teach me how to do it.” “give up thy foolish chatter,” said the waggoner.
“come, go with me, i will see about a place for thee.”
the youth went with the waggoner, and in the evening they arrived at an inn where they wished to pass the night.
then at the entrance of the room the youth again said quite loudly, “if i could but shudder!
if i could but shudder!” the host who heard this, laughed and said, “if that is your desire, there ought to be a good opportunity for you here.”
“ah, be silent,” said the hostess, “so many inquisitive persons have already lost their lives, it would be a pity and a shame if such beautiful eyes as these should never see the daylight again.”
but the youth said, “however difficult it may be, i will learn it and for this purpose indeed have i journeyed forth.” he let the host have no rest, until the latter told him, that not far from thence stood a haunted castle where any one could very easily learn what shuddering was, if he would but watch in it for three nights.
the king had promised that he who would venture should have his daughter to wife, and she was the most beautiful maiden the sun shone on.
great treasures likewise lay in the castle, which were guarded by evil spirits, and these treasures would then be freed, and would make a poor man rich enough.
already many men had gone into the castle, but as yet none had come out again.
then the youth went next morning to the king and said if he were allowed he would watch three nights in the haunted castle.
the king looked at him, and as the youth pleased him, he said, “thou mayest ask for three things to take into the castle with thee, but they must be things without life.” then he answered, “then i ask for a fire, a turning lathe, and a cutting-board with the knife.” the king had these things carried into the castle for him during the day.
when night was drawing near, the youth went up and made himself a bright fire in one of the rooms, placed the cutting-board and knife beside it, and seated himself by the turning-lathe.
“ah, if i could but shudder!” said he, “but i shall not learn it here either.” towards midnight he was about to poke his fire, and as he was blowing it, something cried suddenly from one corner, “au, miau!
how cold we are!” “you simpletons!” cried he, “what are you crying about?
if you are cold, come and take a seat by the fire and warm yourselves.” and when he had said that, two great black cats came with one tremendous leap and sat down on each side of him, and looked savagely at him with their fiery eyes.
after a short time, when they had warmed themselves, they said, “comrade, shall we have a game at cards?” “why not?” he replied, “but just show me your paws.” then they stretched out their claws.
“oh,”
said he, “what long nails you have!
wait, i must first cut them for you.” thereupon he seized them by the throats, put them on the cutting-board and screwed their feet fast.
“i have looked at your fingers,” said he, “and my fancy for card-playing has gone,” and he struck them dead and threw them out into the water.
but when he had made away with these two, and was about to sit down again by his fire, out from every hole and corner came black cats and black dogs with red-hot chains, and more and more of them came until he could no longer stir, and they yelled horribly, and got on his fire, pulled it to pieces, and tried to put it out.
he watched them for a while quietly, but at last when they were going too far, he seized his cutting-knife, and cried, “away with ye, vermin,” and began to cut them down.
part of them ran away, the others he killed, and threw out into the fish-pond.
when he came back he fanned the embers of his fire again and warmed himself.
and as he thus sat, his eyes would keep open no longer, and he felt a desire to sleep.
then he looked round and saw a great bed in the corner.
“that is the very thing for me,” said he, and got into it.
when he was just going to shut his eyes, however, the bed began to move of its own accord, and went over the whole of the castle.
“that’s right,”
said he, “but go faster.” then the bed rolled on as if six horses were harnessed to it, up and down, over thresholds and steps, but suddenly hop, hop, it turned over upside down, and lay on him like a mountain.
but he threw quilts and pillows up in the air, got out and said, “now any one who likes, may drive,” and lay down by his fire, and slept till it was day.
in the morning the king came, and when he saw him lying there on the ground, he thought the evil spirits had killed him and he was dead.
then said he, “after all it is a pity,—he is a handsome man.”
the youth heard it, got up, and said, “it has not come to that yet.”
then the king was astonished, but very glad, and asked how he had fared.
“very well indeed,” answered he; “one night is past, the two others will get over likewise.” then he went to the innkeeper, who opened his eyes very wide, and said, “i never expected to see thee alive again!
hast thou learnt how to shudder yet?” “no,” said he, “it is all in vain.
if some one would but tell me.”
the second night he again went up into the old castle, sat down by the fire, and once more began his old song, “if i could but shudder.” when midnight came, an uproar and noise of tumbling about was heard; at first it was low, but it grew louder and louder.
then it was quiet for awhile, and at length with a loud scream, half a man came down the chimney and fell before him.
“hollo!” cried he, “another half belongs to this.
this is too little!” then the uproar began again, there was a roaring and howling, and the other half fell down likewise.
“wait,”
said he, “i will just blow up the fire a little for thee.” when he had done that and looked round again, the two pieces were joined together, and a frightful man was sitting in his place.
“that is no part of our bargain,” said the youth, “the bench is mine.” the man wanted to push him away; the youth, however, would not allow that, but thrust him off with all his strength, and seated himself again in his own place.
then still more men fell down, one after the other; they brought nine dead men’s legs and two skulls, and set them up and played at nine-pins with them.
the youth also wanted to play and said “hark you, can i join you?” “yes, if thou hast any money.” “money enough,” replied he, “but your balls are not quite round.” then he took the skulls and put them in the lathe and turned them till they were round.
“there, now, they will roll better!” said he.
“hurrah!
now it goes merrily!” he played with them and lost some of his money, but when it struck twelve, everything vanished from his sight.
he lay down and quietly fell asleep.
next morning the king came to inquire after him.
“how has it fared with you this time?” asked he.
“i have been playing at nine-pins,” he answered, “and have lost a couple of farthings.” “hast thou not shuddered then?” “eh, what?” said he, “i have made merry.
if i did but know what it was to shudder!”
the third night he sat down again on his bench and said quite sadly, “if i could but shudder.” when it grew late, six tall men came in and brought a coffin.
then said he, “ha, ha, that is certainly my little cousin, who died only a few days ago,” and he beckoned with his finger, and cried “come, little cousin, come.” they placed the coffin on the ground, but he went to it and took the lid off, and a dead man lay therein.
he felt his face, but it was cold as ice.
“stop,” said he, “i will warm thee a little,” and went to the fire and warmed his hand and laid it on the dead man’s face, but he remained cold.
then he took him out, and sat down by the fire and laid him on his breast and rubbed his arms that the blood might circulate again.
as this also did no good, he thought to himself “when two people lie in bed together, they warm each other,” and carried him to the bed, covered him over and lay down by him.
after a short time the dead man became warm too, and began to move.
then said the youth, “see, little cousin, have i not warmed thee?” the dead man, however, got up and cried, “now will i strangle thee.”
“what!” said he, “is that the way thou thankest me?
thou shalt at once go into thy coffin again,” and he took him up, threw him into it, and shut the lid.
then came the six men and carried him away again.
“i cannot manage to shudder,” said he.
“i shall never learn it here as long as i live.”
then a man entered who was taller than all others, and looked terrible.
he was old, however, and had a long white beard.
“thou wretch,” cried he, “thou shalt soon learn what it is to shudder, for thou shalt die.”
“not so fast,” replied the youth.
“if i am to die, i shall have to have a say in it.” “i will soon seize thee,” said the fiend.
“softly, softly, do not talk so big.
i am as strong as thou art, and perhaps even stronger.” “we shall see,” said the old man.
“if thou art stronger, i will let thee go—come, we will try.” then he led him by dark passages to a smith’s forge, took an axe, and with one blow struck an anvil into the ground.
“i can do better than that,” said the youth, and went to the other anvil.
the old man placed himself near and wanted to look on, and his white beard hung down.
then the youth seized the axe, split the anvil with one blow, and struck the old man’s beard in with it.
“now i have thee,” said the youth.
“now it is thou who will have to die.” then he seized an iron bar and beat the old man till he moaned and entreated him to stop, and he would give him great riches.
the youth drew out the axe and let him go.
the old man led him back into the castle, and in a cellar showed him three chests full of gold.
“of these,” said he, “one part is for the poor, the other for the king, the third is thine.” in the meantime it struck twelve, and the spirit disappeared; the youth, therefore, was left in darkness.
“i shall still be able to find my way out,” said he, and felt about, found the way into the room, and slept there by his fire.
next morning the king came and said “now thou must have learnt what shuddering is?” “no,” he answered; “what can it be?
my dead cousin was here, and a bearded man came and showed me a great deal of money down below, but no one told me what it was to shudder.” “then,” said the king, “thou hast delivered the castle, and shalt marry my daughter.” “that is all very well,” said he, “but still i do not know what it is to shudder.”
then the gold was brought up and the wedding celebrated; but howsoever much the young king loved his wife, and however happy he was, he still said always “if i could but shudder—if i could but shudder.” and at last she was angry at this.
her waiting-maid said, “i will find a cure for him; he shall soon learn what it is to shudder.” she went out to the stream which flowed through the garden, and had a whole bucketful of gudgeons brought to her.
at night when the young king was sleeping, his wife was to draw the clothes off him and empty the bucketful of cold water with the gudgeons in it over him, so that the little fishes would sprawl about him.
when this was done, he woke up and cried “oh, what makes me shudder so?—what makes me shudder so, dear wife?
ah!
now i know what it is to shudder!”
5 the wolf and the seven little kids
there was once upon a time an old goat who had seven little kids, and loved them with all the love of a mother for her children.
one day she wanted to go into the forest and fetch some food.
so she called all seven to her and said, “dear children, i have to go into the forest, be on your guard against the wolf; if he come in, he will devour you all—skin, hair, and all.
the wretch often disguises himself, but you will know him at once by his rough voice and his black feet.” the kids said, “dear mother, we will take good care of ourselves; you may go away without any anxiety.” then the old one bleated, and went on her way with an easy mind.
it was not long before some one knocked at the house-door and called, “open the door, dear children; your mother is here, and has brought something back with her for each of you.” but the little kids knew that it was the wolf, by the rough voice; “we will not open the door,” cried they, “thou art not our mother.
she has a soft, pleasant voice, but thy voice is rough; thou art the wolf!” then the wolf went away to a shopkeeper and bought himself a great lump of chalk, ate this and made his voice soft with it.
the he came back, knocked at the door of the house, and cried, “open the door, dear children, your mother is here and has brought something back with her for each of you.” but the wolf had laid his black paws against the window, and the children saw them and cried, “we will not open the door, our mother has not black feet like thee; thou art the wolf.” then the wolf ran to a baker and said, “i have hurt my feet, rub some dough over them for me.” and when the baker had rubbed his feet over, he ran to the miller and said, “strew some white meal over my feet for me.” the miller thought to himself, “the wolf wants to deceive someone,” and refused; but the wolf said, “if thou wilt not do it, i will devour thee.” then the miller was afraid, and made his paws white for him.
truly men are like that.
so now the wretch went for the third time to the house-door, knocked at it and said, “open the door for me, children, your dear little mother has come home, and has brought every one of you something back from the forest with her.” the little kids cried, “first show us thy paws that we may know if thou art our dear little mother.” then he put his paws in through the window, and when the kids saw that they were white, they believed that all he said was true, and opened the door.
but who should come in but the wolf!
they were terrified and wanted to hide themselves.
one sprang under the table, the second into the bed, the third into the stove, the fourth into the kitchen, the fifth into the cupboard, the sixth under the washing-bowl, and the seventh into the clock-case.
but the wolf found them all, and used no great ceremony; one after the other he swallowed them down his throat.
the youngest, who was in the clock-case, was the only one he did not find.
when the wolf had satisfied his appetite he took himself off, laid himself down under a tree in the green meadow outside, and began to sleep.
soon afterwards the old goat came home again from the forest.
ah!
what a sight she saw there!
the house-door stood wide open.
the table, chairs, and benches were thrown down, the washing-bowl lay broken to pieces, and the quilts and pillows were pulled off the bed.
she sought her children, but they were nowhere to be found.
she called them one after another by name, but no one answered.
at last, when she came to the youngest, a soft voice cried, “dear mother, i am in the clock-case.”
she took the kid out, and it told her that the wolf had come and had eaten all the others.
then you may imagine how she wept over her poor children.
at length in her grief she went out, and the youngest kid ran with her.
when they came to the meadow, there lay the wolf by the tree and snored so loud that the branches shook.
she looked at him on every side and saw that something was moving and struggling in his gorged belly.
“ah, heavens,” said she, “is it possible that my poor children whom he has swallowed down for his supper, can be still alive?” then the kid had to run home and fetch scissors, and a needle and thread, and the goat cut open the monster’s stomach, and hardly had she make one cut, than one little kid thrust its head out, and when she cut farther, all six sprang out one after another, and were all still alive, and had suffered no injury whatever, for in his greediness the monster had swallowed them down whole.
what rejoicing there was!
they embraced their dear mother, and jumped like a sailor at his wedding.
the mother, however, said, “now go and look for some big stones, and we will fill the wicked beast’s stomach with them while he is still asleep.” then the seven kids dragged the stones thither with all speed, and put as many of them into his stomach as they could get in; and the mother sewed him up again in the greatest haste, so that he was not aware of anything and never once stirred.
when the wolf at length had had his sleep out, he got on his legs, and as the stones in his stomach made him very thirsty, he wanted to go to a well to drink.
but when he began to walk and move about, the stones in his stomach knocked against each other and rattled.
then cried he,
“what rumbles and tumbles against my poor bones?
i thought ’t was six kids, but it’s naught but big stones.”
and when he got to the well and stooped over the water and was just about to drink, the heavy stones made him fall in, and there was no help, but he had to drown miserably.
when the seven kids saw that, they came running to the spot and cried aloud, “the wolf is dead!
the wolf is dead!” and danced for joy round about the well with their mother.
6 faithful john
there was once on a time an old king who was ill, and thought to himself, “i am lying on what must be my death-bed.” then said he, “tell faithful john to come to me.” faithful john was his favourite servant, and was so called, because he had for his whole life long been so true to him.
when therefore he came beside the bed, the king said to him, “most faithful john, i feel my end approaching, and have no anxiety except about my son.
he is still of tender age, and cannot always know how to guide himself.
if thou dost not promise me to teach him everything that he ought to know, and to be his foster-father, i cannot close my eyes in peace.” then answered faithful john, “i will not forsake him, and will serve him with fidelity, even if it should cost me my life.” on this, the old king said, “now i die in comfort and peace.” then he added, “after my death, thou shalt show him the whole castle: all the chambers, halls, and vaults, and all the treasures which lie therein, but the last chamber in the long gallery, in which is the picture of the princess of the golden dwelling, shalt thou not show.
if he sees that picture, he will fall violently in love with her, and will drop down in a swoon, and go through great danger for her sake, therefore thou must preserve him from that.” and when faithful john had once more given his promise to the old king about this, the king said no more, but laid his head on his pillow, and died.
when the old king had been carried to his grave, faithful john told the young king all that he had promised his father on his deathbed, and said, “this will i assuredly perform, and will be faithful to thee as i have been faithful to him, even if it should cost me my life.” when the mourning was over, faithful john said to him, “it is now time that thou shouldst see thine inheritance.
i will show thee thy father’s palace.”
then he took him about everywhere, up and down, and let him see all the riches, and the magnificent apartments, only there was one room which he did not open, that in which hung the dangerous picture.
the picture was, however, so placed that when the door was opened you looked straight on it, and it was so admirably painted that it seemed to breathe and live, and there was nothing more charming or more beautiful in the whole world.
the young king, however, plainly remarked that faithful john always walked past this one door, and said, “why dost thou never open this one for me?” “there is something within it,” he replied, “which would terrify thee.” but the king answered, “i have seen all the palace, and i will know what is in this room also,” and he went and tried to break open the door by force.
then faithful john held him back and said, “i promised thy father before his death that thou shouldst not see that which is in this chamber, it might bring the greatest misfortune on thee and on me.” “ah, no,” replied the young king, “if i do not go in, it will be my certain destruction.
i should have no rest day or night until i had seen it with my own eyes.
i shall not leave the place now until thou hast unlocked the door.”
then faithful john saw that there was no help for it now, and with a heavy heart and many sighs, sought out the key from the great bunch.
when he had opened the door, he went in first, and thought by standing before him he could hide the portrait so that the king should not see it in front of him, but what availed that?
the king stood on tip-toe and saw it over his shoulder.
and when he saw the portrait of the maiden, which was so magnificent and shone with gold and precious stones, he fell fainting to the ground.
faithful john took him up, carried him to his bed, and sorrowfully thought, “the misfortune has befallen us, lord god, what will be the end of it?” then he strengthened him with wine, until he came to himself again.
the first words the king said were, “ah, the beautiful portrait!
whose it it?”
“that is the princess of the golden dwelling,” answered faithful john.
then the king continued, “my love for her is so great, that if all the leaves on all the trees were tongues, they could not declare it.
i will give my life to win her.
thou art my most faithful john, thou must help me.”
the faithful servant considered within himself for a long time how to set about the matter, for it was difficult even to obtain a sight of the king’s daughter.
at length he thought of a way, and said to the king, “everything which she has about her is of gold—tables, chairs, dishes, glasses, bowls, and household furniture.
among thy treasures are five tons of gold; let one of the goldsmiths of the kingdom work these up into all manner of vessels and utensils, into all kinds of birds, wild beasts and strange animals, such as may please her, and we will go there with them and try our luck.”
the king ordered all the goldsmiths to be brought to him, and they had to work night and day until at last the most splendid things were prepared.
when everything was stowed on board a ship, faithful john put on the dress of a merchant, and the king was forced to do the same in order to make himself quite unrecognizable.
then they sailed across the sea, and sailed on until they came to the town wherein dwelt the princess of the golden dwelling.
faithful john bade the king stay behind on the ship, and wait for him.
“perhaps i shall bring the princess with me,” said he, “therefore see that everything is in order; have the golden vessels set out and the whole ship decorated.” then he gathered together in his apron all kinds of gold things, went on shore and walked straight to the royal palace.
when he entered the courtyard of the palace, a beautiful girl was standing there by the well with two golden buckets in her hand, drawing water with them.
and when she was just turning round to carry away the sparkling water she saw the stranger, and asked who he was.
so he answered, “i am a merchant,” and opened his apron, and let her look in.
then she cried, “oh, what beautiful gold things!” and put her pails down and looked at the golden wares one after the other.
then said the girl, “the princess must see these, she has such great pleasure in golden things, that she will buy all you have.” she took him by the hand and led him upstairs, for she was the waiting-maid.
when the king’s daughter saw the wares, she was quite delighted and said, “they are so beautifully worked, that i will buy them all of thee.” but faithful john said, “i am only the servant of a rich merchant.
the things i have here are not to be compared with those my master has in his ship.
they are the most beautiful and valuable things that have ever been made in gold.” she wanted to have everything brought to her there, but he said, “there are so many of them that it would take a great many days to do that, and so many rooms would be required to exhibit them, that your house is not big enough.” then her curiosity and longing were still more excited, until at last she said, “conduct me to the ship, i will go there myself, and behold the treasures of thine master.”
on this faithful john was quite delighted, and led her to the ship, and when the king saw her, he perceived that her beauty was even greater than the picture had represented it to be, and thought no other than that his heart would burst in twain.
then she got into the ship, and the king led her within.
faithful john, however, remained behind with the pilot, and ordered the ship to be pushed off, saying, “set all sail, till it fly like a bird in air.” within, however, the king showed her the golden vessels, every one of them, also the wild beasts and strange animals.
many hours went by whilst she was seeing everything, and in her delight she did not observe that the ship was sailing away.
after she had looked at the last, she thanked the merchant and wanted to go home, but when she came to the side of the ship, she saw that it was on the deep sea far from land, and hurrying onwards with all sail set.
“ah,” cried she in her alarm, “i am betrayed!
i am carried away and have fallen into the power of a merchant—i would die rather!” the king, however, seized her hand, and said, “i am not a merchant.
i am a king, and of no meaner origin than thou art, and if i have carried thee away with subtlety, that has come to pass because of my exceeding great love for thee.
the first time that i looked on thy portrait, i fell fainting to the ground.” when the princess of the golden dwelling heard that, she was comforted, and her heart was inclined unto him, so that she willingly consented to be his wife.
it so happened, however, while they were sailing onwards over the deep sea, that faithful john, who was sitting on the fore part of the vessel, making music, saw three ravens in the air, which came flying towards them.
on this he stopped playing and listened to what they were saying to each other, for that he well understood.
one cried, “oh, there he is carrying home the princess of the golden dwelling.” “yes,”
replied the second, “but he has not got her yet.” said the third, “but he has got her, she is sitting beside him in the ship.” then the first began again, and cried, “what good will that do him?
when they reach land a chestnut horse will leap forward to meet him, and the prince will want to mount it, but if he does that, it will run away with him, and rise up into the air with him, and he will never see his maiden more.” spake the second, “but is there no escape?”
“oh, yes, if any one else gets on it swiftly, and takes out the pistol which must be in its holster, and shoots the horse dead with it, the young king is saved.
but who knows that?
and whosoever does know it, and tells it to him, will be turned to stone from the toe to the knee.”
then said the second, “i know more than that; even if the horse be killed, the young king will still not keep his bride.
when they go into the castle together, a wrought bridal garment will be lying there in a dish, and looking as if it were woven of gold and silver; it is, however, nothing but sulphur and pitch, and if he put it on, it will burn him to the very bone and marrow.” said the third, “is there no escape at all?”
“oh, yes,” replied the second, “if any one with gloves on seizes the garment and throws it into the fire and burns it, the young king will be saved.
“but what avails that?” “whosoever knows it and tells it to him, half his body will become stone from the knee to the heart.”
then said the third, “i know still more; even if the bridal garment be burnt, the young king will still not have his bride.
after the wedding, when the dancing begins and the young queen is dancing, she will suddenly turn pale and fall down as if dead, and if some one does not lift her up and draw three drops of blood from her right breast and spit them out again, she will die.
but if any one who knows that were to declare it, he would become stone from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot.” when the ravens had spoken of this together, they flew onwards, and faithful john had well understood everything, but from that time forth he became quiet and sad, for if he concealed what he had heard from his master, the latter would be unfortunate, and if he discovered it to him, he himself must sacrifice his life.
at length, however, he said to himself, “i will save my master, even if it bring destruction on myself.”
when therefore they came to shore, all happened as had been foretold by the ravens, and a magnificent chestnut horse sprang forward.
“good,”
said the king, “he shall carry me to my palace,” and was about to mount it when faithful john got before him, jumped quickly on it, drew the pistol out of the holster, and shot the horse.
then the other attendants of the king, who after all were not very fond of faithful john, cried, “how shameful to kill the beautiful animal, that was to have carried the king to his palace.” but the king said, “hold your peace and leave him alone, he is my most faithful john, who knows what may be the good of that!” they went into the palace, and in the hall there stood a dish, and therein lay the bridal garment looking no otherwise than as if it were made of gold and silver.
the young king went towards it and was about to take hold of it, but faithful john pushed him away, seized it with gloves on, carried it quickly to the fire and burnt it.
the other attendants again began to murmur, and said, “behold, now he is even burning the king’s bridal garment!” but the young king said, “who knows what good he may have done, leave him alone, he is my most faithful john.”
and now the wedding was solemnized: the dance began, and the bride also took part in it; then faithful john was watchful and looked into her face, and suddenly she turned pale and fell to the ground, as if she were dead.
on this he ran hastily to her, lifted her up and bore her into a chamber—then he laid her down, and knelt and sucked the three drops of blood from her right breast, and spat them out.
immediately she breathed again and recovered herself, but the young king had seen this, and being ignorant why faithful john had done it, was angry and cried, “throw him into a dungeon.” next morning faithful john was condemned, and led to the gallows, and when he stood on high, and was about to be executed, he said, “every one who has to die is permitted before his end to make one last speech; may i too claim the right?”
“yes,” answered the king, “it shall be granted unto thee.” then said faithful john, “i am unjustly condemned, and have always been true to thee,” and he related how he had hearkened to the conversation of the ravens when on the sea, and how he had been obliged to do all these things in order to save his master.
then cried the king, “oh, my most faithful john.
pardon, pardon—bring him down.” but as faithful john spoke the last word he had fallen down lifeless and become a stone.
thereupon the king and the queen suffered great anguish, and the king said, “ah, how ill i have requited great fidelity!” and ordered the stone figure to be taken up and placed in his bedroom beside his bed.
and as often as he looked on it he wept and said, “ah, if i could bring thee to life again, my most faithful john.” some time passed and the queen bore twins, two sons who grew fast and were her delight.
once when the queen was at church and the two children were sitting playing beside their father, the latter full of grief again looked at the stone figure, sighed and said, “ah, if i could but bring thee to life again, my most faithful john.” then the stone began to speak and said, “thou canst bring me to life again if thou wilt use for that purpose what is dearest to thee.” then cried the king, “i will give everything i have in the world for thee.” the stone continued, “if thou wilt will cut off the heads of thy two children with thine own hand, and sprinkle me with their blood, i shall be restored to life.”
the king was terrified when he heard that he himself must kill his dearest children, but he thought of faithful john’s great fidelity, and how he had died for him, drew his sword, and with his own hand cut off the children’s heads.
and when he had smeared the stone with their blood, life returned to it, and faithful john stood once more safe and healthy before him.
he said to the king, “thy truth shall not go unrewarded,” and took the heads of the children, put them on again, and rubbed the wounds with their blood, on which they became whole again immediately, and jumped about, and went on playing as if nothing had happened.
then the king was full of joy, and when he saw the queen coming he hid faithful john and the two children in a great cupboard.
when she entered, he said to her, “hast thou been praying in the church?” “yes,” answered she, “but i have constantly been thinking of faithful john and what misfortune has befallen him through us.” then said he, “dear wife, we can give him his life again, but it will cost us our two little sons, whom we must sacrifice.” the queen turned pale, and her heart was full of terror, but she said, “we owe it to him, for his great fidelity.” then the king was rejoiced that she thought as he had thought, and went and opened the cupboard, and brought forth faithful john and the children, and said, “god be praised, he is delivered, and we have our little sons again also,” and told her how everything had occurred.
then they dwelt together in much happiness until their death.
7 the good bargain
there was once a peasant who had driven his cow to the fair, and sold her for seven thalers.
on the way home he had to pass a pond, and already from afar he heard the frogs crying, “aik, aik, aik, aik.”
“well,” said he to himself, “they are talking without rhyme or reason, it is seven that i have received, not eight.” when he got to the water, he cried to them, “stupid animals that you are!
don’t you know better than that?
it is seven thalers and not eight.” the frogs, however, stood to their, “aik aik, aik, aik.” “come, then, if you won’t believe it, i can count it out to you.” and he took his money out of his pocket and counted out the seven thalers, always reckoning four and twenty groschen to a thaler.
the frogs, however, paid no attention to his reckoning, but still cried, “aik, aik, aik, aik.” “what,” cried the peasant, quite angry, “since you are determined to know better than i, count it yourselves,” and threw all the money into the water to them.
he stood still and wanted to wait until they were done and had brought him his own again, but the frogs maintained their opinion and cried continually, “aik, aik, aik, aik,” and besides that, did not throw the money out again.
he still waited a long while until evening came on and he was forced to go home.
then he abused the frogs and cried, “you water-splashers, you thick-heads, you goggle-eyes, you have great mouths and can screech till you hurt one’s ears, but you cannot count seven thalers!
do you think i’m going to stand here till you get done?”
and with that he went away, but the frogs still cried, “aik, aik, aik, aik,” after him till he went home quite angry.
after a while he bought another cow, which he killed, and he made the calculation that if he sold the meat well he might gain as much as the two cows were worth, and have the skin into the bargain.
when therefore he got to the town with the meat, a great troop of dogs were gathered together in front of the gate, with a large greyhound at the head of them, which jumped at the meat, snuffed at it, and barked, “wow, wow, wow.” as there was no stopping him, the peasant said to him, “yes, yes, i know quite well that thou art saying, ‘wow, wow, wow,’ because thou wantest some of the meat; but i should fare badly if i were to give it to thee.” the dog, however, answered nothing but “wow, wow.” “wilt thou promise not to devour it all then, and wilt thou go bail for thy companions?” “wow, wow, wow,” said the dog.
“well, if thou insistest on it, i will leave it for thee; i know thee well, and know who is thy master; but this i tell thee, i must have my money in three days or else it will go ill with thee; thou must just bring it out to me.”
thereupon he unloaded the meat and turned back again, the dogs fell upon it and loudly barked, “wow, wow.”
the countryman, who heard them from afar, said to himself, “hark, now they all want some, but the big one is responsible to me for it.”
when three days had passed, the countryman thought, “to-night my money will be in my pocket,” and was quite delighted.
but no one would come and pay it.
“there is no trusting any one now,” said he; and at last he lost patience, and went into the town to the butcher and demanded his money.
the butcher thought it was a joke, but the peasant said, “jesting apart, i will have my money!
did not the great dog bring you the whole of the slaughtered cow three days ago?” then the butcher grew angry, snatched a broomstick and drove him out.
“wait a while,” said the peasant, “there is still some justice in the world!” and went to the royal palace and begged for an audience.
he was led before the king, who sat there with his daughter, and asked him what injury he had suffered.
“alas!” said he, “the frogs and the dogs have taken from me what is mine, and the butcher has paid me for it with the stick,” and he related at full length all that had happened.
thereupon the king’s daughter began to laugh heartily, and the king said to him, “i cannot give you justice in this, but you shall have my daughter to wife for it,—in her whole life she has never yet laughed as she has just done at thee, and i have promised her to him who could make her laugh.
thou mayst thank god for thy good fortune!”
“oh,” answered the peasant, “i will not have her, i have a wife already, and she is one too many for me; when i go home, it is just as bad as if i had a wife standing in every corner.” then the king grew angry, and said, “thou art a boor.” “ah, lord king,” replied the peasant, “what can you expect from an ox, but beef?” “stop,” answered the king, “thou shalt have another reward.
be off now, but come back in three days, and then thou shalt have five hundred counted out in full.”
when the peasant went out by the gate, the sentry said, “thou hast made the king’s daughter laugh, so thou wilt certainly receive something good.” “yes, that is what i think,” answered the peasant; “five hundred are to be counted out to me.” “hark thee,” said the soldier, “give me some of it.
what canst thou do with all that money?” “as it is thou,”
said the peasant, “thou shalt have two hundred; present thyself in three days’ time before the king, and let it be paid to thee.” a jew, who was standing by and had heard the conversation, ran after the peasant, held him by the coat, and said, “oh, wonder!
what a luck-child thou art!
i will change it for thee, i will change it for thee into small coins, what dost thou want with the great thalers?” “jew,” said the countryman, “three hundred canst thou still have; give it to me at once in coin, in three days from this, thou wilt be paid for it by the king.” the jew was delighted with the profit, and brought the sum in bad groschen, three of which were worth two good ones.
after three days had passed, according to the king’s command, the peasant went before the king.
“pull his coat off,” said the latter, “and he shall have his five hundred.” “ah!” said the peasant, “they no longer belong to me; i presented two hundred of them to the sentinel, and three hundred the jew has changed for me, so by right nothing at all belongs to me.” in the meantime the soldier and the jew entered and claimed what they had gained from the peasant, and they received the blows strictly counted out.
the soldier bore it patiently and knew already how it tasted, but the jew said sorrowfully, “alas, alas, are these the heavy thalers?”
the king could not help laughing at the peasant, and as all his anger was gone, he said, “as thou hast already lost thy reward before it fell to thy lot, i will give thee something in the place of it.
go into my treasure chamber and get some money for thyself, as much as thou wilt.”
the peasant did not need to be told twice, and stuffed into his big pockets whatsoever would go in.
afterwards he went to an inn and counted out his money.
the jew had crept after him and heard how he muttered to himself, “that rogue of a king has cheated me after all, why could he not have given me the money himself, and then i should have known what i had?
how can i tell now if what i have had the luck to put in my pockets is right or not?” “good heavens!” said the jew to himself, “that man is speaking disrespectfully of our lord the king, i will run and inform, and then i shall get a reward, and he will be punished as well.”
when the king heard of the peasant’s words he fell into a passion, and commanded the jew to go and bring the offender to him.
the jew ran to the peasant, “you are to go at once to the lord king in the very clothes you have on.” “i know what’s right better than that,” answered the peasant, “i shall have a new coat made first.
dost thou think that a man with so much money in his pocket is to go there in his ragged old coat?” the jew, as he saw that the peasant would not stir without another coat, and as he feared that if the king’s anger cooled, he himself would lose his reward, and the peasant his punishment, said, “i will out of pure friendship lend thee a coat for the short time.
what will people not do for love!” the peasant was contented with this, put the jew’s coat on, and went off with him.
the king reproached the countryman because of the evil speaking of which the jew had informed him.
“ah,” said the peasant, “what a jew says is always false—no true word ever comes out of his mouth!
that rascal there is capable of maintaining that i have his coat on.”
“what is that?” shrieked the jew.
“is the coat not mine?
have i not lent it to thee out of pure friendship, in order that thou might appear before the lord king?” when the king heard that, he said, “the jew has assuredly deceived one or the other of us, either myself or the peasant,” and again he ordered something to be counted out to him in hard thalers.
the peasant, however, went home in the good coat, with the good money in his pocket, and said to himself, “this time i have hit it!”
8 the wonderful musician
there was once a wonderful musician, who went quite alone through a forest and thought of all manner of things, and when nothing was left for him to think about, he said to himself, “time is beginning to pass heavily with me here in the forest, i will fetch hither a good companion for myself.” then he took his fiddle from his back, and played so that it echoed through the trees.
it was not long before a wolf came trotting through the thicket towards him.
“ah, here is a wolf coming!
i have no desire for him!” said the musician; but the wolf came nearer and said to him, “ah, dear musician, how beautifully thou dost play.
i should like to learn that, too.” “it is soon learnt,” the musician replied, “thou hast only to do all that i bid thee.” “oh, musician,” said the wolf, “i will obey thee as a scholar obeys his master.” the musician bade him follow, and when they had gone part of the way together, they came to an old oak-tree which was hollow inside, and cleft in the middle.
“look,” said the musician, “if thou wilt learn to fiddle, put thy fore paws into this crevice.” the wolf obeyed, but the musician quickly picked up a stone and with one blow wedged his two paws so fast that he was forced to stay there like a prisoner.
“stay there until i come back again,” said the musician, and went his way.
after a while he again said to himself, “time is beginning to pass heavily with me here in the forest, i will fetch hither another companion,” and took his fiddle and again played in the forest.
it was not long before a fox came creeping through the trees towards him.
“ah, there’s a fox coming!” said the musician.
“i have no desire for him.”
the fox came up to him and said, “oh, dear musician, how beautifully thou dost play!
i should like to learn that too.” “that is soon learnt,” said the musician.
“thou hast only to do everything that i bid thee.” “oh, musician,” then said the fox, “i will obey thee as a scholar obeys his master.” “follow me,” said the musician; and when they had walked a part of the way, they came to a footpath, with high bushes on both sides of it.
there the musician stood still, and from one side bent a young hazel-bush down to the ground, and put his foot on the top of it, then he bent down a young tree from the other side as well, and said, “now little fox, if thou wilt learn something, give me thy left front paw.” the fox obeyed, and the musician fastened his paw to the left bough.
“little fox,” said he, “now reach me thy right paw”
and he tied it to the right bough.
when he had examined whether they were firm enough, he let go, and the bushes sprang up again, and jerked up the little fox, so that it hung struggling in the air.
“wait there till i come back again,” said the musician, and went his way.
again he said to himself, “time is beginning to pass heavily with me here in the forest, i will fetch hither another companion,” so he took his fiddle, and the sound echoed through the forest.
then a little hare came springing towards him.
“why, a hare is coming,” said the musician, “i do not want him.” “ah, dear musician,” said the hare, “how beautifully thou dost fiddle; i too, should like to learn that.” “that is soon learnt,” said the musician, “thou hast only to do everything that i bid thee.”
“oh, musician,” replied the little hare, “i will obey thee as a scholar obeys his master.” they went a part of the way together until they came to an open space in the forest, where stood an aspen tree.
the musician tied a long string round the little hare’s neck, the other end of which he fastened to the tree.
“now briskly, little hare, run twenty times round the tree!” cried the musician, and the little hare obeyed, and when it had run round twenty times, it had twisted the string twenty times round the trunk of the tree, and the little hare was caught, and let it pull and tug as it liked, it only made the string cut into its tender neck.
“wait there till i come back,” said the musician, and went onwards.
the wolf, in the meantime, had pushed and pulled and bitten at the stone, and had worked so long that he had set his feet at liberty and had drawn them once more out of the cleft.
full of anger and rage he hurried after the musician and wanted to tear him to pieces.
when the fox saw him running, he began to lament, and cried with all his might, “brother wolf, come to my help, the musician has betrayed me!” the wolf drew down the little tree, bit the cord in two, and freed the fox, who went with him to take revenge on the musician.
they found the tied-up hare, whom likewise they delivered, and then they all sought the enemy together.
the musician had once more played his fiddle as he went on his way, and this time he had been more fortunate.
the sound reached the ears of a poor wood-cutter, who instantly, whether he would or no, gave up his work and came with his hatchet under his arm to listen to the music.
“at last comes the right companion,” said the musician, “for i was seeking a human being, and no wild beast.” and he began and played so beautifully and delightfully that the poor man stood there as if bewitched, and his heart leaped with gladness.
and as he thus stood, the wolf, the fox, and the hare came up, and he saw well that they had some evil design.
so he raised his glittering axe and placed himself before the musician, as if to say, “whoso wishes to touch him let him beware, for he will have to do with me!” then the beasts were terrified and ran back into the forest.
the musician, however, played once more to the man out of gratitude, and then went onwards.
9 the twelve brothers
there were once on a time a king and a queen who lived happily together and had twelve children, but they were all boys.
then said the king to his wife, “if the thirteenth child which thou art about to bring into the world, is a girl, the twelve boys shall die, in order that her possessions may be great, and that the kingdom may fall to her alone.”
he caused likewise twelve coffins to be made, which were already filled with shavings, and in each lay the little pillow for the dead, and he had them taken into a locked-up room, and then he gave the queen the key of it, and bade her not to speak of this to any one.
the mother, however, now sat and lamented all day long, until the youngest son, who was always with her, and whom she had named benjamin, from the bible, said to her, “dear mother, why art thou so sad?”
“dearest child,” she answered, “i may not tell thee.” but he let her have no rest until she went and unlocked the room, and showed him the twelve coffins ready filled with shavings.
then she said, “my dearest benjamin, thy father has had these coffins made for thee and for thy eleven brothers, for if i bring a little girl into the world, you are all to be killed and buried in them.” and as she wept while she was saying this, the son comforted her and said, “weep not, dear mother, we will save ourselves, and go hence.” but she said, “go forth into the forest with thy eleven brothers, and let one sit constantly on the highest tree which can be found, and keep watch, looking towards the tower here in the castle.
if i give birth to a little son, i will put up a white flag, and then you may venture to come back, but if i bear a daughter, i will hoist a red flag, and then fly hence as quickly as you are able, and may the good god protect you.
and every night i will rise up and pray for you—in winter that you may be able to warm yourself at a fire, and in summer that you may not faint away in the heat.”
after she had blessed her sons therefore, they went forth into the forest.
they each kept watch in turn, and sat on the highest oak and looked towards the tower.
when eleven days had passed and the turn came to benjamin, he saw that a flag was being raised.
it was, however, not the white, but the blood-red flag which announced that they were all to die.
when the brothers heard that, they were very angry and said, “are we all to suffer death for the sake of a girl?
we swear that we will avenge ourselves!—wheresoever we find a girl, her red blood shall flow.”
thereupon they went deeper into the forest, and in the midst of it, where it was the darkest, they found a little bewitched hut, which was standing empty.
then said they, “here we will dwell, and thou benjamin, who art the youngest and weakest, thou shalt stay at home and keep house, we others will go out and get food.” then they went into the forest and shot hares, wild deer, birds and pigeons, and whatsoever there was to eat; this they took to benjamin, who had to dress it for them in order that they might appease their hunger.
they lived together ten years in the little hut, and the time did not appear long to them.
the little daughter which their mother the queen had given birth to, was now grown up; she was good of heart, and fair of face, and had a golden star on her forehead.
once, when it was the great washing, she saw twelve men’s shirts among the things, and asked her mother, “to whom do these twelve shirts belong, for they are far too small for father?” then the queen answered with a heavy heart, “dear child, these belong to thy twelve brothers.” said the maiden, “where are my twelve brothers, i have never yet heard of them?” she replied, “god knows where they are, they are wandering about the world.” then she took the maiden and opened the chamber for her, and showed her the twelve coffins with the shavings, and pillows for the head.
“these coffins,”
said she, “were destined for thy brothers, but they went away secretly before thou wert born,” and she related to her how everything had happened; then said the maiden, “dear mother, weep not, i will go and seek my brothers.”
so she took the twelve shirts and went forth, and straight into the great forest.
she walked the whole day, and in the evening she came to the bewitched hut.
then she entered it and found a young boy, who asked, “from whence comest thou, and whither art thou bound?” and was astonished that she was so beautiful, and wore royal garments, and had a star on her forehead.
and she answered, “i am a king’s daughter, and am seeking my twelve brothers, and i will walk as far as the sky is blue until i find them.” she likewise showed him the twelve shirts which belonged to them.
then benjamin saw that she was his sister, and said, “i am benjamin, thy youngest brother.” and she began to weep for joy, and benjamin wept also, and they kissed and embraced each other with the greatest love.
but after this he said, “dear sister, there is still one difficulty.
we have agreed that every maiden whom we meet shall die, because we have been obliged to leave our kingdom on account of a girl.” then said she, “i will willingly die, if by so doing i can deliver my twelve brothers.”
“no,” answered he, “thou shalt not die, seat thyself beneath this tub until our eleven brothers come, and then i will soon come to an agreement with them.”
she did so, and when it was night the others came from hunting, and their dinner was ready.
and as they were sitting at table, and eating, they asked, “what news is there?” said benjamin, “don’t you know anything?” “no,” they answered.
he continued, “you have been in the forest and i have stayed at home, and yet i know more than you do.”
“tell us then,” they cried.
he answered, “but promise me that the first maiden who meets us shall not be killed.” “yes,” they all cried, “she shall have mercy, only do tell us.”
then said he, “our sister is here,” and he lifted up the tub, and the king’s daughter came forth in her royal garments with the golden star on her forehead, and she was beautiful, delicate and fair.
then they were all rejoiced, and fell on her neck, and kissed and loved her with all their hearts.
now she stayed at home with benjamin and helped him with the work.
the eleven went into the forest and caught game, and deer, and birds, and wood-pigeons that they might have food, and the little sister and benjamin took care to make it ready for them.
she sought for the wood for cooking and herbs for vegetables, and put the pans on the fire so that the dinner was always ready when the eleven came.
she likewise kept order in the little house, and put beautifully white clean coverings on the little beds, and the brothers were always contented and lived in great harmony with her.
once on a time the two at home had prepared a beautiful entertainment, and when they were all together, they sat down and ate and drank and were full of gladness.
there was, however, a little garden belonging to the bewitched house wherein stood twelve lily flowers, which are likewise called students.
she wished to give her brothers pleasure, and plucked the twelve flowers, and thought she would present each brother with one while at dinner.
but at the self-same moment that she plucked the flowers the twelve brothers were changed into twelve ravens, and flew away over the forest, and the house and garden vanished likewise.
and now the poor maiden was alone in the wild forest, and when she looked around, an old woman was standing near her who said, “my child, what hast thou done?
why didst thou not leave the twelve white flowers growing?
they were thy brothers, who are now for evermore changed into ravens.” the maiden said, weeping, “is there no way of delivering them?”
“no,” said the woman, “there is but one in the whole world, and that is so hard that thou wilt not deliver them by it, for thou must be dumb for seven years, and mayst not speak or laugh, and if thou speakest one single word, and only an hour of the seven years is wanting, all is in vain, and thy brothers will be killed by the one word.”
then said the maiden in her heart, “i know with certainty that i shall set my brothers free,” and went and sought a high tree and seated herself in it and span, and neither spoke nor laughed.
now it so happened that a king was hunting in the forest, who had a great greyhound which ran to the tree on which the maiden was sitting, and sprang about it, whining, and barking at her.
then the king came by and saw the beautiful king’s daughter with the golden star on her brow, and was so charmed with her beauty that he called to ask her if she would be his wife.
she made no answer, but nodded a little with her head.
so he climbed up the tree himself, carried her down, placed her on his horse, and bore her home.
then the wedding was solemnized with great magnificence and rejoicing, but the bride neither spoke nor smiled.
when they had lived happily together for a few years, the king’s mother, who was a wicked woman, began to slander the young queen, and said to the king, “this is a common beggar girl whom thou hast brought back with thee.
who knows what impious tricks she practises secretly!
even if she be dumb, and not able to speak, she still might laugh for once; but those who do not laugh have bad consciences.” at first the king would not believe it, but the old woman urged this so long, and accused her of so many evil things, that at last the king let himself be persuaded and sentenced her to death.
and now a great fire was lighted in the courtyard in which she was to be burnt, and the king stood above at the window and looked on with tearful eyes, because he still loved her so much.
and when she was bound fast to the stake, and the fire was licking at her clothes with its red tongue, the last instant of the seven years expired.
then a whirring sound was heard in the air, and twelve ravens came flying towards the place, and sank downwards, and when they touched the earth they were her twelve brothers, whom she had delivered.
they tore the fire asunder, extinguished the flames, set their dear sister free, and kissed and embraced her.
and now as she dared to open her mouth and speak, she told the king why she had been dumb, and had never laughed.
the king rejoiced when he heard that she was innocent, and they all lived in great unity until their death.
the wicked step-mother was taken before the judge, and put into a barrel filled with boiling oil and venomous snakes, and died an evil death.
10 the pack of ragamuffins
the cock once said to the hen, “it is now the time when our nuts are ripe, so let us go to the hill together and for once eat our fill before the squirrel takes them all away.” “yes,” replied the hen, “come, we will have some pleasure together.” then they went away to the hill, and on it was a bright day they stayed till evening.
now i do not know whether it was that they had eaten till they were too fat, or whether they had become proud, but they would not go home on foot, and the cock had to build a little carriage of nut-shells.
when it was ready, the little hen seated herself in it and said to the cock, “thou canst just harness thyself to it.” “i like that!” said the cock, “i would rather go home on foot than let myself be harnessed to it; no, that is not our bargain.
i do not mind being coachman and sitting on the box, but drag it myself i will not.”
as they were thus disputing, a duck quacked to them, “you thieving folks, who bade you go to my nut-hill?
well, you shall suffer for it!”
and ran with open beak at the cock.
but the cock also was not idle, and fell boldly on the duck, and at last wounded her so with his spurs that she also begged for mercy, and willingly let herself be harnessed to the carriage as a punishment.
the little cock now seated himself on the box and was coachman, and thereupon they went off in a gallop, with “duck, go as fast as thou canst.” when they had driven a part of the way they met two foot-passengers, a pin and a needle.
they cried, “stop!
stop!” and said that it would soon be as dark as pitch, and then they could not go a step further, and that it was so dirty on the road, and asked if they could not get into the carriage for a while.
they had been at the tailor’s public-house by the gate, and had stayed too long over the beer.
as they were thin people, who did not take up much room, the cock let them both get in, but they had to promise him and his little hen not to step on their feet.
late in the evening they came to an inn, and as they did not like to go further by night, and as the duck also was not strong on her feet, and fell from one side to the other, they went in.
the host at first made many objections, his house was already full, besides he thought they could not be very distinguished persons; but at last, as they made pleasant speeches, and told him that he should have the egg which the little hen has laid on the way, and should likewise keep the duck, which laid one every day, he at length said that they might stay the night.
and now they had themselves well served, and feasted and rioted.
early in the morning, when day was breaking, and every one was asleep, the cock awoke the hen, brought the egg, pecked it open, and they ate it together, but they threw the shell on the hearth.
then they went to the needle which was still asleep, took it by the head and stuck it into the cushion of the landlord’s chair, and put the pin in his towel, and at the last without more ado they flew away over the heath.
the duck who liked to sleep in the open air and had stayed in the yard, heard them going away, made herself merry and found a stream, down which she swam, which was a much quicker way of travelling than being harnessed to a carriage.
the host did not get out of bed for two hours after this; he washed himself and wanted to dry himself, then the pin went over his face and made a red streak from one ear to the other.
after this he went into the kitchen and wanted to light a pipe, but when he came to the hearth the egg-shell darted into his eyes.
“this morning everything attacks my head,” said he, and angrily sat down on his grandfather’s chair, but he quickly started up again and cried, “woe is me,” for the needle had pricked him still worse than the pin, and not in the head.
now he was thoroughly angry, and suspected the guests who had come so late the night before, and when he went and looked about for them, they were gone.
then he made a vow to take no more ragamuffins into his house, for they consume much, pay for nothing, and play mischievous tricks into the bargain by way of gratitude.
11 little brother and little sister
little brother took his little sister by the hand and said, “since our mother died we have had no happiness; our step-mother beats us every day, and if we come near her she kicks us away with her foot.
our meals are the hard crusts of bread that are left over; and the little dog under the table is better off, for she often throws it a nice bit.
may heaven pity us.
if our mother only knew!
come, we will go forth together into the wide world.”
they walked the whole day over meadows, fields, and stony places; and when it rained the little sister said, “heaven and our hearts are weeping together.” in the evening they came to a large forest, and they were so weary with sorrow and hunger and the long walk, that they lay down in a hollow tree and fell asleep.
the next day when they awoke, the sun was already high in the sky, and shone down hot into the tree.
then the brother said, “sister, i am thirsty; if i knew of a little brook i would go and just take a drink; i think i hear one running.” the brother got up and took the little sister by the hand, and they set off to find the brook.
but the wicked step-mother was a witch, and had seen how the two children had gone away, and had crept after them privily, as witches do creep, and had bewitched all the brooks in the forest.
now when they found a little brook leaping brightly over the stones, the brother was going to drink out of it, but the sister heard how it said as it ran, “who drinks of me will be a tiger; who drinks of me will be a tiger.” then the sister cried, “pray, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a wild beast, and tear me to pieces.” the brother did not drink, although he was so thirsty, but said, “i will wait for the next spring.”
when they came to the next brook the sister heard this also say, “who drinks of me will be a wolf; who drinks of me will be a wolf.” then the sister cried out, “pray, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a wolf, and devour me.” the brother did not drink, and said, “i will wait until we come to the next spring, but then i must drink, say what you like; for my thirst is too great.”
and when they came to the third brook the sister heard how it said as it ran, “who drinks of me will be a roebuck; who drinks of me will be a roebuck.” the sister said, “oh, i pray you, dear brother, do not drink, or you will become a roebuck, and run away from me.” but the brother had knelt down at once by the brook, and had bent down and drunk some of the water, and as soon as the first drops touched his lips he lay there a young roebuck.
and now the sister wept over her poor bewitched brother, and the little roe wept also, and sat sorrowfully near to her.
but at last the girl said, “be quiet, dear little roe, i will never, never leave you.”
then she untied her golden garter and put it round the roebuck’s neck, and she plucked rushes and wove them into a soft cord.
with this she tied the little beast and led it on, and she walked deeper and deeper into the forest.
and when they had gone a very long way they came at last to a little house, and the girl looked in; and as it was empty, she thought, “we can stay here and live.” then she sought for leaves and moss to make a soft bed for the roe; and every morning she went out and gathered roots and berries and nuts for herself, and brought tender grass for the roe, who ate out of her hand, and was content and played round about her.
in the evening, when the sister was tired, and had said her prayer, she laid her head upon the roebuck’s back: that was her pillow, and she slept softly on it.
and if only the brother had had his human form it would have been a delightful life.
for some time they were alone like this in the wilderness.
but it happened that the king of the country held a great hunt in the forest.
then the blasts of the horns, the barking of dogs, and the merry shouts of the huntsmen rang through the trees, and the roebuck heard all, and was only too anxious to be there.
“oh,” said he, to his sister, “let me be off to the hunt, i cannot bear it any longer;” and he begged so much that at last she agreed.
“but,” said she to him, “come back to me in the evening; i must shut my door for fear of the rough huntsmen, so knock and say, ‘my little sister, let me in!’ that i may know you; and if you do not say that, i shall not open the door.” then the young roebuck sprang away; so happy was he and so merry in the open air.
the king and the huntsmen saw the pretty creature, and started after him, but they could not catch him, and when they thought that they surely had him, away he sprang through the bushes and could not be seen.
when it was dark he ran to the cottage, knocked, and said, “my little sister, let me in.” then the door was opened for him, and he jumped in, and rested himself the whole night through upon his soft bed.
the next day the hunt went on afresh, and when the roebuck again heard the bugle-horn, and the ho!
ho!
of the huntsmen, he had no peace, but said, “sister, let me out, i must be off.” his sister opened the door for him, and said, “but you must be here again in the evening and say your pass-word.”
when the king and his huntsmen again saw the young roebuck with the golden collar, they all chased him, but he was too quick and nimble for them.
this went on for the whole day, but at last by the evening the huntsmen had surrounded him, and one of them wounded him a little in the foot, so that he limped and ran slowly.
then a hunter crept after him to the cottage and heard how he said, “my little sister, let me in,” and saw that the door was opened for him, and was shut again at once.
the huntsman took notice of it all, and went to the king and told him what he had seen and heard.
then the king said, “to-morrow we will hunt once more.”
the little sister, however, was dreadfully frightened when she saw that her fawn was hurt.
she washed the blood off him, laid herbs on the wound, and said, “go to your bed, dear roe, that you may get well again.” but the wound was so slight that the roebuck, next morning, did not feel it any more.
and when he again heard the sport outside, he said, “i cannot bear it, i must be there; they shall not find it so easy to catch me.” the sister cried, and said, “this time they will kill you, and here am i alone in the forest and forsaken by all the world.
i will not let you out.” “then you will have me die of grief,”
answered the roe; “when i hear the bugle-horns i feel as if i must jump out of my skin.” then the sister could not do otherwise, but opened the door for him with a heavy heart, and the roebuck, full of health and joy, bounded into the forest.
when the king saw him, he said to his huntsmen, “now chase him all day long till night-fall, but take care that no one does him any harm.”
as soon as the sun had set, the king said to the huntsman, “now come and show me the cottage in the wood;” and when he was at the door, he knocked and called out, “dear little sister, let me in.” then the door opened, and the king walked in, and there stood a maiden more lovely than any he had ever seen.
the maiden was frightened when she saw, not her little roe, but a man come in who wore a golden crown upon his head.
but the king looked kindly at her, stretched out his hand, and said, “will you go with me to my palace and be my dear wife?” “yes, indeed,” answered the maiden, “but the little roe must go with me, i cannot leave him.” the king said, “it shall stay with you as long as you live, and shall want nothing.” just then he came running in, and the sister again tied him with the cord of rushes, took it in her own hand, and went away with the king from the cottage.
the king took the lovely maiden upon his horse and carried her to his palace, where the wedding was held with great pomp.
she was now the queen, and they lived for a long time happily together; the roebuck was tended and cherished, and ran about in the palace-garden.
but the wicked step-mother, because of whom the children had gone out into the world, thought all the time that the sister had been torn to pieces by the wild beasts in the wood, and that the brother had been shot for a roebuck by the huntsmen.
now when she heard that they were so happy, and so well off, envy and hatred rose in her heart and left her no peace, and she thought of nothing but how she could bring them again to misfortune.
her own daughter, who was ugly as night, and had only one eye, grumbled at her and said, “a queen!
that ought to have been my luck.” “only be quiet,” answered the old woman, and comforted her by saying, “when the time comes i shall be ready.”
as time went on, the queen had a pretty little boy, and it happened that the king was out hunting; so the old witch took the form of the chamber-maid, went into the room where the queen lay, and said to her, “come, the bath is ready; it will do you good, and give you fresh strength; make haste before it gets cold.”
the daughter also was close by; so they carried the weakly queen into the bath-room, and put her into the bath; then they shut the door and ran away.
but in the bath-room they had made a fire of such deadly heat that the beautiful young queen was soon suffocated.
when this was done the old woman took her daughter, put a nightcap on her head, and laid her in bed in place of the queen.
she gave her too the shape and the look of the queen, only she could not make good the lost eye.
but in order that the king might not see it, she was to lie on the side on which she had no eye.
in the evening when he came home and heard that he had a son he was heartily glad, and was going to the bed of his dear wife to see how she was.
but the old woman quickly called out, “for your life leave the curtains closed; the queen ought not to see the light yet, and must have rest.” the king went away, and did not find out that a false queen was lying in the bed.
but at midnight, when all slept, the nurse, who was sitting in the nursery by the cradle, and who was the only person awake, saw the door open and the true queen walk in.
she took the child out of the cradle, laid it on her arm, and suckled it.
then she shook up its pillow, laid the child down again, and covered it with the little quilt.
and she did not forget the roebuck, but went into the corner where it lay, and stroked its back.
then she went quite silently out of the door again.
the next morning the nurse asked the guards whether anyone had come into the palace during the night, but they answered, “no, we have seen no one.”
she came thus many nights and never spoke a word: the nurse always saw her, but she did not dare to tell anyone about it.
when some time had passed in this manner, the queen began to speak in the night, and said—
“how fares my child, how fares my roe?
twice shall i come, then never more.”
the nurse did not answer, but when the queen had gone again, went to the king and told him all.
the king said, “ah, heavens!
what is this?
to-morrow night i will watch by the child.” in the evening he went into the nursery, and at midnight the queen again appeared and said—
“how fares my child, how fares my roe?
once will i come, then never more.”
and she nursed the child as she was wont to do before she disappeared.
the king dared not speak to her, but on the next night he watched again.
then she said—
“how fares my child, how fares my roe?
this time i come, then never more.”
then the king could not restrain himself; he sprang towards her, and said, “you can be none other than my dear wife.” she answered, “yes, i am your dear wife,” and at the same moment she received life again, and by god’s grace became fresh, rosy, and full of health.
then she told the king the evil deed which the wicked witch and her daughter had been guilty of towards her.
the king ordered both to be led before the judge, and judgment was delivered against them.
the daughter was taken into the forest where she was torn to pieces by wild beasts, but the witch was cast into the fire and miserably burnt.
and as soon as she was burnt the roebuck changed his shape, and received his human form again, so the sister and brother lived happily together all their lives.
12 rapunzel
there were once a man and a woman who had long in vain wished for a child.
at length the woman hoped that god was about to grant her desire.
these people had a little window at the back of their house from which a splendid garden could be seen, which was full of the most beautiful flowers and herbs.
it was, however, surrounded by a high wall, and no one dared to go into it because it belonged to an enchantress, who had great power and was dreaded by all the world.
one day the woman was standing by this window and looking down into the garden, when she saw a bed which was planted with the most beautiful rampion (rapunzel), and it looked so fresh and green that she longed for it, and had the greatest desire to eat some.
this desire increased every day, and as she knew that she could not get any of it, she quite pined away, and looked pale and miserable.
then her husband was alarmed, and asked, “what aileth thee, dear wife?” “ah,” she replied, “if i can’t get some of the rampion, which is in the garden behind our house, to eat, i shall die.” the man, who loved her, thought, “sooner than let thy wife die, bring her some of the rampion thyself, let it cost thee what it will.” in the twilight of the evening, he clambered down over the wall into the garden of the enchantress, hastily clutched a handful of rampion, and took it to his wife.
she at once made herself a salad of it, and ate it with much relish.
she, however, liked it so much—so very much, that the next day she longed for it three times as much as before.
if he was to have any rest, her husband must once more descend into the garden.
in the gloom of evening, therefore, he let himself down again; but when he had clambered down the wall he was terribly afraid, for he saw the enchantress standing before him.
“how canst thou dare,” said she with angry look, “to descend into my garden and steal my rampion like a thief?
thou shalt suffer for it!” “ah,”
answered he, “let mercy take the place of justice, i only made up my mind to do it out of necessity.
my wife saw your rampion from the window, and felt such a longing for it that she would have died if she had not got some to eat.” then the enchantress allowed her anger to be softened, and said to him, “if the case be as thou sayest, i will allow thee to take away with thee as much rampion as thou wilt, only i make one condition, thou must give me the child which thy wife will bring into the world; it shall be well treated, and i will care for it like a mother.” the man in his terror consented to everything, and when the woman was brought to bed, the enchantress appeared at once, gave the child the name of rapunzel, and took it away with her.
rapunzel grew into the most beautiful child beneath the sun.
when she was twelve years old, the enchantress shut her into a tower, which lay in a forest, and had neither stairs nor door, but quite at the top was a little window.
when the enchantress wanted to go in, she placed herself beneath it and cried,
“rapunzel, rapunzel, let down thy hair to me.”
rapunzel had magnificent long hair, fine as spun gold, and when she heard the voice of the enchantress she unfastened her braided tresses, wound them round one of the hooks of the window above, and then the hair fell twenty ells down, and the enchantress climbed up by it.
after a year or two, it came to pass that the king’s son rode through the forest and went by the tower.
then he heard a song, which was so charming that he stood still and listened.
this was rapunzel, who in her solitude passed her time in letting her sweet voice resound.
the king’s son wanted to climb up to her, and looked for the door of the tower, but none was to be found.
he rode home, but the singing had so deeply touched his heart, that every day he went out into the forest and listened to it.
once when he was thus standing behind a tree, he saw that an enchantress came there, and he heard how she cried,
“rapunzel, rapunzel, let down thy hair.”
then rapunzel let down the braids of her hair, and the enchantress climbed up to her.
“if that is the ladder by which one mounts, i will for once try my fortune,” said he, and the next day when it began to grow dark, he went to the tower and cried,
“rapunzel, rapunzel, let down thy hair.”
immediately the hair fell down and the king’s son climbed up.
at first rapunzel was terribly frightened when a man such as her eyes had never yet beheld, came to her; but the king’s son began to talk to her quite like a friend, and told her that his heart had been so stirred that it had let him have no rest, and he had been forced to see her.
then rapunzel lost her fear, and when he asked her if she would take him for her husband, and she saw that he was young and handsome, she thought, “he will love me more than old dame gothel does;” and she said yes, and laid her hand in his.
she said, “i will willingly go away with thee, but i do not know how to get down.
bring with thee a skein of silk every time that thou comest, and i will weave a ladder with it, and when that is ready i will descend, and thou wilt take me on thy horse.” they agreed that until that time he should come to her every evening, for the old woman came by day.
the enchantress remarked nothing of this, until once rapunzel said to her, “tell me, dame gothel, how it happens that you are so much heavier for me to draw up than the young king’s son—he is with me in a moment.” “ah!
thou wicked child,” cried the enchantress “what do i hear thee say!
i thought i had separated thee from all the world, and yet thou hast deceived me.” in her anger she clutched rapunzel’s beautiful tresses, wrapped them twice round her left hand, seized a pair of scissors with the right, and snip, snap, they were cut off, and the lovely braids lay on the ground.
and she was so pitiless that she took poor rapunzel into a desert where she had to live in great grief and misery.
on the same day, however, that she cast out rapunzel, the enchantress in the evening fastened the braids of hair which she had cut off, to the hook of the window, and when the king’s son came and cried,
“rapunzel, rapunzel, let down thy hair,”
she let the hair down.
the king’s son ascended, but he did not find his dearest rapunzel above, but the enchantress, who gazed at him with wicked and venomous looks.
“aha!” she cried mockingly, “thou wouldst fetch thy dearest, but the beautiful bird sits no longer singing in the nest; the cat has got it, and will scratch out thy eyes as well.
rapunzel is lost to thee; thou wilt never see her more.” the king’s son was beside himself with pain, and in his despair he leapt down from the tower.
he escaped with his life, but the thorns into which he fell, pierced his eyes.
then he wandered quite blind about the forest, ate nothing but roots and berries, and did nothing but lament and weep over the loss of his dearest wife.
thus he roamed about in misery for some years, and at length came to the desert where rapunzel, with the twins to which she had given birth, a boy and a girl, lived in wretchedness.
he heard a voice, and it seemed so familiar to him that he went towards it, and when he approached, rapunzel knew him and fell on his neck and wept.
two of her tears wetted his eyes and they grew clear again, and he could see with them as before.
he led her to his kingdom where he was joyfully received, and they lived for a long time afterwards, happy and contented.
13 the three little men in the wood
there was once a man whose wife died, and a woman whose husband died, and the man had a daughter, and the woman also had a daughter.
the girls were acquainted with each other, and went out walking together, and afterwards came to the woman in her house.
then said she to the man’s daughter, “listen, tell thy father that i would like to marry him, and then thou shalt wash thyself in milk every morning, and drink wine, but my own daughter shall wash herself in water and drink water.”
the girl went home, and told her father what the woman had said.
the man said, “what shall i do?
marriage is a joy and also a torment.” at length as he could come to no decision, he pulled off his boot, and said, “take this boot, it has a hole in the sole of it.
go with it up to the loft, hang it on the big nail, and then pour water into it.
if it hold the water, then i will again take a wife, but if it run through, i will not.” the girl did as she was ordered, but the water drew the hole together, and the boot became full to the top.
she informed her father how it had turned out.
then he himself went up, and when he saw that she was right, he went to the widow and wooed her, and the wedding was celebrated.
the next morning, when the two girls got up, there stood before the man’s daughter milk for her to wash in and wine for her to drink, but before the woman’s daughter stood water to wash herself with and water for drinking.
on the second morning, stood water for washing and water for drinking before the man’s daughter as well as before the woman’s daughter.
and on the third morning stood water for washing and water for drinking before the man’s daughter, and milk for washing and wine for drinking, before the woman’s daughter, and so it continued.
the woman became bitterly unkind to her step-daughter, and day by day did her best to treat her still worse.
she was also envious because her step-daughter was beautiful and lovable, and her own daughter ugly and repulsive.
once, in winter, when everything was frozen as hard as a stone, and hill and vale lay covered with snow, the woman made a frock of paper, called her step-daughter, and said, “here, put on this dress and go out into the wood, and fetch me a little basketful of strawberries,—i have a fancy for some.” “good heavens!” said the girl, “no strawberries grow in winter!
the ground is frozen, and besides the snow has covered everything.
and why am i to go in this paper frock?
it is so cold outside that one’s very breath freezes!
the wind will blow through the frock, and the thorns will tear it off my body.” “wilt thou contradict me again?” said the stepmother, “see that thou goest, and do not show thy face again until thou hast the basketful of strawberries!” then she gave her a little piece of hard bread, and said, “this will last thee the day,” and thought, “thou wilt die of cold and hunger outside, and wilt never be seen again by me.”
then the maiden was obedient, and put on the paper frock, and went out with the basket.
far and wide there was nothing but snow, and not a green blade to be seen.
when she got into the wood she saw a small house out of which peeped three dwarfs.
she wished them good day, and knocked modestly at the door.
they cried, “come in,” and she entered the room and seated herself on the bench by the stove, where she began to warm herself and eat her breakfast.
the elves said, “give us, too, some of it.” “willingly,” she said, and divided her bit of bread in two and gave them the half.
they asked, “what dost thou here in the forest in the winter time, in thy thin dress?” “ah,” she answered, “i am to look for a basketful of strawberries, and am not to go home until i can take them with me.” when she had eaten her bread, they gave her a broom and said, “sweep away the snow at the back door with it.” but when she was outside, the three little men said to each other, “what shall we give her as she is so good, and has shared her bread with us?” then said the first, “my gift is, that she shall every day grow more beautiful.” the second said, “my gift is, that gold pieces shall fall out of her mouth every time she speaks.” the third said, “my gift is, that a king shall come and take her to wife.”
the girl, however, did as the little men had bidden her, swept away the snow behind the little house with the broom, and what did she find but real ripe strawberries, which came up quite dark-red out of the snow!
in her joy she hastily gathered her basket full, thanked the little men, shook hands with each of them, and ran home to take her step-mother what she had longed for so much.
when she went in and said good-evening, a piece of gold at once fell from her mouth.
thereupon she related what had happened to her in the wood, but with every word she spoke, gold pieces fell from her mouth, until very soon the whole room was covered with them.
“now look at her arrogance,” cried the step-sister, “to throw about gold in that way!” but she was secretly envious of it, and wanted to go into the forest also to seek strawberries.
the mother said, “no, my dear little daughter, it is too cold, thou mightest die of cold.” however, as her daughter let her have no peace, the mother at last yielded, made her a magnificent dress of fur, which she was obliged to put on, and gave her bread-and-butter and cake with her.
the girl went into the forest and straight up to the little house.
the three little elves peeped out again, but she did not greet them, and without looking round at them and without speaking to them, she went awkwardly into the room, seated herself by the stove, and began to eat her bread-and-butter and cake.
“give us some of it,” cried the little men; but she replied, “there is not enough for myself, so how can i give it away to other people?” when she had done eating, they said, “there is a broom for thee, sweep all clean for us outside by the back-door.” “humph!
sweep for yourselves,” she answered, “i am not your servant.” when she saw that they were not going to give her anything, she went out by the door.
then the little men said to each other, “what shall we give her as she is so naughty, and has a wicked envious heart, that will never let her do a good turn to any one?” the first said, “i grant that she may grow uglier every day.” the second said, “i grant that at every word she says, a toad shall spring out of her mouth.” the third said, “i grant that she may die a miserable death.” the maiden looked for strawberries outside, but as she found none, she went angrily home.
and when she opened her mouth, and was about to tell her mother what had happened to her in the wood, with every word she said, a toad sprang out of her mouth, so that every one was seized with horror of her.
then the step-mother was still more enraged, and thought of nothing but how to do every possible injury to the man’s daughter, whose beauty, however, grew daily greater.
at length she took a cauldron, set it on the fire, and boiled yarn in it.
when it was boiled, she flung it on the poor girl’s shoulder, and gave her an axe in order that she might go on the frozen river, cut a hole in the ice, and rinse the yarn.
she was obedient, went thither and cut a hole in the ice; and while she was in the midst of her cutting, a splendid carriage came driving up, in which sat the king.
the carriage stopped, and the king asked,”my child, who are thou, and what art thou doing here?” “i am a poor girl, and i am rinsing yarn.” then the king felt compassion, and when he saw that she was so very beautiful, he said to her, “wilt thou go away with me?”
“ah, yes, with all my heart,” she answered, for she was glad to get away from the mother and sister.
so she got into the carriage and drove away with the king, and when they arrived at his palace, the wedding was celebrated with great pomp, as the little men had granted to the maiden.
when a year was over, the young queen bore a son, and as the step-mother had heard of her great good-fortune, she came with her daughter to the palace and pretended that she wanted to pay her a visit.
once, however, when the king had gone out, and no one else was present, the wicked woman seized the queen by the head, and her daughter seized her by the feet, and they lifted her out of the bed, and threw her out of the window into the stream which flowed by.
then the ugly daughter laid herself in the bed, and the old woman covered her up over her head.
when the king came home again and wanted to speak to his wife, the old woman cried, “hush, hush, that can’t be now, she is lying in a violent perspiration; you must let her rest to-day.” the king suspected no evil, and did not come back again till next morning; and as he talked with his wife and she answered him, with every word a toad leaped out, whereas formerly a piece of gold had fallen out.
then he asked what that could be, but the old woman said that she had got that from the violent perspiration, and would soon lose it again.
during the night, however, the scullion saw a duck come swimming up the gutter, and it said,
“king, what art thou doing now?
sleepest thou, or wakest thou?”
and as he returned no answer, it said,
“and my guests, what may they do?”
the scullion said,
“they are sleeping soundly, too.”
then it asked again,
“what does little baby mine?”
he answered,
“sleepeth in her cradle fine.”
then she went upstairs in the form of the queen, nursed the baby, shook up its little bed, covered it over, and then swam away again down the gutter in the shape of a duck.
she came thus for two nights; on the third, she said to the scullion, “go and tell the king to take his sword and swing it three times over me on the threshold.” then the scullion ran and told this to the king, who came with his sword and swung it thrice over the spirit, and at the third time, his wife stood before him strong, living, and healthy as she had been before.
thereupon the king was full of great joy, but he kept the queen hidden in a chamber until the sunday, when the baby was to be christened.
and when it was christened he said, “what does a person deserve who drags another out of bed and throws him in the water?” “the wretch deserves nothing better,” answered the old woman, “than to be taken and put in a barrel stuck full of nails, and rolled down hill into the water.”
“then,” said the king, “thou hast pronounced thine own sentence;” and he ordered such a barrel to be brought, and the old woman to be put into it with her daughter, and then the top was hammered on, and the barrel rolled down hill until it went into the river.
14 the three spinners
there was once a girl who was idle and would not spin, and let her mother say what she would, she could not bring her to it.
at last the mother was once so overcome with anger and impatience, that she beat her, on which the girl began to weep loudly.
now at this very moment the queen drove by, and when she heard the weeping she stopped her carriage, went into the house and asked the mother why she was beating her daughter so that the cries could be heard out on the road?
then the woman was ashamed to reveal the laziness of her daughter and said, “i cannot get her to leave off spinning.
she insists on spinning for ever and ever, and i am poor, and cannot procure the flax.” then answered the queen, “there is nothing that i like better to hear than spinning, and i am never happier than when the wheels are humming.
let me have your daughter with me in the palace.
i have flax enough, and there she shall spin as much as she likes.” the mother was heartily satisfied with this, and the queen took the girl with her.
when they had arrived at the palace, she led her up into three rooms which were filled from the bottom to the top with the finest flax.
“now spin me this flax,”
said she, “and when thou hast done it, thou shalt have my eldest son for a husband, even if thou art poor.
i care not for that, thy indefatigable industry is dowry enough.” the girl was secretly terrified, for she could not have spun the flax, no, not if she had lived till she was three hundred years old, and had sat at it every day from morning till night.
when therefore she was alone, she began to weep, and sat thus for three days without moving a finger.
on the third day came the queen, and when she saw that nothing had been spun yet, she was surprised; but the girl excused herself by saying that she had not been able to begin because of her great distress at leaving her mother’s house.
the queen was satisfied with this, but said when she was going away, “to-morrow thou must begin to work.”
when the girl was alone again, she did not know what to do, and in her distress went to the window.
then she saw three women coming towards her, the first of whom had a broad flat foot, the second had such a great underlip that it hung down over her chin, and the third had a broad thumb.
they remained standing before the window, looked up, and asked the girl what was amiss with her?
she complained of her trouble, and then they offered her their help and said, “if thou wilt invite us to the wedding, not be ashamed of us, and wilt call us thine aunts, and likewise wilt place us at thy table, we will spin up the flax for thee, and that in a very short time.” “with all my heart,” she replied, “do but come in and begin the work at once.” then she let in the three strange women, and cleared a place in the first room, where they seated themselves and began their spinning.
the one drew the thread and trod the wheel, the other wetted the thread, the third twisted it, and struck the table with her finger, and as often as she struck it, a skein of thread fell to the ground that was spun in the finest manner possible.
the girl concealed the three spinners from the queen, and showed her whenever she came the great quantity of spun thread, until the latter could not praise her enough.
when the first room was empty she went to the second, and at last to the third, and that too was quickly cleared.
then the three women took leave and said to the girl, “do not forget what thou hast promised us,—it will make thy fortune.”
when the maiden showed the queen the empty rooms, and the great heap of yarn, she gave orders for the wedding, and the bridegroom rejoiced that he was to have such a clever and industrious wife, and praised her mightily.
“i have three aunts,” said the girl, “and as they have been very kind to me, i should not like to forget them in my good fortune; allow me to invite them to the wedding, and let them sit with us at table.” the queen and the bridegroom said, “why should we not allow that?” therefore when the feast began, the three women entered in strange apparel, and the bride said, “welcome, dear aunts.” “ah,” said the bridegroom, “how comest thou by these odious friends?” thereupon he went to the one with the broad flat foot, and said, “how do you come by such a broad foot?” “by treading,” she answered, “by treading.” then the bridegroom went to the second, and said, “how do you come by your falling lip?” “by licking,” she answered, “by licking.” then he asked the third, “how do you come by your broad thumb?” “by twisting the thread,” she answered, “by twisting the thread.” on this the king’s son was alarmed and said, “neither now nor ever shall my beautiful bride touch a spinning-wheel.” and thus she got rid of the hateful flax-spinning.
15 hansel and grethel
hard by a great forest dwelt a poor wood-cutter with his wife and his two children.
the boy was called hansel and the girl grethel.
he had little to bite and to break, and once when great scarcity fell on the land, he could no longer procure daily bread.
now when he thought over this by night in his bed, and tossed about in his anxiety, he groaned and said to his wife, “what is to become of us?
how are we to feed our poor children, when we no longer have anything even for ourselves?”
“i’ll tell you what, husband,” answered the woman, “early to-morrow morning we will take the children out into the forest to where it is the thickest, there we will light a fire for them, and give each of them one piece of bread more, and then we will go to our work and leave them alone.
they will not find the way home again, and we shall be rid of them.” “no, wife,” said the man, “i will not do that; how can i bear to leave my children alone in the forest?—the wild animals would soon come and tear them to pieces.” “o, thou fool!” said she, “then we must all four die of hunger, thou mayest as well plane the planks for our coffins,” and she left him no peace until he consented.
“but i feel very sorry for the poor children, all the same,” said the man.
the two children had also not been able to sleep for hunger, and had heard what their step-mother had said to their father.
grethel wept bitter tears, and said to hansel, “now all is over with us.” “be quiet, grethel,” said hansel, “do not distress thyself, i will soon find a way to help us.” and when the old folks had fallen asleep, he got up, put on his little coat, opened the door below, and crept outside.
the moon shone brightly, and the white pebbles which lay in front of the house glittered like real silver pennies.
hansel stooped and put as many of them in the little pocket of his coat as he could possibly get in.
then he went back and said to grethel, “be comforted, dear little sister, and sleep in peace, god will not forsake us,” and he lay down again in his bed.
when day dawned, but before the sun had risen, the woman came and awoke the two children, saying “get up, you sluggards!
we are going into the forest to fetch wood.” she gave each a little piece of bread, and said, “there is something for your dinner, but do not eat it up before then, for you will get nothing else.” grethel took the bread under her apron, as hansel had the stones in his pocket.
then they all set out together on the way to the forest.
when they had walked a short time, hansel stood still and peeped back at the house, and did so again and again.
his father said, “hansel, what art thou looking at there and staying behind for?
mind what thou art about, and do not forget how to use thy legs.” “ah, father,” said hansel, “i am looking at my little white cat, which is sitting up on the roof, and wants to say good-bye to me.” the wife said, “fool, that is not thy little cat, that is the morning sun which is shining on the chimneys.” hansel, however, had not been looking back at the cat, but had been constantly throwing one of the white pebble-stones out of his pocket on the road.
when they had reached the middle of the forest, the father said, “now, children, pile up some wood, and i will light a fire that you may not be cold.” hansel and grethel gathered brushwood together, as high as a little hill.
the brushwood was lighted, and when the flames were burning very high, the woman said, “now, children, lay yourselves down by the fire and rest, we will go into the forest and cut some wood.
when we have done, we will come back and fetch you away.”
hansel and grethel sat by the fire, and when noon came, each ate a little piece of bread, and as they heard the strokes of the wood-axe they believed that their father was near.
it was not, however, the axe, it was a branch which he had fastened to a withered tree which the wind was blowing backwards and forwards.
and as they had been sitting such a long time, their eyes shut with fatigue, and they fell fast asleep.
when at last they awoke, it was already dark night.
grethel began to cry and said, “how are we to get out of the forest now?” but hansel comforted her and said, “just wait a little, until the moon has risen, and then we will soon find the way.” and when the full moon had risen, hansel took his little sister by the hand, and followed the pebbles which shone like newly-coined silver pieces, and showed them the way.
they walked the whole night long, and by break of day came once more to their father’s house.
they knocked at the door, and when the woman opened it and saw that it was hansel and grethel, she said, “you naughty children, why have you slept so long in the forest?—we thought you were never coming back at all!” the father, however, rejoiced, for it had cut him to the heart to leave them behind alone.
not long afterwards, there was once more great scarcity in all parts, and the children heard their mother saying at night to their father, “everything is eaten again, we have one half loaf left, and after that there is an end.
the children must go, we will take them farther into the wood, so that they will not find their way out again; there is no other means of saving ourselves!” the man’s heart was heavy, and he thought “it would be better for thee to share the last mouthful with thy children.” the woman, however, would listen to nothing that he had to say, but scolded and reproached him.
he who says a must say b, likewise, and as he had yielded the first time, he had to do so a second time also.
the children were, however, still awake and had heard the conversation.
when the old folks were asleep, hansel again got up, and wanted to go out and pick up pebbles as he had done before, but the woman had locked the door, and hansel could not get out.
nevertheless he comforted his little sister, and said, “do not cry, grethel, go to sleep quietly, the good god will help us.”
early in the morning came the woman, and took the children out of their beds.
their bit of bread was given to them, but it was still smaller than the time before.
on the way into the forest hansel crumbled his in his pocket, and often stood still and threw a morsel on the ground.
“hansel, why dost thou stop and look round?” said the father, “go on.”
“i am looking back at my little pigeon which is sitting on the roof, and wants to say good-bye to me,” answered hansel.
“simpleton!” said the woman, “that is not thy little pigeon, that is the morning sun that is shining on the chimney.” hansel, however, little by little, threw all the crumbs on the path.
the woman led the children still deeper into the forest, where they had never in their lives been before.
then a great fire was again made, and the mother said, “just sit there, you children, and when you are tired you may sleep a little; we are going into the forest to cut wood, and in the evening when we are done, we will come and fetch you away.” when it was noon, grethel shared her piece of bread with hansel, who had scattered his by the way.
then they fell asleep and evening came and went, but no one came to the poor children.
they did not awake until it was dark night, and hansel comforted his little sister and said, “just wait, grethel, until the moon rises, and then we shall see the crumbs of bread which i have strewn about, they will show us our way home again.” when the moon came they set out, but they found no crumbs, for the many thousands of birds which fly about in the woods and fields had picked them all up.
hansel said to grethel, “we shall soon find the way,” but they did not find it.
they walked the whole night and all the next day too from morning till evening, but they did not get out of the forest, and were very hungry, for they had nothing to eat but two or three berries, which grew on the ground.
and as they were so weary that their legs would carry them no longer, they lay down beneath a tree and fell asleep.
it was now three mornings since they had left their father’s house.
they began to walk again, but they always got deeper into the forest, and if help did not come soon, they must die of hunger and weariness.
when it was mid-day, they saw a beautiful snow-white bird sitting on a bough, which sang so delightfully that they stood still and listened to it.
and when it had finished its song, it spread its wings and flew away before them, and they followed it until they reached a little house, on the roof of which it alighted; and when they came quite up to little house they saw that it was built of bread and covered with cakes, but that the windows were of clear sugar.
“we will set to work on that,” said hansel, “and have a good meal.
i will eat a bit of the roof, and thou, grethel, canst eat some of the window, it will taste sweet.” hansel reached up above, and broke off a little of the roof to try how it tasted, and grethel leant against the window and nibbled at the panes.
then a soft voice cried from the room,
“nibble, nibble, gnaw, who is nibbling at my little house?”
the children answered,
“the wind, the wind, the heaven-born wind,”
and went on eating without disturbing themselves.
hansel, who thought the roof tasted very nice, tore down a great piece of it, and grethel pushed out the whole of one round window-pane, sat down, and enjoyed herself with it.
suddenly the door opened, and a very, very old woman, who supported herself on crutches, came creeping out.
hansel and grethel were so terribly frightened that they let fall what they had in their hands.
the old woman, however, nodded her head, and said, “oh, you dear children, who has brought you here?
do come in, and stay with me.
no harm shall happen to you.” she took them both by the hand, and led them into her little house.
then good food was set before them, milk and pancakes, with sugar, apples, and nuts.
afterwards two pretty little beds were covered with clean white linen, and hansel and grethel lay down in them, and thought they were in heaven.
the old woman had only pretended to be so kind; she was in reality a wicked witch, who lay in wait for children, and had only built the little house of bread in order to entice them there.
when a child fell into her power, she killed it, cooked and ate it, and that was a feast day with her.
witches have red eyes, and cannot see far, but they have a keen scent like the beasts, and are aware when human beings draw near.
when hansel and grethel came into her neighborhood, she laughed maliciously, and said mockingly, “i have them, they shall not escape me again!” early in the morning before the children were awake, she was already up, and when she saw both of them sleeping and looking so pretty, with their plump red cheeks, she muttered to herself, “that will be a dainty mouthful!” then she seized hansel with her shrivelled hand, carried him into a little stable, and shut him in with a grated door.
he might scream as he liked, that was of no use.
then she went to grethel, shook her till she awoke, and cried, “get up, lazy thing, fetch some water, and cook something good for thy brother, he is in the stable outside, and is to be made fat.
when he is fat, i will eat him.”
grethel began to weep bitterly, but it was all in vain, she was forced to do what the wicked witch ordered her.
and now the best food was cooked for poor hansel, but grethel got nothing but crab-shells.
every morning the woman crept to the little stable, and cried, “hansel, stretch out thy finger that i may feel if thou wilt soon be fat.” hansel, however, stretched out a little bone to her, and the old woman, who had dim eyes, could not see it, and thought it was hansel’s finger, and was astonished that there was no way of fattening him.
when four weeks had gone by, and hansel still continued thin, she was seized with impatience and would not wait any longer.
“hola, grethel,” she cried to the girl, “be active, and bring some water.
let hansel be fat or lean, to-morrow i will kill him, and cook him.” ah, how the poor little sister did lament when she had to fetch the water, and how her tears did flow down over her cheeks!
“dear god, do help us,” she cried.
“if the wild beasts in the forest had but devoured us, we should at any rate have died together.” “just keep thy noise to thyself,” said the old woman, “all that won’t help thee at all.”
early in the morning, grethel had to go out and hang up the cauldron with the water, and light the fire.
“we will bake first,” said the old woman, “i have already heated the oven, and kneaded the dough.” she pushed poor grethel out to the oven, from which flames of fire were already darting.
“creep in,” said the witch, “and see if it is properly heated, so that we can shut the bread in.” and when once grethel was inside, she intended to shut the oven and let her bake in it, and then she would eat her, too.
but grethel saw what she had in her mind, and said, “i do not know how i am to do it; how do you get in?” “silly goose,” said the old woman, “the door is big enough; just look, i can get in myself!” and she crept up and thrust her head into the oven.
then grethel gave her a push that drove her far into it, and shut the iron door, and fastened the bolt.
oh!
then she began to howl quite horribly, but grethel ran away, and the godless witch was miserably burnt to death.
grethel, however, ran like lightning to hansel, opened his little stable, and cried, “hansel, we are saved!
the old witch is dead!” then hansel sprang out like a bird from its cage when the door is opened for it.
how they did rejoice and embrace each other, and dance about and kiss each other!
and as they had no longer any need to fear her, they went into the witch’s house, and in every corner there stood chests full of pearls and jewels.
“these are far better than pebbles!” said hansel, and thrust into his pockets whatever could be got in, and grethel said, “i, too, will take something home with me,” and filled her pinafore full.
“but now we will go away.” said hansel, “that we may get out of the witch’s forest.”
when they had walked for two hours, they came to a great piece of water.
“we cannot get over,” said hansel, “i see no foot-plank, and no bridge.” “and no boat crosses either,” answered grethel, “but a white duck is swimming there; if i ask her, she will help us over.” then she cried,
“little duck, little duck, dost thou see, hansel and grethel are waiting for thee?
there’s never a plank, or bridge in sight, take us across on thy back so white.”
the duck came to them, and hansel seated himself on its back, and told his sister to sit by him.
“no,” replied grethel, “that will be too heavy for the little duck; she shall take us across, one after the other.” the good little duck did so, and when they were once safely across and had walked for a short time, the forest seemed to be more and more familiar to them, and at length they saw from afar their father’s house.
then they began to run, rushed into the parlour, and threw themselves into their father’s arms.
the man had not known one happy hour since he had left the children in the forest; the woman, however, was dead.
grethel emptied her pinafore until pearls and precious stones ran about the room, and hansel threw one handful after another out of his pocket to add to them.
then all anxiety was at an end, and they lived together in perfect happiness.
my tale is done, there runs a mouse, whosoever catches it, may make himself a big fur cap out of it.
16 the three snake-leaves
there was once on a time a poor man, who could no longer support his only son.
then said the son, “dear father, things go so badly with us that i am a burden to you.
i would rather go away and see how i can earn my bread.” so the father gave him his blessing, and with great sorrow took leave of him.
at this time the king of a mighty empire was at war, and the youth took service with him, and with him went out to fight.
and when he came before the enemy, there was a battle, and great danger, and it rained shot until his comrades fell on all sides, and when the leader also was killed, those left were about to take flight, but the youth stepped forth, spoke boldly to them, and cried, “we will not let our fatherland be ruined!” then the others followed him, and he pressed on and conquered the enemy.
when the king heard that he owed the victory to him alone, he raised him above all the others, gave him great treasures, and made him the first in the kingdom.
the king had a daughter who was very beautiful, but she was also very strange.
she had made a vow to take no one as her lord and husband who did not promise to let himself be buried alive with her if she died first.
“if he loves me with all his heart,” said she, “of what use will life be to him afterwards?” on her side she would do the same, and if he died first, would go down to the grave with him.
this strange oath had up to this time frightened away all wooers, but the youth became so charmed with her beauty that he cared for nothing, but asked her father for her.
“but dost thou know what thou must promise?” said the king.
“i must be buried with her,” he replied, “if i outlive her, but my love is so great that i do not mind the danger.” then the king consented, and the wedding was solemnized with great splendour.
they lived now for a while happy and contented with each other, and then it befell that the young queen was attacked by a severe illness, and no physician could save her.
and as she lay there dead, the young king remembered what he had been obliged to promise, and was horrified at having to lie down alive in the grave, but there was no escape.
the king had placed sentries at all the gates, and it was not possible to avoid his fate.
when the day came when the corpse was to be buried, he was taken down into the royal vault with it and then the door was shut and bolted.
near the coffin stood a table on which were four candles, four loaves of bread, and four bottles of wine, and when this provision came to an end, he would have to die of hunger.
and now he sat there full of pain and grief, ate every day only a little piece of bread, drank only a mouthful of wine, and nevertheless saw death daily drawing nearer.
whilst he thus gazed before him, he saw a snake creep out of a corner of the vault and approach the dead body.
and as he thought it came to gnaw at it, he drew his sword and said, “as long as i live, thou shalt not touch her,” and hewed the snake in three pieces.
after a time a second snake crept out of the hole, and when it saw the other lying dead and cut in pieces, it went back, but soon came again with three green leaves in its mouth.
then it took the three pieces of the snake, laid them together, as they ought to go, and placed one of the leaves on each wound.
immediately the severed parts joined themselves together, the snake moved, and became alive again, and both of them hastened away together.
the leaves were left lying on the ground, and a desire came into the mind of the unhappy man who had been watching all this, to know if the wondrous power of the leaves which had brought the snake to life again, could not likewise be of service to a human being.
so he picked up the leaves and laid one of them on the mouth of his dead wife, and the two others on her eyes.
and hardly had he done this than the blood stirred in her veins, rose into her pale face, and coloured it again.
then she drew breath, opened her eyes, and said, “ah, god, where am i?” “thou art with me, dear wife,” he answered, and told her how everything had happened, and how he had brought her back again to life.
then he gave her some wine and bread, and when she had regained her strength, he raised her up and they went to the door and knocked, and called so loudly that the sentries heard it, and told the king.
the king came down himself and opened the door, and there he found both strong and well, and rejoiced with them that now all sorrow was over.
the young king, however, took the three snake-leaves with him, gave them to a servant and said, “keep them for me carefully, and carry them constantly about thee; who knows in what trouble they may yet be of service to us!”
a change had, however, taken place in his wife; after she had been restored to life, it seemed as if all love for her husband had gone out of her heart.
after some time, when he wanted to make a voyage over the sea, to visit his old father, and they had gone on board a ship, she forgot the great love and fidelity which he had shown her, and which had been the means of rescuing her from death, and conceived a wicked inclination for the skipper.
and once when the young king lay there asleep, she called in the skipper and seized the sleeper by the head, and the skipper took him by the feet, and thus they threw him down into the sea.
when the shameful deed was done, she said, “now let us return home, and say that he died on the way.
i will extol and praise thee so to my father that he will marry me to thee, and make thee the heir to his crown.” but the faithful servant who had seen all that they did, unseen by them, unfastened a little boat from the ship, got into it, sailed after his master, and let the traitors go on their way.
he fished up the dead body, and by the help of the three snake-leaves which he carried about with him, and laid on the eyes and mouth, he fortunately brought the young king back to life.
they both rowed with all their strength day and night, and their little boat flew so swiftly that they reached the old king before the others did.
he was astonished when he saw them come alone, and asked what had happened to them.
when he learnt the wickedness of his daughter he said, “i cannot believe that she has behaved so ill, but the truth will soon come to light,” and bade both go into a secret chamber and keep themselves hidden from every one.
soon afterwards the great ship came sailing in, and the godless woman appeared before her father with a troubled countenance.
he said, “why dost thou come back alone?
where is thy husband?” “ah, dear father,” she replied, “i come home again in great grief; during the voyage, my husband became suddenly ill and died, and if the good skipper had not given me his help, it would have gone ill with me.
he was present at his death, and can tell you all.”
the king said, “i will make the dead alive again,” and opened the chamber, and bade the two come out.
when the woman saw her husband, she was thunderstruck, and fell on her knees and begged for mercy.
the king said, “there is no mercy.
he was ready to die with thee and restored thee to life again, but thou hast murdered him in his sleep, and shalt receive the reward that thou deservest.” then she was placed with her accomplice in a ship which had been pierced with holes, and sent out to sea, where they soon sank amid the waves.
17 the white snake
a long time ago there lived a king who was famed for his wisdom through all the land.
nothing was hidden from him, and it seemed as if news of the most secret things was brought to him through the air.
but he had a strange custom; every day after dinner, when the table was cleared, and no one else was present, a trusty servant had to bring him one more dish.
it was covered, however, and even the servant did not know what was in it, neither did anyone know, for the king never took off the cover to eat of it until he was quite alone.
this had gone on for a long time, when one day the servant, who took away the dish, was overcome with such curiosity that he could not help carrying the dish into his room.
when he had carefully locked the door, he lifted up the cover, and saw a white snake lying on the dish.
but when he saw it he could not deny himself the pleasure of tasting it, so he cut off a little bit and put it into his mouth.
no sooner had it touched his tongue than he heard a strange whispering of little voices outside his window.
he went and listened, and then noticed that it was the sparrows who were chattering together, and telling one another of all kinds of things which they had seen in the fields and woods.
eating the snake had given him power of understanding the language of animals.
now it so happened that on this very day the queen lost her most beautiful ring, and suspicion of having stolen it fell upon this trusty servant, who was allowed to go everywhere.
the king ordered the man to be brought before him, and threatened with angry words that unless he could before the morrow point out the thief, he himself should be looked upon as guilty and executed.
in vain he declared his innocence; he was dismissed with no better answer.
in his trouble and fear he went down into the courtyard and took thought how to help himself out of his trouble.
now some ducks were sitting together quietly by a brook and taking their rest; and, whilst they were making their feathers smooth with their bills, they were having a confidential conversation together.
the servant stood by and listened.
they were telling one another of all the places where they had been waddling about all the morning, and what good food they had found, and one said in a pitiful tone, “something lies heavy on my stomach; as i was eating in haste i swallowed a ring which lay under the queen’s window.” the servant at once seized her by the neck, carried her to the kitchen, and said to the cook, “here is a fine duck; pray, kill her.” “yes,” said the cook, and weighed her in his hand; “she has spared no trouble to fatten herself, and has been waiting to be roasted long enough.” so he cut off her head, and as she was being dressed for the spit, the queen’s ring was found inside her.
the servant could now easily prove his innocence; and the king, to make amends for the wrong, allowed him to ask a favor, and promised him the best place in the court that he could wish for.
the servant refused everything, and only asked for a horse and some money for traveling, as he had a mind to see the world and go about a little.
when his request was granted he set out on his way, and one day came to a pond, where he saw three fishes caught in the reeds and gasping for water.
now, though it is said that fishes are dumb, he heard them lamenting that they must perish so miserably, and, as he had a kind heart, he got off his horse and put the three prisoners back into the water.
they quivered with delight, put out their heads, and cried to him, “we will remember you and repay you for saving us!”
he rode on, and after a while it seemed to him that he heard a voice in the sand at his feet.
he listened, and heard an ant-king complain, “why cannot folks, with their clumsy beasts, keep off our bodies?
that stupid horse, with his heavy hoofs, has been treading down my people without mercy!” so he turned on to a side path and the ant-king cried out to him, “we will remember you—one good turn deserves another!”
the path led him into a wood, and here he saw two old ravens standing by their nest, and throwing out their young ones.
“out with you, you idle, good-for-nothing creatures!” cried they; “we cannot find food for you any longer; you are big enough, and can provide for yourselves.”
but the poor young ravens lay upon the ground, flapping their wings, and crying, “oh, what helpless chicks we are!
we must shift for ourselves, and yet we cannot fly!
what can we do, but lie here and starve?” so the good young fellow alighted and killed his horse with his sword, and gave it to them for food.
then they came hopping up to it, satisfied their hunger, and cried, “we will remember you—one good turn deserves another!”
and now he had to use his own legs, and when he had walked a long way, he came to a large city.
there was a great noise and crowd in the streets, and a man rode up on horseback, crying aloud, “the king’s daughter wants a husband; but whoever sues for her hand must perform a hard task, and if he does not succeed he will forfeit his life.” many had already made the attempt, but in vain; nevertheless when the youth saw the king’s daughter he was so overcome by her great beauty that he forgot all danger, went before the king, and declared himself a suitor.
so he was led out to the sea, and a gold ring was thrown into it, in his sight; then the king ordered him to fetch this ring up from the bottom of the sea, and added, “if you come up again without it you will be thrown in again and again until you perish amid the waves.” all the people grieved for the handsome youth; then they went away, leaving him alone by the sea.
he stood on the shore and considered what he should do, when suddenly he saw three fishes come swimming towards him, and they were the very fishes whose lives he had saved.
the one in the middle held a mussel in its mouth, which it laid on the shore at the youth’s feet, and when he had taken it up and opened it, there lay the gold ring in the shell.
full of joy he took it to the king, and expected that he would grant him the promised reward.
but when the proud princess perceived that he was not her equal in birth, she scorned him, and required him first to perform another task.
she went down into the garden and strewed with her own hands ten sacks-full of millet-seed on the grass; then she said, “to-morrow morning before sunrise these must be picked up, and not a single grain be wanting.”
the youth sat down in the garden and considered how it might be possible to perform this task, but he could think of nothing, and there he sat sorrowfully awaiting the break of day, when he should be led to death.
but as soon as the first rays of the sun shone into the garden he saw all the ten sacks standing side by side, quite full, and not a single grain was missing.
the ant-king had come in the night with thousands and thousands of ants, and the grateful creatures had by great industry picked up all the millet-seed and gathered them into the sacks.
presently the king’s daughter herself came down into the garden, and was amazed to see that the young man had done the task she had given him.
but she could not yet conquer her proud heart, and said, “although he has performed both the tasks, he shall not be my husband until he has brought me an apple from the tree of life.”
the youth did not know where the tree of life stood, but he set out, and would have gone on for ever, as long as his legs would carry him, though he had no hope of finding it.
after he had wandered through three kingdoms, he came one evening to a wood, and lay down under a tree to sleep.
but he heard a rustling in the branches, and a golden apple fell into his hand.
at the same time three ravens flew down to him, perched themselves upon his knee, and said, “we are the three young ravens whom you saved from starving; when we had grown big, and heard that you were seeking the golden apple, we flew over the sea to the end of the world, where the tree of life stands, and have brought you the apple.” the youth, full of joy, set out homewards, and took the golden apple to the king’s beautiful daughter, who had no more excuses left to make.
they cut the apple of life in two and ate it together; and then her heart became full of love for him, and they lived in undisturbed happiness to a great age.
18 the straw, the coal, and the bean
in a village dwelt a poor old woman, who had gathered together a dish of beans and wanted to cook them.
so she made a fire on her hearth, and that it might burn the quicker, she lighted it with a handful of straw.
when she was emptying the beans into the pan, one dropped without her observing it, and lay on the ground beside a straw, and soon afterwards a burning coal from the fire leapt down to the two.
then the straw began and said, “dear friends, from whence do you come here?” the coal replied, “i fortunately sprang out of the fire, and if i had not escaped by main force, my death would have been certain,—i should have been burnt to ashes.” the bean said, “i too have escaped with a whole skin, but if the old woman had got me into the pan, i should have been made into broth without any mercy, like my comrades.” “and would a better fate have fallen to my lot?” said the straw.
“the old woman has destroyed all my brethren in fire and smoke; she seized sixty of them at once, and took their lives.
i luckily slipped through her fingers.”
“but what are we to do now?” said the coal.
“i think,” answered the bean, “that as we have so fortunately escaped death, we should keep together like good companions, and lest a new mischance should overtake us here, we should go away together, and repair to a foreign country.”
the proposition pleased the two others, and they set out on their way in company.
soon, however, they came to a little brook, and as there was no bridge or foot-plank, they did not know how they were to get over it.
the straw hit on a good idea, and said, “i will lay myself straight across, and then you can walk over on me as on a bridge.” the straw therefore stretched itself from one bank to the other, and the coal, who was of an impetuous disposition, tripped quite boldly on to the newly-built bridge.
but when she had reached the middle, and heard the water rushing beneath her, she was, after all, afraid, and stood still, and ventured no farther.
the straw, however, began to burn, broke in two pieces, and fell into the stream.
the coal slipped after her, hissed when she got into the water, and breathed her last.
the bean, who had prudently stayed behind on the shore, could not but laugh at the event, was unable to stop, and laughed so heartily that she burst.
it would have been all over with her, likewise, if, by good fortune, a tailor who was traveling in search of work, had not sat down to rest by the brook.
as he had a compassionate heart he pulled out his needle and thread, and sewed her together.
the bean thanked him most prettily, but as the tailor used black thread, all beans since then have a black seam.
19 the fisherman and his wife
there was once on a time a fisherman who lived with his wife in a miserable hovel close by the sea, and every day he went out fishing.
and once as he was sitting with his rod, looking at the clear water, his line suddenly went down, far down below, and when he drew it up again he brought out a large flounder.
then the flounder said to him, “hark, you fisherman, i pray you, let me live, i am no flounder really, but an enchanted prince.
what good will it do you to kill me?
i should not be good to eat, put me in the water again, and let me go.” “come,”
said the fisherman, “there is no need for so many words about it—a fish that can talk i should certainly let go, anyhow,” with that he put him back again into the clear water, and the flounder went to the bottom, leaving a long streak of blood behind him.
then the fisherman got up and went home to his wife in the hovel.
“husband,” said the woman, “have you caught nothing to-day?” “no,” said the man, “i did catch a flounder, who said he was an enchanted prince, so i let him go again.” “did you not wish for anything first?” said the woman.
“no,” said the man; “what should i wish for?” “ah,” said the woman, “it is surely hard to have to live always in this dirty hovel; you might have wished for a small cottage for us.
go back and call him.
tell him we want to have a small cottage, he will certainly give us that.” “ah,” said the man, “why should i go there again?” “why,” said the woman, “you did catch him, and you let him go again; he is sure to do it.
go at once.” the man still did not quite like to go, but did not like to oppose his wife, and went to the sea.
when he got there the sea was all green and yellow, and no longer so smooth; so he stood still and said,
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me; for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will.”
then the flounder came swimming to him and said, “well what does she want, then?” “ah,” said the man, “i did catch you, and my wife says i really ought to have wished for something.
she does not like to live in a wretched hovel any longer.
she would like to have a cottage.” “go, then,” said the flounder, “she has it already.”
when the man went home, his wife was no longer in the hovel, but instead of it there stood a small cottage, and she was sitting on a bench before the door.
then she took him by the hand and said to him, “just come inside, look, now isn’t this a great deal better?” so they went in, and there was a small porch, and a pretty little parlor and bedroom, and a kitchen and pantry, with the best of furniture, and fitted up with the most beautiful things made of tin and brass, whatsoever was wanted.
and behind the cottage there was a small yard, with hens and ducks, and a little garden with flowers and fruit.
“look,” said the wife, “is not that nice!” “yes,” said the husband, “and so we must always think it,—now we will live quite contented.” “we will think about that,” said the wife.
with that they ate something and went to bed.
everything went well for a week or a fortnight, and then the woman said, “hark you, husband, this cottage is far too small for us, and the garden and yard are little; the flounder might just as well have given us a larger house.
i should like to live in a great stone castle; go to the flounder, and tell him to give us a castle.” “ah, wife,” said the man, “the cottage is quite good enough; why should we live in a castle?” “what!” said the woman; “just go there, the flounder can always do that.” “no, wife,” said the man, “the flounder has just given us the cottage, i do not like to go back so soon, it might make him angry.” “go,” said the woman, “he can do it quite easily, and will be glad to do it; just you go to him.”
the man’s heart grew heavy, and he would not go.
he said to himself, “it is not right,” and yet he went.
and when he came to the sea the water was quite purple and dark-blue, and grey and thick, and no longer so green and yellow, but it was still quiet.
and he stood there and said—
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me; for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will.”
“well, what does she want, then?” said the flounder.
“alas,” said the man, half scared, “she wants to live in a great stone castle.” “go to it, then, she is standing before the door,” said the flounder.
then the man went away, intending to go home, but when he got there, he found a great stone palace, and his wife was just standing on the steps going in, and she took him by the hand and said, “come in.” so he went in with her, and in the castle was a great hall paved with marble, and many servants, who flung wide the doors; and the walls were all bright with beautiful hangings, and in the rooms were chairs and tables of pure gold, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, and all the rooms and bed-rooms had carpets, and food and wine of the very best were standing on all the tables, so that they nearly broke down beneath it.
behind the house, too, there was a great court-yard, with stables for horses and cows, and the very best of carriages; there was a magnificent large garden, too, with the most beautiful flowers and fruit-trees, and a park quite half a mile long, in which were stags, deer, and hares, and everything that could be desired.
“come,” said the woman, “isn’t that beautiful?” “yes, indeed,” said the man, “now let it be; and we will live in this beautiful castle and be content.” “we will consider about that,” said the woman, “and sleep upon it;” thereupon they went to bed.
next morning the wife awoke first, and it was just daybreak, and from her bed she saw the beautiful country lying before her.
her husband was still stretching himself, so she poked him in the side with her elbow, and said, “get up, husband, and just peep out of the window.
look you, couldn’t we be the king over all that land?
go to the flounder, we will be the king.” “ah, wife,” said the man, “why should we be king?
i do not want to be king.” “well,” said the wife, “if you won’t be king, i will; go to the flounder, for i will be king.” “ah, wife,” said the man, “why do you want to be king?
i do not like to say that to him.”
“why not?” said the woman; “go to him this instant; i must be king!” so the man went, and was quite unhappy because his wife wished to be king.
“it is not right; it is not right,” thought he.
he did not wish to go, but yet he went.
and when he came to the sea, it was quite dark-grey, and the water heaved up from below, and smelt putrid.
then he went and stood by it, and said,
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me; for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will”
“well, what does she want, then?” said the flounder.
“alas,” said the man, “she wants to be king.” “go to her; she is king already.”
so the man went, and when he came to the palace, the castle had become much larger, and had a great tower and magnificent ornaments, and the sentinel was standing before the door, and there were numbers of soldiers with kettle-drums and trumpets.
and when he went inside the house, everything was of real marble and gold, with velvet covers and great golden tassels.
then the doors of the hall were opened, and there was the court in all its splendour, and his wife was sitting on a high throne of gold and diamonds, with a great crown of gold on her head, and a sceptre of pure gold and jewels in her hand, and on both sides of her stood her maids-in-waiting in a row, each of them always one head shorter than the last.
then he went and stood before her, and said, “ah, wife, and now you are king.” “yes,” said the woman, “now i am king.” so he stood and looked at her, and when he had looked at her thus for some time, he said, “and now that you are king, let all else be, now we will wish for nothing more.” “nay, husband,” said the woman, quite anxiously, “i find time pass very heavily, i can bear it no longer; go to the flounder—i am king, but i must be emperor, too.” “alas, wife, why do you wish to be emperor?” “husband,” said she, “go to the flounder.
i will be emperor.”
“alas, wife,” said the man, “he cannot make you emperor; i may not say that to the fish.
there is only one emperor in the land.
an emperor the flounder cannot make you!
i assure you he cannot.”
“what!” said the woman, “i am the king, and you are nothing but my husband; will you go this moment?
go at once!
if he can make a king he can make an emperor.
i will be emperor; go instantly.” so he was forced to go.
as the man went, however, he was troubled in mind, and thought to himself, “it will not end well; it will not end well!
emperor is too shameless!
the flounder will at last be tired out.”
with that he reached the sea, and the sea was quite black and thick, and began to boil up from below, so that it threw up bubbles, and such a sharp wind blew over it that it curdled, and the man was afraid.
then he went and stood by it, and said,
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me; for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will.”
“well, what does she want, then?” said the flounder.
“alas, flounder,”
said he, “my wife wants to be emperor.” “go to her,” said the flounder; “she is emperor already.”
so the man went, and when he got there the whole palace was made of polished marble with alabaster figures and golden ornaments, and soldiers were marching before the door blowing trumpets, and beating cymbals and drums; and in the house, barons, and counts, and dukes were going about as servants.
then they opened the doors to him, which were of pure gold.
and when he entered, there sat his wife on a throne, which was made of one piece of gold, and was quite two miles high; and she wore a great golden crown that was three yards high, and set with diamonds and carbuncles, and in one hand she had the sceptre, and in the other the imperial orb; and on both sides of her stood the yeomen of the guard in two rows, each being smaller than the one before him, from the biggest giant, who was two miles high, to the very smallest dwarf, just as big as my little finger.
and before it stood a number of princes and dukes.
then the man went and stood among them, and said, “wife, are you emperor now?” “yes,” said she, “now i am emperor.” then he stood and looked at her well, and when he had looked at her thus for some time, he said, “ah, wife, be content, now that you are emperor.” “husband,”
said she, “why are you standing there?
now, i am emperor, but i will be pope too; go to the flounder.” “alas, wife,” said the man, “what will you not wish for?
you cannot be pope.
there is but one in christendom.
he cannot make you pope.” “husband,” said she, “i will be pope; go immediately, i must be pope this very day.” “no, wife,” said the man, “i do not like to say that to him; that would not do, it is too much; the flounder can’t make you pope.” “husband,” said she, “what nonsense!
if he can make an emperor he can make a pope.
go to him directly.
i am emperor, and you are nothing but my husband; will you go at once?”
then he was afraid and went; but he was quite faint, and shivered and shook, and his knees and legs trembled.
and a high wind blew over the land, and the clouds flew, and towards evening all grew dark, and the leaves fell from the trees, and the water rose and roared as if it were boiling, and splashed upon the shore.
and in the distance he saw ships which were firing guns in their sore need, pitching and tossing on the waves.
and yet in the midst of the sky there was still a small bit of blue, though on every side it was as red as in a heavy storm.
so, full of despair, he went and stood in much fear and said,
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me;”
for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will.
“well, what does she want, then?” said the flounder.
“alas,” said the man, “she wants to be pope.” “go to her then,” said the flounder; “she is pope already.”
so he went, and when he got there, he saw what seemed to be a large church surrounded by palaces.
he pushed his way through the crowd.
inside, however, everything was lighted up with thousands and thousands of candles, and his wife was clad in gold, and she was sitting on a much higher throne, and had three great golden crowns on, and round about her there was much ecclesiastical splendour; and on both sides of her was a row of candles the largest of which was as tall as the very tallest tower, down to the very smallest kitchen candle, and all the emperors and kings were on their knees before her, kissing her shoe.
“wife,” said the man, and looked attentively at her, “are you now pope?” “yes,” said she, “i am pope.” so he stood and looked at her, and it was just as if he was looking at the bright sun.
when he had stood looking at her thus for a short time, he said, “ah, wife, if you are pope, do let well alone!” but she looked as stiff as a post, and did not move or show any signs of life.
then said he, “wife, now that you are pope, be satisfied, you cannot become anything greater now.” “i will consider about that,” said the woman.
thereupon they both went to bed, but she was not satisfied, and greediness let her have no sleep, for she was continually thinking what there was left for her to be.
the man slept well and soundly, for he had run about a great deal during the day; but the woman could not fall asleep at all, and flung herself from one side to the other the whole night through, thinking always what more was left for her to be, but unable to call to mind anything else.
at length the sun began to rise, and when the woman saw the red of dawn, she sat up in bed and looked at it.
and when, through the window, she saw the sun thus rising, she said, “cannot i, too, order the sun and moon to rise?” “husband,” she said, poking him in the ribs with her elbows, “wake up!
go to the flounder, for i wish to be even as god is.” the man was still half asleep, but he was so horrified that he fell out of bed.
he thought he must have heard amiss, and rubbed his eyes, and said, “alas, wife, what are you saying?”
“husband,” said she, “if i can’t order the sun and moon to rise, and have to look on and see the sun and moon rising, i can’t bear it.
i shall not know what it is to have another happy hour, unless i can make them rise myself.” then she looked at him so terribly that a shudder ran over him, and said, “go at once; i wish to be like unto god.”
“alas, wife,” said the man, falling on his knees before her, “the flounder cannot do that; he can make an emperor and a pope; i beseech you, go on as you are, and be pope.” then she fell into a rage, and her hair flew wildly about her head, and she cried, “i will not endure this, i’ll not bear it any longer; wilt thou go?” then he put on his trousers and ran away like a madman.
but outside a great storm was raging, and blowing so hard that he could scarcely keep his feet; houses and trees toppled over, the mountains trembled, rocks rolled into the sea, the sky was pitch black, and it thundered and lightened, and the sea came in with black waves as high as church-towers and mountains, and all with crests of white foam at the top.
then he cried, but could not hear his own words,
“flounder, flounder in the sea, come, i pray thee, here to me; for my wife, good ilsabil, wills not as i’d have her will.”
“well, what does she want, then?” said the flounder.
“alas,” said he, “she wants to be like unto god.” “go to her, and you will find her back again in the dirty hovel.” and there they are living still at this very time.
20 the valiant little tailor
one summer’s morning a little tailor was sitting on his table by the window; he was in good spirits, and sewed with all his might.
then came a peasant woman down the street crying, “good jams, cheap!
good jams, cheap!” this rang pleasantly in the tailor’s ears; he stretched his delicate head out of the window, and called, “come up here, dear woman; here you will get rid of your goods.” the woman came up the three steps to the tailor with her heavy basket, and he made her unpack the whole of the pots for him.
he inspected all of them, lifted them up, put his nose to them, and at length said, “the jam seems to me to be good, so weigh me out four ounces, dear woman, and if it is a quarter of a pound that is of no consequence.” the woman who had hoped to find a good sale, gave him what he desired, but went away quite angry and grumbling.
“now, god bless the jam to my use,” cried the little tailor, “and give me health and strength;” so he brought the bread out of the cupboard, cut himself a piece right across the loaf and spread the jam over it.
“this won’t taste bitter,” said he, “but i will just finish the jacket before i take a bite.” he laid the bread near him, sewed on, and in his joy, made bigger and bigger stitches.
in the meantime the smell of the sweet jam ascended so to the wall, where the flies were sitting in great numbers, that they were attracted and descended on it in hosts.
“hola!
who invited you?” said the little tailor, and drove the unbidden guests away.
the flies, however, who understood no german, would not be turned away, but came back again in ever-increasing companies.
the little tailor at last lost all patience, and got a bit of cloth from the hole under his work-table, and saying, “wait, and i will give it to you,” struck it mercilessly on them.
when he drew it away and counted, there lay before him no fewer than seven, dead and with legs stretched out.
“art thou a fellow of that sort?” said he, and could not help admiring his own bravery.
“the whole town shall know of this!” and the little tailor hastened to cut himself a girdle, stitched it, and embroidered on it in large letters, “seven at one stroke!”
“what, the town!” he continued, “the whole world shall hear of it!” and his heart wagged with joy like a lamb’s tail.
the tailor put on the girdle, and resolved to go forth into the world, because he thought his workshop was too small for his valour.
before he went away, he sought about in the house to see if there was anything which he could take with him; however, he found nothing but an old cheese, and that he put in his pocket.
in front of the door he observed a bird which had caught itself in the thicket.
it had to go into his pocket with the cheese.
now he took to the road boldly, and as he was light and nimble, he felt no fatigue.
the road led him up a mountain, and when he had reached the highest point of it, there sat a powerful giant looking about him quite comfortably.
the little tailor went bravely up, spoke to him, and said, “good day, comrade, so thou art sitting there overlooking the wide-spread world!
i am just on my way thither, and want to try my luck.
hast thou any inclination to go with me?” the giant looked contemptuously at the tailor, and said, “thou ragamuffin!
thou miserable creature!”
“oh, indeed?” answered the little tailor, and unbuttoned his coat, and showed the giant the girdle, “there mayst thou read what kind of a man i am!” the giant read, “seven at one stroke,” and thought that they had been men whom the tailor had killed, and began to feel a little respect for the tiny fellow.
nevertheless, he wished to try him first, and took a stone in his hand and squeezed it together so that water dropped out of it.
“do that likewise,” said the giant, “if thou hast strength?” “is that all?” said the tailor, “that is child’s play with us!” and put his hand into his pocket, brought out the soft cheese, and pressed it until the liquid ran out of it.
“faith,” said he, “that was a little better, wasn’t it?” the giant did not know what to say, and could not believe it of the little man.
then the giant picked up a stone and threw it so high that the eye could scarcely follow it.
“now, little mite of a man, do that likewise.” “well thrown,” said the tailor, “but after all the stone came down to earth again; i will throw you one which shall never come back at all.” and he put his hand into his pocket, took out the bird, and threw it into the air.
the bird, delighted with its liberty, rose, flew away and did not come back.
“how does that shot please you, comrade?” asked the tailor.
“thou canst certainly throw,” said the giant, “but now we will see if thou art able to carry anything properly.” he took the little tailor to a mighty oak tree which lay there felled on the ground, and said, “if thou art strong enough, help me to carry the tree out of the forest.” “readily,” answered the little man; “take thou the trunk on thy shoulders, and i will raise up the branches and twigs; after all, they are the heaviest.” the giant took the trunk on his shoulder, but the tailor seated himself on a branch, and the giant who could not look round, had to carry away the whole tree, and the little tailor into the bargain: he behind, was quite merry and happy, and whistled the song, “three tailors rode forth from the gate,” as if carrying the tree were child’s play.
the giant, after he had dragged the heavy burden part of the way, could go no further, and cried, “hark you, i shall have to let the tree fall!” the tailor sprang nimbly down, seized the tree with both arms as if he had been carrying it, and said to the giant, “thou art such a great fellow, and yet canst not even carry the tree!”
they went on together, and as they passed a cherry-tree, the giant laid hold of the top of the tree where the ripest fruit was hanging, bent it down, gave it into the tailor’s hand, and bade him eat.
but the little tailor was much too weak to hold the tree, and when the giant let it go, it sprang back again, and the tailor was hurried into the air with it.
when he had fallen down again without injury, the giant said, “what is this?
hast thou not strength enough to hold the weak twig?” “there is no lack of strength,” answered the little tailor.
“dost thou think that could be anything to a man who has struck down seven at one blow?
i leapt over the tree because the huntsmen are shooting down there in the thicket.
jump as i did, if thou canst do it.” the giant made the attempt, but could not get over the tree, and remained hanging in the branches, so that in this also the tailor kept the upper hand.
the giant said, “if thou art such a valiant fellow, come with me into our cavern and spend the night with us.” the little tailor was willing, and followed him.
when they went into the cave, other giants were sitting there by the fire, and each of them had a roasted sheep in his hand and was eating it.
the little tailor looked round and thought, “it is much more spacious here than in my workshop.” the giant showed him a bed, and said he was to lie down in it and sleep.
the bed, however, was too big for the little tailor; he did not lie down in it, but crept into a corner.
when it was midnight, and the giant thought that the little tailor was lying in a sound sleep, he got up, took a great iron bar, cut through the bed with one blow, and thought he had given the grasshopper his finishing stroke.
with the earliest dawn the giants went into the forest, and had quite forgotten the little tailor, when all at once he walked up to them quite merrily and boldly.
the giants were terrified, they were afraid that he would strike them all dead, and ran away in a great hurry.
the little tailor went onwards, always following his own pointed nose.
after he had walked for a long time, he came to the courtyard of a royal palace, and as he felt weary, he lay down on the grass and fell asleep.
whilst he lay there, the people came and inspected him on all sides, and read on his girdle, “seven at one stroke.” “ah,” said they, “what does the great warrior here in the midst of peace?
he must be a mighty lord.” they went and announced him to the king, and gave it as their opinion that if war should break out, this would be a weighty and useful man who ought on no account to be allowed to depart.
the counsel pleased the king, and he sent one of his courtiers to the little tailor to offer him military service when he awoke.
the ambassador remained standing by the sleeper, waited until he stretched his limbs and opened his eyes, and then conveyed to him this proposal.
“for this very reason have i come here,” the tailor replied, “i am ready to enter the king’s service.” he was therefore honorably received and a special dwelling was assigned him.
the soldiers, however, were set against the little tailor, and wished him a thousand miles away.
“what is to be the end of this?” they said amongst themselves.
“if we quarrel with him, and he strikes about him, seven of us will fall at every blow; not one of us can stand against him.” they came therefore to a decision, betook themselves in a body to the king, and begged for their dismissal.
“we are not prepared,” said they, “to stay with a man who kills seven at one stroke.” the king was sorry that for the sake of one he should lose all his faithful servants, wished that he had never set eyes on the tailor, and would willingly have been rid of him again.
but he did not venture to give him his dismissal, for he dreaded lest he should strike him and all his people dead, and place himself on the royal throne.
he thought about it for a long time, and at last found good counsel.
he sent to the little tailor and caused him to be informed that as he was such a great warrior, he had one request to make to him.
in a forest of his country lived two giants who caused great mischief with their robbing, murdering, ravaging, and burning, and no one could approach them without putting himself in danger of death.
if the tailor conquered and killed these two giants, he would give him his only daughter to wife, and half of his kingdom as a dowry, likewise one hundred horsemen should go with him to assist him.
“that would indeed be a fine thing for a man like me!” thought the little tailor.
“one is not offered a beautiful princess and half a kingdom every day of one’s life!” “oh, yes,” he replied, “i will soon subdue the giants, and do not require the help of the hundred horsemen to do it; he who can hit seven with one blow has no need to be afraid of two.”
the little tailor went forth, and the hundred horsemen followed him.
when he came to the outskirts of the forest, he said to his followers, “just stay waiting here, i alone will soon finish off the giants.” then he bounded into the forest and looked about right and left.
after a while he perceived both giants.
they lay sleeping under a tree, and snored so that the branches waved up and down.
the little tailor, not idle, gathered two pocketsful of stones, and with these climbed up the tree.
when he was half-way up, he slipped down by a branch, until he sat just above the sleepers, and then let one stone after another fall on the breast of one of the giants.
for a long time the giant felt nothing, but at last he awoke, pushed his comrade, and said, “why art thou knocking me?” “thou must be dreaming,” said the other, “i am not knocking thee.” they laid themselves down to sleep again, and then the tailor threw a stone down on the second.
“what is the meaning of this?”
cried the other.
“why art thou pelting me?” “i am not pelting thee,”
answered the first, growling.
they disputed about it for a time, but as they were weary they let the matter rest, and their eyes closed once more.
the little tailor began his game again, picked out the biggest stone, and threw it with all his might on the breast of the first giant.
“that is too bad!” cried he, and sprang up like a madman, and pushed his companion against the tree until it shook.
the other paid him back in the same coin, and they got into such a rage that they tore up trees and belabored each other so long, that at last they both fell down dead on the ground at the same time.
then the little tailor leapt down.
“it is a lucky thing,” said he, “that they did not tear up the tree on which i was sitting, or i should have had to spring on to another like a squirrel; but we tailors are nimble.” he drew out his sword and gave each of them a couple of thrusts in the breast, and then went out to the horsemen and said, “the work is done; i have given both of them their finishing stroke, but it was hard work!
they tore up trees in their sore need, and defended themselves with them, but all that is to no purpose when a man like myself comes, who can kill seven at one blow.” “but are you not wounded?” asked the horsemen.
“you need not concern yourself about that,” answered the tailor, “they have not bent one hair of mine.” the horsemen would not believe him, and rode into the forest; there they found the giants swimming in their blood, and all round about lay the torn-up trees.
the little tailor demanded of the king the promised reward; he, however, repented of his promise, and again bethought himself how he could get rid of the hero.
“before thou receivest my daughter, and the half of my kingdom,” said he to him, “thou must perform one more heroic deed.
in the forest roams a unicorn which does great harm, and thou must catch it first.” “i fear one unicorn still less than two giants.
seven at one blow, is my kind of affair.” he took a rope and an axe with him, went forth into the forest, and again bade those who were sent with him to wait outside.
he had to seek long.
the unicorn soon came towards him, and rushed directly on the tailor, as if it would spit him on his horn without more ceremony.
“softly, softly; it can’t be done as quickly as that,” said he, and stood still and waited until the animal was quite close, and then sprang nimbly behind the tree.
the unicorn ran against the tree with all its strength, and struck its horn so fast in the trunk that it had not strength enough to draw it out again, and thus it was caught.
“now, i have got the bird,” said the tailor, and came out from behind the tree and put the rope round its neck, and then with his axe he hewed the horn out of the tree, and when all was ready he led the beast away and took it to the king.
the king still would not give him the promised reward, and made a third demand.
before the wedding the tailor was to catch him a wild boar that made great havoc in the forest, and the huntsmen should give him their help.
“willingly,” said the tailor, “that is child’s play!” he did not take the huntsmen with him into the forest, and they were well pleased that he did not, for the wild boar had several times received them in such a manner that they had no inclination to lie in wait for him.
when the boar perceived the tailor, it ran on him with foaming mouth and whetted tusks, and was about to throw him to the ground, but the active hero sprang into a chapel which was near, and up to the window at once, and in one bound out again.
the boar ran in after him, but the tailor ran round outside and shut the door behind it, and then the raging beast, which was much too heavy and awkward to leap out of the window, was caught.
the little tailor called the huntsmen thither that they might see the prisoner with their own eyes.
the hero, however went to the king, who was now, whether he liked it or not, obliged to keep his promise, and gave him his daughter and the half of his kingdom.
had he known that it was no warlike hero, but a little tailor who was standing before him, it would have gone to his heart still more than it did.
the wedding was held with great magnificence and small joy, and out of a tailor a king was made.
after some time the young queen heard her husband say in his dreams at night, “boy, make me the doublet, and patch the pantaloons, or else i will rap the yard-measure over thine ears.” then she discovered in what state of life the young lord had been born, and next morning complained of her wrongs to her father, and begged him to help her to get rid of her husband, who was nothing else but a tailor.
the king comforted her and said, “leave thy bed-room door open this night, and my servants shall stand outside, and when he has fallen asleep shall go in, bind him, and take him on board a ship which shall carry him into the wide world.” the woman was satisfied with this; but the king’s armour-bearer, who had heard all, was friendly with the young lord, and informed him of the whole plot.
“i’ll put a screw into that business,”
said the little tailor.
at night he went to bed with his wife at the usual time, and when she thought that he had fallen asleep, she got up, opened the door, and then lay down again.
the little tailor, who was only pretending to be asleep, began to cry out in a clear voice, “boy, make me the doublet and patch me the pantaloons, or i will rap the yard-measure over thine ears.
i smote seven at one blow.
i killed two giants, i brought away one unicorn and caught a wild boar, and am i to fear those who are standing outside the room.” when these men heard the tailor speaking thus, they were overcome by a great dread, and ran as if the wild huntsman were behind them, and none of them would venture anything further against him.
so the little tailor was a king and remained one, to the end of his life.
21 cinderella
the wife of a rich man fell sick, and as she felt that her end was drawing near, she called her only daughter to her bedside and said, “dear child, be good and pious, and then the good god will always protect thee, and i will look down on thee from heaven and be near thee.” thereupon she closed her eyes and departed.
every day the maiden went out to her mother’s grave, and wept, and she remained pious and good.
when winter came the snow spread a white sheet over the grave, and when the spring sun had drawn it off again, the man had taken another wife.
the woman had brought two daughters into the house with her, who were beautiful and fair of face, but vile and black of heart.
now began a bad time for the poor step-child.
“is the stupid goose to sit in the parlour with us?” said they.
“he who wants to eat bread must earn it; out with the kitchen-wench.” they took her pretty clothes away from her, put an old grey bedgown on her, and gave her wooden shoes.
“just look at the proud princess, how decked out she is!” they cried, and laughed, and led her into the kitchen.
there she had to do hard work from morning till night, get up before daybreak, carry water, light fires, cook and wash. besides this, the sisters did her every imaginable injury—they mocked her and emptied her peas and lentils into the ashes, so that she was forced to sit and pick them out again.
in the evening when she had worked till she was weary she had no bed to go to, but had to sleep by the fireside in the ashes.
and as on that account she always looked dusty and dirty, they called her cinderella.
it happened that the father was once going to the fair, and he asked his two step-daughters what he should bring back for them.
“beautiful dresses,” said one, “pearls and jewels,” said the second.
“and thou, cinderella,” said he, “what wilt thou have?” “father, break off for me the first branch which knocks against your hat on your way home.” so he bought beautiful dresses, pearls and jewels for his two step-daughters, and on his way home, as he was riding through a green thicket, a hazel twig brushed against him and knocked off his hat.
then he broke off the branch and took it with him.
when he reached home he gave his step-daughters the things which they had wished for, and to cinderella he gave the branch from the hazel-bush.
cinderella thanked him, went to her mother’s grave and planted the branch on it, and wept so much that the tears fell down on it and watered it.
and it grew, however, and became a handsome tree.
thrice a day cinderella went and sat beneath it, and wept and prayed, and a little white bird always came on the tree, and if cinderella expressed a wish, the bird threw down to her what she had wished for.
it happened, however, that the king appointed a festival which was to last three days, and to which all the beautiful young girls in the country were invited, in order that his son might choose himself a bride.
when the two step-sisters heard that they too were to appear among the number, they were delighted, called cinderella and said, “comb our hair for us, brush our shoes and fasten our buckles, for we are going to the festival at the king’s palace.” cinderella obeyed, but wept, because she too would have liked to go with them to the dance, and begged her step-mother to allow her to do so.
“thou go, cinderella!” said she; “thou art dusty and dirty and wouldst go to the festival?
thou hast no clothes and shoes, and yet wouldst dance!” as, however, cinderella went on asking, the step-mother at last said, “i have emptied a dish of lentils into the ashes for thee, if thou hast picked them out again in two hours, thou shalt go with us.” the maiden went through the back-door into the garden, and called, “you tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds beneath the sky, come and help me to pick
“the good into the pot, the bad into the crop.”
then two white pigeons came in by the kitchen-window, and afterwards the turtle-doves, and at last all the birds beneath the sky, came whirring and crowding in, and alighted amongst the ashes.
and the pigeons nodded with their heads and began pick, pick, pick, pick, and the rest began also pick, pick, pick, pick, and gathered all the good grains into the dish.
hardly had one hour passed before they had finished, and all flew out again.
then the girl took the dish to her step-mother, and was glad, and believed that now she would be allowed to go with them to the festival.
but the step-mother said, “no, cinderella, thou hast no clothes and thou canst not dance; thou wouldst only be laughed at.” and as cinderella wept at this, the step-mother said, “if thou canst pick two dishes of lentils out of the ashes for me in one hour, thou shalt go with us.” and she thought to herself, “that she most certainly cannot do.” when the step-mother had emptied the two dishes of lentils amongst the ashes, the maiden went through the back-door into the garden and cried, you tame pigeons, you turtle-doves, and all you birds under heaven, come and help me to pick
“the good into the pot, the bad into the crop.”
then two white pigeons came in by the kitchen-window, and afterwards the turtle-doves, and at length all the birds beneath the sky, came whirring and crowding in, and alighted amongst the ashes.
and the doves nodded with their heads and began pick, pick, pick, pick, and the others began also pick, pick, pick, pick, and gathered all the good seeds into the dishes, and before half an hour was over they had already finished, and all flew out again.
then the maiden carried the dishes to the step-mother and was delighted, and believed that she might now go with them to the festival.
but the step-mother said, “all this will not help thee; thou goest not with us, for thou hast no clothes and canst not dance; we should be ashamed of thee!” on this she turned her back on cinderella, and hurried away with her two proud daughters.
as no one was now at home, cinderella went to her mother’s grave beneath the hazel-tree, and cried,
“shiver and quiver, little tree, silver and gold throw down over me.”
then the bird threw a gold and silver dress down to her, and slippers embroidered with silk and silver.
she put on the dress with all speed, and went to the festival.
her step-sisters and the step-mother however did not know her, and thought she must be a foreign princess, for she looked so beautiful in the golden dress.
they never once thought of cinderella, and believed that she was sitting at home in the dirt, picking lentils out of the ashes.
the prince went to meet her, took her by the hand and danced with her.
he would dance with no other maiden, and never left loose of her hand, and if any one else came to invite her, he said, “this is my partner.”
she danced till it was evening, and then she wanted to go home.
but the king’s son said, “i will go with thee and bear thee company,” for he wished to see to whom the beautiful maiden belonged.
she escaped from him, however, and sprang into the pigeon-house.
the king’s son waited until her father came, and then he told him that the stranger maiden had leapt into the pigeon-house.
the old man thought, “can it be cinderella?” and they had to bring him an axe and a pickaxe that he might hew the pigeon-house to pieces, but no one was inside it.
and when they got home cinderella lay in her dirty clothes among the ashes, and a dim little oil-lamp was burning on the mantle-piece, for cinderella had jumped quickly down from the back of the pigeon-house and had run to the little hazel-tree, and there she had taken off her beautiful clothes and laid them on the grave, and the bird had taken them away again, and then she had placed herself in the kitchen amongst the ashes in her grey gown.
next day when the festival began afresh, and her parents and the step-sisters had gone once more, cinderella went to the hazel-tree and said—
“shiver and quiver, my little tree, silver and gold throw down over me.”
then the bird threw down a much more beautiful dress than on the preceding day.
and when cinderella appeared at the festival in this dress, every one was astonished at her beauty.
the king’s son had waited until she came, and instantly took her by the hand and danced with no one but her.
when others came and invited her, he said, “she is my partner.” when evening came she wished to leave, and the king’s son followed her and wanted to see into which house she went.
but she sprang away from him, and into the garden behind the house.
therein stood a beautiful tall tree on which hung the most magnificent pears.
she clambered so nimbly between the branches like a squirrel that the king’s son did not know where she was gone.
he waited until her father came, and said to him, “the stranger-maiden has escaped from me, and i believe she has climbed up the pear-tree.” the father thought, “can it be cinderella?” and had an axe brought and cut the tree down, but no one was on it.
and when they got into the kitchen, cinderella lay there amongst the ashes, as usual, for she had jumped down on the other side of the tree, had taken the beautiful dress to the bird on the little hazel-tree, and put on her grey gown.
on the third day, when the parents and sisters had gone away, cinderella went once more to her mother’s grave and said to the little tree—
“shiver and quiver, my little tree, silver and gold throw down over me.”
and now the bird threw down to her a dress which was more splendid and magnificent than any she had yet had, and the slippers were golden.
and when she went to the festival in the dress, no one knew how to speak for astonishment.
the king’s son danced with her only, and if any one invited her to dance, he said, “she is my partner.”
when evening came, cinderella wished to leave, and the king’s son was anxious to go with her, but she escaped from him so quickly that he could not follow her.
the king’s son had, however, used a strategem, and had caused the whole staircase to be smeared with pitch, and there, when she ran down, had the maiden’s left slipper remained sticking.
the king’s son picked it up, and it was small and dainty, and all golden.
next morning, he went with it to the father, and said to him, “no one shall be my wife but she whose foot this golden slipper fits.” then were the two sisters glad, for they had pretty feet.
the eldest went with the shoe into her room and wanted to try it on, and her mother stood by.
but she could not get her big toe into it, and the shoe was too small for her.
then her mother gave her a knife and said, “cut the toe off; when thou art queen thou wilt have no more need to go on foot.” the maiden cut the toe off, forced the foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the king’s son.
then he took her on his his horse as his bride and rode away with her.
they were, however, obliged to pass the grave, and there, on the hazel-tree, sat the two pigeons and cried,
“turn and peep, turn and peep, there’s blood within the shoe, the shoe it is too small for her, the true bride waits for you.”
then he looked at her foot and saw how the blood was streaming from it.
he turned his horse round and took the false bride home again, and said she was not the true one, and that the other sister was to put the shoe on.
then this one went into her chamber and got her toes safely into the shoe, but her heel was too large.
so her mother gave her a knife and said, “cut a bit off thy heel; when thou art queen thou wilt have no more need to go on foot.” the maiden cut a bit off her heel, forced her foot into the shoe, swallowed the pain, and went out to the king’s son.
he took her on his horse as his bride, and rode away with her, but when they passed by the hazel-tree, two little pigeons sat on it and cried,
“turn and peep, turn and peep, there’s blood within the shoe the shoe it is too small for her, the true bride waits for you.”
he looked down at her foot and saw how the blood was running out of her shoe, and how it had stained her white stocking.
then he turned his horse and took the false bride home again.
“this also is not the right one,” said he, “have you no other daughter?” “no,” said the man, “there is still a little stunted kitchen-wench which my late wife left behind her, but she cannot possibly be the bride.” the king’s son said he was to send her up to him; but the mother answered, “oh, no, she is much too dirty, she cannot show herself!” he absolutely insisted on it, and cinderella had to be called.
she first washed her hands and face clean, and then went and bowed down before the king’s son, who gave her the golden shoe.
then she seated herself on a stool, drew her foot out of the heavy wooden shoe, and put it into the slipper, which fitted like a glove.
and when she rose up and the king’s son looked at her face he recognized the beautiful maiden who had danced with him and cried, “that is the true bride!” the step-mother and the two sisters were terrified and became pale with rage; he, however, took cinderella on his horse and rode away with her.
as they passed by the hazel-tree, the two white doves cried—
“turn and peep, turn and peep, no blood is in the shoe, the shoe is not too small for her, the true bride rides with you,”
and when they had cried that, the two came flying down and placed themselves on cinderella’s shoulders, one on the right, the other on the left, and remained sitting there.
when the wedding with the king’s son had to be celebrated, the two false sisters came and wanted to get into favour with cinderella and share her good fortune.
when the betrothed couple went to church, the elder was at the right side and the younger at the left, and the pigeons pecked out one eye of each of them.
afterwards as they came back, the elder was at the left, and the younger at the right, and then the pigeons pecked out the other eye of each.
and thus, for their wickedness and falsehood, they were punished with blindness as long as they lived.
22 the riddle
there was once a king’s son who was seized with a desire to travel about the world, and took no one with him but a faithful servant.
one day he came to a great forest, and when darkness overtook him he could find no shelter, and knew not where to pass the night.
then he saw a girl who was going towards a small house, and when he came nearer, he saw that the maiden was young and beautiful.
he spoke to her, and said, “dear child, can i and my servant find shelter for the night in the little house?” “oh, yes,” said the girl in a sad voice, “that you certainly can, but i do not advise you to venture it.
do not go in.”
“why not?” asked the king’s son.
the maiden sighed and said, “my step-mother practises wicked arts; she is ill-disposed toward strangers.” then he saw very well that he had come to the house of a witch, but as it was dark, and he could not go farther, and also was not afraid, he entered.
the old woman was sitting in an armchair by the fire, and looked at the stranger with her red eyes.
“good evening,”
growled she, and pretended to be quite friendly.
“take a seat and rest yourselves.” she blew up the fire on which she was cooking something in a small pot.
the daughter warned the two to be prudent, to eat nothing, and drink nothing, for the old woman brewed evil drinks.
they slept quietly until early morning.
when they were making ready for their departure, and the king’s son was already seated on his horse, the old woman said, “stop a moment, i will first hand you a parting draught.”
whilst she fetched it, the king’s son rode away, and the servant who had to buckle his saddle tight, was the only one present when the wicked witch came with the drink.
“take that to your master,” said she.
but at that instant the glass broke and the poison spirted on the horse, and it was so strong that the animal immediately fell down dead.
the servant ran after his master and told him what had happened, but would not leave his saddle behind him, and ran back to fetch it.
when, however, he came to the dead horse a raven was already sitting on it devouring it.
“who knows whether we shall find anything better to-day?”
said the servant; so he killed the raven, and took it with him.
and now they journeyed onwards into the forest the whole day, but could not get out of it.
by nightfall they found an inn and entered it.
the servant gave the raven to the innkeeper to make ready for supper.
they had, however, stumbled on a den of murderers, and during the darkness twelve of these came, intending to kill the strangers and rob them.
before they set about this work, they sat down to supper, and the innkeeper and the witch sat down with them, and together they ate a dish of soup in which was cut up the flesh of the raven.
hardly, however, had they swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, before they all fell down dead, for the raven had communicated to them the poison from the horse-flesh.
there was no no one else left in the house but the innkeeper’s daughter, who was honest, and had taken no part in their godless deeds.
she opened all doors to the stranger and showed him the heaped-up treasures.
but the king’s son said she might keep everything, he would have none of it, and rode onwards with his servant.
after they had traveled about for a long time, they came to a town in which was a beautiful but proud princess, who had caused it to be proclaimed that whosoever should set her a riddle which she could not guess, that man should be her husband; but if she guessed it, his head must be cut off.
she had three days to guess it in, but was so clever that she always found the answer to the riddle given her, before the appointed time.
nine suitors had already perished in this manner, when the king’s son arrived, and blinded by her great beauty, was willing to stake his life for it.
then he went to her and laid his riddle before her.
“what is this?” said he, “one slew none, and yet slew twelve.” she did not know what that was, she thought and thought, but she could not find out, she opened her riddle-books, but it was not in them—in short, her wisdom was at an end.
as she did not know how to help herself, she ordered her maid to creep into the lord’s sleeping-chamber, and listen to his dreams, and thought that he would perhaps speak in his sleep and discover the riddle.
but the clever servant had placed himself in the bed instead of his master, and when the maid came there, he tore off from her the mantle in which she had wrapped herself, and chased her out with rods.
the second night the king’s daughter sent her maid-in-waiting, who was to see if she could succeed better in listening, but the servant took her mantle also away from her, and hunted her out with rods.
now the master believed himself safe for the third night, and lay down in his own bed.
then came the princess herself, and she had put on a misty-grey mantle, and she seated herself near him.
and when she thought that he was asleep and dreaming, she spoke to him, and hoped that he would answer in his sleep, as many do, but he was awake, and understood and heard everything quite well.
then she asked, “one slew none, what is that?” he replied, “a raven, which ate of a dead and poisoned horse, and died of it.” she inquired further, “and yet slew twelve, what is that?” he answered, “that means twelve murderers, who ate the raven and died of it.”
when she knew the answer to the riddle she wanted to steal away, but he held her mantle so fast that she was forced to leave it behind her.
next morning, the king’s daughter announced that she had guessed the riddle, and sent for the twelve judges and expounded it before them.
but the youth begged for a hearing, and said, “she stole into my room in the night and questioned me, otherwise she could not have discovered it.” the judges said, “bring us a proof of this.” then were the three mantles brought thither by the servant, and when the judges saw the misty-grey one which the king’s daughter usually wore, they said, “let the mantle be embroidered with gold and silver, and then it will be your wedding-mantle.
23 the mouse, the bird, and the sausage
once on a time a mouse, a bird, and a sausage became companions, kept house together, lived well and happily with each other, and wonderfully increased their possessions.
the bird’s work was to fly every day into the forest and bring back wood.
the mouse had to carry water, light the fire, and lay the table, but the sausage had to cook.
he who is too well off is always longing for something new.
one day, therefore, the bird met with another bird, on the way, to whom it related its excellent circumstances and boasted of them.
the other bird, however, called it a poor simpleton for his hard work, but said that the two at home had good times.
for when the mouse had made her fire and carried her water, she went into her little room to rest until they called her to lay the table.
the sausage stayed by the pot, saw that the food was cooking well, and, when it was nearly time for dinner, it rolled itself once or twice through the broth or vegetables and then they were buttered, salted, and ready.
when the bird came home and laid his burden down, they sat down to dinner, and after they had had their meal, they slept their fill till next morning, and that was a splendid life.
next day the bird, prompted by the other bird, would go no more into the wood, saying that he had been servant long enough, and had been made a fool of by them, and that they must change about for once, and try to arrange it in another way.
and, though the mouse and the sausage also begged most earnestly, the bird would have his way, and said it must be tried.
they cast lots about it, and the lot fell on the sausage who was to carry wood, the mouse became cook, and the bird was to fetch water.
what happened?
the little sausage went out towards the wood, the little bird lighted the fire, the mouse stayed by the pot and waited alone until little sausage came home and brought wood for next day.
but the little sausage stayed so long on the road that they both feared something was amiss, and the bird flew out a little way in the air to meet it.
not far off, however, it met a dog on the road who had fallen on the poor sausage as lawful booty, and had seized and swallowed it.
the bird charged the dog with an act of barefaced robbery, but it was in vain to speak, for the dog said he had found forged letters on the sausage, on which account its life was forfeited to him.
the bird sadly took up the wood, flew home, and related what he had seen and heard.
they were much troubled, but agreed to do their best and remain together.
the bird therefore laid the cloth, and the mouse made ready the food, and wanted to dress it, and to get into the pot as the sausage used to do, and roll and creep amongst the vegetables to mix them; but before she got into the midst of them she was stopped, and lost her skin and hair and life in the attempt.
when the bird came to carry up the dinner, no cook was there.
in its distress the bird threw the wood here and there, called and searched, but no cook was to be found!
owing to his carelessness the wood caught fire, so that a conflagration ensued, the bird hastened to fetch water, and then the bucket dropped from his claws into the well, and he fell down with it, and could not recover himself, but had to drown there.
24 mother holle
there was once a widow who had two daughters—one of whom was pretty and industrious, whilst the other was ugly and idle.
but she was much fonder of the ugly and idle one, because she was her own daughter; and the other, who was a step-daughter, was obliged to do all the work, and be the cinderella of the house.
every day the poor girl had to sit by a well, in the highway, and spin and spin till her fingers bled.
now it happened that one day the shuttle was marked with her blood, so she dipped it in the well, to wash the mark off; but it dropped out of her hand and fell to the bottom.
she began to weep, and ran to her step-mother and told her of the mishap.
but she scolded her sharply, and was so merciless as to say, “since you have let the shuttle fall in, you must fetch it out again.”
so the girl went back to the well, and did not know what to do; and in the sorrow of her heart she jumped into the well to get the shuttle.
she lost her senses; and when she awoke and came to herself again, she was in a lovely meadow where the sun was shining and many thousands of flowers were growing.
along this meadow she went, and at last came to a baker’s oven full of bread, and the bread cried out, “oh, take me out!
take me out!
or i shall burn; i have been baked a long time!” so she went up to it, and took out all the loaves one after another with the bread-shovel.
after that she went on till she came to a tree covered with apples, which called out to her, “oh, shake me!
shake me!
we apples are all ripe!” so she shook the tree till the apples fell like rain, and went on shaking till they were all down, and when she had gathered them into a heap, she went on her way.
at last she came to a little house, out of which an old woman peeped; but she had such large teeth that the girl was frightened, and was about to run away.
but the old woman called out to her, “what are you afraid of, dear child?
stay with me; if you will do all the work in the house properly, you shall be the better for it.
only you must take care to make my bed well, and shake it thoroughly till the feathers fly—for then there is snow on the earth.
i am mother holle.
as the old woman spoke so kindly to her, the girl took courage and agreed to enter her service.
she attended to everything to the satisfaction of her mistress, and always shook her bed so vigorously that the feathers flew about like snow-flakes.
so she had a pleasant life with her; never an angry word; and boiled or roast meat every day.
she stayed some time with mother holle, and then she became sad.
at first she did not know what was the matter with her, but found at length that it was home-sickness: although she was many thousand times better off here than at home, still she had a longing to be there.
at last she said to the old woman, “i have a longing for home; and however well off i am down here, i cannot stay any longer; i must go up again to my own people.” mother holle said, “i am pleased that you long for your home again, and as you have served me so truly, i myself will take you up again.” thereupon she took her by the hand, and led her to a large door.
the door was opened, and just as the maiden was standing beneath the doorway, a heavy shower of golden rain fell, and all the gold remained sticking to her, so that she was completely covered over with it.
“you shall have that because you have been so industrious,” said mother holle, and at the same time she gave her back the shuttle which she had let fall into the well.
thereupon the door closed, and the maiden found herself up above upon the earth, not far from her mother’s house.
and as she went into the yard the cock was standing by the well-side, and cried—
“cock-a-doodle-doo!
your golden girl’s come back to you!”
so she went in to her mother, and as she arrived thus covered with gold, she was well received, both by her and her sister.
the girl told all that had happened to her; and as soon as the mother heard how she had come by so much wealth, she was very anxious to obtain the same good luck for the ugly and lazy daughter.
she had to seat herself by the well and spin; and in order that her shuttle might be stained with blood, she stuck her hand into a thorn bush and pricked her finger.
then she threw her shuttle into the well, and jumped in after it.
she came, like the other, to the beautiful meadow and walked along the very same path.
when she got to the oven the bread again cried, “oh, take me out!
take me out!
or i shall burn; i have been baked a long time!” but the lazy thing answered, “as if i had any wish to make myself dirty?” and on she went.
soon she came to the apple-tree, which cried, “oh, shake me!
shake me!
we apples are all ripe!” but she answered, “i like that!
one of you might fall on my head,” and so went on.
when she came to mother holle’s house she was not afraid, for she had already heard of her big teeth, and she hired herself to her immediately.
the first day she forced herself to work diligently, and obeyed mother holle when she told her to do anything, for she was thinking of all the gold that she would give her.
but on the second day she began to be lazy, and on the third day still more so, and then she would not get up in the morning at all.
neither did she make mother holle’s bed as she ought, and did not shake it so as to make the feathers fly up.
mother holle was soon tired of this, and gave her notice to leave.
the lazy girl was willing enough to go, and thought that now the golden rain would come.
mother holle led her also to the great door; but while she was standing beneath it, instead of the gold a big kettleful of pitch was emptied over her.
“that is the reward for your service,” said mother holle, and shut the door.
so the lazy girl went home; but she was quite covered with pitch, and the cock by the well-side, as soon as he saw her, cried out—
“cock-a-doodle-doo!
your pitchy girl’s come back to you!”
but the pitch stuck fast to her, and could not be got off as long as she lived.
25 the seven ravens
there was once a man who had seven sons, and still he had no daughter, however much he wished for one.
at length his wife again gave him hope of a child, and when it came into the world it was a girl.
the joy was great, but the child was sickly and small, and had to be privately baptized on account of its weakness.
the father sent one of the boys in haste to the spring to fetch water for the baptism.
the other six went with him, and as each of them wanted to be first to fill it, the jug fell into the well.
there they stood and did not know what to do, and none of them dared to go home.
as they still did not return, the father grew impatient, and said, “they have certainly forgotten it for some game, the wicked boys!” he became afraid that the girl would have to die without being baptized, and in his anger cried, “i wish the boys were all turned into ravens.” hardly was the word spoken before he heard a whirring of wings over his head in the air, looked up and saw seven coal-black ravens flying away.
the parents could not recall the curse, and however sad they were at the loss of their seven sons, they still to some extent comforted themselves with their dear little daughter, who soon grew strong and every day became more beautiful.
for a long time she did not know that she had had brothers, for her parents were careful not to mention them before her, but one day she accidentally heard some people saying of herself, “that the girl was certainly beautiful, but that in reality she was to blame for the misfortune which had befallen her seven brothers.” then she was much troubled, and went to her father and mother and asked if it was true that she had had brothers, and what had become of them?
the parents now dared keep the secret no longer, but said that what had befallen her brothers was the will of heaven, and that her birth had only been the innocent cause.
but the maiden took it to heart daily, and thought she must deliver her brothers.
she had no rest or peace until she set out secretly, and went forth into the wide world to trace out her brothers and set them free, let it cost what it might.
she took nothing with her but a little ring belonging to her parents as a keepsake, a loaf of bread against hunger, a little pitcher of water against thirst, and a little chair as a provision against weariness.
and now she went continually onwards, far, far to the very end of the world.
then she came to the sun, but it was too hot and terrible, and devoured little children.
hastily she ran away, and ran to the moon, but it was far too cold, and also awful and malicious, and when it saw the child, it said, “i smell, i smell the flesh of men.” on this she ran swiftly away, and came to the stars, which were kind and good to her, and each of them sat on its own particular little chair.
but the morning star arose, and gave her the drumstick of a chicken, and said, “if you thou hast not that drumstick thou canst not open the glass mountain, and in the glass mountain are thy brothers.”
the maiden took the drumstick, wrapped it carefully in a cloth, and went onwards again until she came to the glass mountain.
the door was shut, and she thought she would take out the drumstick; but when she undid the cloth, it was empty, and she had lost the good star’s present.
what was she now to do?
she wished to rescue her brothers, and had no key to the glass mountain.
the good sister took a knife, cut off one of her little fingers, put it in the door, and succeeded in opening it.
when she had gone inside, a little dwarf came to meet her, who said, “my child, what are you looking for?” “i am looking for my brothers, the seven ravens,” she replied.
the dwarf said, “the lord ravens are not at home, but if you will wait here until they come, step in.” thereupon the little dwarf carried the ravens’ dinner in, on seven little plates, and in seven little glasses, and the little sister ate a morsel from each plate, and from each little glass she took a sip, but in the last little glass she dropped the ring which she had brought away with her.
suddenly she heard a whirring of wings and a rushing through the air, and then the little dwarf said, “now the lord ravens are flying home.”
then they came, and wanted to eat and drink, and looked for their little plates and glasses.
then said one after the other, “who has eaten something from my plate?
who has drunk out of my little glass?
it was a human mouth.” and when the seventh came to the bottom of the glass, the ring rolled against his mouth.
then he looked at it, and saw that it was a ring belonging to his father and mother, and said, “god grant that our sister may be here, and then we shall be free.” when the maiden, who was standing behind the door watching, heard that wish, she came forth, and on this all the ravens were restored to their human form again.
and they embraced and kissed each other, and went joyfully home.
26 little red-cap
once upon a time there was a dear little girl who was loved by every one who looked at her, but most of all by her grandmother, and there was nothing that she would not have given to the child.
once she gave her a little cap of red velvet, which suited her so well that she would never wear anything else; so she was always called “little red-cap.”
one day her mother said to her, “come, little red-cap, here is a piece of cake and a bottle of wine; take them to your grandmother, she is ill and weak, and they will do her good.
set out before it gets hot, and when you are going, walk nicely and quietly and do not run off the path, or you may fall and break the bottle, and then your grandmother will get nothing; and when you go into her room, don’t forget to say, ‘good-morning,’ and don’t peep into every corner before you do it.”
“i will take great care,” said little red-cap to her mother, and gave her hand on it.
the grandmother lived out in the wood, half a league from the village, and just as little red-cap entered the wood, a wolf met her.
red-cap did not know what a wicked creature he was, and was not at all afraid of him.
“good-day, little red-cap,” said he.
“thank you kindly, wolf.”
“whither away so early, little red-cap?”
“to my grandmother’s.”
“what have you got in your apron?”
“cake and wine; yesterday was baking-day, so poor sick grandmother is to have something good, to make her stronger.”
“where does your grandmother live, little red-cap?”
“a good quarter of a league farther on in the wood; her house stands under the three large oak-trees, the nut-trees are just below; you surely must know it,” replied little red-cap.
the wolf thought to himself, “what a tender young creature!
what a nice plump mouthful—she will be better to eat than the old woman.
i must act craftily, so as to catch both.” so he walked for a short time by the side of little red-cap, and then he said, “see little red-cap, how pretty the flowers are about here—why do you not look round?
i believe, too, that you do not hear how sweetly the little birds are singing; you walk gravely along as if you were going to school, while everything else out here in the wood is merry.”
little red-cap raised her eyes, and when she saw the sunbeams dancing here and there through the trees, and pretty flowers growing everywhere, she thought, “suppose i take grandmother a fresh nosegay; that would please her too.
it is so early in the day that i shall still get there in good time;” and so she ran from the path into the wood to look for flowers.
and whenever she had picked one, she fancied that she saw a still prettier one farther on, and ran after it, and so got deeper and deeper into the wood.
meanwhile the wolf ran straight to the grandmother’s house and knocked at the door.
“who is there?”
“little red-cap,” replied the wolf.
“she is bringing cake and wine; open the door.”
“lift the latch,” called out the grandmother, “i am too weak, and cannot get up.”
the wolf lifted the latch, the door flew open, and without saying a word he went straight to the grandmother’s bed, and devoured her.
then he put on her clothes, dressed himself in her cap, laid himself in bed and drew the curtains.
little red-cap, however, had been running about picking flowers, and when she had gathered so many that she could carry no more, she remembered her grandmother, and set out on the way to her.
she was surprised to find the cottage-door standing open, and when she went into the room, she had such a strange feeling that she said to herself, “oh dear!
how uneasy i feel to-day, and at other times i like being with grandmother so much.” she called out, “good morning,” but received no answer; so she went to the bed and drew back the curtains.
there lay her grandmother with her cap pulled far over her face, and looking very strange.
“oh!
grandmother,” she said, “what big ears you have!”
“the better to hear you with, my child,” was the reply.
“but, grandmother, what big eyes you have!” she said.
“the better to see you with, my dear.”
“but, grandmother, what large hands you have!”
“the better to hug you with.”
“oh!
but, grandmother, what a terrible big mouth you have!”
“the better to eat you with!”
and scarcely had the wolf said this, than with one bound he was out of bed and swallowed up red-cap.
when the wolf had appeased his appetite, he lay down again in the bed, fell asleep and began to snore very loud.
the huntsman was just passing the house, and thought to himself, “how the old woman is snoring!
i must just see if she wants anything.” so he went into the room, and when he came to the bed, he saw that the wolf was lying in it.
“do i find thee here, thou old sinner!” said he.
“i have long sought thee!”
then just as he was going to fire at him, it occurred to him that the wolf might have devoured the grandmother, and that she might still be saved, so he did not fire, but took a pair of scissors, and began to cut open the stomach of the sleeping wolf.
when he had made two snips, he saw the little red-cap shining, and then he made two snips more, and the little girl sprang out, crying, “ah, how frightened i have been!
how dark it was inside the wolf;” and after that the aged grandmother came out alive also, but scarcely able to breathe.
red-cap, however, quickly fetched great stones with which they filled the wolf’s body, and when he awoke, he wanted to run away, but the stones were so heavy that he fell down at once, and fell dead.
then all three were delighted.
the huntsman drew off the wolf’s skin and went home with it; the grandmother ate the cake and drank the wine which red-cap had brought, and revived, but red-cap thought to herself, “as long as i live, i will never by myself leave the path, to run into the wood, when my mother has forbidden me to do so.”
* * * * * * *
it is also related that once when red-cap was again taking cakes to the old grandmother, another wolf spoke to her, and tried to entice her from the path.
red-cap, however, was on her guard, and went straight forward on her way, and told her grandmother that she had met the wolf, and that he had said “good-morning” to her, but with such a wicked look in his eyes, that if they had not been on the public road she was certain he would have eaten her up.
“well,” said the grandmother, “we will shut the door, that he may not come in.” soon afterwards the wolf knocked, and cried, “open the door, grandmother, i am little red-cap, and am fetching you some cakes.” but they did not speak, or open the door, so the grey-beard stole twice or thrice round the house, and at last jumped on the roof, intending to wait until red-cap went home in the evening, and then to steal after her and devour her in the darkness.
but the grandmother saw what was in his thoughts.
in front of the house was a great stone trough, so she said to the child, “take the pail, red-cap; i made some sausages yesterday, so carry the water in which i boiled them to the trough.” red-cap carried until the great trough was quite full.
then the smell of the sausages reached the wolf, and he sniffed and peeped down, and at last stretched out his neck so far that he could no longer keep his footing and began to slip, and slipped down from the roof straight into the great trough, and was drowned.
but red-cap went joyously home, and never did anything to harm any one.
27 the bremen town-musicians
a certain man had a donkey, which had carried the corn-sacks to the mill indefatigably for many a long year; but his strength was going, and he was growing more and more unfit for work.
then his master began to consider how he might best save his keep; but the donkey, seeing that no good wind was blowing, ran away and set out on the road to bremen.
“there,” he thought, “i can surely be town-musician.” when he had walked some distance, he found a hound lying on the road, gasping like one who had run till he was tired.
“what are you gasping so for, you big fellow?” asked the donkey.
“ah,” replied the hound, “as i am old, and daily grow weaker, and no longer can hunt, my master wanted to kill me, so i took to flight; but now how am i to earn my bread?”
“i tell you what,” said the donkey, “i am going to bremen, and shall be town-musician there; go with me and engage yourself also as a musician.
i will play the lute, and you shall beat the kettledrum.”
the hound agreed, and on they went.
before long they came to a cat, sitting on the path, with a face like three rainy days!
“now then, old shaver, what has gone askew with you?”
asked the donkey.
“who can be merry when his neck is in danger?” answered the cat.
“because i am now getting old, and my teeth are worn to stumps, and i prefer to sit by the fire and spin, rather than hunt about after mice, my mistress wanted to drown me, so i ran away.
but now good advice is scarce.
where am i to go?”
“go with us to bremen.
you understand night-music, you can be a town-musician.”
the cat thought well of it, and went with them.
after this the three fugitives came to a farm-yard, where the cock was sitting upon the gate, crowing with all his might.
“your crow goes through and through one,” said the donkey.
“what is the matter?”
“i have been foretelling fine weather, because it is the day on which our lady washes the christ-child’s little shirts, and wants to dry them,” said the cock; “but guests are coming for sunday, so the housewife has no pity, and has told the cook that she intends to eat me in the soup to-morrow, and this evening i am to have my head cut off.
now i am crowing at full pitch while i can.”
“ah, but red-comb,” said the donkey, “you had better come away with us.
we are going to bremen; you can find something better than death everywhere: you have a good voice, and if we make music together it must have some quality!”
the cock agreed to this plan, and all four went on together.
they could not, however, reach the city of bremen in one day, and in the evening they came to a forest where they meant to pass the night.
the donkey and the hound laid themselves down under a large tree, the cat and the cock settled themselves in the branches; but the cock flew right to the top, where he was most safe.
before he went to sleep he looked round on all four sides, and thought he saw in the distance a little spark burning; so he called out to his companions that there must be a house not far off, for he saw a light.
the donkey said, “if so, we had better get up and go on, for the shelter here is bad.” the hound thought that a few bones with some meat on would do him good too!
so they made their way to the place where the light was, and soon saw it shine brighter and grow larger, until they came to a well-lighted robber’s house.
the donkey, as the biggest, went to the window and looked in.
“what do you see, my grey-horse?” asked the cock.
“what do i see?”
answered the donkey; “a table covered with good things to eat and drink, and robbers sitting at it enjoying themselves.” “that would be the sort of thing for us,” said the cock.
“yes, yes; ah, how i wish we were there!” said the donkey.
then the animals took counsel together how they should manage to drive away the robbers, and at last they thought of a plan.
the donkey was to place himself with his fore-feet upon the window-ledge, the hound was to jump on the donkey’s back, the cat was to climb upon the dog, and lastly the cock was to fly up and perch upon the head of the cat.
when this was done, at a given signal, they began to perform their music together: the donkey brayed, the hound barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crowed; then they burst through the window into the room, so that the glass clattered!
at this horrible din, the robbers sprang up, thinking no otherwise than that a ghost had come in, and fled in a great fright out into the forest.
the four companions now sat down at the table, well content with what was left, and ate as if they were going to fast for a month.
as soon as the four minstrels had done, they put out the light, and each sought for himself a sleeping-place according to his nature and to what suited him.
the donkey laid himself down upon some straw in the yard, the hound behind the door, the cat upon the hearth near the warm ashes, and the cock perched himself upon a beam of the roof; and being tired from their long walk, they soon went to sleep.
when it was past midnight, and the robbers saw from afar that the light was no longer burning in their house, and all appeared quiet, the captain said, “we ought not to have let ourselves be frightened out of our wits;” and ordered one of them to go and examine the house.
the messenger finding all still, went into the kitchen to light a candle, and, taking the glistening fiery eyes of the cat for live coals, he held a lucifer-match to them to light it.
but the cat did not understand the joke, and flew in his face, spitting and scratching.
he was dreadfully frightened, and ran to the back-door, but the dog, who lay there sprang up and bit his leg; and as he ran across the yard by the straw-heap, the donkey gave him a smart kick with its hind foot.
the cock, too, who had been awakened by the noise, and had become lively, cried down from the beam, “cock-a-doodle-doo!”
then the robber ran back as fast as he could to his captain, and said, “ah, there is a horrible witch sitting in the house, who spat on me and scratched my face with her long claws; and by the door stands a man with a knife, who stabbed me in the leg; and in the yard there lies a black monster, who beat me with a wooden club; and above, upon the roof, sits the judge, who called out, ‘bring the rogue here to me!’ so i got away as well as i could.”
after this the robbers did not trust themselves in the house again; but it suited the four musicians of bremen so well that they did not care to leave it any more.
and the mouth of him who last told this story is still warm.
28 the singing bone
in a certain country there was once great lamentation over a wild boar that laid waste the farmer’s fields, killed the cattle, and ripped up people’s bodies with his tusks.
the king promised a large reward to anyone who would free the land from this plague; but the beast was so big and strong that no one dared to go near the forest in which it lived.
at last the king gave notice that whosoever should capture or kill the wild boar should have his only daughter to wife.
now there lived in the country two brothers, sons of a poor man, who declared themselves willing to undertake the hazardous enterprise; the elder, who was crafty and shrewd, out of pride; the younger, who was innocent and simple, from a kind heart.
the king said, “in order that you may be the more sure of finding the beast, you must go into the forest from opposite sides.” so the elder went in on the west side, and the younger on the east.
when the younger had gone a short way, a little man stepped up to him.
he held in his hand a black spear and said, “i give you this spear because your heart is pure and good; with this you can boldly attack the wild boar, and it will do you no harm.”
he thanked the little man, shouldered the spear, and went on fearlessly.
before long he saw the beast, which rushed at him; but he held the spear towards it, and in its blind fury it ran so swiftly against it that its heart was cloven in twain.
then he took the monster on his back and went homewards with it to the king.
as he came out at the other side of the wood, there stood at the entrance a house where people were making merry with wine and dancing.
his elder brother had gone in here, and, thinking that after all the boar would not run away from him, was going to drink until he felt brave.
but when he saw his young brother coming out of the wood laden with his booty, his envious, evil heart gave him no peace.
he called out to him, “come in, dear brother, rest and refresh yourself with a cup of wine.”
the youth, who suspected no evil, went in and told him about the good little man who had given him the spear wherewith he had slain the boar.
the elder brother kept him there until the evening, and then they went away together, and when in the darkness they came to a bridge over a brook, the elder brother let the other go first; and when he was half-way across he gave him such a blow from behind that he fell down dead.
he buried him beneath the bridge, took the boar, and carried it to the king, pretending that he had killed it; whereupon he obtained the king’s daughter in marriage.
and when his younger brother did not come back he said, “the boar must have killed him,” and every one believed it.
but as nothing remains hidden from god, so this black deed also was to come to light.
years afterwards a shepherd was driving his herd across the bridge, and saw lying in the sand beneath, a snow-white little bone.
he thought that it would make a good mouth-piece, so he clambered down, picked it up, and cut out of it a mouth-piece for his horn.
but when he blew through it for the first time, to his great astonishment, the bone began of its own accord to sing:
“ah, friend, thou blowest upon my bone!
long have i lain beside the water; my brother slew me for the boar, and took for his wife the king’s young daughter.”
“what a wonderful horn!” said the shepherd; “it sings by itself; i must take it to my lord the king.” and when he came with it to the king the horn again began to sing its little song.
the king understood it all, and caused the ground below the bridge to be dug up, and then the whole skeleton of the murdered man came to light.
the wicked brother could not deny the deed, and was sewn up in a sack and drowned.
but the bones of the murdered man were laid to rest in a beautiful tomb in the churchyard.
29 the devil with the three golden hairs
there was once a poor woman who gave birth to a little son; and as he came into the world with a caul on, it was predicted that in his fourteenth year he would have the king’s daughter for his wife.
it happened that soon afterwards the king came into the village, and no one knew that he was the king, and when he asked the people what news there was, they answered, “a child has just been born with a caul on; whatever any one so born undertakes turns out well.
it is prophesied, too, that in his fourteenth year he will have the king’s daughter for his wife.”
the king, who had a bad heart, and was angry about the prophecy, went to the parents, and, seeming quite friendly, said, “you poor people, let me have your child, and i will take care of it.” at first they refused, but when the stranger offered them a large amount of gold for it, and they thought, “it is a luck-child, and everything must turn out well for it,” they at last consented, and gave him the child.
the king put it in a box and rode away with it until he came to a deep piece of water; then he threw the box into it and thought, “i have freed my daughter from her unlooked-for suitor.”
the box, however, did not sink, but floated like a boat, and not a drop of water made its way into it.
and it floated to within two miles of the king’s chief city, where there was a mill, and it came to a stand-still at the mill-dam.
a miller’s boy, who by good luck was standing there, noticed it and pulled it out with a hook, thinking that he had found a great treasure, but when he opened it there lay a pretty boy inside, quite fresh and lively.
he took him to the miller and his wife, and as they had no children they were glad, and said, “god has given him to us.” they took great care of the foundling, and he grew up in all goodness.
it happened that once in a storm, the king went into the mill, and he asked the mill-folk if the tall youth was their son.
“no,” answered they, “he’s a foundling.
fourteen years ago he floated down to the mill-dam in a box, and the mill-boy pulled him out of the water.”
then the king knew that it was none other than the luck-child which he had thrown into the water, and he said, “my good people, could not the youth take a letter to the queen; i will give him two gold pieces as a reward?” “just as the king commands,” answered they, and they told the boy to hold himself in readiness.
then the king wrote a letter to the queen, wherein he said, “as soon as the boy arrives with this letter, let him be killed and buried, and all must be done before i come home.”
the boy set out with this letter; but he lost his way, and in the evening came to a large forest.
in the darkness he saw a small light; he went towards it and reached a cottage.
when he went in, an old woman was sitting by the fire quite alone.
she started when she saw the boy, and said, “whence do you come, and whither are you going?” “i come from the mill,” he answered, “and wish to go to the queen, to whom i am taking a letter; but as i have lost my way in the forest i should like to stay here over night.” “you poor boy,” said the woman, “you have come into a den of thieves, and when they come home they will kill you.” “let them come,” said the boy, “i am not afraid; but i am so tired that i cannot go any farther:” and he stretched himself upon a bench and fell asleep.
soon afterwards the robbers came, and angrily asked what strange boy was lying there?
“ah,” said the old woman, “it is an innocent child who has lost himself in the forest, and out of pity i have let him come in; he has to take a letter to the queen.” the robbers opened the letter and read it, and in it was written that the boy as soon as he arrived should be put to death.
then the hard-hearted robbers felt pity, and their leader tore up the letter and wrote another, saying, that as soon as the boy came, he should be married at once to the king’s daughter.
then they let him lie quietly on the bench until the next morning, and when he awoke they gave him the letter, and showed him the right way.
and the queen, when she had received the letter and read it, did as was written in it, and had a splendid wedding-feast prepared, and the king’s daughter was married to the luck-child, and as the youth was handsome and agreeable she lived with him in joy and contentment.
after some time the king returned to his palace and saw that the prophecy was fulfilled, and the luck-child married to his daughter.
“how has that come to pass?” said he; “i gave quite another order in my letter.”
so the queen gave him the letter, and said that he might see for himself what was written in it.
the king read the letter and saw quite well that it had been exchanged for the other.
he asked the youth what had become of the letter entrusted to him, and why he had brought another instead of it.
“i know nothing about it,” answered he; “it must have been changed in the night, when i slept in the forest.” the king said in a passion, “you shall not have everything quite so much your own way; whosoever marries my daughter must fetch me from hell three golden hairs from the head of the devil; bring me what i want, and you shall keep my daughter.” in this way the king hoped to be rid of him for ever.
but the luck-child answered, “i will fetch the golden hairs, i am not afraid of the devil;” thereupon he took leave of them and began his journey.
the road led him to a large town, where the watchman by the gates asked him what his trade was, and what he knew.
“i know everything,” answered the luck-child.
“then you can do us a favour,” said the watchman, “if you will tell us why our market-fountain, which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water?” “that you shall know,”
answered he; “only wait until i come back.”
then he went farther and came to another town, and there also the gatekeeper asked him what was his trade, and what he knew.
“i know everything,” answered he.
“then you can do us a favour and tell us why a tree in our town which once bore golden apples now does not even put forth leaves?” “you shall know that,” answered he; “only wait until i come back.”
then he went on and came to a wide river over which he must go.
the ferryman asked him what his trade was, and what he knew.
“i know everything,” answered he.
“then you can do me a favour,” said the ferryman, “and tell me why i must always be rowing backwards and forwards, and am never set free?” “you shall know that,” answered he; “only wait until i come back.”
when he had crossed the water he found the entrance to hell.
it was black and sooty within, and the devil was not at home, but his grandmother was sitting in a large arm-chair.
“what do you want?” said she to him, but she did not look so very wicked.
“i should like to have three golden hairs from the devil’s head,” answered he, “else i cannot keep my wife.” “that is a good deal to ask for,” said she; “if the devil comes home and finds you, it will cost you your life; but as i pity you, i will see if i cannot help you.”
she changed him into an ant and said, “creep into the folds of my dress, you will be safe there.” “yes,” answered he, “so far, so good; but there are three things besides that i want to know: why a fountain which once flowed with wine has become dry, and no longer gives even water; why a tree which once bore golden apples does not even put forth leaves; and why a ferry-man must always be going backwards and forwards, and is never set free?”
“those are difficult questions,” answered she, “but only be silent and quiet and pay attention to what the devil says when i pull out the three golden hairs.”
as the evening came on, the devil returned home.
no sooner had he entered than he noticed that the air was not pure.
“i smell man’s flesh,” said he; “all is not right here.” then he pried into every corner, and searched, but could not find anything.
his grandmother scolded him.
“it has just been swept,” said she, “and everything put in order, and now you are upsetting it again; you have always got man’s flesh in your nose.
sit down and eat your supper.”
when he had eaten and drunk he was tired, and laid his head in his grandmother’s lap, and before long he was fast asleep, snoring and breathing heavily.
then the old woman took hold of a golden hair, pulled it out, and laid it down near her.
“oh!” cried the devil, “what are you doing?” “i have had a bad dream,” answered the grandmother, “so i seized hold of your hair.” “what did you dream then?” said the devil.
“i dreamed that a fountain in a market-place from which wine once flowed was dried up, and not even water would flow out of it; what is the cause of it?” “oh, ho!
if they did but know it,” answered the devil; “there is a toad sitting under a stone in the well; if they killed it, the wine would flow again.”
he went to sleep again and snored until the windows shook.
then she pulled the second hair out.
“ha!
what are you doing?” cried the devil angrily.
“do not take it ill,” said she, “i did it in a dream.” “what have you dreamt this time?” asked he.
“i dreamt that in a certain kingdom there stood an apple-tree which had once borne golden apples, but now would not even bear leaves.
what, think you, was the reason?”
“oh!
if they did but know,” answered the devil.
“a mouse is gnawing at the root; if they killed this they would have golden apples again, but if it gnaws much longer the tree will wither altogether.
but leave me alone with your dreams: if you disturb me in my sleep again you will get a box on the ear.”
the grandmother spoke gently to him until he fell asleep again and snored.
then she took hold of the third golden hair and pulled it out.
the devil jumped up, roared out, and would have treated her ill if she had not quieted him once more and said, “who can help bad dreams?”
“what was the dream, then?” asked he, and was quite curious.
“i dreamt of a ferry-man who complained that he must always ferry from one side to the other, and was never released.
what is the cause of it?” “ah!
the fool,” answered the devil; “when any one comes and wants to go across he must put the oar in his hand, and the other man will have to ferry and he will be free.” as the grandmother had plucked out the three golden hairs, and the three questions were answered, she let the old serpent alone, and he slept until daybreak.
when the devil had gone out again the old woman took the ant out of the folds of her dress, and gave the luck-child his human shape again.
“there are the three golden hairs for you,” said she.
“what the devil said to your three questions, i suppose you heard?” “yes,” answered he, “i heard, and will take care to remember.” “you have what you want,”
said she, “and now you can go your way.” he thanked the old woman for helping him in his need, and left hell well content that everything had turned out so fortunately.
when he came to the ferry-man he was expected to give the promised answer.
“ferry me across first,” said the luck-child, “and then i will tell you how you can be set free,” and when he reached the opposite shore he gave him the devil’s advice: “next time any one comes, who wants to be ferried over, just put the oar in his hand.”
he went on and came to the town wherein stood the unfruitful tree, and there too the watchman wanted an answer.
so he told him what he had heard from the devil: “kill the mouse which is gnawing at its root, and it will again bear golden apples.” then the watchman thanked him, and gave him as a reward two asses laden with gold, which followed him.
at last he came to the town whose well was dry.
he told the watchman what the devil had said: “a toad is in the well beneath a stone; you must find it and kill it, and the well will again give wine in plenty.”
the watchman thanked him, and also gave him two asses laden with gold.
at last the luck-child got home to his wife, who was heartily glad to see him again, and to hear how well he had prospered in everything.
to the king he took what he had asked for, the devil’s three golden hairs, and when the king saw the four asses laden with gold he was quite content, and said, “now all the conditions are fulfilled, and you can keep my daughter.
but tell me, dear son-in-law, where did all that gold come from?
this is tremendous wealth!” “i was rowed across a river,”
answered he, “and got it there; it lies on the shore instead of sand.”
“can i too fetch some of it?” said the king; and he was quite eager about it.
“as much as you like,” answered he.
“there is a ferry-man on the river; let him ferry you over, and you can fill your sacks on the other side.” the greedy king set out in all haste, and when he came to the river he beckoned to the ferry-man to put him across.
the ferry-man came and bade him get in, and when they got to the other shore he put the oar in his hand and sprang out.
but from this time forth the king had to ferry, as a punishment for his sins.
perhaps he is ferrying still?
if he is, it is because no one has taken the oar from him.
30 the louse and the flea
a louse and a flea kept house together and were brewing beer in an egg-shell.
then the little louse fell in and burnt herself.
on this the little flea began to scream loudly.
then said the little room-door, “little flea, why art thou screaming?” “because the louse has burnt herself.”
then the little door began to creak.
on this a little broom in the corner said, “why art thou creaking, little door?” “have i not reason to creak?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping.”
so the little broom began to sweep frantically.
then a little cart passed by and said, “why art thou sweeping, little broom?” “have i not reason to sweep?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping, the little door is creaking.”
so the little cart said, “then i will run,” and began to run wildly.
then said the ash-heap by which it ran, “why art thou running so, little cart?” “have i not reason to run?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping, the little door is creaking, the little broom is sweeping.”
the ash-heap said, “then i will burn furiously,” and began to burn in clear flames.
a little tree stood near the ash-heap and said, “ash-heap, why art thou burning?” “have i not reason to burn?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping, the little door is creaking, the little broom is sweeping, the little cart is running.”
the little tree said, “then i will shake myself,” and began to shake herself so that all her leaves fell off; a girl who came up with her water-pitcher saw that, and said, “little tree, why art thou shaking thyself?” “have i not reason to shake myself?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping, the little door is creaking, the little broom is sweeping, the little cart is running, the little ash-heap is burning.”
on this the girl said, “then i will break my little water-pitcher,” and she broke her little water-pitcher.
then said the little spring from which ran the water, “girl, why art thou breaking thy water-jug?” “have i not reason to break my water-jug?”
“the little louse has burnt herself, the little flea is weeping, the little door is creaking, the little broom is sweeping, the little cart is running, the little ash-heap is burning, the little tree is shaking itself.”
“oh, ho!” said the spring, “then i will begin to flow,” and began to flow violently.
and in the water everything was drowned, the girl, the little tree, the little ash-heap, the little cart, the broom, the little door, the little flea, the little louse, all together.
31 the girl without hands
a certain miller had little by little fallen into poverty, and had nothing left but his mill and a large apple-tree behind it.
once when he had gone into the forest to fetch wood, an old man stepped up to him whom he had never seen before, and said, “why dost thou plague thyself with cutting wood, i will make thee rich, if thou wilt promise me what is standing behind thy mill?” “what can that be but my apple-tree?”
thought the miller, and said, “yes,” and gave a written promise to the stranger.
he, however, laughed mockingly and said, “when three years have passed, i will come and carry away what belongs to me,” and then he went.
when the miller got home, his wife came to meet him and said, “tell me, miller, from whence comes this sudden wealth into our house?
all at once every box and chest was filled; no one brought it in, and i know not how it happened.” he answered, “it comes from a stranger who met me in the forest, and promised me great treasure.
i, in return, have promised him what stands behind the mill; we can very well give him the big apple-tree for it.” “ah, husband,” said the terrified wife, “that must have been the devil!
he did not mean the apple-tree, but our daughter, who was standing behind the mill sweeping the yard.”
the miller’s daughter was a beautiful, pious girl, and lived through the three years in the fear of god and without sin.
when therefore the time was over, and the day came when the evil-one was to fetch her, she washed herself clean, and made a circle round herself with chalk.
the devil appeared quite early, but he could not come near to her.
angrily, he said to the miller, “take all water away from her, that she may no longer be able to wash herself, for otherwise i have no power over her.” the miller was afraid, and did so.
the next morning the devil came again, but she had wept on her hands, and they were quite clean.
again he could not get near her, and furiously said to the miller, “cut her hands off, or else i cannot get the better of her.” the miller was shocked and answered, “how could i cut off my own child’s hands?” then the evil-one threatened him and said, “if thou dost not do it thou art mine, and i will take thee thyself.” the father became alarmed, and promised to obey him.
so he went to the girl and said, “my child, if i do not cut off both thine hands, the devil will carry me away, and in my terror i have promised to do it.
help me in my need, and forgive me the harm i do thee.” she replied, “dear father, do with me what you will, i am your child.” thereupon she laid down both her hands, and let them be cut off.
the devil came for the third time, but she had wept so long and so much on the stumps, that after all they were quite clean.
then he had to give in, and had lost all right over her.
the miller said to her, “i have by means of thee received such great wealth that i will keep thee most delicately as long as thou livest.”
but she replied, “here i cannot stay, i will go forth, compassionate people will give me as much as i require.” thereupon she caused her maimed arms to be bound to her back, and by sunrise she set out on her way, and walked the whole day until night fell.
then she came to a royal garden, and by the shimmering of the moon she saw that trees covered with beautiful fruits grew in it, but she could not enter, for there was much water round about it.
and as she had walked the whole day and not eaten one mouthful, and hunger tormented her, she thought, “ah, if i were but inside, that i might eat of the fruit, else must i die of hunger!” then she knelt down, called on god the lord, and prayed.
and suddenly an angel came towards her, who made a dam in the water, so that the moat became dry and she could walk through it.
and now she went into the garden and the angel went with her.
she saw a tree covered with beautiful pears, but they were all counted.
then she went to them, and to still her hunger, ate one with her mouth from the tree, but no more.
the gardener was watching; but as the angel was standing by, he was afraid and thought the maiden was a spirit, and was silent, neither did he dare to cry out, or to speak to the spirit.
when she had eaten the pear, she was satisfied, and went and concealed herself among the bushes.
the king to whom the garden belonged, came down to it next morning, and counted, and saw that one of the pears was missing, and asked the gardener what had become of it, as it was not lying beneath the tree, but was gone.
then answered the gardener, “last night, a spirit came in, who had no hands, and ate off one of the pears with its mouth.” the king said, “how did the spirit get over the water, and where did it go after it had eaten the pear?” the gardener answered, “some one came in a snow-white garment from heaven who made a dam, and kept back the water, that the spirit might walk through the moat.
and as it must have been an angel, i was afraid, and asked no questions, and did not cry out.
when the spirit had eaten the pear, it went back again.” the king said, “if it be as thou sayest, i will watch with thee to-night.”
when it grew dark the king came into the garden and brought a priest with him, who was to speak to the spirit.
all three seated themselves beneath the tree and watched.
at midnight the maiden came creeping out of the thicket, went to the tree, and again ate one pear off it with her mouth, and beside her stood the angel in white garments.
then the priest went out to them and said, “comest thou from heaven or from earth?
art thou a spirit, or a human being?” she replied, “i am no spirit, but an unhappy mortal deserted by all but god.” the king said, “if thou art forsaken by all the world, yet will i not forsake thee.”
he took her with him into his royal palace, and as she was so beautiful and good, he loved her with all his heart, had silver hands made for her, and took her to wife.
after a year the king had to take the field, so he commended his young queen to the care of his mother and said, “if she is brought to bed take care of her, nurse her well, and tell me of it at once in a letter.” then she gave birth to a fine boy.
so the old mother made haste to write and announce the joyful news to him.
but the messenger rested by a brook on the way, and as he was fatigued by the great distance, he fell asleep.
then came the devil, who was always seeking to injure the good queen, and exchanged the letter for another, in which was written that the queen had brought a monster into the world.
when the king read the letter he was shocked and much troubled, but he wrote in answer that they were to take great care of the queen and nurse her well until his arrival.
the messenger went back with the letter, but rested at the same place and again fell asleep.
then came the devil once more, and put a different letter in his pocket, in which it was written that they were to put the queen and her child to death.
the old mother was terribly shocked when she received the letter, and could not believe it.
she wrote back again to the king, but received no other answer, because each time the devil substituted a false letter, and in the last letter it was also written that she was to preserve the queen’s tongue and eyes as a token that she had obeyed.
but the old mother wept to think such innocent blood was to be shed, and had a hind brought by night and cut out her tongue and eyes, and kept them.
then said she to the queen, “i cannot have thee killed as the king commands, but here thou mayst stay no longer.
go forth into the wide world with thy child, and never come here again.” the poor woman tied her child on her back, and went away with eyes full of tears.
she came into a great wild forest, and then she fell on her knees and prayed to god, and the angel of the lord appeared to her and led her to a little house on which was a sign with the words, “here all dwell free.” a snow-white maiden came out of the little house and said, “welcome, lady queen,” and conducted her inside.
then they unbound the little boy from her back, and held him to her breast that he might feed, and laid him in a beautifully-made little bed.
then said the poor woman, “from whence knowest thou that i was a queen?” the white maiden answered, “i am an angel sent by god, to watch over thee and thy child.” the queen stayed seven years in the little house, and was well cared for, and by god’s grace, because of her piety, her hands which had been cut off, grew once more.
at last the king came home again from the war, and his first wish was to see his wife and the child.
then his aged mother began to weep and said, “thou wicked man, why didst thou write to me that i was to take those two innocent lives?” and she showed him the two letters which the evil-one had forged, and then continued, “i did as thou badest me,” and she showed the tokens, the tongue and eyes.
then the king began to weep for his poor wife and his little son so much more bitterly than she was doing, that the aged mother had compassion on him and said, “be at peace, she still lives; i secretly caused a hind to be killed, and took these tokens from it; but i bound the child to thy wife’s back and bade her go forth into the wide world, and made her promise never to come back here again, because thou wert so angry with her.” then spoke the king, “i will go as far as the sky is blue, and will neither eat nor drink until i have found again my dear wife and my child, if in the meantime they have not been killed, or died of hunger.”
thereupon the king travelled about for seven long years, and sought her in every cleft of the rocks and in every cave, but he found her not, and thought she had died of want.
during the whole of this time he neither ate nor drank, but god supported him.
at length he came into a great forest, and found therein the little house whose sign was, “here all dwell free.” then forth came the white maiden, took him by the hand, led him in, and said, “welcome, lord king,” and asked him from whence he came.
he answered, “soon shall i have travelled about for the space of seven years, and i seek my wife and her child, but cannot find them.” the angel offered him meat and drink, but he did not take anything, and only wished to rest a little.
then he lay down to sleep, and put a handkerchief over his face.
thereupon the angel went into the chamber where the queen sat with her son, whom she usually called “sorrowful,” and said to her, “go out with thy child, thy husband hath come.” so she went to the place where he lay, and the handkerchief fell from his face.
then said she, “sorrowful, pick up thy father’s handkerchief, and cover his face again.” the child picked it up, and put it over his face again.
the king in his sleep heard what passed, and had pleasure in letting the handkerchief fall once more.
but the child grew impatient, and said, “dear mother, how can i cover my father’s face when i have no father in this world?
i have learnt to say the prayer, ‘our father, which art in heaven,’ thou hast told me that my father was in heaven, and was the good god, and how can i know a wild man like this?
he is not my father.” when the king heard that, he got up, and asked who they were.
then said she, “i am thy wife, and that is thy son, sorrowful.” and he saw her living hands, and said, “my wife had silver hands.” she answered, “the good god has caused my natural hands to grow again;” and the angel went into the inner room, and brought the silver hands, and showed them to him.
hereupon he knew for a certainty that it was his dear wife and his dear child, and he kissed them, and was glad, and said, “a heavy stone has fallen from off mine heart.” then the angel of god gave them one meal with her, and after that they went home to the king’s aged mother.
there were great rejoicings everywhere, and the king and queen were married again, and lived contentedly to their happy end.
32 clever hans
the mother of hans said, “whither away, hans?” hans answered, “to grethel.” “behave well, hans.” “oh, i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.” “good-bye, hans.” hans comes to grethel, “good day, grethel.”
“good day, hans.
what dost thou bring that is good?” “i bring nothing, i want to have something given me.” grethel presents hans with a needle.
hans says, “good-bye, grethel.” “good-bye, hans.”
hans takes the needle, sticks it into a hay-cart, and follows the cart home.
“good evening, mother.” “good evening, hans.
where hast thou been?” “with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “took nothing; had something given me.” “what did grethel give thee?” “gave me a needle.”
“where is the needle, hans?” “stuck it in the hay-cart.” “that was ill done, hans.
thou shouldst have stuck the needle in thy sleeve.” “never mind, i’ll do better next time.”
“whither away, hans?” “to grethel, mother.” “behave well, hans.” “oh, i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.” “good-bye, hans.”
hans comes to grethel.
“good day, grethel.” “good day, hans.
what dost thou bring that is good?” “i bring nothing; i want to have something given to me.” grethel presents hans with a knife.
“good-bye, grethel.”
“good-bye hans.” hans takes the knife, sticks it in his sleeve, and goes home.
“good evening, mother.” “good evening, hans.
where hast thou been?” “with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “took her nothing, she gave me something.” “what did grethel give thee?” “gave me a knife.” “where is the knife, hans?” “stuck in my sleeve.” “that’s ill done, hans, thou shouldst have put the knife in thy pocket.” “never mind, will do better next time.” “whither away, hans?” “to grethel, mother.” “behave well, hans.” “oh, i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.”
“good-bye, hans.”
hans comes to grethel.
“good day, grethel.” “good day, hans.
what good thing dost thou bring?” “i bring nothing, i want something given me.”
grethel presents hans with a young goat.
“good-bye, grethel.”
“good-bye, hans.” hans takes the goat, ties its legs, and puts it in his pocket.
when he gets home it is suffocated.
“good evening, mother.”
“good evening, hans.
where hast thou been?” “with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “took nothing, she gave me something.” “what did grethel give thee?” “she gave me a goat.” “where is the goat, hans?”
“put it in my pocket.” “that was ill done, hans, thou shouldst have put a rope round the goat’s neck.” “never mind, will do better next time.”
“whither away, hans?” “to grethel, mother.” “behave well, hans.” “oh, i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.” “good-bye, hans.” hans comes to grethel.
“good day, grethel.” “good day, hans.
what good thing dost thou bring?” “i bring nothing, i want something given me.” grethel presents hans with a piece of bacon.
“good-bye, grethel.” “good-bye, hans.”
hans takes the bacon, ties it to a rope, and drags it away behind him.
the dogs come and devour the bacon.
when he gets home, he has the rope in his hand, and there is no longer anything hanging to it.
“good evening, mother.” “good evening, hans.” “where hast thou been?” “with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “i took her nothing, she gave me something.” “what did grethel give thee?” “gave me a bit of bacon.”
“where is the bacon, hans?” “i tied it to a rope, brought it home, dogs took it.” “that was ill done, hans, thou shouldst have carried the bacon on thy head.” “never mind, will do better next time.” “whither away, hans?” “to grethel, mother.” “behave well, hans.” “i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.” “good-bye, hans.”
hans comes to grethel.
“good day, grethel.” “good day, hans.” “what good thing dost thou bring?” “i bring nothing, but would have something given.” grethel presents hans with a calf.
“good-bye, grethel.”
“good-bye, hans.”
hans takes the calf, puts it on his head, and the calf kicks his face.
“good evening, mother.” “good evening, hans.
where hast thou been?”
“with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “i took nothing, but had something given me.” “what did grethel give thee?” “a calf.” “where hast thou the calf, hans?” “i set it on my head and it kicked my face.”
“that was ill done, hans, thou shouldst have led the calf, and put it in the stall.” “never mind, will do better next time.”
“whither away, hans?” “to grethel, mother.” “behave well, hans.” “i’ll behave well.
good-bye, mother.” “good-bye, hans.”
hans comes to grethel.
“good day, grethel.” “good day, hans.
what good thing dost thou bring?” “i bring nothing, but would have something given.” grethel says to hans, “i will go with thee.”
hans takes grethel, ties her to a rope, leads her to the rack and binds her fast.
then hans goes to his mother.
“good evening, mother.” “good evening, hans.
where hast thou been?” “with grethel.” “what didst thou take her?” “i took her nothing.” “what did grethel give thee?” “she gave me nothing, she came with me.” “where hast thou left grethel?” “i led her by the rope, tied her to the rack, and scattered some grass for her.” “that was ill done, hans, thou shouldst have cast friendly eyes on her.” “never mind, will do better.”
hans went into the stable, cut out all the calves’ and sheep’s eyes, and threw them in grethel’s face.
then grethel became angry, tore herself loose and ran away, and became the bride of hans.
33 the three languages
an aged count once lived in switzerland, who had an only son, but he was stupid, and could learn nothing.
then said the father, “hark thee, my son, i can get nothing into thy head, let me try as i will.
thou must go from hence, i will give thee into the care of a celebrated master, who shall see what he can do with thee.” the youth was sent into a strange town, and remained a whole year with the master.
at the end of this time, he came home again, and his father asked, “now, my son, what hast thou learnt?” “father, i have learnt what the dogs say when they bark.” “lord have mercy on us!” cried the father; “is that all thou hast learnt?
i will send thee into another town, to another master.” the youth was taken thither, and stayed a year with this master likewise.
when he came back the father again asked, “my son, what hast thou learnt?” he answered, “father, i have learnt what the birds say.” then the father fell into a rage and said, “oh, thou lost man, thou hast spent the precious time and learnt nothing; art thou not ashamed to appear before mine eyes?
i will send thee to a third master, but if thou learnest nothing this time also, i will no longer be thy father.” the youth remained a whole year with the third master also, and when he came home again, and his father inquired, “my son, what hast thou learnt?” he answered, “dear father, i have this year learnt what the frogs croak.” then the father fell into the most furious anger, sprang up, called his people thither, and said, “this man is no longer my son, i drive him forth, and command you to take him out into the forest, and kill him.” they took him forth, but when they should have killed him, they could not do it for pity, and let him go, and they cut the eyes and the tongue out of a deer that they might carry them to the old man as a token.
the youth wandered on, and after some time came to a fortress where he begged for a night’s lodging.
“yes,” said the lord of the castle, “if thou wilt pass the night down there in the old tower, go thither; but i warn thee, it is at the peril of thy life, for it is full of wild dogs, which bark and howl without stopping, and at certain hours a man has to be given to them, whom they at once devour.” the whole district was in sorrow and dismay because of them, and yet no one could do anything to stop this.
the youth, however, was without fear, and said, “just let me go down to the barking dogs, and give me something that i can throw to them; they will do nothing to harm me.” as he himself would have it so, they gave him some food for the wild animals, and led him down to the tower.
when he went inside, the dogs did not bark at him, but wagged their tails quite amicably around him, ate what he set before them, and did not hurt one hair of his head.
next morning, to the astonishment of everyone, he came out again safe and unharmed, and said to the lord of the castle, “the dogs have revealed to me, in their own language, why they dwell there, and bring evil on the land.
they are bewitched, and are obliged to watch over a great treasure which is below in the tower, and they can have no rest until it is taken away, and i have likewise learnt, from their discourse, how that is to be done.” then all who heard this rejoiced, and the lord of the castle said he would adopt him as a son if he accomplished it successfully.
he went down again, and as he knew what he had to do, he did it thoroughly, and brought a chest full of gold out with him.
the howling of the wild dogs was henceforth heard no more; they had disappeared, and the country was freed from the trouble.
after some time he took it into his head that he would travel to rome.
on the way he passed by a marsh, in which a number of frogs were sitting croaking.
he listened to them, and when he became aware of what they were saying, he grew very thoughtful and sad.
at last he arrived in rome, where the pope had just died, and there was great difficulty as to whom they should appoint as his successor.
they at length agreed that the person should be chosen as pope who should be distinguished by some divine and miraculous token.
and just as that was decided on, the young count entered into the church, and suddenly two snow-white doves flew on his shoulders and remained sitting there.
the ecclesiastics recognized therein the token from above, and asked him on the spot if he would be pope.
he was undecided, and knew not if he were worthy of this, but the doves counselled him to do it, and at length he said yes.
then was he anointed and consecrated, and thus was fulfilled what he had heard from the frogs on his way, which had so affected him, that he was to be his holiness the pope.
then he had to sing a mass, and did not know one word of it, but the two doves sat continually on his shoulders, and said it all in his ear.
34 clever elsie
there was once a man who had a daughter who was called clever elsie.
and when she had grown up her father said, “we will get her married.”
“yes,” said the mother; “if only any one would come who would have her.” at length a man came from a distance and wooed her, who was called hans; but he stipulated that clever elsie should be really wise.
“oh,” said the father, “she’s sharp enough;” and the mother said, “oh, she can see the wind coming up the street, and hear the flies coughing.” “well,” said hans, “if she is not really wise, i won’t have her.” when they were sitting at dinner and had eaten, the mother said, “elsie, go into the cellar and fetch some beer.” then clever elsie took the pitcher from the wall, went into the cellar, and tapped the lid briskly as she went, so that the time might not appear long.
when she was below she fetched herself a chair, and set it before the barrel so that she had no need to stoop, and did not hurt her back or do herself any unexpected injury.
then she placed the can before her, and turned the tap, and while the beer was running she would not let her eyes be idle, but looked up at the wall, and after much peering here and there, saw a pick-axe exactly above her, which the masons had accidentally left there.
then clever elsie began to weep, and said, “if i get hans, and we have a child, and he grows big, and we send him into the cellar here to draw beer, then the pick-axe will fall on his head and kill him.” then she sat and wept and screamed with all the strength of her body, over the misfortune which lay before her.
those upstairs waited for the drink, but clever elsie still did not come.
then the woman said to the servant, “just go down into the cellar and see where elsie is.” the maid went and found her sitting in front of the barrel, screaming loudly.
“elsie, why weepest thou?” asked the maid.
“ah,” she answered, “have i not reason to weep?
if i get hans, and we have a child, and he grows big, and has to draw beer here, the pick-axe will perhaps fall on his head, and kill him.” then said the maid, “what a clever elsie we have!” and sat down beside her and began loudly to weep over the misfortune.
after a while, as the maid did not come back, those upstairs were thirsty for the beer, the man said to the boy, “just go down into the cellar and see where elsie and the girl are.” the boy went down, and there sat clever elsie and the girl both weeping together.
then he asked, “why are ye weeping?” “ah,” said elsie, “have i not reason to weep?
if i get hans, and we have a child, and he grows big, and has to draw beer here, the pick-axe will fall on his head and kill him.” then said the boy, “what a clever elsie we have!” and sat down by her, and likewise began to howl loudly.
upstairs they waited for the boy, but as he still did not return, the man said to the woman, “just go down into the cellar and see where elsie is!” the woman went down, and found all three in the midst of their lamentations, and inquired what was the cause; then elsie told her also that her future child was to be killed by the pick-axe, when it grew big and had to draw beer, and the pick-axe fell down.
then said the mother likewise, “what a clever elsie we have!” and sat down and wept with them.
the man upstairs waited a short time, but as his wife did not come back and his thirst grew ever greater, he said, “i must go into the cellar myself and see where elsie is.” but when he got into the cellar, and they were all sitting together crying, and he heard the reason, and that elsie’s child was the cause, and that elsie might perhaps bring one into the world some day, and that it might be killed by the pick-axe, if it should happen to be sitting beneath it, drawing beer just at the very time when it fell down, he cried, “oh, what a clever elsie!” and sat down, and likewise wept with them.
the bridegroom stayed upstairs alone for a long time; then as no one would come back he thought, “they must be waiting for me below; i too must go there and see what they are about.” when he got down, five of them were sitting screaming and lamenting quite piteously, each out-doing the other.
“what misfortune has happened then?” he asked.
“ah, dear hans,” said elsie, “if we marry each other and have a child, and he is big, and we perhaps send him here to draw something to drink, then the pick-axe which has been left up there might dash his brains out if it were to fall down, so have we not reason to weep?” “come,” said hans, “more understanding than that is not needed for my household, as thou art such a clever elsie, i will have thee,” and he seized her hand, took her upstairs with him, and married her.
after hans had had her some time, he said, “wife, i am going out to work and earn some money for us; go into the field and cut the corn that we may have some bread.” “yes, dear hans, i will do that.” after hans had gone away, she cooked herself some good broth and took it into the field with her.
when she came to the field she said to herself, “what shall i do; shall i shear first, or shall i eat first?
oh, i will eat first.” then she emptied her basin of broth, and when she was fully satisfied, she once more said, “what shall i do?
shall i shear first, or shall i sleep first?
i will sleep first.” then she lay down among the corn and fell asleep.
hans had been at home for a long time, but elsie did not come; then said he, “what a clever elsie i have; she is so industrious that she does not even come home to eat.” as, however, she still stayed away, and it was evening, hans went out to see what she had cut, but nothing was cut, and she was lying among the corn asleep.
then hans hastened home and brought a fowler’s net with little bells and hung it round about her, and she still went on sleeping.
then he ran home, shut the house-door, and sat down in his chair and worked.
at length, when it was quite dark, clever elsie awoke and when she got up there was a jingling all round about her, and the bells rang at each step which she took.
then she was alarmed, and became uncertain whether she really was clever elsie or not, and said, “is it i, or is it not i?” but she knew not what answer to make to this, and stood for a time in doubt; at length she thought, “i will go home and ask if it be i, or if it be not i, they will be sure to know.” she ran to the door of her own house, but it was shut; then she knocked at the window and cried, “hans, is elsie within?” “yes,” answered hans, “she is within.”
hereupon she was terrified, and said, “ah, heavens!
then it is not i,”
and went to another door; but when the people heard the jingling of the bells they would not open it, and she could get in nowhere.
then she ran out of the village, and no one has seen her since.
35 the tailor in heaven
one very fine day it came to pass that the good god wished to enjoy himself in the heavenly garden, and took all the apostles and saints with him, so that no one stayed in heaven but saint peter.
the lord had commanded him to let no one in during his absence, so peter stood by the door and kept watch.
before long some one knocked.
peter asked who was there, and what he wanted?
“i am a poor, honest tailor who prays for admission,” replied a smooth voice.
“honest indeed,” said peter, “like the thief on the gallows!
thou hast been light-fingered and hast snipped folks’ clothes away.
thou wilt not get into heaven.
the lord hath forbidden me to let any one in while he is out.” “come, do be merciful,” cried the tailor.
“little scraps which fall off the table of their own accord are not stolen, and are not worth speaking about.
look, i am lame, and have blisters on my feet with walking here, i cannot possibly turn back again.
only let me in, and i will do all the rough work.
i will carry the children, and wash their clothes, and wash and clean the benches on which they have been playing, and patch all their torn clothes.” saint peter let himself be moved by pity, and opened the door of heaven just wide enough for the lame tailor to slip his lean body in.
he was forced to sit down in a corner behind the door, and was to stay quietly and peaceably there, in order that the lord, when he returned, might not observe him and be angry.
the tailor obeyed, but once when saint peter went outside the door, he got up, and full of curiosity, went round about into every corner of heaven, and inspected the arrangement of every place.
at length he came to a spot where many beautiful and delightful chairs were standing, and in the midst was a seat all of gold which was set with shining jewels, likewise it was much higher than the other chairs, and a footstool of gold was before it.
it was, however, the seat on which the lord sat when he was at home, and from which he could see everything which happened on earth.
the tailor stood still, and looked at the seat for a long time, for it pleased him better than all else.
at last he could master his curiosity no longer, and climbed up and seated himself in the chair.
then he saw everything which was happening on earth, and observed an ugly old woman who was standing washing by the side of a stream, secretly laying two veils on one side for herself.
the sight of this made the tailor so angry that he laid hold of the golden footstool, and threw it down to earth through heaven, at the old thief.
as, however, he could not bring the stool back again, he slipped quietly out of the chair, seated himself in his place behind the door, and behaved as if he had never stirred from the spot.
when the lord and master came back again with his heavenly companions, he did not see the tailor behind the door, but when he seated himself on his chair the footstool was missing.
he asked saint peter what had become of the stool, but he did not know.
then he asked if he had let anyone come in.
“i know of no one who has been here,” answered peter, “but a lame tailor, who is still sitting behind the door.” then the lord had the tailor brought before him, and asked him if he had taken away the stool, and where he had put it?
“oh, lord,” answered the tailor joyously, “i threw it in my anger down to earth at an old woman whom i saw stealing two veils at the washing.” “oh, thou knave,” said the lord, “were i to judge as thou judgest, how dost thou think thou couldst have escaped so long?
i should long ago have had no chairs, benches, seats, nay, not even an oven-fork, but should have thrown everything down at the sinners.
henceforth thou canst stay no longer in heaven, but must go outside the door again.
then go where thou wilt.
no one shall give punishment here, but i alone, the lord.”
peter was obliged to take the tailor out of heaven again, and as he had torn shoes, and feet covered with blisters, he took a stick in his hand, and went to “wait-a-bit,” where the good soldiers sit and make merry.
36 the wishing-table, the gold-ass, and the cudgel in the sack
there was once upon a time a tailor who had three sons, and only one goat.
but as the goat supported the whole of them with her milk, she was obliged to have good food, and to be taken every day to pasture.
the sons, therefore, did this, in turn.
once the eldest took her to the churchyard, where the finest herbs were to be found, and let her eat and run about there.
at night when it was time to go home he asked, “goat, hast thou had enough?” the goat answered,
“i have eaten so much, not a leaf more i’ll touch, meh!
meh!”
“come home, then,” said the youth, and took hold of the cord round her neck, led her into the stable and tied her up securely.
“well,” said the old tailor, “has the goat had as much food as she ought?” “oh,”
answered the son, “she has eaten so much, not a leaf more she’ll touch.” but the father wished to satisfy himself, and went down to the stable, stroked the dear animal and asked, “goat, art thou satisfied?”
the goat answered,
“wherewithal should i be satisfied?
among the graves i leapt about, and found no food, so went without, meh!
meh!”
“what do i hear?” cried the tailor, and ran upstairs and said to the youth, “hollo, thou liar: thou saidest the goat had had enough, and hast let her hunger!” and in his anger he took the yard-measure from the wall, and drove him out with blows.
next day it was the turn of the second son, who looked out for a place in the fence of the garden, where nothing but good herbs grew, and the goat cleared them all off.
at night when he wanted to go home, he asked, “goat, art thou satisfied?” the goat answered,
“i have eaten so much, not a leaf more i’ll touch, meh!
meh!”
“come home, then,” said the youth, and led her home, and tied her up in the stable.
“well,” said the old tailor, “has the goat had as much food as she ought?” “oh,” answered the son, “she has eaten so much, not a leaf more she’ll touch.” the tailor would not rely on this, but went down to the stable and said, “goat, hast thou had enough?” the goat answered,
“wherewithal should i be satisfied?
among the graves i leapt about, and found no food, so went without, meh!
meh!”
“the godless wretch!” cried the tailor, “to let such a good animal hunger,” and he ran up and drove the youth out of doors with the yard-measure.
now came the turn of the third son, who wanted to do the thing well, and sought out some bushes with the finest leaves, and let the goat devour them.
in the evening when he wanted to go home, he asked, “goat, hast thou had enough?” the goat answered,
“i have eaten so much, not a leaf more i’ll touch, meh!
meh!”
“come home, then,” said the youth, and led her into the stable, and tied her up.
“well,” said the old tailor, “has the goat had a proper amount of food?” “she has eaten so much, not a leaf more she’ll touch.”
the tailor did not trust to that, but went down and asked, “goat, hast thou had enough?” the wicked beast answered,
“wherewithal should i be satisfied?
among the graves i leapt about, and found no leaves, so went without, meh!
meh!”
“oh, the brood of liars!” cried the tailor, “each as wicked and forgetful of his duty as the other!
ye shall no longer make a fool of me,” and quite beside himself with anger, he ran upstairs and belabored the poor young fellow so vigorously with the yard-measure that he sprang out of the house.
the old tailor was now alone with his goat.
next morning he went down into the stable, caressed the goat and said, “come, my dear little animal, i will take thee to feed myself.” he took her by the rope and conducted her to green hedges, and amongst milfoil, and whatever else goats like to eat.
“there thou mayest for once eat to thy heart’s content,” said he to her, and let her browse till evening.
then he asked, “goat, art thou satisfied?” she replied,
“i have eaten so much, not a leaf more i’ll touch, meh!
meh!”
“come home, then,” said the tailor, and led her into the stable, and tied her fast.
when he was going away, he turned round again and said, “well, art thou satisfied for once?” but the goat did not behave the better to him, and cried,
“wherewithal should i be satisfied?
among the graves i leapt about, and found no leaves, so went without, meh!
meh!”
when the tailor heard that, he was shocked, and saw clearly that he had driven away his three sons without cause.
“wait, thou ungrateful creature,” cried he, “it is not enough to drive thee forth, i will mark thee so that thou wilt no more dare to show thyself amongst honest tailors.” in great haste he ran upstairs, fetched his razor, lathered the goat’s head, and shaved her as clean as the palm of his hand.
and as the yard-measure would have been too good for her, he brought the horsewhip, and gave her such cuts with it that she ran away in violent haste.
when the tailor was thus left quite alone in his house he fell into great grief, and would gladly have had his sons back again, but no one knew whither they were gone.
the eldest had apprenticed himself to a joiner, and learnt industriously and indefatigably, and when the time came for him to go travelling, his master presented him with a little table which had no particular appearance, and was made of common wood, but it had one good property; if anyone set it out, and said, “little table, spread thyself,” the good little table was at once covered with a clean little cloth, and a plate was there, and a knife and fork beside it, and dishes with boiled meats and roasted meats, as many as there was room for, and a great glass of red wine shone so that it made the heart glad.
the young journeyman thought, “with this thou hast enough for thy whole life,” and went joyously about the world and never troubled himself at all whether an inn was good or bad, or if anything was to be found in it or not.
when it suited him he did not enter an inn at all, but either on the plain, in a wood, a meadow, or wherever he fancied, he took his little table off his back, set it down before him, and said, “cover thyself,” and then everything appeared that his heart desired.
at length he took it into his head to go back to his father, whose anger would now be appeased, and who would now willingly receive him with his wishing-table.
it came to pass that on his way home, he came one evening to an inn which was filled with guests.
they bade him welcome, and invited him to sit and eat with them, for otherwise he would have difficulty in getting anything.
“no,” answered the joiner, “i will not take the few bites out of your mouths; rather than that, you shall be my guests.” they laughed, and thought he was jesting with them; he, however, placed his wooden table in the middle of the room, and said, “little table, cover thyself.” instantly it was covered with food, so good that the host could never have procured it, and the smell of it ascended pleasantly to the nostrils of the guests.
“fall to, dear friends,” said the joiner; and the guests when they saw that he meant it, did not need to be asked twice, but drew near, pulled out their knives and attacked it valiantly.
and what surprised them the most was that when a dish became empty, a full one instantly took its place of its own accord.
the innkeeper stood in one corner and watched the affair; he did not at all know what to say, but thought, “thou couldst easily find a use for such a cook as that in thy kitchen.” the joiner and his comrades made merry until late into the night; at length they lay down to sleep, and the young apprentice also went to bed, and set his magic table against the wall.
the host’s thoughts, however, let him have no rest; it occurred to him that there was a little old table in his lumber-room which looked just like the apprentice’s and he brought it out quite softly, and exchanged it for the wishing-table.
next morning, the joiner paid for his bed, took up his table, never thinking that he had got a false one, and went his way.
at mid-day he reached his father, who received him with great joy.
“well, my dear son, what hast thou learnt?” said he to him.
“father, i have become a joiner.”
“a good trade,” replied the old man; “but what hast thou brought back with thee from thy apprenticeship?” “father, the best thing which i have brought back with me is this little table.” the tailor inspected it on all sides and said, “thou didst not make a masterpiece when thou mad’st that; it is a bad old table.” “but it is a table which furnishes itself,” replied the son.
“when i set it out, and tell it to cover itself, the most beautiful dishes stand on it, and a wine also, which gladdens the heart.
just invite all our relations and friends, they shall refresh and enjoy themselves for once, for the table will give them all they require.” when the company was assembled, he put his table in the middle of the room and said, “little table, cover thyself,” but the little table did not bestir itself, and remained just as bare as any other table which did not understand language.
then the poor apprentice became aware that his table had been changed, and was ashamed at having to stand there like a liar.
the relations, however, mocked him, and were forced to go home without having eaten or drunk.
the father brought out his patches again, and went on tailoring, but the son went to a master in the craft.
the second son had gone to a miller and had apprenticed himself to him.
when his years were over, the master said, “as thou hast conducted thyself so well, i give thee an ass of a peculiar kind, which neither draws a cart nor carries a sack.” “to what use is he put, then?” asked the young apprentice.
“he lets gold drop from his mouth,” answered the miller.
“if thou settest him on a cloth and sayest ‘bricklebrit,’ the good animal will drop gold pieces for thee.” “that is a fine thing,”
said the apprentice, and thanked the master, and went out into the world.
when he had need of gold, he had only to say “bricklebrit” to his ass, and it rained gold pieces, and he had nothing to do but pick them off the ground.
wheresoever he went, the best of everything was good enough for him, and the dearer the better, for he had always a full purse.
when he had looked about the world for some time, he thought, “thou must seek out thy father; if thou goest to him with the gold-ass he will forget his anger, and receive thee well.” it came to pass that he came to the same public-house in which his brother’s table had been exchanged.
he led his ass by the bridle, and the host was about to take the animal from him and tie him up, but the young apprentice said, “don’t trouble yourself, i will take my grey horse into the stable, and tie him up myself too, for i must know where he stands.” this struck the host as odd, and he thought that a man who was forced to look after his ass himself, could not have much to spend; but when the stranger put his hand in his pocket and brought out two gold pieces, and said he was to provide something good for him, the host opened his eyes wide, and ran and sought out the best he could muster.
after dinner the guest asked what he owed.
the host did not see why he should not double the reckoning, and said the apprentice must give two more gold pieces.
he felt in his pocket, but his gold was just at an end.
“wait an instant, sir host,” said he, “i will go and fetch some money;” but he took the table-cloth with him.
the host could not imagine what this could mean, and being curious, stole after him, and as the guest bolted the stable-door, he peeped through a hole left by a knot in the wood.
the stranger spread out the cloth under the animal and cried, “bricklebrit,” and immediately the beast began to let gold pieces fall, so that it fairly rained down money on the ground.
“eh, my word,” said the host, “ducats are quickly coined there!
a purse like that is not amiss.” the guest paid his score, and went to bed, but in the night the host stole down into the stable, led away the master of the mint, and tied up another ass in his place.
early next morning the apprentice travelled away with his ass, and thought that he had his gold-ass.
at mid-day he reached his father, who rejoiced to see him again, and gladly took him in.
“what hast thou made of thyself, my son?” asked the old man.
“a miller,” dear father, he answered.
“what hast thou brought back with thee from thy travels?” “nothing else but an ass.” “there are asses enough here,” said the father, “i would rather have had a good goat.” “yes,” replied the son, “but it is no common ass, but a gold-ass, when i say ‘bricklebrit,’ the good beast opens its mouth and drops a whole sheetful of gold pieces.
just summon all our relations hither, and i will make them rich folks.” “that suits me well,” said the tailor, “for then i shall have no need to torment myself any longer with the needle,” and ran out himself and called the relations together.
as soon as they were assembled, the miller bade them make way, spread out his cloth, and brought the ass into the room.
“now watch,” said he, and cried, “bricklebrit,” but no gold pieces fell, and it was clear that the animal knew nothing of the art, for every ass does not attain such perfection.
then the poor miller pulled a long face, saw that he was betrayed, and begged pardon of the relatives, who went home as poor as they came.
there was no help for it, the old man had to betake him to his needle once more, and the youth hired himself to a miller.
the third brother had apprenticed himself to a turner, and as that is skilled labour, he was the longest in learning.
his brothers, however, told him in a letter how badly things had gone with them, and how the innkeeper had cheated them of their beautiful wishing-gifts on the last evening before they reached home.
when the turner had served his time, and had to set out on his travels, as he had conducted himself so well, his master presented him with a sack and said, “there is a cudgel in it.” “i can put on the sack,” said he, “and it may be of good service to me, but why should the cudgel be in it?
it only makes it heavy.” “i will tell thee why,” replied the master; “if any one has done anything to injure thee, do but say, ‘out of the sack, cudgel!’ and the cudgel will leap forth among the people, and play such a dance on their backs that they will not be able to stir or move for a week, and it will not leave off until thou sayest, ‘into the sack, cudgel!’” the apprentice thanked him, and put the sack on his back, and when any one came too near him, and wished to attack him, he said, “out of the sack, cudgel!”
and instantly the cudgel sprang out, and dusted the coat or jacket of one after the other on their backs, and never stopped until it had stripped it off them, and it was done so quickly, that before anyone was aware, it was already his own turn.
in the evening the young turner reached the inn where his brothers had been cheated.
he laid his sack on the table before him, and began to talk of all the wonderful things which he had seen in the world.
“yes,” said he, “people may easily find a table which will cover itself, a gold-ass, and things of that kind—extremely good things which i by no means despise—but these are nothing in comparison with the treasure which i have won for myself, and am carrying about with me in my sack there.” the inn-keeper pricked up his ears, “what in the world can that be?” thought he; “the sack must be filled with nothing but jewels; i ought to get them cheap too, for all good things go in threes.” when it was time for sleep, the guest stretched himself on the bench, and laid his sack beneath him for a pillow.
when the inn-keeper thought his guest was lying in a sound sleep, he went to him and pushed and pulled quite gently and carefully at the sack to see if he could possibly draw it away and lay another in its place.
the turner had, however, been waiting for this for a long time, and now just as the inn-keeper was about to give a hearty tug, he cried, “out of the sack, cudgel!” instantly the little cudgel came forth, and fell on the inn-keeper and gave him a sound thrashing.
the host cried for mercy; but the louder he cried, so much more heavily the cudgel beat the time on his back, until at length he fell to the ground exhausted.
then the turner said, “if thou dost not give back the table which covers itself, and the gold-ass, the dance shall begin afresh.” “oh, no,” cried the host, quite humbly, “i will gladly produce everything, only make the accursed kobold creep back into the sack.”
then said the apprentice, “i will let mercy take the place of justice, but beware of getting into mischief again!” so he cried, “into the sack, cudgel!” and let him have rest.
next morning the turner went home to his father with the wishing-table, and the gold-ass.
the tailor rejoiced when he saw him once more, and asked him likewise what he had learned in foreign parts.
“dear father,”
said he, “i have become a turner.” “a skilled trade,” said the father.
“what hast thou brought back with thee from thy travels?”
“a precious thing, dear father,” replied the son, “a cudgel in the sack.”
“what!” cried the father, “a cudgel!
that’s worth thy trouble, indeed!
from every tree thou can cut thyself one.” “but not one like this, dear father.
if i say, ‘out of the sack, cudgel!’ the cudgel springs out and leads any one who means ill with me a weary dance, and never stops until he lies on the ground and prays for fair weather.
look you, with this cudgel have i got back the wishing-table and the gold-ass which the thievish inn-keeper took away from my brothers.
now let them both be sent for, and invite all our kinsmen.
i will give them to eat and to drink, and will fill their pockets with gold into the bargain.” the old tailor would not quite believe, but nevertheless got the relatives together.
then the turner spread a cloth in the room and led in the gold-ass, and said to his brother, “now, dear brother, speak to him.”
the miller said, “bricklebrit,” and instantly the gold pieces fell down on the cloth like a thunder-shower, and the ass did not stop until every one of them had so much that he could carry no more.
(i can see in thy face that thou also wouldst like to be there.)
then the turner brought the little table, and said, “now dear brother, speak to it.” and scarcely had the carpenter said, “table, cover thyself,” than it was spread and amply covered with the most exquisite dishes.
then such a meal took place as the good tailor had never yet known in his house, and the whole party of kinsmen stayed together till far in the night, and were all merry and glad.
the tailor locked away needle and thread, yard-measure and goose, in a press, and lived with his three sons in joy and splendour.
(what, however, has become of the goat who was to blame for the tailor driving out his three sons?
that i will tell thee.
she was ashamed that she had a bald head, and ran to a fox’s hole and crept into it.
when the fox came home, he was met by two great eyes shining out of the darkness, and was terrified and ran away.
a bear met him, and as the fox looked quite disturbed, he said, “what is the matter with thee, brother fox, why dost thou look like that?”
“ah,” answered redskin, “a fierce beast is in my cave and stared at me with its fiery eyes.” “we will soon drive him out,” said the bear, and went with him to the cave and looked in, but when he saw the fiery eyes, fear seized on him likewise; he would have nothing to do with the furious beast, and took to his heels.
the bee met him, and as she saw that he was ill at ease, she said, “bear, thou art really pulling a very pitiful face; what has become of all thy gaiety?” “it is all very well for thee to talk,” replied the bear, “a furious beast with staring eyes is in redskin’s house, and we can’t drive him out.” the bee said, “bear i pity thee, i am a poor weak creature whom thou wouldst not turn aside to look at, but still, i believe, i can help thee.” she flew into the fox’s cave, lighted on the goat’s smoothly-shorn head, and stung her so violently, that she sprang up, crying “meh, meh,” and ran forth into the world as if mad, and to this hour no one knows where she has gone.)
37 thumbling
there was once a poor peasant who sat in the evening by the hearth and poked the fire, and his wife sat and span.
then said he, “how sad it is that we have no children!
with us all is so quiet, and in other houses it is noisy and lively.”
“yes,” replied the wife, and sighed, “even if we had only one, and it were quite small, and only as big as a thumb, i should be quite satisfied, and we would still love it with all our hearts.” now it so happened that the woman fell ill, and after seven months gave birth to a child, that was perfect in all its limbs, but no longer than a thumb.
then said they, “it is as we wished it to be, and it shall be our dear child;” and because of its size, they called it thumbling.
they did not let it want for food, but the child did not grow taller, but remained as it had been at the first, nevertheless it looked sensibly out of its eyes, and soon showed itself to be a wise and nimble creature, for everything it did turned out well.
one day the peasant was getting ready to go into the forest to cut wood, when he said as if to himself, “how i wish that there was any one who would bring the cart to me!” “oh father,” cried thumbling, “i will soon bring the cart, rely on that; it shall be in the forest at the appointed time.” the man smiled and said, “how can that be done, thou art far too small to lead the horse by the reins?” “that’s of no consequence, father, if my mother will only harness it, i shall sit in the horse’s ear and call out to him how he is to go.” “well,” answered the man, “for once we will try it.”
when the time came, the mother harnessed the horse, and placed thumbling in its ear, and then the little creature cried, “gee up, gee up!”
then it went quite properly as if with its master, and the cart went the right way into the forest.
it so happened that just as he was turning a corner, and the little one was crying, “gee up,” two strange men came towards him.
“my word!” said one of them, “what is this?
there is a cart coming, and a driver is calling to the horse and still he is not to be seen!” “that can’t be right,” said the other, “we will follow the cart and see where it stops.” the cart, however, drove right into the forest, and exactly to the place where the wood had been cut.
when thumbling saw his father, he cried to him, “seest thou, father, here i am with the cart; now take me down.” the father got hold of the horse with his left hand and with the right took his little son out of the ear.
thumbling sat down quite merrily on a straw, but when the two strange men saw him, they did not know what to say for astonishment.
then one of them took the other aside and said, “hark, the little fellow would make our fortune if we exhibited him in a large town, for money.
we will buy him.” they went to the peasant and said, “sell us the little man.
he shall be well treated with us.” “no,” replied the father, “he is the apple of my eye, and all the money in the world cannot buy him from me.” thumbling, however, when he heard of the bargain, had crept up the folds of his father’s coat, placed himself on his shoulder, and whispered in his ear, “father do give me away, i will soon come back again.” then the father parted with him to the two men for a handsome bit of money.
“where wilt thou sit?” they said to him.
“oh just set me on the rim of your hat, and then i can walk backwards and forwards and look at the country, and still not fall down.” they did as he wished, and when thumbling had taken leave of his father, they went away with him.
they walked until it was dusk, and then the little fellow said, “do take me down, i want to come down.” the man took his hat off, and put the little fellow on the ground by the wayside, and he leapt and crept about a little between the sods, and then he suddenly slipped into a mouse-hole which he had sought out.
“good evening, gentlemen, just go home without me,” he cried to them, and mocked them.
they ran thither and stuck their sticks into the mouse-hole, but it was all lost labour.
thumbling crept still farther in, and as it soon became quite dark, they were forced to go home with their vexation and their empty purses.
when thumbling saw that they were gone, he crept back out of the subterranean passage.
“it is so dangerous to walk on the ground in the dark,” said he; “how easily a neck or a leg is broken!” fortunately he knocked against an empty snail-shell.
“thank god!” said he.
“in that i can pass the night in safety,” and got into it.
not long afterwards, when he was just going to sleep, he heard two men go by, and one of them was saying, “how shall we contrive to get hold of the rich pastor’s silver and gold?” “i could tell thee that,” cried thumbling, interrupting them.
“what was that?” said one of the thieves in fright, “i heard some one speaking.” they stood still listening, and thumbling spoke again, and said, “take me with you, and i’ll help you.”
“but where art thou?” “just look on the ground, and observe from whence my voice comes,” he replied.
there the thieves at length found him, and lifted him up.
“thou little imp, how wilt thou help us?” they said.
“a great deal,” said he, “i will creep into the pastor’s room through the iron bars, and will reach out to you whatever you want to have.” “come then,” they said, “and we will see what thou canst do.” when they got to the pastor’s house, thumbling crept into the room, but instantly cried out with all his might, “do you want to have everything that is here?” the thieves were alarmed, and said, “but do speak softly, so as not to waken any one!” thumbling however, behaved as if he had not understood this, and cried again, “what do you want?
do you want to have everything that is here?” the cook, who slept in the next room, heard this and sat up in bed, and listened.
the thieves, however, had in their fright run some distance away, but at last they took courage, and thought, “the little rascal wants to mock us.” they came back and whispered to him, “come, be serious, and reach something out to us.”
then thumbling again cried as loudly as he could, “i really will give you everything, just put your hands in.” the maid who was listening, heard this quite distinctly, and jumped out of bed and rushed to the door.
the thieves took flight, and ran as if the wild huntsman were behind them, but as the maid could not see anything, she went to strike a light.
when she came to the place with it, thumbling, unperceived, betook himself to the granary, and the maid, after she had examined every corner and found nothing, lay down in her bed again, and believed that, after all, she had only been dreaming with open eyes and ears.
thumbling had climbed up among the hay and found a beautiful place to sleep in; there he intended to rest until day, and then go home again to his parents.
but he had other things to go through.
truly, there is much affliction and misery in this world!
when day dawned, the maid arose from her bed to feed the cows.
her first walk was into the barn, where she laid hold of an armful of hay, and precisely that very one in which poor thumbling was lying asleep.
he, however, was sleeping so soundly that he was aware of nothing, and did not awake until he was in the mouth of the cow, who had picked him up with the hay.
“ah, heavens!” cried he, “how have i got into the fulling mill?” but he soon discovered where he was.
then it was necessary to be careful not to let himself go between the teeth and be dismembered, but he was nevertheless forced to slip down into the stomach with the hay.
“in this little room the windows are forgotten,” said he, “and no sun shines in, neither will a candle be brought.” his quarters were especially unpleasing to him, and the worst was, more and more hay was always coming in by the door, and the space grew less and less.
then at length in his anguish, he cried as loud as he could, “bring me no more fodder, bring me no more fodder.” the maid was just milking the cow, and when she heard some one speaking, and saw no one, and perceived that it was the same voice that she had heard in the night, she was so terrified that she slipped off her stool, and spilt the milk.
she ran in great haste to her master, and said, “oh heavens, pastor, the cow has been speaking!” “thou art mad,” replied the pastor; but he went himself to the byre to see what was there.
hardly, however had he set his foot inside when thumbling again cried, “bring me no more fodder, bring me no more fodder.” then the pastor himself was alarmed, and thought that an evil spirit had gone into the cow, and ordered her to be killed.
she was killed, but the stomach, in which thumbling was, was thrown on the midden.
thumbling had great difficulty in working his way; however, he succeeded so far as to get some room, but just as he was going to thrust his head out, a new misfortune occurred.
a hungry wolf ran thither, and swallowed the whole stomach at one gulp.
thumbling did not lose courage.
“perhaps,” thought he, “the wolf will listen to what i have got to say,” and he called to him from out of his stomach, “dear wolf, i know of a magnificent feast for you.”
“where is it to be had?” said the wolf.
“in such and such a house; thou must creep into it through the kitchen-sink, and wilt find cakes, and bacon, and sausages, and as much of them as thou canst eat,” and he described to him exactly his father’s house.
the wolf did not require to be told this twice, squeezed himself in at night through the sink, and ate to his heart’s content in the larder.
when he had eaten his fill, he wanted to go out again, but he had become so big that he could not go out by the same way.
thumbling had reckoned on this, and now began to make a violent noise in the wolf’s body, and raged and screamed as loudly as he could.
“wilt thou be quiet,” said the wolf, “thou wilt waken up the people!”
“eh, what,” replied the little fellow, “thou hast eaten thy fill, and i will make merry likewise,” and began once more to scream with all his strength.
at last his father and mother were aroused by it, and ran to the room and looked in through the opening in the door.
when they saw that a wolf was inside, they ran away, and the husband fetched his axe, and the wife the scythe.
“stay behind,” said the man, when they entered the room.
“when i have given him a blow, if he is not killed by it, thou must cut him down and hew his body to pieces.” then thumbling heard his parents, voices and cried, “dear father, i am here; i am in the wolf’s body.” said the father, full of joy, “thank god, our dear child has found us again,” and bade the woman take away her scythe, that thumbling might not be hurt with it.
after that he raised his arm, and struck the wolf such a blow on his head that he fell down dead, and then they got knives and scissors and cut his body open and drew the little fellow forth.
“ah,” said the father, “what sorrow we have gone through for thy sake.” “yes father, i have gone about the world a great deal.
thank heaven, i breathe fresh air again!” “where hast thou been, then?” “ah, father, i have been in a mouse’s hole, in a cow’s stomach, and then in a wolf’s; now i will stay with you.” “and we will not sell thee again, no, not for all the riches in the world,” said his parents, and they embraced and kissed their dear thumbling.
they gave him to eat and to drink, and had some new clothes made for him, for his own had been spoiled on his journey.
38 the wedding of mrs. fox
first story
there was once on a time an old fox with nine tails, who believed that his wife was not faithful to him, and wished to try her.
he stretched himself out under the bench, did not move a limb, and behaved as if he were stone dead.
mrs. fox went up to her room, shut herself in, and her maid, miss cat, sat by the fire, and did the cooking.
when it became known that the old fox was dead, wooers presented themselves.
the maid heard some one standing at the house-door, knocking.
she went and opened it, and it was a young fox, who said,
“what may you be about, miss cat?
do you sleep or do you wake?”
she answered,
“i am not sleeping, i am waking, wouldst thou know what i am making?
i am boiling warm beer with butter so nice, will the gentleman enter and drink some likewise?”
“no, thank you, miss,” said the fox, “what is mrs. fox doing?” the maid replied,
“she sits all alone, and makes her moan, weeping her little eyes quite red, because old mr. fox is dead.”
“do just tell her, miss, that a young fox is here, who would like to woo her.” “certainly, young sir.”
the cat goes up the stairs trip, trap, the door she knocks at tap, tap, tap, “mistress fox, are you inside?”
“oh yes, my little cat,” she cried.
“a wooer he stands at the door out there.”
“tell me what he is like, my dear?”
“but has he nine as beautiful tails as the late mr. fox?” “oh, no,”
answered the cat, “he has only one.”
“then i will not have him.” miss cat went downstairs and sent the wooer away.
soon afterwards there was another knock, and another fox was at the door who wished to woo mrs. fox.
he had two tails, but he did not fare better than the first.
after this still more came, each with one tail more than the other, but they were all turned away, until at last one came who had nine tails, like old mr. fox.
when the widow heard that, she said joyfully to the cat,
“now open the gates and doors all wide, and carry old mr. fox outside.”
but just as the wedding was going to be solemnized, old mr. fox stirred under the bench, and cudgelled all the rabble, and drove them and mrs.
fox out of the house.
second story
when old mr. fox was dead, the wolf came as a wooer, and knocked at the door, and the cat who was servant to mrs. fox, opened it for him.
the wolf greeted her, and said,
“good day, mrs. cat of kehrewit, “how comes it that alone you sit?
what are you making good?”
the cat replied,
“in milk i’m breaking bread so sweet, will the gentleman please come in and eat?”
“no, thank you, mrs. cat,” answered the wolf.
“is mrs. fox not at home?”
the cat said,
“she sits upstairs in her room, bewailing her sorrowful doom, bewailing her trouble so sore, for old mr. fox is no more.”
the wolf answered,
“if she’s in want of a husband now, then will it please her to step below?”
the cat runs quickly up the stair, and lets her tail fly here and there, until she comes to the parlour door.
with her five gold rings at the door she knocks, “are you within, good mistress fox?
if you’re in want of a husband now, then will it please you to step below?
mrs. fox asked, “has the gentleman red stockings on’ and has he a pointed mouth?” “no,” answered the cat.
“then he won’t do for me.”
when the wolf was gone, came a dog, a stag, a hare, a bear, a lion, and all the beasts of the forest, one after the other.
but one of the good points which old mr. fox had possessed, was always lacking, and the cat had continually to send the wooers away.
at length came a young fox.
then mrs. fox said, “has the gentleman red stockings on, and has he a little pointed mouth?” “yes,” said the cat, “he has.” “then let him come upstairs,” said mrs. fox, and ordered the servant to prepare the wedding-feast.
“sweep me the room as clean as you can, up with the window, fling out my old man!
for many a fine fat mouse he brought, yet of his wife he never thought, but ate up every one he caught.”
then the wedding was solemnized with young mr. fox, and there was much rejoicing and dancing; and if they have not left off, they are dancing still.
39 the elves
first story
a shoemaker, by no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had nothing left but leather for one pair of shoes.
so in the evening, he cut out the shoes which he wished to begin to make the next morning, and as he had a good conscience, he lay down quietly in his bed, commended himself to god, and fell asleep.
in the morning, after he had said his prayers, and was just going to sit down to work, the two shoes stood quite finished on his table.
he was astounded, and knew not what to say to it.
he took the shoes in his hands to observe them closer, and they were so neatly made that there was not one bad stitch in them, just as if they were intended as a masterpiece.
soon after, a buyer came in, and as the shoes pleased him so well, he paid more for them than was customary, and, with the money, the shoemaker was able to purchase leather for two pairs of shoes.
he cut them out at night, and next morning was about to set to work with fresh courage; but he had no need to do so, for, when he got up, they were already made, and buyers also were not wanting, who gave him money enough to buy leather for four pairs of shoes.
the following morning, too, he found the four pairs made; and so it went on constantly, what he cut out in the evening was finished by the morning, so that he soon had his honest independence again, and at last became a wealthy man.
now it befell that one evening not long before christmas, when the man had been cutting out, he said to his wife, before going to bed, “what think you if we were to stay up to-night to see who it is that lends us this helping hand?” the woman liked the idea, and lighted a candle, and then they hid themselves in a corner of the room, behind some clothes which were hanging up there, and watched.
when it was midnight, two pretty little naked men came, sat down by the shoemaker’s table, took all the work which was cut out before them and began to stitch, and sew, and hammer so skilfully and so quickly with their little fingers that the shoemaker could not turn away his eyes for astonishment.
they did not stop until all was done, and stood finished on the table, and they ran quickly away.
next morning the woman said, “the little men have made us rich, and we really must show that we are grateful for it.
they run about so, and have nothing on, and must be cold.
i’ll tell thee what i’ll do: i will make them little shirts, and coats, and vests, and trousers, and knit both of them a pair of stockings, and do thou, too, make them two little pairs of shoes.” the man said, “i shall be very glad to do it;”
and one night, when everything was ready, they laid their presents all together on the table instead of the cut-out work, and then concealed themselves to see how the little men would behave.
at midnight they came bounding in, and wanted to get to work at once, but as they did not find any leather cut out, but only the pretty little articles of clothing, they were at first astonished, and then they showed intense delight.
they dressed themselves with the greatest rapidity, putting the pretty clothes on, and singing,
“now we are boys so fine to see, why should we longer cobblers be?”
then they danced and skipped and leapt over chairs and benches.
at last they danced out of doors.
from that time forth they came no more, but as long as the shoemaker lived all went well with him, and all his undertakings prospered.
second story
there was once a poor servant-girl, who was industrious and cleanly, and swept the house every day, and emptied her sweepings on the great heap in front of the door.
one morning when she was just going back to her work, she found a letter on this heap, and as she could not read, she put her broom in the corner, and took the letter to her master and mistress, and behold it was an invitation from the elves, who asked the girl to hold a child for them at its christening.
the girl did not know what to do, but at length, after much persuasion, and as they told her that it was not right to refuse an invitation of this kind, she consented.
then three elves came and conducted her to a hollow mountain, where the little folks lived.
everything there was small, but more elegant and beautiful than can be described.
the baby’s mother lay in a bed of black ebony ornamented with pearls, the coverlids were embroidered with gold, the cradle was of ivory, the bath of gold.
the girl stood as godmother, and then wanted to go home again, but the little elves urgently entreated her to stay three days with them.
so she stayed, and passed the time in pleasure and gaiety, and the little folks did all they could to make her happy.
at last she set out on her way home.
then first they filled her pockets quite full of money, and after that they led her out of the mountain again.
when she got home, she wanted to begin her work, and took the broom, which was still standing in the corner, in her hand and began to sweep.
then some strangers came out of the house, who asked her who she was, and what business she had there?
and she had not, as she thought, been three days with the little men in the mountains, but seven years, and in the meantime her former masters had died.
third story
a certain mother’s child had been taken away out of its cradle by the elves, and a changeling with a large head and staring eyes, which would do nothing but eat and drink, laid in its place.
in her trouble she went to her neighbour, and asked her advice.
the neighbour said that she was to carry the changeling into the kitchen, set it down on the hearth, light a fire, and boil some water in two egg-shells, which would make the changeling laugh, and if he laughed, all would be over with him.
the woman did everything that her neighbour bade her.
when she put the egg-shells with water on the fire, the imp said, “i am as old now as the wester forest, but never yet have i seen any one boil anything in an egg-shell!” and he began to laugh at it.
whilst he was laughing, suddenly came a host of little elves, who brought the right child, set it down on the hearth, and took the changeling away with them.
40 the robber bridegroom
there was once on a time a miller, who had a beautiful daughter, and as she was grown up, he wished that she was provided for, and well married.
he thought, “if any good suitor comes and asks for her, i will give her to him.” not long afterwards, a suitor came, who appeared to be very rich, and as the miller had no fault to find with him, he promised his daughter to him.
the maiden, however, did not like him quite so much as a girl should like the man to whom she is engaged, and had no confidence in him.
whenever she saw, or thought of him, she felt a secret horror.
once he said to her, “thou art my betrothed, and yet thou hast never once paid me a visit.” the maiden replied, “i know not where thy house is.” then said the bridegroom, “my house is out there in the dark forest.” she tried to excuse herself and said she could not find the way there.
the bridegroom said, “next sunday thou must come out there to me; i have already invited the guests, and i will strew ashes in order that thou mayst find thy way through the forest.” when sunday came, and the maiden had to set out on her way, she became very uneasy, she herself knew not exactly why, and to mark her way she filled both her pockets full of peas and lentils.
ashes were strewn at the entrance of the forest, and these she followed, but at every step she threw a couple of peas on the ground.
she walked almost the whole day until she reached the middle of the forest, where it was the darkest, and there stood a solitary house, which she did not like, for it looked so dark and dismal.
she went inside it, but no one was within, and the most absolute stillness reigned.
suddenly a voice cried,
“turn back, turn back, young maiden dear, ’tis a murderer’s house you enter here.”
the maiden looked up, and saw that the voice came from a bird, which was hanging in a cage on the wall.
again it cried,
“turn back, turn back, young maiden dear, ’tis a murderer’s house you enter here.”
then the young maiden went on farther from one room to another, and walked through the whole house, but it was entirely empty and not one human being was to be found.
at last she came to the the cellar, and there sat an extremely aged woman, whose head shook constantly.
“can you not tell me,” said the maiden, “if my betrothed lives here?”
“alas, poor child,” replied the old woman, “whither hast thou come?
thou art in a murderer’s den.
thou thinkest thou art a bride soon to be married, but thou wilt keep thy wedding with death.
look, i have been forced to put a great kettle on there, with water in it, and when they have thee in their power, they will cut thee to pieces without mercy, will cook thee, and eat thee, for they are eaters of human flesh.
if i do not have compassion on thee, and save thee, thou art lost.”
thereupon the old woman led her behind a great hogshead where she could not be seen.
“be as still as a mouse,” said she, “do not make a sound, or move, or all will be over with thee.
at night, when the robbers are asleep, we will escape; i have long waited for an opportunity.” hardly was this done, than the godless crew came home.
they dragged with them another young girl.
they were drunk, and paid no heed to her screams and lamentations.
they gave her wine to drink, three glasses full, one glass of white wine, one glass of red, and a glass of yellow, and with this her heart burst in twain.
thereupon they tore off her delicate raiment, laid her on a table, cut her beautiful body in pieces and strewed salt thereon.
the poor bride behind the cask trembled and shook, for she saw right well what fate the robbers had destined for her.
one of them noticed a gold ring on the little finger of the murdered girl, and as it would not come off at once, he took an axe and cut the finger off, but it sprang up in the air, away over the cask and fell straight into the bride’s bosom.
the robber took a candle and wanted to look for it, but could not find it.
then another of them said, “hast thou looked behind the great hogshead?” but the old woman cried, “come and get something to eat, and leave off looking till the morning, the finger won’t run away from you.”
then the robbers said, “the old woman is right,” and gave up their search, and sat down to eat, and the old woman poured a sleeping-draught in their wine, so that they soon lay down in the cellar, and slept and snored.
when the bride heard that, she came out from behind the hogshead, and had to step over the sleepers, for they lay in rows on the ground, and great was her terror lest she should waken one of them.
but god helped her, and she got safely over.
the old woman went up with her, opened the doors, and they hurried out of the murderers’ den with all the speed in their power.
the wind had blown away the strewn ashes, but the peas and lentils had sprouted and grown up, and showed them the way in the moonlight.
they walked the whole night, until in the morning they arrived at the mill, and then the maiden told her father everything exactly as it had happened.
when the day came when the wedding was to be celebrated, the bridegroom appeared, and the miller had invited all his relations and friends.
as they sat at table, each was bidden to relate something.
the bride sat still, and said nothing.
then said the bridegroom to the bride, “come, my darling, dost thou know nothing?
relate something to us like the rest.” she replied, “then i will relate a dream.
i was walking alone through a wood, and at last i came to a house, in which no living soul was, but on the wall there was a bird in a cage which cried,
“turn back, turn back, young maiden dear, ’tis a murderer’s house you enter here.”
and this it cried once more.
‘my darling, i only dreamt this.
then i went through all the rooms, and they were all empty, and there was something so horrible about them!
at last i went down into the cellar, and there sat a very very old woman, whose head shook; i asked her, ‘does my bridegroom live in this house?
she answered, ‘alas poor child, thou hast got into a murderer’s den, thy bridegroom does live here, but he will hew thee in pieces, and kill thee, and then he will cook thee, and eat thee.’ my darling, i only dreamt this.
but the old woman hid me behind a great hogshead, and, scarcely was i hidden, when the robbers came home, dragging a maiden with them, to whom they gave three kinds of wine to drink, white, red, and yellow, with which her heart broke in twain.
my darling, i only dreamt this.
thereupon they pulled off her pretty clothes, and hewed her fair body in pieces on a table, and sprinkled them with salt.
my darling, i only dreamt this.
and one of the robbers saw that there was still a ring on her little finger, and as it was hard to draw off, he took an axe and cut it off, but the finger sprang up in the air, and sprang behind the great hogshead, and fell in my bosom.
and there is the finger with the ring!” and with these words she drew it forth, and showed it to those present.
the robber, who had during this story become as pale as ashes, leapt up and wanted to escape, but the guests held him fast, and delivered him over to justice.
then he and his whole troop were executed for their infamous deeds.
41 herr korbes
there were once a cock and a hen who wanted to take a journey together.
so the cock built a beautiful carriage, which had four red wheels, and harnessed four mice to it.
the hen seated herself in it with the cock, and they drove away together.
not long afterwards they met a cat who said, “where are you going?” the cock replied, “we are going to the house of herr korbes.” “take me with you,” said the cat.
the cock answered, “most willingly, get up behind, lest you fall off in front.
take great care not to dirty my little red wheels.
and you little wheels, roll on, and you little mice pipe out, as we go forth on our way to the house of herr korbes.”
after this came a millstone, then an egg, then a duck, then a pin, and at last a needle, who all seated themselves in the carriage, and drove with them.
when, however, they reached the house of herr korbes, herr korbes was not there.
the mice drew the carriage into the barn, the hen flew with the cock upon a perch.
the cat sat down by the hearth, the duck on the well-pole.
the egg rolled itself into a towel, the pin stuck itself into the chair-cushion, the needle jumped on to the bed in the middle of the pillow, and the millstone laid itself over the door.
then herr korbes came home, went to the hearth, and was about to light the fire, when the cat threw a quantity of ashes in his face.
he ran into the kitchen in a great hurry to wash it off, and the duck splashed some water in his face.
he wanted to dry it with the towel, but the egg rolled up against him, broke, and glued up his eyes.
he wanted to rest, and sat down in the chair, and then the pin pricked him.
he fell in a passion, and threw himself on his bed, but as soon as he laid his head on the pillow, the needle pricked him, so that he screamed aloud, and was just going to run out into the wide world in his rage, but when he came to the house-door, the millstone leapt down and struck him dead.
herr korbes must have been a very wicked man!
42 the godfather
a poor man had so many children that he had already asked every one in the world to be godfather, and when still another child was born, no one else was left whom he could invite.
he knew not what to do, and, in his perplexity, he lay down and fell asleep.
then he dreamt that he was to go outside the gate, and ask the first person who met him to be godfather.
when he awoke, he determined to obey his dream, and went outside the gate, and asked the first person who came up to him to be godfather.
the stranger presented him with a little glass of water, and said, “this is a wonderful water, with it thou canst heal the sick, only thou must see where death is standing.
if he is standing by the patient’s head, give the patient some of the water and he will be healed, but if death is standing by his feet, all trouble will be in vain, for the sick man must die.” from this time forth, the man could always say whether a patient could be saved or not, and became famous for his skill, and earned a great deal of money.
once he was called in to the child of the king, and when he entered, he saw death standing by the child’s head and cured it with the water, and he did the same a second time, but the third time death was standing by its feet, and then he knew the child was forced to die.
once the man thought he would visit the godfather, and tell him how he had succeeded with the water.
but when he entered the house, it was such a strange establishment!
on the first flight of stairs, the broom and shovel were disputing, and knocking each other about violently.
he asked them, “where does the godfather live?” the broom replied, “one flight of stairs higher up.” when he came to the second flight, he saw a heap of dead fingers lying.
he asked, “where does the godfather live?” one of the fingers replied, “one flight of stairs higher.” on the third flight lay a heap of dead heads, which again directed him to the flight beyond.
on the fourth flight, he saw fishes on the fire, which frizzled in the pans and baked themselves.
they, too, said, “one flight of stairs higher.” and when he had ascended the fifth, he came to the door of a room and peeped through the keyhole, and there he saw the godfather who had a pair of long horns.
when he opened the door and went in, the godfather got into bed in a great hurry and covered himself up.
then said the man, “sir godfather, what a strange household you have!
when i came to your first flight of stairs, the shovel and broom were quarreling, and beating each other violently.”
“how stupid you are!” said the godfather.
“that was the boy and the maid talking to each other.” “but on the second flight i saw dead fingers lying.” “oh, how silly you are!
those were some roots of scorzonera.” “on the third flight lay a heap of dead men’s heads.”
“foolish man, those were cabbages.” “on the fourth flight, i saw fishes in a pan, which were hissing and baking themselves.” when he had said that, the fishes came and served themselves up.
“and when i got to the fifth flight, i peeped through the keyhole of a door, and there, godfather, i saw you, and you had long, long horns.” “oh, that is a lie!” the man became alarmed, and ran out, and if he had not, who knows what the godfather would have done to him.
43 frau trude
there was once a little girl who was obstinate and inquisitive, and when her parents told her to do anything, she did not obey them, so how could she fare well?
one day she said to her parents, “i have heard so much of frau trude, i will go to her some day.
people say that everything about her does look so strange, and that there are such odd things in her house, that i have become quite curious!” her parents absolutely forbade her, and said, “frau trude is a bad woman, who does wicked things, and if thou goest to her; thou art no longer our child.”
but the maiden did not let herself be turned aside by her parent’s prohibition, and still went to frau trude.
and when she got to her, frau trude said, “why art thou so pale?” “ah,” she replied, and her whole body trembled, “i have been so terrified at what i have seen.”
“what hast thou seen?” “i saw a black man on your steps.” “that was a collier.” “then i saw a green man.” “that was a huntsman.” “after that i saw a blood-red man.” “that was a butcher.” “ah, frau trude, i was terrified; i looked through the window and saw not you, but, as i verily believe, the devil himself with a head of fire.” “oho!” said she, “then thou hast seen the witch in her proper costume.
i have been waiting for thee, and wanting thee a long time already; thou shalt give me some light.” then she changed the girl into a block of wood, and threw it into the fire.
and when it was in full blaze she sat down close to it, and warmed herself by it, and said, “that shines bright for once in a way.”
44 godfather death
a poor man had twelve children and was forced to work night and day to give them even bread.
when therefore the thirteenth came into the world, he knew not what to do in his trouble, but ran out into the great highway, and resolved to ask the first person whom he met to be godfather.
the first to meet him was the good god who already knew what filled his heart, and said to him, “poor man, i pity thee.
i will hold thy child at its christening, and will take charge of it and make it happy on earth.” the man said, “who art thou?” “i am god.” “then i do not desire to have thee for a godfather,” said the man; “thou givest to the rich, and leavest the poor to hunger.” thus spoke the man, for he did not know how wisely god apportions riches and poverty.
he turned therefore away from the lord, and went farther.
then the devil came to him and said, “what seekest thou?
if thou wilt take me as a godfather for thy child, i will give him gold in plenty and all the joys of the world as well.” the man asked, “who art thou?” “i am the devil.” “then i do not desire to have thee for godfather,” said the man; “thou deceivest men and leadest them astray.” he went onwards, and then came death striding up to him with withered legs, and said, “take me as godfather.” the man asked, “who art thou?” “i am death, and i make all equal.” then said the man, “thou art the right one, thou takest the rich as well as the poor, without distinction; thou shalt be godfather.” death answered, “i will make thy child rich and famous, for he who has me for a friend can lack nothing.” the man said, “next sunday is the christening; be there at the right time.” death appeared as he had promised, and stood godfather quite in the usual way.
when the boy had grown up, his godfather one day appeared and bade him go with him.
he led him forth into a forest, and showed him a herb which grew there, and said, “now shalt thou receive thy godfather’s present.
i make thee a celebrated physician.
when thou art called to a patient, i will always appear to thee.
if i stand by the head of the sick man, thou mayst say with confidence that thou wilt make him well again, and if thou givest him of this herb he will recover; but if i stand by the patient’s feet, he is mine, and thou must say that all remedies are in vain, and that no physician in the world could save him.
but beware of using the herb against my will, or it might fare ill with thee.”
it was not long before the youth was the most famous physician in the whole world.
“he had only to look at the patient and he knew his condition at once, and if he would recover, or must needs die.” so they said of him, and from far and wide people came to him, sent for him when they had any one ill, and gave him so much money that he soon became a rich man.
now it so befell that the king became ill, and the physician was summoned, and was to say if recovery were possible.
but when he came to the bed, death was standing by the feet of the sick man, and the herb did not grow which could save him.
“if i could but cheat death for once,” thought the physician, “he is sure to take it ill if i do, but, as i am his godson, he will shut one eye; i will risk it.” he therefore took up the sick man, and laid him the other way, so that now death was standing by his head.
then he gave the king some of the herb, and he recovered and grew healthy again.
but death came to the physician, looking very black and angry, threatened him with his finger, and said, “thou hast overreached me; this time i will pardon it, as thou art my godson; but if thou venturest it again, it will cost thee thy neck, for i will take thee thyself away with me.”
soon afterwards the king’s daughter fell into a severe illness.
she was his only child, and he wept day and night, so that he began to lose the sight of his eyes, and he caused it to be made known that whosoever rescued her from death should be her husband and inherit the crown.
when the physician came to the sick girl’s bed, he saw death by her feet.
he ought to have remembered the warning given by his godfather, but he was so infatuated by the great beauty of the king’s daughter, and the happiness of becoming her husband, that he flung all thought to the winds.
he did not see that death was casting angry glances on him, that he was raising his hand in the air, and threatening him with his withered fist.
he raised up the sick girl, and placed her head where her feet had lain.
then he gave her some of the herb, and instantly her cheeks flushed red, and life stirred afresh in her.
when death saw that for a second time he was defrauded of his own property, he walked up to the physician with long strides, and said, “all is over with thee, and now the lot falls on thee,” and seized him so firmly with his ice-cold hand, that he could not resist, and led him into a cave below the earth.
there he saw how thousands and thousands of candles were burning in countless rows, some large, others half-sized, others small.
every instant some were extinguished, and others again burnt up, so that the flames seemed to leap hither and thither in perpetual change.
“see,” said death, “these are the lights of men’s lives.
the large ones belong to children, the half-sized ones to married people in their prime, the little ones belong to old people; but children and young folks likewise have often only a tiny candle.”
“show me the light of my life,” said the physician, and he thought that it would be still very tall.
death pointed to a little end which was just threatening to go out, and said, “behold, it is there.” “ah, dear godfather,” said the horrified physician, “light a new one for me, do it for love of me, that i may enjoy my life, be king, and the husband of the king’s beautiful daughter.” “i cannot,” answered death, “one must go out before a new one is lighted.” “then place the old one on a new one, that will go on burning at once when the old one has come to an end,” pleaded the physician.
death behaved as if he were going to fulfill his wish, and took hold of a tall new candle; but as he desired to revenge himself, he purposely made a mistake in fixing it, and the little piece fell down and was extinguished.
immediately the physician fell on the ground, and now he himself was in the hands of death.
45 thumbling as journeyman
a certain tailor had a son, who happened to be small, and no bigger than a thumb, and on this account he was always called thumbling.
he had, however, some courage in him, and said to his father, “father, i must and will go out into the world.” “that’s right, my son,” said the old man, and took a long darning-needle and made a knob of sealing-wax on it at the candle, “and there is a sword for thee to take with thee on the way.” then the little tailor wanted to have one more meal with them, and hopped into the kitchen to see what his lady mother had cooked for the last time.
it was, however, just dished up, and the dish stood on the hearth.
then he said, “mother, what is there to eat to-day?” “see for thyself,” said his mother.
so thumbling jumped on to the hearth, and peeped into the dish, but as he stretched his neck in too far the steam from the food caught hold of him, and carried him up the chimney.
he rode about in the air on the steam for a while, until at length he sank down to the ground again.
now the little tailor was outside in the wide world, and he travelled about, and went to a master in his craft, but the food was not good enough for him.
“mistress, if you give us no better food,” said thumbling, “i will go away, and early to-morrow morning i will write with chalk on the door of your house, ‘too many potatoes, too little meat!
farewell, mr. potato-king.’” “what wouldst thou have forsooth, grasshopper?” said the mistress, and grew angry, and seized a dishcloth, and was just going to strike him; but my little tailor crept nimbly under a thimble, peeped out from beneath it, and put his tongue out at the mistress.
she took up the thimble, and wanted to get hold of him, but little thumbling hopped into the cloth, and while the mistress was opening it out and looking for him, he got into a crevice in the table.
“ho, ho, lady mistress,” cried he, and thrust his head out, and when she began to strike him he leapt down into the drawer.
at last, however, she caught him and drove him out of the house.
the little tailor journeyed on and came to a great forest, and there he fell in with a band of robbers who had a design to steal the king’s treasure.
when they saw the little tailor, they thought, “a little fellow like that can creep through a key-hole and serve as picklock to us.” “hollo,” cried one of them, “thou giant goliath, wilt thou go to the treasure-chamber with us?
thou canst slip thyself in and throw out the money.” thumbling reflected a while, and at length he said, “yes,”
and went with them to the treasure-chamber.
then he looked at the doors above and below, to see if there was any crack in them.
it was not long before he espied one which was broad enough to let him in.
he was therefore about to get in at once, but one of the two sentries who stood before the door, observed him, and said to the other, “what an ugly spider is creeping there; i will kill it.” “let the poor creature alone,” said the other; “it has done thee no harm.” then thumbling got safely through the crevice into the treasure-chamber, opened the window beneath which the robbers were standing, and threw out to them one thaler after another.
when the little tailor was in the full swing of his work, he heard the king coming to inspect his treasure-chamber, and crept hastily into a hiding-place.
the king noticed that several solid thalers were missing, but could not conceive who could have stolen them, for locks and bolts were in good condition, and all seemed well guarded.
then he went away again, and said to the sentries, “be on the watch, some one is after the money.” when therefore thumbling recommenced his labours, they heard the money moving, and a sound of klink, klink, klink.
they ran swiftly in to seize the thief, but the little tailor, who heard them coming, was still swifter, and leapt into a corner and covered himself with a thaler, so that nothing could be seen of him, and at the same time he mocked the sentries and cried, “here am i!” the sentries ran thither, but as they got there, he had already hopped into another corner under a thaler, and was crying, “ho, ho, here am i!” the watchmen sprang there in haste, but thumbling had long ago got into a third corner, and was crying, “ho, ho, here am i!”
and thus he made fools of them, and drove them so long round about the treasure-chamber that they were weary and went away.
then by degrees he threw all the thalers out, dispatching the last with all his might, then hopped nimbly upon it, and flew down with it through the window.
the robbers paid him great compliments.
“thou art a valiant hero,” said they; “wilt thou be our captain?”
thumbling, however, declined, and said he wanted to see the world first.
they now divided the booty, but the little tailor only asked for a kreuzer because he could not carry more.
then he once more buckled on his sword, bade the robbers goodbye, and took to the road.
first, he went to work with some masters, but he had no liking for that, and at last he hired himself as man-servant in an inn.
the maids, however, could not endure him, for he saw all they did secretly, without their seeing him, and he told their master and mistress what they had taken off the plates, and carried away out of the cellar, for themselves.
then said they, “wait, and we will pay thee off!” and arranged with each other to play him a trick.
soon afterwards when one of the maids was mowing in the garden, and saw thumbling jumping about and creeping up and down the plants, she mowed him up quickly with the grass, tied all in a great cloth, and secretly threw it to the cows.
now amongst them there was a great black one, who swallowed him down without hurting him.
down below, however, it pleased him ill, for it was quite dark, neither was any candle burning.
when the cow was being milked he cried,
“strip, strap, strull, will the pail soon be full?”
but the noise of the milking prevented his being understood.
after this the master of the house came into the cow-byre and said, “that cow shall be killed to-morrow.” then thumbling was so alarmed that he cried out in a clear voice, “let me out first, for i am shut up inside her.”
the master heard that quite well, but did not know from whence the voice came.
“where art thou?” asked he.
“in the black one,” answered thumbling, but the master did not understand what that meant, and went out.
next morning the cow was killed.
happily thumbling did not meet with one blow at the cutting up and chopping; he got among the sausage-meat.
and when the butcher came in and began his work, he cried out with all his might, “don’t chop too deep, don’t chop too deep, i am amongst it.”
no one heard this because of the noise of the chopping-knife.
now poor thumbling was in trouble, but trouble sharpens the wits, and he sprang out so adroitly between the blows that none of them touched him, and he escaped with a whole skin.
but still he could not get away, there was nothing for it but to let himself be thrust into a black-pudding with the bits of bacon.
his quarters there were rather confined, and besides that he was hung up in the chimney to be smoked, and there time did hang terribly heavy on his hands.
at length in winter he was taken down again, as the black-pudding had to be set before a guest.
when the hostess was cutting it in slices, he took care not to stretch out his head too far lest a bit of it should be cut off; at last he saw his opportunity, cleared a passage for himself, and jumped out.
the little tailor, however, would not stay any longer in a house where he fared so ill, so at once set out on his journey again.
but his liberty did not last long.
in the open country he met with a fox who snapped him up in a fit of absence.
“hollo, mr. fox,” cried the little tailor, “it is i who am sticking in your throat, set me at liberty again.” “thou art right,” answered the fox.
“thou art next to nothing for me, but if thou wilt promise me the fowls in thy father’s yard i will let thee go.” “with all my heart,” replied thumbling.
“thou shalt have all the cocks and hens, that i promise thee.” then the fox let him go again, and himself carried him home.
when the father once more saw his dear son, he willingly gave the fox all the fowls which he had.
“for this i likewise bring thee a handsome bit of money,” said thumbling, and gave his father the kreuzer which he earned on his travels.
“but why did the fox get the poor chickens to eat?” “oh, you goose, your father would surely love his child far more than the fowls in the yard!”
46 fitcher’s bird
there was once a wizard who used to take the form of a poor man, and went to houses and begged, and caught pretty girls.
no one knew whither he carried them, for they were never seen more.
one day he appeared before the door of a man who had three pretty daughters; he looked like a poor weak beggar, and carried a basket on his back, as if he meant to collect charitable gifts in it.
he begged for a little food, and when the eldest daughter came out and was just reaching him a piece of bread, he did but touch her, and she was forced to jump into his basket.
thereupon he hurried away with long strides, and carried her away into a dark forest to his house, which stood in the midst of it.
everything in the house was magnificent; he gave her whatsoever she could possibly desire, and said, “my darling, thou wilt certainly be happy with me, for thou hast everything thy heart can wish for.” this lasted a few days, and then he said, “i must journey forth, and leave thee alone for a short time; there are the keys of the house; thou mayst go everywhere and look at everything except into one room, which this little key here opens, and there i forbid thee to go on pain of death.” he likewise gave her an egg and said, “preserve the egg carefully for me, and carry it continually about with thee, for a great misfortune would arise from the loss of it.”
she took the keys and the egg, and promised to obey him in everything.
when he was gone, she went all round the house from the bottom to the top, and examined everything.
the rooms shone with silver and gold, and she thought she had never seen such great splendour.
at length she came to the forbidden door; she wished to pass it by, but curiosity let her have no rest.
she examined the key, it looked just like any other; she put it in the keyhole and turned it a little, and the door sprang open.
but what did she see when she went in?
a great bloody basin stood in the middle of the room, and therein lay human beings, dead and hewn to pieces, and hard by was a block of wood, and a gleaming axe lay upon it.
she was so terribly alarmed that the egg which she held in her hand fell into the basin.
she got it out and washed the blood off, but in vain, it appeared again in a moment.
she washed and scrubbed, but she could not get it out.
it was not long before the man came back from his journey, and the first things which he asked for were the key and the egg.
she gave them to him, but she trembled as she did so, and he saw at once by the red spots that she had been in the bloody chamber.
“since thou hast gone into the room against my will,” said he, “thou shalt go back into it against thine own.
thy life is ended.” he threw her down, dragged her thither by her hair, cut her head off on the block, and hewed her in pieces so that her blood ran on the ground.
then he threw her into the basin with the rest.
“now i will fetch myself the second,” said the wizard, and again he went to the house in the shape of a poor man, and begged.
then the second daughter brought him a piece of bread; he caught her like the first, by simply touching her, and carried her away.
she did not fare better than her sister.
she allowed herself to be led away by her curiosity, opened the door of the bloody chamber, looked in, and had to atone for it with her life on the wizard’s return.
then he went and brought the third sister, but she was clever and crafty.
when he had given her the keys and the egg, and had left her, she first put the egg away with great care, and then she examined the house, and at last went into the forbidden room.
alas, what did she behold!
both her sisters lay there in the basin, cruelly murdered, and cut in pieces.
but she began to gather their limbs together and put them in order, head, body, arms and legs.
and when nothing further was wanting the limbs began to move and unite themselves together, and both the maidens opened their eyes and were once more alive.
then they rejoiced and kissed and caressed each other.
on his arrival, the man at once demanded the keys and the egg, and as he could perceive no trace of any blood on it, he said, “thou hast stood the test, thou shalt be my bride.” he now had no longer any power over her, and was forced to do whatsoever she desired.
“oh, very well,”
said she, “thou shalt first take a basketful of gold to my father and mother, and carry it thyself on thy back; in the meantime i will prepare for the wedding.” then she ran to her sisters, whom she had hidden in a little chamber, and said, “the moment has come when i can save you.
the wretch shall himself carry you home again, but as soon as you are at home send help to me.” she put both of them in a basket and covered them quite over with gold, so that nothing of them was to be seen, then she called in the wizard and said to him, “now carry the basket away, but i shall look through my little window and watch to see if thou stoppest on the way to stand or to rest.”
the wizard raised the basket on his back and went away with it, but it weighed him down so heavily that the perspiration streamed from his face.
then he sat down and wanted to rest awhile, but immediately one of the girls in the basket cried, “i am looking through my little window, and i see that thou art resting.
wilt thou go on at once?” he thought it was his bride who was calling that to him; and got up on his legs again.
once more he was going to sit down, but instantly she cried, “i am looking through my little window, and i see that thou art resting.
wilt thou go on directly?” and whenever he stood still, she cried this, and then he was forced to go onwards, until at last, groaning and out of breath, he took the basket with the gold and the two maidens into their parents’ house.
at home, however, the bride prepared the marriage-feast, and sent invitations to the friends of the wizard.
then she took a skull with grinning teeth, put some ornaments on it and a wreath of flowers, carried it upstairs to the garret-window, and let it look out from thence.
when all was ready, she got into a barrel of honey, and then cut the feather-bed open and rolled herself in it, until she looked like a wondrous bird, and no one could recognize her.
then she went out of the house, and on her way she met some of the wedding-guests, who asked,
“o, fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here?”
“i come from fitcher’s house quite near.”
“and what may the young bride be doing?”
“from cellar to garret she’s swept all clean, and now from the window she’s peeping, i ween.”
at last she met the bridegroom, who was coming slowly back.
he, like the others, asked,
“o, fitcher’s bird, how com’st thou here?”
“i come from fitcher’s house quite near.”
“and what may the young bride be doing?
“from cellar to garret she’s swept all clean, and now from the window she’s peeping, i ween.”
the bridegroom looked up, saw the decked-out skull, thought it was his bride, and nodded to her, greeting her kindly.
but when he and his guests had all gone into the house, the brothers and kinsmen of the bride, who had been sent to rescue her, arrived.
they locked all the doors of the house, that no one might escape, set fire to it, and the wizard and all his crew had to burn.
47 the juniper-tree
it is now long ago, quite two thousand years, since there was a rich man who had a beautiful and pious wife, and they loved each other dearly.
they had, however, no children, though they wished for them very much, and the woman prayed for them day and night, but still they had none.
now there was a court-yard in front of their house in which was a juniper-tree, and one day in winter the woman was standing beneath it, paring herself an apple, and while she was paring herself the apple she cut her finger, and the blood fell on the snow.
“ah,”
said the woman, and sighed right heavily, and looked at the blood before her, and was most unhappy, “ah, if i had but a child as red as blood and as white as snow!” and while she thus spake, she became quite happy in her mind, and felt just as if that were going to happen.
then she went into the house and a month went by and the snow was gone, and two months, and then everything was green, and three months, and then all the flowers came out of the earth, and four months, and then all the trees in the wood grew thicker, and the green branches were all closely entwined, and the birds sang until the wood resounded and the blossoms fell from the trees, then the fifth month passed away and she stood under the juniper-tree, which smelt so sweetly that her heart leapt, and she fell on her knees and was beside herself with joy, and when the sixth month was over the fruit was large and fine, and then she was quite still, and the seventh month she snatched at the juniper-berries and ate them greedily, then she grew sick and sorrowful, then the eighth month passed, and she called her husband to her, and wept and said, “if i die then bury me beneath the juniper-tree.” then she was quite comforted and happy until the next month was over, and then she had a child as white as snow and as red as blood, and when she beheld it she was so delighted that she died.
then her husband buried her beneath the juniper-tree, and he began to weep sore; after some time he was more at ease, and though he still wept he could bear it, and after some time longer he took another wife.
by the second wife he had a daughter, but the first wife’s child was a little son, and he was as red as blood and as white as snow.
when the woman looked at her daughter she loved her very much, but then she looked at the little boy and it seemed to cut her to the heart, for the thought came into her mind that he would always stand in her way, and she was for ever thinking how she could get all the fortune for her daughter, and the evil one filled her mind with this till she was quite wroth with the little boy, and slapped him here and cuffed him there, until the unhappy child was in continual terror, for when he came out of school he had no peace in any place.
one day the woman had gone upstairs to her room, and her little daughter went up too, and said, “mother, give me an apple.” “yes, my child,” said the woman, and gave her a fine apple out of the chest, but the chest had a great heavy lid with a great sharp iron lock.
“mother,”
said the little daughter, “is brother not to have one too?” this made the woman angry, but she said, “yes, when he comes out of school.” and when she saw from the window that he was coming, it was just as if the devil entered into her, and she snatched at the apple and took it away again from her daughter, and said, “thou shalt not have one before thy brother.” then she threw the apple into the chest, and shut it.
then the little boy came in at the door, and the devil made her say to him kindly, “my son, wilt thou have an apple?” and she looked wickedly at him.
“mother,” said the little boy, “how dreadful you look!
yes, give me an apple.” then it seemed to her as if she were forced to say to him, “come with me,” and she opened the lid of the chest and said, “take out an apple for thyself,” and while the little boy was stooping inside, the devil prompted her, and crash!
she shut the lid down, and his head flew off and fell among the red apples.
then she was overwhelmed with terror, and thought, “if i could but make them think that it was not done by me!” so she went upstairs to her room to her chest of drawers, and took a white handkerchief out of the top drawer, and set the head on the neck again, and folded the handkerchief so that nothing could be seen, and she set him on a chair in front of the door, and put the apple in his hand.
after this marlinchen came into the kitchen to her mother, who was standing by the fire with a pan of hot water before her which she was constantly stirring round.
“mother,” said marlinchen, “brother is sitting at the door, and he looks quite white and has an apple in his hand.
i asked him to give me the apple, but he did not answer me, and i was quite frightened.” “go back to him,” said her mother, “and if he will not answer thee, give him a box on the ear.” so marlinchen went to him and said, “brother, give me the apple.” but he was silent, and she gave him a box on the ear, on which his head fell down.
marlinchen was terrified, and began crying and screaming, and ran to her mother, and said, “alas, mother, i have knocked my brother’s head off!” and she wept and wept and could not be comforted.
“marlinchen,” said the mother, “what hast thou done?
but be quiet and let no one know it; it cannot be helped now, we will make him into black-puddings.” then the mother took the little boy and chopped him in pieces, put him into the pan and made him into black puddings; but marlinchen stood by weeping and weeping, and all her tears fell into the pan and there was no need of any salt.
then the father came home, and sat down to dinner and said, “but where is my son?” and the mother served up a great dish of black-puddings, and marlinchen wept and could not leave off.
then the father again said, “but where is my son?” “ah,” said the mother, “he has gone across the country to his mother’s great uncle; he will stay there awhile.”
“and what is he going to do there?
he did not even say good-bye to me.”
“oh, he wanted to go, and asked me if he might stay six weeks, he is well taken care of there.” “ah,” said the man, “i feel so unhappy lest all should not be right.
he ought to have said good-bye to me.” with that he began to eat and said, “marlinchen, why art thou crying?
thy brother will certainly come back.” then he said, “ah, wife, how delicious this food is, give me some more.” and the more he ate the more he wanted to have, and he said, “give me some more, you shall have none of it.
it seems to me as if it were all mine.” and he ate and ate and threw all the bones under the table, until he had finished the whole.
but marlinchen went away to her chest of drawers, and took her best silk handkerchief out of the bottom drawer, and got all the bones from beneath the table, and tied them up in her silk handkerchief, and carried them outside the door, weeping tears of blood.
then the juniper-tree began to stir itself, and the branches parted asunder, and moved together again, just as if some one was rejoicing and clapping his hands.
at the same time a mist seemed to arise from the tree, and in the centre of this mist it burned like a fire, and a beautiful bird flew out of the fire singing magnificently, and he flew high up in the air, and when he was gone, the juniper-tree was just as it had been before, and the handkerchief with the bones was no longer there.
marlinchen, however, was as gay and happy as if her brother were still alive.
and she went merrily into the house, and sat down to dinner and ate.
but the bird flew away and lighted on a goldsmith’s house, and began to sing,
“my mother she killed me, my father he ate me, my sister, little marlinchen, gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
the goldsmith was sitting in his workshop making a gold chain, when he heard the bird which was sitting singing on his roof, and very beautiful the song seemed to him.
he stood up, but as he crossed the threshold he lost one of his slippers.
but he went away right up the middle of the street with one shoe on and one sock; he had his apron on, and in one hand he had the gold chain and in the other the pincers, and the sun was shining brightly on the street.
then he went right on and stood still, and said to the bird, “bird,” said he then, “how beautifully thou canst sing!
sing me that piece again.” “no,” said the bird, “i’ll not sing it twice for nothing!
give me the golden chain, and then i will sing it again for thee.” “there,” said the goldsmith, “there is the golden chain for thee, now sing me that song again.” then the bird came and took the golden chain in his right claw, and went and sat in front of the goldsmith, and sang,
“my mother she killed me, my father he ate me, my sister, little marlinchen, gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
then the bird flew away to a shoemaker, and lighted on his roof and sang,
“my mother she killed me, my father he ate me, my sister, little marlinchen, gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
the shoemaker heard that and ran out of doors in his shirt sleeves, and looked up at his roof, and was forced to hold his hand before his eyes lest the sun should blind him.
“bird,” said he, “how beautifully thou canst sing!” then he called in at his door, “wife, just come outside, there is a bird, look at that bird, he just can sing well.” then he called his daughter and children, and apprentices, boys and girls, and they all came up the street and looked at the bird and saw how beautiful he was, and what fine red and green feathers he had, and how like real gold his neck was, and how the eyes in his head shone like stars.
“bird,” said the shoemaker, “now sing me that song again.”
“nay,” said the bird, “i do not sing twice for nothing; thou must give me something.” “wife,” said the man, “go to the garret, upon the top shelf there stands a pair of red shoes, bring them down.” then the wife went and brought the shoes.
“there, bird,” said the man, “now sing me that piece again.” then the bird came and took the shoes in his left claw, and flew back on the roof, and sang,
“my mother she killed me, my father he ate me, my sister, little marlinchen, gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
and when he had sung the whole he flew away.
in his right claw he had the chain and the shoes in his left, and he flew far away to a mill, and the mill went, “klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp,” and in the mill sat twenty miller’s men hewing a stone, and cutting, hick hack, hick hack, hick hack, and the mill went klipp klapp, klipp klapp, klipp klapp.
then the bird went and sat on a lime-tree which stood in front of the mill, and sang,
“my mother she killed me,”
then one of them stopped working,
“my father he ate me.”
then two more stopped working and listened to that,
“my sister, little marlinchen,”
then four more stopped,
“gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief,”
now eight only were hewing,
“laid them beneath”
now only five,
“the juniper-tree,”
and now only one,
“kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
then the last stopped also, and heard the last words.
“bird,” said he, “how beautifully thou singest!
let me, too, hear that.
sing that once more for me.”
“nay,” said the bird, “i will not sing twice for nothing.
give me the millstone, and then i will sing it again.”
“yes,” said he, “if it belonged to me only, thou shouldst have it.”
“yes,” said the others, “if he sings again he shall have it.” then the bird came down, and the twenty millers all set to work with a beam and raised the stone up.
and the bird stuck his neck through the hole, and put the stone on as if it were a collar, and flew on to the tree again, and sang,
“my mother she killed me, my father he ate me, my sister, little marlinchen, gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
and when he had done singing, he spread his wings, and in his right claw he had the chain, and in his left the shoes, and round his neck the millstone, and he flew far away to his father’s house.
in the room sat the father, the mother, and marlinchen at dinner, and the father said, “how light-hearted i feel, how happy i am!” “nay,”
said the mother, “i feel so uneasy, just as if a heavy storm were coming.” marlinchen, however, sat weeping and weeping, and then came the bird flying, and as it seated itself on the roof the father said, “ah, i feel so truly happy, and the sun is shining so beautifully outside, i feel just as if i were about to see some old friend again.”
“nay,” said the woman, “i feel so anxious, my teeth chatter, and i seem to have fire in my veins.” and she tore her stays open, but marlinchen sat in a corner crying, and held her plate before her eyes and cried till it was quite wet.
then the bird sat on the juniper tree, and sang,
“my mother she killed me,”
then the mother stopped her ears, and shut her eyes, and would not see or hear, but there was a roaring in her ears like the most violent storm, and her eyes burnt and flashed like lightning,
“my father he ate me,”
“ah, mother,” says the man, “that is a beautiful bird!
he sings so splendidly, and the sun shines so warm, and there is a smell just like cinnamon.”
“my sister, little marlinchen,”
then marlinchen laid her head on her knees and wept without ceasing, but the man said, “i am going out, i must see the bird quite close.”
“oh, don’t go,” said the woman, “i feel as if the whole house were shaking and on fire.” but the man went out and looked at the bird:
“gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief, laid them beneath the juniper tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
on this the bird let the golden chain fall, and it fell exactly round the man’s neck, and so exactly round it that it fitted beautifully.
then he went in and said, “just look what a fine bird that is, and what a handsome gold chain he has given me, and how pretty he is!” but the woman was terrified, and fell down on the floor in the room, and her cap fell off her head.
then sang the bird once more,
“my mother she killed me.”
“would that i were a thousand feet beneath the earth so as not to hear that!”
“my father he ate me,”
then the woman fell down again as if dead.
“my sister, little marlinchen,”
“ah,” said marlinchen, “i too will go out and see if the bird will give me anything,” and she went out.
“gathered together all my bones, tied them in a silken handkerchief,”
then he threw down the shoes to her.
“laid them beneath the juniper-tree, kywitt, kywitt, what a beautiful bird am i!”
then she was light-hearted and joyous, and she put on the new red shoes, and danced and leaped into the house.
“ah,” said she, “i was so sad when i went out and now i am so light-hearted; that is a splendid bird, he has given me a pair of red shoes!” “well,” said the woman, and sprang to her feet and her hair stood up like flames of fire, “i feel as if the world were coming to an end!
i, too, will go out and see if my heart feels lighter.” and as she went out at the door, crash!
the bird threw down the millstone on her head, and she was entirely crushed by it.
the father and marlinchen heard what had happened and went out, and smoke, flames, and fire were rising from the place, and when that was over, there stood the little brother, and he took his father and marlinchen by the hand, and all three were right glad, and they went into the house to dinner, and ate.
48 old sultan
a farmer once had a faithful dog called sultan, who had grown old, and lost all his teeth, so that he could no longer hold anything fast.
one day the farmer was standing with his wife before the house-door, and said, “to-morrow i intend to shoot old sultan, he is no longer of any use.”
his wife, who felt pity for the faithful beast, answered, “he has served us so long, and been so faithful, that we might well give him his keep.”
“eh!
what?” said the man.
“you are not very sharp.
he has not a tooth left in his mouth, and not a thief is afraid of him; now he may be off.
if he has served us, he has had good feeding for it.”
the poor dog, who was lying stretched out in the sun not far off, had heard everything, and was sorry that the morrow was to be his last day.
he had a good friend, the wolf, and he crept out in the evening into the forest to him, and complained of the fate that awaited him.
“hark ye, gossip,” said the wolf, “be of good cheer, i will help you out of your trouble.
i have thought of something.
to-morrow, early in the morning, your master is going with his wife to make hay, and they will take their little child with them, for no one will be left behind in the house.
they are wont, during work-time, to lay the child under the hedge in the shade; you lay yourself there too, just as if you wished to guard it.
then i will come out of the wood, and carry off the child.
you must rush swiftly after me, as if you would seize it again from me.
i will let it fall, and you will take it back to its parents, who will think that you have saved it, and will be far too grateful to do you any harm; on the contrary, you will be in high favor, and they will never let you want for anything again.”
the plan pleased the dog, and it was carried out just as it was arranged.
the father screamed when he saw the wolf running across the field with his child, but when old sultan brought it back, then he was full of joy, and stroked him and said, “not a hair of yours shall be hurt, you shall eat my bread free as long as you live.” and to his wife he said, “go home at once and make old sultan some bread-sop that he will not have to bite, and bring the pillow out of my bed, i will give him that to lie upon.”
henceforth old sultan was as well off as he could wish to be.
soon afterwards the wolf visited him, and was pleased that everything had succeeded so well.
“but, gossip,” said he, “you will just wink an eye if when i have a chance, i carry off one of your master’s fat sheep.” “do not reckon upon that,” answered the dog; “i will remain true to my master; i cannot agree to that.” the wolf, who thought that this could not be spoken in earnest, came creeping about in the night and was going to take away the sheep.
but the farmer, to whom the faithful sultan had told the wolf’s plan, caught him and dressed his hide soundly with the flail.
the wolf had to pack off, but he cried out to the dog, “wait a bit, you scoundrel, you shall pay for this.”
the next morning the wolf sent the boar to challenge the dog to come out into the forest so that they might settle the affair.
old sultan could find no one to stand by him but a cat with only three legs, and as they went out together the poor cat limped along, and at the same time stretched out her tail into the air with pain.
the wolf and his friend were already on the spot appointed, but when they saw their enemy coming they thought that he was bringing a sabre with him, for they mistook the outstretched tail of the cat for one.
and when the poor beast hopped on its three legs, they could only think every time that it was picking up a stone to throw at them.
so they were both afraid; the wild boar crept into the under-wood and the wolf jumped up a tree.
the dog and the cat, when they came up, wondered that there was no one to be seen.
the wild boar, however, had not been able to hide himself altogether; and one of his ears was still to be seen.
whilst the cat was looking carefully about, the boar moved his ear; the cat, who thought it was a mouse moving there, jumped upon it and bit it hard.
the boar made a fearful noise and ran away, crying out, “the guilty one is up in the tree.” the dog and cat looked up and saw the wolf, who was ashamed of having shown himself so timid, and made friends with the dog.
49 the six swans
once upon a time, a certain king was hunting in a great forest, and he chased a wild beast so eagerly that none of his attendants could follow him.
when evening drew near he stopped and looked around him, and then he saw that he had lost his way.
he sought a way out, but could find none.
then he perceived an aged woman with a head which nodded perpetually, who came towards him, but she was a witch.
“good woman,”
said he to her, “can you not show me the way through the forest?” “oh, yes, lord king,” she answered, “that i certainly can, but on one condition, and if you do not fulfil that, you will never get out of the forest, and will die of hunger in it.”
“what kind of condition is it?” asked the king.
“i have a daughter,” said the old woman, “who is as beautiful as any one in the world, and well deserves to be your consort, and if you will make her your queen, i will show you the way out of the forest.” in the anguish of his heart the king consented, and the old woman led him to her little hut, where her daughter was sitting by the fire.
she received the king as if she had been expecting him, and he saw that she was very beautiful, but still she did not please him, and he could not look at her without secret horror.
after he had taken the maiden up on his horse, the old woman showed him the way, and the king reached his royal palace again, where the wedding was celebrated.
the king had already been married once, and had by his first wife, seven children, six boys and a girl, whom he loved better than anything else in the world.
as he now feared that the step-mother might not treat them well, and even do them some injury, he took them to a lonely castle which stood in the midst of a forest.
it lay so concealed, and the way was so difficult to find that he himself would not have found it, if a wise woman had not given him a ball of yarn with wonderful properties.
when he threw it down before him, it unrolled itself and showed him his path.
the king, however, went so frequently away to his dear children that the queen observed his absence; she was curious and wanted to know what he did when he was quite alone in the forest.
she gave a great deal of money to his servants, and they betrayed the secret to her, and told her likewise of the ball which alone could point out the way.
and now she knew no rest until she had learnt where the king kept the ball of yarn, and then she made little shirts of white silk, and as she had learnt the art of witchcraft from her mother, she sewed a charm inside them.
and once when the king had ridden forth to hunt, she took the little shirts and went into the forest, and the ball showed her the way.
the children, who saw from a distance that some one was approaching, thought that their dear father was coming to them, and full of joy, ran to meet him.
then she threw one of the little shirts over each of them, and no sooner had the shirts touched their bodies than they were changed into swans, and flew away over the forest.
the queen went home quite delighted, and thought she had got rid of her step-children, but the girl had not run out with her brothers, and the queen knew nothing about her.
next day the king went to visit his children, but he found no one but the little girl.
“where are thy brothers?” asked the king.
“alas, dear father,” she answered, “they have gone away and left me alone!” and she told him that she had seen from her little window how her brothers had flown away over the forest in the shape of swans, and she showed him the feathers, which they had let fall in the courtyard, and which she had picked up.
the king mourned, but he did not think that the queen had done this wicked deed, and as he feared that the girl would also be stolen away from him, he wanted to take her away with him.
but she was afraid of her step-mother, and entreated the king to let her stay just this one night more in the forest castle.
the poor girl thought, “i can no longer stay here.
i will go and seek my brothers.” and when night came, she ran away, and went straight into the forest.
she walked the whole night long, and next day also without stopping, until she could go no farther for weariness.
then she saw a forest-hut, and went into it, and found a room with six little beds, but she did not venture to get into one of them, but crept under one, and lay down on the hard ground, intending to pass the night there.
just before sunset, however, she heard a rustling, and saw six swans come flying in at the window.
they alighted on the ground and blew at each other, and blew all the feathers off, and their swan’s skins stripped off like a shirt.
then the maiden looked at them and recognized her brothers, was glad and crept forth from beneath the bed.
the brothers were not less delighted to see their little sister, but their joy was of short duration.
“here canst thou not abide,” they said to her.
“this is a shelter for robbers, if they come home and find thee, they will kill thee.” “but can you not protect me?” asked the little sister.
“no,” they replied, “only for one quarter of an hour each evening can we lay aside our swan’s skins and have during that time our human form; after that, we are once more turned into swans.”
the little sister wept and said, “can you not be set free?” “alas, no,”
they answered, “the conditions are too hard!
for six years thou mayst neither speak nor laugh, and in that time thou must sew together six little shirts of starwort for us.
and if one single word falls from thy lips, all thy work will be lost.” and when the brothers had said this, the quarter of an hour was over, and they flew out of the window again as swans.
the maiden, however, firmly resolved to deliver her brothers, even if it should cost her her life.
she left the hut, went into the midst of the forest, seated herself on a tree, and there passed the night.
next morning she went out and gathered starwort and began to sew.
she could not speak to any one, and she had no inclination to laugh; she sat there and looked at nothing but her work.
when she had already spent a long time there it came to pass that the king of the country was hunting in the forest, and his huntsmen came to the tree on which the maiden was sitting.
they called to her and said, “who art thou?” but she made no answer.
“come down to us,” said they.
“we will not do thee any harm.” she only shook her head.
as they pressed her further with questions she threw her golden necklace down to them, and thought to content them thus.
they, however, did not cease, and then she threw her girdle down to them, and as this also was to no purpose, her garters, and by degrees everything that she had on that she could do without until she had nothing left but her shift.
the huntsmen, however, did not let themselves be turned aside by that, but climbed the tree and fetched the maiden down and led her before the king.
the king asked, “who art thou?
what art thou doing on the tree?” but she did not answer.
he put the question in every language that he knew, but she remained as mute as a fish.
as she was so beautiful, the king’s heart was touched, and he was smitten with a great love for her.
he put his mantle on her, took her before him on his horse, and carried her to his castle.
then he caused her to be dressed in rich garments, and she shone in her beauty like bright daylight, but no word could be drawn from her.
he placed her by his side at table, and her modest bearing and courtesy pleased him so much that he said, “she is the one whom i wish to marry, and no other woman in the world.” and after some days he united himself to her.
the king, however, had a wicked mother who was dissatisfied with this marriage and spoke ill of the young queen.
“who knows,” said she, “from whence the creature who can’t speak, comes?
she is not worthy of a king!” after a year had passed, when the queen brought her first child into the world, the old woman took it away from her, and smeared her mouth with blood as she slept.
then she went to the king and accused the queen of being a man-eater.
the king would not believe it, and would not suffer any one to do her any injury.
she, however, sat continually sewing at the shirts, and cared for nothing else.
the next time, when she again bore a beautiful boy, the false step-mother used the same treachery, but the king could not bring himself to give credit to her words.
he said, “she is too pious and good to do anything of that kind; if she were not dumb, and could defend herself, her innocence would come to light.” but when the old woman stole away the newly-born child for the third time, and accused the queen, who did not utter one word of defence, the king could do no otherwise than deliver her over to justice, and she was sentenced to suffer death by fire.
when the day came for the sentence to be executed, it was the last day of the six years during which she was not to speak or laugh, and she had delivered her dear brothers from the power of the enchantment.
the six shirts were ready, only the left sleeve of the sixth was wanting.
when, therefore, she was led to the stake, she laid the shirts on her arm, and when she stood on high and the fire was just going to be lighted, she looked around and six swans came flying through the air towards her.
then she saw that her deliverance was near, and her heart leapt with joy.
the swans swept towards her and sank down so that she could throw the shirts over them, and as they were touched by them, their swan’s skins fell off, and her brothers stood in their own bodily form before her, and were vigorous and handsome.
the youngest only lacked his left arm, and had in the place of it a swan’s wing on his shoulder.
they embraced and kissed each other, and the queen went to the king, who was greatly moved, and she began to speak and said, “dearest husband, now i may speak and declare to thee that i am innocent, and falsely accused.” and she told him of the treachery of the old woman who had taken away her three children and hidden them.
then to the great joy of the king they were brought thither, and as a punishment, the wicked step-mother was bound to the stake, and burnt to ashes.
but the king and the queen with their six brothers lived many years in happiness and peace.
50 briar-rose
a long time ago there were a king and queen who said every day, “ah, if only we had a child!” but they never had one.
but it happened that once when the queen was bathing, a frog crept out of the water on to the land, and said to her, “your wish shall be fulfilled; before a year has gone by, you shall have a daughter.”
what the frog had said came true, and the queen had a little girl who was so pretty that the king could not contain himself for joy, and ordered a great feast.
he invited not only his kindred, friends and acquaintance, but also the wise women, in order that they might be kind and well-disposed towards the child.
there were thirteen of them in his kingdom, but, as he had only twelve golden plates for them to eat out of, one of them had to be left at home.
the feast was held with all manner of splendour and when it came to an end the wise women bestowed their magic gifts upon the baby: one gave virtue, another beauty, a third riches, and so on with everything in the world that one can wish for.
when eleven of them had made their promises, suddenly the thirteenth came in.
she wished to avenge herself for not having been invited, and without greeting, or even looking at any one, she cried with a loud voice, “the king’s daughter shall in her fifteenth year prick herself with a spindle, and fall down dead.” and, without saying a word more, she turned round and left the room.
they were all shocked; but the twelfth, whose good wish still remained unspoken, came forward, and as she could not undo the evil sentence, but only soften it, she said, “it shall not be death, but a deep sleep of a hundred years, into which the princess shall fall.”
the king, who would fain keep his dear child from the misfortune, gave orders that every spindle in the whole kingdom should be burnt.
meanwhile the gifts of the wise women were plenteously fulfilled on the young girl, for she was so beautiful, modest, good-natured, and wise, that everyone who saw her was bound to love her.
it happened that on the very day when she was fifteen years old, the king and queen were not at home, and the maiden was left in the palace quite alone.
so she went round into all sorts of places, looked into rooms and bed-chambers just as she liked, and at last came to an old tower.
she climbed up the narrow winding-staircase, and reached a little door.
a rusty key was in the lock, and when she turned it the door sprang open, and there in a little room sat an old woman with a spindle, busily spinning her flax.
“good day, old dame,” said the king’s daughter; “what are you doing there?” “i am spinning,” said the old woman, and nodded her head.
“what sort of thing is that, that rattles round so merrily?” said the girl, and she took the spindle and wanted to spin too.
but scarcely had she touched the spindle when the magic decree was fulfilled, and she pricked her finger with it.
and, in the very moment when she felt the prick, she fell down upon the bed that stood there, and lay in a deep sleep.
and this sleep extended over the whole palace; the king and queen who had just come home, and had entered the great hall, began to go to sleep, and the whole of the court with them.
the horses, too, went to sleep in the stable, the dogs in the yard, the pigeons upon the roof, the flies on the wall; even the fire that was flaming on the hearth became quiet and slept, the roast meat left off frizzling, and the cook, who was just going to pull the hair of the scullery boy, because he had forgotten something, let him go, and went to sleep.
and the wind fell, and on the trees before the castle not a leaf moved again.
but round about the castle there began to grow a hedge of thorns, which every year became higher, and at last grew close up round the castle and all over it, so that there was nothing of it to be seen, not even the flag upon the roof.
but the story of the beautiful sleeping “briar-rose,” for so the princess was named, went about the country, so that from time to time kings’ sons came and tried to get through the thorny hedge into the castle.
but they found it impossible, for the thorns held fast together, as if they had hands, and the youths were caught in them, could not get loose again, and died a miserable death.
after long, long years a king’s son came again to that country, and heard an old man talking about the thorn-hedge, and that a castle was said to stand behind it in which a wonderfully beautiful princess, named briar-rose, had been asleep for a hundred years; and that the king and queen and the whole court were asleep likewise.
he had heard, too, from his grandfather, that many kings’ sons had already come, and had tried to get through the thorny hedge, but they had remained sticking fast in it, and had died a pitiful death.
then the youth said, “i am not afraid, i will go and see the beautiful briar-rose.” the good old man might dissuade him as he would, he did not listen to his words.
but by this time the hundred years had just passed, and the day had come when briar-rose was to awake again.
when the king’s son came near to the thorn-hedge, it was nothing but large and beautiful flowers, which parted from each other of their own accord, and let him pass unhurt, then they closed again behind him like a hedge.
in the castle-yard he saw the horses and the spotted hounds lying asleep; on the roof sat the pigeons with their heads under their wings.
and when he entered the house, the flies were asleep upon the wall, the cook in the kitchen was still holding out his hand to seize the boy, and the maid was sitting by the black hen which she was going to pluck.
he went on farther, and in the great hall he saw the whole of the court lying asleep, and up by the throne lay the king and queen.
then he went on still farther, and all was so quiet that a breath could be heard, and at last he came to the tower, and opened the door into the little room where briar-rose was sleeping.
there she lay, so beautiful that he could not turn his eyes away; and he stooped down and gave her a kiss.
but as soon as he kissed her, briar-rose opened her eyes and awoke, and looked at him quite sweetly.
then they went down together, and the king awoke, and the queen, and the whole court, and looked at each other in great astonishment.
and the horses in the court-yard stood up and shook themselves; the hounds jumped up and wagged their tails; the pigeons upon the roof pulled out their heads from under their wings, looked round, and flew into the open country; the flies on the wall crept again; the fire in the kitchen burned up and flickered and cooked the meat; the joint began to turn and frizzle again, and the cook gave the boy such a box on the ear that he screamed, and the maid plucked the fowl ready for the spit.
and then the marriage of the king’s son with briar-rose was celebrated with all splendour, and they lived contented to the end of their days.
51 fundevogel (bird-foundling)
there was once a forester who went into the forest to hunt, and as he entered it he heard a sound of screaming as if a little child were there.
he followed the sound, and at last came to a high tree, and at the top of this a little child was sitting, for the mother had fallen asleep under the tree with the child, and a bird of prey had seen it in her arms, had flown down, snatched it away, and set it on the high tree.
the forester climbed up, brought the child down, and thought to himself, “thou wilt take him home with thee, and bring him up with thy lina.” he took it home, therefore, and the two children grew up together.
the one, however, which he had found on a tree was called fundevogel, because a bird had carried it away.
fundevogel and lina loved each other so dearly that when they did not see each other they were sad.
the forester, however, had an old cook, who one evening took two pails and began to fetch water, and did not go once only, but many times, out to the spring.
lina saw this and said, “hark you, old sanna, why are you fetching so much water?” “if thou wilt never repeat it to anyone, i will tell thee why.” so lina said, no, she would never repeat it to anyone, and then the cook said, “early to-morrow morning, when the forester is out hunting, i will heat the water, and when it is boiling in the kettle, i will throw in fundevogel, and will boil him in it.”
betimes next morning the forester got up and went out hunting, and when he was gone the children were still in bed.
then lina said to fundevogel, “if thou wilt never leave me, i too will never leave thee.”
fundevogel said, “neither now, nor ever will i leave thee.” then said lina, “then i will tell thee.
last night, old sanna carried so many buckets of water into the house that i asked her why she was doing that, and she said that if i would promise not to tell any one she would tell me, and i said i would be sure not to tell any one, and she said that early to-morrow morning when father was out hunting, she would set the kettle full of water, throw thee into it and boil thee; but we will get up quickly, dress ourselves, and go away together.”
the two children therefore got up, dressed themselves quickly, and went away.
when the water in the kettle was boiling, the cook went into the bed-room to fetch fundevogel and throw him into it.
but when she came in, and went to the beds, both the children were gone.
then she was terribly alarmed, and she said to herself, “what shall i say now when the forester comes home and sees that the children are gone?
they must be followed instantly to get them back again.”
then the cook sent three servants after them, who were to run and overtake the children.
the children, however, were sitting outside the forest, and when they saw from afar the three servants running, lina said to fundevogel, “never leave me, and i will never leave thee.”
fundevogel said, “neither now, nor ever.” then said lina, “do thou become a rose-tree, and i the rose upon it.” when the three servants came to the forest, nothing was there but a rose-tree and one rose on it, but the children were nowhere.
then said they, “there is nothing to be done here,” and they went home and told the cook that they had seen nothing in the forest but a little rose-bush with one rose on it.
then the old cook scolded and said, “you simpletons, you should have cut the rose-bush in two, and have broken off the rose and brought it home with you; go, and do it once.” they had therefore to go out and look for the second time.
the children, however, saw them coming from a distance.
then lina said, “fundevogel, never leave me, and i will never leave thee.” fundevogel said, “neither now, nor ever.” said lina, “then do thou become a church, and i’ll be the chandelier in it.” so when the three servants came, nothing was there but a church, with a chandelier in it.
they said therefore to each other, “what can we do here, let us go home.” when they got home, the cook asked if they had not found them; so they said no, they had found nothing but a church, and that there was a chandelier in it.
and the cook scolded them and said, “you fools!
why did you not pull the church to pieces, and bring the chandelier home with you?” and now the old cook herself got on her legs, and went with the three servants in pursuit of the children.
the children, however, saw from afar that the three servants were coming, and the cook waddling after them.
then said lina, “fundevogel, never leave me, and i will never leave thee.” then said fundevogel, “neither now, nor ever.” said lina, “be a fishpond, and i will be the duck upon it.” the cook, however, came up to them, and when she saw the pond she lay down by it, and was about to drink it up.
but the duck swam quickly to her, seized her head in its beak and drew her into the water, and there the old witch had to drown.
then the children went home together, and were heartily delighted, and if they are not dead, they are living still.
52 king thrushbeard
a king had a daughter who was beautiful beyond all measure, but so proud and haughty withal that no suitor was good enough for her.
she sent away one after the other, and ridiculed them as well.
once the king made a great feast and invited thereto, from far and near, all the young men likely to marry.
they were all marshalled in a row according to their rank and standing; first came the kings, then the grand-dukes, then the princes, the earls, the barons, and the gentry.
then the king’s daughter was led through the ranks, but to every one she had some objection to make; one was too fat, “the wine-cask,” she said.
another was too tall, “long and thin has little in.” the third was too short, “short and thick is never quick.” the fourth was too pale, “as pale as death.” the fifth too red, “a fighting-cock.” the sixth was not straight enough, “a green log dried behind the stove.”
so she had something to say against every one, but she made herself especially merry over a good king who stood quite high up in the row, and whose chin had grown a little crooked.
“well,” she cried and laughed, “he has a chin like a thrush’s beak!” and from that time he got the name of king thrushbeard.
but the old king, when he saw that his daugher did nothing but mock the people, and despised all the suitors who were gathered there, was very angry, and swore that she should have for her husband the very first beggar that came to his doors.
a few days afterwards a fiddler came and sang beneath the windows, trying to earn a small alms.
when the king heard him he said, “let him come up.” so the fiddler came in, in his dirty, ragged clothes, and sang before the king and his daughter, and when he had ended he asked for a trifling gift.
the king said, “your song has pleased me so well that i will give you my daughter there, to wife.”
the king’s daughter shuddered, but the king said, “i have taken an oath to give you to the very first beggar-man, and i will keep it.” all she could say was in vain; the priest was brought, and she had to let herself be wedded to the fiddler on the spot.
when that was done the king said, “now it is not proper for you, a beggar-woman, to stay any longer in my palace, you may just go away with your husband.”
the beggar-man led her out by the hand, and she was obliged to walk away on foot with him.
when they came to a large forest she asked, “to whom does that beautiful forest belong?” “it belongs to king thrushbeard; if you had taken him, it would have been yours.” “ah, unhappy girl that i am, if i had but taken king thrushbeard!”
afterwards they came to a meadow, and she asked again, “to whom does this beautiful green meadow belong?” “it belongs to king thrushbeard; if you had taken him, it would have been yours.” “ah, unhappy girl that i am, if i had but taken king thrushbeard!”
then they came to a large town, and she asked again, “to whom does this fine large town belong?” “it belongs to king thrushbeard; if you had taken him, it would have been yours.” “ah, unhappy girl that i am, if i had but taken king thrushbeard!”
“it does not please me,” said the fiddler, “to hear you always wishing for another husband; am i not good enough for you?” at last they came to a very little hut, and she said, “oh goodness!
what a small house; to whom does this miserable, mean hovel belong?” the fiddler answered, “that is my house and yours, where we shall live together.”
she had to stoop in order to go in at the low door.
“where are the servants?” said the king’s daughter.
“what servants?” answered the beggar-man; “you must yourself do what you wish to have done.
just make a fire at once, and set on water to cook my supper, i am quite tired.”
but the king’s daughter knew nothing about lighting fires or cooking, and the beggar-man had to lend a hand himself to get anything fairly done.
when they had finished their scanty meal they went to bed; but he forced her to get up quite early in the morning in order to look after the house.
for a few days they lived in this way as well as might be, and came to the end of all their provisions.
then the man said, “wife, we cannot go on any longer eating and drinking here and earning nothing.
you weave baskets.” he went out, cut some willows, and brought them home.
then she began to weave, but the tough willows wounded her delicate hands.
“i see that this will not do,” said the man; “you had better spin, perhaps you can do that better.” she sat down and tried to spin, but the hard thread soon cut her soft fingers so that the blood ran down.
“see,” said the man, “you are fit for no sort of work; i have made a bad bargain with you.
now i will try to make a business with pots and earthenware; you must sit in the market-place and sell the ware.”
“alas,” thought she, “if any of the people from my father’s kingdom come to the market and see me sitting there, selling, how they will mock me?” but it was of no use, she had to yield unless she chose to die of hunger.
for the first time she succeeded well, for the people were glad to buy the woman’s wares because she was good-looking, and they paid her what she asked; many even gave her the money and left the pots with her as well.
so they lived on what she had earned as long as it lasted, then the husband bought a lot of new crockery.
with this she sat down at the corner of the market-place, and set it out round about her ready for sale.
but suddenly there came a drunken hussar galloping along, and he rode right amongst the pots so that they were all broken into a thousand bits.
she began to weep, and did now know what to do for fear.
“alas!
what will happen to me?” cried she; “what will my husband say to this?”
she ran home and told him of the misfortune.
“who would seat herself at a corner of the market-place with crockery?” said the man; “leave off crying, i see very well that you cannot do any ordinary work, so i have been to our king’s palace and have asked whether they cannot find a place for a kitchen-maid, and they have promised me to take you; in that way you will get your food for nothing.”
the king’s daughter was now a kitchen-maid, and had to be at the cook’s beck and call, and do the dirtiest work.
in both her pockets she fastened a little jar, in which she took home her share of the leavings, and upon this they lived.
it happened that the wedding of the king’s eldest son was to be celebrated, so the poor woman went up and placed herself by the door of the hall to look on.
when all the candles were lit, and people, each more beautiful than the other, entered, and all was full of pomp and splendour, she thought of her lot with a sad heart, and cursed the pride and haughtiness which had humbled her and brought her to so great poverty.
the smell of the delicious dishes which were being taken in and out reached her, and now and then the servants threw her a few morsels of them: these she put in her jars to take home.
all at once the king’s son entered, clothed in velvet and silk, with gold chains about his neck.
and when he saw the beautiful woman standing by the door he seized her by the hand, and would have danced with her; but she refused and shrank with fear, for she saw that it was king thrushbeard, her suitor whom she had driven away with scorn.
her struggles were of no avail, he drew her into the hall; but the string by which her pockets were hung broke, the pots fell down, the soup ran out, and the scraps were scattered all about.
and when the people saw it, there arose general laughter and derision, and she was so ashamed that she would rather have been a thousand fathoms below the ground.
she sprang to the door and would have run away, but on the stairs a man caught her and brought her back; and when she looked at him it was king thrushbeard again.
he said to her kindly, “do not be afraid, i and the fiddler who has been living with you in that wretched hovel are one.
for love of you i disguised myself so; and i also was the hussar who rode through your crockery.
this was all done to humble your proud spirit, and to punish you for the insolence with which you mocked me.”
then she wept bitterly and said, “i have done great wrong, and am not worthy to be your wife.” but he said, “be comforted, the evil days are past; now we will celebrate our wedding.” then the maids-in-waiting came and put on her the most splendid clothing, and her father and his whole court came and wished her happiness in her marriage with king thrushbeard, and the joy now began in earnest.
i wish you and i had been there too.
53 little snow-white
once upon a time in the middle of winter, when the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky, a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony.
and whilst she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow.
and the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself, “would that i had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window-frame.”
soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony; and she was therefore called little snow-white.
and when the child was born, the queen died.
after a year had passed the king took to himself another wife.
she was a beautiful woman, but proud and haughty, and she could not bear that anyone else should surpass her in beauty.
she had a wonderful looking-glass, and when she stood in front of it and looked at herself in it, and said—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
the looking-glass answered—
“thou, o queen, art the fairest of all!”
then she was satisfied, for she knew that the looking-glass spoke the truth.
but snow-white was growing up, and grew more and more beautiful; and when she was seven years old she was as beautiful as the day, and more beautiful than the queen herself.
and once when the queen asked her looking-glass—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
it answered—
“thou art fairer than all who are here, lady queen.”
but more beautiful still is snow-white, as i ween.”
then the queen was shocked, and turned yellow and green with envy.
from that hour, whenever she looked at snow-white, her heart heaved in her breast, she hated the girl so much.
and envy and pride grew higher and higher in her heart like a weed, so that she had no peace day or night.
she called a huntsman, and said, “take the child away into the forest; i will no longer have her in my sight.
kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token.” the huntsman obeyed, and took her away; but when he had drawn his knife, and was about to pierce snow-white’s innocent heart, she began to weep, and said, “ah dear huntsman, leave me my life!
i will run away into the wild forest, and never come home again.”
and as she was so beautiful the huntsman had pity on her and said, “run away, then, you poor child.” “the wild beasts will soon have devoured you,” thought he, and yet it seemed as if a stone had been rolled from his heart since it was no longer needful for him to kill her.
and as a young boar just then came running by he stabbed it, and cut out its heart and took it to the queen as proof that the child was dead.
the cook had to salt this, and the wicked queen ate it, and thought she had eaten the heart of snow-white.
but now the poor child was all alone in the great forest, and so terrified that she looked at every leaf of every tree, and did not know what to do.
then she began to run, and ran over sharp stones and through thorns, and the wild beasts ran past her, but did her no harm.
she ran as long as her feet would go until it was almost evening; then she saw a little cottage and went into it to rest herself.
everything in the cottage was small, but neater and cleaner than can be told.
there was a table on which was a white cover, and seven little plates, and on each plate a little spoon; moreover, there were seven little knives and forks, and seven little mugs.
against the wall stood seven little beds side by side, and covered with snow-white counterpanes.
little snow-white was so hungry and thirsty that she ate some vegetables and bread from each plate and drank a drop of wine out of each mug, for she did not wish to take all from one only.
then, as she was so tired, she laid herself down on one of the little beds, but none of them suited her; one was too long, another too short, but at last she found that the seventh one was right, and so she remained in it, said a prayer and went to sleep.
when it was quite dark the owners of the cottage came back; they were seven dwarfs who dug and delved in the mountains for ore. they lit their seven candles, and as it was now light within the cottage they saw that someone had been there, for everything was not in the same order in which they had left it.
the first said, “who has been sitting on my chair?”
the second, “who has been eating off my plate?”
the third, “who has been taking some of my bread?”
the fourth, “who has been eating my vegetables?”
the fifth, “who has been using my fork?”
the sixth, “who has been cutting with my knife?”
the seventh, “who has been drinking out of my mug?”
then the first looked round and saw that there was a little hole on his bed, and he said, “who has been getting into my bed?” the others came up and each called out, “somebody has been lying in my bed too.” but the seventh when he looked at his bed saw little snow-white, who was lying asleep therein.
and he called the others, who came running up, and they cried out with astonishment, and brought their seven little candles and let the light fall on little snow-white.
“oh, heavens!
oh, heavens!” cried they, “what a lovely child!” and they were so glad that they did not wake her up, but let her sleep on in the bed.
and the seventh dwarf slept with his companions, one hour with each, and so got through the night.
when it was morning little snow-white awoke, and was frightened when she saw the seven dwarfs.
but they were friendly and asked her what her name was.
“my name is snow-white,” she answered.
“how have you come to our house?” said the dwarfs.
then she told them that her step-mother had wished to have her killed, but that the huntsman had spared her life, and that she had run for the whole day, until at last she had found their dwelling.
the dwarfs said, “if you will take care of our house, cook, make the beds, wash, sew, and knit, and if you will keep everything neat and clean, you can stay with us and you shall want for nothing.” “yes,” said snow-white, “with all my heart,” and she stayed with them.
she kept the house in order for them; in the mornings they went to the mountains and looked for copper and gold, in the evenings they came back, and then their supper had to be ready.
the girl was alone the whole day, so the good dwarfs warned her and said, “beware of your step-mother, she will soon know that you are here; be sure to let no one come in.”
but the queen, believing that she had eaten snow-white’s heart, could not but think that she was again the first and most beautiful of all; and she went to her looking-glass and said—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
and the glass answered—
“oh, queen, thou art fairest of all i see, but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell, snow-white is still alive and well, and none is so fair as she.”
then she was astounded, for she knew that the looking-glass never spoke falsely, and she knew that the huntsman had betrayed her, and that little snow-white was still alive.
and so she thought and thought again how she might kill her, for so long as she was not the fairest in the whole land, envy let her have no rest.
and when she had at last thought of something to do, she painted her face, and dressed herself like an old peddler-woman, and no one could have known her.
in this disguise she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs, and knocked at the door and cried, “pretty things to sell, very cheap, very cheap.” little snow-white looked out of the window and called out, “good-day my good woman, what have you to sell?” “good things, pretty things,” she answered; “stay-laces of all colours,” and she pulled out one which was woven of bright-coloured silk.
“i may let the worthy old woman in,” thought snow-white, and she unbolted the door and bought the pretty laces.
“child,” said the old woman, “what a fright you look; come, i will lace you properly for once.” snow-white had no suspicion, but stood before her, and let herself be laced with the new laces.
but the old woman laced so quickly and so tightly that snow-white lost her breath and fell down as if dead.
“now i am the most beautiful,” said the queen to herself, and ran away.
not long afterwards, in the evening, the seven dwarfs came home, but how shocked they were when they saw their dear little snow-white lying on the ground, and that she neither stirred nor moved, and seemed to be dead.
they lifted her up, and, as they saw that she was laced too tightly, they cut the laces; then she began to breathe a little, and after a while came to life again.
when the dwarfs heard what had happened they said, “the old peddler-woman was no one else than the wicked queen; take care and let no one come in when we are not with you.”
but the wicked woman when she had reached home went in front of the glass and asked—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
and it answered as before—
“oh, queen, thou art fairest of all i see, but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell, snow-white is still alive and well, and none is so fair as she.”
when she heard that, all her blood rushed to her heart with fear, for she saw plainly that little snow-white was again alive.
“but now,” she said, “i will think of something that shall put an end to you,” and by the help of witchcraft, which she understood, she made a poisonous comb.
then she disguised herself and took the shape of another old woman.
so she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs, knocked at the door, and cried, “good things to sell, cheap, cheap!”
little snow-white looked out and said, “go away; i cannot let any one come in.” “i suppose you can look,” said the old woman, and pulled the poisonous comb out and held it up.
it pleased the girl so well that she let herself be beguiled, and opened the door.
when they had made a bargain the old woman said, “now i will comb you properly for once.”
poor little snow-white had no suspicion, and let the old woman do as she pleased, but hardly had she put the comb in her hair than the poison in it took effect, and the girl fell down senseless.
“you paragon of beauty,” said the wicked woman, “you are done for now,” and she went away.
but fortunately it was almost evening, when the seven dwarfs came home.
when they saw snow-white lying as if dead upon the ground they at once suspected the step-mother, and they looked and found the poisoned comb.
scarcely had they taken it out when snow-white came to herself, and told them what had happened.
then they warned her once more to be upon her guard and to open the door to no one.
the queen, at home, went in front of the glass and said—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
then it answered as before—
“oh, queen, thou art fairest of all i see, but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell, snow-white is still alive and well, and none is so fair as she.”
when she heard the glass speak thus she trembled and shook with rage.
“snow-white shall die,” she cried, “even if it costs me my life!”
thereupon she went into a quite secret, lonely room, where no one ever came, and there she made a very poisonous apple.
outside it looked pretty, white with a red cheek, so that everyone who saw it longed for it; but whoever ate a piece of it must surely die.
when the apple was ready she painted her face, and dressed herself up as a country-woman, and so she went over the seven mountains to the seven dwarfs.
she knocked at the door.
snow-white put her head out of the window and said, “i cannot let any one in; the seven dwarfs have forbidden me.” “it is all the same to me,” answered the woman, “i shall soon get rid of my apples.
there, i will give you one.”
“no,” said snow-white, “i dare not take anything.” “are you afraid of poison?” said the old woman; “look, i will cut the apple in two pieces; you eat the red cheek, and i will eat the white.” the apple was so cunningly made that only the red cheek was poisoned.
snow-white longed for the fine apple, and when she saw that the woman ate part of it she could resist no longer, and stretched out her hand and took the poisonous half.
but hardly had she a bit of it in her mouth than she fell down dead.
then the queen looked at her with a dreadful look, and laughed aloud and said, “white as snow, red as blood, black as ebony-wood!
this time the dwarfs cannot wake you up again.”
and when she asked of the looking-glass at home—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
it answered at last—
“oh, queen, in this land thou art fairest of all.”
then her envious heart had rest, so far as an envious heart can have rest.
the dwarfs, when they came home in the evening, found snow-white lying upon the ground; she breathed no longer and was dead.
they lifted her up, looked to see whether they could find anything poisonous, unlaced her, combed her hair, washed her with water and wine, but it was all of no use; the poor child was dead, and remained dead.
they laid her upon a bier, and all seven of them sat round it and wept for her, and wept three days long.
then they were going to bury her, but she still looked as if she were living, and still had her pretty red cheeks.
they said, “we could not bury her in the dark ground,” and they had a transparent coffin of glass made, so that she could be seen from all sides, and they laid her in it, and wrote her name upon it in golden letters, and that she was a king’s daughter.
then they put the coffin out upon the mountain, and one of them always stayed by it and watched it.
and birds came too, and wept for snow-white; first an owl, then a raven, and last a dove.
and now snow-white lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep; for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.
it happened, however, that a king’s son came into the forest, and went to the dwarfs’ house to spend the night.
he saw the coffin on the mountain, and the beautiful snow-white within it, and read what was written upon it in golden letters.
then he said to the dwarfs, “let me have the coffin, i will give you whatever you want for it.” but the dwarfs answered, “we will not part with it for all the gold in the world.” then he said, “let me have it as a gift, for i cannot live without seeing snow-white.
i will honour and prize her as my dearest possession.” as he spoke in this way the good dwarfs took pity upon him, and gave him the coffin.
and now the king’s son had it carried away by his servants on their shoulders.
and it happened that they stumbled over a tree-stump, and with the shock the poisonous piece of apple which snow-white had bitten off came out of her throat.
and before long she opened her eyes, lifted up the lid of the coffin, sat up, and was once more alive.
“oh, heavens, where am i?” she cried.
the king’s son, full of joy, said, “you are with me,” and told her what had happened, and said, “i love you more than everything in the world; come with me to my father’s palace, you shall be my wife.”
and snow-white was willing, and went with him, and their wedding was held with great show and splendour.
but snow-white’s wicked step-mother was also bidden to the feast.
when she had arrayed herself in beautiful clothes she went before the looking-glass, and said—
“looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall, who in this land is the fairest of all?”
the glass answered—
“oh, queen, of all here the fairest art thou, but the young queen is fairer by far as i trow.”
then the wicked woman uttered a curse, and was so wretched, so utterly wretched, that she knew not what to do.
at first she would not go to the wedding at all, but she had no peace, and must go to see the young queen.
and when she went in she knew snow-white; and she stood still with rage and fear, and could not stir.
but iron slippers had already been put upon the fire, and they were brought in with tongs, and set before her.
then she was forced to put on the red-hot shoes, and dance until she dropped down dead.
54 the knapsack, the hat, and the horn
there were once three brothers who had fallen deeper and deeper into poverty, and at last their need was so great that they had to endure hunger, and had nothing to eat or drink.
then said they, “we cannot go on thus, we had better go into the world and seek our fortune.” they therefore set out, and had already walked over many a long road and many a blade of grass, but had not yet met with good luck.
one day they arrived in a great forest, and in the midst of it was a hill, and when they came nearer they saw that the hill was all silver.
then spoke the eldest, “now i have found the good luck i wished for, and i desire nothing more.” he took as much of the silver as he could possibly carry, and then turned back and went home again.
but the two others said, “we want something more from good luck than mere silver,” and did not touch it, but went onwards.
after they had walked for two days longer without stopping, they came to a hill which was all gold.
the second brother stopped, took thought with himself, and was undecided.
“what shall i do?” said he; “shall i take for myself so much of this gold, that i have sufficient for all the rest of my life, or shall i go farther?” at length he made a decision, and putting as much into his pockets as would go in, said farewell to his brother, and went home.
but the third said, “silver and gold do not move me, i will not renounce my chance of fortune, perhaps something better still will be given me.” he journeyed onwards, and when he had walked for three days, he got into a forest which was still larger than the one before, and never would come to an end, and as he found nothing to eat or to drink, he was all but exhausted.
then he climbed up a high tree to find out if up there he could see the end of the forest, but so far as his eye could pierce he saw nothing but the tops of trees.
then he began to descend the tree again, but hunger tormented him, and he thought to himself, “if i could but eat my fill once more!” when he got down he saw with astonishment a table beneath the tree richly spread with food, the steam of which rose up to meet him.
“this time,” said he, “my wish has been fulfilled at the right moment.” and without inquiring who had brought the food, or who had cooked it, he approached the table, and ate with enjoyment until he had appeased his hunger.
when he was done, he thought, “it would after all be a pity if the pretty little table-cloth were to be spoilt in the forest here,” and folded it up tidily and put it in his pocket.
then he went onwards, and in the evening, when hunger once more made itself felt, he wanted to make a trial of his little cloth, and spread it out and said, “i wish thee to be covered with good cheer again,” and scarcely had the wish crossed his lips than as many dishes with the most exquisite food on them stood on the table as there was room for.
“now i perceive,” said he, “in what kitchen my cooking is done.
thou shalt be dearer to me than the mountains of silver and gold.” for he saw plainly that it was a wishing-cloth.
the cloth, however, was still not enough to enable him to sit down quietly at home; he preferred to wander about the world and pursue his fortune farther.
one night he met, in a lonely wood, a dusty, black charcoal-burner, who was burning charcoal there, and had some potatoes by the fire, on which he was going to make a meal.
“good evening, blackbird!” said the youth.
“how dost thou get on in thy solitude?”
“one day is like another,” replied the charcoal-burner, “and every night potatoes!
hast thou a mind to have some, and wilt thou be my guest?” “many thanks,” replied the traveler, “i won’t rob thee of thy supper; thou didst not reckon on a visitor, but if thou wilt put up with what i have, thou shalt have an invitation.”
“who is to prepare it for thee?” said the charcoal-burner.
“i see that thou hast nothing with thee, and there is no one within a two hours’
walk who could give thee anything.” “and yet there shall be a meal,”
answered the youth, “and better than any thou hast ever tasted.”
thereupon he brought his cloth out of his knapsack, spread it on the ground, and said, “little cloth, cover thyself,” and instantly boiled meat and baked meat stood there, and as hot as if it had just come out of the kitchen.
the charcoal-burner stared, but did not require much pressing; he fell to, and thrust larger and larger mouthfuls into his black mouth.
when they had eaten everything, the charcoal-burner smiled contentedly, and said, “hark thee, thy table-cloth has my approval; it would be a fine thing for me in this forest, where no one ever cooks me anything good.
i will propose an exchange to thee; there in the corner hangs a soldier’s knapsack, which is certainly old and shabby, but in it lie concealed wonderful powers; but, as i no longer use it, i will give it to thee for the table-cloth.”
“i must first know what these wonderful powers are,” answered the youth.
“that will i tell thee,” replied the charcoal-burner; “every time thou tappest it with thy hand, a corporal comes with six men armed from head to foot, and they do whatsoever thou commandest them.” “so far as i am concerned,” said the youth, “if nothing else can be done, we will exchange,” and he gave the charcoal-burner the cloth, took the knapsack from the hook, put it on, and bade farewell.
when he had walked a while, he wished to make a trial of the magical powers of his knapsack and tapped it.
immediately the seven warriors stepped up to him, and the corporal said, “what does my lord and ruler wish for?”
“march with all speed to the charcoal-burner, and demand my wishing-cloth back.” they faced to the left, and it was not long before they brought what he required, and had taken it from the charcoal-burner without asking many questions.
the young man bade them retire, went onwards, and hoped fortune would shine yet more brightly on him.
by sunset he came to another charcoal-burner, who was making his supper ready by the fire.
“if thou wilt eat some potatoes with salt, but with no dripping, come and sit down with me,” said the sooty fellow.
“no, he replied, this time thou shalt be my guest,” and he spread out his cloth, which was instantly covered with the most beautiful dishes.
they ate and drank together, and enjoyed themselves heartily.
after the meal was over, the charcoal-burner said, “up there on that shelf lies a little old worn-out hat which has strange properties: when any one puts it on, and turns it round on his head, the cannons go off as if twelve were fired all together, and they shoot down everything so that no one can withstand them.
the hat is of no use to me, and i will willingly give it for thy table-cloth.”
“that suits me very well,” he answered, took the hat, put it on, and left his table-cloth behind him.
hardly, however, had he walked away than he tapped on his knapsack, and his soldiers had to fetch the cloth back again.
“one thing comes on the top of another,” thought he, “and i feel as if my luck had not yet come to an end.” neither had his thoughts deceived him.
after he had walked on for the whole of one day, he came to a third charcoal-burner, who like the previous ones, invited him to potatoes without dripping.
but he let him also dine with him from his wishing-cloth, and the charcoal-burner liked it so well, that at last he offered him a horn for it, which had very different properties from those of the hat.
when any one blew it all the walls and fortifications fell down, and all towns and villages became ruins.
he certainly gave the charcoal-burner the cloth for it, but he afterwards sent his soldiers to demand it back again, so that at length he had the knapsack, hat and horn, all three.
“now,” said he, “i am a made man, and it is time for me to go home and see how my brothers are getting on.”
when he reached home, his brothers had built themselves a handsome house with their silver and gold, and were living in clover.
he went to see them, but as he came in a ragged coat, with his shabby hat on his head, and his old knapsack on his back, they would not acknowledge him as their brother.
they mocked and said, “thou givest out that thou art our brother who despised silver and gold, and craved for something still better for himself.
he will come in his carriage in full splendour like a mighty king, not like a beggar,” and they drove him out of doors.
then he fell into a rage, and tapped his knapsack until a hundred and fifty men stood before him armed from head to foot.
he commanded them to surround his brothers’ house, and two of them were to take hazel-sticks with them, and beat the two insolent men until they knew who he was.
a violent disturbance arose, people ran together, and wanted to lend the two some help in their need, but against the soldiers they could do nothing.
news of this at length came to the king, who was very angry, and ordered a captain to march out with his troop, and drive this disturber of the peace out of the town; but the man with the knapsack soon got a greater body of men together, who repulsed the captain and his men, so that they were forced to retire with bloody noses.
the king said, “this vagabond is not brought to order yet,” and next day sent a still larger troop against him, but they could do even less.
the youth set still more men against them, and in order to be done the sooner, he turned his hat twice round on his head, and heavy guns began to play, and the king’s men were beaten and put to flight.
“and now,” said he, “i will not make peace until the king gives me his daughter to wife, and i govern the whole kingdom in his name.” he caused this to be announced to the king, and the latter said to his daughter, “necessity is a hard nut to crack, what remains to me but to do what he desires?
if i want peace and to keep the crown on my head, i must give thee away.”
so the wedding was celebrated, but the king’s daughter was vexed that her husband should be a common man, who wore a shabby hat, and put on an old knapsack.
she wished much to get rid of him, and night and day studied how she could accomplished this.
then she thought to herself, “is it possible that his wonderful powers lie in the knapsack?” and she dissembled and caressed him, and when his heart was softened, she said, “if thou wouldst but lay aside that ugly knapsack, it makes disfigures thee so, that i can’t help being ashamed of thee.” “dear child,” said he, “this knapsack is my greatest treasure; as long as i have it, there is no power on earth that i am afraid of.” and he revealed to her the wonderful virtue with which it was endowed.
then she threw herself in his arms as if she were going to kiss him, but dexterously took the knapsack off his shoulders, and ran away with it.
as soon as she was alone she tapped it, and commanded the warriors to seize their former master, and take him out of the royal palace.
they obeyed, and the false wife sent still more men after him, who were to drive him quite out of the country.
then he would have been ruined if he had not had the little hat.
but his hands were scarcely at liberty before he turned it twice.
immediately the cannon began to thunder, and struck down everything, and the king’s daughter herself was forced to come and beg for mercy.
as she entreated in such moving terms, and promised amendment, he allowed himself to be persuaded and granted her peace.
she behaved in a friendly manner to him, and acted as if she loved him very much, and after some time managed so to befool him, that he confided to her that even if someone got the knapsack into his power, he could do nothing against him so long as the old hat was still his.
when she knew the secret, she waited until he was asleep, and then she took the hat away from him, and had it thrown out into the street.
but the horn still remained to him, and in great anger he blew it with all his strength.
instantly all walls, fortifications, towns, and villages, toppled down, and crushed the king and his daughter to death.
and had he not put down the horn and had blown just a little longer, everything would have been in ruins, and not one stone would have been left standing on another.
then no one opposed him any longer, and he made himself king of the whole country.
55 rumpelstiltskin
once there was a miller who was poor, but who had a beautiful daughter.
now it happened that he had to go and speak to the king, and in order to make himself appear important he said to him, “i have a daughter who can spin straw into gold.” the king said to the miller, “that is an art which pleases me well; if your daughter is as clever as you say, bring her to-morrow to my palace, and i will try what she can do.”
and when the girl was brought to him he took her into a room which was quite full of straw, gave her a spinning-wheel and a reel, and said, “now set to work, and if by to-morrow morning early you have not spun this straw into gold during the night, you must die.” thereupon he himself locked up the room, and left her in it alone.
so there sat the poor miller’s daughter, and for the life of her could not tell what to do; she had no idea how straw could be spun into gold, and she grew more and more miserable, until at last she began to weep.
but all at once the door opened, and in came a little man, and said, “good evening, mistress miller; why are you crying so?” “alas!”
answered the girl, “i have to spin straw into gold, and i do not know how to do it.” “what will you give me,” said the manikin, “if i do it for you?” “my necklace,” said the girl.
the little man took the necklace, seated himself in front of the wheel, and “whirr, whirr, whirr,” three turns, and the reel was full; then he put another on, and whirr, whirr, whirr, three times round, and the second was full too.
and so it went on until the morning, when all the straw was spun, and all the reels were full of gold.
by daybreak the king was already there, and when he saw the gold he was astonished and delighted, but his heart became only more greedy.
he had the miller’s daughter taken into another room full of straw, which was much larger, and commanded her to spin that also in one night if she valued her life.
the girl knew not how to help herself, and was crying, when the door again opened, and the little man appeared, and said, “what will you give me if i spin that straw into gold for you?” “the ring on my finger,”
answered the girl.
the little man took the ring, again began to turn the wheel, and by morning had spun all the straw into glittering gold.
the king rejoiced beyond measure at the sight, but still he had not gold enough; and he had the miller’s daughter taken into a still larger room full of straw, and said, “you must spin this, too, in the course of this night; but if you succeed, you shall be my wife.” “even if she be a miller’s daughter,” thought he, “i could not find a richer wife in the whole world.”
when the girl was alone the manikin came again for the third time, and said, “what will you give me if i spin the straw for you this time also?” “i have nothing left that i could give,” answered the girl.
“then promise me, if you should become queen, your first child.” “who knows whether that will ever happen?” thought the miller’s daughter; and, not knowing how else to help herself in this strait, she promised the manikin what he wanted, and for that he once more span the straw into gold.
and when the king came in the morning, and found all as he had wished, he took her in marriage, and the pretty miller’s daughter became a queen.
a year after, she had a beautiful child, and she never gave a thought to the manikin.
but suddenly he came into her room, and said, “now give me what you promised.” the queen was horror-struck, and offered the manikin all the riches of the kingdom if he would leave her the child.
but the manikin said, “no, something that is living is dearer to me than all the treasures in the world.” then the queen began to weep and cry, so that the manikin pitied her.
“i will give you three days’
time,” said he, “if by that time you find out my name, then shall you keep your child.”
so the queen thought the whole night of all the names that she had ever heard, and she sent a messenger over the country to inquire, far and wide, for any other names that there might be.
when the manikin came the next day, she began with caspar, melchior, balthazar, and said all the names she knew, one after another; but to every one the little man said, “that is not my name.” on the second day she had inquiries made in the neighborhood as to the names of the people there, and she repeated to the manikin the most uncommon and curious.
“perhaps your name is shortribs, or sheepshanks, or laceleg?” but he always answered, “that is not my name.”
on the third day the messenger came back again, and said, “i have not been able to find a single new name, but as i came to a high mountain at the end of the forest, where the fox and the hare bid each other good night, there i saw a little house, and before the house a fire was burning, and round about the fire quite a ridiculous little man was jumping: he hopped upon one leg, and shouted—
“to-day i bake, to-morrow brew, the next i’ll have the young queen’s child.
ha!
glad am i that no one knew that rumpelstiltskin i am styled.”
you may think how glad the queen was when she heard the name!
and when soon afterwards the little man came in, and asked, “now, mistress queen, what is my name?” at first she said, “is your name conrad?”
“no.” “is your name harry?” “no.”
“perhaps your name is rumpelstiltskin?”
“the devil has told you that!
the devil has told you that!” cried the little man, and in his anger he plunged his right foot so deep into the earth that his whole leg went in; and then in rage he pulled at his left leg so hard with both hands that he tore himself in two.
56 sweetheart roland
there was once on a time a woman who was a real witch and had two daughters, one ugly and wicked, and this one she loved because she was her own daughter, and one beautiful and good, and this one she hated, because she was her step-daughter.
the step-daughter once had a pretty apron, which the other fancied so much that she became envious, and told her mother that she must and would have that apron.
“be quiet, my child,” said the old woman, “and thou shalt have it.
thy step-sister has long deserved death, to-night when she is asleep i will come and cut her head off.
only be careful that thou art at the far-side of the bed, and push her well to the front.” it would have been all over with the poor girl if she had not just then been standing in a corner, and heard everything.
all day long she dared not go out of doors, and when bed-time had come, the witch’s daughter got into bed first, so as to lie at the far side, but when she was asleep, the other pushed her gently to the front, and took for herself the place at the back, close by the wall.
in the night, the old woman came creeping in, she held an axe in her right hand, and felt with her left to see if anyone was lying at the outside, and then she grasped the axe with both hands, and cut her own child’s head off.
when she had gone away, the girl got up and went to her sweetheart, who was called roland, and knocked at his door.
when he came out, she said to him, “hear me, dearest roland, we must fly in all haste; my step-mother wanted to kill me, but has struck her own child.
when daylight comes, and she sees what she has done, we shall be lost.”
“but,” said roland, “i counsel thee first to take away her magic wand, or we cannot escape if she pursues us.” the maiden fetched the magic wand, and she took the dead girl’s head and dropped three drops of blood on the ground, one in front of the bed, one in the kitchen, and one on the stairs.
then she hurried away with her lover.
when the old witch got up next morning, she called her daughter, and wanted to give her the apron, but she did not come.
then the witch cried, “where art thou?” “here, on the stairs, i am sweeping,” answered the first drop of blood.
the old woman went out, but saw no one on the stairs, and cried again, “where art thou?” “here in the kitchen, i am warming myself,”
cried the second drop of blood.
she went into the kitchen, but found no one.
then she cried again, “where art thou?” “ah, here in the bed, i am sleeping.” cried the third drop of blood.
she went into the room to the bed.
what did she see there?
her own child, whose head she had cut off, bathed in her blood.
the witch fell into a passion, sprang to the window, and as she could look forth quite far into the world, she perceived her step-daughter hurrying away with her sweetheart roland.
“that shall not serve you,” cried she, “even if you have got a long way off, you shall still not escape me.” she put on her many league boots, in which went an hour’s walk at every step, and it was not long before she overtook them.
the girl, however, when she saw the old woman striding towards her, changed, with her magic wand, her sweetheart roland into a lake, and herself into a duck swimming in the middle of it.
the witch placed herself on the shore, threw bread-crumbs in, and gave herself every possible trouble to entice the duck; but the duck did not let herself be enticed, and the old woman had to go home at night as she had come.
on this the girl and her sweetheart roland resumed their natural shapes again, and they walked on the whole night until daybreak.
then the maiden changed herself into a beautiful flower which stood in the midst of a briar hedge, and her sweetheart roland into a fiddler.
it was not long before the witch came striding up towards them, and said to the musician, “dear musician, may i pluck that beautiful flower for myself?” “oh, yes,” he replied, “i will play to you while you do it.” as she was hastily creeping into the hedge and was just going to pluck the flower, for she well knew who the flower was, he began to play, and whether she would or not, she was forced to dance, for it was a magical dance.
the quicker he played, the more violent springs was she forced to make, and the thorns tore her clothes from her body, and pricked her and wounded her till she bled, and as he did not stop, she had to dance till she lay dead on the ground.
when they were delivered, roland said, “now i will go to my father and arrange for the wedding.” “then in the meantime i will stay here and wait for thee,” said the girl, “and that no one may recognize me, i will change myself into a red stone land-mark.” then roland went away, and the girl stood like a red land-mark in the field and waited for her beloved.
but when roland got home, he fell into the snares of another, who prevailed on him so far that he forgot the maiden.
the poor girl remained there a long time, but at length, as he did not return at all, she was sad, and changed herself into a flower, and thought, “some one will surely come this way, and trample me down.”
it befell, however, that a shepherd kept his sheep in the field, and saw the flower, and as it was so pretty, plucked it, took it with him, and laid it away in his chest.
from that time forth, strange things happened in the shepherd’s house.
when he arose in the morning, all the work was already done, the room was swept, the table and benches cleaned, the fire on the hearth was lighted, and the water was fetched, and at noon, when he came home, the table was laid, and a good dinner served.
he could not conceive how this came to pass, for he never saw a human being in his house, and no one could have concealed himself in it.
he was certainly pleased with this good attendance, but still at last he was so afraid that he went to a wise woman and asked for her advice.
the wise woman said, “there is some enchantment behind it, listen very early some morning if anything is moving in the room, and if thou seest anything, let it be what it may, throw a white cloth over it, and then the magic will be stopped.”
the shepherd did as she bade him, and next morning just as day dawned, he saw the chest open, and the flower come out.
swiftly he sprang towards it, and threw a white cloth over it.
instantly the transformation came to an end, and a beautiful girl stood before him, who owned to him that she had been the flower, and that up to this time she had attended to his housekeeping.
she told him her story, and as she pleased him he asked her if she would marry him, but she answered, “no,” for she wanted to remain faithful to her sweetheart roland, although he had deserted her, but she promised not to go away, but to keep house for the shepherd for the future.
and now the time drew near when roland’s wedding was to be celebrated, and then, according to an old custom in the country, it was announced that all the girls were to be present at it, and sing in honour of the bridal pair.
when the faithful maiden heard of this, she grew so sad that she thought her heart would break, and she would not go thither, but the other girls came and took her.
when it came to her turn to sing, she stepped back, until at last she was the only one left, and then she could not refuse.
but when she began her song, and it reached roland’s ears, he sprang up and cried, “i know the voice, that is the true bride, i will have no other!” everything he had forgotten, and which had vanished from his mind, had suddenly come home again to his heart.
then the faithful maiden held her wedding with her sweetheart roland, and grief came to an end and joy began.
57 the golden bird
in the olden time there was a king, who had behind his palace a beautiful pleasure-garden in which there was a tree that bore golden apples.
when the apples were getting ripe they were counted, but on the very next morning one was missing.
this was told to the king, and he ordered that a watch should be kept every night beneath the tree.
the king had three sons, the eldest of whom he sent, as soon as night came on, into the garden; but when midnight came he could not keep himself from sleeping, and next morning again an apple was gone.
the following night the second son had to keep watch, it fared no better with him; as soon as twelve o’clock had struck he fell asleep, and in the morning an apple was gone.
now it came to the turn of the third son to watch; and he was quite ready, but the king had not much trust in him, and thought that he would be of less use even than his brothers; but at last he let him go.
the youth lay down beneath the tree, but kept awake, and did not let sleep master him.
when it struck twelve, something rustled through the air, and in the moonlight he saw a bird coming whose feathers were all shining with gold.
the bird alighted on the tree, and had just plucked off an apple, when the youth shot an arrow at him.
the bird flew off, but the arrow had struck his plumage, and one of his golden feathers fell down.
the youth picked it up, and the next morning took it to the king and told him what he had seen in the night.
the king called his council together, and everyone declared that a feather like this was worth more than the whole kingdom.
“if the feather is so precious,”
declared the king, “one alone will not do for me; i must and will have the whole bird!”
the eldest son set out; he trusted to his cleverness, and thought that he would easily find the golden bird.
when he had gone some distance he saw a fox sitting at the edge of a wood, so he cocked his gun and took aim at him.
the fox cried, “do not shoot me!
and in return i will give you some good counsel.
you are on the way to the golden bird; and this evening you will come to a village in which stand two inns opposite to one another.
one of them is lighted up brightly, and all goes on merrily within, but do not go into it; go rather into the other, even though it seems a bad one.” “how can such a silly beast give wise advice?” thought the king’s son, and he pulled the trigger.
but he missed the fox, who stretched out his tail and ran quickly into the wood.
so he pursued his way, and by evening came to the village where the two inns were; in one they were singing and dancing; the other had a poor, miserable look.
“i should be a fool, indeed,” he thought, “if i were to go into the shabby tavern, and pass by the good one.” so he went into the cheerful one, lived there in riot and revel, and forgot the bird and his father, and all good counsels.
when some time had passed, and the eldest son for month after month did not come back home, the second set out, wishing to find the golden bird.
the fox met him as he had met the eldest, and gave him the good advice of which he took no heed.
he came to the two inns, and his brother was standing at the window of the one from which came the music, and called out to him.
he could not resist, but went inside and lived only for pleasure.
again some time passed, and then the king’s youngest son wanted to set off and try his luck, but his father would not allow it.
“it is of no use,” said he, “he will find the golden bird still less than his brothers, and if a mishap were to befall him he knows not how to help himself; he is a little wanting at the best.” but at last, as he had no peace, he let him go.
again the fox was sitting outside the wood, and begged for his life, and offered his good advice.
the youth was good-natured, and said, “be easy, little fox, i will do you no harm.” “you shall not repent it,”
answered the fox; “and that you may get on more quickly, get up behind on my tail.” and scarcely had he seated himself when the fox began to run, and away he went over stock and stone till his hair whistled in the wind.
when they came to the village the youth got off; he followed the good advice, and without looking round turned into the little inn, where he spent the night quietly.
the next morning, as soon as he got into the open country, there sat the fox already, and said, “i will tell you further what you have to do.
go on quite straight, and at last you will come to a castle, in front of which a whole regiment of soldiers is lying, but do not trouble yourself about them, for they will all be asleep and snoring.
go through the midst of them straight into the castle, and go through all the rooms, till at last you will come to a chamber where a golden bird is hanging in a wooden cage.
close by, there stands an empty gold cage for show, but beware of taking the bird out of the common cage and putting it into the fine one, or it may go badly with you.” with these words the fox again stretched out his tail, and the king’s son seated himself upon it, and away he went over stock and stone till his hair whistled in the wind.
when he came to the castle he found everything as the fox had said.
the king’s son went into the chamber where the golden bird was shut up in a wooden cage, whilst a golden one stood hard by; and the three golden apples lay about the room.
“but,” thought he, “it would be absurd if i were to leave the beautiful bird in the common and ugly cage,” so he opened the door, laid hold of it, and put it into the golden cage.
but at the same moment the bird uttered a shrill cry.
the soldiers awoke, rushed in, and took him off to prison.
the next morning he was taken before a court of justice, and as he confessed everything, was sentenced to death.
the king, however, said that he would grant him his life on one condition namely, if he brought him the golden horse which ran faster than the wind; and in that case he should receive, over and above, as a reward, the golden bird.
the king’s son set off, but he sighed and was sorrowful, for how was he to find the golden horse?
but all at once he saw his old friend the fox sitting on the road.
“look you,” said the fox, “this has happened because you did not give heed to me.
however, be of good courage.
i will give you my help, and tell you how to get to the golden horse.
you must go straight on, and you will come to a castle, where in the stable stands the horse.
the grooms will be lying in front of the stable; but they will be asleep and snoring, and you can quietly lead out the golden horse.
but of one thing you must take heed; put on him the common saddle of wood and leather, and not the golden one, which hangs close by, else it will go ill with you.” then the fox stretched out his tail, the king’s son seated himself upon it, and away he went over stock and stone until his hair whistled in the wind.
everything happened just as the fox had said; the prince came to the stable in which the golden horse was standing, but just as he was going to put the common saddle upon him, he thought, “it will be a shame to such a beautiful beast, if i do not give him the good saddle which belongs to him by right.” but scarcely had the golden saddle touched the horse than he began to neigh loudly.
the grooms awoke, seized the youth, and threw him into prison.
the next morning he was sentenced by the court to death; but the king promised to grant him his life, and the golden horse as well, if he could bring back the beautiful princess from the golden castle.
with a heavy heart the youth set out; yet luckily for him he soon found the trusty fox.
“i ought only to leave you to your ill-luck,” said the fox, “but i pity you, and will help you once more out of your trouble.
this road takes you straight to the golden castle, you will reach it by eventide; and at night when everything is quiet the beautiful princess goes to the bathing-house to bathe.
when she enters it, run up to her and give her a kiss, then she will follow you, and you can take her away with you; only do not allow her to take leave of her parents first, or it will go ill with you.”
then the fox stretched out his tail, the king’s son seated himself upon it, and away the fox went, over stock and stone, till his hair whistled in the wind.
when he reached the golden castle it was just as the fox had said.
he waited until midnight, when everything lay in deep sleep, and the beautiful princess was going to the bathing-house.
then he sprang out and gave her a kiss.
she said that she would like to go with him, but she asked him pitifully, and with tears, to allow her first to take leave of her parents.
at first he withstood her prayer, but when she wept more and more, and fell at his feet, he at last gave in.
but no sooner had the maiden reached the bedside of her father than he and all the rest in the castle awoke, and the youth was laid hold of and put into prison.
the next morning the king said to him, “your life is forfeited, and you can only find mercy if you take away the hill which stands in front of my windows, and prevents my seeing beyond it; and you must finish it all within eight days.
if you do that you shall have my daughter as your reward.”
the king’s son began, and dug and shovelled without leaving off, but when after seven days he saw how little he had done, and how all his work was as good as nothing, he fell into great sorrow and gave up all hope.
but on the evening of the seventh day the fox appeared and said, “you do not deserve that i should take any trouble about you; but just go away and lie down to sleep, and i will do the work for you.”
the next morning when he awoke and looked out of the window the hill had gone.
the youth ran, full of joy, to the king, and told him that the task was fulfilled, and whether he liked it or not, the king had to hold to his word and give him his daughter.
so the two set forth together, and it was not long before the trusty fox came up with them.
“you have certainly got what is best,” said he, “but the golden horse also belongs to the maiden of the golden castle.”
“how shall i get it?” asked the youth.
“that i will tell you,” answered the fox; “first take the beautiful maiden to the king who sent you to the golden castle.
there will be unheard-of rejoicing; they will gladly give you the golden horse, and will bring it out to you.
mount it as soon as possible, and offer your hand to all in farewell; last of all to the beautiful maiden.
and as soon as you have taken her hand swing her up on to the horse, and gallop away, and no one will be able to bring you back, for the horse runs faster than the wind.”
all was carried out successfully, and the king’s son carried off the beautiful princess on the golden horse.
the fox did not remain behind, and he said to the youth, “now i will help you to get the golden bird.
when you come near to the castle where the golden bird is to be found, let the maiden get down, and i will take her into my care.
then ride with the golden horse into the castle-yard; there will be great rejoicing at the sight, and they will bring out the golden bird for you.
as soon as you have the cage in your hand gallop back to us, and take the maiden away again.”
when the plan had succeeded, and the king’s son was about to ride home with his treasures, the fox said, “now you shall reward me for my help.” “what do you require for it?” asked the youth.
“when you get into the wood yonder, shoot me dead, and chop off my head and feet.”
“that would be fine gratitude,” said the king’s son.
“i cannot possibly do that for you.”
the fox said, “if you will not do it i must leave you, but before i go away i will give you a piece of good advice.
be careful about two things.
buy no gallows’-flesh, and do not sit at the edge of any well.”
and then he ran into the wood.
the youth thought, “that is a wonderful beast, he has strange whims; who is going to buy gallows’-flesh?
and the desire to sit at the edge of a well it has never yet seized me.”
he rode on with the beautiful maiden, and his road took him again through the village in which his two brothers had remained.
there was a great stir and noise, and, when he asked what was going on, he was told that two men were going to be hanged.
as he came nearer to the place he saw that they were his brothers, who had been playing all kinds of wicked pranks, and had squandered all their wealth.
he inquired whether they could not be set free.
“if you will pay for them,” answered the people; “but why should you waste your money on wicked men, and buy them free.” he did not think twice about it, but paid for them, and when they were set free they all went on their way together.
they came to the wood where the fox had first met them, as it was cool and pleasant within it, the two brothers said, “let us rest a little by the well, and eat and drink.” he agreed, and whilst they were talking he forgot himself, and sat down upon the edge of the well without thinking of any evil.
but the two brothers threw him backwards into the well, took the maiden, the horse, and the bird, and went home to their father.
“here we bring you not only the golden bird,” said they; “we have won the golden horse also, and the maiden from the golden castle.”
then was there great joy; but the horse would not eat, the bird would not sing, and the maiden sat and wept.
but the youngest brother was not dead.
by good fortune the well was dry, and he fell upon soft moss without being hurt, but he could not get out again.
even in this strait the faithful fox did not leave him:
it came and leapt down to him, and upbraided him for having forgotten its advice.
“but yet i cannot give it up so,” he said; “i will help you up again into daylight.” he bade him grasp his tail and keep tight hold of it; and then he pulled him up.
“you are not out of all danger yet,” said the fox.
“your brothers were not sure of your death, and have surrounded the wood with watchers, who are to kill you if you let yourself be seen.” but a poor man was sitting upon the road, with whom the youth changed clothes, and in this way he got to the king’s palace.
no one knew him, but the bird began to sing, the horse began to eat, and the beautiful maiden left off weeping.
the king, astonished, asked, “what does this mean?” then the maiden said, “i do not know, but i have been so sorrowful and now i am so happy!
i feel as if my true bridegroom had come.” she told him all that had happened, although the other brothers had threatened her with death if she were to betray anything.
the king commanded that all people who were in his castle should be brought before him; and amongst them came the youth in his ragged clothes; but the maiden knew him at once and fell upon his neck.
the wicked brothers were seized and put to death, but he was married to the beautiful maiden and declared heir to the king.
but how did it fare with the poor fox?
long afterwards the king’s son was once again walking in the wood, when the fox met him and said, “you have everything now that you can wish for, but there is never an end to my misery, and yet it is in your power to free me,” and again he asked him with tears to shoot him dead and chop off his head and feet.
so he did it, and scarcely was it done when the fox was changed into a man, and was no other than the brother of the beautiful princess, who at last was freed from the magic charm which had been laid upon him.
and now nothing more was wanting to their happiness as long as they lived.
58 the dog and the sparrow
a sheep-dog had not a good master, but, on the contrary, one who let him suffer hunger.
as he could stay no longer with him, he went quite sadly away.
on the road he met a sparrow who said, “brother dog, why art thou so sad?” the dog replied, “i am hungry, and have nothing to eat.” then said the sparrow, “dear brother, come into the town with me, and i will satisfy thy hunger.” so they went into the town together, and when they came in front of a butcher’s shop the sparrow said to the dog, “stay there, and i will pick a bit of meat down for thee,” and he alighted on the stall, looked about him to see that no one was observing him, and pecked and pulled and tore so long at a piece which lay on the edge, that it slipped down.
then the dog seized it, ran into a corner, and devoured it.
the sparrow said, “now come with me to another shop, and then i will get thee one more piece that thou mayst be satisfied.” when the dog had devoured the second piece as well, the sparrow asked, “brother dog, hast thou now had enough?” “yes, i have had meat enough,” he answered, “but i have had no bread yet.” said the sparrow, “thou shalt have that also, come with me.” then he took him to a baker’s shop, and pecked at a couple of little buns till they rolled down, and as the dog wanted still more, he led him to another stall, and again got bread for him.
when that was consumed, the sparrow said, “brother dog, hast thou now had enough?” “yes,” he replied, “now we will walk awhile outside the town.” then they both went out on to the highway.
it was, however, warm weather, and when they had walked a little way the dog said, “i am tired, and would like to sleep.” “well, do sleep,” answered the sparrow, “and in the meantime i will seat myself on a branch.” so the dog lay down on the road, and fell fast asleep.
whilst he lay sleeping there, a waggoner came driving by, who had a cart with three horses, laden with two barrels of wine.
the sparrow, however, saw that he was not going to turn aside, but was staying in the wheel track in which the dog was lying, so it cried, “waggoner, don’t do it, or i will make thee poor.” the waggoner, however, growled to himself, “thou wilt not make me poor,” and cracked his whip and drove the cart over the dog, and the wheels killed him.
then the sparrow cried, “thou hast run over my brother dog and killed him, it shall cost thee thy cart and horses.” “cart and horses indeed!”
said the waggoner.
“what harm canst thou do me?” and drove onwards.
then the sparrow crept under the cover of the cart, and pecked so long at the same bung-hole that he got the bung out, and then all the wine ran out without the driver noticing it.
but once when he was looking behind him he saw that the cart was dripping, and looked at the barrels and saw that one of them was empty.
“unfortunate fellow that i am,”
cried he.
“not unfortunate enough yet,” said the sparrow, and flew on to the head of one of the horses and pecked his eyes out.
when the driver saw that, he drew out his axe and wanted to hit the sparrow, but the sparrow flew into the air, and he hit his horse on the head, and it fell down dead.
“oh, what an unfortunate man i am,” cried he.
“not unfortunate enough yet,” said the sparrow, and when the driver drove on with the two horses, the sparrow again crept under the cover, and pecked the bung out of the second cask, so all the wine was spilt.
when the driver became aware of it, he again cried, “oh, what an unfortunate man i am,” but the sparrow replied, “not unfortunate enough yet,” and seated himself on the head of the second horse, and pecked his eyes out.
the driver ran up to it and raised his axe to strike, but the sparrow flew into the air and the blow struck the horse, which fell.
“oh, what an unfortunate man i am.” “not unfortunate enough yet,” said the sparrow, and lighted on the third horse’s head, and pecked out his eyes.
the driver, in his rage, struck at the sparrow without looking round, and did not hit him but killed his third horse likewise.
“oh, what an unfortunate man i am,” cried he.
“not unfortunate enough yet,”
answered the sparrow.
“now will i make thee unfortunate in thy home,”
and flew away.
the driver had to leave the waggon standing, and full of anger and vexation went home.
“ah,” said he to his wife, “what misfortunes i have had!
my wine has run out, and the horses are all three dead!” “alas, husband,” she answered, “what a malicious bird has come into the house!
it has gathered together every bird there is in the world, and they have fallen on our corn up there, and are devouring it.” then he went upstairs, and thousands and thousands of birds were sitting in the loft and had eaten up all the corn, and the sparrow was sitting in the midst of them.
then the driver cried, “oh, what an unfortunate man i am?”
“not unfortunate enough yet!” answered the sparrow; “waggoner, it shall cost thee thy life as well,” and flew out.
then the waggoner had lost all his property, and he went downstairs into the room, sat down behind the stove and was quite furious and bitter.
but the sparrow sat outside in front of the window, and cried, “waggoner, it shall cost thee thy life.” then the waggoner snatched the axe and threw it at the sparrow, but it only broke the window, and did not hit the bird.
the sparrow now hopped in, placed itself on the stove and cried, “waggoner, it shall cost thee thy life.” the latter, quite mad and blind with rage, smote the stove in twain, and as the sparrow flew from one place to another so it fared with all his household furniture, looking-glass, benches, table, and at last the walls of his house, and yet he could not hit the bird.
at length, however, he caught it with his hand.
then his wife said, “shall i kill it?” “no,” cried he, “that would be too merciful.
it shall die much more cruelly,” and he took it and swallowed it whole.
the sparrow, however, began to flutter about in his body, and fluttered up again into the man’s mouth; then it stretched out its head, and cried, “waggoner, it shall still cost thee thy life.” the driver gave the axe to his wife, and said, “wife, kill the bird in my mouth for me.” the woman struck, but missed her blow, and hit the waggoner right on his head, so that he fell dead.
but the sparrow flew up and away.
59 frederick and catherine
there was once on a time a man who was called frederick and a woman called catherine, who had married each other and lived together as young married folks.
one day frederick said, “i will now go and plough, catherine; when i come back, there must be some roast meat on the table for hunger, and a fresh draught for thirst.” “just go, frederick,”
answered kate, “just go, i will have all ready for you.” therefore when dinner-time drew near she got a sausage out of the chimney, put it in the frying-pan, put some butter to it, and set it on the fire.
the sausage began to fry and to hiss, catherine stood beside it and held the handle of the pan, and had her own thoughts as she was doing it.
then it occurred to her, “while the sausage is getting done thou couldst go into the cellar and draw beer.” so she set the frying-pan safely on the fire, took a can, and went down into the cellar to draw beer.
the beer ran into the can and kate watched it, and then she thought, “oh, dear!
the dog upstairs is not fastened up, it might get the sausage out of the pan.
well thought of.” and in a trice she was up the cellar-steps again, but the spitz had the sausage in its mouth already, and trailed it away on the ground.
but catherine, who was not idle, set out after it, and chased it a long way into the field; the dog, however, was swifter than catherine and did not let the sausage journey easily, but skipped over the furrows with it.
“what’s gone is gone!” said kate, and turned round, and as she had run till she was weary, she walked quietly and comfortably, and cooled herself.
during this time the beer was still running out of the cask, for kate had not turned the tap.
and when the can was full and there was no other place for it, it ran into the cellar and did not stop until the whole cask was empty.
as soon as kate was on the steps she saw the mischance.
“good gracious!” she cried.
“what shall i do now to stop frederick knowing it!” she thought for a while, and at last she remembered that up in the garret was still standing a sack of the finest wheat flour from the last fair, and she would fetch that down and strew it over the beer.
“yes,” said she, “he who saves a thing when he ought, has it afterwards when he needs it,” and she climbed up to the garret and carried the sack below, and threw it straight down on the can of beer, which she knocked over, and frederick’s draught swam also in the cellar.
“it is all right,” said kate, “where the one is the other ought to be also,” and she strewed the meal over the whole cellar.
when it was done she was heartily delighted with her work, and said, “how clean and wholesome it does look here!” at mid-day home came frederick: “now, wife, what have you ready for me?” “ah, freddy,” she answered, “i was frying a sausage for you, but whilst i was drawing the beer to drink with it, the dog took it away out of the pan, and whilst i was running after the dog, all the beer ran out, and whilst i was drying up the beer with the flour, i knocked over the can as well, but be easy, the cellar is quite dry again.” said frederick, “kate, kate, you should not have done that!
to let the sausage be carried off and the beer run out of the cask, and throw out all our flour into the bargain!” “indeed, frederick, i did not know that, you should have told me.” the man thought, “if my wife is like this, i must look after things more.” now he had got together a good number of thalers which he changed into gold, and said to catherine, “look, these are counters for playing games; i will put them in a pot and bury them in the stable under the cow’s manger, but mind you keep away from them, or it will be the worse for you.” said she, “oh, no, frederick, i certainly will not go.” and when frederick was gone some pedlars came into the village who had cheap earthen-bowls and pots, and asked the young woman if there was nothing she wanted to bargain with them for?
“oh, dear people,” said catherine, “i have no money and can buy nothing, but if you have any use for yellow counters i will buy of you.” “yellow counters, why not?
but just let us see them.” “then go into the stable and dig under the cow’s manger, and you will find the yellow counters.
i am not allowed to go there.” the rogues went thither, dug and found pure gold.
then they laid hold of it, ran away, and left their pots and bowls behind in the house.
catherine thought she must use her new things, and as she had no lack in the kitchen already without these, she knocked the bottom out of every pot, and set them all as ornaments on the paling which went round about the house.
when frederick came and saw the new decorations, he said, “catherine, what have you been about?” “i have bought them, frederick, for the counters which were under the cow’s manger.
i did not go there myself, the pedlars had to dig them out for themselves.” “ah, wife,” said frederick, “what have you done?
those were not counters, but pure gold, and all our wealth; you should not have done that.” “indeed, frederick,” said she, “i did not know that, you should have forewarned me.”
catherine stood for a while and bethought to herself; then she said, “listen, frederick, we will soon get the gold back again, we will run after the thieves.” “come, then,” said frederick, “we will try it; but take with you some butter and cheese that we may have something to eat on the way.” “yes, frederick, i will take them.” they set out, and as frederick was the better walker, catherine followed him.
“it is to my advantage,” thought she, “when we turn back i shall be a little way in advance.” then she came to a hill where there were deep ruts on both sides of the road.
“there one can see,” said catherine, “how they have torn and skinned and galled the poor earth, it will never be whole again as long as it lives,” and in her heart’s compassion she took her butter and smeared the ruts right and left, that they might not be so hurt by the wheels, and as she was thus bending down in her charity, one of the cheeses rolled out of her pocket down the hill.
said catherine, “i have made my way once up here, i will not go down again; another may run and fetch it back.” so she took another cheese and rolled it down.
but the cheeses did not come back, so she let a third run down, thinking.
“perhaps they are waiting for company, and do not like to walk alone.” as all three stayed away she said, “i do not know what that can mean, but it may perhaps be that the third has not found the way, and has gone wrong, i will just send the fourth to call it.”
but the fourth did no better than the third.
then catherine was angry, and threw down the fifth and sixth as well, and these were her last.
she remained standing for some time watching for their coming, but when they still did not come, she said, “oh, you are good folks to send in search of death, you stay a fine long time away!
do you think i will wait any longer for you?
i shall go my way, you may run after me; you have younger legs than i.” catherine went on and found frederick, who was standing waiting for her because he wanted something to eat.
“now just let us have what you have brought with you,” said he.
she gave him the dry bread.
“where have you the butter and the cheeses?” asked the man.
“ah, freddy,” said catherine, “i smeared the cart-ruts with the butter and the cheeses will come soon; one ran away from me, so i sent the others after to call it.” said frederick, “you should not have done that, catherine, to smear the butter on the road, and let the cheeses run down the hill!” “really, frederick, you should have told me.” then they ate the dry bread together, and frederick said, “catherine, did you make the house safe when you came away?” “no, frederick, you should have told me to do it before.” “then go home again, and make the house safe before we go any farther, and bring with you something else to eat.
i will wait here for you.” catherine went back and thought, “frederick wants something more to eat, he does not like butter and cheese, so i will take with me a handkerchief full of dried pears and a pitcher of vinegar for him to drink.” then she bolted the upper half of the door fast, but unhinged the lower door, and took it on her back, believing that when she had placed the door in security the house must be well taken care of.
catherine took her time on the way, and thought, “frederick will rest himself so much the longer.” when she had once reached him she said, “here is the house-door for you, frederick, and now you can take care of the house yourself.” “oh, heavens,” said he, “what a wise wife i have!
she takes the under-door off the hinges that everything may run in, and bolts the upper one.
it is now too late to go back home again, but since you have brought the door here, you shall just carry it farther.” “i will carry the door, frederick, but the dried pears and the vinegar-jug will be too heavy for me, i will hang them on the door, it may carry them.”
and now they went into the forest, and sought the rogues, but did not find them.
at length as it grew dark they climbed into a tree and resolved to spend the night there.
scarcely, however, had they sat down at the top of it than the rascals came thither who carry away with them what does not want to go, and find things before they are lost.
they sat down under the very tree in which frederick and catherine were sitting, lighted a fire, and were about to share their booty.
frederick got down on the other side and collected some stones together.
then he climbed up again with them, and wished to throw them at the thieves and kill them.
the stones, however, did not hit them, and the knaves cried, “it will soon be morning, the wind is shaking down the fir-apples.”
catherine still had the door on her back, and as it pressed so heavily on her, she thought it was the fault of the dried pears, and said, “frederick, i must throw the pears down.” “no, catherine, not now,” he replied, “they might betray us.” “oh, but, frederick, i must!
they weigh me down far too much.” “do it, then, and be hanged!” then the dried pears rolled down between the branches, and the rascals below said, “the leaves are falling.”
a short time afterwards, as the door was still heavy, catherine said, “ah, frederick, i must pour out the vinegar.” “no, catherine, you must not, it might betray us.” “ah, but, frederick, i must, it weighs me down far too much.” “then do it and be hanged!” so she emptied out the vinegar, and it besprinkled the robbers.
they said amongst themselves, “the dew is already falling.” at length catherine thought, “can it really be the door which weighs me down so?” and said, “frederick, i must throw the door down.” “no, not now, catherine, it might discover us.” “oh, but, frederick, i must.
it weighs me down far too much.” “oh, no, catherine, do hold it fast.” “ah, frederick, i am letting it fall!”
“let it go, then, in the devil’s name.” then it fell down with a violent clatter, and the rascals below cried, “the devil is coming down the tree!” and they ran away and left everything behind them.
early next morning, when the two came down they found all their gold again, and carried it home.
when they were once more at home, frederick said, “and now, catherine, you, too, must be industrious and work.” “yes, frederick, i will soon do that, i will go into the field and cut corn.” when catherine got into the field, she said to herself, “shall i eat before i cut, or shall i sleep before i cut?
oh, i will eat first.” then catherine ate and eating made her sleepy, and she began to cut, and half in a dream cut all her clothes to pieces, her apron, her gown, and her shift.
when catherine awoke again after a long sleep she was standing there half-naked, and said to herself, “is it i, or is it not i?
alas, it is not i.” in the meantime night came, and catherine ran into the village, knocked at her husband’s window, and cried, “frederick.”
“what is the matter?” “i should very much like to know if catherine is in?” “yes, yes,” replied frederick, “she must be in and asleep.”
said she, “’tis well, then i am certainly at home already,” and ran away.
outside catherine found some vagabonds who were going to steal.
then she went to them and said, “i will help you to steal.” the rascals thought that she knew the situation of the place, and were willing.
catherine went in front of the houses, and cried, “good folks, have you anything?
we want to steal.” the thieves thought to themselves, “that’s a fine way of doing things,” and wished themselves once more rid of catherine.
then they said to her, “outside the village the pastor has some turnips in the field.
go there and pull up some turnips for us.”
catherine went to the ground, and began to pull them up, but was so idle that she did not gather them together.
then a man came by, saw her, and stood still and thought that it was the devil who was thus rooting amongst the turnips.
he ran away into the village to the pastor, and said, “mr.
pastor, the devil is in your turnip-ground, rooting up turnips.” “ah, heavens,” answered the pastor, “i have a lame foot, i cannot go out and drive him away.” said the man, “then i will carry you on my back,” and he carried him out on his back.
and when they came to the ground, catherine arose and stood up her full height.
“ah, the devil!” cried the pastor, and both hurried away, and in his great fright the pastor could run better with his lame foot than the man who had carried him on his back could do with his sound one.
60 the two brothers
there were once upon a time two brothers, one rich and the other poor.
the rich one was a goldsmith and evil-hearted.
the poor one supported himself by making brooms, and was good and honourable.
the poor one had two children, who were twin brothers and as like each other as two drops of water.
the two boys went backwards and forwards to the rich house, and often got some of the scraps to eat.
it happened once when the poor man was going into the forest to fetch brush-wood, that he saw a bird which was quite golden and more beautiful than any he had ever chanced to meet with.
he picked up a small stone, threw it at him, and was lucky enough to hit him, but one golden feather only fell down, and the bird flew away.
the man took the feather and carried it to his brother, who looked at it and said, “it is pure gold!” and gave him a great deal of money for it.
next day the man climbed into a birch-tree, and was about to cut off a couple of branches when the same bird flew out, and when the man searched he found a nest, and an egg lay inside it, which was of gold.
he took the egg home with him, and carried it to his brother, who again said, “it is pure gold,” and gave him what it was worth.
at last the goldsmith said, “i should indeed like to have the bird itself.” the poor man went into the forest for the third time, and again saw the golden bird sitting on the tree, so he took a stone and brought it down and carried it to his brother, who gave him a great heap of gold for it.
“now i can get on,” thought he, and went contentedly home.
the goldsmith was crafty and cunning, and knew very well what kind of a bird it was.
he called his wife and said, “roast me the gold bird, and take care that none of it is lost.
i have a fancy to eat it all myself.” the bird, however, was no common one, but of so wondrous a kind that whosoever ate its heart and liver found every morning a piece of gold beneath his pillow.
the woman made the bird ready, put it on the spit, and let it roast.
now it happened that while it was at the fire, and the woman was forced to go out of the kitchen on account of some other work, the two children of the poor broom-maker ran in, stood by the spit and turned it round once or twice.
and as at that very moment two little bits of the bird fell down into the dripping-tin, one of the boys said, “we will eat these two little bits; i am so hungry, and no one will ever miss them.” then the two ate the pieces, but the woman came into the kitchen and saw that they were eating something and said, “what have ye been eating?” “two little morsels which fell out of the bird,” answered they.
“that must have been the heart and the liver,” said the woman, quite frightened, and in order that her husband might not miss them and be angry, she quickly killed a young cock, took out his heart and liver, and put them beside the golden bird.
when it was ready, she carried it to the goldsmith, who consumed it all alone, and left none of it.
next morning, however, when he felt beneath his pillow, and expected to bring out the piece of gold, no more gold pieces were there than there had always been.
the two children did not know what a piece of good-fortune had fallen to their lot.
next morning when they arose, something fell rattling to the ground, and when they picked it up there were two gold pieces!
they took them to their father, who was astonished and said, “how can that have happened?” when next morning they again found two, and so on daily, he went to his brother and told him the strange story.
the goldsmith at once knew how it had come to pass, and that the children had eaten the heart and liver of the golden bird, and in order to revenge himself, and because he was envious and hard-hearted, he said to the father, “thy children are in league with the evil one, do not take the gold, and do not suffer them to stay any longer in thy house, for he has them in his power, and may ruin thee likewise.” the father feared the evil one, and painful as it was to him, he nevertheless led the twins forth into the forest, and with a sad heart left them there.
and now the two children ran about the forest, and sought the way home again, but could not find it, and only lost themselves more and more.
at length they met with a huntsman, who asked, “to whom do you children belong?” “we are the poor broom-maker’s boys,” they replied, and they told him that their father would not keep them any longer in the house because a piece of gold lay every morning under their pillows.
“come,”
said the huntsman, “that is nothing so very bad, if at the same time you keep honest, and are not idle.” as the good man liked the children, and had none of his own, he took them home with him and said, “i will be your father, and bring you up till you are big.” they learnt huntsmanship from him, and the piece of gold which each of them found when he awoke, was kept for them by him in case they should need it in the future.
when they were grown up, their foster-father one day took them into the forest with him, and said, “to-day shall you make your trial shot, so that i may release you from your apprenticeship, and make you huntsmen.” they went with him to lie in wait and stayed there a long time, but no game appeared.
the huntsman, however, looked above him and saw a covey of wild geese flying in the form of a triangle, and said to one of them, “shoot me down one from each corner.” he did it, and thus accomplished his trial shot.
soon after another covey came flying by in the form of the figure two, and the huntsman bade the other also bring down one from each corner, and his trial shot was likewise successful.
“now,” said the foster-father, “i pronounce you out of your apprenticeship; you are skilled huntsmen.” thereupon the two brothers went forth together into the forest, and took counsel with each other and planned something.
and in the evening when they had sat down to supper, they said to their foster-father, “we will not touch food, or take one mouthful, until you have granted us a request.” said he, “what, then, is your request?” they replied, “we have now finished learning, and we must prove ourselves in the world, so allow us to go away and travel.” then spake the old man joyfully, “you talk like brave huntsmen, that which you desire has been my wish; go forth, all will go well with you.” thereupon they ate and drank joyously together.
when the appointed day came, their foster-father presented each of them with a good gun and a dog, and let each of them take as many of his saved-up gold pieces as he chose.
then he accompanied them a part of the way, and when taking leave, he gave them a bright knife, and said, “if ever you separate, stick this knife into a tree at the place where you part, and when one of you goes back, he will will be able to see how his absent brother is faring, for the side of the knife which is turned in the direction by which he went, will rust if he dies, but will remain bright as long as he is alive.” the two brothers went still farther onwards, and came to a forest which was so large that it was impossible for them to get out of it in one day.
so they passed the night in it, and ate what they had put in their hunting-pouches, but they walked all the second day likewise, and still did not get out.
as they had nothing to eat, one of them said, “we must shoot something for ourselves or we shall suffer from hunger,” and loaded his gun, and looked about him.
and when an old hare came running up towards them, he laid his gun on his shoulder, but the hare cried,
“dear huntsman, do but let me live, two little ones to thee i’ll give,”
and sprang instantly into the thicket, and brought two young ones.
but the little creatures played so merrily, and were so pretty, that the huntsmen could not find it in their hearts to kill them.
they therefore kept them with them, and the little hares followed on foot.
soon after this, a fox crept past; they were just going to shoot it, but the fox cried,
“dear hunstman, do but let me live, two little ones i’ll also give.”
he, too, brought two little foxes, and the huntsmen did not like to kill them either, but gave them to the hares for company, and they followed behind.
it was not long before a wolf strode out of the thicket; the huntsmen made ready to shoot him, but the wolf cried,
“dear huntsman, do but let me live, two little ones i’ll likewise give.”
the huntsmen put the two wolves beside the other animals, and they followed behind them.
then a bear came who wanted to trot about a little longer, and cried:
“dear huntsman, do but let me live, two little ones i, too, will give.”
the two young bears were added to the others, and there were already eight of them.
at length who came?
a lion came, and tossed his mane.
but the huntsmen did not let themselves be frightened and aimed at him likewise, but the lion also said,
“dear huntsman, do but let me live, two little ones i, too, will give.”
and he brought his little ones to them, and now the huntsmen had two lions, two bears, two wolves, two foxes, and two hares, who followed them and served them.
in thu meantime their hunger was not appeased by this, and they said to the foxes, “hark ye, cunning fellows, provide us with something to eat.
you are crafty and deep.” they replied, “not far from here lies a village, from which we have already brought many a fowl; we will show you the way there.” so they went into the village, bought themselves something to eat, had some food given to their beasts, and then travelled onwards.
the foxes, however, knew their way very well about the district and where the poultry-yards were, and were able to guide the huntsmen.
now they travelled about for a while, but could find no situations where they could remain together, so they said, “there is nothing else for it, we must part.” they divided the animals, so that each of them had a lion, a bear, a wolf, a fox, and a hare, then they took leave of each other, promised to love each other like brothers till their death, and stuck the knife which their foster-father had given them, into a tree, after which one went east, and the other went west.
the younger, however, arrived with his beasts in a town which was all hung with black crape.
he went into an inn, and asked the host if he could accommodate his animals.
the innkeeper gave him a stable, where there was a hole in the wall, and the hare crept out and fetched himself the head of a cabbage, and the fox fetched himself a hen, and when he had devoured that got the cock as well, but the wolf, the bear, and the lion could not get out because they were too big.
then the innkeeper let them be taken to a place where a cow was just then lying on the grass, that they might eat till they were satisfied.
and when the huntsman had taken care of his animals, he asked the innkeeper why the town was thus hung with black crape?
said the host, “because our king’s only daughter is to die to-morrow.” the huntsman inquired if she was “sick unto death?” “no,” answered the host, “she is vigorous and healthy, nevertheless she must die!” “how is that?” asked the huntsman.
“there is a high hill without the town, whereon dwells a dragon who every year must have a pure virgin, or he lays the whole country waste, and now all the maidens have already been given to him, and there is no longer anyone left but the king’s daughter, yet there is no mercy for her; she must be given up to him, and that is to be done to-morrow.”
said the huntsman, “why is the dragon not killed?” “ah,” replied the host, “so many knights have tried it, but it has cost all of them their lives.
the king has promised that he who conquers the dragon shall have his daughter to wife, and shall likewise govern the kingdom after his own death.”
the huntsman said nothing more to this, but next morning took his animals, and with them ascended the dragon’s hill.
a little church stood at the top of it, and on the altar three full cups were standing, with the inscription, “whosoever empties the cups will become the strongest man on earth, and will be able to wield the sword which is buried before the threshold of the door.” the huntsman did not drink, but went out and sought for the sword in the ground, but was unable to move it from its place.
then he went in and emptied the cups, and now he was strong enough to take up the sword, and his hand could quite easily wield it.
when the hour came when the maiden was to be delivered over to the dragon, the king, the marshal, and courtiers accompanied her.
from afar she saw the huntsman on the dragon’s hill, and thought it was the dragon standing there waiting for her, and did not want to go up to him, but at last, because otherwise the whole town would have been destroyed, she was forced to go the miserable journey.
the king and courtiers returned home full of grief; the king’s marshal, however, was to stand still, and see all from a distance.
when the king’s daughter got to the top of the hill, it was not the dragon which stood there, but the young huntsman, who comforted her, and said he would save her, led her into the church, and locked her in.
it was not long before the seven-headed dragon came thither with loud roaring.
when he perceived the huntsman, he was astonished and said, “what business hast thou here on the hill?” the huntsman answered, “i want to fight with thee.” said the dragon, “many knights have left their lives here, i shall soon have made an end of thee too,” and he breathed fire out of seven jaws.
the fire was to have lighted the dry grass, and the huntsman was to have been suffocated in the heat and smoke, but the animals came running up and trampled out the fire.
then the dragon rushed upon the huntsman, but he swung his sword until it sang through the air, and struck off three of his heads.
then the dragon grew right furious, and rose up in the air, and spat out flames of fire over the huntsman, and was about to plunge down on him, but the huntsman once more drew out his sword, and again cut off three of his heads.
the monster became faint and sank down, nevertheless it was just able to rush upon the huntsman, but he with his last strength smote its tail off, and as he could fight no longer, called up his animals who tore it in pieces.
when the struggle was ended, the huntsman unlocked the church, and found the king’s daughter lying on the floor, as she had lost her senses with anguish and terror during the contest.
he carried her out, and when she came to herself once more, and opened her eyes, he showed her the dragon all cut to pieces, and told her that she was now delivered.
she rejoiced and said, “now thou wilt be my dearest husband, for my father has promised me to him who kills the dragon.”
thereupon she took off her necklace of coral, and divided it amongst the animals in order to reward them, and the lion received the golden clasp.
her pocket-handkerchief, however, on which was her name, she gave to the huntsman, who went and cut the tongues out of the dragon’s seven heads, wrapped them in the handkerchief, and preserved them carefully.
that done, as he was so faint and weary with the fire and the battle, he said to the maiden, “we are both faint and weary, we will sleep awhile.” then she said, “yes,” and they lay down on the ground, and the huntsman said to the lion, “thou shalt keep watch, that no one surprises us in our sleep,” and both fell asleep.
the lion lay down beside them to watch, but he also was so weary with the fight, that he called to the bear and said, “lie down near me, i must sleep a little:
if anything comes, waken me.” then the bear lay down beside him, but he also was tired, and called the wolf and said, “lie down by me, i must sleep a little, but if anything comes, waken me.” then the wolf lay down by him, but he was tired likewise, and called the fox and said, “lie down by me, i must sleep a little; if anything comes, waken me.”
then the fox lay down beside him, but he too was weary, and called the hare and said, “lie down near me, i must sleep a little, and if anything should come, waken me.” then the hare sat down by him, but the poor hare was tired too, and had no one whom he could call there to keep watch, and fell asleep.
and now the king’s daughter, the huntsman, the lion, the bear, the wolf, the fox, and the hare, were all sleeping a sound sleep.
the marshal, however, who was to look on from a distance, took courage when he did not see the dragon flying away with the maiden, and finding that all the hill had become quiet, ascended it.
there lay the dragon hacked and hewn to pieces on the ground, and not far from it were the king’s daughter and a huntsman with his animals, and all of them were sunk in a sound sleep.
and as he was wicked and godless he took his sword, cut off the huntsman’s head, and seized the maiden in his arms, and carried her down the hill.
then she awoke and was terrified, but the marshal said, “thou art in my hands, thou shalt say that it was i who killed the dragon.” “i cannot do that,” she replied, “for it was a huntsman with his animals who did it.” then he drew his sword, and threatened to kill her if she did not obey him, and so compelled her that she promised it.
then he took her to the king, who did not know how to contain himself for joy when he once more looked on his dear child in life, whom he had believed to have been torn to pieces by the monster.
the marshal said to him, “i have killed the dragon, and delivered the maiden and the whole kingdom as well, therefore i demand her as my wife, as was promised.” the king said to the maiden, “is what he says true?” “ah, yes,” she answered, “it must indeed be true, but i will not consent to have the wedding celebrated until after a year and a day,” for she thought in that time she should hear something of her dear huntsman.
the animals, however, were still lying sleeping beside their dead master on the dragon’s hill, and there came a great humble-bee and lighted on the hare’s nose, but the hare wiped it off with his paw, and went on sleeping.
the humble-bee came a second time, but the hare again rubbed it off and slept on.
then it came for the third time, and stung his nose so that he awoke.
as soon as the hare was awake, he roused the fox, and the fox, the wolf, and the wolf the bear, and the bear the lion.
and when the lion awoke and saw that the maiden was gone, and his master was dead, he began to roar frightfully and cried, “who has done that?
bear, why didst thou not waken me?” the bear asked the wolf, “why didst thou not waken me?” and the wolf the fox, “why didst thou not waken me?” and the fox the hare, “why didst thou not waken me?” the poor hare alone did not know what answer to make, and the blame rested with him.
then they were just going to fall upon him, but he entreated them and said, “kill me not, i will bring our master to life again.
i know a mountain on which a root grows which, when placed in the mouth of any one, cures him of all illness and every wound.
but the mountain lies two hundred hours journey from here.” the lion said, “in four-and-twenty hours must thou have run thither and have come back, and have brought the root with thee.” then the hare sprang away, and in four-and-twenty hours he was back, and brought the root with him.
the lion put the huntsman’s head on again, and the hare placed the root in his mouth, and immediately everything united together again, and his heart beat, and life came back.
then the huntsman awoke, and was alarmed when he did not see the maiden, and thought, “she must have gone away whilst i was sleeping, in order to get rid of me.” the lion in his great haste had put his master’s head on the wrong way round, but the huntsman did not observe it because of his melancholy thoughts about the king’s daughter.
but at noon, when he was going to eat something, he saw that his head was turned backwards and could not understand it, and asked the animals what had happened to him in his sleep.
then the lion told him that they, too, had all fallen asleep from weariness, and on awaking, had found him dead with his head cut off, that the hare had brought the life-giving root, and that he, in his haste, had laid hold of the head the wrong way, but that he would repair his mistake.
then he tore the huntsman’s head off again, turned it round, and the hare healed it with the root.
the huntsman, however, was sad at heart, and travelled about the world, and made his animals dance before people.
it came to pass that precisely at the end of one year he came back to the same town where he had delivered the king’s daughter from the dragon, and this time the town was gaily hung with red cloth.
then he said to the host, “what does this mean?
last year the town was all hung with black crape, what means the red cloth to-day?” the host answered, “last year our king’s daughter was to have been delivered over to the dragon, but the marshal fought with it and killed it, and so to-morrow their wedding is to be solemnized, and that is why the town was then hung with black crape for mourning, and is to-day covered with red cloth for joy?”
next day when the wedding was to take place, the huntsman said at mid-day to the inn-keeper, “do you believe, sir host, that i while with you here to-day shall eat bread from the king’s own table?” “nay,” said the host, “i would bet a hundred pieces of gold that that will not come true.” the huntsman accepted the wager, and set against it a purse with just the same number of gold pieces.
then he called the hare and said, “go, my dear runner, and fetch me some of the bread which the king is eating.” now the little hare was the lowest of the animals, and could not transfer this order to any the others, but had to get on his legs himself.
“alas!” thought he, “if i bound through the streets thus alone, the butchers’ dogs will all be after me.” it happened as he expected, and the dogs came after him and wanted to make holes in his good skin.
but he sprang away, have you have never seen one running?
and sheltered himself in a sentry-box without the soldier being aware of it.
then the dogs came and wanted to have him out, but the soldier did not understand a jest, and struck them with the butt-end of his gun, till they ran away yelling and howling.
as soon as the hare saw that the way was clear, he ran into the palace and straight to the king’s daughter, sat down under her chair, and scratched at her foot.
then she said, “wilt thou get away?” and thought it was her dog.
the hare scratched her foot for the second time, and she again said, “wilt thou get away?” and thought it was her dog.
but the hare did not let itself be turned from its purpose, and scratched her for the third time.
then she peeped down, and knew the hare by its collar.
she took him on her lap, carried him into her chamber, and said, “dear hare, what dost thou want?” he answered, “my master, who killed the dragon, is here, and has sent me to ask for a loaf of bread like that which the king eats.” then she was full of joy and had the baker summoned, and ordered him to bring a loaf such as was eaten by the king.
the little hare said, “but the baker must likewise carry it thither for me, that the butchers’ dogs may do no harm to me.” the baker carried if for him as far as the door of the inn, and then the hare got on his hind legs, took the loaf in his front paws, and carried it to his master.
then said the huntsman, “behold, sir host, the hundred pieces of gold are mine.” the host was astonished, but the huntsman went on to say, “yes, sir host, i have the bread, but now i will likewise have some of the king’s roast meat.”
the host said, “i should indeed like to see that,” but he would make no more wagers.
the huntsman called the fox and said, “my little fox, go and fetch me some roast meat, such as the king eats.” the red fox knew the bye-ways better, and went by holes and corners without any dog seeing him, seated himself under the chair of the king’s daughter, and scratched her foot.
then she looked down and recognized the fox by its collar, took him into her chamber with her and said, “dear fox, what dost thou want?” he answered, “my master, who killed the dragon, is here, and has sent me.
i am to ask for some roast meat such as the king is eating.” then she made the cook come, who was obliged to prepare a roast joint, the same as was eaten by the king, and to carry it for the fox as far as the door.
then the fox took the dish, waved away with his tail the flies which had settled on the meat, and then carried it to his master.
“behold, sir host,” said the huntsman, “bread and meat are here but now i will also have proper vegetables with it, such as are eaten by the king.” then he called the wolf, and said, “dear wolf, go thither and fetch me vegetables such as the king eats.” then the wolf went straight to the palace, as he feared no one, and when he got to the king’s daughter’s chamber, he twitched at the back of her dress, so that she was forced to look round.
she recognized him by his collar, and took him into her chamber with her, and said, “dear wolf, what dost thou want?” he answered, “my master, who killed the dragon, is here, i am to ask for some vegetables, such as the king eats.” then she made the cook come, and he had to make ready a dish of vegetables, such as the king ate, and had to carry it for the wolf as far as the door, and then the wolf took the dish from him, and carried it to his master.
“behold, sir host,” said the huntsman, “now i have bread and meat and vegetables, but i will also have some pastry to eat like that which the king eats.” he called the bear, and said, “dear bear, thou art fond of licking anything sweet; go and bring me some confectionery, such as the king eats.” then the bear trotted to the palace, and every one got out of his way, but when he went to the guard, they presented their muskets, and would not let him go into the royal palace.
but he got up on his hind legs, and gave them a few boxes on the ears, right and left, with his paws, so that the whole watch broke up, and then he went straight to the king’s daughter, placed himself behind her, and growled a little.
then she looked behind her, knew the bear, and bade him go into her room with her, and said, “dear bear, what dost thou want?” he answered, “my master, who killed the dragon, is here, and i am to ask for some confectionery, such as the king eats.” then she summoned her confectioner, who had to bake confectionery such as the king ate, and carry it to the door for the bear; then the bear first licked up the comfits which had rolled down, and then he stood upright, took the dish, and carried it to his master.
“behold, sir host,” said the huntsman, “now i have bread, meat, vegetables and confectionery, but i will drink wine also, and such as the king drinks.” he called his lion to him and said, “dear lion, thou thyself likest to drink till thou art intoxicated, go and fetch me some wine, such as is drunk by the king.”
then the lion strode through the streets, and the people fled from him, and when he came to the watch, they wanted to bar the way against him, but he did but roar once, and they all ran away.
then the lion went to the royal apartment, and knocked at the door with his tail.
then the king’s daughter came forth, and was almost afraid of the lion, but she knew him by the golden clasp of her necklace, and bade him go with her into her chamber, and said, “dear lion, what wilt thou have?” he answered, “my master, who killed the dragon, is here, and i am to ask for some wine such as is drunk by the king.” then she bade the cup-bearer be called, who was to give the lion some wine like that which was drunk by the king.
the lion said, “i will go with him, and see that i get the right wine.” then he went down with the cup-bearer, and when they were below, the cup-bearer wanted to draw him some of the common wine that was drunk by the king’s servants, but the lion said, “stop, i will taste the wine first,” and he drew half a measure, and swallowed it down at one draught.
“no,” said he, “that is not right.”
the cup-bearer looked at him askance, but went on, and was about to give him some out of another barrel which was for the king’s marshal.
the lion said, “stop, let me taste the wine first,” and drew half a measure and drank it.
“that is better, but still not right,” said he.
then the cup-bearer grew angry and said, “how can a stupid animal like you understand wine?” but the lion gave him a blow behind the ears, which made him fall down by no means gently, and when he had got up again, he conducted the lion quite silently into a little cellar apart, where the king’s wine lay, from which no one ever drank.
the lion first drew half a measure and tried the wine, and then he said, that may possibly be the right sort, and bade the cup-bearer fill six bottles of it.
and now they went upstairs again, but when the lion came out of the cellar into the open air, he reeled here and there, and was rather drunk, and the cup-bearer was forced to carry the wine as far as the door for him, and then the lion took the handle of the basket in his mouth, and took it to his master.
the huntsman said, “behold, sir host, here have i bread, meat, vegetables, confectionery and wine such as the king has, and now i will dine with my animals,” and he sat down and ate and drank, and gave the hare, the fox, the wolf, the bear, and the lion also to eat and to drink, and was joyful, for he saw that the king’s daughter still loved him.
and when he had finished his dinner, he said, “sir host, now have i eaten and drunk, as the king eats and drinks, and now i will go to the king’s court and marry the king’s daughter.” said the host, “how can that be, when she already has a betrothed husband, and when the wedding is to be solemnized to-day?” then the huntsman drew forth the handkerchief which the king’s daughter had given him on the dragon’s hill, and in which were folded the monster’s seven tongues, and said, “that which i hold in my hand shall help me to do it.” then the innkeeper looked at the handkerchief, and said, “whatever i believe, i do not believe that, and i am willing to stake my house and courtyard on it.” the huntsman, however, took a bag with a thousand gold pieces, put it on the table, and said, “i stake that on it.”
now the king said to his daughter, at the royal table, “what did all the wild animals want, which have been coming to thee, and going in and out of my palace?” she replied, “i may not tell you, but send and have the master of these animals brought, and you will do well.” the king sent a servant to the inn, and invited the stranger, and the servant came just as the huntsman had laid his wager with the innkeeper.
then said he, “behold, sir host, now the king sends his servant and invites me, but i do not go in this way.” and he said to the servant, “i request the lord king to send me royal clothing, and a carriage with six horses, and servants to attend me.” when the king heard the answer, he said to his daughter, “what shall i do?” she said, “cause him to be fetched as he desires to be, and you will do well.” then the king sent royal apparel, a carriage with six horses, and servants to wait on him.
when the huntsman saw them coming, he said, “behold, sir host, now i am fetched as i desired to be,” and he put on the royal garments, took the handkerchief with the dragon’s tongues with him, and drove off to the king.
when the king saw him coming, he said to his daughter, “how shall i receive him?” she answered, “go to meet him and you will do well.”
then the king went to meet him and led him in, and his animals followed.
the king gave him a seat near himself and his daughter, and the marshal, as bridegroom, sat on the other side, but no longer knew the huntsman.
and now at this very moment, the seven heads of the dragon were brought in as a spectacle, and the king said, “the seven heads were cut off the dragon by the marshal, wherefore to-day i give him my daughter to wife.” the the huntsman stood up, opened the seven mouths, and said, “where are the seven tongues of the dragon?” then was the marshal terrified, and grew pale and knew not what answer he should make, and at length in his anguish he said, “dragons have no tongues.”
the huntsman said, “liars ought to have none, but the dragon’s tongues are the tokens of the victor,” and he unfolded the handkerchief, and there lay all seven inside it.
and he put each tongue in the mouth to which it belonged, and it fitted exactly.
then he took the handkerchief on which the name of the princess was embroidered, and showed it to the maiden, and asked to whom she had given it, and she replied, “to him who killed the dragon.” and then he called his animals, and took the collar off each of them and the golden clasp from the lion, and showed them to the maiden and asked to whom they belonged.
she answered, “the necklace and golden clasp were mine, but i divided them among the animals who helped to conquer the dragon.” then spake the huntsman, “when i, tired with the fight, was resting and sleeping, the marshal came and cut off my head.
then he carried away the king’s daughter, and gave out that it was he who had killed the dragon, but that he lied i prove with the tongues, the handkerchief, and the necklace.” and then he related how his animals had healed him by means of a wonderful root, and how he had travelled about with them for one year, and had at length again come there and had learnt the treachery of the marshal by the inn-keeper’s story.
then the king asked his daughter, “is it true that this man killed the dragon?” and she answered, “yes, it is true.
now can i reveal the wicked deed of the marshal, as it has come to light without my connivance, for he wrung from me a promise to be silent.
for this reason, however, did i make the condition that the marriage should not be solemnized for a year and a day.” then the king bade twelve councillors be summoned who were to pronounce judgment on the marshal, and they sentenced him to be torn to pieces by four bulls.
the marshal was therefore executed, but the king gave his daughter to the huntsman, and named him his viceroy over the whole kingdom.
the wedding was celebrated with great joy, and the young king caused his father and his foster-father to be brought, and loaded them with treasures.
neither did he forget the inn-keeper, but sent for him and said, “behold, sir host, i have married the king’s daughter, and your house and yard are mine.” the host said, “yes, according to justice it is so.” but the young king said, “it shall be done according to mercy,”
and told him that he should keep his house and yard, and gave him the thousand pieces of gold as well.
and now the young king and queen were thoroughly happy, and lived in gladness together.
he often went out hunting because it was a delight to him, and the faithful animals had to accompany him.
in the neighborhood, however, there was a forest of which it was reported that it was haunted, and that whosoever did but enter it did not easily get out again.
the young king, however, had a great inclination to hunt in it, and let the old king have no peace until he allowed him to do so.
so he rode forth with a great following, and when he came to the forest, he saw a snow-white hart and said to his people, “wait here until i return, i want to chase that beautiful creature,” and he rode into the forest after it, followed only by his animals.
the attendants halted and waited until evening, but he did not return, so they rode home, and told the young queen that the young king had followed a white hart into the enchanted forest, and had not come back again.
then she was in the greatest concern about him.
he, however, had still continued to ride on and on after the beautiful wild animal, and had never been able to overtake it; when he thought he was near enough to aim, he instantly saw it bound away into the far distance, and at length it vanished altogether.
and now he perceived that he had penetrated deep into the forest, and blew his horn but he received no answer, for his attendants could not hear it.
and as night, too, was falling, he saw that he could not get home that day, so he dismounted from his horse, lighted himself a fire near a tree, and resolved to spend the night by it.
while he was sitting by the fire, and his animals also were lying down beside him, it seemed to him that he heard a human voice.
he looked round, but could perceived nothing.
soon afterwards, he again heard a groan as if from above, and then he looked up, and saw an old woman sitting in the tree, who wailed unceasingly, “oh, oh, oh, how cold i am!” said he, “come down, and warm thyself if thou art cold.”
but she said, “no, thy animals will bite me.” he answered, “they will do thee no harm, old mother, do come down.” she, however, was a witch, and said, “i will throw down a wand from the tree, and if thou strikest them on the back with it, they will do me no harm.” then she threw him a small wand, and he struck them with it, and instantly they lay still and were turned into stone.
and when the witch was safe from the animals, she leapt down and touched him also with a wand, and changed him to stone.
thereupon she laughed, and dragged him and the animals into a vault, where many more such stones already lay.
as, however, the young king did not come back at all, the queen’s anguish and care grew constantly greater.
and it so happened that at this very time the other brother who had turned to the east when they separated, came into the kingdom.
he had sought a situation, and had found none, and had then travelled about here and there, and had made his animals dance.
then it came into his mind that he would just go and look at the knife that they had thrust in the trunk of a tree at their parting, that he might learn how his brother was.
when he got there his brother’s side of the knife was half rusted, and half bright.
then he was alarmed and thought, “a great misfortune must have befallen my brother, but perhaps i can still save him, for half the knife is still bright.” he and his animals travelled towards the west, and when he entered the gate of the town, the guard came to meet him, and asked if he was to announce him to his consort the young queen, who had for a couple of days been in the greatest sorrow about his staying away, and was afraid he had been killed in the enchanted forest?
the sentries, indeed, thought no otherwise than that he was the young king himself, for he looked so like him, and had wild animals running behind him.
then he saw that they were speaking of his brother, and thought, “it will be better if i pass myself off for him, and then i can rescue him more easily.” so he allowed himself to be escorted into the castle by the guard, and was received with the greatest joy.
the young queen indeed thought that he was her husband, and asked him why he had stayed away so long.
he answered, “i had lost myself in a forest, and could not find my way out again any sooner.” at night he was taken to the royal bed, but he laid a two-edged sword between him and the young queen; she did not know what that could mean, but did not venture to ask.
he remained in the palace a couple of days, and in the meantime inquired into everything which related to the enchanted forest, and at last he said, “i must hunt there once more.” the king and the young queen wanted to persuade him not to do it, but he stood out against them, and went forth with a larger following.
when he had got into the forest, it fared with him as with his brother; he saw a white hart and said to his people, “stay here, and wait until i return, i want to chase the lovely wild beast,” and then he rode into the forest and his animals ran after him.
but he could not overtake the hart, and got so deep into the forest that he was forced to pass the night there.
and when he had lighted a fire, he heard some one wailing above him, “oh, oh, oh, how cold i am!” then he looked up, and the self-same witch was sitting in the tree.
said he, “if thou art cold, come down, little old mother, and warm thyself.” she answered, “no, thy animals will bite me.” but he said, “they will not hurt thee.” then she cried, “i will throw down a wand to thee, and if thou smitest them with it they will do me no harm.” when the huntsman heard that, he had no confidence in the old woman, and said, “i will not strike my animals.
come down, or i will fetch thee.” then she cried, “what dost thou want?
thou shalt not touch me.” but he replied, “if thou dost not come, i will shoot thee.”
said she, “shoot away, i do not fear thy bullets!” then he aimed, and fired at her, but the witch was proof against all leaden bullets, and laughed, and yelled and cried, “thou shalt not hit me.” the huntsman knew what to do, tore three silver buttons off his coat, and loaded his gun with them, for against them her arts were useless, and when he fired she fell down at once with a scream.
then he set his foot on her and said, old witch, if thou dost not instantly confess where my brother is, i will seize thee with both my hands and throw thee into the fire.
she was in a great fright, begged for mercy and said, he and his animals lie in a vault, turned to stone.
then he compelled her to go thither with him, threatened her, and said, old sea-cat, now shalt thou make my brother and all the human beings lying here, alive again, or thou shalt go into the fire!
she took a wand and touched the stones, and then his brother with his animals came to life again, and many others, merchants, artizans, and shepherds, arose, thanked him for their deliverance, and went to their homes.
but when the twin brothers saw each other again, they kissed each other and rejoiced with all their hearts.
then they seized the witch, bound her and laid her on the fire, and when she was burnt the forest opened of its own accord, and was light and clear, and the king’s palace could be seen at about the distance of a three hours walk.
thereupon the two brothers went home together, and on the way told each other their histories.
and when the youngest said that he was ruler of the whole country in the king’s stead, the other observed, “that i remarked very well, for when i came to the town, and was taken for thee, all royal honours were paid me; the young queen looked on me as her husband, and i had to eat at her side, and sleep in thy bed.” when the other heard that, he became so jealous and angry that he drew his sword, and struck off his brother’s head.
but when he saw him lying there dead, and saw his red blood flowing, he repented most violently:
“my brother delivered me,” cried he, “and i have killed him for it,”
and he bewailed him aloud.
then his hare came and offered to go and bring some of the root of life, and bounded away and brought it while yet there was time, and the dead man was brought to life again, and knew nothing about the wound.
after this they journeyed onwards, and the youngest said, “thou lookest like me, hast royal apparel on as i have, and the animals follow thee as they do me; we will go in by opposite gates, and arrive at the same time from the two sides in the aged king’s presence.” so they separated, and at the same time came the watchmen from the one door and from the other, and announced that the young king and the animals had returned from the chase.
the king said, “it is not possible, the gates lie quite a mile apart.” in the meantime, however, the two brothers entered the courtyard of the palace from opposite sides, and both mounted the steps.
then the king said to the daughter, “say which is thy husband.
each of them looks exactly like the other, i cannot tell.”
then she was in great distress, and could not tell; but at last she remembered the necklace which she had given to the animals, and she sought for and found her little golden clasp on the lion, and she cried in her delight, “he who is followed by this lion is my true husband”.
then the young king laughed and said, “yes, he is the right one,” and they sat down together to table, and ate and drank, and were merry.
at night when the young king went to bed, his wife said, “why hast thou for these last nights always laid a two-edged sword in our bed?
i thought thou hadst a wish to kill me.” then he knew how true his brother had been.
61 the little peasant
there was a certain village wherein no one lived but really rich peasants, and just one poor one, whom they called the little peasant.
he had not even so much as a cow, and still less money to buy one, and yet he and his wife did so wish to have one.
one day he said to her, “hark you, i have a good thought, there is our gossip the carpenter, he shall make us a wooden calf, and paint it brown, so that it look like any other, and in time it will certainly get big and be a cow.” the woman also liked the idea, and their gossip the carpenter cut and planed the calf, and painted it as it ought to be, and made it with its head hanging down as if it were eating.
next morning when the cows were being driven out, the little peasant called the cow-herd and said, “look, i have a little calf there, but it is still small and has still to be carried.” the cow-herd said, “all right, and took it in his arms and carried it to the pasture, and set it among the grass.” the little calf always remained standing like one which was eating, and the cow-herd said, “it will soon run alone, just look how it eats already!” at night when he was going to drive the herd home again, he said to the calf, “if thou canst stand there and eat thy fill, thou canst also go on thy four legs; i don’t care to drag thee home again in my arms.” but the little peasant stood at his door, and waited for his little calf, and when the cow-herd drove the cows through the village, and the calf was missing, he inquired where it was.
the cow-herd answered, “it is still standing out there eating.
it would not stop and come with us.” but the little peasant said, “oh, but i must have my beast back again.” then they went back to the meadow together, but some one had stolen the calf, and it was gone.
the cow-herd said, “it must have run away.” the peasant, however, said, “don’t tell me that,” and led the cow-herd before the mayor, who for his carelessness condemned him to give the peasant a cow for the calf which had run away.
and now the little peasant and his wife had the cow for which they had so long wished, and they were heartily glad, but they had no food for it, and could give it nothing to eat, so it soon had to be killed.
they salted the flesh, and the peasant went into the town and wanted to sell the skin there, so that he might buy a new calf with the proceeds.
on the way he passed by a mill, and there sat a raven with broken wings, and out of pity he took him and wrapped him in the skin.
as, however, the weather grew so bad and there was a storm of rain and wind, he could go no farther, and turned back to the mill and begged for shelter.
the miller’s wife was alone in the house, and said to the peasant, “lay thyself on the straw there”, and gave him a slice of bread with cheese on it.
the peasant ate it, and lay down with his skin beside him, and the woman thought, “he is tired and has gone to sleep.”
in the meantime came the parson; the miller’s wife received him well, and said, “my husband is out, so we will have a feast.” the peasant listened, and when he heard about feasting he was vexed that he had been forced to make shift with a slice of bread with cheese on it.
then the woman served up four different things, roast meat, salad, cakes, and wine.
just as they were about to sit down and eat, there was a knocking outside.
the woman said, “oh, heavens!
it is my husband!” she quickly hid the roast meat inside the tiled stove, the wine under the pillow, the salad on the bed, the cakes under it, and the parson in the cupboard in the entrance.
then she opened the door for her husband, and said, “thank heaven, thou art back again!
there is such a storm, it looks as if the world were coming to an end.” the miller saw the peasant lying on the straw, and asked, “what is that fellow doing there?” “ah,” said the wife, “the poor knave came in the storm and rain, and begged for shelter, so i gave him a bit of bread and cheese, and showed him where the straw was.” the man said, “i have no objection, but be quick and get me something to eat.” the woman said, “but i have nothing but bread and cheese.” “i am contented with anything,” replied the husband, “so far as i am concerned, bread and cheese will do,” and looked at the peasant and said, “come and eat some more with me.” the peasant did not require to be invited twice, but got up and ate.
after this the miller saw the skin in which the raven was, lying on the ground, and asked, “what hast thou there?” the peasant answered, “i have a soothsayer inside it.” “can he foretell anything to me?” said the miller.
“why not?” answered the peasant, “but he only says four things, and the fifth he keeps to himself.” the miller was curious, and said, “let him foretell something for once.” then the peasant pinched the raven’s head, so that he croaked and made a noise like krr, krr.
the miller said, “what did he say?” the peasant answered, “in the first place, he says that there is some wine hidden under the pillow.” “bless me!” cried the miller, and went there and found the wine.
“now go on,” said he.
the peasant made the raven croak again, and said, “in the second place, he says that there is some roast meat in the tiled stove.” “upon my word!” cried the miller, and went thither, and found the roast meat.
the peasant made the raven prophesy still more, and said, “thirdly, he says that there is some salad on the bed.” “that would be a fine thing!” cried the miller, and went there and found the salad.
at last the peasant pinched the raven once more till he croaked, and said, “fourthly, he says that there are some cakes under the bed.” “that would be a fine thing!” cried the miller, and looked there, and found the cakes.
and now the two sat down to the table together, but the miller’s wife was frightened to death, and went to bed and took all the keys with her.
the miller would have liked much to know the fifth, but the little peasant said, “first, we will quickly eat the four things, for the fifth is something bad.” so they ate, and after that they bargained how much the miller was to give for the fifth prophesy, until they agreed on three hundred thalers.
then the peasant once more pinched the raven’s head till he croaked loudly.
the miller asked, “what did he say?” the peasant replied, “he says that the devil is hiding outside there in the cupboard in the entrance.” the miller said, “the devil must go out,” and opened the house-door; then the woman was forced to give up the keys, and the peasant unlocked the cupboard.
the parson ran out as fast as he could, and the miller said, “it was true; i saw the black rascal with my own eyes.” the peasant, however, made off next morning by daybreak with the three hundred thalers.
at home the small peasant gradually launched out; he built a beautiful house, and the peasants said, “the small peasant has certainly been to the place where golden snow falls, and people carry the gold home in shovels.” then the small peasant was brought before the mayor, and bidden to say from whence his wealth came.
he answered, “i sold my cow’s skin in the town, for three hundred thalers.” when the peasants heard that, they too wished to enjoy this great profit, and ran home, killed all their cows, and stripped off their skins in order to sell them in the town to the greatest advantage.
the mayor, however, said, “but my servant must go first.” when she came to the merchant in the town, he did not give her more than two thalers for a skin, and when the others came, he did not give them so much, and said, “what can i do with all these skins?”
then the peasants were vexed that the small peasant should have thus overreached them, wanted to take vengeance on him, and accused him of this treachery before the mayor.
the innocent little peasant was unanimously sentenced to death, and was to be rolled into the water, in a barrel pierced full of holes.
he was led forth, and a priest was brought who was to say a mass for his soul.
the others were all obliged to retire to a distance, and when the peasant looked at the priest, he recognized the man who had been with the miller’s wife.
he said to him, “i set you free from the cupboard, set me free from the barrel.” at this same moment up came, with a flock of sheep, the very shepherd who as the peasant knew had long been wishing to be mayor, so he cried with all his might, “no, i will not do it; if the whole world insists on it, i will not do it!” the shepherd hearing that, came up to him, and asked, “what art thou about?
what is it that thou wilt not do?” the peasant said, “they want to make me mayor, if i will but put myself in the barrel, but i will not do it.” the shepherd said, “if nothing more than that is needful in order to be mayor, i would get into the barrel at once.” the peasant said, “if thou wilt get in, thou wilt be mayor.”
the shepherd was willing, and got in, and the peasant shut the top down on him; then he took the shepherd’s flock for himself, and drove it away.
the parson went to the crowd, and declared that the mass had been said.
then they came and rolled the barrel towards the water.
when the barrel began to roll, the shepherd cried, “i am quite willing to be mayor.” they believed no otherwise than that it was the peasant who was saying this, and answered, “that is what we intend, but first thou shalt look about thee a little down below there,” and they rolled the barrel down into the water.
after that the peasants went home, and as they were entering the village, the small peasant also came quietly in, driving a flock of sheep and looking quite contented.
then the peasants were astonished, and said, “peasant, from whence comest thou?
hast thou come out of the water?” “yes, truly,” replied the peasant, “i sank deep, deep down, until at last i got to the bottom; i pushed the bottom out of the barrel, and crept out, and there were pretty meadows on which a number of lambs were feeding, and from thence i brought this flock away with me.” said the peasants, “are there any more there?” “oh, yes,” said he, “more than i could do anything with.” then the peasants made up their minds that they too would fetch some sheep for themselves, a flock apiece, but the mayor said, “i come first.” so they went to the water together, and just then there were some of the small fleecy clouds in the blue sky, which are called little lambs, and they were reflected in the water, whereupon the peasants cried, “we already see the sheep down below!” the mayor pressed forward and said, “i will go down first, and look about me, and if things promise well i’ll call you.” so he jumped in; splash!
went the water; he made a sound as if he were calling them, and the whole crowd plunged in after him as one man.
then the entire village was dead, and the small peasant, as sole heir, became a rich man.
62 the queen bee
two kings’ sons once went out in search of adventures, and fell into a wild, disorderly way of living, so that they never came home again.
the youngest, who was called simpleton, set out to seek his brothers, but when at length he found them they mocked him for thinking that he with his simplicity could get through the world, when they two could not make their way, and yet were so much cleverer.
they all three travelled away together, and came to an ant-hill.
the two elder wanted to destroy it, to see the little ants creeping about in their terror, and carrying their eggs away, but simpleton said, “leave the creatures in peace; i will not allow you to disturb them.” then they went onwards and came to a lake, on which a great number of ducks were swimming.
the two brothers wanted to catch a couple and roast them, but simpleton would not permit it, and said, “leave the creatures in peace, i will not suffer you to kill them.” at length they came to a bee’s nest, in which there was so much honey that it ran out of the trunk of the tree where it was.
the two wanted to make a fire beneath the tree, and suffocate the bees in order to take away the honey, but simpleton again stopped them and said, “leave the creatures in peace, i will not allow you to burn them.” at length the three brothers arrived at a castle where stone horses were standing in the stables, and no human being was to be seen, and they went through all the halls until, quite at the end, they came to a door in which were three locks.
in the middle of the door, however, there was a little pane, through which they could see into the room.
there they saw a little grey man, who was sitting at a table.
they called him, once, twice, but he did not hear; at last they called him for the third time, when he got up, opened the locks, and came out.
he said nothing, however, but conducted them to a handsomely-spread table, and when they had eaten and drunk, he took each of them to a bedroom.
next morning the little grey man came to the eldest, beckoned to him, and conducted him to a stone table, on which were inscribed three tasks, by the performance of which the castle could be delivered.
the first was that in the forest, beneath the moss, lay the princess’s pearls, a thousand in number, which must be picked up, and if by sunset one single pearl was wanting, he who had looked for them would be turned into stone.
the eldest went thither, and sought the whole day, but when it came to an end, he had only found one hundred, and what was written on the table came to pass, and he was changed into stone.
next day, the second brother undertook the adventure; it did not, however, fare much better with him than with the eldest; he did not find more than two hundred pearls, and was changed to stone.
at last the turn came to simpleton also, who sought in the moss.
it was, however, so hard to find the pearls, and he got on so slowly, that he seated himself on a stone, and wept.
and while he was thus sitting, the king of the ants whose life he had once saved, came with five thousand ants, and before long the little creatures had got all the pearls together, and laid them in a heap.
the second task, however, was to fetch out of the lake the key of the king’s daughter’s bed-chamber.
when simpleton came to the lake, the ducks which he had saved, swam up to him, dived down, and brought the key out of the water.
but the third task was the most difficult; from amongst the three sleeping daughters of the king was the youngest and dearest to be sought out.
they, however, resembled each other exactly, and were only to be distinguished by their having eaten different sweetmeats before they fell asleep; the eldest a bit of sugar; the second a little syrup; and the youngest a spoonful of honey.
then the queen of the bees, which simpleton had protected from the fire, came and tasted the lips of all three, and at last she remained sitting on the mouth which had eaten honey, and thus the king’s son recognized the right princess.
then the enchantment was at an end; everything was released from sleep, and those who had been turned to stone received once more their natural forms.
simpleton married the youngest and sweetest princess, and after her father’s death became king, and his two brothers received the two other sisters.
63 the three feathers
there was once on a time a king who had three sons, of whom two were clever and wise, but the third did not speak much, and was simple, and was called the simpleton.
when the king had become old and weak, and was thinking of his end, he did not know which of his sons should inherit the kingdom after him.
then he said to them, “go forth, and he who brings me the most beautiful carpet shall be king after my death.”
and that there should be no dispute amongst them, he took them outside his castle, blew three feathers in the air, and said, “you shall go as they fly.” one feather flew to the east, the other to the west, but the third flew straight up and did not fly far, but soon fell to the ground.
and now one brother went to the right, and the other to the left, and they mocked simpleton, who was forced to stay where the third feather had fallen.
he sat down and was sad, then all at once he saw that there was a trap-door close by the feather.
he raised it up, found some steps, and went down them, and then he came to another door, knocked at it, and heard somebody inside calling,
“little green maiden small, hopping hither and thither; hop to the door, and quickly see who is there.”
the door opened, and he saw a great, fat toad sitting, and round about her a crowd of little toads.
the fat toad asked what he wanted?
he answered, “i should like to have the prettiest and finest carpet in the world.” then she called a young one and said,
“little green maiden small, hopping hither and thither, hop quickly and bring me the great box here.”
the young toad brought the box, and the fat toad opened it, and gave simpleton a carpet out of it, so beautiful and so fine, that on the earth above, none could have been woven like it.
then he thanked her, and ascended again.
the two others had, however, looked on their youngest brother as so stupid that they believed he would find and bring nothing at all.
“why should we give ourselves a great deal of trouble to search?” said they, and got some coarse handkerchiefs from the first shepherds’ wives whom they met, and carried them home to the king.
at the same time simpleton also came back, and brought his beautiful carpet, and when the king saw it he was astonished, and said, “if justice be done, the kingdom belongs to the youngest.” but the two others let their father have no peace, and said that it was impossible that simpleton, who in everything lacked understanding, should be king, and entreated him to make a new agreement with them.
then the father said, “he who brings me the most beautiful ring shall inherit the kingdom,” and led the three brothers out, and blew into the air three feathers, which they were to follow.
those of the two eldest again went east and west, and simpleton’s feather flew straight up, and fell down near the door into the earth.
then he went down again to the fat toad, and told her that he wanted the most beautiful ring.
she at once ordered her great box to be brought, and gave him a ring out of it, which sparkled with jewels, and was so beautiful that no goldsmith on earth would have been able to make it.
the two eldest laughed at simpleton for going to seek a golden ring.
they gave themselves no trouble, but knocked the nails out of an old carriage-ring, and took it to the king; but when simpleton produced his golden ring, his father again said, “the kingdom belongs to him.” the two eldest did not cease from tormenting the king until he made a third condition, and declared that the one who brought the most beautiful woman home, should have the kingdom.
he again blew the three feathers into the air, and they flew as before.
then simpleton without more ado went down to the fat toad, and said, “i am to take home the most beautiful woman!” “oh,” answered the toad, “the most beautiful woman!
she is not at hand at the moment, but still thou shalt have her.” she gave him a yellow turnip which had been hollowed out, to which six mice were harnessed.
then simpleton said quite mournfully, “what am i to do with that?” the toad answered, “just put one of my little toads into it.” then he seized one at random out of the circle, and put her into the yellow coach, but hardly was she seated inside it than she turned into a wonderfully beautiful maiden, and the turnip into a coach, and the six mice into horses.
so he kissed her, and drove off quickly with the horses, and took her to the king.
his brothers came afterwards; they had given themselves no trouble at all to seek beautiful girls, but had brought with them the first peasant women they chanced to meet.
when the king saw them he said, “after my death the kingdom belongs to my youngest son.” but the two eldest deafened the king’s ears afresh with their clamour, “we cannot consent to simpleton’s being king,” and demanded that the one whose wife could leap through a ring which hung in the centre of the hall should have the preference.
they thought, “the peasant women can do that easily; they are strong enough, but the delicate maiden will jump herself to death.” the aged king agreed likewise to this.
then the two peasant women jumped, and jumped through the ring, but were so stout that they fell, and their coarse arms and legs broke in two.
and then the pretty maiden whom simpleton had brought with him, sprang, and sprang through as lightly as a deer, and all opposition had to cease.
so he received the crown, and has ruled wisely for a length of time.
64 the golden goose
there was a man who had three sons, the youngest of whom was called dummling, and was despised, mocked, and put down on every occasion.
it happened that the eldest wanted to go into the forest to hew wood, and before he went his mother gave him a beautiful sweet cake and a bottle of wine in order that he might not suffer from hunger or thirst.
when he entered the forest there met him a little grey-haired old man who bade him good-day, and said, “do give me a piece of cake out of your pocket, and let me have a draught of your wine; i am so hungry and thirsty.” but the prudent youth answered, “if i give you my cake and wine, i shall have none for myself; be off with you,” and he left the little man standing and went on.
but when he began to hew down a tree, it was not long before he made a false stroke, and the axe cut him in the arm, so that he had to go home and have it bound up.
and this was the little grey man’s doing.
after this the second son went into the forest, and his mother gave him, like the eldest, a cake and a bottle of wine.
the little old grey man met him likewise, and asked him for a piece of cake and a drink of wine.
but the second son, too, said with much reason, “what i give you will be taken away from myself; be off!” and he left the little man standing and went on.
his punishment, however, was not delayed; when he had made a few strokes at the tree he struck himself in the leg, so that he had to be carried home.
then dummling said, “father, do let me go and cut wood.” the father answered, “your brothers have hurt themselves with it, leave it alone, you do not understand anything about it.” but dummling begged so long that at last he said, “just go then, you will get wiser by hurting yourself.” his mother gave him a cake made with water and baked in the cinders, and with it a bottle of sour beer.
when he came to the forest the little old grey man met him likewise, and greeting him, said, “give me a piece of your cake and a drink out of your bottle; i am so hungry and thirsty.” dummling answered, “i have only cinder-cake and sour beer; if that pleases you, we will sit down and eat.” so they sat down, and when dummling pulled out his cinder-cake, it was a fine sweet cake, and the sour beer had become good wine.
so they ate and drank, and after that the little man said, “since you have a good heart, and are willing to divide what you have, i will give you good luck.
there stands an old tree, cut it down, and you will find something at the roots.” then the little man took leave of him.
dummling went and cut down the tree, and when it fell there was a goose sitting in the roots with feathers of pure gold.
he lifted her up, and taking her with him, went to an inn where he thought he would stay the night.
now the host had three daughters, who saw the goose and were curious to know what such a wonderful bird might be, and would have liked to have one of its golden feathers.
the eldest thought, “i shall soon find an opportunity of pulling out a feather,” and as soon as dummling had gone out she seized the goose by the wing, but her finger and hand remained sticking fast to it.
the second came soon afterwards, thinking only of how she might get a feather for herself, but she had scarcely touched her sister than she was held fast.
at last the third also came with the like intent, and the others screamed out, “keep away; for goodness’ sake keep away!” but she did not understand why she was to keep away.
“the others are there,” she thought, “i may as well be there too,” and ran to them; but as soon as she had touched her sister, she remained sticking fast to her.
so they had to spend the night with the goose.
the next morning dummling took the goose under his arm and set out, without troubling himself about the three girls who were hanging on to it.
they were obliged to run after him continually, now left, now right, just as he was inclined to go.
in the middle of the fields the parson met them, and when he saw the procession he said, “for shame, you good-for-nothing girls, why are you running across the fields after this young man?
is that seemly?” at the same time he seized the youngest by the hand in order to pull her away, but as soon as he touched her he likewise stuck fast, and was himself obliged to run behind.
before long the sexton came by and saw his master, the parson, running behind three girls.
he was astonished at this and called out, “hi, your reverence, whither away so quickly?
do not forget that we have a christening to-day!” and running after him he took him by the sleeve, but was also held fast to it.
whilst the five were trotting thus one behind the other, two labourers came with their hoes from the fields; the parson called out to them and begged that they would set him and the sexton free.
but they had scarcely touched the sexton when they were held fast, and now there were seven of them running behind dummling and the goose.
soon afterwards he came to a city, where a king ruled who had a daughter who was so serious that no one could make her laugh.
so he had put forth a decree that whosoever should be able to make her laugh should marry her.
when dummling heard this, he went with his goose and all her train before the king’s daughter, and as soon as she saw the seven people running on and on, one behind the other, she began to laugh quite loudly, and as if she would never leave off.
thereupon dummling asked to have her for his wife, and the wedding was celebrated.
after the king’s death, dummling inherited the kingdom and lived a long time contentedly with his wife.
65 allerleirauh
there was once on a time a king who had a wife with golden hair, and she was so beautiful that her equal was not to be found on earth.
it came to pass that she lay ill, and as she felt that she must soon die, she called the king and said, “if thou wishest to marry again after my death, take no one who is not quite as beautiful as i am, and who has not just such golden hair as i have: this thou must promise me.” and after the king had promised her this she closed her eyes and died.
for a long time the king could not be comforted, and had no thought of taking another wife.
at length his councillors said, “there is no help for it, the king must marry again, that we may have a queen.” and now messengers were sent about far and wide, to seek a bride who equalled the late queen in beauty.
in the whole world, however, none was to be found, and even if one had been found, still there would have been no one who had such golden hair.
so the messengers came home as they went.
now the king had a daughter, who was just as beautiful as her dead mother, and had the same golden hair.
when she was grown up the king looked at her one day, and saw that in every respect she was like his late wife, and suddenly felt a violent love for her.
then he spake to his councillors, “i will marry my daughter, for she is the counterpart of my late wife, otherwise i can find no bride who resembles her.” when the councillors heard that, they were shocked, and said, “god has forbidden a father to marry his daughter, no good can come from such a crime, and the kingdom will be involved in the ruin.”
the daughter was still more shocked when she became aware of her father’s resolution, but hoped to turn him from his design.
then she said to him, “before i fulfil your wish, i must have three dresses, one as golden as the sun, one as silvery as the moon, and one as bright as the stars; besides this, i wish for a mantle of a thousand different kinds of fur and hair joined together, and one of every kind of animal in your kingdom must give a piece of his skin for it.” but she thought, “to get that will be quite impossible, and thus i shall divert my father from his wicked intentions.” the king, however, did not give it up, and the cleverest maidens in his kingdom had to weave the three dresses, one as golden as the sun, one as silvery as the moon, and one as bright as the stars, and his huntsmen had to catch one of every kind of animal in the whole of his kingdom, and take from it a piece of its skin, and out of these was made a mantle of a thousand different kinds of fur.
at length, when all was ready, the king caused the mantle to be brought, spread it out before her, and said, “the wedding shall be to-morrow.”
when, therefore, the king’s daughter saw that there was no longer any hope of turning her father’s heart, she resolved to run away from him.
in the night whilst every one was asleep, she got up, and took three different things from her treasures, a golden ring, a golden spinning-wheel, and a golden reel.
the three dresses of the sun, moon, and stars she put into a nutshell, put on her mantle of all kinds of fur, and blackened her face and hands with soot.
then she commended herself to god, and went away, and walked the whole night until she reached a great forest.
and as she was tired, she got into a hollow tree, and fell asleep.
the sun rose, and she slept on, and she was still sleeping when it was full day.
then it so happened that the king to whom this forest belonged, was hunting in it.
when his dogs came to the tree, they sniffed, and ran barking round about it.
the king said to the huntsmen, “just see what kind of wild beast has hidden itself in there.” the huntsmen obeyed his order, and when they came back they said, “a wondrous beast is lying in the hollow tree; we have never before seen one like it.
its skin is fur of a thousand different kinds, but it is lying asleep.” said the king, “see if you can catch it alive, and then fasten it to the carriage, and we will take it with us.” when the huntsmen laid hold of the maiden, she awoke full of terror, and cried to them, “i am a poor child, deserted by father and mother; have pity on me, and take me with you.” then said they, “allerleirauh, thou wilt be useful in the kitchen, come with us, and thou canst sweep up the ashes.” so they put her in the carriage, and took her home to the royal palace.
there they pointed out to her a closet under the stairs, where no daylight entered, and said, “hairy animal, there canst thou live and sleep.” then she was sent into the kitchen, and there she carried wood and water, swept the hearth, plucked the fowls, picked the vegetables, raked the ashes, and did all the dirty work.
allerleirauh lived there for a long time in great wretchedness.
alas, fair princess, what is to become of thee now!
it happened, however, that one day a feast was held in the palace, and she said to the cook, “may i go up-stairs for a while, and look on?
i will place myself outside the door.” the cook answered, “yes, go, but you must be back here in half-an-hour to sweep the hearth.” then she took her oil-lamp, went into her den, put off her fur-dress, and washed the soot off her face and hands, so that her full beauty once more came to light.
and she opened the nut, and took out her dress which shone like the sun, and when she had done that she went up to the festival, and every one made way for her, for no one knew her, and thought no otherwise than that she was a king’s daughter.
the king came to meet her, gave his hand to her, and danced with her, and thought in his heart, “my eyes have never yet seen any one so beautiful!” when the dance was over she curtsied, and when the king looked round again she had vanished, and none knew whither.
the guards who stood outside the palace were called and questioned, but no one had seen her.
she had, however, run into her little den, had quickly taken off her dress, made her face and hands black again, put on the fur-mantle, and again was allerleirauh.
and now when she went into the kitchen, and was about to get to her work and sweep up the ashes, the cook said, “leave that alone till morning, and make me the soup for the king; i, too, will go upstairs awhile, and take a look; but let no hairs fall in, or in future thou shalt have nothing to eat.” so the cook went away, and allerleirauh made the soup for the king, and made bread soup and the best she could, and when it was ready she fetched her golden ring from her little den, and put it in the bowl in which the soup was served.
when the dancing was over, the king had his soup brought and ate it, and he liked it so much that it seemed to him he had never tasted better.
but when he came to the bottom of the bowl, he saw a golden ring lying, and could not conceive how it could have got there.
then he ordered the cook to appear before him.
the cook was terrified when he heard the order, and said to allerleirauh, “thou hast certainly let a hair fall into the soup, and if thou hast, thou shalt be beaten for it.” when he came before the king the latter asked who had made the soup?
the cook replied, “i made it.” but the king said, “that is not true, for it was much better than usual, and cooked differently.” he answered, “i must acknowledge that i did not make it, it was made by the rough animal.” the king said, “go and bid it come up here.”
when allerleirauh came, the king said, “who art thou?” “i am a poor girl who no longer has any father or mother.” he asked further, “of what use art thou in my palace?” she answered, “i am good for nothing but to have boots thrown at my head.” he continued, “where didst thou get the ring which was in the soup?” she answered, “i know nothing about the ring.” so the king could learn nothing, and had to send her away again.
after a while, there was another festival, and then, as before, allerleirauh begged the cook for leave to go and look on.
he answered, “yes, but come back again in half-an-hour, and make the king the bread soup which he so much likes.” then she ran into her den, washed herself quickly, and took out of the nut the dress which was as silvery as the moon, and put it on.
then she went up and was like a princess, and the king stepped forward to meet her, and rejoiced to see her once more, and as the dance was just beginning they danced it together.
but when it was ended, she again disappeared so quickly that the king could not observe where she went.
she, however, sprang into her den, and once more made herself a hairy animal, and went into the kitchen to prepare the bread soup.
when the cook had gone up-stairs, she fetched the little golden spinning-wheel, and put it in the bowl so that the soup covered it.
then it was taken to the king, who ate it, and liked it as much as before, and had the cook brought, who this time likewise was forced to confess that allerleirauh had prepared the soup.
allerleirauh again came before the king, but she answered that she was good for nothing else but to have boots thrown at her head, and that she knew nothing at all about the little golden spinning-wheel.
when, for the third time, the king held a festival, all happened just as it had done before.
the cook said, “faith rough-skin, thou art a witch, and always puttest something in the soup which makes it so good that the king likes it better than that which i cook,” but as she begged so hard, he let her go up at the appointed time.
and now she put on the dress which shone like the stars, and thus entered the hall.
again the king danced with the beautiful maiden, and thought that she never yet had been so beautiful.
and whilst she was dancing, he contrived, without her noticing it, to slip a golden ring on her finger, and he had given orders that the dance should last a very long time.
when it was ended, he wanted to hold her fast by her hands, but she tore herself loose, and sprang away so quickly through the crowd that she vanished from his sight.
she ran as fast as she could into her den beneath the stairs, but as she had been too long, and had stayed more than half-an-hour she could not take off her pretty dress, but only threw over it her fur-mantle, and in her haste she did not make herself quite black, but one finger remained white.
then allerleirauh ran into the kitchen, and cooked the bread soup for the king, and as the cook was away, put her golden reel into it.
when the king found the reel at the bottom of it, he caused allerleirauh to be summoned, and then he espied the white finger, and saw the ring which he had put on it during the dance.
then he grasped her by the hand, and held her fast, and when she wanted to release herself and run away, her mantle of fur opened a little, and the star-dress shone forth.
the king clutched the mantle and tore it off.
then her golden hair shone forth, and she stood there in full splendour, and could no longer hide herself.
and when she had washed the soot and ashes from her face, she was more beautiful than anyone who had ever been seen on earth.
but the king said, “thou art my dear bride, and we will never more part from each other.” thereupon the marriage was solemnized, and they lived happily until their death.
66 the hare’s bride
there was once a woman and her daughter who lived in a pretty garden with cabbages; and a little hare came into it, and during the winter time ate all the cabbages.
then says the mother to the daughter, “go into the garden, and chase the hare away.” the girl says to the little hare, “sh-sh, hare, you are still eating up all our cabbages.” says the hare, “come, maiden, and seat yourself on my little hare’s tail, and come with me into my little hare’s hut.” the girl will not do it.
next day the hare comes again and eats the cabbages, then says the mother to the daughter, “go into the garden, and drive the hare away.” the girl says to the hare, “sh-sh, little hare, you are still eating all the cabbages.” the little hare says, “maiden, seat thyself on my little hare’s tail, and come with me into my little hare’s hut.” the maiden refuses.
the third day the hare comes again, and eats the cabbages.
on this the mother says to the daughter, “go into the garden, and hunt the hare away.” says the maiden, “sh-sh, little hare, you are still eating all our cabbages.” says the little hare, “come, maiden, seat thyself on my little hare’s tail, and come with me into my little hare’s hut.” the girl seats herself on the little hare’s tail, and then the hare takes her far away to his little hut, and says, “now cook green cabbage and millet-seed, and i will invite the wedding-guests.” then all the wedding-guests assembled.
(who were the wedding-guests?)
that i can tell you as another told it to me.
they were all hares, and the crow was there as parson to marry the bride and bridegroom, and the fox as clerk, and the altar was under the rainbow.
the girl, however, was sad, for she was all alone.
the little hare comes and says, “open the doors, open the doors, the wedding-guests are merry.” the bride says nothing, but weeps.
the little hare goes away.
the little hare comes back and says, “take off the lid, take off the lid, the wedding-guests are hungry.” the bride again says nothing, and weeps.
the little hare goes away.
the little hare comes back and says, “take off the lid, take off the lid, the wedding-guests are waiting.”
then the bride says nothing, and the hare goes away, but she dresses a straw-doll in her clothes, and gives her a spoon to stir with, and sets her by the pan with the millet-seed, and goes back to her mother.
the little hare comes once more and says, “take off the lid, take off the lid,” and gets up, and strikes the doll on the head so that her cap falls off.
then the little hare sees that it is not his bride, and goes away and is sorrowful.
67 the twelve huntsmen
there was once a king’s son who was betrothed to a maiden whom he loved very much.
and when he was sitting beside her and very happy, news came that his father lay sick unto death, and desired to see him once again before his end.
then he said to his beloved, “i must now go and leave thee, i give thee a ring as a remembrance of me.
when i am king, i will return and fetch thee.” so he rode away, and when he reached his father, the latter was dangerously ill, and near his death.
he said to him, “dear son, i wished to see thee once again before my end, promise me to marry as i wish,” and he named a certain king’s daughter who was to be his wife.
the son was in such trouble that he did not think what he was doing, and said, “yes, dear father, your will shall be done,”
and thereupon the king shut his eyes, and died.
when therefore the son had been proclaimed king, and the time of mourning was over, he was forced to keep the promise which he had given his father, and caused the king’s daughter to be asked in marriage, and she was promised to him.
his first betrothed heard of this, and fretted so much about his faithlessness that she nearly died.
then her father said to her, “dearest child, why art thou so sad?
thou shalt have whatsoever thou wilt.” she thought for a moment and said, “dear father, i wish for eleven girls exactly like myself in face, figure, and size.”
the father said, “if it be possible, thy desire shall be fulfilled,”
and he caused a search to be made in his whole kingdom, until eleven young maidens were found who exactly resembled his daughter in face, figure, and size.
when they came to the king’s daughter, she had twelve suits of huntsmen’s clothes made, all alike, and the eleven maidens had to put on the huntsmen’s clothes, and she herself put on the twelfth suit.
thereupon she took leave of her father, and rode away with them, and rode to the court of her former betrothed, whom she loved so dearly.
then she inquired if he required any huntsmen, and if he would take the whole of them into his service.
the king looked at her and did not know her, but as they were such handsome fellows, he said, “yes,” and that he would willingly take them, and now they were the king’s twelve huntsmen.
the king, however, had a lion which was a wondrous animal, for he knew all concealed and secret things.
it came to pass that one evening he said to the king, “thou thinkest thou hast twelve huntsmen?” “yes,”
said the king, “they are twelve huntsmen.” the lion continued, “thou art mistaken, they are twelve girls.” the king said, “that cannot be true!
how wilt thou prove that to me?” “oh, just let some peas be strewn in thy ante-chamber,” answered the lion, “and then thou wilt soon see it.
men have a firm step, and when they walk over the peas none of them stir, but girls trip and skip, and drag their feet, and the peas roll about.” the king was well pleased with the counsel, and caused the peas to be strewn.
there was, however, a servant of the king’s who favored the huntsmen, and when he heard that they were going to be put to this test he went to them and repeated everything, and said, “the lion wants to make the king believe that you are girls.” then the king’s daughter thanked him, and said to her maidens, “put on some strength, and step firmly on the peas.” so next morning when the king had the twelve huntsmen called before him, and they came into the ante-chamber where the peas were lying, they stepped so firmly on them, and had such a strong, sure walk, that not one of the peas either rolled or stirred.
then they went away again, and the king said to the lion, “thou hast lied to me, they walk just like men.” the lion said, “they have got to know that they were going to be put to the test, and have assumed some strength.
just let twelve spinning-wheels be brought into the ante-chamber some day, and they will go to them and be pleased with them, and that is what no man would do.” the king liked the advice, and had the spinning-wheels placed in the ante-chamber.
but the servant, who was well disposed to the huntsmen, went to them, and disclosed the project.
then when they were alone the king’s daughter said to her eleven girls, “put some constraint on yourselves, and do not look round at the spinning-wheels.” and next morning when the king had his twelve huntsmen summoned, they went through the ante-chamber, and never once looked at the spinning wheels.
then the king again said to the lion, “thou hast deceived me, they are men, for they have not looked at the spinning-wheels.” the lion replied, “they have learnt that they were going to be put to the test, and have restrained themselves.” the king, however, would no longer believe the lion.
the twelve huntsmen always followed the king to the chase, and his liking for them continually increased.
now it came to pass that once when they were out hunting, news came that the king’s betrothed was approaching.
when the true bride heard that, it hurt her so much that her heart was almost broken, and she fell fainting to the ground.
the king thought something had happened to his dear huntsman, ran up to him, wanted to help him, and drew his glove off.
then he saw the ring which he had given to his first bride, and when he looked in her face he recognized her.
then his heart was so touched that he kissed her, and when she opened her eyes he said, “thou art mine, and i am thine, and no one in the world can alter that.” he sent a messenger to the other bride, and entreated her to return to her own kingdom, for he had a wife already, and a man who had just found an old dish did not require a new one.
thereupon the wedding was celebrated, and the lion was again taken into favour, because, after all, he had told the truth.
68 the thief and his master
hans wished to put his son to learn a trade, so he went into the church and prayed to our lord god to know which would be most advantageous for him.
then the clerk got behind the altar, and said, “thieving, thieving.” on this hans goes back to his son, and tells him he is to learn thieving, and that the lord god had said so.
so he goes with his son to seek a man who is acquainted with thieving.
they walk a long time and come into a great forest, where stands a little house with an old woman in it.
hans says, “do you know of a man who is acquainted with thieving?” “you can learn that here quite well,” says the woman, “my son is a master of it.” so he speaks with the son, and asks if he knows thieving really well?
the master-thief says, “i will teach him well.
come back when a year is over, and then if you recognize your son, i will take no payment at all for teaching him; but if you don’t know him, you must give me two hundred thalers.”
the father goes home again, and the son learns witchcraft and thieving, thoroughly.
when the year is out, the father is full of anxiety to know how he is to contrive to recognize his son.
as he is thus going about in his trouble, he meets a little dwarf, who says, “man, what ails you, that you are always in such trouble?”
“oh,” says hans, “a year ago i placed my son with a master-thief who told me i was to come back when the year was out, and that if i then did not know my son when i saw him, i was to pay two hundred thalers; but if i did know him i was to pay nothing, and now i am afraid of not knowing him and can’t tell where i am to get the money.” then the dwarf tells him to take a small basket of bread with him, and to stand beneath the chimney.
“there on the cross-beam is a basket, out of which a little bird is peeping, and that is your son.”
hans goes thither, and throws a little basket full of black bread in front of the basket with the bird in it, and the little bird comes out, and looks up.
“hollo, my son, art thou here?” says the father, and the son is delighted to see his father, but the master-thief says, “the devil must have prompted you, or how could you have known your son?”
“father, let us go,” said the youth.
then the father and son set out homeward.
on the way a carriage comes driving by.
hereupon the son says to his father, “i will change myself into a large greyhound, and then you can earn a great deal of money by me.” then the gentleman calls from the carriage, “my man, will you sell your dog?” “yes,” says the father.
“how much do you want for it?”
“thirty thalers.” “eh, man, that is a great deal, but as it is such a very fine dog i will have it.” the gentleman takes it into his carriage, but when they have driven a little farther the dog springs out of the carriage through the window, and goes back to his father, and is no longer a greyhound.
they go home together.
next day there is a fair in the neighboring town, so the youth says to his father, “i will now change myself into a beautiful horse, and you can sell me; but when you have sold me, you must take off my bridle, or i cannot become a man again.” then the father goes with the horse to the fair, and the master-thief comes and buys the horse for a hundred thalers, but the father forgets, and does not take off the bridle.
so the man goes home with the horse, and puts it in the stable.
when the maid crosses the threshold, the horse says, “take off my bridle, take off my bridle.” then the maid stands still, and says, “what, canst thou speak?” so she goes and takes the bridle off, and the horse becomes a sparrow, and flies out at the door, and the wizard becomes a sparrow also, and flies after him.
then they come together and cast lots, but the master loses, and betakes himself to the water and is a fish.
then the youth also becomes a fish, and they cast lots again, and the master loses.
so the master changes himself into a cock, and the youth becomes a fox, and bites the master’s head off, and he died and has remained dead to this day.
69 jorinda and joringel
there was once an old castle in the midst of a large and thick forest, and in it an old woman who was a witch dwelt all alone.
in the day-time she changed herself into a cat or a screech-owl, but in the evening she took her proper shape again as a human being.
she could lure wild beasts and birds to her, and then she killed and boiled and roasted them.
if any one came within one hundred paces of the castle he was obliged to stand still, and could not stir from the place until she bade him be free.
but whenever an innocent maiden came within this circle, she changed her into a bird, and shut her up in a wicker-work cage, and carried the cage into a room in the castle.
she had about seven thousand cages of rare birds in the castle.
now, there was once a maiden who was called jorinda, who was fairer than all other girls.
she and a handsome youth named joringel had promised to marry each other.
they were still in the days of betrothal, and their greatest happiness was being together.
one day in order that they might be able to talk together in quiet they went for a walk in the forest.
“take care,” said joringel, “that you do not go too near the castle.”
it was a beautiful evening; the sun shone brightly between the trunks of the trees into the dark green of the forest, and the turtle-doves sang mournfully upon the young boughs of the birch-trees.
jorinda wept now and then: she sat down in the sunshine and was sorrowful.
joringel was sorrowful too; they were as sad as if they were about to die.
then they looked around them, and were quite at a loss, for they did not know by which way they should go home.
the sun was still half above the mountain and half set.
joringel looked through the bushes, and saw the old walls of the castle close at hand.
he was horror-stricken and filled with deadly fear.
jorinda was singing—
“my little bird, with the necklace red, sings sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, he sings that the dove must soon be dead, sings sorrow, sor—jug, jug, jug.”
joringel looked for jorinda.
she was changed into a nightingale, and sang, “jug, jug, jug.” a screech-owl with glowing eyes flew three times round about her, and three times cried, “to-whoo, to-whoo, to-whoo!”
joringel could not move: he stood there like a stone, and could neither weep nor speak, nor move hand or foot.
the sun had now set.
the owl flew into the thicket, and directly afterwards there came out of it a crooked old woman, yellow and lean, with large red eyes and a hooked nose, the point of which reached to her chin.
she muttered to herself, caught the nightingale, and took it away in her hand.
joringel could neither speak nor move from the spot; the nightingale was gone.
at last the woman came back, and said in a hollow voice, “greet thee, zachiel.
if the moon shines on the cage, zachiel, let him loose at once.” then joringel was freed.
he fell on his knees before the woman and begged that she would give him back his jorinda, but she said that he should never have her again, and went away.
he called, he wept, he lamented, but all in vain, “ah, what is to become of me?”
joringel went away, and at last came to a strange village; there he kept sheep for a long time.
he often walked round and round the castle, but not too near to it.
at last he dreamt one night that he found a blood-red flower, in the middle of which was a beautiful large pearl; that he picked the flower and went with it to the castle, and that everything he touched with the flower was freed from enchantment; he also dreamt that by means of it he recovered his jorinda.
in the morning, when he awoke, he began to seek over hill and dale if he could find such a flower.
he sought until the ninth day, and then, early in the morning, he found the blood-red flower.
in the middle of it there was a large dew-drop, as big as the finest pearl.
day and night he journeyed with this flower to the castle.
when he was within a hundred paces of it he was not held fast, but walked on to the door.
joringel was full of joy; he touched the door with the flower, and it sprang open.
he walked in through the courtyard, and listened for the sound of the birds.
at last he heard it.
he went on and found the room from whence it came, and there the witch was feeding the birds in the seven thousand cages.
when she saw joringel she was angry, very angry, and scolded and spat poison and gall at him, but she could not come within two paces of him.
he did not take any notice of her, but went and looked at the cages with the birds; but there were many hundred nightingales, how was he to find his jorinda again?
just then he saw the old woman quietly take away a cage with a bird in it, and go towards the door.
swiftly he sprang towards her, touched the cage with the flower, and also the old woman.
she could now no longer bewitch any one; and jorinda was standing there, clasping him round the neck, and she was as beautiful as ever!
70 the three sons of fortune
a father once called his three sons before him, and he gave to the first a cock, to the second a scythe, and to the third a cat.
“i am already aged,” said he, “my death is nigh, and i have wished to take thought for you before my end; money i have not, and what i now give you seems of little worth, but all depends on your making a sensible use of it.
only seek out a country where such things are still unknown, and your fortune is made.”
after the father’s death the eldest went away with his cock, but wherever he came the cock was already known; in the towns he saw him from a long distance, sitting upon the steeples and turning round with the wind, and in the villages he heard more than one crowing; no one would show any wonder at the creature, so that it did not look as if he would make his fortune by it.
at last, however, it happened that he came to an island where the people knew nothing about cocks, and did not even understand how to divide their time.
they certainly knew when it was morning or evening, but at night, if they did not sleep through it, not one of them knew how to find out the time.
“look!” said he, “what a proud creature!
it has a ruby-red crown upon its head, and wears spurs like a knight; it calls you three times during the night, at fixed hours, and when it calls for the last time, the sun soon rises.
but if it crows by broad daylight, then take notice, for there will certainly be a change of weather.”
the people were well pleased; for a whole night they did not sleep, and listened with great delight as the cock at two, four, and six o’clock, loudly and clearly proclaimed the time.
they asked if the creature were for sale, and how much he wanted for it?
“about as much gold as an ass can carry,” answered he.
“a ridiculously small price for such a precious creature!” they cried unanimously, and willingly gave him what he had asked.
when he came home with his wealth his brothers were astonished, and the second said, “well, i will go forth and see whether i cannot get rid of my scythe as profitably.” but it did not look as if he would, for labourers met him everywhere, and they had scythes upon their shoulders as well as he.
at last, however, he chanced upon an island where the people knew nothing of scythes.
when the corn was ripe there, they took cannon out to the fields and shot it down.
now this was rather an uncertain affair; many shot right over it, others hit the ears instead of the stems, and shot them away, whereby much was lost, and besides all this, it made a terrible noise.
so the man set to work and mowed it down so quietly and quickly that the people opened their mouths with astonishment.
they agreed to give him what he wanted for the scythe, and he received a horse laden with as much gold as it could carry.
and now the third brother wanted to take his cat to the right man.
he fared just like the others; so long as he stayed on the mainland there was nothing to be done.
every place had cats, and there were so many of them that new-born kittens were generally drowned in the ponds.
at last he sailed over to an island, and it luckily happened that no cats had ever yet been seen there, and that the mice had got the upper hand so much that they danced upon the tables and benches whether the master were at home or not.
the people complained bitterly of the plague; the king himself in his palace did not know how to secure himself against them; mice squeaked in every corner, and gnawed whatever they could lay hold of with their teeth.
but now the cat began her chase, and soon cleared a couple of rooms, and the people begged the king to buy the wonderful beast for the country.
the king willingly gave what was asked, which was a mule laden with gold, and the third brother came home with the greatest treasure of all.
the cat made herself merry with the mice in the royal palace, and killed so many that they could not be counted.
at last she grew warm with the work and thirsty, so she stood still, lifted up her head and cried, “mew.
mew!” when they heard this strange cry, the king and all his people were frightened, and in their terror ran all at once out of the palace.
then the king took counsel what was best to be done; at last it was determined to send a herald to the cat, and demand that she should leave the palace, or if not, she was to expect that force would be used against her.
the councillors said, “rather will we let ourselves be plagued with the mice, for to that misfortune we are accustomed, than give up our lives to such a monster as this.” a noble youth, therefore, was sent to ask the cat “whether she would peaceably quit the castle?” but the cat, whose thirst had become still greater, merely answered, “mew!
mew!” the youth understood her to say, “most certainly not!
most certainly not!” and took this answer to the king.
“then,” said the councillors, “she shall yield to force.” cannon were brought out, and the palace was soon in flames.
when the fire reached the room where the cat was sitting, she sprang safely out of the window; but the besiegers did not leave off until the whole palace was shot down to the ground.
71 how six men got on in the world
there was once a man who understood all kinds of arts; he served in war, and behaved well and bravely, but when the war was over he received his dismissal, and three farthings for his expenses on the way.
“stop,” said he, “i shall not be content with this.
if i can only meet with the right people, the king will yet have to give me all the treasure of the country.” then full of anger he went into the forest, and saw a man standing therein who had plucked up six trees as if they were blades of corn.
he said to him, “wilt thou be my servant and go with me?” “yes,” he answered, “but, first, i will take this little bundle of sticks home to my mother,” and he took one of the trees, and wrapped it round the five others, lifted the bundle on his back, and carried it away.
then he returned and went with his master, who said, “we two ought to be able to get through the world very well,” and when they had walked on for a short while they found a huntsman who was kneeling, had shouldered his gun, and was about to fire.
the master said to him, “huntsman, what art thou going to shoot?” he answered, “two miles from here a fly is sitting on the branch of an oak-tree, and i want to shoot its left eye out.” “oh, come with me,” said the man, “if we three are together, we certainly ought to be able to get on in the world!” the huntsman was ready, and went with him, and they came to seven windmills whose sails were turning round with great speed, and yet no wind was blowing either on the right or the left, and no leaf was stirring.
then said the man, “i know not what is driving the windmills, not a breath of air is stirring,” and he went onwards with his servants, and when they had walked two miles they saw a man sitting on a tree who was shutting one nostril, and blowing out of the other.
“good gracious!
what are you doing up there?” he answered, “two miles from here are seven windmills; look, i am blowing them till they turn round.” “oh, come with me,” said the man.
“if we four are together, we shall carry the whole world before us!” then the blower came down and went with him, and after a while they saw a man who was standing on one leg and had taken off the other, and laid it beside him.
then the master said, “you have arranged things very comfortably to have a rest.” “i am a runner,” he replied, “and to stop myself running far too fast, i have taken off one of my legs, for if i run with both, i go quicker than any bird can fly.” “oh, go with me.
if we five are together, we shall carry the whole world before us.” so he went with them, and it was not long before they met a man who wore a cap, but had put it quite on one ear.
then the master said to him, “gracefully, gracefully, don’t stick your cap on one ear, you look just like a tom-fool!” “i must not wear it otherwise,” said he, “for if i set my hat straight, a terrible frost comes on, and all the birds in the air are frozen, and drop dead on the ground.” “oh, come with me,” said the master.
“if we six are together, we can carry the whole world before us.”
now the six came to a town where the king had proclaimed that whosoever ran a race with his daughter and won the victory, should be her husband, but whosoever lost it, must lose his head.
then the man presented himself and said, “i will, however, let my servant run for me.” the king replied, “then his life also must be staked, so that his head and thine are both set on the victory.” when that was settled and made secure, the man buckled the other leg on the runner, and said to him, “now be nimble, and help us to win.” it was fixed that the one who was first to bring some water from a far distant well was to be the victor.
the runner received a pitcher, and the king’s daughter one too, and they began to run at the same time, but in an instant, when the king’s daughter had got a very little way, the people who were looking on could see no more of the runner, and it was just as if the wind had whistled by.
in a short time he reached the well, filled his pitcher with water, and turned back.
half-way home, however, he was overcome with fatigue, and set his pitcher down, lay down himself, and fell asleep.
he had, however, made a pillow of a horse’s skull which was lying on the ground, in order that he might lie uncomfortably, and soon wake up again.
in the meantime the king’s daughter, who could also run very well quite as well as any ordinary mortal can had reached the well, and was hurrying back with her pitcher full of water, and when she saw the runner lying there asleep, she was glad and said, “my enemy is delivered over into my hands,” emptied his pitcher, and ran on.
and now all would have been lost if by good luck the huntsman had not been standing at the top of the castle, and had not seen everything with his sharp eyes.
then said he, “the king’s daughter shall still not prevail against us;” and he loaded his gun, and shot so cleverly, that he shot the horse’s skull away from under the runner’s head without hurting him.
then the runner awoke, leapt up, and saw that his pitcher was empty, and that the king’s daughter was already far in advance.
he did not lose heart, however, but ran back to the well with his pitcher, again drew some water, and was at home again, ten minutes before the king’s daughter.
“behold!” said he, “i have not bestirred myself till now, it did not deserve to be called running before.”
but it pained the king, and still more his daughter, that she should be carried off by a common disbanded soldier like that; so they took counsel with each other how to get rid of him and his companions.
then said the king to her, “i have thought of a way; don’t be afraid, they shall not come back again.” and he said to them, “you shall now make merry together, and eat and drink,” and he conducted them to a room which had a floor of iron, and the doors also were of iron, and the windows were guarded with iron bars.
there was a table in the room covered with delicious food, and the king said to them, “go in, and enjoy yourselves.” and when they were inside, he ordered the doors to be shut and bolted.
then he sent for the cook, and commanded him to make a fire under the room until the iron became red-hot.
this the cook did, and the six who were sitting at table began to feel quite warm, and they thought the heat was caused by the food; but as it became still greater, and they wanted to get out, and found that the doors and windows were bolted, they became aware that the king must have an evil intention, and wanted to suffocate them.
“he shall not succeed, however,” said the one with the cap.
“i will cause a frost to come, before which the fire shall be ashamed, and creep away.” then he put his cap on straight, and immediately there came such a frost that all heat disappeared, and the food on the dishes began to freeze.
when an hour or two had passed by, and the king believed that they had perished in the heat, he had the doors opened to behold them himself.
but when the doors were opened, all six were standing there, alive and well, and said that they should very much like to get out to warm themselves, for the very food was fast frozen to the dishes with the cold.
then, full of anger, the king went down to the cook, scolded him, and asked why he had not done what he had been ordered to do.
but the cook replied, “there is heat enough there, just look yourself.” then the king saw that a fierce fire was burning under the iron room, and perceived that there was no getting the better of the six in this way.
again the king considered how to get rid of his unpleasant guests, and caused their chief to be brought and said, “if thou wilt take gold and renounce my daughter, thou shalt have as much as thou wilt.”
“oh, yes, lord king,” he answered, “give me as much as my servant can carry, and i will not ask for your daughter.”
on this the king was satisfied, and the other continued, “in fourteen days, i will come and fetch it.” thereupon he summoned together all the tailors in the whole kingdom, and they were to sit for fourteen days and sew a sack.
and when it was ready, the strong one who could tear up trees had to take it on his back, and go with it to the king.
then said the king, “who can that strong fellow be who is carrying a bundle of linen on his back that is as big as a house?” and he was alarmed and said, “what a lot of gold he can carry away!” then he commanded a ton of gold to be brought; it took sixteen of his strongest men to carry it, but the strong one snatched it up in one hand, put it in his sack, and said, “why don’t you bring more at the same time?
that hardly covers the bottom!” then, little by little, the king caused all his treasure to be brought thither, and the strong one pushed it into the sack, and still the sack was not half full with it.
“bring more,” cried he, “these few crumbs don’t fill it.” then seven thousand carts with gold had to be gathered together in the whole kingdom, and the strong one thrust them and the oxen harnessed to them into his sack.
“i will examine it no longer,” said he, “but will just take what comes, so long as the sack is but full.” when all that was inside, there was still room for a great deal more; then he said, “i will just make an end of the thing; people do sometimes tie up a sack even when it is not full.”
so he took it on his back, and went away with his comrades.
when the king now saw how one single man was carrying away the entire wealth of the country, he became enraged, and bade his horsemen mount and pursue the six, and ordered them to take the sack away from the strong one.
two regiments speedily overtook the six, and called out, “you are prisoners, put down the sack with the gold, or you will all be cut to pieces!” “what say you?” cried the blower, “that we are prisoners!
rather than that should happen, all of you shall dance about in the air.” and he closed one nostril, and with the other blew on the two regiments.
then they were driven away from each other, and carried into the blue sky over all the mountains one here, the other there.
one sergeant cried for mercy; he had nine wounds, and was a brave fellow who did not deserve ill treatment.
the blower stopped a little so that he came down without injury, and then the blower said to him, “now go home to thy king, and tell him he had better send some more horsemen, and i will blow them all into the air.” when the king was informed of this he said, “let the rascals go.
they have the best of it.” then the six conveyed the riches home, divided it amongst them, and lived in content until their death.
72 the wolf and the man
once on a time the fox was talking to the wolf of the strength of man; how no animal could withstand him, and how all were obliged to employ cunning in order to preserve themselves from him.
then the wolf answered, “if i had but the chance of seeing a man for once, i would set on him notwithstanding.” “i can help thee to do that,” said the fox.
“come to me early to-morrow morning, and i will show thee one.”
the wolf presented himself betimes, and the fox took him out on the road by which the huntsmen went daily.
first came an old discharged soldier.
“is that a man?” inquired the wolf.
“no,” answered the fox, “that was one.” afterwards came a little boy who was going to school.
“is that a man?” “no, that is going to be one.” at length came a hunter with his double-barrelled gun at his back, and hanger by his side.
said the fox to the wolf, “look, there comes a man, thou must attack him, but i will take myself off to my hole.” the wolf then rushed on the man.
when the huntsman saw him he said, “it is a pity that i have not loaded with a bullet,” aimed, and fired his small shot in his face.
the wolf pulled a very wry face, but did not let himself be frightened, and attacked him again, on which the huntsman gave him the second barrel.
the wolf swallowed his pain, and rushed on the huntsman, but he drew out his bright hanger, and gave him a few cuts with it right and left, so that, bleeding everywhere, he ran howling back to the fox.
“well, brother wolf,” said the fox, “how hast thou got on with man?” “ah!”
replied the wolf, “i never imagined the strength of man to be what it is!
first, he took a stick from his shoulder, and blew into it, and then something flew into my face which tickled me terribly; then he breathed once more into the stick, and it flew into my nose like lightning and hail; when i was quite close, he drew a white rib out of his side, and he beat me so with it that i was all but left lying dead.” “see what a braggart thou art!” said the fox.
“thou throwest thy hatchet so far that thou canst not fetch it back again!”
73 the wolf and the fox
the wolf had the fox with him, and whatsoever the wolf wished, that the fox was compelled to do, for he was the weaker, and he would gladly have been rid of his master.
it chanced that once as they were going through the forest, the wolf said, “red-fox, get me something to eat, or else i will eat thee thyself.” then the fox answered, “i know a farm-yard where there are two young lambs; if thou art inclined, we will fetch one of them.” that suited the wolf, and they went thither, and the fox stole the little lamb, took it to the wolf, and went away.
the wolf devoured it, but was not satisfied with one; he wanted the other as well, and went to get it.
as, however, he did it so awkwardly, the mother of the little lamb heard him, and began to cry out terribly, and to bleat so that the farmer came running there.
they found the wolf, and beat him so mercilessly, that he went to the fox limping and howling.
“thou hast misled me finely,” said he; “i wanted to fetch the other lamb, and the country folks surprised me, and have beaten me to a jelly.” the fox replied, “why art thou such a glutton?”
next day they again went into the country, and the greedy wolf once more said, “red-fox, get me something to eat, or i will eat thee thyself.” then answered the fox, “i know a farm-house where the wife is baking pancakes to-night; we will get some of them for ourselves.” they went there, and the fox slipped round the house, and peeped and sniffed about until he discovered where the dish was, and then drew down six pancakes and carried them to the wolf.
“there is something for thee to eat,” said he to him, and then went his way.
the wolf swallowed down the pancakes in an instant, and said, “they make one want more,” and went thither and tore the whole dish down so that it broke in pieces.
this made such a great noise that the woman came out, and when she saw the wolf she called the people, who hurried there, and beat him as long as their sticks would hold together, till with two lame legs, and howling loudly, he got back to the fox in the forest.
“how abominably thou hast misled me!” cried he, “the peasants caught me, and tanned my skin for me.” but the fox replied, “why art thou such a glutton?”
on the third day, when they were out together, and the wolf could only limp along painfully, he again said, “red-fox, get me something to eat, or i will eat thee thyself.” the fox answered, “i know a man who has been killing, and the salted meat is lying in a barrel in the cellar; we will get that.” said the wolf, “i will go when thou dost, that thou mayest help me if i am not able to get away.” “i am willing,” said the fox, and showed him the by-paths and ways by which at length they reached the cellar.
there was meat in abundance, and the wolf attacked it instantly and thought, “there is plenty of time before i need leave off!” the fox liked it also, but looked about everywhere, and often ran to the hole by which they had come in, and tried if his body was still thin enough to slip through it.
the wolf said, “dear fox, tell me why thou art running here and there so much, and jumping in and out?”
“i must see that no one is coming,” replied the crafty fellow.
“don’t eat too much!” then said the wolf, “i shall not leave until the barrel is empty.” in the meantime the farmer, who had heard the noise of the fox’s jumping, came into the cellar.
when the fox saw him he was out of the hole at one bound.
the wolf wanted to follow him, but he had made himself so fat with eating that he could no longer get through, but stuck fast.
then came the farmer with a cudgel and struck him dead, but the fox bounded into the forest, glad to be rid of the old glutton.
74 the fox and his cousin
the she-wolf brought forth a young one, and invited the fox to be godfather.
“after all, he is a near relative of ours,” said she, “he has a good understanding, and much talent; he can instruct my little son, and help him forward in the world.” the fox, too, appeared quite honest, and said, “worthy mrs. gossip, i thank you for the honour which you are doing me; i will, however, conduct myself in such a way that you shall be repaid for it.” he enjoyed himself at the feast, and made merry; afterwards he said, “dear mrs. gossip, it is our duty to take care of the child, it must have good food that it may be strong.
i know a sheep-fold from which we might fetch a nice morsel.” the wolf was pleased with the ditty, and she went out with the fox to the farm-yard.
he pointed out the fold from afar, and said, “you will be able to creep in there without being seen, and in the meantime i will look about on the other side to see if i can pick up a chicken.” he, however, did not go there, but sat down at the entrance to the forest, stretched his legs and rested.
the she-wolf crept into the stable.
a dog was lying there, and it made such a noise that the peasants came running out, caught gossip wolf, and poured a strong burning mixture, which had been prepared for washing, over her skin.
at last she escaped, and dragged herself outside.
there lay the fox, who pretended to be full of complaints, and said, “ah, dear mistress gossip, how ill i have fared, the peasants have fallen on me, and have broken every limb i have; if you do not want me to lie where i am and perish, you must carry me away.” the she-wolf herself was only able to go away slowly, but she was in such concern about the fox that she took him on her back, and slowly carried him perfectly safe and sound to her house.
then the fox cried to her, “farewell, dear mistress gossip, may the roasting you have had do you good,” laughed heartily at her, and bounded off.
75 the fox and the cat
it happened that the cat met the fox in a forest, and as she thought to herself, “he is clever and full of experience, and much esteemed in the world,” she spoke to him in a friendly way.
“good-day, dear mr. fox, how are you?
how is all with you?
how are you getting through this dear season?” the fox, full of all kinds of arrogance, looked at the cat from head to foot, and for a long time did not know whether he would give any answer or not.
at last he said, “oh, thou wretched beard-cleaner, thou piebald fool, thou hungry mouse-hunter, what canst thou be thinking of?
dost thou venture to ask how i am getting on?
what hast thou learnt?
how many arts dost thou understand?” “i understand but one,” replied the cat, modestly.
“what art is that?” asked the fox.
“when the hounds are following me, i can spring into a tree and save myself.” “is that all?” said the fox.
“i am master of a hundred arts, and have into the bargain a sackful of cunning.
thou makest me sorry for thee; come with me, i will teach thee how people get away from the hounds.” just then came a hunter with four dogs.
the cat sprang nimbly up a tree, and sat down on top of it, where the branches and foliage quite concealed her.
“open your sack, mr. fox, open your sack,” cried the cat to him, but the dogs had already seized him, and were holding him fast.
“ah, mr. fox,” cried the cat.
“you with your hundred arts are left in the lurch!
had you been able to climb like me, you would not have lost your life.”
76 the pink
there was once on a time a queen to whom god had given no children.
every morning she went into the garden and prayed to god in heaven to bestow on her a son or a daughter.
then an angel from heaven came to her and said, “be at rest, thou shalt have a son with the power of wishing, so that whatsoever in the world he wishes for, that shall he have.” then she went to the king, and told him the joyful tidings, and when the time was come she gave birth to a son, and the king was filled with gladness.
every morning she went with the child to the garden where the wild beasts were kept, and washed herself there in a clear stream.
it happened once when the child was a little older, that it was lying in her arms and she fell asleep.
then came the old cook, who knew that the child had the power of wishing, and stole it away, and he took a hen, and cut it in pieces, and dropped some of its blood on the queen’s apron and on her dress.
then he carried the child away to a secret place, where a nurse was obliged to suckle it, and he ran to the king and accused the queen of having allowed her child to be taken from her by the wild beasts.
when the king saw the blood on her apron, he believed this, fell into such a passion that he ordered a high tower to be built, in which neither sun nor moon could be seen, and had his wife put into it, and walled up.
here she was to stay for seven years without meat or drink, and die of hunger.
but god sent two angels from heaven in the shape of white doves, which flew to her twice a day, and carried her food until the seven years were over.
the cook, however, thought to himself, “if the child has the power of wishing, and i am here, he might very easily get me into trouble.” so he left the palace and went to the boy, who was already big enough to speak, and said to him, “wish for a beautiful palace for thyself with a garden, and all else that pertains to it.” scarcely were the words out of the boy’s mouth, when everything was there that he had wished for.
after a while the cook said to him, “it is not well for thee to be so alone, wish for a pretty girl as a companion.” then the king’s son wished for one, and she immediately stood before him, and was more beautiful than any painter could have painted her.
the two played together, and loved each other with all their hearts, and the old cook went out hunting like a nobleman.
the thought, however, occurred to him that the king’s son might some day wish to be with his father, and thus bring him into great peril.
so he went out and took the maiden aside, and said, “to-night when the boy is asleep, go to his bed and plunge this knife into his heart, and bring me his heart and tongue, and if thou dost not do it, thou shalt lose thy life.” thereupon he went away, and when he returned next day she had not done it, and said, “why should i shed the blood of an innocent boy who has never harmed any one?” the cook once more said, “if thou dost not do it, it shall cost thee thy own life.” when he had gone away, she had a little hind brought to her, and ordered her to be killed, and took her heart and tongue, and laid them on a plate, and when she saw the old man coming, she said to the boy, “lie down in thy bed, and draw the clothes over thee.” then the wicked wretch came in and said, “where are the boy’s heart and tongue?” the girl reached the plate to him, but the king’s son threw off the quilt, and said, “thou old sinner, why didst thou want to kill me?
now will i pronounce thy sentence.
thou shalt become a black poodle and have a gold collar round thy neck, and shalt eat burning coals, till the flames burst forth from thy throat.” and when he had spoken these words, the old man was changed into a poodle dog, and had a gold collar round his neck, and the cooks were ordered to bring up some live coals, and these he ate, until the flames broke forth from his throat.
the king’s son remained there a short while longer, and he thought of his mother, and wondered if she were still alive.
at length he said to the maiden, “i will go home to my own country; if thou wilt go with me, i will provide for thee.” “ah,” she replied, “the way is so long, and what shall i do in a strange land where i am unknown?” as she did not seem quite willing, and as they could not be parted from each other, he wished that she might be changed into a beautiful pink, and took her with him.
then he went away to his own country, and the poodle had to run after him.
he went to the tower in which his mother was confined, and as it was so high, he wished for a ladder which would reach up to the very top.
then he mounted up and looked inside, and cried, “beloved mother, lady queen, are you still alive, or are you dead?” she answered, “i have just eaten, and am still satisfied,” for she thought the angels were there.
said he, “i am your dear son, whom the wild beasts were said to have torn from your arms; but i am alive still, and will speedily deliver you.” then he descended again, and went to his father, and caused himself to be announced as a strange huntsman, and asked if he could give him a place.
the king said yes, if he was skilful and could get game for him, he should come to him, but that deer had never taken up their quarters in any part of the district or country.
then the huntsman promised to procure as much game for him as he could possibly use at the royal table.
so he summoned all the huntsmen together, and bade them go out into the forest with him.
and he went with them and made them form a great circle, open at one end where he stationed himself, and began to wish.
two hundred deer and more came running inside the circle at once, and the huntsmen shot them.
then they were all placed on sixty country carts, and driven home to the king, and for once he was able to deck his table with game, after having had none at all for years.
now the king felt great joy at this, and commanded that his entire household should eat with him next day, and made a great feast.
when they were all assembled together, he said to the huntsmen, “as thou art so clever, thou shalt sit by me.” he replied, “lord king, your majesty must excuse me, i am a poor huntsman.” but the king insisted on it, and said, “thou shalt sit by me,” until he did it.
whilst he was sitting there, he thought of his dearest mother, and wished that one of the king’s principal servants would begin to speak of her, and would ask how it was faring with the queen in the tower, and if she were alive still, or had perished.
hardly had he formed the wish than the marshal began, and said, “your majesty, we live joyously here, but how is the queen living in the tower?
is she still alive, or has she died?” but the king replied, “she let my dear son be torn to pieces by wild beasts; i will not have her named.” then the huntsman arose and said, “gracious lord father, she is alive still, and i am her son, and i was not carried away by wild beasts, but by that wretch the old cook, who tore me from her arms when she was asleep, and sprinkled her apron with the blood of a chicken.” thereupon he took the dog with the golden collar, and said, “that is the wretch!” and caused live coals to be brought, and these the dog was compelled to devour before the sight of all, until flames burst forth from its throat.
on this the huntsman asked the king if he would like to see the dog in his true shape, and wished him back into the form of the cook, in the which he stood immediately, with his white apron, and his knife by his side.
when the king saw him he fell into a passion, and ordered him to be cast into the deepest dungeon.
then the huntsman spoke further and said, “father, will you see the maiden who brought me up so tenderly and who was afterwards to murder me, but did not do it, though her own life depended on it?” the king replied, “yes, i would like to see her.” the son said, “most gracious father, i will show her to you in the form of a beautiful flower,” and he thrust his hand into his pocket and brought forth the pink, and placed it on the royal table, and it was so beautiful that the king had never seen one to equal it.
then the son said, “now will i show her to you in her own form,” and wished that she might become a maiden, and she stood there looking so beautiful that no painter could have made her look more so.
and the king sent two waiting-maids and two attendants into the tower, to fetch the queen and bring her to the royal table.
but when she was led in she ate nothing, and said, “the gracious and merciful god who has supported me in the tower, will speedily deliver me.” she lived three days more, and then died happily, and when she was buried, the two white doves which had brought her food to the tower, and were angels of heaven, followed her body and seated themselves on her grave.
the aged king ordered the cook to be torn in four pieces, but grief consumed the king’s own heart, and he soon died.
his son married the beautiful maiden whom he had brought with him as a flower in his pocket, and whether they are still alive or not, is known to god.
77 clever grethel
there was once a cook named grethel, who wore shoes with red rosettes, and when she walked out with them on, she turned herself this way and that, and thought, “you certainly are a pretty girl!” and when she came home she drank, in her gladness of heart, a draught of wine, and as wine excites a desire to eat, she tasted the best of whatever she was cooking until she was satisfied, and said, “the cook must know what the food is like.”
it came to pass that the master one day said to her, “grethel, there is a guest coming this evening; prepare me two fowls very daintily.” “i will see to it, master,” answered grethel.
she killed two fowls, scalded them, plucked them, put them on the spit, and towards evening set them before the fire, that they might roast.
the fowls began to turn brown, and were nearly ready, but the guest had not yet arrived.
then grethel called out to her master, “if the guest does not come, i must take the fowls away from the fire, but it will be a sin and a shame if they are not eaten directly, when they are juiciest.” the master said, “i will run myself, and fetch the guest.” when the master had turned his back, grethel laid the spit with the fowls on one side, and thought, “standing so long by the fire there, makes one hot and thirsty; who knows when they will come?
meanwhile, i will run into the cellar, and take a drink.” she ran down, set a jug, said, “god bless it to thy use, grethel,” and took a good drink, and took yet another hearty draught.
then she went and put the fowls down again to the fire, basted them, and drove the spit merrily round.
but as the roast meat smelt so good, grethel thought, “something might be wrong, it ought to be tasted!” she touched it with her finger, and said, “ah!
how good fowls are!
it certainly is a sin and a shame that they are not eaten directly!” she ran to the window, to see if the master was not coming with his guest, but she saw no one, and went back to the fowls and thought, “one of the wings is burning!
i had better take it off and eat it.” so she cut it off, ate it, and enjoyed it, and when she had done, she thought, “the other must go down too, or else master will observe that something is missing.” when the two wings were eaten, she went and looked for her master, and did not see him.
it suddenly occurred to her, “who knows?
they are perhaps not coming at all, and have turned in somewhere.” then she said, “hallo, grethel, enjoy yourself, one fowl has been cut into, take another drink, and eat it up entirely; when it is eaten you will have some peace, why should god’s good gifts be spoilt?” so she ran into the cellar again, took an enormous drink and ate up the one chicken in great glee.
when one of the chickens was swallowed down, and still her master did not come, grethel looked at the other and said, “where one is, the other should be likewise, the two go together; what’s right for the one is right for the other; i think if i were to take another draught it would do me no harm.” so she took another hearty drink, and let the second chicken rejoin the first.
while she was just in the best of the eating, her master came and cried, hurry up, “haste thee, grethel, the guest is coming directly after me!” “yes, sir, i will soon serve up,” answered grethel.
meantime the master looked to see that the table was properly laid, and took the great knife, wherewith he was going to carve the chickens, and sharpened it on the steps.
presently the guest came, and knocked politely and courteously at the house-door.
grethel ran, and looked to see who was there, and when she saw the guest, she put her finger to her lips and said, “hush!
hush!
get away as quickly as you can, if my master catches you it will be the worse for you; he certainly did ask you to supper, but his intention is to cut off your two ears.
just listen how he is sharpening the knife for it!” the guest heard the sharpening, and hurried down the steps again as fast as he could.
grethel was not idle; she ran screaming to her master, and cried, “you have invited a fine guest!” “eh, why, grethel?
what do you mean by that?” “yes,” said she, “he has taken the chickens which i was just going to serve up, off the dish, and has run away with them!” “that’s a nice trick!” said her master, and lamented the fine chickens.
“if he had but left me one, so that something remained for me to eat.” he called to him to stop, but the guest pretended not to hear.
then he ran after him with the knife still in his hand, crying, “just one, just one,” meaning that the guest should leave him just one chicken, and not take both.
the guest, however, thought no otherwise than that he was to give up one of his ears, and ran as if fire were burning under him, in order to take them both home with him.
78 the old man and his grandson
there was once a very old man, whose eyes had become dim, his ears dull of hearing, his knees trembled, and when he sat at table he could hardly hold the spoon, and spilt the broth upon the table-cloth or let it run out of his mouth.
his son and his son’s wife were disgusted at this, so the old grandfather at last had to sit in the corner behind the stove, and they gave him his food in an earthenware bowl, and not even enough of it.
and he used to look towards the table with his eyes full of tears.
once, too, his trembling hands could not hold the bowl, and it fell to the ground and broke.
the young wife scolded him, but he said nothing and only sighed.
then they bought him a wooden bowl for a few half-pence, out of which he had to eat.
they were once sitting thus when the little grandson of four years old began to gather together some bits of wood upon the ground.
“what are you doing there?” asked the father.
“i am making a little trough,”
answered the child, “for father and mother to eat out of when i am big.”
the man and his wife looked at each other for a while, and presently began to cry.
then they took the old grandfather to the table, and henceforth always let him eat with them, and likewise said nothing if he did spill a little of anything.
79 the water-nix
a little brother and sister were once playing by a well, and while they were thus playing, they both fell in.
a water-nix lived down below, who said, “now i have got you, now you shall work hard for me!” and carried them off with her.
she gave the girl dirty tangled flax to spin, and she had to fetch water in a bucket with a hole in it, and the boy had to hew down a tree with a blunt axe, and they got nothing to eat but dumplings as hard as stones.
then at last the children became so impatient, that they waited until one sunday, when the nix was at church, and ran away.
but when church was over, the nix saw that the birds were flown, and followed them with great strides.
the children saw her from afar, and the girl threw a brush behind her which formed an immense hill of bristles, with thousands and thousands of spikes, over which the nix was forced to scramble with great difficulty; at last, however, she got over.
when the children saw this, the boy threw behind him a comb which made a great hill of combs with a thousand times a thousand teeth, but the nix managed to keep herself steady on them, and at last crossed over that.
then the girl threw behind her a looking-glass which formed a hill of mirrors, and was so slippery that it was impossible for the nix to cross it.
then she thought, “i will go home quickly and fetch my axe, and cut the hill of glass in half.” long before she returned, however, and had hewn through the glass, the children had escaped to a great distance, and the water-nix was obliged to betake herself to her well again.
80 the death of the little hen
once upon a time the little hen went with the little cock to the nut-hill, and they agreed together that whichsoever of them found a kernel of a nut should share it with the other.
then the hen found a large, large nut, but said nothing about it, intending to eat the kernel herself.
the kernel, however, was so large that she could not swallow it, and it remained sticking in her throat, so that she was alarmed lest she should be choked.
then she cried, “cock, i entreat thee to run as fast thou canst, and fetch me some water, or i shall choke.” the little cock did run as fast as he could to the spring, and said, “stream, thou art to give me some water; the little hen is lying on the nut-hill, and she has swallowed a large nut, and is choking.”
the well answered, “first run to the bride, and get her to give thee some red silk.” the little cock ran to the bride and said, “bride, you are to give me some red silk; i want to give red silk to the well, the well is to give me some water, i am to take the water to the little hen who is lying on the nut-hill and has swallowed a great nut-kernel, and is choking with it.” the bride answered, “first run and bring me my little wreath which is hanging to a willow.” so the little cock ran to the willow, and drew the wreath from the branch and took it to the bride, and the bride gave him some water for it.
then the little cock took the water to the hen, but when he got there the hen had choked in the meantime, and lay there dead and motionless.
then the cock was so distressed that he cried aloud, and every animal came to lament the little hen, and six mice built a little carriage to carry her to her grave, and when the carriage was ready they harnessed themselves to it, and the cock drove.
on the way, however, they met the fox, who said, “where art thou going, little cock?” “i am going to bury my little hen.” “may i drive with thee?” “yes, but seat thyself at the back of the carriage, for in the front my little horses could not drag thee.”
then the fox seated himself at the back, and after that the wolf, the bear, the stag, the lion, and all the beasts of the forest did the same.
then the procession went onwards, and they reached the stream.
“how are we to get over?” said the little cock.
a straw was lying by the stream, and it said, “i will lay myself across, and you shall drive over me.” but when the six mice came to the bridge, the straw slipped and fell into the water, and the six mice all fell in and were drowned.
then they were again in difficulty, and a coal came and said, “i am large enough, i will lay myself across and you shall drive over me.” so the coal also laid itself across the water, but unhappily just touched it, on which the coal hissed, was extinguished and died.
when a stone saw that, it took pity on the little cock, wished to help him, and laid itself over the water.
then the cock drew the carriage himself, but when he got it over and reached the other shore with the dead hen, and was about to draw over the others who were sitting behind as well, there were too many of them, the carriage ran back, and they all fell into the water together, and were drowned.
then the little cock was left alone with the dead hen, and dug a grave for her and laid her in it, and made a mound above it, on which he sat down and fretted until he died too, and then every one was dead.
81 brother lustig
there was one on a time a great war, and when it came to an end, many soldiers were discharged.
then brother lustig also received his dismissal, and besides that, nothing but a small loaf of contract-bread, and four kreuzers in money, with which he departed.
st.
peter had, however, placed himself in his way in the shape of a poor beggar, and when brother lustig came up, he begged alms of him.
brother lustig replied, “dear beggar-man, what am i to give you?
i have been a soldier, and have received my dismissal, and have nothing but this little loaf of contract-bread, and four kreuzers of money; when that is gone, i shall have to beg as well as you.
still i will give you something.” thereupon he divided the loaf into four parts, and gave the apostle one of them, and a kreuzer likewise.
st. peter thanked him, went onwards, and threw himself again in the soldier’s way as a beggar, but in another shape; and when he came up begged a gift of him as before.
brother lustig spoke as he had done before, and again gave him a quarter of the loaf and one kreuzer.
st. peter thanked him, and went onwards, but for the third time placed himself in another shape as a beggar on the road, and spoke to brother lustig.
brother lustig gave him also the third quarter of bread and the third kreuzer.
st. peter thanked him, and brother lustig went onwards, and had but a quarter of the loaf, and one kreuzer.
with that he went into an inn, ate the bread, and ordered one kreuzer’s worth of beer.
when he had had it, he journeyed onwards, and then st. peter, who had assumed the appearance of a discharged soldier, met and spoke to him thus: “good day, comrade, canst thou not give me a bit of bread, and a kreuzer to get a drink?”
“where am i to procure it?” answered brother lustig; “i have been discharged, and i got nothing but a loaf of ammunition-bread and four kreuzers in money.
i met three beggars on the road, and i gave each of them a quarter of my bread, and one kreuzer.
the last quarter i ate in the inn, and had a drink with the last kreuzer.
now my pockets are empty, and if thou also hast nothing we can go a-begging together.”
“no,” answered st. peter, “we need not quite do that.
i know a little about medicine, and i will soon earn as much as i require by that.”
“indeed,” said brother lustig, “i know nothing of that, so i must go and beg alone.” “just come with me,” said st. peter, “and if i earn anything, thou shalt have half of it.” “all right,” said brother lustig, so they went away together.
then they came to a peasant’s house inside which they heard loud lamentations and cries; so they went in, and there the husband was lying sick unto death, and very near his end, and his wife was crying and weeping quite loudly.
“stop that howling and crying,” said st.
peter, “i will make the man well again,” and he took a salve out of his pocket, and healed the sick man in a moment, so that he could get up, and was in perfect health.
in great delight the man and his wife said, “how can we reward you?
what shall we give you?” but st. peter would take nothing, and the more the peasant folks offered him, the more he refused.
brother lustig, however, nudged st. peter, and said, “take something; sure enough we are in need of it.” at length the woman brought a lamb and said to st. peter that he really must take that, but he would not.
then brother lustig gave him a poke in the side, and said, “do take it, you stupid fool; we are in great want of it!” then st. peter said at last, “well, i will take the lamb, but i won’t carry it; if thou wilt insist on having it, thou must carry it.” “that is nothing,” said brother lustig.
“i will easily carry it,” and took it on his shoulder.
then they departed and came to a wood, but brother lustig had begun to feel the lamb heavy, and he was hungry, so he said to st.
peter, “look, that’s a good place, we might cook the lamb there, and eat it.” “as you like,” answered st. peter, “but i can’t have anything to do with the cooking; if thou wilt cook, there is a kettle for thee, and in the meantime i will walk about a little until it is ready.
thou must, however, not begin to eat until i have come back, i will come at the right time.” “well, go, then,” said brother lustig, “i understand cookery, i will manage it.” then st. peter went away, and brother lustig killed the lamb, lighted a fire, threw the meat into the kettle, and boiled it.
the lamb was, however, quite ready, and the apostle peter had not come back, so brother lustig took it out of the kettle, cut it up, and found the heart.
“that is said to be the best part,”
said he, and tasted it, but at last he ate it all up.
at length st.
peter returned and said, “thou mayst eat the whole of the lamb thyself, i will only have the heart, give me that.” then brother lustig took a knife and fork, and pretended to look anxiously about amongst the lamb’s flesh, but not to be able to find the heart, and at last he said abruptly, “there is none here.” “but where can it be?” said the apostle.
“i don’t know,” replied brother lustig, “but look, what fools we both are, to seek for the lamb’s heart, and neither of us to remember that a lamb has no heart!” “oh,” said st. peter, “that is something quite new!
every animal has a heart, why is a lamb to have none?” “no, be assured, my brother,” said brother lustig, “that a lamb has no heart; just consider it seriously, and then you will see that it really has none.” “well, it is all right,” said st. peter, “if there is no heart, then i want none of the lamb; thou mayst eat it alone.” “what i can’t eat now, i will carry away in my knapsack,” said brother lustig, and he ate half the lamb, and put the rest in his knapsack.
they went farther, and then st. peter caused a great stream of water to flow right across their path, and they were obliged to pass through it.
said st. peter, “do thou go first.” “no,” answered brother lustig, “thou must go first,” and he thought, “if the water is too deep i will stay behind.” then st. peter strode through it, and the water just reached to his knee.
so brother lustig began to go through also, but the water grew deeper and reached to his throat.
then he cried, “brother, help me!” st. peter said, “then wilt thou confess that thou hast eaten the lamb’s heart?” “no,” said he, “i have not eaten it.”
then the water grew deeper still and rose to his mouth.
“help me, brother,” cried the soldier.
st. peter said, “then wilt thou confess that thou hast eaten the lamb’s heart?” “no,” he replied, “i have not eaten it.” st. peter, however, would not let him be drowned, but made the water sink and helped him through it.
then they journeyed onwards, and came to a kingdom where they heard that the king’s daughter lay sick unto death.
“hollo, brother!” said the soldier to st. peter, “this is a chance for us; if we can heal her we shall be provided for, for life!” but st. peter was not half quick enough for him, “come, lift your legs, my dear brother,” said he, “that we may get there in time.” but st. peter walked slower and slower, though brother lustig did all he could to drive and push him on, and at last they heard that the princess was dead.
“now we are done for!” said brother lustig; “that comes of thy sleepy way of walking!” “just be quiet,” answered st. peter, “i can do more than cure sick people; i can bring dead ones to life again.” “well, if thou canst do that,” said brother lustig, “it’s all right, but thou shouldst earn at least half the kingdom for us by that.” then they went to the royal palace, where every one was in great grief, but st. peter told the king that he would restore his daughter to life.
he was taken to her, and said, “bring me a kettle and some water,” and when that was brought, he bade everyone go out, and allowed no one to remain with him but brother lustig.
then he cut off all the dead girl’s limbs, and threw them in the water, lighted a fire beneath the kettle, and boiled them.
and when the flesh had fallen away from the bones, he took out the beautiful white bones, and laid them on a table, and arranged them together in their natural order.
when he had done that, he stepped forward and said three times, “in the name of the holy trinity, dead woman, arise.” and at the third time, the princess arose, living, healthy and beautiful.
then the king was in the greatest joy, and said to st. peter, “ask for thy reward; even if it were half my kingdom, i would give it thee.” but st. peter said, “i want nothing for it.” “oh, thou tomfool!” thought brother lustig to himself, and nudged his comrade’s side, and said, “don’t be so stupid!
if thou hast no need of anything, i have.” st. peter, however, would have nothing, but as the king saw that the other would very much like to have something, he ordered his treasurer to fill brother lustig’s knapsack with gold.
then they went on their way, and when they came to a forest, st. peter said to brother lustig, “now, we will divide the gold.” “yes,” he replied, “we will.” so st. peter divided the gold, and divided it into three heaps.
brother lustig thought to himself, “what craze has he got in his head now?
he is making three shares, and there are only two of us!” but st. peter said, “i have divided it exactly; there is one share for me, one for thee, and one for him who ate the lamb’s heart.”
“oh, i ate that!” replied brother lustig, and hastily swept up the gold.
“you may trust what i say.” “but how can that be true,” said st.
peter, “when a lamb has no heart?” “eh, what, brother, what can you be thinking of?
lambs have hearts like other animals, why should only they have none?” “well, so be it,” said st. peter, “keep the gold to yourself, but i will stay with you no longer; i will go my way alone.”
“as you like, dear brother,” answered brother lustig.
“farewell.”
then st. peter went a different road, but brother lustig thought, “it is a good thing that he has taken himself off, he is certainly a strange saint, after all.” then he had money enough, but did not know how to manage it, squandered it, gave it away, and and when some time had gone by, once more had nothing.
then he arrived in a certain country where he heard that a king’s daughter was dead.
“oh, ho!”
thought he, “that may be a good thing for me; i will bring her to life again, and see that i am paid as i ought to be.” so he went to the king, and offered to raise the dead girl to life again.
now the king had heard that a discharged soldier was traveling about and bringing dead persons to life again, and thought that brother lustig was the man; but as he had no confidence in him, he consulted his councillors first, who said that he might give it a trial as his daughter was dead.
then brother lustig ordered water to be brought to him in a kettle, bade every one go out, cut the limbs off, threw them in the water and lighted a fire beneath, just as he had seen st. peter do.
the water began to boil, the flesh fell off, and then he took the bones out and laid them on the table, but he did not know the order in which to lay them, and placed them all wrong and in confusion.
then he stood before them and said, “in the name of the most holy trinity, dead maiden, i bid thee arise,” and he said this thrice, but the bones did not stir.
so he said it thrice more, but also in vain: “confounded girl that you are, get up!” cried he, “get up, or it shall be worse for you!” when he had said that, st. peter suddenly appeared in his former shape as a discharged soldier; he entered by the window and said, “godless man, what art thou doing?
how can the dead maiden arise, when thou hast thrown about her bones in such confusion?” “dear brother, i have done everything to the best of my ability,” he answered.
“this once, i will help thee out of thy difficulty, but one thing i tell thee, and that is that if ever thou undertakest anything of the kind again, it will be the worse for thee, and also that thou must neither demand nor accept the smallest thing from the king for this!” thereupon st. peter laid the bones in their right order, said to the maiden three times, “in the name of the most holy trinity, dead maiden, arise,” and the king’s daughter arose, healthy and beautiful as before.
then st. peter went away again by the window, and brother lustig was rejoiced to find that all had passed off so well, but was very much vexed to think that after all he was not to take anything for it.
“i should just like to know,”
thought he, “what fancy that fellow has got in his head, for what he gives with one hand he takes away with the other there is no sense whatever in it!” then the king offered brother lustig whatsoever he wished to have, but he did not dare to take anything; however, by hints and cunning, he contrived to make the king order his knapsack to be filled with gold for him, and with that he departed.
when he got out, st. peter was standing by the door, and said, “just look what a man thou art; did i not forbid thee to take anything, and there thou hast thy knapsack full of gold!” “how can i help that,” answered brother lustig, “if people will put it in for me?” “well, i tell thee this, that if ever thou settest about anything of this kind again thou shalt suffer for it!” “eh, brother, have no fear, now i have money, why should i trouble myself with washing bones?” “faith,” said st. peter, “the gold will last a long time!
in order that after this thou mayst never tread in forbidden paths, i will bestow on thy knapsack this property, namely, that whatsoever thou wishest to have inside it, shall be there.
farewell, thou wilt now never see me more.” “good-bye,” said brother lustig, and thought to himself, “i am very glad that thou hast taken thyself off, thou strange fellow; i shall certainly not follow thee.” but of the magical power which had been bestowed on his knapsack, he thought no more.
brother lustig travelled about with his money, and squandered and wasted what he had as before.
when at last he had no more than four kreuzers, he passed by an inn and thought, “the money must go,” and ordered three kreuzers’ worth of wine and one kreuzer’s worth of bread for himself.
as he was sitting there drinking, the smell of roast goose made its way to his nose.
brother lustig looked about and peeped, and saw that the host had two geese standing in the oven.
then he remembered that his comrade had said that whatsoever he wished to have in his knapsack should be there, so he said, “oh, ho!
i must try that with the geese.” so he went out, and when he was outside the door, he said, “i wish those two roasted geese out of the oven and in my knapsack,” and when he had said that, he unbuckled it and looked in, and there they were inside it.
“ah, that’s right!” said he, “now i am a made man!” and went away to a meadow and took out the roast meat.
when he was in the midst of his meal, two journeymen came up and looked at the second goose, which was not yet touched, with hungry eyes.
brother lustig thought to himself, “one is enough for me,” and called the two men up and said, “take the goose, and eat it to my health.” they thanked him, and went with it to the inn, ordered themselves a half bottle of wine and a loaf, took out the goose which had been given them, and began to eat.
the hostess saw them and said to her husband, “those two are eating a goose; just look and see if it is not one of ours, out of the oven.” the landlord ran thither, and behold the oven was empty!
“what!” cried he, “you thievish crew, you want to eat goose as cheap as that?
pay for it this moment; or i will wash you well with green hazel-sap.” the two said, “we are no thieves, a discharged soldier gave us the goose, outside there in the meadow.” “you shall not throw dust in my eyes that way!
the soldier was here but he went out by the door, like an honest fellow.
i looked after him myself; you are the thieves and shall pay!” but as they could not pay, he took a stick, and cudgeled them out of the house.
brother lustig went his way and came to a place where there was a magnificent castle, and not far from it a wretched inn.
he went to the inn and asked for a night’s lodging, but the landlord turned him away, and said, “there is no more room here, the house is full of noble guests.” “it surprises me that they should come to you and not go to that splendid castle,” said brother lustig.
“ah, indeed,” replied the host, “but it is no slight matter to sleep there for a night; no one who has tried it so far, has ever come out of it alive.”
“if others have tried it,” said brother lustig, “i will try it too.”
“leave it alone,” said the host, “it will cost you your neck.” “it won’t kill me at once,” said brother lustig, “just give me the key, and some good food and wine.” so the host gave him the key, and food and wine, and with this brother lustig went into the castle, enjoyed his supper, and at length, as he was sleepy, he lay down on the ground, for there was no bed.
he soon fell asleep, but during the night was disturbed by a great noise, and when he awoke, he saw nine ugly devils in the room, who had made a circle, and were dancing around him.
brother lustig said, “well, dance as long as you like, but none of you must come too close.” but the devils pressed continually nearer to him, and almost stepped on his face with their hideous feet.
“stop, you devils’ ghosts,” said he, but they behaved still worse.
then brother lustig grew angry, and cried, “hola!
but i will soon make it quiet,”
and got the leg of a chair and struck out into the midst of them with it.
but nine devils against one soldier were still too many, and when he struck those in front of him, the others seized him behind by the hair, and tore it unmercifully.
“devils’ crew,” cried he, “it is getting too bad, but wait.
into my knapsack, all nine of you!” in an instant they were in it, and then he buckled it up and threw it into a corner.
after this all was suddenly quiet, and brother lustig lay down again, and slept till it was bright day.
then came the inn-keeper, and the nobleman to whom the castle belonged, to see how he had fared; but when they perceived that he was merry and well they were astonished, and asked, “have the spirits done you no harm, then?” “the reason why they have not,” answered brother lustig, “is because i have got the whole nine of them in my knapsack!
you may once more inhabit your castle quite tranquilly, none of them will ever haunt it again.” the nobleman thanked him, made him rich presents, and begged him to remain in his service, and he would provide for him as long as he lived.
“no,”
replied brother lustig, “i am used to wandering about, i will travel farther.” then he went away, and entered into a smithy, laid the knapsack, which contained the nine devils on the anvil, and asked the smith and his apprentices to strike it.
so they smote with their great hammers with all their strength, and the devils uttered howls which were quite pitiable.
when he opened the knapsack after this, eight of them were dead, but one which had been lying in a fold of it, was still alive, slipped out, and went back again to hell.
thereupon brother lustig travelled a long time about the world, and those who know them can tell many a story about him, but at last he grew old, and thought of his end, so he went to a hermit who was known to be a pious man, and said to him, “i am tired of wandering about, and want now to behave in such a manner that i shall enter into the kingdom of heaven.” the hermit replied, “there are two roads, one is broad and pleasant, and leads to hell, the other is narrow and rough, and leads to heaven.” “i should be a fool,” thought brother lustig, “if i were to take the narrow, rough road.” so he set out and took the broad and pleasant road, and at length came to a great black door, which was the door of hell.
brother lustig knocked, and the door-keeper peeped out to see who was there.
but when he saw brother lustig, he was terrified, for he was the very same ninth devil who had been shut up in the knapsack, and had escaped from it with a black eye.
so he pushed the bolt in again as quickly as he could, ran to the devil’s lieutenant, and said, “there is a fellow outside with a knapsack, who wants to come in, but as you value your lives don’t allow him to enter, or he will wish the whole of hell into his knapsack.
he once gave me a frightful hammering when i was inside it.” so they called out to brother lustig that he was to go away again, for he should not get in there!
“if they won’t have me here,” thought he, “i will see if i can find a place for myself in heaven, for i must be somewhere.” so he turned about and went onwards until he came to the door of heaven, where he knocked.
st. peter was sitting hard by as door-keeper.
brother lustig recognised him at once, and thought, “here i find an old friend, i shall get on better.” but st. peter said, “i really believe that thou wantest to come into heaven.” “let me in, brother; i must get in somewhere; if they would have taken me into hell, i should not have come here.” “no,” said st.
peter, “thou shalt not enter.” “then if thou wilt not let me in, take thy knapsack back, for i will have nothing at all from thee.” “give it here, then,” said st. peter.
then brother lustig gave him the knapsack into heaven through the bars, and st. peter took it, and hung it beside his seat.
then said brother lustig, “and now i wish myself inside my knapsack,” and in a second he was in it, and in heaven, and st. peter was forced to let him stay there.
82 gambling hansel
once upon a time there was a man who did nothing but gamble, and for that reason people never called him anything but gambling hansel, and as he never ceased to gamble, he played away his house and all that he had.
now the very day before his creditors were to take his house from him, came the lord and st. peter, and asked him to give them shelter for the night.
then gambling hansel said, “for my part, you may stay the night, but i cannot give you a bed or anything to eat.” so the lord said he was just to take them in, and they themselves would buy something to eat, to which gambling hansel made no objection.
thereupon st. peter gave him three groschen, and said he was to go to the baker’s and fetch some bread.
so gambling hansel went, but when he reached the house where the other gambling vagabonds were gathered together, they, although they had won all that he had, greeted him clamorously, and said, “hansel, do come in.” “oh,” said he, “do you want to win the three groschen too?” on this they would not let him go.
so he went in, and played away the three groschen also.
meanwhile st. peter and the lord were waiting, and as he was so long in coming, they set out to meet him.
when gambling hansel came, however, he pretended that the money had fallen into the gutter, and kept raking about in it all the while to find it, but our lord already knew that he had lost it in play.
st. peter again gave him three groschen, and now he did not allow himself to be led away once more, but fetched them the loaf.
our lord then inquired if he had no wine, and he said, “alack, sir, the casks are all empty!” but the lord said he was to go down into the cellar, for the best wine was still there.
for a long time he would not believe this, but at length he said, “well, i will go down, but i know that there is none there.” when he turned the tap, however, lo and behold, the best of wine ran out!
so he took it to them, and the two passed the night there.
early next day our lord told gambling hansel that he might beg three favours.
the lord expected that he would ask to go to heaven; but gambling hansel asked for a pack of cards with which he could win everything, for dice with which he would win everything, and for a tree whereon every kind of fruit would grow, and from which no one who had climbed up, could descend until he bade him do so.
the lord gave him all that he had asked, and departed with st. peter.
and now gambling hansel at once set about gambling in real earnest, and before long he had gained half the world.
upon this st. peter said to the lord, “lord, this thing must not go on, he will win, and thou lose, the whole world.
we must send death to him.” when death appeared, gambling hansel had just seated himself at the gaming-table, and death said, “hansel, come out a while.” but gambling hansel said, “just wait a little until the game is done, and in the meantime get up into that tree out there, and gather a little fruit that we may have something to munch on our way.” thereupon death climbed up, but when he wanted to come down again, he could not, and gambling hansel left him up there for seven years, during which time no one died.
so st. peter said to the lord, “lord, this thing must not go on.
people no longer die; we must go ourselves.” and they went themselves, and the lord commanded hansel to let death come down.
so hansel went at once to death and said to him, “come down,” and death took him directly and put an end to him.
they went away together and came to the next world, and then gambling hansel made straight for the door of heaven, and knocked at it.
“who is there?” “gambling hansel.” “ah, we will have nothing to do with him!
begone!” so he went to the door of purgatory, and knocked once more.
“who is there?” “gambling hansel.” “ah, there is quite enough weeping and wailing here without him.
we do not want to gamble, just go away again.” then he went to the door of hell, and there they let him in.
there was, however, no one at home but old lucifer and the crooked devils who had just been doing their evil work in the world.
and no sooner was hansel there than he sat down to gamble again.
lucifer, however, had nothing to lose, but his mis-shapen devils, and gambling hansel won them from him, as with his cards he could not fail to do.
and now he was off again with his crooked devils, and they went to hohenfuert and pulled up a hop-pole, and with it went to heaven and began to thrust the pole against it, and heaven began to crack.
so again st. peter said, “lord, this thing cannot go on, we must let him in, or he will throw us down from heaven.” and they let him in.
but gambling hansel instantly began to play again, and there was such a noise and confusion that there was no hearing what they themselves were saying.
therefore st. peter once more said, “lord, this cannot go on, we must throw him down, or he will make all heaven rebellious.” so they went to him at once, and threw him down, and his soul broke into fragments, and went into the gambling vagabonds who are living this very day.
83 hans in luck
hans had served his master for seven years, so he said to him, “master, my time is up; now i should be glad to go back home to my mother; give me my wages.” the master answered, “you have served me faithfully and honestly; as the service was so shall the reward be;” and he gave hans a piece of gold as big as his head.
hans pulled his handkerchief out of his pocket, wrapped up the lump in it, put it on his shoulder, and set out on the way home.
as he went on, always putting one foot before the other, he saw a horseman trotting quickly and merrily by on a lively horse.
“ah!” said hans quite loud, “what a fine thing it is to ride!
there you sit as on a chair; you stumble over no stones, you save your shoes, and get on, you don’t know how.”
the rider, who had heard him, stopped and called out, “hollo!
hans, why do you go on foot, then?”
“i must,” answered he, “for i have this lump to carry home; it is true that it is gold, but i cannot hold my head straight for it, and it hurts my shoulder.”
“i will tell you what,” said the rider, “we will exchange: i will give you my horse, and you can give me your lump.”
“with all my heart,” said hans, “but i can tell you, you will have to crawl along with it.”
the rider got down, took the gold, and helped hans up; then gave him the bridle tight in his hands and said, “if you want to go at a really good pace, you must click your tongue and call out, “jup!
jup!”
hans was heartily delighted as he sat upon the horse and rode away so bold and free.
after a little while he thought that it ought to go faster, and he began to click with his tongue and call out, “jup!
jup!”
the horse put himself into a sharp trot, and before hans knew where he was, he was thrown off and lying in a ditch which separated the field from the highway.
the horse would have gone off too if it had not been stopped by a countryman, who was coming along the road and driving a cow before him.
hans got his limbs together and stood up on his legs again, but he was vexed, and said to the countryman, “it is a poor joke, this riding, especially when one gets hold of a mare like this, that kicks and throws one off, so that one has a chance of breaking one’s neck.
never again will i mount it.
now i like your cow, for one can walk quietly behind her, and have, over and above, one’s milk, butter and cheese every day without fail.
what would i not give to have such a cow.”
“well,” said the countryman, “if it would give you so much pleasure, i do not mind giving the cow for the horse.” hans agreed with the greatest delight; the countryman jumped upon the horse, and rode quickly away.
hans drove his cow quietly before him, and thought over his lucky bargain.
“if only i have a morsel of bread—and that can hardly fail me—i can eat butter and cheese with it as often as i like; if i am thirsty, i can milk my cow and drink the milk.
good heart, what more can i want?”
when he came to an inn he made a halt, and in his great content ate up what he had with him—his dinner and supper—and all he had, and with his last few farthings had half a glass of beer.
then he drove his cow onwards along the road to his mother’s village.
as it drew nearer mid-day, the heat was more oppressive, and hans found himself upon a moor which it took about an hour to cross.
he felt it very hot and his tongue clave to the roof of his mouth with thirst.
“i can find a cure for this,” thought hans; “i will milk the cow now and refresh myself with the milk.” he tied her to a withered tree, and as he had no pail he put his leather cap underneath; but try as he would, not a drop of milk came.
and as he set himself to work in a clumsy way, the impatient beast at last gave him such a blow on his head with its hind foot, that he fell on the ground, and for a long time could not think where he was.
by good fortune a butcher just then came along the road with a wheel-barrow, in which lay a young pig.
“what sort of a trick is this?”
cried he, and helped the good hans up.
hans told him what had happened.
the butcher gave him his flask and said, “take a drink and refresh yourself.
the cow will certainly give no milk, it is an old beast; at the best it is only fit for the plough, or for the butcher.” “well, well,” said hans, as he stroked his hair down on his head, “who would have thought it?
certainly it is a fine thing when one can kill a beast like that at home; what meat one has!
but i do not care much for beef, it is not juicy enough for me.
a young pig like that now is the thing to have, it tastes quite different; and then there are the sausages!”
“hark ye, hans,” said the butcher, “out of love for you i will exchange, and will let you have the pig for the cow.” “heaven repay you for your kindness!” said hans as he gave up the cow, whilst the pig was unbound from the barrow, and the cord by which it was tied was put in his hand.
hans went on, and thought to himself how everything was going just as he wished; if he did meet with any vexation it was immediately set right.
presently there joined him a lad who was carrying a fine white goose under his arm.
they said good morning to each other, and hans began to tell of his good luck, and how he had always made such good bargains.
the boy told him that he was taking the goose to a christening-feast.
“just lift her,” added he, and laid hold of her by the wings; “how heavy she is—she has been fattened up for the last eight weeks.
whoever has a bit of her when she is roasted will have to wipe the fat from both sides of his mouth.” “yes,” said hans, as he weighed her in one hand, “she is a good weight, but my pig is no bad one.”
meanwhile the lad looked suspiciously from one side to the other, and shook his head.
“look here,” he said at length, “it may not be all right with your pig.
in the village through which i passed, the mayor himself had just had one stolen out of its sty.
i fear—i fear that you have got hold of it there.
they have sent out some people and it would be a bad business if they caught you with the pig; at the very least, you would be shut up in the dark hole.”
the good hans was terrified.
“goodness!” he said, “help me out of this fix; you know more about this place than i do, take my pig and leave me your goose.” “i shall risk something at that game,” answered the lad, “but i will not be the cause of your getting into trouble.” so he took the cord in his hand, and drove away the pig quickly along a by-path.
the good hans, free from care, went homewards with the goose under his arm.
“when i think over it properly,” said he to himself, “i have even gained by the exchange; first there is the good roast-meat, then the quantity of fat which will drip from it, and which will give me dripping for my bread for a quarter of a year, and lastly the beautiful white feathers; i will have my pillow stuffed with them, and then indeed i shall go to sleep without rocking.
how glad my mother will be!”
as he was going through the last village, there stood a scissors-grinder with his barrow; as his wheel whirred he sang—
“i sharpen scissors and quickly grind, my coat blows out in the wind behind.”
hans stood still and looked at him; at last he spoke to him and said, “all’s well with you, as you are so merry with your grinding.” “yes,”
answered the scissors-grinder, “the trade has a golden foundation.
a real grinder is a man who as often as he puts his hand into his pocket finds gold in it.
but where did you buy that fine goose?”
“i did not buy it, but exchanged my pig for it.”
“and the pig?”
“that i got for a cow.”
“and the cow?”
“i took that instead of a horse.”
“and the horse?”
“for that i gave a lump of gold as big as my head.”
“and the gold?”
“well, that was my wages for seven years’ service.”
“you have known how to look after yourself each time,” said the grinder.
“if you can only get on so far as to hear the money jingle in your pocket whenever you stand up, you will have made your fortune.”
“how shall i manage that?” said hans.
“you must be a grinder, as i am; nothing particular is wanted for it but a grindstone, the rest finds itself.
i have one here; it is certainly a little worn, but you need not give me anything for it but your goose; will you do it?”
“how can you ask?” answered hans.
“i shall be the luckiest fellow on earth; if i have money whenever i put my hand in my pocket, what need i trouble about any longer?” and he handed him the goose and received the grindstone in exchange.
“now,” said the grinder, as he took up an ordinary heavy stone that lay by him, “here is a strong stone for you into the bargain; you can hammer well upon it, and straighten your old nails.
take it with you and keep it carefully.”
hans loaded himself with the stones, and went on with a contented heart; his eyes shone with joy.
“i must have been born with a caul,” he cried; “everything i want happens to me just as if i were a sunday-child.”
meanwhile, as he had been on his legs since daybreak, he began to feel tired.
hunger also tormented him, for in his joy at the bargain by which he got the cow he had eaten up all his store of food at once.
at last he could only go on with great trouble, and was forced to stop every minute; the stones, too, weighed him down dreadfully.
then he could not help thinking how nice it would be if he had not to carry them just then.
he crept like a snail to a well in a field, and there he thought that he would rest and refresh himself with a cool draught of water, but in order that he might not injure the stones in sitting down, he laid them carefully by his side on the edge of the well.
then he sat down on it, and was to stoop and drink, when he made a slip, pushed against the stones, and both of them fell into the water.
when hans saw them with his own eyes sinking to the bottom, he jumped for joy, and then knelt down, and with tears in his eyes thanked god for having shown him this favour also, and delivered him in so good a way, and without his having any need to reproach himself, from those heavy stones which had been the only things that troubled him.
“there is no man under the sun so fortunate as i,” he cried out.
with a light heart and free from every burden he now ran on until he was with his mother at home.
84 hans married
there was once upon a time a young peasant named hans, whose uncle wanted to find him a rich wife.
he therefore seated hans behind the stove, and had it made very hot.
then he fetched a pot of milk and plenty of white bread, gave him a bright newly-coined farthing in his hand, and said, “hans, hold that farthing fast, crumble the white bread into the milk, and stay where you are, and do not stir from that spot till i come back.” “yes,” said hans, “i will do all that.” then the wooer put on a pair of old patched trousers, went to a rich peasant’s daughter in the next village, and said, “won’t you marry my nephew hans—you will get an honest and sensible man who will suit you?” the covetous father asked, “how is it with regard to his means?
has he bread to break?” “dear friend,” replied the wooer, “my young nephew has a snug berth, a nice bit of money in hand, and plenty of bread to break, besides he has quite as many patches as i have,” (and as he spoke, he slapped the patches on his trousers, but in that district small pieces of land were called patches also.)
“if you will give yourself the trouble to go home with me, you shall see at once that all is as i have said.” then the miser did not want to lose this good opportunity, and said, “if that is the case, i have nothing further to say against the marriage.”
so the wedding was celebrated on the appointed day, and when the young wife went out of doors to see the bridegroom’s property, hans took off his sunday coat and put on his patched smock-frock and said, “i might spoil my good coat.” then together they went out and wherever a boundary line came in sight, or fields and meadows were divided from each other, hans pointed with his finger and then slapped either a large or a small patch on his smock-frock, and said, “that patch is mine, and that too, my dearest, just look at it,” meaning thereby that his wife should not stare at the broad land, but look at his garment, which was his own.
“were you indeed at the wedding?” “yes, indeed i was there, and in full dress.
my head-dress was of snow; then the sun came out, and it was melted.
my coat was of cobwebs, and i had to pass by some thorns which tore it off me, my shoes were of glass, and i pushed against a stone and they said, “klink,” and broke in two.
85 the gold-children
there was once a poor man and a poor woman who had nothing but a little cottage, and who earned their bread by fishing, and always lived from hand to mouth.
but it came to pass one day when the man was sitting by the water-side, and casting his net, that he drew out a fish entirely of gold.
as he was looking at the fish, full of astonishment, it began to speak and said, “hark you, fisherman, if you will throw me back again into the water, i will change your little hut into a splendid castle.” then the fisherman answered, “of what use is a castle to me, if i have nothing to eat?” the gold fish continued, “that shall be taken care of, there will be a cupboard in the castle in which, when you open it, shall be dishes of the most delicate meats, and as many of them as you can desire.” “if that be true,” said the man, “then i can well do you a favour.” “yes,” said the fish, “there is, however, the condition that you shall disclose to no one in the world, whosoever he may be, whence your good luck has come, if you speak but one single word, all will be over.” then the man threw the wonderful fish back again into the water, and went home.
but where his hovel had formerly stood, now stood a great castle.
he opened wide his eyes, entered, and saw his wife dressed in beautiful clothes, sitting in a splendid room, and she was quite delighted, and said, “husband, how has all this come to pass?
it suits me very well.” “yes,” said the man, “it suits me too, but i am frightfully hungry, just give me something to eat.” said the wife, “but i have got nothing and don’t know where to find anything in this new house.” “there is no need of your knowing,” said the man, “for i see yonder a great cupboard, just unlock it.” when she opened it, there stood cakes, meat, fruit, wine, quite a bright prospect.
then the woman cried joyfully, “what more can you want, my dear?” and they sat down, and ate and drank together.
when they had had enough, the woman said, “but husband, whence come all these riches?” “alas,”
answered he, “do not question me about it, for i dare not tell you anything; if i disclose it to any one, then all our good fortune will fly.” “very good,” said she, “if i am not to know anything, then i do not want to know anything.” however, she was not in earnest; she never rested day or night, and she goaded her husband until in his impatience he revealed that all was owing to a wonderful golden fish which he had caught, and to which in return he had given its liberty.
and as soon as the secret was out, the splendid castle with the cupboard immediately disappeared, they were once more in the old fisherman’s hut, and the man was obliged to follow his former trade and fish.
but fortune would so have it, that he once more drew out the golden fish.
“listen,” said the fish, “if you will throw me back into the water again, i will once more give you the castle with the cupboard full of roast and boiled meats; only be firm, for your life’s sake don’t reveal from whom you have it, or you will lose it all again!” “i will take good care,”
answered the fisherman, and threw the fish back into the water.
now at home everything was once more in its former magnificence, and the wife was overjoyed at their good fortune, but curiosity left her no peace, so that after a couple of days she began to ask again how it had come to pass, and how he had managed to secure it.
the man kept silence for a short time, but at last she made him so angry that he broke out, and betrayed the secret.
in an instant the castle disappeared, and they were back again in their old hut.
“now you have got what you want,”
said he; “and we can gnaw at a bare bone again.” “ah,” said the woman, “i had rather not have riches if i am not to know from whom they come, for then i have no peace.”
the man went back to fish, and after a while he chanced to draw out the gold fish for a third time.
“listen,” said the fish, “i see very well that i am fated to fall into your hands, take me home and cut me into six pieces; give your wife two of them to eat, two to your horse and bury two of them in the ground, then they will bring you a blessing.”
the fisherman took the fish home with him, and did as it had bidden him.
it came to pass, however, that from the two pieces that were buried in the ground two golden lilies sprang up, that the horse had two golden foals, and the fisherman’s wife bore two children who were made entirely of gold.
the children grew up, became tall and handsome, and the lilies and horses grew likewise.
then they said, “father, we want to mount our golden steeds and travel out in the world.” but he answered sorrowfully, “how shall i bear it if you go away, and i know not how it fares with you?” then they said, “the two golden lilies remain here.
by them you can see how it is with us; if they are fresh, then we are in health; if they are withered, we are ill; if they perish, then we are dead.” so they rode forth and came to an inn, in which were many people, and when they perceived the gold-children they began to laugh, and jeer.
when one of them heard the mocking he felt ashamed and would not go out into the world, but turned back and went home again to his father.
but the other rode forward and reached a great forest.
as he was about to enter it, the people said, it is not safe for you to ride through, the wood is full of robbers who would treat you badly.
you will fare ill, and when they see that you are all of gold, and your horse likewise, they will assuredly kill you.’
but he would not allow himself to be frightened, and said, “i must and will ride through it.” then he took bear-skins and covered himself and his horse with them, so that the gold was no more to be seen, and rode fearlessly into the forest.
when he had ridden onward a little he heard a rustling in the bushes, and heard voices speaking together.
from one side came cries of, “there is one,” but from the other, “let him go, ’tis an idle fellow, as poor and bare as a church-mouse, what should we gain from him?”
so the gold-child rode joyfully through the forest, and no evil befell him.
one day he entered a village wherein he saw a maiden, who was so beautiful that he did not believe that any more beautiful than she existed in the world.
and as such a mighty love took possession of him, he went up to her and said, “i love thee with my whole heart, wilt thou be my wife?” he, too, pleased the maiden so much that she agreed and said, “yes, i will be thy wife, and be true to thee my whole life long.” then they were married, and just as they were in the greatest happiness, home came the father of the bride, and when he saw that his daughter’s wedding was being celebrated, he was astonished, and said, “where is the bridegroom?” they showed him the gold-child, who, however, still wore his bear-skins.
then the father said wrathfully, “a vagabond shall never have my daughter!” and was about to kill him.
then the bride begged as hard as she could, and said, “he is my husband, and i love him with all my heart!” until at last he allowed himself to be appeased.
nevertheless the idea never left his thoughts, so that next morning he rose early, wishing to see whether his daughter’s husband was a common ragged beggar.
but when he peeped in, he saw a magnificent golden man in the bed, and the cast-off bear-skins lying on the ground.
then he went back and thought, “what a good thing it was that i restrained my anger!
i should have committed a great crime.” but the gold-child dreamed that he rode out to hunt a splendid stag, and when he awoke in the morning, he said to his wife, “i must go out hunting.”
she was uneasy, and begged him to stay there, and said, “you might easily meet with a great misfortune,” but he answered, “i must and will go.”
thereupon he got up, and rode forth into the forest, and it was not long before a fine stag crossed his path exactly according to his dream.
he aimed and was about to shoot it, when the stag ran away.
he gave chase over hedges and ditches for the whole day without feeling tired, but in the evening the stag vanished from his sight, and when the gold-child looked round him, he was standing before a little house, wherein was a witch.
he knocked, and a little old woman came out and asked, “what are you doing so late in the midst of the great forest?”
“have you not seen a stag?” “yes,” answered she, “i know the stag well,” and thereupon a little dog which had come out of the house with her, barked at the man violently.
“wilt thou be silent, thou odious toad,” said he, “or i will shoot thee dead.” then the witch cried out in a passion, “what!
will you slay my little dog?” and immediately transformed him, so that he lay like a stone, and his bride awaited him in vain and thought, “that which i so greatly dreaded, which lay so heavily on my heart, has come upon him!” but at home the other brother was standing by the gold-lilies, when one of them suddenly drooped.
“good heavens!” said he, “my brother has met with some great misfortune!
i must away to see if i can possibly rescue him.” then the father said, “stay here, if i lose you also, what shall i do?” but he answered, “i must and will go forth!”
then he mounted his golden horse, and rode forth and entered the great forest, where his brother lay turned to stone.
the old witch came out of her house and called him, wishing to entrap him also, but he did not go near her, and said, “i will shoot you, if you will not bring my brother to life again.” she touched the stone, though very unwillingly, with her forefinger, and he was immediately restored to his human shape.
but the two gold-children rejoiced when they saw each other again, kissed and caressed each other, and rode away together out of the forest, the one home to his bride, and the other to his father.
the father then said, “i knew well that you had rescued your brother, for the golden lily suddenly rose up and blossomed out again.” then they lived happily, and all prospered with them until their death.
86 the fox and the geese
the fox once came to a meadow in which was a flock of fine fat geese, on which he smiled and said, “i come in the nick of time, you are sitting together quite beautifully, so that i can eat you up one after the other.” the geese cackled with terror, sprang up, and began to wail and beg piteously for their lives.
but the fox would listen to nothing, and said, “there is no mercy to be had!
you must die.” at length one of them took heart and said, “if we poor geese are to yield up our vigorous young lives, show us the only possible favour and allow us one more prayer, that we may not die in our sins, and then we will place ourselves in a row, so that you can always pick yourself out the fattest.” “yes,” said the fox, “that is reasonable, and a pious request.
pray away, i will wait till you are done.” then the first began a good long prayer, for ever saying, “ga!
ga!” and as she would make no end, the second did not wait until her turn came, but began also, “ga!
ga!” the third and fourth followed her, and soon they were all cackling together.
when they have done praying, the story shall be continued further, but at present they are still praying without stopping.”
87 the poor man and the rich man
in olden times, when the lord himself still used to walk about on this earth amongst men, it once happened that he was tired and overtaken by the darkness before he could reach an inn.
now there stood on the road before him two houses facing each other; the one large and beautiful, the other small and poor.
the large one belonged to a rich man, and the small one to a poor man.
then the lord thought, “i shall be no burden to the rich man, i will stay the night with him.” when the rich man heard some one knocking at his door, he opened the window and asked the stranger what he wanted.
the lord answered, “i only ask for a night’s lodging.”
then the rich man looked at the traveler from head to foot, and as the lord was wearing common clothes, and did not look like one who had much money in his pocket, he shook his head, and said, “no, i cannot take you in, my rooms are full of herbs and seeds; and if i were to lodge everyone who knocked at my door, i might very soon go begging myself.
go somewhere else for a lodging,” and with this he shut down the window and left the lord standing there.
so the lord turned his back on the rich man, and went across to the small house and knocked.
he had hardly done so when the poor man opened the little door and bade the traveler come in.
“pass the night with me, it is already dark,” said he; “you cannot go any further to-night.”
this pleased the lord, and he went in.
the poor man’s wife shook hands with him, and welcomed him, and said he was to make himself at home and put up with what they had got; they had not much to offer him, but what they had they would give him with all their hearts.
then she put the potatoes on the fire, and while they were boiling, she milked the goat, that they might have a little milk with them.
when the cloth was laid, the lord sat down with the man and his wife, and he enjoyed their coarse food, for there were happy faces at the table.
when they had had supper and it was bed-time, the woman called her husband apart and said, “hark you, dear husband, let us make up a bed of straw for ourselves to-night, and then the poor traveler can sleep in our bed and have a good rest, for he has been walking the whole day through, and that makes one weary.” “with all my heart,” he answered, “i will go and offer it to him;” and he went to the stranger and invited him, if he had no objection, to sleep in their bed and rest his limbs properly.
but the lord was unwilling to take their bed from the two old folks; however, they would not be satisfied, until at length he did it and lay down in their bed, while they themselves lay on some straw on the ground.
next morning they got up before daybreak, and made as good a breakfast as they could for the guest.
when the sun shone in through the little window, and the lord had got up, he again ate with them, and then prepared to set out on his journey.
but as he was standing at the door he turned round and said, “as you are so kind and good, you may wish three things for yourselves and i will grant them.” then the man said, “what else should i wish for but eternal happiness, and that we two, as long as we live, may be healthy and have every day our daily bread; for the third wish, i do not know what to have.” and the lord said to him, “will you wish for a new house instead of this old one?” “oh, yes,” said the man; “if i can have that, too, i should like it very much.” and the lord fulfilled his wish, and changed their old house into a new one, again gave them his blessing, and went on.
the sun was high when the rich man got up and leaned out of his window and saw, on the opposite side of the way, a new clean-looking house with red tiles and bright windows where the old hut used to be.
he was very much astonished, and called his wife and said to her, “tell me, what can have happened?
last night there was a miserable little hut standing there, and to-day there is a beautiful new house.
run over and see how that has come to pass.”
so his wife went and asked the poor man, and he said to her, “yesterday evening a traveler came here and asked for a night’s lodging, and this morning when he took leave of us he granted us three wishes—eternal happiness, health during this life and our daily bread as well, and besides this, a beautiful new house instead of our old hut.”
when the rich man’s wife heard this, she ran back in haste and told her husband how it had happened.
the man said, “i could tear myself to pieces!
if i had but known that!
that traveler came to our house too, and wanted to sleep here, and i sent him away.” “quick!” said his wife, “get on your horse.
you can still catch the man up, and then you must ask to have three wishes granted to you.”
the rich man followed the good counsel and galloped away on his horse, and soon came up with the lord.
he spoke to him softly and pleasantly, and begged him not to take it amiss that he had not let him in directly; he was looking for the front-door key, and in the meantime the stranger had gone away, if he returned the same way he must come and stay with him.
“yes,” said the lord; “if i ever come back again, i will do so.” then the rich man asked if might not wish for three things too, as his neighbor had done?
“yes,” said the lord, he might, but it would not be to his advantage, and he had better not wish for anything; but the rich man thought that he could easily ask for something which would add to his happiness, if he only knew that it would be granted.
so the lord said to him, “ride home, then, and three wishes which you shall form, shall be fulfilled.”
the rich man had now gained what he wanted, so he rode home, and began to consider what he should wish for.
as he was thus thinking he let the bridle fall, and the horse began to caper about, so that he was continually disturbed in his meditations, and could not collect his thoughts at all.
he patted its neck, and said, “gently, lisa,” but the horse only began new tricks.
then at last he was angry, and cried quite impatiently, “i wish your neck was broken!” directly he had said the words, down the horse fell on the ground, and there it lay dead and never moved again.
and thus was his first wish fulfilled.
as he was miserly by nature, he did not like to leave the harness lying there; so he cut it off, and put it on his back; and now he had to go on foot.
“i have still two wishes left,” said he, and comforted himself with that thought.
and now as he was walking slowly through the sand, and the sun was burning hot at noon-day, he grew quite hot-tempered and angry.
the saddle hurt his back, and he had not yet any idea what to wish for.
“if i were to wish for all the riches and treasures in the world,” said he to himself, “i should still to think of all kinds of other things later on, i know that, beforehand.
but i will manage so that there is nothing at all left me to wish for afterwards.” then he sighed and said, “ah, if i were but that bavarian peasant, who likewise had three wishes granted to him, and knew quite well what to do, and in the first place wished for a great deal of beer, and in the second for as much beer as he was able to drink, and in the third for a barrel of beer into the bargain.”
many a time he thought he had found it, but then it seemed to him to be, after all, too little.
then it came into his mind, what an easy life his wife had, for she stayed at home in a cool room and enjoyed herself.
this really did vex him, and before he was aware, he said, “i just wish she was sitting there on this saddle, and could not get off it, instead of my having to drag it along on my back.” and as the last word was spoken, the saddle disappeared from his back, and he saw that his second wish had been fulfilled.
then he really did feel warm.
he began to run and wanted to be quite alone in his own room at home, to think of something really large for his last wish.
but when he arrived there and opened the parlour-door, he saw his wife sitting in the middle of the room on the saddle, crying and complaining, and quite unable to get off it.
so he said, “do bear it, and i will wish for all the riches on earth for thee, only stay where thou art.” she, however, called him a fool, and said, “what good will all the riches on earth do me, if i am to sit on this saddle?
thou hast wished me on it, so thou must help me off.” so whether he would or not, he was forced to let his third wish be that she should be quit of the saddle, and able to get off it, and immediately the wish was fulfilled.
so he got nothing by it but vexation, trouble, abuse, and the loss of his horse; but the poor people lived happily, quietly, and piously until their happy death.
88 the singing, springing lark
there was once on a time a man who was about to set out on a long journey, and on parting he asked his three daughters what he should bring back with him for them.
whereupon the eldest wished for pearls, the second wished for diamonds, but the third said, “dear father, i should like a singing, soaring lark.” the father said, “yes, if i can get it, you shall have it,” kissed all three, and set out.
now when the time had come for him to be on his way home again, he had brought pearls and diamonds for the two eldest, but he had sought everywhere in vain for a singing, soaring lark for the youngest, and he was very unhappy about it, for she was his favorite child.
then his road lay through a forest, and in the midst of it was a splendid castle, and near the castle stood a tree, but quite on the top of the tree, he saw a singing, soaring lark.
“aha, you come just at the right moment!” he said, quite delighted, and called to his servant to climb up and catch the little creature.
but as he approached the tree, a lion leapt from beneath it, shook himself, and roared till the leaves on the trees trembled.
“he who tries to steal my singing, soaring lark,” he cried, “will i devour.” then the man said, “i did not know that the bird belonged to thee.
i will make amends for the wrong i have done and ransom myself with a large sum of money, only spare my life.” the lion said, “nothing can save thee, unless thou wilt promise to give me for mine own what first meets thee on thy return home; and if thou wilt do that, i will grant thee thy life, and thou shalt have the bird for thy daughter, into the bargain.” but the man hesitated and said, “that might be my youngest daughter, she loves me best, and always runs to meet me on my return home.” the servant, however, was terrified and said, “why should your daughter be the very one to meet you, it might as easily be a cat, or dog?” then the man allowed himself to be over-persuaded, took the singing, soaring lark, and promised to give the lion whatsoever should first meet him on his return home.
when he reached home and entered his house, the first who met him was no other than his youngest and dearest daughter, who came running up, kissed and embraced him, and when she saw that he had brought with him a singing, soaring lark, she was beside herself with joy.
the father, however, could not rejoice, but began to weep, and said, “my dearest child, i have bought the little bird dear.
in return for it, i have been obliged to promise thee to a savage lion, and when he has thee he will tear thee in pieces and devour thee,” and he told her all, just as it had happened, and begged her not to go there, come what might.
but she consoled him and said, “dearest father, indeed your promise must be fulfilled.
i will go thither and soften the lion, so that i may return to thee safely.” next morning she had the road pointed out to her, took leave, and went fearlessly out into the forest.
the lion, however, was an enchanted prince and was by day a lion, and all his people were lions with him, but in the night they resumed their natural human shapes.
on her arrival she was kindly received and led into the castle.
when night came, the lion turned into a handsome man, and their wedding was celebrated with great magnificence.
they lived happily together, remained awake at night, and slept in the daytime.
one day he came and said, “to-morrow there is a feast in thy father’s house, because your eldest sister is to be married, and if thou art inclined to go there, my lions shall conduct thee.” she said, “yes, i should very much like to see my father again,” and went thither, accompanied by the lions.
there was great joy when she arrived, for they had all believed that she had been torn in pieces by the lion, and had long ceased to live.
but she told them what a handsome husband she had, and how well off she was, remained with them while the wedding-feast lasted, and then went back again to the forest.
when the second daughter was about to be married, and she was again invited to the wedding, she said to the lion, “this time i will not be alone, thou must come with me.” the lion, however, said that it was too dangerous for him, for if when there a ray from a burning candle fell on him, he would be changed into a dove, and for seven years long would have to fly about with the doves.
she said, “ah, but do come with me, i will take great care of thee, and guard thee from all light.” so they went away together, and took with them their little child as well.
she had a chamber built there, so strong and thick that no ray could pierce through it; in this he was to shut himself up when the candles were lit for the wedding-feast.
but the door was made of green wood which warped and left a little crack which no one noticed.
the wedding was celebrated with magnificence, but when the procession with all its candles and torches came back from church, and passed by this apartment, a ray about the breadth of a hair fell on the king’s son, and when this ray touched him, he was transformed in an instant, and when she came in and looked for him, she did not see him, but a white dove was sitting there.
the dove said to her, “for seven years must i fly about the world, but at every seventh step that you take i will let fall a drop of red blood and a white feather, and these will show thee the way, and if thou followest the trace thou canst release me.” thereupon the dove flew out at the door, and she followed him, and at every seventh step a red drop of blood and a little white feather fell down and showed her the way.
so she went continually further and further in the wide world, never looking about her or resting, and the seven years were almost past; then she rejoiced and thought that they would soon be delivered, and yet they were so far from it!
once when they were thus moving onwards, no little feather and no drop of red blood fell, and when she raised her eyes the dove had disappeared.
and as she thought to herself, “in this no man can help thee,” she climbed up to the sun, and said to him, “thou shinest into every crevice, and over every peak, hast thou not seen a white dove flying?” “no,” said the sun, “i have seen none, but i present thee with a casket, open it when thou art in sorest need.” then she thanked the sun, and went on until evening came and the moon appeared; she then asked her, “thou shinest the whole night through, and on every field and forest, hast thou not seen a white dove flying?”
“no,” said the moon, “i have seen no dove, but here i give thee an egg, break it when thou art in great need.” she thanked the moon, and went on until the night wind came up and blew on her, then she said to it, “thou blowest over every tree and under every leaf, hast thou not seen a white dove flying?” “no,” said the night wind, “i have seen none, but i will ask the three other winds, perhaps they have seen it.” the east wind and the west wind came, and had seen nothing, but the south wind said, “i have seen the white dove, it has flown to the red sea, where it has become a lion again, for the seven years are over, and the lion is there fighting with a dragon; the dragon, however, is an enchanted princess.” the night wind then said to her, “i will advise thee; go to the red sea, on the right bank are some tall reeds, count them, break off the eleventh, and strike the dragon with it, then the lion will be able to subdue it, and both then will regain their human form.
after that, look round and thou wilt see the griffin which is by the red sea; swing thyself, with thy beloved, on to his back, and the bird will carry you over the sea to your own home.
here is a nut for thee, when thou are above the center of the sea, let the nut fall, it will immediately shoot up, and a tall nut-tree will grow out of the water on which the griffin may rest; for if he cannot rest, he will not be strong enough to carry you across, and if thou forgettest to throw down the nut, he will let you fall into the sea.”
then she went thither, and found everything as the night wind had said.
she counted the reeds by the sea, and cut off the eleventh, struck the dragon therewith, whereupon the lion overcame it, and immediately both of them regained their human shapes.
but when the princess, who had before been the dragon, was delivered from enchantment, she took the youth by the arm, seated herself on the griffin, and carried him off with her.
there stood the poor maiden who had wandered so far and was again forsaken.
she sat down and cried, but at last she took courage and said, “still i will go as far as the wind blows and as long as the cock crows, until i find him,” and she went forth by long, long roads, until at last she came to the castle where both of them were living together; there she heard that soon a feast was to be held, in which they would celebrate their wedding, but she said, “god still helps me,”
and opened the casket that the sun had given her.
a dress lay therein as brilliant as the sun itself.
so she took it out and put it on, and went up into the castle, and everyone, even the bride herself, looked at her with astonishment.
the dress pleased the bride so well that she thought it might do for her wedding-dress, and asked if it was for sale?
“not for money or land,” answered she, “but for flesh and blood.”
the bride asked her what she meant by that, so she said, “let me sleep a night in the chamber where the bridegroom sleeps.” the bride would not, yet wanted very much to have the dress; at last she consented, but the page was to give the prince a sleeping-draught.
when it was night, therefore, and the youth was already asleep, she was led into the chamber; she seated herself on the bed and said, “i have followed after thee for seven years.
i have been to the sun and the moon, and the four winds, and have enquired for thee, and have helped thee against the dragon; wilt thou, then quite forget me?” but the prince slept so soundly that it only seemed to him as if the wind were whistling outside in the fir-trees.
when therefore day broke, she was led out again, and had to give up the golden dress.
and as that even had been of no avail, she was sad, went out into a meadow, sat down there, and wept.
while she was sitting there, she thought of the egg which the moon had given her; she opened it, and there came out a clucking hen with twelve chickens all of gold, and they ran about chirping, and crept again under the old hen’s wings; nothing more beautiful was ever seen in the world!
then she arose, and drove them through the meadow before her, until the bride looked out of the window.
the little chickens pleased her so much that she immediately came down and asked if they were for sale.
“not for money or land, but for flesh and blood; let me sleep another night in the chamber where the bridegroom sleeps.”
the bride said, “yes,” intending to cheat her as on the former evening.
but when the prince went to bed he asked the page what the murmuring and rustling in the night had been?
on this the page told all; that he had been forced to give him a sleeping-draught, because a poor girl had slept secretly in the chamber, and that he was to give him another that night.
the prince said, “pour out the draught by the bed-side.” at night, she was again led in, and when she began to relate how ill all had fared with her, he immediately recognized his beloved wife by her voice, sprang up and cried, “now i really am released!
i have been as it were in a dream, for the strange princess has bewitched me so that i have been compelled to forget thee, but god has delivered me from the spell at the right time.” then they both left the castle secretly in the night, for they feared the father of the princess, who was a sorcerer, and they seated themselves on the griffin which bore them across the red sea, and when they were in the midst of it, she let fall the nut.
immediately a tall nut-tree grew up, whereon the bird rested, and then carried them home, where they found their child, who had grown tall and beautiful, and they lived thenceforth happily until their death.
89 the goose-girl
there was once upon a time an old queen whose husband had been dead for many years, and she had a beautiful daughter.
when the princess grew up she was betrothed to a prince who lived at a great distance.
when the time came for her to be married, and she had to journey forth into the distant kingdom, the aged queen packed up for her many costly vessels of silver and gold, and trinkets also of gold and silver; and cups and jewels, in short, everything which appertained to a royal dowry, for she loved her child with all her heart.
she likewise sent her maid in waiting, who was to ride with her, and hand her over to the bridegroom, and each had a horse for the journey, but the horse of the king’s daughter was called falada, and could speak.
so when the hour of parting had come, the aged mother went into her bedroom, took a small knife and cut her finger with it until it bled, then she held a white handkerchief to it into which she let three drops of blood fall, gave it to her daughter and said, “dear child, preserve this carefully, it will be of service to you on your way.”
so they took a sorrowful leave of each other; the princess put the piece of cloth in her bosom, mounted her horse, and then went away to her bridegroom.
after she had ridden for a while she felt a burning thirst, and said to her waiting-maid, “dismount, and take my cup which thou hast brought with thee for me, and get me some water from the stream, for i should like to drink.” “if you are thirsty,” said the waiting-maid, “get off your horse yourself, and lie down and drink out of the water, i don’t choose to be your servant.” so in her great thirst the princess alighted, bent down over the water in the stream and drank, and was not allowed to drink out of the golden cup.
then she said, “ah, heaven!” and the three drops of blood answered, “if thy mother knew, her heart would break.” but the king’s daughter was humble, said nothing, and mounted her horse again.
she rode some miles further, but the day was warm, the sun scorched her, and she was thirsty once more, and when they came to a stream of water, she again cried to her waiting-maid, “dismount, and give me some water in my golden cup,” for she had long ago forgotten the girl’s ill words.
but the waiting-maid said still more haughtily, “if you wish to drink, drink as you can, i don’t choose to be your maid.” then in her great thirst the king’s daughter alighted, bent over the flowing stream, wept and said, “ah, heaven!” and the drops of blood again replied, “if thy mother knew this, her heart would break.” and as she was thus drinking and leaning right over the stream, the handkerchief with the three drops of blood fell out of her bosom, and floated away with the water without her observing it, so great was her trouble.
the waiting-maid, however, had seen it, and she rejoiced to think that she had now power over the bride, for since the princess had lost the drops of blood, she had become weak and powerless.
so now when she wanted to mount her horse again, the one that was called falada, the waiting-maid said, “falada is more suitable for me, and my nag will do for thee” and the princess had to be content with that.
then the waiting-maid, with many hard words, bade the princess exchange her royal apparel for her own shabby clothes; and at length she was compelled to swear by the clear sky above her, that she would not say one word of this to any one at the royal court, and if she had not taken this oath she would have been killed on the spot.
but falada saw all this, and observed it well.
the waiting-maid now mounted falada, and the true bride the bad horse, and thus they traveled onwards, until at length they entered the royal palace.
there were great rejoicings over her arrival, and the prince sprang forward to meet her, lifted the waiting-maid from her horse, and thought she was his consort.
she was conducted upstairs, but the real princess was left standing below.
then the old king looked out of the window and saw her standing in the courtyard, and how dainty and delicate and beautiful she was, and instantly went to the royal apartment, and asked the bride about the girl she had with her who was standing down below in the courtyard, and who she was?
“i picked her up on my way for a companion; give the girl something to work at, that she may not stand idle.” but the old king had no work for her, and knew of none, so he said, “i have a little boy who tends the geese, she may help him.” the boy was called conrad, and the true bride had to help him to tend the geese.
soon afterwards the false bride said to the young king, “dearest husband, i beg you to do me a favour.” he answered, “i will do so most willingly.” “then send for the knacker, and have the head of the horse on which i rode here cut off, for it vexed me on the way.” in reality, she was afraid that the horse might tell how she had behaved to the king’s daughter.
then she succeeded in making the king promise that it should be done, and the faithful falada was to die; this came to the ears of the real princess, and she secretly promised to pay the knacker a piece of gold if he would perform a small service for her.
there was a great dark-looking gateway in the town, through which morning and evening she had to pass with the geese: would he be so good as to nail up falada’s head on it, so that she might see him again, more than once.
the knacker’s man promised to do that, and cut off the head, and nailed it fast beneath the dark gateway.
early in the morning, when she and conrad drove out their flock beneath this gateway, she said in passing,
“alas, falada, hanging there!”
then the head answered,
“alas, young queen, how ill you fare!
if this your tender mother knew, her heart would surely break in two.”
then they went still further out of the town, and drove their geese into the country.
and when they had come to the meadow, she sat down and unbound her hair which was like pure gold, and conrad saw it and delighted in its brightness, and wanted to pluck out a few hairs.
then she said,
“blow, blow, thou gentle wind, i say, blow conrad’s little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until i have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.”
and there came such a violent wind that it blew conrad’s hat far away across country, and he was forced to run after it.
when he came back she had finished combing her hair and was putting it up again, and he could not get any of it.
then conrad was angry, and would not speak to her, and thus they watched the geese until the evening, and then they went home.
next day when they were driving the geese out through the dark gateway, the maiden said,
“alas, falada, hanging there!”
falada answered,
“alas, young queen, how ill you fare!
if this your tender mother knew, her heart would surely break in two.”
and she sat down again in the field and began to comb out her hair, and conrad ran and tried to clutch it, so she said in haste,
“blow, blow, thou gentle wind, i say, blow conrad’s little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until i have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.”
then the wind blew, and blew his little hat off his head and far away, and conrad was forced to run after it, and when he came back, her hair had been put up a long time, and he could get none of it, and so they looked after their geese till evening came.
but in the evening after they had got home, conrad went to the old king, and said, “i won’t tend the geese with that girl any longer!”
“why not?” inquired the aged king.
“oh, because she vexes me the whole day long.” then the aged king commanded him to relate what it was that she did to him.
and conrad said, “in the morning when we pass beneath the dark gateway with the flock, there is a sorry horse’s head on the wall, and she says to it,
“alas, falada, hanging there!”
and the head replies,
“alas, young queen how ill you fare!
if this your tender mother knew, her heart would surely break in two.”
and conrad went on to relate what happened on the goose pasture, and how when there he had to chase his hat.
the aged king commanded him to drive his flock out again next day, and as soon as morning came, he placed himself behind the dark gateway, and heard how the maiden spoke to the head of falada, and then he too went into the country, and hid himself in the thicket in the meadow.
there he soon saw with his own eyes the goose-girl and the goose-boy bringing their flock, and how after a while she sat down and unplaited her hair, which shone with radiance.
and soon she said,
“blow, blow, thou gentle wind, i say, blow conrad’s little hat away, and make him chase it here and there, until i have braided all my hair, and bound it up again.”
then came a blast of wind and carried off conrad’s hat, so that he had to run far away, while the maiden quietly went on combing and plaiting her hair, all of which the king observed.
then, quite unseen, he went away, and when the goose-girl came home in the evening, he called her aside, and asked why she did all these things.
“i may not tell you that, and i dare not lament my sorrows to any human being, for i have sworn not to do so by the heaven which is above me; if i had not done that, i should have lost my life.” he urged her and left her no peace, but he could draw nothing from her.
then said he, “if thou wilt not tell me anything, tell thy sorrows to the iron-stove there,” and he went away.
then she crept into the iron-stove, and began to weep and lament, and emptied her whole heart, and said, “here am i deserted by the whole world, and yet i am a king’s daughter, and a false waiting-maid has by force brought me to such a pass that i have been compelled to put off my royal apparel, and she has taken my place with my bridegroom, and i have to perform menial service as a goose-girl.
if my mother did but know that, her heart would break.”
the aged king, however, was standing outside by the pipe of the stove, and was listening to what she said, and heard it.
then he came back again, and bade her come out of the stove.
and royal garments were placed on her, and it was marvellous how beautiful she was!
the aged king summoned his son, and revealed to him that he had got the false bride who was only a waiting-maid, but that the true one was standing there, as the sometime goose-girl.
the young king rejoiced with all his heart when he saw her beauty and youth, and a great feast was made ready to which all the people and all good friends were invited.
at the head of the table sat the bridegroom with the king’s daughter at one side of him, and the waiting-maid on the other, but the waiting-maid was blinded, and did not recognize the princess in her dazzling array.
when they had eaten and drunk, and were merry, the aged king asked the waiting-maid as a riddle, what a person deserved who had behaved in such and such a way to her master, and at the same time related the whole story, and asked what sentence such an one merited?
then the false bride said, “she deserves no better fate than to be stripped entirely naked, and put in a barrel which is studded inside with pointed nails, and two white horses should be harnessed to it, which will drag her along through one street after another, till she is dead.” “it is thou,” said the aged king, “and thou hast pronounced thine own sentence, and thus shall it be done unto thee.” and when the sentence had been carried out, the young king married his true bride, and both of them reigned over their kingdom in peace and happiness.
90 the young giant
once on a time a countryman had a son who was as big as a thumb, and did not become any bigger, and during several years did not grow one hair’s breadth.
once when the father was going out to plough, the little one said, “father, i will go out with you.” “thou wouldst go out with me?” said the father.
“stay here, thou wilt be of no use out there, besides thou mightest get lost!” then thumbling began to cry, and for the sake of peace his father put him in his pocket, and took him with him.
when he was outside in the field, he took him out again, and set him in a freshly-cut furrow.
whilst he was there, a great giant came over the hill.
“do thou see that great bogie?” said the father, for he wanted to frighten the little fellow to make him good; “he is coming to fetch thee.” the giant, however, had scarcely taken two steps with his long legs before he was in the furrow.
he took up little thumbling carefully with two fingers, examined him, and without saying one word went away with him.
his father stood by, but could not utter a sound for terror, and he thought nothing else but that his child was lost, and that as long as he lived he should never set eyes on him again.
the giant, however, carried him home, suckled him, and thumbling grew and became tall and strong after the manner of giants.
when two years had passed, the old giant took him into the forest, wanted to try him, and said, “pull up a stick for thyself.” then the boy was already so strong that he tore up a young tree out of the earth by the roots.
but the giant thought, “we must do better than that,” took him back again, and suckled him two years longer.
when he tried him, his strength had increased so much that he could tear an old tree out of the ground.
that was still not enough for the giant; he again suckled him for two years, and when he then went with him into the forest and said, “now just tear up a proper stick for me,” the boy tore up the strongest oak-tree from the earth, so that it split, and that was a mere trifle to him.
“now that will do,” said the giant, “thou art perfect,” and took him back to the field from whence he had brought him.
his father was there following the plough.
the young giant went up to him, and said, “does my father see what a fine man his son has grown into?”
the farmer was alarmed, and said, “no, thou art not my son; i don’t want thee leave me!” “truly i am your son; allow me to do your work, i can plough as well as you, nay better.” “no, no, thou art not my son; and thou canst not plough go away!” however, as he was afraid of this great man, he left go of the plough, stepped back and stood at one side of the piece of land.
then the youth took the plough, and just pressed it with one hand, but his grasp was so strong that the plough went deep into the earth.
the farmer could not bear to see that, and called to him, “if thou art determined to plough, thou must not press so hard on it, that makes bad work.” the youth, however, unharnessed the horses, and drew the plough himself, saying, “just go home, father, and bid my mother make ready a large dish of food, and in the meantime i will go over the field.” then the farmer went home, and ordered his wife to prepare the food; but the youth ploughed the field which was two acres large, quite alone, and then he harnessed himself to the harrow, and harrowed the whole of the land, using two harrows at once.
when he had done it, he went into the forest, and pulled up two oak-trees, laid them across his shoulders, and hung on them one harrow behind and one before, and also one horse behind and one before, and carried all as if it had been a bundle of straw, to his parents’ house.
when he entered the yard, his mother did not recognize him, and asked, “who is that horrible tall man?” the farmer said, “that is our son.” she said, “no that cannot be our son, we never had such a tall one, ours was a little thing.” she called to him, “go away, we do not want thee!” the youth was silent, but led his horses to the stable, gave them some oats and hay, and all that they wanted.
when he had done this, he went into the parlour, sat down on the bench and said, “mother, now i should like something to eat, will it soon be ready?” then she said, “yes,” and brought in two immense dishes full of food, which would have been enough to satisfy herself and her husband for a week.
the youth, however, ate the whole of it himself, and asked if she had nothing more to set before him.
“no,” she replied, “that is all we have.” “but that was only a taste, i must have more.” she did not dare to oppose him, and went and put a huge caldron full of food on the fire, and when it was ready, carried it in.
“at length come a few crumbs,” said he, and ate all there was, but it was still not sufficient to appease his hunger.
then said he, “father, i see well that with you i shall never have food enough; if you will get me an iron staff which is strong, and which i cannot break against my knees, i will go out into the world.”
the farmer was glad, put his two horses in his cart, and fetched from the smith a staff so large and thick, that the two horses could only just bring it away.
the youth laid it across his knees, and snap!
he broke it in two in the middle like a bean-stalk, and threw it away.
the father then harnessed four horses, and brought a bar which was so long and thick, that the four horses could only just drag it.
the son snapped this also in twain against his knees, threw it away, and said, “father, this can be of no use to me, you must harness more horses, and bring a stronger staff.” so the father harnessed eight horses, and brought one which was so long and thick, that the eight horses could only just carry it.
when the son took it in his hand, he broke off a bit from the top of it also, and said, “father, i see that you will not be able to procure me any such staff as i want, i will remain no longer with you.”
so he went away, and gave out that he was a smith’s apprentice.
he arrived at a village, wherein lived a smith who was a greedy fellow, who never did a kindness to any one, but wanted everything for himself.
the youth went into the smithy and asked if he needed a journeyman.
“yes,” said the smith, and looked at him, and thought, “that is a strong fellow who will strike out well, and earn his bread.” so he asked, “how much wages dost thou want?” “i don’t want any at all,” he replied, “only every fortnight, when the other journeymen are paid, i will give thee two blows, and thou must bear them.” the miser was heartily satisfied, and thought he would thus save much money.
next morning, the strange journeyman was to begin to work, but when the master brought the glowing bar, and the youth struck his first blow, the iron flew asunder, and the anvil sank so deep into the earth, that there was no bringing it out again.
then the miser grew angry, and said, “oh, but i can’t make any use of you, you strike far too powerfully; what will you have for the one blow?”
then said he, “i will only give you quite a small blow, that’s all.”
and he raised his foot, and gave him such a kick that he flew away over four loads of hay.
then he sought out the thickest iron bar in the smithy for himself, took it as a stick in his hand and went onwards.
when he had walked for some time, he came to a small farm, and asked the bailiff if he did not require a head-servant.
“yes,” said the bailiff, “i can make use of one; you look a strong fellow who can do something, how much a year do you want as wages?” he again replied that he wanted no wages at all, but that every year he would give him three blows, which he must bear.
then the bailiff was satisfied, for he, too, was a covetous fellow.
next morning all the servants were to go into the wood, and the others were already up, but the head-servant was still in bed.
then one of them called to him, “get up, it is time; we are going into the wood, and thou must go with us.” “ah,” said he quite roughly and surlily, “you may just go, then; i shall be back again before any of you.” then the others went to the bailiff, and told him that the head-man was still lying in bed, and would not go into the wood with them.
the bailiff said they were to awaken him again, and tell him to harness the horses.
the head-man, however, said as before, “just go there, i shall be back again before any of you.” and then he stayed in bed two hours longer.
at length he arose from the feathers, but first he got himself two bushels of peas from the loft, made himself some broth with them, ate it at his leisure, and when that was done, went and harnessed the horses, and drove into the wood.
not far from the wood was a ravine through which he had to pass, so he first drove the horses on, and then stopped them, and went behind the cart, took trees and brushwood, and made a great barricade, so that no horse could get through.
when he was entering the wood, the others were just driving out of it with their loaded carts to go home; then said he to them, “drive on, i will still get home before you do.” he did not drive far into the wood, but at once tore two of the very largest trees of all out of the earth, threw them on his cart, and turned round.
when he came to the barricade, the others were still standing there, not able to get through.
“don’t you see,” said he, “that if you had stayed with me, you would have got home just as quickly, and would have had another hour’s sleep?” he now wanted to drive on, but his horses could not work their way through, so he unharnessed them, laid them on the top of the cart, took the shafts in his own hands, and pulled it all through, and he did this just as easily as if it had been laden with feathers.
when he was over, he said to the others, “there, you see, i have got over quicker than you,” and drove on, and the others had to stay where they were.
in the yard, however, he took a tree in his hand, showed it to the bailiff, and said, “isn’t that a fine bundle of wood?” then said the bailiff to his wife, “the servant is a good one, if he does sleep long, he is still home before the others.” so he served the bailiff for a year, and when that was over, and the other servants were getting their wages, he said it was time for him to take his too.
the bailiff, however, was afraid of the blows which he was to receive, and earnestly entreated him to excuse him from having them; for rather than that, he himself would be head-servant, and the youth should be bailiff.
“no,”
said he, “i will not be a bailiff, i am head-servant, and will remain so, but i will administer that which we agreed on.” the bailiff was willing to give him whatsoever he demanded, but it was of no use, the head-servant said no to everything.
then the bailiff did not know what to do, and begged for a fortnight’s delay, for he wanted to find some way of escape.
the head-servant consented to this delay.
the bailiff summoned all his clerks together, and they were to think the matter over, and give him advice.
the clerks pondered for a long time, but at last they said that no one was sure of his life with the head-servant, for he could kill a man as easily as a midge, and that the bailiff ought to make him get into the well and clean it, and when he was down below, they would roll up one of the mill-stones which was lying there, and throw it on his head; and then he would never return to daylight.
the advice pleased the bailiff, and the head-servant was quite willing to go down the well.
when he was standing down below at the bottom, they rolled down the largest mill-stone and thought they had broken his skull, but he cried, “chase away those hens from the well, they are scratching in the sand up there, and throwing the grains into my eyes, so that i can’t see.” so the bailiff cried, “sh-sh,” and pretended to frighten the hens away.
when the head-servant had finished his work, he climbed up and said, “just look what a beautiful neck-tie i have on,”
and behold it was the mill-stone which he was wearing round his neck.
the head-servant now wanted to take his reward, but the bailiff again begged for a fortnight’s delay.
the clerks met together and advised him to send the head-servant to the haunted mill to grind corn by night, for from thence as yet no man had ever returned in the morning alive.
the proposal pleased the bailiff, he called the head-servant that very evening, and ordered him to take eight bushels of corn to the mill, and grind it that night, for it was wanted.
so the head-servant went to the loft, and put two bushels in his right pocket, and two in his left, and took four in a wallet, half on his back, and half on his breast, and thus laden went to the haunted mill.
the miller told him that he could grind there very well by day, but not by night, for the mill was haunted, and that up to the present time whosoever had gone into it at night had been found in the morning lying dead inside.
he said, “i will manage it, just you go away to bed.” then he went into the mill, and poured out the corn.
about eleven o’clock he went into the miller’s room, and sat down on the bench.
when he had sat there a while, a door suddenly opened, and a large table came in, and on the table, wine and roasted meats placed themselves, and much good food besides, but everything came of itself, for no one was there to carry it.
after this the chairs pushed themselves up, but no people came, until all at once he beheld fingers, which handled knives and forks, and laid food on the plates, but with this exception he saw nothing.
as he was hungry, and saw the food, he, too, place himself at the table, ate with those who were eating and enjoyed it.
when he had had enough, and the others also had quite emptied their dishes, he distinctly heard all the candles being suddenly snuffed out, and as it was now pitch dark, he felt something like a box on the ear.
then he said, “if anything of that kind comes again, i shall strike out in return.” and when he had received a second box on the ear, he, too struck out.
and so it continued the whole night.
he took nothing without returning it, but repaid everything with interest, and did not lay about him in vain.
at daybreak, however, everything ceased.
when the miller had got up, he wanted to look after him, and wondered if he were still alive.
then the youth said, “i have eaten my fill, have received some boxes on the ears, but i have given some in return.” the miller rejoiced, and said that the mill was now released from the spell, and wanted to give him much money as a reward.
but he said, “money, i will not have, i have enough of it.” so he took his meal on his back, went home, and told the bailiff that he had done what he had been told to do, and would now have the reward agreed on.
when the bailiff heard that, he was seriously alarmed and quite beside himself; he walked backwards and forwards in the room, and drops of perspiration ran down from his forehead.
then he opened the window to get some fresh air, but before he was aware, the head-servant had given him such a kick that he flew through the window out into the air, and so far away that no one ever saw him again.
then said the head-servant to the bailiff’s wife, “if he does not come back, you must take the other blow.” she cried, “no, no i cannot bear it,” and opened the other window, because drops of perspiration were running down her forehead.
then he gave her such a kick that she, too, flew out, and as she was lighter she went much higher than her husband.
her husband cried, “do come to me,” but she replied, “come thou to me, i cannot come to thee.” and they hovered about there in the air, and could not get to each other, and whether they are still hovering about, or not, i do not know, but the young giant took up his iron bar, and went on his way.
91 the gnome
there was once upon a time a rich king who had three daughters, who daily went to walk in the palace garden, and the king was a great lover of all kinds of fine trees, but there was one for which he had such an affection, that if anyone gathered an apple from it he wished him a hundred fathoms underground.
and when harvest time came, the apples on this tree were all as red as blood.
the three daughters went every day beneath the tree, and looked to see if the wind had not blown down an apple, but they never by any chance found one, and the tree was so loaded with them that it was almost breaking, and the branches hung down to the ground.
then the king’s youngest child had a great desire for an apple, and said to her sisters, “our father loves us far too much to wish us underground, it is my belief that he would only do that to people who were strangers.” and while she was speaking, the child plucked off quite a large apple, and ran to her sisters, saying, “just taste, my dear little sisters, for never in my life have i tasted anything so delightful.” then the two other sisters also ate some of the apple, whereupon all three sank deep down into the earth, where they could hear no cock crow.
when mid-day came, the king wished to call them to come to dinner, but they were nowhere to be found.
he sought them everywhere in the palace and garden, but could not find them.
then he was much troubled, and made known to the whole land that whosoever brought his daughters back again should have one of them to wife.
hereupon so many young men went about the country in search, that there was no counting them, for every one loved the three children because they were so kind to all, and so fair of face.
three young huntsmen also went out, and when they had travelled about for eight days, they arrived at a great castle, in which were beautiful apartments, and in one room a table was laid on which were delicate dishes which were still so warm that they were smoking, but in the whole of the castle no human being was either to be seen or heard.
they waited there for half a day, and the food still remained warm and smoking, and at length they were so hungry that they sat down and ate, and agreed with each other that they would stay and live in that castle, and that one of them, who should be chosen by casting lots, should remain in the house, and the two others seek the king’s daughters.
they cast lots, and the lot fell on the eldest; so next day the two younger went out to seek, and the eldest had to stay home.
at mid-day came a small, small mannikin and begged for a piece of bread, then the huntsman took the bread which he had found there, and cut a round off the loaf and was about to give it to him, but whilst he was giving it to the mannikin, the latter let it fall, and asked the huntsman to be so good as to give him that piece again.
the huntsman was about to do so and stooped, on which the mannikin took a stick, seized him by the hair, and gave him a good beating.
next day, the second stayed at home, and he fared no better.
when the two others returned in the evening, the eldest said, “well, how have you got on?”
“oh, very badly,” said he, and then they lamented their misfortune together, but they said nothing about it to the youngest, for they did not like him at all, and always called him stupid hans, because he did not exactly belong to the forest.
on the third day, the youngest stayed at home, and again the little mannikin came and begged for a piece of bread.
when the youth gave it to him, the elf let it fall as before, and asked him to be so good as to give him that piece again.
then said hans to the little mannikin, “what!
canst thou not pick up that piece thyself?
if thou wilt not take as much trouble as that for thy daily bread, thou dost not deserve to have it.” then the mannikin grew very angry and said he was to do it, but the huntsman would not, and took my dear mannikin, and gave him a thorough beating.
then the mannikin screamed terribly, and cried, “stop, stop, and let me go, and i will tell thee where the king’s daughters are.” when hans heard that, he left off beating him and the mannikin told him that he was an earth mannikin, and that there were more than a thousand like him, and that if he would go with him he would show him where the king’s daughters were.
then he showed him a deep well, but there was no water in it.
and the elf said that he knew well that the companions hans had with him did not intend to deal honourably with him, therefore if he wished to deliver the king’s children, he must do it alone.
the two other brothers would also be very glad to recover the king’s daughters, but they did not want to have any trouble or danger.
hans was therefore to take a large basket, and he must seat himself in it with his hanger and a bell, and be let down.
below were three rooms, and in each of them was a princess, with a many-headed dragon, whose heads she was to comb and trim, but he must cut them off.
and having said all this, the elf vanished.
when it was evening the two brothers came and asked how he had got on, and he said, “pretty well so far,” and that he had seen no one except at mid-day when a little mannikin had come and begged for a piece of bread, that he had given some to him, but that the mannikin had let it fall and had asked him to pick it up again; but as he did not choose to do that, the elf had begun to lose his temper, and that he had done what he ought not, and had given the elf a beating, on which he had told him where the king’s daughters were.
then the two were so angry at this that they grew green and yellow.
next morning they went to the well together, and drew lots who should first seat himself in the basket, and again the lot fell on the eldest, and he was to seat himself in it, and take the bell with him.
then he said, “if i ring, you must draw me up again immediately.” when he had gone down for a short distance, he rang, and they at once drew him up again.
then the second seated himself in the basket, but he did just the same as the first, and then it was the turn of the youngest, but he let himself be lowered quite to the bottom.
when he had got out of the basket, he took his hanger, and went and stood outside the first door and listened, and heard the dragon snoring quite loudly.
he opened the door slowly, and one of the princesses was sitting there, and had nine dragon’s heads lying upon her lap, and was combing them.
then he took his hanger and hewed at them, and the nine fell off.
the princess sprang up, threw her arms round his neck, embraced and kissed him repeatedly, and took her stomacher, which was made of pure gold, and hung it round his neck.
then he went to the second princess, who had a dragon with five heads to comb, and delivered her also, and to the youngest, who had a dragon with four heads, he went likewise.
and they all rejoiced, and embraced him and kissed him without stopping.
then he rang very loud, so that those above heard him, and he placed the princesses one after the other in the basket, and had them all drawn up, but when it came to his own turn he remembered the words of the elf, who had told him that his comrades did not mean well by him.
so he took a great stone which was lying there, and placed it in the basket, and when it was about half way up, his false brothers above cut the rope, so that the basket with the stone fell to the ground, and they thought that he was dead, and ran away with the three princesses, making them promise to tell their father that it was they who had delivered them, and then they went to the king, and each demanded a princess in marriage.
in the meantime the youngest huntsman was wandering about the three chambers in great trouble, fully expecting to have to end his days there, when he saw, hanging on the wall, a flute; then said he, “why dost thou hang there, no one can be merry here?” he looked at the dragons, heads likewise and said, “you too cannot help me now.” he walked backwards and forwards for such a long time that he made the surface of the ground quite smooth.
but at last other thoughts came to his mind, and he took the flute from the wall, and played a few notes on it, and suddenly a number of elves appeared, and with every note that he sounded one more came.
then he played until the room was entirely filled.
they all asked what he desired, so he said he wished to get above ground back to daylight, on which they seized him by every hair that grew on his head, and thus they flew with him onto the earth again.
when he was above ground, he at once went to the king’s palace, just as the wedding of one princess was about to be celebrated, and he went to the room where the king and his three daughters were.
when the princesses saw him they fainted.
hereupon the king was angry, and ordered him to be put in prison at once, because he thought he must have done some injury to the children.
when the princesses came to themselves, however, they entreated the king to set him free again.
the king asked why, and they said that they were not allowed to tell that, but their father said that they were to tell it to the stove.
and he went out, listened at the door, and heard everything.
then he caused the two brothers to be hanged on the gallows, and to the third he gave his youngest daughter, and on that occasion i wore a pair of glass shoes, and i struck them against a stone, and they said, “klink,” and were broken.
92 the king of the golden mountain
there was a certain merchant who had two children, a boy and a girl; they were both young, and could not walk.
and two richly-laden ships of his sailed forth to sea with all his property on board, and just as he was expecting to win much money by them, news came that they had gone to the bottom, and now instead of being a rich man he was a poor one, and had nothing left but one field outside the town.
in order to drive his misfortune a little out of his thoughts, he went out to this field, and as he was walking forwards and backwards in it, a little black mannikin stood suddenly by his side, and asked why he was so sad, and what he was taking so much to heart.
then said the merchant, “if thou couldst help me i would willingly tell thee.” “who knows?” replied the black dwarf.
“perhaps, i can help thee.” then the merchant told him that all he possessed had gone to the bottom of the sea, and that he had nothing left but this field.
“do not trouble thyself,” said the dwarf.
“if thou wilt promise to give me the first thing that rubs itself against thy leg when thou art at home again, and to bring it here to this place in twelve years’ time, thou shalt have as much money as thou wilt.” the merchant thought, “what can that be but my dog?” and did not remember his little boy, so he said yes, gave the black man a written and sealed promise, and went home.
when he reached home, his little boy was so delighted that he held by a bench, tottered up to him and seized him fast by the legs.
the father was shocked, for he remembered his promise, and now knew what he had pledged himself to do; as however, he still found no money in his chest, he thought the dwarf had only been jesting.
a month afterwards he went up to the garret, intending to gather together some old tin and to sell it, and saw a great heap of money lying.
then he was happy again, made purchases, became a greater merchant than before, and felt that this world was well-governed.
in the meantime the boy grew tall, and at the same time sharp and clever.
but the nearer the twelfth year approached the more anxious grew the merchant, so that his distress might be seen in his face.
one day his son asked what ailed him, but the father would not say.
the boy, however, persisted so long, that at last he told him that without being aware of what he was doing, he had promised him to a black dwarf, and had received much money for doing so.
he said likewise that he had set his hand and seal to this, and that now when twelve years had gone by he would have to give him up.
then said the son, “oh, father, do not be uneasy, all will go well.
the black man has no power over me.” the son had himself blessed by the priest, and when the time came, father and son went together to the field, and the son made a circle and placed himself inside it with his father.
then came the black dwarf and said to the old man, “hast thou brought with thee that which thou hast promised me?” he was silent, but the son asked, “what dost thou want here?” then said the black dwarf, “i have to speak with thy father, and not with thee.” the son replied, “thou hast betrayed and misled my father, give back the writing.” “no,”
said the black dwarf, “i will not give up my rights.” they spoke together for a long time after this, but at last they agreed that the son, as he did not belong to the enemy of mankind, nor yet to his father, should seat himself in a small boat, which should lie on water which was flowing away from them, and that the father should push it off with his own foot, and then the son should remain given up to the water.
so he took leave of his father, placed himself in a little boat, and the father had to push it off with his own foot.
the boat capsized so that the keel was uppermost, and the father believed his son was lost, and went home and mourned for him.
the boat, however, did not sink, but floated quietly away, and the boy sat safely inside it, and it floated thus for a long time, until at last it stopped by an unknown shore.
then he landed and saw a beautiful castle before him, and set out to go to it.
but when he entered it, he found that it was bewitched.
he went through every room, but all were empty until he reached the last, where a snake lay coiled in a ring.
the snake, however, was an enchanted maiden, who rejoiced to see him, and said, “hast thou come, oh, my deliverer?
i have already waited twelve years for thee; this kingdom is bewitched, and thou must set it free.” “how can i do that?” he inquired.
“to-night come twelve black men, covered with chains who will ask what thou art doing here; keep silent; give them no answer, and let them do what they will with thee; they will torment thee, beat thee, stab thee; let everything pass, only do not speak; at twelve o’clock, they must go away again.
on the second night twelve others will come; on the third, four-and-twenty, who will cut off thy head, but at twelve o’clock their power will be over, and then if thou hast endured all, and hast not spoken the slightest word, i shall be released.
i will come to thee, and will have, in a bottle, some of the water of life.
i will rub thee with that, and then thou wilt come to life again, and be as healthy as before.” then said he, “i will gladly set thee free.” and everything happened just as she had said; the black men could not force a single word from him, and on the third night the snake became a beautiful princess, who came with the water of life and brought him back to life again.
so she threw herself into his arms and kissed him, and there was joy and gladness in the whole castle.
after this their marriage was celebrated, and he was king of the golden mountain.
they lived very happily together, and the queen bore a fine boy.
eight years had already gone by, when the king bethought him of his father; his heart was moved, and he wished to visit him.
the queen, however, would not let him go away, and said, “i know beforehand that it will cause my unhappiness;” but he suffered her to have no rest until she consented.
at their parting she gave him a wishing-ring, and said, “take this ring and put it on thy finger, and then thou wilt immediately be transported whithersoever thou wouldst be, only thou must promise me not to use it in wishing me away from this place and with thy father.” that he promised her, put the ring on his finger, and wished himself at home, just outside the town where his father lived.
instantly he found himself there, and made for the town, but when he came to the gate, the sentries would not let him in, because he wore such strange and yet such rich and magnificent clothing.
then he went to a hill where a shepherd was watching his sheep, changed clothes with him, put on his old shepherd’s-coat, and then entered the town without hindrance.
when he came to his father, he made himself known to him, but he did not at all believe that the shepherd was his son, and said he certainly had had a son, but that he was dead long ago; however, as he saw he was a poor, needy shepherd, he would give him something to eat.
then the shepherd said to his parents, “i am verily your son.
do you know of no mark on my body by which you could recognize me?” “yes,”
said his mother, “our son had a raspberry mark under his right arm.” he slipped back his shirt, and they saw the raspberry under his right arm, and no longer doubted that he was their son.
then he told them that he was king of the golden mountain, and a king’s daughter was his wife, and that they had a fine son of seven years old.
then said the father, “that is certainly not true; it is a fine kind of a king who goes about in a ragged shepherd’s-coat.” on this the son fell in a passion, and without thinking of his promise, turned his ring round, and wished both his wife and child with him.
they were there in a second, but the queen wept, and reproached him, and said that he had broken his word, and had brought misfortune upon her.
he said, “i have done it thoughtlessly, and not with evil intention,” and tried to calm her, and she pretended to believe this; but she had mischief in her mind.
then he led her out of the town into the field, and showed her the stream where the little boat had been pushed off, and then he said, “i am tired; sit down, i will sleep awhile on thy lap.” and he laid his head on her lap, and fell asleep.
when he was asleep, she first drew the ring from his finger, then she drew away the foot which was under him, leaving only the slipper behind her, and she took her child in her arms, and wished herself back in her own kingdom.
when he awoke, there he lay quite deserted, and his wife and child were gone, and so was the ring from his finger, the slipper only was still there as a token.
“home to thy parents thou canst not return,” thought he, “they would say that thou wast a wizard; thou must be off, and walk on until thou arrivest in thine own kingdom.” so he went away and came at length to a hill by which three giants were standing, disputing with each other because they did not know how to divide their father’s property.
when they saw him passing by, they called to him and said little men had quick wits, and that he was to divide their inheritance for them.
the inheritance, however, consisted of a sword, which had this property that if any one took it in his hand, and said, “all heads off but mine,” every head would lie on the ground; secondly, of a cloak which made any one who put it on invisible; thirdly, of a pair of boots which could transport the wearer to any place he wished in a moment.
he said, “give me the three things that i may see if they are still in good condition.” they gave him the cloak, and when he had put it on, he was invisible and changed into a fly.
then he resumed his own form and said, “the cloak is a good one, now give me the sword.” they said, “no, we will not give thee that; if thou were to say, all heads off but mine,’ all our heads would be off, and thou alone wouldst be left with thine.” nevertheless they gave it to him with the condition that he was only to try it against a tree.
this he did, and the sword cut in two the trunk of a tree as if it had been a blade of straw.
then he wanted to have the boots likewise, but they said, “no, we will not give them; if thou hadst them on thy feet and wert to wish thyself at the top of the hill, we should be left down here with nothing.” “oh, no,” said he, “i will not do that.” so they gave him the boots as well.
and now when he had got all these things, he thought of nothing but his wife and his child, and said as though to himself, “oh, if i were but on the golden mountain,” and at the same moment he vanished from the sight of the giants, and thus their inheritance was divided.
when he was near his palace, he heard sounds of joy, and fiddles, and flutes, and the people told him that his wife was celebrating her wedding with another.
then he fell into a rage, and said, “false woman, she betrayed and deserted me whilst i was asleep!” so he put on his cloak, and unseen by all went into the palace.
when he entered the dining-hall a great table was spread with delicious food, and the guests were eating and drinking, and laughing, and jesting.
she sat on a royal seat in the midst of them in splendid apparel, with a crown on her head.
he placed himself behind her, and no one saw him.
when she put a piece of meat on a plate for herself, he took it away and ate it, and when she poured out a glass of wine for herself, he took it away and drank it.
she was always helping herself to something, and yet she never got anything, for plate and glass disappeared immediately.
then dismayed and ashamed, she arose and went to her chamber and wept, but he followed her there.
she said, “has the devil power over me, or did my deliverer never come?” then he struck her in the face, and said, “did thy deliverer never come?
it is he who has thee in his power, thou traitor.
have i deserved this from thee?” then he made himself visible, went into the hall, and cried, “the wedding is at an end, the true king has returned.” the kings, princes, and councillors who were assembled there, ridiculed and mocked him, but he did not trouble to answer them, and said, “will you go away, or not?” on this they tried to seize him and pressed upon him, but he drew his sword and said, “all heads off but mine,” and all the heads rolled on the ground, and he alone was master, and once more king of the golden mountain.
93 the raven
there was once upon a time a queen who had a little daughter who was still so young that she had to be carried.
one day the child was naughty, and the mother might say what she liked, but the child would not be quiet.
then she became impatient, and as the ravens were flying about the palace, she opened the window and said, “i wish you were a raven and would fly away, and then i should have some rest.” scarcely had she spoken the words, before the child was changed into a raven, and flew from her arms out of the window.
it flew into a dark forest, and stayed in it a long time, and the parents heard nothing of their child.
then one day a man was on his way through this forest and heard the raven crying, and followed the voice, and when he came nearer, the bird said, “i am a king’s daughter by birth, and am bewitched, but thou canst set me free.” “what am i to do,” asked he.
she said, “go further into the forest, and thou wilt find a house, wherein sits an aged woman, who will offer thee meat and drink, but you must accept nothing, for if you eatest and drinkest anything, thou wilt fall into a sleep, and then thou wilt not be able to deliver me.
in the garden behind the house there is a great heap of tan, and on this thou shalt stand and wait for me.
for three days i will come every afternoon at two o’clock in a carriage.
on the first day four white horses will be harnessed to it, then four chestnut horses, and lastly four black ones; but if thou art not awake, but sleeping, i shall not be set free.” the man promised to do everything that she desired, but the raven said, alas, “i know already that thou wilt not deliver me; thou wilt accept something from the woman.” then the man once more promised that he would certainly not touch anything either to eat or to drink.
but when he entered the house the old woman came to him and said, “poor man, how faint you are; come and refresh yourself; eat and drink.” “no,” said the man, “i will not eat or drink.” she, however, let him have no peace, and said, “if you will not eat, take one drink out of the glass; one is nothing.” then he let himself be persuaded, and drank.
shortly before two o’clock in the afternoon he went into the garden to the tan heap to wait for the raven.
as he was standing there, his weariness all at once became so great that he could not struggle against it, and lay down for a short time, but he was determined not to go to sleep.
hardly, however, had he lain down, than his eyes closed of their own accord, and he fell asleep and slept so soundly that nothing in the world could have aroused him.
at two o’clock the raven came driving up with four white horses, but she was already in deep grief and said, “i know he is asleep.” and when she came into the garden, he was indeed lying there asleep on the heap of tan.
she alighted from the carriage, went to him, shook him, and called him, but he did not awake.
next day about noon, the old woman came again and brought him food and drink, but he would not take any of it.
but she let him have no rest and persuaded him until at length he again took one drink out of the glass.
towards two o’clock he went into the garden to the tan heap to wait for the raven, but all at once felt such a great weariness that his limbs would no longer support him.
he could not help himself, and was forced to lie down, and fell into a heavy sleep.
when the raven drove up with four brown horses, she was already full of grief, and said, “i know he is asleep.” she went to him, but there he lay sleeping, and there was no wakening him.
next day the old woman asked what was the meaning of this?
he was neither eating nor drinking anything; did he want to die?
he replied, “i am not allowed to eat or drink, and will not do so.” but she set a dish with food, and a glass with wine before him, and when he smelt it he could not resist, and swallowed a deep draught.
when the time came, he went out into the garden to the heap of tan, and waited for the king’s daughter; but he became still more weary than on the day before, and lay down and slept as soundly as if he had been a stone.
at two o’clock the raven came with four black horses, and the coachman and everything else was black.
she was already in the deepest grief, and said, “i know that he is asleep and cannot deliver me.” when she came to him, there he was lying fast asleep.
she shook him and called him, but she could not waken him.
then she laid a loaf beside him, and after that a piece of meat, and thirdly a bottle of wine, and he might consume as much of all of them as he liked, but they would never grow less.
after this she took a gold ring from her finger, and put it on his, and her name was graven on it.
lastly, she laid a letter beside him wherein was written what she had given him, and that none of the things would ever grow less; and in it was also written, “i see right well that here you will never be able to deliver me, but if thou art still willing to deliver me, come to the golden castle of stromberg; it lies in thy power, of that i am certain.” and when she had given him all these things, she seated herself in her carriage, and drove to the golden castle of stromberg.
when the man awoke and saw that he had slept, he was sad at heart, and said, “she has certainly driven by, and i have not set her free.” then he perceived the things which were lying beside him, and read the letter wherein was written how everything had happened.
so he arose and went away, intending to go to the golden castle of stromberg, but he did not know where it was.
after he had walked about the world for a long time, he entered into a dark forest, and walked for fourteen days, and still could not find his way out.
then it was once more evening, and he was so tired that he lay down in a thicket and fell asleep.
next day he went onwards, and in the evening, as he was again about to lie down beneath some bushes, he heard such a howling and crying that he could not go to sleep.
and at the time when people light the candles, he saw one glimmering, and arose and went towards it.
then he came to a house which seemed very small, for in front of it a great giant was standing.
he thought to himself, “if i go in, and the giant sees me, it will very likely cost me my life.”
at length he ventured it and went in.
when the giant saw him, he said, “it is well that thou comest, for it is long since i have eaten; i will at once eat thee for my supper.” “i’d rather you would leave that alone,” said the man, “i do not like to be eaten; but if thou hast any desire to eat, i have quite enough here to satisfy thee.” “if that be true,” said the giant, “thou mayst be easy, i was only going to devour thee because i had nothing else.” then they went, and sat down to the table, and the man took out the bread, wine, and meat which would never come to an end.
“this pleases me well,” said the giant, and ate to his heart’s content.
then the man said to him, “canst thou tell me where the golden castle of stromberg is?” the giant said, “i will look at my map; all the towns, and villages, and houses are to be found on it.” he brought out the map which he had in the room and looked for the castle, but it was not to be found on it.
“it’s no matter!” said he, “i have some still larger maps in my cupboard upstairs, and we will look in them.” but there, too, it was in vain.
the man now wanted to go onwards, but the giant begged him to wait a few days longer until his brother, who had gone out to bring some provisions, came home.
when the brother came home they inquired about the golden castle of stromberg.
he replied, “when i have eaten and have had enough, i will look in the map.” then he went with them up to his chamber, and they searched in his map, but could not find it.
then he brought out still older maps, and they never rested until they found the golden castle of stromberg, but it was many thousand miles away.
“how am i to get there?” asked the man.
the giant said, “i have two hours’ time, during which i will carry you into the neighbourhood, but after that i must be at home to suckle the child that we have.” so the giant carried the man to about a hundred leagues from the castle, and said, “thou canst very well walk the rest of the way alone.” and he turned back, but the man went onwards day and night, until at length he came to the golden castle of stromberg.
it stood on a glass-mountain, and the bewitched maiden drove in her carriage round the castle, and then went inside it.
he rejoiced when he saw her and wanted to climb up to her, but when he began to do so he always slipped down the glass again.
and when he saw that he could not reach her, he was filled with trouble, and said to himself, “i will stay down here below, and wait for her.” so he built himself a hut and stayed in it for a whole year, and every day saw the king’s daughter driving about above, but never could go to her.
then one day he saw from his hut three robbers who were beating each other, and cried to them, “god be with ye!” they stopped when they heard the cry, but as they saw no one, they once more began to beat each other, and that too most dangerously.
so he again cried, “god be with ye!” again they stopped, looked round about, but as they saw no one they went on beating each other.
then he cried for the third time, “god be with ye,”
and thought, “i must see what these three are about,” and went thither and asked why they were beating each other so furiously.
one of them said that he found a stick, and that when he struck a door with it, that door would spring open.
the next said that he had found a mantle, and that whenever he put it on, he was invisible, but the third said he had found a horse on which a man could ride everywhere, even up the glass-mountain.
and now they did not know whether they ought to have these things in common, or whether they ought to divide them.
then the man said, “i will give you something in exchange for these three things.
money indeed have i not, but i have other things of more value; but first i must try yours to see if you have told the truth.” then they put him on the horse, threw the mantle round him, and gave him the stick in his hand, and when he had all these things they were no longer able to see him.
so he gave them some vigorous blows and cried, “now, vagabonds, you have got what you deserve, are you satisfied?” and he rode up the glass-mountain, but when he came in front of the castle at the top, it was shut.
then he struck the door with his stick, and it sprang open immediately.
he went in and ascended the stairs until he came to the hall where the maiden was sitting with a golden cup full of wine before her.
she, however, could not see him because he had the mantle on.
and when he came up to her, he drew from his finger the ring which she had given him, and threw it into the cup so that it rang.
then she cried, “that is my ring, so the man who is to set me free must be here.” they searched the whole castle and did not find him, but he had gone out, and had seated himself on the horse and thrown off the mantle.
when they came to the door, they saw him and cried aloud in their delight.
* then he alighted and took the king’s daughter in his arms, but she kissed him and said, “now hast thou set me free, and to-morrow we will celebrate our wedding.”
94 the peasant’s wise daughter
there was once a poor peasant who had no land, but only a small house, and one daughter.
then said the daughter, “we ought to ask our lord the king for a bit of newly-cleared land.” when the king heard of their poverty, he presented them with a piece of land, which she and her father dug up, and intended to sow with a little corn and grain of that kind.
when they had dug nearly the whole of the field, they found in the earth a mortar made of pure gold.
“listen,” said the father to the girl, “as our lord the king has been so gracious and presented us with the field, we ought to give him this mortar in return for it.” the daughter, however, would not consent to this, and said, “father, if we have the mortar without having the pestle as well, we shall have to get the pestle, so you had much better say nothing about it.” he would, however, not obey her, but took the mortar and carried it to the king, said that he had found it in the cleared land, and asked if he would accept it as a present.
the king took the mortar, and asked if he had found nothing besides that?
“no,” answered the countryman.
then the king said that he must now bring him the pestle.
the peasant said they had not found that, but he might just as well have spoken to the wind; he was put in prison, and was to stay there until he produced the pestle.
the servants had daily to carry him bread and water, which is what people get in prison, and they heard how the man cried out continually, “ah!
if i had but listened to my daughter!
alas, alas, if i had but listened to my daughter!” and would neither eat nor drink.
so he commanded the servants to bring the prisoner before him, and then the king asked the peasant why he was always crying, “ah!
if i had but listened to my daughter!” and what it was that his daughter had said.
“she told me that i ought not to take the mortar to you, for i should have to produce the pestle as well.” “if you have a daughter who is as wise as that, let her come here.” she was therefore obliged to appear before the king, who asked her if she really was so wise, and said he would set her a riddle, and if she could guess that, he would marry her.
she at once said yes, she would guess it.
then said the king, “come to me not clothed, not naked, not riding, not walking, not in the road, and not out of the road, and if thou canst do that i will marry thee.” so she went away, put off everything she had on, and then she was not clothed, and took a great fishing net, and seated herself in it and wrapped it entirely round and round her, so that she was not naked, and she hired an ass, and tied the fisherman’s net to its tail, so that it was forced to drag her along, and that was neither riding nor walking.
the ass had also to drag her in the ruts, so that she only touched the ground with her great toe, and that was neither being in the road nor out of the road.
and when she arrived in that fashion, the king said she had guessed the riddle and fulfilled all the conditions.
then he ordered her father to be released from the prison, took her to wife, and gave into her care all the royal possessions.
now when some years had passed, the king was once drawing up his troops on parade, when it happened that some peasants who had been selling wood stopped with their waggons before the palace; some of them had oxen yoked to them, and some horses.
there was one peasant who had three horses, one of which was delivered of a young foal, and it ran away and lay down between two oxen which were in front of the waggon.
when the peasants came together, they began to dispute, to beat each other and make a disturbance, and the peasant with the oxen wanted to keep the foal, and said one of the oxen had given birth to it, and the other said his horse had had it, and that it was his.
the quarrel came before the king, and he give the verdict that the foal should stay where it had been found, and so the peasant with the oxen, to whom it did not belong, got it.
then the other went away, and wept and lamented over his foal.
now he had heard how gracious his lady the queen was because she herself had sprung from poor peasant folks, so he went to her and begged her to see if she could not help him to get his foal back again.
said she, “yes, i will tell you what to do, if thou wilt promise me not to betray me.
early to-morrow morning, when the king parades the guard, place thyself there in the middle of the road by which he must pass, take a great fishing-net and pretend to be fishing; go on fishing, too, and empty out the net as if thou hadst got it full”
and then she told him also what he was to say if he was questioned by the king.
the next day, therefore, the peasant stood there, and fished on dry ground.
when the king passed by, and saw that, he sent his messenger to ask what the stupid man was about?
he answered, “i am fishing.” the messenger asked how he could fish when there was no water there?
the peasant said, “it is as easy for me to fish on dry land as it is for an ox to have a foal.” the messenger went back and took the answer to the king, who ordered the peasant to be brought to him and told him that this was not his own idea, and he wanted to know whose it was?
the peasant must confess this at once.
the peasant, however, would not do so, and said always, god forbid he should!
the idea was his own.
they laid him, however, on a heap of straw, and beat him and tormented him so long that at last he admitted that he had got the idea from the queen.
when the king reached home again, he said to his wife, “why hast thou behaved so falsely to me?
i will not have thee any longer for a wife; thy time is up, go back to the place from whence thou camest to thy peasant’s hut.” one favour, however, he granted her; she might take with her the one thing that was dearest and best in her eyes; and thus was she dismissed.
she said, “yes, my dear husband, if you command this, i will do it,” and she embraced him and kissed him, and said she would take leave of him.
then she ordered a powerful sleeping draught to be brought, to drink farewell to him; the king took a long draught, but she took only a little.
he soon fell into a deep sleep, and when she perceived that, she called a servant and took a fair white linen cloth and wrapped the king in it, and the servant was forced to carry him into a carriage that stood before the door, and she drove with him to her own little house.
she laid him in her own little bed, and he slept one day and one night without awakening, and when he awoke he looked round and said, “good god!
where am i?” he called his attendants, but none of them were there.
at length his wife came to his bedside and said, “my dear lord and king, you told me i might bring away with me from the palace that which was dearest and most precious in my eyes i have nothing more precious and dear than yourself, so i have brought you with me.” tears rose to the king’s eyes and he said, “dear wife, thou shalt be mine and i will be thine,” and he took her back with him to the royal palace and was married again to her, and at the present time they are very likely still living.
95 old hildebrand
once upon a time lived a peasant and his wife, and the parson of the village had a fancy for the wife, and had wished for a long while to spend a whole day happily with her.
the peasant woman, too, was quite willing.
one day, therefore, he said to the woman, “listen, my dear friend, i have now thought of a way by which we can for once spend a whole day happily together.
i’ll tell you what; on wednesday, you must take to your bed, and tell your husband you are ill, and if you only complain and act being ill properly, and go on doing so until sunday when i have to preach, i will then say in my sermon that whosoever has at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick brother or whosoever else it may be, and makes a pilgrimage to the göckerli hill in italy, where you can get a peck of laurel-leaves for a kreuzer, the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, or sick mother, the sick sister, or whosoever else it may be, will be restored to health immediately.”
“i will manage it,” said the woman promptly.
now therefore on the wednesday, the peasant woman took to her bed, and complained and lamented as agreed on, and her husband did everything for her that he could think of, but nothing did her any good, and when sunday came the woman said, “i feel as ill as if i were going to die at once, but there is one thing i should like to do before my end i should like to hear the parson’s sermon that he is going to preach to-day.” on that the peasant said, “ah, my child, do not do it—thou mightest make thyself worse if thou wert to get up.
look, i will go to the sermon, and will attend to it very carefully, and will tell thee everything the parson says.”
“well,” said the woman, “go, then, and pay great attention, and repeat to me all that thou hearest.” so the peasant went to the sermon, and the parson began to preach and said, if any one had at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or any one else, and would make a pilgrimage to the göckerli hill in italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, sick husband, sick wife, sick father, sick mother, sick sister, brother, or whosoever else it might be, would be restored to health instantly, and whosoever wished to undertake the journey was to go to him after the service was over, and he would give him the sack for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer.
then no one was more rejoiced than the peasant, and after the service was over, he went at once to the parson, who gave him the bag for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer.
after that he went home, and even at the house door he cried, “hurrah!
dear wife, it is now almost the same thing as if thou wert well!
the parson has preached to-day that whosoever had at home a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or whoever it might be, and would make a pilgrimage to the göckerli hill in italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, sick husband, sick wife, sick father, sick mother, sick sister, brother, or whosoever else it was, would be cured immediately, and now i have already got the bag and the kreuzer from the parson, and will at once begin my journey so that thou mayst get well the faster,” and thereupon he went away.
he was, however, hardly gone before the woman got up, and the parson was there directly.
but now we will leave these two for a while, and follow the peasant, who walked on quickly without stopping, in order to get the sooner to the göckerli hill, and on his way he met his gossip.
his gossip was an egg-merchant, and was just coming from the market, where he had sold his eggs.
“may you be blessed,” said the gossip, “where are you off to so fast?”
“to all eternity, my friend,” said the peasant, “my wife is ill, and i have been to-day to hear the parson’s sermon, and he preached that if any one had in his house a sick child, a sick husband, a sick wife, a sick father, a sick mother, a sick sister, brother or any one else, and made a pilgrimage to the göckerli hill in italy, where a peck of laurel-leaves costs a kreuzer, the sick child, the sick husband, the sick wife, the sick father, the sick mother, the sick sister, brother or whosoever else it was, would be cured immediately, and so i have got the bag for the laurel-leaves and the kreuzer from the parson, and now i am beginning my pilgrimage.” “but listen, gossip,” said the egg-merchant to the peasant, “are you, then, stupid enough to believe such a thing as that?
don’t you know what it means?
the parson wants to spend a whole day alone with your wife in peace, so he has given you this job to do to get you out of the way.”
“my word!” said the peasant.
“how i’d like to know if that’s true!”
“come, then,” said the gossip, “i’ll tell you what to do.
get into my egg-basket and i will carry you home, and then you will see for yourself.” so that was settled, and the gossip put the peasant into his egg-basket and carried him home.
when they got to the house, hurrah!
but all was going merry there!
the woman had already had nearly everything killed that was in the farmyard, and had made pancakes, and the parson was there, and had brought his fiddle with him.
the gossip knocked at the door, and woman asked who was there.
“it is i, gossip,” said the egg-merchant, “give me shelter this night; i have not sold my eggs at the market, so now i have to carry them home again, and they are so heavy that i shall never be able to do it, for it is dark already.”
“indeed, my friend,” said the woman, “thou comest at a very inconvenient time for me, but as thou art here it can’t be helped, come in, and take a seat there on the bench by the stove.” then she placed the gossip and the basket which he carried on his back on the bench by the stove.
the parson, however, and the woman, were as merry as possible.
at length the parson said, “listen, my dear friend, thou canst sing beautifully; sing something to me.” “oh,” said the woman, “i cannot sing now, in my young days indeed i could sing well enough, but that’s all over now.”
“come,” said the parson once more, “do sing some little song.”
on that the woman began and sang,
“i’ve sent my husband away from me to the göckerli hill in italy.”
thereupon the parson sang,
“i wish ’twas a year before he came back, i’d never ask him for the laurel-leaf sack.”
hallelujah.
then the gossip who was in the background began to sing (but i ought to tell you the peasant was called hildebrand), so the gossip sang,
“what art thou doing, my hildebrand dear, there on the bench by the stove so near?”
hallelujah.
and then the peasant sang from his basket,
“all singing i ever shall hate from this day, and here in this basket no longer i’ll stay.”
hallelujah.
and he got out of the basket, and cudgelled the parson out of the house.
96 the three little birds
about a thousand or more years ago, there were in this country nothing but small kings, and one of them who lived on the keuterberg was very fond of hunting.
once on a time when he was riding forth from his castle with his huntsmen, three girls were watching their cows upon the mountain, and when they saw the king with all his followers, the eldest girl pointed to him, and called to the two other girls, “if i do not get that one, i will have none.” then the second girl answered from the other side of the hill, and pointed to the one who was on the king’s right hand, “hilloa!
hilloa!
if i do not get him, i will have no one.”
these, however, were the two ministers.
the king heard all this, and when he had come back from the chase, he caused the three girls to be brought to him, and asked them what they had said yesterday on the mountain.
this they would not tell him, so the king asked the eldest if she really would take him for her husband?
then she said, “yes,” and the two ministers married the two sisters, for they were all three fair and beautiful of face, especially the queen, who had hair like flax.
but the two sisters had no children, and once when the king was obliged to go from home he invited them to come to the queen in order to cheer her, for she was about to bear a child.
she had a little boy who brought a bright red star into the world with him.
then the two sisters said to each other that they would throw the beautiful boy into the water.
when they had thrown him in (i believe it was into the weser) a little bird flew up into the air, which sang,
“to thy death art thou sped, until god’s word be said.
in the white lily bloom, brave boy, is thy tomb.”
when the two heard that, they were frightened to death, and ran away in great haste.
when the king came home they told him that the queen had been delivered of a dog.
then the king said, “what god does, is well done!” but a fisherman who dwelt near the water fished the little boy out again while he was still alive, and as his wife had no children, they reared him.
when a year had gone by, the king again went away, and the queen had another little boy, whom the false sisters likewise took and threw into the water.
then up flew a little bird again and sang,
“to thy death art thou sped, until god’s word be said.
in the white lily bloom, brave boy, is thy tomb.”
and when the king came back, they told him that the queen had once more given birth to a dog, and he again said, “what god does, is well done.”
the fisherman, however, fished this one also out of the water, and reared him.
then the king again journeyed forth, and the queen had a little girl, whom also the false sisters threw into the water.
then again a little bird flew up on high and sang,
“to thy death art thou sped until god’s word be said.
in the white lily bloom, bonny girl, is thy tomb.”
and when the king came home they told him that the queen had been delivered of a cat.
then the king grew angry, and ordered his wife to be cast into prison, and therein was she shut up for many long years.
in the meantime the children had grown up.
then eldest once went out with some other boys to fish, but the other boys would not have him with them, and said, “go thy way, foundling.”
hereupon he was much troubled, and asked the old fisherman if that was true?
the fisherman told him that once when he was fishing he had drawn him out of the water.
so the boy said he would go forth and seek his father.
the fisherman, however, entreated him to stay, but he would not let himself be hindered, and at last the fisherman consented.
then the boy went on his way and walked for many days, and at last he came to a great piece of water by the side of which stood an old woman fishing.
“good day, mother,” said the boy.
“many thanks,” said she.
“thou wilt fish long enough before thou catchest anything.”
“and thou wilt seek long enough before thou findest thy father.
how wilt thou get over the water?” said the woman.
“god knows.”
then the old woman took him up on her back and carried him through it, and he sought for a long time, but could not find his father.
when a year had gone by, the second boy set out to seek his brother.
he came to the water, and all fared with him just as with his brother.
and now there was no one at home but the daughter, and she mourned for her brothers so much that at last she also begged the fisherman to let her set forth, for she wished to go in search of her brothers.
then she likewise came to the great piece of water, and she said to the old woman, “good day, mother.”
“many thanks,” replied the old woman.
“may god help you with your fishing,” said the maiden.
when the old woman heard that, she became quite friendly, and carried her over the water, gave her a wand, and said to her, “go, my daughter, ever onwards by this road, and when you come to a great black dog, you must pass it silently and boldly, without either laughing or looking at it.
then you will come to a great high castle, on the threshold of which you must let the wand fall, and go straight through the castle, and out again on the other side.
there you will see an old fountain out of which a large tree has grown, whereon hangs a bird in a cage which you must take down.
take likewise a glass of water out of the fountain, and with these two things go back by the same way.
pick up the wand again from the threshold and take it with you, and when you again pass by the dog, strike him in the face with it, but be sure that you hit him, and then just come back here to me.” the maiden found everything exactly as the old woman had said, and on her way back she found her two brothers who had sought each other over half the world.
they went together to the place where the black dog was lying on the road; she struck it in the face, and it turned into a handsome prince who went with them to the river.
there the old woman was still standing.
she rejoiced much to see them again, and carried them all over the water, and then she too went away, for now she was freed.
the others, however, went to the old fisherman, and all were glad that they had found each other again, but they hung the bird on the wall.
but the second son could not settle at home, and took his cross-bow and went a-hunting.
when he was tired he took his flute, and made music.
the king was hunting too, and heard that and went thither, and when he met the youth, he said, “who has given thee leave to hunt here?”
“oh, no one.”
“to whom dost thou belong, then?”
“i am the fisherman’s son.”
“but he has no children.”
“if thou wilt not believe, come with me.”
that the king did, and questioned the fisherman, who told everything to him, and the little bird on the wall began to sing,
“the mother sits alone there in the prison small, o king of royal blood, these are thy children all.
the sisters twain so false, they wrought the children woe, there in the waters deep where the fishermen come and go.”
then they were all terrified, and the king took the bird, the fisherman and the three children back with him to the castle, and ordered the prison to be opened and brought his wife out again.
she had, however, grown quite ill and weak.
then the daughter gave her some of the water of the fountain to drink, and she became strong and healthy.
but the two false sisters were burnt, and the daughter married the prince.
97 the water of life
there was once a king who had an illness, and no one believed that he would come out of it with his life.
he had three sons who were much distressed about it, and went down into the palace-garden and wept.
there they met an old man who inquired as to the cause of their grief.
they told him that their father was so ill that he would most certainly die, for nothing seemed to cure him.
then the old man said, “i know of one more remedy, and that is the water of life; if he drinks of it he will become well again; but it is hard to find.” the eldest said, “i will manage to find it,” and went to the sick king, and begged to be allowed to go forth in search of the water of life, for that alone could save him.
“no,” said the king, “the danger of it is too great.
i would rather die.” but he begged so long that the king consented.
the prince thought in his heart, “if i bring the water, then i shall be best beloved of my father, and shall inherit the kingdom.” so he set out, and when he had ridden forth a little distance, a dwarf stood there in the road who called to him and said, “whither away so fast?”
“silly shrimp,” said the prince, very haughtily, “it is nothing to do with you,” and rode on.
but the little dwarf had grown angry, and had wished an evil wish.
soon after this the prince entered a ravine, and the further he rode the closer the mountains drew together, and at last the road became so narrow that he could not advance a step further; it was impossible either to turn his horse or to dismount from the saddle, and he was shut in there as if in prison.
the sick king waited long for him, but he came not.
then the second son said, “father, let me go forth to seek the water,” and thought to himself, “if my brother is dead, then the kingdom will fall to me.” at first the king would not allow him to go either, but at last he yielded, so the prince set out on the same road that his brother had taken, and he too met the dwarf, who stopped him to ask, whither he was going in such haste?
“little shrimp,” said the prince, “that is nothing to thee,” and rode on without giving him another look.
but the dwarf bewitched him, and he, like the other, rode into a ravine, and could neither go forwards nor backwards.
so fare haughty people.
as the second son also remained away, the youngest begged to be allowed to go forth to fetch the water, and at last the king was obliged to let him go.
when he met the dwarf and the latter asked him whither he was going in such haste, he stopped, gave him an explanation, and said, “i am seeking the water of life, for my father is sick unto death.” “dost thou know, then, where that is to be found?” “no,” said the prince.
“as thou hast borne thyself as is seemly, and not haughtily like thy false brothers, i will give thee the information and tell thee how thou mayst obtain the water of life.
it springs from a fountain in the courtyard of an enchanted castle, but thou wilt not be able to make thy way to it, if i do not give thee an iron wand and two small loaves of bread.
strike thrice with the wand on the iron door of the castle and it will spring open: inside lie two lions with gaping jaws, but if thou throwest a loaf to each of them, they will be quieted.
then hasten to fetch some of the water of life before the clock strikes twelve, else the door will shut again, and thou wilt be imprisoned.” the prince thanked him, took the wand and the bread, and set out on his way.
when he arrived, everything was as the dwarf had said.
the door sprang open at the third stroke of the wand, and when he had appeased the lions with the bread, he entered the castle, and came to a large and splendid hall, wherein sat some enchanted princes whose rings he drew off their fingers.
a sword and a loaf of bread were lying there, which he carried away.
after this, he entered a chamber, in which was a beautiful maiden who rejoiced when she saw him, kissed him, and told him that he had delivered her, and should have the whole of her kingdom, and that if he would return in a year their wedding should be celebrated; likewise she told him where the spring of the water of life was, and that he was to hasten and draw some of it before the clock struck twelve.
then he went onwards, and at last entered a room where there was a beautiful newly-made bed, and as he was very weary, he felt inclined to rest a little.
so he lay down and fell asleep.
when he awoke, it was striking a quarter to twelve.
he sprang up in a fright, ran to the spring, drew some water in a cup which stood near, and hastened away.
but just as he was passing through the iron door, the clock struck twelve, and the door fell to with such violence that it carried away a piece of his heel.
he, however, rejoicing at having obtained the water of life, went homewards, and again passed the dwarf.
when the latter saw the sword and the loaf, he said, “with these thou hast won great wealth; with the sword thou canst slay whole armies, and the bread will never come to an end.” but the prince would not go home to his father without his brothers, and said, “dear dwarf, canst thou not tell me where my two brothers are?
they went out before i did in search of the water of life, and have not returned.” “they are imprisoned between two mountains,” said the dwarf.
“i have condemned them to stay there, because they were so haughty.” then the prince begged until the dwarf released them; but he warned him, however, and said, “beware of them, for they have bad hearts.” when his brothers came, he rejoiced, and told them how things had gone with him, that he had found the water of life and had brought a cupful away with him, and had rescued a beautiful princess, who was willing to wait a year for him, and then their wedding was to be celebrated and he would obtain a great kingdom.
after that they rode on together, and chanced upon a land where war and famine reigned, and the king already thought he must perish, for the scarcity was so great.
then the prince went to him and gave him the loaf, wherewith he fed and satisfied the whole of his kingdom, and then the prince gave him the sword also wherewith he slew the hosts of his enemies, and could now live in rest and peace.
the prince then took back his loaf and his sword, and the three brothers rode on.
but after this they entered two more countries where war and famine reigned and each time the prince gave his loaf and his sword to the kings, and had now delivered three kingdoms, and after that they went on board a ship and sailed over the sea.
during the passage, the two eldest conversed apart and said, “the youngest has found the water of life and not we, for that our father will give him the kingdom the kingdom which belongs to us, and he will rob us of all our fortune.” they then began to seek revenge, and plotted with each other to destroy him.
they waited until they found him fast asleep, then they poured the water of life out of the cup, and took it for themselves, but into the cup they poured salt sea-water.
now therefore, when they arrived home, the youngest took his cup to the sick king in order that he might drink out of it, and be cured.
but scarcely had he drunk a very little of the salt sea-water than he became still worse than before.
and as he was lamenting over this, the two eldest brothers came, and accused the youngest of having intended to poison him, and said that they had brought him the true water of life, and handed it to him.
he had scarcely tasted it, when he felt his sickness departing, and became strong and healthy as in the days of his youth.
after that they both went to the youngest, mocked him, and said, “you certainly found the water of life, but you have had the pain, and we the gain; you should have been sharper, and should have kept your eyes open.
we took it from you whilst you were asleep at sea, and when a year is over, one of us will go and fetch the beautiful princess.
but beware that you do not disclose aught of this to our father; indeed he does not trust you, and if you say a single word, you shall lose your life into the bargain, but if you keep silent, you shall have it as a gift.”
the old king was angry with his youngest son, and thought he had plotted against his life.
so he summoned the court together and had sentence pronounced upon his son, that he should be secretly shot.
and once when the prince was riding forth to the chase, suspecting no evil, the king’s huntsman had to go with him, and when they were quite alone in the forest, the huntsman looked so sorrowful that the prince said to him, “dear huntsman, what ails you?” the huntsman said, “i cannot tell you, and yet i ought.” then the prince said, “say openly what it is, i will pardon you.” “alas!” said the huntsman, “i am to shoot you dead, the king has ordered me to do it.” then the prince was shocked, and said, “dear huntsman, let me live; there, i give you my royal garments; give me your common ones in their stead.” the huntsman said, “i will willingly do that, indeed i should not have been able to shoot you.”
then they exchanged clothes, and the huntsman returned home; the prince, however, went further into the forest.
after a time three waggons of gold and precious stones came to the king for his youngest son, which were sent by the three kings who had slain their enemies with the prince’s sword, and maintained their people with his bread, and who wished to show their gratitude for it.
the old king then thought, “can my son have been innocent?” and said to his people, “would that he were still alive, how it grieves me that i have suffered him to be killed!” “he still lives,” said the huntsman, “i could not find it in my heart to carry out your command,” and told the king how it had happened.
then a stone fell from the king’s heart, and he had it proclaimed in every country that his son might return and be taken into favour again.
the princess, however, had a road made up to her palace which was quite bright and golden, and told her people that whosoever came riding straight along it to her, would be the right wooer and was to be admitted, and whoever rode by the side of it, was not the right one, and was not to be admitted.
as the time was now close at hand, the eldest thought he would hasten to go to the king’s daughter, and give himself out as her deliverer, and thus win her for his bride, and the kingdom to boot.
therefore he rode forth, and when he arrived in front of the palace, and saw the splendid golden road, he thought, it would be a sin and a shame if he were to ride over that, and turned aside, and rode on the right side of it.
but when he came to the door, the servants told him that he was not the right man, and was to go away again.
soon after this the second prince set out, and when he came to the golden road, and his horse had put one foot on it, he thought, it would be a sin and a shame to tread a piece of it off, and he turned aside and rode on the left side of it, and when he reached the door, the attendants told him he was not the right one, and he was to go away again.
when at last the year had entirely expired, the third son likewise wished to ride out of the forest to his beloved, and with her forget his sorrows.
so he set out and thought of her so incessantly, and wished to be with her so much, that he never noticed the golden road at all.
so his horse rode onwards up the middle of it, and when he came to the door, it was opened and the princess received him with joy, and said he was her deliverer, and lord of the kingdom, and their wedding was celebrated with great rejoicing.
when it was over she told him that his father invited him to come to him, and had forgiven him.
so he rode thither, and told him everything; how his brothers had betrayed him, and how he had nevertheless kept silence.
the old king wished to punish them, but they had put to sea, and never came back as long as they lived.
98 doctor knowall
there was once on a time a poor peasant called crabb, who drove with two oxen a load of wood to the town, and sold it to a doctor for two thalers.
when the money was being counted out to him, it so happened that the doctor was sitting at table, and when the peasant saw how daintily he ate and drank, his heart desired what he saw, and he would willingly have been a doctor too.
so he remained standing a while, and at length inquired if he too could not be a doctor.
“oh, yes,” said the doctor, “that is soon managed.” “what must i do?” asked the peasant.
“in the first place buy thyself an a b c book of the kind which has a cock on the frontispiece: in the second, turn thy cart and thy two oxen into money, and get thyself some clothes, and whatsoever else pertains to medicine; thirdly, have a sign painted for thyself with the words, “i am doctor knowall,” and have that nailed up above thy house-door.”
the peasant did everything that he had been told to do.
when he had doctored people awhile, but not long, a rich and great lord had some money stolen.
then he was told about doctor knowall who lived in such and such a village, and must know what had become of the money.
so the lord had the horses put in his carriage, drove out to the village, and asked crabb if he were doctor knowall?
yes, he was, he said.
then he was to go with him and bring back the stolen money.
“oh, yes, but grethe, my wife, must go too.” the lord was willing and let both of them have a seat in the carriage, and they all drove away together.
when they came to the nobleman’s castle, the table was spread, and crabb was told to sit down and eat.
“yes, but my wife, grethe, too,”
said he, and he seated himself with her at the table.
and when the first servant came with a dish of delicate fare, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, “grethe, that was the first,” meaning that was the servant who brought the first dish.
the servant, however, thought he intended by that to say, “that is the first thief,” and as he actually was so, he was terrified, and said to his comrade outside, “the doctor knows all: we shall fare ill, he said i was the first.” the second did not want to go in at all, but was forced.
so when he went in with his dish, the peasant nudged his wife, and said, “grethe, that is the second.” this servant was just as much alarmed, and he got out.
the third did not fare better, for the peasant again said, “grethe, that is the third.” the fourth had to carry in a dish that was covered, and the lord told the doctor that he was to show his skill, and guess what was beneath the cover.
the doctor looked at the dish, had no idea what to say, and cried, “ah, poor crabb.” when the lord heard that, he cried, “there!
he knows it, he knows who has the money!”
on this the servants looked terribly uneasy, and made a sign to the doctor that they wished him to step outside for a moment.
when therefore he went out, all four of them confessed to him that they had stolen the money, and said that they would willingly restore it and give him a heavy sum into the bargain, if he would not denounce them, for if he did they would be hanged.
they led him to the spot where the money was concealed.
with this the doctor was satisfied, and returned to the hall, sat down to the table, and said, “my lord, now will i search in my book where the gold is hidden.” the fifth servant, however, crept into the stove to hear if the doctor knew still more.
the doctor, however, sat still and opened his a b c book, turned the pages backwards and forwards, and looked for the cock.
as he could not find it immediately he said, “i know you are there, so you had better show yourself.” then the fellow in the stove thought that the doctor meant him, and full of terror, sprang out, crying, “that man knows everything!” then dr. knowall showed the count where the money was, but did not say who had stolen it, and received from both sides much money in reward, and became a renowned man.
99 the spirit in the bottle
there was once a poor woodcutter who toiled from early morning till late night.
when at last he had laid by some money he said to his boy, “you are my only child, i will spend the money which i have earned with the sweat of my brow on your education; if you learn some honest trade you can support me in my old age, when my limbs have grown stiff and i am obliged to stay at home.” then the boy went to a high school and learned diligently so that his masters praised him, and he remained there a long time.
when he had worked through two classes, but was still not yet perfect in everything, the little pittance which the father had earned was all spent, and the boy was obliged to return home to him.
“ah,” said the father, sorrowfully, “i can give you no more, and in these hard times i cannot earn a farthing more than will suffice for our daily bread.” “dear father,” answered the son, “don’t trouble yourself about it, if it is god’s will, it will turn to my advantage i shall soon accustom myself to it.” when the father wanted to go into the forest to earn money by helping to pile and stack wood and also chop it, the son said, “i will go with you and help you.” “nay, my son,” said the father, “that would be hard for you; you are not accustomed to rough work, and will not be able to bear it, besides i have only one axe and no money left wherewith to buy another.” “just go to the neighbour,” answered the son, “he will lend you his axe until i have earned one for myself.” the father then borrowed an axe of the neighbour, and next morning at break of day they went out into the forest together.
the son helped his father and was quite merry and brisk about it.
but when the sun was right over their heads, the father said, “we will rest, and have our dinner, and then we shall work as well again.” the son took his bread in his hands, and said, “just you rest, father, i am not tired; i will walk up and down a little in the forest, and look for birds’ nests.” “oh, you fool,” said the father, “why should you want to run about there?
afterwards you will be tired, and no longer able to raise your arm; stay here, and sit down beside me.” the son, however, went into the forest, ate his bread, was very merry and peered in among the green branches to see if he could discover a bird’s nest anywhere.
so he went up and down to see if he could find a bird’s nest until at last he came to a great dangerous-looking oak, which certainly was already many hundred years old, and which five men could not have spanned.
he stood still and looked at it, and thought, “many a bird must have built its nest in that.” then all at once it seemed to him that he heard a voice.
he listened and became aware that someone was crying in a very smothered voice, “let me out, let me out!” he looked around, but could discover nothing; nevertheless, he fancied that the voice came out of the ground.
then he cried, “where art thou?” the voice answered, “i am down here amongst the roots of the oak-tree.
let me out!
let me out!” the scholar began to loosen the earth under the tree, and search among the roots, until at last he found a glass bottle in a little hollow.
he lifted it up and held it against the light, and then saw a creature shaped like a frog, springing up and down in it.
“let me out!
let me out!” it cried anew, and the scholar thinking no evil, drew the cork out of the bottle.
immediately a spirit ascended from it, and began to grow, and grew so fast that in a very few moments he stood before the scholar, a terrible fellow as big as half the tree by which he was standing.
“knowest thou,” he cried in an awful voice, “what thy wages are for having let me out?” “no,” replied the scholar fearlessly, “how should i know that?” “then i will tell thee,” cried the spirit; “i must strangle thee for it.” “thou shouldst have told me that sooner,” said the scholar, “for i should then have left thee shut up, but my head shall stand fast for all thou canst do; more persons than one must be consulted about that.” “more persons here, more persons there,” said the spirit.
“thou shalt have the wages thou hast earned.
dost thou think that i was shut up there for such a long time as a favour.
no, it was a punishment for me.
i am the mighty mercurius.
whoso releases me, him must i strangle.” “softly,” answered the scholar, “not so fast.
i must first know that thou really wert shut up in that little bottle, and that thou art the right spirit.
if, indeed, thou canst get in again, i will believe and then thou mayst do as thou wilt with me.” the spirit said haughtily, “that is a very trifling feat,” drew himself together, and made himself as small and slender as he had been at first, so that he crept through the same opening, and right through the neck of the bottle in again.
scarcely was he within than the scholar thrust the cork he had drawn back into the bottle, and threw it among the roots of the oak into its old place, and the spirit was betrayed.
and now the scolar was about to return to his father, but the spirit cried very piteously, “ah, do let me out!
ah, do let me out!” “no,”
answered the scholar, “not a second time!
he who has once tried to take my life shall not be set free by me, now that i have caught him again.”
“if thou wilt set me free,” said the spirit, “i will give thee so much that thou wilt have plenty all the days of thy life.” “no,” answered the boy, “thou wouldst cheat me as thou didst the first time.” “thou art playing away with thy own good luck,” said the spirit; “i will do thee no harm but will reward thee richly.” the scholar thought, “i will venture it, perhaps he will keep his word, and anyhow he shall not get the better of me.” then he took out the cork, and the spirit rose up from the bottle as he had done before, stretched himself out and became as big as a giant.
“now thou shalt have thy reward,” said he, and handed the scholar a little bag just like a plaster, and said, “if thou spreadest one end of this over a wound it will heal, and if thou rubbest steel or iron with the other end it will be changed into silver.” “i must just try that,” said the scholar, and went to a tree, tore off the bark with his axe, and rubbed it with one end of the plaster.
it immediately closed together and was healed.
“now, it is all right,” he said to the spirit, “and we can part.” the spirit thanked him for his release, and the boy thanked the spirit for his present, and went back to his father.
“where hast thou been racing about?” said the father; “why hast thou forgotten thy work?
i said at once that thou wouldst never get on with anything.” “be easy, father, i will make it up.” “make it up indeed,”
said the father angrily, “there’s no art in that.” “take care, father, i will soon hew that tree there, so that it will split.” then he took his plaster, rubbed the axe with it, and dealt a mighty blow, but as the iron had changed into silver, the edge turned; “hollo, father, just look what a bad axe you’ve given me, it has become quite crooked.” the father was shocked and said, “ah, what hast thou done?
now i shall have to pay for that, and have not the wherewithal, and that is all the good i have got by thy work.” “don’t get angry,” said the son, “i will soon pay for the axe.” “oh, thou blockhead,” cried the father, “wherewith wilt thou pay for it?
thou hast nothing but what i give thee.
these are students’ tricks that are sticking in thy head, but thou hast no idea of wood-cutting.” after a while the scholar said, “father, i can really work no more, we had better take a holiday.” “eh, what!” answered he, “dost thou think i will sit with my hands lying in my lap like thee?
i must go on working, but thou mayst take thyself off home.” “father, i am here in this wood for the first time, i don’t know my way alone.
do go with me.” as his anger had now abated, the father at last let himself be persuaded and went home with him.
then he said to the son, “go and sell thy damaged axe, and see what thou canst get for it, and i must earn the difference, in order to pay the neighbour.” the son took the axe, and carried it into town to a goldsmith, who tested it, laid it in the scales, and said, “it is worth four hundred thalers, i have not so much as that by me.” the son said, “give me what thou hast, i will lend you the rest.” the goldsmith gave him three hundred thalers, and remained a hundred in his debt.
the son thereupon went home and said, “father, i have got the money, go and ask the neighbour what he wants for the axe.” “i know that already,” answered the old man, “one thaler, six groschen.” “then give him two thalers, twelve groschen, that is double and enough; see, i have money in plenty,” and he gave the father a hundred thalers, and said, “you shall never know want, live as comfortably as you like.” “good heavens!” said the father, “how hast thou come by these riches?” the scholar then told how all had come to pass, and how he, trusting in his luck, had made such a good hit.
but with the money that was left, he went back to the high school and went on learning more, and as he could heal all wounds with his plaster, he became the most famous doctor in the whole world.
100 the devil’s sooty brother
a disbanded soldier had nothing to live on, and did not know how to get on.
so he went out into the forest and when he had walked for a short time, he met a little man who was, however, the devil.
the little man said to him, “what ails you, you seem so very sorrowful?” then the soldier said, “i am hungry, but have no money.” the devil said, “if you will hire yourself to me, and be my serving-man, you shall have enough for all your life.
you shall serve me for seven years, and after that you shall again be free.
but one thing i must tell you, and that is, you must not wash, comb, or trim yourself, or cut your hair or nails, or wipe the water from your eyes.” the soldier said, “all right, if there is no help for it,” and went off with the little man, who straightway led him down into hell.
then he told him what he had to do.
he was to poke the fire under the kettles wherein the hell-broth was stewing, keep the house clean, drive all the sweepings behind the doors, and see that everything was in order, but if he once peeped into the kettles, it would go ill with him.
the soldier said, “good, i will take care.” and then the old devil went out again on his wanderings, and the soldier entered upon his new duties, made the fire, and swept the dirt well behind the doors, just as he had been bidden.
when the old devil came back again, he looked to see if all had been done, appeared satisfied, and went forth a second time.
the soldier now took a good look on every side; the kettles were standing all round hell with a mighty fire below them, and inside they were boiling and sputtering.
he would have given anything to look inside them, if the devil had not so particularly forbidden him: at last, he could no longer restrain himself, slightly raised the lid of the first kettle, and peeped in, and there he saw his former corporal shut in.
“aha, old bird!” said he, “do i meet you here?
you once had me in your power, now i have you,” and he quickly let the lid fall, poked the fire, and added a fresh log.
after that, he went to the second kettle, raised its lid also a little, and peeped in; his former ensign was in that.
“aha, old bird, so i find you here!
you once had me in your power, now i have you.” he closed the lid again, and fetched yet another log to make it really hot.
then he wanted to see who might be sitting up in the third kettle it was actually be but a general.
“aha, old bird, do i meet you here?
once you had me in your power, now i have you.” and he fetched the bellows and made hell-fire blaze right under him.
so he did his work seven years in hell, did not wash, comb, or trim himself, or cut his hair or nails, or wash the water out of his eyes, and the seven years seemed so short to him that he thought he had only been half a year.
now when the time had fully gone by, the devil came and said, “well hans, what have you done?” “i poked the fire under the kettles, and i have swept all the dirt well behind the doors.”
“but you have peeped into the kettles as well; it is lucky for you that you added fresh logs to them, or else your life would have been forfeited; now that your time is up, will you go home again?” “yes,”
said the soldier, “i should very much like to see what my father is doing at home.” the devil said, “in order that you may receive the wages you have earned, go and fill your knapsack full of the sweepings, and take it home with you.
you must also go unwashed and uncombed, with long hair on your head and beard, and with uncut nails and dim eyes, and when you are asked whence you come, you must say, “from hell,” and when you are asked who you are, you are to say, “the devil’s sooty brother, and my king as well.” the soldier held his peace, and did as the devil bade him, but he was not at all satisfied with his wages.
then as soon as he was up in the forest again, he took his knapsack from his back, to empty it, but on opening it, the sweepings had become pure gold.
“i should never have expected that,” said he, and was well pleased, and entered the town.
the landlord was standing in front of the inn, and when he saw the soldier approaching, he was terrified, because hans looked so horrible, worse than a scare-crow.
he called to him and asked, “whence comest thou?” “from hell.” “who art thou?” “the devil’s sooty brother, and my king as well.” then the host would not let him enter, but when hans showed him the gold, he came and unlatched the door himself.
hans then ordered the best room and attendance, ate, and drank his fill, but neither washed nor combed himself as the devil had bidden him, and at last lay down to sleep.
but the knapsack full of gold remained before the eyes of the landlord, and left him no peace, and during the night he crept in and stole it away.
next morning, however, when hans got up and wanted to pay the landlord and travel further, behold his knapsack was gone!
but he soon composed himself and thought, “thou hast been unfortunate from no fault of thine own,” and straightway went back again to hell, complained of his misfortune to the old devil, and begged for his help.
the devil said, “seat yourself, i will wash, comb, and trim you, cut your hair and nails, and wash your eyes for you,” and when he had done with him, he gave him the knapsack back again full of sweepings, and said, “go and tell the landlord that he must return you your money, or else i will come and fetch him, and he shall poke the fire in your place.” hans went up and said to the landlord, “thou hast stolen my money; if thou dost not return it, thou shalt go down to hell in my place, and wilt look as horrible as i.”
then the landlord gave him the money, and more besides, only begging him to keep it secret, and hans was now a rich man.
he set out on his way home to his father, bought himself a shabby smock-frock to wear, and strolled about making music, for he had learned to do that while he was with the devil in hell.
there was however, an old king in that country, before whom he had to play, and the king was so delighted with his playing, that he promised him his eldest daughter in marriage.
but when she heard that she was to be married to a common fellow in a smock-frock, she said, “rather than do that, i would go into the deepest water.” then the king gave him the youngest, who was quite willing to do it to please her father, and thus the devil’s sooty brother got the king’s daughter, and when the aged king died, the whole kingdom likewise.
101 bearskin
there was once a young fellow who enlisted as a soldier, conducted himself bravely, and was always the foremost when it rained bullets.
so long as the war lasted, all went well, but when peace was made, he received his dismissal, and the captain said he might go where he liked.
his parents were dead, and he had no longer a home, so he went to his brothers and begged them to take him in, and keep him until war broke out again.
the brothers, however, were hard-hearted and said, “what can we do with thee?
thou art of no use to us; go and make a living for thyself.” the soldier had nothing left but his gun; he took that on his shoulder, and went forth into the world.
he came to a wide heath, on which nothing was to be seen but a circle of trees; under these he sat sorrowfully down, and began to think over his fate.
“i have no money,” thought he, “i have learnt no trade but that of fighting, and now that they have made peace they don’t want me any longer; so i see beforehand that i shall have to starve.” all at once he heard a rustling, and when he looked round, a strange man stood before him, who wore a green coat and looked right stately, but had a hideous cloven foot.
“i know already what thou art in need of,” said the man; “gold and possessions shall thou have, as much as thou canst make away with do what thou wilt, but first i must know if thou art fearless, that i may not bestow my money in vain.” “a soldier and fear—how can those two things go together?” he answered; “thou canst put me to the proof.” “very well, then,” answered the man, “look behind thee.” the soldier turned round, and saw a large bear, which came growling towards him.
“oho!” cried the soldier, “i will tickle thy nose for thee, so that thou shalt soon lose thy fancy for growling,” and he aimed at the bear and shot it through the muzzle; it fell down and never stirred again.
“i see quite well,” said the stranger, “that thou art not wanting in courage, but there is still another condition which thou wilt have to fulfil.” “if it does not endanger my salvation,”
replied the soldier, who knew very well who was standing by him.
“if it does, i’ll have nothing to do with it.” “thou wilt look to that for thyself,” answered greencoat; “thou shalt for the next seven years neither wash thyself, nor comb thy beard, nor thy hair, nor cut thy nails, nor say one paternoster.
i will give thee a coat and a cloak, which during this time thou must wear.
if thou diest during these seven years, thou art mine; if thou remainest alive, thou art free, and rich to boot, for all the rest of thy life.” the soldier thought of the great extremity in which he now found himself, and as he so often had gone to meet death, he resolved to risk it now also, and agreed to the terms.
the devil took off his green coat, gave it to the soldier, and said, “if thou hast this coat on thy back and puttest thy hand into the pocket, thou wilt always find it full of money.” then he pulled the skin off the bear and said, “this shall be thy cloak, and thy bed also, for thereon shalt thou sleep, and in no other bed shalt thou lie, and because of this apparel shalt thou be called bearskin.” after this the devil vanished.
the soldier put the coat on, felt at once in the pocket, and found that the thing was really true.
then he put on the bearskin and went forth into the world, and enjoyed himself, refraining from nothing that did him good and his money harm.
during the first year his appearance was passable, but during the second he began to look like a monster.
his hair covered nearly the whole of his face, his beard was like a piece of coarse felt, his fingers had claws, and his face was so covered with dirt that if cress had been sown on it, it would have come up.
whosoever saw him, ran away, but as he everywhere gave the poor money to pray that he might not die during the seven years, and as he paid well for everything he still always found shelter.
in the fourth year, he entered an inn where the landlord would not receive him, and would not even let him have a place in the stable, because he was afraid the horses would be scared.
but as bearskin thrust his hand into his pocket and pulled out a handful of ducats, the host let himself be persuaded and gave him a room in an outhouse.
bearskin was, however, obliged to promise not to let himself be seen, lest the inn should get a bad name.
as bearskin was sitting alone in the evening, and wishing from the bottom of his heart that the seven years were over, he heard a loud lamenting in a neighboring room.
he had a compassionate heart, so he opened the door, and saw an old man weeping bitterly, and wringing his hands.
bearskin went nearer, but the man sprang to his feet and tried to escape from him.
at last when the man perceived that bearskin’s voice was human he let himself be prevailed on, and by kind words bearskin succeeded so far that the old man revealed the cause of his grief.
his property had dwindled away by degrees, he and his daughters would have to starve, and he was so poor that he could not pay the innkeeper, and was to be put in prison.
“if that is your only trouble,”
said bearskin, “i have plenty of money.” he caused the innkeeper to be brought thither, paid him and put a purse full of gold into the poor old man’s pocket besides.
when the old man saw himself set free from all his troubles he did not know how to be grateful enough.
“come with me,” said he to bearskin; “my daughters are all miracles of beauty, choose one of them for thyself as a wife.
when she hears what thou hast done for me, she will not refuse thee.
thou dost in truth look a little strange, but she will soon put thee to rights again.” this pleased bearskin well, and he went.
when the eldest saw him she was so terribly alarmed at his face that she screamed and ran away.
the second stood still and looked at him from head to foot, but then she said, “how can i accept a husband who no longer has a human form?
the shaven bear that once was here and passed itself off for a man pleased me far better, for at any rate it wore a hussar’s dress and white gloves.
if it were nothing but ugliness, i might get used to that.” the youngest, however, said, “dear father, that must be a good man to have helped you out of your trouble, so if you have promised him a bride for doing it, your promise must be kept.” it was a pity that bearskin’s face was covered with dirt and with hair, for if not they might have seen how delighted he was when he heard these words.
he took a ring from his finger, broke it in two, and gave her one half, the other he kept for himself.
he wrote his name, however, on her half, and hers on his, and begged her to keep her piece carefully, and then he took his leave and said, “i must still wander about for three years, and if i do not return then, thou art free, for i shall be dead.
but pray to god to preserve my life.”
the poor betrothed bride dressed herself entirely in black, and when she thought of her future bridegroom, tears came into her eyes.
nothing but contempt and mockery fell to her lot from her sisters.
“take care,”
said the eldest, “if thou givest him thy hand, he will strike his claws into it.” “beware!” said the second.
“bears like sweet things, and if he takes a fancy to thee, he will eat thee up.” “thou must always do as he likes,” began the elder again, “or else he will growl.” and the second continued, “but the wedding will be a merry one, for bears dance well.” the bride was silent, and did not let them vex her.
bearskin, however, travelled about the world from one place to another, did good where he was able, and gave generously to the poor that they might pray for him.
at length, as the last day of the seven years dawned, he went once more out on to the heath, and seated himself beneath the circle of trees.
it was not long before the wind whistled, and the devil stood before him and looked angrily at him; then he threw bearskin his old coat, and asked for his own green one back.
“we have not got so far as that yet,”
answered bearskin, “thou must first make me clean.” whether the devil liked it or not, he was forced to fetch water, and wash bearskin, comb his hair, and cut his nails.
after this, he looked like a brave soldier, and was much handsomer than he had ever been before.
when the devil had gone away, bearskin was quite lighthearted.
he went into the town, put on a magnificent velvet coat, seated himself in a carriage drawn by four white horses, and drove to his bride’s house.
no one recognized him, the father took him for a distinguished general, and led him into the room where his daughters were sitting.
he was forced to place himself between the two eldest, they helped him to wine, gave him the best pieces of meat, and thought that in all the world they had never seen a handsomer man.
the bride, however, sat opposite to him in her black dress, and never raised her eyes, nor spoke a word.
when at length he asked the father if he would give him one of his daughters to wife, the two eldest jumped up, ran into their bedrooms to put on splendid dresses, for each of them fancied she was the chosen one.
the stranger, as soon as he was alone with his bride, brought out his half of the ring, and threw it in a glass of wine which he reached across the table to her.
she took the wine, but when she had drunk it, and found the half ring lying at the bottom, her heart began to beat.
she got the other half, which she wore on a ribbon round her neck, joined them, and saw that the two pieces fitted exactly together.
then said he, “i am thy betrothed bridegroom, whom thou sawest as bearskin, but through god’s grace i have again received my human form, and have once more become clean.” he went up to her, embraced her, and gave her a kiss.
in the meantime the two sisters came back in full dress, and when they saw that the handsome man had fallen to the share of the youngest, and heard that he was bearskin, they ran out full of anger and rage.
one of them drowned herself in the well, the other hanged herself on a tree.
in the evening, some one knocked at the door, and when the bridegroom opened it, it was the devil in his green coat, who said, “seest thou, i have now got two souls in the place of thy one!”
102 the willow-wren and the bear
once in summer-time the bear and the wolf were walking in the forest, and the bear heard a bird singing so beautifully that he said, “brother wolf, what bird is it that sings so well?” “that is the king of birds,”
said the wolf, “before whom we must bow down.” it was, however, in reality the willow-wren (zaunkönig).
“if that’s the case,” said the bear, “i should very much like to see his royal palace; come, take me thither.” “that is not done quite as you seem to think,” said the wolf; “you must wait until the queen comes.” soon afterwards, the queen arrived with some food in her beak, and the lord king came too, and they began to feed their young ones.
the bear would have liked to go at once, but the wolf held him back by the sleeve, and said, “no, you must wait until the lord and lady queen have gone away again.” so they observed the hole in which was the nest, and trotted away.
the bear, however, could not rest until he had seen the royal palace, and when a short time had passed, again went to it.
the king and queen had just flown out, so he peeped in and saw five or six young ones lying in it.
“is that the royal palace?” cried the bear; “it is a wretched palace, and you are not king’s children, you are disreputable children!” when the young wrens heard that, they were frightfully angry, and screamed, “no, that we are not!
our parents are honest people!
bear, thou wilt have to pay for that!”
the bear and the wolf grew uneasy, and turned back and went into their holes.
the young willow-wrens, however, continued to cry and scream, and when their parents again brought food they said, “we will not so much as touch one fly’s leg, no, not if we were dying of hunger, until you have settled whether we are respectable children or not; the bear has been here and has insulted us!” then the old king said, “be easy, he shall be punished,” and he at once flew with the queen to the bear’s cave, and called in, “old growler, why hast thou insulted my children?
thou shalt suffer for it we will punish thee by a bloody war.” thus war was announced to the bear, and all four-footed animals were summoned to take part in it, oxen, asses, cows, deer, and every other animal the earth contained.
and the willow-wren summoned everything which flew in the air, not only birds, large and small, but midges, and hornets, bees and flies had to come.
when the time came for the war to begin, the willow-wren sent out spies to discover who was the enemy’s commander-in-chief.
the gnat, who was the most crafty, flew into the forest where the enemy was assembled, and hid herself beneath a leaf of the tree where the watchword was to be given.
there stood the bear, and he called the fox before him and said, “fox, thou art the most cunning of all animals, thou shalt be general and lead us.” “good,” said the fox, “but what signal shall we agree upon?” no one knew that, so the fox said, “i have a fine long bushy tail, which almost looks like a plume of red feathers.
when i lift my tail up quite high, all is going well, and you must charge; but if i let it hang down, run away as fast as you can.” when the gnat had heard that, she flew away again, and revealed everything, with the greatest minuteness, to the willow-wren.
when day broke, and the battle was to begin, all the four-footed animals came running up with such a noise that the earth trembled.
the willow-wren also came flying through the air with his army with such a humming, and whirring, and swarming that every one was uneasy and afraid, and on both sides they advanced against each other.
but the willow-wren sent down the hornet, with orders to get beneath the fox’s tail, and sting with all his might.
when the fox felt the first sting, he started so that he drew up one leg, with the pain, but he bore it, and still kept his tail high in the air; at the second sting, he was forced to put it down for a moment; at the third, he could hold out no longer, and screamed out and put his tail between his legs.
when the animals saw that, they thought all was lost, and began to fly, each into his hole and the birds had won the battle.
then the king and queen flew home to their children and cried, “children, rejoice, eat and drink to your heart’s content, we have won the battle!” but the young wrens said, “we will not eat yet, the bear must come to the nest, and beg for pardon and say that we are honorable children, before we will do that.” then the willow-wren flew to the bear’s hole and cried, “growler, thou art to come to the nest to my children, and beg their pardon, or else every rib of thy body shall be broken.” so the bear crept thither in the greatest fear, and begged their pardon.
and now at last the young wrens were satisfied, and sat down together and ate and drank, and made merry till quite late into the night.
103 sweet porridge
there was a poor but good little girl who lived alone with her mother, and they no longer had anything to eat.
so the child went into the forest, and there an aged woman met her who was aware of her sorrow, and presented her with a little pot, which when she said, “cook, little pot, cook,” would cook good, sweet porridge, and when she said, “stop, little pot,” it ceased to cook.
the girl took the pot home to her mother, and now they were freed from their poverty and hunger, and ate sweet porridge as often as they chose.
once on a time when the girl had gone out, her mother said, “cook, little pot, cook.” and it did cook and she ate till she was satisfied, and then she wanted the pot to stop cooking, but did not know the word.
so it went on cooking and the porridge rose over the edge, and still it cooked on until the kitchen and whole house were full, and then the next house, and then the whole street, just as if it wanted to satisfy the hunger of the whole world, and there was the greatest distress, but no one knew how to stop it.
at last when only one single house remained, the child came home and just said, “stop, little pot,” and it stopped and gave up cooking, and whosoever wished to return to the town had to eat his way back.
104 wise folks
one day a peasant took his good hazel-stick out of the corner and said to his wife, “trina, i am going across country, and shall not return for three days.
if during that time the cattle-dealer should happen to call and want to buy our three cows, you may strike a bargain at once, but not unless you can get two hundred thalers for them; nothing less, do you hear?” “for heaven’s sake just go in peace,” answered the woman, “i will manage that.” “you, indeed,” said the man.
“you once fell on your head when you were a little child, and that affects you even now; but let me tell you this, if you do anything foolish, i will make your back black and blue, and not with paint, i assure you, but with the stick which i have in my hand, and the colouring shall last a whole year, you may rely on that.” and having said that, the man went on his way.
next morning the cattle-dealer came, and the woman had no need to say many words to him.
when he had seen the cows and heard the price, he said, “i am quite willing to give that, honestly speaking, they are worth it.
i will take the beasts away with me at once.” he unfastened their chains and drove them out of the byre, but just as he was going out of the yard-door, the woman clutched him by the sleeve and said, “you must give me the two hundred thalers now, or i cannot let the cows go.” “true,” answered the man, “but i have forgotten to buckle on my money-belt.
have no fear, however, you shall have security for my paying.
i will take two cows with me and leave one, and then you will have a good pledge.” the woman saw the force of this, and let the man go away with the cows, and thought to herself, “how pleased hans will be when he finds how cleverly i have managed it!” the peasant came home on the third day as he had said he would, and at once inquired if the cows were sold?
“yes, indeed, dear hans,” answered the woman, “and as you said, for two hundred thalers.
they are scarcely worth so much, but the man took them without making any objection.” “where is the money?”
asked the peasant.
“oh, i have not got the money,” replied the woman; “he had happened to forget his money-belt, but he will soon bring it, and he left good security behind him.” “what kind of security?” asked the man.
“one of the three cows, which he shall not have until he has paid for the other two.
i have managed very cunningly, for i have kept the smallest, which eats the least.” the man was enraged and lifted up his stick, and was just going to give her the beating he had promised her.
suddenly he let the stick fail and said, “you are the stupidest goose that ever waddled on god’s earth, but i am sorry for you.
i will go out into the highways and wait for three days to see if i find anyone who is still stupider than you.
if i succeed in doing so, you shall go scot-free, but if i do not find him, you shall receive your well-deserved reward without any discount.”
he went out into the great highways, sat down on a stone, and waited for what would happen.
then he saw a peasant’s waggon coming towards him, and a woman was standing upright in the middle of it, instead of sitting on the bundle of straw which was lying beside her, or walking near the oxen and leading them.
the man thought to himself, “that is certainly one of the kind i am in search of,” and jumped up and ran backwards and forwards in front of the waggon like one who is not very wise.
“what do you want, my friend?” said the woman to him; “i don’t know you, where do you come from?” “i have fallen down from heaven,”
replied the man, “and don’t know how to get back again, couldn’t you drive me up?” “no,” said the woman, “i don’t know the way, but if you come from heaven you can surely tell me how my husband, who has been there these three years is.
you must have seen him?” “oh, yes, i have seen him, but all men can’t get on well.
he keeps sheep, and the sheep give him a great deal to do.
they run up the mountains and lose their way in the wilderness, and he has to run after them and drive them together again.
his clothes are all torn to pieces too, and will soon fall off his body.
there is no tailor there, for saint peter won’t let any of them in, as you know by the story.” “who would have thought it?”
cried the woman, “i tell you what, i will fetch his sunday coat which is still hanging at home in the cupboard, he can wear that and look respectable.
you will be so kind as to take it with you.” “that won’t do very well,” answered the peasant; “people are not allowed to take clothes into heaven, they are taken away from one at the gate.” “then hark you,” said the woman, “i sold my fine wheat yesterday and got a good lot of money for it, i will send that to him.
if you hide the purse in your pocket, no one will know that you have it.” “if you can’t manage it any other way,” said the peasant, “i will do you that favor.”
“just sit still where you are,” said she, “and i will drive home and fetch the purse, i shall soon be back again.
i do not sit down on the bundle of straw, but stand up in the waggon, because it makes it lighter for the cattle.” she drove her oxen away, and the peasant thought, “that woman has a perfect talent for folly, if she really brings the money, my wife may think herself fortunate, for she will get no beating.” it was not long before she came in a great hurry with the money, and with her own hands put it in his pocket.
before she went away, she thanked him again a thousand times for his courtesy.
when the woman got home again, she found her son who had come in from the field.
she told him what unlooked-for things had befallen her, and then added, “i am truly delighted at having found an opportunity of sending something to my poor husband.
who would ever have imagined that he could be suffering for want of anything up in heaven?” the son was full of astonishment.
“mother,” said he, “it is not every day that a man comes from heaven in this way, i will go out immediately, and see if he is still to be found; he must tell me what it is like up there, and how the work is done.” he saddled the horse and rode off with all speed.
he found the peasant who was sitting under a willow-tree, and was just going to count the money in the purse.
“have you seen the man who has fallen down from heaven?” cried the youth to him.
“yes,”
answered the peasant, “he has set out on his way back there, and has gone up that hill, from whence it will be rather nearer; you could still catch him up, if you were to ride fast.” “alas,” said the youth, “i have been doing tiring work all day, and the ride here has completely worn me out; you know the man, be so kind as to get on my horse, and go and persuade him to come here.” “aha!” thought the peasant, “here is another who has no wick in his lamp!” “why should i not do you this favor?” said he, and mounted the horse and rode off in a quick trot.
the youth remained sitting there till night fell, but the peasant never came back.
“the man from heaven must certainly have been in a great hurry, and would not turn back,” thought he, “and the peasant has no doubt given him the horse to take to my father.” he went home and told his mother what had happened, and that he had sent his father the horse so that he might not have to be always running about.
“thou hast done well,” answered she, “thy legs are younger than his, and thou canst go on foot.”
when the peasant got home, he put the horse in the stable beside the cow which he had as a pledge, and then went to his wife and said, “trina, as your luck would have it, i have found two who are still sillier fools than you; this time you escape without a beating, i will store it up for another occasion.” then he lighted his pipe, sat down in his grandfather’s chair, and said, “it was a good stroke of business to get a sleek horse and a great purse full of money into the bargain, for two lean cows.
if stupidity always brought in as much as that, i would be quite willing to hold it in honor.” so thought the peasant, but you no doubt prefer the simple folks.
105 stories about snakes
first story.
there was once a little child whose mother gave her every afternoon a small bowl of milk and bread, and the child seated herself in the yard with it.
when she began to eat however, a snake came creeping out of a crevice in the wall, dipped its little head in the dish, and ate with her.
the child had pleasure in this, and when she was sitting there with her little dish and the snake did not come at once, she cried,
“snake, snake, come swiftly hither come, thou tiny thing, thou shalt have thy crumbs of bread, thou shalt refresh thyself with milk.”
then the snake came in haste, and enjoyed its food.
moreover it showed gratitude, for it brought the child all kinds of pretty things from its hidden treasures, bright stones, pearls, and golden playthings.
the snake, however, only drank the milk, and left the bread-crumbs alone.
then one day the child took its little spoon and struck the snake gently on its head with it, and said, “eat the bread-crumbs as well, little thing.” the mother, who was standing in the kitchen, heard the child talking to someone, and when she saw that she was striking a snake with her spoon, ran out with a log of wood, and killed the good little creature.
from that time forth, a change came over the child.
as long as the snake had eaten with her, she had grown tall and strong, but now she lost her pretty rosy cheeks and wasted away.
it was not long before the funeral bird began to cry in the night, and the redbreast to collect little branches and leaves for a funeral garland, and soon afterwards the child lay on her bier.
second story.
an orphan child was sitting on the town walls spinning, when she saw a snake coming out of a hole low down in the wall.
swiftly she spread out beside this one of the blue silk handkerchiefs which snakes have such a strong liking for, and which are the only things they will creep on.
as soon as the snake saw it, it went back, then returned, bringing with it a small golden crown, laid it on the handkerchief, and then went away again.
the girl took up the crown, it glittered and was of delicate golden filagree work.
it was not long before the snake came back for the second time, but when it no longer saw the crown, it crept up to the wall, and in its grief smote its little head against it as long as it had strength to do so, until at last it lay there dead.
if the girl had but left the crown where it was, the snake would certainly have brought still more of its treasures out of the hole.
third story.
a snake cries, “huhu, huhu.” a child says, “come out.” the snake comes out, then the child inquires about her little sister: “hast thou not seen little red-stockings?” the snake says, “no.” “neither have i.”
“then i am like you.
huhu, huhu, huhu.”
106 the poor miller’s boy and the cat
in a certain mill lived an old miller who had neither wife nor child, and three apprentices served under him.
as they had been with him several years, he one day said to them, “i am old, and want to sit in the chimney-corner, go out, and whichsoever of you brings me the best horse home, to him will i give the mill, and in return for it he shall take care of me till my death.” the third of the boys was, however, the drudge, who was looked on as foolish by the others; they begrudged the mill to him, and afterwards he would not have it.
then all three went out together, and when they came to the village, the two said to stupid hans, “thou mayst just as well stay here, as long as thou livest thou wilt never get a horse.” hans, however, went with them, and when it was night they came to a cave in which they lay down to sleep.
the two sharp ones waited until hans had fallen asleep, then they got up, and went away leaving him where he was.
and they thought they had done a very clever thing, but it was certain to turn out ill for them.
when the sun arose, and hans woke up, he was lying in a deep cavern.
he looked around on every side and exclaimed, “oh, heavens, where am i?”
then he got up and clambered out of the cave, went into the forest, and thought, “here i am quite alone and deserted, how shall i obtain a horse now?” whilst he was thus walking full of thought, he met a small tabby-cat which said quite kindly, “hans, where are you going?” “alas, thou canst not help me.” “i well know your desire,” said the cat.
“you wish to have a beautiful horse.
come with me, and be my faithful servant for seven years long, and then i will give you one more beautiful than any you have ever seen in your whole life.” “well, this is a wonderful cat!” thought hans, “but i am determined to see if she is telling the truth.” so she took him with her into her enchanted castle, where there were nothing but cats who were her servants.
they leapt nimbly upstairs and downstairs, and were merry and happy.
in the evening when they sat down to dinner, three of them had to make music.
one played the bassoon, the other the fiddle, and the third put the trumpet to his lips, and blew out his cheeks as much as he possibly could.
when they had dined, the table was carried away, and the cat said, “now, hans, come and dance with me.” “no,” said he, “i won’t dance with a pussy cat.
i have never done that yet.” “then take him to bed,” said she to the cats.
so one of them lighted him to his bed-room, one pulled his shoes off, one his stockings, and at last one of them blew out the candle.
next morning they returned and helped him out of bed, one put his stockings on for him, one tied his garters, one brought his shoes, one washed him, and one dried his face with her tail.
“that feels very soft!” said hans.
he, however, had to serve the cat, and chop some wood every day, and to do that, he had an axe of silver, and the wedge and saw were of silver and the mallet of copper.
so he chopped the wood small; stayed there in the house and had good meat and drink, but never saw anyone but the tabby-cat and her servants.
once she said to him, “go and mow my meadow, and dry the grass,” and gave him a scythe of silver, and a whetstone of gold, but bade him deliver them up again carefully.
so hans went thither, and did what he was bidden, and when he had finished the work, he carried the scythe, whetstone, and hay to the house, and asked if it was not yet time for her to give him his reward.
“no,” said the cat, “you must first do something more for me of the same kind.
there is timber of silver, carpenter’s axe, square, and everything that is needful, all of silver, with these build me a small house.” then hans built the small house, and said that he had now done everything, and still he had no horse.
nevertheless the seven years had gone by with him as if they were six months.
the cat asked him if he would like to see her horses?
“yes,” said hans.
then she opened the door of the small house, and when she had opened it, there stood twelve horses, such horses, so bright and shining, that his heart rejoiced at the sight of them.
and now she gave him to eat and drink, and said, “go home, i will not give thee thy horse away with thee; but in three days’ time i will follow thee and bring it.” so hans set out, and she showed him the way to the mill.
she had, however, never once given him a new coat, and he had been obliged to keep on his dirty old smock-frock, which he had brought with him, and which during the seven years had everywhere become too small for him.
when he reached home, the two other apprentices were there again as well, and each of them certainly had brought a horse with him, but one of them was a blind one, and the other lame.
they asked hans where his horse was.
“it will follow me in three days’ time.” then they laughed and said, “indeed, stupid hans, where wilt thou get a horse?”
“it will be a fine one!” hans went into the parlour, but the miller said he should not sit down to table, for he was so ragged and torn, that they would all be ashamed of him if any one came in.
so they gave him a mouthful of food outside, and at night, when they went to rest, the two others would not let him have a bed, and at last he was forced to creep into the goose-house, and lie down on a little hard straw.
in the morning when he awoke, the three days had passed, and a coach came with six horses and they shone so bright that it was delightful to see them!
and a servant brought a seventh as well, which was for the poor miller’s boy.
and a magnificent princess alighted from the coach and went into the mill, and this princess was the little tabby-cat whom poor hans had served for seven years.
she asked the miller where the miller’s boy and drudge was?
then the miller said, “we cannot have him here in the mill, for he is so ragged; he is lying in the goose-house.”
then the king’s daughter said that they were to bring him immediately.
so they brought him out, and he had to hold his little smock-frock together to cover himself.
the servants unpacked splendid garments, and washed him and dressed him, and when that was done, no king could have looked more handsome.
then the maiden desired to see the horses which the other apprentices had brought home with them, and one of them was blind and the other lame.
so she ordered the servant to bring the seventh horse, and when the miller saw it, he said that such a horse as that had never yet entered his yard.
“and that is for the third miller’s boy,” said she.
“then he must have the mill,” said the miller, but the king’s daughter said that the horse was there, and that he was to keep his mill as well, and took her faithful hans and set him in the coach, and drove away with him.
they first drove to the little house which he had built with the silver tools, and behold it was a great castle, and everything inside it was of silver and gold; and then she married him, and he was rich, so rich that he had enough for all the rest of his life.
after this, let no one ever say that anyone who is silly can never become a person of importance.
107 the two travellers
hill and vale do not come together, but the children of men do, good and bad.
in this way a shoemaker and a tailor once met with each other in their travels.
the tailor was a handsome little fellow who was always merry and full of enjoyment.
he saw the shoemaker coming towards him from the other side, and as he observed by his bag what kind of a trade he plied, he sang a little mocking song to him,
“sew me the seam, draw me the thread, spread it over with pitch, knock the nail on the head.”
the shoemaker, however, could not endure a joke; he pulled a face as if he had drunk vinegar, and made a gesture as if he were about to seize the tailor by the throat.
but the little fellow began to laugh, reached him his bottle, and said, “no harm was meant, take a drink, and swallow your anger down.” the shoemaker took a very hearty drink, and the storm on his face began to clear away.
he gave the bottle back to the tailor, and said, “i spoke civilly to you; one speaks well after much drinking, but not after much thirst.
shall we travel together?” “all right,”
answered the tailor, “if only it suits you to go into a big town where there is no lack of work.” “that is just where i want to go,” answered the shoemaker.
“in a small nest there is nothing to earn, and in the country, people like to go barefoot.” they travelled therefore onwards together, and always set one foot before the other like a weasel in the snow.
both of them had time enough, but little to bite and to break.
when they reached a town they went about and paid their respects to the tradesmen, and because the tailor looked so lively and merry, and had such pretty red cheeks, every one gave him work willingly, and when luck was good the master’s daughters gave him a kiss beneath the porch, as well.
when he again fell in with the shoemaker, the tailor had always the most in his bundle.
the ill-tempered shoemaker made a wry face, and thought, “the greater the rascal the more the luck,” but the tailor began to laugh and to sing, and shared all he got with his comrade.
if a couple of pence jingled in his pockets, he ordered good cheer, and thumped the table in his joy till the glasses danced, and it was lightly come, lightly go, with him.
when they had travelled for some time, they came to a great forest through which passed the road to the capital.
two foot-paths, however, led through it, one of which was a seven days’ journey, and the other only two, but neither of the travellers knew which way was the short one.
they seated themselves beneath an oak-tree, and took counsel together how they should forecast, and for how many days they should provide themselves with bread.
the shoemaker said, “one must look before one leaps, i will take with me bread for a week.” “what!” said the tailor, “drag bread for seven days on one’s back like a beast of burden, and not be able to look about.
i shall trust in god, and not trouble myself about anything!
the money i have in my pocket is as good in summer as in winter, but in hot weather bread gets dry, and mouldy into the bargain; even my coat does not go as far as it might.
besides, why should we not find the right way?
bread for two days, and that’s enough.” each, therefore, bought his own bread, and then they tried their luck in the forest.
it was as quiet there as in a church.
no wind stirred, no brook murmured, no bird sang, and through the thickly-leaved branches no sunbeam forced its way.
the shoemaker spoke never a word, the heavy bread weighed down his back until the perspiration streamed down his cross and gloomy face.
the tailor, however, was quite merry, he jumped about, whistled on a leaf, or sang a song, and thought to himself, “god in heaven must be pleased to see me so happy.”
this lasted two days, but on the third the forest would not come to an end, and the tailor had eaten up all his bread, so after all his heart sank down a yard deeper.
in the meantime he did not lose courage, but relied on god and on his luck.
on the third day he lay down in the evening hungry under a tree, and rose again next morning hungry still; so also passed the fourth day, and when the shoemaker seated himself on a fallen tree and devoured his dinner, the tailor was only a looker-on.
if he begged for a little piece of bread the other laughed mockingly, and said, “thou hast always been so merry, now thou canst try for once what it is to be sad: the birds which sing too early in the morning are struck by the hawk in the evening,” in short he was pitiless.
but on the fifth morning the poor tailor could no longer stand up, and was hardly able to utter one word for weakness; his cheeks were white, and his eyes red.
then the shoemaker said to him, “i will give thee a bit of bread to-day, but in return for it, i will put out thy right eye.”
the unhappy tailor who still wished to save his life, could not do it in any other way; he wept once more with both eyes, and then held them out, and the shoemaker, who had a heart of stone, put out his right eye with a sharp knife.
the tailor called to remembrance what his mother had formerly said to him when he had been eating secretly in the pantry.
“eat what one can, and suffer what one must.” when he had consumed his dearly-bought bread, he got on his legs again, forgot his misery and comforted himself with the thought that he could always see enough with one eye.
but on the sixth day, hunger made itself felt again, and gnawed him almost to the heart.
in the evening he fell down by a tree, and on the seventh morning he could not raise himself up for faintness, and death was close at hand.
then said the shoemaker, “i will show mercy and give thee bread once more, but thou shalt not have it for nothing, i shall put out thy other eye for it.” and now the tailor felt how thoughtless his life had been, prayed to god for forgiveness, and said, “do what thou wilt, i will bear what i must, but remember that our lord god does not always look on passively, and that an hour will come when the evil deed which thou hast done to me, and which i have not deserved of thee, will be requited.
when times were good with me, i shared what i had with thee.
my trade is of that kind that each stitch must always be exactly like the other.
if i no longer have my eyes and can sew no more i must go a-begging.
at any rate do not leave me here alone when i am blind, or i shall die of hunger.” the shoemaker, however, who had driven god out of his heart, took the knife and put out his left eye.
then he gave him a bit of bread to eat, held out a stick to him, and drew him on behind him.
when the sun went down, they got out of the forest, and before them in the open country stood the gallows.
thither the shoemaker guided the blind tailor, and then left him alone and went his way.
weariness, pain, and hunger made the wretched man fall asleep, and he slept the whole night.
when day dawned he awoke, but knew not where he lay.
two poor sinners were hanging on the gallows, and a crow sat on the head of each of them.
then one of the men who had been hanged began to speak, and said, “brother, art thou awake?” “yes, i am awake,” answered the second.
“then i will tell thee something,” said the first; “the dew which this night has fallen down over us from the gallows, gives every one who washes himself with it his eyes again.
if blind people did but know this, how many would regain their sight who do not believe that to be possible.”
when the tailor heard that, he took his pocket-handkerchief, pressed it on the grass, and when it was moist with dew, washed the sockets of his eyes with it.
immediately was fulfilled what the man on the gallows had said, and a couple of healthy new eyes filled the sockets.
it was not long before the tailor saw the sun rise behind the mountains; in the plain before him lay the great royal city with its magnificent gates and hundred towers, and the golden balls and crosses which were on the spires began to shine.
he could distinguish every leaf on the trees, saw the birds which flew past, and the midges which danced in the air.
he took a needle out of his pocket, and as he could thread it as well as ever he had done, his heart danced with delight.
he threw himself on his knees, thanked god for the mercy he had shown him, and said his morning prayer.
he did not forget also to pray for the poor sinners who were hanging there swinging against each other in the wind like the pendulums of clocks.
then he took his bundle on his back and soon forgot the pain of heart he had endured, and went on his way singing and whistling.
the first thing he met was a brown foal running about the fields at large.
he caught it by the mane, and wanted to spring on it and ride into the town.
the foal, however, begged to be set free.
“i am still too young,” it said, “even a light tailor such as thou art would break my back in two let me go till i have grown strong.
a time may perhaps come when i may reward thee for it.” “run off,” said the tailor, “i see thou art still a giddy thing.” he gave it a touch with a switch over its back, whereupon it kicked up its hind legs for joy, leapt over hedges and ditches, and galloped away into the open country.
but the little tailor had eaten nothing since the day before.
“the sun to be sure fills my eyes,” said he, “but the bread does not fill my mouth.
the first thing that comes across me and is even half edible will have to suffer for it.” in the meantime a stork stepped solemnly over the meadow towards him.
“halt, halt!” cried the tailor, and seized him by the leg.
“i don’t know if thou art good to eat or not, but my hunger leaves me no great choice.
i must cut thy head off, and roast thee.” “don’t do that,” replied the stork; “i am a sacred bird which brings mankind great profit, and no one does me an injury.
leave me my life, and i may do thee good in some other way.” “well, be off, cousin longlegs,” said the tailor.
the stork rose up, let its long legs hang down, and flew gently away.
“what’s to be the end of this?” said the tailor to himself at last, “my hunger grows greater and greater, and my stomach more and more empty.
whatsoever comes in my way now is lost.” at this moment he saw a couple of young ducks which were on a pond come swimming towards him.
“you come just at the right moment,” said he, and laid hold of one of them and was about to wring its neck.
on this an old duck which was hidden among the reeds, began to scream loudly, and swam to him with open beak, and begged him urgently to spare her dear children.
“canst thou not imagine,” said she, “how thy mother would mourn if any one wanted to carry thee off, and give thee thy finishing stroke?” “only be quiet,” said the good-tempered tailor, “thou shalt keep thy children,”
and put the prisoner back into the water.
when he turned round, he was standing in front of an old tree which was partly hollow, and saw some wild bees flying in and out of it.
“there i shall at once find the reward of my good deed,” said the tailor, “the honey will refresh me.” but the queen-bee came out, threatened him and said, “if thou touchest my people, and destroyest my nest, our stings shall pierce thy skin like ten thousand red-hot needles.
but if thou wilt leave us in peace and go thy way, we will do thee a service for it another time.”
the little tailor saw that here also nothing was to be done.
“three dishes empty and nothing on the fourth is a bad dinner!” he dragged himself therefore with his starved-out stomach into the town, and as it was just striking twelve, all was ready-cooked for him in the inn, and he was able to sit down at once to dinner.
when he was satisfied he said, “now i will get to work.” he went round the town, sought a master, and soon found a good situation.
as, however, he had thoroughly learnt his trade, it was not long before he became famous, and every one wanted to have his new coat made by the little tailor, whose importance increased daily.
“i can go no further in skill,” said he, “and yet things improve every day.” at last the king appointed him court-tailor.
but how things do happen in the world!
on the very same day his former comrade the shoemaker also became court-shoemaker.
when the latter caught sight of the tailor, and saw that he had once more two healthy eyes, his conscience troubled him.
“before he takes revenge on me,”
thought he to himself, “i must dig a pit for him.” he, however, who digs a pit for another, falls into it himself.
in the evening when work was over and it had grown dusk, he stole to the king and said, “lord king, the tailor is an arrogant fellow and has boasted that he will get the gold crown back again which was lost in ancient times.” “that would please me very much,” said the king, and he caused the tailor to be brought before him next morning, and ordered him to get the crown back again, or to leave the town for ever.
“oho!” thought the tailor, “a rogue gives more than he has got.
if the surly king wants me to do what can be done by no one, i will not wait till morning, but will go out of the town at once, to-day.” he packed up his bundle, therefore, but when he was without the gate he could not help being sorry to give up his good fortune, and turn his back on the town in which all had gone so well with him.
he came to the pond where he had made the acquaintance of the ducks; at that very moment the old one whose young ones he had spared, was sitting there by the shore, pluming herself with her beak.
she knew him again instantly, and asked why he was hanging his head so?
“thou wilt not be surprised when thou hearest what has befallen me,”
replied the tailor, and told her his fate.
“if that be all,” said the duck, “we can help thee.
the crown fell into the water, and lies down below at the bottom; we will soon bring it up again for thee.
in the meantime just spread out thy handkerchief on the bank.” she dived down with her twelve young ones, and in five minutes she was up again and sat with the crown resting on her wings, and the twelve young ones were swimming round about and had put their beaks under it, and were helping to carry it.
they swam to the shore and put the crown on the handkerchief.
no one can imagine how magnificent the crown was; when the sun shone on it, it gleamed like a hundred thousand carbuncles.
the tailor tied his handkerchief together by the four corners, and carried it to the king, who was full of joy, and put a gold chain round the tailor’s neck.
when the shoemaker saw that one stroke had failed, he contrived a second, and went to the king and said, “lord king, the tailor has become insolent again; he boasts that he will copy in wax the whole of the royal palace, with everything that pertains to it, loose or fast, inside and out.” the king sent for the tailor and ordered him to copy in wax the whole of the royal palace, with everything that pertained to it, movable or immovable, within and without, and if he did not succeed in doing this, or if so much as one nail on the wall were wanting, he should be imprisoned for his whole life under ground.
the tailor thought, “it gets worse and worse!
no one can endure that?”
and threw his bundle on his back, and went forth.
when he came to the hollow tree, he sat down and hung his head.
the bees came flying out, and the queen-bee asked him if he had a stiff neck, since he held his head so awry?
“alas, no,” answered the tailor, “something quite different weighs me down,” and he told her what the king had demanded of him.
the bees began to buzz and hum amongst themselves, and the queen-bee said, “just go home again, but come back to-morrow at this time, and bring a large sheet with you, and then all will be well.” so he turned back again, but the bees flew to the royal palace and straight into it through the open windows, crept round about into every corner, and inspected everything most carefully.
then they hurried back and modelled the palace in wax with such rapidity that any one looking on would have thought it was growing before his eyes.
by the evening all was ready, and when the tailor came next morning, the whole of the splendid building was there, and not one nail in the wall or tile of the roof was wanting, and it was delicate withal, and white as snow, and smelt sweet as honey.
the tailor wrapped it carefully in his cloth and took it to the king, who could not admire it enough, placed it in his largest hall, and in return for it presented the tailor with a large stone house.
the shoemaker, however, did not give up, but went for the third time to the king and said, “lord king, it has come to the tailor’s ears that no water will spring up in the court-yard of the castle, and he has boasted that it shall rise up in the midst of the court-yard to a man’s height and be clear as crystal.” then the king ordered the tailor to be brought before him and said, “if a stream of water does not rise in my court-yard by to-morrow as thou hast promised, the executioner shall in that very place make thee shorter by the head.” the poor tailor did not take long to think about it, but hurried out to the gate, and because this time it was a matter of life and death to him, tears rolled down his face.
whilst he was thus going forth full of sorrow, the foal to which he had formerly given its liberty, and which had now become a beautiful chestnut horse, came leaping towards him.
“the time has come,” it said to the tailor, “when i can repay thee for thy good deed.
i know already what is needful to thee, but thou shalt soon have help; get on me, my back can carry two such as thou.” the tailor’s courage came back to him; he jumped up in one bound, and the horse went full speed into the town, and right up to the court-yard of the castle.
it galloped as quick as lightning thrice round it, and at the third time it fell violently down.
at the same instant, however, there was a terrific clap of thunder, a fragment of earth in the middle of the court-yard sprang like a cannon-ball into the air, and over the castle, and directly after it a jet of water rose as high as a man on horseback, and the water was as pure as crystal, and the sunbeams began to dance on it.
when the king saw that he arose in amazement, and went and embraced the tailor in the sight of all men.
but good fortune did not last long.
the king had daughters in plenty, one still prettier than the other, but he had no son.
so the malicious shoemaker betook himself for the fourth time to the king, and said, “lord king, the tailor has not given up his arrogance.
he has now boasted that if he liked, he could cause a son to be brought to the lord king through the air.” the king commanded the tailor to be summoned, and said, “if thou causest a son to be brought to me within nine days, thou shalt have my eldest daughter to wife.” “the reward is indeed great,” thought the little tailor; “one would willingly do something for it, but the cherries grow too high for me, if i climb for them, the bough will break beneath me, and i shall fall.”
he went home, seated himself cross-legged on his work-table, and thought over what was to be done.
“it can’t be managed,” cried he at last, “i will go away; after all i can’t live in peace here.” he tied up his bundle and hurried away to the gate.
when he got to the meadow, he perceived his old friend the stork, who was walking backwards and forwards like a philosopher.
sometimes he stood still, took a frog into close consideration, and at length swallowed it down.
the stork came to him and greeted him.
“i see,” he began, “that thou hast thy pack on thy back.
why art thou leaving the town?” the tailor told him what the king had required of him, and how he could not perform it, and lamented his misfortune.
“don’t let thy hair grow grey about that,” said the stork, “i will help thee out of thy difficulty.
for a long time now, i have carried the children in swaddling-clothes into the town, so for once in a way i can fetch a little prince out of the well.
go home and be easy.
in nine days from this time repair to the royal palace, and there will i come.” the little tailor went home, and at the appointed time was at the castle.
it was not long before the stork came flying thither and tapped at the window.
the tailor opened it, and cousin longlegs came carefully in, and walked with solemn steps over the smooth marble pavement.
he had, moreover, a baby in his beak that was as lovely as an angel, and stretched out its little hands to the queen.
the stork laid it in her lap, and she caressed it and kissed it, and was beside herself with delight.
before the stork flew away, he took his travelling bag off his back and handed it over to the queen.
in it there were little paper parcels with colored sweetmeats, and they were divided amongst the little princesses.
the eldest, however, had none of them, but got the merry tailor for a husband.
“it seems to me,” said he, “just as if i had won the highest prize.
my mother was if right after all, she always said that whoever trusts in god and only has good luck, can never fail.”
the shoemaker had to make the shoes in which the little tailor danced at the wedding festival, after which he was commanded to quit the town for ever.
the road to the forest led him to the gallows.
worn out with anger, rage, and the heat of the day, he threw himself down.
when he had closed his eyes and was about to sleep, the two crows flew down from the heads of the men who were hanging there, and pecked his eyes out.
in his madness he ran into the forest and must have died there of hunger, for no one has ever either seen him again or heard of him.
108 hans the hedgehog
there was once a countryman who had money and land in plenty, but how rich soever he was, one thing was still wanting in his happiness he had no children.
often when he went into the town with the other peasants they mocked him and asked why he had no children.
at last he became angry, and when he got home he said, “i will have a child, even if it be a hedgehog.” then his wife had a child, that was a hedgehog in the upper part of his body, and a boy in the lower, and when she saw the child, she was terrified, and said, “see, there thou hast brought ill-luck on us.” then said the man, “what can be done now?
the boy must be christened, but we shall not be able to get a godfather for him.”
the woman said, “and we cannot call him anything else but hans the hedgehog.”
when he was christened, the parson said, “he cannot go into any ordinary bed because of his spikes.” so a little straw was put behind the stove, and hans the hedgehog was laid on it.
his mother could not suckle him, for he would have pricked her with his quills.
so he lay there behind the stove for eight years, and his father was tired of him and thought, “if he would but die!” he did not die, however, but remained lying there.
now it happened that there was a fair in the town, and the peasant was about to go to it, and asked his wife what he should bring back with him for her.
“a little meat and a couple of white rolls which are wanted for the house,” said she.
then he asked the servant, and she wanted a pair of slippers and some stockings with clocks.
at last he said also, “and what wilt thou have, hans my hedgehog?” “dear father,” he said, “do bring me bagpipes.” when, therefore, the father came home again, he gave his wife what he had bought for her; meat and white rolls, and then he gave the maid the slippers, and the stockings with clocks; and, lastly, he went behind the stove, and gave hans the hedgehog the bagpipes.
and when hans the hedgehog had the bagpipes, he said, “dear father, do go to the forge and get the cock shod, and then i will ride away, and never come back again.” on this, the father was delighted to think that he was going to get rid of him, and had the cock shod for him, and when it was done, hans the hedgehog got on it, and rode away, but took swine and asses with him which he intended to keep in the forest.
when they got there he made the cock fly on to a high tree with him, and there he sat for many a long year, and watched his asses and swine until the herd was quite large, and his father knew nothing about him.
while he was sitting in the tree, however, he played his bagpipes, and made music which was very beautiful.
once a king came travelling by who had lost his way and heard the music.
he was astonished at it, and sent his servant forth to look all round and see from whence this music came.
he spied about, but saw nothing but a little animal sitting up aloft on the tree, which looked like a cock with a hedgehog on it which made this music.
then the king told the servant he was to ask why he sat there, and if he knew the road which led to his kingdom.
so hans the hedgehog descended from the tree, and said he would show the way if the king would write a bond and promise him whatever he first met in the royal courtyard as soon as he arrived at home.
then the king thought, “i can easily do that, hans the hedgehog understands nothing, and i can write what i like.” so the king took pen and ink and wrote something, and when he had done it, hans the hedgehog showed him the way, and he got safely home.
but his daughter, when she saw him from afar, was so overjoyed that she ran to meet him, and kissed him.
then he remembered hans the hedgehog, and told her what had happened, and that he had been forced to promise whatsoever first met him when he got home, to a very strange animal which sat on a cock as if it were a horse, and made beautiful music, but that instead of writing that he should have what he wanted, he had written that he should not have it.
thereupon the princess was glad, and said he had done well, for she never would have gone away with the hedgehog.
hans the hedgehog, however, looked after his asses and pigs, and was always merry and sat on the tree and played his bagpipes.
now it came to pass that another king came journeying by with his attendants and runners, and he also had lost his way, and did not know how to get home again because the forest was so large.
he likewise heard the beautiful music from a distance, and asked his runner what that could be, and told him to go and see.
then the runner went under the tree, and saw the cock sitting at the top of it, and hans the hedgehog on the cock.
the runner asked him what he was about up there?
“i am keeping my asses and my pigs; but what is your desire?” the messenger said that they had lost their way, and could not get back into their own kingdom, and asked if he would not show them the way.
then hans the hedgehog got down the tree with the cock, and told the aged king that he would show him the way, if he would give him for his own whatsoever first met him in front of his royal palace.
the king said, “yes,” and wrote a promise to hans the hedgehog that he should have this.
that done, hans rode on before him on the cock, and pointed out the way, and the king reached his kingdom again in safety.
when he got to the courtyard, there were great rejoicings.
now he had an only daughter who was very beautiful; she ran to meet him, threw her arms round his neck, and was delighted to have her old father back again.
she asked him where in the world he had been so long.
so he told her how he had lost his way, and had very nearly not come back at all, but that as he was travelling through a great forest, a creature, half hedgehog, half man, who was sitting astride a cock in a high tree, and making music, had shown him the way and helped him to get out, but that in return he had promised him whatsoever first met him in the royal court-yard, and how that was she herself, which made him unhappy now.
but on this she promised that, for love of her father, she would willingly go with this hans if he came.
hans the hedgehog, however, took care of his pigs, and the pigs multiplied until they became so many in number that the whole forest was filled with them.
then hans the hedgehog resolved not to live in the forest any longer, and sent word to his father to have every stye in the village emptied, for he was coming with such a great herd that all might kill who wished to do so.
when his father heard that, he was troubled, for he thought hans the hedgehog had died long ago.
hans the hedgehog, however, seated himself on the cock, and drove the pigs before him into the village, and ordered the slaughter to begin.
ha!
but there was a killing and a chopping that might have been heard two miles off!
after this hans the hedgehog said, “father, let me have the cock shod once more at the forge, and then i will ride away and never come back as long as i live.” then the father had the cock shod once more, and was pleased that hans the hedgehog would never return again.
hans the hedgehog rode away to the first kingdom.
there the king had commanded that whosoever came mounted on a cock and had bagpipes with him should be shot at, cut down, or stabbed by everyone, so that he might not enter the palace.
when, therefore, hans the hedgehog came riding thither, they all pressed forward against him with their pikes, but he spurred the cock and it flew up over the gate in front of the king’s window and lighted there, and hans cried that the king must give him what he had promised, or he would take both his life and his daughter’s.
then the king began to speak his daughter fair, and to beg her to go away with hans in order to save her own life and her father’s.
so she dressed herself in white, and her father gave her a carriage with six horses and magnificent attendants together with gold and possessions.
she seated herself in the carriage, and placed hans the hedgehog beside her with the cock and the bagpipes, and then they took leave and drove away, and the king thought he should never see her again.
he was however, deceived in his expectation, for when they were at a short distance from the town, hans the hedgehog took her pretty clothes off, and pierced her with his hedgehog’s skin until she bled all over.
“that is the reward of your falseness,” said he, “go your way, i will not have you!” and on that he chased her home again, and she was disgraced for the rest of her life.
hans the hedgehog, however, rode on further on the cock, with his bagpipes, to the dominions of the second king to whom he had shown the way.
this one, however, had arranged that if any one resembling hans the hedgehog should come, they were to present arms, give him safe conduct, cry long life to him, and lead him to the royal palace.
but when the king’s daughter saw him she was terrified, for he looked quite too strange.
she remembered however, that she could not change her mind, for she had given her promise to her father.
so hans the hedgehog was welcomed by her, and married to her, and had to go with her to the royal table, and she seated herself by his side, and they ate and drank.
when the evening came and they wanted to go to sleep, she was afraid of his quills, but he told her she was not to fear, for no harm would befall her, and he told the old king that he was to appoint four men to watch by the door of the chamber, and light a great fire, and when he entered the room and was about to get into bed, he would creep out of his hedgehog’s skin and leave it lying there by the bedside, and that the men were to run nimbly to it, throw it in the fire, and stay by it until it was consumed.
when the clock struck eleven, he went into the chamber, stripped off the hedgehog’s skin, and left it lying by the bed.
then came the men and fetched it swiftly, and threw it in the fire; and when the fire had consumed it, he was delivered, and lay there in bed in human form, but he was coal-black as if he had been burnt.
the king sent for his physician who washed him with precious salves, and anointed him, and he became white, and was a handsome young man.
when the king’s daughter saw that she was glad, and the next morning they arose joyfully, ate and drank, and then the marriage was properly solemnized, and hans the hedgehog received the kingdom from the aged king.
when several years had passed he went with his wife to his father, and said that he was his son.
the father, however, declared he had no son he had never had but one, and he had been born like a hedgehog with spikes, and had gone forth into the world.
then hans made himself known, and the old father rejoiced and went with him to his kingdom.
my tale is done, and away it has run to little august’s house.
109 the shroud
there was once a mother who had a little boy of seven years old, who was so handsome and lovable that no one could look at him without liking him, and she herself worshipped him above everything in the world.
now it so happened that he suddenly became ill, and god took him to himself; and for this the mother could not be comforted, and wept both day and night.
but soon afterwards, when the child had been buried, it appeared by night in the places where it had sat and played during its life, and if the mother wept, it wept also, and when morning came it disappeared.
as, however, the mother would not stop crying, it came one night, in the little white shroud in which it had been laid in its coffin, and with its wreath of flowers round its head, and stood on the bed at her feet, and said, “oh, mother, do stop crying, or i shall never fall asleep in my coffin, for my shroud will not dry because of all thy tears, which fall upon it.” the mother was afraid when she heard that, and wept no more.
the next night the child came again, and held a little light in its hand, and said, “look, mother, my shroud is nearly dry, and i can rest in my grave.” then the mother gave her sorrow into god’s keeping, and bore it quietly and patiently, and the child came no more, but slept in its little bed beneath the earth.
110 the jew among thorns
there was once a rich man, who had a servant who served him diligently and honestly: he was every morning the first out of bed, and the last to go to rest at night; and, whenever there was a difficult job to be done, which nobody cared to undertake, he was always the first to set himself to it.
moreover, he never complained, but was contented with everything, and always merry.
when a year was ended, his master gave him no wages, for he said to himself, “that is the cleverest way; for i shall save something, and he will not go away, but stay quietly in my service.” the servant said nothing, but did his work the second year as he had done it the first; and when at the end of this, likewise, he received no wages, he made himself happy, and still stayed on.
when the third year also was past, the master considered, put his hand in his pocket, but pulled nothing out.
then at last the servant said, “master, for three years i have served you honestly, be so good as to give me what i ought to have, for i wish to leave, and look about me a little more in the world.”
“yes, my good fellow,” answered the old miser; “you have served me industriously, and, therefore, you shall be cheerfully rewarded;” and he put his hand into his pocket, but counted out only three farthings, saying, “there, you have a farthing for each year; that is large and liberal pay, such as you would have received from few masters.”
the honest servant, who understood little about money, put his fortune into his pocket, and thought, “ah!
now that i have my purse full, why need i trouble and plague myself any longer with hard work!” so on he went, up hill and down dale; and sang and jumped to his heart’s content.
now it came to pass that as he was going by a thicket a little man stepped out, and called to him, “whither away, merry brother?
i see you do not carry many cares.” “why should i be sad?” answered the servant; “i have enough; three years’ wages are jingling in my pocket.”
“how much is your treasure?” the dwarf asked him.
“how much?
three farthings sterling, all told.” “look here,” said the dwarf, “i am a poor needy man, give me your three farthings; i can work no longer, but you are young, and can easily earn your bread.”
and as the servant had a good heart, and felt pity for the old man, he gave him the three farthings, saying, “take them in the name of heaven, i shall not be any the worse for it.”
then the little man said, “as i see you have a good heart i grant you three wishes, one for each farthing, they shall all be fulfilled.”
“aha?” said the servant, “you are one of those who can work wonders!
well, then, if it is to be so, i wish, first, for a gun, which shall hit everything that i aim at; secondly, for a fiddle, which when i play on it, shall compel all who hear it to dance; thirdly, that if i ask a favor of any one he shall not be able to refuse it.”
“all that shall you have,” said the dwarf; and put his hand into the bush, and only think, there lay a fiddle and gun, all ready, just as if they had been ordered.
these he gave to the servant, and then said to him, “whatever you may ask at any time, no man in the world shall be able to deny you.”
“heart alive!
what can one desire more?” said the servant to himself, and went merrily onwards.
soon afterwards he met a jew with a long goat’s-beard, who was standing listening to the song of a bird which was sitting up at the top of a tree.
“good heavens,” he was exclaiming, “that such a small creature should have such a fearfully loud voice!
if it were but mine!
if only someone would sprinkle some salt upon its tail!”
“if that is all,” said the servant, “the bird shall soon be down here;”
and taking aim he pulled the trigger, and down fell the bird into the thorn-bushes.
“go, you rogue,” he said to the jew, “and fetch the bird out for yourself!”
“oh!” said the jew, “leave out the rogue, my master, and i will do it at once.
i will get the bird out for myself, as you really have hit it.” then he lay down on the ground, and began to crawl into the thicket.
when he was fast among the thorns, the good servant’s humor so tempted him that he took up his fiddle and began to play.
in a moment the jew’s legs began to move, and to jump into the air, and the more the servant fiddled the better went the dance.
but the thorns tore his shabby coat from him, combed his beard, and pricked and plucked him all over the body.
“oh dear,” cried the jew, “what do i want with your fiddling?
leave the fiddle alone, master; i do not want to dance.”
but the servant did not listen to him, and thought, “you have fleeced people often enough, now the thorn-bushes shall do the same to you;”
and he began to play over again, so that the jew had to jump higher than ever, and scraps of his coat were left hanging on the thorns.
“oh, woe’s me!
cried the jew; i will give the gentleman whatsoever he asks if only he leaves off fiddling a purse full of gold.” “if you are so liberal,” said the servant, “i will stop my music; but this i must say to your credit, that you dance to it so well that it is quite an art;”
and having taken the purse he went his way.
the jew stood still and watched the servant quietly until he was far off and out of sight, and then he screamed out with all his might, “you miserable musician, you beer-house fiddler!
wait till i catch you alone, i will hunt you till the soles of your shoes fall off!
you ragamuffin!
just put five farthings in your mouth, and then you may be worth three halfpence!” and went on abusing him as fast as he could speak.
as soon as he had refreshed himself a little in this way, and got his breath again, he ran into the town to the justice.
“my lord judge,” he said, “i have come to make a complaint; see how a rascal has robbed and ill-treated me on the public highway!
a stone on the ground might pity me; my clothes all torn, my body pricked and scratched, my little all gone with my purse, good ducats, each piece better than the last; for god’s sake let the man be thrown into prison!”
“was it a soldier,” said the judge, “who cut you thus with his sabre?”
“nothing of the sort!” said the jew; “it was no sword that he had, but a gun hanging at his back, and a fiddle at his neck; the wretch may easily be known.”
so the judge sent his people out after the man, and they found the good servant, who had been going quite slowly along, and they found, too, the purse with the money upon him.
as soon as he was taken before the judge he said, “i did not touch the jew, nor take his money; he gave it to me of his own free will, that i might leave off fiddling because he could not bear my music.” “heaven defend us!” cried the jew, “his lies are as thick as flies upon the wall.”
but the judge also did not believe his tale, and said, “this is a bad defence, no jew would do that.” and because he had committed robbery on the public highway, he sentenced the good servant to be hanged.
as he was being led away the jew again screamed after him, “you vagabond!
you dog of a fiddler!
now you are going to receive your well-earned reward!” the servant walked quietly with the hangman up the ladder, but upon the last step he turned round and said to the judge, “grant me just one request before i die.”
“yes, if you do not ask your life,” said the judge.
“i do not ask for life,” answered the servant, “but as a last favor let me play once more upon my fiddle.” the jew raised a great cry of “murder!
murder!
for goodness’ sake do not allow it!
do not allow it!” but the judge said, “why should i not let him have this short pleasure?
it has been granted to him, and he shall have it.” however, he could not have refused on account of the gift which had been bestowed on the servant.
then the jew cried, “oh!
woe’s me!
tie me, tie me fast!” while the good servant took his fiddle from his neck, and made ready.
as he gave the first scrape, they all began to quiver and shake, the judge, his clerk, and the hangman and his men, and the cord fell out of the hand of the one who was going to tie the jew fast.
at the second scrape all raised their legs, and the hangman let go his hold of the good servant, and made himself ready to dance.
at the third scrape they all leaped up and began to dance; the judge and the jew being the best at jumping.
soon all who had gathered in the market-place out of curiosity were dancing with them; old and young, fat and lean, one with another.
the dogs, likewise, which had run there got up on their hind legs and capered about; and the longer he played, the higher sprang the dancers, so that they knocked against each other’s heads, and began to shriek terribly.
at length the judge cried, quite out of breath, “i will give you your life if you will only stop fiddling.” the good servant thereupon had compassion, took his fiddle and hung it round his neck again, and stepped down the ladder.
then he went up to the jew, who was lying upon the ground panting for breath, and said, “you rascal, now confess, whence you got the money, or i will take my fiddle and begin to play again.” “i stole it, i stole it!” cried he; “but you have honestly earned it.” so the judge had the jew taken to the gallows and hanged as a thief.
111 the skilful huntsman
there was once a young fellow who had learnt the trade of locksmith, and told his father he would now go out into the world and seek his fortune.
“very well,” said the father, “i am quite content with that,”
and gave him some money for his journey.
so he travelled about and looked for work.
after a time he resolved not to follow the trade of locksmith any more, for he no longer liked it, but he took a fancy for hunting.
then there met him in his rambles a huntsman dressed in green, who asked whence he came and whither he was going?
the youth said he was a locksmith’s apprentice, but that the trade no longer pleased him, and he had a liking for huntsmanship, would he teach it to him?
“oh, yes,” said the huntsman, “if thou wilt go with me.” then the young fellow went with him, bound himself to him for some years, and learnt the art of hunting.
after this he wished to try his luck elsewhere, and the huntsman gave him nothing in the way of payment but an air-gun, which had, however, this property, that it hit its mark without fail whenever he shot with it.
then he set out and found himself in a very large forest, which he could not get to the end of in one day.
when evening came he seated himself in a high tree in order to escape from the wild beasts.
towards midnight, it seemed to him as if a tiny little light glimmered in the distance.
then he looked down through the branches towards it, and kept well in his mind where it was.
but in the first place he took off his hat and threw it down in the direction of the light, so that he might go to the hat as a mark when he had descended.
then he got down and went to his hat, put it on again and went straight forwards.
the farther he went, the larger the light grew, and when he got close to it he saw that it was an enormous fire, and that three giants were sitting by it, who had an ox on the spit, and were roasting it.
presently one of them said, “i must just taste if the meat will soon be fit to eat,” and pulled a piece off, and was about to put it in his mouth when the huntsman shot it out of his hand.
“well, really,” said the giant, “if the wind has not blown the bit out of my hand!” and helped himself to another.
but when he was just about to bite into it, the huntsman again shot it away from him.
on this the giant gave the one who was sitting next him a box on the ear, and cried angrily, “why art thou snatching my piece away from me?” “i have not snatched it away,” said the other, “a sharpshooter must have shot it away from thee.” the giant took another piece, but could not, however, keep it in his hand, for the huntsman shot it out.
then the giant said, “that must be a good shot to shoot the bit out of one’s very mouth, such an one would be useful to us.” and he cried aloud, “come here, thou sharpshooter, seat thyself at the fire beside us and eat thy fill, we will not hurt thee; but if thou wilt not come, and we have to bring thee by force, thou art a lost man!” on this the youth went up to them and told them he was a skilled huntsman, and that whatever he aimed at with his gun, he was certain to hit.
then they said if he would go with them he should be well treated, and they told him that outside the forest there was a great lake, behind which stood a tower, and in the tower was imprisoned a lovely princess, whom they wished very much to carry off.
“yes,” said he, “i will soon get her for you.” then they added, “but there is still something else, there is a tiny little dog, which begins to bark directly any one goes near, and as soon as it barks every one in the royal palace wakens up, and for this reason we cannot get there; canst thou undertake to shoot it dead?” “yes,” said he, “that will be a little bit of fun for me.” after this he got into a boat and rowed over the lake, and as soon as he landed, the little dog came running out, and was about to bark, but the huntsman took his air-gun and shot it dead.
when the giants saw that, they rejoiced, and thought they already had the king’s daughter safe, but the huntsman wished first to see how matters stood, and told them that they must stay outside until he called them.
then he went into the castle, and all was perfectly quiet within, and every one was asleep.
when he opened the door of the first room, a sword was hanging on the wall which was made of pure silver, and there was a golden star on it, and the name of the king, and on a table near it lay a sealed letter which he broke open, and inside it was written that whosoever had the sword could kill everything which opposed him.
so he took the sword from the wall, hung it at his side and went onwards: then he entered the room where the king’s daughter was lying sleeping, and she was so beautiful that he stood still and, holding his breath, looked at her.
he thought to himself, “how can i give an innocent maiden into the power of the wild giants, who have evil in their minds?” he looked about further, and under the bed stood a pair of slippers, on the right one was her father’s name with a star, and on the left her own name with a star.
she wore also a great neck-kerchief of silk embroidered with gold, and on the right side was her father’s name, and on the left her own, all in golden letters.
then the huntsman took a pair of scissors and cut the right corner off, and put it in his knapsack, and then he also took the right slipper with the king’s name, and thrust that in.
now the maiden still lay sleeping, and she was quite sewn into her night-dress, and he cut a morsel from this also, and thrust it in with the rest, but he did all without touching her.
then he went forth and left her lying asleep undisturbed, and when he came to the gate again, the giants were still standing outside waiting for him, and expecting that he was bringing the princess.
but he cried to them that they were to come in, for the maiden was already in their power, that he could not open the gate to them, but there was a hole through which they must creep.
then the first approached, and the huntsman wound the giant’s hair round his hand, pulled the head in, and cut it off at one stroke with his sword, and then drew the rest of him in.
he called to the second and cut his head off likewise, and then he killed the third also, and he was well pleased that he had freed the beautiful maiden from her enemies, and he cut out their tongues and put them in his knapsack.
then thought he, “i will go home to my father and let him see what i have already done, and afterwards i will travel about the world; the luck which god is pleased to grant me will easily find me.”
but when the king in the castle awoke, he saw the three giants lying there dead.
so he went into the sleeping-room of his daughter, awoke her, and asked who could have killed the giants?
then said she, “dear father, i know not, i have been asleep.” but when she arose and would have put on her slippers, the right one was gone, and when she looked at her neck-kerchief it was cut, and the right corner was missing, and when she looked at her night-dress a piece was cut out of it.
the king summoned his whole court together, soldiers and every one else who was there, and asked who had set his daughter at liberty, and killed the giants?
now it happened that he had a captain, who was one-eyed and a hideous man, and he said that he had done it.
then the old king said that as he had accomplished this, he should marry his daughter.
but the maiden said, “rather than marry him, dear father, i will go away into the world as far as my legs can carry me.” but the king said that if she would not marry him she should take off her royal garments and wear peasant’s clothing, and go forth, and that she should go to a potter, and begin a trade in earthen vessels.
so she put off her royal apparel, and went to a potter and borrowed crockery enough for a stall, and she promised him also that if she had sold it by the evening, she would pay for it.
then the king said she was to seat herself in a corner with it and sell it, and he arranged with some peasants to drive over it with their carts, so that everything should be broken into a thousand pieces.
when therefore the king’s daughter had placed her stall in the street, by came the carts, and broke all she had into tiny fragments.
she began to weep and said, “alas, how shall i ever pay for the pots now?” the king had, however, wished by this to force her to marry the captain; but instead of that, she again went to the potter, and asked him if he would lend to her once more.
he said, “no,” she must first pay for the things she had already had.
then she went to her father and cried and lamented, and said she would go forth into the world.
then said he, “i will have a little hut built for thee in the forest outside, and in it thou shalt stay all thy life long and cook for every one, but thou shalt take no money for it.” when the hut was ready, a sign was hung on the door whereon was written, “to-day given, to-morrow sold.” there she remained a long time, and it was rumored about the world that a maiden was there who cooked without asking for payment, and that this was set forth on a sign outside her door.
the huntsman heard it likewise, and thought to himself, “that would suit thee.
thou art poor, and hast no money.” so he took his air-gun and his knapsack, wherein all the things which he had formerly carried away with him from the castle as tokens of his truthfulness were still lying, and went into the forest, and found the hut with the sign, “to-day given, to-morrow sold.” he had put on the sword with which he had cut off the heads of the three giants, and thus entered the hut, and ordered something to eat to be given to him.
he was charmed with the beautiful maiden, who was indeed as lovely as any picture.
she asked him whence he came and whither he was going, and he said, “i am roaming about the world.” then she asked him where he had got the sword, for that truly her father’s name was on it.
he asked her if she were the king’s daughter.
“yes,” answered she.
“with this sword,” said he, “did i cut off the heads of three giants.” and he took their tongues out of his knapsack in proof.
then he also showed her the slipper, and the corner of the neck-kerchief, and the bit of the night-dress.
hereupon she was overjoyed, and said that he was the one who had delivered her.
on this they went together to the old king, and fetched him to the hut, and she led him into her room, and told him that the huntsman was the man who had really set her free from the giants.
and when the aged king saw all the proofs of this, he could no longer doubt, and said that he was very glad he knew how everything had happened, and that the huntsman should have her to wife, on which the maiden was glad at heart.
then she dressed the huntsman as if he were a foreign lord, and the king ordered a feast to be prepared.
when they went to table, the captain sat on the left side of the king’s daughter, but the huntsman was on the right, and the captain thought he was a foreign lord who had come on a visit.
when they had eaten and drunk, the old king said to the captain that he would set before him something which he must guess.
“supposing any one said that he had killed the three giants and he were asked where the giants’ tongues were, and he were forced to go and look, and there were none in their heads, how could that happen?” the captain said, “then they cannot have had any.” “not so,” said the king.
“every animal has a tongue,” and then he likewise asked what any one would deserve who made such an answer?
the captain replied, “he ought to be torn in pieces.”
then the king said he had pronounced his own sentence, and the captain was put in prison and then torn in four pieces; but the king’s daughter was married to the huntsman.
after this he brought his father and mother, and they lived with their son in happiness, and after the death of the old king he received the kingdom.
112 the flail from heaven
a countryman was once going out to plough with a pair of oxen.
when he got to the field, both the animals’ horns began to grow, and went on growing, and when he wanted to go home they were so big that the oxen could not get through the gateway for them.
by good luck a butcher came by just then, and he delivered them over to him, and made the bargain in this way, that he should take the butcher a measure of turnip-seed, and then the butcher was to count him out a brabant thaler for every seed.
i call that well sold!
the peasant now went home, and carried the measure of turnip-seed to him on his back.
on the way, however, he lost one seed out of the bag.
the butcher paid him justly as agreed on, and if the peasant had not lost the seed, he would have had one thaler the more.
in the meantime, when he went on his way back, the seed had grown into a tree which reached up to the sky.
then thought the peasant, “as thou hast the chance, thou must just see what the angels are doing up there above, and for once have them before thine eyes.” so he climbed up, and saw that the angels above were threshing oats, and he looked on.
while he was thus watching them, he observed that the tree on which he was standing, was beginning to totter; he peeped down, and saw that someone was just going to cut it down.
“if i were to fall down from hence it would be a bad thing,” thought he, and in his necessity he did not know how to save himself better than by taking the chaff of the oats which lay there in heaps, and twisting a rope of it.
he likewise snatched a hoe and a flail which were lying about in heaven, and let himself down by the rope.
but he came down on the earth exactly in the middle of a deep, deep hole.
so it was a real piece of luck that he had brought the hoe, for he hoed himself a flight of steps with it, and mounted up, and took the flail with him as a token of his truth, so that no one could have any doubt of his story.
113 the two kings’ children
there was once on a time a king who had a little boy of whom it had been foretold that he should be killed by a stag when he was sixteen years of age, and when he had reached that age the huntsmen once went hunting with him.
in the forest, the king’s son was separated from the others, and all at once he saw a great stag which he wanted to shoot, but could not hit.
at length he chased the stag so far that they were quite out of the forest, and then suddenly a great tall man was standing there instead of the stag, and said, “it is well that i have thee.
i have already ruined six pairs of glass skates with running after thee, and have not been able to get thee.” then he took the king’s son with him, and dragged him through a great lake to a great palace, and then he had to sit down to table with him and eat something.
when they had eaten something together the king said, “i have three daughters, thou must keep watch over the eldest for one night, from nine in the evening till six in the morning, and every time the clock strikes, i will come myself and call, and if thou then givest me no answer, to-morrow morning thou shall be put to death, but if thou always givest me an answer, thou shalt have her to wife.”
when the young folks went to the bed-room there stood a stone image of st. christopher, and the king’s daughter said to it, “my father will come at nine o’clock, and every hour till it strikes three; when he calls, give him an answer instead of the king’s son.” then the stone image of st. christopher nodded its head quite quickly, and then more and more slowly till at last it stood still.
the next morning the king said to him, “thou hast done the business well, but i cannot give my daughter away.
thou must now watch a night by my second daughter, and then i will consider with myself, whether thou canst have my eldest daughter to wife, but i shall come every hour myself, and when i call thee, answer me, and if i call thee and thou dost not reply, thy blood shall flow.” then they both went into the sleeping-room, and there stood a still larger stone image of st. christopher, and the king’s daughter said to it, “if my father calls, do you answer him.” then the great stone image of st. christopher again nodded its head quite quickly and then more and more slowly, until at last it stood still again.
and the king’s son lay down on the threshold, put his hand under his head and slept.
the next morning the king said to him, “thou hast done the business really well, but i cannot give my daughter away; thou must now watch a night by the youngest princess, and then i will consider with myself whether thou canst have my second daughter to wife, but i shall come every hour myself, and when i call thee answer me, and if i call thee and thou answerest not, thy blood shall flow for me.”
then they once more went to the sleeping-room together, and there was a much greater and much taller image of st. christopher than the two first had been.
the king’s daughter said to it, “when my father calls, do thou answer.” then the great tall stone image of st. christopher nodded quite half an hour with its head, until at length the head stood still again.
and the king’s son laid himself down on the threshold of the door and slept.
the next morning the king said, “thou hast indeed watched well, but i cannot give thee my daughter now; i have a great forest, if thou cuttest it down for me between six o’clock this morning and six at night, i will think about it.” then he gave him a glass axe, a glass wedge, and a glass mallet.
when he got into the wood, he began at once to cut, but the axe broke in two, then he took the wedge, and struck it once with the mallet, and it became as short and as small as sand.
then he was much troubled and believed he would have to die, and sat down and wept.
now when it was noon the king said, “one of you girls must take him something to eat.” “no,” said the two eldest, “we will not take it to him; the one by whom he last watched, can take him something.” then the youngest was forced to go and take him something to eat.
when she got into the forest, she asked him how he was getting on?
“oh,” said he, “i am getting on very badly.” then she said he was to come and just eat a little.
“nay,” said he, “i cannot do that, i shall still have to die, so i will eat no more.” then she spoke so kindly to him and begged him just to try, that he came and ate something.
when he had eaten something she said, “i will comb thy hair a while, and then thou wilt feel happier.”
so she combed his hair, and he became weary and fell asleep, and then she took her handkerchief and made a knot in it, and struck it three times on the earth, and said, “earth-workers, come forth.” in a moment, numbers of little earth-men came forth, and asked what the king’s daughter commanded?
then said she, “in three hours’ time the great forest must be cut down, and the whole of the wood laid in heaps.” so the little earth-men went about and got together the whole of their kindred to help them with the work.
they began at once, and when the three hours were over, all was done, and they came back to the king’s daughter and told her so.
then she took her white handkerchief again and said, “earth-workers, go home.” on this they all disappeared.
when the king’s son awoke, he was delighted, and she said, “come home when it has struck six o’clock.” he did as she told him, and then the king asked, “hast thou made away with the forest?” “yes,” said the king’s son.
when they were sitting at table, the king said, “i cannot yet give thee my daughter to wife, thou must still do something more for her sake.” so he asked what it was to be, then?
“i have a great fish-pond,”
said the king.
“thou must go to it to-morrow morning and clear it of all mud until it is as bright as a mirror, and fill it with every kind of fish.” the next morning the king gave him a glass shovel and said, “the fish-pond must be done by six o’clock.” so he went away, and when he came to the fish-pond he stuck his shovel in the mud and it broke in two, then he stuck his hoe in the mud, and broke it also.
then he was much troubled.
at noon the youngest daughter brought him something to eat, and asked him how he was getting on?
so the king’s son said everything was going very ill with him, and he would certainly have to lose his head.
“my tools have broken to pieces again.” “oh,” said she, “thou must just come and eat something, and then thou wilt be in another frame of mind.” “no,” said he, “i cannot eat, i am far too unhappy for that!” then she gave him many good words until at last he came and ate something.
then she combed his hair again, and he fell asleep, so once more she took her handkerchief, tied a knot in it, and struck the ground thrice with the knot, and said, “earth-workers, come forth.” in a moment a great many little earth-men came and asked what she desired, and she told them that in three hours’ time, they must have the fish-pond entirely cleaned out, and it must be so clear that people could see themselves reflected in it, and every kind of fish must be in it.
the little earth-men went away and summoned all their kindred to help them, and in two hours it was done.
then they returned to her and said, “we have done as thou hast commanded.” the king’s daughter took the handkerchief and once more struck thrice on the ground with it, and said, “earth-workers, go home again.” then they all went away.
when the king’s son awoke the fish-pond was done.
then the king’s daughter went away also, and told him that when it was six he was to come to the house.
when he arrived at the house the king asked, “hast thou got the fish-pond done?” “yes,” said the king’s son.
that was very good.
when they were again sitting at table the king said, “thou hast certainly done the fish-pond, but i cannot give thee my daughter yet; thou must just do one thing more.” “what is that, then?” asked the king’s son.
the king said he had a great mountain on which there was nothing but briars which must all be cut down, and at the top of it the youth must build up a great castle, which must be as strong as could be conceived, and all the furniture and fittings belonging to a castle must be inside it.
and when he arose next morning the king gave him a glass axe and a glass gimlet with him, and he was to have all done by six o’clock.
as he was cutting down the first briar with the axe, it broke off short, and so small that the pieces flew all round about, and he could not use the gimlet either.
then he was quite miserable, and waited for his dearest to see if she would not come and help him in his need.
when it was mid-day she came and brought him something to eat.
he went to meet her and told her all, and ate something, and let her comb his hair and fell asleep.
then she once more took the knot and struck the earth with it, and said, “earth-workers, come forth!” then came once again numbers of earth-men, and asked what her desire was.
then said she, “in the space of three hours they must cut down the whole of the briars, and a castle must be built on the top of the mountain that must be as strong as any one could conceive, and all the furniture that pertains to a castle must be inside it.” they went away, and summoned their kindred to help them and when the time was come, all was ready.
then they came to the king’s daughter and told her so, and the king’s daughter took her handkerchief and struck thrice on the earth with it, and said, “earth-workers, go home,” on which they all disappeared.
when therefore the king’s son awoke and saw everything done, he was as happy as a bird in air.
when it had struck six, they went home together.
then said the king, “is the castle ready?” “yes,” said the king’s son.
when they sat down to table, the king said, “i cannot give away my youngest daughter until the two eldest are married.” then the king’s son and the king’s daughter were quite troubled, and the king’s son had no idea what to do.
but he went by night to the king’s daughter and ran away with her.
when they had got a little distance away, the king’s daughter peeped round and saw her father behind her.
“oh,” said she, “what are we to do?
my father is behind us, and will take us back with him.
i will at once change thee into a briar, and myself into a rose, and i will shelter myself in the midst of the bush.” when the father reached the place, there stood a briar with one rose on it, then he was about to gather the rose, when the thorn came and pricked his finger so that he was forced to go home again.
his wife asked why he had not brought their daughter back with him?
so he said he had nearly got up to her, but that all at once he had lost sight of her, and a briar with one rose was growing on the spot.
then said the queen, “if thou hadst but gathered the rose, the briar would have been forced to come too.” so he went back again to fetch the rose, but in the meantime the two were already far over the plain, and the king ran after them.
then the daughter once more looked round and saw her father coming, and said, “oh, what shall we do now?
i will instantly change thee into a church and myself into a priest, and i will stand up in the pulpit, and preach.” when the king got to the place, there stood a church, and in the pulpit was a priest preaching.
so he listened to the sermon, and then went home again.
then the queen asked why he had not brought their daughter with him, and he said, “nay, i ran a long time after her, and just as i thought i should soon overtake her, a church was standing there and a priest was in the pulpit preaching.” “thou shouldst just have brought the priest,”
said his wife, “and then the church would soon have come.
it is no use to send thee, i must go there myself.” when she had walked for some time, and could see the two in the distance, the king’s daughter peeped round and saw her mother coming, and said, “now we are undone, for my mother is coming herself: i will immediately change thee into a fish-pond and myself into a fish.
when the mother came to the place, there was a large fish-pond, and in the midst of it a fish was leaping about and peeping out of the water, and it was quite merry.
she wanted to catch the fish, but she could not.
then she was very angry, and drank up the whole pond in order to catch the fish, but it made her so ill that she was forced to vomit, and vomited the whole pond out again.
then she cried, “i see very well that nothing can be done now,” and said that now they might come back to her.
then the king’s daughter went back again, and the queen gave her daughter three walnuts, and said, “with these thou canst help thyself when thou art in thy greatest need.” so the young folks went once more away together.
and when they had walked quite ten miles, they arrived at the castle from whence the king’s son came, and close by it was a village.
when they reached it, the king’s son said, “stay here, my dearest, i will just go to the castle, and then will i come with a carriage and with attendants to fetch thee.”
when he got to the castle they all rejoiced greatly at having the king’s son back again, and he told them he had a bride who was now in the village, and they must go with the carriage to fetch her.
then they harnessed the horses at once, and many attendants seated themselves outside the carriage.
when the king’s son was about to get in, his mother gave him a kiss, and he forgot everything which had happened, and also what he was about to do.
on this his mother ordered the horses to be taken out of the carriage again, and everyone went back into the house.
but the maiden sat in the village and watched and watched, and thought he would come and fetch her, but no one came.
then the king’s daughter took service in the mill which belonged to the castle, and was obliged to sit by the pond every afternoon and clean the tubs.
and the queen came one day on foot from the castle, and went walking by the pond, and saw the well-grown maiden sitting there, and said, “what a fine strong girl that is!
she pleases me well!” then she and all with her looked at the maid, but no one knew her.
so a long time passed by during which the maiden served the miller honorably and faithfully.
in the meantime, the queen had sought a wife for her son, who came from quite a distant part of the world.
when the bride came, they were at once to be married.
and many people hurried together, all of whom wanted to see everything.
then the girl said to the miller that he might be so good as to give her leave to go also.
so the miller said, “yes, do go there.” when she was about to go, she opened one of the three walnuts, and a beautiful dress lay inside it.
she put it on, and went into the church and stood by the altar.
suddenly came the bride and bridegroom, and seated themselves before the altar, and when the priest was just going to bless them, the bride peeped half round and saw the maiden standing there.
then she stood up again, and said she would not be given away until she also had as beautiful a dress as that lady there.
so they went back to the house again, and sent to ask the lady if she would sell that dress.
no, she would not sell it, but the bride might perhaps earn it.
then the bride asked her how she was to do this?
then the maiden said if she might sleep one night outside the king’s son’s door, the bride might have what she wanted.
so the bride said, “yes, she was willing to do that.” but the servants were ordered to give the king’s son a sleeping-drink, and then the maiden laid herself down on the threshold and lamented all night long.
she had had the forest cut down for him, she had had the fish-pond cleaned out for him, she had had the castle built for him, she had changed him into a briar, and then into a church, and at last into a fish-pond, and yet he had forgotten her so quickly.
the king’s son did not hear one word of it, but the servants had been awakened, and had listened to it, and had not known what it could mean.
the next morning when they were all up, the bride put on the dress, and went away to the church with the bridegroom.
in the meantime the maiden opened the second walnut, and a still more beautiful dress was inside it.
she put it on, and went and stood by the altar in the church, and everything happened as it had happened the time before.
and the maiden again lay all night on the threshold which led to the chamber of the king’s son, and the servant was once more to give him a sleeping-drink.
the servant, however, went to him and gave him something to keep him awake, and then the king’s son went to bed, and the miller’s maiden bemoaned herself as before on the threshold of the door, and told of all that she had done.
all this the king’s son heard, and was sore troubled, and what was past came back to him.
then he wanted to go to her, but his mother had locked the door.
the next morning, however, he went at once to his beloved, and told her everything which had happened to him, and prayed her not to be angry with him for having forgotten her.
then the king’s daughter opened the third walnut, and within it was a still more magnificent dress, which she put on, and went with her bridegroom to church, and numbers of children came who gave them flowers, and offered them gay ribbons to bind about their feet, and they were blessed by the priest, and had a merry wedding.
but the false mother and the bride had to depart.
and the mouth of the person who last told all this is still warm.
114 the cunning little tailor
there was once on a time a princess who was extremely proud.
if a wooer came she gave him some riddle to guess, and if he could not find it out, he was sent contemptuously away.
she let it be made known also that whosoever solved her riddle should marry her, let him be who he might.
at length, therefore, three tailors fell in with each other, the two eldest of whom thought they had done so many dexterous bits of work successfully that they could not fail to succeed in this also; the third was a little useless land-louper, who did not even know his trade, but thought he must have some luck in this venture, for where else was it to come from?
then the two others said to him, “just stay at home; thou canst not do much with thy little bit of understanding.”
the little tailor, however, did not let himself be discouraged, and said he had set his head to work about this for once, and he would manage well enough, and he went forth as if the whole world were his.
they all three announced themselves to the princess, and said she was to propound her riddle to them, and that the right persons were now come, who had understandings so fine that they could be threaded in a needle.
then said the princess, “i have two kinds of hair on my head, of what color is it?” “if that be all,” said the first, “it must be black and white, like the cloth which is called pepper and salt.” the princess said, “wrongly guessed; let the second answer.” then said the second, “if it be not black and white, then it is brown and red, like my father’s company coat.” “wrongly guessed,” said the princess, “let the third give the answer, for i see very well he knows it for certain.” then the little tailor stepped boldly forth and said, “the princess has a silver and a golden hair on her head, and those are the two different colors.” when the princess heard that, she turned pale and nearly fell down with terror, for the little tailor had guessed her riddle, and she had firmly believed that no man on earth could discover it.
when her courage returned she said, “thou hast not won me yet by that; there is still something else that thou must do.
below, in the stable is a bear with which thou shalt pass the night, and when i get up in the morning if thou art still alive, thou shalt marry me.” she expected, however, she should thus get rid of the tailor, for the bear had never yet left any one alive who had fallen into his clutches.
the little tailor did not let himself be frightened away, but was quite delighted, and said, “boldly ventured is half won.”
when therefore the evening came, our little tailor was taken down to the bear.
the bear was about to set at the little fellow at once, and give him a hearty welcome with his paws: “softly, softly,” said the little tailor, “i will soon make thee quiet.” then quite composedly, and as if he had not an anxiety in the world, he took some nuts out of his pocket, cracked them, and ate the kernels.
when the bear saw that, he was seized with a desire to have some nuts too.
the tailor felt in his pockets, and reached him a handful; they were, however, not nuts, but pebbles.
the bear put them in his mouth, but could get nothing out of them, let him bite as he would.
“eh!” thought he, “what a stupid blockhead i am!
i cannot even crack a nut!” and then he said to the tailor, “here, crack me the nuts.” “there, see what a stupid fellow thou art!” said the little tailor, “to have such a great mouth, and not be able to crack a small nut!” then he took the pebble and nimbly put a nut in his mouth in the place of it, and crack, it was in two!
“i must try the thing again,” said the bear; “when i watch you, i then think i ought to be able to do it too.” so the tailor once more gave him a pebble, and the bear tried and tried to bite into it with all the strength of his body.
but no one will imagine that he accomplished it.
when that was over, the tailor took out a violin from beneath his coat, and played a piece of it to himself.
when the bear heard the music, he could not help beginning to dance, and when he had danced a while, the thing pleased him so well that he said to the little tailor, “hark you, is the fiddle heavy?” “light enough for a child.
look, with the left hand i lay my fingers on it, and with the right i stroke it with the bow, and then it goes merrily, hop sa sa vivallalera!” “so,” said the bear; “fiddling is a thing i should like to understand too, that i might dance whenever i had a fancy.
what dost thou think of that?
wilt thou give me lessons?” “with all my heart,” said the tailor, “if thou hast a talent for it.
but just let me see thy claws, they are terribly long, i must cut thy nails a little.” then a vise was brought, and the bear put his claws in it, and the little tailor screwed it tight, and said, “now wait until i come with the scissors,” and he let the bear growl as he liked, and lay down in the corner on a bundle of straw, and fell asleep.
when the princess heard the bear growling so fiercely during the night, she believed nothing else but that he was growling for joy, and had made an end of the tailor.
in the morning she arose careless and happy, but when she peeped into the stable, the tailor stood gaily before her, and was as healthy as a fish in water.
now she could not say another word against the wedding because she had given a promise before every one, and the king ordered a carriage to be brought in which she was to drive to church with the tailor, and there she was to be married.
when they had got into the carriage, the two other tailors, who had false hearts and envied him his good fortune, went into the stable and unscrewed the bear again.
the bear in great fury ran after the carriage.
the princess heard him snorting and growling; she was terrified, and she cried, “ah, the bear is behind us and wants to get thee!” the tailor was quick and stood on his head, stuck his legs out of the window, and cried, “dost thou see the vise?
if thou dost not be off thou shalt be put into it again.” when the bear saw that, he turned round and ran away.
the tailor drove quietly to church, and the princess was married to him at once, and he lived with her as happy as a woodlark.
whosoever does not believe this, must pay a thaler.
115 the bright sun brings it to light
a tailor’s apprentice was travelling about the world in search of work, and at one time he could find none, and his poverty was so great that he had not a farthing to live on.
presently he met a jew on the road, and as he thought he would have a great deal of money about him, the tailor thrust god out of his heart, fell on the jew, and said, “give me thy money, or i will strike thee dead.” then said the jew, “grant me my life, i have no money but eight farthings.” but the tailor said, “money thou hast; and it shall be produced,” and used violence and beat him until he was near death.
and when the jew was dying, the last words he said were, “the bright sun will bring it to light,” and thereupon he died.
the tailor’s apprentice felt in his pockets and sought for money, but he found nothing but eight farthings, as the jew had said.
then he took him up and carried him behind a clump of trees, and went onwards to seek work.
after he had traveled about a long while, he got work in a town with a master who had a pretty daughter, with whom he fell in love, and he married her, and lived in good and happy wedlock.
after a long time when he and his wife had two children, the wife’s father and mother died, and the young people kept house alone.
one morning, when the husband was sitting on the table before the window, his wife brought him his coffee, and when he had poured it out into the saucer, and was just going to drink, the sun shone on it and the reflection gleamed hither and thither on the wall above, and made circles on it.
then the tailor looked up and said, “yes, it would like very much to bring it to light, and cannot!” the woman said, “oh, dear husband, and what is that, then?” “what dost thou mean by that?” he answered, “i must not tell thee.” but she said, “if thou lovest me, thou must tell me,” and used her most affectionate words, and said that no one should ever know it, and left him no rest.
then he told her how years ago, when he was travelling about seeking work and quite worn out and penniless, he had killed a jew, and that in the last agonies of death, the jew had spoken the words, “the bright sun will bring it to light.” and now, the sun had just wanted to bring it to light, and had gleamed and made circles on the wall, but had not been able to do it.
after this, he again charged her particularly never to tell this, or he would lose his life, and she did promise.
when however, he had sat down to work again, she went to her great friend and confided the story to her, but she was never to repeat it to any human being, but before two days were over, the whole town knew it, and the tailor was brought to trial, and condemned.
and thus, after all, the bright sun did bring it to light.
116 the blue light
there was once on a time a soldier who for many years had served the king faithfully, but when the war came to an end could serve no longer because of the many wounds which he had received.
the king said to him, “thou mayst return to thy home, i need thee no longer, and thou wilt not receive any more money, for he only receives wages who renders me service for them.” then the soldier did not know how to earn a living, went away greatly troubled, and walked the whole day, until in the evening he entered a forest.
when darkness came on, he saw a light, which he went up to, and came to a house wherein lived a witch.
“do give me one night’s lodging, and a little to eat and drink,” said he to her, “or i shall starve.” “oho!” she answered, “who gives anything to a run-away soldier?
yet will i be compassionate, and take you in, if you will do what i wish.” “what do you wish?” said the soldier.
“that you should dig all round my garden for me, tomorrow.” the soldier consented, and next day labored with all his strength, but could not finish it by the evening.
“i see well enough,” said the witch, “that you can do no more to-day, but i will keep you yet another night, in payment for which you must to-morrow chop me a load of wood, and make it small.” the soldier spent the whole day in doing it, and in the evening the witch proposed that he should stay one night more.
“to-morrow, you shall only do me a very trifling piece of work.
behind my house, there is an old dry well, into which my light has fallen, it burns blue, and never goes out, and you shall bring it up again for me.” next day the old woman took him to the well, and let him down in a basket.
he found the blue light, and made her a signal to draw him up again.
she did draw him up, but when he came near the edge, she stretched down her hand and wanted to take the blue light away from him.
“no,” said he, perceiving her evil intention, “i will not give thee the light until i am standing with both feet upon the ground.” the witch fell into a passion, let him down again into the well, and went away.
the poor soldier fell without injury on the moist ground, and the blue light went on burning, but of what use was that to him?
he saw very well that he could not escape death.
he sat for a while very sorrowfully, then suddenly he felt in his pocket and found his tobacco pipe, which was still half full.
“this shall be my last pleasure,”
thought he, pulled it out, lit it at the blue light and began to smoke.
when the smoke had circled about the cavern, suddenly a little black dwarf stood before him, and said, “lord, what are thy commands?” “what commands have i to give thee?” replied the soldier, quite astonished.
“i must do everything thou biddest me,” said the little man.
“good,”
said the soldier; “then in the first place help me out of this well.”
the little man took him by the hand, and led him through an underground passage, but he did not forget to take the blue light with him.
on the way the dwarf showed him the treasures which the witch had collected and hidden there, and the soldier took as much gold as he could carry.
when he was above, he said to the little man, “now go and bind the old witch, and carry her before the judge.” in a short time she, with frightful cries, came riding by, as swift as the wind on a wild tom-cat, nor was it long after that before the little man re-appeared.
“it is all done,” said he, “and the witch is already hanging on the gallows.
what further commands has my lord?” inquired the dwarf.
“at this moment, none,” answered the soldier; “thou canst return home, only be at hand immediately, if i summon thee.” “nothing more is needed than that thou shouldst light thy pipe at the blue light, and i will appear before thee at once.” thereupon he vanished from his sight.
the soldier returned to the town from which he had come.
he went to the best inn, ordered himself handsome clothes, and then bade the landlord furnish him a room as handsomely as possible.
when it was ready and the soldier had taken possession of it, he summoned the little black mannikin and said, “i have served the king faithfully, but he has dismissed me, and left me to hunger, and now i want to take my revenge.” “what am i to do?” asked the little man.
“late at night, when the king’s daughter is in bed, bring her here in her sleep, she shall do servant’s work for me.” the mannikin said, “that is an easy thing for me to do, but a very dangerous thing for you, for if it is discovered, you will fare ill.” when twelve o’clock had struck, the door sprang open, and the mannikin carried in the princess.
“aha!
art thou there?” cried the soldier, “get to thy work at once!
fetch the broom and sweep the chamber.” when she had done this, he ordered her to come to his chair, and then he stretched out his feet and said, “pull off my boots for me,” and then he threw them in her face, and made her pick them up again, and clean and brighten them.
she, however, did everything he bade her, without opposition, silently and with half-shut eyes.
when the first cock crowed, the mannikin carried her back to the royal palace, and laid her in her bed.
next morning when the princess arose, she went to her father, and told him that she had had a very strange dream.
“i was carried through the streets with the rapidity of lightning,” said she, “and taken into a soldier’s room, and i had to wait upon him like a servant, sweep his room, clean his boots, and do all kinds of menial work.
it was only a dream, and yet i am just as tired as if i really had done everything.”
“the dream may have been true,” said the king, “i will give thee a piece of advice.
fill thy pocket full of peas, and make a small hole in it, and then if thou art carried away again, they will fall out and leave a track in the streets.” but unseen by the king, the mannikin was standing beside him when he said that, and heard all.
at night when the sleeping princess was again carried through the streets, some peas certainly did fall out of her pocket, but they made no track, for the crafty mannikin had just before scattered peas in every street there was.
and again the princess was compelled to do servant’s work until cock-crow.
next morning the king sent his people out to seek the track, but it was all in vain, for in every street poor children were sitting, picking up peas, and saying, “it must have rained peas, last night.” “we must think of something else,” said the king; “keep thy shoes on when thou goest to bed, and before thou comest back from the place where thou art taken, hide one of them there, i will soon contrive to find it.” the black mannikin heard this plot, and at night when the soldier again ordered him to bring the princess, revealed it to him, and told him that he knew of no expedient to counteract this stratagem, and that if the shoe were found in the soldier’s house it would go badly with him.
“do what i bid thee,” replied the soldier, and again this third night the princess was obliged to work like a servant, but before she went away, she hid her shoe under the bed.
next morning the king had the entire town searched for his daughter’s shoe.
it was found at the soldier’s, and the soldier himself, who at the entreaty of the dwarf had gone outside the gate, was soon brought back, and thrown into prison.
in his flight he had forgotten the most valuable things he had, the blue light and the gold, and had only one ducat in his pocket.
and now loaded with chains, he was standing at the window of his dungeon, when he chanced to see one of his comrades passing by.
the soldier tapped at the pane of glass, and when this man came up, said to him, “be so kind as to fetch me the small bundle i have left lying in the inn, and i will give you a ducat for doing it.”
his comrade ran thither and brought him what he wanted.
as soon as the soldier was alone again, he lighted his pipe and summoned the black mannikin.
“have no fear,” said the latter to his master.
“go wheresoever they take you, and let them do what they will, only take the blue light with you.” next day the soldier was tried, and though he had done nothing wicked, the judge condemned him to death.
when he was led forth to die, he begged a last favor of the king.
“what is it?”
asked the king.
“that i may smoke one more pipe on my way.” “thou mayst smoke three,” answered the king, “but do not imagine that i will spare thy life.” then the soldier pulled out his pipe and lighted it at the blue light, and as soon as a few wreaths of smoke had ascended, the mannikin was there with a small cudgel in his hand, and said, “what does my lord command?” “strike down to earth that false judge there, and his constable, and spare not the king who has treated me so ill.”
then the mannikin fell on them like lightning, darting this way and that way, and whosoever was so much as touched by his cudgel fell to earth, and did not venture to stir again.
the king was terrified; he threw himself on the soldier’s mercy, and merely to be allowed to live at all, gave him his kingdom for his own, and the princess to wife.
117 the wilful child
once upon a time there was a child who was willful, and would not do at her mother wished.
for this reason god had no pleasure in her, and let her become ill, and no doctor could do her any good, and in a short time she lay on her death-bed.
when she had been lowered into her grave, and the earth was spread over her, all at once her arm came out again, and stretched upwards, and when they had put it in and spread fresh earth over it, it was all to no purpose, for the arm always came out again.
then the mother herself was obliged to go to the grave, and strike the arm with a rod, and when she had done that, it was drawn in, and then at last the child had rest beneath the ground.
118 the three army-surgeons
three army-surgeons who thought they knew their art perfectly, were travelling about the world, and they came to an inn where they wanted to pass the night.
the host asked whence they came, and whither they were going?
“we are roaming about the world and practising our art.”
“just show me for once in a way what you can do,” said the host.
then the first said he would cut off his hand, and put it on again early next morning; the second said he would tear out his heart, and replace it next morning; the third said he would cut out his eyes and heal them again next morning.
“if you can do that,” said the innkeeper, “you have learnt everything.” they, however, had a salve, with which they rubbed themselves, which joined parts together, and they carried the little bottle in which it was, constantly with them.
then they cut the hand, heart and eyes from their bodies as they had said they would, and laid them all together on a plate, and gave it to the innkeeper.
the innkeeper gave it to a servant who was to set it in the cupboard, and take good care of it.
the girl, however, had a lover in secret, who was a soldier.
when therefore the innkeeper, the three army-surgeons, and everyone else in the house were asleep, the soldier came and wanted something to eat.
the girl opened the cupboard and brought him some food, and in her love forgot to shut the cupboard-door again; she seated herself at the table by her lover, and they chattered away together.
while she sat so contentedly there, thinking of no ill luck, the cat came creeping in, found the cupboard open, took the hand and heart and eyes of the three army-surgeons, and ran off with them.
when the soldier had done eating, and the girl was taking away the things and going to shut the cupboard she saw that the plate which the innkeeper had given her to take care of, was empty.
then she said in a fright to her lover, “ah, miserable girl, what shall i do?
the hand is gone, the heart and the eyes are gone too, what will become of me in the morning?” “be easy,” said he, “i will help thee out of thy trouble there is a thief hanging outside on the gallows, i will cut off his hand.
which hand was it?” “the right one.” then the girl gave him a sharp knife, and he went and cut the poor sinner’s right hand off, and brought it to her.
after this he caught the cat and cut its eyes out, and now nothing but the heart was wanting.
“have you not been killing, and are not the dead pigs in the cellar?” said he.
“yes,” said the girl.
“that’s well,” said the soldier, and he went down and fetched a pig’s heart.
the girl placed all together on the plate, and put it in the cupboard, and when after this her lover took leave of her, she went quietly to bed.
in the morning when the three army-surgeons got up, they told the girl she was to bring them the plate on which the hand, heart, and eyes were lying.
then she brought it out of the cupboard, and the first fixed the thief’s hand on and smeared it with his salve, and it grew to his arm directly.
the second took the cat’s eyes and put them in his own head.
the third fixed the pig’s heart firm in the place where his own had been, and the innkeeper stood by, admired their skill, and said he had never yet seen such a thing as that done, and would sing their praises and recommend them to everyone.
then they paid their bill, and travelled farther.
as they were on their way, the one with the pig’s heart did not stay with them at all, but wherever there was a corner he ran to it, and rooted about in it with his nose as pigs do.
the others wanted to hold him back by the tail of his coat, but that did no good; he tore himself loose, and ran wherever the dirt was thickest.
the second also behaved very strangely; he rubbed his eyes, and said to the others, “comrades, what is the matter?
i don’t see at all.
will one of you lead me, so that i do not fall.” then with difficulty they travelled on till evening, when they reached another inn.
they went into the bar together, and there at a table in the corner sat a rich man counting money.
the one with the thief’s hand walked round about him, made a sudden movement twice with his arm, and at last when the stranger turned away, he snatched at the pile of money, and took a handful from it.
one of them saw this, and said, “comrade, what art thou about?
thou must not steal shame on thee!” “eh,” said he, “but how can i stop myself?
my hand twitches, and i am forced to snatch things whether i will or not.”
after this, they lay down to sleep, and while they were lying there it was so dark that no one could see his own hand.
all at once the one with the cat’s eyes awoke, aroused the others, and said.
“brothers, just look up, do you see the white mice running about there?” the two sat up, but could see nothing.
then said he, “things are not right with us, we have not got back again what is ours.
we must return to the innkeeper, he has deceived us.” they went back therefore, the next morning, and told the host they had not got what was their own again; that the first had a thief’s hand, the second cat’s eyes, and the third a pig’s heart.
the innkeeper said that the girl must be to blame for that, and was going to call her, but when she had seen the three coming, she had run out by the backdoor, and not come back.
then the three said he must give them a great deal of money, or they would set his house on fire.
he gave them what he had, and whatever he could get together, and the three went away with it.
it was enough for the rest of their lives, but they would rather have had their own proper organs.
119 the seven swabians
seven swabians were once together.
the first was master schulz; the second, jackli; the third, marli; the fourth, jergli; the fifth, michal; the sixth, hans; the seventh, veitli: all seven had made up their minds to travel about the world to seek adventures, and perform great deeds.
but in order that they might go in security and with arms in their hands, they thought it would be advisable that they should have one solitary, but very strong, and very long spear made for them.
this spear all seven of them took in their hands at once; in front walked the boldest and bravest, and that was master schulz; all the others followed in a row, and veitli was the last.
then it came to pass one day in the hay-making month (july), when they had walked a long distance, and still had a long way to go before they reached the village where they were to pass the night, that as they were in a meadow in the twilight a great beetle or hornet flew by them from behind a bush, and hummed in a menacing manner.
master schulz was so terrified that he all but dropped the spear, and a cold perspiration broke out over his whole body.
“hark!
hark!” cried he to his comrades, “good heavens!
i hear a drum.” jackli, who was behind him holding the spear, and who perceived some kind of a smell, said, “something is most certainly going on, for i taste powder and matches.” at these words master schulz began to take to flight, and in a trice jumped over a hedge, but as he just happened to jump on to the teeth of a rake which had been left lying there after the hay-making, the handle of it struck against his face and gave him a tremendous blow.
“oh dear!
oh dear!”
screamed master schulz.
“take me prisoner; i surrender!
i surrender!”
the other six all leapt over, one on the top of the other, crying, “if you surrender, i surrender too!
if you surrender, i surrender too!” at length, as no enemy was there to bind and take them away, they saw that they had been mistaken, and in order that the story might not be known, and they be treated as fools and ridiculed, they all swore to each other to hold their peace about it until one of them accidentally spoke of it.
then they journeyed onwards.
the second danger which they survived cannot be compared with the first.
some days afterwards, their path led them through a fallow-field where a hare was sitting sleeping in the sun.
her ears were standing straight up, and her great glassy eyes were wide open.
all of them were alarmed at the sight of the horrible wild beast, and they consulted together as to what it would be the least dangerous to do.
for if they were to run away, they knew that the monster would pursue and swallow them whole.
so they said, “we must go through a great and dangerous struggle.
boldly ventured, is half won,” and all seven grasped the spear, master schulz in front, and veitli behind.
master schulz was always trying to keep the spear back, but veitli had become quite brave while behind, and wanted to dash forward and cried,
“strike home, in every swabian’s name, or else i wish ye may be lame.”
but hans knew how to meet this, and said,
“thunder and lightning, it’s fine to prate, but for dragon-hunting thou’rt aye too late.”
michal cried,
“nothing is wanting, not even a hair, be sure the devil himself is there.”
then it was jergli’s turn to speak,
“if it be not, it’s at least his mother, or else it’s the devil’s own step-brother.”
and now marli had a bright thought, and said to veitli,
“advance, veitli, advance, advance, and i behind will hold the lance.”
veitli, however, did not attend to that, and jackli said,
“tis schulz’s place the first to be, no one deserves that honor but he.”
then master schulz plucked up his courage, and said, gravely,
“then let us boldly advance to the fight, and thus we shall show our valour and might.”
hereupon they all together set on the dragon.
master schulz crossed himself and prayed for god’s assistance, but as all this was of no avail, and he was getting nearer and nearer to the enemy, he screamed “oho!
oho!
ho!
ho!
ho!” in the greatest anguish.
this awakened the hare, which in great alarm darted swiftly away.
when master schulz saw her thus flying from the field of battle, he cried in his joy.
“quick, veitli, quick, look there, look there, the monster’s nothing but a hare!”
but the swabian allies went in search of further adventures, and came to the moselle, a mossy, quiet, deep river, over which there are few bridges, and which in many places people have to cross in boats.
as the seven swabians did not know this, they called to a man who was working on the opposite side of the river, to know how people contrived to get across.
the distance and their way of speaking made the man unable to understand what they wanted, and he said “what?
what?” in the way people speak in the neighborhood of treves.
master schulz thought he was saying, “wade, wade through the water,” and as he was the first, began to set out and went into the moselle.
it was not long before he sank in the mud and the deep waves which drove against him, but his hat was blown on the opposite shore by the wind, and a frog sat down beside it, and croaked “wat, wat, wat.” the other six on the opposite side heard that, and said, “oho, comrades, master schulz is calling us; if he can wade across, why cannot we?” so they all jumped into the water together in a great hurry, and were drowned, and thus one frog took the lives of all six of them, and not one of the swabian allies ever reached home again.
120 the three apprentices
there were once three apprentices, who had agreed to keep always together while travelling, and always to work in the same town.
at one time, however, their masters had no more work to give them, so that at last they were in rags, and had nothing to live on.
then one of them said, “what shall we do?
we cannot stay here any longer, we will travel once more, and if we do not find any work in the town we go to, we will arrange with the innkeeper there, that we are to write and tell him where we are staying, so that we can always have news of each other, and then we will separate.” and that seemed best to the others also.
they went forth, and met on the way a richly-dressed man who asked who they were.
“we are apprentices looking for work; up to this time we have kept together, but if we cannot find anything to do we are going to separate.” “there is no need for that,” said the man, “if you will do what i tell you, you shall not want for gold or for work; nay, you shall become great lords, and drive in your carriages!” one of them said, “if our souls and salvation be not endangered, we will certainly do it.” “they will not,” replied the man, “i have no claim on you.” one of the others had, however, looked at his feet, and when he saw a horse’s foot and a man’s foot, he did not want to have anything to do with him.
the devil, however, said, “be easy, i have no designs on you, but on another soul, which is half my own already, and whose measure shall but run full.” as they were now secure, they consented, and the devil told them what he wanted.
the first was to answer, “all three of us,” to every question; the second was to say, “for money,” and the third, “and quite right too!” they were always to say this, one after the other, but they were not to say one word more, and if they disobeyed this order, all their money would disappear at once, but so long as they observed it, their pockets would always be full.
as a beginning, he at once gave them as much as they could carry, and told them to go to such and such an inn when they got to the town.
they went to it, and the innkeeper came to meet them, and asked if they wished for anything to eat?
the first replied, “all three of us.” “yes,” said the host, “that is what i mean.” the second said, “for money.” “of course,” said the host.
the third said, “and quite right too!”
“certainly it is right,” said the host.
good meat and drink were now brought to them, and they were well waited on.
after the dinner came the payment, and the innkeeper gave the bill to the one who said, “all three of us,” the second said, “for money,”
and the third, “and quite right too!” “indeed it is right,” said the host, “all three pay, and without money i can give nothing.” they, however, paid still more than he had asked.
the lodgers, who were looking on, said, “these people must be mad.” “yes, indeed they are,”
said the host, “they are not very wise.” so they stayed some time in the inn, and said nothing else but, “all three of us,” “for money,” and “and quite right too!” but they saw and knew all that was going on.
it so happened that a great merchant came with a large sum of money, and said, “sir host, take care of my money for me, here are three crazy apprentices who might steal it from me.” the host did as he was asked.
as he was carrying the trunk into his room, he felt that it was heavy with gold.
thereupon he gave the three apprentices a lodging below, but the merchant came up-stairs into a separate apartment.
when it was midnight, and the host thought that all were asleep, he came with his wife, and they had an axe and struck the rich merchant dead; and after they had murdered him they went to bed again.
when it was day there was a great outcry; the merchant lay dead in bed bathed in blood.
all the guests ran at once but the host said, “the three crazy apprentices have done this;” the lodgers confirmed it, and said, “it can have been no one else.” the innkeeper, however, had them called, and said to them, “have you killed the merchant?” “all three of us,” said the first, “for money,” said the second; and the third added, “and quite right too!”
“there now, you hear,” said the host, “they confess it themselves.”
they were taken to prison, therefore, and were to be tried.
when they saw that things were going so seriously, they were after all afraid, but at night the devil came and said, “bear it just one day longer, and do not play away your luck, not one hair of your head shall be hurt.”
the next morning they were led to the bar, and the judge said, “are you the murderers?” “all three of us.” “why did you kill the merchant?”
“for money.” “you wicked wretches, you have no horror of your sins?”
“and quite right too!” “they have confessed, and are still stubborn,”
said the judge, “lead them to death instantly.” so they were taken out, and the host had to go with them into the circle.
when they were taken hold of by the executioner’s men, and were just going to be led up to the scaffold where the headsman was standing with naked sword, a coach drawn by four blood-red chestnut horses came up suddenly, driving so fast that fire flashed from the stones, and someone made signs from the window with a white handkerchief.
then said the headsman, “it is a pardon coming,” and “pardon!
pardon!” was called from the carriage also.
then the devil stepped out as a very noble gentleman, beautifully dressed, and said, “you three are innocent; you may now speak, make known what you have seen and heard.” then said the eldest, “we did not kill the merchant, the murderer is standing there in the circle,” and he pointed to the innkeeper.
“in proof of this, go into his cellar, where many others whom he has killed are still hanging.” then the judge sent the executioner’s men thither, and they found it was as the apprentices said, and when they had informed the judge of this, he caused the innkeeper to be led up, and his head was cut off.
then said the devil to the three, “now i have got the soul which i wanted to have, and you are free, and have money for the rest of your lives.”
121 the king’s son who feared nothing
there was once a king’s son, who was no longer content to stay at home in his father’s house, and as he had no fear of anything, he thought, “i will go forth into the wide world, there the time will not seem long to me, and i shall see wonders enough.” so he took leave of his parents, and went forth, and on and on from morning till night, and whichever way his path led it was the same to him.
it came to pass that he got to the house of a giant, and as he was so tired he sat down by the door and rested.
and as he let his eyes roam here and there, he saw the giant’s playthings lying in the yard.
these were a couple of enormous balls, and nine-pins as tall as a man.
after a while he had a fancy to set the nine-pins up and then rolled the balls at them, and screamed and cried out when the nine-pins fell, and had a merry time of it.
the giant heard the noise, stretched his head out of the window, and saw a man who was not taller than other men, and yet played with his nine-pins.
“little worm,” cried he, “why art thou playing with my balls?
who gave thee strength to do it?” the king’s son looked up, saw the giant, and said, “oh, thou blockhead, thou thinkest indeed that thou only hast strong arms, i can do everything i want to do.” the giant came down and watched the bowling with great admiration, and said, “child of man, if thou art one of that kind, go and bring me an apple of the tree of life.” “what dost thou want with it?” said the king’s son.
“i do not want the apple for myself,” answered the giant, “but i have a betrothed bride who wishes for it.
i have travelled far about the world and cannot find the tree.” “i will soon find it,” said the king’s son, “and i do not know what is to prevent me from getting the apple down.” the giant said, “thou really believest it to be so easy!
the garden in which the tree stands is surrounded by an iron railing, and in front of the railing lie wild beasts, each close to the other, and they keep watch and let no man go in.” “they will be sure to let me in,” said the king’s son.
“yes, but even if thou dost get into the garden, and seest the apple hanging to the tree, it is still not thine; a ring hangs in front of it, through which any one who wants to reach the apple and break it off, must put his hand, and no one has yet had the luck to do it.” “that luck will be mine,” said the king’s son.
then he took leave of the giant, and went forth over mountain and valley, and through plains and forests, until at length he came to the wondrous garden.
the beasts lay round about it, but they had put their heads down and were asleep.
moreover, they did not awake when he went up to them, so he stepped over them, climbed the fence, and got safely into the garden.
there, in the very middle of it, stood the tree of life, and the red apples were shining upon the branches.
he climbed up the trunk to the top, and as he was about to reach out for an apple, he saw a ring hanging before it; but he thrust his hand through that without any difficulty, and gathered the apple.
the ring closed tightly on his arm, and all at once he felt a prodigious strength flowing through his veins.
when he had come down again from the tree with the apple, he would not climb over the fence, but grasped the great gate, and had no need to shake it more than once before it sprang open with a loud crash.
then he went out, and the lion which had been lying down before, was awake and sprang after him, not in rage and fierceness, but following him humbly as its master.
the king’s son took the giant the apple he had promised him, and said, “seest thou, i have brought it without difficulty.” the giant was glad that his desire had been so soon satisfied, hastened to his bride, and gave her the apple for which she had wished.
she was a beautiful and wise maiden, and as she did not see the ring on his arm, she said, “i shall never believe that thou hast brought the apple, until i see the ring on thine arm.” the giant said, “i have nothing to do but go home and fetch it,” and thought it would be easy to take away by force from the weak man, what he would not give of his own free will.
he therefore demanded the ring from him, but the king’s son refused it.
“where the apple is, the ring must be also,” said the giant; “if thou wilt not give it of thine own accord, thou must fight with me for it.”
they wrestled with each other for a long time, but the giant could not get the better of the king’s son, who was strengthened by the magical power of the ring.
then the giant thought of a stratagem, and said, “i have got warm with fighting, and so hast thou.
we will bathe in the river, and cool ourselves before we begin again.” the king’s son, who knew nothing of falsehood, went with him to the water, and pulled off with his clothes the ring also from his arm, and sprang into the river.
the giant instantly snatched the ring, and ran away with it, but the lion, which had observed the theft, pursued the giant, tore the ring out of his hand, and brought it back to its master.
then the giant placed himself behind an oak-tree, and while the king’s son was busy putting on his clothes again, surprised him, and put both his eyes out.
and now the unhappy king’s son stood there, and was blind and knew not how to help himself.
then the giant came back to him, took him by the hand as if he were someone who wanted to guide him, and led him to the top of a high rock.
there he left him standing, and thought, “just two steps more, and he will fall down and kill himself, and i can take the ring from him.” but the faithful lion had not deserted its master; it held him fast by the clothes, and drew him gradually back again.
when the giant came and wanted to rob the dead man, he saw that his cunning had been in vain.
“is there no way, then, of destroying a weak child of man like that?” said he angrily to himself, and seized the king’s son and led him back again to the precipice by another way, but the lion which saw his evil design, helped its master out of danger here also.
when they had got close to the edge, the giant let the blind man’s hand drop, and was going to leave him behind alone, but the lion pushed the giant so that he was thrown down and fell, dashed to pieces, on the ground.
the faithful animal again drew its master back from the precipice, and guided him to a tree by which flowed a clear brook.
the king’s son sat down there, but the lion lay down, and sprinkled the water in his face with its paws.
scarcely had a couple of drops wetted the sockets of his eyes, than he was once more able to see something, and remarked a little bird flying quite close by, which wounded itself against the trunk of a tree.
on this it went down to the water and bathed itself therein, and then it soared upwards and swept between the trees without touching them, as if it had recovered its sight again.
then the king’s son recognized a sign from god and stooped down to the water, and washed and bathed his face in it.
and when he arose he had his eyes once more, brighter and clearer than they had ever been.
the king’s son thanked god for his great mercy, and travelled with his lion onwards through the world.
and it came to pass that he arrived before a castle which was enchanted.
in the gateway stood a maiden of beautiful form and fine face, but she was quite black.
she spoke to him and said, “ah, if thou couldst but deliver me from the evil spell which is thrown over me.” “what shall i do?” said the king’s son.
the maiden answered, “thou must pass three nights in the great hall of this enchanted castle, but thou must let no fear enter thy heart.
when they are doing their worst to torment thee, if thou bearest it without letting a sound escape thee, i shall be free.
thy life they dare not take.” then said the king’s son, “i have no fear; with god’s help i will try it.” so he went gaily into the castle, and when it grew dark he seated himself in the large hall and waited.
everything was quiet, however, till midnight, when all at once a great tumult began, and out of every hole and corner came little devils.
they behaved as if they did not see him, seated themselves in the middle of the room, lighted a fire, and began to gamble.
when one of them lost, he said, “it is not right; some one is here who does not belong to us; it is his fault that i am losing.” “wait, you fellow behind the stove, i am coming,” said another.
the screaming became still louder, so that no one could have heard it without terror.
the king’s son stayed sitting quite quietly, and was not afraid; but at last the devils jumped up from the ground, and fell on him, and there were so many of them that he could not defend himself from them.
they dragged him about on the floor, pinched him, pricked him, beat him, and tormented him, but no sound escaped from him.
towards morning they disappeared, and he was so exhausted that he could scarcely move his limbs, but when day dawned the black maiden came to him.
she bore in her hand a little bottle wherein was the water of life wherewith she washed him, and he at once felt all pain depart and new strength flow through his veins.
she said, “thou hast held out successfully for one night, but two more lie before thee.” then she went away again, and as she was going, he observed that her feet had become white.
the next night the devils came and began their gambols anew.
they fell on the king’s son, and beat him much more severely than the night before, until his body was covered with wounds.
but as he bore all quietly, they were forced to leave him, and when dawn appeared, the maiden came and healed him with the water of life.
and when she went away, he saw with joy that she had already become white to the tips of her fingers.
and now he had only one night more to go through, but it was the worst.
the hob-goblins came again: “art thou there still?” cried they, “thou shalt be tormented till thy breath stops.” they pricked him and beat him, and threw him here and there, and pulled him by the arms and legs as if they wanted to tear him to pieces, but he bore everything, and never uttered a cry.
at last the devils vanished, but he lay fainting there, and did not stir, nor could he raise his eyes to look at the maiden who came in, and sprinkled and bathed him with the water of life.
but suddenly he was freed from all pain, and felt fresh and healthy as if he had awakened from sleep, and when he opened his eyes he saw the maiden standing by him, snow-white, and fair as day.
“rise,” said she, “and swing thy sword three times over the stairs, and then all will be delivered.” and when he had done that, the whole castle was released from enchantment, and the maiden was a rich king’s daughter.
the servants came and said that the table was already set in the great hall, and dinner served up.
then they sat down and ate and drank together, and in the evening the wedding was solemnized with great rejoicings.
122 donkey cabbages
there was once a young huntsman who went into the forest to lie in wait.
he had a fresh and joyous heart, and as he was going thither, whistling upon a leaf, an ugly old crone came up, who spoke to him and said, “good-day, dear huntsman, truly you are merry and contented, but i am suffering from hunger and thirst, do give me an alms.” the huntsman had compassion on the poor old creature, felt in his pocket, and gave her what he could afford.
he was then about to go further, but the old woman stopped him and said, “listen, dear huntsman, to what i tell you; i will make you a present in return for your kindness.
go on your way now, but in a little while you will come to a tree, whereon nine birds are sitting which have a cloak in their claws, and are plucking at it; take your gun and shoot into the midst of them, they will let the cloak fall down to you, but one of the birds will be hurt, and will drop down dead.
carry away the cloak, it is a wishing-cloak; when you throw it over your shoulders, you only have to wish to be in a certain place, and you will be there in the twinkling of an eye.
take out the heart of the dead bird and swallow it whole, and every morning early, when you get up, you will find a gold piece under your pillow.”
the huntsman thanked the wise woman, and thought to himself, “those are fine things that she has promised me, if all does but come true.” and verily when he had walked about a hundred paces, he heard in the branches above him such a screaming and twittering that he looked up and saw there a crowd of birds who were tearing a piece of cloth about with their beaks and claws, and tugging and fighting as if each wanted to have it all to himself.
“well,” said the huntsman, “this is wonderful, it has really come to pass just as the old wife foretold!”
and he took the gun from his shoulder, aimed and fired right into the midst of them, so that the feathers flew about.
the birds instantly took to flight with loud outcries, but one dropped down dead, and the cloak fell at the same time.
then the huntsman did as the old woman had directed him, cut open the bird, sought the heart, swallowed it down, and took the cloak home with him.
next morning, when he awoke, the promise occurred to him, and he wished to see if it also had been fulfilled.
when he lifted up the pillow, the gold piece shone in his eyes, and next day he found another, and so it went on, every time he got up.
he gathered together a heap of gold, but at last he thought, “of what use is all my gold to me if i stay at home?
i will go forth and see the world.”
he then took leave of his parents, buckled on his huntsman’s pouch and gun, and went out into the world.
it came to pass, that one day he travelled through a dense forest, and when he came to the end of it, in the plain before him stood a fine castle.
an old woman was standing with a wonderfully beautiful maiden, looking out of one of the windows.
the old woman, however, was a witch and said to the maiden, “there comes one out of the forest, who has a wonderful treasure in his body, we must filch it from him, my dear daughter, it is more suitable for us than for him.
he has a bird’s heart about him, by means of which a gold piece lies every morning under his pillow.” she told her what she was to do to get it, and what part she had to play, and finally threatened her, and said with angry eyes, “and if you do not attend to what i say, it will be the worse for you.” now when the huntsman came nearer he descried the maiden, and said to himself, “i have travelled about for such a long time, i will take a rest for once, and enter that beautiful castle.
i have certainly money enough.” nevertheless, the real reason was that he had caught sight of the pretty girl.
he entered the house, and was well received and courteously entertained.
before long he was so much in love with the young witch that he no longer thought of anything else, and only saw things as she saw them, and did what she desired.
the old woman then said, “now we must have the bird’s heart, he will never miss it.” she prepared a drink, and when it was ready, poured it into a cup and gave it to the maiden, who was to present it to the huntsman.
she did so, saying, “now, my dearest, drink to me.” so he took the cup, and when he had swallowed the draught, he brought up the heart of the bird.
the girl had to take it away secretly and swallow it herself, for the old woman would have it so.
thenceforward he found no more gold under his pillow, but it lay instead under that of the maiden, from whence the old woman fetched it away every morning; but he was so much in love and so befooled, that he thought of nothing else but of passing his time with the girl.
then the old witch said, “we have the bird’s heart, but we must also take the wishing-cloak away from him.” the girl answered, “we will leave him that, he has lost his wealth.” the old woman was angry and said, “such a mantle is a wonderful thing, and is seldom to be found in this world.
i must and will have it!” she gave the girl several blows, and said that if she did not obey, it should fare ill with her.
so she did the old woman’s bidding, placed herself at the window and looked on the distant country, as if she were very sorrowful.
the huntsman asked, “why dost thou stand there so sorrowfully?” “ah, my beloved,” was her answer, “over yonder lies the garnet mountain, where the precious stones grow.
i long for them so much that when i think of them, i feel quite sad, but who can get them?
only the birds; they fly and can reach them, but a man never.” “hast thou nothing else to complain of?” said the huntsman.
“i will soon remove that burden from thy heart.” with that he drew her under his mantle, wished himself on the garnet mountain, and in the twinkling of an eye they were sitting on it together.
precious stones were glistening on every side so that it was a joy to see them, and together they gathered the finest and costliest of them.
now, the old woman had, through her sorceries, contrived that the eyes of the huntsman should become heavy.
he said to the maiden, “we will sit down and rest awhile, i am so tired that i can no longer stand on my feet.” then they sat down, and he laid his head in her lap, and fell asleep.
when he was asleep, she unfastened the mantle from his shoulders, and wrapped herself in it, picked up the garnets and stones, and wished herself back at home with them.
but when the huntsman had had his sleep out and awoke, and perceived that his sweetheart had betrayed him, and left him alone on the wild mountain, he said, “oh, what treachery there is in the world!” and sat down there in care and sorrow, not knowing what to do.
but the mountain belonged to some wild and monstrous giants who dwelt thereon and lived their lives there, and he had not sat long before he saw three of them coming towards him, so he lay down as if he were sunk in a deep sleep.
then the giants came up, and the first kicked him with his foot and said, “what sort of an earth-worm is lying curled up here?” the second said, “step upon him and kill him.” but the third said, “that would indeed be worth your while; just let him live, he cannot remain here; and when he climbs higher, toward the summit of of the mountain, the clouds will lay hold of him and bear him away.” so saying they passed by.
but the huntsman had paid heed to their words, and as soon as they were gone, he rose and climbed up to the summit of the mountain, and when he had sat there a while, a cloud floated towards him, caught him up, carried him away, and travelled about for a long time in the heavens.
then it sank lower, and let itself down on a great cabbage-garden, girt round by walls, so that he came softly to the ground on cabbages and vegetables.
then the huntsman looked about him and said, “if i had but something to eat!
i am so hungry, and my hunger will increase in course of time; but i see here neither apples nor pears, nor any other sort of fruit, everywhere nothing but cabbages,” but at length he thought, “at a pinch i can eat some of the leaves, they do not taste particularly good, but they will refresh me.” with that he picked himself out a fine head of cabbage, and ate it, but scarcely had he swallowed a couple of mouthfuls than he felt very strange and quite different.
four legs grew on him, a large head and two thick ears, and he saw with horror that he was changed into an ass.
still as his hunger increased every minute, and as the juicy leaves were suitable to his present nature, he went on eating with great zest.
at last he arrived at a different kind of cabbage, but as soon as he had swallowed it, he again felt a change, and reassumed his former human shape.
then the huntsman lay down and slept off his fatigue.
when he awoke next morning, he broke off one head of the bad cabbages and another of the good ones, and thought to himself, “this shall help me to get my own again and punish treachery.” then he took the cabbages with him, climbed over the wall, and went forth to seek for the castle of his sweetheart.
after wandering about for a couple of days he was lucky enough to find it again.
he dyed his face brown, so that his own mother would not have known him; and begged for shelter: “i am so tired,” said he, “that i can go no further.” the witch asked, “who are you, countryman, and what is your business?” “i am a king’s messenger, and was sent out to seek the most delicious salad which grows beneath the sun.
i have even been so fortunate as to find it, and am carrying it about with me; but the heat of the sun is so intense that the delicate cabbage threatens to wither, and i do not know if i can carry it any further.”
when the old woman heard of the exquisite salad, she was greedy, and said, “dear countryman, let me just taste this wonderful salad.” “why not?” answered he, “i have brought two heads with me, and will give you one of them,” and he opened his pouch and handed her the bad cabbage.
the witch suspected nothing amiss, and her mouth watered so for this new dish that she herself went into the kitchen and dressed it.
when it was prepared she could not wait until it was set on the table, but took a couple of leaves at once, and put them in her mouth, but hardly had she swallowed them than she was deprived of her human shape, and she ran out into the courtyard in the form of an ass.
presently the maid-servant entered the kitchen, saw the salad standing there ready prepared, and was about to carry it up; but on the way, according to habit, she was seized by the desire to taste, and she ate a couple of leaves.
instantly the magic power showed itself, and she likewise became an ass and ran out to the old woman, and the dish of salad fell to the ground.
meantime the messenger sat beside the beautiful girl, and as no one came with the salad and she also was longing for it, she said, “i don’t know what has become of the salad.” the huntsman thought, “the salad must have already taken effect,” and said, “i will go to the kitchen and inquire about it.” as he went down he saw the two asses running about in the courtyard; the salad, however, was lying on the ground.
“all right,” said he, “the two have taken their portion,”
and he picked up the other leaves, laid them on the dish, and carried them to the maiden.
“i bring you the delicate food myself,” said he, “in order that you may not have to wait longer.” then she ate of it, and was, like the others, immediately deprived of her human form, and ran out into the courtyard in the shape of an ass.
after the huntsman had washed his face, so that the transformed ones could recognize him, he went down into the courtyard, and said, “now you shall receive the wages of your treachery,” and bound them together, all three with one rope, and drove them along until he came to a mill.
he knocked at the window, the miller put out his head, and asked what he wanted.
“i have three unmanageable beasts,” answered he, “which i don’t want to keep any longer.
will you take them in, and give them food and stable room, and manage them as i tell you, and then i will pay you what you ask.” the miller said, “why not?
but how am i to manage them?” the huntsman then said that he was to give three beatings and one meal daily to the old donkey, and that was the witch; one beating and three meals to the younger one, which was the servant-girl; and to the youngest, which was the maiden, no beatings and three meals, for he could not bring himself to have the maiden beaten.
after that he went back into the castle, and found therein everything he needed.
after a couple of days, the miller came and said he must inform him that the old ass which had received three beatings and only one meal daily was dead; “the two others,” he continued, “are certainly not dead, and are fed three times daily, but they are so sad that they cannot last much longer.” the huntsman was moved to pity, put away his anger, and told the miller to drive them back again to him.
and when they came, he gave them some of the good salad, so that they became human again.
the beautiful girl fell on her knees before him, and said, “ah, my beloved, forgive me for the evil i have done you; my mother drove me to it; it was done against my will, for i love you dearly.
your wishing-cloak hangs in a cupboard, and as for the bird’s-heart i will take a vomiting potion.” but he thought otherwise, and said, “keep it; it is all the same, for i will take thee for my true wife.” so the wedding was celebrated, and they lived happily together until their death.
123 the old woman in the wood
a poor servant-girl was once travelling with the family with which she was in service, through a great forest, and when they were in the midst of it, robbers came out of the thicket, and murdered all they found.
all perished together except the girl, who had jumped out of the carriage in a fright, and hidden herself behind a tree.
when the robbers had gone away with their booty, she came out and beheld the great disaster.
then she began to weep bitterly, and said, “what can a poor girl like me do now?
i do not know how to get out of the forest, no human being lives in it, so i must certainly starve.” she walked about and looked for a road, but could find none.
when it was evening she seated herself under a tree, gave herself into god’s keeping, and resolved to sit waiting there and not go away, let what might happen.
when, however, she had sat there for a while, a white dove came flying to her with a little golden key in its mouth.
it put the little key in her hand, and said, “dost thou see that great tree, therein is a little lock, it opens with the tiny key, and there thou wilt find food enough, and suffer no more hunger.” then she went to the tree and opened it, and found milk in a little dish, and white bread to break into it, so that she could eat her fill.
when she was satisfied, she said, “it is now the time when the hens at home go to roost, i am so tired i could go to bed too.” then the dove flew to her again, and brought another golden key in its bill, and said, “open that tree there, and thou willt find a bed.” so she opened it, and found a beautiful white bed, and she prayed god to protect her during the night, and lay down and slept.
in the morning the dove came for the third time, and again brought a little key, and said, “open that tree there, and thou wilt find clothes.” and when she opened it, she found garments beset with gold and with jewels, more splendid than those of any king’s daughter.
so she lived there for some time, and the dove came every day and provided her with all she needed, and it was a quiet good life.
once, however, the dove came and said, “wilt thou do something for my sake?” “with all my heart,” said the girl.
then said the little dove, “i will guide thee to a small house; enter it, and inside it, an old woman will be sitting by the fire and will say, ‘good-day.’ but on thy life give her no answer, let her do what she will, but pass by her on the right side; further on, there is a door, which open, and thou wilt enter into a room where a quantity of rings of all kinds are lying, amongst which are some magnificent ones with shining stones; leave them, however, where they are, and seek out a plain one, which must likewise be amongst them, and bring it here to me as quickly as thou canst.” the girl went to the little house, and came to the door.
there sat an old woman who stared when she saw her, and said, “good-day my child.” the girl gave her no answer, and opened the door.
“whither away,” cried the old woman, and seized her by the gown, and wanted to hold her fast, saying, “that is my house; no one can go in there if i choose not to allow it.” but the girl was silent, got away from her, and went straight into the room.
now there lay on the table an enormous quantity of rings, which gleamed and glittered before her eyes.
she turned them over and looked for the plain one, but could not find it.
while she was seeking, she saw the old woman and how she was stealing away, and wanting to get off with a bird-cage which she had in her hand.
so she went after her and took the cage out of her hand, and when she raised it up and looked into it, a bird was inside which had the plain ring in its bill.
then she took the ring, and ran quite joyously home with it, and thought the little white dove would come and get the ring, but it did not.
then she leant against a tree and determined to wait for the dove, and, as she thus stood, it seemed just as if the tree was soft and pliant, and was letting its branches down.
and suddenly the branches twined around her, and were two arms, and when she looked round, the tree was a handsome man, who embraced and kissed her heartily, and said, “thou hast delivered me from the power of the old woman, who is a wicked witch.
she had changed me into a tree, and every day for two hours i was a white dove, and so long as she possessed the ring i could not regain my human form.” then his servants and his horses, who had likewise been changed into trees, were freed from the enchantment also, and stood beside him.
and he led them forth to his kingdom, for he was a king’s son, and they married, and lived happily.
124 the three brothers
there was once a man who had three sons, and nothing else in the world but the house in which he lived.
now each of the sons wished to have the house after his father’s death; but the father loved them all alike, and did not know what to do; he did not wish to sell the house, because it had belonged to his forefathers, else he might have divided the money amongst them.
at last a plan came into his head, and he said to his sons, “go into the world, and try each of you to learn a trade, and, when you all come back, he who makes the best masterpiece shall have the house.”
the sons were well content with this, and the eldest determined to be a blacksmith, the second a barber, and the third a fencing-master.
they fixed a time when they should all come home again, and then each went his way.
it chanced that they all found skilful masters, who taught them their trades well.
the blacksmith had to shoe the king’s horses, and he thought to himself, “the house is mine, without doubt.” the barber only shaved great people, and he too already looked upon the house as his own.
the fencing-master got many a blow, but he only bit his lip, and let nothing vex him; “for,” said he to himself, “if you are afraid of a blow, you’ll never win the house.”
when the appointed time had gone by, the three brothers came back home to their father; but they did not know how to find the best opportunity for showing their skill, so they sat down and consulted together.
as they were sitting thus, all at once a hare came running across the field.
“ah, ha, just in time!” said the barber.
so he took his basin and soap, and lathered away until the hare came up; then he soaped and shaved off the hare’s whiskers whilst he was running at the top of his speed, and did not even cut his skin or injure a hair on his body.
“well done!” said the old man.
“your brothers will have to exert themselves wonderfully, or the house will be yours.”
soon after, up came a nobleman in his coach, dashing along at full speed.
“now you shall see what i can do, father,” said the blacksmith; so away he ran after the coach, took all four shoes off the feet of one of the horses whilst he was galloping, and put him on four new shoes without stopping him.
“you are a fine fellow, and as clever as your brother,” said his father; “i do not know to which i ought to give the house.”
then the third son said, “father, let me have my turn, if you please;”
and, as it was beginning to rain, he drew his sword, and flourished it backwards and forwards above his head so fast that not a drop fell upon him.
it rained still harder and harder, till at last it came down in torrents; but he only flourished his sword faster and faster, and remained as dry as if he were sitting in a house.
when his father saw this he was amazed, and said, “this is the master-piece, the house is yours!”
his brothers were satisfied with this, as was agreed beforehand; and, as they loved one another very much, they all three stayed together in the house, followed their trades, and, as they had learnt them so well and were so clever, they earned a great deal of money.
thus they lived together happily until they grew old; and at last, when one of them fell sick and died, the two others grieved so sorely about it that they also fell ill, and soon after died.
and because they had been so clever, and had loved one another so much, they were all laid in the same grave.
125 the devil and his grandmother
there was a great war, and the king had many soldiers, but gave them small pay, so small that they could not live upon it, so three of them agreed among themselves to desert.
one of them said to the others, “if we are caught we shall be hanged on the gallows; how shall we manage it?” another said, “look at that great cornfield, if we were to hide ourselves there, no one could find us; the troops are not allowed to enter it, and to-morrow they are to march away.” they crept into the corn, only the troops did not march away, but remained lying all round about it.
they stayed in the corn for two days and two nights, and were so hungry that they all but died, but if they had come out, their death would have been certain.
then said they, “what is the use of our deserting if we have to perish miserably here?” but now a fiery dragon came flying through the air, and it came down to them, and asked why they had concealed themselves there?
they answered, “we are three soldiers who have deserted because the pay was so bad, and now we shall have to die of hunger if we stay here, or to dangle on the gallows if we go out.” “if you will serve me for seven years,” said the dragon, “i will convey you through the army so that no one shall seize you.” “we have no choice and are compelled to accept,” they replied.
then the dragon caught hold of them with his claws, and carried them away through the air over the army, and put them down again on the earth far from it; but the dragon was no other than the devil.
he gave them a small whip and said, “whip with it and crack it, and then as much gold will spring up round about as you can wish for; then you can live like great lords, keep horses, and drive your carriages, but when the seven years have come to an end, you are my property.” then he put before them a book which they were all three forced to sign.
“i will, however, then set you a riddle,” said he, “and if you can guess that, you shall be free, and released from my power.” then the dragon flew away from them, and they went away with their whip, had gold in plenty, ordered themselves rich apparel, and travelled about the world.
wherever they were they lived in pleasure and magnificence, rode on horseback, drove in carriages, ate and drank, but did nothing wicked.
the time slipped quickly away, and when the seven years were coming to an end, two of them were terribly anxious and alarmed; but the third took the affair easily, and said, “brothers, fear nothing, my head is sharp enough, i shall guess the riddle.” they went out into the open country and sat down, and the two pulled sorrowful faces.
then an aged woman came up to them who inquired why they were so sad?
“alas!” said they, “how can that concern you?
after all, you cannot help us.” “who knows?” said she.
“confide your trouble to me.” so they told her that they had been the devil’s servants for nearly seven years, and that he had provided them with gold as plentifully as if it had been blackberries, but that they had sold themselves to him, and were forfeited to him, if at the end of the seven years they could not guess a riddle.
the old woman said, “if you are to be saved, one of you must go into the forest, there he will come to a fallen rock which looks like a little house, he must enter that, and then he will obtain help.” the two melancholy ones thought to themselves, “that will still not save us,” and stayed where they were, but the third, the merry one, got up and walked on in the forest until he found the rock-house.
in the little house, however, a very aged woman was sitting, who was the devil’s grandmother, and asked the soldier where he came from, and what he wanted there?
he told her everything that had happened, and as he pleased her well, she had pity on him, and said she would help him.
she lifted up a great stone which lay above a cellar, and said, “conceal thyself there, thou canst hear everything that is said here; only sit still, and do not stir.
when the dragon comes, i will question him about the riddle, he tells everything to me, so listen carefully to his answer.” at twelve o’clock at night, the dragon came flying thither, and asked for his dinner.
the grandmother laid the table, and served up food and drink, so that he was pleased, and they ate and drank together.
in the course of conversation, she asked him what kind of a day he had had, and how many souls he had got?
“nothing went very well to-day,” he answered, “but i have laid hold of three soldiers, i have them safe.” “indeed!
three soldiers, that’s something like, but they may escape you yet.” the devil said mockingly, “they are mine!
i will set them a riddle, which they will never in this world be able to guess!” “what riddle is that?”
she inquired.
“i will tell you.
in the great north sea lies a dead dog-fish, that shall be your roast meat, and the rib of a whale shall be your silver spoon, and a hollow old horse’s hoof shall be your wine-glass.” when the devil had gone to bed, the old grandmother raised up the stone, and let out the soldier.
“hast thou paid particular attention to everything?” “yes,” said he, “i know enough, and will contrive to save myself.” then he had to go back another way, through the window, secretly and with all speed to his companions.
he told them how the devil had been overreached by the old grandmother, and how he had learned the answer to the riddle from him.
then they were all joyous, and of good cheer, and took the whip and whipped so much gold for themselves that it ran all over the ground.
when the seven years had fully gone by, the devil came with the book, showed the signatures, and said, “i will take you with me to hell.
there you shall have a meal!
if you can guess what kind of roast meat you will have to eat, you shall be free and released from your bargain, and may keep the whip as well.” then the first soldier began and said, “in the great north sea lies a dead dog-fish, that no doubt is the roast meat.” the devil was angry, and began to mutter, “hm!
hm!
hm!” and asked the second, “but what will your spoon be?” “the rib of a whale, that is to be our silver spoon.” the devil made a wry face, again growled, “hm!
hm!
hm!”
and said to the third, “and do you also know what your wine-glass is to be?” “an old horse’s hoof is to be our wineglass.” then the devil flew away with a loud cry, and had no more power over them, but the three kept the whip, whipped as much money for themselves with it as they wanted, and lived happily to their end.
126 ferdinand the faithful
once on a time lived a man and a woman who so long as they were rich had no children, but when they were poor they had a little boy.
they could, however, find no godfather for him, so the man said he would just go to another place to see if he could get one there.
as he went, a poor man met him, who asked him where he was going.
he said he was going to see if he could get a godfather, that he was poor, so no one would stand as godfather for him.
“oh,” said the poor man, “you are poor, and i am poor; i will be godfather for you, but i am so ill off i can give the child nothing.
go home and tell the nurse that she is to come to the church with the child.”
when they all got to the church together, the beggar was already there, and he gave the child the name of ferdinand the faithful.
when he was going out of the church, the beggar said, “now go home, i can give you nothing, and you likewise ought to give me nothing.” but he gave a key to the nurse, and told her when she got home she was to give it to the father, who was to take care of it until the child was fourteen years old, and then he was to go on the heath where there was a castle which the key would fit, and that all which was therein should belong to him.
now when the child was seven years old and had grown very big, he once went to play with some other boys, and each of them boasted that he had got more from his godfather than the other; but the child could say nothing, and was vexed, and went home and said to his father, “did i get nothing at all, then, from my godfather?” “oh, yes,”
said the father, “thou hadst a key if there is a castle standing on the heath, just go to it and open it.” then the boy went thither, but no castle was to be seen, or heard of.
after seven years more, when he was fourteen years old, he again went thither, and there stood the castle.
when he had opened it, there was nothing within but a horse, a white one.
then the boy was so full of joy because he had a horse, that he mounted on it and galloped back to his father.
“now i have a white horse, and i will travel,” said he.
so he set out, and as he was on his way, a pen was lying on the road.
at first he thought he would pick it up, but then again he thought to himself, “thou shouldst leave it lying there; thou wilt easily find a pen where thou art going, if thou hast need of one.” as he was thus riding away, a voice called after him, “ferdinand the faithful, take it with thee.” he looked around, but saw no one, then he went back again and picked it up.
when he had ridden a little way farther, he passed by a lake, and a fish was lying on the bank, gasping and panting for breath, so he said, “wait, my dear fish, i will help thee get into the water,” and he took hold of it by the tail, and threw it into the lake.
then the fish put its head out of the water and said, “as thou hast helped me out of the mud i will give thee a flute; when thou art in any need, play on it, and then i will help thee, and if ever thou lettest anything fall in the water, just play and i will reach it out to thee.”
then he rode away, and there came to him a man who asked him where he was going.
“oh, to the next place.” then what his name was?
“ferdinand the faithful.” “so!
then we have got almost the same name, i am called ferdinand the unfaithful.” and they both set out to the inn in the nearest place.
now it was unfortunate that ferdinand the unfaithful knew everything that the other had ever thought and everything he was about to do; he knew it by means of all kinds of wicked arts.
there was, however, in the inn an honest girl, who had a bright face and behaved very prettily.
she fell in love with ferdinand the faithful because he was a handsome man, and she asked him whither he was going.
“oh, i am just travelling round about,” said he.
then she said he ought to stay there, for the king of that country wanted an attendant or an outrider, and he ought to enter his service.
he answered he could not very well go to any one like that and offer himself.
then said the maiden, “oh, but i will soon do that for you.” and so she went straight to the king, and told him that she knew of an excellent servant for him.
he was well pleased with that, and had ferdinand the faithful brought to him, and wanted to make him his servant.
he, however, liked better to be an outrider, for where his horse was, there he also wanted to be, so the king made him an outrider.
when ferdinand the unfaithful learnt that, he said to the girl, “what!
dost thou help him and not me?” “oh,” said the girl, “i will help thee too.” she thought, “i must keep friends with that man, for he is not to be trusted.” she went to the king, and offered him as a servant, and the king was willing.
now when the king met his lords in the morning, he always lamented and said, “oh, if i had but my love with me.” ferdinand the unfaithful was, however, always hostile to ferdinand the faithful.
so once, when the king was complaining thus, he said, “you have the outrider, send him away to get her, and if he does not do it, his head must be struck off.” then the king sent for ferdinand the faithful, and told him that there was, in this place or in that place, a girl he loved, and that he was to bring her to him, and if he did not do it he should die.
ferdinand the faithful went into the stable to his white horse, and complained and lamented, “oh, what an unhappy man i am!” then someone behind him cried, “ferdinand the faithful, why weepest thou?” he looked round but saw no one, and went on lamenting; “oh, my dear little white horse, now must i leave thee; now must i die.” then some one cried once more, “ferdinand the faithful, why weepest thou?” then for the first time he was aware that it was his little white horse who was putting that question.
“dost thou speak, my little white horse; canst thou do that?” and again, he said, “i am to go to this place and to that, and am to bring the bride; canst thou tell me how i am to set about it?”
then answered the little white horse, “go thou to the king, and say if he will give thou what thou must have, thou wilt get her for him.
if he will give thee a ship full of meat, and a ship full of bread, it will succeed.
great giants dwell on the lake, and if thou takest no meat with thee for them, they will tear thee to pieces, and there are the large birds which would pick the eyes out of thy head if thou hadst no bread for them.” then the king made all the butchers in the land kill, and all the bakers bake, that the ships might be filled.
when they were full, the little white horse said to ferdinand the faithful, “now mount me, and go with me into the ship, and then when the giants come, say,
“peace, peace, my dear little giants, i have had thought of ye, something i have brought for ye;”
and when the birds come, thou shalt again say,
“peace, peace, my dear little birds, i have had thought of ye, something i have brought for ye;”
then they will do nothing to thee, and when thou comest to the castle, the giants will help thee.
then go up to the castle, and take a couple of giants with thee.
there the princess lies sleeping; thou must, however, not awaken her, but the giants must lift her up, and carry her in her bed to the ship.” and now everything took place as the little white horse had said, and ferdinand the faithful gave the giants and the birds what he had brought with him for them, and that made the giants willing, and they carried the princess in her bed to the king.
and when she came to the king, she said she could not live, she must have her writings, they had been left in her castle.
then by the instigation of ferdinand the unfaithful, ferdinand the faithful was called, and the king told him he must fetch the writings from the castle, or he should die.
then he went once more into the stable, and bemoaned himself and said, “oh, my dear little white horse, now i am to go away again, how am i to do it?” then the little white horse said he was just to load the ships full again.
so it happened again as it had happened before, and the giants and the birds were satisfied, and made gentle by the meat.
when they came to the castle, the white horse told ferdinand the faithful that he must go in, and that on the table in the princess’s bed-room lay the writings.
and ferdinand the faithful went in, and fetched them.
when they were on the lake, he let his pen fall into the water; then said the white horse, “now i cannot help thee at all.” but he remembered his flute, and began to play on it, and the fish came with the pen in its mouth, and gave it to him.
so he took the writings to the castle, where the wedding was celebrated.
the queen, however, did not love the king because he had no nose, but she would have much liked to love ferdinand the faithful.
once, therefore, when all the lords of the court were together, the queen said she could do feats of magic, that she could cut off any one’s head and put it on again, and that one of them ought just to try it.
but none of them would be the first, so ferdinand the faithful, again at the instigation of ferdinand the unfaithful, undertook it and she hewed off his head, and put it on again for him, and it healed together directly, so that it looked as if he had a red thread round his throat.
then the king said to her, “my child, and where hast thou learnt that?”
“yes,” she said, “i understand the art; shall i just try it on thee also?” “oh, yes,” said he.
but she cut off his head, and did not put it on again; but pretended that she could not get it on, and that it would not keep fixed.
then the king was buried, but she married ferdinand the faithful.
he, however, always rode on his white horse, and once when he was seated on it, it told him that he was to go on to the heath which he knew, and gallop three times round it.
and when he had done that, the white horse stood up on its hind legs, and was changed into a king’s son.
127 the iron stove
in the days when wishing was still of some use, a king’s son was bewitched by an old witch, and shut up in an iron stove in a forest.
there he passed many years, and no one could deliver him.
then a king’s daughter came into the forest, who had lost herself, and could not find her father’s kingdom again.
after she had wandered about for nine days, she at length came to the iron stove.
then a voice came forth from it, and asked her, “whence comest thou, and whither goest, thou?” she answered, “i have lost my father’s kingdom, and cannot get home again.”
then a voice inside the iron stove said, “i will help thee to get home again, and that indeed most swiftly, if thou wilt promise to do what i desire of thee.
i am the son of a far greater king than thy father, and i will marry thee.”
then was she afraid, and thought, “good heavens!
what can i do with an iron stove?” but as she much wished to get home to her father, she promised to do as he desired.
but he said, “thou shalt return here, and bring a knife with thee, and scrape a hole in the iron.” then he gave her a companion who walked near her, but did not speak, but in two hours he took her home; there was great joy in the castle when the king’s daughter came home, and the old king fell on her neck and kissed her.
she, however, was sorely troubled, and said, “dear father, what i have suffered!
i should never have got home again from the great wild forest, if i had not come to an iron stove, but i have been forced to give my word that i will go back to it, set it free, and marry it.”
then the old king was so terrified that he all but fainted, for he had but this one daughter.
they therefore resolved they would send, in her place, the miller’s daughter, who was very beautiful.
they took her there, gave her a knife, and said she was to scrape at the iron stove.
so she scraped at it for four-and-twenty hours, but could not bring off the least morsel of it.
when day dawned, a voice in the stove said, “it seems to me it is day outside.” then she answered, “it seems so to me too; i fancy i hear the noise of my father’s mill.”
“so thou art a miller’s daughter!
then go thy way at once, and let the king’s daughter come here.” then she went away at once, and told the old king that the man outside there, would have none of her he wanted the king’s daughter.
they, however, still had a swine-herd’s daughter, who was even prettier than the miller’s daughter, and they determined to give her a piece of gold to go to the iron stove instead of the king’s daughter.
so she was taken thither, and she also had to scrape for four-and-twenty hours.
she, however, made nothing of it.
when day broke, a voice inside the stove cried, “it seems to me it is day outside!” then answered she, “so it seems to me also; i fancy i hear my father’s horn blowing.”
“then thou art a swine-herd’s daughter!
go away at once, and tell the king’s daughter to come, and tell her all must be done as promised, and if she does not come, everything in the kingdom shall be ruined and destroyed, and not one stone be left standing on another.” when the king’s daughter heard that she began to weep, but now there was nothing for it but to keep her promise.
so she took leave of her father, put a knife in her pocket, and went forth to the iron stove in the forest.
when she got there, she began to scrape, and the iron gave way, and when two hours were over, she had already scraped a small hole.
then she peeped in, and saw a youth so handsome, and so brilliant with gold and with precious jewels, that her very soul was delighted.
now, therefore, she went on scraping, and made the hole so large that he was able to get out.
then said he, “thou art mine, and i am thine; thou art my bride, and hast released me.” he wanted to take her away with him to his kingdom, but she entreated him to let her go once again to her father, and the king’s son allowed her to do so, but she was not to say more to her father than three words, and then she was to come back again.
so she went home, but she spoke more than three words, and instantly the iron stove disappeared, and was taken far away over glass mountains and piercing swords; but the king’s son was set free, and no longer shut up in it.
after this she bade good-bye to her father, took some money with her, but not much, and went back to the great forest, and looked for the iron stove, but it was nowhere to be found.
for nine days she sought it, and then her hunger grew so great that she did not know what to do, for she could no longer live.
when it was evening, she seated herself in a small tree, and made up her mind to spend the night there, as she was afraid of wild beasts.
when midnight drew near she saw in the distance a small light, and thought, “ah, there i should be saved!” she got down from the tree, and went towards the light, but on the way she prayed.
then she came to a little old house, and much grass had grown all about it, and a small heap of wood lay in front of it.
she thought, “ah, whither have i come,” and peeped in through the window, but she saw nothing inside but toads, big and little, except a table well covered with wine and roast meat, and the plates and glasses were of silver.
then she took courage, and knocked at the door.
the fat toad cried,
“little green waiting-maid, waiting-maid with the limping leg, little dog of the limping leg, hop hither and thither, and quickly see who is without:”
and a small toad came walking by and opened the door to her.
when she entered, they all bade her welcome, and she was forced to sit down.
they asked, “where hast thou come from, and whither art thou going?”
then she related all that had befallen her, and how because she had transgressed the order which had been given her not to say more than three words, the stove, and the king’s son also, had disappeared, and now she was about to seek him over hill and dale until she found him.
then the old fat one said,
“little green waiting-maid, waiting-maid with the limping leg, little dog of the limping leg, hop hither and thither, and bring me the great box.”
then the little one went and brought the box.
after this they gave her meat and drink, and took her to a well-made bed, which felt like silk and velvet, and she laid herself therein, in god’s name, and slept.
when morning came she arose, and the old toad gave her three needles out of the great box which she was to take with her; they would be needed by her, for she had to cross a high glass mountain, and go over three piercing swords and a great lake.
if she did all this she would get her lover back again.
then she gave her three things, which she was to take the greatest care of, namely, three large needles, a plough-wheel, and three nuts.
with these she travelled onwards, and when she came to the glass mountain which was so slippery, she stuck the three needles first behind her feet and then before them, and so got over it, and when she was over it, she hid them in a place which she marked carefully.
after this she came to the three piercing swords, and then she seated herself on her plough-wheel, and rolled over them.
at last she arrived in front of a great lake, and when she had crossed it, she came to a large and beautiful castle.
she went and asked for a place; she was a poor girl, she said, and would like to be hired.
she knew, however, that the king’s son whom she had released from the iron stove in the great forest was in the castle.
then she was taken as a scullery-maid at low wages.
but, already the king’s son had another maiden by his side whom he wanted to marry, for he thought that she had long been dead.
in the evening, when she had washed up and was done, she felt in her pocket and found the three nuts which the old toad had given her.
she cracked one with her teeth, and was going to eat the kernel when lo and behold there was a stately royal garment in it!
but when the bride heard of this she came and asked for the dress, and wanted to buy it, and said, “it is not a dress for a servant-girl.” but she said no, she would not sell it, but if the bride would grant her one thing she should have it, and that was, leave to sleep one night in her bridegroom’s chamber.
the bride gave her permission because the dress was so pretty, and she had never had one like it.
when it was evening she said to her bridegroom, “that silly girl will sleep in thy room.”
“if thou art willing so am i,” said he.
she, however, gave him a glass of wine in which she had poured a sleeping-draught.
so the bridegroom and the scullery-maid went to sleep in the room, and he slept so soundly that she could not waken him.
she wept the whole night and cried, “i set thee free when thou wert in an iron stove in the wild forest, i sought thee, and walked over a glass mountain, and three sharp swords, and a great lake before i found thee, and yet thou wilt not hear me!”
the servants sat by the chamber-door, and heard how she thus wept the whole night through, and in the morning they told it to their lord.
and the next evening when she had washed up, she opened the second nut, and a far more beautiful dress was within it, and when the bride beheld it, she wished to buy that also.
but the girl would not take money, and begged that she might once again sleep in the bridegroom’s chamber.
the bride, however, gave him a sleeping-drink, and he slept so soundly that he could hear nothing.
but the scullery-maid wept the whole night long, and cried, “i set thee free when thou wert in an iron stove in the wild forest, i sought thee, and walked over a glass mountain, and over three sharp swords and a great lake before i found thee, and yet thou wilt not hear me!” the servants sat by the chamber-door and heard her weeping the whole night through, and in the morning informed their lord of it.
and on the third evening, when she had washed up, she opened the third nut, and within it was a still more beautiful dress which was stiff with pure gold.
when the bride saw that she wanted to have it, but the maiden only gave it up on condition that she might for the third time sleep in the bridegroom’s apartment.
the king’s son was, however, on his guard, and threw the sleeping-draught away.
now, therefore, when she began to weep and to cry, “dearest love, i set thee free when thou wert in the iron stove in the terrible wild forest,” the king’s son leapt up and said, “thou art the true one, thou art mine, and i am thine.” thereupon, while it was still night, he got into a carriage with her, and they took away the false bride’s clothes so that she could not get up.
when they came to the great lake, they sailed across it, and when they reached the three sharp-cutting swords they seated themselves on the plough-wheel, and when they got to the glass mountain they thrust the three needles in it, and so at length they got to the little old house; but when they went inside that, it was a great castle, and the toads were all disenchanted, and were king’s children, and full of happiness.
then the wedding was celebrated, and the king’s son and the princess remained in the castle, which was much larger than the castles of their fathers.
as, however, the old king grieved at being left alone, they fetched him away, and brought him to live with them, and they had two kingdoms, and lived in happy wedlock.
a mouse did run, this story is done.
128 the lazy spinner
in a certain village there once lived a man and his wife, and the wife was so idle that she would never work at anything; whatever her husband gave her to spin, she did not get done, and what she did spin she did not wind, but let it all remain entangled in a heap.
if the man scolded her, she was always ready with her tongue, and said, “well, how should i wind it, when i have no reel?
just you go into the forest and get me one.” “if that is all,” said the man, “then i will go into the forest, and get some wood for making reels.” then the woman was afraid that if he had the wood he would make her a reel of it, and she would have to wind her yarn off, and then begin to spin again.
she bethought herself a little, and then a lucky idea occurred to her, and she secretly followed the man into the forest, and when he had climbed into a tree to choose and cut the wood, she crept into the thicket below where he could not see her, and cried,
“he who cuts wood for reels shall die, and he who winds, shall perish.”
the man listened, laid down his axe for a moment, and began to consider what that could mean.
“hollo,” he said at last, “what can that have been; my ears must have been singing, i won’t alarm myself for nothing.” so he again seized the axe, and began to hew, then again there came a cry from below:
“he who cuts wood for reels shall die, and he who winds, shall perish.”
he stopped, and felt afraid and alarmed, and pondered over the circumstance.
but when a few moments had passed, he took heart again, and a third time he stretched out his hand for the axe, and began to cut.
but some one called out a third time, and said loudly,
“he who cuts wood for reels shall die, and he who winds, shall perish.”
that was enough for him, and all inclination had departed from him, so he hastily descended the tree, and set out on his way home.
the woman ran as fast as she could by by-ways so as to get home first.
so when he entered the parlour, she put on an innocent look as if nothing had happened, and said, “well, have you brought a nice piece of wood for reels?” “no,” said he, “i see very well that winding won’t do,” and told her what had happened to him in the forest, and from that time forth left her in peace about it.
neverthless after some time, the man again began to complain of the disorder in the house.
“wife,” said he, “it is really a shame that the spun yarn should lie there all entangled!” “i’ll tell you what,” said she, “as we still don’t come by any reel, go you up into the loft, and i will stand down below, and will throw the yarn up to you, and you will throw it down to me, and so we shall get a skein after all.” “yes, that will do,” said the man.
so they did that, and when it was done, he said, “the yarn is in skeins, now it must be boiled.” the woman was again distressed; she certainly said, “yes, we will boil it next morning early.” but she was secretly contriving another trick.
early in the morning she got up, lighted a fire, and put the kettle on, only instead of the yarn, she put in a lump of tow, and let it boil.
after that she went to the man who was still lying in bed, and said to him, “i must just go out, you must get up and look after the yarn which is in the kettle on the fire, but you must be at hand at once; mind that, for if the cock should happen to crow, and you are not attending to the yarn, it will become tow.” the man was willing and took good care not to loiter.
he got up as quickly as he could, and went into the kitchen.
but when he reached the kettle and peeped in, he saw, to his horror, nothing but a lump of tow.
then the poor man was as still as a mouse, thinking he had neglected it, and was to blame, and in future said no more about yarn and spinning.
but you yourself must own she was an odious woman!
129 the four skilful brothers
there was once a poor man who had four sons, and when they were grown up, he said to them, “my dear children, you must now go out into the world, for i have nothing to give you, so set out, and go to some distance and learn a trade, and see how you can make your way.” so the four brothers took their sticks, bade their father farewell, and went through the town-gate together.
when they had travelled about for some time, they came to a cross-way which branched off in four different directions.
then said the eldest, “here we must separate, but on this day four years, we will meet each other again at this spot, and in the meantime we will seek our fortunes.”
then each of them went his way, and the eldest met a man who asked him where he was going, and what he was intending to do?
“i want to learn a trade,” he replied.
then the other said, “come with me, and be a thief.” “no,” he answered, “that is no longer regarded as a reputable trade, and the end of it is that one has to swing on the gallows.”
“oh,” said the man, “you need not be afraid of the gallows; i will only teach you to get such things as no other man could ever lay hold of, and no one will ever detect you.” so he allowed himself to be talked into it, and while with the man became an accomplished thief, and so dexterous that nothing was safe from him, if he once desired to have it.
the second brother met a man who put the same question to him what he wanted to learn in the world.
“i don’t know yet,” he replied.
“then come with me, and be an astronomer; there is nothing better than that, for nothing is hid from you.” he liked the idea, and became such a skillful astronomer that when he had learnt everything, and was about to travel onwards, his master gave him a telescope and said to him, “with that you canst thou see whatsoever takes place either on earth or in heaven, and nothing can remain concealed from thee.” a huntsman took the third brother into training, and gave him such excellent instruction in everything which related to huntsmanship, that he became an experienced hunter.
when he went away, his master gave him a gun and said, “it will never fail you; whatsoever you aim at, you are certain to hit.” the youngest brother also met a man who spoke to him, and inquired what his intentions were.
“would you not like to be a tailor?”
said he.
“not that i know of,” said the youth; “sitting doubled up from morning till night, driving the needle and the goose backwards and forwards, is not to my taste.” “oh, but you are speaking in ignorance,”
answered the man; “with me you would learn a very different kind of tailoring, which is respectable and proper, and for the most part very honorable.” so he let himself be persuaded, and went with the man, and learnt his art from the very beginning.
when they parted, the man gave the youth a needle, and said, “with this you can sew together whatever is given you, whether it is as soft as an egg or as hard as steel; and it will all become one piece of stuff, so that no seam will be visible.”
when the appointed four years were over, the four brothers arrived at the same time at the cross-roads, embraced and kissed each other, and returned home to their father.
“so now,” said he, quite delighted, “the wind has blown you back again to me.” they told him of all that had happened to them, and that each had learnt his own trade.
now they were sitting just in front of the house under a large tree, and the father said, “i will put you all to the test, and see what you can do.” then he looked up and said to his second son, “between two branches up at the top of this tree, there is a chaffinch’s nest, tell me how many eggs there are in it?” the astronomer took his glass, looked up, and said, “there are five.” then the father said to the eldest, “fetch the eggs down without disturbing the bird which is sitting hatching them.”
the skillful thief climbed up, and took the five eggs from beneath the bird, which never observed what he was doing, and remained quietly sitting where she was, and brought them down to his father.
the father took them, and put one of them on each corner of the table, and the fifth in the middle, and said to the huntsman, “with one shot thou shalt shoot me the five eggs in two, through the middle.” the huntsman aimed, and shot the eggs, all five as the father had desired, and that at one shot.
he certainly must have had some of the powder for shooting round corners.
“now it’s your turn,” said the father to the fourth son; “you shall sew the eggs together again, and the young birds that are inside them as well, and you must do it so that they are not hurt by the shot.” the tailor brought his needle, and sewed them as his father wished.
when he had done this the thief had to climb up the tree again, and carry them to the nest, and put them back again under the bird without her being aware of it.
the bird sat her full time, and after a few days the young ones crept out, and they had a red line round their necks where they had been sewn together by the tailor.
“well,” said the old man to his sons, “i begin to think you are worth more than breen clover; you have used your time well, and learnt something good.
i can’t say which of you deserves the most praise.
that will be proved if you have but an early opportunity of using your talents.” not long after this, there was a great uproar in the country, for the king’s daughter was carried off by a dragon.
the king was full of trouble about it, both by day and night, and caused it to be proclaimed that whosoever brought her back should have her to wife.
the four brothers said to each other, “this would be a fine opportunity for us to show what we can do!” and resolved to go forth together and liberate the king’s daughter.
“i will soon know where she is,” said the astronomer, and looked through his telescope and said, “i see her already, she is far away from here on a rock in the sea, and the dragon is beside her watching her.” then he went to the king, and asked for a ship for himself and his brothers, and sailed with them over the sea until they came to the rock.
there the king’s daughter was sitting, and the dragon was lying asleep on her lap.
the huntsman said, “i dare not fire, i should kill the beautiful maiden at the same time.” “then i will try my art,” said the thief, and he crept thither and stole her away from under the dragon, so quietly and dexterously, that the monster never remarked it, but went on snoring.
full of joy, they hurried off with her on board ship, and steered out into the open sea; but the dragon, who when he awoke had found no princess there, followed them, and came snorting angrily through the air.
just as he was circling above the ship, and about to descend on it, the huntsman shouldered his gun, and shot him to the heart.
the monster fell down dead, but was so large and powerful that his fall shattered the whole ship.
fortunately, however, they laid hold of a couple of planks, and swam about the wide sea.
then again they were in great peril, but the tailor, who was not idle, took his wondrous needle, and with a few stitches sewed the planks together, and they seated themselves upon them, and collected together all the fragments of the vessel.
then he sewed these so skilfully together, that in a very short time the ship was once more seaworthy, and they could go home again in safety.
when the king once more saw his daughter, there were great rejoicings.
he said to the four brothers, “one of you shall have her to wife, but which of you it is to be you must settle among yourselves.” then a warm contest arose among them, for each of them preferred his own claim.
the astronomer said, “if i had not seen the princess, all your arts would have been useless, so she is mine.” the thief said, “what would have been the use of your seeing, if i had not got her away from the dragon?
so she is mine.” the huntsman said, “you and the princess, and all of you, would have been torn to pieces by the dragon if my ball had not hit him, so she is mine.” the tailor said, “and if i, by my art, had not sewn the ship together again, you would all of you have been miserably drowned, so she is mine.” then the king uttered this saying, “each of you has an equal right, and as all of you cannot have the maiden, none of you shall have her, but i will give to each of you, as a reward, half a kingdom.” the brothers were pleased with this decision, and said, “it is better thus than that we should be at variance with each other.” then each of them received half a kingdom, and they lived with their father in the greatest happiness as long as it pleased god.
130 one-eye, two-eyes, and three-eyes
there was once a woman who had three daughters, the eldest of whom was called one-eye, because she had only one eye in the middle of her forehead, and the second, two-eyes, because she had two eyes like other folks, and the youngest, three-eyes, because she had three eyes; and her third eye was also in the centre of her forehead.
however, as two-eyes saw just as other human beings did, her sisters and her mother could not endure her.
they said to her, “thou, with thy two eyes, art no better than the common people; thou dost not belong to us!” they pushed her about, and threw old clothes to her, and gave her nothing to eat but what they left, and did everything that they could to make her unhappy.
it came to pass that two-eyes had to go out into the fields and tend the goat, but she was still quite hungry, because her sisters had given her so little to eat.
so she sat down on a ridge and began to weep, and so bitterly that two streams ran down from her eyes.
and once when she looked up in her grief, a woman was standing beside her, who said, “why art thou weeping, little two-eyes?” two-eyes answered, “have i not reason to weep, when i have two eyes like other people, and my sisters and mother hate me for it, and push me from one corner to another, throw old clothes at me, and give me nothing to eat but the scraps they leave?
to-day they have given me so little that i am still quite hungry.” then the wise woman said, “wipe away thy tears, two-eyes, and i will tell thee something to stop thee ever suffering from hunger again; just say to thy goat,
“bleat, my little goat, bleat, cover the table with something to eat,”
and then a clean well-spread little table will stand before thee, with the most delicious food upon it of which thou mayst eat as much as thou art inclined for, and when thou hast had enough, and hast no more need of the little table, just say,
“bleat, bleat, my little goat, i pray, and take the table quite away,”
and then it will vanish again from thy sight.” hereupon the wise woman departed.
but two-eyes thought, “i must instantly make a trial, and see if what she said is true, for i am far too hungry,” and she said,
“bleat, my little goat, bleat, cover the table with something to eat,”
and scarcely had she spoken the words than a little table, covered with a white cloth, was standing there, and on it was a plate with a knife and fork, and a silver spoon; and the most delicious food was there also, warm and smoking as if it had just come out of the kitchen.
then two-eyes said the shortest prayer she knew, “lord god, be with us always, amen,” and helped herself to some food, and enjoyed it.
and when she was satisfied, she said, as the wise woman had taught her,
“bleat, bleat, my little goat, i pray, and take the table quite away,”
and immediately the little table and everything on it was gone again.
“that is a delightful way of keeping house!” thought two-eyes, and was quite glad and happy.
in the evening, when she went home with her goat, she found a small earthenware dish with some food, which her sisters had set ready for her, but she did not touch it.
next day she again went out with her goat, and left the few bits of broken bread which had been handed to her, lying untouched.
the first and second time that she did this, her sisters did not remark it at all, but as it happened every time, they did observe it, and said, “there is something wrong about two-eyes, she always leaves her food untasted, and she used to eat up everything that was given her; she must have discovered other ways of getting food.” in order that they might learn the truth, they resolved to send one-eye with two-eyes when she went to drive her goat to the pasture, to observe what two-eyes did when she was there, and whether any one brought her anything to eat and drink.
so when two-eyes set out the next time, one-eye went to her and said, “i will go with you to the pasture, and see that the goat is well taken care of, and driven where there is food.” but two-eyes knew what was in one-eye’s mind, and drove the goat into high grass and said, “come, one-eye, we will sit down, and i will sing something to you.” one-eye sat down and was tired with the unaccustomed walk and the heat of the sun, and two-eyes sang constantly,
“one eye, wakest thou?
one eye, sleepest thou?”
until one-eye shut her one eye, and fell asleep, and as soon as two-eyes saw that one-eye was fast asleep, and could discover nothing, she said,
“bleat, my little goat, bleat, cover the table with something to eat,”
and seated herself at her table, and ate and drank until she was satisfied, and then she again cried,
“bleat, bleat, my little goat, i pray, and take the table quite away,”
and in an instant all was gone.
two-eyes now awakened one-eye, and said, “one-eye, you want to take care of the goat, and go to sleep while you are doing it, and in the meantime the goat might run all over the world.
come, let us go home again.” so they went home, and again two-eyes let her little dish stand untouched, and one-eye could not tell her mother why she would not eat it, and to excuse herself said, “i fell asleep when i was out.”
next day the mother said to three-eyes, “this time thou shalt go and observe if two-eyes eats anything when she is out, and if any one fetches her food and drink, for she must eat and drink in secret.” so three-eyes went to two-eyes, and said, “i will go with you and see if the goat is taken proper care of, and driven where there is food.” but two-eyes knew what was in three-eyes’ mind, and drove the goat into high grass and said, “we will sit down, and i will sing something to you, three-eyes.” three-eyes sat down and was tired with the walk and with the heat of the sun, and two-eyes began the same song as before, and sang,
“three eyes, are you waking?”
but then, instead of singing,
“three eyes, are you sleeping?”
as she ought to have done, she thoughtlessly sang,
“two eyes, are you sleeping?”
and sang all the time,
“three eyes, are you waking?
two eyes, are you sleeping?”
then two of the eyes which three-eyes had, shut and fell asleep, but the third, as it had not been named in the song, did not sleep.
it is true that three-eyes shut it, but only in her cunning, to pretend it was asleep too, but it blinked, and could see everything very well.
and when two-eyes thought that three-eyes was fast asleep, she used her little charm,
“bleat, my little goat, bleat, cover the table with something to eat,”
and ate and drank as much as her heart desired, and then ordered the table to go away again,
“bleat, bleat, my little goat, i pray, and take the table quite away,”
and three-eyes had seen everything.
then two-eyes came to her, waked her and said, “have you been asleep, three-eyes?
you are a good care-taker!
come, we will go home.” and when they got home, two-eyes again did not eat, and three-eyes said to the mother, “now, i know why that high-minded thing there does not eat.
when she is out, she says to the goat,
“bleat, my little goat, bleat, cover the table with something to eat,”
and then a little table appears before her covered with the best of food, much better than any we have here, and when she has eaten all she wants, she says,
“bleat, bleat, my little goat, i pray, and take the table quite away,”
and all disappears.
i watched everything closely.
she put two of my eyes to sleep by using a certain form of words, but luckily the one in my forehead kept awake.” then the envious mother cried, “dost thou want to fare better than we do?
the desire shall pass away,” and she fetched a butcher’s knife, and thrust it into the heart of the goat, which fell down dead.
when two-eyes saw that, she went out full of trouble, seated herself on the ridge of grass at the edge of the field, and wept bitter tears.
suddenly the wise woman once more stood by her side, and said, “two-eyes, why art thou weeping?” “have i not reason to weep?” she answered.
“the goat which covered the table for me every day when i spoke your charm, has been killed by my mother, and now i shall again have to bear hunger and want.” the wise woman said, “two-eyes, i will give thee a piece of good advice; ask thy sisters to give thee the entrails of the slaughtered goat, and bury them in the ground in front of the house, and thy fortune will be made.” then she vanished, and two-eyes went home and said to her sisters, “dear sisters, do give me some part of my goat; i don’t wish for what is good, but give me the entrails.” then they laughed and said, “if that’s all you want, you can have it.” so two-eyes took the entrails and buried them quietly in the evening, in front of the house-door, as the wise woman had counselled her to do.
next morning, when they all awoke, and went to the house-door, there stood a strangely magnificent tree with leaves of silver, and fruit of gold hanging among them, so that in all the wide world there was nothing more beautiful or precious.
they did not know how the tree could have come there during the night, but two-eyes saw that it had grown up out of the entrails of the goat, for it was standing on the exact spot where she had buried them.
then the mother said to one-eye, “climb up, my child, and gather some of the fruit of the tree for us.”
one-eye climbed up, but when she was about to get hold of one of the golden apples, the branch escaped from her hands, and that happened each time, so that she could not pluck a single apple, let her do what she might.
then said the mother, “three-eyes, do you climb up; you with your three eyes can look about you better than one-eye.” one-eye slipped down, and three-eyes climbed up.
three-eyes was not more skilful, and might search as she liked, but the golden apples always escaped her.
at length the mother grew impatient, and climbed up herself, but could get hold of the fruit no better than one-eye and three-eyes, for she always clutched empty air.
then said two-eyes, “i will just go up, perhaps i may succeed better.” the sisters cried, “you indeed, with your two eyes, what can you do?” but two-eyes climbed up, and the golden apples did get out of her way, but came into her hand of their own accord, so that she could pluck them one after the other, and brought a whole apronful down with her.
the mother took them away from her, and instead of treating poor two-eyes any better for this, she and one-eye and three-eyes were only envious, because two-eyes alone had been able to get the fruit, and they treated her still more cruelly.
it so befell that once when they were all standing together by the tree, a young knight came up.
“quick, two-eyes,” cried the two sisters, “creep under this, and don’t disgrace us!” and with all speed they turned an empty barrel which was standing close by the tree over poor two-eyes, and they pushed the golden apples which she had been gathering, under it too.
when the knight came nearer he was a handsome lord, who stopped and admired the magnificent gold and silver tree, and said to the two sisters, “to whom does this fine tree belong?
any one who would bestow one branch of it on me might in return for it ask whatsoever he desired.” then one-eye and three-eyes replied that the tree belonged to them, and that they would give him a branch.
they both took great trouble, but they were not able to do it, for the branches and fruit both moved away from them every time.
then said the knight, “it is very strange that the tree should belong to you, and that you should still not be able to break a piece off.” they again asserted that the tree was their property.
whilst they were saying so, two-eyes rolled out a couple of golden apples from under the barrel to the feet of the knight, for she was vexed with one-eye and three-eyes, for not speaking the truth.
when the knight saw the apples he was astonished, and asked where they came from.
one-eye and three-eyes answered that they had another sister, who was not allowed to show herself, for she had only two eyes like any common person.
the knight, however, desired to see her, and cried, “two-eyes, come forth.” then two-eyes, quite comforted, came from beneath the barrel, and the knight was surprised at her great beauty, and said, “thou, two-eyes, canst certainly break off a branch from the tree for me.” “yes,” replied two-eyes, “that i certainly shall be able to do, for the tree belongs to me.” and she climbed up, and with the greatest ease broke off a branch with beautiful silver leaves and golden fruit, and gave it to the knight.
then said the knight, “two-eyes, what shall i give thee for it?”
“alas!” answered two-eyes, “i suffer from hunger and thirst, grief and want, from early morning till late night; if you would take me with you, and deliver me from these things, i should be happy.” so the knight lifted two-eyes on to his horse, and took her home with him to his father’s castle, and there he gave her beautiful clothes, and meat and drink to her heart’s content, and as he loved her so much he married her, and the wedding was solemnized with great rejoicing.
when two-eyes was thus carried away by the handsome knight, her two sisters grudged her good fortune in downright earnest.
“the wonderful tree, however, still remains with us,” thought they, “and even if we can gather no fruit from it, still every one will stand still and look at it, and come to us and admire it.
who knows what good things may be in store for us?” but next morning, the tree had vanished, and all their hopes were at an end.
and when two-eyes looked out of the window of her own little room, to her great delight it was standing in front of it, and so it had followed her.
two-eyes lived a long time in happiness.
once two poor women came to her in her castle, and begged for alms.
she looked in their faces, and recognized her sisters, one-eye, and three-eyes, who had fallen into such poverty that they had to wander about and beg their bread from door to door.
two-eyes, however, made them welcome, and was kind to them, and took care of them, so that they both with all their hearts repented the evil that they had done their sister in their youth.
131 fair katrinelje and pif-paf-poltrie
“good-day, father hollenthe.” “many thanks, pif-paf-poltrie.” “may i be allowed to have your daughter?” “oh, yes, if mother malcho (milch-cow), brother high-and-mighty, sister käsetraut, and fair katrinelje are willing, you can have her.”
“where is mother malcho, then?” “she is in the cow-house, milking the cow.”
“good-day, mother malcho.” “many thanks, pif-paf-poltrie.” “may i be allowed to have your daughter?” “oh, yes, if father hollenthe, brother high-and-mighty, sister käsetraut, and fair katrinelje are willing, you can have her.” “where is brother high-and-mighty, then?” “he is in the room chopping some wood.” “good-day, brother high-and-mighty.” “many thanks, pif-paf-poltrie.” “may i be allowed to have your sister?” “oh, yes, if father hollenthe, mother malcho, sister käsetraut, and fair katrinelje are willing, you can have her.” “where is sister käsetraut, then?” “she is in the garden cutting cabbages.” “good-day, sister käsetraut.” “many thanks, pif-paf-poltrie.” “may i be allowed to have your sister?” “oh, yes, if father hollenthe, mother malcho, brother high-and-mighty, and fair katrinelje are willing, you may have her.”
“where is fair katrinelje, then?” “she is in the room counting out her farthings.” “good day, fair katrinelje.” “many thanks, pif-paf-poltrie.” “wilt thou be my bride?” “oh, yes, if father hollenthe, mother malcho, brother high-and-mighty, and sister käsetraut are willing, i am ready.”
“fair katrinelje, how much dowry do hast thou?” “fourteen farthings in ready money, three and a half groschen owing to me, half a pound of dried apples, a handful of fried bread, and a handful of spices.
and many other things are mine, have i not a dowry fine?
“pif-paf-poltrie, what is thy trade?
art thou a tailor?” “something better.” “a shoemaker?” “something better.” “a husbandman?” “something better.” “a joiner?” “something better.” “a smith?” “something better.”
“a miller?” “something better.” “perhaps a broom-maker?” “yes, that’s what i am, is it not a fine trade?”
132 the fox and the horse
a peasant had a faithful horse which had grown old and could do no more work, so his master would no longer give him anything to eat and said, “i can certainly make no more use of thee, but still i mean well by thee; if thou provest thyself still strong enough to bring me a lion here, i will maintain thee, but now take thyself away out of my stable,” and with that he chased him into the open country.
the horse was sad, and went to the forest to seek a little protection there from the weather.
then the fox met him and said, “why dost thou hang thy head so, and go about all alone?” “alas,” replied the horse, “avarice and fidelity do not dwell together in one house.
my master has forgotten what services i have performed for him for so many years, and because i can no longer plough well, he will give me no more food, and has driven me out.” “without giving thee a chance?” asked the fox.
“the chance was a bad one.
he said, if i were still strong enough to bring him a lion, he would keep me, but he well knows that i cannot do that.”
the fox said, “i will help thee, just lay thyself down, stretch thyself out, as if thou wert dead, and do not stir.” the horse did as the fox desired, and the fox went to the lion, who had his den not far off, and said, “a dead horse is lying outside there, just come with me, thou canst have a rich meal.” the lion went with him, and when they were both standing by the horse the fox said, “after all, it is not very comfortable for thee here i tell thee what i will fasten it to thee by the tail, and then thou canst drag it into thy cave, and devour it in peace.”
this advice pleased the lion: he lay down, and in order that the fox might tie the horse fast to him, he kept quite quiet.
but the fox tied the lion’s legs together with the horse’s tail, and twisted and fastened all so well and so strongly that no strength could break it.
when he had finished his work, he tapped the horse on the shoulder and said, “pull, white horse, pull.” then up sprang the horse at once, and drew the lion away with him.
the lion began to roar so that all the birds in the forest flew out in terror, but the horse let him roar, and drew him and dragged him over the country to his master’s door.
when the master saw the lion, he was of a better mind, and said to the horse, “thou shalt stay with me and fare well,” and he gave him plenty to eat until he died.
133 the shoes that were danced to pieces
there was once upon a time a king who had twelve daughters, each one more beautiful than the other.
they all slept together in one chamber, in which their beds stood side by side, and every night when they were in them the king locked the door, and bolted it.
but in the morning when he unlocked the door, he saw that their shoes were worn out with dancing, and no one could find out how that had come to pass.
then the king caused it to be proclaimed that whosoever could discover where they danced at night, should choose one of them for his wife and be king after his death, but that whosoever came forward and had not discovered it within three days and nights, should have forfeited his life.
it was not long before a king’s son presented himself, and offered to undertake the enterprise.
he was well received, and in the evening was led into a room adjoining the princesses’ sleeping-chamber.
his bed was placed there, and he was to observe where they went and danced, and in order that they might do nothing secretly or go away to some other place, the door of their room was left open.
but the eyelids of the prince grew heavy as lead, and he fell asleep, and when he awoke in the morning, all twelve had been to the dance, for their shoes were standing there with holes in the soles.
on the second and third nights it fell out just the same, and then his head was struck off without mercy.
many others came after this and undertook the enterprise, but all forfeited their lives.
now it came to pass that a poor soldier, who had a wound, and could serve no longer, found himself on the road to the town where the king lived.
there he met an old woman, who asked him where he was going.
“i hardly know myself,”
answered he, and added in jest, “i had half a mind to discover where the princesses danced their shoes into holes, and thus become king.”
“that is not so difficult,” said the old woman, “you must not drink the wine which will be brought to you at night, and must pretend to be sound asleep.” with that she gave him a little cloak, and said, “if you put on that, you will be invisible, and then you can steal after the twelve.” when the soldier had received this good advice, he went into the thing in earnest, took heart, went to the king, and announced himself as a suitor.
he was as well received as the others, and royal garments were put upon him.
he was conducted that evening at bed-time into the ante-chamber, and as he was about to go to bed, the eldest came and brought him a cup of wine, but he had tied a sponge under his chin, and let the wine run down into it, without drinking a drop.
then he lay down and when he had lain a while, he began to snore, as if in the deepest sleep.
the twelve princesses heard that, and laughed, and the eldest said, “he, too, might as well have saved his life.” with that they got up, opened wardrobes, presses, cupboards, and brought out pretty dresses; dressed themselves before the mirrors, sprang about, and rejoiced at the prospect of the dance.
only the youngest said, “i know not how it is; you are very happy, but i feel very strange; some misfortune is certainly about to befall us.” “thou art a goose, who art always frightened,” said the eldest.
“hast thou forgotten how many kings’ sons have already come here in vain?
i had hardly any need to give the soldier a sleeping-draught, in any case the clown would not have awakened.” when they were all ready they looked carefully at the soldier, but he had closed his eyes and did not move or stir, so they felt themselves quite secure.
the eldest then went to her bed and tapped it; it immediately sank into the earth, and one after the other they descended through the opening, the eldest going first.
the soldier, who had watched everything, tarried no longer, put on his little cloak, and went down last with the youngest.
half-way down the steps, he just trod a little on her dress; she was terrified at that, and cried out, “what is that?
who is pulling my dress?” “don’t be so silly!” said the eldest, “you have caught it on a nail.” then they went all the way down, and when they were at the bottom, they were standing in a wonderfully pretty avenue of trees, all the leaves of which were of silver, and shone and glistened.
the soldier thought, “i must carry a token away with me,” and broke off a twig from one of them, on which the tree cracked with a loud report.
the youngest cried out again.
“something is wrong, did you hear the crack?” but the eldest said, “it is a gun fired for joy, because we have got rid of our prince so quickly.” after that they came into an avenue where all the leaves were of gold, and lastly into a third where they were of bright diamonds; he broke off a twig from each, which made such a crack each time that the youngest started back in terror, but the eldest still maintained that they were salutes.
they went on and came to a great lake whereon stood twelve little boats, and in every boat sat a handsome prince, all of whom were waiting for the twelve, and each took one of them with him, but the soldier seated himself by the youngest.
then her prince said, “i can’t tell why the boat is so much heavier to-day; i shall have to row with all my strength, if i am to get it across.” “what should cause that,” said the youngest, “but the warm weather?
i feel very warm too.”
on the opposite side of the lake stood a splendid, brightly-lit castle, from whence resounded the joyous music of trumpets and kettle-drums.
they rowed over there, entered, and each prince danced with the girl he loved, but the soldier danced with them unseen, and when one of them had a cup of wine in her hand he drank it up, so that the cup was empty when she carried it to her mouth; the youngest was alarmed at this, but the eldest always made her be silent.
they danced there till three o’clock in the morning when all the shoes were danced into holes, and they were forced to leave off; the princes rowed them back again over the lake, and this time the soldier seated himself by the eldest.
on the shore they took leave of their princes, and promised to return the following night.
when they reached the stairs the soldier ran on in front and lay down in his bed, and when the twelve had come up slowly and wearily, he was already snoring so loudly that they could all hear him, and they said, “so far as he is concerned, we are safe.” they took off their beautiful dresses, laid them away, put the worn-out shoes under the bed, and lay down.
next morning the soldier was resolved not to speak, but to watch the wonderful goings on, and again went with them.
then everything was done just as it had been done the first time, and each time they danced until their shoes were worn to pieces.
but the third time he took a cup away with him as a token.
when the hour had arrived for him to give his answer, he took the three twigs and the cup, and went to the king, but the twelve stood behind the door, and listened for what he was going to say.
when the king put the question, “where have my twelve daughters danced their shoes to pieces in the night?” he answered, “in an underground castle with twelve princes,”
and related how it had come to pass, and brought out the tokens.
the king then summoned his daughters, and asked them if the soldier had told the truth, and when they saw that they were betrayed, and that falsehood would be of no avail, they were obliged to confess all.
thereupon the king asked which of them he would have to wife?
he answered, “i am no longer young, so give me the eldest.” then the wedding was celebrated on the self-same day, and the kingdom was promised him after the king’s death.
but the princes were bewitched for as many days as they had danced nights with the twelve.
134 the six servants
in former times there lived an aged queen who was a sorceress, and her daughter was the most beautiful maiden under the sun.
the old woman, however, had no other thought than how to lure mankind to destruction, and when a wooer appeared, she said that whosoever wished to have her daughter, must first perform a task, or die.
many had been dazzled by the daughter’s beauty, and had actually risked this, but they never could accomplish what the old woman enjoined them to do, and then no mercy was shown; they had to kneel down, and their heads were struck off.
a certain king’s son who had also heard of the maiden’s beauty, said to his father, “let me go there, i want to demand her in marriage.” “never,” answered the king; “if you were to go, it would be going to your death.” on this the son lay down and was sick unto death, and for seven years he lay there, and no physician could heal him.
when the father perceived that all hope was over, with a heavy heart he said to him, “go thither, and try your luck, for i know no other means of curing you.” when the son heard that, he rose from his bed and was well again, and joyfully set out on his way.
and it came to pass that as he was riding across a heath, he saw from afar something like a great heap of hay lying on the ground, and when he drew nearer, he could see that it was the stomach of a man, who had laid himself down there, but the stomach looked like a small mountain.
when the fat man saw the traveller, he stood up and said, “if you are in need of any one, take me into your service.” the prince answered, “what can i do with such a great big man?” “oh,” said the stout one, “this is nothing, when i stretch myself out well, i am three thousand times fatter.” “if that’s the case,” said the prince, “i can make use of thee, come with me.” so the stout one followed the prince, and after a while they found another man who was lying on the ground with his ear laid to the turf.
“what art thou doing there?” asked the king’s son.
“i am listening,” replied the man.
“what art thou listening to so attentively?” “i am listening to what is just going on in the world, for nothing escapes my ears; i even hear the grass growing.” “tell me,”
said the prince, “what thou hearest at the court of the old queen who has the beautiful daughter.” then he answered, “i hear the whizzing of the sword that is striking off a wooer’s head.” the king’s son said, “i can make use of thee, come with me.” they went onwards, and then saw a pair of feet lying and part of a pair of legs, but could not see the rest of the body.
when they had walked on for a great distance, they came to the body, and at last to the head also.
“why,” said the prince, “what a tall rascal thou art!” “oh,” replied the tall one, “that is nothing at all yet; when i really stretch out my limbs, i am three thousand times as tall, and taller than the highest mountain on earth.
i will gladly enter your service, if you will take me.” “come with me,”
said the prince, “i can make use of thee.” they went onwards and found a man sitting by the road who had bound up his eyes.
the prince said to him, “hast thou weak eyes, that thou canst not look at the light?”
“no,” replied the man, “but i must not remove the bandage, for whatsoever i look at with my eyes, splits to pieces, my glance is so powerful.
if you can use that, i shall be glad to serve you.” “come with me,” replied the king’s son, “i can make use of thee.” they journeyed onwards and found a man who was lying in the hot sunshine, trembling and shivering all over his body, so that not a limb was still.
“how canst thou shiver when the sun is shining so warm?” said the king’s son.
“alack,” replied the man, “i am of quite a different nature.
the hotter it is, the colder i am, and the frost pierces through all my bones; and the colder it is, the hotter i am.
in the midst of ice, i cannot endure the heat, nor in the midst of fire, the cold.” “thou art a strange fellow,” said the prince, “but if thou wilt enter my service, follow me.” they travelled onwards, and saw a man standing who made a long neck and looked about him, and could see over all the mountains.
“what art thou looking at so eagerly?” said the king’s son.
the man replied, “i have such sharp eyes that i can see into every forest and field, and hill and valley, all over the world.”
the prince said, “come with me if thou wilt, for i am still in want of such an one.”
and now the king’s son and his six servants came to the town where the aged queen dwelt.
he did not tell her who he was, but said, “if you will give me your beautiful daughter, i will perform any task you set me.” the sorceress was delighted to get such a handsome youth as this into her net, and said, “i will set thee three tasks, and if thou art able to perform them all, thou shalt be husband and master of my daughter.” “what is the first to be?” “thou shalt fetch me my ring which i have dropped into the red sea.” so the king’s son went home to his servants and said, “the first task is not easy.
a ring is to be got out of the red sea.
come, find some way of doing it.” then the man with the sharp sight said, “i will see where it is lying,” and looked down into the water and said, “it is sticking there, on a pointed stone.”
the tall one carried them thither, and said, “i would soon get it out, if i could only see it.” “oh, is that all!” cried the stout one, and lay down and put his mouth to the water, on which all the waves fell into it just as if it had been a whirlpool, and he drank up the whole sea till it was as dry as a meadow.
the tall one stooped down a little, and brought out the ring with his hand.
then the king’s son rejoiced when he had the ring, and took it to the old queen.
she was astonished, and said, “yes, it is the right ring.
thou hast safely performed the first task, but now comes the second.
dost thou see the meadow in front of my palace?
three hundred fat oxen are feeding there, and these must thou eat, skin, hair, bones, horns and all, and down below in my cellar lie three hundred casks of wine, and these thou must drink up as well, and if one hair of the oxen, or one little drop of the wine is left, thy life will be forfeited to me.” “may i invite no guests to this repast?” inquired the prince, “no dinner is good without some company.”
the old woman laughed maliciously, and replied, “thou mayst invite one for the sake of companionship, but no more.”
the king’s son went to his servants and said to the stout one, “thou shalt be my guest to-day, and shalt eat thy fill.” hereupon the stout one stretched himself out and ate the three hundred oxen without leaving one single hair, and then he asked if he was to have nothing but his breakfast.
he drank the wine straight from the casks without feeling any need of a glass, and he licked the last drop from his finger-nails.
when the meal was over, the prince went to the old woman, and told her that the second task also was performed.
she wondered at this and said, “no one has ever done so much before, but one task still remains,” and she thought to herself, “thou shalt not escape me, and wilt not keep thy head on thy shoulders!
this night,” said she, “i will bring my daughter to thee in thy chamber, and thou shalt put thine arms round her, but when you are sitting there together, beware of falling asleep.
when twelve o’clock is striking, i will come, and if she is then no longer in thine arms, thou art lost.” the prince thought, “the task is easy, i will most certainly keep my eyes open.” nevertheless he called his servants, told them what the old woman had said, and remarked, “who knows what treachery lurks behind this?
foresight is a good thing keep watch, and take care that the maiden does not go out of my room again.” when night fell, the old woman came with her daughter, and gave her into the princes’s arms, and then the tall one wound himself round the two in a circle, and the stout one placed himself by the door, so that no living creature could enter.
there the two sat, and the maiden spake never a word, but the moon shone through the window on her face, and the prince could behold her wondrous beauty.
he did nothing but gaze at her, and was filled with love and happiness, and his eyes never felt weary.
this lasted until eleven o’clock, when the old woman cast such a spell over all of them that they fell asleep, and at the self-same moment the maiden was carried away.
then they all slept soundly until a quarter to twelve, when the magic lost its power, and all awoke again.
“oh, misery and misfortune!” cried the prince, “now i am lost!” the faithful servants also began to lament, but the listener said, “be quiet, i want to listen.” then he listened for an instant and said, “she is on a rock, three hundred leagues from hence, bewailing her fate.
thou alone, tall one, canst help her; if thou wilt stand up, thou wilt be there in a couple of steps.”
“yes,” answered the tall one, “but the one with the sharp eyes must go with me, that we may destroy the rock.” then the tall one took the one with bandaged eyes on his back, and in the twinkling of an eye they were on the enchanted rock.
the tall one immediately took the bandage from the other’s eyes, and he did but look round, and the rock shivered into a thousand pieces.
then the tall one took the maiden in his arms, carried her back in a second, then fetched his companion with the same rapidity, and before it struck twelve they were all sitting as they had sat before, quite merrily and happily.
when twelve struck, the aged sorceress came stealing in with a malicious face, which seemed to say, “now he is mine!” for she believed that her daughter was on the rock three hundred leagues off.
but when she saw her in the prince’s arms, she was alarmed, and said, “here is one who knows more than i do!” she dared not make any opposition, and was forced to give him her daughter.
but she whispered in her ear, “it is a disgrace to thee to have to obey common people, and that thou art not allowed to choose a husband to thine own liking.”
on this the proud heart of the maiden was filled with anger, and she meditated revenge.
next morning she caused three hundred great bundles of wood to be got together, and said to the prince that though the three tasks were performed, she would still not be his wife until some one was ready to seat himself in the midst of the wood, and bear the fire.
she thought that none of his servants would let themselves be burnt for him, and that out of love for her, he himself would place himself upon it, and then she would be free.
but the servants said, “every one of us has done something except the frosty one, he must set to work,” and they put him in the middle of the pile, and set fire to it.
then the fire began to burn, and burnt for three days until all the wood was consumed, and when the flames had burnt out, the frosty one was standing amid the ashes, trembling like an aspen leaf, and saying, “i never felt such a frost during the whole course of my life; if it had lasted much longer, i should have been benumbed!”
as no other pretext was to be found, the beautiful maiden was now forced to take the unknown youth as a husband.
but when they drove away to church, the old woman said, “i cannot endure the disgrace,” and sent her warriors after them with orders to cut down all who opposed them, and bring back her daughter.
but the listener had sharpened his ears, and heard the secret discourse of the old woman.
“what shall we do?”
said he to the stout one.
but he knew what to do, and spat out once or twice behind the carriage some of the sea-water which he had drunk, and a great sea arose in which the warriors were caught and drowned.
when the sorceress perceived that, she sent her mailed knights; but the listener heard the rattling of their armour, and undid the bandage from one eye of sharp-eyes, who looked for a while rather fixedly at the enemy’s troops, on which they all sprang to pieces like glass.
then the youth and the maiden went on their way undisturbed, and when the two had been blessed in church, the six servants took leave, and said to their master, “your wishes are now satisfied, you need us no longer, we will go our way and seek our fortunes.”
half a league from the palace of the prince’s father was a village near which a swineherd tended his herd, and when they came thither the prince said to his wife, “do you know who i really am?
i am no prince, but a herder of swine, and the man who is there with that herd, is my father.
we two shall have to set to work also, and help him.” then he alighted with her at the inn, and secretly told the innkeepers to take away her royal apparel during the night.
so when she awoke in the morning, she had nothing to put on, and the innkeeper’s wife gave her an old gown and a pair of worsted stockings, and at the same time seemed to consider it a great present, and said, “if it were not for the sake of your husband i should have given you nothing at all!” then the princess believed that he really was a swineherd, and tended the herd with him, and thought to herself, “i have deserved this for my haughtiness and pride.” this lasted for a week, and then she could endure it no longer, for she had sores on her feet.
and now came a couple of people who asked if she knew who her husband was.
“yes,” she answered, “he is a swineherd, and has just gone out with cords and ropes to try to drive a little bargain.” but they said, “just come with us, and we will take you to him,” and they took her up to the palace, and when she entered the hall, there stood her husband in kingly raiment.
but she did not recognize him until he took her in his arms, kissed her, and said, “i suffered much for thee and now thou, too, hast had to suffer for me.” and then the wedding was celebrated, and he who has told you all this, wishes that he, too, had been present at it.
135 the white bride and the black one
a woman was going about the unenclosed land with her daughter and her step-daughter cutting fodder, when the lord came walking towards them in the form of a poor man, and asked, “which is the way into the village?” “if you want to know,” said the mother, “seek it for yourself,” and the daughter added, “if you are afraid you will not find it, take a guide with you.” but the step-daughter said, “poor man, i will take you there, come with me.” then god was angry with the mother and daughter, and turned his back on them, and wished that they should become as black as night and as ugly as sin.
to the poor step-daughter, however, god was gracious, and went with her, and when they were near the village, he said a blessing over her, and spake, “choose three things for thyself, and i will grant them to thee.” then said the maiden, “i should like to be as beautiful and fair as the sun,” and instantly she was white and fair as day.
“then i should like to have a purse of money which would never grow empty.” that the lord gave her also, but he said, “do not forget what is best of all.” said she, “for my third wish, i desire, after my death, to inhabit the eternal kingdom of heaven.” that also was granted unto her, and then the lord left her.
when the step-mother came home with her daughter, and they saw that they were both as black as coal and ugly, but that the step-daughter was white and beautiful, wickedness increased still more in their hearts, and they thought of nothing else but how they could do her an injury.
the step-daughter, however, had a brother called reginer, whom she loved much, and she told him all that had happened.
once on a time reginer said to her, “dear sister, i will take thy likeness, that i may continually see thee before mine eyes, for my love for thee is so great that i should like always to look at thee.” then she answered, “but, i pray thee, let no one see the picture.” so he painted his sister and hung up the picture in his room; he, however, dwelt in the king’s palace, for he was his coachman.
every day he went and stood before the picture, and thanked god for the happiness of having such a dear sister.
now it happened that the king whom he served, had just lost his wife, who had been so beautiful that no one could be found to compare with her, and on this account the king was in deep grief.
the attendants about the court, however, remarked that the coachman stood daily before this beautiful picture, and they were jealous of him, so they informed the king.
then the latter ordered the picture to be brought to him, and when he saw that it was like his lost wife in every respect, except that it was still more beautiful, he fell mortally in love with it.
he caused the coachman to be brought before him, and asked whom the portrait represented?
the coachman said it was his sister, so the king resolved to take no one but her as his wife, and gave him a carriage and horses and splendid garments of cloth of gold, and sent him forth to fetch his chosen bride.
when reginer came on this errand, his sister was glad, but the black maiden was jealous of her good fortune, and grew angry above all measure, and said to her mother, “of what use are all your arts to us now when you cannot procure such a piece of luck for me?” “be quiet,” said the old woman, “i will soon divert it to you,” and by her arts of witchcraft, she so troubled the eyes of the coachman that he was half-blind, and she stopped the ears of the white maiden so that she was half-deaf.
then they got into the carriage, first the bride in her noble royal apparel, then the step-mother with her daughter, and reginer sat on the box to drive.
when they had been on the way for some time the coachman cried,
“cover thee well, my sister dear, that the rain may not wet thee, that the wind may not load thee with dust, that thou may’st be fair and beautiful when thou appearest before the king.”
the bride asked, “what is my dear brother saying?” “ah,” said the old woman, “he says that you ought to take off your golden dress and give it to your sister.” then she took it off, and put it on the black maiden, who gave her in exchange for it a shabby grey gown.
they drove onwards, and a short time afterwards, the brother again cried,
“cover thee well, my sister dear, that the rain may not wet thee, that the wind may not load thee with dust, that thou may’st be fair and beautiful when thou appearest before the king.”
the bride asked, “what is my dear brother saying?” “ah,” said the old woman, “he says that you ought to take off your golden hood and give it to your sister.” so she took off the hood and put it on her sister, and sat with her own head uncovered.
and they drove on farther.
after a while, the brother once more cried,
“cover thee well, my sister dear, that the rain may not wet thee, that the wind may not load thee with dust, that thou may’st be fair and beautiful when thou appearest before the king.”
the bride asked, “what is my dear brother saying?” “ah,” said the old woman, “he says you must look out of the carriage.” they were, however, just on a bridge, which crossed deep water.
when the bride stood up and leant forward out of the carriage, they both pushed her out, and she fell into the middle of the water.
at the same moment that she sank, a snow-white duck arose out of the mirror-smooth water, and swam down the river.
the brother had observed nothing of it, and drove the carriage on until they reached the court.
then he took the black maiden to the king as his sister, and thought she really was so, because his eyes were dim, and he saw the golden garments glittering.
when the king saw the boundless ugliness of his intended bride, he was very angry, and ordered the coachman to be thrown into a pit which was full of adders and nests of snakes.
the old witch, however, knew so well how to flatter the king and deceive his eyes by her arts, that he kept her and her daughter until she appeared quite endurable to him, and he really married her.
one evening when the black bride was sitting on the king’s knee, a white duck came swimming up the gutter to the kitchen, and said to the kitchen-boy, “boy, light a fire, that i may warm my feathers.” the kitchen-boy did it, and lighted a fire on the hearth.
then came the duck and sat down by it, and shook herself and smoothed her feathers to rights with her bill.
while she was thus sitting and enjoying herself, she asked, “what is my brother reginer doing?” the scullery-boy replied, “he is imprisoned in the pit with adders and with snakes.”
then she asked, “what is the black witch doing in the house?” the boy answered, “she is loved by the king and happy.”
“may god have mercy on him,” said the duck, and swam forth by the sink.
the next night she came again and put the same questions, and the third night also.
then the kitchen-boy could bear it no longer, and went to the king and discovered all to him.
the king, however, wanted to see it for himself, and next evening went thither, and when the duck thrust her head in through the sink, he took his sword and cut through her neck, and suddenly she changed into a most beautiful maiden, exactly like the picture, which her brother had made of her.
the king was full of joy, and as she stood there quite wet, he caused splendid apparel to be brought and had her clothed in it.
then she told how she had been betrayed by cunning and falsehood, and at last thrown down into the water, and her first request was that her brother should be brought forth from the pit of snakes, and when the king had fulfilled this request, he went into the chamber where the old witch was, and asked, what does she deserve who does this and that?
and related what had happened.
then was she so blinded that she was aware of nothing and said, “she deserves to be stripped naked, and put into a barrel with nails, and that a horse should be harnessed to the barrel, and the horse sent all over the world.” all of which was done to her, and to her black daughter.
but the king married the white and beautiful bride, and rewarded her faithful brother, and made him a rich and distinguished man.
136 iron john
there was once on a time a king who had a great forest near his palace, full of all kinds of wild animals.
one day he sent out a huntsman to shoot him a roe, but he did not come back.
“perhaps some accident has befallen him,” said the king, and the next day he sent out two more huntsmen who were to search for him, but they too stayed away.
then on the third day, he sent for all his huntsmen, and said, “scour the whole forest through, and do not give up until ye have found all three.” but of these also, none came home again, and of the pack of hounds which they had taken with them, none were seen more.
from that time forth, no one would any longer venture into the forest, and it lay there in deep stillness and solitude, and nothing was seen of it, but sometimes an eagle or a hawk flying over it.
this lasted for many years, when a strange huntsman announced himself to the king as seeking a situation, and offered to go into the dangerous forest.
the king, however, would not give his consent, and said, “it is not safe in there; i fear it would fare with thee no better than with the others, and thou wouldst never come out again.” the huntsman replied, “lord, i will venture it at my own risk, of fear i know nothing.”
the huntsman therefore betook himself with his dog to the forest.
it was not long before the dog fell in with some game on the way, and wanted to pursue it; but hardly had the dog run two steps when it stood before a deep pool, could go no farther, and a naked arm stretched itself out of the water, seized it, and drew it under, when the huntsman saw that, he went back and fetched three men to come with buckets and bale out the water.
when they could see to the bottom there lay a wild man whose body was brown like rusty iron, and whose hair hung over his face down to his knees.
they bound him with cords, and led him away to the castle.
there was great astonishment over the wild man; the king, however, had him put in an iron cage in his court-yard, and forbade the door to be opened on pain of death, and the queen herself was to take the key into her keeping.
and from this time forth every one could again go into the forest with safety.
the king had a son of eight years, who was once playing in the court-yard, and while he was playing, his golden ball fell into the cage.
the boy ran thither and said, “give me my ball out.” “not till thou hast opened the door for me,” answered the man.
“no,” said the boy, “i will not do that; the king has forbidden it,” and ran away.
the next day he again went and asked for his ball; the wild man said, “open my door,” but the boy would not.
on the third day the king had ridden out hunting, and the boy went once more and said, “i cannot open the door even if i wished, for i have not the key.” then the wild man said, “it lies under thy mother’s pillow, thou canst get it there.” the boy, who wanted to have his ball back, cast all thought to the winds, and brought the key.
the door opened with difficulty, and the boy pinched his fingers.
when it was open the wild man stepped out, gave him the golden ball, and hurried away.
the boy had become afraid; he called and cried after him, “oh, wild man, do not go away, or i shall be beaten!”
the wild man turned back, took him up, set him on his shoulder, and went with hasty steps into the forest.
when the king came home, he observed the empty cage, and asked the queen how that had happened?
she knew nothing about it, and sought the key, but it was gone.
she called the boy, but no one answered.
the king sent out people to seek for him in the fields, but they did not find him.
then he could easily guess what had happened, and much grief reigned in the royal court.
when the wild man had once more reached the dark forest, he took the boy down from his shoulder, and said to him, “thou wilt never see thy father and mother again, but i will keep thee with me, for thou hast set me free, and i have compassion on thee.
if thou dost all i bid thee, thou shalt fare well.
of treasure and gold have i enough, and more than anyone in the world.” he made a bed of moss for the boy on which he slept, and the next morning the man took him to a well, and said, “behold, the gold well is as bright and clear as crystal, thou shalt sit beside it, and take care that nothing falls into it, or it will be polluted.
i will come every evening to see if thou hast obeyed my order.” the boy placed himself by the margin of the well, and often saw a golden fish or a golden snake show itself therein, and took care that nothing fell in.
as he was thus sitting, his finger hurt him so violently that he involuntarily put it in the water.
he drew it quickly out again, but saw that it was quite gilded, and whatsoever pains he took to wash the gold off again, all was to no purpose.
in the evening iron john came back, looked at the boy, and said, “what has happened to the well?” “nothing, nothing,” he answered, and held his finger behind his back, that the man might not see it.
but he said, “thou hast dipped thy finger into the water, this time it may pass, but take care thou dost not again let anything go in.” by daybreak the boy was already sitting by the well and watching it.
his finger hurt him again and he passed it over his head, and then unhappily a hair fell down into the well.
he took it quickly out, but it was already quite gilded.
iron john came, and already knew what had happened.
“thou hast let a hair fall into the well,” said he.
“i will allow thee to watch by it once more, but if this happens for the third time then the well is polluted, and thou canst no longer remain with me.”
on the third day, the boy sat by the well, and did not stir his finger, however much it hurt him.
but the time was long to him, and he looked at the reflection of his face on the surface of the water.
and as he still bent down more and more while he was doing so, and trying to look straight into the eyes, his long hair fell down from his shoulders into the water.
he raised himself up quickly, but the whole of the hair of his head was already golden and shone like the sun.
you may imagine how terrified the poor boy was!
he took his pocket-handkerchief and tied it round his head, in order that the man might not see it.
when he came he already knew everything, and said, “take the handkerchief off.” then the golden hair streamed forth, and let the boy excuse himself as he might, it was of no use.
“thou hast not stood the trial, and canst stay here no longer.
go forth into the world, there thou wilt learn what poverty is.
but as thou hast not a bad heart, and as i mean well by thee, there is one thing i will grant thee; if thou fallest into any difficulty, come to the forest and cry, ‘iron john,’ and then i will come and help thee.
my power is great, greater than thou thinkest, and i have gold and silver in abundance.”
then the king’s son left the forest, and walked by beaten and unbeaten paths ever onwards until at length he reached a great city.
there he looked for work, but could find none, and he had learnt nothing by which he could help himself.
at length he went to the palace, and asked if they would take him in.
the people about court did not at all know what use they could make of him, but they liked him, and told him to stay.
at length the cook took him into his service, and said he might carry wood and water, and rake the cinders together.
once when it so happened that no one else was at hand, the cook ordered him to carry the food to the royal table, but as he did not like to let his golden hair be seen, he kept his little cap on.
such a thing as that had never yet come under the king’s notice, and he said, “when thou comest to the royal table thou must take thy hat off.” he answered, “ah, lord, i cannot; i have a bad sore place on my head.” then the king had the cook called before him and scolded him, and asked how he could take such a boy as that into his service; and that he was to turn him off at once.
the cook, however, had pity on him, and exchanged him for the gardener’s boy.
and now the boy had to plant and water the garden, hoe and dig, and bear the wind and bad weather.
once in summer when he was working alone in the garden, the day was so warm he took his little cap off that the air might cool him.
as the sun shone on his hair it glittered and flashed so that the rays fell into the bed-room of the king’s daughter, and up she sprang to see what that could be.
then she saw the boy, and cried to him, “boy, bring me a wreath of flowers.” he put his cap on with all haste, and gathered wild field-flowers and bound them together.
when he was ascending the stairs with them, the gardener met him, and said, “how canst thou take the king’s daughter a garland of such common flowers?
go quickly, and get another, and seek out the prettiest and rarest.” “oh, no,” replied the boy, “the wild ones have more scent, and will please her better.” when he got into the room, the king’s daughter said, “take thy cap off, it is not seemly to keep it on in my presence.” he again said, “i may not, i have a sore head.” she, however, caught at his cap and pulled it off, and then his golden hair rolled down on his shoulders, and it was splendid to behold.
he wanted to run out, but she held him by the arm, and gave him a handful of ducats.
with these he departed, but he cared nothing for the gold pieces.
he took them to the gardener, and said, “i present them to thy children, they can play with them.” the following day the king’s daughter again called to him that he was to bring her a wreath of field-flowers, and when he went in with it, she instantly snatched at his cap, and wanted to take it away from him, but he held it fast with both hands.
she again gave him a handful of ducats, but he would not keep them, and gave them to the gardener for playthings for his children.
on the third day things went just the same; she could not get his cap away from him, and he would not have her money.
not long afterwards, the country was overrun by war.
the king gathered together his people, and did not know whether or not he could offer any opposition to the enemy, who was superior in strength and had a mighty army.
then said the gardener’s boy, “i am grown up, and will go to the wars also, only give me a horse.” the others laughed, and said, “seek one for thyself when we are gone, we will leave one behind us in the stable for thee.” when they had gone forth, he went into the stable, and got the horse out; it was lame of one foot, and limped hobblety jig, hobblety jig; nevertheless he mounted it, and rode away to the dark forest.
when he came to the outskirts, he called “iron john,”
three times so loudly that it echoed through the trees.
thereupon the wild man appeared immediately, and said, “what dost thou desire?” “i want a strong steed, for i am going to the wars.” “that thou shalt have, and still more than thou askest for.” then the wild man went back into the forest, and it was not long before a stable-boy came out of it, who led a horse that snorted with its nostrils, and could hardly be restrained, and behind them followed a great troop of soldiers entirely equipped in iron, and their swords flashed in the sun.
the youth made over his three-legged horse to the stable-boy, mounted the other, and rode at the head of the soldiers.
when he got near the battle-field a great part of the king’s men had already fallen, and little was wanting to make the rest give way.
then the youth galloped thither with his iron soldiers, broke like a hurricane over the enemy, and beat down all who opposed him.
they began to fly, but the youth pursued, and never stopped, until there was not a single man left.
instead, however, of returning to the king, he conducted his troop by bye-ways back to the forest, and called forth iron john.
“what dost thou desire?” asked the wild man.
“take back thy horse and thy troops, and give me my three-legged horse again.” all that he asked was done, and soon he was riding on his three-legged horse.
when the king returned to his palace, his daughter went to meet him, and wished him joy of his victory.
“i am not the one who carried away the victory,” said he, “but a stranger knight who came to my assistance with his soldiers.” the daughter wanted to hear who the strange knight was, but the king did not know, and said, “he followed the enemy, and i did not see him again.” she inquired of the gardener where his boy was, but he smiled, and said, “he has just come home on his three-legged horse, and the others have been mocking him, and crying, “here comes our hobblety jig back again!”
they asked, too, “under what hedge hast thou been lying sleeping all the time?” he, however, said, “i did the best of all, and it would have gone badly without me.” and then he was still more ridiculed.”
the king said to his daughter, “i will proclaim a great feast that shall last for three days, and thou shalt throw a golden apple.
perhaps the unknown will come to it.” when the feast was announced, the youth went out to the forest, and called iron john.
“what dost thou desire?”
asked he.
“that i may catch the king’s daughter’s golden apple.” “it is as safe as if thou hadst it already,” said iron john.
“thou shalt likewise have a suit of red armour for the occasion, and ride on a spirited chestnut-horse.” when the day came, the youth galloped to the spot, took his place amongst the knights, and was recognized by no one.
the king’s daughter came forward, and threw a golden apple to the knights, but none of them caught it but he, only as soon as he had it he galloped away.
on the second day iron john equipped him as a white knight, and gave him a white horse.
again he was the only one who caught the apple, and he did not linger an instant, but galloped off with it.
the king grew angry, and said, “that is not allowed; he must appear before me and tell his name.” he gave the order that if the knight who caught the apple, should go away again they should pursue him, and if he would not come back willingly, they were to cut him down and stab him.
on the third day, he received from iron john a suit of black armour and a black horse, and again he caught the apple.
but when he was riding off with it, the king’s attendants pursued him, and one of them got so near him that he wounded the youth’s leg with the point of his sword.
the youth nevertheless escaped from them, but his horse leapt so violently that the helmet fell from the youth’s head, and they could see that he had golden hair.
they rode back and announced this to the king.
the following day the king’s daughter asked the gardener about his boy.
“he is at work in the garden; the queer creature has been at the festival too, and only came home yesterday evening; he has likewise shown my children three golden apples which he has won.”
the king had him summoned into his presence, and he came and again had his little cap on his head.
but the king’s daughter went up to him and took it off, and then his golden hair fell down over his shoulders, and he was so handsome that all were amazed.
“art thou the knight who came every day to the festival, always in different colours, and who caught the three golden apples?” asked the king.
“yes,” answered he, “and here the apples are,” and he took them out of his pocket, and returned them to the king.
“if you desire further proof, you may see the wound which your people gave me when they followed me.
but i am likewise the knight who helped you to your victory over your enemies.” “if thou canst perform such deeds as that, thou art no gardener’s boy; tell me, who is thy father?” “my father is a mighty king, and gold have i in plenty as great as i require.” “i well see,” said the king, “that i owe thanks to thee; can i do anything to please thee?” “yes,” answered he, “that indeed you can.
give me your daughter to wife.” the maiden laughed, and said, “he does not stand much on ceremony, but i have already seen by his golden hair that he was no gardener’s boy,” and then she went and kissed him.
his father and mother came to the wedding, and were in great delight, for they had given up all hope of ever seeing their dear son again.
and as they were sitting at the marriage-feast, the music suddenly stopped, the doors opened, and a stately king came in with a great retinue.
he went up to the youth, embraced him and said, “i am iron john, and was by enchantment a wild man, but thou hast set me free; all the treasures which i possess, shall be thy property.”
137 the three black princesses
east india was besieged by an enemy who would not retire until he had received six hundred dollars.
then the townsfolk caused it to be proclaimed by beat of drum that whosoever was able to procure the money should be burgomaster.
now there was a poor fisherman who fished on the lake with his son, and the enemy came and took the son prisoner, and gave the father six hundred dollars for him.
so the father went and gave them to the great men of the town, and the enemy departed, and the fisherman became burgomaster.
then it was proclaimed that whosoever did not say, “mr.
burgomaster,” should be put to death on the gallows.
the son got away again from the enemy, and came to a great forest on a high mountain.
the mountain opened, and he went into a great enchanted castle, wherein chairs, tables, and benches were all hung with black.
then came three young princesses who were entirely dressed in black, but had a little white on their faces; they told him he was not to be afraid, they would not hurt him, and that he could deliver them.
he said he would gladly do that, if he did but know how.
at this, they told him he must for a whole year not speak to them and also not look at them, and what he wanted to have he was just to ask for, and if they dared give him an answer they would do so.
when he had been there for a long while he said he should like to go to his father, and they told him he might go.
he was to take with him this purse with money, put on this coat, and in a week he must be back there again.
then he was caught up, and was instantly in east india.
he could no longer find his father in the fisherman’s hut, and asked the people where the poor fisherman could be, and they told him he must not say that, or he would come to the gallows.
then he went to his father and said, “fisherman, how hast thou got here?” then the father said, “thou must not say that, if the great men of the town knew of that, thou wouldst come to the gallows.” he, however, would not stop, and was brought to the gallows.
when he was there, he said, “o, my masters, just give me leave to go to the old fisherman’s hut.” then he put on his old smock-frock, and came back to the great men, and said, “do ye not now see?
am i not the son of the poor fisherman?
did i not earn bread for my father and mother in this dress?” hereupon his father knew him again, and begged his pardon, and took him home with him, and then he related all that had happened to him, and how he had got into a forest on a high mountain, and the mountain had opened and he had gone into an enchanted castle, where all was black, and three young princesses had come to him who were black except a little white on their faces.
and they had told him not to fear, and that he could deliver them.
then his mother said that might very likely not be a good thing to do, and that he ought to take a holy-water vessel with him, and drop some boiling water on their faces.
he went back again, and he was in great fear, and he dropped the water on their faces as they were sleeping, and they all turned half-white.
then all the three princesses sprang up, and said, “thou accursed dog, our blood shall cry for vengeance on thee!
now there is no man born in the world, nor will any ever be born who can set us free!
we have still three brothers who are bound by seven chains they shall tear thee to pieces.” then there was a loud shrieking all over the castle, and he sprang out of the window, and broke his leg, and the castle sank into the earth again, the mountain shut to again, and no one knew where the castle had stood.
138 knoist and his three sons
between werrel and soist there lived a man whose name was knoist, and he had three sons.
one was blind, the other lame, and the third stark-naked.
once on a time they went into a field, and there they saw a hare.
the blind one shot it, the lame one caught it, the naked one put it in his pocket.
then they came to a mighty big lake, on which there were three boats, one sailed, one sank, the third had no bottom to it.
they all three got into the one with no bottom to it.
then they came to a mighty big forest in which there was a mighty big tree; in the tree was a mighty big chapel in the chapel was a sexton made of beech-wood and a box-wood parson, who dealt out holy-water with cudgels.
“how truly happy is that one who can from holy water run!”
139 the maid of brakel
a girl from brakel once went to st. anne’s chapel at the foot of the hinnenberg, and as she wanted to have a husband, and thought there was no one else in the chapel, she sang,
“oh, holy saint anne!
help me soon to a man.
thou know’st him right well, by suttmer gate does he dwell, his hair it is golden, thou know’st him right well.”
the clerk, however, was standing behind the altar and heard that, so he cried in a very gruff voice, “thou shalt not have him!
thou shalt not have him!” the maiden thought that the child mary who stood by her mother anne had called out that to her, and was angry, and cried, “fiddle de dee, conceited thing, hold your tongue, and let your mother speak!”
140 domestic servants
“whither goest thou?” “to walpe.” “i to walpe, thou to walpe, so, so, together we’ll go.”
“hast thou a man?
what is his name?” “cham.” “my man cham, thy man cham; i to walpe, thou to walpe; so, so, together we’ll go.” “hast thou a child; how is he styled?” “wild.” “my child wild, thy child wild; my man cham, thy man cham; i to walpe, thou to walpe, so, so, together we’ll go.” “hast thou a cradle?
how callest thou thy cradle?”
“hippodadle.” “my cradle hippodadle, my child wild, thy child wild, my man cham, thy man cham; i to walpe, thou to walpe, so, so, together we’ll go.”
“hast thou also a drudge?
what name has thy drudge?”
“from-thy-work-do-not-budge.” “my drudge, from-thy-work-do-not-budge:
my child wild, thy child wild; my man cham, thy man cham; i to walpe, thou to walpe; so, so, together we’ll go.”
141 the lambkin and the little fish
there were once a little brother and a little sister, who loved each other with all their hearts.
their own mother was, however, dead, and they had a step-mother, who was not kind to them, and secretly did everything she could to hurt them.
it so happened that the two were playing with other children in a meadow before the house, and there was a pond in the meadow which came up to one side of the house.
the children ran about it, and caught each other, and played at counting out.
“eneke beneke, let me live, and i to thee my bird will give.
the little bird, it straw shall seek, the straw i’ll give to the cow to eat.
the pretty cow shall give me milk, the milk i’ll to the baker take.
the baker he shall bake a cake, the cake i’ll give unto the cat.
the cat shall catch some mice for that, the mice i’ll hang up in the smoke, and then you’ll see the snow.”
they stood in a circle while they played this, and the one to whom the word snow fell, had to run away and all the others ran after him and caught him.
as they were running about so merrily the step-mother watched them from the window, and grew angry.
and as she understood arts of witchcraft she bewitched them both, and changed the little brother into a fish, and the little sister into a lamb.
then the fish swam here and there about the pond and was very sad, and the lambkin walked up and down the meadow, and was miserable, and could not eat or touch one blade of grass.
thus passed a long time, and then strangers came as visitors to the castle.
the false step-mother thought, “this is a good opportunity,” and called the cook and said to him, “go and fetch the lamb from the meadow and kill it, we have nothing else for the visitors.” then the cook went away and got the lamb, and took it into the kitchen and tied its feet, and all this it bore patiently.
when he had drawn out his knife and was whetting it on the door-step to kill the lamb, he noticed a little fish swimming backwards and forwards in the water, in front of the kitchen-sink and looking up at him.
this, however, was the brother, for when the fish saw the cook take the lamb away, it followed them and swam along the pond to the house; then the lamb cried down to it,
“ah, brother, in the pond so deep, how sad is my poor heart!
even now the cook he whets his knife to take away my tender life.”
the little fish answered,
“ah, little sister, up on high how sad is my poor heart while in this pond i lie.”
when the cook heard that the lambkin could speak and said such sad words to the fish down below, he was terrified and thought this could be no common lamb, but must be bewitched by the wicked woman in the house.
then said he, “be easy, i will not kill thee,” and took another sheep and made it ready for the guests, and conveyed the lambkin to a good peasant woman, to whom he related all that he had seen and heard.
the peasant was, however, the very woman who had been foster-mother to the little sister, and she suspected at once who the lamb was, and went with it to a wise woman.
then the wise woman pronounced a blessing over the lambkin and the little fish, by means of which they regained their human forms, and after this she took them both into a little hut in a great forest, where they lived alone, but were contented and happy.
142 simeli mountain
there were once two brothers, the one rich, the other poor.
the rich one, however, gave nothing to the poor one, and he gained a scanty living by trading in corn, and often did so badly that he had no bread for his wife and children.
once when he was wheeling a barrow through the forest he saw, on one side of him, a great, bare, naked-looking mountain, and as he had never seen it before, he stood still and stared at it with amazement.
while he was thus standing he saw twelve great, wild men coming towards him, and as he believed they were robbers he pushed his barrow into the thicket, climbed up a tree, and waited to see what would happen.
the twelve men, however, went to the mountain and cried, “semsi mountain, semsi mountain, open,” and immediately the barren mountain opened down the middle, and the twelve went into it, and as soon as they were within, it shut.
after a short time, however, it opened again, and the men came forth carrying heavy sacks on their shoulders, and when they were all once more in the daylight they said, “semsi mountain, semsi mountain, shut thyself;” then the mountain closed together, and there was no longer any entrance to be seen to it, and the twelve went away.
when they were quite out of sight the poor man got down from the tree, and was curious to know what really was secretly hidden in the mountain.
so he went up to it and said, “semsi mountain, semsi mountain, open,” and the mountain opened to him also.
the he went inside, and the whole mountain was a cavern full of silver and gold, and behind lay great piles of pearls and sparkling jewels, heaped up like corn.
the poor man hardly knew what to do, and whether he might take any of these treasures for himself or not; but at last he filled his pockets with gold, but he left the pearls and precious stones where they were.
when he came out again he also said, “semsi mountain, semsi mountain, shut thyself;” and the mountain closed itself, and he went home with his barrow.
and now he had no more cause for anxiety, but could buy bread for his wife and children with his gold, and wine into the bargain.
he lived joyously and uprightly, gave help to the poor, and did good to every one.
when, however, the money came to an end he went to his brother, borrowed a measure that held a bushel, and brought himself some more, but did not touch any of the most valuable things.
when for the third time he wanted to fetch something, he again borrowed the measure of his brother.
the rich man had, however, long been envious of his brother’s possessions, and of the handsome way of living which he had set on foot, and could not understand from whence the riches came, and what his brother wanted with the measure.
then he thought of a cunning trick, and covered the bottom of the measure with pitch, and when he got the measure back a piece of money was sticking in it.
he at once went to his brother and asked him, “what hast thou been measuring in the bushel measure?” “corn and barley,” said the other.
then he showed him the piece of money, and threatened that if he did not tell the truth he would accuse him before a court of justice.
the poor man then told him everything, just as it happened.
the rich man, however, ordered his carriage to be made ready, and drove away, resolved to use the opportunity better than his brother had done, and to bring back with him quite different treasures.
when he came to the mountain he cried, “semsi mountain, semsi mountain, open.” the mountain opened, and he went inside it.
there lay the treasures all before him, and for a long time he did not know which to clutch at first.
at length he loaded himself with as many precious stones as he could carry.
he wished to carry his burden outside, but, as his heart and soul were entirely full of the treasures, he had forgotten the name of the mountain, and cried, “simeli mountain, simeli mountain, open.” that, however, was not the right name, and the mountain never stirred, but remained shut.
then he was alarmed, but the longer he thought about it the more his thoughts confused themselves, and his treasures were no more of any use to him.
in the evening the mountain opened, and the twelve robbers came in, and when they saw him they laughed, and cried out, “bird, have we caught thee at last!
didst thou think we had never noticed that thou hadst been in here twice?
we could not catch thee then; this third time thou shalt not get out again!” then he cried, “it was not i, it was my brother,” but let him beg for his life and say what he would, they cut his head off.
143 going a-travelling
there was once a poor woman who had a son, who much wished to travel, but his mother said, “how canst thou travel?
we have no money at all for thee to take away with thee.” then said the son, “i will manage very well for myself; i will always say, not much, not much, not much.”
so he walked for a long time and always said, “not much, not much, not much.” then he passed by a company of fishermen and said, “god speed you!
not much, not much, not much.” “what sayst thou churl, ‘not much?’” and when the net was drawn out they had not caught much fish.
so one of them fell on the youth with a stick and said, “hast thou never seen me threshing?” “what ought i to say, then?” asked the youth.
“thou must say, ‘get it full, get it full.’” after this he again walked a long time, and said, “get it full, get it full,” until he came to the gallows, where they had got a poor sinner whom they were about to hang.
then said he, “good morning; get it full, get it full.” “what sayst thou, knave, get it full?
dost thou want to make out that there are still more wicked people in the world is not this enough?” and he again got some blows on his back.
“what am i to say, then?” said he.
“thou must say, may god have pity on the poor soul.”
again the youth walked on for a long while and said, “may god have pity on the poor soul!” then he came to a pit by which stood a knacker who was cutting up a horse.
the youth said, “good morning; god have pity on the poor soul!” “what dost thou say, thou ill-tempered knave?” and the knacker gave him such a box on the ear, that he could not see out of his eyes.
“what am i to say, then?” “thou must say, ‘there lies the carrion in the pit!’”
so he walked on, and always said, “there lies the carrion in the pit, there lies the carrion in the pit.” and he came to a cart full of people, so he said, “good morning, there lies the carrion in the pit!”
then the cart pushed him into a hole, and the driver took his whip and cracked it upon the youth, till he was forced to crawl back to his mother, and as long as he lived he never went out a-travelling again.
144 the donkey
once on a time there lived a king and a queen, who were rich, and had everything they wanted, but no children.
the queen lamented over this day and night, and said, “i am like a field on which nothing grows.” at last god gave her her wish, but when the child came into the world, it did not look like a human child, but was a little donkey.
when the mother saw that, her lamentations and outcries began in real earnest; she said she would far rather have had no child at all than have a donkey, and that they were to throw it into the water that the fishes might devour it.
but the king said, “no, since god has sent him he shall be my son and heir, and after my death sit on the royal throne, and wear the kingly crown.” the donkey, therefore, was brought up and grew bigger, and his ears grew up beautifully high and straight.
he was, however, of a merry disposition, jumped about, played and had especial pleasure in music, so that he went to a celebrated musician and said, “teach me thine art, that i may play the lute as well as thou dost.” “ah, dear little master,” answered the musician, “that would come very hard to you, your fingers are certainly not suited to it, and are far too big.
i am afraid the strings would not last.” no excuses were of any use.
the donkey was determined to play the lute; he was persevering and industrious, and at last learnt to do it as well as the master himself.
the young lordling once went out walking full of thought and came to a well, he looked into it and in the mirror-clear water saw his donkey’s form.
he was so distressed about it, that he went out into the wide world and only took with him one faithful companion.
they travelled up and down, and at last they came into a kingdom where an old king reigned who had an only but wonderfully beautiful daughter.
the donkey said, “here we will stay,” knocked at the gate, and cried, “a guest is without open, that he may enter.” as, however, the gate was not opened, he sat down, took his lute and played it in the most delightful manner with his two fore-feet.
then the door-keeper opened his eyes most wonderfully wide, and ran to the king and said, “outside by the gate sits a young donkey which plays the lute as well as an experienced master!” “then let the musician come to me,”
said the king.
when, however, a donkey came in, every one began to laugh at the lute-player.
and now the donkey was asked to sit down and eat with the servants.
he, however, was unwilling, and said, “i am no common stable-ass, i am a noble one.” then they said, “if that is what thou art, seat thyself with the men of war.” “no,” said he, “i will sit by the king.” the king smiled, and said good-humouredly, “yes, it shall be as thou wilt, little ass, come here to me.” then he asked, “little ass, how does my daughter please thee?” the donkey turned his head towards her, looked at her, nodded and said, “i like her above measure, i have never yet seen anyone so beautiful as she is.” “well, then, thou shalt sit next her too,” said the king.
“that is exactly what i wish,”
said the donkey, and he placed himself by her side, ate and drank, and knew how to behave himself daintily and cleanly.
when the noble beast had stayed a long time at the king’s court, he thought, “what good does all this do me, i shall still have to go home again?” let his head hang sadly, and went to the king and asked for his dismissal.
but the king had grown fond of him, and said, “little ass, what ails thee?
thou lookest as sour as a jug of vinegar, i will give thee what thou wantest.
dost thou want gold?” “no,” said the donkey, and shook his head.
“dost thou want jewels and rich dress?” “no.” “dost thou wish for half my kingdom?” “indeed, no.” then said the king, “if i did but know what would make thee content.
wilt thou have my pretty daughter to wife?” “ah, yes,” said the ass, “i should indeed like her,” and all at once he became quite merry and full of happiness, for that was exactly what he was wishing for.
so a great and splendid wedding was held.
in the evening, when the bride and bridegroom were led into their bed-room, the king wanted to know if the ass would behave well, and ordered a servant to hide himself there.
when they were both within, the bridegroom bolted the door, looked around, and as he believed that they were quite alone, he suddenly threw off his ass’s skin, and stood there in the form of a handsome royal youth.
“now,” said he, “thou seest who i am, and seest also that i am not unworthy of thee.” then the bride was glad, and kissed him, and loved him dearly.
when morning came, he jumped up, put his animal’s skin on again, and no one could have guessed what kind of a form was hidden beneath it.
soon came the old king, “ah,” cried he, “is the little ass merry?
but surely thou art sad?” said he to his daughter, “that thou hast not got a proper man for thy husband?” “oh, no, dear father, i love him as well as if he were the handsomest in the world, and i will keep him as long as i live.”
the king was surprised, but the servant who had concealed himself came and revealed everything to him.
the king said, “that cannot be true.”
“then watch yourself the next night, and you will see it with your own eyes; and hark you, lord king, if you were to take his skin away and throw it in the fire, he would be forced to show himself in his true shape.” “thy advice is good,” said the king, and at night when they were asleep, he stole in, and when he got to the bed he saw by the light of the moon a noble-looking youth lying there, and the skin lay stretched on the ground.
so he took it away, and had a great fire lighted outside, and threw the skin into it, and remained by it himself until it was all burnt to ashes.
as, however, he was anxious to know how the robbed man would behave himself, he stayed awake the whole night and watched.
when the youth had slept his sleep out, he got up by the first light of morning, and wanted to put on the ass’s skin, but it was not to be found.
on this he was alarmed, and, full of grief and anxiety, said, “now i shall have to contrive to escape.” but when he went out, there stood the king, who said, “my son, whither away in such haste?
what hast thou in mind?
stay here, thou art such a handsome man, thou shalt not go away from me.
i will now give thee half my kingdom, and after my death thou shalt have the whole of it.” “then i hope that what begins so well may end well, and i will stay with you,” said the youth.
and the old man gave him half the kingdom, and in a year’s time, when he died, the youth had the whole, and after the death of his father he had another kingdom as well, and lived in all magnificence.
145 the ungrateful son
a man and his wife were once sitting by the door of their house, and they had a roasted chicken set before them, and were about to eat it together.
then the man saw that his aged father was coming, and hastily took the chicken and hid it, for he would not permit him to have any of it.
the old man came, took a drink, and went away.
now the son wanted to put the roasted chicken on the table again, but when he took it up, it had become a great toad, which jumped into his face and sat there and never went away again, and if any one wanted to take it off, it looked venomously at him as if it would jump in his face, so that no one would venture to touch it.
and the ungrateful son was forced to feed the toad every day, or else it fed itself on his face; and thus he went about the world without knowing rest.
146 the turnip
there were once two brothers who both served as soldiers; one of them was rich, and the other poor.
then the poor one, to escape from his poverty, put off his soldier’s coat, and turned farmer.
he dug and hoed his bit of land, and sowed it with turnip-seed.
the seed came up, and one turnip grew there which became large and vigorous, and visibly grew bigger and bigger, and seemed as if it would never stop growing, so that it might have been called the princess of turnips, for never was such an one seen before, and never will such an one be seen again.
at length it was so enormous that by itself it filled a whole cart, and two oxen were required to draw it, and the farmer had not the least idea what he was to do with the turnip, or whether it would be a fortune to him or a misfortune.
at last he thought, “if thou sellest it, what wilt thou get for it that is of any importance, and if thou eatest it thyself, why, the small turnips would do thee just as much good; it would be better to take it to the king, and make him a present of it.”
so he placed it on a cart, harnessed two oxen, took it to the palace, and presented it to the king.
“what strange thing is this?” said the king.
“many wonderful things have come before my eyes, but never such a monster as this!
from what seed can this have sprung, or are you a luck-child and have met with it by chance?” “ah, no!” said the farmer, “no luck-child am i. i am a poor soldier, who because he could no longer support himself hung his soldier’s coat on a nail and took to farming land.
i have a brother who is rich and well known to you, lord king, but i, because i have nothing, am forgotten by every one.”
then the king felt compassion for him, and said, “thou shalt be raised from thy poverty, and shalt have such gifts from me that thou shalt be equal to thy rich brother.” then he bestowed on him much gold, and lands, and meadows, and herds, and made him immensely rich, so that the wealth of the other brother could not be compared with his.
when the rich brother heard what the poor one had gained for himself with one single turnip, he envied him, and thought in every way how he also could get hold of a similar piece of luck.
he would, however, set about it in a much wiser way, and took gold and horses and carried them to the king, and made certain the king would give him a much larger present in return.
if his brother had got so much for one turnip, what would he not carry away with him in return for such beautiful things as these?
the king accepted his present, and said he had nothing to give him in return that was more rare and excellent than the great turnip.
so the rich man was obliged to put his brother’s turnip in a cart and have it taken to his home.
when there he did not know on whom to vent his rage and anger, until bad thoughts came to him, and he resolved to kill his brother.
he hired murderers, who were to lie in ambush, and then he went to his brother and said, “dear brother, i know of a hidden treasure, we will dig it up together, and divide it between us.” the other agreed to this, and accompanied him without suspicion.
while they were on their way, however, the murderers fell on him, bound him, and would have hanged him to a tree.
but just as they were doing this, loud singing and the sound of a horse’s feet were heard in the distance.
on this their hearts were filled with terror, and they pushed their prisoner head first into the sack, hung it on a branch, and took to flight.
he, however, worked up there until he had made a hole in the sack through which he could put his head.
the man who was coming by was no other than a travelling student, a young fellow who rode on his way through the wood joyously singing his song.
when he who was aloft saw that someone was passing below him, he cried, “good day!
you have come at a lucky time.” the student looked round on every side, but did not know whence the voice came.
at last he said, “who calls me?” then an answer came from the top of the tree, “raise your eyes; here i sit aloft in the sack of wisdom.
in a short time have i learnt great things; compared with this all schools are a jest; in a very short time i shall have learnt everything, and shall descend wiser than all other men.
i understand the stars, and the signs of the zodiac, and the tracks of the winds, the sand of the sea, the healing of illness, and the virtues of all herbs, birds, and stones.
if you were once within it you would feel what noble things issue forth from the sack of knowledge.”
the student, when he heard all this, was astonished, and said, “blessed be the hour in which i have found thee!
may not i also enter the sack for a while?” he who was above replied as if unwillingly, “for a short time i will let you get into it, if you reward me and give me good words; but you must wait an hour longer, for one thing remains which i must learn before i do it.” when the student had waited a while he became impatient, and begged to be allowed to get in at once, his thirst for knowledge was so very great.
so he who was above pretended at last to yield, and said, “in order that i may come forth from the house of knowledge you must let it down by the rope, and then you shall enter it.” so the student let the sack down, untied it, and set him free, and then cried, “now draw me up at once,” and was about to get into the sack.
“halt!” said the other, “that won’t do,” and took him by the head and put him upside down into the sack, fastened it, and drew the disciple of wisdom up the tree by the rope.
then he swung him in the air and said, “how goes it with thee, my dear fellow?
behold, already thou feelest wisdom coming, and art gaining valuable experience.
keep perfectly quiet until thou becomest wiser.” thereupon he mounted the student’s horse and rode away, but in an hour’s time sent some one to let the student out again.
147 the old man made young again
in the time when our lord still walked this earth, he and st. peter stopped one evening at a smith’s and received free quarters.
then it came to pass that a poor beggar, hardly pressed by age and infirmity, came to this house and begged alms of the smith.
st. peter had compassion on him and said, “lord and master, if it please thee, cure his torments that he may be able to win his own bread.” the lord said kindly, “smith, lend me thy forge, and put on some coals for me, and then i will make this ailing old man young again.” the smith was quite willing, and st. peter blew the bellows, and when the coal fire sparkled up large and high our lord took the little old man, pushed him in the forge in the midst of the red-hot fire, so that he glowed like a rose-bush, and praised god with a loud voice.
after that the lord went to the quenching tub, put the glowing little man into it so that the water closed over him, and after he had carefully cooled him, gave him his blessing, when behold the little man sprang nimbly out, looking fresh, straight, healthy, and as if he were but twenty.
the smith, who had watched everything closely and attentively, invited them all to supper.
he, however, had an old half-blind crooked, mother-in-law who went to the youth, and with great earnestness asked if the fire had burnt him much.
he answered that he had never felt more comfortable, and that he had sat in the red heat as if he had been in cool dew.
the youth’s words echoed in the ears of the old woman all night long, and early next morning, when the lord had gone on his way again and had heartily thanked the smith, the latter thought he might make his old mother-in-law young again likewise, as he had watched everything so carefully, and it lay in the province of his trade.
so he called to ask her if she, too, would like to go bounding about like a girl of eighteen.
she said, “with all my heart, as the youth has come out of it so well.” so the smith made a great fire, and thrust the old woman into it, and she writhed about this way and that, and uttered terrible cries of murder.
“sit still; why art thou screaming and jumping about so?”
cried he, and as he spoke he blew the bellows again until all her rags were burnt.
the old woman cried without ceasing, and the smith thought to himself, “i have not quite the right art,” and took her out and threw her into the cooling-tub.
then she screamed so loudly that the smith’s wife upstairs and her daughter-in-law heard, and they both ran downstairs, and saw the old woman lying in a heap in the quenching-tub, howling and screaming, with her face wrinkled and shrivelled and all out of shape.
thereupon the two, who were both with child, were so terrified that that very night two boys were born who were not made like men but apes, and they ran into the woods, and from them sprang the race of apes.
148 the lord’s animals and the devil’s
the lord god had created all animals, and had chosen out the wolf to be his dog, but he had forgotten the goat.
then the devil made ready and began to create also, and created goats with fine long tails.
now when they went to pasture, they generally remained caught in the hedges by their tails, then the devil had to go there and disentangle them, with a great deal of trouble.
this enraged him at last, and he went and bit off the tail of every goat, as may be seen to this day by the stump.
then he let them go to pasture alone, but it came to pass that the lord god perceived how at one time they gnawed away at a fruitful tree, at another injured the noble vines, or destroyed other tender plants.
this distressed him, so that in his goodness and mercy he summoned his wolves, who soon tore in pieces the goats that went there.
when the devil observed this, he went before the lord and said, “thy creatures have destroyed mine.” the lord answered, “why didst thou create things to do harm?” the devil said, “i was compelled to do it: inasmuch as my thoughts run on evil, what i create can have no other nature, and thou must pay me heavy damages.” “i will pay thee as soon as the oak leaves fall; come then, thy money will then be ready counted out.” when the oak-leaves had fallen, the devil came and demanded what was due to him.
but the lord said, “in the church of constantinople stands a tall oak-tree which still has all its leaves.” with raging and curses, the devil departed, and went to seek the oak, wandered in the wilderness for six months before he found it, and when he returned, all the oaks had in the meantime covered themselves again with green leaves.
then he had to forfeit his indemnity, and in his rage he put out the eyes of all the remaining goats, and put his own in instead.
this is why all goats have devil’s eyes, and their tails bitten off, and why he likes to assume their shape.
149 the beam
there was once an enchanter who was standing in the midst of a great crowd of people performing his wonders.
he had a cock brought in, which lifted a heavy beam and carried it as if it were as light as a feather.
but a girl was present who had just found a bit of four-leaved clover, and had thus become so wise that no deception could stand out against her, and she saw that the beam was nothing but a straw.
so she cried, “you people, do you not see that it is a straw that the cock is carrying, and no beam?” immediately the enchantment vanished, and the people saw what it was, and drove the magician away in shame and disgrace.
he, however, full of inward anger, said, “i will soon revenge myself.”
after some time the girl’s wedding-day came, and she was decked out, and went in a great procession over the fields to the place where the church was.
all at once she came to a stream which was very much swollen, and there was no bridge and no plank to cross it.
then the bride nimbly took her clothes up, and wanted to wade through it.
and just as she was thus standing in the water, a man, and it was the enchanter, cried mockingly close beside her, “aha!
where are thine eyes that thou takest that for water?” then her eyes were opened, and she saw that she was standing with her clothes lifted up in the middle of a field that was blue with the flowers of blue flax.
then all the people saw it likewise, and chased her away with ridicule and laughter.
150 the old beggar-woman
there was once an old woman, but thou hast surely seen an old woman go a-begging before now?
this woman begged likewise, and when she got anything she said, “may god reward you.” the beggar-woman came to a door, and there by the fire a friendly rogue of a boy was standing warming himself.
the boy said kindly to the poor old woman as she was standing shivering thus by the door, “come, old mother, and warm yourself.” she came in, but stood too near the fire, so that her old rags began to burn, and she was not aware of it.
the boy stood and saw that, but he ought to have put the flames out.
is it not true that he ought to have put them out?
and if he had not any water, then should he have wept all the water in his body out of his eyes, and that would have supplied two pretty streams with which to extinguish them.
151 the three sluggards
a certain king had three sons who were all equally dear to him, and he did not know which of them to appoint as his successor after his own death.
when the time came when he was about to die, he summoned them to his bedside and said, “dear children, i have been thinking of something which i will declare unto you; whichsoever of you is the laziest shall have the kingdom.” the eldest said, “then, father, the kingdom is mine, for i am so idle that if i lie down to rest, and a drop falls in my eye, i will not open it that i may sleep.” the second said; “father, the kingdom belongs to me, for i am so idle that when i am sitting by the fire warming myself, i would rather let my heel be burnt off than draw back my leg.” the third said, “father, the kingdom is mine, for i am so idle that if i were going to be hanged, and had the rope already round my neck, and any one put a sharp knife into my hand with which i might cut the rope, i would rather let myself be hanged than raise my hand to the rope.” when the father heard that, he said, “thou hast carried it the farthest, and shalt be king.”
151* the twelve idle servants
twelve servants who had done nothing all the day would not exert themselves at night either, but laid themselves on the grass and boasted of their idleness.
the first said, “what is your laziness to me, i have to concern myself about mine own?
the care of my body is my principal work, i eat not a little and drink still more.
when i have had four meals, i fast a short time until i feel hunger again, and that suits me best.
to rise betimes is not for me; when it is getting near mid-day, i already seek out a resting-place for myself.
if the master call, i do exactly as if i had not heard him, and if he call for the second time, i wait awhile before i get up, and go to him very slowly.
in this way life is endurable.”
the second said, “i have a horse to look after, but i leave the bit in his mouth, and if i do not want to do it, i give him no food, and i say he has had it already.
i, however, lay myself in the oat-chest and sleep for four hours.
after this i stretch out one foot and move it a couple of times over the horse’s body, and then he is combed and cleaned.
who is going to make a great business of that?
nevertheless service is too toilsome for me.”
the third said, “why plague oneself with work?
nothing comes of it!
i laid myself in the sun, and fell asleep.
it began to rain a little, but why should i get up?
i let it rain on in god’s name.
at last came a splashing shower, so heavy indeed, that it pulled the hair out of my head and washed it away, and i got a hole in the skull; i put a plaster on it, and then it was all right.
i have already had several injuries of that kind.”
the fourth said, “if i am to undertake a piece of work, i first loiter about for an hour that i may save up my strength.
after that i begin quite slowly, and ask if no one is there who could help me.
then i let him do the chief of the work, and in reality only look on; but that also is still too much for me.”
the fifth said, “what does that matter?
just think, i am to take away the manure from the horse’s stable, and load the cart with it.
i let it go on slowly, and if i have taken anything on the fork, i only half-raise it up, and then i rest just a quarter of an hour until i quite throw it in.
it is enough and to spare if i take out a cartful in the day.
i have no fancy for killing myself with work.”
the sixth said, “shame on ye; i am afraid of no work, but i lie down for three weeks, and never once take my clothes off.
what is the use of buckling your shoes on?
for aught i care they may fall off my feet, it is no matter.
if i am going up some steps, i drag one foot slowly after the other on to the first step, and then i count the rest of them that i may know where i must rest.”
the seventh said, “that will not do with me; my master looks after my work, only he is not at home the whole day.
but i neglect nothing, i run as fast as it is possible to do when one crawls.
if i am to get on, four sturdy men must push me with all their might.
i came where six men were lying sleeping on a bed beside each other.
i lay down by them and slept too.
there was no wakening me again, and when they wanted to have me home, they had to carry me.” the eighth said, “i see plainly that i am the only active fellow; if a stone lie before me, i do not give myself the trouble to raise my legs and step over it.
i lay myself down on the ground, and if i am wet and covered with mud and dirt, i stay lying until the sun has dried me again.
at the very most, i only turn myself so that it can shine on me.” the ninth said, “that is the right way!
to-day the bread was before me, but i was too idle to take it, and nearly died of hunger!
moreover a jug stood by it, but it was so big and heavy that i did not like to lift it up, and preferred bearing thirst.
just to turn myself round was too much for me, i remained lying like a log the whole day.” the tenth said, “laziness has brought misfortune on me, a broken leg and swollen calf.
three of us were lying in the road, and i had my legs stretched out.
some one came with a cart, and the wheels went over me.
i might indeed have drawn my legs back, but i did not hear the cart coming, for the midges were humming about my ears, and creeping in at my nose and out again at my mouth; who can take the trouble to drive the vermin away?”
the eleventh said, “i gave up my place yesterday.
i had no fancy for carrying the heavy books to my master any longer or fetching them away again.
there was no end of it all day long.
but to tell the truth, he gave me my dismissal, and would not keep me any longer, for his clothes, which i had left lying in the dust, were all moth-eaten, and i am very glad of it.”
the twelfth said, “to-day i had to drive the cart into the country, and made myself a bed of straw on it, and had a good sleep.
the reins slipped out of my hand, and when i awoke, the horse had nearly torn itself loose, the harness was gone, the strap which fastened the horse to the shafts was gone, and so were the collar, the bridle and bit.
some one had come by, who had carried all off.
besides this, the cart had got into a quagmire and stuck fast.
i left it standing, and stretched myself on the straw again.
at last the master came himself, and pushed the cart out, and if he had not come i should not be lying here but there, and sleeping in full tranquillity.”
152 the shepherd boy
there was once on a time a shepherd boy whose fame spread far and wide because of the wise answers which he gave to every question.
the king of the country heard of it likewise, but did not believe it, and sent for the boy.
then he said to him, “if thou canst give me an answer to three questions which i will ask thee, i will look on thee as my own child, and thou shalt dwell with me in my royal palace.” the boy said, “what are the three questions?” the king said, “the first is, how many drops of water are there in the ocean?” the shepherd boy answered, “lord king, if you will have all the rivers on earth dammed up so that not a single drop runs from them into the sea until i have counted it, i will tell you how many drops there are in the sea.” the king said, “the next question is, how many stars are there in the sky?” the shepherd boy said, “give me a great sheet of white paper,” and then he made so many fine points on it with a pen that they could scarcely be seen, and it was all but impossible to count them; any one who looked at them would have lost his sight.
then he said, “there are as many stars in the sky as there are points on the paper; just count them.”
but no one was able to do it.
the king said, “the third question is, how many seconds of time are there in eternity.” then said the shepherd boy, “in lower pomerania is the diamond mountain, which is two miles and a half high, two miles and a half wide, and two miles and a half in depth; every hundred years a little bird comes and sharpens its beak on it, and when the whole mountain is worn away by this, then the first second of eternity will be over.”
the king said, “thou hast answered the three questions like a wise man, and shalt henceforth dwell with me in my royal palace, and i will regard thee as my own child.”
153 the star-money
there was once on a time a little girl whose father and mother were dead, and she was so poor that she no longer had any little room to live in, or bed to sleep in, and at last she had nothing else but the clothes she was wearing and a little bit of bread in her hand which some charitable soul had given her.
she was, however, good and pious.
and as she was thus forsaken by all the world, she went forth into the open country, trusting in the good god.
then a poor man met her, who said, “ah, give me something to eat, i am so hungry!” she reached him the whole of her piece of bread, and said, “may god bless it to thy use,” and went onwards.
then came a child who moaned and said, “my head is so cold, give me something to cover it with.” so she took off her hood and gave it to him; and when she had walked a little farther, she met another child who had no jacket and was frozen with cold.
then she gave it her own; and a little farther on one begged for a frock, and she gave away that also.
at length she got into a forest and it had already become dark, and there came yet another child, and asked for a little shirt, and the good little girl thought to herself, “it is a dark night and no one sees thee, thou canst very well give thy little shirt away,” and took it off, and gave away that also.
and as she so stood, and had not one single thing left, suddenly some stars from heaven fell down, and they were nothing else but hard smooth pieces of money, and although she had just given her little shirt away, she had a new one which was of the very finest linen.
then she gathered together the money into this, and was rich all the days of her life.
154 the stolen farthings
a father was one day sitting at dinner with his wife and his children, and a good friend who had come on a visit was with them.
and as they thus sat, and it was striking twelve o’clock, the stranger saw the door open, and a very pale child dressed in snow-white clothes came in.
it did not look around, and it did not speak; but went straight into the next room.
soon afterwards it came back, and went out at the door again in the same quiet manner.
on the second and on the third day, it came also exactly in the same way.
at last the stranger asked the father to whom the beautiful child that went into the next room every day at noon belonged?
“i have never seen it,” said he, neither did he know to whom it could belong.
the next day when it again came, the stranger pointed it out to the father, who however did not see it, and the mother and the children also all saw nothing.
on this the stranger got up, went to the room door, opened it a little, and peeped in.
then he saw the child sitting on the ground, and digging and seeking about industriously amongst the crevices between the boards of the floor, but when it saw the stranger, it disappeared.
he now told what he had seen and described the child exactly, and the mother recognized it, and said, “ah, it is my dear child who died a month ago.” they took up the boards and found two farthings which the child had once received from its mother that it might give them to a poor man; it, however, had thought, “thou canst buy thyself a biscuit for that,” and had kept the farthings, and hidden them in the openings between the boards; and therefore it had had no rest in its grave, and had come every day at noon to seek for these farthings.
the parents gave the money at once to a poor man, and after that the child was never seen again.
155 brides on their trial
there was once a young shepherd who wished much to marry, and was acquainted with three sisters who were all equally pretty, so that it was difficult to him to make a choice, and he could not decide to give the preference to any one of them.
then he asked his mother for advice, and she said, “invite all three, and set some cheese before them, and watch how they eat it.” the youth did so; the first, however, swallowed the cheese with the rind on; the second hastily cut the rind off the cheese, but she cut it so quickly that she left much good cheese with it, and threw that away also; the third peeled the rind off carefully, and cut neither too much nor too little.
the shepherd told all this to his mother, who said, “take the third for thy wife.” this he did, and lived contentedly and happily with her.
156 odds and ends
there was once on a time a maiden who was pretty, but idle and negligent.
when she had to spin she was so out of temper that if there was a little knot in the flax, she at once pulled out a whole heap of it, and strewed it about on the ground beside her.
now she had a servant who was industrious, and gathered together the bits of flax which were thrown away, cleaned them, span them fine, and had a beautiful gown made out of them for herself.
a young man had wooed the lazy girl, and the wedding was to take place.
on the eve of the wedding, the industrious one was dancing merrily about in her pretty dress, and the bride said,—
“ah, how that girl does jump about, dressed in my odds and ends.”
the bridegroom heard that, and asked the bride what she meant by it?
then she told him that the girl was wearing a dress make of the flax which she had thrown away.
when the bridegroom heard that, and saw how idle she was, and how industrious the poor girl was, he gave her up and went to the other, and chose her as his wife.
157 the sparrow and his four children
a sparrow had four young ones in a swallow’s nest.
when they were fledged, some naughty boys pulled out the nest, but fortunately all the birds got safely away in the high wind.
then the old bird was grieved that as his sons had all gone out into the world, he had not first warned them of every kind of danger, and given them good instruction how to deal with each.
in the autumn a great many sparrows assembled together in a wheatfield, and there the old bird met his four children again, and full of joy took them home with him.
“ah, my dear sons, what pain i have been in about you all through the summer, because you got away in the wind without my teaching; listen to my words, obey your father, and be well on your guard.
little birds have to encounter great dangers!” and then he asked the eldest where he had spent the summer, and how he had supported himself?
“i stayed in the gardens, and looked for caterpillars and small worms, until the cherries got ripe.” “ah, my son,” said the father, “tit-bits are not bad, but there is great risk about them; on that account take great care of thyself henceforth, and particularly when people are going about the gardens who carry long green poles which are hollow inside and have a little hole at the top.”
“yes, father, but what if a little green leaf is stuck over the hole with wax?” said the son.
“where hast thou seen that?” “in a merchant’s garden,” said the youngster.
“oh, my son, merchant folks are quick folks,” said the father.
“if thou hast been among the children of the world, thou hast learned worldly shiftiness enough, only see that thou usest it well, and do not be too confident.” after this he asked the next, “where hast thou passed thy time?” “at court,” said the son.
“sparrows and silly little birds are of no use in that place—there one finds much gold, velvet, silk, armour, harnesses, sparrow-hawks, screech-owls and hen-harriers; keep to the horses’ stable where they winnow oats, or thresh, and then fortune may give thee thy daily grain of corn in peace.” “yes, father,” said the son, “but when the stable-boys make traps and fix their gins and snares in the straw, many a one is caught fast.” “where hast thou seen that?” said the old bird.
“at court, among the stable-boys.” “oh, my son, court boys are bad boys!
if thou hast been to court and among the lords, and hast left no feathers there, thou hast learnt a fair amount, and wilt know very well how to go about the world, but look around thee and above thee, for the wolves devour the wisest dogs.” the father examined the third also:
“where didst thou seek thy safety?” “i have broken up tubs and ropes on the cart-roads and highways, and sometimes met with a grain of corn or barley.” “that is indeed dainty fare,” said the father, “but take care what thou art about and look carefully around, especially when thou seest any one stooping and about to pick up a stone, there is not much time to stay then.” “that is true,” said the son, “but what if any one should carry a bit of rock, or ore, ready beforehand in his breast or pocket?” “where hast thou seen that?” “among the mountaineers, dear father; when they go out, they generally take little bits of ore with them.” “mountain folks are working folks, and clever folks.
if thou hast been among mountain lads, thou hast seen and learnt something, but when thou goest thither beware, for many a sparrow has been brought to a bad end by a mountain boy.” at length the father came to the youngest son: “thou, my dear chirping nestling, wert always the silliest and weakest; stay with me, the world has many rough, wicked birds which have crooked beaks and long claws, and lie in wait for poor little birds and swallow them.
keep with those of thine own kind, and pick up little spiders and caterpillars from the trees, or the house, and then thou wilt live long in peace.” “my dear father, he who feeds himself without injury to other people fares well, and no sparrow-hawk, eagle, or kite will hurt him if he specially commits himself and his lawful food, evening and morning, faithfully to god, who is the creator and preserver of all forest and village birds, who likewise heareth the cry and prayer of the young ravens, for no sparrow or wren ever falls to the ground except by his will.” “where hast thou learnt this?” the son answered, “when the great blast of wind tore me away from thee i came to a church, and there during the summer i have picked up the flies and spiders from the windows, and heard this discourse preached.
the father of all sparrows fed me all the summer through, and kept me from all mischance and from ferocious birds.”
“in sooth, my dear son, if thou takest refuge in the churches and helpest to clear away spiders and buzzing flies, and criest unto god like the young ravens, and commendest thyself to the eternal creator, all will be well with thee, and that even if the whole world were full of wild malicious birds.”
“he who to god commits his ways, in silence suffers, waits, and prays, preserves his faith and conscience pure, he is of god’s protection sure.”
158 the story of schlauraffen land
in the time of schlauraffen i went there, and saw rome and the lateran hanging by a small silken thread, and a man without feet who outran a swift horse, and a keen sharp sword that cut through a bridge.
there i saw a young ass with a silver nose which pursued two fleet hares, and a lime-tree that was very large, on which hot cakes were growing.
there i saw a lean old goat which carried about a hundred cart-loads of fat on his body, and sixty loads of salt.
have i not told enough lies?
there i saw a plough ploughing without horse or cow, and a child of one year threw four millstones from ratisbon to treves, and from treves to strasburg, and a hawk swam over the rhine, which he had a perfect right to do.
there i heard some fishes begin to make such a disturbance with each other, that it resounded as far as heaven, and sweet honey flowed like water from a deep valley at the top of a high mountain, and these were strange things.
there were two crows which were mowing a meadow, and i saw two gnats building a bridge, and two doves tore a wolf to pieces; two children brought forth two kids, and two frogs threshed corn together.
there i saw two mice consecrating a bishop, and two cats scratching out a bear’s tongue.
then a snail came running up and killed two furious lions.
there stood a barber and shaved a woman’s beard off; and two sucking-children bade their mother hold her tongue.
there i saw two greyhounds which brought a mill out of the water; and a sorry old horse was beside it, and said it was right.
and four horses were standing in the yard threshing corn with all their might, and two goats were heating the stove, and a red cow shot the bread into the oven.
then a cock crowed, cock-a-doodle-doo!
the story is all told,—cock-a-doodle-doo!
159 the ditmarsch tale of wonders
i will tell you something.
i saw two roasted fowls flying; they flew quickly and had their breasts turned to heaven and their backs to hell, and an anvil and a mill-stone swam across the rhine prettily, slowly, and gently, and a frog sat on the ice at whitsuntide and ate a ploughshare.
three fellows who wanted to catch a hare, went on crutches and stilts; one of them was deaf, the second blind, the third dumb, and the fourth could not stir a step.
do you want to know how it was done?
first, the blind man saw the hare running across the field, the dumb one called to the lame one, and the lame one seized it by the neck.
there were certain men who wished to sail on dry land, and they set their sails in the wind, and sailed away over great fields.
then they sailed over a high mountain, and there they were miserably drowned.
a crab was chasing a hare which was running away at full speed, and high up on the roof lay a cow which had climbed up there.
in that country the flies are as big as the goats are here.
open the window, that the lies may fly out.
160 a riddling tale
three women were changed into flowers which grew in the field, but one of them was allowed to be in her own home at night.
then once when day was drawing near, and she was forced to go back to her companions in the field and become a flower again, she said to her husband, “if thou wilt come this afternoon and gather me, i shall be set free and henceforth stay with thee.” and he did so.
now the question is, how did her husband know her, for the flowers were exactly alike, and without any difference?
answer: as she was at her home during the night and not in the field, no dew fell on her as it did on the others, and by this her husband knew her.
161 snow-white and rose-red
there was once a poor widow who lived in a lonely cottage.
in front of the cottage was a garden wherein stood two rose-trees, one of which bore white and the other red roses.
she had two children who were like the two rose-trees, and one was called snow-white, and the other rose-red.
they were as good and happy, as busy and cheerful as ever two children in the world were, only snow-white was more quiet and gentle than rose-red.
rose-red liked better to run about in the meadows and fields seeking flowers and catching butterflies; but snow-white sat at home with her mother, and helped her with her house-work, or read to her when there was nothing to do.
the two children were so fond of each another that they always held each other by the hand when they went out together, and when snow-white said, “we will not leave each other,” rose-red answered, “never so long as we live,” and their mother would add, “what one has she must share with the other.”
they often ran about the forest alone and gathered red berries, and no beasts did them any harm, but came close to them trustfully.
the little hare would eat a cabbage-leaf out of their hands, the roe grazed by their side, the stag leapt merrily by them, and the birds sat still upon the boughs, and sang whatever they knew.
no mishap overtook them; if they had stayed too late in the forest, and night came on, they laid themselves down near one another upon the moss, and slept until morning came, and their mother knew this and had no distress on their account.
once when they had spent the night in the wood and the dawn had roused them, they saw a beautiful child in a shining white dress sitting near their bed.
he got up and looked quite kindly at them, but said nothing and went away into the forest.
and when they looked round they found that they had been sleeping quite close to a precipice, and would certainly have fallen into it in the darkness if they had gone only a few paces further.
and their mother told them that it must have been the angel who watches over good children.
snow-white and rose-red kept their mother’s little cottage so neat that it was a pleasure to look inside it.
in the summer rose-red took care of the house, and every morning laid a wreath of flowers by her mother’s bed before she awoke, in which was a rose from each tree.
in the winter snow-white lit the fire and hung the kettle on the wrekin.
the kettle was of copper and shone like gold, so brightly was it polished.
in the evening, when the snowflakes fell, the mother said, “go, snow-white, and bolt the door,” and then they sat round the hearth, and the mother took her spectacles and read aloud out of a large book, and the two girls listened as they sat and span.
and close by them lay a lamb upon the floor, and behind them upon a perch sat a white dove with its head hidden beneath its wings.
one evening, as they were thus sitting comfortably together, some one knocked at the door as if he wished to be let in.
the mother said, “quick, rose-red, open the door, it must be a traveller who is seeking shelter.” rose-red went and pushed back the bolt, thinking that it was a poor man, but it was not; it was a bear that stretched his broad, black head within the door.
rose-red screamed and sprang back, the lamb bleated, the dove fluttered, and snow-white hid herself behind her mother’s bed.
but the bear began to speak and said, “do not be afraid, i will do you no harm!
i am half-frozen, and only want to warm myself a little beside you.”
“poor bear,” said the mother, “lie down by the fire, only take care that you do not burn your coat.” then she cried, “snow-white, rose-red, come out, the bear will do you no harm, he means well.” so they both came out, and by-and-by the lamb and dove came nearer, and were not afraid of him.
the bear said, “here, children, knock the snow out of my coat a little;” so they brought the broom and swept the bear’s hide clean; and he stretched himself by the fire and growled contentedly and comfortably.
it was not long before they grew quite at home, and played tricks with their clumsy guest.
they tugged his hair with their hands, put their feet upon his back and rolled him about, or they took a hazel-switch and beat him, and when he growled they laughed.
but the bear took it all in good part, only when they were too rough he called out, “leave me alive, children,
“snowy-white, rosy-red, will you beat your lover dead?”
when it was bed-time, and the others went to bed, the mother said to the bear, “you can lie there by the hearth, and then you will be safe from the cold and the bad weather.” as soon as day dawned the two children let him out, and he trotted across the snow into the forest.
henceforth the bear came every evening at the same time, laid himself down by the hearth, and let the children amuse themselves with him as much as they liked; and they got so used to him that the doors were never fastened until their black friend had arrived.
when spring had come and all outside was green, the bear said one morning to snow-white, “now i must go away, and cannot come back for the whole summer.” “where are you going, then, dear bear?” asked snow-white.
“i must go into the forest and guard my treasures from the wicked dwarfs.
in the winter, when the earth is frozen hard, they are obliged to stay below and cannot work their way through; but now, when the sun has thawed and warmed the earth, they break through it, and come out to pry and steal; and what once gets into their hands, and in their caves, does not easily see daylight again.”
snow-white was quite sorry for his going away, and as she unbolted the door for him, and the bear was hurrying out, he caught against the bolt and a piece of his hairy coat was torn off, and it seemed to snow-white as if she had seen gold shining through it, but she was not sure about it.
the bear ran away quickly, and was soon out of sight behind the trees.
a short time afterwards the mother sent her children into the forest to get fire-wood.
there they found a big tree which lay felled on the ground, and close by the trunk something was jumping backwards and forwards in the grass, but they could not make out what it was.
when they came nearer they saw a dwarf with an old withered face and a snow-white beard a yard long.
the end of the beard was caught in a crevice of the tree, and the little fellow was jumping backwards and forwards like a dog tied to a rope, and did not know what to do.
he glared at the girls with his fiery red eyes and cried, “why do you stand there?
can you not come here and help me?” “what are you about there, little man?” asked rose-red.
“you stupid, prying goose!”
answered the dwarf; “i was going to split the tree to get a little wood for cooking.
the little bit of food that one of us wants gets burnt up directly with thick logs; we do not swallow so much as you coarse, greedy folk.
i had just driven the wedge safely in, and everything was going as i wished; but the wretched wood was too smooth and suddenly sprang asunder, and the tree closed so quickly that i could not pull out my beautiful white beard; so now it is tight in and i cannot get away, and the silly, sleek, milk-faced things laugh!
ugh!
how odious you are!”
the children tried very hard, but they could not pull the beard out, it was caught too fast.
“i will run and fetch some one,” said rose-red.
“you senseless goose!” snarled the dwarf; “why should you fetch some one?
you are already two too many for me; can you not think of something better?” “don’t be impatient,” said snow-white, “i will help you,” and she pulled her scissors out of her pocket, and cut off the end of the beard.
as soon as the dwarf felt himself free he laid hold of a bag which lay amongst the roots of the tree, and which was full of gold, and lifted it up, grumbling to himself, “uncouth people, to cut off a piece of my fine beard.
bad luck to you!” and then he swung the bag upon his back, and went off without even once looking at the children.
some time after that snow-white and rose-red went to catch a dish of fish.
as they came near the brook they saw something like a large grasshopper jumping towards the water, as if it were going to leap in.
they ran to it and found it was the dwarf.
“where are you going?” said rose-red; “you surely don’t want to go into the water?” “i am not such a fool!” cried the dwarf; “don’t you see that the accursed fish wants to pull me in?” the little man had been sitting there fishing, and unluckily the wind had twisted his beard with the fishing-line; just then a big fish bit, and the feeble creature had not strength to pull it out; the fish kept the upper hand and pulled the dwarf towards him.
he held on to all the reeds and rushes, but it was of little good, he was forced to follow the movements of the fish, and was in urgent danger of being dragged into the water.
the girls came just in time; they held him fast and tried to free his beard from the line, but all in vain, beard and line were entangled fast together.
nothing was left but to bring out the scissors and cut the beard, whereby a small part of it was lost.
when the dwarf saw that he screamed out, “is that civil, you toad-stool, to disfigure one’s face?
was it not enough to clip off the end of my beard?
now you have cut off the best part of it.
i cannot let myself be seen by my people.
i wish you had been made to run the soles off your shoes!” then he took out a sack of pearls which lay in the rushes, and without saying a word more he dragged it away and disappeared behind a stone.
it happened that soon afterwards the mother sent the two children to the town to buy needles and thread, and laces and ribbons.
the road led them across a heath upon which huge pieces of rock lay strewn here and there.
now they noticed a large bird hovering in the air, flying slowly round and round above them; it sank lower and lower, and at last settled near a rock not far off.
directly afterwards they heard a loud, piteous cry.
they ran up and saw with horror that the eagle had seized their old acquaintance the dwarf, and was going to carry him off.
the children, full of pity, at once took tight hold of the little man, and pulled against the eagle so long that at last he let his booty go.
as soon as the dwarf had recovered from his first fright he cried with his shrill voice, “could you not have done it more carefully!
you dragged at my brown coat so that it is all torn and full of holes, you helpless clumsy creatures!” then he took up a sack full of precious stones, and slipped away again under the rock into his hole.
the girls, who by this time were used to his thanklessness, went on their way and did their business in the town.
as they crossed the heath again on their way home they surprised the dwarf, who had emptied out his bag of precious stones in a clean spot, and had not thought that anyone would come there so late.
the evening sun shone upon the brilliant stones; they glittered and sparkled with all colors so beautifully that the children stood still and looked at them.
“why do you stand gaping there?” cried the dwarf, and his ashen-gray face became copper-red with rage.
he was going on with his bad words when a loud growling was heard, and a black bear came trotting towards them out of the forest.
the dwarf sprang up in a fright, but he could not get to his cave, for the bear was already close.
then in the dread of his heart he cried, “dear mr. bear, spare me, i will give you all my treasures; look, the beautiful jewels lying there!
grant me my life; what do you want with such a slender little fellow as i?
you would not feel me between your teeth.
come, take these two wicked girls, they are tender morsels for you, fat as young quails; for mercy’s sake eat them!” the bear took no heed of his words, but gave the wicked creature a single blow with his paw, and he did not move again.
the girls had run away, but the bear called to them, “snow-white and rose-red, do not be afraid; wait, i will come with you.” then they knew his voice and waited, and when he came up to them suddenly his bearskin fell off, and he stood there, a handsome man, clothed all in gold.
“i am a king’s son,” he said, “and i was bewitched by that wicked dwarf, who had stolen my treasures; i have had to run about the forest as a savage bear until i was freed by his death.
now he has got his well-deserved punishment.”
snow-white was married to him, and rose-red to his brother, and they divided between them the great treasure which the dwarf had gathered together in his cave.
the old mother lived peacefully and happily with her children for many years.
she took the two rose-trees with her, and they stood before her window, and every year bore the most beautiful roses, white and red.
162 the wise servant
how fortunate is the master, and how well all goes in his house, when he has a wise servant who listens to his orders and does not obey them, but prefers following his own wisdom.
a clever john of this kind was once sent out by his master to seek a lost cow.
he stayed away a long time, and the master thought, “faithful john does not spare any pains over his work!” as, however, he did not come back at all, the master was afraid lest some misfortune had befallen him, and set out himself to look for him.
he had to search a long time, but at last he perceived the boy who was running up and down a large field.
“now, dear john,”
said the master when he had got up to him, “hast thou found the cow which i sent thee to seek?” “no, master,” he answered, “i have not found the cow, but then i have not looked for it.” “then what hast thou looked for, john?” “something better, and that luckily i have found.”
“what is that, john?” “three blackbirds,” answered the boy.
“and where are they?” asked the master.
“i see one of them, i hear the other, and i am running after the third,” answered the wise boy.
take example by this, do not trouble yourselves about your masters or their orders, but rather do what comes into your head and pleases you, and then you will act just as wisely as prudent john.
163 the glass coffin
let no one ever say that a poor tailor cannot do great things and win high honors; all that is needed is that he should go to the right smithy, and what is of most consequence, that he should have good luck.
a civil, adroit tailor’s apprentice once went out travelling, and came into a great forest, and, as he did not know the way, he lost himself.
night fell, and nothing was left for him to do, but to seek a bed in this painful solitude.
he might certainly have found a good bed on the soft moss, but the fear of wild beasts let him have no rest there, and at last he was forced to make up his mind to spend the night in a tree.
he sought out a high oak, climbed up to the top of it, and thanked god that he had his goose with him, for otherwise the wind which blew over the top of the tree would have carried him away.
after he had spent some hours in the darkness, not without fear and trembling, he saw at a very short distance the glimmer of a light, and as he thought that a human habitation might be there, where he would be better off than on the branches of a tree, he got carefully down and went towards the light.
it guided him to a small hut that was woven together of reeds and rushes.
he knocked boldly, the door opened, and by the light which came forth he saw a little hoary old man who wore a coat made of bits of colored stuff sewn together.
“who are you, and what do you want?” asked the man in a grumbling voice.
“i am a poor tailor,” he answered, “whom night has surprised here in the wilderness, and i earnestly beg you to take me into your hut until morning.” “go your way,” replied the old man in a surly voice, “i will have nothing to do with runagates; seek for yourself a shelter elsewhere.” after these words he was about to slip into his hut again, but the tailor held him so tightly by the corner of his coat, and pleaded so piteously, that the old man, who was not so ill-natured as he wished to appear, was at last softened, and took him into the hut with him where he gave him something to eat, and then pointed out to him a very good bed in a corner.
the weary tailor needed no rocking; but slept sweetly till morning, but even then would not have thought of getting up, if he had not been aroused by a great noise.
a violent sound of screaming and roaring forced its way through the thin walls of the hut.
the tailor, full of unwonted courage, jumped up, put his clothes on in haste, and hurried out.
then close by the hut, he saw a great black bull and a beautiful stag, which were just preparing for a violent struggle.
they rushed at each other with such extreme rage that the ground shook with their trampling, and the air resounded with their cries.
for a long time it was uncertain which of the two would gain the victory; at length the stag thrust his horns into his adversary’s body, whereupon the bull fell to the earth with a terrific roar, and was thoroughly despatched by a few strokes from the stag.
the tailor, who had watched the fight with astonishment, was still standing there motionless, when the stag in full career bounded up to him, and before he could escape, caught him up on his great horns.
he had not much time to collect his thoughts, for it went in a swift race over stock and stone, mountain and valley, wood and meadow.
he held with both hands to the tops of the horns, and resigned himself to his fate.
it seemed, however, to him just as if he were flying away.
at length the stag stopped in front of a wall of rock, and gently let the tailor down.
the tailor, more dead than alive, required a longer time than that to come to himself.
when he had in some degree recovered, the stag, which had remained standing by him, pushed its horns with such force against a door which was in the rock, that it sprang open.
flames of fire shot forth, after which followed a great smoke, which hid the stag from his sight.
the tailor did not know what to do, or whither to turn, in order to get out of this desert and back to human beings again.
whilst he was standing thus undecided, a voice sounded out of the rock, which cried to him, “enter without fear, no evil shall befall you thee.” he hesitated, but driven by a mysterious force, he obeyed the voice and went through the iron-door into a large spacious hall, whose ceiling, walls and floor were made of shining polished square stones, on each of which were cut letters which were unknown to him.
he looked at everything full of admiration, and was on the point of going out again, when he once more heard the voice which said to him, “step on the stone which lies in the middle of the hall, and great good fortune awaits thee.”
his courage had already grown so great that he obeyed the order.
the stone began to give way under his feet, and sank slowly down into the depths.
when it was once more firm, and the tailor looked round, he found himself in a hall which in size resembled the former.
here, however, there was more to look at and to admire.
hollow places were cut in the walls, in which stood vases of transparent glass which were filled with colored spirit or with a bluish vapour.
on the floor of the hall two great glass chests stood opposite to each other, which at once excited his curiosity.
when he went to one of them he saw inside it a handsome structure like a castle surrounded by farm-buildings, stables and barns, and a quantity of other good things.
everything was small, but exceedingly carefully and delicately made, and seemed to be cut out by a dexterous hand with the greatest exactitude.
he might not have turned away his eyes from the consideration of this rarity for some time, if the voice had not once more made itself heard.
it ordered him to turn round and look at the glass chest which was standing opposite.
how his admiration increased when he saw therein a maiden of the greatest beauty!
she lay as if asleep, and was wrapped in her long fair hair as in a precious mantle.
her eyes were closely shut, but the brightness of her complexion and a ribbon which her breathing moved to and fro, left no doubt that she was alive.
the tailor was looking at the beauty with beating heart, when she suddenly opened her eyes, and started up at the sight of him in joyful terror.
“just heaven!” cried she, “my deliverance is at hand!
quick, quick, help me out of my prison; if thou pushest back the bolt of this glass coffin, then i shall be free.” the tailor obeyed without delay, and she immediately raised up the glass lid, came out and hastened into the corner of the hall, where she covered herself with a large cloak.
then she seated herself on a stone, ordered the young man to come to her, and after she had imprinted a friendly kiss on his lips, she said, “my long-desired deliverer, kind heaven has guided thee to me, and put an end to my sorrows.
on the self-same day when they end, shall thy happiness begin.
thou art the husband chosen for me by heaven, and shalt pass thy life in unbroken joy, loved by me, and rich to overflowing in every earthly possession.
seat thyself, and listen to the story of my life:
“i am the daughter of a rich count.
my parents died when i was still in my tender youth, and recommended me in their last will to my elder brother, by whom i was brought up.
we loved each other so tenderly, and were so alike in our way of thinking and our inclinations, that we both embraced the resolution never to marry, but to stay together to the end of our lives.
in our house there was no lack of company; neighbors and friends visited us often, and we showed the greatest hospitality to every one.
so it came to pass one evening that a stranger came riding to our castle, and, under pretext of not being able to get on to the next place, begged for shelter for the night.
we granted his request with ready courtesy, and he entertained us in the most agreeable manner during supper by conversation intermingled with stories.
my brother liked the stranger so much that he begged him to spend a couple of days with us, to which, after some hesitation, he consented.
we did not rise from table until late in the night, the stranger was shown to room, and i hastened, as i was tired, to lay my limbs in my soft bed.
hardly had i slept for a short time, when the sound of faint and delightful music awoke me.
as i could not conceive from whence it came, i wanted to summon my waiting-maid who slept in the next room, but to my astonishment i found that speech was taken away from me by an unknown force.
i felt as if a mountain were weighing down my breast, and was unable to make the very slightest sound.
in the meantime, by the light of my night-lamp, i saw the stranger enter my room through two doors which were fast bolted.
he came to me and said, that by magic arts which were at his command, he had caused the lovely music to sound in order to awaken me, and that he now forced his way through all fastenings with the intention of offering me his hand and heart.
my repugnance to his magic arts was, however, so great, that i vouchsafed him no answer.
he remained for a time standing without moving, apparently with the idea of waiting for a favorable decision, but as i continued to keep silence, he angrily declared he would revenge himself and find means to punish my pride, and left the room.
i passed the night in the greatest disquietude, and only fell asleep towards morning.
when i awoke, i hurried to my brother, but did not find him in his room, and the attendants told me that he had ridden forth with the stranger to the chase by daybreak.
“i at once suspected nothing good.
i dressed myself quickly, ordered my palfrey to be saddled, and accompanied only by one servant, rode full gallop to the forest.
the servant fell with his horse, and could not follow me, for the horse had broken its foot.
i pursued my way without halting, and in a few minutes i saw the stranger coming towards me with a beautiful stag which he led by a cord.
i asked him where he had left my brother, and how he had come by this stag, out of whose great eyes i saw tears flowing.
instead of answering me, he began to laugh loudly.
i fell into a great rage at this, pulled out a pistol and discharged it at the monster; but the ball rebounded from his breast and went into my horse’s head.
i fell to the ground, and the stranger muttered some words which deprived me of consciousness.
“when i came to my senses again i found myself in this underground cave in a glass coffin.
the magician appeared once again, and said he had changed my brother into a stag, my castle with all that belonged to it, diminished in size by his arts, he had shut up in the other glass chest, and my people, who were all turned into smoke, he had confined in glass bottles.
he told me that if i would now comply with his wish, it was an easy thing for him to put everything back in its former state, as he had nothing to do but open the vessels, and everything would return once more to its natural form.
i answered him as little as i had done the first time.
he vanished and left me in my prison, in which a deep sleep came on me.
amongst the visions which passed before my eyes, that was the most comforting in which a young man came and set me free, and when i opened my eyes to-day i saw thee, and beheld my dream fulfilled.
help me to accomplish the other things which happened in those visions.
the first is that we lift the glass chest in which my castle is enclosed, on to that broad stone.”
as soon as the stone was laden, it began to rise up on high with the maiden and the young man, and mounted through the opening of the ceiling into the upper hall, from whence they then could easily reach the open air.
here the maiden opened the lid, and it was marvellous to behold how the castle, the houses, and the farm buildings which were enclosed, stretched themselves out and grew to their natural size with the greatest rapidity.
after this, the maiden and the tailor returned to the cave beneath the earth, and had the vessels which were filled with smoke carried up by the stone.
the maiden had scarcely opened the bottles when the blue smoke rushed out and changed itself into living men, in whom she recognized her servants and her people.
her joy was still more increased when her brother, who had killed the magician in the form of the bull, came out of the forest towards them in his human form, and on the self-same day the maiden, in accordance with her promise, gave her hand at the altar to the lucky tailor.
164 lazy harry
harry was lazy, and although he had nothing else to do but drive his goat daily to pasture, he nevertheless groaned when he went home after his day’s work was done.
“it is indeed a heavy burden,” said he, “and a wearisome employment to drive a goat into the field this way year after year, till late into the autumn!
if one could but lie down and sleep, but no, one must have one’s eyes open lest it hurts the young trees, or squeezes itself through the hedge into a garden, or runs away altogether.
how can one have any rest, or peace of one’s life?” he seated himself, collected his thoughts, and considered how he could set his shoulders free from this burden.
for a long time all thinking was to no purpose, but suddenly it was as if scales fell from his eyes.
“i know what i will do,” he cried, “i will marry fat trina who has also a goat, and can take mine out with hers, and then i shall have no more need to trouble myself.”
so harry got up, set his weary legs in motion, and went right across the street, for it was no farther, to where the parents of fat trina lived, and asked for their industrious and virtuous daughter in marriage.
the parents did not reflect long.
“birds of a feather, flock together,” they thought, and consented.
so fat trina became harry’s wife, and led out both the goats.
harry had a good time of it, and had no work that he required to rest from but his own idleness.
he only went out with her now and then, and said, “i merely do it that i may afterwards enjoy rest more, otherwise one loses all feeling for it.”
but fat trina was no less idle.
“dear harry,” said she one day, “why should we make our lives so toilsome when there is no need for it, and thus ruin the best days of our youth?
would it not be better for us to give the two goats which disturb us every morning in our sweetest sleep with their bleating, to our neighbor, and he will give us a beehive for them.
we will put the beehive in a sunny place behind the house, and trouble ourselves no more about it.
bees do not require to be taken care of, or driven into the field; they fly out and find the way home again for themselves, and collect honey without giving the very least trouble.” “thou hast spoken like a sensible woman,” replied harry.
“we will carry out thy proposal without delay, and besides all that, honey tastes better and nourishes one better than goat’s milk, and it can be kept longer too.”
the neighbor willingly gave a beehive for the two goats.
the bees flew in and out from early morning till late evening without ever tiring, and filled the hive with the most beautiful honey, so that in autumn harry was able to take a whole pitcherful out of it.
they placed the jug on a board which was fixed to the wall of their bed-room, and as they were afraid that it might be stolen from them, or that the mice might find it, trina brought in a stout hazel-stick and put it beside her bed, so that without unnecessary getting up she might reach it with her hand, and drive away the uninvited guests.
lazy harry did not like to leave his bed before noon.
“he who rises early,” said he, “wastes his substance.”
one morning when he was still lying amongst the feathers in broad daylight, resting after his long sleep, he said to his wife, “women are fond of sweet things, and thou art always tasting the honey in private; it will be better for us to exchange it for a goose with a young gosling, before thou eatest up the whole of it.” “but,” answered trina, “not before we have a child to take care of them!
am i to worry myself with the little geese, and spend all my strength on them to no purpose.” “dost thou think,” said harry, “that the youngster will look after geese?
now-a-days children no longer obey, they do according to their own fancy, because they consider themselves cleverer than their parents, just like that lad who was sent to seek the cow and chased three blackbirds.” “oh,” replied trina, “this one shall fare badly if he does not do what i say!
i will take a stick and belabour his skin for him with more blows than i can count.
look, harry,” cried she in her zeal, and seized the stick which she had to drive the mice away with, “look, this is the way i will fall on him!” she reached her arm out to strike, but unhappily hit the honey-pitcher above the bed.
the pitcher struck against the wall and fell down in fragments, and the fine honey streamed down on the ground.
“there lie the goose and the young gosling,” said harry, “and want no looking after.
but it is lucky that the pitcher did not fall on my head.
we have all reason to be satisfied with our lot.” and then as he saw that there was still some honey in one of the fragments he stretched out his hand for it, and said quite gaily, “the remains, my wife, we will still eat with a relish, and we will rest a little after the fright we have had.
what matters if we do get up a little later the day is always long enough.”
“yes,” answered trina, “we shall always get to the end of it at the proper time.
dost thou know that the snail was once asked to a wedding and set out to go, but arrived at the christening.
in front of the house it fell over the fence, and said, ‘speed does no good.’”
165 the griffin
there was once upon a time a king, but where he reigned and what he was called, i do not know.
he had no son, but an only daughter who had always been ill, and no doctor had been able to cure her.
then it was foretold to the king that his daughter should eat herself well with an apple.
so he ordered it to be proclaimed throughout the whole of his kingdom, that whosoever brought his daughter an apple with which she could eat herself well, should have her to wife, and be king.
this became known to a peasant who had three sons, and he said to the eldest, “go out into the garden and take a basketful of those beautiful apples with the red cheeks and carry them to the court; perhaps the king’s daughter will be able to eat herself well with them, and then thou wilt marry her and be king.” the lad did so, and set out.
when he had gone a short way he met a little iron man who asked him what he had there in the basket, to which replied uele, for so was he named, “frogs’ legs.” on this the little man said, “well, so shall it be, and remain,” and went away.
at length uele arrived at the palace, and made it known that he had brought apples which would cure the king’s daughter if she ate them.
this delighted the king hugely, and he caused uele to be brought before him; but, alas!
when he opened the basket, instead of having apples in it he had frogs’ legs which were still kicking about.
on this the king grew angry, and had him driven out of the house.
when he got home he told his father how it had fared with him.
then the father sent the next son, who was called seame, but all went with him just as it had gone with uele.
he also met the little iron man, who asked what he had there in the basket.
seame said, “hogs’
bristles,” and the iron man said, “well, so shall it be, and remain.”
when seame got to the king’s palace and said he brought apples with which the king’s daughter might eat herself well, they did not want to let him go in, and said that one fellow had already been there, and had treated them as if they were fools.
seame, however, maintained that he certainly had the apples, and that they ought to let him go in.
at length they believed him, and led him to the king.
but when he uncovered the basket, he had but hogs’ bristles.
this enraged the king most terribly, so he caused seame to be whipped out of the house.
when he got home he related all that had befallen him, then the youngest boy, whose name was hans, but who was always called stupid hans, came and asked his father if he might go with some apples.
“oh!” said the father, “thou wouldst be just the right fellow for such a thing!
if the clever ones can’t manage it, what canst thou do?” the boy, however, did not believe him, and said, “indeed, father, i wish to go.” “just get away, thou stupid fellow, thou must wait till thou art wiser,” said the father to that, and turned his back.
hans, however, pulled at the back of his smock-frock and said, “indeed, father, i wish to go.” “well, then, so far as i am concerned thou mayst go, but thou wilt soon come home again!” replied the old man in a spiteful voice.
the boy, however, was tremendously delighted and jumped for joy.
“well, act like a fool!
thou growest more stupid every day!” said the father again.
hans, however, did not care about that, and did not let it spoil his pleasure, but as it was then night, he thought he might as well wait until the morrow, for he could not get to court that day.
all night long he could not sleep in his bed, and if he did doze for a moment, he dreamt of beautiful maidens, of palaces, of gold, and of silver, and all kinds of things of that sort.
early in the morning, he went forth on his way, and directly afterwards the little shabby-looking man in his iron clothes, came to him and asked what he was carrying in the basket.
hans gave him the answer that he was carrying apples with which the king’s daughter was to eat herself well.
“then,” said the little man, “so shall they be, and remain.” but at the court they would none of them let hans go in, for they said two had already been there who had told them that they were bringing apples, and one of them had frogs’ legs, and the other hogs’ bristles.
hans, however, resolutely maintained that he most certainly had no frogs’ legs, but some of the most beautiful apples in the whole kingdom.
as he spoke so pleasantly, the door-keeper thought he could not be telling a lie, and asked him to go in, and he was right, for when hans uncovered his basket in the king’s presence, golden-yellow apples came tumbling out.
the king was delighted, and caused some of them to be taken to his daughter, and then waited in anxious expectation until news should be brought to him of the effect they had.
but before much time had passed by, news was brought to him: but who do you think it was who came?
it was his daughter herself!
as soon as she had eaten of those apples, she was cured, and sprang out of her bed.
the joy the king felt cannot be described!
but now he did not want to give his daughter in marriage to hans, and said he must first make him a boat which would go quicker on dry land than on water.
hans agreed to the conditions, and went home, and related how it had fared with him.
then the father sent uele into the forest to make a boat of that kind.
he worked diligently, and whistled all the time.
at mid-day, when the sun was at the highest, came the little iron man and asked what he was making?
uele gave him for answer, “wooden bowls for the kitchen.” the iron man said, “so it shall be, and remain.” by evening uele thought he had now made the boat, but when he wanted to get into it, he had nothing but wooden bowls.
the next day seame went into the forest, but everything went with him just as it had done with uele.
on the third day stupid hans went.
he worked away most industriously, so that the whole forest resounded with the heavy strokes, and all the while he sang and whistled right merrily.
at mid-day, when it was the hottest, the little man came again, and asked what he was making?
“a boat which will go quicker on dry land than on the water,” replied hans, “and when i have finished it, i am to have the king’s daughter for my wife.” “well,”
said the little man, “such an one shall it be, and remain.” in the evening, when the sun had turned into gold, hans finished his boat, and all that was wanted for it.
he got into it and rowed to the palace.
the boat went as swiftly as the wind.
the king saw it from afar, but would not give his daughter to hans yet, and said he must first take a hundred hares out to pasture from early morning until late evening, and if one of them got away, he should not have his daughter.
hans was contented with this, and the next day went with his flock to the pasture, and took great care that none of them ran away.
before many hours had passed came a servant from the palace, and told hans that he must give her a hare instantly, for some visitors had come unexpectedly.
hans, however, was very well aware what that meant, and said he would not give her one; the king might set some hare soup before his guest next day.
the maid, however, would not believe in his refusal, and at last she began to get angry with him.
then hans said that if the king’s daughter came herself, he would give her a hare.
the maid told this in the palace, and the daughter did go herself.
in the meantime, however, the little man came again to hans, and asked him what he was doing there?
he said he had to watch over a hundred hares and see that none of them ran away, and then he might marry the king’s daughter and be king.
“good,” said the little man, “there is a whistle for thee, and if one of them runs away, just whistle with it, and then it will come back again.” when the king’s daughter came, hans gave her a hare into her apron; but when she had gone about a hundred steps with it, he whistled, and the hare jumped out of the apron, and before she could turn round was back to the flock again.
when the evening came the hare-herd whistled once more, and looked to see if all were there, and then drove them to the palace.
the king wondered how hans had been able to take a hundred hares to graze without losing any of them; he would, however, not give him his daughter yet, and said he must now bring him a feather from the griffin’s tail.
hans set out at once, and walked straight forwards.
in the evening he came to a castle, and there he asked for a night’s lodging, for at that time there were no inns.
the lord of the castle promised him that with much pleasure, and asked where he was going?
hans answered, “to the griffin.” “oh!
to the griffin!
they tell me he knows everything, and i have lost the key of an iron money-chest; so you might be so good as to ask him where it is.” “yes, indeed,” said hans, “i will do that.” early the next morning he went onwards, and on his way arrived at another castle in which he again stayed the night.
when the people who lived there learnt that he was going to the griffin, they said they had in the house a daughter who was ill, and that they had already tried every means to cure her, but none of them had done her any good, and he might be so kind as to ask the griffin what would make their daughter healthy again?
hans said he would willingly do that, and went onwards.
then he came to a lake, and instead of a ferry-boat, a tall, tall man was there who had to carry everybody across.
the man asked hans whither he was journeying?
“to the griffin,” said hans.
“then when you get to him,” said the man, “just ask him why i am forced to carry everybody over the lake.” “yes, indeed, most certainly i’ll do that,” said hans.
then the man took him up on his shoulders, and carried him across.
at length hans arrived at the griffin’s house, but the wife only was at home, and not the griffin himself.
then the woman asked him what he wanted?
thereupon he told her everything;—that he had to get a feather out of the griffin’s tail, and that there was a castle where they had lost the key of their money-chest, and he was to ask the griffin where it was?—that in another castle the daughter was ill, and he was to learn what would cure her?—and then not far from thence there was a lake and a man beside it, who was forced to carry people across it, and he was very anxious to learn why the man was obliged to do it.
then said the woman, “but look here, my good friend, no christian can speak to the griffin; he devours them all; but if you like, you can lie down under his bed, and in the night, when he is quite fast asleep, you can reach out and pull a feather out of his tail, and as for those things which you are to learn, i will ask about them myself.” hans was quite satisfied with this, and got under the bed.
in the evening, the griffin came home, and as soon as he entered the room, said, “wife, i smell a christian.”
“yes,” said the woman, “one was here to-day, but he went away again;”
and on that the griffin said no more.
in the middle of the night when the griffin was snoring loudly, hans reached out and plucked a feather from his tail.
the griffin woke up instantly, and said, “wife, i smell a christian, and it seems to me that somebody was pulling at my tail.” his wife said, “thou hast certainly been dreaming, and i told thee before that a christian was here to-day, but that he went away again.
he told me all kinds of things that in one castle they had lost the key of their money-chest, and could find it nowhere.” “oh!
the fools!” said the griffin; “the key lies in the wood-house under a log of wood behind the door.” “and then he said that in another castle the daughter was ill, and they knew no remedy that would cure her.” “oh!
the fools!” said the griffin; “under the cellar-steps a toad has made its nest of her hair, and if she got her hair back she would be well.” “and then he also said that there was a place where there was a lake and a man beside it who was forced to carry everybody across.” “oh, the fool!” said the griffin; “if he only put one man down in the middle, he would never have to carry another across.” early the next morning the griffin got up and went out.
then hans came forth from under the bed, and he had a beautiful feather, and had heard what the griffin had said about the key, and the daughter, and the ferry-man.
the griffin’s wife repeated it all once more to him that he might not forget it, and then he went home again.
first he came to the man by the lake, who asked him what the griffin had said, but hans replied that he must first carry him across, and then he would tell him.
so the man carried him across, and when he was over hans told him that all he had to do was to set one person down in the middle of the lake, and then he would never have to carry over any more.
the man was hugely delighted, and told hans that out of gratitude he would take him once more across, and back again.
but hans said no, he would save him the trouble, he was quite satisfied already, and pursued his way.
then he came to the castle where the daughter was ill; he took her on his shoulders, for she could not walk, and carried her down the cellar-steps and pulled out the toad’s nest from beneath the lowest step and gave it into her hand, and she sprang off his shoulder and up the steps before him, and was quite cured.
then were the father and mother beyond measure rejoiced, and they gave hans gifts of gold and of silver, and whatsoever else he wished for, that they gave him.
and when he got to the other castle he went at once into the wood-house, and found the key under the log of wood behind the door, and took it to the lord of the castle.
he also was not a little pleased, and gave hans as a reward much of the gold that was in the chest, and all kinds of things besides, such as cows, and sheep, and goats.
when hans arrived before the king, with all these things—with the money, and the gold, and the silver and the cows, sheep and goats, the king asked him how he had come by them.
then hans told him that the griffin gave every one whatsoever he wanted.
so the king thought he himself could make such things useful, and set out on his way to the griffin; but when he got to the lake, it happened that he was the very first who arrived there after hans, and the man put him down in the middle of it and went away, and the king was drowned.
hans, however, married the daughter, and became king.
166 strong hans
there were once a man and a woman who had an only child, and lived quite alone in a solitary valley.
it came to pass that the mother once went into the wood to gather branches of fir, and took with her little hans, who was just two years old.
as it was spring-time, and the child took pleasure in the many-coloured flowers, she went still further onwards with him into the forest.
suddenly two robbers sprang out of the thicket, seized the mother and child, and carried them far away into the black forest, where no one ever came from one year’s end to another.
the poor woman urgently begged the robbers to set her and her child free, but their hearts were made of stone, they would not listen to her prayers and entreaties, and drove her on farther by force.
after they had worked their way through bushes and briars for about two miles, they came to a rock where there was a door, at which the robbers knocked and it opened at once.
they had to go through a long dark passage, and at last came into a great cavern, which was lighted by a fire which burnt on the hearth.
on the wall hung swords, sabres, and other deadly weapons which gleamed in the light, and in the midst stood a black table at which four other robbers were sitting gambling, and the captain sat at the head of it.
as soon as he saw the woman he came and spoke to her, and told her to be at ease and have no fear, they would do nothing to hurt her, but she must look after the house-keeping, and if she kept everything in order, she should not fare ill with them.
thereupon they gave her something to eat, and showed her a bed where she might sleep with her child.
the woman stayed many years with the robbers, and hans grew tall and strong.
his mother told him stories, and taught him to read an old book of tales about knights which she found in the cave.
when hans was nine years old, he made himself a strong club out of a branch of fir, hid it behind the bed, and then went to his mother and said, “dear mother, pray tell me who is my father; i must and will know.” his mother was silent and would not tell him, that he might not become home-sick; moreover she knew that the godless robbers would not let him go away, but it almost broke her heart that hans should not go to his father.
in the night, when the robbers came home from their robbing expedition, hans brought out his club, stood before the captain, and said, “i now wish to know who is my father, and if thou dost not at once tell me i will strike thee down.” then the captain laughed, and gave hans such a box on the ear that he rolled under the table.
hans got up again, held his tongue, and thought, “i will wait another year and then try again, perhaps i shall do better then.” when the year was over, he brought out his club again, rubbed the dust off it, looked at it well, and said, “it is a stout strong club.” at night the robbers came home, drank one jug of wine after another, and their heads began to be heavy.
then hans brought out his club, placed himself before the captain, and asked him who was his father?
but the captain again gave him such a vigorous box on the ear that hans rolled under the table, but it was not long before he was up again, and beat the captain and the robbers so with his club, that they could no longer move either their arms or their legs.
his mother stood in a corner full of admiration of his bravery and strength.
when hans had done his work, he went to his mother, and said, “now i have shown myself to be in earnest, but now i must also know who is my father.” “dear hans,” answered the mother, “come, we will go and seek him until we find him.” she took from the captain the key to the entrance-door, and hans fetched a great meal-sack and packed into it gold and silver, and whatsoever else he could find that was beautiful, until it was full, and then he took it on his back.
they left the cave, but how hans did open his eyes when he came out of the darkness into daylight, and saw the green forest, and the flowers, and the birds, and the morning sun in the sky.
he stood there and wondered at everything just as if he had not been very wise.
his mother looked for the way home, and when they had walked for a couple of hours, they got safely into their lonely valley and to their little house.
the father was sitting in the doorway.
he wept for joy when he recognized his wife and heard that hans was his son, for he had long regarded them both as dead.
but hans, although he was not twelve years old, was a head taller than his father.
they went into the little room together, but hans had scarcely put his sack on the bench by the stove, than the whole house began to crack the bench broke down and then the floor, and the heavy sack fell through into the cellar.
“god save us!” cried the father, “what’s that?
now thou hast broken our little house to pieces!” “don’t grow any grey hairs about that, dear father,” answered hans; “there, in that sack, is more than is wanting for a new house.” the father and hans at once began to build a new house; to buy cattle and land, and to keep a farm.
hans ploughed the fields, and when he followed the plough and pushed it into the ground, the bullocks had scarcely any need to draw.
the next spring, hans said, “keep all the money and get a walking-stick that weighs a hundred-weight made for me that i may go a-travelling.” when the wished-for stick was ready, he left his father’s house, went forth, and came to a deep, dark forest.
there he heard something crunching and cracking, looked round, and saw a fir-tree which was wound round like a rope from the bottom to the top, and when he looked upwards he saw a great fellow who had laid hold of the tree and was twisting it like a willow-wand.
“hollo!” cried hans, “what art thou doing up there?” the fellow replied, “i got some faggots together yesterday and am twisting a rope for them.” “that is what i like,” thought hans, “he has some strength,” and he called to him, “leave that alone, and come with me.” the fellow came down, and he was taller by a whole head than hans, and hans was not little.
“thy name is now fir-twister,” said hans to him.
thereupon they went further and heard something knocking and hammering with such force that the ground shook at every stroke.
shortly afterwards they came to a mighty rock, before which a giant was standing and striking great pieces of it away with his fist.
when hans asked what he was about, he answered, “at night, when i want to sleep, bears, wolves, and other vermin of that kind come, which sniff and snuffle about me and won’t let me rest; so i want to build myself a house and lay myself inside it, so that i may have some peace.” “oh, indeed,” thought hans, “i can make use of this one also;” and said to him, “leave thy house-building alone, and go with me; thou shalt be called rock-splitter.” the man consented, and they all three roamed through the forest, and wherever they went the wild beasts were terrified, and ran away from them.
in the evening they came to an old deserted castle, went up into it, and laid themselves down in the hall to sleep.
the next morning hans went into the garden.
it had run quite wild, and was full of thorns and bushes.
and as he was thus walking round about, a wild boar rushed at him; he, however, gave it such a blow with his club that it fell directly.
he took it on his shoulders and carried it in, and they put it on a spit, roasted it, and enjoyed themselves.
then they arranged that each day, in turn, two should go out hunting, and one should stay at home, and cook nine pounds of meat for each of them.
fir-twister stayed at home the first, and hans and rock-splitter went out hunting.
when fir-twister was busy cooking, a little shrivelled-up old mannikin came to him in the castle, and asked for some meat.
“be off, sly hypocrite,” he answered, “thou needest no meat.” but how astonished fir-twister was when the little insignificant dwarf sprang up at him, and belaboured him so with his fists that he could not defend himself, but fell on the ground and gasped for breath!
the dwarf did not go away until he had thoroughly vented his anger on him.
when the two others came home from hunting, fir-twister said nothing to them of the old mannikin and of the blows which he himself had received, and thought, “when they stay at home, they may just try their chance with the little scrubbing-brush;” and the mere thought of that gave him pleasure already.
the next day rock-splitter stayed at home, and he fared just as fir-twister had done, he was very ill-treated by the dwarf because he was not willing to give him any meat.
when the others came home in the evening, fir-twister easily saw what he had suffered, but both kept silence, and thought, “hans also must taste some of that soup.”
hans, who had to stay at home the next day, did his work in the kitchen as it had to be done, and as he was standing skimming the pan, the dwarf came and without more ado demanded a bit of meat.
then hans thought, “he is a poor wretch, i will give him some of my share, that the others may not run short,” and handed him a bit.
when the dwarf had devoured it, he again asked for some meat, and good-natured hans gave it to him, and told him it was a handsome piece, and that he was to be content with it.
but the dwarf begged again for the third time.
“thou art shameless!” said hans, and gave him none.
then the malicious dwarf wanted to spring on him and treat him as he had treated fir-twister and rock-splitter, but he had got to the wrong man.
hans, without exerting himself much, gave him a couple of blows which made him jump down the castle steps.
hans was about to run after him, but fell right over him, for he was so tall.
when he rose up again, the dwarf had got the start of him.
hans hurried after him as far as the forest, and saw him slip into a hole in the rock.
hans now went home, but he had marked the spot.
when the two others came back, they were surprised that hans was so well.
he told them what had happened, and then they no longer concealed how it had fared with them.
hans laughed and said, “it served you quite right; why were you so greedy with your meat?
it is a disgrace that you who are so big should have let yourselves be beaten by the dwarf.” thereupon they took a basket and a rope, and all three went to the hole in the rock into which the dwarf had slipped, and let hans and his club down in the basket.
when hans had reached the bottom, he found a door, and when he opened it a maiden was sitting there who was lovely as any picture, nay, so beautiful that no words can express it, and by her side sat the dwarf and grinned at hans like a sea-cat!
she, however, was bound with chains, and looked so mournfully at him that hans felt great pity for her, and thought to himself, “thou must deliver her out of the power of the wicked dwarf,” and gave him such a blow with his club that he fell down dead.
immediately the chains fell from the maiden, and hans was enraptured with her beauty.
she told him she was a king’s daughter whom a savage count had stolen away from her home, and imprisoned there among the rocks, because she would have nothing to say to him.
the count had, however, set the dwarf as a watchman, and he had made her bear misery and vexation enough.
and now hans placed the maiden in the basket and had her drawn up; the basket came down again, but hans did not trust his two companions, and thought, “they have already shown themselves to be false, and told me nothing about the dwarf; who knows what design they may have against me?” so he put his club in the basket, and it was lucky he did; for when the basket was half-way up, they let it fall again, and if hans had really been sitting in it he would have been killed.
but now he did not know how he was to work his way out of the depths, and when he turned it over and over in his mind he found no counsel.
“it is indeed sad,” said he to himself, “that i have to waste away down here,” and as he was thus walking backwards and forwards, he once more came to the little chamber where the maiden had been sitting, and saw that the dwarf had a ring on his finger which shone and sparkled.
then he drew it off and put it on, and when he turned it round on his finger, he suddenly heard something rustle over his head.
he looked up and saw spirits of the air hovering above, who told him he was their master, and asked what his desire might be?
hans was at first struck dumb, but afterwards he said that they were to carry him above again.
they obeyed instantly, and it was just as if he had flown up himself.
when, however, he was above again, he found no one in sight.
fir-twister and rock-splitter had hurried away, and had taken the beautiful maiden with them.
but hans turned the ring, and the spirits of the air came and told him that the two were on the sea.
hans ran and ran without stopping, until he came to the sea-shore, and there far, far out on the water, he perceived a little boat in which his faithless comrades were sitting; and in fierce anger he leapt, without thinking what he was doing, club in hand into the water, and began to swim, but the club, which weighed a hundredweight, dragged him deep down until he was all but drowned.
then in the very nick of time he turned his ring, and immediately the spirits of the air came and bore him as swift as lightning into the boat.
he swung his club and gave his wicked comrades the reward they merited and threw them into the water, and then he sailed with the beautiful maiden, who had been in the greatest alarm, and whom he delivered for the second time, home to her father and mother, and married her, and all rejoiced exceedingly.
167 the peasant in heaven
once on a time a poor pious peasant died, and arrived before the gate of heaven.
at the same time a very rich, rich lord came there who also wanted to get into heaven.
then saint peter came with the key, and opened the door, and let the great man in, but apparently did not see the peasant, and shut the door again.
and now the peasant outside, heard how the great man was received in heaven with all kinds of rejoicing, and how they were making music, and singing within.
at length all became quiet again, and saint peter came and opened the gate of heaven, and let the peasant in.
the peasant, however, expected that they would make music and sing when he went in also, but all remained quite quiet; he was received with great affection, it is true, and the angels came to meet him, but no one sang.
then the peasant asked saint peter how it was that they did not sing for him as they had done when the rich man went in, and said that it seemed to him that there in heaven things were done with just as much partiality as on earth.
then said saint peter, “by no means, thou art just as dear to us as any one else, and wilt enjoy every heavenly delight that the rich man enjoys, but poor fellows like thee come to heaven every day, but a rich man like this does not come more than once in a hundred years!”
168 lean lisa
lean lisa was of a very different way of thinking from lazy harry and fat trina, who never let anything disturb their peace.
she scoured everything with ashes, from morning till evening, and burdened her husband, long laurence, with so much work that he had heavier weights to carry than an ass with three sacks.
it was, however, all to no purpose, they had nothing and came to nothing.
one night as she lay in bed, and could hardly move one limb for weariness, she still did not allow her thoughts to go to sleep.
she thrust her elbows into her husband’s side, and said, “listen, lenz, to what i have been thinking:
if i were to find one florin and one was given to me, i would borrow another to put to them, and thou too shouldst give me another, and then as soon as i had got the four florins together, i would buy a young cow.” this pleased the husband right well.
“it is true,” said he, “that i do not know where i am to get the florin which thou wantest as a gift from me; but, if thou canst get the money together, and canst buy a cow with it, thou wilt do well to carry out thy project.
i shall be glad,”
he added, “if the cow has a calf, and then i shall often get a drink of milk to refresh me.” “the milk is not for thee,” said the woman, “we must let the calf suck that it may become big and fat, and we may be able to sell it well.” “certainly,” replied the man, “but still we will take a little milk; that will do no harm.” “who has taught thee to manage cows?” said the woman; “whether it does harm or not, i will not allow it, and even if thou wert to stand on thy head for it, thou shouldst not have a drop of the milk!
dost thou think, because there is no satisfying thee, long laurence, that thou art to eat up what i earn with so much difficulty?” “wife,” said the man, “be quiet, or i will give thee a blow on thy mouth!” “what!” cried she, “thou threatenest me, thou glutton, thou rascal, thou lazy harry!” she was just laying hold of his hair, but long laurence got up, seized both lean lisa’s withered arms in one hand, and with the other he pressed down her head into the pillow, let her scold, and held her until she fell asleep for very weariness.
whether she continued to wrangle when she awoke next morning, or whether she went out to look for the florin which she wanted to find, that i know not.
169 the hut in the forest
a poor wood-cutter lived with his wife and three daughters in a little hut on the edge of a lonely forest.
one morning as he was about to go to his work, he said to his wife, “let my dinner be brought into the forest to me by my eldest daughter, or i shall never get my work done, and in order that she may not miss her way,” he added, “i will take a bag of millet with me and strew the seeds on the path.” when, therefore, the sun was just above the center of the forest, the girl set out on her way with a bowl of soup, but the field-sparrows, and wood-sparrows, larks and finches, blackbirds and siskins had picked up the millet long before, and the girl could not find the track.
then trusting to chance, she went on and on, until the sun sank and night began to fall.
the trees rustled in the darkness, the owls hooted, and she began to be afraid.
then in the distance she perceived a light which glimmered between the trees.
“there ought to be some people living there, who can take me in for the night,” thought she, and went up to the light.
it was not long before she came to a house the windows of which were all lighted up.
she knocked, and a rough voice from inside cried, “come in.” the girl stepped into the dark entrance, and knocked at the door of the room.
“just come in,” cried the voice, and when she opened the door, an old gray-haired man was sitting at the table, supporting his face with both hands, and his white beard fell down over the table almost as far as the ground.
by the stove lay three animals, a hen, a cock, and a brindled cow.
the girl told her story to the old man, and begged for shelter for the night.
the man said,
“pretty little hen, pretty little cock, and pretty brindled cow, what say ye to that?”
“duks,” answered the animals, and that must have meant, “we are willing,” for the old man said, “here you shall have shelter and food, go to the fire, and cook us our supper.” the girl found in the kitchen abundance of everything, and cooked a good supper, but had no thought of the animals.
she carried the full dishes to the table, seated herself by the gray-haired man, ate and satisfied her hunger.
when she had had enough, she said, “but now i am tired, where is there a bed in which i can lie down, and sleep?” the animals replied,
“thou hast eaten with him, thou hast drunk with him, thou hast had no thought for us, so find out for thyself where thou canst pass the night.”
then said the old man, “just go upstairs, and thou wilt find a room with two beds, shake them up, and put white linen on them, and then i, too, will come and lie down to sleep.” the girl went up, and when she had shaken the beds and put clean sheets on, she lay down in one of them without waiting any longer for the old man.
after some time, however, the gray-haired man came, took his candle, looked at the girl and shook his head.
when he saw that she had fallen into a sound sleep, he opened a trap-door, and let her down into the cellar.
late at night the wood-cutter came home, and reproached his wife for leaving him to hunger all day.
“it is not my fault,” she replied, “the girl went out with your dinner, and must have lost herself, but she is sure to come back to-morrow.” the wood-cutter, however, arose before dawn to go into the forest, and requested that the second daughter should take him his dinner that day.
“i will take a bag with lentils,”
said he; “the seeds are larger than millet, the girl will see them better, and can’t lose her way.” at dinner-time, therefore, the girl took out the food, but the lentils had disappeared.
the birds of the forest had picked them up as they had done the day before, and had left none.
the girl wandered about in the forest until night, and then she too reached the house of the old man, was told to go in, and begged for food and a bed.
the man with the white beard again asked the animals,
“pretty little hen, pretty little cock, and pretty brindled cow, what say ye to that?”
the animals again replied “duks,” and everything happened just as it had happened the day before.
the girl cooked a good meal, ate and drank with the old man, and did not concern herself about the animals, and when she inquired about her bed they answered,
“thou hast eaten with him, thou hast drunk with him, thou hast had no thought for us, to find out for thyself where thou canst pass the night.”
when she was asleep the old man came, looked at her, shook his head, and let her down into the cellar.
on the third morning the wood-cutter said to his wife, “send our youngest child out with my dinner to-day, she has always been good and obedient, and will stay in the right path, and not run about after every wild humble-bee, as her sisters did.” the mother did not want to do it, and said, “am i to lose my dearest child, as well?”
“have no fear,” he replied, “the girl will not go astray; she is too prudent and sensible; besides i will take some peas with me, and strew them about.
they are still larger than lentils, and will show her the way.” but when the girl went out with her basket on her arm, the wood-pigeons had already got all the peas in their crops, and she did not know which way she was to turn.
she was full of sorrow and never ceased to think how hungry her father would be, and how her good mother would grieve, if she did not go home.
at length when it grew dark, she saw the light and came to the house in the forest.
she begged quite prettily to be allowed to spend the night there, and the man with the white beard once more asked his animals,
“pretty little hen, pretty little cock, and beautiful brindled cow, what say ye to that?”
“duks,” said they.
then the girl went to the stove where the animals were lying, and petted the cock and hen, and stroked their smooth feathers with her hand, and caressed the brindled cow between her horns, and when, in obedience to the old man’s orders, she had made ready some good soup, and the bowl was placed upon the table, she said, “am i to eat as much as i want, and the good animals to have nothing?
outside is food in plenty, i will look after them first.” so she went and brought some barley and stewed it for the cock and hen, and a whole armful of sweet-smelling hay for the cow.
“i hope you will like it, dear animals,” said she, “and you shall have a refreshing draught in case you are thirsty.” then she fetched in a bucketful of water, and the cock and hen jumped on to the edge of it and dipped their beaks in, and then held up their heads as the birds do when they drink, and the brindled cow also took a hearty draught.
when the animals were fed, the girl seated herself at the table by the old man, and ate what he had left.
it was not long before the cock and the hen began to thrust their heads beneath their wings, and the eyes of the cow likewise began to blink.
then said the girl, “ought we not to go to bed?”
“pretty little hen, pretty little cock, and pretty brindled cow, what say ye to that?”
the animals answered “duks,”
“thou hast eaten with us, thou hast drunk with us, thou hast had kind thought for all of us, we wish thee good-night.”
then the maiden went upstairs, shook the feather-beds, and laid clean sheets on them, and when she had done it the old man came and lay down on one of the beds, and his white beard reached down to his feet.
the girl lay down on the other, said her prayers, and fell asleep.
she slept quietly till midnight, and then there was such a noise in the house that she awoke.
there was a sound of cracking and splitting in every corner, and the doors sprang open, and beat against the walls.
the beams groaned as if they were being torn out of their joints, it seemed as if the staircase were falling down, and at length there was a crash as if the entire roof had fallen in.
as, however, all grew quiet once more, and the girl was not hurt, she stayed quietly lying where she was, and fell asleep again.
but when she woke up in the morning with the brilliancy of the sunshine, what did her eyes behold?
she was lying in a vast hall, and everything around her shone with royal splendor; on the walls, golden flowers grew up on a ground of green silk, the bed was of ivory, and the canopy of red velvet, and on a chair close by, was a pair of shoes embroidered with pearls.
the girl believed that she was in a dream, but three richly clad attendants came in, and asked what orders she would like to give?
“if you will go,” she replied, “i will get up at once and make ready some soup for the old man, and then i will feed the pretty little hen, and the cock, and the beautiful brindled cow.” she thought the old man was up already, and looked round at his bed; he, however, was not lying in it, but a stranger.
and while she was looking at him, and becoming aware that he was young and handsome, he awoke, sat up in bed, and said, “i am a king’s son, and was bewitched by a wicked witch, and made to live in this forest, as an old gray-haired man; no one was allowed to be with me but my three attendants in the form of a cock, a hen, and a brindled cow.
the spell was not to be broken until a girl came to us whose heart was so good that she showed herself full of love, not only towards mankind, but towards animals—and that thou hast done, and by thee at midnight we were set free, and the old hut in the forest was changed back again into my royal palace.” and when they had arisen, the king’s son ordered the three attendants to set out and fetch the father and mother of the girl to the marriage feast.
“but where are my two sisters?” inquired the maiden.
“i have locked them in the cellar, and to-morrow they shall be led into the forest, and shall live as servants to a charcoal-burner, until they have grown kinder, and do not leave poor animals to suffer hunger.”
170 sharing joy and sorrow
there was once a tailor, who was a quarrelsome fellow, and his wife, who was good, industrious, and pious, never could please him.
whatever she did, he was not satisfied, but grumbled and scolded, and knocked her about and beat her.
as the authorities at last heard of it, they had him summoned, and put in prison in order to make him better.
he was kept for a while on bread and water, and then set free again.
he was forced, however, to promise not to beat his wife any more, but to live with her in peace, and share joy and sorrow with her, as married people ought to do.
all went on well for a time, but then he fell into his old ways, and was surly and quarrelsome.
and because he dared not beat her, he would seize her by the hair and tear it out.
the woman escaped from him, and sprang out into the yard, but he ran after her with his yard-measure and scissors, and chased her about, and threw the yard-measure and scissors at her, and whatever else came his way.
when he hit her he laughed, and when he missed her, he stormed and swore.
this went on so long that the neighbors came to the wife’s assistance.
the tailor was again summoned before the magistrates, and reminded of his promise.
“dear gentlemen,” said he, “i have kept my word, i have not beaten her, but have shared joy and sorrow with her.” “how can that be,” said the judge, “when she continually brings such heavy complaints against you?” “i have not beaten her, but just because she looked so strange i wanted to comb her hair with my hand; she, however, got away from me, and left me quite spitefully.
then i hurried after her, and in order to bring her back to her duty, i threw at her as a well-meant admonition whatever came readily to hand.
i have shared joy and sorrow with her also, for whenever i hit her i was full of joy, and she of sorrow, and if i missed her, then she was joyful, and i sorry.” the judges were not satisfied with this answer, but gave him the reward he deserved.
171 the willow-wren
in former days every sound still had its meaning and application.
when the smith’s hammer resounded, it cried, “strike away!
strike away.”
when the carpenter’s plane grated, it said, “here goes!
here goes.” if the mill wheel began to clack, it said, “help, lord god!
help, lord god!” and if the miller was a cheat and happened to leave the mill, it spoke high german, and first asked slowly, “who is there?
who is there?” and then answered quickly, “the miller!
the miller!” and at last quite in a hurry, “he steals bravely!
he steals bravely!
three pecks in a bushel.”
at this time the birds also had their own language which every one understood; now it only sounds like chirping, screeching, and whistling, and to some like music without words.
it came into the bird’s mind, however, that they would no longer be without a ruler, and would choose one of themselves to be their king.
one alone amongst them, the green plover, was opposed to this.
he had lived free, and would die free, and anxiously flying hither and thither, he cried, “where shall i go?
where shall i go?” he retired into a solitary and unfrequented marsh, and showed himself no more among his fellows.
the birds now wished to discuss the matter, and on a fine may morning they all gathered together from the woods and fields: eagles and chaffinches, owls and crows, larks and sparrows, how can i name them all?
even the cuckoo came, and the hoopoe, his clerk, who is so called because he is always heard a few days before him, and a very small bird which as yet had no name, mingled with the band.
the hen, which by some accident had heard nothing of the whole matter, was astonished at the great assemblage.
“what, what, what is going to be done?” she cackled; but the cock calmed his beloved hen, and said, “only rich people,” and told her what they had on hand.
it was decided, however, that the one who could fly the highest should be king.
a tree-frog which was sitting among the bushes, when he heard that, cried a warning, “no, no, no!
no!” because he thought that many tears would be shed because of this; but the crow said, “caw, caw,” and that all would pass off peaceably.
it was now determined that on this fine morning they should at once begin to ascend, so that hereafter no one should be able to say, “i could easily have flown much higher, but the evening came on, and i could do no more.” on a given signal, therefore, the whole troop rose up in the air.
the dust ascended from the land, and there was tremendous fluttering and whirring and beating of wings, and it looked as if a black cloud was rising up.
the little birds were, however, soon left behind.
they could go no farther, and fell back to the ground.
the larger birds held out longer, but none could equal the eagle, who mounted so high that he could have picked the eyes out of the sun.
and when he saw that the others could not get up to him, he thought, “why shouldst thou fly still higher, thou art the king?” and began to let himself down again.
the birds beneath him at once cried to him.
“thou must be our king, no one has flown so high as thou.” “except me,”
screamed the little fellow without a name, who had crept into the breast-feathers of the eagle.
and as he was not at all tired, he rose up and mounted so high that he reached heaven itself.
when, however, he had gone as far as this, he folded his wings together, and called down with clear and penetrating voice, “i am king!
i am king.”
“thou, our king?” cried the birds angrily.
“thou hast compassed it by trick and cunning!” so they made another condition.
he should be king who could go down lowest in the ground.
how the goose did flap about with its broad breast when it was once more on the land!
how quickly the cock scratched a hole!
the duck came off the worst of all, for she leapt into a ditch, but sprained her legs, and waddled away to a neighboring pond, crying, “cheating, cheating!” the little bird without a name, however, sought out a mouse-hole, slipped down into it, and cried out of it with his small voice, “i am king!
i am king!”
“thou our king!” cried the birds still more angrily.
“dost thou think thy cunning shall prevail?” they determined to keep him a prisoner in the hole and starve him out.
the owl was placed as sentinel in front of it, and was not to let the rascal out if she had any value for her life.
when evening was come all the birds were feeling very tired after exerting their wings so much, so they went to bed with their wives and children.
the owl alone remained standing by the mouse-hole, gazing steadfastly into it with her great eyes.
in the meantime she, too, had grown tired and thought to herself, “you might certainly shut one eye, you will still watch with the other, and the little miscreant shall not come out of his hole.” so she shut one eye, and with the other looked straight at the mouse-hole.
the little fellow put his head out and peeped, and wanted to slip away, but the owl came forward immediately, and he drew his head back again.
then the owl opened the one eye again, and shut the other, intending to shut them in turn all through the night.
but when she next shut the one eye, she forgot to open the other, and as soon as both her eyes were shut she fell asleep.
the little fellow soon observed that, and slipped away.
from that day forth, the owl has never dared to show herself by daylight, for if she does the other birds chase her and pluck her feathers out.
she only flies out by night, but hates and pursues mice because they make such ugly holes.
the little bird, too, is very unwilling to let himself be seen, because he is afraid it will cost him his life if he is caught.
he steals about in the hedges, and when he is quite safe, he sometimes cries, “i am king,” and for this reason, the other birds call him in mockery, ‘king of the hedges’ (zaunkönig).
no one, however, was so happy as the lark at not having to obey the little king.
as soon as the sun appears, she ascends high in the air and cries, “ah, how beautiful that is!
beautiful that is!
beautiful, beautiful!
ah, how beautiful that is!”
172 the sole
the fishes had for a long time been discontented because no order prevailed in their kingdom.
none of them turned aside for the others, but all swam to the right or the left as they fancied, or darted between those who wanted to stay together, or got into their way; and a strong one gave a weak one a blow with its tail, which drove it away, or else swallowed it up without more ado.
“how delightful it would be,”
said they, “if we had a king who enforced law and justice among us!”
and they met together to choose for their ruler, the one who could cleave through the water most quickly, and give help to the weak ones.
they placed themselves in rank and file by the shore, and the pike gave the signal with his tail, on which they all started.
like an arrow, the pike darted away, and with him the herring, the gudgeon, the perch, the carp, and all the rest of them.
even the sole swam with them, and hoped to reach the winning-place.
all at once, the cry was heard, “the herring is first!” “who is first?” screamed angrily the flat envious sole, who had been left far behind, “who is first?” “the herring!
the herring,” was the answer.
“the naked herring?” cried the jealous creature, “the naked herring?” since that time the sole’s mouth has been at one side for a punishment.
173 the bittern and the hoopoe
“where do you like best to feed your flocks?” said a man to an old cow-herd.
“here, sir, where the grass is neither too rich nor too poor, or else it is no use.” “why not?” asked the man.
“do you hear that melancholy cry from the meadow there?” answered the shepherd, “that is the bittern; he was once a shepherd, and so was the hoopoe also,—i will tell you the story.
the bittern pastured his flocks on rich green meadows where flowers grew in abundance, so his cows became wild and unmanageable.
the hoopoe drove his cattle on to high barren hills, where the wind plays with the sand, and his cows became thin, and got no strength.
when it was evening, and the shepherds wanted to drive their cows homewards, the bittern could not get his together again; they were too high-spirited, and ran away from him.
he called, “come, cows, come,” but it was of no use; they took no notice of his calling.
the hoopoe, however, could not even get his cows up on their legs, so faint and weak had they become.
“up, up, up,” screamed he, but it was in vain, they remained lying on the sand.
that is the way when one has no moderation.
and to this day, though they have no flocks now to watch, the bittern cries, “come, cows, come,” and the hoopoe, “up, up, up.”
174 the owl
two or three hundred years ago, when people were far from being so crafty and cunning as they are now-a-day, an extraordinary event took place in a little town.
by some mischance one of the great owls, called horned owls, had come from the neighboring woods into the barn of one of the townsfolk in the night-time, and when day broke did not dare to venture forth again from her retreat, for fear of the other birds, which raised a terrible outcry whenever she appeared.
in the morning when the man-servant went into the barn to fetch some straw, he was so mightily alarmed at the sight of the owl sitting there in a corner, that he ran away and announced to his master that a monster, the like of which he had never set eyes on in his life, and which could devour a man without the slightest difficulty, was sitting in the barn, rolling its eyes about in its head.
“i know you already,” said the master, “you have courage enough to chase a blackbird about the fields, but when you see a dead hen lying, you have to get a stick before you go near it.
i must go and see for myself what kind of a monster it is,” added the master, and went quite boldly into the granary and looked round him.
when, however, he saw the strange grim creature with his own eyes, he was no less terrified than the servant had been.
with two bounds he sprang out, ran to his neighbours, and begged them imploringly to lend him assistance against an unknown and dangerous beast, or else the whole town might be in danger if it were to break loose out of the barn, where it was shut up.
a great noise and clamour arose in all the streets, the townsmen came armed with spears, hay-forks, scythes, and axes, as if they were going out against an enemy; finally, the senators appeared with the burgomaster at their head.
when they had drawn up in the market-place, they marched to the barn, and surrounded it on all sides.
thereupon one of the most courageous of them stepped forth and entered with his spear lowered, but came running out immediately afterwards with a shriek and as pale as death, and could not utter a single word.
yet two others ventured in, but they fared no better.
at last one stepped forth; a great strong man who was famous for his warlike deeds, and said, “you will not drive away the monster by merely looking at him; we must be in earnest here, but i see that you have all tuned into women, and not one of you dares to encounter the animal.” he ordered them to give him some armour, had a sword and spear brought, and armed himself.
all praised his courage, though many feared for his life.
the two barn-doors were opened, and they saw the owl, which in the meantime had perched herself on the middle of a great cross-beam.
he had a ladder brought, and when he raised it, and made ready to climb up, they all cried out to him that he was to bear himself bravely, and commended him to st. george, who slew the dragon.
when he had just got to the top, and the owl perceived that he had designs on her, and was also bewildered by the crowd and the shouting, and knew not how to escape, she rolled her eyes, ruffled her feathers, flapped her wings, snapped her beak, and cried, “tuwhit, tuwhoo,” in a harsh voice.
“strike home!
strike home!” screamed the crowd outside to the valiant hero.
“any one who was standing where i am standing,” answered he, “would not cry, strike home!” he certainly did plant his foot one rung higher on the ladder, but then he began to tremble, and half-fainting, went back again.
and now there was no one left who dared to put himself in such danger.
“the monster,” said they, “has poisoned and mortally wounded the very strongest man among us, by snapping at him and just breathing on him!
are we, too, to risk our lives?” they took counsel as to what they ought to do to prevent the whole town being destroyed.
for a long time everything seemed to be of no use, but at length the burgomaster found an expedient.
“my opinion,” said he, “is that we ought, out of the common purse, to pay for this barn, and whatsoever corn, straw, or hay it contains, and thus indemnify the owner, and then burn down the whole building, and the terrible beast with it.
thus no one will have to endanger his life.
this is no time for thinking of expense, and niggardliness would be ill applied.” all agreed with him.
so they set fire to the barn at all four corners, and with it the owl was miserably burnt.
let any one who will not believe it, go thither and inquire for himself.
175 the moon
in days gone by there was a land where the nights were always dark, and the sky spread over it like a black cloth, for there the moon never rose, and no star shone in the obscurity.
at the creation of the world, the light at night had been sufficient.
three young fellows once went out of this country on a travelling expedition, and arrived in another kingdom, where, in the evening when the sun had disappeared behind the mountains, a shining globe was placed on an oak-tree, which shed a soft light far and wide.
by means of this, everything could very well be seen and distinguished, even though it was not so brilliant as the sun.
the travellers stopped and asked a countryman who was driving past with his cart, what kind of a light that was.
“that is the moon,” answered he; “our mayor bought it for three thalers, and fastened it to the oak-tree.
he has to pour oil into it daily, and to keep it clean, so that it may always burn clearly.
he receives a thaler a week from us for doing it.”
when the countryman had driven away, one of them said, “we could make some use of this lamp, we have an oak-tree at home, which is just as big as this, and we could hang it on that.
what a pleasure it would be not to have to feel about at night in the darkness!” “i’ll tell you what we’ll do,” said the second; “we will fetch a cart and horses and carry away the moon.
the people here may buy themselves another.” “i’m a good climber,” said the third, “i will bring it down.” the fourth brought a cart and horses, and the third climbed the tree, bored a hole in the moon, passed a rope through it, and let it down.
when the shining ball lay in the cart, they covered it over with a cloth, that no one might observe the theft.
they conveyed it safely into their own country, and placed it on a high oak.
old and young rejoiced, when the new lamp let its light shine over the whole land, and bed-rooms and sitting-rooms were filled with it.
the dwarfs came forth from their caves in the rocks, and the tiny elves in their little red coats danced in rings on the meadows.
the four took care that the moon was provided with oil, cleaned the wick, and received their weekly thaler, but they became old men, and when one of them grew ill, and saw that he was about to die, he appointed that one quarter of the moon, should, as his property, be laid in the grave with him.
when he died, the mayor climbed up the tree, and cut off a quarter with the hedge-shears, and this was placed in his coffin.
the light of the moon decreased, but still not visibly.
when the second died, the second quarter was buried with him, and the light diminished.
it grew weaker still after the death of the third, who likewise took his part of it away with him; and when the fourth was borne to his grave, the old state of darkness recommenced, and whenever the people went out at night without their lanterns they knocked their heads together.
when, however, the pieces of the moon had united themselves together again in the world below, where darkness had always prevailed, it came to pass that the dead became restless and awoke from their sleep.
they were astonished when they were able to see again; the moonlight was quite sufficient for them, for their eyes had become so weak that they could not have borne the brilliance of the sun.
they rose up and were merry, and fell into their former ways of living.
some of them went to the play and to dance, others hastened to the public-houses, where they asked for wine, got drunk, brawled, quarreled, and at last took up cudgels, and belabored each other.
the noise became greater and greater, and at last reached even to heaven.
saint peter who guards the gate of heaven thought the lower world had broken out in revolt and gathered together the heavenly troops, which are to drive back the evil one when he and his associates storm the abode of the blessed.
as these, however, did not come, he got on his horse and rode through the gate of heaven, down into the world below.
there he reduced the dead to subjection, bade them lie down in their graves again, took the moon away with him, and hung it up in heaven.
176 the duration of life
when god had created the world and was about to fix the length of each creature’s life, the ass came and asked, “lord, how long shall i live?”
“thirty years,” replied god; “does that content thee?” “ah, lord,”
answered the ass, “that is a long time.
think of my painful existence!
to carry heavy burdens from morning to night, to drag sacks of corn to the mill, that others may eat bread, to be cheered and refreshed with nothing but blows and kicks.
relieve me of a portion of this long time.” then god had pity on him and relieved him of eighteen years.
the ass went away comforted, and the dog appeared.
“how long wouldst thou like to live?” said god to him.
“thirty years are too many for the ass, but thou wilt be satisfied with that.” “lord,” answered the dog, “is that thy will?
consider how i shall have to run, my feet will never hold out so long, and when i have once lost my voice for barking, and my teeth for biting, what will be left for me to do but run from one corner to another and growl?” god saw that he was right, and released him from twelve years of life.
then came the monkey.
“thou wilt certainly live thirty years willingly?” said the lord to him.
“thou hast no need to work as the ass and the dog have to do, and wilt always enjoy thyself.” “ah!
lord,” he answered, “it may seem as if that were the case, but it is quite different.
when it rains porridge i have no spoon.
i am always to play merry pranks, and make faces which force people to laugh, and if they give me an apple, and i bite into it, why it is sour!
how often sadness hides itself behind mirth!
i shall never be able to hold out for thirty years.” god was gracious and took off ten.
at last man appeared, joyous, healthy and vigorous, and begged god to appoint his time for him.
“thirty years shalt thou live,” said the lord.
“is that enough for thee?” “what a short time,” cried man, “when i have built my house and my fire burns on my own hearth; when i have planted trees which blossom and bear fruit, and am just intending to enjoy my life, i am to die!
o lord, lengthen my time.” “i will add to it the ass’s eighteen years,” said god.
“that is not enough,” replied the man.
“thou shalt also have the dog’s twelve years.” “still too little!” “well, then,” said god, “i will give thee the monkey’s ten years also, but more thou shalt not have.” the man went away, but was not satisfied.
so man lives seventy years.
the first thirty are his human years, which are soon gone; then is he healthy, merry, works with pleasure, and is glad of his life.
then follow the ass’s eighteen years, when one burden after another is laid on him, he has to carry the corn which feeds others, and blows and kicks are the reward of his faithful services.
then come the dog’s twelve years, when he lies in the corner, and growls and has no longer any teeth to bite with, and when this time is over the monkey’s ten years form the end.
then man is weak-headed and foolish, does silly things, and becomes the jest of the children.
177 death’s messengers
in ancient times a giant was once travelling on a great highway, when suddenly an unknown man sprang up before him, and said, “halt, not one step farther!” “what!” cried the giant, “a creature whom i can crush between my fingers, wants to block my way?
who art thou that thou darest to speak so boldly?” “i am death,” answered the other.
“no one resists me, and thou also must obey my commands.” but the giant refused, and began to struggle with death.
it was a long, violent battle, at last the giant got the upper hand, and struck death down with his fist, so that he dropped by a stone.
the giant went his way, and death lay there conquered, and so weak that he could not get up again.
“what will be done now,” said he, “if i stay lying here in a corner?
no one will die in the world, and it will get so full of people that they won’t have room to stand beside each other.” in the meantime a young man came along the road, who was strong and healthy, singing a song, and glancing around on every side.
when he saw the half-fainting one, he went compassionately to him, raised him up, poured a strengthening draught out of his flask for him, and waited till he came round.
“dost thou know,” said the stranger, whilst he was getting up, “who i am, and who it is whom thou hast helped on his legs again?”
“no,” answered the youth, “i do not know thee.” “i am death,” said he.
“i spare no one, and can make no exception with thee, but that thou mayst see that i am grateful, i promise thee that i will not fall on thee unexpectedly, but will send my messengers to thee before i come and take thee away.” “well,” said the youth, “it is something gained that i shall know when thou comest, and at any rate be safe from thee for so long.” then he went on his way, and was light-hearted, and enjoyed himself, and lived without thought.
but youth and health did not last long, soon came sicknesses and sorrows, which tormented him by day, and took away his rest by night.
“die, i shall not,” said he to himself, “for death will send his messengers before that, but i do wish these wretched days of sickness were over.” as soon as he felt himself well again he began once more to live merrily.
then one day some one tapped him on the shoulder.
he looked round, and death stood behind him, and said, “follow me, the hour of thy departure from this world has come.” “what,” replied the man, “wilt thou break thy word?
didst thou not promise me that thou wouldst send thy messengers to me before coming thyself?
i have seen none!” “silence!” answered death.
“have i not sent one messenger to thee after another?
did not fever come and smite thee, and shake thee, and cast thee down?
has dizziness not bewildered thy head?
has not gout twitched thee in all thy limbs?
did not thine ears sing?
did not tooth-ache bite into thy cheeks?
was it not dark before thine eyes?
and besides all that, has not my own brother sleep reminded thee every night of me?
didst thou not lie by night as if thou wert already dead?
the man could make no answer; he yielded to his fate, and went away with death.
178 master pfriem (master cobbler’s awl)
master pfriem was a short, thin, but lively man, who never rested a moment.
his face, of which his turned-up nose was the only prominent feature, was marked with small-pox and pale as death, his hair was gray and shaggy, his eyes small, but they glanced perpetually about on all sides.
he saw everything, criticised everything, knew everything best, and was always in the right.
when he went into the streets, he moved his arms about as if he were rowing; and once he struck the pail of a girl, who was carrying water, so high in the air that he himself was wetted all over by it.
“stupid thing,” cried he to her, while he was shaking himself, “couldst thou not see that i was coming behind thee?”
by trade he was a shoemaker, and when he worked he pulled his thread out with such force that he drove his fist into every one who did not keep far enough off.
no apprentice stayed more than a month with him, for he had always some fault to find with the very best work.
at one time it was that the stitches were not even, at another that one shoe was too long, or one heel higher than the other, or the leather not cut large enough.
“wait,” said he to his apprentice, “i will soon show thee how we make skins soft,” and he brought a strap and gave him a couple of strokes across the back.
he called them all sluggards.
he himself did not turn much work out of his hands, for he never sat still for a quarter of an hour.
if his wife got up very early in the morning and lighted the fire, he jumped out of bed, and ran bare-footed into the kitchen, crying, “wilt thou burn my house down for me?
that is a fire one could roast an ox by!
does wood cost nothing?” if the servants were standing by their wash-tubs and laughing, and telling each other all they knew, he scolded them, and said, “there stand the geese cackling, and forgetting their work, to gossip!
and why fresh soap?
disgraceful extravagance and shameful idleness into the bargain!
they want to save their hands, and not rub the things properly!” and out he would run and knock a pail full of soap and water over, so that the whole kitchen was flooded.
someone was building a new house, so he hurried to the window to look on.
“there, they are using that red sand-stone again that never dries!” cried he.
“no one will ever be healthy in that house!
and just look how badly the fellows are laying the stones!
besides, the mortar is good for nothing!
it ought to have gravel in it, not sand.
i shall live to see that house tumble down on the people who are in it.” he sat down, put a couple of stitches in, and then jumped up again, unfastened his leather-apron, and cried, “i will just go out, and appeal to those men’s consciences.” he stumbled on the carpenters.
“what’s this?” cried he, “you are not working by the line!
do you expect the beams to be straight?—one wrong will put all wrong.” he snatched an axe out of a carpenter’s hand and wanted to show him how he ought to cut; but as a cart loaded with clay came by, he threw the axe away, and hastened to the peasant who was walking by the side of it: “you are not in your right mind,” said he, “who yokes young horses to a heavily-laden cart?
the poor beasts will die on the spot.” the peasant did not give him an answer, and pfriem in a rage ran back into his workshop.
when he was setting himself to work again, the apprentice reached him a shoe.
“well, what’s that again?” screamed he, “haven’t i told you you ought not to cut shoes so broad?
who would buy a shoe like this, which is hardly anything else but a sole?
i insist on my orders being followed exactly.” “master,” answered the apprentice, “you may easily be quite right about the shoe being a bad one, but it is the one which you yourself cut out, and yourself set to work at.
when you jumped up a while since, you knocked it off the table, and i have only just picked it up.
an angel from heaven, however, would never make you believe that.”
one night master pfriem dreamed he was dead, and on his way to heaven.
when he got there, he knocked loudly at the door.
“i wonder,” said he to himself, “that they have no knocker on the door,—one knocks one’s knuckles sore.” the apostle peter opened the door, and wanted to see who demanded admission so noisily.
“ah, it’s you, master pfriem;” said he, “well, i’ll let you in, but i warn you that you must give up that habit of yours, and find fault with nothing you see in heaven, or you may fare ill.” “you might have spared your warning,” answered pfriem.
“i know already what is seemly, and here, god be thanked, everything is perfect, and there is nothing to blame as there is on earth.” so he went in, and walked up and down the wide expanses of heaven.
he looked around him, to the left and to the right, but sometimes shook his head, or muttered something to himself.
then he saw two angels who were carrying away a beam.
it was the beam which some one had had in his own eye whilst he was looking for the splinter in the eye of another.
they did not, however, carry the beam lengthways, but obliquely.
“did any one ever see such a piece of stupidity?” thought master pfriem; but he said nothing, and seemed satisfied with it.
“it comes to the same thing after all, whichever way they carry the beam, straight or crooked, if they only get along with it, and truly i do not see them knock against anything.” soon after this he saw two angels who were drawing water out of a well into a bucket, but at the same time he observed that the bucket was full of holes, and that the water was running out of it on every side.
they were watering the earth with rain.
“hang it,” he exclaimed; but happily recollected himself, and thought, “perhaps it is only a pastime.
if it is an amusement, then it seems they can do useless things of this kind even here in heaven, where people, as i have already noticed, do nothing but idle about.” he went farther and saw a cart which had stuck fast in a deep hole.
“it’s no wonder,” said he to the man who stood by it; “who would load so unreasonably?
what have you there?” “good wishes,” replied the man, “i could not go along the right way with it, but still i have pushed it safely up here, and they won’t leave me sticking here.” in fact an angel did come and harnessed two horses to it.
“that’s quite right,” thought pfriem, “but two horses won’t get that cart out, it must at least have four to it.”
another angel came and brought two more horses; she did not, however, harness them in front of it, but behind.
that was too much for master pfriem, “clumsy creature,” he burst out with, “what are you doing there?
has any one ever since the world began seen a cart drawn in that way?
but you, in your conceited arrogance, think that you know everything best.” he was going to say more, but one of the inhabitants of heaven seized him by the throat and pushed him forth with irresistible strength.
beneath the gateway master pfriem turned his head round to take one more look at the cart, and saw that it was being raised into the air by four winged horses.
at this moment master pfriem awoke.
“things are certainly arranged in heaven otherwise than they are on earth,” said he to himself, “and that excuses much; but who can see horses harnessed both behind and before with patience; to be sure they had wings, but who could know that?
it is, besides, great folly to fix a pair of wings to a horse that has four legs to run with already!
but i must get up, or else they will make nothing but mistakes for me in my house.
it is a lucky thing for me though, that i am not really dead.”
179 the goose-girl at the well
there was once upon a time a very old woman, who lived with her flock of geese in a waste place among the mountains, and there had a little house.
the waste was surrounded by a large forest, and every morning the old woman took her crutch and hobbled into it.
there, however, the dame was quite active, more so than any one would have thought, considering her age, and collected grass for her geese, picked all the wild fruit she could reach, and carried everything home on her back.
any one would have thought that the heavy load would have weighed her to the ground, but she always brought it safely home.
if any one met her, she greeted him quite courteously.
“good day, dear countryman, it is a fine day.
ah!
you wonder that i should drag grass about, but every one must take his burthen on his back.” nevertheless, people did not like to meet her if they could help it, and took by preference a round-about way, and when a father with his boys passed her, he whispered to them, “beware of the old woman.
she has claws beneath her gloves; she is a witch.” one morning, a handsome young man was going through the forest.
the sun shone bright, the birds sang, a cool breeze crept through the leaves, and he was full of joy and gladness.
he had as yet met no one, when he suddenly perceived the old witch kneeling on the ground cutting grass with a sickle.
she had already thrust a whole load into her cloth, and near it stood two baskets, which were filled with wild apples and pears.
“but, good little mother,” said he, “how canst thou carry all that away?” “i must carry it, dear sir,” answered she, “rich folk’s children have no need to do such things, but with the peasant folk the saying goes, don’t look behind you, you will only see how crooked your back is!”
“will you help me?” she said, as he remained standing by her.
“you have still a straight back and young legs, it would be a trifle to you.
besides, my house is not so very far from here, it stands there on the heath behind the hill.
how soon you would bound up thither.” the young man took compassion on the old woman.
“my father is certainly no peasant,” replied he, “but a rich count; nevertheless, that you may see that it is not only peasants who can carry things, i will take your bundle.” “if you will try it,” said she, “i shall be very glad.
you will certainly have to walk for an hour, but what will that signify to you; only you must carry the apples and pears as well?” it now seemed to the young man just a little serious, when he heard of an hour’s walk, but the old woman would not let him off, packed the bundle on his back, and hung the two baskets on his arm.
“see, it is quite light,”
said she.
“no, it is not light,” answered the count, and pulled a rueful face.
“verily, the bundle weighs as heavily as if it were full of cobble stones, and the apples and pears are as heavy as lead!
i can scarcely breathe.” he had a mind to put everything down again, but the old woman would not allow it.
“just look,” said she mockingly, “the young gentleman will not carry what i, an old woman, have so often dragged along.
you are ready with fine words, but when it comes to be earnest, you want to take to your heels.
why are you standing loitering there?” she continued.
“step out.
no one will take the bundle off again.” as long as he walked on level ground, it was still bearable, but when they came to the hill and had to climb, and the stones rolled down under his feet as if they were alive, it was beyond his strength.
the drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, and ran, hot and cold, down his back.
“dame,” said he, “i can go no farther.
i want to rest a little.” “not here,” answered the old woman, “when we have arrived at our journey’s end, you can rest; but now you must go forward.
who knows what good it may do you?” “old woman, thou art becoming shameless!”
said the count, and tried to throw off the bundle, but he laboured in vain; it stuck as fast to his back as if it grew there.
he turned and twisted, but he could not get rid of it.
the old woman laughed at this, and sprang about quite delighted on her crutch.
“don’t get angry, dear sir,” said she, “you are growing as red in the face as a turkey-cock!
carry your bundle patiently.
i will give you a good present when we get home.”
what could he do?
he was obliged to submit to his fate, and crawl along patiently behind the old woman.
she seemed to grow more and more nimble, and his burden still heavier.
all at once she made a spring, jumped on to the bundle and seated herself on the top of it; and however withered she might be, she was yet heavier than the stoutest country lass.
the youth’s knees trembled, but when he did not go on, the old woman hit him about the legs with a switch and with stinging-nettles.
groaning continually, he climbed the mountain, and at length reached the old woman’s house, when he was just about to drop.
when the geese perceived the old woman, they flapped their wings, stretched out their necks, ran to meet her, cackling all the while.
behind the flock walked, stick in hand, an old wench, strong and big, but ugly as night.
“good mother,” said she to the old woman, “has anything happened to you, you have stayed away so long?” “by no means, my dear daughter,” answered she, “i have met with nothing bad, but, on the contrary, with this kind gentleman, who has carried my burthen for me; only think, he even took me on his back when i was tired.
the way, too, has not seemed long to us; we have been merry, and have been cracking jokes with each other all the time.” at last the old woman slid down, took the bundle off the young man’s back, and the baskets from his arm, looked at him quite kindly, and said, “now seat yourself on the bench before the door, and rest.
you have fairly earned your wages, and they shall not be wanting.” then she said to the goose-girl, “go into the house, my dear daughter, it is not becoming for thee to be alone with a young gentleman; one must not pour oil on to the fire, he might fall in love with thee.” the count knew not whether to laugh or to cry.
“such a sweetheart as that,” thought he, “could not touch my heart, even if she were thirty years younger.” in the meantime the old woman stroked and fondled her geese as if they were children, and then went into the house with her daughter.
the youth lay down on the bench, under a wild apple-tree.
the air was warm and mild; on all sides stretched a green meadow, which was set with cowslips, wild thyme, and a thousand other flowers; through the midst of it rippled a clear brook on which the sun sparkled, and the white geese went walking backwards and forwards, or paddled in the water.
“it is quite delightful here,”
said he, “but i am so tired that i cannot keep my eyes open; i will sleep a little.
if only a gust of wind does not come and blow my legs off my body, for they are as rotten as tinder.”
when he had slept a little while, the old woman came and shook him till he awoke.
“sit up,” said she, “thou canst not stay here; i have certainly treated thee hardly, still it has not cost thee thy life.
of money and land thou hast no need, here is something else for thee.”
thereupon she thrust a little book into his hand, which was cut out of a single emerald.
“take great care of it,” said she, “it will bring thee good fortune.” the count sprang up, and as he felt that he was quite fresh, and had recovered his vigor, he thanked the old woman for her present, and set off without even once looking back at the beautiful daughter.
when he was already some way off, he still heard in the distance the noisy cry of the geese.
for three days the count had to wander in the wilderness before he could find his way out.
he then reached a large town, and as no one knew him, he was led into the royal palace, where the king and queen were sitting on their throne.
the count fell on one knee, drew the emerald book out of his pocket, and laid it at the queen’s feet.
she bade him rise and hand her the little book.
hardly, however, had she opened it, and looked therein, than she fell as if dead to the ground.
the count was seized by the king’s servants, and was being led to prison, when the queen opened her eyes, and ordered them to release him, and every one was to go out, as she wished to speak with him in private.
when the queen was alone, she began to weep bitterly, and said, “of what use to me are the splendours and honours with which i am surrounded; every morning i awake in pain and sorrow.
i had three daughters, the youngest of whom was so beautiful that the whole world looked on her as a wonder.
she was as white as snow, as rosy as apple-blossom, and her hair as radiant as sun-beams.
when she cried, not tears fell from her eyes, but pearls and jewels only.
when she was fifteen years old, the king summoned all three sisters to come before his throne.
you should have seen how all the people gazed when the youngest entered, it was just as if the sun were rising!
then the king spoke, “my daughters, i know not when my last day may arrive; i will to-day decide what each shall receive at my death.
you all love me, but the one of you who loves me best, shall fare the best.” each of them said she loved him best.
“can you not express to me,” said the king, “how much you do love me, and thus i shall see what you mean?” the eldest spoke.
“i love my father as dearly as the sweetest sugar.” the second, “i love my father as dearly as my prettiest dress.” but the youngest was silent.
then the father said, “and thou, my dearest child, how much dost thou love me?” “i do not know, and can compare my love with nothing.” but her father insisted that she should name something.
so she said at last, “the best food does not please me without salt, therefore i love my father like salt.” when the king heard that, he fell into a passion, and said, “if thou lovest me like salt, thy love shall also be repaid thee with salt.” then he divided the kingdom between the two elder, but caused a sack of salt to be bound on the back of the youngest, and two servants had to lead her forth into the wild forest.
we all begged and prayed for her, said the queen, “but the king’s anger was not to be appeased.
how she cried when she had to leave us!
the whole road was strewn with the pearls which flowed from her eyes.
the king soon afterwards repented of his great severity, and had the whole forest searched for the poor child, but no one could find her.
when i think that the wild beasts have devoured her, i know not how to contain myself for sorrow; many a time i console myself with the hope that she is still alive, and may have hidden herself in a cave, or has found shelter with compassionate people.
but picture to yourself, when i opened your little emerald book, a pearl lay therein, of exactly the same kind as those which used to fall from my daughter’s eyes; and then you can also imagine how the sight of it stirred my heart.
you must tell me how you came by that pearl.” the count told her that he had received it from the old woman in the forest, who had appeared very strange to him, and must be a witch, but he had neither seen nor hear anything of the queen’s child.
the king and the queen resolved to seek out the old woman.
they thought that there where the pearl had been, they would obtain news of their daughter.
the old woman was sitting in that lonely place at her spinning-wheel, spinning.
it was already dusk, and a log which was burning on the hearth gave a scanty light.
all at once there was a noise outside, the geese were coming home from the pasture, and uttering their hoarse cries.
soon afterwards the daughter also entered.
but the old woman scarcely thanked her, and only shook her head a little.
the daughter sat down beside her, took her spinning-wheel, and twisted the threads as nimbly as a young girl.
thus they both sat for two hours, and exchanged never a word.
at last something rustled at the window, and two fiery eyes peered in.
it was an old night-owl, which cried, “uhu!”
three times.
the old woman looked up just a little, then she said, “now, my little daughter, it is time for thee to go out and do thy work.” she rose and went out, and where did she go?
over the meadows ever onward into the valley.
at last she came to a well, with three old oak-trees standing beside it; meanwhile the moon had risen large and round over the mountain, and it was so light that one could have found a needle.
she removed a skin which covered her face, then bent down to the well, and began to wash herself.
when she had finished, she dipped the skin also in the water, and then laid it on the meadow, so that it should bleach in the moonlight, and dry again.
but how the maiden was changed!
such a change as that was never seen before!
when the gray mask fell off, her golden hair broke forth like sunbeams, and spread about like a mantle over her whole form.
her eyes shone out as brightly as the stars in heaven, and her cheeks bloomed a soft red like apple-blossom.
but the fair maiden was sad.
she sat down and wept bitterly.
one tear after another forced itself out of her eyes, and rolled through her long hair to the ground.
there she sat, and would have remained sitting a long time, if there had not been a rustling and cracking in the boughs of the neighbouring tree.
she sprang up like a roe which has been overtaken by the shot of the hunter.
just then the moon was obscured by a dark cloud, and in an instant the maiden had put on the old skin and vanished, like a light blown out by the wind.
she ran back home, trembling like an aspen-leaf.
the old woman was standing on the threshold, and the girl was about to relate what had befallen her, but the old woman laughed kindly, and said, “i already know all.” she led her into the room and lighted a new log.
she did not, however, sit down to her spinning again, but fetched a broom and began to sweep and scour, “all must be clean and sweet,” she said to the girl.
“but, mother,” said the maiden, “why do you begin work at so late an hour?
what do you expect?” “dost thou know then what time it is?” asked the old woman.
“not yet midnight,” answered the maiden, “but already past eleven o’clock.” “dost thou not remember,” continued the old woman, “that it is three years to-day since thou camest to me?
thy time is up, we can no longer remain together.” the girl was terrified, and said, “alas!
dear mother, will you cast me off?
where shall i go?
i have no friends, and no home to which i can go.
i have always done as you bade me, and you have always been satisfied with me; do not send me away.” the old woman would not tell the maiden what lay before her.
“my stay here is over,” she said to her, “but when i depart, house and parlour must be clean: therefore do not hinder me in my work.
have no care for thyself, thou shalt find a roof to shelter thee, and the wages which i will give thee shall also content thee.” “but tell me what is about to happen,” the maiden continued to entreat.
“i tell thee again, do not hinder me in my work.
do not say a word more, go to thy chamber, take the skin off thy face, and put on the silken gown which thou hadst on when thou camest to me, and then wait in thy chamber until i call thee.”
but i must once more tell of the king and queen, who had journeyed forth with the count in order to seek out the old woman in the wilderness.
the count had strayed away from them in the wood by night, and had to walk onwards alone.
next day it seemed to him that he was on the right track.
he still went forward, until darkness came on, then he climbed a tree, intending to pass the night there, for he feared that he might lose his way.
when the moon illumined the surrounding country he perceived a figure coming down the mountain.
she had no stick in her hand, but yet he could see that it was the goose-girl, whom he had seen before in the house of the old woman.
“oho,” cried he, “there she comes, and if i once get hold of one of the witches, the other shall not escape me!” but how astonished he was, when she went to the well, took off the skin and washed herself, when her golden hair fell down all about her, and she was more beautiful than any one whom he had ever seen in the whole world.
he hardly dared to breathe, but stretched his head as far forward through the leaves as he dared, and stared at her.
either he bent over too far, or whatever the cause might be, the bough suddenly cracked, and that very moment the maiden slipped into the skin, sprang away like a roe, and as the moon was suddenly covered, disappeared from his eyes.
hardly had she disappeared, before the count descended from the tree, and hastened after her with nimble steps.
he had not been gone long before he saw, in the twilight, two figures coming over the meadow.
it was the king and queen, who had perceived from a distance the light shining in the old woman’s little house, and were going to it.
the count told them what wonderful things he had seen by the well, and they did not doubt that it had been their lost daughter.
they walked onwards full of joy, and soon came to the little house.
the geese were sitting all round it, and had thrust their heads under their wings and were sleeping, and not one of them moved.
the king and queen looked in at the window, the old woman was sitting there quite quietly spinning, nodding her head and never looking round.
the room was perfectly clean, as if the little mist men, who carry no dust on their feet, lived there.
their daughter, however, they did not see.
they gazed at all this for a long time, at last they took heart, and knocked softly at the window.
the old woman appeared to have been expecting them; she rose, and called out quite kindly, “come in,—i know you already.” when they had entered the room, the old woman said, “you might have spared yourself the long walk, if you had not three years ago unjustly driven away your child, who is so good and lovable.
no harm has come to her; for three years she has had to tend the geese; with them she has learnt no evil, but has preserved her purity of heart.
you, however, have been sufficiently punished by the misery in which you have lived.” then she went to the chamber and called, “come out, my little daughter.” thereupon the door opened, and the princess stepped out in her silken garments, with her golden hair and her shining eyes, and it was as if an angel from heaven had entered.
she went up to her father and mother, fell on their necks and kissed them; there was no help for it, they all had to weep for joy.
the young count stood near them, and when she perceived him she became as red in the face as a moss-rose, she herself did not know why.
the king said, “my dear child, i have given away my kingdom, what shall i give thee?”
“she needs nothing,” said the old woman.
“i give her the tears that she has wept on your account; they are precious pearls, finer than those that are found in the sea, and worth more than your whole kingdom, and i give her my little house as payment for her services.” when the old woman had said that, she disappeared from their sight.
the walls rattled a little, and when the king and queen looked round, the little house had changed into a splendid palace, a royal table had been spread, and the servants were running hither and thither.
the story goes still further, but my grandmother, who related it to me, had partly lost her memory, and had forgotten the rest.
i shall always believe that the beautiful princess married the count, and that they remained together in the palace, and lived there in all happiness so long as god willed it.
whether the snow-white geese, which were kept near the little hut, were verily young maidens (no one need take offence,) whom the old woman had taken under her protection, and whether they now received their human form again, and stayed as handmaids to the young queen, i do not exactly know, but i suspect it.
this much is certain, that the old woman was no witch, as people thought, but a wise woman, who meant well.
very likely it was she who, at the princess’s birth, gave her the gift of weeping pearls instead of tears.
that does not happen now-a-days, or else the poor would soon become rich.
180 eve’s various children
when adam and eve were driven out of paradise, they were compelled to build a house for themselves on unfruitful ground, and eat their bread in the sweat of their brow.
adam dug up the land, and eve span.
every year eve brought a child into the world; but the children were unlike each other, some pretty, and some ugly.
after a considerable time had gone by, god sent an angel to them, to announce that he was coming to inspect their household.
eve, delighted that the lord should be so gracious, cleaned her house diligently, decked it with flowers, and strewed reeds on the floor.
then she brought in her children, but only the beautiful ones.
she washed and bathed them, combed their hair, put clean raiment on them, and cautioned them to conduct themselves decorously and modestly in the presence of the lord.
they were to bow down before him civilly, hold out their hands, and to answer his questions modestly and sensibly.
the ugly children were, however, not to let themselves be seen.
one hid himself beneath the hay, another under the roof, a third in the straw, the fourth in the stove, the fifth in the cellar, the sixth under a tub, the seventh beneath the wine-cask, the eighth under an old fur cloak, the ninth and tenth beneath the cloth out of which she always made their clothes, and the eleventh and twelfth under the leather out of which she cut their shoes.
she had scarcely got ready, before there was a knock at the house-door.
adam looked through a chink, and saw that it was the lord.
adam opened the door respectfully, and the heavenly father entered.
there, in a row, stood the pretty children, and bowed before him, held out their hands, and knelt down.
the lord, however, began to bless them, laid his hands on the first, and said, “thou shalt be a powerful king;” and to the second, “thou a prince,” to the third, “thou a count,” to the fourth, “thou a knight,” to the fifth, “thou a nobleman,” to the sixth, “thou a burgher,” to the seventh, “thou a merchant,” to the eighth, “thou a learned man.” he bestowed upon them also all his richest blessings.
when eve saw that the lord was so mild and gracious, she thought, “i will bring hither my ill-favoured children also, it may be that he will bestow his blessing on them likewise.” so she ran and brought them out of the hay, the straw, the stove, and wherever else she had concealed them.
then came the whole coarse, dirty, shabby, sooty band.
the lord smiled, looked at them all, and said, “i will bless these also.” he laid his hands on the first, and said to him, “thou shalt be a peasant,” to the second, “thou a fisherman,” to the third, “thou a smith,” to the fourth, “thou a tanner,” to the fifth, “thou a weaver,” to the sixth, “thou a shoemaker,” to the seventh, “thou a tailor,” to the eighth, “thou a potter,” to the ninth, “thou a waggoner,” to the tenth, “thou a sailor,” to the eleventh, “thou an errand-boy,” to the twelfth, “thou a scullion all the days of thy life.”
when eve had heard all this she said, “lord, how unequally thou dividest thy gifts!
after all they are all of them my children, whom i have brought into the world, thy favours should be given to all alike.”
but god answered, “eve, thou dost not understand.
it is right and necessary that the entire world should be supplied from thy children; if they were all princes and lords, who would grow corn, thresh it, grind and bake it?
who would be blacksmiths, weavers, carpenters, masons, labourers, tailors and seamstresses?
each shall have his own place, so that one shall support the other, and all shall be fed like the limbs of one body.” then eve answered, “ah, lord, forgive me, i was too quick in speaking to thee.
have thy divine will with my children.”
181 the nix of the mill-pond
there was once upon a time a miller who lived with his wife in great contentment.
they had money and land, and their prosperity increased year by year more and more.
but ill-luck comes like a thief in the night, as their wealth had increased so did it again decrease, year by year, and at last the miller could hardly call the mill in which he lived, his own.
he was in great distress, and when he lay down after his day’s work, found no rest, but tossed about in his bed, full of care.
one morning he rose before daybreak and went out into the open air, thinking that perhaps there his heart might become lighter.
as he was stepping over the mill-dam the first sunbeam was just breaking forth, and he heard a rippling sound in the pond.
he turned round and perceived a beautiful woman, rising slowly out of the water.
her long hair, which she was holding off her shoulders with her soft hands, fell down on both sides, and covered her white body.
he soon saw that she was the nix of the mill-pond, and in his fright did not know whether he should run away or stay where he was.
but the nix made her sweet voice heard, called him by his name, and asked him why he was so sad?
the miller was at first struck dumb, but when he heard her speak so kindly, he took heart, and told her how he had formerly lived in wealth and happiness, but that now he was so poor that he did not know what to do.
“be easy,” answered the nix, “i will make thee richer and happier than thou hast ever been before, only thou must promise to give me the young thing which has just been born in thy house.” “what else can that be,”
thought the miller, “but a young puppy or kitten?” and he promised her what she desired.
the nix descended into the water again, and he hurried back to his mill, consoled and in good spirits.
he had not yet reached it, when the maid-servant came out of the house, and cried to him to rejoice, for his wife had given birth to a little boy.
the miller stood as if struck by lightning; he saw very well that the cunning nix had been aware of it, and had cheated him.
hanging his head, he went up to his wife’s bedside and when she said, “why dost thou not rejoice over the fine boy?” he told her what had befallen him, and what kind of a promise he had given to the nix.
“of what use to me are riches and prosperity?” he added, “if i am to lose my child; but what can i do?” even the relations, who had come thither to wish them joy, did not know what to say.
in the meantime prosperity again returned to the miller’s house.
all that he undertook succeeded, it was as if presses and coffers filled themselves of their own accord, and as if money multiplied nightly in the cupboards.
it was not long before his wealth was greater than it had ever been before.
but he could not rejoice over it untroubled, for the bargain which he had made with the nix tormented his soul.
whenever he passed the mill-pond, he feared she might ascend and remind him of his debt.
he never let the boy himself go near the water.
“beware,” he said to him, “if thou dost but touch the water, a hand will rise, seize thee, and draw thee down.” but as year after year went by and the nix did not show herself again, the miller began to feel at ease.
the boy grew up to be a youth and was apprenticed to a huntsman.
when he had learnt everything, and had become an excellent huntsman, the lord of the village took him into his service.
in the village lived a beautiful and true-hearted maiden, who pleased the huntsman, and when his master perceived that, he gave him a little house, the two were married, lived peacefully and happily, and loved each other with all their hearts.
one day the huntsman was chasing a roe; and when the animal turned aside from the forest into the open country, he pursued it and at last shot it.
he did not notice that he was now in the neighbourhood of the dangerous mill-pond, and went, after he had disembowelled the stag, to the water, in order to wash his blood-stained hands.
scarcely, however, had he dipped them in than the nix ascended, smilingly wound her dripping arms around him, and drew him quickly down under the waves, which closed over him.
when it was evening, and the huntsman did not return home, his wife became alarmed.
she went out to seek him, and as he had often told her that he had to be on his guard against the snares of the nix, and dared not venture into the neighbourhood of the mill-pond, she already suspected what had happened.
she hastened to the water, and when she found his hunting-pouch lying on the shore, she could no longer have any doubt of the misfortune.
lamenting her sorrow, and wringing her hands, she called on her beloved by name, but in vain.
she hurried across to the other side of the pond, and called him anew; she reviled the nix with harsh words, but no answer followed.
the surface of the water remained calm, only the crescent moon stared steadily back at her.
the poor woman did not leave the pond.
with hasty steps, she paced round and round it, without resting a moment, sometimes in silence, sometimes uttering a loud cry, sometimes softly sobbing.
at last her strength came to an end, she sank down to the ground and fell into a heavy sleep.
presently a dream took possession of her.
she was anxiously climbing upwards between great masses of rock; thorns and briars caught her feet, the rain beat in her face, and the wind tossed her long hair about.
when she had reached the summit, quite a different sight presented itself to her; the sky was blue, the air soft, the ground sloped gently downwards, and on a green meadow, gay with flowers of every colour, stood a pretty cottage.
she went up to it and opened the door; there sat an old woman with white hair, who beckoned to her kindly.
at that very moment, the poor woman awoke, day had already dawned, and she at once resolved to act in accordance with her dream.
she laboriously climbed the mountain; everything was exactly as she had seen it in the night.
the old woman received her kindly, and pointed out a chair on which she might sit.
“thou must have met with a misfortune,” she said, “since thou hast sought out my lonely cottage.”
with tears, the woman related what had befallen her.
“be comforted,”
said the old woman, “i will help thee.
here is a golden comb for thee.
tarry till the full moon has risen, then go to the mill-pond, seat thyself on the shore, and comb thy long black hair with this comb.
when thou hast done, lay it down on the bank, and thou wilt see what will happen.” the woman returned home, but the time till the full moon came, passed slowly.
at last the shining disc appeared in the heavens, then she went out to the mill-pond, sat down and combed her long black hair with the golden comb, and when she had finished, she laid it down at the water’s edge.
it was not long before there was a movement in the depths, a wave rose, rolled to the shore, and bore the comb away with it.
in not more than the time necessary for the comb to sink to the bottom, the surface of the water parted, and the head of the huntsman arose.
he did not speak, but looked at his wife with sorrowful glances.
at the same instant, a second wave came rushing up, and covered the man’s head.
all had vanished, the mill-pond lay peaceful as before, and nothing but the face of the full moon shone on it.
full of sorrow, the woman went back, but again the dream showed her the cottage of the old woman.
next morning she again set out and complained of her woes to the wise woman.
the old woman gave her a golden flute, and said, “tarry till the full moon comes again, then take this flute; play a beautiful air on it, and when thou hast finished, lay it on the sand; then thou wilt see what will happen.” the wife did as the old woman told her.
no sooner was the flute lying on the sand than there was a stirring in the depths, and a wave rushed up and bore the flute away with it.
immediately afterwards the water parted, and not only the head of the man, but half of his body also arose.
he stretched out his arms longingly towards her, but a second wave came up, covered him, and drew him down again.
“alas, what does it profit me?” said the unhappy woman, “that i should see my beloved, only to lose him again!” despair filled her heart anew, but the dream led her a third time to the house of the old woman.
she set out, and the wise woman gave her a golden spinning-wheel, consoled her and said, “all is not yet fulfilled, tarry until the time of the full moon, then take the spinning-wheel, seat thyself on the shore, and spin the spool full, and when thou hast done that, place the spinning-wheel near the water, and thou wilt see what will happen.” the woman obeyed all she said exactly; as soon as the full moon showed itself, she carried the golden spinning-wheel to the shore, and span industriously until the flax came to an end, and the spool was quite filled with the threads.
no sooner was the wheel standing on the shore than there was a more violent movement than before in the depths of the pond, and a mighty wave rushed up, and bore the wheel away with it.
immediately the head and the whole body of the man rose into the air, in a water-spout.
he quickly sprang to the shore, caught his wife by the hand and fled.
but they had scarcely gone a very little distance, when the whole pond rose with a frightful roar, and streamed out over the open country.
the fugitives already saw death before their eyes, when the woman in her terror implored the help of the old woman, and in an instant they were transformed, she into a toad, he into a frog.
the flood which had overtaken them could not destroy them, but it tore them apart and carried them far away.
when the water had dispersed and they both touched dry land again, they regained their human form, but neither knew where the other was; they found themselves among strange people, who did not know their native land.
high mountains and deep valleys lay between them.
in order to keep themselves alive, they were both obliged to tend sheep.
for many long years they drove their flocks through field and forest and were full of sorrow and longing.
when spring had once more broken forth on the earth, they both went out one day with their flocks, and as chance would have it, they drew near each other.
they met in a valley, but did not recognize each other; yet they rejoiced that they were no longer so lonely.
henceforth they each day drove their flocks to the same place; they did not speak much, but they felt comforted.
one evening when the full moon was shining in the sky, and the sheep were already at rest, the shepherd pulled the flute out of his pocket, and played on it a beautiful but sorrowful air.
when he had finished he saw that the shepherdess was weeping bitterly.
“why art thou weeping?” he asked.
“alas,” answered she, “thus shone the full moon when i played this air on the flute for the last time, and the head of my beloved rose out of the water.” he looked at her, and it seemed as if a veil fell from his eyes, and he recognized his dear wife, and when she looked at him, and the moon shone in his face she knew him also.
they embraced and kissed each other, and no one need ask if they were happy.
182 the little folks’ presents
a tailor and a goldsmith were travelling together, and one evening when the sun had sunk behind the mountains, they heard the sound of distant music, which became more and more distinct.
it sounded strange, but so pleasant that they forgot all their weariness and stepped quickly onwards.
the moon had already arisen when they reached a hill on which they saw a crowd of little men and women, who had taken each other’s hands, and were whirling round in the dance with the greatest pleasure and delight.
they sang to it most charmingly, and that was the music which the travellers had heard.
in the midst of them sat an old man who was rather taller than the rest.
he wore a parti-coloured coat, and his iron-grey beard hung down over his breast.
the two remained standing full of astonishment, and watched the dance.
the old man made a sign that they should enter, and the little folks willingly opened their circle.
the goldsmith, who had a hump, and like all hunchbacks was brave enough, stepped in; the tailor felt a little afraid at first, and held back, but when he saw how merrily all was going, he plucked up his courage, and followed.
the circle closed again directly, and the little folks went on singing and dancing with the wildest leaps.
the old man, however, took a large knife which hung to his girdle, whetted it, and when it was sufficiently sharpened, he looked round at the strangers.
they were terrified, but they had not much time for reflection, for the old man seized the goldsmith and with the greatest speed, shaved the hair of his head clean off, and then the same thing happened to the tailor.
but their fear left them when, after he had finished his work, the old man clapped them both on the shoulder in a friendly manner, as much as to say, they had behaved well to let all that be done to them willingly, and without any struggle.
he pointed with his finger to a heap of coals which lay at one side, and signified to the travellers by his gestures that they were to fill their pockets with them.
both of them obeyed, although they did not know of what use the coals would be to them, and then they went on their way to seek a shelter for the night.
when they had got into the valley, the clock of the neighbouring monastery struck twelve, and the song ceased.
in a moment all had vanished, and the hill lay in solitude in the moonlight.
the two travellers found an inn, and covered themselves up on their straw-beds with their coats, but in their weariness forgot to take the coals out of them before doing so.
a heavy weight on their limbs awakened them earlier than usual.
they felt in the pockets, and could not believe their eyes when they saw that they were not filled with coals, but with pure gold; happily, too, the hair of their heads and beards was there again as thick as ever.
they had now become rich folks, but the goldsmith, who, in accordance with his greedy disposition, had filled his pockets better, was as rich again as the tailor.
a greedy man, even if he has much, still wishes to have more, so the goldsmith proposed to the tailor that they should wait another day, and go out again in the evening in order to bring back still greater treasures from the old man on the hill.
the tailor refused, and said, “i have enough and am content; now i shall be a master, and marry my dear object (for so he called his sweetheart), and i am a happy man.” but he stayed another day to please him.
in the evening the goldsmith hung a couple of bags over his shoulders that he might be able to stow away a great deal, and took the road to the hill.
he found, as on the night before, the little folks at their singing and dancing, and the old man again shaved him clean, and signed to him to take some coal away with him.
he was not slow about sticking as much into his bags as would go, went back quite delighted, and covered himself over with his coat.
“even if the gold does weigh heavily,” said he, “i will gladly bear that,” and at last he fell asleep with the sweet anticipation of waking in the morning an enormously rich man.
when he opened his eyes, he got up in haste to examine his pockets, but how amazed he was when he drew nothing out of them but black coals, and that howsoever often he put his hands in them.
“the gold i got the night before is still there for me,” thought he, and went and brought it out, but how shocked he was when he saw that it likewise had again turned into coal.
he smote his forehead with his dusty black hand, and then he felt that his whole head was bald and smooth, as was also the place where his beard should have been.
but his misfortunes were not yet over; he now remarked for the first time that in addition to the hump on his back, a second, just as large, had grown in front on his breast.
then he recognized the punishment of his greediness, and began to weep aloud.
the good tailor, who was wakened by this, comforted the unhappy fellow as well as he could, and said, “thou hast been my comrade in my travelling time; thou shalt stay with me and share in my wealth.” he kept his word, but the poor goldsmith was obliged to carry the two humps as long as he lived, and to cover his bald head with a cap.
183 the giant and the tailor
a certain tailor who was great at boasting but ill at doing, took it into his head to go abroad for a while, and look about the world.
as soon as he could manage it, he left his workshop, and wandered on his way, over hill and dale, sometimes hither, sometimes thither, but ever on and on.
once when he was out he perceived in the blue distance a steep hill, and behind it a tower reaching to the clouds, which rose up out of a wild dark forest.
“thunder and lightning,” cried the tailor, “what is that?” and as he was strongly goaded by curiosity, he went boldly towards it.
but what made the tailor open his eyes and mouth when he came near it, was to see that the tower had legs, and leapt in one bound over the steep hill, and was now standing as an all powerful giant before him.
“what dost thou want here, thou tiny fly’s leg?”
cried the giant, with a voice as if it were thundering on every side.
the tailor whimpered, “i want just to look about and see if i can earn a bit of bread for myself, in this forest.” “if that is what thou art after,” said the giant, “thou mayst have a place with me.” “if it must be, why not?
what wages shall i receive?” “thou shalt hear what wages thou shalt have.
every year three hundred and sixty-five days, and when it is leap-year, one more into the bargain.
does that suit thee?” “all right,” replied the tailor, and thought, in his own mind, “a man must cut his coat according to his cloth; i will try to get away as fast as i can.” on this the giant said to him, “go, little ragamuffin, and fetch me a jug of water.” “had i not better bring the well itself at once, and the spring too?” asked the boaster, and went with the pitcher to the water.
“what!
the well and the spring too,” growled the giant in his beard, for he was rather clownish and stupid, and began to be afraid.
“that knave is not a fool, he has a wizard in his body.
be on thy guard, old hans, this is no serving-man for thee.” when the tailor had brought the water, the giant bade him go into the forest, and cut a couple of blocks of wood and bring them back.
“why not the whole forest, at once, with one stroke.
the whole forest, young and old, with all that is there, both rough and smooth?” asked the little tailor, and went to cut the wood.
“what!
the whole forest, young and old, with all that is there, both rough and smooth, and the well and its spring too,”
growled the credulous giant in his beard, and was still more terrified.
“the knave can do much more than bake apples, and has a wizard in his body.
be on thy guard, old hans, this is no serving-man for thee!” when the tailor had brought the wood, the giant commanded him to shoot two or three wild boars for supper.
“why not rather a thousand at one shot, and bring them all here?” inquired the ostentatious tailor.
“what!”
cried the timid giant in great terror; “let well alone to-night, and lie down to rest.”
the giant was so terribly alarmed that he could not close an eye all night long for thinking what would be the best way to get rid of this accursed sorcerer of a servant.
time brings counsel.
next morning the giant and the tailor went to a marsh, round which stood a number of willow-trees.
then said the giant, “hark thee, tailor, seat thyself on one of the willow-branches, i long of all things to see if thou art big enough to bend it down.” all at once the tailor was sitting on it, holding his breath, and making himself so heavy that the bough bent down.
when, however, he was compelled to draw breath, it hurried him (for unfortunately he had not put his goose in his pocket) so high into the air that he never was seen again, and this to the great delight of the giant.
if the tailor has not fallen down again, he must be hovering about in the air.
184 the nail
a merchant had done good business at the fair; he had sold his wares, and lined his money-bags with gold and silver.
then he wanted to travel homewards, and be in his own house before nightfall.
so he packed his trunk with the money on his horse, and rode away.
at noon he rested in a town, and when he wanted to go farther the stable-boy brought out his horse and said, “a nail is wanting, sir, in the shoe of its left hind foot.” “let it be wanting,” answered the merchant; “the shoe will certainly stay on for the six miles i have still to go.
i am in a hurry.”
in the afternoon, when he once more alighted and had his horse fed, the stable-boy went into the room to him and said, “sir, a shoe is missing from your horse’s left hind foot.
shall i take him to the blacksmith?”
“let it still be wanting,” answered the man; “the horse can very well hold out for the couple of miles which remain.
i am in haste.”
he rode forth, but before long the horse began to limp.
it had not limped long before it began to stumble, and it had not stumbled long before it fell down and broke its leg.
the merchant was forced to leave the horse where it was, and unbuckle the trunk, take it on his back, and go home on foot.
and there he did not arrive until quite late at night.
“and that unlucky nail,” said he to himself, “has caused all this disaster.”
hasten slowly.
185 the poor boy in the grave
there was once a poor shepherd-boy whose father and mother were dead, and he was placed by the authorities in the house of a rich man, who was to feed him and bring him up.
the man and his wife, had however, bad hearts, and were greedy and anxious about their riches, and vexed whenever any one put a morsel of their bread in his mouth.
the poor young fellow might do what he liked, he got little to eat, but only so many blows the more.
one day he had to watch a hen and her chickens, but she ran through a quick-set hedge with them, and a hawk darted down instantly, and carried her off through the air.
the boy called, “thief!
thief!
rascal!” with all the strength of his body.
but what good did that do?
the hawk did not bring its prey back again.
the man heard the noise, and ran to the spot, and as soon as he saw that his hen was gone, he fell in a rage, and gave the boy such a beating that he could not stir for two days.
then he had to take care of the chickens without the hen, but now his difficulty was greater, for one ran here and the other there.
he thought he was doing a very wise thing when he tied them all together with a string, because then the hawk would not be able to steal any of them away from him.
but he was very much mistaken.
after two days, worn out with running about and hunger, he fell asleep; the bird of prey came, and seized one of the chickens, and as the others were tied fast to it, it carried them all off together, perched itself on a tree, and devoured them.
the farmer was just coming home, and when he saw the misfortune, he got angry and beat the boy so unmercifully that he was forced to lie in bed for several days.
when he was on his legs again, the farmer said to him, “thou art too stupid for me, i cannot make a herdsman of thee, thou must go as errand-boy.” then he sent him to the judge, to whom he was to carry a basketful of grapes, and he gave him a letter as well.
on the way hunger and thirst tormented the unhappy boy so violently that he ate two of the bunches of grapes.
he took the basket to the judge, but when the judge had read the letter, and counted the bunches he said, “two clusters are wanting.” the boy confessed quite honestly that, driven by hunger and thirst, he had devoured the two which were wanting.
the judge wrote a letter to the farmer, and asked for the same number of grapes again.
these also the boy had to take to him with a letter.
as he again was so extremely hungry and thirsty, he could not help it, and again ate two bunches.
but first he took the letter out of the basket, put it under a stone and seated himself thereon in order that the letter might not see and betray him.
the judge, however, again made him give an explanation about the missing bunches.
“ah,” said the boy, “how have you learnt that?
the letter could not know about it, for i put it under a stone before i did it.” the judge could not help laughing at the boy’s simplicity, and sent the man a letter wherein he cautioned him to keep the poor boy better, and not let him want for meat and drink, and also that he was to teach him what was right and what was wrong.
“i will soon show thee the difference,” said the hard man, “if thou wilt eat, thou must work, and if thou dost anything wrong, thou shalt be quite sufficiently taught by blows.”
the next day he set him a hard task.
he was to chop two bundles of straw for food for the horses, and then the man threatened: “in five hours,” said he, “i shall be back again, and if the straw is not cut to chaff by that time, i will beat thee until thou canst not move a limb.”
the farmer went with his wife, the man-servant and the girl, to the yearly fair, and left nothing behind for the boy but a small bit of bread.
the boy seated himself on the bench, and began to work with all his might.
as he got warm over it he put his little coat off and threw it on the straw.
in his terror lest he should not get done in time he kept constantly cutting, and in his haste, without noticing it, he chopped his little coat as well as the straw.
he became aware of the misfortune too late; there was no repairing it.
“ah,” cried he, “now all is over with me!
the wicked man did not threaten me for nothing; if he comes back and sees what i have done, he will kill me.
rather than that i will take my own life.”
the boy had once heard the farmer’s wife say, “i have a pot with poison in it under my bed.” she, however, had only said that to keep away greedy people, for there was honey in it.
the boy crept under the bed, brought out the pot, and ate all that was in it.
“i do not know,” said he, “folks say death is bitter, but it tastes very sweet to me.
it is no wonder that the farmer’s wife has so often longed for death.” he seated himself in a little chair, and was prepared to die.
but instead of becoming weaker he felt himself strengthened by the nourishing food.
“it cannot have been poison,” thought he, “but the farmer once said there was a small bottle of poison for flies in the box in which he keeps his clothes; that, no doubt, will be the true poison, and bring death to me.” it was, however, no poison for flies, but hungarian wine.
the boy got out the bottle, and emptied it.
“this death tastes sweet too,” said he, but shortly after when the wine began to mount into his brain and stupefy him, he thought his end was drawing near.
“i feel that i must die,” said he, “i will go away to the churchyard, and seek a grave.” he staggered out, reached the churchyard, and laid himself in a newly dug grave.
he lost his senses more and more.
in the neighbourhood was an inn where a wedding was being kept; when he heard the music, he fancied he was already in paradise, until at length he lost all consciousness.
the poor boy never awoke again; the heat of the strong wine and the cold night-dew deprived him of life, and he remained in the grave in which he had laid himself.
when the farmer heard the news of the boy’s death he was terrified, and afraid of being brought to justice indeed, his distress took such a powerful hold of him that he fell fainting to the ground.
his wife, who was standing on the hearth with a pan of hot fat, ran to him to help him.
but the flames darted against the pan, the whole house caught fire, in a few hours it lay in ashes, and the rest of the years they had to live they passed in poverty and misery, tormented by the pangs of conscience.
186 the true sweethearts
there was once on a time a girl who was young and beautiful, but she had lost her mother when she was quite a child, and her step-mother did all she could to make the girl’s life wretched.
whenever this woman gave her anything to do, she worked at it indefatigably, and did everything that lay in her power.
still she could not touch the heart of the wicked woman by that; she was never satisfied; it was never enough.
the harder the girl worked, the more work was put upon her, and all that the woman thought of was how to weigh her down with still heavier burdens, and make her life still more miserable.
one day she said to her, “here are twelve pounds of feathers which thou must pick, and if they are not done this evening, thou mayst expect a good beating.
dost thou imagine thou art to idle away the whole day?”
the poor girl sat down to the work, but tears ran down her cheeks as she did so, for she saw plainly enough that it was quite impossible to finish the work in one day.
whenever she had a little heap of feathers lying before her, and she sighed or smote her hands together in her anguish, they flew away, and she had to pick them out again, and begin her work anew.
then she put her elbows on the table, laid her face in her two hands, and cried, “is there no one, then, on god’s earth to have pity on me?” then she heard a low voice which said, “be comforted, my child, i have come to help thee.” the maiden looked up, and an old woman was by her side.
she took the girl kindly by the hand, and said, “only tell me what is troubling thee.” as she spoke so kindly, the girl told her of her miserable life, and how one burden after another was laid upon her, and she never could get to the end of the work which was given to her.
“if i have not done these feathers by this evening, my step-mother will beat me; she has threatened she will, and i know she keeps her word.” her tears began to flow again, but the good old woman said, “do not be afraid, my child; rest a while, and in the meantime i will look to thy work.” the girl lay down on her bed, and soon fell asleep.
the old woman seated herself at the table with the feathers, and how they did fly off the quills, which she scarcely touched with her withered hands!
the twelve pounds were soon finished, and when the girl awoke, great snow-white heaps were lying, piled up, and everything in the room was neatly cleared away, but the old woman had vanished.
the maiden thanked god, and sat still till evening came, when the step-mother came in and marvelled to see the work completed.
“just look, you awkward creature,” said she, “what can be done when people are industrious; and why couldst thou not set about something else?
there thou sittest with thy hands crossed.” when she went out she said, “the creature is worth more than her salt.
i must give her some work that is still harder.”
next morning she called the girl, and said, “there is a spoon for thee; with that thou must empty out for me the great pond which is beside the garden, and if it is not done by night, thou knowest what will happen.”
the girl took the spoon, and saw that it was full of holes; but even if it had not been, she never could have emptied the pond with it.
she set to work at once, knelt down by the water, into which her tears were falling, and began to empty it.
but the good old woman appeared again, and when she learnt the cause of her grief, she said, “be of good cheer, my child.
go into the thicket and lie down and sleep; i will soon do thy work.” as soon as the old woman was alone, she barely touched the pond, and a vapour rose up on high from the water, and mingled itself with the clouds.
gradually the pond was emptied, and when the maiden awoke before sunset and came thither, she saw nothing but the fishes which were struggling in the mud.
she went to her step-mother, and showed her that the work was done.
“it ought to have been done long before this,” said she, and grew white with anger, but she meditated something new.
on the third morning she said to the girl, “thou must build me a castle on the plain there, and it must be ready by the evening.” the maiden was dismayed, and said, “how can i complete such a great work?” “i will endure no opposition,” screamed the step-mother.
“if thou canst empty a pond with a spoon that is full of holes, thou canst build a castle too.
i will take possession of it this very day, and if anything is wanting, even if it be the most trifling thing in the kitchen or cellar, thou knowest what lies before thee!” she drove the girl out, and when she entered the valley, the rocks were there, piled up one above the other, and all her strength would not have enabled her even to move the very smallest of them.
she sat down and wept, and still she hoped the old woman would help her.
the old woman was not long in coming; she comforted her and said, “lie down there in the shade and sleep, and i will soon build the castle for thee.
if it would be a pleasure to thee, thou canst live in it thyself.” when the maiden had gone away, the old woman touched the gray rocks.
they began to rise, and immediately moved together as if giants had built the walls; and on these the building arose, and it seemed as if countless hands were working invisibly, and placing one stone upon another.
there was a dull heavy noise from the ground; pillars arose of their own accord on high, and placed themselves in order near each other.
the tiles laid themselves in order on the roof, and when noon-day came, the great weather-cock was already turning itself on the summit of the tower, like a golden figure of the virgin with fluttering garments.
the inside of the castle was being finished while evening was drawing near.
how the old woman managed it, i know not; but the walls of the rooms were hung with silk and velvet, embroidered chairs were there, and richly ornamented arm-chairs by marble tables; crystal chandeliers hung down from the ceilings, and mirrored themselves in the smooth pavement; green parrots were there in gilt cages, and so were strange birds which sang most beautifully, and there was on all sides as much magnificence as if a king were going to live there.
the sun was just setting when the girl awoke, and the brightness of a thousand lights flashed in her face.
she hurried to the castle, and entered by the open door.
the steps were spread with red cloth, and the golden balustrade beset with flowering trees.
when she saw the splendour of the apartment, she stood as if turned to stone.
who knows how long she might have stood there if she had not remembered the step-mother?
“alas!” she said to herself, “if she could but be satisfied at last, and would give up making my life a misery to me.”
the girl went and told her that the castle was ready.
“i will move into it at once,” said she, and rose from her seat.
when they entered the castle, she was forced to hold her hand before her eyes, the brilliancy of everything was so dazzling.
“thou seest,” said she to the girl, “how easy it has been for thee to do this; i ought to have given thee something harder.” she went through all the rooms, and examined every corner to see if anything was wanting or defective; but she could discover nothing.
“now we will go down below,” said she, looking at the girl with malicious eyes.
“the kitchen and the cellar still have to be examined, and if thou hast forgotten anything thou shalt not escape thy punishment.” but the fire was burning on the hearth, and the meat was cooking in the pans, the tongs and shovel were leaning against the wall, and the shining brazen utensils all arranged in sight.
nothing was wanting, not even a coal-box and water-pail.
“which is the way to the cellar?” she cried.
“if that is not abundantly filled, it shall go ill with thee.” she herself raised up the trap-door and descended; but she had hardly made two steps before the heavy trap-door which was only laid back, fell down.
the girl heard a scream, lifted up the door very quickly to go to her aid, but she had fallen down, and the girl found her lying lifeless at the bottom.
and now the magnificent castle belonged to the girl alone.
she at first did not know how to reconcile herself to her good fortune.
beautiful dresses were hanging in the wardrobes, the chests were filled with gold or silver, or with pearls and jewels, and she never felt a desire that she was not able to gratify.
and soon the fame of the beauty and riches of the maiden went over all the world.
wooers presented themselves daily, but none pleased her.
at length the son of the king came and he knew how to touch her heart, and she betrothed herself to him.
in the garden of the castle was a lime-tree, under which they were one day sitting together, when he said to her, “i will go home and obtain my father’s consent to our marriage.
i entreat thee to wait for me here under this lime-tree, i shall be back with thee in a few hours.” the maiden kissed him on his left cheek, and said, “keep true to me, and never let any one else kiss thee on this cheek.
i will wait here under the lime-tree until thou returnest.”
the maid stayed beneath the lime-tree until sunset, but he did not return.
she sat three days from morning till evening, waiting for him, but in vain.
as he still was not there by the fourth day, she said, “some accident has assuredly befallen him.
i will go out and seek him, and will not come back until i have found him.” she packed up three of her most beautiful dresses, one embroidered with bright stars, the second with silver moons, the third with golden suns, tied up a handful of jewels in her handkerchief, and set out.
she inquired everywhere for her betrothed, but no one had seen him; no one knew anything about him.
far and wide did she wander through the world, but she found him not.
at last she hired herself to a farmer as a cow-herd, and buried her dresses and jewels beneath a stone.
and now she lived as a herdswoman, guarded her herd, and was very sad and full of longing for her beloved one; she had a little calf which she taught to know her, and fed it out of her own hand, and when she said,
“little calf, little calf, kneel by my side, and do not forget thy shepherd-maid, as the prince forgot his betrothed bride, who waited for him ’neath the lime-tree’s shade.”
the little calf knelt down, and she stroked it.
and when she had lived for a couple of years alone and full of grief, a report was spread over all the land that the king’s daughter was about to celebrate her marriage.
the road to the town passed through the village where the maiden was living, and it came to pass that once when the maiden was driving out her herd, her bridegroom travelled by.
he was sitting proudly on his horse, and never looked round, but when she saw him she recognized her beloved, and it was just as if a sharp knife had pierced her heart.
“alas!” said she, “i believed him true to me, but he has forgotten me.”
next day he again came along the road.
when he was near her she said to the little calf,
“little calf, little calf, kneel by my side, and do not forget thy shepherd-maid, as the prince forgot his betrothed bride, who waited for him ’neath the lime-tree’s shade.”
when he was aware of the voice, he looked down and reined in his horse.
he looked into the herd’s face, and then put his hands before his eyes as if he were trying to remember something, but he soon rode onwards and was out of sight.
“alas!” said she, “he no longer knows me,” and her grief was ever greater.
soon after this a great festival three days long was to be held at the king’s court, and the whole country was invited to it.
“now will i try my last chance,” thought the maiden, and when evening came she went to the stone under which she had buried her treasures.
she took out the dress with the golden suns, put it on, and adorned herself with the jewels.
she let down her hair, which she had concealed under a handkerchief, and it fell down in long curls about her, and thus she went into the town, and in the darkness was observed by no one.
when she entered the brightly-lighted hall, every one started back in amazement, but no one knew who she was.
the king’s son went to meet her, but he did not recognize her.
he led her out to dance, and was so enchanted with her beauty, that he thought no more of the other bride.
when the feast was over, she vanished in the crowd, and hastened before daybreak to the village, where she once more put on her herd’s dress.
next evening she took out the dress with the silver moons, and put a half-moon made of precious stones in her hair.
when she appeared at the festival, all eyes were turned upon her, but the king’s son hastened to meet her, and filled with love for her, danced with her alone, and no longer so much as glanced at anyone else.
before she went away she was forced to promise him to come again to the festival on the last evening.
when she appeared for the third time, she wore the star-dress which sparkled at every step she took, and her hair-ribbon and girdle were starred with jewels.
the prince had already been waiting for her for a long time, and forced his way up to her.
“do but tell who thou art,”
said he, “i feel just as if i had already known thee a long time.”
“dost thou not know what i did when thou leftest me?” then she stepped up to him, and kissed him on his left cheek, and in a moment it was as if scales fell from his eyes, and he recognized the true bride.
“come,”
said he to her, “here i stay no longer,” gave her his hand, and led her down to the carriage.
the horses hurried away to the magic castle as if the wind had been harnessed to the carriage.
the illuminated windows already shone in the distance.
when they drove past the lime-tree, countless glow-worms were swarming about it.
it shook its branches, and sent forth their fragrance.
on the steps flowers were blooming, and the room echoed with the song of strange birds, but in the hall the entire court was assembled, and the priest was waiting to marry the bridegroom to the true bride.
187 the hare and the hedgehog
this story, my dear young folks, seems to be false, but it really is true, for my grandfather, from whom i have it, used always, when relating it, to say complacently, “it must be true, my son, or else no one could tell it to you.” the story is as follows.
one sunday morning about harvest time, just as the buckwheat was in bloom, the sun was shining brightly in heaven, the east wind was blowing warmly over the stubble-fields, the larks were singing in the air, the bees buzzing among the buckwheat, the people were all going in their sunday clothes to church, and all creatures were happy, and the hedgehog was happy too.
the hedgehog, however, was standing by his door with his arms akimbo, enjoying the morning breezes, and slowly trilling a little song to himself, which was neither better nor worse than the songs which hedgehogs are in the habit of singing on a blessed sunday morning.
whilst he was thus singing half aloud to himself, it suddenly occurred to him that, while his wife was washing and drying the children, he might very well take a walk into the field, and see how his turnips were going on.
the turnips were, in fact, close beside his house, and he and his family were accustomed to eat them, for which reason he looked upon them as his own.
no sooner said than done.
the hedgehog shut the house-door behind him, and took the path to the field.
he had not gone very far from home, and was just turning round the sloe-bush which stands there outside the field, to go up into the turnip-field, when he observed the hare who had gone out on business of the same kind, namely, to visit his cabbages.
when the hedgehog caught sight of the hare, he bade him a friendly good morning.
but the hare, who was in his own way a distinguished gentleman, and frightfully haughty, did not return the hedgehog’s greeting, but said to him, assuming at the same time a very contemptuous manner, “how do you happen to be running about here in the field so early in the morning?” “i am taking a walk,” said the hedgehog.
“a walk!” said the hare, with a smile.
“it seems to me that you might use your legs for a better purpose.” this answer made the hedgehog furiously angry, for he can bear anything but an attack on his legs, just because they are crooked by nature.
so now the hedgehog said to the hare, “you seem to imagine that you can do more with your legs than i with mine.” “that is just what i do think,” said the hare.
“that can be put to the test,” said the hedgehog.
“i wager that if we run a race, i will outstrip you.” “that is ridiculous!
you with your short legs!” said the hare, “but for my part i am willing, if you have such a monstrous fancy for it.
what shall we wager?” “a golden louis-d’or and a bottle of brandy,” said the hedgehog.
“done,” said the hare.
“shake hands on it, and then we may as well come off at once.”
“nay,” said the hedgehog, “there is no such great hurry!
i am still fasting, i will go home first, and have a little breakfast.
in half-an-hour i will be back again at this place.”
hereupon the hedgehog departed, for the hare was quite satisfied with this.
on his way the hedgehog thought to himself, “the hare relies on his long legs, but i will contrive to get the better of him.
he may be a great man, but he is a very silly fellow, and he shall pay for what he has said.” so when the hedgehog reached home, he said to his wife, “wife, dress thyself quickly, thou must go out to the field with me.”
“what is going on, then?” said his wife.
“i have made a wager with the hare, for a gold louis-d’or and a bottle of brandy.
i am to run a race with him, and thou must be present.” “good heavens, husband,” the wife now cried, “art thou not right in thy mind, hast thou completely lost thy wits?
what can make thee want to run a race with the hare?” “hold thy tongue, woman,” said the hedgehog, “that is my affair.
don’t begin to discuss things which are matters for men.
be off, dress thyself, and come with me.” what could the hedgehog’s wife do?
she was forced to obey him, whether she liked it or not.
so when they had set out on their way together, the hedgehog said to his wife, “now pay attention to what i am going to say.
look you, i will make the long field our race-course.
the hare shall run in one furrow, and i in another, and we will begin to run from the top.
now all that thou hast to do is to place thyself here below in the furrow, and when the hare arrives at the end of the furrow, on the other side of thee, thou must cry out to him, ‘i am here already!’”
then they reached the field, and the hedgehog showed his wife her place, and then walked up the field.
when he reached the top, the hare was already there.
“shall we start?” said the hare.
“certainly,” said the hedgehog.
“then both at once.” so saying, each placed himself in his own furrow.
the hare counted, “once, twice, thrice, and away!” and went off like a whirlwind down the field.
the hedgehog, however, only ran about three paces, and then he stooped down in the furrow, and stayed quietly where he was.
when the hare therefore arrived in full career at the lower end of the field, the hedgehog’s wife met him with the cry, “i am here already!” the hare was shocked and wondered not a little, he thought no other than that it was the hedgehog himself who was calling to him, for the hedgehog’s wife looked just like her husband.
the hare, however, thought to himself, “that has not been done fairly,” and cried, “it must be run again, let us have it again.” and once more he went off like the wind in a storm, so that he seemed to fly.
but the hedgehog’s wife stayed quietly in her place.
so when the hare reached the top of the field, the hedgehog himself cried out to him, “i am here already.” the hare, however, quite beside himself with anger, cried, “it must be run again, we must have it again.” “all right,” answered the hedgehog, “for my part we’ll run as often as you choose.” so the hare ran seventy-three times more, and the hedgehog always held out against him, and every time the hare reached either the top or the bottom, either the hedgehog or his wife said, “i am here already.”
at the seventy-fourth time, however, the hare could no longer reach the end.
in the middle of the field he fell to the ground, blood streamed out of his mouth, and he lay dead on the spot.
but the hedgehog took the louis-d’or which he had won and the bottle of brandy, called his wife out of the furrow, and both went home together in great delight, and if they are not dead, they are living there still.
this is how it happened that the hedgehog made the hare run races with him on the buxtehuder heath till he died, and since that time no hare has ever had any fancy for running races with a buxtehuder hedgehog.
the moral of this story, however, is, firstly, that no one, however great he may be, should permit himself to jest at any one beneath him, even if he be only a hedgehog.
and, secondly, it teaches, that when a man marries, he should take a wife in his own position, who looks just as he himself looks.
so whosoever is a hedgehog let him see to it that his wife is a hedgehog also, and so forth.
188 the spindle, the shuttle, and the needle
there was once a girl whose father and mother died while she was still a little child.
all alone, in a small house at the end of the village, dwelt her godmother, who supported herself by spinning, weaving, and sewing.
the old woman took the forlorn child to live with her, kept her to her work, and educated her in all that is good.
when the girl was fifteen years old, the old woman became ill, called the child to her bedside, and said, “dear daughter, i feel my end drawing near.
i leave thee the little house, which will protect thee from wind and weather, and my spindle, shuttle, and needle, with which thou canst earn thy bread.” then she laid her hands on the girl’s head, blessed her, and said, “only preserve the love of god in thy heart, and all will go well with thee.” thereupon she closed her eyes, and when she was laid in the earth, the maiden followed the coffin, weeping bitterly, and paid her the last mark of respect.
and now the maiden lived quite alone in the little house, and was industrious, and span, wove, and sewed, and the blessing of the good old woman was on all that she did.
it seemed as if the flax in the room increased of its own accord, and whenever she wove a piece of cloth or carpet, or had made a shirt, she at once found a buyer who paid her amply for it, so that she was in want of nothing, and even had something to share with others.
about this time, the son of the king was travelling about the country looking for a bride.
he was not to choose a poor one, and did not want to have a rich one.
so he said, “she shall be my wife who is the poorest, and at the same time the richest.” when he came to the village where the maiden dwelt, he inquired, as he did wherever he went, who was the richest and also the poorest girl in the place?
they first named the richest; the poorest, they said, was the girl who lived in the small house quite at the end of the village.
the rich girl was sitting in all her splendour before the door of her house, and when the prince approached her, she got up, went to meet him, and made him a low curtsey.
he looked at her, said nothing, and rode on.
when he came to the house of the poor girl, she was not standing at the door, but sitting in her little room.
he stopped his horse, and saw through the window, on which the bright sun was shining, the girl sitting at her spinning-wheel, busily spinning.
she looked up, and when she saw that the prince was looking in, she blushed all over her face, let her eyes fall, and went on spinning.
i do not know whether, just at that moment, the thread was quite even; but she went on spinning until the king’s son had ridden away again.
then she went to the window, opened it, and said, “it is so warm in this room!” but she still looked after him as long as she could distinguish the white feathers in his hat.
then she sat down to work again in her own room and went on with her spinning, and a saying which the old woman had often repeated when she was sitting at her work, came into her mind, and she sang these words to herself,—
“spindle, my spindle, haste, haste thee away, and here to my house bring the wooer, i pray.”
and what do you think happened?
the spindle sprang out of her hand in an instant, and out of the door, and when, in her astonishment, she got up and looked after it, she saw that it was dancing out merrily into the open country, and drawing a shining golden thread after it.
before long, it had entirely vanished from her sight.
as she had now no spindle, the girl took the weaver’s shuttle in her hand, sat down to her loom, and began to weave.
the spindle, however, danced continually onwards, and just as the thread came to an end, reached the prince.
“what do i see?” he cried; “the spindle certainly wants to show me the way!” turned his horse about, and rode back with the golden thread.
the girl was, however, sitting at her work singing,
“shuttle, my shuttle, weave well this day, and guide the wooer to me, i pray.”
immediately the shuttle sprang out of her hand and out by the door.
before the threshold, however, it began to weave a carpet which was more beautiful than the eyes of man had ever yet beheld.
lilies and roses blossomed on both sides of it, and on a golden ground in the centre green branches ascended, under which bounded hares and rabbits, stags and deer stretched their heads in between them, brightly-coloured birds were sitting in the branches above; they lacked nothing but the gift of song.
the shuttle leapt hither and thither, and everything seemed to grow of its own accord.
as the shuttle had run away, the girl sat down to sew.
she held the needle in her hand and sang,
“needle, my needle, sharp-pointed and fine, prepare for a wooer this house of mine.”
then the needle leapt out of her fingers, and flew everywhere about the room as quick as lightning.
it was just as if invisible spirits were working; they covered tables and benches with green cloth in an instant, and the chairs with velvet, and hung the windows with silken curtains.
hardly had the needle put in the last stitch than the maiden saw through the window the white feathers of the prince, whom the spindle had brought thither by the golden thread.
he alighted, stepped over the carpet into the house, and when he entered the room, there stood the maiden in her poor garments, but she shone out from within them like a rose surrounded by leaves.
“thou art the poorest and also the richest,” said he to her.
“come with me, thou shalt be my bride.”
she did not speak, but she gave him her hand.
then he gave her a kiss, led her forth, lifted her on to his horse, and took her to the royal castle, where the wedding was solemnized with great rejoicings.
the spindle, shuttle, and needle were preserved in the treasure-chamber, and held in great honour.
189 the peasant and the devil
there was once on a time a far-sighted, crafty peasant whose tricks were much talked about.
the best story is, however, how he once got hold of the devil, and made a fool of him.
the peasant had one day been working in his field, and as twilight had set in, was making ready for the journey home, when he saw a heap of burning coals in the middle of his field, and when, full of astonishment, he went up to it, a little black devil was sitting on the live coals.
“thou dost indeed sit upon a treasure!” said the peasant.
“yes, in truth,” replied the devil, “on a treasure which contains more gold and silver than thou hast ever seen in thy life!” “the treasure lies in my field and belongs to me,” said the peasant.
“it is thine,” answered the devil, “if thou wilt for two years give me the half of everything thy field produces.
money i have enough of, but i have a desire for the fruits of the earth.” the peasant agreed to the bargain.
“in order, however, that no dispute may arise about the division,” said he, “everything that is above ground shall belong to thee, and what is under the earth to me.” the devil was quite satisfied with that, but the cunning peasant had sown turnips.
now when the time for harvest came, the devil appeared and wanted to take away his crop; but he found nothing but the yellow withered leaves, while the peasant, full of delight, was digging up his turnips.
“thou hast had the best of it for once,” said the devil, “but the next time that won’t do.
what grows above ground shall be thine, and what is under it, mine.” “i am willing,” replied the peasant; but when the time came to sow, he did not again sow turnips, but wheat.
the grain became ripe, and the peasant went into the field and cut the full stalks down to the ground.
when the devil came, he found nothing but the stubble, and went away in a fury down into a cleft in the rocks.
“that is the way to cheat the devil,” said the peasant, and went and fetched away the treasure.
190 the crumbs on the table
a countryman one day said to his little puppies, “come into the parlour and enjoy yourselves, and pick up the bread-crumbs on the table; your mistress has gone out to pay some visits.” then the little dogs said, “no, no, we will not go.
if the mistress gets to know it, she will beat us.” the countryman said, “she will know nothing about it.
do come; after all, she never gives you anything good.” then the little dogs again said, “nay, nay, we must let it alone; we must not go.” but the countryman let them have no peace until at last they went, and got on the table, and ate up the bread-crumbs with all their might.
but at that very moment the mistress came, and seized the stick in great haste, and beat them and treated them very hardly.
and when they were outside the house, the little dogs said to the countryman, “dost, dost, dost, dost, dost thou see?” then the countryman laughed and said, “didn’t, didn’t, didn’t, you expect it?” so they just had to run away.
191 the sea-hare
there was once upon a time a princess, who, high under the battlements in her castle, had an apartment with twelve windows, which looked out in every possible direction, and when she climbed up to it and looked around her, she could inspect her whole kingdom.
when she looked out of the first, her sight was more keen than that of any other human being; from the second she could see still better, from the third more distinctly still, and so it went on, until the twelfth, from which she saw everything above the earth and under the earth, and nothing at all could be kept secret from her.
moreover, as she was haughty, and would be subject to no one, but wished to keep the dominion for herself alone, she caused it to be proclaimed that no one should ever be her husband who could not conceal himself from her so effectually, that it should be quite impossible for her to find him.
he who tried this, however, and was discovered by her, was to have his head struck off, and stuck on a post.
ninety-seven posts with the heads of dead men were already standing before the castle, and no one had come forward for a long time.
the princess was delighted, and thought to herself, “now i shall be free as long as i live.” then three brothers appeared before her, and announced to her that they were desirous of trying their luck.
the eldest believed he would be quite safe if he crept into a lime-pit, but she saw him from the first window, made him come out, and had his head cut off.
the second crept into the cellar of the palace, but she perceived him also from the first window, and his fate was sealed.
his head was placed on the nine and ninetieth post.
then the youngest came to her and entreated her to give him a day for consideration, and also to be so gracious as to overlook it if she should happen to discover him twice, but if he failed the third time, he would look on his life as over.
as he was so handsome, and begged so earnestly, she said, “yes, i will grant thee that, but thou wilt not succeed.”
next day he meditated for a long time how he should hide himself, but all in vain.
then he seized his gun and went out hunting.
he saw a raven, took a good aim at him, and was just going to fire, when the bird cried, “don’t shoot; i will make it worth thy while not.” he put his gun down, went on, and came to a lake where he surprised a large fish which had come up from the depths below to the surface of the water.
when he had aimed at it, the fish cried, “don’t shoot, and i will make it worth thy while.” he allowed it to dive down again, went onwards, and met a fox which was lame.
he fired and missed it, and the fox cried, “you had much better come here and draw the thorn out of my foot for me.” he did this; but then he wanted to kill the fox and skin it, the fox said, “stop, and i will make it worth thy while.” the youth let him go, and then as it was evening, returned home.
next day he was to hide himself; but howsoever much he puzzled his brains over it, he did not know where.
he went into the forest to the raven and said, “i let thee live on, so now tell me where i am to hide myself, so that the king’s daughter shall not see me.” the raven hung his head and thought it over for a longtime.
at length he croaked, “i have it.” he fetched an egg out of his nest, cut it into two parts, and shut the youth inside it; then made it whole again, and seated himself on it.
when the king’s daughter went to the first window she could not discover him, nor could she from the others, and she began to be uneasy, but from the eleventh she saw him.
she ordered the raven to be shot, and the egg to be brought and broken, and the youth was forced to come out.
she said, “for once thou art excused, but if thou dost not do better than this, thou art lost!”
next day he went to the lake, called the fish to him and said, “i suffered thee to live, now tell me where to hide myself so that the king’s daughter may not see me.” the fish thought for a while, and at last cried, “i have it!
i will shut thee up in my stomach.” he swallowed him, and went down to the bottom of the lake.
the king’s daughter looked through her windows, and even from the eleventh did not see him, and was alarmed; but at length from the twelfth she saw him.
she ordered the fish to be caught and killed, and then the youth appeared.
every one can imagine what a state of mind he was in.
she said, “twice thou art forgiven, but be sure that thy head will be set on the hundredth post.”
on the last day, he went with a heavy heart into the country, and met the fox.
“thou knowest how to find all kinds of hiding-places,” said he; “i let thee live, now advise me where i shall hide myself so that the king’s daughter shall not discover me.” “that’s a hard task,”
answered the fox, looking very thoughtful.
at length he cried, “i have it!” and went with him to a spring, dipped himself in it, and came out as a stall-keeper in the market, and dealer in animals.
the youth had to dip himself in the water also, and was changed into a small sea-hare.
the merchant went into the town, and showed the pretty little animal, and many persons gathered together to see it.
at length the king’s daughter came likewise, and as she liked it very much, she bought it, and gave the merchant a good deal of money for it.
before he gave it over to her, he said to it, “when the king’s daughter goes to the window, creep quickly under the braids of her hair.” and now the time arrived when she was to search for him.
she went to one window after another in turn, from the first to the eleventh, and did not see him.
when she did not see him from the twelfth either, she was full of anxiety and anger, and shut it down with such violence that the glass in every window shivered into a thousand pieces, and the whole castle shook.
she went back and felt the sea-hare beneath the braids of her hair.
then she seized it, and threw it on the ground exclaiming, “away with thee, get out of my sight!” it ran to the merchant, and both of them hurried to the spring, wherein they plunged, and received back their true forms.
the youth thanked the fox, and said, “the raven and the fish are idiots compared with thee; thou knowest the right tune to play, there is no denying that!”
the youth went straight to the palace.
the princess was already expecting him, and accommodated herself to her destiny.
the wedding was solemnized, and now he was king, and lord of all the kingdom.
he never told her where he had concealed himself for the third time, and who had helped him, so she believed that he had done everything by his own skill, and she had a great respect for him, for she thought to herself, “he is able to do more than i.”
192 the master-thief
one day an old man and his wife were sitting in front of a miserable house resting a while from their work.
suddenly a splendid carriage with four black horses came driving up, and a richly-dressed man descended from it.
the peasant stood up, went to the great man, and asked what he wanted, and in what way he could be useful to him?
the stranger stretched out his hand to the old man, and said, “i want nothing but to enjoy for once a country dish; cook me some potatoes, in the way you always have them, and then i will sit down at your table and eat them with pleasure.” the peasant smiled and said, “you are a count or a prince, or perhaps even a duke; noble gentlemen often have such fancies, but you shall have your wish.” the wife went into the kitchen, and began to wash and rub the potatoes, and to make them into balls, as they are eaten by the country-folks.
whilst she was busy with this work, the peasant said to the stranger, “come into my garden with me for a while, i have still something to do there.” he had dug some holes in the garden, and now wanted to plant some trees in them.
“have you no children,” asked the stranger, “who could help you with your work?” “no,” answered the peasant, “i had a son, it is true, but it is long since he went out into the world.
he was a ne’er-do-well; sharp, and knowing, but he would learn nothing and was full of bad tricks, at last he ran away from me, and since then i have heard nothing of him.”
the old man took a young tree, put it in a hole, drove in a post beside it, and when he had shovelled in some earth and had trampled it firmly down, he tied the stem of the tree above, below, and in the middle, fast to the post by a rope of straw.
“but tell me,” said the stranger, “why you don’t tie that crooked knotted tree, which is lying in the corner there, bent down almost to the ground, to a post also that it may grow straight, as well as these?” the old man smiled and said, “sir, you speak according to your knowledge, it is easy to see that you are not familiar with gardening.
that tree there is old, and mis-shapen, no one can make it straight now.
trees must be trained while they are young.” “that is how it was with your son,” said the stranger, “if you had trained him while he was still young, he would not have run away; now he too must have grown hard and mis-shapen.”
“truly it is a long time since he went away,” replied the old man, “he must have changed.” “would you know him again if he were to come to you?” asked the stranger.
“hardly by his face,” replied the peasant, “but he has a mark about him, a birth-mark on his shoulder, that looks like a bean.” when he had said that the stranger pulled off his coat, bared his shoulder, and showed the peasant the bean.
“good god!” cried the old man, “thou art really my son!” and love for his child stirred in his heart.
“but,” he added, “how canst thou be my son, thou hast become a great lord and livest in wealth and luxury?
how hast thou contrived to do that?” “ah, father,” answered the son, “the young tree was bound to no post and has grown crooked, now it is too old, it will never be straight again.
how have i got all that?
i have become a thief, but do not be alarmed, i am a master-thief.
for me there are neither locks nor bolts, whatsoever i desire is mine.
do not imagine that i steal like a common thief, i only take some of the superfluity of the rich.
poor people are safe, i would rather give to them than take anything from them.
it is the same with anything which i can have without trouble, cunning and dexterity i never touch it.” “alas, my son,” said the father, “it still does not please me, a thief is still a thief, i tell thee it will end badly.” he took him to his mother, and when she heard that was her son, she wept for joy, but when he told her that he had become a master-thief, two streams flowed down over her face.
at length she said, “even if he has become a thief, he is still my son, and my eyes have beheld him once more.” they sat down to table, and once again he ate with his parents the wretched food which he had not eaten for so long.
the father said, “if our lord, the count up there in the castle, learns who thou art, and what trade thou followest, he will not take thee in his arms and cradle thee in them as he did when he held thee at the font, but will cause thee to swing from a halter.” “be easy, father, he will do me no harm, for i understand my trade.
i will go to him myself this very day.” when evening drew near, the master-thief seated himself in his carriage, and drove to the castle.
the count received him civilly, for he took him for a distinguished man.
when, however, the stranger made himself known, the count turned pale and was quite silent for some time.
at length he said, “thou art my godson, and on that account mercy shall take the place of justice, and i will deal leniently with thee.
since thou pridest thyself on being a master-thief, i will put thy art to the proof, but if thou dost not stand the test, thou must marry the rope-maker’s daughter, and the croaking of the raven must be thy music on the occasion.” “lord count,” answered the master-thief, “think of three things, as difficult as you like, and if i do not perform your tasks, do with me what you will.” the count reflected for some minutes, and then said, “well, then, in the first place, thou shalt steal the horse i keep for my own riding, out of the stable; in the next, thou shalt steal the sheet from beneath the bodies of my wife and myself when we are asleep, without our observing it, and the wedding-ring of my wife as well; thirdly and lastly, thou shalt steal away out of the church, the parson and clerk.
mark what i am saying, for thy life depends on it.”
the master-thief went to the nearest town; there he bought the clothes of an old peasant woman, and put them on.
then he stained his face brown, and painted wrinkles on it as well, so that no one could have recognized him.
then he filled a small cask with old hungary wine in which was mixed a powerful sleeping-drink.
he put the cask in a basket, which he took on his back, and walked with slow and tottering steps to the count’s castle.
it was already dark when he arrived.
he sat down on a stone in the court-yard and began to cough, like an asthmatic old woman, and to rub his hands as if he were cold.
in front of the door of the stable some soldiers were lying round a fire; one of them observed the woman, and called out to her, “come nearer, old mother, and warm thyself beside us.
after all, thou hast no bed for the night, and must take one where thou canst find it.” the old woman tottered up to them, begged them to lift the basket from her back, and sat down beside them at the fire.
“what hast thou got in thy little cask, old lady?” asked one.
“a good mouthful of wine,” she answered.
“i live by trade, for money and fair words i am quite ready to let you have a glass.” “let us have it here, then,” said the soldier, and when he had tasted one glass he said, “when wine is good, i like another glass,” and had another poured out for himself, and the rest followed his example.
“hallo, comrades,” cried one of them to those who were in the stable, “here is an old goody who has wine that is as old as herself; take a draught, it will warm your stomachs far better than our fire.” the old woman carried her cask into the stable.
one of the soldiers had seated himself on the saddled riding-horse, another held its bridle in his hand, a third had laid hold of its tail.
she poured out as much as they wanted until the spring ran dry.
it was not long before the bridle fell from the hand of the one, and he fell down and began to snore, the other left hold of the tail, lay down and snored still louder.
the one who was sitting in the saddle, did remain sitting, but bent his head almost down to the horse’s neck, and slept and blew with his mouth like the bellows of a forge.
the soldiers outside had already been asleep for a long time, and were lying on the ground motionless, as if dead.
when the master-thief saw that he had succeeded, he gave the first a rope in his hand instead of the bridle, and the other who had been holding the tail, a wisp of straw, but what was he to do with the one who was sitting on the horse’s back?
he did not want to throw him down, for he might have awakened and have uttered a cry.
he had a good idea, he unbuckled the girths of the saddle, tied a couple of ropes which were hanging to a ring on the wall fast to the saddle, and drew the sleeping rider up into the air on it, then he twisted the rope round the posts, and made it fast.
he soon unloosed the horse from the chain, but if he had ridden over the stony pavement of the yard they would have heard the noise in the castle.
so he wrapped the horse’s hoofs in old rags, led him carefully out, leapt upon him, and galloped off.
when day broke, the master galloped to the castle on the stolen horse.
the count had just got up, and was looking out of the window.
“good morning, sir count,” he cried to him, “here is the horse, which i have got safely out of the stable!
just look, how beautifully your soldiers are lying there sleeping; and if you will but go into the stable, you will see how comfortable your watchers have made it for themselves.”
the count could not help laughing, then he said, “for once thou hast succeeded, but things won’t go so well the second time, and i warn thee that if thou comest before me as a thief, i will handle thee as i would a thief.” when the countess went to bed that night, she closed her hand with the wedding-ring tightly together, and the count said, “all the doors are locked and bolted, i will keep awake and wait for the thief, but if he gets in by the window, i will shoot him.” the master-thief, however, went in the dark to the gallows, cut a poor sinner who was hanging there down from the halter, and carried him on his back to the castle.
then he set a ladder up to the bedroom, put the dead body on his shoulders, and began to climb up.
when he had got so high that the head of the dead man showed at the window, the count, who was watching in his bed, fired a pistol at him, and immediately the master let the poor sinner fall down, and hid himself in one corner.
the night was sufficiently lighted by the moon, for the master to see distinctly how the count got out of the window on to the ladder, came down, carried the dead body into the garden, and began to dig a hole in which to lay it.
“now,” thought the thief, “the favourable moment has come,” stole nimbly out of his corner, and climbed up the ladder straight into the countess’s bedroom.
“dear wife,” he began in the count’s voice, “the thief is dead, but, after all, he is my godson, and has been more of a scape-grace than a villain.
i will not put him to open shame; besides, i am sorry for the parents.
i will bury him myself before daybreak, in the garden that the thing may not be known, so give me the sheet, i will wrap up the body in it, and bury him as a dog burries things by scratching.” the countess gave him the sheet.
“i tell you what,”
continued the thief, “i have a fit of magnanimity on me, give me the ring too,—the unhappy man risked his life for it, so he may take it with him into his grave.” she would not gainsay the count, and although she did it unwillingly she drew the ring from her finger, and gave it to him.
the thief made off with both these things, and reached home safely before the count in the garden had finished his work of burying.
what a long face the count did pull when the master came next morning, and brought him the sheet and the ring.
“art thou a wizard?” said he, “who has fetched thee out of the grave in which i myself laid thee, and brought thee to life again?” “you did not bury me,” said the thief, “but the poor sinner on the gallows,” and he told him exactly how everything had happened, and the count was forced to own to him that he was a clever, crafty thief.
“but thou hast not reached the end yet,” he added, “thou hast still to perform the third task, and if thou dost not succeed in that, all is of no use.” the master smiled and returned no answer.
when night had fallen he went with a long sack on his back, a bundle under his arms, and a lantern in his hand to the village-church.
in the sack he had some crabs, and in the bundle short wax-candles.
he sat down in the churchyard, took out a crab, and stuck a wax-candle on his back.
then he lighted the little light, put the crab on the ground, and let it creep about.
he took a second out of the sack, and treated it in the same way, and so on until the last was out of the sack.
hereupon he put on a long black garment that looked like a monk’s cowl, and stuck a gray beard on his chin.
when at last he was quite unrecognizable, he took the sack in which the crabs had been, went into the church, and ascended the pulpit.
the clock in the tower was just striking twelve; when the last stroke had sounded, he cried with a loud and piercing voice, “hearken, sinful men, the end of all things has come!
the last day is at hand!
hearken!
hearken!
whosoever wishes to go to heaven with me must creep into the sack.
i am peter, who opens and shuts the gate of heaven.
behold how the dead outside there in the churchyard, are wandering about collecting their bones.
come, come, and creep into the sack; the world is about to be destroyed!” the cry echoed through the whole village.
the parson and clerk who lived nearest to the church, heard it first, and when they saw the lights which were moving about the churchyard, they observed that something unusual was going on, and went into the church.
they listened to the sermon for a while, and then the clerk nudged the parson and said, “it would not be amiss if we were to use the opportunity together, and before the dawning of the last day, find an easy way of getting to heaven.” “to tell the truth,” answered the parson, “that is what i myself have been thinking, so if you are inclined, we will set out on our way.” “yes,” answered the clerk, “but you, the pastor, have the precedence, i will follow.” so the parson went first, and ascended the pulpit where the master opened his sack.
the parson crept in first, and then the clerk.
the master immediately tied up the sack tightly, seized it by the middle, and dragged it down the pulpit-steps, and whenever the heads of the two fools bumped against the steps, he cried, “we are going over the mountains.” then he drew them through the village in the same way, and when they were passing through puddles, he cried, “now we are going through wet clouds.” and when at last he was dragging them up the steps of the castle, he cried, “now we are on the steps of heaven, and will soon be in the outer court.” when he had got to the top, he pushed the sack into the pigeon-house, and when the pigeons fluttered about, he said, “hark how glad the angels are, and how they are flapping their wings!” then he bolted the door upon them, and went away.
next morning he went to the count, and told him that he had performed the third task also, and had carried the parson and clerk out of the church.
“where hast thou left them?” asked the lord.
“they are lying upstairs in a sack in the pigeon-house, and imagine that they are in heaven.” the count went up himself, and convinced himself that the master had told the truth.
when he had delivered the parson and clerk from their captivity, he said, “thou art an arch-thief, and hast won thy wager.
for once thou escapest with a whole skin, but see that thou leavest my land, for if ever thou settest foot on it again, thou may’st count on thy elevation to the gallows.” the arch-thief took leave of his parents, once more went forth into the wide world, and no one has ever heard of him since.
193 the drummer
a young drummer went out quite alone one evening into the country, and came to a lake on the shore of which he perceived three pieces of white linen lying.
“what fine linen,” said he, and put one piece in his pocket.
he returned home, thought no more of what he had found, and went to bed.
just as he was going to sleep, it seemed to him as if some one was saying his name.
he listened, and was aware of a soft voice which cried to him, “drummer, drummer, wake up!” as it was a dark night he could see no one, but it appeared to him that a figure was hovering about his bed.
“what do you want?” he asked.
“give me back my dress,”
answered the voice, “that you took away from me last evening by the lake.” “you shall have it back again,” said the drummer, “if you will tell me who you are.” “ah,” replied the voice, “i am the daughter of a mighty king; but i have fallen into the power of a witch, and am shut up on the glass-mountain.
i have to bathe in the lake every day with my two sisters, but i cannot fly back again without my dress.
my sisters have gone away, but i have been forced to stay behind.
i entreat you to give me my dress back.” “be easy, poor child,” said the drummer.
“i will willingly give it back to you.” he took it out of his pocket, and reached it to her in the dark.
she snatched it in haste, and wanted to go away with it.
“stop a moment, perhaps i can help you.” “you can only help me by ascending the glass-mountain, and freeing me from the power of the witch.
but you cannot come to the glass-mountain, and indeed if you were quite close to it you could not ascend it.” “when i want to do a thing i always can do it,” said the drummer; “i am sorry for you, and have no fear of anything.
but i do not know the way which leads to the glass-mountain.” “the road goes through the great forest, in which the man-eaters live,” she answered, “and more than that, i dare not tell you.” and then he heard her wings quiver, as she flew away.
by daybreak the drummer arose, buckled on his drum, and went without fear straight into the forest.
after he had walked for a while without seeing any giants, he thought to himself, “i must waken up the sluggards,” and he hung his drum before him, and beat such a reveille that the birds flew out of the trees with loud cries.
it was not long before a giant who had been lying sleeping among the grass, rose up, and was as tall as a fir-tree.
“wretch!” cried he; “what art thou drumming here for, and wakening me out of my best sleep?” “i am drumming,” he replied, “because i want to show the way to many thousands who are following me.” “what do they want in my forest?”
demanded the giant.
“they want to put an end to thee, and cleanse the forest of such a monster as thou art!” “oho!” said the giant, “i will trample you all to death like so many ants.” “dost thou think thou canst do anything against us?” said the drummer; “if thou stoopest to take hold of one, he will jump away and hide himself; but when thou art lying down and sleeping, they will come forth from every thicket, and creep up to thee.
every one of them has a hammer of steel in his belt, and with that they will beat in thy skull.” the giant grew angry and thought, “if i meddle with the crafty folk, it might turn out badly for me.
i can strangle wolves and bears, but i cannot protect myself from these earth-worms.” “listen, little fellow,” said he; “go back again, and i will promise you that for the future i will leave you and your comrades in peace, and if there is anything else you wish for, tell me, for i am quite willing to do something to please you.” “thou hast long legs,” said the drummer, “and canst run quicker than i; carry me to the glass-mountain, and i will give my followers a signal to go back, and they shall leave thee in peace this time.” “come here, worm,” said the giant; “seat thyself on my shoulder, i will carry thee where thou wishest to be.” the giant lifted him up, and the drummer began to beat his drum up aloft to his heart’s delight.
the giant thought, “that is the signal for the other people to turn back.”
after a while, a second giant was standing in the road, who took the drummer from the first, and stuck him in his button-hole.
the drummer laid hold of the button, which was as large as a dish, held on by it, and looked merrily around.
then they came to a third giant, who took him out of the button-hole, and set him on the rim of his hat.
then the drummer walked backwards and forwards up above, and looked over the trees, and when he perceived a mountain in the blue distance, he thought, “that must be the glass-mountain,” and so it was.
the giant only made two steps more, and they reached the foot of the mountain, where the giant put him down.
the drummer demanded to be put on the summit of the glass-mountain, but the giant shook his head, growled something in his beard, and went back into the forest.
and now the poor drummer was standing before the mountain, which was as high as if three mountains were piled on each other, and at the same time as smooth as a looking-glass, and did not know how to get up it.
he began to climb, but that was useless, for he always slipped back again.
“if one was a bird now,” thought he; but what was the good of wishing, no wings grew for him.
whilst he was standing thus, not knowing what to do, he saw, not far from him, two men who were struggling fiercely together.
he went up to them and saw that they were disputing about a saddle which was lying on the ground before them, and which both of them wanted to have.
“what fools you are,” said he, “to quarrel about a saddle, when you have not a horse for it!” “the saddle is worth fighting about,” answered one of the men; “whosoever sits on it, and wishes himself in any place, even if it should be the very end of the earth, gets there the instant he has uttered the wish.
the saddle belongs to us in common.
it is my turn to ride on it, but that other man will not let me do it.” “i will soon decide the quarrel,” said the drummer, and he went to a short distance and stuck a white rod in the ground.
then he came back and said, “now run to the goal, and whoever gets there first, shall ride first.” both put themselves into a trot; but hardly had they gone a couple of steps before the drummer swung himself on the saddle, wished himself on the glass-mountain, and before any one could turn round, he was there.
on the top of the mountain was a plain; there stood an old stone house, and in front of the house lay a great fish-pond, but behind it was a dark forest.
he saw neither men nor animals, everything was quiet; only the wind rustled amongst the trees, and the clouds moved by quite close above his head.
he went to the door and knocked.
when he had knocked for the third time, an old woman with a brown face and red eyes opened the door.
she had spectacles on her long nose, and looked sharply at him; then she asked what he wanted.
“entrance, food, and a bed for the night,” replied the drummer.
“that thou shalt have,” said the old woman, “if thou wilt perform three services in return.” “why not?” he answered, “i am not afraid of any kind of work, however hard it may be.” the old woman let him go in, and gave him some food and a good bed at night.
the next morning when he had had his sleep out, she took a thimble from her wrinkled finger, reached it to the drummer, and said, “go to work now, and empty out the pond with this thimble; but thou must have it done before night, and must have sought out all the fishes which are in the water and laid them side by side, according to their kind and size.” “that is strange work,” said the drummer, but he went to the pond, and began to empty it.
he baled the whole morning; but what can any one do to a great lake with a thimble, even if he were to bale for a thousand years?
when it was noon, he thought, “it is all useless, and whether i work or not it will come to the same thing.” so he gave it up and sat down.
then came a maiden out of the house who set a little basket with food before him, and said, “what ails thee, that thou sittest so sadly here?” he looked at her, and saw that she was wondrously beautiful.
“ah,” said he, “i cannot finish the first piece of work, how will it be with the others?
i came forth to seek a king’s daughter who is said to dwell here, but i have not found her, and i will go farther.” “stay here,” said the maiden, “i will help thee out of thy difficulty.
thou art tired, lay thy head in my lap, and sleep.
when thou awakest again, thy work will be done.” the drummer did not need to be told that twice.
as soon as his eyes were shut, she turned a wishing-ring and said, “rise, water.
fishes, come out.” instantly the water rose on high like a white mist, and moved away with the other clouds, and the fishes sprang on the shore and laid themselves side by side each according to his size and kind.
when the drummer awoke, he saw with amazement that all was done.
but the maiden said, “one of the fish is not lying with those of its own kind, but quite alone; when the old woman comes to-night and sees that all she demanded has been done, she will ask thee, ‘what is this fish lying alone for?’ then throw the fish in her face, and say, ‘this one shall be for thee, old witch.’” in the evening the witch came, and when she had put this question, he threw the fish in her face.
she behaved as if she did not remark it, and said nothing, but looked at him with malicious eyes.
next morning she said, “yesterday it was too easy for thee, i must give thee harder work.
to-day thou must hew down the whole of the forest, split the wood into logs, and pile them up, and everything must be finished by the evening.” she gave him an axe, a mallet, and two wedges.
but the axe was made of lead, and the mallet and wedges were of tin.
when he began to cut, the edge of the axe turned back, and the mallet and wedges were beaten out of shape.
he did not know how to manage, but at mid-day the maiden came once more with his dinner and comforted him.
“lay thy head on my lap,” said she, “and sleep; when thou awakest, thy work will be done.” she turned her wishing-ring, and in an instant the whole forest fell down with a crash, the wood split, and arranged itself in heaps, and it seemed just as if unseen giants were finishing the work.
when he awoke, the maiden said, “dost thou see that the wood is piled up and arranged, one bough alone remains; but when the old woman comes this evening and asks thee about that bough, give her a blow with it, and say, ‘that is for thee, thou witch.’”
the old woman came, “there thou seest how easy the work was!” said she; “but for whom hast thou left that bough which is lying there still?”
“for thee, thou witch,” he replied, and gave her a blow with it.
but she pretended not to feel it, laughed scornfully, and said, “early to-morrow morning thou shalt arrange all the wood in one heap, set fire to it, and burn it.” he rose at break of day, and began to pick up the wood, but how can a single man get a whole forest together?
the work made no progress.
the maiden, however, did not desert him in his need.
she brought him his food at noon, and when he had eaten, he laid his head on her lap, and went to sleep.
when he awoke, the entire pile of wood was burning in one enormous flame, which stretched its tongues out into the sky.
“listen to me,” said the maiden, “when the witch comes, she will give thee all kinds of orders; do whatever she asks thee without fear, and then she will not be able to get the better of thee, but if thou art afraid, the fire will lay hold of thee, and consume thee.
at last when thou hast done everything, seize her with both thy hands, and throw her into the midst of the fire.” the maiden departed, and the old woman came sneaking up to him.
“oh, i am cold,” said she, “but that is a fire that burns; it warms my old bones for me, and does me good!
but there is a log lying there which won’t burn, bring it out for me.
when thou hast done that, thou art free, and mayst go where thou likest, come; go in with a good will.”
the drummer did not reflect long; he sprang into the midst of the flames, but they did not hurt him, and could not even singe a hair of his head.
he carried the log out, and laid it down.
hardly, however, had the wood touched the earth than it was transformed, and the beautiful maiden who had helped him in his need stood before him, and by the silken and shining golden garments which she wore, he knew right well that she was the king’s daughter.
but the old woman laughed venomously, and said, “thou thinkest thou hast her safe, but thou hast not got her yet!” just as she was about to fall on the maiden and take her away, the youth seized the old woman with both his hands, raised her up on high, and threw her into the jaws of the fire, which closed over her as if it were delighted that an old witch was to be burnt.
then the king’s daughter looked at the drummer, and when she saw that he was a handsome youth and remembered how he had risked his life to deliver her, she gave him her hand, and said, “thou hast ventured everything for my sake, but i also will do everything for thine.
promise to be true to me, and thou shalt be my husband.
we shall not want for riches, we shall have enough with what the witch has gathered together here.” she led him into the house, where there were chests and coffers crammed with the old woman’s treasures.
the maiden left the gold and silver where it was, and took only the precious stones.
she would not stay any longer on the glass-mountain, so the drummer said to her, “seat thyself by me on my saddle, and then we will fly down like birds.” “i do not like the old saddle,” said she, “i need only turn my wishing-ring and we shall be at home.” “very well, then,” answered the drummer, “then wish us in front of the town-gate.” in the twinkling of an eye they were there, but the drummer said, “i will just go to my parents and tell them the news, wait for me outside here, i shall soon be back.” “ah,” said the king’s daughter, “i beg thee to be careful.
on thy arrival do not kiss thy parents on the right cheek, or else thou wilt forget everything, and i shall stay behind here outside, alone and deserted.” “how can i forget thee?” said he, and promised her to come back very soon, and gave his hand upon it.
when he went into his father’s house, he had changed so much that no one knew who he was, for the three days which he had passed on the glass-mountain had been three years.
then he made himself known, and his parents fell on his neck with joy, and his heart was so moved that he forgot what the maiden had said, and kissed them on both cheeks.
but when he had given them the kiss on the right cheek, every thought of the king’s daughter vanished from him.
he emptied out his pockets, and laid handfuls of the largest jewels on the table.
the parents had not the least idea what to do with the riches.
then the father built a magnificent castle all surrounded by gardens, woods, and meadows as if a prince were going to live in it, and when it was ready, the mother said, “i have found a maiden for thee, and the wedding shall be in three days.
the son was content to do as his parents desired.”
the poor king’s daughter had stood for a long time without the town waiting for the return of the young man.
when evening came, she said, “he must certainly have kissed his parents on the right cheek, and has forgotten me.” her heart was full of sorrow, she wished herself into a solitary little hut in a forest, and would not return to her father’s court.
every evening she went into the town and passed the young man’s house; he often saw her, but he no longer knew her.
at length she heard the people saying, “the wedding will take place to-morrow.” then she said, “i will try if i can win his heart back.”
on the first day of the wedding ceremonies, she turned her wishing-ring, and said, “a dress as bright as the sun.” instantly the dress lay before her, and it was as bright as if it had been woven of real sunbeams.
when all the guests were assembled, she entered the hall.
every one was amazed at the beautiful dress, and the bride most of all, and as pretty dresses were the things she had most delight in, she went to the stranger and asked if she would sell it to her.
“not for money,” she answered, “but if i may pass the first night outside the door of the room where your betrothed sleeps, i will give it up to you.” the bride could not overcome her desire and consented, but she mixed a sleeping-draught with the wine her betrothed took at night, which made him fall into a deep sleep, when all had become quiet, the king’s daughter crouched down by the door of the bedroom, opened it just a little, and cried,
“drummer, drummer, i pray thee hear!
hast thou forgotten thou heldest me dear?
that on the glass-mountain we sat hour by hour?
that i rescued thy life from the witch’s power?
didst thou not plight thy troth to me?
drummer, drummer, hearken to me!”
but it was all in vain, the drummer did not awake, and when morning dawned, the king’s daughter was forced to go back again as she came.
on the second evening she turned her wishing-ring and said, “a dress as silvery as the moon.” when she appeared at the feast in the dress which was as soft as moonbeams, it again excited the desire of the bride, and the king’s daughter gave it to her for permission to pass the second night also, outside the door of the bedroom.
then in the stillness of the night, she cried,
“drummer, drummer, i pray thee hear!
hast thou forgotten thy heldest me dear?
that on the glass-mountain we sat hour by hour?
that i rescued thy life from the witch’s power?
didst thou not plight thy troth to me?
drummer, drummer, hearken to me!”
but the drummer, who was stupefied with the sleeping-draught, could not be aroused.
sadly next morning she went back to her hut in the forest.
but the people in the house had heard the lamentation of the stranger-maiden, and told the bridegroom about it.
they told him also that it was impossible that he could hear anything of it, because the maiden he was going to marry had poured a sleeping-draught into his wine.
on the third evening, the king’s daughter turned her wishing-ring, and said, “a dress glittering like the stars.” when she showed herself therein at the feast, the bride was quite beside herself with the splendour of the dress, which far surpassed the others, and she said, “i must, and will have it.” the maiden gave it as she had given the others for permission to spend the night outside the bridegroom’s door.
the bridegroom, however, did not drink the wine which was handed to him before he went to bed, but poured it behind the bed, and when everything was quiet, he heard a sweet voice which called to him,
“drummer, drummer, i pray thee hear!
hast thou forgotten thou held me dear?
that on the glass-mountain we sat hour by hour?
that i rescued thy life from the witch’s power?
didst thou not plight thy troth to me?
drummer, drummer, hearken to me!”
suddenly, his memory returned to him.
“ah,” cried he, “how can i have acted so unfaithfully; but the kiss which in the joy of my heart i gave my parents, on the right cheek, that is to blame for it all, that is what stupefied me!” he sprang up, took the king’s daughter by the hand, and led her to his parents’ bed.
“this is my true bride,” said he; “if i marry the other, i shall do a great wrong.” the parents, when they heard how everything had happened, gave their consent.
then the lights in the hall were lighted again, drums and trumpets were brought, friends and relations were invited to come, and the real wedding was solemnized with great rejoicing.
the first bride received the beautiful dresses as a compensation, and declared herself satisfied.
194 the ear of corn
in former times, when god himself still walked the earth, the fruitfulness of the soil was much greater than it is now; then the ears of corn did not bear fifty or sixty, but four or five hundred-fold.
then the corn grew from the bottom to the very top o f the stalk, and according to the length of the stalk was the length of the ear.
men however are so made, that when they are too well off they no longer value the blessings which come from god, but grow indifferent and careless.
one day a woman was passing by a corn-field when her little child, who was running beside her, fell into a puddle, and dirtied her frock.
on this the mother tore up a handful of the beautiful ears of corn, and cleaned the frock with them.
when the lord, who just then came by, saw that, he was angry, and said, “henceforth shall the stalks of corn bear no more ears; men are no longer worthy of heavenly gifts.” the by-standers who heard this, were terrified, and fell on their knees and prayed that he would still leave something on the stalks, even if the people were undeserving of it, for the sake of the innocent birds which would otherwise have to starve.
the lord, who foresaw their suffering, had pity on them, and granted the request.
so the ears were left as they now grow.
195 the grave-mound
a rich farmer was one day standing in his yard inspecting his fields and gardens.
the corn was growing up vigorously and the fruit-trees were heavily laden with fruit.
the grain of the year before still lay in such immense heaps on the floors that the rafters could hardly bear it.
then he went into the stable, where were well-fed oxen, fat cows, and horses bright as looking-glass.
at length he went back into his sitting-room, and cast a glance at the iron chest in which his money lay.
whilst he was thus standing surveying his riches, all at once there was a loud knock close by him.
the knock was not at the door of his room, but at the door of his heart.
it opened, and he heard a voice which said to him, “hast thou done good to thy family with it?
hast thou considered the necessities of the poor?
hast thou shared thy bread with the hungry?
hast thou been contented with what thou hast, or didst thou always desire to have more?” the heart was not slow in answering, “i have been hard and pitiless, and have never shown any kindness to my own family.
if a beggar came, i turned away my eyes from him.
i have not troubled myself about god, but have thought only of increasing my wealth.
if everything which the sky covers had been mine own, i should still not have had enough.”
when he was aware of this answer he was greatly alarmed, his knees began to tremble, and he was forced to sit down.
then there was another knock, but the knock was at the door of his room.
it was his neighbour, a poor man who had a number of children whom he could no longer satisfy with food.
“i know,” thought the poor man, “that my neighbour is rich, but he is as hard as he is rich.
i don’t believe he will help me, but my children are crying for bread, so i will venture it.” he said to the rich man, “you do not readily give away anything that is yours, but i stand here like one who feels the water rising above his head.
my children are starving, lend me four measures* of corn.” the rich man looked at him long, and then the first sunbeam of mercy began to melt away a drop of the ice of greediness.
“i will not lend thee four measures,” he answered, “but i will make thee a present of eight, but thou must fulfil one condition.” “what am i to do?” said the poor man.
“when i am dead, thou shalt watch for three nights by my grave.” the peasant was disturbed in his mind at this request, but in the need in which he was, he would have consented to anything; he accepted, therefore, and carried the corn home with him.
it seemed as if the rich man had foreseen what was about to happen, for when three days were gone by, he suddenly dropped down dead.
no one knew exactly how it came to pass, but no one grieved for him.
when he was buried, the poor man remembered his promise; he would willingly have been released from it, but he thought, “after all, he acted kindly by me.
i have fed my hungry children with his corn, and even if that were not the case, where i have once given my promise i must keep it.”
at nightfall he went into the churchyard, and seated himself on the grave-mound.
everything was quiet, only the moon appeared above the grave, and frequently an owl flew past and uttered her melancholy cry.
when the sun rose, the poor man betook himself in safety to his home, and in the same manner the second night passed quietly by.
on the evening of the third day he felt a strange uneasiness, it seemed to him that something was about to happen.
when he went out he saw, by the churchyard-wall, a man whom he had never seen before.
he was no longer young, had scars on his face, and his eyes looked sharply and eagerly around.
he was entirely covered with an old cloak, and nothing was visible but his great riding-boots.
“what are you looking for here?”
the peasant asked.
“are you not afraid of the lonely churchyard?”
“i am looking for nothing,” he answered, “and i am afraid of nothing!
i am like the youngster who went forth to learn how to shiver, and had his labour for his pains, but got the king’s daughter to wife and great wealth with her, only i have remained poor.
i am nothing but a paid-off soldier, and i mean to pass the night here, because i have no other shelter.” “if you are without fear,” said the peasant, “stay with me, and help me to watch that grave there.”
“to keep watch is a soldier’s business,” he replied, “whatever we fall in with here, whether it be good or bad, we will share it between us.”
the peasant agreed to this, and they seated themselves on the grave together.
all was quiet until midnight, when suddenly a shrill whistling was heard in the air, and the two watchers perceived the evil one standing bodily before them.
“be off, you ragamuffins!” cried he to them, “the man who lies in that grave belongs to me; i want to take him, and if you don’t go away i will wring your necks!” “sir with the red feather,”
said the soldier, “you are not my captain, i have no need to obey you, and i have not yet learned how to fear.
go away, we shall stay sitting here.”
the devil thought to himself, “money is the best thing with which to get hold of these two vagabonds.” so he began to play a softer tune, and asked quite kindly, if they would not accept a bag of money, and go home with it?
“that is worth listening to,” answered the soldier, “but one bag of gold won’t serve us, if you will give as much as will go into one of my boots, we will quit the field for you and go away.”
“i have not so much as that about me,” said the devil, “but i will fetch it.
in the neighbouring town lives a money-changer who is a good friend of mine, and will readily advance it to me.” when the devil had vanished the soldier took his left boot off, and said, “we will soon pull the charcoal-burner’s nose for him, just give me your knife, comrade.” he cut the sole off the boot, and put it in the high grass near the grave on the edge of a hole that was half over-grown.
“that will do,” said he; “now the chimney-sweep may come.”
they both sat down and waited, and it was not long before the devil returned with a small bag of gold in his hand.
“just pour it in,” said the soldier, raising up the boot a little, “but that won’t be enough.”
the black one shook out all that was in the bag; the gold fell through, and the boot remained empty.
“stupid devil,” cried the soldier, “it won’t do!
didn’t i say so at once?
go back again, and bring more.” the devil shook his head, went, and in an hour’s time came with a much larger bag under his arm.
“now pour it in,” cried the soldier, “but i doubt the boot won’t be full.” the gold clinked as it fell, but the boot remained empty.
the devil looked in himself with his burning eyes, and convinced himself of the truth.
“you have shamefully big calves to your legs!” cried he, and made a wry face.
“did you think,” replied the soldier, “that i had a cloven foot like you?
since when have you been so stingy?
see that you get more gold together, or our bargain will come to nothing!” the wicked one went off again.
this time he stayed away longer, and when at length he appeared he was panting under the weight of a sack which lay on his shoulders.
he emptied it into the boot, which was just as far from being filled as before.
he became furious, and was just going to tear the boot out of the soldier’s hands, but at that moment the first ray of the rising sun broke forth from the sky, and the evil spirit fled away with loud shrieks.
the poor soul was saved.
the peasant wished to divide the gold, but the soldier said, “give what falls to my lot to the poor, i will come with thee to thy cottage, and together we will live in rest and peace on what remains, as long as god is pleased to permit.”
196 old rinkrank
there was once on a time a king who had a daughter, and he caused a glass mountain to be made, and said that whosoever could cross to the other side of it without falling should have his daughter to wife.
then there was one who loved the king’s daughter, and he asked the king if he might have her.
“yes,” said the king; “if you can cross the mountain without falling, you shall have her.” and the princess said she would go over it with him, and would hold him if he were about to fall.
so they set out together to go over it, and when they were half way up the princess slipped and fell, and the glass-mountain opened and shut her up inside it, and her betrothed could not see where she had gone, for the mountain closed immediately.
then he wept and lamented much, and the king was miserable too, and had the mountain broken open where she had been lost, and though the would be able to get her out again, but they could not find the place into which she had fallen.
meanwhile the king’s daughter had fallen quite deep down into the earth into a great cave.
an old fellow with a very long gray beard came to meet her, and told her that if she would be his servant and do everything he bade her, she might live, if not he would kill her.
so she did all he bade her.
in the mornings he took his ladder out of his pocket, and set it up against the mountain and climbed to the top by its help, and then he drew up the ladder after him.
the princess had to cook his dinner, make his bed, and do all his work, and when he came home again he always brought with him a heap of gold and silver.
when she had lived with him for many years, and had grown quite old, he called her mother mansrot, and she had to call him old rinkrank.
then once when he was out, and she had made his bed and washed his dishes, she shut the doors and windows all fast, and there was one little window through which the light shone in, and this she left open.
when old rinkrank came home, he knocked at his door, and cried, “mother mansrot, open the door for me.”
“no,” said she, “old rinkrank, i will not open the door for thee.” then he said,
“here stand i, poor rinkrank, on my seventeen long shanks, on my weary, worn-out foot, wash my dishes, mother mansrot.”
“i have washed thy dishes already,” said she.
then again he said,
“here stand i, poor rinkrank, on my seventeen long shanks, on my weary, worn-out foot, make me my bed, mother mansrot.”
“i have made thy bed already,” said she.
then again he said,
“here stand i, poor rinkrank, on my seventeen long shanks, on my weary, worn-out foot, open the door, mother mansrot.”
then he ran all round his house, and saw that the little window was open, and thought, “i will look in and see what she can be about, and why she will not open the door for me.” he tried to peep in, but could not get his head through because of his long beard.
so he first put his beard through the open window, but just as he had got it through, mother mansrot came by and pulled the window down with a cord which she had tied to it, and his beard was shut fast in it.
then he began to cry most piteously, for it hurt him very much, and to entreat her to release him again.
but she said not until he gave her the ladder with which he ascended the mountain.
then, whether he would or not, he had to tell her where the ladder was.
and she fastened a very long ribbon to the window, and then she set up the ladder, and ascended the mountain, and when she was at the top of it she opened the window.
she went to her father, and told him all that had happened to her.
the king rejoiced greatly, and her betrothed was still there, and they went and dug up the mountain, and found old rinkrank inside it with all his gold and silver.
then the king had old rinkrank put to death, and took all his gold and silver.
the princess married her betrothed, and lived right happily in great magnificence and joy.
197 the crystal ball
there was once an enchantress, who had three sons who loved each other as brothers, but the old woman did not trust them, and thought they wanted to steal her power from her.
so she changed the eldest into an eagle, which was forced to dwell in the rocky mountains, and was often seen sweeping in great circles in the sky.
the second, she changed into a whale, which lived in the deep sea, and all that was seen of it was that it sometimes spouted up a great jet of water in the air.
each of them only bore his human form for only two hours daily.
the third son, who was afraid she might change him into a raging wild beast a bear perhaps, or a wolf, went secretly away.
he had heard that a king’s daughter who was bewitched, was imprisoned in the castle of the golden sun, and was waiting for deliverance.
those, however, who tried to free her risked their lives; three-and-twenty youths had already died a miserable death, and now only one other might make the attempt, after which no more must come.
and as his heart was without fear, he caught at the idea of seeking out the castle of the golden sun.
he had already travelled about for a long time without being able to find it, when he came by chance into a great forest, and did not know the way out of it.
all at once he saw in the distance two giants, who made a sign to him with their hands, and when he came to them they said, “we are quarrelling about a cap, and which of us it is to belong to, and as we are equally strong, neither of us can get the better of the other.
the small men are cleverer than we are, so we will leave the decision to thee.” “how can you dispute about an old cap?” said the youth.
“thou dost not know what properties it has!
it is a wishing-cap; whosoever puts it on, can wish himself away wherever he likes, and in an instant he will be there.” “give me the cap,” said the youth, “i will go a short distance off, and when i call you, you must run a race, and the cap shall belong to the one who gets first to me.” he put it on and went away, and thought of the king’s daughter, forgot the giants, and walked continually onward.
at length he sighed from the very bottom of his heart, and cried, “ah, if i were but at the castle of the golden sun,” and hardly had the words passed his lips than he was standing on a high mountain before the gate of the castle.
he entered and went through all the rooms, until in the last he found the king’s daughter.
but how shocked he was when he saw her.
she had an ashen-gray face full of wrinkles, blear eyes, and red hair.
“are you the king’s daughter, whose beauty the whole world praises?” cried he.
“ah,” she answered, “this is not my form; human eyes can only see me in this state of ugliness, but that thou mayst know what i am like, look in the mirror it does not let itself be misled it will show thee my image as it is in truth.” she gave him the mirror in his hand, and he saw therein the likeness of the most beautiful maiden on earth, and saw, too, how the tears were rolling down her cheeks with grief.
then said he, “how canst thou be set free?
i fear no danger.” she said, “he who gets the crystal ball, and holds it before the enchanter, will destroy his power with it, and i shall resume my true shape.
ah,” she added, “so many have already gone to meet death for this, and thou art so young; i grieve that thou shouldst encounter such great danger.”
“nothing can keep me from doing it,” said he, “but tell me what i must do.” “thou shalt know everything,” said the king’s daughter; “when thou descendest the mountain on which the castle stands, a wild bull will stand below by a spring, and thou must fight with it, and if thou hast the luck to kill it, a fiery bird will spring out of it, which bears in its body a burning egg, and in the egg the crystal ball lies like a yolk.
the bird will not, however, let the egg fall until forced to do so, and if it falls on the ground, it will flame up and burn everything that is near, and melt even ice itself, and with it the crystal ball, and then all thy trouble will have been in vain.”
the youth went down to the spring, where the bull snorted and bellowed at him.
after a long struggle he plunged his sword in the animal’s body, and it fell down.
instantly a fiery bird arose from it, and was about to fly away, but the young man’s brother, the eagle, who was passing between the clouds, swooped down, hunted it away to the sea, and struck it with his beak until, in its extremity, it let the egg fall.
the egg did not, however, fall into the sea, but on a fisherman’s hut which stood on the shore and the hut began at once to smoke and was about to break out in flames.
then arose in the sea waves as high as a house, they streamed over the hut, and subdued the fire.
the other brother, the whale, had come swimming to them, and had driven the water up on high.
when the fire was extinguished, the youth sought for the egg and happily found it; it was not yet melted, but the shell was broken by being so suddenly cooled with the water, and he could take out the crystal ball unhurt.
when the youth went to the enchanter and held it before him, the latter said, “my power is destroyed, and from this time forth thou art the king of the castle of the golden sun.
with this canst thou likewise give back to thy brothers their human form.” then the youth hastened to the king’s daughter, and when he entered the room, she was standing there in the full splendour of her beauty, and joyfully they exchanged rings with each other.
198 maid maleen
there was once a king who had a son who asked in marriage the daughter of a mighty king; she was called maid maleen, and was very beautiful.
as her father wished to give her to another, the prince was rejected; but as they both loved each other with all their hearts, they would not give each other up, and maid maleen said to her father, “i can and will take no other for my husband.” then the king flew into a passion, and ordered a dark tower to be built, into which no ray of sunlight or moonlight should enter.
when it was finished, he said, “therein shalt thou be imprisoned for seven years, and then i will come and see if thy perverse spirit is broken.” meat and drink for the seven years were carried into the tower, and then she and her waiting-woman were led into it and walled up, and thus cut off from the sky and from the earth.
there they sat in the darkness, and knew not when day or night began.
the king’s son often went round and round the tower, and called their names, but no sound from without pierced through the thick walls.
what else could they do but lament and complain?
meanwhile the time passed, and by the diminution of the food and drink they knew that the seven years were coming to an end.
they thought the moment of their deliverance was come; but no stroke of the hammer was heard, no stone fell out of the wall, and it seemed to maid maleen that her father had forgotten her.
as they only had food for a short time longer, and saw a miserable death awaiting them, maid maleen said, “we must try our last chance, and see if we can break through the wall.” she took the bread-knife, and picked and bored at the mortar of a stone, and when she was tired, the waiting-maid took her turn.
with great labour they succeeded in getting out one stone, and then a second, and a third, and when three days were over the first ray of light fell on their darkness, and at last the opening was so large that they could look out.
the sky was blue, and a fresh breeze played on their faces; but how melancholy everything looked all around!
her father’s castle lay in ruins, the town and the villages were, so far as could be seen, destroyed by fire, the fields far and wide laid to waste, and no human being was visible.
when the opening in the wall was large enough for them to slip through, the waiting-maid sprang down first, and then maid maleen followed.
but where were they to go?
the enemy had ravaged the whole kingdom, driven away the king, and slain all the inhabitants.
they wandered forth to seek another country, but nowhere did they find a shelter, or a human being to give them a mouthful of bread, and their need was so great that they were forced to appease their hunger with nettles.
when, after long journeying, they came into another country, they tried to get work everywhere; but wherever they knocked they were turned away, and no one would have pity on them.
at last they arrived in a large city and went to the royal palace.
there also they were ordered to go away, but at last the cook said that they might stay in the kitchen and be scullions.
the son of the king in whose kingdom they were, was, however, the very man who had been betrothed to maid maleen.
his father had chosen another bride for him, whose face was as ugly as her heart was wicked.
the wedding was fixed, and the maiden had already arrived; but because of her great ugliness, however, she shut herself in her room, and allowed no one to see her, and maid maleen had to take her her meals from the kitchen.
when the day came for the bride and the bridegroom to go to church, she was ashamed of her ugliness, and afraid that if she showed herself in the streets, she would be mocked and laughed at by the people.
then said she to maid maleen, “a great piece of luck has befallen thee.
i have sprained my foot, and cannot well walk through the streets; thou shalt put on my wedding-clothes and take my place; a greater honour than that thou canst not have!” maid maleen, however, refused it, and said, “i wish for no honour which is not suitable for me.” it was in vain, too, that the bride offered her gold.
at last she said angrily, “if thou dost not obey me, it shall cost thee thy life.
i have but to speak the word, and thy head will lie at thy feet.” then she was forced to obey, and put on the bride’s magnificent clothes and all her jewels.
when she entered the royal hall, every one was amazed at her great beauty, and the king said to his son, “this is the bride whom i have chosen for thee, and whom thou must lead to church.” the bridegroom was astonished, and thought, “she is like my maid maleen, and i should believe that it was she herself, but she has long been shut up in the tower, or dead.” he took her by the hand and led her to church.
on the way was a nettle-plant, and she said,
“oh, nettle-plant, little nettle-plant, what dost thou here alone?
i have known the time when i ate thee unboiled, when i ate thee unroasted.”
“what art thou saying?” asked the king’s son.
“nothing,” she replied, “i was only thinking of maid maleen.” he was surprised that she knew about her, but kept silence.
when they came to the foot-plank into the churchyard, she said,
“foot-bridge, do not break, i am not the true bride.”
“what art thou saying there?” asked the king’s son.
“nothing,” she replied, “i was only thinking of maid maleen.” “dost thou know maid maleen?” “no,” she answered, “how should i know her; i have only heard of her.” when they came to the church-door, she said once more,
“church-door, break not, i am not the true bride.”
“what art thou saying there?” asked he.
“ah,” she answered, “i was only thinking of maid maleen.” then he took out a precious chain, put it round her neck, and fastened the clasp.
thereupon they entered the church, and the priest joined their hands together before the altar, and married them.
he led her home, but she did not speak a single word the whole way.
when they got back to the royal palace, she hurried into the bride’s chamber, put off the magnificent clothes and the jewels, dressed herself in her gray gown, and kept nothing but the jewel on her neck, which she had received from the bridegroom.
when the night came, and the bride was to be led into the prince’s apartment, she let her veil fall over her face, that he might not observe the deception.
as soon as every one had gone away, he said to her, “what didst thou say to the nettle-plant which was growing by the wayside?”
“to which nettle-plant?” asked she; “i don’t talk to nettle-plants.”
“if thou didst not do it, then thou art not the true bride,” said he.
so she bethought herself, and said,
“i must go out unto my maid, who keeps my thoughts for me.”
she went out and sought maid maleen.
“girl, what hast thou been saying to the nettle?” “i said nothing but,
“oh, nettle-plant, little nettle-plant, what dost thou here alone?
i have known the time when i ate thee unboiled, when i ate thee unroasted.”
the bride ran back into the chamber, and said, “i know now what i said to the nettle,” and she repeated the words which she had just heard.
“but what didst thou say to the foot-bridge when we went over it?”
asked the king’s son.
“to the foot-bridge?” she answered.
“i don’t talk to foot-bridges.” “then thou art not the true bride.”
she again said,
“i must go out unto my maid, who keeps my thoughts for me,”
and ran out and found maid maleen, “girl, what didst thou say to the foot-bridge?”
“i said nothing but,
“foot-bridge, do not break, i am not the true bride.”
“that costs thee thy life!” cried the bride, but she hurried into the room, and said, “i know now what i said to the foot-bridge,” and she repeated the words.
“but what didst thou say to the church-door?” “to the church-door?” she replied; “i don’t talk to church-doors.” “then thou art not the true bride.”
she went out and found maid maleen, and said, “girl, what didst thou say to the church-door?”
“i said nothing but,
“church-door, break not, i am not the true bride.”
“that will break thy neck for thee!” cried the bride, and flew into a terrible passion, but she hastened back into the room, and said, “i know now what i said to the church-door,” and she repeated the words.
“but where hast thou the jewel which i gave thee at the church-door?”
“what jewel?” she answered; “thou didst not give me any jewel.” “i myself put it round thy neck, and i myself fastened it; if thou dost not know that, thou art not the true bride.” he drew the veil from her face, and when he saw her immeasurable ugliness, he sprang back terrified, and said, “how comest thou here?
who art thou?” “i am thy betrothed bride, but because i feared lest the people should mock me when they saw me out of doors, i commanded the scullery-maid to dress herself in my clothes, and to go to church instead of me.” “where is the girl?” said he; “i want to see her, go and bring her here.” she went out and told the servants that the scullery-maid was an impostor, and that they must take her out into the court-yard and strike off her head.
the servants laid hold of maid maleen and wanted to drag her out, but she screamed so loudly for help, that the king’s son heard her voice, hurried out of his chamber and ordered them to set the maiden free instantly.
lights were brought, and then he saw on her neck the gold chain which he had given her at the church-door.
“thou art the true bride,” said he, “who went with me to the church; come with me now to my room.” when they were both alone, he said, “on the way to church thou didst name maid maleen, who was my betrothed bride; if i could believe it possible, i should think she was standing before me thou art like her in every respect.” she answered, “i am maid maleen, who for thy sake was imprisoned seven years in the darkness, who suffered hunger and thirst, and has lived so long in want and poverty.
to-day, however, the sun is shining on me once more.
i was married to thee in the church, and i am thy lawful wife.” then they kissed each other, and were happy all the days of their lives.
the false bride was rewarded for what she had done by having her head cut off.
the tower in which maid maleen had been imprisoned remained standing for a long time, and when the children passed by it they sang,
“kling, klang, gloria.
who sits within this tower?
a king’s daughter, she sits within, a sight of her i cannot win, the wall it will not break, the stone cannot be pierced.
little hans, with your coat so gay, follow me, follow me, fast as you may.”
the lion and the crane
the bodhisatta was at one time born in the region of himavanta as a white crane; now brahmadatta was at that time reigning in benares.
now it chanced that as a lion was eating meat a bone stuck in his throat.
the throat became swollen, he could not take food, his suffering was terrible.
the crane seeing him, as he was perched on a tree looking for food, asked, "what ails thee, friend?"
he told him why.
"i could free thee from that bone, friend, but dare not enter thy mouth for fear thou mightest eat me."
"don't be afraid, friend, i'll not eat thee; only save my life."
"very well," says he, and caused him to lie down on his left side.
but thinking to himself, "who knows what this fellow will do," he placed a small stick upright between his two jaws that he could not close his mouth, and inserting his head inside his mouth struck one end of the bone with his beak.
whereupon the bone dropped and fell out.
as soon as he had caused the bone to fall, he got out of the lion's mouth, striking the stick with his beak so that it fell out, and then settled on a branch.
the lion gets well, and one day was eating a buffalo he had killed.
the crane thinking "i will sound him," settled on a branch just over him, and in conversation spoke this first verse:
"a service have we done thee       to the best of our ability,     king of the beasts!
your majesty!
what return shall we get from thee?"
in reply the lion spoke the second verse:
"as i feed on blood,       and always hunt for prey,     'tis much that thou art still alive       having once been between my teeth."
then in reply the crane said the two other verses:
"ungrateful, doing no good,       not doing as he would be done by,     in him there is no gratitude,       to serve him is useless.
"his friendship is not won       by the clearest good deed.
better softly withdraw from him,       neither envying nor abusing."
and having thus spoken the crane flew away.
and when the great teacher, gautama the buddha, told this tale, he used to add: "now at that time the lion was devadatta the traitor, but the white crane was i myself."
how the raja's son won the princess labam.
in a country there was a raja who had an only son who every day went out to hunt.
one day the rani, his mother, said to him, "you can hunt wherever you like on these three sides; but you must never go to the fourth side."
this she said because she knew if he went on the fourth side he would hear of the beautiful princess labam, and that then he would leave his father and mother and seek for the princess.
the young prince listened to his mother, and obeyed her for some time; but one day, when he was hunting on the three sides where he was allowed to go, he remembered what she had said to him about the fourth side, and he determined to go and see why she had forbidden him to hunt on that side.
when he got there, he found himself in a jungle, and nothing in the jungle but a quantity of parrots, who lived in it.
the young raja shot at some of them, and at once they all flew away up to the sky.
all, that is, but one, and this was their raja, who was called hiraman parrot.
when hiraman parrot found himself left alone, he called out to the other parrots, "don't fly away and leave me alone when the raja's son shoots.
if you desert me like this, i will tell the princess labam."
then the parrots all flew back to their raja, chattering.
the prince was greatly surprised, and said, "why, these birds can talk!"
then he said to the parrots, "who is the princess labam?
where does she live?"
but the parrots would not tell him where she lived.
"you can never get to the princess labam's country."
that is all they would say.
the prince grew very sad when they would not tell him anything more; and he threw his gun away, and went home.
when he got home, he would not speak or eat, but lay on his bed for four or five days, and seemed very ill.
at last he told his father and mother that he wanted to go and see the princess labam.
"i must go," he said; "i must see what she is like.
tell me where her country is."
"we do not know where it is," answered his father and mother.
"then i must go and look for it," said the prince.
"no, no," they said, "you must not leave us.
you are our only son.
stay with us.
you will never find the princess labam."
"i must try and find her," said the prince.
"perhaps god will show me the way.
if i live and i find her, i will come back to you; but perhaps i shall die, and then i shall never see you again.
still i must go."
so they had to let him go, though they cried very much at parting with him.
his father gave him fine clothes to wear, and a fine horse.
and he took his gun, and his bow and arrows, and a great many other weapons, "for," he said, "i may want them."
his father, too, gave him plenty of rupees.
then he himself got his horse all ready for the journey, and he said good-bye to his father and mother; and his mother took her handkerchief and wrapped some sweetmeats in it, and gave it to her son.
"my child," she said to him, "when you are hungry eat some of these sweetmeats."
he then set out on his journey, and rode on and on till he came to a jungle in which were a tank and shady trees.
he bathed himself and his horse in the tank, and then sat down under a tree.
"now," he said to himself, "i will eat some of the sweetmeats my mother gave me, and i will drink some water, and then i will continue my journey."
he opened his handkerchief, and took out a sweetmeat.
he found an ant in it.
he took out another.
there was an ant in that one too.
so he laid the two sweetmeats on the ground, and he took out another, and another, and another, until he had taken them all out; but in each he found an ant.
"never mind," he said, "i won't eat the sweetmeats; the ants shall eat them."
then the ant-raja came and stood before him and said, "you have been good to us.
if ever you are in trouble, think of me and we will come to you."
the raja's son thanked him, mounted his horse and continued his journey.
he rode on and on until he came to another jungle, and there he saw a tiger who had a thorn in his foot, and was roaring loudly from the pain.
"why do you roar like that?"
said the young raja.
"what is the matter with you?"
"i have had a thorn in my foot for twelve years," answered the tiger, "and it hurts me so; that is why i roar."
"well," said the raja's son, "i will take it out for you.
but perhaps, as you are a tiger, when i have made you well, you will eat me?"
"oh, no," said the tiger, "i won't eat you.
do make me well."
then the prince took a little knife from his pocket, and cut the thorn out of the tiger's foot; but when he cut, the tiger roared louder than ever so loud that his wife heard him in the next jungle, and came bounding along to see what was the matter.
the tiger saw her coming, and hid the prince in the jungle, so that she should not see him.
"what man hurt you that you roared so loud?"
said the wife.
"no one hurt me," answered the husband; "but a raja's son came and took the thorn out of my foot."
"where is he?
show him to me," said his wife.
"if you promise not to kill him, i will call him," said the tiger.
"i won't kill him; only let me see him," answered his wife.
then the tiger called the raja's son, and when he came the tiger and his wife made him a great many salaams.
then they gave him a good dinner, and he stayed with them for three days.
every day he looked at the tiger's foot, and the third day it was quite healed.
then he said good-bye to the tigers, and the tiger said to him, "if ever you are in trouble, think of me, and we will come to you."
the raja's son rode on and on till he came to a third jungle.
here he found four fakirs whose teacher and master had died, and had left four things, a bed, which carried whoever sat on it whithersoever he wished to go; a bag, that gave its owner whatever he wanted, jewels, food, or clothes; a stone bowl that gave its owner as much water as he wanted, no matter how far he might be from a tank; and a stick and rope, to which its owner had only to say, if any one came to make war on him, "stick, beat as many men and soldiers as are here," and the stick would beat them and the rope would tie them up.
the four fakirs were quarrelling over these four things.
one said, "i want this;" another said, "you cannot have it, for i want it;" and so on.
the raja's son said to them, "do not quarrel for these things.
i will shoot four arrows in four different directions.
whichever of you gets to my first arrow, shall have the first thing the bed.
whosoever gets to the second arrow, shall have the second thing the bag.
he who gets to the third arrow, shall have the third thing the bowl.
and he who gets to the fourth arrow, shall have the last things the stick and rope."
to this they agreed, and the prince shot off his first arrow.
away raced the fakirs to get it.
when they brought it back to him he shot off the second, and when they had found and brought it to him he shot off his third, and when they had brought him the third he shot off the fourth.
while they were away looking for the fourth arrow the raja's son let his horse loose in the jungle, and sat on the bed, taking the bowl, the stick and rope, and the bag with him.
then he said, "bed, i wish to go to the princess labam's country."
the little bed instantly rose up into the air and began to fly, and it flew and flew till it came to the princess labam's country, where it settled on the ground.
the raja's son asked some men he saw, "whose country is this?"
"the princess labam's country," they answered.
then the prince went on till he came to a house where he saw an old woman.
"who are you?"
she said.
"where do you come from?"
"i come from a far country," he said; "do let me stay with you to-night."
"no," she answered, "i cannot let you stay with me; for our king has ordered that men from other countries may not stay in his country.
you cannot stay in my house."
"you are my aunty," said the prince; "let me remain with you for this one night.
you see it is evening, and if i go into the jungle, then the wild beasts will eat me."
"well," said the old woman, "you may stay here to-night; but to-morrow morning you must go away, for if the king hears you have passed the night in my house, he will have me seized and put into prison."
then she took him into her house, and the raja's son was very glad.
the old woman began preparing dinner, but he stopped her, "aunty," he said, "i will give you food."
he put his hand into his bag, saying, "bag, i want some dinner," and the bag gave him instantly a delicious dinner, served up on two gold plates.
the old woman and the raja's son then dined together.
when they had finished eating, the old woman said, "now i will fetch some water."
"don't go," said the prince.
"you shall have plenty of water directly."
so he took his bowl and said to it, "bowl, i want some water," and then it filled with water.
when it was full, the prince cried out, "stop, bowl," and the bowl stopped filling.
"see, aunty,"
he said, "with this bowl i can always get as much water as i want."
by this time night had come.
"aunty," said the raja's son, "why don't you light a lamp?"
"there is no need," she said.
"our king has forbidden the people in his country to light any lamps; for, as soon as it is dark, his daughter, the princess labam, comes and sits on her roof, and she shines so that she lights up all the country and our houses, and we can see to do our work as if it were day."
when it was quite black night the princess got up.
she dressed herself in her rich clothes and jewels, and rolled up her hair, and across her head she put a band of diamonds and pearls.
then she shone like the moon, and her beauty made night day.
she came out of her room, and sat on the roof of her palace.
in the daytime she never came out of her house; she only came out at night.
all the people in her father's country then went about their work and finished it.
the raja's son watched the princess quietly, and was very happy.
he said to himself, "how lovely she is!"
at midnight, when everybody had gone to bed, the princess came down from her roof, and went to her room; and when she was in bed and asleep, the raja's son got up softly, and sat on his bed.
"bed," he said to it, "i want to go to the princess labam's bed-room."
so the little bed carried him to the room where she lay fast asleep.
the young raja took his bag and said, "i want a great deal of betel-leaf," and it at once gave him quantities of betel-leaf.
this he laid near the princess's bed, and then his little bed carried him back to the old woman's house.
next morning all the princess's servants found the betel-leaf, and began to eat it.
"where did you get all that betel-leaf?"
asked the princess.
"we found it near your bed," answered the servants.
nobody knew the prince had come in the night and put it all there.
in the morning the old woman came to the raja's son.
"now it is morning," she said, "and you must go; for if the king finds out all i have done for you, he will seize me."
"i am ill to-day, dear aunty," said the prince; "do let me stay till to-morrow morning."
"good," said the old woman.
so he stayed, and they took their dinner out of the bag, and the bowl gave them water.
when night came the princess got up and sat on her roof, and at twelve o'clock, when every one was in bed, she went to her bed-room, and was soon fast asleep.
then the raja's son sat on his bed, and it carried him to the princess.
he took his bag and said, "bag, i want a most lovely shawl."
it gave him a splendid shawl, and he spread it over the princess as she lay asleep.
then he went back to the old woman's house and slept till morning.
in the morning, when the princess saw the shawl she was delighted.
"see, mother," she said; "khuda must have given me this shawl, it is so beautiful."
her mother was very glad too.
"yes, my child," she said; "khuda must have given you this splendid shawl."
when it was morning the old woman said to the raja's son, "now you must really go."
"aunty," he answered, "i am not well enough yet.
let me stay a few days longer.
i will remain hidden in your house, so that no one may see me."
so the old woman let him stay.
when it was black night, the princess put on her lovely clothes and jewels, and sat on her roof.
at midnight she went to her room and went to sleep.
then the raja's son sat on his bed and flew to her bed-room.
there he said to his bag, "bag, i want a very, very beautiful ring."
the bag gave him a glorious ring.
then he took the princess labam's hand gently to put on the ring, and she started up very much frightened.
"who are you?"
she said to the prince.
"where do you come from?
why do you come to my room?"
"do not be afraid, princess," he said; "i am no thief.
i am a great raja's son.
hiraman parrot, who lives in the jungle where i went to hunt, told me your name, and then i left my father and mother, and came to see you."
"well," said the princess, "as you are the son of such a great raja, i will not have you killed, and i will tell my father and mother that i wish to marry you."
the prince then returned to the old woman's house; and when morning came the princess said to her mother, "the son of a great raja has come to this country, and i wish to marry him."
her mother told this to the king.
"good," said the king; "but if this raja's son wishes to marry my daughter, he must first do whatever i bid him.
if he fails i will kill him.
i will give him eighty pounds weight of mustard seed, and out of this he must crush the oil in one day.
if he cannot do this he shall die."
in the morning the raja's son told the old woman that he intended to marry the princess.
"oh," said the old woman, "go away from this country, and do not think of marrying her.
a great many rajas and rajas' sons have come here to marry her, and her father has had them all killed.
he says whoever wishes to marry his daughter must first do whatever he bids him.
if he can, then he shall marry the princess; if he cannot, the king will have him killed.
but no one can do the things the king tells him to do; so all the rajas and rajas' sons who have tried have been put to death.
you will be killed too, if you try.
do go away."
but the prince would not listen to anything she said.
the king sent for the prince to the old woman's house, and his servants brought the raja's son to the king's court-house to the king.
there the king gave him eighty pounds of mustard seed, and told him to crush all the oil out of it that day, and bring it next morning to him to the court-house.
"whoever wishes to marry my daughter," he said to the prince, "must first do all i tell him.
if he cannot, then i have him killed.
so if you cannot crush all the oil out of this mustard seed, you will die."
the prince was very sorry when he heard this.
"how can i crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?"
he said to himself; "and if i do not, the king will kill me."
he took the mustard seed to the old woman's house, and did not know what to do.
at last he remembered the ant-raja, and the moment he did so, the ant-raja and his ants came to him.
"why do you look so sad?"
said the ant-raja.
the prince showed him the mustard seed, and said to him, "how can i crush the oil out of all this mustard seed in one day?
and if i do not take the oil to the king to-morrow morning, he will kill me."
"be happy," said the ant-raja; "lie down and sleep; we will crush all the oil out for you during the day, and to-morrow morning you shall take it to the king."
the raja's son lay down and slept, and the ants crushed out the oil for him.
the prince was very glad when he saw the oil.
the next morning he took it to the court-house to the king.
but the king said, "you cannot yet marry my daughter.
if you wish to do so, you must first fight with my two demons and kill them."
the king a long time ago had caught two demons, and then, as he did not know what to do with them, he had shut them up in a cage.
he was afraid to let them loose for fear they would eat up all the people in his country; and he did not know how to kill them.
so all the kings and kings' sons who wanted to marry the princess labam had to fight with these demons; "for," said the king to himself, "perhaps the demons may be killed, and then i shall be rid of them."
when he heard of the demons the raja's son was very sad.
"what can i do?"
he said to himself.
"how can i fight with these two demons?"
then he thought of his tiger: and the tiger and his wife came to him and said, "why are you so sad?"
the raja's son answered, "the king has ordered me to fight with his two demons and kill them.
how can i do this?"
"do not be frightened," said the tiger.
"be happy.
i and my wife will fight with them for you."
then the raja's son took out of his bag two splendid coats.
they were all gold and silver, and covered with pearls and diamonds.
these he put on the tigers to make them beautiful, and he took them to the king, and said to him, "may these tigers fight your demons for me?"
"yes," said the king, who did not care in the least who killed his demons, provided they were killed.
"then call your demons," said the raja's son, "and these tigers will fight them."
the king did so, and the tigers and the demons fought and fought until the tigers had killed the demons.
"that is good," said the king.
"but you must do something else before i give you my daughter.
up in the sky i have a kettle-drum.
you must go and beat it.
if you cannot do this, i will kill you."
the raja's son thought of his little bed; so he went to the old woman's house and sat on his bed.
"little bed," he said, "up in the sky is the king's kettle-drum.
i want to go to it."
the bed flew up with him, and the raja's son beat the drum, and the king heard him.
still, when he came down, the king would not give him his daughter.
"you have," he said to the prince, "done the three things i told you to do; but you must do one thing more."
"if i can, i will," said the raja's son.
then the king showed him the trunk of a tree that was lying near his court-house.
it was a very, very thick trunk.
he gave the prince a wax hatchet, and said, "to-morrow morning you must cut this trunk in two with this wax hatchet."
the raja's son went back to the old woman's house.
he was very sad, and thought that now the raja would certainly kill him.
"i had his oil crushed out by the ants," he said to himself.
"i had his demons killed by the tigers.
my bed helped me to beat his kettle-drum.
but now what can i do?
how can i cut that thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet?"
at night he went on his bed to see the princess.
"to-morrow," he said to her, "your father will kill me."
"why?"
asked the princess.
"he has told me to cut a thick tree-trunk in two with a wax hatchet.
how can i ever do that?"
said the raja's son.
"do not be afraid," said the princess; "do as i bid you, and you will cut it in two quite easily."
then she pulled out a hair from her head, and gave it to the prince.
"to-morrow," she said, "when no one is near you, you must say to the tree-trunk, 'the princess labam commands you to let yourself be cut in two by this hair.'
then stretch the hair down the edge of the wax hatchet's blade."
the prince next day did exactly as the princess had told him; and the minute the hair that was stretched down the edge of the hatchet-blade touched the tree-trunk it split into two pieces.
the king said, "now you can marry my daughter."
then the wedding took place.
all the rajas and kings of the countries round were asked to come to it, and there were great rejoicings.
after a few days the prince's son said to his wife, "let us go to my father's country."
the princess labam's father gave them a quantity of camels and horses and rupees and servants; and they travelled in great state to the prince's country, where they lived happily.
the prince always kept his bag, bowl, bed, and stick; only, as no one ever came to make war on him, he never needed to use the stick.
the lambikin
once upon a time there was a wee wee lambikin, who frolicked about on his little tottery legs, and enjoyed himself amazingly.
now one day he set off to visit his granny, and was jumping with joy to think of all the good things he should get from her, when who should he meet but a jackal, who looked at the tender young morsel and said: "lambikin!
lambikin!
i'll eat you!"
but lambikin only gave a little frisk and said:
"to granny's house i go,     where i shall fatter grow,     then you can eat me so."
the jackal thought this reasonable, and let lambikin pass.
by-and-by he met a vulture, and the vulture, looking hungrily at the tender morsel before him, said: "lambikin!
lambikin!
i'll eat you!"
but lambikin only gave a little frisk, and said:
"to granny's house i go,     where i shall fatter grow,     then you can eat me so."
the vulture thought this reasonable, and let lambikin pass.
and by-and-by he met a tiger, and then a wolf, and a dog, and an eagle, and all these, when they saw the tender little morsel, said:
"lambikin!
lambikin!
i'll eat you!"
but to all of them lambikin replied, with a little frisk:
"to granny's house i go,     where i shall fatter grow,     then you can eat me so."
at last he reached his granny's house, and said, all in a great hurry, "granny, dear, i've promised to get very fat; so, as people ought to keep their promises, please put me into the corn-bin at once."
so his granny said he was a good boy, and put him into the corn-bin, and there the greedy little lambikin stayed for seven days, and ate, and ate, and ate, until he could scarcely waddle, and his granny said he was fat enough for anything, and must go home.
but cunning little lambikin said that would never do, for some animal would be sure to eat him on the way back, he was so plump and tender.
"i'll tell you what you must do," said master lambikin, "you must make a little drumikin out of the skin of my little brother who died, and then i can sit inside and trundle along nicely, for i'm as tight as a drum myself."
so his granny made a nice little drumikin out of his brother's skin, with the wool inside, and lambikin curled himself up snug and warm in the middle, and trundled away gaily.
soon he met with the eagle, who called out:
"drumikin!
drumikin!
have you seen lambikin?"
and mr. lambikin, curled up in his soft warm nest, replied:
"fallen into the fire, and so will you     on little drumikin.
tum-pa, tum-too!"
"how very annoying!"
sighed the eagle, thinking regretfully of the tender morsel he had let slip.
meanwhile lambikin trundled along, laughing to himself, and singing:
"tum-pa, tum-too;     tum-pa, tum-too!"
every animal and bird he met asked him the same question:
"drumikin!
drumikin!
have you seen lambikin?"
and to each of them the little slyboots replied:
"fallen into the fire, and so will you     on little drumikin.
tum-pa, tum too;     tum-pa, tum-too; tum-pa, tum-too!"
then they all sighed to think of the tender little morsel they had let slip.
at last the jackal came limping along, for all his sorry looks as sharp as a needle, and he too called out
"drumikin!
drumikin!
have you seen lambikin?"
and lambikin, curled up in his snug little nest, replied gaily:
"fallen into the fire, and so will you     on little drumikin!
tum-pa  "
but he never got any further, for the jackal recognised his voice at once, and cried: "hullo!
you've turned yourself inside out, have you?
just you come out of that!"
whereupon he tore open drumikin and gobbled up lambikin.
punchkin
once upon a time there was a raja who had seven beautiful daughters.
they were all good girls; but the youngest, named balna, was more clever than the rest.
the raja's wife died when they were quite little children, so these seven poor princesses were left with no mother to take care of them.
the raja's daughters took it by turns to cook their father's dinner every day, whilst he was absent deliberating with his ministers on the affairs of the nation.
about this time the prudhan died, leaving a widow and one daughter; and every day, every day, when the seven princesses were preparing their father's dinner, the prudhan's widow and daughter would come and beg for a little fire from the hearth.
then balna used to say to her sisters, "send that woman away; send her away.
let her get the fire at her own house.
what does she want with ours?
if we allow her to come here, we shall suffer for it some day."
but the other sisters would answer, "be quiet, balna; why must you always be quarrelling with this poor woman?
let her take some fire if she likes."
then the prudhan's widow used to go to the hearth and take a few sticks from it; and whilst no one was looking, she would quickly throw some mud into the midst of the dishes which were being prepared for the raja's dinner.
now the raja was very fond of his daughters.
ever since their mother's death they had cooked his dinner with their own hands, in order to avoid the danger of his being poisoned by his enemies.
so, when he found the mud mixed up with his dinner, he thought it must arise from their carelessness, as it did not seem likely that any one should have put mud there on purpose; but being very kind he did not like to reprove them for it, although this spoiling of the curry was repeated many successive days.
at last, one day, he determined to hide, and watch his daughters cooking, and see how it all happened; so he went into the next room, and watched them through a hole in the wall.
there he saw his seven daughters carefully washing the rice and preparing the curry, and as each dish was completed, they put it by the fire ready to be cooked.
next he noticed the prudhan's widow come to the door, and beg for a few sticks from the fire to cook her dinner with.
balna turned to her, angrily, and said, "why don't you keep fuel in your own house, and not come here every day and take ours?
sisters, don't give this woman any more wood; let her buy it for herself."
then the eldest sister answered, "balna, let the poor woman take the wood and the fire; she does us no harm."
but balna replied, "if you let her come here so often, maybe she will do us some harm, and make us sorry for it, some day."
the raja then saw the prudhan's widow go to the place where all his dinner was nicely prepared, and, as she took the wood, she threw a little mud into each of the dishes.
at this he was very angry, and sent to have the woman seized and brought before him.
but when the widow came, she told him that she had played this trick because she wanted to gain an audience with him; and she spoke so cleverly, and pleased him so well with her cunning words, that instead of punishing her, the raja married her, and made her his ranee, and she and her daughter came to live in the palace.
now the new ranee hated the seven poor princesses, and wanted to get them, if possible, out of the way, in order that her daughter might have all their riches, and live in the palace as princess in their place; and instead of being grateful to them for their kindness to her, she did all she could to make them miserable.
she gave them nothing but bread to eat, and very little of that, and very little water to drink; so these seven poor little princesses, who had been accustomed to have everything comfortable about them, and good food and good clothes all their lives long, were very miserable and unhappy; and they used to go out every day and sit by their dead mother's tomb and cry and say:
"oh mother, mother, cannot you see your poor children, how unhappy we are, and how we are starved by our cruel step-mother?"
one day, whilst they were thus sobbing and crying, lo and behold!
a beautiful pomelo tree grew up out of the grave, covered with fresh ripe pomeloes, and the children satisfied their hunger by eating some of the fruit, and every day after this, instead of trying to eat the bad dinner their step-mother provided for them, they used to go out to their mother's grave and eat the pomeloes which grew there on the beautiful tree.
then the ranee said to her daughter, "i cannot tell how it is, every day those seven girls say they don't want any dinner, and won't eat any; and yet they never grow thin nor look ill; they look better than you do.
i cannot tell how it is."
and she bade her watch the seven princesses, and see if any one gave them anything to eat.
so next day, when the princesses went to their mother's grave, and were eating the beautiful pomeloes, the prudhan's daughter followed them, and saw them gathering the fruit.
then balna said to her sisters, "do you not see that girl watching us?
let us drive her away, or hide the pomeloes, else she will go and tell her mother all about it, and that will be very bad for us."
but the other sisters said, "oh no, do not be unkind, balna.
the girl would never be so cruel as to tell her mother.
let us rather invite her to come and have some of the fruit."
and calling her to them, they gave her one of the pomeloes.
no sooner had she eaten it, however, than the prudhan's daughter went home and said to her mother, "i do not wonder the seven princesses will not eat the dinner you prepare for them, for by their mother's grave there grows a beautiful pomelo tree, and they go there every day and eat the pomeloes.
i ate one, and it was the nicest i have ever tasted."
the cruel ranee was much vexed at hearing this, and all next day she stayed in her room, and told the raja that she had a very bad headache.
the raja was deeply grieved, and said to his wife, "what can i do for you?"
she answered, "there is only one thing that will make my headache well.
by your dead wife's tomb there grows a fine pomelo tree; you must bring that here, and boil it, root and branch, and put a little of the water in which it has been boiled, on my forehead, and that will cure my headache."
so the raja sent his servants, and had the beautiful pomelo tree pulled up by the roots, and did as the ranee desired; and when some of the water, in which it had been boiled, was put on her forehead, she said her headache was gone and she felt quite well.
next day, when the seven princesses went as usual to the grave of their mother, the pomelo tree had disappeared.
then they all began to cry very bitterly.
now there was by the ranee's tomb a small tank, and as they were crying they saw that the tank was filled with a rich cream-like substance, which quickly hardened into a thick white cake.
at seeing this all the princesses were very glad, and they ate some of the cake, and liked it; and next day the same thing happened, and so it went on for many days.
every morning the princesses went to their mother's grave, and found the little tank filled with the nourishing cream-like cake.
then the cruel step-mother said to her daughter: "i cannot tell how it is, i have had the pomelo tree which used to grow by the ranee's grave destroyed, and yet the princesses grow no thinner, nor look more sad, though they never eat the dinner i give them.
i cannot tell how it is!"
and her daughter said, "i will watch."
next day, while the princesses were eating the cream cake, who should come by but their step-mother's daughter.
balna saw her first, and said, "see, sisters, there comes that girl again.
let us sit round the edge of the tank and not allow her to see it, for if we give her some of our cake, she will go and tell her mother; and that will be very unfortunate for us."
the other sisters, however, thought balna unnecessarily suspicious, and instead of following her advice, they gave the prudhan's daughter some of the cake, and she went home and told her mother all about it.
the ranee, on hearing how well the princesses fared, was exceedingly angry, and sent her servants to pull down the dead ranee's tomb, and fill the little tank with the ruins.
and not content with this, she next day pretended to be very, very ill in fact, at the point of death and when the raja was much grieved, and asked her whether it was in his power to procure her any remedy, she said to him: "only one thing can save my life, but i know you will not do it."
he replied, "yes, whatever it is, i will do it."
she then said, "to save my life, you must kill the seven daughters of your first wife, and put some of their blood on my forehead and on the palms of my hands, and their death will be my life."
at these words the raja was very sorrowful; but because he feared to break his word, he went out with a heavy heart to find his daughters.
he found them crying by the ruins of their mother's grave.
then, feeling he could not kill them, the raja spoke kindly to them, and told them to come out into the jungle with him; and there he made a fire and cooked some rice, and gave it to them.
but in the afternoon, it being very hot, the seven princesses all fell asleep, and when he saw they were fast asleep, the raja, their father, stole away and left them (for he feared his wife), saying to himself: "it is better my poor daughters should die here, than be killed by their step-mother."
he then shot a deer, and returning home, put some of its blood on the forehead and hands of the ranee, and she thought then that he had really killed the princesses, and said she felt quite well.
meantime the seven princesses awoke, and when they found themselves all alone in the thick jungle they were much frightened, and began to call out as loud as they could, in hopes of making their father hear; but he was by that time far away, and would not have been able to hear them even had their voices been as loud as thunder.
it so happened that this very day the seven young sons of a neighbouring raja chanced to be hunting in that same jungle, and as they were returning home, after the day's sport was over, the youngest prince said to his brothers: "stop, i think i hear some one crying and calling out.
do you not hear voices?
let us go in the direction of the sound, and find out what it is."
so the seven princes rode through the wood until they came to the place where the seven princesses sat crying and wringing their hands.
at the sight of them the young princes were very much astonished, and still more so on learning their story; and they settled that each should take one of these poor forlorn ladies home with him, and marry her.
so the first and eldest prince took the eldest princess home with him, and married her.
and the second took the second;
and the third took the third;
and the fourth took the fourth;
and the fifth took the fifth;
and the sixth took the sixth;
and the seventh, and the handsomest of all, took the beautiful balna.
and when they got to their own land, there was great rejoicing throughout the kingdom, at the marriage of the seven young princes to seven such beautiful princesses.
about a year after this balna had a little son, and his uncles and aunts were so fond of the boy that it was as if he had seven fathers and seven mothers.
none of the other princes and princesses had any children, so the son of the seventh prince and balna was acknowledged their heir by all the rest.
they had thus lived very happily for some time, when one fine day the seventh prince (balna's husband) said he would go out hunting, and away he went; and they waited long for him, but he never came back.
then his six brothers said they would go and see what had become of him; and they went away, but they also did not return.
and the seven princesses grieved very much, for they feared that their kind husbands must have been killed.
one day, not long after this had happened, as balna was rocking her baby's cradle, and whilst her sisters were working in the room below, there came to the palace door a man in a long black dress, who said that he was a fakir, and came to beg.
the servants said to him, "you cannot go into the palace the raja's sons have all gone away; we think they must be dead, and their widows cannot be interrupted by your begging."
but he said, "i am a holy man, you must let me in."
then the stupid servants let him walk through the palace, but they did not know that this was no fakir, but a wicked magician named punchkin.
punchkin fakir wandered through the palace, and saw many beautiful things there, till at last he reached the room where balna sat singing beside her little boy's cradle.
the magician thought her more beautiful than all the other beautiful things he had seen, insomuch that he asked her to go home with him and to marry him.
but she said, "my husband, i fear, is dead, but my little boy is still quite young; i will stay here and teach him to grow up a clever man, and when he is grown up he shall go out into the world, and try and learn tidings of his father.
heaven forbid that i should ever leave him, or marry you."
at these words the magician was very angry, and turned her into a little black dog, and led her away; saying, "since you will not come with me of your own free will, i will make you."
so the poor princess was dragged away, without any power of effecting an escape, or of letting her sisters know what had become of her.
as punchkin passed through the palace gate the servants said to him, "where did you get that pretty little dog?"
and he answered, "one of the princesses gave it to me as a present."
at hearing which they let him go without further questioning.
soon after this, the six elder princesses heard the little baby, their nephew, begin to cry, and when they went upstairs they were much surprised to find him all alone, and balna nowhere to be seen.
then they questioned the servants, and when they heard of the fakir and the little black dog, they guessed what had happened, and sent in every direction seeking them, but neither the fakir nor the dog were to be found.
what could six poor women do?
they gave up all hopes of ever seeing their kind husbands, and their sister, and her husband, again, and devoted themselves thenceforward to teaching and taking care of their little nephew.
thus time went on, till balna's son was fourteen years old.
then, one day, his aunts told him the history of the family; and no sooner did he hear it, than he was seized with a great desire to go in search of his father and mother and uncles, and if he could find them alive to bring them home again.
his aunts, on learning his determination, were much alarmed and tried to dissuade him, saying, "we have lost our husbands, and our sister and her husband, and you are now our sole hope; if you go away, what shall we do?"
but he replied, "i pray you not to be discouraged; i will return soon, and if it is possible bring my father and mother and uncles with me."
so he set out on his travels; but for some months he could learn nothing to help him in his search.
at last, after he had journeyed many hundreds of weary miles, and become almost hopeless of ever hearing anything further of his parents, he one day came to a country that seemed full of stones, and rocks, and trees, and there he saw a large palace with a high tower; hard by which was a malee's little house.
as he was looking about, the malee's wife saw him, and ran out of the house and said, "my dear boy, who are you that dare venture to this dangerous place?"
he answered, "i am a raja's son, and i come in search of my father, and my uncles, and my mother whom a wicked enchanter bewitched."
then the malee's wife said, "this country and this palace belong to a great enchanter; he is all powerful, and if any one displeases him, he can turn them into stones and trees.
all the rocks and trees you see here were living people once, and the magician turned them to what they now are.
some time ago a raja's son came here, and shortly afterwards came his six brothers, and they were all turned into stones and trees; and these are not the only unfortunate ones, for up in that tower lives a beautiful princess, whom the magician has kept prisoner there for twelve years, because she hates him and will not marry him."
then the little prince thought, "these must be my parents and my uncles.
i have found what i seek at last."
so he told his story to the malee's wife, and begged her to help him to remain in that place awhile and inquire further concerning the unhappy people she mentioned; and she promised to befriend him, and advised his disguising himself lest the magician should see him, and turn him likewise into stone.
to this the prince agreed.
so the malee's wife dressed him up in a saree, and pretended that he was her daughter.
one day, not long after this, as the magician was walking in his garden he saw the little girl (as he thought) playing about, and asked her who she was.
she told him she was the malee's daughter, and the magician said, "you are a pretty little girl, and to-morrow you shall take a present of flowers from me to the beautiful lady who lives in the tower."
the young prince was much delighted at hearing this, and went immediately to inform the malee's wife; after consultation with whom he determined that it would be more safe for him to retain his disguise, and trust to the chance of a favourable opportunity for establishing some communication with his mother, if it were indeed she.
now it happened that at balna's marriage her husband had given her a small gold ring on which her name was engraved, and she had put it on her little son's finger when he was a baby, and afterwards when he was older his aunts had had it enlarged for him, so that he was still able to wear it.
the malee's wife advised him to fasten the well-known treasure to one of the bouquets he presented to his mother, and trust to her recognising it.
this was not to be done without difficulty, as such a strict watch was kept over the poor princess (for fear of her ever establishing communication with her friends), that though the supposed malee's daughter was permitted to take her flowers every day, the magician or one of his slaves was always in the room at the time.
at last one day, however, opportunity favoured him, and when no one was looking, the boy tied the ring to a nosegay, and threw it at balna's feet.
it fell with a clang on the floor, and balna, looking to see what made the strange sound, found the little ring tied to the flowers.
on recognising it, she at once believed the story her son told her of his long search, and begged him to advise her as to what she had better do; at the same time entreating him on no account to endanger his life by trying to rescue her.
she told him that for twelve long years the magician had kept her shut up in the tower because she refused to marry him, and she was so closely guarded that she saw no hope of release.
now balna's son was a bright, clever boy, so he said, "do not fear, dear mother; the first thing to do is to discover how far the magician's power extends, in order that we may be able to liberate my father and uncles, whom he has imprisoned in the form of rocks and trees.
you have spoken to him angrily for twelve long years; now rather speak kindly.
tell him you have given up all hopes of again seeing the husband you have so long mourned, and say you are willing to marry him.
then endeavour to find out what his power consists in, and whether he is immortal, or can be put to death."
balna determined to take her son's advice; and the next day sent for punchkin, and spoke to him as had been suggested.
the magician, greatly delighted, begged her to allow the wedding to take place as soon as possible.
but she told him that before she married him he must allow her a little more time, in which she might make his acquaintance, and that, after being enemies so long, their friendship could but strengthen by degrees.
"and do tell me," she said, "are you quite immortal?
can death never touch you?
and are you too great an enchanter ever to feel human suffering?"
"why do you ask?"
said he.
"because," she replied, "if i am to be your wife, i would fain know all about you, in order, if any calamity threatens you, to overcome, or if possible to avert it."
"it is true," he added, "that i am not as others.
far, far away, hundreds of thousands of miles from this, there lies a desolate country covered with thick jungle.
in the midst of the jungle grows a circle of palm trees, and in the centre of the circle stand six chattees full of water, piled one above another: below the sixth chattee is a small cage which contains a little green parrot; on the life of the parrot depends my life; and if the parrot is killed i must die.
it is, however," he added, "impossible that the parrot should sustain any injury, both on account of the inaccessibility of the country, and because, by my appointment, many thousand genii surround the palm trees, and kill all who approach the place."
balna told her son what punchkin had said; but at the same time implored him to give up all idea of getting the parrot.
the prince, however, replied, "mother, unless i can get hold of that parrot, you, and my father, and uncles, cannot be liberated: be not afraid, i will shortly return.
do you, meantime, keep the magician in good humour still putting off your marriage with him on various pretexts; and before he finds out the cause of delay, i will be here."
so saying, he went away.
many, many weary miles did he travel, till at last he came to a thick jungle; and, being very tired, sat down under a tree and fell asleep.
he was awakened by a soft rustling sound, and looking about him, saw a large serpent which was making its way to an eagle's nest built in the tree under which he lay, and in the nest were two young eagles.
the prince seeing the danger of the young birds, drew his sword, and killed the serpent; at the same moment a rushing sound was heard in the air, and the two old eagles, who had been out hunting for food for their young ones, returned.
they quickly saw the dead serpent and the young prince standing over it; and the old mother eagle said to him, "dear boy, for many years all our young ones have been devoured by that cruel serpent; you have now saved the lives of our children; whenever you are in need, therefore, send to us and we will help you; and as for these little eagles, take them, and let them be your servants."
at this the prince was very glad, and the two eaglets crossed their wings, on which he mounted; and they carried him far, far away over the thick jungles, until he came to the place where grew the circle of palm trees, in the midst of which stood the six chattees full of water.
it was the middle of the day, and the heat was very great.
all round the trees were the genii fast asleep; nevertheless, there were such countless thousands of them, that it would have been quite impossible for any one to walk through their ranks to the place; down swooped the strong-winged eaglets down jumped the prince; in an instant he had overthrown the six chattees full of water, and seized the little green parrot, which he rolled up in his cloak; while, as he mounted again into the air, all the genii below awoke, and finding their treasure gone, set up a wild and melancholy howl.
away, away flew the little eagles, till they came to their home in the great tree; then the prince said to the old eagles, "take back your little ones; they have done me good service; if ever again i stand in need of help, i will not fail to come to you."
he then continued his journey on foot till he arrived once more at the magician's palace, where he sat down at the door and began playing with the parrot.
punchkin saw him, and came to him quickly, and said, "my boy, where did you get that parrot?
give it to me, i pray you."
but the prince answered, "oh no, i cannot give away my parrot, it is a great pet of mine; i have had it many years."
then the magician said, "if it is an old favourite, i can understand your not caring to give it away; but come what will you sell it for?"
"sir," replied the prince, "i will not sell my parrot."
then punchkin got frightened, and said, "anything, anything; name what price you will, and it shall be yours."
the prince answered, "let the seven raja's sons whom you turned into rocks and trees be instantly liberated."
"it is done as you desire," said the magician, "only give me my parrot."
and with that, by a stroke of his wand, balna's husband and his brothers resumed their natural shapes.
"now, give me my parrot,"
repeated punchkin.
"not so fast, my master," rejoined the prince; "i must first beg that you will restore to life all whom you have thus imprisoned."
the magician immediately waved his wand again; and, whilst he cried, in an imploring voice, "give me my parrot!"
the whole garden became suddenly alive: where rocks, and stones, and trees had been before, stood rajas, and punts, and sirdars, and mighty men on prancing horses, and jewelled pages, and troops of armed attendants.
"give me my parrot!"
cried punchkin.
then the boy took hold of the parrot, and tore off one of its wings; and as he did so the magician's right arm fell off.
punchkin then stretched out his left arm, crying, "give me my parrot!"
the prince pulled off the parrot's second wing, and the magician's left arm tumbled off.
"give me my parrot!"
cried he, and fell on his knees.
the prince pulled off the parrot's right leg, the magician's right leg fell off:
the prince pulled off the parrot's left leg, down fell the magician's left.
nothing remained of him save the limbless body and the head; but still he rolled his eyes, and cried, "give me my parrot!"
"take your parrot, then," cried the boy, and with that he wrung the bird's neck, and threw it at the magician; and, as he did so, punchkin's head twisted round, and, with a fearful groan, he died!
then they let balna out of the tower; and she, her son, and the seven princes went to their own country, and lived very happily ever afterwards.
and as to the rest of the world, every one went to his own house.
the broken pot
there lived in a certain place a brahman, whose name was svabhavakripana, which means "a born miser."
he had collected a quantity of rice by begging, and after having dined off it, he filled a pot with what was left over.
he hung the pot on a peg on the wall, placed his couch beneath, and looking intently at it all the night, he thought, "ah, that pot is indeed brimful of rice.
now, if there should be a famine, i should certainly make a hundred rupees by it.
with this i shall buy a couple of goats.
they will have young ones every six months, and thus i shall have a whole herd of goats.
then, with the goats, i shall buy cows.
as soon as they have calved, i shall sell the calves.
then, with the calves, i shall buy buffaloes; with the buffaloes, mares.
when the mares have foaled, i shall have plenty of horses; and when i sell them, plenty of gold.
with that gold i shall get a house with four wings.
and then a brahman will come to my house, and will give me his beautiful daughter, with a large dowry.
she will have a son, and i shall call him somasarman.
when he is old enough to be danced on his father's knee, i shall sit with a book at the back of the stable, and while i am reading, the boy will see me, jump from his mother's lap, and run towards me to be danced on my knee.
he will come too near the horse's hoof, and, full of anger, i shall call to my wife, 'take the baby; take him!'
but she, distracted by some domestic work, does not hear me.
then i get up, and give her such a kick with my foot."
while he thought this, he gave a kick with his foot, and broke the pot.
all the rice fell over him, and made him quite white.
therefore, i say, "he who makes foolish plans for the future will be white all over, like the father of somasarman."
the magic fiddle
once upon a time there lived seven brothers and a sister.
the brothers were married, but their wives did not do the cooking for the family.
it was done by their sister, who stopped at home to cook.
the wives for this reason bore their sister-in-law much ill-will, and at length they combined together to oust her from the office of cook and general provider, so that one of themselves might obtain it.
they said, "she does not go out to the fields to work, but remains quietly at home, and yet she has not the meals ready at the proper time."
they then called upon their bonga, and vowing vows unto him they secured his good-will and assistance; then they said to the bonga, "at midday when our sister-in-law goes to bring water, cause it thus to happen, that on seeing her pitcher the water shall vanish, and again slowly re-appear.
in this way she will be delayed.
let the water not flow into her pitcher, and you may keep the maiden as your own."
at noon when she went to bring water, it suddenly dried up before her, and she began to weep.
then after a while the water began slowly to rise.
when it reached her ankles she tried to fill her pitcher, but it would not go under the water.
being frightened she began to wail and cry to her brother:
"oh!
my brother, the water reaches to my ankles,     still, oh!
my brother, the pitcher will not dip."
the water continued to rise until it reached her knee, when she began to wail again:
"oh!
my brother, the water reaches to my knee,     still, oh!
my brother, the pitcher will not dip."
the water continued to rise, and when it reached her waist, she cried again:
"oh!
my brother, the water reaches to my waist,     still, oh!
my brother, the pitcher will not dip."
the water still rose, and when it reached her neck she kept on crying:
"oh!
my brother, the water reaches to my neck,     still, oh!
my brother, the pitcher will not dip."
at length the water became so deep that she felt herself drowning, then she cried aloud:
"oh!
my brother, the water measures a man's height,     oh!
my brother, the pitcher begins to fill."
the pitcher filled with water, and along with it she sank and was drowned.
the bonga then transformed her into a bonga like himself, and carried her off.
after a time she re-appeared as a bamboo growing on the embankment of the tank in which she had been drowned.
when the bamboo had grown to an immense size, a jogi, who was in the habit of passing that way, seeing it, said to himself, "this will make a splendid fiddle."
so one day he brought an axe to cut it down; but when he was about to begin, the bamboo called out, "do not cut at the root, cut higher up."
when he lifted his axe to cut high up the stem, the bamboo cried out, "do not cut near the top, cut at the root."
when the jogi again prepared himself to cut at the root as requested, the bamboo said, "do not cut at the root, cut higher up;" and when he was about to cut higher up, it again called out to him, "do not cut high up, cut at the root."
the jogi by this time felt sure that a bonga was trying to frighten him, so becoming angry he cut down the bamboo at the root, and taking it away made a fiddle out of it.
the instrument had a superior tone and delighted all who heard it.
the jogi carried it with him when he went a-begging, and through the influence of its sweet music he returned home every evening with a full wallet.
he now and then visited, when on his rounds, the house of the bonga girl's brothers, and the strains of the fiddle affected them greatly.
some of them were moved even to tears, for the fiddle seemed to wail as one in bitter anguish.
the elder brother wished to purchase it, and offered to support the jogi for a whole year if he would consent to part with his wonderful instrument.
the jogi, however, knew its value, and refused to sell it.
it so happened that the jogi some time after went to the house of a village chief, and after playing a tune or two on his fiddle asked for something to eat.
they offered to buy his fiddle and promised a high price for it, but he refused to sell it, as his fiddle brought to him his means of livelihood.
when they saw that he was not to be prevailed upon, they gave him food and a plentiful supply of liquor.
of the latter he drank so freely that he presently became intoxicated.
while he was in this condition, they took away his fiddle, and substituted their own old one for it.
when the jogi recovered, he missed his instrument, and suspecting that it had been stolen asked them to return it to him.
they denied having taken it, so he had to depart, leaving his fiddle behind him.
the chief's son, being a musician, used to play on the jogi's fiddle, and in his hands the music it gave forth delighted the ears of all who heard it.
when all the household were absent at their labours in the fields, the bonga girl used to come out of the bamboo fiddle, and prepared the family meal.
having eaten her own share, she placed that of the chief's son under his bed, and covering it up to keep off the dust, re-entered the fiddle.
this happening every day, the other members of the household thought that some girl friend of theirs was in this manner showing her interest in the young man, so they did not trouble themselves to find out how it came about.
the young chief, however, was determined to watch, and see which of his girl friends was so attentive to his comfort.
he said in his own mind, "i will catch her to-day, and give her a sound beating; she is causing me to be ashamed before the others."
so saying, he hid himself in a corner in a pile of firewood.
in a short time the girl came out of the bamboo fiddle, and began to dress her hair.
having completed her toilet, she cooked the meal of rice as usual, and having eaten some herself, she placed the young man's portion under his bed, as before, and was about to enter the fiddle again, when he, running out from his hiding-place, caught her in his arms.
the bonga girl exclaimed, "fie!
fie!
you may be a dom, or you may be a hadi of some other caste with whom i cannot marry."
he said, "no.
but from to-day, you and i are one."
so they began lovingly to hold converse with each other.
when the others returned home in the evening, they saw that she was both a human being and a bonga, and they rejoiced exceedingly.
now in course of time the bonga girl's family became very poor, and her brothers on one occasion came to the chief's house on a visit.
the bonga girl recognised them at once, but they did not know who she was.
she brought them water on their arrival, and afterwards set cooked rice before them.
then sitting down near them, she began in wailing tones to upbraid them on account of the treatment she had been subjected to by their wives.
she related all that had befallen her, and wound up by saying, "you must have known it all, and yet you did not interfere to save me."
and that was all the revenge she took.
the cruel crane outwitted
long ago the bodisat was born to a forest life as the genius of a tree standing near a certain lotus pond.
now at that time the water used to run short at the dry season in a certain pond, not over large, in which there were a good many fish.
and a crane thought on seeing the fish:
"i must outwit these fish somehow or other and make a prey of them."
and he went and sat down at the edge of the water, thinking how he should do it.
when the fish saw him, they asked him, "what are you sitting there for, lost in thought?"
"i am sitting thinking about you," said he.
"oh, sir!
what are you thinking about us?"
said they.
"why," he replied; "there is very little water in this pond, and but little for you to eat; and the heat is so great!
so i was thinking, 'what in the world will these fish do now?'"
"yes, indeed, sir!
what are we to do?"
said they.
"if you will only do as i bid you, i will take you in my beak to a fine large pond, covered with all the kinds of lotuses, and put you into it," answered the crane.
"that a crane should take thought for the fishes is a thing unheard of, sir, since the world began.
it's eating us, one after the other, that you're aiming at."
"not i!
so long as you trust me, i won't eat you.
but if you don't believe me that there is such a pond, send one of you with me to go and see it."
then they trusted him, and handed over to him one of their number a big fellow, blind of one eye, whom they thought sharp enough in any emergency, afloat or ashore.
him the crane took with him, let him go in the pond, showed him the whole of it, brought him back, and let him go again close to the other fish.
and he told them all the glories of the pond.
and when they heard what he said, they exclaimed, "all right, sir!
you may take us with you."
then the crane took the old purblind fish first to the bank of the other pond, and alighted in a varana-tree growing on the bank there.
but he threw it into a fork of the tree, struck it with his beak, and killed it; and then ate its flesh, and threw its bones away at the foot of the tree.
then he went back and called out:
"i've thrown that fish in; let another one come."
and in that manner he took all the fish, one by one, and ate them, till he came back and found no more!
but there was still a crab left behind there; and the crane thought he would eat him too, and called out:
"i say, good crab, i've taken all the fish away, and put them into a fine large pond.
come along.
i'll take you too!"
"but how will you take hold of me to carry me along?"
"i'll bite hold of you with my beak."
"you'll let me fall if you carry me like that.
i won't go with you!"
"don't be afraid!
i'll hold you quite tight all the way."
then said the crab to himself, "if this fellow once got hold of fish, he would never let them go in a pond!
now if he should really put me into the pond, it would be capital; but if he doesn't then i'll cut his throat, and kill him!"
so he said to him:
"look here, friend, you won't be able to hold me tight enough; but we crabs have a famous grip.
if you let me catch hold of you round the neck with my claws, i shall be glad to go with you."
and the other did not see that he was trying to outwit him, and agreed.
so the crab caught hold of his neck with his claws as securely as with a pair of blacksmith's pincers, and called out, "off with you, now!"
and the crane took him and showed him the pond, and then turned off towards the varana-tree.
"uncle!"
cried the crab, "the pond lies that way, but you are taking me this way!"
"oh, that's it, is it?"
answered the crane.
"your dear little uncle, your very sweet nephew, you call me!
you mean me to understand, i suppose, that i am your slave, who has to lift you up and carry you about with him!
now cast your eye upon the heap of fish-bones lying at the root of yonder varana-tree.
just as i have eaten those fish, every one of them, just so i will devour you as well!"
"ah!
those fishes got eaten through their own stupidity," answered the crab; "but i'm not going to let you eat me.
on the contrary, is it you that i am going to destroy.
for you in your folly have not seen that i was outwitting you.
if we die, we die both together; for i will cut off this head of yours, and cast it to the ground!"
and so saying, he gave the crane's neck a grip with his claws, as with a vice.
then gasping, and with tears trickling from his eyes, and trembling with the fear of death, the crane beseeched him, saying, "o my lord!
indeed i did not intend to eat you.
grant me my life!"
"well, well!
step down into the pond, and put me in there."
and he turned round and stepped down into the pond, and placed the crab on the mud at its edge.
but the crab cut through its neck as clean as one would cut a lotus-stalk with a hunting-knife, and then only entered the water!
when the genius who lived in the varana-tree saw this strange affair, he made the wood resound with his plaudits, uttering in a pleasant voice the verse:
"the villain, though exceeding clever,     shall prosper not by his villainy.
he may win indeed, sharp-witted in deceit,     but only as the crane here from the crab!"
loving laili
once there was a king called king dantal, who had a great many rupees and soldiers and horses.
he had also an only son called prince majnun, who was a handsome boy with white teeth, red lips, blue eyes, red cheeks, red hair, and a white skin.
this boy was very fond of playing with the wazir's son, husain mahamat, in king dantal's garden, which was very large and full of delicious fruits, and flowers, and trees.
they used to take their little knives there and cut the fruits and eat them.
king dantal had a teacher for them to teach them to read and write.
one day, when they were grown two fine young men, prince majnun said to his father, "husain mahamat and i should like to go and hunt."
his father said they might go, so they got ready their horses and all else they wanted for their hunting, and went to the phalana country, hunting all the way, but they only founds jackals and birds.
the raja of the phalana country was called munsuk raja, and he had a daughter named laili, who was very beautiful; she had brown eyes and black hair.
one night, some time before prince majnun came to her father's kingdom, as she slept, khuda sent to her an angel in the form of a man who told her that she should marry prince majnun and no one else, and that this was khuda's command to her.
when laili woke she told her father of the angel's visit to her as she slept; but her father paid no attention to her story.
from that time she began repeating, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun," and would say nothing else.
even as she sat and ate her food she kept saying, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun."
her father used to get quite vexed with her.
"who is this majnun?
who ever heard of this majnun?"
he would say.
"he is the man i am to marry," said laili.
"khuda has ordered me to marry no one but majnun."
and she was half mad.
meanwhile, majnun and husain mahamat came to hunt in the phalana country; and as they were riding about, laili came out on her horse to eat the air, and rode behind them.
all the time she kept saying, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun."
the prince heard her, and turned round.
"who is calling me?"
he asked.
at this laili looked at him, and the moment she saw him she fell deeply in love with him, and she said to herself, "i am sure that is the prince majnun that khuda says i am to marry."
and she went home to her father and said, "father, i wish to marry the prince who has come to your kingdom; for i know he is the prince majnun i am to marry."
"very well, you shall have him for your husband," said munsuk raja.
"we will ask him to-morrow."
laili consented to wait, although she was very impatient.
as it happened, the prince left the phalana kingdom that night, and when laili heard he was gone, she went quite mad.
she would not listen to a word her father, or her mother, or her servants said to her, but went off into the jungle, and wandered from jungle to jungle, till she got farther and farther away from her own country.
all the time she kept saying, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun;" and so she wandered about for twelve years.
at the end of the twelve years she met a fakir he was really an angel, but she did not know this who asked her, "why do you always say, 'majnun, majnun; i want majnun'?"
she answered, "i am the daughter of the king of the phalana country, and i want to find prince majnun; tell me where his kingdom is."
"i think you will never get there," said the fakir, "for it is very far from hence, and you have to cross many rivers to reach it."
but laili said she did not care; she must see prince majnun.
"well," said the fakir, "when you come to the bhagirathi river you will see a big fish, a rohu; and you must get him to carry you to prince majnun's country, or you will never reach it."
she went on and on, and at last she came to the bhagirathi river.
there was a great big fish called the rohu fish.
it was yawning just as she got up to it, and she instantly jumped down its throat into its stomach.
all the time she kept saying, "majnun, majnun."
at this the rohu fish was greatly alarmed and swam down the river as fast as he could.
by degrees he got tired and went slower, and a crow came and perched on his back, and said "caw, caw."
"oh, mr. crow," said the poor fish "do see what is in my stomach that makes such a noise."
"very well," said the crow, "open your mouth wide, and i'll fly down and see."
so the rohu opened his jaws and the crow flew down, but he came up again very quickly.
"you have a rakshas in your stomach," said the crow, and he flew away.
this news did not comfort the poor rohu, and he swam on and on till he came to prince majnun's country.
there he stopped.
and a jackal came down to the river to drink.
"oh, jackal," said the rohu, "do tell me what i have inside me."
"how can i tell?"
said the jackal.
"i cannot see unless i go inside you."
so the rohu opened his mouth wide, and the jackal jumped down his throat; but he came up very quickly, looking much frightened and saying, "you have a rakshas in your stomach, and if i don't run away quickly, i am afraid it will eat me."
so off he ran.
after the jackal came an enormous snake.
"oh," says the fish, "do tell me what i have in my stomach, for it rattles about so, and keeps saying, 'majnun, majnun; i want majnun.'"
the snake said, "open your mouth wide, and i'll go down and see what it is."
the snake went down: when he returned he said, "you have a rakshas in your stomach, but if you will let me cut you open, it will come out of you."
"if you do that, i shall die," said the rohu.
"oh, no," said the snake, "you will not, for i will give you a medicine that will make you quite well again."
so the fish agreed, and the snake got a knife and cut him open, and out jumped laili.
she was now very old.
twelve years she had wandered about the jungle, and for twelve years she had lived inside her rohu; and she was no longer beautiful, and had lost her teeth.
the snake took her on his back and carried her into the country, and there he put her down, and she wandered on and on till she got to majnun's court-house, where king majnun was sitting.
there some men heard her crying, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun," and they asked her what she wanted.
"i want king majnun," she said.
so they went in and said to prince majnun, "an old woman outside says she wants you."
"i cannot leave this place," said he; "send her in here."
they brought her in and the prince asked her what she wanted.
"i want to marry you," she answered.
"twenty-four years ago you came to my father the phalana raja's country, and i wanted to marry you then; but you went away without marrying me.
then i went mad, and i have wandered about all these years looking for you."
prince majnun said, "very good."
"pray to khuda," said laili, "to make us both young again, and then we shall be married."
so the prince prayed to khuda, and khuda said to him, "touch laili's clothes and they will catch fire, and when they are on fire, she and you will become young again."
when he touched laili's clothes they caught fire, and she and he became young again.
and there were great feasts, and they were married, and travelled to the phalana country to see her father and mother.
now laili's father and mother had wept so much for their daughter that they had become quite blind, and her father kept always repeating, "laili, laili, laili."
when laili saw their blindness, she prayed to khuda to restore their sight to them, which he did.
as soon as the father and mother saw laili, they hugged her and kissed her, and then they had the wedding all over again amid great rejoicings.
prince majnun and laili stayed with munsuk raja and his wife for three years, and then they returned to king dantal, and lived happily for some time with him.
they used to go out hunting, and they often went from country to country to eat the air and amuse themselves.
one day prince majnun said to laili, "let us go through this jungle."
"no, no," said laili; "if we go through this jungle, some harm will happen to me."
but prince majnun laughed, and went into the jungle.
and as they were going through it, khuda thought, "i should like to know how much prince majnun loves his wife.
would he be very sorry if she died?
and would he marry another wife?
i will see."
so he sent one of his angels in the form of a fakir into the jungle; and the angel went up to laili, and threw some powder in her face, and instantly she fell to the ground a heap of ashes.
prince majnun was in great sorrow and grief when he saw his dear laili turned into a little heap of ashes; and he went straight home to his father, and for a long, long time he would not be comforted.
after a great many years he grew more cheerful and happy, and began to go again into his father's beautiful garden with husain mahamat.
king dantal wished his son to marry again.
"i will only have laili for my wife; i will not marry any other woman," said prince majnun.
"how can you marry laili?
laili is dead.
she will never come back to you," said the father.
"then i'll not have any wife at all," said prince majnun.
meanwhile laili was living in the jungle where her husband had left her a little heap of ashes.
as soon as majnun had gone, the fakir had taken her ashes and made them quite clean, and then he had mixed clay and water with the ashes, and made the figure of a woman with them, and so laili regained her human form, and khuda sent life into it.
but laili had become once more a hideous old woman, with a long, long nose, and teeth like tusks; just such an old woman, excepting her teeth, as she had been when she came out of the rohu fish; and she lived in the jungle, and neither ate nor drank, and she kept on saying, "majnun, majnun; i want majnun."
at last the angel who had come as a fakir and thrown the powder at her, said to khuda, "of what use is it that this woman should sit in the jungle crying, crying for ever, 'majnun, majnun; i want majnun,'
and eating and drinking nothing?
let me take her to prince majnun."
"well," said khuda, "you may do so; but tell her that she must not speak to majnun if he is afraid of her when he sees her; and that if he is afraid when he sees her, she will become a little white dog the next day.
then she must go to the palace, and she will only regain her human shape when prince majnun loves her, feeds her with his own food, and lets her sleep in his bed."
so the angel came to laili again as a fakir and carried her to king dantal's garden.
"now," he said, "it is khuda's command that you stay here till prince majnun comes to walk in the garden, and then you may show yourself to him.
but you must not speak to him, if he is afraid of you; and should he be afraid of you, you will the next day become a little white dog."
he then told her what she must do as a little dog to regain her human form.
laili stayed in the garden, hidden in the tall grass, till prince majnun and husain mahamat came to walk in the garden.
king dantal was now a very old man, and husain mahamat, though he was really only as old as prince majnun, looked a great deal older than the prince, who had been made quite young again when he married laili.
as prince majnun and the wazir's son walked in the garden, they gathered the fruit as they had done as little children, only they bit the fruit with their teeth; they did not cut it.
while majnun was busy eating a fruit in this way, and was talking to husain mahamat, he turned towards him and saw laili walking behind the wazir's son.
"oh, look, look!"
he cried, "see what is following you; it is a rakshas or a demon, and i am sure it is going to eat us."
laili looked at him beseechingly with all her eyes, and trembled with age and eagerness; but this only frightened majnun the more.
"it is a rakshas, a rakshas!"
he cried, and he ran quickly to the palace with the wazir's son; and as they ran away, laili disappeared into the jungle.
they ran to king dantal, and majnun told him there was a rakshas or a demon in the garden that had come to eat them.
"what nonsense," said his father.
"fancy two grown men being so frightened by an old ayah or a fakir!
and if it had been a rakshas, it would not have eaten you."
indeed king dantal did not believe majnun had seen anything at all, till husain mahamat said the prince was speaking the exact truth.
they had the garden searched for the terrible old woman, but found nothing, and king dantal told his son he was very silly to be so much frightened.
however, prince majnun would not walk in the garden any more.
the next day laili turned into a pretty little dog; and in this shape she came into the palace, where prince majnun soon became very fond of her.
she followed him everywhere, went with him when he was out hunting, and helped him to catch his game, and prince majnun fed her with milk, or bread, or anything else he was eating, and at night the little dog slept in his bed.
but one night the little dog disappeared, and in its stead there lay the little old woman who had frightened him so much in the garden; and now prince majnun was quite sure she was a rakshas, or a demon, or some such horrible thing come to eat him; and in his terror he cried out, "what do you want?
oh, do not eat me; do not eat me!"
poor laili answered, "don't you know me?
i am your wife laili, and i want to marry you.
don't you remember how you would go through that jungle, though i begged and begged you not to go, for i told you that harm would happen to me, and then a fakir came and threw powder in my face, and i became a heap of ashes.
but khuda gave me my life again, and brought me here, after i had stayed a long, long while in the jungle crying for you, and now i am obliged to be a little dog; but if you will marry me, i shall not be a little dog any more."
majnun, however, said "how can i marry an old woman like you?
how can you be laili?
i am sure you are a rakshas or a demon come to eat me," and he was in great terror.
in the morning the old woman had turned into the little dog, and the prince went to his father and told him all that had happened.
"an old woman!
an old woman!
always an old woman!"
said his father.
"you do nothing but think of old women.
how can a strong man like you be so easily frightened?"
however, when he saw that his son was really in great terror, and that he really believed the old woman would came back at night, he advised him to say to her, "i will marry you if you can make yourself a young girl again.
how can i marry such an old woman as you are?"
that night as he lay trembling in bed the little old woman lay there in place of the dog, crying "majnun, majnun, i want to marry you.
i have loved you all these long, long years.
when i was in my father's kingdom a young girl, i knew of you, though you knew nothing of me, and we should have been married then if you had not gone away so suddenly, and for long, long years i followed you."
"well," said majnun, "if you can make yourself a young girl again, i will marry you."
laili said, "oh, that is quite easy.
khuda will make me a young girl again.
in two days' time you must go into the garden, and there you will see a beautiful fruit.
you must gather it and bring it into your room and cut it open yourself very gently, and you must not open it when your father or anybody else is with you, but when you are quite alone; for i shall be in the fruit quite naked, without any clothes at all on."
in the morning laili took her little dog's form, and disappeared in the garden.
prince majnun told all this to his father, who told him to do all the old woman had bidden him.
in two days' time he and the wazir's son walked in the garden, and there they saw a large, lovely red fruit.
"oh!"
said the prince, "i wonder shall i find my wife in that fruit."
husain mahamat wanted him to gather it and see, but he would not till he had told his father, who said, "that must be the fruit; go and gather it."
so majnun went back and broke the fruit off its stalk; and he said to his father, "come with me to my room while i open it; i am afraid to open it alone, for perhaps i shall find a rakshas in it that will eat me."
"no," said king dantal; "remember, laili will be naked; you must go alone and do not be afraid if, after all, a rakshas is in the fruit, for i will stay outside the door, and you have only to call me with a loud voice, and i will come to you, so the rakshas will not be able to eat you."
then majnun took the fruit and began to cut it open tremblingly, for he shook with fear; and when he had cut it, out stepped laili, young and far more beautiful than she had ever been.
at the sight of her extreme beauty, majnun fell backwards fainting on the floor.
laili took off his turban and wound it all round herself like a sari (for she had no clothes at all on), and then she called king dantal, and said to him sadly, "why has majnun fallen down like this?
why will he not speak to me?
he never used to be afraid of me; and he has seen me so many, many times."
king dantal answered, "it is because you are so beautiful.
you are far, far more beautiful than you ever were.
but he will be very happy directly."
then the king got some water, and they bathed majnun's face and gave him some to drink, and he sat up again.
then laili said, "why did you faint?
did you not see i am laili?"
"oh!"
said prince majnun, "i see you are laili come back to me, but your eyes have grown so wonderfully beautiful, that i fainted when i saw them."
then they were all very happy, and king dantal had all the drums in the place beaten, and had all the musical instruments played on, and they made a grand wedding-feast, and gave presents to the servants, and rice and quantities of rupees to the fakirs.
after some time had passed very happily, prince majnun and his wife went out to eat the air.
they rode on the same horse, and had only a groom with them.
they came to another kingdom, to a beautiful garden.
"we must go into that garden and see it," said majnun.
"no, no," said laili; "it belongs to a bad raja, chumman basa, a very wicked man."
but majnun insisted on going in, and in spite of all laili could say, he got off the horse to look at the flowers.
now, as he was looking at the flowers, laili saw chumman basa coming towards them, and she read in his eyes that he meant to kill her husband and seize her.
so she said to majnun, "come, come, let us go; do not go near that bad man.
i see in his eyes, and i feel in my heart, that he will kill you to seize me."
"what nonsense," said majnun.
"i believe he is a very good raja.
anyhow, i am so near to him that i could not get away."
"well," said laili, "it is better that you should be killed than i, for if i were to be killed a second time, khuda would not give me my life again; but i can bring you to life if you are killed."
now chumman basa had come quite near, and seemed very pleasant, so thought prince majnun; but when he was speaking to majnun, he drew his scimitar and cut off the prince's head at one blow.
laili sat quite still on her horse, and as the raja came towards her she said, "why did you kill my husband?"
"because i want to take you," he answered.
"you cannot," said laili.
"yes, i can," said the raja.
"take me, then," said laili to chumman basa; so he came quite close and put out his hand to take hers to lift her off her horse.
but she put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a tiny knife, only as long as her hand was broad, and this knife unfolded itself in one instant till it was such a length!
and then laili made a great sweep with her arm and her long, long knife, and off came chumman basa's head at one touch.
then laili slipped down off her horse, and she went to majnun's dead body, and she cut her little finger inside her hand straight down from the top of her nail to her palm, and out of this gushed blood like healing medicine.
then she put majnun's head on his shoulders, and smeared her healing blood all over the wound, and majnun woke up and said, "what a delightful sleep i have had!
why, i feel as if i had slept for years!"
then he got up and saw the raja's dead body by laili's horse.
"what's that?"
said majnun.
"that is the wicked raja who killed you to seize me, just as i said he would."
"who killed him?"
asked majnun.
"i did," answered laili, "and it was i who brought you to life."
"do bring the poor man to life if you know how to do so," said majnun.
"no," said laili, "for he is a wicked man, and will try to do you harm."
but majnun asked her for such a long time, and so earnestly to bring the wicked raja to life, that at least she said, "jump up on the horse, then, and go far away with the groom."
"what will you do," said majnun, "if i leave you?
i cannot leave you."
"i will take care of myself," said laili; "but this man is so wicked, he may kill you again if you are near him."
so majnun got up on the horse, and he and the groom went a long way off and waited for laili.
then she set the wicked raja's head straight on his shoulders, and she squeezed the wound in her finger till a little blood-medicine came out of it.
then she smeared this over the place where her knife had passed, and just as she saw the raja opening his eyes, she began to run, and she ran, and ran so fast, that she outran the raja, who tried to catch her; and she sprang up on the horse behind her husband, and they rode so fast, so fast, till they reached king dantal's palace.
there prince majnun told everything to his father, who was horrified and angry.
"how lucky for you that you have such a wife," he said.
"why did you not do what she told you?
but for her, you would be now dead."
then he made a great feast out of gratitude for his son's safety, and gave many, many rupees to the fakirs.
and he made so much of laili.
he loved her dearly; he could not do enough for her.
then he built a splendid palace for her and his son, with a great deal of ground about it, and lovely gardens, and gave them great wealth, and heaps of servants to wait on them.
but he would not allow any but their servants to enter their gardens and palace, and he would not allow majnun to go out of them, nor laili; "for," said king dantal, "laili is so beautiful, that perhaps some one may kill my son to take her away."
the tiger, the brahman, and the jackal
once upon a time, a tiger was caught in a trap.
he tried in vain to get out through the bars, and rolled and bit with rage and grief when he failed.
by chance a poor brahman came by.
"let me out of this cage, oh pious one!"
cried the tiger.
"nay, my friend," replied the brahman mildly, "you would probably eat me if i did."
"not at all!"
swore the tiger with many oaths; "on the contrary, i should be for ever grateful, and serve you as a slave!"
now when the tiger sobbed and sighed and wept and swore, the pious brahman's heart softened, and at last he consented to open the door of the cage.
out popped the tiger, and, seizing the poor man, cried, "what a fool you are!
what is to prevent my eating you now, for after being cooped up so long i am just terribly hungry!"
in vain the brahman pleaded for his life; the most he could gain was a promise to abide by the decision of the first three things he chose to question as to the justice of the tiger's action.
so the brahman first asked a pipal tree what it thought of the matter, but the pipal tree replied coldly, "what have you to complain about?
don't i give shade and shelter to every one who passes by, and don't they in return tear down my branches to feed their cattle?
don't whimper be a man!"
then the brahman, sad at heart, went further afield till he saw a buffalo turning a well-wheel; but he fared no better from it, for it answered, "you are a fool to expect gratitude!
look at me!
whilst i gave milk they fed me on cotton-seed and oil-cake, but now i am dry they yoke me here, and give me refuse as fodder!"
the brahman, still more sad, asked the road to give him its opinion.
"my dear sir," said the road, "how foolish you are to expect anything else!
here am i, useful to everybody, yet all, rich and poor, great and small, trample on me as they go past, giving me nothing but the ashes of their pipes and the husks of their grain!"
on this the brahman turned back sorrowfully, and on the way he met a jackal, who called out, "why, what's the matter, mr. brahman?
you look as miserable as a fish out of water!"
the brahman told him all that had occurred.
"how very confusing!"
said the jackal, when the recital was ended; "would you mind telling me over again, for everything has got so mixed up?"
the brahman told it all over again, but the jackal shook his head in a distracted sort of way, and still could not understand.
"it's very odd," said he, sadly, "but it all seems to go in at one ear and out at the other!
i will go to the place where it all happened, and then perhaps i shall be able to give a judgment."
so they returned to the cage, by which the tiger was waiting for the brahman, and sharpening his teeth and claws.
"you've been away a long time!"
growled the savage beast, "but now let us begin our dinner."
"our dinner!"
thought the wretched brahman, as his knees knocked together with fright; "what a remarkably delicate way of putting it!"
"give me five minutes, my lord!"
he pleaded, "in order that i may explain matters to the jackal here, who is somewhat slow in his wits."
the tiger consented, and the brahman began the whole story over again, not missing a single detail, and spinning as long a yarn as possible.
"oh, my poor brain!
oh, my poor brain!"
cried the jackal, wringing its paws.
"let me see!
how did it all begin?
you were in the cage, and the tiger came walking by  "
"pooh!"
interrupted the tiger, "what a fool you are!
i was in the cage."
"of course!"
cried the jackal, pretending to tremble with fright; "yes!
i was in the cage no i wasn't dear!
dear!
where are my wits?
let me see the tiger was in the brahman, and the cage came walking by  no, that's not it, either!
well, don't mind me, but begin your dinner, for i shall never understand!"
"yes, you shall!"
returned the tiger, in a rage at the jackal's stupidity; "i'll make you understand!
look here i am the tiger  "
"yes, my lord!"
"and that is the brahman  "
"yes, my lord!"
"and that is the cage  "
"yes, my lord!"
"and i was in the cage do you understand?"
"yes no   please, my lord  "
"well?"
cried the tiger impatiently.
"please, my lord!
how did you get in?"
"how!
why in the usual way, of course!"
"oh, dear me!
my head is beginning to whirl again!
please don't be angry, my lord, but what is the usual way?"
at this the tiger lost patience, and, jumping into the cage, cried, "this way!
now do you understand how it was?"
"perfectly!"
grinned the jackal, as he dexterously shut the door, "and if you will permit me to say so, i think matters will remain as they were!"
the soothsayer's son
a soothsayer when on his deathbed wrote out the horoscope of his second son, whose name was gangazara, and bequeathed it to him as his only property, leaving the whole of his estate to his eldest son.
the second son thought over the horoscope, and said to himself:
"alas!
am i born to this only in the world?
the sayings of my father never failed.
i have seen them prove true to the last word while he was living; and how has he fixed my horoscope!
'from my birth poverty!'
nor is that my only fate.
'for ten years, imprisonment' a fate harder than poverty; and what comes next?
'death on the sea-shore'; which means that i must die away from home, far from friends and relatives on a sea-coast.
now comes the most curious part of the horoscope, that i am to 'have some happiness afterwards!'
what this happiness is, is an enigma to me."
thus thought he, and after all the funeral obsequies of his father were over, took leave of his elder brother, and started for benares.
he went by the middle of the deccan, avoiding both the coasts, and went on journeying and journeying for weeks and months, till at last he reached the vindhya mountains.
while passing that desert he had to journey for a couple of days through a sandy plain, with no signs of life or vegetation.
the little store of provision with which he was provided for a couple of days, at last was exhausted.
the chombu, which he carried always full, filling it with the sweet water from the flowing rivulet or plenteous tank, he had exhausted in the heat of the desert.
there was not a morsel in his hand to eat; nor a drop of water to drink.
turn his eyes wherever he might he found a vast desert, out of which he saw no means of escape.
still he thought within himself, "surely my father's prophecy never proved untrue.
i must survive this calamity to find my death on some sea-coast."
so thought he, and this thought gave him strength of mind to walk fast and try to find a drop of water somewhere to slake his dry throat.
at last he succeeded; heaven threw in his way a ruined well.
he thought he could collect some water if he let down his chombu with the string that he always carried noosed to the neck of it.
accordingly he let it down; it went some way and stopped, and the following words came from the well: "oh, relieve me!
i am the king of tigers, dying here of hunger.
for the last three days i have had nothing.
fortune has sent you here.
if you assist me now you will find a sure help in me throughout your life.
do not think that i am a beast of prey.
when you have become my deliverer i will never touch you.
pray, kindly lift me up."
gangazara thought: "shall i take him out or not?
if i take him out he may make me the first morsel of his hungry mouth.
no; that he will not do.
for my father's prophecy never came untrue.
i must die on a sea coast, and not by a tiger."
thus thinking, he asked the tiger-king to hold tight to the vessel, which he accordingly did, and he lifted him up slowly.
the tiger reached the top of the well and felt himself on safe ground.
true to his word, he did no harm to gangazara.
on the other hand, he walked round his patron three times, and standing before him, humbly spoke the following words: "my life-giver, my benefactor!
i shall never forget this day, when i regained my life through your kind hands.
in return for this kind assistance i pledge my oath to stand by you in all calamities.
whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me.
i am there with you ready to oblige you by all the means that i can.
to tell you briefly how i came in here: three days ago i was roaming in yonder forest, when i saw a goldsmith passing through it.
i chased him.
he, finding it impossible to escape my claws, jumped into this well, and is living to this moment in the very bottom of it.
i also jumped in, but found myself on the first ledge of the well; he is on the last and fourth ledge.
in the second lives a serpent half-famished with hunger.
on the third lies a rat, also half-famished, and when you again begin to draw water these may request you first to release them.
in the same way the goldsmith also may ask you.
i beg you, as your bosom friend, never assist that wretched man, though he is your relation as a human being.
goldsmiths are never to be trusted.
you can place more faith in me, a tiger, though i feast sometimes upon men, in a serpent, whose sting makes your blood cold the very next moment, or in a rat, which does a thousand pieces of mischief in your house.
but never trust a goldsmith.
do not release him; and if you do, you shall surely repent of it one day or other."
thus advising, the hungry tiger went away without waiting for an answer.
gangazara thought several times of the eloquent way in which the tiger spoke, and admired his fluency of speech.
but still his thirst was not quenched.
so he let down his vessel again, which was now caught hold of by the serpent, who addressed him thus: "oh, my protector!
lift me up.
i am the king of serpents, and the son of adisesha, who is now pining away in agony for my disappearance.
release me now.
i shall ever remain your servant, remember your assistance, and help you throughout life in all possible ways.
oblige me: i am dying."
gangazara, calling again to mind the "death on the sea-shore" of the prophecy lifted him up.
he, like the tiger-king, walked round him thrice, and prostrating himself before him spoke thus: "oh, my life-giver, my father, for so i must call you, as you have given me another birth.
i was three days ago basking myself in the morning sun, when i saw a rat running before me.
i chased him.
he fell into this well.
i followed him, but instead of falling on the third storey where he is now lying, i fell into the second.
i am going away now to see my father.
whenever you are in any difficulty just think of me.
i will be there by your side to assist you by all possible means."
so saying, the nagaraja glided away in zigzag movements, and was out of sight in a moment.
the poor son of the soothsayer, who was now almost dying of thirst, let down his vessel for a third time.
the rat caught hold of it, and without discussing he lifted up the poor animal at once.
but it would not go away without showing its gratitude: "oh, life of my life!
my benefactor!
i am the king of rats.
whenever you are in any calamity just think of me.
i will come to you, and assist you.
my keen ears overheard all that the tiger-king told you about the goldsmith, who is in the fourth storey.
it is nothing but a sad truth that goldsmiths ought never to be trusted.
therefore, never assist him as you have done to us all.
and if you do, you will suffer for it.
i am hungry; let me go for the present."
thus taking leave of his benefactor, the rat, too, ran away.
gangazara for a while thought upon the repeated advice given by the three animals about releasing the goldsmith: "what wrong would there be in my assisting him?
why should i not release him also?"
so thinking to himself, gangazara let down the vessel again.
the goldsmith caught hold of it, and demanded help.
the soothsayer's son had no time to lose; he was himself dying of thirst.
therefore he lifted the goldsmith up, who now began his story.
"stop for a while,"
said gangazara, and after quenching his thirst by letting down his vessel for the fifth time, still fearing that some one might remain in the well and demand his assistance, he listened to the goldsmith, who began as follows: "my dear friend, my protector, what a deal of nonsense these brutes have been talking to you about me; i am glad you have not followed their advice.
i am just now dying of hunger.
permit me to go away.
my name is manikkasari.
i live in the east main street of ujjaini, which is twenty kas to the south of this place, and so lies on your way when you return from benares.
do not forget to come to me and receive my kind remembrances of your assistance, on your way back to your country."
so saying, the goldsmith took his leave, and gangazara also pursued his way north after the above adventures.
he reached benares, and lived there for more than ten years, and quite forgot the tiger, serpent, rat, and goldsmith.
after ten years of religious life, thoughts of home and of his brother rushed into his mind.
"i have secured enough merit now by my religious observances.
let me return home."
thus thought gangazara within himself, and very soon he was on his way back to his country.
remembering the prophecy of his father he returned by the same way by which he went to benares ten years before.
while thus retracing his steps he reached the ruined well where he had released the three brute kings and the goldsmith.
at once the old recollections rushed into his mind, and he thought of the tiger to test his fidelity.
only a moment passed, and the tiger-king came running before him carrying a large crown in his mouth, the glitter of the diamonds of which for a time outshone even the bright rays of the sun.
he dropped the crown at his life-giver's feet, and, putting aside all his pride, humbled himself like a pet cat to the strokes of his protector, and began in the following words: "my life-giver!
how is it that you have forgotten me, your poor servant, for such a long time?
i am glad to find that i still occupy a corner in your mind.
i can never forget the day when i owed my life to your lotus hands.
i have several jewels with me of little value.
this crown, being the best of all, i have brought here as a single ornament of great value, which you can carry with you and dispose of in your own country."
gangazara looked at the crown, examined it over and over, counted and recounted the gems, and thought within himself that he would become the richest of men by separating the diamonds and gold, and selling them in his own country.
he took leave of the tiger-king, and after his disappearance thought of the kings of serpents and rats, who came in their turn with their presents, and after the usual greetings and exchange of words took their leave.
gangazara was extremely delighted at the faithfulness with which the brute beasts behaved, and went on his way to the south.
while going along he spoke to himself thus: "these beasts have been very faithful in their assistance.
much more, therefore, must manikkasari be faithful.
i do not want anything from him now.
if i take this crown with me as it is, it occupies much space in my bundle.
it may also excite the curiosity of some robbers on the way.
i will go now to ujjaini on my way.
manikkasari requested me to see him without failure on my return journey.
i shall do so, and request him to have the crown melted, the diamonds and gold separated.
he must do that kindness at least for me.
i shall then roll up these diamonds and gold ball in my rags, and wend my way homewards."
thus thinking and thinking, he reached ujjaini.
at once he inquired for the house of his goldsmith friend, and found him without difficulty.
manikkasari was extremely delighted to find on his threshold him who ten years before, notwithstanding the advice repeatedly given him by the sage-looking tiger, serpent, and rat, had relieved him from the pit of death.
gangazara at once showed him the crown that he received from the tiger-king, told him how he got it, and requested his kind assistance to separate the gold and diamonds.
manikkasari agreed to do so, and meanwhile asked his friend to rest himself for a while to have his bath and meals; and gangazara, who was very observant of his religious ceremonies, went direct to the river to bathe.
how came the crown in the jaws of the tiger?
the king of ujjaini had a week before gone with all his hunters on a hunting expedition.
all of a sudden the tiger-king started from the wood, seized the king, and vanished.
when the king's attendants informed the prince about the death of his father he wept and wailed, and gave notice that he would give half of his kingdom to any one who should bring him news about the murderer of his father.
the goldsmith knew full well that it was a tiger that killed the king, and not any hunter's hands, since he had heard from gangazara how he obtained the crown.
still, he resolved to denounce gangazara as the king's murderer, so, hiding the crown under his garments, he flew to the palace.
he went before the prince and informed him that the assassin was caught, and placed the crown before him.
the prince took it into his hands, examined it, and at once gave half the kingdom to manikkasari, and then inquired about the murderer.
"he is bathing in the river, and is of such and such appearance," was the reply.
at once four armed soldiers flew to the river, and bound the poor brahman hand and foot, while he, sitting in meditation, was without any knowledge of the fate that hung over him.
they brought gangazara to the presence of the prince, who turned his face away from the supposed murderer, and asked his soldiers to throw him into a dungeon.
in a minute, without knowing the cause, the poor brahman found himself in the dark dungeon.
it was a dark cellar underground, built with strong stone walls, into which any criminal guilty of a capital offence was ushered to breathe his last there without food and drink.
such was the cellar into which gangazara was thrust.
what were his thoughts when he reached that place?
"it is of no use to accuse either the goldsmith or the prince now.
we are all the children of fate.
we must obey her commands.
this is but the first day of my father's prophecy.
so far his statement is true.
but how am i going to pass ten years here?
perhaps without anything to sustain life i may drag on my existence for a day or two.
but how pass ten years?
that cannot be, and i must die.
before death comes let me think of my faithful brute friends."
so pondered gangazara in the dark cell underground, and at that moment thought of his three friends.
the tiger-king, serpent-king, and rat-king assembled at once with their armies at a garden near the dungeon, and for a while did not know what to do.
they held their council, and decided to make an underground passage from the inside of a ruined well to the dungeon.
the rat raja issued an order at once to that effect to his army.
they, with their teeth, bored the ground a long way to the walls of the prison.
after reaching it they found that their teeth could not work on the hard stones.
the bandicoots were then specially ordered for the business; they, with their hard teeth, made a small slit in the wall for a rat to pass and repass without difficulty.
thus a passage was effected.
the rat raja entered first to condole with his protector on his misfortune, and undertook to supply his protector with provisions.
"whatever sweetmeats or bread are prepared in any house, one and all of you must try to bring whatever you can to our benefactor.
whatever clothes you find hanging in a house, cut down, dip the pieces in water, and bring the wet bits to our benefactor.
he will squeeze them and gather water for drink!
and the bread and sweetmeats shall form his food."
having issued these orders, the king of the rats took leave of gangazara.
they, in obedience to their king's order, continued to supply him with provisions and water.
the snake-king said: "i sincerely condole with you in your calamity; the tiger-king also fully sympathises with you, and wants me to tell you so, as he cannot drag his huge body here as we have done with our small ones.
the king of the rats has promised to do his best to provide you with food.
we would now do what we can for your release.
from this day we shall issue orders to our armies to oppress all the subjects of this kingdom.
the deaths by snake-bite and tigers shall increase a hundredfold from this day, and day by day it shall continue to increase till your release.
whenever you hear people near you, you had better bawl out so as to be heard by them: 'the wretched prince imprisoned me on the false charge of having killed his father, while it was a tiger that killed him.
from that day these calamities have broken out in his dominions.
if i were released i would save all by my powers of healing poisonous wounds and by incantations.'
some one may report this to the king, and if he knows it, you will obtain your liberty."
thus comforting his protector in trouble, he advised him to pluck up courage, and took leave of him.
from that day tigers and serpents, acting under the orders of their kings, united in killing as many persons and cattle as possible.
every day people were carried away by tigers or bitten by serpents.
thus passed months and years.
gangazara sat in the dark cellar, without the sun's light falling upon him, and feasted upon the breadcrumbs and sweetmeats that the rats so kindly supplied him with.
these delicacies had completely changed his body into a red, stout, huge, unwieldy mass of flesh.
thus passed full ten years, as prophesied in the horoscope.
ten complete years rolled away in close imprisonment.
on the last evening of the tenth year one of the serpents got into the bed-chamber of the princess and sucked her life.
she breathed her last.
she was the only daughter of the king.
the king at once sent for all the snake-bite curers.
he promised half his kingdom and his daughter's hand to him who would restore her to life.
now a servant of the king who had several times overheard gangazara's cries, reported the matter to him.
the king at once ordered the cell to be examined.
there was the man sitting in it.
how had he managed to live so long in the cell?
some whispered that he must be a divine being.
thus they discussed, while they brought gangazara to the king.
the king no sooner saw gangazara than he fell on the ground.
he was struck by the majesty and grandeur of his person.
his ten years'
imprisonment in the deep cell underground had given a sort of lustre to his body.
his hair had first to be cut before his face could be seen.
the king begged forgiveness for his former fault, and requested him to revive his daughter.
"bring me within an hour all the corpses of men and cattle, dying and dead, that remain unburnt or unburied within the range of your dominions; i shall revive them all," were the only words that gangazara spoke.
cartloads of corpses of men and cattle began to come in every minute.
even graves, it is said, were broken open, and corpses buried a day or two before were taken out and sent for their revival.
as soon as all were ready, gangazara took a vessel full of water and sprinkled it over them all, thinking only of his snake-king and tiger-king.
all rose up as if from deep slumber, and went to their respective homes.
the princess, too, was restored to life.
the joy of the king knew no bounds.
he cursed the day on which he imprisoned him, blamed himself for having believed the word of a goldsmith, and offered him the hand of his daughter and the whole kingdom, instead of half, as he promised.
gangazara would not accept anything, but asked the king to assemble all his subjects in a wood near the town.
"i shall there call in all the tigers and serpents, and give them a general order."
when the whole town was assembled, just at the dusk of evening, gangazara sat dumb for a moment, and thought upon the tiger king and the serpent king, who came with all their armies.
people began to take to their heels at the sight of tigers.
gangazara assured them of safety, and stopped them.
the grey light of the evening, the pumpkin colour of gangazara, the holy ashes scattered lavishly over his body, the tigers and snakes humbling themselves at his feet, gave him the true majesty of the god gangazara.
for who else by a single word could thus command vast armies of tigers and serpents, said some among the people.
"care not for it; it may be by magic.
that is not a great thing.
that he revived cartloads of corpses shows him to be surely gangazara," said others.
"why should you, my children, thus trouble these poor subjects of ujjaini?
reply to me, and henceforth desist from your ravages."
thus said the soothsayer's son, and the following reply came from the king of the tigers: "why should this base king imprison your honour, believing the mere word of a goldsmith that your honour killed his father?
all the hunters told him that his father was carried away by a tiger.
i was the messenger of death sent to deal the blow on his neck.
i did it, and gave the crown to your honour.
the prince makes no inquiry, and at once imprisons your honour.
how can we expect justice from such a stupid king as that?
unless he adopt a better standard of justice we will go on with our destruction."
the king heard, cursed the day on which he believed in the word of a goldsmith, beat his head, tore his hair, wept and wailed for his crime, asked a thousand pardons, and swore to rule in a just way from that day.
the serpent-king and tiger-king also promised to observe their oath as long as justice prevailed, and took their leave.
the goldsmith fled for his life.
he was caught by the soldiers of the king, and was pardoned by the generous gangazara, whose voice now reigned supreme.
all returned to their homes.
the king again pressed gangazara to accept the hand of his daughter.
he agreed to do so, not then, but some time afterwards.
he wished to go and see his elder brother first, and then to return and marry the princess.
the king agreed; and gangazara left the city that very day on his way home.
it so happened that unwittingly he took a wrong road, and had to pass near a sea-coast.
his elder brother was also on his way up to benares by that very same route.
they met and recognised each other, even at a distance.
they flew into each other's arms.
both remained still for a time almost unconscious with joy.
the pleasure of gangazara was so great that he died of joy.
the elder brother was a devout worshipper of ganesa.
that was a friday, a day very sacred to that god.
the elder brother took the corpse to the nearest ganesa temple and called upon him.
the god came, and asked him what he wanted.
"my poor brother is dead and gone; and this is his corpse.
kindly keep it in your charge till i finish worshipping you.
if i leave it anywhere else the devils may snatch it away when i am absent worshipping you; after finishing the rites i shall burn him."
thus said the elder brother, and, giving the corpse to the god ganesa, he went to prepare himself for that deity's ceremonials.
ganesa made over the corpse to his ganas, asking them to watch over it carefully.
but instead of that they devoured it.
the elder brother, after finishing the puja, demanded his brother's corpse of the god.
the god called his ganas, who came to the front blinking, and fearing the anger of their master.
the god was greatly enraged.
the elder brother was very angry.
when the corpse was not forthcoming he cuttingly remarked, "is this, after all, the return for my deep belief in you?
you are unable even to return my brother's corpse."
ganesa was much ashamed at the remark.
so he, by his divine power, gave him a living gangazara instead of the dead corpse.
thus was the second son of the soothsayer restored to life.
the brothers had a long talk about each other's adventures.
they both went to ujjaini, where gangazara married the princess, and succeeded to the throne of that kingdom.
he reigned for a long time, conferring several benefits upon his brother.
and so the horoscope was fully fulfilled.
harisarman
there was a certain brahman in a certain village, named harisarman.
he was poor and foolish and in evil case for want of employment, and he had very many children, that he might reap the fruit of his misdeeds in a former life.
he wandered about begging with his family, and at last he reached a certain city, and entered the service of a rich householder called sthuladatta.
his sons became keepers of sthuladatta's cows and other property, and his wife a servant to him, and he himself lived near his house, performing the duty of an attendant.
one day there was a feast on account of the marriage of the daughter of sthuladatta, largely attended by many friends of the bridegroom, and merry-makers.
harisarman hoped that he would be able to fill himself up to the throat with ghee and flesh and other dainties, and get the same for his family, in the house of his patron.
while he was anxiously expecting to be fed, no one thought of him.
then he was distressed at getting nothing to eat, and he said to his wife at night, "it is owing to my poverty and stupidity that i am treated with such disrespect here; so i will pretend by means of an artifice to possess a knowledge of magic, so that i may become an object of respect to this sthuladatta; so, when you get an opportunity, tell him that i possess magical knowledge."
he said this to her, and after turning the matter over in his mind, while people were asleep he took away from the house of sthuladatta a horse on which his master's son-in-law rode.
he placed it in concealment at some distance, and in the morning the friends of the bridegroom could not find the horse, though they searched in every direction.
then, while sthuladatta was distressed at the evil omen, and searching for the thieves who had carried off the horse, the wife of harisarman came and said to him, "my husband is a wise man, skilled in astrology and magical sciences; he can get the horse back for you; why do you not ask him?"
when sthuladatta heard that, he called harisarman, who said, "yesterday i was forgotten, but to-day, now the horse is stolen, i am called to mind," and sthuladatta then propitiated the brahman with these words "i forgot you, forgive me" and asked him to tell him who had taken away their horse.
then harisarman drew all kinds of pretended diagrams, and said: "the horse has been placed by thieves on the boundary line south from this place.
it is concealed there, and before it is carried off to a distance, as it will be at close of day, go quickly and bring it."
when they heard that, many men ran and brought the horse quickly, praising the discernment of harisarman.
then harisarman was honoured by all men as a sage, and dwelt there in happiness, honoured by sthuladatta.
now, as days went on, much treasure, both of gold and jewels, had been stolen by a thief from the palace of the king.
as the thief was not known, the king quickly summoned harisarman on account of his reputation for knowledge of magic.
and he, when summoned, tried to gain time, and said, "i will tell you to-morrow," and then he was placed in a chamber by the king, and carefully guarded.
and he was sad because he had pretended to have knowledge.
now in that palace there was a maid named jihva (which means tongue), who, with the assistance of her brother, had stolen that treasure from the interior of the palace.
she, being alarmed at harisarman's knowledge, went at night and applied her ear to the door of that chamber in order to find out what he was about.
and harisarman, who was alone inside, was at that very moment blaming his own tongue, that had made a vain assumption of knowledge.
he said: "o tongue, what is this that you have done through your greediness?
wicked one, you will soon receive punishment in full."
when jihva heard this, she thought, in her terror, that she had been discovered by this wise man, and she managed to get in where he was, and falling at his feet, she said to the supposed wizard:
"brahman, here i am, that jihva whom you have discovered to be the thief of the treasure, and after i took it i buried it in the earth in a garden behind the palace, under a pomegranate tree.
so spare me, and receive the small quantity of gold which is in my possession."
when harisarman heard that, he said to her proudly: "depart, i know all this; i know the past, present and future; but i will not denounce you, being a miserable creature that has implored my protection.
but whatever gold is in your possession you must give back to me."
when he said this to the maid, she consented, and departed quickly.
but harisarman reflected in his astonishment: "fate brings about, as if in sport, things impossible, for when calamity was so near, who would have thought chance would have brought us success?
while i was blaming my jihva, the thief jihva suddenly flung herself at my feet.
secret crimes manifest themselves by means of fear."
thus thinking, he passed the night happily in the chamber.
and in the morning he brought the king, by some skilful parade of pretended knowledge into the garden, and led him up to the treasure, which was buried under the pomegranate tree, and said that the thief had escaped with a part of it.
then the king was pleased, and gave him the revenue of many villages.
but the minister, named devajnanin, whispered in the king's ear: "how can a man possess such knowledge unattainable by men, without having studied the books of magic; you may be certain that this is a specimen of the way he makes a dishonest livelihood, by having a secret intelligence with thieves.
it will be much better to test him by some new artifice."
then the king of his own accord brought a covered pitcher into which he had thrown a frog, and said to harisarman, "brahman, if you can guess what there is in this pitcher, i will do you great honour to-day."
when the brahman harisarman heard that, he thought that his last hour had come, and he called to mind the pet name of "froggie" which his father had given him in his childhood in sport, and, impelled by luck, he called to himself by his pet name, lamenting his hard fate, and suddenly called out: "this is a fine pitcher for you, froggie; it will soon become the swift destroyer of your helpless self."
the people there, when they heard him say that, raised a shout of applause, because his speech chimed in so well with the object presented to him, and murmured, "ah!
a great sage, he knows even about the frog!"
then the king, thinking that this was all due to knowledge of divination, was highly delighted, and gave harisarman the revenue of more villages, with gold, an umbrella, and state carriages of all kinds.
so harisarman prospered in the world.
the charmed ring
a merchant started his son in life with three hundred rupees, and bade him go to another country and try his luck in trade.
the son took the money and departed.
he had not gone far before he came across some herdsmen quarrelling over a dog, that some of them wished to kill.
"please do not kill the dog," pleaded the young and tender-hearted fellow; "i will give you one hundred rupees for it."
then and there, of course, the bargain was concluded, and the foolish fellow took the dog, and continued his journey.
he next met with some people fighting about a cat.
some of them wanted to kill it, but others not.
"oh!
please do not kill it," said he; "i will give you one hundred rupees for it."
of course they at once gave him the cat and took the money.
he went on till he reached a village, where some folk were quarrelling over a snake that had just been caught.
some of them wished to kill it, but others did not.
"please do not kill the snake," said he; "i will give you one hundred rupees."
of course the people agreed, and were highly delighted.
what a fool the fellow was!
what would he do now that all his money was gone?
what could he do except return to his father?
accordingly he went home.
"you fool!
you scamp!"
exclaimed his father when he had heard how his son had wasted all the money that had been given to him.
"go and live in the stables and repent of your folly.
you shall never again enter my house."
so the young man went and lived in the stables.
his bed was the grass spread for the cattle, and his companions were the dog, the cat, and the snake, which he had purchased so dearly.
these creatures got very fond of him, and would follow him about during the day, and sleep by him at night; the cat used to sleep at his feet, the dog at his head, and the snake over his body, with its head hanging on one side and its tail on the other.
one day the snake in course of conversation said to its master, "i am the son of raja indrasha.
one day, when i had come out of the ground to drink the air, some people seized me, and would have slain me had you not most opportunely arrived to my rescue.
i do not know how i shall ever be able to repay you for your great kindness to me.
would that you knew my father!
how glad he would be to see his son's preserver!"
"where does he live?
i should like to see him, if possible," said the young man.
"well said!"
continued the snake.
"do you see yonder mountain?
at the bottom of that mountain there is a sacred spring.
if you will come with me and dive into that spring, we shall both reach my father's country.
oh!
how glad he will be to see you!
he will wish to reward you, too.
but how can he do that?
however, you may be pleased to accept something at his hand.
if he asks you what you would like, you would, perhaps, do well to reply, 'the ring on your right hand, and the famous pot and spoon which you possess.'
with these in your possession, you would never need anything, for the ring is such that a man has only to speak to it, and immediately a beautiful furnished mansion will be provided for him, while the pot and the spoon will supply him with all manner of the rarest and most delicious foods."
attended by his three companions the man walked to the well and prepared to jump in, according to the snake's directions.
"o master!"
exclaimed the cat and dog, when they saw what he was going to do.
"what shall we do?
where shall we go?"
"wait for me here," he replied.
"i am not going far.
i shall not be long away."
on saying this, he dived into the water and was lost to sight.
"now what shall we do?"
said the dog to the cat.
"we must remain here," replied the cat, "as our master ordered.
do not be anxious about food.
i will go to the people's houses and get plenty of food for both of us."
and so the cat did, and they both lived very comfortably till their master came again and joined them.
the young man and the snake reached their destination in safety; and information of their arrival was sent to the raja.
his highness commanded his son and the stranger to appear before him.
but the snake refused, saying that it could not go to its father till it was released from this stranger, who had saved it from a most terrible death, and whose slave it therefore was.
then the raja went and embraced his son, and saluting the stranger welcomed him to his dominions.
the young man stayed there a few days, during which he received the raja's right-hand ring, and the pot and spoon, in recognition of his highness's gratitude to him for having delivered his son.
he then returned.
on reaching the top of the spring he found his friends, the dog and the cat, waiting for him.
they told one another all they had experienced since they had last seen each other, and were all very glad.
afterwards they walked together to the river side, where it was decided to try the powers of the charmed ring and pot and spoon.
the merchant's son spoke to the ring, and immediately a beautiful house and a lovely princess with golden hair appeared.
he spoke to the pot and spoon, also, and the most delicious dishes of food were provided for them.
so he married the princess, and they lived very happily for several years, until one morning the princess, while arranging her toilet, put the loose hairs into a hollow bit of reed and threw them into the river that flowed along under the window.
the reed floated on the water for many miles, and was at last picked up by the prince of that country, who curiously opened it and saw the golden hair.
on finding it the prince rushed off to the palace, locked himself up in his room, and would not leave it.
he had fallen desperately in love with the woman whose hair he had picked up, and refused to eat, or drink, or sleep, or move, till she was brought to him.
the king, his father, was in great distress about the matter, and did not know what to do.
he feared lest his son should die and leave him without an heir.
at last he determined to seek the counsel of his aunt, who was an ogress.
the old woman consented to help him, and bade him not to be anxious, as she felt certain that she would succeed in getting the beautiful woman for his son's wife.
she assumed the shape of a bee and went along buzzing, and buzzing, and buzzing.
her keen sense of smell soon brought her to the beautiful princess, to whom she appeared as an old hag, holding in one hand a stick by way of support.
she introduced herself to the beautiful princess and said, "i am your aunt, whom you have never seen before, because i left the country just after your birth."
she also embraced and kissed the princess by way of adding force to her words.
the beautiful princess was thoroughly deceived.
she returned the ogress's embrace, and invited her to come and stay in the house as long as she could, and treated her with such honour and attention, that the ogress thought to herself, "i shall soon accomplish my errand."
when she had been in the house three days, she began to talk of the charmed ring, and advised her to keep it instead of her husband, because the latter was constantly out shooting and on other such-like expeditions, and might lose it.
accordingly the beautiful princess asked her husband for the ring, and he readily gave it to her.
the ogress waited another day before she asked to see the precious thing.
doubting nothing, the beautiful princess complied, when the ogress seized the ring, and reassuming the form of a bee flew away with it to the palace, where the prince was lying nearly on the point of death.
"rise up.
be glad.
mourn no more," she said to him.
"the woman for whom you yearn will appear at your summons.
see, here is the charm, whereby you may bring her before you."
the prince was almost mad with joy when he heard these words, and was so desirous of seeing the beautiful princess, that he immediately spoke to the ring, and the house with its fair occupant descended in the midst of the palace garden.
he at once entered the building, and telling the beautiful princess of his intense love, entreated her to be his wife.
seeing no escape from the difficulty, she consented on the condition that he would wait one month for her.
meanwhile the merchant's son had returned from hunting and was terribly distressed not to find his house and wife.
there was the place only, just as he knew it before he had tried the charmed ring which raja indrasha had given him.
he sat down and determined to put an end to himself.
presently the cat and dog came up.
they had gone away and hidden themselves, when they saw the house and everything disappear.
"o master!"
they said, "stay your hand.
your trial is great, but it can be remedied.
give us one month, and we will go and try to recover your wife and house."
"go," said he, "and may the great god aid your efforts.
bring back my wife, and i shall live."
so the cat and dog started off at a run, and did not stop till they reached the place whither their mistress and the house had been taken.
"we may have some difficulty here," said the cat.
"look, the king has taken our master's wife and house for himself.
you stay here.
i will go to the house and try to see her."
so the dog sat down, and the cat climbed up to the window of the room, wherein the beautiful princess was sitting, and entered.
the princess recognised the cat, and informed it of all that had happened to her since she had left them.
"but is there no way of escape from the hands of these people?"
she asked.
"yes," replied the cat, "if you can tell me where the charmed ring is."
"the ring is in the stomach of the ogress," she said.
"all right," said the cat, "i will recover it.
if we once get it, everything is ours."
then the cat descended the wall of the house, and went and laid down by a rat's hole and pretended she was dead.
now at that time a great wedding chanced to be going on among the rat community of that place, and all the rats of the neighbourhood were assembled in that one particular mine by which the cat had lain down.
the eldest son of the king of the rats was about to be married.
the cat got to know of this, and at once conceived the idea of seizing the bridegroom and making him render the necessary help.
consequently, when the procession poured forth from the hole squealing and jumping in honour of the occasion, it immediately spotted the bridegroom and pounced down on him.
"oh!
let me go, let me go," cried the terrified rat.
"oh!
let him go," squealed all the company.
"it is his wedding day."
"no, no," replied the cat.
"not unless you do something for me.
listen.
the ogress, who lives in that house with the prince and his wife, has swallowed a ring, which i very much want.
if you will procure it for me, i will allow the rat to depart unharmed.
if you do not, then your prince dies under my feet."
"very well, we agree," said they all.
"nay, if we do not get the ring for you, devour us all."
this was rather a bold offer.
however, they accomplished the thing.
at midnight, when the ogress was sound asleep, one of the rats went to her bedside, climbed up on her face, and inserted its tail into her throat; whereupon the ogress coughed violently, and the ring came out and rolled on to the floor.
the rat immediately seized the precious thing and ran off with it to its king, who was very glad, and went at once to the cat and released its son.
as soon as the cat received the ring, she started back with the dog to go and tell their master the good tidings.
all seemed safe now.
they had only to give the ring to him, and he would speak to it, and the house and beautiful princess would again be with them, and everything would go on as happily as before.
"how glad master will be!"
they thought, and ran as fast as their legs could carry them.
now, on the way they had to cross a stream.
the dog swam, and the cat sat on its back.
now the dog was jealous of the cat, so he asked for the ring, and threatened to throw the cat into the water if it did not give it up; whereupon the cat gave up the ring.
sorry moment, for the dog at once dropped it, and a fish swallowed it.
"oh!
what shall i do?
what shall i do?"
said the dog.
"what is done is done," replied the cat.
"we must try to recover it, and if we do not succeed we had better drown ourselves in this stream.
i have a plan.
you go and kill a small lamb, and bring it here to me."
"all right," said the dog, and at once ran off.
he soon came back with a dead lamb, and gave it to the cat.
the cat got inside the lamb and lay down, telling the dog to go away a little distance and keep quiet.
not long after this a nadhar, a bird whose look can break the bones of a fish, came and hovered over the lamb, and eventually pounced down on it to carry it away.
on this the cat came out and jumped on to the bird, and threatened to kill it if it did not recover the lost ring.
this was most readily promised by the nadhar, who immediately flew off to the king of the fishes, and ordered it to make inquiries and to restore the ring.
the king of the fishes did so, and the ring was found and carried back to the cat.
"come along now; i have got the ring," said the cat to the dog.
"no, i will not," said the dog, "unless you let me have the ring.
i can carry it as well as you.
let me have it or i will kill you."
so the cat was obliged to give up the ring.
the careless dog very soon dropped it again.
this time it was picked up and carried off by a kite.
"see, see, there it goes away to that big tree," the cat exclaimed.
"oh!
oh!
what have i done?"
cried the dog.
"you foolish thing, i knew it would be so," said the cat.
"but stop your barking, or you will frighten away the bird to some place where we shall not be able to trace it."
the cat waited till it was quite dark, and then climbed the tree, killed the kite, and recovered the ring.
"come along," it said to the dog when it reached the ground.
"we must make haste now.
we have been delayed.
our master will die from grief and suspense.
come on."
the dog, now thoroughly ashamed of itself, begged the cat's pardon for all the trouble it had given.
it was afraid to ask for the ring the third time, so they both reached their sorrowing master in safety and gave him the precious charm.
in a moment his sorrow was turned into joy.
he spoke to the ring, and his beautiful wife and house reappeared, and he and everybody were as happy as ever they could be.
the talkative tortoise
the future buddha was once born in a minister's family, when brahma-datta was reigning in benares; and when he grew up, he became the king's adviser in things temporal and spiritual.
now this king was very talkative; while he was speaking, others had no opportunity for a word.
and the future buddha, wanting to cure this talkativeness of his, was constantly seeking for some means of doing so.
at that time there was living, in a pond in the himalaya mountains, a tortoise.
two young hamsas, or wild ducks, who came to feed there, made friends with him.
and one day, when they had become very intimate with him, they said to the tortoise:
"friend tortoise!
the place where we live, at the golden cave on mount beautiful in the himalaya country, is a delightful spot.
will you come there with us?"
"but how can i get there?"
"we can take you, if you can only hold your tongue, and will say nothing to anybody."
"oh!
that i can do.
take me with you."
"that's right," said they.
and making the tortoise bite hold of a stick, they themselves took the two ends in their teeth, and flew up into the air.
seeing him thus carried by the hamsas, some villagers called out, "two wild ducks are carrying a tortoise along on a stick!"
whereupon the tortoise wanted to say, "if my friends choose to carry me, what is that to you, you wretched slaves!"
so just as the swift flight of the wild ducks had brought him over the king's palace in the city of benares, he let go of the stick he was biting, and falling in the open courtyard, split in two!
and there arose a universal cry, "a tortoise has fallen in the open courtyard, and has split in two!"
the king, taking the future buddha, went to the place, surrounded by his courtiers; and looking at the tortoise, he asked the bodisat, "teacher!
how comes he to be fallen here?"
the future buddha thought to himself, "long expecting, wishing to admonish the king, have i sought for some means of doing so.
this tortoise must have made friends with the wild ducks; and they must have made him bite hold of the stick, and have flown up into the air to take him to the hills.
but he, being unable to hold his tongue when he hears any one else talk, must have wanted to say something, and let go the stick; and so must have fallen down from the sky, and thus lost his life."
and saying, "truly, o king!
those who are called chatter-boxes people whose words have no end come to grief like this," he uttered these verses:
"verily the tortoise killed himself     whilst uttering his voice;     though he was holding tight the stick,     by a word himself he slew.
"behold him then, o excellent by strength!
and speak wise words, not out of season.
you see how, by his talking overmuch,     the tortoise fell into this wretched plight!"
the king saw that he was himself referred to, and said, "o teacher!
are you speaking of us?"
and the bodisat spake openly, and said, "o great king!
be it thou, or be it any other, whoever talks beyond measure meets with some mishap like this."
and the king henceforth refrained himself, and became a man of few words.
a lac of rupees for a bit of advice
a poor blind brahman and his wife were dependent on their son for their subsistence.
every day the young fellow used to go out and get what he could by begging.
this continued for some time, till at last he became quite tired of such a wretched life, and determined to go and try his luck in another country.
he informed his wife of his intention, and ordered her to manage somehow or other for the old people during the few months that he would be absent.
he begged her to be industrious, lest his parents should be angry and curse him.
one morning he started with some food in a bundle, and walked on day after day, till he reached the chief city of the neighbouring country.
here he went and sat down by a merchant's shop and asked alms.
the merchant inquired whence he had come, why he had come, and what was his caste; to which he replied that he was a brahman, and was wandering hither and thither begging a livelihood for himself and wife and parents.
moved with pity for the man, the merchant advised him to visit the kind and generous king of that country, and offered to accompany him to the court.
now at that time it happened that the king was seeking for a brahman to look after a golden temple which he had just had built.
his majesty was very glad, therefore, when he saw the brahman and heard that he was good and honest.
he at once deputed him to the charge of this temple, and ordered fifty kharwars of rice and one hundred rupees to be paid to him every year as wages.
two months after this, the brahman's wife, not having heard any news of her husband, left the house and went in quest of him.
by a happy fate she arrived at the very place that he had reached, where she heard that every morning at the golden temple a golden rupee was given in the king's name to any beggar who chose to go for it.
accordingly, on the following morning she went to the place and met her husband.
"why have you come here?"
he asked.
"why have you left my parents?
care you not whether they curse me and i die?
go back immediately, and await my return."
"no, no," said the woman.
"i cannot go back to starve and see your old father and mother die.
there is not a grain of rice left in the house."
"o bhagawant!"
exclaimed the brahman.
"here, take this," he continued, scribbling a few lines on some paper, and then handing it to her, "and give it to the king.
you will see that he will give you a lac of rupees for it."
thus saying he dismissed her, and the woman left.
on this scrap of paper were written three pieces of advice first, if a person is travelling and reaches any strange place at night, let him be careful where he puts up, and not close his eyes in sleep, lest he close them in death.
secondly, if a man has a married sister, and visits her in great pomp, she will receive him for the sake of what she can obtain from him; but if he comes to her in poverty, she will frown on him and disown him.
thirdly, if a man has to do any work, he must do it himself, and do it with might and without fear.
on reaching her home the brahmani told her parents of her meeting with her husband, and what a valuable piece of paper he had given her; but not liking to go before the king herself, she sent one of her relations.
the king read the paper, and ordering the man to be flogged, dismissed him.
the next morning the brahmani took the paper, and while she was going along the road to the darbar reading it, the king's son met her, and asked what she was reading, whereupon she replied that she held in her hands a paper containing certain bits of advice, for which she wanted a lac of rupees.
the prince asked her to show it to him, and when he had read it gave her a parwana for the amount, and rode on.
the poor brahmani was very thankful.
that day she laid in a great store of provisions, sufficient to last them all for a long time.
in the evening the prince related to his father the meeting with the woman, and the purchase of the piece of paper.
he thought his father would applaud the act.
but it was not so.
the king was more angry than before, and banished his son from the country.
so the prince bade adieu to his mother and relations and friends, and rode off on his horse, whither he did not know.
at nightfall he arrived at some place, where a man met him, and invited him to lodge at his house.
the prince accepted the invitation, and was treated like a prince.
matting was spread for him to squat on, and the best provisions set before him.
"ah!"
thought he, as he lay down to rest, "here is a case for the first piece of advice that the brahmani gave me.
i will not sleep to-night."
it was well that he thus resolved, for in the middle of the night the man rose up, and taking a sword in his hand, rushed to the prince with the intention of killing him.
but he rose up and spoke.
"do not slay me," he said.
"what profit would you get from my death?
if you killed me you would be sorry afterwards, like that man who killed his dog."
"what man?
what dog?"
he asked.
"i will tell you," said the prince, "if you will give me that sword."
so he gave him the sword, and the prince began his story:
"once upon a time there lived a wealthy merchant who had a pet dog.
he was suddenly reduced to poverty, and had to part with his dog.
he got a loan of five thousand rupees from a brother merchant, leaving the dog as a pledge, and with the money began business again.
not long after this the other merchant's shop was broken into by thieves and completely sacked.
there was hardly ten rupees' worth left in the place.
the faithful dog, however, knew what was going on, and went and followed the thieves, and saw where they deposited the things, and then returned.
"in the morning there was great weeping and lamentation in the merchant's house when it was known what had happened.
the merchant himself nearly went mad.
meanwhile the dog kept on running to the door, and pulling at his master's shirt and paijamas, as though wishing him to go outside.
at last a friend suggested that, perhaps, the dog knew something of the whereabouts of the things, and advised the merchant to follow its leadings.
the merchant consented, and went after the dog right up to the very place where the thieves had hidden the goods.
here the animal scraped and barked, and showed in various ways that the things were underneath.
so the merchant and his friends dug about the place, and soon came upon all the stolen property.
nothing was missing.
there was everything just as the thieves had taken them.
"the merchant was very glad.
on returning to his house, he at once sent the dog back to its old master with a letter rolled under the collar, wherein he had written about the sagacity of the beast, and begged his friend to forget the loan and to accept another five thousand rupees as a present.
when this merchant saw his dog coming back again, he thought, 'alas!
my friend is wanting the money.
how can i pay him?
i have not had sufficient time to recover myself from my recent losses.
i will slay the dog ere he reaches the threshold, and say that another must have slain it.
thus there will be an end of my debt.
no dog, no loan.'
accordingly he ran out and killed the poor dog, when the letter fell out of its collar.
the merchant picked it up and read it.
how great was his grief and disappointment when he knew the facts of the case!
"beware," continued the prince, "lest you do that which afterwards you would give your life not to have done."
by the time the prince had concluded this story it was nearly morning, and he went away, after rewarding the man.
the prince then visited the country belonging to his brother-in-law.
he disguised himself as a jogi, and sitting down by a tree near the palace, pretended to be absorbed in worship.
news of the man and of his wonderful piety reached the ears of the king.
he felt interested in him, as his wife was very ill; and he had sought for hakims to cure her, but in vain.
he thought that, perhaps, this holy man could do something for her.
so he sent to him.
but the jogi refused to tread the halls of a king, saying that his dwelling was the open air, and that if his majesty wished to see him he must come himself and bring his wife to the place.
then the king took his wife and brought her to the jogi.
the holy man bade her prostrate herself before him, and when she had remained in this position for about three hours, he told her to rise and go, for she was cured.
in the evening there was great consternation in the palace, because the queen had lost her pearl rosary, and nobody knew anything about it.
at length some one went to the jogi, and found it on the ground by the place where the queen had prostrated herself.
when the king heard this he was very angry, and ordered the jogi to be executed.
this stern order, however, was not carried out, as the prince bribed the men and escaped from the country.
but he knew that the second bit of advice was true.
clad in his own clothes, the prince was walking along one day when he saw a potter crying and laughing alternately with his wife and children.
"o fool," said he, "what is the matter?
if you laugh, why do you weep?
if you weep, why do you laugh?"
"do not bother me," said the potter.
"what does it matter to you?"
"pardon me," said the prince, "but i should like to know the reason."
"the reason is this, then," said the potter.
"the king of this country has a daughter whom he is obliged to marry every day, because all her husbands die the first night of their stay with her.
nearly all the young men of the place have thus perished, and our son will be called on soon.
we laugh at the absurdity of the thing a potter's son marrying a princess, and we cry at the terrible consequence of the marriage.
what can we do?"
"truly a matter for laughing and weeping.
but weep no more," said the prince.
"i will exchange places with your son, and will be married to the princess instead of him.
only give me suitable garments, and prepare me for the occasion."
so the potter gave him beautiful raiment and ornaments, and the prince went to the palace.
at night he was conducted to the apartment of the princess.
"dread hour!"
thought he; "am i to die like the scores of young men before me?"
he clenched his sword with firm grip, and lay down on his bed, intending to keep awake all the night and see what would happen.
in the middle of the night he saw two shahmars come out from the nostrils of the princess.
they stole over towards him, intending to kill him, like the others who had been before him: but he was ready for them.
he laid hold of his sword, and when the snakes reached his bed he struck at them and killed them.
in the morning the king came as usual to inquire, and was surprised to hear his daughter and the prince talking gaily together.
"surely," said he, "this man must be her husband, as he only can live with her."
"where do you come from?
who are you?"
asked the king, entering the room.
"o king!"
replied the prince, "i am the son of a king who rules over such-and-such a country."
when he heard this the king was very glad, and bade the prince to abide in his palace, and appointed him his successor to the throne.
the prince remained at the palace for more than a year, and then asked permission to visit his own country, which was granted.
the king gave him elephants, horses, jewels, and abundance of money for the expenses of the way and as presents for his father, and the prince started.
on the way he had to pass through the country belonging to his brother-in-law, whom we have already mentioned.
report of his arrival reached the ears of the king, who came with rope-tied hands and haltered neck to do him homage.
he most humbly begged him to stay at his palace, and to accept what little hospitality could be provided.
while the prince was staying at the palace he saw his sister, who greeted him with smiles and kisses.
on leaving he told her how she and her husband had treated him at his first visit, and how he had escaped; and then gave them two elephants, two beautiful horses, fifteen soldiers, and ten lacs rupees' worth of jewels.
afterwards he went to his own home, and informed his mother and father of his arrival.
alas!
his parents had both become blind from weeping about the loss of their son.
"let him come in," said the king, "and put his hands upon our eyes, and we shall see again."
so the prince entered, and was most affectionately greeted by his old parents; and he laid his hands on their eyes, and they saw again.
then the prince told his father all that had happened to him, and how he had been saved several times by attending to the advice that he had purchased from the brahmani.
whereupon the king expressed his sorrow for having sent him away, and all was joy and peace again.
the gold-giving serpent
now in a certain place there lived a brahman named haridatta.
he was a farmer, but poor was the return his labour brought him.
one day, at the end of the hot hours, the brahman, overcome by the heat, lay down under the shadow of a tree to have a doze.
suddenly he saw a great hooded snake creeping out of an ant-hill near at hand.
so he thought to himself, "sure this is the guardian deity of the field, and i have not ever worshipped it.
that's why my farming is in vain.
i will at once go and pay my respects to it."
when he had made up his mind, he got some milk, poured it into a bowl, and went to the ant-hill, and said aloud: "o guardian of this field!
all this while i did not know that you dwelt here.
that is why i have not yet paid my respects to you; pray forgive me."
and he laid the milk down and went to his house.
next morning he came and looked, and he saw a gold denar in the bowl, and from that time onward every day the same thing occurred: he gave milk to the serpent and found a gold denar.
one day the brahman had to go to the village, and so he ordered his son to take the milk to the ant-hill.
the son brought the milk, put it down, and went back home.
next day he went again and found a denar, so he thought to himself: "this ant-hill is surely full of golden denars; i'll kill the serpent, and take them all for myself."
so next day, while he was giving the milk to the serpent, the brahman's son struck it on the head with a cudgel.
but the serpent escaped death by the will of fate, and in a rage bit the brahman's son with its sharp fangs, and he fell down dead at once.
his people raised him a funeral pyre not far from the field and burnt him to ashes.
two days afterwards his father came back, and when he learnt his son's fate he grieved and mourned.
but after a time, he took the bowl of milk, went to the ant-hill, and praised the serpent with a loud voice.
after a long, long time the serpent appeared, but only with its head out of the opening of the ant-hill, and spoke to the brahman: "'tis greed that brings you here, and makes you even forget the loss of your son.
from this time forward friendship between us is impossible.
your son struck me in youthful ignorance, and i have bitten him to death.
how can i forget the blow with the cudgel?
and how can you forget the pain and grief at the loss of your son?"
so speaking, it gave the brahman a costly pearl and disappeared.
but before it went away it said: "come back no more."
the brahman took the pearl, and went back home, cursing the folly of his son.
the son of seven queens
once upon a time there lived a king who had seven queens, but no children.
this was a great grief to him, especially when he remembered that on his death there would be no heir to inherit the kingdom.
now it happened one day that a poor old fakir came to the king, and said, "your prayers are heard, your desire shall be accomplished, and one of your seven queens shall bear a son."
the king's delight at this promise knew no bounds, and he gave orders for appropriate festivities to be prepared against the coming event throughout the length and breadth of the land.
meanwhile the seven queens lived luxuriously in a splendid palace, attended by hundreds of female slaves, and fed to their hearts'
content on sweetmeats and confectionery.
now the king was very fond of hunting, and one day, before he started, the seven queens sent him a message saying, "may it please our dearest lord not to hunt towards the north to-day, for we have dreamt bad dreams, and fear lest evil should befall you."
the king, to allay their anxiety, promised regard for their wishes, and set out towards the south; but as luck would have it, although he hunted diligently, he found no game.
nor had he more success to the east or west, so that, being a keen sportsman, and determined not to go home empty-handed, he forgot all about his promise, and turned to the north.
here also he was at first unsuccessful, but just as he had made up his mind to give up for that day, a white hind with golden horns and silver hoofs flashed past him into a thicket.
so quickly did it pass that he scarcely saw it; nevertheless a burning desire to capture and possess the beautiful strange creature filled his breast.
he instantly ordered his attendants to form a ring round the thicket, and so encircle the hind; then, gradually narrowing the circle, he pressed forward till he could distinctly see the white hind panting in the midst.
nearer and nearer he advanced, till, just as he thought to lay hold of the beautiful strange creature, it gave one mighty bound, leapt clean over the king's head, and fled towards the mountains.
forgetful of all else, the king, setting spurs to his horse, followed at full speed.
on, on he galloped, leaving his retinue far behind, keeping the white hind in view, never drawing bridle, until, finding himself in a narrow ravine with no outlet, he reined in his steed.
before him stood a miserable hovel, into which, being tired after his long, unsuccessful chase, he entered to ask for a drink of water.
an old woman, seated in the hut at a spinning-wheel, answered his request by calling to her daughter, and immediately from an inner room came a maiden so lovely and charming, so white-skinned and golden-haired, that the king was transfixed by astonishment at seeing so beautiful a sight in the wretched hovel.
she held the vessel of water to the king's lips, and as he drank he looked into her eyes, and then it became clear to him that the girl was no other than the white hind with the golden horns and silver feet he had chased so far.
her beauty bewitched him, so he fell on his knees, begging her to return with him as his bride; but she only laughed, saying seven queens were quite enough even for a king to manage.
however, when he would take no refusal, but implored her to have pity on him, promising her everything she could desire, she replied, "give me the eyes of your seven queens, and then perhaps i may believe you mean what you say."
the king was so carried away by the glamour of the white hind's magical beauty, that he went home at once, had the eyes of his seven queens taken out, and, after throwing the poor blind creatures into a noisome dungeon whence they could not escape, set off once more for the hovel in the ravine, bearing with him his horrible offering.
but the white hind only laughed cruelly when she saw the fourteen eyes, and threading them as a necklace, flung it round her mother's neck, saying, "wear that, little mother, as a keepsake, whilst i am away in the king's palace."
then she went back with the bewitched monarch, as his bride, and he gave her the seven queens' rich clothes and jewels to wear, the seven queens' palace to live in, and the seven queens' slaves to wait upon her; so that she really had everything even a witch could desire.
now, very soon after the seven wretched hapless queens had their eyes torn out, and were cast into prison, a baby was born to the youngest of the queens.
it was a handsome boy, but the other queens were very jealous that the youngest amongst them should be so fortunate.
but though at first they disliked the handsome little boy, he soon proved so useful to them, that ere long they all looked on him as their son.
almost as soon as he could walk about he began scraping at the mud wall of their dungeon, and in an incredibly short space of time had made a hole big enough for him to crawl through.
through this he disappeared, returning in an hour or so laden with sweetmeats, which he divided equally amongst the seven blind queens.
as he grew older he enlarged the hole, and slipped out two or three times every day to play with the little nobles in the town.
no one knew who the tiny boy was, but everybody liked him, and he was so full of funny tricks and antics, so merry and bright, that he was sure to be rewarded by some girdle-cakes, a handful of parched grain, or some sweetmeats.
all these things he brought home to his seven mothers, as he loved to call the seven blind queens, who by his help lived on in their dungeon when all the world thought they had starved to death ages before.
at last, when he was quite a big lad, he one day took his bow and arrow, and went out to seek for game.
coming by chance past the palace where the white hind lived in wicked splendour and magnificence, he saw some pigeons fluttering round the white marble turrets, and, taking good aim, shot one dead.
it came tumbling past the very window where the white queen was sitting; she rose to see what was the matter, and looked out.
at the first glance of the handsome young lad standing there bow in hand, she knew by witchcraft that it was the king's son.
she nearly died of envy and spite, determining to destroy the lad without delay; therefore, sending a servant to bring him to her presence, she asked him if he would sell her the pigeon he had just shot.
"no," replied the sturdy lad, "the pigeon is for my seven blind mothers, who live in the noisome dungeon, and who would die if i did not bring them food."
"poor souls!"
cried the cunning white witch; "would you not like to bring them their eyes again?
give me the pigeon, my dear, and i faithfully promise to show you where to find them."
hearing this, the lad was delighted beyond measure, and gave up the pigeon at once.
whereupon the white queen told him to seek her mother without delay, and ask for the eyes which she wore as a necklace.
"she will not fail to give them," said the cruel queen, "if you show her this token on which i have written what i want done."
so saying, she gave the lad a piece of broken potsherd, with these words inscribed on it "kill the bearer at once, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
now, as the son of seven queens could not read, he took the fatal message cheerfully, and set off to find the white queen's mother.
whilst he was journeying he passed through a town, where every one of the inhabitants looked so sad, that he could not help asking what was the matter.
they told him it was because the king's only daughter refused to marry; so when her father died there would be no heir to the throne.
they greatly feared she must be out of her mind, for though every good-looking young man in the kingdom had been shown to her, she declared she would only marry one who was the son of seven mothers, and who ever heard of such a thing?
the king, in despair, had ordered every man who entered the city gates to be led before the princess; so, much to the lad's impatience, for he was in an immense hurry to find his mothers' eyes, he was dragged into the presence-chamber.
no sooner did the princess catch sight of him than she blushed, and, turning to the king, said, "dear father, this is my choice!"
never were such rejoicings as these few words produced.
the inhabitants nearly went wild with joy, but the son of seven queens said he would not marry the princess unless they first let him recover his mothers' eyes.
when the beautiful bride heard his story, she asked to see the potsherd, for she was very learned and clever.
seeing the treacherous words, she said nothing, but taking another similar-shaped bit of potsherd, she wrote on it these words "take care of this lad, giving him all he desires," and returned it to the son of seven queens, who, none the wiser, set off on his quest.
ere long he arrived at the hovel in the ravine where the white witch's mother, a hideous old creature, grumbled dreadfully on reading the message, especially when the lad asked for the necklace of eyes.
nevertheless she took it off, and gave it him, saying, "there are only thirteen of 'em now, for i lost one last week."
the lad, however, was only too glad to get any at all, so he hurried home as fast as he could to his seven mothers, and gave two eyes apiece to the six elder queens; but to the youngest he gave one, saying, "dearest little mother!
i will be your other eye always!"
after this he set off to marry the princess, as he had promised, but when passing by the white queen's palace he saw some pigeons on the roof.
drawing his bow, he shot one, and it came fluttering past the window.
the white hind looked out, and lo!
there was the king's son alive and well.
she cried with hatred and disgust, but sending for the lad, asked him how he had returned so soon, and when she heard how he had brought home the thirteen eyes, and given them to the seven blind queens, she could hardly restrain her rage.
nevertheless she pretended to be charmed with his success, and told him that if he would give her this pigeon also, she would reward him with the jogi's wonderful cow, whose milk flows all day long, and makes a pond as big as a kingdom.
the lad, nothing loth, gave her the pigeon; whereupon, as before, she bade him go ask her mother for the cow, and gave him a potsherd whereon was written "kill this lad without fail, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
but on the way the son of seven queens looked in on the princess, just to tell her how he came to be delayed, and she, after reading the message on the potsherd, gave him another in its stead; so that when the lad reached the old hag's hut and asked her for the jogi's cow, she could not refuse, but told the boy how to find it; and bidding him of all things not to be afraid of the eighteen thousand demons who kept watch and ward over the treasure, told him to be off before she became too angry at her daughter's foolishness in thus giving away so many good things.
then the lad did as he had been told bravely.
he journeyed on and on till he came to a milk-white pond, guarded by the eighteen thousand demons.
they were really frightful to behold, but, plucking up courage, he whistled a tune as he walked through them, looking neither to the right nor the left.
by-and-by he came upon the jogi's cow, tall, white, and beautiful, while the jogi himself, who was king of all the demons, sat milking her day and night, and the milk streamed from her udder, filling the milk-white tank.
the jogi, seeing the lad, called out fiercely, "what do you want here?"
then the lad answered, according to the old hag's bidding, "i want your skin, for king indra is making a new kettle-drum, and says your skin is nice and tough."
upon this the jogi began to shiver and shake (for no jinn or jogi dares disobey king indra's command), and, falling at the lad's feet, cried, "if you will spare me i will give you anything i possess, even my beautiful white cow!"
to this the son of seven queens, after a little pretended hesitation, agreed, saying that after all it would not be difficult to find a nice tough skin like the jogi's elsewhere; so, driving the wonderful cow before him, he set off homewards.
the seven queens were delighted to possess so marvellous an animal, and though they toiled from morning till night making curds and whey, besides selling milk to the confectioners, they could not use half the cow gave, and became richer and richer day by day.
seeing them so comfortably off, the son of seven queens started with a light heart to marry the princess; but when passing the white hind's palace he could not resist sending a bolt at some pigeons which were cooing on the parapet.
one fell dead just beneath the window where the white queen was sitting.
looking out, she saw the lad hale and hearty standing before her, and grew whiter than ever with rage and spite.
she sent for him to ask how he had returned so soon, and when she heard how kindly her mother had received him, she very nearly had a fit; however, she dissembled her feelings as well as she could, and, smiling sweetly, said she was glad to have been able to fulfil her promise, and that if he would give her this third pigeon, she would do yet more for him than she had done before, by giving him the million-fold rice, which ripens in one night.
the lad was of course delighted at the very idea, and, giving up the pigeon, set off on his quest, armed as before with a potsherd, on which was written, "do not fail this time.
kill the lad, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
but when he looked in on his princess, just to prevent her becoming anxious about him, she asked to see the potsherd as usual, and substituted another, on which was written, "yet again give this lad all he requires, for his blood shall be as your blood!"
now when the old hag saw this, and heard how the lad wanted the million-fold rice which ripens in a single night, she fell into the most furious rage, but being terribly afraid of her daughter, she controlled herself, and bade the boy go and find the field guarded by eighteen millions of demons, warning him on no account to look back after having plucked the tallest spike of rice, which grew in the centre.
so the son of seven queens set off, and soon came to the field where, guarded by eighteen millions of demons, the million-fold rice grew.
he walked on bravely, looking neither to the right or left, till he reached the centre and plucked the tallest ear, but as he turned homewards a thousand sweet voices rose behind him, crying in tenderest accents, "pluck me too!
oh, please pluck me too!"
he looked back, and lo!
there was nothing left of him but a little heap of ashes!
now as time passed by and the lad did not return, the old hag grew uneasy, remembering the message "his blood shall be as your blood"; so she set off to see what had happened.
soon she came to the heap of ashes, and knowing by her arts what it was, she took a little water, and kneading the ashes into a paste, formed it into the likeness of a man; then, putting a drop of blood from her little finger into its mouth, she blew on it, and instantly the son of seven queens started up as well as ever.
"don't you disobey orders again!"
grumbled the old hag, "or next time i'll leave you alone.
now be off, before i repent of my kindness!"
so the son of seven queens returned joyfully to his seven mothers, who, by the aid of the million-fold rice, soon became the richest people in the kingdom.
then they celebrated their son's marriage to the clever princess with all imaginable pomp; but the bride was so clever, she would not rest until she had made known her husband to his father, and punished the wicked white witch.
so she made her husband build a palace exactly like the one in which the seven queens had lived, and in which the white witch now dwelt in splendour.
then, when all was prepared, she bade her husband give a grand feast to the king.
now the king had heard much of the mysterious son of seven queens, and his marvellous wealth, so he gladly accepted the invitation; but what was his astonishment when on entering the palace he found it was a facsimile of his own in every particular!
and when his host, richly attired, led him straight to the private hall, where on royal thrones sat the seven queens, dressed as he had last seen them, he was speechless with surprise, until the princess, coming forward, threw herself at his feet, and told him the whole story.
then the king awoke from his enchantment, and his anger rose against the wicked white hind who had bewitched him so long, until he could not contain himself.
so she was put to death, and her grave ploughed over, and after that the seven queens returned to their own splendid palace, and everybody lived happily.
a lesson for kings
once upon a time, when brahma-datta was reigning in benares, the future buddha returned to life as his son and heir.
and when the day came for choosing a name, they called him prince brahma-datta.
he grew up in due course; and when he was sixteen years old, went to takkasila, and became accomplished in all arts.
and after his father died he ascended the throne, and ruled the kingdom with righteousness and equity.
he gave judgments without partiality, hatred, ignorance, or fear.
since he thus reigned with justice, with justice also his ministers administered the law.
law-suits being thus decided with justice, there were none who brought false cases.
and as these ceased, the noise and tumult of litigation ceased in the king's court.
though the judges sat all day in the court, they had to leave without any one coming for justice.
it came to this, that the hall of justice would have to be closed!
then the future buddha thought, "it cannot be from my reigning with righteousness that none come for judgment; the bustle has ceased, and the hall of justice will have to be closed.
i must, therefore, now examine into my own faults; and if i find that anything is wrong in me, put that away, and practise only virtue."
thenceforth he sought for some one to tell him his faults, but among those around him he found no one who would tell him of any fault, but heard only his own praise.
then he thought, "it is from fear of me that these men speak only good things, and not evil things," and he sought among those people who lived outside the palace.
and finding no fault-finder there, he sought among those who lived outside the city, in the suburbs, at the four gates.
and there too finding no one to find fault, and hearing only his own praise, he determined to search the country places.
so he made over the kingdom to his ministers, and mounted his chariot; and taking only his charioteer, left the city in disguise.
and searching the country through, up to the very boundary, he found no fault-finder, and heard only of his own virtue; and so he turned back from the outer-most boundary, and returned by the high road towards the city.
now at that time the king of kosala, mallika by name, was also ruling his kingdom with righteousness; and when seeking for some fault in himself, he also found no fault-finder in the palace but only heard of his own virtue!
so seeking in country places, he too came to that very spot.
and these two came face to face in a low cart-track with precipitous sides, where there was no space for a chariot to get out of the way!
then the charioteer of mallika the king said to the charioteer of the king of benares, "take thy chariot out of the way!"
but he said, "take thy chariot out of the way, o charioteer!
in this chariot sitteth the lord over the kingdom of benares, the great king brahma-datta."
yet the other replied, "in this chariot, o charioteer, sitteth the lord over the kingdom of kosala, the great king mallika.
take thy carriage out of the way, and make room for the chariot of our king!"
then the charioteer of the king of benares thought, "they say then that he too is a king!
what is now to be done?"
after some consideration, he said to himself, "i know a way.
i'll find out how old he is, and then i'll let the chariot of the younger be got out of the way, and so make room for the elder."
and when he had arrived at that conclusion, he asked that charioteer what the age of the king of kosala was.
but on inquiry he found that the ages of both were equal.
then he inquired about the extent of his kingdom, and about his army, and his wealth, and his renown, and about the country he lived in, and his caste and tribe and family.
and he found that both were lords of a kingdom three hundred leagues in extent; and that in respect of army and wealth and renown, and the countries in which they lived, and their caste and their tribe and their family, they were just on a par!
then he thought, "i will make way for the most righteous."
and he asked, "what kind of righteousness has this king of yours?"
then the chorister of the king of kosala, proclaiming his king's wickedness as goodness, uttered the first stanza:
"the strong he overthrows by strength,     the mild by mildness, does mallika;     the good he conquers by goodness,     and the wicked by wickedness too.
such is the nature of this king!
move out of the way, o charioteer!"
but the charioteer of the king of benares asked him, "well, have you told all the virtues of your king?"
"yes," said the other.
"if these are his virtues, where are then his faults?"
replied he.
the other said, "well, for the nonce, they shall be faults, if you like!
but pray, then, what is the kind of goodness your king has?"
and then the charioteer of the king of benares called unto him to hearken, and uttered the second stanza:
"anger he conquers by calmness,     and by goodness the wicked;     the stingy he conquers by gifts,     and by truth the speaker of lies.
such is the nature of this king!
move out of the way, o charioteer!"
and when he had thus spoken, both mallika the king and his charioteer alighted from their chariot.
and they took out the horses, and removed their chariot, and made way for the king of benares!
pride goeth before a fall
in a certain village there lived ten cloth merchants, who always went about together.
once upon a time they had travelled far afield, and were returning home with a great deal of money which they had obtained by selling their wares.
now there happened to be a dense forest near their village, and this they reached early one morning.
in it there lived three notorious robbers, of whose existence the traders had never heard, and while they were still in the middle of it the robbers stood before them, with swords and cudgels in their hands, and ordered them to lay down all they had.
the traders had no weapons with them, and so, though they were many more in number, they had to submit themselves to the robbers, who took away everything from them, even the very clothes they wore, and gave to each only a small loin-cloth a span in breadth and a cubit in length.
the idea that they had conquered ten men and plundered all their property, now took possession of the robbers' minds.
they seated themselves like three monarchs before the men they had plundered, and ordered them to dance to them before returning home.
the merchants now mourned their fate.
they had lost all they had, except their loin-cloth, and still the robbers were not satisfied, but ordered them to dance.
there was, among the ten merchants, one who was very clever.
he pondered over the calamity that had come upon him and his friends, the dance they would have to perform, and the magnificent manner in which the three robbers had seated themselves on the grass.
at the same time he observed that these last had placed their weapons on the ground, in the assurance of having thoroughly cowed the traders, who were now commencing to dance.
so he took the lead in the dance, and, as a song is always sung by the leader on such occasions, to which the rest keep time with hands and feet, he thus began to sing:
"we are enty men,     they are erith men:
if each erith man,     surround eno men     eno man remains.
tâ, tai, tôm, tadingana."
the robbers were all uneducated, and thought that the leader was merely singing a song as usual.
so it was in one sense; for the leader commenced from a distance, and had sung the song over twice before he and his companions commenced to approach the robbers.
they had understood his meaning, because they had been trained in trade.
when two traders discuss the price of an article in the presence of a purchaser, they use a riddling sort of language.
"what is the price of this cloth?"
one trader will ask another.
"enty rupees," another will reply, meaning "ten rupees."
thus, there is no possibility of the purchaser knowing what is meant unless he be acquainted with trade language.
by the rules of this secret language erith means "three," enty means "ten," and eno means "one."
so the leader by his song meant to hint to his fellow-traders that they were ten men, the robbers only three, that if three pounced upon each of the robbers, nine of them could hold them down, while the remaining one bound the robbers' hands and feet.
the three thieves, glorying in their victory, and little understanding the meaning of the song and the intentions of the dancers, were proudly seated chewing betel and tobacco.
meanwhile the song was sung a third time.
tâ tai tôm had left the lips of the singer; and, before tadingana was out of them, the traders separated into parties of three, and each party pounced upon a thief.
the remaining one the leader himself tore up into long narrow strips a large piece of cloth, six cubits long, and tied the hands and feet of the robbers.
these were entirely humbled now, and rolled on the ground like three bags of rice!
the ten traders now took back all their property, and armed themselves with the swords and cudgels of their enemies; and when they reached their village, they often amused their friends and relatives by relating their adventure.
raja rasalu.
once there lived a great raja, whose name was salabhan, and he had a queen, by name lona, who, though she wept and prayed at many a shrine, had never a child to gladden her eyes.
after a long time, however, a son was promised to her.
queen lona returned to the palace, and when the time for the birth of the promised son drew nigh, she inquired of three jogis who came begging to her gate, what the child's fate would be, and the youngest of them answered and said, "oh, queen!
the child will be a boy, and he will live to be a great man.
but for twelve years you must not look upon his face, for if either you or his father see it before the twelve years are past, you will surely die!
this is what you must do; as soon as the child is born you must send him away to a cellar underneath the ground, and never let him see the light of day for twelve years.
after they are over, he may come forth, bathe in the river, put on new clothes, and visit you.
his name shall be raja rasalu, and he shall be known far and wide."
so, when a fair young prince was in due time born into the world, his parents hid him away in an underground palace, with nurses, and servants, and everything else a king's son might desire.
and with him they sent a young colt, born the same day, and sword, spear, and shield, against the day when raja rasalu should go forth into the world.
so there the child lived, playing with his colt, and talking to his parrot, while the nurses taught him all things needful for a king's son to know.
young rasalu lived on, far from the light of day, for eleven long years, growing tall and strong, yet contented to remain playing with his colt, and talking to his parrot; but when the twelfth year began, the lad's heart leapt up with desire for change, and he loved to listen to the sounds of life which came to him in his palace-prison from the outside world.
"i must go and see where the voices come from!"
he said; and when his nurses told him he must not go for one year more, he only laughed aloud, saying, "nay!
i stay no longer here for any man!"
then he saddled his arab horse bhaunr, put on his shining armour, and rode forth into the world; but mindful of what his nurses had oft told him, when he came to the river, he dismounted, and, going into the water, washed himself and his clothes.
then, clean of raiment, fair of face, and brave of heart, he rode on his way until he reached his father's city.
there he sat down to rest awhile by a well, where the women were drawing water in earthen pitchers.
now, as they passed him, their full pitchers poised upon their heads, the gay young prince flung stones at the earthen vessels, and broke them all.
then the women, drenched with water, went weeping and wailing to the palace, complaining to the king that a mighty young prince in shining armour, with a parrot on his wrist and a gallant steed beside him, sat by the well, and broke their pitchers.
now, as soon as rajah salabhan heard this, he guessed at once that it was prince rasalu come forth before the time, and, mindful of the jogis' words that he would die if he looked on his son's face before twelve years were past, he did not dare to send his guards to seize the offender and bring him to be judged.
so he bade the women be comforted, and take pitchers of iron and brass, giving new ones from his treasury to those who did not possess any of their own.
but when prince rasalu saw the women returning to the well with pitchers of iron and brass, he laughed to himself, and drew his mighty bow till the sharp-pointed arrows pierced the metal vessels as though they had been clay.
yet still the king did not send for him, so he mounted his steed and set off in the pride of his youth and strength to the palace.
he strode into the audience hall, where his father sat trembling, and saluted him with all reverence; but raja salabhan, in fear of his life, turned his back hastily and said never a word in reply.
then prince rasalu called scornfully to him across the hall:
"i came to greet thee, king, and not to harm thee!
what have i done that thou shouldst turn away?
sceptre and empire have no power to charm me
i go to seek a worthier prize than they!"
then he strode away, full of bitterness and anger; but, as he passed under the palace windows, he heard his mother weeping, and the sound softened his heart, so that his wrath died down, and a great loneliness fell upon him, because he was spurned by both father and mother.
so he cried sorrowfully,
"oh heart crown'd with grief, hast thou nought       but tears for thy son?
art mother of mine?
give one thought       to my life just begun!"
and queen lona answered through her tears:
"yea!
mother am i, though i weep,       so hold this word sure,
go, reign king of all men, but keep       thy heart good and pure!"
so raja rasalu was comforted, and began to make ready for fortune.
he took with him his horse bhaunr and his parrot, both of whom had lived with him since he was born.
so they made a goodly company, and queen lona, when she saw them going, watched them from her window till she saw nothing but a cloud of dust on the horizon; then she bowed her head on her hands and wept, saying:
"oh!
son who ne'er gladdened mine eyes,     let the cloud of thy going arise,     dim the sunlight and darken the day;     for the mother whose son is away             is as dust!"
rasalu had started off to play chaupur with king sarkap.
and as he journeyed there came a fierce storm of thunder and lightning, so that he sought shelter, and found none save an old graveyard, where a headless corpse lay upon the ground.
so lonesome was it that even the corpse seemed company, and rasalu, sitting down beside it, said:
"there is no one here, nor far nor near,       save this breathless corpse so cold and grim;     would god he might come to life again,       'twould be less lonely to talk to him."
and immediately the headless corpse arose and sat beside raja rasalu.
and he, nothing astonished, said to it:
"the storm beats fierce and loud,       the clouds rise thick in the west;     what ails thy grave and shroud,       oh corpse!
that thou canst not rest?"
then the headless corpse replied:
"on earth i was even as thou,       my turban awry like a king,     my head with the highest, i trow,       having my fun and my fling,     fighting my foes like a brave,       living my life with a swing.
and, now i am dead,             sins, heavy as lead,     will give me no rest in my grave!"
so the night passed on, dark and dreary, while rasalu sat in the graveyard and talked to the headless corpse.
now when morning broke and rasalu said he must continue his journey, the headless corpse asked him whither he was going, and when he said "to play chaupur with king sarkap," the corpse begged him to give up the idea saying, "i am king sarkap's brother, and i know his ways.
every day, before breakfast, he cuts off the heads of two or three men, just to amuse himself.
one day no one else was at hand, so he cut off mine, and he will surely cut off yours on some pretence or another.
however, if you are determined to go and play chaupur with him, take some of the bones from this graveyard, and make your dice out of them, and then the enchanted dice with which my brother plays will lose their virtue.
otherwise he will always win."
so rasalu took some of the bones lying about, and fashioned them into dice, and these he put into his pocket.
then, bidding adieu to the headless corpse, he went on his way to play chaupur with the king.
now, as raja rasalu, tender-hearted and strong, journeyed along to play chaupur with the king, he came to a burning forest, and a voice rose from the fire saying, "oh, traveller!
for god's sake save me from the fire!"
then the prince turned towards the burning forest, and, lo!
the voice was the voice of a tiny cricket.
nevertheless, rasalu, tender-hearted and strong, snatched it from the fire and set it at liberty.
then the little creature, full of gratitude, pulled out one of its feelers, and giving it to its preserver, said, "keep this, and should you ever be in trouble, put it into the fire, and instantly i will come to your aid."
the prince smiled, saying, "what help could you give me?"
nevertheless, he kept the hair and went on his way.
now, when he reached the city of king sarkap, seventy maidens, daughters of the king, came out to meet him, seventy fair maidens, merry and careless, full of smiles and laughter; but one, the youngest of them all, when she saw the gallant young prince riding on bhaunr iraqi, going gaily to his doom, was filled with pity, and called to him saying:
"fair prince, on the charger so gray,         turn thee back!
turn thee back!
or lower thy lance for the fray;     thy head will be forfeit to-day!
dost love life?
then, stranger, i pray,         turn thee back!
turn thee back!"
but he, smiling at the maiden, answered lightly:
"fair maiden, i come from afar,     sworn conqueror in love and in war!
king sarkap my coming will rue,     his head in four pieces i'll hew;     then forth as a bridegroom i'll ride,     with you, little maid, as my bride!"
now when rasalu replied so gallantly, the maiden looked in his face, and seeing how fair he was, and how brave and strong, she straightway fell in love with him, and would gladly have followed him through the world.
but the other sixty-nine maidens, being jealous, laughed scornfully at her, saying, "not so fast, oh gallant warrior!
if you would marry our sister you must first do our bidding, for you will be our younger brother."
"fair sisters!"
quoth rasalu gaily, "give me my task and i will perform it."
so the sixty-nine maidens mixed a hundred-weight of millet seed with a hundred-weight of sand, and giving it to rasalu, bade him separate the seed from the sand.
then he bethought him of the cricket, and drawing the feeler from his pocket, thrust it into the fire.
and immediately there was a whirring noise in the air, and a great flight of crickets alighted beside him, and amongst them the cricket whose life he had saved.
then rasalu said, "separate the millet seed from the sand."
"is that all?"
quoth the cricket; "had i known how small a job you wanted me to do, i would not have assembled so many of my brethren."
with that the flight of crickets set to work, and in one night they separated the seed from the sand.
now when the sixty-nine fair maidens, daughters of the king saw that rasalu had performed his task, they set him another, bidding him swing them all, one by one, in their swings, until they were tired.
whereupon he laughed, saying, "there are seventy of you, counting my little bride yonder, and i am not going to spend my life swinging girls!
why, by the time i have given each of you a swing, the first will be wanting another!
no!
if you want a swing, get in, all seventy of you, into one swing, and then i'll see what can be done."
so the seventy maidens climbed into one swing, and raja rasalu, standing in his shining armour, fastened the ropes to his mighty bow, and drew it up to its fullest bent.
then he let go, and like an arrow the swing shot into the air, with its burden of seventy fair maidens, merry and careless, full of smiles and laughter.
but as it swung back again, rasalu, standing there in his shining armour, drew his sharp sword and severed the ropes.
then the seventy fair maidens fell to the ground headlong; and some were bruised and some broken, but the only one who escaped unhurt was the maiden who loved rasalu, for she fell out last, on the top of the others, and so came to no harm.
after this, rasalu strode on fifteen paces, till he came to the seventy drums, that every one who came to play chaupur with the king had to beat in turn; and he beat them so loudly that he broke them all.
then he came to the seventy gongs, all in a row, and he hammered them so hard that they cracked to pieces.
seeing this, the youngest princess, who was the only one who could run, fled to her father the king in a great fright, saying:
"a mighty prince, sarkap!
making havoc, rides along,     he swung us, seventy maidens fair, and threw us out headlong;     he broke the drums you placed there and the gongs too in his pride,     sure, he will kill thee, father mine, and take me for his bride!"
but king sarkap replied scornfully:
"silly maiden, thy words make a lot       of a very small matter;     for fear of my valour, i wot,       his armour will clatter.
as soon as i've eaten my bread     i'll go forth and cut off his head!"
notwithstanding these brave and boastful words, he was in reality very much afraid, having heard of rasalu's renown.
and learning that he was stopping at the house of an old woman in the city, till the hour for playing chaupur arrived, sarkap sent slaves to him with trays of sweetmeats and fruit, as to an honoured guest.
but the food was poisoned.
now when the slaves brought the trays to raja rasalu, he rose up haughtily, saying, "go, tell your master i have nought to do with him in friendship.
i am his sworn enemy, and i eat not of his salt!"
so saying, he threw the sweetmeats to raja sarkap's dog, which had followed the slave, and lo!
the dog died.
then rasalu was very wroth, and said bitterly, "go back to sarkap, slaves!
and tell him that rasalu deems it no act of bravery to kill even an enemy by treachery."
now, when evening came, raja rasalu went forth to play chaupur with king sarkap, and as he passed some potters' kilns he saw a cat wandering about restlessly; so he asked what ailed her, that she never stood still, and she replied, "my kittens are in an unbaked pot in the kiln yonder.
it has just been set alight, and my children will be baked alive; therefore i cannot rest!"
her words moved the heart of raja rasalu, and, going to the potter, he asked him to sell the kiln as it was; but the potter replied that he could not settle a fair price till the pots were burnt, as he could not tell how many would come out whole.
nevertheless, after some bargaining, he consented at last to sell the kiln, and rasalu, having searched all the pots, restored the kittens to their mother, and she, in gratitude for his mercy, gave him one of them, saying, "put it in your pocket, for it will help you when you are in difficulties."
so raja rasalu put the kitten in his pocket, and went to play chaupur with the king.
now, before they sat down to play, raja sarkap fixed his stakes, on the first game, his kingdom; on the second, the wealth of the whole world; and, on the third, his own head.
so, likewise, raja rasalu fixed his stakes, on the first game, his arms; on the second, his horse; and, on the third, his own head.
then they began to play, and it fell to rasalu's lot to make the first move.
now he, forgetful of the dead man's warning, played with the dice given him by raja sarkap, besides which, sarkap let loose his famous rat, dhol raja, and it ran about the board, upsetting the chaupur pieces on the sly, so that rasalu lost the first game, and gave up his shining armour.
then the second game began, and once more dhol raja, the rat, upset the pieces; and rasalu, losing the game, gave up his faithful steed.
then bhaunr, the arab steed, who stood by, found voice, and cried to his master,
"sea-born am i, bought with much gold;         dear prince!
trust me now as of old.
i'll carry you far from these wiles
my flight, all unspurr'd, will be swift as a bird,           for thousands and thousands of miles!
or if needs you must stay; ere the next game you play,           place hand in your pocket, i pray!"
hearing this, raja sarkap frowned, and bade his slaves remove bhaunr, the arab steed, since he gave his master advice in the game.
now, when the slaves came to lead the faithful steed away, rasalu could not refrain from tears, thinking over the long years during which bhaunr, the arab steed, had been his companion.
but the horse cried out again,
"weep not, dear prince!
i shall not eat my bread     of stranger hands, nor to strange stall be led.
take thy right hand, and place it as i said."
these words roused some recollection in rasalu's mind, and when, just at this moment, the kitten in his pocket began to struggle, he remembered all about the warning, and the dice made from dead men's bones.
then his heart rose up once more, and he called boldly to raja sarkap, "leave my horse and arms here for the present.
time enough to take them away when you have won my head!"
now, raja sarkap, seeing rasalu's confident bearing, began to be afraid, and ordered all the women of his palace to come forth in their gayest attire and stand before rasalu, so as to distract his attention from the game.
but he never even looked at them, and drawing the dice from his pocket, said to sarkap, "we have played with your dice all this time; now we will play with mine."
then the kitten went and sat at the window through which the rat dhol raja used to come, and the game began.
after a while, sarkap, seeing raja rasalu was winning, called to his rat, but when dhol raja saw the kitten he was afraid, and would not go further.
so rasalu won, and took back his arms.
next he played for his horse, and once more raja sarkap called for his rat; but dhol raja, seeing the kitten keeping watch, was afraid.
so rasalu won the second stake, and took back bhaunr, the arab steed.
then sarkap brought all his skill to bear on the third and last game, saying,
"oh moulded pieces!
favour me to-day!
for sooth this is a man with whom i play.
no paltry risk but life and death at stake;     as sarkap does, so do, for sarkap's sake!"
but rasalu answered back,
"oh moulded pieces!
favour me to-day!
for sooth it is a man with whom i play.
no paltry risk but life and death at stake;     as heaven does, so do, for heaven's sake!"
so they began to play, whilst the women stood round in a circle, and the kitten watched dhol raja from the window.
then sarkap lost, first his kingdom, then the wealth of the whole world, and lastly his head.
just then, a servant came in to announce the birth of a daughter to raja sarkap, and he, overcome by misfortunes, said, "kill her at once!
for she has been born in an evil moment, and has brought her father ill luck!"
but rasalu rose up in his shining armour, tender-hearted and strong, saying, "not so, oh king!
she has done no evil.
give me this child to wife; and if you will vow, by all you hold sacred, never again to play chaupur for another's head, i will spare yours now!"
then sarkap vowed a solemn vow never to play for another's head; and after that he took a fresh mango branch, and the new-born babe, and placing them on a golden dish gave them to rasalu.
now, as he left the palace, carrying with him the new-born babe and the mango branch, he met a band of prisoners, and they called out to him,
"a royal hawk art thou, oh king!
the rest     but timid wild-fowl.
grant us our request,
unloose these chains, and live for ever blest!"
and raja rasalu hearkened to them, and bade king sarkap set them at liberty.
then he went to the murti hills, and placed the new-born babe, kokilan, in an underground palace, and planted the mango branch at the door, saying, "in twelve years the mango tree will blossom; then will i return and marry kokilan."
and after twelve years, the mango tree began to flower, and raja rasalu married the princess kokilan, whom he won from sarkap when he played chaupur with the king.
the ass in the lion's skin
at the same time, when brahma-datta was reigning in benares, the future buddha was born one of a peasant family; and when he grew up, he gained his living by tilling the ground.
at that time a hawker used to go from place to place, trafficking in goods carried by an ass.
now at each place he came to, when he took the pack down from the ass's back, he used to clothe him in a lion's skin, and turn him loose in the rice and barley fields.
and when the watchmen in the fields saw the ass, they dared not go near him, taking him for a lion.
so one day the hawker stopped in a village; and whilst he was getting his own breakfast cooked, he dressed the ass in a lion's skin, and turned him loose in a barley-field.
the watchmen in the field dared not go up to him; but going home, they published the news.
then all the villagers came out with weapons in their hands; and blowing chanks, and beating drums, they went near the field and shouted.
terrified with the fear of death, the ass uttered a cry the bray of an ass!
and when he knew him then to be an ass, the future buddha pronounced the first verse:
"this is not a lion's roaring,     nor a tiger's, nor a panther's;     dressed in a lion's skin,       'tis a wretched ass that roars!"
but when the villagers knew the creature to be an ass, they beat him till his bones broke; and, carrying off the lion's skin, went away.
then the hawker came; and seeing the ass fallen into so bad a plight, pronounced the second verse:
"long might the ass,     clad in a lion's skin,     have fed on the barley green.
but he brayed!
and that moment he came to ruin."
and even whilst he was yet speaking the ass died on the spot!
the farmer and the money-lender
there was once a farmer who suffered much at the hands of a money-lender.
good harvests, or bad, the farmer was always poor, the money-lender rich.
at the last, when he hadn't a farthing left, farmer went to the money-lender's house, and said, "you can't squeeze water from a stone, and as you have nothing to get by me now, you might tell me the secret of becoming rich."
"my friend," returned the money-lender, piously, "riches come from ram ask him."
"thank you, i will!"
replied the simple farmer; so he prepared three girdle-cakes to last him on the journey, and set out to find ram.
first he met a brahman, and to him he gave a cake, asking him to point out the road to ram; but the brahman only took the cake and went on his way without a word.
next the farmer met a jogi or devotee, and to him he gave a cake, without receiving any help in return.
at last, he came upon a poor man sitting under a tree, and finding out he was hungry, the kindly farmer gave him his last cake, and sitting down to rest beside him, entered into conversation.
"and where are you going?"
asked the poor man, at length.
"oh, i have a long journey before me, for i am going to find ram!"
replied the farmer.
"i don't suppose you could tell me which way to go?"
"perhaps i can," said the poor man, smiling, "for i am ram!
what do you want of me?"
then the farmer told the whole story, and ram, taking pity on him, gave him a conch shell, and showed him how to blow it in a particular way, saying, "remember!
whatever you wish for, you have only to blow the conch that way, and your wish will be fulfilled.
only have a care of that money-lender, for even magic is not proof against their wiles!"
the farmer went back to his village rejoicing.
in fact the money-lender noticed his high spirits at once, and said to himself, "some good fortune must have befallen the stupid fellow, to make him hold his head so jauntily."
therefore he went over to the simple farmer's house, and congratulated him on his good fortune, in such cunning words, pretending to have heard all about it, that before long the farmer found himself telling the whole story all except the secret of blowing the conch, for, with all his simplicity, the farmer was not quite such a fool as to tell that.
nevertheless, the money-lender determined to have the conch by hook or by crook, and as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he waited for a favourable opportunity and stole the conch.
but, after nearly bursting himself with blowing the conch in every conceivable way, he was obliged to give up the secret as a bad job.
however, being determined to succeed he went back to the farmer, and said, coolly, "look here; i've got your conch, but i can't use it; you haven't got it, so it's clear you can't use it either.
business is at a stand-still unless we make a bargain.
now, i promise to give you back your conch, and never to interfere with your using it, on one condition, which is this, whatever you get from it, i am to get double."
"never!"
cried the farmer; "that would be the old business all over again!"
"not at all!"
replied the wily money-lender; "you will have your share!
now, don't be a dog in the manger, for if you get all you want, what can it matter to you if i am rich or poor?"
at last, though it went sorely against the grain to be of any benefit to a money-lender, the farmer was forced to yield, and from that time, no matter what he gained by the power of the conch, the money-lender gained double.
and the knowledge that this was so preyed upon the farmer's mind day and night, so that he had no satisfaction out of anything.
at last, there came a very dry season, so dry that the farmer's crops withered for want of rain.
then he blew his conch, and wished for a well to water them, and lo!
there was the well, but the money-lender had two!
two beautiful new wells!
this was too much for any farmer to stand; and our friend brooded over it, and brooded over it, till at last a bright idea came into his head.
he seized the conch, blew it loudly, and cried out, "oh, ram!
i wish to be blind of one eye!"
and so he was, in a twinkling, but the money-lender of course was blind of both, and in trying to steer his way between the two new wells, he fell into one, and was drowned.
now this true story shows that a farmer once got the better of a money-lender but only by losing one of his eyes.
the boy who had a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin
in a country were seven daughters of poor parents, who used to come daily to play under the shady trees in the king's garden with the gardener's daughter; and daily she used to say to them, "when i am married i shall have a son.
such a beautiful boy as he will be has never been seen.
he will have a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
then her playfellows used to laugh at her and mock her.
but one day the king heard her telling them about the beautiful boy she would have when she was married, and he said to himself he should like very much to have such a son; the more so that though he had already four queens he had no child.
he went, therefore, to the gardener and told him he wished to marry his daughter.
this delighted the gardener and his wife, who thought it would indeed be grand for their daughter to become a princess.
so they said "yes" to the king, and invited all their friends to the wedding.
the king invited all his, and he gave the gardener as much money as he wanted.
then the wedding was held with great feasting and rejoicing.
a year later the day drew near on which the gardener's daughter was to have her son; and the king's four other queens came constantly to see her.
one day they said to her, "the king hunts every day; and the time is soon coming when you will have your child.
suppose you fell ill whilst he was out hunting and could therefore know nothing of your illness, what would you do then?"
when the king came home that evening, the gardener's daughter said to him, "every day you go out hunting.
should i ever be in trouble or sick while you are away, how could i send for you?"
the king gave her a kettle-drum which he placed near the door for her, and he said to her, "whenever you want me, beat this kettle-drum.
no matter how far away i may be, i shall hear it, and will come at once to you."
next morning when the king had gone out to hunt, his four other queens came to see the gardener's daughter.
she told them all about her kettle-drum.
"oh," they said, "do drum on it just to see if the king really will come to you."
"no, i will not," she said; "for why should i call him from his hunting when i do not want him?"
"don't mind interrupting his hunting," they answered.
"do try if he really will come to you when you beat your kettle-drum."
so at last, just to please them, she beat it, and the king stood before her.
"why have you called me?"
he said.
"see, i have left my hunting to come to you."
"i want nothing," she answered; "i only wished to know if you really would come to me when i beat my drum."
"very well," answered the king; "but do not call me again unless you really need me."
then he returned to his hunting.
the next day, when the king had gone out hunting as usual, the four queens again came to see the gardener's daughter.
they begged and begged her to beat her drum once more, "just to see if the king will really come to see you this time."
at first she refused, but at last she consented.
so she beat her drum, and the king came to her.
but when he found she was neither ill nor in trouble, he was angry, and said to her, "twice i have left my hunting and lost my game to come to you when you did not need me.
now you may call me as much as you like, but i will not come to you," and then he went away in a rage.
the third day the gardener's daughter fell ill, and she beat and beat her kettle-drum; but the king never came.
he heard her kettle-drum, but he thought, "she does not really want me; she is only trying to see if i will go to her."
meanwhile the four other queens came to her, and they said, "here it is the custom before a child is born to bind its mother's eyes with a handkerchief that she may not see it just at first.
so let us bind your eyes."
she answered, "very well, bind my eyes."
the four wives then tied a handkerchief over them.
soon after, the gardener's daughter had a beautiful little son, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin, and before the poor mother had seen him, the four wicked queens took the boy to the nurse and said to her, "now you must not let this child make the least sound for fear his mother should hear him; and in the night you must either kill him, or else take him away, so that his mother may never see him.
if you obey our orders, we will give you a great many rupees."
all this they did out of spite.
the nurse took the little child and put him into a box, and the four queens went back to the gardener's daughter.
first they put a stone into her boy's little bed, and then they took the handkerchief off her eyes and showed it her, saying, "look!
this is your son!"
the poor girl cried bitterly, and thought, "what will the king say when he finds no child?"
but she could do nothing.
when the king came home, he was furious at hearing his youngest wife, the gardener's daughter, had given him a stone instead of the beautiful little son she had promised him.
he made her one of the palace servants, and never spoke to her.
in the middle of the night the nurse took the box in which was the beautiful little prince, and went out to a broad plain in the jungle.
there she dug a hole, made the fastenings of the box sure, and put the box into the hole, although the child in it was still alive.
the king's dog, whose name was shankar, had followed her to see what she did with the box.
as soon as she had gone back to the four queens (who gave her a great many rupees), the dog went to the hole in which she had put the box, took the box out, and opened it.
when he saw the beautiful little boy, he was very much delighted and said, "if it pleases khuda that this child should live, i will not hurt him; i will not eat him, but i will swallow him whole and hide him in my stomach."
this he did.
after six months had passed, the dog went by night to the jungle, and thought, "i wonder whether the boy is alive or dead."
then he brought the child out of his stomach and rejoiced over his beauty.
the boy was now six months old.
when shankar had caressed and loved him, he swallowed him again for another six months.
at the end of that time he went once more by night to the broad jungle-plain.
there he brought up the child out of his stomach (the child was now a year old), and caressed and petted him a great deal, and was made very happy by his great beauty.
but this time the dog's keeper had followed and watched the dog; and he saw all that shankar did, and the beautiful little child, so he ran to the four queens and said to them, "inside the king's dog there is a child!
the loveliest child!
he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
such a child has never been seen!"
at this the four wives were very much frightened, and as soon as the king came home from hunting they said to him, "while you were away your dog came to our rooms, and tore our clothes and knocked about all our things.
we are afraid he will kill us."
"do not be afraid," said the king.
"eat your dinner and be happy.
i will have the dog shot to-morrow morning."
then he ordered his servants to shoot the dog at dawn, but the dog heard him, and said to himself, "what shall i do?
the king intends to kill me.
i don't care about that, but what will become of the child if i am killed?
he will die.
but i will see if i cannot save him."
so when it was night, the dog ran to the king's cow, who was called suri, and said to her, "suri, i want to give you something, for the king has ordered me to be shot to-morrow.
will you take great care of whatever i give you?"
"let me see what it is," said suri, "i will take care of it if i can."
then they both went together to the wide plain, and there the dog brought up the boy.
suri was enchanted with him.
"i never saw such a beautiful child in this country," she said.
"see, he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
i will take the greatest care of him."
so saying she swallowed the little prince.
the dog made her a great many salaams, and said, "to-morrow i shall die;" and the cow then went back to her stable.
next morning at dawn the dog was taken to the jungle and shot.
the child now lived in suri's stomach; and when one whole year had passed, and he was two years old, the cow went out to the plain, and said to herself, "i do not know whether the child is alive or dead.
but i have never hurt it, so i will see."
then she brought up the boy; and he played about, and suri was delighted; she loved him and caressed him, and talked to him.
then she swallowed him, and returned to her stable.
at the end of another year she went again to the plain and brought up the child.
he played and ran about for an hour to her great delight, and she talked to him and caressed him.
his great beauty made her very happy.
then she swallowed him once more and returned to her stable.
the child was now three years old.
but this time the cowherd had followed suri, and had seen the wonderful child and all she did to it.
so he ran and told the four queens, "the king's cow has a beautiful boy inside her.
he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
such a child has never been seen before!"
at this the queens were terrified.
they tore their clothes and their hair and cried.
when the king came home at evening, he asked them why they were so agitated.
"oh," they said, "your cow came and tried to kill us; but we ran away.
she tore our hair and our clothes."
"never mind," said the king.
"eat your dinner and be happy.
the cow shall be killed to-morrow morning."
now suri heard the king give this order to the servants, so she said to herself, "what shall i do to save the child?"
when it was midnight, she went to the king's horse called katar, who was very wicked, and quite untameable.
no one had ever been able to ride him; indeed no one could go near him with safety, he was so savage.
suri said to this horse, "katar, will you take care of something that i want to give you, because the king has ordered me to be killed to-morrow?"
"good," said katar; "show me what it is."
then suri brought up the child, and the horse was delighted with him.
"yes," he said, "i will take the greatest care of him.
till now no one has been able to ride me, but this child shall ride me."
then he swallowed the boy, and when he had done so, the cow made him many salaams, saying, "it is for this boy's sake that i am to die."
the next morning she was taken to the jungle and there killed.
the beautiful boy now lived in the horse's stomach, and he stayed in it for one whole year.
at the end of that time the horse thought, "i will see if this child is alive or dead."
so he brought him up; and then he loved him, and petted him, and the little prince played all about the stable, out of which the horse was never allowed to go.
katar was very glad to see the child, who was now four years old.
after he had played for some time, the horse swallowed him again.
at the end of another year, when the boy was five years old, katar brought him up again, caressed him, loved him, and let him play about the stable as he had done a year before.
then the horse swallowed him again.
but this time the groom had seen all that happened, and when it was morning, and the king had gone away to his hunting, he went to the four wicked queens, and told them all he had seen, and all about the wonderful, beautiful child that lived inside the king's horse katar.
on hearing the groom's story the four queens cried, and tore their hair and clothes, and refused to eat.
when the king returned at evening and asked them why they were so miserable, they said, "your horse katar came and tore our clothes, and upset all our things, and we ran away for fear he should kill us."
"never mind," said the king.
"only eat your dinner and be happy.
i will have katar shot to-morrow."
then he thought that two men unaided could not kill such a wicked horse, so he ordered his servants to bid his troop of sepoys shoot him.
so the next day the king placed his sepoys all round the stable, and he took up his stand with them; and he said he would himself shoot any one who let his horse escape.
meanwhile the horse had overheard all these orders.
so he brought up the child and said to him, "go into that little room that leads out of the stable, and you will find in it a saddle and bridle which you must put on me.
then you will find in the room some beautiful clothes such as princes wear; these you must put on yourself; and you must take the sword and gun you will find there too.
then you must mount on my back."
now katar was a fairy-horse, and came from the fairies'
country, so he could get anything he wanted; but neither the king nor any of his people knew this.
when all was ready, katar burst out of his stable, with the prince on his back, rushed past the king himself before the king had time to shoot him, galloped away to the great jungle-plain, and galloped about all over it.
the king saw his horse had a boy on his back, though he could not see the boy distinctly.
the sepoys tried in vain to shoot the horse; he galloped much too fast; and at last they were all scattered over the plain.
then the king had to give it up and go home; and the sepoys went to their homes.
the king could not shoot any of his sepoys for letting his horse escape, for he himself had let him do so.
then katar galloped away, on, and on, and on; and when night came they stayed under a tree, he and the king's son.
the horse ate grass, and the boy wild fruits which he found in the jungle.
next morning they started afresh, and went far, and far, till they came to a jungle in another country, which did not belong to the little prince's father, but to another king.
here katar said to the boy, "now get off my back."
off jumped the prince.
"unsaddle me and take off my bridle; take off your beautiful clothes and tie them all up in a bundle with your sword and gun."
this the boy did.
then the horse gave him some poor, common clothes, which he told him to put on.
as soon as he was dressed in them the horse said, "hide your bundle in this grass, and i will take care of it for you.
i will always stay in this jungle-plain, so that when you want me you will always find me.
you must now go away and find service with some one in this country."
this made the boy very sad.
"i know nothing about anything," he said.
"what shall i do all alone in this country?"
"do not be afraid," answered katar.
"you will find service, and i will always stay here to help you when you want me.
so go, only before you go, twist my right ear."
the boy did so, and his horse instantly became a donkey.
"now twist your right ear," said katar.
and when the boy had twisted it, he was no longer a handsome prince, but a poor, common-looking, ugly man; and his moon and star were hidden.
then he went away further into the country, until he came to a grain merchant of the country, who asked him who he was.
"i am a poor man,"
answered the boy, "and i want service."
"good," said the grain merchant, "you shall be my servant."
now the grain merchant lived near the king's palace, and one night at twelve o'clock the boy was very hot; so he went out into the king's cool garden, and began to sing a lovely song.
the seventh and youngest daughter of the king heard him, and she wondered who it was who could sing so deliciously.
then she put on her clothes, rolled up her hair, and came down to where the seemingly poor common man was lying singing.
"who are you?
where do you come from?"
she asked.
but he answered nothing.
"who is this man who does not answer when i speak to him?"
thought the little princess, and she went away.
on the second night the same thing happened, and on the third night too.
but on the third night, when she found she could not make him answer her, she said to him, "what a strange man you are not to answer me when i speak to you."
but still he remained silent, so she went away.
the next day, when he had finished his work, the young prince went to the jungle to see his horse, who asked him, "are you quite well and happy?"
"yes, i am," answered the boy.
"i am servant to a grain merchant.
the last three nights i have gone into the king's garden and sung a song, and each night the youngest princess has come to me and asked me who i am, and whence i came, and i have answered nothing.
what shall i do now?"
the horse said, "next time she asks you who you are, tell her you are a very poor man, and came from your own country to find service here."
the boy then went home to the grain merchant, and at night, when every one had gone to bed, he went to the king's garden and sang his sweet song again.
the youngest princess heard him, got up, dressed, and came to him.
"who are you?
whence do you come?"
she asked.
"i am a very poor man," he answered.
"i came from my own country to seek service here, and i am now one of the grain merchant's servants."
then she went away.
for three more nights the boy sang in the king's garden, and each night the princess came and asked him the same questions as before, and the boy gave her the same answers.
then she went to her father, and said to him, "father, i wish to be married; but i must choose my husband myself."
her father consented to this, and he wrote and invited all the kings and rajas in the land, saying, "my youngest daughter wishes to be married, but she insists on choosing her husband herself.
as i do not know who it is she wishes to marry, i beg you will all come on a certain day, for her to see you and make her choice."
a great many kings, rajas, and their sons accepted this invitation and came.
when they had all arrived, the little princess's father said to them, "to-morrow morning you must all sit together in my garden" (the king's garden was very large), "for then my youngest daughter will come and see you all, and choose her husband.
i do not know whom she will choose."
the youngest princess ordered a grand elephant to be ready for her the next morning, and when the morning came, and all was ready, she dressed herself in the most lovely clothes, and put on her beautiful jewels; then she mounted her elephant, which was painted blue.
in her hand she took a gold necklace.
then she went into the garden where the kings, rajas, and their sons were seated.
the boy, the grain merchant's servant, was also in the garden: not as a suitor, but looking on with the other servants.
the princess rode all round the garden, and looked at all the kings and rajas and princes, and then she hung the gold necklace round the neck of the boy, the grain merchant's servant.
at this everybody laughed, and the kings were greatly astonished.
but then they and the rajas said, "what fooling is this?"
and they pushed the pretended poor man away, and took the necklace off his neck, and said to him, "get out of the way, you poor, dirty man.
your clothes are far too dirty for you to come near us!"
the boy went far away from them, and stood a long way off to see what would happen.
then the king's youngest daughter went all round the garden again, holding her gold necklace in her hand, and once more she hung it round the boy's neck.
every one laughed at her and said, "how can the king's daughter think of marrying this poor, common man!"
and the kings and the rajas, who had come as suitors, all wanted to turn him out of the garden.
but the princess said, "take care!
take care!
you must not turn him out.
leave him alone."
then she put him on her elephant, and took him to the palace.
the kings and rajas and their sons were very much astonished, and said, "what does this mean?
the princess does not care to marry one of us, but chooses that very poor man!"
her father then stood up, and said to them all, "i promised my daughter she should marry any one she pleased, and as she has twice chosen that poor, common man, she shall marry him."
and so the princess and the boy were married with great pomp and splendour: her father and mother were quite content with her choice; and the kings, the rajas and their sons, all returned to their homes.
now the princess's six sisters had all married rich princes, and they laughed at her for choosing such a poor ugly husband as hers seemed to be, and said to each other, mockingly, "see!
our sister has married this poor, common man!"
their six husbands used to go out hunting every day, and every evening they brought home quantities of all kinds of game to their wives, and the game was cooked for their dinner and for the king's; but the husband of the youngest princess always stayed at home in the palace, and never went out hunting at all.
this made her very sad, and she said to herself, "my sisters' husbands hunt every day, but my husband never hunts at all."
at last she said to him, "why do you never go out hunting as my sisters' husbands do every day, and every day they bring home quantities of all kinds of game?
why do you always stay at home, instead of doing as they do?"
one day he said to her, "i am going out to-day to eat the air."
"very good," she answered; "go, and take one of the horses."
"no," said the young prince, "i will not ride, i will walk."
then he went to the jungle-plain where he had left katar, who all this time had seemed to be a donkey, and he told katar everything.
"listen," he said; "i have married the youngest princess; and when we were married everybody laughed at her for choosing me, and said, 'what a very poor, common man our princess has chosen for her husband!'
besides, my wife is very sad, for her six sisters' husbands all hunt every day, and bring home quantities of game, and their wives therefore are very proud of them.
but i stay at home all day, and never hunt.
to-day i should like to hunt very much."
"well," said katar, "then twist my left ear;" and as soon as the boy had twisted it, katar was a horse again, and not a donkey any longer.
"now," said katar, "twist your left ear, and you will see what a beautiful young prince you will become."
so the boy twisted his own left ear, and there he stood no longer a poor, common, ugly man, but a grand young prince with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
then he put on his splendid clothes, saddled and bridled katar, got on his back with his sword and gun, and rode off to hunt.
he rode very far, and shot a great many birds and a quantity of deer.
that day his six brothers-in-law could find no game, for the beautiful young prince had shot it all.
nearly all the day long these six princes wandered about looking in vain for game; till at last they grew hungry and thirsty, and could find no water, and they had no food with them.
meanwhile the beautiful young prince had sat down under a tree, to dine and rest, and there his six brothers-in-law found him.
by his side was some delicious water, and also some roast meat.
when they saw him the six princes said to each other, "look at that handsome prince.
he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin.
we have never seen such a prince in this jungle before; he must come from another country."
then they came up to him, and made him many salaams, and begged him to give them some food and water.
"who are you?"
said the young prince.
"we are the husbands of the six elder daughters of the king of this country," they answered; "and we have hunted all day, and are very hungry and thirsty."
they did not recognise their brother-in-law in the least.
"well," said the young prince, "i will give you something to eat and drink if you will do as i bid you."
"we will do all you tell us to do," they answered, "for if we do not get water to drink, we shall die."
"very good," said the young prince.
"now you must let me put a red-hot pice on the back of each of you, and then i will give you food and water.
do you agree to this?"
the six princes consented, for they thought, "no one will ever see the mark of the pice, as it will be covered by our clothes; and we shall die if we have no water to drink."
then the young prince took six pice, and made them red-hot in the fire; he laid one on the back of each of the six princes, and gave them good food and water.
they ate and drank; and when they had finished they made him many salaams and went home.
the young prince stayed under the tree till it was evening; then he mounted his horse and rode off to the king's palace.
all the people looked at him as he came riding along, saying, "what a splendid young prince that is!
he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
but no one recognised him.
when he came near the king's palace, all the king's servants asked him who he was; and as none of them knew him, the gate-keepers would not let him pass in.
they all wondered who he could be, and all thought him the most beautiful prince that had ever been seen.
at last they asked him who he was.
"i am the husband of your youngest princess," he answered.
"no, no, indeed you are not," they said; "for he is a poor, common-looking, and ugly man."
"but i am he," answered the prince; only no one would believe him.
"tell us the truth," said the servants; "who are you?"
"perhaps you cannot recognise me," said the young prince, "but call the youngest princess here.
i wish to speak to her."
the servants called her, and she came.
"that man is not my husband," she said at once.
"my husband is not nearly as handsome as that man.
this must be a prince from another country."
then she said to him, "who are you?
why do you say you are my husband?"
"because i am your husband.
i am telling you the truth," answered the young prince.
"no you are not, you are not telling me the truth," said the little princess.
"my husband is not a handsome man like you.
i married a very poor, common-looking man."
"that is true," he answered, "but nevertheless i am your husband.
i was the grain merchant's servant; and one hot night i went into your father's garden and sang, and you heard me, and came and asked me who i was and where i came from, and i would not answer you.
and the same thing happened the next night, and the next, and on the fourth i told you i was a very poor man, and had come from my country to seek service in yours, and that i was the grain merchant's servant.
then you told your father you wished to marry, but must choose your own husband; and when all the kings and rajas were seated in your father's garden, you sat on an elephant and went round and looked at them all; and then twice hung your gold necklace round my neck, and chose me.
see, here is your necklace, and here are the ring and the handkerchief you gave me on our wedding day."
then she believed him, and was very glad that her husband was such a beautiful young prince.
"what a strange man you are!"
she said to him.
"till now you have been poor, and ugly, and common-looking.
now you are beautiful and look like a prince; i never saw such a handsome man as you are before; and yet i know you must be my husband."
then she worshipped god and thanked him for letting her have such a husband.
"i have," she said, "a beautiful husband.
there is no one like him in this country.
he has a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin."
then she took him into the palace, and showed him to her father and mother and to every one.
they all said they had never seen any one like him, and were all very happy.
and the young prince lived as before in the king's palace with his wife, and katar lived in the king's stables.
one day, when the king and his seven sons-in-law were in his court-house, and it was full of people, the young prince said to him, "there are six thieves here in your court-house."
"six thieves!"
said the king.
"where are they?
show them to me."
"there they are," said the young prince, pointing to his six brothers-in-law.
the king and every one else in the court-house were very much astonished, and would not believe the young prince.
"take off their coats," he said, "and then you will see for yourselves that each of them has the mark of a thief on his back."
so their coats were taken off the six princes, and the king and everybody in the court-house saw the mark of the red-hot pice.
the six princes were very much ashamed, but the young prince was very glad.
he had not forgotten how his brothers-in-law had laughed at him and mocked him when he seemed a poor, common man.
now, when katar was still in the jungle, before the prince was married, he had told the boy the whole story of his birth, and all that had happened to him and his mother.
"when you are married," he said to him, "i will take you back to your father's country."
so two months after the young prince had revenged himself on his brothers-in-law, katar said to him, "it is time for you to return to your father.
get the king to let you go to your own country, and i will tell you what to do when we get there."
the prince always did what his horse told him to do; so he went to his wife and said to her, "i wish very much to go to my own country to see my father and mother."
"very well," said his wife; "i will tell my father and mother, and ask them to let us go."
then she went to them, and told them, and they consented to let her and her husband leave them.
the king gave his daughter and the young prince a great many horses, and elephants, and all sorts of presents, and also a great many sepoys to guard them.
in this grand state they travelled to the prince's country, which was not a great many miles off.
when they reached it they pitched their tents on the same plain in which the prince had been left in his box by the nurse, where shankar and suri had swallowed him so often.
when the king, his father, the gardener's daughter's husband, saw the prince's camp, he was very much alarmed, and thought a great king had come to make war on him.
he sent one of his servants, therefore, to ask whose camp it was.
the young prince then wrote him a letter, in which he said, "you are a great king.
do not fear me.
i am not come to make war on you.
i am as if i were your son.
i am a prince who has come to see your country and to speak with you.
i wish to give you a grand feast, to which every one in your country must come men and women, old and young, rich and poor, of all castes; all the children, fakirs, and sepoys.
you must bring them all here to me for a week, and i will feast them all."
the king was delighted with this letter, and ordered all the men, women, and children of all castes, fakirs, and sepoys, in his country to go to the prince's camp to a grand feast the prince would give them.
so they all came, and the king brought his four wives too.
all came, at least all but the gardener's daughter.
no one had told her to go to the feast, for no one had thought of her.
when all the people were assembled, the prince saw his mother was not there, and he asked the king, "has every one in your country come to my feast?"
"yes, every one," said the king.
"are you sure of that?"
asked the prince.
"quite sure," answered the king.
"i am sure one woman has not come," said the prince.
"she is your gardener's daughter, who was once your wife and is now a servant in your palace."
"true," said the king, "i had forgotten her."
then the prince told his servants to take his finest palanquin and to fetch the gardener's daughter.
they were to bathe her, dress her in beautiful clothes and handsome jewels, and then bring her to him in the palanquin.
while the servants were bringing the gardener's daughter, the king thought how handsome the young prince was; and he noticed particularly the moon on his forehead and the star on his chin, and he wondered in what country the young prince was born.
and now the palanquin arrived bringing the gardener's daughter, and the young prince went himself and took her out of it, and brought her into the tent.
he made her a great many salaams.
the four wicked wives looked on and were very much surprised and very angry.
they remembered that, when they arrived, the prince had made them no salaams, and since then had not taken the least notice of them; whereas he could not do enough for the gardener's daughter, and seemed very glad to see her.
when they were all at dinner, the prince again made the gardener's daughter a great many salaams, and gave her food from all the nicest dishes.
she wondered at his kindness to her, and thought, "who is this handsome prince, with a moon on his forehead and a star on his chin?
i never saw any one so beautiful.
what country does he come from?"
two or three days were thus passed in feasting, and all that time the king and his people were talking about the prince's beauty, and wondering who he was.
one day the prince asked the king if he had any children.
"none," he answered.
"do you know who i am?"
asked the prince.
"no," said the king.
"tell me who you are."
"i am your son," answered the prince, "and the gardener's daughter is my mother."
the king shook his head sadly.
"how can you be my son," he said, "when i have never had any children?"
"but i am your son," answered the prince.
"your four wicked queens told you the gardener's daughter had given you a stone and not a son; but it was they who put the stone in my little bed, and then they tried to kill me."
the king did not believe him.
"i wish you were my son," he said; "but as i never had a child, you cannot be my son."
"do you remember your dog shankar, and how you had him killed?
and do you remember your cow suri, and how you had her killed too?
your wives made you kill them because of me.
and," he said, taking the king to katar, "do you know whose horse that is?"
the king looked at katar, and then said, "that is my horse katar."
"yes," said the prince.
"do you not remember how he rushed past you out of his stable with me on his back?"
then katar told the king the prince was really his son, and told him all the story of his birth, and of his life up to that moment; and when the king found the beautiful prince was indeed his son, he was so glad, so glad.
he put his arms round him and kissed him and cried for joy.
"now," said the king, "you must come with me to my palace, and live with me always."
"no," said the prince, "that i cannot do.
i cannot go to your palace.
i only came here to fetch my mother; and now that i have found her, i will take her with me to my father-in-law's palace.
i have married a king's daughter, and we live with her father."
"but now that i have found you, i cannot let you go," said his father.
"you and your wife must come and live with your mother and me in my palace."
"that we will never do," said the prince, "unless you will kill your four wicked queens with your own hand.
if you will do that, we will come and live with you."
so the king killed his queens, and then he and his wife, the gardener's daughter, and the prince and his wife, all went to live in the king's palace, and lived there happily together for ever after; and the king thanked god for giving him such a beautiful son, and for ridding him of his four wicked wives.
katar did not return to the fairies' country, but stayed always with the young prince, and never left him.
the prince and the fakir
there was once upon a time a king who had no children.
now this king went and laid him down to rest at a place where four roads met, so that every one who passed had to step over him.
at last a fakir came along, and he said to the king, "man, why are you lying here?"
he replied, "fakir, a thousand men have come and passed by; you pass on too."
but the fakir said, "who are you, man?"
the king replied, "i am a king, fakir.
of goods and gold i have no lack, but i have lived long and have no children.
so i have come here, and have laid me down at the cross-roads.
my sins and offences have been very many, so i have come and am lying here that men may pass over me, and perchance my sins may be forgiven me, and god may be merciful, and i may have a son."
the fakir answered him, "oh king!
if you have children, what will you give me?"
"whatever you ask, fakir," answered the king.
the fakir said, "of goods and gold i have no lack, but i will say a prayer for you, and you will have two sons; one of those sons will be mine."
then he took out two sweetmeats and handed them to the king, and said, "king!
take these two sweetmeats and give them to your wives; give them to the wives you love best."
the king took the sweetmeats and put them in his bosom.
then the fakir said, "king!
in a year i will return, and of the two sons who will be born to you one is mine and one yours."
the king said, "well, i agree."
then the fakir went on his way, and the king came home and gave one sweetmeat to each of his two wives.
after some time two sons were born to the king.
then what did the king do but place those two sons in an underground room, which he had built in the earth.
some time passed, and one day the fakir appeared, and said, "king!
bring me that son of yours!"
what did the king do but bring two slave-girls' sons and present them to the fakir.
while the fakir was sitting there the king's sons were sitting down below in their cellar eating their food.
just then a hungry ant had carried away a grain of rice from their food, and was going along with it to her children.
another stronger ant came up and attacked her in order to get this grain of rice.
the first ant said, "o ant, why do you drag this away from me?
i have long been lame in my feet, and i have got just one grain, and am carrying it to my children.
the king's sons are sitting in the cellar eating their food; you go and fetch a grain from there; why should you take mine from me?"
on this the second ant let go and did not rob the first, but went off to where the king's sons were eating their food.
on hearing this the fakir said, "king!
these are not your sons; go and bring those children who are eating their food in the cellar."
then the king went and brought his own sons.
the fakir chose the eldest son and took him away, and set off with him on his journey.
when he got home he told the king's son to go out to gather fuel.
so the king's son went out to gather cow-dung, and when he had collected some he brought it in.
then the fakir looked at the king's son and put on a great pot, and said, "come round here, my pupil."
but the king's son said, "master first, and pupil after."
the fakir told him to come once, he told him twice, he told him three times, and each time the king's son answered, "master first, and pupil after."
then the fakir made a dash at the king's son, thinking to catch him and throw him into the caldron.
there were about a hundred gallons of oil in this caldron, and the fire was burning beneath it.
then the king's son, lifting the fakir, gave him a jerk and threw him into the caldron, and he was burnt, and became roast meat.
he then saw a key of the fakir's lying there; he took this key and opened the door of the fakir's house.
now many men were locked up in this house; two horses were standing there in a hut of the fakir's; two greyhounds were tied up there; two simurgs were imprisoned, and two tigers also stood there.
so the king's son let all the creatures go, and took them out of the house, and they all returned thanks to god.
next he let out all the men who were in prison.
he took away with him the two horses, and he took away the two tigers, and he took away the two hounds, and he took away the two simurgs, and with them he set out for another country.
as he went along the road he saw above him a bald man, grazing a herd of calves, and this bald man called out to him, "fellow!
can you fight at all?"
the king's son replied, "when i was little i could fight a bit, and now, if any one wants to fight, i am not so unmanly as to turn my back.
come, i will fight you."
the bald man said, "if i throw you, you shall be my slave; and if you throw me, i will be your slave."
so they got ready and began to fight, and the king's son threw him.
on this the king's son said, "i will leave my beasts here, my simurgs, tigers, and dogs, and horses; they will all stay here while i go to the city to see the sights.
i appoint the tiger as guard over my property.
and you are my slave, you, too, must stay here with my belongings."
so the king's son started off to the city to see the sights, and arrived at a pool.
he saw that it was a pleasant pool, and thought he would stop and bathe there, and therewith he began to strip off his clothes.
now the king's daughter, who was sitting on the roof of the palace, saw his royal marks, and she said, "this man is a king; when i marry, i will marry him and no other."
so she said to her father, "my father; i wish to marry."
"good," said her father.
then the king made a proclamation: "let all men, great and small, attend to-day in the hall of audience, for the king's daughter will to-day take a husband."
all the men of the land assembled, and the traveller prince also came, dressed in the fakir's clothes, saying to himself, "i must see this ceremony to-day."
he went in and sat down.
the king's daughter came out and sat in the balcony, and cast her glance round all the assembly.
she noticed that the traveller prince was sitting in the assembly in fakir's attire.
the princess said to her handmaiden, "take this dish of henna, go to that traveller dressed like a fakir, and sprinkle scent on him from the dish."
the handmaiden obeyed the princess's order, went to him, and sprinkled the scent over him.
then the people said, "the slave-girl has made a mistake."
but she replied, "the slave-girl has made no mistake, 'tis her mistress has made the mistake."
on this the king married his daughter to the fakir, who was really no fakir, but a prince.
what fate had decreed came to pass in that country, and they were married.
but the king of that city became very sad in his heart, because when so many chiefs and nobles were sitting there his daughter had chosen none of them, but had chosen that fakir; but he kept these thoughts concealed in his heart.
one day the traveller prince said, "let all the king's sons-in-law come out with me to-day to hunt."
people said, "what is this fakir that he should go a-hunting?"
however, they all set out for the hunt, and fixed their meeting-place at a certain pool.
the newly married prince went to his tigers, and told his tigers and hounds to kill and bring in a great number of gazelles and hog-deer and markhor.
instantly they killed and brought in a great number.
then taking with him these spoils of the chase, the prince came to the pool settled on as a meeting-place.
the other princes, sons-in-law of the king of that city, also assembled there; but they had brought in no game, and the new prince had brought a great deal.
thence they returned home to the town, and went to the king their father-in-law, to present their game.
now that king had no son.
then the new prince told him that in fact he, too, was a prince.
at this the king, his father-in-law, was greatly delighted and took him by the hand and embraced him.
he seated him by himself, saying, "o prince, i return thanks that you have come here and become my son-in-law; i am very happy at this, and i make over my kingdom to you."
why the fish laughed.
as a certain fisherwoman passed by a palace crying her fish, the queen appeared at one of the windows and beckoned her to come near and show what she had.
at that moment a very big fish jumped about in the bottom of the basket.
"is it a he or a she?"
inquired the queen.
"i wish to purchase a she fish."
on hearing this the fish laughed aloud.
"it's a he," replied the fisherwoman, and proceeded on her rounds.
the queen returned to her room in a great rage; and on coming to see her in the evening, the king noticed that something had disturbed her.
"are you indisposed?"
he said.
"no; but i am very much annoyed at the strange behaviour of a fish.
a woman brought me one to-day, and on my inquiring whether it was a male or female, the fish laughed most rudely."
"a fish laugh!
impossible!
you must be dreaming."
"i am not a fool.
i speak of what i have seen with my own eyes and have heard with my own ears."
"passing strange!
be it so.
i will inquire concerning it."
on the morrow the king repeated to his vizier what his wife had told him, and bade him investigate the matter, and be ready with a satisfactory answer within six months, on pain of death.
the vizier promised to do his best, though he felt almost certain of failure.
for five months he laboured indefatigably to find a reason for the laughter of the fish.
he sought everywhere and from every one.
the wise and learned, and they who were skilled in magic and in all manner of trickery, were consulted.
nobody, however, could explain the matter; and so he returned broken-hearted to his house, and began to arrange his affairs in prospect of certain death, for he had had sufficient experience of the king to know that his majesty would not go back from his threat.
amongst other things, he advised his son to travel for a time, until the king's anger should have somewhat cooled.
the young fellow, who was both clever and handsome, started off whithersoever kismat might lead him.
he had been gone some days, when he fell in with an old farmer, who also was on a journey to a certain village.
finding the old man very pleasant, he asked him if he might accompany him, professing to be on a visit to the same place.
the old farmer agreed, and they walked along together.
the day was hot, and the way was long and weary.
"don't you think it would be pleasanter if you and i sometimes gave one another a lift?"
said the youth.
"what a fool the man is!"
thought the old farmer.
presently they passed through a field of corn ready for the sickle, and looking like a sea of gold as it waved to and fro in the breeze.
"is this eaten or not?"
said the young man.
not understanding his meaning, the old man replied, "i don't know."
after a little while the two travellers arrived at a big village, where the young man gave his companion a clasp-knife, and said, "take this, friend, and get two horses with it; but mind and bring it back, for it is very precious."
the old man, looking half amused and half angry, pushed back the knife, muttering something to the effect that his friend was either a fool himself or else trying to play the fool with him.
the young man pretended not to notice his reply, and remained almost silent till they reached the city, a short distance outside which was the old farmer's house.
they walked about the bazaar and went to the mosque, but nobody saluted them or invited them to come in and rest.
"what a large cemetery!"
exclaimed the young man.
"what does the man mean," thought the old farmer, "calling this largely populated city a cemetery?"
on leaving the city their way led through a cemetery where a few people were praying beside a grave and distributing chapatis and kulchas to passers-by, in the name of their beloved dead.
they beckoned to the two travellers and gave them as much as they would.
"what a splendid city this is!"
said the young man.
"now, the man must surely be demented!"
thought the old farmer.
"i wonder what he will do next?
he will be calling the land water, and the water land; and be speaking of light where there is darkness, and of darkness when it is light."
however, he kept his thoughts to himself.
presently they had to wade through a stream that ran along the edge of the cemetery.
the water was rather deep, so the old farmer took off his shoes and paijamas and crossed over; but the young man waded through it with his shoes and paijamas on.
"well!
i never did see such a perfect fool, both in word and in deed,"
said the old man to himself.
however, he liked the fellow; and thinking that he would amuse his wife and daughter, he invited him to come and stay at his house as long as he had occasion to remain in the village.
"thank you very much," the young man replied; "but let me first inquire, if you please, whether the beam of your house is strong."
the old farmer left him in despair, and entered his house laughing.
"there is a man in yonder field," he said, after returning their greetings.
"he has come the greater part of the way with me, and i wanted him to put up here as long as he had to stay in this village.
but the fellow is such a fool that i cannot make anything out of him.
he wants to know if the beam of this house is all right.
the man must be mad!"
and saying this, he burst into a fit of laughter.
"father," said the farmer's daughter, who was a very sharp and wise girl, "this man, whosoever he is, is no fool, as you deem him.
he only wishes to know if you can afford to entertain him."
"oh!
of course," replied the farmer.
"i see.
well perhaps you can help me to solve some of his other mysteries.
while we were walking together he asked whether he should carry me or i should carry him, as he thought that would be a pleasanter mode of proceeding."
"most assuredly," said the girl.
"he meant that one of you should tell a story to beguile the time."
"oh yes.
well, we were passing through a corn-field, when he asked me whether it was eaten or not."
"and didn't you know the meaning of this, father?
he simply wished to know if the man was in debt or not; because, if the owner of the field was in debt, then the produce of the field was as good as eaten to him; that is, it would have to go to his creditors."
"yes, yes, yes; of course!
then, on entering a certain village, he bade me take his clasp knife and get two horses with it, and bring back the knife again to him."
"are not two stout sticks as good as two horses for helping one along on the road?
he only asked you to cut a couple of sticks and be careful not to lose his knife."
"i see," said the farmer.
"while we were walking over the city we did not see anybody that we knew, and not a soul gave us a scrap of anything to eat, till we were passing the cemetery; but there some people called to us and put into our hands some chapatis and kulchas; so my companion called the city a cemetery, and the cemetery a city."
"this also is to be understood, father, if one thinks of the city as the place where everything is to be obtained, and of inhospitable people as worse than the dead.
the city, though crowded with people, was as if dead, as far as you were concerned; while, in the cemetery, which is crowded with the dead, you were saluted by kind friends and provided with bread."
"true, true!"
said the astonished farmer.
"then, just now, when we were crossing the stream, he waded through it without taking off his shoes and paijamas."
"i admire his wisdom," replied the girl.
"i have often thought how stupid people were to venture into that swiftly flowing stream and over those sharp stones with bare feet.
the slightest stumble and they would fall, and be wetted from head to foot.
this friend of yours is a most wise man.
i should like to see him and speak to him."
"very well," said the farmer; "i will go and find him, and bring him in."
"tell him, father, that our beams are strong enough, and then he will come in.
i'll send on ahead a present to the man, to show him that we can afford to have him for our guest."
accordingly she called a servant and sent him to the young man with a present of a basin of ghee, twelve chapatis, and a jar of milk, and the following message: "o friend, the moon is full; twelve months make a year, and the sea is overflowing with water."
half-way the bearer of this present and message met his little son, who, seeing what was in the basket, begged his father to give him some of the food.
his father foolishly complied.
presently he saw the young man, and gave him the rest of the present and the message.
"give your mistress my salam," he replied, "and tell her that the moon is new, and that i can only find eleven months in the year, and the sea is by no means full."
not understanding the meaning of these words, the servant repeated them word for word, as he had heard them, to his mistress; and thus his theft was discovered, and he was severely punished.
after a little while the young man appeared with the old farmer.
great attention was shown to him, and he was treated in every way as if he were the son of a great man, although his humble host knew nothing of his origin.
at length he told them everything about the laughing of the fish, his father's threatened execution, and his own banishment and asked their advice as to what he should do.
"the laughing of the fish," said the girl, "which seems to have been the cause of all this trouble, indicates that there is a man in the palace who is plotting against the king's life."
"joy, joy!"
exclaimed the vizier's son.
"there is yet time for me to return and save my father from an ignominious and unjust death, and the king from danger."
the following day he hastened back to his own country, taking with him the farmer's daughter.
immediately on arrival he ran to the palace and informed his father of what he had heard.
the poor vizier, now almost dead from the expectation of death, was at once carried to the king, to whom he repeated the news that his son had just brought.
"never!"
said the king.
"but it must be so, your majesty," replied the vizier; "and in order to prove the truth of what i have heard, i pray you to call together all the maids in your palace, and order them to jump over a pit, which must be dug.
we'll soon find out whether there is any man there."
the king had the pit dug, and commanded all the maids belonging to the palace to try to jump it.
all of them tried, but only one succeeded.
that one was found to be a man!
!
thus was the queen satisfied, and the faithful old vizier saved.
afterwards, as soon as could be, the vizier's son married the old farmer's daughter; and a most happy marriage it was.
the demon with the matted hair
this story the teacher told in jetavana about a brother who had ceased striving after righteousness.
said the teacher to him: "is it really true that you have ceased all striving?"
"yes, blessed one,"
he replied.
then the teacher said: "o brother, in former days wise men made effort in the place where effort should be made, and so attained unto royal power."
and he told a story of long ago.
once upon a time, when brahmadatta was king of benares, the bodhisatta was born as son of his chief queen.
on his name-day they asked 800 brahmans, having satisfied them with all their desires, about his lucky marks.
the brahmans who had skill in divining from such marks beheld the excellence of his, and made answer:
"full of goodness, great king, is your son, and when you die he will become king; he shall be famous and renowned for his skill with the five weapons, and shall be the chief man in all india."
on hearing what the brahmans had to say, they gave him the name of the prince of the five weapons, sword, spear, bow, battle-axe, and shield.
when he came to years of discretion, and had attained the measure of sixteen years, the king said to him:
"my son, go and complete your education."
"who shall be my teacher?"
the lad asked.
"go, my son; in the kingdom of candahar, in the city of takkasila, is a far-famed teacher from whom i wish you to learn.
take this, and give it him for a fee."
with that he gave him a thousand pieces of money, and dismissed him.
the lad departed, and was educated by this teacher; he received the five weapons from him as a gift, bade him farewell, and leaving takkasila, he began his journey to benares, armed with the five weapons.
on his way he came to a forest inhabited by the demon with the matted hair.
at the entering in of the forest some men saw him, and cried out:
"hullo, young sir, keep clear of that wood!
there's a demon in it called he of the matted hair: he kills every man he sees!"
and they tried to stop him.
but the bodhisatta, having confidence in himself, went straight on, fearless as a maned lion.
when he reached mid-forest the demon showed himself.
he made himself as tall as a palm tree; his head was the size of a pagoda, his eyes as big as saucers, and he had two tusks all over knobs and bulbs; he had the face of a hawk, a variegated belly, and blue hands and feet.
"where are you going?"
he shouted.
"stop!
you'll make a meal for me!"
said the bodhisatta: "demon, i came here trusting in myself.
i advise you to be careful how you come near me.
here's a poisoned arrow, which i'll shoot at you and knock you down!"
with this menace, he fitted to his bow an arrow dipped in deadly poison, and let fly.
the arrow stuck fast in the demon's hair.
then he shot and shot, till he had shot away fifty arrows; and they all stuck in the demon's hair.
the demon snapped them all off short, and threw them down at his feet; then came up to the bodhisatta, who drew his sword and struck the demon, threatening him the while.
his sword it was three-and-thirty inches long stuck in the demon's hair!
the bodhisatta struck him with his spear that stuck too!
he struck him with his club and that stuck too!
when the bodhisatta saw that this had stuck fast, he addressed the demon.
"you, demon!"
said he, "did you never hear of me before the prince of the five weapons?
when i came into the forest which you live in i did not trust to my bow and other weapons.
this day will i pound you and grind you to powder!"
thus did he declare his resolve, and with a shout he hit at the demon with his right hand.
it stuck fast in his hair!
he hit him with his left hand that stuck too!
with his right foot he kicked him that stuck too; then with his left and that stuck too!
then he butted at him with his head, crying, "i'll pound you to powder!"
and his head stuck fast like the rest.
thus the bodhisatta was five times snared, caught fast in five places, hanging suspended: yet he felt no fear was not even nervous.
thought the demon to himself: "here's a lion of a man!
a noble man!
more than man is he!
here he is, caught by a demon like me; yet he will not fear a bit.
since i have ravaged this road, i never saw such a man.
now, why is it that he does not fear?"
he was powerless to eat the man, but asked him: "why is it, young sir, that you are not frightened to death?"
"why should i fear, demon?"
replied he.
"in one life a man can die but once.
besides, in my belly is a thunderbolt; if you eat me, you will never be able to digest it; this will tear your inwards into little bits, and kill you: so we shall both perish.
that is why i fear nothing."
(by this, the bodhisatta meant the weapon of knowledge which he had within him.)
when he heard this, the demon thought: "this young man speaks the truth.
a piece of the flesh of such a lion-man as he would be too much for me to digest, if it were no bigger than a kidney-bean.
i'll let him go!"
so, being frightened to death, he let go the bodhisatta, saying:
"young sir, you are a lion of a man!
i will not eat you up.
i set you free from my hands, as the moon is disgorged from the jaws of rāhu after the eclipse.
go back to the company of your friends and relations!"
and the bodhisatta said: "demon, i will go, as you say.
you were born a demon, cruel, blood-bibbing, devourer of the flesh and gore of others, because you did wickedly in former lives.
if you still go on doing wickedly, you will go from darkness to darkness.
but now that you have seen me you will find it impossible to do wickedly.
taking the life of living creatures causes birth, as an animal, in the world of petas, or in the body of an asura, or, if one is reborn as a man, it makes his life short."
with this and the like monition he told him the disadvantage of the five kinds of wickedness, and the profit of the five kinds of virtue, and frightened the demon in various ways, discoursing to him until he subdued him and made him self-denying, and established him in the five kinds of virtue; he made him worship the deity to whom offerings were made in that wood; and having carefully admonished him, departed out of it.
at the entrance of the forest he told all to the people thereabout; and went on to benares, armed with his five weapons.
afterwards he became king, and ruled righteously; and after giving alms and doing good he passed away according to his deeds.
and the teacher, when this tale was ended, became perfectly enlightened, and repeated this verse:
whose mind and heart from all desire is free,     who seeks for peace by living virtuously,       he in due time will sever all the bonds     that bind him fast to life, and cease to be.
thus the teacher reached the summit, through sainthood and the teaching of the law, and thereupon he declared the four truths.
at the end of the declaring of the truths, this brother also attained to sainthood.
then the teacher made the connexion, and gave the key to the birth-tale, saying: "at that time angulimala was the demon, but the prince of the five weapons was i myself."
the ivory city and its fairy princess
one day a young prince was out practising archery with the son of his father's chief vizier, when one of the arrows accidentally struck the wife of a merchant, who was walking about in an upper room of a house close by.
the prince aimed at a bird that was perched on the window-sill of that room, and had not the slightest idea that anybody was at hand, or he would not have shot in that direction.
consequently, not knowing what had happened, he and the vizier's son walked away, the vizier's son chaffing him because he had missed the bird.
presently the merchant went to ask his wife about something, and found her lying, to all appearance, dead in the middle of the room, and an arrow fixed in the ground within half a yard of her head.
supposing that she was dead, he rushed to the window and shrieked, "thieves thieves!
they have killed my wife."
the neighbours quickly gathered, and the servants came running upstairs to see what was the matter.
it happened that the woman had fainted, and that there was only a very slight wound in her breast where the arrow had grazed.
as soon as the woman recovered her senses she told them that two young men had passed by the place with their bows and arrows, and that one of them had most deliberately aimed at her as she stood by the window.
on hearing this the merchant went to the king, and told him what had taken place.
his majesty was much enraged at such audacious wickedness, and swore that most terrible punishment should be visited on the offender if he could be discovered.
he ordered the merchant to go back and ascertain whether his wife could recognise the young men if she saw them again.
"oh yes," replied the woman, "i should know them again among all the people in the city."
"then," said the king, when the merchant brought back this reply, "to-morrow i will cause all the male inhabitants of this city to pass before your house, and your wife will stand at the window and watch for the man who did this wanton deed."
a royal proclamation was issued to this effect.
so the next day all the men and boys of the city, from the age of ten years upwards, assembled and marched by the house of the merchant.
by chance (for they both had been excused from obeying this order) the king's son and the vizier's son were also in the company, and passed by in the crowd.
they came to see the tamasha.
as soon as these two appeared in front of the merchant's window they were recognised by the merchant's wife, and at once reported to the king.
"my own son and the son of my chief vizier!"
exclaimed the king, who had been present from the commencement.
"what examples for the people!
let them both be executed."
"not so, your majesty," said the vizier, "i beseech you.
let the facts of the case be thoroughly investigated.
how is it?"
he continued, turning to the two young men.
"why have you done this cruel thing?"
"i shot an arrow at a bird that was sitting on the sill of an open window in yonder house, and missed," answered the prince.
"i suppose the arrow struck the merchant's wife.
had i known that she or anybody had been near i should not have shot in that direction."
"we will speak of this later on," said the king, on hearing this answer.
"dismiss the people.
their presence is no longer needed."
in the evening his majesty and the vizier had a long and earnest talk about their two sons.
the king wished both of them to be executed; but the vizier suggested that the prince should be banished from the country.
this was finally agreed to.
accordingly, on the following morning, a little company of soldiers escorted the prince out of the city.
when they reached the last custom-house the vizier's son overtook them.
he had come with all haste, bringing with him four bags of muhrs on four horses.
"i am come," he said, throwing his arms round the prince's neck, "because i cannot let you go alone.
we have lived together, we will be exiled together, and we will die together.
turn me not back, if you love me."
"consider," the prince answered, "what you are doing.
all kinds of trial may be before me.
why should you leave your home and country to be with me?"
"because i love you," he said, "and shall never be happy without you."
so the two friends walked along hand in hand as fast as they could to get out of the country, and behind them marched the soldiers and the horses with their valuable burdens.
on reaching a place on the borders of the king's dominions the prince gave the soldiers some gold, and ordered them to return.
the soldiers took the money and left; they did not, however, go very far, but hid themselves behind rocks and stones, and waited till they were quite sure that the prince did not intend to come back.
on and on the exiles walked, till they arrived at a certain village, where they determined to spend the night under one of the big trees of the place.
the prince made preparations for a fire, and arranged the few articles of bedding that they had with them, while the vizier's son went to the baniya and the baker and the butcher to get something for their dinner.
for some reason he was delayed; perhaps the tsut was not quite ready, or the baniya had not got all the spices prepared.
after waiting half an hour the prince became impatient, and rose up and walked about.
he saw a pretty, clear little brook running along not far from their resting-place, and hearing that its source was not far distant, he started off to find it.
the source was a beautiful lake, which at that time was covered with the magnificent lotus flower and other water plants.
the prince sat down on the bank, and being thirsty took up some of the water in his hand.
fortunately he looked into his hand before drinking, and there, to his great astonishment, he saw reflected whole and clear the image of a beautiful fairy.
he looked round, hoping to see the reality; but seeing no person, he drank the water, and put out his hand to take some more.
again he saw the reflection in the water which was in his palm.
he looked around as before, and this time discovered a fairy sitting by the bank on the opposite side of the lake.
on seeing her he fell so madly in love with her that he dropped down in a swoon.
when the vizier's son returned, and found the fire lighted, the horses securely fastened, and the bags of muhrs lying altogether in a heap, but no prince, he did not know what to think.
he waited a little while, and then shouted; but not getting any reply, he got up and went to the brook.
there he came across the footmarks of his friend.
seeing these, he went back at once for the money and the horses, and bringing them with him, he tracked the prince to the lake, where he found him lying to all appearance dead.
"alas!
alas!"
he cried, and lifting up the prince, he poured some water over his head and face.
"alas!
my brother, what is this?
oh!
do not die and leave me thus.
speak, speak!
i cannot bear this!"
in a few minutes the prince, revived by the water, opened his eyes, and looked about wildly.
"thank god!"
exclaimed the vizier's son.
"but what is the matter, brother?"
"go away," replied the prince.
"i don't want to say anything to you, or to see you.
go away."
"come, come; let us leave this place.
look, i have brought some food for you, and horses, and everything.
let us eat and depart."
"go alone," replied the prince.
"never," said the vizier's son.
"what has happened to suddenly estrange you from me?
a little while ago we were brethren, but now you detest the sight of me."
"i have looked upon a fairy," the prince said.
"but a moment i saw her face; for when she noticed that i was looking at her she covered her face with lotus petals.
oh, how beautiful she was!
and while i gazed she took out of her bosom an ivory box, and held it up to me.
then i fainted.
oh!
if you can get me that fairy for my wife, i will go anywhere with you."
"oh, brother," said the vizier's son, "you have indeed seen a fairy.
she is a fairy of the fairies.
this is none other than gulizar of the ivory city.
i know this from the signs that she gave you.
from her covering her face with lotus petals i learn her name, and from her showing you the ivory box i learn where she lives.
be patient, and rest assured that i will arrange your marriage with her."
when the prince heard these encouraging words he felt much comforted, rose up, and ate, and then went away gladly with his friend.
on the way they met two men.
these two men belonged to a family of robbers.
there were eleven of them altogether.
one, an elder sister, stayed at home and cooked the food, and the other ten all brothers went out, two and two, and walked about the four different ways that ran through that part of the country, robbing those travellers who could not resist them, and inviting others, who were too powerful for two of them to manage, to come and rest at their house, where the whole family attacked them and stole their goods.
these thieves lived in a kind of tower, which had several strong-rooms in it, and under it was a great pit, wherein they threw the corpses of the poor unfortunates who chanced to fall into their power.
the two men came forward, and, politely accosting them, begged them to come and stay at their house for the night.
"it is late," they said, "and there is not another village within several miles."
"shall we accept this good man's invitation, brother?"
asked the prince.
the vizier's son frowned slightly in token of disapproval; but the prince was tired, and thinking that it was only a whim of his friend's, he said to the men, "very well.
it is very kind of you to ask us."
so they all four went to the robbers' tower.
seated in a room, with the door fastened on the outside, the two travellers bemoaned their fate.
"it is no good groaning," said the vizier's son.
"i will climb to the window, and see whether there are any means of escape.
yes!
yes!"
he whispered, when he had reached the window-hole.
"below there is a ditch surrounded by a high wall.
i will jump down and reconnoitre.
you stay here, and wait till i return."
presently he came back and told the prince that he had seen a most ugly woman, whom he supposed was the robbers' housekeeper.
she had agreed to release them on the promise of her marriage with the prince.
so the woman led the way out of the enclosure by a secret door.
"but where are the horses and the goods?"
the vizier's son inquired.
"you cannot bring them," the woman said.
"to go out by any other way would be to thrust oneself into the grave."
"all right, then; they also shall go out by this door.
i have a charm, whereby i can make them thin or fat."
so the vizier's son fetched the horses without any person knowing it, and repeating the charm, he made them pass through the narrow doorway like pieces of cloth, and when they were all outside restored them to their former condition.
he at once mounted his horse and laid hold of the halter of one of the other horses, and then beckoning to the prince to do likewise, he rode off.
the prince saw his opportunity, and in a moment was riding after him, having the woman behind him.
now the robbers heard the galloping of the horses, and ran out and shot their arrows at the prince and his companions.
and one of the arrows killed the woman, so they had to leave her behind.
on, on they rode, until they reached a village where they stayed the night.
the following morning they were off again, and asked for ivory city from every passer-by.
at length they came to this famous city, and put up at a little hut that belonged to an old woman, from whom they feared no harm, and with whom, therefore, they could abide in peace and comfort.
at first the old woman did not like the idea of these travellers staying in her house, but the sight of a muhr, which the prince dropped in the bottom of a cup in which she had given him water, and a present of another muhr from the vizier's son, quickly made her change her mind.
she agreed to let them stay there for a few days.
as soon as her work was over the old woman came and sat down with her lodgers.
the vizier's son pretended to be utterly ignorant of the place and people.
"has this city a name?"
he asked the old woman.
"of course it has, you stupid.
every little village, much more a city, and such a city as this, has a name."
"what is the name of this city?"
"ivory city.
don't you know that?
i thought the name was known all over the world."
on the mention of the name ivory city the prince gave a deep sigh.
the vizier's son looked as much as to say, "keep quiet, or you'll discover the secret."
"is there a king of this country?"
continued the vizier's son.
"of course there is, and a queen, and a princess."
"what are their names?"
"the name of the princess is gulizar, and the name of the queen  "
the vizier's son interrupted the old woman by turning to look at the prince, who was staring like a madman.
"yes," he said to him afterwards, "we are in the right country.
we shall see the beautiful princess."
one morning the two travellers noticed the old woman's most careful toilette: how careful she was in the arrangement of her hair and the set of her kasabah and puts.
"who is coming?"
said the vizier's son.
"nobody," the old woman replied.
"then where are you going?"
"i am going to see my daughter, who is a servant of the princess gulizar.
i see her and the princess every day.
i should have gone yesterday, if you had not been here and taken up all my time."
"ah-h-h!
be careful not to say anything about us in the hearing of the princess."
the vizier's son asked her not to speak about them at the palace, hoping that, because she had been told not to do so, she would mention their arrival, and thus the princess would be informed of their coming.
on seeing her mother the girl pretended to be very angry.
"why have you not been for two days?"
she asked.
"because, my dear," the old woman answered, "two young travellers, a prince and the son of some great vizier, have taken up their abode in my hut, and demand so much of my attention.
it is nothing but cooking and cleaning, and cleaning and cooking, all day long.
i can't understand the men," she added; "one of them especially appears very stupid.
he asked me the name of this country and the name of the king.
now where can these men have come from, that they do not know these things?
however, they are very great and very rich.
they each give me a muhr every morning and every evening."
after this the old woman went and repeated almost the same words to the princess, on the hearing of which the princess beat her severely; and threatened her with a severer punishment if she ever again spoke of the strangers before her.
in the evening, when the old woman had returned to her hut, she told the vizier's son how sorry she was that she could not help breaking her promise, and how the princess had struck her because she mentioned their coming and all about them.
"alas!
alas!"
said the prince, who had eagerly listened to every word.
"what, then, will be her anger at the sight of a man?"
"anger?"
said the vizier's son, with an astonished air.
"she would be exceedingly glad to see one man.
i know this.
in this treatment of the old woman i see her request that you will go and see her during the coming dark fortnight."
"heaven be praised!"
the prince exclaimed.
the next time the old woman went to the palace gulizar called one of her servants and ordered her to rush into the room while she was conversing with the old woman; and if the old woman asked what was the matter, she was to say that the king's elephants had gone mad, and were rushing about the city and bazaar in every direction, and destroying everything in their way.
the servant obeyed, and the old woman, fearing lest the elephants should go and push down her hut and kill the prince and his friend, begged the princess to let her depart.
now gulizar had obtained a charmed swing, that landed whoever sat on it at the place wherever they wished to be.
"get the swing," she said to one of the servants standing by.
when it was brought she bade the old woman step into it and desire to be at home.
the old woman did so, and was at once carried through the air quickly and safely to her hut, where she found her two lodgers safe and sound.
"oh!"
she cried, "i thought that both of you would be killed by this time.
the royal elephants have got loose and are running about wildly.
when i heard this i was anxious about you.
so the princess gave me this charmed swing to return in.
but come, let us get outside before the elephants arrive and batter down the place."
"don't believe this," said the vizier's son.
"it is a mere hoax.
they have been playing tricks with you."
"you will soon have your heart's desire," he whispered aside to the prince.
"these things are signs."
two days of the dark fortnight had elapsed, when the prince and the vizier's son seated themselves in the swing, and wished themselves within the grounds of the palace.
in a moment they were there, and there too was the object of their search standing by one of the palace gates, and longing to see the prince quite as much as he was longing to see her.
oh, what a happy meeting it was!
"at last," said gulizar, "i have seen my beloved, my husband."
"a thousand thanks to heaven for bringing me to you," said the prince.
then the prince and gulizar betrothed themselves to one another and parted, the one for the hut and the other for the palace, both of them feeling happier than they had ever been before.
henceforth the prince visited gulizar every day and returned to the hut every night.
one morning gulizar begged him to stay with her always.
she was constantly afraid of some evil happening to him perhaps robbers would slay him, or sickness attack him, and then she would be deprived of him.
she could not live without seeing him.
the prince showed her that there was no real cause for fear, and said that he felt he ought to return to his friend at night, because he had left his home and country and risked his life for him; and, moreover, if it had not been for his friend's help he would never have met with her.
gulizar for the time assented, but she determined in her heart to get rid of the vizier's son as soon as possible.
a few days after this conversation she ordered one of her maids to make a pilaw.
she gave special directions that a certain poison was to be mixed into it while cooking, and as soon as it was ready the cover was to be placed on the saucepan, so that the poisonous steam might not escape.
when the pilaw was ready she sent it at once by the hand of a servant to the vizier's son with this message: "gulizar, the princess, sends you an offering in the name of her dead uncle."
on receiving the present the vizier's son thought that the prince had spoken gratefully of him to the princess, and therefore she had thus remembered him.
accordingly he sent back his salam and expressions of thankfulness.
when it was dinner-time he took the saucepan of pilaw and went out to eat it by the stream.
taking off the lid, he threw it aside on the grass and then washed his hands.
during the minute or so that he was performing these ablutions, the green grass under the cover of the saucepan turned quite yellow.
he was astonished, and suspecting that there was poison in the pilaw, he took a little and threw it to some crows that were hopping about.
the moment the crows ate what was thrown to them they fell down dead.
"heaven be praised," exclaimed the vizier's son, "who has preserved me from death at this time!"
on the return of the prince that evening the vizier's son was very reticent and depressed.
the prince noticed this change in him, and asked what was the reason.
"is it because i am away so much at the palace?"
the vizier's son saw that the prince had nothing to do with the sending of the pilaw, and therefore told him everything.
"look here," he said, "in this handkerchief is some pilaw that the princess sent me this morning in the name of her deceased uncle.
it is saturated with poison.
thank heaven, i discovered it in time!"
"oh, brother!
who could have done this thing?
who is there that entertains enmity against you?"
"the princess gulizar.
listen.
the next time you go to see her, i entreat you to take some snow with you; and just before seeing the princess put a little of it into both your eyes.
it will provoke tears, and gulizar will ask you why you are crying.
tell her that you weep for the loss of your friend, who died suddenly this morning.
look!
take, too, this wine and this shovel, and when you have feigned intense grief at the death of your friend, bid the princess to drink a little of the wine.
it is strong, and will immediately send her into a deep sleep.
then, while she is asleep, heat the shovel and mark her back with it.
remember to bring back the shovel again, and also to take her pearl necklace.
this done, return.
now fear not to execute these instructions, because on the fulfilment of them depends your fortune and happiness.
i will arrange that your marriage with the princess shall be accepted by the king, her father, and all the court."
the prince promised that he would do everything as the vizier's son had advised him; and he kept his promise.
the following night, on the return of the prince from his visit to gulizar, he and the vizier's son, taking the horses and bags of muhrs, went to a graveyard about a mile or so distant.
it was arranged that the vizier's son should act the part of a fakir and the prince the part of the fakir's disciple and servant.
in the morning, when gulizar had returned to her senses, she felt a smarting pain in her back, and noticed that her pearl necklace was gone.
she went at once and informed the king of the loss of her necklace, but said nothing to him about the pain in her back.
the king was very angry when he heard of the theft, and caused proclamation concerning it to be made throughout all the city and surrounding country.
"it is well," said the vizier's son, when he heard of this proclamation.
"fear not, my brother, but go and take this necklace, and try to sell it in the bazaar."
the prince took it to a goldsmith and asked him to buy it.
"how much do you want for it?"
asked the man.
"fifty thousand rupees," the prince replied.
"all right," said the man; "wait here while i go and fetch the money."
the prince waited and waited, till at last the goldsmith returned, and with him the kotwal, who at once took the prince into custody on the charge of stealing the princess's necklace.
"how did you get the necklace?"
the kotwal asked.
"a fakir, whose servant i am, gave it to me to sell in the bazaar,"
the prince replied.
"permit me, and i will show you where he is."
the prince directed the kotwal and the policeman to the place where he had left the vizier's son, and there they found the fakir with his eyes shut and engaged in prayer.
presently, when he had finished his devotions, the kotwal asked him to explain how he had obtained possession of the princess's necklace.
"call the king hither," he replied, "and then i will tell his majesty face to face."
on this some men went to the king and told him what the fakir had said.
his majesty came, and seeing the fakir so solemn and earnest in his devotions, he was afraid to rouse his anger, lest peradventure the displeasure of heaven should descend on him, and so he placed his hands together in the attitude of a supplicant, and asked, "how did you get my daughter's necklace?"
"last night," replied the fakir, "we were sitting here by this tomb worshipping khuda, when a ghoul, dressed as a princess, came and exhumed a body that had been buried a few days ago, and began to eat it.
on seeing this i was filled with anger, and beat her back with a shovel, which lay on the fire at the time.
while running away from me her necklace got loose and dropped.
you wonder at these words, but they are not difficult to prove.
examine your daughter, and you will find the marks of the burn on her back.
go, and if it is as i say, send the princess to me, and i will punish her."
the king went back to the palace, and at once ordered the princess's back to be examined.
"it is so," said the maid-servant; "the burn is there."
"then let the girl be slain immediately," the king shouted.
"no, no, your majesty," they replied.
"let us send her to the fakir who discovered this thing, that he may do whatever he wishes with her."
the king agreed, and so the princess was taken to the graveyard.
"let her be shut up in a cage, and be kept near the grave whence she took out the corpse," said the fakir.
this was done, and in a little while the fakir and his disciple and the princess were left alone in the graveyard.
night had not long cast its dark mantle over the scene when the fakir and his disciple threw off their disguise, and taking their horses and luggage, appeared before the cage.
they released the princess, rubbed some ointment over the scars on her back, and then sat her upon one of their horses behind the prince.
away they rode fast and far, and by the morning were able to rest and talk over their plans in safety.
the vizier's son showed the princess some of the poisoned pilaw that she had sent him, and asked whether she had repented of her ingratitude.
the princess wept, and acknowledged that he was her greatest helper and friend.
a letter was sent to the chief vizier telling him of all that had happened to the prince and the vizier's son since they had left their country.
when the vizier read the letter he went and informed the king.
the king caused a reply to be sent to the two exiles, in which he ordered them not to return, but to send a letter to gulizar's father, and inform him of everything.
accordingly they did this; the prince wrote the letter at the vizier's son's dictation.
on reading the letter gulizar's father was much enraged with his viziers and other officials for not discovering the presence in his country of these illustrious visitors, as he was especially anxious to ingratiate himself in the favour of the prince and the vizier's son.
he ordered the execution of some of the viziers on a certain date.
"come," he wrote back to the vizier's son, "and stay at the palace.
and if the prince desires it, i will arrange for his marriage with gulizar as soon as possible."
the prince and the vizier's son most gladly accepted the invitation, and received a right noble welcome from the king.
the marriage soon took place, and then after a few weeks the king gave them presents of horses and elephants, and jewels and rich cloths, and bade them start for their own land; for he was sure that the king would now receive them.
the night before they left the viziers and others, whom the king intended to have executed as soon as his visitors had left, came and besought the vizier's son to plead for them, and promised that they each would give him a daughter in marriage.
he agreed to do so, and succeeded in obtaining their pardon.
then the prince, with his beautiful bride gulizar, and the vizier's son, attended by a troop of soldiers, and a large number of camels and horses bearing very much treasure, left for their own land.
in the midst of the way they passed the tower of the robbers, and with the help of the soldiers they razed it to the ground, slew all its inmates, and seized the treasure which they had been amassing there for several years.
at length they reached their own country, and when the king saw his son's beautiful wife and his magnificent retinue he was at once reconciled, and ordered him to enter the city and take up his abode there.
henceforth all was sunshine on the path of the prince.
he became a great favourite, and in due time succeeded to the throne, and ruled the country for many, many years in peace and happiness.
how sun, moon, and wind went out to dinner
one day sun, moon, and wind went out to dine with their uncle and aunts thunder and lightning.
their mother (one of the most distant stars you see far up in the sky) waited alone for her children's return.
now both sun and wind were greedy and selfish.
they enjoyed the great feast that had been prepared for them, without a thought of saving any of it to take home to their mother but the gentle moon did not forget her.
of every dainty dish that was brought round, she placed a small portion under one of her beautiful long finger-nails, that star might also have a share in the treat.
on their return, their mother, who had kept watch for them all night long with her little bright eye, said, "well, children, what have you brought home for me?"
then sun (who was eldest) said, "i have brought nothing home for you.
i went out to enjoy myself with my friends not to fetch a dinner for my mother!"
and wind said, "neither have i brought anything home for you, mother.
you could hardly expect me to bring a collection of good things for you, when i merely went out for my own pleasure."
but moon said, "mother, fetch a plate, see what i have brought you."
and shaking her hands she showered down such a choice dinner as never was seen before.
then star turned to sun and spoke thus, "because you went out to amuse yourself with your friends, and feasted and enjoyed yourself, without any thought of your mother at home you shall be cursed.
henceforth, your rays shall ever be hot and scorching, and shall burn all that they touch.
and men shall hate you, and cover their heads when you appear."
(and that is why the sun is so hot to this day.)
then she turned to wind and said, "you also who forgot your mother in the midst of your selfish pleasures hear your doom.
you shall always blow in the hot dry weather, and shall parch and shrivel all living things.
and men shall detest and avoid you from this very time."
(and that is why the wind in the hot weather is still so disagreeable.)
but to moon she said, "daughter, because you remembered your mother, and kept for her a share in your own enjoyment, from henceforth you shall be ever cool, and calm, and bright.
no noxious glare shall accompany your pure rays, and men shall always call you 'blessed.'"
(and that is why the moon's light is so soft, and cool, and beautiful even to this day.)
how the wicked sons were duped.
a very wealthy old man, imagining that he was on the point of death, sent for his sons and divided his property among them.
however, he did not die for several years afterwards; and miserable years many of them were.
besides the weariness of old age, the old fellow had to bear with much abuse and cruelty from his sons.
wretched, selfish ingrates!
previously they vied with one another in trying to please their father, hoping thus to receive more money, but now they had received their patrimony, they cared not how soon he left them nay, the sooner the better, because he was only a needless trouble and expense.
and they let the poor old man know what they felt.
one day he met a friend and related to him all his troubles.
the friend sympathised very much with him, and promised to think over the matter, and call in a little while and tell him what to do.
he did so; in a few days he visited the old man and put down four bags full of stones and gravel before him.
"look here, friend," said he.
"your sons will get to know of my coming here to-day, and will inquire about it.
you must pretend that i came to discharge a long-standing debt with you, and that you are several thousands of rupees richer than you thought you were.
keep these bags in your own hands, and on no account let your sons get to them as long as you are alive.
you will soon find them change their conduct towards you.
salaam.
i will come again soon to see how you are getting on."
when the young men got to hear of this further increase of wealth they began to be more attentive and pleasing to their father than ever before.
and thus they continued to the day of the old man's demise, when the bags were greedily opened, and found to contain only stones and gravel!
the pigeon and the crow
once upon a time the bodhisatta was a pigeon, and lived in a nest-basket which a rich man's cook had hung up in the kitchen, in order to earn merit by it.
a greedy crow, flying near, saw all sorts of delicate food lying about in the kitchen, and fell a-hungering after it.
"how in the world can i get some?"
thought he?
at last he hit upon a plan.
when the pigeon went to search for food, behind him, following, following, came the crow.
"what do you want, mr. crow?
you and i don't feed alike."
"ah, but i like you and your ways!
let me be your chum, and let us feed together."
the pigeon agreed, and they went on in company.
the crow pretended to feed along with the pigeon, but ever and anon he would turn back, peck to bits some heap of cow-dung, and eat a fat worm.
when he had got a bellyful of them, up he flies, as pert as you like:
"hullo, mr. pigeon, what a time you take over your meal!
one ought to draw the line somewhere.
let's be going home before it is too late."
and so they did.
the cook saw that his pigeon had brought a friend, and hung up another basket for him.
a few days afterwards there was a great purchase of fish which came to the rich man's kitchen.
how the crow longed for some!
so there he lay, from early morn, groaning and making a great noise.
says the pigeon to the crow:
"come, sir crow, and get your breakfast!"
"oh dear!
oh dear!
i have such a fit of indigestion!"
says he.
"nonsense!
crows never have indigestion," said the pigeon.
"if you eat a lamp-wick, that stays in your stomach a little while; but anything else is digested in a trice, as soon as you eat it.
now do what i tell you; don't behave in this way just for seeing a little fish."
"why do you say that, master?
i have indigestion."
"well, be careful," said the pigeon, and flew away.
the cook prepared all the dishes, and then stood at the kitchen door, wiping the sweat off his body.
"now's my time!"
thought mr. crow, and alighted on a dish containing some dainty food.
click!
the cook heard it, and looked round.
ah!
he caught the crow, and plucked all the feathers out of his head, all but one tuft; he powdered ginger and cummin, mixed it up with butter-milk, and rubbed it well all over the bird's body.
"that's for spoiling my master's dinner and making me throw it away!"
said he, and threw him into his basket.
oh, how it hurt!
by-and-by the pigeon came in, and saw the crow lying there, making a great noise.
he made great game of him, and repeated a verse of poetry:
"who is this tufted crane i see     lying where he's no right to be?
come out!
my friend, the crow is near,     and he may do you harm, i fear!"
to this the crow answered with another:
"no tufted crane am i no, no!
i'm nothing but a greedy crow.
i would not do as i was told,     so now i'm plucked, as you behold."
and the pigeon rejoined with a third verse:
"you'll come to grief again, i know
it is your nature to do so;     if people make a dish of meat,     'tis not for little birds to eat."
then the pigeon flew away, saying: "i can't live with this creature any longer."
and the crow lay there groaning till he died.
hans andersen's fairy tales
the flax
the flax was in full bloom; it had pretty little blue flowers, as delicate as the wings of a moth.
the sun shone on it and the showers watered it; and this was as good for the flax as it is for little children to be washed and then kissed by their mothers.
they look much prettier for it, and so did the flax.
"people say that i look exceedingly well," said the flax, "and that i am so fine and long that i shall make a beautiful piece of linen.
how fortunate i am!
it makes me so happy to know that something can be made of me.
how the sunshine cheers me, and how sweet and refreshing is the rain!
my happiness overpowers me; no one in the world can feel happier than i."
"ah, yes, no doubt," said the fern, "but you do not know the world yet as well as i do, for my sticks are knotty"; and then it sang quite mournfully:
"snip, snap, snurre,            basse lurre.
the song is ended."
"no, it is not ended," said the flax.
"to-morrow the sun will shine or the rain descend.
i feel that i am growing.
i feel that i am in full blossom.
i am the happiest of all creatures, for i may some day come to something."
well, one day some people came, who took hold of the flax and pulled it up by the roots, which was very painful.
then it was laid in water, as if it were to be drowned, and after that placed near a fire, as if it were to be roasted.
all this was very shocking.
"we cannot expect to be happy always," said the flax.
"by experiencing evil as well as good we become wise."
and certainly there was plenty of evil in store for the flax.
it was steeped, and roasted, and broken, and combed; indeed, it scarcely knew what was done to it.
at last it was put on the spinning wheel.
"whir, whir," went the wheel, so quickly that the flax could not collect its thoughts.
"well, i have been very happy," it thought in the midst of its pain, "and must be contented with the past."
and contented it remained, till it was put on the loom and became a beautiful piece of white linen.
all the flax, even to the last stalk, was used in making this one piece.
"well, this is quite wonderful," said the flax.
"i could not have believed that i should be so favored by fortune.
the fern was not wrong when it sang,
'snip, snap, snurre,           basse lurre.'
but the song is not ended yet, i am sure; it is only just beginning.
how wonderful it is that, after all i have suffered, i am made something of at last!
i am the luckiest person in the world so strong and fine.
and how white and long i am!
this is far better than being a mere plant and bearing flowers.
then i had no attention, nor any water unless it rained; now i am watched and cared for.
every morning the maid turns me over, and i have a shower bath from the watering-pot every evening.
yes, and the clergyman's wife noticed me and said i was the best piece of linen in the whole parish.
i cannot be happier than i am now."
after some time the linen was taken into the house, and there cut with the scissors and torn into pieces and then pricked with needles.
this certainly was not pleasant, but at last it was made into twelve garments of the kind that everybody wears.
"see now, then," said the flax, "i have become something of importance.
this was my destiny; it is quite a blessing.
now i shall be of some use in the world, as every one ought to be; it is the only way to be happy.
i am now divided into twelve pieces, and yet the whole dozen is all one and the same.
it is most extraordinary good fortune."
years passed away, and at last the linen was so worn it could scarcely hold together.
"it must end very soon," said the pieces to each other.
"we would gladly have held together a little longer, but it is useless to expect impossibilities."
and at length they fell into rags and tatters and thought it was all over with them, for they were torn to shreds and steeped in water and made into a pulp and dried, and they knew not what besides, till all at once they found themselves beautiful white paper.
"well, now, this is a surprise a glorious surprise too,"
said the paper.
"now i am finer than ever, and who can tell what fine things i may have written upon me?
this is wonderful luck!"
and so it was, for the most beautiful stories and poetry were written upon it, and only once was there a blot, which was remarkable good fortune.
then people heard the stories and poetry read, and it made them wiser and better; for all that was written had a good and sensible meaning, and a great blessing was contained in it.
"i never imagined anything like this when i was only a little blue flower growing in the fields," said the paper.
"how could i know that i should ever be the means of bringing knowledge and joy to men?
i cannot understand it myself, and yet it is really so.
heaven knows that i have done nothing myself but what i was obliged to do with my weak powers for my own preservation; and yet i have been promoted from one joy and honor to another.
each time i think that the song is ended, and then something higher and better begins for me.
i suppose now i shall be sent out to journey about the world, so that people may read me.
it cannot be otherwise, for i have more splendid thoughts written upon me than i had pretty flowers in olden times.
i am happier than ever."
but the paper did not go on its travels.
it was sent to the printer, and all the words written upon it were set up in type to make a book, or rather many hundreds of books, for many more persons could derive pleasure and profit from a printed book than from the written paper; and if the paper had been sent about the world, it would have been worn out before it had half finished its journey.
"yes, this is certainly the wisest plan," said the written paper; "i really did not think of this.
i shall remain at home and be held in honor like some old grandfather, as i really am to all these new books.
they will do some good.
i could not have wandered about as they can, yet he who wrote all this has looked at me as every word flowed from his pen upon my surface.
i am the most honored of all."
then the paper was tied in a bundle with other papers and thrown into a tub that stood in the washhouse.
"after work, it is well to rest," said the paper, "and a very good opportunity to collect one's thoughts.
now i am able, for the first time, to learn what is in me; and to know one's self is true progress.
what will be done with me now, i wonder?
no doubt i shall still go forward.
i have always progressed hitherto, i know quite well."
now it happened one day that all the paper in the tub was taken out and laid on the hearth to be burned.
people said it could not be sold at the shop, to wrap up butter and sugar, because it had been written upon.
the children in the house stood round the hearth to watch the blaze, for paper always flamed up so prettily, and afterwards, among the ashes, there were so many red sparks to be seen running one after the other, here and there, as quick as the wind.
they called it seeing the children come out of school, and the last spark, they said, was the schoolmaster.
they would often think the last spark had come, and one would cry, "there goes the schoolmaster," but the next moment another spark would appear, bright and beautiful.
how they wanted to know where all the sparks went to!
perhaps they will find out some day.
the whole bundle of paper had been placed on the fire and was soon burning.
"ugh!"
cried the paper as it burst into a bright flame; "ugh!"
it was certainly not very pleasant to be burned.
but when the whole was wrapped in flames, the sparks mounted up into the air, higher than the flax had ever been able to raise its little blue flowers, and they glistened as the white linen never could have glistened.
all the written letters became quite red in a moment, and all the words and thoughts turned to fire.
"now i am mounting straight up to the sun," said a voice in the flames; and it was as if a thousand voices echoed the words as the flames darted up through the chimney and went out at the top.
then a number of tiny beings, as many as the flowers on the flax had been, and invisible to mortal eyes, floated above the children.
they were even lighter and more delicate than the blue flowers from which they were born; and as the flames died out and nothing remained of the paper but black ashes, these little beings danced upon it, and wherever they touched it, bright red sparks appeared.
"the children are all out of school, and the schoolmaster was the last of all," said the children.
it was good fun, and they sang over the dead ashes:
"snip, snap, snurre,            basse lurre.
the song is ended."
but the little invisible beings said, "the song is never ended; the most beautiful is yet to come."
but the children could neither hear nor understand this; nor should they, for children must not know everything.
the daisy
now listen.
out in the country, close by the roadside, stood a pleasant house; you have seen one like it, no doubt, very often.
in front lay a little fenced-in garden, full of blooming flowers.
near the hedge, in the soft green grass, grew a little daisy.
the sun shone as brightly and warmly upon her as upon the large and beautiful garden flowers, so the daisy grew from hour to hour.
every morning she unfolded her little white petals, like shining rays round the little golden sun in the center of the flower.
she never seemed to think that she was unseen down in the grass or that she was only a poor, insignificant flower.
she felt too happy to care for that.
merrily she turned toward the warm sun, looked up to the blue sky, and listened to the lark singing high in the air.
one day the little flower was as joyful as if it had been a great holiday, although it was only monday.
all the children were at school, and while they sat on their benches learning their lessons, she, on her little stem, learned also from the warm sun and from everything around her how good god is, and it made her happy to hear the lark expressing in his song her own glad feelings.
the daisy admired the happy bird who could warble so sweetly and fly so high, and she was not at all sorrowful because she could not do the same.
"i can see and hear," thought she; "the sun shines upon me, and the wind kisses me; what else do i need to make me happy?"
within the garden grew a number of aristocratic flowers; the less scent they had the more they flaunted.
the peonies considered it a grand thing to be so large, and puffed themselves out to be larger than the roses.
the tulips knew that they were marked with beautiful colors, and held themselves bolt upright so that they might be seen more plainly.
they did not notice the little daisy outside, but she looked at them and thought: "how rich and beautiful they are!
no wonder the pretty bird flies down to visit them.
how glad i am that i grow so near them, that i may admire their beauty!"
just at this moment the lark flew down, crying "tweet," but he did not go to the tall peonies and tulips; he hopped into the grass near the lowly daisy.
she trembled for joy and hardly knew what to think.
the little bird hopped round the daisy, singing, "oh, what sweet, soft grass, and what a lovely little flower, with gold in its heart and silver on its dress!"
for the yellow center in the daisy looked like gold, and the leaves around were glittering white, like silver.
how happy the little daisy felt, no one can describe.
the bird kissed her with his beak, sang to her, and then flew up again into the blue air above.
it was at least a quarter of an hour before the daisy could recover herself.
half ashamed, yet happy in herself, she glanced at the other flowers; they must have seen the honor she had received, and would understand her delight and pleasure.
but the tulips looked prouder than ever; indeed, they were evidently quite vexed about it.
the peonies were disgusted, and could they have spoken, the poor little daisy would no doubt have received a good scolding.
she could see they were all out of temper, and it made her very sorry.
at this moment there came into the garden a girl with a large, glittering knife in her hand.
she went straight to the tulips and cut off several of them.
"o dear," sighed the daisy, "how shocking!
it is all over with them now."
the girl carried the tulips away, and the daisy felt very glad to grow outside in the grass and to be only a poor little flower.
when the sun set, she folded up her leaves and went to sleep.
she dreamed the whole night long of the warm sun and the pretty little bird.
the next morning, when she joyfully stretched out her white leaves once more to the warm air and the light, she recognized the voice of the bird, but his song sounded mournful and sad.
alas!
he had good reason to be sad: he had been caught and made a prisoner in a cage that hung close by the open window.
he sang of the happy time when he could fly in the air, joyous and free; of the young green corn in the fields, from which he would spring higher and higher to sing his glorious song but now he was a prisoner in a cage.
the little daisy wished very much to help him.
but what could she do?
in her anxiety she forgot all the beautiful things around her, the warm sunshine, and her own pretty, shining, white leaves.
alas!
she could think of nothing but the captive bird and her own inability to help him.
two boys came out of the garden; one of them carried a sharp knife in his hand, like the one with which the girl had cut the tulips.
they went straight to the little daisy, who could not think what they were going to do.
"we can cut out a nice piece of turf for the lark here," said one of the boys; and he began to cut a square piece round the daisy, so that she stood just in the center.
"pull up the flower," said the other boy; and the daisy trembled with fear, for to pluck her up would destroy her life and she wished so much to live and to be taken to the captive lark in his cage.
"no, let it stay where it is," said the boy, "it looks so pretty."
so the daisy remained, and was put with the turf in the lark's cage.
the poor bird was complaining loudly about his lost freedom, beating his wings against the iron bars of his prison.
the little daisy could make no sign and utter no word to console him, as she would gladly have done.
the whole morning passed in this manner.
"there is no water here," said the captive lark; "they have all gone out and have forgotten to give me a drop to drink.
my throat is hot and dry; i feel as if i had fire and ice within me, and the air is so heavy.
alas!
i must die.
i must bid farewell to the warm sunshine, the fresh green, and all the beautiful things which god has created."
and then he thrust his beak into the cool turf to refresh himself a little with the fresh grass, and, as he did so, his eye fell upon the daisy.
the bird nodded to her and kissed her with his beak and said: "you also will wither here, you poor little flower!
they have given you to me, with the little patch of green grass on which you grow, in exchange for the whole world which was mine out there.
each little blade of grass is to me as a great tree, and each of your white leaves a flower.
alas!
you only show me how much i have lost."
"oh, if i could only comfort him!"
thought the daisy, but she could not move a leaf.
the perfume from her leaves was stronger than is usual in these flowers, and the bird noticed it, and though he was fainting with thirst, and in his pain pulled up the green blades of grass, he did not touch the flower.
the evening came, and yet no one had come to bring the bird a drop of water.
then he stretched out his pretty wings and shook convulsively; he could only sing "tweet, tweet," in a weak, mournful tone.
his little head bent down toward the flower; the bird's heart was broken with want and pining.
then the flower could not fold her leaves as she had done the evening before when she went to sleep, but, sick and sorrowful, drooped toward the earth.
not till morning did the boys come, and when they found the bird dead, they wept many and bitter tears.
they dug a pretty grave for him and adorned it with leaves of flowers.
the bird's lifeless body was placed in a smart red box and was buried with great honor.
poor bird!
while he was alive and could sing, they forgot him and allowed him to sit in his cage and suffer want, but now that he was dead, they mourned for him with many tears and buried him in royal state.
but the turf with the daisy on it was thrown out into the dusty road.
no one thought of the little flower that had felt more for the poor bird than had any one else and that would have been so glad to help and comfort him if she had been able.
the pea blossom
there were once five peas in one shell; they were green, and the shell was green, and so they believed that the whole world must be green also, which was a very natural conclusion.
the shell grew, and the peas grew; and as they grew they arranged themselves all in a row.
the sun shone without and warmed the shell, and the rain made it clear and transparent; it looked mild and agreeable in broad daylight and dark at night, just as it should.
and the peas, as they sat there, grew bigger and bigger, and more thoughtful as they mused, for they felt there must be something for them to do.
"are we to sit here forever?"
asked one.
"shall we not become hard, waiting here so long?
it seems to me there must be something outside; i feel sure of it."
weeks passed by; the peas became yellow, and the shell became yellow.
"all the world is turning yellow, i suppose," said they and perhaps they were right.
suddenly they felt a pull at the shell.
it was torn off and held in human hands; then it was slipped into the pocket of a jacket, together with other full pods.
"now we shall soon be let out," said one, and that was just what they all wanted.
"i should like to know which of us will travel farthest," said the smallest of the five; "and we shall soon see."
"what is to happen will happen," said the largest pea.
"crack!"
went the shell, and the five peas rolled out into the bright sunshine.
there they lay in a child's hand.
a little boy was holding them tightly.
he said they were fine peas for his pea-shooter, and immediately he put one in and shot it out.
"now i am flying out into the wide world," said the pea.
"catch me if you can."
and he was gone in a moment.
"i intend to fly straight to the sun," said the second.
"that is a shell that will suit me exactly, for it lets itself be seen."
and away he went.
"we will go to sleep wherever we find ourselves," said the next two; "we shall still be rolling onwards."
and they did fall to the floor and roll about, but they got into the pea-shooter for all that.
"we will go farthest of any," said they.
"what is to happen will happen," exclaimed the last one, as he was shot out of the pea-shooter.
up he flew against an old board under a garret window and fell into a little crevice which was almost filled with moss and soft earth.
the moss closed itself about him, and there he lay a captive indeed, but not unnoticed by god.
"what is to happen will happen," said he to himself.
within the little garret lived a poor woman, who went out to clean stoves, chop wood into small pieces, and do other hard work, for she was both strong and industrious.
yet she remained always poor, and at home in the garret lay her only daughter, not quite grown up and very delicate and weak.
for a whole year she had kept her bed, and it seemed as if she could neither die nor get well.
"she is going to her little sister," said the woman.
"i had only the two children, and it was not an easy thing to support them; but the good god provided for one of them by taking her home to himself.
the other was left to me, but i suppose they are not to be separated, and my sick girl will soon go to her sister in heaven."
all day long the sick girl lay quietly and patiently, while her mother went out to earn money.
spring came, and early one morning the sun shone through the little window and threw his rays mildly and pleasantly over the floor of the room.
just as the mother was going to her work, the sick girl fixed her gaze on the lowest pane of the window.
"mother," she exclaimed, "what can that little green thing be that peeps in at the window?
it is moving in the wind."
the mother stepped to the window and half opened it.
"oh!"
she said, "there is actually a little pea that has taken root and is putting out its green leaves.
how could it have got into this crack?
well, now, here is a little garden for you to amuse yourself with."
so the bed of the sick girl was drawn nearer to the window, that she might see the budding plant; and the mother went forth to her work.
"mother, i believe i shall get well," said the sick child in the evening.
"the sun has shone in here so bright and warm to-day, and the little pea is growing so fast, that i feel better, too, and think i shall get up and go out into the warm sunshine again."
"god grant it!"
said the mother, but she did not believe it would be so.
she took a little stick and propped up the green plant which had given her daughter such pleasure, so that it might not be broken by the winds.
she tied the piece of string to the window-sill and to the upper part of the frame, so that the pea tendrils might have something to twine round.
and the plant shot up so fast that one could almost see it grow from day to day.
"a flower is really coming," said the mother one morning.
at last she was beginning to let herself hope that her little sick daughter might indeed recover.
she remembered that for some time the child had spoken more cheerfully, and that during the last few days she had raised herself in bed in the morning to look with sparkling eyes at her little garden which contained but a single pea plant.
a week later the invalid sat up by the open window a whole hour, feeling quite happy in the warm sunshine, while outside grew the little plant, and on it a pink pea blossom in full bloom.
the little maiden bent down and gently kissed the delicate leaves.
this day was like a festival to her.
"our heavenly father himself has planted that pea and made it grow and flourish, to bring joy to you and hope to me, my blessed child," said the happy mother, and she smiled at the flower as if it had been an angel from god.
but what became of the other peas?
why, the one who flew out into the wide world and said, "catch me if you can," fell into a gutter on the roof of a house and ended his travels in the crop of a pigeon.
the two lazy ones were carried quite as far and were of some use, for they also were eaten by pigeons; but the fourth, who wanted to reach the sun, fell into a sink and lay there in the dirty water for days and weeks, till he had swelled to a great size.
"i am getting beautifully fat," said the pea; "i expect i shall burst at last; no pea could do more than that, i think.
i am the most remarkable of all the five that were in the shell."
and the sink agreed with the pea.
but the young girl, with sparkling eyes and the rosy hue of health upon her cheeks, stood at the open garret window and, folding her thin hands over the pea blossom, thanked god for what he had done.
the storks
on the last house in the village there lay a stork's nest.
the mother stork sat in it with her four little ones, who were stretching out their heads with their pointed black bills that had not yet turned red.
at a little distance, on the top of the roof, stood the father stork, bolt upright and as stiff as could be.
that he might not appear quite idle while standing sentry, he had drawn one leg up under him, as is the manner of storks.
one might have taken him to be carved in marble, so still did he stand.
"it must look very grand for my wife to have a sentinel to guard her nest," he thought.
"they can't know that i am her husband and will, of course, conclude that i am commanded to stand here by her nest.
it looks aristocratic!"
below, in the street, a crowd of children were playing.
when they chanced to catch sight of the storks, one of the boldest of the boys began to sing the old song about the stork.
the others soon joined him, but each sang the words that he happened to have heard.
this is one of the ways:
"stork, stork, fly away;            stand not on one leg to-day.
thy dear wife sits in the nest,            to lull the little ones to rest.
"there's a halter for one,            there's a stake for another,            for the third there's a gun,            and a spit for his brother!"
"only listen," said the young storks, "to what the boys are singing.
do you hear them say we're to be hanged and shot?"
"don't listen to what they say; if you don't mind, it won't hurt you,"
said the mother.
but the boys went on singing, and pointed mockingly at the sentinel stork.
only one boy, whom they called peter, said it was a shame to make game of animals, and he would not join in the singing at all.
the mother stork tried to comfort her young ones.
"don't mind them," she said; "see how quiet your father stands on one leg there."
"but we are afraid," said the little ones, drawing back their beaks into the nest.
the children assembled again on the next day, and no sooner did they see the storks than they again began their song:
"the first will be hanged,            the second be hit."
"tell us, are we to be hanged and burned?"
asked the young storks.
"no, no; certainly not," replied the mother.
"you are to learn to fly, and then we shall pay a visit to the frogs.
they will bow to us in the water and sing 'croak!
croak!'
and we shall eat them up, and that will be a great treat."
"and then what?"
questioned the young storks.
"oh, then all the storks in the land will assemble, and the autumn sports will begin; only then one must be able to fly well, for that is very important.
whoever does not fly as he should will be pierced to death by the general's beak, so mind that you learn well, when the drill begins."
"yes, but then, after that, we shall be killed, as the boys say.
hark!
they are singing it again."
"attend to me and not to them," said the mother stork.
"after the great review we shall fly away to warm countries, far from here, over hills and forests.
to egypt we shall fly, where are the three-cornered houses of stone, one point of which reaches to the clouds; they are called pyramids and are older than a stork can imagine.
in that same land there is a river which overflows its banks and turns the whole country into mire.
we shall go into the mire and eat frogs."
"oh!
oh!"
exclaimed all the youngsters.
"yes, it is indeed a delightful place.
we need do nothing all day long but eat; and while we are feasting there so comfortably, in this country there is not a green leaf left on the trees.
it is so cold here that the very clouds freeze in lumps or fall down in little white rags."
it was hail and snow that she meant, but she did not know how to say it better.
"and will the naughty boys freeze in lumps?"
asked the young storks.
"no, they will not freeze in lumps, but they will come near it, and they will sit moping and cowering in gloomy rooms while you are flying about in foreign lands, amid bright flowers and warm sunshine."
some time passed, and the nestlings had grown so large and strong that they could stand upright in the nest and look all about them.
every day the father stork came with delicious frogs, nice little snakes, and other such dainties that storks delight in.
how funny it was to see the clever feats he performed to amuse them!
he would lay his head right round upon his tail; and sometimes he would clatter with his beak, as if it were a little rattle; or he would tell them stories, all relating to swamps and fens.
"come, children," said the mother stork one day, "now you must learn to fly."
and all the four young storks had to go out on the ridge of the roof.
how they did totter and stagger about!
they tried to balance themselves with their wings, but came very near falling to the ground.
"look at me!"
said the mother.
"this is the way to hold your head.
and thus you must place your feet.
left!
right!
left!
right!
that's what will help you on in the world."
then she flew a little way, and the young ones took a clumsy little leap.
bump!
plump!
down they fell, for their bodies were still too heavy for them.
"i will not fly," said one of the young storks, as he crept back to the nest.
"i don't care about going to warm countries."
"do you want to stay here and freeze when the winter comes?
will you wait till the boys come to hang, to burn, or to roast you?
well, then, i'll call them."
"oh, no!"
cried the timid stork, hopping back to the roof with the rest.
by the third day they actually began to fly a little.
then they had no doubt that they could soar or hover in the air, upborne by their wings.
and this they attempted to do, but down they fell, flapping their wings as fast as they could.
again the boys came to the street, singing their song, "storks, storks, fly home and rest."
"shall we fly down and peck them?"
asked the young ones.
"no, leave them alone.
attend to me; that's far more important.
one two three!
now we fly round to the right.
one two three!
now to the left, round the chimney.
there!
that was very good.
that last flap with your wings and the kick with your feet were so graceful and proper that to-morrow you shall fly with me to the marsh.
several of the nicest stork families will be there with their children.
let me see that mine are the best bred of all.
carry your heads high and mind you strut about proudly, for that looks well and helps to make one respected."
"but shall we not take revenge upon the naughty boys?"
asked the young storks.
"no, no; let them scream away, as much as they please.
you are to fly up to the clouds and away to the land of the pyramids, while they are freezing and can neither see a green leaf nor taste a sweet apple."
"but we will revenge ourselves," they whispered one to another.
and then the training began again.
among all the children down in the street the one that seemed most bent upon singing the song that made game of the storks was the boy who had begun it, and he was a little fellow hardly more than six years old.
the young storks, to be sure, thought he was at least a hundred, for he was much bigger than their parents, and, besides, what did they know about the ages of either children or grown men?
their whole vengeance was to be aimed at this one boy.
it was always he who began the song and persisted in mocking them.
the young storks were very angry, and as they grew larger they also grew less patient under insult, and their mother was at last obliged to promise them that they might be revenged but not until the day of their departure.
"we must first see how you carry yourselves at the great review.
if you do so badly that the general runs his beak through you, then the boys will be in the right at least in one way.
we must wait and see!"
"yes, you shall see!"
cried all the young storks; and they took the greatest pains, practicing every day, until they flew so evenly and so lightly that it was a pleasure to see them.
the autumn now set in; all the storks began to assemble, in order to start for the warm countries and leave winter behind them.
and such exercises as there were!
young fledglings were set to fly over forests and villages, to see if they were equal to the long journey that was before them.
so well did our young storks acquit themselves, that, as a proof of the satisfaction they had given, the mark they got was, "remarkably well," with a present of a frog and a snake, which they lost no time in eating.
"now," said they, "we will be revenged."
"yes, certainly," said their mother; "and i have thought of a way that will surely be the fairest.
i know a pond where all the little human children lie till the stork comes to take them to their parents.
there lie the pretty little babies, dreaming more sweetly than they ever dream afterwards.
all the parents are wishing for one of these little ones, and the children all want a sister or a brother.
now we'll fly to the pond and bring back a baby for every child who did not sing the naughty song that made game of the storks."
"but the very naughty boy who was the first to begin the song," cried the young storks, "what shall we do with him?"
"there is a little dead child in the pond one that has dreamed itself to death.
we will bring that for him.
then he will cry because we have brought a little dead brother to him.
"but that good boy, you have not forgotten him!
the one who said it was a shame to mock at the animals; for him we will bring both a brother and a sister.
and because his name is peter, all of you shall be called peter, too."
all was done as the mother had said; the storks were named peter, and so they are called to this day.
the wild swans
far away, in the land to which the swallows fly when it is winter, dwelt a king who had eleven sons, and one daughter, named eliza.
the eleven brothers were princes, and each went to school with a star on his breast and a sword by his side.
they wrote with diamond pencils on golden slates and learned their lessons so quickly and read so easily that every one knew they were princes.
their sister eliza sat on a little stool of plate-glass and had a book full of pictures, which had cost as much as half a kingdom.
happy, indeed, were these children; but they were not long to remain so, for their father, the king, married a queen who did not love the children, and who proved to be a wicked sorceress.
the queen began to show her unkindness the very first day.
while the great festivities were taking place in the palace, the children played at receiving company; but the queen, instead of sending them the cakes and apples that were left from the feast, as was customary, gave them some sand in a teacup and told them to pretend it was something good.
the next week she sent the little eliza into the country to a peasant and his wife.
then she told the king so many untrue things about the young princes that he gave himself no more trouble about them.
"go out into the world and look after yourselves," said the queen.
"fly like great birds without a voice."
but she could not make it so bad for them as she would have liked, for they were turned into eleven beautiful wild swans.
with a strange cry, they flew through the windows of the palace, over the park, to the forest beyond.
it was yet early morning when they passed the peasant's cottage where their sister lay asleep in her room.
they hovered over the roof, twisting their long necks and flapping their wings, but no one heard them or saw them, so they at last flew away, high up in the clouds, and over the wide world they sped till they came to a thick, dark wood, which stretched far away to the seashore.
poor little eliza was alone in the peasant's room playing with a green leaf, for she had no other playthings.
she pierced a hole in the leaf, and when she looked through it at the sun she seemed to see her brothers' clear eyes, and when the warm sun shone on her cheeks she thought of all the kisses they had given her.
one day passed just like another.
sometimes the winds rustled through the leaves of the rosebush and whispered to the roses, "who can be more beautiful than you?"
and the roses would shake their heads and say, "eliza is."
and when the old woman sat at the cottage door on sunday and read her hymn book, the wind would flutter the leaves and say to the book, "who can be more pious than you?"
and then the hymn book would answer, "eliza."
and the roses and the hymn book told the truth.
when she was fifteen she returned home, but because she was so beautiful the witch-queen became full of spite and hatred toward her.
willingly would she have turned her into a swan like her brothers, but she did not dare to do so for fear of the king.
early one morning the queen went into the bathroom; it was built of marble and had soft cushions trimmed with the most beautiful tapestry.
she took three toads with her, and kissed them, saying to the first, "when eliza comes to bathe seat yourself upon her head, that she may become as stupid as you are."
to the second toad she said, "place yourself on her forehead, that she may become as ugly as you are, and that her friends may not know her."
"rest on her heart," she whispered to the third; "then she will have evil inclinations and suffer because of them."
so she put the toads into the clear water, which at once turned green.
she next called eliza and helped her undress and get into the bath.
as eliza dipped her head under the water one of the toads sat on her hair, a second on her forehead, and a third on her breast.
but she did not seem to notice them, and when she rose from the water there were three red poppies floating upon it.
had not the creatures been venomous or had they not been kissed by the witch, they would have become red roses.
at all events they became flowers, because they had rested on eliza's head and on her heart.
she was too good and too innocent for sorcery to have any power over her.
when the wicked queen saw this, she rubbed eliza's face with walnut juice, so that she was quite brown; then she tangled her beautiful hair and smeared it with disgusting ointment until it was quite impossible to recognize her.
the king was shocked, and declared she was not his daughter.
no one but the watchdog and the swallows knew her, and they were only poor animals and could say nothing.
then poor eliza wept and thought of her eleven brothers who were far away.
sorrowfully she stole from the palace and walked the whole day over fields and moors, till she came to the great forest.
she knew not in what direction to go, but she was so unhappy and longed so for her brothers, who, like herself, had been driven out into the world, that she was determined to seek them.
she had been in the wood only a short time when night came on and she quite lost the path; so she laid herself down on the soft moss, offered up her evening prayer, and leaned her head against the stump of a tree.
all nature was silent, and the soft, mild air fanned her forehead.
the light of hundreds of glowworms shone amidst the grass and the moss like green fire, and if she touched a twig with her hand, ever so lightly, the brilliant insects fell down around her like shooting stars.
all night long she dreamed of her brothers.
she thought they were all children again, playing together.
she saw them writing with their diamond pencils on golden slates, while she looked at the beautiful picture book which had cost half a kingdom.
they were not writing lines and letters, as they used to do, but descriptions of the noble deeds they had performed and of all that they had discovered and seen.
in the picture book, too, everything was living.
the birds sang, and the people came out of the book and spoke to eliza and her brothers; but as the leaves were turned over they darted back again to their places, that all might be in order.
when she awoke, the sun was high in the heavens.
she could not see it, for the lofty trees spread their branches thickly overhead, but its gleams here and there shone through the leaves like a gauzy golden mist.
there was a sweet fragrance from the fresh verdure, and the birds came near and almost perched on her shoulders.
she heard water rippling from a number of springs, all flowing into a lake with golden sands.
bushes grew thickly round the lake, and at one spot, where an opening had been made by a deer, eliza went down to the water.
the lake was so clear that had not the wind rustled the branches of the trees and the bushes so that they moved, they would have seemed painted in the depths of the lake; for every leaf, whether in the shade or in the sunshine, was reflected in the water.
when eliza saw her own face she was quite terrified at finding it so brown and ugly, but after she had wet her little hand and rubbed her eyes and forehead, the white skin gleamed forth once more; and when she had undressed and dipped herself in the fresh water, a more beautiful king's daughter could not have been found anywhere in the wide world.
as soon as she had dressed herself again and braided her long hair, she went to the bubbling spring and drank some water out of the hollow of her hand.
then she wandered far into the forest, not knowing whither she went.
she thought of her brothers and of her father and mother and felt sure that god would not forsake her.
it is god who makes the wild apples grow in the wood to satisfy the hungry, and he now showed her one of these trees, which was so loaded with fruit that the boughs bent beneath the weight.
here she ate her noonday meal, and then placing props under the boughs, she went into the gloomiest depths of the forest.
it was so still that she could hear the sound of her own footsteps, as well as the rustling of every withered leaf which she crushed under her feet.
not a bird was to be seen, not a sunbeam could penetrate the large, dark boughs of the trees.
the lofty trunks stood so close together that when she looked before her it seemed as if she were enclosed within trelliswork.
here was such solitude as she had never known before!
the night was very dark.
not a glowworm was glittering in the moss.
sorrowfully eliza laid herself down to sleep.
after a while it seemed to her as if the branches of the trees parted over her head and the mild eyes of angels looked down upon her from heaven.
in the morning, when she awoke, she knew not whether this had really been so or whether she had dreamed it.
she continued her wandering, but she had not gone far when she met an old woman who had berries in her basket and who gave her a few to eat.
eliza asked her if she had not seen eleven princes riding through the forest.
"no," replied the old woman, "but i saw yesterday eleven swans with gold crowns on their heads, swimming in the river close by."
then she led eliza a little distance to a sloping bank, at the foot of which ran a little river.
the trees on its banks stretched their long leafy branches across the water toward each other, and where they did not meet naturally the roots had torn themselves away from the ground, so that the branches might mingle their foliage as they hung over the water.
eliza bade the old woman farewell and walked by the flowing river till she reached the shore of the open sea.
and there, before her eyes, lay the glorious ocean, but not a sail appeared on its surface; not even a boat could be seen.
how was she to go farther?
she noticed how the countless pebbles on the shore had been smoothed and rounded by the action of the water.
glass, iron, stones, everything that lay there mingled together, had been shaped by the same power until they were as smooth as her own delicate hand.
"the water rolls on without weariness," she said, "till all that is hard becomes smooth; so will i be unwearied in my task.
thanks for your lesson, bright rolling waves; my heart tells me you will one day lead me to my dear brothers."
on the foam-covered seaweeds lay eleven white swan feathers, which she gathered and carried with her.
drops of water lay upon them; whether they were dewdrops or tears no one could say.
it was lonely on the seashore, but she did not know it, for the ever-moving sea showed more changes in a few hours than the most varying lake could produce in a whole year.
when a black, heavy cloud arose, it was as if the sea said, "i can look dark and angry too"; and then the wind blew, and the waves turned to white foam as they rolled.
when the wind slept and the clouds glowed with the red sunset, the sea looked like a rose leaf.
sometimes it became green and sometimes white.
but, however quietly it lay, the waves were always restless on the shore and rose and fell like the breast of a sleeping child.
when the sun was about to set, eliza saw eleven white swans, with golden crowns on their heads, flying toward the land, one behind the other, like a long white ribbon.
she went down the slope from the shore and hid herself behind the bushes.
the swans alighted quite close to her, flapping their great white wings.
as soon as the sun had disappeared under the water, the feathers of the swans fell off and eleven beautiful princes, eliza's brothers, stood near her.
she uttered a loud cry, for, although they were very much changed, she knew them immediately.
she sprang into their arms and called them each by name.
very happy the princes were to see their little sister again; they knew her, although she had grown so tall and beautiful.
they laughed and wept and told each other how cruelly they had been treated by their stepmother.
"we brothers," said the eldest, "fly about as wild swans while the sun is in the sky, but as soon as it sinks behind the hills we recover our human shape.
therefore we must always be near a resting place before sunset; for if we were flying toward the clouds when we recovered our human form, we should sink deep into the sea.
"we do not dwell here, but in a land just as fair that lies far across the ocean; the way is long, and there is no island upon which we can pass the night nothing but a little rock rising out of the sea, upon which, even crowded together, we can scarcely stand with safety.
if the sea is rough, the foam dashes over us; yet we thank god for this rock.
we have passed whole nights upon it, or we should never have reached our beloved fatherland, for our flight across the sea occupies two of the longest days in the year.
"we have permission to visit our home once every year and to remain eleven days.
then we fly across the forest to look once more at the palace where our father dwells and where we were born, and at the church beneath whose shade our mother lies buried.
the very trees and bushes here seem related to us.
the wild horses leap over the plains as we have seen them in our childhood.
the charcoal burners sing the old songs to which we have danced as children.
this is our fatherland, to which we are drawn by loving ties; and here we have found you, our dear little sister.
two days longer we can remain here, and then we must fly away to a beautiful land which is not our home.
how can we take you with us?
we have neither ship nor boat."
"how can i break this spell?"
asked the sister.
and they talked about it nearly the whole night, slumbering only a few hours.
eliza was awakened by the rustling of the wings of swans soaring above her.
her brothers were again changed to swans.
they flew in circles, wider and wider, till they were far away; but one of them, the youngest, remained behind and laid his head in his sister's lap, while she stroked his wings.
they remained together the whole day.
towards evening the rest came back, and as the sun went down they resumed their natural forms.
"to-morrow," said one, "we shall fly away, not to return again till a whole year has passed.
but we cannot leave you here.
have you courage to go with us?
my arm is strong enough to carry you through the wood, and will not all our wings be strong enough to bear you over the sea?"
"yes, take me with you," said eliza.
they spent the whole night in weaving a large, strong net of the pliant willow and rushes.
on this eliza laid herself down to sleep, and when the sun rose and her brothers again became wild swans, they took up the net with their beaks, and flew up to the clouds with their dear sister, who still slept.
when the sunbeams fell on her face, one of the swans soared over her head so that his broad wings might shade her.
they were far from the land when eliza awoke.
she thought she must still be dreaming, it seemed so strange to feel herself being carried high in the air over the sea.
by her side lay a branch full of beautiful ripe berries and a bundle of sweet-tasting roots; the youngest of her brothers had gathered them and placed them there.
she smiled her thanks to him; she knew it was the same one that was hovering over her to shade her with his wings.
they were now so high that a large ship beneath them looked like a white sea gull skimming the waves.
a great cloud floating behind them appeared like a vast mountain, and upon it eliza saw her own shadow and those of the eleven swans, like gigantic flying things.
altogether it formed a more beautiful picture than she had ever before seen; but as the sun rose higher and the clouds were left behind, the picture vanished.
onward the whole day they flew through the air like winged arrows, yet more slowly than usual, for they had their sister to carry.
the weather grew threatening, and eliza watched the sinking sun with great anxiety, for the little rock in the ocean was not yet in sight.
it seemed to her as if the swans were exerting themselves to the utmost.
alas!
she was the cause of their not advancing more quickly.
when the sun set they would change to men, fall into the sea, and be drowned.
then she offered a prayer from her inmost heart, but still no rock appeared.
dark clouds came nearer, the gusts of wind told of the coming storm, while from a thick, heavy mass of clouds the lightning burst forth, flash after flash.
the sun had reached the edge of the sea, when the swans darted down so swiftly that eliza's heart trembled; she believed they were falling, but they again soared onward.
presently, and by this time the sun was half hidden by the waves, she caught sight of the rock just below them.
it did not look larger than a seal's head thrust out of the water.
the sun sank so rapidly that at the moment their feet touched the rock it shone only like a star, and at last disappeared like the dying spark in a piece of burnt paper.
her brothers stood close around her with arms linked together, for there was not the smallest space to spare.
the sea dashed against the rock and covered them with spray.
the heavens were lighted up with continual flashes, and thunder rolled from the clouds.
but the sister and brothers stood holding each other's hands, and singing hymns.
in the early dawn the air became calm and still, and at sunrise the swans flew away from the rock, bearing their sister with them.
the sea was still rough, and from their great height the white foam on the dark-green waves looked like millions of swans swimming on the water.
as the sun rose higher, eliza saw before her, floating in the air, a range of mountains with shining masses of ice on their summits.
in the center rose a castle that seemed a mile long, with rows of columns rising one above another, while around it palm trees waved and flowers as large as mill wheels bloomed.
she asked if this was the land to which they were hastening.
the swans shook their heads, for what she beheld were the beautiful, ever-changing cloud-palaces of the fata morgana, into which no mortal can enter.
eliza was still gazing at the scene, when mountains, forests, and castles melted away, and twenty stately churches rose in their stead, with high towers and pointed gothic windows.
she even fancied she could hear the tones of the organ, but it was the music of the murmuring sea.
as they drew nearer to the churches, these too were changed and became a fleet of ships, which seemed to be sailing beneath her; but when she looked again she saw only a sea mist gliding over the ocean.
one scene melted into another, until at last she saw the real land to which they were bound, with its blue mountains, its cedar forests, and its cities and palaces.
long before the sun went down she was sitting on a rock in front of a large cave, the floor of which was overgrown with delicate green creeping plants, like an embroidered carpet.
"now we shall expect to hear what you dream of to-night," said the youngest brother, as he showed his sister her bedroom.
"heaven grant that i may dream how to release you!"
she replied.
and this thought took such hold upon her mind that she prayed earnestly to god for help, and even in her sleep she continued to pray.
then it seemed to her that she was flying high in the air toward the cloudy palace of the fata morgana, and that a fairy came out to meet her, radiant and beautiful, yet much like the old woman who had given her berries in the wood, and who had told her of the swans with golden crowns on their heads.
"your brothers can be released," said she, "if you only have courage and perseverance.
water is softer than your own delicate hands, and yet it polishes and shapes stones.
but it feels no pain such as your fingers will feel; it has no soul and cannot suffer such agony and torment as you will have to endure.
do you see the stinging nettle which i hold in my hand?
quantities of the same sort grow round the cave in which you sleep, but only these, and those that grow on the graves of a churchyard, will be of any use to you.
these you must gather, even while they burn blisters on your hands.
break them to pieces with your hands and feet, and they will become flax, from which you must spin and weave eleven coats with long sleeves; if these are then thrown over the eleven swans, the spell will be broken.
but remember well, that from the moment you commence your task until it is finished, even though it occupy years of your life, you must not speak.
the first word you utter will pierce the hearts of your brothers like a deadly dagger.
their lives hang upon your tongue.
remember all that i have told you."
and as she finished speaking, she touched eliza's hand lightly with the nettle, and a pain as of burning fire awoke her.
it was broad daylight, and near her lay a nettle like the one she had seen in her dream.
she fell on her knees and offered thanks to god.
then she went forth from the cave to begin work with her delicate hands.
she groped in amongst the ugly nettles, which burned great blisters on her hands and arms, but she determined to bear the pain gladly if she could only release her dear brothers.
so she bruised the nettles with her bare feet and spun the flax.
at sunset her brothers returned, and were much frightened when she did not speak.
they believed her to be under the spell of some new sorcery, but when they saw her hands they understood what she was doing in their behalf.
the youngest brother wept, and where his tears touched her the pain ceased and the burning blisters vanished.
eliza kept to her work all night, for she could not rest till she had released her brothers.
during the whole of the following day, while her brothers were absent, she sat in solitude, but never before had the time flown so quickly.
one coat was already finished and she had begun the second, when she heard a huntsman's horn and was struck with fear.
as the sound came nearer and nearer, she also heard dogs barking, and fled with terror into the cave.
she hastily bound together the nettles she had gathered, and sat upon them.
in a moment there came bounding toward her out of the ravine a great dog, and then another and another; they ran back and forth barking furiously, until in a few minutes all the huntsmen stood before the cave.
the handsomest of them was the king of the country, who, when he saw the beautiful maiden, advanced toward her, saying, "how did you come here, my sweet child?"
eliza shook her head.
she dared not speak, for it would cost her brothers their deliverance and their lives.
and she hid her hands under her apron, so that the king might not see how she was suffering.
"come with me," he said; "here you cannot remain.
if you are as good as you are beautiful, i will dress you in silk and velvet, i will place a golden crown on your head, and you shall rule and make your home in my richest castle."
then he lifted her onto his horse.
she wept and wrung her hands, but the king said: "i wish only your happiness.
a time will come when you will thank me for this."
he galloped away over the mountains, holding her before him on his horse, and the hunters followed behind them.
as the sun went down they approached a fair, royal city, with churches and cupolas.
on arriving at the castle, the king led her into marble halls, where large fountains played and where the walls and the ceilings were covered with rich paintings.
but she had no eyes for all these glorious sights; she could only mourn and weep.
patiently she allowed the women to array her in royal robes, to weave pearls in her hair, and to draw soft gloves over her blistered fingers.
as she stood arrayed in her rich dress, she looked so dazzlingly beautiful that the court bowed low in her presence.
then the king declared his intention of making her his bride, but the archbishop shook his head and whispered that the fair young maiden was only a witch, who had blinded the king's eyes and ensnared his heart.
the king would not listen to him, however, and ordered the music to sound, the daintiest dishes to be served, and the loveliest maidens to dance before them.
afterwards he led her through fragrant gardens and lofty halls, but not a smile appeared on her lips or sparkled in her eyes.
she looked the very picture of grief.
then the king opened the door of a little chamber in which she was to sleep.
it was adorned with rich green tapestry and resembled the cave in which he had found her.
on the floor lay the bundle of flax which she had spun from the nettles, and under the ceiling hung the coat she had made.
these things had been brought away from the cave as curiosities, by one of the huntsmen.
"here you can dream yourself back again in the old home in the cave,"
said the king; "here is the work with which you employed yourself.
it will amuse you now, in the midst of all this splendor, to think of that time."
when eliza saw all these things which lay so near her heart, a smile played around her mouth, and the crimson blood rushed to her cheeks.
the thought of her brothers and their release made her so joyful that she kissed the king's hand.
then he pressed her to his heart.
very soon the joyous church bells announced the marriage feast; the beautiful dumb girl of the woods was to be made queen of the country.
a single word would cost her brothers their lives, but she loved the kind, handsome king, who did everything to make her happy, more and more each day; she loved him with her whole heart, and her eyes beamed with the love she dared not speak.
oh!
if she could only confide in him and tell him of her grief.
but dumb she must remain till her task was finished.
therefore at night she crept away into her little chamber which had been decked out to look like the cave and quickly wove one coat after another.
but when she began the seventh, she found she had no more flax.
she knew that the nettles she wanted to use grew in the churchyard and that she must pluck them herself.
how should she get out there?
"oh, what is the pain in my fingers to the torment which my heart endures?"
thought she.
"i must venture; i shall not be denied help from heaven."
then with a trembling heart, as if she were about to perform a wicked deed, eliza crept into the garden in the broad moonlight, and passed through the narrow walks and the deserted streets till she reached the churchyard.
she prayed silently, gathered the burning nettles, and carried them home with her to the castle.
one person only had seen her, and that was the archbishop he was awake while others slept.
now he felt sure that his suspicions were correct; all was not right with the queen; she was a witch and had bewitched the king and all the people.
secretly he told the king what he had seen and what he feared, and as the hard words came from his tongue, the carved images of the saints shook their heads as if they would say, "it is not so; eliza is innocent."
but the archbishop interpreted it in another way; he believed that they witnessed against her and were shaking their heads at her wickedness.
two tears rolled down the king's cheeks.
he went home with doubt in his heart, and at night pretended to sleep.
but no real sleep came to his eyes, for every night he saw eliza get up and disappear from her chamber.
day by day his brow became darker, and eliza saw it, and although she did not understand the reason, it alarmed her and made her heart tremble for her brothers.
her hot tears glittered like pearls on the regal velvet and diamonds, while all who saw her were wishing they could be queen.
in the meantime she had almost finished her task; only one of her brothers' coats was wanting, but she had no flax left and not a single nettle.
once more only, and for the last time, must she venture to the churchyard and pluck a few handfuls.
she went, and the king and the archbishop followed her.
the king turned away his head and said, "the people must condemn her."
quickly she was condemned to suffer death by fire.
away from the gorgeous regal halls she was led to a dark, dreary cell, where the wind whistled through the iron bars.
instead of the velvet and silk dresses, they gave her the ten coats which she had woven, to cover her, and the bundle of nettles for a pillow.
but they could have given her nothing that would have pleased her more.
she continued her task with joy and prayed for help, while the street boys sang jeering songs about her and not a soul comforted her with a kind word.
toward evening she heard at the grating the flutter of a swan's wing; it was her youngest brother.
he had found his sister, and she sobbed for joy, although she knew that probably this was the last night she had to live.
still, she had hope, for her task was almost finished and her brothers were come.
then the archbishop arrived, to be with her during her last hours as he had promised the king.
she shook her head and begged him, by looks and gestures, not to stay; for in this night she knew she must finish her task, otherwise all her pain and tears and sleepless nights would have been suffered in vain.
the archbishop withdrew, uttering bitter words against her, but she knew that she was innocent and diligently continued her work.
little mice ran about the floor, dragging the nettles to her feet, to help as much as they could; and a thrush, sitting outside the grating of the window, sang to her the whole night long as sweetly as possible, to keep up her spirits.
it was still twilight, and at least an hour before sunrise, when the eleven brothers stood at the castle gate and demanded to be brought before the king.
they were told it could not be; it was yet night; the king slept and could not be disturbed.
they threatened, they entreated, until the guard appeared, and even the king himself, inquiring what all the noise meant.
at this moment the sun rose, and the eleven brothers were seen no more, but eleven wild swans flew away over the castle.
now all the people came streaming forth from the gates of the city to see the witch burned.
an old horse drew the cart on which she sat.
they had dressed her in a garment of coarse sackcloth.
her lovely hair hung loose on her shoulders, her cheeks were deadly pale, her lips moved silently while her fingers still worked at the green flax.
even on the way to death she would not give up her task.
the ten finished coats lay at her feet; she was working hard at the eleventh, while the mob jeered her and said: "see the witch; how she mutters!
she has no hymn book in her hand; she sits there with her ugly sorcery.
let us tear it into a thousand pieces."
they pressed toward her, and doubtless would have destroyed the coats had not, at that moment, eleven wild swans flown over her and alighted on the cart.
they flapped their large wings, and the crowd drew back in alarm.
"it is a sign from heaven that she is innocent," whispered many of them; but they did not venture to say it aloud.
as the executioner seized her by the hand to lift her out of the cart, she hastily threw the eleven coats over the eleven swans, and they immediately became eleven handsome princes; but the youngest had a swan's wing instead of an arm, for she had not been able to finish the last sleeve of the coat.
"now i may speak," she exclaimed.
"i am innocent."
then the people, who saw what had happened, bowed to her as before a saint; but she sank unconscious in her brothers' arms, overcome with suspense, anguish, and pain.
"yes, she is innocent," said the eldest brother, and related all that had taken place.
while he spoke, there rose in the air a fragrance as from millions of roses.
every piece of fagot in the pile made to burn her had taken root, and threw out branches until the whole appeared like a thick hedge, large and high, covered with roses; while above all bloomed a white, shining flower that glittered like a star.
this flower the king plucked, and when he placed it in eliza's bosom she awoke from her swoon with peace and happiness in her heart.
then all the church bells rang of themselves, and the birds came in great flocks.
and a marriage procession, such as no king had ever before seen, returned to the castle.
the last dream of the old oak
in the forest, high up on the steep shore and not far from the open seacoast, stood a very old oak tree.
it was just three hundred and sixty-five years old, but that long time was to the tree as the same number of days might be to us.
we wake by day and sleep by night, and then we have our dreams.
it is different with the tree; it is obliged to keep awake through three seasons of the year and does not get any sleep till winter comes.
winter is its time for rest its night after the long day of spring, summer, and autumn.
during many a warm summer, the ephemeras, which are flies that exist for only a day, had fluttered about the old oak, enjoyed life, and felt happy.
and if, for a moment, one of the tiny creatures rested on the large, fresh leaves, the tree would always say: "poor little creature!
your whole life consists of but a single day.
how very short!
it must be quite melancholy."
"melancholy!
what do you mean?"
the little creature would always reply.
"why do you say that?
everything around me is so wonderfully bright and warm and beautiful that it makes me joyous."
"but only for one day, and then it is all over."
"over!"
repeated the fly; "what is the meaning of 'all over'?
are you 'all over' too?"
"no, i shall very likely live for thousands of your days, and my day is whole seasons long; indeed, it is so long that you could never reckon it up."
"no?
then i don't understand you.
you may have thousands of my days, but i have thousands of moments in which i can be merry and happy.
does all the beauty of the world cease when you die?"
"no," replied the tree; "it will certainly last much longer, infinitely longer than i can think of."
"well, then," said the little fly, "we have the same time to live, only we reckon differently."
and the little creature danced and floated in the air, rejoicing in its delicate wings of gauze and velvet, rejoicing in the balmy breezes laden with the fragrance from the clover fields and wild roses, elder blossoms and honeysuckle, and from the garden hedges of wild thyme, primroses, and mint.
the perfume of all these was so strong that it almost intoxicated the little fly.
the long and beautiful day had been so full of joy and sweet delights, that, when the sun sank, the fly felt tired of all its happiness and enjoyment.
its wings could sustain it no longer, and gently and slowly it glided down to the soft, waving blades of grass, nodded its little head as well as it could, and slept peacefully and sweetly.
the fly was dead.
"poor little ephemera!"
said the oak; "what a short life!"
and so on every summer day the dance was repeated, the same questions were asked and the same answers given, and there was the same peaceful falling asleep at sunset.
this continued through many generations of ephemeras, and all of them felt merry and happy.
the oak remained awake through the morning of spring, the noon of summer, and the evening of autumn; its time of rest, its night, drew near its winter was coming.
here fell a leaf and there fell a leaf.
already the storms were singing: "good night, good night.
we will rock you and lull you.
go to sleep, go to sleep.
we will sing you to sleep, and shake you to sleep, and it will do your old twigs good; they will even crackle with pleasure.
sleep sweetly, sleep sweetly, it is your three hundred and sixty-fifth night.
you are still very young in the world.
sleep sweetly; the clouds will drop snow upon you, which will be your coverlid, warm and sheltering to your feet.
sweet sleep to you, and pleasant dreams."
and there stood the oak, stripped of all its leaves, left to rest during the whole of a long winter, and to dream many dreams of events that had happened, just as men dream.
the great tree had once been small; indeed, in its cradle it had been an acorn.
according to human reckoning, it was now in the fourth century of its existence.
it was the largest and best tree in the forest.
its summit towered above all the other trees and could be seen far out at sea, so that it served as a landmark to the sailors.
it had no idea how many eyes looked eagerly for it.
in its topmost branches the wood pigeon built her nest, and the cuckoo sang his well-known song, the familiar notes echoing among the boughs; and in autumn, when the leaves looked like beaten copper plates, the birds of passage came and rested on the branches before beginning their flight across the sea.
but now that it was winter, the tree stood leafless, so that every one could see how crooked and bent were the branches that sprang forth from the trunk.
crows and rooks came by turns and sat on them, and talked of the hard times that were beginning, and how difficult it was in winter to obtain a living.
it was just at the holy christmas time that the tree dreamed a dream.
the tree had doubtless a feeling that the festive time had arrived, and in its dream fancied it heard the bells of the churches ringing.
and yet it seemed to be a beautiful summer's day, mild and warm.
the tree's mighty summit was crowned with spreading, fresh green foliage; the sunbeams played among its leaves and branches, and the air was full of fragrance from herb and blossom; painted butterflies chased each other; the summer flies danced around it as if the world had been created merely that they might dance and be merry.
all that had happened to the tree during all the years of its life seemed to pass before it as if in a festive pageant.
it saw the knights of olden times and noble ladies ride through the wood on their gallant steeds, with plumes waving in their hats and with falcons on their wrists, while the hunting horn sounded and the dogs barked.
it saw hostile warriors, in colored dress and glittering armor, with spear and halberd, pitching their tents and again taking them down; the watchfires blazed, and men sang and slept under the hospitable shelter of the tree.
it saw lovers meet in quiet happiness near it in the moonshine, and carve the initials of their names in the grayish-green bark of its trunk.
once, but long years had passed since then, guitars and æolian harps had been hung on its boughs by merry travelers; now they seemed to hang there again, and their marvelous notes sounded again.
the wood pigeons cooed as if to express the feelings of the tree, and the cuckoo called out to tell it how many summer days it had yet to live.
then it appeared to it that new life was thrilling through every fiber of root and stem and leaf, rising even to its highest branches.
the tree felt itself stretching and spreading out, while through the root beneath the earth ran the warm vigor of life.
as it grew higher and still higher and its strength increased, the topmost boughs became broader and fuller; and in proportion to its growth its self-satisfaction increased, and there came a joyous longing to grow higher and higher to reach even to the warm, bright sun itself.
already had its topmost branches pierced the clouds, which floated beneath them like troops of birds of passage or large white swans; every leaf seemed gifted with sight, as if it possessed eyes to see.
the stars became visible in broad daylight, large and sparkling, like clear and gentle eyes.
they brought to the tree's memory the light that it had seen in the eyes of a child and in the eyes of lovers who had once met beneath the branches of the old oak.
these were wonderful and happy moments for the old oak, full of peace and joy; and yet amidst all this happiness, the tree felt a yearning desire that all the other trees, bushes, herbs, and flowers beneath it might also be able to rise higher, to see all this splendor and experience the same happiness.
the grand, majestic oak could not be quite happy in its enjoyment until all the rest, both great and small, could share it.
and this feeling of yearning trembled through every branch, through every leaf, as warmly and fervently as through a human heart.
the summit of the tree waved to and fro and bent downwards, as if in its silent longing it sought something.
then there came to it the fragrance of thyme and the more powerful scent of honeysuckle and violets, and the tree fancied it heard the note of the cuckoo.
at length its longing was satisfied.
up through the clouds came the green summits of the forest trees, and the oak watched them rising higher and higher.
bush and herb shot upward, and some even tore themselves up by the roots to rise more quickly.
the quickest of all was the birch tree.
like a lightning flash the slender stem shot upwards in a zigzag line, the branches spreading round it like green gauze and banners.
every native of the wood, even to the brown and feathery rushes, grew with the rest, while the birds ascended with the melody of song.
on a blade of grass that fluttered in the air like a long green ribbon sat a grasshopper cleaning its wings with its legs.
may beetles hummed, bees murmured, birds sang each in its own way; the air was filled with the sounds of song and gladness.
"but where is the little blue flower that grows by the water, and the purple bellflower, and the daisy?"
asked the oak.
"i want them all."
"here we are; here we are," came the reply in words and in song.
"but the beautiful thyme of last summer, where is that?
and where are the lilies of the valley which last year covered the earth with their bloom, and the wild apple tree with its fragrant blossoms, and all the glory of the wood, which has flourished year after year?
and where is even what may have but just been born?"
"we are here; we are here," sounded voices high up in the air, as if they had flown there beforehand.
"why, this is beautiful, too beautiful to be believed," cried the oak in a joyful tone.
"i have them all here, both great and small; not one has been forgotten.
can such happiness be imagined?
it seems almost impossible."
"in heaven with the eternal god it can be imagined, for all things are possible," sounded the reply through the air.
and the old tree, as it still grew upwards and onwards, felt that its roots were loosening themselves from the earth.
"it is right so; it is best," said the tree.
"no fetters hold me now.
i can fly up to the very highest point in light and glory.
and all i love are with me, both small and great.
all all are here."
such was the dream of the old oak at the holy christmas time.
and while it dreamed, a mighty storm came rushing over land and sea.
the sea rolled in great billows toward the shore.
a cracking and crushing was heard in the tree.
its roots were torn from the ground, just at the moment when in its dream it was being loosened from the earth.
it fell; its three hundred and sixty-five years were ended like the single day of the ephemera.
on the morning of christmas day, when the sun rose, the storm had ceased.
from all the churches sounded the festive bells, and from every hearth, even of the smallest hut, rose the smoke into the blue sky, like the smoke from the festive thank-offerings on the druids' altars.
the sea gradually became calm, and on board a great ship that had withstood the tempest during the night, all the flags were displayed as a token of joy and festivity.
"the tree is down!
the old oak our landmark on the coast!"
exclaimed the sailors.
"it must have fallen in the storm of last night.
who can replace it?
alas!
no one."
this was the old tree's funeral oration, brief but well said.
there it lay stretched on the snow-covered shore, and over it sounded the notes of a song from the ship a song of christmas joy, of the redemption of the soul of man, and of eternal life through christ.
sing aloud on this happy morn,           all is fulfilled, for christ is born;           with songs of joy let us loudly sing,           "hallelujahs to christ our king."
thus sounded the christmas carol, and every one on board the ship felt his thoughts elevated through the song and the prayer, even as the old tree had felt lifted up in its last beautiful dream on that christmas morn.
the portuguese duck
a duck once arrived from portugal.
there were some who said she came from spain, but that is almost the same thing.
at all events, she was called the portuguese duck, and she laid eggs, was killed and cooked, and that was the end of her.
the ducklings which crept forth from her eggs were also called portuguese ducks, and about that there may be some question.
but of all the family only one remained in the duck yard, which may be called a farmyard, since the chickens were admitted to it and the cock strutted about in a very hostile manner.
"he annoys me with his loud crowing," said the portuguese duck, "but still, he's a handsome bird, there's no denying that, even if he is not a duck.
he ought to moderate his voice, like those little birds who are singing in the lime trees over there in our neighbor's garden but that is an art only acquired in polite society.
how sweetly they sing there; it is quite a pleasure to listen to them!
i call it portuguese singing.
if i only had such a little singing bird, i'd be as kind and good to him as a mother, for it's in my portuguese nature."
while she was speaking, one of the little singing birds came tumbling head over heels from the roof into the yard.
the cat was after him, but he had escaped from her with a broken wing and so came fluttering into the yard.
"that's just like the cat; she's a villain," said the portuguese duck.
"i remember her ways when i had children of my own.
how can such a creature be allowed to live and wander about upon the roofs?
i don't think they allow such things in portugal."
she pitied the little singing bird, and so did all the other ducks, who were not portuguese.
"poor little creature!"
they said, one after another, as they came up.
"we can't sing, certainly; but we have a sounding board, or something of the kind, within us, though we don't talk about it."
"but i can talk," said the portuguese duck.
"i'll do something for the little fellow; it's my duty."
so she stepped into the watering trough and beat her wings upon the water so strongly that the little bird was nearly drowned.
but the duck meant it kindly.
"that is a good deed," she said; "i hope the others will take example from it."
"tweet, tweet!"
said the little bird.
one of his wings was broken and he found it difficult to shake himself, but he quite understood that the bath was meant kindly, so he said, "you are very kind-hearted, madam."
but he did not wish for a second bath.
"i have never thought about my heart," replied the portuguese duck; "but i know that i love all my fellow creatures, except the cat, and nobody can expect me to love her, for she ate up two of my ducklings.
but pray make yourself at home; it is easy to make oneself comfortable.
i myself am from a foreign country, as you may see by my bearing and my feathery dress.
my husband is a native of these parts; he's not of my race, but i am not proud on that account.
if any one here can understand you, i may say positively that i am that person."
"she's quite full of portulak," said a little common duck, who was witty.
all the common ducks considered the word "portulak" a good joke, for it sounded like "portugal."
they nudged each other and said, "quack!
that was witty!"
then the other ducks began to notice the newcomer.
"the portuguese has certainly a great flow of language," they said to the little bird.
"for our part, we don't care to fill our beaks with such long words, but we sympathize with you quite as much.
if we don't do anything else, we can walk about with you everywhere; that is the best we can do."
"you have a lovely voice," said one of the eldest ducks; "it must be a great satisfaction to you to be able to give as much pleasure as you do.
i am certainly no judge of your singing, so i keep my beak shut, which is better than talking nonsense as others do."
"don't plague him so," interrupted the portuguese duck; "he requires rest and nursing.
my little singing bird, do you wish me to prepare another bath for you?"
"oh, no!
no!
pray let me be dry," implored the little bird.
"the water cure is the only remedy for me when i am not well," said the portuguese.
"amusement, too, is very beneficial.
the fowls from the neighborhood will soon be here to pay you a visit.
there are two cochin-chinese among them; they wear feathers on their legs and are well educated.
they have been brought from a great distance, and consequently i treat them with greater respect than i do the others."
then the fowls arrived, and the cock was polite enough to keep from being rude.
"you are a real songster," he said, "and you do as much with your little voice as it is possible to do; but more noise and shrillness is necessary if one wishes others to know who he is."
the two chinese were quite enchanted with the appearance of the singing bird.
his feathers had been much ruffled by his bath, so that he seemed to them quite like a tiny chinese fowl.
"he's charming," they said to each other, and began a conversation with him in whispers, using the most aristocratic chinese dialect.
"we are of the same race as yourself," they said.
"the ducks, even the portuguese, are all aquatic birds, as you must have noticed.
you do not know us yet very few, even of the fowls, know us or give themselves the trouble to make our acquaintance, though we were born to occupy a higher position in society than most of them.
but that does not disturb us; we quietly go our way among them.
their ideas are certainly not ours, for we look at the bright side of things and only speak of what is good, although that is sometimes difficult to find where none exists.
except ourselves and the cock, there is not one in the yard who can be called talented or polite.
it cannot be said even of the ducks, and we warn you, little bird, not to trust that one yonder, with the short tail feathers, for she is cunning.
then the curiously marked one, with the crooked stripes on her wings, is a mischief-maker and never lets any one have the last word, though she is always in the wrong.
the fat duck yonder speaks evil of every one, and that is against our principles; if we have nothing good to tell, we close our beaks.
the portuguese is the only one who has had any education and with whom we can associate, but she is passionate and talks too much about portugal."
"i wonder what those two chinese are whispering about," whispered one duck to another.
"they are always doing it, and it annoys me.
we never speak to them."
now the drake came up, and he thought the little singing bird was a sparrow.
"well, i don't understand the difference," he said; "it appears to me all the same.
he's only a plaything, and if people will have playthings, why let them, i say."
"don't take any notice of what he says," whispered the portuguese; "he is very well in matters of business, and with him business is first.
now i shall lie down and have a little rest.
it is a duty we owe to ourselves, so that we shall be nice and fat when we come to be embalmed with sage and onions and apples."
so she laid herself down in the sun and winked with one eye.
she had a very comfortable place and felt so at ease that she fell asleep.
the little singing bird busied himself for some time with his broken wing, and at last he too lay down, quite close to his protectress.
the sun shone warm and bright, and he found it a very good place.
but the fowls of the neighborhood were all awake, and, to tell the truth, they had paid a visit to the duck yard solely to find food for themselves.
the chinese were the first to leave, and the other fowls soon followed them.
the witty little duck said of the portuguese that "the old lady" was getting to be quite a "doting ducky."
all the other ducks laughed at this.
"'doting ducky,'" they whispered; "oh, that's too witty!"
then they repeated the joke about "portulak" and declared it was most amusing.
after that they all lay down to have a nap.
they had been lying asleep for quite a while, when suddenly something was thrown into the yard for them to eat.
it came down with such a bang that the whole company started up and clapped their wings.
the portuguese awoke, too, and rushed over to the other side of the yard.
in doing this she trod upon the little singing bird.
"tweet," he cried; "you trod very hard upon me, madam."
"well, then, why do you lie in my way?"
she retorted.
"you must not be so touchy.
i have nerves of my own, but i do not cry 'tweet.'"
"don't be angry," said the little bird; "the 'tweet' slipped out of my beak before i knew it."
the portuguese did not listen to him, but began eating as fast as she could, and made a good meal.
when she had finished she lay down again, and the little bird, who wished to be amiable, began to sing:
"chirp and twitter,               the dewdrops glitter,           in the hours of sunny spring;               i'll sing my best,               till i go to rest,           with my head behind my wing."
"now i want rest after my dinner," said the portuguese.
"you must conform to the rules of the place while you are here.
i want to sleep now."
the little bird was quite taken aback, for he meant it kindly.
when madam awoke afterwards, there he stood before her with a little corn he had found, and laid it at her feet; but as she had not slept well, she was naturally in a bad temper.
"give that to a chicken," she said, "and don't be always standing in my way."
"why are you angry with me?"
replied the little singing bird; "what have i done?"
"done!"
repeated the portuguese duck; "your mode of expressing yourself is not very polite.
i must call your attention to that fact."
"there was sunshine here yesterday," said the little bird, "but to-day it is cloudy and the air is heavy."
"you know very little about the weather, i fancy," she retorted; "the day is not over yet.
don't stand there looking so stupid."
"but you are looking at me just as the wicked eyes looked when i fell into the yard yesterday."
"impertinent creature!"
exclaimed the portuguese duck.
"would you compare me with the cat that beast of prey?
there's not a drop of malicious blood in me.
i've taken your part, and now i'll teach you better manners."
so saying, she made a bite at the little singing-bird's head, and he fell to the ground dead.
"now whatever is the meaning of this?"
she said.
"could he not bear even such a little peck as i gave him?
then, certainly, he was not made for this world.
i've been like a mother to him, i know that, for i've a good heart."
then the cock from the neighboring yard stuck his head in and crowed with steam-engine power.
"you'll kill me with your crowing," she cried.
"it's all your fault.
he's lost his life, and i'm very near losing mine."
"there's not much of him lying there," observed the cock.
"speak of him with respect," said the portuguese duck, "for he had manners and education, and he could sing.
he was affectionate and gentle, and those are as rare qualities in animals as in those who call themselves human beings."
then all the ducks came crowding round the little dead bird.
ducks have strong passions, whether they feel envy or pity.
there was nothing to envy here, so they all showed a great deal of pity.
so also did the two chinese.
"we shall never again have such a singing bird among us; he was almost a chinese," they whispered, and then they wept with such a noisy, clucking sound that all the other fowls clucked too.
but the ducks went about with redder eyes afterwards.
"we have hearts of our own," they said; "nobody can deny that."
"hearts!"
repeated the portuguese.
"indeed you have almost as tender as the ducks in portugal."
"let us think of getting something to satisfy our hunger," said the drake; "that's the most important business.
if one of our toys is broken, why, we have plenty more."
the snow man
"it is so delightfully cold that it makes my whole body crackle," said the snow man.
"this is just the kind of wind to blow life into one.
how that great red thing up there is staring at me!"
he meant the sun, which was just setting.
"it shall not make me wink.
i shall manage to keep the pieces."
he had two triangular pieces of tile in his head instead of eyes, and his mouth, being made of an old broken rake, was therefore furnished with teeth.
he had been brought into existence amid the joyous shouts of boys, the jingling of sleigh bells, and the slashing of whips.
the sun went down, and the full moon rose, large, round, and clear, shining in the deep blue.
"there it comes again, from the other side," said the snow man, who supposed the sun was showing itself once more.
"ah, i have cured it of staring.
now it may hang up there and shine, so that i may see myself.
if i only knew how to manage to move away from this place i should so like to move!
if i could, i would slide along yonder on the ice, as i have seen the boys do; but i don't understand how.
i don't even know how to run."
"away, away!"
barked the old yard dog.
he was quite hoarse and could not pronounce "bow-wow" properly.
he had once been an indoor dog and lain by the fire, and he had been hoarse ever since.
"the sun will make you run some day.
i saw it, last winter, make your predecessor run, and his predecessor before him.
away, away!
they all have to go."
"i don't understand you, comrade," said the snow man.
"is that thing up yonder to teach me to run?
i saw it running itself, a little while ago, and now it has come creeping up from the other side."
"you know nothing at all," replied the yard dog.
"but then, you've only lately been patched up.
what you see yonder is the moon, and what you saw before was the sun.
it will come again to-morrow and most likely teach you to run down into the ditch by the well, for i think the weather is going to change.
i can feel such pricks and stabs in my left leg that i am sure there is going to be a change."
"i don't understand him," said the snow man to himself, "but i have a feeling that he is talking of something very disagreeable.
the thing that stared so hard just now, which he calls the sun, is not my friend; i can feel that too."
"away, away!"
barked the yard dog, and then he turned round three times and crept into his kennel to sleep.
there really was a change in the weather.
toward morning a thick fog covered the whole country and a keen wind arose, so that the cold seemed to freeze one's bones.
but when the sun rose, a splendid sight was to be seen.
trees and bushes were covered with hoarfrost and looked like a forest of white coral, while on every twig glittered frozen dewdrops.
the many delicate forms, concealed in summer by luxuriant foliage, were now clearly defined and looked like glittering lacework.
a white radiance glistened from every twig.
the birches, waving in the wind, looked as full of life as in summer and as wondrously beautiful.
where the sun shone, everything glittered and sparkled as if diamond dust had been strewn about; and the snowy carpet of the earth seemed covered with diamonds from which gleamed countless lights, whiter even than the snow itself.
"this is really beautiful," said a girl who had come into the garden with a young friend; and they both stood still near the snow man, contemplating the glittering scene.
"summer cannot show a more beautiful sight," she exclaimed, while her eyes sparkled.
"and we can't have such a fellow as this in the summer-time," replied the young man, pointing to the snow man.
"he is capital."
the girl laughed and nodded at the snow man, then tripped away over the snow with her friend.
the snow creaked and crackled beneath her feet, as if she had been treading on starch.
"who are those two?"
asked the snow man of the yard dog.
"you have been here longer than i; do you know them?"
"of course i know them," replied the yard dog; "the girl has stroked my back many times, and the young man has often given me a bone of meat.
i never bite those two."
"but what are they?"
asked the snow man.
"they are lovers," he replied.
"they will go and live in the same kennel, by and by, and gnaw at the same bone.
away, away!"
"are they the same kind of beings as you and i?"
asked the snow man.
"well, they belong to the master," retorted the yard dog.
"certainly people know very little who were only born yesterday.
i can see that in you.
i have age and experience.
i know every one here in the house, and i know there was once a time when i did not lie out here in the cold, fastened to a chain.
away, away!"
"the cold is delightful," said the snow man.
"but do tell me, tell me; only you must not clank your chain so, for it jars within me when you do that."
"away, away!"
barked the yard dog.
"i'll tell you: they said i was a pretty little fellow, once; then i used to lie in a velvet-covered chair, up at the master's house, and sit in the mistress's lap; they used to kiss my nose, and wipe my paws with an embroidered handkerchief, and i was called 'ami, dear ami, sweet ami.'
but after a while i grew too big for them, and they sent me away to the housekeeper's room; so i came to live on the lower story.
you can look into the room from where you stand, and see where i was once master for i was, indeed, master to the housekeeper.
it was a much smaller room than those upstairs, but i was more comfortable, for i was not continually being taken hold of and pulled about by the children, as i had been.
i received quite as good food and even better.
i had my own cushion, and there was a stove it is the finest thing in the world at this season of the year.
i used to go under the stove and lie down.
ah, i still dream of that stove.
away, away!"
"does a stove look beautiful?"
asked the snow man.
"is it at all like me?"
"it is just the opposite of you," said the dog.
"it's as black as a crow and has a long neck and a brass knob; it eats firewood, and that makes fire spurt out of its mouth.
one has to keep on one side or under it, to be comfortable.
you can see it through the window from where you stand."
then the snow man looked, and saw a bright polished thing with a brass knob, and fire gleaming from the lower part of it.
the sight of this gave the snow man a strange sensation; it was very odd, he knew not what it meant, and he could not account for it.
but there are people who are not men of snow who understand what the feeling is.
"and why did you leave her?"
asked the snow man, for it seemed to him that the stove must be of the female sex.
"how could you give up such a comfortable place?"
"i was obliged to," replied the yard dog.
"they turned me out of doors and chained me up here.
i had bitten the youngest of my master's sons in the leg, because he kicked away the bone i was gnawing.
'bone for bone,'
i thought.
but they were very angry, and since that time i have been fastened to a chain and have lost my voice.
don't you hear how hoarse i am?
away, away!
i can't talk like other dogs any more.
away, away!
that was the end of it all."
but the snow man was no longer listening.
he was looking into the housekeeper's room on the lower story, where the stove, which was about the same size as the snow man himself, stood on its four iron legs.
"what a strange crackling i feel within me," he said.
"shall i ever get in there?
it is an innocent wish, and innocent wishes are sure to be fulfilled.
i must go in there and lean against her, even if i have to break the window."
"you must never go in there," said the yard dog, "for if you approach the stove, you will melt away, away."
"i might as well go," said the snow man, "for i think i am breaking up as it is."
during the whole day the snow man stood looking in through the window, and in the twilight hour the room became still more inviting, for from the stove came a gentle glow, not like the sun or the moon; it was only the kind of radiance that can come from a stove when it has been well fed.
when the door of the stove was opened, the flames darted out of its mouth, as is customary with all stoves, and the light of the flames fell with a ruddy gleam directly on the face and breast of the snow man.
"i can endure it no longer," said he.
"how beautiful it looks when it stretches out its tongue!"
the night was long, but it did not appear so to the snow man, who stood there enjoying his own reflections and crackling with the cold.
in the morning the window-panes of the housekeeper's room were covered with ice.
they were the most beautiful ice flowers any snow man could desire, but they concealed the stove.
these window-panes would not thaw, and he could see nothing of the stove, which he pictured to himself as if it had been a beautiful human being.
the snow crackled and the wind whistled around him; it was just the kind of frosty weather a snow man ought to enjoy thoroughly.
but he did not enjoy it.
how, indeed, could he enjoy anything when he was so stove-sick?
"that is a terrible disease for a snow man to have," said the yard dog.
"i have suffered from it myself, but i got over it.
away, away!"
he barked, and then added, "the weather is going to change."
the weather did change.
it began to thaw, and as the warmth increased, the snow man decreased.
he said nothing and made no complaint, which is a sure sign.
one morning he broke and sank down altogether; and behold!
where he had stood, something that looked like a broomstick remained sticking up in the ground.
it was the pole round which the boys had built him.
"ah, now i understand why he had such a great longing for the stove,"
said the yard dog.
"why, there's the shovel that is used for cleaning out the stove, fastened to the pole.
the snow man had a stove scraper in his body; that was what moved him so.
but it is all over now.
away, away!"
and soon the winter passed.
"away, away!"
barked the hoarse yard dog, but the girls in the house sang:
"come from your fragrant home, green thyme;              stretch your soft branches, willow tree;            the months are bringing the sweet spring-time,              when the lark in the sky sings joyfully.
come, gentle sun, while the cuckoo sings,              and i'll mock his note in my wanderings."
and nobody thought any more of the snow man.
the farmyard cock and the weathercock
there were once two cocks; one of them stood on a dunghill, the other on the roof.
both were conceited, but the question is, which of the two was the more useful?
a wooden partition divided the poultry yard from another yard, in which lay a heap of manure sheltering a cucumber bed.
in this bed grew a large cucumber, which was fully aware that it was a plant that should be reared in a hotbed.
"it is the privilege of birth," said the cucumber to itself.
"all cannot be born cucumbers; there must be other kinds as well.
the fowls, the ducks, and the cattle in the next yard are all different creatures, and there is the yard cock i can look up to him when he is on the wooden partition.
he is certainly of much greater importance than the weathercock, who is so highly placed, and who can't even creak, much less crow besides, he has neither hens nor chickens, and thinks only of himself, and perspires verdigris.
but the yard cock is something like a cock.
his gait is like a dance, and his crowing is music, and wherever he goes it is instantly known.
what a trumpeter he is!
if he would only come in here!
even if he were to eat me up, stalk and all, it would be a pleasant death."
so said the cucumber.
during the night the weather became very bad; hens, chickens, and even the cock himself sought shelter.
the wind blew down with a crash the partition between the two yards, and the tiles came tumbling from the roof, but the weathercock stood firm.
he did not even turn round; in fact, he could not, although he was fresh and newly cast.
he had been born full grown and did not at all resemble the birds, such as the sparrows and swallows, that fly beneath the vault of heaven.
he despised them and looked upon them as little twittering birds that were made only to sing.
the pigeons, he admitted, were large and shone in the sun like mother-of-pearl.
they somewhat resembled weathercocks, but were fat and stupid and thought only of stuffing themselves with food.
"besides,"
said the weathercock, "they are very tiresome things to converse with."
the birds of passage often paid a visit to the weathercock and told him tales of foreign lands, of large flocks passing through the air, and of encounters with robbers and birds of prey.
these were very interesting when heard for the first time, but the weathercock knew the birds always repeated themselves, and that made it tedious to listen.
"they are tedious, and so is every one else," said he; "there is no one fit to associate with.
one and all of them are wearisome and stupid.
the whole world is worth nothing it is made up of stupidity."
the weathercock was what is called "lofty," and that quality alone would have made him interesting in the eyes of the cucumber, had she known it.
but she had eyes only for the yard cock, who had actually made his appearance in her yard; for the violence of the storm had passed, but the wind had blown down the wooden palings.
"what do you think of that for crowing?"
asked the yard cock of his hens and chickens.
it was rather rough, and wanted elegance, but they did not say so, as they stepped upon the dunghill while the cock strutted about as if he had been a knight.
"garden plant," he cried to the cucumber.
she heard the words with deep feeling, for they showed that he understood who she was, and she forgot that he was pecking at her and eating her up a happy death!
then the hens came running up, and the chickens followed, for where one runs the rest run also.
they clucked and chirped and looked at the cock and were proud that they belonged to him.
"cock-a-doodle-doo!"
crowed he; "the chickens in the poultry yard will grow to be large fowls if i make my voice heard in the world."
and the hens and chickens clucked and chirped, and the cock told them a great piece of news.
"a cock can lay an egg," he said.
"and what do you think is in that egg?
in that egg lies a basilisk.
no one can endure the sight of a basilisk.
men know my power, and now you know what i am capable of, also, and what a renowned bird i am."
and with this the yard cock flapped his wings, erected his comb, and crowed again, till all the hens and chickens trembled; but they were proud that one of their race should be of such renown in the world.
they clucked and they chirped so that the weathercock heard it; he had heard it all, but had not stirred.
"it's all stupid stuff," said a voice within the weathercock.
"the yard cock does not lay eggs any more than i do, and i am too lazy.
i could lay a wind egg if i liked, but the world is not worth a wind egg.
and now i don't intend to sit here any longer."
with that, the weathercock broke off and fell into the yard.
he did not kill the yard cock, although the hens said he intended to do so.
and what does the moral say?
"better to crow than to be vainglorious and break down at last."
the red shoes
there was once a pretty, delicate little girl, who was so poor that she had to go barefoot in summer and wear coarse wooden shoes in winter, which made her little instep quite red.
in the center of the village there lived an old shoemaker's wife.
one day this good woman made, as well as she could, a little pair of shoes out of some strips of old red cloth.
the shoes were clumsy enough, to be sure, but they fitted the little girl tolerably well, and anyway the woman's intention was kind.
the little girl's name was karen.
on the very day that karen received the shoes, her mother was to be buried.
they were not at all suitable for mourning, but she had no others, so she put them on her little bare feet and followed the poor plain coffin to its last resting place.
just at that time a large, old-fashioned carriage happened to pass by, and the old lady who sat in it saw the little girl and pitied her.
"give me the little girl," she said to the clergyman, "and i will take care of her."
karen supposed that all this happened because of the red shoes, but the old lady thought them frightful and ordered them to be burned.
karen was then dressed in neat, well-fitting clothes and taught to read and sew.
people told her she was pretty, but the mirror said, "you are much more than pretty you are beautiful."
it happened not long afterwards that the queen and her little daughter, the princess, traveled through the land.
all the people, karen among the rest, flocked toward the palace and crowded around it, while the little princess, dressed in white, stood at the window for every one to see.
she wore neither a train nor a golden crown, but on her feet were beautiful red morocco shoes, which, it must be admitted, were prettier than those the shoemaker's wife had given to little karen.
surely nothing in the world could be compared to those red shoes.
now that karen was old enough to be confirmed, she of course had to have a new frock and new shoes.
the rich shoemaker in the town took the measure of her little feet in his own house, in a room where stood great glass cases filled with all sorts of fine shoes and elegant, shining boots.
it was a pretty sight, but the old lady could not see well and naturally did not take so much pleasure in it as karen.
among the shoes were a pair of red ones, just like those worn by the little princess.
oh, how gay they were!
the shoemaker said they had been made for the child of a count, but had not fitted well.
"are they of polished leather, that they shine so?"
asked the old lady.
"yes, indeed, they do shine," replied karen.
and since they fitted her, they were bought.
but the old lady had no idea that they were red, or she would never in the world have allowed karen to go to confirmation in them, as she now did.
every one, of course, looked at karen's shoes; and when she walked up the nave to the chancel it seemed to her that even the antique figures on the monuments, the portraits of clergymen and their wives, with their stiff ruffs and long black robes, were fixing their eyes on her red shoes.
even when the bishop laid his hand upon her head and spoke of her covenant with god and how she must now begin to be a full-grown christian, and when the organ pealed forth solemnly and the children's fresh, sweet voices joined with those of the choir still karen thought of nothing but her shoes.
in the afternoon, when the old lady heard every one speak of the red shoes, she said it was very shocking and improper and that, in the future, when karen went to church it must always be in black shoes, even if they were old.
the next sunday was karen's first communion day.
she looked at her black shoes, and then at her red ones, then again at the black and at the red and the red ones were put on.
the sun shone very brightly, and karen and the old lady walked to church through the cornfields, for the road was very dusty.
at the door of the church stood an old soldier, who leaned upon a crutch and had a marvelously long beard that was not white but red.
he bowed almost to the ground and asked the old lady if he might dust her shoes.
karen, in her turn, put out her little foot.
"oh, look, what smart little dancing pumps!"
said the old soldier.
"mind you do not let them slip off when you dance," and he passed his hands over them.
the old lady gave the soldier a half-penny and went with karen into the church.
as before, every one saw karen's red shoes, and all the carved figures too bent their gaze upon them.
when karen knelt at the chancel she thought only of the shoes; they floated before her eyes, and she forgot to say her prayer or sing her psalm.
at last all the people left the church, and the old lady got into her carriage.
as karen lifted her foot to step in, the old soldier said, "see what pretty dancing shoes!"
and karen, in spite of herself, made a few dancing steps.
when she had once begun, her feet went on of themselves; it was as though the shoes had received power over her.
she danced round the church corner, she could not help it, and the coachman had to run behind and catch her to put her into the carriage.
still her feet went on dancing, so, that she trod upon the good lady's toes.
it was not until the shoes were taken from her feet that she had rest.
the shoes were put away in a closet, but karen could not resist going to look at them every now and then.
soon after this the old lady lay ill in bed, and it was said that she could not recover.
she had to be nursed and waited on, and this, of course, was no one's duty so much as it was karen's, as karen herself well knew.
but there happened to be a great ball in the town, and karen was invited.
she looked at the old lady, who was very ill, and she looked at the red shoes.
she put them on, for she thought there could not be any sin in that, and of course there was not but she went next to the ball and began to dance.
strange to say, when she wanted to move to the right the shoes bore her to the left; and when she wished to dance up the room the shoes persisted in going down the room.
down the stairs they carried her at last, into the street, and out through the town gate.
on and on she danced, for dance she must, straight out into the gloomy wood.
up among the trees something glistened.
she thought it was the round, red moon, for she saw a face; but no, it was the old soldier with the red beard, who sat and nodded, saying, "see what pretty dancing shoes!"
she was dreadfully frightened and tried to throw away the red shoes, but they clung fast and she could not unclasp them.
they seemed to have grown fast to her feet.
so dance she must, and dance she did, over field and meadow, in rain and in sunshine, by night and by day and by night it was by far more dreadful.
she danced out into the open churchyard, but the dead there did not dance; they were at rest and had much better things to do.
she would have liked to sit down on the poor man's grave, where the bitter tansy grew, but for her there was no rest.
she danced past the open church door, and there she saw an angel in long white robes and with wings that reached from his shoulders to the earth.
his look was stern and grave, and in his hand he held a broad, glittering sword.
"thou shalt dance," he said, "in thy red shoes, till thou art pale and cold, and till thy body is wasted like a skeleton.
thou shalt dance from door to door, and wherever proud, haughty children dwell thou shalt knock, that, hearing thee, they may take warning.
dance thou shalt dance on!"
"mercy!"
cried karen; but she did not hear the answer of the angel, for the shoes carried her past the door and on into the fields.
one morning she danced past a well-known door.
within was the sound of a psalm, and presently a coffin strewn with flowers was borne out.
she knew that her friend, the old lady, was dead, and in her heart she felt that she was abandoned by all on earth and condemned by god's angel in heaven.
still on she danced for she could not stop through thorns and briers, while her feet bled.
finally, she danced to a lonely little house where she knew that the executioner dwelt, and she tapped at the window, saying, "come out, come out!
i cannot come in, for i must dance."
the man said, "do you know who i am and what i do?"
"yes," said karen; "but do not strike off my head, for then i could not live to repent of my sin.
strike off my feet, that i may be rid of my red shoes."
then she confessed her sin, and the executioner struck off the red shoes, which danced away over the fields and into the deep wood.
to karen it seemed that the feet had gone with the shoes, for she had almost lost the power of walking.
"now i have suffered enough for the red shoes," she said; "i will go to the church, that people may see me."
but no sooner had she hobbled to the church door than the shoes danced before her and frightened her back.
all that week she endured the keenest sorrow and shed many bitter tears.
when sunday came, she said: "i am sure i must have suffered and striven enough by this time.
i am quite as good, i dare say, as many who are holding their heads high in the church."
so she took courage and went again.
but before she reached the churchyard gate the red shoes were dancing there, and she turned back again in terror, more deeply sorrowful than ever for her sin.
she then went to the pastor's house and begged as a favor to be taken into the family's service, promising to be diligent and faithful.
she did not want wages, she said, only a home with good people.
the clergyman's wife pitied her and granted her request, and she proved industrious and very thoughtful.
earnestly she listened when at evening the preacher read aloud the holy scriptures.
all the children came to love her, but when they spoke of beauty and finery, she would shake her head and turn away.
on sunday, when they all went to church, they asked her if she would not go, too, but she looked sad and bade them go without her.
then she went to her own little room, and as she sat with the psalm book in her hand, reading its pages with a gentle, pious mind, the wind brought to her the notes of the organ.
she raised her tearful eyes and said, "o god, do thou help me!"
then the sun shone brightly, and before her stood the white angel that she had seen at the church door.
he no longer bore the glittering sword, but in his hand was a beautiful branch of roses.
he touched the ceiling with it, and the ceiling rose, and at each place where the branch touched it there shone a star.
he touched the walls, and they widened so that karen could see the organ that was being played at the church.
she saw, too, the old pictures and statues on the walls, and the congregation sitting in the seats and singing psalms, for the church itself had come to the poor girl in her narrow room, or she in her chamber had come to it.
she sat in the seat with the rest of the clergyman's household, and when the psalm was ended, they nodded and said, "thou didst well to come, karen!"
"this is mercy," said she.
"it is the grace of god."
the organ pealed, and the chorus of children's voices mingled sweetly with it.
the bright sunshine shed its warm light, through the windows, over the pew in which karen sat.
her heart was so filled with sunshine, peace, and joy that it broke, and her soul was borne by a sunbeam up to god, where there was nobody to ask about the red shoes.
the little mermaid
far out in the ocean, where the water is as blue as the prettiest cornflower and as clear as crystal, it is very, very deep; so deep, indeed, that no cable could sound it, and many church steeples, piled one upon another, would not reach from the ground beneath to the surface of the water above.
there dwell the sea king and his subjects.
we must not imagine that there is nothing at the bottom of the sea but bare yellow sand.
no, indeed, for on this sand grow the strangest flowers and plants, the leaves and stems of which are so pliant that the slightest agitation of the water causes them to stir as if they had life.
fishes, both large and small, glide between the branches as birds fly among the trees here upon land.
in the deepest spot of all stands the castle of the sea king.
its walls are built of coral, and the long gothic windows are of the clearest amber.
the roof is formed of shells that open and close as the water flows over them.
their appearance is very beautiful, for in each lies a glittering pearl which would be fit for the diadem of a queen.
the sea king had been a widower for many years, and his aged mother kept house for him.
she was a very sensible woman, but exceedingly proud of her high birth, and on that account wore twelve oysters on her tail, while others of high rank were only allowed to wear six.
she was, however, deserving of very great praise, especially for her care of the little sea princesses, her six granddaughters.
they were beautiful children, but the youngest was the prettiest of them all.
her skin was as clear and delicate as a rose leaf, and her eyes as blue as the deepest sea; but, like all the others, she had no feet and her body ended in a fish's tail.
all day long they played in the great halls of the castle or among the living flowers that grew out of the walls.
the large amber windows were open, and the fish swam in, just as the swallows fly into our houses when we open the windows; only the fishes swam up to the princesses, ate out of their hands, and allowed themselves to be stroked.
outside the castle there was a beautiful garden, in which grew bright-red and dark-blue flowers, and blossoms like flames of fire; the fruit glittered like gold, and the leaves and stems waved to and fro continually.
the earth itself was the finest sand, but blue as the flame of burning sulphur.
over everything lay a peculiar blue radiance, as if the blue sky were everywhere, above and below, instead of the dark depths of the sea.
in calm weather the sun could be seen, looking like a reddish-purple flower with light streaming from the calyx.
each of the young princesses had a little plot of ground in the garden, where she might dig and plant as she pleased.
one arranged her flower bed in the form of a whale; another preferred to make hers like the figure of a little mermaid; while the youngest child made hers round, like the sun, and in it grew flowers as red as his rays at sunset.
she was a strange child, quiet and thoughtful.
while her sisters showed delight at the wonderful things which they obtained from the wrecks of vessels, she cared only for her pretty flowers, red like the sun, and a beautiful marble statue.
it was the representation of a handsome boy, carved out of pure white stone, which had fallen to the bottom of the sea from a wreck.
she planted by the statue a rose-colored weeping willow.
it grew rapidly and soon hung its fresh branches over the statue, almost down to the blue sands.
the shadows had the color of violet and waved to and fro like the branches, so that it seemed as if the crown of the tree and the root were at play, trying to kiss each other.
nothing gave her so much pleasure as to hear about the world above the sea.
she made her old grandmother tell her all she knew of the ships and of the towns, the people and the animals.
to her it seemed most wonderful and beautiful to hear that the flowers of the land had fragrance, while those below the sea had none; that the trees of the forest were green; and that the fishes among the trees could sing so sweetly that it was a pleasure to listen to them.
her grandmother called the birds fishes, or the little mermaid would not have understood what was meant, for she had never seen birds.
"when you have reached your fifteenth year," said the grandmother, "you will have permission to rise up out of the sea and sit on the rocks in the moonlight, while the great ships go sailing by.
then you will see both forests and towns."
in the following year, one of the sisters would be fifteen, but as each was a year younger than the other, the youngest would have to wait five years before her turn came to rise up from the bottom of the ocean to see the earth as we do.
however, each promised to tell the others what she saw on her first visit and what she thought was most beautiful.
their grandmother could not tell them enough there were so many things about which they wanted to know.
none of them longed so much for her turn to come as the youngest she who had the longest time to wait and who was so quiet and thoughtful.
many nights she stood by the open window, looking up through the dark blue water and watching the fish as they splashed about with their fins and tails.
she could see the moon and stars shining faintly, but through the water they looked larger than they do to our eyes.
when something like a black cloud passed between her and them, she knew that it was either a whale swimming over her head, or a ship full of human beings who never imagined that a pretty little mermaid was standing beneath them, holding out her white hands towards the keel of their ship.
at length the eldest was fifteen and was allowed to rise to the surface of the ocean.
when she returned she had hundreds of things to talk about.
but the finest thing, she said, was to lie on a sand bank in the quiet moonlit sea, near the shore, gazing at the lights of the near-by town, that twinkled like hundreds of stars, and listening to the sounds of music, the noise of carriages, the voices of human beings, and the merry pealing of the bells in the church steeples.
because she could not go near all these wonderful things, she longed for them all the more.
oh, how eagerly did the youngest sister listen to all these descriptions!
and afterwards, when she stood at the open window looking up through the dark-blue water, she thought of the great city, with all its bustle and noise, and even fancied she could hear the sound of the church bells down in the depths of the sea.
in another year the second sister received permission to rise to the surface of the water and to swim about where she pleased.
she rose just as the sun was setting, and this, she said, was the most beautiful sight of all.
the whole sky looked like gold, and violet and rose-colored clouds, which she could not describe, drifted across it.
and more swiftly than the clouds, flew a large flock of wild swans toward the setting sun, like a long white veil across the sea.
she also swam towards the sun, but it sank into the waves, and the rosy tints faded from the clouds and from the sea.
the third sister's turn followed, and she was the boldest of them all, for she swam up a broad river that emptied into the sea.
on the banks she saw green hills covered with beautiful vines, and palaces and castles peeping out from amid the proud trees of the forest.
she heard birds singing and felt the rays of the sun so strongly that she was obliged often to dive under the water to cool her burning face.
in a narrow creek she found a large group of little human children, almost naked, sporting about in the water.
she wanted to play with them, but they fled in a great fright; and then a little black animal it was a dog, but she did not know it, for she had never seen one before came to the water and barked at her so furiously that she became frightened and rushed back to the open sea.
but she said she should never forget the beautiful forest, the green hills, and the pretty children who could swim in the water although they had no tails.
the fourth sister was more timid.
she remained in the midst of the sea, but said it was quite as beautiful there as nearer the land.
she could see many miles around her, and the sky above looked like a bell of glass.
she had seen the ships, but at such a great distance that they looked like sea gulls.
the dolphins sported in the waves, and the great whales spouted water from their nostrils till it seemed as if a hundred fountains were playing in every direction.
the fifth sister's birthday occurred in the winter, so when her turn came she saw what the others had not seen the first time they went up.
the sea looked quite green, and large icebergs were floating about, each like a pearl, she said, but larger and loftier than the churches built by men.
they were of the most singular shapes and glittered like diamonds.
she had seated herself on one of the largest and let the wind play with her long hair.
she noticed that all the ships sailed past very rapidly, steering as far away as they could, as if they were afraid of the iceberg.
towards evening, as the sun went down, dark clouds covered the sky, the thunder rolled, and the flashes of lightning glowed red on the icebergs as they were tossed about by the heaving sea.
on all the ships the sails were reefed with fear and trembling, while she sat on the floating iceberg, calmly watching the lightning as it darted its forked flashes into the sea.
each of the sisters, when first she had permission to rise to the surface, was delighted with the new and beautiful sights.
now that they were grown-up girls and could go when they pleased, they had become quite indifferent about it.
they soon wished themselves back again, and after a month had passed they said it was much more beautiful down below and pleasanter to be at home.
yet often, in the evening hours, the five sisters would twine their arms about each other and rise to the surface together.
their voices were more charming than that of any human being, and before the approach of a storm, when they feared that a ship might be lost, they swam before the vessel, singing enchanting songs of the delights to be found in the depths of the sea and begging the voyagers not to fear if they sank to the bottom.
but the sailors could not understand the song and thought it was the sighing of the storm.
these things were never beautiful to them, for if the ship sank, the men were drowned and their dead bodies alone reached the palace of the sea king.
when the sisters rose, arm in arm, through the water, their youngest sister would stand quite alone, looking after them, ready to cry only, since mermaids have no tears, she suffered more acutely.
"oh, were i but fifteen years old!"
said she.
"i know that i shall love the world up there, and all the people who live in it."
at last she reached her fifteenth year.
"well, now you are grown up," said the old dowager, her grandmother.
"come, and let me adorn you like your sisters."
and she placed in her hair a wreath of white lilies, of which every flower leaf was half a pearl.
then the old lady ordered eight great oysters to attach themselves to the tail of the princess to show her high rank.
"but they hurt me so," said the little mermaid.
"yes, i know; pride must suffer pain," replied the old lady.
oh, how gladly she would have shaken off all this grandeur and laid aside the heavy wreath!
the red flowers in her own garden would have suited her much better.
but she could not change herself, so she said farewell and rose as lightly as a bubble to the surface of the water.
the sun had just set when she raised her head above the waves.
the clouds were tinted with crimson and gold, and through the glimmering twilight beamed the evening star in all its beauty.
the sea was calm, and the air mild and fresh.
a large ship with three masts lay becalmed on the water; only one sail was set, for not a breeze stirred, and the sailors sat idle on deck or amidst the rigging.
there was music and song on board, and as darkness came on, a hundred colored lanterns were lighted, as if the flags of all nations waved in the air.
the little mermaid swam close to the cabin windows, and now and then, as the waves lifted her up, she could look in through glass window-panes and see a number of gayly dressed people.
among them, and the most beautiful of all, was a young prince with large, black eyes.
he was sixteen years of age, and his birthday was being celebrated with great display.
the sailors were dancing on deck, and when the prince came out of the cabin, more than a hundred rockets rose in the air, making it as bright as day.
the little mermaid was so startled that she dived under water, and when she again stretched out her head, it looked as if all the stars of heaven were falling around her.
she had never seen such fireworks before.
great suns spurted fire about, splendid fireflies flew into the blue air, and everything was reflected in the clear, calm sea beneath.
the ship itself was so brightly illuminated that all the people, and even the smallest rope, could be distinctly seen.
how handsome the young prince looked, as he pressed the hands of all his guests and smiled at them, while the music resounded through the clear night air!
it was very late, yet the little mermaid could not take her eyes from the ship or from the beautiful prince.
the colored lanterns had been extinguished, no more rockets rose in the air, and the cannon had ceased firing; but the sea became restless, and a moaning, grumbling sound could be heard beneath the waves.
still the little mermaid remained by the cabin window, rocking up and down on the water, so that she could look within.
after a while the sails were quickly set, and the ship went on her way.
but soon the waves rose higher, heavy clouds darkened the sky, and lightning appeared in the distance.
a dreadful storm was approaching.
once more the sails were furled, and the great ship pursued her flying course over the raging sea.
the waves rose mountain high, as if they would overtop the mast, but the ship dived like a swan between them, then rose again on their lofty, foaming crests.
to the little mermaid this was pleasant sport; but not so to the sailors.
at length the ship groaned and creaked; the thick planks gave way under the lashing of the sea, as the waves broke over the deck; the mainmast snapped asunder like a reed, and as the ship lay over on her side, the water rushed in.
the little mermaid now perceived that the crew were in danger; even she was obliged to be careful, to avoid the beams and planks of the wreck which lay scattered on the water.
at one moment it was pitch dark so that she could not see a single object, but when a flash of lightning came it revealed the whole scene; she could see every one who had been on board except the prince.
when the ship parted, she had seen him sink into the deep waves, and she was glad, for she thought he would now be with her.
then she remembered that human beings could not live in the water, so that when he got down to her father's palace he would certainly be quite dead.
no, he must not die!
so she swam about among the beams and planks which strewed the surface of the sea, forgetting that they could crush her to pieces.
diving deep under the dark waters, rising and falling with the waves, she at length managed to reach the young prince, who was fast losing the power to swim in that stormy sea.
his limbs were failing him, his beautiful eyes were closed, and he would have died had not the little mermaid come to his assistance.
she held his head above the water and let the waves carry them where they would.
in the morning the storm had ceased, but of the ship not a single fragment could be seen.
the sun came up red and shining out of the water, and its beams brought back the hue of health to the prince's cheeks, but his eyes remained closed.
the mermaid kissed his high, smooth forehead and stroked back his wet hair.
he seemed to her like the marble statue in her little garden, so she kissed him again and wished that he might live.
presently they came in sight of land, and she saw lofty blue mountains on which the white snow rested as if a flock of swans were lying upon them.
beautiful green forests were near the shore, and close by stood a large building, whether a church or a convent she could not tell.
orange and citron trees grew in the garden, and before the door stood lofty palms.
the sea here formed a little bay, in which the water lay quiet and still, but very deep.
she swam with the handsome prince to the beach, which was covered with fine white sand, and there she laid him in the warm sunshine, taking care to raise his head higher than his body.
then bells sounded in the large white building, and some young girls came into the garden.
the little mermaid swam out farther from the shore and hid herself among some high rocks that rose out of the water.
covering her head and neck with the foam of the sea, she watched there to see what would become of the poor prince.
it was not long before she saw a young girl approach the spot where the prince lay.
she seemed frightened at first, but only for a moment; then she brought a number of people, and the mermaid saw that the prince came to life again and smiled upon those who stood about him.
but to her he sent no smile; he knew not that she had saved him.
this made her very sorrowful, and when he was led away into the great building, she dived down into the water and returned to her father's castle.
she had always been silent and thoughtful, and now she was more so than ever.
her sisters asked her what she had seen during her first visit to the surface of the water, but she could tell them nothing.
many an evening and morning did she rise to the place where she had left the prince.
she saw the fruits in the garden ripen and watched them gathered; she watched the snow on the mountain tops melt away; but never did she see the prince, and therefore she always returned home more sorrowful than before.
it was her only comfort to sit in her own little garden and fling her arm around the beautiful marble statue, which was like the prince.
she gave up tending her flowers, and they grew in wild confusion over the paths, twining their long leaves and stems round the branches of the trees so that the whole place became dark and gloomy.
at length she could bear it no longer and told one of her sisters all about it.
then the others heard the secret, and very soon it became known to several mermaids, one of whom had an intimate friend who happened to know about the prince.
she had also seen the festival on board ship, and she told them where the prince came from and where his palace stood.
"come, little sister," said the other princesses.
then they entwined their arms and rose together to the surface of the water, near the spot where they knew the prince's palace stood.
it was built of bright-yellow, shining stone and had long flights of marble steps, one of which reached quite down to the sea.
splendid gilded cupolas rose over the roof, and between the pillars that surrounded the whole building stood lifelike statues of marble.
through the clear crystal of the lofty windows could be seen noble rooms, with costly silk curtains and hangings of tapestry and walls covered with beautiful paintings.
in the center of the largest salon a fountain threw its sparkling jets high up into the glass cupola of the ceiling, through which the sun shone in upon the water and upon the beautiful plants that grew in the basin of the fountain.
now that the little mermaid knew where the prince lived, she spent many an evening and many a night on the water near the palace.
she would swim much nearer the shore than any of the others had ventured, and once she went up the narrow channel under the marble balcony, which threw a broad shadow on the water.
here she sat and watched the young prince, who thought himself alone in the bright moonlight.
she often saw him evenings, sailing in a beautiful boat on which music sounded and flags waved.
she peeped out from among the green rushes, and if the wind caught her long silvery-white veil, those who saw it believed it to be a swan, spreading out its wings.
many a night, too, when the fishermen set their nets by the light of their torches, she heard them relate many good things about the young prince.
and this made her glad that she had saved his life when he was tossed about half dead on the waves.
she remembered how his head had rested on her bosom and how heartily she had kissed him, but he knew nothing of all this and could not even dream of her.
she grew more and more to like human beings and wished more and more to be able to wander about with those whose world seemed to be so much larger than her own.
they could fly over the sea in ships and mount the high hills which were far above the clouds; and the lands they possessed, their woods and their fields, stretched far away beyond the reach of her sight.
there was so much that she wished to know!
but her sisters were unable to answer all her questions.
she then went to her old grandmother, who knew all about the upper world, which she rightly called "the lands above the sea."
"if human beings are not drowned," asked the little mermaid, "can they live forever?
do they never die, as we do here in the sea?"
"yes," replied the old lady, "they must also die, and their term of life is even shorter than ours.
we sometimes live for three hundred years, but when we cease to exist here, we become only foam on the surface of the water and have not even a grave among those we love.
we have not immortal souls, we shall never live again; like the green seaweed when once it has been cut off, we can never flourish more.
human beings, on the contrary, have souls which live forever, even after the body has been turned to dust.
they rise up through the clear, pure air, beyond the glittering stars.
as we rise out of the water and behold all the land of the earth, so do they rise to unknown and glorious regions which we shall never see."
"why have not we immortal souls?"
asked the little mermaid, mournfully.
"i would gladly give all the hundreds of years that i have to live, to be a human being only for one day and to have the hope of knowing the happiness of that glorious world above the stars."
"you must not think that," said the old woman.
"we believe that we are much happier and much better off than human beings."
"so i shall die," said the little mermaid, "and as the foam of the sea i shall be driven about, never again to hear the music of the waves or to see the pretty flowers or the red sun?
is there anything i can do to win an immortal soul?"
"no," said the old woman; "unless a man should love you so much that you were more to him than his father or his mother, and if all his thoughts and all his love were fixed upon you, and the priest placed his right hand in yours, and he promised to be true to you here and hereafter then his soul would glide into your body, and you would obtain a share in the future happiness of mankind.
he would give to you a soul and retain his own as well; but this can never happen.
your fish's tail, which among us is considered so beautiful, on earth is thought to be quite ugly.
they do not know any better, and they think it necessary, in order to be handsome, to have two stout props, which they call legs."
then the little mermaid sighed and looked sorrowfully at her fish's tail.
"let us be happy," said the old lady, "and dart and spring about during the three hundred years that we have to live, which is really quite long enough.
after that we can rest ourselves all the better.
this evening we are going to have a court ball."
it was one of those splendid sights which we can never see on earth.
the walls and the ceiling of the large ballroom were of thick but transparent crystal.
many hundreds of colossal shells, some of a deep red, others of a grass green, with blue fire in them, stood in rows on each side.
these lighted up the whole salon, and shone through the walls so that the sea was also illuminated.
innumerable fishes, great and small, swam past the crystal walls; on some of them the scales glowed with a purple brilliance, and on others shone like silver and gold.
through the halls flowed a broad stream, and in it danced the mermen and the mermaids to the music of their own sweet singing.
no one on earth has such lovely voices as they, but the little mermaid sang more sweetly than all.
the whole court applauded her with hands and tails, and for a moment her heart felt quite gay, for she knew she had the sweetest voice either on earth or in the sea.
but soon she thought again of the world above her; she could not forget the charming prince, nor her sorrow that she had not an immortal soul like his.
she crept away silently out of her father's palace, and while everything within was gladness and song, she sat in her own little garden, sorrowful and alone.
then she heard the bugle sounding through the water and thought:
"he is certainly sailing above, he in whom my wishes center and in whose hands i should like to place the happiness of my life.
i will venture all for him and to win an immortal soul.
while my sisters are dancing in my father's palace i will go to the sea witch, of whom i have always been so much afraid; she can give me counsel and help."
then the little mermaid went out from her garden and took the road to the foaming whirlpools, behind which the sorceress lived.
she had never been that way before.
neither flowers nor grass grew there; nothing but bare, gray, sandy ground stretched out to the whirlpool, where the water, like foaming mill wheels, seized everything that came within its reach and cast it into the fathomless deep.
through the midst of these crushing whirlpools the little mermaid was obliged to pass before she could reach the dominions of the sea witch.
then, for a long distance, the road lay across a stretch of warm, bubbling mire, called by the witch her turf moor.
beyond this was the witch's house, which stood in the center of a strange forest, where all the trees and flowers were polypi, half animals and half plants.
they looked like serpents with a hundred heads, growing out of the ground.
the branches were long, slimy arms, with fingers like flexible worms, moving limb after limb from the root to the top.
all that could be reached in the sea they seized upon and held fast, so that it never escaped from their clutches.
the little mermaid was so alarmed at what she saw that she stood still and her heart beat with fear.
she came very near turning back, but she thought of the prince and of the human soul for which she longed, and her courage returned.
she fastened her long, flowing hair round her head, so that the polypi should not lay hold of it.
she crossed her hands on her bosom, and then darted forward as a fish shoots through the water, between the supple arms and fingers of the ugly polypi, which were stretched out on each side of her.
she saw that they all held in their grasp something they had seized with their numerous little arms, which were as strong as iron bands.
tightly grasped in their clinging arms were white skeletons of human beings who had perished at sea and had sunk down into the deep waters; skeletons of land animals; and oars, rudders, and chests, of ships.
there was even a little mermaid whom they had caught and strangled, and this seemed the most shocking of all to the little princess.
she now came to a space of marshy ground in the wood, where large, fat water snakes were rolling in the mire and showing their ugly, drab-colored bodies.
in the midst of this spot stood a house, built of the bones of shipwrecked human beings.
there sat the sea witch, allowing a toad to eat from her mouth just as people sometimes feed a canary with pieces of sugar.
she called the ugly water snakes her little chickens and allowed them to crawl all over her bosom.
"i know what you want," said the sea witch.
"it is very stupid of you, but you shall have your way, though it will bring you to sorrow, my pretty princess.
you want to get rid of your fish's tail and to have two supports instead, like human beings on earth, so that the young prince may fall in love with you and so that you may have an immortal soul."
and then the witch laughed so loud and so disgustingly that the toad and the snakes fell to the ground and lay there wriggling.
"you are but just in time," said the witch, "for after sunrise to-morrow i should not be able to help you till the end of another year.
i will prepare a draft for you, with which you must swim to land to-morrow before sunrise; seat yourself there and drink it.
your tail will then disappear, and shrink up into what men call legs.
"you will feel great pain, as if a sword were passing through you.
but all who see you will say that you are the prettiest little human being they ever saw.
you will still have the same floating gracefulness of movement, and no dancer will ever tread so lightly.
every step you take, however, will be as if you were treading upon sharp knives and as if the blood must flow.
if you will bear all this, i will help you."
"yes, i will," said the little princess in a trembling voice, as she thought of the prince and the immortal soul.
"but think again," said the witch, "for when once your shape has become like a human being, you can no more be a mermaid.
you will never return through the water to your sisters or to your father's palace again.
and if you do not win the love of the prince, so that he is willing to forget his father and mother for your sake and to love you with his whole soul and allow the priest to join your hands that you may be man and wife, then you will never have an immortal soul.
the first morning after he marries another, your heart will break and you will become foam on the crest of the waves."
"i will do it," said the little mermaid, and she became pale as death.
"but i must be paid, also," said the witch, "and it is not a trifle that i ask.
you have the sweetest voice of any who dwell here in the depths of the sea, and you believe that you will be able to charm the prince with it.
but this voice you must give to me.
the best thing you possess will i have as the price of my costly draft, which must be mixed with my own blood so that it may be as sharp as a two-edged sword."
"but if you take away my voice," said the little mermaid, "what is left for me?"
"your beautiful form, your graceful walk, and your expressive eyes.
surely with these you can enchain a man's heart.
well, have you lost your courage?
put out your little tongue, that i may cut it off as my payment; then you shall have the powerful draft."
"it shall be," said the little mermaid.
then the witch placed her caldron on the fire, to prepare the magic draft.
"cleanliness is a good thing," said she, scouring the vessel with snakes which she had tied together in a large knot.
then she pricked herself in the breast and let the black blood drop into the caldron.
the steam that rose twisted itself into such horrible shapes that no one could look at them without fear.
every moment the witch threw a new ingredient into the vessel, and when it began to boil, the sound was like the weeping of a crocodile.
when at last the magic draft was ready, it looked like the clearest water.
"there it is for you," said the witch.
then she cut off the mermaid's tongue, so that she would never again speak or sing.
"if the polypi should seize you as you return through the wood," said the witch, "throw over them a few drops of the potion, and their fingers will be torn into a thousand pieces."
but the little mermaid had no occasion to do this, for the polypi sprang back in terror when they caught sight of the glittering draft, which shone in her hand like a twinkling star.
so she passed quickly through the wood and the marsh and between the rushing whirlpools.
she saw that in her father's palace the torches in the ballroom were extinguished and that all within were asleep.
but she did not venture to go in to them, for now that she was dumb and going to leave them forever she felt as if her heart would break.
she stole into the garden, took a flower from the flower bed of each of her sisters, kissed her hand towards the palace a thousand times, and then rose up through the dark-blue waters.
the sun had not risen when she came in sight of the prince's palace and approached the beautiful marble steps, but the moon shone clear and bright.
then the little mermaid drank the magic draft, and it seemed as if a two-edged sword went through her delicate body.
she fell into a swoon and lay like one dead.
when the sun rose and shone over the sea, she recovered and felt a sharp pain, but before her stood the handsome young prince.
he fixed his coal-black eyes upon her so earnestly that she cast down her own and then became aware that her fish's tail was gone and that she had as pretty a pair of white legs and tiny feet as any little maiden could have.
but she had no clothes, so she wrapped herself in her long, thick hair.
the prince asked her who she was and whence she came.
she looked at him mildly and sorrowfully with her deep blue eyes, but could not speak.
he took her by the hand and led her to the palace.
every step she took was as the witch had said it would be; she felt as if she were treading upon the points of needles or sharp knives.
she bore it willingly, however, and moved at the prince's side as lightly as a bubble, so that he and all who saw her wondered at her graceful, swaying movements.
she was very soon arrayed in costly robes of silk and muslin and was the most beautiful creature in the palace; but she was dumb and could neither speak nor sing.
beautiful female slaves, dressed in silk and gold, stepped forward and sang before the prince and his royal parents.
one sang better than all the others, and the prince clapped his hands and smiled at her.
this was a great sorrow to the little mermaid, for she knew how much more sweetly she herself once could sing, and she thought, "oh, if he could only know that i have given away my voice forever, to be with him!"
the slaves next performed some pretty fairy-like dances, to the sound of beautiful music.
then the little mermaid raised her lovely white arms, stood on the tips of her toes, glided over the floor, and danced as no one yet had been able to dance.
at each moment her beauty was more revealed, and her expressive eyes appealed more directly to the heart than the songs of the slaves.
every one was enchanted, especially the prince, who called her his little foundling.
she danced again quite readily, to please him, though each time her foot touched the floor it seemed as if she trod on sharp knives.
the prince said she should remain with him always, and she was given permission to sleep at his door, on a velvet cushion.
he had a page's dress made for her, that she might accompany him on horseback.
they rode together through the sweet-scented woods, where the green boughs touched their shoulders, and the little birds sang among the fresh leaves.
she climbed with him to the tops of high mountains, and although her tender feet bled so that even her steps were marked, she only smiled, and followed him till they could see the clouds beneath them like a flock of birds flying to distant lands.
while at the prince's palace, and when all the household were asleep, she would go and sit on the broad marble steps, for it eased her burning feet to bathe them in the cold sea water.
it was then that she thought of all those below in the deep.
once during the night her sisters came up arm in arm, singing sorrowfully as they floated on the water.
she beckoned to them, and they recognized her and told her how she had grieved them; after that, they came to the same place every night.
once she saw in the distance her old grandmother, who had not been to the surface of the sea for many years, and the old sea king, her father, with his crown on his head.
they stretched out their hands towards her, but did not venture so near the land as her sisters had.
as the days passed she loved the prince more dearly, and he loved her as one would love a little child.
the thought never came to him to make her his wife.
yet unless he married her, she could not receive an immortal soul, and on the morning after his marriage with another, she would dissolve into the foam of the sea.
"do you not love me the best of them all?"
the eyes of the little mermaid seemed to say when he took her in his arms and kissed her fair forehead.
"yes, you are dear to me," said the prince, "for you have the best heart and you are the most devoted to me.
you are like a young maiden whom i once saw, but whom i shall never meet again.
i was in a ship that was wrecked, and the waves cast me ashore near a holy temple where several young maidens performed the service.
the youngest of them found me on the shore and saved my life.
i saw her but twice, and she is the only one in the world whom i could love.
but you are like her, and you have almost driven her image from my mind.
she belongs to the holy temple, and good fortune has sent you to me in her stead.
we will never part.
"ah, he knows not that it was i who saved his life," thought the little mermaid.
"i carried him over the sea to the wood where the temple stands; i sat beneath the foam and watched till the human beings came to help him.
i saw the pretty maiden that he loves better than he loves me."
the mermaid sighed deeply, but she could not weep.
"he says the maiden belongs to the holy temple, therefore she will never return to the world they will meet no more.
i am by his side and see him every day.
i will take care of him, and love him, and give up my life for his sake."
very soon it was said that the prince was to marry and that the beautiful daughter of a neighboring king would be his wife, for a fine ship was being fitted out.
although the prince gave out that he intended merely to pay a visit to the king, it was generally supposed that he went to court the princess.
a great company were to go with him.
the little mermaid smiled and shook her head.
she knew the prince's thoughts better than any of the others.
"i must travel," he had said to her; "i must see this beautiful princess.
my parents desire it, but they will not oblige me to bring her home as my bride.
i cannot love her, because she is not like the beautiful maiden in the temple, whom you resemble.
if i were forced to choose a bride, i would choose you, my dumb foundling, with those expressive eyes."
then he kissed her rosy mouth, played with her long, waving hair, and laid his head on her heart, while she dreamed of human happiness and an immortal soul.
"you are not afraid of the sea, my dumb child, are you?"
he said, as they stood on the deck of the noble ship which was to carry them to the country of the neighboring king.
then he told her of storm and of calm, of strange fishes in the deep beneath them, and of what the divers had seen there.
she smiled at his descriptions, for she knew better than any one what wonders were at the bottom of the sea.
in the moonlight night, when all on board were asleep except the man at the helm, she sat on deck, gazing down through the clear water.
she thought she could distinguish her father's castle, and upon it her aged grandmother, with the silver crown on her head, looking through the rushing tide at the keel of the vessel.
then her sisters came up on the waves and gazed at her mournfully, wringing their white hands.
she beckoned to them, and smiled, and wanted to tell them how happy and well off she was.
but the cabin boy approached, and when her sisters dived down, he thought what he saw was only the foam of the sea.
the next morning the ship sailed into the harbor of a beautiful town belonging to the king whom the prince was going to visit.
the church bells were ringing, and from the high towers sounded a flourish of trumpets.
soldiers, with flying colors and glittering bayonets, lined the roads through which they passed.
every day was a festival, balls and entertainments following one another.
but the princess had not yet appeared.
people said that she had been brought up and educated in a religious house, where she was learning every royal virtue.
at last she came.
then the little mermaid, who was anxious to see whether she was really beautiful, was obliged to admit that she had never seen a more perfect vision of beauty.
her skin was delicately fair, and beneath her long, dark eyelashes her laughing blue eyes shone with truth and purity.
"it was you," said the prince, "who saved my life when i lay as if dead on the beach," and he folded his blushing bride in his arms.
"oh, i am too happy!"
said he to the little mermaid; "my fondest hopes are now fulfilled.
you will rejoice at my happiness, for your devotion to me is great and sincere."
the little mermaid kissed his hand and felt as if her heart were already broken.
his wedding morning would bring death to her, and she would change into the foam of the sea.
all the church bells rang, and the heralds rode through the town proclaiming the betrothal.
perfumed oil was burned in costly silver lamps on every altar.
the priests waved the censers, while the bride and the bridegroom joined their hands and received the blessing of the bishop.
the little mermaid, dressed in silk and gold, held up the bride's train; but her ears heard nothing of the festive music, and her eyes saw not the holy ceremony.
she thought of the night of death which was coming to her, and of all she had lost in the world.
on the same evening the bride and bridegroom went on board the ship.
cannons were roaring, flags waving, and in the center of the ship a costly tent of purple and gold had been erected.
it contained elegant sleeping couches for the bridal pair during the night.
the ship, under a favorable wind, with swelling sails, glided away smoothly and lightly over the calm sea.
when it grew dark, a number of colored lamps were lighted and the sailors danced merrily on the deck.
the little mermaid could not help thinking of her first rising out of the sea, when she had seen similar joyful festivities, so she too joined in the dance, poised herself in the air as a swallow when he pursues his prey, and all present cheered her wonderingly.
she had never danced so gracefully before.
her tender feet felt as if cut with sharp knives, but she cared not for the pain; a sharper pang had pierced her heart.
she knew this was the last evening she should ever see the prince for whom she had forsaken her kindred and her home.
she had given up her beautiful voice and suffered unheard-of pain daily for him, while he knew nothing of it.
this was the last evening that she should breathe the same air with him or gaze on the starry sky and the deep sea.
an eternal night, without a thought or a dream, awaited her.
she had no soul, and now could never win one.
all was joy and gaiety on the ship until long after midnight.
she smiled and danced with the rest, while the thought of death was in her heart.
the prince kissed his beautiful bride and she played with his raven hair till they went arm in arm to rest in the sumptuous tent.
then all became still on board the ship, and only the pilot, who stood at the helm, was awake.
the little mermaid leaned her white arms on the edge of the vessel and looked towards the east for the first blush of morning for that first ray of the dawn which was to be her death.
she saw her sisters rising out of the flood.
they were as pale as she, but their beautiful hair no longer waved in the wind; it had been cut off.
"we have given our hair to the witch," said they, "to obtain help for you, that you may not die to-night.
she has given us a knife; see, it is very sharp.
before the sun rises you must plunge it into the heart of the prince.
when the warm blood falls upon your feet they will grow together again into a fish's tail, and you will once more be a mermaid and can return to us to live out your three hundred years before you are changed into the salt sea foam.
haste, then; either he or you must die before sunrise.
our old grandmother mourns so for you that her white hair is falling, as ours fell under the witch's scissors.
kill the prince, and come back.
hasten!
do you not see the first red streaks in the sky?
in a few minutes the sun will rise, and you must die."
then they sighed deeply and mournfully, and sank beneath the waves.
the little mermaid drew back the crimson curtain of the tent and beheld the fair bride, whose head was resting on the prince's breast.
she bent down and kissed his noble brow, then looked at the sky, on which the rosy dawn grew brighter and brighter.
she glanced at the sharp knife and again fixed her eyes on the prince, who whispered the name of his bride in his dreams.
she was in his thoughts, and the knife trembled in the hand of the little mermaid but she flung it far from her into the waves.
the water turned red where it fell, and the drops that spurted up looked like blood.
she cast one more lingering, half-fainting glance at the prince, then threw herself from the ship into the sea and felt her body dissolving into foam.
the sun rose above the waves, and his warm rays fell on the cold foam of the little mermaid, who did not feel as if she were dying.
she saw the bright sun, and hundreds of transparent, beautiful creatures floating around her she could see through them the white sails of the ships and the red clouds in the sky.
their speech was melodious, but could not be heard by mortal ears just as their bodies could not be seen by mortal eyes.
the little mermaid perceived that she had a body like theirs and that she continued to rise higher and higher out of the foam.
"where am i?"
asked she, and her voice sounded ethereal, like the voices of those who were with her.
no earthly music could imitate it.
"among the daughters of the air," answered one of them.
"a mermaid has not an immortal soul, nor can she obtain one unless she wins the love of a human being.
on the will of another hangs her eternal destiny.
but the daughters of the air, although they do not possess an immortal soul, can, by their good deeds, procure one for themselves.
we fly to warm countries and cool the sultry air that destroys mankind with the pestilence.
we carry the perfume of the flowers to spread health and restoration.
"after we have striven for three hundred years to do all the good in our power, we receive an immortal soul and take part in the happiness of mankind.
you, poor little mermaid, have tried with your whole heart to do as we are doing.
you have suffered and endured, and raised yourself to the spirit world by your good deeds, and now, by striving for three hundred years in the same way, you may obtain an immortal soul."
the little mermaid lifted her glorified eyes toward the sun and, for the first time, felt them filling with tears.
on the ship in which she had left the prince there were life and noise, and she saw him and his beautiful bride searching for her.
sorrowfully they gazed at the pearly foam, as if they knew she had thrown herself into the waves.
unseen she kissed the forehead of the bride and fanned the prince, and then mounted with the other children of the air to a rosy cloud that floated above.
"after three hundred years, thus shall we float into the kingdom of heaven," said she.
"and we may even get there sooner," whispered one of her companions.
"unseen we can enter the houses of men where there are children, and for every day on which we find a good child that is the joy of his parents and deserves their love, our time of probation is shortened.
the child does not know, when we fly through the room, that we smile with joy at his good conduct for we can count one year less of our three hundred years.
but when we see a naughty or a wicked child we shed tears of sorrow, and for every tear a day is added to our time of trial."
buckwheat
if you should chance, after a tempest, to cross a field where buckwheat is growing, you may observe that it looks black and singed, as if a flame of fire had passed over it.
and should you ask the reason, a farmer will tell you, "the lightning did that."
but how is it that the lightning did it?
i will tell you what the sparrow told me, and the sparrow heard it from an aged willow which stood and still stands for that matter close to the field of buckwheat.
this willow is tall and venerable, though old and crippled.
its trunk is split clear through the middle, and grass and blackberry tendrils creep out through the cleft.
the tree bends forward, and its branches droop like long, green hair.
in the fields around the willow grew rye, wheat, and oats beautiful oats that, when ripe, looked like little yellow canary birds sitting on a branch.
the harvest had been blessed, and the fuller the ears of grain the lower they bowed their heads in reverent humility.
there was also a field of buckwheat lying just in front of the old willow.
the buckwheat did not bow its head, like the rest of the grain, but stood erect in stiff-necked pride.
"i am quite as rich as the oats," it said; "and, moreover, i am much more sightly.
my flowers are as pretty as apple blossoms.
it is a treat to look at me and my companions.
old willow, do you know anything more beautiful than we?"
the willow nodded his head, as much as to say, "indeed i do!"
but the buckwheat was so puffed with pride that it only said: "the stupid tree!
he is so old that grass is growing out of his body."
now there came on a dreadful storm, and the flowers of the field folded their leaves or bent their heads as it passed over them.
the buckwheat flower alone stood erect in all its pride.
"bow your heads, as we do," called the flowers.
"there is no need for me to do that," answered the buckwheat.
"bow your head as we do," said the grain.
"the angel of storms comes flying hither.
he has wings that reach from the clouds to the earth; he will smite you before you have time to beg for mercy."
"but i do not choose to bow down," said the buckwheat.
"close your flowers and fold your leaves," said the old willow.
"do not look at the lightning when the cloud breaks.
even human beings dare not do that, for in the midst of the lightning one may look straight into god's heaven.
the sight strikes human beings blind, so dazzling is it.
what would not happen to us, mere plants of the field, who are so much humbler, if we should dare do so?"
"so much humbler!
indeed!
if there is a chance, i shall look right into god's heaven."
and in its pride and haughtiness it did so.
the flashes of lightning were so awful that it seemed as if the whole world were in flames.
when the tempest was over, both the grain and the flowers, greatly refreshed by the rain, again stood erect in the pure, quiet air.
but the buckwheat had been burned as black as a cinder by the lightning and stood in the field like a dead, useless weed.
the old willow waved his branches to and fro in the wind, and large drops of water fell from his green leaves, as if he were shedding tears.
the sparrows asked: "why are you weeping when all around seems blest?
do you not smell the sweet perfume of flowers and bushes?
the sun shines, and the clouds have passed from the sky.
why do you weep, old tree?"
then the willow told them of the buckwheat's stubborn pride and of the punishment which followed.
i, who tell this tale, heard it from the sparrows.
they told it to me one evening when i had asked them for a story.
what happened to the thistle
around a lordly old mansion was a beautiful, well-kept garden, full of all kinds of rare trees and flowers.
guests always expressed their delight and admiration at the sight of its wonders.
the people from far and near used to come on sundays and holidays and ask permission to see it.
even whole schools made excursions for the sole purpose of seeing its beauties.
near the fence that separated the garden from the meadow stood an immense thistle.
it was an uncommonly large and fine thistle, with several branches spreading out just above the root, and altogether was so strong and full as to make it well worthy of the name "thistle bush."
no one ever noticed it, save the old donkey that pulled the milk cart for the dairymaids.
he stood grazing in the meadow hard by and stretched his old neck to reach the thistle, saying: "you are beautiful!
i should like to eat you!"
but the tether was too short to allow him to reach the thistle, so he did not eat it.
there were guests at the hall, fine, aristocratic relatives from town, and among them a young lady who had come from a long distance all the way from scotland.
she was of old and noble family and rich in gold and lands a bride well worth the winning, thought more than one young man to himself; yes, and their mothers thought so, too!
the young people amused themselves on the lawn, playing croquet and flitting about among the flowers, each young girl gathering a flower to put in the buttonhole of some one of the gentlemen.
the young scotch lady looked about for a flower, but none of them seemed to please her, until, happening to glance over the fence, she espied the fine, large thistle bush, full of bluish-red, sturdy-looking flowers.
she smiled as she saw it, and begged the son of the house to get one of them for her.
"that is scotland's flower," she said; "it grows and blossoms in our coat of arms.
get that one yonder for me, please."
and he gathered the finest of the thistle flowers, though he pricked his fingers as much in doing so as if it had been growing on a wild rosebush.
she took the flower and put it in his buttonhole, which made him feel greatly honored.
each of the other young men would gladly have given up his graceful garden flower if he might have worn the one given by the delicate hands of the scotch girl.
as keenly as the son of the house felt the honor conferred upon him, the thistle felt even more highly honored.
it seemed to feel dew and sunshine going through it.
"it seems i am of more consequence than i thought," it said to itself.
"i ought by rights to stand inside and not outside the fence.
one gets strangely placed in this world, but now i have at least one of my flowers over the fence and not only there, but in a buttonhole!"
to each one of its buds as it opened, the thistle bush told this great event.
and not many days had passed before it heard not from the people who passed, nor yet from the twittering of little birds, but from the air, which gives out, far and wide, the sounds that it has treasured up from the shadiest walks of the beautiful garden and from the most secluded rooms at the hall, where doors and windows are left open that the young man who received the thistle flower from the hands of the scottish maiden had received her heart and hand as well.
"that is my doing!"
said the thistle, thinking of the flower she had given to the buttonhole.
and every new flower that came was told of this wonderful event.
"surely i shall now be taken and planted in the garden," thought the thistle.
"perhaps i shall be put into a flowerpot, for that is by far the most honorable position."
it thought of this so long that it ended by saying to itself with the firm conviction of truth, "i shall be planted in a flowerpot!"
it promised every little bud that came that it also should be placed in a pot and perhaps have a place in a buttonhole that being the highest position one could aspire to.
but none of them got into a flowerpot, and still less into a gentleman's buttonhole.
they lived on light and air, and drank sunshine in the day and dew at night.
they received visits from bee and hornet, who came to look for the honey in the flower, and who took the honey and left the flower.
"the good-for-nothing fellows," said the thistle bush.
"i would pierce them if i could!"
the flowers drooped and faded, but new ones always came.
"you come as if you had been sent," said the thistle bush to them.
"i am expecting every moment to be taken over the fence."
a couple of harmless daisies and a huge, thin plant of canary grass listened to this with the deepest respect, believing all they heard.
the old donkey, that had to pull the milk cart, cast longing looks toward the blooming thistle and tried to reach it, but his tether was too short.
and the thistle bush thought and thought, so much and so long, of the scotch thistle to whom it believed itself related that at last it fancied it had come from scotland and that its parents had grown into the scottish arms.
it was a great thought, but a great thistle may well have great thoughts.
"sometimes one is of noble race even if one does not know it," said the nettle growing close by it had a kind of presentiment that it might be turned into muslin, if properly treated.
the summer passed, and the autumn passed; the leaves fell from the trees; the flowers came with stronger colors and less perfume; the gardener's lad sang on the other side of the fence:
"up the hill and down the hill,            that's the way of the world still."
the young pine trees in the wood began to feel a longing for christmas, though christmas was still a long way off.
"here i am still," said the thistle.
"it seems that i am quite forgotten, and yet it was i who made the match.
they were engaged, and now they are married the wedding was a week ago.
i do not make a single step forward, for i cannot."
some weeks passed.
the thistle had its last, solitary flower, which was large and full and growing down near the root.
the wind blew coldly over it, the color faded, and all its glory disappeared, leaving only the cup of the flower, now grown to be as large as the flower of an artichoke and glistening like a silvered sunflower.
the young couple, who were now man and wife, came along the garden path, and as they passed near the fence, the bride, glancing over it, said, "why, there stands the large thistle!
it has no flowers now."
"yes, there is still the ghost of the last one," said her husband, pointing to the silvery remains of the last flower a flower in itself.
"how beautiful it is!"
she said.
"we must have one carved in the frame of our picture."
and once more the young man had to get over the fence, to break off the silvery cup of the thistle flower.
it pricked his fingers for his pains, because he had called it a ghost.
and then it was brought into the garden, and to the hall, and into the drawing room.
there stood a large picture the portraits of the two, and in the bridegroom's buttonhole was painted a thistle.
they talked of it and of the flower cup they had brought in with them the last silver-shimmering thistle flower, that was to be reproduced in the carving of the frame.
the air took all their words and scattered them about, far and wide.
"what strange things happen to one!"
said the thistle bush.
"my first-born went to live in a buttonhole, my last-born in a frame!
i wonder what is to become of me."
the old donkey, standing by the roadside, cast loving glances at the thistle and said, "come to me, my sweetheart, for i cannot go to you; my tether is too short!"
but the thistle bush made no answer.
it grew more and more thoughtful, and it thought as far ahead as christmas, till its budding thoughts opened into flower.
"when one's children are safely housed, a mother is quite content to stay beyond the fence."
"that is true," said the sunshine; "and you will be well placed, never fear."
"in a flowerpot or in a frame?"
asked the thistle.
"in a story," answered the sunshine.
and here is the story!
the pen and the inkstand
in a poet's room, where his inkstand stood on the table, the remark was once made: "it is wonderful what can be brought out of an inkstand.
what will come next?
it is indeed wonderful."
"yes, certainly," said the inkstand to the pen and to the other articles that stood on the table; "that's what i always say.
it is wonderful and extraordinary what a number of things come out of me.
it's quite incredible, and i really never know what is coming next when that man dips his pen into me.
one drop out of me is enough for half a page of paper and what cannot half a page contain?
"from me all the works of the poet are produced all those imaginary characters whom people fancy they have known or met, and all the deep feeling, the humor, and the vivid pictures of nature.
i myself don't understand how it is, for i am not acquainted with nature, but it is certainly in me.
from me have gone forth to the world those wonderful descriptions of charming maidens, and of brave knights on prancing steeds; of the halt and the blind and i know not what more, for i assure you i never think of these things."
"there you are right," said the pen, "for you don't think at all.
if you did, you would see that you can only provide the means.
you give the fluid, that i may place upon the paper what dwells in me and what i wish to bring to light.
it is the pen that writes.
no man doubts that; and indeed most people understand as much about poetry as an old inkstand."
"you have had very little experience," replied the inkstand.
"you have hardly been in service a week and are already half worn out.
do you imagine you are a poet?
you are only a servant, and before you came i had many like you, some of the goose family and others of english manufacture.
i know a quill pen as well as i know a steel one.
i have had both sorts in my service, and i shall have many more as long as he comes the man who performs the mechanical part and writes down what he obtains from me.
i should like to know what will be the next thing he gets out of me."
"inkpot!"
retorted the pen, contemptuously.
late in the evening the poet returned home from a concert, where he had been quite enchanted by the admirable performance of a famous violin player.
the player had produced from his instrument a richness of tone that sometimes sounded like tinkling water drops or rolling pearls, sometimes like the birds twittering in chorus, and then again, rising and swelling like the wind through the fir trees.
the poet felt as if his own heart were weeping, but in tones of melody, like the sound of a woman's voice.
these sounds seemed to come not only from the strings but from every part of the instrument.
it was a wonderful performance and a difficult piece, and yet the bow seemed to glide across the strings so easily that one would think any one could do it.
the violin and the bow seemed independent of their master who guided them.
it was as if soul and spirit had been breathed into the instrument.
and the audience forgot the performer in the beautiful sounds he produced.
not so the poet; he remembered him and wrote down his thoughts on the subject: "how foolish it would be for the violin and the bow to boast of their performance, and yet we men often commit that folly.
the poet, the artist, the man of science in his laboratory, the general we all do it, and yet we are only the instruments which the almighty uses.
to him alone the honor is due.
we have nothing in ourselves of which we should be proud."
yes, this is what the poet wrote.
he wrote it in the form of a parable and called it "the master and the instruments."
"that is what you get, madam," said the pen to the inkstand when the two were alone again.
"did you hear him read aloud what i had written down?"
"yes, what i gave you to write," retorted the inkstand.
"that was a cut at you, because of your conceit.
to think that you could not understand that you were being quizzed!
i gave you a cut from within me.
surely i must know my own satire."
"ink pitcher!"
cried the pen.
"writing stick!"
retorted the inkstand.
and each of them felt satisfied that he had given a good answer.
it is pleasing to be convinced that you have settled a matter by your reply; it is something to make you sleep well.
and they both slept well over it.
but the poet did not sleep.
thoughts rose within him, like the tones of the violin, falling like pearls or rushing like the strong wind through the forest.
he understood his own heart in these thoughts; they were as a ray from the mind of the great master of all minds.
"to him be all the honor."
the teapot
there was once a proud teapot; it was proud of being porcelain, proud of its long spout, proud of its broad handle.
it had something before and behind, the spout before and the handle behind, and that was what it talked about.
but it did not talk of its lid, which was cracked and riveted; these were defects, and one does not talk of one's defects, for there are plenty of others to do that.
the cups, the cream pot, and the sugar bowl, the whole tea service, would think much oftener of the lid's imperfections and talk about them than of the sound handle and the remarkable spout.
the teapot knew it.
"i know you," it said within itself.
"i know, too, my imperfection, and i am well aware that in that very thing is seen my humility, my modesty.
imperfections we all have, but we also have compensations.
the cups have a handle, the sugar bowl a lid; i have both, and one thing besides, in front, which they can never have.
i have a spout, and that makes me the queen of the tea table.
i spread abroad a blessing on thirsting mankind, for in me the chinese leaves are brewed in the boiling, tasteless water."
all this said the teapot in its fresh young life.
it stood on the table that was spread for tea; it was lifted by a very delicate hand, but the delicate hand was awkward.
the teapot fell, the spout snapped off, and the handle snapped off.
the lid was no worse to speak of; the worst had been spoken of that.
the teapot lay in a swoon on the floor, while the boiling water ran out of it.
it was a horrid shame, but the worst was that everybody jeered at it; they jeered at the teapot and not at the awkward hand.
"i never shall forget that experience," said the teapot, when it afterward talked of its life.
"i was called an invalid, and placed in a corner, and the next day was given to a woman who begged for victuals.
i fell into poverty, and stood dumb both outside and in.
but then, just as i was, began my better life.
one can be one thing and still become quite another.
"earth was placed in me.
for a teapot, this is the same as being buried, but in the earth was placed a flower bulb.
who placed it there, who gave it, i know not; but given it was, and it became a compensation for the chinese leaves and the boiling water, a compensation for the broken handle and spout.
"and the bulb lay in the earth, the bulb lay in me; it became my heart, my living heart, such as i had never before possessed.
there was life in me, power and might.
the heart pulsed, and the bulb put forth sprouts; it was the springing up of thoughts and feelings which burst forth into flower.
"i saw it, i bore it, i forgot myself in its delight.
blessed is it to forget oneself in another.
the flower gave me no thanks; it did not think of me.
it was admired and praised, and i was glad at that.
how happy it must have been!
one day i heard some one say that the flower deserved a better pot.
i was thumped hard on my back, which was a great affliction, and the flower was put into a better pot.
i was thrown out into the yard, where i lie as an old potsherd.
but i have the memory, and that i can never lose."
soup from a sausage skewer
"we had such an excellent dinner yesterday," said an old lady-mouse to another who had not been present at the feast.
"i sat number twenty-one below the mouse-king, which was not a bad place.
shall i tell you what we had?
everything was excellent moldy bread, tallow candle, and sausage.
"then, when we had finished that course, the same came on all over again; it was as good as two feasts.
we were very sociable, and there was as much joking and fun as if we had been all of one family circle.
nothing was left but the sausage skewers, and this formed a subject of conversation till at last some one used the expression, 'soup from sausage sticks'; or, as the people in the neighboring country call it, 'soup from a sausage skewer.'
"every one had heard the expression, but no one had ever tasted the soup, much less prepared it.
a capital toast was drunk to the inventor of the soup, and some one said he ought to be made a relieving officer to the poor.
was not that witty?
"then the old mouse-king rose and promised that the young lady-mouse who should learn how best to prepare this much-admired and savory soup should be his queen, and a year and a day should be allowed for the purpose."
"that was not at all a bad proposal," said the other mouse; "but how is the soup made?"
"ah, that is more than i can tell you.
all the young lady-mice were asking the same question.
they wish very much to be the queen, but they do not want to take the trouble to go out into the world to learn how to make soup, which it is absolutely necessary to do first.
"it is not every one who would care to leave her family or her happy corner by the fireside at home, even to be made queen.
it is not always easy in foreign lands to find bacon and cheese rind every day, and, after all, it is not pleasant to endure hunger and perhaps be eaten alive by the cat."
probably some such thoughts as these discouraged the majority from going out into the world to collect the required information.
only four mice gave notice that they were ready to set out on the journey.
they were young and sprightly, but poor.
each of them wished to visit one of the four divisions of the world, to see which of them would be most favored by fortune.
each took a sausage skewer as a traveler's staff and to remind her of the object of her journey.
they left home early in may, and none of them returned till the first of may in the following year, and then only three of them.
nothing was seen or heard of the fourth, although the day of decision was close at hand.
"ah, yes, there is always some trouble mingled with the greatest pleasure," said the mouse-king.
but he gave orders that all the mice within a circle of many miles should be invited at once.
they were to assemble in the kitchen, and the three travelers were to stand in a row before them, and a sausage skewer covered with crape was to stand in the place of the missing mouse.
no one dared express an opinion until the king spoke and desired one of them to proceed with her story.
and now we shall hear what she said.
what the first little mouse saw and heard on her travels
"when i first went out into the world," said the little mouse, "i fancied, as so many of my age do, that i already knew everything but it was not so.
it takes years to acquire great knowledge.
"i went at once to sea, in a ship bound for the north.
i had been told that the ship's cook must know how to prepare every dish at sea, and it is easy enough to do that with plenty of sides of bacon, and large tubs of salt meat and musty flour.
there i found plenty of delicate food but no opportunity to learn how to make soup from a sausage skewer.
"we sailed on for many days and nights; the ship rocked fearfully, and we did not escape without a wetting.
as soon as we arrived at the port to which the ship was bound, i left it and went on shore at a place far towards the north.
it is a wonderful thing to leave your own little corner at home, to hide yourself in a ship where there are sure to be some nice snug corners for shelter, then suddenly to find yourself thousands of miles away in a foreign land.
"i saw large, pathless forests of pine and birch trees, which smelt so strong that i sneezed and thought of sausage.
there were great lakes also, which looked as black as ink at a distance but were quite clear when i came close to them.
large swans were floating upon them, and i thought at first they were only foam, they lay so still; but when i saw them walk and fly, i knew directly what they were.
they belonged to the goose species.
one could see that by their walk, for no one can successfully disguise his family descent.
"i kept with my own kind and associated with the forest and field mice, who, however, knew very little especially about what i wanted to know and what had actually made me travel abroad.
"the idea that soup could be made from a sausage skewer was so startling to them that it was repeated from one to another through the whole forest.
they declared that the problem would never be solved that the thing was an impossibility.
how little i thought that in this place, on the very first night, i should be initiated into the manner of its preparation!
"it was the height of summer, which the mice told me was the reason that the forest smelt so strong, and that the herbs were so fragrant, and that the lakes with the white, swimming swans were so dark and yet so clear.
"on the margin of the wood, near several houses, a pole as large as the mainmast of a ship had been erected, and from the summit hung wreaths of flowers and fluttering ribbons.
it was the maypole.
lads and lasses danced round it and tried to outdo the violins of the musicians with their singing.
they were as gay as ever at sunset and in the moonlight, but i took no part in the merrymaking.
what has a little mouse to do with a maypole dance?
i sat in the soft moss and held my sausage skewer tight.
the moon shone particularly bright on one spot where stood a tree covered with very fine moss.
i may almost venture to say that it was as fine and soft as the fur of the mouse-king, but it was green, which is a color very agreeable to the eye.
"all at once i saw the most charming little people marching towards me.
they did not reach higher than my knee, although they looked like human beings but were better proportioned.
they called themselves elves, and wore clothes that were very delicate and fine, for they were made of the leaves of flowers, trimmed with the wings of flies and gnats.
the effect was by no means bad.
"they seemed to be seeking something i knew not what, till at last one of them espied me.
they came towards me, and the foremost pointed to my sausage skewer, saying: 'there, that is just what we want.
see, it is pointed at the top; is it not capital?'
the longer he looked at my pilgrim's staff the more delighted he became.
"'i will lend it to you,' said i, 'but not to keep.'
"'oh, no, we won't keep it!'
they all cried.
then they seized the skewer, which i gave up to them, and dancing with it to the tree covered with delicate moss, set it up in the middle of the green.
they wanted a maypole, and the one they now had seemed made especially for them.
this they decorated so beautifully that it was quite dazzling to look at.
little spiders spun golden threads around it, and it was hung with fluttering veils and flags, as delicately white as snow glittering in the moonlight.
then they took colors from the butterfly's wing, sprinkling them over the white drapery until it gleamed as if covered with flowers and diamonds, and i could no longer recognize my sausage skewer.
such a maypole as this has never been seen in all the world.
"then came a great company of real elves.
nothing could be finer than their clothes.
they invited me to be present at the feast, but i was to keep at a certain distance because i was too large for them.
then began music that sounded like a thousand glass bells, and was so full and strong that i thought it must be the song of the swans.
i fancied also that i heard the voices of the cuckoo and the blackbird, and it seemed at last as if the whole forest sent forth glorious melodies the voices of children, the tinkling of bells, and the songs of the birds.
and all this wonderful melody came from the elfin maypole.
my sausage peg was a complete peal of bells.
i could scarcely believe that so much could have been produced from it, till i remembered into what hands it had fallen.
i was so much affected that i wept tears such as a little mouse can weep, but they were tears of joy.
"the night was far too short for me; there are no long nights there in summer, as we often have in this part of the world.
when the morning dawned and the gentle breeze rippled the glassy mirror of the forest lake, all the delicate veils and flags fluttered away into thin air.
the waving garlands of the spider's web, the hanging bridges and galleries, or whatever else they may be called, vanished away as if they had never been.
six elves brought me back my sausage skewer and at the same time asked me to make any request, which they would grant if it lay in their power.
so i begged them, if they could, to tell me how to make soup from a sausage skewer.
"'how do we make it?'
asked the chief of the elves, with a smile.
'why, you have just seen us.
you scarcely knew your sausage skewer again, i am sure.'
"'they think themselves very wise,' thought i to myself.
then i told them all about it, and why i had traveled so far, and also what promise had been made at home to the one who should discover the method of preparing this soup.
"'what good will it do the mouse-king or our whole mighty kingdom,' i asked, 'for me to have seen all these beautiful things?
i cannot shake the sausage peg and say, "look, here is the skewer, and now the soup will come."
that would only produce a dish to be served when people were keeping a fast.'
"then the elf dipped his finger into the cup of a violet and said, 'look, i will anoint your pilgrim's staff, so that when you return to your home and enter the king's castle, you have only to touch the king with your staff and violets will spring forth, even in the coldest winter time.
i think i have given you something worth carrying home, and a little more than something.'"
before the little mouse explained what this something more was, she stretched her staff toward the king, and as it touched him the most beautiful bunch of violets sprang forth and filled the place with their perfume.
the smell was so powerful that the mouse-king ordered the mice who stood nearest the chimney to thrust their tails into the fire that there might be a smell of burning, for the perfume of the violets was overpowering and not the sort of scent that every one liked.
"but what was the something more, of which you spoke just now?"
asked the mouse-king.
"why," answered the little mouse, "i think it is what they call 'effect.'"
thereupon she turned the staff round, and behold, not a single flower was to be seen on it!
she now held only the naked skewer, and lifted it up as a conductor lifts his baton at a concert.
"violets, the elf told me," continued the mouse, "are for the sight, the smell, and the touch; so we have only to produce the effect of hearing and tasting."
then, as the little mouse beat time with her staff, there came sounds of music; not such music as was heard in the forest, at the elfin feast, but such as is often heard in the kitchen the sounds of boiling and roasting.
it came quite suddenly, like wind rushing through the chimneys, and it seemed as if every pot and kettle were boiling over.
the fire shovel clattered down on the brass fender, and then, quite as suddenly, all was still, nothing could be heard but the light, vapory song of the teakettle, which was quite wonderful to hear, for no one could rightly distinguish whether the kettle was just beginning to boil or just going to stop.
and the little pot steamed, and the great pot simmered, but without any regard for each other; indeed, there seemed no sense in the pots at all.
as the little mouse waved her baton still more wildly, the pots foamed and threw up bubbles and boiled over, while again the wind roared and whistled through the chimney, and at last there was such a terrible hubbub that the little mouse let her stick fall.
"that is a strange sort of soup," said the mouse-king.
"shall we not now hear about the preparation?"
"that is all," answered the little mouse, with a bow.
"that all!"
said the mouse-king; "then we shall be glad to hear what information the next may have to give us."
what the second mouse had to tell
"i was born in the library, at a castle," said the second mouse.
"very few members of our family ever had the good fortune to get into the dining room, much less into the storeroom.
to-day and while on my journey are the only times i have ever seen a kitchen.
we were often obliged to suffer hunger in the library, but we gained a great deal of knowledge.
the rumor reached us of the royal prize offered to those who should be able to make soup from a sausage skewer.
"then my old grandmother sought out a manuscript, which she herself could not read, to be sure, but she had heard it read, and in it were written these words, 'those who are poets can make soup of sausage skewers.'
she asked me if i was a poet.
i told her i felt myself quite innocent of any such pretensions.
then she said i must go out and make myself a poet.
i asked again what i should be required to do, for it seemed to me quite as difficult as to find out how to make soup of a sausage skewer.
my grandmother had heard a great deal of reading in her day, and she told me that three principal qualifications were necessary understanding, imagination, and feeling.
'if you can manage to acquire these three, you will be a poet, and the sausage-skewer soup will seem quite simple to you.'
"so i went forth into the world and turned my steps toward the west, that i might become a poet.
understanding is the most important matter of all.
i was sure of that, for the other two qualifications are not thought much of; so i went first to seek understanding.
where was i to find it?
"'go to the ant and learn wisdom,' said the great jewish king.
i learned this from living in a library.
so i went straight on till i came to the first great ant hill.
there i set myself to watch, that i might become wise.
the ants are a very respectable people; they are wisdom itself.
all they do is like the working of a sum in arithmetic, which comes right.
'to work, and to lay eggs,' say they, 'and to provide for posterity, is to live out your time properly.'
this they truly do.
they are divided into clean and dirty ants, and their rank is indicated by a number.
the ant-queen is number one.
her opinion is the only correct one on everything, and she seems to have in her the wisdom of the whole world.
this was just what i wished to acquire.
she said a great deal that was no doubt very clever yet it sounded like nonsense to me.
she said the ant hill was the loftiest thing in the world, although close to the mound stood a tall tree which no one could deny was loftier, much loftier.
yet she made no mention of the tree.
"one evening an ant lost herself on this tree.
she had crept up the stem, not nearly to the top but higher than any ant had ever ventured, and when at last she returned home she said that she had found something in her travels much higher than the ant hill.
the rest of the ants considered this an insult to the whole community, and condemned her to wear a muzzle and live in perpetual solitude.
"a short time afterwards another ant got on the tree and made the same journey and the same discovery.
but she spoke of it cautiously and indefinitely, and as she was one of the superior ants and very much respected, they believed her.
and when she died they erected an egg-shell as a monument to her memory, for they cultivated a great respect for science.
"i saw," said the little mouse, "that the ants were always running to and fro with their burdens on their backs.
once i saw one of them, who had dropped her load, try very hard to raise it again, but she did not succeed.
two others came up and tried with all their strength to help her, till they nearly dropped their own burdens.
then they were obliged to stop a moment, for every one must think of himself first.
the ant-queen remarked that their conduct that day showed that they possessed kind hearts and good understanding.
'these two qualities,' she continued, 'place us ants in the highest degree above all other reasonable beings.
understanding must therefore stand out prominently among us, and my wisdom is greatest.'
so saying, she raised herself on her two hind legs, that no one else might be mistaken for her.
i could not, therefore, have made a mistake, so i ate her up.
we are to go to the ants to learn wisdom, and i had secured the queen.
"i now turned and went nearer to the lofty tree already mentioned, which was an oak.
it had a tall trunk, with a wide-spreading top, and was very old.
i knew that a living being dwelt here, a dryad, as she is called, who is born with the tree and dies with it.
i had heard this in the library, and here was just such a tree and in it an oak maiden.
she uttered a terrible scream when she caught sight of me so near to her.
like women, she was very much afraid of mice, and she had more real cause for fear than they have, for i might have gnawed through the tree on which her life depended.
"i spoke to her in a friendly manner and begged her to take courage.
at last she took me up in her delicate hand, and i told her what had brought me out into the world.
she told me that perhaps on that very evening she would be able to obtain for me one of the two treasures for which i was seeking.
she told me that phantæsus, the genius of the imagination, was her very dear friend; that he was as beautiful as the god of love; that he rested many an hour with her under the leafy boughs of the tree, which then rustled and waved more than ever.
he called her his dryad, she said, and the tree his tree, for the grand old oak with its gnarled trunk was just to his taste.
the root, which spread deep into the earth, and the top, which rose high in the fresh air, knew the value of the drifting snow, the keen wind, and the warm sunshine, as it ought to be known.
'yes,' continued the dryad, 'the birds sing up above in the branches and talk to each other about the beautiful fields they have visited in foreign lands.
on one of the withered boughs a stork has built his nest it is beautifully arranged, and, besides, it is pleasant to hear a little about the land of the pyramids.
all this pleases phantæsus, but it is not enough for him.
i am obliged to relate to him of my life in the woods and to go back to my childhood, when i was little and the tree so small and delicate that a stinging nettle could overshadow it, and i have to tell everything that has happened since then until now, when the tree is so large and strong.
sit you down now under the green bindwood and pay attention.
when phantæsus comes i will find an opportunity to lay hold of his wing and to pull out one of the little feathers.
that feather you shall have.
a better was never given to any poet, and it will be quite enough for you.'
"and when phantæsus came the feather was plucked," said the little mouse, "and i seized and put it in water and kept it there till it was quite soft.
it was very heavy and indigestible, but i managed to nibble it up at last.
it is not so easy to nibble oneself into a poet, there are so many things to get through.
now, however, i had two of them, understanding and imagination, and through these i knew that the third was to be found in the library.
"a great man has said and written that there are novels whose sole and only use appears to be to attempt to relieve mankind of overflowing tears a kind of sponge, in fact, for sucking up feelings and emotions.
i remembered a few of these books.
they had always appeared tempting to the appetite, for they had been much read and were so greasy that they must have absorbed no end of emotions in themselves.
"i retraced my steps to the library and literally devoured a whole novel that is, properly speaking, the interior, or soft part of it.
the crust, or binding, i left.
when i had digested not only this, but a second, i felt a stirring within me.
i then ate a small piece of a third romance and felt myself a poet.
i said it to myself and told others the same.
i had headache and backache and i cannot tell what aches besides.
i thought over all the stories that may be said to be connected with sausage pegs; and all that has ever been written about skewers, and sticks, and staves, and splinters came to my thoughts the ant-queen must have had a wonderfully clear understanding.
i remembered the man who placed in his mouth a white stick, by which he could make himself and the stick invisible.
i thought of sticks as hobbyhorses, staves of music or rime, of breaking a stick over a man's back, and of heaven knows how many more phrases of the same sort, relating to sticks, staves, and skewers.
all my thoughts ran on skewers, sticks of wood, and staves.
as i am at last a poet and have worked terribly hard to make myself one, i can of course make poetry on anything.
i shall therefore be able to wait upon you every day in the week with a poetical history of a skewer.
and that is my soup."
"in that case," said the mouse-king, "we will hear what the third mouse has to say."
"squeak, squeak," cried a little mouse at the kitchen door.
it was the fourth, and not the third, of the four who were contending for the prize, the one whom the rest supposed to be dead.
she shot in like an arrow and overturned the sausage peg that had been covered with crape.
she had been running day and night, for although she had traveled in a baggage train, by railway, yet she had arrived almost too late.
she pressed forward, looking very much ruffled.
she had lost her sausage skewer but not her voice, and she began to speak at once, as if they waited only for her and would hear her only as if nothing else in the world were of the least consequence.
she spoke out so clearly and plainly, and she had come in so suddenly, that no one had time to stop her or to say a word while she was speaking.
this is what she said.
what the fourth mouse, who spoke before the third, had to tell
"i started off at once to the largest town," said she, "but the name of it has escaped me.
i have a very bad memory for names.
i was carried from the railway, with some goods on which duties had not been paid, to the jail, and on arriving i made my escape, running into the house of the keeper.
he was speaking of his prisoners, especially of one who had uttered thoughtless words.
these words had given rise to other words, and at length they were written down and registered.
'the whole affair is like making soup of sausage skewers,' said he, 'but the soup may cost him his neck.'
"now this raised in me an interest for the prisoner," continued the little mouse, "and i watched my opportunity and slipped into his apartment, for there is a mousehole to be found behind every closed door.
"the prisoner, who had a great beard and large, sparkling eyes, looked pale.
there was a lamp burning, but the walls were so black that they only looked the blacker for it.
the prisoner scratched pictures and verses with white chalk on the black walls, but i did not read the verses.
i think he found his confinement wearisome, so that i was a welcome guest.
he enticed me with bread crumbs, with whistling, and with gentle words, and seemed so friendly towards me that by degrees i gained confidence in him and we became friends.
he divided his bread and water with me and gave me cheese and sausage, and i began to love him.
altogether, i must own that it was a very pleasant intimacy.
he let me run about on his hand, on his arm, into his sleeve, and even into his beard.
he called me his little friend, and i forgot for what i had come out into the world; forgot my sausage skewer, which i had laid in a crack in the floor, where it is still lying.
i wished to stay with him always, for i knew that if i went away, the poor prisoner would have no one to be his friend, which is a sad thing.
"i stayed, but he did not.
he spoke to me so mournfully for the last time, gave me double as much bread and cheese as usual, and kissed his hand to me.
then he went away and never came back.
i know nothing more of his history.
"the jailer took possession of me now.
he said something about soup from a sausage skewer, but i could not trust him.
he took me in his hand, certainly, but it was to place me in a cage like a treadmill.
oh, how dreadful it was!
i had to run round and round without getting any farther, and only to make everybody laugh.
"the jailer's granddaughter was a charming little thing.
she had merry eyes, curly hair like the brightest gold, and such a smiling mouth.
"'you poor little mouse,' said she one day, as she peeped into my cage, 'i will set you free.'
she then drew forth the iron fastening, and i sprang out on the window-sill, and from thence to the roof.
free!
free!
that was all i could think of, and not of the object of my journey.
"it grew dark, and as night was coming on i found a lodging in an old tower, where dwelt a watchman and an owl.
i had no confidence in either of them, least of all in the owl, which is like a cat and has a great failing, for she eats mice.
one may, however, be mistaken sometimes, and i was now, for this was a respectable and well-educated old owl, who knew more than the watchman and even as much as i did myself.
the young owls made a great fuss about everything, but the only rough words she would say to them were, 'you had better go and try to make some soup from sausage skewers.'
she was very indulgent and loving to her own children.
her conduct gave me such confidence in her that from the crack where i sat i called out 'squeak.'
"this confidence pleased her so much that she assured me she would take me under her own protection and that not a creature should do me harm.
the fact was, she wickedly meant to keep me in reserve for her own eating in the winter, when food would be scarce.
yet she was a very clever lady-owl.
she explained to me that the watchman could only hoot with the horn that hung loose at his side and that he was so terribly proud of it that he imagined himself an owl in the tower, wanted to do great things, but only succeeded in small soup from a sausage skewer.
"then i begged the owl to give me the recipe for this soup.
'soup from a sausage skewer,' said she, 'is only a proverb amongst mankind and may be understood in many ways.
each believes his own way the best, and, after all, the proverb signifies nothing.'
'nothing!'
i exclaimed.
i was quite struck.
truth is not always agreeable, but truth is above everything else, as the old owl said.
i thought over all this and saw quite plainly that if truth was really so far above everything else, it must be much more valuable than soup from a sausage skewer.
so i hastened to get away, that i might be in time and bring what was highest and best and above everything namely, the truth.
"the mice are enlightened people, and the mouse-king is above them all.
he is therefore capable of making me queen for the sake of truth."
"your truth is a falsehood," said the mouse who had not yet spoken.
"i can prepare the soup, and i mean to do so."
how it was prepared
"i did not travel," said the third mouse, "i stayed in this country; that was the right way.
one gains nothing by traveling.
everything can be acquired here quite as easily, so i stayed at home.
i have not obtained what i know from supernatural beings; i have neither swallowed it nor learned it from conversing with owls.
i have gained it all from my own reflections and thoughts.
will you now set the kettle on the fire so?
now pour the water in, quite full up to the brim; place it on the fire; make up a good blaze; keep it burning, that the water may boil, for it must boil over and over.
there, now i throw in the skewer.
will the mouse-king be pleased now to dip his tail into the boiling water and stir it round with the tail?
the longer the king stirs it the stronger the soup will become.
nothing more is necessary, only to stir it."
"can no one else do this?"
asked the king.
"no," said the mouse; "only in the tail of the mouse-king is this power contained."
and the water boiled and bubbled, as the mouse-king stood close beside the kettle.
it seemed rather a dangerous performance, but he turned round and put out his tail, as mice do in a dairy when they wish to skim the cream from a pan of milk with their tails and afterwards lick it off.
but the mouse-king's tail had only just touched the hot steam when he sprang away from the chimney in a great hurry, exclaiming:
"oh, certainly, by all means, you must be my queen.
we will let the soup question rest till our golden wedding, fifty years hence, so that the poor in my kingdom who are then to have plenty of food will have something to look forward to for a long time, with great joy."
and very soon the wedding took place.
many of the mice, however, as they were returning home, said that the soup could not be properly called "soup from a sausage skewer," but "soup from a mouse's tail."
they acknowledged that some of the stories were very well told, but thought that the whole might have been managed differently.
what the goodman does is always right
i will tell you a story that was told to me when i was a little boy.
every time i think of this story it seems to me more and more charming; for it is with stories as it is with many people they become better as they grow older.
i have no doubt that you have been in the country and seen a very old farmhouse, with thatched roof, and mosses and small plants growing wild upon it.
there is a stork's nest on the ridge of the gable, for we cannot do without the stork.
the walls of the house are sloping, and the windows are low, and only one of the latter is made to open.
the baking oven sticks out of the wall like a great knob.
an elder tree hangs over the palings, and beneath its branches, at the foot of the paling, is a pool of water in which a few ducks are sporting.
there is a yard dog, too, that barks at all comers.
just such a farmhouse as this stood in a country lane, and in it dwelt an old couple, a peasant and his wife.
small as their possessions were, they had one thing they could not do without, and that was a horse, which contrived to live upon the grass found by the side of the highroad.
the old peasant rode into the town upon this horse, and his neighbors often borrowed it of him and paid for the loan of it by rendering some service to the old couple.
yet after a time the old people thought it would be as well to sell the horse or exchange it for something which might be more useful to them.
but what should this something be?
"you will know best, old man," said the wife.
"it is fair day to-day; so ride into town and get rid of the horse for money or make a good exchange.
whichever you do will please me; so ride to the fair."
she fastened his neckerchief for him, for she could do that better than he could and she could also tie it very prettily in a double bow.
she also smoothed his hat round and round with the palm of her hand and gave him a kiss.
then he rode away upon the horse that was to be sold, or bartered for something else.
yes, the goodman knew what he was about.
the sun shone with great heat, and not a cloud was to be seen in the sky.
the road was very dusty, for many people, all going to the fair, were driving, riding, or walking upon it.
there was no shelter anywhere from the hot sun.
among the crowd a man came trudging along, driving a cow to the fair.
the cow was as beautiful a creature as any cow could be.
"she gives good milk, i am certain," said the peasant to himself.
"that would be a very good exchange: the cow for the horse.
halloo there!
you with the cow," he said.
"i tell you what, i dare say a horse is of more value than a cow; but i don't care for that.
a cow will be more useful to me, so if you like we'll exchange."
"to be sure i will," said the man.
accordingly the exchange was made.
when the matter was settled the peasant might have turned back, for he had done the business he came to do.
but having made up his mind to go to the fair, he determined to do so, if only to have a look at it.
so on he went to the town with his cow.
leading the animal, he strode on sturdily, and, after a short time, overtook a man who was driving a sheep.
it was a good fat sheep, with a fine fleece on its back.
"i should like to have that fellow," said the peasant to himself.
"there is plenty of grass for him by our palings, and in the winter we could keep him in the room with us.
perhaps it would be more profitable to have a sheep than a cow.
shall i exchange?"
the man with the sheep was quite ready, and the bargain was quickly made.
and then our peasant continued his way on the highroad with his sheep.
soon after this, he overtook another man, who had come into the road from a field, and was carrying a large goose under his arm.
"what a heavy creature you have there!"
said the peasant.
"it has plenty of feathers and plenty of fat, and would look well tied to a string, or paddling in the water at our place.
that would be very useful to my old woman; she could make all sorts of profit out of it.
how often she has said, 'if we only had a goose!'
now here is an opportunity, and, if possible, i will get it for her.
shall we exchange?
i will give you my sheep for your goose, and thanks into the bargain."
the other had not the least objection, and accordingly the exchange was made, and our peasant became possessor of the goose.
by this time he had arrived very near the town.
the crowd on the highroad had been gradually increasing, and there was quite a rush of men and cattle.
the cattle walked on the path and by the palings, and at the turnpike gate they even walked into the toll keeper's potato field, where one fowl was strutting about with a string tied to its leg, lest it should take fright at the crowd and run away and get lost.
the tail feathers of this fowl were very short, and it winked with both its eyes, and looked very cunning as it said, "cluck, cluck."
what were the thoughts of the fowl as it said this i cannot tell you, but as soon as our good man saw it, he thought, "why, that's the finest fowl i ever saw in my life; it's finer than our parson's brood hen, upon my word.
i should like to have that fowl.
fowls can always pick up a few grains that lie about, and almost keep themselves.
i think it would be a good exchange if i could get it for my goose.
shall we exchange?"
he asked the toll keeper.
"exchange?"
repeated the man.
"well, it would not be a bad thing."
so they made an exchange; the toll keeper at the turnpike gate kept the goose, and the peasant carried off the fowl.
now he really had done a great deal of business on his way to the fair, and he was hot and tired.
he wanted something to eat, and a glass of ale to refresh himself; so he turned his steps to an inn.
he was just about to enter, when the ostler came out, and they met at the door.
the ostler was carrying a sack.
"what have you in that sack?"
asked the peasant.
"rotten apples," answered the ostler; "a whole sackful of them.
they will do to feed the pigs with."
"why, that will be terrible waste," the peasant replied.
"i should like to take them home to my old woman.
last year the old apple tree by the grassplot bore only one apple, and we kept it in the cupboard till it was quite withered and rotten.
it was property, my old woman said.
here she would see a great deal of property a whole sackful.
i should like to show them to her."
"what will you give me for the sackful?"
asked the ostler.
"what will i give?
well, i will give you my fowl in exchange."
so he gave up the fowl and received the apples, which he carried into the inn parlor.
he leaned the sack carefully against the stove, and then went to the table.
but the stove was hot, and he had not thought of that.
many guests were present horse-dealers, cattle-drovers, and two englishmen.
the englishmen were so rich that their pockets bulged and seemed ready to burst; and they could bet too, as you shall hear.
hiss s s, hiss s s. what could that be by the stove?
the apples were beginning to roast.
"what is that?"
asked one.
"why, do you know " said our peasant, and then he told them the whole story of the horse, which he had exchanged for a cow, and all the rest of it, down to the apples.
"well, your old woman will give it to you when you get home," said one of the englishmen.
"won't there be a noise?"
"what!
give me what?"
said the peasant.
"why, she will kiss me, and say, 'what the goodman does is always right.'"
"let us lay a wager on it," said the englishman.
"we'll wager you a ton of coined gold, a hundred pounds to the hundredweight."
"no, a bushel will be enough," replied the peasant.
"i can only set a bushel of apples against it, and i'll throw myself and my old woman into the bargain.
that will pile up the measure, i fancy."
"done!
taken!"
and so the bet was made.
then the landlord's coach came to the door, and the two englishmen and the peasant got in, and away they drove.
soon they had stopped at the peasant's hut.
"good evening, old woman."
"good evening, old man."
"i've made the exchange."
"ah, well, you understand what you're about," said the woman.
then she embraced him, and paid no attention to the strangers, nor did she notice the sack.
"i got a cow in exchange for the horse."
"oh, how delightful!"
said she.
"now we shall have plenty of milk, and butter, and cheese on the table.
that was a capital exchange."
"yes, but i changed the cow for a sheep."
"ah, better still!"
cried the wife.
"you always think of everything; we have just enough pasture for a sheep.
ewe's milk and cheese, woolen jackets and stockings!
the cow could not give all these, and her hairs only fall off.
how you think of everything!"
"but i changed away the sheep for a goose."
"then we shall have roast goose to eat this year.
you dear old man, you are always thinking of something to please me.
this is delightful.
we can let the goose walk about with a string tied to her leg, so that she will get fatter still before we roast her."
"but i gave away the goose for a fowl."
"a fowl!
well, that was a good exchange," replied the woman.
"the fowl will lay eggs and hatch them, and we shall have chickens.
we shall soon have a poultry yard.
oh, this is just what i was wishing for!"
"yes, but i exchanged the fowl for a sack of shriveled apples."
"what!
i must really give you a kiss for that!"
exclaimed the wife.
"my dear, good husband, now i'll tell you something.
do you know, almost as soon as you left me this morning, i began thinking of what i could give you nice for supper this evening, and then i thought of fried eggs and bacon, with sweet herbs.
i had eggs and bacon but lacked the herbs, so i went over to the schoolmaster's.
i knew they had plenty of herbs, but the schoolmistress is very mean, although she can smile so sweetly.
i begged her to lend me a handful of herbs.
'lend!'
she exclaimed, 'i have nothing to lend.
i could not even lend you a shriveled apple, my dear woman.'
but now i can lend her ten, or a whole sackful, for which i'm very glad.
it makes me laugh to think of it."
then she gave him a hearty kiss.
"well, i like all this," said both the englishmen; "always going down the hill and yet always merry.
it's worth the money to see it."
so they paid a hundredweight of gold to the peasant who, whatever he did, was not scolded but kissed.
yes, it always pays best when the wife sees and maintains that her husband knows best and that whatever he does is right.
this is a story which i heard when i was a child.
and now you have heard it, too, and know that "what the goodman does is always right."
the old street lamp
did you ever hear the story of the old street lamp?
it is not remarkably interesting, but for once you may as well listen to it.
it was a most respectable old lamp, which had seen many, many years of service and now was to retire with a pension.
it was this very evening at its post for the last time, giving light to the street.
its feelings were something like those of an old dancer at the theater who is dancing for the last time and knows that on the morrow she will be in her garret, alone and forgotten.
the lamp had very great anxiety about the next day, for it knew that it had to appear for the first time at the town hall to be inspected by the mayor and the council, who were to decide whether it was fit for further service; whether it was good enough to be used to light the inhabitants of one of the suburbs, or in the country, at some factory.
if the lamp could not be used for one of these purposes, it would be sent at once to an iron foundry to be melted down.
in this latter case it might be turned into anything, and it wondered very much whether it would then be able to remember that it had once been a street lamp.
this troubled it exceedingly.
whatever might happen, it seemed certain that the lamp would be separated from the watchman and his wife, whose family it looked upon as its own.
the lamp had first been hung up on the very evening that the watchman, then a robust young man, had entered upon the duties of his office.
ah, well!
it was a very long time since one became a lamp and the other a watchman.
his wife had some little pride in those days; she condescended to glance at the lamp only when she passed by in the evening never in the daytime.
but in later years, when all of them the watchman, the wife, and the lamp had grown old, she had attended to it, cleaning it and keeping it supplied with oil.
the old people were thoroughly honest; they had never cheated the lamp of a single drop of the oil provided for it.
this was the lamp's last night in the street, and to-morrow it must go to the town hall two very dark things to think of.
no wonder it did not burn brightly.
how many persons it had lighted on their way, and how much it had seen!
as much, very likely, as the mayor and corporation themselves!
none of these thoughts were uttered aloud, however, for the lamp was good and honorable and would not willingly do harm to any one, especially to those in authority.
as one thing after another was recalled to its mind, the light would flash up with sudden brightness.
at such moments the lamp had a conviction that it would be remembered.
"there was a handsome young man, once," thought the lamp; "it is certainly a long while ago, but i remember that he had a little note, written on pink paper with a gold edge.
the writing was elegant, evidently a lady's.
twice he read it through, and kissed it, and then looked up at me with eyes that said quite plainly, 'i am the happiest of men!'
only he and i know what was written on this, his first letter from his lady-love.
ah, yes, and there was another pair of eyes that i remember; it is really wonderful how the thoughts jump from one thing to another!
a funeral passed through the street.
a young and beautiful woman lay on a bier decked with garlands of flowers, and attended by torches which quite overpowered my light.
all along the street stood the people from the houses, in crowds, ready to join the procession.
but when the torches had passed from before me and i could look around, i saw one person standing alone, leaning against my post and weeping.
never shall i forget the sorrowful eyes that looked up at me."
these and similar reflections occupied the old street lamp on this the last time that its light would shine.
the sentry, when he is relieved from his post, knows, at least, who will be his successor, and may whisper a few words to him.
but the lamp did not know its successor, or it might have given him a few hints respecting rain or mist and might have informed him how far the moon's rays would reach, and from which side the wind generally blew, and so on.
on the bridge over the canal stood three persons who wished to recommend themselves to the lamp, for they thought it could give the office to whomsoever it chose.
the first was a herring's head, which could emit light in the darkness.
he remarked that it would be a great saving of oil if they placed him on the lamp-post.
number two was a piece of rotten wood, which also shines in the dark.
he considered himself descended from an old stem, once the pride of the forest.
the third was a glowworm, and how he found his way there the lamp could not imagine; yet there he was, and could really give light as well as the others.
but the rotten wood and the herring's head declared most solemnly, by all they held sacred, that the glowworm only gave light at certain times and must not be allowed to compete with them.
the old lamp assured them that not one of them could give sufficient light to fill the position of a street lamp, but they would believe nothing that it said.
when they discovered that it had not the power of naming its successor, they said they were very glad to hear it, for the lamp was too old and worn out to make a proper choice.
at this moment the wind came rushing round the corner of the street and through the air-holes of the old lamp.
"what is this i hear?"
it asked.
"are you going away to-morrow?
is this evening the last time we shall meet?
then i must present you with a farewell gift.
i will blow into your brain, so that in future not only shall you be able to remember all that you have seen or heard in the past, but your light within shall be so bright that you will be able to understand all that is said or done in your presence."
"oh, that is really a very, very great gift," said the old lamp.
"i thank you most heartily.
i only hope i shall not be melted down."
"that is not likely to happen yet," said the wind.
"i will also blow a memory into you, so that, should you receive other similar presents, your old age will pass very pleasantly."
"that is, if i am not melted down," said the lamp.
"but should i, in that case, still retain my memory?"
"do be reasonable, old lamp," said the wind, puffing away.
at this moment the moon burst forth from the clouds.
"what will you give the old lamp?"
asked the wind.
"i can give nothing," she replied.
"i am on the wane, and no lamps have ever given me light, while i have frequently shone upon them."
with these words the moon hid herself again behind the clouds, that she might be saved from further importunities.
just then a drop fell upon the lamp from the roof of the house, but the drop explained that it was a gift from those gray clouds and perhaps the best of all gifts.
"i shall penetrate you so thoroughly," it said, "that you will have the power of becoming rusty, and, if you wish it, can crumble into dust in one night."
but this seemed to the lamp a very shabby present, and the wind thought so, too.
"does no one give any more?
will no one give any more?"
shouted the breath of the wind, as loud as it could.
then a bright, falling star came down, leaving a broad, luminous streak behind it.
"what was that?"
cried the herring's head.
"did not a star fall?
i really believe it went into the lamp.
certainly, when such high-born personages try for the office we may as well go home."
and so they did, all three, while the old lamp threw a wonderfully strong light all around.
"this is a glorious gift," it said.
"the bright stars have always been a joy to me and have always shone more brilliantly than i ever could shine, though i have tried with my whole might.
now they have noticed me, a poor old lamp, and have sent me a gift that will enable me to see clearly everything that i remember, as if it still stood before me, and to let it be seen by all those who love me.
and herein lies the truest happiness, for pleasures which we cannot share with others are only half enjoyed."
"that sentiment does you honor," said the wind; "but for this purpose wax lights will be necessary.
if these are not lighted in you, your peculiar faculties will not benefit others in the least.
the stars have not thought of this.
they suppose that you and every other light must be a wax taper.
but i must go down now."
so it laid itself to rest.
"wax tapers, indeed!"
said the lamp; "i have never yet had these, nor is it likely i ever shall.
if i could only be sure of not being melted down!"
the next day well, perhaps we had better pass over the next day.
the evening had come, and the lamp was resting in a grandfather's chair; and guess where!
why, at the old watchman's house.
he had begged as a favor that the mayor and corporation would allow him to keep the street lamp in consideration of his long and faithful service, as he had himself hung it up and lighted it on the day he first commenced his duties, four and twenty years ago.
he looked upon it almost as his own child.
he had no children, so the lamp was given to him.
there lay the lamp in the great armchair near the warm stove.
it seemed almost to have grown larger, for it appeared quite to fill the chair.
the old people sat at their supper, casting friendly glances at it, and would willingly have admitted it to a place at the table.
it is quite true that they dwelt in a cellar two yards below ground, and had to cross a stone passage to get to their room.
but within, it was warm and comfortable, and strips of list had been nailed round the door.
the bed and the little window had curtains, and everything looked clean and neat.
on the window seat stood two curious flowerpots, which a sailor named christian had brought from the east or west indies.
they were of clay, and in the form of two elephants with open backs; they were filled with earth, and through the open space flowers bloomed.
in one grew some very fine chives or leeks; this was the kitchen garden.
the other, which contained a beautiful geranium, they called their flower garden.
on the wall hung a large colored print, representing the congress of vienna and all the kings and emperors.
a clock with heavy weights hung on the wall and went "tick, tick," steadily enough; yet it was always rather too fast, which, however, the old people said was better than being too slow.
they were now eating their supper, while the old street lamp, as we have heard, lay in the grandfather's armchair near the stove.
it seemed to the lamp as if the whole world had turned round.
but after a while the old watchman looked at the lamp and spoke of what they had both gone through together in rain and in fog, during the short, bright nights of summer or in the long winter nights, through the drifting snowstorms when he longed to be at home in the cellar.
then the lamp felt that all was well again.
it saw everything that had happened quite clearly, as if the events were passing before it.
surely the wind had given it an excellent gift!
the old people were very active and industrious; they were never idle for even a single hour.
on sunday afternoons they would bring out some books, generally a book of travels which they greatly liked.
the old man would read aloud about africa, with its great forests and the wild elephants, while his wife would listen attentively, stealing a glance now and then at the clay elephants which served as flowerpots.
"i can almost imagine i am seeing it all," she said.
ah!
how the lamp wished for a wax taper to be lighted in it, for then the old woman would have seen the smallest detail as clearly as it did itself; the lofty trees, with their thickly entwined branches, the naked negroes on horseback, and whole herds of elephants treading down bamboo thickets with their broad, heavy feet.
"what is the use of all my capabilities," sighed the old lamp, "when i cannot obtain any wax lights?
they have only oil and tallow here, and these will not do."
one day a great heap of wax-candle ends found their way into the cellar.
the larger pieces were burned, and the smaller ones the old woman kept for waxing her thread.
so there were now candles enough, but it never occurred to any one to put a little piece in the lamp.
"here i am now, with my rare powers," thought the lamp.
"i have faculties within me, but i cannot share them.
they do not know that i could cover these white walls with beautiful tapestry, or change them into noble forests or, indeed, to anything else they might wish."
the lamp, however, was always kept clean and shining in a corner, where it attracted all eyes.
strangers looked upon it as lumber, but the old people did not care for that; they loved it.
one day it was the watchman's birthday the old woman approached the lamp, smiling to herself, and said, "i will have an illumination to-day, in honor of my old man."
the lamp rattled in its metal frame, for it thought, "now at last i shall have a light within me."
but, after all, no wax light was placed in the lamp only oil, as usual.
the lamp burned through the whole evening and began to perceive too clearly that the gift of the stars would remain a hidden treasure all its life.
then it had a dream; for to one with its faculties, dreaming was not difficult.
it dreamed that the old people were dead and that it had been taken to the iron foundry to be melted down.
this caused the lamp quite as much anxiety as on the day when it had been called upon to appear before the mayor and the council at the town hall.
but though it had been endowed with the power of falling into decay from rust when it pleased, it did not make use of this power.
it was therefore put into the melting furnace and changed into as elegant an iron candlestick as you could wish to see one intended to hold a wax taper.
the candlestick was in the form of an angel holding a nosegay, in the center of which the wax taper was to be placed.
it was to stand on a green writing table in a very pleasant room, where there were many books scattered about and splendid paintings on the walls.
the owner of the room was a poet and a man of intellect.
everything he thought or wrote was pictured around him.
nature showed herself to him sometimes in the dark forests, sometimes in cheerful meadows where the storks were strutting about, or on the deck of a ship sailing across the foaming sea, with the clear, blue sky above, or at night in the glittering stars.
"what powers i possess!"
said the lamp, awaking from its dream.
"i could almost wish to be melted down; but no, that must not be while the old people live.
they love me for myself alone; they keep me bright and supply me with oil.
i am as well off as the picture of the congress, in which they take so much pleasure."
and from that time it felt at rest in itself, and not more so than such an honorable old lamp really deserved to be.
the shepherdess and the chimney sweep
have you ever seen an old wooden cabinet, quite worn black with age, and ornamented with all sorts of carved figures and flourishes?
just such a one stood in a certain parlor.
it was a legacy from the great-grandmother, and was covered from top to bottom with carved roses and tulips.
the most curious flourishes were on it, too; and between them peered forth little stags' heads, with their zigzag antlers.
on the door panel had been carved the entire figure of a man, a most ridiculous man to look at, for he grinned you could not call it smiling or laughing in the drollest way.
moreover, he had crooked legs, little horns upon his forehead, and a long beard.
the children used to call him the "crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant," which was a long, hard name to pronounce.
very few there are, whether in wood or in stone, who could get such a title.
surely to have cut him out in wood was no trifling task.
however, there he was.
his eyes were always fixed upon the table below, and toward the mirror, for upon this table stood a charming little porcelain shepherdess, her mantle gathered gracefully about her and fastened with a red rose.
her shoes and hat were gilded, and her hand held a shepherd's crook; she was very lovely.
close by her stood a little chimney sweep, also of porcelain.
he was as clean and neat as any other figure.
indeed, he might as well have been made a prince as a sweep, since he was only make-believe; for though everywhere else he was as black as a coal, his round, bright face was as fresh and rosy as a girl's.
this was certainly a mistake it ought to have been black.
there he stood so prettily, with his ladder in his hand, quite close to the shepherdess.
from the first he had been placed there, and he always remained on the same spot; for they had promised to be true to each other.
they suited each other exactly they were both young, both of the same kind of porcelain, and both equally fragile.
close to them stood another figure three times as large as themselves.
it was an old chinaman, a mandarin, who could nod his head.
he was of porcelain, too, and he said he was the grandfather of the shepherdess; but this he could not prove.
he insisted that he had authority over her, and so when the crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant made proposals to the little shepherdess, he nodded his head, in token of his consent.
"you will have a husband," said the old mandarin to her, "a husband who, i verily believe, is of mahogany wood.
you will be the wife of a field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant, of a man who has a whole cabinet full of silver plate, besides a store of no one knows what in the secret drawers."
"i will never go into that dismal cabinet," declared the little shepherdess.
"i have heard it said that there are eleven porcelain ladies already imprisoned there."
"then," rejoined the mandarin, "you will be the twelfth, and you will be in good company.
this very night, when the old cabinet creaks, we shall keep the wedding, as surely as i am a chinese mandarin."
and upon this he nodded his head and fell asleep.
but the little shepherdess wept, and turned to the beloved of her heart, the porcelain chimney sweep.
"i believe i must ask you," she said, "to go out with me into the wide world, for here it is not possible for us to stay."
"i will do in everything as you wish," replied the little chimney sweep.
"let us go at once.
i am sure i can support you by my trade."
"if we were only down from the table," said she.
"i shall not feel safe till we are far away out in the wide world and free."
the little chimney sweep comforted her, and showed her how to set her little foot on the carved edges, and on the gilded foliage twining round the leg of the table, till at last they both reached the floor.
but, turning for a last look at the old cabinet, they saw that everything was in commotion.
all the carved stags stretched their heads farther out than before, raised their antlers, and moved their throats, while the crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant sprang up and shouted to the old chinese mandarin, "look!
they are eloping!
they are eloping!"
they were not a little frightened at this, and jumped quickly into an open drawer in the window seat.
here lay three or four packs of cards that were not quite complete, and a little doll's theater, which had been set up as nicely as could be.
a play was going on, and all the queens sat in the front row, and fanned themselves with the flowers which they held in their hands, while behind them stood the knaves, each with two heads, one above and one below, as playing cards have.
the play was about two persons who were not allowed to marry, and the shepherdess cried, for it seemed so like her own story.
"i cannot bear this!"
she said.
"let us leave the drawer."
but when she had again reached the floor she looked up at the table and saw that the old chinese mandarin was awake, and that he was rocking his whole body to and fro with rage.
"the old mandarin is coming!"
cried she, and down she fell on her porcelain knees, so frightened was she.
"i have thought of a plan," said the chimney sweep.
"suppose we creep into the jar of perfumes, the potpourri vase which stands in the corner.
there we can rest upon roses and lavender, and throw salt in his eyes if he comes near."
"that will not do at all," she said.
"besides, i know that the old mandarin and the potpourri vase were once betrothed; and no doubt some slight friendship still exists between them.
no, there is no help for it; we must wander forth together into the wide world."
"have you really the courage to go out into the wide world with me?"
asked the chimney sweep.
"have you considered how large it is, and that if we go, we can never come back?"
"i have," replied she.
and the chimney sweep looked earnestly at her and said, "my way lies through the chimney.
have you really the courage to go with me through the stove, and creep through the flues and the tunnel?
well do i know the way!
we shall come out by the chimney, and then i shall know how to manage.
we shall mount so high that they can never reach us, and at the top there is an opening that leads out into the wide world."
and he led her to the door of the stove.
"oh, how black it looks!"
she said.
still she went on with him, through the stove, the flues, and the tunnel, where it was as dark as pitch.
"now we are in the chimney," said he; "and see what a lovely star shines above us."
there actually was a star in the sky, that was shining right down upon them, as if to show them the way.
now they climbed and crept a frightful way it was, so steep and high!
but he went first to guide, and to smooth the way as much as he could.
he showed her the best places on which to set her little china foot, till at last they came to the edge of the chimney and sat down to rest, for they were very tired, as may well be supposed.
the sky and all its stars were above them, and below lay all the roofs of the town.
they saw all around them the great, wide world.
it was not like what the poor little shepherdess had fancied it, and she leaned her little head upon her chimney sweep's shoulder and wept so bitterly that the gilding was washed from her golden sash.
"this is too much," said she; "it is more than i can bear.
the world is too large!
i wish i were safe back again upon the little table under the mirror.
i shall never be happy till i am there once more.
i have followed you out into the wide world.
surely, if you really love me, you will follow me back."
the chimney sweep tried to reason with her.
he reminded her of the old mandarin, and the crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant, but she wept so bitterly, and kissed her little chimney sweep so fondly, that he could not do otherwise than as she wished, foolish as it was.
so they climbed down the chimney, though with the greatest difficulty, crept through the flues, and into the stove, where they paused to listen behind the door, to discover what might be going on in the room.
all was quiet, and they peeped out.
alas!
there on the floor lay the old mandarin.
he had fallen from the table in his attempt to follow the runaways, and had broken into three pieces.
his whole back had come off in a single piece, and his head had rolled into a corner.
the crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant stood where he had always stood, reflecting upon what had happened.
"this is shocking!"
said the little shepherdess.
"my old grandfather is broken in pieces, and we are the cause of it," and she wrung her little hands.
"he can be riveted," said the chimney sweep; "he can certainly be riveted.
do not grieve so!
if they cement his back and put a rivet through his neck, he will be just as good as new, and will be able to say as many disagreeable things to us as ever."
"do you really think so?"
asked she.
then they climbed again up to the place where they had stood before.
"how far we have been," observed the chimney sweep, "and since we have got no farther than this, we might have saved ourselves all the trouble."
"i wish grandfather were mended," said the shepherdess; "i wonder if it will cost very much."
mended he was.
the family had his back cemented and his neck riveted, so that he was as good as new, only he could not nod.
"you have become proud since you were broken to shivers," observed the crooked-legged field-marshal-major-general-corporal-sergeant, "but i must say, for my part, i don't see much to be proud of.
am i to have her, or am i not?
just answer me that."
the chimney sweep and the shepherdess looked most piteously at the old mandarin.
they were so afraid that he would nod his head.
but he could not, and it would have been beneath his dignity to have confessed to having a rivet in his neck.
so the young porcelain people always remained together, and they blessed the grandfather's rivet and loved each other till they were broken in pieces.
the drop of water
you know, surely, what the microscope is that wonderful little glass which makes everything appear a hundred times larger than it really is.
if you look through a microscope at a single drop of ditch water, you will see a thousand odd-looking creatures, such as you never could imagine dwelled in water.
they do not look unlike a whole plateful of shrimps, all jumping and crowding upon each other.
so fierce are these little creatures that they will tear off each other's arms and legs without the least mercy, and yet after their fashion they look merry and happy.
now there was once an old man, whom his neighbors called cribbley crabbley a curious name, to be sure, which meant something like "creep-and-crawl."
he always liked to make the most of everything, and when he could not manage it in the ordinary way, he tried magic.
one day he sat looking through his microscope at a drop of water that had been brought from a neighboring ditch.
what a scene of scrambling and swarming it was, to be sure!
all the thousands of little imps in the water jumped and sprang about, devouring each other, or tearing each other to bits.
"upon my word this is really shocking.
there must surely be some way to make them live in peace and quiet, so that each attends only to his own concerns."
and he thought and thought, but still could not hit upon any plan, so he must needs have recourse to conjuring.
"i must give them color so that they may be seen more plainly," said he.
accordingly he poured something that looked like a drop of red wine but which in reality was witch's blood upon the drop of water.
immediately all the strange little creatures became red all over, and looked for all the world like a whole town full of naked red indians.
"why, what have you here?"
asked another old magician, who had no name at all, which made him even more remarkable than cribbley crabbley.
"if you can find out what it is," replied cribbley crabbley, "i will give it you; but i warn you you'll not do so easily."
the conjurer without a name looked through the microscope, and it seemed to him that the scene before him was a whole town, in which the people ran about naked in the wildest way.
it was quite shocking!
still more horrible was it to see how they kicked and cuffed, struggled and fought, pecked, bit, tore, and swallowed, each his neighbor.
those that were under wanted to be at the top, while those that chanced to be at the top must needs thrust themselves underneath.
"and now look, his leg is longer than mine, so off with it!"
one seemed to be saying.
another had a little lump behind his ear, an innocent little lump enough, but it seemed to pain him, and therefore the others seemed determined that it should pain him more.
so they hacked at it, and dragged the poor thing about, and at last ate him up, all on account of the little lump.
one only of the creatures was quiet, a modest little maid, who sat by herself evidently wishing for nothing but peace and quietness.
the others would not have it so, however.
they soon pulled the little damsel forward, cuffed and tore her, and then ate her up.
"this is uncommonly droll and amusing!"
said the nameless magician.
"yes.
but what do you think it is?"
asked cribbley crabbley.
"can you make it out?"
"it is easy enough to guess, to be sure," was the reply of the nameless magician; "easy enough.
it is either paris or copenhagen, or some other great city; i don't know which, for they are all alike.
it is some great city, of course."
"it is a drop of ditch-water," said cribbley crabbley.
the swineherd
there was once a poor prince who had a kingdom, but it was a very small one.
still it was quite large enough to admit of his marrying, and he wished to marry.
it was certainly rather bold of him to say, as he did, to the emperor's daughter, "will you have me?"
but he was renowned far and wide, and there were a hundred princesses who would have answered, "yes," and, "thank you kindly."
we shall see what this princess said.
listen!
it happened that where the prince's father lay buried there grew a rose tree, a most beautiful rose tree, which blossomed only once in five years, and even then bore only one flower.
ah, but that was a rose!
it smelled so sweet that all cares and sorrows were forgotten by those who inhaled its fragrance!
moreover, the prince had a nightingale that could sing in such a manner that it seemed as if all sweet melodies dwelt in her little throat.
now the princess was to have the rose and the nightingale; and they were accordingly put into large silver caskets and sent to her.
the emperor had them brought into a large hall, where the princess and the ladies of the court were playing at "visiting."
when she saw the caskets with the presents, the princess clapped her hands for joy.
"ah, if it should be a little pussy cat," exclaimed she.
instead, the rose tree, with its beautiful rose, came to view.
"oh, how prettily it is made!"
said all the court ladies.
"it is more than pretty," said the emperor; "it is charming."
the princess touched it and was ready to cry.
"fie, papa," said she, "it is not made at all.
it is natural!"
"fie," said all the court ladies; "it is natural!"
"let us see what the other casket contains before we get into bad humor," proposed the emperor.
so the nightingale came forth, and sang so delightfully that at first no one could say anything ill-humored of her.
"superbe!
charmant!"
exclaimed the ladies, for they all used to chatter french, and each worse than her neighbor.
"how much the bird reminds me of the musical box that belonged to our blessed empress!"
remarked an old knight.
"oh!
yes, these are the same tunes, the same execution."
"yes, yes!"
said the emperor, and at the remembrance he wept like a child.
"i still hope it is not a real bird," said the princess.
"yes, it is a real bird," said those who had brought it.
"well, then, let the bird fly," returned the princess.
and she positively refused to see the prince.
however, he was not to be discouraged.
he stained his face brown and black, pulled his cap over his ears, and knocked at the door of the castle.
"good day to my lord the emperor," said he.
"can i have employment here at the palace?"
"why, yes," said the emperor.
"it just occurs to me that i want some one to take care of the pigs, there are so many of them."
so the prince came to be the imperial swineherd.
he had a miserable little room, close by the pigsty, and here he was obliged to stay; and he sat the whole day long and worked.
by evening he had made a pretty little saucepan.
little bells were hung all around it; and when the pot was boiling, the bells tinkled in the most charming manner, and played the old melody,
"ach, du lieber augustin,            alles ist weg, weg, weg."
but what was still more curious, whoever held his finger in the smoke of this saucepan, at once smelled all the dishes that were cooking on every hearth of the city.
this, you see, was something quite different from the rose.
now the princess happened to walk that way with her court ladies, and when she heard the tune she stood quite still and seemed pleased, for she could play "dearest augustine."
it was the only piece she knew, and she played it with one finger.
"why, that is the piece that i play on the piano!"
said the princess.
"that swineherd must certainly have been well educated.
go in and ask him the price of the instrument."
so one of the court ladies had to go in, but she drew on wooden slippers first.
"what will you take for the saucepan?"
inquired the lady.
"i must have ten kisses from the princess," said the swineherd.
"heaven preserve us!"
exclaimed the maid of honor.
"i cannot sell it for less," answered the swineherd.
"well, what does he say?"
asked the princess.
"i cannot tell you, really," replied the lady.
"it is too dreadful."
"then you may whisper it."
so the lady whispered it.
"he is an impudent fellow," said the princess, and she walked on.
but when she had gone a little way, the bells again tinkled prettily,
"ah!
thou dearest augustine,            all is gone, gone, gone."
"stay!"
said the princess.
"ask him if he will have ten kisses from the ladies of my court."
"no, thank you!"
answered the swineherd.
"ten kisses from the princess, or i keep the saucepan myself."
"how tiresome!
that must not be either!"
said the princess; "but do you all stand before me, that no one may see us."
the court ladies placed themselves in front of her, and spread out their dresses.
so the swineherd got ten kisses, and the princess got the saucepan.
that was delightful!
the saucepan was kept boiling all the evening and the whole of the following day.
they knew perfectly well what was cooking on every hearth in the city, from the chamberlain's to the cobbler's.
the court ladies danced and clapped their hands.
"we know who has soup, and who has pancakes for dinner to-day; who has cutlets, and who has eggs.
how interesting!"
"yes, but keep my secret, for i am an emperor's daughter."
the prince that is, the swineherd, for no one knew that he was other than an ill-favored swineherd let not a day pass without working at something.
at last he constructed a rattle, which, when it was swung round and round, played all the waltzes and jig tunes which have been heard since the creation of the world.
"ah, that is superbe!"
said the princess, when she passed by.
"i have never heard prettier compositions.
go in and ask him the price of the instrument.
but mind, he shall have no more kisses."
"he will have a hundred kisses from the princess," said the lady who had been to ask.
"he is not in his right senses," said the princess, and walked on.
but when she had gone a little way she stopped again.
"one must encourage art," said she; "i am the emperor's daughter.
tell him he shall, as on yesterday, have ten kisses from me, and may take the rest from the ladies of the court."
"oh, but we should not like that at all," said the ladies.
"what are you muttering?"
asked the princess.
"if i can kiss him, surely you can!
remember i give you food and wages."
"a hundred kisses from the princess," said he, "or else let every one keep his own."
"stand round," said she, and all the ladies stood round as before.
"what can be the reason for such a crowd close by the pigsty?"
asked the emperor, who happened just then to step out on the balcony.
he rubbed his eyes and put on his spectacles.
"they are the ladies of the court.
i must go and see what they are about."
so he pulled up his slippers at the heel, for he had trodden them down.
as soon as he had got into the courtyard he moved very softly, and the ladies were so much engrossed with counting the kisses that they did not perceive the emperor.
he rose on his tiptoes.
"what is all this?"
said he, when he saw what was going on, and he boxed the princess's ear with his slipper, just as the swineherd was taking the eighty-sixth kiss.
"be off with you!
march out!"
cried the emperor, for he was very angry.
both princess and swineherd were thrust out of the city, and the princess stood and wept, while the swineherd scolded, and the rain poured down.
"alas, unhappy creature that i am!"
said the princess.
"if i had but married the handsome young prince!
ah, how unfortunate i am!"
the swineherd went behind a tree, washed the black and brown from his face, threw off his dirty clothing, and stepped forth in his princely robes.
he looked so noble that the princess could not help bowing before him.
"i have come to despise thee," said he.
"thou wouldst not have an honorable prince!
thou couldst not prize the rose and the nightingale, but thou wast ready to kiss the swineherd for the sake of a trumpery plaything.
thou art rightly served."
he then went back to his own little kingdom, where he shut the door of his palace before her very eyes.
now she might well sing,
"ah!
thou dearest augustine,            all is gone, gone, gone."
the metal pig
in the city of florence, not far from the piazza del granduca, runs a little cross street called porta rosa.
in this street, just in front of the market place where vegetables are sold, stands a pig, made of brass and curiously formed.
the color has been changed by age to dark green, but clear, fresh water pours from the snout, which shines as if it had been polished and so indeed it has, for hundreds of poor people and children seize it in their hands as they place their mouths close to the mouth of the animal to drink.
it is quite a picture to see a half-naked boy clasping the well-formed creature by the head as he presses his rosy lips against its jaws.
every one who visits florence can very quickly find the place; he has only to ask the first beggar he meets for the metal pig, and he will be told where it is.
it was late on a winter evening.
the mountains were covered with snow, but the moon shone brightly, and moonlight in italy is as good as the light of gray winter's day in the north.
indeed, it is better, for the clear air seems to raise us above the earth; while in the north a cold, gray, leaden sky appears to press us down to earth, even as the cold, damp earth shall one day press on us in the grave.
in the garden of the grand duke's palace, under the roof of one of the wings, where a thousand roses bloom in winter, a little ragged boy had been sitting the whole day long.
the boy might serve as a type of italy:
lovely and smiling, and yet suffering.
he was hungry and thirsty, but no one gave him anything; and when it became dark and they were about to close the gardens, the porter turned him out.
a long time he stood musing on the bridge which crosses the arno and looking at the glittering stars that were reflected in the water which flowed between him and the wonderful marble bridge delia trinità.
he then walked away towards the metal pig, half knelt down, clasped it with his arms, and, putting his mouth to the shining snout, drank deep draughts of the fresh water.
close by lay a few salad leaves and two chestnuts, which were to serve for his supper.
no one was in the street but himself.
it belonged only to him.
he boldly seated himself on the pig's back, leaned forward so that his curly head could rest on the head of the animal, and, before he was aware, fell asleep.
it was midnight.
the metal pig raised himself gently, and the boy heard him say quite distinctly, "hold tight, little boy, for i am going to run"; and away he started for a most wonderful ride.
first they arrived at the piazza del granduca, and the metal horse which bears the duke's statue neighed aloud.
the painted coats of arms on the old council house shone like transparent pictures, and michelangelo's "david" swung his sling.
it was as if everything had life.
the metallic groups of figures, among which were "perseus" and "the rape of the sabines," looked like living persons, and cries of terror sounded from them all across the noble square.
by the palazzo degli uffizi, in the arcade where the nobility assembled for the carnival, the metal pig stopped.
"hold fast,"
said the animal, "hold fast, for i am going upstairs."
the little boy said not a word.
he was half pleased and half afraid.
they entered a long gallery, where the boy had been before.
the walls were resplendent with paintings, and here and there stood statues and busts, all in a clear light as if it were day.
the grandest sight appeared when the door of a side room opened.
the little boy could remember what beautiful things he had seen there, but to-night everything shone in its brightest colors.
here stood the figure of a beautiful woman, as radiantly beautiful as nature and the art of one of the great masters could make her.
her graceful limbs appeared to move; dolphins sprang at her feet, and immortality shone from her eyes.
the world called her the "venus de' medici."
by her side were statues of stone, in which the spirit of life breathed; figures of men, one of whom whetted his sword and was named "the grinder"; fighting gladiators, for whom the sword had been sharpened, and who strove for the goddess of beauty.
the boy was dazzled by so much glitter, for the walls were gleaming with bright colors.
life and movement were in everything.
as they passed from hall to hall, beauty showed itself in whatever they saw; and, as the metal pig went step by step from one picture to another, the little boy could see it all plainly.
one glory eclipsed another; yet there was one picture that fixed itself on the little boy's memory more especially, because of the happy children it represented; for these the little boy had seen in daylight.
many pass this picture with indifference, and yet it contains a treasure of poetic feeling.
it represents christ descending into hades.
it is not those who are lost that one sees, but the heathen of olden times.
the florentine, angiolo bronzino, painted this picture.
most beautiful is the expression on the faces of two children who appear to have full confidence that they shall reach heaven at last.
they are embracing each other, and one little one stretches out his hand towards another who stands below them, and points to himself as if he were saying, "i am going to heaven."
the older people stand as if uncertain yet hopeful, and bow in humble adoration to the lord jesus.
on this picture the boy's eyes rested longer than on any other, and the metal pig stood still before it.
a low sigh was heard.
did it come from the picture or from the animal?
the boy raised his hands toward the smiling children, and then the pig ran off with him through the open vestibule.
"thank you, thank you, you beautiful animal," said the little boy, caressing the metal pig as it ran down the steps.
"thanks to yourself also," replied the metal pig.
"i have helped you and you have helped me, for it is only when i have an innocent child on my back that i receive the power to run.
yes, as you see, i can even venture under the rays of the lamp in front of the picture of the madonna, but i must not enter the church.
still, from without, and while you are upon my back, i may look in through the open door.
do not get down yet, for if you do, then i shall be lifeless, as you have seen me in the daytime in the porta rosa."
"i will stay with you, my dear creature," said the little boy.
so they went on at a rapid pace through the streets of florence, till they came to the square before the church of santa croce.
the folding doors flew open, and lights streamed from the altar, through the church, into the deserted square.
a wonderful blaze of light streamed from one of the monuments in the left aisle, and a thousand moving stars formed a kind of glory round it.
even the coat of arms on the tombstone shone, and a red ladder on a blue field gleamed like fire.
it was the grave of galileo.
the monument is unadorned, but the red ladder is an emblem of art signifying that the way to glory leads up a shining ladder, on which the great prophets rise to heaven like elijah of old.
in the right aisle of the church every statue on the richly carved sarcophagi seemed endowed with life.
here stood michelangelo; there dante, with the laurel wreath around his brow; alfieri and machiavelli; for here, side by side, rest the great men, the pride of italy.
the church itself is very beautiful, even more beautiful than the marble cathedral at florence, though not so large.
it seemed as if the carved vestments stirred, and as if the marble figures which they covered raised their heads higher to gaze upon the brightly colored, glowing altar, where the white-robed boys swung the golden censers amid music and song; and the strong fragrance of incense filled the church and streamed forth into the square.
the boy stretched out his hands toward the light, and at the same moment the metal pig started again, so rapidly that he was obliged to cling tightly to him.
the wind whistled in his ears.
he heard the church door creak on its hinges as it closed, and it seemed to him as if he had lost his senses; then a cold shudder passed over him, and he awoke.
it was morning.
the metal pig stood in its old place on the porta rosa, and the boy found that he had nearly slipped off its back.
fear and trembling came upon him as he thought of his mother.
she had sent him out the day before to get some money, but he had not been able to get any, and now he was hungry and thirsty.
once more he clasped the neck of his metal steed, kissed its nose, and nodded farewell to it.
then he wandered away into one of the narrowest streets, where there was scarcely room for a loaded donkey to pass.
a great iron-bound door stood ajar; and, passing through, he climbed a brick staircase with dirty walls, and a rope for balustrade, till he came to an open gallery hung with rags.
from here a flight of steps led down to a court, where from a fountain water was drawn up by iron rollers to the different stories of the house.
many water buckets hung side by side.
sometimes the roller and the bucket danced in the air, splashing the water all over the court.
another broken-down staircase led from the gallery, and two russian sailors running down it almost upset the poor boy.
they were coming from their nightly carousal.
a woman, not very young, with an unpleasant face and a quantity of black hair, followed them.
"what have you brought home?"
she asked when she saw the boy.
"don't be angry," he pleaded.
"i received nothing, i have nothing at all"; and he seized his mother's dress and would have kissed it.
then they went into a little room.
i need not describe it, but only say that there stood in it an earthen pot with handles, made for holding fire, which in italy is called a marito.
this pot she took in her lap, warmed her fingers, and pushed the boy with her elbow.
"certainly you must have some money," she said.
the boy began to cry, and then she struck him till he cried aloud.
"be quiet, or i'll break your screaming head."
she swung about the fire pot which she held in her hand, while the boy crouched to the earth and screamed.
then a neighbor came in, who also had a marito under her arm.
"felicita," she said, "what are you doing to the child?"
"the child is mine," she answered; "i can murder him if i like, and you too, giannina."
then again she swung the fire pot about.
the other woman lifted hers up to defend herself, and the two pots clashed so violently that they were dashed to pieces and fire and ashes flew about the room.
the boy rushed out at the sight, sped across the courtyard, and fled from the house.
the poor child ran till he was quite out of breath.
at last he stopped at the church the doors of which were opened to him the night before, and went in.
here everything was bright, and the boy knelt down by the first tomb on his right hand, the grave of michelangelo, and sobbed as if his heart would break.
people came and went; the service went on, but no one noticed the boy except an elderly citizen, who stood still and looked at him for a moment and then went away like the rest.
hunger and thirst overpowered the child, and he became quite faint and ill. at last he crept into a corner behind the marble monuments and went to sleep.
towards evening he was awakened by a pull at his sleeve.
he started up, and the same old citizen stood before him.
"are you ill?
where do you live?
have you been here all day?"
were some of the questions asked by the old man.
after hearing his answers, the old man took him to a small house in a back street close by.
they entered a glovemaker's shop, where a woman sat sewing busily.
a little white poodle, so closely shaved that his pink skin could plainly be seen, frisked about the room and gamboled over the boy.
"innocent souls are soon intimate," said the woman, as she caressed both the boy and the dog.
these good people gave the child food and drink, and said he should stay with them all night, and that the next day the old man, who was called giuseppe, would go and speak to his mother.
a simple little bed was prepared for him, but to him who had so often slept on the hard stones it was a royal couch, and he slept sweetly and dreamed of the splendid pictures, and of the metal pig.
giuseppe went out the next morning, and the poor child was not glad to see him go, for he knew that the old man had gone to his mother, and that perhaps he would have to return.
he wept at the thought, and then played with the lively little dog and kissed it, while the old woman looked kindly at him to encourage him.
what news did giuseppe bring back?
at first the boy could not find out, for the old man talked to his wife, and she nodded and stroked the boy's cheek.
then she said, "he is a good lad, he shall stay with us.
he may become a clever glovemaker, like you.
look what delicate fingers he has.
madonna intended him for a glovemaker."
so the boy stayed with them, and the woman herself taught him to sew.
he ate well, and slept well, and became very merry.
but at last he began to tease bellissima, as the little dog was called.
this made the woman angry, and she scolded him and threatened him, which made him unhappy, and he went and sat in his own room, full of sad thoughts.
this chamber looked out upon the street, in which hung skins to dry, and there were thick iron bars across his window.
that night he lay awake, thinking of the metal pig.
indeed, it was always in his thoughts.
suddenly he fancied he heard feet outside going pitapat.
he sprang out of bed and went to the window.
could it be the metal pig?
but there was nothing to be seen.
whatever he had heard had passed already.
"go help the gentleman to carry his box of colors," said the woman the next morning when their neighbor, the artist, passed by, carrying a paint box and a large roll of canvas.
the boy instantly took the box and followed the painter.
they walked on till they reached the picture gallery, and mounted the same staircase up which he had ridden that night on the metal pig.
he remembered all the pictures and statues, especially the marble venus, and again he looked at the madonna with the saviour and st. john.
they stopped before the picture by il bronzino, in which christ is represented as standing in the lower world, with the children smiling before him in the sweet expectation of entering heaven.
the poor boy smiled, too, for here was his heaven.
"you may go home now," said the painter, while the boy stood watching him till he had set up his easel.
"may i see you paint?"
asked the boy.
"may i see you put the picture on this white canvas?"
"i am not going to paint," replied the artist, bringing out a piece of chalk.
his hand moved quickly, and his eye measured the great picture, and though nothing appeared but a faint line, the figure of the saviour was as clearly visible as in the colored picture.
"why don't you go?"
said the painter.
then the boy wandered home silently, and seated himself on the table, and learned to sew gloves.
but all day long his thoughts were in the picture gallery, and so he pricked his fingers and was awkward.
but he did not tease bellissima.
when evening came, and the house door stood open, he slipped out.
it was a bright, beautiful, starlight evening, but rather cold.
away he went through the already deserted streets, and soon came to the metal pig.
he stooped down and kissed its shining nose, and then seated himself on its back.
"you happy creature," he said; "how i have longed for you!
we must take a ride to-night."
but the metal pig lay motionless, while the fresh stream gushed forth from its mouth.
the little boy still sat astride its back, when he felt something pulling at his clothes.
he looked down, and there was bellissima, little smooth-shaven bellissima, barking as if she would have said, "here i am, too.
why are you sitting there?"
a fiery dragon could not have frightened the little boy so much as did the little dog in this place.
bellissima in the street and not dressed!
as the old lady called it.
what would be the end of this?
the dog never went out in winter, unless she was attired in a little lambskin coat, which had been made for her.
it was fastened round the little dog's neck and body with red ribbons, and decorated with rosettes and little bells.
the dog looked almost like a little kid when she was allowed to go out in winter and trot after her mistress.
now, here she was in the cold, and not dressed.
oh, how would it end?
all his fancies were quickly put to flight; yet he kissed the metal pig once more, and then took bellissima in his arms.
the poor little thing trembled so with cold that the boy ran homeward as fast as he could.
"what are you running away with there?"
asked two of the police whom he met, and at whom the dog barked.
"where have you stolen that pretty dog?"
they asked, and took it away from him.
"oh, i have not stolen it.
do give it back to me," cried the boy, despairingly.
"if you have not stolen it, you may say at home that they can send to the watch-house for the dog."
then they told him where the watch-house was, and went away with bellissima.
here was trouble indeed.
the boy did not know whether he had better jump into the arno or go home and confess everything.
they would certainly kill him, he thought.
"well, i would gladly be killed," he reasoned; "for then i should die and go to heaven."
and so he went home, almost hoping for death.
the door was locked, and he could not reach the knocker.
no one was in the street, so he took up a stone and with it made a tremendous noise at the door.
"who is there?"
asked somebody from within.
"it is i," said he.
"bellissima is gone.
open the door, and then kill me."
then, indeed, there was a great panic, for madam was so very fond of bellissima.
she immediately looked at the wall where the dog's dress usually hung; and there was the little lambskin.
"bellissima in the watch-house!"
she cried.
"you bad boy!
how did you entice her out?
poor little delicate thing, with those rough policemen!
and she'll be frozen with cold."
giuseppe went off at once, while his wife lamented and the boy wept.
several of the neighbors came in, and among them the painter.
he took the boy between his knees and questioned him.
soon he heard the whole story, told in broken sentences, and also about the metal pig and the wonderful ride to the picture gallery, which was certainly rather incomprehensible.
the painter, however, consoled the little fellow, and tried to soften the woman's anger, but she would not be pacified till her husband returned from the police with bellissima.
then there was great rejoicing, and the painter caressed the boy and gave him a number of pictures.
oh, what beautiful pictures those were figures with funny heads!
and, best of all, the metal pig was there, too.
nothing could be more delightful!
by means of a few strokes it was made to appear on the paper; and even the house that stood behind it had been sketched.
oh, if he could only draw and paint!
he who could do this could conjure all the world before him.
the first leisure moment during the next day the boy got a pencil, and on the back of one of the other drawings he attempted to copy the drawing of the metal pig, and he succeeded.
certainly it was rather crooked, rather up and down, one leg thick, and another thin.
still it was like the copy, and he was overjoyed at what he had done.
the pencil would not go quite as it ought, he had found, but the next day he tried again.
a second pig was drawn by the side of the first, and this looked a hundred times better.
the third attempt was so good that everybody could see what it was meant to represent.
and now the glovemaking went on but slowly.
the orders given by the shops in the town were not finished quickly; for the metal pig had taught the boy that all objects may be drawn upon paper, and florence is a picture book in itself for any one who chooses to turn over its pages.
on the piazza della trinità stands a slender pillar, and upon it is the goddess of justice blindfolded, with her scales in her hand.
she was soon represented on paper, and it was the glovemaker's boy who placed her there.
his collection of pictures increased, but as yet they were only copies of lifeless objects, when one day bellissima came gamboling before him.
"stand still," cried he, "and i will draw you beautifully, to put in my collection."
bellissima would not stand still, so she must be bound fast in one position.
he tied her head and tail, but she barked and jumped and so pulled and tightened the string that she was nearly strangled.
and just then her mistress walked in.
"you wicked boy!
the poor little creature!"
was all she could utter.
she pushed the boy from her, thrust him away with her foot, called him a most ungrateful, good-for-nothing, wicked boy, and forbade him to enter her house again.
then she wept, and kissed her little half-strangled bellissima.
at this moment the painter entered the room and here is the turning point of the story.
in the year 1834 there was an exhibition in the academy of arts at florence.
two pictures, placed side by side, attracted many people.
the smaller of the two represented a little boy sitting at a table drawing.
before him was a little white poodle, curiously shaven, but as the animal would not stand still, its head and tail had been fastened with a string, to keep it in one position.
the truthfulness and life in this picture interested every one.
the painter was said to be a young florentine, who had been found in the streets when a child by an old glovemaker, who had brought him up.
the boy had taught himself to draw.
it was also said that a young artist, now famous, had discovered this talent in the child just as he was about to be sent away for having tied up madam's favorite little dog to use as a model.
the glovemaker's boy had become a really great painter, as the picture proved; but the larger picture by its side was a still greater proof of his talent.
it represented a handsome boy asleep, clothed in rags and leaning against the metal pig, in the street of the porta rosa.
all the spectators knew the spot well.
the child's arms were round the neck of the pig, and he was in a deep sleep.
the lamp before the picture of the madonna threw a strong light on the pale, delicate face of the child.
it was a beautiful picture.
a large gilt frame surrounded it, and on one corner of the frame a laurel wreath had been hung.
but a black band, twined unseen among the green leaves, and a streamer of crape hung down from it; for within the last few days the young artist had died.
the flying trunk
there was once a merchant who was so rich that he could have paved a whole street with gold, and would even then have had enough left for a small alley.
he did not do so; he knew the value of money better than to use it in this way.
so clever was he that every shilling he put out brought him a crown, and so it continued as long as he lived.
his son inherited his wealth, and lived a merry life with it.
he went to a masquerade every night, made kites out of five-pound notes, and threw pieces of gold into the sea instead of stones, making ducks and drakes of them.
in this manner he soon lost all his money.
at last he had nothing left but a pair of slippers, an old dressing gown, and four shillings.
and now all his companions deserted him.
they would not walk with him in the streets, but one of them, who was very good-natured, sent him an old trunk with this message, "pack up!"
"yes," he said, "it is all very well to say 'pack up.'"
but he had nothing left to pack, therefore he seated himself in the trunk.
it was a very wonderful trunk, for no sooner did any one press on the lock than the trunk could fly.
he shut the lid and pressed the lock, when away flew the trunk up the chimney, with him in it, right up into the clouds.
whenever the bottom of the trunk cracked he was in a great fright, for if the trunk had fallen to pieces, he would have turned a tremendous somersault over the trees.
however, he arrived safely in turkey.
he hid the trunk in a wood under some dry leaves and then went into the town.
this he could do very well, for among the turks people always go about in dressing gowns and slippers, just as he was.
he happened to meet a nurse with a little child.
"i say, you turkish nurse," cried he, "what castle is that near the town, with the windows placed so high?"
"the sultan's daughter lives there," she replied.
"it has been prophesied that she will be very unhappy about a lover, and therefore no one is allowed to visit her unless the king and queen are present."
"thank you," said the merchant's son.
so he went back to the wood, seated himself in his trunk, flew up to the roof of the castle, and crept through the window into the room where the princess lay asleep on the sofa.
she awoke and was very much frightened, but he told her he was a turkish angel who had come down through the air to see her.
this pleased her very much.
he sat down by her side and talked to her, telling her that her eyes were like beautiful dark lakes, in which the thoughts swam about like little mermaids; and that her forehead was a snowy mountain which contained splendid halls full of pictures.
he related to her the story about the stork, who brings the beautiful children from the rivers.
these stories delighted the princess, and when he asked her if she would marry him, she consented immediately.
"but you must come on saturday," she said, "for then my parents will take tea with me.
they will be very proud when they find that i am going to marry a turkish angel.
but you must think of some very pretty stories to tell them, for they like to hear stories better than anything.
my mother prefers one that is deep and moral, but my father likes something funny, to make him laugh."
"very well," he replied, "i shall bring you no other marriage portion than a story"; and so they parted.
but the princess gave him a sword studded with gold coins, and these he could make useful.
he flew away to the town and bought a new dressing gown, and afterwards returned to the wood, where he composed a story so as to be ready by saturday; and that was no easy matter.
it was ready, however, when he went to see the princess on saturday.
the king and queen and the whole court were at tea with the princess, and he was received with great politeness.
"will you tell us a story?"
said the queen; "one that is instructive and full of learning."
"yes, but with something in it to laugh at," said the king.
"certainly," he replied, and commenced at once, asking them to listen attentively.
"there was once a bundle of matches that were exceedingly proud of their high descent.
their genealogical tree that is, a great pine tree from which they had been cut was at one time a large old tree in the wood.
the matches now lay between a tinder box and an old iron saucepan and were talking about their youthful days.
'ah!
then we grew on the green boughs,' said they, 'and every morning and evening we were fed with diamond drops of dew.
whenever the sun shone we felt his warm rays, and the little birds would relate stories to us in their songs.
we knew that we were rich, for the other trees only wore their green dresses in summer, while our family were able to array themselves in green, summer and winter.
but the woodcutter came like a great disaster, and our family fell under the ax.
the head of the house obtained a situation as mainmast in a very fine ship and can sail round the world whenever he will.
other branches of the family were taken to different places, and our own office now is to kindle a light for common people.
this is how such highborn people as we came to be in a kitchen.'
"'mine has been a very different fate,' said the iron pot, which stood by the matches.
'from my first entrance into the world i have been used to cooking and scouring.
i am the first in this house when anything solid or useful is required.
my only pleasure is to be made clean and shining after dinner and to sit in my place and have a little sensible conversation with my neighbors.
all of us excepting the water bucket, which is sometimes taken into the courtyard, live here together within these four walls.
we get our news from the market basket, but it sometimes tells us very unpleasant things about the people and the government.
yes, and one day an old pot was so alarmed that it fell down and was broken in pieces.'
"'you are talking too much,' said the tinder box; and the steel struck against the flint till some sparks flew out, crying, 'we want a merry evening, don't we?'
"'yes, of course,' said the matches.
'let us talk about those who are the highest born.'
"'no, i don't like to be always talking of what we are,' remarked the saucepan.
'let us think of some other amusement; i will begin.
we will tell something that has happened to ourselves; that will be very easy, and interesting as well.
on the baltic sea, near the danish shore '
"'what a pretty commencement!'
said the plates.
'we shall all like that story, i am sure.'
"'yes.
well, in my youth i lived in a quiet family where the furniture was polished, the floors scoured, and clean curtains put up, every fortnight.'
"'what an interesting way you have of relating a story,' said the carpet broom.
'it is easy to perceive that you have been a great deal in society, something so pure runs through what you say.'
"'that is quite true,' said the water bucket; and it made a spring with joy and splashed some water on the floor.
"then the saucepan went on with its story, and the end was as good as the beginning.
"the plates rattled with pleasure, and the carpet broom brought some green parsley out of the dust hole and crowned the saucepan.
it knew this would vex the others, but it thought, 'if i crown him to-day, he will crown me to-morrow.'
"'now let us have a dance,' said the fire tongs.
then how they danced and stuck one leg in the air!
the chair cushion in the corner burst with laughter at the sight.
"'shall i be crowned now?'
asked the fire tongs.
so the broom found another wreath for the tongs.
"'they are only common people after all,' thought the matches.
the tea urn was now asked to sing, but she said she had a cold and could not sing unless she felt boiling heat within.
they all thought this was affectation; they also considered it affectation that she did not wish to sing except in the parlor, when on the table with the grand people.
"in the window sat an old quill pen, with which the maid generally wrote.
there was nothing remarkable about the pen, except that it had been dipped too deeply in the ink; but it was proud of that.
"'if the tea urn won't sing,' said the pen, 'she needn't.
there's a nightingale in a cage outside, that can sing.
she has not been taught much, certainly, but we need not say anything this evening about that.'
"'i think it highly improper,' said the teakettle, who was kitchen singer and half brother to the tea urn, 'that a rich foreign bird should be listened to here.
is it patriotic?
let the market basket decide what is right.'
"'i certainly am vexed,' said the basket, 'inwardly vexed, more than any one can imagine.
are we spending the evening properly?
would it not be more sensible to put the house in order?
if each were in his own place, i would lead a game.
this would be quite another thing.'
"'let us act a play,' said they all.
at the same moment the door opened and the maid came in.
then not one stirred; they remained quite still, although there was not a single pot among them that had not a high opinion of himself and of what he could do if he chose.
"'yes, if we had chosen,' each of them thought, 'we might have spent a very pleasant evening.'
"the maid took the matches and lighted them, and dear me, how they spluttered and blazed up!
"'now then,' they thought, 'every one will see that we are the first.
how we shine!
what a light we give!'
but even while they spoke their lights went out."
"what a capital story!"
said the queen.
"i feel as if i were really in the kitchen and could see the matches.
yes, you shall marry our daughter."
"certainly," said the king, "thou shalt have our daughter."
the king said "thou" to him because he was going to be one of the family.
the wedding day was fixed, and on the evening before, the whole city was illuminated.
cakes and sweetmeats were thrown among the people.
the street boys stood on tiptoe and shouted "hurrah," and whistled between their fingers.
altogether it was a very splendid affair.
"i will give them another treat," said the merchant's son.
so he went and bought rockets and crackers and every kind of fireworks that could be thought of, packed them in his trunk, and flew up with it into the air.
what a whizzing and popping they made as they went off!
the turks, when they saw the sight, jumped so high that their slippers flew about their ears.
it was easy to believe after this that the princess was really going to marry a turkish angel.
as soon as the merchant's son had come down to the wood after the fireworks, he thought, "i will go back into the town now and hear what they think of the entertainment."
it was very natural that he should wish to know.
and what strange things people did say, to be sure!
every one whom he questioned had a different tale to tell, though they all thought it very beautiful.
"i saw the turkish angel myself," said one.
"he had eyes like glittering stars and a head like foaming water."
"he flew in a mantle of fire," said another, "and lovely little cherubs peeped out from the folds."
he heard many more fine things about himself and that the next day he was to be married.
after this he went back to the forest to rest himself in his trunk.
it had disappeared!
a spark from the fireworks which remained had set it on fire.
it was burned to ashes.
so the merchant's son could not fly any more, nor go to meet his bride.
she stood all day on the roof, waiting for him, and most likely she is waiting there still, while he wanders through the world telling fairy tales but none of them so amusing as the one he related about the matches.
the butterfly
there was once a butterfly who wished for a bride; and, as may be supposed, he wanted to choose a very pretty one from among the flowers.
he glanced with a very critical eye at all the flower beds and found that the flowers were seated quietly and demurely on their stalks, just as maidens should sit.
but there was a great number of them, and it appeared as if making his choice would become very wearisome.
the butterfly did not like to take too much trouble, so he flew off on a visit to the daisies.
the french call this flower marguerite and say that it can prophesy.
lovers pluck off the leaves, and as they pluck each leaf they ask a question about their sweethearts, thus: "does he or she love me?
dearly?
distractedly?
very much?
a little?
not at all?"
and so on.
each one speaks these words in his own language.
the butterfly came, also, to marguerite to inquire, but he did not pluck off her leaves; he pressed a kiss on each of them, for he thought there was always more to be done by kindness.
"darling marguerite daisy," he said to her, "you are the wisest woman of them all.
pray tell me which of the flowers i shall choose for my wife.
which will be my bride?
when i know, i will fly directly to her and propose."
but marguerite did not answer him.
she was offended that he should call her a woman when she was only a girl; there is a great difference.
he asked her a second time, and then a third, but she remained dumb, answering him not at all.
then he would wait no longer, but flew away to commence his wooing at once.
it was in the early spring, when the crocus and the snowdrop were in full bloom.
"they are very pretty," thought the butterfly; "charming little lasses, but they are rather stiff and formal."
then, as young lads often do, he looked out for the older girls.
he next flew to the anemones, but these were rather sour to his taste.
the violet was a little too sentimental; the lime blossoms were too small and, besides, there was such a large family of them.
the apple blossoms, though they looked like roses, bloomed to-day, but might fall off to-morrow with the first wind that blew; and he thought a marriage with one of them might last too short a time.
the pea blossom pleased him most of all.
she was white and red, graceful and slender, and belonged to those domestic maidens who have a pretty appearance, yet can be useful in the kitchen.
he was just about to make her an offer when, close by her, he saw a pod, with a withered flower hanging at the end.
"who is that?"
he asked.
"that is my sister," replied the pea blossom.
"oh, indeed!
and you will be like her some day," said he.
and at once he flew away, for he felt quite shocked.
a honeysuckle hung forth from the hedge, in full bloom; but there were so many girls like her, with long faces and sallow complexions!
no, he did not like her.
but which one did he like?
spring went by, and summer drew toward its close.
autumn came, but he had not decided.
the flowers now appeared in their most gorgeous robes, but all in vain they had not the fresh, fragrant air of youth.
the heart asks for fragrance even when it is no longer young, and there is very little of that to be found in the dahlias or the dry chrysanthemums.
therefore the butterfly turned to the mint on the ground.
this plant, you know, has no blossom, but is sweetness all over; it is full of fragrance from head to foot, with the scent of a flower in every leaf.
"i will take her," said the butterfly; and he made her an offer.
but the mint stood silent and stiff as she listened to him.
at last she said:
"i can give you friendship if you like, nothing more.
i am old, and you are old, but we may live for each other just the same.
as to marrying, however, no!
that would appear ridiculous at our age."
and so it happened that the butterfly got no wife at all.
he had been too long choosing, which is always a bad plan, and became what is called an old bachelor.
it was late in the autumn, with rainy and cloudy weather.
the cold wind blew over the bowed backs of the willows, so that they creaked again.
it was not the weather for flying about in summer clothes, but fortunately the butterfly was not out in it.
by a happy chance he had got a shelter.
it was in a room heated by a stove and as warm as summer.
he could live here, he said, well enough.
"but it is not enough merely to exist," said he.
"i need freedom, sunshine, and a little flower for a companion."
so he flew against the window-pane and was seen and admired by those in the room, who caught him and stuck him on a pin in a box of curiosities.
they could not do more for him.
"now i am perched on a stalk like the flowers," said the butterfly.
"it is not very pleasant, certainly.
i imagine it is something like being married, for here i am stuck fast."
and with this thought he consoled himself a little.
"that seems very poor consolation," said one of the plants in the room, that grew in a pot.
"ah," thought the butterfly, "one can't very well trust these plants in pots; they have had too much to do with human beings."
the goblin and the huckster
there was once a regular student, who lived in a garret and had no possessions.
and there was also a regular huckster, to whom the house belonged, and who occupied the ground floor.
a goblin lived with the huckster because at christmas he always had a large dishful of jam, with a great piece of butter in the middle.
the huckster could afford this, and therefore the goblin remained with him which was very shrewd of the goblin.
one evening the student came into the shop through the back door to buy candles and cheese for himself; he had no one to send, and therefore he came himself.
he obtained what he wished, and then the huckster and his wife nodded good evening to him.
the huckster's wife was a woman who could do more than merely nod, for she usually had plenty to say for herself.
the student nodded also, as he turned to leave, then suddenly stopped and began reading the piece of paper in which the cheese was wrapped.
it was a leaf torn out of an old book; a book that ought not to have been torn up, for it was full of poetry.
"yonder lies some more of the same sort," said the huckster.
"i gave an old woman a few coffee berries for it; you shall have the rest for sixpence if you will."
"indeed i will," said the student.
"give me the book instead of the cheese; i can eat my bread and butter without cheese.
it would be a sin to tear up a book like this.
you are a clever man and a practical man, but you understand no more about poetry than that cask yonder."
this was a very rude speech, especially against the cask, but the huckster and the student both laughed, for it was only said in fun.
the goblin, however, felt very angry that any man should venture to say such things to a huckster who was a householder and sold the best butter.
as soon as it was night, the shop closed, and every one in bed except the student, the goblin stepped softly into the bedroom where the huckster's wife slept, and took away her tongue, which of course she did not then want.
whatever object in the room he placed this tongue upon, immediately received voice and speech and was able to express its thoughts and feelings as readily as the lady herself could do.
it could only be used by one object at a time, which was a good thing, as a number speaking at once would have caused great confusion.
the goblin laid the tongue upon the cask, in which lay a quantity of old newspapers.
"is it really true," he asked, "that you do not know what poetry is?"
"of course i know," replied the cask.
"poetry is something that always stands in the corner of a newspaper and is sometimes cut out.
and i may venture to affirm that i have more of it in me than the student has, even if i am only a poor tub of the huckster's."
then the goblin placed the tongue on the coffee mill, and how it did go, to be sure!
then he put it on the butter-tub, and the cash-box, and they all expressed the same opinion as the waste-paper tub.
a majority must always be respected.
"now i shall go and tell the student," said the goblin.
with these words he went quietly up the back stairs to the garret, where the student lived.
the student's candle was burning still, and the goblin peeped through the keyhole and saw that he was reading in the torn book which he had bought out of the shop.
but how light the room was!
from the book shot forth a ray of light which grew broad and full like the stem of a tree, from which bright rays spread upward and over the student's head.
each leaf was fresh, and each flower was like a beautiful female head some with dark and sparkling eyes and others with eyes that were wonderfully blue and clear.
the fruit gleamed like stars, and the room was filled with sounds of beautiful music.
the little goblin had never imagined, much less seen or heard of, any sight so glorious as this.
he stood still on tiptoe, peeping in, till the light went out.
the student no doubt had blown out his candle and gone to bed, but the little goblin remained standing there, listening to the music which still sounded, soft and beautiful a sweet cradle song for the student who had lain down to rest.
"this is a wonderful place," said the goblin; "i never expected such a thing.
i should like to stay here with the student."
then the little man thought it over, for he was a sensible sprite.
at last he sighed, "but the student has no jam!"
so he went downstairs again to the huckster's shop, and it was a good thing he got back when he did, for the cask had almost worn out the lady's tongue.
he had given a description of all that he contained on one side, and was just about to turn himself over to the other side to describe what was there, when the goblin entered and restored the tongue to the lady.
from that time forward, the whole shop, from the cash-box down to the pine-wood logs, formed their opinions from that of the cask.
they all had such confidence in him and treated him with so much respect that when, in the evening, the huckster read the criticisms on theatricals and art, they fancied it must all come from the cask.
after what he had seen, the goblin could no longer sit and listen quietly to the wisdom and understanding downstairs.
as soon as the evening light glimmered in the garret, he took courage, for it seemed to him that the rays of light were strong cables, drawing him up and obliging him to go and peep through the keyhole.
while there, a feeling of vastness came over him, such as we experience by the ever-moving sea when the storm breaks forth, and it brought tears into his eyes.
he did not himself know why he wept, yet a kind of pleasant feeling mingled with his tears.
"how wonderfully glorious it would be to sit with the student under such a tree!"
but that was out of the question; he must be content to look through the keyhole and be thankful for even that.
there he stood on the cold landing, with the autumn wind blowing down upon him through the trapdoor.
it was very cold, but the little creature did not really feel it till the light in the garret went out and the tones of music died away.
then how he shivered and crept downstairs again to his warm corner, where he felt at home and comfortable!
and when christmas came again and brought the dish of jam and the great lump of butter, he liked the huckster best of all.
soon after, the goblin was waked in the middle of the night by a terrible noise and knocking against the window shutters and the house doors and by the sound of the watchman's horn.
a great fire had broken out, and the whole street seemed full of flames.
was it in their house or a neighbor's?
no one could tell, for terror had seized upon all.
the huckster's wife was so bewildered that she took her gold earrings out of her ears and put them in her pocket, that she might save something at least.
the huckster ran to get his business papers, and the servant resolved to save her black silk mantle, which she had managed to buy.
all wished to keep the best things they had.
the goblin had the same wish, for with one spring he was upstairs in the student's room.
he found him standing by the open window and looking quite calmly at the fire, which was raging in the house of a neighbor opposite.
the goblin caught up the wonderful book, which lay on the table, and popped it into his red cap, which he held tightly with both hands.
the greatest treasure in the house was saved, and he ran away with it to the roof and seated himself on the chimney.
the flames of the burning house opposite illuminated him as he sat with both hands pressed tightly over his cap, in which the treasure lay.
it was then that he understood what feelings were really strongest in his heart and knew exactly which way they tended.
yet, when the fire was extinguished and the goblin again began to reflect, he hesitated, and said at last, "i must divide myself between the two; i cannot quite give up the huckster, because of the jam."
this is a representation of human nature.
we are like the goblin; we all go to visit the huckster, "because of the jam."
everything in its right place
more than a hundred years ago, behind the wood and by a deep lake, stood an old baronial mansion.
round it lay a deep moat, in which grew reeds and rushes, and close by the bridge, near the entrance gate, stood an old willow that bent itself over the moat.
from a narrow lane one day sounded the clang of horns and the trampling of horses.
the little girl who kept the geese hastened to drive them away from the bridge before the hunting party came galloping up to it.
they came, however, with such haste that the girl was obliged to climb up and seat herself on the parapet of the bridge, lest they should ride over her.
she was scarcely more than a child, with a pretty, delicate figure, a gentle expression of face, and two bright blue eyes all of which the baron took no note of; but as he galloped past, he reversed the whip held in his hand, and in rough play gave the little goose-watcher such a push with the butt end that she fell backward into the ditch.
"everything in its right place," cried he.
"into the puddle with you!"
and then he laughed aloud at what he called his own wit, and the rest joined with him.
the whole party shouted and screamed, and the dogs barked loudly.
fortunately for herself, the poor girl in falling caught hold of one of the overhanging branches of the willow tree, by which she was able to keep herself from falling into the muddy pool.
as soon as the baron, with his company and his dogs, had disappeared through the castle gate, she tried to raise herself by her own exertions; but the bough broke off at the top, and she would have fallen backwards among the reeds if a strong hand had not at that moment seized her from above.
it was the hand of a peddler, who, at a short distance, had witnessed the whole affair and hastened up to give assistance.
"everything in its right place," he said, imitating the noble baron, as he drew the little maiden up on dry ground.
he would have restored the bough to the place from which it had been broken off, but "everything in its right place" is not always so easy to arrange, so he stuck the bough in the soft earth.
"grow and prosper as much as you can," said he, "till you produce a good flute for some of them over there.
with the permission of the noble baron and his family, i should like them to hear my challenge."
so he betook himself to the castle, but not into the noble hall; he was too humble for that.
he went to the servants' apartments, and the men and maids examined and turned over his stock of goods, while from above, where the company were at table, came sounds of screaming and shouting which they called singing and indeed they did their best.
loud laughter, mingled with the howling of dogs, sounded through the open windows.
all were feasting and carousing.
wine and strong ale foamed in the jugs and glasses; even the dogs ate and drank with their masters.
the peddler was sent for, but only to make fun for them.
the wine had mounted to their heads, and the sense had flown out.
they poured wine into a stocking for him to drink with them quickly, of course and this was considered a rare jest and occasioned fresh bursts of laughter.
at cards, whole farms, with their stock of peasants and cattle, were staked on a card and lost.
"everything in its right place," said the peddler, when he at last escaped from what he called the sodom and gomorrah up there.
"the open highroad is my right place; that house did not suit me at all."
as he stepped along, he saw the little maiden keeping watch over the geese, and she nodded to him in a friendly way.
days and weeks passed, and it soon became evident that the willow branch which had been stuck in the ground by the peddler, near to the castle moat, had taken root, for it remained fresh and green and put forth new twigs.
the little girl saw that the branch must have taken root, and she was quite joyful about it.
"this tree," she said, "must be my tree now."
the tree certainly flourished, but at the castle, what with feasting and gambling, everything went to ruin; for these two things are like rollers, upon which no man can possibly stand securely.
six years had not passed away before the noble baron wandered out of the castle gate a poor man, and the mansion was bought by a rich dealer.
this dealer was no other than the man of whom he had made fun and for whom he had poured wine into a stocking to drink.
but honesty and industry are like favorable winds to a ship, and they had brought the peddler to be master of the baron's estates.
from that hour no more card playing was permitted there.
the new proprietor took to himself a wife, and who should it be but the little goose-watcher, who had always remained faithful and good, and who looked as beautiful and fine in her new clothes as if she had been a highly born lady.
it would be too long a story in these busy times to explain how all this came about, but it really did happen, and the most important part is to come.
it was pleasant to live in the old court now.
the mistress herself managed the housekeeping within, and the master superintended the estate.
their home overflowed with blessings, for where rectitude leads the way, prosperity is sure to follow.
the old house was cleaned and painted, the moat dried up, and fruit trees planted in it.
the floors of the house were polished as smoothly as a draftboard, and everything looked bright and cheerful.
during the long winter evenings the lady of the house sat with her maidens at the spinning wheel in the great hall.
her husband, in his old age, had been made a magistrate.
every sunday evening he read the bible with his family, for children had come to him and were all instructed in the best manner, although they were not all equally clever as is the case in all families.
in the meantime, the willow branch at the castle gate had grown into a splendid tree and stood free and unrestrained.
"that is our genealogical tree," said the old people, "and the tree must therefore be honored and esteemed, even by those who are not very wise."
a hundred years passed away, and the place presented a much-changed aspect.
the lake had been converted into moorland, and the old baronial castle had almost disappeared.
a pool of water, the deep moat, and the ruins of some of the walls were all that remained.
close by grew a magnificent willow tree, with overhanging branches the same genealogical tree of former times.
here it still stood, showing to what beauty a willow can attain when left to itself.
to be sure, the trunk was split through, from the root to the top, and the storm had slightly bent it; but it stood firm through all, and from every crevice and opening into which earth had been carried by the wind, shot forth blossoms and flowers.
near the top, where the large boughs parted, the wild raspberry twined its branches and looked like a hanging garden.
even the little mistletoe had here struck root, and flourished, graceful and delicate, among the branches of the willow, which were reflected in the dark waters beneath it.
sometimes the wind from the sea scattered the willow leaves.
a path led through the field, close by the tree.
on the top of a hill, near the forest, with a splendid prospect before it, stood the new baronial hall, with panes of such transparent glass in the windows that there appeared to be none.
the grand flight of steps leading to the entrance looked like a bower of roses and broad-leaved plants.
the lawn was as fresh and green as if each separate blade of grass were cleaned morning and evening.
in the hall hung costly pictures.
the chairs and sofas were of silk and velvet and looked almost as if they could move of themselves.
there were tables with white marble tops, and books bound in velvet and gold.
here, indeed, resided wealthy people, people of rank the new baron and his family.
each article was made to harmonize with the other furnishings.
the family motto still was, "everything in its right place."
therefore the pictures which were once the honor and glory of the old house now hung in the passage leading to the servants' hall.
they were considered mere lumber; especially two old portraits, one of a man in a wig and a rose-colored coat, the other of a lady with frizzed and powdered hair, holding a rose in her hand, each surrounded by a wreath of willow leaves.
both the pictures had many holes in them, for the little barons always set up the two old people as targets for their bows and arrows; and yet these were pictures of the magistrate and his lady, from whom the present family were descended.
"but they did not properly belong to our family," said one of the little barons; "he was a peddler, and she kept the geese.
they were not like papa and mamma."
so the pictures, being old, were considered worthless; and the motto being "each in its right place," the great-grandfather and the great-grandmother of the family were sent into the passage leading to the servants' hall.
the son of the clergyman of the place was tutor at the great house.
one day he was out walking with his pupils the little barons and their eldest sister, who had just been confirmed.
they took the path through the fields, which led past the old willow tree.
while they walked, the young lady made a wreath of hedge blossoms and wild flowers, "each in its right place," and the wreath was, as a whole, very pretty.
at the same time she heard every word uttered by the son of the clergyman.
she liked very much to hear him talk of the wonders of nature and of the great men and women of history.
she had a healthy mind, with nobility of thought and feeling, and a heart full of love for all god's creation.
the walking party halted at the old willow tree; the youngest of the barons wanted a branch from it to make a flute, as he had already made them from other willows.
the tutor broke off a branch.
"oh, don't do that," exclaimed the young baroness; but it was already done.
"i am so sorry," she continued; "that is our famous old tree, and i love it very much.
they laugh at me for it at home, but i don't mind.
there is a story told about that tree."
then she told him what we already know: about the old castle, and about the peddler and the girl with the geese, who had met at this spot for the first time and were the ancestors of the noble family to which the young baroness belonged.
"the good old folks would not be ennobled,"
said she.
"their motto was 'everything in its right place,' and they thought it would not be right for them to purchase a title with money.
my grandfather, the first baron, was their son.
he was a very learned man, known and appreciated by princes and princesses, and was present at all the festivals at court.
at home, they all love him best, but i scarcely know why.
there seems to me something in the first old pair that draws my heart towards them.
how sociable, how patriarchal, it must have been in the old house, where the mistress sat at the spinning wheel with her maids while her husband read aloud to them from the bible!"
"they must have been charming, sensible people," said the tutor, and then the conversation turned upon nobles and commoners.
it was almost as if the tutor did not belong to an inferior class, he spoke so wisely upon the purpose and intention of nobility.
"it is certainly good fortune to belong to a family that has distinguished itself in the world, and to inherit the energy which spurs us on to progress in everything noble and useful.
it is pleasant to bear a family name that is like a card of admission to the highest circles.
true nobility is always great and honorable.
it is a coin which has received the impression of its own value.
it is a mistake of the present day, into which many poets have fallen, to affirm that all who are noble by birth must therefore be wicked or foolish, and that the lower we descend in society the oftener we find great and shining characters.
i feel that this is quite false.
in all classes can be found men and women possessing kindly and beautiful traits.
"my mother told me of one, and i could tell you of many more.
she was once on a visit to a nobleman's house in the town; my grandmother, i believe, had been brought up in the family.
one day, when my mother and the nobleman happened to be alone, an old woman came limping into the court on crutches.
she was accustomed to come every sunday and always carried away a gift with her.
'ah, there is the poor old woman,' said the nobleman; 'what pain it is for her to walk!'
and before my mother understood what he said, he had left the room and run downstairs to the old woman.
though seventy years old himself, the old nobleman carried to the woman the gift she had come to receive, to spare her the pain of walking any farther.
this is only a trifling circumstance, but, like the two mites given by the widow in the bible, it wakes an echo in the heart.
"these are subjects of which poets should write and sing, for they soften and unite mankind into one brotherhood.
but when a mere sprig of humanity, because it has noble ancestors of good blood, rears up and prances like an arabian horse in the street or speaks contemptuously of common people, then it is nobility in danger of decay a mere pretense, like the mask which thespis invented.
people are glad to see such persons turned into objects of satire."
this was the tutor's speech certainly rather a long one, but he had been busily engaged in cutting the flute while he talked.
there was a large party at the hall that evening.
the grand salon was crowded with guests some from the neighborhood, some from the capital.
there was a bevy of ladies richly dressed with, and without, taste; a group of the clergy from the adjoining parishes, in a corner together, as grave as though met for a funeral.
a funeral party it certainly was not, however; it was meant for a party of pleasure, but the pleasure was yet to come.
music and song filled the rooms, first one of the party volunteering, then another.
the little baron brought out his flute, but neither he nor his father, who tried it after him, could make anything of it.
it was pronounced a failure.
"but you are a performer, too, surely," said a witty gentleman, addressing the tutor.
"you are of course a flute player as well as a flute maker.
you are a universal genius, i hear, and genius is quite the rage nowadays nothing like genius.
come now; i am sure you will be so good as to enchant us by playing on this little instrument."
he handed it over, announcing in a loud voice that the tutor was going to favor the company with a solo on the flute.
it was easy to see that these people wanted to make fun of him, and he refused to play.
but they pressed him so long and so urgently that at last, in very weariness, he took the flute and raised it to his lips.
it was a strange flute!
a sound issued from it, loud, shrill, and vibrating, like that sent forth by a steam engine nay, far louder.
it thrilled through the house, through garden and woodland, miles out into the country; and with the sound came also a strong, rushing wind, its stormy breath clearly uttering the words, "everything in its right place!"
forthwith the baron, the master of the hall, was caught up by the wind, carried out at the window, and was shut up in the porter's lodge in a trice.
the porter himself was borne up, not into the drawing room no, for that he was not fit but into the servants' hall, where the proud lackeys in their silk stockings shook with horror to see so low a person sit at table with them.
but in the grand salon the young baroness was wafted to the seat of honor, where she was worthy to sit, and the tutor's place was by her side.
there they sat together, for all the world like bride and bridegroom.
an old count, descended from one of the noblest houses in the land, retained his seat, not so much as a breath of air disturbing him, for the flute was strictly just.
the witty young gentleman, who had been the occasion of all this tumult, was whirled out headforemost to join geese and ganders in the poultry yard.
half a mile out in the country the flute wrought wonders.
the family of a rich merchant, who drove with four horses, were all precipitated from the carriage window.
two farmers, who had of late grown too wealthy to know their nearest relations, were puffed into a ditch.
it was a dangerous flute.
luckily, at the first sound it uttered, it burst and was then put safely away in the tutor's pocket.
"everything in its right place!"
next day no more was said about the adventure than as if it had never happened.
the affair was hushed up, and all things were the same as before, except that the two old portraits of the peddler and the goose girl continued to hang on the walls of the salon, whither the wind had blown them.
here some connoisseur chanced to see them, and because he pronounced them to be painted by a master hand, they were cleaned and restored and ever after held in honor.
their value had not been known before.
"everything in its right place!"
so shall it be, all in good time, never fear.
not in this world, perhaps.
that would be expecting rather too much.
the real princess
there was once a prince who wanted to marry a princess.
but she must be a real princess, mind you.
so he traveled all round the world, seeking such a one, but everywhere something was in the way.
not that there was any lack of princesses, but he could not seem to make out whether they were real princesses; there was always something not quite satisfactory.
therefore, home he came again, quite out of spirits, for he wished so much to marry a real princess.
one evening a terrible storm came on.
it thundered and lightened, and the rain poured down; indeed, it was quite fearful.
in the midst of it there came a knock at the town gate, and the old king went out to open it.
it was a princess who stood outside.
but o dear, what a state she was in from the rain and bad weather!
the water dropped from her hair and clothes, it ran in at the tips of her shoes and out at the heels; yet she insisted she was a real princess.
"very well," thought the old queen; "that we shall presently see."
she said nothing, but went into the bedchamber and took off all the bedding, then laid a pea on the sacking of the bedstead.
having done this, she took twenty mattresses and laid them upon the pea and placed twenty eider-down beds on top of the mattresses.
the princess lay upon this bed all the night.
in the morning she was asked how she had slept.
"oh, most miserably!"
she said.
"i scarcely closed my eyes the whole night through.
i cannot think what there could have been in the bed.
i lay upon something so hard that i am quite black and blue all over.
it is dreadful!"
it was now quite evident that she was a real princess, since through twenty mattresses and twenty eider-down beds she had felt the pea.
none but a real princess could have such delicate feeling.
so the prince took her for his wife, for he knew that in her he had found a true princess.
and the pea was preserved in the cabinet of curiosities, where it is still to be seen unless some one has stolen it.
and this, mind you, is a real story.
the emperor's new clothes
many years ago there was an emperor who was so fond of new clothes that he spent all his money on them.
he did not give himself any concern about his army; he cared nothing about the theater or for driving about in the woods, except for the sake of showing himself off in new clothes.
he had a costume for every hour in the day, and just as they say of a king or emperor, "he is in his council chamber," they said of him, "the emperor is in his dressing room."
life was merry and gay in the town where the emperor lived, and numbers of strangers came to it every day.
among them there came one day two rascals, who gave themselves out as weavers and said that they knew how to weave the most exquisite stuff imaginable.
not only were the colors and patterns uncommonly beautiful, but the clothes that were made of the stuff had the peculiar property of becoming invisible to every person who was unfit for the office he held or who was exceptionally stupid.
"those must be valuable clothes," thought the emperor.
"by wearing them i should be able to discover which of the men in my empire are not fit for their posts.
i should distinguish wise men from fools.
yes, i must order some of the stuff to be woven for me directly."
and he paid the swindlers a handsome sum of money in advance, as they required.
as for them, they put up two looms and pretended to be weaving, though there was nothing whatever on their shuttles.
they called for a quantity of the finest silks and of the purest gold thread, all of which went into their own bags, while they worked at their empty looms till late into the night.
"i should like to know how those weavers are getting on with the stuff,"
thought the emperor.
but he felt a little queer when he reflected that those who were stupid or unfit for their office would not be able to see the material.
he believed, indeed, that he had nothing to fear for himself, but still he thought it better to send some one else first, to see how the work was coming on.
all the people in the town had heard of the peculiar property of the stuff, and every one was curious to see how stupid his neighbor might be.
"i will send my faithful old prime minister to the weavers," thought the emperor.
"he will be best capable of judging of this stuff, for he is a man of sense and nobody is more fit for his office than he."
so the worthy old minister went into the room where the two swindlers sat working the empty looms.
"heaven save us!"
thought the old man, opening his eyes wide.
"why, i can't see anything at all!"
but he took care not to say so aloud.
both the rogues begged him to step a little nearer and asked him if he did not think the patterns very pretty and the coloring fine.
they pointed to the empty loom as they did so, and the poor old minister kept staring as hard as he could but without being able to see anything on it, for of course there was nothing there to see.
"heaven save us!"
thought the old man.
"is it possible that i am a fool?
i have never thought it, and nobody must know it.
is it true that i am not fit for my office?
it will never do for me to say that i cannot see the stuffs."
"well, sir, do you say nothing about the cloth?"
asked the one who was pretending to go on with his work.
"oh, it is most elegant, most beautiful!"
said the dazed old man, as he peered again through his spectacles.
"what a fine pattern, and what fine colors!
i will certainly tell the emperor how pleased i am with the stuff."
"we are glad of that," said both the weavers; and then they named the colors and pointed out the special features of the pattern.
to all of this the minister paid great attention, so that he might be able to repeat it to the emperor when he went back to him.
and now the cheats called for more money, more silk, and more gold thread, to be able to proceed with the weaving, but they put it all into their own pockets, and not a thread went into the stuff, though they went on as before, weaving at the empty looms.
after a little time the emperor sent another honest statesman to see how the weaving was progressing, and if the stuff would soon be ready.
the same thing happened with him as with the minister.
he gazed and gazed, but as there was nothing but empty looms, he could see nothing else.
"is not this an exquisite piece of stuff?"
asked the weavers, pointing to one of the looms and explaining the beautiful pattern and the colors which were not there to be seen.
"i am not stupid, i know i am not!"
thought the man, "so it must be that i am not fit for my good office.
it is very strange, but i must not let it be noticed."
so he praised the cloth he did not see and assured the weavers of his delight in the lovely colors and the exquisite pattern.
"it is perfectly charming," he reported to the emperor.
everybody in the town was talking of the splendid cloth.
the emperor thought he should like to see it himself while it was still on the loom.
with a company of carefully selected men, among whom were the two worthy officials who had been there before, he went to visit the crafty impostors, who were working as hard as ever at the empty looms.
"is it not magnificent?"
said both the honest statesmen.
"see, your majesty, what splendid colors, and what a pattern!"
and they pointed to the looms, for they believed that others, no doubt, could see what they did not.
"what!"
thought the emperor.
"i see nothing at all.
this is terrible!
am i a fool?
am i not fit to be emperor?
why nothing more dreadful could happen to me!"
"oh, it is very pretty!
it has my highest approval," the emperor said aloud.
he nodded with satisfaction as he gazed at the empty looms, for he would not betray that he could see nothing.
his whole suite gazed and gazed, each seeing no more than the others; but, like the emperor, they all exclaimed, "oh, it is beautiful!"
they even suggested to the emperor that he wear the splendid new clothes for the first time on the occasion of a great procession which was soon to take place.
"splendid!
gorgeous!
magnificent!"
went from mouth to mouth.
all were equally delighted with the weavers' workmanship.
the emperor gave each of the impostors an order of knighthood to be worn in their buttonholes, and the title gentleman weaver of the imperial court.
before the day on which the procession was to take place, the weavers sat up the whole night, burning sixteen candles, so that people might see how anxious they were to get the emperor's new clothes ready.
they pretended to take the stuff from the loom, they cut it out in the air with huge scissors, and they stitched away with needles which had no thread in them.
at last they said, "now the clothes are finished."
the emperor came to them himself with his grandest courtiers, and each of the rogues lifted his arm as if he held something, saying, "see!
here are the trousers!
here is the coat!
here is the cloak," and so on.
"it is as light as a spider's web.
one would almost feel as if one had nothing on, but that is the beauty of it!"
"yes," said all the courtiers, but they saw nothing, for there was nothing to see.
"will your majesty be graciously pleased to take off your clothes so that we may put on the new clothes here, before the great mirror?"
the emperor took off his clothes, and the rogues pretended to put on first one garment and then another of the new ones they had pretended to make.
they pretended to fasten something round his waist and to tie on something.
this they said was the train, and the emperor turned round and round before the mirror.
"how well his majesty looks in the new clothes!
how becoming they are!"
cried all the courtiers in turn.
"that is a splendid costume!"
"the canopy that is to be carried over your majesty in the procession is waiting outside," said the master of ceremonies.
"well, i am ready," replied the emperor.
"don't the clothes look well?"
and he turned round and round again before the mirror, to appear as if he were admiring his new costume.
the chamberlains, who were to carry the train, stooped and put their hands near the floor as if they were lifting it; then they pretended to be holding something in the air.
they would not let it be noticed that they could see and feel nothing.
so the emperor went along in the procession, under the splendid canopy, and every one in the streets said: "how beautiful the emperor's new clothes are!
what a splendid train!
and how well they fit!"
no one wanted to let it appear that he could see nothing, for that would prove him not fit for his post.
none of the emperor's clothes had been so great a success before.
"but he has nothing on!"
said a little child.
"just listen to the innocent," said its father; and one person whispered to another what the child had said.
"he has nothing on; a child says he has nothing on!"
"but he has nothing on," cried all the people.
the emperor was startled by this, for he had a suspicion that they were right.
but he thought, "i must face this out to the end and go on with the procession."
so he held himself more stiffly than ever, and the chamberlains held up the train that was not there at all.
great claus and little claus
in a village there once lived two men of the same name.
both of them were called claus.
but because one of them owned four horses while the other had but one, people called the one who had the four horses big, or great, claus and the one who owned but a single horse little claus.
now i shall tell you what happened to each of them, for this is a true story.
all the days of the week little claus was obliged to plow for great claus and to lend him his one horse; then once a week, on sunday, great claus helped little claus with his four horses, but always on a holiday.
"hurrah!"
how little claus would crack his whip over the five, for they were as good as his own on that one day.
the sun shone brightly, and the church bells rang merrily as the people passed by.
the people were dressed in their best, with their prayer books under their arms, for they were going to church to hear the clergyman preach.
they looked at little claus plowing with five horses, and he was so proud and merry that he cracked his whip and cried, "gee-up, my fine horses."
"you mustn't say that," said great claus, "for only one of them is yours."
but little claus soon forgot what it was that he ought not to say, and when any one went by he would call out, "gee-up, my fine horses."
"i must really beg you not to say that again," said great claus as he passed; "for if you do, i shall hit your horse on the head so that he will drop down dead on the spot, and then it will be all over with him."
"i will certainly not say it again, i promise you," said little claus.
but as soon as any one came by, nodding good day to him, he was so pleased, and felt so grand at having five horses plowing his field, that again he cried out, "gee-up, all my horses."
"i'll gee-up your horses for you," said great claus, and he caught up the tethering mallet and struck little claus's one horse on the head, so that it fell down dead.
"oh, now i haven't any horse at all!"
cried little claus, and he began to weep.
but after a while he flayed the horse and hung up the skin to dry in the wind.
then he put the dried skin into a bag, and hanging it over his shoulder, went off to the next town to sell it.
he had a very long way to go and was obliged to pass through a great, gloomy wood.
a dreadful storm came up.
he lost his way, and before he found it again, evening was drawing on.
it was too late to get to the town, and too late to get home before nightfall.
near the road stood a large farmhouse.
the shutters outside the windows were closed, but lights shone through the crevices and at the top.
"they might let me stay here for the night," thought little claus.
so he went up to the door and knocked.
the door was opened by the farmer's wife, but when he explained what it was that he wanted, she told him to go away; her husband, she said, was not at home, and she could not let any strangers in.
"then i shall have to lie out here," said little claus to himself, as the farmer's wife shut the door in his face.
close to the farmhouse stood a tall haystack, and between it and the house was a small shed with a thatched roof.
"i can lie up there," said little claus, when he saw the roof.
"it will make a capital bed, but i hope the stork won't fly down and bite my legs."
a stork was just then standing near his nest on the house roof.
so little claus climbed onto the roof of the shed and proceeded to make himself comfortable.
as he turned round to settle himself, he discovered that the wooden shutters did not reach to the tops of the windows.
he could look over them straight into the room, in which a large table was laid with wine, roast meat, and a fine, great fish.
the farmer's wife and the sexton were sitting at the table all by themselves, and she was pouring out wine for him, while his fork was in the fish, which he seemed to like the best.
"if i could only get some too," thought little claus, and as he stretched his neck toward the window he spied a large, beautiful cake.
goodness!
what a glorious feast they had before them.
at that moment some one came riding down the road towards the farm.
it was the farmer himself, returning.
he was a good man enough, but he had one very singular prejudice he could not bear the sight of a sexton, and if he came on one he fell into a terrible rage.
this was the reason that the sexton had gone to visit the farmer's wife during his absence from home and that the good wife had put before him the best she had.
when they heard the farmer they were frightened, and the woman begged the sexton to creep into a large empty chest which stood in a corner.
he did so with all haste, for he well knew how the farmer felt toward a sexton.
the woman hid the wine and all the good things in the oven, for if her husband were to see them, he would certainly ask why they had been provided.
"o dear!"
sighed little claus, on the shed roof, as he saw the good things disappear.
"is any one up there?"
asked the farmer, looking up where little claus was.
"what are you doing up there?
you had better come with me into the house."
then little claus told him how he had lost his way, and asked if he might have shelter for the night.
"certainly," replied the farmer; "but the first thing is to have something to eat."
the wife received them both in a friendly way, and laid the table, bringing to it a large bowl of porridge.
the farmer was hungry and ate with a good appetite.
but little claus could not help thinking of the capital roast meat, fish, and cake, which he knew were hidden in the oven.
he had put his sack with the hide in it under the table by his feet, for, we must remember, he was on his way to the town to sell it.
he did not relish the porridge, so he trod on the sack and made the dried skin squeak quite loudly.
"hush!"
said little claus to his bag, at the same time treading upon it again, to make it squeak much louder than before.
"hollo!
what's that you've got in your bag?"
asked the farmer.
"oh, it's a magician," said little claus, "and he says we needn't eat the porridge, for he has charmed the oven full of roast meat, fish, and cake."
"what?"
cried the farmer, and he opened the oven with all speed and saw all the nice things the woman had hidden, but which he believed the magician had conjured up for their special benefit.
the farmer's wife did not say a word, but set the food before them; and they both made a hearty meal of the fish, the meat, and the cake.
little claus now trod again upon his sack and made the skin squeak.
"what does he say now?"
inquired the farmer.
"he says," promptly answered little claus, "that he has conjured up three bottles of wine, which are standing in the corner near the stove."
so the woman was obliged to bring the wine which she had hidden, and the farmer and little claus became right merry.
would not the farmer like to have such a conjurer as little claus carried about in his sack?
"can he conjure up the evil one?"
inquired the farmer.
"i shouldn't mind seeing him now, when i'm in such a merry mood."
"yes," said little claus, "he will do anything that i please"; and he trod on the bag till it squeaked.
"you hear him answer, 'yes, only the evil one is so ugly that you had better not see him.'"
"oh, i'm not afraid.
what will he look like?"
"well, he will show himself to you in the image of a sexton."
"nay, that's bad indeed.
you must know that i can't abide a sexton.
however, it doesn't matter, for i know he's a demon, and i shan't mind so much.
now my courage is up!
only he mustn't come too close."
"i'll ask him about it," said little claus, putting his ear down as he trod close to the bag.
"what does he say?"
"he says you can go along and open the chest in the corner, and there you'll see him cowering in the dark.
but hold the lid tight, so that he doesn't get out."
"will you help me to hold the lid," asked the farmer, going along to the chest in which his wife had hidden the sexton, who was shivering with fright.
the farmer opened the lid a wee little way and peeped in.
"ha!"
he cried, springing backward.
"i saw him, and he looks exactly like our sexton.
it was a shocking sight!"
they must needs drink after this, and there they sat till far into the night.
"you must sell me your conjurer," said the farmer.
"ask anything you like for him.
nay, i'll give you a bushel of money for him."
"no, i can't do that," said little claus.
"you must remember how much benefit i can get from such a conjurer."
"oh, but i should so like to have him!"
said the farmer, and he went on begging for him.
"well," said little claus at last, "since you have been so kind as to give me a night's shelter, i won't say nay.
you must give me a bushel of money, only i must have it full to the brim."
"you shall have it," said the farmer; "but you must take that chest away with you.
i won't have it in the house an hour longer.
you could never know that he might not still be inside."
so little claus gave his sack with the dried hide of the horse in it and received a full bushel of money in return, and the measure was full to the brim.
the farmer also gave him a large wheelbarrow, with which to take away the chest and the bushel of money.
"good-by," said little claus, and off he went with his money and the chest with the sexton in it.
on the other side of the forest was a wide, deep river, whose current was so strong that it was almost impossible to swim against it.
a large, new bridge had just been built over it, and when they came to the middle of the bridge little claus said in a voice loud enough to be heard by the sexton: "what shall i do with this stupid old chest?
it might be full of paving stones, it is so heavy.
i am tired of wheeling it.
i'll just throw it into the river.
if it floats down to my home, well and good; if not, i don't care.
it will be no great matter."
and he took hold of the chest and lifted it a little, as if he were going to throw it into the river.
"no, no!
let be!"
shouted the sexton.
"let me get out."
"ho!"
said little claus, pretending to be frightened.
"why, he is still inside.
then i must heave it into the river to drown him."
"oh, no, no, no!"
shouted the sexton; "i'll give you a whole bushelful of money if you'll let me out."
"oh, that's another matter," said little claus, opening the chest.
he pushed the empty chest into the river and then went home with the sexton to get his bushelful of money.
he had already had one from the farmer, you know, so now his wheelbarrow was quite full of money.
"i got a pretty fair price for that horse, i must admit," said he to himself, when he got home and turned the money out of the wheelbarrow into a heap in the middle of the floor.
"what a rage great claus will be in when he discovers how rich i am become through my one horse.
but i won't tell him just how it happened."
so he sent a boy to great claus to borrow a bushel measure.
"what can he want with it?"
thought great claus, and he rubbed some tallow on the bottom so that some part of whatever was measured might stick to it.
and so it did, for when the measure came back, three new silver threepenny bits were sticking to it.
"what's this!"
said great claus, and he ran off at once to little claus.
"where on earth did you get all this money?"
he asked.
"oh, that's for my horse's skin.
i sold it yesterday morning."
"that was well paid for, indeed," said great claus.
he ran home, took an ax, and hit all his four horses on the head; then he flayed them and carried their skins off to the town.
"hides!
hides!
who'll buy my hides?"
he cried through the streets.
all the shoemakers and tanners in the town came running up and asked him how much he wanted for his hides.
"a bushel of money for each," said great claus.
"are you mad?"
they all said.
"do you think we have money by the bushel?"
"skins!
skins!
who'll buy them?"
he shouted again, and the shoemakers took up their straps, and the tanners their leather aprons, and began to beat great claus.
"hides!
hides!"
they called after him.
"yes, we'll hide you and tan you.
out of the town with him," they shouted.
and great claus made the best haste he could to get out of the town, for he had never yet been thrashed as he was being thrashed now.
"little claus shall pay for this," he said, when he got home.
"i'll kill him for it."
little claus's old grandmother had just died in his house.
she had often been harsh and unkind to him, but now that she was dead he felt quite grieved.
he took the dead woman and laid her in his warm bed to see if she would not come to life again.
he himself intended to sit in a corner all night.
he had slept that way before.
as he sat there in the night, the door opened and in came great claus with his ax.
he knew where little claus's bed stood, and he went straight to it and hit the dead grandmother a blow on the forehead, thinking it was little claus.
"just see if you'll make a fool of me again," said he, and then he went home.
"what a bad, wicked man he is!"
said little claus.
"he was going to kill me.
what a good thing that poor grandmother was dead already!
he would have taken her life."
he now dressed his grandmother in her best sunday clothes, borrowed a horse of his neighbor, harnessed it to a cart, and set his grandmother on the back seat, so that she could not fall when the cart moved.
then he started off through the woods.
when the sun rose, he was just outside a big inn, and he drew up his horse and went in to get something to eat.
the landlord was a very rich man and a very good man, but he was hot-tempered, as if he were made of pepper and snuff.
"good morning!"
said he to little claus; "you have your best clothes on very early this morning."
"yes," said little claus, "i'm going to town with my old grandmother.
she's sitting out there in the cart; i can't get her to come in.
won't you take her out a glass of beer?
you'll have to shout at her, she's very hard of hearing."
"yes, that i'll do," said the host, and he poured a glass and went out with it to the dead grandmother, who had been placed upright in the cart.
"here is a glass of beer your son has sent," said the landlord but she sat quite still and said not a word.
"don't you hear?"
cried he as loud as he could.
"here is a glass of beer from your son."
but the dead woman replied not a word, and at last he became quite angry and threw the beer in her face and at that moment she fell backwards out of the cart, for she was only set upright and not bound fast.
"now!"
shouted little claus, as he rushed out of the inn and seized the landlord by the neck, "you have killed my grandmother!
just look at the big hole in her forehead!"
"oh!
what a misfortune!"
cried the man, "and all because of my quick temper.
good little claus, i will pay you a bushel of money, and i will have your poor grandmother buried as if she were my own, if only you will say nothing about it.
otherwise i shall have my head cut off and that is so dreadful."
so little claus again received a whole bushel of money, and the landlord buried the old grandmother as if she had been his own.
when little claus got home again with all his money, he immediately sent his boy to great claus to ask to borrow his bushel measure.
"what!"
said great claus, "is he not dead?
i must go and see about this myself."
so he took the measure over to little claus himself.
"i say, where did you get all that money?"
asked he, his eyes big and round with amazement at what he saw.
"it was grandmother you killed instead of me," said little claus.
"i have sold her and got a bushel of money for her."
"that's being well paid, indeed," said great claus, and he hurried home, took an ax and killed his own old grandmother.
he then put her in a carriage and drove off to the town where the apothecary lived, and asked him if he would buy a dead person.
"who is it and where did you get him?"
asked the apothecary.
"it is my grandmother, and i have killed her so as to sell her for a bushel of money."
"heaven preserve us!"
cried the apothecary.
"you talk like a madman.
pray don't say such things, you may lose your head."
and he told him earnestly what a horribly wicked thing he had done, and that he deserved punishment.
great claus was so frightened that he rushed out of the shop, jumped into his cart, whipped up his horse, and galloped home through the wood.
the apothecary and all the people who saw him thought he was mad, and so they let him drive away.
"you shall be paid for this!"
said great claus, when he got out on the highroad.
"you shall be paid for this, little claus!"
directly after he got home, great claus took the biggest sack he could find and went over to little claus.
"you have deceived me again," he said.
"first i killed my horses, and then my old grandmother.
that is all your fault; but you shall never have the chance to trick me again."
and he seized little claus around the body and thrust him into the sack; then he threw the sack over his back, calling out to little claus, "now i'm going to the river to drown you."
it was a long way that he had to travel before he came to the river, and little claus was not light to carry.
the road came close to the church, and the people within were singing beautifully.
great claus put down his sack, with little claus in it, at the church door.
he thought it would be a very good thing to go in and hear a psalm before he went further, for little claus could not get out.
so he went in.
"o dear!
o dear!"
moaned little claus in the sack, and he turned and twisted, but found it impossible to loosen the cord.
then there came by an old drover with snow-white hair and a great staff in his hand.
he was driving a whole herd of cows and oxen before him, and they jostled against the sack in which little claus was confined, so that it was upset.
"o dear," again sighed little claus, "i'm so young to be going directly to the kingdom of heaven!"
"and i, poor fellow," said the drover, "am so old already, and cannot get there yet."
"open the sack," cried little claus, "and creep into it in my place, and you'll be there directly."
"with all my heart," said the drover, and he untied the sack for little claus, who crept out at once.
"you must look out for the cattle now,"
said the old man, as he crept in.
then little claus tied it up and went his way, driving the cows and the oxen.
in a little while great claus came out of the church.
he took the sack upon his shoulders and thought as he did so that it had certainly grown lighter since he had put it down, for the old cattle-drover was not more than half as heavy as little claus.
"how light he is to carry now!
that must be because i have heard a psalm in the church."
he went on to the river, which was both deep and broad, threw the sack containing the old drover into the water, and called after him, thinking it was little claus, "now lie there!
you won't trick me again!"
he turned to go home, but when he came to the place where there was a crossroad he met little claus driving his cattle.
"what's this?"
cried he.
"haven't i drowned you?"
"yes," said little claus, "you threw me into the river, half an hour ago."
"but where did you get all those fine cattle?"
asked great claus.
"these beasts are sea cattle," said little claus, "and i thank you heartily for drowning me, for now i'm at the top of the tree.
i'm a very rich man, i can tell you.
but i was frightened when you threw me into the water huddled up in the sack.
i sank to the bottom immediately, but i did not hurt myself, for the grass is beautifully soft down there.
i fell upon it, and the sack was opened, and the most beautiful maiden in snow-white garments and a green wreath upon her hair took me by the hand, and said to me, 'have you come, little claus?
here are cattle for you, and a mile further up the road there is another herd!'
"then i saw that she meant the river and that it was the highway for the sea folk.
down at the bottom of it they walk directly from the sea, straight into the land where the river ends.
lovely flowers and beautiful fresh grass were there.
the fishes which swam there glided about me like birds in the air.
how nice the people were, and what fine herds of cattle there were, pasturing on the mounds and about the ditches!"
"but why did you come up so quickly then?"
asked great claus.
"i shouldn't have done that if it was so fine down there."
"why, that was just my cunning.
you know, i told you that the mermaid said there was a whole herd of cattle for me a mile further up the stream.
well, you see, i know how the river bends this way and that, and how long a distance it would have been to go that way.
if you can come up on the land and take the short cuts, driving across fields and down to the river again, you save almost half a mile and get the cattle much sooner."
"oh, you are a fortunate man!"
cried great claus.
"do you think i could get some sea cattle if i were to go down to the bottom of the river?"
"i'm sure you would," said little claus.
"but i cannot carry you.
if you will walk to the river and creep into a sack yourself, i will help you into the water with a great deal of pleasure."
"thanks!"
said great claus.
"but if i do not find sea cattle there, i shall beat you soundly, you may be sure."
"oh!
do not be so hard on me."
and so they went together to the river.
when the cows and oxen saw the water, they ran to it as fast as they could.
"see how they hurry!"
cried little claus.
"they want to get back to the bottom again."
"yes, but help me first or i'll thrash you," said great claus.
he then crept into a big sack, which had been lying across the back of one of the cows.
"put a big stone in or i'm afraid i shan't sink."
"oh, that'll be all right," said little claus, but he put a big stone into the sack and gave it a push.
plump!
and there lay great claus in the river.
he sank at once to the bottom.
"i'm afraid he won't find the cattle," said little claus.
then he drove homeward with his herd.
merry stories and funny pictures
when the children have been good,     that is, be it understood,     good at meal-times, good at play,     good all night and good all day
they shall have the pretty things     merry christmas always brings.
naughty, romping girls and boys     tear their clothes and make a noise,     spoil their pinafores and frocks,     and deserve no christmas-box.
such as these shall never look     at this pretty picture-book.
shock-headed peter
just look at him!
there he stands,     with his nasty hair and hands.
see!
his nails are never cut;     they are grimed as black as soot;     and the sloven, i declare,     never once has combed his hair;     anything to me is sweeter     than to see shock-headed peter.
cruel frederick
here is cruel frederick, see!
a horrid wicked boy was he;     he caught the flies, poor little things,     and then tore off their tiny wings,     he killed the birds, and broke the chairs,     and threw the kitten down the stairs;     and oh!
far worse than all beside,     he whipped his mary, till she cried.
the trough was full, and faithful tray     came out to drink one sultry day;     he wagged his tail, and wet his lip,     when cruel fred snatched up a whip,     and whipped poor tray till he was sore,     and kicked and whipped him more and more:
at this, good tray grew very red,     and growled, and bit him till he bled;     then you should only have been by,     to see how fred did scream and cry!
so frederick had to go to bed:
his leg was very sore and red!
the doctor came, and shook his head,     and made a very great to-do,     and gave him nasty physic too.
but good dog tray is happy now;     he has no time to say "bow-wow!"
he seats himself in frederick's chair     and laughs to see the nice things there:
the soup he swallows, sup by sup
and eats the pies and puddings up.
the dreadful story of harriet and the matches
it almost makes me cry to tell     what foolish harriet befell.
mamma and nurse went out one day     and left her all alone at play.
now, on the table close at hand,     a box of matches chanced to stand;     and kind mamma and nurse had told her,     that, if she touched them, they would scold her.
but harriet said: "oh, what a pity!
for, when they burn, it is so pretty;     they crackle so, and spit, and flame:
mamma, too, often does the same."
the pussy-cats heard this,     and they began to hiss,     and stretch their claws,     and raise their paws;     "me-ow," they said, "me-ow, me-o,     you'll burn to death, if you do so."
but harriet would not take advice:
she lit a match, it was so nice!
it crackled so, it burned so clear
exactly like the picture here.
she jumped for joy and ran about     and was too pleased to put it out.
the pussy-cats saw this     and said: "oh, naughty, naughty miss!"
and stretched their claws,     and raised their paws:
"'tis very, very wrong, you know,     me-ow, me-o, me-ow, me-o,     you will be burnt, if you do so."
and see!
oh, what dreadful thing!
the fire has caught her apron-string;     her apron burns, her arms, her hair
she burns all over everywhere.
then how the pussy-cats did mew
what else, poor pussies, could they do?
they screamed for help, 'twas all in vain!
so then they said: "we'll scream again;     make haste, make haste, me-ow, me-o,     she'll burn to death; we told her so."
so she was burnt, with all her clothes,     and arms, and hands, and eyes, and nose;     till she had nothing more to lose     except her little scarlet shoes;     and nothing else but these was found     among her ashes on the ground.
and when the good cats sat beside     the smoking ashes, how they cried!
"me-ow, me-oo, me-ow, me-oo,     what will mamma and nursey do?"
their tears ran down their cheeks so fast,     they made a little pond at last.
the story of the inky boys
as he had often done before,     the woolly-headed black-a-moor     one nice fine summer's day went out     to see the shops, and walk about;     and, as he found it hot, poor fellow,     he took with him his green umbrella,     then edward, little noisy wag,     ran out and laughed, and waved his flag;     and william came in jacket trim,     and brought his wooden hoop with him;     and arthur, too, snatched up his toys     and joined the other naughty boys.
so, one and all set up a roar,     and laughed and hooted more and more,     and kept on singing, only think!
"oh, blacky, you're as black as ink!"
now tall agrippa lived close by
so tall, he almost touched the sky;     he had a mighty inkstand, too,     in which a great goose-feather grew;     he called out in an angry tone     "boys, leave the black-a-moor alone!
for, if he tries with all his might,     he cannot change from black to white."
but, ah!
they did not mind a bit     what great agrippa said of it;     but went on laughing, as before,     and hooting at the black-a-moor.
then great agrippa foams with rage
look at him on this very page!
he seizes arthur, seizes ned,     takes william by his little head;
and they may scream and kick and call,     into the ink he dips them all;     into the inkstand, one, two, three,     till they are black as black can be;     turn over now, and you shall see.
see, there they are, and there they run!
the black-a-moor enjoys the fun.
they have been made as black as crows,     quite black all over, eyes and nose,     and legs, and arms, and heads, and toes,     and trousers, pinafores, and toys
the silly little inky boys!
because they set up such a roar,     and teased the harmless black-a-moor.
the story of the man that went out shooting
this is the man that shoots the hares;     this is the coat he always wears:
with game-bag, powder-horn, and gun     he's going out to have some fun.
he finds it hard, without a pair     of spectacles, to shoot the hare.
the hare sits snug in leaves and grass,     and laughs to see the green man pass.
now, as the sun grew very hot,     and he a heavy gun had got,     he lay down underneath a tree     and went to sleep, as you may see.
and, while he slept like any top,     the little hare came, hop, hop, hop,     took gun and spectacles, and then     on her hind legs went off again.
the green man wakes and sees her place     the spectacles upon her face;     and now she's trying all she can     to shoot the sleepy, green-coat man.
he cries and screams and runs away;     the hare runs after him all day     and hears him call out everywhere:
"help!
fire!
help!
the hare!
the hare!"
at last he stumbled at the well,     head over ears, and in he fell.
the hare stopped short, took aim and, hark!
bang went the gun she missed her mark!
the poor man's wife was drinking up     her coffee in her coffee-cup;     the gun shot cup and saucer through;     "oh dear!"
cried she; "what shall i do?"
there lived close by the cottage there     the hare's own child, the little hare;     and while she stood upon her toes,     the coffee fell and burned her nose.
"oh dear!"
she cried, with spoon in hand,     "such fun i do not understand."
the story of little suck-a-thumb
one day mamma said "conrad dear,     i must go out and leave you here.
but mind now, conrad, what i say,     don't suck your thumb while i'm away.
the great tall tailor always comes     to little boys who suck their thumbs;     and ere they dream what he's about,     he takes his great sharp scissors out,     and cuts their thumbs clean off and then,     you know, they never grow again."
mamma had scarcely turned her back,     the thumb was in, alack!
alack!
the door flew open, in he ran,     the great, long, red-legged scissor-man.
oh!
children, see!
the tailor's come     and caught out little suck-a-thumb.
snip!
snap!
snip!
the scissors go;     and conrad cries out "oh!
oh!
oh!"
snip!
snap!
snip!
they go so fast,     that both his thumbs are off at last.
mamma comes home: there conrad stands,     and looks quite sad, and shows his hands;     "ah!"
said mamma, "i knew he'd come     to naughty little suck-a-thumb."
the story of augustus who would not have any soup
augustus was a chubby lad;     fat ruddy cheeks augustus had:
and everybody saw with joy     the plump and hearty, healthy boy.
he ate and drank as he was told,     and never let his soup get cold.
but one day, one cold winter's day,     he screamed out "take the soup away!
o take the nasty soup away!
i won't have any soup today."
next day, now look, the picture shows     how lank and lean augustus grows!
yet, though he feels so weak and ill,     the naughty fellow cries out still     "not any soup for me, i say:
o take the nasty soup away!
i won't have any soup today."
the third day comes: oh what a sin!
to make himself so pale and thin.
yet, when the soup is put on table,     he screams, as loud as he is able,     "not any soup for me, i say:
o take the nasty soup away!
i won't have any soup today."
look at him, now the fourth day's come!
he scarcely weighs a sugar-plum;     he's like a little bit of thread,     and, on the fifth day, he was dead!
the story of fidgety philip
"let me see if philip can     be a little gentleman;     let me see if he is able     to sit still for once at table":
thus papa bade phil behave;     and mamma looked very grave.
but fidgety phil,     he won't sit still;     he wriggles,     and giggles,     and then, i declare,     swings backwards and forwards,     and tilts up his chair,     just like any rocking horse
"philip!
i am getting cross!"
see the naughty, restless child     growing still more rude and wild,     till his chair falls over quite.
philip screams with all his might,     catches at the cloth, but then     that makes matters worse again.
down upon the ground they fall,     glasses, plates, knives, forks, and all.
how mamma did fret and frown,     when she saw them tumbling down!
and papa made such a face!
philip is in sad disgrace.
where is philip, where is he?
fairly covered up you see!
cloth and all are lying on him;     he has pulled down all upon him.
what a terrible to-do!
dishes, glasses, snapt in two!
here a knife, and there a fork!
philip, this is cruel work.
table all so bare, and ah!
poor papa, and poor mamma     look quite cross, and wonder how     they shall have their dinner now.
the story of johnny head-in-air
as he trudged along to school,     it was always johnny's rule     to be looking at the sky     and the clouds that floated by;     but what just before him lay,     in his way,     johnny never thought about;     so that every one cried out     "look at little johnny there,     little johnny head-in-air!"
running just in johnny's way     came a little dog one day;     johnny's eyes were still astray     up on high,     in the sky;     and he never heard them cry     "johnny, mind, the dog is nigh!"
bump!
dump!
down they fell, with such a thump,     dog and johnny in a lump!
once, with head as high as ever,     johnny walked beside the river.
johnny watched the swallows trying     which was cleverest at flying.
oh!
what fun!
johnny watched the bright round sun     going in and coming out;     this was all he thought about.
so he strode on, only think!
to the river's very brink,     where the bank was high and steep,     and the water very deep;     and the fishes, in a row,     stared to see him coming so.
one step more!
oh!
sad to tell!
headlong in poor johnny fell.
and the fishes, in dismay,     wagged their tails and swam away.
there lay johnny on his face,     with his nice red writing-case;     but, as they were passing by,     two strong men had heard him cry;     and, with sticks, these two strong men     hooked poor johnny out again.
oh!
you should have seen him shiver     when they pulled him from the river.
he was in a sorry plight!
dripping wet, and such a fright!
wet all over, everywhere,     clothes, and arms, and face, and hair:
johnny never will forget     what it is to be so wet.
and the fishes, one, two, three,     are come back again, you see;     up they came the moment after,     to enjoy the fun and laughter.
each popped out his little head,     and, to tease poor johnny, said     "silly little johnny, look,     you have lost your writing-book!"
the story of flying robert
when the rain comes tumbling down     in the country or the town,     all good little girls and boys     stay at home and mind their toys.
robert thought, "no, when it pours,     it is better out of doors."
rain it did, and in a minute     bob was in it.
here you see him, silly fellow,     underneath his red umbrella.
what a wind!
oh!
how it whistles     through the trees and flowers and thistles!
it has caught his red umbrella:
now look at him, silly fellow
up he flies     to the skies.
no one heard his screams and cries;     through the clouds the rude wind bore him,     and his hat flew on before him.
soon they got to such a height,     they were nearly out of sight.
and the hat went up so high,     that it nearly touched the sky.
no one ever yet could tell     where they stopped, or where they fell:
only this one thing is plain,     bob was never seen again!
childhood's favorites
and fairy stories
the three bears
little goldilocks was a pretty girl who lived once upon a time in a far-off country.
one day she was sitting on the hearthrug playing with her two kittens, and you would have thought she was as happy as a queen, and quite contented to stay where she was instead of wanting to run about the world meddling with other people's property.
but it happened that she was rather a mischievous little maid, and could not resist teasing her pets, so one of them scratched her, and then she would play with them no longer.
she got up and trotted away into the wood behind her mother's house, and it was such a warm, pleasant day that she wandered on and on until she came into a part of the wood where she had never been before.
now, in this wood there lived a family of three bears.
the first was a great big bear, the second was a middling-sized bear, and the third was a little teeny tiny bear, and they all lived together in a funny little house, and very happy they were.
goldilocks stopped when she came to the bears' house, and began to wonder who lived there.
"i'll just look in and see," she said, and so she did; but there was no one there, for the bears had all gone out for a morning walk, whilst the soup they were going to have for dinner cooled upon the table.
goldilocks was rather hungry after her walk, and the soup smelt so good that she began to wish the people of the house would come home and invite her to have some.
but although she looked everywhere, under the table and into the cupboards, she could find no one, and at last she could resist no longer, but made up her mind to take just a little sip to see how the soup tasted.
the soup had been put into three bowls a great big bowl for the great big bear, a middling-sized bowl for the middling-sized bear, and a teeny tiny bowl for the teeny tiny bear; beside each bowl lay a spoon, and goldilocks took one and helped herself to a spoonful of soup from the great big bowl.
ugh!
how it burnt her mouth; it was so hot with pepper that she did not like it at all; still, she was very hungry, so she thought she would try again.
this time she took a sip of the middling-sized bear's soup, but she liked that no better, for it was too salt.
but when she tasted the teeny tiny bear's soup it was just as she liked it; so she ate it up every drop, without thinking twice about it.
when she had finished her dinner she noticed three chairs standing by the wall.
one was a great big chair, and she climbed upon that and sat down.
oh, dear!
how hard it was!
she was sure she could not sit there for long, so she climbed up on the next, which was only a middling-sized chair, but that was too soft for her taste; so she went on to the last, which was a teeny tiny chair and suited her exactly.
it was so comfortable that she sat on and on until, if you'll believe it, she actually sat the bottom out.
then, of course, she was comfortable no longer, so she got up and began to wonder what she should do next.
there was a staircase in the bears' house, and goldilocks thought she would go up it and see where it led to.
so up she went, and when she reached the top she laughed outright, for the bears' bedroom was the funniest she had ever seen.
in the middle of the room stood a great big bed, on one side of it there was a middling-sized bed, and on the other side there was a teeny tiny bed.
goldilocks was sleepy, so she thought she would lie down and have a little nap.
first she got upon the great big bed, but it was just as hard as the great big chair had been; so she jumped off and tried the middling-sized bed, but it was so soft that she sank right down into the feather cushions and was nearly smothered.
"i will try the teeny tiny bed," she said, and so she did, and it was so comfortable that she soon fell fast asleep.
whilst she lay there, dreaming of all sorts of pleasant things, the three bears came home from their walk very hungry and quite ready for their dinners.
but, oh!
dear me!
how cross the great big bear looked when he saw his spoon had been used and thrown under the table.
"who has been tasting my soup?"
he cried, in a great big voice.
"and who has been tasting mine?"
cried the middling-sized bear, in a middling-sized voice.
"but who has been tasting mine and tasted it all up?"
cried the poor little teeny tiny bear in a teeny tiny voice, with the tears running down his teeny tiny face.
when the great big bear went to sit down in his great big chair, he cried out in his great big voice:
"who has been sitting on my chair?"
and the middling-sized bear cried, in a middling-sized voice:
"who has been sitting on my chair?"
but the teeny tiny bear cried out in a teeny tiny voice of anger:
"who has been sitting on my chair, and sat the bottom out?"
by this time the bears were sure that someone had been in their house quite lately; so they looked about to see if someone were not there still.
there was certainly no one downstairs, so they went up the staircase to their bedroom.
as soon as the great big bear looked at his bed, he cried out, in his great big voice:
"who has been lying on my bed?"
and the middling-sized bear, seeing that the coverlet was all rumpled, cried out, in a middling-sized voice:
"who has been lying on my bed?"
but the teeny tiny bear cried out, in a teeny tiny voice of astonishment:
"who has been lying on my bed and lies there still?"
now, when the great big bear began to speak, goldilocks dreamt that there was a bee buzzing in the room, and when the middling-sized bear began to speak, she dreamt that it was flying out of the window; but when the teeny tiny bear began to speak, she dreamt that the bee had come back and stung her on the ear, and up she jumped.
oh!
how frightened she was when she saw the three bears standing beside her.
she hopped out of bed and in a second was out through the open window.
never stopping to wonder if the fall had hurt her, she got up and ran and ran and ran until she could go no farther, always thinking that the bears were close behind her.
and when at length she fell down in a heap on the ground, because she was too tired to run any more, it was her own mother who picked her up, because in her fright she had run straight home without knowing it.
cinderella
once upon a time there lived a noble gentleman who had one dear little daughter.
poor child!
her own kind mother was dead, and her father, who loved her very dearly, was afraid that his little girl was sometimes lonely.
so he married a grand lady who had two daughters of her own, and who, he thought, would be kind and good to his little one.
but no sooner did the stepmother enter her new home than she began to show her true character.
her stepdaughter was so much prettier and sweeter than her own children, that she was jealous of her, and gave her all the hard work of the house to do, whilst the two proud sisters spent their time at pleasant parties and entertainments.
the only pleasure the poor child had was to spend her evenings sitting in the chimney-corner, resting her weary limbs, and for this reason her sisters mockingly nicknamed her "cinderella."
the sisters' fine clothes made cinderella feel very shabby; but, in her little torn frock and ragged shoes, she was a thousand times more lovely than they.
now, it chanced that the king's son gave a grand ball, to which he invited all the lords and ladies in the country, and, amongst the rest, cinderella's two sisters were asked.
how pleased and excited they were when the invitation arrived!
for days they could talk of nothing but the clothes they should wear and the grand folk they hoped to meet.
when at last the great day arrived, cinderella was kept running about from early till late, decking the sisters, and dressing their hair.
"don't you wish you were going to the ball?"
said one of them.
"indeed i do," sighed the poor little maid.
the sisters burst out laughing.
"a pretty spectacle you would be," they said rudely.
"go back to your cinders they are fit company for rags."
then, stepping carefully into their carriage so that they might not crush their fine clothes, they drove away to the ball.
cinderella went back to her chimney-corner, and tried not to feel envious, but the tears would gather in the pretty eyes, and trickle down the sorrowful little face.
"what are you crying for, child?"
cried a silvery voice.
cinderella started, and raised her eyes.
who could it be?
then in a moment she knew it was her fairy godmother!
"i do so want  " began cinderella; then her sobs stopped her.
"to go to the ball," finished the godmother.
cinderella nodded.
"well, leave off crying be a good girl, and you shall go.
run quickly into the garden, and bring the largest pumpkin you can find."
cinderella could not imagine how a pumpkin could help her to go to the ball, but her only thought was to obey her godmother.
in a few moments she was back again, with a splendid pumpkin.
her godmother scooped out the inside one touch of the wand, and the pumpkin was a golden coach, lined with white satin.
"now, godchild, quick the mouse-trap from the pantry!"
"here it is, godmother," said cinderella breathlessly.
one by one six fat sleek mice passed through the trap door.
as each appeared, a touch of the wand transformed it into a cream-colored horse, fit for a queen.
"now, cinderella, can you find a coachman?"
"there is a large gray rat in the rat-trap would he do, godmother?"
"run and fetch him, child, and then i can judge," so cinderella ran to fetch the rat, and her godmother said he was just made for a coachman; and i think you would have agreed with her had you seen him a moment later, with his powdered wig and silk stockings.
six lizards from behind the pumpkin-frame became six footmen in splendid liveries you would have thought they had been footmen all their lives.
cinderella was so excited that she could scarcely speak.
"oh!
godmother," she cried, "it is all so lovely!"
then suddenly she thought of her shabby frock.
"there is my white muslin," she said wistfully, "if do you think  "
but before cinderella could realize what was happening, her godmother's wand tapped her lightly on the shoulder, and in place of the shabby frock, there was a gleam of satin, silver, and pearls.
ah!
who can describe a robe made by the fairies?
it was white as snow, and as dazzling; round the hem hung a fringe of diamonds, sparkling like dew-drops in the sunshine.
the lace about the throat and arms could only have been spun by fairy spiders.
surely it was a dream!
cinderella put her daintily-gloved hand to her throat, and softly touched the pearls that encircled her neck.
"come, child," said the godmother, "or you will be late."
as cinderella moved, the firelight shone upon her dainty shoes.
"they are of diamonds," she said.
"no," answered her godmother, smiling; "they are better than that they are of glass, made by the fairies.
and now, child, go, and enjoy yourself to your heart's content.
only remember, if you stay at the palace one instant after midnight, your coach and servants will vanish, and you will be the little gray cinderella once more!"
a few moments later, the coach dashed into the royal courtyard, the door was flung open, and cinderella alighted.
as she walked slowly up the richly-carpeted staircase, there was a murmur of admiration, and the king's son hastened to meet her.
"never," said he to himself, "have i seen anyone so lovely!"
he led her into the ball-room, where the king, who was much taken with her sweet face and pretty, modest manners, whispered to the queen that she must surely be a foreign princess.
the evening passed away in a dream of delight, cinderella dancing with no one but the handsome young prince, and being waited on by his own hands at supper-time.
the two sisters could not recognize their ragged little sister in the beautiful and graceful lady to whom the prince paid so much attention, and felt quite pleased and flattered when she addressed a few words to them.
presently a clock chimed the three quarters past eleven, and, remembering her godmother's warning, cinderella at once took leave of the prince, and, jumping into her coach, was driven rapidly home.
here she found her godmother waiting to hear all about the ball.
"it was lovely," said cinderella; "and oh!
godmother, there is to be another to-morrow night, and i should so much like to go to it!"
"then you shall," replied the kind fairy, and, kissing her godchild tenderly, she vanished.
when the sisters returned from the ball, they found a sleepy little maiden sitting in the chimney-corner, waiting for them.
"how late you are!"
cried cinderella, yawning.
"are you not very tired?"
"not in the least," they answered, and then they told her what a delightful ball it had been, and how the loveliest princess in the world had been there, and had spoken to them, and admired their pretty dresses.
"who was she?"
asked cinderella slyly.
"that we cannot say," answered the sisters.
"she would not tell her name, though the prince begged her to do so on bended knee."
"dear sister," said cinderella, "i, too, should like to see the beautiful princess.
will you not lend me your old yellow gown, that i may go to the ball to-morrow with you?"
"what!"
cried her sister angrily; "lend one of my dresses to a little cinder-maid?
don't talk nonsense, child!"
the next night, the sisters were more particular than ever about their attire, but at last they were dressed, and as soon as their carriage had driven away, the godmother appeared.
once more she touched her godchild with her wand, and in a moment she was arrayed in a beautiful dress that seemed as though it had been woven of moon-beams and sunshine, so radiantly did it gleam and shimmer.
she put her arms round her godmother's neck and kissed and thanked her.
"goodbye, childie; enjoy yourself, but whatever you do, remember to leave the ball before the clock strikes twelve," the godmother said, and cinderella promised.
but the hours flew by so happily and so swiftly that cinderella forgot her promise, until she happened to look at a clock and saw that it was on the stroke of twelve.
with a cry of alarm she fled from the room, dropping, in her haste, one of the little glass slippers; but, with the sound of the clock strokes in her ears, she dared not wait to pick it up.
the prince hurried after her in alarm, but when he reached the entrance hall, the beautiful princess had vanished, and there was no one to be seen but a forlorn little beggar-maid creeping away into the darkness.
poor little cinderella!
she hurried home through the dark streets, weary, and overwhelmed with shame.
the fire was out when she reached her home, and there was no godmother waiting to receive her; but she sat down in the chimney-corner to wait her sisters' return.
when they came in they could speak of nothing but the wonderful things that had happened at the ball.
the beautiful princess had been there again, they said, but had disappeared just as the clock struck twelve, and though the prince had searched everywhere for her, he had been unable to find her.
"he was quite beside himself with grief," said the elder sister, "for there is no doubt he hoped to make her his bride."
cinderella listened in silence to all they had to say, and, slipping her hand into her pocket, felt that the one remaining glass slipper was safe, for it was the only thing of all her grand apparel that remained to her.
on the following morning there was a great noise of trumpets and drums, and a procession passed through the town, at the head of which rode the king's son.
behind him came a herald, bearing a velvet cushion, upon which rested a little glass slipper.
the herald blew a blast upon the trumpet, and then read a proclamation saying that the king's son would wed any lady in the land who could fit the slipper upon her foot, if she could produce another to match it.
of course, the sisters tried to squeeze their feet into the slipper, but it was of no use they were much too large.
then cinderella shyly begged that she might try.
how the sisters laughed with scorn when the prince knelt to fit the slipper on the cinder-maid's foot; but what was their surprise when it slipped on with the greatest ease, and the next moment cinderella produced the other from her pocket.
once more she stood in the slippers, and once more the sisters saw before them the lovely princess who was to be the prince's bride.
for at the touch of the magic shoes, the little gray frock disappeared for ever, and in place of it she wore the beautiful robe the fairy godmother had given to her.
the sisters hung their heads with sorrow and vexation; but kind little cinderella put her arms round their necks, kissed them, and forgave them for all their unkindness, so that they could not help but love her.
the prince could not bear to part from his little love again, so he carried her back to the palace in his grand coach, and they were married that very day.
cinderella's stepsisters were present at the feast, but in the place of honor sat the fairy godmother.
so the poor little cinder-maid married the prince, and in time they came to be king and queen, and lived happily ever after.
the three brothers
there was once a man who had three sons, but no fortune except the house he lived in.
now, each of them wanted to have the house after his death; but their father was just as fond of one as of the other, and did not know how to treat them all fairly.
he did not want to sell the house, because it had belonged to his forefathers, or he might have divided the money between them.
at last an idea came into his head, and he said to his sons: "go out into the world, and each learn a trade, and when you come home, the one who makes best use of his handicraft shall have the house."
the sons were quite content with this plan, and the eldest decided to be a farrier, the second a barber, and the third a fencing master.
they fixed a time when they would all meet at home again, and then they set off.
it so happened that they each found a clever master with whom they learned their business thoroughly.
the farrier shod the king's horses, and he thought, "i shall certainly be the one to have the house."
the barber shaved nobody but grand gentlemen, so he thought it would fall to him.
the fencing master got many blows, but he set his teeth, and would not let himself be put out, because he thought, "if i am afraid of a blow, i shall never get the house."
now, when the given time had passed, they all went home together to their father; but they did not know how to get a good opportunity of showing off their powers, and sat down to discuss the matter.
suddenly a hare came running over the field.
"ah!"
cried the barber, "she comes just in the nick of time."
he took up his bowl and his soap, and got his lather by the time the hare came quite close, then he soaped her and shaved her as she raced along, without giving her a cut or missing a single hair.
his father, astonished, said: "if the others don't look out, the house will be yours."
before long a gentleman came along in his carriage at full gallop.
"now, father, you shall see what i can do," said the farrier and he ran after the carriage and tore the four shoes off the horse as he galloped along, then, without stopping a second, shod him with new ones.
"you are a fine fellow, indeed," said his father.
"you know your business as well as your brother.
i don't know which i shall give the house to at this rate."
then the third one said: "let me have a chance, too, father."
as it was beginning to rain, he drew his sword and swirled it round and round his head, so that not a drop fell on him.
even when the rain grew heavier, so heavy that it seemed as if it were being poured from the sky out of buckets, he swung the sword faster and faster, and remained as dry as if he had been under a roof.
his father was amazed, and said: "you have done the best; the house is yours."
both the other brothers were quite satisfied with this decision, and as they were all so devoted to one another, they lived together in the house, and carried on their trades, by which they made plenty of money, since they were so perfect in them.
they lived happily together to a good old age, and when one fell ill and died, the others grieved so much over him that they pined away and soon after departed this life.
then, as they had been so fond of one another, they were all buried in one grave.
the wren and the bear
one summer's day the bear and the wolf were walking in the forest, and the bear heard a bird singing very sweetly, and said: "brother wolf, what kind of bird is that which is singing so delightfully?"
"that is the king of the birds, before whom we must do reverence,"
replied the wolf; but it was only the wren.
"if that be so," said the bear, "i should like to see his royal palace; come, lead me to it."
"that cannot be as you like," replied the wolf.
"you must wait till the queen returns."
soon afterward the queen arrived with some food in her bill, and the king, too, to feed their young ones, and the bear would have gone off to see them, but the wolf, pulling his ear, said: "no, you must wait till the queen and the king are both off again."
so, after observing well the situation of the nest, the two tramped off, but the bear had no rest, for he wished still to see the royal palace, and after a short delay he set off to it again.
he found the king and queen absent, and, peeping into the nest, he saw five or six young birds lying in it.
"is this the royal palace?"
exclaimed the bear; "this miserable place!
you are no king's children, but wretched young vagabonds."
"no, no, that we are not!"
burst out the little wrens together in a great passion, for to them this speech was addressed.
"no, no, we are born of honorable parents, and you, mr.
bear, shall make your words good!"
at this speech the bear and the wolf were much frightened, and ran back to their holes; but the little wrens kept up an unceasing, clamor till their parents' return.
as soon as they came back with food in their mouths the little birds began, "we will none of us touch a fly's leg, but will starve rather, until you decide whether we are fine and handsome children or not, for the bear has been here and insulted us!"
"be quiet," replied the king, "and that shall soon be settled."
and thereupon he flew with his queen to the residence of the bear, and called to him from the entrance, "old grumbler, why have you insulted my children?
that shall cost you dear, for we will decide the matter by a pitched battle."
war having thus been declared against the bear, all the four-footed beasts were summoned: the ox, the ass, the cow, the goat, the stag, and every animal on the face of the earth.
the wren, on the other hand, summoned every flying thing; not only the birds, great and small, but also the gnat, the hornet, the bee, and the flies.
when the time arrived for the commencement of the war, the wren king sent out spies to see who was appointed commander-in-chief of the enemy.
the gnat was the most cunning of all the army, and he, therefore, buzzed away into the forest where the enemy was encamped, and alighted on a leaf of the tree beneath which the watchword was given out.
there stood the bear and called the fox to him, and said:
"you are the most crafty of animals, so you must be general, and lead us on."
"well," said the fox, "but what sign shall we appoint?"
nobody answered.
then the fox said: "i have a fine long bushy tail, which looks like a red feather at a distance; if i hold this tail straight up, all is going well and you must march after me; but if i suffer it to hang down, run away as fast as you can."
as soon as the gnat heard all this she flew home and told the wren king everything to a hair.
when the day arrived for the battle to begin, the four-footed beasts all came running along to the field, shaking the earth with their roaring and bellowing.
the wren king also came with his army, whirring and buzzing and humming enough to terrify any one out of his senses.
then the wren king sent the hornet forward to settle upon the fox's tail and sting it with all his power.
as soon as the fox felt the first sting he drew up his hind leg with the pain, still carrying, however, his tail as high in the air as before; at the second sting he was obliged to drop it a little bit; but at the third he could no longer bear the pain, but was forced to drop his tail between his legs.
as soon as the other beasts saw this, they thought all was lost, and began to run each one to his own hole; so the birds won the battle without difficulty.
when all was over the wren king and his queen flew home to their children, and cried out: "rejoice!
rejoice!
we have won the battle; now eat and drink as much as you please."
the young wrens, however, said: "still we will not eat till the bear has come to our nest and begged pardon, and admitted that we are fine and handsome children."
so the wren king flew back to the cave of the bear, and called out, "old grumbler, you must come to the nest and beg pardon of my children for calling them wretched young brats, else your ribs shall be crushed in your body!"
in great terror the bear crept out and begged pardon; and afterward the young wrens, being now made happy in their minds, settled down to eating and drinking, and i am afraid they were over-excited and kept up their merriment far too late.
chicken-licken
as chicken-licken was going one day to the wood, whack!
an acorn fell from a tree on to his head.
"gracious goodness me!"
said chicken-licken, "the sky must have fallen; i must go and tell the king."
so chicken-licken turned back, and met hen-len.
"well, hen-len, where are you going?"
said he.
"i'm going to the wood," said she.
"oh, hen-len, don't go!"
said he, "for as i was going the sky fell on to my head, and i'm going to tell the king."
so hen-len turned back with chicken-licken, and met cock-lock.
"i'm going to the wood," said he.
then hen-len said: "oh cock-lock, don't go, for i was going, and i met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so cock-lock turned back, and they met duck-luck.
"well, duck-luck, where are you going?"
and duck-luck said: "i'm going to the wood."
then cock-lock said: "oh!
duck-luck, don't go, for i was going, and i met hen-len, and hen-len met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so duck-luck turned back, and met drake-lake.
"well, drake-lake, where are you going?"
and drake-lake said: "i'm going to the wood."
then duck-luck said: "oh!
drake-lake, don't go, for i was going, and i met cock-lock, and cock-lock met hen-len, and hen-len met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so drake-lake turned back, and met goose-loose.
"well, goose-loose, where are you going?"
and goose-loose said: "i'm going to the wood."
then drake-lake said: "oh, goose-loose, don't go, for i was going, and i met duck-luck, and duck-luck met cock-lock, and cock-lock met hen-len, and hen-len met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so goose-loose turned back, and met gander-lander.
"well, gander-lander, where are you going?"
and gander-lander said: "i'm going to the wood."
then goose-loose said: "oh!
gander-lander, don't go, for i was going, and i met drake-lake, and drake-lake met duck-luck, and duck-luck met cock-lock, and cock-lock met hen-len, and hen-len met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so gander-lander turned back, and met turkey-lurkey.
"well, turkey-lurkey, where are you going?"
and turkey-lurkey said: "i'm going to the wood."
then gander-lander said: "oh!
turkey-lurkey, don't go, for i was going, and i met goose-loose, and goose-loose met drake-lake, and drake-lake met duck-luck, and duck-luck met cock-lock, and cock-lock met hen-len, and hen-len met chicken-licken, and chicken-licken had been at the wood, and the sky had fallen on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
so turkey-lurkey turned back, and walked with gander-lander, goose-loose, drake-lake, duck-luck, cock-lock, hen-len, and chicken-licken.
and as they were going along, they met fox-lox.
and fox-lox said:
"where are you going?"
and they said: "chicken-licken went to the wood, and the sky fell on to his head, and we are going to tell the king."
and fox-lox said: "come along with me, and i will show you the way."
but fox-lox took them into the fox's hole, and he and his young ones soon ate up poor chicken-licken, hen-len, cock-lock, duck-luck, drake-lake, goose-loose, gander-lander, and turkey-lurkey; and they never saw the king to tell him that the sky had fallen.
the fox and the cat
it happened once that the cat met mr. fox in the wood, and because she thought he was clever and experienced in all the ways of the world, she addressed him in a friendly manner.
"good-morning, dear mr. fox!
how are you, and how do you get along in these hard times?"
the fox, full of pride, looked at the cat from head to foot for some time, hardly knowing whether he would deign to answer or not.
at last he said:
"oh, you poor whisker-wiper, you silly piebald, you starveling mouse-hunter!
what has come into your head?
how dare you ask me how i am getting on?
what sort of education have you had?
how many arts are you master of?"
"only one," said the cat meekly.
"and what might that one be?"
asked the fox.
"when the dogs run after me, i can jump into a tree and save myself."
"is that all?"
said the fox.
"i am master of a hundred arts, and i have a sackful of cunning tricks in addition.
but i pity you.
come with me, and i will teach you how to escape from the dogs."
just then a huntsman came along with four hounds.
the cat sprang trembling into a tree, and crept stealthily up to the topmost branch, where she was entirely hidden by twigs and leaves.
"open your sack, mr. fox!
open your sack!"
cried the cat, but the dogs had gripped him, and held him fast.
"oh, mr.
fox!"
cried the cat, "you with your hundred arts, and your sackful of tricks, are held fast, while i, with my one, am safe.
had you been able to creep up here, you would not have lost you life."
the rats and their son-in-law
there once lived in japan a rat and his wife, folk of noble race, who had one beautiful daughter.
they were exceedingly proud of her charms, and dreamed, as parents will, of the grand marriage she was sure to make in time.
proud of his pure rodent blood, the father saw no son-in-law more to be desired than a young rat of ancient lineage, whose attentions to his daughter were very marked.
this match, however, brilliant as it was, seemed not to the mother's taste.
like many people who think themselves made out of special clay, she had a very poor opinion of her own kind, and was ambitious for an alliance with the highest circles.
to the stars!
was her motto, she always said, and really, when one has a daughter of incomparable beauty, one may well hope for an equally incomparable son-in-law.
"address yourself to the sun at once, then," cried the impatient father one day; "there is nothing above him, surely."
"quite so; i had already thought of it," she answered, "and since you, too, are in sympathy with the idea, we will make our call to-morrow."
so, on the following morning the proud father and the haughty mother-rat went together to present their lovely daughter to the orb of day.
"lord sun," said the mother, "let me present our only daughter, who is so beautiful that there is nothing like her in the whole world.
naturally we desire a son-in-law as wonderful as she, and, as you see, we have come to you first of all."
"really," said the sun, "i am extremely flattered by your proposal, but you do me too much honor; there is some one greater than i; it is the cloud.
look, if you do not believe."...
and at that moment the cloud arrived, and with one waft of his folds extinguished the sun with all his golden rays.
"very well; let us speak to the cloud, then," said the mother-rat, not in the least disconcerted.
"immensely honored, i am sure," replied the cloud in his turn, "but you are again mistaken; there is some one greater than i; it is the wind.
you shall see."
at the same moment along came the wind, and with one blow swept the cloud out of sight, after which, overturning father, mother, and daughter, he tumbled with them, pell-mell, at the foot of an old wall.
"quick, quick," cried the mother-rat, struggling to her feet, "and let us repeat our compliments to the wind."
"you'd better address yourself to the wall," growled the wind roughly.
"you see very well he is greater than i, for he stops me and makes me draw back."
no sooner had she heard these words than mother-rat faced about and presented her daughter to the wall.
ah, but now the fair rat-maiden imitated the wind; she drew back also.
he whom she really adored in her heart of hearts was the fascinating young rat who had paid his court to her so well.
however, to please her mother, she had consented to wed the sun, in spite of his blinding rays, or the cloud, in spite of his sulky look, even the wind, in spite of his brusque manner; but an old, broken wall!...
no!
death would be better a thousand times.
fortunately the wall excused himself, like all the rest.
"certainly,"
he said, "i can stop the wind, who can sweep away the cloud, who can cover up the sun, but there is some one greater than i: it is the rat, who can pass through my body, and can even, if he chooses, reduce me to powder with his teeth.
believe me, you need seek no better son-in-law; greater than the rat, there is nothing in the world."
"do you hear that, wife, do you hear it?"
cried father-rat in triumph.
"didn't i always say so?"
"quite true!
you always did," returned the mother-rat in wonder, and suddenly glowed with pride in her ancient name and lineage.
so they all three went home, very happy and contented, and on the morrow the lovely rat-maiden married her faithful rat-lover.
the mouse and the sausage
once upon a time a little mouse and a little sausage, who loved each other like sisters, decided to live together, and made their arrangements in such a way that every day one would go to walk in the fields, or make purchases in town, while the other remained at home to keep the house.
one day, when the little sausage had prepared cabbage for dinner, the little mouse, who had come back from town with a fine appetite, enjoyed it so greatly that she exclaimed: "how delicious the cabbage is to-day, my dear!"
"ah!"
answered the little sausage, "that is because i popped myself into the pot while it was cooking."
on the next day, as it was her turn to prepare the meals, the little mouse said to herself: "now i will do as much for my friend as she did for me; we will have lentils for dinner, and i will jump into the pot while they are boiling," and she let the action follow the word, without reflecting that a simple sausage can do some things which are out of the reach of even the wisest mouse.
when the sausage came home, she found the house lonely and silent.
she called again and again, "my little mouse!
mouse of my heart!"
but no one answered.
then she went to look at the lentils boiling on the stove, and, alas!
found within the pot her good little friend, who had perished at the post of duty.
poor mousie, with the best intentions in the world, had stayed too long at her cookery, and when she desired to climb out of the pot, had no longer the strength to do so.
and the poor sausage could never be consoled!
that is why to-day, when you put one in the pan or on the gridiron, you will hear her weep and sigh, "m-my p-poor m-mouse!
ah, m-my p-poor m-mouse!"
johnny and the golden goose
there was once a man who had three sons.
johnny, the youngest, was always looked upon as the simpleton of the family, and had very little consideration or kindness shown him.
it happened one day that the eldest son was going out into the wood to cut fuel; and before he started, his mother gave him a slice of rich plum-cake and a flask of wine, so that he might not suffer from hunger or thirst.
just as he reached the wood, he met a queer old man, dressed in gray, who wished him "good day," and begged for a piece of the young man's cake and a drink of wine.
but the greedy youth replied: "if i were to give you cake and wine, i should not have enough left for myself; so be off with you, and leave me in peace."
then he pushed the little man rudely on one side and went his way.
he soon came to a likely-looking tree, and began to hew it down, but he made a false stroke, and instead of striking the tree he buried his axe in his own arm, and was obliged to hurry home as fast as he could to have the wound dressed.
and this was what came of offending the little gray man!
the following day the second son set out to the wood, and his mother treated him just as she had done her eldest son gave him a slice of cake and a flask of wine, in case he should feel hungry.
the little gray man met him at the entrance to the wood, and begged for a share of his food, but the young man answered:
"the more i give to you, the less i have for myself.
be off with you."
then he left the little gray man standing in the road, and went on his way.
but it was not long before he, too, was punished; for the first stroke he aimed at a tree glanced aside and wounded his leg, so that he was obliged to be carried home.
then said the simpleton: "father, let me go to the wood for once.
i will bring you home plenty of fuel."
"nonsense," answered the father.
"both your brothers have got into trouble, and it is not likely that i am going to trust you."
but johnny would not give up the idea, and worried his father, till at last he said:
"very well, my son, have your own way.
you shall learn by experience that i know better than you."
there was no rich cake for the simpleton of the family.
his mother just gave him a little loaf of dough and a bottle of sour beer.
no sooner did he reach the wood than the little gray man appeared.
"give me a piece of your cake and a drink of your wine?"
said he.
but the young man told him he had only a dough loaf and a bottle of sour beer.
"still," said he, "you are welcome to a share of the food, such as it is."
so the two sat down together; but when johnny took his humble fare from his pocket, what was his surprise to find it changed into the most delicious cake and wine.
then the young man and his guest made a hearty meal, and when it was ended the little gray man said:
"because you have such a kind heart, and have willingly shared your food with me, i am going to reward you.
yonder stands an old tree: hew it down, and deep in the heart of the roots you will find something."
the old man then nodded kindly, and disappeared in a moment.
johnny at once did as he had been told, and as soon as the tree fell he saw, sitting in the midst of the roots, a goose with feathers of purest gold.
he lifted it carefully out, and carried it with him to the inn, where he meant to spend the night.
now, the landlord had three daughters, and no sooner did they see the goose than they wanted to know what curious kind of bird it might be, for never before had they seen a fowl of any kind with feathers of pure gold.
the eldest made up her mind to wait for a good opportunity and then pluck a feather for herself.
so as soon as johnny went out of the room she put out her hand and seized the wing of the goose, but what was her horror to find that she could not unclasp her fingers again, nor even move her hand from the golden goose!
very soon the second sister came creeping into the room, meaning also to steal a feather; but no sooner did she touch her sister than she, too, was unable to draw her hand away.
lastly came the third, anxious to secure a feather before the goose's master returned.
"go away!
go away!"
screamed her two sisters, but she could not understand why she should not help herself as well as the others.
so she paid no heed to their cries, but came toward them and stretched out her hand to the goose.
in doing so she touched her second sister, and then, alas!
she too, was held fast.
they pulled and tugged with might and main, but it was all of no use; they could not get away, and there they had to remain the whole night.
the next morning johnny tucked the goose under his arm, and went on his way, never troubling himself about the three girls hanging on behind.
then what a dance he led them: over hedges and ditches, highways and byways!
wherever he led they were bound to follow.
half way across a sunny meadow, they met the parson, who was terribly shocked to see the three girls running after a young man.
"for shame!"
he cried angrily, and seized the youngest by the hand to drag her away.
but no sooner did he touch her than the poor parson was made fast too, and had to run behind the girls, whether he would or no.
they had scarcely gone half a dozen paces before they met the sexton, who stared with astonishment to see his master running at the heels of the three girls.
"hi!
stop, your reverence," he cried.
"you will be late for the christening."
he seized the parson's sleeve as he ran past him, but the poor sexton had to join the procession too.
so now there were five of them, and just as they turned a corner the parson saw two peasants, and called to them to set him and his sexton free.
they threw down their spades at once and tried to do so, but they too, stuck fast, and so johnny had a fine string of seven folk hanging on to the wing of his golden goose.
on and on they ran, until at length they came into the country of a powerful king.
this king had an only daughter, who all her life had been so sad that no one had ever been able to make her laugh.
so the king made a decree that the man who could bring a smile to his daughter's face should have her for his bride.
when johnny heard what the king had promised, he at once made his way into the princess's presence, and when she saw the goose, with the seven queer-looking companions hanging on behind, she burst into such a hearty fit of laughter that it was thought she would never be able to stop again.
of course, the simpleton claimed her as his bride, but the king did not fancy him for a son-in-law, so he made all sorts of excuses.
"you shall have her," said he, "if you can first bring me a man who can drink up a whole cellarful of wine."
johnny at once remembered the little gray man, and, feeling sure that he would help him, he set out for the wood where he had first met him.
when he reached the stump of the old tree which he had himself hewn down, he noticed a man sitting beside it, with a face as gloomy as a rainy day.
johnny asked politely what ailed him, and the man answered:
"i suffer from a thirst i cannot quench.
cold water disagrees with me, and though i have, it is true, emptied a barrel of wine, it was no more to me than a single drop of water upon a hot stone."
you can think how pleased johnny was to hear these words.
he took the man to the king's cellar, where he seated himself before the huge barrels, and drank and drank till, at the end of the day, not a drop of wine was left.
then johnny claimed his bride, but the king could not make up his mind to give his daughter to "a ne'er-do-weel" who went by such a name as "simpleton."
so he made fresh excuses, and said that he would not give her up until the young man had found someone who could eat up a mountain of bread in a single day.
so the young man had no choice but to set out once more for the wood.
and again he found a man sitting beside the stump of the tree.
he was very sad and hungry-looking, and sat tightening the belt round his waist.
"i have eaten a whole ovenful of bread," he said sadly, "but when one is as hungry as i am, such a meal only serves to make one more hungry still.
i am so empty that if i did not tighten my belt i should die of hunger."
"you are the man for me!"
said johnny.
"follow me, and i will give you a meal that will satisfy even your hunger."
he led the man into the courtyard of the king's palace, where all the meal in the kingdom had been collected together and mixed into an enormous mountain of bread.
the man from the wood placed himself in front of it and began to eat, and before the day was over the mountain of bread had vanished.
a third time the simpleton demanded his bride, but again the king found an excuse.
"first bring me a ship that can sail both on land and sea, and then you shall wed the princess," he said.
johnny went straightway to the wood, where he met the little gray man with whom he had once shared his food.
"good day," he said, nodding his wise little head.
"so you've come to visit me again, eh?
it was i, you know, who drank the wine and ate the bread for you, and now i will finish by giving you the wonderful ship which is to sail on either land or sea.
all this i do for you because you were kind and good to me."
then he gave him the ship, and when the king saw it he could find no further excuse.
so he gave the young man his daughter, and the pair were married that very day.
when the old king died, the simpleton became king in his stead, and he and his wife lived happily ever after.
titty mouse and tatty mouse
titty mouse and tatty mouse both lived in a house,     titty mouse went a-leasing and tatty mouse went a-leasing,     so they both went a-leasing.
titty mouse leased an ear of corn, and tatty mouse leased an ear of corn,     so they both leased an ear of corn.
titty mouse made a pudding, and tatty mouse made a pudding,     so they both made a pudding.
and tatty mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil,     but, when titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and     scalded her to death.
then tatty sat down and wept, and a three-legged stool said: "tatty, why do you weep?"
"titty's dead," said tatty, "and so i weep."
"then,"
said the stool, "i'll hop."
so the stool hopped.
then a broom in the corner of the room said: "stool, why do you hop?"
"oh!"
said the stool, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and so i hop."
"then," said the broom, "i'll sweep."
so the broom began to sweep.
"then," said the door, "broom, why do you sweep?"
"oh!"
said the broom, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and so i sweep."
"then," said the door, "i'll jar."
so the door jarred.
"then," said the window, "door, why do you jar?"
"oh!"
said the door, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, and so i jar."
"then," said the window, "i'll creak."
so the window creaked.
now there was an old form outside the house, and when the window creaked, the form said: "window, why do you creak?"
"oh!"
said the window, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and so i creak."
"then," said the old form, "i'll run round the house."
then the old form ran round the house.
now there was a fine large walnut-tree growing by the cottage, and the tree said to the form: "form, why do you run round the house?"
"oh!"
said the form, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, and so i run round the house."
"then," said the walnut-tree, "i'll shed my leaves."
so the walnut-tree shed all its beautiful green leaves.
now there was a little bird perched on one of the boughs of the tree, and when all the leaves fell, it said: "walnut-tree, why do you shed your leaves?"
"oh!"
said the tree, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, and so i shed my leaves."
"then," said the little bird, "i'll moult all my feathers."
so he moulted all his pretty feathers.
now there was a little girl walking below, carrying a jug of milk for her brothers' and sisters' supper, and when she saw the poor little bird moult all its feathers, she said: "little bird, why do you moult all your feathers?"
"oh!"
said the little bird, "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so i moult all my feathers."
"then," said the little girl, "i'll spill the milk."
so she dropped the pitcher and spilt the milk.
now there was an old man just by on the top of a ladder thatching a rick, and when he saw the little girl spill the milk, he said: "little girl, what do you mean by spilling the milk?
your little brothers and sisters must go without their supper."
then said the little girl: "titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds all its leaves, the little bird moults all its feathers, and so i spill the milk."
"oh!"
said the old man, "then i'll tumble off the ladder and break my neck."
so he tumbled off the ladder and broke his neck; and when the old man broke his neck, the great walnut-tree fell down with a crash, and upset the old form and house, and the house falling knocked the window out, and the window knocked the door down, and the door upset the broom, and the broom upset the stool, and poor little tatty mouse was buried beneath the ruins.
teeny tiny
there was once upon a time a teeny-tiny woman who lived in a teeny-tiny house in a teeny-tiny village.
now, one day this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a teeny-tiny walk.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny way, she came to a teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman opened the teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny churchyard.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny self: "this teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny soup for my teeny-tiny supper."
so the teeny-tiny woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her teeny-tiny house.
now, when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house, she was a teeny-tiny tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time, she was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which said
"give me my bone!"
and this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes, and went to sleep again.
and when she had been asleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder
"give me my bone!"
this made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny farther under the teeny-tiny clothes.
and when the teeny-tiny woman had been asleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a teeny-tiny louder
"give me my bone!"
at this the teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened; but she put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny clothes, and said in her loudest teeny-tiny voice
"take it!!"
the spider and the flea
a spider and a flea dwelt together in one house, and brewed their beer in an egg-shell.
one day, when the spider was stirring it up, she fell in and scalded herself.
thereupon the flea began to scream.
and then the door asked: "why are you screaming, flea?"
"because little spider has scalded herself in the beer-tub," replied she.
thereupon the door began to creak as if it were in pain; and a broom, which stood in the corner, asked, "what are you creaking for, door?"
"may i not creak?"
it replied:
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps."
so the broom began to sweep industriously, and presently a little cart came by, and asked the reason.
"may i not sweep?"
replied the broom:
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps;           the little door creaks with the pain,"
thereupon the little cart said: "so will i run," and began to run very fast, past a heap of ashes, which cried out: "why do you run, little cart?"
"because," replied the cart:
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps;           the little door creaks with the pain,               and the broom sweeps."
"then," said the ashes, "i will burn furiously."
now, next the ashes there grew a tree, which asked: "little heap, why do you burn?"
"because," was the reply:
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps;            the little door creaks with the pain,               and the broom sweeps;            the little cart runs on so fast,"
thereupon the tree cried, "i will shake myself!"
and went on shaking till all its leaves fell off.
a little girl passing by with a water-pitcher saw it shaking, and asked: "why do you shake yourself, little tree?"
"why may i not?"
said the tree:
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps;           the little door creaks with the pain,               and the broom sweeps;           the little cart runs on so fast,               and the ashes burn."
then the maiden said: "if so, i will break my pitcher;" and she threw it down and broke it.
at this the streamlet, from which she drew the water, asked:
"why do you break your pitcher, my little girl?"
"why may i not?"
she replied; for
"the little spider's scalt herself,               and the flea weeps;           the little door creaks with the pain,               and the broom sweeps;           the little cart runs on so fast,               and the ashes burn;           the little tree shakes down its leaves
now it is my turn!"
"ah, then," said the streamlet, "now must i begin to flow."
and it flowed and flowed along, in a great stream, which kept getting bigger and bigger, until at last it swallowed up the little girl, the little tree, the ashes, the cart, the broom, the door, the flea, and, last of all, the spider, all together.
the little shepherd boy
once upon a time there was a little shepherd boy who was famed far and wide for the wise answers which he gave to all questions.
now the king of the country heard of this lad, but he would not believe what was said about him, so the boy was ordered to come to court.
when he arrived the king said to him: "if you can give me answers to each of the three questions which i will now put to you, i will bring you up as my own child, and you shall live here with me in my palace."
"what are these three questions?"
asked the boy.
"the first is: how many drops of water are there in the sea?"
"my lord king," replied the shepherd boy, "let all the waters be stopped up on the earth, so that not one drop shall run into the sea before i count it, and then i will tell you how many drops there are in the sea!"
"the second question," said the king, "is: how many stars are there in the sky?"
"give me a large sheet of paper," said the boy; and then he made in it with a pin so many minute holes that they were far too numerous to see or to count, and dazzled the eyes of whomsoever looked at them.
this done, he said: "so many stars are there in the sky as there are holes in this paper; now count them."
but nobody was able.
thereupon the king said: "the third question is: how many seconds are there in eternity?"
"in lower pomerania is situated the adamantine mountain, one mile in height, one mile in breadth, and one mile deep; and thither comes a bird once in every thousand years which rubs its beak against the hill, and, when the whole shall be rubbed away, then will the first second of eternity be gone by."
"you have answered the three questions like a sage," said the king, "and from henceforward you shall live with me in my palace, and i will treat you as my own child."
the three spinners
once upon a time there was a lazy maiden who would not spin, and, let her mother say what she would, she could not make her do it.
at last, the mother, in a fit of impatience, gave her a blow which made the girl cry out loudly.
at that very instant, the queen drove by, and, hearing the screams, she stopped the carriage, came into the house, and asked the mother why she beat her daughter in such a way that people in passing could hear the cries.
then the mother felt ashamed that her daughter's laziness should be known, so she said: "oh, your majesty, i cannot take her away from her spinning: she spins from morning till night, and i am so poor that i cannot afford to buy the flax."
"there is nothing i like better than to hear the sound of spinning,"
the queen replied, "and nothing pleases me more than the whirl of spinning-wheels.
let me take your daughter home with me to the castle; i have flax enough, and she may spin there to her heart's content."
the mother rejoiced greatly in her heart, and the queen took the maiden home with her.
when they arrived in the castle, she led her up into three rooms, which were piled from top to bottom with the finest flax.
"now spin me this flax," said the queen, "and when thou has spun it all, thou shalt have my eldest son for a husband.
although thou art poor, yet i do not despise thee on that account, for thy untiring industry is dowry enough."
the maiden was filled with inward terror, for she could not have spun the flax had she sat there day and night until she was three hundred years old!
when she was left alone, she began to weep, and thus she sat for three days without stirring a finger.
on the third day the queen came, and when she saw that nothing was as yet spun, she wondered over it, but the maiden excused herself by saying that she could not begin in consequence of the great sorrow she felt in being separated from her mother.
this satisfied the queen, who, on leaving her, said:
"thou must begin to work for me to-morrow."
but when the maiden was once more alone, she did not know what to do, or how to help herself, and in her distress she went to the window and looked out.
she saw three women passing by, the first of whom had a great broad foot, the second such a large under-lip that it hung down to her chin, and the third an enormous thumb.
they stopped under the window, and, looking up, asked the maiden what was the matter.
when she had told them of her trouble, they immediately offered her their help, and said:
"wilt thou invite us to the wedding, and not be ashamed of us, but call us thy aunts, and let us sit at thy table?
if thou wilt, we will spin all the flax, and do it in a very short time."
"with all my heart," answered the girl, "only come in, and begin at once."
then she admitted the three strange women, and, making a clear space in the first room, they sat themselves down and began spinning.
one drew the thread and trod the wheel, the other moistened the thread, the third pressed it and beat it on the table, and every time she did so, a pile of thread fell on the ground spun in the finest way.
the maiden concealed the three spinners from the queen, but showed her the heaps of spun yarn whenever she came, and received no end of praise for it.
when the first room was empty, the second was commenced, and when that was finished, the third was begun, and very soon cleared.
then the three spinners took their leave, saying to the maiden:
"forget not what thou hast promised us; it will make thy fortune."
when the girl showed the queen the empty rooms and the great piles of thread, the wedding was announced.
the bridegroom rejoiced that he had won so clever and industrious a wife, and he praised her exceedingly.
"i have three aunts," said the maiden, "and as they have done me many kindnesses, i could not forget them in my good fortune; permit me to invite them to our wedding and allow them to sit with me at table."
so the queen and the bridegroom consented.
when the feast commenced, the three old women entered, clothed in the greatest splendor, and the bride said
"welcome, my dear aunts!"
"alas!"
exclaimed the bridegroom, "how is it you have such ugly relations?"
and going up to the one with a broad foot, he asked:
"why have you such a broad foot?"
"from threading, from threading," she answered.
then he went to the second, and asked:
"why have you such an overhanging lip?"
"from moistening the thread," she replied, "from moistening the thread."
then he asked the third:
"why have you such a big thumb?"
"from pressing the thread," answered she.
then the prince became frightened, and said:
"then shall my lovely bride never more turn a spinning-wheel, as long as she lives!"
thus was the maiden freed from the hated flax-spinning.
the cat and the mouse in partnership
a cat having made the acquaintance of a mouse, told her so much of the great love and affection that he had for her, that the mouse at last consented to live in the same house with him, and to have their domestic affairs in common.
"but we must provide for the winter,"
said the cat, "or we shall be starved; you, little mouse, cannot go everywhere looking for food, or you will meet with an accident."
this advice was followed, and a pot was brought with some grease in it.
however, when they had got it, they could not imagine where it should be put; but at last, after a long consideration, the cat said:
"i know no better place to put it than in the church, for there no one dares to steal anything; we will set it beneath the organ, and not touch it till we really want it."
so the pot was put away in safety; but not long afterward the cat began to wish for it again, so he spoke to the mouse and said: "i have to tell you that i am asked by my aunt to stand godfather to a little son, white with brown marks, whom she has just brought into the world, and so i must go to the christening.
let me go out to-day, and do you stop at home and keep house."
"certainly," answered the mouse; "pray, go; and if you eat anything nice, think of me; i would also willingly drink a little of the sweet red christening-wine."
but, alas!
it was all a story; for the cat had no aunt, and had not been asked to stand godfather to any one.
he went straight to the church, crept up to the grease-pot, and licked it till he had eaten off the top; then he took a walk on the roofs of the houses in the town, thinking over his situation, and now and then stretching himself in the sun and stroking his whiskers as often as he thought of his meal.
when it was evening he went home again, and the mouse said: "so you have come at last; what a charming day you must have had!"
"yes," answered the cat; "it went off very well!"
"what have you named the kitten?"
asked the mouse.
"top-off," said the cat very quickly.
"top-off!"
replied the mouse; "that is a curious and remarkable name; is it common in your family?"
"what does that matter?"
said the cat; "it is not worse than crumb-stealer, as your children are called."
not long afterward the cat felt the same longing as before, and said to the mouse: "you must oblige me by taking care of the house once more by yourself; i am again asked to stand godfather, and, since the youngster has a white ring round his neck, i cannot get off the invitation."
so the good little mouse consented, and the cat crept away behind the wall to the church again, and ate half the contents of the grease-pot.
"nothing tastes better than what one eats by one's self," said he, quite contented with his day's work; and when he came home the mouse asked how this child was named.
"half-out," answered the cat.
"half-out!
what do you mean?
i never heard such a name before in my life; i will wager anything it is not in the calendar," but the cat replied nothing.
pussy's mouth soon began to water again at the recollection of the feasting.
"all good things come in threes," said he to the mouse.
"i am again required to be godfather; this child is quite black, and has little white claws, but not a single white hair on his body; such a thing only happens once in two years, so pray excuse me this time."
"top-off!
half-out!"
answered the mouse; "those are such curious names, they make me a bit suspicious."
"ah!"
replied the cat, "there you sit in your gray coat and long tail, thinking nonsense.
that comes of never going out."
the mouse busied herself during the cat's absence in putting the house in order, but meanwhile greedy puss licked the grease-pot clean out.
"when it is all done one will rest in peace," thought he to himself, and as soon as night came he went home fat and tired.
the mouse, however, again asked what name the third child had received.
"it will not please you any better," answered the cat, "for he is called all-out."
"all-out!"
exclaimed the mouse; "well, that is certainly the most curious name by far.
i have never yet seen it in print.
all-out!
what can that mean?"
and, shaking her head, she rolled herself up and went to sleep.
after that nobody else asked the cat to stand godfather; but the winter had arrived, and nothing more was to be picked up out of doors; so the mouse bethought herself of their store of provision, and said, "come, friend cat, we will go to our grease-pot which we laid by; it will taste well now."
"yes, indeed," replied the cat; "it will taste as well as if you stroked your tongue against the window."
so they set out on their journey, and when they arrived at the church the pot stood in its old place but it was empty!
"ah," said the mouse, "i see what has happened; now i know you are indeed a faithful friend.
you have eaten the whole as you stood godfather; first top-off, then half-out, then "
"will you be quiet?"
cried the cat.
"not a word, or i'll eat you."
but the poor mouse had "all-out" at her tongue's end, and had scarcely uttered it when the cat made a spring, seized her in his mouth, and swallowed her.
this happens every day in the world.
the sweet soup
once on a time there was a poor but very good little girl, who lived alone with her mother, and when my story begins, they had nothing in the house to eat.
so the child went out into the forest, and there she met an old woman, who already knew her distress, and who presented her with a pot which had the following power.
if one said to it, "boil, little pot!"
it would cook sweet soup; and when one said: "stop, little pot!"
it would immediately cease to boil.
the little girl took the pot home to her mother, and now their poverty and distresses were at an end, for they could have sweet broth as often as they pleased.
one day, however, the little girl went out, and in her absence the mother said: "boil, little pot!"
so it began to cook, and she soon ate all she wished; but when the poor woman wanted to have the pot stop, she found she did not know the word.
away, therefore, the pot boiled, and very quickly was over the edge; and as it boiled and boiled the kitchen presently became full, then the house, and the next house, and soon the whole street.
it seemed likely to satisfy all the world, for, though there was the greatest necessity to do so, nobody knew how to stop it.
at last, when only a very small cottage of all the village was left unfilled with soup, the child returned and said at once:
"stop, little pot!"
immediately it ceased to boil; but whoever wishes to enter the village now must eat his way through the soup!!
!
the straw the coal and the bean
all alone, in a quiet little village, lived a poor old woman.
one day she had a dish of beans which she wanted to cook for dinner, so she made a fire on the hearth, and in order that it should burn up quickly she lighted it with a handful of straw.
she hung the pot over the fire, and poured in the beans; but one fell on to the floor without her noticing it, and rolled away beside a piece of straw.
soon afterwards a live coal flew out of the fire and joined their company.
then the straw began to speak.
"dear friends," said he, "whence come you?"
"i was fortunate enough to spring out of the fire," answered the coal.
"had i not exerted myself to get out when i did, i should most certainly have been burnt to ashes."
"i have also just managed to save my skin," said the bean.
"had the old woman succeeded in putting me into the pot, i should have been stewed without mercy, just as my comrades are being served now."
"my fate might have been no better," the straw told them.
"the old woman burnt sixty of my brothers at once, but fortunately i was able to slip through her fingers."
"what shall we do now?"
said the coal.
"well," answered the bean, "my opinion is that, as we have all been so fortunate as to escape death, we should leave this place before any new misfortune overtakes us.
let us all three become traveling companions and set out upon a journey to some unknown country."
this suggestion pleased both the straw and the coal, so away they all went at once.
before long they came to a brook, and as there was no bridge across it they did not know how to get to the other side; but the straw had a good idea: "i will lay myself over the water, and you can walk across me as though i were a bridge," he said.
so he stretched himself from one bank to the other, and the coal, who was of a hasty disposition, at once tripped gaily on to the newly-built bridge.
half way across she hesitated, and began to feel afraid of the rushing water beneath her.
she dared go no farther, but neither would she return; but she stood there so long that the straw caught fire, broke in two, and fell into the stream.
of course, the coal was bound to follow.
no sooner did she touch the water than hiss, zish!
out she went, and never glowed again.
the bean, who was a careful fellow, had stayed on the bank, to watch how the coal got across, before trusting himself to such a slender bridge.
but when he saw what very queer figures his friends cut, he could not help laughing.
he laughed and laughed till he could not stop, and at length he split his side.
it would have gone badly with him then, had not a tailor happened to pass by.
he was a kind-hearted fellow, and at once took out his needle and thread and began to repair the mischief.
the bean thanked him politely, for he knew that the tailor had saved his life, but unfortunately he had used black thread, and from that time till to-day every bean has a little black stitch in its side.
why the bear has a stumpy tail
one winter's day the bear met the fox, who came slinking along with a string of fish he had stolen.
"hi!
stop a minute!
where did you get those from?"
demanded the bear.
"oh, my lord bruin, i've been out fishing and caught them," said the fox.
so the bear had a mind to learn to fish, too, and bade the fox tell him how he was to set about it.
"oh, it is quite easy," answered the fox, "and soon learned.
you've only got to go upon the ice, and cut a hole and stick your tail down through it, and hold it there as long as you can.
you're not to mind if it smarts a little; that's when the fish bite.
the longer you hold it there, the more fish you'll get; and then all at once out with it, with a cross pull side ways and a strong pull, too."
well, the bear did as the fox said, and though he felt very cold, and his tail smarted very much, he kept it a long, long time down in the hole, till at last it was frozen in, though of course he did not know that.
then he pulled it out with a strong pull, and it snapped short off, and that's why bruin goes about with a stumpy tail to this day!
the three little pigs
once upon a time, when pigs could talk and no one had ever heard of bacon, there lived an old piggy mother with her three little sons.
they had a very pleasant home in the middle of an oak forest, and were all just as happy as the day was long, until one sad year the acorn crop failed; then, indeed, poor mrs. piggy-wiggy often had hard work to make both ends meet.
one day she called her sons to her, and, with tears in her eyes, told them that she must send them out into the wide world to seek their fortune.
she kissed them all round, and the three little pigs set out upon their travels, each taking a different road, and carrying a bundle slung on a stick across his shoulder.
the first little pig had not gone far before he met a man carrying a bundle of straw; so he said to him: "please, man, give me that straw to build me a house?"
the man was very good-natured, so he gave him the bundle of straw, and the little pig built a pretty little house with it.
no sooner was it finished, and the little pig thinking of going to bed, than a wolf came along, knocked at the door, and said: "little pig, little pig, let me come in."
but the little pig laughed softly, and answered: "no, no, by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin."
then said the wolf sternly: "i will make you let me in; for i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll blow your house in!"
so he huffed and he puffed, and he blew his house in, because, you see, it was only of straw and too light; and when he had blown the house in, he ate up the little pig, and did not leave so much as the tip of his tail.
the second little pig also met a man, and he was carrying a bundle of furze; so piggy said politely: "please, kind man, will you give me that furze to build me a house?"
the man agreed, and piggy set to work to build himself a snug little house before the night came on.
it was scarcely finished when the wolf came along, and said: "little pig, little pig, let me come in."
"no, no, by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin," answered the second little pig.
"then i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll blow your house in!"
said the wolf.
so he huffed and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew the house in, and gobbled the little pig up in a trice.
now, the third little pig met a man with a load of bricks and mortar, and he said: "please, man, will you give me those bricks to build a house with?"
so the man gave him the bricks and mortar, and a little trowel as well, and the little pig built himself a nice strong little house.
as soon as it was finished the wolf came to call, just as he had done to the other little pigs, and said: "little pig, little pig, let me in!"
but the little pig answered: "no, no, by the hair of my chinny-chin-chin."
"then," said the wolf, "i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll blow your house in."
well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and he huffed, and he puffed; but he could not get the house down.
at last he had no breath left to huff and puff with, so he sat down outside the little pig's house and thought for awhile.
presently he called out: "little pig, i know where there is a nice field of turnips."
"where?"
said the little pig.
"behind the farmer's house, three fields away, and if you will be ready to-morrow morning i will call for you, and we will go together and get some breakfast."
"very well," said the little pig; "i will be sure to be ready.
what time do you mean to start?"
"at six o'clock," replied the wolf.
well, the wise little pig got up at five, scampered away to the field, and brought home a fine load of turnips before the wolf came.
at six o'clock the wolf came to the little pig's house and said: "little pig, are you ready?"
"ready!"
cried the little pig.
"why, i have been to the field and come back long ago, and now i am busy boiling a potful of turnips for breakfast."
the wolf was very angry indeed; but he made up his mind to catch the little pig somehow or other; so he told him that he knew where there was a nice apple-tree.
"where?"
said the little pig.
"round the hill in the squire's orchard," the wolf said.
"so if you will promise to play me no tricks, i will come for you tomorrow morning at five o'clock, and we will go there together and get some rosy-cheeked apples."
the next morning piggy got up at four o'clock and was off and away long before the wolf came.
but the orchard was a long way off, and besides, he had the tree to climb, which is a difficult matter for a little pig, so that before the sack he had brought with him was quite filled he saw the wolf coming towards him.
he was dreadfully frightened, but he thought it better to put a good face on the matter, so when the wolf said: "little pig, why are you here before me?
are they nice apples?"
he replied at once: "yes, very; i will throw down one for you to taste."
so he picked an apple and threw it so far that whilst the wolf was running to fetch it he had time to jump down and scamper away home.
the next day the wolf came again, and told the little pig that there was going to be a fair in the town that afternoon, and asked him if he would go with him.
"oh!
yes," said the pig, "i will go with pleasure.
what time will you be ready to start?"
"at half-past three," said the wolf.
of course, the little pig started long before the time, went to the fair, and bought a fine large butter-churn, and was trotting away with it on his back when he saw the wolf coming.
he did not know what to do, so he crept into the churn to hide, and by so doing started it rolling.
down the hill it went, rolling over and over, with the little pig squeaking inside.
the wolf could not think what the strange thing rolling down the hill could be; so he turned tail and ran away home in a fright without ever going to the fair at all.
he went to the little pig's house to tell him how frightened he had been by a large round thing which came rolling past him down the hill.
"ha!
ha!"
laughed the little pig; "so i frightened you, eh?
i had been to the fair and bought a butter-churn; when i saw you i got inside it and rolled down the hill."
this made the wolf so angry that he declared that he would eat up the little pig, and that nothing should save him, for he would jump down the chimney.
but the clever little pig hung a pot full of water over the hearth and then made a blazing fire, and just as the wolf was coming down the chimney he took off the cover and in fell the wolf.
in a second the little pig had popped the lid on again.
then he boiled the wolf, and ate him for supper, and after that he lived quietly and comfortably all his days, and was never troubled by a wolf again.
children's favorite poems
the three children
three children sliding on the ice     upon a summer's day,   as it fell out they all fell in,     the rest they ran away.
now, had these children been at home,     or sliding on dry ground,   ten thousand pounds to one penny     they had not all been drowned.
you parents all that children have,     and you too that have none,   if you would have them safe abroad     pray keep them safe at home.
anonymous
*       *        *       *       *
the owl and the pussy-cat
i
the owl and the pussy-cat went to sea     in a beautiful pea-green boat:
they took some honey, and plenty of money   wrapped up in a five-pound note.
the owl looked up to the stars above,   and sang to a small guitar,     "oh lovely pussy, o pussy, my love,   what a beautiful pussy you are,              you are,              you are!
what a beautiful pussy you are!"
ii
pussy said to the owl, "you elegant fowl,     how charmingly sweet you sing!
oh!
let us be married; too long we have tarried;     but what shall we do for a ring?"
they sailed away, for a year and a day,     to the land where the bong-tree grows;   and there in a wood a piggy-wig stood,     with a ring at the end of his nose,             his nose,             his nose,     with a ring at the end of his nose.
iii
"dear pig, are you willing to sell for one shilling     your ring?"
said the piggy, "i will."
so they took it away, and were married next day     by the turkey who lives on the hill.
they dined on mince and slices of quince,     which they ate with a runcible spoon;   and hand in hand, on the edge of the sand,     they danced by the light of the moon,             the moon,             the moon,   they danced by the light of the moon.
edward lear
kindness to animals
little children, never give   pain to things that feel and live:
let the gentle robin come   for the crumbs you save at home,
as his meat you throw along   he'll repay you with a song;   never hurt the timid hare   peeping from her green grass lair,   let her come and sport and play   on the lawn at close of day;   the little lark goes soaring high   to the bright windows of the sky,   singing as if 'twere always spring,   and fluttering on an untired wing,
oh!
let him sing his happy song,   nor do these gentle creatures wrong.
unknown
how doth the little busy bee
how doth the little busy bee     improve each shining hour,   and gather honey all the day     from every opening flow'r!
how skilfully she builds her cell!
how neat she spreads the wax!
and labors hard to store it well     with the sweet food she makes.
in works of labor or of skill,     i would be busy too;   for satan finds some mischief still     for idle hands to do.
in books, or work, or healthful play,     let my first years be past,   that i may give for ev'ry day     some good account at last.
isaac watts
suppose!
suppose, my little lady,     your doll should break her head,   could you make it whole by crying     till your eyes and nose are red?
and wouldn't it be pleasanter     to treat it as a joke,   and say you're glad 'twas dolly's,     and not your head that broke?
suppose you're dressed for walking,     and the rain comes pouring down,   will it clear off any sooner     because you scold and frown?
and wouldn't it be nicer     for you to smile than pout,   and so make sunshine in the house     when there is none without?
suppose your task, my little man,     is very hard to get,   will it make it any easier     for you to sit and fret?
and wouldn't it be wiser     than waiting, like a dunce,   to go to work in earnest     and learn the thing at once?
suppose that some boys have a horse,     and some a coach and pair,   will it tire you less while walking     to say, "it is n't fair?"
and would n't it be nobler     to keep your temper sweet,   and in your heart be thankful     you can walk upon your feet?
and suppose the world don't please you,     nor the way some people do,   do you think the whole creation     will be altered just for you?
and isn't it, my boy or girl,     the wisest, bravest plan,   whatever comes, or does n't come,     to do the best you can?
phoebe cary
twinkle, twinkle
twinkle, twinkle, little star;   how i wonder what you are!
up above the world so high,   like a diamond in the sky.
when the glorious sun is set,   when the grass with dew is wet,   then you show your little light,   twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
when the blazing sun is gone,   when he nothing shines upon,   then you show your little light,   twinkle, twinkle, all the night.
in the dark-blue sky you keep,   and often through my curtains peep;   for you never shut your eye   till the sun is in the sky.
as your bright and tiny spark   lights the traveler in the dark,   though i know not what you are,   twinkle, twinkle, little star!
anonymous
pretty cow
thank you, pretty cow, that made   pleasant milk to soak my bread,   every day and every night,   warm, and fresh, and sweet, and white
do not chew the hemlock rank,   growing on the weedy bank;   but the yellow cowslips eat,   that will make it very sweet.
where the purple violet grows,   where the bubbling water flows,   where the grass is fresh and fine,   pretty cow, go there and dine.
jane taylor
the three little kittens
(a cat's tale, with additions)
three little kittens lost their mittens;       and they began to cry,           o mother dear,           we very much fear       that we have lost our mittens.
lost your mittens!
you naughty kittens!
then you shall have no pie.
mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
no, you shall have no pie.
mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
the three little kittens found their mittens,       and they began to cry,           o mother dear,           see here, see here;       see, we have found our mittens.
put on your mittens,       you silly kittens,       and you may have some pie.
purr-r, purr-r, purr-r,       o let us have the pie.
purr-r, purr-r, purr-r.
the three little kittens put on their mittens,       and soon ate up the pie;           o mother dear,           we greatly fear       that we have soiled our mittens.
soiled your mittens!
you naughty kittens!
then they began to sigh,           mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow,       then they began to sigh.
mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
the three little kittens washed their mittens,       and hung them out to dry;           o mother dear,           do not you hear,       that we have washed our mittens?
washed your mittens!
o, you're good kittens.
but i smell a rat close by;           hush!
hush!
mee-ow, mee-ow.
we smell a rat close by,           mee-ow, mee-ow, mee-ow.
eliza lee follen
the land of counterpane
when i was sick and lay a-bed,   i had two pillows at my head,   and all my toys beside me lay   to keep me happy all the day.
and sometimes for an hour or so   i watched my leaden soldiers go,   with different uniforms and drills,   among the bed-clothes, through the hills;
and sometimes sent my ships in fleets   all up and down among the sheets;   or brought my trees and houses out,   and planted cities all about.
i was the giant great and still   that sits upon the pillow-hill,   and sees before him, dale and plain,   the pleasant land of counterpane.
robert louis stevenson
there was a little girl
there was a little girl,   and she had a little curl     right in the middle of her forehead.
when she was good   she was very, very good,     and when she was bad she was horrid.
one day she went upstairs,   when her parents, unawares,     in the kitchen were occupied with meals,   and she stood upon her head   in her little trundle-bed,     and then began hooraying with her heels.
her mother heard the noise,   and she thought it was the boys     a-playing at a combat in the attic;   but when she climbed the stair,   and found jemima there,     she took and she did spank her most emphatic.
henry wadsworth longfellow
the boy who never told a lie
once there was a little boy,     with curly hair and pleasant eye
a boy who always told the truth,     and never, never told a lie.
and when he trotted off to school,     the children all about would cry,   "there goes the curly-headed boy
the boy that never tells a lie."
and everybody loved him so,     because he always told the truth,   that every day, as he grew up,     'twas said, "there goes the honest youth."
and when the people that stood near     would turn to ask the reason why,   the answer would be always this:
"because he never tells a lie."
foreign children
little indian, sioux or crow,   little frosty eskimo,   little turk or japanee,   o!
don't you wish that you were me?
you have seen the scarlet trees   and the lions over seas;   you have eaten ostrich eggs,   and turned the turtles off their legs.
such a life is very fine,   but it's not so nice as mine:
you must often, as you trod,   have wearied not to be abroad.
you have curious things to eat,   i am fed on proper meat;   you must dwell beyond the foam,   but i am safe and live at home.
little indian, sioux or crow,     little frosty eskimo,     little turk or japanee,   o!
don't you wish that you were me?
robert louis stevenson
the unseen playmate
when children are playing alone on the green,   in comes the playmate that never was seen.
when children are happy and lonely and good,   the friend of the children comes out of the wood.
nobody heard him and nobody saw,   his is a picture you never could draw,   but he's sure to be present, abroad or at home,   when children are happy, and playing alone.
he lies in the laurels, he runs on the grass,   he sings when you tinkle the musical glass;   whene'er you are happy and cannot tell why,   the friend of the children is sure to be by!
he loves to be little, he hates to be big,   'tis he that inhabits the caves that you dig;   'tis he when you play with your soldiers of tin   that sides with the frenchmen and never can win.
'tis he when at night; you go off to your bed,   bids you go to your sleep and not trouble your head;   for wherever they're lying, in cupboard or shelf,   'tis he will take care of your playthings himself!
robert louis stevenson
i saw three ships
i saw three ships come sailing in,     on christmas day, on christmas day;   i saw three ships come sailing in,     on christmas day in the morning.
pray whither sailed those ships all three     on christmas day, on christmas day?
pray whither sailed those ships all three     on christmas day in the morning?
oh, they sailed into bethlehem     on christmas day, on christmas day;   oh, they sailed into bethlehem     on christmas day in the morning.
and all the bells on earth shall ring     on christmas day, on christmas day;   and all the bells on earth shall ring     on christmas day in the morning.
and all the angels in heaven shall sing     on christmas day, on christmas day;   and all the angels in heaven shall sing     on christmas day in the morning.
and all the souls on earth shall sing     on christmas day, on christmas day;   and all the souls on earth shall sing     on christmas day in the morning.
old carol
a was an ant
a was an ant     who seldom stood still,   and who made a nice house     in the side of a hill.
a           nice little ant!
b was a book     with a binding of blue,   and pictures and stories     for me and for you.
b           nice little book!
c was a cat   who ran after a rat;   but his courage did fail   when she seized on his tail.
c           crafty old cat!
d was a duck     with spots on his back,   who lived in the water,     and always said "quack!"
d           dear little duck!
e was an elephant,     stately and wise:
he had tusks and a trunk,     and two queer little eyes,                 e           oh, what funny small eyes!
f was a fish     who was caught in a net;   but he got out again,     and is quite alive yet.
f           lively young fish!
g was a goat     who was spotted with brown:
when he did not lie still     he walked up and down.
g           good little goat!
h was a hat     which was all on one side;   its crown was too high,     and its brim was too wide.
h           oh, what a hat!
i was some ice   so white and so nice,   but which nobody tasted;   and so it was wasted.
i           all that good ice!
j was a jackdaw     who hopped up and dowa   in the principal street     of a neighboring town.
j           all through the town!
k was a kite   which flew out of sight,     above houses so high,     quite into the sky.
k           fly away, kite!
l was a light   which burned all the night,     and lighted the gloom     of a very dark room.
l         useful nice light!
m was a mill   which stood on a hill,     and turned round and round     with a loud hummy sound.
m           useful old mill!
n was a net     which was thrown in the sea   to catch fish for dinner     for you and for me.
n           nice little net!
o was an orange     so yellow and round:
when it fell off the tree,     it fell down to the ground;                 o           down to the ground!
p was a pig,   who was not very big;     but his tail was too curly,     and that made him surly.
p           cross little pig!
q was a quail   with a very short tail;     and he fed upon corn     in the evening and morn.
q           quaint little quail!
r was a rabbit,   who had a bad habit     of eating the flowers     in gardens and bowers.
r           naughty fat rabbit!
s was the sugar-tongs,     nippity-nee,   to take up the sugar     to put in our tea.
s           nippity-nee!
t was a tortoise,     all yellow and black:
he walked slowly away,     and he never came back.
t           torty never came back!
u was an urn     all polished and bright,   and full of hot water     at noon and at night.
u           useful old urn!
v was a villa     which stood on a hill,   by the side of a river,     and close to a mill.
v           nice little villa!
w was a whale   with a very long tail,     whose movements were frantic     across the atlantic.
w           monstrous old whale!
x was king xerxes,   who, more than all turks is,     renowned for his fashion     of fury and passion.
x           angry old xerxes!
y was a yew,   which flourished and grew     by a quiet abode     near the side of a road.
y           dark little yew!
z was some zinc,   so shiny and bright,     which caused you to wink     in the sun's merry light.
z           beautiful zinc!
edward lear
the table and the chair
i
said the table to the chair,   "you can hardly be aware   how i suffer from the heat   and from chilblains on my feet.
if we took a little walk,   we might have a little talk;   pray let us take the air,"
said the table to the chair.
ii
said the chair unto the table,   "now, you know we are not able:
how foolishly you talk,   when you know we cannot walk!"
said the table with a sigh,   "it can do no harm to try.
i've as many legs as you:
why can't we walk on two?"
iii
so they both went slowly down,   and walked about the town   with a cheerful bumpy sound   as they toddled round and round;   and everybody cried,   as they hastened to their side,   "see!
the table and the chair   have come out to take the air!"
iv
but in going down an alley,   to a castle in a valley,   they completely lost their way,   and wandered all the day;   till, to see them safely back,   they paid a ducky-quack,   and a beetle, and a mouse,   who took them to their house.
v
then they whispered to each other,   "o delightful little brother,   what a lovely walk we've taken!
let us dine on beans and bacon."
so the ducky and the leetle   browny-mousy and the beetle   dined, and danced upon their heads   till they toddled to their beds.
edward lear
precocious piggy
where are you going to, you little pig?
"i'm leaving my mother, i'm growing so big!"
so big, young pig,         so young, so big!
what, leaving your mother, you foolish young pig?
where are you going to, you little pig?
"i've got a new spade, and i'm going to dig!"
to dig, little pig!
a little pig dig!
well, i never saw a pig with a spade that could dig!
where are you going to, you little pig?
"why, i'm going to have a nice ride in a gig!"
in a gig, little pig!
what, a pig in a gig!
well, i never yet saw a pig ride in a gig!
where are you going to, you little pig?
"well, i'm going to the queen's head to have a nice swig!"
a swig, little pig!
a pig have a swig!
what, a pig at the queen's head having a swig!
where are you going to, you little pig?
"why, i'm going to the ball to dance a fine jig!"
a jig, little pig!
a pig dance a jig!
well, i never before saw a pig dance a jig!
where are you going to, you little pig?
"i'm going to the fair to run a fine rig!"
a rig, little pig!
a pig run a rig!
well, i never before saw a pig run a rig!
where are you going to, you little pig?
"i'm going to the barber's to buy me a wig!"
a wig, little pig!
a pig in a wig!
why, whoever before saw a pig in a wig!
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thomas hood
a boy's song
where the pools are bright and deep,   where the gray trout lies asleep,   up the river and o'er the lea,   that's the way for billy and me.
where the blackbird sings the latest,   where the hawthorn blooms the sweetest,   where the nestlings chirp and flee,   that's the way for billy and me.
where the mowers mow the cleanest,   where the hay lies thick and greenest,   there to trace the homeward bee,   that's the way for billy and me.
where the hazel bank is steepest,   where the shadow falls the deepest,   where the clustering nuts fall free,   that's the way for billy and me.
why the boys should drive away   little sweet maidens from the play,   or love to banter and fight so well,   that's the thing i never could tell.
but this i know, i love to play,   through the meadow, among the hay;   up the water and o'er the lea,   that's the way for billy and me.
james hogg
buttercups and daisies
buttercups and daisies,     oh, the pretty flowers;   coming ere the spring time,     to tell of sunny hours.
while the trees are leafless,     while the fields are bare,   buttercups and daisies     spring up here and there.
ere the snowdrop peepeth,     ere the crocus bold,   ere the early primrose     opes its paly gold,   somewhere on the sunny bank     buttercups are bright;   somewhere 'mong the frozen grass     peeps the daisy white.
little hardy flowers,     like to children poor,     playing in their sturdy health   by their mother's door,   purple with the north wind,     yet alert and bold;   fearing not, and caring not,     though they be a-cold!
what to them is winter!
what are stormy showers!
buttercups and daisies     are these human flowers!
he who gave them hardships     and a life of care,   gave them likewise hardy strength     and patient hearts to bear.
mary howitt
the violet
down in a green and shady bed     a modest violet grew;   its stalk was bent, it hung its head,     as if to hide from view.
and yet it was a lovely flower,     its color bright and fair;   it might have graced a rosy bower     instead of hiding there.
yet there it was content to bloom,     in modest tints arrayed;   and there diffused its sweet perfume     within the silent shade.
then let me to the valley go,     this pretty flower to see,   that i may also learn to grow     in sweet humility.
jane taylor
if ever i see
if ever i see,       on bush or tree,   young birds in their pretty nest,       i must not in play,       steal the birds away,   to grieve their mother's breast.
my mother, i know,       would sorrow so,   should i be stolen away;       so i'll speak to the birds       in my softest words,   nor hurt them in my play.
and when they can fly       in the bright blue sky,   they'll warble a song to me;       and then if i'm sad       it will make me glad   to think they are happy and free.
lydia maria child
the little land
when at home alone i sit   and am very tired of it,   i have just to shut my eyes   to go sailing through the skies
to go sailing far away   to the pleasant land of play;   to the fairy land afar   where the little people are;   where the clover-tops are trees,   and the rain-pools are the seas,   and the leaves like little ships   sail about on tiny trips;   and above the daisy tree       through the grasses,   high o'erhead the bumble bee       hums and passes.
in that forest to and fro   i can wander, i can go;   see the spider and the fly,   and the ants go marching by   carrying parcels with their feet   down the green and grassy street   i can in the sorrel sit   where the ladybird alit.
i can climb the jointed grass;       and on high   see the greater swallows pass       in the sky,   and the round sun rolling by   heeding no such thing as i.
through the forest i can pass   till, as in a looking-glass,   humming fly and daisy tree   and my tiny self i see,   painted very clear and neat   on the rain-pool at my feet.
should a leaflet come to land   drifting near to where i stand,   straight i'll board that tiny boat   round the rain-pool sea to float.
little thoughtful creatures sit   on the grassy coasts of it;   little things with lovely eyes   see me sailing with surprise.
some are clad in armor green
(these have sure to battle been!)
some are pied with ev'ry hue,   black and crimson, gold and blue;   some have wings and swift are gone;
but they all look kindly on.
when my eyes i once again   open and see all things plain;   high bare walls, great bare floor;   great big knobs on drawer and door;   great big people perched on chairs,   stitching tucks and mending tears,   each a hill that i could climb,   and talking nonsense all the time
o dear me,       that i could be   a sailor on the rain-pool sea,   a climber in the clover-tree,   and just come back, a sleepy-head,   late at night to go to bed.
robert louis stevenson
a lobster quadrille
"will you walk a little faster?"
said a whiting to a snail,   "there's a porpoise close behind us, and he's treading on my tail.
see how eagerly the lobsters and the turtles all advance!
they are waiting on the shingle will you come and join the dance?
will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?
"you can really have no notion how delightful it will be   when they take us up and throw us, with the lobsters, out to sea!"
but the snail replied, "too far, too far!"
and gave a look askance
said he thanked the whiting kindly, but he would not join the dance.
would not, could not, would not, could not, would not join the dance,   would not, could not, would not, could not, could not join the dance.
"what matters it how far we go?"
his scaly friend replied,   "there is another shore, you know, upon the other side.
the further off from england the nearer is to france
then turn not pale, beloved snail, but come and join the dance.
will you, won't you, will you, won't you, will you join the dance?
will you, won't you, will you, won't you, won't you join the dance?"
lewis carroll
where go the boats?
dark brown is the river,     golden is the sand.
it flows along forever     with trees on either hand.
green leaves a-floating,     castles of the foam,   boats of mine a-boating
where will all come home?
on goes the river     and out past the mill,   away down the valley,     away down the hill.
away down the river,     a hundred miles or more,   other little children     shall bring my boats ashore.
robert louis stevenson
the wind and the moon
said the wind to the moon, "i will blow you out;               you stare               in the air               like a ghost in a chair,   always looking what i am about
i hate to be watched; i'll blow you out."
the wind blew hard, and out went the moon.
so, deep               on a heap               of clouds to sleep,   down lay the wind, and slumbered soon,   muttering low, "i've done for that moon."
he turned in his bed; she was there again!
on high               in the sky,               with her one ghost eye,   the moon shone white and alive and plain.
said the wind, "i will blow you out again."
the wind blew hard, and the moon grew dim.
"with my sledge,               and my wedge,   i have knocked off her edge!
if only i blow right fierce and grim,   the creature will soon be dimmer than dim."
he blew and he blew, and she thinned to a thread,               "one puff               more's enough               to blow her to snuff!
one good puff more where the last was bred,   and glimmer, glimmer, glum will go the thread."
he blew a great blast, and the thread was gone.
in the air               nowhere               was a moonbeam bare;   far off and harmless the shy stars shone
sure and certain the moon was gone!
the wind he took to his revels once more;               on down,               in town,               like a merry-mad clown,   he leaped and hallooed with whistle and roar
"what's that?"
the glimmering thread once more!
he flew in a rage he danced and blew;               but in vain               was the pain               of his bursting brain;   for still the broader the moon-scrap grew,   the broader he swelled his big cheeks and blew.
slowly she grew till she filled the night,               and shone               on her throne               in the sky alone,   a matchless, wonderful silvery light,   radiant and lovely, the queen of the night.
said the wind: "what a marvel of power am i!
with my breath,               good faith!
i blew her to death
first blew her away right out of the sky
then blew her in; what strength have i!"
but the moon she knew nothing about the affair;               for high               in the sky,               with her one white eye,   motionless, miles above the air,   she had never heard the great wind blare.
george macdonald
where are you going, my pretty maid?
"where are you going, my pretty maid?"
"i am going a-milking, sir," she said.
"may i go with you, my pretty maid?"
"you're kindly welcome, sir," she said.
"what is your father, my pretty maid?"
"my father's a farmer, sir," she said.
"what is your fortune, my pretty maid?"
"my face is my fortune, sir," she said.
"then i won't marry your my pretty maid."
"nobody asked you, sir," she said.
anonymous
the lost doll
i once had a sweet little doll, dears,     the prettiest doll in the world;   her cheeks were so red and white, dears,     and her hair was so charmingly curled.
but i lost my poor little doll, dears,     as i played on the heath one day;   and i cried for her more than a week, dears,     but i never could find where she lay.
i found my poor little doll, dears,     as i played on the heath one day;   folks say she is terribly changed, dears,     for her paint is all washed away,   and her arms trodden off by the cows, dears,     and her hair not the least bit curled;   yet for old sake's sake, she is still, dears,     the prettiest doll in the world.
charles kingsley
foreign lands
up into the cherry tree   who should climb but little me?
i held the trunk with both my hands   and looked abroad on foreign lands.
i saw the next-door garden lie,   adorned with flowers, before my eye,   and many pleasant faces more   that i had never seen before.
i saw the dimpling river pass   and be the sky's blue looking-glass;   the dusty roads go up and down   with people tramping in to town.
if i could find a higher tree   farther and farther i should see,   to where the grown-up river slips   into the sea among the ships,
to where the roads on either hand   lead onward into fairy land,   where all the children dine at five,   and all the playthings come alive.
robert louis stevenson
bed in summer
in winter i get up at night   and dress by yellow candle-light.
in summer, quite the other way,   i have to go to bed by day.
i have to go to bed and see   the birds still hopping on the tree,   or hear the grown-up people's feet   still going past me in the street.
and does it not seem hard to you,   when all the sky is clear and blue,   and i should like so much to play,   to have to go to bed by day?
robert louis stevenson
try again
'tis a lesson you should heed,         try, try, try again;   if at first you don't succeed,         try, try, try again.
once or twice though you should fail         try again;   if you would at last prevail,         try again.
if we strive, 'tis no disgrace   though we may not win the race;   what should you do in that case?
try again.
if you find your task is hard,         try again;   time will bring you your reward,         try again.
all that other folks can do,   with your patience should not you?
only keep this rule in view
try again.
anonymous
a good play
we built a ship upon the stairs   all made of the back-bedroom chairs,   and filled it full of sofa pillows   to go a-sailing on the billows.
we took a saw and several nails,   and water in the nursery pails;   and tom said, "let us also take   an apple and a slice of cake;"
which was enough for tom and me   to go a-sailing on, till tea.
we sailed along for days and days,   and had the very best of plays;   but tom fell out and hurt his knee,   so there was no one left but me.
robert louis stevenson
good night and good morning
a fair little girl sat under a tree   sewing as long as her eyes could see;   then smoothed her work and folded it right,   and said, "dear work, good night, good night!"
such a number of rooks came over her head,   crying, "caw, caw!"
on their way to bed,   she said, as she watched their curious flight,   "little black things, good night, good night!"
the horses neighed, and the oxen lowed,   the sheep's "bleat!
bleat!"
came over the road;   all seeming to say, with a quiet delight,   "good little girl, good night, good night!"
she did not say to the sun, "good night!"
though she saw him there like a ball of light;   for she knew he had god's time to keep   all over the world and never could sleep.
the tall pink foxglove bowed his head;   the violets courtesied, and went to bed;   and good little lucy tied up her hair,   and said, on her knees, her favorite prayer.
and, while on her pillow she softly lay,   she knew nothing more till again it was day;   and all things said to the beautiful sun,   "good morning, good morning!
our work is begun."
richard monckton milnes (lord houghton)
the wind
i saw you toss the kites on high   and blow the birds about the sky;   and all around i heard you pass,   like ladies' skirts across the grass
o wind, a-blowing all day long,     o wind, that sings so loud a song!
i saw the different things you did,   but always you yourself you hid.
i felt you push, i heard you call,   i could not see yourself at all
o wind, a-blowing all day long,     o wind, that sings so loud a song!
o you that are so strong and cold,   o blower, are you young or old?
are you a beast of field and tree,   or just a stronger child than me?
o wind, a-blowing all day long,     o wind, that sings so loud a song!
robert louis stevenson
the spider and the fly
"will you walk into my parlor?"
said the spider to the fly;   "'tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy.
the way into my parlor is up a winding stair,   and i have many curious things to show when you are there."
"oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain,   for who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."
"i'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high.
will you rest upon my little bed?"
said the spider to the fly.
"there are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin,   and if you like to rest a while, i'll snugly tuck you in!"
"oh no, no," said the little fly, "for i've often heard it said,   they never, never wake again who sleep upon your bed!"
said the cunning spider to the fly: "dear friend, what can i do   to prove the warm affection i've always felt for you?
i have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;   i'm sure you're very welcome will you please to take a slice?"
"oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be:
i've heard what's in your pantry, and i do not wish to see!"
"sweet creature!"
said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise;   how handsome are your gauzy wings; how brilliant are your eyes!
i have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;   if you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself."
"i thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you're pleased to say,   and, bidding you good morning now, i'll call another day."
the spider turned him round about, and went into his den,   for well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again:
so he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,   and set his table ready to dine upon the fly;   then came out to his door again, and merrily did sing:
"come hither, hither, pretty fly, with pearl and silver wing;   your robes are green and purple; there's a crest upon your head;   your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"
alas, alas!
how very soon this silly little fly,   hearing his wily, flattering words, came slowly flitting by;   with buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,   thinking only of her brilliant eyes and green and purple hue,   thinking only of her crested head.
poor, foolish thing!
at last   up jumped the cunning spider, and fiercely held her fast;   he dragged her up his winding stair, into the dismal den
within his little parlor but she ne'er came out again!
and now, dear little children, who may this story read,   to idle, silly, flattering words i pray you ne'er give heed;   unto an evil counselor close heart and ear and eye,   and take a lesson from this tale of the spider and the fly.
mary howitt
let dogs delight to bark and bite
let dogs delight to bark and bite,     for god hath made them so;   let bears and lions growl and fight,     for 'tis their nature to;
but, children, you should never let     your angry passions rise:
your little hands were never made     to tear each other's eyes.
let love through all your actions run,     and all your words be mild;   live like the blessèd virgin's son,
that sweet and lovely child.
his soul was gentle as a lamb;     and as his stature grew,   he grew in favor both with man     and god his father, too.
now, lord of all, he reigns above;     and from his heavenly throne,   he sees what children dwell in love,     and marks them for his own.
isaac watts
child's evening hymn
now the day is over,     night is drawing nigh,   shadows of the evening     steal across the sky.
now the darkness gathers,     stars begin to peep,   birds and beasts and flowers     soon will be asleep.
jesu, give the weary     calm and sweet repose;   with thy tenderest blessing     may our eyelids close.
grant to little children     visions bright of thee;   guard the sailors tossing     on the deep blue sea.
comfort every sufferer     watching late in pain;   those who plan some evil     from their sin restrain.
through the long night-watches     may thine angels spread   their white wings above me,     watching round my bed.
when the morning wakens,     then may i arise   pure and fresh and sinless     in thy holy eyes.
glory to the father,     glory to the son,   and to thee, blessed spirit,     whilst all ages run.
amen.
sabine baring-gould
children's favorite stories
hansel and gretel
many years ago, a woodcutter and his wife, with their two children, hansel and gretel, lived upon the outskirts of a dense wood.
they were very poor, so that when a famine fell upon the land, and bread became dear, they could no longer afford to buy sufficient food for the whole family.
one night, as the poor man lay tossing on his hard bed, he cried aloud in his grief and anguish:
"alas!
what will become of us?
how can i feed my hungry little ones when we have no food for ourselves?"
"listen to me, good-man," answered his wife, who was stepmother to the children.
"as it is no longer possible for us to keep our children, we will take them into the wood with us tomorrow, light a fire for them, and give each a piece of bread and leave them.
they will not easily find their way back, and so we shall be rid of the burden of them."
but the father said: "no, no!
i could not find it in my heart to leave my darlings to perish.
the wild beasts would tear them limb from limb."
"then," answered the wife, "we must all four die of hunger."
she gave her husband no peace until he promised to do as she wished, and at last, very unwillingly, he consented.
now, the two children had been too hungry to go to sleep that night, and so it happened that they overheard all that their parents were saying.
gretel wept bitterly, but brave little hansel did his best to comfort her.
"don't be afraid," he said; "i will take care of you."
as soon as his father and stepmother were asleep, he slipped on his coat, and-opening the door softly, went out into the garden.
the moon was shining brightly, and by its light he could see the little white pebbles that lay scattered in front of the house, shining like little pieces of silver.
he stooped and filled his pockets as full as he could, and then went back to gretel, and once more bidding her be comforted, for god would be sure to watch over them, he jumped into bed, and they both fell fast asleep.
early in the morning, before the sun had risen, the stepmother came and wakened the children.
"rise, little lie-a-beds," she said, "and come with us into the wood to gather fuel."
she gave them each a piece of bread for their dinner, and told them to be sure not to eat it too soon, for they would get nothing more.
gretel carried the bread in her pinafore, because hansel had his pockets full, and then they all set out upon their way to the wood.
as they trudged along, the father noticed that his little son kept turning back to look at the house.
"take care, my boy," he said, "or you will slip.
what are you looking at so earnestly?"
"i am watching my kitten, father: she is sitting on the roof to bid me good-by."
"silly little lad, that is not your cat," said the stepmother; "it is only the morning sun shining on the chimney."
but hansel had not been watching his cat at all; he had stayed behind to drop the pebbles upon the path.
when they reached the thickest part of the forest, the father bade the children gather wood, that he might kindle a fire for them, so that they might rest beside it and warm themselves whilst he and his wife were cutting the fuel.
so they gathered a pile of brushwood and twigs, and as soon as it was well alight, the parents left them, promising to return as soon as they had finished their work.
hansel and gretel sat down by the fire, and when midday came they ate their bread and sat listening to the strokes of their father's axe, thinking all the time that he was near to them.
but what they heard was only a dry branch which the man had bound to a tree, so that the wind swung it hither and thither, and the noise it made deceived the children.
at last the poor, tired, little eyelids closed, and, side by side, brother and sister fell asleep.
when they awoke, the night was very dark, and gretel was frightened, and began to cry.
hansel put his arms around her and whispered.
"wait, dearie, till the moon rises; we shall soon find our way home then."
as soon as the bright moon rose, hansel took his little sister by the hand, and all night long they followed the track of the little white pebbles, until at daybreak they came to their father's house.
they knocked at the door, and no sooner did the stepmother open it than she began to scold them for having stayed out so long in the wood; but the father greeted them kindly, for he had grieved sorely for his little ones.
in a short time they were as badly off as ever, and one night they again heard their mother trying to persuade her husband to take them out into the wood and lose them.
"there is nothing left in the house but half a loaf of bread," she said; "for our own sakes it is better to get rid of the children; but this time we will lead them farther away, so that they will not be able to find their way home."
but the man would not agree.
"better to divide our last morsel with them," he said, "and then die together."
his wife would not listen to what he said, but scolded him for his want of thought for her; and at last the poor man gave way a second time, just as he had done at first.
but the children had overheard all that was said, and as soon as the mother and father were asleep, hansel stole down to the door, meaning to go and collect pebbles as he had done before; but the door was locked and bolted, and he could not get out.
"never mind, gretel," he said consolingly, "the good god will surely help us."
early in the morning the woman wakened the children, and, giving them a small piece of bread, bade them follow her and their father into the wood.
as they went, hansel crumbled his morsel of bread in his pocket and strewed the crumbs upon the path.
"come, hansel," said the father, "don't loiter so, sonny.
what can you see to stare at so often?"
"my little dove, father.
it is sitting on the housetop, bidding me good-by."
"nonsense," said the woman, "it is not your dove; it is only the rising sun shining upon the chimney."
hansel did not answer, but he went on strewing his crumbs carefully until the last morsel of bread was gone.
deeper and deeper into the wood they went, where the children had never been before.
there a great fire was kindled, and the mother said: "stay here, children, whilst your father and i go to cut wood.
if you are tired you may sleep a while, and we will fetch you when it is time to go home."
when dinner-time came, gretel divided her piece of bread with hansel, because he had scattered all his share upon the road; and then they went to sleep.
the evening shadows fell, but still no one came to fetch the poor children, and it was not until midnight that they awakened.
hansel put his arms round his sister and told her not to fear, for when the moon rose they would easily be able to see the crumbs, and so find their way home again.
so when the moon rose they set out upon their way; but alas!
there were no crumbs to be seen, for the little birds that lived in the green wood were as hungry as the children, and had eaten them all up.
"we will find the way somehow," cried cheerful little hansel; but though they traveled all night long, and the next day too, they could not find it.
poor little mites, how tired and hungry they were, for they had nothing to eat but the berries that grew by the roadside!
when at length the weary little feet could go no farther, the children lay down beneath a tree and slept.
on the third day they were still as far away as ever, and it seemed to them that the longer they walked the deeper they got into the wood, and they began to be afraid that they would die of cold and hunger.
but presently, when the midday sun was shining brightly, they noticed a little snow-white bird singing so sweetly that they could not help but stay to listen.
when the birdie's song was ended, he spread his wings and flew away.
the children followed him until they reached a little house, on the roof of which he perched.
then the children saw with surprise that the strange little house was built entirely of bread, roofed with cakes, and with windows of barley sugar.
"see, gretel," cried hansel joyfully, "there is food for us in plenty.
i will take a piece of the roof, and you shall have one of the windows."
he stretched out his hand to help himself, and gretel had already begun to nibble one of the window-panes, when suddenly they heard a voice call from within:
"nibbly, nibbly, mouse!
who's nibbling at my house?"
the children answered quickly:
"'tis my lady wind that blows,   as round about the house she goes."
and then they went on eating as though nothing had happened for the cake of which the roof was made just suited hansel's taste, whilst the barley-sugar window-panes were better than any sweetmeat gretel had ever tasted before.
all at once the door of the cottage flew wide open, and out came an old, old woman, leaning upon a crutch.
the children were so frightened that they dropped their food and clung to each other.
the old woman nodded her head to them, and said: "who brought you here, my pets?
come inside, come inside; no one will hurt you."
she took their hands and led them into the house, and set before them all kinds of delicious foods, milk, sugared pancakes, apples, and nuts.
when they had finished their meal she showed them two cosy little white beds, and as hansel and gretel lay snugly tucked up in them, they thought to themselves that surely they had now found the most delightful place in the whole wide world.
but the old woman had only pretended to be friendly and kind, for she was really a wicked old witch, who was always lying in wait to catch little children, indeed, she had built the little house of bread and cakes especially to entice them in.
whenever anyone came into her power, she cooked and ate him, and thought what a fine feast she had had.
witches have red eyes and cannot see far, but they have keen scent, like animals, and can tell at once when a human being is near to them.
as soon as hansel and gretel came into her neighborhood she laughed to herself and said mockingly: "ha, ha!
they are mine already; they will not easily escape me."
early in the morning, before the children were awake, she stood beside them and admired their rosy cheeks and soft round limbs.
"what nice tit-bits for me," murmured she.
then, seizing hansel by the hand, she led him to a little stable, and, in spite of his cries and screams, shut him up and left him.
then she shook gretel until she was awake, and bade her get up at once and carry food and drink to her brother, and it must be of the best too, for she wished to fatten him.
"when he is nice and plump, i shall eat him," said the cruel old witch.
gretel wept bitterly, but it was quite in vain, for she was obliged to do the witch's bidding; and every day she cooked the choicest food for her brother, while she herself lived upon nothing but oyster-shells.
day by day the old woman visited the stable and called to hansel to put his finger through the window bars, that she might see if he were getting fat; but the little fellow held out a bone instead, and as her eyes were dim with age, she mistook the bone for the boy's finger, and thought how thin and lean he was.
when a whole month had passed without hansel becoming the least bit fatter, the old witch lost patience and declared she would wait no longer.
"hurry, gretel," she said to the little girl, "fill the pot with water, for to-morrow, be he lean or fat, hansel shall be cooked for my dinner."
the tears chased each other down gretel's cheeks as she carried in the water, and she sobbed aloud in her grief.
"dear god," she cried, "we have no one to help us but thou.
alas!
if only the wild beasts in the wood had devoured us, at least we should have died together."
"cease your chattering," cried the old witch angrily.
"it will not help you, so you may as well be still."
the next morning poor gretel was forced to light the fire and hang the great pot of water over it, and then the witch said: "first we will bake.
i have kneaded the dough, and heated the oven; you shall creep inside it to see if it is hot enough to bake the bread."
but gretel guessed that the old witch meant to shut the door upon her and roast her, so she pretended that she did not know how to get in.
"silly goose," said the witch.
"the door is wide enough, to be sure.
why, even i could get inside it."
as she spoke, she popped her head into the oven.
in a moment gretel sprang towards her, pushed her inside, shut the iron door, and shot the bolt.
oh!
how she squealed and shrieked, but gretel ran off as fast as she could, and so there was an end of the cruel old witch.
quick as thought, gretel ran to her brother.
"we are saved, hansel,"
she cried, opening the door of the stable, "the wicked old witch is dead."
hansel flew from his prison as a bird from its cage, and the two happy little children kissed each other and jumped for joy.
no longer afraid of the old witch, they entered the house, hand in hand, and then they saw that in every corner of the room were boxes of pearls and diamonds, and all kinds of precious gems.
"ah!"
said hansel merrily, "these are better than pebbles, gretel,"
and he stuffed his pockets with the jewels, whilst gretel filled her pinafore.
"now," said hansel, "we will leave the witch's wood behind us as fast as we can."
so off they ran, and never stopped until they came to a lake, upon which swam a large white duck.
"how can we cross," said hansel, "for there is no bridge anywhere?"
"and no ship either," gretel answered; "but we will ask the pretty white duck to carry us over."
so they cried aloud:
"little duck, little duck,   with wings so white,   carry us over   the waters bright."
the duck came at once, and, taking hansel upon her back, carried him over to the other side, and then did the same for gretel.
they went merrily on their way, and very soon they found themselves in a part of the wood they knew quite well.
when they saw the roof of their father's house in the distance they began to run, and, breathless with haste, half laughing and half crying, they rushed into the cottage and flung themselves into their father's arms.
oh!
how pleased he was to see them once again, for he had not known a happy hour since he had left them alone in the wood.
gretel shook out her pinafore, and hansel emptied his pockets, and the floor of the little room was quite covered with glittering precious stones.
so now their troubles were at an end, for the cruel stepmother was dead, and hansel and gretel and their father lived together happily ever after.
my story is ended, and see, there runs a little mouse, and the first who catches him shall have a fur cap made from his skin.
the fair catherine and pif-paf poltrie
"good day, father hollenthe.
how do you do?"
"very well, i thank you, pif-paf poltrie."
"may i marry your daughter?"
"oh, yes!
if the mother malcho (milk-cow), the brother hohenstolz (high and mighty), the sister kâsetraut (cheese-maker), and the fair catherine are willing, it may be so."
"where is, then, the mother malcho?"
"in the stable, milking the cow."
"good day, mother malcho.
how do you do?"
"very well, i thank you, pif-paf poltrie."
"may i marry your daughter?"
"oh, yes!
if the father hollenthe, the brother hohenstolz, the sister kâsetraut, and the fair catherine are willing, it may be so."
"where is, then, the brother hohenstolz?"
"in the yard, chopping up the wood."
"good day, brother hohenstolz.
how are you?"
"very well, i thank you, pif-paf poltrie."
"may i marry your sister?"
"oh, yes!
if the father hollenthe, the mother malcho, the sister kâsetraut, and the fair catherine are willing, it may be so.
"where is, then, the sister kâsetraut?"
"in the garden, cutting the cabbages."
"good day, sister kâsetraut.
how do you do?"
"very well, i thank you, pif-paf poltrie."
"may i marry your sister?"
"oh, yes!
if the father hollenthe, the mother malcho, the brother hohenstolz, and the fair catherine are willing, it may be so."
"where is, then, the fair catherine?"
"in her chamber, counting out her pennies."
"good day, fair catherine.
how do you do?"
"very well, i thank you, pif-paf poltrie."
"will you be my bride?"
"oh, yes!
if the father hollenthe, the mother malcho, the brother hohenstolz, and the sister kâsetraut are willing, so am i."
"how much money have you, fair catherine?"
"fourteen pennies in bare money, two and a half farthings owing to me, half a pound of dried apples, a handful of prunes, and a handful of roots; and don't you call that a capital dowry?
pif-paf poltrie, what trade are you?
are you a tailor?"
"better than that."
"a shoemaker?"
"better still!"
"a plowman?"
"better still!"
"a joiner?"
"better still!"
"a smith?"
"better still!"
"a miller?"
"better still!"
"perhaps a broom-binder?"
"yes, so i am; now, is not that a pretty trade?"
the wolf and the fox
a wolf, once upon a time, caught a fox.
it happened one day that they were both going through the forest, and the wolf said to his companion: "get me some food, or i will eat you up."
the fox replied: "i know a farmyard where there are a couple of young lambs, which, if you wish, we will fetch."
this proposal pleased the wolf, so they went, and the fox, stealing first one of the lambs, brought it to the wolf, and then ran away.
the wolf devoured it quickly, but was not contented, and went to fetch the other lamb by himself, but he did it so awkwardly that he aroused the attention of the mother, who began to cry and bleat loudly, so that the peasants ran up.
there they found the wolf, and beat him so unmercifully that he ran, howling and limping, to the fox, and said:
"you have led me to a nice place, for, when i went to fetch the other lamb, the peasants came and beat me terribly!"
"why are you such a glutton, then?"
asked the fox.
the next day they went again into the fields, and the covetous wolf said to the fox: "get me something to eat now, or i will devour you!"
the fox said he knew a country house where the cook was going that evening to make some pancakes, and thither they went.
when they arrived, the fox sneaked and crept around round the house, until he at last discovered where the dish was standing, out of which he stole six pancakes, and took them to the wolf, saying, "there is something for you to eat!"
and then ran away.
the wolf dispatched these in a minute or two, and, wishing to taste some more, he went and seized the dish, but took it away so hurriedly that it broke in pieces.
the noise of its fall brought out the woman, who, as soon as she saw the wolf, called her people, who, hastening up, beat him with such a good will that he ran home to the fox, howling, with two lame legs!
"what a horrid place you have drawn me into now," cried he; "the peasants have caught me, and dressed my skin finely!"
"why, then, are you such a glutton?"
said the fox.
when they went out again the third day, the wolf limping along with weariness, he said to the fox: "get me something to eat now, or i will devour you!"
the fox said he knew a man who had just killed a pig, and salted the meat down in a cask in his cellar, and that they could get at it.
the wolf replied that he would go with him on condition that he helped him if he could not escape.
"oh, of course i will, on mine own account!"
said the fox, and showed him the tricks and ways by which they could get into the cellar.
when they went in there was meat in abundance, and the wolf was enraptured at the sight.
the fox, too, had a taste, but kept looking round while eating, and ran frequently to the hole by which they had entered, to see if his body would slip through it easily.
presently the wolf asked: "why are you running about so, you fox, jumping in and out?"
"i want to see if any one is coming,"
replied the fox cunningly; "but mind you do not eat too much!"
the wolf said he would not leave till the cask was quite empty; and meanwhile the peasant, who had heard the noise made by the fox, entered the cellar.
the fox, as soon as he saw him, made a spring, and was through the hole in a jiffy; and the wolf tried to follow his example, but he had eaten so much that his body was too big for the opening, and he stuck fast.
then came the peasant with a cudgel, and beat him sorely; but the fox leaped away into the forest, very glad to get rid of the old glutton.
discreet hans
hans's mother asked: "whither are you going, hans?"
"to grethel's,"
replied he.
"behave well, hans."
"i will take care; good-by, mother."
"good-by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day," said he.
"good day," replied grethel, "what treasure do you bring to-day?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel presented hans with a needle.
"good-by," said he.
"good-by, hans."
hans took the needle, stuck it in a load of hay, and walked home behind the wagon.
"good evening, mother."
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's."
"and what have you given her?"
"nothing; she has given me something."
"what has grethel given you?"
"a needle," said hans.
"and where have you put it?"
"in the load of hay."
"then you have behaved stupidly, hans; you should put needles on your coat-sleeve."
"to behave better, do nothing at all," thought hans.
"whither are you going, hans?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"behave well, hans."
"i will take care; good-by, mother."
"good-by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day," said he.
"good day, hans.
what treasure do you bring?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel gave hans a knife.
"good-by, grethel."
"good-by, hans."
hans took the knife, put it in his sleeve, and went home.
"good evening, mother."
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's."
"and what did you take to her?"
"i took nothing; she has given to me."
"and what did she give you?"
"a knife," said hans.
"and where have you put it?"
"in my sleeve."
"then you have behaved foolishly again, hans; you should put knives in your pocket."
"to behave better, do nothing at all," thought hans.
"whither are you going, hans?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"behave well, hans."
"i will take care; good-by, mother."
"good-by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day, grethel."
"good day, hans.
what treasure do you bring?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel gave hans a young goat.
"good-by, grethel."
"good-by, hans."
hans took the goat, tied its legs, and put it in his pocket.
just as he reached home it was suffocated.
"good evening, mother."
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's."
"and what did you take to her?"
"i took nothing; she gave to me."
"and what did grethel give you?"
"a goat."
"where did you put it, hans?"
"in my pocket."
"there you acted stupidly, hans; you should have tied the goat with a rope."
"to behave better, do nothing," thought hans.
"whither away, hans?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"behave well, hans."
"i'll take care; good-by, mother."
"good-by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day," said he.
"good day, hans.
what treasure do you bring?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel gave hans a piece of bacon.
"good-by, grethel."
"good-by, hans."
hans took the bacon, tied it with a rope, and swung it to and fro so that the dogs came and ate it up.
when he reached home he held the rope in his hand, but there was nothing on it.
"good evening, mother," said he.
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"what did you take there?"
"i took nothing; she gave to me."
"and what did grethel give you?"
"a piece of bacon," said hans.
"and where have you put it?"
"i tied it with a rope, swung it about, and the dogs came and ate it up."
"there you acted stupidly, hans; you should have carried the bacon on your head."
"to behave better, do nothing," thought hans.
"whither away, hans?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"behave well, hans."
"i'll take care; good-by, mother."
"good-by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day," said he.
"good day, hans.
what treasure do you bring?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel gave hans a calf.
"good-by," said hans.
"good-by."
hans took the calf, set it on his head, and the calf scratched his face.
"good evening, mother."
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's."
"what did you take her?"
"i took nothing; she gave to me."
"and what did grethel give you?"
"a calf," said hans.
"and what did you do with it?"
"i set it on my head, and it kicked my face."
"then you acted stupidly, hans; you should have led the calf home, and put it in the stall."
"to behave better, do nothing," thought hans.
"whither away, hans?"
"to grethel's, mother."
"behave well, hans."
"i'll take care; good-by, mother."
"good by, hans."
hans came to grethel.
"good day," said he.
"good day, hans.
what treasure do you bring?"
"i bring nothing.
have you anything to give?"
grethel said: "i will go with you, hans."
hans tied a rope round grethel, led her home, put her in the stall, and made the rope fast; and then he went to his mother.
"good evening, mother."
"good evening, hans.
where have you been?"
"to grethel's."
"what did you take her?"
"i took nothing."
"what did grethel give you?"
"she gave nothing; she came with me."
"and where have you left her, then?"
"i tied her with a rope, put her in the stall, and threw in some grass."
"then you acted stupidly, hans; you should have looked at her with friendly eyes."
"to behave better, do nothing," thought hans; and then he went into the stall, and made sheep's eyes at grethel.
and after that grethel became hans's wife.
puss in boots
once upon a time there was a miller, who was so poor that at his death he had nothing to leave to his three children but his mill, his ass, and his cat.
the eldest son took the mill, and the second the ass, so there was nothing left for poor jack but to take puss.
jack could not help thinking that he had been treated shabbily.
"my brothers will be able to earn an honest livelihood," he sighed, "but as for me, though puss may feed himself by catching mice, i shall certainly die of hunger."
the cat, who had overheard his young master, jumped upon his shoulder, and, rubbing himself gently against his cheek, began to speak.
"dear master," said he, "do not grieve.
i am not as useless as you think me, and will undertake to make your fortune for you, if only you will buy me a pair of boots, and give me that old bag."
now, jack had very little money to spare, but, knowing puss to be a faithful old friend, he made up his mind to trust him, and so spent all he possessed upon a smart pair of boots made of buff-colored leather.
they fitted perfectly, so puss put them on, took the old bag which his master gave him, and trotted off to a neighboring warren in which he knew there was a great number of rabbits.
having put some bran and fresh parsley into the bag, he laid it upon the ground, hid himself, and waited.
presently two foolish little rabbits, sniffing the food, ran straight into the bag, when the clever cat drew the strings and caught them.
then, slinging the bag over his shoulder, he hastened off to the palace, where he asked to speak to the king.
having been shown into the royal presence, he bowed and said:
"sire, my lord the marquis of carabas has commanded me to present these rabbits to your majesty, with his respects."
the monarch having desired his thanks to be given to the marquis (who, as you will guess, was really our poor jack), then ordered his head cook to dress the rabbits for dinner, and he and his daughter partook of them with great enjoyment.
day by day puss brought home stores of good food, so that he and his master lived in plenty, and besides that, he did not fail to keep the king and his courtiers well supplied with game.
sometimes he would lay a brace of partridges at the royal feet, sometimes a fine large hare, but whatever it was, it always came with the same message: "from my lord the marquis of carabas"; so that everyone at court was talking of this strange nobleman, whom no one had ever seen, but who sent such generous presents to his majesty.
at length puss decided that it was time for his master to be introduced at court.
so one day he persuaded him to go and bathe in a river near, having heard that the king would soon pass that way.
jack stood shivering up to his neck in water, wondering what was to happen next, when suddenly the king's carriage appeared in sight.
at once puss began to call out as loudly as he could:
"help, help!
my lord the marquis of carabas is drowning!"
the king put his head out of the carriage window and, recognizing the cat, ordered his attendants to go to the assistance of the marquis.
while jack was being taken out of the water, puss ran to the king and told him that some robbers had run off with his master's clothes whilst he was bathing, the truth of the matter being that the cunning cat had hidden them under a stone.
on hearing this story the king instantly despatched one of his grooms to fetch a handsome suit of purple and gold from the royal wardrobe, and arrayed in this, jack, who was a fine, handsome fellow, looked so well that no one for a moment supposed but that he was some noble foreign lord.
the king and his daughter were so pleased with his appearance that they invited him into their carriage.
at first jack hesitated, for he felt a little shy about sitting next to a princess, but she smiled at him so sweetly, and was so kind and gentle, that he soon forgot his fears and fell in love with her there and then.
as soon as puss had seen his master seated in the royal carriage, he whispered directions to the coachman, and then ran on ahead as fast as he could trot, until he came to a field of corn, where the reapers were busy.
"reapers," said he fiercely, "the king will shortly pass this way.
if he should ask you to whom this field belongs, remember that you say, 'to the marquis of carabas.'
if you dare to disobey me, i will have you all chopped up as fine as mincemeat."
the reapers were so afraid the cat would keep his word that they promised to obey.
puss then ran on and told all the other laborers whom he met to give the same answer, threatening them with terrible punishments if they disobeyed.
now, the king was in a very good humor, for the day was fine, and he found the marquis a very pleasant companion, so he told the coachman to drive slowly, in order that he might admire the beautiful country.
"what a fine field of wheat!"
he said presently.
"to whom does it belong?"
then the men answered as they had been told: "to our lord the marquis of carabas."
next they met a herd of cattle, and again to the king's question, "to whom do they belong?"
they were told, "to the marquis of carabas."
and it was the same with everything they passed.
the marquis listened with the greatest astonishment, and thought what a very wonderful cat his dear puss was; and the king was delighted to find that his new friend was as wealthy as he was charming.
meanwhile puss, who was well in advance of the royal party, had arrived at a stately castle, which belonged to a cruel ogre, the richest ever known, for all the lands the king had admired so much belonged to him.
puss knocked at the door and asked to see the ogre, who received him quite civilly, for he had never seen a cat in boots before, and the sight amused him.
so he and puss were soon chatting away together.
the ogre, who was very conceited, began to boast of what clever tricks he could play, and puss sat and listened, with a smile on his face.
"i once heard, great ogre," he said at last, "that you possessed the power of changing yourself into any kind of animal you chose a lion or an elephant, for instance."
"well, so i can," replied the ogre.
"dear me!
how much i should like to see you do it now," said puss sweetly.
the ogre was only too pleased to find a chance of showing how very clever he was, so he promised to transform himself into any animal puss might mention.
"oh!
i will leave the choice to you," said the cat politely.
immediately there appeared where the ogre had been seated, an enormous lion, roaring, and lashing with its tail, and looking as though it meant to gobble the cat up in a trice.
puss was really very much frightened, and, jumping out of the window, managed to scramble on to the roof, though he could scarcely hold on to the tiles on account of his high-heeled boots.
there he sat, refusing to come down, until the ogre changed himself into his natural form, and laughingly called to him that he would not hurt him.
then puss ventured back into the room, and began to compliment the ogre on his cleverness.
"of course, it was all very wonderful," he said, "but it would be more wonderful still if you, who are so great and fierce, could transform yourself into some timid little creature, such as a mouse.
that, i suppose, would be quite impossible?"
"not at all," said the vain ogre; "one is quite as easy to me as the other, as i will show you."
and in a moment a little brown mouse was frisking about all over the floor, whilst the ogre had vanished.
"now or never," said puss, and with a spring he seized the mouse and gobbled it up as fast as he could.
at the same moment all the gentlemen and ladies whom the wicked ogre had held in his castle under a spell, became disenchanted.
they were so grateful to their deliverer that they would have done anything to please him, and readily agreed to enter into the service of the marquis of carabas when puss asked them to do so.
so now the cat had a splendid castle, which he knew to be full of heaped-up treasures, at his command, and ordering a magnificent feast to be prepared, he took up his station at the castle gates to welcome his master and the royal party.
as soon as the castle appeared in sight, the king enquired whose it was, "for," said he, "i have never seen a finer."
then puss, bowing low, threw open the castle gates, and cried:
"may it please your majesty to alight and enter the home of the most noble the marquis of carabas."
full of surprise, the king turned to the marquis.
"is this splendid castle indeed yours?"
he asked.
"not even our own palace is more beautiful, and doubtless it is as splendid within as without."
puss then helped his majesty to alight, and conducted him into the castle, where a group of noble gentlemen and fair ladies were waiting to receive them.
jack, or the marquis as he was now called, gave his hand to the young princess, and led her to the banquet.
long and merrily they feasted, and when at length the guests rose to depart, the king embraced the marquis, and called him his dear son; and the princess blushed so charmingly and looked so shy and sweet, that jack ventured to lay his heart and fortune at her feet.
and so the miller's son married the king's daughter, and there were great rejoicings throughout the land.
on the evening of the wedding-day a great ball was given, to which princes and noblemen from far and near were invited.
puss opened the ball, wearing for the occasion a pair of boots made of the finest leather, with gold tassels and scarlet heels.
i only wish you could have seen him.
when the old king died, the princess and her husband reigned in his stead, and their most honored and faithful friend at court was puss himself, for his master never forgot to whom he owed all his good fortune.
he lived upon the daintiest meat and most delicious cream, and was petted and made much of all the days of his life, and never again ran after mice and rats, except for exercise and amusement.
the elves and the shoemaker
there was once a shoemaker who, through no fault of his own, had become so poor that at last he had only leather enough left for one pair of shoes.
at evening he cut out the shoes which he intended to begin upon the next morning, and since he had a good conscience, he lay down quietly, said his prayers, and fell asleep.
in the morning when he had prayed, as usual, and was preparing to sit down to work, he found the pair of shoes standing finished on his table.
he was amazed, and could not understand it in the least.
he took the shoes in his hand to examine them more closely.
they were so neatly sewn that not a stitch was out of place, and were as good as the work of a master-hand.
soon after a purchaser came in, and as he was much pleased with the shoes, he paid more than the ordinary price for them, so that the shoemaker was able to buy leather for two pairs with the money.
he cut them out in the evening, and next day, with fresh courage was about to go to work; but he had no need to, for when he got up, the shoes were finished, and buyers were not lacking.
these gave him so much money that he was able to buy leather for four pairs of shoes.
early next morning he found the four pairs finished, and so it went on; what he cut out at evening was finished in the morning, so that he was soon again in comfortable circumstances, and became a well-to-do man.
now it happened one evening, not long before christmas, when he had cut out shoes as usual, that he said to his wife: "how would it be if we were to sit up to-night to see who it is that lends us such a helping hand?"
the wife agreed, lighted a candle, and they hid themselves in the corner of the room behind the clothes which were hanging there.
at midnight came two little naked men, who sat down at the shoemaker's table, took up the cut-out work, and began with their tiny fingers to stitch, sew, and hammer so neatly and quickly, that the shoemaker could not believe his eyes.
they did not stop till everything was quite finished, and stood complete on the table; then they ran swiftly away.
the next day the wife said: "the little men have made us rich, and we ought to show our gratitude.
they run about with nothing on, and must freeze with cold.
now i will make them little shirts, coats, waistcoats, and hose, and will even knit them stout stockings, and you shall make them each a pair of shoes."
the husband agreed, and at evening, when they had everything ready, they laid out the presents on the table, and hid themselves to see how the little men would behave.
at midnight they came skipping in, and were about to set to work; but, instead of the leather ready cut out, they found the charming little clothes.
at first they were surprised, then excessively delighted.
with the greatest speed they put on and smoothed down the pretty clothes, singing:
"now we're dressed so fine and neat,   why cobble more for others' feet?"
then they hopped and danced about, and leaped over chairs and tables and out at the door.
henceforward, they came back no more, but the shoemaker fared well as long as he lived, and had good luck in all his undertakings.
hans in luck
hans had served his master seven long years; so he said to him:
"master, my time is out, and my wish is to return home to my mother:
give me, if you please, my reward."
the master answered: "thou hast truly and faithfully served me; as the service was, so shall the reward be."
and he gave hans a piece of gold as big as his head.
hans pulled out his handkerchief, wrapped up the lump of gold in it, and, throwing it over his shoulder, made his way home.
as he went on his way, always putting one foot before the other, he met a man galloping briskly along on a fine horse.
"ah!"
said hans, quite aloud, "what a capital thing it is to ride!
there you sit as comfortably as in a chair, kicking against no stones, saving your shoe-leather, and getting to your journey's end almost without knowing it!"
the horseman, who heard this, pulled up and cried, "hullo, hans why do you trudge on foot?"
"because i must," answered he; "for i have this big lump to carry home.
it is real gold, you know; but, all the same, i can scarcely hold up my head, it weighs so terribly on my shoulders."
"i'll tell you what," said the horseman: "we'll just exchange.
i'll give you my horse and you give me your lump of gold."
"with all my heart!"
said hans.
"but i warn you, you'll have a job to carry it."
the horseman dismounted, took the gold, and helped hans up; and, giving the bridle into his hand, said: "if you want him to go at full speed, you must cluck with your tongue and cry 'c'ck!
c'ck!'"
hans was heartily delighted, as he sat on his horse and rode gaily along.
after a while he fancied he would like to go faster, so he began to cluck with his tongue and cry "c'ck!
c'ck!"
the horse broke into a smart trot, and before hans was aware he was thrown off splash!
into a ditch which divided the highway from the fields, and there he lay.
the horse, too, would have run away had it not been stopped by a peasant, as he came along the road, driving his cow before him.
hans pulled himself together and got upon his legs again.
he felt very downcast, and said to the peasant: "it's a poor joke, that riding, especially when one lights upon such a brute as this, which kicks and throws one off so that one comes near to breaking one's neck.
you don't catch me on his back again.
now, there's more sense in a cow like yours, behind which you can walk in peace and quietness, besides having your butter, milk, and cheese every morning for certain.
what would i not give for such a cow!"
"well," said the peasant, "if it would give you so much pleasure, i will exchange my cow for your horse."
hans gladly consented, and the peasant flung himself on the horse and rode quickly off.
hans drove the cow peacefully along, thinking: "what a lucky fellow i am!
i have just to get a bit of bread (and that isn't a difficult matter) and then, as often as i like, i can eat my butter and cheese with it.
if i am thirsty, i just milk my cow and drink.
what more could i desire?"
when he came to an inn, he made a stop, and in his great joy ate all the food he had with him right up, both dinner and supper.
with his two last farthings, he bought himself half a glass of beer.
then he drove his cow towards his mother's village.
as the morning went on, the more oppressive the heat became, and hans found himself in a field some three miles long.
then he felt so hot that his tongue was parched with thirst.
"this is soon cured," thought hans.
"i have only to milk my cow, drink, and refresh myself."
he tied the cow to a withered tree, and as he had no pitcher he placed his leathern cap underneath her; but in spite of all his trouble not a drop of milk could be got.
and he went to work so clumsily that the impatient brute gave him such a kick with her hind leg that he was knocked over and quite dazed, and for a long time did not know where he was.
luckily a butcher came by just then, wheeling a young pig in a barrow.
"what kind of joke is this?"
cried he, helping our friend hans to rise.
hans told him what had happened.
the butcher passed him his bottle and said:
"there, drink and revive yourself.
that cow will never give any milk; she is an old animal and, at the best, is only fit for the plow or the butcher."
"oho!"
said hans, running his fingers through his hair.
"who would have thought it?
it is all right indeed when you can slaughter such a beast in your own house.
but i don't think much of cow's flesh; it is not tender enough.
now, if one had a young pig!
that would taste far different, to say nothing of the sausages!"
"listen, hans," said the butcher.
"for your sake, i will exchange, and let you have my pig for your cow."
"may heaven reward your friendship!"
said hans, and at once gave him the cow.
the man untied the pig from the wheelbarrow, and gave the rope with which it was bound into hans's hand.
hans marched on, thinking: "what a lucky fellow i am.
as soon as anything goes wrong, something turns up and all's right again."
just then, up came a youth, carrying a fine white goose under his arm.
they were friends, and hans began to talk about his luck and how he always came off best in his exchanges.
the youth told him he was taking the goose to a christening feast.
"just hold it," he continued, seizing it by the wings, "and feel how heavy it is: yet it was only fattened for eight weeks.
it will be a rich morsel when roasted."
"yes," said hans, weighing it with his hand, "it is certainly heavy, but my pig is by no means to be despised."
meanwhile the lad was looking thoughtfully around, shaking his head.
"listen," he said, "i don't think it's all right about your pig.
in the village i have just come through, one has lately been stolen from the magistrate's own sty.
i fear it is the one you have.
they have sent people out, and it would be a bad business if they found you with the pig.
the least they would do would be to throw you into jail."
our friend hans was downcast.
"alas," he cried, "help me in my need!
you know your way here better than i. take my pig then, and give me your goose."
"i shall be running great risks," said the youth, "but at least i will prevent your getting into trouble."
he took the rope in his hand and drove the pig quickly away down a by-path, and hans went on relieved of his sorrow, towards home, with the goose under his arm.
"what a lucky fellow i am!"
he said to himself.
"first, i shall have a good roast; then there is the quantity of dripping that will fall out, which will keep me in bread-and-dripping for a quarter of a year; and lastly, the splendid white feathers, with which i will have my pillow stuffed; then i shall fall asleep without rocking.
how glad my mother will be!"
when he was at length come to the village, there stood in the street a scissors-grinder with his truck.
his wheel hummed, and he sang the while:
"my wheel i turn, and the scissors i grind,   and my cloak hangs flowing free in the wind."
hans remained standing, and watched him; at length he spoke to him, and said:
"you must be doing well since you are so merry over your grinding."
"yes," said the scissors-grinder; "the work has gold at the bottom of it.
a proper scissors-grinder is the sort of man who, whenever he puts his hand in his pocket, finds money there.
but where have you bought that fine goose?"
"i did not buy it, but exchanged it for my pig."
"and the pig?"
"i obtained him for a cow."
"and the cow?"
"i had her for a horse."
"and the horse?"
"for him i gave a lump of gold as big as my head."
"and the gold?"
"why, that was my reward for seven years of service."
"you have certainly done well for yourself each time," said the scissors-grinder.
"if you could only hear money rattling in your pocket every time you got up, your fortune would be made."
"how shall i set about it?"
said hans.
"you must become a grinder, like me.
all you want is a grindstone: the rest comes of itself.
i have one which is a little damaged indeed, but for which i would ask nothing more than your goose; would that suit you?"
"how can you ask me?"
answered hans.
"i shall be the luckiest fellow on earth.
if i have money as often as i feel in my pocket, what else shall i have to care about?"
and he handed over the goose, and took the grindstone in receipt.
"now," said the grinder, lifting up an ordinary heavy field-stone, which lay beside him.
"there you have a capital stone, which will be just the thing to hammer your old nails straight upon.
take it and lift it up carefully."
hans raised the stone and marched on with a joyful heart, his eyes shining with pleasure.
"i must have been born lucky," he cried out.
"all that i desire comes to me, as to a sunday-child."
meanwhile, having been on his legs since daybreak, he began to feel tired; besides which, he was tormented by hunger, for he had eaten up all his provision in his joy over the exchange of the cow.
at length he could only proceed with great trouble and must needs stop every minute; the stones, too, crushed him terribly.
then he could not conceal the thought: "how nice it would be now to have nothing to carry!"
like a snail he crept up to a well, wishing to rest himself and enjoy a refreshing drink.
in order not to spoil the stones in setting them down, he laid them carefully on the ground one beside the other, and bent himself down to drink, but by an accident he gave them a little push, and both stones went splashing down.
hans, when he saw them sinking in the depths of the well, jumped up with joy, kneeled down and thanked god, with tears in his eyes, that he had shown him this grace and, without troubling him to think what to do with them, had relieved him of the heavy stones which would have been such a hindrance to him.
"there is no man under the sun," he cried out, "so lucky as i."
with a bright heart and free from all care, he sprang upon his way, until he was home at his mother's.
master of all masters
a girl once went to the fair to hire herself for a servant.
at last a funny-looking old gentleman engaged her, and took her home to his house.
when she got there, he told her that he had something to teach her, for that in his house he had his own names for things.
he said to her: "what will you call me?"
"master or mister, or whatever you please, sir," says she.
he said: "you must call me 'master of all masters.'
and what would you call this?"
pointing to his bed.
"bed or couch, or whatever you please, sir."
"no, that's my 'barnacle.'
and what do you call these?"
said he, pointing to his pantaloons.
"breeches or trousers, or whatever you please, sir."
"you must call them 'squibs and crackers,' and what would you call her?"
pointing to the cat.
"cat or kit, or whatever you please, sir."
"you must call her 'white-faced simminy.'
and this, now," showing the fire, "what would you call this?"
"fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir."
"you must call it 'hot cockalorum.'
and what, this?"
he went on, pointing to the water.
"water or wet, or whatever you please, sir."
"no, 'pondalorum' is its name.
and what do you call all this?"
asked he, as he pointed to the house.
"house or cottage, or whatever you please, sir."
"you must call it 'high topper mountain.'"
that very night the servant woke her master up in a fright and said:
"master of all masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers.
for white-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its tail, and unless you get some pondalorum, high topper mountain will be all on hot cockalorum."...
that's all.
belling the cat
once upon a time the mice sat in council and talked of how they might outwit their enemy, the cat.
but good advice was scarce, and in vain the president called upon all the most experienced mice present to find a way.
at last a very young mouse held up two fingers and asked to be allowed to speak, and as soon as he could get permission he said:
"i've been thinking for a long time why the cat is such a dangerous enemy.
now, it's not so much because of her quickness, though people make so much fuss about that.
if we could only notice her in time, i've no doubt we're nimble enough to jump into our holes before she could do us any harm.
it's in her velvet paws, there's where she hides her cruel claws till she gets us in her clutches that's where her power lies.
with those paws she can tread so lightly that we can't hear her coming.
and so, while we are still dancing heedlessly about the place, she creeps close up, and before we know where we are she pounces down on us and has us in her clutches.
well, then, it's my opinion we ought to hang a bell round her neck to warn us of her coming while there's yet time."
every one applauded this proposal, and the council decided that it should be carried out.
now the question to be settled was, who should undertake to fasten the bell round the cat's neck?
the president declared that no one could be better fitted for the task than he who had given such excellent advice.
but at that the young mouse became quite confused and stammered an excuse.
he was too young for the deed, he said.
he didn't know the cat well enough.
his grandfather, who knew her better, would be more suited to the job.
but the grandfather declared that just because he knew the cat very well he would take good care not to attempt such a task.
and the long and the short of it was that no other mouse would undertake the duty; and so this clever proposal was never carried out, and the cat remained mistress of the situation.
little red riding-hood
in a great wide forest, full of beautiful trees, and green glades, and thorny thickets, there lived a long time ago a wood-cutter and his wife, who had only one child, a little girl.
she was so pretty, and so good, that the sun seemed to shine more brightly when its light fell upon her rosy little face, and the birds would seem to sing more sweetly when she was passing by.
her real name was maisie; but the neighbors round about all called her "little red riding-hood," because of a scarlet riding-hood and cloak that her kind old grandmother had made for her, and which she nearly always wore.
she was a happy, merry little child, with a smile and a gentle word for everybody, and so you may easily believe that everybody loved her, and was glad to catch a glimpse of her golden curls and her scarlet cloak as she tripped along, singing, under the green boughs.
now, this, let me tell you before i forget, was at the time when all the birds and beasts, or very nearly all, could speak just as well as you or i; and nobody was surprised to hear them talk, as i suppose one would be nowadays.
well, as i was saying, little red riding-hood lived with her parents in a little white cottage with a green door and a thatched roof, and red and white roses climbing all over the walls, and even putting their pretty heads in at the latticed windows, to peep at the child who was so like them.
it was on a bright spring morning early in may, when little red riding-hood had just finished putting away the breakfast-cups that her mother came bustling in from the dairy.
"here's a to-do," she said.
"farmer hodge has this very minute told me that he hears your grannie isn't quite well, and i can't leave the cheese-making this morning for love or money!
do you go, my dear, and find out how she is and stay take her this little pot of sweet fresh butter, and these two new-laid eggs, and these nice tasty little pasties.
maybe they'll tempt her to eat a bit.
here's your basket, and don't be too long away, honey."
so little red riding-hood pulled her hood over her curls, and set off down the sunny green slope, with her basket in her hand, at a brisk pace.
but as she got deeper into the forest, she walked more slowly.
everything was so beautiful; the great trees waved their huge arms over her, the birds were calling to one another from the thorns all white with blossom, and the child began singing as she went, she could not have told why, but i think it was because the beautiful world made her feel glad.
the path wound along through the trees, and, as it grew wider after turning a corner, red riding-saw that she was likely to have company on her walk; for, where two cross-paths divided, there sat a big gray wolf licking his long paws, and looking sharply about him.
and "good morning, red riding-hood," said he.
"good morning, mr. wolf," she answered.
"and where may you be going, sweet lass?"
said the wolf, as he walked beside her.
"oh, grannie isn't very well, and mother cannot leave the cheese-making this morning, and so i'm taking her some little dainties in my basket, and i am to see how she is, and tell mother when i get back," said the child with a smile.
"and," said the wolf, "where does your good grannie live, little lady?"
"through the copse, and down the hollow, and over the bridge, and three meadows after the mill."
"does she indeed?"
cried he.
"why, then, i do believe she is a very dear old friend of mine, whom i have not seen for years and years.
now, i'll tell you what we'll do, you and i: i will go by this way, and you shall take that, and whoever gets there first shall be the winner of the game."
so the wolf trotted off one way, and red riding-hood went the other; and i am sorry to say that she lingered and loitered more than she ought to have done on the road.
well, what with one thing and another, the sun was right up in the very mid-most middle of the sky when she crossed the last meadow from the mill and came in sight of her grandmother's cottage, and the big lilac-bushes that grew by the garden gate.
"oh!
dear, how i must have lingered!"
said the child, when she saw how high the sun had climbed since she set out on her journey; and, pattering up the garden-path, she tapped at the cottage door.
"who's there?"
said a very gruff kind of voice from inside.
"it's only i, grannie dear, your little red riding-hood with some goodies for you in my basket, answered the child.
"then pull the bobbin," cried the voice, "and the latch will go up."
"what a dreadful cold poor grannie must have, to be sure, to make her so hoarse," thought the child.
then she pulled the bobbin, and the latch went up, and red riding-hood pushed open the door, and stepped inside the cottage.
it seemed very dark in there after the bright sunlight outside, and all red riding-hood could see was that the window-curtains and the bed-curtains were still drawn, and her grandmother seemed to be lying in bed with the bed-clothes pulled almost over her head, and her great white-frilled nightcap nearly hiding her face.
now, you and i have guessed by this time, although poor red riding-hood never even thought of such a thing, that it was not her grannie at all, but the wicked wolf, who had hurried to the cottage and put on grannie's nightcap and popped into her bed, to pretend that he was grannie herself.
and where was grannie all this time, you will say?
well, we shall see presently.
"come and sit down beside my bed, dearie," wheezed the wolf, "and let us have a little chat."
then the wolf stretched out his large hairy paws and began to unfasten the basket.
"oh!"
said red riding-hood, "what great arms you have, grannie!"
"all the better to hug you with," said the wolf.
"and what great rough ears you have, grannie!"
"all the better to hear you with, my little dear."
"and your eyes, grannie; what great yellow eyes you have!"
"all the better to see you with, my pet," grinned the wolf.
"and oh!
oh!
grannie," cried the child, in a sad fright, "what great sharp teeth you have!"
"all the better to eat you with!"
growled the wolf, springing up suddenly at red riding-hood.
but just at that very moment the door flew open, and two tall wood-cutters rushed in with their heavy axes, and killed the wicked wolf in far less time than it takes me to tell you about it.
"but where is grannie?"
asked little red riding-hood, when she had thanked the brave wood-cutters.
"oh!
where can poor grannie be?
can the cruel wolf have eaten her up?"
and she began to cry and sob bitterly when, who should walk in but grannie herself, as large as life, and as hearty as ever, with her marketing-basket on her arm!
for it was another old dame in the village who was not very well, and grannie had been down to visit her and give her some of her own famous herb-tea.
so everything turned out right in the end, and all lived happily ever after; but i promise you that little red riding-hood never made friends with a wolf again!
the nail
a tradesman had once transacted a good day's business at a fair, disposed of all his goods, and filled his purse with gold and silver.
he prepared afterward to return, in order to reach home by the evening, so he strapped his portmanteau, with the money in it, upon his horse's back, and rode off.
at noon he halted in a small town, and as he was about to set out again, the stable-boy who brought his horse said to him: "sir, a nail is wanting in the shoe on the left hind foot of your animal."
"let it be wanting," replied the tradesman; "i am in a hurry and the iron will doubtless hold the six hours i have yet to travel."
late in the afternoon he had to dismount again, and feed his horse, and at this place also the boy came and told him that a nail was wanting in one of the shoes, and asked him whether he should take the horse to a farrier.
"no, no, let it be!"
replied the master; "it will last out the couple of hours that i have now to travel; i am in haste."
so saying he rode off; but his horse soon began to limp, and from limping it came to stumbling, and presently the beast fell down and broke its leg.
thereupon the tradesman had to leave his unfortunate horse lying on the road, to unbuckle the portmanteau, and to walk home with it upon his shoulder, where he arrived at last late at night.
"and all this misfortune," said he to himself, "is owing to the want of a nail.
more haste, the less speed!"
jack and the beanstalk
once upon a time there lived a poor widow who had an only son named jack.
she was very poor, for times had been hard, and jack was too young to work.
almost all the furniture of the little cottage had been sold to buy bread, until at last there was nothing left worth selling.
only the good cow, milky white, remained, and she gave milk every morning, which they took to market and sold.
but one sad day milky white gave no milk, and then things looked bad indeed.
"never mind, mother," said jack.
"we must sell milky white.
trust me to make a good bargain," and away he went to the market.
for some time he went along very sadly, but after a little he quite recovered his spirits.
"i may as well ride as walk," said he; so instead of leading the cow by the halter, he jumped on her back, and so he went whistling along until he met a butcher.
"good morning," said the butcher.
"good morning, sir," answered jack.
"where are you going?"
said the butcher.
"i am going to market to sell the cow."
"it's lucky i met you," said the butcher.
"you may save yourself the trouble of going so far."
with this, he put his hand in his pocket, and pulled out five curious-looking beans.
"what do you call these?"
he said.
"beans," said jack.
"yes," said he, "beans, but they're the most wonderful beans that ever were known.
if you plant them overnight, by the next morning they'll grow up and reach the sky.
but to save you the trouble of going all the way to market, i don't mind exchanging them for that cow of yours."
"done!"
cried jack, who was so delighted with the bargain that he ran all the way home to tell his mother how lucky he had been.
but oh!
how disappointed the poor widow was.
"off to bed with you!"
she cried; and she was so angry that she threw the beans out of the window into the garden.
so poor jack went to bed without any supper, and cried himself to sleep.
when he woke up the next morning, the room was almost dark; and jack jumped out of bed and ran to the window to see what was the matter.
the sun was shining brightly outside, but from the ground right up beside his window there was growing a great beanstalk, which stretched up and up as far as he could see, into the sky.
"i'll just see where it leads to," thought jack, and with that he stepped out of the window on to the beanstalk, and began to climb upwards.
he climbed up and up, till after a time his mother's cottage looked a mere speck below, but at last the stalk ended, and he found himself in a new and beautiful country.
a little way off there was a great castle, with a broad road leading straight up to the front gate.
but what most surprised jack was to find a beautiful maiden suddenly standing beside him.
"good morning, ma'am," said he, very politely.
"good morning, jack," said she; and jack was more surprised than ever, for he could not imagine how she had learned his name.
but he soon found that she knew a great deal more about him than his name; for she told him how, when he was quite a little baby, his father, a gallant knight, had been slain by the giant who lived in yonder castle, and how his mother, in order to save jack, had been obliged to promise never to tell the secret.
"all that the giant has is yours," she said, and then disappeared quite as suddenly as she came.
"she must be a fairy," thought jack.
as he drew near to the castle, he saw the giant's wife standing at the door.
"if you please, ma'am," said he, "would you kindly give me some breakfast?
i have had nothing to eat since yesterday."
now, the giant's wife, although very big and very ugly, had a kind heart, so she said: "very well, little man, come in; but you must be quick about it, for if my husband, the giant, finds you here, he will eat you up, bones and all."
so in jack went, and the giant's wife gave him a good breakfast, but before he had half finished it there came a terrible knock at the front door, which seemed to shake even the thick walls of the castle.
"dearie me, that is my husband!"
said the giantess, in a terrible fright; "we must hide you somehow," and she lifted jack up and popped him into the empty kettle.
no sooner had the giant's wife opened the door than her husband roared out:
"fee, fi, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of an englishman;   be he alive, or be he dead,   i'll grind his bones to make my bread!"
"it's a boy, i'm sure it is," he continued.
"where is he?
i'll have him for my breakfast."
"nonsense!"
said his wife; "you must be mistaken.
it's the ox's hide you smell."
so he sat down, and ate up the greater part of the ox.
when he had finished he said: "wife, bring me my money-bags."
so his wife brought him two full bags of gold, and the giant began to count his money.
but he was so sleepy that his head soon began to nod, and then he began to snore, like the rumbling of thunder.
then jack crept out, snatched up the two bags, and though the giant's dog barked loudly, he made his way down the beanstalk back to the cottage before the giant awoke.
jack and his mother were now quite rich; but it occurred to him one day that he would like to see how matters were going on at the giant's castle.
so while his mother was away at market, he climbed up, and up, and up, and up, until he got to the top of the beanstalk again.
the giantess was standing at the door, just as before, but she did not know jack, who, of course, was more finely dressed than on his first visit.
"if you please, ma'am," said he, "will you give me some breakfast?"
"run away," said she, "or my husband the giant will eat you up, bones and all.
the last boy who came here stole two bags of gold off with you!"
but the giantess had a kind heart, and after a time she allowed jack to come into the kitchen, where she set before him enough breakfast to last him a week.
scarcely had he begun to eat than there was a great rumbling like an earthquake, and the giantess had only time to bundle jack into the oven when in came the giant.
no sooner was he inside the room than he roared:
"fee, fi, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of an englishman;   be he alive, or be he dead,   i'll grind his bones to make my bread!"
but his wife told him he was mistaken, and after breakfasting off a roasted bullock, just as if it were a lark, he called out: "wife, bring the little brown hen!"
the giantess went out and brought in a little brown hen, which she placed on the table.
"lay!"
said the giant; and the hen at once laid a golden egg.
"lay!"
said the giant a second time; and she laid another golden egg.
"lay!"
said the giant a third time; and she laid a third golden egg.
"that will do for to-day," said he, and stretched himself out to go to sleep.
as soon as he began to snore, jack crept out of the oven, went on tiptoe to the table, and, snatching up the little brown hen, made a dash for the door.
then the hen began to cackle, and the giant began to wake up; but before he was quite awake, jack had escaped from the castle, and, climbing as fast as he could down the beanstalk, got safe home to his mother's cottage.
the little brown hen laid so many golden eggs that jack and his mother had now more money than they could spend.
but jack was always thinking about the beanstalk; and one day he crept out of the window again, and climbed up, and up, and up, and up, until he reached the top.
this time, you may be sure, he was careful not to be seen; so he crept round to the back of the castle, and when the giant's wife went out he slipped into the kitchen and hid himself in the oven.
in came the giant, roaring louder than ever:
"fee, fi, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of an englishman;   be he alive; or be he dead,   i'll grind his bones to make my bread!"
but the giantess was quite sure that she had seen no little boys that morning; and after grumbling a great deal, the giant sat down to breakfast.
even then he was not quite satisfied, for every now and again he would say:
"fee, fi, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of an englishman;"
and once he got up and looked in the kettle.
but, of course, jack was in the oven all the time!
when the giant had finished, he called out: "wife, bring me the golden harp!"
so she brought in the golden harp, and placed it on the table.
"sing!"
said the giant; and the harp at once began to sing the most beautiful songs that ever were heard.
it sang so sweetly that the giant soon fell fast asleep; and then jack crept quietly out of the oven, and going on tiptoe to the table, seized hold of the golden harp.
but the harp at once called out: "master!
master!"
and the giant woke up just in time to catch sight of jack running out of the kitchen-door.
with a fearful roar, he seized his oak-tree club, and dashed after jack, who held the harp tight, and ran faster than he had ever run before.
the giant, brandishing his club, and taking terribly long strides, gained on jack at every instant, and he would have been caught if the giant hadn't slipped over a boulder.
before he could pick himself up, jack began to climb down the beanstalk, and when the giant arrived at the edge he was nearly half-way to the cottage.
the giant began to climb down too; but as soon as jack saw him coming, he called out: "mother, bring me an axe!"
and the widow hurried out with a chopper.
jack had no sooner reached the ground than he cut the beanstalk right in two.
down came the giant with a terrible crash, and that, you may be sure, was the end of him.
what became of the giantess and the castle nobody knows.
but jack and his mother grew very rich, and lived happy ever after.
how to tell a true princess
there was once upon a time a prince who wanted to marry a princess, but she must be a true princess.
so he traveled through the whole world to find one, but there was always something against each.
there were plenty of princesses, but he could not find out if they were true princesses.
in every case there was some little defect, which showed the genuine article was not yet found.
so he came home again in very low spirits, for he had wanted very much to have a true princess.
one night there was a dreadful storm; it thundered and lightened and the rain streamed down in torrents.
it was fearful!
there was a knocking heard at the palace gate, and the old king went to open it.
there stood a princess outside the gate; but oh, in what a sad plight she was from the rain and the storm!
the water was running down from her hair and her dress into the points of her shoes and out at the heels again.
and yet she said she was a true princess!
"well, we shall soon find out!"
thought the old queen.
but she said nothing and went into the sleeping-room, took off all the bedclothes, and laid a pea on the bottom of the bed.
then she put twenty mattresses on top of the pea and twenty eider-down quilts on the top of the mattresses.
and this was the bed in which the princess was to sleep.
the next morning she was asked how she had slept.
"oh, very badly!"
said the princess.
"i scarcely closed my eyes all night!
i am sure i don't know what was in the bed.
i lay on something so hard that my whole body is black and blue.
it is dreadful!"
now they perceived that she was a true princess, because she had felt the pea through the twenty mattresses and the twenty eider-down quilts.
no one but a true princess could be so sensitive.
so the prince married her, for now he knew that at last he had got hold of a true princess.
and the pea was put into the royal museum, where it is still to be seen if no one has stolen it.
now, this is a true story.
the sleeping beauty
once upon a time long ago so long, indeed, that even the very oldest people now alive could not remember it there lived a king and queen in a beautiful palace, a great white marble palace, with wide halls and high towers, and a golden roof that flashed in the sun.
and all round the palace, for miles and miles, there were lovely gardens and pleasure-grounds, with terraces and green lawns, and ancient trees where the birds would sit and sing all day and all night long, and more flowers than you could ever think of if you were to think a whole summer through.
there were peacocks and birds of paradise on the broad lawns, and pretty slender brown deer in the shady glades, and gold and silver fishes in the ponds and fountains, and great red and yellow fruits ripened in the orchards.
there was everything there that heart could wish except just one, and that was the one thing in all the world that this king and queen wanted to make them perfectly happy.
for there was no little child to run and play about the sunny gardens and pick the flowers, and pet the birds and beasts that wandered there.
and this would often make them very sad.
but at last, after many years, they had their wish, and a little baby daughter was born to them a tiny child with a face like a blush rosebud, eyes like violets, and a little red mouth like the pimpernel flowers that grow in the cornfields and by the wayside in summer-time.
now, you can easily think how glad this king and queen were, and what great rejoicings were made over all the country.
bonfires as big as haystacks were kept burning all night, fat oxen were roasted whole in the market-place of every town, the church-bells were rung and rung again until the ringers were out of breath and their arms were aching, and every little child in the kingdom was given a beautiful present for the baby princess's sake.
in the palace, of course, all was bustle and hurry to make ready for the christening-feast; the maids were busy putting flowers all about the halls and chambers, and sprinkling the shining floors with sweet-smelling leaves and petals.
for the most important guests invited to this christening were seven very powerful fairies, and you know, i am sure, how particular fairies are about what they eat and drink.
not that they are greedy; but they are used to such delicate food that even the very best of ours seems strange to them.
so the queen was very anxious that they should be pleased; for they had been asked to be godmothers to the baby princess, and she wanted them to be in a good humor so that they should be kind to her little one.
it was a beautiful summer afternoon, and the roses on the palace terrace were nodding their heads sleepily in the warm breeze, when the fairies' chariots came into sight, sailing through the blue sky like a flight of bright-winged butterflies.
they were all good fairies, and had known the king and queen all their lives long, and as they had not seen them for some time there was a great deal to talk about and much news to tell.
and, dear me!
how pleased they were with the baby!
they all agreed that she was the prettiest little darling they had ever seen almost as pretty as a real fairy baby and that was a compliment indeed, i can tell you.
and when they went in to the great banqueting-hall and sat down to table, they were even more delighted than at first.
for each one of them there was a set of six golden dinner things knife, spoon, fork, cup, dish, and plate made on purpose as a present for each, and all different.
one was set with pearls, another with diamonds, the third with rubies, the fourth with opals, the fifth with amethysts, the sixth with emeralds, the seventh with sapphires; and nobody could tell which was the most beautiful.
they were just going to begin, and everybody was as happy as happy could be, when, all of a sudden, there was a clashing of brazen claws and a rushing of wings, and something like a black cloud seemed to pass before the tall windows and darken all the room, so that the guests could hardly see their plates.
then the great doors burst open with a terrible bang, and an old fairy in a long trailing black gown, with her face almost hidden in a black hood, jumped out of a black chariot drawn by fierce griffins, and stalked up to the table.
the king turned pale, and the queen nearly fainted away, for this was the spiteful fairy tormentilla, who lived all alone, an immense distance away from everywhere and everyone, in a dismal black stone castle in the middle of a desert.
the poor queen had been so happy and so busy that she had forgotten all about her, and never sent her an invitation.
however, they all tried to make the best of it, and another chair was brought, and another place laid for tormentilla; and both the king and queen told her over and over again how very, very sorry they were not to have asked her.
it was all in vain.
nothing could please her; she would eat and drink nothing, and she sat, scowling and looking angrily at the other fairies' jeweled cups and dishes, until the feast was over, and it was time to give the presents.
then they all went into the great tapestried room where the tiny princess lay sleeping in her mother-o'-pearl cradle, and the seven fairies began to say what they would each give her.
the first stepped forward and said: "she shall always be as good as gold"; the second: "she shall be the cleverest princess in the world"; the third: "she shall be the most beautiful"; the fourth: "she shall be the happiest"; the fifth: "she shall have the sweetest voice that was ever heard"; the sixth: "everyone shall love her."
and then the wicked old cross fairy strode over to the cradle with long quick steps, and said, shaking her black crooked stick at the king and queen: "and i say that she shall prick her hand with a spindle and die of the wound!"
at this the queen fell on her knees and begged and prayed tormentilla to call back her cruel words; but suddenly the seventh fairy, the youngest of all, who knew tormentilla well, and had hidden herself behind the curtains for fear that some such thing might happen, came out and said:
"do not cry so, dear queen; i cannot quite undo my cousin's wicked enchantment, but i can promise you that your daughter shall not die, but only fall asleep for a hundred years.
and, when these are past and gone, a prince shall come and awaken her with a kiss."
so the king and queen dried their tears and thanked the kind fairy heartsease for her goodness; and all the fairies went back to their homes, and things went on much as usual in the palace.
but you can imagine how careful the queen was of her little girl; and the king made a law that every spindle in the country must be destroyed, and that no more should be made, and that anyone who had a spindle should be heavily punished if not executed at once.
well, the years went by happily enough until the princess miranda was almost eighteen years old, and all that the six fairies had promised came true, for she was the best and the prettiest and the cleverest princess in all the world, and everybody loved her.
and, indeed, by this time tormentilla's spiteful words were almost forgotten.
"poor old thing," the queen would sometimes say, "she was so angry at having been left out that she did not know what she was saying.
of course, she did not really mean it."
now, the king and queen had to go away for a few days to a great entertainment that one of their richest nobles was giving at his country house; and, as the princess did not wish to go, they left her behind with her ladies-in-waiting in the beautiful old palace.
for the first two days she amused herself very well, but on the third she missed her father and mother so much that, to pass the time till they came back, she began exploring all the old lumber-rooms and out-of-the-way attics in the palace, and laughing at the dusty furniture and queer curiosities she found there.
at last she found herself at the top of a narrow winding stairway in a tall turret that seemed even older than all the rest of the palace.
and when she lifted the latch of the door in front of her she saw a little low chamber with curiously painted walls, and there sat a little old, old woman in a high white cap, spinning at a wheel.
for some time she stood at the door, watching the old woman curiously; she could not imagine what she was doing, for the princess had never seen a spinning-wheel in her life before, because, as i told you, the king had ordered them all to be destroyed.
now, it happened that the poor old woman who lived in this tower had never heard the king's command, for she was so deaf that if you shouted until you were hoarse she would never have been able to understand you.
"what pretty work you are doing there, goody?
and why does that wheel go whirr, whirr, whirr?"
said the princess.
the old woman neither answered nor looked up, for, of course, she did not hear.
so the princess stepped into the room and laid her hand upon the old woman's shoulder.
goody started then, looked up, and rubbed her eyes.
"deary, deary me!"
cried she, in a high, cracked voice.
"and who may you be, my pretty darling?"
"i'm the princess miranda," screamed the maiden in her ear, but the old woman only shook her head she could hear nothing.
then the princess pointed to the spindle, and made the old woman understand that she wanted to try if she could work it.
so goody nodded, and laughed, and got up from her seat, and the princess sat down and took the spindle in her hand.
but no sooner did she touch it than she pricked the palm of her hand with the point, and sank down in a swoon.
immediately a deep silence fell on all around.
the little bird that only a moment before had been singing so sweetly upon the window-sill hushed his song.
the distant hum of voices from the courtyard beneath ceased; even goody stopped short in the directions she was giving the princess, and neither moved hand nor foot towards the poor little maid, and all because she had fallen fast asleep as she stood.
below in the castle it was just the same.
the king and queen, who had that moment returned from their journey and were enquiring for their daughter, fell asleep before the lady-in-waiting could answer them, and as to the lady herself she had begun to snore in a ladylike manner, of course before you could have winked your eye.
the soldiers and men-at-arms slumbered as they stood.
the page-boy fell asleep writh his mouth wide open, and a fly that had just been going to settle on his nose fell asleep too in mid-air.
although the sun had been shining brightly when the princess took the spindle in her hand, no sooner did she prick herself with the point than deep shadows darkened the sunny rooms and gardens.
it was just as though night had overtaken them, but there was no one in or near the palace to heed whether it were dark or light.
this sudden darkness had been caused by a magic wood which had sprung up all around the palace and its grounds.
it was at least half a mile thick, and was composed of thorns and prickly plants, through which it seemed impossible for anyone to penetrate.
it was so thick and high that it hid even the topmost towers of the enchanted castle, and no one outside could have dreamed that such a castle lay behind it.
well, and so the years went on, and on, and on, until a hundred years had passed, and the palace and the story of it were all but forgotten.
and it happened that a king's son from a neighboring country came hunting that way with his men, and horses, and dogs.
and in the excitement of the chase he rode on and on until he became separated from his servants and attendants, and found himself in a part of the country where he had never been before.
in vain he tried to retrace his steps; he only seemed to wander farther away in the wrong direction.
presently he came to a woodcutter's cottage, and dismounted to ask his way.
an old, old man lived in this hut, and after he had directed the prince as to the best way back, the young man pointed to a thick wood ahead, and asked what lay beyond it.
then the old man told him that there was a legend that beyond the wood was an enchanted palace where a beautiful princess had lain sleeping for a hundred years, and whom a prince was to awaken with a kiss.
directly the prince florimond heard this, nothing would serve but he must go there and see for himself if the tale were true.
so he rode and he rode until he came to the edge of the wood, and there he got off his horse and began to push his way through the thorny thicket.
it was hard work indeed, for the briars were so strong and so sharp that you would never believe that anyone could get past them, and they closed up behind him as he went.
but he was strong and brave, and after a time the way became easier, until at last he came to the palace.
there everyone was sleeping the sentinels and soldiers in the court-yard, the cooks in the kitchen, and pages and lords and ladies-in-waiting in the corridors and chambers; and, in the great throne-room the king and queen on their golden and ivory thrones.
prince florimond passed on, wondering more and more, till he came at length to the narrow staircase which led to the little tower in which the princess had fallen asleep.
he mounted this, and then came the greatest wonder of all the beautiful sleeping lady, in her glistening white robes.
she was so beautiful that to see her almost took away his breath; and, falling on his knees, he bent to kiss her cheek.
and as he kissed her, she opened her lovely blue eyes and said, smiling: "oh!
prince, have you come at last?
i have had such pleasant dreams."
then she sat up laughing and rubbing her eyes, and gave him her hand, and they went hand in hand together down the stairs and along the corridors, till they came to the throne-room.
and there were the king and queen rubbing their eyes too, and they kissed their daughter and welcomed the prince most gladly.
and, all at the same time, the whole palace was awake.
cocks crowed, dogs barked, the cats began to mew, the spits to turn, the clocks to strike, the soldiers presented arms, the heralds blew their trumpets, the head cook boxed a little scullion's ears, the butler went on drinking his half-finished tankard of wine, the first lady-in-waiting finished winding her skein of silk.
everything, in short, went on exactly as though the spell had lasted a hundred seconds instead of years.
to be sure, princess miranda's pretty white dress was just such a one as prince florimond's great-grandmother might have worn.
but that gave them something to laugh at.
and now my story is done, for i need hardly tell you that the prince and princess were married amid great rejoicings, and lived happily ever after; and that the seven fairy godmothers danced at the wedding.
so all ended well, and what more could anyone wish?
old-fashioned poems
the man in the moon
said the raggedy man on a hot afternoon,       "my!
sakes!
what a lot o' mistakes   some little folks makes on the man in the moon!
but people that's been up to see him like me,   and calls on him frequent and intimutly,   might drop a few hints that would interest you       clean!
through!
if you wanted 'em to
some actual facts that might interest you!
"o the man in the moon has a crick in his back;       whee!
whimm!
ain't you sorry for him?
and a mole on his nose that is purple and black;   and his eyes are so weak that they water and run   if he dares to dream even he looks at the sun,
so he jes' dreams of stars, as the doctors advise
my!
eyes!
but isn't he wise
to jes' dream of stars, as the doctors advise?
"and the man in the moon has a boil on his ear
whee!
whing!
what a singular thing!
i know!
but these facts are authentic, my dear,
there's a boil on his ear; and a corn on his chin,
he calls it a dimple but dimples stick in
yet it might be a dimple turned over, you know!
whang!
ho!
why certainly so!
it might be a dimple turned over, you know:
"and the man in the moon has a rheumatic knee,       gee!
whizz!
what a pity that is!
and his toes have worked round where his heels ought to be.
so whenever he wants to go north he goes south,   and comes back with the porridge crumbs all round his mouth,   and he brushes them off with a japanese fan,       whing!
whann!
what a marvelous man!
what a very remarkably marvelous man!
"and the man in the moon," sighed the raggedy man,       "gits!
so!
sullonesome, you know!
up there by himself since creation began!
that when i call on him and then come away,   he grabs me and holds me and begs me to stay,
till well, if it wasn't for jimmy-cum-jim,       dadd!
limb!
i'd go pardners with him!
jes' jump my bob here and be pardners with him!"
james whitcomb riley
(from "the raggedy man," copyright 1907. used by special permission of the publishers, the bobbs-merrill company.)
sage counsel
the lion is the beast to fight,     he leaps along the plain,   and if you run with all your might,     he runs with all his mane.
i'm glad i'm not a hottentot,       but if i were, with outward cal-lum       i'd either faint upon the spot       or hie me up a leafy pal-lum.
the chamois is the beast to hunt;     he's fleeter than the wind,   and when the chamois is in front,     the hunter is behind.
the tyrolese make famous cheese       and hunt the chamois o'er the chaz-zums:
i'd choose the former if you please,       for precipices give me spaz-zums.
the polar bear will make a rug     almost as white as snow;   but if he gets you in his hug,     he rarely lets you go.
and polar ice looks very nice,   with all the colors of a pris-sum;   but, if you'll follow my advice,   stay home and learn your catechis-sum.
arthur thomas quiller-couch
limericks
there was an old man in a tree,   who was horribly bored by a bee;   when they said, "does it buzz?"
he replied,       "yes, it does!
it's a regular brute of a bee."
there was an old man on some rocks,   who shut his wife up in a box:
when she said, "let me out," he exclaimed,       "without doubt   you will pass all your life in that box."
there was an old man who said "how   shall i flee from this horrible cow?
i will sit on this stile, and continue to smile,   which may soften the heart of that cow."
there was an old man who said, "hush!
i perceive a young bird in this bush!"
when they said, "is it small?"
he replied, "not at all;   it is four times as big as the bush!"
there was once an old man with a beard,   who said, "it is just as i feared!
two owls and a hen,     four larks and a wren   have all built their nests in my beard."
there was an old person of ware   who rode on the back of a bear;     when they said, "does it trot?"
he said, "certainly not,   it's a moppsikon floppsikon bear."
there was a young lady in blue,   who said, "is it you?
is it you?"
when they said, "yes, it is," she replied only,     "whizz!"
that ungracious young lady in blue.
edward lear
more limericks
there was a small boy of quebec,   who was buried in snow to his neck;     when they said.
"are you friz?"
he replied, "yes, i is
but we don't call this cold in quebec."
rudyard kipling
there was a young lady of niger   who smiled as she rode on a tiger;     they came back from the ride     with the lady inside,   and the smile on the face of the tiger.
there was a young maid who said, "why   can't i look in my ear with my eye?
if i give my mind to it,     i'm sure i can do it
you never can tell till you try."
anonymous
the dead doll
you needn't be trying to comfort me i tell you my dolly is dead!
there's no use in saying she isn't, with a crack like that in her head.
it's just like you said it wouldn't hurt much to have my tooth out,     that day;   and then, when the man 'most pulled my head off, you hadn't a word     to say.
and i guess you must think i'm a baby, when you say you can mend it     with glue:
as if i didn't know better than that!
why, just suppose it was you?
you might make her look all mended but what do i care for looks?
why, glue's for chairs and tables, and toys and the backs of books!
my dolly!
my own little daughter!
oh, but it's the awfullest crack!
it just makes me sick to think of the sound when her poor head went whack   against that horrible brass thing that holds up the little shelf.
now, nursey, what makes you remind me?
i know that i did it myself!
i think you must be crazy you'll get her another head!
what good would forty heads do her?
i tell you my dolly is dead!
and to think i hadn't quite finished her elegant new spring hat!
and i took a sweet ribbon of hers last night to tie on that horrid cat!
when my mamma gave me that ribbon i was playing out in the yard
she said to me, most expressly, "here's a ribbon for hildegarde."
and i went and put it on tabby, and hildegarde saw me do it;   but i said to myself, "oh, never mind, i don't believe she knew it!"
but i know that she knew it now, and i just believe, i do,   that her poor little heart was broken, and so her head broke too.
oh, my baby!
my little baby!
i wish my head had been hit!
for i've hit it over and over, and it hasn't cracked a bit.
but since the darling is dead, she'll want to be buried, of course:
we will take my little wagon, nurse, and you shall be the horse;   and i'll walk behind and cry, and we'll put her in this, you see
this dear little box and we'll bury her there out under the maple-tree.
and papa will make me a tombstone, like the one he made for my bird;   and he'll put what i tell him on it yes, every single word!
i shall say: "here lies hildegarde, a beautiful doll, who is dead;   she died of a broken heart, and a dreadful crack in her head."
margaret vandergrift
little things
little drops of water     little grains of sand,   make the mighty ocean,     and the pleasant land.
thus the little moments,     humble though they be,   make the mighty ages     of eternity.
thus our little errors     lead the soul away   from the path of virtue,     off in sin to stray.
little deeds of kindness,     little words of love,   make our earth an eden,     like the heaven above.
ascribed to julia a. f. carney
the golden rule
to do to others as i would     that they should do to me,   will make me gentle, kind, and good,     as children ought to be.
unknown
do the best you can
if i was a cobbler it should be my pride     the best of all cobblers to be;   if i was a tinker, no tinker beside     should mend an old kettle like me.
unknown
the voice of spring
i am coming, i am coming!
hark!
the little bee is humming;   see, the lark is soaring high   in the blue and sunny sky;   and the gnats are on the wing,   wheeling round in airy ring.
see, the yellow catkins cover   all the slender willows over!
and on the banks of mossy green   star-like primroses are seen;   and, their clustering leaves below,   white and purple violets grow.
hark!
the new-born lambs are bleating   and the cawing rooks are meeting   in the elms, a noisy crowd;   all the birds are singing loud;   and the first white butterfly   in the sunshine dances by.
look around thee, look around!
flowers in all the fields abound;   every running stream is bright;   all the orchard trees are white;   and each small and waving shoot   promises sweet flowers and fruit.
the lark and the rook
"good night, sir rook!"
said a little lark.
"the daylight fades; it will soon be dark;   i've bathed my wings in the sun's last ray;   i've sung my hymn to the parting day;   so now i haste to my quiet nook   in yon dewy meadow good night, sir rook!"
"good night, poor lark," said his titled friend   with a haughty toss and a distant bend;   "i also go to my rest profound,   but not to sleep on the cold, damp ground.
the fittest place for a bird like me   is the topmost bough of yon tall pine-tree.
"i opened my eyes at peep of day   and saw you taking your upward way,   dreaming your fond romantic dreams,   an ugly speck in the sun's bright beams;   soaring too high to be seen or heard;   and i said to myself: 'what a foolish bird!'
"i trod the park with a princely air,   i filled my crop with the richest fare;   i cawed all day 'mid a lordly crew,   and i made more noise in the world than you!
the sun shone forth on my ebon wing;   i looked and wondered good night, poor thing!"
"good night, once more," said the lark's sweet voice.
"i see no cause to repent my choice;   you build your nest in the lofty pine,   but is your slumber more sweet than mine?
you make more noise in the world than i,   but whose is the sweeter minstrelsy?"
unknown
thanksgiving day
over the river and through the wood,     to grandfather's house we go;       the horse knows the way       to carry the sleigh     through the white and drifted snow.
over the river and through the wood
oh, how the wind does blow!
it stings the toes       and bites the nose,     as over the ground we go.
over the river and through the wood,     to have a first-rate play.
hear the bells ring,       "ting-a-ling-ding!"
hurrah for thanksgiving day!
over the river and through the wood     trot fast, my dapple-gray!
spring over the ground,       like a hunting-hound!
for this is thanksgiving day.
over the river and through the wood,     and straight through the barn-yard gate       we seem to go       extremely slow,
it is so hard to wait!
over the river and through the wood
now grandmother's cap i spy!
hurrah for the fun!
is the pudding done?
hurrah for the pumpkin-pie?
lydia maria child
the magpie's nest
a fable
when the arts in their infancy were,     in a fable of old 'tis express'd   a wise magpie constructed that rare     little house for young birds, call'd a nest.
this was talk'd of the whole country round;     you might hear it on every bough sung,   "now no longer upon the rough ground     will fond mothers brood over their young:"
"for the magpie with exquisite skill     has invented a moss-cover'd cell   within which a whole family will     in the utmost security dwell."
unknown
the fairies of the caldon low
a midsummer legend
"and where have you been, my mary,     and where have you been from me?"
"i've been to the top of the caldon low,     the midsummer-night to see."
"and what did you see, my mary,     all up on the caldon low?"
"i saw the glad sunshine come down,     and i saw the merry winds blow."
"and what did you hear, my mary,     all up on the caldon hill?"
"i heard the drops of the water made.
and the ears of the green corn fill."
"oh!
tell me all, my mary
all, all that ever you know;   for you must have seen the fairies,     last night on the caldon low."
"then take me on your knee, mother;     and listen, mother of mine:
a hundred fairies danced last night,     and the harpers they were nine;"
"and their harp-strings rung so merrily     to their dancing feet so small;   but oh!
the words of their talking     were merrier far than all."
"and what were the words, my mary,     that then you heard them say?"
"i'll tell you all, my mother;     but let me have my way.
"some of them played with the water,     and rolled it down the hill;   'and this,' they said, 'shall speedily turn     the poor old miller's mill;
"'for there has been no water     ever since the first of may;   and a busy man will the miller be     at dawning of the day.
"'oh!
the miller, how he will laugh     when he sees the mill-dam rise!
the jolly old miller, how he will laugh     till the tears fill both his eyes!'
"and some they seized the little winds     that sounded over the hill;   and each put a horn unto his mouth,     and blew both loud and shrill;
"'and there,' they said, 'the merry winds go     away from every horn;   and they shall clear the mildew dank     from the blind old widow's corn.
"'oh!
the poor, blind widow,     though she has been blind so long,   she'll be blithe enough when the mildew's gone,     and the corn stands tall and strong.'
"and some they brought the brown lint-seed,     and flung it down from the low;   'and this,' they said, 'by sunrise,     in the weaver's croft shall grow.
"'oh!
the poor, lame weaver,     how will he laugh outright   when he sees his dwindling flax-field     all full of flowers by night!'
"and then outspoke a brownie,     with a long beard on his chin;   'i have spun up all the tow,' said he,     'and i want some more to spin.
"'i've spun a piece of hempen cloth,     and i want to spin another;   a little sheet for mary's bed,     and an apron for her mother.
"with that i could not help but laugh,     and i laughed out loud and free;   and then on the top of the caldon low     there was no one left but me.
"and on the top of the caldon low     the mists were cold and gray,   and nothing i saw but the mossy stones     that round about me lay.
"but, coming down from the hill-top,     i heard afar below,   how busy the jolly miller was,     and how the wheel did go.
"and i peeped into the widow's field,     and, sure enough, were seen   the yellow ears of the mildewed corn,     all standing stout and green.
"and down by the weaver's croft i stole,     to see if the flax were sprung;   and i met the weaver at his gate,     with the good news on his tongue.
"now this is all i heard, mother,     and all that i did see;   so, pr'ythee, make my bed, mother,     for i'm tired as i can be."
mary howitt
the land of story-books
at evening when the lamp is lit,   around the fire my parents sit;   they sit at home and talk and sing.
and do not play at anything.
now, with my little gun, i crawl   all in the dark along the wall,   and follow round the forest track   away behind the sofa back.
there, in the night, where none can spy,   all in my hunter's camp i lie,   and play at books that i have read   till it is time to go to bed.
these are the hills, these are the woods,   these are my starry solitudes;   and there the river by whose brink   the roaring lions come to drink.
i see the others far away   as if in firelit camp they lay,   and i, like to an indian scout,   around their party prowled about.
so, when my nurse comes in for me,   home i return across the sea,   and go to bed with backward looks   at my dear land of story-books.
robert louis stevenson
a visit from st. nicholas
't was the night before christmas, when all through the house   not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse;   the stockings were hung by the chimney with care,   in hopes that st. nicholas soon would be there;   the children were nestled all snug in their beds,   while visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;   and mamma in her kerchief, and i in my cap,   had just settled our brains for a long winter's nap,
when out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,   i sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
away to the window i flew like a flash,   tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
the moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow   gave a lustre of midday to objects below;   when what to my wondering eyes should appear,   but a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,   with a little old driver, so lively and quick   i knew in a moment it must be st. nick.
more rapid than eagles his coursers they came,   and he whistled and shouted, and called them by name;   "now, dasher!
now, dancer!
now, prancer and vixen!
on, comet!
on, cupid, on, donder and blitzen!
to the top of the porch, to the top of the wall!
now dash away, dash away, dash away all!"
as dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly,   when they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,   so up to the house-top the coursers they flew,   with the sleigh full of toys, and st. nicholas too.
and then in a twinkling i heard on the roof   the prancing and pawing of each little hoof.
as i drew in my head, and was turning around,   down the chimney st. nicholas came with a bound.
he was dressed all in fur from his head to his foot,   and his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and soot;   a bundle of toys he had flung on his back,   and he looked like a pedler just opening his pack.
his eyes how they twinkled!
his dimples how merry!
his cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry;   his droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,   and the beard on his chin was as white as the snow.
the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,   and the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath.
he had a broad face and a little round belly   that shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of jelly.
he was chubby and plump a right jolly old elf;   and i laughed, when i saw him, in spite of myself.
a wink of his eye and a twist of his head   soon gave me to know i had nothing to dread.
he spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,   and filled all the stockings; then turned with a jerk,   and laying his finger aside of his nose,   and giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.
he sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle,   and away they all flew like the down of a thistle;   but i heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight,   "happy christmas to all, and to all a good-night!"
clement clarke moore
little orphant annie
little orphant annie's come to our house to stay,   an' wash the cups and saucers up, an' brush the crumbs away,   an' shoo the chickens off the porch, an' dust the hearth, an' sweep,   an' make the fire, an' bake the bread, an' earn her board-an'-keep;   an' all us other children, when the supper things is done,   we set around the kitchen fire an' has the mostest fun   a-list'nin' to the witch-tales 'at annie tells about.
an' the gobble-uns 'at gits you         ef you               don't                   watch                       out!
onc't they was a little boy wouldn't say his prayers,
so when he went to bed at night, away up stairs,   his mammy heerd him holler, an' his daddy heerd him bawl,   an' when they turn't the kivers down, he wasn't there at all!
an' they seeked him in the rafter-room, an' cubbyhole, an press,   an' seeked him up the chimbly-flue, an' ever'wheres, i guess;   but all they ever found was thist his pants an' roundabout!
an' the gobble-uns git you         ef you               don't                   watch                       out!
an' one time a little girl 'ud allus laugh an' grin,   an' make fun of ever' one, an' all her blood an' kin;   an' onc't when they was "company," an' ole folks was there,   she mocked 'em an' shocked 'em, an' said she didn't care!
an' thist as she kicked her heels, an' turn't to run an' hide,   they was two great big black things a-standin' by her side,   an' they snatched her through the ceilin' 'fore she knowed what she's about!
an' the gobble-uns'll git you         ef you               don't                   watch                       out!
an' little orphant annie says, when the blaze is blue,   an' the lampwick sputters, an' the wind goes woo-oo!
an' you hear the crickets quit, an' the moon is gray,   an' the lightnin'-bugs in dew is all squenched away,
you better mind yer parents, and yer teachers fond and dear,   an' churish them 'at loves you, an' dry the orphant's tear,   an' he'p the pore an' needy ones 'at clusters all about,   er the gobble-uns'll git you         ef you               don't                   watch                       out!
james whitcomb riley
(from "riley child rhymes," copyright, 1899. used by special permission of the publishers, the bobbs-merrill company.)
the chatterbox
from morning to night 't was lucy's delight     to chatter and talk without stopping;   there was not a day but she rattled away,     like water forever a-dropping!
as soon as she rose, while she put on her clothes,     'twas vain to endeavor to still her;   nor once did she lack to continue her clack,     till again she lay down on her pillow.
you'll think now, perhaps, there would have been gaps,     if she hadn't been wonderful clever;   that her sense was so great, and so witty her pate     that it would be forthcoming forever.
but that's quite absurd; for have you not heard,     much tongue and few brains are connected,   that they are supposed to think least who talk most,     and their wisdom is always suspected?
while lucy was young, had she bridled her tongue     with a little good sense and exertion,   who knows but she might have been our delight,     instead of our jest and aversion?
ann taylor
the voice of spring
i come, i come!
ye have called me long;   i come o'er the mountains, with light and song.
ye may trace my step o'er the waking earth   by the winds which tell of the violet's birth,   by the primrose stars in the shadowy grass,   by the green leaves opening as i pass.
i have breathed on the south, and the chestnut-flowers   by thousands have burst from the forest bowers,   and the ancient graves and the fallen fanes   are veiled with wreathes on italian plains;   but it is not for me, in my hour of bloom,   to speak of the ruin or the tomb!
i have looked o'er the hills of the stormy north,   and the larch has hung all his tassels forth;   the fisher is out on the sunny sea,   and the reindeer bounds o'er the pastures free,   and the pine has a fringe of softer green,   and the moss looks bright, where my step has been.
i have sent through the wood-paths a glowing sigh,   and called out each voice of the deep blue sky,   from the night-bird's lay through the starry time,   in the groves of the soft hesperian clime,   to the swan's wild note by the iceland lakes,   when the dark fir-branch into verdure breaks.
from the streams and founts i have loosed the chain;   they are sweeping on to the silvery main.
they are flashing down from the mountain brows,   they are flinging spray o'er the forest boughs,   they are bursting fresh from their sparry caves,   and the earth resounds with the joy of waves.
felicia dorothea hemans
the history lesson
there was a monkey climbed up a tree,   when he fell down, then down fell he.
there was a crow sat on a stone,   when he was gone, then there was none.
there was an old wife did eat an apple,   when she had eat two, she had eat a couple.
there was a horse going to the mill,   when he went on, he stood not still.
there was a butcher cut his thumb,   when it did bleed, then blood did come.
there was a lackey ran a race,   when he ran fast, he ran apace.
there was a cobbler clouting shoon,   when they were mended, they were done.
there was a chandler making candle,   when he them strip, he did them handle.
there was a navy went into spain,   when it returned, it came again.
anonymous
song of life
a traveller on a dusty road     strewed acorns on the lea;   and one took root and sprouted up,     and grew into a tree.
love sought its shade at evening-time,     to breathe its early vows;   and age was pleased, in heights of noon,     to bask beneath its boughs.
the dormouse loved its dangling twigs,     the birds sweet music bore
it stood a glory in its place,     a blessing evermore.
a little spring had lost its way     amid the grass and fern;   a passing stranger scooped a well     where weary men might turn,   he walled it in, and hung with care     a ladle on the brink;   he thought not of the deed he did,     but judged that toil might drink.
he passed again; and lo!
the well,     by summer never dried,   had cooled ten thousand parchéd tongues,     and saved a life beside.
a nameless man, amid the crowd     that thronged the daily mart,   let fall a word of hope and love,     unstudied from the heart,   a whisper on the tumult thrown,     a transitory breath,   it raised a brother from the dust,     it saved a soul from death.
o germ!
o fount!
o word of love!
o thought at random cast!
ye were but little at the first,     but mighty at the last.
charles mackay
the good time coming
there's a good time coming, boys.
a good time coming:
we may not live to see the day,   but earth shall glisten in the ray     of the good time coming.
cannon-balls may aid the truth,     but thought's a weapon stronger;   we'll win our battle by its aid;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
the pen shall supersede the sword,   and right, not might, shall be the lord     in the good time coming.
worth, not birth, shall rule mankind,     and be acknowledged stronger;   the proper impulse has been given;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys     a good time coming:
war in all men's eyes shall be   a monster of iniquity     in the good time coming.
nations shall not quarrel then,     to prove which is the stronger;   nor slaughter men for glory's sake;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
hateful rivalries of creed   shall not make their martyrs bleed     in the good time coming.
religion shall be shorn of pride,     and flourish all the stronger;   and charity shall trim her lamp;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
and a poor man's family   shall not be his misery     in the good time coming.
every child shall be a help     to make his right arm stronger;   the happier he, the more he has:
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
little children shall not toil   under, or above, the soil     in the good time coming;   but shall play in healthful fields,     till limbs and mind grow stronger;   and every one shall read and write;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
the people shall be temperate,   and shall love instead of hate,     in the good time coming.
they shall use, and not abuse,     and make all virtue stronger;   the reformation has begun;
wait a little longer.
there's a good time coming, boys,     a good time coming:
let us aid it all we can,   every woman, every man,     the good time coming:
smallest helps, if rightly given,     make the impulse stronger;   't will be strong enough one day;
wait a little longer.
charles mackay
windy nights
whenever the moon and stars are set,     whenever the wind is high,   all night long in the dark and wet.
a man goes riding by,   late at night when the fires are out,   why does he gallop and gallop about?
whenever the trees are crying aloud,       and ships are tossed at sea,   by, on the highway, low and loud,       by at the gallop goes he.
by at the gallop he goes, and then   by he comes back at the gallop again.
robert louis stevenson
the wonderful world
great, wide, beautiful, wonderful world,   with the wonderful water round you curled,   and the wonderful grass upon your breast,   world, you are beautifully drest.
the wonderful air is over me,   and the wonderful wind is shaking the tree
it walks on the water, and whirls the mills,   and talks to itself on the top of the hills.
you friendly earth, how far do you go,   with the wheat-fields that nod and the rivers that flow,   with cities and gardens, and cliffs and isles,   and people upon you for thousands of miles?
ah!
you are so great, and i am so small,   i hardly can think of you, world, at all;   and yet, when i said my prayers to-day,   my mother kissed me, and said, quite gay,
"if the wonderful world is great to you,   and great to father and mother, too,   you are more than the earth, though you are such a dot!
you can love and think, and the earth cannot!"
william brighty rands
hark!
hark!
the lark
hark!
hark!
the lark at heaven's gate sings,       and phoebus 'gins arise,   his steeds to water at those springs       on chaliced flowers that lies;
and winking mary-buds begin       to ope their golden eyes;   with every thing that pretty bin,       my lady sweet, arise;         arise, arise.
william shakespeare
jog on, jog on
jog on, jog on, the foot-path way,     and merrily hent the stile-a;   a merry heart goes all the day,     your sad tires in a mile-a.
william shakespeare
sweet story of old
i think when i read that sweet story of old,     when jesus was here among men,   how he call'd little children as lambs to his fold,     i should like to have been with them then.
i wish that his hands had been placed on my head,     that his arm had been thrown around me,   and that i might have seen his kind look when he said,     "let the little ones come unto me."
yet still to his footstool in prayer i may go,     and ask for a share in his love;   and if i thus earnestly seek him below,     i shall see him and hear him above;
in that beautiful place he has gone to prepare     for all who are washed and forgiven;   and many dear children shall be with him there,   for of such is the kingdom of heaven.
but thousands and thousands who wander and fall,     never heard of that heavenly home;   i wish they could know there is room for them all,     and that jesus has bid them to come.
jemima luke
my shadow
i have a little shadow that goes in and out with me,   and what can be the use of him is more than i can see,   he is very, very like me from the heels up to the head;   and i see him jump before me, when i jump into my bed.
the funniest thing about him is the way he likes to grow
not at all like proper children, which is always very slow;   for he sometimes shoots up taller like an india-rubber ball,   and he sometimes gets so little that there's none of him at all.
he hasn't got a notion of how children ought to play,   and can only make a fool of me in every sort of way.
he stays so close beside me, he's a coward you can see;   i'd think shame to stick to nursie as that shadow sticks to me!
one morning, very early, before the sun was up,   i rose and found the shining dew on every buttercup;   but my lazy little shadow, like an arrant sleepy-head,   had stayed at home behind me and was fast asleep in bed!
robert louis stevenson
by cool siloam's shady rill
by cool siloam's shady rill     how sweet the lily grows!
how sweet the breath beneath the hill     of sharon's dewy rose!
lo, such the child whose early feet     the paths of peace have trod;   whose secret heart, with influence sweet,     is upward drawn to god.
by cool siloam's shady rill     the lily must decay;   the rose that blooms beneath the hill     must shortly fade away.
and soon, too soon, the wintry hour     of man's maturer age   will shake the soul with sorrow's power,     and stormy passion's rage.
o thou, whose infant feet were found     within thy father's shrine,   whose years, with changeless virtue crowned,     were all alike divine;
dependent on thy bounteous breath,     we seek thy grace alone,   in childhood, manhood, age, and death,     to keep us still thine own.
reginald heber
the wind in a frolic
the wind one morning sprang up from sleep,   saying, "now for a frolic!
now for a leap!
now for a madcap galloping chase!
i'll make a commotion in every place!"
so it swept with a bustle right through a great town,   creaking the signs, and scattering down   shutters, and whisking, with merciless squalls,   old women's bonnets and gingerbread stalls.
there never was heard a much lustier shout,   as the apples and oranges tumbled about;   and the urchins, that stand with their thievish eyes   forever on watch, ran off each with a prize.
then away to the fields it went blustering and humming,   and the cattle all wondered whatever was coming.
it plucked by their tails the grave, matronly cows,   and tossed the colts' manes all about their brows,   till, offended at such a familiar salute,   they all turned their backs and stood silently mute.
so on it went, capering and playing its pranks;   whistling with reeds on the broad river banks;   puffing the birds, as they sat on the spray,   or the traveler grave on the king's highway.
it was not too nice to bustle the bags   of the beggar, and flutter his dirty rags,   't was so bold that it feared not to play its joke   with the doctor's wig, and the gentleman's cloak.
through the forest it roared, and cried gayly, "now,   you sturdy old oaks, i'll make you bow!"
and it made them bow without more ado,   or it cracked their great branches through and through.
then it rushed like a monster o'er cottage and farm,   striking their inmates with sudden alarm;   and they ran out like bees in a midsummer swarm.
there were dames with their kerchiefs tied over their caps,   to see if their poultry were free from mishaps;   the turkeys, they gobbled, the geese screamed aloud,   and the hens crept to roost in a terrified crowd;   there was rearing of ladders, and logs laying on,   where the thatch from the roof threatened soon to be gone.
but the wind had passed on, and had met in a lane   with a schoolboy, who panted and struggled in vain,   for it tossed him, and twirled him, then passed, and he stood   with his hat in a pool, and his shoe in the mud.
william howitt
the graves of a household
they grew in beauty, side by side,     they filled one home with glee;   their graves are severed far and wide,     by mount, and stream, and sea.
the same fond mother bent at night     o'er each fair, sleeping brow;   she had each folded flower in sight:
where are those sleepers now?
one, midst the forest of the west,     by a dark stream is laid;   the indian knows his place of rest,     far in the cedar shade.
the sea, the blue, lone sea, hath one;     he lies where pearls lie deep;   he was the loved of all, yet none     o'er his low bed may weep.
one sleeps where southern vines are dressed     above the noble slain;   he wrapped the colors round his breast     on a blood-red field of spain.
and one o'er her the myrtle showers     its leaves by soft winds fanned;   she faded midst italian flowers
the last of that fair band.
and parted thus, they rest who played     beneath the same green tree;   whose voices mingled as they prayed     around one parent knee.
they that with smiles lit up the hall,     and cheered with song the hearth;   alas for love!
if thou wert all,     and naught beyond, o earth!
felicia dorothea hemans
we are seven
... a simple child         that lightly draws its breath,       and feels its life in every limb,         what should it know of death?
i met a little cottage-girl:
she was eight years old, she said;   her hair was thick with many a curl     that clustered round her head.
she had a rustic, woodland air,     and she was wildly clad;   her eyes were bright, and very fair
her beauty made me glad.
"sisters and brothers, little maid,     how many may you be?"
"how many?
seven in all," she said,     and wond'ring looked at me.
"and where are they?
i pray you tell."
she answered, "seven are we;   and two of us at conway dwell,     and two are gone to sea.
"two of us in the churchyard lie,     my sister and my brother;   and, in the churchyard cottage, i     dwell near them with my mother."
"you say that two at conway dwell,     and two are gone to sea,   yet ye are seven?
i pray you tell,     sweet maid, how this may be?"
then did the little maid reply,     "seven boys and girls are we;   two of us in the churchyard lie,     beneath the churchyard tree."
"you run about, my little maid,     your limbs they are alive:
if two are in the churchyard laid,     then ye are only five."
"their graves are green, they may be seen,"
the little maid replied;   "twelve steps or more from my mother's door,     and they are side by side.
"my stockings there i often knit,     my kerchief there i hem;   and there upon the ground i sit
i sit and sing to them.
"and often after sunset, sir,     when it is light and fair,   i take my little porringer,     and eat my supper there.
"the first that died was little jane;     in bed she moaning lay,   till god released her of her pain,     and then she went away.
"so in the churchyard she was laid;     and when the grass was dry,   together round her grave we played,     my brother john and i.
"and when the ground was white with snow,     and i could run and slide,   my brother john was forced to go,     and he lies by her side."
"how many are you, then," said i,     "if they two are in heaven?"
the little maiden did reply,     "o master!
we are seven."
"but they are dead; these two are dead!
their spirits are in heaven!"
't was throwing words away; for still   the little maid would have her will,     and said, "nay, we are seven!"
william wordsworth
the better land
"i hear thee speak of the better land;   thou call'st its children a happy band;   mother!
oh, where is that radiant shore?
shall we not seek it and weep no more?
is it where the flower of the orange blows,   and the fireflies dance through the myrtle boughs?"
"not there, not there my child!"
"is it where the feathery palm trees rise,   and the date grows ripe under sunny skies?
or midst the green islands of glittering seas,   where fragrant forests perfume the breeze,   and strange bright birds on their starry wings   bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"
"not there, not there, my child!"
"is it far away, in some region old,   where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?
where the burning rays of the ruby shine,   and the diamond lights up the secret mine,   and the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?
is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"
"not there, not there, my child!"
"eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy;   ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy;   dreams cannot picture a world so fair,
sorrow and death may not enter there;   time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom;   for beyond the clouds and beyond the tomb,       it is there, it is there, my child!"
felicia dorothea hemans
the juvenile orator
you'd scarce expect one of my age   to speak in public, on the stage;   and if i chance to fall below   demosthenes or cicero,   don't view me with a critic's eye,   but pass my imperfections by.
large streams from little fountains flow;   tall oaks from little acorns grow;   and though i now am small and young,   of judgment weak, and feeble tongue,   yet all great learned men like me
once learned to read their a, b, c.
and why may not columbia's soil   rear men as great as britain's isle,   exceed what greece and rome have done,   or any land beneath the sun?
may n't massachusetts prove as great   as any other sister state?
or, where's the town, go far or near,   that does not find a rival here?
or, where 's the boy but three feet high   who's made improvement more than i?
those thoughts inspire my youthful mind   to be the greatest of mankind;   great, not like cæsar, stained with blood;   but only great, as i am good.
david everett
the fox and the crow
a fable
the fox and the crow,       in prose, i well know,   many good little girls can rehearse:
perhaps it will tell       pretty nearly as well,   if we try the same fable in verse.
in a dairy a crow,       having ventured to go,   some food for her young ones to seek,       flew up in the trees,       with a fine piece of cheese,   which she joyfully held in her beak.
a fox, who lived by,       to the tree saw her fly,   and to share in the prize made a vow;       for having just dined,       he for cheese felt inclined,   so he went and sat under the bough.
she was cunning, he knew,       but so was he too,   and with flattery adapted his plan;       for he knew if she'd speak,       it must fall from her beak,   so, bowing politely, began.
"'t is a very fine day"
(not a word did she say):
"the wind, i believe, ma'am, is south:
a fine harvest for peas:"
he then looked at the cheese,   but the crow did not open her mouth.
sly reynard, not tired,       her plumage admired,   "how charming!
how brilliant its hue!
the voice must be fine,       of a bird so divine,   ah, let me just hear it, pray do.
"believe me, i long       to hear a sweet song!"
the silly crow foolishly tries:
she scarce gave one squall,       when the cheese she let fall,   and the fox ran away with the prize.
moral
ye innocent fair,       of coxcombs beware,   to flattery never give ear;       try well each pretense,       and keep to plain sense,   and then you have little to fear.
little b.
(taylor?)
the use of flowers
god might have bade the earth bring forth     enough for great and small,   the oak tree and the cedar tree,     without a flower at all.
we might have had enough, enough     for every want of ours,   for luxury, medicine, and toil,     and yet have had no flowers.
the ore within the mountain mine     requireth none to grow;   nor doth it need the lotus flower     to make the river flow.
the clouds might give abundant rain,     the nightly dews might fall,   and the herb that keepeth life in man     might yet have drunk them all.
then wherefore, wherefore were they made,     all dyed with rainbow light,   all fashioned with supremest grace,     upspringing day and night,
springing in valleys green and low,     and on the mountain high,   and in the silent wilderness,     where no man passes by?
our outward life requires them not,     then wherefore had they birth?
to minister delight to man,     to beautify the earth;
to comfort man, to whisper hope     whene'er his faith is dim;   for whoso careth for the flowers     will much more care for him.
mary howitt
contented john
one honest john tomkins, a hedger and ditcher,   although he was poor, did not want to be richer;   for all such vain wishes in him were prevented   by a fortunate habit of being contented.
though cold was the weather, or dear was the food,   john never was found in a murmuring mood;   for this he was constantly heard to declare,
what he could not prevent he would cheerfully bear.
"for why should i grumble and murmur?"
he said;   "if i cannot get meat, i can surely get bread;   and, though fretting may make my calamities deeper,   it can never cause bread and cheese to be cheaper."
if john was afflicted with sickness or pain,   he wished himself better, but did not complain,   nor lie down and fret in despondence and sorrow,   but said that he hoped to be better to-morrow.
if any one wronged him or treated him ill,   why, john was good-natured and sociable still;   for he said that revenging the injury done   would be making two rogues when there need be but one,
and thus honest john, though his station was humble,   passed through this sad world without even a grumble;   and i wish that some folks, who are greater and richer,   would copy john tomkins, the hedger and ditcher.
jane taylor
the old man's comforts, and how he gained them
"you are old, father william," the young man cried;     "the few locks which are left you are gray;   you are hale, father william a hearty old man:
now tell me the reason, i pray."
"in the days of my youth," father william replied,     "i remembered that youth would fly fast,   and abused not my health and my vigor at first,     that i never might need them at last."
"you are old, father william," the young man cried,     "and pleasures with youth pass away;   and yet you lament not the days that are gone:
now tell me the reason, i pray."
"in the days of my youth," father william replied,     "i remembered that youth could not last;   i thought of the future, whatever i did,     that i never might grieve for the past."
"you are old, father william," the young man cried,     "and life must be hastening away;   you are cheerful, and love to converse upon death:
now tell me the reason, i pray."
"i am cheerful, young man," father william replied;     "let the cause thy attention engage:
in the days of my youth i remembered my god;     and he hath not forgotten my age."
robert southey
the frost
the frost looked forth on a still, clear night,   and whispered, "now i shall be out of sight;   so through the valley and over the height     i'll silently take my way.
i will not go on like that blustering train,   the wind and the snow, the hail and the rain,   that make so much bustle and noise in vain,     but i'll be as busy as they!"
he flew up, and powdered the mountain's crest;   he lit on the trees, and their boughs he dressed   with diamonds and pearls; and over the breast     of the quivering lake he spread   a bright coat of mail, that it need not fear   the glittering point of many a spear   that he hung on its margin, far and near,     where a rock was rearing its head.
he went to the windows of those who slept,   and over each pane, like a fairy crept;   wherever he breathed wherever he stepped
most beautiful things were seen   by morning's first light!
there were flowers and trees,   with bevies of birds and swarms of bright bees;   there were cities temples, and towers; and these,     all pictured in silvery sheen!
but one thing he did that was hardly fair
he peeped in the cupboard, and finding there   that none had remembered for him to prepare,     "now, just to set them a-thinking,   i'll bite their rich basket of fruit," said he,      "this burly old pitcher i'll burst it in three!
and the glass with the water they've left for me     shall 'tchick!'
to tell them i'm drinking!"
hannah flagg gould
the battle of blenheim
it was a summer evening,     old kaspar's work was done,   and he before his cottage door     was sitting in the sun,   and by him sported on the green   his little grandchild wilhelmine.
she saw her brother peterkin     roll something large and round,   which he beside the rivulet     in playing there had found;   he came to ask what he had found,   that was so large and smooth and round.
old kaspar took it from the boy,     who stood expectant by;   and then the old man shook his head,     and with a natural sigh,   "'t is some poor fellow's skull," said he,   "who fell in the great victory.
"i find them in the garden,     for there's many hereabout;   and often, when i go to plow     the plowshare turns them out!
for many thousand men," said he,   "were slain in that great victory."
"now tell us what 't was all about,"
young peterkin he cries;   while little wilhelmine looks up     with wonder-waiting eyes;   "now tell us all about the war,   and what they killed each other for."
"it was the english," kaspar cried,     "who put the french to rout;   but what they killed each other for     i could not well make out.
but everybody said," quoth he,   "that 't was a famous victory.
"my father lived at blenheim then,     yon little stream hard by;   they burnt his dwelling to the ground,     and he was forced to fly:
so with his wife and child he fled,   nor had he where to rest his head.
"with fire and sword the country round     was wasted far and wide,   and many a childing mother then     and new-born baby died:
but things like that, you know, must be     at every famous victory.
"they say it was a shocking sight     after the field was won;   for many thousand bodies here     lay rotting in the sun:
but things like that, you know, must be   after a famous victory.
"great praise the duke of marlbro' won,     and our good prince eugene."
"why 't was a very wicked thing!"
said little wilhelmine.
"nay nay my little girl," quoth he,   "it was a famous victory.
"and everybody praised the duke     who this great fight did win."
"and what good came of it at last?"
quoth little peterkin.
"why, that i cannot tell," said he,   "but 't was a famous victory."
robert southey
the chameleon
a fable
from m. de lamotte
oft has it been my lot to mark   a proud, conceited, talking spark,   with eyes, that hardly served at most   to guard their master 'gainst a post;
yet round the world the blade has been   to see whatever could be seen,   returning from his finished tour,   grown ten times perter than before;   whatever word you chance to drop,   the traveled fool your mouth will stop:
"sir, if my judgment you'll allow,   i've seen and sure i ought to know,"
so begs you'd pay a due submission,   and acquiesce in his decision.
two travelers of such a cast,   as o'er arabia's wilds they passed   and on their way in friendly chat,   now talked of this, and then of that,   discoursed awhile, 'mongst other matter.
of the chameleon's form and nature.
"a stranger animal," cries one,   "sure never lived beneath the sun.
a lizard's body, lean and long,   a fish's head, a serpent's tongue,   its foot with triple claw disjoined;   and what a length of tail behind!
how slow its pace; and then its hue
who ever saw so fine a blue?"
"hold, there," the other quick replies,   "'t is green, i saw it with these eyes,   as late with open mouth it lay,   and warmed it in the sunny ray:
stretched at its ease, the beast i viewed   and saw it eat the air for food."
"i've seen it, sir, as well as you,   and must again affirm it blue;   at leisure i the beast surveyed,   extending in the cooling shade."
"'t is green, 't is green, sir i assure ye!"
"green!"
cries the other in a fury
"why, sir!
d'ye think i've lost my eyes?"
"'t were no great loss," the friend replies,   "for, if they always serve you thus,   you'll find them of but little use."
so high at last the contest rose,   from words they almost came to blows;   when luckily came by a third
to him the question they referred,   and begged he'd tell 'em, if he knew,   whether the thing was green or blue.
"sirs," cries the umpire, "cease your pother!
the creature's neither one nor t' other.
i caught the animal last night,   and viewed it o'er by candlelight:
i marked it well 't was black as jet
you stare but sirs, i've got it yet,   and can produce it."
"pray, sir, do:
i'll lay my life the thing is blue."
"and i'll be sworn, that when you've seen   the reptile, you'll pronounce him green."
"well, then, at once to ease the doubt,"
replies the man, "i'll turn him out:
and when before your eyes i've set him,   if you don't find him black, i'll eat him."
he said: then full before their sight   produced the beast, and lo!
't was white.
both stared, the man looked wondrous wise
"my children," the chameleon cries,   (then first the creature found a tongue,)
"you are all right, and all are wrong:
when next you talk of what you view,   think others see as well as you;   nor wonder, if you find that none   prefers your eyesight to his own."
james merrick
the blackberry girl
"why, phebe, are you come so soon?
where are your berries, child?
you cannot, sure, have sold them all,     you had a basket piled."
"no, mother, as i climbed the fence,     the nearest way to town,   my apron caught upon the stake,     and so i tumbled down.
"i scratched my arm and tore my hair,     but still did not complain;   and had my blackberries been safe,     should not have cared a grain.
"but when i saw them on the ground.
all scattered by my side,   i picked my empty basket up,     and down i sat and cried.
"just then a pretty little miss     chanced to be walking by;   she stopped, and looking pitiful,     she begged me not to cry.
"'poor little girl, you fell,' said she,     'and must be sadly hurt;'
'oh, no,' i cried; 'but see my fruit,     all mixed with sand and dirt.'
"'well, do not grieve for that,' she said;     'go home, and get some more,'
'ah, no, for i have stripped the vines,     these were the last they bore.
"'my father, miss, is very poor,     and works in yonder stall;   he has so many little ones,     he cannot clothe us all.
"'i always longed to go to church,     but never could i go;   for when i asked him for a gown,     he always answered, "no.
"'"there's not a father in the world     that loves his children more;   i'd get you one with all my heart,     but, phebe, i am poor."
"'but when the blackberries were ripe,     he said to me one day,   "phebe, if you will take the time     that's given you for play,
"'"and gather blackberries enough,     and carry them to town,   to buy your bonnet and your shoes,     i'll try to get a gown."
"'oh, miss, i fairly jumped for joy,     my spirits were so light;   and so, when i had leave to play,     i picked with all my might.
"'i sold enough to get my shoes,     about a week ago;   and these, if they had not been spilt,     would buy a bonnet, too.
"'but now they're gone, they all are gone,     and i can get no more,   and sundays i must stay at home,     just as i did before.'
"and, mother, then i cried again     as hard as i could cry;   and looking up, i saw a tear     was standing in her eye.
"she caught her bonnet from her head,     'here, here,' she cried, 'take this!'
'oh, no, indeed i fear your ma     would be offended, miss.'
"'my ma!
no, never; she delights     all sorrow to beguile;   and 't is the sweetest joy she feels,     to make the wretched smile.
"'she taught me when i had enough,     to share it with the poor;   and never let a needy child,     go empty from the door.
"'so take it, for you need not fear     offending her, you see;   i have another, too, at home,     and one's enough for me,'
"so then i took it here it is
for pray what could i do?
and, mother, i shall love that miss     as long as i love you."
unknown
mabel on midsummer day
a story of the olden time
part i
"arise, my maiden, mabel,"
the mother said; "arise,   for the golden sun of midsummer     is shining in the skies.
"arise, my little maiden,     for thou must speed away,   to wait upon thy grandmother     this livelong summer day.
"and thou must carry with thee     this wheaten cake so fine,   this new-made pat of butter,     this little flask of wine;
"and tell the dear old body,     this day i cannot come,   for the goodman went out yestermorn.
and he is not come home.
"and more than this, poor amy     upon my knee doth lie;   i fear me, with this fever pain     the little child will die!
"and thou canst help thy grandmother:
the table thou canst spread;   canst feed the little dog and bird;     and thou canst make her bed.
"and thou canst fetch the water     from the lady-well hard by;   and thou canst gather from the wood     the fagots brown and dry;
"canst go down to the lonesome glen,     to milk the mother ewe;   this is the work, my mabel,     that thou wilt have to do.
"but listen now, my mabel,     this is midsummer day,   when all the fairy people     from elfland come away.
"and when thou 'rt in the lonesome glen,     keep by the running burn,   and do not pluck the strawberry flower,     nor break the lady-fern.
"but think not of the fairy folk,     lest mischief should befall;   think only of poor amy,     and how thou lov'st us all.
"yet keep good heart, my mabel,     if thou the fairies see,   and give them kindly answer     if they should speak to thee.
"and when into the fir-wood     thou goest for fagots brown,   do not, like idle children,     go wandering up and down.
"but fill thy little apron,     my child, with earnest speed;   and that thou break no living bough     within the wood take heed.
"for they are spiteful brownies     who in the wood abide;   so be thou careful of this thing,     lest evil should betide.
"but think not, little mabel,     whilst thou art in the wood,   of dwarfish, willful brownies,     but of the father good.
"and when thou goest to the spring     to fetch the water thence,   do not disturb the little stream,     lest this should give offense.
"for the queen of all the fairies,     she loves that water bright;   i've seen her drinking there myself     on many a summer night.
"but she's a gracious lady,     and her thou need'st not fear;   only disturb thou not the stream,     nor spill the water clear."
"now all this i will heed, mother,     will no word disobey,   and wait upon the grandmother     this livelong summer day."
part ii
away tripped little mabel,     with the wheaten cake so fine,   with the new-made pat of butter,     and the little flask of wine.
and long before the sun was hot,     and the summer mist had cleared,   beside the good old grandmother     the willing child appeared.
and all her mother's message     she told with right good-will,   how that the father was away,     and the little child was ill.
and then she swept the hearth up clean,     and then the table spread;   and next she fed the dog and bird;     and then she made the bed.
"and go now," said the grandmother,     "ten paces down the dell,   and bring in water for the day,
thou know'st the lady-well."
the first time that good mabel went,     nothing at all saw she,   except a bird, a sky-blue bird,     that sat upon a tree.
the next time that good mabel went,     there sat a lady bright   beside the well, a lady small,     all clothed in green and white.
a courtesy low made mabel,     and then she stooped to fill   her pitcher at the sparkling spring,     but no drop did she spill.
"thou art a handy maiden,"
the fairy lady said;   "thou hast not spilt a drop, nor yet     the fairy spring troubled!
"and for this thing which thou hast done,     yet mayst not understand,   i give to thee a better gift     than houses or than land.
"thou shalt do well whate'er thou dost,     as thou hast done this day;   shalt have the will and power to please,     and shalt be loved alway."
thus having said, she passed from sight,     and naught could mabel see,   but the little bird, the sky-blue bird,     upon the leafy tree.
"and now go," said the grandmother,     "and fetch in fagots dry;   all in the neighboring fir-wood     beneath the trees they lie."
away went kind, good mabel,     into the fir-wood near,   where all the ground was dry and brown.
and the grass grew thin and sear.
she did not wander up and down,     nor yet a live branch pull,   but steadily of the fallen boughs     she picked her apron full.
and when the wildwood brownies     came sliding to her mind,   she drove them thence, as she was told,     with home thoughts sweet and kind.
but all that while the brownies     within the fir-wood still,   they watched her how she picked the wood,     and strove to do no ill.
"and, oh, but she is small and neat,"
said one; "'t were shame to spite   a creature so demure and meek,     a creature harmless quite!"
"look only," said another,     "at her little gown of blue;   at her kerchief pinned about her head,     and at her little shoe!"
"oh, but she is a comely child,"
said a third; "and we will lay   a good-luck penny in her path,     a boon for her this day,
seeing she broke no living wood;     no live thing did affray!"
with that the smallest penny,     of the finest silver ore,   upon the dry and slippery path,     lay mabel's feet before.
with joy she picked the penny up,     the fairy penny good;   and with her fagots dry and brown     went wandering from the wood.
"now she has that," said the brownies,     "let flax be ever so dear,   't will buy her clothes of the very best,     for many and many a year!"
"and go now," said the grandmother,     "since falling is the dew,   go down unto the lonesome glen,     and milk the mother ewe!"
all down into the lonesome glen,     through copses thick and wild,   through moist rank grass, by trickling streams,     went on the willing child.
and when she came to the lonesome glen,     she kept beside the burn,   and neither plucked the strawberry flower     nor broke the lady fern.
and while she milked the mother ewe     within this lonesome glen,   she wished that little amy     were strong and well again.
and soon as she thought this thought,     she heard a coming sound,   as if a thousand fairy folk     were gathering all around.
and then she heard a little voice,     shrill as the midge's wing,   that spake aloud, "a human child     is here; yet mark this thing,
"the lady-fern is all unbroke,     the strawberry flower unta'en!
what shall be done for her who still     from mischief can refrain?"
"give her a fairy cake!"
said one;     "grant her a wish!"
said three;   "the latest wish that she hath wished,"
said all, "whate'er it be!"
kind mabel heard the words they spake,     and from the lonesome glen   unto the good old grandmother     went gladly back again.
thus happened it to mabel     on that midsummer day,   and these three fairy blessings     she took with her away.
't is good to make all duty sweet,     to be alert and kind;   't is good, like little mabel,     to have a willing mind.
mary howitt
llewellyn and his dog
the spearmen heard the bugle sound,     and cheer'ly smiled the morn;   and many a brach, and many a hound,     attend llewellyn's horn.
and still he blew a louder blast,     and gave a louder cheer;   "come, gelert!
why art thou the last     llewellyn's horn to hear?
"oh, where does faithful gelert roam,     the flower of all his race?
so true, so brave a lamb at home,     a lion in the chase."
that day llewellyn little loved     the chase of hart or hare,   and scant and small the booty proved,     for gelert was not there.
unpleased, llewellyn homeward hied,     when, near the portal seat,   his truant gelert he espied,     bounding his lord to greet.
but when he gained the castle door,     aghast the chieftain stood;   the hound was smeared with gouts of gore     his lips and fangs ran blood!
llewellyn gazed with wild surprise;     unused such looks to meet,   his fav'rite checked his joyful guise,     and crouched, and licked his feet.
onward in haste llewellyn passed     (and on went gelert too),   and still, where'er his eyes were cast,     fresh blood gouts shocked his view!
o'erturned his infant's bed he found,     the blood-stained cover rent;   and all around the walls and ground    with recent blood besprent.
he called his child no voice replied;     he searched with terror wild;   blood!
blood!
he found on every side,     but nowhere found his child!
"hell-hound!
by thee my child's devoured!"
the frantic father cried;   and to the hilt his vengeful sword     he plunged in gelert's side.
his suppliant, as to earth he fell,     no pity could impart;   but still his gelert's dying yell     passed heavy o'er his heart.
aroused by gelert's dying yell,     some slumberer wakened nigh;   what words the parent's joy can tell,     to hear his infant cry!
concealed beneath a mangled heap,     his hurried search had missed,   all glowing from his rosy sleep,     his cherub boy he kissed!
nor scratch had he, nor harm, nor dread,     but the same couch beneath   lay a great wolf, all torn and dead,
tremendous still in death!
ah, what was then llewellyn's pain!
for now the truth was clear;   the gallant hound the wolf had slain,    to save llewellyn's heir.
vain, vain was all llewellyn's woe;     "best of thy kind, adieu!
the frantic deed which laid thee low     this heart shall ever rue!"
and now a gallant tomb they raised,     with costly sculpture decked;   and marbles storied with his praise     poor gelert's bones protect.
here never could the spearmen pass,     or forester, unmoved,   here oft the tear-besprinkled grass     llewellyn's sorrow proved.
and here he hung his horn and spear,     and oft, as evening fell,   in fancy's piercing sounds would hear     poor gelert's dying yell.
william robert spencer
the snowbird's song
the ground was all covered with snow one day,   and two little sisters were busy at play,   when a snowbird was sitting close by on a tree,   and merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee,                chick-a-de-dee, chick-a-de-dee,   and merrily singing his chick-a-de-dee.
he had not been singing that tune very long,   ere emily heard him, so loud was his song:
"oh, sister, look out of the window," said she;   "here's a dear little bird singing chick-a-de-dee.
chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"oh, mother, do get him some stockings and shoes,   and a nice little frock, and a hat if he choose;   i wish he'd come into the parlor and see   how warm we would make him, poor chick-a-de-dee."
chick-a-de-dee, etc.
"there is one, my dear child, though i cannot tell who,   has clothed me already, and warm enough too.
good morning!
oh, who are so happy as we?"
and away he went singing his chick-a-de-dee.
chick-a-de-dee, etc.
francis c. woodworth
for a' that and a' that
is there for honest poverty     wha hangs his head, and a' that?
the coward slave, we pass him by;     we dare be poor for a' that.
for a' that, and a' that,     our toils obscure, and a' that;   the rank is but the guinea's stamp,
the man's the gowd for a' that.
what though on hamely fare we dine,     wear hoddin gray, and a' that?
gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine,
a man's a man for a' that.
for a' that, and a' that,     their tinsel show, and a' that;   the honest man, though e'er sae poor,     is king o' men for a' that.
ye see yon birkie ca'd a lord,     wha struts, and stares, and a' that
though hundreds worship at his word,     he's but a coof for a' that;   for a' that, and a' that,     his riband, star, and a' that;   the man of independent mind,     he looks and laughs at a' that.
a prince can mak a belted knight,     a marquis, duke, and a' that;   but an honest man's aboon his might,
guid faith, he maunna fa' that!
for a' that, and a' that;     their dignities, and a' that,   the pith o' sense, and pride o' worth,     are higher ranks than a' that.
then let us pray that come it may,
as come it will for a' that,
that sense and worth, o'er a' the earth,     may bear the gree, and a' that.
for a' that, and a' that,     it's coming yet, for a' that,
when man to man, the warld o'er,     shall brothers be for a' that!
robert burns
fables
fables from æsop
the goose that laid golden eggs
there was a man who once had a very handsome goose, that always laid golden eggs.
now, he thought there must be gold inside of her, so he wrung her neck straightway, and found she was exactly like all other geese.
he thought to find riches, and lost the little he had.
the fable teaches that one who has anything should be content with it, and avoid covetousness, lest he lose what he has.
the boys and the frogs
a company of idle boys were watching some frogs by the side of a pond, and as fast as any of the frogs lifted their heads the boys would pelt them down again with stones.
"boys," said one of the frogs, "you forget that, though this may be fun for you, it is death to us."
the lion and the mouse
a mouse happened to run into the mouth of a sleeping lion, who roused himself, caught him, and was just about eating him, when the little fellow begged him to let him go, saying, "if i am saved, i shall be everlastingly grateful."
so, with a smile, the lion let him off.
it befell him not long after to be saved by the mouse's gratitude, for when he was caught by some hunters and bound by ropes to a tree, the mouse, hearing his roaring groans, came and gnawed the ropes, and set him free, saying, "you laughed at me once, as if you could receive no return from me, but now, you see, it is you who have to be grateful to me."
the story shows that there come sudden changes of affairs, when the most powerful owe everything to the weakest.
the fox and the grapes
a hungry fox discovered some bunches of grapes hanging from a vine high up a tree, and, as he gazed, longed to get at them, and could not; so he left them hanging there and went off muttering, "they're sour grapes."
the frog and the ox
an ox, grazing in a swampy meadow, chanced to set his foot among a parcel of young frogs, and crushed nearly the whole brood to death.
one that escaped ran off to his mother with the dreadful news.
"o mother," said he, "it was a beast such a big four-footed beast, that did it!"
"big?"
quoth the old frog, "how big?
was it as big" and she puffed herself out "as big as this?"
"oh, a great deal bigger than that."
"well, was it so big?"
and she swelled herself out yet more.
"indeed, mother, but it was; and if you were to burst yourself, you would never reach half its size."
the old frog made one more trial, determined to be as big as the ox, and burst herself, indeed.
the cat, the monkey, and the chestnuts
a cat and a monkey were sitting one day in the chimney corner watching some chestnuts which their master had laid down to roast in the ashes.
the chestnuts had begun to burst with the heat, and the monkey said to the cat, "it is plain that your paws were made especially for pulling out those chestnuts.
do you reach forth and draw them out.
your paws are, indeed, exactly like our master's hands."
the cat was greatly flattered by this speech, and reached forward for the tempting chestnuts, but scarcely had he touched the hot ashes than he drew back with a cry, for he had burnt his paw; but he tried again, and managed to pull one chestnut out; then he pulled another, and a third, though each time he singed the hair on his paws.
when he could pull no more out he turned about and found that the monkey had taken the time to crack the chestnuts and eat them.
the country maid and her milkpail
a country maid was walking slowly along with a pail of milk upon her head, and thinking thus:
"the money for which i shall sell this milk will buy me three hundred eggs.
these eggs, allowing for what may prove addled, will produce at least two hundred and fifty chickens.
the chickens will be fit to carry to market about christmas, when poultry always brings a good price, so that by may-day i shall have money enough to buy a new gown.
let me see green suits me; yes, it shall be green.
in this dress i will go to the fair, where all the young fellows will want me for a partner, but i shall refuse every one of them."
by this time she was so full of her fancy that she tossed her head proudly, when over went the pail, which she had entirely forgotten, and all the milk was spilled on the ground.
moral.
don't count your chickens before they are hatched.
the ass in the lion's skin
the ass once dressed himself in the lion's skin and went about frightening all the little beasts.
now he happened on the fox, and tried to frighten him too; but the fox chanced to hear him speak, and said: "well, to be sure, i should have been frightened too, if i hadn't heard you bray, and seen your ears sticking out."
so there are some men who make themselves appear very fine outwardly, but are betrayed as soon as they begin to talk.
the tortoise and the hare
"what a dull, heavy creature," says the hare, "is this tortoise!"
"and yet," says the tortoise, "i'll run with you for a wager."
"done," says the hare, and then they asked the fox to be the judge.
they started together, and the tortoise kept jogging on still, till he came to the end of the course.
the hare laid himself down midway and took a nap; "for," says he, "i can catch up with the tortoise when i please."
but it seems he overslept himself, for when he came to wake, though he scudded away as fast as possible, the tortoise had got to the post before him and won the wager.
slow and steady wins the race.
the vain jackdaw
a jackdaw picked up some beautiful feathers left by the peacocks on the ground.
he stuck them into his own tail, and, thinking himself too fine to mix with the other daws, strutted off to the peacocks, expecting to be welcomed as one of themselves.
the peacocks at once saw through his disguise, and, despising him for his foolishness and conceit, began to peck him, and soon he was stripped of all his borrowed plumes.
very much ashamed, the jackdaw went sadly home, meaning to join his old friends as if nothing had happened.
but they, remembering how he had scorned them before, chased him away and would have nothing to do with him.
"if you had been content," said one, "to remain as nature made you, instead of trying to be what you are not, you would have neither been punished by your betters nor despised by your equals."
the fox without a tail
a fox lost his tail in escaping from a steel trap.
when he began to go about again, he found that every one looked down upon or laughed at him.
not liking this, he thought to himself that if he could persuade the other foxes to cut off their tails, his own loss would not be so noticeable.
accordingly he called together the foxes and said: "how is it that you still wear your tails?
of what use are they?
they are in the way, they often get caught in traps, they are heavy to carry and not pretty to look upon.
believe me, we are far better without them.
cut off your tails, my friends, and you will see how much more comfortable it is.
i for my part have never enjoyed myself so much nor found life so pleasant as i have since i lost mine."
upon this, a sly old fox, seeing through the trick, cried, "it seems to me, my friend, that you would not be so anxious for us to cut off our tails, if you had not already lost yours."
the wolf in sheep's clothing
a wolf put on the skin of a sheep, and getting in among the flock by means of this disguise, killed many of the sheep.
the shepherd, who wondered why so many of his flock had disappeared, at last discovered the deceit.
he fastened a rope cunningly round the pretended sheep's neck, led him to a tree, and there hanged him.
some other shepherds passing that way and seeing what they thought was a sheep hanging from a tree, said, "what, brother!
surely you do not hang sheep?"
"no," answered the shepherd, "but i hang wolves when i catch them dressed up in sheep's skins!"
then he showed them their mistake, and they praised the justice of the deed he had done.
the crow and the pitcher
a crow, whose throat was parched and dry with thirst, saw a pitcher in the distance.
in great joy he flew to it, but found that it held only a little water, and even that was too near the bottom to be reached, for all his stooping and straining.
next he tried to overturn the pitcher, thinking that he would at least be able to catch some of the water as it trickled out.
but this he was not strong enough to do.
in the end he found some pebbles lying near, and by dropping them one by one into the pitcher, he managed at last to raise the water up to the very brim, and thus was able to quench his thirst.
the man, his son, and his ass
a man and his son were leading their ass to market.
a girl, seeing them, cried, "why walk when you can ride?"
on hearing this, the man set his son upon the ass.
going further, they heard an old man say, "shame for the young to ride while old people walk!"
thereupon the man made his son get down and rode himself.
presently they met some women who cried, "look at the poor tired son and lazy father!"
hearing this, the man took his son up beside him and so they rode into the town.
there a young man called to them, "two men on one beast!
it seems to me you are more fit to carry the ass than he is to carry you."
then they got down, tied the beast's legs to a pole, and carried him thus till they came to a bridge.
as they went, the children shouted so loudly that the ass took fright kicked his legs free, and jumped over the bridge into the river.
thus having lost his ass, the man went home, crying, "try to please everybody and you will please nobody, not even yourself!"
fables of india
adapted by p. v. ramaswami raju
the camel and the pig
a camel said, "nothing like being tall!
see how tall i am."
a pig who heard these words said, "nothing like being short; see how short i am!"
the camel said, "well, if i fail to prove the truth of what i said, i will give you my hump."
the pig said, "if i fail to prove the truth of what i have said, i will give up my snout."
"agreed!"
said the camel.
"just so!"
said the pig.
they came to a garden inclosed by a low wall without any opening.
the camel stood on this side the wall, and, reaching the plants within by means of his long neck, made a breakfast on them.
then he turned jeeringly to the pig, who had been standing at the bottom of the wall, without even having a look at the good things in the garden, and said, "now, would you be tall or short?"
next they came to a garden inclosed by a high wall, with a wicket gate at one end.
the pig entered by the gate, and, after having eaten his fill of the vegetables within, came out, laughing at the poor camel, who had had to stay outside, because he was too tall to enter the garden by the gate, and said, "now, would you be tall or short?"
then they thought the matter over, and came to the conclusion that the camel should keep his hump and the pig his snout, observing:
"tall is good, where tall would do;   of short, again, 't is also true!"
the man and his piece of cloth
a man in the east, where they do not require as much clothing as in colder climates, gave up all worldly concerns and retired to a wood, where he built a hut and lived in it.
his only clothing was a piece of cloth which he wore round his waist.
but, as ill-luck would have it, rats were plentiful in the wood, so he had to keep a cat.
the cat required milk to keep it, so a cow had to be kept.
the cow required tending, so a cow-boy was employed.
the boy required a house to live in, so a house was built for him.
to look after the house a maid had to be engaged.
to provide company for the maid a few more houses had to be built, and people invited to live in them.
in this manner a little township sprang up.
the man said, "the further we seek to go from the world and its cares, the more they multiply!"
the sea, the fox, and the wolf
a fox that lived by the seashore once met a wolf that had never seen the sea.
the wolf said, "what is the sea?"
"it is a great piece of water by my dwelling," said the fox.
"is it under your control?"
asked the wolf.
"certainly," said the fox.
"will you show me the sea, then?"
said the wolf.
"with pleasure," said the fox.
so the fox led the wolf to the sea, and said to the waves, "now go back," they went back.
"now come up," and they came up!
then the fox said to the waves, "my friend, the wolf, has come to see you, so you will come up and go back till i bid you stop;" and the wolf saw, with wonder, the waves coming up and going back.
he said to the fox, "may i go into the sea?"
"as far as you like.
don't be afraid, for, at a word, the sea would go or come as i bid, and as you have already seen."
the wolf believed the fox, and followed the waves rather far from the shore.
a great wave soon upset him, and threw up his carcass on the shore.
the fox made a hearty breakfast on it, saying, "the fool's ear was made for the knave's tongue."
the birds and the lime
a fowler in the east once went to a wood, scattered some grain on the ground, spread a net over it with some lime in it, and was watching from a distance to see what luck would attend his efforts.
a great many birds assembled on the trees around the net, and said, "what fine corn that is!
we can seldom hope to get anything like it."
an owl that was close by said, "how nice that white thing in the net is!"
"what is it?"
said the birds.
"why, it is our best friend in the world; it is lime.
when it holds us in its embrace, we can never hope to get away."
the birds left the place at once.
said the fowler, "a clever bird knows the lime!"
the raven and the cattle
one evening, as some cattle were wending their way home, a raven rode on the horns of a bull in the herd; and as he approached the cottage, cried to the farmer, "friend, my work for the day is over; you may now take charge of your cattle."
"what was your work?"
asked the farmer.
"why," said the raven, "the arduous task of watching these cattle and bringing them home."
"am i to understand you have been doing all the work for me?"
said the farmer.
"certainly," said the raven, and flew away with a laugh.
quoth the farmer with surprise, "how many there are that take credit for things which they have never done!"
tinsel and lightning
a piece of tinsel on a rock once said to a pebble, "you see how bright i am!
i am by birth related to the lightning."
"indeed!"
said the pebble; "then accept my humble respects."
some time after, a flash of lightning struck the rock, and the tinsel lost all its brilliancy by the scorching effects of the flash.
"where is your brilliancy now?"
said the pebble.
"oh, it is gone to the skies," said the tinsel, "for i have lent it to the lightning that came down a moment ago to borrow it of me."
"dear me!"
said the pebble; "how many fibs doth good bragging need!"
the ass and the watch-dog
a watch-dog in a village was barking all night to keep thieves off from his master's house.
an ass, who observed this, thought that the dog amused himself by barking.
so he brayed all night.
when the day dawned, the owner of the ass thought the poor animal had been suffering from some disorder.
therefore he sent for the village doctor, and laid the case before him.
the doctor examined the animal closely, and said, "friend, you must brand this ass forthwith, else he will soon go into fits and die."
the ass said, "i assure you nothing is wrong with me; i simply amused myself last night."
"oh, no," said the inexorable leech; "i know what the wily brute means.
he would rather die, and make you the loser, than be branded and recover his health."
so they bound the ass with ropes, and branded him all over with red-hot irons.
some time after the ass moved out to see how the village had fared during his illness.
the dog asked why he had been branded.
the ass narrated the story.
quoth the dog, "he that mistakes work for amusement must pay for his error."
the lark and its young ones
a child went up to a lark, and said, "good lark, have you any young ones?"
"yes, child, i have," said the lark; "and they are very pretty ones indeed!"
then she pointed to them, and said, "this is fair wing, that is tiny bill, and that other is bright eye."
the child said, "yes, at home, we are three myself and my two sisters, jane and alice; and mamma says we are pretty little children, and that she is very fond of us."
to this the little larks replied, "oh yes, mamma is very fond of us too."
then the child said, "good lark, will you send home tiny bill to play with me?"
before the lark could reply, bright eye said, "yes, if you will send little alice to play with us in our nest."
the child said, "oh, alice will be so sorry to leave home, and come away from mamma!"
bright.
eye said, "tiny bill will be so sorry to leave our nest, and go away from mamma!"
the child was abashed, and went home, saying, "ah, every one is fond of home!"
the two gems
a despot in the east once said to his fawning courtiers, "he that goes round my kingdom in the shortest possible time shall have one of these two gems."
a courtier went round the king, and said, "sire, may i have the prize?"
"how so?"
said the king.
"why, you are the kingdom, are you not?"
said the courtier.
the despot was so well pleased with the courtier that he gave him both the gems.
the other courtiers said, in a whisper, "flatterers prey upon fools."
fairy tales and laughter stories
scandinavian stories
the hardy tin soldier
by hans christian andersen
there were once five-and-twenty tin soldiers; they were all brothers, for they had all been born of one old tin spoon.
they shouldered their muskets, and looked straight before them; their uniform was red and blue, and very splendid.
the first thing they had heard in the world, when the lid was taken off their box, had been the words "tin soldiers!"
these words were uttered by a little boy, clapping his hands: the soldiers had been given to him, for it was his birthday; and now he put them upon the table.
each soldier was exactly like the rest; but one of them had been cast last of all, and there had not been enough tin to finish him; but he stood as firmly upon his one leg as the others on their two; and it was just this soldier who became remarkable.
on the table on which they had been placed stood many other playthings, but the toy that attracted most attention was a neat castle of cardboard.
through the little windows one could see straight into the hall.
before the castle some little trees were placed round a little looking-glass, which was to represent a clear lake.
waxen swans swam on this lake, and were mirrored in it.
this was all very pretty; but the prettiest of all was a little lady, who stood at the open door of the castle; she was also cut out in paper, but she had a dress of the clearest gauze, and a little narrow blue ribbon over her shoulders, that looked like a scarf; and in the middle of this ribbon was a shining tinsel rose as big as her whole face.
the little lady stretched out both her arms, for she was a dancer; and then she lifted one leg so high that the tin soldier could not see it at all, and thought that, like himself, she had but one leg.
"that would be the wife for me," thought he; "but she is very grand.
she lives in a castle, and i have only a box, and there are five-and-twenty of us in that.
it is no place for her.
but i must try to make acquaintance with her."
and then he lay down at full length behind a snuff-box which was on the table; there he could easily watch the little dainty lady, who continued to stand upon one leg without losing her balance.
when the evening came all the other tin soldiers were put into their box, and the people in the house went to bed.
now the toys began to play at "visiting," and at "war," and "giving balls."
the tin soldiers rattled in their box, for they wanted to join, but could not lift the lid.
the nutcracker threw somersaults, and the pencil amused itself on the table: there was so much noise that the canary woke up, and began to speak too, and even in verse.
the only two who did not stir from their places were the tin soldier and the dancing lady: she stood straight up on the point of one of her toes, and stretched out both her arms; and he was just as enduring on his one leg; and he never turned his eyes away from her.
now the clock struck twelve and, bounce!
the lid flew off the snuff-box; but there was no snuff in it, but a little black goblin:
you see, it was a trick.
"tin soldier!"
said the goblin, "don't stare at things that don't concern you."
but the tin soldier pretended not to hear him.
"just you wait till to-morrow!"
said the goblin.
but when the morning came, and the children got up, the tin soldier was placed in the window; and whether it was the goblin or the draught that did it, all at once the window flew open, and the soldier fell head over heels out of the third story.
that was a terrible passage!
he put his leg straight up, and stuck with helmet downward and his bayonet between the paving-stones.
the servant-maid and the little boy came down directly to look for him, but though they almost trod upon him, they could not see him.
if the soldier had cried out "here i am!"
they would have found him; but he did not think it fitting to call out loudly, because he was in uniform.
now it began to rain; the drops soon fell thicker, and at last it came down into a complete stream.
when the rain was past, two street boys came by.
"just look!"
said one of them: "there lies a tin soldier.
he must come out and ride in the boat."
and they made a boat out of a newspaper, and put the tin soldier in the middle of it, and so he sailed down the gutter, and the two boys ran beside him and clapped their hands.
goodness preserve us!
how the waves rose in that gutter, and how fast the stream ran!
but then it had been a heavy rain.
the paper boat rocked up and down, and sometimes turned round so rapidly that the tin soldier trembled; but he remained firm, and never changed countenance, and looked straight before him, and shouldered his musket.
all at once the boat went into a long drain, and it became as dark as if he had been in his box.
"where am i going now?"
he thought.
"yes, yes, that's the goblin's fault.
ah!
if the little lady only sat here with me in the boat, it might be twice as dark for what i should care."
suddenly there came a great water rat, which lived under the drain.
"have you a passport?"
said the rat.
"give me your passport."
but the tin soldier kept silence, and held his musket tighter than ever.
the boat went on, but the rat came after it.
hu!
how he gnashed his teeth, and called out to the bits of straw and wood.
"hold him!
hold him!
he hasn't paid toll he hasn't shown his passport!"
but the stream became stronger and stronger.
the tin soldier could see the bright daylight where the arch ended; but he heard a roaring noise, which might well frighten a bolder man.
only think just where the tunnel ended, the drain ran into a great canal; and for him that would have been as dangerous as for us to be carried down a great waterfall.
now he was already so near it that he could not stop.
the boat was carried out, the poor tin soldier stiffening himself as much as he could, and no one could say that he moved an eyelid.
the boat whirled round three or four times, and was full of water to the very edge it must sink.
the tin soldier stood up to his neck in water, and the boat sank deeper and deeper, and the paper was loosened more and more; and now the water closed over the soldier's head.
then he thought of the pretty little dancer, and how he should never see her again; and it sounded in the soldier's ears:
"farewell, farewell, thou warrior brave,   for this day thou must die!"
and now the paper parted, and the tin soldier fell out; but at that moment he was snapped up by a great fish.
oh, how dark it was in that fish's body!
it was darker yet than in the drain tunnel; and then it was very narrow too.
but the tin soldier remained unmoved, and lay at full length shouldering his musket.
the fish swam to and fro; he made the most wonderful movements, and then became quite still.
at last something flashed through him like lightning.
the daylight shone quite clear, and a voice said aloud, "the tin soldier!"
the fish had been caught, carried to market, bought, and taken into the kitchen, where the cook cut him open with a large knife.
she seized the soldier round the body with both her hands and carried him into the room, where all were anxious to see the remarkable man who had traveled about in the inside of a fish; but the tin soldier was not at all proud.
they placed him on the table, and there no!
what curious things may happen in the world.
the tin soldier was in the very room in which he had been before!
he saw the same children, and the same toys stood on the table; and there was the pretty castle with the graceful little dancer.
she was still balancing herself on one leg, and held the other extended in the air.
she was hardy too.
that moved the tin soldier; he was very nearly weeping tin tears, but that would not have been proper.
he looked at her, but they said nothing to each other.
then one of the little boys took the tin soldier and flung him into the stove.
he gave no reason for doing this.
it must have been the fault of the goblin in the snuff-box.
the tin soldier stood there quite illuminated, and felt a heat that was terrible; but whether this heat proceeded from the real fire or from love he did not know.
the colors had quite gone off from him; but whether that had happened on the journey, or had been caused by grief, no one could say.
he looked at the little lady, she looked at him, and he felt that he was melting; but he still stood firm, shouldering his musket.
then suddenly the door flew open, and the draught of air caught the dancer, and she flew like a sylph just into the stove to the tin soldier, and flashed up in a flame, and she was gone.
then the tin soldier melted down into a lump; and when the servant-maid took the ashes out next day, she found him in the shape of a little tin heart.
but of the dancer nothing remained but the tinsel rose, and that was burned as black as a coal.
the fir tree
by hans christian andersen
out in the forest stood a pretty little fir tree.
it had a good place; it could have sunlight, air there was in plenty, and all around grew many larger comrades pines as well as firs.
but the little fir tree wished ardently to become greater.
it did not care for the warm sun and the fresh air; it took no notice of the peasant children, who went about talking together, when they had come out to look for strawberries and raspberries.
often they came with a whole pot-full, or had strung berries on a straw; then they would sit down by the little fir tree and say, "how pretty and small that one is!"
and the fir tree did not like to hear that at all.
next year he had grown a great joint, and the following year he was longer still, for in fir trees one can always tell by the number of rings they have how many years they have been growing.
"oh, if i were only as great a tree as the other!"
sighed the little fir, "then i would spread my branches far around, and look out from my crown into the wide world.
the birds would then build nests in my boughs, and when the wind blew i could nod just as grandly as the others yonder."
it took no pleasure in the sunshine, in the birds, and in the red clouds that went sailing over him morning and evening.
when it was winter, and the snow lay all around, white and sparkling, a hare would often come jumping along, and spring right over the little fir tree.
oh!
this made him so angry.
but two winters went by, and when the third came the little tree had grown so tall that the hare was obliged to run round it.
"oh!
to grow, to grow, and become old; that's the only fine thing in the world," thought the tree.
in the autumn woodcutters always came and felled a few of the largest trees; that was done this year too, and the little fir tree, that was now quite well grown, shuddered with fear, for the great stately trees fell to the ground with a crash, and their branches were cut off, so that the trees looked quite naked, long, and slender they could hardly be recognized.
but then they were laid upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.
where were they going?
what destiny awaited them?
in the spring, when the swallows and the stork came, the tree asked them, "do you know where they were taken?
did you not meet them?"
the swallows knew nothing about it, but the stork looked thoughtful, nodded his head, and said:
"yes, i think so.
i met many new ships when i flew out of egypt; on the ships were stately masts; i fancy these were the trees.
they smelt like fir.
i can assure you they're stately very stately."
"oh that i were only big enough to go over the sea!
what kind of thing is this sea, and how does it look?"
"it would take too long to explain all that," said the stork, and he went away.
"rejoice in thy youth," said the sunbeams; "rejoice in thy fresh growth, and in the young life that is within thee."
and the wind kissed the tree, and the dew wept tears upon it; but the fir tree did not understand that.
when christmas-time approached, quite young trees were felled, sometimes trees which were neither so old nor so large as this fir tree, that never rested, but always wanted to go away.
these young trees, which were always the most beautiful, kept all their branches; they were put upon wagons, and horses dragged them away out of the wood.
"where are they all going?"
asked the fir tree.
"they are not greater than i indeed, one of them was much smaller.
why do they keep all their branches?
whither are they taken?"
"we know that!
we know that!"
chirped the sparrows.
"yonder in the town we looked in at the windows.
we know where they go.
oh!
they are dressed up in the greatest pomp and splendor that can be imagined.
we have looked in at the windows, and have perceived that they are planted in the middle of a warm room, and adorned with the most beautiful things gilt apples, honey-cakes, playthings, and many hundred of candles."
"and then?"
asked the fir tree, and trembled through all its branches.
"and then?
what happens then?"
"why, we have not seen anything more.
but it was incomparable."
"perhaps i may be destined to tread this glorious path one day!"
cried the fir tree, rejoicingly.
"that is even better than traveling across the sea.
how painfully i long for it!
if it were only christmas now!
now i am great and grown up, like the rest who were led away last year.
oh, if i were only on the carriage!
if i were only in the warm room, among all the pomp and splendor!
and then?
yes, then something even better will come, something far more charming, or else why should they adorn me so?
there must be something grander, something greater still to come; but what?
oh!
i'm suffering, i'm longing!
i don't know myself what is the matter with me!"
"rejoice in us," said air and sunshine.
"rejoice in thy fresh youth here in the woodland."
but the fir tree did not rejoice at all, but it grew and grew; winter and summer it stood there, green, dark green.
the people who saw it said, "that's a handsome tree!"
and at christmas time it was felled before any one of the others.
the axe cut deep into its marrow, and the tree fell to the ground with a sigh; it felt a pain, a sensation of faintness, and could not think at all of happiness, for it was sad at parting from its home, from the place where it had grown up; it knew that it should never again see the dear old companions, the little bushes and flowers all around perhaps not even the birds.
the parting was not at all agreeable.
the tree only came to itself when it was unloaded in a yard, with other trees, and heard a man say:
"this one is famous; we only want this one!"
now two servants came in gay liveries, and carried the fir tree into a large, beautiful parlor.
all around the walls hung pictures, and by the great stove stood large chinese vases with lions on the covers; there were rocking-chairs, silken sofas, great tables covered with picture books, and toys worth a hundred times a hundred dollars, at least the children said so.
and the fir tree was put into a great tub filled with sand; but no one could see that it was a tub, for it was hung round with green cloth, and stood on a large, many-colored carpet.
oh, how the tree trembled!
what was to happen now?
the servants, and the young ladies also, decked it out.
on one branch they hung little nets, cut out of colored paper; every net was filled with sweetmeats; golden apples and walnuts hung down, as if they grew there, and more than a hundred little candles, red, white, and blue, were fastened to the different boughs.
dolls that looked exactly like real people the tree had never seen such before swung among the foliage, and high on the summit of the tree was fixed a tinsel star.
it was splendid, particularly splendid.
"this evening," said all, "this evening it will shine."
"oh," thought the tree, "that it were evening already!
oh, that the lights may be soon lit up!
when may that be done?
i wonder if trees will come out of the forest to look at me?
will the sparrows fly against the panes?
shall i grow fast here, and stand adorned in summer and winter?"
yes, he did not guess badly.
but he had a complete backache from mere longing, and the backache is just as bad for a tree as the headache for a person.
at last the candles were lighted.
what a brilliance, what splendor!
the tree trembled so in all its branches that one of the candles set fire to a green twig, and it was scorched.
"heaven preserve us!"
cried the young ladies; and they hastily put the fire out.
now the tree might not even tremble.
oh, that was terrible!
it was so afraid of setting fire to some of its ornaments, and it was quite bewildered with all the brilliance.
and now the folding doors were thrown open, and a number of children rushed in as if they would have overturned the whole tree; the older people followed more deliberately.
the little ones stood quite silent, but only for a minute; then they shouted till the room rang: they danced gleefully round the tree, and one present after another was plucked from it.
"what are they about?"
thought the tree.
"what's going to be done?"
and the candles burned down to the twigs, and as they burned down they were extinguished, and then the children received permission to plunder the tree.
oh!
they rushed in upon it, so that every branch cracked again: if it had not been fastened by the top and by the golden star to the ceiling, it would have fallen down.
the children danced about with their pretty toys.
no one looked at the tree except one old man, who came up and peeped among the branches, but only to see if a fig or an apple had been forgotten.
"a story!
a story!"
shouted the children; and they drew a little fat man toward the tree; and he sat down just beneath it "for then we shall be in the green wood," said he, "and the tree may have the advantage of listening to my tale.
but i can only tell one.
will you hear the story of ivede-avede, or of klumpey-dumpey, who fell downstairs, and still was raised up to honor and married the princess?"
"ivede-avede!"
cried some, "klumpey-dumpey!"
cried others, and there was a great crying and shouting.
only the fir tree was quite silent, and thought, "shall i not be in it?
shall i have nothing to do in it?"
but he had been in the evening's amusement, and had done what was required of him.
and the fat man told about klumpey-dumpey who fell downstairs, and yet was raised to honor and married the princess.
and the children clapped their hands, and cried, "tell another!
tell another!"
for they wanted to hear about ivede-avede; but they only got the story of klumpey-dumpey.
the fir tree stood quite silent and thoughtful; never had the birds in the wood told such a story as that.
klumpey-dumpey fell downstairs and yet came to honor and married the princess!
"yes, so it happens in the world!"
thought the fir tree, and believed it must be true, because that was such a nice man who told it.
"well, who can know?
perhaps i shall fall downstairs, too, and marry a princess!"
and it looked forward with pleasure to being adorned again, the next evening, with candles and toys, gold and fruit.
"to-morrow i shall not tremble," it thought.
"i will rejoice in all my splendor.
to-morrow i shall here the story of klumpey-dumpey again, and perhaps that of ivede-avede, too."
and the tree stood all night quiet and thoughtful.
in the morning the servants and the chambermaid came in.
"now my splendor will begin afresh," thought the tree.
but they dragged him out of the room, and upstairs to the garret, and here they put him in a dark corner where no daylight shone.
"what's the meaning of this?"
thought the tree.
"what am i to do here?
what is to happen?"
and he leaned against the wall, and thought, and thought.
and he had time enough, for days and nights went by, and nobody came up; and when at length some one came, it was only to put some great boxes in a corner.
now the tree stood quite hidden away, and the supposition is that it was quite forgotten.
"now it's winter outside," thought the tree.
"the earth is hard and covered with snow, and people cannot plant me; therefore i suppose i'm to be sheltered here until spring comes.
how considerate that is!
how good people are!
if it were only not so dark here, and so terribly solitary!
not even a little hare?
that was pretty out there in the wood, when the snow lay thick and the hare sprang past; yes, even when he jumped over me; but then i did not like it.
it is terribly lonely up here!"
"piep!
piep!"
said a little mouse, and crept forward, and then came another little one.
they smelt at the fir tree, and then slipped among the branches.
"it's horribly cold," said the two little mice, "or else it would be comfortable here.
don't you think so, you old fir tree?"
"i'm not old at all," said the fir tree.
"there are many much older than i."
"where do you come from?"
asked the mice.
"and what do you know?"
they were dreadfully inquisitive.
"tell us about the most beautiful spot on earth.
have you been there?
have you been in the store room, where cheeses lie on the shelves, and hams hang from the ceiling, where one dances on tallow candles, and goes in thin and comes out fat?"
"i don't know that," replied the tree; "but i know the wood, where the sun shines and the birds sing."
and then it told all about its youth.
and the little mice had never heard anything of the kind; and they listened and said:
"what a number of things you have seen!
how happy you must have been!"
"i?"
replied the fir tree; and it thought about what it had told.
"yes, those were really quite happy times."
but then he told of the christmas eve, when he had been hung with sweetmeats and candles.
"oh!"
said the little mice, "how happy you have been, you old fir tree!"
"i'm not old at all," said the tree.
"i only came out of the wood this winter.
i'm only rather backward in my growth."
"what splendid stories you can tell!"
said the little mice.
and next night they came with four other little mice, to hear what the tree had to relate; and the more it said, the more clearly did it remember everything, and thought, "those were quite merry days!
but they may come again.
klumpey-dumpey fell downstairs and yet he married the princess.
perhaps i may marry a princess too?"
and then the fir tree thought of a pretty little birch tree that grew out in the forest: for the fir tree, that birch was a real princess.
"who's klumpey-dumpey?"
asked the little mice.
and then the fir tree told the whole story.
it could remember every single word; and the little mice were ready to leap to the very top of the tree with pleasure.
next night a great many more mice came, and on sunday two rats even appeared; but these thought the story was not pretty, and the little mice were sorry for that, for now they also did not like it so much as before.
"do you only know one story?"
asked the rats.
"only that one," replied the tree.
"i heard that on the happiest evening of my life; i did not think then how happy i was."
"that's a very miserable story.
don't you know any about bacon and tallow candles a store-room story?"
"no," said the tree.
"then we'd rather not hear you," said the rats.
and they went back to their own people.
the little mice at last stayed away also; and then the tree sighed and said:
"it was very nice when they sat round me, the merry little mice, and listened when i spoke to them.
now that's past too.
but i shall remember to be pleased when they take me out."
but when did that happen?
why, it was one morning that people came and rummaged in the garret; the boxes were put away, and the tree brought out; they certainly threw him rather roughly on the floor, but a servant dragged him away at once to the stairs, where the daylight shone.
"now life is beginning again!"
thought the tree.
it felt the fresh air and the first sunbeams, and now it was out in the courtyard.
everything passed so quickly that the tree quite forgot to look at itself, there was so much to look at all round.
the courtyard was close to a garden, and here everything was blooming; the roses hung fresh and fragrant over the little paling, the linden trees were in blossom, and the swallows cried, "quinze-wit!
quinze-wit!
my husband's come!"
but it was not the fir tree that they meant.
"now i shall live!"
said the tree, rejoicingly, and spread its branches far out; but, alas!
they were all withered and yellow; and it lay in the corner among nettles and weeds.
the tinsel star was still upon it, and shone in the bright sunshine.
in the courtyard a couple of the merry children were playing who had danced round the tree at christmas time, and had rejoiced over it.
one of the youngest ran up and tore off the golden star.
"look what is sticking to the ugly old fir tree!"
said the child, and he trod upon the branches till they cracked again under his boots.
and the tree looked at all the blooming flowers and the splendor of the garden, and then looked at itself, and wished it had remained in the dark corner of the garret; it thought of its fresh youth in the wood, of the merry christmas eve, and of the little mice which had listened so pleasantly to the story of klumpey-dumpey.
"past!
past!"
said the old tree.
"had i but rejoiced when i could have done so!
past!
past!"
and the servant came and chopped the tree into little pieces; a whole bundle lay there; it blazed brightly under the great brewing kettle, and it sighed deeply, and each sigh was like a little shot; and the children who were at play there ran up and seated themselves at the fire, looked into it, and cried "puff!
puff!"
but at each explosion, which was a deep sigh, the tree thought of a summer day in the woods, or of a winter night there, when the stars beamed; he thought of christmas eve and of klumpey-dumpey, the only story he had ever heard or knew how to tell; and then the tree was burned.
the boys played in the garden, and the youngest had on his breast a golden star, which the tree had worn on its happiest evening.
now that was past, and the tree's life was past, and the story is past too:
past!
past!
and that's the way with all stories.
the darning-needle
by hans christian andersen
there was once a darning-needle, who thought herself so fine, she imagined she was an embroidering-needle.
"take care, and mind you hold me tight!"
she said to the fingers that took her out.
"don't let me fall!
if i fall on the ground i shall certainly never be found again, for i am so fine!"
"that's as it may be," said the fingers; and they grasped her round the body.
"see, i'm coming with a train!"
said the darning-needle, and she drew a long thread after her, but there was no knot in the thread.
the fingers pointed the needle just at the cook's slipper, in which the upper leather had burst, and was to be sewn together.
"that's vulgar work," said the darning-needle.
"i shall never get through.
i'm breaking!
i'm breaking!"
and she really broke.
"did i not say so?"
said the darning-needle; "i'm too fine!"
"now it's quite useless," said the fingers; but they were obliged to hold her fast, all the same; for the cook dropped some sealing-wax upon the needle, and pinned her handkerchief together with it in front.
"so, now i'm a breast-pin!"
said the darning-needle.
"i knew very well that i should come to honor; when one is something, one comes to something!"
and she laughed quietly to herself and one can never see when a darning-needle laughs.
there she sat, as proud as if she were in a state coach, and looked all about her.
"may i be permitted to ask if you are of gold?"
she inquired of the pin, her neighbor.
"you have a very pretty appearance and a peculiar head, but it is only little.
you must take pains to grow, for it's not every one that has sealing-wax dropped upon him."
and the darning-needle drew herself up so proudly that she fell out of the handkerchief right into the sink, which the cook was rinsing out.
"now we're going on a journey," said the darning-needle.
"if i only don't get lost!"
but she really was lost.
"i'm too fine for this world," she observed, as she lay in the gutter.
"but i know who i am, and there's always something in that!"
so the darning-needle kept her proud behavior, and did not lose her good humor.
and things of many kinds swam over her, chips and straws and pieces of old newspapers.
"only look how they sail!"
said the darning-needle.
"they don't know what is under them!
i'm here, i remain firmly here.
see, there goes a chip thinking of nothing in the world but of himself of a chip!
there's a straw going by now.
how he turns!
how he twirls about!
don't think only of yourself, you might easily run up against a stone.
there swims a bit of newspaper.
what's written upon it has long been forgotten, and yet it gives itself airs.
i sit quietly and patiently here.
i know who i am, and i shall remain what i am."
one day something lay close beside her that glittered splendidly; then the darning-needle believed that it was a diamond; but it was a bit of broken bottle; and because it shone the darning-needle spoke to it, introducing herself as a breastpin.
"i suppose you are a diamond?"
she observed.
"why, yes, something of that kind."
and then each believed the other to be a very valuable thing; and they began speaking about the world, and how very conceited it was.
"i have been in a lady's box," said the darning-needle, "and this lady was a cook.
she had five fingers on each hand, and i never saw anything so conceited as those five fingers.
and yet they were only there that they might take me out of the box and put me back into it."
"were they of good birth?"
asked the bit of bottle.
"no, indeed," replied the darning-needle: "but very haughty.
there were five brothers, all of the finger family.
they kept very proudly together though they were of different lengths: the outermost, the thumbling, was short and fat; he walked out in front of the ranks, and only had one joint in his back, and could only make a single bow; but he said that if he were hacked off a man, that man was useless for service in war.
dainty-mouth, the second finger, thrust himself into sweet and sour, pointed to sun and moon, and gave the impression when they wrote.
longman, the third, looked at all the others over his shoulder.
goldborder, the fourth, went about with a golden belt round his waist; and little playman did nothing at all, and was proud of it.
there was nothing but bragging among them, and therefore i went away."
"and now we sit here and glitter!"
said the bit of bottle.
at that moment more water came into the gutter, so that it overflowed, and the bit of bottle was carried away.
"so he is disposed of," observed the darning-needle.
"i remain here.
i am too fine.
but that's my pride, and my pride is honorable."
and proudly she sat there, and had many great thoughts.
"i could almost believe i had been born of a sunbeam, i'm so fine!
it really appears as if the sunbeams were always seeking for me under the water.
ah!
i'm so fine that my mother cannot find me.
if i had my old eye, which broke off, i think i should cry; but, no, i should not do that; it's not genteel to cry."
one day a couple of street boys lay grubbing in the gutter, where they sometimes found old nails, farthings, and similar treasures.
it was dirty work, but they took great delight in it.
"oh!"
cried one, who had pricked himself with the darning-needle, "there's a fellow for you!"
"i'm not a fellow; i'm a young lady!"
said the darning-needle.
but nobody listened to her.
the sealing-wax had come off, and she had turned black; but black makes one look slender, and she thought herself finer even than before.
"here comes an eggshell sailing along!"
said the boys; and they stuck the darning-needle fast in the eggshell.
"white walls, and black myself!
that looks well," remarked the darning-needle.
"now one can see me.
i only hope i shall not be seasick!"
but she was not seasick at all.
"it is good against seasickness, if one has a steel stomach, and does not forget that one is a little more than an ordinary person!
now my seasickness is over.
the finer one is, the more one can bear."
"crack!"
went the eggshell, for a wagon went over her.
"good heavens, how it crushes one!"
said the darning-needle.
"i'm getting seasick now i'm quite sick."
but she was not really sick, though the wagon went over her; she lay there at full length, and there she may lie.
thumbelina
by hans christian andersen
she had a little house of her own, a little garden too, this woman of whom i am going to tell you, but for all that she was not quite happy.
"if only i had a little child of my own," she said, "how the walls would ring with her laughter, and how the flowers would brighten at her coming.
then, indeed, i should be quite happy."
and an old witch heard what the woman wished, and said, "oh, but that is easily managed.
here is a barley-corn.
plant it in a flower-pot and tend it carefully, and then you will see what will happen."
the woman was in a great hurry to go home and plant the barley-corn, but she did not forget to say "thank you" to the old witch.
she not only thanked her, she even stayed to give her six silver pennies.
then she hurried away to her home, took a flower-pot and planted her precious barley-corn.
and what do you think happened?
almost before the corn was planted, up shot a large and beautiful flower.
it was still unopened.
the petals were folded closely together, but it looked like a tulip.
it really was a tulip, a red and yellow one, too.
the woman loved flowers.
she stooped and kissed the beautiful bud.
as her lips touched the petals, they burst open, and oh!
wonder of wonders!
there, in the very middle of the flower, there sat a little child.
such a tiny, pretty little maiden she was.
they called her thumbelina.
that was because she was no bigger than the woman's thumb.
and where do you think she slept?
a little walnut shell, lined with blue, that was her cradle.
when she slept little thumbelina lay in her cradle on a tiny heap of violets, with the petal of a pale pink rose to cover her.
and where do you think she played?
a table was her playground.
on the table the woman placed a plate of water.
little thumbelina called that her lake.
round the plate were scented flowers, the blossoms lying on the edge, while the pale green stalks reached thirstily down to the water.
in the lake floated a large tulip leaf.
this was thumbelina's little boat.
seated there she sailed from side to side of her little lake, rowing cleverly with two white horse hairs.
as she rowed backwards and forwards she sang softly to herself.
the woman listening heard, and thought she had never known so sweet a song.
and now such a sad thing happened.
in through the broken window-pane hopped a big toad, oh!
such an ugly big toad.
she hopped right on to the table, where thumbelina lay dreaming in her tiny cradle, under the pale pink rose leaf.
she peeped at her, this ugly old toad.
"how beautiful the little maiden is," she croaked.
"she will make a lovely bride for my handsome son."
and she lifted the little cradle, with thumbelina in it, and hopped out through the broken window-pane, down into the garden.
at the foot of the garden was a broad stream.
here, under the muddy banks lived the old toad with her son.
how handsome she thought him!
but he was really very ugly.
indeed, he was exactly like his mother.
when he saw little thumbelina in her tiny cradle, he croaked with delight.
"do not make so much noise," said his mother, "or you will wake the tiny creature.
we may lose her if we are not careful.
the slightest breeze would waft her far away.
she is as light as gossamer."
then the old toad carried thumbelina out into the middle of the stream.
"she will be safe here," she said, as she laid her gently on one of the leaves of a large water lily, and paddled back to her son.
"we will make ready the best rooms under the mud," she told him, "and then you and the little maiden will be married."
poor little thumbelina!
she had not seen the ugly big toad yet, nor her ugly son.
when she woke up early in the morning, how she wept!
water all around her!
how could she reach the shore?
poor little thumbelina!
down under the mud the old toad was very busy, decking the best room with buttercups and buds of water-lilies to make it gay for her little daughter-in-law, thumbelina.
"now we will go to bring her little bed and place it ready," said the old toad, and together she and her son swam out to the leaf where little thumbelina sat.
"here is my handsome son," she said, "he is to be your husband," and she bowed low in the water, for she wished to be very polite to the little maiden.
"croak, croak," was all the young toad could say, as he looked at his pretty little bride.
then they took away the tiny little bed, and thumbelina was left all alone.
how the tears stained her pretty little face!
how fast they fell into the stream!
even the fish as they swam hither and thither thought, "how it rains to-day," as the tiny drops fell thick and fast.
they popped up their heads and saw the forlorn little maiden.
"she shall not marry the ugly toad," they said, as they looked with eager eyes at the pretty child.
"no, she shall not marry the ugly toad."
but what could the little fish do to help thumbelina?
oh!
they were such clever little fish!
they found the green stem which held the leaf on which thumbelina sat.
they bit it with their little sharp teeth, and they never stopped biting, till at last they bit the green stem through; and away, down the stream, floated the leaf, carrying with it little thumbelina.
"free, free!"
she sang, and her voice tinkled as a chime of fairy bells.
"free, free!"
she sang merrily as she floated down the stream, away, far away out of reach of the ugly old toad and her ugly son.
and as she floated on, the little wild birds sang round her, and on the banks the little wild harebells bowed to her.
butterflies were flitting here and there in the sunshine.
a pretty little white one fluttered on to the leaf on which sat thumbelina.
he loved the tiny maiden so well that he settled down beside her.
now she was quite happy!
birds around her, flowers near her, and the water gleaming like gold in the summer sunshine.
what besides could little thumbelina wish?
she took off her sash and threw one end of it round the butterfly.
the other end she fastened firmly to the leaf.
on and on floated the leaf, the little maiden and the butterfly.
suddenly a great cockchafer buzzed along.
alas!
he caught sight of little thumbelina.
he flew to her, put his claw round her tiny waist and carried her off, up on to a tree.
poor little thumbelina!
how frightened she was!
how grieved she was, too, for had she not lost her little friend the butterfly?
would he fly away, she wondered, or would her sash hold him fast?
the cockchafer was charmed with the little maiden.
he placed her tenderly on the largest leaf he could find.
he gathered honey for her from the flowers, and as she sipped it, he sat near and told her how beautiful she looked.
but there were other chafers living in the tree, and when they came to see little thumbelina, they said, "she is not pretty at all."
"she has only two legs," said one.
"she has no feelers," said another.
some said she was too thin, others that she was too fat, and then they all buzzed and hummed together, "how ugly she is, how ugly she is!"
but all the time little thumbelina was the prettiest, daintiest little maiden that ever lived.
and now the cockchafer who had flown off with little thumbelina thought he had been rather foolish to admire her.
he looked at her again.
"pretty?
no, after all she was not very pretty."
he would have nothing to do with her, and away he and all the other chafers flew.
only first they carried little thumbelina down from the tree and placed her on a daisy.
she wept because she was so ugly so ugly that the chafers could not live with her.
but all the time, you know, she was the prettiest little maiden in the world.
she was living all alone in the wood now, but it was summer and she could not feel sad or lonely while the warm golden sunshine touched her so gently, while the birds sang to her, and the flowers bowed to her.
yes, little thumbelina was happy.
she ate honey from the flowers, and drank dew out of the golden buttercups and danced and sang the livelong day.
but summer passed away and autumn came.
the birds began to whisper of flying to warmer countries, and the flowers began to fade and hang their heads, and as autumn passed away, winter came, cold, dreary winter.
thumbelina shivered with cold.
her little frock was thin and old.
she would certainly be frozen to death, she thought, as she wrapped herself up in a withered leaf.
then the snow began to fall, and each snowflake seemed to smother her.
she was so very tiny.
close to the wood lay a corn-field.
the beautiful golden grain had been carried away long ago, now there was only dry short stubble.
but to little thumbelina the stubble was like a great forest.
she walked through the hard field.
she was shaking with cold.
all at once she saw a little door just before her.
she looked again yes, it was a door.
the field-mouse had made a little house under the stubble, and lived so cosily there.
she had a big room full of corn, and she had a kitchen and pantry as well.
"perhaps i shall get some food here," thought the cold and hungry little maiden, as she stood knocking at the door, just like a tiny beggar child.
she had had nothing to eat for two long days.
oh, she was very hungry!
"what a tiny thing you are!"
said the field-mouse, as she opened the door and saw thumbelina.
"come in and dine with me."
how glad thumbelina was, and how she enjoyed dining with the field-mouse.
she behaved so prettily that the old field-mouse told her she might live with her while the cold weather lasted.
"and you shall keep my room clean and neat, and you shall tell me stories," she added.
that is how thumbelina came to live with the field-mouse and to meet mr. mole.
"we shall have a visitor soon," said the field-mouse.
"my neighbor, mr. mole, comes to see me every week-day.
his house is very large, and he wears a beautiful coat of black velvet.
unfortunately, he is blind.
if you tell him your prettiest stories he may marry you."
now the mole was very wise and very clever, but how could little thumbelina ever care for him?
why, he did not love the sun, nor the flowers, and he lived in a house underground.
no, thumbelina did not wish to marry the mole.
however she must sing to him when he came to visit his neighbor the field-mouse.
when she had sung "ladybird, ladybird, fly away home,"
and "boys and girls come out to play," the mole was charmed, and thought he would like to marry the little maiden with the beautiful voice.
then he tried to be very agreeable.
he invited the field-mouse and thumbelina to walk along the underground passage he had dug between their houses.
mr. mole was very fond of digging underground.
as it was dark the mole took a piece of tinder-wood in his mouth and led the way.
the tinder-wood shone like a torch in the dark passage.
a little bird lay in the passage, a little bird who had not flown away when the flowers faded and the cold winds blew.
it was dead, the mole said.
when he reached the bird, the mole stopped and pushed his nose right up through the ceiling to make a hole, through which the daylight might shine.
there lay the swallow, his wings pressed close to his side his little head and legs drawn in under his feathers.
he had died of cold.
"poor little swallow!"
thought thumbelina.
all wild birds were her friends.
had they not sung to her and fluttered round her all the long glad summer days?
but the mole kicked the swallow with his short legs.
"that one will sing no more," he said roughly.
"it must be sad to be born a bird and to be able only to sing and fly.
i am thankful none of my children will be birds," and he proudly smoothed down his velvet coat.
"yes," said the field-mouse; "what can a bird do but sing?
when the cold weather comes it is useless."
thumbelina said nothing.
only when the others moved on, she stooped down and stroked the bird gently with her tiny hand, and kissed its closed eyes.
that night the little maiden could not sleep.
"i will go to see the poor swallow again," she thought.
she got up out of her tiny bed.
she wove a little carpet out of hay.
down the long underground passage little thumbelina walked, carrying the carpet.
she reached the bird at last, and spread the carpet gently round him.
she fetched warm cotton and laid it over the bird.
"even down on the cold earth he will be warm now," thought the gentle little maiden.
"farewell," she said sadly, "farewell, little bird!
did you sing to me through the long summer days, when the leaves were green and the sky was blue?
farewell, little swallow!"
and she stooped to press her tiny cheeks against the soft feathers.
as she did so, she heard what could it be?
pit, pat, pit, pat!
could the bird be alive?
little thumbelina listened still.
yes, it was the beating of the little bird's heart that she heard.
he had not been dead after all, only frozen with cold.
the little carpet and the covering the little maid had brought warmed the bird.
he would get well now.
what a big bird he seemed to thumbelina!
she was almost afraid now, for she was so tiny.
she was tiny, but she was brave.
drawing the covering more closely round the poor swallow, she brought her own little pillow, that the bird's head might rest softly.
thumbelina stole out again the next night.
"would the swallow look at her," she wondered.
yes, he opened his eyes, and looked at little thumbelina, who stood there with a tiny torch of tinder-wood.
"thanks, thanks, little thumbelina," he twittered feebly.
"soon i shall grow strong and fly out in the bright sunshine once more; thanks, thanks, little maiden."
"oh!
but it is too cold, it snows and freezes, for now it is winter,"
said thumbelina.
"stay here and be warm, and i will take care of you,"
and she brought the swallow water in a leaf.
and the little bird told her all his story, how he had tried to fly to the warm countries, and how he had torn his wing on a blackthorn bush and fallen to the ground.
but he could not tell her how he had come to the underground passage.
all winter the swallow stayed there, and thumbelina was often in the long passage, with her little torch of tinder-wood.
but the mole and the field-mouse did not know how thumbelina tended and cared for the swallow.
at last spring came, and the sun sent its warmth down where the swallow lay in the underground passage.
little thumbelina opened the hole which the mole had made in the ceiling, and the sunshine streamed down on the swallow and the little girl.
how the swallow longed to soar away, up and up, to be lost to sight in the blue, blue sky!
"come with me, little thumbelina," said the swallow, "come with me to the blue skies and the green woods."
but thumbelina remembered how kind the field-mouse had been to her when she was cold and hungry, and she would not leave her.
"farewell!
farewell!
then, little maiden," twittered the swallow as he flew out and up, up into the sunshine.
thumbelina loved the swallow dearly.
her eyes were full of tears as she watched the bird disappearing till he was only a tiny speck of black.
and now sad days came to little thumbelina.
the golden corn was once more waving in the sunshine above the house of the field-mouse, but thumbelina must not go out lest she lose herself among the corn.
not go out in the bright sunshine!
oh, poor little thumbelina!
"you must get your wedding clothes ready this summer," said the field-mouse.
"you must be well provided with linen and worsted.
my neighbor the mole will wish a well-dressed bride."
the mole had said he wished to marry little thumbelina before the cold winter came again.
so thumbelina sat at the spinning-wheel through the long summer days, spinning and weaving with four little spiders to help her.
in the evening the mole came to visit her.
"summer will soon be over,"
he said, "and we shall be married."
but oh!
little thumbelina did not wish the summer to end.
live with the dull old mole, who hated the sunshine, who would not listen to the song of the birds live underground with him!
little thumbelina wished the summer would never end.
the spinning and weaving were over now.
all the wedding clothes were ready.
autumn was come.
"only four weeks and the wedding-day will have come," said the field-mouse.
and little thumbelina wept.
"i will not marry the tiresome old mole," she said.
"i shall bite you with my white tooth if you talk such nonsense," said the field-mouse.
"among all my friends not one of them has such a fine velvet coat as the mole.
his cellars are full and his rooms are large.
you ought to be glad to marry so well," she ended.
"was there no escape from the underground home?"
little thumbelina wondered.
the wedding-day came.
the mole arrived to fetch his little bride.
how could she say good-by for ever to the beautiful sunshine?
"farewell, farewell!"
she cried, and waved her little hands towards the glorious sun.
"farewell, farewell!"
she cried, and threw her tiny arms round a little red flower growing at her feet.
"tell the dear swallow, when he comes again," she whispered to the flower, "tell him i will never forget him."
"tweet, tweet!"
what was that thumbelina heard?
"tweet, tweet!"
could it be the swallow?
the flutter of wings was round her.
little thumbelina looked.
how glad she was, for there, indeed, was the little bird she had tended and cared for so long.
she told him, weeping, she must not stay.
she must marry the mole and live underground, and never see the sun, the glorious sun.
"come with me, come with me, little thumbelina," twittered the swallow.
"you can sit on my back, and i will fly with you to warmer countries, far from the tiresome old mole.
over mountains and seas we will fly to the country where the summer never ends, and the sunlight always shines."
then little thumbelina seated herself on her dear swallow's back, and put her tiny feet on his outstretched wing.
she tied herself firmly with her little sash to the strongest feather of the bird.
and the swallow soared high into the air.
high above forests and lakes, high above the big mountains that were crested with snow, he soared.
and little thumbelina shivered as she felt the cold air, but soon she crept under the bird's warm feathers, and only pushed out her little head to see the beauty all around her.
they had reached the warm countries now.
the sun was more brilliant here, the flowers more radiant.
on and on flew the swallow, till he came to a white marble palace.
half-ruined it was, and vine leaves trailed up the long slender pillars.
and among the broad, green leaves many a swallow had built his nest, and one of these nests belonged to thumbelina's little swallow.
"this is my home," said the bird, "but you shall live in one of these brilliant flowers, in the loveliest of them all'."
and little thumbelina clapped her hands with joy.
the swallow flew with her to a stately sunflower, and set her carefully on one of the broad yellow petals.
but think, what was her surprise!
in the very heart of the flower stood a little prince, fair and transparent as crystal.
on his head he wore a crown of gold, on his shoulders a pair of delicate wings, and he was small, every bit as small as thumbelina.
he was the spirit of the flower.
for you know in each flower there is a spirit, a tiny little boy or girl, but this little prince was king of all the flower spirits.
the little king thought thumbelina the loveliest maiden he had ever seen.
he took off his golden crown and placed it on the tiny head of the little maid, and in a silvery voice he asked, "will you be my bride, little thumbelina, and reign with me over the flower spirits?"
how glad thumbelina was!
the little king wished to marry her.
yes, she would be his little queen.
then out of each blossom stepped tiny little children.
they came to pay their homage to little thumbelina.
each one brought her a present, and the most beautiful of all the presents was a pair of wings, delicate as gossamer.
and when they were fastened on the shoulders of the little queen, she could fly from flower to flower.
and the swallow sat on his nest above, and sang his sweetest bridal song for the wedding of little thumbelina.
the tinder-box
by hans christian andersen
a story about a tinder-box?
yes, but then it was such a wonderful one!
why, it must certainly have been a magic box!
it belonged to an old witch, this tinder-box, but it had been left right down inside a tree by the ugly old witch's grandmother.
but get it again she must, for she knew it really was a magic tinder-box.
but how could she get it?
ah!
here was her chance.
tramp, tramp; right, left, right, left.
she heard the steps come nearer and nearer.
she looked!
there was a soldier coming along; tramp, tramp.
she could see him now, with a knapsack on his back, and his sword at his side.
the soldier had been to the wars and was coming home.
"good evening," said the witch, as he came close to her.
"good evening; what a bright sword you wear, and what a big knapsack!
you shall have as much money as you wish for yourself!"
"thank you, old witch," said the soldier.
but he did not tell her that she did not look as though she had much money to spare.
he was too wise to say anything but, "thank you, old witch."
"do you see that big tree?"
she said, and she pointed to one that stood close by the wayside.
"it is hollow inside.
climb up to the top, and you will see a hole.
it is large.
you must creep through it and let yourself down, right down under the tree.
tie a rope round your waist, and i will haul you up again when you call."
"but what am i to do under the tree?"
asked the soldier.
"what are you to do?
why, did i not tell you you should have money.
it is there, under the tree, copper, silver, gold.
gold!"
cried the witch, in a rough and eager voice.
"when you come to the bottom of the tree there is a large passage.
it is quite light, indeed it is ablaze with light.
more than a hundred lamps are burning.
there you will see three doors.
the keys are in the keyholes.
unlock the doors and walk in.
in the first room in the middle of the floor, is a big box.
on the top of it sits a dog.
he has big eyes, they are as big as saucers, but do not let that trouble you.
you shall have my blue checked apron.
spread it on the floor.
go forward quickly, seize the dog and place him on it.
after that is done, you can open the box, and take out as much money as you wish.
it is true the box holds only copper coins, but if you would rather have silver, just walk into the next room.
there sits another dog, on another box, with big eyes, eyes as big as oh, as big as mill-wheels, but never mind that.
place the dog on my apron, then open the box and take as much silver as you wish.
but if you would rather have gold, why, then open the third door.
there you will see another dog, sitting on another box.
this one is tremendous, quite gigantic, and he has eyes, oh!
such great, rolling eyes!
they are as large as the round tower.
he is a dog indeed, but do not let that trouble you.
place him on my blue checked apron and he will not hurt you.
then take gold, as much gold as ever you wish."
"splendid!"
said the soldier.
you see he had been to the wars and was a brave man.
"splendid!
but what am i to give you, old witch?
you will wish something, i am quite certain of that."
"no," said the witch: "i do not wish one single coin.
but i do wish my old tinder-box.
my grandmother left it behind her, the last time she went down the tree."
"well, tie the rope round my waist," said the soldier.
"here it is," said the witch, "and here is my blue checked apron.
it is very important."
up the tree climbed the soldier, into the tree he crept through the hole at the top, and down, down the hollow inside he slipped, and there he was, in a wide passage, lighted, as the witch had said, by a hundred burning lamps.
the soldier unlocked the first door he saw.
there sat the dog with eyes as big as saucers, staring at him in great surprise.
"i must obey my orders," thought the soldier.
he placed the witch's apron on the floor, seized the dog bravely, and placed him on the apron.
then he opened the box.
it was full of copper coins.
he crammed as many as he could into his pocket, shut the lid, placed the dog again on the box, and passed on to the second door.
he unlocked it.
yes!
there sat another dog on another box, with great eyes, as big as mill-wheels.
"if you stare at me so hard, you will hurt your eyes," said the soldier, and thought what a joke he had made.
then he seized the dog, placed it on the witch's apron, and raised the lid of the second box.
silver, every coin was silver!
the soldier threw away all his copper coins in a great hurry.
he must have silver.
he stuffed his pockets and his knapsack with the silver coins, and clapped his hands.
he was rich now.
on he went to the third room.
he unlocked it.
there indeed was another box and another dog, and oh, horrible!
the soldier almost shut his eyes.
the dog had eyes, great big rolling eyes, eyes as large as the round tower.
and they would not keep still.
no, round and round they rolled.
but the soldier was brave; he had been to the wars.
"good evening," he said, and he lifted his hat respectfully, for never before in all his life, had he seen so big, so enormous a creature.
then he walked straight up to the dog.
could he lift him?
yes, he took the immense animal in his arms, set him on the witch's apron, and opened the third box.
gold!
it was full of gold.
he would be able to buy the whole town, and all the sugar-plums, and all the tin soldiers, and all the rocking-horses and whips in the world.
the soldier was delighted.
he threw away his silver money.
silver!
he did not want silver.
here was gold, gold!
he filled his pockets and his knapsack, but he could not bear to stop there.
no, he crammed his cap and his boots so full that he could hardly walk.
he was really rich at last.
he shut the lid, placed the dog again on the box, and went out of the room, along the passage.
then he shouted up the tree, "halloo, old witch!
haul me up again."
"have you got the tinder-box?"
said the witch.
"oh, that i had quite forgotten," answered the soldier, and back he went to fetch it.
when he came back the witch took the rope and hauled and hauled, till there was the soldier, once more, safe on the high road, just as he was before, only now he was rich, so rich that he had become very bold.
he had gold in his pockets, gold in his knapsack, gold in his cap, gold in his boots.
"what are you going to do with the tinder-box, just tell me that?"
said the soldier.
"that is no business of yours," said the witch.
"you have the gold, give me the tinder-box!"
"rubbish!"
said the soldier.
he had grown rude as well as rich, you see.
"rubbish take your choice tell me at once what you mean to do with the tinker-box, or i will draw my sword and cut off your head."
"i won't tell you," screamed the witch.
then the soldier cut off her head, and the poor witch lay there dead.
but the soldier did not stay to look at her.
in a great hurry he took all his gold and tied it up in the blue checked apron.
he slung it across his shoulder, put the tinder-box in his pocket, and marched off to town.
how grand he felt!
what heaps of gold he had in his bundle!
when the soldier reached the town he walked straight to the finest hotel, and asked for the best rooms, and for dinner ordered all his favorite puddings and fruits.
the servant who cleaned his boots tossed her head.
"shabby boots for a rich man to wear," she said.
but next day the soldier had bought himself very grand new boots, and gay clothing, so that no one could possibly call him shabby.
shabby!
no, he was a great man now, and people crowded round this rich fellow, told him all the sights there were to be seen in their city, all about their king too, and the beautiful princess, his daughter.
"i should like to see her, this wonderful princess," said the soldier.
"but you cannot see her," they told him.
"she lives, the beautiful princess, in a great copper castle, with walls and towers all round.
only the king visits her there, for it was once foretold that she would marry a common soldier, and that our king does not wish."
"i must see her once, just once," thought the soldier.
but how was he going to find the way into the castle, that was the question?
meanwhile he led a merry life.
he drove about in the king's park; he went to the theater; he gave money to the poor, because he remembered how miserable it was to have no money in his own pocket.
the soldier was always gaily dressed now.
he had a great many friends who said he was a real gentleman, and that pleased him very much.
and so he went on day after day, spending money and giving money, but getting none, till at last the gold came to an end.
he had only two copper coins left: he was only a poor soldier once more.
leaving the grand hotel he went to live in a small room.
he found a tiny attic, just under a roof, up, oh!
so many stairs.
here he lived, mending his own clothes, brushing his own boots.
he had no visitors, for his grand friends would not take the trouble to walk up so many stairs to his little attic.
hungry?
yes, he was hungry too, and as he had no money to buy even a farthing candle, he had to sit alone in the dark.
one evening he suddenly thought of the witch's tinder-box.
surely in it there were matches.
the soldier opened it eagerly.
yes, there lay the matches.
he seized one and struck it on the tinder-box.
no sooner had he done this, than the door burst suddenly open, and there, there, staring at him, stood the dog with eyes as big as saucers.
"what does my master command?"
asked the dog.
"no wonder the old witch wished the tinder-box for her very own,"
thought the soldier.
aloud he said to the dog, "fetch me some money,"
and the dog instantly vanished to do his master's bidding.
he was back in a moment, and lo!
in his mouth was a big bag, full of pennies.
"why, this is a magic box," said the soldier.
"i have a treasure indeed."
and so he had, for listen!
strike the box once, the dog with eyes as large as saucers appeared.
strike it twice and the dog with eyes as big as mill-wheels appeared.
strike it thrice and there appeared the monster dog with eyes that rolled round and round and were as large as the round tower itself.
all three dogs did the soldier's bidding.
now the soldier could have gold again.
gold as much as ever he wished.
he moved once more to the grand rooms in the fine hotel.
he had gay clothes again; and now, strangely enough, all his friends came to see him and liked him as much as ever.
one evening the soldier's thoughts wandered away to the beautiful princess, the beautiful princess who was shut up so safely in the great copper palace.
"it is ridiculous that no one sees the princess," thought the soldier.
"i want to see her, and i shall."
he pulled out his tinder-box, struck a light, and lo!
there stood the dog with eyes as large as saucers.
"it is the middle of the night," said the soldier, "but i must see the princess, if it is only for a moment."
the dog bounded out of the door, and before the soldier had time to wonder what he would do or say if the beautiful princess really appeared, there she was.
yes, there she was, fast asleep on the dog's back.
she was beautiful, so beautiful that the soldier was quite sure that she was a real princess.
he stooped and kissed her hand.
she was so beautiful he could not help it.
then off ran the dog, back to the copper palace with the princess.
"i had such a strange dream last night," the princess told the king and queen at breakfast next morning.
"i dreamed that an enormous dog came and carried me off to a soldier, and the soldier kissed my hand.
it was a strange dream," she murmured.
"the princess must not be left alone to-night," said the queen.
"she may be frightened if she dreams again."
and she told an old dame who lived at court to sit in the princess's room at night.
but what would the queen have said if she had known that what the princess told them was no dream, but something that had really and truly happened?
well, that evening the soldier thought he would like to see the princess again.
he struck a light, and there stood one of his obedient dogs.
"bring the princess," ordered the soldier, and the dog vanished to do his master's will.
the old dame sat beside the princess's bed.
she had heard all about the princess's dream.
"was she dreaming herself now?"
she wondered.
she pinched herself.
no, she was wide awake, yet she saw a dog, a real dog with eyes as large as saucers, in front of her.
the dog seized the princess, and ran off; but although he ran very quickly, the old dame found time to put on her goloshes before she followed.
how she panted along!
how she ran, the faithful old dame!
she was just in time to see the princess on the dog's back disappear into a large house.
"i shall mark the house, so that i may know it in the morning," she thought.
and she took a piece of white chalk and made a great white cross on the door.
then she walked home and slept.
soon afterwards the dog carried the princess back to the copper palace, and noticed the great white cross on the door of the hotel where his master lived.
and what do you think he did?
oh, he was a wise dog.
he took a piece of chalk, and he put a great white cross on every door in the town.
early next morning the king and queen and all the lords and ladies of the court were astir.
they had heard the old dame's story, and were going to see the house with the great white cross.
they had scarcely started, when the king's eyes fell on a great white cross!
"here it is," cried the king eagerly.
"what nonsense you talk, my dear!
it is here," said the queen, for almost at the same moment she too had seen a door with a great white cross.
then all the lords and ladies cried: "it is here, it is here," as one after another they saw doors marked with great white crosses.
the hubbub was terrible, and the poor old dame was quite bewildered.
how could she tell which door she had marked?
it was quite useless.
the dog had perplexed everybody, and they went back to the copper palace knowing no more than when they left it.
but the queen was a clever woman.
she could do more than just sit very properly on a throne.
the same evening, she took her big gold scissors and cut up a large piece of silk into small pieces.
these she sewed together into a pretty little bag.
then she filled the bag with the finest grains of wheat.
with her own hands she tied the bag round the princess's waist, after which she took her gold scissors again and cut a tiny little hole in the bag, a hole just big enough to let the grains of wheat drop out whenever the princess moved.
that night the dog came again and carried the princess off to the soldier, and the soldier wished he were a prince, for then he would marry this beautiful princess.
now although the dog had very big eyes, eyes as large as saucers, he did not notice the tiny grains of wheat as they dropped out all along the road from the palace to the soldier's window.
under the window the dog stopped and climbed up the wall with the princess, into the soldier's room.
the next morning the king and queen followed the little grains of wheat and very easily found out where the princess had been.
then the soldier was seized and put into prison.
oh, how dark and tiresome it was!
but it was worse than that one day, when they told him he was to be hanged, "hanged to-morrow," they told him.
what a fright the soldier was in, and, worst of all, he had left his tinder-box at the hotel.
morning came!
through the narrow bars of his little window the soldier could see the people all hurrying out of town.
they were going to see him hanged.
he heard the drums, he saw the soldiers marching along.
he wished he were marching with them.
alas, alas!
that could never be now
a little shoemaker's apprentice, with a leather apron, came running along.
he was in such a hurry that he lost one of his slippers.
it fell close under the soldier's window, as he sat peering out through the narrow bars.
the soldier called to the boy, "there is no hurry, for i am still here.
nothing will happen till i go.
i will give you two-pence if you will run to the house where i used to live and fetch me my tinder-box.
you must run all the way."
the shoemaker's boy thought he would like to earn twopence, and off he raced to bring the tinder-box.
he found it.
"a useless little box," he said to himself, but back he raced with it to the soldier; and then what do you think happened?
outside the town the scaffold had been raised, the soldiers were drawn up round it, as well as crowds of people.
the king and queen were there too, seated on a magnificent throne, exactly opposite the judges and councilors.
the rope was being put round the soldier's neck, when he turned to the king and queen and earnestly entreated one last favor only to be allowed to smoke one pipe of tobacco.
what a harmless request!
how could the king refuse so harmless a request?
"yes," said his majesty, "you may smoke one pipe of tobacco."
the soldier took out his tinder-box, struck a match, once, twice, thrice, and lo!
there before him stood the three enormous dogs, waiting his commands.
"help me," shouted the soldier; "do not let me be hanged."
at once the three terrible dogs rushed at the judges and councilors, tossed them high into the air, so that as they fell they were broken into pieces.
the king began to speak; perhaps he was going to forgive the soldier, but no one knows what he was going to say, for the biggest dog gave him no time to finish his sentence.
he rushed at the king and queen, flung them high into the air, so that when they fell down, they too were broken all to pieces.
then the soldiers and the people, who were all terribly frightened, shouted in a great hurry, "brave soldier, you shall be our king, and the beautiful princess shall be our queen!"
and while they led the soldier to the royal carriage the great big dogs bounded along in front.
little boys whistled gaily, and the guards presented arms.
then the princess was sent for, and made queen, which she liked much better than living shut up in a copper palace.
and the wedding feast lasted for eight whole days, and the three monster wizard dogs sat at the table, staring around them with all their eyes.
boots and his brothers
by george webbe dasent
once on a time there was a man who had three sons, peter, paul, and john.
john was boots, of course, because he was the youngest.
i can't say the man had anything more than these three sons, for he had n't one penny to rub against another; and so he told his sons over and over again they must go out into the world and try to earn their bread, for there at home there was nothing to be looked for but starving to death.
now, near the man's cottage was the king's palace, and, you must know, just against the king's windows a great oak had sprung up, which was so stout and big that it took away all the light from the king's palace.
the king had said he would give many, many dollars to the man who could fell the oak, but no one was man enough for that, for as soon as ever one chip of the oak's trunk flew off, two grew in its stead.
a well, too, the king would have dug, which was to hold water for the whole year; for all his neighbors had wells, but he hadn't any, and that he thought a shame.
so the king said he would give to any one who could dig him such a well as would hold water for a whole year round, both money and goods; but no one could do it, for the king's palace lay high, high up on a hill, and they had dug only a few inches before they came upon the living rock.
but as the king had set his heart on having these two things done, he had it given out far and wide, in all the churches of his kingdom, that he who could fell the big oak in the king's courtyard, and get him a well that would hold water the whole year round, should have the princess and half the kingdom.
well, you may easily know there was many a man who came to try his luck; but for all their hacking and hewing, and all their digging and delving, it was no good.
the oak got bigger and stouter at every stroke, and the rock didn't get softer, either.
so one day those three brothers thought they'd set off and try too, and their father hadn't a word against it; for even if they didn't get the princess and half the kingdom, it might happen they might get a place somewhere with a good master; and that was all he wanted.
so when the brothers said they thought of going to the palace, their father said "yes" at once.
so peter, paul, and jack went off from their home.
well, they hadn't gone far before they came to a fir-wood, and up along one side of it rose a steep hillside, and as they went, they heard something hewing and hacking away up on the hill among the trees.
"i wonder, now, what it is that is hewing away up yonder," said jack.
"you're always so clever with your wonderings," said peter and paul both at once.
"what wonder is it, pray, that a woodcutter should stand and hack up on a hillside?"
"still, i'd like to see what it is, after all," said jack; and up he went.
"oh, if you're such a child, 'twill do you good to go and take a lesson," bawled out his brothers after him.
but jack didn't care for what they said; he climbed the steep hillside towards where the noise came, and when he reached the place, what do you think he saw?
why, an axe that stood there hacking and hewing, all of itself, at the trunk of a fir.
"good-day!"
said jack.
"so you stand here all alone and hew, do you?"
"yes; here i've stood and hewed and hacked a long, long time, waiting for you," said the axe.
"well, here i am at last," said jack, as he took the axe, pulled it off its handle, and stuffed both head and handle into his wallet.
so when he got down again to his brothers, they began to jeer and laugh at him.
"and now, what funny thing was it you saw up yonder on the hillside?"
they said.
"oh, it was only an axe we heard," said jack.
so when they had gone a bit farther, they came under a steep spur of rock, and up there they heard something digging and shoveling.
"i wonder now," said jack, "what it is digging and shoveling up yonder at the top of the rock."
"ah, you're always so clever with your wonderings," said peter and paul again; "as if you'd never heard a woodpecker hacking and pecking at a hollow tree."
"well, well," said jack, "i think it would be a piece of fun just to see what it really is."
and so off he set to climb the rock, while the others laughed and made game of him.
but he didn't care a bit for that; up he climbed, and when he got near the top, what do you think he saw?
why, a spade that stood there digging and delving.
"good-day!"
said jack.
"so you stand here all alone, and dig and delve!"
"yes, that's what i do," said the spade, "and that's what i've done this many a long day, waiting for you."
"well, here i am," said jack again, as he took the spade and knocked it off its handle, and put it into his wallet, and then down again to his brothers.
"well, what was it, so rare and strange," said peter and paul, "that you saw up there at the top of the rock?"
"oh," said jack, "nothing more than a spade; that was what we heard."
so they went on again a good bit, till they came to a brook.
they were thirsty, all three, after their long walk, and so they lay down beside the brook to have a drink.
"i wonder now," said jack, "where all this water comes from."
"i wonder if you're right in your head," said peter and paul in one breath.
"if you're not mad already, you'll go mad very soon, with your wonderings.
where the brook comes from, indeed!
have you never heard how water rises from a spring in the earth?"
"yes; but still i've a great fancy to see where this brook comes from," said jack.
so up alongside the brook he went, in spite of all that his brothers bawled after him.
nothing could stop him.
on he went.
so, as he went up and up, the brook got smaller and smaller, and at last, a little way farther on, what do you think he saw?
why, a great walnut, and out of that the water trickled.
"good-day!"
said jack again; "so you lie here, and trickle and run down all alone?"
"yes, i do," said the walnut; "and here have i trickled and run this many a long day, waiting for you."
"well, here i am," said jack, as he took up a lump of moss, and plugged up the hole, that the water mightn't run out.
then he put the walnut into his wallet, and ran down to his brothers.
"well, now," said peter and paul, "have you found out where the water comes from?
a rare sight it must have been!"
"oh, after all, it was only a hole it ran out of," said jack; and so the others laughed and made game of him again, but jack didn't mind that a bit.
"after all, i had the fun of seeing it," said he.
so when they had gone a bit farther they came to the king's palace; but as every one in the kingdom had heard how they might win the princess and half the realm, if they could only fell the big oak and dig the king's well, so many had come to try their luck that the oak was now twice as stout and big as it had been at first, for two chips grew for every one they hewed out with their axes, as i dare say you all bear in mind.
so the king had now laid it down as a punishment that if any one tried and couldn't fell the oak, he should be put on a barren island, and both his ears were to be clipped off.
but the two brothers didn't let themselves be scared by that; they were quite sure they could fell the oak, and peter, as he was eldest, was to try his hand first; but it went with him as with all the rest who had hewn at the oak; for every chip he cut out, two grew in its place.
so the king's men seized him, and clipped off both his ears, and put him out on the island.
now paul, he was to try his luck, but he fared just the same; when he had hewn two or three strokes, they began to see the oak grow, and so the king's men seized him too, and clipped his ears, and put him out on the island; and his ears they clipped closer, because they said he ought to have taken a lesson from his brother.
so now jack was to try.
"if you will look like a marked sheep, we're quite ready to clip your ears at once, and then you'll save yourself some bother," said the king, for he was angry with him for his brothers' sake.
"well, i'd like to just try first," said jack, and so he got leave.
then he took his axe out of his wallet and fitted it to its handle.
"hew away!"
said he to his axe; and away it hewed, making the chips fly again, so that it wasn't long before down came the oak.
when that was done, jack pulled out his spade, and fitted it to its handle.
"dig away!"
said he to the spade; and so the spade began to dig and delve till the earth and rock flew out in splinters, and so he had the well soon dug out, you may think.
and when he had got it as big and deep as he chose, jack took out his walnut and laid it in one corner of the well, and pulled the plug of moss out.
"trickle and run," said jack, and so the nut trickled and ran, till the water gushed out of the hole in a stream, and in a short time the well was brimful.
then jack had felled the oak which shaded the king's palace, and dug a well in the palace-yard, and so he got the princess and half the kingdom, as the king had said; but it was lucky for peter and paul that they had lost their ears, else they had heard each hour and day how every one said, "well, after all, jack wasn't so much out of his mind when he took to wondering."
the husband who was to mind the house
by george webbe dasent
once on a time there was a man so surly and cross he never thought his wife did anything right in the house.
so one evening, in haymaking time, he came home, scolding and swearing, and showing his teeth and making a dust.
"dear love, don't be so angry; there's a good man," said his goody; "to-morrow let's change our work.
i'll go out with the mowers and mow, and you shall mind the house at home."
yes, the husband thought that would do very well.
he was quite willing, he said.
so, early next morning, his goody took a scythe over her neck, and went out into the hayfield with the mowers and began to mow; but the man was to mind the house, and do the work at home.
first of all he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a while he got thirsty, and went down to the cellar to tap a barrel of ale.
so, just when he had knocked in the bung, and was putting the tap into the cask, he heard overhead the pig come into the kitchen.
then off he ran up the cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as fast as he could, to look after the pig, lest it should upset the churn; but when he got up, and saw the pig had already knocked the churn over, and stood there, routing and grunting amongst the cream which was running all over the floor, he got so wild with rage that he quite forgot the ale-barrel, and ran at the pig as hard as he could.
he caught it, too, just as it ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick that piggy lay for dead on the spot.
then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand; but when he got down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the cask.
then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the churn again, and so he began to churn, for butter they must have at dinner.
when he had churned a bit, he remembered that their milking cow was still shut up in the stable, and hadn't had a bit to eat or a drop to drink all the morning, though the sun was high.
then all at once he thought 'twas too far to take her down to the meadow, so he'd just get her up on the housetop for the house, you must know, was thatched with sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there.
now their house lay close up against a steep down, and he thought if he laid a plank across to the thatch at the back he'd easily get the cow up.
but still he couldn't leave the churn, for there was his little babe crawling about on the floor, and "if i leave it," he thought, "the child is sure to upset it."
so he took the churn on his back, and went out with it; but then he thought he'd better first water the cow before he turned her out on the thatch; so he took up a bucket to draw water out of the well; but, as he stooped down at the well's brink, all the cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and so down into the well.
now it was near dinner-time, and he hadn't even got the butter yet; so he thought he'd best boil the porridge, and filled the pot with water, and hung it over the fire.
when he had done that, he thought the cow might perhaps fall off the thatch and break her legs or her neck.
so he got up on the house to tie her up.
one end of the rope he made fast to the cow's neck, and the other he slipped down the chimney and tied round his own thigh; and he had to make haste, for the water now began to boil in the pot, and he had still to grind the oatmeal.
so he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the cow off the housetop after all, and as she fell she dragged the man up the chimney, by the rope.
there he stuck fast; and as for the cow, she hung half-way down the wall, swinging between heaven and earth, for she could neither get down nor up.
and now the goody had waited seven lengths and seven breadths for her husband to come and call them home to dinner; but never a call they had.
at last she thought she'd waited long enough, and went home.
but when she got there and saw the cow hanging in such an ugly place, she ran up and cut the rope in two with her scythe.
but as she did this, down came her husband out of the chimney; and so when his old dame came inside the kitchen, there she found him standing on his head in the porridge-pot.
buttercup
by george webbe dasent
once on a time there was an old wife who sat and baked.
now you must know that this old wife had a little son, who was so plump and fat, and so fond of good things, that they called him buttercup; she had a dog, too, whose name was goldtooth, and as she was baking, all at once goldtooth began to bark.
"run out, buttercup, there's a dear!"
said the old wife, "and see what goldtooth is barking at."
so the boy ran out, and came back crying out,
"oh, heaven help us!
here comes a great big witch, with her head under her arm, and a bag at her back."
"jump under the kneading-trough and hide yourself," said his mother.
so in came the old hag.
"good day," said she.
"god bless you!"
said buttercup's mother.
"isn't your buttercup at home to-day?"
asked the hag.
"no, that he isn't.
he's out in the wood with his father, shooting grouse."
"plague take it," said the hag, "for i had such a nice little silver knife i wanted to give him."
"pip, pip!
here i am," said buttercup under the kneading-trough, and out he came.
"i'm so old and stiff in the back," said the hag, "you must creep into the bag and fetch it out for yourself."
but when buttercup was well into the bag, the hag threw it over her back and strode off, and when they had gone a good bit of the way, the old hag got tired and asked,
"how far is it off to snoring?"
"half a mile," answered buttercup.
so the hag put down the sack on the road, and went aside by herself into the wood, and lay down to sleep.
meantime buttercup set to work and cut a hole in the sack with his knife; then he crept out and put a great root of a fir-tree into the sack, and ran home to his mother.
when the hag got home and saw what there was in the sack, you may fancy she was in a fine rage.
next day the old wife sat and baked again, and her dog began to bark, just as he did the day before.
"run out, buttercup, my boy," said she, "and see what goldtooth is barking at."
"well, i never!"
cried buttercup, as soon as he got out; "if there isn't that ugly old beast coming again with her head under her arm and a great sack at her back."
"under the kneading-trough with you and hide," said his mother.
"good day!"
said the hag; "is your buttercup at home to-day?"
"i'm sorry to say he isn't," said his mother; "he's out in the wood with his father, shooting grouse."
"what a bore!"
said the hag; "here i have a beautiful little silver spoon i want to give him."
"pip, pip!
here i am," said buttercup, and crept out.
"i'm so stiff in the back," said the old witch, "you must creep into the sack and fetch it out for yourself."
so when buttercup was well into the sack, the hag swung it over her shoulders and set off home as fast as her legs could carry her.
but when they had gone a good bit she grew weary, and asked,
"how far is it off to snoring?"
"a mile and a half," answered buttercup.
so the hag set down the sack, and went aside into the wood to sleep a bit, but while she slept buttercup made a hole in the sack and got out, and put a great stone into it.
now, when the old witch got home, she made a great fire on the hearth, and put a big pot on it, and got everything ready to boil buttercup; but when she took the sack, and thought she was going to turn out buttercup into the pot, down plumped the stone and made a hole in the bottom of the pot, so that the water ran out and quenched the fire.
then the old hag was in a dreadful rage, and said, "if he makes himself ever so heavy next time, he shan't take me in again."
the third day everything went just as it had gone twice before; goldtooth began to bark, and buttercup's mother said to him,
"do run out and see what our dog is barking at."
so out he went, but he soon came back crying out,
"heaven save us!
here comes the old hag again with her head under her arm and a sack at her back."
"jump under the kneading-trough and hide," said his mother.
"good day!"
said the hag, as she came in at the door; "is your buttercup at home to-day?"
"you're very kind to ask after him," said his mother; "but he's out in the wood with his father, shooting grouse."
"what a bore, now," said the old hag; "here have i got such a beautiful little silver fork for him."
"pip, pip!
here i am," said buttercup, as he came out from under the kneading-trough.
"i'm so stiff in the back," said the hag, "you must creep into the sack and fetch it out for yourself."
but when buttercup was well inside the sack the old hag swung it across her shoulders, and set off as fast as she could.
this time she did not turn aside to sleep by the way, but went straight home with buttercup in the sack, and when she reached her house it was sunday.
so the old hag said to her daughter:
"now you must take buttercup and kill him, and boil him nicely till i come back, for i'm off to church to bid my guests to dinner."
so, when all in the house were gone to church, the daughter was to take buttercup and kill him, but then she didn't know how to set about it at all.
"stop a bit," said buttercup; "i'll soon show you how to do it; just lay your head on the chopping-block, and you'll soon see."
so the poor silly thing laid her head down, and buttercup took an axe and chopped her head off, just as if she had been a chicken.
then he laid her head in the bed, and popped her body into the pot, and boiled it so nicely; and when he had done that, he climbed up on the roof, and dragged up with him the fir-tree root and the stone, and put one over the door, and the other at the top of the chimney.
so when the household came back from church, and saw the head on the bed, they thought it was the daughter who lay there asleep; and then they thought they would just taste the broth.
"good, by my troth!
buttercup broth,"
said the old hag.
"good, by my troth!
daughter broth,"
said buttercup down the chimney, but no one heeded him.
so the old hag's husband, who was every bit as bad as she, took the spoon to have a taste.
"good, by my troth!
buttercup broth,"
said he.
"good, by my troth!
daughter broth,"
said buttercup down the chimney pipe.
then they all began to wonder who it could be that chattered so, and ran out to see.
but when they came out at the door, buttercup threw down on them the fir-tree root and the stone, and broke all their heads to bits.
after that he took all the gold and silver that lay in the house, and went home to his mother, and became a rich man.
german stories
seven at one blow
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
a tailor sat in his workroom one morning, stitching away busily at a coat for the lord mayor.
he whistled and sang so gaily that all the little boys who passed the shop on their way to school thought what a fine thing it was to be a tailor, and told one another that when they grew to be men they'd be tailors, too.
"how hungry i feel, to be sure!"
cried the little man, at last; "but i'm far too busy to trouble about eating.
i must finish his lordship's coat before i touch a morsel of food," and he broke once more into a merry song.
"fine new jam for sale," sang out an old woman, as she walked along the street.
"jam!
i can't resist such a treat," said the tailor; and, running to the door, he shouted, "this way for jam, dame; show me a pot of your very finest."
the woman handed him jar after jar, but he found fault with all.
at last he hit upon some to his liking.
"and how many pounds will you take, sir?"
"i'll take four ounces," he replied, in a solemn tone, "and mind you give me good weight."
the old woman was very angry, for she had expected to sell several pounds, at least; and she went off grumbling, after she had weighed out the four ounces.
"now for a feed!"
cried the little man, taking a loaf from the cupboard as he spoke.
he cut off a huge slice, and spread the jam on quite half an inch thick; then he suddenly remembered his work.
"it will never do to get jam on the lord mayor's coat, so i'll finish it off before i take even one bite," said he.
so he picked up his work once more, and his needle flew in and out like lightning.
i am afraid the lord mayor had some stitches in his garment that were quite a quarter of an inch long.
the tailor glanced longingly at his slice of bread and jam once or twice, but when he looked the third time it was quite covered with flies, and a fine feast they were having off it.
this was too much for the little fellow.
up he jumped, crying:
"so you think i provide bread and jam for you, indeed!
well, we'll very soon see!
take that!"
and he struck the flies such a heavy blow with a duster that no fewer than seven lay dead upon the table, while the others flew up to the ceiling in great haste.
"seven at one blow!"
said the little man with great pride.
"such a brave deed ought to be known all over the town, and it won't be my fault if folks fail to hear of it."
so he cut out a wide belt, and stitched on it in big golden letters the words "seven at one blow."
when this was done he fastened it round him, crying:
"i'm cut out for something better than a tailor, it's quite clear.
i'm one of the world's great heroes, and i'll be off at once to seek my fortune."
he glanced round the cottage, but there was nothing of value to take with him.
the only thing he possessed in the world was a small cheese.
"you may as well come, too," said he, stowing away the cheese in his pocket, "and now i'm off."
when he got into the street the neighbors all crowded round him to read the words on his belt.
"seven at one blow!"
said they to one another.
"what a blessing he's going; for it wouldn't be safe to have a man about us who could kill seven of us at one stroke."
you see, they didn't know that the tailor had only killed flies; they took it to mean men.
he jogged along for some miles until he came to a hedge, where a little bird was caught in the branches.
"come along," said the tailor; "i'll have you to keep my cheese company"; so he caught the bird and put it carefully into his pocket with the cheese.
soon he reached a lofty mountain, and he made up his mind to climb it and see what was going on at the other side.
when he reached the top, there stood a huge giant, gazing down into the valley below.
"good day," said the tailor.
the giant turned round, and seeing nobody but the little tailor there, he cried with scorn:
"and what might you be doing here, might i ask?
you'd best be off at once."
"not so fast, my friend," said the little man; "read this."
"seven at one blow," read the giant, and he began to wish he'd been more civil.
"well, i'm sure nobody would think it to look at you," he replied; "but since you are so clever, do this," and he picked up a stone and squeezed it until water ran out.
"do that!
why, it's mere child's play to me," and the man took out his cheese and squeezed it until the whey ran from it.
"now who is cleverer?"
asked the tailor.
"you see, i can squeeze milk out, while you only get water."
the giant was too surprised to utter a word for a few minutes; then, taking up another stone, he threw it so high into the air that for a moment they couldn't see where it went; then down it fell to the ground again.
"good!"
said the tailor; "but i'll throw a stone that won't come back again at all."
taking the little bird from his pocket, he threw it into the air, and the bird, glad to get away, flew right off and never returned.
this sort of thing didn't suit the giant at all, for he wasn't used to being beaten by any one.
"here's something that you'll never manage," said he to the little man.
"just come and help me to carry this fallen oak-tree for a few miles."
"delighted!"
said the tailor, "and i'll take the end with the branches, for it's sure to be heavier."
"agreed," replied the giant, and he lifted the heavy trunk on to his shoulder, while the tailor climbed up among the branches at the other end, and sang with all his might, as though carrying a tree was nothing to him.
the poor giant, who was holding the tree-trunk and the little tailor as well, soon grew tired.
"i'm going to let it fall!"
he shouted, and the tailor jumped down from the branches, and pretended he had been helping all the time.
"the idea of a man your size finding a tree too heavy to carry!"
laughed the little tailor.
"you are a clever little fellow, and no mistake," replied the giant, "and if you'll only come and spend the night in our cave, we shall be delighted to have you."
"i shall have great pleasure in coming, my friend," answered the little tailor, and together they set off for the giant's home.
there were seven more giants in the cave, and each one of them was eating a roasted pig for his supper.
they gave the little man some food, and then showed him a bed in which he might pass the night.
it was so big that, after tossing about for half an hour in it, the tailor thought he would be more comfortable if he slept in the corner, so he crept out without being noticed.
in the middle of the night the giant stole out of bed and went up to the one where he thought the little man was fast asleep.
taking a big bar of iron, he struck such a heavy blow at it that he woke up all the other giants.
"keep quiet, friends," said he.
"i've just killed the little scamp."
the tailor made his escape as soon as possible, and he journeyed on for many miles, until he began to feel very tired, so he lay down under a tree, and was soon fast asleep.
when he awoke, he found a big crowd of people standing round him.
up walked one very wise-looking old man, who was really the king's prime minister.
"is it true that you have killed seven at one blow?"
he asked
"it is a fact," answered the little tailor.
"then come with me to the king, my friend, for he's been searching for a brave man like you for some time past.
you are to be made captain of his army, and the king will give you a fine house to live in."
"that i will," replied the little man.
"it is just the sort of thing that will suit me, and i'll come at once."
he hadn't been in the king's service long before every one grew jealous of him.
the soldiers were afraid that, if they offended him, he would make short work of them all, while the members of the king's household didn't fancy the idea of making such a fuss over a stranger.
so the soldiers went in a body to the king and asked that another captain should be put over them, for they were afraid of this one.
the king didn't like to refuse, for fear they should all desert, and yet he didn't dare get rid of the captain, in case such a strong and brave man should try to have his revenge.
at last the king hit upon a plan.
in some woods close by there lived two giants, who were the terror of the country side; they robbed all the travelers, and if any resistance was offered they killed the men on the spot.
sending for the little tailor, he said:
"knowing you to be the bravest man in my kingdom, i want to ask a favor of you.
if you will kill these two giants, and bring me back proof that they are dead, you shall marry the princess, my daughter, and have half my kingdom.
you shall also take one hundred men to help you, and you are to set off at once."
"a hundred men, your majesty!
pray, what do i want with a hundred men?
if i can kill seven at one blow, i needn't be afraid of two.
i'll kill them fast enough, never fear."
the tailor chose ten strong men, and told them to await him on the border of the wood, while he went on quite alone.
he could hear the giants snoring for quite half an hour before he reached them, so he knew in which direction to go.
he found the pair fast asleep under a tree, so he filled his pockets with stones and climbed up into the branches over their heads.
then he began to pelt one of the giants with the missiles, until after a few minutes one of the men awoke.
giving the other a rough push, he cried:
"if you strike me like that again, i'll know the reason why."
"i didn't touch you," said the other giant crossly, and they were soon fast asleep once more.
then the tailor threw stones at the other man, and soon he awoke as the first had done.
"what did you throw that at me for?"
said he.
"you are dreaming," answered the other, "i didn't throw anything."
no sooner were they fast asleep again, than the little man began to pelt them afresh.
up they both sprang, and seizing each other, they began to fight in real earnest.
not content with using their fists, they tore up huge trees by the roots, and beat each other until very soon the pair lay dead on the ground.
down climbed the little tailor, and taking his sword in his hand he plunged it into each giant, and then went back to the edge of the forest where the ten men were waiting for him.
"they are as dead as two door nails," shouted the little man.
"i don't say that i had an easy task, for they tore up trees by their roots to try to protect themselves with, but, of course, it was no good.
what were two giants to a man who has slain seven at one blow?"
but the men wouldn't believe it until they went into the forest and saw the two dead bodies, lying each in a pool of blood, while the ground was covered with uprooted trees.
back they went to the king, but instead of handing over half his kingdom, as he had promised, his majesty told the little tailor that there was still another brave deed for him to do before he got the princess for his bride.
"just name it, then; i'm more than ready," was the man's reply.
"you are to kill the famous unicorn that is running wild in the forest and doing so much damage.
when this is done you shall have your reward at once."
"no trouble at all, your majesty.
i'll get rid of him in a twinkling."
he made the ten men wait for him at the entrance to the wood as they had done the first time, and taking a stout rope and a saw he entered the forest alone.
up came the unicorn, but just as it was about to rush at the man he darted behind a big tree.
the unicorn dashed with such force against the tree that its horn was caught quite fast and it was kept a prisoner.
taking his rope, he tied it tightly round the animal, and, after sawing off the horn, back he went to the palace, leading the unicorn by his side.
but even then the king was not satisfied, and he made the little tailor catch a wild boar that had been seen wandering in the woods.
he took a party of huntsmen with him, but again he made them wait on the outskirts of the forest while he went on by himself.
the wild boar made a dash at the little tailor; but the man was too quick for it.
he slipped into a little building close by, with the animal at his heels.
then, catching sight of a small window, he forced his way out into the forest again, and while the boar, who was too big and clumsy to follow, stood gazing at the spot where he had disappeared, the tailor ran round and closed the door, keeping the animal quite secure inside.
then he called the hunters, who shot the boar and carried the body back to the palace.
this time the king was obliged to keep his promise; so the little tailor became a prince, and a grand wedding they had, too.
when they had been married for about a couple of years, the princess once overheard her husband talking in his sleep.
"boy, if you have put a patch on that waistcoat, take the lord mayor's coat home at once, or i'll box your ears," he said.
"oh, dear," cried the princess, "to think that i've married a common tailor!
whatever can i do to get rid of him?"
so she told her father the story, and the king said she need not worry, for he would find a way out of the difficulty.
she was to leave the door open that night, and while the tailor was sleeping, the king's servants should steal into the room, bind the tailor, and take him away to be killed.
the princess promised to see that everything was in readiness, and she tripped about all day with a very light heart.
she little knew that one of the tailor's servants had overheard their cruel plot, and carried the news straight to his master.
that night, when the princess thought her husband was sleeping fast, she crept to the door and opened it.
to her great terror, the tailor began to speak.
"boy, take the lord mayor's coat home, or i'll box your ears.
haven't i killed seven at one blow?
haven't i slain two giants, a unicorn, and a wild boar?
what do i care for the men who are standing outside my door at this moment?"
at these words off flew the men as though they had been shot from a gun, and no more attempts were ever made on his life.
so the princess had to make the best of a bad job.
he lived on and when the old king died he ascended the throne in his stead.
so the brave little tailor became ruler over the whole kingdom; and his motto throughout his whole life was, "seven at one blow."
one eye, two eyes, three eyes
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
there was once a woman who had three daughters, of whom the eldest was named "one eye," because she had only one eye in the middle of her forehead.
the second had two eyes, like other people, and she was called "two eyes."
the youngest had three eyes, two like her second sister, and one in the middle of her forehead, like the eldest, and she bore the name of "three eyes."
now because little two eyes looked just like other people, her mother and sisters could not endure her.
they said to her, "you are not better than common folks, with your two eyes; you don't belong to us."
so they pushed her about, and threw all their old clothes to her for her to wear, and gave her only the pieces that were left to eat, and did everything that they could to make her miserable.
it so happened that little two eyes was sent into the fields to take care of the goats, and she was often very hungry, although her sisters had as much as they liked to eat.
so one day she seated herself on a mound in the field, and began to weep and cry so bitterly that two little rivulets flowed from her eyes.
once, in the midst of her sorrow she looked up, and saw a woman standing near her who said, "what are you weeping for, little two eyes?"
"i cannot help weeping," she replied; "for because i have two eyes, like other people, my mother and sisters cannot bear me; they push me about from one corner to another and make me wear their old clothes, and give me nothing to eat but what is left, so that i am always hungry.
to-day they gave me so little that i am nearly starved."
"dry up your tears, little two eyes," said the wise woman; "i will tell you something to do which will prevent you from ever being hungry again.
you have only to say to your own goat:
"'little goat, if you're able,   pray deck out my table,'
and immediately there will be a pretty little table before you full of all sorts of good things for you to eat, as much as you like.
and when you have had enough, and you do not want the table any more, you need only say:
"'little goat, when you're able,   remove my nice table,'
and it will vanish from your eyes."
then the wise woman went away.
"now," thought little two eyes, "i will try if what she says is true, for i am hungry," so she said:
"little goat, if you're able,   come and deck my pretty table."
the words were scarcely spoken, when a beautiful little table stood really before her; it had a white cloth and plates, and knives and forks, and silver spoons, and such a delicious dinner, smoking hot as if it had just come from the kitchen.
then little two eyes sat down and said the shortest grace she knew "pray god be our guest for all time.
amen" before she allowed herself to taste anything.
but oh, how she did enjoy her dinner!
and when she had finished, she said, as the wise woman had taught her:
"little goat, when you're able,   remove my nice table."
in a moment, the table and everything upon it had disappeared.
"that is a pleasant way to keep house," said little two eyes, and felt quite contented and happy.
in the evening, when she went home with the goat, she found an earthenware dish with some scraps which her sisters had left for her, but she did not touch them.
the next morning she went away with the goat, leaving them behind where they had been placed for her.
the first and second times that she did so, the sisters did not notice it; but when they found it happened every day, they said one to the other, "there is something strange about little two eyes, she leaves her supper every day, and all that has been put for her has been wasted; she must get food somewhere else."
so they determined to find out the truth, and they arranged that when two eyes took her goat to the field, one eye should go with her to take particular notice of what she did, and discover if anything was brought for her to eat and drink.
so when two eyes started with her goat, one eye said to her, "i am going with you to-day to see if the goat gets her food properly while you are watching the rest."
but two eyes knew what she had in her mind.
so she drove the goat into the long grass, and said, "come, one eye, let us sit down here and rest, and i will sing to you."
one eye seated herself, and, not being accustomed to walk so far, or to be out in the heat of the sun, she began to feel tired, and as little two eyes kept on singing, she closed her one eye and fell fast asleep.
when two eyes saw this, she knew that one eye could not betray her, so she said:
"little goat, if you are able,   come and deck my pretty table."
she seated herself when it appeared, and ate and drank very quickly, and when she had finished she said:
"little goat, when you are able,   come and clear away my table."
it vanished in the twinkling of an eye; and then two eyes woke up one eye, and said: "little one eye, you are a clever one to watch goats; for, while you are asleep, they might be running all over the world.
come, let us go home!"
so they went to the house, and little two eyes again left the scraps on the dish untouched, and one eye could not tell her mother whether little two eyes had eaten anything in the field; for she said to excuse herself, "i was asleep."
the next day the mother said to three eyes, "you must go to the field this time, and find out whether there is anyone who brings food to little two eyes; for she must eat and drink secretly."
so when little two eyes started with her goat, three eyes followed and said, "i am going with you to-day, to see if the goats are properly fed and watched."
but two eyes knew her thoughts; so she led the goat through the long grass to tire three eyes, and at last she said, "let us sit down here and rest, and i will sing to you, three eyes."
she was glad to sit down, for the walk and the heat of the sun had really tired her; and, as her sister continued her song, she was obliged to close two of her eyes, and they slept, but not the third.
in fact, three eyes was wide awake with one eye, and heard and saw all that two eyes did; for poor little two eyes, thinking she was asleep, said her speech to the goat, and the table came with all the good things on it, and was carried away when two eyes had eaten enough; and the cunning three eyes saw it all with her one eye.
but she pretended to be asleep when her sister came to wake her and told her she was going home.
that evening, when little two eyes again left the supper they placed aside for her, three eyes said to her mother, "i know where the proud thing gets her good eating and drinking;" and then she described all she had seen in the field.
"i saw it all with one eye," she said; "for she had made my other two eyes close with her fine singing, but luckily the one in my forehead remained open."
then the envious mother cried out to poor little two eyes, "you wish to have better food than we, do you?
you shall lose your wish!"
she took up a butcher's knife, went out, and stuck the good little goat in the heart, and it fell dead.
when little two eyes saw this, she went out into the field, seated herself on a mound, and wept most bitter tears.
presently the wise woman stood again before her, and said, "little two eyes, why do you weep?"
"ah!"
she replied, "i must weep.
the goat, who every day spread my table so beautifully, has been killed by my mother, and i shall have again to suffer from hunger and sorrow."
"little two eyes," said the wise woman, "i will give you some good advice.
go home, and ask your sister to give you the heart of the slaughtered goat, and then go and bury it in the ground in front of the house-door."
on saying this the wise woman vanished.
little two eyes went home quickly, and said to her sister, "dear sister, give me some part of my poor goat.
i don't want anything valuable; only give me the heart."
her sister laughed, and said: "of course you can have that if you don't want anything else."
so little two eyes took the heart; and in the evening, when all was quiet, buried it in the ground outside the house-door, as the wise woman had told her to do.
the next morning, when they all rose and looked out of the window, there stood a most wonderful tree, with leaves of silver and apples of gold hanging between them.
nothing in the wide world could be more beautiful or more costly.
they none of them knew how the tree could come there in one night, excepting little two eyes.
she supposed it had grown up from the heart of the goat; for it stood over where she had buried it in the earth.
then said the mother to little one eye, "climb up, my child, and break off some of the fruit from the tree."
one eye climbed up, but when she tried to catch a branch and pluck one of the apples, it escaped from her hand, and so it happened every time she made the attempt, and, do what she would, she could not reach one.
"three eyes," said the mother, "climb up, and try what you can do; perhaps you will be able to see better with your three eyes than one eye can."
one eye slid down from the tree, and three eyes climbed up.
but three eyes was not more skilful; with all her efforts she could not draw the branches, nor the fruit, near enough to pluck even a leaf, for they sprang back as she put out her hand.
at last the mother was impatient, and climbed up herself, but with no more success, for, as she appeared to grasp a branch, or fruit, her hand closed upon thin air.
"may i try?"
said little two eyes; "perhaps i may succeed."
"you, indeed!"
cried her sisters; "you, with your two eyes, what can you do?"
but two eyes climbed up, and the golden apples did not fly back from her when she touched them, but almost laid themselves on her hand, and she plucked them one after another, till she carried down her own little apron full.
the mother took them from her, and gave them to her sisters, as she said little two eyes did not handle them properly, but this was only from jealousy, because little two eyes was the only one who could reach the fruit, and she went into the house feeling more spiteful to her than ever.
it happened that while all three sisters were standing under the tree together a young knight rode by.
"run away, quick, and hide yourself, little two eyes; hide yourself somewhere, for we shall be quite ashamed for you to be seen."
then they pushed the poor girl, in great haste, under an empty cask, which stood near the tree, and several of the golden apples that she had plucked along with her.
as the knight came nearer they saw he was a handsome man; and presently he halted, and looked with wonder and pleasure at the beautiful tree with its silver leaves and golden fruit.
at last he spoke to the sisters, and asked: "to whom does this beautiful tree belong?
if a man possessed only one branch he might obtain all he wished for in the world."
"this tree belongs to us," said the two sisters, "and we will break off a branch for you if you like."
they gave themselves a great deal of trouble in trying to do as they offered; but all to no purpose, for the branches and the fruit evaded their efforts, and sprung back at every touch.
"this is wonderful," exclaimed the knight, "that the tree should belong to you, and yet you are not able to gather even a branch."
they persisted, however, in declaring that the tree was their own property.
at this moment little two eyes, who was angry because her sisters had not told the truth, caused two of the golden apples to slip out from under the cask, and they rolled on till they reached the feet of the knight's horse.
when he saw them, he asked in astonishment where they came from.
the two ugly maidens replied that they had another sister, but they dared not let him see her, for she had only two eyes, like common people, and was named little two eyes.
but the knight felt very anxious to see her, and called out, "little two eyes, come here."
then came two eyes, quite comforted, from the empty cask, and the knight was astonished to find her so beautiful.
then he said: "little two eyes, can you break off a branch of the tree for me?"
"oh yes," she replied, "i can, very easily, for the tree belongs to me."
and she climbed up, and, without any trouble, broke off a branch with its silver leaves and golden fruit and gave it to the knight.
he looked down at her as she stood by his horse, and said: "little two eyes, what shall i give you for this?"
"ah!"
she answered, "i suffer from hunger and thirst, and sorrow, and trouble, from early morning till late at night; if you would only take me with you, and release me, i should be so happy."
then the knight lifted the little maiden on his horse, and rode home with her to his father's castle.
there she was given beautiful clothes to wear, and as much to eat and drink as she wished, and as she grew up the young knight loved her so dearly that they were married with great rejoicings.
now, when the two sisters saw little two eyes carried away by the handsome young knight, they were overjoyed at their good fortune.
"the wonderful tree belongs to us now," they said; "even if we cannot break off a branch, yet everybody who passes will stop to admire it, and make acquaintance with us, and, who knows?
we may get husbands after all."
but when they rose the next morning, lo!
the tree had vanished, and with it all their hopes.
and on this very morning, when little two eyes looked out of her chamber window of the castle, she saw, to her great joy, that the tree had followed her.
little two eyes lived for a long time in great happiness; but she heard nothing of her sisters, till one day two poor women came to the castle, to beg for alms.
little two eyes saw them, and, looking earnestly in their faces, she recognized her two sisters, who had become so poor that they were obliged to beg their bread from door to door.
but the good sister received them most kindly, and promised to take care of them and give them all they wanted.
and then they did indeed repent and feel sorry for having treated her so badly in their youthful days.
the musicians of bremen
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
a certain man had a donkey that had served him faithfully for many long years, but whose strength was so far gone that at last he was quite unfit for work.
so his master began to consider how much he could make of the donkey's skin, but the beast, perceiving that no good wind was blowing, ran away along the road to bremen.
"there,"
thought he, "i can be town musician."
when he had run some way, he found a hound lying by the roadside, yawning like one who was very tired.
"what are you yawning for now, you big fellow?"
asked the ass.
"ah," replied the hound, "because every day i grow older and weaker; i cannot go any more to the hunt, and my master has well-nigh beaten me to death, so that i took to flight; and now i do not know how to earn my bread."
"well, do you know," said the ass, "i am going to bremen, to be town musician there; suppose you go with me and take a share in the music.
i will play on the lute, and you shall beat the kettledrums."
the dog was satisfied, and off they set.
presently they came to a cat, sitting in the middle of the path, with a face like three rainy days!
"now, then, old shaver, what has crossed you?"
asked the ass.
"how can one be merry when one's neck has been pinched like mine?"
answered the cat.
"because i am growing old, and my teeth are all worn to stumps, and because i would rather sit by the fire and spin, than run after mice, my mistress wanted to drown me; and so i ran away.
but now good advice is dear, and i do not know what to do."
"go with us to bremen.
you understand nocturnal music, so you can be town musician."
the cat consented, and went with them.
the three vagabonds soon came near a farmyard, where, upon the barn door, the cock was sitting crowing with all his might.
"you crow through marrow and bone," said the ass; "what do you do that for?"
"that is the way i prophesy fine weather," said the cock; "but because grand guests are coming for the sunday, the housewife has no pity, and has told the cook-maid to make me into soup for the morrow; and this evening my head will be cut off.
now i am crowing with a full throat as long as i can."
"ah, but you, red-comb," replied the ass, "rather come away with us.
we are going to bremen, to find there something better than death; you have a good voice, and if we make music together it will have full play."
the cock consented to this plan, and so all four traveled on together.
they could not, however, reach bremen in one day, and at evening they came into a forest, where they meant to pass the night.
the ass and the dog laid themselves down under a large tree, the cat and the cock climbed up into the branches, but the latter flew right to the top, where he was most safe.
before he went to sleep he looked all round the four quarters, and soon thought he saw a little spark in the distance; so, calling his companions, he said they were not far from a house, for he saw a light.
the ass said: "if it is so, we had better get up and go farther, for the pasturage here is very bad"; and the dog continued: "yes, indeed!
a couple of bones with some meat on would be very acceptable!"
so they made haste toward the spot where the light was, and which shone now brighter and brighter, until they came to a well-lighted robber's cottage.
the ass, as the biggest, went to the window and peeped in.
"what do you see, gray-horse?"
asked the cock.
"what do i see?"
replied the ass; "a table laid out with savory meats and drinks, with robbers sitting around enjoying themselves."
"that would be the right sort of thing for us," said the cock.
"yes, yes, i wish we were there," replied the ass.
then these animals took counsel together how they should contrive to drive away the robbers, and at last they thought of a way.
the ass placed his forefeet upon the window ledge, the hound got on his back, the cat climbed up upon the dog, and, lastly, the cock flew up and perched upon the head of the cat.
when this was accomplished, at a given signal they commenced together to perform their music: the ass brayed, the dog barked, the cat mewed, and the cock crew; and they made such a tremendous noise, and so loud, that the panes of the window were shivered!
terrified at these unearthly sounds, the robbers got up with great precipitation, thinking nothing less than that some spirits had come, and fled off into the forest, so the four companions immediately sat down at the table, and quickly ate up all that was left, as if they had been fasting for six weeks.
as soon as they had finished, they extinguished the light, and each sought for himself a sleeping-place, according to his nature and custom.
the ass laid himself down upon some straw, the hound behind the door, the cat upon the hearth, near the warm ashes, and the cock flew up on a beam which ran across the room.
weary with their long walk, they soon went to sleep.
at midnight the robbers perceived from their retreat that no light was burning in their house, and all appeared quiet; so the captain said:
"we need not have been frightened into fits"; and, calling one of the band, he sent him forward to reconnoiter.
the messenger, finding all still, went into the kitchen to strike a light, and, taking the glistening, fiery eyes of the cat for live coals, he held a lucifer match to them, expecting it to take fire.
but the cat, not understanding the joke, flew in his face, spitting and scratching, which dreadfully frightened him, so that he made for the back door; but the dog, who laid there, sprang up and bit his leg; and as he limped upon the straw where the ass was stretched out, it gave him a powerful kick with its hind foot.
this was not all, for the cock, awaking at the noise, clapped his wings, and cried from the beam:
"cock-a-doodle-doo, cock-a-doodle-do!"
then the robber ran back as well as he could to his captain, and said:
"ah, my master, there dwells a horrible witch in the house, who spat on me and scratched my face with her long nails; and then before the door stands a man with a knife, who chopped at my leg; and in the yard there lies a black monster, who beat me with a great wooden club; and besides all, upon the roof sits a judge, who called out, 'bring the knave up, do!'
so i ran away as fast as i could."
after this the robbers dared not again go near their house; but everything prospered so well with the four town musicians of bremen, that they did not forsake their situation!
and there they are to this day, for anything i know.
the fisherman and his wife
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
there was once a fisherman who lived with his wife in a miserable little hovel close to the sea.
he went to fish every day, and he fished and fished, and at last one day, when he was sitting looking deep down into the shining water, he felt something on his line.
when he hauled it up there was a great flounder on the end of the line.
the flounder said to him: "look here, fisherman, don't you kill me; i am no common flounder, i am an enchanted prince!
what good will it do you to kill me?
i sha'n't be good to eat; put me back into the water, and leave me to swim about."
"well," said the fisherman, "you need not make so many words about it.
i am quite ready to put back a flounder that can talk."
and so saying, he put back the flounder into the shining water, and it sank down to the bottom, leaving a streak of blood behind it.
then the fisherman got up and went back to his wife in the hovel.
"husband," she said, "hast thou caught nothing to-day?"
"no," said the man; "all i caught was one flounder, and he said he was an enchanted prince, so i let him go swim again."
"didst thou not wish for anything then?"
asked the good wife.
"no," said the man; "what was there to wish for?"
"alas!"
said his wife; "isn't it bad enough always to live in this wretched hovel?
thou mightest at least have wished for a nice clean cottage.
go back and call him; tell him i want a pretty cottage; he will surely give us that!"
"alas," said the man, "what am i to go back there for?"
"well," said the woman, "it was thou who caught him and let him go again; for certain he will do that for thee.
be off now!"
the man was still not very willing to go, but he did not want to vex his wife, and at last he went back to the sea.
he found the sea no longer bright and shining, but dull and green.
he stood by it and said:
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
the flounder came swimming up, and said: "well, what do you want?"
"alas!"
said the man; "i had to call you, for my wife said i ought to have wished for something, as i caught you.
she doesn't want to live in our miserable hovel any longer; she wants a pretty cottage."
"go home again, then," said the flounder; "she has her wish fully."
the man went home and found his wife no longer in the old hut, but a pretty little cottage stood in its place, and his wife was sitting on a bench by the door.
she took him by the hand, and said: "come and look in here isn't this much better?"
they went inside and found a pretty sitting-room, and a bedroom with a bed in it, a kitchen, and a larder furnished with everything of the best in tin and brass, and every possible requisite.
outside there was a little yard with chickens and ducks, and a little garden full of vegetables and fruit.
"look!"
said the woman, "is not this nice?"
"yes," said the man; "and so let it remain.
we can live here very happily."
"we will see about that," said the woman, and with that they ate something and went to bed.
everything went well for a week or more, and then said the wife:
"listen, husband; this cottage is too cramped, and the garden is too small.
the flounder might have given us a bigger house.
i want to live in a big stone castle.
go to the flounder, and tell him to give us a castle."
"alas, wife!"
said the man; "the cottage is good enough for us; what should we do with a castle?"
"never mind," said his wife; "do thou but go to the flounder, and he will manage it."
"nay, wife," said the man; "the flounder gave us the cottage.
i don't want to go back; as likely as not he'll be angry."
"go, all the same," said the woman.
"he can do it easily enough, and willingly into the bargain.
just go!"
the man's heart was heavy, and he was very unwilling to go.
he said to himself: "it's not right."
but at last he went.
he found the sea was no longer green; it was still calm, but dark violet and gray.
he stood by it and said:
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
"now, what do you want?"
said the flounder.
"alas," said the man, half scared, "my wife wants a big stone castle."
"go home again," said the flounder; "she is standing at the door of it."
then the man went away, thinking he would find no house, but when he got back he found a great stone palace, and his wife standing at the top of the steps, waiting to go in.
she took him by the hand and said, "come in with me."
with that they went in and found a great hall paved with marble slabs, and numbers of servants in attendance, who opened the great doors for them.
the walls were hung with beautiful tapestries, and the rooms were furnished with golden chairs and tables, while rich carpets covered the floors, and crystal chandeliers hung from the ceilings.
the tables groaned under every kind of delicate food and the most costly wines.
outside the house there was a great courtyard, with stabling for horses, and cows, and many fine carriages.
beyond this there was a great garden filled with the loveliest flowers, and fine fruit trees.
there was also a park, half a mile long, and in it were stags and hinds, and hares, and everything of the kind one could wish for.
"now," said the woman, "is not this worth having?"
"oh, yes," said the man; "and so let it remain.
we will live in this beautiful palace and be content."
"we will think about that," said his wife, "and sleep upon it."
with that they went to bed.
next morning the wife woke up first; day was just dawning, and from her bed she could see the beautiful country around her.
her husband was still asleep, but she pushed him with her elbow, and said, "husband, get up and peep out of the window.
see here, now, could we not be king over all this land?
go to the flounder.
we will be king."
"alas, wife," said the man, "what should we be king for?
i don't want to be king."
"ah," said his wife, "if thou wilt not be king, i will.
go to the flounder.
i will be king."
"alas, wife," said the man, "whatever dost thou want to be king for?
i don't like to tell him."
"why not?"
said the woman.
"go thou must.
i will be king."
so the man went; but he was quite sad because his wife would be king.
"it is not right," he said; "it is not right."
when he reached the sea, he found it dark, gray, and rough, and evil-smelling.
he stood there and said:
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
"now, what does she want?"
said the flounder.
"alas," said the man, "she wants to be king now."
"go back.
she is king already," said the flounder.
so the man went back, and when he reached the palace he found that it had grown much larger, and a great tower had been added, with handsome decorations.
there was a sentry at the door, and numbers of soldiers were playing drums and trumpets.
as soon as he got inside the house, he found everything was marble and gold; and the hangings were of velvet, with great golden tassels.
the doors of the saloon were thrown wide open and he saw the whole court assembled.
his wife was sitting on a lofty throne of gold and diamonds; she wore a golden crown, and carried in one hand a scepter of pure gold.
on each side of her stood her ladies in a long row, each one a head shorter than the next.
he stood before her, and said, "alas, wife, art thou now king?"
"yes," she said; "now i am king."
he stood looking at her for some time, and then he said, "ah, wife, it is a fine thing for thee to be king; now we will not wish to be anything more."
"nay, husband," she answered, quite uneasily, "i find the time hangs very heavy on my hands.
i can't bear it any longer.
go back to the flounder.
king i am, but i must also be emperor."
"alas, wife," said the man, "why dost thou now want to be emperor?"
"husband," she answered, "go to the flounder.
emperor i will be."
"alas, wife," said the man, "emperor he can't make thee, and i won't ask him.
there is only one emperor in the country; and emperor the flounder cannot make thee, that he can't."
"what?"
said the woman.
"i am king, and thou art but my husband.
to him thou must go, and that right quickly.
if he can make a king, he can also make an emperor.
emperor i will be, so quickly go."
he had to go, but he was quite frightened.
and as he went, he thought, "this won't end well; emperor is too shameless.
the flounder will make an end of the whole thing."
with that he came to the sea, but now he found it quite black, and heaving up from below in great waves.
it tossed to and fro, and a sharp wind blew over it, and the man trembled.
so he stood there, and said:
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
"what does she want now?"
said the flounder.
"alas, flounder," he said, "my wife wants to be emperor."
"go back," said the flounder.
"she is emperor."
so the man went back, and when he got to the door, he found that the whole palace was made of polished marble, with alabaster figures and golden decorations.
soldiers marched up and down before the doors, blowing their trumpets and beating their drums.
inside the palace, counts, barons, and dukes walked about as attendants, and they opened to him the doors, which were of pure gold.
he went in, and saw his wife sitting on a huge throne made of solid gold.
it was at least two miles high.
she had on her head a great golden crown, set with diamonds, three yards high.
in one hand she held the scepter, and in the other the ball of empire.
on each side of her stood the gentlemen-at-arms in two rows, each one a little smaller than the other, from giants two miles high, down to the tiniest dwarf no bigger than my little finger.
she was surrounded by princes and dukes.
her husband stood still, and said, "wife, art thou now emperor?"
"yes," said she; "now i am emperor."
then he looked at her for some time, and said, "alas, wife, how much better off art thou for being emperor?"
"husband," she said, "what art thou standing there for?
now i am emperor, i mean to be pope!
go back to the flounder."
"alas, wife," said the man, "what wilt thou not want?
pope thou canst not be.
there is only one pope in christendom.
that's more than the flounder can do."
"husband," she said, "pope i will be; so go at once.
i must be pope this very day."
"no, wife," he said, "i dare not tell him.
it's no good; it's too monstrous altogether.
the flounder cannot make thee pope."
"husband," said the woman, "don't talk nonsense.
if he can make an emperor, he can make a pope.
go immediately.
i am emperor, and thou art but my husband, and thou must obey."
so he was frightened, and went; but he was quite dazed.
he shivered and shook, and his knees trembled.
a great wind arose over the land, the clouds flew across the sky, and it grew as dark as night; the leaves fell from the trees, and the water foamed and dashed upon the shore.
in the distance the ships were being tossed to and fro on the waves, and he heard them firing signals of distress.
there was still a little patch of blue in the sky among the dark clouds, but toward the south they were red and heavy, as in a bad storm.
in despair, he stood and said;
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
"now, what does she want?"
said the flounder.
"alas" said the man, "she wants to be pope."
"go back.
pope she is," said the flounder.
so back he went, and he found a great church, surrounded with palaces.
he pressed through the crowd, and inside he found thousands and thousand of lights, and his wife, entirely clad in gold, was sitting on a still higher throne, with three golden crowns upon her head, and she was surrounded with priestly state.
on each side of her were two rows of candles, the biggest as thick as a tower, down to the tiniest little taper.
kings and emperors were on their knees before her, kissing her shoe.
"wife," said the man, looking at her, "art thou now pope?"
"yes," said she; "now i am pope."
so there he stood gazing at her, and it was like looking at a shining sun.
"alas, wife," he said, "art thou better off for being pope?"
at first she sat as stiff as a post, without stirring.
then he said, "now, wife, be content with being pope; higher thou canst not go."
"i will think about that," said the woman, and with that they both went to bed.
still she was not content, and could not sleep for her inordinate desires.
the man slept well and soundly, for he had walked about a great deal in the day; but his wife could think of nothing but what further grandeur she could demand.
when the dawn reddened the sky, she raised herself up in bed and looked out of the window, and when she saw the sun rise she said:
"ha!
can i not cause the sun and the moon to rise?
husband!"
she cried, digging her elbow into his side, "wake up and go to the flounder.
i will be lord of the universe."
her husband, who was still more than half asleep, was so shocked that he fell out of bed.
he thought he must have heard wrong.
he rubbed his eyes and said:
"alas, wife, what didst thou say?"
"husband," she said, "if i cannot be lord of the universe, and cause the sun and moon to set and rise, i shall not be able to bear it.
i shall never have another happy moment."
she looked at him so wildly that it caused a shudder to run through him.
"alas, wife," he said, falling on his knees before her, "the flounder can't do that.
emperor and pope he can make, but that is indeed beyond him.
i pray thee, control thyself and remain pope."
then she flew into a terrible rage.
her hair stood on end; she panted for breath, and screamed:
"i won't bear it any longer; wilt thou go?"
then he pulled on his trousers and tore away like a madman.
such a storm was raging that he could hardly keep his feet; houses and trees quivered and swayed, mountains trembled, and the rocks rolled into the sea.
the sky was pitchy black; it thundered and lightened, and the sea ran in black waves, mountains high, crested with white foam.
he shrieked out, but could hardly make himself heard:
"flounder, flounder in the sea,   prythee, hearken unto me:
my wife, ilsebil, will have her own way   whatever i wish, whatever i say."
"now, what does she want?"
asked the flounder.
"alas," he said, "she wants to be lord of the universe."
"now she must go back to her old hovel," said the flounder; "and there you will find her."
and there they are to this very day!
little snow-white
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
once upon a time it was the middle of winter; the flakes of snow were falling like feathers from the sky; a queen sat at a window sewing, and the frame of the window was made of black ebony.
as she was sewing and looking out of the window at the snow, she pricked her finger with the needle, and three drops of blood fell upon the snow.
and the red looked pretty upon the white snow, and she thought to herself:
"would that i had a child as white as snow, as red as blood, and as black as the wood of the window-frame!"
soon after that she had a little daughter, who was as white as snow, and as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony; so she was called little snow-white.
and when the child was born, the queen died.
a year after, the king took to himself another wife.
she was beautiful but proud, and she could not bear to have any one else more beautiful.
she had a wonderful looking-glass, and when she stood in front of it, and looked at herself in it, and said:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
the looking-glass answered:
"thou, o queen, art the fairest of all!"
at last she was well pleased, for she knew the looking-glass spoke the truth.
now snow-white grew up, and became more and more beautiful; and when she was seven years old she was as beautiful as the day, and more beautiful than the queen herself.
and once when the queen asked her looking-glass:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
it answered:
"thou art fairer than all who are here, lady queen,   but more beautiful by far is snow-white, i ween."
then the queen was angry, and turned green with envy.
from that hour, whenever she looked at snow-white, her breath came and went, she hated the girl so much.
and envy grew higher and higher in her heart like a weed, so that she had no peace day or night.
she called a huntsman, and said:
"take the child away into the wood; i will no longer have her in my sight.
kill her, and bring me back her heart as a token."
the huntsman did as he was told, and took her away; but when he had drawn his knife, and was about to pierce snow-white's little heart, she began to weep, and said:
"ah, dear huntsman, leave me my life!
i will run away into the wild wood, and never come home again."
and as she was so beautiful the huntsman had pity on her and said:
"run away, then, you poor child."
the wild beasts will soon kill her, thought he; and yet it seemed as if a stone had been rolled from his heart, since it was no longer needful for him to kill her.
as a young boar just then came running by he stabbed it, and cut out its heart and took it to the queen as a proof that the child was dead.
the cook had to salt this, and the wicked queen ate it, and thought she had eaten the heart of snow-white.
but now the poor child was all alone in the great wood, and so afraid that she started at every bush, and did not know what to do.
then she began to run, and ran over sharp stones and through thorns, and the wild beasts ran past her, but did her no harm.
she ran as long as her feet would go, until it was almost evening; then she saw a little cottage, and went into it to rest herself.
everything in the cottage was small, but neater and cleaner than can be told.
there was a table on which was a white cover, and seven little plates, and by each plate was a little spoon; there were seven little knives and forks, and seven little mugs.
against the wall stood seven little beds side by side, covered with snow-white coverlets.
little snow-white was so hungry and thirsty that she ate some fruit and bread from each plate, and drank a drop of milk out of each mug, for she did not wish to take all from one only.
then, as she was so tired, she lay down on one of the little beds, but none of them suited her; one was too long, another too short; but at last she found the seventh one was just right, and so she stayed in it, said her prayers, and went to sleep.
when it was quite dark the owners of the cottage came back; they were seven dwarfs who dug in the hills for gold.
they lit their seven candles, and as it was now light within the cottage they could see that some one had been there, for everything was not in the same order in which they had left it.
the first said, "who has been sitting on my chair?"
the second, "who has been eating off my plate?"
the third, "who has been taking some of my bread?"
the fourth, "who has been eating my fruit?"
the fifth, "who has been using my fork?"
the sixth, "who has been cutting with my knife?"
the seventh, "who has been drinking out of my mug?"
then the first looked round and saw that there was a little hole in his bed, and he said:
"who has been getting into my bed?"
the others came up and each called out:
"somebody has been lying in my bed too."
but the seventh, when he looked at his bed, saw little snow-white, who was lying asleep there.
and he called the others, who came running up, and they cried out with wonder, and brought their seven little candles and let the light fall on little snow-white.
"oh, heavens!
oh, heavens!"
cried they, "what a lovely child!"
and they were so glad that they did not wake her, but let her sleep on in the bed.
and the seventh dwarf slept with the others, one hour with each, and so got through the night.
when it was morning little snow-white awoke, and was afraid when she saw the seven dwarfs.
but they were friendly and asked her what her name was.
"my name is snow-white," she answered.
"how have you come to our house?"
said the dwarfs.
then she told them that the queen had wished to have her killed, but that the huntsman had spared her life; she had run for the whole day, until at last she had found their house.
the dwarfs said:
"if you will take care of our house, cook, make the beds, wash, sew, and knit; and if you will keep everything neat and clean, you can stay with us, and you shall want for nothing."
"yes," said snow-white, "with all my heart," and she stayed with them.
she kept the house in order for them; in the mornings they went to the hills and looked for gold; in the evenings they came back, and then their supper had to be ready.
the girl was alone the whole day, so the good dwarfs warned her and said:
"beware of the queen; she will soon know that you are here; be sure to let no one come in."
but the queen, thinking she had eaten snow-white's heart, began to suppose she was again the first and most beautiful person in the world; and she went to her looking-glass and said:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
and the glass answered:
"o queen, thou art fairest of all i see,   but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,   snow-white is still alive and well,   and no one else is so fair as she."
and so she thought and thought again how she might kill snow-white, for so long as she was not the fairest in the whole land, envy let her have no rest.
and when she had at last thought of something to do, she painted her face and dressed herself like an old peddler-woman, and no one could have known her.
then she went over the seven hills to the seven dwarfs, and knocked at the door and cried:
"pretty things to sell, very cheap, very cheap."
little snow-white looked out of the window and called out:
"good-day, my good woman, what have you to sell?"
"good things, pretty things," she answered; "stay-laces of all colors," and she pulled out one which was woven of bright silk.
"i may let the good old woman in," thought snow-white, and she unbolted the door and bought the pretty laces.
"child," said the old woman, "what a fright you look!
come, i will lace you properly for once."
snow-white stood before her, and let herself be laced with the new laces.
but the old woman laced so quickly and laced so tightly that snow-white lost her breath and fell down as if dead.
"now i am the most beautiful," said the queen to herself, and ran away.
not long after, in the evening, the seven dwarfs came home, but how shocked they were when they saw their dear little snow-white lying on the ground!
she did not stir or move, and seemed to be dead.
they lifted her up, and, as they saw that she was laced too tightly, they cut the laces; then she began to breathe a little, and after a while came to life again.
when the dwarfs heard what had happened they said:
"the old peddler-woman was no one else than the wicked queen; take care and let no one come in when we are not with you."
but the wicked woman, when she was at home again, went in front of the glass and asked:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
and it answered as before:
"o queen, thou art fairest of all i see,   but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,   snow-white is still alive and well,   and no one else is so fair as she."
when she heard that, all her blood rushed to her heart with fear, for she saw plainly that little snow-white was again alive.
"but now," she said, "i will think of something that shall put an end to you," and so she made a comb that was full of poison.
then she took the shape of another old woman.
so she went over the seven hills to the seven dwarfs, knocked at the door, and cried, "good things to sell, cheap, cheap!"
little snow-white looked out and said:
"go away; i cannot let any one come in."
"i suppose you can look," said the old woman, and pulled the comb out and held it up.
it pleased the girl so well that she let herself be coaxed and opened the door.
when they had made a bargain the old woman said, "now i will comb you properly for once."
poor little snow-white had no fear, and let the old woman do as she pleased, but hardly had she put the comb in her hair than the poison worked, and the girl fell down senseless.
"you piece of beauty," said the wicked woman, "you are done for now,"
and she went away.
but as good luck would have it, it was almost evening, and the seven dwarfs soon came home.
when they saw snow-white lying as if dead upon the ground, they knew at once the queen had been there, and they looked and found the comb.
scarcely had they taken it out when snow-white came to herself, and told them what had happened.
then they warned her once more to be upon her guard and to open the door to no one.
the queen, at home, went in front of the glass, and said:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
then it answered as before:
"o queen, thou art fairest of all i see,   but over the hills, where the seven dwarfs dwell,   snow-white is still alive and well,   and no one else is so fair as she."
when she heard the glass speak thus she trembled and shook with rage.
"snow-white shall die," she cried, "even if it costs me my life!"
she went into a quiet, secret, lonely room, where no one ever came, and there she made an apple full of poison.
it was white with a red cheek, so that every one who saw it longed for it; but whoever ate a piece of it must surely die.
when the apple was ready she painted her face, and dressed herself up as a country-woman, and so she went over the seven hills to the seven dwarfs.
she knocked at the door.
snow-white put her head out of the window and said:
"i cannot let any one in; the seven dwarfs have told me not to."
"it is all the same to me," said the woman.
"i shall soon get rid of my apples.
there, i will give you one."
"no," said snow-white, "i dare not take anything."
"are you afraid of poison?"
said the old woman.
"look, i will cut the apple in two pieces; you eat the red cheek, and i will eat the white."
the apple was so cunningly made that only the red cheek was poisoned.
snow-white longed for the fine apple, and when she saw that the woman ate part of it she could stand it no longer, and stretched out her hand and took the other half.
but hardly had she a bit of it in her mouth when she fell down dead.
then the queen looked at her with a dreadful look, and laughed aloud and said:
"white as snow, red as blood, black as ebony-wood!
this time the dwarfs cannot wake you up again."
and when she asked of the looking-glass at home:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is fairest of all?"
it answered at last:
"o queen, in this land thou art fairest of all."
then her envious heart had rest, so far as an envious heart can have rest.
when the dwarfs came home in the evening, they found snow-white lying upon the ground; she breathed no longer, and was dead.
they lifted her up, unlaced her, combed her hair, washed her with water and wine, but it was all of no use; the poor child was dead, and stayed dead.
they laid her upon a bier, and all seven of them sat round it and wept for her, and wept three whole days.
then they were going to bury her, but she still looked as if she were living, and still had her pretty red cheeks.
they said:
"we could not bury her in the dark ground," and they had a coffin of glass made, so that she could be seen from all sides, and they laid her in it, and wrote her name upon it in golden letters, and that she was a king's daughter.
then they put the coffin out upon the hill, and one of them always stayed by it and watched it.
and birds came too, and wept for snow-white; first an owl, then a raven, and last a dove.
and now snow-white lay a long, long time in the coffin, and she did not change, but looked as if she were asleep; for she was as white as snow, as red as blood, and her hair was as black as ebony.
it happened that a king's son came into the wood, and went to the dwarfs' house to spend the night.
he saw the coffin on the hill, and the beautiful snow-white within it, and read what was written upon it in golden letters.
then he said to the dwarfs:
"let me have the coffin, i will give you whatever you want for it."
but the dwarfs answered:
"we will not part with it for all the gold in the world."
then he said:
"let me have it as a gift, for i cannot live without seeing snow-white.
i will honor and prize her as the dearest thing i have."
as he spoke in this way the good dwarfs took pity upon him, and gave him the coffin.
and now the king's son had it carried away by his servants on their shoulders.
and it happened that they stumbled over a tree-stump, and with the shock the piece of apple which snow-white had bitten off came out of her throat.
and before long she opened her eyes, lifted up the lid of the coffin, sat up, and was once more alive.
"oh, heavens, where am i?"
she cried.
the king's son, full of joy, said:
"you are with me," and told her what had happened, and said, "i love you more than everything in the world; come with me to my father's palace; you shall be my wife."
snow-white was willing, and went with him, and their wedding was held with great show and splendor.
the wicked queen was also bidden to the feast.
when she had put on her beautiful clothes, she went before the looking-glass, and said:
"looking-glass, looking-glass, on the wall,   who in this land is the fairest of all?"
the glass answered:
"o queen, of all here the fairest art thou,   but the young queen is fairer by far i trow."
then the wicked woman gave a scream, and was so wretched, so utterly wretched, that she knew not what to do.
at first she would not go to the wedding at all, but she had no peace, and must go to see the young queen.
and when she went in she knew snow-white; and she stood still with rage and fear, and could not stir.
but iron slippers had already been put upon the fire, and they were brought in with tongs, and set before her.
then she was forced to put on the red hot shoes, and dance until she dropped down dead.
the goose-girl
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
an old queen had a beautiful daughter, who was betrothed to a young prince of a neighboring kingdom.
when the time for the marriage came near, it was arranged that she was to travel to his country accompanied only by her waiting-maid.
her mother, the queen, provided her with many costly robes and jewels, such as a princess about to marry the prince of a great kingdom would require.
she also gave her a horse named falada, which had the gift of speech.
just before the princess started on her journey, the queen pricked her finger, and dropped three drops of blood upon a handkerchief.
"take this," she told her daughter, "and guard it carefully.
it will serve you when in danger."
the princess took the handkerchief, and embraced her mother.
they shed many tears at parting, but at last the princess mounted the wonderful horse and started on the journey.
when she and the maid had ridden for some time, they came to a stream of clear, cold water.
being very thirsty, the princess asked the maid to bring her a drink in the golden cup.
the maid insolently replied that she might get the water for herself, as she did not intend to serve her any longer.
the princess was so thirsty that she dismounted and drank from the stream.
as she bent over to place her lips to the water, she said to herself, "o, heaven!
what am i to do?"
the three drops of blood upon the handkerchief made answer:
"if she knew this, for thy sake   thy queen-mother's heart would break."
when the princess had slaked her thirst, she mounted her horse and resumed her journey, and being gentle and forgiving, she soon forgot the maid's rudeness.
the sun shone on them fiercely, and the road was filled with dust, so that they had not gone far before the princess again became thirsty.
when they came to a brook, she called to the maid:
"pray fetch me a drink in my golden cup."
the maid's answer was even more insolent than before.
"if you are thirsty, get down and drink.
i do not mean to serve you any longer."
the princess's throat was parched, so she dismounted and drank from the stream, at the same time murmuring, "o, heaven!
what am i to do?"
the three drops of blood again replied:
"if she knew this, for thy sake   thy queen-mother's heart would break."
as she raised her head from the water, the handkerchief bearing the three drops of blood fell unnoticed from her dress and floated down the stream.
the maid, however, had observed the loss with no small satisfaction.
without the three drops of blood, the princess was completely in her power, and the traitorous servant immediately took advantage of her helplessness.
she obliged the princess to disrobe and exchange the royal dress for her own mean one.
after making her swear, on fear of death, never to betray the secret, the maid mounted falada and left her own horse for the princess.
falada bore the false princess to the palace; but the horse had noted all, and bided his time.
the prince came out to meet them, and took the impostor bride to the royal chamber, while the true one was left waiting in the court below.
seeing her there, forlorn and beautiful, the old king inquired of the bride who it was she had thus left outside.
"only a woman who kept me company," she carelessly replied.
"give her some work to content her."
the king could think of nothing suitable for such as she; but lacking something better to offer, sent her to help the boy curdken herd geese.
so it happened that the real bride became a goose-girl.
the false bride at length remembered falada's gift of speech and became alarmed lest he should betray the secret of her treachery.
she told the prince that the horse which had brought her was vicious and had given her much trouble, and that she desired his head cut off immediately.
the prince at once granted her request, and gave orders that falada be beheaded.
when the real princess heard the sad news, she dried her tears and sought the executioner.
she could not save her dear falada from his doom, but with the aid of a gold piece she persuaded the slaughterer to nail his head over the great gate through which she had to pass on her way to and from the goose-pasture.
the next morning, when she and curdken drove their geese under the gate, the princess wrung her hands and cried:
"o falada, hang you there?"
and the head replied to her:
"'tis falada, princess fair.
if she knew this, for thy sake   thy queen-mother's heart would break."
when she had driven the geese to the field, she sat down and loosed her golden hair.
curdken, seeing it shining in the sun, caught at it to pull some out.
whereupon she sang:
"wind, blow gently here, i pray,   and take curdken's hat away.
keep him chasing o'er the wold,   while i bind my hair of gold."
when curdken had recovered his hat and returned to where she was sitting, her hair was plaited, and he could get none of it.
this made him very angry all day.
the next morning they again came to the gate where falada's head was nailed, and the goose-girl said as before:
"o falada, hang you there?"
and the head as before replied to her:
"'tis falada, princess fair.
if she knew this, for thy sake   thy queen-mother's heart would break."
again she passed on with the geese and curdken under the gate, and when she came to the field where they were herded, sat down and loosed her hair.
the sun shone upon it, and curdken again caught at its golden threads.
the goose-girl called to the wind:
"wind, blow gently here, i pray,   and take curdken's hat away.
keep him chasing o'er the wold,   while i bind my hair of gold."
the wind did as she asked, and curdken ran so far for his hat that when he returned the golden hair was plaited and bound about her head.
curdken was sullen all day long, and when at night they had driven the geese home, he complained to the king:
"the goose-girl so teases me that i will no longer herd the geese with her."
when asked how she had offended, he told the king that she spoke every morning to the horse's head that was over the gate, and that the head replied and called her princess.
he also related how the goose-girl sat in the sun and combed her golden hair, while she sent him chasing for his hat.
the king bade curdken go the next day with his flock as usual.
when morning came the king arose early and stood in the shadow of the town-gate.
he heard the goose-girl say, "o falada, hang you there?"
and he heard the head make answer:
"'tis falada, princess fair.
if she knew this, for thy sake   thy queen-mother's heart would break."
then the king followed on to the field, where he hid behind a bush and watched them herd the geese.
after a time the goose-girl undid her glittering hair; and as curdken snatched at it, the king heard her say:
"wind, blow gently here, i pray,   and take curdken's hat away.
keep him chasing o'er the wold,   while i bind my hair of gold."
the wind came at her bidding, and carried the herd-boy's hat across the fields; while she combed the shining hair and made it fast.
the king quietly returned to the palace, and that night he sent for the goose-girl.
he told her he had watched her at the gate and in the field, and asked her the meaning of her strange actions.
"o king!
i may not tell; for i have sworn, if my life were spared, to speak to no one of my woes," she replied.
the king pleaded with her, but she was firm; and at last he told her to tell her troubles to the iron stove, since she would not confide in him.
when he had left her, she fell upon her knees before the stove and poured forth her sorrows:
"here am i, the daughter of a queen, doomed to the lowly service of a goose-girl, while the false waiting-maid steals my treasures and my bridegroom."
she sobbed and wept, until the king, who had stood outside and heard all, came in and bade her dry her eyes.
he ordered her arrayed in royal robes; and then she appeared as lovely as the sun.
the prince was summoned; and the old king told him the story, and showed him the true bride.
she was so beautiful that the prince knelt at her feet in admiration, and knew her to be the real princess.
a great banquet was given, to which many guests were invited.
on one side of the prince sat the false bride, and on the other the real princess, who was so radiantly lovely that the maid did not know her.
the king at last asked the waiting-maid what punishment should be dealt to a traitor.
not knowing that she was passing sentence on herself, the waiting-maid's answer was as cruel as she was wicked.
said she:
"let her be put into a barrel, and drawn by two white horses, up hill and down, till she is dead."
when the wicked maid had been punished according to her own decree, the princess was wedded to the young prince, and reigned with him for many happy years over the kingdom where she had first served as a goose-girl.
the golden bird
by wilhelm and jakob grimm
there was once a king who had a beautiful pleasure-garden behind his palace, in which grew a tree that bore golden apples.
as fast as the apples ripened they were counted, but the next day one was always missing.
this was made known to the king, who commanded that a watch should be kept every night under the tree.
now, the king had three sons, and he sent the eldest into the garden when night was coming on; but at midnight he fell fast asleep, and in the morning another apple was missing.
the following night the second son had to watch, but he did not succeed any better, and again another apple was missing in the morning.
now came the turn of the youngest son, who was eager to go; but the king did not rely much upon him, and thought he would watch even worse than his brothers; however, at last he consented.
the youth threw himself on the ground under the tree and watched steadily, without letting sleep master him.
as twelve o'clock struck, something rustled in the air, and he saw a bird fly by in the moonlight, whose feathers were of shining gold.
the bird alighted on the tree and was just picking off one of the apples when the young prince shot a bolt at it.
away flew the bird, but the arrow had knocked off one of its feathers, which was of the finest gold.
the youth picked it up and showed it to the king next morning, and told him all he had seen in the night.
thereupon the king assembled his council, and each one declared that a single feather like this one was of greater value than the whole kingdom.
"however valuable this feather may be," said the king, "one will not be of much use to me i must have the whole bird."
so the eldest son went forth on his travels, to look for the wonderful bird, and he had no doubt that he would be able to find it.
when he had gone a short distance, he saw a fox sitting close to the edge of the forest, so he drew his bow to shoot.
but the fox cried out: "do not shoot me, and i will give you a piece of good advice!
you are now on the road to the golden bird, and this evening you will come to a village where two inns stand opposite to each other one will be brilliantly lighted, and great merriment will be going on inside; do not, however, go in, but rather enter the other, even though it appears but a poor place to you."
"how can such a ridiculous animal give me rational advice?"
thought the young prince, and shot at the fox, but missed it, so it ran away with its tail in the air.
the king's son then walked on, and in the evening he came to a village where the two inns stood: in one there was dancing and singing, but the other was quiet, and had a very mean and wretched appearance.
"i should be an idiot," thought he to himself, "if i were to go to this gloomy old inn while the other is so bright and cheerful."
therefore, he went into the merry one, lived there in rioting and revelry, and so forgot the golden bird, his father, and all good behavior.
as time passed away, and the eldest son did not return home, the second son set out on his travels to seek the golden bird.
like the eldest brother, he met with the fox, and did not follow the good advice it gave him.
he likewise came to the two inns, and at the window of the noisy one his brother stood entreating him to come in.
this he could not resist, so he went in, and began to live a life of pleasure only.
again a long time passed by without any news, so the youngest prince wished to try his luck, but his father would not hear of it.
at last, for the sake of peace, the king was obliged to consent, for he had no rest as long as he refused.
the fox was again sitting at the edge of the forest, and once more it begged for its own life and gave its good advice.
the youth was good-hearted, and said:
"have no fear, little fox; i will not do thee any harm."
"thou wilt never repent of thy good nature," replied the fox, "and in order that thou mayest travel more quickly, get up behind on my tail."
scarcely had the youth seated himself, when away went the fox over hill and dale, so fast that the prince's hair whistled in the wind.
when they came to the village, the youth dismounted, and following the fox's advice, he turned at once into the shabby-looking inn, where he slept peacefully through the night.
the next morning, when the prince went into the fields, the fox was already there, and said:
"i will tell thee what further thou must do.
go straight on, and thou wilt come to a castle before which a whole troop of soldiers will be lying asleep.
go right through the midst of them into the castle, and thou wilt come to a chamber where is hanging a wooden cage containing a golden bird.
close by stands an empty golden cage, for show; but be careful that thou dost not take the bird out of its ugly cage and put it in the splendid one, or it will be very unlucky for thee."
with these words the fox once more stretched out its tail, and the king's son sat upon it again, and away they went over hill and dale, with their hair whistling in the wind.
when they arrived at the castle, the prince found everything as the fox had said, and he soon discovered the room in which the golden bird was sitting in its wooden cage; by it stood a golden one; while three golden apples were lying about the room.
but the prince thought it would be silly to put such a lovely bird in so ugly and common a cage; so, opening the door, he placed it in the golden cage.
in an instant the bird set up a piercing shriek, which awakened all the soldiers, who rushed in and made him prisoner.
the next morning he was brought before a judge, who at once condemned him to death.
still, the king said his life should be spared on one condition, and that was, that he brought him the golden horse, which ran faster than the wind; and if he succeeded he should also receive the golden bird as a reward.
the young prince set out on his journey, but he sighed and felt very sorrowful, for where was he to find the golden horse?
all at once, he saw his old friend, the fox, sitting by the wayside.
"ah!"
exclaimed the fox, "thou seest now what has happened through not listening to me.
but be of good courage; i will look after thee, and tell thee how thou mayest discover the horse.
thou must travel straight along this road until thou comest to a castle; the horse is there in one of the stables.
thou wilt find a stable boy lying before the stall, but he will be fast asleep and snoring, so thou wilt be able to lead out the golden horse quite quietly.
but there is one thing thou must be careful about, and that is to put on the shabby old saddle of wood and leather, and not the golden one which hangs beside it otherwise everything will go wrong with thee."
then the fox stretched out his tail, the prince took a seat upon it, and away they went over hill and dale, with their hair whistling in the wind.
everything happened as the fox had said.
the prince came to the stable where the golden horse was standing, but, as he was about to put on the shabby old saddle, he thought to himself, "it does seem a shame that such a lovely animal should be disgraced with this.
the fine saddle is his by right; it must go on."
scarcely had the golden saddle rested on the horse's back when it began to neigh loudly.
this awakened the stable boy, who awakened the grooms, who rushed in and seized the prince and made him a prisoner.
the following morning he was brought to trial and condemned to death, but the king promised him his life, as well as the golden horse, if the youth could find the beautiful daughter of the king of the golden castle.
once more, with a heavy heart, the prince set out on his journey, and by great good fortune he soon came across the faithful fox.
"i really should have left thee to the consequences of thy folly,"
said the fox; "but as i feel great compassion for thee, i will help thee out of thy new misfortune.
the path to the castle lies straight before thee; thou wilt reach it about the evening.
at night, when everything is quiet, the lovely princess will go to the bath-house, to bathe there.
as soon as she enters, thou must spring forward and give her a kiss; then she will follow thee wherever thou carest to lead her; only be careful that she does not take leave of her parents, or everything will go wrong."
then the fox stretched out his tail, the prince seated himself on it, and away they both went over hill and dale, their hair whistling in the wind.
when the king's son came to the golden palace, everything happened as the fox had predicted.
he waited until midnight, and when everyone was soundly asleep the beautiful princess went into the bath-house, so he sprang forward and kissed her.
the princess then said she would joyfully follow him, but she besought him with tears in her eyes to allow her to say farewell to her parents.
at first he withstood her entreaties, but as she wept still more, and fell at his feet, he at last yielded.
scarcely was the maiden at the bedside of her father, when he awoke, and so did everyone else in the palace; so the foolish youth was captured and put into prison.
on the following morning the king said to him: "thy life is forfeited, and thou canst only find mercy if thou clearest away the mountain that lies before my windows, and over which i cannot see, but it must be removed within eight days.
if thou dost succeed thou shalt have my daughter as a reward."
so the prince commenced at once to dig and to shovel away the earth without cessation, but when after seven days he saw how little he had been able to accomplish, and that all his labor was as nothing, he fell into a great grief and gave up all hope.
on the evening of the seventh day, however, the fox appeared.
"thou dost not deserve that i should take thy part or befriend thee, but do thou go away and lie down to sleep, and i will do the work for thee."
and the next morning, when he awoke and looked out of the window, the mountain had disappeared!
then the prince, quite overjoyed, hastened to the king and told him that the conditions were fulfilled, so that the king, whether he would or not, was obliged to keep his word and give him his daughter.
then these two went away together, and it was not long before the faithful fox came to them.
"thou hast indeed gained the best of all," said he; "but to the maiden of the golden castle belongs also the golden horse."
"how can i get it?"
enquired the youth.
"i will tell thee," answered the fox; "first of all, take the lovely princess to the king who sent you to the golden palace.
there will then be unheard-of joy; they will gladly lead the golden horse to thee and give it thee.
mount it instantly, and give your hand to everyone at parting, and last of all to the princess.
grasp her hand firmly; make her spring into the saddle behind thee, and then gallop away; no one will be able to overtake thee, for the golden horse runs faster than the wind."
this was all happily accomplished, and the king's son carried off the beautiful princess on the golden horse.
the fox did not remain behind, and spoke thus to the young prince:
"now i will help thee to find the golden bird.
when thou comest near the castle where the bird is to be found, let the princess dismount, and i will take her under my protection.
then ride on the golden horse to the courtyard of the palace, where thy coming will cause great joy, and they will fetch the golden bird for thee.
directly the cage is in thy hands, gallop back to us and fetch the maiden again."
when this plot was successfully carried out, and the prince was about to ride home with his treasure, the fox said, "now must thou reward me for all my services."
"what is it that thou dost desire?"
enquired the prince.
"when we come to yonder wood, thou must shoot me dead and cut off my head and paws."
"that would be a fine sort of gratitude," said the king's son; "that i cannot possibly promise thee."
"then," replied the fox, "if thou wilt not, i must leave thee; but before i go i will give thee again some good advice.
beware of two things buy no gallows'-flesh, and see that thou dost not sit on the brink of a well!"
with this the fox ran off into the forest!
"ah!"
thought the young prince, "that is a wonderful animal with very whimsical ideas!
who would buy gallows'-flesh, and when have i ever had the slightest desire to sit on the brink of a well?"
so he rode on with the beautiful maiden, and his path led him once more through the village in which his two brothers had stopped.
here there was great tumult and lamentation, and when he asked what it all meant, he was told that two men were going to be hanged.
when he came nearer, he saw that they were his two brothers, who had committed every kind of wicked folly and had squandered all their money.
then the young prince asked if they could not be freed.
"supposing you do pay for them," the people answered, "where is the good of wasting your money in order to free such villains?"
nevertheless, he did not hesitate, but paid for them, and when the brothers were freed they all rode away together.
they came to the forest where they first encountered the fox, and as it was cool and pleasant away from the burning sun, the two brothers said:
"let us sit and rest a little by this well, and eat and drink something."
the young prince consented, and while they were all talking together he quite forgot the fox's warning, and suspected no evil.
but suddenly the two brothers threw him backwards into the well, and, seizing the maiden, the horse, and the golden bird, they went home to their father.
"we not only bring you the golden bird," said they, "but we have also found the golden palace."
there was great rejoicing, but the horse would not eat, neither would the bird sing, and the maiden only sat and wept.
but the youngest brother had not perished.
by good fortune the well was dry, and he had fallen on soft moss without hurting himself, but he could not get out again.
even in this misfortune the faithful fox did not desert him, but came springing down to him and scolded him for not following his advice.
"still i cannot forsake thee," said he, "and i will help to show thee daylight once more."
then he told him to seize hold of his tail and hold on tightly; and so saying, he lifted him up in the air.
"even now thou art not out of danger," said the fox, "for thy brothers were not certain of thy death, and have set spies to watch for thee in the forest, who will certainly kill thee if they see thee."
there was an old man sitting by the wayside with whom the young prince changed clothes, and, thus disguised, he reached the court of the king.
no one recognized him, but the golden bird began to sing, and the golden horse commenced to eat, and the lovely maiden ceased to weep.
the king was astonished and asked: "what does this all mean?"
then said the maiden: "i know not, but i was so sad, and now i feel light-hearted; it is as if my true husband had returned."
then she told him all that had happened, although the other brothers had threatened to kill her if she betrayed them.
the king then summoned all the people in the castle before him: and there came with them the young prince dressed as a beggar in his rags, but the maiden recognized him instantly and fell upon his neck.
so the wicked brothers were seized and executed, but the young prince married the lovely princess and was made his father's heir.
but what became of the poor fox?
long afterwards the young prince went again into the forest, and there he met once more with the fox, who said:
"thou hast now everything in the world thou canst desire, but to my misfortunes there can be no end, although it is in thy power to release me from them."
so he entreated the prince to shoot him dead and cut off his head and feet.
at last the prince consented to do so, and scarcely was the deed done than the fox was changed into a man, who was no other than the brother of the beautiful princess, at last released from the spell that had bound him.
so now nothing was wanting to the happiness of the prince and his bride as long as they lived.
french stories
beauty and the beast
adapted by e. nesbit
once upon a time there was a rich merchant, who had three daughters.
they lived in a very fine house in a beautiful city, and had many servants in grand liveries to wait upon them.
all their food was served on gold and silver dishes, and their gowns were made of the richest stuff sewn with jewels.
the two eldest were called marigold and dressalinda.
never a day passed but these two went out to some feast or junketing; but beauty, the youngest, loved to stay at home and keep her old father company.
now, it happened that misfortune came upon the merchant.
ships of his which were sailing the high seas laden with merchandise of great price, were wrecked, and in one day he found that he was no longer the richest merchant in the city, but a very poor man.
there was still left to him a little house in the country, and to this, when everything else had been sold, he retired.
his three daughters, of course, went with him.
marigold and dressalinda were very cross to think that they had lost all their money, and after being so rich and sought after, they must now live in a miserable cottage.
but beauty's only thought was to cheer her old father, and while her two sisters sat on wooden chairs and cried and bewailed themselves, beauty lighted the fire and got the supper ready, for the merchant was now so poor that he could not even keep a servant.
and so it went on.
the two eldest sisters would do nothing but sulk in corners, while beauty swept the floors and washed the dishes, and did her best to make the poor cottage pleasant.
they led their sister a dreadful life too, with their complaints, for not only did they refuse to do anything themselves, but they said that everything she did was done wrong.
but beauty bore all their unkindness patiently, for her father's sake.
in this way a whole year went by, and then one day a letter came for the merchant.
he hastened to find his daughters, for he was anxious to tell them the good news contained in the letter.
"my dear children," he said, "at last our luck has turned.
this letter says that one of the ships supposed to have been lost has come safely home to port, and if that be so, we need no longer live in poverty.
we shall not be so rich as before, but we shall have enough to keep us in comfort.
get me my traveling-cloak, beauty.
i will set out at once to claim my ship.
and now tell me, girls, what shall i bring you when i come back?"
"a hundred pounds," said marigold, without hesitating an instant.
"i want a new silk dress," said dressalinda, "an apple-green one, sewn with seed-pearls, and green shoes with red heels, and a necklace of emeralds, and a box of gloves."
"and what shall i bring for you, my beauty?"
asked the father, as his little daughter helped him to put on his traveling-cloak.
"oh, bring me a rose," said beauty hastily.
her father kissed her fondly, and set out.
"you silly girl," said marigold, "you just want our father to think you are more unselfish than we are that's what you want!
a rose, indeed!"
"indeed, sister," said beauty, "that was not the reason.
i thought our father would have enough to do in seeing to the safety of his ship, without being troubled to do shopping for me."
but the sisters were very much offended, and went off to sit in their own room to talk of the fine things they would have when their father came back.
in the meantime the merchant went his way to the city, full of hope and great plans as to what he would do with his money.
but when he got there, he found that some one had played a trick on him, and no ship of his had come into harbor, so he was just as badly off as before.
he spent the whole day looking about to make sure there was no truth in the letter he had received, and it was beginning to get dusk when he started out, with a sad heart, to make the journey home again.
he was tired and miserable, and he had tasted no food since he left home in the morning.
it was quite dark by the time he came to the great wood through which he had to pass to get to his cottage, and when he saw a light shining through the trees, he decided not to go to his home that night, but to make his way towards the light in the wood and ask for food and shelter.
he expected to find a woodcutter's cottage, but what was his surprise, as he drew near to the light, to find that it came from the windows of a large and beautiful palace!
he knocked at the gates, but no one answered, and presently, driven by hunger and cold, he made bold to enter, and mounted the marble steps into the great hall.
all the way he never saw a soul.
there was a big fire in the hall, and when he had warmed himself, he set out to look for the master of the house.
but he did not look far, for behind the first door he opened was a cosy little room with supper set for one, a supper the mere look of which made you hungry.
so the merchant sat down as bold as you please, and made a very hearty supper, after which he again thought he would look for the master of the house.
he started off and opened another door, but there he saw a bed, merely to look at which made you sleepy, so he said to himself:
"this is some fairies' work.
i had better not look any farther for the master of the house."
and with that he tumbled into bed, and, being very tired, he went to sleep at once, and slept like a top till it was time to get up in the morning.
when he awoke he was quite surprised to find himself in such a soft and comfortable bed, but presently he remembered all that had happened to him.
"i must be going," he said to himself, "but i wish i could thank my host for my good rest and my good supper."
when he got out of bed he found he had something else to be grateful for, for on the chair by the bedside lay a fine suit of new clothes, marked with his name, and with ten gold pieces in every pocket.
he felt quite a different man when he had put on the suit of blue and silver, and jingled the gold pieces of money in his pockets.
when he went downstairs, he found a good breakfast waiting for him in the little room where he had supped the night before, and when he had made a good meal, he thought he would go for a stroll in the garden.
down the marble steps he went, and when he came to the garden, he saw that it was full of roses, red and white and pink and yellow, and the merchant looked at them, and remembered beauty's wish.
"oh, my poor daughters," he said, "what a disappointment it will be to them to know that my ship has not come home after all, but beauty at any rate can have what she wanted."
so he stretched out his hand and plucked the biggest red rose within his reach.
as the stalk snapped in his fingers, he started back in terror, for he heard an angry roar, and the next minute a dreadful beast sprang upon him.
it was taller than any man, and uglier than any animal, but, what seemed most dreadful of all to the merchant, it spoke to him with a man's voice, after it had roared at him with the beast's.
"ungrateful wretch!"
said the beast.
"have i not fed you, lodged you, and clothed you, and now you must repay my hospitality by stealing the only thing i care for, my roses?"
"mercy!
mercy!"
cried the merchant.
"no," said the beast, "you must die!"
the poor merchant fell upon his knees and tried to think of something to say to soften the heart of the cruel beast; and at last he said, "sir, i only stole this rose because my youngest daughter asked me to bring her one.
i did not think, after all you have given me, that you would grudge me a flower."
"tell me about this daughter of yours," said the beast suddenly.
"is she a good girl?"
"the best and dearest in the world," said the old merchant.
and then he began to weep, to think that he must die and leave his beauty alone in the world, with no one to be kind to her.
"oh!"
he cried, "what will my poor children do without me?"
"you should have thought of that before you stole the rose," said the beast.
"however, if one of your daughters loves you well enough to suffer instead of you, she may.
go back and tell them what has happened to you, but you must give me your promise that either you, or one of your daughters, shall be at my palace door in three months'
time from to-day."
the wretched man promised.
"at any rate," he thought, "i shall have three months more of life."
then the beast said, "i will not let you go empty-handed."
so the merchant followed him back into the palace.
there, on the floor of the hall, lay a great and beautiful chest of wrought silver.
"fill this with any treasures that take your fancy," said the beast.
and the merchant filled it up with precious things from the beast's treasure-house.
"i will send it home for you," said the beast, shutting down the lid.
and so, with a heavy heart, the merchant went away; but as he went through the palace gate, the beast called to him that he had forgotten beauty's rose, and at the same time held out to him a large bunch of the very best.
the merchant put these into beauty's hand when she ran to meet him at the door of their cottage.
"take them, my child," he said, "and cherish them, for they have cost your poor father his life."
and with that he sat down and told them the whole story.
the two elder sisters wept and wailed, and of course blamed beauty for all that had happened.
"if it had not been for your wanting a rose, our father would have left the palace in safety, with his new suit and his gold pieces; but your foolishness has cost him his life."
"no," said beauty, "it is my life that shall be sacrificed, for when the three months are over, i shall go to the beast, and he may kill me if he will, but he shall never hurt my dear father."
the father tried hard to persuade her not to go, but she had made up her mind, and at the end of the three months she set out for the beast's palace.
her father went with her, to show her the way.
as before, he saw the lights shining through the wood, knocked and rang in vain at the great gate, warmed himself at the fire in the big hall, and then found the little room with the supper on the table that made you hungry to look at.
only this time the table was laid for two.
"come, father dear," said beauty, "take comfort.
i do not think the beast means to kill me, or surely he would not have given me such a good supper."
but the next moment the beast came into the room.
beauty screamed and clung to her father.
"don't be frightened," said the beast gently, "but tell me, do you come here of your own free will?"
"yes," said beauty, trembling.
"you are a good girl," said the beast, and then, turning to the old man, he told him that he might sleep there for that night, but in the morning he must go and leave his daughter behind him.
they went to bed and slept soundly, and the next morning the father departed, weeping bitterly.
beauty, left alone, tried not to feel frightened.
she ran here and there through the palace, and found it more beautiful than anything she had ever imagined.
the most beautiful set of rooms in the palace had written over the doors, "beauty's rooms," and in them she found books and music, canary-birds and persian cats, and everything that could be thought of to make the time pass pleasantly.
"oh, dear!"
she said; "if only i could see my poor father i should be almost happy."
as she spoke, she happened to look at a big mirror, and in it she saw the form of her father reflected, just riding up to the door of his cottage.
that night, when beauty sat down to supper, the beast came in.
"may i have supper with you?"
said he.
"that must be as you please," said beauty.
so the beast sat down to supper with her, and when it was finished, he said:
"i am very ugly, beauty, and i am very stupid, but i love you; will you marry me?"
"no, beast," said beauty gently.
the poor beast sighed and went away.
and every night the same thing happened.
he ate his supper with her, and then asked her if she would marry him.
and she always said, "no, beast."
all this time she was waited on by invisible hands, as though she had been a queen.
beautiful music came to her ears without her being able to see the musicians, but the magic looking-glass was best of all, for in it she could see whatever she wished.
as the days went by, and her slightest wish was granted, almost before she knew what she wanted, she began to feel that the beast must love her very dearly, and she was very sorry to see how sad he looked every night when she said "no"
to his offer of marriage.
one day, she saw in her mirror that her father was ill, so that night she said to the beast:
"dear beast, you are so good to me, will you let me go home to see my father?
he is ill, and he thinks that i am dead.
do let me go and cheer him up, and i will promise faithfully to return to you."
"very well," said the beast kindly, "but don't stay away more than a week, for if you do, i shall die of grief, because i love you so dearly."
"how shall i reach home?"
said beauty; "i do not know the way."
then the beast gave her a ring, and told her to put it on her finger when she went to bed, turn the ruby towards the palm of her hand, and then she would wake up in her father's cottage.
when she wanted to come back, she was to do the same thing.
so in the morning, when she awoke, she found herself at her father's house, and the old man was beside himself with joy to see her safe and sound.
but her sisters did not welcome her very kindly, and when they heard how kind the beast was to her, they envied her her good luck in living in a beautiful palace, whilst they had to be content with a cottage.
"i wish we had gone," said marigold.
"beauty always gets the best of everything."
"tell us all about your grand palace," said dressalinda, "and what you do, and how you spend your time."
so beauty, thinking it would amuse them to hear, told them, and their envy increased day by day.
at last dressalinda said to marigold:
"she has promised to return in a week.
if we could only make her forget the day, the beast might be angry and kill her, and then there would be a chance for us."
so on the day before she ought to have gone back, they put, some poppy juice in a cup of wine which they gave her, and this made her so sleepy that she slept for two whole days and nights.
at the end of that time her sleep grew troubled, and she dreamed that she saw the beast lying dead among the roses in the beautiful gardens of his palace; and from this dream she awoke crying bitterly.
although she did not know that a week and two days had gone by since she left the beast, yet after that dream she at once turned the ruby towards her palm, and the next morning there she was, sure enough, in her bed in the beast's palace.
she did not know where his rooms in the palace were, but she felt she could not wait till supper-time before seeing him, so she ran hither and thither, calling his name.
but the palace was empty, and no one answered her when she called.
then she ran through the gardens, calling his name again and again, but still there was silence.
"oh!
what shall i do if i cannot find him?"
she said.
"i shall never be happy again."
then she remembered her dream, and ran to the rose garden, and there, sure enough, beside the basin of the big fountain, lay the poor beast without any sign of life in him.
beauty flung herself on her knees beside him.
"oh, dear beast," she cried, "and are you really dead?
alas!
alas!
then i, too, will die, for i cannot live without you."
immediately the beast opened his eyes, sighed, and said:
"beauty, will you marry me?"
and beauty, beside herself with joy when she found that he was still alive, answered:
"yes, yes, dear beast, for i love you dearly."
at these words the rough fur dropped to the ground, and in place of the beast stood a handsome prince, dressed in a doublet of white and silver, like one made ready for a wedding.
he knelt at beauty's feet and clasped her hands.
"dear beauty," he said, "nothing but your love could have disenchanted me.
a wicked fairy turned me into a beast, and condemned me to remain one until some fair and good maiden should love me well enough to marry me, in spite of my ugliness and stupidity.
now, dear one, the enchantment is broken; let us go back to my palace.
you will find that all my servants who, too, have been enchanted, and have waited on you all this long time with invisible hands will now become visible."
so they returned to the palace, which by this time was crowded with courtiers, eager to kiss the hands of the prince and his bride.
and the prince whispered to one of his attendants, who went out, and in a very little time came back with beauty's father and sisters.
the sisters were condemned to be changed into statues, and to stand at the right and left of the palace gates until their hearts should be softened, and they should be sorry for their unkindness to their sister.
but beauty, happily married to her prince, went secretly to the statues every day and wept over them.
and by her tears their stony hearts were softened, and they were changed into flesh and blood again, and were good and kind for the rest of their lives.
and beauty and the beast, who was a beast no more, but a handsome prince, lived happily ever after.
and indeed i believe they are living happily still, in the beautiful land where dreams come true.
the white cat
by the comtesse d'aulnoy
there was once a king who had three sons, and because they were all so good and so handsome, he could not make up his mind to which of them to give his kingdom.
for he was growing an old man, and began to think it would soon be time for him to let one of them reign in his stead.
so he determined to set them a task to perform, and whichever should be the most successful was to have the kingdom as his reward.
it was some time before he could decide what the task should be.
but at last he told them that he had a fancy for a very beautiful little dog, and that they were all to set out to find one for him.
they were to have a whole year in which to search, and were all to return to the castle on the same day, and present the various dogs they had chosen at the same hour.
the three princes were greatly surprised by their father's sudden fancy for a little dog, but when they heard that whichever of them brought back the prettiest little animal was to succeed his father on the throne, they made no further objection, for it gave the two younger sons a chance they would not otherwise have had of being king.
so they bade their father good-bye, and after agreeing to be back at the castle at the same hour, and on the same day, when a year should have passed away, the three brothers all started together.
a great number of lords and servants accompanied them out of the city, but when they had ridden about a league they sent everyone back, and after embracing one another affectionately, they all set out to try their luck in different directions.
the two eldest met with many adventures on their travels, but the youngest saw the most wonderful sights of all.
he was young and handsome, and as clever as a prince should be, besides being brave.
wherever he went he enquired for dogs, and hardly a day passed without his buying several, big and little, greyhounds, spaniels, lap-dogs, and sheep-dogs in fact, every kind of dog that you could think of, and very soon he had a troop of fifty or sixty trotting along behind him, one of which he thought would surely win the prize.
so he journeyed on from day to day, not knowing where he was going, until one night he lost his way in a thick dark forest, and after wandering many weary miles in the wind and rain he was glad to see at last a bright light shining through the trees.
he thought he must be near some woodcutter's cottage, but what was his surprise when he found himself before the gateway of a splendid castle!
at first he hesitated about entering, for his garments were travel stained, and he was drenched with rain, so that no one could have possibly taken him for a prince.
all the beautiful little dogs he had taken so much trouble to collect had been lost in the forest, and he was thoroughly weary and disheartened.
however, something seemed to bid him enter the castle, so he pulled the bell.
immediately the gateway flew open, and a number of beautiful white hands appeared, and beckoned to him to cross the courtyard and enter the great hall.
here he found a splendid fire blazing, beside which stood a comfortable arm-chair; the hands pointed invitingly towards it, and as soon as the prince had seated himself they proceeded to take off his wet, muddy clothes, and dress him in a magnificent suit of silk and velvet.
when he was ready, the hands led him into a brilliantly-lighted room, in which was a table spread for supper.
at the end of the room was a raised platform, upon which a number of cats were seated, all playing different musical instruments.
the prince began to think he must be dreaming, when the door opened, and a lovely little white cat came in.
she wore a long black veil, and was accompanied by a number of cats, dressed in black, and carrying swords.
she came straight up to the prince, and in a sweet, sad little voice bade him welcome.
then she ordered supper to be served, and the whole company sat down together.
they were waited upon by the mysterious hands, but many of the dishes were not to the prince's liking.
stewed rats and mice may be a first-rate meal for a cat, but the prince did not feel inclined to try them.
however, the white cat ordered the hands to serve the prince with the dishes he liked best, and at once, without his even mentioning his favorite food, he was supplied with every dainty he could think of.
after the prince had satisfied his hunger, he noticed that the cat wore a bracelet upon her paw, in which was set a miniature of himself; but when he questioned her about it, she sighed, and seemed so sad that, like a well-behaved prince, he said no more about the matter.
soon after supper, the hands conducted him to bed, when he at once fell fast asleep, and did not awaken until late the next morning.
on looking out of his window, he saw that the white cat and her attendants were about to start out on a hunting expedition.
as soon as the hands had dressed him in a hunting-suit of green, he hurried down to join his hostess.
the hands led him up to a wooden horse, and seemed to expect him to mount.
at first the prince was inclined to be angry, but the white cat told him so gently that she had no better steed to offer him, that he at once mounted, feeling very much ashamed of his ill-humor.
they had an excellent day's sport.
the white cat, who rode a monkey, proved herself a clever huntress, climbing the tallest trees with the greatest ease, and without once falling from her steed.
never was there a pleasanter hunting party, and day after day the time passed so happily away that the prince forgot all about the little dog he was searching for, and even forgot his own home and his father's promise.
at length the white cat reminded him that in three days he must appear at court, and the prince was terribly upset to think that he had now no chance of winning his father's kingdom.
but the white cat told him that all would be well, and giving him an acorn, bade him mount the wooden horse and ride away.
the prince thought she must be mocking him, but when she held the acorn to his ear, he heard quite plainly a little dog's bark.
"inside this acorn," she said, "is the prettiest little dog in the world.
but be sure you do not open the fruit until you are in the king's presence."
the prince thanked her, and having bidden her a sorrowful farewell, mounted his wooden steed and rode away.
before he reached the castle, he met his two brothers, who made fine fun of the wooden horse, and also of the big ugly dog which trotted by his side.
they imagined this to be the one their brother had brought back from his travels, hoping that it would gain the prize.
when they reached the palace, everyone was loud in praise of the two lovely little dogs the elder brothers had brought back with them, but when the youngest opened his acorn and showed a tiny dog, lying upon a white satin cushion, they knew that this must be the prettiest little dog in the world.
however, the king did not feel inclined to give up his throne just yet, so he told the brothers that there was one more task they must first perform: they must bring him a piece of muslin so fine that it would pass through the eye of a needle.
so once more the brothers set out upon their travels.
as for the youngest, he mounted his wooden horse and rode straight back to his dear white cat.
she was delighted to welcome him, and when the prince told her that the king had now ordered him to find a piece of muslin fine enough to go through the eye of a needle, she smiled at him very sweetly, and told him to be of good cheer.
"in my palace i have some very clever spinners," she said; "and i will set them to work upon the muslin."
the prince had begun to suspect by this time that the white cat was no ordinary pussy, but whenever he begged her to tell him her history, she only shook her head mournfully and sighed.
well, the second year passed away as quickly as the first, and the night before the day on which the three princes were expected at their father's court, the white cat gave the young prince a walnut, telling him that it contained the muslin.
then she bade him good-by, and he mounted the wooden horse and rode away.
this time the young prince was so late that his brothers had already begun to display their pieces of muslin to the king when he arrived at the castle gates.
the materials they had brought were of extremely fine texture, and passed easily through the eye of a darning-needle, but through the small needle the king had provided they would not pass.
then the youngest prince stepped into the great hall and produced his walnut.
he cracked it carefully, and found inside a hazel-nut.
this when cracked held a cherrystone, inside the cherrystone was a grain of wheat, and in the wheat a millet-seed.
the prince himself began to mistrust the white cat, but he instantly felt a cat's claw scratch him gently, so he persevered, opened the millet-seed, and found inside a beautiful piece of soft white muslin that was four hundred ells long at the very least.
it passed with the greatest ease through the eye of the smallest needle in the kingdom, and the prince felt that now the prize must be his.
but the old king was still very loth to give up ruling, so he told the princes that before any one of them could become king he must find a princess to marry him who would be lovely enough to grace her high station; and whichever of the princes brought home the most beautiful bride should really have the kingdom for his own.
of course, the prince went back to the white cat, and told her how very unfairly his father had behaved to him.
she comforted him as best she could, and told him not to be afraid, for she would introduce him to the loveliest princess the sun had ever shone upon.
the appointed time passed happily away, and one evening the white cat reminded the prince that on the next day he must return home.
"alas!"
said he, "where shall i find a princess now?
the time is so short that i cannot even look for one."
then the white cat told him that if only he would do as she bade him all would be well.
"take your sword, cut off my head and my tail, and cast them into the flames," she said.
the prince declared that on no account would he treat her so cruelly; but she begged him so earnestly to do as she asked that at last he consented.
no sooner had he cast the head and the tail into the fire than a beautiful princess appeared where the body of the cat had been.
the spell that had been cast upon her was broken, and at the same time her courtiers and attendants, who had also been changed into cats, hastened in in their proper forms again, to pay their respects to their mistress.
the prince at once fell deeply in love with the charming princess, and begged her to accompany him to his father's court as his bride.
she consented, and together they rode away.
during the journey, the princess told her husband the story of her enchantment.
she had been brought up by the fairies, who treated her with great kindness until she offended them by falling in love with the young man whose portrait the prince had seen upon her paw, and who exactly resembled him.
now, the fairies wished her to marry the king of the dwarfs, and were so angry when she declared she would marry no one but her own true love, that they changed her into a white cat as a punishment.
when the prince and his bride reached the court, all were bound to acknowledge that the princess was by far the loveliest lady they had ever seen.
so the poor old king felt that now he would be obliged to give up his kingdom.
but the princess knelt by his side, kissed his hand gently, and told him that there was no reason for him to cease ruling, for she was rich enough to give a mighty kingdom to each of his elder sons, and still have three left for herself and her dear husband.
so everyone was pleased, and there was great rejoicing and feasting in the king's palace, and they all lived happily ever after.
the story of pretty goldilocks
there was once a princess so lovely that no one could see her without loving her.
her hair fell about her shoulders in waving masses, and because it was the color of gold, she was called pretty goldilocks.
she always wore a crown of flowers, and her dresses were embroidered with pearls and diamonds.
the fame of her beauty reached a young king, who determined to marry her, although he had never seen her.
he sent an ambassador to ask her hand in marriage; and so confident was he that the princess would return with him, that he made every preparation to receive her.
the ambassador arrived at the palace of the princess with a hundred horses and as many servants.
with great ceremony, he presented the king's gifts of pearls and diamonds, together with his message.
the princess, however, did not favor the king's suit, and sent back his gifts with a polite refusal.
when the ambassador returned without the princess, every one blamed him for his failure; and the king's disappointment was so great that no one could console him.
now at the king's court was a young man so handsome and clever that he was called charming.
every one loved him, except some who were envious because he was the king's favorite.
one day charming rashly remarked that if the king had sent him for the princess, she would have come back with him.
his enemies at once went to the king and used the remark to influence him against charming.
"he thinks himself so handsome that the princess could not have resisted him, although she refused his king," they told his majesty.
the boastful words so offended the king that he ordered charming to be shut up in the tower, where he had only straw to lie on and bread and water to eat.
in this miserable state he languished for some time, not knowing why he had been imprisoned.
one day the king happened to be passing the tower and heard him exclaim:
"i am the king's most faithful subject; how have i incurred his displeasure?"
then, in spite of the protests of charming's enemies, the king ordered the tower-door opened and charming brought forth.
his old favorite sadly knelt and kissed his hand, saying:
"sire, how have i offended?"
the king told him of the boast his enemies had repeated.
"true, sire, i did say that had i been sent to plead your cause, it would not have failed for lack of eloquence.
could the princess see you as my tongue would picture you, i would not return without her."
the king at once saw that he had been deceived, and restored charming to favor.
while at supper that night, he confided to him that he was as much in love with goldilocks as ever, and could not be reconciled to her answer.
"do you think," asked the king, "that she could be induced to change her mind?"
charming replied that he was at the king's service and willing to undertake the task of winning the princess for him.
the king was delighted and offered him a splendid escort, but he asked only for a good horse.
early the next day he set forth, with a resolute heart and the king's letter to the princess.
one day when he had ridden a great distance, he dismounted and sat down under a tree that grew beside a river.
he took from his pocket a little book, in which he jotted down some happy thoughts that he meant to use in his plea to the princess.
not far from where he sat, a golden carp was springing from the water to catch flies, and a bound too high landed it on the grass at charming's feet.
it panted helplessly, and would have died had he not taken pity on it and thrown it back into the river.
it sank out of sight, but presently returned to the surface long enough to say:
"thank you, charming, for saving my life.
some day i may repay you."
naturally, he was greatly surprised at so much politeness from a fish.
a few days later, while riding along his way, he saw a raven pursued by an eagle.
in a moment more the eagle would have overtaken the raven, had not charming aimed his arrow in time and killed the pursuer.
the raven perched on a tree near by and croaked its gratitude:
"you have rescued me from a dreadful fate," it said.
"some day i will repay you."
a day or two afterward, in the dusk of early morning, he heard the distressful cries of an owl.
hunting about, he found the unfortunate bird caught in a net which some birdcatchers had spread.
"why will men persecute and torment harmless creatures!"
exclaimed charming, as he set the bird free.
the owl fluttered above his head, saying:
"you have saved me from the fowlers, who would have killed me.
i am not ungrateful, and some day i will repay you!"
after that it flew swiftly away.
charming at last reached the palace of the princess, and asked an audience.
his name so pleased her that she at once received him.
he was ushered into the presence of the princess, who sat on a throne of gold and ivory.
her satin dress was embroidered with jewels, and her golden hair was confined by a crown of flowers.
soft music and perfume filled the air, and charming was so awed by all this splendor that at first he could not speak.
recovering himself in a moment, he told of his mission, and set forth the good qualities of the king in such glowing terms that the princess listened.
"you have argued so eloquently," replied she, "that i regret to deny you; but i have made a vow not to marry, until the ambassador can return to me a ring which i lost in the river a month ago.
i valued it more than all my other jewels, and nothing but its recovery can persuade me to your suit."
charming could urge no more, but offered an embroidered scarf and his little dog frisk as tokens of devotion.
these were declined, so bowing low, he reluctantly took leave of the princess.
he believed that she had but used this means to put him off, and his disappointment was so great that he could not sleep.
in the morning he and frisk were walking by the riverside when the dog ran to the water's edge, barking furiously.
joining the little animal, he saw that his excitement was caused by a golden carp which came swimming swiftly toward them.
in its mouth was a beautiful ring which it laid in charming's hand.
"you saved my life by the willow-tree," said the carp, "and i now repay you by giving to you the princess's ring."
charming lost no time in presenting it to the princess and claiming his reward.
"what fairy aids you?"
asked the princess.
"only my wish to serve you," charming replied.
"alas!"
said the princess, "i cannot marry until galifron, the giant, is dead.
because i would not take him for my husband, he persecutes my subjects and lays waste my land."
"princess, i will bring back the giant's head to you or die in your defense," bravely declared charming.
the princess and all the people tried to dissuade him, but he mounted his horse and rode off, accompanied only by his little dog, frisk.
he traveled straight to the giant's castle.
all about it were strewn the bones of galifron's victims.
inside the castle the giant was singing in a terrible voice:
"little children i love to eat;   their bones are tender, their flesh is sweet.
i do not care, i eat so many,   if their hair be straight, or if they haven't any."
charming called out loudly in reply:
"be not so boastful, galifron,   till you've met a knight, who   may be good to feed upon,   but is here to fight you."
the giant appeared at the door, club in hand.
when he saw charming fearlessly awaiting him, he came toward him in a terrible rage.
but before he could wield his club, a raven lit on his head and pecked at his eyes, so that he dropped his weapon and was at charming's mercy.
when the valiant knight had killed the giant, the raven croaked from a tree near by:
"you saved me from the eagle, and i in turn have saved you from the giant."
charming cut off the head of the giant, and carried it back with him to the princess.
then the people shouted until they were hoarse, and welcomed him as a great hero.
"your enemy is dead," charming told the princess.
"will you now make my master the happiest of kings?"
"there is," replied the reluctant princess, "some water which gives eternal health and beauty to those who drink it.
i would regret to leave my kingdom without possessing some of it; but no one has dared to brave the two dragons that guard the cavern where the fountain is to be found."
"you do not need the water, princess; but my life is yours to command," gallantly replied charming; and he set out at once on the perilous mission.
when he came to the mouth of the cavern, black smoke issued forth; and presently he perceived the terrible form of a dragon, from whose mouth and eyes fire was darting.
bidding good-by to faithful frisk, he grasped his sword in one hand and the crystal flask which the princess had given him in the other.
just then he heard his name called twice, and, looking back, he saw an owl flying toward him.
"i can enter the gloomy cavern without danger," the owl said.
"give the flask to me, and i will repay the debt i owe you for having saved me from the net."
charming gladly surrendered the flask to the owl, who in a short time returned it to him filled with the precious water.
the princess this time consented to marry the king, and after many preparations she and charming started for his kingdom.
the journey was made so entertaining for the princess that she one day said to charming:
"why did i not make you king, and remain in my own country?"
charming replied that he must have considered his duty to his king, even before a happiness so great.
the king, with presents of rich jewels and a splendid escort, met them on the way to the palace.
the marriage was celebrated with great pomp, and charming stood first in the king's favor.
his good fortune, however, did not continue long, for envious enemies pointed out to the king that the princess was never happy unless charming was near.
the unhappy knight was again put into prison, where he was cruelly chained and fed on bread and water.
when goldilocks learned this, she wept and implored the king to set him free.
"but for him i never would have been here," she said.
"did he not perform every task i required, even that of getting for me the water whereby i shall never grow old?"
the princess's grief only made the king more jealous, but he determined to make use of this wonderful water of which she had told.
it so happened that one of the princess's ladies had broken the crystal flask and spilled all of the water.
not daring to confess, she put another in its place that exactly resembled it in appearance.
this, however, contained a deadly poison.
when the king bathed his face with it, he fell into a sleep from which he never awoke.
there was great confusion in the palace when the king was found dead.
frisk ran immediately to charming and told him the news.
in a short time goldilocks also appeared, unlocked his chains, and set him free.
"you shall be my husband," said she, "and i will make you king."
charming fell at her feet and expressed his gratitude and joy.
they were married soon afterward, and they reigned together for many happy years.
toads and diamonds
a bad-tempered widow had two daughters.
the eldest was like her mother, both in feature and disposition, while the youngest resembled her father.
she was sweet-natured always, and as pretty as she was amiable.
the widow doted on the daughter who was so like herself, but had no love for the other, whom she compelled to work hard all day, and to live upon the leavings of her elder sister.
among her other hard tasks, she was obliged to carry water every day from a great distance.
one day when she had just filled her pitcher at the fountain, an old woman asked to drink from it.
"with all my heart," replied the pretty girl.
glad to show a kindness to one old and infirm, she held the pitcher while the woman slaked her thirst.
now, this was not a trembling old peasant, as she appeared, but a fairy who rewarded good deeds.
"your face is pretty and your heart is gentle," said she.
"for your kindness to a poor old woman, i will make you a gift.
every time you speak, from your mouth shall come a flower or a jewel."
when the girl reached home her mother scolded her for her long absence.
"pardon me for being away so long," she sweetly replied.
as she spoke some pearls and diamonds issued from her lips.
"what is this i see, child?"
asked the astonished widow.
the forlorn girl was so happy to be called child by her mother that she eagerly related her experience with the old woman at the fountain, while, with her words, dropped precious stones and roses.
the widow immediately called her favorite daughter to her.
"fanny, wouldst thou have the same gift as thy sister?"
asked she.
"go thou to the fountain and fetch water.
and if an old woman asks thee for a drink, mind thou treat her civilly."
the girl refused to perform the menial task, until the widow lost patience and drove her to it.
finally, she took the silver tankard and sullenly obeyed.
no sooner was she at the fountain than from the wood came a lady most handsomely attired, who asked the haughty girl for a drink from her pitcher.
"i have not come here to serve you," she rudely replied, "but take the pitcher and help yourself, for all i care.
i would have you know that i am as good as you."
the lady was the fairy, who had taken the appearance of a princess to see how far the girl's insolence would go.
"i will make you a gift,"
she said, "to equal your discourtesy and ill breeding.
every time you speak, there shall come from your mouth a snake or a toad."
the girl ran home to her mother, who met her at the door.
"well, daughter," she said, impatient to hear her speak.
when she opened her mouth, to the mother's horror, two vipers and two toads sprang from it.
"this is the fault of your wretched sister," the unhappy mother cried.
she ran to beat the poor younger sister, who fled to the forest to escape the cruel blows.
when she was past pursuit, she threw herself upon the green grass and wept bitterly.
the king's son, returning from the hunt, found her thus, and asked the cause of her tears.
"my mother has driven me from my home," she told him.
she was so pretty that he fell in love with her at once, and pressed her to tell him more.
she then related to him the whole story, while pearls and diamonds kept falling from her lips.
enraptured, he took her to the king, who gave his consent to their immediate marriage.
meanwhile the ugly and selfish sister had made herself so disagreeable that even her own mother turned against her.
she, too, was driven forth into the forest, where she died miserable and alone.
english stories
the history of tom thumb
adapted by ernest rhys
it is said that in the days of the famed prince arthur, who was king of britain, in the year 516 there lived a great magician, called merlin, the most learned and skilful enchanter in the world at that time.
this great magician, who could assume any form he pleased, was traveling in the disguise of a poor beggar, and being very much fatigued, he stopped at the cottage of an honest plowman to rest himself, and ask for some refreshment.
the countryman gave him a hearty welcome, and his wife, who was a very good-hearted, hospitable woman, soon brought him some milk in a wooden bowl, and some coarse brown bread on a platter.
merlin was much pleased with this homely repast and the kindness of the plowman and his wife; but he could not help seeing that though everything was neat and comfortable in the cottage, they seemed both to be sad and much cast down.
he therefore questioned them on the cause of their sadness, and learned that they were miserable because they had no children.
the poor woman declared, with tears in her eyes, that she should be the happiest creature in the world if she had a son; and although he was no bigger than her husband's thumb, she would be satisfied.
merlin was so much amused with the idea of a boy no bigger than a man's thumb, that he made up his mind to pay a visit to the queen of the fairies, and ask her to grant the poor woman's wish.
the droll fancy of such a little person among the human race pleased the fairy queen too, greatly, and she promised merlin that the wish should be granted.
accordingly, in a short time after, the plowman's wife had a son, who, wonderful to relate, was not a bit bigger than his father's thumb.
the fairy queen, wishing to see the little fellow thus born into the world, came in at the window while the mother was sitting up in bed admiring him.
the queen kissed the child, and giving it the name of tom thumb, sent for some of the fairies, who dressed her little favorite as she bade them.
"an oak-leaf hat he had for his crown;   his shirt of web by spiders spun;   with jacket wove of thistle's down;   his trousers were of feathers done.
his stockings, of apple-rind, they tie   with eyelash from his mother's eye:
his shoes were made of mouses' skin,   tann'd with the downy hair within."
it is remarkable that tom never grew any larger than his father's thumb, which was only of an ordinary size; but as he got older he became very cunning and full of tricks.
when he was old enough to play with the boys, and had lost all his own cherry-stones, he used to creep into the bags of his playfellows, fill his pockets, and, getting out unseen, would again join in the game.
one day, however, as he was coming out of a bag of cherry-stones, where he had been pilfering as usual, the boy to whom it belonged chanced to see him.
"ah, ha!
my little tommy," said the boy, "so i have caught you stealing my cherry-stones at last, and you shall be rewarded for your thievish tricks."
on saying this, he drew the string tight round his neck, and gave the bag such a hearty shake, that poor little tom's legs, thighs, and body were sadly bruised.
he roared out with the pain, and begged to be let out, promising never to be guilty of such bad practices again.
a short time afterwards his mother was making a batter pudding, and tom being very anxious to see how it was made, climbed up to the edge of the bowl; but unfortunately his foot slipped and he plumped over head and ears into the batter, unseen by his mother, who stirred him into the pudding-bag, and put him in the pot to boil.
the batter had filled tom's mouth, and prevented him from crying; but, on feeling the hot water, he kicked and struggled so much in the pot, that his mother thought that the pudding was bewitched, and, instantly pulling it out of the pot, she threw it to the door.
a poor tinker, who was passing by, lifted up the pudding, and, putting it into his budget, he then walked off.
as tom had now got his mouth cleared of the batter, he then began to cry aloud, which so frightened the tinker that he flung down the pudding and ran away.
the pudding being broke to pieces by the fall, tom crept out covered over with the batter, and with difficulty walked home.
his mother, who was very sorry to see her darling in such a woful state, put him into a tea-cup, and soon washed off the batter; after which she kissed him, and laid him in bed.
soon after the adventure of the pudding, tom's mother went to milk her cow in the meadow, and she took him along with her.
as the wind was very high, fearing lest he should be blown away, she tied him to a thistle with a piece of fine thread.
the cow soon saw the oak-leaf hat, and, liking the look of it, took poor tom and the thistle at one mouthful.
while the cow was chewing the thistle tom was afraid of her great teeth, which threatened to crush him to pieces, and he roared out as loud as he could, "mother, mother!"
"where are you, tommy, my dear tommy?"
said his mother.
"here, mother," replied he, "in the cow's mouth."
his mother began to cry and wring her hands; but the cow, surprised at the odd noise in her throat, opened her mouth and let tom drop out.
fortunately his mother caught him in her apron as he was falling to the ground, or he would have been dreadfully hurt.
she then put tom in her bosom and ran home with him.
tom's father made him a whip of a barley straw to drive the cattle with, and having one day gone into the fields, he slipped a foot and rolled into the furrow.
a raven, which was flying over, picked him up, and flew with him to the top of a giant's castle that was near the sea-side, and there left him.
tom was in a dreadful state, and did not know what to do; but he was soon more dreadfully frightened; for old grumbo the giant came up to walk on the terrace, and seeing tom, he took him up and swallowed him like a pill.
the giant had no sooner swallowed tom than he began to repent what he hand done; for tom began to kick and jump about so much that he felt very uncomfortable, and at last threw him up again into the sea.
a large fish swallowed tom the moment he fell into the sea, which was soon after caught, and bought for the table of king arthur.
when they opened the fish in order to cook it, everyone was astonished at finding such a little boy, and tom was quite delighted to be out again.
they carried him to the king, who made tom his dwarf, and he soon grew a great favorite at court; for by his tricks and gambols he not only amused the king and queen, but also all the knights of the round table.
it is said that when the king rode out on horseback, he often took tom along with him, and if a shower came on, he used to creep into his majesty's waistcoat pocket, where he slept till the rain was over.
king arthur one day asked tom about his parents, wishing to know if they were as small as he was, and whether rich or poor.
tom told the king that his father and mother were as tall as any of the sons about court, but rather poor.
on hearing this, the king carried tom to his treasury, the place where he kept all his money, and told him to take as much money as he could carry home to his parents, which made the poor little fellow caper with joy.
tom went immediately to fetch a purse, which was made of a water-bubble, and then returned to the treasury, where he got a silver three-penny piece to put into it.
our little hero had some trouble in lifting the burden upon his back; but he at last succeeded in getting it placed to his mind, and set forward on his journey.
however, without meeting with any accident and after resting himself more than a hundred times by the way, in two days and two nights he reached his father's house in safety.
tom had traveled forty-eight hours with a huge silver-piece on his back, and was almost tired to death, when his mother ran out to meet him, and carried him into the house.
tom's parents were both happy to see him, and the more so as he had brought such an amazing sum of money with him; but the poor little fellow was excessively wearied, having traveled half a mile in forty-eight hours, with a huge silver threepenny-piece on his back.
his mother, in order to recover him, placed him in a walnut shell by the fireside, and feasted him for three days on a hazel-nut, which made him very sick; for a whole nut used to serve him a month.
tom was soon well again; but as there had been a fall of rain, and the ground was very wet, he could not travel back to king arthur's court; therefore his mother, one day when the wind was blowing in that direction, made a little parasol of cambric paper, and tying tom to it, she gave him a puff into the air with her mouth, which soon carried him to the king's palace.
just at the time when tom came flying across the courtyard, the cook happened to be passing with the king's great bowl of porridge, which was a dish his majesty was very fond of; but unfortunately the poor little fellow fell plump into the middle of it, and splashed the hot porridge about the cook's face.
the cook, who was an ill-natured fellow, being in a terrible rage at tom for frightening and scalding him with the porridge, went straight to the king, and said that tom had jumped into the royal porridge, and thrown it down out of mere mischief.
the king was so enraged when he heard this, that he ordered tom to be seized and tried for high treason; and there being no person who dared to plead for him, he was condemned to be beheaded immediately.
on hearing this dreadful sentence pronounced, poor tom fell a-trembling with fear, but, seeing no means of escape, and observing a miller close to him gaping with his great mouth, as country boobies do at a fair, he took a leap, and fairly jumped down his throat.
this exploit was done with such activity that not one person present saw it, and even the miller did not know the trick which tom had played upon him.
now, as tom had disappeared, the court broke up, and the miller went home to his mill.
when tom heard the mill at work he knew he was clear of the court, and therefore he began to roll and tumble about, so that the poor miller could get no rest, thinking he was bewitched; so he sent for a doctor.
when the doctor came, tom began to dance and sing; and the doctor, being as much frightened as the miller, sent in haste for five other doctors and twenty learned men.
when they were debating about this extraordinary case, the miller happened to yawn, when tom, seizing the chance, made another jump, and alighted safely upon his feet on the middle of the table.
the miller, who was very much provoked at being tormented by such a little pigmy creature, fell into a terrible rage, and, laying hold of tom, ran to the king with him; but his majesty, being engaged with state affairs, ordered him to be taken away, and kept in custody till he sent for him.
the cook was determined that tom should not slip out of his hands this time, so he put him into a mouse-trap, and left him to peep through the wires.
tom had remained in the trap a whole week, when he was sent for by king arthur, who pardoned him for throwing down the porridge, and took him again into favor.
on account of his wonderful feats of activity, tom was knighted by the king, and went under the name of the renowned sir thomas thumb.
as tom's clothes had suffered much in the batter-pudding, the porridge, and the insides of the giant, miller, and fishes, his majesty ordered him a new suit of clothes, and to be mounted as a knight.
"of butterfly's wings his shirt was made,     his boots of chicken's hide;   and by a nimble fairy blade,   well learned in the tailoring trade,     his clothing was supplied
a needle dangled by his side;   a dapper mouse he used to ride,   thus strutted tom in stately pride!"
it was certainly very diverting to see tom in this dress, and mounted on the mouse, as he rode out a-hunting with the king and nobility, who were all ready to expire with laughter at tom and his fine prancing charger.
one day, as they were riding by a farmhouse, a large cat, which was lurking about the door, made a spring, and seized both tom and his mouse.
she then ran up a tree with them, and was beginning to devour the mouse; but tom boldly drew his sword, and attacked the cat so fiercely that she let them both fall, when one of the nobles caught him in his hat, and laid him on a bed of down, in a little ivory cabinet.
the queen of the fairies came soon after to pay tom a visit, and carried him back to fairyland, where he lived several years.
during his residence there, king arthur, and all the persons who knew tom, had died; and as he was desirous of being again at court, the fairy queen, after dressing him in a suit of clothes, sent him flying through the air to the palace, in the days of king thunstone, the successor of arthur.
every one flocked round to see him, and being carried to the king, he was asked who he was whence he came and where he lived?
tom answered:
"my name is tom thumb,         from the fairies i've come.
when king arthur shone,         his court was my home.
in me he delighted,         by him i was knighted;   did you never hear of sir thomas thumb?"
the king was so charmed with this address that he ordered a little chair to be made, in order that tom might sit upon his table, and also a palace of gold, a span high, with a door an inch wide, to live in.
he also gave him a coach, drawn by six small mice.
the queen was so enraged at the honor paid to sir thomas that she resolved to ruin him, and told the king that the little knight had been saucy to her.
the king sent for tom in great haste, but being fully aware of the danger of royal anger, he crept into an empty snail-shell, where he lay for a long time, until he was almost starved with hunger; but at last he ventured to peep out, and seeing a fine large butterfly on the ground, near his hiding-place, he approached very cautiously, and getting himself placed astride on it, was immediately carried up into the air.
the butterfly flew with him from tree to tree and from field to field, and at last he returned to the court, where the king and nobility all strove to catch him; but at last poor tom fell from his seat into a watering-pot, in which he was almost drowned.
when the queen saw him she was in a rage, and said he should be beheaded; and he was again put into a mouse-trap until the time of his execution.
however, a cat, observing something alive in the trap, patted it about till the wires broke, and set thomas at liberty.
the king received tom again into favor, which he did not live to enjoy, for a large spider one day attacked him; and although he drew his sword and fought well, yet the spider's poisonous breath at last overcame him:
"he fell dead on the ground where he stood,   and the spider suck'd every drop of his blood."
king thunstone and his whole court were so sorry at the loss of their little favorite, that they went into mourning, and raised a fine white marble monument over his grave, with the following epitaph:
"here lies tom thumb, king arthur's knight,   who died by a spider's cruel bite.
he was well known in arthur's court,   where he afforded gallant sport;   he rode at tilt and tournament,   and on a mouse a-hunting went.
alive he filled the court with mirth;   his death to sorrow soon gave birth.
wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head   and cry alas!
tom thumb is dead!"
jack the giant-killer
adapted by joseph jacobs
when good king arthur reigned, there lived near the land's end of england, in the county of cornwall, a farmer who had one only son called jack.
he was brisk and of ready, lively wit, so that nobody or nothing could worst him.
in those days the mount of cornwall was kept by a huge giant named cormoran.
he was eighteen feet in height, and about three yards round the waist, of a fierce and grim countenance, the terror of all the neighboring towns and villages.
he lived in a cave in the midst of the mount, and whenever he wanted food he would wade over to the mainland, where he would furnish himself with whatever came in his way.
everybody at his approach ran out of their houses, while he seized on their cattle, making nothing of carrying half-a-dozen oxen on his back at a time; and as for their sheep and hogs, he would tie them round his waist like a bunch of tallow-dips.
he had done this for many years, so that all cornwall was in despair.
one day jack happened to be at the town hall when the magistrates were sitting in council about the giant.
he asked, "what reward will be given to the man who kills cormoran?"
"the giant's treasure," they said, "will be the reward."
quoth jack, "then let me undertake it."
so he got a horn, shovel, and pickaxe, and went over to the mount in the beginning of a dark winter's evening, when he fell to work, and before morning had dug a pit twenty-two feet deep, and nearly as broad, covering it over with long sticks and straw.
then he strewed a little mold over it, so that it appeared like plain ground.
jack then placed himself on the opposite side of the pit, farthest from the giant's lodging, and, just at the break of day, he put the horn to his mouth, and blew.
this noise roused the giant, who rushed from his cave, crying: "you incorrigible villain, are you come here to disturb my rest?
you shall pay dearly for this.
satisfaction i will have, and this it shall be, i will take you whole and broil you for breakfast."
he had no sooner uttered this, than he tumbled into the pit, and made the very foundations of the mount to shake.
"oh giant," quoth jack, "where are you now?
oh, faith, you are gotten now into a tight place, where i will surely plague you for your threatening words; what do you think now of broiling me for your breakfast?
will no other diet serve you but poor jack?"
then having tantalized the giant for a while, he gave him a most weighty knock with his pickaxe on the very crown of his head, and killed him on the spot.
jack then filled up the pit with earth, and went to search the cave, which he found contained much treasure.
when the magistrates heard of this they made a declaration he should henceforth be termed:
jack the giant-killer
and presented him with a sword and a belt, on which were written these words embroidered in letters of gold:
"here's the right valiant cornish man.
who slew the giant cormoran."
the news of jack's victory soon spread over all the west of england, so that another giant, named blunderbore, hearing of it, vowed to be revenged on jack, if ever he should light on him.
this giant was the lord of an enchanted castle situated in the midst of a lonesome wood.
now jack, about four months afterwards, walking near this wood in his journey to wales, being weary, seated himself near a pleasant fountain and fell fast asleep.
while he was sleeping, the giant, coming there for water, discovered him, and knew him to be the far-famed jack the giant-killer by the lines written on the belt.
without ado, he took jack on his shoulders and carried him towards his castle.
now, as they passed through a thicket, the rustling of the boughs awakened jack, who was strangely surprised to find himself in the clutches of the giant.
his terror was only begun, for, on entering the castle, he saw the ground strewed with human bones, and the giant told him his own would ere long be among them.
after this the giant locked poor jack in an immense chamber, leaving him there while he went to fetch another giant, his brother, living in the same wood, who might share in the meal on jack.
after waiting some time jack, on going to the window beheld afar off the two giants coming towards the castle.
"now," quoth jack to himself, "my death or my deliverance is at hand."
now, there were strong cords in a corner of the room in which jack was, and two of these he took, and made a strong noose at the end; and while the giants were unlocking the iron gate of the castle he threw the ropes over each of their heads.
then he drew the other ends across a beam, and pulled with all his might, so that he throttled them.
then, when he saw they were black in the face, he slid down the rope, and drawing his sword, slew them both.
then, taking the giant's keys, and unlocking the rooms, he found three fair ladies tied by the hair of their heads, almost starved to death.
"sweet ladies," quoth jack, "i have destroyed this monster and his brutish brother, and obtained your liberty."
this said he presented them with the keys, and so proceeded on his journey to wales.
jack made the best of his way by traveling as fast as he could, but lost his road, and was benighted, and could find no habitation until, coming into a narrow valley, he found a large house, and in order to get shelter took courage to knock at the gate.
but what was his surprise when there came forth a monstrous giant with two heads; yet he did not appear so fiery as the others were, for he was a welsh giant, and what he did was by private and secret malice under the false show of friendship.
jack, having told his condition to the giant, was shown into a bedroom, where, in the dead of night, he heard his host in another apartment muttering these words:
"though here you lodge with me this night,   you shall not see the morning light:
my club shall dash your brains outright!"
"say'st thou so," quoth jack; "that is like one of your welsh tricks, yet i hope to be cunning enough for you."
then, getting out of bed, he laid a log in the bed in his stead, and hid himself in a corner of the room.
at the dead time of the night in came the welsh giant, who struck several heavy blows on the bed with his club, thinking he had broken every bone in jack's skin.
the next morning jack, laughing in his sleeve, gave him hearty thanks for his night's lodging.
"how have you rested?"
quoth the giant; "did you not feel anything in the night?"
"no," quoth jack, "nothing but a rat, which gave me two or three slaps with her tail."
with that, greatly wondering, the giant led jack to breakfast, bringing him a bowl containing four gallons of hasty pudding.
being loth to let the giant think it too much for him, jack put a large leather bag under his loose coat, in such a way that he could convey the pudding into it without its being perceived.
then, telling the giant he would show him a trick, taking a knife, jack ripped open the bag, and out came all the hasty pudding.
whereupon, saying, "odds splutters her nails, her can do that trick herself," the monster took the knife, and ripping open his belly, fell down dead.
now, it happened in these days that king arthur's only son asked his father to give him a large sum of money, in order that he might go and seek his fortune in the principality of wales, where lived a beautiful lady possessed with seven evil spirits.
the king did his best to persuade his son from it, but in vain; so at last gave way and the prince set out with two horses, one loaded with money, the other for himself to ride upon.
now, after several days' travel, he came to a market-town in wales, where he beheld a vast crowd of people gathered together.
the prince asked the reason of it, and was told that they had arrested a corpse for several large sums of money which the deceased owed when he died.
the prince replied that it was a pity creditors should be so cruel, and said, "go bury the dead, and let his creditors come to my lodging, and there their debts shall be paid."
they came, in such great numbers that before night he had only twopence left for himself.
now jack the giant-killer, coming that way, was so taken with the generosity of the prince, that he desired to be his servant.
this being agreed upon, the next morning they set forward on their journey together, when, as they were riding out of the town, an old woman called after the prince, saying, "he has owed me twopence these seven years; pray pay me as well as the rest."
putting his hand into his pocket, the prince gave the woman all he had left, so that after their day's food, which cost what small store jack had by him, they were without a penny between them.
when the sun got low, the king's son said, "jack, since we have no money, where can we lodge this night?"
but jack replied, "master, we'll do well enough, for i have an uncle lives within two miles of this place; he is a huge and monstrous giant with three heads; he'll fight five hundred men in armor, and make them to fly before him."
"alas!"
quoth the prince, "what shall we do there?
he'll certainly chop us up at a mouthful.
nay, we are scarce enough to fill one of his hollow teeth!"
"it is no matter for that," quoth jack; "i myself will go before and prepare the way for you; therefore stop here and wait till i return."
jack then rode away at full speed, and coming to the gate of the castle, he knocked so loud that he made the neighboring hills resound.
the giant roared out at this like thunder, "who's there?"
jack answered, "none but your poor cousin jack."
quoth he, "what news with my poor cousin jack?"
he replied, "dear uncle, bad news, god willing!"
"prithee," quoth the giant, "what bad news can come to me?
i am a giant with three heads, and besides thou knowest i can fight five hundred men in armor, and make them fly like chaff before the wind."
"oh, but," quoth jack, "here's the king's son a-coming with a thousand men in armor to kill you and destroy all that you have!"
"oh, cousin jack," said the giant, "this is bad news indeed!
i will immediately run and hide myself, and thou shalt lock, bolt, and bar me in, and keep the keys until the prince is gone."
having secured the giant, jack fetched his master, when they made themselves heartily merry whilst the poor giant lay trembling in a vault under the ground.
early in the morning jack furnished his master with a fresh supply of gold and silver, and then sent him three miles forward on his journey, at which time the prince was pretty well out of the smell of the giant.
jack then returned, and let the giant out of the vault, who asked what he should give him for keeping the castle from destruction.
"why," quoth jack, "i want nothing but the old coat and cap, together with the old rusty sword and slippers which are at your bed's head."
quoth the giant: "you know not what you ask; they are the most precious things i have.
the coat will keep you invisible, the cap will tell you all you want to know, the sword cuts asunder whatever you strike, and the shoes are of extraordinary swiftness.
but you have been very serviceable to me, therefore take them with all my heart."
jack thanked his uncle, and then went off with them.
he soon overtook his master and they quickly arrived at the house of the lady the prince sought, who, finding the prince to be a suitor, prepared a splendid banquet for him.
after the repast was concluded, she told him she had a task for him.
she wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, saying, "you must show me that handkerchief to-morrow morning, or else you will lose your head."
with that she put it in her bosom.
the prince went to bed in great sorrow, but jack's cap of knowledge informed him how it was to be obtained.
in the middle of the night she called upon her familiar spirit to carry her to lucifer.
but jack put on his coat of darkness and his shoes of swiftness, and was there as soon as she was.
when she entered the place of the demon, she gave the handkerchief to him, and he laid it upon a shelf, whence jack took it and brought it to his master, who showed it to the lady next day, and so saved his life.
on that day, she gave the prince a kiss and told him he must show her the lips to-morrow morning that she kissed last night, or lose his head.
"ah!"
he replied, "if you kiss none but mine, i will."
"that is neither here nor there," said she; "if you do not, death's your portion!"
at midnight she went as before, and was angry with the demon for letting the handkerchief go.
"but now," quoth she, "i will be too hard for the king's son, for i will kiss thee and he is to show me thy lips."
which she did, and jack, when she was not standing by, cut off lucifer's head and, brought it under his invisible coat to his master, who the next morning pulled it out by the horns before the lady.
this broke the enchantment and the evil spirit left her, and she appeared in all her beauty.
they were married the next morning, and soon after went to the court of king arthur, where jack for his many great exploits, was made one of the knights of the round table.
jack soon went searching for giants again, but he had not ridden far, when he saw a cave, near the entrance of which he beheld a giant sitting upon a block of timber, with a knotted iron club by his side.
his goggle eyes were like flames of fire, his countenance grim and ugly, and his cheeks like a couple of large flitches of bacon, while the bristles of his beard resembled rods of iron wire, and the locks that hung down upon his brawny shoulders were like curled snakes or hissing adders.
jack alighted from his horse, and, putting on the coat of darkness, went up close to the giant, and said softly, "oh!
are you there?
it will not be long before i take you fast by the beard."
the giant all this while could not see him, on account of his invisible coat, so that jack, coming up close to the monster, struck a blow with his sword at his head, but, missing his aim, he cut off the nose instead.
at this, the giant roared like claps of thunder, and began to lay about him with his iron club like one stark mad.
but jack, running behind, drove his sword up to the hilt in the giant's back, so that he fell down dead.
this done, jack cut off the giant's head, and sent it, with his brother's also, to king arthur, by a wagoner he hired for that purpose.
jack now resolved to enter the giant's cave in search of his treasure, and, passing along through a great many windings and turnings, he came at length to a large room paved with freestone, at the upper end of which was a boiling caldron, and on the right hand a large table, at which the giant used to dine.
then he came to a window, barred with iron, through which he looked and beheld a vast number of miserable captives, who, seeing him, cried out: "alas!
young man, art thou come to be one amongst us in this miserable den?"
"ay," quoth jack, "but pray tell me what is the meaning of your captivity?"
"we are kept here," said one, "till such time as the giants have a wish to feast, and then the fattest among us is slaughtered!
and many are the times they have dined upon murdered men!"
"say you so," quoth jack, and straightway unlocked the gate and let them free, who all rejoiced like condemned men at sight of a pardon.
then searching the giant's coffers, he shared the gold and silver equally amongst them and took them to a neighboring castle, where they all feasted and made merry over their deliverance.
but in the midst of all this mirth a messenger brought news that thunderdell, a giant with two heads, having heard of the death of his kinsman, had come from the northern dales to be revenged on jack, and was within a mile of the castle, the country people flying before him like chaff.
but jack was not a bit daunted, and said, "let him come!
i have a tool to quiet him; and you, ladies and gentlemen, walk out into the garden, and you shall witness this giant thunderdell's death and destruction."
the castle was situated in the midst of a small island surrounded by a moat thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide, over which lay a drawbridge.
so jack employed men to cut through this bridge on both sides, nearly to the middle; and then, dressing himself in his invisible coat, he marched against the giant with his sword of sharpness.
although the giant could not see jack, he smelt his approach, and cried out in these words:
"fee, fi, fo, fum!
i smell the blood of an englishman!
be he alive or be he dead,   i'll grind his bones to make me bread!"
"say'st thou so," said jack; "then thou art a monstrous miller indeed."
the giant cried out again, "art thou that villain who killed my kinsmen?
then i will tear thee with my teeth, suck thy blood, and grind thy bones to powder."
"you'll have to catch me first," quoth jack, and throwing off his invisible coat, so that the giant might see him, and putting on his shoes of swiftness, he ran from the giant, who followed like a walking castle, so that the very foundations of the earth seemed to shake at every step.
jack led him a long dance, in order that the gentlemen and ladies might see; and at last to end the matter, ran lightly over the drawbridge, the giant, in full speed, pursuing him with his club.
then, coming to the middle of the bridge, the giant's great weight broke it down, and he tumbled headlong into the water, where he rolled and wallowed like a whale.
jack, standing by the moat, laughed at him all the while; but though the giant foamed to hear him scoff, and plunged from place to place in the moat, yet he could not get out to be revenged.
jack at length got a cart rope and cast it over the two heads of the giant and drew him ashore by a team of horses, and then cut off both his heads with his sword of sharpness, and sent them to king arthur.
after some time spent in mirth and pastime, jack, taking leave of the knights and ladies, set out for new adventures.
through many woods he passed, and came at length to the foot of a high mountain.
here, late at night, he found a lonesome house, and knocked at the door, which was opened by an aged man with a head as white as snow.
"father,"
said jack, "can you lodge a benighted traveler that has lost his way?"
"yes," said the old man; "you are right welcome to my poor cottage."
whereupon jack entered, and down they sat together, and the old man began to speak as follows: "son, i see by your belt you are the great conqueror of giants, and behold, my son, on the top of this mountain is an enchanted castle; this is kept by a giant named galligantua, and he, by the help of an old conjurer, betrays many knights and ladies into his castle, where by magic art they are transformed into sundry shapes and forms.
but above all, i grieve for a duke's daughter, whom they fetched from her father's garden, carrying her through the air in a burning chariot drawn by fiery dragons.
when they secured her within the castle, they transformed her into a white hind.
and though many knights have tried to break the enchantment, and work her deliverance, yet no one could accomplish it, on account of two dreadful griffins which are placed at the castle gate and which destroy every one who comes near.
but you, my son, may pass by them undiscovered, then on the gates of the castle you will find engraven in large letters how the spell may be broken."
jack gave the old man his hand, and promised that in the morning he would venture his life to free the lady.
in the morning jack arose and put on his invisible coat and magic cap and shoes, and prepared himself for the fray.
now, when he had reached the top of the mountain he soon discovered the two fiery griffins, but passed them without fear, because of his invisible coat.
when he had got beyond them, he found upon the gates of the castle a golden trumpet hung by a silver chain, under which these lines were engraved:
"whoever shall this trumpet blow,   shall soon the giant overthrow,   and break the black enchantment straight;   so all shall be in happy state."
jack had no sooner read this but he blew the trumpet, at which the castle trembled to its vast foundations, and the giant and conjurer were in horrid confusion, biting their thumbs and tearing their hair, knowing their wicked reign was at an end.
then the giant stooping to take up his club, jack at one blow cut off his head; whereupon the conjurer, mounting up into the air, was carried away in a whirlwind.
then the enchantment was broken, and all the lords and ladies who had so long been transformed into birds and beasts returned to their proper shapes, and the castle vanished away in a cloud of smoke.
this being done, the head of galligantua was likewise, in the usual manner, conveyed to the court of king arthur, where, the very next day, jack followed, with the knights and ladies who had been delivered.
whereupon, as a reward for his good services, the king prevailed upon the duke to bestow his daughter in marriage on honest jack.
so married they were, and the whole kingdom was filled with joy at the wedding.
furthermore, the king bestowed on jack a noble castle, with a very beautiful estate thereto belonging, where he and his lady lived in great joy and happiness all the rest of their days.
the three sillies
adapted by joseph jacobs
once upon a time there was a farmer and his wife who had one daughter, and she was courted by a gentleman.
every evening he used to come and see her, and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and the daughter used to be sent down into the cellar to draw the beer for supper.
so one evening she had gone down to draw the beer, and she happened to look up at the ceiling while she was drawing, and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the beams.
it must have been there a long, long time, but somehow or other she had never noticed it before, and she began a-thinking.
and she thought it was very dangerous to have that mallet there, for she said to herself: "suppose him and me was to be married, and we was to have a son, and he was to grow up to be a man, and come down into the cellar to draw the beer, like as i'm doing now, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"
and she put down the candle and the jug, and sat herself down and began a-crying.
well, they began to wonder upstairs how it was that she was so long drawing the beer, and her mother went down to see after her, and she found her sitting on the settle crying, and the beer running over the floor.
"why, whatever is the matter?"
said her mother.
"oh, mother!"
says she, "look at that horrid mallet!
suppose we was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down to the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"
"dear, dear!
what a dreadful thing it would be!"
said the mother, and she sat her down beside the daughter and started crying too.
then after a bit the father began to wonder that they didn't come back, and he went down into the cellar to look after them himself, and there they two sat crying, and the beer running all over the floor.
"whatever is the matter?"
says he.
"why," says the mother, "look at that horrid mallet.
just suppose, if our daughter and her sweetheart was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!"
"dear, dear, dear!
so it would!"
said the father, and he sat himself down aside of the other two, and started a-crying.
now the gentleman got tired of stopping up in the kitchen by himself, and at last he went down into the cellar too, to see what they were after; and there they three sat crying side by side, and the beer running all over the floor.
and he ran straight and turned the tap.
then he said: "whatever are you three doing, sitting there crying, and letting the beer run all over the floor?"
"oh!"
says the father, "look at that horrid mallet!
suppose you and our daughter was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him!"
and then they all started crying worse than before.
but the gentleman burst out laughing, and reached up and pulled out the mallet, and then he said: "i've traveled many miles, and i never met three such big sillies as you three before; and now i shall start out on my travels again, and when i can find three bigger sillies than you three, then i'll come back and marry your daughter."
so he wished them good-by, and started off on his travels, and left them all crying because the girl had lost her sweetheart.
well, he set out, and he traveled a long way, and at last he came to a woman's cottage that had some grass growing on the roof.
and the woman was trying to get her cow to go up a ladder to the grass, and the poor thing durst not go.
so the gentleman asked the woman what she was doing.
"why, lookye," she said, "look at all that beautiful grass.
i'm going to get the cow on to the roof to eat it.
she'll be quite safe, for i shall tie a string round her neck, and pass it down the chimney, and tie it to my wrist as i go about the house, so she can't fall off without my knowing it."
"oh, you poor silly!"
said the gentleman, "you should cut the grass and throw it down to the cow!"
but the woman thought it was easier to get the cow up the ladder than to get the grass down, so she pushed her and coaxed her and got her up, and tied a string round her neck, and passed it down the chimney, and fastened it to her own wrist.
and the gentleman went on his way, but he hadn't gone far when the cow tumbled off the roof, and hung by the string tied round her neck, and it strangled her.
and the weight of the cow tied to her wrist pulled the woman up the chimney, and she stuck fast halfway and was smothered in the soot.
well, that was one big silly.
and the gentleman went on and on, and he went to an inn to stop the night, and they were so full at the inn that they had to put him in a double-bedded room, and another traveler was to sleep in the other bed.
the other man was a very pleasant fellow, and they got very friendly together; but in the morning, when they were both getting up, the gentleman was surprised to see the other hang his trousers on the knobs of the chest of drawers and run across the room and try to jump into them, and he tried over and over again, and couldn't manage it; and the gentleman wondered whatever he was doing it for.
at last he stopped and wiped his face with his handkerchief.
"oh dear," he says, "i do think trousers are the most awkwardest kind of clothes that ever were.
i can't think who could have invented such things.
it takes me the best part of an hour to get into mine every morning, and i get so hot!
how do you manage yours?"
so the gentleman burst out laughing, and showed him how to put them on; and he was very much obliged to him, and said he never should have thought of doing it that way.
so that was another big silly.
then the gentleman went on his travels again; and he came to a village, and outside the village there was a pond, and round the pond was a crowd of people.
and they had rakes, and brooms, and pitchforks, reaching into the pond; and the gentleman asked what was the matter.
"why," they say, "matter enough!
moon's tumbled into the pond, and we can't rake her out anyhow!"
so the gentleman burst out laughing, and told them to look up into the sky, and that it was only the shadow in the water.
but they wouldn't listen to him, and abused him shamefully and he got away as quick as he could.
so there were a whole lot of sillies bigger than the three sillies at home.
so the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me.
celtic stories
king o'toole and his goose
adapted by joseph jacobs
och, i thought all the world, far and near, had heerd of king o'toole well, well, but the darkness of mankind is untellable!
well, sir, you must know, as you didn't hear it afore, that there was a king, called king o'toole, who was a fine old king in the old ancient times, long ago; and it was he that owned the churches in the early days.
the king, you see was the right sort; he was the real boy, and loved sport as he loved his life, and hunting in particular; and from the rising o' the sun, up he got, and away he went over the mountains after the deer; and fine times they were.
well, it was all mighty good, as long as the king had his health; but, you see, in the course of time the king grew old, by raison he was stiff in his limbs, and when he got stricken in years, his heart failed him, and he was lost entirely for want o' diversion, because he couldn't go a-hunting no longer; and, by dad the poor king was obliged at last to get a goose to divert him.
oh, you may laugh, if you like, but it's truth i'm telling you; and the way the goose diverted him was this-a-way: you see, the goose used to swim across the lake, and go diving for trout, and catch fish on a friday for the king, and flew every other day round about the lake, diverting the poor king.
all went on mighty well until, by dad, the goose got stricken in years like her master, and couldn't divert him no longer, and then it was that the poor king was lost entirely.
the king was walkin' one mornin'
by the edge of the lake, lamentin' his cruel fate, and thinking of drowning himself, that could get no diversion in life, when all of a sudden, turning round the corner, whom should he meet but a mighty decent young man coming up to him.
"god save you," says the king to the young man.
"god save you kindly, king o'toole," says the young man.
"true for you," says the king.
"i am king o'toole," says he, "prince and plennypennytinchery of these parts," says he; "but how came ye to know that?"
says he.
"oh, never mind," says saint kavin.
you see it was saint kavin, sure enough the saint himself in disguise, and nobody else.
"oh, never mind," says he, "i know more than that.
may i make bold to ask how is your goose, king o'toole?"
says he.
"blur-an-agers, how came ye to know about my goose?"
says the king.
"oh, no matter; i was given to understand it," says saint kavin.
after some more talk the king says, "what are you?"
"i'm an honest man," says saint kavin.
"well, honest man," says the king, "and how is it you make your money so aisy?"
"by makin' old things as good as new," says saint kavin.
"is it a tinker you are?"
says the king.
"no," says the saint; "i'm no tinker by trade, king o'toole; i've a better trade than a tinker," says he "what would you say," says he, "if i made your old goose as good as new?"
my dear, at the word of making his goose as good as new, you'd think the poor old king's eyes were ready to jump out of his head.
with that the king whistled, and down came the poor goose, just like a hound, waddling up to the poor cripple, her master, and as like him as two peas.
the minute the saint clapt his eyes on the goose, "i'll do the job for you," says he, "king o'toole."
"by jaminee!"
says king o'toole, "if you do, i'll say you're the cleverest fellow in the seven parishes."
"oh, by dad," says st. kavin, "you must say more nor that my horn's not so soft all out," says he, "as to repair your old goose for nothing; what'll you gi' me if i do the job for you?
that's the chat," says saint kavin.
"i'll give you whatever you ask," says the king; "isn't that fair?"
"divil a fairer," says the saint, "that's the way to do business.
now," says he, "this is the bargain i'll make with you, king o'toole:
will you gi' me all the ground the goose flies over, the first offer, after i make her as good as new?"
"i will," says the king.
"you won't go back o' your word?"
says saint kavin.
"honor bright!"
says king o'toole, holding out his fist.
"honor bright!"
says saint kavin, back again, "it's a bargain.
come here!"
says he to the poor old goose "come here, you unfortunate ould cripple, and it's i that'll make you the sporting bird."
with that, my dear, he took up the goose by the two wings "criss o' my cross an you," says he, markin' her to grace with the blessed sign at the same minute and throwing her up in the air, "whew," says he, jist givin'
her a blast to help her; and with that, my jewel, she took to her heels, flyin' like one o' the eagles themselves, and cutting as many capers as a swallow before a shower of rain.
well, my dear, it was a beautiful sight to see the king standing with his mouth open, looking at his poor old goose flying as light as a lark, and better than ever she was; and when she lit at his feet, patted her on the head, and "mavourneen," says he, "but you are the darlint o' the world."
"and what do you say to me," says saint kavin, "for making her the like?"
"by jabers," says the king, "i say nothing beats the art o' man, barring the bees."
"and do you say no more nor that?"
says saint kavin.
"and that i'm beholden to you," says the king.
"but will you gi' me all the ground the goose flew over?"
says saint kavin.
"i will," says king o'toole, "and you're welcome to it," says he, "though it's the last acre i have to give."
"but you'll keep your word true," says the saint.
"as true as the sun," says the king.
"it's well for you, king o'toole, that you said that word," says he; "for if you didn't say that word, the divil the bit o' your goose would ever fly agin."
when the king was as good as his word, saint kavin was pleased with him, and then it was that he made himself known to the king.
"and,"
says he, "king o'toole, you're a dacent man, for i only came here to try you.
you don't know me," says he, "because i'm disguised."
"musha!
then," says the king, "who are you?"
"i'm saint kavin," said the saint, blessing himself.
"oh, queen of heaven!"
says the king, making the sign of the cross between his eyes, and falling down on his knees before the saint; "is it the great saint kavin," says he, "that i've been discoursing all this time without knowing it," says he, "all as one as if he was a lump of a gossoon?
and so you're a saint?"
says the king.
"i am," says saint kavin.
"by jabers, i thought i was only talking to a dacent boy," says the king.
"well, you know the difference now," says the saint.
"i'm saint kavin," says he, "the greatest of all the saints."
and so the king had his goose as good as new, to divert him as long as he lived; and the saint supported him after he came into his property, as i told you, until the day of his death and that was soon after; for the poor goose thought he was catching a trout one friday; but, my jewel, it was a mistake he made and instead of a trout, it was a thieving horse-eel; and instead of the goose killing a trout for the king's supper by dad, the eel killed the king's goose and small blame to him; but he didn't ate her, because he darn't ate what saint kavin had laid his blessed hands on.
the haughty princess
adapted by patrick kennedy
there was once a very worthy king, whose daughter was the greatest beauty that could be seen far or near, but she was as proud as lucifer, and no king or prince would she agree to marry.
her father was tired out at last, and invited every king, and prince, and duke, and earl that he knew or didn't know to come to his court to give her one trial more.
they all came, and next day after breakfast they stood in a row in the lawn, and the princess walked along in the front of them to make her choice.
one was fat, and says she: "i won't have you, beer-barrel!"
one was tall and thin, and to him she said, "i won't have you, ramrod!"
to a white-faced man she said, "i won't have you, pale death;" and to a red-cheeked man she said, "i won't have you, cockscomb!"
she stopped a little before the last of all, for he was a fine man in face and form.
she wanted to find some defect in him, but he had nothing remarkable but a ring of brown curling hair under his chin.
she admired him a little, and then carried it off with, "i won't have you, whiskers!"
so all went away, and the king was so vexed, he said to her, "now to punish your impedence, i'll give you to the first beggar-man or singing sthronshuch that calls;" and, as sure as the hearth-money, a fellow all over rags, with hair that came to his shoulders, and a bushy red beard all over his face, came next morning, and began to sing before the parlor window.
when the song was over, the hall-door was opened, the singer asked in, the priest brought, and the princess married to beardy.
she roared and she bawled, but her father didn't mind her.
"there," says he to the bridegroom, "is five guineas for you.
take your wife out of my sight, and never let me lay eyes on you or her again."
off he led her, and dismal enough she was.
the only thing that gave her relief was the tones of her husband's voice and his genteel manners.
"whose wood is this?"
said she, as they were going through one.
"it belongs to the king you called whiskers yesterday."
he gave her the same answer about meadows and cornfields, and at last a fine city.
"ah, what a fool i was!"
said she to herself.
"he was a fine man, and i might have him for a husband."
at last they were coming up to a poor cabin.
"why are you bringing me here?"
says the poor lady.
"this was my house," said he, "and now it's yours."
she began to cry, but she was tired and hungry, and she went in with him.
ovoch!
there was neither a table laid out, nor a fire burning, and she was obliged to help her husband to light it, and boil their dinner, and clean up the place after; and next day he made her put on a stuff gown and a cotton handkerchief.
when she had her house readied up, and no business to keep her employed, he brought home sallies [willows], peeled them, and showed her how to make baskets.
but the hard twigs bruised her delicate fingers, and she began to cry.
well, then he asked her to mend their clothes, but the needle drew blood from her fingers, and she cried again.
he couldn't bear to see her tears, so he bought a creel of earthenware, and sent her to the market to sell them.
this was the hardest trial of all, but she looked so handsome and sorrowful, and had such a nice air about her, that all her pans, and jugs, and plates, and dishes were gone before noon, and the only mark of her old pride she showed was a slap she gave a buckeen across the face when he axed her an impudent question.
well, her husband was so glad, he sent her with another creel the next day; but, faith!
her luck was after deserting her.
a drunken huntsman came up riding, and his beast got in among her ware, and made brishe of every mother's son of 'em.
she went home cryin', and her husband wasn't at all pleased.
"i see," said he, "you're not fit for business.
come along, i'll get you a kitchen-maid's place in the palace.
i know the cook."
so the poor thing was obliged to stifle her pride once more.
she was kept very busy, and the footman and the butler would be very impudent about looking for a kiss, but she let a screech out of her the first attempt was made, and the cook gave the fellow such a lambasting with the besom that he made no second offer.
she went home to her husband every night, and she carried broken victuals wrapped in papers in her side pockets.
a week after she got service there was great bustle in the kitchen.
the king was going to be married, but no one knew who the bride was to be.
well, in the evening the cook filled the princess's pockets with cold meat and puddens, and, says she, "before you go, let us have a look at the great doings in the big parlor."
so they came near the door to get a peep, and who should come out but the king himself, as handsome as you please, and no other but king whiskers himself.
"your handsome helper must pay for her peeping," said he to the cook, "and dance a jig with me."
whether she would or no, he held her hand and brought her into the parlor.
the fiddlers struck up, and away went him with her.
but they hadn't danced two steps when the meat and the puddens flew out of her pockets.
every one roared out, and she flew to the door, crying piteously.
but she was soon caught by the king, and taken into the back parlor.
"don't you know me, my darling?"
said he.
"i'm both king whiskers, your husband the ballad-singer, and the drunken huntsman.
your father knew me well enough when he gave you to me, and all was to drive your pride out of you."
well, she didn't know how she was, with fright, and shame, and joy.
love was uppermost, anyhow, for she laid her head on her husband's breast and cried like a child.
the maids-of-honor soon had her away and dressed her as fine as hands and pins could do it; and there were her mother and father, too.
while the company were wondering what would be the end of the handsome girl and the king, he and his queen, who they didn't know in her fine clothes, came in, and such rejoicings and fine doings as there was, none of us will ever see, anyway.
jack and his master
adapted by joseph jacobs
a poor woman had three sons.
the eldest and second eldest were cunning, clever fellows, but they called the youngest jack the fool, because they thought he was no better than a simpleton.
the eldest got tired of staying at home, and said he'd go look for service.
he stayed away a whole year, and then came back one day, dragging one foot after the other, and a poor, wizened face on him, and he was as cross as two sticks.
when he was rested and had got something to eat, he told them how he had taken service with the gray churl of the townland of mischance, and that the agreement was whoever would first say he was sorry for his bargain should get an inch wide of the skin of his back, from shoulder to hips, taken off.
if it was the master, he should also pay double wages; if it was the servant, he should get no wages at all.
"but the thief," says he, "gave me so little to eat, and kept me so hard at work, that flesh and blood couldn't stand it; and when he asked me once, when i was in a passion, if i was sorry for my bargain, i was mad enough to say i was, and here i am disabled for life."
vexed enough were the poor mother and brothers; and the second eldest said on the spot he'd go and take service with the gray churl, and punish him by all the annoyance he'd give him till he'd make him say he was sorry for his agreement.
"oh, won't i be glad to see the skin coming off the old villain's back!"
said he.
all they could say had no effect: he started off for the townland of mischance, and in a twelvemonth he was back just as miserable and helpless as his brother.
all the poor mother could say didn't prevent jack the fool from starting to see if he was able to regulate the gray churl.
he agreed with him for a year for twenty pounds, and the terms were the same.
"now, jack," said the gray churl, "if you refuse to do anything you are able to do, you must lose a month's wages."
"i'm satisfied," said jack; "and if you stop me from doing a thing after telling me to do it, you are to give me an additional month's wages."
"i am satisfied," said the master.
"or if you blame me for obeying your orders, you must give me the same."
"i am satisfied," said the master again.
the first day that jack served he was fed very poorly, and was worked to the saddleskirts.
next day he came into the parlor just before the dinner was served up.
they were taking the goose off the spit, but, well becomes jack, he whipped a knife off the dresser, and cut off one side of the breast, one leg and thigh, and one wing, and fell to.
in came the master, and began to abuse him for his assurance.
"oh, you know, master, you're to feed me, and wherever the goose goes won't have to be filled again till supper.
are you sorry for our agreement?"
the master was going to cry out he was, but he bethought himself in time.
"oh; no, not at all," said he.
"that's well," said jack.
next day jack was to go clamp turf on the bog.
they weren't sorry to have him away from the kitchen at dinner time.
he didn't find his breakfast very heavy on his stomach; so he said to the mistress, "i think, ma'am, it will be better for me to get my dinner now, and not lose time coming home from the bog."
"that's true, jack," said she.
so she brought out a good cake, and a print of butter, and a bottle of milk, thinking he'd take them away to the bog.
but jack kept his seat, and never drew rein till bread, butter, and milk had gone down the red lane.
"now, mistress," said he, "i'll be earlier at my work tomorrow if i sleep comfortably on the sheltery side of a pile of dry peat on dry grass, and not be coming here and going back.
so you may as well give me my supper, and be done with the day's trouble."
she gave him that, thinking he'd take it to the bog; but he fell to on the spot, and did not leave a scrap to tell tales on him; and the mistress was a little astonished.
he called to speak to the master in the haggard, and said he, "what are servants asked to do in this country after aten their supper?"
"nothing at all, but to go to bed."
"oh, very well, sir."
he went up on the stable-loft, stripped, and lay down, and some one that saw him told the master.
he came up.
"jack, you anointed scoundrel, what do you mean?"
"to go to sleep, master.
the mistress, god bless her, is after giving me my breakfast, dinner, and supper, and yourself told me that bed was the next thing.
do you blame me, sir?"
"yes, you rascal, i do."
"hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, if you please, sir."
"one divil and thirteen imps, you tinker!
what for?"
"oh, i see, you've forgot your bargain.
are you sorry for it?"
"oh, ya no, i mean.
i'll give you the money after your nap."
next morning early jack asked how he'd be employed that day.
"you are to be holding the plow in that fallow, outside the paddock."
the master went over about nine o'clock to see what kind of a plowman was jack, and what did he see but the little boy driving the bastes, and the sock and coulter of the plow skimming along the sod, and jack pulling ding-dong agin' the horses.
"what are you doing, you contrary thief?"
said the master.
"an' ain't i strivin' to hold this divil of a plow, as you told me; but that ounkrawn of a boy keeps whipping on the bastes in spite of all i say; will you speak to him?"
"no, but i'll speak to you.
didn't you know, you bosthoon, that when i said 'holding the plow,' i meant reddening [plowing up] the ground?"
"faith, an' if you did, i wish you had said so.
do you blame me for what i have done?"
the master caught himself in time, but he was so stomached [disconcerted], he said nothing.
"go on and redden the ground now, you knave, as other plowmen do."
"an' are you sorry for our agreement?"
"oh, not at all, not at all!"
jack plowed away like a good workman all the rest of the day.
in a day or two the master bade him go and mind the cows in a field that had half of it under young corn.
"be sure, particularly," said he, "to keep browney from the wheat; while she's out of mischief there's no fear of the rest."
about noon he went to see how jack was doing his duty, and what did he find but jack asleep with his face to the sod, browney grazing near a thorn-tree, one end of a long rope round her horns, and the other end round the tree, and the rest of the beasts all trampling and eating the green wheat.
down came the switch on jack.
"jack, you vagabone, do you see what the cows are at?"
"and do you blame me, master?"
"to be sure, you lazy sluggard, i do."
"hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence, master.
you said if i only kept browney out of mischief, the rest would, do no harm.
there she is as harmless as a lamb.
are you sorry for hiring me, master?"
"to be that is, not at all.
i'll give you your money when you go to dinner.
now, understand me; don't let a cow go out of the field nor into the wheat the rest of the day."
"never fear, master!"
and neither did he.
but the churl would rather than a great deal he had not hired him.
the next day three heifers were missing, and the master bade jack go in search of them.
"where shall i look for them?"
said jack.
"oh, every place likely and unlikely for them all to be in."
the churl was getting very exact in his words.
when he was coming into the yard at dinner time, what work did he find jack at but pulling armfuls of the thatch off the roof, and peeping into the holes he was making.
"what are you doing there, you rascal?"
"sure, i'm looking for the heifers, poor things!"
"what would bring them there?"
"i don't think anything could bring them in it; but i looked first into the likely places, that is the cowhouses, and the pastures, and the fields next 'em, and now i'm looking in the unlikeliest place i can think of.
maybe it's not pleasing to you it is."
"and to be sure it isn't pleasing to me, you aggravating goose-cap!"
"please, sir, hand me one pound thirteen and fourpence before you sit down to your dinner.
i'm afraid it's sorrow that's on you for hiring me at all."
"may the div oh, no; i'm not sorry.
will you begin, if you please, and put in the thatch again, just as if you were doing it for your mother's cabin?"
"oh, faith i will, sir, with a heart and a half;" and by the time the farmer came out from his dinner, jack had the roof better than it was before, for he made the boy give him new straw.
says the master when he came out: "go, jack, and look for the heifers, and bring them home."
"and where shall i look for 'em?"
"go and search for them as if they were your own."
the heifers were all in the paddock before sunset.
next morning says the master: "jack, the path across the bog to the pasture is very bad; the sheep does be sinking in it every step; go and make the sheep's feet a good path."
about an hour after he came to the edge of the bog, and what did he find jack at but sharpening a carving knife, and the sheep standing or grazing around.
"is this the way you are mending the path, jack?"
said he.
"everything must have a beginning, master," said jack, "and a thing well begun is half done.
i am sharpening the knife, and i'll have the feet off every sheep in the flock while you'd be blessing yourself."
"feet off my sheep, you anointed rogue!
and what would you be taking their feet off for?"
"an', sure, to mend the path as you told me.
says you, 'jack, make a path with the foot of the sheep.'"
"oh, you fool, i meant make good the path for the sheep's feet."
"it's a pity you didn't say so, master.
hand me out one pound thirteen and fourpence if you don't like me to finish my job."
"divil do you good with your one pound thirteen and four-pence!"
"it's better pray than curse, master.
maybe you're sorry for your bargain?"
"and to be sure i am not yet, anyway."
the next night the master was going to a wedding; and says he to jack, before he set out: "i'll leave at midnight, and i wish you to come and be with me home, for fear i might be overtaken with the drink.
if you're there before, you may throw a sheep's eye at me, and i'll be sure to see that they'll give you something for yourself."
about eleven o'clock, while the master was in great spirits, he felt something clammy hit him on the cheek.
it fell beside his tumbler, and when he looked at it, what was it but the eye of a sheep.
well, he couldn't imagine who threw it at him, or why it was thrown at him.
after a little he got a blow on the other cheek, and still it was by another sheep's eye.
well, he was much vexed, but he thought better to say nothing.
in two minutes more, when he was opening his mouth to take a sup, another sheep's eye was slapped into it.
he sputtered it out, and cried, "man o' the house, isn't it a great shame for you to have any one in the room that would do such a nasty thing?"
"master," says jack, "don't blame the honest man.
sure it's only myself that was throwin' them sheep's eyes at you, to remind you i was here, and that i wanted to drink the bride and bridegroom's health.
you know yourself bade me."
"i know that you are a great rascal; and where did you get the eyes?"
"an' where would i get 'em but in the heads of your own sheep?
would you have me meddle with the bastes of any neighbor, who might put me in the stone jug for it?"
"sorrow on me that ever i had the bad luck to meet with you."
"you're all witness," said jack, "that my master says he is sorry for having met with me.
my time is up.
master, hand me over double wages, and come into the next room, and lay yourself out like a man that has some decency in him, till i take a strip of skin an inch broad from your shoulder to your hip."
every one shouted out against that; but, says jack, "you didn't hinder him when he took the same strips from the backs of my two brothers, and sent them home in that state, and penniless, to their poor mother."
when the company heard the rights of the business, they were only too eager to see the job done.
the master bawled and roared, but there was no help at hand.
he was stripped to his hips, and laid on the floor in the next room, and jack had the carving-knife in his hand ready to begin.
"now you cruel old villain," said he, giving the knife a couple of scrapes along the floor: "i'll make you an offer.
give me, along with my double wages, two hundred guineas to support my poor brothers, and i'll do without the strip."
"no!"
said he, "i'd let you skin me from head to foot first."
"here goes, then," said jack with a grin; but the first little scar he gave, churl roared out, "stop your hand; i'll give the money."
"now, neighbors," said jack, "you mustn't think worse of me than i deserve.
i wouldn't have the heart to take an eye out of a rat itself; i got half a dozen of them from the butcher, and only used three of them."
so all came again into the other room, and jack was made to sit down, and everybody drank his health, and he drank everybody's health at one offer.
and six stout fellows saw himself and the master home, and waited in the parlor while he went up and brought down the two hundred guineas, and double wages for jack himself.
when he got home, he brought the summer along with him to the poor mother and the disabled brothers; and he was no more jack the fool in the people's mouths, but "skin-churl jack."
hudden and dudden and donald o'neary
adapted by joseph jacobs
there was once upon a time two farmers, and their names were hudden and dudden.
they had poultry in their yards, sheep on the uplands, and scores of cattle in the meadow land alongside the river.
but for all that they weren't happy, for just between their two farms there lived a poor man by the name of donald o'neary.
he had a hovel over his head and a strip of grass that was barely enough to keep his one cow, daisy, from starving, and, though she did her best, it was but seldom that donald got a drink of milk or a roll of butter from daisy.
you would think there was little here to make hudden and dudden jealous, but so it is, the more one has the more one wants, and donald's neighbors lay awake of nights scheming how they might get hold of his little strip of grass land.
one day hudden met dudden, and they were soon grumbling as usual, and all to the tune of, "if only we could get that vagabond, donald o'neary, out of the country."
"let's kill daisy," said hudden at last; "if that doesn't make him clear out, nothing will."
no sooner said than agreed; and it wasn't dark before hudden and dudden crept up to the little shed where lay poor daisy, trying her best to chew the cud, though she hadn't had as much grass in the day as would cover your hand.
and when donald came to see if daisy was all snug for the night, the poor beast had only time to lick his hand once before she died.
well, donald was a shrewd fellow, and, downhearted though he was, began to think if he could get any good out of daisy's death.
he thought and he thought, and the next day you might have seen him trudging off early to the fair, daisy's hide over his shoulder, every penny he had jingling in his pockets.
just before he got to the fair, he made several slits in the hide, put a penny in each slit, walked into the best inn of the town as bold as if it belonged to him, and, hanging the hide up to a nail in the wall, sat down.
"some of your best whisky," says he to the landlord.
but the landlord didn't like his looks.
"is it fearing i won't pay you, you are?"
says donald; "why, i have a hide here that gives me all the money i want."
and with that he hit it a whack with his stick, and out hopped a penny.
the landlord opened his eyes, as you may fancy.
"what'll you take for that hide?"
"it's not for sale, my good man."
"will you take a gold piece?"
"it's not for sale, i tell you.
hasn't it kept me and mine for years?"
and with that donald hit the hide another whack, and out jumped a second penny.
well, the long and the short of it was that donald let the hide go, and, that very evening, who but he should walk up to hudden's door?
"good evening, hudden.
will you lend me your best pair of scales?"
hudden stared and hudden scratched his head, but he lent the scales.
when donald was safe at home, he pulled out his pocketful of bright gold and began to weigh each piece in the scales.
but hudden had put a lump of butter at the bottom, and so the last piece of gold stuck fast to the scales when he took them back to hudden.
if hudden had stared before, he stared ten times more now, and no sooner was donald's back turned, than he was off as hard as he could pelt to dudden's.
"good-evening, dudden.
that vagabond, bad luck to him  "
"you mean donald o'neary?"
"and who else should i mean?
he's back here weighing out sackfuls of gold."
"how do you know that?"
"here are my scales that he borrowed, and here's a gold piece still sticking to them."
off they went together, and they came to donald's door.
donald had finished making the last pile of ten gold pieces.
and he couldn't finish, because a piece had stuck to the scales.
in they walked without an "if you please" or "by your leave."
"well, i never!"
that was all they could say.
"good evening, hudden; good evening, dudden.
ah!
you thought you had played me a fine trick, but you never did me a better turn in all your lives.
when i found poor daisy dead, i thought to myself: 'well, her hide may fetch something'; and it did.
hides are worth their weight in gold in the market just now."
hudden nudged dudden, and dudden winked at hudden.
"good evening, donald o'neary."
"good evening, kind friends."
the next day there wasn't a cow or a calf that belonged to hudden or dudden but her hide was going to the fair in hudden's biggest cart, drawn by dudden's strongest pair of horses.
when they came to the fair, each one took a hide over his arm, and there they were walking through the fair, bawling out at the top of their voices, "hides to sell!
hides to sell.'"
out came the tanner:
"how much for your hides, my good men?"
"their weight in gold."
"it's early in the day to come out of the tavern."
that was all the tanner said, and back he went to his yard.
"hides to sell!
fine fresh hides to sell!"
out came the cobbler:
"how much for your hides, my men?"
"their weight in gold."
"is it making game of me you are?
take that for your pains," and the cobbler dealt hudden a blow that made him stagger.
up the people came running from one end of the fair to the other.
"what's the matter?
what's the matter?"
cried they.
"here are a couple of vagabonds selling hides at their weight in gold," said the cobbler.
"hold 'em fast; hold 'em fast!"
bawled the innkeeper, who was the last to come up, he was so fat.
"i'll wager it's one of the rogues who tricked me out of thirty gold pieces yesterday for a wretched hide."
it was more kicks than halfpence that hudden and dudden got before they were well on their way home again, and they didn't run the slower because all the dogs of the town were at their heels.
well, as you may fancy, if they loved donald little before, they loved him less now.
"what's the matter, friends?"
said he, as he saw them tearing along, their hats knocked in, and their coats torn off, and their faces black and blue.
"is it fighting you've been?
or mayhap you met the police, ill luck to them?"
"we'll police you, you vagabond.
it's mighty smart you thought yourself, deluding us with your lying tales."
"who deluded you?
didn't you see the gold with your own two eyes?"
but it was no use talking.
pay for it he must and should.
there was a meal-sack handy, and into it hudden and dudden popped donald o'neary, tied him up tight, ran a pole through the knot, and off they started for the brown lake of the bog, each with a pole-end on his shoulder, and donald o'neary between.
but the brown lake was far, the road was dusty, hudden and dudden were sore and weary, and parched with thirst.
there was an inn by the roadside.
"let's go in," said hudden; "i'm dead beat.
it's heavy he is for the little he had to eat."
if hudden was willing, so was dudden.
as for donald, you may be sure his leave wasn't asked, but he was dumped down at the inn door for all the world as if he had been a sack of potatoes.
"sit still, you vagabond," said dudden; "if we don't mind waiting, you needn't."
donald held his peace, but after a while he heard the glasses clink, and hudden singing away at the top of his voice.
"i won't have her, i tell you; i won't have her!"
said donald.
but nobody heeded what he said.
"i won't have her, i tell you; i won't have her!"
said donald; and this time he said it louder; but nobody heeded what he said.
"i won't have her, i tell you; i won't have her!"
said donald; and this time he said it as loud as he could.
"and who won't you have, may i be so bold as to ask?"
said a farmer, who had just come up with a drove of cattle, and was turning in for a glass.
"it's the king's daughter.
they are bothering the life out of me to marry her."
"you're the lucky fellow.
i'd give something to be in your shoes."
"do you see that, now!
wouldn't it be a fine thing for a farmer to be marrying a princess, all dressed in gold and jewels?"
"jewels, you say?
ah, now, couldn't you take me with you?"
"well, you're an honest fellow, and as i don't care for the king's daughter, though she's as beautiful as the day, and is covered with jewels from top to toe, you shall have her.
just undo the cord and let me out; they tied me up tight, as they knew i'd run away from her."
out crawled donald; in crept the farmer.
"now lie still, and don't mind the shaking; it's only rumbling over the palace steps you'll be.
and maybe they'll abuse you for a vagabond, who won't have the king's daughter; but you needn't mind that.
ah, it's a deal i'm giving up for you, sure as it is that i don't care for the princess."
"take my cattle in exchange," said the farmer; and you may guess it wasn't long before donald was at their tails, driving them homeward.
out came hudden and dudden, and the one took one end of the pole, and the other the other.
"i'm thinking he's heavier," said hudden.
"ah, never mind," said dudden; "it's only a step now to the brown lake."
"i'll have her now!
i'll have her now!"
bawled the farmer from inside the sack.
"by my faith and you shall, though," said hudden, and he laid his stick across the sack.
"i'll have her!
i'll have her!"
bawled the farmer, louder than ever.
"well, here you are," said dudden, for they were now come to the brown lake, and, unslinging the sack, they pitched it plump into the lake.
"you'll not be playing your tricks on us any longer," said hudden.
"true for you," said dudden.
"ah, donald, my boy, it was an ill day when you borrowed my scales!"
off they went, with a light step and an easy heart, but when they were near home, whom should they see but donald o'neary, and all around him the cows were grazing, and the calves were kicking up their heels and butting their heads together.
"is it you, donald?"
said dudden.
"faith, you've been quicker than we have."
"true for you, dudden, and let me thank you kindly; the turn was good, if the will was ill. you'll have heard, like me, that the brown lake leads to the land of promise.
i always put it down as lies, but it is just as true as my word.
look at the cattle."
hudden stared, and dudden gaped; but they couldn't get over the cattle; fine, fat cattle they were, too.
"it's only the worst i could bring up with me," said donald o'neary; "the others were so fat, there was no driving them.
faith, too, it's little wonder they didn't care to leave, with grass as far as you could see, and as sweet and juicy as fresh butter."
"ah now, donald, we haven't always been friends," said dudden, "but, as i was just saying, you were ever a decent lad, and you'll show us the way, won't you?"
"i don't see that i'm called upon to do that; there is a power more cattle down there.
why shouldn't i have them all to myself?"
"faith, they may well say, the richer you get, the harder the heart.
you always were a neighborly lad, donald.
you wouldn't wish to keep the luck all to yourself?"
"true for you, hudden, though it's a bad example you set me.
but i'll not be thinking of old times.
there is plenty for all there, so come along with me."
off they trudged, with a light heart and an eager step.
when they came to the brown lake the sky was full of little white clouds, and, if the sky was full, the lake was as full.
"ah, now, look!
there they are!"
cried donald as he pointed to the clouds in the lake.
"where?
where?"
cried hudden, and "don't be greedy!"
cried dudden, as he jumped his hardest to be up first with the fat cattle.
but if he jumped first, hudden wasn't long behind.
they never came back.
maybe they got too fat, like the cattle.
as for donald o'neary, he had cattle and sheep all his days to his heart's content.
connla of the golden hair and the fairy maiden
adapted by patrick weston joyce
connla of the golden hair was the son of conn the hundred-fighter.
one day as he stood with his father on the royal hill of usna, he saw a lady a little way off, very beautiful, and dressed in strange attire.
she approached the spot where he stood; and when she was near, he spoke to her, and asked who she was, and from what place she had come.
the lady replied: "i have come from the land of the living a land where there is neither death nor old age, nor any breach of law.
the inhabitants of earth call us aes-shee, for we have our dwellings within large, pleasant, green hills.
we pass our time very pleasantly in feasting and harmless amusements, never growing old; and we have no quarrels or contentions."
the king and his company marveled very much; for though they heard this conversation, no one saw the lady except connla alone.
"who is this thou art talking to, my son?"
said the king.
and anon she answered for the youth: "connla is speaking with a lovely, noble-born young lady, who will never die, and who will never grow old.
i love connla of the golden hair, and i have come to bring him with me to moy-mell, the plain of never-ending pleasure.
on the day that he comes with me he shall be made king, and he shall reign for ever in fairyland, without weeping and without sorrow.
come with me, o gentle connla of the ruddy cheek, the fair, freckled neck, and the golden hair!
come with me, beloved connla, and thou shalt retain the comeliness and dignity of thy form, free from the wrinkles of old age, till the awful day of judgment."
"thy flowing golden hair, thy comely face,   thy all majestic form of peerless grace,   that show thee sprung from conn's exalted race."
king conn the hundred-fighter being much troubled, called then on his druid coran, to put forth his power against the witchery of the banshee: "o coran of the mystic arts and of the mighty incantations, here is a contest such as i have never been engaged in since i was made king at tara a contest with an invisible lady, who is beguiling my son to fairyland by her baleful charms.
her cunning is beyond my skill, and i am not able to withstand her power; and if thou, coran, help not, my son will be taken away from me by the wiles and witchery of a woman from the fairy hills."
coran the druid then came forward, and began to chant against the voice of the lady.
and his power was greater than hers for that time, so that she was forced to retire.
as she was going away she threw an apple to connla, who straightway lost sight of her; and the king and his people no longer heard her voice.
the king and the prince returned with their company to the palace; and connla remained for a whole month without tasting food or drink except the apple.
and though he ate of it each day, it was never lessened, but was as whole and perfect in the end as at the beginning.
moreover, when they offered him aught else to eat or drink he refused it; for while he had his apple he did not deem any other food worthy to be tasted.
and he began to be very moody and sorrowful, thinking of the lovely fairy maiden.
at the end of the month, as connla stood by his father's side among the nobles, on the plain of arcomin, he saw the lady approaching him from the west.
and when she had come near, she addressed him in this manner: "a glorious seat, indeed, has connla among wretched, short-lived mortals, awaiting the dreadful stroke of death!
but now, the ever-youthful people of moy-mell, who never feel age, and who fear not death, seeing thee day by day among thy friends, in the assemblies of thy fatherland, love thee with a strange love, and they will make thee king over them if thou wilt come with me."
when the king heard the words of the lady, he commanded his people to call the druid again to him, saying, "bring my druid coran to me; for i see that the fairy lady has this day regained the power of her voice."
at this the lady said: "valiant conn, fighter of a hundred, the faith of the druids has come to little honor among the upright, mighty, numberless people of this land.
when the righteous law shall be restored, it will seal up the lips of the false black demon; and his druids shall no longer have power to work their guileful spells."
now the king observed, and marveled greatly, that whenever the lady was present his son never spoke one word to any one, even though they addressed him many times.
and when the lady had ceased to speak, the king said: "connla, my son, has thy mind been moved by the words of the lady?"
connla spake then, and replied, "father, i am very unhappy; for though i love my people beyond all, i am filled with sadness on account of this lady!"
when connla had said this, the maiden again addressed him, and chanted these words in a very sweet voice:
"a land of youth, a land of rest,     a land from sorrow free;   it lies far off in the golden west,     on the verge of the azure sea.
a swift canoe of crystal bright,     that never met mortal view
we shall reach the land ere fall of night,     in that strong and swift canoe;         we shall reach the strand         of that sunny land,     from druids and demons free;         the land of rest         in the golden west,     on the verge of the azure sea!
"a pleasant land of winding vales, bright streams, and verdurous plains,   where summer all the live-long year in changeless splendor reigns;   a peaceful land of calm delight, of everlasting bloom;   old age and death we never know, no sickness, care, or gloom;
the land of youth,         of love and truth,     from pain and sorrow free,         the land of rest,         in the golden west,     on the verge of the azure sea!
"there are strange delights for mortal men in that island of the west;   the sun comes down each evening in its lovely vales to rest;
and though far and dim         on the ocean's rim     it seems to mortal view,         we shall reach its halls         ere the evening falls,     in my strong and swift canoe;         and evermore         that verdant shore     our happy home shall be;         the land of rest,         in the golden west,     on the verge of the azure sea!
"it will guard thee, gentle connla of the flowing golden hair,   it will guard thee from the druids, from the demons of the air,   my crystal boat will guard thee, till we reach that western shore,   when thou and i in joy and love shall live for evermore:
from the druid's incantation,     from his black and deadly snare,   from the withering imprecation     of the demon of the air,
"it will guard thee, gentle connla of the flowing golden hair;   my crystal boat shall guard thee, till we reach that silver strand   where thou shalt reign in endless joy, the king of the fairyland!"
when the maiden had ended her chant, connla suddenly walked away from his father's side, and sprang into the curragh, the gleaming, straight-gliding, strong, crystal canoe.
the king and his people saw them afar off, and dimly moving away over the bright sea towards the sunset.
they gazed sadly after them, till they lost sight of the canoe over the utmost verge; and no one can tell whither they went, for connla was never again seen in his native land.
italian stories
pinocchio's adventures in wonderland[1]
by carlo lorenzini
i
master cherry finds a queer piece of wood
there was once upon a time ...
"a king!"
my little readers will instantly exclaim.
no, children, you are wrong.
there was once upon a time a piece of wood.
this wood was not valuable; it was only a common log like those that are burnt in winter in the stoves and fireplaces to make a cheerful blaze and warm the rooms.
i cannot say how it came about, but the fact is, that one fine day this piece of wood was lying in the shop of an old carpenter of the name of master antonio.
he was, however, called by everybody master cherry, on account of the end of his nose, which was always as red and polished as a ripe cherry.
no sooner had master cherry set his eyes on the piece of wood than his face beamed with delight; and, rubbing his hands together with satisfaction, he said softly to himself:
"this wood has come at the right moment; it will just do to make the leg of a little table."
having said this he immediately took a sharp axe with which to remove the bark and the rough surface.
just, however, as he was going to give the first stroke he remained with his arm suspended in the air, for he heard a very small voice saying imploringly: "do not strike me so hard!"
picture to yourselves the astonishment of good old master cherry!
he turned his terrified eyes all around the room to try and discover where the little voice could possibly have come from, but he saw nobody!
he looked under the bench nobody; he looked into a cupboard that was always shut nobody; he looked into a basket of shavings and sawdust nobody; he even opened the door of the shop and gave a glance into the street and still nobody.
who, then, could it be?
"i see how it is;" he said, laughing and scratching his wig; "evidently that little voice was all my imagination.
let us set to work again."
and taking up the axe he struck a tremendous blow on the piece of wood.
"oh!
oh!
you have hurt me!"
cried the same little voice dolefully.
this time master cherry was petrified.
his eyes started out of his head with fright, his mouth remained open, and his tongue hung out almost to the end of his chin like a mask on a fountain.
as soon as he had recovered the use of his speech, he began to say, stuttering and trembling with fear:
"but where on earth can that little voice have come from that said 'oh!
oh!?'...
here there is certainly not a living soul.
is it possible that this piece of wood can have learnt to cry and to lament like a child?
i cannot believe it.
this piece of wood here it is; a log for fuel like all others, and thrown on the fire it would about suffice to boil a saucepan of beans.... how then?
can anyone be hidden inside it?
if anyone is hidden inside, so much the worse for him.
i will settle him at once."
so saying he seized the poor piece of wood and commenced beating it without mercy against the walls of the room.
then he stopped to listen if he could hear any little voice lamenting.
he waited two minutes nothing; five minutes-nothing; ten minutes still nothing!
"i see how it is," he then said, forcing himself to laugh and pushing up his wig; "evidently, the little voice that said 'oh!
oh!'
was all my imagination!
let us to work again."
but all the same he was in a great fright; he tried to sing to give himself a little courage.
putting the axe aside he took his plane to plane and polish the bit of wood; but whilst he was running it up and down he heard the same little voice say, laughing:
"have done!
you are tickling me all over!"
this time poor master cherry fell down as if he had been struck by lightning.
when he at last opened his eyes he found himself seated on the floor.
his face was quite changed; even the end of his nose, instead of being crimson, as it was nearly always, had become blue from fright.
ii
geppetto plans a wonderful puppet
at that moment some one knocked at the door.
"come in," said the carpenter, without having the strength to rise to his feet.
a lively little old man immediately walked into the shop.
his name was geppetto, but when the boys in the neighborhood wished to put him in a passion they called him by the nickname of polendina, because his yellow wig greatly resembled a pudding made of indian corn.
geppetto was very fiery.
woe to him who called him polendina!
he became furious, and there was no holding him.
"good day, master antonio," said geppetto; "what are you doing there on the floor?"
"i am teaching the alphabet to the ants."
"much good may that do you."
"what has brought you to me, neighbor geppetto?"
"my legs.
but to say the truth, master antonio, i am come to ask a favor of you."
"here i am ready to serve you," replied the carpenter getting on his knees.
"this morning an idea came into my head."
"let us hear it."
"i thought i would make a beautiful wooden puppet that should know how to dance, to fence, and to leap like an acrobat.
with this puppet i would travel about the world to earn a piece of bread and a glass of wine.
what do you think of it?"
"bravo, polendina!"
exclaimed the same little voice, and it was impossible to say where it came from.
hearing himself called polendina, geppetto became as red as a turkey-cock from rage, and turning to the carpenter he said in a fury:
"why do you insult me?"
"who insults you?"
"you called me polendina!"
"it was not i!"
"would you have it then, that it was i?
it was you, i say!"
"no!"
"yes!"
"no!"
"yes!"
and becoming more and more angry, from words they came to blows, and flying at each other they bit, and fought, and scratched manfully.
when the fight was over master antonio was in possession of geppetto's yellow wig, and geppetto discovered that the gray wig belonging to the carpenter had remained between his teeth.
"give me back my wig," screamed master antonio.
"and you return me mine, and let us make friends."
the two old men having each recovered his own wig shook hands, and swore that they would remain friends to the end of their lives.
"well then, neighbor geppetto," said the carpenter, to prove that peace was made, "what is the favor that you wish of me?"
"i want a little wood to make my puppet; will you give me some?"
master antonio was delighted, and he immediately went to the bench and fetched the piece of wood that had caused him so much fear.
just as he was going to give it to his friend the piece of wood gave a shake and wriggling violently out of his hands struck with all its force against the dried-up shins of poor geppetto.
"ah!
is that the courteous way in which you make your presents, master antonio?
you have almost lamed me!"
"i swear to you that it was not i!"
"then you would have it that it was i?"
"the wood is entirely to blame!"
"i know that it was the wood, but it was you that hit my legs with it!"
"i did not hit you with it!"
"liar!"
"geppetto, don't insult me or i will call you polendina!"
"ass!"
"polendina!"
"donkey!"
"polendina!"
"baboon!"
"polendina!"
on hearing himself called polendina for the third time geppetto, blind with rage, fell upon the carpenter and they fought desperately.
when the battle was over, master antonio had two more scratches on his nose, and his adversary had two buttons less on his waistcoat.
their accounts being thus squared they shook hands, and swore to remain good friends for the rest of their lives.
geppetto carried off his fine piece of wood, and thanking master antonio returned limping to his house.
iii
the puppet is named pinocchio
geppetto lived in a small ground-floor room that was only lighted from the staircase.
the furniture could not have been simpler a bad chair, a poor bed, and a broken-down table.
at the end of the room there was a fireplace with a lighted fire; but the fire was painted, and by the fire was painted a saucepan that was boiling cheerfully, and sending out a cloud of smoke that looked exactly like real smoke.
as soon as he reached home geppetto took his tools and set to work to cut out and model his puppet.
"what name shall i give him?"
he said to himself; "i think i will call him pinocchio.
it is a name that will bring him luck.
i once knew a whole family so called.
there was pinocchio the father, pinocchia the mother, and pinocchi the children, and all of them did well.
the richest of them was a beggar."
having found a name for his puppet he began to work in good earnest, and he first made his hair, then his forehead and then his eyes.
the eyes being finished, imagine his astonishment when he perceived that they moved and looked fixedly at him.
geppetto seeing himself stared at by those two wooden eyes, took it almost in bad part, and said in an angry voice:
"wicked wooden eyes, why do you look at me?"
no one answered.
then he proceeded to carve the nose; but no sooner had he made it than it began to grow.
and it grew, and grew, and grew until in a few minutes it had become an immense nose that seemed as if it would never end.
poor geppetto tired himself out with cutting it off.
but the more he cut and shortened it, the longer did that impertinent nose become!
the mouth was not even completed when it began to laugh and deride him.
"stop laughing!"
said geppetto provoked; but he might as well have spoken to the wall.
"stop laughing, i say!"
he roared in a threatening tone.
the mouth then ceased laughing, but put out its tongue as far as it would go.
geppetto, not to spoil his handiwork, pretended not to see, and continued his labors.
after the mouth he fashioned the chin, then the throat, and then the shoulders, the stomach, the arms and the hands.
the hands were scarcely finished when geppetto felt his wig snatched from his head.
he turned round, and what did he see?
he saw his yellow wig in the puppet's hand.
"pinocchio!...
give me back my wig instantly!"
but pinocchio instead of returning it, put it on his own head, and was in consequence nearly smothered.
geppetto at this insolent and derisive behavior felt sadder and more melancholy than he had ever been in his life before; and turning to pinocchio he said to him:
"you young rascal!
you are not yet completed, and you are already beginning to show want of respect to your father!
that is bad, my boy, very bad."
and he dried a tear.
the legs and feet remained to be done.
when geppetto had finished the feet he received a kick on the point of the nose.
"i deserve it!"
he said to himself; "i should have thought of it sooner!
now it is too late!"
he then took the puppet under the arms and placed him on the floor to teach him to walk.
pinocchio's legs were stiff and he could not move, but geppetto led him by the hand and showed him how to put one foot before the other.
when his legs became flexible pinocchio began to walk by himself and to run about the room; until, having gone out of the house door, he jumped into the street and escaped.
poor geppetto rushed after him but was not able to overtake him, for that rascal pinocchio leapt in front of him like a hare, and knocking his wooden feet together against the pavement made as much clatter as twenty pairs of peasant's clogs.
"stop him!
stop him!"
shouted geppetto; but the people in the street, seeing a wooden puppet running like a racehorse stood still in astonishment to look at it, and laughed, and laughed, and laughed, until it beats description....
iv
the fire-eater frightens pinocchio
when pinocchio came into the little puppet theater, an incident occurred that almost produced a revolution.
i must tell you that the curtain was drawn up, and the play had already begun.
on the stage harlequin and punchinello were as usual quarreling with each other, and threatening every moment to come to blows.
the audience, all attention, laughed till they were ill as they listened to the bickerings of these two puppets, who gesticulated and abused each other so naturally that they might have been two reasonable beings, and two persons of the world.
all at once harlequin stopped short, and turning to the public he pointed with his hand to some one far down in the pit, and exclaimed in a dramatic tone:
"gods of the firmament!
do i dream, or am i awake?
but surely that is pinocchio!"
"it is indeed pinocchio!"
cried punchinello.
"it is indeed himself!"
screamed miss rose, peeping from behind the scenes.
"it is pinocchio!
it is pinocchio!"
shouted all the puppets in chorus, leaping from all sides on to the stage.
"it is pinocchio!
it is our brother pinocchio!
long live pinocchio!"
"pinocchio, come up here to me," cried harlequin, "and throw yourself into the arms of your wooden brothers!"
at this affectionate invitation pinocchio made a leap from the end of the pit into the reserved seats; another leap landed him on the head of the leader of the orchestra, and then he sprang upon the stage.
the embraces, the hugs, the friendly pinches, and the demonstrations of warm brotherly affection that pinocchio received from the excited crowd of actors and actresses of the puppet dramatic company beat description.
the sight was doubtless a moving one, but the public in the pit, finding that the play was stopped, became impatient, and began to shout "we will have the play go on with the play!"
it was all breath thrown away.
the puppets, instead of continuing the recital, redoubled their noise and outcries, and putting pinocchio on their shoulders they carried him in triumph before the footlights.
at that moment out came the showman.
he was very big and so ugly that the sight of him was enough to frighten anyone.
his beard was as black as ink, and so long that it reached from his chin to the ground.
i need only say that he trod upon it when he walked.
his mouth was as big as an oven, and his eyes were like two lanterns of red glass with lights burning inside of them.
he carried a whip made of snakes and foxes' tails twisted together, which he cracked constantly.
at his unexpected appearance there was a profound silence: no one dared to breathe.
a fly might have been heard in the stillness.
the poor puppets of both sexes trembled like so many leaves.
"why have you come to raise a disturbance in my theater?"
asked the showman of pinocchio in the gruff voice of a hob-goblin suffering from a severe cold in the head.
"believe me, honored sir, that it was not my fault!"
"that is enough!
to-night we will settle our accounts."
as soon as the play was over the showman went into the kitchen where a fine sheep, preparing for his supper, was turning slowly on the spit in front of the fire.
as there was not enough wood to finish roasting and browning it, he called harlequin and punchinello, and said to them:
"bring that puppet here; you will find him hanging on a nail.
it seems to me that he is made of very dry wood, and i am sure that if he was thrown on the fire he would make a beautiful blaze for the roast."
at first harlequin and punchinello hesitated; but, appalled by a severe glance from their master, they obeyed.
in a short time they returned to the kitchen carrying poor pinocchio, who was wriggling like an eel taken out of water, and screaming desperately, "papa!
papa!
save me!
i will not die, i will not die!"
v.
fire-eater sneezes and pardons pinocchio
the showman fire-eater for that was his name looked, i must say, a terrible man, especially with his black beard that covered his chest and legs like an apron.
on the whole, however, he had not a bad heart.
in proof of this, when he saw pinocchio brought before him, struggling and screaming "i will not die, i will not die!"
he was quite moved and felt sorry for him.
he tried to hold out, but after a little he could stand it no longer and he sneezed violently.
when he heard the sneeze, harlequin, who up to that moment had been in the deepest affliction, and bowed down like a weeping willow, became quite cheerful, and leaning towards pinocchio he whispered to him softly:
"good news, brother.
the showman has sneezed, and that is a sign that he pities you, and consequently you are saved."
for you must know that whilst most men when they feel compassion for somebody either weep, or at least pretend to dry their eyes, fire-eater, on the contrary, had the habit of sneezing.
after he had sneezed, the showman, still acting the ruffian, shouted to pinocchio:
"have done crying!
your lamentations have given me a pain in my stomach ... i feel a spasm, that almost.... etci!
etci!"
and he sneezed again twice.
"bless you!"
said pinocchio.
"thank you!
and your papa and your mamma, are they still alive?"
asked fire-eater.
"papa, yes: my mamma i have never known."
"who can say what a sorrow it would be to your poor old father if i was to have you thrown amongst those burning coals!
poor old man!
i compassionate him!...
etci!
etci!
etci!"
and he sneezed three times.
"bless you!"
said pinocchio.
"thank you!
all the same, some compassion is due to me, for you see i have no more wood with which to finish roasting my mutton, and to tell you the truth, under the circumstances you would have been of great use to me!
however, i have had pity on you, so i must have patience.
instead of you i will burn under the spit one of the puppets belonging to my company.
ho there, gendarmes!"
at this call two wooden gendarmes immediately appeared.
they were very long and very thin and had on cocked hats, and held unsheathed swords in their hands.
the showman said to them in a hoarse voice:
"take harlequin, bind him securely, and then throw him on the fire to burn.
i am determined that my mutton shall be well roasted."
only imagine that poor harlequin!
his terror was so great that his legs bent under him, and he fell with his face on the ground.
at this agonizing sight pinocchio, weeping bitterly, threw himself at the showman's feet, and bathing his long beard with his tears he began to say in a supplicating voice:
"have pity, sir fire-eater!"
"here there are no sirs," the showman answered severely.
"have pity, sir knight!"
"here there are no knights!"
"have pity, commander!"
"here there are no commanders!"
"have pity, excellence!"
upon hearing himself called excellence the showman began to smile, and became at once kinder and more tractable.
turning to pinocchio he asked:
"well, what do you want from me?"
"i implore you to pardon poor harlequin."
"for him there can be no pardon.
as i have spared you he must be put on the fire, for i am determined that my mutton shall be well roasted."
"in that case," cried pinocchio proudly, rising and throwing away his cap of bread crumb "in that case i know my duty.
come on, gendarmes!
bind me and throw me amongst the flames.
no, it is not just that poor harlequin, my true friend, should die for me!"
these words, pronounced in a loud heroic voice, made all the puppets who were present cry.
even the gendarmes, although they were made of wood, wept like two newly-born lambs.
fire-eater at first remained as hard and unmoved as ice, but little by little he began to melt and to sneeze.
and having sneezed four or five times, he opened his arms affectionately, and said to pinocchio:
"you are a good brave boy!
come here and give me a kiss."
pinocchio ran at once, and climbing like a squirrel up the showman's beard he deposited a hearty kiss on the point of his nose.
"then the pardon is granted?"
asked poor harlequin in a faint voice that was scarcely audible.
"the pardon is granted!"
answered fire-eater.
he then added, sighing and shaking his head:
"i must have patience!
to-night i shall have to resign myself to eat the mutton half raw; but another time, woe to him who chances!"
at the news of the pardon all the puppets ran to the stage, and having lighted the lamps and chandeliers as if for a full-dress performance, they began to leap and to dance merrily.
at dawn they were still dancing.
vi
the showman becomes generous
the following day fire-eater called pinocchio to one side and asked him:
"what is your father's name?"
"geppetto."
"and what trade does he follow?"
"he is a beggar."
"does he gain much?"
"gain much?
why, he has never a penny in his pocket.
only think, to buy a spelling-book for me to go to school, he was obliged to sell the only coat he had to wear a coat that between patches and darns was not fit to be seen."
"poor devil!
i feel almost sorry for him!
here are five gold pieces.
go at once and take them to him with my compliments."
you can easily understand that pinocchio thanked the showman a thousand times.
he embraced all the puppets of the company one by one, even to the gendarmes, and beside himself with delight set out to return home.
but he had not gone far when he met on the road a fox lame in one foot, and a cat blind in both eyes, who were going along helping each other like good companions in misfortune.
the fox who was lame walked leaning on the cat, and the cat who was blind was guided by the fox.
"good day, pinocchio," said the fox, accosting him politely.
"how do you come to know my name?"
asked the puppet.
"i know your father well."
"where did you see him?"
"i saw him yesterday at the door of his house."
"and what was he doing?"
"he was in his shirt sleeves and shivering with cold."
"poor papa!
but that is over; for the future he shall shiver no more."
"why?"
"because i am become a gentleman."
"a gentleman you!"
said the fox, and he began to laugh rudely and scornfully.
the cat also began to laugh, but to conceal it she combed her whiskers with her forepaws.
"there is little to laugh at," cried pinocchio angrily.
"i am really sorry to make your mouths water, but if you know anything about it, you can see that here are five gold pieces."
and he pulled out the money that fire-eater had made him a present of.
at the sympathetic ring of the money the fox with an involuntary movement stretched out the paw that had seemed crippled, and the cat opened wide two eyes that looked like two green lanterns.
it is true that she shut them again, and so quickly that pinocchio observed nothing.
"and now," asked the fox, "what are you going to do with all that money?"
"first of all," answered the puppet, "i intend to buy a new coat for my papa, made of gold and silver, and with diamond buttons, and then i will buy a spelling-book for myself."
"for yourself?"
"yes, indeed, for i wish to go to school to study in earnest."
"look at me!"
said the fox.
"through my foolish passion for study i have lost a leg."
"look at me!"
said the cat.
"through my foolish passion for study i have lost the sight of both my eyes."
at that moment a white blackbird, that was perched on the hedge by the road, began his usual song, and said:
"pinocchio, don't listen to the advice of bad companions; if you do you will repent it!"
poor blackbird!
if only he had not spoken!
the cat with a great leap sprang upon him and without even giving him time to say "oh!"
ate him in a mouthful, feathers and all.
having eaten him and cleaned her mouth she shut her eyes again and feigned blindness as before.
"poor blackbird!"
said pinocchio to the cat.
"why did you treat him so badly?"
"i did it to give him a lesson.
he will learn another time not to meddle in other people's conversation."
they had gone almost half-way when the fox, halting suddenly, said to the puppet:
"would you like to double your money?"
"in what way?"
"would you like to make out of your five miserable gold pieces, a hundred, a thousand, two thousand?"
"i should think so!
but in what way?"
"the way is easy enough.
instead of returning home you must go with us."
"and where do you wish to take me?"
"to the land of the owls."
pinocchio reflected a moment, and then he said resolutely:
"no, i will not go.
i am already close to the house, and i will return home to my papa who is waiting for me.
who can tell how often the poor old man must have sighed yesterday when i did not come back!
i have been a bad son, indeed, and the talking-cricket was right when he said 'disobedient boys never come to any good in the world.'
i have found it to my cost, for many misfortunes have happened to me.
even yesterday in fire-eater's house i ran the risk.... oh!
it makes me shudder only to think of it."
"well, then," said the fox, "you are quite decided to go home?
go, then, and so much the worse for you."
"so much the worse for you!"
repeated the cat.
"think well of it, pinocchio, for you are giving a kick to fortune."
"to fortune!"
repeated the cat.
"between to-day and to-morrow your five gold pieces would have become two thousand."
"two thousand!"
repeated the cat.
"but how is it possible that they could have become so many?"
asked pinocchio, remaining with his mouth open from astonishment.
"i will explain it to you at once," said the fox.
"you must know that in the land of the owls there is a sacred field called by everybody the field of miracles.
in this field you must dig a little hole, and you put into it, we will say one gold piece.
then you cover up the hole with a little earth; you water it with two pails of water from the fountain, then sprinkle it with two pinches of salt, and when night comes you can go quietly to bed.
in the meanwhile, during the night, the gold piece will grow and flower, and in the morning when you return to the field, what do you find?
you find a beautiful tree laden with as many gold pieces as an ear of corn has grains in the month of june."
"so that," said pinocchio, more and more bewildered, "supposing i buried my five gold pieces in that field, how many should i find there the following morning?"
"that is exceedingly easy calculation," replied the fox, "a calculation that you can make on the ends of your fingers.
suppose that every gold piece gives you an increase of five hundred; multiply five hundred by five, and the following morning will find you with two thousand five hundred shining gold pieces in your pocket."
"oh!
how delightful!"
cried pinocchio, dancing for joy, "as soon as ever i have obtained those gold pieces, i will keep two thousand for myself, and the other five hundred i will make a present of to you two."
"a present to us?"
cried the fox with indignation, and appearing much offended.
"what are you dreaming of?"
"what are you dreaming of?"
repeated the cat.
"we do not work," said the fox, "for dirty interest, we work solely to enrich others."
"others!"
repeated the cat.
"what good people!"
thought pinocchio to himself; and forgetting there and then his papa, the new coat, the spelling-book, and all his good resolutions, he said to the fox and the cat:
"let us be off at once.
i will go with you."
vii
the inn of the red-crawfish
they walked, and walked, and walked, until at last, towards evening, they arrived dead tired at the inn of the red-crawfish.
"let us stop here, a little," said the fox, "that we may have something to eat and rest ourselves for an hour or two.
we will start again at midnight, so as to arrive at the field of miracles by dawn to-morrow morning."
having gone into the inn they all three sat down to table, but none of them had any appetite.
the cat, who was suffering from indigestion and feeling seriously indisposed, could only eat thirty-five mullet with tomato sauce, and four portions of tripe with parmesan cheese; and because she thought the tripe was not seasoned enough, she asked three times for the butter and grated cheese!
the fox would also willingly have picked a little, but as his doctor had ordered him a strict diet, he was forced to content himself simply with a hare dressed with a sweet and sour sauce, and garnished lightly with fat chickens and early pullets.
after the hare he sent for a made dish of partridges, rabbits, frogs, lizards, and other delicacies; he could not touch anything else.
he had such a disgust for food, he said, that he could put nothing to his lips.
the one who ate the least was pinocchio.
he asked for some walnuts and a hunch of bread, and left everything on his plate.
the poor boy, whose thoughts were continually fixed on the field of miracles, had got in anticipation an indigestion of gold pieces.
when they had supped the fox said to the host:
"give us two good rooms, one for mr. pinocchio, and the other for me and my companion.
we will snatch a little sleep before we leave.
remember, however, that at midnight we wish to be called to continue our journey."
"yes, gentlemen," answered the host, and he winked at the fox and the cat as much as to say: "i know what you are up to.
we understand one another!"
no sooner had pinocchio got into bed than he fell asleep at once and began to dream.
and he dreamt that he was in the middle of a field, and the field was filled with shrubs covered with clusters of gold pieces, and as they swung in the wind they went zin, zin, zin, almost as if they would say: "let who will come and take us."
but when pinocchio was at the most interesting moment, that is, just as he was stretching out his hand to pick handfuls of those beautiful gold pieces and put them in his pockets, he was suddenly wakened by three violent blows on the door of his room.
it was the host who had come to tell him that midnight had struck.
"are my companions ready?"
asked the puppet.
"ready!
why, they left two hours ago."
"why were they in such a hurry?"
"because the cat had received a message to say that her eldest kitten was ill with chilblains on his feet, and was in danger of death."
"did they pay for supper?"
"what are you thinking of?
they are too highly educated to dream of offering such an insult to a gentleman like you."
"what a pity!
it is an insult that would have given me so much pleasure!"
said pinocchio, scratching his head.
he then asked:
"and where did my good friends say they would wait for me?"
"at the field of miracles, to-morrow morning at daybreak."
pinocchio paid a gold piece for his supper and that of his companions and then he left.
outside the inn it was so pitch dark that he had almost to grope his way, for it was impossible to see a hand's breadth in front of him.
in the adjacent country not a leaf moved.
only some night-birds flying across the road from one hedge to the other brushed pinocchio's nose with their wings as they passed, which caused him so much terror that springing back, he shouted: "who goes there?"
and the echo in the surrounding hills repeated in the distance: "who goes there?
who goes there?
who goes there?
"...
viii
the puppet falls among assassins
he turned to look, and saw in the gloom two evil-looking black figures completely enveloped in charcoal sacks.
they were running after him on tiptoe, and making great leaps like two phantoms.
"here they are in reality!"
he said to himself, and not knowing where to hide his gold pieces he put them in his mouth precisely under his tongue.
then he tried to escape.
but he had not gone a step when he felt himself seized by the arm, and heard two sepulchral voices saying to him:
"your money or your life!"
pinocchio, not being able to answer in words, owing to the money in his mouth, made a thousand low bows and a thousand pantomimes.
he tried thus to make the two muffled figures, whose eyes were only visible through the holes in their sacks, understand that he was a poor puppet, and that he had not as much as a false penny in his pocket.
"come now!
less nonsense and out with the money!"
cried the two brigands threateningly.
and the puppet made a gesture with his hands to signify "i have got none."
"deliver up your money or you are dead," said the tallest of the brigands.
"dead!"
repeated the other.
"and after we have killed you, we will also kill your father!"
"also your father!"
"no, no, no, not my poor papa!"
cried pinocchio in a despairing tone; and as he said it, the gold pieces clinked in his mouth.
"ah!
you rascal!
then you have hidden your money under your tongue!
spit it out at once!"
but pinocchio was obdurate.
and one of them seized the puppet by the end of his nose, and the other took him by the chin, and began to pull them brutally, the one up, and the other down, to constrain him to open his mouth, but it was all to no purpose.
pinocchio's mouth seemed to be nailed and riveted together.
then the shortest assassin drew out an ugly knife and tried to force it between his lips like a lever or chisel.
but pinocchio as quick as lightning caught his hand with his teeth, and with one bite bit it clean off and spat it out.
imagine his astonishment when instead of a hand he perceived that he had spat a cat's paw on to the ground.
encouraged by his first victory he used his nails to such purpose that he succeeded in liberating himself from his assailants, and jumping the hedge by the roadside he began to fly across the country.
the assassins ran after him like two dogs chasing a hare; and the one who had lost the paw ran on one leg and no one ever knew how he managed it.
after a race of some miles pinocchio could do no more.
giving himself up for lost he climbed the stem of a very high pine-tree and seated himself in the topmost branches.
the assassins attempted to climb after him, but when they had reached halfway up the stem they slid down again, and arrived on the ground with the skin grazed from their hands and knees.
but they were not to be beaten by so little; collecting a quantity of dry wood they piled it beneath the pine and set fire to it.
in less time than it takes to tell the pine began to burn and flame like a candle blown by the wind.
pinocchio, seeing that the flames were mounting higher every instant, and not wishing to end his life like a roasted pigeon, made a stupendous leap from the top of the tree and started afresh across the fields and vineyards.
the assassins followed him, and kept behind him without once giving in.
the day began to break and they were still pursuing him.
suddenly pinocchio found his way barred by a wide, deep ditch full of dirty water the color of coffee.
what was he to do?
"one!
two!
three!"
cried the puppet, and making a rush he sprang to the other side.
the assassins also jumped, but not having measured the distance properly splash, splash!...
they fell into the very middle of the ditch.
pinocchio who heard the plunge and the splashing of water, shouted out, laughing and without stopping:
"a fine bath to you, gentlemen assassins."
he felt convinced that they were drowned, when, turning to look he perceived that, on the contrary, they were both running after him, still enveloped in their sacks with the water dripping from them as if they had been two hollow baskets....
ix
the fox and the cat
pinocchio set out; and as soon as he was in the wood he began to run like a kid.
but when he had reached a certain spot, almost in front of the big oak, he stopped because he thought that he heard people amongst the bushes.
in fact, two persons came out on the road.
can you guess who they were?...
his two traveling companions, the fox and the cat, with whom he had supped at the inn of the red-crawfish.
"why here is our dear pinocchio!"
cried the fox, kissing and embracing him.
"how come you to be here?"
"how come you to be here?"
repeated the cat.
"it is a long story," answered the puppet, "which i will tell you when i have time.
but do you know that the other night, when you left me alone at the inn, i met with assassins on the road."
"assassins!...
oh, poor pinocchio!
and what did they want?"
"they wanted to rob me of my gold pieces."
"villains!"
said the fox.
"infamous villains!"
repeated the cat.
"but i ran away from them," continued the puppet, "and they followed me, and at last they overtook me and hung me to a branch of that oak-tree."
and pinocchio pointed to the big oak, which was two steps from them.
"is it possible to hear of anything more dreadful?"
said the fox.
"in what a world we are condemned to live!
where can respectable people like us find a safe refuge?"
whilst they were thus talking pinocchio observed that the cat was lame of her front right leg, for in fact she had lost her paw with all its claws.
he therefore asked her:
"what have you done with your paw!"
the cat tried to answer but became confused.
therefore the fox said immediately:
"my friend is too modest, and that is why she doesn't speak.
i will answer for her.
i must tell you that an hour ago we met an old wolf on the road, almost fainting from want of food, who asked alms of us.
not having so much as a fish-bone to give to him, what did my friend, who has really the heart of a cæsar, do?
she bit off one of her forepaws, and threw it to that poor beast that he might appease his hunger."
and the fox, in relating this, dried a tear.
pinocchio was also touched, and approaching the cat he whispered into her ear:
"if all cats resemble you, how fortunate the mice would be!"
"and now, what are you doing here?"
asked the fox of the puppet.
"i am waiting for my papa, whom i expect to arrive every moment."
"and your gold pieces?"
"i have got them in my pocket, all but one that i spent at the inn of the red-crawfish."
"and to think that, instead of four pieces, by to-morrow they might become one or two thousand!
why do you not listen to my advice?
why will you not go and bury them in the field of miracles?"
"to-day it is impossible, i will go another day."
"another day it will be too late!"
said the fox.
"why?"
"because the field has been bought by a gentleman, and after to-morrow no one will be allowed to bury money there."
"how far off is the field of miracles?"
"not two miles.
will you come with us?
in half an hour you will be there.
you can bury your money at once, and in a few minutes you will collect two thousand, and this evening you will return with your pockets full.
will you come with us?"
pinocchio thought of the good fairy, old geppetto, and the warning of the talking-cricket, and he hesitated a little before answering.
he ended however, by doing as all boys do who have not a grain of sense and who have no heart he ended by giving his head a little shake, and saying to the fox and cat:
"let us go: i will come with you."
and they went.
after having walked half the day they reached a town that was called "trap for blockheads."
as soon as pinocchio entered this town, he saw that the streets were crowded with dogs who had lost their coats and who were yawning from hunger, shorn sheep trembling with cold, cocks without combs or crests who were begging for a grain of indian corn, large butterflies who could no longer fly because they had sold their beautiful colored wings, peacocks who had no tails and were ashamed to be seen, and pheasants who went scratching about in a subdued fashion, mourning for their brilliant gold and silver feathers gone for ever.
in the midst of this crowd of beggars and shamefaced creatures, some lordly carriage passed from time to time containing a fox, or a thieving magpie, or some other ravenous bird of prey.
"and where is the field of miracles?"
asked pinocchio.
"it is here, not two steps from us."
they crossed the town, and having gone beyond the walls they came to a solitary field which to look at resembled all other fields.
"we are arrived," said the fox to the puppet.
"now stoop down and dig with your hands a little hole in the ground and put your gold pieces into it."
pinocchio obeyed.
he dug a hole, put into it the four gold pieces that he had left, and then filled up the hole with a little earth.
"now, then," said the fox, "go to that canal close to us, fetch a can of water, and water the ground where you have sowed them."
pinocchio went to the canal, and as he had no can he took off one of his old shoes and filling it with water he watered the ground over the hole.
he then asked:
"is there anything else to be done?"
"nothing else," answered the fox.
"we can now go away.
you can return in about twenty minutes, and you will find a shrub already pushing through the ground, with its branches quite loaded with money."
the poor puppet, beside himself with joy, thanked the fox and the cat a thousand times, and promised them a beautiful present.
"we wish for no presents," answered the two rascals.
"it is enough for us to have taught you the way to enrich yourself without undergoing hard work, and we are as happy as folk out for a holiday."
thus saying they took leave of pinocchio, and wishing him a good harvest went about their business.
x
pinocchio is robbed
the puppet returned to the town and began to count the minutes one by one; and when he thought it must be time he took the road leading to the field of miracles.
and as he walked along with hurried steps his heart beat fast, tic, tac, tic, tac, like a drawing-room clock when it is really going well.
meanwhile he was thinking to himself:
"and if instead of a thousand gold pieces, i was to find on the branches of the tree two thousand?...
and instead of two thousand supposing i found five thousand?
and instead of five thousand that i found a hundred thousand?
oh!
what a fine gentleman i should then become!...
i would have a beautiful palace, a thousand little wooden horses and a thousand stables to amuse myself with, a cellar full of currant-wine, and sweet syrups, and a library quite full of candies, tarts, plum-cakes, macaroons, and biscuits with cream."
whilst he was building these castles in the air he had arrived in the neighborhood of the field, and he stopped to look if by chance he could perceive a tree with its branches laden with money; but he saw nothing.
he advanced another hundred steps nothing; he entered the field ... he went right up to the little hole where he had buried his gold pieces and nothing.
he then became very thoughtful, and forgetting the rules of society and good manners he took his hands out of his pockets and gave his head a long scratch.
at that moment he heard an explosion of laughter close to him, and looking up he saw a large parrot perched on a tree, who was preening the few feathers he had left.
"why are you laughing?"
asked pinocchio in an angry voice.
"i am laughing because in preening my feathers i tickled myself under my wings."
the puppet did not answer, but went to the canal and, filling the same old shoe full of water, he proceeded to water the earth afresh that covered his gold pieces.
whilst he was thus occupied another laugh, and still more impertinent than the first, rang out in the silence of that solitary place.
"once for all," shouted pinocchio in a rage, "may i know, you ill-educated parrot, what are you laughing at?"
"i am laughing at those simpletons who believe in all the foolish things that are told them, and who allow themselves to be entrapped by those who are more cunning than they are."
"are you perhaps speaking of me?"
"yes, i am speaking of you, poor pinocchio of you who are simple enough to believe that money can be sown and gathered in fields in the same way as beans and gourds.
i also believed it once, and to-day i am suffering for it.
to-day but it is too late i have at last learnt that to put a few pennies honestly together it is necessary to know how to earn them, either by the work of our own hands or by the cleverness of our own brains."
"i don't understand you," said the puppet who was already trembling with fear.
"have patience!
i will explain myself better," rejoined the parrot.
"you must know, then, that whilst you were in the town the fox and the cat returned to the field; they took the buried money and then fled like the wind.
and now he that catches them will be clever."
pinocchio remained with his mouth open, and not choosing to believe the parrot's words he began with his hands and nails to dig up the earth that he had watered.
and he dug, and dug, and dug, and made such a deep hole that a rick of straw might have stood up in it; but the money was no longer there.
he rushed back to the town in a state of desperation, and went at once to the courts of justice to denounce the two knaves who had robbed him to the judge.
the judge was a big ape of the gorilla tribe an old ape respectable for his age, his white beard, but especially for his gold spectacles without glasses that he always was obliged to wear, on account of an inflammation of the eyes that had tormented him for many years.
pinocchio related in the presence of the judge all the particulars of the infamous fraud of which he had been the victim.
he gave the names, the surnames, and other details, of the two rascals, and ended by demanding justice.
the judge listened with great benignity; took a lively interest in the story; and was much touched and moved; and when the puppet had nothing further to say he stretched out his hand and rang a bell.
at this summons two mastiffs immediately appeared dressed as gendarmes.
the judge then, pointing to pinocchio said to them:
"that poor devil has been robbed of four gold pieces; take him up, and put him immediately into prison."
the puppet was petrified on hearing this unexpected sentence, and tried to protest; but the gendarmes, to avoid losing time, stopped his mouth, and carried him off to the lockup.
and there he remained for four months four long months and he would have remained longer still if a fortunate chance had not released him.
for i must tell you that the young emperor who reigned over the town of "trap for blockheads," having won a splendid victory over his enemies, ordered great public rejoicings.
there were illuminations, fire-works, horse races, and velocipede races, and as a further sign of triumph he commanded that the prisons should be opened and all prisoners liberated.
"if the others are to be let out of prison, i will go also," said pinocchio to the jailor.
"no, not you," said the jailor, "because you do not belong to the fortunate class."
"i beg your pardon," replied pinocchio, "i am also a criminal."
"in that case you are perfectly right," said the jailor; and taking off his hat and bowing to him respectfully he opened the prison door and let him escape.
[footnote 1: copyright, 1898, by jordan, marsh and co. used by permission.]
japanese stories
the story of the man who did not wish to die
adapted by yei theodora ozaki
long, long ago there lived a man called sentaro.
his surname meant "millionaire," but although he was not so rich as all that, he was still very far removed from being poor.
he had inherited a small fortune from his father and lived on this, spending his time carelessly, without any serious thoughts of work, till he was about thirty-two years of age.
one day, without any reason whatsoever, the thought of death and sickness came to him.
the idea of falling ill or dying made him very wretched.
"i should like to live," he said to himself, "till i am five or six hundred years old at least, free from all sickness.
the ordinary span of a man's life is very short."
he wondered whether it were possible, by living simply and frugally henceforth, to prolong his life as long as he wished.
he knew there were many stories in ancient history of emperors who had lived a thousand years, and there was a princess of yamato, who it was said, lived to the age of five hundred.
this was the latest story of a very long life on record.
sentaro had often heard the tale of the chinese king named shin-no-shiko.
he was one of the most able and powerful rulers in chinese history.
he built all the large palaces, and also the famous great wall of china.
he had everything in the world he could wish for, but in spite of all his happiness, and the luxury and splendor of his court, the wisdom of his councilors and the glory of his reign, he was miserable because he knew that one day he must die and leave it all.
when shin-no-shiko went to bed at night, when he rose in the morning, as he went through his day, the thought of death was always with him.
he could not get away from it.
ah if only he could find the elixir of life, he would be happy.
the emperor at last called a meeting of his courtiers and asked them all if they could not find for him the elixir of life of which he had so often read and heard.
one old courtier, jofuku by name, said that far away across the seas there was a country called horaizan, and that certain hermits lived there who possessed the secret of the elixir of life.
whoever drank of this wonderful draught lived forever.
the emperor ordered jofuku to set out for the land of horaizan, to find the hermits, and to bring him back a phial of the magic elixir.
he gave jofuku one of his best junks, fitted it out for him, and loaded it with great quantities of treasures and precious stones for jofuku to take as presents to the hermits.
jofuku sailed for the land of horaizan, but he never returned to the waiting emperor; but ever since that time mount fuji has been said to be the fabled horaizan and the home of hermits who had the secret of the elixir, and jofuku has been worshipped as their patron god.
now sentaro determined to set out to find the hermits, and if he could, to become one, so that he might obtain the water of perpetual life.
he remembered that as a child he had been told that not only did these hermits live on mount fuji, but that they were said to inhabit all the very high peaks.
so he left his old home to the care of his relatives, and started out on his quest.
he traveled through all the mountainous regions of the land, climbing to the tops of the highest peaks, but never a hermit did he find.
at last, after wandering in an unknown region for many days, he met a hunter.
"can you tell me," asked sentaro, "where the hermits live who have the elixir of life?"
"no," said the hunter; "i can't tell you where such hermits live, but there is a notorious robber living in these parts.
it is said that he is chief of a band of two hundred followers."
this odd answer irritated sentaro very much, and he thought how foolish it was to waste more time in looking for the hermits in this way, so he decided to go at once to the shrine of jofuku, who is worshipped as the patron god of the hermits in the south of japan.
sentaro reached the shrine and prayed for seven days, entreating jofuku to show him the way to a hermit who could give him what he wanted so much to find.
at midnight of the seventh day, as sentaro knelt in the temple, the door of the innermost shrine flew open, and jofuku appeared in a luminous cloud, and calling to sentaro to come nearer, spoke thus:
"your desire is a very selfish one and cannot be easily granted.
you think that you would like to become a hermit so as to find the elixir of life.
do you know how hard a hermit's life is?
a hermit is only allowed to eat fruit and berries and the bark of pine trees; a hermit must cut himself off from the world so that his heart may become as pure as gold and free from every earthly desire.
gradually after following these strict rules, the hermit ceases to feel hunger or cold or heat, and his body becomes so light that he can ride on a crane or a carp, and can walk on water without getting his feet wet.
"you, sentaro, are fond of good living and of every comfort.
you are not even like an ordinary man, for you are exceptionally idle, and more sensitive to heat and cold than most people.
you would never be able to go barefoot or to wear only one thin garment in the winter time!
do you think that you would ever have the patience or the endurance to live a hermit's life?
"in answer to your prayer, however, i will help you in another way.
i will send you to the country of perpetual life, where death never comes where the people live for ever!"
saying this, jofuku put into sentaro's hand a little crane made of paper, telling him to sit on its back and it would carry him there.
sentaro obeyed wonderingly.
the crane grew large enough for him to ride on it with comfort.
it then spread its wings, rose high in the air, and flew away over the mountains right out to sea.
sentaro was at first quite frightened; but by degrees he grew accustomed to the swift flight through the air.
on and on they went for thousands of miles.
the bird never stopped for rest or food, but as it was a paper bird it doubtless did not require any nourishment, and strange to say, neither did sentaro.
after several days they reached an island.
the crane flew some distance inland and then alighted.
as soon as sentaro got down from the bird's back, the crane folded up of its own accord and flew into his pocket.
now sentaro began to look about him wonderingly, curious to see what the country of perpetual life was like.
he walked first round about the country and then through the town.
everything was, of course, quite strange, and different from his own land.
but both the land and the people seemed prosperous, so he decided that it would be good for him to stay there and took up lodgings at one of the hotels.
the proprietor was a kind man, and when sentaro told him that he was a stranger and had come to live there, he promised to arrange everything that was necessary with the governor of the city concerning sentaro's sojourn there.
he even found a house for his guest, and in this way sentaro obtained his great wish and became a resident in the country of perpetual life.
within the memory of all the islanders no man had ever died there, and sickness was a thing unknown.
priests had come over from india and china and told them of a beautiful country called paradise, where happiness and bliss and contentment fill all men's hearts, but its gates could only be reached by dying.
this tradition was handed down for ages from generation to generation but none knew exactly what death was except that it led to paradise.
quite unlike sentaro and other ordinary people, instead of having a great dread of death, they all, both rich and poor, longed for it as something good and desirable.
they were all tired of their long, long lives, and longed to go to the happy land of contentment called paradise of which the priests had told them centuries ago.
all this sentaro soon found out by talking to the islanders.
he found himself, according to his ideas, in the land of topsy-turvydom.
everything was upside down.
he had wished to escape from dying.
he had come to the land of perpetual life with great relief and joy, only to find that the inhabitants themselves, doomed never to die, would consider it bliss to find death.
what he had hitherto considered poison these people ate as good food, and all the things to which he had been accustomed as food they rejected.
whenever any merchants from other countries arrived, the rich people rushed to them eager to buy poisons.
these they swallowed eagerly hoping for death to come so that they might go to paradise.
but what were deadly poisons in other lands were without effect in this strange place, and people who swallowed them with the hope of dying, only found that in a short time they felt better in health instead of worse.
vainly they tried to imagine what death could be like.
the wealthy would have given all their money and all their goods if they could but shorten their lives to two or three hundred years even.
without any change, to live on forever, seemed to this people wearisome and sad.
in the drug-shops there was a drug which was in constant demand, because after using it for a hundred years, it was supposed to turn the hair slightly gray and to bring about disorders of the stomach.
sentaro was astonished to find that the poisonous globe-fish was served up in restaurants as a delectable dish, and hawkers in the streets went about selling sauces made of spanish flies.
he never saw anyone ill after eating these horrible things, nor did he ever see anyone with as much as a cold.
sentaro was delighted.
he said to himself that he would never grow tired of living, and that he considered it profane to wish for death.
he was the only happy man on the island.
for his part he wished to live thousands of years and to enjoy life.
he set himself up in business, and for the present never even dreamed of going back to his native land.
as years went by, however, things did not go as smoothly as at first.
he had heavy losses in business, and several times some affairs went wrong with his neighbors.
this caused him great annoyance.
time passed like the flight of an arrow for him, for he was busy from morning till night.
three hundred years went by in this monotonous way, and then at last he began to grow tired of life in this country, and he longed to see his own land and his old home.
however long he lived here, life would always be the same, so was it not foolish and wearisome to stay on here for ever?
sentaro, in his wish to escape from the country of perpetual life, recollected jofuku, who had helped him before when he was wishing to escape from death and he prayed to the saint to bring him back to his own land again.
no sooner did he pray than the paper crane popped out of his pocket.
sentaro was amazed to see that it had remained undamaged after all these years.
once more the bird grew and grew till it was large enough for him to mount it.
as he did so, the bird spread its wings and flew swiftly out across the sea in the direction of japan.
such was the wilfulness of the man's nature that he looked back and regretted all he had left behind.
he tried to stop the bird in vain.
the crane held on its way for thousands of miles across the ocean.
then a storm came on, and the wonderful paper crane got damp, crumpled up, and fell into the sea.
sentaro fell with it.
very much frightened at the thought of being drowned, he cried out loudly to jofuku to save him.
he looked round, but there was no ship in sight.
he swallowed a quantity of sea-water, which only increased his miserable plight.
while he was thus struggling to keep himself afloat, he saw a monstrous shark swimming towards him.
as it came nearer it opened its huge mouth ready to devour him.
sentaro was all but paralyzed with fear now that he felt his end so near, and screamed out as loudly as ever he could to jofuku to come and rescue him.
lo, and behold, sentaro was awakened by his own screams, to find that during his long prayer he had fallen asleep before the shrine, and that all his extraordinary and frightful adventures had been only a wild dream.
he was in a cold perspiration with fright, and utterly bewildered.
suddenly a bright light came towards him, and in the light stood a messenger.
the messenger held a book in his hand and spoke to sentaro:
"i am sent to you by jofuku, who in answer to your prayer, has permitted you in a dream to see the land of perpetual life.
but you grew weary of living there, and begged to be allowed to return to your native land so that you might die.
jofuku, so that he might try you, allowed you to drop into the sea, and then sent a shark to swallow you up.
your desire for death was not real, for even at that moment you cried out loudly and shouted for help.
"it is also vain for you to wish to become a hermit, or to find the elixir of life.
these things are not for such as you your life is not austere enough.
it is best for you to go back to your paternal home, and to live a good and industrious life.
never neglect to keep the anniversaries of your ancestors, and make it your duty to provide for your children's future.
thus will you live to a good old age and be happy, but give up the vain desire to escape death, for no man can do that, and by this time you have surely found out that even when selfish desires are granted they do not bring happiness.
"in this book i give you there are many precepts good for you to know if you study them, you will be guided in the way i have pointed out to you."
the angel disappeared as soon as he had finished speaking, and sentaro took the lesson to heart.
with the book in his hand he returned to his old home, and giving up all his old vain wishes, tried to live a good and useful life and to observe the lessons taught him in the book, and he and his house prospered henceforth.
the accomplished and lucky teakettle
adapted by a. b. mitford
a long time ago, at a temple called morinji, in the province of jhôsiu, there was an old teakettle.
one day, when the priest of the temple was about to hang it over the hearth to boil the water for his tea, to his amazement the kettle all of a sudden put forth the head and tail of a badger.
what a wonderful kettle, to come out all over fur!
the priest, thunderstruck, called in the novices of the temple to see the sight; and whilst they were stupidly staring, one suggesting one thing and another another, the kettle, jumping up into the air, began flying about the room.
more astonished than ever, the priest and his pupils tried to pursue it; but no thief or cat was ever half so sharp as this wonderful badger-kettle.
at last, however, they managed to knock it down and secure it; and, holding it in with their united efforts, they forced it into a box, intending to carry it off and throw it away in some distant place, so that they might be no more plagued by the goblin.
for this day their troubles were over; but, as luck would have it, the tinker who was in the habit of working for the temple called in, and the priest suddenly bethought him that it was a pity to throw the kettle away for nothing, and that he might as well get a trifle for it, no matter how small.
so he brought out the kettle, which had resumed its former shape and had got rid of its head and tail, and showed it to the tinker.
when the tinker saw the kettle, he offered twenty copper coins for it, and the priest was only too glad to close the bargain and be rid of his troublesome piece of furniture.
but the tinker trudged off home with his pack and his new purchase.
that night, as he lay asleep, he heard a strange noise near his pillow; so he peered out from under the bedclothes, and there he saw the kettle that he had bought in the temple covered with fur, and walking about on four legs.
the tinker started up in a fright to see what it could all mean, when all of a sudden the kettle resumed its former shape.
this happened over and over again, until at last the tinker showed the teakettle to a friend of his, who said: "this is certainly an accomplished and lucky teakettle.
you should take it about as a show, with songs and accompaniments of musical instruments, and make it dance and walk on the tight rope."
the tinker, thinking this good advice, made arrangements with a showman, and set up an exhibition.
the noise of the kettle's performances soon spread abroad, until even the princes of the land sent to order the tinker to come to them; and he grew rich beyond all his expectations.
even the princesses, too, and the great ladies of the court, took great delight in the dancing kettle, so that no sooner had it shown its tricks in one place than it was time for them to keep some other engagement.
at last the tinker grew so rich that he took the kettle back to the temple, where it was laid up as a precious treasure, and worshiped as a saint.
the tongue-cut sparrow
once upon a time a cross old woman laid some starch in a basin, intending to put it in the clothes in her wash-tub; but a sparrow that a woman, her neighbor, kept as a pet, ate it up.
seeing this, the cross old woman seized the sparrow and, saying "you hateful thing!"
cut its tongue and let it go.
when the neighbor woman heard that her pet sparrow had got its tongue cut for its offense, she was greatly grieved, and set out with her husband over mountains and plains to find where it had gone, crying, "where does the tongue-cut sparrow stay?
where does the tongue-cut sparrow stay?"
at last they found its home.
when the sparrow saw that its old master and mistress had come to see it, it rejoiced, and brought them into its house and thanked them for their kindness in old times.
it spread a table for them, and loaded it with rice wine and fish till there was no more room, and made its wife and children and grandchildren all serve the table.
at last, throwing away its drinking-cup, it danced a jig called the sparrow's dance, and thus they spent the day.
when it began to grow dark, and there was talk of going home, the sparrow brought out two wicker baskets and said, "will you take the heavy one, or shall i give you the light one?"
the old people replied, "we are old, so give us the light one; it will be easier to carry it."
the sparrow then gave them the light basket, and they returned with it to their home.
"let us open and see what is in it," they said.
and when they had opened it and looked, they found gold and silver and jewels and rolls of silk.
they never expected anything like this.
the more they took out the more they found inside.
the supply was inexhaustible, so that the house at once became rich and prosperous.
when the cross old woman who had cut the sparrow's tongue saw this, she was filled with envy, and went and asked her neighbor where the sparrow lived and all about the way.
"i will go, too," she said, and at once set out on her search.
again the sparrow brought out two wicker baskets, and asked as before, "will you take the heavy one, or shall i give you the light one?"
thinking the treasure would be great in proportion to the weight of the basket, the old woman replied, "let me have the heavy one."
receiving this, she started home with it on her back, the sparrows laughing at her as she went.
it was as heavy as a stone, and hard to carry, but at last she got back with it to her house.
then, when she took off the lid and looked in, a whole troop of frightful creatures came bouncing out from the inside, and at once they caught her up and flew away with her.
battle of the monkey and the crab
a monkey and a crab once met when going round a mountain.
the monkey had picked up a persimmon-seed, and the crab had a piece of toasted rice-cake.
the monkey, seeing this, and wishing to get something that could be turned to good account at once, said, "pray, exchange that rice-cake for this persimmon-seed."
the crab, without a word, gave up his cake, and took the persimmon-seed and planted it.
at once it sprung up, and soon became a tree so high one had to look far up to see it.
the tree was full of persimmons, but the crab had no means of climbing it, so he asked the monkey to scramble up and get the fruit for him.
the monkey got up on a limb of the tree and began to eat the persimmons.
the unripe ones he threw at the crab, but all the ripe and good ones he put in his pouch.
the crab under the tree thus got his shell badly bruised, and only by good luck escaped into his hole, where he lay distressed with pain, and not able to get up.
now, when the relatives and household of the crab heard how matters stood, they were surprised and angry, and declared war, and attacked the monkey, who, leading forth a numerous following, bade defiance to the other party.
the crabs, finding themselves unable to meet and cope with this force, became still more exasperated and enraged, and retreated into their hole and held a council of war.
then came a rice-mortar, a pestle, a bee, and an egg, and together they devised a deep-laid plot to be avenged.
first, they requested that peace be made with the crabs; and thus they induced the king of the monkeys to enter their hole unattended, and seated him on the hearth.
the monkey, not suspecting any plot, took the hibashi, or poker, to stir up the slumbering fire, when bang!
went the egg, which was lying hidden in the ashes, and burned the monkey's arm.
surprised and alarmed, he plunged his arm into the pickle-tub in the kitchen to relieve the pain of the burn.
then the bee which was hidden near the tub stung him sharply in his face, already wet with tears.
without waiting to brush off the bee, and howling bitterly, he rushed for the back door; but just then some seaweed entangled his legs and made him slip.
then down came the pestle, tumbling on him from a shelf, and the mortar, too, came rolling down on him from the roof of the porch and broke his back, and so weakened him that he was unable to rise up.
then out came the crabs in a crowd, and brandishing on high their pinchers they pinched the monkey so sorely that he begged them for forgiveness and promised never to repeat his meanness and treachery.
momotaro, or little peachling
a long long time ago there lived an old man and an old woman.
one day the old man went to the mountains to cut grass; and the old woman went to the river to wash clothes.
while she was washing a great thing came tumbling and splashing down the stream.
when the old woman saw it she was very glad, and pulled it to her with a piece of bamboo that lay near by.
when she took it up and looked at it she saw that it was a very large peach.
she then quickly finished her washing and returned home intending to give the peach to her old man to eat.
when she cut the peach in two, out came a child from the large kernel.
seeing this the old couple rejoiced, and named the child momotaro, or little peachling, because he came out of a peach.
as both the old people took good care of him, he grew and became strong and enterprising.
so the old couple had their expectations raised, and bestowed still more care on his education.
momotaro finding that he excelled everybody in strength, determined to cross over to the island of the devils, take their riches, and come back.
he at once consulted with the old man and the old woman about the matter, and got them to make him some dumplings.
these he put in his pouch.
besides this he made every kind of preparation for his journey to the island of the devils and set out.
then first a dog came to the side of the way and said, "momotaro!
what have you there hanging at your belt?"
he replied, "i have some of the very best japanese millet dumplings."
"give me one and i will go with you," said the dog.
so momotaro took a dumpling out of his pouch and gave it to the dog.
then a monkey came and got one the same way.
a pheasant also came flying and said, "give me a dumpling too, and i will go along with you."
so all three went along with him.
in no time they arrived at the island of the devils, and at once broke through the front gate; momotaro first; then his three followers.
here they met a great multitude of the devils' retainers who showed fight, but they pressed still inwards, and at last encountered the chief of the devils, called akandoji.
then came the tug of war.
akandoji hit at momotaro with an iron club, but momotaro was ready for him, and dodged him adroitly.
at last they grappled each other, and without difficulty momotaro just crushed down akandoji and tied him with a rope so tightly that he could not even move.
all this was done in a fair fight.
after this akandoji the chief of the devils said he would surrender all his riches.
"out with your riches then," said momotaro laughing.
having collected and ranged in order a great pile of precious things, momotaro took them, and set out for his home, rejoicing, as he marched bravely back, that, with the help of his three companions, to whom he attributed all his success, he had been able so easily to accomplish his end.
great was the joy of the old man and the old woman when momotaro came back.
he feasted everybody bountifully, told many stories of his adventure, displayed his riches, and at last became a leading man, a man of influence, very rich and honorable; a man to be very much congratulated indeed!
!
uraschima taro and the turtle
uraschima taro, which means in japanese "son of the island," was the only and dearly beloved son of an old fisherman and his wife:
he was a fine, strong youth, who could manage a boat more cleverly than any one else on the neighboring coast.
he often ventured so far out to sea that neighbors warned his parents that he would sometime go too far and never return.
his parents knew, however, that he understood his boat and the sea very well, and they were never much concerned about him.
even when he failed to come back as soon as he was expected, they awaited his return without anxiety.
they loved him better than their own lives, and were proud that he was braver and stronger than their neighbors'
sons.
early one morning, uraschima taro went to haul in his nets, which had been set the night before.
in one of them, among some fishes, he found a small turtle.
this he placed in the boat, by itself, where it would safely keep, until he could take it home.
to his amazement, the turtle begged for its life in most pitiful tones.
"of what use am i to you?"
it asked.
"i am too small to eat, and so young that it will take me a long time to grow.
have mercy and put me back into the sea, for i do not want to die."
uraschima taro had a very kind heart and could not bear to see anything that was small and helpless suffer; so he did as the turtle asked him.
several years after this, when uraschima taro was one day far out at sea, a terrible whirlwind struck his boat and shattered it.
he was a good swimmer, and managed for a long time to make progress toward the land; but as he was so far from shore in the rough sea, his strength at last gave out and he felt himself sinking.
just as he had given up hope, and thought that he would never see his dear parents again, he heard his name called and saw a large turtle swimming toward him.
"climb on my back," shouted the turtle, "and i will carry you to land."
when uraschima taro was safely sitting on the turtle's back it continued: "i am the turtle whose life you saved when you found me, little and helpless, in your net, and i am glad of this opportunity to show that i am not ungrateful."
before they reached the shore, the turtle asked uraschima taro how he would like to be shown some of the wonderful beauties hidden under the sea.
the young fisherman replied that the experience would please him.
in a moment they were shooting down through the green water.
he clung to the turtle's back, who carried him many, many fathoms below.
after three nights they reached the bottom of the sea, and came to a wonderful palace of gold and crystal.
coral and pearls and precious stones dazzled his eyes; but inside, the palace was more beautiful still, and blazing fish scales lighted it.
"this," said the turtle, "is the palace of the sea-god.
i am a waiting-maid to his lovely daughter, the princess."
the turtle went to announce the arrival of uraschima taro to the princess, and soon returning, led him to her presence.
she was so beautiful that when she asked him to remain in the palace he gladly consented.
"do not leave me, and you shall always be as handsome as you are now, and old age cannot come to you," she said.
so it happened that uraschima taro lived in the marvelous palace at the bottom of the sea with the daughter of the sea-god.
he was so happy that the time passed by unheeded.
how long he dwelt there he could not have told.
but one day he thought of his parents; then he remembered that they must be troubled by his absence.
the thought of them kept coming to him continually, and the longing to see them grew so strong that at last he told the princess he must go to visit them.
she begged him not to leave her and wept bitterly.
"if you go, i shall never see you again," she sobbed.
but he told her that he must see his father and mother once again; then he would return to the palace in the sea, to be with her always.
when she found that she could not persuade him to remain, she gave him a small gold box, which, she told him, he must on no account open.
"if you heed my words," said she, "you may come back to me.
when you are ready, the turtle will be there to bring you; but if you forget what i have told you, i shall never see you again."
uraschima taro fondly assured her that nothing in the world should keep him from her, and bade her farewell.
mounting the turtle's back, he soon left the palace far below.
for three days and three nights they swam, and then the turtle left him on the familiar sands near his old home.
he eagerly ran to the village and looked about for some of his comrades.
all of the faces were strange, and even the houses seemed different.
the children, playing in the street where he had lived, he had never seen before.
stopping in front of his own house, he regarded it with a sinking heart.
there was the sound of music from a window above, and a strange woman opened the door to him.
she could tell him nothing of his parents, and had never heard their names.
every one whom he questioned looked at him curiously.
at last he wandered from the village and came to the burying ground.
searching about among the graves, he soon found himself beside a stone bearing the dear names he sought.
the date showed him that his father and mother had died soon after he left them; and then he discovered that he had been away from his home three hundred years.
bowed with sorrow, he went back to the city.
at each step he hoped to wake and find it all a dream, but the people and streets were real.
he thought of the princess, and remembered the gold box she had given to him.
it might be that he was under some cruel enchantment, and that this box contained the charm to break the spell.
he eagerly raised the cover, and a purple vapor escaped and left the box empty.
to his alarm, he noticed that the hand that held it had shriveled and grown suddenly old.
trembling with horror, he ran to a stream of water which ran down from the mountain, and saw reflected in its waters the face of a mummy.
he crawled fearfully back to the village, and no one recognized him as the strong youth who had entered it a few hours before.
nearly exhausted; he finally reached the shore, where he sat wearily on a rock and cried to the turtle.
but he called to it in vain; the turtle never came, and soon his quavering voice was hushed in death.
before he died, the people of the village gathered about him and listened to his strange story.
long afterward they told their children of the young man who, for the love of his parents, left a marvelous palace in the sea, and a princess more beautiful than the day.
east indian stories
the son of seven queens
adapted by joseph jacobs
once upon a time there lived a king who had seven queens, but no children.
this was a great grief to him, especially when he remembered that on his death there would be no heir to inherit the kingdom.
now it happened one day that a poor old fakir came to the king and said, "your prayers are heard, your desire shall be accomplished, and one of your seven queens shall bear a son."
the king's delight at this promise knew no bounds, and he gave orders for appropriate festivities to be prepared against the coming event throughout the length and breadth of the land.
meanwhile the seven queens lived luxuriously in a splendid palace, attended by hundreds of female slaves, and fed to their hearts'
content on sweetmeats and confectionery.
now the king was very fond of hunting, and one day, before he started, the seven queens sent him a message saying, "may it please our dearest lord not to hunt toward the north to-day, for we have dreamed bad dreams, and fear lest evil should befall you."
the king, to allay their anxiety, promised regard for their wishes, and set out toward the south; but as luck would have it, although he hunted diligently, he found no game.
nor had he more success to the east or west, so that, being a keen sportsman, and determined not to go home empty-handed, he forgot all about his promise and turned to the north.
here also he was at first unsuccessful, but just as he had made up his mind to give up for that day, a white hind with golden horns and silver hoofs flashed past him into a thicket.
so quickly did it pass that he scarcely saw it; nevertheless, a burning desire to capture and possess the beautiful strange creature filled his breast.
he instantly ordered his attendants to form a ring round the thicket, and so encircle the hind; then, gradually narrowing the circle, he pressed forward till he could distinctly see the white hind panting in the midst.
nearer and nearer he advanced, till just as he thought to lay hold of the beautiful strange creature, it gave one mighty bound, leaped clean over the king's head, and fled toward the mountains.
forgetful of all else, the king, setting spurs to his horse, followed at full speed.
on, on he galloped, leaving his retinue far behind, keeping the white hind in view, never drawing bridle until, finding himself in a narrow ravine with no outlet, he reined in his steed.
before him stood a miserable hovel, into which, being tired after his long, unsuccessful chase, he entered to ask for a drink of water.
an old woman, seated in the hut at a spinning-wheel, answered his request by calling to her daughter, and immediately from an inner room came a maiden so lovely and charming, so white-skinned and golden-haired, that the king was transfixed by astonishment at seeing so beautiful a sight in the wretched hovel.
she held the vessel of water to the king's lips, and as he drank he looked into her eyes, and then it became clear to him that the girl was no other than the white hind with the golden horns and silver feet he had chased so far.
her beauty bewitched him, so he fell on his knees, begging her to return with him as his bride; but she only laughed, saying seven queens were quite enough even for a king to manage.
however, when he would take no refusal, but implored her to have pity on him, promising her everything she could desire, she replied, "give me the eyes of your seven queens, and then perhaps i may believe you mean what you say."
the king was so carried away by the glamor of the white hind's magical beauty that he went home at once, had the eyes of his seven queens taken out, and, after throwing the poor blind creatures into a noisome dungeon whence they could not escape, set off once more for the hovel in the ravine, bearing with him his horrible offering.
but the white hind only laughed cruelly when she saw the fourteen eyes, and threading them as a necklace, flung it round her mother's neck, saying, "wear that, little mother, as a keepsake, while i am away in the king's palace."
then she went back with the bewitched monarch, as his bride, and he gave her the seven queens' rich clothes and jewels to wear, the seven queens' palace to live in, and the seven queens' slaves to wait upon her; so that she really had everything even a witch could desire.
now, very soon after the seven wretched hapless queens had their eyes torn out, and were cast into prison, a baby was born to the youngest of the queens.
it was a handsome boy, but the other queens were very jealous that the youngest among them should be so fortunate.
but though at first they disliked the handsome little boy, he soon proved so useful to them, that ere long they all looked on him as their son.
almost as soon as he could walk about he began scraping at the mud wall of their dungeon, and in an incredibly short space of time had made a hole big enough for him to crawl through.
through this he disappeared, returning in an hour or so laden with sweetmeats, which he divided equally among the seven blind queens.
as he grew older he enlarged the hole, and slipped out two or three times every day to play with the little nobles in the town.
no one knew who the tiny boy was, but everybody liked him, and he was so full of funny tricks and antics, so merry and bright, that he was sure to be rewarded by some girdle-cakes, a handful of parched grain, or some sweetmeats.
all these, things he brought home to his seven mothers, as he loved to call the seven blind queens, who by his help lived on in their dungeon when all the world thought they had starved to death ages before.
at last, when he was quite a big lad, he one day took his bow and arrow, and went out to seek for game.
coming by chance past the palace where the white hind lived in wicked splendor and magnificence, he saw some pigeons fluttering round the white marble turrets, and, taking good aim, shot one dead.
it came tumbling past the very window where the white queen was sitting; she rose to see what was the matter, and looked out.
at the first glance of the handsome young lad standing there bow in hand, she knew by witchcraft that it was the king's son.
she nearly died of envy and spite, determining to destroy the lad without delay; therefore, sending a servant to bring him to her presence, she asked him if he would sell her the pigeon he had just shot.
"no," replied the sturdy lad, "the pigeon is for my seven blind mothers, who live in the noisome dungeon, and who would die if i did not bring them food."
"poor souls!"
cried the cunning white witch.
"would you not like to bring them their eyes again?
give me the pigeon, my dear, and i faithfully promise to show you where to find them."
hearing this, the lad was delighted beyond measure, and gave up the pigeon at once.
whereupon the white queen told him to seek her mother without delay, and ask for the eyes which she wore as a necklace.
"she will not fail to give them," said the cruel queen, "if you show her this token on which i have written what i want done."
so saying, she gave the lad a piece of broken potsherd, with these words inscribed on it, "kill the bearer at once, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
now, as the son of seven queens could not read, he took the fatal message cheerfully, and set off to find the white queen's mother.
while he was journeying he passed through a town where every one of the inhabitants looked so sad that he could not help asking what was the matter.
they told him it was because the king's only daughter refused to marry; therefore when her father died there would be no heir to the throne.
they greatly feared she must be out of her mind, for though every good-looking young man in the kingdom had been shown to her, she declared she would only marry one who was the son of seven mothers, and who had ever heard of such a thing?
the king, in despair, had ordered every man who entered the city gates to be led before the princess; so, much to the lad's impatience, for he was in an immense hurry to find his mothers' eyes, he was dragged into the presence-chamber.
no sooner did the princess catch sight of him than she blushed, and, turning to the king, said, "dear father, this is my choice!"
never were such rejoicings as these few words produced.
the inhabitants nearly went wild with joy, but the son of seven queens said he would not marry the princess unless they first let him recover his mothers' eyes.
when the beautiful bride heard his story, she asked to see the potsherd, for she was very learned and clever.
seeing the treacherous words, she said nothing, but taking another similar-shaped bit of potsherd, she wrote on it these words, "take care of this lad, giving him all he desires," and returned it to the son of seven queens, who, none the wiser, set off on his quest.
ere long he arrived at the hovel in the ravine where the white witch's mother, a hideous old creature, grumbled dreadfully on reading the message, especially when the lad asked for the necklace of eyes.
nevertheless she took it off and gave it him, saying, "there are only thirteen of 'em now, for i lost one last week."
the lad, however, was only too glad to get any at all, so he hurried home as fast as he could to his seven mothers, and gave two eyes apiece to the six elder queens; but to the youngest he gave one, saying, "dearest little mother!
i will be your other eye always!"
after this he set off to marry the princess, as he had promised, but when passing by the white queen's palace he saw some pigeons on the roof.
drawing his bow, he shot one, and it came fluttering past the window.
the white hind looked out, and lo!
there was the king's son alive and well.
she cried with hatred and disgust, but sending for the lad, asked him how he had returned so soon, and when she heard how he had brought home the thirteen eyes, and given them to the seven blind queens, she could hardly restrain her rage.
nevertheless she pretended to be charmed with his success, and told him that if he would give her this pigeon also, she would reward him with the jogi's wonderful cow, whose milk flows all day long, and makes a pond as big as a kingdom.
the lad, nothing loth, gave her the pigeon; whereupon, as before, she bade him go and ask her mother for the cow, and gave him a potsherd where on was written, "kill this lad without fail, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
but on the way the son of seven queens looked in on the princess, just to tell her how he came to be delayed, and she, after reading the message on the potsherd, gave him another in its stead; so that when the lad reached the old hag's hut and asked her for the jogi's cow, she could not refuse, but told the boy how to find it; and bidding him of all things not to be afraid of the eighteen thousand demons who kept watch and ward over the treasure, told him to be off before she became too angry at her daughter's foolishness in thus giving away so many good things.
then the lad bravely did as he had been told.
he journeyed on and on till he came to a milk-white pond, guarded by the eighteen thousand demons.
they were really frightful to behold, but, plucking up courage, he whistled a tune as he walked through them, looking neither to the right nor the left.
by and by he came upon the jogi's cow, tall, white, and beautiful, while the jogi himself, who was king of all the demons, sat milking her day and night, and the milk streamed from her udder, filling the milk-white tank.
the jogi, seeing the lad, called out fiercely, "what do you want here?"
then the lad answered, according to the old hag's bidding, "i want your skin, for king indra is making a new kettledrum, and says your skin is nice and tough."
upon this the jogi began to shiver and shake (for no jinn or jogi dares disobey king indra's command), and, falling at the lad's feet, cried, "if you will spare me i will give you anything i possess, even my beautiful white cow!"
to this the son of seven queens, after a little pretended hesitation, agreed, saying that after all it would not be difficult to find a nice tough skin like the jogi's elsewhere; so driving the wonderful cow before him, he set off homeward.
the seven queens were delighted to possess so marvelous an animal, and though they toiled from morning till night making curds and whey, besides selling milk to the confectioners, they could not use half the cow gave, and became richer and richer day by day.
seeing them so comfortably off, the son of seven queens started with a light heart to marry the princess; but when passing the white hind's palace he could not resist sending a bolt at some pigeons that were cooing on the parapet.
one fell dead just beneath the window where the white queen was sitting.
looking out, she saw the lad, hale and hearty, standing before her, and grew whiter than ever with rage and spite.
she sent for him to ask how he had returned so soon, and when she heard how kindly her mother had received him, she very nearly had a fit.
however, she dissembled her feelings as well as she could, and, smiling sweetly, said she was glad to have been able to fulfil her promise, and that if he would give her this third pigeon, she would do yet more for him than she had done before, by giving him the millionfold rice, which ripens in one night.
the lad was of course delighted at the very idea, and, giving up the pigeon, set off on his quest, armed as before with a potsherd, on which was written, "do not fail this time.
kill the lad, and sprinkle his blood like water!"
but when he looked in on his princess, just to prevent her becoming anxious about him, she asked to see the potsherd as usual, and substituted another, on which was written, "yet again give this lad all he requires, for his blood shall be as your blood!"
now when the old hag saw this, and heard how the lad wanted the millionfold rice which ripens in a single night, she fell into the most furious rage, but being terribly afraid of her daughter, she controlled herself, and bade the boy go and find the field guarded by eighteen millions of demons, warning him on no account to look back after having plucked the tallest spike of rice, which grew in the center.
so the son of seven queens set off, and soon came to the field where, guarded by eighteen millions of demons, the millionfold rice grew.
he walked on bravely, looking neither to the right nor left, till he reached the center and plucked the tallest ear, but as he turned homeward a thousand sweet voices rose behind him, crying in tenderest accents, "pluck me too!
oh, please pluck me too!"
he looked back, and lo!
there was nothing left of him but a little heap of ashes!
now as time passed by and the lad did not return, the old hag grew uneasy, remembering the message "his blood shall be as your blood"; so she set off to see what had happened.
soon she came to the heap of ashes, and knowing by her arts what it was, she took a little water, and kneading the ashes into a paste, formed it into the likeness of a man; then, putting a drop of blood from her little finger into its mouth, she blew on it, and instantly the son of seven queens started up as well as ever.
"don't you disobey orders again!"
grumbled the old hag, "or next time i'll leave you alone.
now be off, before i repent of my kindness!"
so the son of seven queens returned joyfully to his seven mothers, who, by the aid of the millionfold rice, soon became the richest people in the kingdom.
then they celebrated their son's marriage to the clever princess with all imaginable pomp; but the bride was so clever, she would not rest until she had made known her husband to his father, and punished the wicked white witch.
so she made her husband build a palace exactly like the one in which the seven queens had lived, and in which the white witch now dwelt in splendor.
then, when all was prepared, she bade her husband give a grand feast to the king.
now the king had heard much of the mysterious son of seven queens, and his marvelous wealth, so he gladly accepted the invitation; but what was his astonishment when on entering the palace he found it was a facsimile of his own in every particular!
and when his host, richly attired, led him straight to the private hall, where on royal thrones sat the seven queens, dressed as he had last seen them, he was speechless with surprise, until the princess, coming forward, threw herself at his feet and told him the whole story.
then the king awoke from his enchantment, and his anger rose against the wicked white hind who had bewitched him so long, until he could not contain himself.
so she was put to death, and her grave plowed over, and after that the seven queens returned to their own splendid palace, and everybody lived happily.
who killed the otter's babies
adapted by walter skeat
the otter said to the mouse-deer, "friend mouse-deer, will you be so good as to take charge of the children till i come back?
i am going down to the river to catch fish, and when i come back, i'll share the catch with you."
the mouse-deer replied, "very well!
go along, and i'll look after the children."
so the otter went down to the river to catch fish.
(here the story of what the otter did stops and the story of what happened when the woodpecker sounded the war-gong commences.)
the mouse-deer was chief dancer of the war-dance, and as he danced he trod on the otter's babies and crushed them flat.
presently the otter returned home, bringing a string of fish with him.
oh arriving he saw that his children had been killed, and exclaimed, "how comes it, friend mouse-deer, that my babies have died?"
the mouse-deer replied:
"the woodpecker came and sounded the war-gong, and i, being chief war-dancer, danced; and, forgetting about your children, i trod upon them and crushed them flat."
on hearing this the otter went and made complaint unto king solomon, prostrating himself and saying: "your majesty's most humble slave craves pardon for presuming to address your majesty, but friend mouse-deer has murdered your slave's children, and your slave desires to learn whether he is guilty or not according to the law of the land."
king solomon replied, saying, "if the mouse-deer hath done this thing wittingly, assuredly he is guilty of death."
then he summoned the mouse-deer before him.
and when the mouse-deer came into the presence of the king, the king inquired of the otter, "what is your charge against him?"
the otter replied, "your slave accuses him of the murder of your slave's children; your slave would hear the law of the land."
then the king said unto the mouse-deer, "was it your doing that the otter's children were killed?"
the mouse-deer replied, "assuredly it was, but i crave pardon for doing so."
"how was it, then," said the king, "that you came to kill them?"
the mouse-deer replied, "your slave came to kill them because the woodpecker appeared and sounded the war-gong.
your slave, as your majesty is aware, is chief dancer of the war-dance; therefore your slave danced, and, forgetting about the otter's children, your slave trod upon them and crushed them flat."
here the king sent for the woodpecker also, and the woodpecker came before him.
"was it you, woodpecker," said the king, "who sounded the war-gong?"
"assuredly it was," said the woodpecker, "forasmuch as your slave saw the great lizard wearing his sword."
the king replied, "if that is the case, there is no fault to be found in the woodpecker" (for the woodpecker was chief beater of the war-gong).
then the king commanded the great lizard to be summoned, and when he arrived, the king inquired, "was it you, lizard, wearing your sword?"
the great lizard replied, "assuredly it was, your majesty."
"and why were you wearing your sword?"
the great lizard replied, "your slave wore it forasmuch as your slave saw that the tortoise had donned his coat of mail."
so the tortoise was summoned likewise.
"why did you, tortoise, don your coat of mail?"
the tortoise replied, "your slave donned it forasmuch as your slave saw the king-crab trailing his three-edged pike."
then the king-crab was sent for.
"why were you, king-crab, trailing your three-edged pike?"
"because your slave saw that the crayfish had shouldered his lance."
then the king sent for the crayfish, and said, "was it you, crayfish, who was shouldering your lance?"
and the crayfish replied, "assuredly it was, your majesty."
"and why did you shoulder it?"
"because your slave saw the otter coming down to devour your slave's own children."
"oh," said king solomon, "if that is the case, you, otter are the guilty party, and your complaint of your children's death cannot be sustained against the mouse-deer by the law of the land."
the alligator and the jackal
adapted by m. frere
a hungry jackal once went down to the riverside in search of little crabs, bits of fish, and whatever else he could find for his dinner.
now it chanced that in this river there lived a great big alligator, who, being also very hungry, would have been extremely glad to eat the jackal.
the jackal ran up and down, here and there, but for a long time could find nothing to eat.
at last, close to where the alligator was lying among some tall bulrushes under the clear, shallow water, he saw a little crab sidling along as fast as his legs could carry him.
the jackal was so hungry that when he saw this he poked his paw into the water to try to catch the crab, when snap!
the old alligator caught hold of him.
"oh, dear!"
thought the jackal to himself, "what can i do?
this great, big alligator has caught my paw in his mouth, and in another minute he will drag me down by it under the water and kill me.
my only chance is to make him think he has made a mistake."
so he called out in a cheerful voice: "clever alligator, clever alligator, to catch hold of a bulrush root instead of my paw!
i hope you find it very tender."
the alligator, who was so buried among the bulrushes that he could hardly see, thought, on hearing this: "dear me, how tiresome!
i fancied i had caught hold of the jackal's paw; but there he is, calling out in a cheerful voice.
i suppose i must have seized a bulrush root instead, as he says," and he let the jackal go.
the jackal ran away as fast as he could, crying, "o wise alligator, wise alligator!
so you let me go again!"
then the alligator was very much vexed, but the jackal had run away too far to be caught.
next day the jackal returned to the riverside to get his dinner as before; but because he was very much afraid of the alligator he called out: "whenever i go to look for my dinner, i see the nice little crabs peeping up through the mud; then i catch them and eat them.
i wish i could see one now."
the alligator, who was buried in the mud at the bottom of the river, heard every word.
so he popped the little point of his snout above it, thinking: "if i do but just show the tip of my nose, the jackal will take me for a crab and put in his paw to catch me, and as soon as ever he does i'll gobble him up."
but no sooner did the jackal see the little tip of the alligator's nose than he called out, "aha, my friend!
there you are.
no dinner for me in this part of the river, then, i think."
and so saying, he ran farther on and fished for his dinner a long way from that place.
the alligator was very angry at missing his prey a second time, and determined not to let him escape again.
so on the following day, when his little tormentor returned to the waterside, the alligator hid himself close to the bank, in order to catch him if he could.
now the jackal was rather afraid of going near the river, for he thought, "perhaps the alligator will catch me to-day."
but yet, being hungry, he did not wish to go without his dinner; so to make all as safe as he could, he cried: "where are all the little crabs gone?
there is not one here and i am so hungry; and generally, even when they are under water, one can see them going bubble, bubble, bubble, and all the little bubbles go pop!
pop!
pop!"
on hearing this the alligator, who was buried in the mud under the river bank, thought: "i will pretend to be a little crab."
and he began to blow, "puff, puff, puff!
bubble, bubble, bubble!"
and all the great bubbles rushed to the surface of the river and burst there, and the waters eddied round and round like a whirlpool; and there was such a commotion when the huge monster began to blow bubbles in this way that the jackal saw very well who must be there, and he ran away as fast as he could, saying, "thank you, kind alligator, thank you; thank you!
indeed, i would not have come here had i known you were so close."
this enraged the alligator extremely; it made him quite cross to think of being so often deceived by a little jackal, and he said to himself, "i will be taken in no more.
next time i will be very cunning."
so for a long time he waited and waited for the jackal to return to the riverside; but the jackal did not come, for he had thought to himself:
"if matters go on in this way, i shall some day be caught and eaten by the wicked old alligator.
i had better content myself with living on wild figs," and he went no more near the river, but stayed in the jungles and ate wild figs, and roots which he dug up with his paws.
when the alligator found this out, he determined to try and catch the jackal on land; so, going under the largest of the wild fig-trees, where the ground was covered with the fallen fruit, he collected a quantity of it together, and, burying himself under the great heap, waited for the jackal to appear.
but no sooner did the cunning little animal see this great heap of wild figs all collected together than he thought, "that looks very like my friend the alligator."
and to discover if it were so or not, he called out: "the juicy little wild figs i love to eat always tumble down from the tree, and roll here and there as the wind drives them; but this great heap of figs is quite still; these cannot be good figs; i will not eat any of them."
"ho, ho!"
thought the alligator, "is that all?
how suspicious this jackal is!
i will make the figs roll about a little, then, and when he sees that, he will doubtless come and eat them."
so the great beast shook himself, and all the heap of little figs went roll, roll, roll some a mile this way, some a mile that, farther than they had ever rolled before or than the most blustering wind could have driven them.
seeing this, the jackal scampered away, saying: "i am so much obliged to you, alligator, for letting me know you are there, for indeed i should hardly have guessed it.
you were so buried under that heap of figs."
the alligator, hearing this, was so angry that he ran after the jackal, but the latter ran very, very fast away, too quickly to be caught.
then the alligator said to himself: "i will not allow that little wretch to make fun of me another time and then run away out of reach; i will show him that i can be more cunning than he fancies."
and early the next morning he crawled as fast as he could to the jackal's den (which was a hole in the side of a hill) and crept into it, and hid himself, waiting for the jackal, who was out, to return home.
but when the jackal got near the place, he looked about him and thought: "dear me!
the ground looks as if some heavy creature had been walking over it, and here are great clods of earth knocked down from each side of the door of my den, as if a very big animal had been trying to squeeze himself through it.
i certainly will not go inside until i know that all is safe there."
so he called out: "little house, pretty house, my sweet little house, why do you not give an answer when i call?
if i come, and all is safe and right, you always call out to me.
is anything wrong, that you do not speak?"
then the alligator, who was inside, thought, "if that is the case i had better call out, that he may fancy all is right in his house."
and in as gentle a voice as he could, he said, "sweet little jackal."
at hearing these words the jackal felt quite frightened, and thought to himself: "so the dreadful old alligator is there.
i must try to kill him if i can, for if i do not he will certainly catch and kill me some day."
he therefore answered: "thank you, my dear little house.
i like to hear your pretty voice.
i am coming in in a minute, but first i must collect firewood to cook my dinner."
and he ran as fast as he could, and dragged all the dry branches and bits of stick he could find close up to the mouth of the den.
meantime, the alligator inside kept as quiet as a mouse, but he could not help laughing a little to himself as he thought: "so i have deceived this tiresome little jackal at last.
in a few minutes he will run in here, and then won't i snap him up!"
when the jackal had gathered together all the sticks he could find and put them round the mouth of his den, he set them on fire and pushed them as far into it as possible.
there was such a quantity of them that they soon blazed up into a great fire, and the smoke and flames filled the den and smothered the wicked old alligator and burned him to death, while the little jackal ran up and down outside dancing for joy and singing:
"how do you like my house, my friend?
is it nice and warm?
ding-dong!
ding-dong!
the alligator is dying!
ding-dong, ding-dong!
he will trouble me no more.
i have defeated my enemy!
ring-a-ting!
ding-a-ting!
ding-ding-dong!"
the farmer and the money-lender
there was once a farmer who suffered much at the hands of a money-lender.
good harvests or bad the farmer was always poor, the money-lender rich.
at the last, when he hadn't a farthing left, the farmer went to the money-lender's house and said, "you can't squeeze water from a stone, and, as you have nothing to get by me now, you might tell me the secret of becoming rich."
"my friend," returned the money-lender piously, "riches come from ram ask him."
"thank you, i will!"
replied the simple farmer; so he prepared three girdle-cakes to last him on the journey, and set out to find ram.
first he met a brahman, and to him he gave a cake, asking him to point out the road to ram; but the brahman only took the cake, and went on his way without a word.
next the farmer met a yogi, or devotee, and to him he gave a cake, without receiving any help in return.
at last he came upon a poor man sitting under a tree, and finding out he was hungry the kindly farmer gave him his last cake, and, sitting down to rest beside him, entered into conversation.
"and where are you going?"
asked the poor man, at length.
"oh, i have a long journey before me, for i am going to find ram!"
replied the farmer.
"i don't suppose you could tell me which way to go?"
"perhaps i can," said the poor man, smiling, "for i am ram!
what do you want of me?"
then the farmer told the whole story, and ram, taking pity on him, gave him a conch-shell, and showed him how to blow it in a particular way, saying: "remember!
whatever you wish for, you have only to blow the conch that way, and your wish will be fulfilled.
only, have a care of that money-lender, for even magic is not proof against his wiles!"
the farmer went back to his village rejoicing.
in fact, the money-lender noticed his high spirits at once, and said to himself, "some good fortune must have befallen the stupid fellow, to make him hold his head so jauntily."
therefore he went over to the simple farmer's house, and congratulated him on his good fortune in such cunning words, pretending to have heard all about it, that before long the farmer found himself telling the whole story all except the secret of blowing the conch, for, with all his simplicity, the farmer was not quite such a fool as to tell that.
nevertheless, the money-lender determined to have the conch by hook or by crook, and, as he was villain enough not to stick at trifles, he waited for a favorable opportunity and stole the conch.
but, after nearly bursting himself with blowing the conch in every conceivable way, he was obliged to give up the secret as a bad job.
however, being determined to succeed, he went back to the farmer, and said coolly: "look here!
i've got your conch, but i can't use it; you haven't got it, so it's clear you can't use it either.
business is at a standstill unless we make a bargain.
now, i promise to give you back your conch, and never to interfere with your using it, on one condition, which is this whatever you get from it, i am to get double."
"never!"
cried the farmer; "that would be the old business all over again!"
"not at all!"
replied the wily money-lender; "you will have your share!
now, don't be a dog in the manger, for, if you get all you want, what can it matter to you if i am rich or poor?"
at last, though it went sorely against the grain to be of any benefit to a money-lender, the farmer was forced to yield, and from that time, no matter what he gained by the power of the conch, the money-lender gained double.
and the knowledge that this was so, preyed upon the farmer's mind day and night, so that he had no satisfaction out of anything.
at last there came a very dry season so dry that the farmer's crops withered for want of rain.
then he blew his conch, and wished for a well to water them, and lo!
there was the well, but the money-lender had two!
two beautiful new wells!
this was too much for any farmer to stand; and our friend brooded over it, and brooded over it, till at last a bright idea came into his head.
he seized the conch, blew it loudly, and cried out, "oh, ram!
i wish to be blind of one eye!"
and so he was, in a twinkling, but the money-lender, of course, was blind of both, and in trying to steer his way between the two new wells he fell into one, and was drowned.
now, this true story shows that a farmer once got the better of a money-lender but only by losing one of his eyes.
tit for tat
adapted by m. frere
there once lived a camel and a jackal who were great friends.
one day the jackal said to the camel, "i know that there is a fine field of sugarcane on the other side of the river.
if you will take me across, i'll show you the place.
this plan will suit me as well as you.
you will enjoy eating the sugarcane, and i am sure to find many crabs'
bones and bits of fish by the riverside, on which to make a good dinner."
the camel consented, and swam across the river, taking the jackal, who could not swim, on his back.
when they reached the other side, the camel went to eating the sugarcane, and the jackal ran up and down the river bank, devouring all the crabs, bits of fish, and bones he could find.
but being a much smaller animal, he had made an excellent meal before the camel had eaten more than two or three mouthfuls; and no sooner had he finished his dinner than he ran round and round the sugarcane field, yelping and howling with all his might.
the villagers heard him, and thought, "there is a jackal among the sugarcanes; he will be scratching holes in the ground and spoiling the roots of the plants."
and they all went down to the place to drive him away.
but when they got there they found to their surprise not only a jackal, but a camel who was eating the sugarcanes!
this made them very angry, and they caught the poor camel and drove him from the field and beat him and beat him until he was nearly dead.
when they had gone, the jackal said to the camel, "we had better go home."
and the camel said, "very well; then jump upon my back, as you did before."
so the jackal jumped upon the camel's back, and the camel began to recross the river.
when they had got well into the water, the camel said: "this is a pretty way in which you have treated me, friend jackal.
no sooner had you finished your own dinner than you must go yelping about the place loud enough to arouse the whole village, and bring all the villagers down to beat me black and blue, and turn me out of the field before i had eaten two mouthfuls!
what in the world did you make such a noise for?"
"i don't know," said the jackal.
"it is a custom i have.
i always like to sing a little after dinner."
the camel waded on through the river.
the water reached up to his knees then above them up, up, up, higher and higher, until he was obliged to swim.
then turning to the jackal, he said, "i feel very anxious to roll."
"oh, pray don't; why do you wish to do so?"
asked the jackal.
"i don't know," answered the camel.
"it is a custom i have.
i always like to have a little roll after dinner."
so saying, he rolled over in the water, shaking the jackal off as he did so.
and the jackal was drowned, but the camel swam safely ashore.
singh rajah and the cunning little jackals
adapted by m. frere
once upon a time, in a great jungle, there lived a great lion.
he was rajah of all the country round, and every day he used to leave his den, in the deepest shadow of the rocks, and roar with a loud, angry voice; and when he roared, the other animals in the jungle, who were all his subjects, got very much frightened and ran here and there; and singh rajah would pounce upon them and kill them, and gobble them up for his dinner.
this went on for a long, long time until, at last, there were no living creatures left in the jungle but two little jackals a rajah jackal and a ranee jackal husband and wife.
a very hard time of it the poor little jackals had, running this way and that to escape the terrible singh rajah; and every day the little ranee jackal would say to her husband: "i am afraid he will catch us to-day; do you hear how he is roaring?
oh, dear!
oh, dear!"
and he would answer her: "never fear; i will take care of you.
let us run on a mile or two.
come; come quick, quick, quick!"
and they would both run away as fast as they could.
after some time spent in this way, they found, however, one fine day, that the lion was so close upon them that they could not escape.
then the little ranee jackal said: "husband, husband, i feel much frightened.
the singh rajah is so angry he will certainly kill us at once.
what can we do?"
but he answered: "cheer up; we can save ourselves yet.
come, and i'll show you how we may manage it."
so what did these cunning little jackals do but they went to the great lion's den; and, when he saw them coming, he began to roar and shake his mane, and he said: "you little wretches, come and be eaten at once!
i have had no dinner for three whole days, and all that time i have been running over hill and dale to find you.
ro-a-ar!
ro-a-ar!
come and be eaten, i say!"
and he lashed his tail and gnashed his teeth, and looked very terrible indeed.
then the jackal rajah, creeping quite close up to him, said: "oh, great singh rajah, we all know you are our master, and we would have come at your bidding long ago; but, indeed, sir, there is a much bigger rajah even than you in this jungle, and he tried to catch hold of us and eat us up, and frightened us so much that we were obliged to run away."
"what do you mean?"
growled singh rajah.
"there is no king in this jungle but me!"
"ah, sire," answered the jackal, "in truth one would think so, for you are very dreadful.
your very voice is death.
but it is as we say, for we, with our own eyes, have seen one with whom you could not compete whose equal you can no more be than we are yours whose face is as flaming fire, his step as thunder, and his power supreme."
"it is impossible!"
interrupted the old lion; "but show me this rajah of whom you speak so much, that i may destroy him instantly!"
then the little jackals ran on before him until they reached a great well, and, pointing down to his own reflection in the water, they said, "see, sire, there lives the terrible king of whom we spoke."
when singh rajah looked down the well he became very angry, for he thought he saw another lion there.
he roared and shook his great mane, and the shadow lion shook his and looked terribly defiant.
at last, beside himself with rage at the violence of his opponent, singh rajah sprang down to kill him at once, but no other lion was there only the treacherous reflection and the sides of the well were so steep that he could not get out again to punish the two jackals, who peeped over the top.
after struggling for some time in the deep water, he sank to rise no more.
and the little jackals threw stones down upon him from above, and danced round and round the well, singing: "ao!
ao!
ao!
ao!
the king of the forest is dead, is dead!
we have killed the great lion who would have killed us!
ao!
ao!
ao!
ao!
ring-a-ting ding-a-ting!
ring-a-ting ding-a-ting!
ao!
ao!
ao!"
american indian stories
the white stone canoe
adapted by h. r. schoolcraft
there was once a very beautiful indian maiden, who died suddenly on the day she was to have been married to a handsome young warrior.
he was also brave, but his heart was not proof against this loss.
from the hour she was buried, there was no more joy or peace for him.
he went often to visit the spot where the women had buried her, and sat musing there, when, it was thought by some of his friends, he would have done better to try to amuse himself in the chase, or by diverting his thoughts in the warpath.
but war and hunting had both lost their charms for him.
his heart was already dead within him.
he pushed aside both his war-club and his bow and arrows.
he had heard the old people say, that there was a path that led to the land of souls, and he determined to follow it.
he accordingly set out, one morning, after having completed his preparations for the journey.
at first he hardly knew which way to go.
he was only guided by the tradition that he must go south.
for a while he could see no change in the face of the country.
forests, and hills, and valleys, and streams had the same looks which they wore in his native place.
there was snow on the ground when he set out, and it was sometimes seen to be piled and matted on the thick trees and bushes.
at length it began to diminish, and finally disappeared.
the forest assumed a more cheerful appearance, the leaves put forth their buds, and before he was aware of the completeness of the change, he found himself surrounded by spring.
he had left behind him the land of snow and ice.
the air became mild, the dark clouds of winter had rolled away from the sky; a pure field of blue was above him, and as he went he saw flowers beside his path, and heard the songs of birds.
by these signs he knew that he was going the right way, for they agreed with the traditions of his tribe.
at length he spied a path.
it led him through a grove, then up a long and elevated ridge, on the very top of which he came to a lodge.
at the door stood an old man, with white hair, whose eyes, though deeply sunk, had a fiery brilliancy.
he had a long robe of skins thrown loosely around his shoulders, and a staff in his hands.
the young chippewayan began to tell his story; but the venerable chief arrested him before he had proceeded to speak ten words.
"i have expected you," he replied, "and had just risen to bid you welcome to my abode.
she whom you seek passed here but a few days since, and being fatigued with her journey, rested herself here.
enter my lodge and be seated, and i will then satisfy your inquiries, and give you directions for your journey from this point."
having done this, they both issued forth to the lodge door.
"you see yonder gulf," said he, "and the wide-stretching blue plains beyond.
it is the land of souls.
you stand upon its borders, and my lodge is the gate of entrance.
but you can not take your body along.
leave it here with your bow and arrows, your bundle, and your dog.
you will find them safe on your return."
so saying, he re-entered the lodge, and the freed traveler bounded forward as if his feet had suddenly been endowed with the power of wings.
but all things retained their natural colors and shapes.
the woods and leaves, and streams and lakes, were only more bright and comely than he had ever witnessed.
animals bounded across his path, with a freedom and a confidence which seemed to tell him there was no blood shed here.
birds of beautiful plumage inhabited the groves, and sported in the waters.
there was but one thing in which he saw a very unusual effect.
he noticed that his passage was not stopped by trees or other objects.
he appeared to walk directly through them.
they were, in fact, but the souls or shadows of material trees.
he became sensible that he was in a land of shadows.
when he had traveled half a day's journey, through a country which was continually becoming more attractive, he came to the banks of a broad lake, in the center of which was a large and beautiful island.
he found a canoe of shining white stone, tied to the shore.
he was now sure that he had taken the right path, for the aged man had told him this.
there were also shining paddles.
he immediately entered the canoe, and took the paddles in his hands, when, to his joy and surprise, on turning round he beheld the object of his search in another canoe, exactly its counterpart in everything.
she had exactly imitated his motions, and they were side by side.
they at once pushed out from shore and began to cross the lake.
its waves seemed to be rising, and at a distance looked ready to swallow them up; but just as they entered the whitened edge of them they seemed to melt away, as if they were but the images of waves.
but no sooner was one wreath of foam passed, than another, more threatening still, arose.
thus they were in perpetual fear; and what added to it, was the clearness of the water, through which they could see heaps of beings who had perished before, and whose bones lay strewed on the bottom of the lake.
the master of life had, however, decreed to let them pass, for the actions of neither of them had been bad.
but they saw many others struggling and sinking in the waves.
old and young of all ages and ranks, were there: some passed and some sank.
it was only the little children whose canoes seemed to meet no waves.
at length every difficulty was gone, as in a moment, and they both leaped out on the happy island.
they felt that the very air was food.
it strengthened and nourished them.
they wandered together over the blissful fields, where every thing was formed to please the eye and the ear.
there were no tempests there was no ice, no chilly winds no one shivered for the want of warm clothes: no one suffered hunger no one mourned for the dead.
they saw no graves.
they heard of no wars.
there was no hunting of animals; for the air itself was their food.
gladly would the young warrior have remained there forever, but he was obliged to go back for his body.
he did not see the master of life, but he heard his voice in a soft breeze.
"go back," said this voice, "to the land from whence you came.
your time has not yet come.
the duties for which i made you, and which you are to perform, are not yet finished.
return to your people, and accomplish the duties of a good man.
you will be the ruler of your tribe for many days.
the rules you must observe will be told you by my messenger, who keeps the gate.
when he surrenders back your body, he will tell you what to do.
listen to him and you shall afterward rejoin the spirit, which you must now leave behind.
she is accepted and will be ever here, as young and as happy as she was when i first called her from the land of snows."
when this voice ceased, the narrator awoke.
it was all the fabric of a dream, and he was still in the bitter land of snows, and hunger, and tears.
the maiden who loved a fish
there was once among the marshpees, a small tribe who have their hunting-grounds on the shores of the great lake, near the cape of storms, a woman whose name was awashanks.
she was rather silly and very idle.
for days together she would sit doing nothing.
then she was so ugly and ill-shaped that not one of the youths of the village would have aught to say to her by way of courtship or marriage.
she squinted very much; her face was long and thin, her nose excessively large and humped, her teeth crooked and projecting, her chin almost as sharp as the bill of a loon, and her ears as large as those of a deer.
altogether she was a very odd and strangely formed woman, and wherever she went she never failed to excite much laughter and derision among those who thought that ugliness and deformity were fit subjects for ridicule.
though so very ugly, there was one faculty she possessed in a more remarkable degree than any woman of the tribe.
it was that of singing.
nothing, unless such could be found in the land of spirits, could equal the sweetness of her voice or the beauty of her songs.
her favorite place of resort was a small hill, a little removed from the river of her people, and there, seated beneath the shady trees, she would while away the hours of summer with her charming songs.
so beautiful and melodious were the things she uttered that, by the time she had sung a single sentence, the branches above her head would be filled with the birds that came thither to listen, the thickets around her would be crowded with beasts, and the waters rolling beside her would be alive with fishes, all attracted by the sweet sounds.
from the minnow to the porpoise, from the wren to the eagle, from the snail to the lobster, from the mouse to the mole all hastened to the spot to listen to the charming songs of the hideous marshpee maiden.
among the fishes which repaired every night to the vicinity of the little hillock, which was the chosen resting-place of the ugly songstress, was the great chief of the trouts, a tribe of fish inhabiting the river near by.
the chief was of a far greater size than the people of his nation usually are, being as long as a man and quite as broad.
of all the creatures which came to listen to the singing of awashanks none appeared to enjoy it so highly as the chief of the trouts.
as his bulk prevented him from approaching so near as he wished, he, from time to time, in his eagerness to enjoy the music to the best advantage, ran his nose into the ground, and thus worked his way a considerable distance into the land.
nightly he continued his exertions to approach the source of the delightful sounds he heard, till at length he had plowed out a wide and handsome channel, and so effected his passage from the river to the hill, a distance extending an arrow's-flight.
thither he repaired every night at the commencement of darkness, sure to meet the maiden who had become so necessary to his happiness.
soon he began to speak of the pleasure he enjoyed, and to fill the ears of awashanks with fond protestations of his love and affection.
instead of singing to him, she now began to listen to his voice.
it was something so new and strange to her to hear the tones of love and courtship, a thing so unusual to be told she was beautiful, that it is not wonderful her head was turned by the new incident, and that she began to think the voice of her lover the sweetest she had ever heard.
one thing marred their happiness.
this was that the trout could not live upon land, nor the maiden in the water.
this state of things gave them much sorrow.
they had met one evening at the usual place, and were discoursing together, lamenting that two who loved each other so, should be doomed always to live apart, when a man appeared close to awashanks.
he asked the lovers why they seemed to be so sad.
the chief of the trouts told the stranger the cause of their sorrow.
"be not grieved nor hopeless," said the stranger, when the chief had finished.
"the impediments can be removed.
i am the spirit who presides over fishes, and though i cannot make a man or woman of a fish, i can make them into fish.
under my power awashanks shall become a beautiful trout."
with that he bade the girl follow him into the river.
when they had waded in some little depth he took up some water in his hand and poured it on her head, muttering some words, of which none but himself knew the meaning.
immediately a change took place in her.
her body took the form of a fish, and in a few moments she was a complete trout.
having accomplished this transformation the spirit gave her to the chief of the trouts, and the pair glided off into the deep and quiet waters.
she did not, however, forget the land of her birth.
every season, on the same night as that upon which her disappearance from her tribe had been wrought, there were to be seen two trouts of enormous size playing in the water off the shore.
they continued their visits till the palefaces came to the country, when, deeming themselves to be in danger from a people who paid no reverence to the spirits of the land, they bade it adieu forever.
the star wife
in the days when the buffalo raced and thundered over the earth and the stars danced and sang in the sky, a brave young hunter lived on the bank of battle river.
he was fond of the red flowers and the blue sky; and when the rest of the indians went out to hunt in waistcloths of skin he put on his fringed leggings all heavy with blue beads, and painted red rings and stripes on his face, till he was as gay as the earth and the sky himself.
high-feather was his name, and he always wore a red swan's feather on his head.
one day, when high-feather was out with his bow and arrows, he came on a little beaten trail that he had never seen before, and he followed it but he found that it went round and round and brought him back to where he had started.
it came from nowhere, and it went to nowhere.
"what sort of animal has made this?"
he said.
and he lay down in the middle of the ring to think, looking up into the blue sky.
while he lay thinking, he saw a little speck up above him in the sky, and thought it was an eagle.
but the speck grew bigger, and sank down and down, till he saw it was a great basket coming down out of the sky.
he jumped up and ran back to a little hollow and lay down to hide in a patch of tall red flowers.
then he peeped out and saw the basket come down to the earth and rest on the grass in the middle of the ring.
twelve beautiful maidens were leaning over the edge of the basket.
they were not indian maidens, for their faces were pink and white, and their long hair was bright red-brown like a fox's fur, and their clothes were sky-blue and floating light as cobwebs.
the maidens jumped out of the basket and began to dance round and round the ring-trail, one behind the other, drumming with their fingers on little drums of eagle-skin, and singing such beautiful songs as high-feather had never heard.
then high-feather jumped up and ran towards the ring, crying out, "let me dance and sing with you!"
the maidens were frightened, and ran to the basket and jumped in, and the basket flew up into the sky, and grew smaller till at last he could not see it at all.
the young man went home to his wigwam, and his mother roasted buffalo meat for his dinner; but he could not eat, and he could not think of anything but the twelve beautiful maidens.
his mother begged him to tell her what the matter was; and at last he told her, and said he would never be happy till he brought one of the maidens home to be his wife.
"those must be the star-people," said his mother, who was a great magician the prairie was full of magic in those days, before the white man came and the buffalo went.
"you had better take an indian girl for your wife.
don't think any more of the star-maidens, or you will have much trouble."
"i care little how much trouble i have, so long as i get a star-maiden for my wife," he said; "and i am going to get one, if i have to wait till the world ends."
"if you must, you must," said his mother.
so next morning she sewed a bit of gopher's fur on to his feather; and he ate a good breakfast of buffalo meat and tramped away over the prairie to the dancing ring.
as soon as he came into the ring he turned into a gopher; but there were no gophers' holes there for him to hide in, so he had to lie in the grass and wait.
presently he saw a speck up in the sky, and the speck grew larger and larger till it became a basket, and the basket came down and down till it rested on the earth in the middle of the ring.
the eldest maiden put her head over the edge and looked all around, north and east and south and west.
"there is no man here," she said.
so they all jumped out to have their dance.
but before they came to the beaten ring the youngest maiden spied the gopher, and called out to her sisters to look at it.
"away!
away!"
cried the eldest maiden.
"no gopher would dare to come on our dancing ground.
it is a conjuror in disguise!"
so she took her youngest sister by the arm and pulled her away to the basket, and they all jumped in and the basket went sailing up into the sky before high-feather could get out of his gopher skin or say a word.
the young man went home very miserable; but when his mother heard what had happened she said: "it is a hard thing you want to do; but if you must, you must.
to-night i will make some fresh magic, and you can try again to-morrow."
next morning high-feather asked for his breakfast; but his mother said, "you must not have any buffalo meat, or it will spoil the magic.
you must not eat anything but the wild strawberries you find on the prairie as you go."
then she sewed a little bit of a mouse's whisker on to his red feather; and he tramped away across the prairie, picking wild strawberries and eating them as he went, till he came to the dancing ring.
as soon as he was inside the ring he turned into a little mouse, and made friends with the family of mice that lived in a hole under the grass; and the mother mouse promised to help him all she could.
they had not waited long when the basket came dropping down out of the sky.
the eldest sister put her head over the edge, and looked all around, north and west and south and east and down on the ground.
"there is no man here," she said, "and i do not see any gopher; but you must be very careful."
so they all got out of the basket, and began to dance round the ring, drumming and singing as they went.
but when they came near the mouse's nest the eldest sister held up her hand, and they stopped dancing and held their breath.
then she tapped on the ground and listened.
"it does not sound so hollow as it did," she said, "the mice have a visitor."
and she tapped again, and called out, "come and show yourselves, you little traitors, or we will dig you up!"
but the mother mouse had made another door to her nest, just outside the ring, working very fast with all her toes; and while the maidens were looking for her inside the ring she came out at the other door with all her children and scampered away across the prairie.
the maidens turned round and ran after them; all but the youngest sister, who did not want any one to be killed; and high-feather came out of the hole and turned himself into what he was, and caught her by the arm.
"come home and marry me," he said, "and dance with the indian maidens; and i will hunt for you, and my mother will cook for you, and you will be much happier than up in the sky."
her sisters came rushing round her, and begged her to go back home to the sky with them; but she looked into the young man's eyes, and said she would go with him wherever he went.
so the other maidens went weeping and wailing up into the sky, and high-feather took his star-wife home to his tent on the bank of the battle river.
high-feather's mother was glad to see them both; but she whispered in his ear: "you must never let her out of your sight if you want to keep her; you must take her with you everywhere you go."
and he did so.
he took her with him every time he went hunting, and he made her a bow and arrows, but she would never use them; she would pick wild strawberries and gooseberries and raspberries as they went along, but she would never kill anything; and she would never eat anything that any one else had killed.
she only ate berries and crushed corn.
one day, while the young man's wife was embroidering feather stars on a dancing-cloth, and his mother was gossiping in a tent at the end of the village, a little yellow bird flew in and perched on high-feather's shoulder, and whispered in his ear:
"there is a great flock of wild red swans just over on loon lake.
if you come quickly and quietly you can catch them before they fly away; but do not tell your wife, for red swans cannot bear the sight of a woman, and they can tell if one comes within a mile of them."
high-feather had never seen or heard of a red swan before; all the red feathers he wore he had had to paint.
he looked at his wife, and as she was sewing busily and looking down at her star embroidering he thought he could slip away and get back before she knew he had gone.
but as soon as he was out of sight the little yellow bird flew in and perched on her shoulder, and sang her such a beautiful song about her sisters in the sky that she forgot everything else and slipped out and ran like the wind, and got to the dancing ring just as her sisters came down in their basket.
then they all gathered round her, and begged her to go home with them.
but she only said, "high-feather is a brave man, and he is very good to me, and i will never leave him."
when they saw they could not make her leave her husband, the eldest sister said: "if you must stay, you must.
but just come up for an hour, to let your father see you, because he has been mourning for you ever since you went away."
the star-wife did not wish to go, but she wanted to see her father once more, so she got into the basket and it sailed away up into the sky.
her father was very glad to see her, and she was very glad to see him, and they talked and they talked till the blue sky was getting gray.
then she remembered that she ought to have gone home long before.
"now i must go back to my husband," she said.
"that you shall never do!"
said her father.
and he shut her up in a white cloud and said she should stay there till she promised never to go back to the prairie.
she begged to be let out, but it was no use.
then she began to weep; and she wept so much that the cloud began to weep too, and it was weeping itself quite away.
so her father saw she would go down to the earth in rain if he kept her in the cloud any longer, and he let her out.
"what must i do for you," he said, "to make you stay with us here and be happy?"
"i will not stay here," she said, "unless my husband comes and lives here too."
"i will send for him at once," said her father.
so he sent the basket down empty, and it rested in the middle of the dancing ring.
now when high-feather reached loon lake he found it covered with red swans.
he shot two with one arrow, and then all the rest flew away.
he picked up the two swans and hurried back to his tent, and there lay the dancing-cloth with the feather stars on it half finished, but no wife could he see.
he called her, but she did not answer.
he rushed out, with the two red swans still slung round his neck and hanging down his back, and ran to the dancing ring, but nobody was there.
"i will wait till she comes back," he said to himself, "if i have to wait till the world ends."
so he threw himself down on the grass and lay looking up at the stars till he went to sleep.
early in the morning he heard a rustling on the grass, and when he opened his eyes he saw the great basket close beside him.
he jumped up, with the two red swans still slung round his neck, and climbed into the basket.
there was nobody there; and when he began to climb out again he found that the basket was half way up to the sky.
it went up and up, and at last it came into the star-country, where his wife was waiting for him.
her father gave them a beautiful blue tent to live in, and high-feather was happy enough for a while; but he soon grew tired of the cloud-berries that the star-people ate, and he longed to tramp over the solid green prairie, so he asked his wife's father to let him take her back to the earth.
"no," said the star-man, "because then i should never see her again.
if you stay with us you will soon forget the dull old earth."
the young man said nothing; but he put on the wings of one of the red swans, and he put the other red swan's wings on his wife, and they leapt over the edge of the star-country and flew down through the air to the prairie, and came to the tent where high-feather's mother was mourning for them; and there was a great feast in the village because they had come back safe and sound.
the star-wife finished embroidering her dancing-cloth that day; and whenever the indians danced she danced with them.
she never went back to the star-maidens' dancing ring; but she still lived on berries and corn, because she would never kill anything, except one thing, and that was the little yellow bird.
it flew into the tent one day when high-feather had his back turned, and began to whisper into the star-wife's ear; but it never came to trouble her again.
arabian stories
the story of caliph stork
caliph charid, of bagdad, was reclining on his divan one pleasant afternoon, smoking his long pipe and sipping coffee from a handsome dish which a slave was holding for him, when his grand vizier, mansor, entered and told him of a peddler in the court below whose wares might interest him.
the caliph, being in an affable state of mind, summoned the peddler, who, delighted with the opportunity, displayed all the treasures of his pack.
there were pearls, rings, silks, and many other rich things.
the caliph selected something for himself, a handsome present for the vizier, and another for the vizier's wife.
just as the peddler was putting the things back into his box, the caliph noticed a small drawer and asked what it contained.
"only something of no value, which i picked up in a street of mecca,"
the peddler replied.
he thereupon opened the drawer and showed the caliph a small box, containing a black powder and a scroll written in characters which neither the caliph nor his grand vizier could make out.
the caliph immediately decided that he wanted this strange scroll, and the peddler was persuaded to part with it for a trifle.
then the vizier was asked to find some one to decipher its meaning.
near the mosque lived a man called selim, who was so learned that he knew every language in the world.
when the vizier brought him to interpret the scroll, the caliph said to him:
"they tell me that you are a scholar and can read all languages.
if you can decipher what is written here, i shall know that it is true, and will give you a robe of honor; but if you fail, i shall have you punished with many strokes, because you are falsely named."
selim prostrated himself at the feet of the caliph, and then took the scroll.
he had not looked at it long when he exclaimed:
"my lord and master, i hope to die if this is not latin."
"well, if so, let us hear what it says," the caliph impatiently answered.
selim at once began:
"let him who finds this box praise allah.
if he snuffs the powder it contains, at the same time pronouncing the word 'matabor,' he will be transformed into any creature that he desires, and will understand the language of all animals.
when he wishes to return to his own form, let him bow to the east three times, repeating the word 'matabor.'
but remember if, while he is bird or beast, he should laugh, the magic word would be forgotten, and the enchantment would be on him forever."
the caliph was delighted with the knowledge of selim.
he made him a splendid present, and told him to keep the secret.
when he had dismissed the learned man, he turned to the grand vizier, and expressed a wish to try the powder.
"come to-morrow morning early," said he, "and we will go together to the country and learn what the animals are talking about."
the vizier came as he was ordered, and they left the palace without attendants.
beyond the town was a large pond where some handsome storks were often seen, and to this place they presently came.
a grave and stately stork was hunting for frogs, while another flew about and kept him company.
"most gracious lord," said the vizier, "what think you of these dignified long legs, and how would you like to know their chatter?"
the caliph replied that the stork had always interested him, and he would very much like a more intimate acquaintance.
taking the box from his girdle, he helped himself to a pinch of snuff and offered it to the vizier, who followed his example.
together they cried "matabor," and instantly their beards disappeared, and feathers covered their bodies; their necks stretched out long and slender, and their legs shriveled into red and shapeless sticks.
the caliph lifted up his foot to stroke his beard in astonishment, but found a long bill in its place.
"by the beard of the prophet, since i have not one of my own to swear by, but we are a pretty pair of birds, mansor!"
"if i may say so, your highness, you are equally handsome as a stork as when you were a caliph," replied the vizier.
"i see our two relations are conversing over there; shall we join them?"
when they came near to where the storks were smoothing their feathers and touching bills in the most friendly manner, this was the conversation they overheard, "will you have some of my frog's legs for breakfast, dame yellowlegs?"
"no, thank you; i am obliged to practise a dance for my father's guests, and cannot eat."
thereupon dame yellowlegs stepped out, and began to pose most gracefully.
the caliph and the vizier watched her, until she stood on one foot and spread her wings; then they both, at the same time, burst into such peals of laughter that the two storks flew away.
suddenly, however, the vizier ceased his mirth, and commenced bowing to the east.
the caliph recovered himself and did the same, but neither could think of the magic word.
"mansor, just recall that unholy word, and i will become caliph once more, and you my grand vizier.
i have had enough of being a bird for one day."
"most gracious lord, that dancing stork has undone us, for, since laughing at her antics, i cannot remember the word that will restore us to human shape."
so at last, in despair, the two unhappy birds wandered through the meadows.
they appeased their hunger with fruits, for they could not bring themselves to eat frogs and lizards.
as they dared not return to bagdad and tell the people their chagrin, they flew over the city, and had the satisfaction of seeing signs of mourning and confusion.
in a few days, however, while sitting on the roof of a house, they saw a splendid procession coming up the street, and the people welcoming the new ruler.
"hail!
hail mirza, ruler of bagdad!"
they shouted.
the procession came nearer.
at the head of it the caliph saw a man dressed in scarlet and gold, riding a handsome horse.
he at once recognized the new ruler as the son of his worst enemy.
"behold," said he, "the explanation of our enchantment!
this is the son of kaschnur, the magician, who is my great enemy, who seeks revenge.
let us not lose hope, but fly to the sacred grave of the prophet and pray to be released from the spell."
they at once spread their wings and soared away toward medina, but not being accustomed to such long flights, they soon became fatigued and descended to a ruin which stood in a valley below.
the two enchanted birds decided to remain there for the night; then wandered through the deserted rooms and corridors, which gave of evidence of former splendor.
suddenly the vizier stopped and remarked that if it were not ridiculous for a stork to be afraid of ghosts, he would feel decidedly nervous.
the caliph listened, and heard a low moaning and sobbing, which seemed to come from a room down the passage.
he started to rush toward it, but the vizier held him fast by a wing.
he had retained the brave heart that he had possessed when a caliph, however, and freeing himself from the vizier's bill, he hurried to the room whence came the pitiful sounds.
the moon shone through a barred window and showed him a screech owl sitting on the floor of the ruined chamber, lamenting in a hoarse voice.
the vizier had cautiously stolen up beside the caliph; and at sight of the two storks, the screech owl uttered a cry of pleasure.
to their astonishment it addressed them in arabic, in the following words:
"i have abandoned myself to despair, but i believe my deliverance is near, for it was prophesied in my youth that a stork would bring me good fortune."
the caliph, thus appealed to, arched his neck most gracefully and replied:
"alas!
screech owl, i fear we are unable to aid you, as you will understand when you have heard our miserable story."
he then related how the magician, kaschnur, had changed them into storks and made his own son ruler of bagdad.
the screech owl became very much excited and exclaimed:
"how strange that misfortune should have come to us through the same man.
i am tusa, the daughter of the king of the indies.
the magician, kaschnur, came one day to my father, to ask my hand in marriage for his son mirza.
my father ordered him thrown down stairs, and in revenge he managed to have me given a powder which changed me into this hideous shape.
he then conveyed me to this lonely castle, and swore i should remain here until some one asked me to be his wife, and so freed me from the enchantment."
at the conclusion of her story, the screech owl wept anew and would not be consoled.
suddenly, however, she wiped her eyes on her wing and said:
"i have an idea that may lead to our deliverance.
once every month the magician, kaschnur, and his companions meet in a large hall at this castle, where they feast and relate their evil deeds.
we will listen outside the door, and perhaps you may hear the forgotten word.
then, when you have resumed human form, one of you can ask to marry me, that i too may be freed from this wretched enchantment; and the prophecy that a stork would bring me happiness would be fulfilled."
the caliph and the vizier withdrew and consulted over the situation.
"it is unfortunate," said the caliph, "but if we are to meet again, i think you will have to ask the screech owl to marry you."
"not so, your highness, i already have a wife, and would rather remain a stork forever than take another; besides, i am an old man, while you are young and unmarried, and much better suited to a beautiful princess."
"that is it," said the caliph.
"how do i know that she will not prove to be some old fright?"
as the vizier was firm, the caliph at last said he would take the chances and do as the screech owl required.
that very night it so happened that the magicians met at the ruined castle.
the screech owl led the two storks through difficult passages till they came to a hole in the wall, through which they could plainly see all that transpired in the lighted hall.
handsomely carved pillars adorned the room, and a table was spread with many dishes.
about the table sat eight men, among whom was their enemy, the magician.
he entertained the company with many stories, and at last came to his latest that of turning the caliph and vizier into storks in relating which he pronounced the magic word.
the storks did not wait to hear more, but ran to the door of the castle.
the screech owl followed as fast as she could, and when the caliph saw her he exclaimed:
"to prove my gratitude, o our deliverer!
i beg you to take me for your husband."
then the two storks faced the rising sun, and bowed their long necks three times.
"matabor!"
they solemnly cried, together; and in an instant they were no longer storks, but stood before each other in their natural forms.
in their joy they fell on each other's necks and forgot all about the screech owl, until they heard a sweet voice beside them, and turning beheld a beautiful princess.
when the caliph recovered from his astonishment he said that he was now, indeed, enchanted and hoped to remain so always.
they then started at once for the gate of bagdad; and when they arrived, the people were overjoyed, for they had believed their ruler dead.
the magician was taken to the ruined castle and hanged, and his son was given the choice of the black powder or death.
choosing the powder, he was changed into a stork, and was kept in the palace gardens.
caliph charid and the princess were married; and when their children grew old enough, the caliph often amused them with imitations of the grand vizier when he was a stork, while mansor sat smiling and pulling his long beard.
persevere and prosper
adapted by a. r. montalba
"he that seeketh, shall find, and to him that knocketh shall be opened," says an old arab proverb.
"i will try that," said a youth one day.
to carry out his intention he journeyed to bagdad, where he presented himself before the vizier.
"lord!"
said he, "for many years i have lived a quiet and solitary life, the monotony of which wearies me.
i have never permitted myself earnestly to will any thing.
but as my teacher daily repeated to me, 'he that seeketh shall find, and to him that knocketh shall be opened,' so have i now come to the resolution with might and heart to will, and the resolution of my will is nothing less than to have the caliph's daughter for my wife."
the vizier thought the poor man was mad, and told him to call again some other time.
perseveringly he daily returned, and never felt disconcerted at the same often repeated answer.
one day, the caliph called on the vizier, as the youth was repeating his statement.
full of astonishment the caliph listened to the strange demand, and being in no humor for having the poor youth's head taken off, but on the contrary, being rather inclined for pleasantry, his mightiness condescendingly said: "for the great, the wise, or the brave, to request a princess for wife, is a moderate demand; but what are your claims?
to be the possessor of my daughter you must distinguish yourself by one of these attributes, or else by some great undertaking.
ages ago a carbuncle of inestimable value was lost in the tigris; he who finds it shall have the hand of my daughter."
the youth, satisfied with the promise of the caliph, went to the shores of the tigris.
with a small vessel he went every morning to the river, scooping out the water and throwing it on the land; and after having for hours thus employed himself, he knelt down and prayed.
the fishes became at last uneasy at his perseverance; and being fearful that, in the course of time, he might exhaust the waters, they assembled in great council.
"what is the purpose of this man?"
demanded the monarch of the fishes.
"the possession of the carbuncle that lies buried in the bottom of the tigris," was the reply.
"i advise you, then," said the aged monarch, "to give it up to him; for if he has the steady will, and has positively resolved to find it, he will work until he has drained the last drop of water from the tigris, rather than deviate a hair's breadth from his purpose."
the fishes, out of fear, threw the carbuncle into the vessel of the youth; and the latter, as a reward, received the daughter of the caliph for his wife."
"he who earnestly wills, can do much!"
chinese stories
the most frugal of men
a man who was considered the most frugal of all the dwellers in a certain kingdom heard of another man who was the most frugal in the whole world.
he said to his son thereupon: "we, indeed, live upon little, but if we were more frugal still, we might live upon nothing at all.
it will be well worth while for us to get instructions in economy from the most frugal of men."
the son agreed, and the two decided that the son should go and inquire whether the master in economic science would take pupils.
an exchange of presents being a necessary preliminary to closer intercourse, the father told the son to take the smallest of coins, one farthing, and to buy a sheet of paper of the cheapest sort.
the boy, by bargaining, got two sheets of paper for the farthing.
the father put away one sheet, cut the other sheet in halves, and on one half drew a picture of a pig's head.
this he put into a large covered basket, as if it were the thing which it represented the usual gift sent in token of great respect.
the son took the basket, and after a long journey reached the abode of the most frugal man in the world.
the master of the house was absent, but his son received the traveler, learned his errand, and accepted the offering.
having taken from the basket the picture of the pig's head, he said courteously to his visitor: "i am sorry that we have nothing in the house that is worthy to take the place of the pig's head in your basket.
i will, however, signify our friendly reception of it by putting in four oranges for you to take home with you."
thereupon the young man, without having any oranges at hand, made the motions necessary for putting the fruit into the basket.
the son of the most frugal man in the kingdom then took the basket and went to his father to tell of thrift surpassing his own.
when the most frugal man in the world returned home, his son told him that a visitor had been there, having come from a great distance to take lessons in economy.
the father inquired what offering he brought as an introduction, and the son showed the small outline of the pig's head on thin brown paper.
the father looked at it, and then asked his son what he had sent as a return present.
the son told him he had merely made the motions necessary for transferring four oranges, and showed how he had clasped the imaginary fruit and deposited it in the visitor's basket.
the father immediately flew into a terrible rage and boxed the boy's ears, exclaiming: "you extravagant wretch!
with your fingers thus far apart you appeared to give him large oranges.
why didn't you measure out small ones?"
the moon-cake
a little boy had a cake that a big boy coveted.
designing to get the cake without making the little boy cry so loud as to attract his mother's attention, the big boy remarked that the cake would be prettier if it were more like the moon.
the little boy thought that a cake like the moon must be desirable, and on being assured by the big boy that he had made many such, he handed over his cake for manipulation.
the big boy took out a mouthful, leaving a crescent with jagged edge.
the little boy was not pleased by the change, and began to whimper; whereupon the big boy pacified him by saying that he would make the cake into a half-moon.
so he nibbled off the horns of the crescent, and gnawed the edge smooth; but when the half-moon was made, the little boy perceived that there was hardly any cake left, and he again began to snivel.
the big boy again diverted him by telling him that, if he did not like so small a moon, he should have one that was just the size of the real orb.
he then took the cake, and explained that, just before the new moon is seen, the old moon disappears.
then he swallowed the rest of the cake and ran off, leaving the little boy waiting for the new moon.
the ladle that fell from the moon
once there was an old woman who lived on what she got by wile from her relatives and neighbors.
her husband's brother lived alone with his only son, in a house near hers, and when the son brought home a wife the old woman went to call on the bride.
during the call she inquired of the bride whether she had not, since her arrival in the house, heard a scratching at night among the boxes containing her wedding outfit.
the bride said she had not.
a few days later the old woman came again, and during the visit the bride remarked that, before the matter was mentioned, she had heard no scratching among her boxes, but that since that time she had listened for it, and had heard it every night.
the old woman advised her to look carefully after her clothing, saying that there were evidently many mice in the house, and that she would be likely at any time to find her best garments nibbled into shreds.
the old woman knew there was no cat in the house, but she inquired whether there was one, and on hearing that there was not, she offered to lend the young woman her own black-and-white cat, saying that it would soon extirpate all the mice.
the bride accepted the loan, and the old woman brought the cat, and left it in the bride's apartment.
after a few hours the cat disappeared, and the bride, supposing it to have gone home, made no search for it.
it did, indeed, go home, and the old woman secretly disposed of it; but several days later she came to the young woman and said that, when she lent the cat, her house had been free from mice, but that, as soon as the cat was gone, the mice came and multiplied so fast that now everything was overrun by them, and she would be obliged to take the cat home again.
the young woman told her that the cat went away the same day that it came, and she had supposed it had gone home.
the old woman said it had not, and that nothing could compensate her for the loss of it, for she had reared it herself; that there was never before seen such a cat for catching mice; that a cat, spotted as that one was, was seldom found; and that it was of the rare breed which gave rise to the common saying:
"a coal-black cat, with snowy loins,   is worth its weight in silver coins."
and that the weight of her cat was two hundred ounces.
the young woman was greatly surprised by this estimate of the value of the lost cat, and went to her father-in-law and related all that had occurred.
the father-in-law, knowing the character of the old woman, could neither eat nor sleep, so harassed was he by the expectation that she would worry his daughter-in-law till the two hundred ounces of silver should be paid.
the young woman, being a new-comer, thought but lightly of the matter, till the old woman came again and again to make mention of the cat.
when it became apparent that she must defend herself, the young woman asked her father-in-law if he had ever lent anything to the old woman; and when he said he could not remember having lent anything, she begged him to think carefully, and see if he could not recall the loan of a tool, a dish, or a fagot.
he finally recollected that he had lent to her an old wooden ladle, but he said it originally cost but a few farthings, and was certainly not worth speaking about.
the next time the old woman came to dun for the amount due for her cat, the young woman asked her to return the borrowed ladle.
the old woman said that the ladle was old and valueless; that she had allowed the children to play with it, and that they had dropped it in the dirt, where it had lain until she had picked it up and used it for kindlings.
the bride responded: "you expect to enrich yourself and your family by means of your cat.
i and my family also want money.
since you cannot give back the ladle, we will both go before the magistrate and present our cases.
if your cat is adjudged to be worth more than my ladle i will pay you the excess; and if my ladle be worth more than your cat, then you must pay me."
being sure that the cat would, by any judge, be considered of greater value than the ladle, the old woman agreed to the proposition, and the two went before the magistrate.
the young woman courteously gave precedence to the elder, and allowed her to make the accusation.
the old woman set forth her case, and claimed two hundred ounces of silver as a compensation for the loss of the cat.
when she had concluded her statement, the judge called on the young woman for her defense.
she said she could not disprove the statement, but that the claim was offset by a ladle that had been borrowed by the plaintiff.
there was a common saying:
"in the moon overhead, at its full, you can see   the trunk, branch and leaf of a cinnamon tree."
a branch from this tree had one night been blown down before her father-in-law's door, and he had had a ladle made from the wood.
whatever the ladle was put into never diminished by use.
whether wine, oil, rice, or money, the bulk remained the same if no ladle beside this one were used in dipping it.
a foreign inn-keeper, hearing of this ladle, came and offered her father-in-law three thousand ounces of silver for it, but the offer was refused.
and this ladle was the one that the plaintiff had borrowed and destroyed.
the magistrate, on hearing this defense, understood that the cat had been a pretext for extortion, and decided that the two claims offset each other, so that no payment was due from either one.
the young head of the family
there was once a family consisting of a father, his three sons, and his two daughters-in-law.
the two daughters-in-law, wives of the two elder sons, had but recently been brought into the house, and were both from one village a few miles away.
having no mother-in-law living, they were obliged to appeal to their father-in-law whenever they wished to visit their former homes, and as they were lonesome and homesick they perpetually bothered the old man by asking leave of absence.
vexed by these constant petitions, he set himself to invent a method of putting an end to them, and at last gave them leave in this wise:
"you are always begging me to allow you to go and visit your mothers, and thinking that i am very hard-hearted because i do not let you go.
now you may go, but only upon condition that when you come back you will each bring me something i want.
the one shall bring me some fire wrapped in paper, and the other some wind in a paper.
unless you promise to bring me these, you are never to ask me to let you go home; and if you go, and fail to get these for me, you are never to come back."
the old man did not suppose that these conditions would be accepted, but the girls were young and thoughtless, and in their anxiety to get away did not consider the impossibility of obtaining the articles required.
so they made ready with speed, and in great glee started off on foot to visit their mothers.
after they had walked a long distance, chatting about what they should do and whom they should see in their native village, the high heel of one of them slipped from under her foot, and she fell down.
owing to this mishap both stopped to adjust the misplaced footgear, and while doing this the conditions under which alone they could return to their husbands came to mind, and they began to cry.
while they sat there crying by the roadside a young girl came riding along from the fields on a water buffalo.
she stopped and asked them what was the matter, and whether she could help them.
they told her she could do them no good; but she persisted in offering her sympathy and inviting their confidence, till they told their story, and then she at once said that if they would go home with her she would show them a way out or their trouble.
their case seemed so hopeless to themselves, and the child was so sure of her own power to help them, that they finally accompanied her to her father's house, where she showed them how to comply with their father-in-law's demand.
for the first a paper lantern only would be needed.
when lighted it would be a fire, and its paper surface would compass the blaze, so that it would truly be "some fire wrapped in paper."
for the second a paper fan would suffice.
when flapped, wind would issue from it, and the "wind wrapped in paper" could thus be carried to the old man.
the two young women thanked the wise child, and went on their way rejoicing.
after a pleasant visit to their old homes, they took a lantern and a fan, and returned to their father-in-law's house.
as soon as he saw them he began to vent his anger at their light regard for his commands, but they assured him that they had perfectly obeyed him, and showed him that what they had brought fulfilled the conditions prescribed.
much astonished, he inquired how it was that they had suddenly become so astute, and they told him the story of their journey, and of the little girl who had so opportunely come to their relief.
he inquired whether the little girl was already betrothed, and, finding that she was not, engaged a go-between to see if he could get her for a wife for his youngest son.
having succeeded in securing the girl as a daughter-in-law, he brought her home, and told all the rest of the family that as there was no mother in the house, and as this girl had shown herself to be possessed of extraordinary wisdom, she should be the head of the household.
the wedding festivities being over, the sons of the old man made ready to return to their usual occupations on the farm; but, according to their father's order, they came to the young bride for instructions.
she told them that they were never to go to or from the fields empty-handed.
when they went they must carry fertilizers of some sort for the land, and when they returned they must bring bundles of sticks for fuel.
they obeyed, and soon had the land in fine condition, and so much fuel gathered that none need be bought.
when there were no more sticks, roots, or weeds to bring; she told them to bring stones instead; and they soon accumulated an immense pile of stones, which were heaped in a yard near their house.
one day an expert in the discovery of precious stones came along, and saw in this pile a block of jade of great value.
in order to get possession of this stone at a small cost, he undertook to buy the whole heap, pretending that he wished to use it in building.
the little head of the family asked an exorbitant price for them, and, as he could not induce her to take less, he promised to pay her the sum she asked, and to come two days later to bring the money and to remove the stones.
that night the girl thought about the reason for the buyer's being willing to pay so large a sum for the stones, and concluded that the heap must contain a gem.
the next morning she sent her father-in-law to invite the buyer to supper, and she instructed the men of her family in regard to his entertainment.
the best of wine was to be provided, and the father-in-law was to induce him to talk of precious stones, and to cajole him into telling in what way they were to be distinguished from other stones.
the head of the family, listening behind a curtain, heard how the valuable stone in her heap could be discovered.
she hastened to find and remove it from the pile; and, when her guest had recovered from the effect of the banquet, he saw that the value had departed from his purchase.
he went to negotiate again with the seller, and she conducted the conference with such skill that she obtained the price originally agreed upon for the heap of stones, and a large sum besides for the one in her possession.
the family, having become wealthy, built an ancestral hall of fine design and elaborate workmanship, and put the words "no sorrow" as an inscription over the entrance.
soon after, a mandarin passed that way, and, noticing this remarkable inscription, had his sedan-chair set down, that he might inquire who were the people that professed to have no sorrow.
he sent for the head of the family, was much surprised on seeing so young a woman thus appear, and remarked: "yours is a singular family.
i have never before seen one without sorrow, nor one with so young a head.
i will fine you for your impudence.
go and weave me a piece of cloth as long as this road."
"very well," responded the little woman; "so soon as your excellency shall have found the two ends of the road, and informed me as to the number of feet in its length, i will at once begin the weaving."
finding himself at fault, the mandarin added, "and i also fine you as much oil as there is water in the sea."
"certainly," responded the woman; "as soon as you shall have measured the sea, and sent me correct information as to the number of gallons, i will at once begin to press out the oil from my beans."
"indeed," said the mandarin, "since you are so sharp, perhaps you can penetrate my thoughts.
if you can, i will fine you no more.
i hold this pet quail in my hand; now tell me whether i mean to squeeze it to death, or to let it fly in the air."
"well," said the woman, "i am an obscure commoner, and you are a famed magistrate; if you are no more knowing than i, you have no right to fine me at all.
now i stand with one foot on one side my threshold and the other foot on the other side; tell me whether i mean to go in or come out.
if you cannot guess my riddle, you should not require me to guess yours."
being unable to guess her intention the mandarin took his departure, and the family lived long in opulence and good repute under its chosen head.
a dreadful boar
a poor old woman who lived with her one little granddaughter in a wood was out gathering sticks for fuel, and found a green stalk of sugar-cane, which she added to her bundle.
she presently met an elf in the form of a wild boar, that asked her for the cane, but she declined giving it to him, saying that, at her age, to stoop and to rise again was to earn what she picked up, and that she was going to take the cane home, and let her little granddaughter suck its sap.
the boar, angry at her refusal, said that he would, during the coming night, eat her granddaughter instead of the cane, and went off into the wood.
when the old woman reached her cabin she sat down by the door and wailed, for she knew she had no means of defending herself against the boar.
while she sat crying, a vender of needles came along and asked her what was the matter.
she told him, and he said that all he could do for her was to give her a box of needles.
this he did, and went on his way.
the old woman stuck the needles thickly over the lower half of her door, on its outer side, and then she went on crying.
just then a man came along with a basket of crabs, heard her lamentations, and stopped to inquire what ailed her.
she told him, and he said he knew no help for her, but he would do the best he could for her by giving her half his crabs.
the old woman put the crabs in her water-jar, behind her door, and again sat down and cried.
a farmer soon came along from the fields, leading his ox, and he also asked the cause of her distress and heard her sad story.
he said he was sorry he could not think of any way of preventing the evil she expected, but that he would leave his ox to stay all night with her, as it might be a sort of company for her in her loneliness.
she led the ox into her cabin, tied it to the head of her bedstead, gave it some straw, and then cried again.
a courier, returning on horseback from a neighboring town, next passed her door, and dismounted to inquire what troubled her.
having heard her tale, he said he would leave his horse to stay with her, and make the ox more contented.
so she tied the horse to the foot of her bed, and, thinking how surely evil was coming upon her with the night, she burst out crying anew.
a boy just then came along with a snapping-turtle that he had caught, and stopped to ask what had happened to her.
on learning the cause of her weeping, he said it was of no use to contend against sprites, but that he would give her his snapping-turtle as a proof, of his sympathy.
she took the turtle, tied it in front of her bedstead, and continued to cry.
some men who were carrying mill-stones then came along, inquired into her trouble, and expressed their compassion by giving her a mill-stone, which they rolled into her back yard.
a little later a man arrived carrying hoes and pickax, and asked her why she was crying so hard.
she told him her grief, and he said he would gladly help her if he could, but he was only a well-digger, and could do nothing for her other than to dig her a well.
she pointed out a place in the middle of her back yard, and he went to work and quickly dug a well.
on his departure the old woman cried again, until a paper-seller came and inquired what was the matter.
when she had told him, he gave her a large sheet of white paper, as a token of pity, and she laid it smoothly over the mouth of the well.
nightfall came; the old woman shut and barred her door, put her granddaughter snugly on the wall-side of the bed, and then lay down beside her, to await the foe.
at midnight the boar came, and threw himself against the door to break it in.
the needles wounded him sorely, so that when he had gained an entrance he was heated and thirsty, and went to the water-jar to drink.
when he thrust in his snout the crabs attacked him, clung to his bristles and pinched his ears, till he rolled over and over to disencumber himself.
then in a rage he approached the front of the bed, but the snapping-turtle nipped his tail, and made him retreat under the feet of the horse, who kicked him over to the ox, who tossed him back to the horse; and thus beset he was glad to escape to the back yard to take a rest, and to consider the situation.
seeing a clean paper spread on the ground, he went to lie upon it, and fell into the well.
the old woman heard the fall, rushed out, rolled the mill-stone down on him, and crushed him.
russian stories
king kojata
king kojata ruled over a mighty kingdom, and was beloved by his subjects; but because he had no heir to his crown, both he and the queen lamented.
once, while traveling through his territories, he came to a well that was filled to the brim with clear cold water; and being very thirsty, he stopped to drink.
on the top of the water floated a golden vessel, which the king attempted to seize; but just as his hand touched it, away it floated to the other side of the well.
he went around to where the vessel rested and tried again, with the same result.
every time the king touched the basin it glided from his grasp.
at last, losing patience, he gave up trying to seize the vessel, and bending over the well, he began to drink.
his long beard had fallen into the water, and when he had slaked his thirst and attempted to rise, he found himself held fast by it.
after vainly pulling and jerking for some time, he looked down into the water and saw a hideous face grinning at him.
its eyes were green and shining, its teeth showed from ear to ear, and it held him by the beard with two bony claws.
in horror, the king tried to extricate himself, but a terrible voice came from the depths of the well:
"you cannot get away, king kojata, so do not make me pull your beard too hard.
there is something at the palace of which you do not know; promise to give it to me, and i will release you."
the king did not know of anything that could have arrived at the palace during his absence worth the discomfort he was experiencing; so he very readily gave his promise, and was freed.
when he had shaken the water from his beard, he looked in the well for the ugly monster which had held him captive, but he was nowhere to be seen.
summoning his attendants, he at once set out for home, where he arrived in a few days.
the people along the way hailed him with delight; and when he reached the palace, the queen led him to the royal chamber and showed him a beautiful son that had been born during his absence.
his joy was so great that he forgot all else; but after a time he recalled with horror his compact with the monster of the well, and the meaning was all plain to him.
the thought of what he had promised haunted him day and night, and the fear that something would happen to his little son tortured him.
but as days and months passed, and the little prince grew more beautiful all the time, the king at last forgot his fears and became happy once more.
years went by without anything happening to disturb his peace of mind, and the prince grew to be a beautiful youth, who was the joy and pride of the king and queen.
one day he went with the hunters to the forest, and while pursuing a wild boar, became separated from them.
he got farther and farther away from his companions, and at last found himself alone in a dark part of the wood where he never before had been.
not knowing in which direction his path lay, he called again and again to the hunters.
at last a hoarse voice answered him, and from the hollow trunk of a lime-tree appeared a hideous man with green eyes and terrible teeth.
"i've waited for you a long time, prince milan," said he.
"who on earth may you be?"
asked the prince.
"your father will tell you who i am.
just give my greetings to his majesty, and tell him that i am ready to claim the debt he owes me."
the green-eyed man then disappeared into the hollow tree from which he came; and when the prince reached home, he related his experience to his father.
the king turned white, and cried:
"at last, it has come!"
then he explained to the prince what had occurred at the well, and added, "now my happiness is at an end, for you, my son, will be taken from me."
the prince told the king not to despair, for though he might go away, he was certain to return to him.
his father provided him with a handsome horse with golden stirrups, and the queen gave him a cross to wear about his neck.
when he had said farewell to his unhappy parents, he mounted his horse and rode for two days without stopping.
on the third day he came to a lake on whose smooth surface thirty ducks were swimming, while spread about upon the grass were thirty white garments.
the prince dismounted, and taking up one of the garments, seated himself behind a bush and waited to see what would happen.
the ducks dived under the water and disported themselves for a time, then came ashore and putting on the little white garments, they became beautiful maidens, and disappeared.
but there was one little duck, that remained on the lake and swam about in the most distracted manner, uttering piteous cries.
the prince came from behind the bush and the little duck begged him to give back her garment.
he had no sooner done so than before him stood the loveliest maiden he had ever seen.
"thank you, prince milan, for restoring my garment," said she.
"my name is hyacinthia, and i am one of the thirty daughters of a king of the underworld, to whose castle i will lead you, for he has waited long for you.
approach him on your knees and do not fear him, for i will be there to help you, whatever happens."
she tapped her little foot on the ground, which opened; and they were immediately transported to the palace of her father in the underworld, which was carved from a single carbuncle.
when his eyes became accustomed to the radiant light, the prince saw the magician of the lime-tree sitting on a dazzling throne.
his green eyes looked out from under a golden crown, and his hideous claws clutched the air with rage when he saw the prince.
remembering what the maiden had told him, prince milan walked boldly up to the throne and knelt at the feet of the magician, who cursed in a voice that shook the underworld.
as the youth was not at all frightened, the magician at last stopped swearing.
laughing at his courage, he welcomed him to his palace, and showed him to a beautiful chamber which he was to occupy.
on the following day he sent for him and said;
"you are very brave, prince milan, but you must pay the penalty for keeping me waiting so long for you.
to-night build me a palace of gold and marble, with windows of crystal, and about it the most beautiful gardens in the world, or tomorrow i shall cut off your head."
the prince went back to his chamber and sadly awaited his doom.
that evening a small bee flew in through his window, and as soon as it entered the room it became hyacinthia.
"why are you sad, prince milan?"
she asked.
he told her of her father's impossible command and added, "naturally, i am not happy at the thought of losing my head."
"do not be distressed about that," said she, "but trust to me."
in the morning he looked out of the window and saw a wonderful marble palace, with a roof of gold.
when the magician beheld it, he exclaimed, "you have accomplished a great wonder, but i cannot let you off so easily.
to-morrow i will place my thirty daughters in a row, and if you cannot tell me which one is the youngest, you will lose your head."
the prince, however, was not cast down at this, for he thought he would have no trouble in recognizing hyacinthia.
that evening the little bee entered the room and told him that this task was quite as difficult as the first, because the sisters were all exactly alike.
"but you will know me," said she, "by a little fly which you will discover on my cheek."
the next day the magician summoned him to his presence, and showed him the thirty daughters standing in a row.
the prince passed before them twice, without daring to choose; but he saw the little fly on the pink cheek of one of the maidens.
"this is hyacinthia!"
exclaimed he.
the magician was greatly astonished; but not yet satisfied, he required of the prince still another task.
"if, before this candle burns to the bottom," said he, "you make me a pair of boots reaching to my knees, i will let you go; but if you fail, you will lose your head."
"then we must fly, for i love you dearly," said hyacinthia, when the prince had told her of this new task.
she breathed on the window-pane, and straightway it was covered with frost; then, leading prince milan from the chamber, she locked the door, and they fled through the passage by which they had entered the underworld.
beside the smooth lake his horse was still grazing, and mounting it, they were borne swiftly away.
when the magician sent for the prince to come to him, the frozen breath replied to the messengers, and so delayed the discovery of his escape.
at last the magician lost patience and ordered the door burst open.
the frozen breath mocked at him, and he hastened in pursuit of the fugitives.
"i hear the sound of horses' feet behind us," said hyacinthia.
the prince dismounted, and putting his ear to the ground, answered, "yes, they are near."
hyacinthia thereupon changed herself into a river, and the prince became a bridge, and his horse a blackbird.
their pursuers, no longer finding their footprints, were obliged to return to the magician, who cursed them, and again sent them forth.
"i hear the sound of horses' feet behind us," again said hyacinthia.
the prince put his ear to the earth and said, "yes, they are nearly upon us."
thereupon hyacinthia changed herself, the prince and the horse, all into a dense forest in which many paths crossed, so that the followers were bewildered; and they again returned to the magician.
"i hear horses' feet behind us," said hyacinthia a third time; and this time it was the magician himself.
hyacinthia took the little cross from the neck of the prince, and changed herself into a church, the prince into a monk, and the horse into the belfry; so that when the magician came up he lost all trace of them, and was obliged to return to the underworld in great chagrin.
when he had departed, the prince and hyacinthia mounted the horse and rode till they came to a beautiful town.
"we must not enter," said she, "for we may not come out again."
but the prince would not take her advice, and insisted upon passing through the gates.
"then," sadly replied the maiden, "when the king and queen of the town come out to meet you, do not kiss the little child which they will lead by the hand, or you will forget me and never come back.
as for me, i will become a milestone and wait for you here."
it was all as hyacinthia had said.
the king and queen came out to greet him, and when the lovely little child ran up to him for a caress, he kissed its pretty face and forgot hyacinthia.
the first and second day went by; and when the third day came, hyacinthia wept, and became a little blue flower growing by the roadside.
an old man came along, and digging up the flower carried it home with him and planted it in his garden.
he watered and tended it carefully, and one day the little flower became a beautiful maiden.
"why did you not leave me to die by the roadside?"
she asked, and told the old man her story.
"to-morrow is prince milan's wedding day," said the old man.
hyacinthia at once dried her tears, and presented herself at the palace, dressed like a peasant.
she went to the cook and asked to be allowed to make the wedding cake.
the cook was so struck with her beauty that he could not refuse the request.
when the guests were all seated about the table, prince milan was called upon to cut the cake.
as soon as he had done so, out flew two beautiful doves, which circled about his head.
"dear mate," cried one of the doves, "do not leave me as prince milan left hyacinthia."
the prince, who suddenly recollected all he had forgotten, ran from the room and at the door found hyacinthia and his horse awaiting him.
they mounted and rode swiftly away to the kingdom of king kojata, where the king and queen received them with tears of joy, and they all lived in happiness to the end of their days.
the story of king frost
a shrewish peasant woman had a daughter on whom she lavished everything she could get, and a stepdaughter whom she neglected and ill treated.
in the mother's eyes the daughter had no faults, while the stepdaughter was always blamed, and, try as she might, the poor girl never could please.
so unhappy was she made that her eyes were often red from weeping.
the sight of her tear-stained face only angered the stepmother the more, and caused her to say to the girl's father:
"send her away, old man.
my eyes are tired of the sight of her, and my ears of the sound of her voice.
send her out of the house."
the father begged to have his daughter remain, but the shrew was determined to be rid of her, and gave him no peace.
at last, when he could gainsay her no longer, he placed his daughter in a sledge and drove her to the open fields.
here he left her, with nothing to shield her from the bitter cold.
kissing her good-by, he drove away, not daring to look back at her.
left alone by her father, the girl wandered across the bleak fields to the edge of the forest, where she sat down under a fir-tree and wept.
a crackling sound caused her to look up, and she saw king frost springing from one tree to another.
when he reached the fir-tree he jumped down beside her with a bound.
snapping his fingers in her lovely face, he asked:
"do you know who i am?
i will tell you.
i am king frost."
"hail to you, great king!"
smiled the maiden.
"have you come for me?"
"are you warm, fair maiden?"
he asked in answer.
"yes, quite warm, king frost," the maiden replied, although she was shivering.
king frost bent over her and snapped his fingers about her, until the air seemed full of needles.
again he asked, "are you still warm, dear maiden?"
her lips could scarcely move to utter the words, "quite warm, king frost."
he snapped his teeth and cracked his fingers, till all the air was filled with stinging things.
his eyes glistened and for the last time he asked, "are you warm, now, beautiful maiden?
are you still warm, my dear?"
she was now scarcely able to speak, but managed to gasp, "still warm, king frost."
the gentle girl's patience and uncomplaining endurance caused king frost to take pity on her suffering.
he arrayed her in a robe, embroidered in silver and gold, and decked her with sparkling diamonds.
she glittered and shone, and was dazzling to behold.
then placing her in his sleigh, he wrapped her in furs; and six white horses bore them swiftly away.
the stepmother, at home, was baking pancakes for the girl's funeral feast.
"go in the field," she said to her husband, "and bring your daughter's body home, so we can bury her."
the old man rose to obey, when the little dog barked:
"your daughter shall not die;   her's cold and stiff shall lie."
the woman kicked the dog, then tried to coax it with a pancake, telling it to say:
"her daughter shall have gold;   his be frozen stiff and cold."
when the little dog had swallowed the pancake, he barked:
"his daughter shall be wed;   her's shall be frozen dead."
the woman beat the dog, then coaxed it with more pancakes; but the blows could not terrify it nor food persuade.
it barked always the same.
suddenly the door opened, and a huge chest was thrust into the room, followed by the radiant stepdaughter, in a dress that dazzled them with its beauty.
as soon as the stepmother recovered from her astonishment, she ordered her husband to yoke the horses to the sledge, and take her own daughter to the field.
"take care you leave her in the same place,"
the old woman cautioned.
the father left the girl as he was bidden, and returned to his home.
she was not long alone when king frost came by.
"are you warm, maiden?"
he asked.
"you must be a fool not to see that my hands and feet are nearly frozen," she angrily replied.
the king danced in front of her, and cracked his fingers.
"are you warm, maiden?"
he asked her, over and over.
she cried with rage, and called him rude names, until he froze the words on her lips, and she was dead.
the mother waited for her daughter's return until she became impatient; then she told her husband to take the sledge and go for her.
"but don't lose the chest," she added.
the dog under the table, barked:
"your daughter frozen cold,   will never need a chest of gold."
the old woman was scolding the dog for telling lies, when the door opened.
rushing out to welcome her daughter and her treasures, she clasped the frozen body in her arms; and the chill of it killed her.
tales for tiny tots
tell us a tale
by edward shirley
"tell us a tale, dear mother
a fairy tale, do, please,   take baby brother on your lap,     we'll sit beside your knees,   we will not speak, we will not stir,     until the tale is told;   and we'll be, oh!
so comfy,     and just as good as gold."
"what shall it be, my children?
aladdin and his lamp?
or shall i tell the story     of puss in boots the scamp?
or would you like to hear the tale     of blue beard, fierce and grim?
or jack who climbed the great beanstalk?
i think you're fond of him.
"or shall i tell you, children,     about red riding hood?
or what befell those little babes     who wandered in the wood?
or how sweet cinderella went     so gaily to the ball?"
"yes, yes!"
we cried, and clapped our hands;     "we want to hear them all!"
little red hen
little red hen found a grain of wheat.
"who will plant this?"
she asked.
"not i," said the cat.
"not i," said the goose.
"not i," said the rat.
"then i will," said little red hen.
so she buried the wheat in the ground.
after a while it grew up yellow and ripe.
"the wheat is ripe now," said little red hen.
"who will cut and thresh it?"
"not i," said the cat.
"not i," said the goose.
"not i," said the rat.
"then i will," said little red hen.
so she cut it with her bill and threshed it with her wings.
then she asked, "who will take this wheat to the mill?"
"not i," said the cat.
"not i," said the goose.
"not i," said the rat.
"then i will," said little red hen.
so she took the wheat to the mill, where it was ground.
then she carried the flour home.
"who will make me some bread with this flour?"
she asked.
"not i," said the cat.
"not i," said the goose.
"not i," said the rat.
"then i will," said little red hen.
so she made and baked the bread.
then she said, "now we shall see who will eat this bread."
"we will," said cat, goose, and rat.
"i am quite sure you would," said little red hen, "if you could get it."
then she called her chicks, and they ate up all the bread.
there was none left at all for the cat, or the goose, or the rat.
in search of a baby
by f. tapsell
"please, i'm lost."
these words, and a thump!
thump!
on the door were what mrs. stone heard as she sat at supper in her tiny house in the wood.
she went to open the door, and there she saw a dear little girl about three years old.
"please, i'm lost," again came the words, and two fat little fists went up to a pair of big blue eyes.
"come in, little girl, and tell me all about it," said the woman.
"maybe i can help you to find your way."
the child let herself be led into the room; then all at once the two tiny fists came down from the two blue eyes, and she gave a quick look at the table.
"are you having supper?"
she said.
"may i have supper too?
i am ever so hungry."
"yes, dear; of course you shall have some," was the reply.
"see, you shall sit on this chair by my side.
now what will you have?"
"i think i would like some bread and butter with sugar on it brown sugar, you know;" and soon the little girl was as happy as could be.
"what is your name, dear?"
asked mrs. stone, when supper was over and the little girl had begun to think once more about how she was to find her way home.
"meg," was the reply.
"but your other name, for you must have two names."
"no, my name is just meg, of course; i don't have any other name," she said, a look of wonder in the big blue eyes.
"do you know where you live?"
"yes; i lives in the nursery.
didn't you know that?"
she was so sure that it did not seem any good to say any more about it.
so mrs. stone only asked, "where were you going when you came to my house?"
"to find a baby," was the reply.
"rob said that if i went to a house in the wood they would give me one.
have you got a baby to give me?"
"no, dear; i am afraid i have not.
but why do you want a baby?
i am sure you have lots of dolls."
"yes, of course i have; but then you see dolls are not alive.
i want a real baby to play with.
"enid won't play with me much now, for she says i am too small, and rob is at school all the time."
"why, who is that?"
said a voice, and a man came in with a bag of tools.
then the two little fists again went up to the blue eyes, for the little maid was shy of this great big man.
"well, wife, so you have a friend, i see," he said.
"who is the little lass?"
"i don't know," said his wife.
"it seems she was lost, and came here to ask her way.
she says she came to find a baby."
"come here, little one, and don't be afraid," said the man.
"there never was a child yet who would not come to me," and as he spoke he drew her on to his knee.
"now, then, tell me all about it."
after one glance at the man's kind face meg nestled up to him and began,
"nurse was so busy she could not be in the room with me.
"so i put on my hat and came to look for a baby; but i got lost on the way.
at last i came to the wood and saw this house.
she could not give me a baby as rob said she would, but she gave me some tea, and bread and butter with sugar on it.
we only have that on sunday at home.
is this sunday?"
"no, little miss," said the man.
"but i expect you had it just for a treat, as you had got lost."
but just then steps were heard on the path, and there was a sharp knock at the door.
the latch was lifted, and a voice said,
"have you seen a little girl in a white frock pass this way?"
"why, that must be nurse," cried meg.
in spite of being cross at meg's having run away, nurse had to laugh; then she bent down and said, "but what made you run away like this, miss meg?"
"rob told me that if i came to the house in the wood i should find a real live baby; but he was wrong, for she," with a smile at mrs.
stone, "is very nice, but she has not got a baby to give me."
"of course not, child; but do you know that i have some news for you?"
"what is it?
do tell me?"
cried the little girl.
"while you were away in the wood to look for a baby we have found a baby at home.
you have a new baby brother.
come home with me now and you shall see him."
"a new little brother," said meg, her eyes wide open with wonder.
"he must have known i had gone out to look for one.
so now i have got two new friends and a baby too.
come along, quick."
"good-bye," she said to her new friends.
"thank you ever so much for being so kind, and for the supper.
"i am coming to have supper with you again soon, and then i will bring the new baby with me.
you will give me and baby bread and butter with sugar on it, won't you?"
and meg trotted off as happy as a little queen.
jock and i and the others
first of all, i must tell you who i am.
my name is pe-nel-o-pe, but jock always calls me pen.
i am eight years old; jock is half-past six.
we live with mother and father and rover and tibby in a house not very far from a large city.
mother is the nicest person i know in all the world.
father is a very big man.
he always has lots of money in his pocket.
he goes to business in a train every day.
we have a real farm, quite near to our house, where they keep cows, chickens, pigs, horses, and geese.
jock and i often go to see them all.
one day in summer we went to see the farmer.
i had my blue dress on, so that the cows would not be angry when they saw me.
we met the farmer near the stable.
"come," he said; "i have something to show you to-day."
"what is it?"
we said both at the same time.
"come and see," was all that he would say.
then he took us into the stable where he keeps nobby, the big brown horse, who likes sugar.
now nobby was not there, but in the straw were seven little puppy dogs oh, so sweet and cuddly!
jock danced round and round the farmer.
"may we have one?"
he said.
"ask mother," said the farmer, and off we ran at once.
mother was at the garden gate.
we ran up to her.
jock was first, but it was nearly a dead heat.
mother opened the gate and said,
"well, what have you seen to-day?"
"o mother," said jock, out of breath.
"o mother dear" i said, out of breath also.
"farmer has such lovely puppies," we both said at once.
"may we have one to keep?"
by this time we both had our arms round mother's waist, and she was laughing.
"yes, we can," i said, for i knew.
"if father says yes," said mother.
"you must ask him when he comes home."
so we went to the station to meet him.
jock took his bag, and i took his paper parcel to carry it home for him.
on the way home i asked him if he liked dogs, and he said, "of course."
then jock said, "little dogs?"
"oh, yes."
"puppy dogs?"
"one at a time is all right."
"one puppy dog with brown spots on white?"
jock went on.
"where is it?"
asked father, and his eyes were laughing; you could not see his mouth for his beard.
then we told him, and he said "yes," just at the garden gate.
so that was how we got rover.
rover was very soft and downy when he first came to us.
but he soon grew to be a big dog.
jock and i taught him many tricks; and he can beg very nicely, if we let him get on the couch in the dining-room.
we put sugar on his nose, and he waits until we count one, two, three.
then he throws the sugar into the air and catches it.
dolly dimple
by f. tapsell
"oh dear, i am so lonely, and it is so dark!
i do want my dear dolly dimple.
i think i will go and fetch her."
and little four-year-old babs got out of bed and felt her way to the door.
the door was just a wee crack open.
as she peeped in, babs saw that there was a light in the room, and the sight which met her eyes almost made her cry out.
on the floor stood dolly dimple in her very best frock, and mr.
jollyman was asking her to dance with him.
teddy bear was at work on the big drum, and the clown was turning the organ to make music for the dolls to dance to.
the tin soldiers, on the backs of cows, pigs, and sheep from the noah's ark were having a sham fight.
the dolls from the dolls' house were going for a ride in the big horse and cart.
"it is too bad of them to go and have a good time like this when i am in bed," thought babs, "and i am going to take dolly dimple away with me all the same."
but when she tried to pick up the doll and carry her off, mr. jollyman flew at her in a fury.
he began to kick her bare legs till babs thought she would have no shins left at all; but she would not run away.
"i want dolly dimple," she said.
"she is my doll, and you have no right to try to keep her away from me."
"she is yours in the day, but not at night," was the reply.
"how do you think we toys could live if we had no life but the one we endure at your hands?
it is in the night that we live and have our good times, for we know you are safe in bed then."
"i don't care what you say; i will have her," cried babs, very angry now.
she tried once more to get hold of dolly dimple; but before she could do so, mr. jollyman turned to the soldiers, and said the one word, "charge."
there was a great noise and a rush, and right down upon the little girl came camels, horses, lions, tigers, sheep, and pigs.
but just as she thought her last hour was come, she heard, the word "halt," and then the sound of dolly dimple saying, "no, don't kill her.
she is very good to me most of the time."
the rest of the dolls had begun to dance once more, but dolly dimple came up to the little girl and took hold of her arm.
"i am queen here in the night," she said.
"i will not hurt you, as you have been good to me, and i know you love me.
if you like, i will come and stay with you till you go to sleep.
pick me up."
so babs picked up the doll, and took it back to bed with her, and hugged it in her arms.
the tale of peter rabbit
by beatrix potter
once upon a time there were four little rabbits, and their names were flopsy, mopsy, cotton-tail, and peter.
they lived with their mother in a sandbank, underneath the root of a very big fir-tree.
"now, my dears," said old mrs. rabbit, one morning, "you may go into the fields or down the lane, but don't go into mr. mcgregor's garden:
your father had an accident there; he was put in a pie by mrs.
mcgregor."
"now run along, and don't get into mischief.
i am going out."
then old mrs. rabbit took a basket and her umbrella and went through the wood to the baker's.
she bought a loaf of brown bread and five currant buns.
flopsy, mopsy, and cotton-tail, who were good little bunnies, went down the lane to gather blackberries.
but peter, who was very naughty, ran straight away to mr. mcgregor's garden, and squeezed under the gate!
first he ate some lettuces and some french beans, and then he ate some radishes; and then, feeling rather sick, he went to look for some parsley.
but round the end of a cucumber frame, whom should he meet but mr.
mcgregor!
mr. mcgregor was on his hands and knees planting out young cabbages, but he jumped up and ran after peter, waving a rake and calling out, "stop, thief!"
peter was most dreadfully frightened; he rushed all over the garden, for he had forgotten the way back to the gate.
he lost one of his shoes among the cabbages, and the other shoe amongst the potatoes.
after losing them, he ran on four legs and went faster, so that i think he might have got away altogether if he had not unfortunately run into a gooseberry net, and got caught by the large buttons on his jacket.
it was a blue jacket with brass buttons, quite new.
peter gave himself up for lost, and shed big tears; but his sobs were overheard by some friendly sparrows, who flew to him in great excitement, and implored him to exert himself.
mr. mcgregor came up with a sieve, which he intended to pop upon the top of peter, but peter wriggled out just in time, leaving his jacket behind him; and rushed into the tool-shed, and jumped into a can.
it would have been a beautiful thing to hide in, if it had not had so much water in it.
mr. mcgregor was quite sure that peter was somewhere in the tool-shed, perhaps hidden underneath a flower-pot.
he began to turn them over carefully, looking under each.
presently peter sneezed "kerty-schoo!"
mr. mcgregor was after him in no time, and tried to put his foot upon peter, who jumped out of a window, upsetting three plants.
the window was too small for mr.
mcgregor, and he was tired of running after peter.
he went back to his work.
peter sat down to rest; he was out of breath and trembling with fright, and he had not the least idea which way to go.
also he was very damp with sitting in that can.
after a time he began to wander about, going lippity-lippity not very fast, and looking all around.
he found a door in a wall; but it was locked, and there was no room for a fat little rabbit to squeeze underneath.
an old mouse was running in and out over the stone doorstep, carrying peas and beans to her family in the wood.
peter asked her the way to the gate, but she had such a large pea in her mouth that she could not answer.
she only shook her head at him.
peter began to cry.
then he tried to find his way straight across the garden, but he became more and more puzzled.
presently, he came to a pond where mr. mcgregor filled his water-cans.
a white cat was staring at some goldfish; she sat very, very still, but now and then the tip of her tail twitched as if it were alive.
peter thought it best to go away without speaking to her; he had heard about cats from his cousin, little benjamin bunny.
he went back toward the tool-shed, but suddenly, quite close to him, he heard the noise of a hoe scr-r-ritch, scratch, scratch, scratch.
peter scuttered underneath the bushes.
but, presently, as nothing happened, he came out, and climbed upon a wheelbarrow, and peeped over.
the first thing he saw was mr. mcgregor hoeing onions.
his back was turned toward peter, and beyond him was the gate!
peter got down very quietly off the wheelbarrow, and started running as fast as he could go, along a straight walk behind some black-currant bushes.
mr. mcgregor caught sight of him at the corner, but peter did not care.
he slipped underneath the gate, and was safe at last in the wood outside the garden.
mr. mcgregor hung up the little jacket and the shoes for a scarecrow to frighten the blackbirds.
peter never stopped running or looked behind him till he got home to the big fir-tree.
he was so tired that he flopped down upon the nice soft sand on the floor of the rabbit-hole, and shut his eyes.
his mother was busy cooking; she wondered what he had done with his clothes.
it was the second little jacket and pair of shoes that peter had lost in a fortnight!
i am sorry to say that peter was not very well during the evening.
his mother put him to bed, and made some camomile tea; and she gave a dose of it to peter!
"one table-spoonful to be taken at bed-time."
but flopsy, mopsy, and cotton-tail had bread and milk and blackberries for supper.
the miller, his son, and their ass
once upon a time there was a miller who lived in a little house beside his mill.
all day long he worked hard, but at night he went home to his wife and his little boy.
one day this miller made up his mind that he would take his ass to the fair and sell it.
so he and his boy said farewell to the dame and started off.
they had not gone far when they met a number of girls coming from the town.
"look!"
said one of them.
"did you ever see such stupid fellows?
they are walking when one of them might be riding."
when the miller heard this he bade the boy get up on the ass, while he tramped along merrily by its side.
soon they came to a number of old men standing by the side of the road talking together.
"look at that," said one of them, "look at that young rascal riding, while his poor father has to walk.
get down, you idle fellow, and let your father ride."
upon this the son got down from the ass, and the miller took his place.
they had not gone very far when they met two women coming home from market.
"you lazy old man!"
they cried at once.
"how dare you ride when your poor little boy is walking and can hardly keep pace with you?"
then the miller, who was a good-natured man, took his son up behind him, and in this way they went to the town.
"my good fellow," said a townsman whom they met, "is that ass your own?"
"yes," replied the miller.
"i should not have thought so, by the way you load him," said the man.
"why, you two are better able to carry the beast than he is to carry you."
"well," said the miller, "we can but try."
so he and his son got down, and tied the legs of the ass together.
then they slung him on a pole, and carried him on their shoulders.
it was such a funny sight that the people laughed and jeered at them.
the poor ass was very uncomfortable, and tried hard to get off the pole.
at last, as they were passing over a bridge, he pulled his legs out of the rope and tumbled to the ground.
he was so frightened that he jumped off the bridge into the river and was drowned.
do you know what this story teaches you?
if you try to please everybody, you will please nobody.
the visit to santa claus land
jack and margaret were growing more excited each day, because christmas was so near.
they talked of nothing but santa claus.
"don't you wish you could see him?"
they said over and over.
one night, just before christmas, mother tucked them in bed and left them to go to sleep.
but jack wiggled, margaret wriggled.
at last they both sat up in bed.
"jack," margaret whispered, "are you asleep?"
"no," said jack, "i can't go to sleep.
margaret, don't you wish you could see santa claus?
what's that?"
they both listened, and they heard a little tap, tap on the window.
they looked, and there, right in the window, they saw a funny little brownie.
"what's that i heard you say?
you want to see santa claus?
well, i am one of his brownies.
i am on my way back to santa claus land.
i'll take you with me if you want to go."
jack and margaret scrambled from their beds.
"come on, show us the way!"
they cried in great excitement.
"no, indeed," said the brownie.
"no one must know the way to santa claus land.
kindly wait a moment."
then the brownie took something soft and thick and dark, and tied it around jack's eyes.
next he took something soft and thick and dark, and tied it around margaret's eyes.
"how many fingers before you?"
he asked.
both of them shook their heads.
they could not see a wink.
"very well, now we're off," said the brownie.
he took jack's hand on one side, and margaret's on the other.
it seemed as if they flew through the window.
they went on swiftly for a little while, then the brownie whirled them round and round until they were dizzy, and off they went again.
the children could not tell whether they were going north, south, east, or west.
after a time they stopped.
"here we are," said the brownie.
he uncovered their eyes, and the children saw that they were standing before a big, thick gate.
the brownie knocked and the gate was swung open.
they went through it, right into santa claus's garden.
it was a very queer garden.
there were rows and rows of christmas trees, all glittering with balls and cobwebby tinsel, and instead of flower beds there were beds of every kind of toy in the world.
margaret at once ran over to a bed of dolls.
"let's see if any of them are ripe," said the brownie.
"ripe?"
said margaret in great surprise.
"why, of course," said the brownie.
"now if this one is ripe it will shut its eyes."
the brownie picked a little doll from the bed and laid it in margaret's arms.
its eyes went half shut, and then stuck.
"no, it's not ripe yet," said the brownie.
"try this one."
he picked another one, and this one shut its eyes just as if it had gone to sleep.
"we'll take that one," he said, and he dropped it into a big sack he was carrying.
"now this one cries, if it's ripe," he said as he picked a lovely infant doll.
the brownie gave it a squeeze, and the doll made a funny squeaking noise.
"not quite ripe," he said, and he put it back into the bed.
he tried several others, and he picked a good many.
some of them cried, some said "mamma" and "papa," and some danced when they were wound up.
"oh, do come over here, margaret!"
jack called.
margaret ran over to another bed and there were drums big drums, little drums, and middle sized drums; yellow drums, blue drums, green drums, red drums.
"can we gather some of these?"
said jack to the brownie.
"why, of course.
let's see if this one is ripe."
the brownie took up a little red drum, and gave it a thump with a drum stick.
but it made such a queer sound that jack and margaret both laughed out loud.
the little red drum was put back into the bed, and the brownie tried another big one.
it went boom!
boom!
boom!
boom!
boom!
and jack and margaret marched all along the bed, keeping step to it.
when they had finished picking drums, they went over to a bed filled with horns.
that was the most fun of all.
some of them made very queer noises, and on some the brownie played jolly little tunes.
the next bed they came to was filled with toys which could be wound up.
there were trains, automobiles, dancing dolls, climbing monkeys, hopping birds, funny wobbling ducks, and every kind of toy you could think of.
the children stayed at this bed for a long time.
at last margaret said: "but where is santa claus?
we wanted to see him."
"oh, to be sure," said the brownie.
"come along," and he led them down a long, winding walk, to the edge of the garden.
then he pointed to a hill in the distance.
"do you see that large white house?
there is where he lives."
the children stared at it.
it was so white that it seemed to shine in the distance.
"walk right across here," said the brownie, "then up the hill to santa claus's house."
"oh, must we walk across there?"
said margaret.
she stared down at the deep dark chasm between the garden and the hill; across it was stretched a narrow plank.
"walk carefully," said the brownie, "and mind you don't look down; for if you do, i'm afraid you won't see santa claus to-night."
"we'll be very careful," said jack.
"come along, margaret," and he took his little sister's hand and they started across the plank.
they had almost reached the middle of it when jack looked down.
"oh!"
he said, and gave margaret a pull.
she looked down too, and cried "oh, oh!"
and down, down, down they went.
suddenly they landed with a thump.
they sat up and rubbed their eyes.
there they were right in their own beds at home.
mother opened the door.
"are you awake, children?"
she said.
"oh, mother, we haven't been asleep.
we've been to santa claus land, and we nearly saw santa claus!"
then they told her all about it, and mother just smiled.
the greedy brownie
there was once a little brownie who lived in a hollow tree stump.
he had been busy all the day playing pranks.
his pranks had taken him far away from home to the house of a very important laird.
into the laird's cup of wine he had dropped some sour berries which he had picked on his way.
he also put thistles into his boots, so that when the laird had drawn them on he had screamed out with pain.
the brownie had been away all the day, so that when at last he turned to go back to his home he felt really very tired.
on his way back to the wood he passed by a cozy-looking farmhouse.
the door of the dairy was open.
the brownie thought this would be a very nice cool place in which to rest for a few moments.
so he slipped into the dairy, and curled himself up underneath the bench to have a nice little doze.
he was so weary that once he had fallen asleep he never woke up again until it was quite dark, when he was disturbed by two lassies who had come into the dairy.
one was carrying a candle in her hand, and by its light the pair espied a big bowl of cream on the shelf.
the naughty girls thought that they would drink it for supper.
they could only find one spoon on the shelf, so they decided they would each have a spoonful in turn.
lassie jean took the bowl and carried it to a bench in the corner, and lassie meg followed it with the candle.
no sooner had the two girls settled themselves than the brownie, who was now wide awake, and who was himself feeling that some supper might not be out of place, crept up behind them and blew out the candle.
the lassies at first were very much concerned at being in the dark; nevertheless they determined they would drink the cream, all the same.
lassie jean filled the spoon with the rich delicacy.
she was about to raise it to her lips when the naughty brownie poked his head over her shoulder, and lapped it out of the spoon before it had reached her mouth.
lassie meg, believing that lassie jean had already swallowed some cream while she had had none, stretched out her hand to take away the spoon from her friend.
lassie jean was not willing to give it up, since she said she had not yet tasted any cream.
lassie meg was unwilling to believe her, for she declared she had heard her lapping the cream.
without waiting for lassie jean to explain, she snatched the spoon out of her friend's hand.
she filled it with cream from the bowl, and was about to raise it to her lips when the brownie jumped from behind lassie jean, and settling himself behind lassie meg's shoulders, poked forward his head, and again lapped up the cream from out of the spoon.
lassie jean in her turn snatched back the spoon from lassie meg.
thus they went on, for every time one or the other raised the spoonful of cream to her lips it was lapped up by the brownie.
this continued until the bowl was emptied.
the brownie was full of cream, but the poor lassies had not so much as tasted one drop, although each believed the other had drunk it all.
the lassies were still quarreling when the door of the dairy was opened, and the farmer's wife entered, carrying a lighted candle in her hand.
the moment that she did so the brownie hopped under the bench and the lassies started up guiltily.
the farmer's wife caught sight of the empty basin.
she was very angry with them indeed.
when they tried hastily to explain, each blaming the other, the farmer's wife would not listen, but only grew the more angry.
she told them that, since they had supped so well, they should have none of the scones and eggs which she had prepared for the evening meal in the kitchen.
when the farmer's wife had entered she had left the door open, so while she was busily scolding the lassies the brownie slipped out from under the bench and made his escape.
as he ran chuckling down the road, he could still hear her angry voice drowning the attempted explanations of the bewildered lassies.
when the little fellow curled himself up some time later in the tree trunk he was still laughing.
the fairies' passage
by james clarence mangan
tap, tap, tap, rap!
"get up, gaffer ferryman,"
"eh!
who is there?"
the clock strikes three.
"get up, do, gaffer!
you are the very man   we have been long, long, longing to see."
the ferryman rises, growling and grumbling,   and goes fum-fumbling, and stumbling, and tumbling   over the wares on his way to the door.
but he sees no more   than he saw before;   till a voice is heard: "o ferryman dear!
here we are waiting, all of us, here.
we are a wee, wee colony, we;   some two hundred in all, or three,   ferry us over the river lee,   ere dawn of day,   and we will pay   the most we may   in our own wee way!"
"who are you?
whence came you?
what place are you going to?"
"oh, we have dwelt over-long in this land;   the people get cross, and are growing so knowing, too!
nothing at all but they now understand.
we are daily vanishing under the thunder   of some huge engine or iron wonder;   that iron, ah!
it has entered our souls."
"your souls?
o gholes,   you queer little drolls,   do you mean....?"
"good gaffer, do aid us with speed,   for our time, like our stature, is short indeed!
and a very long way we have to go;   eight or ten thousand miles or so,   hither and thither, and to and fro,   with our pots and pans   and little gold cans;   but our light caravans   run swifter than man's."
"well, well, you may come," said the ferryman affably;   "patrick, turn out, and get ready the barge."
then again to the little folk; "tho' you seem laughably   small, i don't mind, if your coppers be large."
oh, dear, what a rushing, what pushing, what crushing   (the watermen making vain efforts at hushing   the hubbub the while), there followed these words.
what clapping of boards,   what strapping of cords,   what stowing away of children and wives,   and platters and mugs, and spoons and knives,   till all had safely got into the boat,   and the ferryman, clad in his tip-top coat,   and his wee little fairies were safely afloat!
then ding, ding, ding,   and kling, kling, kling,   how the coppers did ring   in the tin pitcherling.
off, then, went the boat, at first very pleasantly,   smoothly, and so forth; but after a while   it swayed and it sagged this and that way, and presently   chest after chest, and pile after pile,   of the little folks' goods began tossing and rolling,   and pitching like fun, beyond fairy controlling.
o mab!
if the hubbub were great before,   it was now some two or three million times more.
crash!
went the wee crocks and the clocks; and the locks   of each little wee box were stove in by hard knocks;   and then there were oaths, and prayers, and cries:
"take care" "see there" "o, dear, my eyes!"
"i am killed!"
"i am drowned!"
with groans and sighs,   till to land they drew.
"yeo-ho!
pull to   tiller-rope thro' and thro'!"
and all's right anew.
"now, jump upon shore, ye queer little oddities.
(eh, what is this?
.
.
.
where are they, at all?
where are they, and where are their tiny commodities?
well, as i live" .
.
.)
he looks blank as a wall,   poor ferryman!
round him and round him he gazes,   but only gets deeplier lost in the mazes   of utter bewilderment.
all, all are gone,   and he stands alone,   like a statue of stone,   in a doldrum of wonder.
he turns to steer,   and a tinkling laugh salutes his ear,   with other odd sounds: "ha, ha, ha, ha!
fol lol!
zidzizzle!
quee quee!
bah!
bah!
fizzigig-giggidy!
pshee!
sha sha!"
"o ye thieves, ye thieves, ye rascally thieves!"
the good man cries.
he turns to his pitcher,   and there, alas, to his horror perceives   that the little folk's mode of making him richer   has been to pay him with withered leaves!
the world
"the world is wet," said the little frog;   "what isn't water is mostly bog."
"oh, not at all!"
said the little fly;   "it's full of spiders, and very dry!"
"the world is dark," said the moth polite,   "with ruddy windows and bows of light."
"my poor young friend, you have much to learn:
the world is green," said the swaying fern.
"o listen to me," sang the little lark:
"it's wet and dry, and it's green and dark.
to think that's all would be very wrong;   it's arched with blue, and it's filled with song."
fanciful stories
white magic
blind folks see the fairies,     oh, better far than we,   who miss the shining of their wings   because our eyes are filled with things     we do not wish to see.
they need not seek enchantment     from solemn printed books,   for all about them as they go   the fairies flutter to and fro     with smiling friendly looks.
deaf folk hear the fairies,     however soft their song;   tis we who lose the honey sound   amid the clamor all around     that beats the whole day long.
but they with gentle faces     sit quietly apart;   what room have they for sorrowing   while fairy minstrels sit and sing     close to each listening heart?
from london punch.
the brownies
by juliana horatia ewing
i
"children are a burden," said the tailor, as he sat on his bench stitching away.
"children are a blessing," said the kind lady in the window.
it was the tailor's mother who spoke.
she was a very old woman and nearly helpless.
all day she sat in a large armchair knitting rugs.
"what have my two lads ever done to help me?"
continued the tailor, sadly.
"they do nothing but play.
if i send tommy on an errand, he loiters.
if i ask him to work, he does it so unwillingly that i would rather do it myself.
since their mother died i have indeed had a hard time."
at this moment the two boys came in, their arms full of moss which they dropped on the floor.
"is there any supper, grandmother?"
asked tommy.
"no, my child, only some bread for breakfast to-morrow."
"oh, grandmother, we are so hungry!"
and the boy's eyes filled with tears.
"what can i do for you, my poor children?"
said the good woman.
"tell us a story, please, so that we can forget we are hungry.
tell us about the brownie that used to live in your grandfather's house.
what was he like?"
"like a little man, they say."
"what did he do?"
"he came early in the morning before any one in the house was awake, and lighted the fire and swept the room and set out the breakfast.
he never would be seen and was off before they could catch him.
but they often heard him laughing and playing about the house."
"did they give him any wages, grandmother?"
"no, my dear, he did the work for love.
they always set a pan of clear water for him, and now and then a bowl of bread and milk."
"oh, grandmother, where did he go?"
"the old owl in the woods knows; i do not.
when i was young many people used to go to see the old owl at moon-rise, and ask her what they wanted to know."
"how i wish a brownie would come and live with us!"
cried tommy.
"so do i," said johnny.
"will you let us set out a pan of water for the brownie, father?"
asked tommy.
"you may set out what you like, my lad, but you must go to bed now."
the boys brought out a pan of water.
then they climbed the ladder to the loft over the kitchen.
johnny was soon in the land of dreams, but tommy lay awake thinking how he could find a brownie and get him to live in the house.
"there is an owl that lives in the grove," he thought.
"it may be the old owl herself.
when the moon rises, i'll go and find her."
ii
the moon rose like gold and went up in the heavens like silver.
tommy opened his eyes and ran to the window.
"the moon has risen," said he, "and it is time for me to go."
downstairs he crept softly and out into the still night.
"hoot!
hoot!"
cried a voice from the grove near the house.
"that's the old owl," thought tommy.
he ran to a big tree and looked up.
there he saw the old owl, sitting on a branch and staring at him with yellow eyes.
"oh, dear!"
said tommy, for he did not like the owl very well.
"come up here!
come up here!"
she cried.
tommy climbed the tree and sat face to face with her on the big branch.
"now, what do you want?"
said the owl.
"please," said tommy, "i want to know where to find the brownies, and how to get one to come and live with us."
"oo-hoo!
oo-hoo!"
said the owl.
"that's it, is it?
i know of three brownies."
"hurrah!"
said tommy.
"where do they live?"
"in your house," said the owl.
"in our house!
whereabouts?
why don't they work?"
cried tommy.
"one of them is too little," said the owl.
"but why don't the other two do something?"
said tommy.
"nobody does any work at our house except father."
"they are idle, they are idle," said the old owl.
"then we don't want them," said tommy.
"what is the use of having brownies in the house if they do nothing to help us?"
"perhaps they don't know what to do."
"i wish you would tell me where to find them," said tommy.
"i could tell them what to do."
"could you, could you?
oo-hoo!
oo-hoo!"
and tommy could not tell whether the owl was hooting or laughing.
"of course i could.
they might get up early in the morning and sweep the house, and light the fire, and spread the table before my father comes downstairs."
"so they might!"
said the owl.
"well, i can tell you where to find one of the brownies, and he can tell you where to find his brother.
go to the north side of the pond, where the moon is shining on the water, turn yourself around three times, while you say this charm:
'twist me and turn me and show me the elf
i looked in the water and saw '
then look in the water, and think of a word which rhymes with 'elf'
and makes the charm complete."
tommy knew the place very well.
he ran to the north side of the pond, and turning himself around three times, he repeated the charm.
then he looked in and saw himself.
"why, there's no one but myself.
i can't think of the right word.
what can it be?
i'll go back and ask the old owl," thought tommy.
and back he went.
there sat the owl as before.
"oo-hoo," said she, as tommy climbed up.
"did you find out the word?"
"no," said tommy, "i could find no word that rhymes with 'elf' except 'myself.'"
"well, that is the word!
now, do you know where your brother is?"
"in bed in the loft," said tommy.
"then all your questions are answered.
good night;" and the old owl began to shake her feathers.
"don't go yet," said tommy, humbly; "i don't understand you.
i am not a brownie, am i?"
"yes, you are, and a very idle one, too," said the old owl.
"all children are brownies."
"but are there really any brownies except children?"
inquired tommy, in a dismal tone.
"no, there are not.
now listen to me, tommy.
little people can do only little things.
when they are idle and mischievous, they are called boggarts, and they are a burden to the house they live in.
when they are thoughtful and useful, they are brownies, and are a blessing to every one."
"i'll be a brownie," said tommy.
"i won't be a boggart.
now i'll go home and tell johnny."
"i'll take you home," said the owl, and in a moment tommy found himself in bed, with johnny sleeping by his side.
"how quickly we came," said tommy to himself.
"but is it morning?
that is very strange!
i thought the moon was shining.
come, johnny, get up, i have a story to tell you."
iii
while his brother was rubbing his eyes tommy told him of his visit to the old owl in the grove.
"is that all true?"
asked johnny.
"it is all just as i tell you, and if we don't want to be boggarts, we must get up and go to work."
"i won't be a boggart," said johnny, and so the two brownies crept softly down the ladder into the kitchen.
"i will light the fire,"
said tommy.
"and you, johnny, can dig some potatoes to roast for breakfast."
they swept the room and laid the table.
just as they were putting the potatoes in a dish they heard footsteps.
"there's father," said tommy; "we must run."
the poor tailor came wearily down the stairs.
morning after morning he had found an untidy room and an empty table.
but now when he entered the kitchen, he looked around in great surprise.
he put his hand out to the fire to see if it was really warm.
he touched the potatoes and looked at the neat room.
then he shouted, "mother, mother!
boys, boys, the brownie has come!"
there was great excitement in the small house, but the boys said nothing.
all day the tailor talked about the brownie.
"i have often heard of little people," he said, "but this is wonderful.
to come and do the work for a pan of cold water!
who would have believed it?"
the boys said nothing until they were both in bed.
then tommy said:
"the old owl was right, and we must stick to the work if we don't want to be boggarts.
but i don't like to have father thinking that we are still idle.
i wish he knew that we are the brownies."
"so do i," said johnny.
day after day went by and still the boys rose early, and each day they found more and more to do.
the brownies were the joy of the tailor's life.
one day a message came for the tailor to go to a farmhouse several miles away.
the farmer gave him an order for a suit of clothes, and paid him at once.
full of joy at his good fortune, he hurried home.
as he came near the house, he saw that the garden had been weeded.
"it's that brownie!"
he said; "and i shall make a suit of clothes for him."
"if you make clothes for the brownie, he will leave the house," said the grandmother.
"not if the clothes are a good fit, mother.
i shall measure them by tommy, for they say the brownies are about his size."
at last a fine new suit with brass buttons was finished and laid out for the brownie.
"don't the clothes look fine?"
said tommy, when he came down in the morning; "i'll try them on."
the tailor rose earlier than usual that day, for he wished to catch a glimpse of the brownies.
he went softly downstairs.
there was johnny sweeping the floor, and tommy trying on the new suit.
"what does this mean?"
shouted the father.
"it's the brownies," said the boys.
"this is no joke," cried the tailor, angrily.
"where are the real brownies, i say?"
"we are the only brownies, father," said tommy.
"i can't understand this.
who has been sweeping the kitchen lately, i should like to know?"
"we have," said the boys.
"who gets breakfast and puts things in order?"
"we do!
we do!"
they shouted.
"but when do you do it?"
"early in the morning before you come down."
"but if you do the work, where is the brownie?"
"here," cried the boys; "we are the brownies, and we are sorry that we were boggarts so long."
the father was delighted to find how helpful his boys had become.
the grandmother, however, could hardly believe that a real brownie had not been in the house.
but as she sat in her chair day after day watching the boys at their work, she often repeated her favorite saying, "children are a blessing."
the story of peter pan
once upon a time there were three children named wendy, john, and michael, who lived with their father and mother in london.
one evening the father and mother were invited to a party, and the mother, after lighting the dim lamp in the nursery and kissing them good-night, went away.
that evening a little boy climbed in through the window, whose name was peter pan.
he was a curious little fellow, very conceited, very forgetful, and yet very lovable.
the most remarkable thing about him was that he never grew up.
there came flitting in through the window with him his fairy, whose name was tinker bell.
peter pan woke all the children up, and after he had sprinkled fairy dust on their shoulders, he took them away to the neverland, where he lived with a family of lost boys.
tinker bell was jealous of the little girl wendy, and she hurried ahead of peter pan and persuaded the boys that wendy was a bird who might do them harm, and so one of the boys shot her with his bow and arrow.
when peter pan came and found wendy lying lifeless upon the ground in the woods he was very angry, but he was also very quick-witted.
so he told the boys that if they would build a house around wendy he was sure that she would be better.
so they hurried to collect everything they had out of which they could make a house.
though she was not yet strong enough to talk, they thought perhaps she might sing the kind of house she would like to have, so wendy sang softly this little verse:
"i wish i had a pretty house,     the littlest ever seen,   with funny little red walls     and roof of mossy green."
when the house was done peter pan took john's hat for the chimney, and the little house was so pleased to have such a capital chimney that smoke at once began to come out through the hat.
all that night peter pan walked up and down in front of wendy's house, to watch over her and keep her from danger while she slept.
all these children lived in an underground cave, and the next day, when wendy got well, they all went down into the cave and wendy agreed to be their mother and peter their father.
they had many good times together.
they also had some exciting adventures with the red-skins and with a pirate named captain hook and his crew.
after a time the redskins became their friends, and peter rescued his family from the pirates' ship.
one day wendy and her brothers realized that they had been away so long that perhaps their mother had forgotten them and shut the window of the nursery so that they could not get back.
they decided to hurry home.
when they reached home peter pan was before them, and he closed the window so that they could not get back.
but when he heard the children's mother singing such a sad song inside, his heart was made tender and he opened the window and the children crept back safely into their mother's arms.
wendy's mother invited peter pan to stay and be her child, but peter was so afraid that he would have to go to school and grow up and be a man that he went back to his home in fairy-land.
wendy promised to go once a year and stay a few days with peter pan and clean house and mend his clothes.
let us picture them in the little house that was built for wendy, which the fairies had put up in the branches of a pine-tree.
the birds are singing in their nests and in the branches, and far below the clouds you can see the land and the sea.
wendy is sewing for peter and peter pan is playing his pipes while she works.
when night comes the woods are full of flashing lights like little stars, because the fairies are flitting around the house where peter and wendy live, and are singing to them as they go to sleep.
in a few days wendy will go back to john and michael to tell them what a good time she had on her visit in the little house in the woods.
sir lark and king sun
by george macdonald
"good morrow, my lord!"
in the sky alone,   sang the lark as the sun ascended his throne.
"shine on me, my lord; i only am come,   of all your servants, to welcome you home.
i have flown right up, a whole hour, i swear,   to catch the first shine of your golden hair."
"must i thank you then," said the king, "sir lark,   for flying so high and hating the dark?
you ask a full cup for half a thirst:
half was love of me, and half love to be first.
there's many a bird makes no such haste,   but waits till i come; that's as much to my taste."
and king sun hid his head in a turban of cloud,   and sir lark stopped singing, quite vexed and cowed;   but he flew up higher, and thought, "anon   the wrath of the king will be over and gone;   and his crown, shining out of its cloudy fold,   will change my brown feathers to a glory of gold."
so he flew with the strength of a lark he flew;   but, as he rose, the cloud rose too;   and not one gleam of the golden hair   came through the depths of the misty air;   till, weary with flying, with sighing sore,   the strong sun-seeker could do no more.
his wings had had no chrism of gold;   and his feathers felt withered and worn and old;   he faltered, and sank, and dropped like a stone.
and there on his nest, where he left her, alone   sat his little wife on her little eggs,   keeping them warm with wings and legs.
did i say alone?
ah, no such thing!
full in her face was shining the king.
"welcome, sir lark!
you look tired," said he;   "up is not always the best way to me.
while you have been singing so high and away,   i've been shining to your little wife all day."
he had set his crown all about the nest,   and out of the midst shone her little brown breast;   and so glorious was she in russet gold,   that for wonder and awe sir lark grew cold.
he popped his head under her wing, and lay   as still as a stone, till king sun was away.
the imps in the heavenly meadow
by kate e. bunce (after rudolf baunbach)
to heaven's meadows, bright with flowers and sunshine,     the little children go,   when they have had enough of life's sad dreaming,     and leave the earth below.
but as they had not time to learn their lessons     before they went away,   there is a school, where all the angel children     must work four hours a day.
with golden pencils upon silver tablets,     they copy fairy tales,   and learn to keep their halos bright and shining,     and sing, and play their scales.
and twice a week they glide with merry laughter     all down the milky way,   and homeward in the evening wander softly     upon a sunset ray.
but sunday is the day they love and long for,     then all the children go   and play from morn till night within a meadow     where flowers in thousands grow.
the meadow is not green, but blue and golden     the flowers like dewdrops bright;   when it is night, they burn and glow and glisten
men call them stars of light.
through heaven's gate they all must pass to find it,     where peter with the key   keeps watch and warns the little angels kindly     how good they all must be.
they must not fly about or run too quickly,     nor go too far away,   and when upon his golden key he calls them,     then they must all obey.
one day it was so very hot in heaven     that good st. peter slept,   and when the little angel children saw it,     away they quickly crept.
ah!
then they ran and flew about with laughter,     and fluttered far and wide,   so far they wandered that of heaven's meadow     they reached the other side.
they came to where the strong, tall, wooden paling     shuts all that place away,   where idle, careless, mischief-loving, naughty,     the imps of darkness stray.
and there the angels stopped, devoutly wishing     some opening there might be,   so that they might each one in turn peep through it,     and see what they could see.
but not a chink or hole, for all their seeking,     no gleam of light pierced through,   so with their little wings outspread and eager,     right to the top they flew.
and looking down they saw with awe and wonder.
imps all as black as soot;   each had two horns and each a tail to play with,     and hoof, instead of foot.
they heard the rustle of the angel feathers,     they felt the cool sweet air,   and, lifting up their little coal-black faces,     they saw heaven's children there.
then with one voice they cried: "oh!
angel children,     you look so good and fair,   we pray you, let us come up into heaven     and play a little there.
"we will not tweak nor pull your shining feathers,     but be so very good;   we will not try and steal your little halos,     but all do as we should."
then quick they flew away for jacob's ladder,     (peter was still asleep),   and placed it safely, where from heaven to imp-land     the way was dark and steep.
then every little imp, with shouts and laughter,     helped by an angel's hand,   scrambled right over the great wooden paling,     and stood in heaven's land.
they all, with air sedate and pious faces,     discreetly walked around,   their tails like trains upon their arms upholding,     and eyes upon the ground.
the little angels fluttered round in rapture,     and showed the lovely flowers,   and bade them listen to the thrilling voices     of birds in heaven's bowers.
and gently led them by the crystal streamlets,     bade them on dewdrops feast,   and showed them where the silver moon was rising     to light them from the east.
alas!
when all the little demons saw her,     the moon, so large and round,   they all began to roar, and growl, and gibber,     and leap from off the ground;
and mocked the great white moon with ugly faces,     turned somersaults in air,   and when the angels prayed them cease, in terror,     they vowed they did not care.
they trampled down the grass in heaven's meadow,     they tore the flowers about,   and flung them on the earth beyond the paling,     with gibe, and jeer, and shout.
they chased the birds that sang among the tree-tops     and hushed their music sweet,   they pulled the little angels' tender feathers     and trod upon their feet.
then to the good st. peter cried the angels     to help them in their pain,   and if he would but this one time forgive them,     they would be good again.
then rose st. peter from his peaceful dreaming
an angry saint was he
he wrung his hands and clasped his head in horror,     and seized his golden key.
then blew a mighty blast in wrath upon it;     back all the angels flew,   and wide he threw the door of heaven open,     and thrust the children through.
and then he called two great and powerful angels,     the strongest of the race,   to chase the little demons out of heaven,     and clear the holy place.
they gathered up the little imps in armfuls,     bore them with mighty stride,   and flung them over the strong wooden paling     down on the other side.
and though they fought and lashed their tails and whimpered,     and kicked with might and main,   to heaven's meadow, bright with sun and flowers     they never came again.
for two long months the little angel-children     were not allowed to play   before the door of heaven in the meadow,     but stayed in all the day.
and when again they sought the heavenly meadow     each child with humble mind   must lay aside its little shining halo,     and leave its wings behind.
but all the flowers that on that day of sorrow,     flung out and scattered were,   took root and bloom again in earth's green meadows,     as daisies white and fair.
the birthday honors of the fairy queen[1]
by hapgood moore
once upon a time there lived in green erin a little girl by the name of nora.
her home was a small thatched cottage of stone beside the brae at the foot of a mountain, in the midst of a woodland so deep that in the summer time when the trees were full the sun got its rays inside but a few hours of the day and you could see of the star-dust that covers the fields of the sky no piece larger than the palm of your hand.
it was a famous meeting-place for the fairies, this haunt at the foot of the mountain by the stream, for the little folk from the heather above used nightly to foregather in the meadow with the little folk from the woodland below, and there they danced the long night through among the shamrocks.
but although nora had heard about the fairies from her grandmother, who sat all day tending the peat fire, and something more about them from her mother when of an evening after supper she had time to speak to nora of herself when she was a girl, yet nora had never in all her life set eyes upon one of these feasters of the forest.
for the fairies, mind you, come only to two kinds of folk, to those who believe in them and to those who need them.
now nora believed in the fairies all right, all right, but she had never been in need of them until now, at this time that i'm telling ye of.
now this same nora was one of these lasses that is a wee bit gloomery.
and ye don't know what this same gloomery is?
well, she was at times hindered by a rainy mornin' disposition.
so it was plain enough to the fairies that she was in some need of them.
one day nora went into the deep of the wildwood a few steps below her mother's cottage to a trysting-place where she often resorted when she had the time from her daily duties.
she had been unusually heckled that morning, as all of us are at times, by being obliged to do many things for the which she had little liking.
the spot was a favorite one of nora's.
there was a shelter of rocks above, almost like a cave or roof, and below there was a tiny stream of water that ran out of a spring in the back of the hill and sang its way down the slope to the brae below.
in this pool nora nearly always laid some field flowers, because they kept fresher there than anywhere else.
from the low seat that nora had made out of a stone in the back of her shelter she looked out into a sunny place in the woods, around which stood, as if they were pillars of a woodland palace, six gray beeches.
now upon this sunny afternoon that i am speaking of, hardly had nora reclined upon her bench, feeling a bit drowsy no doubt with the heat, yet not quite sleepy you know, listening to a robin singing with the voice of eden, when she heard a light tapping on the wall of the largest beech, the one that was nearest to the place where she was lying.
at first when she heard this sound she thought that it was the robin redbreast that she had noticed hopping up and down in the open place in the sunlight, and yet she knew well that robins do not drum upon the bark of trees like woodpeckers.
so she jumped lightly up and ran to the tree, and at once she was aware that the tapping was from inside the tree.
and between the taps that were no louder than those of a branch against a window-pane she distinctly heard a very tiny voice.
"how tiny was the voice, michael aroon?"
you are asking me how tiny was the voice?
let me see if i can tell you.
you have heard the sound of the rivulet when it falls upon the mossy stones in the pasture by the bar-way?
well, it was about as loud as the echo of that if you should walk thirty paces away and then listen.
so nora had to put her ear up close against the breast of the beech-tree and even then the voice sounded no louder than the sound of a beech-leaf when it falls from a branch into the moss-bed.
but she could hear what that voice was saying, and it was these words: "nora, my darling, turn the key and let me out."
nora looked around in amazement, but sure enough, there on the breast of the beech, about the height of her heart, was a small key of the color of the bark, that she had never noticed before, though she had hugged that beech-tree every morning of her life.
so nora turned the key at once, and out stepped  "
"a fairy, michael?"
yes, better than a fairy, a dryad, that is a fairy of the tree.
for a fairy of a tree is as much higher in rank than a fairy of the meadow as a duchess is than a goose-girl.
she was about the size of the robin redbreast, and she was dressed all in green, except a lovely cloak of red that, when it was folded about her, made her look very much indeed like the redbreast himself, and she was no bit bigger than the robin either.
"nora mavourneen," said the dryad, "i have been noticing that you seem a bit sad-hearted of late, and for no reason either that anybody knows, so if you don't mind i will take you with me for a walk this afternoon through fairyland, and we will see if we cannot do something to restore your good spirits again."
at these words nora danced for joy, and you would never have been able to guess that she had ever known a downhearted moment.
so the dryad clapped her tiny hands three times, and out of the open door into the beech-tree stepped a little gnome who came and bowed low before them, holding in his hands a silver salver on which lay a little pellet.
"how little was the pellet, uncle?"
"well, what would you say if i told you that it was as small as a humming bird's egg?
oh, you think it was smaller than that?
well, how about the seed of a coriander?
no?
then i will tell you the truth.
it was as small as the gnat that gets into your eye, that feels as big as a rat."
so nora took the pellet from the platter and thanked the gnome kindly and she ate it down, and no sooner had she swallowed it than she was no bigger than the dryad herself.
so the dryad took her by the hand and they walked gaily into the beech-tree door, and the door shut behind them.
they went down and down a lot of winding stairs that were lighted only by small windows in the bark of the tree that nora had never noticed before and could never find afterward.
it was very cool and pleasant, for they could hear the sap go singing on its way from the roots up to the branches and leaves and when a summer shower went by they could hear the raindrops as they went singing down the trunk outside to the roots.
after they had reached the foot of the stairs they walked for a long way through a cool corridor.
it was not quite dark, for little people stood at every turn who seemed to be doing what fireflies do on summer nights in the grass, and each one whistling to himself as he held his softly shaded lantern aloft.
down the side passages nora could see thousands of tiny miners at work.
and what do you think they are doing?
"digging for gold and diamonds."
they were tending the woodland plants that hang their golden blossoms in the pathways and carrying up the dewdrops that sparkle like diamonds from their leaves in the daybreak.
and it was pleasant to see them work, for they were all singing.
by and by nora and the dryad came to a place where there was a brighter light ahead, and as they drew nearer nora could see that they had come to the bank of the pond that is below nora's cottage, only that they were under the surface, looking up through a light so soft that it cast no shadows.
and now the dryad took nora's hand and she found herself in a little boat, no bigger than a leaf, sailing across the pond but still beneath its surface.
and here she saw on every hand, working amid the mire and the mirk, such jolly little divers, who were feeding the fish and tending the pond lily roots, and, like all the others, singing at their tasks.
now you will know of course that they were on their way to the home of the fairy queen.
and it was but a short while before they were there.
i need not tell you, children, how lovely is her palace, with its golden floor and silver walls and its hangings of the colors of the rainbow.
nor need i say how beautiful is her majesty herself, with wings like the most splendid butterfly and a gown like the morning and a face like the sunshine.
it seems that nora had come upon the queen's birthday, and she was just giving the birthday honors.
so nora and the dryad stood in the background and watched the scene.
around the throne stood gallant fairy gentlemen clad like beetles and dragon flies for splendor and ladies whose long gowns hung like the light on the waterfall of loughmareen.
but to the amazement of nora, those who came forward to receive the honors were for the most part dressed like workmen and many of them were bent with hard labor.
as each advanced and made obeisance, the royal herald read the exploit for which the rank of knighthood was about to be conferred.
for one he read: "to our faithful servant who covered the lilies of moira from the attack of the frost king"; and to another: "to the gallant yeoman who watered the grain field of kilvellin"; and to still another: "to him who dug the trench by the roadside and kept safe the highway to throselwait fair."
and as each came forward the trumpets pealed in triumph, and after a gold star had been pinned upon the new knight's breast the gentlemen and ladies of the court greeted them with hearty reverence.
and nora looked in the smiling face of the dryad, but said nothing.
then nora herself, in a breathless moment of fear, was presented to the queen, and the queen kissed her daintily just above her lips on both sides.
and suddenly nora found herself back on her stony bench by the spring with the branches of the beech-tree waving silently before her.
"oh, mothereen and grandmotherkin," she cried as soon as she got home, and she ran home all the way "let me tell you about the wonderful visit i have been making out in the wildwood."
and after she had told her story, mothereen said, "i think nora has been dreaming," but grandmotherkin said, "no, daughter, i think our little acushla has had her eyes opened the day."
then nora in triumph showed the two dimples where the fairy queen had kissed her.
and do you know, my darlings, i cannot but think that she told the truth after all, for ever after, if one kissed nora upon those two dimples or even touched them or even looked at them, she would break into the sweetest smile, and she never was gloomerin' or lowerin' any more.
the wonderful wizard of oz
1.  the cyclone
dorothy lived in the midst of the great kansas prairies, with uncle henry, who was a farmer, and aunt em, who was the farmer's wife.
their house was small, for the lumber to build it had to be carried by wagon many miles.
there were four walls, a floor and a roof, which made one room; and this room contained a rusty looking cookstove, a cupboard for the dishes, a table, three or four chairs, and the beds.
uncle henry and aunt em had a big bed in one corner, and dorothy a little bed in another corner.
there was no garret at all, and no cellar except a small hole dug in the ground, called a cyclone cellar, where the family could go in case one of those great whirlwinds arose, mighty enough to crush any building in its path.
it was reached by a trap door in the middle of the floor, from which a ladder led down into the small, dark hole.
when dorothy stood in the doorway and looked around, she could see nothing but the great gray prairie on every side.
not a tree nor a house broke the broad sweep of flat country that reached to the edge of the sky in all directions.
the sun had baked the plowed land into a gray mass, with little cracks running through it.
even the grass was not green, for the sun had burned the tops of the long blades until they were the same gray color to be seen everywhere.
once the house had been painted, but the sun blistered the paint and the rains washed it away, and now the house was as dull and gray as everything else.
when aunt em came there to live she was a young, pretty wife.
the sun and wind had changed her, too.
they had taken the sparkle from her eyes and left them a sober gray; they had taken the red from her cheeks and lips, and they were gray also.
she was thin and gaunt, and never smiled now.
when dorothy, who was an orphan, first came to her, aunt em had been so startled by the child's laughter that she would scream and press her hand upon her heart whenever dorothy's merry voice reached her ears; and she still looked at the little girl with wonder that she could find anything to laugh at.
uncle henry never laughed.
he worked hard from morning till night and did not know what joy was.
he was gray also, from his long beard to his rough boots, and he looked stern and solemn, and rarely spoke.
it was toto that made dorothy laugh, and saved her from growing as gray as her other surroundings.
toto was not gray; he was a little black dog, with long silky hair and small black eyes that twinkled merrily on either side of his funny, wee nose.
toto played all day long, and dorothy played with him, and loved him dearly.
today, however, they were not playing.
uncle henry sat upon the doorstep and looked anxiously at the sky, which was even grayer than usual.
dorothy stood in the door with toto in her arms, and looked at the sky too.
aunt em was washing the dishes.
from the far north they heard a low wail of the wind, and uncle henry and dorothy could see where the long grass bowed in waves before the coming storm.
there now came a sharp whistling in the air from the south, and as they turned their eyes that way they saw ripples in the grass coming from that direction also.
suddenly uncle henry stood up.
"there's a cyclone coming, em," he called to his wife.
"i'll go look after the stock."
then he ran toward the sheds where the cows and horses were kept.
aunt em dropped her work and came to the door.
one glance told her of the danger close at hand.
"quick, dorothy!"
she screamed.
"run for the cellar!"
toto jumped out of dorothy's arms and hid under the bed, and the girl started to get him.
aunt em, badly frightened, threw open the trap door in the floor and climbed down the ladder into the small, dark hole.
dorothy caught toto at last and started to follow her aunt.
when she was halfway across the room there came a great shriek from the wind, and the house shook so hard that she lost her footing and sat down suddenly upon the floor.
then a strange thing happened.
the house whirled around two or three times and rose slowly through the air.
dorothy felt as if she were going up in a balloon.
the north and south winds met where the house stood, and made it the exact center of the cyclone.
in the middle of a cyclone the air is generally still, but the great pressure of the wind on every side of the house raised it up higher and higher, until it was at the very top of the cyclone; and there it remained and was carried miles and miles away as easily as you could carry a feather.
it was very dark, and the wind howled horribly around her, but dorothy found she was riding quite easily.
after the first few whirls around, and one other time when the house tipped badly, she felt as if she were being rocked gently, like a baby in a cradle.
toto did not like it.
he ran about the room, now here, now there, barking loudly; but dorothy sat quite still on the floor and waited to see what would happen.
once toto got too near the open trap door, and fell in; and at first the little girl thought she had lost him.
but soon she saw one of his ears sticking up through the hole, for the strong pressure of the air was keeping him up so that he could not fall.
she crept to the hole, caught toto by the ear, and dragged him into the room again, afterward closing the trap door so that no more accidents could happen.
hour after hour passed away, and slowly dorothy got over her fright; but she felt quite lonely, and the wind shrieked so loudly all about her that she nearly became deaf.
at first she had wondered if she would be dashed to pieces when the house fell again; but as the hours passed and nothing terrible happened, she stopped worrying and resolved to wait calmly and see what the future would bring.
at last she crawled over the swaying floor to her bed, and lay down upon it; and toto followed and lay down beside her.
in spite of the swaying of the house and the wailing of the wind, dorothy soon closed her eyes and fell fast asleep.
2.  the council with the munchkins
she was awakened by a shock, so sudden and severe that if dorothy had not been lying on the soft bed she might have been hurt.
as it was, the jar made her catch her breath and wonder what had happened; and toto put his cold little nose into her face and whined dismally.
dorothy sat up and noticed that the house was not moving; nor was it dark, for the bright sunshine came in at the window, flooding the little room.
she sprang from her bed and with toto at her heels ran and opened the door.
the little girl gave a cry of amazement and looked about her, her eyes growing bigger and bigger at the wonderful sights she saw.
the cyclone had set the house down very gently for a cyclone in the midst of a country of marvelous beauty.
there were lovely patches of greensward all about, with stately trees bearing rich and luscious fruits.
banks of gorgeous flowers were on every hand, and birds with rare and brilliant plumage sang and fluttered in the trees and bushes.
a little way off was a small brook, rushing and sparkling along between green banks, and murmuring in a voice very grateful to a little girl who had lived so long on the dry, gray prairies.
while she stood looking eagerly at the strange and beautiful sights, she noticed coming toward her a group of the queerest people she had ever seen.
they were not as big as the grown folk she had always been used to; but neither were they very small.
in fact, they seemed about as tall as dorothy, who was a well-grown child for her age, although they were, so far as looks go, many years older.
three were men and one a woman, and all were oddly dressed.
they wore round hats that rose to a small point a foot above their heads, with little bells around the brims that tinkled sweetly as they moved.
the hats of the men were blue; the little woman's hat was white, and she wore a white gown that hung in pleats from her shoulders.
over it were sprinkled little stars that glistened in the sun like diamonds.
the men were dressed in blue, of the same shade as their hats, and wore well-polished boots with a deep roll of blue at the tops.
the men, dorothy thought, were about as old as uncle henry, for two of them had beards.
but the little woman was doubtless much older.
her face was covered with wrinkles, her hair was nearly white, and she walked rather stiffly.
when these people drew near the house where dorothy was standing in the doorway, they paused and whispered among themselves, as if afraid to come farther.
but the little old woman walked up to dorothy, made a low bow and said, in a sweet voice:
"you are welcome, most noble sorceress, to the land of the munchkins.
we are so grateful to you for having killed the wicked witch of the east, and for setting our people free from bondage."
dorothy listened to this speech with wonder.
what could the little woman possibly mean by calling her a sorceress, and saying she had killed the wicked witch of the east?
dorothy was an innocent, harmless little girl, who had been carried by a cyclone many miles from home; and she had never killed anything in all her life.
but the little woman evidently expected her to answer; so dorothy said, with hesitation, "you are very kind, but there must be some mistake.
i have not killed anything."
"your house did, anyway," replied the little old woman, with a laugh, "and that is the same thing.
see!"
she continued, pointing to the corner of the house.
"there are her two feet, still sticking out from under a block of wood."
dorothy looked, and gave a little cry of fright.
there, indeed, just under the corner of the great beam the house rested on, two feet were sticking out, shod in silver shoes with pointed toes.
"oh, dear!
oh, dear!"
cried dorothy, clasping her hands together in dismay.
"the house must have fallen on her.
whatever shall we do?"
"there is nothing to be done," said the little woman calmly.
"but who was she?"
asked dorothy.
"she was the wicked witch of the east, as i said," answered the little woman.
"she has held all the munchkins in bondage for many years, making them slave for her night and day.
now they are all set free, and are grateful to you for the favor."
"who are the munchkins?"
inquired dorothy.
"they are the people who live in this land of the east  where the wicked witch ruled."
"are you a munchkin?"
asked dorothy.
"no, but i am their friend, although i live in the land of the north.
when they saw the witch of the east was dead the munchkins sent a swift messenger to me, and i came at once.
i am the witch of the north."
"oh, gracious!"
cried dorothy.
"are you a real witch?"
"yes, indeed," answered the little woman.
"but i am a good witch, and the people love me.
i am not as powerful as the wicked witch was who ruled here, or i should have set the people free myself."
"but i thought all witches were wicked," said the girl, who was half frightened at facing a real witch.
"oh, no, that is a great mistake.
there were only four witches in all the land of oz, and two of them, those who live in the north and the south, are good witches.
i know this is true, for i am one of them myself, and cannot be mistaken.
those who dwelt in the east and the west were, indeed, wicked witches; but now that you have killed one of them, there is but one wicked witch in all the land of oz the one who lives in the west."
"but," said dorothy, after a moment's thought, "aunt em has told me that the witches were all dead years and years ago."
"who is aunt em?"
inquired the little old woman.
"she is my aunt who lives in kansas, where i came from."
the witch of the north seemed to think for a time, with her head bowed and her eyes upon the ground.
then she looked up and said, "i do not know where kansas is, for i have never heard that country mentioned before.
but tell me, is it a civilized country?"
"oh, yes," replied dorothy.
"then that accounts for it.
in the civilized countries i believe there are no witches left, nor wizards, nor sorceresses, nor magicians.
but, you see, the land of oz has never been civilized, for we are cut off from all the rest of the world.
therefore we still have witches and wizards amongst us."
"who are the wizards?"
asked dorothy.
"oz himself is the great wizard," answered the witch, sinking her voice to a whisper.
"he is more powerful than all the rest of us together.
he lives in the city of emeralds."
dorothy was going to ask another question, but just then the munchkins, who had been standing silently by, gave a loud shout and pointed to the corner of the house where the wicked witch had been lying.
"what is it?"
asked the little old woman, and looked, and began to laugh.
the feet of the dead witch had disappeared entirely, and nothing was left but the silver shoes.
"she was so old," explained the witch of the north, "that she dried up quickly in the sun.
that is the end of her.
but the silver shoes are yours, and you shall have them to wear."
she reached down and picked up the shoes, and after shaking the dust out of them handed them to dorothy.
"the witch of the east was proud of those silver shoes," said one of the munchkins, "and there is some charm connected with them; but what it is we never knew."
dorothy carried the shoes into the house and placed them on the table.
then she came out again to the munchkins and said:
"i am anxious to get back to my aunt and uncle, for i am sure they will worry about me.
can you help me find my way?"
the munchkins and the witch first looked at one another, and then at dorothy, and then shook their heads.
"at the east, not far from here," said one, "there is a great desert, and none could live to cross it."
"it is the same at the south," said another, "for i have been there and seen it.
the south is the country of the quadlings."
"i am told," said the third man, "that it is the same at the west.
and that country, where the winkies live, is ruled by the wicked witch of the west, who would make you her slave if you passed her way."
"the north is my home," said the old lady, "and at its edge is the same great desert that surrounds this land of oz.
i'm afraid, my dear, you will have to live with us."
dorothy began to sob at this, for she felt lonely among all these strange people.
her tears seemed to grieve the kind-hearted munchkins, for they immediately took out their handkerchiefs and began to weep also.
as for the little old woman, she took off her cap and balanced the point on the end of her nose, while she counted "one, two, three"
in a solemn voice.
at once the cap changed to a slate, on which was written in big, white chalk marks:
"let dorothy go to the city of emeralds"
the little old woman took the slate from her nose, and having read the words on it, asked, "is your name dorothy, my dear?"
"yes," answered the child, looking up and drying her tears.
"then you must go to the city of emeralds.
perhaps oz will help you."
"where is this city?"
asked dorothy.
"it is exactly in the center of the country, and is ruled by oz, the great wizard i told you of."
"is he a good man?"
inquired the girl anxiously.
"he is a good wizard.
whether he is a man or not i cannot tell, for i have never seen him."
"how can i get there?"
asked dorothy.
"you must walk.
it is a long journey, through a country that is sometimes pleasant and sometimes dark and terrible.
however, i will use all the magic arts i know of to keep you from harm."
"won't you go with me?"
pleaded the girl, who had begun to look upon the little old woman as her only friend.
"no, i cannot do that," she replied, "but i will give you my kiss, and no one will dare injure a person who has been kissed by the witch of the north."
she came close to dorothy and kissed her gently on the forehead.
where her lips touched the girl they left a round, shining mark, as dorothy found out soon after.
"the road to the city of emeralds is paved with yellow brick," said the witch, "so you cannot miss it.
when you get to oz do not be afraid of him, but tell your story and ask him to help you.
good-bye, my dear."
the three munchkins bowed low to her and wished her a pleasant journey, after which they walked away through the trees.
the witch gave dorothy a friendly little nod, whirled around on her left heel three times, and straightway disappeared, much to the surprise of little toto, who barked after her loudly enough when she had gone, because he had been afraid even to growl while she stood by.
but dorothy, knowing her to be a witch, had expected her to disappear in just that way, and was not surprised in the least.
3.  how dorothy saved the scarecrow
when dorothy was left alone she began to feel hungry.
so she went to the cupboard and cut herself some bread, which she spread with butter.
she gave some to toto, and taking a pail from the shelf she carried it down to the little brook and filled it with clear, sparkling water.
toto ran over to the trees and began to bark at the birds sitting there.
dorothy went to get him, and saw such delicious fruit hanging from the branches that she gathered some of it, finding it just what she wanted to help out her breakfast.
then she went back to the house, and having helped herself and toto to a good drink of the cool, clear water, she set about making ready for the journey to the city of emeralds.
dorothy had only one other dress, but that happened to be clean and was hanging on a peg beside her bed.
it was gingham, with checks of white and blue; and although the blue was somewhat faded with many washings, it was still a pretty frock.
the girl washed herself carefully, dressed herself in the clean gingham, and tied her pink sunbonnet on her head.
she took a little basket and filled it with bread from the cupboard, laying a white cloth over the top.
then she looked down at her feet and noticed how old and worn her shoes were.
"they surely will never do for a long journey, toto," she said.
and toto looked up into her face with his little black eyes and wagged his tail to show he knew what she meant.
at that moment dorothy saw lying on the table the silver shoes that had belonged to the witch of the east.
"i wonder if they will fit me," she said to toto.
"they would be just the thing to take a long walk in, for they could not wear out."
she took off her old leather shoes and tried on the silver ones, which fitted her as well as if they had been made for her.
finally she picked up her basket.
"come along, toto," she said.
"we will go to the emerald city and ask the great oz how to get back to kansas again."
she closed the door, locked it, and put the key carefully in the pocket of her dress.
and so, with toto trotting along soberly behind her, she started on her journey.
there were several roads nearby, but it did not take her long to find the one paved with yellow bricks.
within a short time she was walking briskly toward the emerald city, her silver shoes tinkling merrily on the hard, yellow road-bed.
the sun shone bright and the birds sang sweetly, and dorothy did not feel nearly so bad as you might think a little girl would who had been suddenly whisked away from her own country and set down in the midst of a strange land.
she was surprised, as she walked along, to see how pretty the country was about her.
there were neat fences at the sides of the road, painted a dainty blue color, and beyond them were fields of grain and vegetables in abundance.
evidently the munchkins were good farmers and able to raise large crops.
once in a while she would pass a house, and the people came out to look at her and bow low as she went by; for everyone knew she had been the means of destroying the wicked witch and setting them free from bondage.
the houses of the munchkins were odd-looking dwellings, for each was round, with a big dome for a roof.
all were painted blue, for in this country of the east blue was the favorite color.
toward evening, when dorothy was tired with her long walk and began to wonder where she should pass the night, she came to a house rather larger than the rest.
on the green lawn before it many men and women were dancing.
five little fiddlers played as loudly as possible, and the people were laughing and singing, while a big table near by was loaded with delicious fruits and nuts, pies and cakes, and many other good things to eat.
the people greeted dorothy kindly, and invited her to supper and to pass the night with them; for this was the home of one of the richest munchkins in the land, and his friends were gathered with him to celebrate their freedom from the bondage of the wicked witch.
dorothy ate a hearty supper and was waited upon by the rich munchkin himself, whose name was boq.
then she sat upon a settee and watched the people dance.
when boq saw her silver shoes he said, "you must be a great sorceress."
"why?"
asked the girl.
"because you wear silver shoes and have killed the wicked witch.
besides, you have white in your frock, and only witches and sorceresses wear white."
"my dress is blue and white checked," said dorothy, smoothing out the wrinkles in it.
"it is kind of you to wear that," said boq.
"blue is the color of the munchkins, and white is the witch color.
so we know you are a friendly witch."
dorothy did not know what to say to this, for all the people seemed to think her a witch, and she knew very well she was only an ordinary little girl who had come by the chance of a cyclone into a strange land.
when she had tired watching the dancing, boq led her into the house, where he gave her a room with a pretty bed in it.
the sheets were made of blue cloth, and dorothy slept soundly in them till morning, with toto curled up on the blue rug beside her.
she ate a hearty breakfast, and watched a wee munchkin baby, who played with toto and pulled his tail and crowed and laughed in a way that greatly amused dorothy.
toto was a fine curiosity to all the people, for they had never seen a dog before.
"how far is it to the emerald city?"
the girl asked.
"i do not know," answered boq gravely, "for i have never been there.
it is better for people to keep away from oz, unless they have business with him.
but it is a long way to the emerald city, and it will take you many days.
the country here is rich and pleasant, but you must pass through rough and dangerous places before you reach the end of your journey."
this worried dorothy a little, but she knew that only the great oz could help her get to kansas again, so she bravely resolved not to turn back.
she bade her friends good-bye, and again started along the road of yellow brick.
when she had gone several miles she thought she would stop to rest, and so climbed to the top of the fence beside the road and sat down.
there was a great cornfield beyond the fence, and not far away she saw a scarecrow, placed high on a pole to keep the birds from the ripe corn.
dorothy leaned her chin upon her hand and gazed thoughtfully at the scarecrow.
its head was a small sack stuffed with straw, with eyes, nose, and mouth painted on it to represent a face.
an old, pointed blue hat, that had belonged to some munchkin, was perched on his head, and the rest of the figure was a blue suit of clothes, worn and faded, which had also been stuffed with straw.
on the feet were some old boots with blue tops, such as every man wore in this country, and the figure was raised above the stalks of corn by means of the pole stuck up its back.
while dorothy was looking earnestly into the queer, painted face of the scarecrow, she was surprised to see one of the eyes slowly wink at her.
she thought she must have been mistaken at first, for none of the scarecrows in kansas ever wink; but presently the figure nodded its head to her in a friendly way.
then she climbed down from the fence and walked up to it, while toto ran around the pole and barked.
"good day," said the scarecrow, in a rather husky voice.
"did you speak?"
asked the girl, in wonder.
"certainly," answered the scarecrow.
"how do you do?"
"i'm pretty well, thank you," replied dorothy politely.
"how do you do?"
"i'm not feeling well," said the scarecrow, with a smile, "for it is very tedious being perched up here night and day to scare away crows."
"can't you get down?"
asked dorothy.
"no, for this pole is stuck up my back.
if you will please take away the pole i shall be greatly obliged to you."
dorothy reached up both arms and lifted the figure off the pole, for, being stuffed with straw, it was quite light.
"thank you very much," said the scarecrow, when he had been set down on the ground.
"i feel like a new man."
dorothy was puzzled at this, for it sounded queer to hear a stuffed man speak, and to see him bow and walk along beside her.
"who are you?"
asked the scarecrow when he had stretched himself and yawned.
"and where are you going?"
"my name is dorothy," said the girl, "and i am going to the emerald city, to ask the great oz to send me back to kansas."
"where is the emerald city?"
he inquired.
"and who is oz?"
"why, don't you know?"
she returned, in surprise.
"no, indeed.
i don't know anything.
you see, i am stuffed, so i have no brains at all," he answered sadly.
"oh," said dorothy, "i'm awfully sorry for you."
"do you think," he asked, "if i go to the emerald city with you, that oz would give me some brains?"
"i cannot tell," she returned, "but you may come with me, if you like.
if oz will not give you any brains you will be no worse off than you are now."
"that is true," said the scarecrow.
"you see," he continued confidentially, "i don't mind my legs and arms and body being stuffed, because i cannot get hurt.
if anyone treads on my toes or sticks a pin into me, it doesn't matter, for i can't feel it.
but i do not want people to call me a fool, and if my head stays stuffed with straw instead of with brains, as yours is, how am i ever to know anything?"
"i understand how you feel," said the little girl, who was truly sorry for him.
"if you will come with me i'll ask oz to do all he can for you."
"thank you," he answered gratefully.
they walked back to the road.
dorothy helped him over the fence, and they started along the path of yellow brick for the emerald city.
toto did not like this addition to the party at first.
he smelled around the stuffed man as if he suspected there might be a nest of rats in the straw, and he often growled in an unfriendly way at the scarecrow.
"don't mind toto," said dorothy to her new friend.
"he never bites."
"oh, i'm not afraid," replied the scarecrow.
"he can't hurt the straw.
do let me carry that basket for you.
i shall not mind it, for i can't get tired.
i'll tell you a secret," he continued, as he walked along.
"there is only one thing in the world i am afraid of."
"what is that?"
asked dorothy; "the munchkin farmer who made you?"
"no," answered the scarecrow; "it's a lighted match."
4.  the road through the forest
after a few hours the road began to be rough, and the walking grew so difficult that the scarecrow often stumbled over the yellow bricks, which were here very uneven.
sometimes, indeed, they were broken or missing altogether, leaving holes that toto jumped across and dorothy walked around.
as for the scarecrow, having no brains, he walked straight ahead, and so stepped into the holes and fell at full length on the hard bricks.
it never hurt him, however, and dorothy would pick him up and set him upon his feet again, while he joined her in laughing merrily at his own mishap.
the farms were not nearly so well cared for here as they were farther back.
there were fewer houses and fewer fruit trees, and the farther they went the more dismal and lonesome the country became.
at noon they sat down by the roadside, near a little brook, and dorothy opened her basket and got out some bread.
she offered a piece to the scarecrow, but he refused.
"i am never hungry," he said, "and it is a lucky thing i am not, for my mouth is only painted, and if i should cut a hole in it so i could eat, the straw i am stuffed with would come out, and that would spoil the shape of my head."
dorothy saw at once that this was true, so she only nodded and went on eating her bread.
"tell me something about yourself and the country you came from," said the scarecrow, when she had finished her dinner.
so she told him all about kansas, and how gray everything was there, and how the cyclone had carried her to this queer land of oz.
the scarecrow listened carefully, and said, "i cannot understand why you should wish to leave this beautiful country and go back to the dry, gray place you call kansas."
"that is because you have no brains" answered the girl.
"no matter how dreary and gray our homes are, we people of flesh and blood would rather live there than in any other country, be it ever so beautiful.
there is no place like home."
the scarecrow sighed.
"of course i cannot understand it," he said.
"if your heads were stuffed with straw, like mine, you would probably all live in the beautiful places, and then kansas would have no people at all.
it is fortunate for kansas that you have brains."
"won't you tell me a story, while we are resting?"
asked the child.
the scarecrow looked at her reproachfully, and answered:
"my life has been so short that i really know nothing whatever.
i was only made day before yesterday.
what happened in the world before that time is all unknown to me.
luckily, when the farmer made my head, one of the first things he did was to paint my ears, so that i heard what was going on.
there was another munchkin with him, and the first thing i heard was the farmer saying, 'how do you like those ears?'
"'they aren't straight,'" answered the other.
"'never mind,'" said the farmer.
"'they are ears just the same,'"
which was true enough.
"'now i'll make the eyes,'" said the farmer.
so he painted my right eye, and as soon as it was finished i found myself looking at him and at everything around me with a great deal of curiosity, for this was my first glimpse of the world.
"'that's a rather pretty eye,'" remarked the munchkin who was watching the farmer.
"'blue paint is just the color for eyes.'
"'i think i'll make the other a little bigger,'" said the farmer.
and when the second eye was done i could see much better than before.
then he made my nose and my mouth.
but i did not speak, because at that time i didn't know what a mouth was for.
i had the fun of watching them make my body and my arms and legs; and when they fastened on my head, at last, i felt very proud, for i thought i was just as good a man as anyone.
"'this fellow will scare the crows fast enough,' said the farmer.
'he looks just like a man.'
"'why, he is a man,' said the other, and i quite agreed with him.
the farmer carried me under his arm to the cornfield, and set me up on a tall stick, where you found me.
he and his friend soon after walked away and left me alone.
"i did not like to be deserted this way.
so i tried to walk after them.
but my feet would not touch the ground, and i was forced to stay on that pole.
it was a lonely life to lead, for i had nothing to think of, having been made such a little while before.
many crows and other birds flew into the cornfield, but as soon as they saw me they flew away again, thinking i was a munchkin; and this pleased me and made me feel that i was quite an important person.
by and by an old crow flew near me, and after looking at me carefully he perched upon my shoulder and said:
"'i wonder if that farmer thought to fool me in this clumsy manner.
any crow of sense could see that you are only stuffed with straw.'
then he hopped down at my feet and ate all the corn he wanted.
the other birds, seeing he was not harmed by me, came to eat the corn too, so in a short time there was a great flock of them about me.
"i felt sad at this, for it showed i was not such a good scarecrow after all; but the old crow comforted me, saying, 'if you only had brains in your head you would be as good a man as any of them, and a better man than some of them.
brains are the only things worth having in this world, no matter whether one is a crow or a man.'
"after the crows had gone i thought this over, and decided i would try hard to get some brains.
by good luck you came along and pulled me off the stake, and from what you say i am sure the great oz will give me brains as soon as we get to the emerald city."
"i hope so," said dorothy earnestly, "since you seem anxious to have them."
"oh, yes; i am anxious," returned the scarecrow.
"it is such an uncomfortable feeling to know one is a fool."
"well," said the girl, "let us go."
and she handed the basket to the scarecrow.
there were no fences at all by the roadside now, and the land was rough and untilled.
toward evening they came to a great forest, where the trees grew so big and close together that their branches met over the road of yellow brick.
it was almost dark under the trees, for the branches shut out the daylight; but the travelers did not stop, and went on into the forest.
"if this road goes in, it must come out," said the scarecrow, "and as the emerald city is at the other end of the road, we must go wherever it leads us."
"anyone would know that," said dorothy.
"certainly; that is why i know it," returned the scarecrow.
"if it required brains to figure it out, i never should have said it."
after an hour or so the light faded away, and they found themselves stumbling along in the darkness.
dorothy could not see at all, but toto could, for some dogs see very well in the dark; and the scarecrow declared he could see as well as by day.
so she took hold of his arm and managed to get along fairly well.
"if you see any house, or any place where we can pass the night," she said, "you must tell me; for it is very uncomfortable walking in the dark."
soon after the scarecrow stopped.
"i see a little cottage at the right of us," he said, "built of logs and branches.
shall we go there?"
"yes, indeed," answered the child.
"i am all tired out."
so the scarecrow led her through the trees until they reached the cottage, and dorothy entered and found a bed of dried leaves in one corner.
she lay down at once, and with toto beside her soon fell into a sound sleep.
the scarecrow, who was never tired, stood up in another corner and waited patiently until morning came.
5.  the rescue of the tin woodman
when dorothy awoke the sun was shining through the trees and toto had long been out chasing birds around him and squirrels.
she sat up and looked around her.
there was the scarecrow, still standing patiently in his corner, waiting for her.
"we must go and search for water," she said to him.
"why do you want water?"
he asked.
"to wash my face clean after the dust of the road, and to drink, so the dry bread will not stick in my throat."
"it must be inconvenient to be made of flesh," said the scarecrow thoughtfully, "for you must sleep, and eat and drink.
however, you have brains, and it is worth a lot of bother to be able to think properly."
they left the cottage and walked through the trees until they found a little spring of clear water, where dorothy drank and bathed and ate her breakfast.
she saw there was not much bread left in the basket, and the girl was thankful the scarecrow did not have to eat anything, for there was scarcely enough for herself and toto for the day.
when she had finished her meal, and was about to go back to the road of yellow brick, she was startled to hear a deep groan near by.
"what was that?"
she asked timidly.
"i cannot imagine," replied the scarecrow; "but we can go and see."
just then another groan reached their ears, and the sound seemed to come from behind them.
they turned and walked through the forest a few steps, when dorothy discovered something shining in a ray of sunshine that fell between the trees.
she ran to the place and then stopped short, with a little cry of surprise.
one of the big trees had been partly chopped through, and standing beside it, with an uplifted axe in his hands, was a man made entirely of tin.
his head and arms and legs were jointed upon his body, but he stood perfectly motionless, as if he could not stir at all.
dorothy looked at him in amazement, and so did the scarecrow, while toto barked sharply and made a snap at the tin legs, which hurt his teeth.
"did you groan?"
asked dorothy.
"yes," answered the tin man, "i did.
i've been groaning for more than a year, and no one has ever heard me before or come to help me."
"what can i do for you?"
she inquired softly, for she was moved by the sad voice in which the man spoke.
"get an oil-can and oil my joints," he answered.
"they are rusted so badly that i cannot move them at all; if i am well oiled i shall soon be all right again.
you will find an oil-can on a shelf in my cottage."
dorothy at once ran back to the cottage and found the oil-can, and then she returned and asked anxiously, "where are your joints?"
"oil my neck, first," replied the tin woodman.
so she oiled it, and as it was quite badly rusted the scarecrow took hold of the tin head and moved it gently from side to side until it worked freely, and then the man could turn it himself.
"now oil the joints in my arms," he said.
and dorothy oiled them and the scarecrow bent them carefully until they were quite free from rust and as good as new.
the tin woodman gave a sigh of satisfaction and lowered his axe, which he leaned against the tree.
"this is a great comfort," he said.
"i have been holding that axe in the air ever since i rusted, and i'm glad to be able to put it down at last.
now, if you will oil the joints of my legs, i shall be all right once more."
so they oiled his legs until he could move them freely; and he thanked them again and again for his release, for he seemed a very polite creature, and very grateful.
"i might have stood there always if you had not come along," he said; "so you have certainly saved my life.
how did you happen to be here?"
"we are on our way to the emerald city to see the great oz," she answered, "and we stopped at your cottage to pass the night."
"why do you wish to see oz?"
he asked.
"i want him to send me back to kansas, and the scarecrow wants him to put a few brains into his head," she replied.
the tin woodman appeared to think deeply for a moment.
then he said:
"do you suppose oz could give me a heart?"
"why, i guess so," dorothy answered.
"it would be as easy as to give the scarecrow brains."
"true," the tin woodman returned.
"so, if you will allow me to join your party, i will also go to the emerald city and ask oz to help me."
"come along," said the scarecrow heartily, and dorothy added that she would be pleased to have his company.
so the tin woodman shouldered his axe and they all passed through the forest until they came to the road that was paved with yellow brick.
the tin woodman had asked dorothy to put the oil-can in her basket.
"for," he said, "if i should get caught in the rain, and rust again, i would need the oil-can badly."
it was a bit of good luck to have their new comrade join the party, for soon after they had begun their journey again they came to a place where the trees and branches grew so thick over the road that the travelers could not pass.
but the tin woodman set to work with his axe and chopped so well that soon he cleared a passage for the entire party.
dorothy was thinking so earnestly as they walked along that she did not notice when the scarecrow stumbled into a hole and rolled over to the side of the road.
indeed he was obliged to call to her to help him up again.
"why didn't you walk around the hole?"
asked the tin woodman.
"i don't know enough," replied the scarecrow cheerfully.
"my head is stuffed with straw, you know, and that is why i am going to oz to ask him for some brains."
"oh, i see," said the tin woodman.
"but, after all, brains are not the best things in the world."
"have you any?"
inquired the scarecrow.
"no, my head is quite empty," answered the woodman.
"but once i had brains, and a heart also; so, having tried them both, i should much rather have a heart."
"and why is that?"
asked the scarecrow.
"i will tell you my story, and then you will know."
so, while they were walking through the forest, the tin woodman told the following story:
"i was born the son of a woodman who chopped down trees in the forest and sold the wood for a living.
when i grew up, i too became a woodchopper, and after my father died i took care of my old mother as long as she lived.
then i made up my mind that instead of living alone i would marry, so that i might not become lonely.
"there was one of the munchkin girls who was so beautiful that i soon grew to love her with all my heart.
she, on her part, promised to marry me as soon as i could earn enough money to build a better house for her; so i set to work harder than ever.
but the girl lived with an old woman who did not want her to marry anyone, for she was so lazy she wished the girl to remain with her and do the cooking and the housework.
so the old woman went to the wicked witch of the east, and promised her two sheep and a cow if she would prevent the marriage.
thereupon the wicked witch enchanted my axe, and when i was chopping away at my best one day, for i was anxious to get the new house and my wife as soon as possible, the axe slipped all at once and cut off my left leg.
"this at first seemed a great misfortune, for i knew a one-legged man could not do very well as a wood-chopper.
so i went to a tinsmith and had him make me a new leg out of tin.
the leg worked very well, once i was used to it.
but my action angered the wicked witch of the east, for she had promised the old woman i should not marry the pretty munchkin girl.
when i began chopping again, my axe slipped and cut off my right leg.
again i went to the tinsmith, and again he made me a leg out of tin.
after this the enchanted axe cut off my arms, one after the other; but, nothing daunted, i had them replaced with tin ones.
the wicked witch then made the axe slip and cut off my head, and at first i thought that was the end of me.
but the tinsmith happened to come along, and he made me a new head out of tin.
"i thought i had beaten the wicked witch then, and i worked harder than ever; but i little knew how cruel my enemy could be.
she thought of a new way to kill my love for the beautiful munchkin maiden, and made my axe slip again, so that it cut right through my body, splitting me into two halves.
once more the tinsmith came to my help and made me a body of tin, fastening my tin arms and legs and head to it, by means of joints, so that i could move around as well as ever.
but, alas!
i had now no heart, so that i lost all my love for the munchkin girl, and did not care whether i married her or not.
i suppose she is still living with the old woman, waiting for me to come after her.
"my body shone so brightly in the sun that i felt very proud of it and it did not matter now if my axe slipped, for it could not cut me.
there was only one danger that my joints would rust; but i kept an oil-can in my cottage and took care to oil myself whenever i needed it.
however, there came a day when i forgot to do this, and, being caught in a rainstorm, before i thought of the danger my joints had rusted, and i was left to stand in the woods until you came to help me.
it was a terrible thing to undergo, but during the year i stood there i had time to think that the greatest loss i had known was the loss of my heart.
while i was in love i was the happiest man on earth; but no one can love who has not a heart, and so i am resolved to ask oz to give me one.
if he does, i will go back to the munchkin maiden and marry her."
both dorothy and the scarecrow had been greatly interested in the story of the tin woodman, and now they knew why he was so anxious to get a new heart.
"all the same," said the scarecrow, "i shall ask for brains instead of a heart; for a fool would not know what to do with a heart if he had one."
"i shall take the heart," returned the tin woodman; "for brains do not make one happy, and happiness is the best thing in the world."
dorothy did not say anything, for she was puzzled to know which of her two friends was right, and she decided if she could only get back to kansas and aunt em, it did not matter so much whether the woodman had no brains and the scarecrow no heart, or each got what he wanted.
what worried her most was that the bread was nearly gone, and another meal for herself and toto would empty the basket.
to be sure, neither the woodman nor the scarecrow ever ate anything, but she was not made of tin nor straw, and could not live unless she was fed.
6.  the cowardly lion
all this time dorothy and her companions had been walking through the thick woods.
the road was still paved with yellow brick, but these were much covered by dried branches and dead leaves from the trees, and the walking was not at all good.
there were few birds in this part of the forest, for birds love the open country where there is plenty of sunshine.
but now and then there came a deep growl from some wild animal hidden among the trees.
these sounds made the little girl's heart beat fast, for she did not know what made them; but toto knew, and he walked close to dorothy's side, and did not even bark in return.
"how long will it be," the child asked of the tin woodman, "before we are out of the forest?"
"i cannot tell," was the answer, "for i have never been to the emerald city.
but my father went there once, when i was a boy, and he said it was a long journey through a dangerous country, although nearer to the city where oz dwells the country is beautiful.
but i am not afraid so long as i have my oil-can, and nothing can hurt the scarecrow, while you bear upon your forehead the mark of the good witch's kiss, and that will protect you from harm."
"but toto!"
said the girl anxiously.
"what will protect him?"
"we must protect him ourselves if he is in danger," replied the tin woodman.
just as he spoke there came from the forest a terrible roar, and the next moment a great lion bounded into the road.
with one blow of his paw he sent the scarecrow spinning over and over to the edge of the road, and then he struck at the tin woodman with his sharp claws.
but, to the lion's surprise, he could make no impression on the tin, although the woodman fell over in the road and lay still.
little toto, now that he had an enemy to face, ran barking toward the lion, and the great beast had opened his mouth to bite the dog, when dorothy, fearing toto would be killed, and heedless of danger, rushed forward and slapped the lion upon his nose as hard as she could, while she cried out:
"don't you dare to bite toto!
you ought to be ashamed of yourself, a big beast like you, to bite a poor little dog!"
"i didn't bite him," said the lion, as he rubbed his nose with his paw where dorothy had hit it.
"no, but you tried to," she retorted.
"you are nothing but a big coward."
"i know it," said the lion, hanging his head in shame.
"i've always known it.
but how can i help it?"
"i don't know, i'm sure.
to think of your striking a stuffed man, like the poor scarecrow!"
"is he stuffed?"
asked the lion in surprise, as he watched her pick up the scarecrow and set him upon his feet, while she patted him into shape again.
"of course he's stuffed," replied dorothy, who was still angry.
"that's why he went over so easily," remarked the lion.
"it astonished me to see him whirl around so.
is the other one stuffed also?"
"no," said dorothy, "he's made of tin."
and she helped the woodman up again.
"that's why he nearly blunted my claws," said the lion.
"when they scratched against the tin it made a cold shiver run down my back.
what is that little animal you are so tender of?"
"he is my dog, toto," answered dorothy.
"is he made of tin, or stuffed?"
asked the lion.
"neither.
he's a a a meat dog," said the girl.
"oh!
he's a curious animal and seems remarkably small, now that i look at him.
no one would think of biting such a little thing, except a coward like me," continued the lion sadly.
"what makes you a coward?"
asked dorothy, looking at the great beast in wonder, for he was as big as a small horse.
"it's a mystery," replied the lion.
"i suppose i was born that way.
all the other animals in the forest naturally expect me to be brave, for the lion is everywhere thought to be the king of beasts.
i learned that if i roared very loudly every living thing was frightened and got out of my way.
whenever i've met a man i've been awfully scared; but i just roared at him, and he has always run away as fast as he could go.
if the elephants and the tigers and the bears had ever tried to fight me, i should have run myself i'm such a coward; but just as soon as they hear me roar they all try to get away from me, and of course i let them go."
"but that isn't right.
the king of beasts shouldn't be a coward," said the scarecrow.
"i know it," returned the lion, wiping a tear from his eye with the tip of his tail.
"it is my great sorrow, and makes my life very unhappy.
but whenever there is danger, my heart begins to beat fast."
"perhaps you have heart disease," said the tin woodman.
"it may be," said the lion.
"if you have," continued the tin woodman, "you ought to be glad, for it proves you have a heart.
for my part, i have no heart; so i cannot have heart disease."
"perhaps," said the lion thoughtfully, "if i had no heart i should not be a coward."
"have you brains?"
asked the scarecrow.
"i suppose so.
i've never looked to see," replied the lion.
"i am going to the great oz to ask him to give me some," remarked the scarecrow, "for my head is stuffed with straw."
"and i am going to ask him to give me a heart," said the woodman.
"and i am going to ask him to send toto and me back to kansas," added dorothy.
"do you think oz could give me courage?"
asked the cowardly lion.
"just as easily as he could give me brains," said the scarecrow.
"or give me a heart," said the tin woodman.
"or send me back to kansas," said dorothy.
"then, if you don't mind, i'll go with you," said the lion, "for my life is simply unbearable without a bit of courage."
"you will be very welcome," answered dorothy, "for you will help to keep away the other wild beasts.
it seems to me they must be more cowardly than you are if they allow you to scare them so easily."
"they really are," said the lion, "but that doesn't make me any braver, and as long as i know myself to be a coward i shall be unhappy."
so once more the little company set off upon the journey, the lion walking with stately strides at dorothy's side.
toto did not approve of this new comrade at first, for he could not forget how nearly he had been crushed between the lion's great jaws.
but after a time he became more at ease, and presently toto and the cowardly lion had grown to be good friends.
during the rest of that day there was no other adventure to mar the peace of their journey.
once, indeed, the tin woodman stepped upon a beetle that was crawling along the road, and killed the poor little thing.
this made the tin woodman very unhappy, for he was always careful not to hurt any living creature; and as he walked along he wept several tears of sorrow and regret.
these tears ran slowly down his face and over the hinges of his jaw, and there they rusted.
when dorothy presently asked him a question the tin woodman could not open his mouth, for his jaws were tightly rusted together.
he became greatly frightened at this and made many motions to dorothy to relieve him, but she could not understand.
the lion was also puzzled to know what was wrong.
but the scarecrow seized the oil-can from dorothy's basket and oiled the woodman's jaws, so that after a few moments he could talk as well as before.
"this will serve me a lesson," said he, "to look where i step.
for if i should kill another bug or beetle i should surely cry again, and crying rusts my jaws so that i cannot speak."
thereafter he walked very carefully, with his eyes on the road, and when he saw a tiny ant toiling by he would step over it, so as not to harm it.
the tin woodman knew very well he had no heart, and therefore he took great care never to be cruel or unkind to anything.
"you people with hearts," he said, "have something to guide you, and need never do wrong; but i have no heart, and so i must be very careful.
when oz gives me a heart of course i needn't mind so much."
7.  the journey to the great oz
they were obliged to camp out that night under a large tree in the forest, for there were no houses near.
the tree made a good, thick covering to protect them from the dew, and the tin woodman chopped a great pile of wood with his axe and dorothy built a splendid fire that warmed her and made her feel less lonely.
she and toto ate the last of their bread, and now she did not know what they would do for breakfast.
"if you wish," said the lion, "i will go into the forest and kill a deer for you.
you can roast it by the fire, since your tastes are so peculiar that you prefer cooked food, and then you will have a very good breakfast."
"don't!
please don't," begged the tin woodman.
"i should certainly weep if you killed a poor deer, and then my jaws would rust again."
but the lion went away into the forest and found his own supper, and no one ever knew what it was, for he didn't mention it.
and the scarecrow found a tree full of nuts and filled dorothy's basket with them, so that she would not be hungry for a long time.
she thought this was very kind and thoughtful of the scarecrow, but she laughed heartily at the awkward way in which the poor creature picked up the nuts.
his padded hands were so clumsy and the nuts were so small that he dropped almost as many as he put in the basket.
but the scarecrow did not mind how long it took him to fill the basket, for it enabled him to keep away from the fire, as he feared a spark might get into his straw and burn him up.
so he kept a good distance away from the flames, and only came near to cover dorothy with dry leaves when she lay down to sleep.
these kept her very snug and warm, and she slept soundly until morning.
when it was daylight, the girl bathed her face in a little rippling brook, and soon after they all started toward the emerald city.
this was to be an eventful day for the travelers.
they had hardly been walking an hour when they saw before them a great ditch that crossed the road and divided the forest as far as they could see on either side.
it was a very wide ditch, and when they crept up to the edge and looked into it they could see it was also very deep, and there were many big, jagged rocks at the bottom.
the sides were so steep that none of them could climb down, and for a moment it seemed that their journey must end.
"what shall we do?"
asked dorothy despairingly.
"i haven't the faintest idea," said the tin woodman, and the lion shook his shaggy mane and looked thoughtful.
but the scarecrow said, "we cannot fly, that is certain.
neither can we climb down into this great ditch.
therefore, if we cannot jump over it, we must stop where we are."
"i think i could jump over it," said the cowardly lion, after measuring the distance carefully in his mind.
"then we are all right," answered the scarecrow, "for you can carry us all over on your back, one at a time."
"well, i'll try it," said the lion.
"who will go first?"
"i will," declared the scarecrow, "for, if you found that you could not jump over the gulf, dorothy would be killed, or the tin woodman badly dented on the rocks below.
but if i am on your back it will not matter so much, for the fall would not hurt me at all."
"i am terribly afraid of falling, myself," said the cowardly lion, "but i suppose there is nothing to do but try it.
so get on my back and we will make the attempt."
the scarecrow sat upon the lion's back, and the big beast walked to the edge of the gulf and crouched down.
"why don't you run and jump?"
asked the scarecrow.
"because that isn't the way we lions do these things," he replied.
then giving a great spring, he shot through the air and landed safely on the other side.
they were all greatly pleased to see how easily he did it, and after the scarecrow had got down from his back the lion sprang across the ditch again.
dorothy thought she would go next; so she took toto in her arms and climbed on the lion's back, holding tightly to his mane with one hand.
the next moment it seemed as if she were flying through the air; and then, before she had time to think about it, she was safe on the other side.
the lion went back a third time and got the tin woodman, and then they all sat down for a few moments to give the beast a chance to rest, for his great leaps had made his breath short, and he panted like a big dog that has been running too long.
they found the forest very thick on this side, and it looked dark and gloomy.
after the lion had rested they started along the road of yellow brick, silently wondering, each in his own mind, if ever they would come to the end of the woods and reach the bright sunshine again.
to add to their discomfort, they soon heard strange noises in the depths of the forest, and the lion whispered to them that it was in this part of the country that the kalidahs lived.
"what are the kalidahs?"
asked the girl.
"they are monstrous beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers," replied the lion, "and with claws so long and sharp that they could tear me in two as easily as i could kill toto.
i'm terribly afraid of the kalidahs."
"i'm not surprised that you are," returned dorothy.
"they must be dreadful beasts."
the lion was about to reply when suddenly they came to another gulf across the road.
but this one was so broad and deep that the lion knew at once he could not leap across it.
so they sat down to consider what they should do, and after serious thought the scarecrow said:
"here is a great tree, standing close to the ditch.
if the tin woodman can chop it down, so that it will fall to the other side, we can walk across it easily."
"that is a first-rate idea," said the lion.
"one would almost suspect you had brains in your head, instead of straw."
the woodman set to work at once, and so sharp was his axe that the tree was soon chopped nearly through.
then the lion put his strong front legs against the tree and pushed with all his might, and slowly the big tree tipped and fell with a crash across the ditch, with its top branches on the other side.
they had just started to cross this queer bridge when a sharp growl made them all look up, and to their horror they saw running toward them two great beasts with bodies like bears and heads like tigers.
"they are the kalidahs!"
said the cowardly lion, beginning to tremble.
"quick!"
cried the scarecrow.
"let us cross over."
so dorothy went first, holding toto in her arms, the tin woodman followed, and the scarecrow came next.
the lion, although he was certainly afraid, turned to face the kalidahs, and then he gave so loud and terrible a roar that dorothy screamed and the scarecrow fell over backward, while even the fierce beasts stopped short and looked at him in surprise.
but, seeing they were bigger than the lion, and remembering that there were two of them and only one of him, the kalidahs again rushed forward, and the lion crossed over the tree and turned to see what they would do next.
without stopping an instant the fierce beasts also began to cross the tree.
and the lion said to dorothy:
"we are lost, for they will surely tear us to pieces with their sharp claws.
but stand close behind me, and i will fight them as long as i am alive."
"wait a minute!"
called the scarecrow.
he had been thinking what was best to be done, and now he asked the woodman to chop away the end of the tree that rested on their side of the ditch.
the tin woodman began to use his axe at once, and, just as the two kalidahs were nearly across, the tree fell with a crash into the gulf, carrying the ugly, snarling brutes with it, and both were dashed to pieces on the sharp rocks at the bottom.
"well," said the cowardly lion, drawing a long breath of relief, "i see we are going to live a little while longer, and i am glad of it, for it must be a very uncomfortable thing not to be alive.
those creatures frightened me so badly that my heart is beating yet."
"ah," said the tin woodman sadly, "i wish i had a heart to beat."
this adventure made the travelers more anxious than ever to get out of the forest, and they walked so fast that dorothy became tired, and had to ride on the lion's back.
to their great joy the trees became thinner the farther they advanced, and in the afternoon they suddenly came upon a broad river, flowing swiftly just before them.
on the other side of the water they could see the road of yellow brick running through a beautiful country, with green meadows dotted with bright flowers and all the road bordered with trees hanging full of delicious fruits.
they were greatly pleased to see this delightful country before them.
"how shall we cross the river?"
asked dorothy.
"that is easily done," replied the scarecrow.
"the tin woodman must build us a raft, so we can float to the other side."
so the woodman took his axe and began to chop down small trees to make a raft, and while he was busy at this the scarecrow found on the riverbank a tree full of fine fruit.
this pleased dorothy, who had eaten nothing but nuts all day, and she made a hearty meal of the ripe fruit.
but it takes time to make a raft, even when one is as industrious and untiring as the tin woodman, and when night came the work was not done.
so they found a cozy place under the trees where they slept well until the morning; and dorothy dreamed of the emerald city, and of the good wizard oz, who would soon send her back to her own home again.
8.  the deadly poppy field
our little party of travelers awakened the next morning refreshed and full of hope, and dorothy breakfasted like a princess off peaches and plums from the trees beside the river.
behind them was the dark forest they had passed safely through, although they had suffered many discouragements; but before them was a lovely, sunny country that seemed to beckon them on to the emerald city.
to be sure, the broad river now cut them off from this beautiful land.
but the raft was nearly done, and after the tin woodman had cut a few more logs and fastened them together with wooden pins, they were ready to start.
dorothy sat down in the middle of the raft and held toto in her arms.
when the cowardly lion stepped upon the raft it tipped badly, for he was big and heavy; but the scarecrow and the tin woodman stood upon the other end to steady it, and they had long poles in their hands to push the raft through the water.
they got along quite well at first, but when they reached the middle of the river the swift current swept the raft downstream, farther and farther away from the road of yellow brick.
and the water grew so deep that the long poles would not touch the bottom.
"this is bad," said the tin woodman, "for if we cannot get to the land we shall be carried into the country of the wicked witch of the west, and she will enchant us and make us her slaves."
"and then i should get no brains," said the scarecrow.
"and i should get no courage," said the cowardly lion.
"and i should get no heart," said the tin woodman.
"and i should never get back to kansas," said dorothy.
"we must certainly get to the emerald city if we can," the scarecrow continued, and he pushed so hard on his long pole that it stuck fast in the mud at the bottom of the river.
then, before he could pull it out again or let go the raft was swept away, and the poor scarecrow was left clinging to the pole in the middle of the river.
"good-bye!"
he called after them, and they were very sorry to leave him.
indeed, the tin woodman began to cry, but fortunately remembered that he might rust, and so dried his tears on dorothy's apron.
of course this was a bad thing for the scarecrow.
"i am now worse off than when i first met dorothy," he thought.
"then, i was stuck on a pole in a cornfield, where i could make-believe scare the crows, at any rate.
but surely there is no use for a scarecrow stuck on a pole in the middle of a river.
i am afraid i shall never have any brains, after all!"
down the stream the raft floated, and the poor scarecrow was left far behind.
then the lion said:
"something must be done to save us.
i think i can swim to the shore and pull the raft after me, if you will only hold fast to the tip of my tail."
so he sprang into the water, and the tin woodman caught fast hold of his tail.
then the lion began to swim with all his might toward the shore.
it was hard work, although he was so big; but by and by they were drawn out of the current, and then dorothy took the tin woodman's long pole and helped push the raft to the land.
they were all tired out when they reached the shore at last and stepped off upon the pretty green grass, and they also knew that the stream had carried them a long way past the road of yellow brick that led to the emerald city.
"what shall we do now?"
asked the tin woodman, as the lion lay down on the grass to let the sun dry him.
"we must get back to the road, in some way," said dorothy.
"the best plan will be to walk along the riverbank until we come to the road again," remarked the lion.
so, when they were rested, dorothy picked up her basket and they started along the grassy bank, to the road from which the river had carried them.
it was a lovely country, with plenty of flowers and fruit trees and sunshine to cheer them, and had they not felt so sorry for the poor scarecrow, they could have been very happy.
they walked along as fast as they could, dorothy only stopping once to pick a beautiful flower; and after a time the tin woodman cried out:
"look!"
then they all looked at the river and saw the scarecrow perched upon his pole in the middle of the water, looking very lonely and sad.
"what can we do to save him?"
asked dorothy.
the lion and the woodman both shook their heads, for they did not know.
so they sat down upon the bank and gazed wistfully at the scarecrow until a stork flew by, who, upon seeing them, stopped to rest at the water's edge.
"who are you and where are you going?"
asked the stork.
"i am dorothy," answered the girl, "and these are my friends, the tin woodman and the cowardly lion;  and we are going to the emerald city."
"this isn't the road," said the stork, as she twisted her long neck and looked sharply at the queer party.
"i know it," returned dorothy, "but we have lost the scarecrow, and are wondering how we shall get him again."
"where is he?"
asked the stork.
"over there in the river," answered the little girl.
"if he wasn't so big and heavy i would get him for you," remarked the stork.
"he isn't heavy a bit," said dorothy eagerly, "for he is stuffed with straw; and if you will bring him back to us, we shall thank you ever and ever so much."
"well, i'll try," said the stork, "but if i find he is too heavy to carry i shall have to drop him in the river again."
so the big bird flew into the air and over the water till she came to where the scarecrow was perched upon his pole.
then the stork with her great claws grabbed the scarecrow by the arm and carried him up into the air and back to the bank, where dorothy and the lion and the tin woodman and toto were sitting.
when the scarecrow found himself among his friends again, he was so happy that he hugged them all, even the lion and toto; and as they walked along he sang "tol-de-ri-de-oh!"
at every step, he felt so gay.
"i was afraid i should have to stay in the river forever," he said, "but the kind stork saved me, and if i ever get any brains i shall find the stork again and do her some kindness in return."
"that's all right," said the stork, who was flying along beside them.
"i always like to help anyone in trouble.
but i must go now, for my babies are waiting in the nest for me.
i hope you will find the emerald city and that oz will help you."
"thank you," replied dorothy, and then the kind stork flew into the air and was soon out of sight.
they walked along listening to the singing of the brightly colored birds and looking at the lovely flowers which now became so thick that the ground was carpeted with them.
there were big yellow and white and blue and purple blossoms, besides great clusters of scarlet poppies, which were so brilliant in color they almost dazzled dorothy's eyes.
"aren't they beautiful?"
the girl asked, as she breathed in the spicy scent of the bright flowers.
"i suppose so," answered the scarecrow.
"when i have brains, i shall probably like them better."
"if i only had a heart, i should love them," added the tin woodman.
"i always did like flowers," said the lion.
"they seem so helpless and frail.
but there are none in the forest so bright as these."
they now came upon more and more of the big scarlet poppies, and fewer and fewer of the other flowers; and soon they found themselves in the midst of a great meadow of poppies.
now it is well known that when there are many of these flowers together their odor is so powerful that anyone who breathes it falls asleep, and if the sleeper is not carried away from the scent of the flowers, he sleeps on and on forever.
but dorothy did not know this, nor could she get away from the bright red flowers that were everywhere about; so presently her eyes grew heavy and she felt she must sit down to rest and to sleep.
but the tin woodman would not let her do this.
"we must hurry and get back to the road of yellow brick before dark,"
he said; and the scarecrow agreed with him.
so they kept walking until dorothy could stand no longer.
her eyes closed in spite of herself and she forgot where she was and fell among the poppies, fast asleep.
"what shall we do?"
asked the tin woodman.
"if we leave her here she will die," said the lion.
"the smell of the flowers is killing us all.
i myself can scarcely keep my eyes open, and the dog is asleep already."
it was true; toto had fallen down beside his little mistress.
but the scarecrow and the tin woodman, not being made of flesh, were not troubled by the scent of the flowers.
"run fast," said the scarecrow to the lion, "and get out of this deadly flower bed as soon as you can.
we will bring the little girl with us, but if you should fall asleep you are too big to be carried."
so the lion aroused himself and bounded forward as fast as he could go.
in a moment he was out of sight.
"let us make a chair with our hands and carry her," said the scarecrow.
so they picked up toto and put the dog in dorothy's lap, and then they made a chair with their hands for the seat and their arms for the arms and carried the sleeping girl between them through the flowers.
on and on they walked, and it seemed that the great carpet of deadly flowers that surrounded them would never end.
they followed the bend of the river, and at last came upon their friend the lion, lying fast asleep among the poppies.
the flowers had been too strong for the huge beast and he had given up at last, and fallen only a short distance from the end of the poppy bed, where the sweet grass spread in beautiful green fields before them.
"we can do nothing for him," said the tin woodman, sadly; "for he is much too heavy to lift.
we must leave him here to sleep on forever, and perhaps he will dream that he has found courage at last."
"i'm sorry," said the scarecrow.
"the lion was a very good comrade for one so cowardly.
but let us go on."
they carried the sleeping girl to a pretty spot beside the river, far enough from the poppy field to prevent her breathing any more of the poison of the flowers, and here they laid her gently on the soft grass and waited for the fresh breeze to waken her.
9.  the queen of the field mice
"we cannot be far from the road of yellow brick, now," remarked the scarecrow, as he stood beside the girl, "for we have come nearly as far as the river carried us away."
the tin woodman was about to reply when he heard a low growl, and turning his head (which worked beautifully on hinges) he saw a strange beast come bounding over the grass toward them.
it was, indeed, a great yellow wildcat, and the woodman thought it must be chasing something, for its ears were lying close to its head and its mouth was wide open, showing two rows of ugly teeth, while its red eyes glowed like balls of fire.
as it came nearer the tin woodman saw that running before the beast was a little gray field mouse, and although he had no heart he knew it was wrong for the wildcat to try to kill such a pretty, harmless creature.
so the woodman raised his axe, and as the wildcat ran by he gave it a quick blow that cut the beast's head clean off from its body, and it rolled over at his feet in two pieces.
the field mouse, now that it was freed from its enemy, stopped short; and coming slowly up to the woodman it said, in a squeaky little voice:
"oh, thank you!
thank you ever so much for saving my life."
"don't speak of it, i beg of you," replied the woodman.
"i have no heart, you know, so i am careful to help all those who may need a friend, even if it happens to be only a mouse."
"only a mouse!"
cried the little animal, indignantly.
"why, i am a queen the queen of all the field mice!"
"oh, indeed," said the woodman, making a bow.
"therefore you have done a great deed, as well as a brave one, in saving my life," added the queen.
at that moment several mice were seen running up as fast as their little legs could carry them, and when they saw their queen they exclaimed:
"oh, your majesty, we thought you would be killed!
how did you manage to escape the great wildcat?"
they all bowed so low to the little queen that they almost stood upon their heads.
"this funny tin man," she answered, "killed the wildcat and saved my life.
so hereafter you must all serve him, and obey his slightest wish."
"we will!"
cried all the mice, in a shrill chorus.
and then they scampered in all directions, for toto had awakened from his sleep, and seeing all these mice around him he gave one bark of delight and jumped right into the middle of the group.
toto had always loved to chase mice when he lived in kansas, and he saw no harm in it.
but the tin woodman caught the dog in his arms and held him tight, while he called to the mice, "come back!
come back!
toto shall not hurt you."
at this the queen of the mice stuck her head out from underneath a clump of grass and asked, in a timid voice, "are you sure he will not bite us?"
"i will not let him," said the woodman; "so do not be afraid."
one by one the mice came creeping back, and toto did not bark again, although he tried to get out of the woodman's arms, and would have bitten him had he not known very well he was made of tin.
finally one of the biggest mice spoke.
"is there anything we can do," it asked, "to repay you for saving the life of our queen?"
"nothing that i know of," answered the woodman; but the scarecrow, who had been trying to think, but could not because his head was stuffed with straw, said, quickly, "oh, yes; you can save our friend, the cowardly lion, who is asleep in the poppy bed."
"a lion!"
cried the little queen.
"why, he would eat us all up."
"oh, no," declared the scarecrow; "this lion is a coward."
"really?"
asked the mouse.
"he says so himself," answered the scarecrow, "and he would never hurt anyone who is our friend.
if you will help us to save him i promise that he shall treat you all with kindness."
"very well," said the queen, "we trust you.
but what shall we do?"
"are there many of these mice which call you queen and are willing to obey you?"
"oh, yes; there are thousands," she replied.
"then send for them all to come here as soon as possible, and let each one bring a long piece of string."
the queen turned to the mice that attended her and told them to go at once and get all her people.
as soon as they heard her orders they ran away in every direction as fast as possible.
"now," said the scarecrow to the tin woodman, "you must go to those trees by the riverside and make a truck that will carry the lion."
so the woodman went at once to the trees and began to work; and he soon made a truck out of the limbs of trees, from which he chopped away all the leaves and branches.
he fastened it together with wooden pegs and made the four wheels out of short pieces of a big tree trunk.
so fast and so well did he work that by the time the mice began to arrive the truck was all ready for them.
they came from all directions, and there were thousands of them: big mice and little mice and middle-sized mice; and each one brought a piece of string in his mouth.
it was about this time that dorothy woke from her long sleep and opened her eyes.
she was greatly astonished to find herself lying upon the grass, with thousands of mice standing around and looking at her timidly.
but the scarecrow told her about everything, and turning to the dignified little mouse, he said:
"permit me to introduce to you her majesty, the queen."
dorothy nodded gravely and the queen made a curtsy, after which she became quite friendly with the little girl.
the scarecrow and the woodman now began to fasten the mice to the truck, using the strings they had brought.
one end of a string was tied around the neck of each mouse and the other end to the truck.
of course the truck was a thousand times bigger than any of the mice who were to draw it; but when all the mice had been harnessed, they were able to pull it quite easily.
even the scarecrow and the tin woodman could sit on it, and were drawn swiftly by their queer little horses to the place where the lion lay asleep.
after a great deal of hard work, for the lion was heavy, they managed to get him up on the truck.
then the queen hurriedly gave her people the order to start, for she feared if the mice stayed among the poppies too long they also would fall asleep.
at first the little creatures, many though they were, could hardly stir the heavily loaded truck; but the woodman and the scarecrow both pushed from behind, and they got along better.
soon they rolled the lion out of the poppy bed to the green fields, where he could breathe the sweet, fresh air again, instead of the poisonous scent of the flowers.
dorothy came to meet them and thanked the little mice warmly for saving her companion from death.
she had grown so fond of the big lion she was glad he had been rescued.
then the mice were unharnessed from the truck and scampered away through the grass to their homes.
the queen of the mice was the last to leave.
"if ever you need us again," she said, "come out into the field and call, and we shall hear you and come to your assistance.
good-bye!"
"good-bye!"
they all answered, and away the queen ran, while dorothy held toto tightly lest he should run after her and frighten her.
after this they sat down beside the lion until he should awaken; and the scarecrow brought dorothy some fruit from a tree near by, which she ate for her dinner.
10.  the guardian of the gate
it was some time before the cowardly lion awakened, for he had lain among the poppies a long while, breathing in their deadly fragrance; but when he did open his eyes and roll off the truck he was very glad to find himself still alive.
"i ran as fast as i could," he said, sitting down and yawning, "but the flowers were too strong for me.
how did you get me out?"
then they told him of the field mice, and how they had generously saved him from death; and the cowardly lion laughed, and said:
"i have always thought myself very big and terrible; yet such little things as flowers came near to killing me, and such small animals as mice have saved my life.
how strange it all is!
but, comrades, what shall we do now?"
"we must journey on until we find the road of yellow brick again," said dorothy, "and then we can keep on to the emerald city."
so, the lion being fully refreshed, and feeling quite himself again, they all started upon the journey, greatly enjoying the walk through the soft, fresh grass; and it was not long before they reached the road of yellow brick and turned again toward the emerald city where the great oz dwelt.
the road was smooth and well paved, now, and the country about was beautiful, so that the travelers rejoiced in leaving the forest far behind, and with it the many dangers they had met in its gloomy shades.
once more they could see fences built beside the road; but these were painted green, and when they came to a small house, in which a farmer evidently lived, that also was painted green.
they passed by several of these houses during the afternoon, and sometimes people came to the doors and looked at them as if they would like to ask questions; but no one came near them nor spoke to them because of the great lion, of which they were very much afraid.
the people were all dressed in clothing of a lovely emerald-green color and wore peaked hats like those of the munchkins.
"this must be the land of oz," said dorothy, "and we are surely getting near the emerald city."
"yes," answered the scarecrow.
"everything is green here, while in the country of the munchkins blue was the favorite color.
but the people do not seem to be as friendly as the munchkins, and i'm afraid we shall be unable to find a place to pass the night."
"i should like something to eat besides fruit," said the girl, "and i'm sure toto is nearly starved.
let us stop at the next house and talk to the people."
so, when they came to a good-sized farmhouse, dorothy walked boldly up to the door and knocked.
a woman opened it just far enough to look out, and said, "what do you want, child, and why is that great lion with you?"
"we wish to pass the night with you, if you will allow us," answered dorothy; "and the lion is my friend and comrade, and would not hurt you for the world."
"is he tame?"
asked the woman, opening the door a little wider.
"oh, yes," said the girl, "and he is a great coward, too.
he will be more afraid of you than you are of him."
"well," said the woman, after thinking it over and taking another peep at the lion, "if that is the case you may come in, and i will give you some supper and a place to sleep."
so they all entered the house, where there were, besides the woman, two children and a man.
the man had hurt his leg, and was lying on the couch in a corner.
they seemed greatly surprised to see so strange a company, and while the woman was busy laying the table the man asked:
"where are you all going?"
"to the emerald city," said dorothy, "to see the great oz."
"oh, indeed!"
exclaimed the man.
"are you sure that oz will see you?"
"why not?"
she replied.
"why, it is said that he never lets anyone come into his presence.
i have been to the emerald city many times, and it is a beautiful and wonderful place; but i have never been permitted to see the great oz, nor do i know of any living person who has seen him."
"does he never go out?"
asked the scarecrow.
"never.
he sits day after day in the great throne room of his palace, and even those who wait upon him do not see him face to face."
"what is he like?"
asked the girl.
"that is hard to tell," said the man thoughtfully.
"you see, oz is a great wizard, and can take on any form he wishes.
so that some say he looks like a bird; and some say he looks like an elephant; and some say he looks like a cat.
to others he appears as a beautiful fairy, or a brownie, or in any other form that pleases him.
but who the real oz is, when he is in his own form, no living person can tell."
"that is very strange," said dorothy, "but we must try, in some way, to see him, or we shall have made our journey for nothing."
"why do you wish to see the terrible oz?"
asked the man.
"i want him to give me some brains," said the scarecrow eagerly.
"oh, oz could do that easily enough," declared the man.
"he has more brains than he needs."
"and i want him to give me a heart," said the tin woodman.
"that will not trouble him," continued the man, "for oz has a large collection of hearts, of all sizes and shapes."
"and i want him to give me courage," said the cowardly lion.
"oz keeps a great pot of courage in his throne room," said the man, "which he has covered with a golden plate, to keep it from running over.
he will be glad to give you some."
"and i want him to send me back to kansas," said dorothy.
"where is kansas?"
asked the man, with surprise.
"i don't know," replied dorothy sorrowfully, "but it is my home, and i'm sure it's somewhere."
"very likely.
well, oz can do anything; so i suppose he will find kansas for you.
but first you must get to see him, and that will be a hard task; for the great wizard does not like to see anyone, and he usually has his own way.
but what do you want?"
he continued, speaking to toto.
toto only wagged his tail; for, strange to say, he could not speak.
the woman now called to them that supper was ready, so they gathered around the table and dorothy ate some delicious porridge and a dish of scrambled eggs and a plate of nice white bread, and enjoyed her meal.
the lion ate some of the porridge, but did not care for it, saying it was made from oats and oats were food for horses, not for lions.
the scarecrow and the tin woodman ate nothing at all.
toto ate a little of everything, and was glad to get a good supper again.
the woman now gave dorothy a bed to sleep in, and toto lay down beside her, while the lion guarded the door of her room so she might not be disturbed.
the scarecrow and the tin woodman stood up in a corner and kept quiet all night, although of course they could not sleep.
the next morning, as soon as the sun was up, they started on their way, and soon saw a beautiful green glow in the sky just before them.
"that must be the emerald city," said dorothy.
as they walked on, the green glow became brighter and brighter, and it seemed that at last they were nearing the end of their travels.
yet it was afternoon before they came to the great wall that surrounded the city.
it was high and thick and of a bright green color.
in front of them, and at the end of the road of yellow brick, was a big gate, all studded with emeralds that glittered so in the sun that even the painted eyes of the scarecrow were dazzled by their brilliancy.
there was a bell beside the gate, and dorothy pushed the button and heard a silvery tinkle sound within.
then the big gate swung slowly open, and they all passed through and found themselves in a high arched room, the walls of which glistened with countless emeralds.
before them stood a little man about the same size as the munchkins.
he was clothed all in green, from his head to his feet, and even his skin was of a greenish tint.
at his side was a large green box.
when he saw dorothy and her companions the man asked, "what do you wish in the emerald city?"
"we came here to see the great oz," said dorothy.
the man was so surprised at this answer that he sat down to think it over.
"it has been many years since anyone asked me to see oz," he said, shaking his head in perplexity.
"he is powerful and terrible, and if you come on an idle or foolish errand to bother the wise reflections of the great wizard, he might be angry and destroy you all in an instant."
"but it is not a foolish errand, nor an idle one," replied the scarecrow; "it is important.
and we have been told that oz is a good wizard."
"so he is," said the green man, "and he rules the emerald city wisely and well.
but to those who are not honest, or who approach him from curiosity, he is most terrible, and few have ever dared ask to see his face.
i am the guardian of the gates, and since you demand to see the great oz i must take you to his palace.
but first you must put on the spectacles."
"why?"
asked dorothy.
"because if you did not wear spectacles the brightness and glory of the emerald city would blind you.
even those who live in the city must wear spectacles night and day.
they are all locked on, for oz so ordered it when the city was first built, and i have the only key that will unlock them."
he opened the big box, and dorothy saw that it was filled with spectacles of every size and shape.
all of them had green glasses in them.
the guardian of the gates found a pair that would just fit dorothy and put them over her eyes.
there were two golden bands fastened to them that passed around the back of her head, where they were locked together by a little key that was at the end of a chain the guardian of the gates wore around his neck.
when they were on, dorothy could not take them off had she wished, but of course she did not wish to be blinded by the glare of the emerald city, so she said nothing.
then the green man fitted spectacles for the scarecrow and the tin woodman and the lion, and even on little toto; and all were locked fast with the key.
then the guardian of the gates put on his own glasses and told them he was ready to show them to the palace.
taking a big golden key from a peg on the wall, he opened another gate, and they all followed him through the portal into the streets of the emerald city.
11.  the wonderful city of oz
even with eyes protected by the green spectacles, dorothy and her friends were at first dazzled by the brilliancy of the wonderful city.
the streets were lined with beautiful houses all built of green marble and studded everywhere with sparkling emeralds.
they walked over a pavement of the same green marble, and where the blocks were joined together were rows of emeralds, set closely, and glittering in the brightness of the sun.
the window panes were of green glass; even the sky above the city had a green tint, and the rays of the sun were green.
there were many people men, women, and children walking about, and these were all dressed in green clothes and had greenish skins.
they looked at dorothy and her strangely assorted company with wondering eyes, and the children all ran away and hid behind their mothers when they saw the lion; but no one spoke to them.
many shops stood in the street, and dorothy saw that everything in them was green.
green candy and green pop corn were offered for sale, as well as green shoes, green hats, and green clothes of all sorts.
at one place a man was selling green lemonade, and when the children bought it dorothy could see that they paid for it with green pennies.
there seemed to be no horses nor animals of any kind; the men carried things around in little green carts, which they pushed before them.
everyone seemed happy and contented and prosperous.
the guardian of the gates led them through the streets until they came to a big building, exactly in the middle of the city, which was the palace of oz, the great wizard.
there was a soldier before the door, dressed in a green uniform and wearing a long green beard.
"here are strangers," said the guardian of the gates to him, "and they demand to see the great oz."
"step inside," answered the soldier, "and i will carry your message to him."
so they passed through the palace gates and were led into a big room with a green carpet and lovely green furniture set with emeralds.
the soldier made them all wipe their feet upon a green mat before entering this room, and when they were seated he said politely:
"please make yourselves comfortable while i go to the door of the throne room and tell oz you are here."
they had to wait a long time before the soldier returned.
when, at last, he came back, dorothy asked:
"have you seen oz?"
"oh, no," returned the soldier; "i have never seen him.
but i spoke to him as he sat behind his screen and gave him your message.
he said he will grant you an audience, if you so desire; but each one of you must enter his presence alone, and he will admit but one each day.
therefore, as you must remain in the palace for several days, i will have you shown to rooms where you may rest in comfort after your journey."
"thank you," replied the girl; "that is very kind of oz."
the soldier now blew upon a green whistle, and at once a young girl, dressed in a pretty green silk gown, entered the room.
she had lovely green hair and green eyes, and she bowed low before dorothy as she said, "follow me and i will show you your room."
so dorothy said good-bye to all her friends except toto, and taking the dog in her arms followed the green girl through seven passages and up three flights of stairs until they came to a room at the front of the palace.
it was the sweetest little room in the world, with a soft comfortable bed that had sheets of green silk and a green velvet counterpane.
there was a tiny fountain in the middle of the room, that shot a spray of green perfume into the air, to fall back into a beautifully carved green marble basin.
beautiful green flowers stood in the windows, and there was a shelf with a row of little green books.
when dorothy had time to open these books she found them full of queer green pictures that made her laugh, they were so funny.
in a wardrobe were many green dresses, made of silk and satin and velvet; and all of them fitted dorothy exactly.
"make yourself perfectly at home," said the green girl, "and if you wish for anything ring the bell.
oz will send for you tomorrow morning."
she left dorothy alone and went back to the others.
these she also led to rooms, and each one of them found himself lodged in a very pleasant part of the palace.
of course this politeness was wasted on the scarecrow; for when he found himself alone in his room he stood stupidly in one spot, just within the doorway, to wait till morning.
it would not rest him to lie down, and he could not close his eyes; so he remained all night staring at a little spider which was weaving its web in a corner of the room, just as if it were not one of the most wonderful rooms in the world.
the tin woodman lay down on his bed from force of habit, for he remembered when he was made of flesh; but not being able to sleep, he passed the night moving his joints up and down to make sure they kept in good working order.
the lion would have preferred a bed of dried leaves in the forest, and did not like being shut up in a room; but he had too much sense to let this worry him, so he sprang upon the bed and rolled himself up like a cat and purred himself asleep in a minute.
the next morning, after breakfast, the green maiden came to fetch dorothy, and she dressed her in one of the prettiest gowns, made of green brocaded satin.
dorothy put on a green silk apron and tied a green ribbon around toto's neck, and they started for the throne room of the great oz.
first they came to a great hall in which were many ladies and gentlemen of the court, all dressed in rich costumes.
these people had nothing to do but talk to each other, but they always came to wait outside the throne room every morning, although they were never permitted to see oz.
as dorothy entered they looked at her curiously, and one of them whispered:
"are you really going to look upon the face of oz the terrible?"
"of course," answered the girl, "if he will see me."
"oh, he will see you," said the soldier who had taken her message to the wizard, "although he does not like to have people ask to see him.
indeed, at first he was angry and said i should send you back where you came from.
then he asked me what you looked like, and when i mentioned your silver shoes he was very much interested.
at last i told him about the mark upon your forehead, and he decided he would admit you to his presence."
just then a bell rang, and the green girl said to dorothy, "that is the signal.
you must go into the throne room alone."
she opened a little door and dorothy walked boldly through and found herself in a wonderful place.
it was a big, round room with a high arched roof, and the walls and ceiling and floor were covered with large emeralds set closely together.
in the center of the roof was a great light, as bright as the sun, which made the emeralds sparkle in a wonderful manner.
but what interested dorothy most was the big throne of green marble that stood in the middle of the room.
it was shaped like a chair and sparkled with gems, as did everything else.
in the center of the chair was an enormous head, without a body to support it or any arms or legs whatever.
there was no hair upon this head, but it had eyes and a nose and mouth, and was much bigger than the head of the biggest giant.
as dorothy gazed upon this in wonder and fear, the eyes turned slowly and looked at her sharply and steadily.
then the mouth moved, and dorothy heard a voice say:
"i am oz, the great and terrible.
who are you, and why do you seek me?"
it was not such an awful voice as she had expected to come from the big head; so she took courage and answered:
"i am dorothy, the small and meek.
i have come to you for help."
the eyes looked at her thoughtfully for a full minute.
then said the voice:
"where did you get the silver shoes?"
"i got them from the wicked witch of the east, when my house fell on her and killed her," she replied.
"where did you get the mark upon your forehead?"
continued the voice.
"that is where the good witch of the north kissed me when she bade me good-bye and sent me to you," said the girl.
again the eyes looked at her sharply, and they saw she was telling the truth.
then oz asked, "what do you wish me to do?"
"send me back to kansas, where my aunt em and uncle henry are," she answered earnestly.
"i don't like your country, although it is so beautiful.
and i am sure aunt em will be dreadfully worried over my being away so long."
the eyes winked three times, and then they turned up to the ceiling and down to the floor and rolled around so queerly that they seemed to see every part of the room.
and at last they looked at dorothy again.
"why should i do this for you?"
asked oz.
"because you are strong and i am weak; because you are a great wizard and i am only a little girl."
"but you were strong enough to kill the wicked witch of the east," said oz.
"that just happened," returned dorothy simply; "i could not help it."
"well," said the head, "i will give you my answer.
you have no right to expect me to send you back to kansas unless you do something for me in return.
in this country everyone must pay for everything he gets.
if you wish me to use my magic power to send you home again you must do something for me first.
help me and i will help you."
"what must i do?"
asked the girl.
"kill the wicked witch of the west," answered oz.
"but i cannot!"
exclaimed dorothy, greatly surprised.
"you killed the witch of the east and you wear the silver shoes, which bear a powerful charm.
there is now but one wicked witch left in all this land, and when you can tell me she is dead i will send you back to kansas but not before."
the little girl began to weep, she was so much disappointed; and the eyes winked again and looked upon her anxiously, as if the great oz felt that she could help him if she would.
"i never killed anything, willingly," she sobbed.
"even if i wanted to, how could i kill the wicked witch?
if you, who are great and terrible, cannot kill her yourself, how do you expect me to do it?"
"i do not know," said the head; "but that is my answer, and until the wicked witch dies you will not see your uncle and aunt again.
remember that the witch is wicked tremendously wicked and ought to be killed.
now go, and do not ask to see me again until you have done your task."
sorrowfully dorothy left the throne room and went back where the lion and the scarecrow and the tin woodman were waiting to hear what oz had said to her.
"there is no hope for me," she said sadly, "for oz will not send me home until i have killed the wicked witch of the west; and that i can never do."
her friends were sorry, but could do nothing to help her; so dorothy went to her own room and lay down on the bed and cried herself to sleep.
the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the scarecrow and said:
"come with me, for oz has sent for you."
so the scarecrow followed him and was admitted into the great throne room, where he saw, sitting in the emerald throne, a most lovely lady.
she was dressed in green silk gauze and wore upon her flowing green locks a crown of jewels.
growing from her shoulders were wings, gorgeous in color and so light that they fluttered if the slightest breath of air reached them.
when the scarecrow had bowed, as prettily as his straw stuffing would let him, before this beautiful creature, she looked upon him sweetly, and said:
"i am oz, the great and terrible.
who are you, and why do you seek me?"
now the scarecrow, who had expected to see the great head dorothy had told him of, was much astonished; but he answered her bravely.
"i am only a scarecrow, stuffed with straw.
therefore i have no brains, and i come to you praying that you will put brains in my head instead of straw, so that i may become as much a man as any other in your dominions."
"why should i do this for you?"
asked the lady.
"because you are wise and powerful, and no one else can help me,"
answered the scarecrow.
"i never grant favors without some return," said oz; "but this much i will promise.
if you will kill for me the wicked witch of the west, i will bestow upon you a great many brains, and such good brains that you will be the wisest man in all the land of oz."
"i thought you asked dorothy to kill the witch," said the scarecrow, in surprise.
"so i did.
i don't care who kills her.
but until she is dead i will not grant your wish.
now go, and do not seek me again until you have earned the brains you so greatly desire."
the scarecrow went sorrowfully back to his friends and told them what oz had said; and dorothy was surprised to find that the great wizard was not a head, as she had seen him, but a lovely lady.
"all the same," said the scarecrow, "she needs a heart as much as the tin woodman."
on the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers came to the tin woodman and said:
"oz has sent for you.
follow me."
so the tin woodman followed him and came to the great throne room.
he did not know whether he would find oz a lovely lady or a head, but he hoped it would be the lovely lady.
"for," he said to himself, "if it is the head, i am sure i shall not be given a heart, since a head has no heart of its own and therefore cannot feel for me.
but if it is the lovely lady i shall beg hard for a heart, for all ladies are themselves said to be kindly hearted."
but when the woodman entered the great throne room he saw neither the head nor the lady, for oz had taken the shape of a most terrible beast.
it was nearly as big as an elephant, and the green throne seemed hardly strong enough to hold its weight.
the beast had a head like that of a rhinoceros, only there were five eyes in its face.
there were five long arms growing out of its body, and it also had five long, slim legs.
thick, woolly hair covered every part of it, and a more dreadful-looking monster could not be imagined.
it was fortunate the tin woodman had no heart at that moment, for it would have beat loud and fast from terror.
but being only tin, the woodman was not at all afraid, although he was much disappointed.
"i am oz, the great and terrible," spoke the beast, in a voice that was one great roar.
"who are you, and why do you seek me?"
"i am a woodman, and made of tin.
therefore i have no heart, and cannot love.
i pray you to give me a heart that i may be as other men are."
"why should i do this?"
demanded the beast.
"because i ask it, and you alone can grant my request," answered the woodman.
oz gave a low growl at this, but said, gruffly: "if you indeed desire a heart, you must earn it."
"how?"
asked the woodman.
"help dorothy to kill the wicked witch of the west," replied the beast.
"when the witch is dead, come to me, and i will then give you the biggest and kindest and most loving heart in all the land of oz."
so the tin woodman was forced to return sorrowfully to his friends and tell them of the terrible beast he had seen.
they all wondered greatly at the many forms the great wizard could take upon himself, and the lion said:
"if he is a beast when i go to see him, i shall roar my loudest, and so frighten him that he will grant all i ask.
and if he is the lovely lady, i shall pretend to spring upon her, and so compel her to do my bidding.
and if he is the great head, he will be at my mercy; for i will roll this head all about the room until he promises to give us what we desire.
so be of good cheer, my friends, for all will yet be well."
the next morning the soldier with the green whiskers led the lion to the great throne room and bade him enter the presence of oz.
the lion at once passed through the door, and glancing around saw, to his surprise, that before the throne was a ball of fire, so fierce and glowing he could scarcely bear to gaze upon it.
his first thought was that oz had by accident caught on fire and was burning up; but when he tried to go nearer, the heat was so intense that it singed his whiskers, and he crept back tremblingly to a spot nearer the door.
then a low, quiet voice came from the ball of fire, and these were the words it spoke:
"i am oz, the great and terrible.
who are you, and why do you seek me?"
and the lion answered, "i am a cowardly lion, afraid of everything.
i came to you to beg that you give me courage, so that in reality i may become the king of beasts, as men call me."
"why should i give you courage?"
demanded oz.
"because of all wizards you are the greatest, and alone have power to grant my request," answered the lion.
the ball of fire burned fiercely for a time, and the voice said, "bring me proof that the wicked witch is dead, and that moment i will give you courage.
but as long as the witch lives, you must remain a coward."
the lion was angry at this speech, but could say nothing in reply, and while he stood silently gazing at the ball of fire it became so furiously hot that he turned tail and rushed from the room.
he was glad to find his friends waiting for him, and told them of his terrible interview with the wizard.
"what shall we do now?"
asked dorothy sadly.
"there is only one thing we can do," returned the lion, "and that is to go to the land of the winkies, seek out the wicked witch, and destroy her."
"but suppose we cannot?"
said the girl.
"then i shall never have courage," declared the lion.
"and i shall never have brains," added the scarecrow.
"and i shall never have a heart," spoke the tin woodman.
"and i shall never see aunt em and uncle henry," said dorothy, beginning to cry.
"be careful!"
cried the green girl.
"the tears will fall on your green silk gown and spot it."
so dorothy dried her eyes and said, "i suppose we must try it; but i am sure i do not want to kill anybody, even to see aunt em again."
"i will go with you; but i'm too much of a coward to kill the witch,"
said the lion.
"i will go too," declared the scarecrow; "but i shall not be of much help to you, i am such a fool."
"i haven't the heart to harm even a witch," remarked the tin woodman; "but if you go i certainly shall go with you."
therefore it was decided to start upon their journey the next morning, and the woodman sharpened his axe on a green grindstone and had all his joints properly oiled.
the scarecrow stuffed himself with fresh straw and dorothy put new paint on his eyes that he might see better.
the green girl, who was very kind to them, filled dorothy's basket with good things to eat, and fastened a little bell around toto's neck with a green ribbon.
they went to bed quite early and slept soundly until daylight, when they were awakened by the crowing of a green cock that lived in the back yard of the palace, and the cackling of a hen that had laid a green egg.
12.  the search for the wicked witch
the soldier with the green whiskers led them through the streets of the emerald city until they reached the room where the guardian of the gates lived.
this officer unlocked their spectacles to put them back in his great box, and then he politely opened the gate for our friends.
"which road leads to the wicked witch of the west?"
asked dorothy.
"there is no road," answered the guardian of the gates.
"no one ever wishes to go that way."
"how, then, are we to find her?"
inquired the girl.
"that will be easy," replied the man, "for when she knows you are in the country of the winkies she will find you, and make you all her slaves."
"perhaps not," said the scarecrow, "for we mean to destroy her."
"oh, that is different," said the guardian of the gates.
"no one has ever destroyed her before, so i naturally thought she would make slaves of you, as she has of the rest.
but take care; for she is wicked and fierce, and may not allow you to destroy her.
keep to the west, where the sun sets, and you cannot fail to find her."
they thanked him and bade him good-bye, and turned toward the west, walking over fields of soft grass dotted here and there with daisies and buttercups.
dorothy still wore the pretty silk dress she had put on in the palace, but now, to her surprise, she found it was no longer green, but pure white.
the ribbon around toto's neck had also lost its green color and was as white as dorothy's dress.
the emerald city was soon left far behind.
as they advanced the ground became rougher and hillier, for there were no farms nor houses in this country of the west, and the ground was untilled.
in the afternoon the sun shone hot in their faces, for there were no trees to offer them shade; so that before night dorothy and toto and the lion were tired, and lay down upon the grass and fell asleep, with the woodman and the scarecrow keeping watch.
now the wicked witch of the west had but one eye, yet that was as powerful as a telescope, and could see everywhere.
so, as she sat in the door of her castle, she happened to look around and saw dorothy lying asleep, with her friends all about her.
they were a long distance off, but the wicked witch was angry to find them in her country; so she blew upon a silver whistle that hung around her neck.
at once there came running to her from all directions a pack of great wolves.
they had long legs and fierce eyes and sharp teeth.
"go to those people," said the witch, "and tear them to pieces."
"are you not going to make them your slaves?"
asked the leader of the wolves.
"no," she answered, "one is of tin, and one of straw; one is a girl and another a lion.
none of them is fit to work, so you may tear them into small pieces."
"very well," said the wolf, and he dashed away at full speed, followed by the others.
it was lucky the scarecrow and the woodman were wide awake and heard the wolves coming.
"this is my fight," said the woodman, "so get behind me and i will meet them as they come."
he seized his axe, which he had made very sharp, and as the leader of the wolves came on the tin woodman swung his arm and chopped the wolf's head from its body, so that it immediately died.
as soon as he could raise his axe another wolf came up, and he also fell under the sharp edge of the tin woodman's weapon.
there were forty wolves, and forty times a wolf was killed, so that at last they all lay dead in a heap before the woodman.
then he put down his axe and sat beside the scarecrow, who said, "it was a good fight, friend."
they waited until dorothy awoke the next morning.
the little girl was quite frightened when she saw the great pile of shaggy wolves, but the tin woodman told her all.
she thanked him for saving them and sat down to breakfast, after which they started again upon their journey.
now this same morning the wicked witch came to the door of her castle and looked out with her one eye that could see far off.
she saw all her wolves lying dead, and the strangers still traveling through her country.
this made her angrier than before, and she blew her silver whistle twice.
straightway a great flock of wild crows came flying toward her, enough to darken the sky.
and the wicked witch said to the king crow, "fly at once to the strangers; peck out their eyes and tear them to pieces."
the wild crows flew in one great flock toward dorothy and her companions.
when the little girl saw them coming she was afraid.
but the scarecrow said, "this is my battle, so lie down beside me and you will not be harmed."
so they all lay upon the ground except the scarecrow, and he stood up and stretched out his arms.
and when the crows saw him they were frightened, as these birds always are by scarecrows, and did not dare to come any nearer.
but the king crow said:
"it is only a stuffed man.
i will peck his eyes out."
the king crow flew at the scarecrow, who caught it by the head and twisted its neck until it died.
and then another crow flew at him, and the scarecrow twisted its neck also.
there were forty crows, and forty times the scarecrow twisted a neck, until at last all were lying dead beside him.
then he called to his companions to rise, and again they went upon their journey.
when the wicked witch looked out again and saw all her crows lying in a heap, she got into a terrible rage, and blew three times upon her silver whistle.
forthwith there was heard a great buzzing in the air, and a swarm of black bees came flying toward her.
"go to the strangers and sting them to death!"
commanded the witch, and the bees turned and flew rapidly until they came to where dorothy and her friends were walking.
but the woodman had seen them coming, and the scarecrow had decided what to do.
"take out my straw and scatter it over the little girl and the dog and the lion," he said to the woodman, "and the bees cannot sting them."
this the woodman did, and as dorothy lay close beside the lion and held toto in her arms, the straw covered them entirely.
the bees came and found no one but the woodman to sting, so they flew at him and broke off all their stings against the tin, without hurting the woodman at all.
and as bees cannot live when their stings are broken that was the end of the black bees, and they lay scattered thick about the woodman, like little heaps of fine coal.
then dorothy and the lion got up, and the girl helped the tin woodman put the straw back into the scarecrow again, until he was as good as ever.
so they started upon their journey once more.
the wicked witch was so angry when she saw her black bees in little heaps like fine coal that she stamped her foot and tore her hair and gnashed her teeth.
and then she called a dozen of her slaves, who were the winkies, and gave them sharp spears, telling them to go to the strangers and destroy them.
the winkies were not a brave people, but they had to do as they were told.
so they marched away until they came near to dorothy.
then the lion gave a great roar and sprang towards them, and the poor winkies were so frightened that they ran back as fast as they could.
when they returned to the castle the wicked witch beat them well with a strap, and sent them back to their work, after which she sat down to think what she should do next.
she could not understand how all her plans to destroy these strangers had failed; but she was a powerful witch, as well as a wicked one, and she soon made up her mind how to act.
there was, in her cupboard, a golden cap, with a circle of diamonds and rubies running round it.
this golden cap had a charm.
whoever owned it could call three times upon the winged monkeys, who would obey any order they were given.
but no person could command these strange creatures more than three times.
twice already the wicked witch had used the charm of the cap.
once was when she had made the winkies her slaves, and set herself to rule over their country.
the winged monkeys had helped her do this.
the second time was when she had fought against the great oz himself, and driven him out of the land of the west.
the winged monkeys had also helped her in doing this.
only once more could she use this golden cap, for which reason she did not like to do so until all her other powers were exhausted.
but now that her fierce wolves and her wild crows and her stinging bees were gone, and her slaves had been scared away by the cowardly lion, she saw there was only one way left to destroy dorothy and her friends.
so the wicked witch took the golden cap from her cupboard and placed it upon her head.
then she stood upon her left foot and said slowly:
"ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"
next she stood upon her right foot and said:
"hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!"
after this she stood upon both feet and cried in a loud voice:
"ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"
now the charm began to work.
the sky was darkened, and a low rumbling sound was heard in the air.
there was a rushing of many wings, a great chattering and laughing, and the sun came out of the dark sky to show the wicked witch surrounded by a crowd of monkeys, each with a pair of immense and powerful wings on his shoulders.
one, much bigger than the others, seemed to be their leader.
he flew close to the witch and said, "you have called us for the third and last time.
what do you command?"
"go to the strangers who are within my land and destroy them all except the lion," said the wicked witch.
"bring that beast to me, for i have a mind to harness him like a horse, and make him work."
"your commands shall be obeyed," said the leader.
then, with a great deal of chattering and noise, the winged monkeys flew away to the place where dorothy and her friends were walking.
some of the monkeys seized the tin woodman and carried him through the air until they were over a country thickly covered with sharp rocks.
here they dropped the poor woodman, who fell a great distance to the rocks, where he lay so battered and dented that he could neither move nor groan.
others of the monkeys caught the scarecrow, and with their long fingers pulled all of the straw out of his clothes and head.
they made his hat and boots and clothes into a small bundle and threw it into the top branches of a tall tree.
the remaining monkeys threw pieces of stout rope around the lion and wound many coils about his body and head and legs, until he was unable to bite or scratch or struggle in any way.
then they lifted him up and flew away with him to the witch's castle, where he was placed in a small yard with a high iron fence around it, so that he could not escape.
but dorothy they did not harm at all.
she stood, with toto in her arms, watching the sad fate of her comrades and thinking it would soon be her turn.
the leader of the winged monkeys flew up to her, his long, hairy arms stretched out and his ugly face grinning terribly; but he saw the mark of the good witch's kiss upon her forehead and stopped short, motioning the others not to touch her.
"we dare not harm this little girl," he said to them, "for she is protected by the power of good, and that is greater than the power of evil.
all we can do is to carry her to the castle of the wicked witch and leave her there."
so, carefully and gently, they lifted dorothy in their arms and carried her swiftly through the air until they came to the castle, where they set her down upon the front doorstep.
then the leader said to the witch:
"we have obeyed you as far as we were able.
the tin woodman and the scarecrow are destroyed, and the lion is tied up in your yard.
the little girl we dare not harm, nor the dog she carries in her arms.
your power over our band is now ended, and you will never see us again."
then all the winged monkeys, with much laughing and chattering and noise, flew into the air and were soon out of sight.
the wicked witch was both surprised and worried when she saw the mark on dorothy's forehead, for she knew well that neither the winged monkeys nor she, herself, dare hurt the girl in any way.
she looked down at dorothy's feet, and seeing the silver shoes, began to tremble with fear, for she knew what a powerful charm belonged to them.
at first the witch was tempted to run away from dorothy; but she happened to look into the child's eyes and saw how simple the soul behind them was, and that the little girl did not know of the wonderful power the silver shoes gave her.
so the wicked witch laughed to herself, and thought, "i can still make her my slave, for she does not know how to use her power."
then she said to dorothy, harshly and severely:
"come with me; and see that you mind everything i tell you, for if you do not i will make an end of you, as i did of the tin woodman and the scarecrow."
dorothy followed her through many of the beautiful rooms in her castle until they came to the kitchen, where the witch bade her clean the pots and kettles and sweep the floor and keep the fire fed with wood.
dorothy went to work meekly, with her mind made up to work as hard as she could; for she was glad the wicked witch had decided not to kill her.
with dorothy hard at work, the witch thought she would go into the courtyard and harness the cowardly lion like a horse; it would amuse her, she was sure, to make him draw her chariot whenever she wished to go to drive.
but as she opened the gate the lion gave a loud roar and bounded at her so fiercely that the witch was afraid, and ran out and shut the gate again.
"if i cannot harness you," said the witch to the lion, speaking through the bars of the gate, "i can starve you.
you shall have nothing to eat until you do as i wish."
so after that she took no food to the imprisoned lion; but every day she came to the gate at noon and asked, "are you ready to be harnessed like a horse?"
and the lion would answer, "no.
if you come in this yard, i will bite you."
the reason the lion did not have to do as the witch wished was that every night, while the woman was asleep, dorothy carried him food from the cupboard.
after he had eaten he would lie down on his bed of straw, and dorothy would lie beside him and put her head on his soft, shaggy mane, while they talked of their troubles and tried to plan some way to escape.
but they could find no way to get out of the castle, for it was constantly guarded by the yellow winkies, who were the slaves of the wicked witch and too afraid of her not to do as she told them.
the girl had to work hard during the day, and often the witch threatened to beat her with the same old umbrella she always carried in her hand.
but, in truth, she did not dare to strike dorothy, because of the mark upon her forehead.
the child did not know this, and was full of fear for herself and toto.
once the witch struck toto a blow with her umbrella and the brave little dog flew at her and bit her leg in return.
the witch did not bleed where she was bitten, for she was so wicked that the blood in her had dried up many years before.
dorothy's life became very sad as she grew to understand that it would be harder than ever to get back to kansas and aunt em again.
sometimes she would cry bitterly for hours, with toto sitting at her feet and looking into her face, whining dismally to show how sorry he was for his little mistress.
toto did not really care whether he was in kansas or the land of oz so long as dorothy was with him; but he knew the little girl was unhappy, and that made him unhappy too.
now the wicked witch had a great longing to have for her own the silver shoes which the girl always wore.
her bees and her crows and her wolves were lying in heaps and drying up, and she had used up all the power of the golden cap; but if she could only get hold of the silver shoes, they would give her more power than all the other things she had lost.
she watched dorothy carefully, to see if she ever took off her shoes, thinking she might steal them.
but the child was so proud of her pretty shoes that she never took them off except at night and when she took her bath.
the witch was too much afraid of the dark to dare go in dorothy's room at night to take the shoes, and her dread of water was greater than her fear of the dark, so she never came near when dorothy was bathing.
indeed, the old witch never touched water, nor ever let water touch her in any way.
but the wicked creature was very cunning, and she finally thought of a trick that would give her what she wanted.
she placed a bar of iron in the middle of the kitchen floor, and then by her magic arts made the iron invisible to human eyes.
so that when dorothy walked across the floor she stumbled over the bar, not being able to see it, and fell at full length.
she was not much hurt, but in her fall one of the silver shoes came off; and before she could reach it, the witch had snatched it away and put it on her own skinny foot.
the wicked woman was greatly pleased with the success of her trick, for as long as she had one of the shoes she owned half the power of their charm, and dorothy could not use it against her, even had she known how to do so.
the little girl, seeing she had lost one of her pretty shoes, grew angry, and said to the witch, "give me back my shoe!"
"i will not," retorted the witch, "for it is now my shoe, and not yours."
"you are a wicked creature!"
cried dorothy.
"you have no right to take my shoe from me."
"i shall keep it, just the same," said the witch, laughing at her, "and someday i shall get the other one from you, too."
this made dorothy so very angry that she picked up the bucket of water that stood near and dashed it over the witch, wetting her from head to foot.
instantly the wicked woman gave a loud cry of fear, and then, as dorothy looked at her in wonder, the witch began to shrink and fall away.
"see what you have done!"
she screamed.
"in a minute i shall melt away."
"i'm very sorry, indeed," said dorothy, who was truly frightened to see the witch actually melting away like brown sugar before her very eyes.
"didn't you know water would be the end of me?"
asked the witch, in a wailing, despairing voice.
"of course not," answered dorothy.
"how should i?"
"well, in a few minutes i shall be all melted, and you will have the castle to yourself.
i have been wicked in my day, but i never thought a little girl like you would ever be able to melt me and end my wicked deeds.
look out here i go!"
with these words the witch fell down in a brown, melted, shapeless mass and began to spread over the clean boards of the kitchen floor.
seeing that she had really melted away to nothing, dorothy drew another bucket of water and threw it over the mess.
she then swept it all out the door.
after picking out the silver shoe, which was all that was left of the old woman, she cleaned and dried it with a cloth, and put it on her foot again.
then, being at last free to do as she chose, she ran out to the courtyard to tell the lion that the wicked witch of the west had come to an end, and that they were no longer prisoners in a strange land.
13.  the rescue
the cowardly lion was much pleased to hear that the wicked witch had been melted by a bucket of water, and dorothy at once unlocked the gate of his prison and set him free.
they went in together to the castle, where dorothy's first act was to call all the winkies together and tell them that they were no longer slaves.
there was great rejoicing among the yellow winkies, for they had been made to work hard during many years for the wicked witch, who had always treated them with great cruelty.
they kept this day as a holiday, then and ever after, and spent the time in feasting and dancing.
"if our friends, the scarecrow and the tin woodman, were only with us,"
said the lion, "i should be quite happy."
"don't you suppose we could rescue them?"
asked the girl anxiously.
"we can try," answered the lion.
so they called the yellow winkies and asked them if they would help to rescue their friends, and the winkies said that they would be delighted to do all in their power for dorothy, who had set them free from bondage.
so she chose a number of the winkies who looked as if they knew the most, and they all started away.
they traveled that day and part of the next until they came to the rocky plain where the tin woodman lay, all battered and bent.
his axe was near him, but the blade was rusted and the handle broken off short.
the winkies lifted him tenderly in their arms, and carried him back to the yellow castle again, dorothy shedding a few tears by the way at the sad plight of her old friend, and the lion looking sober and sorry.
when they reached the castle dorothy said to the winkies:
"are any of your people tinsmiths?"
"oh, yes.
some of us are very good tinsmiths," they told her.
"then bring them to me," she said.
and when the tinsmiths came, bringing with them all their tools in baskets, she inquired, "can you straighten out those dents in the tin woodman, and bend him back into shape again, and solder him together where he is broken?"
the tinsmiths looked the woodman over carefully and then answered that they thought they could mend him so he would be as good as ever.
so they set to work in one of the big yellow rooms of the castle and worked for three days and four nights, hammering and twisting and bending and soldering and polishing and pounding at the legs and body and head of the tin woodman, until at last he was straightened out into his old form, and his joints worked as well as ever.
to be sure, there were several patches on him, but the tinsmiths did a good job, and as the woodman was not a vain man he did not mind the patches at all.
when, at last, he walked into dorothy's room and thanked her for rescuing him, he was so pleased that he wept tears of joy, and dorothy had to wipe every tear carefully from his face with her apron, so his joints would not be rusted.
at the same time her own tears fell thick and fast at the joy of meeting her old friend again, and these tears did not need to be wiped away.
as for the lion, he wiped his eyes so often with the tip of his tail that it became quite wet, and he was obliged to go out into the courtyard and hold it in the sun till it dried.
"if we only had the scarecrow with us again," said the tin woodman, when dorothy had finished telling him everything that had happened, "i should be quite happy."
"we must try to find him," said the girl.
so she called the winkies to help her, and they walked all that day and part of the next until they came to the tall tree in the branches of which the winged monkeys had tossed the scarecrow's clothes.
it was a very tall tree, and the trunk was so smooth that no one could climb it; but the woodman said at once, "i'll chop it down, and then we can get the scarecrow's clothes."
now while the tinsmiths had been at work mending the woodman himself, another of the winkies, who was a goldsmith, had made an axe-handle of solid gold and fitted it to the woodman's axe, instead of the old broken handle.
others polished the blade until all the rust was removed and it glistened like burnished silver.
as soon as he had spoken, the tin woodman began to chop, and in a short time the tree fell over with a crash, whereupon the scarecrow's clothes fell out of the branches and rolled off on the ground.
dorothy picked them up and had the winkies carry them back to the castle, where they were stuffed with nice, clean straw; and behold!
here was the scarecrow, as good as ever, thanking them over and over again for saving him.
now that they were reunited, dorothy and her friends spent a few happy days at the yellow castle, where they found everything they needed to make them comfortable.
but one day the girl thought of aunt em, and said, "we must go back to oz, and claim his promise."
"yes," said the woodman, "at last i shall get my heart."
"and i shall get my brains," added the scarecrow joyfully.
"and i shall get my courage," said the lion thoughtfully.
"and i shall get back to kansas," cried dorothy, clapping her hands.
"oh, let us start for the emerald city tomorrow!"
this they decided to do.
the next day they called the winkies together and bade them good-bye.
the winkies were sorry to have them go, and they had grown so fond of the tin woodman that they begged him to stay and rule over them and the yellow land of the west.
finding they were determined to go, the winkies gave toto and the lion each a golden collar; and to dorothy they presented a beautiful bracelet studded with diamonds; and to the scarecrow they gave a gold-headed walking stick, to keep him from stumbling; and to the tin woodman they offered a silver oil-can, inlaid with gold and set with precious jewels.
every one of the travelers made the winkies a pretty speech in return, and all shook hands with them until their arms ached.
dorothy went to the witch's cupboard to fill her basket with food for the journey, and there she saw the golden cap.
she tried it on her own head and found that it fitted her exactly.
she did not know anything about the charm of the golden cap, but she saw that it was pretty, so she made up her mind to wear it and carry her sunbonnet in the basket.
then, being prepared for the journey, they all started for the emerald city; and the winkies gave them three cheers and many good wishes to carry with them.
14.  the winged monkeys
you will remember there was no road not even a pathway between the castle of the wicked witch and the emerald city.
when the four travelers went in search of the witch she had seen them coming, and so sent the winged monkeys to bring them to her.
it was much harder to find their way back through the big fields of buttercups and yellow daisies than it was being carried.
they knew, of course, they must go straight east, toward the rising sun; and they started off in the right way.
but at noon, when the sun was over their heads, they did not know which was east and which was west, and that was the reason they were lost in the great fields.
they kept on walking, however, and at night the moon came out and shone brightly.
so they lay down among the sweet smelling yellow flowers and slept soundly until morning all but the scarecrow and the tin woodman.
the next morning the sun was behind a cloud, but they started on, as if they were quite sure which way they were going.
"if we walk far enough," said dorothy, "i am sure we shall sometime come to some place."
but day by day passed away, and they still saw nothing before them but the scarlet fields.
the scarecrow began to grumble a bit.
"we have surely lost our way," he said, "and unless we find it again in time to reach the emerald city, i shall never get my brains."
"nor i my heart," declared the tin woodman.
"it seems to me i can scarcely wait till i get to oz, and you must admit this is a very long journey."
"you see," said the cowardly lion, with a whimper, "i haven't the courage to keep tramping forever, without getting anywhere at all."
then dorothy lost heart.
she sat down on the grass and looked at her companions, and they sat down and looked at her, and toto found that for the first time in his life he was too tired to chase a butterfly that flew past his head.
so he put out his tongue and panted and looked at dorothy as if to ask what they should do next.
"suppose we call the field mice," she suggested.
"they could probably tell us the way to the emerald city."
"to be sure they could," cried the scarecrow.
"why didn't we think of that before?"
dorothy blew the little whistle she had always carried about her neck since the queen of the mice had given it to her.
in a few minutes they heard the pattering of tiny feet, and many of the small gray mice came running up to her.
among them was the queen herself, who asked, in her squeaky little voice:
"what can i do for my friends?"
"we have lost our way," said dorothy.
"can you tell us where the emerald city is?"
"certainly," answered the queen; "but it is a great way off, for you have had it at your backs all this time."
then she noticed dorothy's golden cap, and said, "why don't you use the charm of the cap, and call the winged monkeys to you?
they will carry you to the city of oz in less than an hour."
"i didn't know there was a charm," answered dorothy, in surprise.
"what is it?"
"it is written inside the golden cap," replied the queen of the mice.
"but if you are going to call the winged monkeys we must run away, for they are full of mischief and think it great fun to plague us."
"won't they hurt me?"
asked the girl anxiously.
"oh, no.
they must obey the wearer of the cap.
good-bye!"
and she scampered out of sight, with all the mice hurrying after her.
dorothy looked inside the golden cap and saw some words written upon the lining.
these, she thought, must be the charm, so she read the directions carefully and put the cap upon her head.
"ep-pe, pep-pe, kak-ke!"
she said, standing on her left foot.
"what did you say?"
asked the scarecrow, who did not know what she was doing.
"hil-lo, hol-lo, hel-lo!"
dorothy went on, standing this time on her right foot.
"hello!"
replied the tin woodman calmly.
"ziz-zy, zuz-zy, zik!"
said dorothy, who was now standing on both feet.
this ended the saying of the charm, and they heard a great chattering and flapping of wings, as the band of winged monkeys flew up to them.
the king bowed low before dorothy, and asked, "what is your command?"
"we wish to go to the emerald city," said the child, "and we have lost our way."
"we will carry you," replied the king, and no sooner had he spoken than two of the monkeys caught dorothy in their arms and flew away with her.
others took the scarecrow and the woodman and the lion, and one little monkey seized toto and flew after them, although the dog tried hard to bite him.
the scarecrow and the tin woodman were rather frightened at first, for they remembered how badly the winged monkeys had treated them before; but they saw that no harm was intended, so they rode through the air quite cheerfully, and had a fine time looking at the pretty gardens and woods far below them.
dorothy found herself riding easily between two of the biggest monkeys, one of them the king himself.
they had made a chair of their hands and were careful not to hurt her.
"why do you have to obey the charm of the golden cap?"
she asked.
"that is a long story," answered the king, with a winged laugh; "but as we have a long journey before us, i will pass the time by telling you about it, if you wish."
"i shall be glad to hear it," she replied.
"once," began the leader, "we were a free people, living happily in the great forest, flying from tree to tree, eating nuts and fruit, and doing just as we pleased without calling anybody master.
perhaps some of us were rather too full of mischief at times, flying down to pull the tails of the animals that had no wings, chasing birds, and throwing nuts at the people who walked in the forest.
but we were careless and happy and full of fun, and enjoyed every minute of the day.
this was many years ago, long before oz came out of the clouds to rule over this land.
"there lived here then, away at the north, a beautiful princess, who was also a powerful sorceress.
all her magic was used to help the people, and she was never known to hurt anyone who was good.
her name was gayelette, and she lived in a handsome palace built from great blocks of ruby.
everyone loved her, but her greatest sorrow was that she could find no one to love in return, since all the men were much too stupid and ugly to mate with one so beautiful and wise.
at last, however, she found a boy who was handsome and manly and wise beyond his years.
gayelette made up her mind that when he grew to be a man she would make him her husband, so she took him to her ruby palace and used all her magic powers to make him as strong and good and lovely as any woman could wish.
when he grew to manhood, quelala, as he was called, was said to be the best and wisest man in all the land, while his manly beauty was so great that gayelette loved him dearly, and hastened to make everything ready for the wedding.
"my grandfather was at that time the king of the winged monkeys which lived in the forest near gayelette's palace, and the old fellow loved a joke better than a good dinner.
one day, just before the wedding, my grandfather was flying out with his band when he saw quelala walking beside the river.
he was dressed in a rich costume of pink silk and purple velvet, and my grandfather thought he would see what he could do.
at his word the band flew down and seized quelala, carried him in their arms until they were over the middle of the river, and then dropped him into the water.
"'swim out, my fine fellow,' cried my grandfather, 'and see if the water has spotted your clothes.'
quelala was much too wise not to swim, and he was not in the least spoiled by all his good fortune.
he laughed, when he came to the top of the water, and swam in to shore.
but when gayelette came running out to him she found his silks and velvet all ruined by the river.
"the princess was angry, and she knew, of course, who did it.
she had all the winged monkeys brought before her, and she said at first that their wings should be tied and they should be treated as they had treated quelala, and dropped in the river.
but my grandfather pleaded hard, for he knew the monkeys would drown in the river with their wings tied, and quelala said a kind word for them also; so that gayelette finally spared them, on condition that the winged monkeys should ever after do three times the bidding of the owner of the golden cap.
this cap had been made for a wedding present to quelala, and it is said to have cost the princess half her kingdom.
of course my grandfather and all the other monkeys at once agreed to the condition, and that is how it happens that we are three times the slaves of the owner of the golden cap, whosoever he may be."
"and what became of them?"
asked dorothy, who had been greatly interested in the story.
"quelala being the first owner of the golden cap," replied the monkey, "he was the first to lay his wishes upon us.
as his bride could not bear the sight of us, he called us all to him in the forest after he had married her and ordered us always to keep where she could never again set eyes on a winged monkey, which we were glad to do, for we were all afraid of her.
"this was all we ever had to do until the golden cap fell into the hands of the wicked witch of the west, who made us enslave the winkies, and afterward drive oz himself out of the land of the west.
now the golden cap is yours, and three times you have the right to lay your wishes upon us."
as the monkey king finished his story dorothy looked down and saw the green, shining walls of the emerald city before them.
she wondered at the rapid flight of the monkeys, but was glad the journey was over.
the strange creatures set the travelers down carefully before the gate of the city, the king bowed low to dorothy, and then flew swiftly away, followed by all his band.
"that was a good ride," said the little girl.
"yes, and a quick way out of our troubles," replied the lion.
"how lucky it was you brought away that wonderful cap!"
15.  the discovery of oz, the terrible
the four travelers walked up to the great gate of emerald city and rang the bell.
after ringing several times, it was opened by the same guardian of the gates they had met before.
"what!
are you back again?"
he asked, in surprise.
"do you not see us?"
answered the scarecrow.
"but i thought you had gone to visit the wicked witch of the west."
"we did visit her," said the scarecrow.
"and she let you go again?"
asked the man, in wonder.
"she could not help it, for she is melted," explained the scarecrow.
"melted!
well, that is good news, indeed," said the man.
"who melted her?"
"it was dorothy," said the lion gravely.
"good gracious!"
exclaimed the man, and he bowed very low indeed before her.
then he led them into his little room and locked the spectacles from the great box on all their eyes, just as he had done before.
afterward they passed on through the gate into the emerald city.
when the people heard from the guardian of the gates that dorothy had melted the wicked witch of the west, they all gathered around the travelers and followed them in a great crowd to the palace of oz.
the soldier with the green whiskers was still on guard before the door, but he let them in at once, and they were again met by the beautiful green girl, who showed each of them to their old rooms at once, so they might rest until the great oz was ready to receive them.
the soldier had the news carried straight to oz that dorothy and the other travelers had come back again, after destroying the wicked witch; but oz made no reply.
they thought the great wizard would send for them at once, but he did not.
they had no word from him the next day, nor the next, nor the next.
the waiting was tiresome and wearing, and at last they grew vexed that oz should treat them in so poor a fashion, after sending them to undergo hardships and slavery.
so the scarecrow at last asked the green girl to take another message to oz, saying if he did not let them in to see him at once they would call the winged monkeys to help them, and find out whether he kept his promises or not.
when the wizard was given this message he was so frightened that he sent word for them to come to the throne room at four minutes after nine o'clock the next morning.
he had once met the winged monkeys in the land of the west, and he did not wish to meet them again.
the four travelers passed a sleepless night, each thinking of the gift oz had promised to bestow on him.
dorothy fell asleep only once, and then she dreamed she was in kansas, where aunt em was telling her how glad she was to have her little girl at home again.
promptly at nine o'clock the next morning the green-whiskered soldier came to them, and four minutes later they all went into the throne room of the great oz.
of course each one of them expected to see the wizard in the shape he had taken before, and all were greatly surprised when they looked about and saw no one at all in the room.
they kept close to the door and closer to one another, for the stillness of the empty room was more dreadful than any of the forms they had seen oz take.
presently they heard a solemn voice, that seemed to come from somewhere near the top of the great dome, and it said:
"i am oz, the great and terrible.
why do you seek me?"
they looked again in every part of the room, and then, seeing no one, dorothy asked, "where are you?"
"i am everywhere," answered the voice, "but to the eyes of common mortals i am invisible.
i will now seat myself upon my throne, that you may converse with me."
indeed, the voice seemed just then to come straight from the throne itself; so they walked toward it and stood in a row while dorothy said:
"we have come to claim our promise, o oz."
"what promise?"
asked oz.
"you promised to send me back to kansas when the wicked witch was destroyed," said the girl.
"and you promised to give me brains," said the scarecrow.
"and you promised to give me a heart," said the tin woodman.
"and you promised to give me courage," said the cowardly lion.
"is the wicked witch really destroyed?"
asked the voice, and dorothy thought it trembled a little.
"yes," she answered, "i melted her with a bucket of water."
"dear me," said the voice, "how sudden!
well, come to me tomorrow, for i must have time to think it over."
"you've had plenty of time already," said the tin woodman angrily.
"we shan't wait a day longer," said the scarecrow.
"you must keep your promises to us!"
exclaimed dorothy.
the lion thought it might be as well to frighten the wizard, so he gave a large, loud roar, which was so fierce and dreadful that toto jumped away from him in alarm and tipped over the screen that stood in a corner.
as it fell with a crash they looked that way, and the next moment all of them were filled with wonder.
for they saw, standing in just the spot the screen had hidden, a little old man, with a bald head and a wrinkled face, who seemed to be as much surprised as they were.
the tin woodman, raising his axe, rushed toward the little man and cried out, "who are you?"
"i am oz, the great and terrible," said the little man, in a trembling voice.
"but don't strike me please don't and i'll do anything you want me to."
our friends looked at him in surprise and dismay.
"i thought oz was a great head," said dorothy.
"and i thought oz was a lovely lady," said the scarecrow.
"and i thought oz was a terrible beast," said the tin woodman.
"and i thought oz was a ball of fire," exclaimed the lion.
"no, you are all wrong," said the little man meekly.
"i have been making believe."
"making believe!"
cried dorothy.
"are you not a great wizard?"
"hush, my dear," he said.
"don't speak so loud, or you will be overheard and i should be ruined.
i'm supposed to be a great wizard."
"and aren't you?"
she asked.
"not a bit of it, my dear; i'm just a common man."
"you're more than that," said the scarecrow, in a grieved tone; "you're a humbug."
"exactly so!"
declared the little man, rubbing his hands together as if it pleased him.
"i am a humbug."
"but this is terrible," said the tin woodman.
"how shall i ever get my heart?"
"or i my courage?"
asked the lion.
"or i my brains?"
wailed the scarecrow, wiping the tears from his eyes with his coat sleeve.
"my dear friends," said oz, "i pray you not to speak of these little things.
think of me, and the terrible trouble i'm in at being found out."
"doesn't anyone else know you're a humbug?"
asked dorothy.
"no one knows it but you four and myself," replied oz.
"i have fooled everyone so long that i thought i should never be found out.
it was a great mistake my ever letting you into the throne room.
usually i will not see even my subjects, and so they believe i am something terrible."
"but, i don't understand," said dorothy, in bewilderment.
"how was it that you appeared to me as a great head?"
"that was one of my tricks," answered oz.
"step this way, please, and i will tell you all about it."
he led the way to a small chamber in the rear of the throne room, and they all followed him.
he pointed to one corner, in which lay the great head, made out of many thicknesses of paper, and with a carefully painted face.
"this i hung from the ceiling by a wire," said oz.
"i stood behind the screen and pulled a thread, to make the eyes move and the mouth open."
"but how about the voice?"
she inquired.
"oh, i am a ventriloquist," said the little man.
"i can throw the sound of my voice wherever i wish, so that you thought it was coming out of the head.
here are the other things i used to deceive you."
he showed the scarecrow the dress and the mask he had worn when he seemed to be the lovely lady.
and the tin woodman saw that his terrible beast was nothing but a lot of skins, sewn together, with slats to keep their sides out.
as for the ball of fire, the false wizard had hung that also from the ceiling.
it was really a ball of cotton, but when oil was poured upon it the ball burned fiercely.
"really," said the scarecrow, "you ought to be ashamed of yourself for being such a humbug."
"i am i certainly am," answered the little man sorrowfully; "but it was the only thing i could do.
sit down, please, there are plenty of chairs; and i will tell you my story."
so they sat down and listened while he told the following tale.
"i was born in omaha "
"why, that isn't very far from kansas!"
cried dorothy.
"no, but it's farther from here," he said, shaking his head at her sadly.
"when i grew up i became a ventriloquist, and at that i was very well trained by a great master.
i can imitate any kind of a bird or beast."
here he mewed so like a kitten that toto pricked up his ears and looked everywhere to see where she was.
"after a time,"
continued oz, "i tired of that, and became a balloonist."
"what is that?"
asked dorothy.
"a man who goes up in a balloon on circus day, so as to draw a crowd of people together and get them to pay to see the circus," he explained.
"oh," she said, "i know."
"well, one day i went up in a balloon and the ropes got twisted, so that i couldn't come down again.
it went way up above the clouds, so far that a current of air struck it and carried it many, many miles away.
for a day and a night i traveled through the air, and on the morning of the second day i awoke and found the balloon floating over a strange and beautiful country.
"it came down gradually, and i was not hurt a bit.
but i found myself in the midst of a strange people, who, seeing me come from the clouds, thought i was a great wizard.
of course i let them think so, because they were afraid of me, and promised to do anything i wished them to.
"just to amuse myself, and keep the good people busy, i ordered them to build this city, and my palace; and they did it all willingly and well.
then i thought, as the country was so green and beautiful, i would call it the emerald city; and to make the name fit better i put green spectacles on all the people, so that everything they saw was green."
"but isn't everything here green?"
asked dorothy.
"no more than in any other city," replied oz; "but when you wear green spectacles, why of course everything you see looks green to you.
the emerald city was built a great many years ago, for i was a young man when the balloon brought me here, and i am a very old man now.
but my people have worn green glasses on their eyes so long that most of them think it really is an emerald city, and it certainly is a beautiful place, abounding in jewels and precious metals, and every good thing that is needed to make one happy.
i have been good to the people, and they like me; but ever since this palace was built, i have shut myself up and would not see any of them.
"one of my greatest fears was the witches, for while i had no magical powers at all i soon found out that the witches were really able to do wonderful things.
there were four of them in this country, and they ruled the people who live in the north and south and east and west.
fortunately, the witches of the north and south were good, and i knew they would do me no harm; but the witches of the east and west were terribly wicked, and had they not thought i was more powerful than they themselves, they would surely have destroyed me.
as it was, i lived in deadly fear of them for many years; so you can imagine how pleased i was when i heard your house had fallen on the wicked witch of the east.
when you came to me, i was willing to promise anything if you would only do away with the other witch; but, now that you have melted her, i am ashamed to say that i cannot keep my promises."
"i think you are a very bad man," said dorothy.
"oh, no, my dear; i'm really a very good man, but i'm a very bad wizard, i must admit."
"can't you give me brains?"
asked the scarecrow.
"you don't need them.
you are learning something every day.
a baby has brains, but it doesn't know much.
experience is the only thing that brings knowledge, and the longer you are on earth the more experience you are sure to get."
"that may all be true," said the scarecrow, "but i shall be very unhappy unless you give me brains."
the false wizard looked at him carefully.
"well," he said with a sigh, "i'm not much of a magician, as i said; but if you will come to me tomorrow morning, i will stuff your head with brains.
i cannot tell you how to use them, however; you must find that out for yourself."
"oh, thank you thank you!"
cried the scarecrow.
"i'll find a way to use them, never fear!"
"but how about my courage?"
asked the lion anxiously.
"you have plenty of courage, i am sure," answered oz.
"all you need is confidence in yourself.
there is no living thing that is not afraid when it faces danger.
the true courage is in facing danger when you are afraid, and that kind of courage you have in plenty."
"perhaps i have, but i'm scared just the same," said the lion.
"i shall really be very unhappy unless you give me the sort of courage that makes one forget he is afraid."
"very well, i will give you that sort of courage tomorrow," replied oz.
"how about my heart?"
asked the tin woodman.
"why, as for that," answered oz, "i think you are wrong to want a heart.
it makes most people unhappy.
if you only knew it, you are in luck not to have a heart."
"that must be a matter of opinion," said the tin woodman.
"for my part, i will bear all the unhappiness without a murmur, if you will give me the heart."
"very well," answered oz meekly.
"come to me tomorrow and you shall have a heart.
i have played wizard for so many years that i may as well continue the part a little longer."
"and now," said dorothy, "how am i to get back to kansas?"
"we shall have to think about that," replied the little man.
"give me two or three days to consider the matter and i'll try to find a way to carry you over the desert.
in the meantime you shall all be treated as my guests, and while you live in the palace my people will wait upon you and obey your slightest wish.
there is only one thing i ask in return for my help such as it is.
you must keep my secret and tell no one i am a humbug."
they agreed to say nothing of what they had learned, and went back to their rooms in high spirits.
even dorothy had hope that "the great and terrible humbug," as she called him, would find a way to send her back to kansas, and if he did she was willing to forgive him everything.
16.  the magic art of the great humbug
next morning the scarecrow said to his friends:
"congratulate me.
i am going to oz to get my brains at last.
when i return i shall be as other men are."
"i have always liked you as you were," said dorothy simply.
"it is kind of you to like a scarecrow," he replied.
"but surely you will think more of me when you hear the splendid thoughts my new brain is going to turn out."
then he said good-bye to them all in a cheerful voice and went to the throne room, where he rapped upon the door.
"come in," said oz.
the scarecrow went in and found the little man sitting down by the window, engaged in deep thought.
"i have come for my brains," remarked the scarecrow, a little uneasily.
"oh, yes; sit down in that chair, please," replied oz.
"you must excuse me for taking your head off, but i shall have to do it in order to put your brains in their proper place."
"that's all right," said the scarecrow.
"you are quite welcome to take my head off, as long as it will be a better one when you put it on again."
so the wizard unfastened his head and emptied out the straw.
then he entered the back room and took up a measure of bran, which he mixed with a great many pins and needles.
having shaken them together thoroughly, he filled the top of the scarecrow's head with the mixture and stuffed the rest of the space with straw, to hold it in place.
when he had fastened the scarecrow's head on his body again he said to him, "hereafter you will be a great man, for i have given you a lot of bran-new brains."
the scarecrow was both pleased and proud at the fulfillment of his greatest wish, and having thanked oz warmly he went back to his friends.
dorothy looked at him curiously.
his head was quite bulged out at the top with brains.
"how do you feel?"
she asked.
"i feel wise indeed," he answered earnestly.
"when i get used to my brains i shall know everything."
"why are those needles and pins sticking out of your head?"
asked the tin woodman.
"that is proof that he is sharp," remarked the lion.
"well, i must go to oz and get my heart," said the woodman.
so he walked to the throne room and knocked at the door.
"come in," called oz, and the woodman entered and said, "i have come for my heart."
"very well," answered the little man.
"but i shall have to cut a hole in your breast, so i can put your heart in the right place.
i hope it won't hurt you."
"oh, no," answered the woodman.
"i shall not feel it at all."
so oz brought a pair of tinsmith's shears and cut a small, square hole in the left side of the tin woodman's breast.
then, going to a chest of drawers, he took out a pretty heart, made entirely of silk and stuffed with sawdust.
"isn't it a beauty?"
he asked.
"it is, indeed!"
replied the woodman, who was greatly pleased.
"but is it a kind heart?"
"oh, very!"
answered oz.
he put the heart in the woodman's breast and then replaced the square of tin, soldering it neatly together where it had been cut.
"there," said he; "now you have a heart that any man might be proud of.
i'm sorry i had to put a patch on your breast, but it really couldn't be helped."
"never mind the patch," exclaimed the happy woodman.
"i am very grateful to you, and shall never forget your kindness."
"don't speak of it," replied oz.
then the tin woodman went back to his friends, who wished him every joy on account of his good fortune.
the lion now walked to the throne room and knocked at the door.
"come in," said oz.
"i have come for my courage," announced the lion, entering the room.
"very well," answered the little man; "i will get it for you."
he went to a cupboard and reaching up to a high shelf took down a square green bottle, the contents of which he poured into a green-gold dish, beautifully carved.
placing this before the cowardly lion, who sniffed at it as if he did not like it, the wizard said:
"drink."
"what is it?"
asked the lion.
"well," answered oz, "if it were inside of you, it would be courage.
you know, of course, that courage is always inside one; so that this really cannot be called courage until you have swallowed it.
therefore i advise you to drink it as soon as possible."
the lion hesitated no longer, but drank till the dish was empty.
"how do you feel now?"
asked oz.
"full of courage," replied the lion, who went joyfully back to his friends to tell them of his good fortune.
oz, left to himself, smiled to think of his success in giving the scarecrow and the tin woodman and the lion exactly what they thought they wanted.
"how can i help being a humbug," he said, "when all these people make me do things that everybody knows can't be done?
it was easy to make the scarecrow and the lion and the woodman happy, because they imagined i could do anything.
but it will take more than imagination to carry dorothy back to kansas, and i'm sure i don't know how it can be done."
17.  how the balloon was launched
for three days dorothy heard nothing from oz.
these were sad days for the little girl, although her friends were all quite happy and contented.
the scarecrow told them there were wonderful thoughts in his head; but he would not say what they were because he knew no one could understand them but himself.
when the tin woodman walked about he felt his heart rattling around in his breast; and he told dorothy he had discovered it to be a kinder and more tender heart than the one he had owned when he was made of flesh.
the lion declared he was afraid of nothing on earth, and would gladly face an army or a dozen of the fierce kalidahs.
thus each of the little party was satisfied except dorothy, who longed more than ever to get back to kansas.
on the fourth day, to her great joy, oz sent for her, and when she entered the throne room he greeted her pleasantly:
"sit down, my dear; i think i have found the way to get you out of this country."
"and back to kansas?"
she asked eagerly.
"well, i'm not sure about kansas," said oz, "for i haven't the faintest notion which way it lies.
but the first thing to do is to cross the desert, and then it should be easy to find your way home."
"how can i cross the desert?"
she inquired.
"well, i'll tell you what i think," said the little man.
"you see, when i came to this country it was in a balloon.
you also came through the air, being carried by a cyclone.
so i believe the best way to get across the desert will be through the air.
now, it is quite beyond my powers to make a cyclone; but i've been thinking the matter over, and i believe i can make a balloon."
"how?"
asked dorothy.
"a balloon," said oz, "is made of silk, which is coated with glue to keep the gas in it.
i have plenty of silk in the palace, so it will be no trouble to make the balloon.
but in all this country there is no gas to fill the balloon with, to make it float."
"if it won't float," remarked dorothy, "it will be of no use to us."
"true," answered oz.
"but there is another way to make it float, which is to fill it with hot air.
hot air isn't as good as gas, for if the air should get cold the balloon would come down in the desert, and we should be lost."
"we!"
exclaimed the girl.
"are you going with me?"
"yes, of course," replied oz.
"i am tired of being such a humbug.
if i should go out of this palace my people would soon discover i am not a wizard, and then they would be vexed with me for having deceived them.
so i have to stay shut up in these rooms all day, and it gets tiresome.
i'd much rather go back to kansas with you and be in a circus again."
"i shall be glad to have your company," said dorothy.
"thank you," he answered.
"now, if you will help me sew the silk together, we will begin to work on our balloon."
so dorothy took a needle and thread, and as fast as oz cut the strips of silk into proper shape the girl sewed them neatly together.
first there was a strip of light green silk, then a strip of dark green and then a strip of emerald green; for oz had a fancy to make the balloon in different shades of the color about them.
it took three days to sew all the strips together, but when it was finished they had a big bag of green silk more than twenty feet long.
then oz painted it on the inside with a coat of thin glue, to make it airtight, after which he announced that the balloon was ready.
"but we must have a basket to ride in," he said.
so he sent the soldier with the green whiskers for a big clothes basket, which he fastened with many ropes to the bottom of the balloon.
when it was all ready, oz sent word to his people that he was going to make a visit to a great brother wizard who lived in the clouds.
the news spread rapidly throughout the city and everyone came to see the wonderful sight.
oz ordered the balloon carried out in front of the palace, and the people gazed upon it with much curiosity.
the tin woodman had chopped a big pile of wood, and now he made a fire of it, and oz held the bottom of the balloon over the fire so that the hot air that arose from it would be caught in the silken bag.
gradually the balloon swelled out and rose into the air, until finally the basket just touched the ground.
then oz got into the basket and said to all the people in a loud voice:
"i am now going away to make a visit.
while i am gone the scarecrow will rule over you.
i command you to obey him as you would me."
the balloon was by this time tugging hard at the rope that held it to the ground, for the air within it was hot, and this made it so much lighter in weight than the air without that it pulled hard to rise into the sky.
"come, dorothy!"
cried the wizard.
"hurry up, or the balloon will fly away."
"i can't find toto anywhere," replied dorothy, who did not wish to leave her little dog behind.
toto had run into the crowd to bark at a kitten, and dorothy at last found him.
she picked him up and ran towards the balloon.
she was within a few steps of it, and oz was holding out his hands to help her into the basket, when, crack!
went the ropes, and the balloon rose into the air without her.
"come back!"
she screamed.
"i want to go, too!"
"i can't come back, my dear," called oz from the basket.
"good-bye!"
"good-bye!"
shouted everyone, and all eyes were turned upward to where the wizard was riding in the basket, rising every moment farther and farther into the sky.
and that was the last any of them ever saw of oz, the wonderful wizard, though he may have reached omaha safely, and be there now, for all we know.
but the people remembered him lovingly, and said to one another:
"oz was always our friend.
when he was here he built for us this beautiful emerald city, and now he is gone he has left the wise scarecrow to rule over us."
still, for many days they grieved over the loss of the wonderful wizard, and would not be comforted.
18.  away to the south
dorothy wept bitterly at the passing of her hope to get home to kansas again; but when she thought it all over she was glad she had not gone up in a balloon.
and she also felt sorry at losing oz, and so did her companions.
the tin woodman came to her and said:
"truly i should be ungrateful if i failed to mourn for the man who gave me my lovely heart.
i should like to cry a little because oz is gone, if you will kindly wipe away my tears, so that i shall not rust."
"with pleasure," she answered, and brought a towel at once.
then the tin woodman wept for several minutes, and she watched the tears carefully and wiped them away with the towel.
when he had finished, he thanked her kindly and oiled himself thoroughly with his jeweled oil-can, to guard against mishap.
the scarecrow was now the ruler of the emerald city, and although he was not a wizard the people were proud of him.
"for," they said, "there is not another city in all the world that is ruled by a stuffed man."
and, so far as they knew, they were quite right.
the morning after the balloon had gone up with oz, the four travelers met in the throne room and talked matters over.
the scarecrow sat in the big throne and the others stood respectfully before him.
"we are not so unlucky," said the new ruler, "for this palace and the emerald city belong to us, and we can do just as we please.
when i remember that a short time ago i was up on a pole in a farmer's cornfield, and that now i am the ruler of this beautiful city, i am quite satisfied with my lot."
"i also," said the tin woodman, "am well-pleased with my new heart; and, really, that was the only thing i wished in all the world."
"for my part, i am content in knowing i am as brave as any beast that ever lived, if not braver," said the lion modestly.
"if dorothy would only be contented to live in the emerald city,"
continued the scarecrow, "we might all be happy together."
"but i don't want to live here," cried dorothy.
"i want to go to kansas, and live with aunt em and uncle henry."
"well, then, what can be done?"
inquired the woodman.
the scarecrow decided to think, and he thought so hard that the pins and needles began to stick out of his brains.
finally he said:
"why not call the winged monkeys, and ask them to carry you over the desert?"
"i never thought of that!"
said dorothy joyfully.
"it's just the thing.
i'll go at once for the golden cap."
when she brought it into the throne room she spoke the magic words, and soon the band of winged monkeys flew in through the open window and stood beside her.
"this is the second time you have called us," said the monkey king, bowing before the little girl.
"what do you wish?"
"i want you to fly with me to kansas," said dorothy.
but the monkey king shook his head.
"that cannot be done," he said.
"we belong to this country alone, and cannot leave it.
there has never been a winged monkey in kansas yet, and i suppose there never will be, for they don't belong there.
we shall be glad to serve you in any way in our power, but we cannot cross the desert.
good-bye."
and with another bow, the monkey king spread his wings and flew away through the window, followed by all his band.
dorothy was ready to cry with disappointment.
"i have wasted the charm of the golden cap to no purpose," she said, "for the winged monkeys cannot help me."
"it is certainly too bad!"
said the tender-hearted woodman.
the scarecrow was thinking again, and his head bulged out so horribly that dorothy feared it would burst.
"let us call in the soldier with the green whiskers," he said, "and ask his advice."
so the soldier was summoned and entered the throne room timidly, for while oz was alive he never was allowed to come farther than the door.
"this little girl," said the scarecrow to the soldier, "wishes to cross the desert.
how can she do so?"
"i cannot tell," answered the soldier, "for nobody has ever crossed the desert, unless it is oz himself."
"is there no one who can help me?"
asked dorothy earnestly.
"glinda might," he suggested.
"who is glinda?"
inquired the scarecrow.
"the witch of the south.
she is the most powerful of all the witches, and rules over the quadlings.
besides, her castle stands on the edge of the desert, so she may know a way to cross it."
"glinda is a good witch, isn't she?"
asked the child.
"the quadlings think she is good," said the soldier, "and she is kind to everyone.
i have heard that glinda is a beautiful woman, who knows how to keep young in spite of the many years she has lived."
"how can i get to her castle?"
asked dorothy.
"the road is straight to the south," he answered, "but it is said to be full of dangers to travelers.
there are wild beasts in the woods, and a race of queer men who do not like strangers to cross their country.
for this reason none of the quadlings ever come to the emerald city."
the soldier then left them and the scarecrow said:
"it seems, in spite of dangers, that the best thing dorothy can do is to travel to the land of the south and ask glinda to help her.
for, of course, if dorothy stays here she will never get back to kansas."
"you must have been thinking again," remarked the tin woodman.
"i have," said the scarecrow.
"i shall go with dorothy," declared the lion, "for i am tired of your city and long for the woods and the country again.
i am really a wild beast, you know.
besides, dorothy will need someone to protect her."
"that is true," agreed the woodman.
"my axe may be of service to her; so i also will go with her to the land of the south."
"when shall we start?"
asked the scarecrow.
"are you going?"
they asked, in surprise.
"certainly.
if it wasn't for dorothy i should never have had brains.
she lifted me from the pole in the cornfield and brought me to the emerald city.
so my good luck is all due to her, and i shall never leave her until she starts back to kansas for good and all."
"thank you," said dorothy gratefully.
"you are all very kind to me.
but i should like to start as soon as possible."
"we shall go tomorrow morning," returned the scarecrow.
"so now let us all get ready, for it will be a long journey."
19.  attacked by the fighting trees
the next morning dorothy kissed the pretty green girl good-bye, and they all shook hands with the soldier with the green whiskers, who had walked with them as far as the gate.
when the guardian of the gate saw them again he wondered greatly that they could leave the beautiful city to get into new trouble.
but he at once unlocked their spectacles, which he put back into the green box, and gave them many good wishes to carry with them.
"you are now our ruler," he said to the scarecrow; "so you must come back to us as soon as possible."
"i certainly shall if i am able," the scarecrow replied; "but i must help dorothy to get home, first."
as dorothy bade the good-natured guardian a last farewell she said:
"i have been very kindly treated in your lovely city, and everyone has been good to me.
i cannot tell you how grateful i am."
"don't try, my dear," he answered.
"we should like to keep you with us, but if it is your wish to return to kansas, i hope you will find a way."
he then opened the gate of the outer wall, and they walked forth and started upon their journey.
the sun shone brightly as our friends turned their faces toward the land of the south.
they were all in the best of spirits, and laughed and chatted together.
dorothy was once more filled with the hope of getting home, and the scarecrow and the tin woodman were glad to be of use to her.
as for the lion, he sniffed the fresh air with delight and whisked his tail from side to side in pure joy at being in the country again, while toto ran around them and chased the moths and butterflies, barking merrily all the time.
"city life does not agree with me at all," remarked the lion, as they walked along at a brisk pace.
"i have lost much flesh since i lived there, and now i am anxious for a chance to show the other beasts how courageous i have grown."
they now turned and took a last look at the emerald city.
all they could see was a mass of towers and steeples behind the green walls, and high up above everything the spires and dome of the palace of oz.
"oz was not such a bad wizard, after all," said the tin woodman, as he felt his heart rattling around in his breast.
"he knew how to give me brains, and very good brains, too," said the scarecrow.
"if oz had taken a dose of the same courage he gave me," added the lion, "he would have been a brave man."
dorothy said nothing.
oz had not kept the promise he made her, but he had done his best, so she forgave him.
as he said, he was a good man, even if he was a bad wizard.
the first day's journey was through the green fields and bright flowers that stretched about the emerald city on every side.
they slept that night on the grass, with nothing but the stars over them; and they rested very well indeed.
in the morning they traveled on until they came to a thick wood.
there was no way of going around it, for it seemed to extend to the right and left as far as they could see; and, besides, they did not dare change the direction of their journey for fear of getting lost.
so they looked for the place where it would be easiest to get into the forest.
the scarecrow, who was in the lead, finally discovered a big tree with such wide-spreading branches that there was room for the party to pass underneath.
so he walked forward to the tree, but just as he came under the first branches they bent down and twined around him, and the next minute he was raised from the ground and flung headlong among his fellow travelers.
this did not hurt the scarecrow, but it surprised him, and he looked rather dizzy when dorothy picked him up.
"here is another space between the trees," called the lion.
"let me try it first," said the scarecrow, "for it doesn't hurt me to get thrown about."
he walked up to another tree, as he spoke, but its branches immediately seized him and tossed him back again.
"this is strange," exclaimed dorothy.
"what shall we do?"
"the trees seem to have made up their minds to fight us, and stop our journey," remarked the lion.
"i believe i will try it myself," said the woodman, and shouldering his axe, he marched up to the first tree that had handled the scarecrow so roughly.
when a big branch bent down to seize him the woodman chopped at it so fiercely that he cut it in two.
at once the tree began shaking all its branches as if in pain, and the tin woodman passed safely under it.
"come on!"
he shouted to the others.
"be quick!"
they all ran forward and passed under the tree without injury, except toto, who was caught by a small branch and shaken until he howled.
but the woodman promptly chopped off the branch and set the little dog free.
the other trees of the forest did nothing to keep them back, so they made up their minds that only the first row of trees could bend down their branches, and that probably these were the policemen of the forest, and given this wonderful power in order to keep strangers out of it.
the four travelers walked with ease through the trees until they came to the farther edge of the wood.
then, to their surprise, they found before them a high wall which seemed to be made of white china.
it was smooth, like the surface of a dish, and higher than their heads.
"what shall we do now?"
asked dorothy.
"i will make a ladder," said the tin woodman, "for we certainly must climb over the wall."
20.  the dainty china country
while the woodman was making a ladder from wood which he found in the forest dorothy lay down and slept, for she was tired by the long walk.
the lion also curled himself up to sleep and toto lay beside him.
the scarecrow watched the woodman while he worked, and said to him:
"i cannot think why this wall is here, nor what it is made of."
"rest your brains and do not worry about the wall," replied the woodman.
"when we have climbed over it, we shall know what is on the other side."
after a time the ladder was finished.
it looked clumsy, but the tin woodman was sure it was strong and would answer their purpose.
the scarecrow waked dorothy and the lion and toto, and told them that the ladder was ready.
the scarecrow climbed up the ladder first, but he was so awkward that dorothy had to follow close behind and keep him from falling off.
when he got his head over the top of the wall the scarecrow said, "oh, my!"
"go on," exclaimed dorothy.
so the scarecrow climbed farther up and sat down on the top of the wall, and dorothy put her head over and cried, "oh, my!"
just as the scarecrow had done.
then toto came up, and immediately began to bark, but dorothy made him be still.
the lion climbed the ladder next, and the tin woodman came last; but both of them cried, "oh, my!"
as soon as they looked over the wall.
when they were all sitting in a row on the top of the wall, they looked down and saw a strange sight.
before them was a great stretch of country having a floor as smooth and shining and white as the bottom of a big platter.
scattered around were many houses made entirely of china and painted in the brightest colors.
these houses were quite small, the biggest of them reaching only as high as dorothy's waist.
there were also pretty little barns, with china fences around them; and many cows and sheep and horses and pigs and chickens, all made of china, were standing about in groups.
but the strangest of all were the people who lived in this queer country.
there were milkmaids and shepherdesses, with brightly colored bodices and golden spots all over their gowns; and princesses with most gorgeous frocks of silver and gold and purple; and shepherds dressed in knee breeches with pink and yellow and blue stripes down them, and golden buckles on their shoes; and princes with jeweled crowns upon their heads, wearing ermine robes and satin doublets; and funny clowns in ruffled gowns, with round red spots upon their cheeks and tall, pointed caps.
and, strangest of all, these people were all made of china, even to their clothes, and were so small that the tallest of them was no higher than dorothy's knee.
no one did so much as look at the travelers at first, except one little purple china dog with an extra-large head, which came to the wall and barked at them in a tiny voice, afterwards running away again.
"how shall we get down?"
asked dorothy.
they found the ladder so heavy they could not pull it up, so the scarecrow fell off the wall and the others jumped down upon him so that the hard floor would not hurt their feet.
of course they took pains not to light on his head and get the pins in their feet.
when all were safely down they picked up the scarecrow, whose body was quite flattened out, and patted his straw into shape again.
"we must cross this strange place in order to get to the other side,"
said dorothy, "for it would be unwise for us to go any other way except due south."
they began walking through the country of the china people, and the first thing they came to was a china milkmaid milking a china cow.
as they drew near, the cow suddenly gave a kick and kicked over the stool, the pail, and even the milkmaid herself, and all fell on the china ground with a great clatter.
dorothy was shocked to see that the cow had broken her leg off, and that the pail was lying in several small pieces, while the poor milkmaid had a nick in her left elbow.
"there!"
cried the milkmaid angrily.
"see what you have done!
my cow has broken her leg, and i must take her to the mender's shop and have it glued on again.
what do you mean by coming here and frightening my cow?"
"i'm very sorry," returned dorothy.
"please forgive us."
but the pretty milkmaid was much too vexed to make any answer.
she picked up the leg sulkily and led her cow away, the poor animal limping on three legs.
as she left them the milkmaid cast many reproachful glances over her shoulder at the clumsy strangers, holding her nicked elbow close to her side.
dorothy was quite grieved at this mishap.
"we must be very careful here," said the kind-hearted woodman, "or we may hurt these pretty little people so they will never get over it."
a little farther on dorothy met a most beautifully dressed young princess, who stopped short as she saw the strangers and started to run away.
dorothy wanted to see more of the princess, so she ran after her.
but the china girl cried out:
"don't chase me!
don't chase me!"
she had such a frightened little voice that dorothy stopped and said, "why not?"
"because," answered the princess, also stopping, a safe distance away, "if i run i may fall down and break myself."
"but could you not be mended?"
asked the girl.
"oh, yes; but one is never so pretty after being mended, you know,"
replied the princess.
"i suppose not," said dorothy.
"now there is mr. joker, one of our clowns," continued the china lady, "who is always trying to stand upon his head.
he has broken himself so often that he is mended in a hundred places, and doesn't look at all pretty.
here he comes now, so you can see for yourself."
indeed, a jolly little clown came walking toward them, and dorothy could see that in spite of his pretty clothes of red and yellow and green he was completely covered with cracks, running every which way and showing plainly that he had been mended in many places.
the clown put his hands in his pockets, and after puffing out his cheeks and nodding his head at them saucily, he said:
"my lady fair,      why do you stare    at poor old mr. joker?
you're quite as stiff    and prim as if      you'd eaten up a poker!"
"be quiet, sir!"
said the princess.
"can't you see these are strangers, and should be treated with respect?"
"well, that's respect, i expect," declared the clown, and immediately stood upon his head.
"don't mind mr. joker," said the princess to dorothy.
"he is considerably cracked in his head, and that makes him foolish."
"oh, i don't mind him a bit," said dorothy.
"but you are so beautiful," she continued, "that i am sure i could love you dearly.
won't you let me carry you back to kansas, and stand you on aunt em's mantel?
i could carry you in my basket."
"that would make me very unhappy," answered the china princess.
"you see, here in our country we live contentedly, and can talk and move around as we please.
but whenever any of us are taken away our joints at once stiffen, and we can only stand straight and look pretty.
of course that is all that is expected of us when we are on mantels and cabinets and drawing-room tables, but our lives are much pleasanter here in our own country."
"i would not make you unhappy for all the world!"
exclaimed dorothy.
"so i'll just say good-bye."
"good-bye," replied the princess.
they walked carefully through the china country.
the little animals and all the people scampered out of their way, fearing the strangers would break them, and after an hour or so the travelers reached the other side of the country and came to another china wall.
it was not so high as the first, however, and by standing upon the lion's back they all managed to scramble to the top.
then the lion gathered his legs under him and jumped on the wall; but just as he jumped, he upset a china church with his tail and smashed it all to pieces.
"that was too bad," said dorothy, "but really i think we were lucky in not doing these little people more harm than breaking a cow's leg and a church.
they are all so brittle!"
"they are, indeed," said the scarecrow, "and i am thankful i am made of straw and cannot be easily damaged.
there are worse things in the world than being a scarecrow."
21.  the lion becomes the king of beasts
after climbing down from the china wall the travelers found themselves in a disagreeable country, full of bogs and marshes and covered with tall, rank grass.
it was difficult to walk without falling into muddy holes, for the grass was so thick that it hid them from sight.
however, by carefully picking their way, they got safely along until they reached solid ground.
but here the country seemed wilder than ever, and after a long and tiresome walk through the underbrush they entered another forest, where the trees were bigger and older than any they had ever seen.
"this forest is perfectly delightful," declared the lion, looking around him with joy.
"never have i seen a more beautiful place."
"it seems gloomy," said the scarecrow.
"not a bit of it," answered the lion.
"i should like to live here all my life.
see how soft the dried leaves are under your feet and how rich and green the moss is that clings to these old trees.
surely no wild beast could wish a pleasanter home."
"perhaps there are wild beasts in the forest now," said dorothy.
"i suppose there are," returned the lion, "but i do not see any of them about."
they walked through the forest until it became too dark to go any farther.
dorothy and toto and the lion lay down to sleep, while the woodman and the scarecrow kept watch over them as usual.
when morning came, they started again.
before they had gone far they heard a low rumble, as of the growling of many wild animals.
toto whimpered a little, but none of the others was frightened, and they kept along the well-trodden path until they came to an opening in the wood, in which were gathered hundreds of beasts of every variety.
there were tigers and elephants and bears and wolves and foxes and all the others in the natural history, and for a moment dorothy was afraid.
but the lion explained that the animals were holding a meeting, and he judged by their snarling and growling that they were in great trouble.
as he spoke several of the beasts caught sight of him, and at once the great assemblage hushed as if by magic.
the biggest of the tigers came up to the lion and bowed, saying:
"welcome, o king of beasts!
you have come in good time to fight our enemy and bring peace to all the animals of the forest once more."
"what is your trouble?"
asked the lion quietly.
"we are all threatened," answered the tiger, "by a fierce enemy which has lately come into this forest.
it is a most tremendous monster, like a great spider, with a body as big as an elephant and legs as long as a tree trunk.
it has eight of these long legs, and as the monster crawls through the forest he seizes an animal with a leg and drags it to his mouth, where he eats it as a spider does a fly.
not one of us is safe while this fierce creature is alive, and we had called a meeting to decide how to take care of ourselves when you came among us."
the lion thought for a moment.
"are there any other lions in this forest?"
he asked.
"no; there were some, but the monster has eaten them all.
and, besides, they were none of them nearly so large and brave as you."
"if i put an end to your enemy, will you bow down to me and obey me as king of the forest?"
inquired the lion.
"we will do that gladly," returned the tiger; and all the other beasts roared with a mighty roar: "we will!"
"where is this great spider of yours now?"
asked the lion.
"yonder, among the oak trees," said the tiger, pointing with his forefoot.
"take good care of these friends of mine," said the lion, "and i will go at once to fight the monster."
he bade his comrades good-bye and marched proudly away to do battle with the enemy.
the great spider was lying asleep when the lion found him, and it looked so ugly that its foe turned up his nose in disgust.
its legs were quite as long as the tiger had said, and its body covered with coarse black hair.
it had a great mouth, with a row of sharp teeth a foot long; but its head was joined to the pudgy body by a neck as slender as a wasp's waist.
this gave the lion a hint of the best way to attack the creature, and as he knew it was easier to fight it asleep than awake, he gave a great spring and landed directly upon the monster's back.
then, with one blow of his heavy paw, all armed with sharp claws, he knocked the spider's head from its body.
jumping down, he watched it until the long legs stopped wiggling, when he knew it was quite dead.
the lion went back to the opening where the beasts of the forest were waiting for him and said proudly:
"you need fear your enemy no longer."
then the beasts bowed down to the lion as their king, and he promised to come back and rule over them as soon as dorothy was safely on her way to kansas.
22.  the country of the quadlings
the four travelers passed through the rest of the forest in safety, and when they came out from its gloom saw before them a steep hill, covered from top to bottom with great pieces of rock.
"that will be a hard climb," said the scarecrow, "but we must get over the hill, nevertheless."
so he led the way and the others followed.
they had nearly reached the first rock when they heard a rough voice cry out, "keep back!"
"who are you?"
asked the scarecrow.
then a head showed itself over the rock and the same voice said, "this hill belongs to us, and we don't allow anyone to cross it."
"but we must cross it," said the scarecrow.
"we're going to the country of the quadlings."
"but you shall not!"
replied the voice, and there stepped from behind the rock the strangest man the travelers had ever seen.
he was quite short and stout and had a big head, which was flat at the top and supported by a thick neck full of wrinkles.
but he had no arms at all, and, seeing this, the scarecrow did not fear that so helpless a creature could prevent them from climbing the hill.
so he said, "i'm sorry not to do as you wish, but we must pass over your hill whether you like it or not," and he walked boldly forward.
as quick as lightning the man's head shot forward and his neck stretched out until the top of the head, where it was flat, struck the scarecrow in the middle and sent him tumbling, over and over, down the hill.
almost as quickly as it came the head went back to the body, and the man laughed harshly as he said, "it isn't as easy as you think!"
a chorus of boisterous laughter came from the other rocks, and dorothy saw hundreds of the armless hammer-heads upon the hillside, one behind every rock.
the lion became quite angry at the laughter caused by the scarecrow's mishap, and giving a loud roar that echoed like thunder, he dashed up the hill.
again a head shot swiftly out, and the great lion went rolling down the hill as if he had been struck by a cannon ball.
dorothy ran down and helped the scarecrow to his feet, and the lion came up to her, feeling rather bruised and sore, and said, "it is useless to fight people with shooting heads; no one can withstand them."
"what can we do, then?"
she asked.
"call the winged monkeys," suggested the tin woodman.
"you have still the right to command them once more."
"very well," she answered, and putting on the golden cap she uttered the magic words.
the monkeys were as prompt as ever, and in a few moments the entire band stood before her.
"what are your commands?"
inquired the king of the monkeys, bowing low.
"carry us over the hill to the country of the quadlings," answered the girl.
"it shall be done," said the king, and at once the winged monkeys caught the four travelers and toto up in their arms and flew away with them.
as they passed over the hill the hammer-heads yelled with vexation, and shot their heads high in the air, but they could not reach the winged monkeys, which carried dorothy and her comrades safely over the hill and set them down in the beautiful country of the quadlings.
"this is the last time you can summon us," said the leader to dorothy; "so good-bye and good luck to you."
"good-bye, and thank you very much," returned the girl; and the monkeys rose into the air and were out of sight in a twinkling.
the country of the quadlings seemed rich and happy.
there was field upon field of ripening grain, with well-paved roads running between, and pretty rippling brooks with strong bridges across them.
the fences and houses and bridges were all painted bright red, just as they had been painted yellow in the country of the winkies and blue in the country of the munchkins.
the quadlings themselves, who were short and fat and looked chubby and good-natured, were dressed all in red, which showed bright against the green grass and the yellowing grain.
the monkeys had set them down near a farmhouse, and the four travelers walked up to it and knocked at the door.
it was opened by the farmer's wife, and when dorothy asked for something to eat the woman gave them all a good dinner, with three kinds of cake and four kinds of cookies, and a bowl of milk for toto.
"how far is it to the castle of glinda?"
asked the child.
"it is not a great way," answered the farmer's wife.
"take the road to the south and you will soon reach it."
thanking the good woman, they started afresh and walked by the fields and across the pretty bridges until they saw before them a very beautiful castle.
before the gates were three young girls, dressed in handsome red uniforms trimmed with gold braid; and as dorothy approached, one of them said to her:
"why have you come to the south country?"
"to see the good witch who rules here," she answered.
"will you take me to her?"
"let me have your name, and i will ask glinda if she will receive you."
they told who they were, and the girl soldier went into the castle.
after a few moments she came back to say that dorothy and the others were to be admitted at once.
23.  glinda the good witch grants dorothy's wish
before they went to see glinda, however, they were taken to a room of the castle, where dorothy washed her face and combed her hair, and the lion shook the dust out of his mane, and the scarecrow patted himself into his best shape, and the woodman polished his tin and oiled his joints.
when they were all quite presentable they followed the soldier girl into a big room where the witch glinda sat upon a throne of rubies.
she was both beautiful and young to their eyes.
her hair was a rich red in color and fell in flowing ringlets over her shoulders.
her dress was pure white but her eyes were blue, and they looked kindly upon the little girl.
"what can i do for you, my child?"
she asked.
dorothy told the witch all her story: how the cyclone had brought her to the land of oz, how she had found her companions, and of the wonderful adventures they had met with.
"my greatest wish now," she added, "is to get back to kansas, for aunt em will surely think something dreadful has happened to me, and that will make her put on mourning; and unless the crops are better this year than they were last, i am sure uncle henry cannot afford it."
glinda leaned forward and kissed the sweet, upturned face of the loving little girl.
"bless your dear heart," she said, "i am sure i can tell you of a way to get back to kansas."
then she added, "but, if i do, you must give me the golden cap."
"willingly!"
exclaimed dorothy; "indeed, it is of no use to me now, and when you have it you can command the winged monkeys three times."
"and i think i shall need their service just those three times,"
answered glinda, smiling.
dorothy then gave her the golden cap, and the witch said to the scarecrow, "what will you do when dorothy has left us?"
"i will return to the emerald city," he replied, "for oz has made me its ruler and the people like me.
the only thing that worries me is how to cross the hill of the hammer-heads."
"by means of the golden cap i shall command the winged monkeys to carry you to the gates of the emerald city," said glinda, "for it would be a shame to deprive the people of so wonderful a ruler."
"am i really wonderful?"
asked the scarecrow.
"you are unusual," replied glinda.
turning to the tin woodman, she asked, "what will become of you when dorothy leaves this country?"
he leaned on his axe and thought a moment.
then he said, "the winkies were very kind to me, and wanted me to rule over them after the wicked witch died.
i am fond of the winkies, and if i could get back again to the country of the west, i should like nothing better than to rule over them forever."
"my second command to the winged monkeys," said glinda "will be that they carry you safely to the land of the winkies.
your brain may not be so large to look at as those of the scarecrow, but you are really brighter than he is when you are well polished and i am sure you will rule the winkies wisely and well."
then the witch looked at the big, shaggy lion and asked, "when dorothy has returned to her own home, what will become of you?"
"over the hill of the hammer-heads," he answered, "lies a grand old forest, and all the beasts that live there have made me their king.
if i could only get back to this forest, i would pass my life very happily there."
"my third command to the winged monkeys," said glinda, "shall be to carry you to your forest.
then, having used up the powers of the golden cap, i shall give it to the king of the monkeys, that he and his band may thereafter be free for evermore."
the scarecrow and the tin woodman and the lion now thanked the good witch earnestly for her kindness; and dorothy exclaimed:
"you are certainly as good as you are beautiful!
but you have not yet told me how to get back to kansas."
"your silver shoes will carry you over the desert," replied glinda.
"if you had known their power you could have gone back to your aunt em the very first day you came to this country."
"but then i should not have had my wonderful brains!"
cried the scarecrow.
"i might have passed my whole life in the farmer's cornfield."
"and i should not have had my lovely heart," said the tin woodman.
"i might have stood and rusted in the forest till the end of the world."
"and i should have lived a coward forever," declared the lion, "and no beast in all the forest would have had a good word to say to me."
"this is all true," said dorothy, "and i am glad i was of use to these good friends.
but now that each of them has had what he most desired, and each is happy in having a kingdom to rule besides, i think i should like to go back to kansas."
"the silver shoes," said the good witch, "have wonderful powers.
and one of the most curious things about them is that they can carry you to any place in the world in three steps, and each step will be made in the wink of an eye.
all you have to do is to knock the heels together three times and command the shoes to carry you wherever you wish to go."
"if that is so," said the child joyfully, "i will ask them to carry me back to kansas at once."
she threw her arms around the lion's neck and kissed him, patting his big head tenderly.
then she kissed the tin woodman, who was weeping in a way most dangerous to his joints.
but she hugged the soft, stuffed body of the scarecrow in her arms instead of kissing his painted face, and found she was crying herself at this sorrowful parting from her loving comrades.
glinda the good stepped down from her ruby throne to give the little girl a good-bye kiss, and dorothy thanked her for all the kindness she had shown to her friends and herself.
dorothy now took toto up solemnly in her arms, and having said one last good-bye she clapped the heels of her shoes together three times, saying:
"take me home to aunt em!"
instantly she was whirling through the air, so swiftly that all she could see or feel was the wind whistling past her ears.
the silver shoes took but three steps, and then she stopped so suddenly that she rolled over upon the grass several times before she knew where she was.
at length, however, she sat up and looked about her.
"good gracious!"
she cried.
for she was sitting on the broad kansas prairie, and just before her was the new farmhouse uncle henry built after the cyclone had carried away the old one.
uncle henry was milking the cows in the barnyard, and toto had jumped out of her arms and was running toward the barn, barking furiously.
dorothy stood up and found she was in her stocking-feet.
for the silver shoes had fallen off in her flight through the air, and were lost forever in the desert.
24.  home again
aunt em had just come out of the house to water the cabbages when she looked up and saw dorothy running toward her.
"my darling child!"
she cried, folding the little girl in her arms and covering her face with kisses.
"where in the world did you come from?"
"from the land of oz," said dorothy gravely.
"and here is toto, too.
and oh, aunt em!
i'm so glad to be at home again!"
the star-eyed deirdre
in olden days, when many kings reigned throughout the green island of erin, none was greater than the great concobar.
so fair was his realm that poets sang its beauty, and such the wonder of his palace that the sweetest songs of erin were of its loveliness.
in a castle of this fair realm dwelt felim, a warrior and harper dear unto the king.
and it was told him that concobar with his chief lords would visit the castle.
then felim made a feast, and there was great rejoicing, and all men were glad.
but in the midst of the feast an old magician, who was of those that had come with the king, stood up before the great gathering.
long and white was the hair that fell upon his bent shoulders, black were the eyes that gazed into space from beneath his shaggy eyebrows.
'speak,' said the king to the old man, 'speak, and tell us that thou seest, for well we know thou piercest the veil that hideth from us the secrets of the morrow.'
silently and with great awe did all the company look at the wise old man, for those things that he had already foretold had they not come to pass?
the magician, also silent, looked from the face of one to the face of another, but when his eyes fell on concobar, the king, long did they dwell there, and when he lifted them, on felim did they rest.
then the wise man spake:
'this night, o felim the harper, shall a girl-babe be born to thee within these castle walls.
loveliest among the lovely shall thy star-eyed daughter be; no harp-strings shall yield such music as her voice, no fairy strains pour forth such wonder-stirring sound.
yet, o felim, in days to come, because of this fair child shall great sorrow come upon our king concobar and upon all his realm.
in those days shall erin's chief glory perish, for if the house of the red branch fall, who shall stand?'
then did a cry of fear burst from those gathered to the feast, and leaping to their feet, each man laid his hand upon his sword, for the word that the wise man had spoken would it not come to pass?
'let our swords be in readiness,' they cried, 'to kill the babe that shall be born this night, for better far is it that one child perish than that the blood of a nation be spilt.'
and felim spake: 'great sorrow is mine that fear of the child who shall be born this night should be upon you.
therefore, if it please the king, let my daughter die, and so may peace yet reign in the realm.
for dear as would be a child to my wife and to me, dearer yet is the common weal.'
but the answer of king concobar came not for a time.
his soul was filled with desire to see the star-eyed maiden and to hear the wonder of her voice.
still was the hand of each upon his sword when the king spake.
'put far from thee, o felim, the will to do this thing.
bend not thy mind to the death of thine own child.
and ye, my people, sheathe your swords.
let the babe live.
i, concobar, will be her guardian, and if ill befall, let it be upon me, your king.'
at these words arose a prince.
'it would be well, o king, but for the word spoken by the wise man, for hath he not said, "because of this fair child shall great sorrow come upon the king concobar"?
if we let the babe live, then must thy people see thee in sore distress, for the word that the wise man speaketh, shall it not come to pass?'
'of that am i not unmindful.
deep within the forest, beyond the moor of loneliness, shall her childish days be spent.
gently tended shall she be, but the eye of man shall not behold her, and solitary shall she live as some unmated bird in distant wilderness.'
then with one accord did the people cry, 'wilt thou indeed be guardian to this child, knowing the ill that the wise man hath foretold?'
'yea, truly will i be guardian to the child, and when she be a woman then shall she be my wedded wife.
and if with the maiden come sorrow, then be that sorrow upon me, and not upon the land.'
'what sayest thou, o felim the harper?'
cried the people.
'it were better to slay the child than to let that come which hath been foretold.'
'and what sayest thou, o wise man?'
'that which shall come, shall come.'
at the same moment there entered the hall a servant of felim, and loudly did he proclaim that the girl-babe, who had been foretold, was born.
'right beautiful and strong is the child, most fair to look upon.'
'and deirdre shall her name be,' said the wise man, 'deirdre the star-eyed.'
and because of the words that the king concobar had spoken, the life of the babe was spared, and when the days of feasting were past, concobar returned to his palace, and with him he took the infant child and her mother.
yet after a month he bade the mother return to felim her husband, but the babe deirdre he kept.
and deep within the forest, beyond the moor of loneliness, did the king command that a cottage be built, and when deirdre was one year, thither was she sent with a trusted nurse.
but on the trees of the forest and throughout the land was proclaimed the order of the king concobar, that whosoever should hunt, or for other purpose enter the wood, death should be his portion.
once each week did the king visit the fair babe, and daily were stores of food and milk brought to the lone dwelling.
and deirdre each year grew more fair, but none beheld her beauty, save her nurse, her tutor, and lavarcam.
this lavarcam was a woman well trusted of the king, and she alone went to and fro between the palace and the cottage.
it was she who told to deirdre the old tales of knights and ladies, of dragons and of fairies that dwelt in the enchanted land.
when deirdre was seven years old the king no longer came every week to the forest, but twice in the year only, and that as the spring put forth her first green shoots, and again when autumn gleaned her harvest of gold.
and when another seven years had sped, then came not the king thither, either when the earth was green or golden, nor in the blue summer nor the hoary winter, but from lavarcam he heard that it was well with the maid.
one white winter's morning deirdre looked from her window, and saw lying in the snow a calf.
it had been killed by her nurse to provide food for the little household, and its bright red blood dyed the thick-lying snow.
as deirdre watched the flow of the scarlet stream, a raven, black as night, flew down and drank of the warm blood.
then deirdre smiled.
'where are thy thoughts, fair child?'
asked lavarcam, entering the room.
'only did i think,' said deirdre, 'that if a youth could be found whose skin was white as snow, his cheek crimson as that pool of blood, and his hair black as the raven's wing, him could i love right gladly.'
then lavarcam spake: 'such a man have i seen, and one only.'
'his name, lavarcam, his name?'
cried deirdre.
'whence comes he, and wherefrom he be found?'
'the fairest of three fair brothers is this nathos, the son of usna, and now is he with concobar the king.'
and deirdre would thereafter think of none but nathos, and lavarcam was much troubled because of the words that she had spoken.
and when deirdre longed grievously by day and night to see this nathos of whom she had heard, lavarcam thought of a plan whereby she might end the maiden's dream.
one day, as she came from the palace of the king, she met on the moor of loneliness a swineherd and two shepherd lads.
and well though she knew that none might enter the forest, she led them to a well in its leafy depths.
then said this woman trusted of the king, 'wait here by this well until the jay cry and the hill-fox bark.
then move slowly on your way, but speak to none whom ye may meet, and when ye leave the wood let not your lips tell those things ye shall have seen and heard.'
with these words lavarcam left the three men, and entered the cottage.
'come, deirdre,' she cried, 'the crisp snow glistens in the sunshine.
let us wander forth.'
and deirdre came, and dreamily she trod where lavarcam led.
of a sudden the older woman left her side, and bent as though she would gather a woodland flower.
at the same moment was heard the cry of the jay and the bark of the hill-fox.
then came lavarcam to the maiden's side.
'passing strange is it,' said deirdre, 'to hear the jay cry and the hill-fox bark while yet the snow lies thick.'
'heed not strange sounds, fair deirdre, but cast thine eyes toward yonder well.'
and as deirdre gazed she saw, as in a dream, the forms of three men come slowly through the forest.
'these, deirdre, are men,' said lavarcam.
'yet seem they not as the men i have seen ride by across the moor of loneliness, for they were fair to look upon, but mine eyes have no pleasure in beholding these strange forms.'
'yet you look upon nathos, for these men are none other than the three sons of usna.'
deirdre started.
'idle are your words, false lavarcam.
yonder walks not a man with skin white as snow, with cheek crimson as blood, nor with hair black as the raven's wing.
you lie!'
and the maid made haste, and she reached the men, and stood before them.
amazed at her exceeding beauty, they gazed in silence.
'tell me if ye be the sons of usna.
speak!'
but in wonder at the loveliness of the maiden, and in fear of the anger of lavarcam, the men were dumb.
'speak!'
she again cried.
'if indeed ye be nathos and his brothers, then truly hath concobar the king my pity.'
at these words the swineherd could no longer keep silence.
'it is thy exceeding beauty that telleth us that thou art that deirdre whom the king hideth in this forest.
why mock us by asking if we are the fairest of concobar's nobles?
clearly canst thou see we are but men of the hills, i a poor swineherd, and these men shepherds.'
'then wilt thou, swineherd, for truly do i believe thy words, get thee to the sons of usna, and say to nathos the eldest, that in the forest beyond the moor of loneliness, deirdre awaits his coming.
tell him that to-morrow, an hour before the setting of the sun, he will find her by this well.'
'if it be known that i so break the law of the king, i die, yet will i go right gladly.'
then deirdre left the men, and walked slowly after lavarcam.
and lavarcam would fain have known what deirdre had told the swineherd, but the girl told her nought, and was in a dream all that day and all the morrow.
it was in the wane of the morrow that lavarcam went forth to take counsel of the king.
and deirdre ran with great speed to the well, but no man was there, and she waited long, but none came.
while deirdre waited by the well, lavarcam came near to the king's palace.
and lo!
there, on the ground before her, lay the dead body of the swineherd.
thus was it made known to lavarcam that in some wise concobar the king had heard that the swineherd had spoken with deirdre.
therefore lavarcam went not to the palace, but turned aside to the camp of the sons of usna.
and nathos came out to her, and she told him of the loneliness of the fair deirdre and of her longing to see him.
then said nathos, 'but it may not be yet awhile, for concobar found that the fair deirdre had spoken with the swineherd, and for that cause lies he yonder, a dead man.'
'yet tarry not long, for if thou wouldst hunt in the forest, beyond the well, then surely wouldst thou see deirdre the star-eyed, and none should know.'
seven days passed, and deirdre roamed in the wood dreaming her dream, when of a sudden there came an unknown sound.
ah, could it be the hunting-horn of which lavarcam had spoken in her tales of chase?
the maiden paused.
the horn ceased.
nathos had left the hunt and wandered through the glade.
there, against a background of blue haze, encircled by a network of blossoming blackthorn, shone forth the fairest vision mortal eye had beheld.
speech tarried as nathos gazed spell-bound.
at length the maiden questioned, 'nathos, son of usna, what wouldst thou?'
'strange is it that thou shouldst know my name, most fair.
no mortal art thou.
fain would i enter yonder cottage, did i but dare, and speak with the daughter of felim the harper.
yet it is death should the king know of my desire.'
'i am that deirdre whom thou seekest, and if i be fair in thine eyes, it pleaseth me well.
it is for thee i have watched long, for is not thy skin white as snow, thy cheek crimson as blood, and thy hair black as the raven's wing?
lonely are my days in this place, where none dwells save my nurse, my tutor, and lavarcam.'
never did harp-strings yield such music as her voice, never did fairy strains pour forth such wonder-stirring sound.
'art thou indeed deirdre the star-eyed, and is it that king concobar keepeth thee here like some caged bird?'
'i am deirdre, and it is the king's will that i wander not forth from yonder cottage but by the side of lavarcam.
ill would it please him that i should thus roam the forest alone.'
'i love thee, deirdre, and i would serve thee ever.'
'i love thee, nathos, and i would that i might be ever by thy side.
let me flee with thee from this place.'
nathos knit his brows in thought.
'fair one, if we are seen as we leave the forest, then is it death to us both; and if we are not seen, still is it death, for when it is known of the king that deirdre is fled, then will the land be searched until she be found, and then shall we die.'
'but, nathos, concobar is not king in the land of alba.
let us flee from erin, and there in thine own land shall we surely find safety.'
'thou speakest well, brave deirdre.
if a host be sent from concobar to alba, then shall it be met by a host of mine own land.
and a fair land it is.
scented with pine and seaweed are its shores, blue as thine eyes are its waters, and of its setting sun the glory cannot be told.'
'let us go forth,' said deirdre.
'then let it be now and without delay, or it may never be,' and as nathos uttered these words deirdre saw a strange look in his eyes, and in a moment he had flung his javelin among the bracken but a few paces apart.
'what beast wouldst thou slay?'
cried deirdre, affrighted.
'it was no beast,' said nathos, 'but yonder among the bracken lieth a dead man, if my javelin missed not its mark.'
in fear and wonder deirdre ran to the spot.
no man lay there, but she saw on the bracken the form of a crouching man.
she saw, too, the tracks that marked his escape.
nathos followed her, and stooped to take his javelin from the ground.
and there, beside it, lay a wooden-hilted knife.
'it is as i thought,' he said.
'this knife is used but by the hillmen who are in bondage to concobar.
the king seeketh my life.
go thou, then, back to thy lonely cottage, and await that day when he shall make thee his queen.'
'ask me not to turn from following thee, o nathos, for thy way must be mine, this day and ever.'
'come, then,' and nathos took her by the hand.
through the shadowy forest they walked swiftly, until of a sudden he bade her rest among the bracken.
then went he forward and told his waiting huntsmen to return by a long and winding path to the castle of the sons of usna.
three days would it thus take them to reach it, and nathos with deirdre would be there on the morrow, if, tarrying not, they walked on through the dark night.
but concobar's messengers would follow the hounds, thinking so to capture nathos.
'by dawn, deirdre, shall we reach the castle, and there may we rest in safety one day and one night.
then must we set out for the hills and lochs of alba, and with us ailne and ardan, for if the king cometh and findeth me fled, then will he slay my brothers.'
on and on they sped, through the forest, across the moor of loneliness, up the glens and gorges, and over the hills.
above glimmered the pale stars, around them was the screech and the moan of wakeful bird and beast.
it was not till the dawn broke that they rested on the mountain-side.
there they stayed till the pink stole through the grey, and the sky gleamed mother-o'-pearl.
then they rose and followed the stream that trickled to the valley below.
and now nathos was glad.
'look, deirdre, yonder stands the castle of the sons of usna.'
and with that he gave a cry known by the brothers each of the other, and ailne and ardan came forth gladly.
but when they stood before deirdre, so great was their wonder at her exceeding beauty, that they stood spell-bound and uttered no word.
then nathos spake: 'the fair maiden whom ye behold is none other than deirdre, the daughter of felim the harper.
from this day i hold her as my wedded wife, and to you she cometh as a sister.'
but when the brothers heard, they were filled with fear, for had not the king concobar vowed that this same fair maid should be his queen?
and had not the wise man foretold the sorrow that the daughter of felim should bring upon the land?
'i ask none to share the sorrow that may come,' said nathos.
'to-morrow deirdre and i set forth for the bay where our galley is harboured, and if so be that we gain the shores of alba, before concobar overtake us, there, if he come thither, shall he be met by a host of our own land.
yet, lest the king should follow me hither, and, finding me not, seek to slay you, were it not well that ye leave this place?'
ardan spake: 'not for fear of that which might come upon us, but for the love we bear you and our fair sister deirdre will we never leave thee.
if sorrow come upon thee, let it be upon us also.
are we not the children of one mother, and if death come, let us face it together like men.
are we not under a bond that we will stand each by each, even unto death?'
then said ailne, 'as ardan hath spoken, so let it be, for although the words of the wise man come to pass, and sorrow be upon us, yet will we not henceforth leave thee.'
but when deirdre heard how the sons of usna would thus face death for her sake, she sighed aloud.
'alas!
it is not for me to bring sorrow upon the land.
let me even now return to the cottage in the forest, and there with lavarcam will i live and die, unless it be that concobar take me thence.'
but ardan answered: 'for fear of what may befall us, the sons of usna, shalt thou never leave us, nor shalt thou go forth from us, but of thine own free will.'
early next morning one hundred and fifty men rode with the three sons of usna and deirdre, the wife of nathos, toward the bay where their black galley was harboured.
it was not till night, when on the high ridge of a hill, that they looked backward, and there in the far valley below, where stood the castle of the sons of usna, they beheld a column of flame.
and nathos' brow grew dark.
'the fire that ye see in the valley below devours the castle of the sons of usna.
the hand that lit the fire is none other than the hand of concobar the king.'
then they rode on and rested not until they reached the black galley in the golden bay.
the scent of the sea and the gleam of its blue waters and dancing waves made them strong and glad and free.
as for deirdre, who had never beheld the sea and its great wonders, she laughed with joy and sang a song of the ocean which lavarcam had taught her long since and when its meaning was dark.
at sundown the galley came to the shores of mull, and because the wind fell they put into a bay, and as they gazed across the waters to the rocky headlands of alba, they talked long as to whither they should sail on the morrow.
should it be to crave protection of the king, or should it be to where their father's castle had stood before it had been destroyed?
but that night there came a galley from the long island to the north.
in it sailed twenty men with their chief.
and with the chief came a richly-clad stranger, but so hooded that none might look upon his face.
steadfastly did the stranger gaze upon deirdre, as the chief urged the sons of usna to cross the sea to alba, and journey inland to the palace of the king.
'but first come, nathos, to my high-walled castle,' said the stranger, 'and bring with thee thy wife and thy brothers.'
'it were not well to come to a man's castle and know not the man's name,'
said nathos.
'my name is angus,' answered the stranger.
'then, angus, let me behold thy face, for it were not well to come to a man's castle, having not looked upon the man's face.'
so angus threw back his hood, and nathos saw that deirdre's lips grew white, as she said, 'not to-morrow, angus; but on the morn that follows, if thou wilt come again, then shalt thou lead us to thy high-walled castle.
this day have we travelled far and would fain rest.'
but angus turned him again to the sons of usna and pleaded that they should linger no longer in the isle.
'to-night may this island be tempest-swept, to-night may the host of concobar be upon you, and then what shall befall this fair one?
bring her rather to my castle, and there let her rest in safety with my wife and her maidens.'
but as nathos glanced at deirdre, he saw that her purpose was firm, and he said once again the words she had spoken, 'not tomorrow, angus; but on the morn that follows, if thou wilt come again, then shall we come with thee to thy high-walled castle'
then angus, frowning, went with the chief and his men to their galley.
and as they set sail he asked how many men the sons of usna had with them.
but when it was told him that they numbered one hundred and fifty, he said no more, for there were but thirty that sailed with the chief, and what could one man do against five?
it was not until the strangers had gone that nathos asked deirdre wherefore she delayed to visit so great a lord as angus.
'thou shalt hear wherefore i went not this day, nor shall go on any day to come to the castle of him who calleth himself angus.
so he calleth himself, but in truth he is none other than the king of alba.
in a dream was it so revealed unto me, when i saw him stand victorious over your dead body.
nathos, that man would fain steal me from you, and deliver you into the hands of concobar.'
'deirdre hath wisdom,' said ardan.
'by the morn after to-morrow we must be far hence, for ere the sun shall rise may not yonder chief be upon us with thrice the number of our men?'
and nathos, though he was sore grieved for the weariness of deirdre, bowed his head.
so they set sail, and through the thick mist of a starless night their galley silently breasted the unseen waves.
but when they came north of the long island, they bent to their oars, and as they rowed yet northward deirdre laughed again for joy, as she listened to the music of the rowers' strokes.
when dawn glimmered they came to a sea-loch, its waters o'ershadowed by the sleeping hills.
and there they were told that the king of alba, who had called himself angus, had no castle in the west, and had already left for dunedin.
they heard, too, that the chief who sailed with him to mull was no longer a great lord, and that they had nought to fear.
greatly did the sons of usna rejoice, for now might they sail south to the land upon which their father's castle had stood in their boyhood.
but for eight days they lingered by the shores of the sea-loch, and as its salt breath touched deirdre's cheeks, she grew yet more fair, and as her eyes drank in the glory of western alba, they shone with a radiance that dazzled the beholder.
then when the eighth day was come, they sailed forth and settled close by the ground on which had stood their boyhood's home.
and it was with great joy that those who dwelt on hill and shore heard of the return of the sons of usna, and many gathered around them, doing homage.
then the hundred and fifty men whom nathos had brought with him, sent he back to their own green isle.
'and thou, ailne, and thou, ardan, will ye not also return?
here may deirdre and i, with a few followers, dwell alone in safety.'
but his brothers would not leave nathos, for were they not under a bond that they would stand each by each, even unto death?
all through the winter they dwelt in peace and content.
by day they would hunt and fish, and when night fell deirdre let fall from her lips such wonder-stirring sounds that their heroic bosoms swelled with dreams of noble deeds and high endeavour.
but when spring burst upon the land with her blossom and her singing-birds, it was told the sons of usna that the king of alba had sworn to burn to the ground every stone that stood on the land that had been their father's, and to slay nathos, and wed the star-eyed deirdre.
so in their great galley they set forth, taking with them fifty men.
northward they sailed, through narrow sea-lochs, until they reached the mountains that had been the childhood's home of their dead mother.
on the summit of a high hill stood the castle where she had once dwelt.
now it was forsaken of all save wandering shepherds and nesting birds, and here, in all the glory of spring, did the sons of usna make their home.
nor was it long before the chiefs of the mountain-lands swore allegiance to nathos and did him homage, and he was as a king among the people of his mother's land.
and while yet the wild thyme bloomed, word was brought to the sons of usna that the king of alba was dead, and that the king who now reigned would fain sign a bond of friendship with nathos and his brothers.
and the bond was signed, and for three years the sons of usna dwelt in peace and great joy.
in the north they rested while yet the mountain-sides were aglow with the purple and gold of heather and bracken, but ever before the first frosts came would they sail south to the land that the brave usna had ruled, where now they could dwell in safety and in peace.
thence ofttimes in the young summer would they sail southwards.
no bluer blue, no greener green, had it been given mortal eye to behold.
and throughout the land of alba was it told of the fame of the sons of usna, and no poet or bard had a song so fair as that which sang of the wondrous beauty of deirdre.
in his dazzling palace in the green isle of erin, concobar dwelt with gloomy thoughts of vengeance.
this nathos who had stolen deirdre from the forest beyond the moor of loneliness should no longer be suffered to live in peace.
he should surely die, and deirdre the star-eyed should yet be concobar's queen.
and the king made a feast so magnificent that such had never been seen in the green isle.
and to it were called all the princes and nobles of the land over which concobar held sway.
it was in the midst of the feast, as they sat around the board, that a hush fell upon the great company, while concobar spoke to them of his discontent.
'it is not meet that these three heroes of the realm, nathos, ardan and ailne, should be exiled from our isle for the sake of a woman, be she fair as may.
should dark days befall, sore would be our need, therefore let the sons of usna be brought hither from their northern mountain home.'
at these words great was the joy of all, for there was not one but knew that it was for fear of the pitiless anger of concobar that nathos had fled from the green isle.
'go forth,' said concobar, when he saw the gladness of the people, 'go hence to alba and come not again until ye bring with you the three sons of usna.'
then spake one among them, 'right gladly we go, but who can bring to thee nathos, if it be not his will?'
'he who loves me most,' answered the king, 'he it is that will fail not to bring with him the exiled heroes.'
and after the feast the king drew aside a warrior prince, and spake thus:
'were i to send thee to alba to the sons of usna, and if at my command thou didst see them slain before thee, what then wouldst thou do?'
'then, o king, would i slay those who did the monstrous deed, even were it at thy command.'
again the king called to him a warrior prince.
to him he spake as to the first.
and this prince made answer, 'if by thy command i saw the sons of usna lie dead before me, then woe be upon thee, for with mine own hand should i take thy life.'
then spake the king likewise to fergus, and fergus answered, 'let what may befall the sons of usna, never shall my hand be lifted against the king.'
'to thee, good fergus, do i intrust this thing.
go thou to alba and bring hither with thee nathos, and ailne, and ardan.
and when thou art come again to erin, keep thou thy bond to feast at the house of borrach, but the three sons of usna send thou straightway hither.'
so it was that on the morrow fergus set sail in a black barge for alba, taking with him but his two sons and a steersman.
the bloom of early summer made bright the earth, and nathos and his brothers had not yet left their father's home for the castle in the north.
but the days were hot, and they had pitched three tents on the seashore, one for nathos and deirdre, one for ailne and ardan, and one in which to eat and to drink.
it was on a bright noon that nathos and deirdre sat before the tents, playing chess.
the chess-board was of ivory, the chessmen were of wrought gold, and they had belonged to concobar, for on the day before the sons of usna fled from alba, the king had been hunting by their castle, and there had he left the board and men.
as nathos and deirdre played, of a sudden was a cry heard from adown the shore.
'yonder is the voice of a man of erin,' said nathos, as they paused in their game.
again a loud cry, and the sons of usna were called by name.
'yea, most truly is that the cry of a man of erin.'
but deirdre said, 'nay, thou dreamest, nathos.
let us play on.'
then nearer and clearer came a third cry, and there was none but knew that it was indeed the voice of a man of erin.
'go, ardan,' said nathos, 'go to the harbour, and there welcome fergus from the green isle, for he indeed it is and none other.'
but when ardan went, nathos saw that deirdre's lips grew pale and a great fear looked out from her eyes.
'what terror is it that hath hold of thee?'
he asked.
'hath it not been revealed to me in a dream, o nathos, that this fergus who should come with honey-sweet words hath in his mind the shedding of our blood?'
even as she spake ardan led fergus to where the two sat on either side of the chess-board.
eagerly did the exiled sons of usna beg for tidings of their friends in the green isle.
'i come to you,' said fergus, 'with greetings from concobar the king.
fain would he see once more in erin the fairest and bravest heroes of his realm.
peace he would pledge with you, and great shall be your welcome, if ye will come back with me.'
but before the brothers could answer, deirdre spake.
'here in alba is nathos now lord over lands wider than the realm of concobar.
wherefore then should he seek forgiveness of the king?'
'yet,' replied fergus, 'erin is the land of his adoption.
since his boyhood's days nathos has been a hero in the green isle, and it were well that he should yet rejoice in the land, and, if need be, defend it still.'
'we have two lands,' said ardan, 'and both are dear unto us.
yet, if nathos will go with thee to erin, so also will ailne and i, myself.'
'i will go,' said nathos, but he looked not at his star-eyed wife as he spake the words.
that night all rejoiced save deirdre.
heavy was her heart as she thought she would never again, in shadow or in sunlight, rest in the land of alba of the lochs.
on the morrow they set sail, and swiftly the galley bore them to the shores of the green isle.
and when deirdre stood once more on the soil of her own land, then was her heart glad, and for a brief space she remembered not her fears or her dreams.
in three days they came to the castle of borrach, and there had fergus to keep his bond to feast with borrach.
'for,' he said, turning to those with him, 'my feast-bond i must keep, yet send i with you my two sons.'
'of a surety, fergus, must thou keep thy feast-bond,' answered nathos, 'but as for thy sons, i need not their protection, yet in the company each of the other will we fare southward together.'
but as they went, deirdre urged that they should tarry, and when they had gone further, nathos found that his wife had vanished from his side.
going back he found her in deep sleep by the wayside.
gently waking her, nathos read terror in her starry eyes.
'what aileth thee, my queen?'
'again have i dreamed, o nathos, and in my dream i saw our little company, but as i looked, on the younger son of fergus alone, was the head left upon his body.
turn aside, and let us go not to concobar, or that thing which i saw in my dream, it shall come to pass.'
but nathos feared not, for had not fergus come to them with the bond of peace from the king?
and on the morrow they came to the great palace.
when it was told concobar that the three sons of usna and deirdre the star-eyed, and the two sons of fergus were without, he ordered that they should be taken into the house of the red branch.
and he ordered, too, that there should be given unto them of pleasant foods, and that all that dwelt in the castle should do them honour.
but when evening was come, and all the company was merry, deirdre was wearied with journeying, and she lay upon a couch draped with deerskins, and played with nathos upon the gold and ivory chess-board.
and as deirdre rested, the door opened, and there entered a messenger from the king.
and this messenger was none other than lavarcam, who had been sent to discover if deirdre were still as fair as in days of old.
and when lavarcam beheld deirdre, her eyes filled with tears.
'you do not well, o nathos, thus to play upon the chess-board which concobar holds dearer than aught else save deirdre, thy wife.
both have ye taken from him, and here, within these walls, are ye now in his power.'
of a sudden deirdre spake, her gaze fixed as if on some strange thing.
'i see as in a dream.
as in a dream i see three torches.
the three torches are this night put out.
the names on the torches are nathos, ailne, ardan.
alas!
it is but for the beauty of a woman that these brave ones perish.'
the sons of usna were silent awhile, and the sons of fergus spake not.
then said nathos, 'it were better, deirdre, to be a torch quenched for thy sake than to live for aught save thee.
that which shall come, shall come.'
'now must i get me hence,' said lavarcam, 'for concobar awaiteth my coming.
but, sons of usna, see ye well to it, that the doors and windows be this night barred.'
then lavarcam hastened to the king and told him how that the sons of usna had come to erin to live peaceably, but how that the beauty of deirdre had faded until she was no longer fairest among women.
then was concobar wroth, and he sent yet another messenger.
to this man he said, 'who was it that slew thy father and thy brother?'
'nathos, son of usna, o king!'
'then go thou to the house of the red branch, and bring me word hither if deirdre be still the fairest among women.'
and the man went.
but when he found that bar and bolt were drawn across door and window, he knew well that the sons of usna were warned of the wrath of the king.
but espying one open window, he put his eye near to the lower corner that he might glance within.
and deirdre saw the man's eye, and told nathos, and he, with the ivory bishop that was in his hand, took aim as if with a javelin, and the chessman pierced the spy's eye, and it became blind.
and the man returned to king concobar and said, 'of a surety deirdre, the wife of nathos, is yet of all fair women the most fair.'
then could not concobar contain his wrath, but burst forth, 'arise, ye ultonians; the fort that surroundeth the house of the red branch set ye in flames.'
and the ultonians set it in flames.
then came out the younger of the sons of fergus from the burning fort, and he rushed upon the ultonians and killed three hundred men.
and when king concobar beheld the onslaught, he cried aloud, 'who hath done this thing?'
and when it was told him that it was the son of fergus, he said, 'to such a hero will i give the choice of lands, and he will be to me as a son, if he will but forsake the sons of usna.'
and the son of fergus made answer, 'i swear to abide by thee and to return not to the house of the red branch.'
and when he returned not, deirdre, said, 'even as fergus hath deceived us, even so hath his son.'
then went forth the elder son of fergus, and he fell upon the ultonians, and there perished by his hand three hundred men.
and when concobar saw who it was that had done this thing, he called his own son, who had been born the same night as this son of fergus.
'take these, my magic arms,' he cried, 'and fall upon the foe.'
then did the son of concobar strike with his enchanted weapons, and all the waves of erin thundered at the stroke.
and a great warrior, hearing the thunder, came riding across the plain, and in his hand he held a magic sword with blade of blue.
coming upon the fighting men, he rushed at the son of fergus from behind, and thrust the blue blade through his heart.
'i would that mine enemy had fought me fair,' said the dying man.
'who art thou?'
asked the stranger.
and the son of fergus told his name, and of that which had come to pass in the house of the red branch.
then answered the stranger, 'i shall not depart hence, no, not until the son of concobar be slain in the dust'; and thereupon he rushed upon the king's son, and with one stroke of the blue blade severed his head from his body.
so he departed, and soon the son of fergus also lay dead.
and now the ulstermen surrounded the house of the red branch and set fire to its walls.
but ardan came forth, and put out the fire, and slew three hundred men, and after he had gone in, then came ailne forth, and slew a countless multitude beside.
a glimmering ray of dim grey light now broke, and spread over the forms of dead and dying men.
it was at that hour that nathos kissed deirdre and went forth from the house.
and there was not a man but quailed as the hero rushed upon the ultonians and slew a thousand men.
when concobar heard this, he sent for that wise man who in the house of felim the harper had foretold the sorrow that would come upon his realm.
and when the old man had come, concobar said, 'i swear that i mean no harm unto the sons of usna, yet will they slay every ultonian in the land.
therefore i would that thou wouldst help me by thy magic power.'
and the wise man believed the words of concobar, and he caused a hedge of spears to encircle the burning house.
and as the flames rose higher the sons of usna came forth with deirdre the star-eyed.
and around her they placed their shields, and they cleft a way through the hedge of spears and came safely to the plain beyond.
but when the wise man saw that his magic availed nought, he laid upon the land yet another enchantment, for the plain upon which deirdre stood with the sons of usna, he caused to be covered with tempestuous water.
and the magic sea rose higher and yet more high, so that nathos raised deirdre on his shoulder, and there she rested, her white arms around the hero's neck.
but now the waters grew calm, and it was seen that drowning was not their doom.
then, as the waters withdrew from the plain, soldiers came to bind nathos, ailne, and ardan, and to take them before the king.
and concobar commanded that they should be slain before his eyes.
'if such be our doom, then slay me first,' said ardan, 'for i am the youngest of usna's sons.'
'nay,' said ailne, 'but let the first blow fall upon me.'
then nathos spake: 'it were not meet that we three, the sons of one mother, should be divided in death.
together have we sowed the seeds in the springtime, side by side have we plucked the fruits of summer; autumn is still afar, yet must we be cut down as ripe corn.
but let us fall each by each, that there may not be left the one to mourn the other.
with this sword that was given me by a hero of the land may our heads at one stroke be severed from our bodies.'
with that they laid their heads upon the block.
a flash of the steel, and alba was bereft of the fairest and noblest of her sons.
and the air was rent with cries of lamentation.
then did a great champion ride across the plain, and to him did deirdre tell of the fate of the sons of usna.
and under his care the star-eyed maiden came where the heroes lay dead.
and deirdre kneeled, and she bent low over the head of nathos, and kissed his dead lips.
then, at the bidding of the champion, three graves were digged, and in them, standing upright, were buried nathos and ailne and ardan, and upon the shoulders of each was his head placed.
and as deirdre gazed into the grave of nathos, she moaned a lay which told of the brave deeds of the sons of usna.
it told, too, of her love for nathos, and as she ended the mournful strain, her heartstrings broke, and she fell at the feet of her husband, and there did she die, and by his side was she buried.
in that same hour died the wise man; and as he died, he cried aloud, 'that which shall come, shall come.'
and so it was, for on the morrow concobar's host was scattered as autumn leaves, and the house of the red branch perished, and ere long concobar died in a madness of despair, and throughout the green isle was mourning and desolation.
but through the ages has the tale of the wondrous beauty of deirdre been sung, and yet shall it be told again, for when shall the world tire of the sorrowfullest of 'the three sorrows of story-telling,' the fate of the sons of usna and of deirdre the star-eyed?
the four white swans
in the days of long ago there lived in the green isle of erin a race of brave men and fair women the race of the dedannans.
north, south, east, and west did this noble people dwell, doing homage to many chiefs.
but one blue morning after a great battle the dedannans met on a wide plain to choose a king.
'let us,' they said, 'have one king over all.
let us no longer have many rulers.'
forth from among the princes rose five well fitted to wield a sceptre and to wear a crown, yet most royal stood bove derg and lir.
and forth did the five chiefs wander, that the dedannan folk might freely say to whom they would most gladly do homage as king.
not far did they roam, for soon there arose a great cry, 'bove derg is king.
bove derg is king.'
and all were glad, save lir.
but lir was angry, and he left the plain where the dedannan people were, taking leave of none, and doing bove derg no reverence.
for jealousy filled the heart of lir.
then were the dedannans wroth, and a hundred swords were unsheathed and flashed in the sunlight on the plain.
'we go to slay lir who doeth not homage to our king and regardeth not the choice of the people.'
but wise and generous was bove derg, and he bade the warriors do no hurt to the offended prince.
for long years did lir live in discontent, yielding obedience to none.
but at length a great sorrow fell upon him, for his wife, who was dear unto him, died, and she had been ill but three days.
loudly did he lament her death, and heavy was his heart with sorrow.
when tidings of lir's grief reached bove derg, he was surrounded by his mightiest chiefs.
'go forth,' he said, 'in fifty chariots go forth.
tell lir i am his friend as ever, and ask that he come with you hither.
three fair foster-children are mine, and one may he yet have to wife, will he but bow to the will of the people, who have chosen me their king.'
when these words were told to lir, his heart was glad.
speedily he called around him his train, and in fifty chariots set forth.
nor did they slacken speed until they reached the palace of bove derg by the great lake.
and there at the still close of day, as the setting rays of the sun fell athwart the silver waters, did lir do homage to bove derg.
and bove derg kissed lir and vowed to be his friend for ever.
and when it was known throughout the dedannan host that peace reigned between these mighty chiefs, brave men and fair women and little children rejoiced, and nowhere were there happier hearts than in the green isle of erin.
time passed, and lir still dwelt with bove derg in his palace by the great lake.
one morning the king said, 'full well thou knowest my three fair foster-daughters, nor have i forgotten my promise that one thou shouldst have to wife.
choose her whom thou wilt.'
then lir answered, 'all are indeed fair, and choice is hard.
but give unto me the eldest, if it be that she be willing to wed.'
and eve, the eldest of the fair maidens, was glad, and that day was she married to lir, and after two weeks she left the palace by the great lake and drove with her husband to her new home.
happily dwelt lir's household and merrily sped the months.
then were born unto lir twin babes.
the girl they called finola, and her brother did they name aed.
yet another year passed and again twins were born, but before the infant boys knew their mother, she died.
so sorely did lir grieve for his beautiful wife that he would have died of sorrow, but for the great love he bore his motherless children.
when news of eve's death reached the palace of bove derg by the great lake all mourned aloud for love of eve and sore pity for lir and his four babes.
and bove derg said to his mighty chiefs, 'great indeed is our grief, but in this dark hour shall lir know our friendship.
ride forth, make known to him that eva, my second fair foster-child, shall in time become his wedded wife and shall cherish his lone babes.'
so messengers rode forth to carry these tidings to lir, and in time lir came again to the palace of bove derg by the great lake, and he married the beautiful eva and took her back with him to his little daughter, finola, and to her three brothers, aed and fiacra and conn.
four lovely and gentle children they were, and with tenderness did eva care for the little ones who were their father's joy and the pride of the dedannans.
as for lir, so great was the love he bore them, that at early dawn he would rise, and, pulling aside the deerskin that separated his sleeping-room with theirs, would fondle and frolic with the children until morning broke.
and bove derg loved them well-nigh as did lir himself.
ofttimes would he come to see them, and ofttimes were they brought to his palace by the great lake.
and through all the green isle, where dwelt the dedannan people, there also was spread the fame of the beauty of the children of lir.
time crept on, and finola was a maid of twelve summers.
then did a wicked jealousy find root in eva's heart, and so did it grow that it strangled the love which she had borne her sister's children.
in bitterness she cried, 'lir careth not for me; to finola and her brothers hath he given all his love.'
and for weeks and months eva lay in bed planning how she might do hurt to the children of lir.
at length, one midsummer morn, she ordered forth her chariot, that with the four children she might come to the palace of bove derg.
when finola heard it, her fair face grew pale, for in a dream had it been revealed unto her that eva, her step-mother, should that day do a dark deed among those of her own household.
therefore was finola sore afraid, but only her large eyes and pale cheeks spake her woe, as she and her brothers drove along with eva and her train.
on they drove, the boys laughing merrily, heedless alike of the black shadow resting on their step-mother's brow, and of the pale, trembling lips of their sister.
as they reached a gloomy pass, eva whispered to her attendants, 'kill, i pray you, these children of lir, for their father careth not for me, because of his great love for them.
kill them, and great wealth shall be yours.'
but the attendants answered in horror, 'we will not kill them.
fearful, o eva, were the deed, and great is the evil that will befall thee, for having it in thine heart to do this thing.'
then eva, filled with rage, drew forth her sword to slay them with her own hand, but too weak for the monstrous deed, she sank back in the chariot.
onward they drove, out of the gloomy pass into the bright sunlight of the white road.
daisies with wide-open eyes looked up into the blue sky overhead.
golden glistened the buttercups among the shamrock.
from the ditches peeped forget-me-not.
honeysuckle scented the hedgerows.
around, above, and afar, carolled the linnet, the lark, and the thrush.
all was colour and sunshine, scent and song, as the children of lir drove onward to their doom.
not until they reached a still lake were the horses unyoked for rest.
there eva bade the children undress and go bathe in the waters.
and when the children of lir reached the water's edge, eva was there behind them, holding in her hand a fairy wand.
and with the wand she touched the shoulder of each.
and, lo!
as she touched finola, the maiden was changed into a snow-white swan, and behold!
as she touched aed, fiacra, and conn, the three brothers were as the maid.
four snow-white swans floated on the blue lake, and to them the wicked eva chanted a song of doom.
as she finished, the swans turned towards her, and finola spake:
'evil is the deed thy magic wand hath wrought, o eva, on us the children of lir, but greater evil shall befall thee, because of the hardness and jealousy of thine heart.'
and finola's white swan-breast heaved as she sang of their pitiless doom.
the song ended, again spake the swan-maiden.
'tell us, o eva, when death shall set us free.'
and eva made answer, 'three hundred years shall your home be on the smooth waters of this lone lake.
three hundred years shall ye pass on the stormy waters of the sea betwixt erin and alba, and three hundred years shall ye be tempest-tossed on the wild western sea.
until decca be the queen of largnen, and the good saint come to erin, and ye hear the chime of the christ-bell, neither your plaints nor prayers, neither the love of your father lir, nor the might of your king, bove derg, shall have power to deliver you from your doom.
but lone white swans though ye be, ye shall keep for ever your own sweet gaelic speech, and ye shall sing, with plaintive voices, songs so haunting that your music will bring peace to the souls of those who hear.
and still beneath your snowy plumage shall beat the hearts of finola, aed, fiacra and conn, and still for ever shall ye be the children of lir.'
then did eva order the horses to be yoked to the chariot, and away westward did she drive.
and swimming on the lone lake were four white swans.
when eva reached the palace of bove derg alone, greatly was he troubled lest evil had befallen the children of lir.
but the attendants, because of their great fear of eva, dared not to tell the king of the magic spell she had wrought by the way.
therefore bove derg asked, 'wherefore, o eva, come not finola and her brothers to the palace this day?'
and eva answered, 'because, o king, lir no longer trusteth thee, therefore would he not let the children come hither.'
but bove derg believed not his foster-daughter, and that night he secretly sent messengers across the hills to the dwelling of lir.
when the messengers came there, and told their errand, great was the grief of the father.
and in the morning with a heavy heart he summoned a company of the dedannans, and together they set out for the palace of bove derg.
and it was not until sunset as they reached the lone shore of lake darvra, that they slackened speed.
lir alighted from his chariot and stood spellbound.
what was that plaintive sound?
the gaelic words, his dear daughter's voice more enchanting even than of old, and yet, before and around, only the lone blue lake.
the haunting music rang clearer, and as the last words died away, four snow-white swans glided from behind the sedges, and with a wild flap of wings flew toward the eastern shore.
there, stricken with wonder, stood lir.
'know, o lir,' said finola, 'that we are thy children, changed by the wicked magic of our step-mother into four white swans.'
when lir and the dedannan people heard these words, they wept aloud.
still spake the swan-maiden.
'three hundred years must we float on this lone lake, three hundred years shall we be storm-tossed on the waters between erin and alba, and three hundred years on the wild western sea.
not until decca be the queen of largnen, not until the good saint come to erin and the chime of the christ-bell be heard in the land, not until then shall we be saved from our doom.'
then great cries of sorrow went up from the dedannans, and again lir sobbed aloud.
but at the last silence fell upon his grief, and finola told how she and her brothers would keep for ever their own sweet gaelic speech, how they would sing songs so haunting that their music would bring peace to the souls of all who heard.
she told, too, how, beneath their snowy plumage, the human hearts of finola, aed, fiacra, and conn should still beat the hearts of the children of lir.
'stay with us to-night by the lone lake,' she ended, 'and our music will steal to you across its moonlit waters and lull you into peaceful slumber.
stay, stay with us.'
and lir and his people stayed on the shore that night and until the morning glimmered.
then, with the dim dawn, silence stole over the lake.
speedily did lir rise, and in haste did he bid farewell to his children, that he might seek eva and see her tremble before him.
swiftly did he drive and straight, until he came to the palace of bove derg, and there by the waters of the great lake did bove derg meet him.
'oh, lir, wherefore have thy children come not hither?'
and eva stood by the king.
stern and sad rang the answer of lir.
'alas!
eva, your foster-child, hath by her wicked magic changed them into four snow-white swans.
on the blue waters of lake darvra dwell finola, aed, fiacra, and conn, and thence come i that i may avenge their doom.'
a silence as the silence of death fell upon the three, and all was still save that eva trembled greatly.
but ere long bove derg spake.
fierce and angry did he look, as, high above his foster-daughter, he held his magic wand.
awful was his voice as he pronounced her doom.
'wretched woman, henceforth shalt thou no longer darken this fair earth, but as a demon of the air shalt thou dwell in misery till the end of time.'
and of a sudden from out her shoulders grew black, shadowy wings, and, with a piercing scream, she swirled upward, until the awe-stricken dedannans saw nought save a black speck vanish among the lowering clouds.
and as a demon of the air do eva's black wings swirl her through space to this day.
but great and good was bove derg.
he laid aside his magic wand and so spake: 'let us, my people, leave the great lake, and let us pitch our tents on the shores of lake darvra.
exceeding dear unto us are the children of lir, and i, bove derg, and lir, their father, have vowed henceforth to make our home for ever by the lone waters where they dwell.'
and when it was told throughout the green island of erin of the fate of the children of lir and of the vow that bove derg had vowed, from north, south, east, and west did the dedannans flock to the lake, until a mighty host dwelt by its shores.
and by day finola and her brothers knew not loneliness, for in the sweet gaelic speech they told of their joys and fears; and by night the mighty dedannans knew no sorrowful memories, for by haunting songs were they lulled to sleep, and the music brought peace to their souls.
slowly did the years go by, and upon the shoulders of bove derg and lir fell the long white hair.
fearful grew the four swans, for the time was not far off, when they must wing their flight north to the wild sea of moyle.
and when at length the sad day dawned, finola told her brothers how their three hundred happy years on lake darvra were at an end, and how they must now leave the peace of its lone waters for evermore.
then, slowly and sadly, did the four swans glide to the margin of the lake.
never had the snowy whiteness of their plumage so dazzled the beholders, never had music so sweet and sorrowful floated to lake darvra's sunlit shores.
as the swans reached the water's edge, silent were the three brothers, and alone finola chanted a farewell song.
with bowed white heads did the dedannan host listen to finola's chant, and when the music ceased and only sobs broke the stillness, the four swans spread their wings, and, soaring high, paused but for one short moment to gaze on the kneeling forms of lir and bove derg.
then, stretching their graceful necks toward the north, they winged their flight to the waters of the stormy sea that separates the blue alba from the green island of erin.
and when it was known throughout the green isle that the four white swans had flown, so great was the sorrow of the people that they made a law that no swan should be killed in erin from that day forth.
with hearts that burned with longing for their father and their friends, did finola and her brothers reach the sea of moyle.
cold and chill were its wintry waters, black and fearful were the steep rocks overhanging alba's far-stretching coasts.
from hunger, too, the swans suffered.
dark indeed was all, and darker yet as the children of lir remembered the still waters of lake darvra and the fond dedannan host on its peaceful shores.
here the sighing of the wind among the reeds no longer soothed their sorrow, but the roar of the breaking surf struck fresh terror in their souls.
in misery and terror did their days pass, until one night the black, lowering clouds overhead told that a great tempest was nigh.
then did finola call to her aed, fiacra, and conn. 'beloved brothers, a great fear is at my heart, for, in the fury of the coming gale, we may be driven the one from the other.
therefore, let us say where we may hope to meet when the storm is spent.'
and aed answered, 'wise art thou, dear, gentle sister.
if we be driven apart, may it be to meet again on the rocky isle that has ofttimes been our haven, for well known is it to us all, and from far can it be seen.'
darker grew the night, louder raged the wind, as the four swans dived and rose again on the giant billows.
yet fiercer blew the gale, until at midnight loud bursts of thunder mingled with the roaring wind, but, in the glare of the blue lightning's flashes, the children of lir beheld each the snowy form of the other.
the mad fury of the hurricane yet increased, and the force of it lifted one swan from its wild home on the billows, and swept it through the blackness of the night.
another blue lightning flash, and each swan saw its loneliness, and uttered a great cry of desolation.
tossed hither and thither, by wind and wave, the white birds were well-nigh dead when dawn broke.
and with the dawn fell calm.
swift as her tired wings would bear her, finola sailed to the rocky isle, where she hoped to find her brothers.
but alas!
no sign was there of one of them.
then to the highest summit of the rocks she flew.
north, south, east, and west did she look, yet nought saw she save a watery wilderness.
now did her heart fail her, and she sang the saddest song she had yet sung.
as the last notes died finola raised her eyes, and lo!
conn came slowly swimming towards her with drenched plumage and head that drooped.
and as she looked, behold!
fiacra appeared, but it was as though his strength failed.
then did finola swim toward her fainting brother and lend him her aid, and soon the twins were safe on the sunlit rock, nestling for warmth beneath their sister's wings.
yet finola's heart still beat with alarm as she sheltered her younger brothers, for aed came not, and she feared lest he were lost for ever.
but, at noon, sailing he came over the breast of the blue waters, with head erect and plumage sunlit.
and under the feathers of her breast did finola draw him, for conn and fiacra still cradled beneath her wings.
'rest here, while ye may, dear brothers,' she said.
and she sang to them a lullaby so surpassing sweet that the sea-birds hushed their cries and flocked to listen to the sad, slow music.
and when aed and fiacra and conn were lulled to sleep, finola's notes grew more and more faint and her head drooped, and soon she too slept peacefully in the warm sunlight.
but few were the sunny days on the sea of moyle, and many were the tempests that ruffled its waters.
still keener grew the winter frosts, and the misery of the four white swans was greater than ever before.
even their most sorrowful gaelic songs told not half their woe.
from the fury of the storm they still sought shelter on that rocky isle where finola had despaired of seeing her dear ones more.
slowly passed the years of doom, until one mid-winter a frost more keen than any known before froze the sea into a floor of solid black ice.
by night the swans crouched together on the rocky isle for warmth, but each morning they were frozen to the ground and could free themselves only with sore pain, for they left clinging to the ice-bound rock the soft down of their breasts, the quills from their white wings, and the skin of their poor feet.
and when the sun melted the ice-bound surface of the waters, and the swans swam once more in the sea of moyle, the salt water entered their wounds, and they well-nigh died of pain.
but in time the down on their breasts and the feathers on their wings grew, and they were healed of their wounds.
the years dragged on, and by day finola and her brothers would fly toward the shores of the green island of erin, or to the rocky blue headlands of alba, or they would swim far out into a dim grey wilderness of waters.
but ever as night fell it was their doom to return to the sea of moyle.
one day, as they looked toward the green isle, they saw coming to the coast a troop of horsemen mounted on snow-white steeds, and their armour glittered in the sun.
a cry of great joy went up from the children of lir, for they had seen no human form since they spread their wings above lake darvra, and flew to the stormy sea of moyle.
'speak,' said finola to her brothers, 'speak, and say if these be not our own dedannan folk.'
and aed and fiacra and conn strained their eyes, and aed answered, 'it seemeth, dear sister, to me, that it is indeed our own people.'
as the horsemen drew nearer and saw the four swans, each man shouted in the gaelic tongue, 'behold the children of lir!'
and when finola and her brothers heard once more the sweet gaelic speech, and saw the faces of their own people, their happiness was greater than can be told.
for long they were silent, but at length finola spake.
of their life on the sea of moyle she told, of the dreary rains and blustering winds, of the giant waves and the roaring thunder, of the black frost, and of their own poor battered and wounded bodies.
of their loneliness of soul, of that she could not speak.
'but tell us,' she went on, 'tell us of our father, lir.
lives he still, and bove derg, and our dear dedannan friends?'
scarce could the dedannans speak for the sorrow they had for finola and her brothers, but they told how lir and bove derg were alive and well, and were even now celebrating the feast of age at the house of lir.
'but for their longing for you, your father and friends would be happy indeed.'
glad then and of great comfort were the hearts of finola and her brothers.
but they could not hear more, for they must hasten to fly from the pleasant shores of erin to the sea-stream of moyle, which was their doom.
and as they flew, finola sang, and faint floated her voice over the kneeling host.
as the sad song grew fainter and more faint, the dedannans wept aloud.
then, as the snow-white birds faded from sight, the sorrowful company turned the heads of their white steeds from the shore, and rode southward to the home of lir.
and when it was told there of the sufferings of finola and her brothers, great was the sorrow of the dedannans.
yet was lir glad that his children were alive, and he thought of the day when the magic spell would be broken, and those so dear to him would be freed from their bitter woe.
once more were ended three hundred years of doom, and glad were the four white swans to leave the cruel sea of moyle.
yet might they fly only to the wild western sea, and tempest-tossed as before, here they in no way escaped the pitiless fury of wind and wave.
worse than aught they had before endured was a frost that drove the brothers to despair.
well-nigh frozen to a rock, they one night cried aloud to finola that they longed for death.
and she, too, would fain have died.
but that same night did a dream come to the swan-maiden, and, when she awoke, she cried to her brothers to take heart.
'believe, dear brothers, in the great god who hath created the earth with its fruits and the sea with its terrible wonders.
trust in him, and he will yet save you.'
and her brothers answered, 'we will trust.'
and finola also put her trust in god, and they all fell into a deep slumber.
when the children of lir awoke, behold!
the sun shone, and thereafter, until the three hundred years on the western sea were ended, neither wind nor wave nor rain nor frost did hurt to the four swans.
on a grassy isle they lived and sang their wondrous songs by day, and by night they nestled together on their soft couch, and awoke in the morning to sunshine and to peace.
and there on the grassy island was their home, until the three hundred years were at an end.
then finola called to her brothers, and tremblingly she told, and tremblingly they heard, that they might now fly eastward to seek their own old home.
lightly did they rise on outstretched wings, and swiftly did they fly until they reached land.
there they alighted and gazed each at the other, but too great for speech was their joy.
then again did they spread their wings and fly above the green grass on and on, until they reached the hills and trees that surrounded their old home.
but, alas!
only the ruins of lir's dwelling were left.
around was a wilderness overgrown with rank grass, nettles, and weeds.
too downhearted to stir, the swans slept that night within the ruined walls of their old home, but, when day broke, each could no longer bear the loneliness, and again they flew westward.
and it was not until they came to inis glora that they alighted.
on a small lake in the heart of the island they made their home, and, by their enchanting music, they drew to its shores all the birds of the west, until the lake came to be called 'the lake of the bird-flocks.'
slowly passed the years, but a great longing filled the hearts of the children of lir.
when would the good saint come to erin?
when would the chime of the christ-bell peal over land and sea?
one rosy dawn the swans awoke among the rushes of the lake of the bird-flocks, and strange and faint was the sound that floated to them from afar.
trembling, they nestled close the one to the other, until the brothers stretched their wings and fluttered hither and thither in great fear.
yet trembling they flew back to their sister, who had remained silent among the sedges.
crouching by her side they asked, 'what, dear sister, can be the strange, faint sound that steals across our island?'
with quiet, deep joy finola answered, 'dear brothers, it is the chime of the christ-bell that ye hear, the christ-bell of which we have dreamed through thrice three hundred years.
soon the spell will be broken, soon our sufferings will end.'
then did finola glide from the shelter of the sedges across the rose-lit lake, and there by the shore of the western sea she chanted a song of hope.
calm crept into the hearts of the brothers as finola sang, and, as she ended, once more the chime stole across the isle.
no longer did it strike terror into the hearts of the children of lir, rather as a note of peace did it sink into their souls.
then, when the last chime died, finola said, 'let us sing to the great king of heaven and earth.'
far stole the sweet strains of the white swans, far across inis glora, until they reached the good saint kemoc, for whose early prayers the christ-bell had chimed.
and he, filled with wonder at the surpassing sweetness of the music, stood mute, but when it was revealed unto him that the voices he heard were the voices of finola and aed and fiacra and conn, who thanked the high god for the chime of the christ-bell, he knelt and also gave thanks, for it was to seek the children of lir that the saint had come to inis glora.
in the glory of noon, kemoc reached the shore of the little lake, and saw four white swans gliding on its waters.
and no need had the saint to ask whether these indeed were the children of lir.
rather did he give thanks to the high god who had brought him hither.
then gravely the good kemoc said to the swans, 'come ye now to land, and put your trust in me, for it is in this place that ye shall be freed from your enchantment.'
these words the four white swans heard with great joy, and coming to the shore they placed themselves under the care of the saint.
and he led them to his cell, and there they dwelt with him.
and kemoc sent to erin for a skilful workman, and ordered that two slender chains of shining silver be made.
betwixt finola and aed did he clasp one silver chain, and with the other did he bind fiacra and conn.
then did the children of lir dwell with the holy kemoc, and he taught them the wonderful story of christ that he and saint patrick had brought to the green isle.
and the story so gladdened their hearts that the misery of their past sufferings was well-nigh forgotten, and they lived in great happiness with the saint.
dear to him were they, dear as though they had been his own children.
thrice three hundred years had gone since eva had chanted the fate of the children of lir.
'until decca be the queen of largnen, until the good saint come to erin, and ye hear the chime of the christ-bell, shall ye not be delivered from your doom.'
the good saint had indeed come, and the sweet chimes of the christ-bell had been heard, and the fair decca was now the queen of king largnen.
soon were tidings brought to decca of the swan-maiden and her three swan-brothers.
strange tales did she hear of their haunting songs.
it was told her, too, of their cruel miseries.
then begged she her husband, the king, that he would go to kemoc and bring to her these human birds.
but largnen did not wish to ask kemoc to part with the swans, and therefore he did not go.
then was decca angry, and swore she would live no longer with largnen, until he brought the singing swans to the palace.
and that same night she set out for her father's kingdom in the south.
nevertheless largnen loved decca, and great was his grief when he heard that she had fled.
and he commanded messengers to go after her, saying he would send for the white swans if she would but come back.
therefore decca returned to the palace, and largnen sent to kemoc to beg of him the four white swans.
but the messenger returned without the birds.
then was largnen wroth, and set out himself for the cell of kemoc.
but he found the saint in the little church, and before the altar were the four white swans.
'is it truly told me that you refused these birds to queen decca?'
asked the king.
'it is truly told,' replied kemoc.
then largnen was more wroth than before, and seizing the silver chain of finola and aed in the one hand, and the chain of fiacra and conn in the other, he dragged the birds from the altar and down the aisle, and it seemed as though he would leave the church.
and in great fear did the saint follow.
but lo!
as they reached the door, the snow-white feathers of the four swans fell to the ground, and the children of lir were delivered from their doom.
for was not decca the bride of largnen, and the good saint had he not come, and the chime of the christ-bell was it not heard in the land?
but aged and feeble were the children of lir.
wrinkled were their once fair faces, and bent their little white bodies.
at the sight largnen, affrighted, fled from the church, and the good kemoc cried aloud, 'woe to thee, o king!'
then did the children of lir turn toward the saint, and thus finola spake:
'baptize us now, we pray thee, for death is nigh.
heavy with sorrow are our hearts that we must part from thee, thou holy one, and that in loneliness must thy days on earth be spent.
but such is the will of the high god.
here let our graves be digged, and here bury our four bodies, conn standing at my right side, fiacra at my left, and aed before my face, for thus did i shelter my dear brothers for thrice three hundred years 'neath wing and breast.'
then did the good kemoc baptize the children of lir, and thereafter the saint looked up, and lo!
he saw a vision of four lovely children with silvery wings, and faces radiant as the sun; and as he gazed they floated ever upward, until they were lost in a mist of blue.
then was the good kemoc glad, for he knew that they had gone to heaven.
but, when he looked downward, four worn bodies lay at the church door, and kemoc wept sore.
and the saint ordered a wide grave to be digged close by the little church, and there were the children of lir buried, conn standing at finola's right hand, and fiacra at her left, and before her face her twin brother aed.
and the grass grew green above them, and a white tombstone bore their names, and across the grave floated morning and evening the chime of the sweet christ-bell.
dermat and grania
it was at tara that king cormac would hold a great meeting, and the chiefs and nobles of the land were gathered together there.
but ere the business of the day was begun, it was told that two warriors were without and would talk with the king.
then did cormac welcome the messengers, and when he heard that they came from the broad hill slopes of allen and bore a message from finn, their king, he said that the meeting should not be held that day, but that he would speak with the warriors alone.
and after they had eaten and drunk, cormac bade them tell their errand.
then spake oisin, the son of finn, and he told how his mother had long been dead, and how his father would fain marry grania, the fair daughter of cormac.
but cormac made answer, 'scarce in all erin is there a prince that hath not sought in marriage the hand of my daughter, but she hath refused them all.
for this cause have i their ill-will, for the princess hath ever made me tell how none had won her favour.
wherefore shall i bring you to my daughter's presence, that from her own lips ye may hear the answer that ye shall carry to your king.'
so cormac went with oisin the son of finn and with dering his friend to the sunny room of the princess.
and cormac sat by grania on the couch and told her wherefore the champions were come.
and grania, giving little heed to the matter, made answer, 'if finn be a fitting son-in-law for my father, the king, then may he well be a worthy husband for me.'
when oisin the son of finn and dering his friend heard these words they were glad, for they knew not how little thought the princess gave to her words.
and cormac made a feast for the champions, and ere they departed he told them that after two weeks finn should come thither.
so the warriors bade farewell to the palace of cormac and went back to allen, and there they told finn that after two weeks he should go to tara and wed the fair grania.
slow sped the days, but when they were passed, finn, with many chiefs and nobles as his guard, marched to tara.
and there cormac received him right royally and made ready a great feast.
on his right hand sat finn and on his left the queen.
and next the queen sat grania.
now it chanced that the chief who sat on the other side of grania was a story-teller, and the princess listened gladly to the tales he told.
but when he ceased from his tales grania asked, 'wherefore is it that finn hath come hither to feast?'
and the chief, filled with wonder that the princess should question him thus, made answer, 'of a truth hath finn come hither this day to claim thee for his wife.'
then grania bethought her of the words she had spoken to oisin the son of finn and to dering his friend, and of how she spake without heed.
and now was finn come hither to seek her for his wife.
a long, deep silence fell upon the princess, while her eyes roved among the goodly company.
at length she turned again to the chief who sat next her.
'of this goodly company,' she said, 'i know none save oisin the son of finn and dering his friend.
tell me, i pray thee, who sitteth yonder by oisin's side?'
and the chief told his name and sang his praise.
again grania asked, 'and who, i pray thee, sitteth by his side?'
and the chief told his name and sang his praise.
afterwards grania sought of the chief the names of many of the nobles, and he told her, and he told too of the deeds they had done.
then the princess called her handmaid and said, 'bring me from my room the jewelled drinking horn.'
and the handmaiden brought it and grania filled it to the brim and said, 'take it to finn, and say that i would have him drink from it.'
and finn drank from the drinking horn, and then passed it to cormac the king.
and the king drank from it and also the queen.
then again grania filled the drinking horn to the brim, and yet again, until all whom she wished to drink had drunk from it.
and it was not long until a deep sleep had fallen upon all who had drunk.
grania then rose slowly from her seat and crossed the hall to where dermat sat, for dermat, of those nobles that finn brought with him, pleased her the best.
and to him she spake thus:
'dermat, it is from the champion who sat next me that i have learnt thy name, but ere i knew it i loved thee.
from the sunny window of my chamber did i not watch thee on the day of the hurling-match?
no part didst thou take in the contest till, seeing the game go against the men of allen, thou didst rush into the crowd, and three times didst thou win the goal.
my heart went out to thee that day, and now do i know that thee only do i love.
sore is my distress for the heedless words i spake which have brought finn hither.
older is he than cormac my father, and him will i not wed. therefore, i pray thee, flee with me hence.'
sore troubled was dermat as he listened to these words, and at length he replied, 'unworthy am i of thy love, and there is not a stronghold in erin that would shelter us from the wrath of finn were this thing to be.'
when grania heard the words that dermat spake, she said, 'i place thee under a solemn vow that thou follow me from tara ere finn shall wake.
and thou knowest there is no true hero but will hold his vow binding even unto death.'
'even though we so willed it,' replied dermat, 'could we not escape from tara, for finn hath in his keeping the keys of the great gate.'
'yet canst thou escape if thou wilt,' said grania, 'for a champion such as thou canst bound over the highest wall in erin.
by the wicket-gate leading from my chamber shall i go forth, and if thou followest me not, alone shall i flee from the sight of finn.'
and having spoken thus, grania went forth from the hall.
then was dermat in sore plight, for he would not depart from the solemn vow that grania had laid upon him, and yet he feared lest the princess should not escape the wrath of finn.
and he took counsel of the nobles who had come hither with finn, and there was not one but said, 'even though death come of it, thou canst not depart from thy solemn vow.'
then dermat arose, and when he was armed he bade his companions a tearful farewell, for he knew they might see his face no more.
forth he went, and with an exceeding light bound he cleared the rampart and alighted on the green grass beyond.
and there grania met him.
and dermat said to the princess, 'even now, i pray of thee, return to thy father's home and finn shall hear nought of this thing.'
but grania's will was firm, and she said, 'i will not return now nor will i return hereafter, for death only shall part me and thee.'
'then go forward, o grania,' said dermat, and the two went forth.
but when they were scarce a mile from tara grania told dermat that she was weary.
and dermat said, 'it is a good time to weary, o grania.
get thee back to thine own household, for i plight thee the word of a true warrior that i will not carry thee from thy father's house.'
'neither is there need,' answered grania, 'for my father's horses are in a fenced meadow by themselves, and chariots also will ye find there.
yoke two horses to a chariot, and i will wait for thee on this spot until thou overtake me again.'
then dermat did as grania said, and he brought the horses and the chariot, and they drove forth.
but when they came to the banks of the river shannon, dermat said, 'now that we have the horses it is easier for finn to follow in our track.'
'then,' said grania, 'leave the horses on this spot and i will journey on foot henceforth.'
and dermat, when he saw that the princess would not be moved, told her how great was his love for her, and how he would defend her even with his life from the wrath of finn.
and dermat wed grania, and they vowed solemn vows that they would be faithful each to each even unto death.
then tenderly did dermat lift his wife in his strong arms and bear her across the ford, and neither the sole of her foot nor the hem of her mantle touched the stream.
afterwards dermat led one of the horses across the ford, but the other he left on the far side.
dermat and grania then walked until they came to a thick wood, and there dermat lopped branches from the trees and made a hut, and he made for grania a bed of the soft rushes and of the tops of the birch.
and there grania rested, and there did dermat bring to her food of the forest and water from a clear spring.
it was early dawn at tara when cormac and finn awoke from their deep sleep.
when finn found that grania had fled with dermat, great was his wrath, and he called to him his nobles, and ordered them with all speed to follow in the track of dermat and grania.
and finn went with them, nor was the track hard to follow until they came to the river shannon, but there it was lost and no man could find it.
then was the wrath of finn so great that he said he would hang his nobles, and not one would he spare, if they did not again find the track, and that with all speed.
so, being sore afraid, they crossed the river, and when they had searched they saw the horses one on either side, and they found, too, the spot where dermat and grania had turned from the river.
and when they told finn, he was content, for he knew of a surety that dermat and grania hid in the deep wood.
now among the nobles were those who loved dermat, and would fain save him from the hate of finn.
and one said, 'it behooveth us to send warning to dermat.
let us send to him bran, the hound of finn, for bran loveth dermat as though he were his own master.'
and they called the hound and told him secretly what he should do.
bran listened with ears erect, and then, losing no time, he followed the track, nor did he miss it once until it brought him unto the hut.
and going in he found dermat and grania asleep, and he thrust his head into dermat's bosom.
and dermat woke with a start, and when he saw bran there was no need for the hound to tell whence he came.
then dermat awoke his wife and told her that finn was near.
great fear looked from out the eyes of grania when she heard, and she begged that they might flee.
but dermat answered, 'were we to flee, yet would finn overtake us, and it were as ill to fall into his hands then as at this time, but neither he nor his men shall enter this hut without my leave.'
still grania feared greatly, but she spake no further, for in dermat's eyes she read his gloom.
while bran still tarried by the hut, the nobles who loved dermat thought of yet another warning to send their friend.
they had with them a serving-man whose voice was so loud that it could be heard for many miles, and they made this man give three shouts that dermat might hear.
and when dermat heard the shouts he said to grania, 'well i know whose is the voice that shouteth, and full well i know that it cometh as a warning that finn is nigh.'
then great fear took hold of grania, and she trembled, and again she said, 'let us flee, for how shall we withstand the wrath of finn?'
but dermat said, 'we will not flee, but neither finn nor his men shall enter the hut without my leave.'
then was grania filled with foreboding, yet spake she no further, for sad and stern was her husband's voice, and in his eyes she read his gloom.
now finn, having reached the wood, sent forward his men, but when they came to the thickest part of the forest they beheld a fence which no man could break through or climb.
for dermat had cleared a space round his hut and around the space had he built the strong fence.
then the nobles climbed a high tree and from it did they look within the fence, and there they saw dermat and with him a lady.
but for their love of dermat did the nobles hide from finn that they had seen his foe.
and one said to him, 'far would it be from the mind of dermat to await thee here, knowing as he does that his life is in peril.'
then did finn's wrath wax strong, and he replied, 'that dermat hath thee for friend will avail him nought.
was it not to warn him that your serving-man gave three shouts, and was it not to warn him that ye sent unto him my dog bran?
full well i know that dermat is hid behind yonder strong fence.'
and finn cried aloud, 'which of us, dermat, is it that speaketh truth?
art thou behind the fence?'
'thou, as ever, art right, o king,' cried dermat.
'i am here, and with me is grania, but none other shall come hither save with my leave.'
now in the circle fence were seven doors, and at each door did finn place strong men, so that dermat should by no means escape.
and grania, when she heard finn's voice, was filled with fear, and she trembled greatly.
then dermat kissed her three times and bade her be of good cheer for all would yet be well.
now it was by angus of bruga that dermat had been brought up.
most skilled in magic was this angus, and to him was the plight of dermat revealed dermat, whom he loved as though he were his own son.
so angus arose and travelled on the wings of the wind until he came to the hut where dermat and grania dwelt, and, unseen of finn or his chiefs, he entered the dwelling.
and dermat, when he saw his foster-father, greeted him gladly and told him of the solemn vow which the princess grania had laid upon him, and how she was his wedded wife.
'and now are we in sore strait, for finn, whose will it was to marry grania, hath pursued us and would fain take my life.'
'no harm shall befall you,' said angus, 'if ye will but shelter under my mantle, the one on the right side and the other on the left, for then will i bring you both forth from this place, and finn shall know it not.'
but dermat would not flee from finn, yet it was his will that grania should go with angus.
'and i will follow if it be that i leave this place alive, yet should i be slain, i pray thee, angus, send the princess to her father and beg him that he deal gently with her.'
then dermat kissed grania, and angus, having told the way that they would go, placed the princess beneath his mantle and was carried forth on the wings of the wind unseen of finn.
when angus and grania had gone, dermat girded on his armour, and, deep in thought, he walked to one of the seven doors and asked who was without.
and the answer came, 'true friends are we, and no harm shall befall thee, shouldst thou venture forth.'
but dermat answered, 'i seek the door guarded by finn, and by none other shall i leave this place.'
and he came to another door and asked who was without, and again was it told him, 'thy bounden friends.'
then to the third, to the fourth, and to the fifth door did dermat go, and at each was he told how the men without were willing to fight to the death for their love of him.
but when dermat came to the sixth door and asked by whom it was guarded, the answer came, 'no friends of thine, for shouldst thou dare to venture forth, we will make thee a mark for our swords and spears.'
'cowards, no fear of you keepeth me from coming forth, but i crave not the blood of such as ye.'
and he went to the seventh door and asked who was without.
and the voice of finn answered, 'he that hateth thee, and will sever thy head from thy body shouldst thou dare to come forth.'
'at length have i found the door i seek, for by the door that finn guardeth, by it only shall i pass out.'
but dermat, seeing of a sudden an unguarded spot, sprang with a light bound over the fence, and ran so swiftly that soon he was beyond the reach of sword or spear.
and no man dared to follow dermat.
nor did the hero rest until he came to the warm, well-lighted hut where grania sat with angus before a blazing fire.
when grania saw dermat her heart leaped for joy.
then did he tell her his tidings from beginning to end, and after they had eaten they slept in peace until the morning brake.
and while it was yet early angus bid them farewell, and he left with them this warning, knowing that finn would pursue them still: 'go into no tree that has but one trunk; nor into any cave having but one opening; land on no island that has but one way leading to it; where you cook your food, there eat it not; where you eat, sleep not there; and where you sleep to-night, rise not there to-morrow.'
[footnote: angus meant that dermat should change his place of sleeping during the night.]
and when angus had left them, dermat and grania sorrowed after him, and it was not long until they journeyed forth.
all that befell dermat and grania cannot be told in this book, but of sharvan the giant and of the fairy quicken-tree you shall hear now.
after many wanderings dermat came with grania to the wood where sharvan guarded the quicken-tree.
honey-sweet were the berries of the tree, and gladness flowed through the veins of him who ate thereof.
though he were one hundred years old, yet would he be but thirty so soon as he had eaten three of the fairy berries.
by day sharvan the giant sat at the foot of the tree, and by night he sat in a hut in its branches, and no man dared to come near.
fearful to behold and wicked was this sharvan.
one eye, one red eye gleamed from the middle of his black forehead.
on his body was a girdle of iron, and from the girdle was a heavy club hung by a heavy chain.
and by magic was sharvan saved from death, for water would not drown him nor fire burn; neither was there weapon, save one, that could wound the giant.
the one weapon was sharvan's own club, for were he by it dealt three blows, his doom was come.
now dermat knew of the giant that guarded the fairy quicken-tree, therefore he left grania in shelter and went alone to the foot of the tree.
and there sat sharvan, for it was day.
and dermat told the giant how he would fain build a hut in the forest and hunt amid the woods.
then the giant, casting his red eye upon the champion, told him in surly tone that it mattered not to him who lived or hunted in the forest, so long as he did not eat the berries of the quicken-tree.
so dermat built a hut near to a clear well, and there he and grania lived in peace for many days, eating the food of the forest and drinking water from the spring.
now it was at this time that two chiefs came to finn on the green slopes of allen.
and when he asked them who they were and whence they came, they told how they were enemies that would fain make peace.
but finn answered, 'one of two things must ye bring hither would ye win peace from me.
either must ye bring me the head of a warrior or a handful of berries from the quicken-tree.'
then said oisin the son of finn, 'i counsel you, get ye hence, for the head that the king seeketh from you is the head of dermat, and were ye to attempt to take it, then would dermat take yours, were ye twenty times the number that ye be.
and as for the quicken-berries, know ye that they grow on a fairy tree, guarded by the one-eyed giant sharvan.'
but the two chiefs were firm and would not be moved, for it were better to die in their quest than to return to the hilly slopes of allen at enmity with finn.
so they left the palace, and journeyed without rest until they came to dermat's hut by the clear well.
now dermat, when he heard footsteps without, seized his weapons, and going to the door, asked of the strangers who they were and whence they came.
and the chiefs told their names and for what cause they were come thither.
then dermat said, 'i am not willing to give you my head, nor will you find it an easy matter to take it.
neither may ye hope to fare better in your quest of the quicken-berries, for the surly giant sharvan guards the tree.
fire will not burn him nor water drown, nor is there a weapon that hath power to wound him, save only his own club.
say, therefore, which ye will do battle for first, my head or the quicken-berries?'
and they answered, 'we will first do battle with thee.'
so they made ready, and it was agreed that they should use nought save their hands in the combat.
and if dermat were overcome then should his head be taken by the chiefs to finn; if they were overpowered then should their heads be forfeit to dermat.
but the fight was short, for the chiefs were as children in the hands of the hero, and he bound them sore in bitter bonds.
now when grania heard of the quicken-berries she longed with a great longing to taste them.
at first she said nought for she knew how they were guarded by the surly giant sharvan; but when she could hide her desire no longer, she said to dermat, 'so great is my longing for the berries of the quicken-tree that if i may not eat of them i shall surely die.'
and dermat, who would see no ill befall his dear wife, said he would bring her the berries.
when the two chiefs heard this, they prayed dermat to loose their bonds that they also might fight the giant.
but dermat answered, 'at the mere sight of sharvan ye would flee, and even were it not so i wish the aid of none.'
then the chiefs begged that they might see the fight, and dermat gave them leave.
when the champion came to the foot of the quicken-tree he found sharvan there, asleep.
and he struck the giant a mighty blow to awake him.
then sharvan raised his head, and, glaring at dermat with his one red eye, said, 'there hath been peace betwixt us heretofore, wherefore should we now depart from it?'
and dermat said, 'it is not to strive that i come hither, but to beg of thee berries from the quicken-tree, for grania, my wife, longeth for them with a great longing.'
but the giant answered, 'though the princess were at the point of death, yet would i not give her berries from the quicken-tree.'
when dermat heard this he said, 'it had pleased me well to remain at peace with thee, but now must i take the berries from the tree whether it be thy will or no.'
at these words sharvan waxed exceeding wroth, and with his club did he deal dermat three sore blows.
but the champion, recovering, sprang upon the giant, and seizing his great club, he ceased not to belabour him until he fell to earth a dead man.
then dermat sat down to rest.
and he told the captive chiefs to drag the body of the giant into the wood and bury it, that grania might not be affrighted.
and when they had come back he sent for the princess.
and grania, when she came to the quicken-tree, would not gather the fruit, for she said, 'i will eat no berries save those plucked by the hand of my husband.'
so dermat plucked the berries, and grania ate and was satisfied.
then the champion gave berries of the quicken-tree to the captive chiefs, saying, 'take these to finn and so win your peace.'
and this he said as though they were free men.
they thanked the hero for his words, and also for the berries, which they could not have got of themselves.
then having bid dermat and grania farewell they journeyed forth towards the hilly slopes of allen.
when they were gone, dermat and grania went to the top of the quicken-tree, into the hut of sharvan, and the berries below were but bitter compared to the berries that were above upon the tree.
now when finn's two enemies were come to allen he asked them how they had fared, and whether they had brought with them the head of dermat or a handful of berries from the quicken-tree.
and they answered, 'sharvan the giant is slain, and behold here we have brought thee berries from the quicken-tree so that henceforth we may live at peace.'
then finn took the berries in his hand, and when he had smelled them three times he said, 'of a truth these be the berries of the quicken-tree, but not of your own strength have ye gotten them.
full well i know that by dermat hath sharvan the giant been slain, and from his hand have ye gotten the berries.
therefore have ye no peace from me, and now shall i summon an army that i may march to the wood of the quicken-tree, for there surely doth dermat dwell.'
now when finn came with his army to the quicken-tree it was noon, and the sun shone with great heat.
therefore finn said to his men, 'under this tree shall we rest until the sun be set, for well i know that dermat is among the branches.
bring hither a chess-board that i may play.'
and finn sat down to play against oisin his son, but there were with oisin three nobles to help him, while finn played without aid.
with care and with skill did they play, until at length finn said to his son, 'i see one move, oisin, that would win thee the game, yet is there none of thine helpers that can show thee how thou mayest win.'
then dermat, who had watched the game from among the branches overhead, spoke aloud to himself the move that should be played.
and grania sat by her husband ill at ease.
'it matters not, dermat,' she said, 'whether oisin win or lose the game, but if thou speakest so that they hear, it may cost thee thy life.'
yet did dermat pay no heed to the counsel of grania, but plucked a berry, and with it took aim so true that he hit the chessman that oisin should move.
and oisin moved the man and won the game.
yet again did finn play against oisin and his friends, and once more had oisin to make but one move to win the game.
then did dermat throw down a berry as before and it struck the right man.
and oisin moved the piece and won the game.
a third time did oisin, son of finn, play against his father, and it fell as before, for once more he won with dermat's aid.
and this time the nobles raised a mighty cheer.
but finn said, 'no marvel is it, oisin, that thou hast won the game, for of a surety thou hast had the aid of dermat who dwelleth amid the branches of the quicken-tree.'
and looking up he said, 'have i not, dermat, spoken truth?'
'i have never known thy judgment err, o king,' replied dermat.
'in truth i dwell here with grania in the hut that was built by sharvan the giant.'
and they looked up, and through an opening in the branches they beheld dermat kiss grania three times, for the princess was in great fear.
then was finn exceeding wroth, and he bade his men surround the tree, each holding the hand of each so that dermat might by no means escape.
and he offered great reward to any man that would go up into the tree and bring to him the hero's head or force him to come down.
one of finn's men then spake: 'it was dermat's father that slew my father, therefore will i go up into the tree.'
and he went up.
now it was revealed to angus of bruga that dermat was in sore plight, and on the wings of the wind he came to his aid, unseen of finn or his chiefs.
so when the avenger climbed into the tree, angus was there.
and when dermat with a stroke of his foot flung his enemy to the ground, angus caused him to take the shape of dermat, and for this reason finn's men fell upon him and slew him.
but no sooner was he slain than he again took his own shape, and finn knew that dermat was still alive in the quicken-tree.
then nine times did a man of finn's army climb the tree, and nine times was he thrown to earth and killed by his own friends.
for each time did angus cause the warrior to take dermat's shape.
when finn saw nine of his men lie dead before him his heart failed him, and his soul was filled with bitterness.
at this time angus said that he would take grania away with him.
and dermat was content and said, 'if it be that i live until evening i will follow thee, but if finn killeth me, i pray thee send the princess to her father at tara.'
so angus flung his magic mantle around grania, and on the wings of the wind they were carried to bruga, unknown to finn or his men.
then dermat spake from the tree: 'thou surely shalt not escape my vengeance, o finn, nor shalt thou easily compass my death.
oft have i cleared the way for thee when thou didst go forth to battle, and oft have i sheltered thy retreat when thou didst quit the field.
yet art thou unmindful of mine help, and i swear that i will be avenged.'
when the hero ceased from speaking, one of finn's nobles said, 'dermat speaketh truth, now therefore grant him thy forgiveness.'
but finn answered, 'i will not to the end of my life grant him forgiveness, nor shall he know rest or peace until he yieldeth to me his head.'
again the noble spake: 'now pledge i thee the word of a true warrior that, unless the skies fall upon me or the earth open and swallow me up, no harm shall come nigh dermat, for under my care i take his body and his life.'
and looking up, the noble cried, 'o dermat, i pledge thee my body and my life that no ill shall befall thee this day, therefore come down out of the tree.'
then dermat rose and stood upon a high bough.
with an airy, bird-like bound he sprang forward and alighted outside the circle formed by the men who had joined hands, and was soon far beyond the reach of finn.
and the noble who saved him followed, and they came together to bruga, and there angus and grania met them, and the joy of the princess cannot be told.
yet was it not long ere dermat was again in sore strait, for finn followed him to bruga, and with finn came his old nurse.
and she was a witch.
now it chanced on the day that they came thither that dermat hunted alone in the wood.
and the witch flew on the leaf of a yellow water-lily till she came straight over the place where dermat was.
then through a hole in the leaf she aimed deadly darts at the hero, and though he was clad in strong armour they did him great hurt.
so sore were his wounds that dermat thought the witch would cause his death on the spot, unless he could pierce her through the hole in the leaf.
therefore he took his red javelin and cast it with all care.
and so sure was his aim that it reached the witch through the leaf, and she fell to the ground dead.
then dermat cut off her head and took it to angus.
early on the morrow angus rose and went where finn was, and he asked him if he would make peace with dermat.
and finn, because he had now lost his witch-nurse as well as many men, was glad to make peace in whatever way dermat might choose.
then angus went to cormac, and he too was glad to make peace with the hero.
but when angus came to dermat he said he would not make peace unless he received from finn and from cormac all the wide lands that he asked.
and cormac and finn gave him the lands, and forgave him all he had done.
then was there at last peace between them, and dermat and grania built a house in sligo, far from cormac and finn, and they called the name of their house rath-grania.
and there were born unto them one daughter and four sons.
and it was said that there was not living in erin a man richer than dermat in gold and silver, in sheep and cattle herds.
now it fell on a day after many years that grania sat as one in a dream.
and dermat asked his wife in what troublous thought she was lost, for he saw well that she was ill at ease.
and grania answered, 'it seemeth not well to me that, having so great wealth, we live removed from the world, and welcome to our home neither my father nor finn, though with both are we now at peace.'
dermat gave heed to the words of his wife and then spake thus: 'of a truth there is peace betwixt us, but thou knowest well that neither thy father the king nor yet finn bears me aught but ill-will, and for this cause have we dwelt apart.'
'yet will time have softened their hearts,' replied grania, 'and wouldst thou but make them a feast, so mightest thou win their favour and their love.'
and dermat, because of the love he bore grania, granted her wish, and for a year they were making ready for the great feast.
then were messengers sent to bid thither cormac and finn.
and they came, and with them their nobles, their horses and their dogs, and for a full year they hunted and feasted at rath-grania.
when a year had passed, it chanced one night that the distant yelping of a hound woke dermat from his sleep, and grania too awoke and in great fear said, 'of a truth doth that sound forebode ill. heed it not, but lie down on thy bed and rest.'
dermat lay down, but ere long he again heard the hound's voice.
then he started up, and made as though he would go to find for himself wherefore the hound disturbed the silence of the night.
but again grania begged him to lie down and to give no heed to the matter.
so dermat lay down and fell into a light sleep, and when the hound awakened him the third time it was broad day.
and grania, seeing that his mind was set, did not beg him longer to stay, yet, fearing danger, she begged him to take with him his red javelin and his sword named 'the greater fury.'
but dermat, deeming the matter light, took with him his yellow javelin and his sword 'the lesser fury,' and leading his faithful hound by the chain, went forth.
and he did not rest till he came to the summit of a hill where he found finn, and of him he asked the meaning of the chase.
and finn answered that the men and hounds were tracking a wild boar which had ofttimes been chased, but had always escaped.
even now was it coming towards them, so it were well that they should betake themselves to some safer spot.
dermat knew no fear of the wild boar, and he would not leave the summit of the hill where he stood.
yet did he pray finn to leave with him his hound bran, that it might help his own dog were he in need.
but finn would not leave bran to be torn by the wild boar that could now be seen coming towards them.
so dermat stood alone on the summit of the hill, and he knew well it was that he might meet his death that finn's men did hunt the boar this day.
yet would he not leave the hill, for if it were his fate to meet death, nought could save him from his doom.
then as the boar came rushing up the face of the hill, dermat let loose his good hound, but it, seeing the fearful monster, fled before him.
and now dermat knew that he would have need of his red javelin, and he sorrowed that he had given no heed to the counsel of grania.
yet seizing his yellow javelin he cast it with careful aim and it struck the boar in its forehead.
but it fell harmless to the ground, doing the monster no hurt.
then dermat drew his sword from its sheath, and with a mighty blow did he strike at the boar's neck.
but the sword broke in his hand, and the boar felt not so much as a prick.
now was dermat without any weapon save the hilt of his sword, and the boar made a deadly onslaught, thrusting his tusk into the hero's side.
but with the strength that was left him dermat flung the hilt of the sword at the brute's head, and it pierced his skull and entered his brain, whereupon the boar fell dead.
but so deep was the wound in dermat's side that when finn came to him he found the hero near unto death.
and finn said, 'now am i well content, for thine end hath come.'
'sure the words that thou speakest come not from thine heart,' answered dermat, 'for it is in thy power to heal me, and that thou knowest full well.'
'how might i heal thee?'
asked finn.
'thou knowest that power was given thee to heal him who might be at the point of death.
let him but drink water from the palms of thy closed hands, and he is healed of his hurt.'
'yet wherefore should i heal thee who hast worked me nought but ill?'
'thou wouldst not speak thus wert thou mindful of the day when i saved thee from the flames.
thou wast bidden to a banquet, and ere the feast began the palace was set a-fire by those who wished thee ill. and i and my men rushed forth and quenched the flames and slew thy foes.
had i begged water from thy hands that night thou hadst not said me nay.'
'thou forgettest that but for thee the fair grania were my wedded wife.'
'of a surety am i not blameworthy in this matter, o finn, for grania laid upon me a solemn vow that i should follow her from tara ere thou shouldst wake from thy sleep.
and i took counsel of many nobles, and there was not one but said, "even though death come of it, thou canst not depart from the solemn vow that grania hath laid upon thee."
and now, i pray of thee, let me drink from thine hands, else surely death will overtake me in this place.
from many another deadly strait have i delivered thee, yet hast thou forgotten them all.
but the hour will come when surely thou wilt need my help shouldst thou let me die this day.
yet grieve i not to think that thou wilt be in deadly strait, but rather grieve i for those true heroes whom i shall no longer aid.'
then one of the nobles, hearing these words, prayed finn that he would let dermat drink from his hands.
finn replied, 'i know not of any well on this hill whence i can bring water.'
but dermat said, 'right well thou knowest that hidden by yonder bush is a well of crystal water.
no more than nine paces must thou go to reach it.
let me, i pray thee, drink from thine hands.'
then finn went to the well, and in his two hands tightly together did he bring the water towards dermat.
but as he came nearer he spilled it through his fingers, saying that he could not in such manner carry water so far.
but dermat believed him not, and said, 'of thine own will hast thou spilled the water.
i pray thee go once more to the well and bring me to drink, or i die.'
again the king went to the well, and with failing sight did dermat follow the dripping hands that came nearer and yet more near.
but of a sudden finn thought of grania, and a second time was the water spilled.
and when dermat saw it, he uttered a piteous cry.
then were the champions no longer able to see dermat in such grievous plight, and one said to finn, 'i swear to thee that if thou bringest not water to dermat, thou shalt not leave this hill alive, save i be a dead man.'
finn, hearing these words and seeing their frowns, went a third time to fetch water from the well.
and this time he made haste to bring it to dermat, but ere he had got half-way, the hero's head fell backward and he died.
then were raised three long cries of sorrow for dermat, who had been dear unto them all.
after some time had passed finn said, 'let us leave this hill lest angus come, for he may not believe that it was not at our hands that dermat met his death.'
so finn and his nobles left the hill, finn leading dermat's hound.
but four of the nobles turned back and laid their mantles over the champion.
then they once more followed the king.
grania sat that day on the highest tower of rath-grania, watching for dermat.
the fear she had felt in the night would not be stilled, and when at length finn came in sight, leading by the chain dermat's hound, she knew that she would not henceforth see dermat alive.
and when the truth had taken hold upon her, she fell in a swoon from the tower, and her handmaiden stood over her in great fear.
but at length her eyes opened, and when it was told her that dermat was dead she uttered a long, piercing cry, so that all flocked to hear what had befallen the princess.
and when it was told that dermat had been killed by the wild boar, the air was rent with cries of lamentation.
at length, when silence had fallen upon her grief, grania arose, and ordered that five hundred men should go to the hill and bring to her the body of dermat.
then turning to finn she begged of him to leave with her dermat's hound.
and finn would not.
but a noble, hearing that grania wished the hound took him from the hand of finn and gave him to the princess.
now as the men left rath-grania to bring home the body of dermat, it was revealed to angus of bruga that the hero lay dead on the hill.
and he at once set out on the wings of the wind and reached the sorrowful place ere grania's messengers had come there.
and they, when they came, found angus mourning over the body of dermat, and he asked them wherefore they were come.
when it was told angus that grania had sent them to bring the body of dermat to rath-grania, he stayed for some time wrapt in thought.
at length he spake these words: 'let it be told the princess that i will take with me the body of dermat to my home, that he may be preserved by my power as though he still lived.
for though i cannot bring him back to life, yet each day shall he speak with me for some space.'
and angus turned to his men that he had brought with him there and ordered that dermat's body should be placed on a golden bier, with the red and yellow javelins, one on either side, points upward.
thus was the dead hero carried to the home of angus.
when grania's messengers came back to her bringing not with them the body of dermat, she was at first sore grieved.
but when she heard how the hero lay on a golden bier in the keeping of his foster-father, and would each day speak with angus for some space, then was she content, for she knew that angus loved dermat as a father loveth his only son.
and grania sent messengers to her sons to bid them come to her.
and when they were come, she welcomed them gently and kissed them.
then with an exceeding loud and clear voice she said, 'o dear children, your father hath been slain by the will of finn, though peace had been sworn between them.
therefore get ye hence and avenge his death.
and that ye may have success in the battle, i will myself portion out among you your inheritance of arms, of arrows, and of sharp weapons.
spare none that would do good to finn, yet see ye to it that ye deal not treacherously with any man.
hasten ye and depart.'
then the sons of dermat bade their mother a tender farewell, and went forth to avenge their father's death.
our children
fanny
i
fanny started off early one morning, like little red riding hood, to visit her grandmother, who lives quite at the other end of the village.
but fanny did not stop like red riding hood to pick hazel nuts.
she went straight on her way, and did not see any wolf.
even when quite a long way off, she could see her grandmother seated on her stone doorstep, the dear grandmother who smiled with her toothless mouth and opened her old arms thin as grape vines to welcome her little granddaughter.
fanny's heart was filled with delight at the prospect of spending a whole day at her grandmother's.
and her grandmother, having no longer any cares or tasks, but living like a cricket near the fire, is happy too to see the little daughter of her son, a sweet reminder of her youth.
they have many things to say to each other, for one of them is at the end of life's voyage and the other is just setting out upon it.
"you grow bigger every day, fanny," says her grandmother, "and i am getting littler.
just look!
i need hardly stoop to press my lips to your forehead.
what difference does it make how old i am when i still have youth's roses in your cheeks, little fanny."
but fanny is exploring for the hundredth time, with new joy, all the curious things in the little house the paper flowers blooming beneath the glass globe, the old paintings of french generals in fine uniforms overthrowing their enemies, the gold cups, some with handles and some without, and grandfather's old gun which hangs on the chimney breast on a nail from which grandfather himself fastened it for the last time, thirty years ago.
but the hours pass and the first thing one knows it's time to get ready for the noonday dinner.
grandmother stirs up the wood fire that has been slumbering quietly, and then she breaks some eggs in the black tiled hearth, while fanny watches with great interest the omelette and bacon that turns gold and sings in the flame.
grandmother knows better than any one how to make ham omelettes and tell stories.
fanny, seated on the little stove, her cheek no higher than the table, eats the steaming omelette and drinks sparkling cider.
grandmother, however, as her habit is, eats standing near the corner of the hearth.
she holds her knife in her right hand, and in the other her snack spread on a crust of bread.
when they have finished, both of them, fanny says:
"grandmother, tell me the story of the blue bird."
and grandmother tells her story of the blue bird, how a wicked fairy changed a beautiful young prince into a bird the color of the deep sky, and of the great sorrow the princess felt when she saw the change and beheld her lover flying all ruddy and dripping toward the window of the tower in which she was shut up.
fanny is very thoughtful when she hears this story.
"was it a long, long time ago, grandmother, that the blue bird flew toward the tower where the princess was shut up?"
grandmother replies that it was all a good while ago, those things, in the days when animals could talk.
"were you young then?"
asks fanny.
"i wasn't born yet," says grandmother.
and fanny says to her: "i suppose a great many things happened before you were born, didn't they, grandmother?"
when they are through with their little talk grandmother gives fanny an apple and some bread.
"now run away, pet, and eat this in the yard."
and fanny goes out into the yard, where there are trees and grass and flowers and little birds.
ii
[llustration]
trees and grass and flowers and little birds there were in grandmother's yard.
fanny did not believe there was a prettier yard than this in all the world.
already she takes her knife from her pocket to cut her bread as the village people do.
she crunches into the apple first thing of all and then begins to munch her bread.
just then a little bird comes fluttering near her, then another, and then a third, then ten, twenty, thirty of them, all circling about her, some of them gray, some red, some brown and green and blue, all of them so pretty, and all singing.
fanny could not guess at first what they all wanted.
but soon she perceives that they are after bread, like little beggars.
they are indeed beggars, but they are also songsters.
fanny was too kindhearted to refuse them bread when they paid for it with songs.
she was only a little farmer's girl and she did not know that once upon a time, in a country where white rocks bathe in the blue sea, a blind old man earned his bread singing songs to the shepherds, songs that learned men admire even to this day.
but her heart heard the little birds, and she threw them crumbs that scarcely touched the earth before they caught them in the air.
fanny was too kindhearted to refuse them bread when they paid for it with songs.
fanny saw that the birds were not all of the same nature.
some of them, ranged in a circle at her feet, waited till the crumbs fell near their little beaks.
they were philosophers.
there were others who circled neatly around her in the air, and one even who came and actually pecked at the slice of bread in her hand.
she crumbled the bread and threw the crumbs to them all.
but they didn't all eat it, because as fanny could see, the boldest and cleverest left nothing for the others.
"it isn't right," she said to them; "each one must take his turn."
they hardly heard her.
one is not always heard when one speaks of justice.
she tried in every way to favor the weaker ones, and encourage the timid, but she did not succeed with them.
no matter how she tried she fed the fat at the expense of the thin.
it made her very sorry:
simple child that she was, she did not know it was the way of the world.
crumb by crumb the slice of bread all went to the little singers, and fanny went into her grandmother's house again quite pleased.
iii
at evening the grandmother took the basket in which fanny had brought the cake to her, and filling it with plums and raisins put the handle over her arm, and said:
"now, fanny, run straight home, and don't stop to amuse yourself and play with any of the village scamps.
be a good girl always.
good-bye."
she kissed her, but fanny stood a while very thoughtful at the threshold.
"grandmother," said she.
"yes, fanny dear."
"i should like so much to know," said fanny, "if there were any fine princes among the birds that ate my bread."
"no," said grandmother; "nowadays there are no more fairies, and the birds are all creatures."
"good-bye, grandmother."
"good-bye, fanny."
good night."
and fanny went away across the fields toward home.
she could see the chimney of her house smoking in the distance against the red sunset sky.
on the way she met antony, the gardener's little boy, who said to her:
"are you coming to play with me?"
"no," replied fanny, "i'm not coming to play with you because my grandmother told me not to stop.
but i'll give you an apple, because i like you very much."
antony took the apple and kissed fanny nicely.
they loved each other dearly, these two.
he would say: "she's my little wife."
and she would agree: "he's my little man."
as she went on her way with even steps and looking very wise and good she heard a pretty sound of birds crying behind her, and turning her head she recognized the little beggars that she had fed when they were hungry.
they had been following her.
"goodnight, little friends," she called to them.
"good night.
it's time to go to bed now.
good night!"
and the little winged singers replied in cries that meant, in bird language: "god keep you safe."
thus fanny came back home to her mother, followed by bird music in the air.
iv
fanny went to bed before candle time in a little bed that a cabinet-maker of the village had made a long time ago, with a frame of walnut and graceful banisters.
long ago the good man had gone to sleep in the shadow of the church, under a black cross, in a bed with a coverlet of grass, for fanny's bed had been her grandfather's when he was a little baby, and the little girl slept now in the same place as her ancestor.
she slept.
a cotton curtain with a pattern of roses protected her slumbers.
she slept and dreamed.
she saw the blue bird flying toward the castle of his love.
he looked as beautiful as a star, but she did not expect for a moment to see him perch on her shoulder.
she knew she was not a princess, and couldn't expect visits from a prince changed into a bird the color of deep sky.
however, she told herself that all birds are not princes, that the birds in the village are villagers and among them may well enough have been some country boy changed into a sparrow by a wicked fairy, and having a love for fanny in his heart beneath his gray feathers.
such an one, if she should find him, she would give not only bread, but cakes and kisses too.
she would like to see him.
and now she does see him!
he comes and perches on her shoulder.
he's just a little cock sparrow, not fine or rare, but very alert and lively.
to tell the truth his appearance is a little tousled:
one tail feather is missing, lost in a fight, that is unless he has encountered some bad fairy in the village.
fanny suspects him of having a bad head; but she is a girl, and it does not worry her that her cock sparrow has a bad head if his heart is good.
she pets him and calls him pretty names.
all of a sudden he grows bigger and longer: his wings change into two arms.
he turns into a boy, and fanny recognizes antony the gardener's little boy, who says to her: "let's come and play together."
she claps her hands with joy and starts to go then suddenly wakes up.
she rubs her eyes.
no sparrow, no antony!
she is alone in the little room.
the dawn, shining through the little flowered curtain, spreads its innocent light on the bed.
she hears the birds singing in the garden.
she jumps out of bed in her nightgown, opens the window, and there in the garden, among the roses and geraniums and morning glories, are the little bird beggars, the little musicians of last night, sitting in a row on the fence rail and giving her a morning song to pay for their crumbs of bread.
the fancy dress party
here are little boys like knights of old, and little girls who are heroines.
here are shepherdesses with dresses looped up in paniers and garlands of roses, and shepherds in satin suits with knots of ribbons on their shepherd's crooks.
dear me, what pretty white sheep such shepherds must have in their flocks!
and here are alexander and zarius, pyerhus and merope, mahomet, harlequin, scapin, blaise and babette.
they have come from everywhere, from greece and rome and blue distant countries, to dance with one another.
it's a fine thing, a fancy dress ball, and very agreeable for an hour or two to be a great king or an illustrious princess.
it has no inconveniences.
you have not to sustain your costumes by actions or even by your words.
it would not be very amusing to wear a hero's dress if you had to show his courage too.
the hearts of heroes are torn in all sorts of ways.
for the most part they are famous through their misfortunes.
if any of them lived happily they are not remembered now.
merope never cared about dancing.
pyerhus was wickedly killed by orestes just as he was going to be married, and the innocent zarius perished at the hands of the turk his friend, a philosophical trick indeed.
as to blaise and babette the song says that their pangs of love were never-ending.
in the same way, if it comes to pierrot and scapin, you know as well as i that they were perfect rascals, and that people more than once tweaked their ears for them.
no, glory comes very high, even the glory of an harlequin.
on the other hand it's very nice to be a little boy or girl and masquerade as these old characters.
that's why there's no fun like a fancy ball where the costumes are fine enough.
you feel grand just by wearing them.
see how well all the pretty company wears its plumes and cloaks.
what a fine and gallant air they have, how well they look and how much old time grace they can display.
on the balcony, in the part that you don't see in the picture, the musicians tune their violins with a sweet and plaintive sound.
the music of a quadrille in the grand style is open on the leader's desk.
they are going to strike up this piece.
at the first notes of it our heroes and masks will step forth and dance.
the school
i declare i believe miss genseigne's school is the best school for girls anywhere in the world.
i maintain that those who believe and say the contrary are false and misleading.
all miss genseigne's scholars are well-behaved and diligent.
there is nothing so pleasant as to see them, with their little stiff bodies and their heads so erect.
you would say they were so many little bottles into which miss genseigne was pouring knowledge.
miss genseigne sits up perfectly straight on her platform; very grave and sweet.
her braided head band and her black cape inspire respect and sympathy.
miss genseigne, who is very well educated, is giving a lesson in arithmetic to her little pupils.
she says to rose benoit: "rose benoit, if i take four from a dozen how many have i left?"
"four!"
replies rose benoit.
miss genseigne is not quite satisfied with this answer.
"and you, emmeline capel, if i take four from a dozen how many have i left?"
"eight," replies emmeline capel.
"you hear, rose benoit?
i have eight left," adds miss genseigne.
rose benoit lapses into a deep revery.
she hears miss genseigne say she has eight left, but whether it is eight hats or handkerchiefs, or for that matter eight apples or pens she does not know.
the thing worries her for quite a long while.
she understands very little about arithmetic.
on the other hand she is very well up in sacred history.
miss genseigne has not a single scholar who can describe the garden of eden or noah's ark like rose benoit.
rose benoit knows all the flowers of paradise and all the animals that were in the ark.
she knows as many fables as miss genseigne herself.
she knows all the story of the crow and the fox, of the ass and the little dog, of the cock and the pullet.
it never surprises her to hear it said that the animals talked in the olden days.
she would be more surprised to hear that they did not talk any more.
she is quite sure that she understands the language of her big dog tom, and of little cheep her canary.
and she is right, too.
animals have always talked, and always will talk, but they talk only to their friends.
rose benoit loves them and they love her.
that's why she understands them.
to be understood there is nothing like sympathy.
to-day rose benoit has recited her lesson without a fault.
she receives a good mark.
emmeline capel too receives a good mark for her recitation in arithmetic.
when the class is out she tells her mother about her good mark, and then she asks: "what's the use of a good mark, mamma?"
"a good mark is no use at all," says her mother.
"that's just the reason why you should be proud to have it.
you will know one day, child, that the rewards men think the most of are those that give them honor rather than profit."
mary
little girls have a natural desire to gather flowers and stars.
but stars won't let themselves be picked and so seem to teach little girls that in this world there are some desires that are destined never to be satisfied.
miss mary went out in the park, where she discovered a basket of hortensias.
she knew that the flowers of hortensias are pretty, and so she picked one.
it was very hard to pick too.
she seized the plant in both hands, at great risk of sitting down hard when the stem broke.
she was very pleased and proud at what she'd done.
but her nurse saw her:
and scolded and darted at miss mary, seizing her by the arm.
to make her do penance she did not put her in the dark closet this time, but posted her underneath a great chestnut tree, in the shade of a big japanese umbrella.
there miss mary sits, surprised and astonished, and thinks it all over.
her flower in her hand, with the stripes of the umbrella making rays around her, she looked like some queer little foreign idol.
her nurse said: "mary, i forbid you to carry that flower in your mouth.
if you disobey me your little dog toto will eat your ears up for you" with which warning she departed.
the little penitent, perfectly still beneath her shining frame, looks around her at the sky and the earth.
they are large, the earth and sky, and can amuse a little girl for a while.
but the hortensia flower interests her more than anything.
she reflects: "a flower should smell good."
and she raises nearer to her nose the beautiful rosy, blue tempered ball.
she tries to smell it but can smell nothing.
she is not clever at smelling perfumes.
not so very, very long ago she used to breathe over the roses instead of sniffing them in.
we must not laugh at her for that: one can't learn everything at once.
besides, she might have had, like her mother, a very subtle sense of smell that could smell nothing.
the flower of the hortensia has no odor.
that is why one grows tired of it, in spite of its beauty.
but miss mary thinks: "this flower is made of sugar, maybe."
with that she opens her mouth wide, and starts to raise the flower to her lips.
a cry recalls her.
yap!
it is the little dog toto, who, darting round a border of geraniums, comes and sets himself, his ears straight up, before miss mary and looks at her warningly with his round bright eyes.
pan pipes
three children of the same village, peter, james and john, are standing up looking off at something.
ranged side by side they form together the outline of a pan pipes with three reeds.
peter, at the left, is a big boy; john, at the right, is small; james, between the two, may consider himself big or little, according as he regards his neighbor on the left or right.
it is a situation upon which i invite you to meditate, for it is yours, as it is mine or any one in the world's.
each one of us, just like james, may consider himself great or small, according as his neighbor cuts a big or little figure in the world.
that's why one can truthfully say that james is neither big nor little; that he is both big and little.
it is as god wishes it to be.
he is the last reed of all in our living pan pipes.
but what are his two comrades doing?
they are gazing off into space, all three of them.
at what?
at something which has disappeared below the horizon, something which they can't see any more but still see in their mind's eye, and which still dazzles them.
little john has forgotten his eel-skin whip with which just now he incessantly beat up his wooden shoes in the dusty road.
peter and james, their hands behind their backs, gaze stolidly.
what they saw, all three, was the wagon of a travelling peddler, a wagon drawn by his own arms, which had stopped in the village street.
the peddler pulled back the oilcloth that covered his wagon, and in a minute any quantity of knives, scissors, little guns, puppets, soldiers of wood and lead, cologne bottles, cakes of soap, pictures, a thousand dazzling things were exposed to the admiring view of all the men, women and children in the town.
the servants from the farm and the mill were pale with longing; peter and james were red with joy.
little john lost his tongue.
everything in the wagon seemed beautiful and precious to them.
but the most desirable things of all were the unknown articles of which they could not guess either use or reason: as for example the bowls polished like mirrors that reflected your face comically deformed; paintings of epinol, covered with faces more lively than reality; needle cases and mysterious boxes that contained unimaginable things.
the women made purchases of guimpes and lace by the yard, and the peddler rolled the black oilcloth back again over the riches in his wagon, and putting himself in the traces once more started on his further way; and now the wagon and the waggoner have disappeared below the horizon.
roger's stable
it's a great care to keep up a stable.
the horse is a delicate animal and requires a thousand attentions.
if you don't believe me ask roger.
just now he is grooming his beautiful chestnut, who would be the pearl of wooden horses, the flower of the black forest steeds, if he had not lost half his tail in battle.
it's a matter of some moment with roger to know if wooden horses' tails grow in again.
again having made believe groom his horses, roger gives them some imaginary oats, for it is an understood thing that the little wooden animals on which small boys ride through the land of dreams are always fed in this way.
behold roger starting out for his ride.
he has mounted his horse.
even though the poor beast has no more ears, and all his mane looks like an old broken comb, roger loves him.
why?
it would be hard to say.
this red horse was a present from a poor man, and maybe there is some secret grace in the gifts of the poor.
remember our lord who blessed the widow's mite.
roger is gone.
he is quite far away.
the flowers on the carpet already seem to him like flowers in tropical, distant countries.
a pleasant journey, little roger!
may your hobby horse conduct you safely through the world.
may you never have a hobby more dangerous.
little or great we all ride.
who has not his hobby?
men's hobbies ride like mad through all the ways of life; one makes a bid for glory, another for pleasure; many of them jump from high places and break their rider's necks.
i hope when you are grown up, little roger, you will bestride two hobby horses that will keep you always in the right path: one lively, the other quiet; both beautiful courage and kindness.
courage
louisa and frederick have gone to school along the village street.
the sun is shining and the two children sing.
they sing like the nightingale because their hearts are gay.
they sing an old song that their grandmothers sang when they were little girls and which one day their children's children will sing, for songs are frail immortals which fly from lip to lip throughout the ages.
the lips that sing them lose their color and are silent one after the other, but the songs are always on the wing.
there are songs that come down to us from a time when all the men were shepherds and all the women shepherdesses which tell us of nothing but sheep and wolves.
louisa and frederick sing, their mouths round as flowers, and their song rises shrill and clear on the morning air.
but suddenly the sound catches in frederick's wind pipe.
what power invisible has strangled the song in this schoolboy throat?
it is fear.
each day inevitably, at the end of the village street, he meets the dog that belongs to the big butcher, and each day his heart shrivels and his legs grow weak at the sight.
it is not the pig man's dog ever attacks or menaces him.
he just sits peaceably on the threshold of his master's shop.
but he is black, and his eyes are fixed and bloodshot, and sharp, white teeth show beneath his baboon jaws.
he is terrifying.
and then he sits there in the midst of all sorts of meat cut up for pies and hashes, and seems the more terrible on that account.
of course no one supposes he has been the cause of all this carnage, but he presides over it.
he's a fierce dog, the pig man's.
and so, as far away as frederick can see him in the doorway, he picks up a big stone, following the example of men he has seen arm themselves in this way against surly dogs, and goes hugging the wall of the house across the street from the pig butcher's closely.
this time he has followed this practice, but louisa mocks at him.
she has taken none of these violent precautions, against which people always arm themselves more violently still.
no, she doesn't even speak to him, but keeps on singing, only changing her tone in such a mocking way that frederick grows red to his ears.
then there is great travail in his little head.
he understands that he must fear fear as much as danger.
and he is afraid to be afraid.
and so, when school is out, and he sees the pig man's dog again, he stalks by that astonished animal proudly.
history adds that he looked at louisa out of the corner of his eye to see if she were looking.
it must be admitted that with no ladies or young maidens in the world men might be less brave.
catherine's day
five o'clock, and miss catherine is receiving her dolls.
it is her day at home.
the dolls don't talk: the little genius that gave them smiles refused them speech.
it must have been done for the good of the world, for if dolls could talk people would listen to no one else.
however, the circle to-day is very animated.
miss catherine talks for her visitors as well as for herself.
she makes the questions and gives the answers.
"how are you, madame?
very well, madame.
i broke my arm yesterday morning going to buy some gloves, but it's cured now.
oh, that's good.
and how is your little girl?
she has the whooping cough.
oh, what a pity!
does she cough much?
no, it's a whooping cough that has no cough.
you know, madame, i had two children last week?
really?
that makes four.
four or five, i don't know which.
when you have so many you get confused.
you have a very pretty dress on.
oh, i have still nicer ones at home do you go to the theatre?
every evening.
i went yesterday to the opera, but punch did not act, because a wolf ate him up.
i, my dear, go to a dance every day.
that's very amusing.
yes, i wear a blue dress and i dance with all the young people, the very nicest, generals, princes, confectioners.
you are as pretty as heart could wish to-day, little one.
it's the springtime.
yes, but too bad it snows.
i like the snow, because it's so white.
oh, but this is black snow.
yes, isn't it a horrid kind?"
this fine conversation miss catherine maintains with much skill.
i have only one fault to find with it: she talks always to the same caller, who is pretty and has a pretty dress.
that is wrong.
a good hostess is equally polite to all her guests.
she treats them all with consideration, and if she shows any preference it is for those who are most modest and least fortunate.
one must flatter the unfortunate: it is the only flattery that is permissible.
but catherine has found this out herself.
she has found the true politeness which comes from the heart.
she serves tea to her guests, and remembers every one.
indeed, she insists especially with those dollies that are poor or unhappy or shy that they take some invisible cakes or sandwiches made of dominos.
catherine will one day be a hostess in whose drawing room no doubt politeness of the real old-fashioned kind will flourish.
the little sea dogs
they are little sailors, real little sea dogs, every one.
look how they pull their caps down low on their necks so that the sea wind, misty and whistling, shall not split their ears with its terrible groanings.
they wear suits of heavy wool, for protection against the cold and damp.
their made-over pea jackets and breeches were their elder brothers'
before them.
their garments in turn were made out of their fathers' old suits.
their hearts too are of the same stuff as their father's simple, patient and full of courage.
since they came into the world they have been simple and big of heart.
who has made them so?
after god and their fathers and mothers it is the ocean.
the ocean teaches sailors courage through danger a rude benefactor.
that is why the little sailors, in their childish hearts, bear such brave thoughts.
stooping over the parapet of the stockade they look off over the sea.
they see more than the thin blue line of boundary between the sky and sea.
the ocean does not interest them for its fine changing colors, nor the sky for the huge grotesque shapes of its clouds.
what they see off there in space is something more real to them than the tint of waters and the face of the clouds: something that they love.
they look for the boats that sailed for the fishing grounds, and that must now soon appear on the horizon bringing back besides their full cargoes of shrimps, uncles and older brothers and fathers.
the little fleet will soon show its white or weather-stained sails down there, between the ocean and god's good sky.
to-day the sky is clear, the ocean still: the tide brings the fishers gently to the shore.
but the ocean is a changeable old veteran, who takes many forms and sings in many tones.
to-day he smiles: to-morrow he will scold beneath his foamy beard.
he will capsize the ablest ships, ships that have been blest by the priest with songs and te deums: he will drown his sturdiest patrons.
it is his fault that one sees, outside the doors where the chaluts dry in the baskets, so many women wearing the black caps of widows.
the little lame prince
chapter i.
he was the most beautiful prince that ever was born.
being a prince, people said this; and it was true.
when he looked at the candle, his eyes had an earnest expression quite startling in a new-born baby.
his nose was aquiline; his complexion was healthy; he was round, fat, and straight-limbed a splendid baby.
his father and mother, king and queen of nomansland, and their subjects were proud and happy, having waited ten years for an heir.
the only person not quite happy was the king's brother, who would have been king had the baby not been born, but his majesty was very kind to him, and gave him a dukedom as large as a country.
the prince's christening was to be a grand affair; there were chosen for him four and twenty godfathers and godmothers, who each had to give him a name, and promise to do their utmost for him.
when he came of age, he himself had to choose the name and the godfather or godmother that he liked best.
all was rejoicing and the rich gave dinners and feasts for the poor.
the only quiet place in the palace was the room, which though the prince was six weeks old, his mother, the queen, had not quitted.
nobody thought she was ill as she said nothing about it herself, but lay pale and placid, giving no trouble to anybody.
christening day came at last and it was as lovely as the prince himself.
all the people in the palace were beautifully dressed in the clothes which the queen had given them.
by six in the morning all the royal household had dressed itself in its very best; and then the little prince was dressed in his magnificent christening robe; which he did not like at all, but kicked and screamed like any common baby.
when he had calmed down, they carried him to the bed where the queen lay.
she kissed and blessed him, and then she gave him up with a gentle smile, saying she "hoped he would be very good, that it would be a very nice christening, and all the guests would enjoy themselves," and turned peacefully over on her bed.
she was a very uncomplaining person the queen, and her name was dolorez.
everything went on as if she had been present.
all, even the king himself, had grown used to her absence, for she was not strong, and for years had not joined in the gaieties.
the noble company arrived from many countries; also the four-and-twenty godfathers and godmothers, who had been chosen with care, as the people who would be most useful to his royal highness should he ever want friends.
they came, walking two and two, with their coronets on their heads dukes and duchesses, princes and princesses; they all kissed the child and pronounced the name which each had given him.
then the four-and-twenty names were shouted out, one after another, and written down, to be kept in the state records.
everybody was satisfied except the little prince, who moaned faintly under his christening robes, which nearly smothered him.
though very few knew it, the prince in coming to the chapel had met with an accident.
a young lady of rank, whose duty it was to carry him to and from the chapel, had been so busy arranging her train with one hand, that she stumbled and let him fall.
she picked him up the accident was so slight it seemed hardly worth speaking of.
the baby had turned pale, but did not cry.
no one knew that anything was wrong.
even if he had moaned, the silver trumpets were loud enough to drown his voice.
it would have been a pity to let anything trouble such a day.
such a procession!
heralds in blue and silver; pages in crimson and gold; and a troop of little girls in dazzling white, carrying baskets of flowers, which they strewed all the way before the child and the nurse, finally the four and twenty godfathers and godmothers, splendid to look at.
the prince was a mere heap of lace and muslin, and had it not been for a canopy of white satin and ostrich feathers, which was held over him whenever he was carried, his presence would have been unnoticed.
"it is just like fairyland," said one little flower-girl to another, "and i think the only thing the prince wants now is a fairy godmother."
"does he?"
said a shrill, but soft and not unpleasant voice, and a person no larger than a child was seen.
she was a pleasant little, old, grey-haired, grey-eyed woman, dressed all in grey.
"take care and don't let the baby fall again."
the grand nurse started, flushing angrily.
"old woman, you will be kind enough not to say, 'the baby,' but 'the prince.'
keep away; his royal highness is just going to sleep."
"i must kiss him, i am his godmother."
"you!"
cried the elegant lady-nurse.
"you!!"
cried all the court and the heralds began to blow the silver trumpets, to stop the conversation.
as the procession formed to return, the old woman stood on the topmost step, and stretched herself on tiptoe by the help of her stick, and gave the little prince three kisses.
"take yourself out of the way," cried the nurse, "or the king shall be informed immediately."
"the king knows nothing of me," replied the old woman, with an indifferent air.
"my friend in the palace is the king's wife.
i know her majesty well, and i love her and her child.
and since you dropped him on the marble stairs i choose to take him for my own.
i am his godmother, ready to help him whenever he wants me."
"you help him!"
cried the group laughing.
the little old woman paid no attention and her soft grey eyes were fixed on the prince, who smiled back at her.
"his majesty shall hear of this," said a gentleman-in-waiting.
"his majesty will hear quite enough news in a minute or two," said the old woman sadly, kissing the little prince on the forehead.
"be prince dolor, in memory of your mother dolorez."
everybody started.
"old woman, you are exceedingly ill-bred," cried a lady-in-waiting.
"even if you did know, how dared you presume to hint that her most gracious majesty is called dolorez?"
"was called dolorez," said the old woman with a tender solemnity.
the first gentleman, called the gold-stick-in-waiting, raised the stick to strike her, and all the rest stretched out their hands to seize her; but the gray mantle melted from between their fingers; and there came a heavy, muffled sound.
the great bell of the palace the bell which was only heard on the death of some of the royal family, and for as many times as he or she was years old began to toll.
they listened.
some one counted:
"one-two-three-four" up to nine and twenty just the queen's age.
the queen, her majesty, was dead.
in the midst of the festivities she had passed away.
when the little prince was carried back to his mother's room, there was no mother to kiss him.
as for his godmother the little old woman in grey, nobody knew what became of her.
chapter ii.
it could not be said that the prince missed his mother; children of his age cannot do that; but somehow, after she died everything seemed to go wrong with him.
from a beautiful baby he became pale and sickly, seeming to have almost ceased growing, especially in his legs, which had been so fat and strong.
but after the day of his christening they withered, and when he was nearly a year old, and his nurse tried to make him stand, he only tumbled down.
this happened so many times that at last people began to talk about it.
a prince, and not able to stand on his legs!
what a misfortune to the country!
after a time he became stronger and his body grew, but his limbs remained shrunken.
no one talked of this to the king, for he was very sad.
the king desired that the prince should keep the name given him by the little old woman in grey and so he was known as dolor.
once a week, according to established state custom, the prince, dressed in his very best, was brought to the king, his father, for half an hour, but his majesty was too melancholy to pay much attention to the child.
only once, when the king and his brother were sitting together, with prince dolor playing in a corner of the room, dragging himself about with his arms, rather than his legs, it seemed to strike the father that all was not right with his son.
"how old is his royal highness?"
said he, suddenly, to the nurse.
"two years, three months, and five days, please your majesty."
"it does not please me," said the king with a sigh.
"he ought to be far more forward than he is.
is there not something wrong about him?"
"oh, no," said the king's brother, exchanging meaning looks with the nurse.
"nothing to make your majesty at all uneasy.
no doubt his royal highness will outgrow it in time."
"out-grow what?"
"a slight delicacy ahem!
in the spine something inherited, perhaps, from his dear mother."
"ah, she was always delicate; but she was the sweetest woman that ever lived.
come here, my little son."
the prince turned to his father a small, sweet, grave face like his mother's, and the king smiled and held out his arms.
but when the boy came to him, not running like a boy, but wriggling awkwardly along the floor, the royal countenance clouded.
"i ought to have been told of this.
send for all the doctors in my kingdom immediately."
they came, and agreed in what had been pretty well known before; that the prince must have been hurt when he was an infant.
did anybody remember?
no, nobody.
indignantly, all the nurses denied that any such accident had happened.
but of all this the king knew nothing, for, indeed, after the first shock of finding out that his son could not walk, and seemed never likely to walk, he interfered very little concerning him.
he could not walk; his limbs were mere useless additions to his body, but the body itself was strong and sound, and his face was the same as ever just like his mother's face, one of the sweetest in the world!
even the king, indifferent as he was, sometimes looked at the little fellow with sad tenderness, noticing how cleverly he learned to crawl, and swing himself about by his arms, so that in his own awkward way he was as active as most children of his age.
"poor little man!
he does his best, and he is not unhappy," said the king to his brother.
"i have appointed you as regent.
in case of my death, you will take care of my poor little boy?"
soon after he said this, the king died, as suddenly and quietly as the queen had done, and prince dolor was left without either father or mother as sad a thing as could happen, even to a prince.
he was more than that now, though.
he was a king.
in nomansland as in other countries, the people were struck with grief one day and revived the next.
"the king is dead long live the king!"
was the cry that rang through the nation, and almost before his late majesty had been laid beside the queen, crowds came thronging from all parts to the royal palace, eager to see the new monarch.
they did see him sitting on the floor of the council-chamber, sucking his thumb!
and when one of the gentlemen-in-waiting lifted him up and carried him to the chair of state, and put the crown on his head, he shook it off again, it was so heavy and uncomfortable.
sliding down to the foot of the throne, he began playing with the gold lions that supported it; laughing as if he had at last found something to amuse him.
"it is very unfortunate," said one of the lords.
"it is always bad for a nation when its king is a child; but such a child a permanent cripple, if not worse."
"let us hope not worse," said another lord in a very hopeless tone, and looking towards the regent, who stood erect and pretended to hear nothing.
"i have heard that these kind of children with very large heads and great broad foreheads and staring eyes, are well, well, let us hope for the best and be prepared for the worst.
in the meantime "
"come forth and kiss the hilt of his sword," said the regent "i swear to perform my duties as regent, to take care of his majesty, and i shall do my humble best to govern the country."
whenever the regent and his sons appeared, they were received with shouts "long live the regent!"
"long live the royal family!"
as for the other child, his royal highness prince dolor somehow people soon ceased to call him his majesty, which seemed such a ridiculous title for a poor little fellow, a helpless cripple, with only head and trunk, and no legs to speak of he was seen very seldom by anybody.
sometimes people daring to peer over the high wall of the palace garden noticed there a pretty little crippled boy with large dreamy, thoughtful eyes, beneath the grave glance of which wrongdoers felt uneasy, and, although they did not know it then, the sight of him bearing his affliction made them better.
if anybody had said that prince dolor's uncle was cruel, he would have said that what he did was for the good of the country.
therefore he went one day to the council-chamber, informed the ministers and the country that the young king was in failing health, and that it would be best to send him for a time to the beautiful mountains where his mother was born.
soon after he obtained an order to send the king away which was done in great state.
the nation learned, without much surprise, that the poor little prince had fallen ill on the road and died within a few hours; so declared the physician in attendance, and the nurse who had been sent to take care of him.
they brought the coffin back in great state, and buried him with his parents.
the country went into deep mourning for him, and then forgot him, and his uncle reigned in his stead.
chapter iii.
and what of the little lame prince, whom everybody seemed so easily to have forgotten?
not everybody.
there were a few kind souls, mothers of families, who had heard his sad story, and some servants about the palace, who had been familiar with his sweet ways these many a time sighed and said, "poor prince dolor!"
or, looking at the beautiful mountains, which were visible all over nomansland, though few people ever visited them, "well, perhaps his royal highness is better where he is."
they did not know that beyond the mountains, between them and the sea, lay a tract of country, level, barren, except for a short stunted grass, and here and there a patch of tiny flowers.
not a bush not a tree not a resting place for bird or beast in that dreary plain.
it was not a pleasant place to live.
the only sign that human creatures had ever been near the spot was a large round tower which rose up in the centre of the plain.
in form it resembled the irish round towers, which have puzzled people for so long, nobody being able to find out when, or by whom they were made.
it was circular, of very firm brickwork, with neither doors nor windows, until near the top, when you could perceive some slits in the wall, through which one could not possibly creep in or look out.
its height was nearly a hundred feet.
the plain was desolate, like a desert, only without sand, and led to nowhere except the still more desolate sea-coast; nobody ever crossed it.
whatever mystery there was about the tower, it and the sky and the plain kept to themselves.
it was a very great secret indeed, a state secret, which none but so clever a man as the present king of nomansland would ever have thought of.
how he carried it out, undiscovered, i cannot tell.
people said, long afterwards, that it was by means of a gang of condemned criminals, who were set to work, and executed immediately after they had done, so that nobody knew anything, or in the least suspected the real fact.
within twenty feet of the top, some ingenious architect had planned a perfect little house, divided into four rooms.
by making skylights, and a few slits in the walls for windows, and raising a peaked roof which was hidden by the parapet, here was a dwelling complete; eighty feet from the ground and hard to reach.
inside it was furnished with all the comfort and elegance imaginable; with lots of books and toys, and everything that the heart of a child could desire.
one winter night, when all the plain was white with moonlight, there was seen crossing it, a great tall, black horse, ridden by a man also big and equally black, carrying before him on the saddle a woman and a child.
the sad fierce-looking woman was a criminal under sentence of death, but her sentence had been changed.
she was to inhabit the lonely tower with the child; she was to live as long as the child lived no longer.
this, in order that she might take the utmost care of him; for those who put him there were equally afraid of his dying and of his living.
and yet he was only a little gentle boy, with a sweet smile.
he was very tired with his long journey and was clinging to the man's neck, for he was rather frightened.
the tired little boy was prince dolor.
he was not dead at all.
his grand funeral had been a pretence; a wax figure having been put in his place, while he was spirited away by the condemned woman and the black man.
the latter was deaf and dumb, so could tell nothing.
when they reached the foot of the tower, there was light enough to see a huge chain dangling half way from the parapet.
the deaf mute took from his saddle-wallet a sort of ladder, arranged in pieces like a puzzle, fitted it together, and lifted it up to meet the chain.
then he mounted to the top of the tower, and slung from it a chair, in which the woman and child placed themselves and were drawn up, never to come down again.
the man descended the ladder, took it to pieces and disappeared across the plain.
every month he came and fastened his horse to the foot of the tower and climbed it as before, laden with provisions and many other things.
he always saw the prince, so as to make sure that the child was alive and well, and then went away until the following month.
prince dolor had every luxury that even a prince could need, and the one thing wanting love, never having known, he did not miss.
his nurse was very kind to him, though she was a wicked woman.
perhaps it made her better to be shut up with an innocent child.
by-and-by he began to learn lessons not that his nurse had been ordered to teach him, but she did it partly to amuse herself.
she was not a stupid woman, and prince dolor was by no means a stupid child; so they got on very well.
when he grew older he began reading the books which the mute brought to him.
as they told him of the things in the outside world he longed to see them.
from this time a change came over the boy.
he began to look sad and thin, and to shut himself up for hours without speaking.
his nurse had been forbidden, on pain of death, to tell him anything about himself.
he knew he was prince dolor, because she always addressed him as "my prince" and "your royal highness," but what a prince was, he had not the least idea.
he had been reading one day, but feeling all the while that to read about things which you never can see is like hearing about a beautiful dinner while you are starving.
he grew melancholy, gazing out of the window-slit.
not a very cheerful view just the plain and the sky but he liked it.
he used to think, if he could only fly out of that window, up to the sky or down to the plain, how nice it would be!
perhaps when he died his nurse had told him once in anger that he would never leave the tower till he died he might be able to do this.
"and i wish i had somebody to tell me all about it; about that and many other things; somebody that would be fond of me, like my poor white kitten."
here the tears came into his eyes, for the boy's one friend had been a little white kitten, which the deaf mute, kindly smiling, once took out of his pocket and gave him.
for four weeks it was his constant companion and plaything, till one moonlight night it took a fancy for wandering, climbed on to the parapet of the tower, dropped over and disappeared.
it was not killed, he hoped; indeed, he almost fancied he saw it pick itself up and scamper away, but he never caught sight of it again.
"yes, i wish i had a person, a real live person, who would be fond of me and kind to me.
oh, i want somebody dreadfully, dreadfully!"
as he spoke, there sounded behind him a slight tap-tap-tap, as of a cane, and twisting himself around, what do you think he saw?
a curious little woman, no bigger than he might himself have been, had his legs grown, but she was not a child she was an old woman with a sweet smile and a soft voice, and was carrying a cane.
"my own little boy," she said, "i could not come to you until you had said you wanted me, but now you do want me, here i am."
"and you are very welcome, madam," replied the prince.
"may i ask you who you are?
perhaps my mother?"
"no, i am not your mother, though she was a dear friend of mine."
"will you tell her to come and see me then?"
"she cannot; but i daresay she knows all about you and loves you.
i love you, too, and i want to help you, my poor little boy."
"why do you call me poor?"
asked prince dolor in surprise.
the little old woman sighed and glanced down at his legs and feet, which he did not know were different from those of other children, and then to his sweet, bright face.
"i beg your pardon, my prince," said she.
"yes, i am a prince, and my name is dolor; will you tell me yours, madam?"
the little old woman laughed like a chime of silver bells.
"i have so many that i don't know which to choose.
it was i who gave you yours, and you will belong to me all your days.
i am your godmother."
"hurrah!"
cried the little prince; "i am glad i belong to you, for i like you very much."
so they sat down and played and talked together.
"are you very lonesome here?"
asked the little old woman.
"not particularly, thank you, godmother.
i have my lessons to do, and my books to read."
"and you want for nothing?"
"nothing.
yes, godmother, please bring me a little boy to play with?"
"just the thing, alas, which i cannot give you."
his godmother took him in her arms and kissed him.
by-and-by he kissed her at first awkwardly and shyly, then with all the strength of his warm little heart.
"promise me that you will never go away, godmother."
"i must, but i will leave you a travelling cloak that will take you wherever you want to go, and show you all that you wish to see."
"i don't need a cloak, for i never go out."
"hush!
the nurse is coming."
a grumpy voice and a rattle of plates and dishes was heard.
"it's my nurse, bringing my dinner; but i don't want dinner.
i only want you.
will her coming drive you away, godmother?"
"only for a while, only wish for me and i will return."
when the door opened, prince dolor shut his eyes; opening them again, nobody but his nurse was in the room, as his godmother had melted away.
"such a heap of untidy books; and what's this rubbish?"
said she, kicking a little bundle that lay beside them.
"give it to me," cried the prince; and reaching after it, he hid it under his pinafore.
it was, though she did not know this, his wonderful travelling-cloak.
chapter iv.
the cloak outside, was the commonest looking bundle imaginable dolor touched it; it grew smaller, and he put it into his trouser's pocket and kept it there until he had a chance to look at it.
it seemed but a mere piece of cloth, dark green in color, being worn and shabby, though not dirty.
prince dolor examined it curiously; spread it out on the floor, then arranged it on his shoulders.
it felt comfortable; but was the only shabby thing the prince had ever seen in his life.
"and what use will it be to me?"
said he sadly, "and what in the world shall i do with it?"
he folded it carefully and put it away in a safe corner of his toy-cupboard.
after a time he nearly forgot the cloak and his godmother.
sometimes though, he recalled her sweet pleasant face; but as she never came, she gradually slipped out of his memory, until something happened which made him remember her, and want her as he had never wanted anything before.
prince dolor fell ill. he caught a complaint common to the people of nomansland, called the doldrums, which made him restless, cross and disagreeable.
even when a little better, he was too weak to enjoy anything, but lay all day alone.
"i wonder what my godmother meant when she looked at my legs and sighed so bitterly?
why can't i walk like my nurse.
it would be very nice to move about quickly or fly like a bird.
how nice it must be to be a bird.
if legs are no good, why can one not have wings?
i am so tired and no one cares for me, except perhaps my godmother.
godmother, dear, have you forsaken me?"
he stretched himself wearily, gathered himself up, and dropped his head upon his hands; as he did so, he felt somebody kiss him on the back of his neck, and turning, found that he was resting on the warm shoulder of the little old woman.
how glad he was to see her.
he put both his arms around her neck and kissed her lovingly.
"stop, stop!"
cried she, pretending to be smothered.
"only just let me have breath to speak one word.
tell me what has happened to you since i saw you."
"nothing has happened," answered the prince somewhat dolefully.
"and are you very unhappy, my boy?"
"so unhappy, that i was just thinking whether i could not jump down to the bottom of the tower."
"you must be content to stay where you are," said the little old woman, "for you are a prince, and must behave as such where is your traveling-cloak?"
prince dolor blushed.
"i i put it away in the cupboard; i suppose it is there still."
"you have never used it; you dislike it?"
he hesitated, not wishing to be impolite.
"don't you think it's just a little old and shabby for a prince?"
the old woman laughed very sweetly.
"why, if all the princes in the world craved for it, they couldn't get it, unless i gave it to them.
old and shabby!
it's the most valuable thing imaginable!
i thought i would give it to you, because because you are different from other people."
"am i?"
asked the prince with tears in his eyes.
she touched his poor little legs.
"these are not like the legs of other little boys."
"indeed!
my nurse never told me that."
"i tell you, because i love you."
"tell me what, dear godmother?"
"that you will never be able to walk, or run, or jump, but your life may be a very happy life for all that.
do not be afraid."
"i am not afraid," said the boy, and his lip began to quiver, though he did not cry.
though he did not wholly understand, he began to guess what his godmother meant.
he had never seen any real live boys, but he had seen pictures of them; running and jumping; which he had admired and tried hard to imitate, but always failed.
now, he began to understand that we cannot always have things as we want them, but as they are, and that we must learn to bear them and make the best of them.
she comforted him and whispered in her sweet, strong, cheerful voice "never mind!"
"no, i don't think i do mind, that is, i won't mind."
"that is right, my prince!
let us put our shoulders to the wheel "
"we are in hopeless tower and there is no wheel to put our shoulders to," said the child sadly.
"you little matter-of-fact goose!
well for you that you have a godmother called 'stuff and nonsense.'"
"stuff and nonsense!
what a funny name!"
"some people give it to me, but they are not my most intimate friends.
you may give me any name you please; but i am your godmother.
i have few godchildren; those i have love me dearly, and find me the greatest blessing in all the world."
"i can well believe it," cried the little lame prince.
"bring the cloak out of the rubbish cupboard, and shake the dust off it, quick!"
said she to prince dolor.
"spread it out on the floor, and wait till the split closes and the edges turn up.
then open the skylight, set yourself on the cloak, and say, 'abracadabra, dum dum dum,' and see what will happen!"
the prince burst into a fit of laughing.
it all seemed so exceedingly silly, and his godmother laughed too.
"believe me or not, it doesn't matter," said she.
"here is the cloak; when you want to go travelling on it, say, abracadabra dum dum dum; when you want to come back again, say, abracadabra tum tum ti.
that's all, good-bye."
a puff of pleasant air and his godmother was gone.
"how rosy your royal highness's cheeks are!
you seem to have grown better," said the nurse entering the room.
"i have," replied the prince he felt kindly, even to his grim nurse.
"let me have my dinner, and you go to your sewing."
the instant she was gone, prince dolor sprang from his sofa, and with one or two of his frog-like jumps, he reached the cupboard where he kept his toys, and looked everywhere for his traveling-cloak.
alas!
it was not there.
while he was ill, his nurse, had made a grand clearance of all his "rubbish," all the treasures of his baby days, which he could not bear to part with.
though he seldom played with them now, he liked just to feel they were there.
they were all gone!
and with them the traveling cloak.
he sat down on the floor, looking at the empty shelves, then burst out sobbing as if his heart would break.
"and it is all my own fault," he cried.
"i ought to have taken better care of my godmother's gift.
oh, godmother, forgive me!
i'll never be so careless again.
i'll never be so careless again.
i don't know what the cloak is exactly, but i am sure it is something precious.
help me to find it again.
oh, don't let it be stolen from me don't please."
"ha, ha, ha!"
laughed a silvery voice.
"why, that traveling-cloak is the one thing in the world which nobody can steal.
it is of no use to anybody except the owner.
open your eyes, and see what you can see."
his dear old godmother, he thought, and turned eagerly round.
but no; he only beheld, lying in a corner of the room, his precious traveling-cloak.
prince dolor darted towards it, tumbling several times on the way.
snatching it to his breast, he hugged and kissed it.
then he began unrolling it, wondering each minute what would happen.
chapter v.
no doubt you think prince dolor was unhappy.
if you had seen him as he sat patiently untying his wonderful cloak, which was done up in a very tight parcel, using his deft little hands, and knitting his brows with determination, while his eyes glistened with pleasure, you might have changed your opinion.
when prince dolor had carefully untied all the knots, the cloak began to undo itself.
slowly unfolding, it laid itself down on the carpet, as flat as if it had been ironed; the split joined with a little sharp crick-crack, and the rim turned up all round till it was breast-high; for the meantime the cloak had grown and grown, and become quite large enough for one person to sit in it, as comfortable as if in a boat.
the prince watched it rather anxiously; it was such an extraordinary thing.
however, he was no coward, but a thorough boy, who, if he had been like other boys, would doubtless have grown up daring and adventurous a soldier a sailor, or the like.
as it was, he could only show his courage by being afraid of nothing, and by doing boldly all that was in his power.
and i am not sure but that in this way he showed more real valor than if he had had six pairs of proper legs.
he said to himself, "what a goose i am!
as if my dear godmother would ever have given me anything to hurt me.
here goes!"
so, with one of his active leaps, he sprang right into the middle of the cloak, where he squatted down, wrapping his arms tight round his knees, for they shook a little and his heart beat fast.
but there he sat, waiting for what might happen next.
nothing did happen, and he began to think nothing would when he recollected the words.
"abracadabra, dum, dum, dum!"
he repeated them, laughing all the while, they seemed such nonsense.
and then and then
the cloak rose, slowly and steadily at first, only a few inches, then gradually higher and higher, till it nearly touched the skylight.
prince dolor's head actually bumped against the glass.
then he suddenly remembered his godmother's command "open the skylight!"
without a moment's delay he began searching for the bolt, the cloak remaining balanced in the air.
the minute the window was opened, out it sailed right into the clear fresh air, with nothing between it and the cloudless blue.
prince dolor had never felt such delicious sensation before.
the happiness of the prince cannot be described, when he got out of hopeless tower, and found himself for the first time in the pure open air, with the sky above him and the earth below.
true, there was nothing but earth and sky; no houses, no trees, no rivers, mountains, seas not a beast on the ground, or a bird in the air.
but to him even the level plain looked beautiful; and then there was the glorious arch of the sky, with a little young moon sitting in the west like a baby queen.
and the evening breeze was so sweet and fresh, it kissed him like his godmother's kisses; and by-and-by a few stars came out, first two or three, and then quantities quantities!
so that when he began to count them, he was utterly bewildered.
by this time, however, the breeze had become cold and as he had, as he said, no outdoor clothes, poor prince dolor began to shiver.
"perhaps i had better go home," thought he.
but how for in his excitement the other words which his godmother had told him to use had slipped his memory, and the cloak only went faster and faster, skimming on through the dusky, empty air.
the poor little prince began to feel frightened.
what if his wonderful traveling-cloak should keep on thus traveling, perhaps to the world's end, carrying with it a poor, tired, hungry boy.
"dear godmother," he cried pitifully, "do help me!
tell me just this once and i'll never forget again."
instantly the words came to him and he repeated them.
"abracadabra, tum, tum, ti!"
the cloak began to turn slowly, and immediately started back, as fast as ever, in the direction of the tower.
the skylight he found exactly as he had left it, and he slipped in as easily as he had gotten out.
he had scarcely reached the floor when he heard his nurse's voice outside.
"bless us!
what has become of your royal highness all this time?
to sit stupidly here at the window until it is quite dark and leave the skylight open too.
prince, what can you be thinking of?
you are the silliest boy i ever knew."
but he did not mind what she said.
the instant prince dolor got off the cloak it folded itself up into a tiny parcel and rolled itself into the farthest corner of the room.
if the nurse had seen it she would have taken it for a mere bundle of rubbish.
she brought in the supper and lit the candles, her face as unhappy as usual.
but prince dolor only saw, hidden in the corner where nobody else would see it, his wonderful traveling-cloak.
he ate heartily, scarcely hearing his nurse's grumbling.
"poor woman!"
he thought, "she hasn't a traveling-cloak!"
and when he crept into his little bed, where he lay awake a good while watching the stars, his chief thought was, "i must be up very early to-morrow morning and get my lessons done, and then i'll go traveling all over the world on my beautiful cloak."
so, next day, he opened his eyes with the sun, and went with a good heart to his lessons, which for the first time he found dull, and the instant they were over he crept across the floor, undid the shabby little bundle, climbed on a chair, and thence to the table so as to unbar the skylight; said his magic charm, and was away out of the window in a minute.
he was accustomed to sit so quietly always, that his nurse, though only in the next room did not miss him, and she could not have missed him anyway for the clever godmother made an image, which she set on the window-sill reading and which looked so like prince dolor that any common observer would never have guessed the difference.
and all this while the happy little fellow was away floating in the air on his magic cloak, and seeing all sorts of wonderful things or they seemed wonderful to him, who had hitherto seen nothing at all.
first, there were the flowers that grew on the plain, which, whenever the cloak came near enough, he strained his eyes to look at; they were tiny, but very beautiful.
"i wonder," he thought, "whether i could see better through a pair of glasses like those my nurse reads with, and takes such care of.
how i should take care of them too!
if only i had a pair!"
immediately he felt a pair of the prettiest gold spectacles ever seen; and looking downwards, he found that, though ever so high above the ground, he could see every blade of grass, every tiny bud and flower nay, even the insects that walked over them.
"thank you, thank you!"
he cried to his dear godmother, whom he felt sure had sent them.
he amused himself for ever so long, gazing down upon the grass, every square foot of which was a mine of wonders.
then, just to rest his eyes, he turned them up to the sky, at which he had looked so often and seen nothing.
now he saw a long, black wavy line, moving on in the distance.
looking at it through his spectacles, he discovered that it was a long string of birds, flying one after the other, their wings moving steadily and their heads pointed in one direction, as steadily as if each were a little ship.
"they must be the passage-birds flying seaward!"
cried the boy, who had read a little about them.
"oh!
how i should like to see them quite close, and to know where they come from, and where they are going!"
the cloak gave a sudden bound forward, and he found himself high up in the air, in the very midst of the birds.
"oh i wish i were going with you, you lovely creatures!"
cried the boy.
"i'm getting so tired of this dull plain, and the dreary and lonely tower.
i do so want to see the world!
pretty swallows, dear swallows, tell me what it looks like the beautiful, wonderful world!"
but the birds flew past and the boy looked after them with envy.
then he settled himself down in the centre of the cloak, feeling quite sad and lonely.
"i think i'll go home," said he, and repeated his "abracadabra, tum tum, ti!"
with a rather heavy heart.
the more he had, the more he wanted.
he did not like to vex his godmother by calling for her, and telling her how unhappy he was, in spite of all her goodness; so he just kept his trouble to himself, went back to his lonely tower, and spent three days there without attempting another journey on his traveling-cloak.
chapter vi.
the fourth day it happened that the deaf mute paid his accustomed visit, after which prince dolor's spirits rose.
they always did, when he got the new books, which the king of nomansland regularly sent to his nephew.
he paid no attention to the toys which were brought, as he considered himself a big boy.
prince dolor leaned over and looked at the mute's horse which was feeding at the foot of the tower and thought how grand it must be to get upon its back and ride away.
"suppose i was a knight," he said to himself; "then i should be obliged to ride out and see the world."
but he kept all these thoughts to himself, and just sat still, devouring his new books until he had come to end of them all.
"i wonder," he would sometimes think, "i wonder what it feels like to be on the back of a horse, galloping away, or holding the reins in a carriage, and tearing across the country, or jumping a ditch, or running a race, such as i read of or see in pictures.
what a lot of things there are that i should like to do!
but first, i should like to go and see the world.
i'll try."
apparently it was his godmother's plan always to let him try, and try hard, before he gained anything.
this day the knots that tied up his traveling-cloak were more than usually troublesome, and it was a full half hour before he got out into the open air, and found himself floating merrily over the top of the tower.
hitherto, in all his journeys he had never let himself go out of sight of home, but now he felt sick of the very look of his tower with its round smooth walls.
"off we go!"
cried he, when the cloak stirred itself with a slight slow motion, as if waiting his orders.
"anywhere anywhere, so that i am away from here, and out into the world."
as he spoke, the cloak bounded forward and went skimming through the air, faster than the very fastest railway train.
"gee-up, gee-up!"
cried prince dolor in great excitement.
"this is as good as riding a horse," and tossed his head back to meet the fresh breeze, and pulled his coat-collar up and his hat down, as he felt the wind grow keener and colder, colder than anything he had ever known.
"what does it matter, though?"
said he.
"i'm a boy, and boys ought not to mind anything."
still, by-and-by he began to shiver, and, as he had come away without his dinner, grew frightfully hungry.
the sunshine changed to rain, and he got soaked through and through in a very few minutes.
"shall i turn back?"
meditated he.
"suppose i say, 'abracadabra?'"
here he stopped, for already the cloak gave a lurch as if it were expecting to be sent home.
"no i can't go back!
i must go forward and see the world, but oh!
if i had but the shabbiest old rug to shelter me from the rain, or the driest morsel of bread and cheese, just to keep me from starving!
still, i don't much mind, i'm a prince and ought to be able to stand anything.
hold on, cloak, we'll make the best of it."
no sooner had he said this than he felt stealing over his knees something warm and soft; in fact, a most beautiful bearskin, which folded itself round him and cuddled him up as closely as if he had been the cub of the kind old mother-bear that once owned it.
then feeling in his pocket, which suddenly stuck out in a marvelous way, he found, not exactly bread and cheese, nor even sandwiches, but a packet of the most delicious food he had ever tasted.
he ate his dinner until he grew so thirsty he did not know what to do.
"couldn't i have just one drop of water, if it wouldn't trouble you too much, kindest of godmothers?"
he considered this a difficult request to grant for he was so far from the ground that he could not expect to find a well.
he forgot one thing the rain.
while he spoke, it came on in another wild burst, as if the clouds had poured themselves out in a passion of crying, wetting him certainly, but leaving behind in a large glass vessel which he had never noticed before, enough water to quench the thirst of two or three boys at least.
and it was so fresh, so pure as water from the clouds always is, that he drank it with the greatest delight.
also, as soon as it was empty, the rain filled it again, so that he was able to wash his face and hands.
then the sun came out and dried him in no time.
after that he curled himself up under the bearskin rug and shut his eyes just for one minute.
the next minute he was sound asleep.
when he awoke, he found himself floating over a country quite unlike anything he had ever seen before.
yet it was nothing but what most of you children see every day and never notice a pretty country landscape.
it had nothing in it grand or lovely was simply pretty, nothing more; yet to prince dolor who had never seen beyond the level plain, it appeared wonderful.
first, there was a river, which came tumbling down the hillside.
"it is so active, so alive!
i like things active and alive!"
cried he, and watched it shimmering and dancing, whirling and leaping.
all this the boy saw, either with his own naked eye, or through his gold spectacles.
he saw also as in a picture, beautiful but silent, many other things which struck him with wonder, especially a grove of trees.
only think, to have lived to his age and never have seen trees!
as he floated over these oaks, they seemed to him the most curious sight imaginable.
"if i could only get nearer, so as to touch them," said he, and immediately the obedient cloak ducked down; prince dolor made a snatch at the topmost twig of the tallest tree, and caught a bunch of leaves in his hand.
just a bunch of green leaves such as we have seen many times, yet how wonderful they were to him, and he examined the leaves with the greatest curiosity, and also a little caterpillar that he found walking over one of them.
he coaxed it to take a walk over his finger.
it amused him for a long time; and when a sudden gust of wind blew it overboard, leaves and all, he felt quite disconsolate.
"still there must be many live creatures in the world besides caterpillars.
i should like to see a few of them."
the cloak gave a little slip down, as if to say, "all right, my prince,"
and bore him across the oak forest to a long fertile valley.
it was made up of cornfields, pasture fields, brooks, and ponds, and in it were a quantity of living creatures, wild and tame.
cows, horses, lambs and sheep fed in the meadows, pigs and fowls walked about the barnyards.
in lonelier places were rabbits, wild birds inhabited the fields and woods.
through his wonderful spectacles the prince could see everything, but he was too high up to hear anything except a faint murmur, which only aroused his anxiety to hear more.
"i wonder if my godmother would give me a second pair of ears?"
he said.
scarcely had he spoken, than he found lying on his lap the most curious little parcel, all done up in silver paper.
and it contained a pair of silver ears, which, when he tried them on, fitted so exactly over his own, that he hardly felt them, except for the difference they made in his hearing.
the sound which greeted his ears is one which we have heard many times, but prince dolor, who had lived all his days in the dead silence of hopeless tower, heard it for the first time.
and oh!
if you had seen his face.
he listened, and listened, and looked and looked.
the motion of the animals delighted him; cows walking, horses galloping, little lambs and calves running races across the meadows, were a great treat for him to watch.
"godmother," he said, having now begun to believe that, whether he saw her or not, she could hear him "godmother, i should like better to see a creature like myself.
couldn't you show me just one little boy?"
suddenly, a shrill whistle startled him, even through his silver ears, and looking downwards, he saw start up from behind a bush on a common, something
neither a sheep, nor a horse, nor a cow nothing upon four legs.
this creature had only two; but they were long, straight and strong.
and it had a lithe active body, and a curly head of black hair.
it was a boy about the prince's own age but, oh!
so different.
his face was almost as red as his hands, and his shaggy hair was matted like the backs of the sheep he was tending.
but he was a rather nice-looking lad; and seemed so bright and healthy and "jolly," that the little prince watched him with great admiration.
"might he come and play with me?
i would drop down to the ground to him, or fetch him up to me."
but the cloak, usually so obedient, disobeyed him now.
there was evidently some things which his godmother could or would not give.
the cloak hung high in air, never attempting to descend.
the shepherd lad took it for a large bird, and shading his eyes, looked up at it, then turned round and stretched himself, for he had been half asleep, and his dog had been guarding the sheep.
the boy called to the dog and they started off together for a race across the fields.
prince dolor watched them with great excitement, for a while, then the sweet, pale face grew a trifle paler, the lips began to quiver and the eyes to fill.
"how nice it must be to run like that!"
he said softly, thinking that never no, never in this world would he be able to do the same.
"i think i had rather not look at him again," said the poor little prince, drawing himself back into the centre of his cloak, and resuming his favorite posture, sitting like a turk, with his arms wrapped around his feeble useless legs.
"you're no good to me," he said, patting them mournfully.
"you never will be any good to me.
i wonder why i have you at all; i wonder why i was born at all, since i was not to grow up like other little boys."
prince dolor sat a good while thus, and seemed to grow years older in a few minutes.
then he fancied the cloak began to rock gently to and fro, with a soothing kind of motion, as if he were in somebody's arms; somebody who did not speak, but loved and comforted him without need of words.
he had placed himself so he could see nothing but the sky, and had taken off his silver ears, as well as his gold spectacles what was the use of either when he had no legs to walk or run?
up from below there rose a delicious sound.
you have heard it hundreds of times, my children, and so have i. when i was a child i thought there was nothing so sweet; and i think so still.
it was just the song of a lark, mounting higher and higher, until it came so close that prince dolor could distinguish its quivering wings and tiny body, almost too tiny to contain such a gush of music.
"oh, you beautiful, beautiful bird!"
cried he; "i should dearly like to take you in and cuddle you.
that is, if i might if i dared."
he was so absorbed that he forget all regret and pain, forgot everything in the world except the little lark, and he was just wondering if it would soar out of sight, when it suddenly closed its wings, as larks do when they mean to drop to the ground.
but, instead of dropping to the ground, it dropped right into the little boy's breast.
when he came in sight of hopeless tower, a painful thought struck him.
"my pretty bird, what am i to do with you?
if i take you into my room and shut you up there, you will surely die for i heard my nurse once say that the nicest thing she ever ate in her life was lark pie!"
the little boy shivered all over at the thought, and in another minute he had made up his mind.
"no, my bird, nothing so dreadful shall happen to you if i can help it; i would rather do without you altogether.
fly away, my darling!
good-bye my merry, merry bird."
opening his two caressing hands, in which, as for protection, he had folded it, he let the lark go.
it lingered a minute, perched on the rim of the cloak, and looked at him with eyes of almost human tenderness; then away it flew.
but, sometime after, when prince dolor had eaten his supper, and gone to bed, suddenly he heard outside the window a little faint carol faint but cheerful even though it was the middle of the night.
the dear little lark, it had not flown away after all, but had remained about the tower and he listened to its singing and went to sleep very happy.
chapter vii.
after this journey which had given the prince so much pain, his desire to see the world had somehow faded away.
he contented himself with reading his books, and looking out of the tower windows, and listening to his beloved little lark, which had come home with him that day, and had never left him again.
true, it kept out of the way; but though his nurse sometimes faintly heard it, and said, "what is that horrid noise outside?"
she never got the faintest chance to make the lark into a pie.
all during the winter the little bird cheered and amused him.
he scarcely needed anything more not even his traveling cloak, which lay bundled unnoticed in a corner, tied up in its many knots.
prince dolor was now a big boy.
not tall alas!
he never could be that, with his poor little shrunken legs.
but he was stout and strong, with great sturdy shoulders, and muscular arms, upon which he could swing himself about almost as well as a monkey.
his face, too, was very handsome; thinner, firmer, more manly; but still the sweet face of his childhood his mother's own face.
the boy was not a stupid boy either.
he could learn almost anything he chose and he did choose, which was more than half the battle.
he never gave up his lessons until he had learned them all never thought it a punishment that he had to work at them, and that they cost him a deal of trouble sometimes.
"but," thought he, "men work, and it must be so grand to be a man; a prince too; and i fancy princes work harder than anybody except kings.
the princes i read about generally turn into kings.
i wonder" the boy was always wondering "nurse" and one day he startled her with a sudden question "tell me shall i ever be a king?"
the woman stood, perplexed beyond expression.
so long a time had passed by since her crime if it were a crime and her sentence, that she now seldom thought of either.
she had even grown used to her punishment.
and the little prince whom she at first hated, she had learned to love at least, enough to feel sorry for him.
the prince noticed that her feeling toward him was changing and did not shrink from her.
"nurse dear nurse," said he, one day, "i don't mean to vex you, but tell me what is a king?
shall i ever be one?"
then the idea came to her what harm would it be, even if he did know his own history?
perhaps he ought to know it for there had been many changes in nomansland, as in most other countries.
something might happen who could tell?
possibly a crown would yet be set upon those pretty, fair curls which she began to think prettier than ever when she saw the imaginary crown upon them.
she sat down, considering whether her oath, "never to say a word to prince dolor about himself," would be broken, if she were to take a pencil and write, what was to be told.
it was a miserable deception.
but then, she was an unhappy woman, more to be pitied than scorned.
after long doubt, she put her finger to her lips, and taking the prince's slate with a sponge tied to it, ready to rub out the writing in a minute she wrote:
"you are a king."
prince dolor started.
his face grew pale and then flushed all over; his eyes glistened; he held himself erect.
lame as he was, anybody could see he was born to be a king.
"hush!"
said the nurse, as he was beginning to speak.
and then, terribly frightened all the while, she wrote down in a few sentences, his history.
how his parents had died, how his uncle had stolen the throne, and sent him to end his days in this lonely tower.
"i, too," added she, bursting into tears.
"unless, indeed, you could get out into the world, and fight for your rights like a man.
and fight for me also, my prince, that i may not die in this desolate place."
"poor old nurse," said the boy tenderly.
for somehow, boy as he was, when he heard he was born to be a king, he felt like a man like a king who could afford to be tender because he was strong.
he scarcely slept that night, and barely listened to the singing of the lark.
things more important were in his mind.
"suppose," thought he, "i were to go into the world, no matter how it hurts me.
the people might only laugh at me, but still i might show them i could do something.
at any rate, i might go and see if there was anything for me to do.
godmother, help me!"
it was so long since he had asked for help, that he was hardly surprised when he got no answer.
he sprang out of bed, dressed himself, and leaped to the corner where lay his traveling-cloak and unrolled it.
then he jumped into the middle of it, said his charm, and was out through the skylight immediately.
"good-bye, pretty lark!"
he shouted, as he passed it on the wing.
"you have been my pleasure, now i must go and work.
sing to old nurse until i come back again.
good-bye!"
but as the cloak hung motionless in air, he suddenly remembered that he had not made up his mind where to go indeed, he did not know, and there was nobody to tell him.
"godmother," he cried, "you know what i want.
tell me where i ought to go; show me whatever i ought to see never mind what i like."
this journey was not for pleasure as before.
he was not a baby now, to do nothing but play.
men work, this much prince dolor knew.
as the cloak started off, over freezing mountain tops, and desolate forests, smiling plains and great lakes, he was often rather frightened.
but he crouched down, and wrapping himself up in his bearskin waited for what was to happen.
after some time he heard a murmur in the distance, and stretching his chin over the edge of the cloak, prince dolor saw far, far below him, yet with his gold spectacles and silver ears on he could distinctly hear and see a great city!
suppose you were to see a large city from the upper air; where, with your ears and eyes open, you could take in everything at once.
what would it look like?
how would you feel about it?
i hardly know myself.
do you?
prince dolor was as bewildered as a blind person who is suddenly made to see.
he gazed down on the city below him, and then put his hand over his eyes.
"i can't bear to look at it, it is so beautiful so dreadful.
and i don't understand it not one bit.
i wish i had some one to tell me about it."
"do you?
then pray speak to me."
the voice that squeaked out this reply came from a great black and white bird that flew into the cloak and began walking round and round on the edge of it with a dignified stride.
"i haven't the honor of your acquaintance," said the boy politely.
"my name is mag and i shall be happy to tell you everything you want to know.
my family is very old; we have builded in this palace for many years.
i am well acquainted with the king, the queen, and the little princes and princesses also the maids of honor, and all the inhabitants of the city.
i talk a great deal, but i always talk sense, and i dare say i shall be very useful to a poor, little, ignorant boy like you."
"i am a prince," said the other gently.
"all right.
and i am a magpie."
she settled herself at his elbow and began to chatter away, pointing out with one skinny claw every object of interest, evidently believing, as no doubt all its inhabitants did, that there was no city in the world like the great capital of nomansland.
mag said that it was the finest city in the world but there were a few things in it that surprised prince dolor.
one half the people seemed so happy and contented and the other half were so poor and miserable.
"i would try to make it a little more equal if i were king," he said.
"but you're not the king," returned the magpie loftily.
"shall i show you the royal palace?"
it was a magnificent palace covering many acres of ground.
it had terraces and gardens; battlements and towers.
but since the queen died the windows through which she looked at the beautiful mountains, had been closed and boarded up.
the room was so little that no one cared to use it.
"i should like to see the king," said prince dolor, and as he spoke mag flew down to the palace roof, where the cloak rested, settling down between the great stocks of chimneys as comfortably as if on the ground.
mag pecked at the tiles with her beak and immediately a little hole opened, a sort of door, through which could be seen distinctly the chamber below.
"now pop down on your knees and take a peep at his majesty."
the prince gazed eagerly down, into a large room, the largest room he had ever beheld, with furniture and hangings grander than anything he could have ever imagined.
a sunbeam struck across the carpet and it looked like a bed of flowers.
"where is the king?"
asked the puzzled boy.
"there," said mag, pointing with one wrinkled claw to a magnificent bed, large enough to contain six people.
in the centre of it quite straight and still with its head on the lace pillow lay a small figure, something like waxwork, fast asleep.
there were a number of sparkling rings on the tiny yellow hands; the eyes were shut, and the nose looked sharp and thin, and the long grey beard hid the mouth, and lay over the breast.
two little flies buzzing about the curtains of the bed was the only audible sound.
"is that the king?"
whispered prince dolor.
"yes," replied the bird.
he had been angry ever since he learned how his uncle had taken the crown and had felt as if, king as he was, he should like to strike him, this great, strong wicked man.
why, you might as well have struck a baby!
how helpless he lay!
with his eyes shut, and his idle hands folded; they had no more work to do, bad or good.
"what is the matter with him?"
asked the prince.
"he is dead," said the magpie with a croak.
no, there was not the least use in being angry with him now.
on the contrary, the prince felt almost sorry for him.
"what shall we do now?"
asked the magpie.
"there's nothing much more to be done with his majesty, except a funeral.
suppose we float up again at a safe distance and see it all.
it will be such fun.
there will be a great row in the city and i wonder who we shall have in his place?"
"what will be fun?"
"a revolution."
as soon as the cathedral bell began to toll, and the minute guns to fire, announcing to the kingdom that it was without a king, the people gathered in crowds.
the murmur now and then rose into a shout, and the shout into a roar.
when prince dolor, quietly floating in the upper air, caught the sound of their different and opposite cries, it seemed to him as if the whole city had gone mad together.
"long live the king!"
"the king is dead down with the king!"
"down with the crown and the king too!"
"hurrah for the republic!"
"hurrah for no government at all."
such were the shouts which came up to him and then began, oh!
what a scene!
the country was in a revolution.
soldiers were shooting down people by hundreds in the streets, scaffolds were being erected, heads dropping off, houses burned, and women and children murdered.
prince dolor saw it all.
things happened so fast after one another that he nearly lost his senses.
"oh, let me go home," he cried at last, stopping his ears and shutting his eyes, "only let me go home!"
for even his lonely tower and its dreariness and silence, was absolute paradise after this.
prince dolor fell into a kind of swoon and when he awoke he found himself in his own room.
chapter viii.
next morning when prince dolor awoke he perceived that his room was empty.
very uncomfortable he felt, of course; and just a little frightened.
especially when he began to call again and again, but nobody answered.
"nurse dear nurse please come back!"
he called out.
"come back, and i will be the best boy in all the land."
and when she did not come back, and nothing but silence answered his lamentable call, he very nearly began to cry.
"this won't do," he said at last, dashing the tears from his eyes.
"it's just like a baby, and i'm a big boy shall be a man some day.
what has happened, i wonder?
i'll go and see."
he sprang out of bed and crawled from room to room on his knees.
"what in the world am i to do?"
thought he, and sat down in the middle of the floor, half inclined to believe that it would be better to give up entirely, lay himself down and die.
this feeling, however, did not last long.
he jumped up and looked out of the window.
no help there.
at first he only saw the broad bleak sunshiny plain.
but, by-and-by, in the mud around the base of the tower he saw clearly the marks of horses' feet, and just in the spot where the deaf mute always tied his great black charger, there lay the remains of a bundle of hay.
"yes, that's it.
he has come and gone, taking nurse with him.
poor nurse!
how glad she must have been to go!"
that was prince dolor's first thought.
his second was one of indignation at her cruelty.
he decided that it would be easier to die here alone than out in the world, among the terrible doings which he had just beheld.
the deaf mute had come contrived somehow to make the nurse understand that the king was dead, and that she need have no fear in going back to the capital.
"i hope she'll enjoy it," said the prince.
and then a kind of remorse smote him for feeling so bitterly towards her, after all the years she had taken care of him grudgingly, perhaps, still, she had taken care of him.
for the second time he tried to dress himself, and then to do everything he could for himself even to sweeping the hearth and putting on more coals.
he then thought of his godmother.
not of calling her or asking her to help him she had evidently left him to help himself, and he was determined to try his best to do it, being a very proud and independent boy but he remembered her tenderly.
after his first despair, he was comfortable and happy in his solitude, but when it was time to go to bed, he was very lonely, even his little lark was silent and as for his traveling cloak, either he never thought about it, or else it had been spirited away for he made no use of it, nor attempted to do so.
on the sixth day, prince dolor had a strange contented look in his face.
get out of the tower he could not; the ladder the deaf mute used was always carried away again and his food was nearly gone.
so he made up his mind to die.
not that he wished to die; on the contrary, there was a great deal that he wished to live to do.
dying did not seem so very dreadful; not even to lie quietly like his uncle, whom he had entirely forgiven now.
"suppose i had grown to be a man, and had had work to do, and people to care for, and was so useful and busy that they liked me, and perhaps even forgot that i was lame.
then, it would have been nice to have lived, i think," and tears came into the little fellow's eyes.
then he heard a trumpet, one of the great silver trumpets so admired in nomansland.
not pleasant music, but very bold and grand.
the poor condemned woman had not been such a wicked woman after all.
as soon as she heard of the death of the king, she persuaded the deaf-mute to take her away with him, and they galloped like the wind from city to city, spreading everywhere the news that prince dolor's death and burial had been an invention concocted by his wicked uncle that he was alive and well, and the noblest young prince that ever was born.
it was a bold stroke, but it succeeded.
people jumped at the idea of this prince, who was the son of their late good king and queen.
"hurrah for prince dolor!
let him be our king!"
rang from end to end of the kingdom.
they were determined to have him reign over them.
accordingly no sooner was the late king laid in his grave than they pronounced him a usurper; turned all his family out of the palace, and left it empty for the reception of the new sovereign, whom they went to fetch with great rejoicing.
they hailed him with delight, as prince and king and went down on their knees before him, offering the crown to him.
"yes," he said, "if you desire it, i will be your king.
and i will do my best to make my people happy."
"oh!"
said he, "if before i go, i could only see my dear godmother."
he gazed sadly up to the skylight, whence there came pouring a stream of sunrays like a bridge between heaven and earth.
sliding down it, came the little woman in grey.
he held out his arms in eager delight.
"oh, godmother, you have not forsaken me!"
"not at all my son.
you may not have seen me, but i have seen you many a time."
"how?"
"oh, never mind.
i can turn into anything i please you know."
"a lark, for instance," cried prince dolor.
"or a magpie," answered she with a capital imitation of mag's croaky voice.
"you will not leave me now that i am king?
otherwise i had rather not be a king at all," said he.
the little old woman laughed gaily.
"forsake you?
that is impossible.
but now i must go.
good-bye!
open the window and out i fly."
prince dolor tried to hold his godmother fast, but in vain.
a knocking was heard at the door, and the little woman vanished.
his godmother helped him out of many difficulties for there was never such a wise old woman.
he was very happy and contented; first, because he took his affliction patiently; second, because being a brave man, he bore it bravely.
therefore other people grew to love him so well, that i think hundreds of his subjects might have been found who were almost ready to die for their poor lame king.
he did a good many things, however, which a little astonished his subjects.
first, he pardoned the condemned woman, who had been his nurse and ordered that there should be no such thing as the death punishment in nomansland.
then he chose the eldest son of his eldest cousin, a quiet, unobtrusive boy, to be educated as heir to the throne.
in course of time, when the little prince had grown into a tall young man, king dolor fixed a day when the people should assemble in the great square of the capital to see the young prince installed solemnly in his new duties.
the king lifted up his thin slender hand and there came a silence over the vast crowd immediately as he pronounced the vows which made the young prince king.
my people he said, i am tired; i want to rest; it is time for me to go and i do not think i shall come back any more.
he drew a little bundle out of his breast pocket.
then, so suddenly that even those nearest to his majesty could not tell how, the king was away floating right up in the air upon something they knew not what.
whither he went or who went with him it is impossible to say, but i myself believe that his godmother took him on his traveling cloak to the beautiful mountains.
the prince and betty
chapter i
the cable prom mervo
a pretty girl in a blue dress came out of the house, and began to walk slowly across the terrace to where elsa keith sat with marvin rossiter in the shade of the big sycamore.
elsa and marvin had become engaged some few days before, and were generally to be found at this time sitting together in some shaded spot in the grounds of the keith's long island home.
"what's troubling betty, i wonder," said elsa.
"she looks worried."
marvin turned his head.
"is that your friend, miss silver?"
"that's betty.
we were at college together.
i want you to like betty."
"then i will.
when did she arrive?"
"last night.
she's here for a month.
what's the matter, betty?
this is marvin.
i want you to like marvin."
betty silver smiled.
her face, in repose, was rather wistful, but it lighted up when she smiled, and an unsuspected dimple came into being on her chin.
"of course i shall," she said.
her big gray eyes seemed to search marvin's for an instant and marvin had, almost subconsciously, a comfortable feeling that he had been tested and found worthy.
"what were you scowling at so ferociously, betty?"
asked elsa.
"was i scowling?
i hope you didn't think it was at you.
oh, elsa, i'm miserable!
i shall have to leave this heavenly place."
"betty!"
"at once.
and i was meaning to have the most lovely time.
see what has come!"
she held out some flimsy sheets of paper.
"a cable!"
said elsa.
"great scott!
it looks like the scenario of a four-act play," said marvin.
"that's not all one cable, surely?
whoever sent it must be a millionaire."
"he is.
it's from my stepfather.
read it out, elsa.
i want mr. rossiter to hear it.
he may be able to tell me where mervo is.
did you ever hear of mervo, mr.
rossiter?"
"never.
what is it?"
"it's a place where my stepfather is, and where i've got to go.
i do call it hard.
go on, elsa."
elsa, who had been skimming the document with raised eyebrows, now read it out in its spacious entirety.
on receipt of this come instantly mervo without moment    delay vital importance presence urgently required come    wherever you are cancel engagements urgent necessity hustle    have advised bank allow you draw any money you need expenses    have booked stateroom mauretania sailing wednesday don't fail    catch arrive fishguard monday train london sleep london catch    first train tuesday dover now mind first train no taking root    in london and spending a week shopping mid-day boat dover    calais arrive paris tuesday evening dine paris catch train de    luxe nine-fifteen tuesday night for marseilles have engaged    sleeping coupe now mind tuesday night no cutting loose around    paris stores you can do all that later on just now you want to    get here right quick arrive marseilles wednesday morning boat    mervo wednesday night will meet you mervo now do you follow    all that because if not cable at once and say which part of    journey you don't understand now mind special points to be    remembered firstly come instantly secondly no cutting loose    around london paris stores see.
scobell.
"well!"
said elsa, breathless.
"by george!"
said marvin.
"he certainly seems to want you badly enough.
he hasn't spared expense.
he has put in about everything you could put into a cable."
"except why he wants me," said betty.
"yes," said elsa.
"why does he want you?
and in such a desperate hurry, too!"
marvin was re-reading the message.
"it isn't a mere invitation," he said.
"there's no come-right-along-you'll-like-this-place-it's-fine about it.
he seems to look on your company more as a necessity than a luxury.
it's a sort of imperious c.q.d."
"that's what makes it so strange.
we have hardly met for years.
why, he didn't even know where i was.
the cable was sent to the bank and forwarded on.
and i don't know where he is!"
"which brings us back," said marvin, "to mysterious mervo.
let us reason inductively.
if you get to the place by taking a boat from marseilles, it can't be far from the french coast.
i should say at a venture that mervo is an island in the mediterranean.
and a small island for if it had been a big one we should have heard of it."
"marvin!"
cried elsa, her face beaming with proud affection.
"how clever you are!"
"a mere gift," he said modestly.
"i have been like that from a boy."
he got up from his chair.
"isn't there an encyclopaedia in the library, elsa?"
"yes, but it's an old edition."
"it will probably touch on mervo.
i'll go and fetch it."
as he crossed the terrace, elsa turned quickly to betty.
"well?"
she said.
betty smiled at her.
"he's a dear.
are you very happy, elsa?"
elsa's eyes danced.
she drew in her breath softly.
betty looked at her in silence for a moment.
the wistful expression was back on her face.
"elsa," she said, suddenly.
"what is it like?
how does it feel, knowing that there's someone who is fonder of you than anything ?"
elsa closed her eyes.
"it's like eating berries and cream in a new dress by moonlight on a summer night while somebody plays the violin far away in the distance so that you can just hear it," she said.
her eyes opened again.
"and it's like coming along on a winter evening and seeing the windows lit up and knowing you've reached home."
betty was clenching her hands, and breathing quickly.
"and it's like "
"elsa, don't!
i can't bear it!"
"betty!
what's the matter?"
betty smiled again, but painfully.
"it's stupid of me.
i'm just jealous, that's all.
i haven't got a marvin, you see.
you have."
"well, there are plenty who would like to be your marvin."
betty's face grew cold.
"there are plenty who would like to be benjamin scobell's son-in-law,"
she said.
"betty!"
elsa's voice was serious.
"we've been friends for a good long time, so you'll let me say something, won't you?
i think you're getting just the least bit hard.
now turn and rend me," she added good-humoredly.
"i'm not going to rend you," said betty.
"you're perfectly right.
i am getting hard.
how can i help it?
do you know how many men have asked me to marry them since i saw you last?
five."
"betty!"
"and not one of them cared the slightest bit about me."
"but, betty, dear, that's just what i mean.
why should you say that?
how can you know?"
"how do i know?
well, i do know.
instinct, i suppose.
the instinct of self-preservation which nature gives hunted animals.
i can't think of a single man in the world except your marvin, of course who wouldn't do anything for money."
she stopped.
"well, yes, one."
elsa leaned forward eagerly.
"who, betty?"
"you don't know him."
"but what's his name?"
betty hesitated.
"well, if i am on the witness-stand maude."
"maude?
i thought you said a man?"
"it's his name.
john maude."
"but, betty!
why didn't you tell me before?
this is tremendously interesting."
betty laughed shortly.
"not so very, really.
i only met him two or three times, and i haven't seen him for years, and i don't suppose i shall ever see him again.
he was a friend of alice beecher's brother, who was at harvard.
alice took me over to meet her brother, and mr. maude was there.
that's all."
elsa was plainly disappointed.
"but how do you know, then ?
what makes you think that he ?"
"instinct, again, i suppose.
i do know."
"and you've never met him since?"
betty shook her head.
elsa relapsed into silence.
she had a sense of pathos.
at the further end of the terrace marvin rossiter appeared, carrying a large volume.
"here we are," he said.
"scared it up at the first attempt.
now then."
he sat down, and opened the book.
"you don't want to hear all about how jason went there in search of the golden fleece, and how ulysses is supposed to have taken it in on his round-trip?
you want something more modern.
well, it's an island in the mediterranean, as i said, and i'm surprised that you've never heard of it, elsa, because it's celebrated in its way.
it's the smallest independent state in the world.
smaller than monaco, even.
here are some facts.
its population when this encyclopaedia was printed there may be more now was eleven thousand and sixteen.
it was ruled over up to 1886 by a prince.
but in that year the populace appear to have said to themselves, 'when in the course of human events....' anyway, they fired the prince, and the place is now a republic.
so that's where you're going, miss silver.
i don't know if it's any consolation to you, but the island, according to this gentleman, is celebrated for the unspoilt beauty of its scenery.
he also gives a list of the fish that can be caught there.
it takes up about three lines."
"but what can my stepfather be doing there?
i last heard of him in london.
well, i suppose i shall have to go."
"i suppose you will," said elsa mournfully.
"but, oh, betty, what a shame!"
chapter ii
mervo and its owner
"by heck!"
cried mr. benjamin scobell.
he wheeled round from the window, and transferred his gaze from the view to his sister marion; losing by the action, for the view was a joy to the eye, which his sister marion was not.
mervo was looking its best under the hot morning sun.
mr. scobell's villa stood near the summit of the only hill the island possessed, and from the window of the morning-room, where he had just finished breakfast, he had an uninterrupted view of valley, town, and harbor a two-mile riot of green, gold and white, and beyond the white the blue satin of the mediterranean.
mr. scobell did not read poetry except that which advertised certain breakfast foods in which he was interested, or he might have been reminded of the island of flowers in tennyson's "voyage of maeldive."
violets, pinks, crocuses, yellow and purple mesembryanthemum, lavender, myrtle, and rosemary ... his two-mile view contained them all.
the hillside below him was all aglow with the yellow fire of the mimosa.
but his was not one of those emotional natures to which the meanest flower that blows can give thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
a primrose by the river's brim a simple primrose was to him or not so much a simple primrose, perhaps, as a basis for a possible primrosina, the soap that really cleans you.
he was a nasty little man to hold despotic sway over such a paradise: a goblin in fairyland.
somewhat below the middle height, he was lean of body and vulturine of face.
he had a greedy mouth, a hooked nose, liquid green eyes and a sallow complexion.
he was rarely seen without a half-smoked cigar between his lips.
this at intervals he would relight, only to allow it to go out again; and when, after numerous fresh starts, it had dwindled beyond the limits of convenience, he would substitute another from the reserve supply that protruded from his vest-pocket.
how benjamin scobell had discovered the existence of mervo is not known.
it lay well outside the sphere of the ordinary financier.
but mr. scobell took a pride in the versatility of his finance.
it distinguished him from the uninspired who were content to concentrate themselves on steel, wheat and such-like things.
it was mr. scobell's way to consider nothing as lying outside his sphere.
in a financial sense he might have taken terence's nihil humanum alienum as his motto.
he was interested in innumerable enterprises, great and small.
he was the power behind a company which was endeavoring, without much success, to extract gold from the mountains of north wales, and another which was trying, without any success at all, to do the same by sea water.
he owned a model farm in indiana, and a weekly paper in new york.
he had financed patent medicines, patent foods, patent corks, patent corkscrews, patent devices of all kinds, some profitable, some the reverse.
also outside the ordinary gains of finance he had expectations.
he was the only male relative of his aunt, the celebrated mrs. jane oakley, who lived in a cottage on staten island, and was reputed to spend five hundred dollars a year some said less out of her snug income of eighteen million.
she was an unusual old lady in many ways, and, unfortunately, unusually full of deep-rooted prejudices.
the fear lest he might inadvertently fall foul of these rarely ceased to haunt mr. scobell.
this man of many projects had descended upon mervo like a stone on the surface of some quiet pool, bubbling over with modern enterprise in general and, in particular, with a scheme.
before his arrival, mervo had been an island of dreams and slow movement and putting things off till to-morrow.
the only really energetic thing it had ever done in its whole history had been to expel his late highness, prince charles, and change itself into a republic.
and even that had been done with the minimum of fuss.
the prince was away at the time.
indeed, he had been away for nearly three years, the pleasures of paris, london and vienna appealing to him more keenly than life among his subjects.
mervo, having thought the matter over during these years, decided that it had no further use for prince charles.
quite quietly, with none of that vulgar brawling which its neighbor, france, had found necessary in similar circumstances, it had struck his name off the pay-roll, and declared itself a republic.
the royalist party, headed by general poineau, had been distracted but impotent.
the army, one hundred and fifteen strong, had gone solid for the new regime, and that had settled it.
mervo had then gone to sleep again.
it was asleep when mr. scobell found it.
the financier's scheme was first revealed to m. d'orby, the president of the republic, a large, stout statesman with even more than the average mervian instinct for slumber.
he was asleep in a chair on the porch of his villa when mr. scobell paid his call, and it was not until the financier's secretary, who attended the seance in the capacity of interpreter, had rocked him vigorously from side to side for quite a minute that he displayed any signs of animation beyond a snore like the growling of distant thunder.
when at length he opened his eyes, he perceived the nightmare-like form of mr. scobell standing before him, talking.
the financier, impatient of delay, had begun to talk some moments before the great awakening.
"sir," mr. scobell was saying, "i gotta proposition to which i'd like you to give your complete attention.
shake him some more, crump.
sir, there's big money in it for all of us, if you and your crowd'll sit in.
money.
lar' monnay.
no, that means change.
what's money, crump?
arjong?
there's arjong in it, squire.
get that?
oh, shucks!
hand it to him in french, crump."
mr. secretary crump translated.
the president blinked, and intimated that he would hear more.
mr. scobell relighted his cigar-stump, and proceeded.
"say, you've heard of moosieer blonk?
ask the old skeesicks if he's ever heard of mersyaw blonk, crump, the feller who started the gaming-tables at monte carlo."
filtered through mr. crump, the question became intelligible to the president.
he said he had heard of m. blanc.
mr. crump caught the reply and sent it on to mr. scobell, as the man on first base catches the ball and throws it to second.
mr. scobell relighted his cigar.
"well, i'm in that line.
i'm going to put this island on the map just like old doctor blonk put monte carlo.
i've been studying up all about the old man, and i know just what he did and how he did it.
monte carlo was just such another jerkwater little place as this is before he hit it.
the government was down to its last bean and wondering where the heck its next meal-ticket was coming from, when in blows mr. man, tucks up his shirt-sleeves, and starts the tables.
and after that the place never looked back.
you and your crowd gotta get together and pass a vote to give me a gambling concession here, same as they did him.
scobell's my name.
hand him that, crump."
mr. crump obliged once more.
a gleam of intelligence came into the president's dull eye.
he nodded once or twice.
he talked volubly in french to mr. crump, who responded in the same tongue.
"the idea seems to strike him, sir," said mr. crump.
"it ought to, if he isn't a clam," replied mr. scobell.
he started to relight his cigar, but after scorching the tip of his nose, bowed to the inevitable and threw the relic away.
"see here," he said, having bitten the end off the next in order; "i've thought this thing out from soup to nuts.
there's heaps of room for another monte carlo.
monte's a dandy place, but it's not perfect by a long way.
to start with, it's hilly.
you have to take the elevator to get to the casino, and when you've gotten to the end of your roll and want to soak your pearl pin, where's the hock-shop?
half a mile away up the side of a mountain.
it ain't right.
in my casino there's going to be a resident pawnbroker inside the building, just off the main entrance.
that's only one of a heap of improvements.
another is that my casino's scheduled to be a home from home, a place you can be real cosy in.
you'll look around you, and the only thing you'll miss will be mother's face.
yes, sir, there's no need for a gambling casino to look and feel and smell like the reading-room at the british museum.
comfort, coziness and convenience.
that's the ticket i'm running on.
slip that to the old gink, crump."
a further outburst of the french language from mr. crump, supplemented on the part of the "old gink" by gesticulations, interrupted the proceedings.
"what's he saying now?"
asked mr. scobell.
"he wants to know "
"don't tell.
let me guess.
he wants to know what sort of a rake-off he and the other somnambulists will get the darned old pirate!
is that it?"
mr. crump said that that was just it.
"that'll be all right," said mr. scobell.
"old man blong's offer to the prince of monaco was five hundred thousand francs a year that's somewhere around a hundred thousand dollars in real money and half the profits made by the casino.
that's my offer, too.
see how that hits him, crump."
mr. crump investigated.
"he says he accepts gladly, on behalf of the republic, sir," he announced.
m. d'orby confirmed the statement by rising, dodging the cigar, and kissing mr. scobell on both cheeks.
"cut it out," said the financier austerely, breaking out of the clinch.
"we'll take the apache dance as read.
good-by, squire.
glad it's settled.
now i can get busy."
he did.
workmen poured into mervo, and in a very short time, dominating the town and reducing to insignificance the palace of the late prince, once a passably imposing mansion, there rose beside the harbor a mammoth casino of shining stone.
imposing as was the exterior, it was on the interior that mr. scobell more particularly prided himself, and not without reason.
certainly, a man with money to lose could lose it here under the most charming conditions.
it had been mr. scobell's object to avoid the cheerless grandeur of the rival institution down the coast.
instead of one large hall sprinkled with tables, each table had a room to itself, separated from its neighbor by sound-proof folding-doors.
and as the building progressed, mr. scobell's active mind had soared above the original idea of domestic coziness to far greater heights of ingenuity.
each of the rooms was furnished and arranged in a different style.
the note of individuality extended even to the croupiers.
thus, a man with money at his command could wander from the dutch room, where, in the picturesque surroundings of a dutch kitchen, croupiers in the costume of holland ministered to his needs, to the japanese room, where his coin would be raked in by quite passable imitations of the samurai.
if he had any left at this point, he was free to dispose of it under the auspices of near-hindoos in the indian room, of merry swiss peasants in the swiss room, or in other appropriately furnished apartments of red-shirted, bret harte miners, fur-clad esquimaux, or languorous spaniards.
he could then, if a man of spirit, who did not know when he was beaten, collect the family jewels, and proceed down the main hall, accompanied by the strains of an excellent band, to the office of a gentlemanly pawnbroker, who spoke seven languages like a native and was prepared to advance money on reasonable security in all of them.
it was a colossal venture, but it suffered from the defect from which most big things suffer; it moved slowly.
that it also moved steadily was to some extent a consolation to mr. scobell.
undoubtedly it would progress quicker and quicker, as time went on, until at length the casino became a permanent gold mine.
but at present it was being conducted at a loss.
it was inevitable, but it irked mr. scobell.
he paced the island and brooded.
his mind dwelt incessantly on the problem.
ideas for promoting the prosperity of his nursling came to him at all hours at meals, in the night watches, when he was shaving, walking, washing, reading, brushing his hair.
and now one had come to him as he stood looking at the view from the window of his morning-room, listening absently to his sister marion as she read stray items of interest from the columns of the new york herald, and had caused him to utter the exclamation recorded at the beginning of the chapter.
"by heck!"
he said.
"read that again, marion.
i gottan idea."
miss scobell, deep in her paper, paid no attention.
few people would have taken her for the sister of the financier.
she was his exact opposite in almost every way.
he was small, jerky and aggressive; she, tall, deliberate and negative.
she was one of those women whom nature seems to have produced with the object of attaching them to some man in a peculiar position of independent dependence, and who defy the imagination to picture them in any other condition whatsoever.
one could not see miss scobell doing anything but pour out her brother's coffee, darn his socks, and sit placidly by while he talked.
yet it would have been untrue to describe her as dependent upon him.
she had a detached mind.
though her whole life had been devoted to his comfort and though she admired him intensely, she never appeared to give his conversation any real attention.
she listened to him much as she would have listened to a barking pomeranian.
"marion!"
cried mr. scobell.
"a five-legged rabbit has been born in carbondale, southern illinois,"
she announced.
mr. scobell cursed the five-legged rabbit.
"never mind about your rabbits.
i want to hear that piece you read before.
the one about the prince of monaco.
will you listen, marion!"
"the prince of monaco, dear?
yes.
he has caught another fish or something of that sort, i think.
yes.
a fish with 'telescope eyes,' the paper says.
and very convenient too, i should imagine."
mr. scobell thumped the table.
"i've got it.
i've found out what's the matter with this darned place.
i see why the casino hasn't struck its gait."
"i think it must be the croupiers, dear.
i'm sure i never heard of croupiers in fancy costume before.
it doesn't seem right.
i'm sure people don't like those nasty hindoos.
i am quite nervous myself when i go into the indian room.
they look at me so oddly."
"nonsense!
that's the whole idea of the place, that it should be different.
people are sick and tired of having their money gathered in by seedy-looking dagoes in second-hand morning coats.
we give 'em variety.
it's not the casino that's wrong: it's the darned island.
what's the use of a republic to a place like this?
i'm not saying that you don't want a republic for a live country that's got its way to make in the world; but for a little runt of a sawn-off, hobo, one-night stand like this you gotta have something picturesque, something that'll advertise the place, something that'll give a jolt to folks' curiosity, and make 'em talk!
there's this monaco gook.
he snoops around in his yacht, digging up telescope-eyed fish, and people talk about it.
'another darned fish,' they say.
'that's the 'steenth bite the prince of monaco has had this year.'
it's like a soap advertisement.
it works by suggestion.
they get to thinking about the prince and his pop-eyed fishes, and, first thing they know, they've packed their grips and come along to monaco to have a peek at him.
and when they're there, it's a safe bet they aren't going back again without trying to get a mess of easy money from the bank.
that's what this place wants.
whoever heard of this blamed republic doing anything except eat and sleep?
they used to have a prince here 'way back in eighty-something.
well, i'm going to have him working at the old stand again, right away."
miss scobell looked up from her paper, which she had been reading with absorbed interest throughout tins harangue.
"dear?"
she said enquiringly.
"i say i'm going to have him back again," said mr. scobell, a little damped.
"i wish you would listen."
"i think you're quite right, dear.
who?"
"the prince.
do listen, marion.
the prince of this island, his highness, the prince of mervo.
i'm going to send for him and put him on the throne again."
"you can't, dear.
he's dead."
"i know he's dead.
you can't faze me on the history of this place.
he died in ninety-one.
but before he died he married an american girl, and there's a son, who's in america now, living with his uncle.
it's the son i'm going to send for.
i got it all from general poineau.
he's a royalist.
he'll be tickled to pieces when johnny comes marching home again.
old man poineau told me all about it.
the prince married a girl called westley, and then he was killed in an automobile accident, and his widow went back to america with the kid, to live with her brother.
poineau says he could lay his hand on him any time he pleased."
"i hope you won't do anything rash, dear," said his sister comfortably.
"i'm sure we don't want any horrid revolution here, with people shooting and stabbing each other."
"revolution?"
cried mr. scobell.
"revolution!
well, i should say nix!
revolution nothing.
i'm the man with the big stick in mervo.
pretty near every adult on this island is dependent on my casino for his weekly envelope, and what i say goes without argument.
i want a prince, so i gotta have a prince, and if any gazook makes a noise like a man with a grouch, he'll find himself fired."
miss scobell turned to her paper again.
"very well, dear," she said.
"just as you please.
i'm sure you know best."
"sure!"
said her brother.
"you're a good guesser.
i'll go and beat up old man poineau right away."
chapter iii
john
ten days after mr. scobell's visit to general poineau, john, prince of mervo, ignorant of the greatness so soon to be thrust upon him, was strolling thoughtfully along one of the main thoroughfares of that outpost of civilization, jersey city.
he was a big young man, tall and large of limb.
his shoulders especially were of the massive type expressly designed by nature for driving wide gaps in the opposing line on the gridiron.
he looked like one of nature's center-rushes, and had, indeed, played in that position for harvard during two strenuous seasons.
his face wore an expression of invincible good-humor.
he had a wide, good-natured mouth, and a pair of friendly gray eyes.
one felt that he liked his follow men and would be surprised and pained if they did not like him.
as he passed along the street, he looked a little anxious.
sherlock holmes and possibly even doctor watson would have deduced that he had something on his conscience.
at the entrance to a large office building, he paused, and seemed to hesitate.
then, as if he had made up his mind to face an ordeal, he went in and pressed the button of the elevator.
leaving the elevator at the third floor, he went down the passage, and pushed open a door on which was inscribed the legend, "westley, martin & co."
a stout youth, walking across the office with his hands full of papers, stopped in astonishment.
"hello, john maude!"
he cried.
the young man grinned.
"say, where have you been?
the old man's been as mad as a hornet since he found you had quit without leave.
he was asking for you just now."
"i guess i'm up against it," admitted john cheerfully.
"where did you go yesterday?"
john put the thing to him candidly, as man to man.
"see here, spiller, suppose you got up one day and found it was a perfectly bully morning, and remembered that the giants were playing the athletics, and looked at your mail, and saw that someone had sent you a pass for the game "
"were you at the ball-game?
you've got the nerve!
didn't you know there would be trouble?"
"old man," said john frankly, "i could no more have turned down that pass  oh, well, what's the use?
it was just great.
i suppose i'd better tackle the boss now.
it's got to be done."
it was not a task to which many would have looked forward.
most of those who came into contact with andrew westley were afraid of him.
he was a capable rather than a lovable man, and too self-controlled to be quite human.
there was no recoil in him, no reaction after anger, as there would have been in a hotter-tempered man.
he thought before he acted, but, when he acted, never yielded a step.
john, in all the years of their connection, had never been able to make anything of him.
at first, he had been prepared to like him, as he liked nearly everybody.
but mr. westley had discouraged all advances, and, as time went by, his nephew had come to look on him as something apart from the rest of the world, one of those things which no fellow could understand.
on mr. westley's side, there was something to be said in extenuation of his attitude.
john reminded him of his father, and he had hated the late prince of mervo with a cold hatred that had for a time been the ruling passion of his life.
he had loved his sister, and her married life had been one long torture to him, a torture rendered keener by the fact that he was powerless to protect either her happiness or her money.
her money was her own, to use as she pleased, and the use which pleased her most was to give it to her husband, who could always find a way of spending it.
as to her happiness, that was equally out of his control.
it was bound up in her prince, who, unfortunately, was a bad custodian for it.
at last, an automobile accident put an end to his highness's hectic career (and, incidentally, to that of a blonde lady from the folies bergeres), and the princess had returned to her brother's home, where, a year later, she died, leaving him in charge of her infant son.
mr. westley's desire from the first had been to eliminate as far as possible all memory of the late prince.
he gave john his sister's name, maude, and brought him up as an american, in total ignorance of his father's identity.
during all the years they had spent together, he had never mentioned the prince's name.
he disliked john intensely.
he fed him, clothed him, sent him to college, and gave him a place in his office, but he never for a moment relaxed his bleakness of front toward him.
john was not unlike his father in appearance, though built on a larger scale, and, as time went on, little mannerisms, too, began to show themselves, that reminded mr.
westley of the dead man, and killed any beginnings of affection.
john, for his part, had the philosophy which goes with perfect health.
he fitted his uncle into the scheme of things, or, rather, set him outside them as an irreconcilable element, and went on his way enjoying life in his own good-humored fashion.
it was only lately, since he had joined the firm, that he had been conscious of any great strain.
college had given him a glimpse of a larger life, and the office cramped him.
he felt vaguely that there were bigger things in the world which he might be doing.
his best friends, of whom he now saw little, were all men of adventure and enterprise, who had tried their hand at many things; men like jimmy pitt, who had done nearly everything that could be done before coming into an unexpected half-million; men like rupert smith, who had been at harvard with him and was now a reporter on the news; men like baker, faraday, williams he could name half-a-dozen, all men who were doing something, who were out on the firing line.
he was not a man who worried.
he had not that temperament.
but sometimes he would wonder in rather a vague way whether he was not allowing life to slip by him a little too placidly.
an occasional yearning for something larger would attack him.
there seemed to be something in him that made for inaction.
his soul was sleepy.
if he had been told of the identity of his father, it is possible that he might have understood.
the princes of mervo had never taken readily to action and enterprise.
for generations back, if they had varied at all, son from father, it had been in the color of hair or eyes, not in character a weak, shiftless procession, with nothing to distinguish them from the common run of men except good looks and a talent for wasting money.
john was the first of the line who had in him the seeds of better things.
the westley blood and the bracing nature of his education had done much to counteract the mervo strain.
he did not know it, but the american in him was winning.
the desire for action was growing steadily every day.
it had been mervo that had sent him to the polo grounds on the previous day.
that impulse had been purely mervian.
no prince of that island had ever resisted a temptation.
but it was america that was sending him now to meet his uncle with a quiet unconcern as to the outcome of the interview.
the spirit of adventure was in him.
it was more than possible that mr. westley would sink the uncle in the employer and dismiss him as summarily as he would have dismissed any other clerk in similar circumstances.
if so, he was prepared to welcome dismissal.
other men fought an unsheltered fight with the world, so why not he?
he moved towards the door of the inner office with a certain exhilaration.
as he approached, it flew open, disclosing mr. westley himself, a tall, thin man, at the sight of whom spiller shot into his seat like a rabbit.
john went to meet him.
"ah," said mr. westley; "come in here.
i want to speak to you."
john followed him into the room.
"sit down," said his uncle.
john waited while he dictated a letter.
neither spoke till the stenographer had left the room.
john met the girl's eye as she passed.
there was a compassionate look in it.
john was popular with his fellow employes.
his absence had been the cause of discussion and speculation among them, and the general verdict had been that there would be troublous times for him on the morrow.
when the door closed, mr. westley leaned back in his chair, and regarded his nephew steadily from under a pair of bushy gray eyebrows which lent a sort of hypnotic keenness to his gaze.
"you were at the ball-game yesterday?"
he said.
the unexpectedness of the question startled john into a sharp laugh.
"yes," he said, recovering himself.
"without leave."
"it didn't seem worth while asking for leave."
"you mean that you relied so implicitly on our relationship to save you from the consequences?"
"no, i meant "
"well, we need not try and discover what you may have meant.
what claim do you put forward for special consideration?
why should i treat you differently from any other member of the staff?"
john had a feeling that the interview was being taken at too rapid a pace.
he felt confused.
"i don't want you to treat me differently," he said.
mr. westley did not reply.
john saw that he had taken a check-book from its pigeonhole.
"i think we understand each other," said mr. westley.
"there is no need for any discussion.
i am writing you a check for ten thousand dollars "
"ten thousand dollars!"
"it happens to be your own.
it was left to me in trust for you by your mother.
by a miracle your father did not happen to spend it."
john caught the bitter note which the other could not keep out of his voice, and made one last attempt to probe this mystery.
as a boy he had tried more than once before he realized that this was a forbidden topic.
"who was my father?"
he said.
mr. westley blotted the check carefully.
"quite the worst blackguard i ever had the misfortune to know," he replied in an even tone.
"will you kindly give me a receipt for this?
then i need not detain you.
you may return to the ball-game without any further delay.
possibly," he went on, "you may wonder why you have not received this money before.
i persuaded your mother to let me use my discretion in choosing the time when it should be handed over to you.
i decided to wait until, in my opinion, you had sense enough to use it properly.
i do not think that time has arrived.
i do not think it will ever arrive.
but as we are parting company and shall, i hope, never meet again, you had better have it now."
john signed the receipt in silence.
"thank you," said mr. westley.
"good-by."
at the door john hesitated.
he had looked forward to this moment as one of excitement and adventure, but now that it had come it had left him in anything but an uplifted mood.
he was naturally warm-hearted, and his uncle's cold anger hurt him.
it was so different from anything sudden, so essentially not of the moment.
he felt instinctively that it had been smoldering for a long time, and realized with a shock that his uncle had not been merely indifferent to him all these years, but had actually hated him.
it was as if he had caught a glimpse of something ugly.
he felt that this was the last scene of some long drawn-out tragedy.
something made him turn impulsively back towards the desk.
"uncle " he cried.
he stopped.
the hopelessness of attempting any step towards a better understanding overwhelmed him.
mr. westley had begun to write.
he must have seen john's movement, but he continued to write as if he were alone in the room.
john turned to the door again.
"good-by," he said.
mr. westley did not look up.
chapter iv
vive le roi!
when, an hour later, john landed in new york from the ferry, his mood had changed.
the sun and the breeze had done their work.
he looked on life once more with a cheerful and optimistic eye.
his first act, on landing, was to proceed to the office of the news and enquire for rupert smith.
he felt that he had urgent need of a few minutes' conversation with him.
now that the painter had been definitely cut that bound him to the safe and conventional, and he had set out on his own account to lead the life adventurous, he was conscious of an absurd diffidence.
new york looked different to him.
it made him feel positively shy.
a pressing need for a friendly native in this strange land manifested itself.
smith would have ideas and advice to bestow he was notoriously prolific of both and in this crisis both were highly necessary.
smith, however, was not at the office.
he had gone out, john was informed, earlier in the morning to cover a threatened strike somewhere down on the east side.
john did not go in search of him.
the chance of finding him in that maze of mean streets was remote.
he decided to go uptown, select a hotel, and lunch.
to the need for lunch he attributed a certain sinking sensation of which he was becoming more and more aware, and which bore much too close a resemblance to dismay to be pleasant.
the poet's statement that "the man who's square, his chances always are best; no circumstance can shoot a scare into the contents of his vest," is only true within limits.
the squarest men, deposited suddenly in new york and faced with the prospect of earning his living there, is likely to quail for a moment.
new york is not like other cities.
london greets the stranger with a sleepy grunt.
paris giggles.
new york howls.
a gladiator, waiting in the center of the arena while the colosseum officials fumbled with the bolts of the door behind which paced the noisy tiger he was to fight, must have had some of the emotions which john experienced during his first hour as a masterless man in gotham.
a surface car carried him up broadway.
at times square the astor hotel loomed up on the left.
it looked a pretty good hotel to john.
he dismounted.
half an hour later he decided that he was acclimated.
he had secured a base of operations in the shape of a room on the seventh floor, his check was safely deposited in the hotel bank, and he was half-way through a lunch which had caused him already to look on new york not only as the finest city in the world, but also, on the whole, as the one city of all others in which a young man might make a fortune with the maximum of speed and the minimum of effort.
after lunch, having telegraphed his address to his uncle in case of mail, he took the latter's excellent advice and went to the polo grounds.
returning in time to dress, he dined at the hotel, after which he visited a near-by theater, and completed a pleasant and strenuous day at one of those friendly restaurants where the music is continuous and the waiters are apt to burst into song in the intervals of their other duties.
a second attempt to find smith next morning failed, as the first had done.
the staff of the news were out of bed and at work ridiculously early, and when john called up the office between eleven and twelve o'clock nature's breakfast-hour smith was again down east, observing the movements of those who were about to strike or who had already struck.
it hardly seemed worth while starting to lay the bed plates of his fortune till he had consulted the expert.
what would rockefeller have done?
he would, john felt certain, have gone to the ball-game.
he imitated the great financier.
it was while he was smoking a cigar after dinner that night, musing on the fortunes of the day's game and, in particular, on the almost criminal imbecility of the umpire, that he was dreamily aware that he was being "paged."
a small boy in uniform was meandering through the room, chanting his name.
"gent wants five minutes wit' you," announced the boy, intercepted.
"hasn't got no card.
business, he says."
this disposed of the idea that rupert smith had discovered his retreat.
john was puzzled.
he could not think of another person in new york who knew of his presence at the astor.
but it was the unknown that he was in search of, and he decided to see the mysterious stranger.
"send him along," he said.
the boy disappeared, and presently john observed him threading his way back among the tables, followed by a young man of extraordinary gravity of countenance, who was looking about him with an intent gaze through a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles.
john got up to meet him.
"my name is maude," he said.
"won't you sit down?
have you had dinner?"
"thank you, yes," said the spectacled young man.
"you'll have a cigar and coffee, then?"
"thank you, yes."
the young man remained silent until the waiter had filled his cup.
"my name is crump," he said.
"i am mr. benjamin scobell's private secretary."
"yes?"
said john.
"snug job?"
the other seemed to miss something in his voice.
"you have heard of mr.
scobell?"
he asked.
"not to my knowledge," said john.
"ah!
you have lost touch very much with mervo, of course."
john stared.
"mervo?"
it sounded like some patent medicine.
"i have been instructed," said mr. crump solemnly, "to inform your highness that the republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects offer you the throne of your ancestors."
john leaned back in his chair, and looked at the speaker in dumb amazement.
the thought flashed across him that mr. crump had been perfectly correct in saying that he had dined.
his attitude appeared to astound mr. crump.
he goggled through his spectacles at john, who was reminded of some rare fish.
"you are john maude?
you said you were."
"i'm john maude right enough.
we're solid on that point."
"and your mother was the only sister of mr. andrew westley?"
"you're right there, too."
"then there is no mistake.
i say the republic " he paused, as if struck with an idea.
"don't you know?"
he said.
"your father "
john became suddenly interested.
"if you've got anything to tell me about my father, go right ahead.
you'll be the only man i've ever met who has said a word about him.
who the deuce was he, anyway?"
mr. crump's face cleared.
"i understand.
i had not expected this.
you have been kept in ignorance.
your father, mr. maude, was the late prince charles of mervo."
it was not easy to astonish john, but this announcement did so.
he dropped his cigar in a shower of gray ash on to his trousers, and retrieved it almost mechanically, his wide-open eyes fixed on the other's face.
"what!"
he cried.
mr. crump nodded gravely.
"you are prince john of mervo, and i am here " he got into his stride as he reached the familiar phrase "to inform your highness that the republic has been dissolved, and that your subjects offer you the throne of your ancestors."
a horrid doubt seized john.
"you're stringing me.
one of those indians at the news, rupert smith, or someone, has put you up to this."
mr. crump appeared wounded.
"if your highness would glance at these documents  this is a copy of the register of the church in which your mother and father were married."
john glanced at the document.
it was perfectly lucid.
"then then it's true!"
he said.
"perfectly true, your highness.
and i am here to inform "
"but where the deuce is mervo?
i never heard of the place."
"it is an island principality in the mediterranean, your high "
"for goodness' sake, old man, don't keep calling me 'your highness.'
it may be fun to you, but it makes me feel a perfect ass.
let me get into the thing gradually."
mr. crump felt in his pocket.
"mr. scobell," he said, producing a roll of bills, "entrusted me with money to defray any expenses "
more than any words, this spectacle removed any lingering doubt which john might have had as to the possibility of this being some intricate practical joke.
"are these for me?"
he said.
mr. crump passed them across to him.
"there are a thousand dollars here," he said.
"i am also instructed to say that you are at liberty to draw further against mr. scobell's account at the wall street office of the european and asiatic bank."
the name scobell had been recurring like a leit-motif in mr.
crump's conversation.
this suddenly came home to john.
"before we go any further," he said, "let's get one thing clear.
who is this mr. scobell?
how does he get mixed up in this?"
"he is the proprietor of the casino at mervo."
"he seems to be one of those generous, open-handed fellows.
nothing of the tight wad about him."
"he is deeply interested in your high in your return."
john laid the roll of bills beside his coffee cup, and relighted his cigar.
"that's mighty good of him," he said.
"it strikes me, old man, that i am not absolutely up-to-date as regards the internal affairs of this important little kingdom of mine.
how would it be if you were to put me next to one or two facts?
start at the beginning and go right on."
when mr. crump had finished a condensed history of mervo and mervian politics, john smoked in silence for some minutes.
"life, crump," he said at last, "is certainly speeding up as far as i am concerned.
up till now nothing in particular has ever happened to me.
a couple of days ago i lost my job, was given ten thousand dollars that i didn't know existed, and now you tell me i'm a prince.
well, well!
these are stirring times.
when do we start for the old homestead?"
"mr. scobell was exceedingly anxious that we should return by saturday's boat."
"saturday?
what, to-morrow?"
"perhaps it is too soon.
you will not be able to settle your affairs?"
"i guess i can settle my affairs all right.
i've only got to pack a grip and tip the bell hops.
and as scobell seems to be financing this show, perhaps it's up to me to step lively if he wants it.
but it's a pity.
i was just beginning to like this place.
there is generally something doing along the white way after twilight, crump."
the gravity of mr. scobell's secretary broke up unexpectedly into a slow, wide smile.
his eyes behind their glasses gleamed with a wistful light.
"gee!"
he murmured.
john looked at him, amazed.
"crump," he cried.
"crump, i believe you're a sport!"
mr. crump seemed completely to have forgotten his responsible position as secretary to a millionaire and special messenger to a prince.
he smirked.
"i'd have liked a day or two in the old burg," he said softly.
"i haven't been to rector's since ponto was a pup."
john reached across the table and seized the secretary's hand.
"crump," he said, "you are a sport.
this is no time for delay.
if we are to liven up this great city, we must get busy right away.
grab your hat, and come along.
one doesn't become a prince every day.
the occasion wants celebrating.
are you with me, crump, old scout?"
"sure thing," said the envoy ecstatically.
at eight o'clock on the following morning, two young men, hatless and a little rumpled, but obviously cheerful, entered the astor hotel, demanding breakfast.
a bell boy who met them was addressed by the larger of the two, and asked his name.
"desmond ryan," he replied.
the young man patted him on his shoulder.
"i appoint you, desmond ryan," he said, "grand hereditary bell hop to the court of mervo."
thus did prince john formally enter into his kingdom.
chapter v
mr. scobell has another idea
owing to collaboration between fate and mr. scobell, john's state entry into mervo was an interesting blend between a pageant and a vaudeville sketch.
the pageant idea was mr. scobell's.
fate supplied the vaudeville.
the reception at the quay, when the little steamer that plied between marseilles and the island principality gave up its precious freight, was not on quite so impressive a scale as might have been given to the monarch of a more powerful kingdom; but john was not disappointed.
during the voyage from new york, in the intervals of seasickness for he was a poor sailor mr. crump had supplied him with certain facts about mervo, one of which was that its adult population numbered just under thirteen thousand, and this had prepared him for any shortcomings in the way of popular demonstration.
as a matter of fact, mr. scobell was exceedingly pleased with the scale of the reception, which to his mind amounted practically to pomp.
the palace guard, forty strong, lined the quay.
besides these, there were four officers, a band, and sixteen mounted carbineers.
the rest of the army was dotted along the streets.
in addition to the military, there was a gathering of a hundred and fifty civilians, mainly drawn from fishing circles.
the majority of these remained stolidly silent throughout, but three, more emotional, cheered vigorously as a young man was seen to step on to the gangway, carrying a grip, and make for the shore.
general poineau, a white-haired warrior with a fierce mustache, strode forward and saluted.
the palace guards presented arms.
the band struck up the mervian national anthem.
general poineau, lowering his hand, put on a pair of pince-nez and began to unroll an address of welcome.
it was then seen that the young man was mr. crump.
general poineau removed his glasses and gave an impatient twirl to his mustache.
mr.
scobell, who for possibly the first time in his career was not smoking (though, as was afterward made manifest, he had the materials on his person), bustled to the front.
"where's his nibs, crump?"
he enquired.
the secretary's reply was swept away in a flood of melody.
to the band mr. crump's face was strange.
they had no reason to suppose that he was not prince john, and they acted accordingly.
with a rattle of drums they burst once more into their spirited rendering of the national anthem.
mr. scobell sawed the air with his arms, but was powerless to dam the flood.
"his highness is shaving, sir!"
bawled mr. crump, depositing his grip on the quay and making a trumpet of his hands.
"shaving!"
"yes, sir.
i told him he ought to come along, but his highness said he wasn't going to land looking like a tramp comedian."
by this time general poineau had explained matters to the band and they checked the national anthem abruptly in the middle of a bar, with the exception of the cornet player, who continued gallantly by himself till a feeling of loneliness brought the truth home to him.
an awkward stage wait followed, which lasted until john was seen crossing the deck, when there were more cheers, and general poineau, resuming his pince-nez, brought out the address of welcome again.
at this point mr. scobell made his presence felt.
"glad to meet you, prince," he said, coming forward.
"scobell's my name.
shake hands with general poineau.
no, that's wrong.
i guess he kisses your hand, don't he?"
"i'll swing on him if he does," said john, cheerfully.
mr. scobell eyed him doubtfully.
his highness did not appear to him to be treating the inaugural ceremony with that reserved dignity which we like to see in princes on these occasions.
mr. scobell was a business man.
he wanted his money's worth.
his idea of a prince of mervo was something statuesquely aloof, something he could not express it exactly on the lines of the illustrations in the zenda stories in the magazines about eight feet high and shinily magnificent, something that would give the place a tone.
that was what he had had in his mind when he sent for john.
he did not want a cheerful young man in a soft hat and a flannel suit who looked as if at any moment he might burst into a college yell.
general poineau, meanwhile, had embarked on the address of welcome.
john regarded him thoughtfully.
"i can see," he said to mr. scobell, "that the gentleman is making a good speech, but what is he saying?
that is what gets past me."
"he is welcoming your highness," said mr. crump, the linguist, "in the name of the people of mervo."
"who, i notice, have had the bully good sense to stay in bed.
i guess they knew that the boy orator would do all that was necessary.
he hasn't said anything about a bite of breakfast, has he?
has his address happened to work around to the subject of shredded wheat and shirred eggs yet?
that's the part that's going to make a hit with me."
"there'll be breakfast at my villa, your highness," said mr. scobell.
"my automobile is waiting along there."
the general reached his peroration, worked his way through it, and finished with a military clash of heels and a salute.
the band rattled off the national anthem once more.
"now, what?"
said john, turning to mr. scobell.
"breakfast?"
"i guess you'd better say a few words to them, your highness; they'll expect it."
"but i can't speak the language, and they can't understand english.
the thing'll be a stand-off."
"crump will hand it to 'em.
here, crump."
"sir?"
"line up and shoot his highness's remarks into 'em."
"yes, sir.
"it's all very well for you, crump," said john.
"you probably enjoy this sort of thing.
i don't.
i haven't felt such a fool since i sang 'the maiden's prayer' on tremont street when i was joining the frat.
are you ready?
no, it's no good.
i don't know what to say."
"tell 'em you're tickled to death," advised mr. scobell anxiously.
john smiled in a friendly manner at the populace.
then he coughed.
"gentlemen," he said "and more particularly the sport on my left who has just spoken his piece whose name i can't remember i thank you for the warm welcome you have given me.
if it is any satisfaction to you to know that it has made me feel like thirty cents, you may have that satisfaction.
thirty is a liberal estimate."
"'his highness is overwhelmed by your loyal welcome.
he thanks you warmly,'" translated mr. crump, tactfully.
"i feel that we shall get along nicely together," continued john.
"if you are chumps enough to turn out of your comfortable beds at this time of the morning simply to see me, you can't be very hard to please.
we shall hit it off fine."
mr. crump: "his highness hopes and believes that he will always continue to command the affection of his people."
"i " john paused.
"that's the lot," he said.
"the flow of inspiration has ceased.
the magic fire has gone out.
break it to 'em, crump.
for me, breakfast."
during the early portion of the ride mr. scobell was silent and thoughtful.
john's speech had impressed him neither as oratory nor as an index to his frame of mind.
he had not interrupted him, because he knew that none of those present could understand what was being said, and that mr. crump was to be relied on as an editor.
but he had not enjoyed it.
he did not take the people of mervo seriously himself, but in the prince such an attitude struck him as unbecoming.
then he cheered up.
after all, john had given evidence of having a certain amount of what he would have called "get-up" in him.
for the purposes for which he needed him, a tendency to make light of things was not amiss.
it was essentially as a performing prince that he had engaged john.
he wanted him to do unusual things, which would make people talk aeroplaning was one that occurred to him.
perhaps a prince who took a serious view of his position would try to raise the people's minds and start reforms and generally be a nuisance.
john could, at any rate, be relied upon not to do that.
his face cleared.
"have a good cigar, prince?"
he said, cordially, inserting two fingers in his vest-pocket.
"sure, mike," said his highness affably.
breakfast over, mr. scobell replaced the remains of his cigar between his lips, and turned to business.
"eh, prince?"
he said.
"yes!"
"i want you, prince," said mr. scobell, "to help boom this place.
that's where you come in."
"sure," said john.
"as to ruling and all that," continued mr. scobell, "there isn't any to do.
the place runs itself.
some guy gave it a shove a thousand years ago, and it's been rolling along ever since.
what i want you to do is the picturesque stunts.
get a yacht and catch rare fishes.
whoop it up.
entertain swell guys when they come here.
have a court see what i mean?
same as over in england.
go around in aeroplanes and that style of thing.
don't worry about money.
that'll be all right.
you draw your steady hundred thousand a year and a good chunk more besides, when we begin to get a move on, so the dough proposition doesn't need to scare you any."
"do i, by george!"
said john.
"it seems to me that i've fallen into a pretty soft thing here.
there'll be a joker in the deck somewhere, i guess.
there always is in these good things.
but i don't see it yet.
you can count me in all right."
"good boy," said mr. scobell.
"and now you'll be wanting to get to the palace.
i'll have them bring the automobile round."
the council of state broke up.
having seen john off in the car, the financier proceeded to his sister's sitting-room.
miss scobell had breakfasted apart that morning, by request, her brother giving her to understand that matters of state, unsuited to the ear of a third party, must be discussed at the meal.
she was reading her new york herald.
"well," said mr. scobell, "he's come."
"yes, dear?"
"and just the sort i want.
saw the idea of the thing right away, and is ready to go the limit.
no nonsense about him."
"is he nice-looking, bennie?"
"sure.
all these mervo princes have been good-lookers, i hear, and this one must be near the top of the list.
you'll like him, marion.
all the girls will be crazy about him in a week."
miss scobell turned a page.
"is he married?"
her brother started.
"married?
i never thought of that.
but no, i guess he's not.
he'd have mentioned it.
he's not the sort to hush up a thing like that.
i "
he stopped short.
his green eyes gleamed excitedly.
"marion!"
he cried.
"marion!"
"well, dear?"
"listen.
gee, this thing is going to be the biggest ever.
i gotta new idea.
it just came to me.
your saying that put it into my head.
do you know what i'm going to do?
i'm going to cable over to betty to come right along here, and i'm going to have her marry this prince guy.
yes, sir!"
for once miss scobell showed signs that her brother's conversation really interested her.
she laid down her paper, and stared at him.
"betty!"
"sure, betty.
why not?
she's a pretty girl.
clever too.
the prince'll be lucky to get such a wife, for all his darned ancestors away back to the flood."
"but suppose betty does not like him?"
"like him?
she's gotta like him.
say, can't you make your mind soar, or won't you?
can't you see that a thing like this has gotta be fixed different from a marriage between between a ribbon-counter clerk and the girl who takes the money at a twenty-five-cent hash restaurant in flatbush?
this is a royal alliance.
do you suppose that when a european princess is introduced to the prince she's going to marry, they let her say: 'nothing doing.
i don't like the shape of his nose'?"
he gave a spirited imitation of a european princess objecting to the shape of her selected husband's nose.
"it isn't very romantic, bennie," sighed miss scobell.
she was a confirmed reader of the more sentimental class of fiction, and this business-like treatment of love's young dream jarred upon her.
"it's founding a dynasty.
isn't that romantic enough for you?
you make me tired, marion."
miss scobell sighed again.
"very well, dear.
i suppose you know best.
but perhaps the prince won't like betty."
mr. scobell gave a snort of disgust.
"marion," he said, "you've got a mind like a chunk of wet dough.
can't you understand that the prince is just as much in my employment as the man who scrubs the casino steps?
i'm hiring him to be prince of mervo, and his first job as prince of mervo will be to marry betty.
i'd like to see him kick!"
he began to pace the room.
"by heck, it's going to make this place boom to beat the band.
it'll be the biggest kind of advertisement.
restoration of royalty at mervo.
that'll make them take notice by itself.
then, biff!
right on top of that, royal romance prince weds american girl love at first sight picturesque wedding!
gee, we'll wipe monte carlo clean off the map.
we'll have 'em licked to a splinter.
we it's the greatest scheme on earth."
"i have no doubt you are right, bennie," said miss scobell, "but " her voice became dreamy again "it's not very romantic."
"oh, shucks!"
said the schemer impatiently.
"here, where's a cable form?"
chapter vi
young adam cupid
on a red sandstone rock at the edge of the water, where the island curved sharply out into the sea, prince john of mervo sat and brooded on first causes.
for nearly an hour and a half he had been engaged in an earnest attempt to trace to its source the acute fit of depression which had come apparently from nowhere to poison his existence that morning.
it was his seventh day on the island, and he could remember every incident of his brief reign.
the only thing that eluded him was the recollection of the exact point when the shadow of discontent had begun to spread itself over his mind.
looking back, it seemed to him that he had done nothing during that week but enjoy each new aspect of his position as it was introduced to his notice.
yet here he was, sitting on a lonely rock, consumed with an unquenchable restlessness, a kind of trapped sensation.
exactly when and exactly how fate, that king of gold-brick men, had cheated him he could not say; but he knew, with a certainty that defied argument, that there had been sharp practise, and that in an unguarded moment he had been induced to part with something of infinite value in exchange for a gilded fraud.
the mystery baffled him.
he sent his mind back to the first definite entry of mervo into the foreground of his life.
he had come up from his stateroom on to the deck of the little steamer, and there in the pearl-gray of the morning was the island, gradually taking definite shape as the pink mists shredded away before the rays of the rising sun.
as the ship rounded the point where the lighthouse still flashed a needless warning from its cluster of jagged rocks, he had had his first view of the town, nestling at the foot of the hill, gleaming white against the green, with the gold-domed casino towering in its midst.
in all southern europe there was no view to match it for quiet beauty.
for all his thews and sinews there was poetry in john, and the sight had stirred him like wine.
it was not then that depression had begun, nor was it during the reception at the quay.
the days that had followed had been peaceful and amusing.
he could not detect in any one of them a sign of the approaching shadow.
they had been lazy days.
his duties had been much more simple than he had anticipated.
he had not known, before he tried it, that it was possible to be a prince with so small an expenditure of mental energy.
as mr.
scobell had hinted, to all intents and purposes he was a mere ornament.
his work began at eleven in the morning, and finished as a rule at about a quarter after.
at the hour named a report of the happenings of the previous day was brought to him.
when he had read it the state asked no more of him until the next morning.
the report was made up of such items as "a fisherman named lesieur called carbineer ferrier a fool in the market-place at eleven minutes after two this afternoon; he has not been arrested, but is being watched," and generally gave john a few minutes of mild enjoyment.
certainly he could not recollect that it had ever depressed him.
no, it had been something else that had worked the mischief and in another moment the thing stood revealed, beyond all question of doubt.
what had unsettled him was that unexpected meeting with betty silver last night at the casino.
he had been sitting at the dutch table.
he generally visited the casino after dinner.
the light and movement of the place interested him.
as a rule, he merely strolled through the rooms, watching the play; but last night he had slipped into a vacant seat.
he had only just settled himself when he was aware of a girl standing beside him.
he got up.
"would you care ?"
he had begun, and then he saw her face.
it had all happened in an instant.
some chord in him, numbed till then, had begun to throb.
it was as if he had awakened from a dream, or returned to consciousness after being stunned.
there was something in the sight of her, standing there so cool and neat and composed, so typically american, a sort of goddess of america, in the heat and stir of the casino, that struck him like a blow.
how long was it since he had seen her last?
not more than a couple of years.
it seemed centuries.
it all came back to him.
it was during his last winter at harvard that they had met.
a college friend of hers had been the sister of a college friend of his.
they had met several times, but he could not recollect having taken any particular notice of her then, beyond recognizing that she was certainly pretty.
the world had been full of pretty american girls then.
but now
he looked at her.
and, as he looked, he heard america calling to him.
mervo, by the appeal of its novelty, had caused him to forget.
but now, quite suddenly, he knew that he was homesick and it astonished him, the readiness with which he had permitted mr. crump to lead him away into bondage.
it seemed incredible that he had not foreseen what must happen.
love comes to some gently, imperceptibly, creeping in as the tide, through unsuspected creeks and inlets, creeps on a sleeping man, until he wakes to find himself surrounded.
but to others it comes as a wave, breaking on them, beating them down, whirling them away.
it was so with john.
in that instant when their eyes met the miracle must have happened.
it seemed to him, as he recalled the scene now, that he had loved her before he had had time to frame his first remark.
it amazed him that he could ever have been blind to the fact that he loved her, she was so obviously the only girl in the world.
"you you don't remember me," he stammered.
she was flushing a little under his stare, but her eyes were shining.
"i remember you very well, mr. maude," she said with a smile.
"i thought i knew your shoulders before you turned round.
what are you doing here?"
"i "
there was a hush.
the croupier had set the ball rolling.
a wizened little man and two ladies of determined aspect were looking up disapprovingly.
john realized that he was the only person in the room not silent.
it was impossible to tell her the story of the change in his fortunes in the middle of this crowd.
he stopped, and the moment passed.
the ball dropped with a rattle.
the tension relaxed.
"won't you take this seat?"
said john.
"no, thank you.
i'm not playing.
i only just stopped to look on.
my aunt is in one of the rooms, and i want to make her come home.
i'm tired."
"have you ?"
he caught the eye of the wizened man, and stopped again.
"have you been in mervo long?"
he said, as the ball fell.
"i only arrived this morning.
it seems lovely.
i must explore to-morrow."
she was beginning to move off.
"er " john coughed to remove what seemed to him a deposit of sawdust and unshelled nuts in his throat.
"er may i will you let me show you " prolonged struggle with the nuts and sawdust; then rapidly "some of the places to-morrow?"
he had hardly spoken the words when it was borne in upon him that he was a vulgar, pushing bounder, presuming on a dead and buried acquaintanceship to force his company on a girl who naturally did not want it, and who would now proceed to snub him as he deserved.
he quailed.
though he had not had time to collect and examine and label his feelings, he was sufficiently in touch with them to know that a snub from her would be the most terrible thing that could possibly happen to him.
she did not snub him.
indeed, if he had been in a state of mind coherent enough to allow him to observe, he might have detected in her eyes and her voice signs of pleasure.
"i should like it very much," she said.
john made his big effort.
he attacked the nuts and sawdust which had come back and settled down again in company with a large lump of some unidentified material, as if he were bucking center.
they broke before him as, long ago, the yale line had done, and his voice rang out as if through a megaphone, to the unconcealed disgust of the neighboring gamesters.
"if you go along the path at the foot of the hill," he bellowed rapidly, "and follow it down to the sea, you get a little bay full of red sandstone rocks you can't miss it and there's a fine view of the island from there.
i'd like awfully well to show that to you.
it's great."
she nodded.
"then shall we meet there?"
she said.
"when?"
john was in no mood to postpone the event.
"as early as ever you like," he roared.
"at about ten, then.
good-night, mr.
maude."
john had reached the bay at half-past eight, and had been on guard there ever since.
it was now past ten, but still there were no signs of betty.
his depression increased.
he told himself that she had forgotten.
then, that she had remembered, but had changed her mind.
then, that she had never meant to come at all.
he could not decide which of the three theories was the most distressing.
his mood became morbidly introspective.
he was weighed down by a sense of his own unworthiness.
he submitted himself to a thorough examination, and the conclusion to which he came was that, as an aspirant to the regard, of a girl like betty, he did not score a single point.
no wonder she had ignored the appointment.
a cold sweat broke out on him.
this was the snub!
she had not administered it in the casino simply in order that, by being delayed, its force might be the more overwhelming.
he looked at his watch again, and the world grew black.
it was twelve minutes after ten.
john, in his time, had thought and read a good deal about love.
ever since he had grown up, he had wanted to fall in love.
he had imagined love as a perpetual exhilaration, something that flooded life with a golden glow as if by the pressing of a button or the pulling of a switch, and automatically removed from it everything mean and hard and uncomfortable; a something that made a man feel grand and god-like, looking down (benevolently, of course) on his fellow men as from some lofty mountain.
that it should make him feel a worm-like humility had not entered his calculations.
he was beginning to see something of the possibilities of love.
his tentative excursions into the unknown emotion, while at college, had never really deceived him; even at the time a sort of second self had looked on and sneered at the poor imitation.
this was different.
this had nothing to do with moonlight and soft music.
it was raw and hard.
it hurt.
it was a thing sharp and jagged, tearing at the roots of his soul.
he turned his head, and looked up the path for the hundredth time, and this time he sprang to his feet.
between the pines on the hillside his eye had caught the flutter of a white dress.
chapter vii
mr. scobell is frank
much may happen in these rapid times in the course of an hour and a half.
while john was keeping his vigil on the sandstone rock, betty was having an interview with mr. scobell which was to produce far-reaching results, and which, incidentally, was to leave her angrier and more at war with the whole of her world than she could remember to have been in the entire course of her life.
the interview began, shortly after breakfast, in a gentle and tactful manner, with aunt marion at the helm.
but mr. scobell was not the man to stand by silently while persons were being tactful.
at the end of the second minute he had plunged through his sister's mild monologue like a rhinoceros through a cobweb, and had stated definitely, with an economy of words, the exact part which betty was to play in mervian affairs.
"you say you want to know why you were cabled for.
i'll tell you.
there's no use talking for half a day before you get to the point.
i guess you've heard that there's a prince here instead of a republic now?
well, that's where you come in."
"do you mean ?"
she hesitated.
"yes, i do," said mr. scobell.
there was a touch of doggedness in his voice.
he was not going to stand any nonsense, by heck, but there was no doubt that betty's wide-open eyes were not very easy to meet.
he went on rapidly.
"cut out any fool notions about romance."
miss scobell, who was knitting a sock, checked her needles for a moment in order to sigh.
her brother eyed her morosely, then resumed his remarks.
"this is a matter of state.
that's it.
you gotta cut out fool notions and act for good of state.
you gotta look at it in the proper spirit.
great honor see what i mean?
princess and all that.
chance of a lifetime dynasty you gotta look at it that way."
miss scobell heaved another sigh, and dropped a stitch.
"for the love of mike," said her brother, irritably, "don't snort like that, marion."
"very well, dear."
betty had not taken her eyes off him from his first word.
an unbiased observer would have said that she made a pretty picture, standing there, in her white dress, but in the matter of pictures, still life was evidently what mr. scobell preferred for his gaze never wandered from the cigar stump which he had removed from his mouth in order to knock off the ash.
betty continued to regard him steadfastly.
the shock of his words had to some extent numbed her.
at this moment she was merely thinking, quite dispassionately, what a singularly nasty little man he looked, and wondering not for the first time what strange quality, invisible to everybody else, it had been in him that had made her mother his adoring slave during the whole of their married life.
then her mind began to work actively once more.
she was a western girl, and an insistence on freedom was the first article in her creed.
a great rush of anger filled her, that this man should set himself up to dictate to her.
"do you mean that you want me to marry this prince?"
she said.
"that's right."
"i won't do anything of the sort."
"pshaw!
don't be foolish.
you make me tired."
betty's eye shone mutinously.
her cheeks were flushed, and her slim, boyish figure quivered.
her chin, always determined, became a silent declaration of independence.
"i won't," she said.
aunt marion, suspending operations on the sock, went on with tact at the point where her brother's interruption had forced her to leave off.
"i'm sure he's a very nice young man.
i have not seen him, but everybody says so.
you like him, bennie, don't you?"
"sure, i like him.
he's a corker.
wait till you see him, betty.
nobody's asking you to marry him before lunch.
you'll have plenty of time to get acquainted.
it beats me what you're kicking at.
you give me a pain in the neck.
be reasonable."
betty sought for arguments to clinch her refusal.
"it's ridiculous," she said.
"you talk as if you had just to wave your hand.
why should your prince want to marry a girl he has never seen?"
"he will," said mr. scobell confidently.
"how do you know?"
"because i know he's a sensible young skeesicks.
that's how.
see here, betty, you've gotten hold of wrong ideas about this place.
you don't understand the position of affairs.
your aunt didn't till i put her wise."
"he bit my head off, my dear," murmured miss scobell, knitting placidly.
"you're thinking that mervo is an ordinary state, and that the prince is one of those independent, all-wool, off-with-his-darned-head rulers like you read about in the best sellers.
well, you've got another guess coming.
if you want to know who's the big noise here, it's me me!
this prince guy is my hired man.
see?
who sent for him?
i did.
who put him on the throne?
i did.
who pays him his salary?
i do, from the profits of the casino.
now do you understand?
he knows his job.
he knows which side his bread's buttered.
when i tell him about this marriage, do you know what he'll say?
he'll say 'thank you, sir!'
that's how things are in this island."
betty shuddered.
her face was white with humiliation.
she half-raised her hands with an impulsive movement to hide it.
"i won't.
i won't.
i won't!"
she gasped.
mr. scobell was pacing the room in an ecstasy of triumphant rhetoric.
"there's another thing," he said, swinging round suddenly and causing his sister to drop another stitch.
"maybe you think he's some kind of a dago, this guy?
maybe that's what's biting you.
let me tell you that he's an american pretty near as much an american as you are yourself."
betty stared at him.
"an american!"
"don't believe it, eh?
well, let me tell you that his mother was born and raised in jersey, and that he has lived all his life in the states.
he's no little runt of a dago.
no, sir.
he's a harvard man, six-foot high and weighs two hundred pounds.
that's the sort of man he is.
i guess that's not american enough for you, maybe?
no?"
"you do shout so, bennie!"
murmured miss scobell.
"i'm sure there's no need."
betty uttered a cry.
something had told her who he was, this harvard man who had sold himself.
that species of sixth sense which lies undeveloped at the back of our minds during the ordinary happenings of life wakes sometimes in moments of keen emotion.
at its highest, it is prophecy; at its lowest, a vague presentiment.
it woke in betty now.
there was no particular reason why she should have connected her stepfather's words with john.
the term he had used was an elastic one.
among the visitors to the island there were probably several harvard men.
but somehow she knew.
"who is he?"
she cried.
"what was his name before he when he ?"
"his name?"
said mr. scobell.
"john maude.
maude was his mother's name.
she was a miss westley.
here, where are you going?"
betty was walking slowly toward the door.
something in her face checked mr. scobell.
"i want to think," she said quietly.
"i'm going out."
in days of old, in the age of legend, omens warned heroes of impending doom.
but to-day the gods have grown weary, and we rush unsuspecting on our fate.
no owl hooted, no thunder rolled from the blue sky as john went up the path to meet the white dress that gleamed between the trees.
his heart was singing within him.
she had come.
she had not forgotten, or changed her mind, or willfully abandoned him.
his mood lightened swiftly.
humility vanished.
he was not such an outcast, after all.
he was someone.
he was the man betty silver had come to meet.
but with the sight of her face came reaction.
her face was pale and cold and hard.
she did not speak or smile.
as she drew near she looked at him, and there was that in her look which set a chill wind blowing through the world and cast a veil across the sun.
and in this bleak world they stood silent and motionless while eons rolled by.
betty was the first to speak.
"i'm late," she said.
john searched in his brain for words, and came empty away.
he shook his head dumbly.
"shall we sit down?"
said betty.
john indicated silently the sandstone rock on which he had been communing with himself.
they sat down.
a sense of being preposterously and indecently big obsessed john.
there seemed no end to him.
wherever he looked, there were hands and feet and legs.
he was a vast blot on the face of the earth.
he glanced out of the corner of his eye at betty.
she was gazing out to sea.
he dived into his brain again.
it was absurd!
there must be something to say.
and then he realized that a worse thing had befallen.
he had no voice.
it had gone.
he knew that, try he never so hard to speak, he would not be able to utter a word.
a nightmare feeling of unreality came upon him.
had he ever spoken?
had he ever done anything but sit dumbly on that rock, looking at those sea gulls out in the water?
he shot another swift glance at betty, and a thrill went through him.
there were tears in her eyes.
the next moment the action was almost automatic his left hand was clasping her right, and he was moving along the rock to her side.
she snatched her hand away.
his brain, ransacked for the third time, yielded a single word.
"betty!"
she got up quickly.
in the confused state of his mind, john found it necessary if he were to speak at all, to say the essential thing in the shortest possible way.
polished periods are not for the man who is feeling deeply.
he blurted out, huskily, "i love you!"
and finding that this was all that he could say, was silent.
even to himself the words, as he spoke them, sounded bald and meaningless.
to betty, shaken by her encounter with mr. scobell, they sounded artificial, as if he were forcing himself to repeat a lesson.
they jarred upon her.
"don't!"
she said sharply.
"oh, don't!"
her voice stabbed him.
it could not have stirred him more if she had uttered a cry of physical pain.
"don't!
i know.
i've been told."
"been told?"
she went on quickly.
"i know all about it.
my stepfather has just told me.
he said he said you were his " she choked "his hired man; that he paid you to stay here and advertise the casino.
oh, it's too horrible!
that it should be you!
you, who have been you can't understand what you have been to me ever since we met; you couldn't understand.
i can't tell you a sort of help something something that i can't put it into words.
only it used to help me just to think of you.
it was almost impersonal.
i didn't mind if i never saw you again.
i didn't expect ever to see you again.
it was just being able to think of you.
it helped you were something i could trust.
something strong solid."
she laughed bitterly.
"i suppose i made a hero of you.
girls are fools.
but it helped me to feel that there was one man alive who who put his honor above money "
she broke off.
john stood motionless, staring at the ground.
for the first time in his easy-going life he knew shame.
even now he had not grasped to the full the purport of her words.
the scales were falling from his eyes, but as yet he saw but dimly.
she began to speak again, in a low, monotonous voice, almost as if she were talking to herself.
she was looking past him, at the gulls that swooped and skimmed above the glittering water.
"i'm so tired of money money money.
everything's money.
isn't there a man in the world who won't sell himself?
i thought that you i suppose i'm stupid.
it's business, i suppose.
one expects too much."
she looked at him wearily.
"good-by," she said.
"i'm going."
he did not move.
she turned, and went slowly up the path.
still he made no movement.
a spell seemed to be on him.
his eyes never left her as she passed into the shadow of the trees.
for a moment her white dress stood out clearly.
she had stopped.
with his whole soul he prayed that she would look back.
but she moved on once more, and was gone.
and suddenly a strange weakness came upon john.
he trembled.
the hillside flickered before his eyes for an instant, and he clutched at the sandstone rock to steady himself.
then his brain cleared, and he found himself thinking swiftly.
he could not let her go like this.
he must overtake her.
he must stop her.
he must speak to her.
he must say he did not know what it was that he would say anything, so that he spoke to her again.
he raced up the path, calling her name.
no answer came to his cries.
above him lay the hillside, dozing in the noonday sun; below, the mediterranean, sleek and blue, without a ripple.
he stood alone in a land of silence and sleep.
chapter viii
an ultimatum from the throne
at half-past twelve that morning business took mr. benjamin scobell to the royal palace.
he was not a man who believed in letting the grass grow under his feet.
he prided himself on his briskness of attack.
every now and then mr. crump, searching the newspapers, would discover and hand to him a paragraph alluding to his "hustling methods."
when this happened, he would preserve the clipping and carry it about in his vest-pocket with his cigars till time and friction wore it away.
he liked to think of himself as swift and sudden the human thunderbolt.
in this matter of the royal alliance, it was his intention to have at it and clear it up at once.
having put his views clearly before betty, he now proposed to lay them with equal clarity before the prince.
there was no sense in putting the thing off.
the sooner all parties concerned understood the position of affairs, the sooner the business would be settled.
that betty had not received his information with joy did not distress him.
he had a poor opinion of the feminine intelligence.
girls got their minds full of nonsense from reading novels and seeing plays like betty.
betty objected to those who were wiser than herself providing a perfectly good prince for her to marry.
some fool notion of romance, of course.
not that he was angry.
he did not blame her any more than the surgeon blames a patient for the possession of an unsuitable appendix.
there was no animus in the matter.
her mind was suffering from foolish ideas, and he was the surgeon whose task it was to operate upon it.
that was all.
one had to expect foolishness in women.
it was their nature.
the only thing to do was to tie a rope to them and let them run around till they were tired of it, then pull them in.
he saw his way to managing betty.
nor did he anticipate trouble with john.
he had taken an estimate of john's character, and it did not seem to him likely that it contained unsuspected depths.
he set john down, as he had told betty, as a young man acute enough to know when he had a good job and sufficiently sensible to make concessions in order to retain it.
betty, after the manner of woman, might make a fuss before yielding to the inevitable, but from level-headed john he looked for placid acquiescence.
his mood, as the automobile whirred its way down the hill toward the town, was sunny.
he looked on life benevolently and found it good.
the view appealed to him more than it had managed to do on other days.
as a rule, he was the man of blood and iron who had no time for admiring scenery, but to-day he vouchsafed it a not unkindly glance.
it was certainly a dandy little place, this island of his.
a vineyard on the right caught his eye.
he made a mental note to uproot it and run up a hotel in its place.
further down the hill, he selected a site for a villa, where the mimosa blazed, and another where at present there were a number of utterly useless violets.
a certain practical element was apt, perhaps, to color mr. scobell's half-hours with nature.
the sight of the steamboat leaving the harbor on its journey to marseilles gave him another idea.
now that mervo was a going concern, a real live proposition, it was high time that it should have an adequate service of boats.
the present system of one a day was absurd.
he made a note to look into the matter.
these people wanted waking up.
arriving at the palace, he was informed that his highness had gone out shortly after breakfast, and had not returned.
the majordomo gave the information with a tinkle of disapproval in his voice.
before taking up his duties at mervo, he had held a similar position in the household of a german prince, where rigid ceremonial obtained, and john's cheerful disregard of the formalities frankly shocked him.
to take the present case for instance: when his highness of swartzheim had felt inclined to enjoy the air of a morning, it had been a domestic event full of stir and pomp.
he had not merely crammed a soft hat over his eyes and strolled out with his hands in his pockets, but without a word to his household staff as to where he was going or when he might be expected to return.
mr. scobell received the news equably, and directed his chauffeur to return to the villa.
he could not have done better, for, on his arrival, he was met with the information that his highness had called to see him shortly after he had left, and was now waiting in the morning-room.
the sound of footsteps came to mr. scobell's ears as he approached the room.
his highness appeared to be pacing the floor like a caged animal at the luncheon hour.
the resemblance was heightened by the expression in the royal eye as his highness swung round at the opening of the door and faced the financier.
"why, say, prince," said mr. scobell, "this is lucky.
i been looking for you.
i just been to the palace, and the main guy there told me you had gone out."
"i did.
and i met your stepdaughter."
mr. scobell was astonished.
fate was certainly smoothing his way if it arranged meetings between betty and the prince before he had time to do it himself.
there might be no need for the iron hand after all.
"you did?"
he said.
"say, how the heck did you come to do that?
what did you know about betty?"
"miss silver and i had met before, in america, when i was in college."
mr. scobell slapped his thigh joyously.
"gee, it's all working out like a fiction story in the magazines!"
"is it?"
said john.
"how?
and, for the matter of that, what?"
mr. scobell answered question with question.
"say, prince, you and betty were pretty good friends in the old days, i guess?"
john looked at him coldly.
"we won't discuss that, if you don't mind," he said.
his tone annoyed mr. scobell.
off came the velvet glove, and the iron hand displayed itself.
his green eyes glowed dully and the tip of his nose wriggled, as was its habit in times of emotion.
"is that so?"
he cried, regarding john with disfavor.
"well, i guess!
won't discuss it!
you gotta discuss it, your royal texas league highness!
you want making a head shorter, my bucko.
you "
john's demeanor had become so dangerous that he broke off abruptly, and with an unostentatious movement, as of a man strolling carelessly about his private sanctum, put himself within easy reach of the door handle.
he then became satirical.
"maybe your serene, imperial two-by-fourness would care to suggest a subject we can discuss?"
john took a step forward.
"yes, i will," he said between his teeth.
"you were talking to miss silver about me this morning.
she told me one or two of the things you said, and they opened my eyes.
until i heard them, i had not quite understood my position.
i do now.
you said, among other things, that i was your hired man."
"it wasn't intended for you to hear," said mr. scobell, slightly mollified, "and betty shouldn't oughter have handed it to you.
i don't wonder you feel raw.
i wouldn't say that sort of thing to a guy's face.
sure, no.
tact's my middle name.
but, since you have heard it, well !"
"don't apologize.
you were quite right.
i was a fool not to see it before.
no description could have been fairer.
you might have said much more.
you might have added that i was nothing more than a steerer for a gambling hell."
"oh, come, prince!"
there was a knock at the door.
a footman entered, bearing, with a detached air, as if he disclaimed all responsibility, a letter on a silver tray.
mr. scobell slit the envelope, and began to read.
as he did so his eyes grew round, and his mouth slowly opened till his cigar stump, after hanging for a moment from his lower lip, dropped off like an exhausted bivalve and rolled along the carpet.
"prince," he gasped, "she's gone.
betty!"
"gone!
what do you mean?"
"she's beaten it.
she's half-way to marseilles by now.
gee, and i saw the darned boat going out!"
"she's gone!"
"this is from her.
listen what she says:
"by the time you read this i shall be gone.
i am going back    to america as quickly as i can.
i am giving this to a boy to    take to you directly the boat has started.
please do not try    to bring me back.
i would sooner die than marry the prince."
john started violently.
"what!"
he cried.
mr. scobell nodded sympathy.
"that's what she says.
she sure has it in bad for you.
what does she mean?
seeing you and she are old friends "
"i don't understand.
why does she say that to you?
why should she think that you knew that i had asked her to marry me?"
"eh?"
cried mr. scobell.
"you asked her to marry you?
and she turned you down!
prince, this beats the band.
say, you and i must get together and do something.
the girl's mad.
see here, you aren't wise to what's been happening.
i been fixing this thing up.
i fetched you over here, and then i fetched betty, and i was going to have you two marry.
i told betty all about it this morning."
john cut through his explanations with a sudden sharp cry.
a blinding blaze of understanding had flashed upon him.
it was as if he had been groping his way in a dark cavern and had stumbled unexpectedly into brilliant sunlight.
he understood everything now.
every word that betty had spoken, every gesture that she had made, had become amazingly clear.
he saw now why she had shrunk back from him, why her eyes had worn that look.
he dared not face the picture of himself as he must have appeared in those eyes, the man whom mr. benjamin scobell's casino was paying to marry her, the hired man earning his wages by speaking words of love.
a feeling of physical sickness came over him.
he held to the table for support as he had held to the sandstone rock.
and then came rage, rage such as he had never felt before, rage that he had not thought himself capable of feeling.
it swept over him in a wave, pouring through his veins and blinding him, and he clung to the table till his knuckles whitened under the strain, for he knew that he was very near to murder.
a minute passed.
he walked to the window, and stood there, looking out.
vaguely he heard mr. scobell's voice at his back, talking on, but the words had no meaning for him.
he had begun to think with a curious coolness.
his detachment surprised him.
it was one of those rare moments in a man's life when, from the outside, through a breach in that wall of excuses and self-deception which he has been at such pains to build, he looks at himself impartially.
the sight that john saw through the wall was not comforting.
it was not a heroic soul that, stripped of its defenses, shivered beneath the scrutiny.
in another mood he would have mended the breach, excusing and extenuating, but not now.
he looked at himself without pity, and saw himself weak, slothful, devoid of all that was clean and fine, and a bitter contempt filled him.
outside the window, a blaze of color, mervo smiled up at him, and suddenly he found himself loathing its exotic beauty.
he felt stifled.
this was no place for a man.
a vision of clean winds and wide spaces came to him.
and just then, at the foot of the hill, the dome of the casino caught the sun, and flashed out in a blaze of gold.
he swung round and faced mr. scobell.
he had made up his mind.
the financier was still talking.
"so that's how it stands, prince," he was saying, "and it's up to us to get busy."
john looked at him.
"i intend to," he said.
"good boy!"
said the financier.
"to begin with, i shall run you out of this place, mr.
scobell."
the other gasped.
"there is going to be a cleaning-up," john went on.
"i've thought it out.
there will be no more gambling in mervo."
"you're crazy with the heat!"
gasped mr. scobell.
"abolish gambling?
you can't."
"i can.
that concession of yours isn't worth the paper it's written on.
the republic gave it to you.
the republic's finished.
if you want to conduct a casino in mervo, there's only one man who can give you permission, and that's myself.
the acts of the republic are not binding on me.
for a week you have been gambling on this island without a concession and now it's going to stop.
do you understand?"
"but, prince, talk sense."
mr. scobell's voice was almost tearful.
"it's you who don't understand.
do, for the love of mike, come down off the roof and talk sense.
do you suppose that these guys here will stand for this?
not on your life.
not for a minute.
see here.
i'm not blaming you.
i know you don't know what you're saying.
but listen here.
you must cut out this kind of thing.
you mustn't get these ideas in your head.
you stick to your job, and don't butt in on other folks'.
do you know how long you'd stay prince of this joint if you started in to monkey with my casino?
just about long enough to let you pack a collar-stud and a toothbrush into your grip.
and after that there wouldn't be any more prince, sonnie.
you stick to your job and i'll stick to mine.
you're a mighty good prince for all that's required of you.
you're ornamental, and you've got get-up in you.
you just keep right on being a good boy, and don't start trying stunts off your own beat, and you'll do fine.
don't forget that i'm the big noise here.
i'm old grayback from 'way back in mervo.
see!
i've only to twiddle my fingers and there'll be a revolution and you for the down-and-out club.
don't you forget it, sonnie."
john shrugged his shoulders.
"i've said all i have to say.
you've had your notice to quit.
after to-night the casino is closed."
"but don't i tell you the people won't stand for it?"
"that's for them to decide.
they may have some self-respect."
"they'll fire you!"
"very well.
that will prove that they have not."
"prince, talk sense!
you can't mean that you'll throw away a hundred thousand dollars a year as if it was dirt!"
"it is dirt when it's made that way.
we needn't discuss it any more."
"but, prince!"
"it's finished."
"but, say !"
john had left the room.
he had been gone several minutes before the financier recovered full possession of his faculties.
when he did, his remarks were brief and to the point.
"bug-house!"
he gasped.
"abso-lutely bug-house!"
chapter ix
mervo changes its constitution
humor, if one looks into it, is principally a matter of retrospect.
in after years john was wont to look back with amusement on the revolution which ejected him from the throne of his ancestors.
but at the time its mirthfulness did not appeal to him.
he was in a frenzy of restlessness.
he wanted betty.
he wanted to see her and explain.
explanations could not restore him to the place he had held in her mind, but at least they would show her that he was not the thing he had appeared.
mervo had become a prison.
he ached for america.
but, before he could go, this matter of the casino must be settled.
it was obvious that it could only be settled in one way.
he did not credit his subjects with the high-mindedness that puts ideals first and money after.
that military and civilians alike would rally to a man round mr. scobell and the casino he was well aware.
but this did not affect his determination to remain till the last.
if he went now, he would be like a boy who makes a runaway ring at the doorbell.
until he should receive formal notice of dismissal, he must stay, although every day had forty-eight hours and every hour twice its complement of weary minutes.
so he waited, chafing, while mervo examined the situation, turned it over in its mind, discussed it, slept upon it, discussed it again, and displayed generally that ponderous leisureliness which is the mervian's birthright.
indeed, the earliest demonstration was not mervian at all.
it came from the visitors to the island, and consisted of a deputation of four, headed by the wizened little man, who had frowned at john in the dutch room on the occasion of his meeting with betty, and a stolid individual with a bald forehead and a walrus mustache.
the tone of the deputation was, from the first, querulous.
the wizened man had constituted himself spokesman.
he introduced the party the walrus as colonel finch, the others as herr von mandelbaum and mr.
archer-cleeve.
his own name was pugh, and the whole party, like the other visitors whom they represented, had, it seemed, come to mervo, at great trouble and expense, to patronize the tables, only to find these suddenly, without a word of warning, withdrawn from their patronage.
and what the deputation wished to know was, what did it all mean?
"we were amazed, sir your highness," said mr. pugh.
"we could not we cannot understand it.
the entire thing is a baffling mystery to us.
we asked the soldiers at the door.
they referred us to mr. scobell.
we asked mr. scobell.
he referred us to you.
and now we have come, as the representatives of our fellow visitors to this island, to ask your highness what it means!"
"have a cigar," said john, extending the box.
mr. pugh waved aside the preferred gift impatiently.
not so herr von mandelbaum, who slid forward after the manner of one in quest of second base and retired with his prize to the rear of the little army once more.
mr. archer-cleeve, a young man with carefully parted fair hair and the expression of a strayed sheep, contributed a remark.
"no, but i say, by jove, you know, i mean really, you know, what?"
that was mr. archer-cleeve upon the situation.
"we have not come here for cigars," said mr. pugh.
"we have come here, your highness, for an explanation."
"of what?"
said john.
mr. pugh made an impatient gesture.
"do you question my right to rule this massive country as i think best, mr.
pugh?"
"it is a high-handed proceeding," said the wizened little man.
the walrus spoke for the first time.
"what say?"
he murmured huskily.
"i said," repeated mr. pugh, raising his voice, "that it was a high-handed proceeding, colonel."
the walrus nodded heavily, in assent, with closed eyes.
"yah," said herr von mandelbaum through the smoke.
john looked at the spokesman.
"you are from england, mr.
pugh?"
"yes, sir.
i am a british citizen."
"suppose some enterprising person began to run a gambling hell in piccadilly, would the authorities look on and smile?"
"that is an entirely different matter, sir.
you are quibbling.
in england gambling is forbidden by law."
"so it is in mervo, mr.
pugh."
"tchah!"
"what say?"
said the walrus.
"i said 'tchah!'
colonel."
"why?"
said the walrus.
"because his highness quibbled."
the walrus nodded approvingly.
"his highness did nothing of the sort," said john.
"gambling is forbidden in mervo for the same reason that it is forbidden in england, because it demoralizes the people."
"this is absurd, sir.
gambling has been permitted in mervo for nearly a year."
"but not by me, mr. pugh.
the republic certainly granted mr. scobell a concession.
but, when i came to the throne, it became necessary for him to get a concession from me.
i refused it.
hence the closed doors."
mr. archer-cleeve once more.
"but " he paused.
"forgotten what i was going to say," he said to the room at large.
herr von mandelbaum made some remark at the back of his throat, but was ignored.
john spoke again.
"if you were a prince, mr. pugh, would you find it pleasant to be in the pay of a gambling hell?"
"that is neither here nor "
"on the contrary, it is, very much.
i happen to have some self-respect.
i've only just found it out, it's true, but it's there all right.
i don't want to be a prince take it from me, it's a much overrated profession but if i've got to be one, i'll specialize.
i won't combine it with being a bunco steerer on the side.
as long as i am on the throne, this high-toned crap-shooting will continue a back number."
"what say?"
said the walrus.
"i said that, while i am on the throne here, people who feel it necessary to chant 'come, little seven!'
must do it elsewhere."
"i don't understand you," said mr. pugh.
"your remarks are absolutely unintelligible."
"never mind.
my actions speak for themselves.
it doesn't matter how i describe it what it comes to is that the casino is closed.
you can follow that?
mervo is no longer running wide open.
the lid is on."
"then let me tell you, sir " mr. pugh brought a bony fist down with a thump on the table "that you are playing with fire.
understand me, sir, we are not here to threaten.
we are a peaceful deputation of visitors.
but i have observed your people, sir.
i have watched them narrowly.
and let me tell you that you are walking on a volcano.
already there are signs of grave discontent."
"already!"
cried john.
"already's good.
i guess they call it going some in this infernal country if they can keep awake long enough to take action within a year after a thing has happened.
i don't know if you have any influence with the populace, mr. pugh you seem a pretty warm and important sort of person but, if you have, do please ask them as a favor to me to get a move on.
it's no good saying that i'm walking on a volcano.
i'm from missouri.
i want to be shown.
let's see this volcano.
bring it out and make it trot around."
"you may jest "
"who's jesting?
i'm not.
it's a mighty serious thing for me.
i want to get away.
the only thing that's keeping me in this forsaken place is this delay.
these people are obviously going to fire me sooner or later.
why on earth can't they do it at once?"
"what say?"
said the walrus.
"you may well ask, colonel," said mr. pugh, staring amazed at john.
"his highness appears completely to have lost his senses."
the walrus looked at john as if expecting some demonstration of practical insanity, but, finding him outwardly calm, closed his eyes and nodded heavily again.
"i must say, don't you know," said mr. archer-cleeve, "it beats me, what?"
the entire deputation seemed to consider that john's last speech needed footnotes.
john was in no mood to supply them.
his patience was exhausted.
"i guess we'll call this conference finished," he said.
"you've been told all you came to find out, my reason for closing the casino.
if it doesn't strike you as a satisfactory reason, that's up to you.
do what you like about it.
the one thing you may take as a solid fact and you can spread it around the town as much as ever you please is that it is closed, and is not going to be reopened while i'm ruler here."
the deputation then withdrew, reluctantly.
on the following morning there came a note from mr. scobell.
it was brief.
"come on down before the shooting begins," it ran.
john tore it up.
it was on the same evening that definite hostilities may be said to have begun.
between the palace and the market-place there was a narrow street of flagged stone, which was busy during the early part of the day but deserted after sundown.
along this street, at about seven o'clock, john was strolling with a cigarette, when he was aware of a man crouching, with his back toward him.
so absorbed was the man in something which he was writing on the stones that he did not hear john's approach, and the latter, coming up from behind was enabled to see over his shoulder.
in large letters of chalk he read the words: "conspuez le prince."
john's knowledge of french was not profound, but he could understand this, and it annoyed him.
as he looked, the man, squatting on his heels, bent forward to touch up one of the letters.
if he had been deliberately posing, he could not have assumed a more convenient attitude.
john had been a footballer before he was a prince.
the temptation was too much for him.
he drew back his foot
there was a howl and a thud, and john resumed his stroll.
the first gun from fort sumter had been fired.
early next morning a window at the rear of the palace was broken by a stone, and toward noon one of the soldiers on guard in front of the casino was narrowly missed by an anonymous orange.
for mervo this was practically equivalent to the attack on the bastille, and john, when the report of the atrocities was brought to him, became hopeful.
but the effort seemed temporarily to have exhausted the fury of the mob.
the rest of that day and the whole of the next passed without sensation.
after breakfast on the following morning mr. crump paid a visit to the palace.
john was glad to see him.
the staff of the palace were loyal, but considered as cheery companions, they were handicapped by the fact that they spoke no english, while john spoke no french.
mr. crump was the bearer of another note from mr. scobell.
this time john tore it up unread, and, turning to the secretary, invited him to sit down and make himself at home.
sipping a cocktail and smoking one of john's cigars, mr. crump became confidential.
"this is a queer business," he said.
"old ben is chewing pieces out of the furniture up there.
he's mad clean through.
he's losing money all the while the people are making up their minds about this thing, and it beats him why they're so slow."
"it beats me, too.
i don't believe these hook-worm victims ever turned my father out.
or, if they did, somebody must have injected radium into them first.
i'll give them another couple of days, and, if they haven't fixed it by then, i'll go, and leave them to do what they like about it."
"go!
do you want to go?"
"of course i want to go!
do you think i like stringing along in this musical comedy island?
i'm crazy to get back to america.
i don't blame you, crump, because it was not your fault, but, by george!
if i had known what you were letting me in for when you carried me off here, i'd have called up the police reserves.
hello!
what's this?"
he rose to his feet as the sound of agitated voices came from the other side of the door.
the next moment it flew open, revealing general poineau and an assorted group of footmen and other domestics.
excitement seemed to be in the air.
general poineau rushed forward into the room, and flung his arms above his head.
then he dropped them to his side, and shrugged his shoulders, finishing in an attitude reminiscent of plate 6 ("despair") in "the home reciter."
"mon prince!"
he moaned.
a perfect avalanche of french burst from the group outside the door.
"crump!"
cried john.
"stand by me, crump!
get busy!
this is where you make your big play.
never mind the chorus gentlemen in the passage.
concentrate yourself on poineau.
what's he talking about?
i believe he's come to tell me the people have wakened up.
offer him a cocktail.
what's the french for corpse-reviver?
get busy, crump."
the general had begun to speak rapidly, with a wealth of gestures.
it astonished john that mr. crump could follow the harangue as apparently he did.
"well?"
said john.
mr. crump looked grave.
"he says there is a large mob in the market-place.
they are talking "
"they would be!"
" of moving in force on the palace.
the palace guards have gone over to the people.
general poineau urges you to disguise yourself and escape while there is time.
you will be safe at his villa till the excitement subsides, when you can be smuggled over to france during the night "
"not for mine," said john, shaking his head.
"it's mighty good of you, general, and i appreciate it, but i can't wait till night.
the boat leaves for marseilles in another hour.
i'll catch that.
i can manage it comfortably.
i'll go up and pack my grip.
crump, entertain the general while i'm gone, will you?
i won't be a moment."
but as he left the room there came through the open window the mutter of a crowd.
he stopped.
general poineau whipped out his sword, and brought it to the salute.
john patted him on the shoulder.
"you're a sport, general," he said, "but we sha'n't want it.
come along, crump.
come and help me address the multitude."
the window of the room looked out on to a square.
there was a small balcony with a stone parapet.
as john stepped out, a howl of rage burst from the mob.
john walked on to the balcony, and stood looking down on them, resting his arms on the parapet.
the howl was repeated, and from somewhere at the back of the crowd came the sharp crack of a rifle, and a shot, the first and last of the campaign, clipped a strip of flannel from the collar of his coat and splashed against the wall.
a broad smile spread over his face.
if he had studied for a year, he could not have hit on a swifter or more effective method of quieting the mob.
there was something so engaging and friendly in his smile that the howling died away and fists that has been shaken unclenched themselves and fell.
there was an expectant silence in the square.
john beckoned to crump, who came on to the balcony with some reluctance, being mistrustful of the unseen sportsman with the rifle.
"tell 'em it's all right, crump, and that there's no call for any fuss.
from their manner i gather that i am no longer needed on this throne.
ask them if that's right?"
a small man, who appeared to be in command of the crowd, stepped forward as the secretary finished speaking, and shouted some words which drew a murmur of approval from his followers.
"he wants to know," interpreted mr. crump, "if you will allow the casino to open again."
"tell him no, but add that i shall be tickled to death to abdicate, if that's what they want.
speed them up, old man.
tell them to make up their minds on the jump, because i want to catch that boat.
don't let them get to discussing it, or they'll stand there talking till sunset.
yes or no.
that's the idea."
there was a moment's surprised silence when mr. crump had spoken.
the mervian mind was unused to being hustled in this way.
then a voice shouted, as it were tentatively, "vive la republique!"
and at once the cry was taken up on all sides.
john beamed down on them.
"that's right," he said.
"bully!
i knew you could get a move on as quick as anyone else, if you gave your minds to it.
this is what i call something like a revolution.
it's a model to every country in the world.
but i guess we must close down the entertainment now, or i shall be missing the boat.
will you tell them, crump, that any citizen who cares for a drink and a cigar will find it in the palace.
tell the household staff to stand by to pull corks.
it's dry work revolutionizing.
and now i really must be going.
i've run it mighty fine.
slip one of these fellows down there half a dollar and send him to fetch a cab.
i must step lively."
five minutes later the revolutionists, obviously embarrassed and ill at ease, were sheepishly gulping down their refreshment beneath the stony eye of the majordomo and his assistants, while upstairs in the state bedroom the deposed prince was whistling "dixie" and packing the royal pajamas into a suitcase.
chapter x
mrs. oakley
betty, when she stepped on board the boat for marseilles, had had no definite plan of action.
she had been caught up and swept away by an over-mastering desire for escape that left no room in her mind for thoughts of the morrow.
it was not till the train was roaring its way across southern france that she found herself sufficiently composed to review her position and make plans.
she would not go back.
she could not.
the words she had used in her letter to mr. scobell were no melodramatic rhetoric.
they were a plain and literal statement of the truth.
death would be infinitely preferable to life at mervo on her stepfather's conditions.
but, that settled, what then?
what was she to do?
the gods are businesslike.
they sell; they do not give.
and for what they sell they demand a heavy price.
we may buy life of them in many ways: with our honor, our health, our independence, our happiness, with our brains or with our hands.
but somehow or other, in whatever currency we may choose to pay it, the price must be paid.
betty faced the problem.
what had she?
what could she give?
her independence?
that, certainly.
she saw now what a mockery that fancied independence had been.
she had come and gone as she pleased, her path smoothed by her stepfather's money, and she had been accustomed to consider herself free.
she had learned wisdom now, and could understand that it was only by sacrificing such artificial independence that she could win through to freedom.
the world was a market, and the only independent people in it were those who had a market value.
what was her market value?
what could she do?
she looked back at her life, and saw that she had dabbled.
she had a little of most things enough of nothing.
she could sketch a little, play a little, sing a little, write a little.
also and, as she remembered it, she felt for the first time a tremor of hope she could use a typewriter reasonably well.
that one accomplishment stood out in the welter of her thoughts, solid and comforting, like a rock in a quicksand.
it was something definite, something marketable, something of value for which persons paid.
the tremor of hope did not comfort her long.
her mood was critical, and she saw that in this, her one accomplishment, she was, as in everything else, an amateur.
she could not compete against professionals.
she closed her eyes, and had a momentary vision of those professionals, keen of face, leathern of finger, rattling out myriads of words at a dizzy speed.
and, at that, all her courage suddenly broke; she drooped forlornly, and, hiding her face on the cushioned arm-rest, she began to cry.
tears are the turkish bath of the soul.
nature never intended woman to pass dry-eyed through crises of emotion.
a casual stranger, meeting betty on her way to the boat, might have thought that she looked a little worried, nothing more.
the same stranger, if he had happened to enter the compartment at this juncture, would have set her down at sight as broken-hearted beyond recovery.
yet such is the magic of tears that it was at this very moment that betty was beginning to be conscious of a distinct change for the better.
her heart still ached, and to think of john even for an instant was to feel the knife turning in the wound, but her brain was clear; the panic fear had gone, and she faced the future resolutely once more.
for she had just remembered the existence of mrs. oakley.
only once in her life had betty met her stepfather's celebrated aunt, and the meeting had taken place nearly twelve years ago.
the figure that remained in her memory was of a pale-eyed, grenadier-like old lady, almost entirely surrounded by clocks.
it was these clocks that had impressed her most.
she was too young to be awed by the knowledge that the tall old woman who stared at her just like a sandy cat she had once possessed was one of the three richest women in the whole wide world.
she only remembered thinking that the finger which emerged from the plaid shawl and prodded her cheek was unpleasantly bony.
but the clocks had absorbed her.
it was as if all the clocks in the world had been gathered together into that one room.
there had been big clocks, with almost human faces; small, perky clocks; clocks of strange shape; and one dingy, medium-sized clock in particular which had made her cry out with delight.
her visit had chanced to begin shortly before eleven in the morning, and she had not been in the room ten minutes before there was a whirring, and the majority of the clocks began to announce the hour, each after its own fashion some with a slow bloom, some with a rapid, bell-like sound.
but the medium-sized clock, unexpectedly belying its appearance of being nothing of particular importance, had performed its task in a way quite distinct from the others.
it had suddenly produced from its interior a shabby little gold man with a trumpet, who had blown eleven little blasts before sliding backward into his house and shutting the door after him.
betty had waited in rapt silence till he finished, and had then shouted eagerly for more.
just as the beginner at golf may effect a drive surpassing that of the expert, so may a child unconsciously eclipse the practised courtier.
there was no soft side to mrs. oakley's character, as thousands of suave would-be borrowers had discovered in their time, but there was a soft spot.
to general praise of her collection of clocks she was impervious; it was unique, and she did not require you to tell her so, but exhibit admiration for the clock with the little trumpeter, and she melted.
it was the one oasis of sentiment in the sahara of her mental outlook, the grain of radium in the pitchblende.
years ago it had stood in a little new england farmhouse, and a child had clapped her hands and shouted, even as betty had done, when the golden man slid from his hiding-place.
much water had flowed beneath the bridge since those days.
many things had happened to the child.
but she still kept her old love for the trumpeter.
the world knew nothing of this.
the world, if it had known, would have been delighted to stand before the clock and admire it volubly, by the day.
but it had no inkling of the trumpeter's importance, and, when it came to visit mrs. oakley, was apt to waste its time showering compliments on the obvious beauties of the queens of the collection.
but betty, ignoring these, jumped up and down before the dingy clock, demanding further trumpetings, and, turning to mrs. oakley, as one possessing influence, she was aware of a curious, intent look in the old lady's eyes.
"do you like that clock, my dear?"
said mrs. oakley.
"yes!
oh, yes!"
"perhaps you shall have it some day, honey."
betty was probably the only person who had been admitted to that room who would not, on the strength of this remark, have steered the conversation gently to the subject of a small loan.
instead, she ran to the old lady, and kissed her.
and, as to what had happened after that, memory was vague.
there had been some talk, she remembered, of a dollar to buy candy, but it had come to nothing, and now that she had grown older and had read the frequent paragraphs and anecdotes that appeared in the papers about her stepfather's aunt, she could understand why.
she knew now what everybody knew of mrs. oakley her history, her eccentricities, and the miserliness of which the papers spoke with a satirical lightness that seemed somehow but a thin disguise for what was almost admiration.
mrs. oakley was one of two children, a son and a daughter, of a vermont farmer.
of her early life no records remain.
her public history begins when she was twenty-two and came to new york.
after two years'
struggling, she found a position in the firm of one redgrave.
those who knew her then speak of her as a tall, handsome girl, hard and intensely ambitious.
from contemporary accounts she seems to have out-nietzsched nietzsche.
nietzsche's vision stopped short at the superman.
jane scobell was a superwoman.
she had all the titanic selfishness and indifference to the comfort of others which marks the superman, and, in addition, undeniable good looks and a knowledge of the weaknesses of men.
poor mr. redgrave had not had a chance from the start.
she married him within a year.
two years later, catching the bulls in an unguarded moment, mr. redgrave despoiled them of a trifle over three million dollars, and died the same day of an apoplectic stroke caused by the excitement of victory.
his widow, after a tour in europe, returned to the united states and visited pittsburg.
any sociologist will support the statement that it is difficult, almost impossible, for an attractive widow, visiting pittsburg, not to marry a millionaire, even if she is not particularly anxious to do so.
if such an act is the primary object of her visit, the thing becomes a certainty.
groping through the smoke, jane redgrave seized and carried off no less a quarry than alexander baynes oakley, a widower, whose income was one of the seven wonders of the world.
in the fullness of time he, too, died, and jane oakley was left with the sole control of two vast fortunes.
she did not marry again, though it was rumored that it took three secretaries, working nine hours a day, to cope with the written proposals, and that butler after butler contracted clergyman's sore throat through denying admittance to amorous callers.
in the ten years after alexander baynes' death, every impecunious aristocrat in the civilized world must have made his dash for the matrimonial pole.
but her pale eyes looked them over, and dismissed them.
during those early years she was tempted once or twice to speculation.
a failure in a cotton deal not only cured her of this taste, but seems to have marked the point in her career when her thoughts began to turn to parsimony.
until then she had lived in some state, but now, gradually at first, then swiftly, she began to cut down her expenses.
now we find her in an apartment in west central park, next in a washington square hotel, then in a harlem flat, and finally her last, fixed abiding-place in a small cottage on staten island.
it was a curious life that she led, this woman who could have bought kingdoms if she had willed it.
a swedish maid-of-all-work was her only companion.
by day she would walk in her little garden, or dust, arrange and wind up her clocks.
at night, she would knit, or read one of the frequent reports that arrived at the cottage from charity workers on the east side.
those were her two hobbies, and her only extravagances clocks and charity.
her charity had its limitations.
in actual money she expended little.
she was a theoretical philanthropist.
she lent her influence, her time, and her advice, but seldom her bank balance.
arrange an entertainment for the delectation of the poor, and you would find her on the platform, but her name would not be on the list of subscribers to the funds.
she would deliver a lecture on thrift to an audience of factory girls, and she would give them a practical example of what she preached.
yet, with all its limitations, her charity was partly genuine.
her mind was like a country in the grip of civil war.
one-half of her sincerely pitied the poor, burned at any story of oppression, and cried "give!"
but the other cried "halt!"
and held her back, and between the two she fell.
it was to this somewhat unpromising haven of refuge that betty's mind now turned in her trouble.
she did not expect great things.
she could not have said exactly what she did expect.
but, at least, the cottage on staten island offered a resting-place on her journey, even if it could not be the journey's end.
her mad dash from mervo ceased to be objectless.
it led somewhere.
chapter xi
a letter of introduction
new york, revisited, had much the same effect on betty as it had had on john during his first morning of independence.
as the liner came up the bay, and the great buildings stood out against the clear blue of the sky, she felt afraid and lonely.
that terror which is said to attack immigrants on their first sight of the new york sky-line came to her, as she leaned on the rail, and with it a feeling of utter misery.
by a continual effort during the voyage she had kept her thoughts from turning to john, but now he rose up insistently before her, and she realized all that had gone out of her life.
she rebelled against the mad cruelty of the fate which had brought them together again.
it seemed to her now that she must always have loved him, but it had been such a vague, gentle thing, this love, before that last meeting hardly more than a pleasant accompaniment to her life, something to think about in idle moments, a help and a support when things were running crosswise.
she had been so satisfied with it, so content to keep him a mere memory.
it seemed so needless and wanton to destroy her illusion.
of love as a wild-beast passion, tearing and torturing quite ordinary persons like herself, she had always been a little sceptical.
the great love poems of the world, when she read them, had always left her with the feeling that their authors were of different clay from herself and had no common meeting ground with her.
she had seen her friends fall in love, as they called it, and it had been very pretty and charming, but as far removed from the frenzies of the poets as an amateur's snapshot of niagara from the cataract itself.
elsa keith, for instance, was obviously very fond and proud of marvin, but she seemed perfectly placid about it.
she loved, but she could still spare half an hour for the discussion of a new frock.
her soul did not appear to have been revolutionized in any way.
gradually betty had come to the conclusion that love, in the full sense of the word, was one of the things that did not happen.
and now, as if to punish her presumption, it had leaped from hiding and seized her.
there was nothing exaggerated or unintelligible in the poets now.
they ceased to be inhabitants of another world, swayed by curiously complex emotions.
they were her brothers ordinary men with ordinary feelings and a strange gift for expressing them.
she knew now that it was possible to hate the man you loved and to love the man you hated, to ache for the sight of someone even while you fled from him.
it did not take her long to pass the customs.
a small grip constituted her entire baggage.
having left this in the keeping of the amiable proprietor of a near-by delicatessen store, she made her way to the ferry.
her first enquiry brought her to the cottage.
mrs. oakley was a celebrity on staten island.
at the door she paused for a moment, then knocked.
the swede servant, she who had been there at her former visit, twelve years ago, received her stolidly.
mrs. oakley was dusting her clocks.
"ask her if she can see me," said betty.
"i'm " great step-niece sounded too ridiculous "i'm her niece," she said.
the handmaid went and returned, stolid as ever.
"ay tal her vat yu say about niece, and she say she not knowing any niece," she announced.
betty amended the description, and presently the swede returned once more, and motioned her to enter.
like so many scenes of childhood, the room of the clocks was sharply stamped on betty's memory, and, as she came into it now, it seemed to her that nothing had changed.
there were the clocks, all round the walls, of every shape and size, the big clocks with the human faces and the small, perky clocks.
there was the dingy, medium-sized clock that held the trumpeter.
and there, looking at her with just the old sandy-cat expression in her pale eyes, was mrs. oakley.
even the possession of an income of eighteen million dollars and a unique collection of clocks cannot place a woman above the making of the obvious remark.
"how you have grown!"
said mrs. oakley.
the words seemed to melt the chill that had gathered around betty's heart.
she had been prepared to enter into long explanations, and the knowledge that these would not be required was very comforting.
"do you remember me?"
she exclaimed.
"you are the little girl who clapped her hands at the trumpeter, but you are not little now."
"i'm not so very big," said betty, smiling.
she felt curiously at home, and pity for the loneliness of this strange old woman caused her to forget her own troubles.
"you look pretty when you smile," said mrs. oakley thoughtfully.
she continued to look closely at her.
"you are in trouble," she said.
betty met her eyes frankly.
"yes," she said.
the old woman bent her head over a sevres china clock, and stroked it tenderly with her feather duster.
"why did you run away?"
she asked without looking up.
betty had a feeling that the ground was being cut from beneath her feet.
she had expected to have to explain who she was and why she had come, and behold, both were unnecessary.
it was uncanny.
and then the obvious explanation occurred to her.
"did my stepfather cable?"
she asked.
mrs. oakley laid down the feather duster and, opening a drawer, produced some sheets of paper to the initiated eye plainly one of mr.
scobell's lengthy messages.
"a wickedly extravagant cable," she said, frowning at it.
"he could have expressed himself perfectly well at a quarter of the expense."
betty began to read.
the dimple on her chin appeared for a moment as she did so.
the tone of the message was so obsequious.
there was no trace of the old peremptory note in it.
the words "dearest aunt"
occurred no fewer than six times in the course of the essay, its author being apparently reckless of the fact that it was costing him half a dollar a time.
mrs. oakley had been quite right in her criticism.
the gist of the cable was, "betty has run away to america dearest aunt ridiculous is sure to visit you please dearest aunt do not encourage her."
the rest was pure padding.
mrs. oakley watched her with a glowering eye.
"if bennie scobell," she soliloquized, "imagines that he can dictate to me " she ceased, leaving an impressive hiatus.
unhappy mr. scobell, convicted of dictation even after three dollars' worth of "dearest aunt!"
betty handed back the cable.
her chin, emblem of war, was tilted and advanced.
"i'll tell you why i ran away, aunt," she said.
mrs. oakley listened to her story in silence.
betty did not relate it at great length, for with every word she spoke, the thought of john stabbed her afresh.
she omitted much that has been told in this chronicle.
but she disclosed the essential fact, that napoleonic mr.
scobell had tried to force her into a marriage with a man she did not she hesitated at the word did not respect, she concluded.
mrs. oakley regarded her inscrutably for a while before replying.
"respect!"
she said at last.
"i have never met a man in my life whom i could respect.
harpies!
every one of them!
every one of them!
every one of them!"
she was muttering to herself.
it is possible that her thoughts were back with those persevering young aristocrats of her second widowhood.
certainly, if she had sometimes displayed a touch of the pirate in her dealings with man, man, it must be said in fairness, had not always shown his best side to her.
"respect!"
she muttered again.
"did you like him, this prince of yours?"
betty's eyes filled.
she made no reply.
"well, never mind," said mrs. oakley.
"don't cry, child!
i'm not going to press you.
you must have hated him or else loved him very much, or you would never have run away.... dictate to me!"
she broke off, half-aloud, her mind evidently once more on mr. scobell's unfortunate cable.
betty could bear it no longer.
"i loved him!"
she cried.
"i loved him!"
she was shaking with dry sobs.
she felt the old woman's eyes upon her, but she could not stop.
a sudden whirr cut through the silence.
one of the large clocks near the door was beginning to strike the hour.
instantly the rest began to do the same, till the room was full of the noise.
and above the din there sounded sharp and clear the note of the little trumpet.
the noise died away with metallic echoings.
"honey!"
it was a changed voice that spoke.
betty looked up, and saw that the eyes that met hers were very soft.
she moved quickly to the old woman's side.
"honey, i'm going to tell you something about myself that nobody dreams of.
betty, when i was your age, i ran away from a man because i loved him.
it was just a little village tragedy, my dear.
i think he was fond of me, but father was poor and her folks were the great people of the place, and he married her.
and i ran away, like you, and went to new york."
betty pressed her hand.
it was trembling.
"i'm so sorry," she whispered.
"i went to new york because i wanted to kill my heart.
and i killed it.
there's only one way.
work!
work!
work!"
she was sitting bolt upright, and the soft look had gone out of her eyes.
they were hard and fiery under the drawn brows.
"work!
ah, i worked!
i never rested.
for two years.
two whole years.
it fought back at me.
it tore me to bits.
but i wouldn't stop.
i worked on, i killed it."
she stopped, quivering.
betty was cold with a nameless dismay.
she felt as if she were standing in the dark on the brink of an abyss.
the old woman began to speak again.
"child, it's the same with you.
your heart's tearing you.
don't let it!
it will get worse and worse if you are afraid of it.
fight it!
kill it!
work!"
she stopped again, clenching and unclenching her fingers, as if she were strangling some living thing.
there was silence for a long moment.
"what can you do?"
she asked suddenly.
her voice was calm and unemotional again.
the abruptness of the transition from passion to the practical took betty aback.
she could not speak.
"there must be something," continued mrs. oakley.
"when i was your age i had taught myself bookkeeping, shorthand, and typewriting.
what can you do?
can you use a typewriter?"
blessed word!
"yes," said betty promptly.
"well?"
"not very well?"
"h'm.
well, i expect you will do it well enough for mr. renshaw on my recommendation.
i'll give you a letter to him.
he is the editor of a small weekly paper.
i don't know how much he will offer you, but take it and work!
you'll find him pleasant.
i have met him at charity organization meetings on the east side.
he's useful at the entertainments does conjuring tricks stupid, but they seem to amuse people.
you'll find him pleasant.
there."
she had been writing the letter of introduction during the course of these remarks.
at the last word she blotted it, and placed it in an envelope.
"that's the address," she said.
"j. brabazon renshaw, office of peaceful moments.
take it to him now.
good-by."
it was as if she were ashamed of her late display of emotion.
she spoke abruptly, and her pale eyes were expressionless.
betty thanked her and turned to go.
"tell me how you get on," said mrs. oakley.
"yes," said betty.
"and work.
keep on working!"
there was a momentary return of her former manner as she spoke the words, and betty wavered.
she longed to say something comforting, something that would show that she understood.
mrs. oakley had taken up the feather duster again.
"steena will show you out," she said curtly.
and betty was aware of the stolid swede in the doorway.
the interview was plainly at an end.
"good-by, aunt," she said, "and thank you ever so much for everything."
chapter xii
"peaceful moments"
the man in the street did not appear to know it, but a great crisis was imminent in new york journalism.
everything seemed much as usual in the city.
the cars ran blithely on broadway.
newsboys shouted their mystic slogan, "wuxtry!"
with undiminished vim.
society thronged fifth avenue without a furrow on its brow.
at a thousand street corners a thousand policemen preserved their air of massive superiority to the things of this world.
of all the four million not one showed the least sign of perturbation.
nevertheless, the crisis was at hand.
mr. j. brabazon renshaw, editor-in-chief of peaceful moments, was about to leave his post and start on a three-months' vacation.
peaceful moments, as its name (an inspiration of mr. renshaw's own) was designed to imply, was a journal of the home.
it was the sort of paper which the father of the family is expected to take back with him from the office and read aloud to the chicks before bedtime under the shade of the rubber plant.
circumstances had left the development of the paper almost entirely to mr. renshaw.
its contents were varied.
there was a "moments in the nursery" page, conducted by luella granville waterman and devoted mainly to anecdotes of the family canary, by jane (aged six), and similar works of the younger set.
there was a "moments of meditation"
page, conducted by the reverend edwin t. philpotts; a "moments among the masters" page, consisting of assorted chunks looted from the literature of the past, when foreheads were bulged and thoughts profound, by mr. renshaw himself; one or two other special pages; a short story; answers to correspondents on domestic matters; and a "moments of mirth" page, conducted by one b. henderson asher a very painful affair.
the proprietor of this admirable journal was that napoleon of finance, mr. benjamin scobell.
that this should have been so is but one proof of the many-sidedness of that great man.
mr. scobell had founded peaceful moments at an early stage in his career, and it was only at very rare intervals nowadays that he recollected that he still owned it.
he had so many irons in the fire now that he had no time to waste his brain tissues thinking about a paper like peaceful moments.
it was one of his failures.
it certainly paid its way and brought him a small sum each year, but to him it was a failure, a bombshell that had fizzled.
he had intended to do big things with peaceful moments.
he had meant to start a new epoch in the literature of manhattan.
"i gottan idea," he had said to miss scobell.
"all this yellow journalism red blood and all that folks are tired of it.
they want something milder.
wholesome, see what i mean?
there's money in it.
guys make a roll too big to lift by selling soft drinks, don't they?
well, i'm going to run a soft-drink paper.
see?"
the enterprise had started well.
to begin with, he had found the ideal editor.
he had met mr. renshaw at a down-east gathering presided over by mrs. oakley, and his napoleonic eye had seen in j. brabazon the seeds of domestic greatness.
before they parted, he had come to terms with him.
nor had the latter failed to justify his intuition.
he made an admirable editor.
it was not mr. renshaw's fault that the new paper had failed to electrify america.
it was the public on whom the responsibility for the failure must be laid.
they spoiled the whole thing.
certain of the faithful subscribed, it is true, and continued to subscribe, but the great heart of the public remained untouched.
the great heart of the public declined to be interested in the meditations of mr. philpotts and the humor of mr. b. henderson asher, and continued to spend its money along the bad old channels.
the thing began to bore mr. scobell.
he left the conduct of the journal more and more to mr.
renshaw, until finally it was just after the idea for extracting gold from sea water had struck him he put the whole business definitely out of his mind.
(his actual words were that he never wanted to see or hear of the darned thing again, inasmuch as it gave him a pain in the neck.)
mr. renshaw was given a free hand as to the editing, and all matters of finance connected with the enterprise were placed in the hands of mr.
scobell's solicitors, who had instructions to sell the journal, if, as its owner crisply put it, they could find any chump who was enough of a darned chump to give real money for it.
up to the present the great army of chumps had fallen short of this ideal standard of darned chumphood.
ever since this parting of the ways, mr. renshaw had been in his element.
under his guidance peaceful moments had reached a level of domesticity which made other so-called domestic journals look like sporting supplements.
but at last the work had told upon him.
whether it was the effort of digging into the literature of the past every week, or the strain of reading b. henderson asher's "moments of mirth"
is uncertain.
at any rate, his labors had ended in wrecking his health to such an extent that the doctor had ordered him three months'
complete rest, in the woods or mountains, whichever he preferred; and, being a farseeing man, who went to the root of things, had absolutely declined to consent to mr. renshaw's suggestion that he keep in touch with the paper during his vacation.
he was adamant.
he had seen copies of peaceful moments once or twice, and refused to permit a man in mr. renshaw's state of health to come in contact with luella granville waterman's "moments in the nursery" and b. henderson asher's "moments of mirth."
"you must forget that such a paper exists," he said.
"you must dismiss the whole thing from your mind, live in the open, and develop some flesh and muscle."
mr. renshaw had bowed before the sentence, howbeit gloomily, and now, on the morning of betty's departure from mrs. oakley's house with the letter of introduction, was giving his final instructions to his temporary successor.
this temporary successor in the editorship was none other than john's friend, rupert smith, late of the news.
smith, on leaving harvard, had been attracted by newspaper work, and had found his first billet on a western journal of the type whose society column consists of such items as "jim thompson was to town yesterday with a bunch of other cheap skates.
we take this opportunity of once more informing jim that he is a liar and a skunk," and whose editor works with a pistol on his desk and another in his hip-pocket.
graduating from this, he had proceeded to a reporter's post on a daily paper in kentucky, where there were blood feuds and other southern devices for preventing life from becoming dull.
all this was good, but even while he enjoyed these experiences, new york, the magnet, had been tugging at him, and at last, after two eventful years on the kentucky paper, he had come east, and eventually won through to the staff of the news.
his presence in the office of peaceful moments was due to the uncomfortable habit of most of the new york daily papers of cutting down their staff of reporters during the summer.
the dismissed had, to sustain them, the knowledge that they would return, like the swallows, anon, and be received back into their old places; but in the meantime they suffered the inconvenience of having to support themselves as best they could.
smith, when, in the company of half-a-dozen others, he had had to leave the news, had heard of the vacant post of assistant editor on peaceful moments, and had applied for and received it.
whereby he was more fortunate than some of his late colleagues; though, as the character of his new work unrolled itself before him, he was frequently doubtful on that point.
for the atmosphere of peaceful moments, however wholesome, was certainly not exciting, and his happened to be essentially a nature that needed the stimulus of excitement.
even in park row, the denizens of which street are rarely slaves to the conventional and safe, he had a well-established reputation in this matter.
others of his acquaintances welcomed excitement when it came to them in the course of the day's work, but it was smith's practise to go in search of it.
he was a young man of spirit and resource.
his appearance, to those who did not know him, hardly suggested this.
he was very tall and thin, with a dark, solemn face.
he was a purist in the matter of clothes, and even in times of storm and stress presented an immaculate appearance to the world.
in his left eye, attached to a cord, he wore a monocle.
through this, at the present moment, he was gazing benevolently at mr.
renshaw, as the latter fussed about the office in the throes of departure.
to the editor's rapid fire of advice and warning he listened with the pleased and indulgent air of a father whose infant son frisks before him.
mr. renshaw interested him.
to smith's mind mr. renshaw, put him in any show you pleased, would alone have been worth the price of admission.
"well," chirruped the holiday-maker he was a little man with a long neck, and he always chirruped "well, i think that is all, mr. smith.
oh, ah, yes!
the stenographer.
you will need a new stenographer."
the peaceful moments stenographer had resigned her position three days before, in order to get married.
"unquestionably, comrade renshaw," said smith.
"a blonde."
mr. renshaw looked annoyed.
"i have told you before, mr. smith, i object to your addressing me as comrade.
it is not it is not er fitting."
smith waved a deprecating hand.
"say no more," he said.
"i will correct the habit.
i have been studying the principles of socialism somewhat deeply of late, and i came to the conclusion that i must join the cause.
it looked good to me.
you work for the equal distribution of property, and start in by swiping all you can and sitting on it.
a noble scheme.
me for it.
but i am interrupting you."
mr. renshaw had to pause for a moment to reorganize his ideas.
"i think ah, yes.
i think it would be best perhaps to wait for a day or two in case mrs. oakley should recommend someone.
i mentioned the vacancy in the office to her, and she said she would give the matter her attention.
i should prefer, if possible, to give the place to her nominee.
she "
" has eighteen million a year," said smith.
"i understand.
scatter seeds of kindness."
mr. renshaw looked at him sharply.
smith's face was solemn and thoughtful.
"nothing of the kind," the editor said, after a pause.
"i should prefer mrs. oakley's nominee because mrs. oakley is a shrewd, practical woman who er who who, in fact "
"just so," said smith, eying him gravely through the monocle.
"entirely."
the scrutiny irritated mr. renshaw.
"do put that thing away, mr. smith," he said.
"that thing?"
"yes, that ridiculous glass.
put it away."
"instantly," said smith, replacing the monocle in his vest-pocket.
"you object to it?
well, well, many people do.
we all have these curious likes and dislikes.
it is these clashings of personal taste which constitute what we call life.
yes.
you were saying?"
mr. renshaw wrinkled his forehead.
"i have forgotten what i intended to say," he said querulously.
"you have driven it out of my head."
smith clicked his tongue sympathetically.
mr. renshaw looked at his watch.
"dear me," he said, "i must be going.
i shall miss my train.
but i think i have covered the ground quite thoroughly.
you understand everything?"
"absolutely," said smith.
"i look on myself as some engineer controlling a machine with a light hand on the throttle.
or like some faithful hound whose master "
"ah!
there is just one thing.
mrs. julia burdett parslow is a little inclined to be unpunctual with her 'moments with budding girlhood.'
if this should happen while i am away, just write her a letter, quite a pleasant letter, you understand, pointing out the necessity of being in good time.
she must realize that we are a machine."
"exactly," murmured smith.
"the machinery of the paper cannot run smoothly unless contributors are in good time with their copy."
"precisely," said smith.
"they are the janitors of the literary world.
let them turn off the steam heat, and where are we?
if mrs. julia burdett parslow is not up to time with the hot air, how shall our 'girlhood' escape being nipped in the bud?"
"and there is just one other thing.
i wish you would correct a slight tendency i have noticed lately in mr. asher to be just a trifle well, not precisely risky, but perhaps a shade broad in his humor."
"young blood!"
sighed smith.
"young blood!"
"mr. asher is a very sensible man, and he will understand.
well, that is all, i think.
now, i really must be going.
good-by, mr.
smith."
"good-by."
at the door mr. renshaw paused with the air of an exile bidding farewell to his native land, sighed and trotted out.
smith put his feet upon the table, flicked a speck of dust from his coat-sleeve, and resumed his task of reading the proofs of luella granville waterman's "moments in the nursery."
he had not been working long, when pugsy maloney, the office boy, entered.
"say!"
said pugsy.
"say on, comrade maloney."
"dere's a loidy out dere wit a letter for mr.
renshaw."
"have you acquainted her with the fact that mr. renshaw has passed to other climes?"
"huh?"
"have you, in the course of your conversation with this lady, mentioned that mr. renshaw has beaten it?"
"sure, i did.
and she says can she see you?"
smith removed his feet from the table.
"certainly," he said.
"who am i that i should deny people these little treats?
ask her to come in, comrade maloney."
chapter xiii
betty makes a friend
betty had appealed to master maloney's esthetic sense of beauty directly she appeared before him.
it was with regret, therefore, rather than with the usual calm triumph of the office boy, that he informed her that the editor was not in.
also, seeing that she was evidently perturbed by the information, he had gone out of his way to suggest that she lay her business, whatever it might be, before mr. renshaw's temporary successor.
smith received her with old-world courtesy.
"will you sit down?"
he said.
"not to wait for comrade renshaw, of course.
he will not be back for another three months.
perhaps i can help you.
i am acting editor.
the work is not light," he added gratuitously.
"sometimes the cry goes round new york, 'can smith get through it all?
will his strength support his unquenchable spirit?'
but i stagger on.
i do not repine.
what was it that you wished to see comrade renshaw about?"
he swung his monocle lightly by its cord.
for the first time since she had entered the office betty was rather glad that mr. renshaw was away.
conscious of her defects as a stenographer she had been looking forward somewhat apprehensively to the interview with her prospective employer.
but this long, solemn youth put her at her ease.
his manner suggested in some indefinable way that the whole thing was a sort of round game.
"i came about the typewriting," she said.
smith looked at her with interest.
"are you the nominee?"
"i beg your pardon?"
"do you come from mrs.
oakley?"
"yes."
"then all is well.
the decks have been cleared against your coming.
consider yourself engaged as our official typist.
by the way, can you type?"
betty laughed.
this was certainly not the awkward interview she had been picturing in her mind.
"yes," she said, "but i'm afraid i'm not very good at it."
"never mind," said smith.
"i'm not very good at editing.
yet here i am.
i foresee that we shall make an ideal team.
together, we will toil early and late till we whoop up this domestic journal into a shining model of what a domestic journal should be.
what that is, at present, i do not exactly know.
excursion trains will be run from the middle west to see this domestic journal.
visitors from oshkosh will do it before going on to grant's tomb.
what exactly is your name?"
betty hesitated.
yes, perhaps it would be better.
"brown," she said.
"mine is smith.
the smiling child in the outer office is pugsy maloney, one of our most prominent citizens.
homely in appearance, perhaps, but one of us.
you will get to like comrade maloney.
and now, to touch on a painful subject work.
would you care to start in now, or have you any other engagements?
perhaps you wish to see the sights of this beautiful little city before beginning?
you would prefer to start in now?
excellent.
you could not have come at a more suitable time, for i was on the very point of sallying out to purchase about twenty-five cents'
worth of lunch.
we editors, comrade brown, find that our tissues need constant restoration, such is the strenuous nature of our duties.
you will find one or two letters on that table.
good-by, then, for the present."
he picked up his hat, smoothed it carefully and with a courtly inclination of his head, left the room.
betty sat down, and began to think.
so she was really earning her own living!
it was a stimulating thought.
she felt a little bewildered.
she had imagined something so different.
mrs. oakley had certainly said that peaceful moments was a small paper, but despite that, her imagination had conjured up visions of bustle and activity, and a peremptory, overdriven editor, snapping out words of command.
smith, with his careful speech and general air of calm detachment from the noisy side of life, created an atmosphere of restfulness.
if this was a sample of life in the office, she thought, the paper had been well named.
she felt soothed and almost happy.
interesting and exciting things, new york things, began to happen at once.
to her, meditating, there entered pugsy maloney, the guardian of the gate of this shrine of peace, a nonchalant youth of about fifteen, with a freckled, mask-like face, the expression of which never varied, bearing in his arms a cat.
the cat was struggling violently, but he appeared quite unconscious of it.
its existence did not seem to occur to him.
"say!"
said pugsy.
betty was fond of cats.
"oh, don't hurt her!"
she cried anxiously.
master maloney eyed the cat as if he were seeing it for the first time.
"i wasn't hoitin' her," he said, without emotion.
"dere was two fresh kids in the street sickin' a dawg on to her.
and i comes up and says, 'g'wan!
what do youse t'ink youse doin', fussin' de poor dumb animal?'
an' one of de guys, he says, 'g'wan!
who do youse t'ink youse is?'
an'
i says, 'i'm de guy what's goin' to swat youse on de coco, smarty, if youse don't quit fussin' de poor dumb animal.'
so wit' dat he makes a break at swattin' me one, but i swats him one, an' i swats de odder feller one, an' den i swats dem bote some more, an' i gits de kitty, an' i brings her in here, cos i t'inks maybe youse'll look after her.
i can't be boddered myself.
cats is foolishness."
and, having finished this homeric narrative, master maloney fixed an expressionless eye on the ceiling, and was silent.
"how splendid of you, pugsy!"
cried betty.
"she might have been killed, poor thing."
"she had it pretty fierce," admitted master maloney, gazing dispassionately at the rescued animal, which had escaped from his clutch and taken up a strong position on an upper shelf of the bookcase.
"will you go out and get her some milk, pugsy?
she's probably starving.
here's a quarter.
will you keep the change?"
"sure thing," assented master maloney.
he strolled slowly out, while betty, mounting a chair, proceeded to chirrup and snap her fingers in the effort to establish the foundations of an entente cordiale with the cat.
by the time pugsy returned, carrying a five-cent bottle of milk, the animal had vacated the shelf, and was sitting on the table, polishing her face.
the milk having been poured into the lid of a tobacco tin, in lieu of a saucer, she suspended her operations and adjourned for refreshments, pugsy, having no immediate duties on hand, concentrated himself on the cat.
"say!"
he said.
"well?"
"dat kitty.
pipe de leather collar she's wearin'."
betty had noticed earlier in the proceedings that a narrow leather collar encircled the animal's neck.
"guess i know where dat kitty belongs.
dey all has dose collars.
i guess she's one of bat jarvis's kitties.
he's got twenty-t'ree of dem, and dey all has dose collars."
"bat jarvis?"
"sure."
"who is he?"
pugsy looked at her incredulously.
"say!
ain't youse never heard of bat jarvis?
he's he's bat jarvis."
"do you know him?"
"sure, i knows him."
"does he live near here?"
"sure, he lives near here."
"then i think the best thing for you to do is to run round and tell him that i am taking care of his cat, and that he had better come and fetch it.
i must be getting on with my work, or i shall never finish it."
she settled down to type the letters smith had indicated.
she attacked her task cautiously.
she was one of those typists who are at their best when they do not have to hurry.
she was putting the finishing touches to the last of the batch, when there was a shuffling of feet in the outer room, followed by a knock on the door.
the next moment there entered a short, burly young man, around whom there hung, like an aroma, an indescribable air of toughness, partly due, perhaps, to the fact that he wore his hair in a well-oiled fringe almost down to his eyebrows, thus presenting the appearance of having no forehead at all.
his eyes were small and set close together.
his mouth was wide, his jaw prominent.
not, in short, the sort of man you would have picked out on sight as a model citizen.
he blinked furtively, as his eyes met betty's, and looked round the room.
his face lighted up as he saw the cat.
"say!"
he said, stepping forward, and touching the cat's collar.
"ma'am, mine!"
"are you mr.
jarvis?"
asked betty.
the visitor nodded, not without a touch of complacency, as of a monarch abandoning his incognito.
for mr. jarvis was a celebrity.
by profession he was a dealer in animals, birds, and snakes.
he had a fancier's shop on groome street, in the heart of the bowery.
this was on the ground floor.
his living abode was in the upper story of that house, and it was there that he kept the twenty-three cats whose necks were adorned with leather collars.
but it was not the fact that he possessed twenty-three cats with leather collars that had made mr. jarvis a celebrity.
a man may win a local reputation, if only for eccentricity, by such means.
mr. jarvis'
reputation was far from being purely local.
broadway knew him, and the tenderloin.
tammany hall knew him.
long island city knew him.
for bat jarvis was the leader of the famous groome street gang, the largest and most influential of the four big gangs of the east side.
to betty, so little does the world often know of its greatest men, he was merely a decidedly repellent-looking young man in unbecoming clothes.
but his evident affection for the cat gave her a feeling of fellowship toward him.
she beamed upon him, and mr. jarvis, who was wont to face the glare of rivals without flinching, avoided her eye and shuffled with embarrassment.
"i'm so glad she's safe!"
said betty.
"there were two boys teasing her in the street.
i've been giving her some milk."
mr. jarvis nodded, with his eyes on the floor.
there was a pause.
then he looked up, and, fixing his gaze some three feet above her head, spoke.
"say!"
he said, and paused again.
betty waited expectantly.
he relaxed into silence again, apparently thinking.
"say!"
he said.
"ma'am, obliged.
fond of de kit.
i am."
"she's a dear," said betty, tickling the cat under the ear.
"ma'am," went on mr. jarvis, pursuing his theme, "obliged.
sha'n't fergit it.
any time you're in bad, glad to be of service.
bat jarvis.
groome street.
anybody'll show youse where i live."
he paused, and shuffled his feet; then, tucking the cat more firmly under his arm, left the room.
betty heard him shuffling downstairs.
he had hardly gone, when the door opened again, and smith came in.
"so you have had company while i was away?"
he said.
"who was the grandee with the cat?
an old childhood's friend?
was he trying to sell the animal to us?"
"that was mr. bat jarvis," said betty.
smith looked interested.
"bat!
what was he doing here?"
betty related the story of the cat.
smith nodded thoughtfully.
"well," he said, "i don't know that comrade jarvis is precisely the sort of friend i would go out of my way to select.
still, you never know what might happen.
he might come in useful.
and now, let us concentrate ourselves tensely on this very entertaining little journal of ours, and see if we cannot stagger humanity with it."
chapter xiv
a change of policy
the feeling of tranquillity which had come to betty on her first acquaintance with peaceful moments seemed to deepen as the days went by, and with each day she found the sharp pain at her heart less vehement.
it was still there, but it was dulled.
the novelty of her life and surroundings kept it in check.
new york is an egotist.
it will suffer no divided attention.
"look at me!"
says the voice of the city imperiously, and its children obey.
it snatches their thoughts from their inner griefs, and concentrates them on the pageant that rolls unceasingly from one end of the island to the other.
one may despair in new york, but it is difficult to brood on the past; for new york is the city of the present, the city of things that are going on.
to betty everything was new and strange.
her previous acquaintance with the metropolis had not been extensive.
mr. scobell's home or, rather, the house which he owned in america was on the outskirts of philadelphia, and it was there that she had lived when she was not paying visits.
occasionally, during horse-show week, or at some other time of festivity, she had spent a few days with friends who lived in madison or upper fifth avenue, but beyond that, new york was a closed book to her.
it would have been a miracle in the circumstances, if john and mervo and the whole of the events since the arrival of the great cable had not to some extent become a little dream-like.
when she was alone at night, and had leisure to think, the dream became a reality once more; but in her hours of work, or what passed for work in the office of peaceful moments, and in the hours she spent walking about the streets and observing the ways of this new world of hers, it faded.
everything was so bright and busy!
every moment had its fresh interest.
and, above all, there was the sense of adventure.
she was twenty-four; she had health and an imagination; and almost unconsciously she was stimulated by the thrill of being for the first time in her life genuinely at large.
the child's love of hiding dies hard in us.
to betty, to walk abroad in new york in the midst of hurrying crowds, just betty brown one of four million and no longer the beautiful miss silver of the society column, was to taste the romance of disguise, or invisibility.
during office hours she came near to complete contentment.
to an expert stenographer the amount of work to be done would have seemed ridiculously small, but betty, who liked plenty of time for a task, generally managed to make it last comfortably through the day.
this was partly owing to the fact that her editor, when not actually at work himself, was accustomed to engage her in conversation, and to keep her so engaged until the entrance of pugsy maloney heralded the arrival of some caller.
betty liked smith.
his odd ways, his conversation, and his extreme solicitude for his clothes amused her.
she found his outlook on life refreshing.
smith was an optimist.
whatever cataclysm might occur, he never doubted for a moment that he would be comfortably on the summit of the debris when all was over.
he amazed betty with his stories of his reportorial adventures.
he told them for the most part as humorous stories at his own expense, but the fact remained that in a considerable proportion of them he had only escaped a sudden and violent death by adroitness or pure good luck.
his conversation opened up a new world to betty.
she began to see that in america, and especially in new york, anything may happen to anybody.
she looked on smith with new eyes.
"but surely all this," she said one morning, after he had come to the end of the story of a highly delicate piece of interviewing work in connection with some cumberland mountains feudists, "surely all this "
she looked round the room.
"domesticity?"
suggested smith.
"yes," said betty.
"surely it all seems rather tame to you?"
smith sighed.
"comrade brown," he said, "you have touched the spot with an unerring finger."
since mr. renshaw's departure, the flatness of life had come home to smith with renewed emphasis.
before, there had always been the quiet entertainment of watching the editor at work, but now he was feeling restless.
like john at mervo, he was practically nothing but an ornament.
peaceful moments, like mervo, had been set rolling and had continued to roll on almost automatically.
the staff of regular contributors sent in their various pages.
there was nothing for the man in charge to do.
mr. renshaw had been one of those men who have a genius for being as busy over nothing as if it were some colossal work, but smith had not that gift.
he liked something that he could grip and that gripped him.
he was becoming desperately bored.
he felt like a marooned sailor on a barren rock of domesticity.
a visitor who called at the office at this time did nothing to remove this sensation of being outside everything that made life worth living.
betty, returning to the office one afternoon, found smith in the doorway, just parting from a thickset young man.
there was a rather gloomy expression on the thickset young man's face.
smith, too, she noted, when they were back in the inner office, seemed to have something on his mind.
he was strangely silent.
"comrade brown," he said at last, "i wish this little journal of ours had a sporting page."
betty laughed.
"less ribaldry," protested smith pained.
"this is a sad affair.
you saw the man i was talking to?
that was kid brady.
i used to know him when i was out west.
he wants to fight anyone in the country at a hundred and thirty-three pounds.
we all have our hobbies.
that is comrade brady's."
"is he a boxer?"
"he would like to be.
out west, nobody could touch him.
he's in the championship class.
but he has been pottering about new york for a month without being able to get a fight.
if we had a sporting page on peaceful moments we could do him some good, but i don't see how we can write him up," said smith, picking up a copy of the paper, and regarding it gloomily, "in 'moments in the nursery' or 'moments with budding girlhood.'"
he put up his eyeglass, and stared at the offending journal with the air of a vegetarian who has found a caterpillar in his salad.
incredulity, dismay, and disgust fought for precedence in his expression.
"b. henderson asher," he said severely, "ought to be in some sort of a home.
cain killed abel for telling him that story."
he turned to another page, and scrutinized it with deepening gloom.
"is luella granville waterman by any chance a friend of yours, comrade brown?
no?
i am glad.
for it seems to me that for sheer, concentrated piffle, she is in a class by herself."
he read on for a few moments in silence, then looked up and fixed betty with his monocle.
there was righteous wrath in his eyes.
"and people," he said, "are paying money for this!
money!
even now they are sitting down and writing checks for a year's subscription.
it isn't right!
it's a skin game.
i am assisting in a carefully planned skin game!"
"but perhaps they like it," suggested betty.
smith shook his head.
"it is kind of you to try and soothe my conscience, but it is useless.
i see my position too clearly.
think of it, comrade brown!
thousands of poor, doddering, half-witted creatures in brooklyn and flatbush, who ought not really to have control of their own money at all, are getting buncoed out of whatever it is per annum in exchange for how shall i put it in a forcible yet refined and gentlemanly manner?
for cat's meat of this description.
why, selling gold bricks is honest compared with it.
and i am temporarily responsible for the black business!"
he extended a lean hand with melodramatic suddenness toward betty.
the unexpectedness of the movement caused her to start back in her chair with a little exclamation of surprise.
smith nodded with a kind of mournful satisfaction.
"exactly!"
he said.
"as i expected!
you shrink from me.
you avoid my polluted hand.
how could it be otherwise?
a conscientious green-goods man would do the same."
he rose from his seat.
"your attitude," he said, "confirms me in a decision that has been in my mind for some days.
i will no longer calmly accept this terrible position.
i will try to make amends.
while i am in charge, i will give our public something worth reading.
all these watermans and ashers and parslows must go!"
"go!"
"go!"
repeated smith firmly.
"i have been thinking it over for days.
you cannot look me in the face, comrade brown, and say that there is a single feature which would not be better away.
i mean in the paper, not in my face.
every one of these punk pages must disappear.
letters must be despatched at once, informing julia burdett parslow and the others, and in particular b. henderson asher, who, on brief acquaintance, strikes me as an ideal candidate for a lethal chamber that, unless they cease their contributions instantly, we shall call up the police reserves.
then we can begin to move."
betty, like most of his acquaintances, seldom knew whether smith was talking seriously or not.
she decided to assume, till he should dismiss the idea, that he meant what he said.
"but you can't!"
she exclaimed.
"with your kind cooperation, nothing easier.
you supply the mechanical work.
i will compose the letters.
first, b. henderson asher.
'dear sir' "
"but " she fell back on her original remark "but you can't.
what will mr. renshaw say when he comes back?"
"sufficient unto the day.
i have a suspicion that he will be the first to approve.
his vacation will have made him see things differently purified him, as it were.
his conscience will be alive once more."
"but "
"why should we worry ourselves because the end of this venture is wrapped in obscurity?
why, columbus didn't know where he was going to when he set out.
all he knew was some highly interesting fact about an egg.
what that was, i do not at the moment recall, but i understand it acted on columbus like a tonic.
we are the columbuses of the journalistic world.
full steam ahead, and see what happens.
if comrade renshaw is not pleased, why, i shall have been a martyr to a good cause.
it is a far, far better thing that i do than i have ever done, so to speak.
why should i allow possible inconvenience to myself to stand in the way of the happiness which we propose to inject into those brooklyn and flatbush homes?
are you ready then, once more?
'dear sir '"
betty gave in.
when the letters were finished, she made one more objection.
"they are certain to call here and make a fuss," she said, "mr. asher and the rest."
"you think they will not bear the blow with manly fortitude?"
"i certainly do.
and i think it's hard on them, too.
suppose they depend for a living on what they make from peaceful moments?"
"they don't," said smith reassuringly.
"i've looked into that.
have no pity for them.
they are amateurs degraded creatures of substance who take the cocktails out of the mouths of deserving professionals.
b.
henderson asher, for instance, is largely interested in gents'
haberdashery.
and so with the others.
we touch their pride, perhaps, but not their purses."
betty's soft heart was distinctly relieved by the information.
"i see," she said.
"but suppose they do call, what will you do?
it will be very unpleasant."
smith pondered.
"true," he said.
"true.
i think you are right there.
my nervous system is so delicately attuned that anything in the shape of a brawl would reduce it to a frazzle.
i think that, for this occasion only, we will promote comrade maloney to the post of editor.
he is a stern, hard, rugged man who does not care how unpopular he is.
yes, i think that would be best."
he signed the letters with a firm hand, "per pro p. maloney, editor."
then he lit a cigarette, and leaned back in his chair.
"an excellent morning's work," he said.
"already i begin to feel the dawnings of a new self-respect."
betty, thinking the thing over, a little dazed by the rapidity of smith's method of action, had found a fresh flaw in the scheme.
"if you send mr. asher and the others away, how are you going to bring the paper out at all?
you can't write it all yourself."
smith looked at her with benevolent admiration.
"she thinks of everything," he murmured.
"that busy brain is never still.
no, comrade brown, i do not propose to write the whole paper myself.
i do not shirk work when it gets me in a corner and i can't side-step, but there are limits.
i propose to apply to a few of my late companions of park row, bright boys who will be delighted to come across with red-hot stuff for a moderate fee."
"and the proprietor of the paper?
won't he make any objection?"
smith shook his head with a touch of reproof.
"you seem determined to try to look on the dark side.
do you insinuate that we are not acting in the proprietor's best interests?
when he gets his check for the receipts, after i have handled the paper awhile, he will go singing about the streets.
his beaming smile will be a byword.
visitors will be shown it as one of the sights.
his only doubt will be whether to send his money to the bank or keep it in tubs and roll in it.
and anyway," he added, "he's in europe somewhere, and never sees the paper, sensible man."
he scratched a speck of dust off his coat-sleeve with his finger nail.
"this is a big thing," he resumed.
"wait till you see the first number of the new series.
my idea is that peaceful moments shall become a pretty warm proposition.
its tone shall be such that the public will wonder why we do not print it on asbestos.
we shall comment on all the live events of the week murders, wall street scandals, glove fights, and the like, in a manner which will make our readers' spines thrill.
above all, we shall be the guardians of the people's rights.
we shall be a spot light, showing up the dark places and bringing into prominence those who would endeavor in any way to put the people in dutch.
we shall detect the wrongdoer, and hand him such a series of resentful wallops that he will abandon his little games and become a model citizen.
in this way we shall produce a bright, readable little sheet which will make our city sit up and take notice.
i think so.
i think so.
and now i must be hustling about and seeing our new contributors.
there is no time to waste."
chapter xv
the honeyed word
the offices of peaceful moments were in a large building in a street off madison avenue.
they consisted of a sort of outer lair, where pugsy maloney spent his time reading tales of life on the prairies and heading off undesirable visitors; a small room, into which desirable but premature visitors were loosed, to wait their turn for admission into the presence; and a larger room beyond, which was the editorial sanctum.
smith, returning from luncheon on the day following his announcement of the great change, found both betty and pugsy waiting in the outer lair, evidently with news of import.
"mr. smith," began betty.
"dey're in dere," said master maloney with his customary terseness.
"who, exactly?"
asked smith.
"de whole bunch of dem."
smith inspected pugsy through his eyeglass.
"can you give me any particulars?"
he asked patiently.
"you are well-meaning, but vague, comrade maloney.
who are in there?"
"about 'steen of dem!"
said pugsy.
"mr. asher," said betty, "and mr. philpotts, and all the rest of them."
she struggled for a moment, but, unable to resist the temptation, added, "i told you so."
a faint smile appeared upon smith's face.
"dey just butted in," said master maloney, resuming his narrative.
"i was sittin' here, readin' me book, when de foist of de guys blows in.
'boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?'
'nope,' i says.
'i'll go in and wait,' says he.
'nuttin' doin',' says i.
'nix on de goin'-in act.'
i might as well have saved me breat!
in he butts.
in about t'ree minutes along comes another gazebo.
'boy,' says he, 'is de editor in?'
'nope,'
i says.
'i'll wait,' says he, lightin' out for de door, and in he butts.
wit' dat i sees de proposition's too fierce for muh.
i can't keep dese big husky guys out if dey bucks center like dat.
so when de rest of de bunch comes along, i don't try to give dem de trun down.
i says, 'well, gent,' i says, 'it's up to youse.
de editor ain't in, but, if you feels lonesome, push t'roo.
dere's plenty dere to keep youse company.
i can't be boddered!'"
"and what more could you have said?"
agreed smith approvingly.
"tell me, did these gentlemen appear to be gay and light-hearted, or did they seem to be looking for someone with a hatchet?"
"dey was hoppin' mad, de whole bunch of dem."
"dreadfully," attested betty.
"as i suspected," said smith, "but we must not repine.
these trifling contretemps are the penalties we pay for our high journalistic aims.
i fancy that with the aid of the diplomatic smile and the honeyed word i may manage to win out.
will you come and give me your moral support, comrade brown?"
he opened the door of the inner room for betty, and followed her in.
master maloney's statement that "about 'steen" visitors had arrived proved to be a little exaggerated.
there were five men in the room.
as smith entered, every eye was turned upon him.
to an outside spectator he would have seemed rather like a very well-dressed daniel introduced into a den of singularly irritable lions.
five pairs of eyes were smoldering with a long-nursed resentment.
five brows were corrugated with wrathful lines.
such, however, was the simple majesty of smith's demeanor that for a moment there was dead silence.
not a word was spoken as he paced, wrapped in thought, to the editorial chair.
stillness brooded over the room as he carefully dusted that piece of furniture, and, having done so to his satisfaction, hitched up the knees of his trousers and sank gracefully into a sitting position.
this accomplished, he looked up and started.
he gazed round the room.
"ha!
i am observed!"
he murmured.
the words broke the spell.
instantly the five visitors burst simultaneously into speech.
"are you the acting editor of this paper?"
"i wish to have a word with you, sir."
"mr. maloney, i presume?"
"pardon me!"
"i should like a few moments' conversation."
the start was good and even, but the gentleman who said "pardon me!"
necessarily finished first, with the rest nowhere.
smith turned to him, bowed, and fixed him with a benevolent gaze through his eyeglass.
"are you mr. maloney, may i ask?"
enquired the favored one.
the others paused for the reply.
smith shook his head.
"my name is smith."
"where is mr.
maloney?"
smith looked across at betty, who had seated herself in her place by the typewriter.
"where did you tell me mr. maloney had gone to, miss brown?
ah, well, never mind.
is there anything i can do for you, gentlemen?
i am on the editorial staff of this paper."
"then, maybe," said a small, round gentleman who, so far, had done only chorus work, "you can tell me what all this means?
my name is waterman, sir.
i am here on behalf of my wife, whose name you doubtless know."
"correct me if i am wrong," said smith, "but i should say it, also, was waterman."
"luella granville waterman, sir!"
said the little man proudly.
"my wife," he went on, "has received this extraordinary communication from a man signing himself p. maloney.
we are both at a loss to make head or tail of it."
"it seems reasonably clear to me," said smith, reading the letter.
"it's an outrage.
my wife has been a contributor to this journal since its foundation.
we are both intimate friends of mr. renshaw, to whom my wife's work has always given complete satisfaction.
and now, without the slightest warning, comes this peremptory dismissal from p. maloney.
who is p. maloney?
where is mr.
renshaw?"
the chorus burst forth.
it seemed that that was what they all wanted to know.
who was p. maloney?
where was mr. renshaw?
"i am the reverend edwin t. philpott, sir," said a cadaverous-looking man with light blue eyes and a melancholy face.
"i have contributed 'moments of meditation' to this journal for some considerable time."
smith nodded.
"i know, yours has always seemed to me work which the world will not willingly let die."
the reverend edwin's frosty face thawed into a bleak smile.
"and yet," continued smith, "i gather that p. maloney, on the other hand, actually wishes to hurry on its decease.
strange!"
a man in a serge suit, who had been lurking behind betty, bobbed into the open.
"where's this fellow maloney?
p. maloney.
that's the man we want to see.
i've been working for this paper without a break, except when i had the grip, for four years, and now up comes this maloney fellow, if you please, and tells me in so many words that the paper's got no use for me."
"these are life's tragedies," sighed smith.
"what does he mean by it?
that's what i want to know.
and that's what these gentlemen want to know.
see here "
"i am addressing " said smith.
"asher's my name.
b. henderson asher.
i write 'moments of mirth.'"
a look almost of excitement came into smith's face, such a look as a visitor to a foreign land might wear when confronted with some great national monument.
he stood up and shook mr. asher reverently by the hand.
"gentlemen," he said, reseating himself, "this is a painful case.
the circumstances, as you will admit when you have heard all, are peculiar.
you have asked me where mr. renshaw is.
i don't know."
"you don't know!"
exclaimed mr. asher.
"nobody knows.
with luck you may find a black cat in a coal cellar on a moonless night, but not mr. renshaw.
shortly after i joined this journal, he started out on a vacation, by his doctor's orders, and left no address.
no letters were to be forwarded.
he was to enjoy complete rest.
who can say where he is now?
possibly racing down some rugged slope in the rockies with two grizzlies and a wildcat in earnest pursuit.
possibly in the midst of florida everglades, making a noise like a piece of meat in order to snare alligators.
who can tell?"
silent consternation prevailed among his audience.
"then, do you mean to say," demanded mr. asher, "that this fellow maloney's the boss here, and that what he says goes?"
smith bowed.
"exactly.
a man of intensely masterful character, he will brook no opposition.
i am powerless to sway him.
suggestions from myself as to the conduct of the paper would infuriate him.
he believes that radical changes are necessary in the policy of peaceful moments, and he will carry them through if it snows.
doubtless he would gladly consider your work if it fitted in with his ideas.
a rapid-fire impression of a glove fight, a spine-shaking word picture of a railway smash, or something on those lines, would be welcomed.
but "
"i have never heard of such a thing," said mr. waterman indignantly.
"in this life," said smith, shaking his head, "we must be prepared for every emergency.
we must distinguish between the unusual and the impossible.
it is unusual for the acting editor of a weekly paper to revolutionize its existing policy, and you have rashly ordered your life on the assumption that it is impossible.
you are unprepared.
the thing comes on you as a surprise.
the cry goes round new york, 'comrades asher, waterman, philpotts, and others have been taken unawares.
they cannot cope with the situation.'"
"but what is to be done?"
cried mr. asher.
"nothing, i fear, except to wait.
it may be that when mr. renshaw, having dodged the bears and eluded the wildcat, returns to his post, he will decide not to continue the paper on the lines at present mapped out.
he should be back in about ten weeks."
"ten weeks!"
"till then, the only thing to do is to wait.
you may rely on me to keep a watchful eye on your interests.
when your thoughts tend to take a gloomy turn say to yourselves, 'all is well.
smith is keeping a watchful eye on our interests.'"
"all the same, i should like to see this p. maloney," said mr. asher.
"i shouldn't," said smith.
"i speak in your best interests.
p. maloney is a man of the fiercest passions.
he cannot brook interference.
if you should argue with him, there is no knowing what might not happen.
he would be the first to regret any violent action, when once he had cooled off, but  of course, if you wish it i could arrange a meeting.
no?
i think you are wise.
and now, gentlemen, as i have a good deal of work to get through
"all very disturbing to the man of culture and refinement," said smith, as the door closed behind the last of the malcontents.
"but i think that we may now consider the line clear.
i see no further obstacle in our path.
i fear i have made comrade maloney perhaps a shade unpopular with our late contributors, but these things must be.
we must clench our teeth and face them manfully.
he suffers in an excellent cause."
chapter xvi
two visitors to the office
there was once an editor of a paper in the far west who was sitting at his desk, musing pleasantly on life, when a bullet crashed through the window and imbedded itself in the wall at the back of his head.
a happy smile lighted up the editor's face.
"ah!"
he said complacently, "i knew that personal column of ours would make a hit!"
what the bullet was to the far west editor, the visit of mr. martin parker to the offices of peaceful moments was to smith.
it occurred shortly after the publication of the second number of the new series, and was directly due to betty's first and only suggestion for the welfare of the paper.
if the first number of the series had not staggered humanity, it had at least caused a certain amount of comment.
the warm weather had begun, and there was nothing much going on in new york.
the papers were consequently free to take notice of the change in the policy of peaceful moments.
through the agency of smith's newspaper friends, it received some very satisfactory free advertisement, and the sudden increase in the sales enabled smith to bear up with fortitude against the numerous letters of complaint from old subscribers who did not know what was good for them.
visions of a large new public which should replace these brooklyn and flatbush ingrates filled his mind.
the sporting section of the paper pleased him most.
the personality of kid brady bulked large in it.
a photograph of the ambitious pugilist, looking moody and important in an attitude of self-defense, filled half a page, and under the photograph was the legend, "jimmy garvin must meet this boy."
jimmy was the present holder of the light-weight title.
he had won it a year before, and since then had confined himself to smoking cigars as long as walking sticks and appearing nightly in a vaudeville sketch entitled, "a fight for honor."
his reminiscences were being published in a sunday paper.
it was this that gave smith the idea of publishing kid brady's autobiography in peaceful moments, an idea which won the kid's whole-hearted gratitude.
like most pugilists he had a passion for bursting into print.
print is the fighter's accolade.
it signifies that he has arrived.
he was grateful to smith, too, for not editing his contributions.
jimmy garvin groaned under the supervision of a member of the staff of his sunday paper, who deleted his best passages and altered the rest into addisonian english.
the readers of peaceful moments got their brady raw.
"comrade brady," said smith meditatively to betty one morning, "has a singularly pure and pleasing style.
it is bound to appeal powerfully to the many-headed.
listen to this.
our hero is fighting one benson in the latter's home town, san francisco, and the audience is rooting hard for the native son.
here is comrade brady on the subject: 'i looked around that house, and i seen i hadn't a friend in it.
and then the gong goes, and i says to myself how i has one friend, my old mother down in illinois, and i goes in and mixes it, and then i seen benson losing his goat, so i gives him a half-scissor hook, and in the next round i picks up a sleep-producer from the floor and hands it to him, and he takes the count.'
that is what the public wants.
crisp, lucid, and to the point.
if that does not get him a fight with some eminent person, nothing will."
he leaned back in his chair.
"what we really need now," he said thoughtfully, "is a good, honest, muck-raking series.
that's the thing to put a paper on the map.
the worst of it is that everything seems to have been done.
have you by any chance a second 'frenzied finance' at the back of your mind?
or proofs that nut sundaes are composed principally of ptomaine and outlying portions of the american workingman?
it would be the making of us."
now it happened that in the course of her rambles through the city betty had lost herself one morning in the slums.
the experience had impressed itself on her mind with an extraordinary vividness.
her lot had always been cast in pleasant places, and she had never before been brought into close touch with this side of life.
the sight of actual raw misery had come home to her with an added force from that circumstance.
wandering on, she had reached a street which eclipsed in cheerlessness even its squalid neighbors.
all the smells and noises of the east side seemed to be penned up here in a sort of canyon.
the masses of dirty clothes hanging from the fire-escapes increased the atmosphere of depression.
groups of ragged children covered the roadway.
it was these that had stamped the scene so indelibly on her memory.
she loved children, and these seemed so draggled and uncared-for.
smith's words gave her an idea.
"do you know broster street, mr.
smith?"
she asked.
"down on the east side?
yes, i went there once to get a story, one red-hot night in august, when i was on the news.
the ice company had been putting up their prices, and trouble was expected down there.
i was sent to cover it."
he did not add that he had spent a week's salary that night, buying ice and distributing it among the denizens of broster street.
"it's an awful place," said betty, her eyes filling with tears.
"those poor children!"
smith nodded.
"some of those tenement houses are fierce," he said thoughtfully.
like betty, he found himself with a singularly clear recollection of his one visit to broster street.
"but you can't do anything."
"why not?"
cried betty.
"oh, why not?
surely you couldn't have a better subject for your series?
it's wicked.
people only want to be told about them to make them better.
why can't we draw attention to them?"
"it's been done already.
not about broster street, but about other tenements.
tenements as a subject are played out.
the public isn't interested in them.
besides, it wouldn't be any use.
you can't tree the man who is really responsible, unless you can spend thousands scaring up evidence.
the land belongs in the first place to some corporation or other.
they lease it to a lessee.
when there's a fuss, they say they aren't responsible, it's up to the lessee.
and he, bright boy, lies so low you can't find out who it is."
"but we could try," urged betty.
smith looked at her curiously.
the cause was plainly one that lay near to her heart.
her face was flushed and eager.
he wavered, and, having wavered, he did what no practical man should do.
he allowed sentiment to interfere with business.
he knew that a series of articles on broster street would probably be so much dead weight on the paper, something to be skipped by the average reader, but he put the thought aside.
"very well," he said.
"if you care to turn in a few crisp remarks on the subject, i'll print them."
betty's first instalment was ready on the following morning.
it was a curious composition.
a critic might have classed it with kid brady's reminiscences, for there was a complete absence of literary style.
it was just a wail of pity, and a cry of indignation, straight from the heart and split up into paragraphs.
smith read it with interest, and sent it off to the printer unaltered.
"have another ready for next week, comrade brown," he said.
"it's a long shot, but this might turn out to be just what we need."
and when, two days after the publication of the number containing the article, mr. martin parker called at the office, he felt that the long shot had won out.
he was holding forth on life in general to betty shortly before the luncheon hour when pugsy maloney entered bearing a card.
"martin parker?"
said smith, taking it.
"i don't know him.
we make new friends daily."
"he's a guy wit' a tall-shaped hat," volunteered master maloney, "an'
he's wearing a dude suit an' shiny shoes."
"comrade parker," said smith approvingly, "has evidently not been blind to the importance of a visit to peaceful moments.
he has dressed himself in his best.
he has felt, rightly, that this is no occasion for the flannel suit and the old straw hat.
i would not have it otherwise.
it is the right spirit.
show the guy in.
we will give him audience."
pugsy withdrew.
mr. martin parker proved to be a man who might have been any age between thirty-five and forty-five.
he had a dark face and a black mustache.
as pugsy had stated, in effect, he wore a morning coat, trousers with a crease which brought a smile of kindly approval to smith's face, and patent-leather shoes of pronounced shininess.
"i want to see the editor," he said.
"will you take a seat?"
said smith.
he pushed a chair toward the visitor, who seated himself with the care inspired by a perfect trouser crease.
there was a momentary silence while he selected a spot on the table on which to place his hat.
"i have come about a private matter," he said, looking meaningly at betty, who got up and began to move toward the door.
smith nodded to her, and she went out.
"say," said mr. parker, "hasn't something happened to this paper these last few weeks?
it used not to take such an interest in things, used it?"
"you are very right," responded smith.
"comrade renshaw's methods were good in their way.
i have no quarrel with comrade renshaw.
but he did not lead public thought.
he catered exclusively to children with water on the brain and men and women with solid ivory skulls.
i feel that there are other and larger publics.
i cannot content myself with ladling out a weekly dole of predigested mental breakfast food.
i "
"then you, i guess," said mr. parker, "are responsible for this broster street thing?"
"at any rate, i approve of it and put it in the paper.
if any husky guy, as comrade maloney would put it, is anxious to aim a swift kick at the author of that article, he can aim it at me."
"i see," said mr. parker.
he paused.
"it said 'number one' in the paper.
does that mean there are going to be more of them?"
"there is no flaw in your reasoning.
there are to be several more."
mr. parker looked at the door.
it was closed.
he bent forward.
"see here," he said, "i'm going to talk straight, if you'll let me."
"assuredly, comrade parker.
there must be no secrets, no restraint between us.
i would not have you go away and say to yourself, 'did i make my meaning clear?
was i too elusive?'"
mr. parker scratched the floor with the point of a gleaming shoe.
he seemed to be searching for words.
"say on," urged smith.
"have you come to point out some flaw in that article?
does it fall short in any way of your standard for such work?"
mr. parker came to the point.
"if i were you," he said, "i should quit it.
i shouldn't go on with those articles."
"why?"
enquired smith.
"because," said mr. parker.
he looked at smith, and smiled slowly, an ingratiating smile.
smith did not respond.
"i do not completely gather your meaning," he said.
"i fear i must ask you to hand it to me with still more breezy frankness.
do you speak from purely friendly motives?
are you advising me to discontinue the series because you fear that it will damage the literary reputation of the paper?
do you speak solely as a literary connoisseur?
or are there other reasons?"
mr. parker leaned forward.
"the gentleman whom i represent "
"then this is no matter of your own personal taste?
there is another?"
"see here, i'm representing a gentleman who shall be nameless, and i've come on his behalf to tip you off to quit this game.
these articles of yours are liable to cause him inconvenience."
"financial?
do you mean that he may possibly have to spend some of his spare doubloons in making broster street fit to live in?"
"it's not so much the money.
it's the publicity.
there are reasons why he would prefer not to have it made too public that he's the owner of the tenements down there."
"well, he knows what to do.
if he makes broster street fit for a not-too-fastidious pig to live in "
mr. parker coughed.
a tentative cough, suggesting that the situation was now about to enter upon a more delicate phase.
"now, see here, sir," he said, "i'm going to be frank.
i'm going to put my cards on the table, and see if we can't fix something up.
now, see here.
we don't want any unpleasantness.
you aren't in this business for your health, eh?
you've got your living to make, same as everybody else, i guess.
well, this is how it stands.
to a certain extent, i don't mind owning, since we're being frank with one another, you've got us that's to say, this gentleman i'm speaking of in a cleft stick.
frankly, that broster street story of yours has attracted attention i saw it myself in two sunday papers and if there's going to be any more of them well, now, here's a square proposition.
how much do you want to stop those articles?
that's straight.
i've been frank with you, and i want you to be frank with me.
what's your figure?
name it, and if you don't want the earth i guess we needn't quarrel."
he looked expectantly at smith.
smith, gazing sadly at him through his monocle, spoke quietly, with the restrained dignity of some old roman senator dealing with the enemies of the republic.
"comrade parker," he said, "i fear that you have allowed your intercourse with this worldly city to undermine your moral sense.
it is useless to dangle rich bribes before the editorial eyes.
peaceful moments cannot be muzzled.
you doubtless mean well, according to your somewhat murky lights, but we are not for sale, except at fifteen cents weekly.
from the hills of maine to the everglades of florida, from portland, oregon, to melonsquashville, tennessee, one sentence is in every man's mouth.
and what is that sentence?
i give you three guesses.
you give it up?
it is this: 'peaceful moments cannot be muzzled!'"
mr. parker rose.
"nothing doing, then?"
he said.
"nothing."
mr. parker picked up his hat.
"see here," he said, a grating note in his voice, hitherto smooth and conciliatory, "i've no time to fool away talking to you.
i've given you your chance.
those stories are going to be stopped.
and if you've any sense in you at all, you'll stop them yourself before you get hurt.
that's all i've got to say, and that goes."
he went out, closing the door behind him with a bang that added emphasis to his words.
"all very painful and disturbing," murmured smith.
"comrade brown!"
he called.
betty came in.
"did our late visitor bite a piece out of you on his way out?
he was in the mood to do something of the sort."
"he seemed angry," said betty.
"he was angry," said smith.
"do you know what has happened, comrade brown?
with your very first contribution to the paper you have hit the bull's-eye.
you have done the state some service.
friend parker came as the representative of the owner of those broster street houses.
he wanted to buy us off.
we've got them scared, or he wouldn't have shown his hand with such refreshing candor.
have you any engagements at present?"
"i was just going out to lunch, if you could spare me."
"not alone.
this lunch is on the office.
as editor of this journal i will entertain you, if you will allow me, to a magnificent banquet.
peaceful moments is grateful to you.
peaceful moments," he added, with the contented look the far west editor must have worn as the bullet came through the window, "is, owing to you, going some now."
when they returned from lunch, and reentered the outer office, pugsy maloney, raising his eyes for a moment from his book, met them with the information that another caller had arrived and was waiting in the inner room.
"dere's a guy in dere waitin' to see youse," he said, jerking his head towards the door.
"yet another guy?
this is our busy day.
did he give a name?"
"says his name's maude," said master maloney, turning a page.
"maude!"
cried betty, falling back.
smith beamed.
"old john maude!"
he said.
"great!
i've been wondering what on earth he's been doing with himself all this time.
good-old john!
you'll like him," he said, turning, and stopped abruptly, for he was speaking to the empty air.
betty had disappeared.
"where's miss brown, pugsy?"
he said.
"where did she go?"
pugsy vouchsafed another jerk of the head, in the direction of the outer door.
"she's beaten it," he said.
"i seen her make a break for de stairs.
guess she's forgotten to remember somet'ing," he added indifferently, turning once more to his romance of prairie life.
"goils is bone-heads."
chapter xvii
the man at the astor
refraining from discussing with master maloney the alleged bone-headedness of girls, smith went through into the inner room, and found john sitting in the editorial chair, glancing through the latest number of peaceful moments.
"why, john, friend of my youth," he said, "where have you been hiding all this time?
i called you up at your office weeks ago, and an acid voice informed me that you were no longer there.
have you been fired?"
"yes," said john.
"why aren't you on the news any more?
nobody seemed to know where you were, till i met faraday this morning, who told me you were here."
smith was conscious of an impression that in some subtle way john had changed since their last meeting.
for a moment he could not have said what had given him this impression.
then it flashed upon him.
before, john had always been, like mrs. fezziwig in "the christmas carol," one vast substantial smile.
he had beamed cheerfully on what to him was evidently the best of all possible worlds.
now, however, it would seem that doubts had occurred to him as to the universal perfection of things.
his face was graver.
his eyes and his mouth alike gave evidence of disturbing happenings.
in the matter of confidences, smith was not a believer in spade-work.
if they were offered to him, he was invariably sympathetic, but he never dug for them.
that john had something on his mind was obvious, but he intended to allow him, if he wished to reveal it, to select his own time for the revelation.
john, for his part, had no intention of sharing this particular trouble even with smith.
it was too new and intimate for discussion.
it was only since his return to new york that the futility of his quest had really come home to him.
in the belief of having at last escaped from mervo he had been inclined to overlook obstacles.
it had seemed to him, while he waited for his late subjects to dismiss him, that, once he could move, all would be simple.
new york had dispelled that idea.
logically, he saw with perfect clearness, there was no reason why he and betty should ever meet again.
to retain a spark of hope beneath this knowledge was not easy and john, having been in new york now for nearly three weeks without any encouragement from the fates, was near the breaking point.
a gray apathy had succeeded the frenzied restlessness of the first few days.
the necessity for some kind of work that would to some extent occupy his mind was borne in upon him, and the thought of smith had followed naturally.
if anybody could supply distraction, it would be smith.
faraday, another of the temporary exiles from the news, whom he had met by chance in washington square, had informed him of smith's new position and of the renaissance of peaceful moments, and he had hurried to the office to present himself as an unskilled but willing volunteer to the cause.
inspection of the current number of the paper had convinced him that the peaceful moments atmosphere, if it could not cure, would at least relieve.
"faraday told me all about what you had done to this paper," he said.
"i came to see if you would let me in on it.
i want work."
"excellent!"
said smith.
"consider yourself one of us."
"i've never done any newspaper work, of course, but "
"never!"
cried smith.
"is it so long since the dear old college days that you forget the gridiron?"
in their last year at harvard, smith and john, assisted by others of a congenial spirit, had published a small but lively magazine devoted to college topics, with such success from one point of view that on the appearance of the third number it was suppressed by the authorities.
"you were the life and soul of the gridiron," went on smith.
"you shall be the life and soul of peaceful moments.
you have special qualifications for the post.
a young man once called at the office of a certain newspaper, and asked for a job.
'have you any specialty?'
enquired the editor.
'yes,' replied the bright boy, 'i am rather good at invective.'
'any particular kind of invective?'
queried the man up top.
'no,' replied our hero, 'just general invective.'
such is your case, my son.
you have a genius for general invective.
you are the man peaceful moments has been waiting for."
"if you think so "
"i do think so.
let us consider it settled.
and now, tell me, what do you think of our little journal?"
"well aren't you asking for trouble?
isn't the proprietor ?"
smith waved his hand airily.
"dismiss him from your mind," he said.
"he is a gentleman of the name of benjamin scobell, who "
"benjamin scobell!"
"who lives in europe and never sees the paper.
i happen to know that he is anxious to get rid of it.
his solicitors have instructions to accept any reasonable offer.
if only i could close in on a small roll, i would buy it myself, for by the time we have finished our improvements, it will be a sound investment for the young speculator.
have you read the broster street story?
it has hit somebody already.
already some unknown individual is grasping the lemon in his unwilling fingers.
and to remove any diffidence you may still have about lending your sympathetic aid that was written by no hardened professional, but by our stenographer.
she'll be in soon, and i'll introduce you.
you'll like her.
i do not despair, later on, of securing an epoch-making contribution from comrade maloney."
as he spoke, that bulwark of the paper entered in person, bearing an envelope.
"ah, comrade maloney," said smith.
"is that your contribution?
what is the subject?
'mustangs i have met?'"
"a kid brought dis," said pugsy.
"dere ain't no answer."
smith read the letter with raised eyebrows.
"we shall have to get another stenographer," he said.
"the gifted author of our broster street series has quit."
"oh!"
said john, not interested.
"quit at a moment's notice and without explanation.
i can't understand it."
"i guess she had some reason," said john, absently.
he was inclined to be absent during these days.
his mind was always stealing away to occupy itself with the problem of the discovery of betty.
the motives that might have led a stenographer to resign her position had no interest for him.
smith shrugged his shoulders.
"oh, woman, woman!"
he said resignedly.
"she says she will send in some more broster street stuff, though, which is a comfort.
but i'm sorry she's quit.
you would have liked her."
"yes?"
said john.
at this moment there came from the outer office a piercing squeal.
it penetrated into the editorial sanctum, losing only a small part of its strength on the way.
smith looked up with patient sadness.
"if comrade maloney," he said, "is going to take to singing during business hours, i fear this journal must put up its shutters.
concentrated thought will be out of the question."
he moved to the door and flung it open as a second squeal rent the air, and found master maloney writhing in the grip of a tough-looking person in patched trousers and a stained sweater.
his left ear was firmly grasped between the stranger's finger and thumb.
the tough person released pugsy, and, having eyed smith keenly for a moment, made a dash for the stairs, leaving the guardian of the gate rubbing his ear resentfully.
"he blows in," said master maloney, aggrieved, "an' asks is de editor in.
i tells him no, an' he nips me by the ear when i tries to stop him buttin' t'roo."
"comrade maloney," said smith, "you are a martyr.
what would horatius have done if somebody had nipped him by the ear when he was holding the bridge?
it might have made all the difference.
did the gentleman state his business?"
"nope.
just tried to butt t'roo."
"one of these strong, silent men.
the world is full of us.
these are the perils of the journalistic life.
you will be safer and happier when you are a cowboy, comrade maloney."
smith was thoughtful as he returned to the inner room.
"things are warming up, john," he said.
"the sport who has just left evidently came just to get a sight of me.
otherwise, why should he tear himself away without stopping for a chat.
i suppose he was sent to mark me down for whichever gang comrade parker is employing."
"what do you mean?"
said john.
"all this gets past me.
who is parker?"
smith related the events leading up to mr. parker's visit, and described what had happened on that occasion.
"so, before you throw in your lot with this journal," he concluded, "it would be well to think the matter over.
you must weigh the pros and cons.
is your passion for literature such that you do not mind being put out of business with a black-jack for the cause?
will the knowledge that a low-browed gentleman is waiting round the corner for you stimulate or hinder you in your work?
there's no doubt now that we are up against a tough crowd."
"by jove!"
said john.
"i hadn't a notion it was like that."
"you feel, then, that on the whole "
"i feel that on the whole this is just the business i've been hunting for.
you couldn't keep me out of it now with an ax."
smith looked at him curiously, but refrained from enquiries.
that there must be something at the back of this craving for adventure and excitement, he knew.
the easy-going john he had known of old would certainly not have deserted the danger zone, but he would not have welcomed entry to it so keenly.
it was plain that he was hungry for work that would keep him from thought.
smith was eminently a patient young man, and though the problem of what upheaval had happened to change john to such an extent interested him greatly, he was prepared to wait for explanations.
of the imminence of the danger he was perfectly aware.
he had known from the first that mr. parker's concluding words were not an empty threat.
his experience as a reporter had given him the knowledge that is only given in its entirety to police and newspaper men: that there are two new yorks one, a modern, well-policed city, through which one may walk from end to end without encountering adventure; the other, a city as full of sinister intrigue, of whisperings and conspiracies, of battle, murder, and sudden death in dark byways, as any town of mediaeval italy.
given certain conditions, anything may happen in new york.
and smith realized that these conditions now prevailed in his own case.
he had come into conflict with new york's underworld.
circumstances had placed him below the surface, where only his wits could help him.
he would have been prepared to see the thing through by himself, but there was no doubt that john as an ally would be a distinct comfort.
nevertheless, he felt compelled to give his friend a last chance of withdrawing.
"you know," he said, "there is really no reason why you should "
"but i'm going to," interrupted john.
"that's all there is to it.
what's going to happen, anyway?
i don't know anything about these gangs.
i thought they spent all their time shooting each other up."
"not all, unfortunately, comrade john.
they are always charmed to take on a small job like this on the side."
"and what does it come to?
do we have an entire gang camping on our trail in a solid mass, or only one or two toughs?"
"merely a section, i should imagine.
comrade parker would go to the main boss of the gang bat jarvis, if it was the groome street gang, or spider reilly and dude dawson if he wanted the three points or the table hill lot.
the boss would chat over the matter with his own special partners, and they would fix it up among themselves.
the rest of the gang would probably know nothing about it.
the fewer in the game, you see, the fewer to divide the parker dollars.
so what we have to do is to keep a lookout for a dozen or so aristocrats of that dignified deportment which comes from constant association with the main boss, and, if we can elude these, all will be well."
it was by smith's suggestion that the editorial staff of peaceful moments dined that night at the astor roof-garden.
"the tired brain," he said, "needs to recuperate.
to feed on such a night as this in some low-down hostelry on the level of the street, with german waiters breathing heavily down the back of one's neck and two fiddles and a piano hitting up ragtime about three feet from one's tympanum, would be false economy.
here, fanned by cool breezes and surrounded by passably fair women and brave men, one may do a certain amount of tissue-restoring.
moreover, there is little danger up here of being slugged by our moth-eaten acquaintance of this afternoon.
we shall probably find him waiting for us at the main entrance with a black-jack, but till then "
he turned with gentle grace to his soup.
it was a warm night, and the roof-garden was full.
from where they sat they could see the million twinkling lights of the city.
john, watching them, as he smoked a cigarette at the conclusion of the meal, had fallen into a dream.
he came to himself with a start, to find smith in conversation with a waiter.
"yes, my name is smith," he was saying.
the waiter retired to one of the tables and spoke to a young man sitting there.
john, recollected having seen this solitary diner looking in their direction once or twice during dinner, but the fact had not impressed him.
"what's the matter?"
he asked.
"the man at that table sent over to ask if my name was smith.
it was.
he is now coming along to chat in person.
i wonder why.
i don't know him from adam."
the stranger was threading his way between the tables.
"can i have a word with you, mr.
smith?"
he said.
the waiter brought a chair and he seated himself.
"by the way," said smith, "my friend, mr. maude.
your own name will doubtless come up in the course of general chitchat over the coffee-cups."
"not on your tintype it won't," said the stranger decidedly.
"it won't be needed.
is mr. maude on your paper?
that's all right, then.
i can go ahead."
he turned to smith.
"it's about that broster street thing."
"more fame!"
murmured smith.
"we certainly are making a hit with the great public over broster street."
"well, you understand certain parties have got it in against you?"
"a charming conversationalist, one comrade parker, hinted at something of the sort in a recent conversation.
we shall endeavor, however, to look after ourselves."
"you'll need to.
the man behind is a big bug."
"who is he?"
the stranger shrugged his shoulders.
"search me.
you wouldn't expect him to give that away."
"then on what system have you estimated the size of the gentleman's bug-hood?
what makes you think that he's a big bug?"
"by the number of dollars he was ready to put up to have you put through."
smith's eyes gleamed for an instant, but he spoke as coolly as ever.
"oh!"
he said.
"and which gang has he hired?"
"i couldn't say.
he his agent, that is came to bat jarvis.
bat for some reason turned the job down."
"he did?
why?"
"search me.
nobody knows.
but just as soon as he heard who it was he was being asked to lay for, he turned it down cold.
said none of his fellows was going to put a finger on anyone who had anything to do with your paper.
i don't know what you've been doing to bat, but he sure is the long-lost brother to you."
"a powerful argument in favor of kindness to animals!"
said smith.
"one of his celebrated stud of cats came into the possession of our stenographer.
what did she do?
instead of having the animal made into a nourishing soup, she restored it to its bereaved owner.
observe the sequel.
we are very much obliged to comrade jarvis."
"he sent me along," went on the stranger, "to tell you to watch out, because one of the other gangs was dead sure to take on the job.
and he said you were to know that he wasn't mixed up in it.
well, that's all.
i'll be pushing along.
i've a date.
glad to have met you, mr. maude.
good-night."
for a few moments after he had gone, smith and john sat smoking in silence.
"what's the time?"
asked smith suddenly.
"if it's not too late hello, here comes our friend once more."
the stranger came up to the table, a light overcoat over his dress clothes.
from the pocket of this he produced a watch.
"force of habit," he said apologetically, handing it to john.
"you'll pardon me.
good-night again."
chapter xviii
the highfield
john looked after him, open-mouthed.
the events of the evening had been a revelation to him.
he had not realized the ramifications of new york's underworld.
that members of the gangs should appear in gorgeous raiment in the astor roof-garden was a surprise.
"and now," said smith, "that our friend has so sportingly returned your watch, take a look at it and see the time.
nine?
excellent.
we shall do it comfortably."
"what's that?"
asked john.
"our visit to the highfield.
a young friend of mine who is fighting there to-night sent me tickets a few days ago.
in your perusal of peaceful moments you may have chanced to see mention of one kid brady.
he is the man.
i was intending to go in any case, but an idea has just struck me that we might combine pleasure with business.
has it occurred to you that these black-jack specialists may drop in on us at the office?
and, if so, that comrade maloney's statement that we are not in may be insufficient to keep them out?
comrade brady would be an invaluable assistant.
and as we are his pugilistic sponsors, without whom he would not have got this fight at all, i think we may say that he will do any little thing we may ask of him."
it was certainly true that, from the moment the paper had taken up his cause, kid brady's star had been in the ascendant.
the sporting pages of the big dailies had begun to notice him, until finally the management of the highfield club had signed him on for a ten-round bout with a certain cyclone dick fisher.
"he should," continued smith, "if equipped in any degree with the finer feelings, be bubbling over with gratitude toward us.
at any rate, it is worth investigating."
far away from the comfortable glare of broadway, in a place of disheveled houses and insufficient street-lamps, there stands the old warehouse which modern enterprise has converted into the highfield athletic and gymnastic club.
the imagination, stimulated by the title, conjures up picture-covered walls, padded chairs, and seas of white shirt front.
the highfield differs in some respects from this fancy picture.
indeed, it would be hard to find a respect in which it does not differ.
but these names are so misleading!
the title under which the highfield used to be known till a few years back was "swifty bob's."
it was a good, honest title.
you knew what to export, and if you attended seances at swifty bob's you left your gold watch and your little savings at home.
but a wave of anti-pugilistic feeling swept over the new york authorities.
promoters of boxing contests found themselves, to their acute disgust, raided by the police.
the industry began to languish.
persons avoided places where at any moment the festivities might be marred by an inrush of large men in blue uniforms, armed with locust sticks.
and then some big-brained person suggested the club idea, which stands alone as an example of american dry humor.
at once there were no boxing contests in new york; swifty bob and his fellows would have been shocked at the idea of such a thing.
all that happened now was exhibition sparring bouts between members of the club.
it is true that next day the papers very tactlessly reported the friendly exhibition spar as if it had been quite a serious affair, but that was not the fault of swifty bob.
kid brady, the chosen of peaceful moments, was billed for a "ten-round exhibition contest," to be the main event of the evening's entertainment.
a long journey on the subway took them to the neighborhood, and after considerable wandering they arrived at their destination.
smith's tickets were for a ring-side box, a species of sheep pen of unpolished wood, with four hard chairs in it.
the interior of the highfield athletic and gymnastic club was severely free from anything in the shape of luxury and ornament.
along the four walls were raised benches in tiers.
on these were seated as tough-looking a collection of citizens as one might wish to see.
on chairs at the ringside were the reporters with tickers at their sides.
in the center of the room, brilliantly lighted by half-a-dozen electric chandeliers, was the ring.
there were preliminary bouts before the main event.
a burly gentleman in shirt-sleeves entered the ring, followed by two slim youths in fighting costume and a massive person in a red jersey, blue serge trousers, and yellow braces, who chewed gum with an abstracted air throughout the proceedings.
the burly gentleman gave tongue in a voice that cleft the air like a cannon ball.
"ex-hibit-i-on four-round bout between patsy milligan and tommy goodley, members of this club.
patsy on my right, tommy on my left.
gentlemen will kindly stop smokin'."
the audience did nothing of the sort.
possibly they did not apply the description to themselves.
possibly they considered the appeal a mere formula.
somewhere in the background a gong sounded, and patsy, from the right, stepped briskly forward to meet tommy, approaching from the left.
the contest was short but energetic.
at intervals the combatants would cling affectionately to one another, and on these occasions the red-jerseyed man, still chewing gum and still wearing the same air of being lost in abstract thought, would split up the mass by the simple method of ploughing his way between the pair.
toward the end of the first round thomas, eluding a left swing, put patrick neatly to the floor, where the latter remained for the necessary ten seconds.
the remaining preliminaries proved disappointing.
so much so that in the last of the series a soured sportsman on one of the benches near the roof began in satirical mood to whistle the "merry widow waltz."
it was here that the red-jerseyed thinker for the first and last time came out of his meditative trance.
he leaned over the ropes, and spoke, without heat, but firmly:
"if that guy whistling back up yonder thinks he can do better than these boys, he can come right down into the ring."
the whistling ceased.
there was a distinct air of relief when the last preliminary was finished and preparations for the main bout began.
it did not commence at once.
there were formalities to be gone through, introductions and the like.
the burly gentleman reappeared from nowhere, ushering into the ring a sheepishly grinning youth in a flannel suit.
"in-ter-doo-cin' young leary," he bellowed impressively, "a noo member of this club, who will box some good boy here in september."
he walked to the other side of the ring and repeated the remark.
a raucous welcome was accorded to the new member.
two other notable performers were introduced in a similar manner, and then the building became suddenly full of noise, for a tall youth in a bath robe, attended by a little army of assistants, had entered the ring.
one of the army carried a bright green bucket, on which were painted in white letters the words "cyclone dick fisher."
a moment later there was another, though a far less, uproar, as kid brady, his pleasant face wearing a self-conscious smirk, ducked under the ropes and sat down in the opposite corner.
"ex-hib-it-i-on ten-round bout," thundered the burly gentleman, "between cyclone dick fisher "
loud applause.
mr. fisher was one of the famous, a fighter with a reputation from new york to san francisco.
he was generally considered the most likely man to give the hitherto invincible jimmy garvin a hard battle for the light-weight championship.
"oh, you dick!"
roared the crowd.
mr. fisher bowed benevolently.
" and kid brady, member of this "
there was noticeably less applause for the kid.
he was an unknown.
a few of those present had heard of his victories in the west, but these were but a small section of the crowd.
when the faint applause had ceased, smith rose to his feet.
"oh, you kid!"
he observed encouragingly.
"i should not like comrade brady," he said, reseating himself, "to think that he has no friend but his poor old mother, as occurred on a previous occasion."
the burly gentleman, followed by the two armies of assistants, dropped down from the ring, and the gong sounded.
mr. fisher sprang from his corner as if somebody had touched a spring.
he seemed to be of the opinion that if you are a cyclone, it is never too soon to begin behaving like one.
he danced round the kid with an india-rubber agility.
the peaceful moments representative exhibited more stolidity.
except for the fact that he was in fighting attitude, with one gloved hand moving slowly in the neighborhood of his stocky chest, and the other pawing the air on a line with his square jaw, one would have said that he did not realize the position of affairs.
he wore the friendly smile of the good-natured guest who is led forward by his hostess to join in some game to amuse the children.
suddenly his opponent's long left shot out.
the kid, who had been strolling forward, received it under the chin, and continued to stroll forward as if nothing of note had happened.
he gave the impression of being aware that mr. fisher had committed a breach of good taste and of being resolved to pass it off with ready tact.
the cyclone, having executed a backward leap, a forward leap, and a feint, landed heavily with both hands.
the kid's genial smile did not even quiver, but he continued to move forward.
his opponent's left flashed out again, but this time, instead of ignoring the matter, the kid replied with a heavy right swing, and mr. fisher leaping back, found himself against the ropes.
by the time he had got out of that uncongenial position, two more of the kid's swings had found their mark.
mr. fisher, somewhat perturbed, scuttled out into the middle of the ring, the kid following in his self-contained, stolid way.
the cyclone now became still more cyclonic.
he had a left arm which seemed to open out in joints like a telescope.
several times when the kid appeared well out of distance there was a thud as a brown glove ripped in over his guard and jerked his head back.
but always he kept boring in, delivering an occasional right to the body with the pleased smile of an infant destroying a noah's ark with a tack-hammer.
despite these efforts, however, he was plainly getting all the worst of it.
energetic mr. fisher, relying on his long left, was putting in three blows to his one.
when the gong sounded, ending the first round, the house was practically solid for the cyclone.
whoops and yells rose from everywhere.
the building rang with shouts of, "oh, you dick!"
smith turned sadly to john.
"it seems to me," he said, "that this merry meeting looks like doing comrade brady no good.
i should not be surprised at any moment to see his head bounce off on to the floor."
rounds two and three were a repetition of round one.
the cyclone raged almost unchecked about the ring.
in one lightning rally in the third he brought his right across squarely on to the kid's jaw.
it was a blow which should have knocked any boxer out.
the kid merely staggered slightly, and returned to business still smiling.
with the opening of round four there came a subtle change.
the cyclone's fury was expending itself.
that long left shot out less sharply.
instead of being knocked back by it, the peaceful moments champion now took the hits in his stride, and came shuffling in with his damaging body-blows.
there were cheers and "oh, you dick's!"
at the sound of the gong, but there was an appealing note in them this time.
the gallant sportsmen whose connection with boxing was confined to watching other men fight and betting on what they considered a certainty, and who would have expired promptly if anyone had tapped them sharply on their well-filled vests, were beginning to fear that they might lose their money after all.
in the fifth round the thing became a certainty.
like the month of march, the cyclone, who had come in like a lion, was going out like a lamb.
a slight decrease in the pleasantness of the kid's smile was noticeable.
his expression began to resemble more nearly the gloomy importance of the peaceful moments photographs.
yells of agony from panic-stricken speculators around the ring began to smite the rafters.
the cyclone, now but a gentle breeze, clutched repeatedly, hanging on like a leech till removed by the red-jerseyed referee.
suddenly a grisly silence fell upon the house.
for the kid, battered, but obviously content, was standing in the middle of the ring, while on the ropes the cyclone, drooping like a wet sock, was sliding slowly to the floor.
"peaceful moments wins," said smith.
"an omen, i fancy, comrade john."
penetrating into the kid's dressing-room some moments later, the editorial staff found the winner of the ten-round exhibition bout between members of the club seated on a chair having his right leg rubbed by a shock-headed man in a sweater, who had been one of his seconds during the conflict.
the kid beamed as they entered.
"gents," he said, "come right in.
mighty glad to see you."
"it is a relief to me, comrade brady," said smith, "to find that you can see us.
i had expected to find that comrade fisher's purposeful wallops had completely closed your star-likes."
"sure, i never felt them.
he's a good, quick boy, is dick, but,"
continued the kid with powerful imagery "he couldn't hit a hole in a block of ice-cream, not if he was to use a coke-hammer."
"and yet at one period in the proceedings," said smith, "i fancied that your head would come unglued at the neck.
but the fear was merely transient.
when you began to get going, why, then i felt like some watcher of the skies when a new planet swims into his ken, or like stout cortez when with eagle eyes he stared at the pacific."
the kid blinked.
"how's that?"
he enquired.
"and why did i feel like that, comrade brady?
i will tell you.
because my faith in you was justified.
because there before me stood the ideal fighting editor of peaceful moments.
it is not a post that any weakling can fill.
mere charm of manner cannot qualify a man for the position.
no one can hold down the job simply by having a kind heart or being good at comic songs.
no.
we want a man of thews and sinews, a man who would rather be hit on the head with a half-brick than not.
and you, comrade brady, are such a man."
the shock-headed man, who during this conversation had been concentrating himself on his subject's left leg now announced that he guessed that would about do, and having advised the kid not to stop and pick daisies, but to get into his clothes at once before he caught a chill, bade the company goodnight and retired.
smith shut the door.
"comrade brady," he said, "you know those articles about the tenements we've been having in the paper?"
"sure.
i read 'em.
they're to the good.
it was about time some strong josher came and put it across 'em."
"so we thought.
comrade parker, however, totally disagreed with us."
"parker?"
"that's what i'm coming to," said smith.
"the day before yesterday a man named parker called at the office and tried to buy us off."
"you gave him the hook, i guess?"
queried the interested kid.
"to such an extent, comrade brady," said smith, "that he left breathing threatenings and slaughter.
and it is for that reason that we have ventured to call upon you.
we're pretty sure by this time that comrade parker has put one of the gangs on to us."
"you don't say!"
exclaimed the kid.
"gee!
they're tough propositions, those gangs."
"so we've come along to you.
we can look after ourselves out of the office, but what we want is someone to help in case they try to rush us there.
in brief, a fighting editor.
at all costs we must have privacy.
no writer can prune and polish his sentences to his satisfaction if he is compelled constantly to break off in order to eject boisterous toughs.
we therefore offer you the job of sitting in the outer room and intercepting these bravoes before they can reach us.
the salary we leave to you.
there are doubloons and to spare in the old oak chest.
take what you need and put the rest if any back.
how does the offer strike you, comrade brady?"
"gents," said the kid, "it's this way."
he slipped into his coat, and resumed.
"now that i've made good by licking dick, they'll be giving me a chance of a big fight.
maybe with jimmy garvin.
well, if that happens, see what i mean?
i'll have to be going away somewhere and getting into training.
i shouldn't be able to come and sit with you.
but, if you gents feel like it, i'd be mighty glad to come in till i'm wanted to go into training camp."
"great," said smith.
"and touching salary "
"shucks!"
said the kid with emphasis.
"nix on the salary thing.
i wouldn't take a dime.
if it hadn't 'a' been for you, i'd have been waiting still for a chance of lining up in the championship class.
that's good enough for me.
any old thing you want me to do, i'll do it, and glad to."
"comrade brady," said smith warmly, "you are, if i may say so, the goods.
you are, beyond a doubt, supremely the stuff.
we three, then, hand-in-hand, will face the foe, and if the foe has good, sound sense, he will keep right away.
you appear to be ready.
shall we meander forth?"
the building was empty and the lights were out when they emerged from the dressing-room.
they had to grope their way in darkness.
it was raining when they reached the street, and the only signs of life were a moist policeman and the distant glare of saloon lights down the road.
they turned off to the left, and, after walking some hundred yards, found themselves in a blind alley.
"hello!"
said john.
"where have we come to?"
smith sighed.
"in my trusting way," he said, "i had imagined that either you or comrade brady was in charge of this expedition and taking me by a known route to the nearest subway station.
i did not think to ask.
i placed myself, without hesitation, wholly in your hands."
"i thought the kid knew the way," said john.
"i was just taggin' along with you gents," protested the light-weight.
"i thought you was taking me right.
this is the first time i been up here."
"next time we three go on a little jaunt anywhere," said smith resignedly, "it would be as well to take a map and a corps of guides with us.
otherwise we shall start for broadway and finish up at minneapolis."
they emerged from the blind alley and stood in the dark street, looking doubtfully up and down it.
"aha!"
said smith suddenly.
"i perceive a native.
several natives, in fact.
quite a little covey of them.
we will put our case before them, concealing nothing, and rely on their advice to take us to our goal."
a little knot of men was approaching from the left.
in the darkness it was impossible to say how many of them were there.
smith stepped forward, the kid at his side.
"excuse me, sir," he said to the leader, "but if you can spare me a moment of your valuable time "
there was a sudden shuffle of feet on the pavement, a quick movement on the part of the kid, a chunky sound as of wood striking wood, and the man smith had been addressing fell to the ground in a heap.
as he fell, something dropped from his hand on to the pavement with a bump and a rattle.
stooping swiftly, the kid picked it up, and handed it to smith.
his fingers closed upon it.
it was a short, wicked-looking little bludgeon, the black-jack of the new york tough.
"get busy," advised the kid briefly.
chapter xix
the first battle
the promptitude and despatch with which the kid had attended to the gentleman with the black-jack had not been without its effect on the followers of the stricken one.
physical courage is not an outstanding quality of the new york gangsman.
his personal preference is for retreat when it is a question of unpleasantness with a stranger.
and, in any case, even when warring among themselves, the gangs exhibit a lively distaste for the hard knocks of hand-to-hand fighting.
their chosen method of battling is to lie down on the ground and shoot.
the kid's rapid work on the present occasion created a good deal of confusion.
there was no doubt that much had been hoped for from speedy attack.
also, the generalship of the expedition had been in the hands of the fallen warrior.
his removal from the sphere of active influence had left the party without a head.
and, to add to their discomfiture, they could not account for the kid.
smith they knew, and john was to be accounted for, but who was this stranger with the square shoulders and the uppercut that landed like a cannon ball?
something approaching a panic prevailed among the gang.
it was not lessened by the behavior of the intended victims.
john was the first to join issue.
he had been a few paces behind the others during the black-jack incident, but, dark as it was, he had seen enough to show him that the occasion was, as smith would have said, one for the shrewd blow rather than the prolonged parley.
with a shout, he made a football rush into the confused mass of the enemy.
a moment later smith and the kid followed, and there raged over the body of the fallen leader a battle of homeric type.
it was not a long affair.
the rules and conditions governing the encounter offended the delicate sensibilities of the gang.
like artists who feel themselves trammeled by distasteful conventions, they were damped and could not do themselves justice.
their forte was long-range fighting with pistols.
with that they felt en rapport.
but this vulgar brawling in the darkness with muscular opponents who hit hard and often with the clenched fist was distasteful to them.
they could not develop any enthusiasm for it.
they carried pistols, but it was too dark and the combatants were too entangled to allow them to use these.
there was but one thing to be done.
reluctant as they might be to abandon their fallen leader, it must be done.
already they were suffering grievously from john, the black-jack, and the lightning blows of the kid.
for a moment they hung, wavering, then stampeded in half-a-dozen different directions, melting into the night whence they had come.
john, full of zeal, pursued one fugitive some fifty yards down the street, but his quarry, exhibiting a rare turn of speed, easily outstripped him.
he came back, panting, to find smith and the kid examining the fallen leader of the departed ones with the aid of a match, which went out just as john arrived.
the kid struck another.
the head of it fell off and dropped upon the up-turned face.
the victim stirred, shook himself, sat up, and began to mutter something in a foggy voice.
"he's still woozy," said the kid.
"still what exactly, comrade brady?"
"in the air," explained the kid.
"bats in the belfry.
dizzy.
see what i mean?
it's often like that when a feller puts one in with a bit of weight behind it just where that one landed.
gee!
i remember when i fought martin kelly; i was only starting to learn the game then.
martin and me was mixing it good and hard all over the ring, when suddenly he puts over a stiff one right on the point.
what do you think i done?
fall down and take the count?
not on your life.
i just turns round and walks straight out of the ring to my dressing-room.
willie harvey, who was seconding me, comes tearing in after me, and finds me getting into my clothes.
'what's doing, kid?'
he asks.
'i'm going fishin', willie,'
i says.
'it's a lovely day.'
'you've lost the fight,' he says.
'fight?'
says i.
'what fight?'
see what i mean?
i hadn't a notion of what had happened.
it was half an hour and more before i could remember a thing."
during this reminiscence, the man on the ground had contrived to clear his mind of the mistiness induced by the kid's upper cut.
the first sign he showed of returning intelligence was a sudden dash for safety up the road.
but he had not gone five yards when he sat down limply.
the kid was inspired to further reminiscence.
"guess he's feeling pretty poor," he said.
"it's no good him trying to run for a while after he's put his chin in the way of a real live one.
i remember when joe peterson put me out, way back when i was new to the game it was the same year i fought martin kelly.
he had an awful punch, had old joe, and he put me down and out in the eighth round.
after the fight they found me on the fire-escape outside my dressing-room.
'come in, kid,' says they.
'it's all right, chaps,' i says, 'i'm dying.'
like that.
'it's all right, chaps, i'm dying.'
same with this guy.
see what i mean?"
they formed a group about the fallen black-jack expert.
"pardon us," said smith courteously, "for breaking in upon your reverie, but if you could spare us a moment of your valuable time, there are one or two things which we would like to know."
"sure thing," agreed the kid.
"in the first place," continued smith, "would it be betraying professional secrets if you told us which particular bevy of energetic cutthroats it is to which you are attached?"
"gent," explained the kid, "wants to know what's your gang."
the man on the ground muttered something that to smith and john was unintelligible.
"it would be a charity," said the former, "if some philanthropist would give this fellow elocution lessons.
can you interpret, comrade brady?"
"says it's the three points," said the kid.
"the three points?
that's spider reilly's lot.
perhaps this is spider reilly?"
"nope," said the kid.
"i know the spider.
this ain't him.
this is some other mutt."
"which other mutt in particular?"
asked smith.
"try and find out, comrade brady.
you seem to be able to understand what he says.
to me, personally, his remarks sound like the output of a gramophone with a hot potato in its mouth."
"says he's jack repetto," announced the interpreter.
there was another interruption at this moment.
the bashful mr. repetto, plainly a man who was not happy in the society of strangers, made another attempt to withdraw.
reaching out a pair of lean hands, he pulled the kid's legs from under him with a swift jerk, and, wriggling to his feet, started off again down the road.
once more, however, desire outran performance.
he got as far as the nearest street-lamp, but no further.
the giddiness seemed to overcome him again, for he grasped the lamp-post, and, sliding slowly to the ground, sat there motionless.
the kid, whose fall had jolted and bruised him, was inclined to be wrathful and vindictive.
he was the first of the three to reach the elusive mr. repetto, and if that worthy had happened to be standing instead of sitting it might have gone hard with him.
but the kid was not the man to attack a fallen foe.
he contented himself with brushing the dust off his person and addressing a richly abusive flow of remarks to mr. repetto.
under the rays of the lamp it was possible to discern more closely the features of the black-jack exponent.
there was a subtle but noticeable resemblance to those of mr. bat jarvis.
apparently the latter's oiled forelock, worn low over the forehead, was more a concession to the general fashion prevailing in gang circles than an expression of personal taste.
mr. repetto had it, too.
in his case it was almost white, for the fallen warrior was an albino.
his eyes, which were closed, had white lashes and were set as near together as nature had been able to manage without actually running them into one another.
his underlip protruded and drooped.
looking at him, one felt instinctively that no judging committee of a beauty contest would hesitate a moment before him.
it soon became apparent that the light of the lamp, though bestowing the doubtful privilege of a clearer view of mr. repetto's face, held certain disadvantages.
scarcely had the staff of peaceful moments reached the faint yellow pool of light, in the center of which mr. repetto reclined, than, with a suddenness which caused them to leap into the air, there sounded from the darkness down the road the crack-crack-crack of a revolver.
instantly from the opposite direction came other shots.
three bullets cut grooves in the roadway almost at john's feet.
the kid gave a sudden howl.
smith's hat, suddenly imbued with life, sprang into the air and vanished, whirling into the night.
the thought did not come to them consciously at the moment, there being little time to think, but it was evident as soon as, diving out of the circle of light into the sheltering darkness, they crouched down and waited for the next move, that a somewhat skilful ambush had been effected.
the other members of the gang, who had fled with such remarkable speed, had by no means been eliminated altogether from the game.
while the questioning of mr. repetto had been in progress, they had crept back, unperceived except by mr. repetto himself.
it being too dark for successful shooting, it had become mr. repetto's task to lure his captors into the light, which he had accomplished with considerable skill.
for some minutes the battle halted.
there was dead silence.
the circle of light was empty now.
mr. repetto had vanished.
a tentative shot from nowhere ripped through the air close to where smith lay flattened on the pavement.
and then the pavement began to vibrate and give out a curious resonant sound.
somewhere it might be near or far a policeman had heard the shots, and was signaling for help to other policemen along the line by beating on the flagstones with his night stick.
the noise grew, filling the still air.
from somewhere down the road sounded the ring of running feet.
"de cops!"
cried a voice.
"beat it!"
next moment the night was full of clatter.
the gang was "beating it."
smith rose to his feet and felt his wet and muddy clothes ruefully.
the rescue party was coming up at the gallop.
"what's doing?"
asked a voice.
"nothing now," said the disgusted voice of the kid from the shadows.
"they've beaten it."
the circle of lamplight became as if by mutual consent a general rendezvous.
three gray-clad policemen, tough, clean-shaven men with keen eyes and square jaws, stood there, revolvers in one hand, night sticks in the other.
smith, hatless and muddy, joined them.
john and the kid, the latter bleeding freely from his left ear, the lobe of which had been chipped by a bullet, were the last to arrive.
"what's been the rough-house?"
inquired one of the policemen, mildly interested.
"do you know a sport of the name of repetto?"
enquired smith.
"jack repetto?
sure."
"he belongs to the three points," said another intelligent officer, as one naming some fashionable club.
"when next you see him," said smith, "i should be obliged if you would use your authority to make him buy me a new hat.
i could do with another pair of trousers, too, but i will not press the trousers.
a new hat is, however, essential.
mine has a six-inch hole in it."
"shot at you, did they?"
said one of the policemen, as who should say, "tut, tut!"
"shot at us!"
burst out the ruffled kid.
"what do you think's been happening?
think an aeroplane ran into my ear and took half of it off?
think the noise was somebody opening bottles of pop?
think those guys that sneaked off down the road was just training for a marathon?"
"comrade brady," said smith, "touches the spot.
he "
"say, are you kid brady?"
enquired one of the officers.
for the first time the constabulary had begun to display real animation.
"reckoned i'd seen you somewhere!"
said another.
"you licked cyclone dick all right, kid, i hear."
"and who but a bone-head thought he wouldn't?"
demanded the third warmly.
"he could whip a dozen cyclone dicks in the same evening with his eyes shut."
"he's the next champeen," admitted the first speaker.
"if he juts it over jimmy garvin," argued the second.
"jimmy garvin!"
cried the third.
"he can whip twenty jimmy garvins with his feet tied.
i tell you "
"i am loath," observed smith, "to interrupt this very impressive brain barbecue, but, trivial as it may seem to you, to me there is a certain interest in this other little matter of my ruined hat.
i know that it may strike you as hypersensitive of us to protest against being riddled with bullets, but "
"well, what's been doin'?"
inquired the force.
it was a nuisance, this perpetual harping on trifles when the deep question of the light-weight championship of the world was under discussion, but the sooner it was attended to, the sooner it would be over.
john undertook to explain.
"the three points laid for us," he said.
"this man, jack repetto, was bossing the crowd.
the kid put one over on to jack repetto's chin, and we were asking him a few questions when the rest came back, and started shooting.
then we got to cover quick, and you came up and they beat it."
"that," said smith, nodding, "is a very fair precis of the evening's events.
we should like you, if you will be so good, to corral this comrade repetto, and see that he buys me a new hat."
"we'll round jack up," said one of the policemen indulgently.
"do it nicely," urged smith.
"don't go hurting his feelings."
the second policeman gave it as his opinion that jack was getting too gay.
the third policeman conceded this.
jack, he said, had shown signs for some time past of asking for it in the neck.
it was an error on jack's part, he gave his hearers to understand, to assume that the lid was completely off the great city of new york.
"too blamed fresh he's gettin'," the trio agreed.
they seemed to think it was too bad of jack.
"the wrath of the law," said smith, "is very terrible.
we will leave the matter, then, in your hands.
in the meantime, we should be glad if you would direct us to the nearest subway station.
just at the moment, the cheerful lights of the great white way are what i seem chiefly to need."
so ended the opening engagement of the campaign, in a satisfactory but far from decisive victory for the peaceful moments' army.
"the victory," said smith, "was not bloodless.
comrade brady's ear, my hat these are not slight casualties.
on the other hand, the elimination of comrade repetto is pleasant.
i know few men whom i would not rather meet on a lonely road than comrade repetto.
he is one of nature's black-jackers.
probably the thing crept upon him slowly.
he started, possibly, in a merely tentative way by slugging one of the family circle.
his aunt, let us say, or his small brother.
but, once started, he is unable to resist the craving.
the thing grips him like dram-drinking.
he black-jacks now not because he really wants to, but because he cannot help himself.
there's something singularly consoling in the thought that comrade repetto will no longer be among those present."
"there are others," said john.
"as you justly remark," said smith, "there are others.
i am glad we have secured comrade brady's services.
we may need them."
chapter xx
betty at large
it was not till betty found herself many blocks distant from the office of peaceful moments that she checked her headlong flight.
she had run down the stairs and out into the street blindly, filled only with that passion for escape which had swept her away from mervo.
not till she had dived into the human river of broadway and reached times square did she feel secure.
then, with less haste, she walked on to the park, and sat down on a bench, to think.
inevitably she had placed her own construction on john's sudden appearance in new york and at the spot where only one person in any way connected with mervo knew her to be.
she did not know that smith and he were friends, and did not, therefore, suspect that the former and not herself might be the object of his visit.
nor had any word reached her of what had happened at mervo after her departure.
she had taken it for granted that things had continued as she had left them; and the only possible explanation to her of john's presence in new york was that, acting under orders from mr. scobell, he had come to try and bring her back.
she shuddered as she conjured up the scene that must have taken place if pugsy had not mentioned his name and she had gone on into the inner room.
in itself the thought that, after what she had said that morning on the island, after she had forced on him, stripping it of the uttermost rag of disguise, the realization of how his position appeared to her, he should have come, under orders, to bring her back, was well-nigh unendurable.
but to have met him, to have seen the man she loved plunging still deeper into shame, would have been pain beyond bearing.
better a thousand times than that this panic flight into the iron wilderness of new york.
it was cool and soothing in the park.
the roar of the city was hushed.
it was pleasant to sit there and watch the squirrels playing on the green slopes or scampering up into the branches through which one could see the gleam of water.
her thoughts became less chaotic.
the peace of the summer afternoon stole upon her.
it did not take her long to make up her mind that the door of peaceful moments was closed to her.
john, not finding her, might go away, but he would return.
reluctantly, she abandoned the paper.
her heart was heavy when she had formed the decision.
she had been as happy at peaceful moments as it was possible for her to be now.
she would miss smith and the leisurely work and the feeling of being one of a team, working in a good cause.
and that, brought broster street back to her mind, and she thought of the children.
no, she could not abandon them.
she had started the tenement articles, and she would go on with them.
but she must do it without ever venturing into the dangerous neighborhood of the office.
a squirrel ran up and sat begging for a nut.
betty searched in the grass in the hope of finding one, but came upon nothing but shells.
the squirrel bounded away, with a disdainful flick of the tail.
betty laughed.
"you think of nothing but food.
you ought to be ashamed to be so greedy."
and then it came to her suddenly that it was no trifle, this same problem of food.
the warm, green park seemed to grow chill and gray.
once again she must deal with life's material side.
her case was at the same time better and worse than it had been on that other occasion when she had faced the future in the french train; better, because then new york had been to her something vague and terrifying, while now it was her city; worse, because she could no longer seek help from mrs. oakley.
that mrs. oakley had given john the information which had enabled him to discover her hiding-place, betty felt certain.
by what other possible means could he have found it?
why mrs. oakley, whom she had considered an ally, should have done so, she did not know.
she attributed it to a change of mind, a reconsideration of the case when uninfluenced by sentiment.
and yet it seemed strange.
perhaps john had gone to her and the sight of him had won the old lady over to his side.
it might be so.
at any rate, it meant that the cottage on staten island, like the office of peaceful moments, was closed to her.
she must look elsewhere for help, or trust entirely to herself.
she sat on, thinking, with grave, troubled eyes, while the shadows lengthened and the birds rustled sleepily in the branches overhead.
among the good qualities, none too numerous, of mr. bat jarvis, of groome street in the bowery, early rising was not included.
it was his habit to retire to rest at an advanced hour, and to balance accounts by lying abed on the following morning.
this idiosyncrasy of his was well known in the neighborhood and respected, and it was generally bold to be both bad taste and unsafe to visit bat's shop until near the fashionable hour for luncheon, when the great one, shirt-sleeved and smoking a short pipe, would appear in the doorway, looking out upon the world and giving it to understand that he was now open to be approached by deserving acquaintances.
when, therefore, at ten o'clock in the morning his slumbers were cut short by a sharp rapping at the front door, his first impression was that he had been dreaming.
when, after a brief interval, the noise was resumed, he rose in his might and, knuckling the sleep from his eyes, went down, tight-lipped, to interview this person.
he had got as far as a preliminary "say!"
when speech was wiped from his lips as with a sponge, and he stood gaping and ashamed, for the murderer of sleep and untimely knocker on front doors was betty.
mr. jarvis had not forgotten betty.
his meeting with her at the office of peaceful moments had marked an epoch in his life.
never before had anyone quite like her crossed his path, and at that moment romance had come to him.
his was essentially a respectful admiration.
he was content indeed, he preferred to worship from afar.
of his own initiative he would never have met her again.
in her presence, with those gray eyes of hers looking at him, tremors ran down his spine, and his conscience, usually a battered and downtrodden wreck, became fiercely aggressive.
she filled him with novel emotions, and whether these were pleasant or painful was more than he could say.
he had not the gift of analysis where his feelings were concerned.
to himself he put it, broadly, that she made him feel like a nickel with a hole in it.
but that was not entirely satisfactory.
there were other and pleasanter emotions mixed in with this humility.
the thought of her made him feel, for instance, vaguely chivalrous.
he wanted to do risky and useful things for her.
thus, if any fresh guy should endeavor to get gay with her, it would, he felt, be a privilege to fix that same guy.
if she should be in bad, he would be more than ready to get busy on her behalf.
but he had never expected to meet her again, certainly not on his own doorstep at ten in the morning.
to bat ten in the morning was included with the small hours.
betty smiled at him, a little anxiously.
she had no suspicion that she played star to mr. jarvis' moth in the latter's life, and, as she eyed him, standing there on the doorstep, her excuse for coming to him began to seem terribly flimsy.
not being aware that he was in reality a tough bayard, keenly desirous of obeying her lightest word, she had staked her all on the chance of his remembering the cat episode and being grateful on account of it; and in the cold light of the morning this idea, born in the watches of the night, when things tend to lose their proportion, struck her as less happy than she had fancied.
suppose he had forgotten all about it!
suppose he should be violent!
for a moment her heart sank.
he certainly was not a pleasing and encouraging sight, as he stood there blinking at her.
no man looks his best immediately on rising from bed, and bat, even at his best, was not a hero of romance.
his forelock drooped dankly over his brow; there was stubble on his chin; his eyes were red, like a dog's.
he did not look like the fairy prince who was to save her in her trouble.
"i i hope you remember me, mr. jarvis," she faltered.
"your cat.
i "
he nodded speechlessly.
hideous things happened to his face.
he was really trying to smile pleasantly, but it seemed a scowl to betty, and her voice died away.
mr. jarvis spoke.
"ma'am sure!
step 'nside."
betty followed him into the shop.
there were birds in cages on the walls, and, patroling the floor, a great company of cats, each with its leather collar.
one rubbed itself against betty's skirt.
she picked it up, and began to stroke it.
and, looking over its head at mr. jarvis, she was aware that he was beaming sheepishly.
his eyes darted away the instant they met hers, but betty had seen enough to show her that she had mistaken nervousness for truculence.
immediately, she was at her ease, and womanlike, had begun to control the situation.
she made conversation pleasantly, praising the cats, admiring the birds, touching lightly on the general subject of domestic pets, until her woman's sixth sense told her that her host's panic had passed, and that she might now proceed to discuss business.
"i hope you don't mind my coming to you, mr. jarvis," she said.
"you know you told me to if ever i were in trouble, so i've taken you at your word.
you don't mind?"
mr. jarvis gulped, and searched for words.
"glad," he said at last.
"i've left peaceful moments.
you know i used to be stenographer there."
she was surprised and gratified to see a look of consternation spread itself across mr. jarvis' face.
it was a hopeful sign that he should take her cause to heart to such an extent.
but mr. jarvis' consternation was not due wholly to solicitude for her.
his thoughts at that moment, put, after having been expurgated, into speech, might have been summed up in the line: "of all sad words of tongue or pen the saddest are these, 'it might have been'!"
"ain't youse woikin' dere no more?
is dat right?"
he gasped.
"gee!
i wisht i'd 'a' known it sooner.
why, a guy come to me and wants to give me half a ton of the long green to go to dat poiper what youse was woikin' on and fix de guy what's runnin' it.
an' i truns him down 'cos i don't want you to be frown out of your job.
say, why youse quit woikin' dere?"
his eyes narrowed as an idea struck him.
"say," he went on, "you ain't bin fired?
has de boss give youse de trun-down?
'cos if he has, say de woid and i'll fix him for youse, loidy.
an' it won't set you back a nickel," he concluded handsomely.
"no, no," cried betty, horrified.
"mr. smith has been very kind to me.
i left of my own free will."
mr. jarvis looked disappointed.
his demeanor was like that of some mediaeval knight called back on the eve of starting out to battle with the paynim for the honor of his lady.
"what was that you said about the man who came to you and offered you money?"
asked betty.
her mind had flashed back to mr. parker's visit, and her heart was beating quickly.
"sure!
he come to me all right an' wants de guy on de poiper fixed.
an'
i truns him down."
"oh!
you won't dream of doing anything to hurt mr. smith, will you, mr.
jarvis?"
said betty anxiously.
“yes,” said cunning peter, “but we are rather lonely.
you see we have no female companionship.”
“are none of the others girls?”
“oh, no; girls, you know, are much too clever to fall out of their prams.”
this flattered wendy immensely.
“i think,” she said, “it is perfectly lovely the way you talk about girls; john there just despises us.”
for reply peter rose and kicked john out of bed, blankets and all; one kick.
this seemed to wendy rather forward for a first meeting, and she told him with spirit that he was not captain in her house.
however, john continued to sleep so placidly on the floor that she allowed him to remain there.
“and i know you meant to be kind,” she said, relenting, “so you may give me a kiss.”
for the moment she had forgotten his ignorance about kisses.
“i thought you would want it back,” he said a little bitterly, and offered to return her the thimble.
“oh dear,” said the nice wendy, “i don't mean a kiss, i mean a thimble.”
“what's that?”
“it's like this.” she kissed him.
“funny!” said peter gravely.
“now shall i give you a thimble?”
“if you wish to,” said wendy, keeping her head erect this time.
peter thimbled her, and almost immediately she screeched.
“what is it, wendy?”
“it was exactly as if someone were pulling my hair.”
“that must have been tink.
i never knew her so naughty before.”
and indeed tink was darting about again, using offensive language.
“she says she will do that to you, wendy, every time i give you a thimble.”
“but why?”
“why, tink?”
again tink replied, “you silly ass.” peter could not understand why, but wendy understood, and she was just slightly disappointed when he admitted that he came to the nursery window not to see her but to listen to stories.
“you see, i don't know any stories.
none of the lost boys knows any stories.”
“how perfectly awful,” wendy said.
“do you know,” peter asked “why swallows build in the eaves of houses?
it is to listen to the stories.
o wendy, your mother was telling you such a lovely story.”
“which story was it?”
“about the prince who couldn't find the lady who wore the glass slipper.”
“peter,” said wendy excitedly, “that was cinderella, and he found her, and they lived happily ever after.”
peter was so glad that he rose from the floor, where they had been sitting, and hurried to the window.
“where are you going?” she cried with misgiving.
“to tell the other boys.”
“don't go peter,” she entreated, “i know such lots of stories.”
those were her precise words, so there can be no denying that it was she who first tempted him.
he came back, and there was a greedy look in his eyes now which ought to have alarmed her, but did not.
“oh, the stories i could tell to the boys!” she cried, and then peter gripped her and began to draw her toward the window.
“let me go!” she ordered him.
“wendy, do come with me and tell the other boys.”
of course she was very pleased to be asked, but she said, “oh dear, i can't.
think of mummy!
besides, i can't fly.”
“i'll teach you.”
“oh, how lovely to fly.”
“i'll teach you how to jump on the wind's back, and then away we go.”
“oo!” she exclaimed rapturously.
“wendy, wendy, when you are sleeping in your silly bed you might be flying about with me saying funny things to the stars.”
“oo!”
“and, wendy, there are mermaids.”
“mermaids!
with tails?”
“such long tails.”
“oh,” cried wendy, “to see a mermaid!”
he had become frightfully cunning.
“wendy,” he said, “how we should all respect you.”
she was wriggling her body in distress.
it was quite as if she were trying to remain on the nursery floor.
but he had no pity for her.
“wendy,” he said, the sly one, “you could tuck us in at night.”
“oo!”
“none of us has ever been tucked in at night.”
“oo,” and her arms went out to him.
“and you could darn our clothes, and make pockets for us.
none of us has any pockets.”
how could she resist.
“of course it's awfully fascinating!” she cried.
“peter, would you teach john and michael to fly too?”
“if you like,” he said indifferently, and she ran to john and michael and shook them.
“wake up,” she cried, “peter pan has come and he is to teach us to fly.”
john rubbed his eyes.
“then i shall get up,” he said.
of course he was on the floor already.
“hallo,” he said, “i am up!”
michael was up by this time also, looking as sharp as a knife with six blades and a saw, but peter suddenly signed silence.
their faces assumed the awful craftiness of children listening for sounds from the grown-up world.
all was as still as salt.
then everything was right.
no, stop!
everything was wrong.
nana, who had been barking distressfully all the evening, was quiet now.
it was her silence they had heard.
“out with the light!
hide!
quick!” cried john, taking command for the only time throughout the whole adventure.
and thus when liza entered, holding nana, the nursery seemed quite its old self, very dark, and you would have sworn you heard its three wicked inmates breathing angelically as they slept.
they were really doing it artfully from behind the window curtains.
liza was in a bad temper, for she was mixing the christmas puddings in the kitchen, and had been drawn from them, with a raisin still on her cheek, by nana's absurd suspicions.
she thought the best way of getting a little quiet was to take nana to the nursery for a moment, but in custody of course.
“there, you suspicious brute,” she said, not sorry that nana was in disgrace.
“they are perfectly safe, aren't they?
every one of the little angels sound asleep in bed.
listen to their gentle breathing.”
here michael, encouraged by his success, breathed so loudly that they were nearly detected.
nana knew that kind of breathing, and she tried to drag herself out of liza's clutches.
but liza was dense.
“no more of it, nana,” she said sternly, pulling her out of the room.
“i warn you if you bark again i shall go straight for master and missus and bring them home from the party, and then, oh, won't master whip you, just.”
she tied the unhappy dog up again, but do you think nana ceased to bark?
bring master and missus home from the party!
why, that was just what she wanted.
do you think she cared whether she was whipped so long as her charges were safe?
unfortunately liza returned to her puddings, and nana, seeing that no help would come from her, strained and strained at the chain until at last she broke it.
in another moment she had burst into the dining-room of 27 and flung up her paws to heaven, her most expressive way of making a communication.
mr. and mrs. darling knew at once that something terrible was happening in their nursery, and without a good-bye to their hostess they rushed into the street.
but it was now ten minutes since three scoundrels had been breathing behind the curtains, and peter pan can do a great deal in ten minutes.
we now return to the nursery.
“it's all right,” john announced, emerging from his hiding-place.
“i say, peter, can you really fly?”
instead of troubling to answer him peter flew around the room, taking the mantelpiece on the way.
“how topping!” said john and michael.
“how sweet!” cried wendy.
“yes, i'm sweet, oh, i am sweet!” said peter, forgetting his manners again.
it looked delightfully easy, and they tried it first from the floor and then from the beds, but they always went down instead of up.
“i say, how do you do it?” asked john, rubbing his knee.
he was quite a practical boy.
“you just think lovely wonderful thoughts,” peter explained, “and they lift you up in the air.”
he showed them again.
“you're so nippy at it,” john said, “couldn't you do it very slowly once?”
peter did it both slowly and quickly.
“i've got it now, wendy!” cried john, but soon he found he had not.
not one of them could fly an inch, though even michael was in words of two syllables, and peter did not know a from z.
of course peter had been trifling with them, for no one can fly unless the fairy dust has been blown on him.
fortunately, as we have mentioned, one of his hands was messy with it, and he blew some on each of them, with the most superb results.
“now just wiggle your shoulders this way,” he said, “and let go.”
they were all on their beds, and gallant michael let go first.
he did not quite mean to let go, but he did it, and immediately he was borne across the room.
“i flewed!” he screamed while still in mid-air.
john let go and met wendy near the bathroom.
“oh, lovely!”
“oh, ripping!”
“look at me!”
“look at me!”
“look at me!”
they were not nearly so elegant as peter, they could not help kicking a little, but their heads were bobbing against the ceiling, and there is almost nothing so delicious as that.
peter gave wendy a hand at first, but had to desist, tink was so indignant.
up and down they went, and round and round.
heavenly was wendy's word.
“i say,” cried john, “why shouldn't we all go out?”
of course it was to this that peter had been luring them.
michael was ready: he wanted to see how long it took him to do a billion miles.
but wendy hesitated.
“mermaids!” said peter again.
“oo!”
“and there are pirates.”
“pirates,” cried john, seizing his sunday hat, “let us go at once.”
it was just at this moment that mr. and mrs. darling hurried with nana out of 27. they ran into the middle of the street to look up at the nursery window; and, yes, it was still shut, but the room was ablaze with light, and most heart-gripping sight of all, they could see in shadow on the curtain three little figures in night attire circling round and round, not on the floor but in the air.
not three figures, four!
in a tremble they opened the street door.
mr. darling would have rushed upstairs, but mrs. darling signed him to go softly.
she even tried to make her heart go softly.
will they reach the nursery in time?
if so, how delightful for them, and we shall all breathe a sigh of relief, but there will be no story.
on the other hand, if they are not in time, i solemnly promise that it will all come right in the end.
they would have reached the nursery in time had it not been that the little stars were watching them.
once again the stars blew the window open, and that smallest star of all called out:
“cave, peter!”
then peter knew that there was not a moment to lose.
“come,” he cried imperiously, and soared out at once into the night, followed by john and michael and wendy.
mr. and mrs. darling and nana rushed into the nursery too late.
the birds were flown.
chapter 4 the flight
“second to the right, and straight on till morning.”
that, peter had told wendy, was the way to the neverland; but even birds, carrying maps and consulting them at windy corners, could not have sighted it with these instructions.
peter, you see, just said anything that came into his head.
at first his companions trusted him implicitly, and so great were the delights of flying that they wasted time circling round church spires or any other tall objects on the way that took their fancy.
john and michael raced, michael getting a start.
they recalled with contempt that not so long ago they had thought themselves fine fellows for being able to fly round a room.
not long ago.
but how long ago?
they were flying over the sea before this thought began to disturb wendy seriously.
john thought it was their second sea and their third night.
sometimes it was dark and sometimes light, and now they were very cold and again too warm.
did they really feel hungry at times, or were they merely pretending, because peter had such a jolly new way of feeding them?
his way was to pursue birds who had food in their mouths suitable for humans and snatch it from them; then the birds would follow and snatch it back; and they would all go chasing each other gaily for miles, parting at last with mutual expressions of good-will.
but wendy noticed with gentle concern that peter did not seem to know that this was rather an odd way of getting your bread and butter, nor even that there are other ways.
certainly they did not pretend to be sleepy, they were sleepy; and that was a danger, for the moment they popped off, down they fell.
the awful thing was that peter thought this funny.
“there he goes again!” he would cry gleefully, as michael suddenly dropped like a stone.
“save him, save him!” cried wendy, looking with horror at the cruel sea far below.
eventually peter would dive through the air, and catch michael just before he could strike the sea, and it was lovely the way he did it; but he always waited till the last moment, and you felt it was his cleverness that interested him and not the saving of human life.
also he was fond of variety, and the sport that engrossed him one moment would suddenly cease to engage him, so there was always the possibility that the next time you fell he would let you go.
he could sleep in the air without falling, by merely lying on his back and floating, but this was, partly at least, because he was so light that if you got behind him and blew he went faster.
“do be more polite to him,” wendy whispered to john, when they were playing “follow my leader.”
“then tell him to stop showing off,” said john.
when playing follow my leader, peter would fly close to the water and touch each shark's tail in passing, just as in the street you may run your finger along an iron railing.
they could not follow him in this with much success, so perhaps it was rather like showing off, especially as he kept looking behind to see how many tails they missed.
“you must be nice to him,” wendy impressed on her brothers.
“what could we do if he were to leave us!”
“we could go back,” michael said.
“how could we ever find our way back without him?”
“well, then, we could go on,” said john.
“that is the awful thing, john.
we should have to go on, for we don't know how to stop.”
this was true, peter had forgotten to show them how to stop.
john said that if the worst came to the worst, all they had to do was to go straight on, for the world was round, and so in time they must come back to their own window.
“and who is to get food for us, john?”
“i nipped a bit out of that eagle's mouth pretty neatly, wendy.”
“after the twentieth try,” wendy reminded him.
“and even though we became good at picking up food, see how we bump against clouds and things if he is not near to give us a hand.”
indeed they were constantly bumping.
they could now fly strongly, though they still kicked far too much; but if they saw a cloud in front of them, the more they tried to avoid it, the more certainly did they bump into it.
if nana had been with them, she would have had a bandage round michael's forehead by this time.
peter was not with them for the moment, and they felt rather lonely up there by themselves.
he could go so much faster than they that he would suddenly shoot out of sight, to have some adventure in which they had no share.
he would come down laughing over something fearfully funny he had been saying to a star, but he had already forgotten what it was, or he would come up with mermaid scales still sticking to him, and yet not be able to say for certain what had been happening.
it was really rather irritating to children who had never seen a mermaid.
“and if he forgets them so quickly,” wendy argued, “how can we expect that he will go on remembering us?”
indeed, sometimes when he returned he did not remember them, at least not well.
wendy was sure of it.
she saw recognition come into his eyes as he was about to pass them the time of day and go on; once even she had to call him by name.
“i'm wendy,” she said agitatedly.
he was very sorry.
“i say, wendy,” he whispered to her, “always if you see me forgetting you, just keep on saying 'i'm wendy,' and then i'll remember.”
of course this was rather unsatisfactory.
however, to make amends he showed them how to lie out flat on a strong wind that was going their way, and this was such a pleasant change that they tried it several times and found that they could sleep thus with security.
indeed they would have slept longer, but peter tired quickly of sleeping, and soon he would cry in his captain voice, “we get off here.” so with occasional tiffs, but on the whole rollicking, they drew near the neverland; for after many moons they did reach it, and, what is more, they had been going pretty straight all the time, not perhaps so much owing to the guidance of peter or tink as because the island was looking for them.
it is only thus that any one may sight those magic shores.
“there it is,” said peter calmly.
“where, where?”
“where all the arrows are pointing.”
indeed a million golden arrows were pointing it out to the children, all directed by their friend the sun, who wanted them to be sure of their way before leaving them for the night.
wendy and john and michael stood on tip-toe in the air to get their first sight of the island.
strange to say, they all recognized it at once, and until fear fell upon them they hailed it, not as something long dreamt of and seen at last, but as a familiar friend to whom they were returning home for the holidays.
“john, there's the lagoon.”
“wendy, look at the turtles burying their eggs in the sand.”
“i say, john, i see your flamingo with the broken leg!”
“look, michael, there's your cave!”
“john, what's that in the brushwood?”
“it's a wolf with her whelps.
wendy, i do believe that's your little whelp!”
“there's my boat, john, with her sides stove in!”
“no, it isn't.
why, we burned your boat.”
“that's her, at any rate.
i say, john, i see the smoke of the redskin camp!”
“where?
show me, and i'll tell you by the way smoke curls whether they are on the war-path.”
“there, just across the mysterious river.”
“i see now.
yes, they are on the war-path right enough.”
peter was a little annoyed with them for knowing so much, but if he wanted to lord it over them his triumph was at hand, for have i not told you that anon fear fell upon them?
it came as the arrows went, leaving the island in gloom.
in the old days at home the neverland had always begun to look a little dark and threatening by bedtime.
then unexplored patches arose in it and spread, black shadows moved about in them, the roar of the beasts of prey was quite different now, and above all, you lost the certainty that you would win.
you were quite glad that the night-lights were on.
you even liked nana to say that this was just the mantelpiece over here, and that the neverland was all make-believe.
of course the neverland had been make-believe in those days, but it was real now, and there were no night-lights, and it was getting darker every moment, and where was nana?
they had been flying apart, but they huddled close to peter now.
his careless manner had gone at last, his eyes were sparkling, and a tingle went through them every time they touched his body.
they were now over the fearsome island, flying so low that sometimes a tree grazed their feet.
nothing horrid was visible in the air, yet their progress had become slow and laboured, exactly as if they were pushing their way through hostile forces.
sometimes they hung in the air until peter had beaten on it with his fists.
“they don't want us to land,” he explained.
“who are they?” wendy whispered, shuddering.
but he could not or would not say.
tinker bell had been asleep on his shoulder, but now he wakened her and sent her on in front.
sometimes he poised himself in the air, listening intently, with his hand to his ear, and again he would stare down with eyes so bright that they seemed to bore two holes to earth.
having done these things, he went on again.
his courage was almost appalling.
“would you like an adventure now,” he said casually to john, “or would you like to have your tea first?”
wendy said “tea first” quickly, and michael pressed her hand in gratitude, but the braver john hesitated.
“what kind of adventure?” he asked cautiously.
“there's a pirate asleep in the pampas just beneath us,” peter told him.
“if you like, we'll go down and kill him.”
“i don't see him,” john said after a long pause.
“i do.”
“suppose,” john said, a little huskily, “he were to wake up.”
peter spoke indignantly.
“you don't think i would kill him while he was sleeping!
i would wake him first, and then kill him.
that's the way i always do.”
“i say!
do you kill many?”
“tons.”
john said “how ripping,” but decided to have tea first.
he asked if there were many pirates on the island just now, and peter said he had never known so many.
“who is captain now?”
“hook,” answered peter, and his face became very stern as he said that hated word.
“jas.
hook?”
“ay.”
then indeed michael began to cry, and even john could speak in gulps only, for they knew hook's reputation.
“he was blackbeard's bo'sun,” john whispered huskily.
“he is the worst of them all.
he is the only man of whom barbecue was afraid.”
“that's him,” said peter.
“what is he like?
is he big?”
“he is not so big as he was.”
“how do you mean?”
“i cut off a bit of him.”
“you!”
“yes, me,” said peter sharply.
“i wasn't meaning to be disrespectful.”
“oh, all right.”
“but, i say, what bit?”
“his right hand.”
“then he can't fight now?”
“oh, can't he just!”
“left-hander?”
“he has an iron hook instead of a right hand, and he claws with it.”
“claws!”
“i say, john,” said peter.
“yes.”
“say, 'ay, ay, sir.
'”
“ay, ay, sir.”
“there is one thing,” peter continued, “that every boy who serves under me has to promise, and so must you.”
john paled.
“it is this, if we meet hook in open fight, you must leave him to me.”
“i promise,” john said loyally.
for the moment they were feeling less eerie, because tink was flying with them, and in her light they could distinguish each other.
unfortunately she could not fly so slowly as they, and so she had to go round and round them in a circle in which they moved as in a halo.
wendy quite liked it, until peter pointed out the drawbacks.
“she tells me,” he said, “that the pirates sighted us before the darkness came, and got long tom out.”
“the big gun?”
“yes.
and of course they must see her light, and if they guess we are near it they are sure to let fly.”
“wendy!”
“john!”
“michael!”
“tell her to go away at once, peter,” the three cried simultaneously, but he refused.
“she thinks we have lost the way,” he replied stiffly, “and she is rather frightened.
you don't think i would send her away all by herself when she is frightened!”
for a moment the circle of light was broken, and something gave peter a loving little pinch.
“then tell her,” wendy begged, “to put out her light.”
“she can't put it out.
that is about the only thing fairies can't do.
it just goes out of itself when she falls asleep, same as the stars.”
“then tell her to sleep at once,” john almost ordered.
“she can't sleep except when she's sleepy.
it is the only other thing fairies can't do.”
“seems to me,” growled john, “these are the only two things worth doing.”
here he got a pinch, but not a loving one.
“if only one of us had a pocket,” peter said, “we could carry her in it.” however, they had set off in such a hurry that there was not a pocket between the four of them.
he had a happy idea.
john's hat!
tink agreed to travel by hat if it was carried in the hand.
john carried it, though she had hoped to be carried by peter.
presently wendy took the hat, because john said it struck against his knee as he flew; and this, as we shall see, led to mischief, for tinker bell hated to be under an obligation to wendy.
in the black topper the light was completely hidden, and they flew on in silence.
it was the stillest silence they had ever known, broken once by a distant lapping, which peter explained was the wild beasts drinking at the ford, and again by a rasping sound that might have been the branches of trees rubbing together, but he said it was the redskins sharpening their knives.
even these noises ceased.
to michael the loneliness was dreadful.
“if only something would make a sound!” he cried.
as if in answer to his request, the air was rent by the most tremendous crash he had ever heard.
the pirates had fired long tom at them.
the roar of it echoed through the mountains, and the echoes seemed to cry savagely, “where are they, where are they, where are they?”
thus sharply did the terrified three learn the difference between an island of make-believe and the same island come true.
when at last the heavens were steady again, john and michael found themselves alone in the darkness.
john was treading the air mechanically, and michael without knowing how to float was floating.
“are you shot?” john whispered tremulously.
“i haven't tried [myself out] yet,” michael whispered back.
we know now that no one had been hit.
peter, however, had been carried by the wind of the shot far out to sea, while wendy was blown upwards with no companion but tinker bell.
it would have been well for wendy if at that moment she had dropped the hat.
i don't know whether the idea came suddenly to tink, or whether she had planned it on the way, but she at once popped out of the hat and began to lure wendy to her destruction.
tink was not all bad; or, rather, she was all bad just now, but, on the other hand, sometimes she was all good.
fairies have to be one thing or the other, because being so small they unfortunately have room for one feeling only at a time.
they are, however, allowed to change, only it must be a complete change.
at present she was full of jealousy of wendy.
what she said in her lovely tinkle wendy could not of course understand, and i believe some of it was bad words, but it sounded kind, and she flew back and forward, plainly meaning “follow me, and all will be well.”
what else could poor wendy do?
she called to peter and john and michael, and got only mocking echoes in reply.
she did not yet know that tink hated her with the fierce hatred of a very woman.
and so, bewildered, and now staggering in her flight, she followed tink to her doom.
chapter 5 the island come true
feeling that peter was on his way back, the neverland had again woke into life.
we ought to use the pluperfect and say wakened, but woke is better and was always used by peter.
in his absence things are usually quiet on the island.
the fairies take an hour longer in the morning, the beasts attend to their young, the redskins feed heavily for six days and nights, and when pirates and lost boys meet they merely bite their thumbs at each other.
but with the coming of peter, who hates lethargy, they are under way again: if you put your ear to the ground now, you would hear the whole island seething with life.
on this evening the chief forces of the island were disposed as follows.
the lost boys were out looking for peter, the pirates were out looking for the lost boys, the redskins were out looking for the pirates, and the beasts were out looking for the redskins.
they were going round and round the island, but they did not meet because all were going at the same rate.
all wanted blood except the boys, who liked it as a rule, but to-night were out to greet their captain.
the boys on the island vary, of course, in numbers, according as they get killed and so on; and when they seem to be growing up, which is against the rules, peter thins them out; but at this time there were six of them, counting the twins as two.
let us pretend to lie here among the sugar-cane and watch them as they steal by in single file, each with his hand on his dagger.
they are forbidden by peter to look in the least like him, and they wear the skins of the bears slain by themselves, in which they are so round and furry that when they fall they roll.
they have therefore become very sure-footed.
the first to pass is tootles, not the least brave but the most unfortunate of all that gallant band.
he had been in fewer adventures than any of them, because the big things constantly happened just when he had stepped round the corner; all would be quiet, he would take the opportunity of going off to gather a few sticks for firewood, and then when he returned the others would be sweeping up the blood.
this ill-luck had given a gentle melancholy to his countenance, but instead of souring his nature had sweetened it, so that he was quite the humblest of the boys.
poor kind tootles, there is danger in the air for you to-night.
take care lest an adventure is now offered you, which, if accepted, will plunge you in deepest woe.
tootles, the fairy tink, who is bent on mischief this night is looking for a tool [for doing her mischief], and she thinks you are the most easily tricked of the boys.
'ware tinker bell.
would that he could hear us, but we are not really on the island, and he passes by, biting his knuckles.
next comes nibs, the gay and debonair, followed by slightly, who cuts whistles out of the trees and dances ecstatically to his own tunes.
slightly is the most conceited of the boys.
he thinks he remembers the days before he was lost, with their manners and customs, and this has given his nose an offensive tilt.
curly is fourth; he is a pickle, [a person who gets in pickles-predicaments] and so often has he had to deliver up his person when peter said sternly, “stand forth the one who did this thing,” that now at the command he stands forth automatically whether he has done it or not.
last come the twins, who cannot be described because we should be sure to be describing the wrong one.
peter never quite knew what twins were, and his band were not allowed to know anything he did not know, so these two were always vague about themselves, and did their best to give satisfaction by keeping close together in an apologetic sort of way.
the boys vanish in the gloom, and after a pause, but not a long pause, for things go briskly on the island, come the pirates on their track.
we hear them before they are seen, and it is always the same dreadful song:
“avast belay, yo ho, heave to,      a-pirating we go,      and if we're parted by a shot      we're sure to meet below!”
a more villainous-looking lot never hung in a row on execution dock.
here, a little in advance, ever and again with his head to the ground listening, his great arms bare, pieces of eight in his ears as ornaments, is the handsome italian cecco, who cut his name in letters of blood on the back of the governor of the prison at gao.
that gigantic black behind him has had many names since he dropped the one with which dusky mothers still terrify their children on the banks of the guadjo-mo.
here is bill jukes, every inch of him tattooed, the same bill jukes who got six dozen on the walrus from flint before he would drop the bag of moidores [portuguese gold pieces]; and cookson, said to be black murphy's brother (but this was never proved), and gentleman starkey, once an usher in a public school and still dainty in his ways of killing; and skylights (morgan's skylights); and the irish bo'sun smee, an oddly genial man who stabbed, so to speak, without offence, and was the only non-conformist in hook's crew; and noodler, whose hands were fixed on backwards; and robt.
mullins and alf mason and many another ruffian long known and feared on the spanish main.
in the midst of them, the blackest and largest in that dark setting, reclined james hook, or as he wrote himself, jas.
hook, of whom it is said he was the only man that the sea-cook feared.
he lay at his ease in a rough chariot drawn and propelled by his men, and instead of a right hand he had the iron hook with which ever and anon he encouraged them to increase their pace.
as dogs this terrible man treated and addressed them, and as dogs they obeyed him.
in person he was cadaverous [dead looking] and blackavized [dark faced], and his hair was dressed in long curls, which at a little distance looked like black candles, and gave a singularly threatening expression to his handsome countenance.
his eyes were of the blue of the forget-me-not, and of a profound melancholy, save when he was plunging his hook into you, at which time two red spots appeared in them and lit them up horribly.
in manner, something of the grand seigneur still clung to him, so that he even ripped you up with an air, and i have been told that he was a raconteur [storyteller] of repute.
he was never more sinister than when he was most polite, which is probably the truest test of breeding; and the elegance of his diction, even when he was swearing, no less than the distinction of his demeanour, showed him one of a different cast from his crew.
a man of indomitable courage, it was said that the only thing he shied at was the sight of his own blood, which was thick and of an unusual colour.
in dress he somewhat aped the attire associated with the name of charles ii, having heard it said in some earlier period of his career that he bore a strange resemblance to the ill-fated stuarts; and in his mouth he had a holder of his own contrivance which enabled him to smoke two cigars at once.
but undoubtedly the grimmest part of him was his iron claw.
let us now kill a pirate, to show hook's method.
skylights will do.
as they pass, skylights lurches clumsily against him, ruffling his lace collar; the hook shoots forth, there is a tearing sound and one screech, then the body is kicked aside, and the pirates pass on.
he has not even taken the cigars from his mouth.
such is the terrible man against whom peter pan is pitted.
which will win?
on the trail of the pirates, stealing noiselessly down the war-path, which is not visible to inexperienced eyes, come the redskins, every one of them with his eyes peeled.
they carry tomahawks and knives, and their naked bodies gleam with paint and oil.
strung around them are scalps, of boys as well as of pirates, for these are the piccaninny tribe, and not to be confused with the softer-hearted delawares or the hurons.
in the van, on all fours, is great big little panther, a brave of so many scalps that in his present position they somewhat impede his progress.
bringing up the rear, the place of greatest danger, comes tiger lily, proudly erect, a princess in her own right.
she is the most beautiful of dusky dianas [diana = goddess of the woods] and the belle of the piccaninnies, coquettish [flirting], cold and amorous [loving] by turns; there is not a brave who would not have the wayward thing to wife, but she staves off the altar with a hatchet.
observe how they pass over fallen twigs without making the slightest noise.
the only sound to be heard is their somewhat heavy breathing.
the fact is that they are all a little fat just now after the heavy gorging, but in time they will work this off.
for the moment, however, it constitutes their chief danger.
the redskins disappear as they have come like shadows, and soon their place is taken by the beasts, a great and motley procession: lions, tigers, bears, and the innumerable smaller savage things that flee from them, for every kind of beast, and, more particularly, all the man-eaters, live cheek by jowl on the favoured island.
their tongues are hanging out, they are hungry to-night.
when they have passed, comes the last figure of all, a gigantic crocodile.
we shall see for whom she is looking presently.
the crocodile passes, but soon the boys appear again, for the procession must continue indefinitely until one of the parties stops or changes its pace.
then quickly they will be on top of each other.
all are keeping a sharp look-out in front, but none suspects that the danger may be creeping up from behind.
this shows how real the island was.
the first to fall out of the moving circle was the boys.
they flung themselves down on the sward [turf], close to their underground home.
“i do wish peter would come back,” every one of them said nervously, though in height and still more in breadth they were all larger than their captain.
“i am the only one who is not afraid of the pirates,” slightly said, in the tone that prevented his being a general favourite; but perhaps some distant sound disturbed him, for he added hastily, “but i wish he would come back, and tell us whether he has heard anything more about cinderella.”
they talked of cinderella, and tootles was confident that his mother must have been very like her.
it was only in peter's absence that they could speak of mothers, the subject being forbidden by him as silly.
“all i remember about my mother,” nibs told them, “is that she often said to my father, 'oh, how i wish i had a cheque-book of my own!'
i don't know what a cheque-book is, but i should just love to give my mother one.”
while they talked they heard a distant sound.
you or i, not being wild things of the woods, would have heard nothing, but they heard it, and it was the grim song:
“yo ho, yo ho, the pirate life,      the flag o' skull and bones,      a merry hour, a hempen rope,      and hey for davy jones.”
at once the lost boys but where are they?
they are no longer there.
rabbits could not have disappeared more quickly.
i will tell you where they are.
with the exception of nibs, who has darted away to reconnoitre [look around], they are already in their home under the ground, a very delightful residence of which we shall see a good deal presently.
but how have they reached it?
for there is no entrance to be seen, not so much as a large stone, which if rolled away, would disclose the mouth of a cave.
look closely, however, and you may note that there are here seven large trees, each with a hole in its hollow trunk as large as a boy.
these are the seven entrances to the home under the ground, for which hook has been searching in vain these many moons.
will he find it tonight?
as the pirates advanced, the quick eye of starkey sighted nibs disappearing through the wood, and at once his pistol flashed out.
but an iron claw gripped his shoulder.
“captain, let go!” he cried, writhing.
now for the first time we hear the voice of hook.
it was a black voice.
“put back that pistol first,” it said threateningly.
“it was one of those boys you hate.
i could have shot him dead.”
“ay, and the sound would have brought tiger lily's redskins upon us.
do you want to lose your scalp?”
“shall i after him, captain,” asked pathetic smee, “and tickle him with johnny corkscrew?” smee had pleasant names for everything, and his cutlass was johnny corkscrew, because he wiggled it in the wound.
one could mention many lovable traits in smee.
for instance, after killing, it was his spectacles he wiped instead of his weapon.
“johnny's a silent fellow,” he reminded hook.
“not now, smee,” hook said darkly.
“he is only one, and i want to mischief all the seven.
scatter and look for them.”
the pirates disappeared among the trees, and in a moment their captain and smee were alone.
hook heaved a heavy sigh, and i know not why it was, perhaps it was because of the soft beauty of the evening, but there came over him a desire to confide to his faithful bo'sun the story of his life.
he spoke long and earnestly, but what it was all about smee, who was rather stupid, did not know in the least.
anon [later] he caught the word peter.
“most of all,” hook was saying passionately, “i want their captain, peter pan.
'twas he cut off my arm.” he brandished the hook threateningly.
“i've waited long to shake his hand with this.
oh, i'll tear him!”
“and yet,” said smee, “i have often heard you say that hook was worth a score of hands, for combing the hair and other homely uses.”
“ay,” the captain answered, “if i was a mother i would pray to have my children born with this instead of that,” and he cast a look of pride upon his iron hand and one of scorn upon the other.
then again he frowned.
“peter flung my arm,” he said, wincing, “to a crocodile that happened to be passing by.”
“i have often,” said smee, “noticed your strange dread of crocodiles.”
“not of crocodiles,” hook corrected him, “but of that one crocodile.” he lowered his voice.
“it liked my arm so much, smee, that it has followed me ever since, from sea to sea and from land to land, licking its lips for the rest of me.”
“in a way,” said smee, “it's sort of a compliment.”
“i want no such compliments,” hook barked petulantly.
“i want peter pan, who first gave the brute its taste for me.”
he sat down on a large mushroom, and now there was a quiver in his voice.
“smee,” he said huskily, “that crocodile would have had me before this, but by a lucky chance it swallowed a clock which goes tick tick inside it, and so before it can reach me i hear the tick and bolt.” he laughed, but in a hollow way.
“some day,” said smee, “the clock will run down, and then he'll get you.”
hook wetted his dry lips.
“ay,” he said, “that's the fear that haunts me.”
since sitting down he had felt curiously warm.
“smee,” he said, “this seat is hot.” he jumped up.
“odds bobs, hammer and tongs i'm burning.”
they examined the mushroom, which was of a size and solidity unknown on the mainland; they tried to pull it up, and it came away at once in their hands, for it had no root.
stranger still, smoke began at once to ascend.
the pirates looked at each other.
“a chimney!” they both exclaimed.
they had indeed discovered the chimney of the home under the ground.
it was the custom of the boys to stop it with a mushroom when enemies were in the neighbourhood.
not only smoke came out of it.
there came also children's voices, for so safe did the boys feel in their hiding-place that they were gaily chattering.
the pirates listened grimly, and then replaced the mushroom.
they looked around them and noted the holes in the seven trees.
“did you hear them say peter pan's from home?” smee whispered, fidgeting with johnny corkscrew.
hook nodded.
he stood for a long time lost in thought, and at last a curdling smile lit up his swarthy face.
smee had been waiting for it.
“unrip your plan, captain,” he cried eagerly.
“to return to the ship,” hook replied slowly through his teeth, “and cook a large rich cake of a jolly thickness with green sugar on it.
there can be but one room below, for there is but one chimney.
the silly moles had not the sense to see that they did not need a door apiece.
that shows they have no mother.
we will leave the cake on the shore of the mermaids' lagoon.
these boys are always swimming about there, playing with the mermaids.
they will find the cake and they will gobble it up, because, having no mother, they don't know how dangerous 'tis to eat rich damp cake.” he burst into laughter, not hollow laughter now, but honest laughter.
“aha, they will die.”
smee had listened with growing admiration.
“it's the wickedest, prettiest policy ever i heard of!” he cried, and in their exultation they danced and sang:
“avast, belay, when i appear,      by fear they're overtook;      nought's left upon your bones when you      have shaken claws with hook.”
they began the verse, but they never finished it, for another sound broke in and stilled them.
there was at first such a tiny sound that a leaf might have fallen on it and smothered it, but as it came nearer it was more distinct.
tick tick tick tick!
hook stood shuddering, one foot in the air.
“the crocodile!” he gasped, and bounded away, followed by his bo'sun.
it was indeed the crocodile.
it had passed the redskins, who were now on the trail of the other pirates.
it oozed on after hook.
once more the boys emerged into the open; but the dangers of the night were not yet over, for presently nibs rushed breathless into their midst, pursued by a pack of wolves.
the tongues of the pursuers were hanging out; the baying of them was horrible.
“save me, save me!” cried nibs, falling on the ground.
“but what can we do, what can we do?”
it was a high compliment to peter that at that dire moment their thoughts turned to him.
“what would peter do?” they cried simultaneously.
almost in the same breath they cried, “peter would look at them through his legs.”
and then, “let us do what peter would do.”
it is quite the most successful way of defying wolves, and as one boy they bent and looked through their legs.
the next moment is the long one, but victory came quickly, for as the boys advanced upon them in the terrible attitude, the wolves dropped their tails and fled.
now nibs rose from the ground, and the others thought that his staring eyes still saw the wolves.
but it was not wolves he saw.
“i have seen a wonderfuller thing,” he cried, as they gathered round him eagerly.
“a great white bird.
it is flying this way.”
“what kind of a bird, do you think?”
“i don't know,” nibs said, awestruck, “but it looks so weary, and as it flies it moans, 'poor wendy.
'”
“poor wendy?”
“i remember,” said slightly instantly, “there are birds called wendies.”
“see, it comes!” cried curly, pointing to wendy in the heavens.
wendy was now almost overhead, and they could hear her plaintive cry.
but more distinct came the shrill voice of tinker bell.
the jealous fairy had now cast off all disguise of friendship, and was darting at her victim from every direction, pinching savagely each time she touched.
“hullo, tink,” cried the wondering boys.
tink's reply rang out: “peter wants you to shoot the wendy.”
it was not in their nature to question when peter ordered.
“let us do what peter wishes!” cried the simple boys.
“quick, bows and arrows!”
all but tootles popped down their trees.
he had a bow and arrow with him, and tink noted it, and rubbed her little hands.
“quick, tootles, quick,” she screamed.
“peter will be so pleased.”
tootles excitedly fitted the arrow to his bow.
“out of the way, tink,”
he shouted, and then he fired, and wendy fluttered to the ground with an arrow in her breast.
chapter 6 the little house
foolish tootles was standing like a conqueror over wendy's body when the other boys sprang, armed, from their trees.
“you are too late,” he cried proudly, “i have shot the wendy.
peter will be so pleased with me.”
overhead tinker bell shouted “silly ass!” and darted into hiding.
the others did not hear her.
they had crowded round wendy, and as they looked a terrible silence fell upon the wood.
if wendy's heart had been beating they would all have heard it.
slightly was the first to speak.
“this is no bird,” he said in a scared voice.
“i think this must be a lady.”
“a lady?” said tootles, and fell a-trembling.
“and we have killed her,” nibs said hoarsely.
they all whipped off their caps.
“now i see,” curly said: “peter was bringing her to us.” he threw himself sorrowfully on the ground.
“a lady to take care of us at last,” said one of the twins, “and you have killed her!”
they were sorry for him, but sorrier for themselves, and when he took a step nearer them they turned from him.
tootles' face was very white, but there was a dignity about him now that had never been there before.
“i did it,” he said, reflecting.
“when ladies used to come to me in dreams, i said, 'pretty mother, pretty mother.'
but when at last she really came, i shot her.”
he moved slowly away.
“don't go,” they called in pity.
“i must,” he answered, shaking; “i am so afraid of peter.”
it was at this tragic moment that they heard a sound which made the heart of every one of them rise to his mouth.
they heard peter crow.
“peter!” they cried, for it was always thus that he signalled his return.
“hide her,” they whispered, and gathered hastily around wendy.
but tootles stood aloof.
again came that ringing crow, and peter dropped in front of them.
“greetings, boys,” he cried, and mechanically they saluted, and then again was silence.
he frowned.
“i am back,” he said hotly, “why do you not cheer?”
they opened their mouths, but the cheers would not come.
he overlooked it in his haste to tell the glorious tidings.
“great news, boys,” he cried, “i have brought at last a mother for you all.”
still no sound, except a little thud from tootles as he dropped on his knees.
“have you not seen her?” asked peter, becoming troubled.
“she flew this way.”
“ah me!” one voice said, and another said, “oh, mournful day.”
tootles rose.
“peter,” he said quietly, “i will show her to you,” and when the others would still have hidden her he said, “back, twins, let peter see.”
so they all stood back, and let him see, and after he had looked for a little time he did not know what to do next.
“she is dead,” he said uncomfortably.
“perhaps she is frightened at being dead.”
he thought of hopping off in a comic sort of way till he was out of sight of her, and then never going near the spot any more.
they would all have been glad to follow if he had done this.
but there was the arrow.
he took it from her heart and faced his band.
“whose arrow?” he demanded sternly.
“mine, peter,” said tootles on his knees.
“oh, dastard hand,” peter said, and he raised the arrow to use it as a dagger.
tootles did not flinch.
he bared his breast.
“strike, peter,” he said firmly, “strike true.”
twice did peter raise the arrow, and twice did his hand fall.
“i cannot strike,” he said with awe, “there is something stays my hand.”
all looked at him in wonder, save nibs, who fortunately looked at wendy.
“it is she,” he cried, “the wendy lady, see, her arm!”
wonderful to relate [tell], wendy had raised her arm.
nibs bent over her and listened reverently.
“i think she said, 'poor tootles,'” he whispered.
“she lives,” peter said briefly.
slightly cried instantly, “the wendy lady lives.”
then peter knelt beside her and found his button.
you remember she had put it on a chain that she wore round her neck.
“see,” he said, “the arrow struck against this.
it is the kiss i gave her.
it has saved her life.”
“i remember kisses,” slightly interposed quickly, “let me see it.
ay, that's a kiss.”
peter did not hear him.
he was begging wendy to get better quickly, so that he could show her the mermaids.
of course she could not answer yet, being still in a frightful faint; but from overhead came a wailing note.
“listen to tink,” said curly, “she is crying because the wendy lives.”
then they had to tell peter of tink's crime, and almost never had they seen him look so stern.
“listen, tinker bell,” he cried, “i am your friend no more.
begone from me for ever.”
she flew on to his shoulder and pleaded, but he brushed her off.
not until wendy again raised her arm did he relent sufficiently to say, “well, not for ever, but for a whole week.”
do you think tinker bell was grateful to wendy for raising her arm?
oh dear no, never wanted to pinch her so much.
fairies indeed are strange, and peter, who understood them best, often cuffed [slapped] them.
but what to do with wendy in her present delicate state of health?
“let us carry her down into the house,” curly suggested.
“ay,” said slightly, “that is what one does with ladies.”
“no, no,” peter said, “you must not touch her.
it would not be sufficiently respectful.”
“that,” said slightly, “is what i was thinking.”
“but if she lies there,” tootles said, “she will die.”
“ay, she will die,” slightly admitted, “but there is no way out.”
“yes, there is,” cried peter.
“let us build a little house round her.”
they were all delighted.
“quick,” he ordered them, “bring me each of you the best of what we have.
gut our house.
be sharp.”
in a moment they were as busy as tailors the night before a wedding.
they skurried this way and that, down for bedding, up for firewood, and while they were at it, who should appear but john and michael.
as they dragged along the ground they fell asleep standing, stopped, woke up, moved another step and slept again.
“john, john,” michael would cry, “wake up!
where is nana, john, and mother?”
and then john would rub his eyes and mutter, “it is true, we did fly.”
you may be sure they were very relieved to find peter.
“hullo, peter,” they said.
“hullo,” replied peter amicably, though he had quite forgotten them.
he was very busy at the moment measuring wendy with his feet to see how large a house she would need.
of course he meant to leave room for chairs and a table.
john and michael watched him.
“is wendy asleep?” they asked.
“yes.”
“john,” michael proposed, “let us wake her and get her to make supper for us,” but as he said it some of the other boys rushed on carrying branches for the building of the house.
“look at them!” he cried.
“curly,” said peter in his most captainy voice, “see that these boys help in the building of the house.”
“ay, ay, sir.”
“build a house?” exclaimed john.
“for the wendy,” said curly.
“for wendy?” john said, aghast.
“why, she is only a girl!”
“that,” explained curly, “is why we are her servants.”
“you?
wendy's servants!”
“yes,” said peter, “and you also.
away with them.”
the astounded brothers were dragged away to hack and hew and carry.
“chairs and a fender [fireplace] first,” peter ordered.
“then we shall build a house round them.”
“ay,” said slightly, “that is how a house is built; it all comes back to me.”
peter thought of everything.
“slightly,” he cried, “fetch a doctor.”
“ay, ay,” said slightly at once, and disappeared, scratching his head.
but he knew peter must be obeyed, and he returned in a moment, wearing john's hat and looking solemn.
“please, sir,” said peter, going to him, “are you a doctor?”
the difference between him and the other boys at such a time was that they knew it was make-believe, while to him make-believe and true were exactly the same thing.
this sometimes troubled them, as when they had to make-believe that they had had their dinners.
if they broke down in their make-believe he rapped them on the knuckles.
“yes, my little man,” slightly anxiously replied, who had chapped knuckles.
“please, sir,” peter explained, “a lady lies very ill.”
she was lying at their feet, but slightly had the sense not to see her.
“tut, tut, tut,” he said, “where does she lie?”
“in yonder glade.”
“i will put a glass thing in her mouth,” said slightly, and he made-believe to do it, while peter waited.
it was an anxious moment when the glass thing was withdrawn.
“how is she?” inquired peter.
“tut, tut, tut,” said slightly, “this has cured her.”
“i am glad!” peter cried.
“i will call again in the evening,” slightly said; “give her beef tea out of a cup with a spout to it;” but after he had returned the hat to john he blew big breaths, which was his habit on escaping from a difficulty.
in the meantime the wood had been alive with the sound of axes; almost everything needed for a cosy dwelling already lay at wendy's feet.
“if only we knew,” said one, “the kind of house she likes best.”
“peter,” shouted another, “she is moving in her sleep.”
“her mouth opens,” cried a third, looking respectfully into it.
“oh, lovely!”
“perhaps she is going to sing in her sleep,” said peter.
“wendy, sing the kind of house you would like to have.”
immediately, without opening her eyes, wendy began to sing:
“i wish i had a pretty house,      the littlest ever seen,      with funny little red walls      and roof of mossy green.”
they gurgled with joy at this, for by the greatest good luck the branches they had brought were sticky with red sap, and all the ground was carpeted with moss.
as they rattled up the little house they broke into song themselves:
“we've built the little walls and roof      and made a lovely door,      so tell us, mother wendy,      what are you wanting more?”
to this she answered greedily:
“oh, really next i think i'll have      gay windows all about,      with roses peeping in, you know,      and babies peeping out.”
with a blow of their fists they made windows, and large yellow leaves were the blinds.
but roses ?
“roses,” cried peter sternly.
quickly they made-believe to grow the loveliest roses up the walls.
babies?
to prevent peter ordering babies they hurried into song again:
“we've made the roses peeping out,      the babes are at the door,      we cannot make ourselves, you know,      'cos we've been made before.”
peter, seeing this to be a good idea, at once pretended that it was his own.
the house was quite beautiful, and no doubt wendy was very cosy within, though, of course, they could no longer see her.
peter strode up and down, ordering finishing touches.
nothing escaped his eagle eyes.
just when it seemed absolutely finished:
“there's no knocker on the door,” he said.
they were very ashamed, but tootles gave the sole of his shoe, and it made an excellent knocker.
absolutely finished now, they thought.
not of bit of it.
“there's no chimney,” peter said; “we must have a chimney.”
“it certainly does need a chimney,” said john importantly.
this gave peter an idea.
he snatched the hat off john's head, knocked out the bottom [top], and put the hat on the roof.
the little house was so pleased to have such a capital chimney that, as if to say thank you, smoke immediately began to come out of the hat.
now really and truly it was finished.
nothing remained to do but to knock.
“all look your best,” peter warned them; “first impressions are awfully important.”
he was glad no one asked him what first impressions are; they were all too busy looking their best.
he knocked politely, and now the wood was as still as the children, not a sound to be heard except from tinker bell, who was watching from a branch and openly sneering.
what the boys were wondering was, would any one answer the knock?
if a lady, what would she be like?
the door opened and a lady came out.
it was wendy.
they all whipped off their hats.
she looked properly surprised, and this was just how they had hoped she would look.
“where am i?” she said.
of course slightly was the first to get his word in.
“wendy lady,” he said rapidly, “for you we built this house.”
“oh, say you're pleased,” cried nibs.
“lovely, darling house,” wendy said, and they were the very words they had hoped she would say.
“and we are your children,” cried the twins.
then all went on their knees, and holding out their arms cried, “o wendy lady, be our mother.”
“ought i?” wendy said, all shining.
“of course it's frightfully fascinating, but you see i am only a little girl.
i have no real experience.”
“that doesn't matter,” said peter, as if he were the only person present who knew all about it, though he was really the one who knew least.
“what we need is just a nice motherly person.”
“oh dear!” wendy said, “you see, i feel that is exactly what i am.”
“it is, it is,” they all cried; “we saw it at once.”
“very well,” she said, “i will do my best.
come inside at once, you naughty children; i am sure your feet are damp.
and before i put you to bed i have just time to finish the story of cinderella.”
in they went; i don't know how there was room for them, but you can squeeze very tight in the neverland.
and that was the first of the many joyous evenings they had with wendy.
by and by she tucked them up in the great bed in the home under the trees, but she herself slept that night in the little house, and peter kept watch outside with drawn sword, for the pirates could be heard carousing far away and the wolves were on the prowl.
the little house looked so cosy and safe in the darkness, with a bright light showing through its blinds, and the chimney smoking beautifully, and peter standing on guard.
after a time he fell asleep, and some unsteady fairies had to climb over him on their way home from an orgy.
any of the other boys obstructing the fairy path at night they would have mischiefed, but they just tweaked peter's nose and passed on.
chapter 7 the home under the ground
one of the first things peter did next day was to measure wendy and john and michael for hollow trees.
hook, you remember, had sneered at the boys for thinking they needed a tree apiece, but this was ignorance, for unless your tree fitted you it was difficult to go up and down, and no two of the boys were quite the same size.
once you fitted, you drew in [let out] your breath at the top, and down you went at exactly the right speed, while to ascend you drew in and let out alternately, and so wriggled up.
of course, when you have mastered the action you are able to do these things without thinking of them, and nothing can be more graceful.
but you simply must fit, and peter measures you for your tree as carefully as for a suit of clothes: the only difference being that the clothes are made to fit you, while you have to be made to fit the tree.
usually it is done quite easily, as by your wearing too many garments or too few, but if you are bumpy in awkward places or the only available tree is an odd shape, peter does some things to you, and after that you fit.
once you fit, great care must be taken to go on fitting, and this, as wendy was to discover to her delight, keeps a whole family in perfect condition.
wendy and michael fitted their trees at the first try, but john had to be altered a little.
after a few days' practice they could go up and down as gaily as buckets in a well.
and how ardently they grew to love their home under the ground; especially wendy.
it consisted of one large room, as all houses should do, with a floor in which you could dig [for worms] if you wanted to go fishing, and in this floor grew stout mushrooms of a charming colour, which were used as stools.
a never tree tried hard to grow in the centre of the room, but every morning they sawed the trunk through, level with the floor.
by tea-time it was always about two feet high, and then they put a door on top of it, the whole thus becoming a table; as soon as they cleared away, they sawed off the trunk again, and thus there was more room to play.
there was an enormous fireplace which was in almost any part of the room where you cared to light it, and across this wendy stretched strings, made of fibre, from which she suspended her washing.
the bed was tilted against the wall by day, and let down at 6:30, when it filled nearly half the room; and all the boys slept in it, except michael, lying like sardines in a tin.
there was a strict rule against turning round until one gave the signal, when all turned at once.
michael should have used it also, but wendy would have [desired]
a baby, and he was the littlest, and you know what women are, and the short and long of it is that he was hung up in a basket.
it was rough and simple, and not unlike what baby bears would have made of an underground house in the same circumstances.
but there was one recess in the wall, no larger than a bird-cage, which was the private apartment of tinker bell.
it could be shut off from the rest of the house by a tiny curtain, which tink, who was most fastidious [particular], always kept drawn when dressing or undressing.
no woman, however large, could have had a more exquisite boudoir [dressing room]
and bed-chamber combined.
the couch, as she always called it, was a genuine queen mab, with club legs; and she varied the bedspreads according to what fruit-blossom was in season.
her mirror was a puss-in-boots, of which there are now only three, unchipped, known to fairy dealers; the washstand was pie-crust and reversible, the chest of drawers an authentic charming the sixth, and the carpet and rugs the best (the early) period of margery and robin.
there was a chandelier from tiddlywinks for the look of the thing, but of course she lit the residence herself.
tink was very contemptuous of the rest of the house, as indeed was perhaps inevitable, and her chamber, though beautiful, looked rather conceited, having the appearance of a nose permanently turned up.
i suppose it was all especially entrancing to wendy, because those rampagious boys of hers gave her so much to do.
really there were whole weeks when, except perhaps with a stocking in the evening, she was never above ground.
the cooking, i can tell you, kept her nose to the pot, and even if there was nothing in it, even if there was no pot, she had to keep watching that it came aboil just the same.
you never exactly knew whether there would be a real meal or just a make-believe, it all depended upon peter's whim: he could eat, really eat, if it was part of a game, but he could not stodge [cram down the food] just to feel stodgy [stuffed with food], which is what most children like better than anything else; the next best thing being to talk about it.
make-believe was so real to him that during a meal of it you could see him getting rounder.
of course it was trying, but you simply had to follow his lead, and if you could prove to him that you were getting loose for your tree he let you stodge.
wendy's favourite time for sewing and darning was after they had all gone to bed.
then, as she expressed it, she had a breathing time for herself; and she occupied it in making new things for them, and putting double pieces on the knees, for they were all most frightfully hard on their knees.
when she sat down to a basketful of their stockings, every heel with a hole in it, she would fling up her arms and exclaim, “oh dear, i am sure i sometimes think spinsters are to be envied!”
her face beamed when she exclaimed this.
you remember about her pet wolf.
well, it very soon discovered that she had come to the island and it found her out, and they just ran into each other's arms.
after that it followed her about everywhere.
as time wore on did she think much about the beloved parents she had left behind her?
this is a difficult question, because it is quite impossible to say how time does wear on in the neverland, where it is calculated by moons and suns, and there are ever so many more of them than on the mainland.
but i am afraid that wendy did not really worry about her father and mother; she was absolutely confident that they would always keep the window open for her to fly back by, and this gave her complete ease of mind.
what did disturb her at times was that john remembered his parents vaguely only, as people he had once known, while michael was quite willing to believe that she was really his mother.
these things scared her a little, and nobly anxious to do her duty, she tried to fix the old life in their minds by setting them examination papers on it, as like as possible to the ones she used to do at school.
the other boys thought this awfully interesting, and insisted on joining, and they made slates for themselves, and sat round the table, writing and thinking hard about the questions she had written on another slate and passed round.
they were the most ordinary questions “what was the colour of mother's eyes?
which was taller, father or mother?
was mother blonde or brunette?
answer all three questions if possible.”
“(a) write an essay of not less than 40 words on how i spent my last holidays, or the characters of father and mother compared.
only one of these to be attempted.” or “(1) describe mother's laugh; (2) describe father's laugh; (3) describe mother's party dress; (4) describe the kennel and its inmate.”
they were just everyday questions like these, and when you could not answer them you were told to make a cross; and it was really dreadful what a number of crosses even john made.
of course the only boy who replied to every question was slightly, and no one could have been more hopeful of coming out first, but his answers were perfectly ridiculous, and he really came out last: a melancholy thing.
peter did not compete.
for one thing he despised all mothers except wendy, and for another he was the only boy on the island who could neither write nor spell; not the smallest word.
he was above all that sort of thing.
by the way, the questions were all written in the past tense.
what was the colour of mother's eyes, and so on.
wendy, you see, had been forgetting, too.
adventures, of course, as we shall see, were of daily occurrence; but about this time peter invented, with wendy's help, a new game that fascinated him enormously, until he suddenly had no more interest in it, which, as you have been told, was what always happened with his games.
it consisted in pretending not to have adventures, in doing the sort of thing john and michael had been doing all their lives, sitting on stools flinging balls in the air, pushing each other, going out for walks and coming back without having killed so much as a grizzly.
to see peter doing nothing on a stool was a great sight; he could not help looking solemn at such times, to sit still seemed to him such a comic thing to do.
he boasted that he had gone walking for the good of his health.
for several suns these were the most novel of all adventures to him; and john and michael had to pretend to be delighted also; otherwise he would have treated them severely.
he often went out alone, and when he came back you were never absolutely certain whether he had had an adventure or not.
he might have forgotten it so completely that he said nothing about it; and then when you went out you found the body; and, on the other hand, he might say a great deal about it, and yet you could not find the body.
sometimes he came home with his head bandaged, and then wendy cooed over him and bathed it in lukewarm water, while he told a dazzling tale.
but she was never quite sure, you know.
there were, however, many adventures which she knew to be true because she was in them herself, and there were still more that were at least partly true, for the other boys were in them and said they were wholly true.
to describe them all would require a book as large as an english-latin, latin-english dictionary, and the most we can do is to give one as a specimen of an average hour on the island.
the difficulty is which one to choose.
should we take the brush with the redskins at slightly gulch?
it was a sanguinary affair, and especially interesting as showing one of peter's peculiarities, which was that in the middle of a fight he would suddenly change sides.
at the gulch, when victory was still in the balance, sometimes leaning this way and sometimes that, he called out, “i'm redskin to-day; what are you, tootles?” and tootles answered, “redskin; what are you, nibs?” and nibs said, “redskin; what are you twin?” and so on; and they were all redskins; and of course this would have ended the fight had not the real redskins fascinated by peter's methods, agreed to be lost boys for that once, and so at it they all went again, more fiercely than ever.
the extraordinary upshot of this adventure was but we have not decided yet that this is the adventure we are to narrate.
perhaps a better one would be the night attack by the redskins on the house under the ground, when several of them stuck in the hollow trees and had to be pulled out like corks.
or we might tell how peter saved tiger lily's life in the mermaids' lagoon, and so made her his ally.
or we could tell of that cake the pirates cooked so that the boys might eat it and perish; and how they placed it in one cunning spot after another; but always wendy snatched it from the hands of her children, so that in time it lost its succulence, and became as hard as a stone, and was used as a missile, and hook fell over it in the dark.
or suppose we tell of the birds that were peter's friends, particularly of the never bird that built in a tree overhanging the lagoon, and how the nest fell into the water, and still the bird sat on her eggs, and peter gave orders that she was not to be disturbed.
that is a pretty story, and the end shows how grateful a bird can be; but if we tell it we must also tell the whole adventure of the lagoon, which would of course be telling two adventures rather than just one.
a shorter adventure, and quite as exciting, was tinker bell's attempt, with the help of some street fairies, to have the sleeping wendy conveyed on a great floating leaf to the mainland.
fortunately the leaf gave way and wendy woke, thinking it was bath-time, and swam back.
or again, we might choose peter's defiance of the lions, when he drew a circle round him on the ground with an arrow and dared them to cross it; and though he waited for hours, with the other boys and wendy looking on breathlessly from trees, not one of them dared to accept his challenge.
which of these adventures shall we choose?
the best way will be to toss for it.
i have tossed, and the lagoon has won.
this almost makes one wish that the gulch or the cake or tink's leaf had won.
of course i could do it again, and make it best out of three; however, perhaps fairest to stick to the lagoon.
chapter 8 the mermaids' lagoon
if you shut your eyes and are a lucky one, you may see at times a shapeless pool of lovely pale colours suspended in the darkness; then if you squeeze your eyes tighter, the pool begins to take shape, and the colours become so vivid that with another squeeze they must go on fire.
but just before they go on fire you see the lagoon.
this is the nearest you ever get to it on the mainland, just one heavenly moment; if there could be two moments you might see the surf and hear the mermaids singing.
the children often spent long summer days on this lagoon, swimming or floating most of the time, playing the mermaid games in the water, and so forth.
you must not think from this that the mermaids were on friendly terms with them: on the contrary, it was among wendy's lasting regrets that all the time she was on the island she never had a civil word from one of them.
when she stole softly to the edge of the lagoon she might see them by the score, especially on marooners' rock, where they loved to bask, combing out their hair in a lazy way that quite irritated her; or she might even swim, on tiptoe as it were, to within a yard of them, but then they saw her and dived, probably splashing her with their tails, not by accident, but intentionally.
they treated all the boys in the same way, except of course peter, who chatted with them on marooners' rock by the hour, and sat on their tails when they got cheeky.
he gave wendy one of their combs.
the most haunting time at which to see them is at the turn of the moon, when they utter strange wailing cries; but the lagoon is dangerous for mortals then, and until the evening of which we have now to tell, wendy had never seen the lagoon by moonlight, less from fear, for of course peter would have accompanied her, than because she had strict rules about every one being in bed by seven.
she was often at the lagoon, however, on sunny days after rain, when the mermaids come up in extraordinary numbers to play with their bubbles.
the bubbles of many colours made in rainbow water they treat as balls, hitting them gaily from one to another with their tails, and trying to keep them in the rainbow till they burst.
the goals are at each end of the rainbow, and the keepers only are allowed to use their hands.
sometimes a dozen of these games will be going on in the lagoon at a time, and it is quite a pretty sight.
but the moment the children tried to join in they had to play by themselves, for the mermaids immediately disappeared.
nevertheless we have proof that they secretly watched the interlopers, and were not above taking an idea from them; for john introduced a new way of hitting the bubble, with the head instead of the hand, and the mermaids adopted it.
this is the one mark that john has left on the neverland.
it must also have been rather pretty to see the children resting on a rock for half an hour after their mid-day meal.
wendy insisted on their doing this, and it had to be a real rest even though the meal was make-believe.
so they lay there in the sun, and their bodies glistened in it, while she sat beside them and looked important.
it was one such day, and they were all on marooners' rock.
the rock was not much larger than their great bed, but of course they all knew how not to take up much room, and they were dozing, or at least lying with their eyes shut, and pinching occasionally when they thought wendy was not looking.
she was very busy, stitching.
while she stitched a change came to the lagoon.
little shivers ran over it, and the sun went away and shadows stole across the water, turning it cold.
wendy could no longer see to thread her needle, and when she looked up, the lagoon that had always hitherto been such a laughing place seemed formidable and unfriendly.
it was not, she knew, that night had come, but something as dark as night had come.
no, worse than that.
it had not come, but it had sent that shiver through the sea to say that it was coming.
what was it?
there crowded upon her all the stories she had been told of marooners'
rock, so called because evil captains put sailors on it and leave them there to drown.
they drown when the tide rises, for then it is submerged.
of course she should have roused the children at once; not merely because of the unknown that was stalking toward them, but because it was no longer good for them to sleep on a rock grown chilly.
but she was a young mother and she did not know this; she thought you simply must stick to your rule about half an hour after the mid-day meal.
so, though fear was upon her, and she longed to hear male voices, she would not waken them.
even when she heard the sound of muffled oars, though her heart was in her mouth, she did not waken them.
she stood over them to let them have their sleep out.
was it not brave of wendy?
it was well for those boys then that there was one among them who could sniff danger even in his sleep.
peter sprang erect, as wide awake at once as a dog, and with one warning cry he roused the others.
he stood motionless, one hand to his ear.
“pirates!” he cried.
the others came closer to him.
a strange smile was playing about his face, and wendy saw it and shuddered.
while that smile was on his face no one dared address him; all they could do was to stand ready to obey.
the order came sharp and incisive.
“dive!”
there was a gleam of legs, and instantly the lagoon seemed deserted.
marooners' rock stood alone in the forbidding waters as if it were itself marooned.
the boat drew nearer.
it was the pirate dinghy, with three figures in her, smee and starkey, and the third a captive, no other than tiger lily.
her hands and ankles were tied, and she knew what was to be her fate.
she was to be left on the rock to perish, an end to one of her race more terrible than death by fire or torture, for is it not written in the book of the tribe that there is no path through water to the happy hunting-ground?
yet her face was impassive; she was the daughter of a chief, she must die as a chief's daughter, it is enough.
they had caught her boarding the pirate ship with a knife in her mouth.
no watch was kept on the ship, it being hook's boast that the wind of his name guarded the ship for a mile around.
now her fate would help to guard it also.
one more wail would go the round in that wind by night.
in the gloom that they brought with them the two pirates did not see the rock till they crashed into it.
“luff, you lubber,” cried an irish voice that was smee's; “here's the rock.
now, then, what we have to do is to hoist the redskin on to it and leave her here to drown.”
it was the work of one brutal moment to land the beautiful girl on the rock; she was too proud to offer a vain resistance.
quite near the rock, but out of sight, two heads were bobbing up and down, peter's and wendy's.
wendy was crying, for it was the first tragedy she had seen.
peter had seen many tragedies, but he had forgotten them all.
he was less sorry than wendy for tiger lily: it was two against one that angered him, and he meant to save her.
an easy way would have been to wait until the pirates had gone, but he was never one to choose the easy way.
there was almost nothing he could not do, and he now imitated the voice of hook.
“ahoy there, you lubbers!” he called.
it was a marvellous imitation.
“the captain!” said the pirates, staring at each other in surprise.
“he must be swimming out to us,” starkey said, when they had looked for him in vain.
“we are putting the redskin on the rock,” smee called out.
“set her free,” came the astonishing answer.
“free!”
“yes, cut her bonds and let her go.”
“but, captain ”
“at once, d'ye hear,” cried peter, “or i'll plunge my hook in you.”
“this is queer!” smee gasped.
“better do what the captain orders,” said starkey nervously.
“ay, ay,” smee said, and he cut tiger lily's cords.
at once like an eel she slid between starkey's legs into the water.
of course wendy was very elated over peter's cleverness; but she knew that he would be elated also and very likely crow and thus betray himself, so at once her hand went out to cover his mouth.
but it was stayed even in the act, for “boat ahoy!” rang over the lagoon in hook's voice, and this time it was not peter who had spoken.
peter may have been about to crow, but his face puckered in a whistle of surprise instead.
“boat ahoy!” again came the voice.
now wendy understood.
the real hook was also in the water.
he was swimming to the boat, and as his men showed a light to guide him he had soon reached them.
in the light of the lantern wendy saw his hook grip the boat's side; she saw his evil swarthy face as he rose dripping from the water, and, quaking, she would have liked to swim away, but peter would not budge.
he was tingling with life and also top-heavy with conceit.
“am i not a wonder, oh, i am a wonder!” he whispered to her, and though she thought so also, she was really glad for the sake of his reputation that no one heard him except herself.
he signed to her to listen.
the two pirates were very curious to know what had brought their captain to them, but he sat with his head on his hook in a position of profound melancholy.
“captain, is all well?” they asked timidly, but he answered with a hollow moan.
“he sighs,” said smee.
“he sighs again,” said starkey.
“and yet a third time he sighs,” said smee.
then at last he spoke passionately.
“the game's up,” he cried, “those boys have found a mother.”
affrighted though she was, wendy swelled with pride.
“o evil day!” cried starkey.
“what's a mother?” asked the ignorant smee.
wendy was so shocked that she exclaimed.
“he doesn't know!” and always after this she felt that if you could have a pet pirate smee would be her one.
peter pulled her beneath the water, for hook had started up, crying, “what was that?”
“i heard nothing,” said starkey, raising the lantern over the waters, and as the pirates looked they saw a strange sight.
it was the nest i have told you of, floating on the lagoon, and the never bird was sitting on it.
“see,” said hook in answer to smee's question, “that is a mother.
what a lesson!
the nest must have fallen into the water, but would the mother desert her eggs?
no.”
there was a break in his voice, as if for a moment he recalled innocent days when but he brushed away this weakness with his hook.
smee, much impressed, gazed at the bird as the nest was borne past, but the more suspicious starkey said, “if she is a mother, perhaps she is hanging about here to help peter.”
hook winced.
“ay,” he said, “that is the fear that haunts me.”
he was roused from this dejection by smee's eager voice.
“captain,” said smee, “could we not kidnap these boys' mother and make her our mother?”
“it is a princely scheme,” cried hook, and at once it took practical shape in his great brain.
“we will seize the children and carry them to the boat: the boys we will make walk the plank, and wendy shall be our mother.”
again wendy forgot herself.
“never!” she cried, and bobbed.
“what was that?”
but they could see nothing.
they thought it must have been a leaf in the wind.
“do you agree, my bullies?” asked hook.
“there is my hand on it,” they both said.
“and there is my hook.
swear.”
they all swore.
by this time they were on the rock, and suddenly hook remembered tiger lily.
“where is the redskin?” he demanded abruptly.
he had a playful humour at moments, and they thought this was one of the moments.
“that is all right, captain,” smee answered complacently; “we let her go.”
“let her go!” cried hook.
“'twas your own orders,” the bo'sun faltered.
“you called over the water to us to let her go,” said starkey.
“brimstone and gall,” thundered hook, “what cozening [cheating] is going on here!” his face had gone black with rage, but he saw that they believed their words, and he was startled.
“lads,” he said, shaking a little, “i gave no such order.”
“it is passing queer,” smee said, and they all fidgeted uncomfortably.
hook raised his voice, but there was a quiver in it.
“spirit that haunts this dark lagoon to-night,” he cried, “dost hear me?”
of course peter should have kept quiet, but of course he did not.
he immediately answered in hook's voice:
“odds, bobs, hammer and tongs, i hear you.”
in that supreme moment hook did not blanch, even at the gills, but smee and starkey clung to each other in terror.
“who are you, stranger?
speak!” hook demanded.
“i am james hook,” replied the voice, “captain of the jolly roger.”
“you are not; you are not,” hook cried hoarsely.
“brimstone and gall,” the voice retorted, “say that again, and i'll cast anchor in you.”
hook tried a more ingratiating manner.
“if you are hook,” he said almost humbly, “come tell me, who am i?”
“a codfish,” replied the voice, “only a codfish.”
“a codfish!” hook echoed blankly, and it was then, but not till then, that his proud spirit broke.
he saw his men draw back from him.
“have we been captained all this time by a codfish!” they muttered.
“it is lowering to our pride.”
they were his dogs snapping at him, but, tragic figure though he had become, he scarcely heeded them.
against such fearful evidence it was not their belief in him that he needed, it was his own.
he felt his ego slipping from him.
“don't desert me, bully,” he whispered hoarsely to it.
in his dark nature there was a touch of the feminine, as in all the great pirates, and it sometimes gave him intuitions.
suddenly he tried the guessing game.
“hook,” he called, “have you another voice?”
now peter could never resist a game, and he answered blithely in his own voice, “i have.”
“and another name?”
“ay, ay.”
“vegetable?” asked hook.
“no.”
“mineral?”
“no.”
“animal?”
“yes.”
“man?”
“no!” this answer rang out scornfully.
“boy?”
“yes.”
“ordinary boy?”
“no!”
“wonderful boy?”
to wendy's pain the answer that rang out this time was “yes.”
“are you in england?”
“no.”
“are you here?”
“yes.”
hook was completely puzzled.
“you ask him some questions,” he said to the others, wiping his damp brow.
smee reflected.
“i can't think of a thing,” he said regretfully.
“can't guess, can't guess!” crowed peter.
“do you give it up?”
of course in his pride he was carrying the game too far, and the miscreants [villains] saw their chance.
“yes, yes,” they answered eagerly.
“well, then,” he cried, “i am peter pan.”
pan!
in a moment hook was himself again, and smee and starkey were his faithful henchmen.
“now we have him,” hook shouted.
“into the water, smee.
starkey, mind the boat.
take him dead or alive!”
he leaped as he spoke, and simultaneously came the gay voice of peter.
“are you ready, boys?”
“ay, ay,” from various parts of the lagoon.
“then lam into the pirates.”
the fight was short and sharp.
first to draw blood was john, who gallantly climbed into the boat and held starkey.
there was fierce struggle, in which the cutlass was torn from the pirate's grasp.
he wriggled overboard and john leapt after him.
the dinghy drifted away.
here and there a head bobbed up in the water, and there was a flash of steel followed by a cry or a whoop.
in the confusion some struck at their own side.
the corkscrew of smee got tootles in the fourth rib, but he was himself pinked [nicked] in turn by curly.
farther from the rock starkey was pressing slightly and the twins hard.
where all this time was peter?
he was seeking bigger game.
the others were all brave boys, and they must not be blamed for backing from the pirate captain.
his iron claw made a circle of dead water round him, from which they fled like affrighted fishes.
but there was one who did not fear him: there was one prepared to enter that circle.
strangely, it was not in the water that they met.
hook rose to the rock to breathe, and at the same moment peter scaled it on the opposite side.
the rock was slippery as a ball, and they had to crawl rather than climb.
neither knew that the other was coming.
each feeling for a grip met the other's arm: in surprise they raised their heads; their faces were almost touching; so they met.
some of the greatest heroes have confessed that just before they fell to [began combat] they had a sinking [feeling in the stomach].
had it been so with peter at that moment i would admit it.
after all, he was the only man that the sea-cook had feared.
but peter had no sinking, he had one feeling only, gladness; and he gnashed his pretty teeth with joy.
quick as thought he snatched a knife from hook's belt and was about to drive it home, when he saw that he was higher up the rock than his foe.
it would not have been fighting fair.
he gave the pirate a hand to help him up.
it was then that hook bit him.
not the pain of this but its unfairness was what dazed peter.
it made him quite helpless.
he could only stare, horrified.
every child is affected thus the first time he is treated unfairly.
all he thinks he has a right to when he comes to you to be yours is fairness.
after you have been unfair to him he will love you again, but will never afterwards be quite the same boy.
no one ever gets over the first unfairness; no one except peter.
he often met it, but he always forgot it.
i suppose that was the real difference between him and all the rest.
so when he met it now it was like the first time; and he could just stare, helpless.
twice the iron hand clawed him.
a few moments afterwards the other boys saw hook in the water striking wildly for the ship; no elation on the pestilent face now, only white fear, for the crocodile was in dogged pursuit of him.
on ordinary occasions the boys would have swum alongside cheering; but now they were uneasy, for they had lost both peter and wendy, and were scouring the lagoon for them, calling them by name.
they found the dinghy and went home in it, shouting “peter, wendy” as they went, but no answer came save mocking laughter from the mermaids.
“they must be swimming back or flying,” the boys concluded.
they were not very anxious, because they had such faith in peter.
they chuckled, boylike, because they would be late for bed; and it was all mother wendy's fault!
when their voices died away there came cold silence over the lagoon, and then a feeble cry.
“help, help!”
two small figures were beating against the rock; the girl had fainted and lay on the boy's arm.
with a last effort peter pulled her up the rock and then lay down beside her.
even as he also fainted he saw that the water was rising.
he knew that they would soon be drowned, but he could do no more.
as they lay side by side a mermaid caught wendy by the feet, and began pulling her softly into the water.
peter, feeling her slip from him, woke with a start, and was just in time to draw her back.
but he had to tell her the truth.
“we are on the rock, wendy,” he said, “but it is growing smaller.
soon the water will be over it.”
she did not understand even now.
“we must go,” she said, almost brightly.
“yes,” he answered faintly.
“shall we swim or fly, peter?”
he had to tell her.
“do you think you could swim or fly as far as the island, wendy, without my help?”
she had to admit that she was too tired.
he moaned.
“what is it?” she asked, anxious about him at once.
“i can't help you, wendy.
hook wounded me.
i can neither fly nor swim.”
“do you mean we shall both be drowned?”
“look how the water is rising.”
they put their hands over their eyes to shut out the sight.
they thought they would soon be no more.
as they sat thus something brushed against peter as light as a kiss, and stayed there, as if saying timidly, “can i be of any use?”
it was the tail of a kite, which michael had made some days before.
it had torn itself out of his hand and floated away.
“michael's kite,” peter said without interest, but next moment he had seized the tail, and was pulling the kite toward him.
“it lifted michael off the ground,” he cried; “why should it not carry you?”
“both of us!”
“it can't lift two; michael and curly tried.”
“let us draw lots,” wendy said bravely.
“and you a lady; never.” already he had tied the tail round her.
she clung to him; she refused to go without him; but with a “good-bye, wendy,” he pushed her from the rock; and in a few minutes she was borne out of his sight.
peter was alone on the lagoon.
the rock was very small now; soon it would be submerged.
pale rays of light tiptoed across the waters; and by and by there was to be heard a sound at once the most musical and the most melancholy in the world: the mermaids calling to the moon.
peter was not quite like other boys; but he was afraid at last.
a tremour ran through him, like a shudder passing over the sea; but on the sea one shudder follows another till there are hundreds of them, and peter felt just the one.
next moment he was standing erect on the rock again, with that smile on his face and a drum beating within him.
it was saying, “to die will be an awfully big adventure.”
chapter 9 the never bird
the last sound peter heard before he was quite alone were the mermaids retiring one by one to their bedchambers under the sea.
he was too far away to hear their doors shut; but every door in the coral caves where they live rings a tiny bell when it opens or closes (as in all the nicest houses on the mainland), and he heard the bells.
steadily the waters rose till they were nibbling at his feet; and to pass the time until they made their final gulp, he watched the only thing on the lagoon.
he thought it was a piece of floating paper, perhaps part of the kite, and wondered idly how long it would take to drift ashore.
presently he noticed as an odd thing that it was undoubtedly out upon the lagoon with some definite purpose, for it was fighting the tide, and sometimes winning; and when it won, peter, always sympathetic to the weaker side, could not help clapping; it was such a gallant piece of paper.
it was not really a piece of paper; it was the never bird, making desperate efforts to reach peter on the nest.
by working her wings, in a way she had learned since the nest fell into the water, she was able to some extent to guide her strange craft, but by the time peter recognised her she was very exhausted.
she had come to save him, to give him her nest, though there were eggs in it.
i rather wonder at the bird, for though he had been nice to her, he had also sometimes tormented her.
i can suppose only that, like mrs. darling and the rest of them, she was melted because he had all his first teeth.
she called out to him what she had come for, and he called out to her what she was doing there; but of course neither of them understood the other's language.
in fanciful stories people can talk to the birds freely, and i wish for the moment i could pretend that this were such a story, and say that peter replied intelligently to the never bird; but truth is best, and i want to tell you only what really happened.
well, not only could they not understand each other, but they forgot their manners.
“i want you to get into the nest,” the bird called, speaking as slowly and distinctly as possible, “and then you can drift ashore, but i am too tired to bring it any nearer so you must try to swim to it.”
“what are you quacking about?” peter answered.
“why don't you let the nest drift as usual?”
“i want you ” the bird said, and repeated it all over.
then peter tried slow and distinct.
“what are you quacking about?” and so on.
the never bird became irritated; they have very short tempers.
“you dunderheaded little jay!” she screamed, “why don't you do as i tell you?”
peter felt that she was calling him names, and at a venture he retorted hotly:
“so are you!”
then rather curiously they both snapped out the same remark:
“shut up!”
“shut up!”
nevertheless the bird was determined to save him if she could, and by one last mighty effort she propelled the nest against the rock.
then up she flew; deserting her eggs, so as to make her meaning clear.
then at last he understood, and clutched the nest and waved his thanks to the bird as she fluttered overhead.
it was not to receive his thanks, however, that she hung there in the sky; it was not even to watch him get into the nest; it was to see what he did with her eggs.
there were two large white eggs, and peter lifted them up and reflected.
the bird covered her face with her wings, so as not to see the last of them; but she could not help peeping between the feathers.
i forget whether i have told you that there was a stave on the rock, driven into it by some buccaneers of long ago to mark the site of buried treasure.
the children had discovered the glittering hoard, and when in a mischievous mood used to fling showers of moidores, diamonds, pearls and pieces of eight to the gulls, who pounced upon them for food, and then flew away, raging at the scurvy trick that had been played upon them.
the stave was still there, and on it starkey had hung his hat, a deep tarpaulin, watertight, with a broad brim.
peter put the eggs into this hat and set it on the lagoon.
it floated beautifully.
the never bird saw at once what he was up to, and screamed her admiration of him; and, alas, peter crowed his agreement with her.
then he got into the nest, reared the stave in it as a mast, and hung up his shirt for a sail.
at the same moment the bird fluttered down upon the hat and once more sat snugly on her eggs.
she drifted in one direction, and he was borne off in another, both cheering.
of course when peter landed he beached his barque [small ship, actually the never bird's nest in this particular case in point] in a place where the bird would easily find it; but the hat was such a great success that she abandoned the nest.
it drifted about till it went to pieces, and often starkey came to the shore of the lagoon, and with many bitter feelings watched the bird sitting on his hat.
as we shall not see her again, it may be worth mentioning here that all never birds now build in that shape of nest, with a broad brim on which the youngsters take an airing.
great were the rejoicings when peter reached the home under the ground almost as soon as wendy, who had been carried hither and thither by the kite.
every boy had adventures to tell; but perhaps the biggest adventure of all was that they were several hours late for bed.
this so inflated them that they did various dodgy things to get staying up still longer, such as demanding bandages; but wendy, though glorying in having them all home again safe and sound, was scandalised by the lateness of the hour, and cried, “to bed, to bed,” in a voice that had to be obeyed.
next day, however, she was awfully tender, and gave out bandages to every one, and they played till bed-time at limping about and carrying their arms in slings.
chapter 10 the happy home
one important result of the brush [with the pirates] on the lagoon was that it made the redskins their friends.
peter had saved tiger lily from a dreadful fate, and now there was nothing she and her braves would not do for him.
all night they sat above, keeping watch over the home under the ground and awaiting the big attack by the pirates which obviously could not be much longer delayed.
even by day they hung about, smoking the pipe of peace, and looking almost as if they wanted tit-bits to eat.
they called peter the great white father, prostrating themselves [lying down] before him; and he liked this tremendously, so that it was not really good for him.
“the great white father,” he would say to them in a very lordly manner, as they grovelled at his feet, “is glad to see the piccaninny warriors protecting his wigwam from the pirates.”
“me tiger lily,” that lovely creature would reply.
“peter pan save me, me his velly nice friend.
me no let pirates hurt him.”
she was far too pretty to cringe in this way, but peter thought it his due, and he would answer condescendingly, “it is good.
peter pan has spoken.”
always when he said, “peter pan has spoken,” it meant that they must now shut up, and they accepted it humbly in that spirit; but they were by no means so respectful to the other boys, whom they looked upon as just ordinary braves.
they said “how-do?” to them, and things like that; and what annoyed the boys was that peter seemed to think this all right.
secretly wendy sympathised with them a little, but she was far too loyal a housewife to listen to any complaints against father.
“father knows best,” she always said, whatever her private opinion must be.
her private opinion was that the redskins should not call her a squaw.
we have now reached the evening that was to be known among them as the night of nights, because of its adventures and their upshot.
the day, as if quietly gathering its forces, had been almost uneventful, and now the redskins in their blankets were at their posts above, while, below, the children were having their evening meal; all except peter, who had gone out to get the time.
the way you got the time on the island was to find the crocodile, and then stay near him till the clock struck.
the meal happened to be a make-believe tea, and they sat around the board, guzzling in their greed; and really, what with their chatter and recriminations, the noise, as wendy said, was positively deafening.
to be sure, she did not mind noise, but she simply would not have them grabbing things, and then excusing themselves by saying that tootles had pushed their elbow.
there was a fixed rule that they must never hit back at meals, but should refer the matter of dispute to wendy by raising the right arm politely and saying, “i complain of so-and-so;” but what usually happened was that they forgot to do this or did it too much.
“silence,” cried wendy when for the twentieth time she had told them that they were not all to speak at once.
“is your mug empty, slightly darling?”
“not quite empty, mummy,” slightly said, after looking into an imaginary mug.
“he hasn't even begun to drink his milk,” nibs interposed.
this was telling, and slightly seized his chance.
“i complain of nibs,” he cried promptly.
john, however, had held up his hand first.
“well, john?”
“may i sit in peter's chair, as he is not here?”
“sit in father's chair, john!” wendy was scandalised.
“certainly not.”
“he is not really our father,” john answered.
“he didn't even know how a father does till i showed him.”
this was grumbling.
“we complain of john,” cried the twins.
tootles held up his hand.
he was so much the humblest of them, indeed he was the only humble one, that wendy was specially gentle with him.
“i don't suppose,” tootles said diffidently [bashfully or timidly], “that i could be father.”
“no, tootles.”
once tootles began, which was not very often, he had a silly way of going on.
“as i can't be father,” he said heavily, “i don't suppose, michael, you would let me be baby?”
“no, i won't,” michael rapped out.
he was already in his basket.
“as i can't be baby,” tootles said, getting heavier and heavier and heavier, “do you think i could be a twin?”
“no, indeed,” replied the twins; “it's awfully difficult to be a twin.”
“as i can't be anything important,” said tootles, “would any of you like to see me do a trick?”
“no,” they all replied.
then at last he stopped.
“i hadn't really any hope,” he said.
the hateful telling broke out again.
“slightly is coughing on the table.”
“the twins began with cheese-cakes.”
“curly is taking both butter and honey.”
“nibs is speaking with his mouth full.”
“i complain of the twins.”
“i complain of curly.”
“i complain of nibs.”
“oh dear, oh dear,” cried wendy, “i'm sure i sometimes think that spinsters are to be envied.”
she told them to clear away, and sat down to her work-basket, a heavy load of stockings and every knee with a hole in it as usual.
“wendy,” remonstrated [scolded] michael, “i'm too big for a cradle.”
“i must have somebody in a cradle,” she said almost tartly, “and you are the littlest.
a cradle is such a nice homely thing to have about a house.”
while she sewed they played around her; such a group of happy faces and dancing limbs lit up by that romantic fire.
it had become a very familiar scene, this, in the home under the ground, but we are looking on it for the last time.
there was a step above, and wendy, you may be sure, was the first to recognize it.
“children, i hear your father's step.
he likes you to meet him at the door.”
above, the redskins crouched before peter.
“watch well, braves.
i have spoken.”
and then, as so often before, the gay children dragged him from his tree.
as so often before, but never again.
he had brought nuts for the boys as well as the correct time for wendy.
“peter, you just spoil them, you know,” wendy simpered [exaggerated a smile].
“ah, old lady,” said peter, hanging up his gun.
“it was me told him mothers are called old lady,” michael whispered to curly.
“i complain of michael,” said curly instantly.
the first twin came to peter.
“father, we want to dance.”
“dance away, my little man,” said peter, who was in high good humour.
“but we want you to dance.”
peter was really the best dancer among them, but he pretended to be scandalised.
“me!
my old bones would rattle!”
“and mummy too.”
“what,” cried wendy, “the mother of such an armful, dance!”
“but on a saturday night,” slightly insinuated.
it was not really saturday night, at least it may have been, for they had long lost count of the days; but always if they wanted to do anything special they said this was saturday night, and then they did it.
“of course it is saturday night, peter,” wendy said, relenting.
“people of our figure, wendy!”
“but it is only among our own progeny [children].”
“true, true.”
so they were told they could dance, but they must put on their nighties first.
“ah, old lady,” peter said aside to wendy, warming himself by the fire and looking down at her as she sat turning a heel, “there is nothing more pleasant of an evening for you and me when the day's toil is over than to rest by the fire with the little ones near by.”
“it is sweet, peter, isn't it?” wendy said, frightfully gratified.
“peter, i think curly has your nose.”
“michael takes after you.”
she went to him and put her hand on his shoulder.
“dear peter,” she said, “with such a large family, of course, i have now passed my best, but you don't want to [ex]change me, do you?”
“no, wendy.”
certainly he did not want a change, but he looked at her uncomfortably, blinking, you know, like one not sure whether he was awake or asleep.
“peter, what is it?”
“i was just thinking,” he said, a little scared.
“it is only make-believe, isn't it, that i am their father?”
“oh yes,” wendy said primly [formally and properly].
“you see,” he continued apologetically, “it would make me seem so old to be their real father.”
“but they are ours, peter, yours and mine.”
“but not really, wendy?” he asked anxiously.
“not if you don't wish it,” she replied; and she distinctly heard his sigh of relief.
“peter,” she asked, trying to speak firmly, “what are your exact feelings to [about] me?”
“those of a devoted son, wendy.”
“i thought so,” she said, and went and sat by herself at the extreme end of the room.
“you are so queer,” he said, frankly puzzled, “and tiger lily is just the same.
there is something she wants to be to me, but she says it is not my mother.”
“no, indeed, it is not,” wendy replied with frightful emphasis.
now we know why she was prejudiced against the redskins.
“then what is it?”
“it isn't for a lady to tell.”
“oh, very well,” peter said, a little nettled.
“perhaps tinker bell will tell me.”
“oh yes, tinker bell will tell you,” wendy retorted scornfully.
“she is an abandoned little creature.”
here tink, who was in her bedroom, eavesdropping, squeaked out something impudent.
“she says she glories in being abandoned,” peter interpreted.
he had a sudden idea.
“perhaps tink wants to be my mother?”
“you silly ass!” cried tinker bell in a passion.
she had said it so often that wendy needed no translation.
“i almost agree with her,” wendy snapped.
fancy wendy snapping!
but she had been much tried, and she little knew what was to happen before the night was out.
if she had known she would not have snapped.
none of them knew.
perhaps it was best not to know.
their ignorance gave them one more glad hour; and as it was to be their last hour on the island, let us rejoice that there were sixty glad minutes in it.
they sang and danced in their night-gowns.
such a deliciously creepy song it was, in which they pretended to be frightened at their own shadows, little witting that so soon shadows would close in upon them, from whom they would shrink in real fear.
so uproariously gay was the dance, and how they buffeted each other on the bed and out of it!
it was a pillow fight rather than a dance, and when it was finished, the pillows insisted on one bout more, like partners who know that they may never meet again.
the stories they told, before it was time for wendy's good-night story!
even slightly tried to tell a story that night, but the beginning was so fearfully dull that it appalled not only the others but himself, and he said gloomily:
“yes, it is a dull beginning.
i say, let us pretend that it is the end.”
and then at last they all got into bed for wendy's story, the story they loved best, the story peter hated.
usually when she began to tell this story he left the room or put his hands over his ears; and possibly if he had done either of those things this time they might all still be on the island.
but to-night he remained on his stool; and we shall see what happened.
chapter 11 wendy's story
“listen, then,” said wendy, settling down to her story, with michael at her feet and seven boys in the bed.
“there was once a gentleman ”
“i had rather he had been a lady,” curly said.
“i wish he had been a white rat,” said nibs.
“quiet,” their mother admonished [cautioned] them.
“there was a lady also, and ”
“oh, mummy,” cried the first twin, “you mean that there is a lady also, don't you?
she is not dead, is she?”
“oh, no.”
“i am awfully glad she isn't dead,” said tootles.
“are you glad, john?”
“of course i am.”
“are you glad, nibs?”
“rather.”
“are you glad, twins?”
“we are glad.”
“oh dear,” sighed wendy.
“little less noise there,” peter called out, determined that she should have fair play, however beastly a story it might be in his opinion.
“the gentleman's name,” wendy continued, “was mr. darling, and her name was mrs. darling.”
“i knew them,” john said, to annoy the others.
“i think i knew them,” said michael rather doubtfully.
“they were married, you know,” explained wendy, “and what do you think they had?”
“white rats,” cried nibs, inspired.
“no.”
“it's awfully puzzling,” said tootles, who knew the story by heart.
“quiet, tootles.
they had three descendants.”
“what is descendants?”
“well, you are one, twin.”
“did you hear that, john?
i am a descendant.”
“descendants are only children,” said john.
“oh dear, oh dear,” sighed wendy.
“now these three children had a faithful nurse called nana; but mr. darling was angry with her and chained her up in the yard, and so all the children flew away.”
“it's an awfully good story,” said nibs.
“they flew away,” wendy continued, “to the neverland, where the lost children are.”
“i just thought they did,” curly broke in excitedly.
“i don't know how it is, but i just thought they did!”
“o wendy,” cried tootles, “was one of the lost children called tootles?”
“yes, he was.”
“i am in a story.
hurrah, i am in a story, nibs.”
“hush.
now i want you to consider the feelings of the unhappy parents with all their children flown away.”
“oo!” they all moaned, though they were not really considering the feelings of the unhappy parents one jot.
“think of the empty beds!”
“oo!”
“it's awfully sad,” the first twin said cheerfully.
“i don't see how it can have a happy ending,” said the second twin.
“do you, nibs?”
“i'm frightfully anxious.”
“if you knew how great is a mother's love,” wendy told them triumphantly, “you would have no fear.” she had now come to the part that peter hated.
“i do like a mother's love,” said tootles, hitting nibs with a pillow.
“do you like a mother's love, nibs?”
“i do just,” said nibs, hitting back.
“you see,” wendy said complacently, “our heroine knew that the mother would always leave the window open for her children to fly back by; so they stayed away for years and had a lovely time.”
“did they ever go back?”
“let us now,” said wendy, bracing herself up for her finest effort, “take a peep into the future;” and they all gave themselves the twist that makes peeps into the future easier.
“years have rolled by, and who is this elegant lady of uncertain age alighting at london station?”
“o wendy, who is she?” cried nibs, every bit as excited as if he didn't know.
“can it be yes no it is the fair wendy!”
“oh!”
“and who are the two noble portly figures accompanying her, now grown to man's estate?
can they be john and michael?
they are!”
“oh!”
“'see, dear brothers,' says wendy pointing upwards, 'there is the window still standing open.
ah, now we are rewarded for our sublime faith in a mother's love.'
so up they flew to their mummy and daddy, and pen cannot describe the happy scene, over which we draw a veil.”
that was the story, and they were as pleased with it as the fair narrator herself.
everything just as it should be, you see.
off we skip like the most heartless things in the world, which is what children are, but so attractive; and we have an entirely selfish time, and then when we have need of special attention we nobly return for it, confident that we shall be rewarded instead of smacked.
so great indeed was their faith in a mother's love that they felt they could afford to be callous for a bit longer.
but there was one there who knew better, and when wendy finished he uttered a hollow groan.
“what is it, peter?” she cried, running to him, thinking he was ill. she felt him solicitously, lower down than his chest.
“where is it, peter?”
“it isn't that kind of pain,” peter replied darkly.
“then what kind is it?”
“wendy, you are wrong about mothers.”
they all gathered round him in affright, so alarming was his agitation; and with a fine candour he told them what he had hitherto concealed.
“long ago,” he said, “i thought like you that my mother would always keep the window open for me, so i stayed away for moons and moons and moons, and then flew back; but the window was barred, for mother had forgotten all about me, and there was another little boy sleeping in my bed.”
i am not sure that this was true, but peter thought it was true; and it scared them.
“are you sure mothers are like that?”
“yes.”
so this was the truth about mothers.
the toads!
still it is best to be careful; and no one knows so quickly as a child when he should give in.
“wendy, let us [let's] go home,” cried john and michael together.
“yes,” she said, clutching them.
“not to-night?” asked the lost boys bewildered.
they knew in what they called their hearts that one can get on quite well without a mother, and that it is only the mothers who think you can't.
“at once,” wendy replied resolutely, for the horrible thought had come to her: “perhaps mother is in half mourning by this time.”
this dread made her forgetful of what must be peter's feelings, and she said to him rather sharply, “peter, will you make the necessary arrangements?”
“if you wish it,” he replied, as coolly as if she had asked him to pass the nuts.
not so much as a sorry-to-lose-you between them!
if she did not mind the parting, he was going to show her, was peter, that neither did he.
but of course he cared very much; and he was so full of wrath against grown-ups, who, as usual, were spoiling everything, that as soon as he got inside his tree he breathed intentionally quick short breaths at the rate of about five to a second.
he did this because there is a saying in the neverland that, every time you breathe, a grown-up dies; and peter was killing them off vindictively as fast as possible.
then having given the necessary instructions to the redskins he returned to the home, where an unworthy scene had been enacted in his absence.
panic-stricken at the thought of losing wendy the lost boys had advanced upon her threateningly.
“it will be worse than before she came,” they cried.
“we shan't let her go.”
“let's keep her prisoner.”
“ay, chain her up.”
in her extremity an instinct told her to which of them to turn.
“tootles,” she cried, “i appeal to you.”
was it not strange?
she appealed to tootles, quite the silliest one.
grandly, however, did tootles respond.
for that one moment he dropped his silliness and spoke with dignity.
“i am just tootles,” he said, “and nobody minds me.
but the first who does not behave to wendy like an english gentleman i will blood him severely.”
he drew back his hanger; and for that instant his sun was at noon.
the others held back uneasily.
then peter returned, and they saw at once that they would get no support from him.
he would keep no girl in the neverland against her will.
“wendy,” he said, striding up and down, “i have asked the redskins to guide you through the wood, as flying tires you so.”
“thank you, peter.”
“then,” he continued, in the short sharp voice of one accustomed to be obeyed, “tinker bell will take you across the sea.
wake her, nibs.”
nibs had to knock twice before he got an answer, though tink had really been sitting up in bed listening for some time.
“who are you?
how dare you?
go away,” she cried.
“you are to get up, tink,” nibs called, “and take wendy on a journey.”
of course tink had been delighted to hear that wendy was going; but she was jolly well determined not to be her courier, and she said so in still more offensive language.
then she pretended to be asleep again.
“she says she won't!” nibs exclaimed, aghast at such insubordination, whereupon peter went sternly toward the young lady's chamber.
“tink,” he rapped out, “if you don't get up and dress at once i will open the curtains, and then we shall all see you in your negligee [nightgown].”
this made her leap to the floor.
“who said i wasn't getting up?” she cried.
in the meantime the boys were gazing very forlornly at wendy, now equipped with john and michael for the journey.
by this time they were dejected, not merely because they were about to lose her, but also because they felt that she was going off to something nice to which they had not been invited.
novelty was beckoning to them as usual.
crediting them with a nobler feeling wendy melted.
“dear ones,” she said, “if you will all come with me i feel almost sure i can get my father and mother to adopt you.”
the invitation was meant specially for peter, but each of the boys was thinking exclusively of himself, and at once they jumped with joy.
“but won't they think us rather a handful?” nibs asked in the middle of his jump.
“oh no,” said wendy, rapidly thinking it out, “it will only mean having a few beds in the drawing-room; they can be hidden behind the screens on first thursdays.”
“peter, can we go?” they all cried imploringly.
they took it for granted that if they went he would go also, but really they scarcely cared.
thus children are ever ready, when novelty knocks, to desert their dearest ones.
“all right,” peter replied with a bitter smile, and immediately they rushed to get their things.
“and now, peter,” wendy said, thinking she had put everything right, “i am going to give you your medicine before you go.” she loved to give them medicine, and undoubtedly gave them too much.
of course it was only water, but it was out of a bottle, and she always shook the bottle and counted the drops, which gave it a certain medicinal quality.
on this occasion, however, she did not give peter his draught [portion], for just as she had prepared it, she saw a look on his face that made her heart sink.
“get your things, peter,” she cried, shaking.
“no,” he answered, pretending indifference, “i am not going with you, wendy.”
“yes, peter.”
“no.”
to show that her departure would leave him unmoved, he skipped up and down the room, playing gaily on his heartless pipes.
she had to run about after him, though it was rather undignified.
“to find your mother,” she coaxed.
now, if peter had ever quite had a mother, he no longer missed her.
he could do very well without one.
he had thought them out, and remembered only their bad points.
“no, no,” he told wendy decisively; “perhaps she would say i was old, and i just want always to be a little boy and to have fun.”
“but, peter ”
“no.”
and so the others had to be told.
“peter isn't coming.”
peter not coming!
they gazed blankly at him, their sticks over their backs, and on each stick a bundle.
their first thought was that if peter was not going he had probably changed his mind about letting them go.
but he was far too proud for that.
“if you find your mothers,” he said darkly, “i hope you will like them.”
the awful cynicism of this made an uncomfortable impression, and most of them began to look rather doubtful.
after all, their faces said, were they not noodles to want to go?
“now then,” cried peter, “no fuss, no blubbering; good-bye, wendy;” and he held out his hand cheerily, quite as if they must really go now, for he had something important to do.
she had to take his hand, and there was no indication that he would prefer a thimble.
“you will remember about changing your flannels, peter?” she said, lingering over him.
she was always so particular about their flannels.
“yes.”
“and you will take your medicine?”
“yes.”
that seemed to be everything, and an awkward pause followed.
peter, however, was not the kind that breaks down before other people.
“are you ready, tinker bell?” he called out.
“ay, ay.”
“then lead the way.”
tink darted up the nearest tree; but no one followed her, for it was at this moment that the pirates made their dreadful attack upon the redskins.
above, where all had been so still, the air was rent with shrieks and the clash of steel.
below, there was dead silence.
mouths opened and remained open.
wendy fell on her knees, but her arms were extended toward peter.
all arms were extended to him, as if suddenly blown in his direction; they were beseeching him mutely not to desert them.
as for peter, he seized his sword, the same he thought he had slain barbecue with, and the lust of battle was in his eye.
chapter 12 the children are carried off
the pirate attack had been a complete surprise: a sure proof that the unscrupulous hook had conducted it improperly, for to surprise redskins fairly is beyond the wit of the white man.
by all the unwritten laws of savage warfare it is always the redskin who attacks, and with the wiliness of his race he does it just before the dawn, at which time he knows the courage of the whites to be at its lowest ebb.
the white men have in the meantime made a rude stockade on the summit of yonder undulating ground, at the foot of which a stream runs, for it is destruction to be too far from water.
there they await the onslaught, the inexperienced ones clutching their revolvers and treading on twigs, but the old hands sleeping tranquilly until just before the dawn.
through the long black night the savage scouts wriggle, snake-like, among the grass without stirring a blade.
the brushwood closes behind them, as silently as sand into which a mole has dived.
not a sound is to be heard, save when they give vent to a wonderful imitation of the lonely call of the coyote.
the cry is answered by other braves; and some of them do it even better than the coyotes, who are not very good at it.
so the chill hours wear on, and the long suspense is horribly trying to the paleface who has to live through it for the first time; but to the trained hand those ghastly calls and still ghastlier silences are but an intimation of how the night is marching.
that this was the usual procedure was so well known to hook that in disregarding it he cannot be excused on the plea of ignorance.
the piccaninnies, on their part, trusted implicitly to his honour, and their whole action of the night stands out in marked contrast to his.
they left nothing undone that was consistent with the reputation of their tribe.
with that alertness of the senses which is at once the marvel and despair of civilised peoples, they knew that the pirates were on the island from the moment one of them trod on a dry stick; and in an incredibly short space of time the coyote cries began.
every foot of ground between the spot where hook had landed his forces and the home under the trees was stealthily examined by braves wearing their mocassins with the heels in front.
they found only one hillock with a stream at its base, so that hook had no choice; here he must establish himself and wait for just before the dawn.
everything being thus mapped out with almost diabolical cunning, the main body of the redskins folded their blankets around them, and in the phlegmatic manner that is to them, the pearl of manhood squatted above the children's home, awaiting the cold moment when they should deal pale death.
here dreaming, though wide-awake, of the exquisite tortures to which they were to put him at break of day, those confiding savages were found by the treacherous hook.
from the accounts afterwards supplied by such of the scouts as escaped the carnage, he does not seem even to have paused at the rising ground, though it is certain that in that grey light he must have seen it: no thought of waiting to be attacked appears from first to last to have visited his subtle mind; he would not even hold off till the night was nearly spent; on he pounded with no policy but to fall to [get into combat].
what could the bewildered scouts do, masters as they were of every war-like artifice save this one, but trot helplessly after him, exposing themselves fatally to view, while they gave pathetic utterance to the coyote cry.
around the brave tiger lily were a dozen of her stoutest warriors, and they suddenly saw the perfidious pirates bearing down upon them.
fell from their eyes then the film through which they had looked at victory.
no more would they torture at the stake.
for them the happy hunting-grounds was now.
they knew it; but as their father's sons they acquitted themselves.
even then they had time to gather in a phalanx [dense formation] that would have been hard to break had they risen quickly, but this they were forbidden to do by the traditions of their race.
it is written that the noble savage must never express surprise in the presence of the white.
thus terrible as the sudden appearance of the pirates must have been to them, they remained stationary for a moment, not a muscle moving; as if the foe had come by invitation.
then, indeed, the tradition gallantly upheld, they seized their weapons, and the air was torn with the war-cry; but it was now too late.
it is no part of ours to describe what was a massacre rather than a fight.
thus perished many of the flower of the piccaninny tribe.
not all unavenged did they die, for with lean wolf fell alf mason, to disturb the spanish main no more, and among others who bit the dust were geo.
scourie, chas.
turley, and the alsatian foggerty.
turley fell to the tomahawk of the terrible panther, who ultimately cut a way through the pirates with tiger lily and a small remnant of the tribe.
to what extent hook is to blame for his tactics on this occasion is for the historian to decide.
had he waited on the rising ground till the proper hour he and his men would probably have been butchered; and in judging him it is only fair to take this into account.
what he should perhaps have done was to acquaint his opponents that he proposed to follow a new method.
on the other hand, this, as destroying the element of surprise, would have made his strategy of no avail, so that the whole question is beset with difficulties.
one cannot at least withhold a reluctant admiration for the wit that had conceived so bold a scheme, and the fell [deadly] genius with which it was carried out.
what were his own feelings about himself at that triumphant moment?
fain [gladly] would his dogs have known, as breathing heavily and wiping their cutlasses, they gathered at a discreet distance from his hook, and squinted through their ferret eyes at this extraordinary man.
elation must have been in his heart, but his face did not reflect it: ever a dark and solitary enigma, he stood aloof from his followers in spirit as in substance.
the night's work was not yet over, for it was not the redskins he had come out to destroy; they were but the bees to be smoked, so that he should get at the honey.
it was pan he wanted, pan and wendy and their band, but chiefly pan.
peter was such a small boy that one tends to wonder at the man's hatred of him.
true he had flung hook's arm to the crocodile, but even this and the increased insecurity of life to which it led, owing to the crocodile's pertinacity [persistance], hardly account for a vindictiveness so relentless and malignant.
the truth is that there was a something about peter which goaded the pirate captain to frenzy.
it was not his courage, it was not his engaging appearance, it was not .
there is no beating about the bush, for we know quite well what it was, and have got to tell.
it was peter's cockiness.
this had got on hook's nerves; it made his iron claw twitch, and at night it disturbed him like an insect.
while peter lived, the tortured man felt that he was a lion in a cage into which a sparrow had come.
the question now was how to get down the trees, or how to get his dogs down?
he ran his greedy eyes over them, searching for the thinnest ones.
they wriggled uncomfortably, for they knew he would not scruple [hesitate] to ram them down with poles.
in the meantime, what of the boys?
we have seen them at the first clang of the weapons, turned as it were into stone figures, open-mouthed, all appealing with outstretched arms to peter; and we return to them as their mouths close, and their arms fall to their sides.
the pandemonium above has ceased almost as suddenly as it arose, passed like a fierce gust of wind; but they know that in the passing it has determined their fate.
which side had won?
the pirates, listening avidly at the mouths of the trees, heard the question put by every boy, and alas, they also heard peter's answer.
“if the redskins have won,” he said, “they will beat the tom-tom; it is always their sign of victory.”
now smee had found the tom-tom, and was at that moment sitting on it.
“you will never hear the tom-tom again,” he muttered, but inaudibly of course, for strict silence had been enjoined [urged].
to his amazement hook signed him to beat the tom-tom, and slowly there came to smee an understanding of the dreadful wickedness of the order.
never, probably, had this simple man admired hook so much.
twice smee beat upon the instrument, and then stopped to listen gleefully.
“the tom-tom,” the miscreants heard peter cry; “an indian victory!”
the doomed children answered with a cheer that was music to the black hearts above, and almost immediately they repeated their good-byes to peter.
this puzzled the pirates, but all their other feelings were swallowed by a base delight that the enemy were about to come up the trees.
they smirked at each other and rubbed their hands.
rapidly and silently hook gave his orders: one man to each tree, and the others to arrange themselves in a line two yards apart.
chapter 13 do you believe in fairies?
the more quickly this horror is disposed of the better.
the first to emerge from his tree was curly.
he rose out of it into the arms of cecco, who flung him to smee, who flung him to starkey, who flung him to bill jukes, who flung him to noodler, and so he was tossed from one to another till he fell at the feet of the black pirate.
all the boys were plucked from their trees in this ruthless manner; and several of them were in the air at a time, like bales of goods flung from hand to hand.
a different treatment was accorded to wendy, who came last.
with ironical politeness hook raised his hat to her, and, offering her his arm, escorted her to the spot where the others were being gagged.
he did it with such an air, he was so frightfully distingue [imposingly distinguished], that she was too fascinated to cry out.
she was only a little girl.
perhaps it is tell-tale to divulge that for a moment hook entranced her, and we tell on her only because her slip led to strange results.
had she haughtily unhanded him (and we should have loved to write it of her), she would have been hurled through the air like the others, and then hook would probably not have been present at the tying of the children; and had he not been at the tying he would not have discovered slightly's secret, and without the secret he could not presently have made his foul attempt on peter's life.
they were tied to prevent their flying away, doubled up with their knees close to their ears; and for the trussing of them the black pirate had cut a rope into nine equal pieces.
all went well until slightly's turn came, when he was found to be like those irritating parcels that use up all the string in going round and leave no tags [ends] with which to tie a knot.
the pirates kicked him in their rage, just as you kick the parcel (though in fairness you should kick the string); and strange to say it was hook who told them to belay their violence.
his lip was curled with malicious triumph.
while his dogs were merely sweating because every time they tried to pack the unhappy lad tight in one part he bulged out in another, hook's master mind had gone far beneath slightly's surface, probing not for effects but for causes; and his exultation showed that he had found them.
slightly, white to the gills, knew that hook had surprised [discovered] his secret, which was this, that no boy so blown out could use a tree wherein an average man need stick.
poor slightly, most wretched of all the children now, for he was in a panic about peter, bitterly regretted what he had done.
madly addicted to the drinking of water when he was hot, he had swelled in consequence to his present girth, and instead of reducing himself to fit his tree he had, unknown to the others, whittled his tree to make it fit him.
sufficient of this hook guessed to persuade him that peter at last lay at his mercy, but no word of the dark design that now formed in the subterranean caverns of his mind crossed his lips; he merely signed that the captives were to be conveyed to the ship, and that he would be alone.
how to convey them?
hunched up in their ropes they might indeed be rolled down hill like barrels, but most of the way lay through a morass.
again hook's genius surmounted difficulties.
he indicated that the little house must be used as a conveyance.
the children were flung into it, four stout pirates raised it on their shoulders, the others fell in behind, and singing the hateful pirate chorus the strange procession set off through the wood.
i don't know whether any of the children were crying; if so, the singing drowned the sound; but as the little house disappeared in the forest, a brave though tiny jet of smoke issued from its chimney as if defying hook.
hook saw it, and it did peter a bad service.
it dried up any trickle of pity for him that may have remained in the pirate's infuriated breast.
the first thing he did on finding himself alone in the fast falling night was to tiptoe to slightly's tree, and make sure that it provided him with a passage.
then for long he remained brooding; his hat of ill omen on the sward, so that any gentle breeze which had arisen might play refreshingly through his hair.
dark as were his thoughts his blue eyes were as soft as the periwinkle.
intently he listened for any sound from the nether world, but all was as silent below as above; the house under the ground seemed to be but one more empty tenement in the void.
was that boy asleep, or did he stand waiting at the foot of slightly's tree, with his dagger in his hand?
there was no way of knowing, save by going down.
hook let his cloak slip softly to the ground, and then biting his lips till a lewd blood stood on them, he stepped into the tree.
he was a brave man, but for a moment he had to stop there and wipe his brow, which was dripping like a candle.
then, silently, he let himself go into the unknown.
he arrived unmolested at the foot of the shaft, and stood still again, biting at his breath, which had almost left him.
as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light various objects in the home under the trees took shape; but the only one on which his greedy gaze rested, long sought for and found at last, was the great bed.
on the bed lay peter fast asleep.
unaware of the tragedy being enacted above, peter had continued, for a little time after the children left, to play gaily on his pipes: no doubt rather a forlorn attempt to prove to himself that he did not care.
then he decided not to take his medicine, so as to grieve wendy.
then he lay down on the bed outside the coverlet, to vex her still more; for she had always tucked them inside it, because you never know that you may not grow chilly at the turn of the night.
then he nearly cried; but it struck him how indignant she would be if he laughed instead; so he laughed a haughty laugh and fell asleep in the middle of it.
sometimes, though not often, he had dreams, and they were more painful than the dreams of other boys.
for hours he could not be separated from these dreams, though he wailed piteously in them.
they had to do, i think, with the riddle of his existence.
at such times it had been wendy's custom to take him out of bed and sit with him on her lap, soothing him in dear ways of her own invention, and when he grew calmer to put him back to bed before he quite woke up, so that he should not know of the indignity to which she had subjected him.
but on this occasion he had fallen at once into a dreamless sleep.
one arm dropped over the edge of the bed, one leg was arched, and the unfinished part of his laugh was stranded on his mouth, which was open, showing the little pearls.
thus defenceless hook found him.
he stood silent at the foot of the tree looking across the chamber at his enemy.
did no feeling of compassion disturb his sombre breast?
the man was not wholly evil; he loved flowers (i have been told) and sweet music (he was himself no mean performer on the harpsichord); and, let it be frankly admitted, the idyllic nature of the scene stirred him profoundly.
mastered by his better self he would have returned reluctantly up the tree, but for one thing.
what stayed him was peter's impertinent appearance as he slept.
the open mouth, the drooping arm, the arched knee: they were such a personification of cockiness as, taken together, will never again, one may hope, be presented to eyes so sensitive to their offensiveness.
they steeled hook's heart.
if his rage had broken him into a hundred pieces every one of them would have disregarded the incident, and leapt at the sleeper.
though a light from the one lamp shone dimly on the bed, hook stood in darkness himself, and at the first stealthy step forward he discovered an obstacle, the door of slightly's tree.
it did not entirely fill the aperture, and he had been looking over it.
feeling for the catch, he found to his fury that it was low down, beyond his reach.
to his disordered brain it seemed then that the irritating quality in peter's face and figure visibly increased, and he rattled the door and flung himself against it.
was his enemy to escape him after all?
but what was that?
the red in his eye had caught sight of peter's medicine standing on a ledge within easy reach.
he fathomed what it was straightaway, and immediately knew that the sleeper was in his power.
lest he should be taken alive, hook always carried about his person a dreadful drug, blended by himself of all the death-dealing rings that had come into his possession.
these he had boiled down into a yellow liquid quite unknown to science, which was probably the most virulent poison in existence.
five drops of this he now added to peter's cup.
his hand shook, but it was in exultation rather than in shame.
as he did it he avoided glancing at the sleeper, but not lest pity should unnerve him; merely to avoid spilling.
then one long gloating look he cast upon his victim, and turning, wormed his way with difficulty up the tree.
as he emerged at the top he looked the very spirit of evil breaking from its hole.
donning his hat at its most rakish angle, he wound his cloak around him, holding one end in front as if to conceal his person from the night, of which it was the blackest part, and muttering strangely to himself, stole away through the trees.
peter slept on.
the light guttered [burned to edges] and went out, leaving the tenement in darkness; but still he slept.
it must have been not less than ten o'clock by the crocodile, when he suddenly sat up in his bed, wakened by he knew not what.
it was a soft cautious tapping on the door of his tree.
soft and cautious, but in that stillness it was sinister.
peter felt for his dagger till his hand gripped it.
then he spoke.
“who is that?”
for long there was no answer: then again the knock.
“who are you?”
no answer.
he was thrilled, and he loved being thrilled.
in two strides he reached the door.
unlike slightly's door, it filled the aperture [opening], so that he could not see beyond it, nor could the one knocking see him.
“i won't open unless you speak,” peter cried.
then at last the visitor spoke, in a lovely bell-like voice.
“let me in, peter.”
it was tink, and quickly he unbarred to her.
she flew in excitedly, her face flushed and her dress stained with mud.
“what is it?”
“oh, you could never guess!” she cried, and offered him three guesses.
“out with it!” he shouted, and in one ungrammatical sentence, as long as the ribbons that conjurers [magicians] pull from their mouths, she told of the capture of wendy and the boys.
peter's heart bobbed up and down as he listened.
wendy bound, and on the pirate ship; she who loved everything to be just so!
“i'll rescue her!” he cried, leaping at his weapons.
as he leapt he thought of something he could do to please her.
he could take his medicine.
his hand closed on the fatal draught.
“no!” shrieked tinker bell, who had heard hook mutter about his deed as he sped through the forest.
“why not?”
“it is poisoned.”
“poisoned?
who could have poisoned it?”
“hook.”
“don't be silly.
how could hook have got down here?”
alas, tinker bell could not explain this, for even she did not know the dark secret of slightly's tree.
nevertheless hook's words had left no room for doubt.
the cup was poisoned.
“besides,” said peter, quite believing himself, “i never fell asleep.”
he raised the cup.
no time for words now; time for deeds; and with one of her lightning movements tink got between his lips and the draught, and drained it to the dregs.
“why, tink, how dare you drink my medicine?”
but she did not answer.
already she was reeling in the air.
“what is the matter with you?” cried peter, suddenly afraid.
“it was poisoned, peter,” she told him softly; “and now i am going to be dead.”
“o tink, did you drink it to save me?”
“yes.”
“but why, tink?”
her wings would scarcely carry her now, but in reply she alighted on his shoulder and gave his nose a loving bite.
she whispered in his ear “you silly ass,” and then, tottering to her chamber, lay down on the bed.
his head almost filled the fourth wall of her little room as he knelt near her in distress.
every moment her light was growing fainter; and he knew that if it went out she would be no more.
she liked his tears so much that she put out her beautiful finger and let them run over it.
her voice was so low that at first he could not make out what she said.
then he made it out.
she was saying that she thought she could get well again if children believed in fairies.
peter flung out his arms.
there were no children there, and it was night time; but he addressed all who might be dreaming of the neverland, and who were therefore nearer to him than you think: boys and girls in their nighties, and naked papooses in their baskets hung from trees.
“do you believe?” he cried.
tink sat up in bed almost briskly to listen to her fate.
she fancied she heard answers in the affirmative, and then again she wasn't sure.
“what do you think?” she asked peter.
“if you believe,” he shouted to them, “clap your hands; don't let tink die.”
many clapped.
some didn't.
a few beasts hissed.
the clapping stopped suddenly; as if countless mothers had rushed to their nurseries to see what on earth was happening; but already tink was saved.
first her voice grew strong, then she popped out of bed, then she was flashing through the room more merry and impudent than ever.
she never thought of thanking those who believed, but she would have liked to get at the ones who had hissed.
“and now to rescue wendy!”
the moon was riding in a cloudy heaven when peter rose from his tree, begirt [belted] with weapons and wearing little else, to set out upon his perilous quest.
it was not such a night as he would have chosen.
he had hoped to fly, keeping not far from the ground so that nothing unwonted should escape his eyes; but in that fitful light to have flown low would have meant trailing his shadow through the trees, thus disturbing birds and acquainting a watchful foe that he was astir.
he regretted now that he had given the birds of the island such strange names that they are very wild and difficult of approach.
there was no other course but to press forward in redskin fashion, at which happily he was an adept [expert].
but in what direction, for he could not be sure that the children had been taken to the ship?
a light fall of snow had obliterated all footmarks; and a deathly silence pervaded the island, as if for a space nature stood still in horror of the recent carnage.
he had taught the children something of the forest lore that he had himself learned from tiger lily and tinker bell, and knew that in their dire hour they were not likely to forget it.
slightly, if he had an opportunity, would blaze [cut a mark in] the trees, for instance, curly would drop seeds, and wendy would leave her handkerchief at some important place.
the morning was needed to search for such guidance, and he could not wait.
the upper world had called him, but would give no help.
the crocodile passed him, but not another living thing, not a sound, not a movement; and yet he knew well that sudden death might be at the next tree, or stalking him from behind.
he swore this terrible oath: “hook or me this time.”
now he crawled forward like a snake, and again erect, he darted across a space on which the moonlight played, one finger on his lip and his dagger at the ready.
he was frightfully happy.
chapter 14 the pirate ship
one green light squinting over kidd's creek, which is near the mouth of the pirate river, marked where the brig, the jolly roger, lay, low in the water; a rakish-looking [speedy-looking] craft foul to the hull, every beam in her detestable, like ground strewn with mangled feathers.
she was the cannibal of the seas, and scarce needed that watchful eye, for she floated immune in the horror of her name.
she was wrapped in the blanket of night, through which no sound from her could have reached the shore.
there was little sound, and none agreeable save the whir of the ship's sewing machine at which smee sat, ever industrious and obliging, the essence of the commonplace, pathetic smee.
i know not why he was so infinitely pathetic, unless it were because he was so pathetically unaware of it; but even strong men had to turn hastily from looking at him, and more than once on summer evenings he had touched the fount of hook's tears and made it flow.
of this, as of almost everything else, smee was quite unconscious.
a few of the pirates leant over the bulwarks, drinking in the miasma [putrid mist] of the night; others sprawled by barrels over games of dice and cards; and the exhausted four who had carried the little house lay prone on the deck, where even in their sleep they rolled skillfully to this side or that out of hook's reach, lest he should claw them mechanically in passing.
hook trod the deck in thought.
o man unfathomable.
it was his hour of triumph.
peter had been removed for ever from his path, and all the other boys were in the brig, about to walk the plank.
it was his grimmest deed since the days when he had brought barbecue to heel; and knowing as we do how vain a tabernacle is man, could we be surprised had he now paced the deck unsteadily, bellied out by the winds of his success?
but there was no elation in his gait, which kept pace with the action of his sombre mind.
hook was profoundly dejected.
he was often thus when communing with himself on board ship in the quietude of the night.
it was because he was so terribly alone.
this inscrutable man never felt more alone than when surrounded by his dogs.
they were socially inferior to him.
hook was not his true name.
to reveal who he really was would even at this date set the country in a blaze; but as those who read between the lines must already have guessed, he had been at a famous public school; and its traditions still clung to him like garments, with which indeed they are largely concerned.
thus it was offensive to him even now to board a ship in the same dress in which he grappled [attacked] her, and he still adhered in his walk to the school's distinguished slouch.
but above all he retained the passion for good form.
good form!
however much he may have degenerated, he still knew that this is all that really matters.
from far within him he heard a creaking as of rusty portals, and through them came a stern tap-tap-tap, like hammering in the night when one cannot sleep.
“have you been good form to-day?” was their eternal question.
“fame, fame, that glittering bauble, it is mine,” he cried.
“is it quite good form to be distinguished at anything?” the tap-tap from his school replied.
“i am the only man whom barbecue feared,” he urged, “and flint feared barbecue.”
“barbecue, flint what house?” came the cutting retort.
most disquieting reflection of all, was it not bad form to think about good form?
his vitals were tortured by this problem.
it was a claw within him sharper than the iron one; and as it tore him, the perspiration dripped down his tallow [waxy] countenance and streaked his doublet.
ofttimes he drew his sleeve across his face, but there was no damming that trickle.
ah, envy not hook.
there came to him a presentiment of his early dissolution [death].
it was as if peter's terrible oath had boarded the ship.
hook felt a gloomy desire to make his dying speech, lest presently there should be no time for it.
“better for hook,” he cried, “if he had had less ambition!” it was in his darkest hours only that he referred to himself in the third person.
“no little children to love me!”
strange that he should think of this, which had never troubled him before; perhaps the sewing machine brought it to his mind.
for long he muttered to himself, staring at smee, who was hemming placidly, under the conviction that all children feared him.
feared him!
feared smee!
there was not a child on board the brig that night who did not already love him.
he had said horrid things to them and hit them with the palm of his hand, because he could not hit with his fist, but they had only clung to him the more.
michael had tried on his spectacles.
to tell poor smee that they thought him lovable!
hook itched to do it, but it seemed too brutal.
instead, he revolved this mystery in his mind: why do they find smee lovable?
he pursued the problem like the sleuth-hound that he was.
if smee was lovable, what was it that made him so?
a terrible answer suddenly presented itself “good form?”
had the bo'sun good form without knowing it, which is the best form of all?
he remembered that you have to prove you don't know you have it before you are eligible for pop [an elite social club at eton].
with a cry of rage he raised his iron hand over smee's head; but he did not tear.
what arrested him was this reflection:
“to claw a man because he is good form, what would that be?”
“bad form!”
the unhappy hook was as impotent [powerless] as he was damp, and he fell forward like a cut flower.
his dogs thinking him out of the way for a time, discipline instantly relaxed; and they broke into a bacchanalian [drunken] dance, which brought him to his feet at once, all traces of human weakness gone, as if a bucket of water had passed over him.
“quiet, you scugs,” he cried, “or i'll cast anchor in you;” and at once the din was hushed.
“are all the children chained, so that they cannot fly away?”
“ay, ay.”
“then hoist them up.”
the wretched prisoners were dragged from the hold, all except wendy, and ranged in line in front of him.
for a time he seemed unconscious of their presence.
he lolled at his ease, humming, not unmelodiously, snatches of a rude song, and fingering a pack of cards.
ever and anon the light from his cigar gave a touch of colour to his face.
“now then, bullies,” he said briskly, “six of you walk the plank to-night, but i have room for two cabin boys.
which of you is it to be?”
“don't irritate him unnecessarily,” had been wendy's instructions in the hold; so tootles stepped forward politely.
tootles hated the idea of signing under such a man, but an instinct told him that it would be prudent to lay the responsibility on an absent person; and though a somewhat silly boy, he knew that mothers alone are always willing to be the buffer.
all children know this about mothers, and despise them for it, but make constant use of it.
so tootles explained prudently, “you see, sir, i don't think my mother would like me to be a pirate.
would your mother like you to be a pirate, slightly?”
he winked at slightly, who said mournfully, “i don't think so,” as if he wished things had been otherwise.
“would your mother like you to be a pirate, twin?”
“i don't think so,” said the first twin, as clever as the others.
“nibs, would ”
“stow this gab,” roared hook, and the spokesmen were dragged back.
“you, boy,” he said, addressing john, “you look as if you had a little pluck in you.
didst never want to be a pirate, my hearty?”
now john had sometimes experienced this hankering at maths.
prep.
; and he was struck by hook's picking him out.
“i once thought of calling myself red-handed jack,” he said diffidently.
“and a good name too.
we'll call you that here, bully, if you join.”
“what do you think, michael?” asked john.
“what would you call me if i join?” michael demanded.
“blackbeard joe.”
michael was naturally impressed.
“what do you think, john?” he wanted john to decide, and john wanted him to decide.
“shall we still be respectful subjects of the king?” john inquired.
through hook's teeth came the answer: “you would have to swear, 'down with the king.
'”
perhaps john had not behaved very well so far, but he shone out now.
“then i refuse,” he cried, banging the barrel in front of hook.
“and i refuse,” cried michael.
“rule britannia!” squeaked curly.
the infuriated pirates buffeted them in the mouth; and hook roared out, “that seals your doom.
bring up their mother.
get the plank ready.”
they were only boys, and they went white as they saw jukes and cecco preparing the fatal plank.
but they tried to look brave when wendy was brought up.
no words of mine can tell you how wendy despised those pirates.
to the boys there was at least some glamour in the pirate calling; but all that she saw was that the ship had not been tidied for years.
there was not a porthole on the grimy glass of which you might not have written with your finger “dirty pig”; and she had already written it on several.
but as the boys gathered round her she had no thought, of course, save for them.
“so, my beauty,” said hook, as if he spoke in syrup, “you are to see your children walk the plank.”
fine gentlemen though he was, the intensity of his communings had soiled his ruff, and suddenly he knew that she was gazing at it.
with a hasty gesture he tried to hide it, but he was too late.
“are they to die?” asked wendy, with a look of such frightful contempt that he nearly fainted.
“they are,” he snarled.
“silence all,” he called gloatingly, “for a mother's last words to her children.”
at this moment wendy was grand.
“these are my last words, dear boys,”
she said firmly.
“i feel that i have a message to you from your real mothers, and it is this: 'we hope our sons will die like english gentlemen.
'”
even the pirates were awed, and tootles cried out hysterically, “i am going to do what my mother hopes.
what are you to do, nibs?”
“what my mother hopes.
what are you to do, twin?”
“what my mother hopes.
john, what are ”
but hook had found his voice again.
“tie her up!” he shouted.
it was smee who tied her to the mast.
“see here, honey,” he whispered, “i'll save you if you promise to be my mother.”
but not even for smee would she make such a promise.
“i would almost rather have no children at all,” she said disdainfully [scornfully].
it is sad to know that not a boy was looking at her as smee tied her to the mast; the eyes of all were on the plank: that last little walk they were about to take.
they were no longer able to hope that they would walk it manfully, for the capacity to think had gone from them; they could stare and shiver only.
hook smiled on them with his teeth closed, and took a step toward wendy.
his intention was to turn her face so that she should see the boys walking the plank one by one.
but he never reached her, he never heard the cry of anguish he hoped to wring from her.
he heard something else instead.
it was the terrible tick-tick of the crocodile.
they all heard it pirates, boys, wendy; and immediately every head was blown in one direction; not to the water whence the sound proceeded, but toward hook.
all knew that what was about to happen concerned him alone, and that from being actors they were suddenly become spectators.
very frightful was it to see the change that came over him.
it was as if he had been clipped at every joint.
he fell in a little heap.
the sound came steadily nearer; and in advance of it came this ghastly thought, “the crocodile is about to board the ship!”
even the iron claw hung inactive; as if knowing that it was no intrinsic part of what the attacking force wanted.
left so fearfully alone, any other man would have lain with his eyes shut where he fell: but the gigantic brain of hook was still working, and under its guidance he crawled on the knees along the deck as far from the sound as he could go.
the pirates respectfully cleared a passage for him, and it was only when he brought up against the bulwarks that he spoke.
“hide me!” he cried hoarsely.
they gathered round him, all eyes averted from the thing that was coming aboard.
they had no thought of fighting it.
it was fate.
only when hook was hidden from them did curiosity loosen the limbs of the boys so that they could rush to the ship's side to see the crocodile climbing it.
then they got the strangest surprise of the night of nights; for it was no crocodile that was coming to their aid.
it was peter.
he signed to them not to give vent to any cry of admiration that might rouse suspicion.
then he went on ticking.
chapter 15 “hook or me this time”
odd things happen to all of us on our way through life without our noticing for a time that they have happened.
thus, to take an instance, we suddenly discover that we have been deaf in one ear for we don't know how long, but, say, half an hour.
now such an experience had come that night to peter.
when last we saw him he was stealing across the island with one finger to his lips and his dagger at the ready.
he had seen the crocodile pass by without noticing anything peculiar about it, but by and by he remembered that it had not been ticking.
at first he thought this eerie, but soon concluded rightly that the clock had run down.
without giving a thought to what might be the feelings of a fellow-creature thus abruptly deprived of its closest companion, peter began to consider how he could turn the catastrophe to his own use; and he decided to tick, so that wild beasts should believe he was the crocodile and let him pass unmolested.
he ticked superbly, but with one unforeseen result.
the crocodile was among those who heard the sound, and it followed him, though whether with the purpose of regaining what it had lost, or merely as a friend under the belief that it was again ticking itself, will never be certainly known, for, like slaves to a fixed idea, it was a stupid beast.
peter reached the shore without mishap, and went straight on, his legs encountering the water as if quite unaware that they had entered a new element.
thus many animals pass from land to water, but no other human of whom i know.
as he swam he had but one thought: “hook or me this time.” he had ticked so long that he now went on ticking without knowing that he was doing it.
had he known he would have stopped, for to board the brig by help of the tick, though an ingenious idea, had not occurred to him.
on the contrary, he thought he had scaled her side as noiseless as a mouse; and he was amazed to see the pirates cowering from him, with hook in their midst as abject as if he had heard the crocodile.
the crocodile!
no sooner did peter remember it than he heard the ticking.
at first he thought the sound did come from the crocodile, and he looked behind him swiftly.
then he realised that he was doing it himself, and in a flash he understood the situation.
“how clever of me!”
he thought at once, and signed to the boys not to burst into applause.
it was at this moment that ed teynte the quartermaster emerged from the forecastle and came along the deck.
now, reader, time what happened by your watch.
peter struck true and deep.
john clapped his hands on the ill-fated pirate's mouth to stifle the dying groan.
he fell forward.
four boys caught him to prevent the thud.
peter gave the signal, and the carrion was cast overboard.
there was a splash, and then silence.
how long has it taken?
“one!” (slightly had begun to count.)
none too soon, peter, every inch of him on tiptoe, vanished into the cabin; for more than one pirate was screwing up his courage to look round.
they could hear each other's distressed breathing now, which showed them that the more terrible sound had passed.
“it's gone, captain,” smee said, wiping off his spectacles.
“all's still again.”
slowly hook let his head emerge from his ruff, and listened so intently that he could have caught the echo of the tick.
there was not a sound, and he drew himself up firmly to his full height.
“then here's to johnny plank!” he cried brazenly, hating the boys more than ever because they had seen him unbend.
he broke into the villainous ditty:
“yo ho, yo ho, the frisky plank,      you walks along it so,      till it goes down and you goes down      to davy jones below!”
to terrorize the prisoners the more, though with a certain loss of dignity, he danced along an imaginary plank, grimacing at them as he sang; and when he finished he cried, “do you want a touch of the cat [o'
nine tails] before you walk the plank?”
at that they fell on their knees.
“no, no!” they cried so piteously that every pirate smiled.
“fetch the cat, jukes,” said hook; “it's in the cabin.”
the cabin!
peter was in the cabin!
the children gazed at each other.
“ay, ay,” said jukes blithely, and he strode into the cabin.
they followed him with their eyes; they scarce knew that hook had resumed his song, his dogs joining in with him:
“yo ho, yo ho, the scratching cat,      its tails are nine, you know,      and when they're writ upon your back ”
what was the last line will never be known, for of a sudden the song was stayed by a dreadful screech from the cabin.
it wailed through the ship, and died away.
then was heard a crowing sound which was well understood by the boys, but to the pirates was almost more eerie than the screech.
“what was that?” cried hook.
“two,” said slightly solemnly.
the italian cecco hesitated for a moment and then swung into the cabin.
he tottered out, haggard.
“what's the matter with bill jukes, you dog?” hissed hook, towering over him.
“the matter wi' him is he's dead, stabbed,” replied cecco in a hollow voice.
“bill jukes dead!” cried the startled pirates.
“the cabin's as black as a pit,” cecco said, almost gibbering, “but there is something terrible in there: the thing you heard crowing.”
the exultation of the boys, the lowering looks of the pirates, both were seen by hook.
“cecco,” he said in his most steely voice, “go back and fetch me out that doodle-doo.”
cecco, bravest of the brave, cowered before his captain, crying “no, no”; but hook was purring to his claw.
“did you say you would go, cecco?” he said musingly.
cecco went, first flinging his arms despairingly.
there was no more singing, all listened now; and again came a death-screech and again a crow.
no one spoke except slightly.
“three,” he said.
hook rallied his dogs with a gesture.
“'s'death and odds fish,” he thundered, “who is to bring me that doodle-doo?”
“wait till cecco comes out,” growled starkey, and the others took up the cry.
“i think i heard you volunteer, starkey,” said hook, purring again.
“no, by thunder!” starkey cried.
“my hook thinks you did,” said hook, crossing to him.
“i wonder if it would not be advisable, starkey, to humour the hook?”
“i'll swing before i go in there,” replied starkey doggedly, and again he had the support of the crew.
“is this mutiny?” asked hook more pleasantly than ever.
“starkey's ringleader!”
“captain, mercy!” starkey whimpered, all of a tremble now.
“shake hands, starkey,” said hook, proffering his claw.
starkey looked round for help, but all deserted him.
as he backed up hook advanced, and now the red spark was in his eye.
with a despairing scream the pirate leapt upon long tom and precipitated himself into the sea.
“four,” said slightly.
“and now,” hook said courteously, “did any other gentlemen say mutiny?”
seizing a lantern and raising his claw with a menacing gesture, “i'll bring out that doodle-doo myself,” he said, and sped into the cabin.
“five.” how slightly longed to say it.
he wetted his lips to be ready, but hook came staggering out, without his lantern.
“something blew out the light,” he said a little unsteadily.
“something!” echoed mullins.
“what of cecco?” demanded noodler.
“he's as dead as jukes,” said hook shortly.
his reluctance to return to the cabin impressed them all unfavourably, and the mutinous sounds again broke forth.
all pirates are superstitious, and cookson cried, “they do say the surest sign a ship's accurst is when there's one on board more than can be accounted for.”
“i've heard,” muttered mullins, “he always boards the pirate craft last.
had he a tail, captain?”
“they say,” said another, looking viciously at hook, “that when he comes it's in the likeness of the wickedest man aboard.”
“had he a hook, captain?” asked cookson insolently; and one after another took up the cry, “the ship's doomed!” at this the children could not resist raising a cheer.
hook had well-nigh forgotten his prisoners, but as he swung round on them now his face lit up again.
“lads,” he cried to his crew, “now here's a notion.
open the cabin door and drive them in.
let them fight the doodle-doo for their lives.
if they kill him, we're so much the better; if he kills them, we're none the worse.”
for the last time his dogs admired hook, and devotedly they did his bidding.
the boys, pretending to struggle, were pushed into the cabin and the door was closed on them.
“now, listen!” cried hook, and all listened.
but not one dared to face the door.
yes, one, wendy, who all this time had been bound to the mast.
it was for neither a scream nor a crow that she was watching, it was for the reappearance of peter.
she had not long to wait.
in the cabin he had found the thing for which he had gone in search: the key that would free the children of their manacles, and now they all stole forth, armed with such weapons as they could find.
first signing them to hide, peter cut wendy's bonds, and then nothing could have been easier than for them all to fly off together; but one thing barred the way, an oath, “hook or me this time.”
so when he had freed wendy, he whispered for her to conceal herself with the others, and himself took her place by the mast, her cloak around him so that he should pass for her.
then he took a great breath and crowed.
to the pirates it was a voice crying that all the boys lay slain in the cabin; and they were panic-stricken.
hook tried to hearten them; but like the dogs he had made them they showed him their fangs, and he knew that if he took his eyes off them now they would leap at him.
“lads,” he said, ready to cajole or strike as need be, but never quailing for an instant, “i've thought it out.
there's a jonah aboard.”
“ay,” they snarled, “a man wi' a hook.”
“no, lads, no, it's the girl.
never was luck on a pirate ship wi' a woman on board.
we'll right the ship when she's gone.”
some of them remembered that this had been a saying of flint's.
“it's worth trying,” they said doubtfully.
“fling the girl overboard,” cried hook; and they made a rush at the figure in the cloak.
“there's none can save you now, missy,” mullins hissed jeeringly.
“there's one,” replied the figure.
“who's that?”
“peter pan the avenger!” came the terrible answer; and as he spoke peter flung off his cloak.
then they all knew who 'twas that had been undoing them in the cabin, and twice hook essayed to speak and twice he failed.
in that frightful moment i think his fierce heart broke.
at last he cried, “cleave him to the brisket!” but without conviction.
“down, boys, and at them!” peter's voice rang out; and in another moment the clash of arms was resounding through the ship.
had the pirates kept together it is certain that they would have won; but the onset came when they were still unstrung, and they ran hither and thither, striking wildly, each thinking himself the last survivor of the crew.
man to man they were the stronger; but they fought on the defensive only, which enabled the boys to hunt in pairs and choose their quarry.
some of the miscreants leapt into the sea; others hid in dark recesses, where they were found by slightly, who did not fight, but ran about with a lantern which he flashed in their faces, so that they were half blinded and fell as an easy prey to the reeking swords of the other boys.
there was little sound to be heard but the clang of weapons, an occasional screech or splash, and slightly monotonously counting five six seven eight nine ten eleven.
i think all were gone when a group of savage boys surrounded hook, who seemed to have a charmed life, as he kept them at bay in that circle of fire.
they had done for his dogs, but this man alone seemed to be a match for them all.
again and again they closed upon him, and again and again he hewed a clear space.
he had lifted up one boy with his hook, and was using him as a buckler [shield], when another, who had just passed his sword through mullins, sprang into the fray.
“put up your swords, boys,” cried the newcomer, “this man is mine.”
thus suddenly hook found himself face to face with peter.
the others drew back and formed a ring around them.
for long the two enemies looked at one another, hook shuddering slightly, and peter with the strange smile upon his face.
“so, pan,” said hook at last, “this is all your doing.”
“ay, james hook,” came the stern answer, “it is all my doing.”
“proud and insolent youth,” said hook, “prepare to meet thy doom.”
“dark and sinister man,” peter answered, “have at thee.”
without more words they fell to, and for a space there was no advantage to either blade.
peter was a superb swordsman, and parried with dazzling rapidity; ever and anon he followed up a feint with a lunge that got past his foe's defence, but his shorter reach stood him in ill stead, and he could not drive the steel home.
hook, scarcely his inferior in brilliancy, but not quite so nimble in wrist play, forced him back by the weight of his onset, hoping suddenly to end all with a favourite thrust, taught him long ago by barbecue at rio; but to his astonishment he found this thrust turned aside again and again.
then he sought to close and give the quietus with his iron hook, which all this time had been pawing the air; but peter doubled under it and, lunging fiercely, pierced him in the ribs.
at the sight of his own blood, whose peculiar colour, you remember, was offensive to him, the sword fell from hook's hand, and he was at peter's mercy.
“now!” cried all the boys, but with a magnificent gesture peter invited his opponent to pick up his sword.
hook did so instantly, but with a tragic feeling that peter was showing good form.
hitherto he had thought it was some fiend fighting him, but darker suspicions assailed him now.
“pan, who and what art thou?” he cried huskily.
“i'm youth, i'm joy,” peter answered at a venture, “i'm a little bird that has broken out of the egg.”
this, of course, was nonsense; but it was proof to the unhappy hook that peter did not know in the least who or what he was, which is the very pinnacle of good form.
“to't again,” he cried despairingly.
he fought now like a human flail, and every sweep of that terrible sword would have severed in twain any man or boy who obstructed it; but peter fluttered round him as if the very wind it made blew him out of the danger zone.
and again and again he darted in and pricked.
hook was fighting now without hope.
that passionate breast no longer asked for life; but for one boon it craved: to see peter show bad form before it was cold forever.
abandoning the fight he rushed into the powder magazine and fired it.
“in two minutes,” he cried, “the ship will be blown to pieces.”
now, now, he thought, true form will show.
but peter issued from the powder magazine with the shell in his hands, and calmly flung it overboard.
what sort of form was hook himself showing?
misguided man though he was, we may be glad, without sympathising with him, that in the end he was true to the traditions of his race.
the other boys were flying around him now, flouting, scornful; and he staggered about the deck striking up at them impotently, his mind was no longer with them; it was slouching in the playing fields of long ago, or being sent up [to the headmaster]
for good, or watching the wall-game from a famous wall.
and his shoes were right, and his waistcoat was right, and his tie was right, and his socks were right.
james hook, thou not wholly unheroic figure, farewell.
for we have come to his last moment.
seeing peter slowly advancing upon him through the air with dagger poised, he sprang upon the bulwarks to cast himself into the sea.
he did not know that the crocodile was waiting for him; for we purposely stopped the clock that this knowledge might be spared him: a little mark of respect from us at the end.
he had one last triumph, which i think we need not grudge him.
as he stood on the bulwark looking over his shoulder at peter gliding through the air, he invited him with a gesture to use his foot.
it made peter kick instead of stab.
at last hook had got the boon for which he craved.
“bad form,” he cried jeeringly, and went content to the crocodile.
thus perished james hook.
“seventeen,” slightly sang out; but he was not quite correct in his figures.
fifteen paid the penalty for their crimes that night; but two reached the shore: starkey to be captured by the redskins, who made him nurse for all their papooses, a melancholy come-down for a pirate; and smee, who henceforth wandered about the world in his spectacles, making a precarious living by saying he was the only man that jas.
hook had feared.
wendy, of course, had stood by taking no part in the fight, though watching peter with glistening eyes; but now that all was over she became prominent again.
she praised them equally, and shuddered delightfully when michael showed her the place where he had killed one; and then she took them into hook's cabin and pointed to his watch which was hanging on a nail.
it said “half-past one!”
the lateness of the hour was almost the biggest thing of all.
she got them to bed in the pirates' bunks pretty quickly, you may be sure; all but peter, who strutted up and down on the deck, until at last he fell asleep by the side of long tom.
he had one of his dreams that night, and cried in his sleep for a long time, and wendy held him tightly.
chapter 16 the return home
by three bells that morning they were all stirring their stumps [legs]; for there was a big sea running; and tootles, the bo'sun, was among them, with a rope's end in his hand and chewing tobacco.
they all donned pirate clothes cut off at the knee, shaved smartly, and tumbled up, with the true nautical roll and hitching their trousers.
it need not be said who was the captain.
nibs and john were first and second mate.
there was a woman aboard.
the rest were tars [sailors]
before the mast, and lived in the fo'c'sle.
peter had already lashed himself to the wheel; but he piped all hands and delivered a short address to them; said he hoped they would do their duty like gallant hearties, but that he knew they were the scum of rio and the gold coast, and if they snapped at him he would tear them.
the bluff strident words struck the note sailors understood, and they cheered him lustily.
then a few sharp orders were given, and they turned the ship round, and nosed her for the mainland.
captain pan calculated, after consulting the ship's chart, that if this weather lasted they should strike the azores about the 21st of june, after which it would save time to fly.
some of them wanted it to be an honest ship and others were in favour of keeping it a pirate; but the captain treated them as dogs, and they dared not express their wishes to him even in a round robin [one person after another, as they had to cpt.
hook].
instant obedience was the only safe thing.
slightly got a dozen for looking perplexed when told to take soundings.
the general feeling was that peter was honest just now to lull wendy's suspicions, but that there might be a change when the new suit was ready, which, against her will, she was making for him out of some of hook's wickedest garments.
it was afterwards whispered among them that on the first night he wore this suit he sat long in the cabin with hook's cigar-holder in his mouth and one hand clenched, all but for the forefinger, which he bent and held threateningly aloft like a hook.
instead of watching the ship, however, we must now return to that desolate home from which three of our characters had taken heartless flight so long ago.
it seems a shame to have neglected no.
14 all this time; and yet we may be sure that mrs. darling does not blame us.
if we had returned sooner to look with sorrowful sympathy at her, she would probably have cried, “don't be silly; what do i matter?
do go back and keep an eye on the children.” so long as mothers are like this their children will take advantage of them; and they may lay to [bet on] that.
even now we venture into that familiar nursery only because its lawful occupants are on their way home; we are merely hurrying on in advance of them to see that their beds are properly aired and that mr. and mrs.
darling do not go out for the evening.
we are no more than servants.
why on earth should their beds be properly aired, seeing that they left them in such a thankless hurry?
would it not serve them jolly well right if they came back and found that their parents were spending the week-end in the country?
it would be the moral lesson they have been in need of ever since we met them; but if we contrived things in this way mrs.
darling would never forgive us.
one thing i should like to do immensely, and that is to tell her, in the way authors have, that the children are coming back, that indeed they will be here on thursday week.
this would spoil so completely the surprise to which wendy and john and michael are looking forward.
they have been planning it out on the ship: mother's rapture, father's shout of joy, nana's leap through the air to embrace them first, when what they ought to be prepared for is a good hiding.
how delicious to spoil it all by breaking the news in advance; so that when they enter grandly mrs. darling may not even offer wendy her mouth, and mr. darling may exclaim pettishly, “dash it all, here are those boys again.” however, we should get no thanks even for this.
we are beginning to know mrs.
darling by this time, and may be sure that she would upbraid us for depriving the children of their little pleasure.
“but, my dear madam, it is ten days till thursday week; so that by telling you what's what, we can save you ten days of unhappiness.”
“yes, but at what a cost!
by depriving the children of ten minutes of delight.”
“oh, if you look at it in that way!”
“what other way is there in which to look at it?”
you see, the woman had no proper spirit.
i had meant to say extraordinarily nice things about her; but i despise her, and not one of them will i say now.
she does not really need to be told to have things ready, for they are ready.
all the beds are aired, and she never leaves the house, and observe, the window is open.
for all the use we are to her, we might well go back to the ship.
however, as we are here we may as well stay and look on.
that is all we are, lookers-on.
nobody really wants us.
so let us watch and say jaggy things, in the hope that some of them will hurt.
the only change to be seen in the night-nursery is that between nine and six the kennel is no longer there.
when the children flew away, mr.
darling felt in his bones that all the blame was his for having chained nana up, and that from first to last she had been wiser than he.
of course, as we have seen, he was quite a simple man; indeed he might have passed for a boy again if he had been able to take his baldness off; but he had also a noble sense of justice and a lion's courage to do what seemed right to him; and having thought the matter out with anxious care after the flight of the children, he went down on all fours and crawled into the kennel.
to all mrs. darling's dear invitations to him to come out he replied sadly but firmly:
“no, my own one, this is the place for me.”
in the bitterness of his remorse he swore that he would never leave the kennel until his children came back.
of course this was a pity; but whatever mr. darling did he had to do in excess, otherwise he soon gave up doing it.
and there never was a more humble man than the once proud george darling, as he sat in the kennel of an evening talking with his wife of their children and all their pretty ways.
very touching was his deference to nana.
he would not let her come into the kennel, but on all other matters he followed her wishes implicitly.
every morning the kennel was carried with mr. darling in it to a cab, which conveyed him to his office, and he returned home in the same way at six.
something of the strength of character of the man will be seen if we remember how sensitive he was to the opinion of neighbours: this man whose every movement now attracted surprised attention.
inwardly he must have suffered torture; but he preserved a calm exterior even when the young criticised his little home, and he always lifted his hat courteously to any lady who looked inside.
it may have been quixotic, but it was magnificent.
soon the inward meaning of it leaked out, and the great heart of the public was touched.
crowds followed the cab, cheering it lustily; charming girls scaled it to get his autograph; interviews appeared in the better class of papers, and society invited him to dinner and added, “do come in the kennel.”
on that eventful thursday week, mrs. darling was in the night-nursery awaiting george's return home; a very sad-eyed woman.
now that we look at her closely and remember the gaiety of her in the old days, all gone now just because she has lost her babes, i find i won't be able to say nasty things about her after all.
if she was too fond of her rubbishy children, she couldn't help it.
look at her in her chair, where she has fallen asleep.
the corner of her mouth, where one looks first, is almost withered up.
her hand moves restlessly on her breast as if she had a pain there.
some like peter best, and some like wendy best, but i like her best.
suppose, to make her happy, we whisper to her in her sleep that the brats are coming back.
they are really within two miles of the window now, and flying strong, but all we need whisper is that they are on the way.
let's.
it is a pity we did it, for she has started up, calling their names; and there is no one in the room but nana.
“o nana, i dreamt my dear ones had come back.”
nana had filmy eyes, but all she could do was put her paw gently on her mistress's lap; and they were sitting together thus when the kennel was brought back.
as mr. darling puts his head out to kiss his wife, we see that his face is more worn than of yore, but has a softer expression.
he gave his hat to liza, who took it scornfully; for she had no imagination, and was quite incapable of understanding the motives of such a man.
outside, the crowd who had accompanied the cab home were still cheering, and he was naturally not unmoved.
“listen to them,” he said; “it is very gratifying.”
“lots of little boys,” sneered liza.
“there were several adults to-day,” he assured her with a faint flush; but when she tossed her head he had not a word of reproof for her.
social success had not spoilt him; it had made him sweeter.
for some time he sat with his head out of the kennel, talking with mrs. darling of this success, and pressing her hand reassuringly when she said she hoped his head would not be turned by it.
“but if i had been a weak man,” he said.
“good heavens, if i had been a weak man!”
“and, george,” she said timidly, “you are as full of remorse as ever, aren't you?”
“full of remorse as ever, dearest!
see my punishment: living in a kennel.”
“but it is punishment, isn't it, george?
you are sure you are not enjoying it?”
“my love!”
you may be sure she begged his pardon; and then, feeling drowsy, he curled round in the kennel.
“won't you play me to sleep,” he asked, “on the nursery piano?” and as she was crossing to the day-nursery he added thoughtlessly, “and shut that window.
i feel a draught.”
“o george, never ask me to do that.
the window must always be left open for them, always, always.”
now it was his turn to beg her pardon; and she went into the day-nursery and played, and soon he was asleep; and while he slept, wendy and john and michael flew into the room.
oh no.
we have written it so, because that was the charming arrangement planned by them before we left the ship; but something must have happened since then, for it is not they who have flown in, it is peter and tinker bell.
peter's first words tell all.
“quick tink,” he whispered, “close the window; bar it!
that's right.
now you and i must get away by the door; and when wendy comes she will think her mother has barred her out; and she will have to go back with me.”
now i understand what had hitherto puzzled me, why when peter had exterminated the pirates he did not return to the island and leave tink to escort the children to the mainland.
this trick had been in his head all the time.
instead of feeling that he was behaving badly he danced with glee; then he peeped into the day-nursery to see who was playing.
he whispered to tink, “it's wendy's mother!
she is a pretty lady, but not so pretty as my mother.
her mouth is full of thimbles, but not so full as my mother's was.”
of course he knew nothing whatever about his mother; but he sometimes bragged about her.
he did not know the tune, which was “home, sweet home,” but he knew it was saying, “come back, wendy, wendy, wendy”; and he cried exultantly, “you will never see wendy again, lady, for the window is barred!”
he peeped in again to see why the music had stopped, and now he saw that mrs. darling had laid her head on the box, and that two tears were sitting on her eyes.
“she wants me to unbar the window,” thought peter, “but i won't, not i!”
he peeped again, and the tears were still there, or another two had taken their place.
“she's awfully fond of wendy,” he said to himself.
he was angry with her now for not seeing why she could not have wendy.
the reason was so simple: “i'm fond of her too.
we can't both have her, lady.”
but the lady would not make the best of it, and he was unhappy.
he ceased to look at her, but even then she would not let go of him.
he skipped about and made funny faces, but when he stopped it was just as if she were inside him, knocking.
“oh, all right,” he said at last, and gulped.
then he unbarred the window.
“come on, tink,” he cried, with a frightful sneer at the laws of nature; “we don't want any silly mothers;” and he flew away.
thus wendy and john and michael found the window open for them after all, which of course was more than they deserved.
they alighted on the floor, quite unashamed of themselves, and the youngest one had already forgotten his home.
“john,” he said, looking around him doubtfully, “i think i have been here before.”
“of course you have, you silly.
there is your old bed.”
“so it is,” michael said, but not with much conviction.
“i say,” cried john, “the kennel!” and he dashed across to look into it.
“perhaps nana is inside it,” wendy said.
but john whistled.
“hullo,” he said, “there's a man inside it.”
“it's father!” exclaimed wendy.
“let me see father,” michael begged eagerly, and he took a good look.
“he is not so big as the pirate i killed,” he said with such frank disappointment that i am glad mr. darling was asleep; it would have been sad if those had been the first words he heard his little michael say.
wendy and john had been taken aback somewhat at finding their father in the kennel.
“surely,” said john, like one who had lost faith in his memory, “he used not to sleep in the kennel?”
“john,” wendy said falteringly, “perhaps we don't remember the old life as well as we thought we did.”
a chill fell upon them; and serve them right.
“it is very careless of mother,” said that young scoundrel john, “not to be here when we come back.”
it was then that mrs. darling began playing again.
“it's mother!” cried wendy, peeping.
“so it is!” said john.
“then are you not really our mother, wendy?” asked michael, who was surely sleepy.
“oh dear!” exclaimed wendy, with her first real twinge of remorse [for having gone], “it was quite time we came back.”
“let us creep in,” john suggested, “and put our hands over her eyes.”
but wendy, who saw that they must break the joyous news more gently, had a better plan.
“let us all slip into our beds, and be there when she comes in, just as if we had never been away.”
and so when mrs. darling went back to the night-nursery to see if her husband was asleep, all the beds were occupied.
the children waited for her cry of joy, but it did not come.
she saw them, but she did not believe they were there.
you see, she saw them in their beds so often in her dreams that she thought this was just the dream hanging around her still.
she sat down in the chair by the fire, where in the old days she had nursed them.
they could not understand this, and a cold fear fell upon all the three of them.
“mother!” wendy cried.
“that's wendy,” she said, but still she was sure it was the dream.
“mother!”
“that's john,” she said.
“mother!” cried michael.
he knew her now.
“that's michael,” she said, and she stretched out her arms for the three little selfish children they would never envelop again.
yes, they did, they went round wendy and john and michael, who had slipped out of bed and run to her.
“george, george!” she cried when she could speak; and mr. darling woke to share her bliss, and nana came rushing in.
there could not have been a lovelier sight; but there was none to see it except a little boy who was staring in at the window.
he had had ecstasies innumerable that other children can never know; but he was looking through the window at the one joy from which he must be for ever barred.
chapter 17 when wendy grew up
i hope you want to know what became of the other boys.
they were waiting below to give wendy time to explain about them; and when they had counted five hundred they went up.
they went up by the stair, because they thought this would make a better impression.
they stood in a row in front of mrs. darling, with their hats off, and wishing they were not wearing their pirate clothes.
they said nothing, but their eyes asked her to have them.
they ought to have looked at mr. darling also, but they forgot about him.
of course mrs. darling said at once that she would have them; but mr.
darling was curiously depressed, and they saw that he considered six a rather large number.
“i must say,” he said to wendy, “that you don't do things by halves,” a grudging remark which the twins thought was pointed at them.
the first twin was the proud one, and he asked, flushing, “do you think we should be too much of a handful, sir?
because, if so, we can go away.”
“father!” wendy cried, shocked; but still the cloud was on him.
he knew he was behaving unworthily, but he could not help it.
“we could lie doubled up,” said nibs.
“i always cut their hair myself,” said wendy.
“george!” mrs. darling exclaimed, pained to see her dear one showing himself in such an unfavourable light.
then he burst into tears, and the truth came out.
he was as glad to have them as she was, he said, but he thought they should have asked his consent as well as hers, instead of treating him as a cypher [zero] in his own house.
“i don't think he is a cypher,” tootles cried instantly.
“do you think he is a cypher, curly?”
“no, i don't.
do you think he is a cypher, slightly?”
“rather not.
twin, what do you think?”
it turned out that not one of them thought him a cypher; and he was absurdly gratified, and said he would find space for them all in the drawing-room if they fitted in.
“we'll fit in, sir,” they assured him.
“then follow the leader,” he cried gaily.
“mind you, i am not sure that we have a drawing-room, but we pretend we have, and it's all the same.
hoop la!”
he went off dancing through the house, and they all cried “hoop la!” and danced after him, searching for the drawing-room; and i forget whether they found it, but at any rate they found corners, and they all fitted in.
as for peter, he saw wendy once again before he flew away.
he did not exactly come to the window, but he brushed against it in passing so that she could open it if she liked and call to him.
that is what she did.
“hullo, wendy, good-bye,” he said.
“oh dear, are you going away?”
“yes.”
“you don't feel, peter,” she said falteringly, “that you would like to say anything to my parents about a very sweet subject?”
“no.”
“about me, peter?”
“no.”
mrs. darling came to the window, for at present she was keeping a sharp eye on wendy.
she told peter that she had adopted all the other boys, and would like to adopt him also.
“would you send me to school?” he inquired craftily.
“yes.”
“and then to an office?”
“i suppose so.”
“soon i would be a man?”
“very soon.”
“i don't want to go to school and learn solemn things,” he told her passionately.
“i don't want to be a man.
o wendy's mother, if i was to wake up and feel there was a beard!”
“peter,” said wendy the comforter, “i should love you in a beard;” and mrs. darling stretched out her arms to him, but he repulsed her.
“keep back, lady, no one is going to catch me and make me a man.”
“but where are you going to live?”
“with tink in the house we built for wendy.
the fairies are to put it high up among the tree tops where they sleep at nights.”
“how lovely,” cried wendy so longingly that mrs. darling tightened her grip.
“i thought all the fairies were dead,” mrs. darling said.
“there are always a lot of young ones,” explained wendy, who was now quite an authority, “because you see when a new baby laughs for the first time a new fairy is born, and as there are always new babies there are always new fairies.
they live in nests on the tops of trees; and the mauve ones are boys and the white ones are girls, and the blue ones are just little sillies who are not sure what they are.”
“i shall have such fun,” said peter, with eye on wendy.
“it will be rather lonely in the evening,” she said, “sitting by the fire.”
“i shall have tink.”
“tink can't go a twentieth part of the way round,” she reminded him a little tartly.
“sneaky tell-tale!” tink called out from somewhere round the corner.
“it doesn't matter,” peter said.
“o peter, you know it matters.”
“well, then, come with me to the little house.”
“may i, mummy?”
“certainly not.
i have got you home again, and i mean to keep you.”
“but he does so need a mother.”
“so do you, my love.”
“oh, all right,” peter said, as if he had asked her from politeness merely; but mrs. darling saw his mouth twitch, and she made this handsome offer: to let wendy go to him for a week every year to do his spring cleaning.
wendy would have preferred a more permanent arrangement; and it seemed to her that spring would be long in coming; but this promise sent peter away quite gay again.
he had no sense of time, and was so full of adventures that all i have told you about him is only a halfpenny-worth of them.
i suppose it was because wendy knew this that her last words to him were these rather plaintive ones:
“you won't forget me, peter, will you, before spring cleaning time comes?”
of course peter promised; and then he flew away.
he took mrs. darling's kiss with him.
the kiss that had been for no one else, peter took quite easily.
funny.
but she seemed satisfied.
of course all the boys went to school; and most of them got into class iii, but slightly was put first into class iv and then into class v.
class i is the top class.
before they had attended school a week they saw what goats they had been not to remain on the island; but it was too late now, and soon they settled down to being as ordinary as you or me or jenkins minor [the younger jenkins].
it is sad to have to say that the power to fly gradually left them.
at first nana tied their feet to the bed-posts so that they should not fly away in the night; and one of their diversions by day was to pretend to fall off buses [the english double-deckers]; but by and by they ceased to tug at their bonds in bed, and found that they hurt themselves when they let go of the bus.
in time they could not even fly after their hats.
want of practice, they called it; but what it really meant was that they no longer believed.
michael believed longer than the other boys, though they jeered at him; so he was with wendy when peter came for her at the end of the first year.
she flew away with peter in the frock she had woven from leaves and berries in the neverland, and her one fear was that he might notice how short it had become; but he never noticed, he had so much to say about himself.
she had looked forward to thrilling talks with him about old times, but new adventures had crowded the old ones from his mind.
“who is captain hook?” he asked with interest when she spoke of the arch enemy.
“don't you remember,” she asked, amazed, “how you killed him and saved all our lives?”
“i forget them after i kill them,” he replied carelessly.
when she expressed a doubtful hope that tinker bell would be glad to see her he said, “who is tinker bell?”
“o peter,” she said, shocked; but even when she explained he could not remember.
“there are such a lot of them,” he said.
“i expect she is no more.”
i expect he was right, for fairies don't live long, but they are so little that a short time seems a good while to them.
wendy was pained too to find that the past year was but as yesterday to peter; it had seemed such a long year of waiting to her.
but he was exactly as fascinating as ever, and they had a lovely spring cleaning in the little house on the tree tops.
next year he did not come for her.
she waited in a new frock because the old one simply would not meet; but he never came.
“perhaps he is ill,” michael said.
“you know he is never ill.”
michael came close to her and whispered, with a shiver, “perhaps there is no such person, wendy!” and then wendy would have cried if michael had not been crying.
peter came next spring cleaning; and the strange thing was that he never knew he had missed a year.
that was the last time the girl wendy ever saw him.
for a little longer she tried for his sake not to have growing pains; and she felt she was untrue to him when she got a prize for general knowledge.
but the years came and went without bringing the careless boy; and when they met again wendy was a married woman, and peter was no more to her than a little dust in the box in which she had kept her toys.
wendy was grown up.
you need not be sorry for her.
she was one of the kind that likes to grow up.
in the end she grew up of her own free will a day quicker than other girls.
all the boys were grown up and done for by this time; so it is scarcely worth while saying anything more about them.
you may see the twins and nibs and curly any day going to an office, each carrying a little bag and an umbrella.
michael is an engine-driver [train engineer].
slightly married a lady of title, and so he became a lord.
you see that judge in a wig coming out at the iron door?
that used to be tootles.
the bearded man who doesn't know any story to tell his children was once john.
wendy was married in white with a pink sash.
it is strange to think that peter did not alight in the church and forbid the banns [formal announcement of a marriage].
years rolled on again, and wendy had a daughter.
this ought not to be written in ink but in a golden splash.
she was called jane, and always had an odd inquiring look, as if from the moment she arrived on the mainland she wanted to ask questions.
when she was old enough to ask them they were mostly about peter pan.
she loved to hear of peter, and wendy told her all she could remember in the very nursery from which the famous flight had taken place.
it was jane's nursery now, for her father had bought it at the three per cents [mortgage rate] from wendy's father, who was no longer fond of stairs.
mrs. darling was now dead and forgotten.
there were only two beds in the nursery now, jane's and her nurse's; and there was no kennel, for nana also had passed away.
she died of old age, and at the end she had been rather difficult to get on with; being very firmly convinced that no one knew how to look after children except herself.
once a week jane's nurse had her evening off; and then it was wendy's part to put jane to bed.
that was the time for stories.
it was jane's invention to raise the sheet over her mother's head and her own, thus making a tent, and in the awful darkness to whisper:
“what do we see now?”
“i don't think i see anything to-night,” says wendy, with a feeling that if nana were here she would object to further conversation.
“yes, you do,” says jane, “you see when you were a little girl.”
“that is a long time ago, sweetheart,” says wendy.
“ah me, how time flies!”
“does it fly,” asks the artful child, “the way you flew when you were a little girl?”
“the way i flew?
do you know, jane, i sometimes wonder whether i ever did really fly.”
“yes, you did.”
“the dear old days when i could fly!”
“why can't you fly now, mother?”
“because i am grown up, dearest.
when people grow up they forget the way.”
“why do they forget the way?”
“because they are no longer gay and innocent and heartless.
it is only the gay and innocent and heartless who can fly.”
“what is gay and innocent and heartless?
i do wish i were gay and innocent and heartless.”
or perhaps wendy admits she does see something.
“i do believe,” she says, “that it is this nursery.”
“i do believe it is,” says jane.
“go on.”
they are now embarked on the great adventure of the night when peter flew in looking for his shadow.
“the foolish fellow,” says wendy, “tried to stick it on with soap, and when he could not he cried, and that woke me, and i sewed it on for him.”
“you have missed a bit,” interrupts jane, who now knows the story better than her mother.
“when you saw him sitting on the floor crying, what did you say?”
“i sat up in bed and i said, 'boy, why are you crying?
'”
“yes, that was it,” says jane, with a big breath.
“and then he flew us all away to the neverland and the fairies and the pirates and the redskins and the mermaids' lagoon, and the home under the ground, and the little house.”
“yes!
which did you like best of all?”
“i think i liked the home under the ground best of all.”
“yes, so do i. what was the last thing peter ever said to you?”
“the last thing he ever said to me was, 'just always be waiting for me, and then some night you will hear me crowing.
'”
“yes.”
“but, alas, he forgot all about me,” wendy said it with a smile.
she was as grown up as that.
“what did his crow sound like?” jane asked one evening.
“it was like this,” wendy said, trying to imitate peter's crow.
“no, it wasn't,” jane said gravely, “it was like this;” and she did it ever so much better than her mother.
wendy was a little startled.
“my darling, how can you know?”
“i often hear it when i am sleeping,” jane said.
“ah yes, many girls hear it when they are sleeping, but i was the only one who heard it awake.”
“lucky you,” said jane.
and then one night came the tragedy.
it was the spring of the year, and the story had been told for the night, and jane was now asleep in her bed.
wendy was sitting on the floor, very close to the fire, so as to see to darn, for there was no other light in the nursery; and while she sat darning she heard a crow.
then the window blew open as of old, and peter dropped in on the floor.
he was exactly the same as ever, and wendy saw at once that he still had all his first teeth.
he was a little boy, and she was grown up.
she huddled by the fire not daring to move, helpless and guilty, a big woman.
“hullo, wendy,” he said, not noticing any difference, for he was thinking chiefly of himself; and in the dim light her white dress might have been the nightgown in which he had seen her first.
“hullo, peter,” she replied faintly, squeezing herself as small as possible.
something inside her was crying “woman, woman, let go of me.”
“hullo, where is john?” he asked, suddenly missing the third bed.
“john is not here now,” she gasped.
“is michael asleep?” he asked, with a careless glance at jane.
“yes,” she answered; and now she felt that she was untrue to jane as well as to peter.
“that is not michael,” she said quickly, lest a judgment should fall on her.
peter looked.
“hullo, is it a new one?”
“yes.”
“boy or girl?”
“girl.”
now surely he would understand; but not a bit of it.
“peter,” she said, faltering, “are you expecting me to fly away with you?”
“of course; that is why i have come.” he added a little sternly, “have you forgotten that this is spring cleaning time?”
she knew it was useless to say that he had let many spring cleaning times pass.
“i can't come,” she said apologetically, “i have forgotten how to fly.”
“i'll soon teach you again.”
“o peter, don't waste the fairy dust on me.”
she had risen; and now at last a fear assailed him.
“what is it?” he cried, shrinking.
“i will turn up the light,” she said, “and then you can see for yourself.”
for almost the only time in his life that i know of, peter was afraid.
“don't turn up the light,” he cried.
she let her hands play in the hair of the tragic boy.
she was not a little girl heart-broken about him; she was a grown woman smiling at it all, but they were wet-eyed smiles.
then she turned up the light, and peter saw.
he gave a cry of pain; and when the tall beautiful creature stooped to lift him in her arms he drew back sharply.
“what is it?” he cried again.
she had to tell him.
“i am old, peter.
i am ever so much more than twenty.
i grew up long ago.”
“you promised not to!”
“i couldn't help it.
i am a married woman, peter.”
“no, you're not.”
“yes, and the little girl in the bed is my baby.”
“no, she's not.”
but he supposed she was; and he took a step towards the sleeping child with his dagger upraised.
of course he did not strike.
he sat down on the floor instead and sobbed; and wendy did not know how to comfort him, though she could have done it so easily once.
she was only a woman now, and she ran out of the room to try to think.
peter continued to cry, and soon his sobs woke jane.
she sat up in bed, and was interested at once.
“boy,” she said, “why are you crying?”
peter rose and bowed to her, and she bowed to him from the bed.
“hullo,” he said.
“hullo,” said jane.
“my name is peter pan,” he told her.
“yes, i know.”
“i came back for my mother,” he explained, “to take her to the neverland.”
“yes, i know,” jane said, “i have been waiting for you.”
when wendy returned diffidently she found peter sitting on the bed-post crowing gloriously, while jane in her nighty was flying round the room in solemn ecstasy.
“she is my mother,” peter explained; and jane descended and stood by his side, with the look in her face that he liked to see on ladies when they gazed at him.
“he does so need a mother,” jane said.
“yes, i know,” wendy admitted rather forlornly; “no one knows it so well as i.”
“good-bye,” said peter to wendy; and he rose in the air, and the shameless jane rose with him; it was already her easiest way of moving about.
wendy rushed to the window.
“no, no,” she cried.
“it is just for spring cleaning time,” jane said, “he wants me always to do his spring cleaning.”
“if only i could go with you,” wendy sighed.
“you see you can't fly,” said jane.
of course in the end wendy let them fly away together.
our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.
as you look at wendy, you may see her hair becoming white, and her figure little again, for all this happened long ago.
jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called margaret; and every spring cleaning time, except when he forgets, peter comes for margaret and takes her to the neverland, where she tells him stories about himself, to which he listens eagerly.
when margaret grows up she will have a daughter, who is to be peter's mother in turn; and thus it will go on, so long as children are gay and innocent and heartless.
chapter i
there is no one left
when mary lennox was sent to misselthwaite manor to live with her uncle everybody said she was the most disagreeable-looking child ever seen.
it was true, too.
she had a little thin face and a little thin body, thin light hair and a sour expression.
her hair was yellow, and her face was yellow because she had been born in india and had always been ill in one way or another.
her father had held a position under the english government and had always been busy and ill himself, and her mother had been a great beauty who cared only to go to parties and amuse herself with gay people.
she had not wanted a little girl at all, and when mary was born she handed her over to the care of an ayah, who was made to understand that if she wished to please the mem sahib she must keep the child out of sight as much as possible.
so when she was a sickly, fretful, ugly little baby she was kept out of the way, and when she became a sickly, fretful, toddling thing she was kept out of the way also.
she never remembered seeing familiarly anything but the dark faces of her ayah and the other native servants, and as they always obeyed her and gave her her own way in everything, because the mem sahib would be angry if she was disturbed by her crying, by the time she was six years old she was as tyrannical and selfish a little pig as ever lived.
the young english governess who came to teach her to read and write disliked her so much that she gave up her place in three months, and when other governesses came to try to fill it they always went away in a shorter time than the first one.
so if mary had not chosen to really want to know how to read books she would never have learned her letters at all.
one frightfully hot morning, when she was about nine years old, she awakened feeling very cross, and she became crosser still when she saw that the servant who stood by her bedside was not her ayah.
“why did you come?” she said to the strange woman.
“i will not let you stay.
send my ayah to me.”
the woman looked frightened, but she only stammered that the ayah could not come and when mary threw herself into a passion and beat and kicked her, she looked only more frightened and repeated that it was not possible for the ayah to come to missie sahib.
there was something mysterious in the air that morning.
nothing was done in its regular order and several of the native servants seemed missing, while those whom mary saw slunk or hurried about with ashy and scared faces.
but no one would tell her anything and her ayah did not come.
she was actually left alone as the morning went on, and at last she wandered out into the garden and began to play by herself under a tree near the veranda.
she pretended that she was making a flower-bed, and she stuck big scarlet hibiscus blossoms into little heaps of earth, all the time growing more and more angry and muttering to herself the things she would say and the names she would call saidie when she returned.
“pig!
pig!
daughter of pigs!” she said, because to call a native a pig is the worst insult of all.
she was grinding her teeth and saying this over and over again when she heard her mother come out on the veranda with someone.
she was with a fair young man and they stood talking together in low strange voices.
mary knew the fair young man who looked like a boy.
she had heard that he was a very young officer who had just come from england.
the child stared at him, but she stared most at her mother.
she always did this when she had a chance to see her, because the mem sahib—mary used to call her that oftener than anything else—was such a tall, slim, pretty person and wore such lovely clothes.
her hair was like curly silk and she had a delicate little nose which seemed to be disdaining things, and she had large laughing eyes.
all her clothes were thin and floating, and mary said they were “full of lace.” they looked fuller of lace than ever this morning, but her eyes were not laughing at all.
they were large and scared and lifted imploringly to the fair boy officer’s face.
“is it so very bad?
oh, is it?” mary heard her say.
“awfully,” the young man answered in a trembling voice.
“awfully, mrs.
lennox.
you ought to have gone to the hills two weeks ago.”
the mem sahib wrung her hands.
“oh, i know i ought!” she cried.
“i only stayed to go to that silly dinner party.
what a fool i was!”
at that very moment such a loud sound of wailing broke out from the servants’ quarters that she clutched the young man’s arm, and mary stood shivering from head to foot.
the wailing grew wilder and wilder.
“what is it?
what is it?” mrs. lennox gasped.
“someone has died,” answered the boy officer.
“you did not say it had broken out among your servants.”
“i did not know!” the mem sahib cried.
“come with me!
come with me!”
and she turned and ran into the house.
after that appalling things happened, and the mysteriousness of the morning was explained to mary.
the cholera had broken out in its most fatal form and people were dying like flies.
the ayah had been taken ill in the night, and it was because she had just died that the servants had wailed in the huts.
before the next day three other servants were dead and others had run away in terror.
there was panic on every side, and dying people in all the bungalows.
during the confusion and bewilderment of the second day mary hid herself in the nursery and was forgotten by everyone.
nobody thought of her, nobody wanted her, and strange things happened of which she knew nothing.
mary alternately cried and slept through the hours.
she only knew that people were ill and that she heard mysterious and frightening sounds.
once she crept into the dining-room and found it empty, though a partly finished meal was on the table and chairs and plates looked as if they had been hastily pushed back when the diners rose suddenly for some reason.
the child ate some fruit and biscuits, and being thirsty she drank a glass of wine which stood nearly filled.
it was sweet, and she did not know how strong it was.
very soon it made her intensely drowsy, and she went back to her nursery and shut herself in again, frightened by cries she heard in the huts and by the hurrying sound of feet.
the wine made her so sleepy that she could scarcely keep her eyes open and she lay down on her bed and knew nothing more for a long time.
many things happened during the hours in which she slept so heavily, but she was not disturbed by the wails and the sound of things being carried in and out of the bungalow.
when she awakened she lay and stared at the wall.
the house was perfectly still.
she had never known it to be so silent before.
she heard neither voices nor footsteps, and wondered if everybody had got well of the cholera and all the trouble was over.
she wondered also who would take care of her now her ayah was dead.
there would be a new ayah, and perhaps she would know some new stories.
mary had been rather tired of the old ones.
she did not cry because her nurse had died.
she was not an affectionate child and had never cared much for anyone.
the noise and hurrying about and wailing over the cholera had frightened her, and she had been angry because no one seemed to remember that she was alive.
everyone was too panic-stricken to think of a little girl no one was fond of.
when people had the cholera it seemed that they remembered nothing but themselves.
but if everyone had got well again, surely someone would remember and come to look for her.
but no one came, and as she lay waiting the house seemed to grow more and more silent.
she heard something rustling on the matting and when she looked down she saw a little snake gliding along and watching her with eyes like jewels.
she was not frightened, because he was a harmless little thing who would not hurt her and he seemed in a hurry to get out of the room.
he slipped under the door as she watched him.
“how queer and quiet it is,” she said.
“it sounds as if there were no one in the bungalow but me and the snake.”
almost the next minute she heard footsteps in the compound, and then on the veranda.
they were men’s footsteps, and the men entered the bungalow and talked in low voices.
no one went to meet or speak to them and they seemed to open doors and look into rooms.
“what desolation!” she heard one voice say.
“that pretty, pretty woman!
i suppose the child, too.
i heard there was a child, though no one ever saw her.”
mary was standing in the middle of the nursery when they opened the door a few minutes later.
she looked an ugly, cross little thing and was frowning because she was beginning to be hungry and feel disgracefully neglected.
the first man who came in was a large officer she had once seen talking to her father.
he looked tired and troubled, but when he saw her he was so startled that he almost jumped back.
“barney!” he cried out.
“there is a child here!
a child alone!
in a place like this!
mercy on us, who is she!”
“i am mary lennox,” the little girl said, drawing herself up stiffly.
she thought the man was very rude to call her father’s bungalow “a place like this!” “i fell asleep when everyone had the cholera and i have only just wakened up.
why does nobody come?”
“it is the child no one ever saw!” exclaimed the man, turning to his companions.
“she has actually been forgotten!”
“why was i forgotten?” mary said, stamping her foot.
“why does nobody come?”
the young man whose name was barney looked at her very sadly.
mary even thought she saw him wink his eyes as if to wink tears away.
“poor little kid!” he said.
“there is nobody left to come.”
it was in that strange and sudden way that mary found out that she had neither father nor mother left; that they had died and been carried away in the night, and that the few native servants who had not died also had left the house as quickly as they could get out of it, none of them even remembering that there was a missie sahib.
that was why the place was so quiet.
it was true that there was no one in the bungalow but herself and the little rustling snake.
chapter ii
mistress mary quite contrary
mary had liked to look at her mother from a distance and she had thought her very pretty, but as she knew very little of her she could scarcely have been expected to love her or to miss her very much when she was gone.
she did not miss her at all, in fact, and as she was a self-absorbed child she gave her entire thought to herself, as she had always done.
if she had been older she would no doubt have been very anxious at being left alone in the world, but she was very young, and as she had always been taken care of, she supposed she always would be.
what she thought was that she would like to know if she was going to nice people, who would be polite to her and give her her own way as her ayah and the other native servants had done.
she knew that she was not going to stay at the english clergyman’s house where she was taken at first.
she did not want to stay.
the english clergyman was poor and he had five children nearly all the same age and they wore shabby clothes and were always quarreling and snatching toys from each other.
mary hated their untidy bungalow and was so disagreeable to them that after the first day or two nobody would play with her.
by the second day they had given her a nickname which made her furious.
it was basil who thought of it first.
basil was a little boy with impudent blue eyes and a turned-up nose, and mary hated him.
she was playing by herself under a tree, just as she had been playing the day the cholera broke out.
she was making heaps of earth and paths for a garden and basil came and stood near to watch her.
presently he got rather interested and suddenly made a suggestion.
“why don’t you put a heap of stones there and pretend it is a rockery?”
he said.
“there in the middle,” and he leaned over her to point.
“go away!” cried mary.
“i don’t want boys.
go away!”
for a moment basil looked angry, and then he began to tease.
he was always teasing his sisters.
he danced round and round her and made faces and sang and laughed.
“mistress mary, quite contrary,     how does your garden grow?
with silver bells, and cockle shells,     and marigolds all in a row.”
he sang it until the other children heard and laughed, too; and the crosser mary got, the more they sang “mistress mary, quite contrary”; and after that as long as she stayed with them they called her “mistress mary quite contrary” when they spoke of her to each other, and often when they spoke to her.
“you are going to be sent home,” basil said to her, “at the end of the week.
and we’re glad of it.”
“i am glad of it, too,” answered mary.
“where is home?”
“she doesn’t know where home is!” said basil, with seven-year-old scorn.
“it’s england, of course.
our grandmama lives there and our sister mabel was sent to her last year.
you are not going to your grandmama.
you have none.
you are going to your uncle.
his name is mr.
archibald craven.”
“i don’t know anything about him,” snapped mary.
“i know you don’t,” basil answered.
“you don’t know anything.
girls never do.
i heard father and mother talking about him.
he lives in a great, big, desolate old house in the country and no one goes near him.
he’s so cross he won’t let them, and they wouldn’t come if he would let them.
he’s a hunchback, and he’s horrid.”
“i don’t believe you,” said mary; and she turned her back and stuck her fingers in her ears, because she would not listen any more.
but she thought over it a great deal afterward; and when mrs. crawford told her that night that she was going to sail away to england in a few days and go to her uncle, mr. archibald craven, who lived at misselthwaite manor, she looked so stony and stubbornly uninterested that they did not know what to think about her.
they tried to be kind to her, but she only turned her face away when mrs. crawford attempted to kiss her, and held herself stiffly when mr. crawford patted her shoulder.
“she is such a plain child,” mrs. crawford said pityingly, afterward.
“and her mother was such a pretty creature.
she had a very pretty manner, too, and mary has the most unattractive ways i ever saw in a child.
the children call her ‘mistress mary quite contrary,’ and though it’s naughty of them, one can’t help understanding it.”
“perhaps if her mother had carried her pretty face and her pretty manners oftener into the nursery mary might have learned some pretty ways too.
it is very sad, now the poor beautiful thing is gone, to remember that many people never even knew that she had a child at all.”
“i believe she scarcely ever looked at her,” sighed mrs. crawford.
“when her ayah was dead there was no one to give a thought to the little thing.
think of the servants running away and leaving her all alone in that deserted bungalow.
colonel mcgrew said he nearly jumped out of his skin when he opened the door and found her standing by herself in the middle of the room.”
mary made the long voyage to england under the care of an officer’s wife, who was taking her children to leave them in a boarding-school.
she was very much absorbed in her own little boy and girl, and was rather glad to hand the child over to the woman mr. archibald craven sent to meet her, in london.
the woman was his housekeeper at misselthwaite manor, and her name was mrs. medlock.
she was a stout woman, with very red cheeks and sharp black eyes.
she wore a very purple dress, a black silk mantle with jet fringe on it and a black bonnet with purple velvet flowers which stuck up and trembled when she moved her head.
mary did not like her at all, but as she very seldom liked people there was nothing remarkable in that; besides which it was very evident mrs. medlock did not think much of her.
“my word!
she’s a plain little piece of goods!” she said.
“and we’d heard that her mother was a beauty.
she hasn’t handed much of it down, has she, ma’am?”
“perhaps she will improve as she grows older,” the officer’s wife said good-naturedly.
“if she were not so sallow and had a nicer expression, her features are rather good.
children alter so much.”
“she’ll have to alter a good deal,” answered mrs. medlock.
“and, there’s nothing likely to improve children at misselthwaite—if you ask me!”
they thought mary was not listening because she was standing a little apart from them at the window of the private hotel they had gone to.
she was watching the passing buses and cabs and people, but she heard quite well and was made very curious about her uncle and the place he lived in.
what sort of a place was it, and what would he be like?
what was a hunchback?
she had never seen one.
perhaps there were none in india.
since she had been living in other people’s houses and had had no ayah, she had begun to feel lonely and to think queer thoughts which were new to her.
she had begun to wonder why she had never seemed to belong to anyone even when her father and mother had been alive.
other children seemed to belong to their fathers and mothers, but she had never seemed to really be anyone’s little girl.
she had had servants, and food and clothes, but no one had taken any notice of her.
she did not know that this was because she was a disagreeable child; but then, of course, she did not know she was disagreeable.
she often thought that other people were, but she did not know that she was so herself.
she thought mrs. medlock the most disagreeable person she had ever seen, with her common, highly colored face and her common fine bonnet.
when the next day they set out on their journey to yorkshire, she walked through the station to the railway carriage with her head up and trying to keep as far away from her as she could, because she did not want to seem to belong to her.
it would have made her angry to think people imagined she was her little girl.
but mrs. medlock was not in the least disturbed by her and her thoughts.
she was the kind of woman who would “stand no nonsense from young ones.” at least, that is what she would have said if she had been asked.
she had not wanted to go to london just when her sister maria’s daughter was going to be married, but she had a comfortable, well paid place as housekeeper at misselthwaite manor and the only way in which she could keep it was to do at once what mr. archibald craven told her to do.
she never dared even to ask a question.
“captain lennox and his wife died of the cholera,” mr. craven had said in his short, cold way.
“captain lennox was my wife’s brother and i am their daughter’s guardian.
the child is to be brought here.
you must go to london and bring her yourself.”
so she packed her small trunk and made the journey.
mary sat in her corner of the railway carriage and looked plain and fretful.
she had nothing to read or to look at, and she had folded her thin little black-gloved hands in her lap.
her black dress made her look yellower than ever, and her limp light hair straggled from under her black crêpe hat.
“a more marred-looking young one i never saw in my life,” mrs. medlock thought.
(marred is a yorkshire word and means spoiled and pettish.)
she had never seen a child who sat so still without doing anything; and at last she got tired of watching her and began to talk in a brisk, hard voice.
“i suppose i may as well tell you something about where you are going to,” she said.
“do you know anything about your uncle?”
“no,” said mary.
“never heard your father and mother talk about him?”
“no,” said mary frowning.
she frowned because she remembered that her father and mother had never talked to her about anything in particular.
certainly they had never told her things.
“humph,” muttered mrs. medlock, staring at her queer, unresponsive little face.
she did not say any more for a few moments and then she began again.
“i suppose you might as well be told something—to prepare you.
you are going to a queer place.”
mary said nothing at all, and mrs. medlock looked rather discomfited by her apparent indifference, but, after taking a breath, she went on.
“not but that it’s a grand big place in a gloomy way, and mr. craven’s proud of it in his way—and that’s gloomy enough, too.
the house is six hundred years old and it’s on the edge of the moor, and there’s near a hundred rooms in it, though most of them’s shut up and locked.
and there’s pictures and fine old furniture and things that’s been there for ages, and there’s a big park round it and gardens and trees with branches trailing to the ground—some of them.” she paused and took another breath.
“but there’s nothing else,” she ended suddenly.
mary had begun to listen in spite of herself.
it all sounded so unlike india, and anything new rather attracted her.
but she did not intend to look as if she were interested.
that was one of her unhappy, disagreeable ways.
so she sat still.
“well,” said mrs. medlock.
“what do you think of it?”
“nothing,” she answered.
“i know nothing about such places.”
that made mrs. medlock laugh a short sort of laugh.
“eh!” she said, “but you are like an old woman.
don’t you care?”
“it doesn’t matter” said mary, “whether i care or not.”
“you are right enough there,” said mrs. medlock.
“it doesn’t.
what you’re to be kept at misselthwaite manor for i don’t know, unless because it’s the easiest way.
he’s not going to trouble himself about you, that’s sure and certain.
he never troubles himself about no one.”
she stopped herself as if she had just remembered something in time.
“he’s got a crooked back,” she said.
“that set him wrong.
he was a sour young man and got no good of all his money and big place till he was married.”
mary’s eyes turned toward her in spite of her intention not to seem to care.
she had never thought of the hunchback’s being married and she was a trifle surprised.
mrs. medlock saw this, and as she was a talkative woman she continued with more interest.
this was one way of passing some of the time, at any rate.
“she was a sweet, pretty thing and he’d have walked the world over to get her a blade o’ grass she wanted.
nobody thought she’d marry him, but she did, and people said she married him for his money.
but she didn’t—she didn’t,” positively.
“when she died—”
mary gave a little involuntary jump.
“oh!
did she die!” she exclaimed, quite without meaning to.
she had just remembered a french fairy story she had once read called “riquet à la houppe.” it had been about a poor hunchback and a beautiful princess and it had made her suddenly sorry for mr. archibald craven.
“yes, she died,” mrs. medlock answered.
“and it made him queerer than ever.
he cares about nobody.
he won’t see people.
most of the time he goes away, and when he is at misselthwaite he shuts himself up in the west wing and won’t let anyone but pitcher see him.
pitcher’s an old fellow, but he took care of him when he was a child and he knows his ways.”
it sounded like something in a book and it did not make mary feel cheerful.
a house with a hundred rooms, nearly all shut up and with their doors locked—a house on the edge of a moor—whatsoever a moor was—sounded dreary.
a man with a crooked back who shut himself up also!
she stared out of the window with her lips pinched together, and it seemed quite natural that the rain should have begun to pour down in gray slanting lines and splash and stream down the window-panes.
if the pretty wife had been alive she might have made things cheerful by being something like her own mother and by running in and out and going to parties as she had done in frocks “full of lace.” but she was not there any more.
“you needn’t expect to see him, because ten to one you won’t,” said mrs. medlock.
“and you mustn’t expect that there will be people to talk to you.
you’ll have to play about and look after yourself.
you’ll be told what rooms you can go into and what rooms you’re to keep out of.
there’s gardens enough.
but when you’re in the house don’t go wandering and poking about.
mr. craven won’t have it.”
“i shall not want to go poking about,” said sour little mary and just as suddenly as she had begun to be rather sorry for mr. archibald craven she began to cease to be sorry and to think he was unpleasant enough to deserve all that had happened to him.
and she turned her face toward the streaming panes of the window of the railway carriage and gazed out at the gray rain-storm which looked as if it would go on forever and ever.
she watched it so long and steadily that the grayness grew heavier and heavier before her eyes and she fell asleep.
chapter iii
across the moor
she slept a long time, and when she awakened mrs. medlock had bought a lunchbasket at one of the stations and they had some chicken and cold beef and bread and butter and some hot tea.
the rain seemed to be streaming down more heavily than ever and everybody in the station wore wet and glistening waterproofs.
the guard lighted the lamps in the carriage, and mrs. medlock cheered up very much over her tea and chicken and beef.
she ate a great deal and afterward fell asleep herself, and mary sat and stared at her and watched her fine bonnet slip on one side until she herself fell asleep once more in the corner of the carriage, lulled by the splashing of the rain against the windows.
it was quite dark when she awakened again.
the train had stopped at a station and mrs. medlock was shaking her.
“you have had a sleep!” she said.
“it’s time to open your eyes!
we’re at thwaite station and we’ve got a long drive before us.”
mary stood up and tried to keep her eyes open while mrs. medlock collected her parcels.
the little girl did not offer to help her, because in india native servants always picked up or carried things and it seemed quite proper that other people should wait on one.
the station was a small one and nobody but themselves seemed to be getting out of the train.
the station-master spoke to mrs. medlock in a rough, good-natured way, pronouncing his words in a queer broad fashion which mary found out afterward was yorkshire.
“i see tha’s got back,” he said.
“an’ tha’s browt th’ young ’un with thee.”
“aye, that’s her,” answered mrs. medlock, speaking with a yorkshire accent herself and jerking her head over her shoulder toward mary.
“how’s thy missus?”
“well enow.
th’ carriage is waitin’ outside for thee.”
a brougham stood on the road before the little outside platform.
mary saw that it was a smart carriage and that it was a smart footman who helped her in.
his long waterproof coat and the waterproof covering of his hat were shining and dripping with rain as everything was, the burly station-master included.
when he shut the door, mounted the box with the coachman, and they drove off, the little girl found herself seated in a comfortably cushioned corner, but she was not inclined to go to sleep again.
she sat and looked out of the window, curious to see something of the road over which she was being driven to the queer place mrs. medlock had spoken of.
she was not at all a timid child and she was not exactly frightened, but she felt that there was no knowing what might happen in a house with a hundred rooms nearly all shut up—a house standing on the edge of a moor.
“what is a moor?” she said suddenly to mrs. medlock.
“look out of the window in about ten minutes and you’ll see,” the woman answered.
“we’ve got to drive five miles across missel moor before we get to the manor.
you won’t see much because it’s a dark night, but you can see something.”
mary asked no more questions but waited in the darkness of her corner, keeping her eyes on the window.
the carriage lamps cast rays of light a little distance ahead of them and she caught glimpses of the things they passed.
after they had left the station they had driven through a tiny village and she had seen whitewashed cottages and the lights of a public house.
then they had passed a church and a vicarage and a little shop-window or so in a cottage with toys and sweets and odd things set out for sale.
then they were on the highroad and she saw hedges and trees.
after that there seemed nothing different for a long time—or at least it seemed a long time to her.
at last the horses began to go more slowly, as if they were climbing up-hill, and presently there seemed to be no more hedges and no more trees.
she could see nothing, in fact, but a dense darkness on either side.
she leaned forward and pressed her face against the window just as the carriage gave a big jolt.
“eh!
we’re on the moor now sure enough,” said mrs. medlock.
the carriage lamps shed a yellow light on a rough-looking road which seemed to be cut through bushes and low-growing things which ended in the great expanse of dark apparently spread out before and around them.
a wind was rising and making a singular, wild, low, rushing sound.
“it’s—it’s not the sea, is it?” said mary, looking round at her companion.
“no, not it,” answered mrs. medlock.
“nor it isn’t fields nor mountains, it’s just miles and miles and miles of wild land that nothing grows on but heather and gorse and broom, and nothing lives on but wild ponies and sheep.”
“i feel as if it might be the sea, if there were water on it,” said mary.
“it sounds like the sea just now.”
“that’s the wind blowing through the bushes,” mrs. medlock said.
“it’s a wild, dreary enough place to my mind, though there’s plenty that likes it—particularly when the heather’s in bloom.”
on and on they drove through the darkness, and though the rain stopped, the wind rushed by and whistled and made strange sounds.
the road went up and down, and several times the carriage passed over a little bridge beneath which water rushed very fast with a great deal of noise.
mary felt as if the drive would never come to an end and that the wide, bleak moor was a wide expanse of black ocean through which she was passing on a strip of dry land.
“i don’t like it,” she said to herself.
“i don’t like it,” and she pinched her thin lips more tightly together.
the horses were climbing up a hilly piece of road when she first caught sight of a light.
mrs. medlock saw it as soon as she did and drew a long sigh of relief.
“eh, i am glad to see that bit o’ light twinkling,” she exclaimed.
“it’s the light in the lodge window.
we shall get a good cup of tea after a bit, at all events.”
it was “after a bit,” as she said, for when the carriage passed through the park gates there was still two miles of avenue to drive through and the trees (which nearly met overhead) made it seem as if they were driving through a long dark vault.
they drove out of the vault into a clear space and stopped before an immensely long but low-built house which seemed to ramble round a stone court.
at first mary thought that there were no lights at all in the windows, but as she got out of the carriage she saw that one room in a corner upstairs showed a dull glow.
the entrance door was a huge one made of massive, curiously shaped panels of oak studded with big iron nails and bound with great iron bars.
it opened into an enormous hall, which was so dimly lighted that the faces in the portraits on the walls and the figures in the suits of armor made mary feel that she did not want to look at them.
as she stood on the stone floor she looked a very small, odd little black figure, and she felt as small and lost and odd as she looked.
a neat, thin old man stood near the manservant who opened the door for them.
“you are to take her to her room,” he said in a husky voice.
“he doesn’t want to see her.
he’s going to london in the morning.”
“very well, mr. pitcher,” mrs. medlock answered.
“so long as i know what’s expected of me, i can manage.”
“what’s expected of you, mrs. medlock,” mr. pitcher said, “is that you make sure that he’s not disturbed and that he doesn’t see what he doesn’t want to see.”
and then mary lennox was led up a broad staircase and down a long corridor and up a short flight of steps and through another corridor and another, until a door opened in a wall and she found herself in a room with a fire in it and a supper on a table.
mrs. medlock said unceremoniously:
“well, here you are!
this room and the next are where you’ll live—and you must keep to them.
don’t you forget that!”
it was in this way mistress mary arrived at misselthwaite manor and she had perhaps never felt quite so contrary in all her life.
chapter iv
martha
when she opened her eyes in the morning it was because a young housemaid had come into her room to light the fire and was kneeling on the hearth-rug raking out the cinders noisily.
mary lay and watched her for a few moments and then began to look about the room.
she had never seen a room at all like it and thought it curious and gloomy.
the walls were covered with tapestry with a forest scene embroidered on it.
there were fantastically dressed people under the trees and in the distance there was a glimpse of the turrets of a castle.
there were hunters and horses and dogs and ladies.
mary felt as if she were in the forest with them.
out of a deep window she could see a great climbing stretch of land which seemed to have no trees on it, and to look rather like an endless, dull, purplish sea.
“what is that?” she said, pointing out of the window.
martha, the young housemaid, who had just risen to her feet, looked and pointed also.
“that there?” she said.
“yes.”
“that’s th’ moor,” with a good-natured grin.
“does tha’ like it?”
“no,” answered mary.
“i hate it.”
“that’s because tha’rt not used to it,” martha said, going back to her hearth.
“tha’ thinks it’s too big an’ bare now.
but tha’ will like it.”
“do you?” inquired mary.
“aye, that i do,” answered martha, cheerfully polishing away at the grate.
“i just love it.
it’s none bare.
it’s covered wi’ growin’ things as smells sweet.
it’s fair lovely in spring an’ summer when th’ gorse an’ broom an’ heather’s in flower.
it smells o’ honey an’ there’s such a lot o’ fresh air—an’ th’ sky looks so high an’ th’ bees an’ skylarks makes such a nice noise hummin’ an’ singin’.
eh!
i wouldn’t live away from th’ moor for anythin’.”
mary listened to her with a grave, puzzled expression.
the native servants she had been used to in india were not in the least like this.
they were obsequious and servile and did not presume to talk to their masters as if they were their equals.
they made salaams and called them “protector of the poor” and names of that sort.
indian servants were commanded to do things, not asked.
it was not the custom to say “please” and “thank you” and mary had always slapped her ayah in the face when she was angry.
she wondered a little what this girl would do if one slapped her in the face.
she was a round, rosy, good-natured looking creature, but she had a sturdy way which made mistress mary wonder if she might not even slap back—if the person who slapped her was only a little girl.
“you are a strange servant,” she said from her pillows, rather haughtily.
martha sat up on her heels, with her blacking-brush in her hand, and laughed, without seeming the least out of temper.
“eh!
i know that,” she said.
“if there was a grand missus at misselthwaite i should never have been even one of th’ under housemaids.
i might have been let to be scullerymaid but i’d never have been let upstairs.
i’m too common an’ i talk too much yorkshire.
but this is a funny house for all it’s so grand.
seems like there’s neither master nor mistress except mr. pitcher an’ mrs. medlock.
mr. craven, he won’t be troubled about anythin’ when he’s here, an’ he’s nearly always away.
mrs. medlock gave me th’ place out o’ kindness.
she told me she could never have done it if misselthwaite had been like other big houses.”
“are you going to be my servant?” mary asked, still in her imperious little indian way.
martha began to rub her grate again.
“i’m mrs. medlock’s servant,” she said stoutly.
“an’ she’s mr.
craven’s—but i’m to do the housemaid’s work up here an’ wait on you a bit.
but you won’t need much waitin’ on.”
“who is going to dress me?” demanded mary.
martha sat up on her heels again and stared.
she spoke in broad yorkshire in her amazement.
“canna’ tha’ dress thysen!” she said.
“what do you mean?
i don’t understand your language,” said mary.
“eh!
i forgot,” martha said.
“mrs.
medlock told me i’d have to be careful or you wouldn’t know what i was sayin’.
i mean can’t you put on your own clothes?”
“no,” answered mary, quite indignantly.
“i never did in my life.
my ayah dressed me, of course.”
“well,” said martha, evidently not in the least aware that she was impudent, “it’s time tha’ should learn.
tha’ cannot begin younger.
it’ll do thee good to wait on thysen a bit.
my mother always said she couldn’t see why grand people’s children didn’t turn out fair fools—what with nurses an’ bein’ washed an’ dressed an’ took out to walk as if they was puppies!”
“it is different in india,” said mistress mary disdainfully.
she could scarcely stand this.
but martha was not at all crushed.
“eh!
i can see it’s different,” she answered almost sympathetically.
“i dare say it’s because there’s such a lot o’ blacks there instead o’
respectable white people.
when i heard you was comin’ from india i thought you was a black too.”
mary sat up in bed furious.
“what!” she said.
“what!
you thought i was a native.
you—you daughter of a pig!”
martha stared and looked hot.
“who are you callin’ names?” she said.
“you needn’t be so vexed.
that’s not th’ way for a young lady to talk.
i’ve nothin’ against th’ blacks.
when you read about ’em in tracts they’re always very religious.
you always read as a black’s a man an’ a brother.
i’ve never seen a black an’ i was fair pleased to think i was goin’ to see one close.
when i come in to light your fire this mornin’ i crep’ up to your bed an’
pulled th’ cover back careful to look at you.
an’ there you was,”
disappointedly, “no more black than me—for all you’re so yeller.”
mary did not even try to control her rage and humiliation.
“you thought i was a native!
you dared!
you don’t know anything about natives!
they are not people—they’re servants who must salaam to you.
you know nothing about india.
you know nothing about anything!”
she was in such a rage and felt so helpless before the girl’s simple stare, and somehow she suddenly felt so horribly lonely and far away from everything she understood and which understood her, that she threw herself face downward on the pillows and burst into passionate sobbing.
she sobbed so unrestrainedly that good-natured yorkshire martha was a little frightened and quite sorry for her.
she went to the bed and bent over her.
“eh!
you mustn’t cry like that there!” she begged.
“you mustn’t for sure.
i didn’t know you’d be vexed.
i don’t know anythin’ about anythin’—just like you said.
i beg your pardon, miss.
do stop cryin’.”
there was something comforting and really friendly in her queer yorkshire speech and sturdy way which had a good effect on mary.
she gradually ceased crying and became quiet.
martha looked relieved.
“it’s time for thee to get up now,” she said.
“mrs.
medlock said i was to carry tha’ breakfast an’ tea an’ dinner into th’ room next to this.
it’s been made into a nursery for thee.
i’ll help thee on with thy clothes if tha’ll get out o’ bed.
if th’ buttons are at th’ back tha’
cannot button them up tha’self.”
when mary at last decided to get up, the clothes martha took from the wardrobe were not the ones she had worn when she arrived the night before with mrs. medlock.
“those are not mine,” she said.
“mine are black.”
she looked the thick white wool coat and dress over, and added with cool approval:
“those are nicer than mine.”
“these are th’ ones tha’ must put on,” martha answered.
“mr.
craven ordered mrs. medlock to get ’em in london.
he said ‘i won’t have a child dressed in black wanderin’ about like a lost soul,’ he said.
‘it’d make the place sadder than it is.
put color on her.’ mother she said she knew what he meant.
mother always knows what a body means.
she doesn’t hold with black hersel’.”
“i hate black things,” said mary.
the dressing process was one which taught them both something.
martha had “buttoned up” her little sisters and brothers but she had never seen a child who stood still and waited for another person to do things for her as if she had neither hands nor feet of her own.
“why doesn’t tha’ put on tha’ own shoes?” she said when mary quietly held out her foot.
“my ayah did it,” answered mary, staring.
“it was the custom.”
she said that very often—“it was the custom.” the native servants were always saying it.
if one told them to do a thing their ancestors had not done for a thousand years they gazed at one mildly and said, “it is not the custom” and one knew that was the end of the matter.
it had not been the custom that mistress mary should do anything but stand and allow herself to be dressed like a doll, but before she was ready for breakfast she began to suspect that her life at misselthwaite manor would end by teaching her a number of things quite new to her—things such as putting on her own shoes and stockings, and picking up things she let fall.
if martha had been a well-trained fine young lady’s maid she would have been more subservient and respectful and would have known that it was her business to brush hair, and button boots, and pick things up and lay them away.
she was, however, only an untrained yorkshire rustic who had been brought up in a moorland cottage with a swarm of little brothers and sisters who had never dreamed of doing anything but waiting on themselves and on the younger ones who were either babies in arms or just learning to totter about and tumble over things.
if mary lennox had been a child who was ready to be amused she would perhaps have laughed at martha’s readiness to talk, but mary only listened to her coldly and wondered at her freedom of manner.
at first she was not at all interested, but gradually, as the girl rattled on in her good-tempered, homely way, mary began to notice what she was saying.
“eh!
you should see ’em all,” she said.
“there’s twelve of us an’ my father only gets sixteen shilling a week.
i can tell you my mother’s put to it to get porridge for ’em all.
they tumble about on th’ moor an’ play there all day an’ mother says th’ air of th’ moor fattens ’em.
she says she believes they eat th’ grass same as th’ wild ponies do.
our dickon, he’s twelve years old and he’s got a young pony he calls his own.”
“where did he get it?” asked mary.
“he found it on th’ moor with its mother when it was a little one an’
he began to make friends with it an’ give it bits o’ bread an’ pluck young grass for it.
and it got to like him so it follows him about an’
it lets him get on its back.
dickon’s a kind lad an’ animals likes him.”
mary had never possessed an animal pet of her own and had always thought she should like one.
so she began to feel a slight interest in dickon, and as she had never before been interested in anyone but herself, it was the dawning of a healthy sentiment.
when she went into the room which had been made into a nursery for her, she found that it was rather like the one she had slept in.
it was not a child’s room, but a grown-up person’s room, with gloomy old pictures on the walls and heavy old oak chairs.
a table in the center was set with a good substantial breakfast.
but she had always had a very small appetite, and she looked with something more than indifference at the first plate martha set before her.
“i don’t want it,” she said.
“tha’ doesn’t want thy porridge!” martha exclaimed incredulously.
“no.”
“tha’ doesn’t know how good it is.
put a bit o’ treacle on it or a bit o’ sugar.”
“i don’t want it,” repeated mary.
“eh!” said martha.
“i can’t abide to see good victuals go to waste.
if our children was at this table they’d clean it bare in five minutes.”
“why?” said mary coldly.
“why!” echoed martha.
“because they scarce ever had their stomachs full in their lives.
they’re as hungry as young hawks an’ foxes.”
“i don’t know what it is to be hungry,” said mary, with the indifference of ignorance.
martha looked indignant.
“well, it would do thee good to try it.
i can see that plain enough,”
she said outspokenly.
“i’ve no patience with folk as sits an’ just stares at good bread an’ meat.
my word!
don’t i wish dickon and phil an’ jane an’ th’ rest of ’em had what’s here under their pinafores.”
“why don’t you take it to them?” suggested mary.
“it’s not mine,” answered martha stoutly.
“an’ this isn’t my day out.
i get my day out once a month same as th’ rest.
then i go home an’ clean up for mother an’ give her a day’s rest.”
mary drank some tea and ate a little toast and some marmalade.
“you wrap up warm an’ run out an’ play you,” said martha.
“it’ll do you good and give you some stomach for your meat.”
mary went to the window.
there were gardens and paths and big trees, but everything looked dull and wintry.
“out?
why should i go out on a day like this?”
“well, if tha’ doesn’t go out tha’lt have to stay in, an’ what has tha’
got to do?”
mary glanced about her.
there was nothing to do.
when mrs. medlock had prepared the nursery she had not thought of amusement.
perhaps it would be better to go and see what the gardens were like.
“who will go with me?” she inquired.
martha stared.
“you’ll go by yourself,” she answered.
“you’ll have to learn to play like other children does when they haven’t got sisters and brothers.
our dickon goes off on th’ moor by himself an’ plays for hours.
that’s how he made friends with th’ pony.
he’s got sheep on th’ moor that knows him, an’ birds as comes an’ eats out of his hand.
however little there is to eat, he always saves a bit o’ his bread to coax his pets.”
it was really this mention of dickon which made mary decide to go out, though she was not aware of it.
there would be, birds outside though there would not be ponies or sheep.
they would be different from the birds in india and it might amuse her to look at them.
martha found her coat and hat for her and a pair of stout little boots and she showed her her way downstairs.
“if tha’ goes round that way tha’ll come to th’ gardens,” she said, pointing to a gate in a wall of shrubbery.
“there’s lots o’ flowers in summer-time, but there’s nothin’ bloomin’ now.” she seemed to hesitate a second before she added, “one of th’ gardens is locked up.
no one has been in it for ten years.”
“why?” asked mary in spite of herself.
here was another locked door added to the hundred in the strange house.
“mr.
craven had it shut when his wife died so sudden.
he won’t let no one go inside.
it was her garden.
he locked th’ door an’ dug a hole and buried th’ key.
there’s mrs. medlock’s bell ringing—i must run.”
after she was gone mary turned down the walk which led to the door in the shrubbery.
she could not help thinking about the garden which no one had been into for ten years.
she wondered what it would look like and whether there were any flowers still alive in it.
when she had passed through the shrubbery gate she found herself in great gardens, with wide lawns and winding walks with clipped borders.
there were trees, and flower-beds, and evergreens clipped into strange shapes, and a large pool with an old gray fountain in its midst.
but the flower-beds were bare and wintry and the fountain was not playing.
this was not the garden which was shut up.
how could a garden be shut up?
you could always walk into a garden.
she was just thinking this when she saw that, at the end of the path she was following, there seemed to be a long wall, with ivy growing over it.
she was not familiar enough with england to know that she was coming upon the kitchen-gardens where the vegetables and fruit were growing.
she went toward the wall and found that there was a green door in the ivy, and that it stood open.
this was not the closed garden, evidently, and she could go into it.
she went through the door and found that it was a garden with walls all round it and that it was only one of several walled gardens which seemed to open into one another.
she saw another open green door, revealing bushes and pathways between beds containing winter vegetables.
fruit-trees were trained flat against the wall, and over some of the beds there were glass frames.
the place was bare and ugly enough, mary thought, as she stood and stared about her.
it might be nicer in summer when things were green, but there was nothing pretty about it now.
presently an old man with a spade over his shoulder walked through the door leading from the second garden.
he looked startled when he saw mary, and then touched his cap.
he had a surly old face, and did not seem at all pleased to see her—but then she was displeased with his garden and wore her “quite contrary” expression, and certainly did not seem at all pleased to see him.
“what is this place?” she asked.
“one o’ th’ kitchen-gardens,” he answered.
“what is that?” said mary, pointing through the other green door.
“another of ’em,” shortly.
“there’s another on t’other side o’ th’ wall an’ there’s th’ orchard t’other side o’ that.”
“can i go in them?” asked mary.
“if tha’ likes.
but there’s nowt to see.”
mary made no response.
she went down the path and through the second green door.
there, she found more walls and winter vegetables and glass frames, but in the second wall there was another green door and it was not open.
perhaps it led into the garden which no one had seen for ten years.
as she was not at all a timid child and always did what she wanted to do, mary went to the green door and turned the handle.
she hoped the door would not open because she wanted to be sure she had found the mysterious garden—but it did open quite easily and she walked through it and found herself in an orchard.
there were walls all round it also and trees trained against them, and there were bare fruit-trees growing in the winter-browned grass—but there was no green door to be seen anywhere.
mary looked for it, and yet when she had entered the upper end of the garden she had noticed that the wall did not seem to end with the orchard but to extend beyond it as if it enclosed a place at the other side.
she could see the tops of trees above the wall, and when she stood still she saw a bird with a bright red breast sitting on the topmost branch of one of them, and suddenly he burst into his winter song—almost as if he had caught sight of her and was calling to her.
she stopped and listened to him and somehow his cheerful, friendly little whistle gave her a pleased feeling—even a disagreeable little girl may be lonely, and the big closed house and big bare moor and big bare gardens had made this one feel as if there was no one left in the world but herself.
if she had been an affectionate child, who had been used to being loved, she would have broken her heart, but even though she was “mistress mary quite contrary” she was desolate, and the bright-breasted little bird brought a look into her sour little face which was almost a smile.
she listened to him until he flew away.
he was not like an indian bird and she liked him and wondered if she should ever see him again.
perhaps he lived in the mysterious garden and knew all about it.
perhaps it was because she had nothing whatever to do that she thought so much of the deserted garden.
she was curious about it and wanted to see what it was like.
why had mr. archibald craven buried the key?
if he had liked his wife so much why did he hate her garden?
she wondered if she should ever see him, but she knew that if she did she should not like him, and he would not like her, and that she should only stand and stare at him and say nothing, though she should be wanting dreadfully to ask him why he had done such a queer thing.
“people never like me and i never like people,” she thought.
“and i never can talk as the crawford children could.
they were always talking and laughing and making noises.”
she thought of the robin and of the way he seemed to sing his song at her, and as she remembered the tree-top he perched on she stopped rather suddenly on the path.
“i believe that tree was in the secret garden—i feel sure it was,” she said.
“there was a wall round the place and there was no door.”
she walked back into the first kitchen-garden she had entered and found the old man digging there.
she went and stood beside him and watched him a few moments in her cold little way.
he took no notice of her and so at last she spoke to him.
“i have been into the other gardens,” she said.
“there was nothin’ to prevent thee,” he answered crustily.
“i went into the orchard.”
“there was no dog at th’ door to bite thee,” he answered.
“there was no door there into the other garden,” said mary.
“what garden?” he said in a rough voice, stopping his digging for a moment.
“the one on the other side of the wall,” answered mistress mary.
“there are trees there—i saw the tops of them.
a bird with a red breast was sitting on one of them and he sang.”
to her surprise the surly old weather-beaten face actually changed its expression.
a slow smile spread over it and the gardener looked quite different.
it made her think that it was curious how much nicer a person looked when he smiled.
she had not thought of it before.
he turned about to the orchard side of his garden and began to whistle—a low soft whistle.
she could not understand how such a surly man could make such a coaxing sound.
almost the next moment a wonderful thing happened.
she heard a soft little rushing flight through the air—and it was the bird with the red breast flying to them, and he actually alighted on the big clod of earth quite near to the gardener’s foot.
“here he is,” chuckled the old man, and then he spoke to the bird as if he were speaking to a child.
“where has tha’ been, tha’ cheeky little beggar?” he said.
“i’ve not seen thee before today.
has tha begun tha’ courtin’ this early in th’
season?
tha’rt too forrad.”
the bird put his tiny head on one side and looked up at him with his soft bright eye which was like a black dewdrop.
he seemed quite familiar and not the least afraid.
he hopped about and pecked the earth briskly, looking for seeds and insects.
it actually gave mary a queer feeling in her heart, because he was so pretty and cheerful and seemed so like a person.
he had a tiny plump body and a delicate beak, and slender delicate legs.
“will he always come when you call him?” she asked almost in a whisper.
“aye, that he will.
i’ve knowed him ever since he was a fledgling.
he come out of th’ nest in th’ other garden an’ when first he flew over th’ wall he was too weak to fly back for a few days an’ we got friendly.
when he went over th’ wall again th’ rest of th’ brood was gone an’ he was lonely an’ he come back to me.”
“what kind of a bird is he?” mary asked.
“doesn’t tha’ know?
he’s a robin redbreast an’ they’re th’ friendliest, curiousest birds alive.
they’re almost as friendly as dogs—if you know how to get on with ’em.
watch him peckin’ about there an’ lookin’ round at us now an’ again.
he knows we’re talkin’ about him.”
it was the queerest thing in the world to see the old fellow.
he looked at the plump little scarlet-waistcoated bird as if he were both proud and fond of him.
“he’s a conceited one,” he chuckled.
“he likes to hear folk talk about him.
an’ curious—bless me, there never was his like for curiosity an’
meddlin’.
he’s always comin’ to see what i’m plantin’.
he knows all th’
things mester craven never troubles hissel’ to find out.
he’s th’ head gardener, he is.”
the robin hopped about busily pecking the soil and now and then stopped and looked at them a little.
mary thought his black dewdrop eyes gazed at her with great curiosity.
it really seemed as if he were finding out all about her.
the queer feeling in her heart increased.
“where did the rest of the brood fly to?” she asked.
“there’s no knowin’.
the old ones turn ’em out o’ their nest an’ make ’em fly an’ they’re scattered before you know it.
this one was a knowin’ one an’ he knew he was lonely.”
mistress mary went a step nearer to the robin and looked at him very hard.
“i’m lonely,” she said.
she had not known before that this was one of the things which made her feel sour and cross.
she seemed to find it out when the robin looked at her and she looked at the robin.
the old gardener pushed his cap back on his bald head and stared at her a minute.
“art tha’ th’ little wench from india?” he asked.
mary nodded.
“then no wonder tha’rt lonely.
tha’lt be lonlier before tha’s done,” he said.
he began to dig again, driving his spade deep into the rich black garden soil while the robin hopped about very busily employed.
“what is your name?” mary inquired.
he stood up to answer her.
“ben weatherstaff,” he answered, and then he added with a surly chuckle, “i’m lonely mysel’ except when he’s with me,” and he jerked his thumb toward the robin.
“he’s th’ only friend i’ve got.”
“i have no friends at all,” said mary.
“i never had.
my ayah didn’t like me and i never played with anyone.”
it is a yorkshire habit to say what you think with blunt frankness, and old ben weatherstaff was a yorkshire moor man.
“tha’ an’ me are a good bit alike,” he said.
“we was wove out of th’
same cloth.
we’re neither of us good lookin’ an’ we’re both of us as sour as we look.
we’ve got the same nasty tempers, both of us, i’ll warrant.”
this was plain speaking, and mary lennox had never heard the truth about herself in her life.
native servants always salaamed and submitted to you, whatever you did.
she had never thought much about her looks, but she wondered if she was as unattractive as ben weatherstaff and she also wondered if she looked as sour as he had looked before the robin came.
she actually began to wonder also if she was “nasty tempered.” she felt uncomfortable.
suddenly a clear rippling little sound broke out near her and she turned round.
she was standing a few feet from a young apple-tree and the robin had flown on to one of its branches and had burst out into a scrap of a song.
ben weatherstaff laughed outright.
“what did he do that for?” asked mary.
“he’s made up his mind to make friends with thee,” replied ben.
“dang me if he hasn’t took a fancy to thee.”
“to me?” said mary, and she moved toward the little tree softly and looked up.
“would you make friends with me?” she said to the robin just as if she was speaking to a person.
“would you?” and she did not say it either in her hard little voice or in her imperious indian voice, but in a tone so soft and eager and coaxing that ben weatherstaff was as surprised as she had been when she heard him whistle.
“why,” he cried out, “tha’ said that as nice an’ human as if tha’ was a real child instead of a sharp old woman.
tha’ said it almost like dickon talks to his wild things on th’ moor.”
“do you know dickon?” mary asked, turning round rather in a hurry.
“everybody knows him.
dickon’s wanderin’ about everywhere.
th’ very blackberries an’ heather-bells knows him.
i warrant th’ foxes shows him where their cubs lies an’ th’ skylarks doesn’t hide their nests from him.”
mary would have liked to ask some more questions.
she was almost as curious about dickon as she was about the deserted garden.
but just that moment the robin, who had ended his song, gave a little shake of his wings, spread them and flew away.
he had made his visit and had other things to do.
“he has flown over the wall!” mary cried out, watching him.
“he has flown into the orchard—he has flown across the other wall—into the garden where there is no door!”
“he lives there,” said old ben.
“he came out o’ th’ egg there.
if he’s courtin’, he’s makin’ up to some young madam of a robin that lives among th’ old rose-trees there.”
“rose-trees,” said mary.
“are there rose-trees?”
ben weatherstaff took up his spade again and began to dig.
“there was ten year’ ago,” he mumbled.
“i should like to see them,” said mary.
“where is the green door?
there must be a door somewhere.”
ben drove his spade deep and looked as uncompanionable as he had looked when she first saw him.
“there was ten year’ ago, but there isn’t now,” he said.
“no door!” cried mary.
“there must be.”
“none as anyone can find, an’ none as is anyone’s business.
don’t you be a meddlesome wench an’ poke your nose where it’s no cause to go.
here, i must go on with my work.
get you gone an’ play you.
i’ve no more time.”
and he actually stopped digging, threw his spade over his shoulder and walked off, without even glancing at her or saying good-by.
chapter v
the cry in the corridor
at first each day which passed by for mary lennox was exactly like the others.
every morning she awoke in her tapestried room and found martha kneeling upon the hearth building her fire; every morning she ate her breakfast in the nursery which had nothing amusing in it; and after each breakfast she gazed out of the window across to the huge moor which seemed to spread out on all sides and climb up to the sky, and after she had stared for a while she realized that if she did not go out she would have to stay in and do nothing—and so she went out.
she did not know that this was the best thing she could have done, and she did not know that, when she began to walk quickly or even run along the paths and down the avenue, she was stirring her slow blood and making herself stronger by fighting with the wind which swept down from the moor.
she ran only to make herself warm, and she hated the wind which rushed at her face and roared and held her back as if it were some giant she could not see.
but the big breaths of rough fresh air blown over the heather filled her lungs with something which was good for her whole thin body and whipped some red color into her cheeks and brightened her dull eyes when she did not know anything about it.
but after a few days spent almost entirely out of doors she wakened one morning knowing what it was to be hungry, and when she sat down to her breakfast she did not glance disdainfully at her porridge and push it away, but took up her spoon and began to eat it and went on eating it until her bowl was empty.
“tha’ got on well enough with that this mornin’, didn’t tha’?” said martha.
“it tastes nice today,” said mary, feeling a little surprised herself.
“it’s th’ air of th’ moor that’s givin’ thee stomach for tha’
victuals,” answered martha.
“it’s lucky for thee that tha’s got victuals as well as appetite.
there’s been twelve in our cottage as had th’ stomach an’ nothin’ to put in it.
you go on playin’ you out o’
doors every day an’ you’ll get some flesh on your bones an’ you won’t be so yeller.”
“i don’t play,” said mary.
“i have nothing to play with.”
“nothin’ to play with!” exclaimed martha.
“our children plays with sticks and stones.
they just runs about an’ shouts an’ looks at things.” mary did not shout, but she looked at things.
there was nothing else to do.
she walked round and round the gardens and wandered about the paths in the park.
sometimes she looked for ben weatherstaff, but though several times she saw him at work he was too busy to look at her or was too surly.
once when she was walking toward him he picked up his spade and turned away as if he did it on purpose.
one place she went to oftener than to any other.
it was the long walk outside the gardens with the walls round them.
there were bare flower-beds on either side of it and against the walls ivy grew thickly.
there was one part of the wall where the creeping dark green leaves were more bushy than elsewhere.
it seemed as if for a long time that part had been neglected.
the rest of it had been clipped and made to look neat, but at this lower end of the walk it had not been trimmed at all.
a few days after she had talked to ben weatherstaff, mary stopped to notice this and wondered why it was so.
she had just paused and was looking up at a long spray of ivy swinging in the wind when she saw a gleam of scarlet and heard a brilliant chirp, and there, on the top of the wall, perched ben weatherstaff’s robin redbreast, tilting forward to look at her with his small head on one side.
“oh!” she cried out, “is it you—is it you?” and it did not seem at all queer to her that she spoke to him as if she were sure that he would understand and answer her.
he did answer.
he twittered and chirped and hopped along the wall as if he were telling her all sorts of things.
it seemed to mistress mary as if she understood him, too, though he was not speaking in words.
it was as if he said:
“good morning!
isn’t the wind nice?
isn’t the sun nice?
isn’t everything nice?
let us both chirp and hop and twitter.
come on!
come on!”
mary began to laugh, and as he hopped and took little flights along the wall she ran after him.
poor little thin, sallow, ugly mary—she actually looked almost pretty for a moment.
“i like you!
i like you!” she cried out, pattering down the walk; and she chirped and tried to whistle, which last she did not know how to do in the least.
but the robin seemed to be quite satisfied and chirped and whistled back at her.
at last he spread his wings and made a darting flight to the top of a tree, where he perched and sang loudly.
that reminded mary of the first time she had seen him.
he had been swinging on a tree-top then and she had been standing in the orchard.
now she was on the other side of the orchard and standing in the path outside a wall—much lower down—and there was the same tree inside.
“it’s in the garden no one can go into,” she said to herself.
“it’s the garden without a door.
he lives in there.
how i wish i could see what it is like!”
she ran up the walk to the green door she had entered the first morning.
then she ran down the path through the other door and then into the orchard, and when she stood and looked up there was the tree on the other side of the wall, and there was the robin just finishing his song and beginning to preen his feathers with his beak.
“it is the garden,” she said.
“i am sure it is.”
she walked round and looked closely at that side of the orchard wall, but she only found what she had found before—that there was no door in it.
then she ran through the kitchen-gardens again and out into the walk outside the long ivy-covered wall, and she walked to the end of it and looked at it, but there was no door; and then she walked to the other end, looking again, but there was no door.
“it’s very queer,” she said.
“ben weatherstaff said there was no door and there is no door.
but there must have been one ten years ago, because mr. craven buried the key.”
this gave her so much to think of that she began to be quite interested and feel that she was not sorry that she had come to misselthwaite manor.
in india she had always felt hot and too languid to care much about anything.
the fact was that the fresh wind from the moor had begun to blow the cobwebs out of her young brain and to waken her up a little.
she stayed out of doors nearly all day, and when she sat down to her supper at night she felt hungry and drowsy and comfortable.
she did not feel cross when martha chattered away.
she felt as if she rather liked to hear her, and at last she thought she would ask her a question.
she asked it after she had finished her supper and had sat down on the hearth-rug before the fire.
“why did mr. craven hate the garden?” she said.
she had made martha stay with her and martha had not objected at all.
she was very young, and used to a crowded cottage full of brothers and sisters, and she found it dull in the great servants’ hall downstairs where the footman and upper-housemaids made fun of her yorkshire speech and looked upon her as a common little thing, and sat and whispered among themselves.
martha liked to talk, and the strange child who had lived in india, and been waited upon by “blacks,” was novelty enough to attract her.
she sat down on the hearth herself without waiting to be asked.
“art tha’ thinkin’ about that garden yet?” she said.
“i knew tha’
would.
that was just the way with me when i first heard about it.”
“why did he hate it?” mary persisted.
martha tucked her feet under her and made herself quite comfortable.
“listen to th’ wind wutherin’ round the house,” she said.
“you could bare stand up on the moor if you was out on it tonight.”
mary did not know what “wutherin’” meant until she listened, and then she understood.
it must mean that hollow shuddering sort of roar which rushed round and round the house as if the giant no one could see were buffeting it and beating at the walls and windows to try to break in.
but one knew he could not get in, and somehow it made one feel very safe and warm inside a room with a red coal fire.
“but why did he hate it so?” she asked, after she had listened.
she intended to know if martha did.
then martha gave up her store of knowledge.
“mind,” she said, “mrs.
medlock said it’s not to be talked about.
there’s lots o’ things in this place that’s not to be talked over.
that’s mr. craven’s orders.
his troubles are none servants’ business, he says.
but for th’ garden he wouldn’t be like he is.
it was mrs.
craven’s garden that she had made when first they were married an’ she just loved it, an’ they used to ’tend the flowers themselves.
an’ none o’ th’ gardeners was ever let to go in.
him an’ her used to go in an’
shut th’ door an’ stay there hours an’ hours, readin’ and talkin’.
an’
she was just a bit of a girl an’ there was an old tree with a branch bent like a seat on it.
an’ she made roses grow over it an’ she used to sit there.
but one day when she was sittin’ there th’ branch broke an’
she fell on th’ ground an’ was hurt so bad that next day she died.
th’
doctors thought he’d go out o’ his mind an’ die, too.
that’s why he hates it.
no one’s never gone in since, an’ he won’t let anyone talk about it.”
mary did not ask any more questions.
she looked at the red fire and listened to the wind “wutherin’.” it seemed to be “wutherin’” louder than ever.
at that moment a very good thing was happening to her.
four good things had happened to her, in fact, since she came to misselthwaite manor.
she had felt as if she had understood a robin and that he had understood her; she had run in the wind until her blood had grown warm; she had been healthily hungry for the first time in her life; and she had found out what it was to be sorry for someone.
but as she was listening to the wind she began to listen to something else.
she did not know what it was, because at first she could scarcely distinguish it from the wind itself.
it was a curious sound—it seemed almost as if a child were crying somewhere.
sometimes the wind sounded rather like a child crying, but presently mistress mary felt quite sure this sound was inside the house, not outside it.
it was far away, but it was inside.
she turned round and looked at martha.
“do you hear anyone crying?” she said.
martha suddenly looked confused.
“no,” she answered.
“it’s th’ wind.
sometimes it sounds like as if someone was lost on th’ moor an’ wailin’.
it’s got all sorts o’
sounds.”
“but listen,” said mary.
“it’s in the house—down one of those long corridors.”
and at that very moment a door must have been opened somewhere downstairs; for a great rushing draft blew along the passage and the door of the room they sat in was blown open with a crash, and as they both jumped to their feet the light was blown out and the crying sound was swept down the far corridor so that it was to be heard more plainly than ever.
“there!” said mary.
“i told you so!
it is someone crying—and it isn’t a grown-up person.”
martha ran and shut the door and turned the key, but before she did it they both heard the sound of a door in some far passage shutting with a bang, and then everything was quiet, for even the wind ceased “wutherin’” for a few moments.
“it was th’ wind,” said martha stubbornly.
“an’ if it wasn’t, it was little betty butterworth, th’ scullery-maid.
she’s had th’ toothache all day.”
but something troubled and awkward in her manner made mistress mary stare very hard at her.
she did not believe she was speaking the truth.
chapter vi
“there was someone crying—there was!”
the next day the rain poured down in torrents again, and when mary looked out of her window the moor was almost hidden by gray mist and cloud.
there could be no going out today.
“what do you do in your cottage when it rains like this?” she asked martha.
“try to keep from under each other’s feet mostly,” martha answered.
“eh!
there does seem a lot of us then.
mother’s a good-tempered woman but she gets fair moithered.
the biggest ones goes out in th’ cow-shed and plays there.
dickon he doesn’t mind th’ wet.
he goes out just th’
same as if th’ sun was shinin’.
he says he sees things on rainy days as doesn’t show when it’s fair weather.
he once found a little fox cub half drowned in its hole and he brought it home in th’ bosom of his shirt to keep it warm.
its mother had been killed nearby an’ th’ hole was swum out an’ th’ rest o’ th’ litter was dead.
he’s got it at home now.
he found a half-drowned young crow another time an’ he brought it home, too, an’ tamed it.
it’s named soot because it’s so black, an’ it hops an’ flies about with him everywhere.”
the time had come when mary had forgotten to resent martha’s familiar talk.
she had even begun to find it interesting and to be sorry when she stopped or went away.
the stories she had been told by her ayah when she lived in india had been quite unlike those martha had to tell about the moorland cottage which held fourteen people who lived in four little rooms and never had quite enough to eat.
the children seemed to tumble about and amuse themselves like a litter of rough, good-natured collie puppies.
mary was most attracted by the mother and dickon.
when martha told stories of what “mother” said or did they always sounded comfortable.
“if i had a raven or a fox cub i could play with it,” said mary.
“but i have nothing.”
martha looked perplexed.
“can tha’ knit?” she asked.
“no,” answered mary.
“can tha’ sew?”
“no.”
“can tha’ read?”
“yes.”
“then why doesn’t tha read somethin’, or learn a bit o’ spellin’?
tha’st old enough to be learnin’ thy book a good bit now.”
“i haven’t any books,” said mary.
“those i had were left in india.”
“that’s a pity,” said martha.
“if mrs. medlock’d let thee go into th’
library, there’s thousands o’ books there.”
mary did not ask where the library was, because she was suddenly inspired by a new idea.
she made up her mind to go and find it herself.
she was not troubled about mrs. medlock.
mrs. medlock seemed always to be in her comfortable housekeeper’s sitting-room downstairs.
in this queer place one scarcely ever saw anyone at all.
in fact, there was no one to see but the servants, and when their master was away they lived a luxurious life below stairs, where there was a huge kitchen hung about with shining brass and pewter, and a large servants’ hall where there were four or five abundant meals eaten every day, and where a great deal of lively romping went on when mrs. medlock was out of the way.
mary’s meals were served regularly, and martha waited on her, but no one troubled themselves about her in the least.
mrs. medlock came and looked at her every day or two, but no one inquired what she did or told her what to do.
she supposed that perhaps this was the english way of treating children.
in india she had always been attended by her ayah, who had followed her about and waited on her, hand and foot.
she had often been tired of her company.
now she was followed by nobody and was learning to dress herself because martha looked as though she thought she was silly and stupid when she wanted to have things handed to her and put on.
“hasn’t tha’ got good sense?” she said once, when mary had stood waiting for her to put on her gloves for her.
“our susan ann is twice as sharp as thee an’ she’s only four year’ old.
sometimes tha’ looks fair soft in th’ head.”
mary had worn her contrary scowl for an hour after that, but it made her think several entirely new things.
she stood at the window for about ten minutes this morning after martha had swept up the hearth for the last time and gone downstairs.
she was thinking over the new idea which had come to her when she heard of the library.
she did not care very much about the library itself, because she had read very few books; but to hear of it brought back to her mind the hundred rooms with closed doors.
she wondered if they were all really locked and what she would find if she could get into any of them.
were there a hundred really?
why shouldn’t she go and see how many doors she could count?
it would be something to do on this morning when she could not go out.
she had never been taught to ask permission to do things, and she knew nothing at all about authority, so she would not have thought it necessary to ask mrs. medlock if she might walk about the house, even if she had seen her.
she opened the door of the room and went into the corridor, and then she began her wanderings.
it was a long corridor and it branched into other corridors and it led her up short flights of steps which mounted to others again.
there were doors and doors, and there were pictures on the walls.
sometimes they were pictures of dark, curious landscapes, but oftenest they were portraits of men and women in queer, grand costumes made of satin and velvet.
she found herself in one long gallery whose walls were covered with these portraits.
she had never thought there could be so many in any house.
she walked slowly down this place and stared at the faces which also seemed to stare at her.
she felt as if they were wondering what a little girl from india was doing in their house.
some were pictures of children—little girls in thick satin frocks which reached to their feet and stood out about them, and boys with puffed sleeves and lace collars and long hair, or with big ruffs around their necks.
she always stopped to look at the children, and wonder what their names were, and where they had gone, and why they wore such odd clothes.
there was a stiff, plain little girl rather like herself.
she wore a green brocade dress and held a green parrot on her finger.
her eyes had a sharp, curious look.
“where do you live now?” said mary aloud to her.
“i wish you were here.”
surely no other little girl ever spent such a queer morning.
it seemed as if there was no one in all the huge rambling house but her own small self, wandering about upstairs and down, through narrow passages and wide ones, where it seemed to her that no one but herself had ever walked.
since so many rooms had been built, people must have lived in them, but it all seemed so empty that she could not quite believe it true.
it was not until she climbed to the second floor that she thought of turning the handle of a door.
all the doors were shut, as mrs. medlock had said they were, but at last she put her hand on the handle of one of them and turned it.
she was almost frightened for a moment when she felt that it turned without difficulty and that when she pushed upon the door itself it slowly and heavily opened.
it was a massive door and opened into a big bedroom.
there were embroidered hangings on the wall, and inlaid furniture such as she had seen in india stood about the room.
a broad window with leaded panes looked out upon the moor; and over the mantel was another portrait of the stiff, plain little girl who seemed to stare at her more curiously than ever.
“perhaps she slept here once,” said mary.
“she stares at me so that she makes me feel queer.”
after that she opened more doors and more.
she saw so many rooms that she became quite tired and began to think that there must be a hundred, though she had not counted them.
in all of them there were old pictures or old tapestries with strange scenes worked on them.
there were curious pieces of furniture and curious ornaments in nearly all of them.
in one room, which looked like a lady’s sitting-room, the hangings were all embroidered velvet, and in a cabinet were about a hundred little elephants made of ivory.
they were of different sizes, and some had their mahouts or palanquins on their backs.
some were much bigger than the others and some were so tiny that they seemed only babies.
mary had seen carved ivory in india and she knew all about elephants.
she opened the door of the cabinet and stood on a footstool and played with these for quite a long time.
when she got tired she set the elephants in order and shut the door of the cabinet.
in all her wanderings through the long corridors and the empty rooms, she had seen nothing alive; but in this room she saw something.
just after she had closed the cabinet door she heard a tiny rustling sound.
it made her jump and look around at the sofa by the fireplace, from which it seemed to come.
in the corner of the sofa there was a cushion, and in the velvet which covered it there was a hole, and out of the hole peeped a tiny head with a pair of frightened eyes in it.
mary crept softly across the room to look.
the bright eyes belonged to a little gray mouse, and the mouse had eaten a hole into the cushion and made a comfortable nest there.
six baby mice were cuddled up asleep near her.
if there was no one else alive in the hundred rooms there were seven mice who did not look lonely at all.
“if they wouldn’t be so frightened i would take them back with me,”
said mary.
she had wandered about long enough to feel too tired to wander any farther, and she turned back.
two or three times she lost her way by turning down the wrong corridor and was obliged to ramble up and down until she found the right one; but at last she reached her own floor again, though she was some distance from her own room and did not know exactly where she was.
“i believe i have taken a wrong turning again,” she said, standing still at what seemed the end of a short passage with tapestry on the wall.
“i don’t know which way to go.
how still everything is!”
it was while she was standing here and just after she had said this that the stillness was broken by a sound.
it was another cry, but not quite like the one she had heard last night; it was only a short one, a fretful childish whine muffled by passing through walls.
“it’s nearer than it was,” said mary, her heart beating rather faster.
“and it is crying.”
she put her hand accidentally upon the tapestry near her, and then sprang back, feeling quite startled.
the tapestry was the covering of a door which fell open and showed her that there was another part of the corridor behind it, and mrs. medlock was coming up it with her bunch of keys in her hand and a very cross look on her face.
“what are you doing here?” she said, and she took mary by the arm and pulled her away.
“what did i tell you?”
“i turned round the wrong corner,” explained mary.
“i didn’t know which way to go and i heard someone crying.” she quite hated mrs. medlock at the moment, but she hated her more the next.
“you didn’t hear anything of the sort,” said the housekeeper.
“you come along back to your own nursery or i’ll box your ears.”
and she took her by the arm and half pushed, half pulled her up one passage and down another until she pushed her in at the door of her own room.
“now,” she said, “you stay where you’re told to stay or you’ll find yourself locked up.
the master had better get you a governess, same as he said he would.
you’re one that needs someone to look sharp after you.
i’ve got enough to do.”
she went out of the room and slammed the door after her, and mary went and sat on the hearth-rug, pale with rage.
she did not cry, but ground her teeth.
“there was someone crying—there was—there was!” she said to herself.
she had heard it twice now, and sometime she would find out.
she had found out a great deal this morning.
she felt as if she had been on a long journey, and at any rate she had had something to amuse her all the time, and she had played with the ivory elephants and had seen the gray mouse and its babies in their nest in the velvet cushion.
chapter vii
the key to the garden
two days after this, when mary opened her eyes she sat upright in bed immediately, and called to martha.
“look at the moor!
look at the moor!”
the rainstorm had ended and the gray mist and clouds had been swept away in the night by the wind.
the wind itself had ceased and a brilliant, deep blue sky arched high over the moorland.
never, never had mary dreamed of a sky so blue.
in india skies were hot and blazing; this was of a deep cool blue which almost seemed to sparkle like the waters of some lovely bottomless lake, and here and there, high, high in the arched blueness floated small clouds of snow-white fleece.
the far-reaching world of the moor itself looked softly blue instead of gloomy purple-black or awful dreary gray.
“aye,” said martha with a cheerful grin.
“th’ storm’s over for a bit.
it does like this at this time o’ th’ year.
it goes off in a night like it was pretendin’ it had never been here an’ never meant to come again.
that’s because th’ springtime’s on its way.
it’s a long way off yet, but it’s comin’.”
“i thought perhaps it always rained or looked dark in england,” mary said.
“eh!
no!” said martha, sitting up on her heels among her black lead brushes.
“nowt o’ th’ soart!”
“what does that mean?” asked mary seriously.
in india the natives spoke different dialects which only a few people understood, so she was not surprised when martha used words she did not know.
martha laughed as she had done the first morning.
“there now,” she said.
“i’ve talked broad yorkshire again like mrs.
medlock said i mustn’t.
‘nowt o’ th’ soart’ means ‘nothin’-of-the-sort,’” slowly and carefully, “but it takes so long to say it.
yorkshire’s th’ sunniest place on earth when it is sunny.
i told thee tha’d like th’ moor after a bit.
just you wait till you see th’ gold-colored gorse blossoms an’ th’ blossoms o’ th’ broom, an’ th’
heather flowerin’, all purple bells, an’ hundreds o’ butterflies flutterin’ an’ bees hummin’ an’ skylarks soarin’ up an’ singin’.
you’ll want to get out on it at sunrise an’ live out on it all day like dickon does.”
“could i ever get there?” asked mary wistfully, looking through her window at the far-off blue.
it was so new and big and wonderful and such a heavenly color.
“i don’t know,” answered martha.
“tha’s never used tha’ legs since tha’
was born, it seems to me.
tha’ couldn’t walk five mile.
it’s five mile to our cottage.”
“i should like to see your cottage.”
martha stared at her a moment curiously before she took up her polishing brush and began to rub the grate again.
she was thinking that the small plain face did not look quite as sour at this moment as it had done the first morning she saw it.
it looked just a trifle like little susan ann’s when she wanted something very much.
“i’ll ask my mother about it,” she said.
“she’s one o’ them that nearly always sees a way to do things.
it’s my day out today an’ i’m goin’
home.
eh!
i am glad.
mrs. medlock thinks a lot o’ mother.
perhaps she could talk to her.”
“i like your mother,” said mary.
“i should think tha’ did,” agreed martha, polishing away.
“i’ve never seen her,” said mary.
“no, tha’ hasn’t,” replied martha.
she sat up on her heels again and rubbed the end of her nose with the back of her hand as if puzzled for a moment, but she ended quite positively.
“well, she’s that sensible an’ hard workin’ an’ good-natured an’ clean that no one could help likin’ her whether they’d seen her or not.
when i’m goin’ home to her on my day out i just jump for joy when i’m crossin’ the moor.”
“i like dickon,” added mary.
“and i’ve never seen him.”
“well,” said martha stoutly, “i’ve told thee that th’ very birds likes him an’ th’ rabbits an’ wild sheep an’ ponies, an’ th’ foxes themselves.
i wonder,” staring at her reflectively, “what dickon would think of thee?”
“he wouldn’t like me,” said mary in her stiff, cold little way.
“no one does.”
martha looked reflective again.
“how does tha’ like thysel’?” she inquired, really quite as if she were curious to know.
mary hesitated a moment and thought it over.
“not at all—really,” she answered.
“but i never thought of that before.”
martha grinned a little as if at some homely recollection.
“mother said that to me once,” she said.
“she was at her wash-tub an’ i was in a bad temper an’ talkin’ ill of folk, an’ she turns round on me an’ says: ‘tha’ young vixen, tha’!
there tha’ stands sayin’ tha’
doesn’t like this one an’ tha’ doesn’t like that one.
how does tha’
like thysel’?’ it made me laugh an’ it brought me to my senses in a minute.”
she went away in high spirits as soon as she had given mary her breakfast.
she was going to walk five miles across the moor to the cottage, and she was going to help her mother with the washing and do the week’s baking and enjoy herself thoroughly.
mary felt lonelier than ever when she knew she was no longer in the house.
she went out into the garden as quickly as possible, and the first thing she did was to run round and round the fountain flower garden ten times.
she counted the times carefully and when she had finished she felt in better spirits.
the sunshine made the whole place look different.
the high, deep, blue sky arched over misselthwaite as well as over the moor, and she kept lifting her face and looking up into it, trying to imagine what it would be like to lie down on one of the little snow-white clouds and float about.
she went into the first kitchen-garden and found ben weatherstaff working there with two other gardeners.
the change in the weather seemed to have done him good.
he spoke to her of his own accord.
“springtime’s comin,’” he said.
“cannot tha’ smell it?”
mary sniffed and thought she could.
“i smell something nice and fresh and damp,” she said.
“that’s th’ good rich earth,” he answered, digging away.
“it’s in a good humor makin’ ready to grow things.
it’s glad when plantin’ time comes.
it’s dull in th’ winter when it’s got nowt to do.
in th’ flower gardens out there things will be stirrin’ down below in th’ dark.
th’
sun’s warmin’ ’em.
you’ll see bits o’ green spikes stickin’ out o’ th’
black earth after a bit.”
“what will they be?” asked mary.
“crocuses an’ snowdrops an’ daffydowndillys.
has tha’ never seen them?”
“no.
everything is hot, and wet, and green after the rains in india,”
said mary.
“and i think things grow up in a night.”
“these won’t grow up in a night,” said weatherstaff.
“tha’ll have to wait for ’em.
they’ll poke up a bit higher here, an’ push out a spike more there, an’ uncurl a leaf this day an’ another that.
you watch ’em.”
“i am going to,” answered mary.
very soon she heard the soft rustling flight of wings again and she knew at once that the robin had come again.
he was very pert and lively, and hopped about so close to her feet, and put his head on one side and looked at her so slyly that she asked ben weatherstaff a question.
“do you think he remembers me?” she said.
“remembers thee!” said weatherstaff indignantly.
“he knows every cabbage stump in th’ gardens, let alone th’ people.
he’s never seen a little wench here before, an’ he’s bent on findin’ out all about thee.
tha’s no need to try to hide anything from him.”
“are things stirring down below in the dark in that garden where he lives?” mary inquired.
“what garden?” grunted weatherstaff, becoming surly again.
“the one where the old rose-trees are.” she could not help asking, because she wanted so much to know.
“are all the flowers dead, or do some of them come again in the summer?
are there ever any roses?”
“ask him,” said ben weatherstaff, hunching his shoulders toward the robin.
“he’s the only one as knows.
no one else has seen inside it for ten year’.”
ten years was a long time, mary thought.
she had been born ten years ago.
she walked away, slowly thinking.
she had begun to like the garden just as she had begun to like the robin and dickon and martha’s mother.
she was beginning to like martha, too.
that seemed a good many people to like—when you were not used to liking.
she thought of the robin as one of the people.
she went to her walk outside the long, ivy-covered wall over which she could see the tree-tops; and the second time she walked up and down the most interesting and exciting thing happened to her, and it was all through ben weatherstaff’s robin.
she heard a chirp and a twitter, and when she looked at the bare flower-bed at her left side there he was hopping about and pretending to peck things out of the earth to persuade her that he had not followed her.
but she knew he had followed her and the surprise so filled her with delight that she almost trembled a little.
“you do remember me!” she cried out.
“you do!
you are prettier than anything else in the world!”
she chirped, and talked, and coaxed and he hopped, and flirted his tail and twittered.
it was as if he were talking.
his red waistcoat was like satin and he puffed his tiny breast out and was so fine and so grand and so pretty that it was really as if he were showing her how important and like a human person a robin could be.
mistress mary forgot that she had ever been contrary in her life when he allowed her to draw closer and closer to him, and bend down and talk and try to make something like robin sounds.
oh!
to think that he should actually let her come as near to him as that!
he knew nothing in the world would make her put out her hand toward him or startle him in the least tiniest way.
he knew it because he was a real person—only nicer than any other person in the world.
she was so happy that she scarcely dared to breathe.
the flower-bed was not quite bare.
it was bare of flowers because the perennial plants had been cut down for their winter rest, but there were tall shrubs and low ones which grew together at the back of the bed, and as the robin hopped about under them she saw him hop over a small pile of freshly turned up earth.
he stopped on it to look for a worm.
the earth had been turned up because a dog had been trying to dig up a mole and he had scratched quite a deep hole.
mary looked at it, not really knowing why the hole was there, and as she looked she saw something almost buried in the newly-turned soil.
it was something like a ring of rusty iron or brass and when the robin flew up into a tree nearby she put out her hand and picked the ring up.
it was more than a ring, however; it was an old key which looked as if it had been buried a long time.
mistress mary stood up and looked at it with an almost frightened face as it hung from her finger.
“perhaps it has been buried for ten years,” she said in a whisper.
“perhaps it is the key to the garden!”
chapter viii
the robin who showed the way
she looked at the key quite a long time.
she turned it over and over, and thought about it.
as i have said before, she was not a child who had been trained to ask permission or consult her elders about things.
all she thought about the key was that if it was the key to the closed garden, and she could find out where the door was, she could perhaps open it and see what was inside the walls, and what had happened to the old rose-trees.
it was because it had been shut up so long that she wanted to see it.
it seemed as if it must be different from other places and that something strange must have happened to it during ten years.
besides that, if she liked it she could go into it every day and shut the door behind her, and she could make up some play of her own and play it quite alone, because nobody would ever know where she was, but would think the door was still locked and the key buried in the earth.
the thought of that pleased her very much.
living as it were, all by herself in a house with a hundred mysteriously closed rooms and having nothing whatever to do to amuse herself, had set her inactive brain to working and was actually awakening her imagination.
there is no doubt that the fresh, strong, pure air from the moor had a great deal to do with it.
just as it had given her an appetite, and fighting with the wind had stirred her blood, so the same things had stirred her mind.
in india she had always been too hot and languid and weak to care much about anything, but in this place she was beginning to care and to want to do new things.
already she felt less “contrary,” though she did not know why.
she put the key in her pocket and walked up and down her walk.
no one but herself ever seemed to come there, so she could walk slowly and look at the wall, or, rather, at the ivy growing on it.
the ivy was the baffling thing.
howsoever carefully she looked she could see nothing but thickly growing, glossy, dark green leaves.
she was very much disappointed.
something of her contrariness came back to her as she paced the walk and looked over it at the tree-tops inside.
it seemed so silly, she said to herself, to be near it and not be able to get in.
she took the key in her pocket when she went back to the house, and she made up her mind that she would always carry it with her when she went out, so that if she ever should find the hidden door she would be ready.
mrs. medlock had allowed martha to sleep all night at the cottage, but she was back at her work in the morning with cheeks redder than ever and in the best of spirits.
“i got up at four o’clock,” she said.
“eh!
it was pretty on th’ moor with th’ birds gettin’ up an’ th’ rabbits scamperin’ about an’ th’ sun risin’.
i didn’t walk all th’ way.
a man gave me a ride in his cart an’
i did enjoy myself.”
she was full of stories of the delights of her day out.
her mother had been glad to see her and they had got the baking and washing all out of the way.
she had even made each of the children a doughcake with a bit of brown sugar in it.
“i had ’em all pipin’ hot when they came in from playin’ on th’ moor.
an’ th’ cottage all smelt o’ nice, clean hot bakin’ an’ there was a good fire, an’ they just shouted for joy.
our dickon he said our cottage was good enough for a king to live in.”
in the evening they had all sat round the fire, and martha and her mother had sewed patches on torn clothes and mended stockings and martha had told them about the little girl who had come from india and who had been waited on all her life by what martha called “blacks”
until she didn’t know how to put on her own stockings.
“eh!
they did like to hear about you,” said martha.
“they wanted to know all about th’ blacks an’ about th’ ship you came in.
i couldn’t tell ’em enough.”
mary reflected a little.
“i’ll tell you a great deal more before your next day out,” she said, “so that you will have more to talk about.
i dare say they would like to hear about riding on elephants and camels, and about the officers going to hunt tigers.”
“my word!” cried delighted martha.
“it would set ’em clean off their heads.
would tha’ really do that, miss?
it would be same as a wild beast show like we heard they had in york once.”
“india is quite different from yorkshire,” mary said slowly, as she thought the matter over.
“i never thought of that.
did dickon and your mother like to hear you talk about me?”
“why, our dickon’s eyes nearly started out o’ his head, they got that round,” answered martha.
“but mother, she was put out about your seemin’ to be all by yourself like.
she said, ‘hasn’t mr. craven got no governess for her, nor no nurse?’ and i said, ‘no, he hasn’t, though mrs. medlock says he will when he thinks of it, but she says he mayn’t think of it for two or three years.’”
“i don’t want a governess,” said mary sharply.
“but mother says you ought to be learnin’ your book by this time an’
you ought to have a woman to look after you, an’ she says: ‘now, martha, you just think how you’d feel yourself, in a big place like that, wanderin’ about all alone, an’ no mother.
you do your best to cheer her up,’ she says, an’ i said i would.”
mary gave her a long, steady look.
“you do cheer me up,” she said.
“i like to hear you talk.”
presently martha went out of the room and came back with something held in her hands under her apron.
“what does tha’ think,” she said, with a cheerful grin.
“i’ve brought thee a present.”
“a present!” exclaimed mistress mary.
how could a cottage full of fourteen hungry people give anyone a present!
“a man was drivin’ across the moor peddlin’,” martha explained.
“an’ he stopped his cart at our door.
he had pots an’ pans an’ odds an’ ends, but mother had no money to buy anythin’.
just as he was goin’ away our ’lizabeth ellen called out, ‘mother, he’s got skippin’-ropes with red an’ blue handles.’ an’ mother she calls out quite sudden, ‘here, stop, mister!
how much are they?’ an’ he says ‘tuppence’, an’ mother she began fumblin’ in her pocket an’ she says to me, ‘martha, tha’s brought me thy wages like a good lass, an’ i’ve got four places to put every penny, but i’m just goin’ to take tuppence out of it to buy that child a skippin’-rope,’ an’ she bought one an’ here it is.”
she brought it out from under her apron and exhibited it quite proudly.
it was a strong, slender rope with a striped red and blue handle at each end, but mary lennox had never seen a skipping-rope before.
she gazed at it with a mystified expression.
“what is it for?” she asked curiously.
“for!” cried out martha.
“does tha’ mean that they’ve not got skippin’-ropes in india, for all they’ve got elephants and tigers and camels!
no wonder most of ’em’s black.
this is what it’s for; just watch me.”
and she ran into the middle of the room and, taking a handle in each hand, began to skip, and skip, and skip, while mary turned in her chair to stare at her, and the queer faces in the old portraits seemed to stare at her, too, and wonder what on earth this common little cottager had the impudence to be doing under their very noses.
but martha did not even see them.
the interest and curiosity in mistress mary’s face delighted her, and she went on skipping and counted as she skipped until she had reached a hundred.
“i could skip longer than that,” she said when she stopped.
“i’ve skipped as much as five hundred when i was twelve, but i wasn’t as fat then as i am now, an’ i was in practice.”
mary got up from her chair beginning to feel excited herself.
“it looks nice,” she said.
“your mother is a kind woman.
do you think i could ever skip like that?”
“you just try it,” urged martha, handing her the skipping-rope.
“you can’t skip a hundred at first, but if you practice you’ll mount up.
that’s what mother said.
she says, ‘nothin’ will do her more good than skippin’ rope.
it’s th’ sensiblest toy a child can have.
let her play out in th’ fresh air skippin’ an’ it’ll stretch her legs an’ arms an’
give her some strength in ’em.’”
it was plain that there was not a great deal of strength in mistress mary’s arms and legs when she first began to skip.
she was not very clever at it, but she liked it so much that she did not want to stop.
“put on tha’ things and run an’ skip out o’ doors,” said martha.
“mother said i must tell you to keep out o’ doors as much as you could, even when it rains a bit, so as tha’ wrap up warm.”
mary put on her coat and hat and took her skipping-rope over her arm.
she opened the door to go out, and then suddenly thought of something and turned back rather slowly.
“martha,” she said, “they were your wages.
it was your two-pence really.
thank you.” she said it stiffly because she was not used to thanking people or noticing that they did things for her.
“thank you,”
she said, and held out her hand because she did not know what else to do.
martha gave her hand a clumsy little shake, as if she was not accustomed to this sort of thing either.
then she laughed.
“eh!
th’ art a queer, old-womanish thing,” she said.
“if tha’d been our ’lizabeth ellen tha’d have given me a kiss.”
mary looked stiffer than ever.
“do you want me to kiss you?”
martha laughed again.
“nay, not me,” she answered.
“if tha’ was different, p’raps tha’d want to thysel’.
but tha’ isn’t.
run off outside an’ play with thy rope.”
mistress mary felt a little awkward as she went out of the room.
yorkshire people seemed strange, and martha was always rather a puzzle to her.
at first she had disliked her very much, but now she did not.
the skipping-rope was a wonderful thing.
she counted and skipped, and skipped and counted, until her cheeks were quite red, and she was more interested than she had ever been since she was born.
the sun was shining and a little wind was blowing—not a rough wind, but one which came in delightful little gusts and brought a fresh scent of newly turned earth with it.
she skipped round the fountain garden, and up one walk and down another.
she skipped at last into the kitchen-garden and saw ben weatherstaff digging and talking to his robin, which was hopping about him.
she skipped down the walk toward him and he lifted his head and looked at her with a curious expression.
she had wondered if he would notice her.
she wanted him to see her skip.
“well!” he exclaimed.
“upon my word.
p’raps tha’ art a young ’un, after all, an’ p’raps tha’s got child’s blood in thy veins instead of sour buttermilk.
tha’s skipped red into thy cheeks as sure as my name’s ben weatherstaff.
i wouldn’t have believed tha’ could do it.”
“i never skipped before,” mary said.
“i’m just beginning.
i can only go up to twenty.”
“tha’ keep on,” said ben.
“tha’ shapes well enough at it for a young ’un that’s lived with heathen.
just see how he’s watchin’ thee,”
jerking his head toward the robin.
“he followed after thee yesterday.
he’ll be at it again today.
he’ll be bound to find out what th’
skippin’-rope is.
he’s never seen one.
eh!” shaking his head at the bird, “tha’ curiosity will be th’ death of thee sometime if tha’
doesn’t look sharp.”
mary skipped round all the gardens and round the orchard, resting every few minutes.
at length she went to her own special walk and made up her mind to try if she could skip the whole length of it.
it was a good long skip and she began slowly, but before she had gone half-way down the path she was so hot and breathless that she was obliged to stop.
she did not mind much, because she had already counted up to thirty.
she stopped with a little laugh of pleasure, and there, lo and behold, was the robin swaying on a long branch of ivy.
he had followed her and he greeted her with a chirp.
as mary had skipped toward him she felt something heavy in her pocket strike against her at each jump, and when she saw the robin she laughed again.
“you showed me where the key was yesterday,” she said.
“you ought to show me the door today; but i don’t believe you know!”
the robin flew from his swinging spray of ivy on to the top of the wall and he opened his beak and sang a loud, lovely trill, merely to show off.
nothing in the world is quite as adorably lovely as a robin when he shows off—and they are nearly always doing it.
mary lennox had heard a great deal about magic in her ayah’s stories, and she always said that what happened almost at that moment was magic.
one of the nice little gusts of wind rushed down the walk, and it was a stronger one than the rest.
it was strong enough to wave the branches of the trees, and it was more than strong enough to sway the trailing sprays of untrimmed ivy hanging from the wall.
mary had stepped close to the robin, and suddenly the gust of wind swung aside some loose ivy trails, and more suddenly still she jumped toward it and caught it in her hand.
this she did because she had seen something under it—a round knob which had been covered by the leaves hanging over it.
it was the knob of a door.
she put her hands under the leaves and began to pull and push them aside.
thick as the ivy hung, it nearly all was a loose and swinging curtain, though some had crept over wood and iron.
mary’s heart began to thump and her hands to shake a little in her delight and excitement.
the robin kept singing and twittering away and tilting his head on one side, as if he were as excited as she was.
what was this under her hands which was square and made of iron and which her fingers found a hole in?
it was the lock of the door which had been closed ten years and she put her hand in her pocket, drew out the key and found it fitted the keyhole.
she put the key in and turned it.
it took two hands to do it, but it did turn.
and then she took a long breath and looked behind her up the long walk to see if anyone was coming.
no one was coming.
no one ever did come, it seemed, and she took another long breath, because she could not help it, and she held back the swinging curtain of ivy and pushed back the door which opened slowly—slowly.
then she slipped through it, and shut it behind her, and stood with her back against it, looking about her and breathing quite fast with excitement, and wonder, and delight.
she was standing inside the secret garden.
chapter ix
the strangest house anyone ever lived in
it was the sweetest, most mysterious-looking place anyone could imagine.
the high walls which shut it in were covered with the leafless stems of climbing roses which were so thick that they were matted together.
mary lennox knew they were roses because she had seen a great many roses in india.
all the ground was covered with grass of a wintry brown and out of it grew clumps of bushes which were surely rosebushes if they were alive.
there were numbers of standard roses which had so spread their branches that they were like little trees.
there were other trees in the garden, and one of the things which made the place look strangest and loveliest was that climbing roses had run all over them and swung down long tendrils which made light swaying curtains, and here and there they had caught at each other or at a far-reaching branch and had crept from one tree to another and made lovely bridges of themselves.
there were neither leaves nor roses on them now and mary did not know whether they were dead or alive, but their thin gray or brown branches and sprays looked like a sort of hazy mantle spreading over everything, walls, and trees, and even brown grass, where they had fallen from their fastenings and run along the ground.
it was this hazy tangle from tree to tree which made it all look so mysterious.
mary had thought it must be different from other gardens which had not been left all by themselves so long; and indeed it was different from any other place she had ever seen in her life.
“how still it is!” she whispered.
“how still!”
then she waited a moment and listened at the stillness.
the robin, who had flown to his treetop, was still as all the rest.
he did not even flutter his wings; he sat without stirring, and looked at mary.
“no wonder it is still,” she whispered again.
“i am the first person who has spoken in here for ten years.”
she moved away from the door, stepping as softly as if she were afraid of awakening someone.
she was glad that there was grass under her feet and that her steps made no sounds.
she walked under one of the fairy-like gray arches between the trees and looked up at the sprays and tendrils which formed them.
“i wonder if they are all quite dead,” she said.
“is it all a quite dead garden?
i wish it wasn’t.”
if she had been ben weatherstaff she could have told whether the wood was alive by looking at it, but she could only see that there were only gray or brown sprays and branches and none showed any signs of even a tiny leaf-bud anywhere.
but she was inside the wonderful garden and she could come through the door under the ivy any time and she felt as if she had found a world all her own.
the sun was shining inside the four walls and the high arch of blue sky over this particular piece of misselthwaite seemed even more brilliant and soft than it was over the moor.
the robin flew down from his tree-top and hopped about or flew after her from one bush to another.
he chirped a good deal and had a very busy air, as if he were showing her things.
everything was strange and silent and she seemed to be hundreds of miles away from anyone, but somehow she did not feel lonely at all.
all that troubled her was her wish that she knew whether all the roses were dead, or if perhaps some of them had lived and might put out leaves and buds as the weather got warmer.
she did not want it to be a quite dead garden.
if it were a quite alive garden, how wonderful it would be, and what thousands of roses would grow on every side!
her skipping-rope had hung over her arm when she came in and after she had walked about for a while she thought she would skip round the whole garden, stopping when she wanted to look at things.
there seemed to have been grass paths here and there, and in one or two corners there were alcoves of evergreen with stone seats or tall moss-covered flower urns in them.
as she came near the second of these alcoves she stopped skipping.
there had once been a flowerbed in it, and she thought she saw something sticking out of the black earth—some sharp little pale green points.
she remembered what ben weatherstaff had said and she knelt down to look at them.
“yes, they are tiny growing things and they might be crocuses or snowdrops or daffodils,” she whispered.
she bent very close to them and sniffed the fresh scent of the damp earth.
she liked it very much.
“perhaps there are some other ones coming up in other places,” she said.
“i will go all over the garden and look.”
she did not skip, but walked.
she went slowly and kept her eyes on the ground.
she looked in the old border beds and among the grass, and after she had gone round, trying to miss nothing, she had found ever so many more sharp, pale green points, and she had become quite excited again.
“it isn’t a quite dead garden,” she cried out softly to herself.
“even if the roses are dead, there are other things alive.”
she did not know anything about gardening, but the grass seemed so thick in some of the places where the green points were pushing their way through that she thought they did not seem to have room enough to grow.
she searched about until she found a rather sharp piece of wood and knelt down and dug and weeded out the weeds and grass until she made nice little clear places around them.
“now they look as if they could breathe,” she said, after she had finished with the first ones.
“i am going to do ever so many more.
i’ll do all i can see.
if i haven’t time today i can come tomorrow.”
she went from place to place, and dug and weeded, and enjoyed herself so immensely that she was led on from bed to bed and into the grass under the trees.
the exercise made her so warm that she first threw her coat off, and then her hat, and without knowing it she was smiling down on to the grass and the pale green points all the time.
the robin was tremendously busy.
he was very much pleased to see gardening begun on his own estate.
he had often wondered at ben weatherstaff.
where gardening is done all sorts of delightful things to eat are turned up with the soil.
now here was this new kind of creature who was not half ben’s size and yet had had the sense to come into his garden and begin at once.
mistress mary worked in her garden until it was time to go to her midday dinner.
in fact, she was rather late in remembering, and when she put on her coat and hat, and picked up her skipping-rope, she could not believe that she had been working two or three hours.
she had been actually happy all the time; and dozens and dozens of the tiny, pale green points were to be seen in cleared places, looking twice as cheerful as they had looked before when the grass and weeds had been smothering them.
“i shall come back this afternoon,” she said, looking all round at her new kingdom, and speaking to the trees and the rose-bushes as if they heard her.
then she ran lightly across the grass, pushed open the slow old door and slipped through it under the ivy.
she had such red cheeks and such bright eyes and ate such a dinner that martha was delighted.
“two pieces o’ meat an’ two helps o’ rice puddin’!” she said.
“eh!
mother will be pleased when i tell her what th’ skippin’-rope’s done for thee.”
in the course of her digging with her pointed stick mistress mary had found herself digging up a sort of white root rather like an onion.
she had put it back in its place and patted the earth carefully down on it and just now she wondered if martha could tell her what it was.
“martha,” she said, “what are those white roots that look like onions?”
“they’re bulbs,” answered martha.
“lots o’ spring flowers grow from ’em.
th’ very little ones are snowdrops an’ crocuses an’ th’ big ones are narcissuses an’ jonquils and daffydowndillys.
th’ biggest of all is lilies an’ purple flags.
eh!
they are nice.
dickon’s got a whole lot of ’em planted in our bit o’ garden.”
“does dickon know all about them?” asked mary, a new idea taking possession of her.
“our dickon can make a flower grow out of a brick walk.
mother says he just whispers things out o’ th’ ground.”
“do bulbs live a long time?
would they live years and years if no one helped them?” inquired mary anxiously.
“they’re things as helps themselves,” said martha.
“that’s why poor folk can afford to have ’em.
if you don’t trouble ’em, most of ’em’ll work away underground for a lifetime an’ spread out an’ have little ’uns.
there’s a place in th’ park woods here where there’s snowdrops by thousands.
they’re the prettiest sight in yorkshire when th’ spring comes.
no one knows when they was first planted.”
“i wish the spring was here now,” said mary.
“i want to see all the things that grow in england.”
she had finished her dinner and gone to her favorite seat on the hearth-rug.
“i wish—i wish i had a little spade,” she said.
“whatever does tha’ want a spade for?” asked martha, laughing.
“art tha’ goin’ to take to diggin’?
i must tell mother that, too.”
mary looked at the fire and pondered a little.
she must be careful if she meant to keep her secret kingdom.
she wasn’t doing any harm, but if mr. craven found out about the open door he would be fearfully angry and get a new key and lock it up forevermore.
she really could not bear that.
“this is such a big lonely place,” she said slowly, as if she were turning matters over in her mind.
“the house is lonely, and the park is lonely, and the gardens are lonely.
so many places seem shut up.
i never did many things in india, but there were more people to look at—natives and soldiers marching by—and sometimes bands playing, and my ayah told me stories.
there is no one to talk to here except you and ben weatherstaff.
and you have to do your work and ben weatherstaff won’t speak to me often.
i thought if i had a little spade i could dig somewhere as he does, and i might make a little garden if he would give me some seeds.”
martha’s face quite lighted up.
“there now!” she exclaimed, “if that wasn’t one of th’ things mother said.
she says, ‘there’s such a lot o’ room in that big place, why don’t they give her a bit for herself, even if she doesn’t plant nothin’ but parsley an’ radishes?
she’d dig an’ rake away an’ be right down happy over it.’ them was the very words she said.”
“were they?” said mary.
“how many things she knows, doesn’t she?”
“eh!” said martha.
“it’s like she says: ‘a woman as brings up twelve children learns something besides her a b c. children’s as good as ’rithmetic to set you findin’ out things.’”
“how much would a spade cost—a little one?” mary asked.
“well,” was martha’s reflective answer, “at thwaite village there’s a shop or so an’ i saw little garden sets with a spade an’ a rake an’ a fork all tied together for two shillings.
an’ they was stout enough to work with, too.”
“i’ve got more than that in my purse,” said mary.
“mrs.
morrison gave me five shillings and mrs. medlock gave me some money from mr. craven.”
“did he remember thee that much?” exclaimed martha.
“mrs.
medlock said i was to have a shilling a week to spend.
she gives me one every saturday.
i didn’t know what to spend it on.”
“my word!
that’s riches,” said martha.
“tha’ can buy anything in th’
world tha’ wants.
th’ rent of our cottage is only one an’ threepence an’ it’s like pullin’ eye-teeth to get it.
now i’ve just thought of somethin’,” putting her hands on her hips.
“what?” said mary eagerly.
“in the shop at thwaite they sell packages o’ flower-seeds for a penny each, and our dickon he knows which is th’ prettiest ones an’ how to make ’em grow.
he walks over to thwaite many a day just for th’ fun of it.
does tha’ know how to print letters?” suddenly.
“i know how to write,” mary answered.
martha shook her head.
“our dickon can only read printin’.
if tha’ could print we could write a letter to him an’ ask him to go an’ buy th’ garden tools an’ th’
seeds at th’ same time.”
“oh!
you’re a good girl!” mary cried.
“you are, really!
i didn’t know you were so nice.
i know i can print letters if i try.
let’s ask mrs.
medlock for a pen and ink and some paper.”
“i’ve got some of my own,” said martha.
“i bought ’em so i could print a bit of a letter to mother of a sunday.
i’ll go and get it.”
she ran out of the room, and mary stood by the fire and twisted her thin little hands together with sheer pleasure.
“if i have a spade,” she whispered, “i can make the earth nice and soft and dig up weeds.
if i have seeds and can make flowers grow the garden won’t be dead at all—it will come alive.”
she did not go out again that afternoon because when martha returned with her pen and ink and paper she was obliged to clear the table and carry the plates and dishes downstairs and when she got into the kitchen mrs. medlock was there and told her to do something, so mary waited for what seemed to her a long time before she came back.
then it was a serious piece of work to write to dickon.
mary had been taught very little because her governesses had disliked her too much to stay with her.
she could not spell particularly well but she found that she could print letters when she tried.
this was the letter martha dictated to her:
“my dear dickon:
this comes hoping to find you well as it leaves me at present.
miss mary has plenty of money and will you go to thwaite and buy her some flower seeds and a set of garden tools to make a flower-bed.
pick the prettiest ones and easy to grow because she has never done it before and lived in india which is different.
give my love to mother and everyone of you.
miss mary is going to tell me a lot more so that on my next day out you can hear about elephants and camels and gentlemen going hunting lions and tigers.
“your loving sister,
“martha phœbe sowerby.”
“we’ll put the money in th’ envelope an’ i’ll get th’ butcher boy to take it in his cart.
he’s a great friend o’ dickon’s,” said martha.
“how shall i get the things when dickon buys them?”
“he’ll bring ’em to you himself.
he’ll like to walk over this way.”
“oh!” exclaimed mary, “then i shall see him!
i never thought i should see dickon.”
“does tha’ want to see him?” asked martha suddenly, for mary had looked so pleased.
“yes, i do.
i never saw a boy foxes and crows loved.
i want to see him very much.”
martha gave a little start, as if she remembered something.
“now to think,” she broke out, “to think o’ me forgettin’ that there; an’ i thought i was goin’ to tell you first thing this mornin’.
i asked mother—and she said she’d ask mrs. medlock her own self.”
“do you mean—” mary began.
“what i said tuesday.
ask her if you might be driven over to our cottage some day and have a bit o’ mother’s hot oat cake, an’ butter, an’ a glass o’ milk.”
it seemed as if all the interesting things were happening in one day.
to think of going over the moor in the daylight and when the sky was blue!
to think of going into the cottage which held twelve children!
“does she think mrs. medlock would let me go?” she asked, quite anxiously.
“aye, she thinks she would.
she knows what a tidy woman mother is and how clean she keeps the cottage.”
“if i went i should see your mother as well as dickon,” said mary, thinking it over and liking the idea very much.
“she doesn’t seem to be like the mothers in india.”
her work in the garden and the excitement of the afternoon ended by making her feel quiet and thoughtful.
martha stayed with her until tea-time, but they sat in comfortable quiet and talked very little.
but just before martha went downstairs for the tea-tray, mary asked a question.
“martha,” she said, “has the scullery-maid had the toothache again today?”
martha certainly started slightly.
“what makes thee ask that?” she said.
“because when i waited so long for you to come back i opened the door and walked down the corridor to see if you were coming.
and i heard that far-off crying again, just as we heard it the other night.
there isn’t a wind today, so you see it couldn’t have been the wind.”
“eh!” said martha restlessly.
“tha’ mustn’t go walkin’ about in corridors an’ listenin’.
mr. craven would be that there angry there’s no knowin’ what he’d do.”
“i wasn’t listening,” said mary.
“i was just waiting for you—and i heard it.
that’s three times.”
“my word!
there’s mrs. medlock’s bell,” said martha, and she almost ran out of the room.
“it’s the strangest house anyone ever lived in,” said mary drowsily, as she dropped her head on the cushioned seat of the armchair near her.
fresh air, and digging, and skipping-rope had made her feel so comfortably tired that she fell asleep.
chapter x
dickon
the sun shone down for nearly a week on the secret garden.
the secret garden was what mary called it when she was thinking of it.
she liked the name, and she liked still more the feeling that when its beautiful old walls shut her in no one knew where she was.
it seemed almost like being shut out of the world in some fairy place.
the few books she had read and liked had been fairy-story books, and she had read of secret gardens in some of the stories.
sometimes people went to sleep in them for a hundred years, which she had thought must be rather stupid.
she had no intention of going to sleep, and, in fact, she was becoming wider awake every day which passed at misselthwaite.
she was beginning to like to be out of doors; she no longer hated the wind, but enjoyed it.
she could run faster, and longer, and she could skip up to a hundred.
the bulbs in the secret garden must have been much astonished.
such nice clear places were made round them that they had all the breathing space they wanted, and really, if mistress mary had known it, they began to cheer up under the dark earth and work tremendously.
the sun could get at them and warm them, and when the rain came down it could reach them at once, so they began to feel very much alive.
mary was an odd, determined little person, and now she had something interesting to be determined about, she was very much absorbed, indeed.
she worked and dug and pulled up weeds steadily, only becoming more pleased with her work every hour instead of tiring of it.
it seemed to her like a fascinating sort of play.
she found many more of the sprouting pale green points than she had ever hoped to find.
they seemed to be starting up everywhere and each day she was sure she found tiny new ones, some so tiny that they barely peeped above the earth.
there were so many that she remembered what martha had said about the “snowdrops by the thousands,” and about bulbs spreading and making new ones.
these had been left to themselves for ten years and perhaps they had spread, like the snowdrops, into thousands.
she wondered how long it would be before they showed that they were flowers.
sometimes she stopped digging to look at the garden and try to imagine what it would be like when it was covered with thousands of lovely things in bloom.
during that week of sunshine, she became more intimate with ben weatherstaff.
she surprised him several times by seeming to start up beside him as if she sprang out of the earth.
the truth was that she was afraid that he would pick up his tools and go away if he saw her coming, so she always walked toward him as silently as possible.
but, in fact, he did not object to her as strongly as he had at first.
perhaps he was secretly rather flattered by her evident desire for his elderly company.
then, also, she was more civil than she had been.
he did not know that when she first saw him she spoke to him as she would have spoken to a native, and had not known that a cross, sturdy old yorkshire man was not accustomed to salaam to his masters, and be merely commanded by them to do things.
“tha’rt like th’ robin,” he said to her one morning when he lifted his head and saw her standing by him.
“i never knows when i shall see thee or which side tha’ll come from.”
“he’s friends with me now,” said mary.
“that’s like him,” snapped ben weatherstaff.
“makin’ up to th’ women folk just for vanity an’ flightiness.
there’s nothin’ he wouldn’t do for th’ sake o’ showin’ off an’ flirtin’ his tail-feathers.
he’s as full o’ pride as an egg’s full o’ meat.”
he very seldom talked much and sometimes did not even answer mary’s questions except by a grunt, but this morning he said more than usual.
he stood up and rested one hobnailed boot on the top of his spade while he looked her over.
“how long has tha’ been here?” he jerked out.
“i think it’s about a month,” she answered.
“tha’s beginnin’ to do misselthwaite credit,” he said.
“tha’s a bit fatter than tha’ was an’ tha’s not quite so yeller.
tha’ looked like a young plucked crow when tha’ first came into this garden.
thinks i to myself i never set eyes on an uglier, sourer faced young ’un.”
mary was not vain and as she had never thought much of her looks she was not greatly disturbed.
“i know i’m fatter,” she said.
“my stockings are getting tighter.
they used to make wrinkles.
there’s the robin, ben weatherstaff.”
there, indeed, was the robin, and she thought he looked nicer than ever.
his red waistcoat was as glossy as satin and he flirted his wings and tail and tilted his head and hopped about with all sorts of lively graces.
he seemed determined to make ben weatherstaff admire him.
but ben was sarcastic.
“aye, there tha’ art!” he said.
“tha’ can put up with me for a bit sometimes when tha’s got no one better.
tha’s been reddenin’ up thy waistcoat an’ polishin’ thy feathers this two weeks.
i know what tha’s up to.
tha’s courtin’ some bold young madam somewhere tellin’ thy lies to her about bein’ th’ finest cock robin on missel moor an’ ready to fight all th’ rest of ’em.”
“oh!
look at him!” exclaimed mary.
the robin was evidently in a fascinating, bold mood.
he hopped closer and closer and looked at ben weatherstaff more and more engagingly.
he flew on to the nearest currant bush and tilted his head and sang a little song right at him.
“tha’ thinks tha’ll get over me by doin’ that,” said ben, wrinkling his face up in such a way that mary felt sure he was trying not to look pleased.
“tha’ thinks no one can stand out against thee—that’s what tha’ thinks.”
the robin spread his wings—mary could scarcely believe her eyes.
he flew right up to the handle of ben weatherstaff’s spade and alighted on the top of it.
then the old man’s face wrinkled itself slowly into a new expression.
he stood still as if he were afraid to breathe—as if he would not have stirred for the world, lest his robin should start away.
he spoke quite in a whisper.
“well, i’m danged!” he said as softly as if he were saying something quite different.
“tha’ does know how to get at a chap—tha’ does!
tha’s fair unearthly, tha’s so knowin’.”
and he stood without stirring—almost without drawing his breath—until the robin gave another flirt to his wings and flew away.
then he stood looking at the handle of the spade as if there might be magic in it, and then he began to dig again and said nothing for several minutes.
but because he kept breaking into a slow grin now and then, mary was not afraid to talk to him.
“have you a garden of your own?” she asked.
“no.
i’m bachelder an’ lodge with martin at th’ gate.”
“if you had one,” said mary, “what would you plant?”
“cabbages an’ ’taters an’ onions.”
“but if you wanted to make a flower garden,” persisted mary, “what would you plant?”
“bulbs an’ sweet-smellin’ things—but mostly roses.”
mary’s face lighted up.
“do you like roses?” she said.
ben weatherstaff rooted up a weed and threw it aside before he answered.
“well, yes, i do.
i was learned that by a young lady i was gardener to.
she had a lot in a place she was fond of, an’ she loved ’em like they was children—or robins.
i’ve seen her bend over an’ kiss ’em.” he dragged out another weed and scowled at it.
“that were as much as ten year’ ago.”
“where is she now?” asked mary, much interested.
“heaven,” he answered, and drove his spade deep into the soil, “’cording to what parson says.”
“what happened to the roses?” mary asked again, more interested than ever.
“they was left to themselves.”
mary was becoming quite excited.
“did they quite die?
do roses quite die when they are left to themselves?” she ventured.
“well, i’d got to like ’em—an’ i liked her—an’ she liked ’em,” ben weatherstaff admitted reluctantly.
“once or twice a year i’d go an’
work at ’em a bit—prune ’em an’ dig about th’ roots.
they run wild, but they was in rich soil, so some of ’em lived.”
“when they have no leaves and look gray and brown and dry, how can you tell whether they are dead or alive?” inquired mary.
“wait till th’ spring gets at ’em—wait till th’ sun shines on th’ rain and th’ rain falls on th’ sunshine an’ then tha’ll find out.”
“how—how?” cried mary, forgetting to be careful.
“look along th’ twigs an’ branches an’ if tha’ see a bit of a brown lump swelling here an’ there, watch it after th’ warm rain an’ see what happens.” he stopped suddenly and looked curiously at her eager face.
“why does tha’ care so much about roses an’ such, all of a sudden?” he demanded.
mistress mary felt her face grow red.
she was almost afraid to answer.
“i—i want to play that—that i have a garden of my own,” she stammered.
“i—there is nothing for me to do.
i have nothing—and no one.”
“well,” said ben weatherstaff slowly, as he watched her, “that’s true.
tha’ hasn’t.”
he said it in such an odd way that mary wondered if he was actually a little sorry for her.
she had never felt sorry for herself; she had only felt tired and cross, because she disliked people and things so much.
but now the world seemed to be changing and getting nicer.
if no one found out about the secret garden, she should enjoy herself always.
she stayed with him for ten or fifteen minutes longer and asked him as many questions as she dared.
he answered everyone of them in his queer grunting way and he did not seem really cross and did not pick up his spade and leave her.
he said something about roses just as she was going away and it reminded her of the ones he had said he had been fond of.
“do you go and see those other roses now?” she asked.
“not been this year.
my rheumatics has made me too stiff in th’
joints.”
he said it in his grumbling voice, and then quite suddenly he seemed to get angry with her, though she did not see why he should.
“now look here!” he said sharply.
“don’t tha’ ask so many questions.
tha’rt th’ worst wench for askin’ questions i’ve ever come across.
get thee gone an’ play thee.
i’ve done talkin’ for today.”
and he said it so crossly that she knew there was not the least use in staying another minute.
she went skipping slowly down the outside walk, thinking him over and saying to herself that, queer as it was, here was another person whom she liked in spite of his crossness.
she liked old ben weatherstaff.
yes, she did like him.
she always wanted to try to make him talk to her.
also she began to believe that he knew everything in the world about flowers.
there was a laurel-hedged walk which curved round the secret garden and ended at a gate which opened into a wood, in the park.
she thought she would slip round this walk and look into the wood and see if there were any rabbits hopping about.
she enjoyed the skipping very much and when she reached the little gate she opened it and went through because she heard a low, peculiar whistling sound and wanted to find out what it was.
it was a very strange thing indeed.
she quite caught her breath as she stopped to look at it.
a boy was sitting under a tree, with his back against it, playing on a rough wooden pipe.
he was a funny looking boy about twelve.
he looked very clean and his nose turned up and his cheeks were as red as poppies and never had mistress mary seen such round and such blue eyes in any boy’s face.
and on the trunk of the tree he leaned against, a brown squirrel was clinging and watching him, and from behind a bush nearby a cock pheasant was delicately stretching his neck to peep out, and quite near him were two rabbits sitting up and sniffing with tremulous noses—and actually it appeared as if they were all drawing near to watch him and listen to the strange low little call his pipe seemed to make.
when he saw mary he held up his hand and spoke to her in a voice almost as low as and rather like his piping.
“don’t tha’ move,” he said.
“it’d flight ’em.”
mary remained motionless.
he stopped playing his pipe and began to rise from the ground.
he moved so slowly that it scarcely seemed as though he were moving at all, but at last he stood on his feet and then the squirrel scampered back up into the branches of his tree, the pheasant withdrew his head and the rabbits dropped on all fours and began to hop away, though not at all as if they were frightened.
“i’m dickon,” the boy said.
“i know tha’rt miss mary.”
then mary realized that somehow she had known at first that he was dickon.
who else could have been charming rabbits and pheasants as the natives charm snakes in india?
he had a wide, red, curving mouth and his smile spread all over his face.
“i got up slow,” he explained, “because if tha’ makes a quick move it startles ’em.
a body ’as to move gentle an’ speak low when wild things is about.”
he did not speak to her as if they had never seen each other before but as if he knew her quite well.
mary knew nothing about boys and she spoke to him a little stiffly because she felt rather shy.
“did you get martha’s letter?” she asked.
he nodded his curly, rust-colored head.
“that’s why i come.”
he stooped to pick up something which had been lying on the ground beside him when he piped.
“i’ve got th’ garden tools.
there’s a little spade an’ rake an’ a fork an’ hoe.
eh!
they are good ’uns.
there’s a trowel, too.
an’ th’ woman in th’ shop threw in a packet o’ white poppy an’ one o’ blue larkspur when i bought th’ other seeds.”
“will you show the seeds to me?” mary said.
she wished she could talk as he did.
his speech was so quick and easy.
it sounded as if he liked her and was not the least afraid she would not like him, though he was only a common moor boy, in patched clothes and with a funny face and a rough, rusty-red head.
as she came closer to him she noticed that there was a clean fresh scent of heather and grass and leaves about him, almost as if he were made of them.
she liked it very much and when she looked into his funny face with the red cheeks and round blue eyes she forgot that she had felt shy.
“let us sit down on this log and look at them,” she said.
they sat down and he took a clumsy little brown paper package out of his coat pocket.
he untied the string and inside there were ever so many neater and smaller packages with a picture of a flower on each one.
“there’s a lot o’ mignonette an’ poppies,” he said.
“mignonette’s th’
sweetest smellin’ thing as grows, an’ it’ll grow wherever you cast it, same as poppies will.
them as’ll come up an’ bloom if you just whistle to ’em, them’s th’ nicest of all.”
he stopped and turned his head quickly, his poppy-cheeked face lighting up.
“where’s that robin as is callin’ us?” he said.
the chirp came from a thick holly bush, bright with scarlet berries, and mary thought she knew whose it was.
“is it really calling us?” she asked.
“aye,” said dickon, as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “he’s callin’ someone he’s friends with.
that’s same as sayin’ ‘here i am.
look at me.
i wants a bit of a chat.’ there he is in the bush.
whose is he?”
“he’s ben weatherstaff’s, but i think he knows me a little,” answered mary.
“aye, he knows thee,” said dickon in his low voice again.
“an’ he likes thee.
he’s took thee on.
he’ll tell me all about thee in a minute.”
he moved quite close to the bush with the slow movement mary had noticed before, and then he made a sound almost like the robin’s own twitter.
the robin listened a few seconds, intently, and then answered quite as if he were replying to a question.
“aye, he’s a friend o’ yours,” chuckled dickon.
“do you think he is?” cried mary eagerly.
she did so want to know.
“do you think he really likes me?”
“he wouldn’t come near thee if he didn’t,” answered dickon.
“birds is rare choosers an’ a robin can flout a body worse than a man.
see, he’s making up to thee now.
‘cannot tha’ see a chap?’ he’s sayin’.”
and it really seemed as if it must be true.
he so sidled and twittered and tilted as he hopped on his bush.
“do you understand everything birds say?” said mary.
dickon’s grin spread until he seemed all wide, red, curving mouth, and he rubbed his rough head.
“i think i do, and they think i do,” he said.
“i’ve lived on th’ moor with ’em so long.
i’ve watched ’em break shell an’ come out an’ fledge an’ learn to fly an’ begin to sing, till i think i’m one of ’em.
sometimes i think p’raps i’m a bird, or a fox, or a rabbit, or a squirrel, or even a beetle, an’ i don’t know it.”
he laughed and came back to the log and began to talk about the flower seeds again.
he told her what they looked like when they were flowers; he told her how to plant them, and watch them, and feed and water them.
“see here,” he said suddenly, turning round to look at her.
“i’ll plant them for thee myself.
where is tha’ garden?”
mary’s thin hands clutched each other as they lay on her lap.
she did not know what to say, so for a whole minute she said nothing.
she had never thought of this.
she felt miserable.
and she felt as if she went red and then pale.
“tha’s got a bit o’ garden, hasn’t tha’?” dickon said.
it was true that she had turned red and then pale.
dickon saw her do it, and as she still said nothing, he began to be puzzled.
“wouldn’t they give thee a bit?” he asked.
“hasn’t tha’ got any yet?”
she held her hands tighter and turned her eyes toward him.
“i don’t know anything about boys,” she said slowly.
“could you keep a secret, if i told you one?
it’s a great secret.
i don’t know what i should do if anyone found it out.
i believe i should die!” she said the last sentence quite fiercely.
dickon looked more puzzled than ever and even rubbed his hand over his rough head again, but he answered quite good-humoredly.
“i’m keepin’ secrets all th’ time,” he said.
“if i couldn’t keep secrets from th’ other lads, secrets about foxes’ cubs, an’ birds’
nests, an’ wild things’ holes, there’d be naught safe on th’ moor.
aye, i can keep secrets.”
mistress mary did not mean to put out her hand and clutch his sleeve but she did it.
“i’ve stolen a garden,” she said very fast.
“it isn’t mine.
it isn’t anybody’s.
nobody wants it, nobody cares for it, nobody ever goes into it.
perhaps everything is dead in it already.
i don’t know.”
she began to feel hot and as contrary as she had ever felt in her life.
“i don’t care, i don’t care!
nobody has any right to take it from me when i care about it and they don’t.
they’re letting it die, all shut in by itself,” she ended passionately, and she threw her arms over her face and burst out crying—poor little mistress mary.
dickon’s curious blue eyes grew rounder and rounder.
“eh-h-h!” he said, drawing his exclamation out slowly, and the way he did it meant both wonder and sympathy.
“i’ve nothing to do,” said mary.
“nothing belongs to me.
i found it myself and i got into it myself.
i was only just like the robin, and they wouldn’t take it from the robin.”
“where is it?” asked dickon in a dropped voice.
mistress mary got up from the log at once.
she knew she felt contrary again, and obstinate, and she did not care at all.
she was imperious and indian, and at the same time hot and sorrowful.
“come with me and i’ll show you,” she said.
she led him round the laurel path and to the walk where the ivy grew so thickly.
dickon followed her with a queer, almost pitying, look on his face.
he felt as if he were being led to look at some strange bird’s nest and must move softly.
when she stepped to the wall and lifted the hanging ivy he started.
there was a door and mary pushed it slowly open and they passed in together, and then mary stood and waved her hand round defiantly.
“it’s this,” she said.
“it’s a secret garden, and i’m the only one in the world who wants it to be alive.”
dickon looked round and round about it, and round and round again.
“eh!” he almost whispered, “it is a queer, pretty place!
it’s like as if a body was in a dream.”
chapter xi
the nest of the missel thrush
for two or three minutes he stood looking round him, while mary watched him, and then he began to walk about softly, even more lightly than mary had walked the first time she had found herself inside the four walls.
his eyes seemed to be taking in everything—the gray trees with the gray creepers climbing over them and hanging from their branches, the tangle on the walls and among the grass, the evergreen alcoves with the stone seats and tall flower urns standing in them.
“i never thought i’d see this place,” he said at last, in a whisper.
“did you know about it?” asked mary.
she had spoken aloud and he made a sign to her.
“we must talk low,” he said, “or someone’ll hear us an’ wonder what’s to do in here.”
“oh!
i forgot!” said mary, feeling frightened and putting her hand quickly against her mouth.
“did you know about the garden?” she asked again when she had recovered herself.
dickon nodded.
“martha told me there was one as no one ever went inside,” he answered.
“us used to wonder what it was like.”
he stopped and looked round at the lovely gray tangle about him, and his round eyes looked queerly happy.
“eh!
the nests as’ll be here come springtime,” he said.
“it’d be th’
safest nestin’ place in england.
no one never comin’ near an’ tangles o’ trees an’ roses to build in.
i wonder all th’ birds on th’ moor don’t build here.”
mistress mary put her hand on his arm again without knowing it.
“will there be roses?” she whispered.
“can you tell?
i thought perhaps they were all dead.”
“eh!
no!
not them—not all of ’em!” he answered.
“look here!”
he stepped over to the nearest tree—an old, old one with gray lichen all over its bark, but upholding a curtain of tangled sprays and branches.
he took a thick knife out of his pocket and opened one of its blades.
“there’s lots o’ dead wood as ought to be cut out,” he said.
“an’
there’s a lot o’ old wood, but it made some new last year.
this here’s a new bit,” and he touched a shoot which looked brownish green instead of hard, dry gray.
mary touched it herself in an eager, reverent way.
“that one?” she said.
“is that one quite alive quite?”
dickon curved his wide smiling mouth.
“it’s as wick as you or me,” he said; and mary remembered that martha had told her that “wick” meant “alive” or “lively.”
“i’m glad it’s wick!” she cried out in her whisper.
“i want them all to be wick.
let us go round the garden and count how many wick ones there are.”
she quite panted with eagerness, and dickon was as eager as she was.
they went from tree to tree and from bush to bush.
dickon carried his knife in his hand and showed her things which she thought wonderful.
“they’ve run wild,” he said, “but th’ strongest ones has fair thrived on it.
the delicatest ones has died out, but th’ others has growed an’
growed, an’ spread an’ spread, till they’s a wonder.
see here!” and he pulled down a thick gray, dry-looking branch.
“a body might think this was dead wood, but i don’t believe it is—down to th’ root.
i’ll cut it low down an’ see.”
he knelt and with his knife cut the lifeless-looking branch through, not far above the earth.
“there!” he said exultantly.
“i told thee so.
there’s green in that wood yet.
look at it.”
mary was down on her knees before he spoke, gazing with all her might.
“when it looks a bit greenish an’ juicy like that, it’s wick,” he explained.
“when th’ inside is dry an’ breaks easy, like this here piece i’ve cut off, it’s done for.
there’s a big root here as all this live wood sprung out of, an’ if th’ old wood’s cut off an’ it’s dug round, and took care of there’ll be—” he stopped and lifted his face to look up at the climbing and hanging sprays above him—“there’ll be a fountain o’ roses here this summer.”
they went from bush to bush and from tree to tree.
he was very strong and clever with his knife and knew how to cut the dry and dead wood away, and could tell when an unpromising bough or twig had still green life in it.
in the course of half an hour mary thought she could tell too, and when he cut through a lifeless-looking branch she would cry out joyfully under her breath when she caught sight of the least shade of moist green.
the spade, and hoe, and fork were very useful.
he showed her how to use the fork while he dug about roots with the spade and stirred the earth and let the air in.
they were working industriously round one of the biggest standard roses when he caught sight of something which made him utter an exclamation of surprise.
“why!” he cried, pointing to the grass a few feet away.
“who did that there?”
it was one of mary’s own little clearings round the pale green points.
“i did it,” said mary.
“why, i thought tha’ didn’t know nothin’ about gardenin’,” he exclaimed.
“i don’t,” she answered, “but they were so little, and the grass was so thick and strong, and they looked as if they had no room to breathe.
so i made a place for them.
i don’t even know what they are.”
dickon went and knelt down by them, smiling his wide smile.
“tha’ was right,” he said.
“a gardener couldn’t have told thee better.
they’ll grow now like jack’s bean-stalk.
they’re crocuses an’
snowdrops, an’ these here is narcissuses,” turning to another patch, “an here’s daffydowndillys.
eh!
they will be a sight.”
he ran from one clearing to another.
“tha’ has done a lot o’ work for such a little wench,” he said, looking her over.
“i’m growing fatter,” said mary, “and i’m growing stronger.
i used always to be tired.
when i dig i’m not tired at all.
i like to smell the earth when it’s turned up.”
“it’s rare good for thee,” he said, nodding his head wisely.
“there’s naught as nice as th’ smell o’ good clean earth, except th’ smell o’
fresh growin’ things when th’ rain falls on ’em.
i get out on th’ moor many a day when it’s rainin’ an’ i lie under a bush an’ listen to th’
soft swish o’ drops on th’ heather an’ i just sniff an’ sniff.
my nose end fair quivers like a rabbit’s, mother says.”
“do you never catch cold?” inquired mary, gazing at him wonderingly.
she had never seen such a funny boy, or such a nice one.
“not me,” he said, grinning.
“i never ketched cold since i was born.
i wasn’t brought up nesh enough.
i’ve chased about th’ moor in all weathers same as th’ rabbits does.
mother says i’ve sniffed up too much fresh air for twelve year’ to ever get to sniffin’ with cold.
i’m as tough as a white-thorn knobstick.”
he was working all the time he was talking and mary was following him and helping him with her fork or the trowel.
“there’s a lot of work to do here!” he said once, looking about quite exultantly.
“will you come again and help me to do it?” mary begged.
“i’m sure i can help, too.
i can dig and pull up weeds, and do whatever you tell me.
oh!
do come, dickon!”
“i’ll come every day if tha’ wants me, rain or shine,” he answered stoutly.
“it’s the best fun i ever had in my life—shut in here an’
wakenin’ up a garden.”
“if you will come,” said mary, “if you will help me to make it alive i’ll—i don’t know what i’ll do,” she ended helplessly.
what could you do for a boy like that?
“i’ll tell thee what tha’ll do,” said dickon, with his happy grin.
“tha’ll get fat an’ tha’ll get as hungry as a young fox an’ tha’ll learn how to talk to th’ robin same as i do.
eh!
we’ll have a lot o’
fun.”
he began to walk about, looking up in the trees and at the walls and bushes with a thoughtful expression.
“i wouldn’t want to make it look like a gardener’s garden, all clipped an’ spick an’ span, would you?” he said.
“it’s nicer like this with things runnin’ wild, an’ swingin’ an’ catchin’ hold of each other.”
“don’t let us make it tidy,” said mary anxiously.
“it wouldn’t seem like a secret garden if it was tidy.”
dickon stood rubbing his rusty-red head with a rather puzzled look.
“it’s a secret garden sure enough,” he said, “but seems like someone besides th’ robin must have been in it since it was shut up ten year’
ago.”
“but the door was locked and the key was buried,” said mary.
“no one could get in.”
“that’s true,” he answered.
“it’s a queer place.
seems to me as if there’d been a bit o’ prunin’ done here an’ there, later than ten year’
ago.”
“but how could it have been done?” said mary.
he was examining a branch of a standard rose and he shook his head.
“aye!
how could it!” he murmured.
“with th’ door locked an’ th’ key buried.”
mistress mary always felt that however many years she lived she should never forget that first morning when her garden began to grow.
of course, it did seem to begin to grow for her that morning.
when dickon began to clear places to plant seeds, she remembered what basil had sung at her when he wanted to tease her.
“are there any flowers that look like bells?” she inquired.
“lilies o’ th’ valley does,” he answered, digging away with the trowel, “an’ there’s canterbury bells, an’ campanulas.”
“let’s plant some,” said mary.
“there’s lilies o’ th, valley here already; i saw ’em.
they’ll have growed too close an’ we’ll have to separate ’em, but there’s plenty.
th’ other ones takes two years to bloom from seed, but i can bring you some bits o’ plants from our cottage garden.
why does tha’ want ’em?”
then mary told him about basil and his brothers and sisters in india and of how she had hated them and of their calling her “mistress mary quite contrary.”
“they used to dance round and sing at me.
they sang—
‘mistress mary, quite contrary,     how does your garden grow?
with silver bells, and cockle shells,     and marigolds all in a row.’
i just remembered it and it made me wonder if there were really flowers like silver bells.”
she frowned a little and gave her trowel a rather spiteful dig into the earth.
“i wasn’t as contrary as they were.”
but dickon laughed.
“eh!” he said, and as he crumbled the rich black soil she saw he was sniffing up the scent of it.
“there doesn’t seem to be no need for no one to be contrary when there’s flowers an’ such like, an’ such lots o’
friendly wild things runnin’ about makin’ homes for themselves, or buildin’ nests an’ singin’ an’ whistlin’, does there?”
mary, kneeling by him holding the seeds, looked at him and stopped frowning.
“dickon,” she said, “you are as nice as martha said you were.
i like you, and you make the fifth person.
i never thought i should like five people.”
dickon sat up on his heels as martha did when she was polishing the grate.
he did look funny and delightful, mary thought, with his round blue eyes and red cheeks and happy looking turned-up nose.
“only five folk as tha’ likes?” he said.
“who is th’ other four?”
“your mother and martha,” mary checked them off on her fingers, “and the robin and ben weatherstaff.”
dickon laughed so that he was obliged to stifle the sound by putting his arm over his mouth.
“i know tha’ thinks i’m a queer lad,” he said, “but i think tha’ art th’ queerest little lass i ever saw.”
then mary did a strange thing.
she leaned forward and asked him a question she had never dreamed of asking anyone before.
and she tried to ask it in yorkshire because that was his language, and in india a native was always pleased if you knew his speech.
“does tha’ like me?” she said.
“eh!” he answered heartily, “that i does.
i likes thee wonderful, an’
so does th’ robin, i do believe!”
“that’s two, then,” said mary.
“that’s two for me.”
and then they began to work harder than ever and more joyfully.
mary was startled and sorry when she heard the big clock in the courtyard strike the hour of her midday dinner.
“i shall have to go,” she said mournfully.
“and you will have to go too, won’t you?”
dickon grinned.
“my dinner’s easy to carry about with me,” he said.
“mother always lets me put a bit o’ somethin’ in my pocket.”
he picked up his coat from the grass and brought out of a pocket a lumpy little bundle tied up in a quite clean, coarse, blue and white handkerchief.
it held two thick pieces of bread with a slice of something laid between them.
“it’s oftenest naught but bread,” he said, “but i’ve got a fine slice o’ fat bacon with it today.”
mary thought it looked a queer dinner, but he seemed ready to enjoy it.
“run on an’ get thy victuals,” he said.
“i’ll be done with mine first.
i’ll get some more work done before i start back home.”
he sat down with his back against a tree.
“i’ll call th’ robin up,” he said, “and give him th’ rind o’ th’ bacon to peck at.
they likes a bit o’ fat wonderful.”
mary could scarcely bear to leave him.
suddenly it seemed as if he might be a sort of wood fairy who might be gone when she came into the garden again.
he seemed too good to be true.
she went slowly half-way to the door in the wall and then she stopped and went back.
“whatever happens, you—you never would tell?” she said.
his poppy-colored cheeks were distended with his first big bite of bread and bacon, but he managed to smile encouragingly.
“if tha’ was a missel thrush an’ showed me where thy nest was, does tha’ think i’d tell anyone?
not me,” he said.
“tha’ art as safe as a missel thrush.”
and she was quite sure she was.
chapter xii
“might i have a bit of earth?”
mary ran so fast that she was rather out of breath when she reached her room.
her hair was ruffled on her forehead and her cheeks were bright pink.
her dinner was waiting on the table, and martha was waiting near it.
“tha’s a bit late,” she said.
“where has tha’ been?”
“i’ve seen dickon!” said mary.
“i’ve seen dickon!”
“i knew he’d come,” said martha exultantly.
“how does tha’ like him?”
“i think—i think he’s beautiful!” said mary in a determined voice.
martha looked rather taken aback but she looked pleased, too.
“well,” she said, “he’s th’ best lad as ever was born, but us never thought he was handsome.
his nose turns up too much.”
“i like it to turn up,” said mary.
“an’ his eyes is so round,” said martha, a trifle doubtful.
“though they’re a nice color.”
“i like them round,” said mary.
“and they are exactly the color of the sky over the moor.”
martha beamed with satisfaction.
“mother says he made ’em that color with always lookin’ up at th’ birds an’ th’ clouds.
but he has got a big mouth, hasn’t he, now?”
“i love his big mouth,” said mary obstinately.
“i wish mine were just like it.”
martha chuckled delightedly.
“it’d look rare an’ funny in thy bit of a face,” she said.
“but i knowed it would be that way when tha’ saw him.
how did tha’ like th’
seeds an’ th’ garden tools?”
“how did you know he brought them?” asked mary.
“eh!
i never thought of him not bringin’ ’em.
he’d be sure to bring ’em if they was in yorkshire.
he’s such a trusty lad.”
mary was afraid that she might begin to ask difficult questions, but she did not.
she was very much interested in the seeds and gardening tools, and there was only one moment when mary was frightened.
this was when she began to ask where the flowers were to be planted.
“who did tha’ ask about it?” she inquired.
“i haven’t asked anybody yet,” said mary, hesitating.
“well, i wouldn’t ask th’ head gardener.
he’s too grand, mr. roach is.”
“i’ve never seen him,” said mary.
“i’ve only seen undergardeners and ben weatherstaff.”
“if i was you, i’d ask ben weatherstaff,” advised martha.
“he’s not half as bad as he looks, for all he’s so crabbed.
mr. craven lets him do what he likes because he was here when mrs. craven was alive, an’ he used to make her laugh.
she liked him.
perhaps he’d find you a corner somewhere out o’ the way.”
“if it was out of the way and no one wanted it, no one could mind my having it, could they?” mary said anxiously.
“there wouldn’t be no reason,” answered martha.
“you wouldn’t do no harm.”
mary ate her dinner as quickly as she could and when she rose from the table she was going to run to her room to put on her hat again, but martha stopped her.
“i’ve got somethin’ to tell you,” she said.
“i thought i’d let you eat your dinner first.
mr. craven came back this mornin’ and i think he wants to see you.”
mary turned quite pale.
“oh!” she said.
“why!
why!
he didn’t want to see me when i came.
i heard pitcher say he didn’t.”
“well,” explained martha, “mrs.
medlock says it’s because o’ mother.
she was walkin’ to thwaite village an’ she met him.
she’d never spoke to him before, but mrs. craven had been to our cottage two or three times.
he’d forgot, but mother hadn’t an’ she made bold to stop him.
i don’t know what she said to him about you but she said somethin’ as put him in th’ mind to see you before he goes away again, tomorrow.”
“oh!” cried mary, “is he going away tomorrow?
i am so glad!”
“he’s goin’ for a long time.
he mayn’t come back till autumn or winter.
he’s goin’ to travel in foreign places.
he’s always doin’ it.”
“oh!
i’m so glad—so glad!” said mary thankfully.
if he did not come back until winter, or even autumn, there would be time to watch the secret garden come alive.
even if he found out then and took it away from her she would have had that much at least.
“when do you think he will want to see—”
she did not finish the sentence, because the door opened, and mrs.
medlock walked in.
she had on her best black dress and cap, and her collar was fastened with a large brooch with a picture of a man’s face on it.
it was a colored photograph of mr. medlock who had died years ago, and she always wore it when she was dressed up.
she looked nervous and excited.
“your hair’s rough,” she said quickly.
“go and brush it.
martha, help her to slip on her best dress.
mr. craven sent me to bring her to him in his study.”
all the pink left mary’s cheeks.
her heart began to thump and she felt herself changing into a stiff, plain, silent child again.
she did not even answer mrs. medlock, but turned and walked into her bedroom, followed by martha.
she said nothing while her dress was changed, and her hair brushed, and after she was quite tidy she followed mrs.
medlock down the corridors, in silence.
what was there for her to say?
she was obliged to go and see mr. craven and he would not like her, and she would not like him.
she knew what he would think of her.
she was taken to a part of the house she had not been into before.
at last mrs. medlock knocked at a door, and when someone said, “come in,”
they entered the room together.
a man was sitting in an armchair before the fire, and mrs. medlock spoke to him.
“this is miss mary, sir,” she said.
“you can go and leave her here.
i will ring for you when i want you to take her away,” said mr. craven.
when she went out and closed the door, mary could only stand waiting, a plain little thing, twisting her thin hands together.
she could see that the man in the chair was not so much a hunchback as a man with high, rather crooked shoulders, and he had black hair streaked with white.
he turned his head over his high shoulders and spoke to her.
“come here!” he said.
mary went to him.
he was not ugly.
his face would have been handsome if it had not been so miserable.
he looked as if the sight of her worried and fretted him and as if he did not know what in the world to do with her.
“are you well?” he asked.
“yes,” answered mary.
“do they take good care of you?”
“yes.”
he rubbed his forehead fretfully as he looked her over.
“you are very thin,” he said.
“i am getting fatter,” mary answered in what she knew was her stiffest way.
what an unhappy face he had!
his black eyes seemed as if they scarcely saw her, as if they were seeing something else, and he could hardly keep his thoughts upon her.
“i forgot you,” he said.
“how could i remember you?
i intended to send you a governess or a nurse, or someone of that sort, but i forgot.”
“please,” began mary.
“please—” and then the lump in her throat choked her.
“what do you want to say?” he inquired.
“i am—i am too big for a nurse,” said mary.
“and please—please don’t make me have a governess yet.”
he rubbed his forehead again and stared at her.
“that was what the sowerby woman said,” he muttered absent-mindedly.
then mary gathered a scrap of courage.
“is she—is she martha’s mother?” she stammered.
“yes, i think so,” he replied.
“she knows about children,” said mary.
“she has twelve.
she knows.”
he seemed to rouse himself.
“what do you want to do?”
“i want to play out of doors,” mary answered, hoping that her voice did not tremble.
“i never liked it in india.
it makes me hungry here, and i am getting fatter.”
he was watching her.
“mrs.
sowerby said it would do you good.
perhaps it will,” he said.
“she thought you had better get stronger before you had a governess.”
“it makes me feel strong when i play and the wind comes over the moor,”
argued mary.
“where do you play?” he asked next.
“everywhere,” gasped mary.
“martha’s mother sent me a skipping-rope.
i skip and run—and i look about to see if things are beginning to stick up out of the earth.
i don’t do any harm.”
“don’t look so frightened,” he said in a worried voice.
“you could not do any harm, a child like you!
you may do what you like.”
mary put her hand up to her throat because she was afraid he might see the excited lump which she felt jump into it.
she came a step nearer to him.
“may i?” she said tremulously.
her anxious little face seemed to worry him more than ever.
“don’t look so frightened,” he exclaimed.
“of course you may.
i am your guardian, though i am a poor one for any child.
i cannot give you time or attention.
i am too ill, and wretched and distracted; but i wish you to be happy and comfortable.
i don’t know anything about children, but mrs. medlock is to see that you have all you need.
i sent for you today because mrs. sowerby said i ought to see you.
her daughter had talked about you.
she thought you needed fresh air and freedom and running about.”
“she knows all about children,” mary said again in spite of herself.
“she ought to,” said mr. craven.
“i thought her rather bold to stop me on the moor, but she said—mrs.
craven had been kind to her.” it seemed hard for him to speak his dead wife’s name.
“she is a respectable woman.
now i have seen you i think she said sensible things.
play out of doors as much as you like.
it’s a big place and you may go where you like and amuse yourself as you like.
is there anything you want?” as if a sudden thought had struck him.
“do you want toys, books, dolls?”
“might i,” quavered mary, “might i have a bit of earth?”
in her eagerness she did not realize how queer the words would sound and that they were not the ones she had meant to say.
mr. craven looked quite startled.
“earth!” he repeated.
“what do you mean?”
“to plant seeds in—to make things grow—to see them come alive,” mary faltered.
he gazed at her a moment and then passed his hand quickly over his eyes.
“do you—care about gardens so much,” he said slowly.
“i didn’t know about them in india,” said mary.
“i was always ill and tired and it was too hot.
i sometimes made little beds in the sand and stuck flowers in them.
but here it is different.”
mr. craven got up and began to walk slowly across the room.
“a bit of earth,” he said to himself, and mary thought that somehow she must have reminded him of something.
when he stopped and spoke to her his dark eyes looked almost soft and kind.
“you can have as much earth as you want,” he said.
“you remind me of someone else who loved the earth and things that grow.
when you see a bit of earth you want,” with something like a smile, “take it, child, and make it come alive.”
“may i take it from anywhere—if it’s not wanted?”
“anywhere,” he answered.
“there!
you must go now, i am tired.” he touched the bell to call mrs. medlock.
“good-by.
i shall be away all summer.”
mrs. medlock came so quickly that mary thought she must have been waiting in the corridor.
“mrs.
medlock,” mr. craven said to her, “now i have seen the child i understand what mrs. sowerby meant.
she must be less delicate before she begins lessons.
give her simple, healthy food.
let her run wild in the garden.
don’t look after her too much.
she needs liberty and fresh air and romping about.
mrs. sowerby is to come and see her now and then and she may sometimes go to the cottage.”
mrs. medlock looked pleased.
she was relieved to hear that she need not “look after” mary too much.
she had felt her a tiresome charge and had indeed seen as little of her as she dared.
in addition to this she was fond of martha’s mother.
“thank you, sir,” she said.
“susan sowerby and me went to school together and she’s as sensible and good-hearted a woman as you’d find in a day’s walk.
i never had any children myself and she’s had twelve, and there never was healthier or better ones.
miss mary can get no harm from them.
i’d always take susan sowerby’s advice about children myself.
she’s what you might call healthy-minded—if you understand me.”
“i understand,” mr. craven answered.
“take miss mary away now and send pitcher to me.”
when mrs. medlock left her at the end of her own corridor mary flew back to her room.
she found martha waiting there.
martha had, in fact, hurried back after she had removed the dinner service.
“i can have my garden!” cried mary.
“i may have it where i like!
i am not going to have a governess for a long time!
your mother is coming to see me and i may go to your cottage!
he says a little girl like me could not do any harm and i may do what i like—anywhere!”
“eh!” said martha delightedly, “that was nice of him wasn’t it?”
“martha,” said mary solemnly, “he is really a nice man, only his face is so miserable and his forehead is all drawn together.”
she ran as quickly as she could to the garden.
she had been away so much longer than she had thought she should and she knew dickon would have to set out early on his five-mile walk.
when she slipped through the door under the ivy, she saw he was not working where she had left him.
the gardening tools were laid together under a tree.
she ran to them, looking all round the place, but there was no dickon to be seen.
he had gone away and the secret garden was empty—except for the robin who had just flown across the wall and sat on a standard rose-bush watching her.
“he’s gone,” she said woefully.
“oh!
was he—was he—was he only a wood fairy?”
something white fastened to the standard rose-bush caught her eye.
it was a piece of paper, in fact, it was a piece of the letter she had printed for martha to send to dickon.
it was fastened on the bush with a long thorn, and in a minute she knew dickon had left it there.
there were some roughly printed letters on it and a sort of picture.
at first she could not tell what it was.
then she saw it was meant for a nest with a bird sitting on it.
underneath were the printed letters and they said:
“i will cum bak.”
chapter xiii
“i am colin”
mary took the picture back to the house when she went to her supper and she showed it to martha.
“eh!” said martha with great pride.
“i never knew our dickon was as clever as that.
that there’s a picture of a missel thrush on her nest, as large as life an’ twice as natural.”
then mary knew dickon had meant the picture to be a message.
he had meant that she might be sure he would keep her secret.
her garden was her nest and she was like a missel thrush.
oh, how she did like that queer, common boy!
she hoped he would come back the very next day and she fell asleep looking forward to the morning.
but you never know what the weather will do in yorkshire, particularly in the springtime.
she was awakened in the night by the sound of rain beating with heavy drops against her window.
it was pouring down in torrents and the wind was “wuthering” round the corners and in the chimneys of the huge old house.
mary sat up in bed and felt miserable and angry.
“the rain is as contrary as i ever was,” she said.
“it came because it knew i did not want it.”
she threw herself back on her pillow and buried her face.
she did not cry, but she lay and hated the sound of the heavily beating rain, she hated the wind and its “wuthering.” she could not go to sleep again.
the mournful sound kept her awake because she felt mournful herself.
if she had felt happy it would probably have lulled her to sleep.
how it “wuthered” and how the big raindrops poured down and beat against the pane!
“it sounds just like a person lost on the moor and wandering on and on crying,” she said.
she had been lying awake turning from side to side for about an hour, when suddenly something made her sit up in bed and turn her head toward the door listening.
she listened and she listened.
“it isn’t the wind now,” she said in a loud whisper.
“that isn’t the wind.
it is different.
it is that crying i heard before.”
the door of her room was ajar and the sound came down the corridor, a far-off faint sound of fretful crying.
she listened for a few minutes and each minute she became more and more sure.
she felt as if she must find out what it was.
it seemed even stranger than the secret garden and the buried key.
perhaps the fact that she was in a rebellious mood made her bold.
she put her foot out of bed and stood on the floor.
“i am going to find out what it is,” she said.
“everybody is in bed and i don’t care about mrs. medlock—i don’t care!”
there was a candle by her bedside and she took it up and went softly out of the room.
the corridor looked very long and dark, but she was too excited to mind that.
she thought she remembered the corners she must turn to find the short corridor with the door covered with tapestry—the one mrs. medlock had come through the day she lost herself.
the sound had come up that passage.
so she went on with her dim light, almost feeling her way, her heart beating so loud that she fancied she could hear it.
the far-off faint crying went on and led her.
sometimes it stopped for a moment or so and then began again.
was this the right corner to turn?
she stopped and thought.
yes it was.
down this passage and then to the left, and then up two broad steps, and then to the right again.
yes, there was the tapestry door.
she pushed it open very gently and closed it behind her, and she stood in the corridor and could hear the crying quite plainly, though it was not loud.
it was on the other side of the wall at her left and a few yards farther on there was a door.
she could see a glimmer of light coming from beneath it.
the someone was crying in that room, and it was quite a young someone.
so she walked to the door and pushed it open, and there she was standing in the room!
it was a big room with ancient, handsome furniture in it.
there was a low fire glowing faintly on the hearth and a night light burning by the side of a carved four-posted bed hung with brocade, and on the bed was lying a boy, crying fretfully.
mary wondered if she was in a real place or if she had fallen asleep again and was dreaming without knowing it.
the boy had a sharp, delicate face the color of ivory and he seemed to have eyes too big for it.
he had also a lot of hair which tumbled over his forehead in heavy locks and made his thin face seem smaller.
he looked like a boy who had been ill, but he was crying more as if he were tired and cross than as if he were in pain.
mary stood near the door with her candle in her hand, holding her breath.
then she crept across the room, and, as she drew nearer, the light attracted the boy’s attention and he turned his head on his pillow and stared at her, his gray eyes opening so wide that they seemed immense.
“who are you?” he said at last in a half-frightened whisper.
“are you a ghost?”
“no, i am not,” mary answered, her own whisper sounding half frightened.
“are you one?”
he stared and stared and stared.
mary could not help noticing what strange eyes he had.
they were agate gray and they looked too big for his face because they had black lashes all round them.
“no,” he replied after waiting a moment or so.
“i am colin.”
“who is colin?” she faltered.
“i am colin craven.
who are you?”
“i am mary lennox.
mr. craven is my uncle.”
“he is my father,” said the boy.
“your father!” gasped mary.
“no one ever told me he had a boy!
why didn’t they?”
“come here,” he said, still keeping his strange eyes fixed on her with an anxious expression.
she came close to the bed and he put out his hand and touched her.
“you are real, aren’t you?” he said.
“i have such real dreams very often.
you might be one of them.”
mary had slipped on a woolen wrapper before she left her room and she put a piece of it between his fingers.
“rub that and see how thick and warm it is,” she said.
“i will pinch you a little if you like, to show you how real i am.
for a minute i thought you might be a dream too.”
“where did you come from?” he asked.
“from my own room.
the wind wuthered so i couldn’t go to sleep and i heard someone crying and wanted to find out who it was.
what were you crying for?”
“because i couldn’t go to sleep either and my head ached.
tell me your name again.”
“mary lennox.
did no one ever tell you i had come to live here?”
he was still fingering the fold of her wrapper, but he began to look a little more as if he believed in her reality.
“no,” he answered.
“they daren’t.”
“why?” asked mary.
“because i should have been afraid you would see me.
i won’t let people see me and talk me over.”
“why?” mary asked again, feeling more mystified every moment.
“because i am like this always, ill and having to lie down.
my father won’t let people talk me over either.
the servants are not allowed to speak about me.
if i live i may be a hunchback, but i shan’t live.
my father hates to think i may be like him.”
“oh, what a queer house this is!” mary said.
“what a queer house!
everything is a kind of secret.
rooms are locked up and gardens are locked up—and you!
have you been locked up?”
“no.
i stay in this room because i don’t want to be moved out of it.
it tires me too much.”
“does your father come and see you?” mary ventured.
“sometimes.
generally when i am asleep.
he doesn’t want to see me.”
“why?” mary could not help asking again.
a sort of angry shadow passed over the boy’s face.
“my mother died when i was born and it makes him wretched to look at me.
he thinks i don’t know, but i’ve heard people talking.
he almost hates me.”
“he hates the garden, because she died,” said mary half speaking to herself.
“what garden?” the boy asked.
“oh!
just—just a garden she used to like,” mary stammered.
“have you been here always?”
“nearly always.
sometimes i have been taken to places at the seaside, but i won’t stay because people stare at me.
i used to wear an iron thing to keep my back straight, but a grand doctor came from london to see me and said it was stupid.
he told them to take it off and keep me out in the fresh air.
i hate fresh air and i don’t want to go out.”
“i didn’t when first i came here,” said mary.
“why do you keep looking at me like that?”
“because of the dreams that are so real,” he answered rather fretfully.
“sometimes when i open my eyes i don’t believe i’m awake.”
“we’re both awake,” said mary.
she glanced round the room with its high ceiling and shadowy corners and dim fire-light.
“it looks quite like a dream, and it’s the middle of the night, and everybody in the house is asleep—everybody but us.
we are wide awake.”
“i don’t want it to be a dream,” the boy said restlessly.
mary thought of something all at once.
“if you don’t like people to see you,” she began, “do you want me to go away?”
he still held the fold of her wrapper and he gave it a little pull.
“no,” he said.
“i should be sure you were a dream if you went.
if you are real, sit down on that big footstool and talk.
i want to hear about you.”
mary put down her candle on the table near the bed and sat down on the cushioned stool.
she did not want to go away at all.
she wanted to stay in the mysterious hidden-away room and talk to the mysterious boy.
“what do you want me to tell you?” she said.
he wanted to know how long she had been at misselthwaite; he wanted to know which corridor her room was on; he wanted to know what she had been doing; if she disliked the moor as he disliked it; where she had lived before she came to yorkshire.
she answered all these questions and many more and he lay back on his pillow and listened.
he made her tell him a great deal about india and about her voyage across the ocean.
she found out that because he had been an invalid he had not learned things as other children had.
one of his nurses had taught him to read when he was quite little and he was always reading and looking at pictures in splendid books.
though his father rarely saw him when he was awake, he was given all sorts of wonderful things to amuse himself with.
he never seemed to have been amused, however.
he could have anything he asked for and was never made to do anything he did not like to do.
“everyone is obliged to do what pleases me,” he said indifferently.
“it makes me ill to be angry.
no one believes i shall live to grow up.”
he said it as if he was so accustomed to the idea that it had ceased to matter to him at all.
he seemed to like the sound of mary’s voice.
as she went on talking he listened in a drowsy, interested way.
once or twice she wondered if he were not gradually falling into a doze.
but at last he asked a question which opened up a new subject.
“how old are you?” he asked.
“i am ten,” answered mary, forgetting herself for the moment, “and so are you.”
“how do you know that?” he demanded in a surprised voice.
“because when you were born the garden door was locked and the key was buried.
and it has been locked for ten years.”
colin half sat up, turning toward her, leaning on his elbows.
“what garden door was locked?
who did it?
where was the key buried?” he exclaimed as if he were suddenly very much interested.
“it—it was the garden mr. craven hates,” said mary nervously.
“he locked the door.
no one—no one knew where he buried the key.”
“what sort of a garden is it?” colin persisted eagerly.
“no one has been allowed to go into it for ten years,” was mary’s careful answer.
but it was too late to be careful.
he was too much like herself.
he too had had nothing to think about and the idea of a hidden garden attracted him as it had attracted her.
he asked question after question.
where was it?
had she never looked for the door?
had she never asked the gardeners?
“they won’t talk about it,” said mary.
“i think they have been told not to answer questions.”
“i would make them,” said colin.
“could you?” mary faltered, beginning to feel frightened.
if he could make people answer questions, who knew what might happen!
“everyone is obliged to please me.
i told you that,” he said.
“if i were to live, this place would sometime belong to me.
they all know that.
i would make them tell me.”
mary had not known that she herself had been spoiled, but she could see quite plainly that this mysterious boy had been.
he thought that the whole world belonged to him.
how peculiar he was and how coolly he spoke of not living.
“do you think you won’t live?” she asked, partly because she was curious and partly in hope of making him forget the garden.
“i don’t suppose i shall,” he answered as indifferently as he had spoken before.
“ever since i remember anything i have heard people say i shan’t.
at first they thought i was too little to understand and now they think i don’t hear.
but i do.
my doctor is my father’s cousin.
he is quite poor and if i die he will have all misselthwaite when my father is dead.
i should think he wouldn’t want me to live.”
“do you want to live?” inquired mary.
“no,” he answered, in a cross, tired fashion.
“but i don’t want to die.
when i feel ill i lie here and think about it until i cry and cry.”
“i have heard you crying three times,” mary said, “but i did not know who it was.
were you crying about that?” she did so want him to forget the garden.
“i dare say,” he answered.
“let us talk about something else.
talk about that garden.
don’t you want to see it?”
“yes,” answered mary, in quite a low voice.
“i do,” he went on persistently.
“i don’t think i ever really wanted to see anything before, but i want to see that garden.
i want the key dug up.
i want the door unlocked.
i would let them take me there in my chair.
that would be getting fresh air.
i am going to make them open the door.”
he had become quite excited and his strange eyes began to shine like stars and looked more immense than ever.
“they have to please me,” he said.
“i will make them take me there and i will let you go, too.”
mary’s hands clutched each other.
everything would be spoiled—everything!
dickon would never come back.
she would never again feel like a missel thrush with a safe-hidden nest.
“oh, don’t—don’t—don’t—don’t do that!” she cried out.
he stared as if he thought she had gone crazy!
“why?” he exclaimed.
“you said you wanted to see it.”
“i do,” she answered almost with a sob in her throat, “but if you make them open the door and take you in like that it will never be a secret again.”
he leaned still farther forward.
“a secret,” he said.
“what do you mean?
tell me.”
mary’s words almost tumbled over one another.
“you see—you see,” she panted, “if no one knows but ourselves—if there was a door, hidden somewhere under the ivy—if there was—and we could find it; and if we could slip through it together and shut it behind us, and no one knew anyone was inside and we called it our garden and pretended that—that we were missel thrushes and it was our nest, and if we played there almost every day and dug and planted seeds and made it all come alive—”
“is it dead?” he interrupted her.
“it soon will be if no one cares for it,” she went on.
“the bulbs will live but the roses—”
he stopped her again as excited as she was herself.
“what are bulbs?” he put in quickly.
“they are daffodils and lilies and snowdrops.
they are working in the earth now—pushing up pale green points because the spring is coming.”
“is the spring coming?” he said.
“what is it like?
you don’t see it in rooms if you are ill.”
“it is the sun shining on the rain and the rain falling on the sunshine, and things pushing up and working under the earth,” said mary.
“if the garden was a secret and we could get into it we could watch the things grow bigger every day, and see how many roses are alive.
don’t you see?
oh, don’t you see how much nicer it would be if it was a secret?”
he dropped back on his pillow and lay there with an odd expression on his face.
“i never had a secret,” he said, “except that one about not living to grow up.
they don’t know i know that, so it is a sort of secret.
but i like this kind better.”
“if you won’t make them take you to the garden,” pleaded mary, “perhaps—i feel almost sure i can find out how to get in sometime.
and then—if the doctor wants you to go out in your chair, and if you can always do what you want to do, perhaps—perhaps we might find some boy who would push you, and we could go alone and it would always be a secret garden.”
“i should—like—that,” he said very slowly, his eyes looking dreamy.
“i should like that.
i should not mind fresh air in a secret garden.”
mary began to recover her breath and feel safer because the idea of keeping the secret seemed to please him.
she felt almost sure that if she kept on talking and could make him see the garden in his mind as she had seen it he would like it so much that he could not bear to think that everybody might tramp in to it when they chose.
“i’ll tell you what i think it would be like, if we could go into it,” she said.
“it has been shut up so long things have grown into a tangle perhaps.”
he lay quite still and listened while she went on talking about the roses which might have clambered from tree to tree and hung down—about the many birds which might have built their nests there because it was so safe.
and then she told him about the robin and ben weatherstaff, and there was so much to tell about the robin and it was so easy and safe to talk about it that she ceased to be afraid.
the robin pleased him so much that he smiled until he looked almost beautiful, and at first mary had thought that he was even plainer than herself, with his big eyes and heavy locks of hair.
“i did not know birds could be like that,” he said.
“but if you stay in a room you never see things.
what a lot of things you know.
i feel as if you had been inside that garden.”
she did not know what to say, so she did not say anything.
he evidently did not expect an answer and the next moment he gave her a surprise.
“i am going to let you look at something,” he said.
“do you see that rose-colored silk curtain hanging on the wall over the mantel-piece?”
mary had not noticed it before, but she looked up and saw it.
it was a curtain of soft silk hanging over what seemed to be some picture.
“yes,” she answered.
“there is a cord hanging from it,” said colin.
“go and pull it.”
mary got up, much mystified, and found the cord.
when she pulled it the silk curtain ran back on rings and when it ran back it uncovered a picture.
it was the picture of a girl with a laughing face.
she had bright hair tied up with a blue ribbon and her gay, lovely eyes were exactly like colin’s unhappy ones, agate gray and looking twice as big as they really were because of the black lashes all round them.
“she is my mother,” said colin complainingly.
“i don’t see why she died.
sometimes i hate her for doing it.”
“how queer!” said mary.
“if she had lived i believe i should not have been ill always,” he grumbled.
“i dare say i should have lived, too.
and my father would not have hated to look at me.
i dare say i should have had a strong back.
draw the curtain again.”
mary did as she was told and returned to her footstool.
“she is much prettier than you,” she said, “but her eyes are just like yours—at least they are the same shape and color.
why is the curtain drawn over her?”
he moved uncomfortably.
“i made them do it,” he said.
“sometimes i don’t like to see her looking at me.
she smiles too much when i am ill and miserable.
besides, she is mine and i don’t want everyone to see her.”
there were a few moments of silence and then mary spoke.
“what would mrs. medlock do if she found out that i had been here?” she inquired.
“she would do as i told her to do,” he answered.
“and i should tell her that i wanted you to come here and talk to me every day.
i am glad you came.”
“so am i,” said mary.
“i will come as often as i can, but”—she hesitated—“i shall have to look every day for the garden door.”
“yes, you must,” said colin, “and you can tell me about it afterward.”
he lay thinking a few minutes, as he had done before, and then he spoke again.
“i think you shall be a secret, too,” he said.
“i will not tell them until they find out.
i can always send the nurse out of the room and say that i want to be by myself.
do you know martha?”
“yes, i know her very well,” said mary.
“she waits on me.”
he nodded his head toward the outer corridor.
“she is the one who is asleep in the other room.
the nurse went away yesterday to stay all night with her sister and she always makes martha attend to me when she wants to go out.
martha shall tell you when to come here.”
then mary understood martha’s troubled look when she had asked questions about the crying.
“martha knew about you all the time?” she said.
“yes; she often attends to me.
the nurse likes to get away from me and then martha comes.”
“i have been here a long time,” said mary.
“shall i go away now?
your eyes look sleepy.”
“i wish i could go to sleep before you leave me,” he said rather shyly.
“shut your eyes,” said mary, drawing her footstool closer, “and i will do what my ayah used to do in india.
i will pat your hand and stroke it and sing something quite low.”
“i should like that perhaps,” he said drowsily.
somehow she was sorry for him and did not want him to lie awake, so she leaned against the bed and began to stroke and pat his hand and sing a very low little chanting song in hindustani.
“that is nice,” he said more drowsily still, and she went on chanting and stroking, but when she looked at him again his black lashes were lying close against his cheeks, for his eyes were shut and he was fast asleep.
so she got up softly, took her candle and crept away without making a sound.
chapter xiv
a young rajah
the moor was hidden in mist when the morning came, and the rain had not stopped pouring down.
there could be no going out of doors.
martha was so busy that mary had no opportunity of talking to her, but in the afternoon she asked her to come and sit with her in the nursery.
she came bringing the stocking she was always knitting when she was doing nothing else.
“what’s the matter with thee?” she asked as soon as they sat down.
“tha’ looks as if tha’d somethin’ to say.”
“i have.
i have found out what the crying was,” said mary.
martha let her knitting drop on her knee and gazed at her with startled eyes.
“tha’ hasn’t!” she exclaimed.
“never!”
“i heard it in the night,” mary went on.
“and i got up and went to see where it came from.
it was colin.
i found him.”
martha’s face became red with fright.
“eh!
miss mary!” she said half crying.
“tha’ shouldn’t have done it—tha’ shouldn’t!
tha’ll get me in trouble.
i never told thee nothin’
about him—but tha’ll get me in trouble.
i shall lose my place and what’ll mother do!”
“you won’t lose your place,” said mary.
“he was glad i came.
we talked and talked and he said he was glad i came.”
“was he?” cried martha.
“art tha’ sure?
tha’ doesn’t know what he’s like when anything vexes him.
he’s a big lad to cry like a baby, but when he’s in a passion he’ll fair scream just to frighten us.
he knows us daren’t call our souls our own.”
“he wasn’t vexed,” said mary.
“i asked him if i should go away and he made me stay.
he asked me questions and i sat on a big footstool and talked to him about india and about the robin and gardens.
he wouldn’t let me go.
he let me see his mother’s picture.
before i left him i sang him to sleep.”
martha fairly gasped with amazement.
“i can scarcely believe thee!” she protested.
“it’s as if tha’d walked straight into a lion’s den.
if he’d been like he is most times he’d have throwed himself into one of his tantrums and roused th’ house.
he won’t let strangers look at him.”
“he let me look at him.
i looked at him all the time and he looked at me.
we stared!” said mary.
“i don’t know what to do!” cried agitated martha.
“if mrs. medlock finds out, she’ll think i broke orders and told thee and i shall be packed back to mother.”
“he is not going to tell mrs. medlock anything about it yet.
it’s to be a sort of secret just at first,” said mary firmly.
“and he says everybody is obliged to do as he pleases.”
“aye, that’s true enough—th’ bad lad!” sighed martha, wiping her forehead with her apron.
“he says mrs. medlock must.
and he wants me to come and talk to him every day.
and you are to tell me when he wants me.”
“me!” said martha; “i shall lose my place—i shall for sure!”
“you can’t if you are doing what he wants you to do and everybody is ordered to obey him,” mary argued.
“does tha’ mean to say,” cried martha with wide open eyes, “that he was nice to thee!”
“i think he almost liked me,” mary answered.
“then tha’ must have bewitched him!” decided martha, drawing a long breath.
“do you mean magic?” inquired mary.
“i’ve heard about magic in india, but i can’t make it.
i just went into his room and i was so surprised to see him i stood and stared.
and then he turned round and stared at me.
and he thought i was a ghost or a dream and i thought perhaps he was.
and it was so queer being there alone together in the middle of the night and not knowing about each other.
and we began to ask each other questions.
and when i asked him if i must go away he said i must not.”
“th’ world’s comin’ to a end!” gasped martha.
“what is the matter with him?” asked mary.
“nobody knows for sure and certain,” said martha.
“mr.
craven went off his head like when he was born.
th’ doctors thought he’d have to be put in a ’sylum.
it was because mrs. craven died like i told you.
he wouldn’t set eyes on th’ baby.
he just raved and said it’d be another hunchback like him and it’d better die.”
“is colin a hunchback?” mary asked.
“he didn’t look like one.”
“he isn’t yet,” said martha.
“but he began all wrong.
mother said that there was enough trouble and raging in th’ house to set any child wrong.
they was afraid his back was weak an’ they’ve always been takin’
care of it—keepin’ him lyin’ down and not lettin’ him walk.
once they made him wear a brace but he fretted so he was downright ill. then a big doctor came to see him an’ made them take it off.
he talked to th’
other doctor quite rough—in a polite way.
he said there’d been too much medicine and too much lettin’ him have his own way.”
“i think he’s a very spoiled boy,” said mary.
“he’s th’ worst young nowt as ever was!” said martha.
“i won’t say as he hasn’t been ill a good bit.
he’s had coughs an’ colds that’s nearly killed him two or three times.
once he had rheumatic fever an’ once he had typhoid.
eh!
mrs. medlock did get a fright then.
he’d been out of his head an’ she was talkin’ to th’ nurse, thinkin’ he didn’t know nothin’, an’ she said, ‘he’ll die this time sure enough, an’ best thing for him an’ for everybody.’ an’ she looked at him an’ there he was with his big eyes open, starin’ at her as sensible as she was herself.
she didn’t know wha’d happen but he just stared at her an’ says, ‘you give me some water an’ stop talkin’.’”
“do you think he will die?” asked mary.
“mother says there’s no reason why any child should live that gets no fresh air an’ doesn’t do nothin’ but lie on his back an’ read picture-books an’ take medicine.
he’s weak and hates th’ trouble o’
bein’ taken out o’ doors, an’ he gets cold so easy he says it makes him ill.”
mary sat and looked at the fire.
“i wonder,” she said slowly, “if it would not do him good to go out into a garden and watch things growing.
it did me good.”
“one of th’ worst fits he ever had,” said martha, “was one time they took him out where the roses is by the fountain.
he’d been readin’ in a paper about people gettin’ somethin’ he called ‘rose cold’ an’ he began to sneeze an’ said he’d got it an’ then a new gardener as didn’t know th’ rules passed by an’ looked at him curious.
he threw himself into a passion an’ he said he’d looked at him because he was going to be a hunchback.
he cried himself into a fever an’ was ill all night.”
“if he ever gets angry at me, i’ll never go and see him again,” said mary.
“he’ll have thee if he wants thee,” said martha.
“tha’ may as well know that at th’ start.”
very soon afterward a bell rang and she rolled up her knitting.
“i dare say th’ nurse wants me to stay with him a bit,” she said.
“i hope he’s in a good temper.”
she was out of the room about ten minutes and then she came back with a puzzled expression.
“well, tha’ has bewitched him,” she said.
“he’s up on his sofa with his picture-books.
he’s told the nurse to stay away until six o’clock.
i’m to wait in the next room.
th’ minute she was gone he called me to him an’ says, ‘i want mary lennox to come and talk to me, and remember you’re not to tell anyone.’ you’d better go as quick as you can.”
mary was quite willing to go quickly.
she did not want to see colin as much as she wanted to see dickon; but she wanted to see him very much.
there was a bright fire on the hearth when she entered his room, and in the daylight she saw it was a very beautiful room indeed.
there were rich colors in the rugs and hangings and pictures and books on the walls which made it look glowing and comfortable even in spite of the gray sky and falling rain.
colin looked rather like a picture himself.
he was wrapped in a velvet dressing-gown and sat against a big brocaded cushion.
he had a red spot on each cheek.
“come in,” he said.
“i’ve been thinking about you all morning.”
“i’ve been thinking about you, too,” answered mary.
“you don’t know how frightened martha is.
she says mrs. medlock will think she told me about you and then she will be sent away.”
he frowned.
“go and tell her to come here,” he said.
“she is in the next room.”
mary went and brought her back.
poor martha was shaking in her shoes.
colin was still frowning.
“have you to do what i please or have you not?” he demanded.
“i have to do what you please, sir,” martha faltered, turning quite red.
“has medlock to do what i please?”
“everybody has, sir,” said martha.
“well, then, if i order you to bring miss mary to me, how can medlock send you away if she finds it out?”
“please don’t let her, sir,” pleaded martha.
“i’ll send her away if she dares to say a word about such a thing,”
said master craven grandly.
“she wouldn’t like that, i can tell you.”
“thank you, sir,” bobbing a curtsy, “i want to do my duty, sir.”
“what i want is your duty” said colin more grandly still.
“i’ll take care of you.
now go away.”
when the door closed behind martha, colin found mistress mary gazing at him as if he had set her wondering.
“why do you look at me like that?” he asked her.
“what are you thinking about?”
“i am thinking about two things.”
“what are they?
sit down and tell me.”
“this is the first one,” said mary, seating herself on the big stool.
“once in india i saw a boy who was a rajah.
he had rubies and emeralds and diamonds stuck all over him.
he spoke to his people just as you spoke to martha.
everybody had to do everything he told them—in a minute.
i think they would have been killed if they hadn’t.”
“i shall make you tell me about rajahs presently,” he said, “but first tell me what the second thing was.”
“i was thinking,” said mary, “how different you are from dickon.”
“who is dickon?” he said.
“what a queer name!”
she might as well tell him, she thought she could talk about dickon without mentioning the secret garden.
she had liked to hear martha talk about him.
besides, she longed to talk about him.
it would seem to bring him nearer.
“he is martha’s brother.
he is twelve years old,” she explained.
“he is not like anyone else in the world.
he can charm foxes and squirrels and birds just as the natives in india charm snakes.
he plays a very soft tune on a pipe and they come and listen.”
there were some big books on a table at his side and he dragged one suddenly toward him.
“there is a picture of a snake-charmer in this,” he exclaimed.
“come and look at it.”
the book was a beautiful one with superb colored illustrations and he turned to one of them.
“can he do that?” he asked eagerly.
“he played on his pipe and they listened,” mary explained.
“but he doesn’t call it magic.
he says it’s because he lives on the moor so much and he knows their ways.
he says he feels sometimes as if he was a bird or a rabbit himself, he likes them so.
i think he asked the robin questions.
it seemed as if they talked to each other in soft chirps.”
colin lay back on his cushion and his eyes grew larger and larger and the spots on his cheeks burned.
“tell me some more about him,” he said.
“he knows all about eggs and nests,” mary went on.
“and he knows where foxes and badgers and otters live.
he keeps them secret so that other boys won’t find their holes and frighten them.
he knows about everything that grows or lives on the moor.”
“does he like the moor?” said colin.
“how can he when it’s such a great, bare, dreary place?”
“it’s the most beautiful place,” protested mary.
“thousands of lovely things grow on it and there are thousands of little creatures all busy building nests and making holes and burrows and chippering or singing or squeaking to each other.
they are so busy and having such fun under the earth or in the trees or heather.
it’s their world.”
“how do you know all that?” said colin, turning on his elbow to look at her.
“i have never been there once, really,” said mary suddenly remembering.
“i only drove over it in the dark.
i thought it was hideous.
martha told me about it first and then dickon.
when dickon talks about it you feel as if you saw things and heard them and as if you were standing in the heather with the sun shining and the gorse smelling like honey—and all full of bees and butterflies.”
“you never see anything if you are ill,” said colin restlessly.
he looked like a person listening to a new sound in the distance and wondering what it was.
“you can’t if you stay in a room,” said mary.
“i couldn’t go on the moor,” he said in a resentful tone.
mary was silent for a minute and then she said something bold.
“you might—sometime.”
he moved as if he were startled.
“go on the moor!
how could i?
i am going to die.”
“how do you know?” said mary unsympathetically.
she didn’t like the way he had of talking about dying.
she did not feel very sympathetic.
she felt rather as if he almost boasted about it.
“oh, i’ve heard it ever since i remember,” he answered crossly.
“they are always whispering about it and thinking i don’t notice.
they wish i would, too.”
mistress mary felt quite contrary.
she pinched her lips together.
“if they wished i would,” she said, “i wouldn’t.
who wishes you would?”
“the servants—and of course dr. craven because he would get misselthwaite and be rich instead of poor.
he daren’t say so, but he always looks cheerful when i am worse.
when i had typhoid fever his face got quite fat.
i think my father wishes it, too.”
“i don’t believe he does,” said mary quite obstinately.
that made colin turn and look at her again.
“don’t you?” he said.
and then he lay back on his cushion and was still, as if he were thinking.
and there was quite a long silence.
perhaps they were both of them thinking strange things children do not usually think of.
“i like the grand doctor from london, because he made them take the iron thing off,” said mary at last “did he say you were going to die?”
“no.”
“what did he say?”
“he didn’t whisper,” colin answered.
“perhaps he knew i hated whispering.
i heard him say one thing quite aloud.
he said, ‘the lad might live if he would make up his mind to it.
put him in the humor.’
it sounded as if he was in a temper.”
“i’ll tell you who would put you in the humor, perhaps,” said mary reflecting.
she felt as if she would like this thing to be settled one way or the other.
“i believe dickon would.
he’s always talking about live things.
he never talks about dead things or things that are ill.
he’s always looking up in the sky to watch birds flying—or looking down at the earth to see something growing.
he has such round blue eyes and they are so wide open with looking about.
and he laughs such a big laugh with his wide mouth—and his cheeks are as red—as red as cherries.”
she pulled her stool nearer to the sofa and her expression quite changed at the remembrance of the wide curving mouth and wide open eyes.
“see here,” she said.
“don’t let us talk about dying; i don’t like it.
let us talk about living.
let us talk and talk about dickon.
and then we will look at your pictures.”
it was the best thing she could have said.
to talk about dickon meant to talk about the moor and about the cottage and the fourteen people who lived in it on sixteen shillings a week—and the children who got fat on the moor grass like the wild ponies.
and about dickon’s mother—and the skipping-rope—and the moor with the sun on it—and about pale green points sticking up out of the black sod.
and it was all so alive that mary talked more than she had ever talked before—and colin both talked and listened as he had never done either before.
and they both began to laugh over nothings as children will when they are happy together.
and they laughed so that in the end they were making as much noise as if they had been two ordinary healthy natural ten-year-old creatures—instead of a hard, little, unloving girl and a sickly boy who believed that he was going to die.
they enjoyed themselves so much that they forgot the pictures and they forgot about the time.
they had been laughing quite loudly over ben weatherstaff and his robin, and colin was actually sitting up as if he had forgotten about his weak back, when he suddenly remembered something.
“do you know there is one thing we have never once thought of,” he said.
“we are cousins.”
it seemed so queer that they had talked so much and never remembered this simple thing that they laughed more than ever, because they had got into the humor to laugh at anything.
and in the midst of the fun the door opened and in walked dr. craven and mrs. medlock.
dr. craven started in actual alarm and mrs. medlock almost fell back because he had accidentally bumped against her.
“good lord!” exclaimed poor mrs. medlock with her eyes almost starting out of her head.
“good lord!”
“what is this?” said dr. craven, coming forward.
“what does it mean?”
then mary was reminded of the boy rajah again.
colin answered as if neither the doctor’s alarm nor mrs. medlock’s terror were of the slightest consequence.
he was as little disturbed or frightened as if an elderly cat and dog had walked into the room.
“this is my cousin, mary lennox,” he said.
“i asked her to come and talk to me.
i like her.
she must come and talk to me whenever i send for her.”
dr. craven turned reproachfully to mrs. medlock.
“oh, sir” she panted.
“i don’t know how it’s happened.
there’s not a servant on the place tha’d dare to talk—they all have their orders.”
“nobody told her anything,” said colin.
“she heard me crying and found me herself.
i am glad she came.
don’t be silly, medlock.”
mary saw that dr. craven did not look pleased, but it was quite plain that he dare not oppose his patient.
he sat down by colin and felt his pulse.
“i am afraid there has been too much excitement.
excitement is not good for you, my boy,” he said.
“i should be excited if she kept away,” answered colin, his eyes beginning to look dangerously sparkling.
“i am better.
she makes me better.
the nurse must bring up her tea with mine.
we will have tea together.”
mrs. medlock and dr. craven looked at each other in a troubled way, but there was evidently nothing to be done.
“he does look rather better, sir,” ventured mrs. medlock.
“but”—thinking the matter over—“he looked better this morning before she came into the room.”
“she came into the room last night.
she stayed with me a long time.
she sang a hindustani song to me and it made me go to sleep,” said colin.
“i was better when i wakened up.
i wanted my breakfast.
i want my tea now.
tell nurse, medlock.”
dr. craven did not stay very long.
he talked to the nurse for a few minutes when she came into the room and said a few words of warning to colin.
he must not talk too much; he must not forget that he was ill; he must not forget that he was very easily tired.
mary thought that there seemed to be a number of uncomfortable things he was not to forget.
colin looked fretful and kept his strange black-lashed eyes fixed on dr. craven’s face.
“i want to forget it,” he said at last.
“she makes me forget it.
that is why i want her.”
dr. craven did not look happy when he left the room.
he gave a puzzled glance at the little girl sitting on the large stool.
she had become a stiff, silent child again as soon as he entered and he could not see what the attraction was.
the boy actually did look brighter, however—and he sighed rather heavily as he went down the corridor.
“they are always wanting me to eat things when i don’t want to,” said colin, as the nurse brought in the tea and put it on the table by the sofa.
“now, if you’ll eat i will.
those muffins look so nice and hot.
tell me about rajahs.”
chapter xv
nest building
after another week of rain the high arch of blue sky appeared again and the sun which poured down was quite hot.
though there had been no chance to see either the secret garden or dickon, mistress mary had enjoyed herself very much.
the week had not seemed long.
she had spent hours of every day with colin in his room, talking about rajahs or gardens or dickon and the cottage on the moor.
they had looked at the splendid books and pictures and sometimes mary had read things to colin, and sometimes he had read a little to her.
when he was amused and interested she thought he scarcely looked like an invalid at all, except that his face was so colorless and he was always on the sofa.
“you are a sly young one to listen and get out of your bed to go following things up like you did that night,” mrs. medlock said once.
“but there’s no saying it’s not been a sort of blessing to the lot of us.
he’s not had a tantrum or a whining fit since you made friends.
the nurse was just going to give up the case because she was so sick of him, but she says she doesn’t mind staying now you’ve gone on duty with her,” laughing a little.
in her talks with colin, mary had tried to be very cautious about the secret garden.
there were certain things she wanted to find out from him, but she felt that she must find them out without asking him direct questions.
in the first place, as she began to like to be with him, she wanted to discover whether he was the kind of boy you could tell a secret to.
he was not in the least like dickon, but he was evidently so pleased with the idea of a garden no one knew anything about that she thought perhaps he could be trusted.
but she had not known him long enough to be sure.
the second thing she wanted to find out was this: if he could be trusted—if he really could—wouldn’t it be possible to take him to the garden without having anyone find it out?
the grand doctor had said that he must have fresh air and colin had said that he would not mind fresh air in a secret garden.
perhaps if he had a great deal of fresh air and knew dickon and the robin and saw things growing he might not think so much about dying.
mary had seen herself in the glass sometimes lately when she had realized that she looked quite a different creature from the child she had seen when she arrived from india.
this child looked nicer.
even martha had seen a change in her.
“th’ air from th’ moor has done thee good already,” she had said.
“tha’rt not nigh so yeller and tha’rt not nigh so scrawny.
even tha’
hair doesn’t slamp down on tha’ head so flat.
it’s got some life in it so as it sticks out a bit.”
“it’s like me,” said mary.
“it’s growing stronger and fatter.
i’m sure there’s more of it.”
“it looks it, for sure,” said martha, ruffling it up a little round her face.
“tha’rt not half so ugly when it’s that way an’ there’s a bit o’
red in tha’ cheeks.”
if gardens and fresh air had been good for her perhaps they would be good for colin.
but then, if he hated people to look at him, perhaps he would not like to see dickon.
“why does it make you angry when you are looked at?” she inquired one day.
“i always hated it,” he answered, “even when i was very little.
then when they took me to the seaside and i used to lie in my carriage everybody used to stare and ladies would stop and talk to my nurse and then they would begin to whisper and i knew then they were saying i shouldn’t live to grow up.
then sometimes the ladies would pat my cheeks and say ‘poor child!’ once when a lady did that i screamed out loud and bit her hand.
she was so frightened she ran away.”
“she thought you had gone mad like a dog,” said mary, not at all admiringly.
“i don’t care what she thought,” said colin, frowning.
“i wonder why you didn’t scream and bite me when i came into your room?” said mary.
then she began to smile slowly.
“i thought you were a ghost or a dream,” he said.
“you can’t bite a ghost or a dream, and if you scream they don’t care.”
“would you hate it if—if a boy looked at you?” mary asked uncertainly.
he lay back on his cushion and paused thoughtfully.
“there’s one boy,” he said quite slowly, as if he were thinking over every word, “there’s one boy i believe i shouldn’t mind.
it’s that boy who knows where the foxes live—dickon.”
“i’m sure you wouldn’t mind him,” said mary.
“the birds don’t and other animals,” he said, still thinking it over, “perhaps that’s why i shouldn’t.
he’s a sort of animal charmer and i am a boy animal.”
then he laughed and she laughed too; in fact it ended in their both laughing a great deal and finding the idea of a boy animal hiding in his hole very funny indeed.
what mary felt afterward was that she need not fear about dickon.
on that first morning when the sky was blue again mary wakened very early.
the sun was pouring in slanting rays through the blinds and there was something so joyous in the sight of it that she jumped out of bed and ran to the window.
she drew up the blinds and opened the window itself and a great waft of fresh, scented air blew in upon her.
the moor was blue and the whole world looked as if something magic had happened to it.
there were tender little fluting sounds here and there and everywhere, as if scores of birds were beginning to tune up for a concert.
mary put her hand out of the window and held it in the sun.
“it’s warm—warm!” she said.
“it will make the green points push up and up and up, and it will make the bulbs and roots work and struggle with all their might under the earth.”
she kneeled down and leaned out of the window as far as she could, breathing big breaths and sniffing the air until she laughed because she remembered what dickon’s mother had said about the end of his nose quivering like a rabbit’s.
“it must be very early,” she said.
“the little clouds are all pink and i’ve never seen the sky look like this.
no one is up.
i don’t even hear the stable boys.”
a sudden thought made her scramble to her feet.
“i can’t wait!
i am going to see the garden!”
she had learned to dress herself by this time and she put on her clothes in five minutes.
she knew a small side door which she could unbolt herself and she flew downstairs in her stocking feet and put on her shoes in the hall.
she unchained and unbolted and unlocked and when the door was open she sprang across the step with one bound, and there she was standing on the grass, which seemed to have turned green, and with the sun pouring down on her and warm sweet wafts about her and the fluting and twittering and singing coming from every bush and tree.
she clasped her hands for pure joy and looked up in the sky and it was so blue and pink and pearly and white and flooded with springtime light that she felt as if she must flute and sing aloud herself and knew that thrushes and robins and skylarks could not possibly help it.
she ran around the shrubs and paths towards the secret garden.
“it is all different already,” she said.
“the grass is greener and things are sticking up everywhere and things are uncurling and green buds of leaves are showing.
this afternoon i am sure dickon will come.”
the long warm rain had done strange things to the herbaceous beds which bordered the walk by the lower wall.
there were things sprouting and pushing out from the roots of clumps of plants and there were actually here and there glimpses of royal purple and yellow unfurling among the stems of crocuses.
six months before mistress mary would not have seen how the world was waking up, but now she missed nothing.
when she had reached the place where the door hid itself under the ivy, she was startled by a curious loud sound.
it was the caw—caw of a crow and it came from the top of the wall, and when she looked up, there sat a big glossy-plumaged blue-black bird, looking down at her very wisely indeed.
she had never seen a crow so close before and he made her a little nervous, but the next moment he spread his wings and flapped away across the garden.
she hoped he was not going to stay inside and she pushed the door open wondering if he would.
when she got fairly into the garden she saw that he probably did intend to stay because he had alighted on a dwarf apple-tree and under the apple-tree was lying a little reddish animal with a bushy tail, and both of them were watching the stooping body and rust-red head of dickon, who was kneeling on the grass working hard.
mary flew across the grass to him.
“oh, dickon!
dickon!” she cried out.
“how could you get here so early!
how could you!
the sun has only just got up!”
he got up himself, laughing and glowing, and tousled; his eyes like a bit of the sky.
“eh!” he said.
“i was up long before him.
how could i have stayed abed!
th’ world’s all fair begun again this mornin’, it has.
an’ it’s workin’
an’ hummin’ an’ scratchin’ an’ pipin’ an’ nest-buildin’ an’ breathin’
out scents, till you’ve got to be out on it ’stead o’ lyin’ on your back.
when th’ sun did jump up, th’ moor went mad for joy, an’ i was in the midst of th’ heather, an’ i run like mad myself, shoutin’ an’
singin’.
an’ i come straight here.
i couldn’t have stayed away.
why, th’ garden was lyin’ here waitin’!”
mary put her hands on her chest, panting, as if she had been running herself.
“oh, dickon!
dickon!” she said.
“i’m so happy i can scarcely breathe!”
seeing him talking to a stranger, the little bushy-tailed animal rose from its place under the tree and came to him, and the rook, cawing once, flew down from its branch and settled quietly on his shoulder.
“this is th’ little fox cub,” he said, rubbing the little reddish animal’s head.
“it’s named captain.
an’ this here’s soot.
soot he flew across th’ moor with me an’ captain he run same as if th’ hounds had been after him.
they both felt same as i did.”
neither of the creatures looked as if he were the least afraid of mary.
when dickon began to walk about, soot stayed on his shoulder and captain trotted quietly close to his side.
“see here!” said dickon.
“see how these has pushed up, an’ these an’
these!
an’ eh!
look at these here!”
he threw himself upon his knees and mary went down beside him.
they had come upon a whole clump of crocuses burst into purple and orange and gold.
mary bent her face down and kissed and kissed them.
“you never kiss a person in that way,” she said when she lifted her head.
“flowers are so different.”
he looked puzzled but smiled.
“eh!” he said, “i’ve kissed mother many a time that way when i come in from th’ moor after a day’s roamin’ an’ she stood there at th’ door in th’ sun, lookin’ so glad an’ comfortable.”
they ran from one part of the garden to another and found so many wonders that they were obliged to remind themselves that they must whisper or speak low.
he showed her swelling leafbuds on rose branches which had seemed dead.
he showed her ten thousand new green points pushing through the mould.
they put their eager young noses close to the earth and sniffed its warmed springtime breathing; they dug and pulled and laughed low with rapture until mistress mary’s hair was as tumbled as dickon’s and her cheeks were almost as poppy red as his.
there was every joy on earth in the secret garden that morning, and in the midst of them came a delight more delightful than all, because it was more wonderful.
swiftly something flew across the wall and darted through the trees to a close grown corner, a little flare of red-breasted bird with something hanging from its beak.
dickon stood quite still and put his hand on mary almost as if they had suddenly found themselves laughing in a church.
“we munnot stir,” he whispered in broad yorkshire.
“we munnot scarce breathe.
i knowed he was mate-huntin’ when i seed him last.
it’s ben weatherstaff’s robin.
he’s buildin’ his nest.
he’ll stay here if us don’t flight him.”
they settled down softly upon the grass and sat there without moving.
“us mustn’t seem as if us was watchin’ him too close,” said dickon.
“he’d be out with us for good if he got th’ notion us was interferin’
now.
he’ll be a good bit different till all this is over.
he’s settin’
up housekeepin’.
he’ll be shyer an’ readier to take things ill. he’s got no time for visitin’ an’ gossipin’.
us must keep still a bit an’
try to look as if us was grass an’ trees an’ bushes.
then when he’s got used to seein’ us i’ll chirp a bit an’ he’ll know us’ll not be in his way.”
mistress mary was not at all sure that she knew, as dickon seemed to, how to try to look like grass and trees and bushes.
but he had said the queer thing as if it were the simplest and most natural thing in the world, and she felt it must be quite easy to him, and indeed she watched him for a few minutes carefully, wondering if it was possible for him to quietly turn green and put out branches and leaves.
but he only sat wonderfully still, and when he spoke dropped his voice to such a softness that it was curious that she could hear him, but she could.
“it’s part o’ th’ springtime, this nest-buildin’ is,” he said.
“i warrant it’s been goin’ on in th’ same way every year since th’ world was begun.
they’ve got their way o’ thinkin’ and doin’ things an’ a body had better not meddle.
you can lose a friend in springtime easier than any other season if you’re too curious.”
“if we talk about him i can’t help looking at him,” mary said as softly as possible.
“we must talk of something else.
there is something i want to tell you.”
“he’ll like it better if us talks o’ somethin’ else,” said dickon.
“what is it tha’s got to tell me?”
“well—do you know about colin?” she whispered.
he turned his head to look at her.
“what does tha’ know about him?” he asked.
“i’ve seen him.
i have been to talk to him every day this week.
he wants me to come.
he says i’m making him forget about being ill and dying,” answered mary.
dickon looked actually relieved as soon as the surprise died away from his round face.
“i am glad o’ that,” he exclaimed.
“i’m right down glad.
it makes me easier.
i knowed i must say nothin’ about him an’ i don’t like havin’
to hide things.”
“don’t you like hiding the garden?” said mary.
“i’ll never tell about it,” he answered.
“but i says to mother, ‘mother,’ i says, ‘i got a secret to keep.
it’s not a bad ’un, tha’
knows that.
it’s no worse than hidin’ where a bird’s nest is.
tha’
doesn’t mind it, does tha’?’”
mary always wanted to hear about mother.
“what did she say?” she asked, not at all afraid to hear.
dickon grinned sweet-temperedly.
“it was just like her, what she said,” he answered.
“she give my head a bit of a rub an’ laughed an’ she says, ‘eh, lad, tha’ can have all th’
secrets tha’ likes.
i’ve knowed thee twelve year’.’”
“how did you know about colin?” asked mary.
“everybody as knowed about mester craven knowed there was a little lad as was like to be a cripple, an’ they knowed mester craven didn’t like him to be talked about.
folks is sorry for mester craven because mrs.
craven was such a pretty young lady an’ they was so fond of each other.
mrs. medlock stops in our cottage whenever she goes to thwaite an’ she doesn’t mind talkin’ to mother before us children, because she knows us has been brought up to be trusty.
how did tha’ find out about him?
martha was in fine trouble th’ last time she came home.
she said tha’d heard him frettin’ an’ tha’ was askin’ questions an’ she didn’t know what to say.”
mary told him her story about the midnight wuthering of the wind which had wakened her and about the faint far-off sounds of the complaining voice which had led her down the dark corridors with her candle and had ended with her opening of the door of the dimly lighted room with the carven four-posted bed in the corner.
when she described the small ivory-white face and the strange black-rimmed eyes dickon shook his head.
“them’s just like his mother’s eyes, only hers was always laughin’, they say,” he said.
“they say as mr. craven can’t bear to see him when he’s awake an’ it’s because his eyes is so like his mother’s an’ yet looks so different in his miserable bit of a face.”
“do you think he wants to die?” whispered mary.
“no, but he wishes he’d never been born.
mother she says that’s th’
worst thing on earth for a child.
them as is not wanted scarce ever thrives.
mester craven he’d buy anythin’ as money could buy for th’
poor lad but he’d like to forget as he’s on earth.
for one thing, he’s afraid he’ll look at him some day and find he’s growed hunchback.”
“colin’s so afraid of it himself that he won’t sit up,” said mary.
“he says he’s always thinking that if he should feel a lump coming he should go crazy and scream himself to death.”
“eh!
he oughtn’t to lie there thinkin’ things like that,” said dickon.
“no lad could get well as thought them sort o’ things.”
the fox was lying on the grass close by him, looking up to ask for a pat now and then, and dickon bent down and rubbed his neck softly and thought a few minutes in silence.
presently he lifted his head and looked round the garden.
“when first we got in here,” he said, “it seemed like everything was gray.
look round now and tell me if tha’ doesn’t see a difference.”
mary looked and caught her breath a little.
“why!” she cried, “the gray wall is changing.
it is as if a green mist were creeping over it.
it’s almost like a green gauze veil.”
“aye,” said dickon.
“an’ it’ll be greener and greener till th’ gray’s all gone.
can tha’ guess what i was thinkin’?”
“i know it was something nice,” said mary eagerly.
“i believe it was something about colin.”
“i was thinkin’ that if he was out here he wouldn’t be watchin’ for lumps to grow on his back; he’d be watchin’ for buds to break on th’
rose-bushes, an’ he’d likely be healthier,” explained dickon.
“i was wonderin’ if us could ever get him in th’ humor to come out here an’
lie under th’ trees in his carriage.”
“i’ve been wondering that myself.
i’ve thought of it almost every time i’ve talked to him,” said mary.
“i’ve wondered if he could keep a secret and i’ve wondered if we could bring him here without anyone seeing us.
i thought perhaps you could push his carriage.
the doctor said he must have fresh air and if he wants us to take him out no one dare disobey him.
he won’t go out for other people and perhaps they will be glad if he will go out with us.
he could order the gardeners to keep away so they wouldn’t find out.”
dickon was thinking very hard as he scratched captain’s back.
“it’d be good for him, i’ll warrant,” he said.
“us’d not be thinkin’
he’d better never been born.
us’d be just two children watchin’ a garden grow, an’ he’d be another.
two lads an’ a little lass just lookin’ on at th’ springtime.
i warrant it’d be better than doctor’s stuff.”
“he’s been lying in his room so long and he’s always been so afraid of his back that it has made him queer,” said mary.
“he knows a good many things out of books but he doesn’t know anything else.
he says he has been too ill to notice things and he hates going out of doors and hates gardens and gardeners.
but he likes to hear about this garden because it is a secret.
i daren’t tell him much but he said he wanted to see it.”
“us’ll have him out here sometime for sure,” said dickon.
“i could push his carriage well enough.
has tha’ noticed how th’ robin an’ his mate has been workin’ while we’ve been sittin’ here?
look at him perched on that branch wonderin’ where it’d be best to put that twig he’s got in his beak.”
he made one of his low whistling calls and the robin turned his head and looked at him inquiringly, still holding his twig.
dickon spoke to him as ben weatherstaff did, but dickon’s tone was one of friendly advice.
“wheres’ever tha’ puts it,” he said, “it’ll be all right.
tha’ knew how to build tha’ nest before tha’ came out o’ th’ egg.
get on with thee, lad.
tha’st got no time to lose.”
“oh, i do like to hear you talk to him!” mary said, laughing delightedly.
“ben weatherstaff scolds him and makes fun of him, and he hops about and looks as if he understood every word, and i know he likes it.
ben weatherstaff says he is so conceited he would rather have stones thrown at him than not be noticed.”
dickon laughed too and went on talking.
“tha’ knows us won’t trouble thee,” he said to the robin.
“us is near bein’ wild things ourselves.
us is nest-buildin’ too, bless thee.
look out tha’ doesn’t tell on us.”
and though the robin did not answer, because his beak was occupied, mary knew that when he flew away with his twig to his own corner of the garden the darkness of his dew-bright eye meant that he would not tell their secret for the world.
chapter xvi
“i won’t!” said mary
they found a great deal to do that morning and mary was late in returning to the house and was also in such a hurry to get back to her work that she quite forgot colin until the last moment.
“tell colin that i can’t come and see him yet,” she said to martha.
“i’m very busy in the garden.”
martha looked rather frightened.
“eh!
miss mary,” she said, “it may put him all out of humor when i tell him that.”
but mary was not as afraid of him as other people were and she was not a self-sacrificing person.
“i can’t stay,” she answered.
“dickon’s waiting for me;” and she ran away.
the afternoon was even lovelier and busier than the morning had been.
already nearly all the weeds were cleared out of the garden and most of the roses and trees had been pruned or dug about.
dickon had brought a spade of his own and he had taught mary to use all her tools, so that by this time it was plain that though the lovely wild place was not likely to become a “gardener’s garden” it would be a wilderness of growing things before the springtime was over.
“there’ll be apple blossoms an’ cherry blossoms overhead,” dickon said, working away with all his might.
“an’ there’ll be peach an’ plum trees in bloom against th’ walls, an’ th’ grass’ll be a carpet o’ flowers.”
the little fox and the rook were as happy and busy as they were, and the robin and his mate flew backward and forward like tiny streaks of lightning.
sometimes the rook flapped his black wings and soared away over the tree-tops in the park.
each time he came back and perched near dickon and cawed several times as if he were relating his adventures, and dickon talked to him just as he had talked to the robin.
once when dickon was so busy that he did not answer him at first, soot flew on to his shoulders and gently tweaked his ear with his large beak.
when mary wanted to rest a little dickon sat down with her under a tree and once he took his pipe out of his pocket and played the soft strange little notes and two squirrels appeared on the wall and looked and listened.
“tha’s a good bit stronger than tha’ was,” dickon said, looking at her as she was digging.
“tha’s beginning to look different, for sure.”
mary was glowing with exercise and good spirits.
“i’m getting fatter and fatter every day,” she said quite exultantly.
“mrs.
medlock will have to get me some bigger dresses.
martha says my hair is growing thicker.
it isn’t so flat and stringy.”
the sun was beginning to set and sending deep gold-colored rays slanting under the trees when they parted.
“it’ll be fine tomorrow,” said dickon.
“i’ll be at work by sunrise.”
“so will i,” said mary.
she ran back to the house as quickly as her feet would carry her.
she wanted to tell colin about dickon’s fox cub and the rook and about what the springtime had been doing.
she felt sure he would like to hear.
so it was not very pleasant when she opened the door of her room, to see martha standing waiting for her with a doleful face.
“what is the matter?” she asked.
“what did colin say when you told him i couldn’t come?”
“eh!” said martha, “i wish tha’d gone.
he was nigh goin’ into one o’
his tantrums.
there’s been a nice to do all afternoon to keep him quiet.
he would watch the clock all th’ time.”
mary’s lips pinched themselves together.
she was no more used to considering other people than colin was and she saw no reason why an ill-tempered boy should interfere with the thing she liked best.
she knew nothing about the pitifulness of people who had been ill and nervous and who did not know that they could control their tempers and need not make other people ill and nervous, too.
when she had had a headache in india she had done her best to see that everybody else also had a headache or something quite as bad.
and she felt she was quite right; but of course now she felt that colin was quite wrong.
he was not on his sofa when she went into his room.
he was lying flat on his back in bed and he did not turn his head toward her as she came in.
this was a bad beginning and mary marched up to him with her stiff manner.
“why didn’t you get up?” she said.
“i did get up this morning when i thought you were coming,” he answered, without looking at her.
“i made them put me back in bed this afternoon.
my back ached and my head ached and i was tired.
why didn’t you come?”
“i was working in the garden with dickon,” said mary.
colin frowned and condescended to look at her.
“i won’t let that boy come here if you go and stay with him instead of coming to talk to me,” he said.
mary flew into a fine passion.
she could fly into a passion without making a noise.
she just grew sour and obstinate and did not care what happened.
“if you send dickon away, i’ll never come into this room again!” she retorted.
“you’ll have to if i want you,” said colin.
“i won’t!” said mary.
“i’ll make you,” said colin.
“they shall drag you in.”
“shall they, mr. rajah!” said mary fiercely.
“they may drag me in but they can’t make me talk when they get me here.
i’ll sit and clench my teeth and never tell you one thing.
i won’t even look at you.
i’ll stare at the floor!”
they were a nice agreeable pair as they glared at each other.
if they had been two little street boys they would have sprung at each other and had a rough-and-tumble fight.
as it was, they did the next thing to it.
“you are a selfish thing!” cried colin.
“what are you?” said mary.
“selfish people always say that.
anyone is selfish who doesn’t do what they want.
you’re more selfish than i am.
you’re the most selfish boy i ever saw.”
“i’m not!” snapped colin.
“i’m not as selfish as your fine dickon is!
he keeps you playing in the dirt when he knows i am all by myself.
he’s selfish, if you like!”
mary’s eyes flashed fire.
“he’s nicer than any other boy that ever lived!” she said.
“he’s—he’s like an angel!” it might sound rather silly to say that but she did not care.
“a nice angel!” colin sneered ferociously.
“he’s a common cottage boy off the moor!”
“he’s better than a common rajah!” retorted mary.
“he’s a thousand times better!”
because she was the stronger of the two she was beginning to get the better of him.
the truth was that he had never had a fight with anyone like himself in his life and, upon the whole, it was rather good for him, though neither he nor mary knew anything about that.
he turned his head on his pillow and shut his eyes and a big tear was squeezed out and ran down his cheek.
he was beginning to feel pathetic and sorry for himself—not for anyone else.
“i’m not as selfish as you, because i’m always ill, and i’m sure there is a lump coming on my back,” he said.
“and i am going to die besides.”
“you’re not!” contradicted mary unsympathetically.
he opened his eyes quite wide with indignation.
he had never heard such a thing said before.
he was at once furious and slightly pleased, if a person could be both at one time.
“i’m not?” he cried.
“i am!
you know i am!
everybody says so.”
“i don’t believe it!” said mary sourly.
“you just say that to make people sorry.
i believe you’re proud of it.
i don’t believe it!
if you were a nice boy it might be true—but you’re too nasty!”
in spite of his invalid back colin sat up in bed in quite a healthy rage.
“get out of the room!” he shouted and he caught hold of his pillow and threw it at her.
he was not strong enough to throw it far and it only fell at her feet, but mary’s face looked as pinched as a nutcracker.
“i’m going,” she said.
“and i won’t come back!”
she walked to the door and when she reached it she turned round and spoke again.
“i was going to tell you all sorts of nice things,” she said.
“dickon brought his fox and his rook and i was going to tell you all about them.
now i won’t tell you a single thing!”
she marched out of the door and closed it behind her, and there to her great astonishment she found the trained nurse standing as if she had been listening and, more amazing still—she was laughing.
she was a big handsome young woman who ought not to have been a trained nurse at all, as she could not bear invalids and she was always making excuses to leave colin to martha or anyone else who would take her place.
mary had never liked her, and she simply stood and gazed up at her as she stood giggling into her handkerchief..
“what are you laughing at?” she asked her.
“at you two young ones,” said the nurse.
“it’s the best thing that could happen to the sickly pampered thing to have someone to stand up to him that’s as spoiled as himself;” and she laughed into her handkerchief again.
“if he’d had a young vixen of a sister to fight with it would have been the saving of him.”
“is he going to die?”
“i don’t know and i don’t care,” said the nurse.
“hysterics and temper are half what ails him.”
“what are hysterics?” asked mary.
“you’ll find out if you work him into a tantrum after this—but at any rate you’ve given him something to have hysterics about, and i’m glad of it.”
mary went back to her room not feeling at all as she had felt when she had come in from the garden.
she was cross and disappointed but not at all sorry for colin.
she had looked forward to telling him a great many things and she had meant to try to make up her mind whether it would be safe to trust him with the great secret.
she had been beginning to think it would be, but now she had changed her mind entirely.
she would never tell him and he could stay in his room and never get any fresh air and die if he liked!
it would serve him right!
she felt so sour and unrelenting that for a few minutes she almost forgot about dickon and the green veil creeping over the world and the soft wind blowing down from the moor.
martha was waiting for her and the trouble in her face had been temporarily replaced by interest and curiosity.
there was a wooden box on the table and its cover had been removed and revealed that it was full of neat packages.
“mr.
craven sent it to you,” said martha.
“it looks as if it had picture-books in it.”
mary remembered what he had asked her the day she had gone to his room.
“do you want anything—dolls—toys—books?” she opened the package wondering if he had sent a doll, and also wondering what she should do with it if he had.
but he had not sent one.
there were several beautiful books such as colin had, and two of them were about gardens and were full of pictures.
there were two or three games and there was a beautiful little writing-case with a gold monogram on it and a gold pen and inkstand.
everything was so nice that her pleasure began to crowd her anger out of her mind.
she had not expected him to remember her at all and her hard little heart grew quite warm.
“i can write better than i can print,” she said, “and the first thing i shall write with that pen will be a letter to tell him i am much obliged.”
if she had been friends with colin she would have run to show him her presents at once, and they would have looked at the pictures and read some of the gardening books and perhaps tried playing the games, and he would have enjoyed himself so much he would never once have thought he was going to die or have put his hand on his spine to see if there was a lump coming.
he had a way of doing that which she could not bear.
it gave her an uncomfortable frightened feeling because he always looked so frightened himself.
he said that if he felt even quite a little lump some day he should know his hunch had begun to grow.
something he had heard mrs. medlock whispering to the nurse had given him the idea and he had thought over it in secret until it was quite firmly fixed in his mind.
mrs. medlock had said his father’s back had begun to show its crookedness in that way when he was a child.
he had never told anyone but mary that most of his “tantrums” as they called them grew out of his hysterical hidden fear.
mary had been sorry for him when he had told her.
“he always began to think about it when he was cross or tired,” she said to herself.
“and he has been cross today.
perhaps—perhaps he has been thinking about it all afternoon.”
she stood still, looking down at the carpet and thinking.
“i said i would never go back again—” she hesitated, knitting her brows—“but perhaps, just perhaps, i will go and see—if he wants me—in the morning.
perhaps he’ll try to throw his pillow at me again, but—i think—i’ll go.”
chapter xvii
a tantrum
she had got up very early in the morning and had worked hard in the garden and she was tired and sleepy, so as soon as martha had brought her supper and she had eaten it, she was glad to go to bed.
as she laid her head on the pillow she murmured to herself:
“i’ll go out before breakfast and work with dickon and then afterward—i believe—i’ll go to see him.”
she thought it was the middle of the night when she was awakened by such dreadful sounds that she jumped out of bed in an instant.
what was it—what was it?
the next minute she felt quite sure she knew.
doors were opened and shut and there were hurrying feet in the corridors and someone was crying and screaming at the same time, screaming and crying in a horrible way.
“it’s colin,” she said.
“he’s having one of those tantrums the nurse called hysterics.
how awful it sounds.”
as she listened to the sobbing screams she did not wonder that people were so frightened that they gave him his own way in everything rather than hear them.
she put her hands over her ears and felt sick and shivering.
“i don’t know what to do.
i don’t know what to do,” she kept saying.
“i can’t bear it.”
once she wondered if he would stop if she dared go to him and then she remembered how he had driven her out of the room and thought that perhaps the sight of her might make him worse.
even when she pressed her hands more tightly over her ears she could not keep the awful sounds out.
she hated them so and was so terrified by them that suddenly they began to make her angry and she felt as if she should like to fly into a tantrum herself and frighten him as he was frightening her.
she was not used to anyone’s tempers but her own.
she took her hands from her ears and sprang up and stamped her foot.
“he ought to be stopped!
somebody ought to make him stop!
somebody ought to beat him!” she cried out.
just then she heard feet almost running down the corridor and her door opened and the nurse came in.
she was not laughing now by any means.
she even looked rather pale.
“he’s worked himself into hysterics,” she said in a great hurry.
“he’ll do himself harm.
no one can do anything with him.
you come and try, like a good child.
he likes you.”
“he turned me out of the room this morning,” said mary, stamping her foot with excitement.
the stamp rather pleased the nurse.
the truth was that she had been afraid she might find mary crying and hiding her head under the bed-clothes.
“that’s right,” she said.
“you’re in the right humor.
you go and scold him.
give him something new to think of.
do go, child, as quick as ever you can.”
it was not until afterward that mary realized that the thing had been funny as well as dreadful—that it was funny that all the grown-up people were so frightened that they came to a little girl just because they guessed she was almost as bad as colin himself.
she flew along the corridor and the nearer she got to the screams the higher her temper mounted.
she felt quite wicked by the time she reached the door.
she slapped it open with her hand and ran across the room to the four-posted bed.
“you stop!” she almost shouted.
“you stop!
i hate you!
everybody hates you!
i wish everybody would run out of the house and let you scream yourself to death!
you will scream yourself to death in a minute, and i wish you would!”
a nice sympathetic child could neither have thought nor said such things, but it just happened that the shock of hearing them was the best possible thing for this hysterical boy whom no one had ever dared to restrain or contradict.
he had been lying on his face beating his pillow with his hands and he actually almost jumped around, he turned so quickly at the sound of the furious little voice.
his face looked dreadful, white and red and swollen, and he was gasping and choking; but savage little mary did not care an atom.
“if you scream another scream,” she said, “i’ll scream too—and i can scream louder than you can and i’ll frighten you, i’ll frighten you!”
he actually had stopped screaming because she had startled him so.
the scream which had been coming almost choked him.
the tears were streaming down his face and he shook all over.
“i can’t stop!” he gasped and sobbed.
“i can’t—i can’t!”
“you can!” shouted mary.
“half that ails you is hysterics and temper—just hysterics—hysterics—hysterics!” and she stamped each time she said it.
“i felt the lump—i felt it,” choked out colin.
“i knew i should.
i shall have a hunch on my back and then i shall die,” and he began to writhe again and turned on his face and sobbed and wailed but he didn’t scream.
“you didn’t feel a lump!” contradicted mary fiercely.
“if you did it was only a hysterical lump.
hysterics makes lumps.
there’s nothing the matter with your horrid back—nothing but hysterics!
turn over and let me look at it!”
she liked the word “hysterics” and felt somehow as if it had an effect on him.
he was probably like herself and had never heard it before.
“nurse,” she commanded, “come here and show me his back this minute!”
the nurse, mrs. medlock and martha had been standing huddled together near the door staring at her, their mouths half open.
all three had gasped with fright more than once.
the nurse came forward as if she were half afraid.
colin was heaving with great breathless sobs.
“perhaps he—he won’t let me,” she hesitated in a low voice.
colin heard her, however, and he gasped out between two sobs:
“sh-show her!
she-she’ll see then!”
it was a poor thin back to look at when it was bared.
every rib could be counted and every joint of the spine, though mistress mary did not count them as she bent over and examined them with a solemn savage little face.
she looked so sour and old-fashioned that the nurse turned her head aside to hide the twitching of her mouth.
there was just a minute’s silence, for even colin tried to hold his breath while mary looked up and down his spine, and down and up, as intently as if she had been the great doctor from london.
“there’s not a single lump there!” she said at last.
“there’s not a lump as big as a pin—except backbone lumps, and you can only feel them because you’re thin.
i’ve got backbone lumps myself, and they used to stick out as much as yours do, until i began to get fatter, and i am not fat enough yet to hide them.
there’s not a lump as big as a pin!
if you ever say there is again, i shall laugh!”
no one but colin himself knew what effect those crossly spoken childish words had on him.
if he had ever had anyone to talk to about his secret terrors—if he had ever dared to let himself ask questions—if he had had childish companions and had not lain on his back in the huge closed house, breathing an atmosphere heavy with the fears of people who were most of them ignorant and tired of him, he would have found out that most of his fright and illness was created by himself.
but he had lain and thought of himself and his aches and weariness for hours and days and months and years.
and now that an angry unsympathetic little girl insisted obstinately that he was not as ill as he thought he was he actually felt as if she might be speaking the truth.
“i didn’t know,” ventured the nurse, “that he thought he had a lump on his spine.
his back is weak because he won’t try to sit up.
i could have told him there was no lump there.” colin gulped and turned his face a little to look at her.
“c-could you?” he said pathetically.
“yes, sir.”
“there!” said mary, and she gulped too.
colin turned on his face again and but for his long-drawn broken breaths, which were the dying down of his storm of sobbing, he lay still for a minute, though great tears streamed down his face and wet the pillow.
actually the tears meant that a curious great relief had come to him.
presently he turned and looked at the nurse again and strangely enough he was not like a rajah at all as he spoke to her.
“do you think—i could—live to grow up?” he said.
the nurse was neither clever nor soft-hearted but she could repeat some of the london doctor’s words.
“you probably will if you will do what you are told to do and not give way to your temper, and stay out a great deal in the fresh air.”
colin’s tantrum had passed and he was weak and worn out with crying and this perhaps made him feel gentle.
he put out his hand a little toward mary, and i am glad to say that, her own tantum having passed, she was softened too and met him half-way with her hand, so that it was a sort of making up.
“i’ll—i’ll go out with you, mary,” he said.
“i shan’t hate fresh air if we can find—” he remembered just in time to stop himself from saying “if we can find the secret garden” and he ended, “i shall like to go out with you if dickon will come and push my chair.
i do so want to see dickon and the fox and the crow.”
the nurse remade the tumbled bed and shook and straightened the pillows.
then she made colin a cup of beef tea and gave a cup to mary, who really was very glad to get it after her excitement.
mrs. medlock and martha gladly slipped away, and after everything was neat and calm and in order the nurse looked as if she would very gladly slip away also.
she was a healthy young woman who resented being robbed of her sleep and she yawned quite openly as she looked at mary, who had pushed her big footstool close to the four-posted bed and was holding colin’s hand.
“you must go back and get your sleep out,” she said.
“he’ll drop off after a while—if he’s not too upset.
then i’ll lie down myself in the next room.”
“would you like me to sing you that song i learned from my ayah?” mary whispered to colin.
his hand pulled hers gently and he turned his tired eyes on her appealingly.
“oh, yes!” he answered.
“it’s such a soft song.
i shall go to sleep in a minute.”
“i will put him to sleep,” mary said to the yawning nurse.
“you can go if you like.”
“well,” said the nurse, with an attempt at reluctance.
“if he doesn’t go to sleep in half an hour you must call me.”
“very well,” answered mary.
the nurse was out of the room in a minute and as soon as she was gone colin pulled mary’s hand again.
“i almost told,” he said; “but i stopped myself in time.
i won’t talk and i’ll go to sleep, but you said you had a whole lot of nice things to tell me.
have you—do you think you have found out anything at all about the way into the secret garden?”
mary looked at his poor little tired face and swollen eyes and her heart relented.
“ye-es,” she answered, “i think i have.
and if you will go to sleep i will tell you tomorrow.” his hand quite trembled.
“oh, mary!” he said.
“oh, mary!
if i could get into it i think i should live to grow up!
do you suppose that instead of singing the ayah song—you could just tell me softly as you did that first day what you imagine it looks like inside?
i am sure it will make me go to sleep.”
“yes,” answered mary.
“shut your eyes.”
he closed his eyes and lay quite still and she held his hand and began to speak very slowly and in a very low voice.
“i think it has been left alone so long—that it has grown all into a lovely tangle.
i think the roses have climbed and climbed and climbed until they hang from the branches and walls and creep over the ground—almost like a strange gray mist.
some of them have died but many—are alive and when the summer comes there will be curtains and fountains of roses.
i think the ground is full of daffodils and snowdrops and lilies and iris working their way out of the dark.
now the spring has begun—perhaps—perhaps—”
the soft drone of her voice was making him stiller and stiller and she saw it and went on.
“perhaps they are coming up through the grass—perhaps there are clusters of purple crocuses and gold ones—even now.
perhaps the leaves are beginning to break out and uncurl—and perhaps—the gray is changing and a green gauze veil is creeping—and creeping over—everything.
and the birds are coming to look at it—because it is—so safe and still.
and perhaps—perhaps—perhaps—” very softly and slowly indeed, “the robin has found a mate—and is building a nest.”
and colin was asleep.
chapter xviii
“tha’ munnot waste no time”
of course mary did not waken early the next morning.
she slept late because she was tired, and when martha brought her breakfast she told her that though colin was quite quiet he was ill and feverish as he always was after he had worn himself out with a fit of crying.
mary ate her breakfast slowly as she listened.
“he says he wishes tha’ would please go and see him as soon as tha’
can,” martha said.
“it’s queer what a fancy he’s took to thee.
tha’ did give it him last night for sure—didn’t tha?
nobody else would have dared to do it.
eh!
poor lad!
he’s been spoiled till salt won’t save him.
mother says as th’ two worst things as can happen to a child is never to have his own way—or always to have it.
she doesn’t know which is th’ worst.
tha’ was in a fine temper tha’self, too.
but he says to me when i went into his room, ‘please ask miss mary if she’ll please come an’ talk to me?’ think o’ him saying please!
will you go, miss?”
“i’ll run and see dickon first,” said mary.
“no, i’ll go and see colin first and tell him—i know what i’ll tell him,” with a sudden inspiration.
she had her hat on when she appeared in colin’s room and for a second he looked disappointed.
he was in bed.
his face was pitifully white and there were dark circles round his eyes.
“i’m glad you came,” he said.
“my head aches and i ache all over because i’m so tired.
are you going somewhere?”
mary went and leaned against his bed.
“i won’t be long,” she said.
“i’m going to dickon, but i’ll come back.
colin, it’s—it’s something about the garden.”
his whole face brightened and a little color came into it.
“oh!
is it?” he cried out.
“i dreamed about it all night.
i heard you say something about gray changing into green, and i dreamed i was standing in a place all filled with trembling little green leaves—and there were birds on nests everywhere and they looked so soft and still.
i’ll lie and think about it until you come back.”
in five minutes mary was with dickon in their garden.
the fox and the crow were with him again and this time he had brought two tame squirrels.
“i came over on the pony this mornin’,” he said.
“eh!
he is a good little chap—jump is!
i brought these two in my pockets.
this here one he’s called nut an’ this here other one’s called shell.”
when he said “nut” one squirrel leaped on to his right shoulder and when he said “shell” the other one leaped on to his left shoulder.
when they sat down on the grass with captain curled at their feet, soot solemnly listening on a tree and nut and shell nosing about close to them, it seemed to mary that it would be scarcely bearable to leave such delightfulness, but when she began to tell her story somehow the look in dickon’s funny face gradually changed her mind.
she could see he felt sorrier for colin than she did.
he looked up at the sky and all about him.
“just listen to them birds—th’ world seems full of ’em—all whistlin’
an’ pipin’,” he said.
“look at ’em dartin’ about, an’ hearken at ’em callin’ to each other.
come springtime seems like as if all th’ world’s callin’.
the leaves is uncurlin’ so you can see ’em—an’, my word, th’
nice smells there is about!” sniffing with his happy turned-up nose.
“an’ that poor lad lyin’ shut up an’ seein’ so little that he gets to thinkin’ o’ things as sets him screamin’.
eh!
my!
we mun get him out here—we mun get him watchin’ an listenin’ an’ sniffin’ up th’ air an’
get him just soaked through wi’ sunshine.
an’ we munnot lose no time about it.”
when he was very much interested he often spoke quite broad yorkshire though at other times he tried to modify his dialect so that mary could better understand.
but she loved his broad yorkshire and had in fact been trying to learn to speak it herself.
so she spoke a little now.
“aye, that we mun,” she said (which meant “yes, indeed, we must”).
“i’ll tell thee what us’ll do first,” she proceeded, and dickon grinned, because when the little wench tried to twist her tongue into speaking yorkshire it amused him very much.
“he’s took a graidely fancy to thee.
he wants to see thee and he wants to see soot an’ captain.
when i go back to the house to talk to him i’ll ax him if tha’ canna’
come an’ see him tomorrow mornin’—an’ bring tha’ creatures wi’ thee—an’
then—in a bit, when there’s more leaves out, an’ happen a bud or two, we’ll get him to come out an’ tha’ shall push him in his chair an’
we’ll bring him here an’ show him everything.”
when she stopped she was quite proud of herself.
she had never made a long speech in yorkshire before and she had remembered very well.
“tha’ mun talk a bit o’ yorkshire like that to mester colin,” dickon chuckled.
“tha’ll make him laugh an’ there’s nowt as good for ill folk as laughin’ is.
mother says she believes as half a hour’s good laugh every mornin’ ’ud cure a chap as was makin’ ready for typhus fever.”
“i’m going to talk yorkshire to him this very day,” said mary, chuckling herself.
the garden had reached the time when every day and every night it seemed as if magicians were passing through it drawing loveliness out of the earth and the boughs with wands.
it was hard to go away and leave it all, particularly as nut had actually crept on to her dress and shell had scrambled down the trunk of the apple-tree they sat under and stayed there looking at her with inquiring eyes.
but she went back to the house and when she sat down close to colin’s bed he began to sniff as dickon did though not in such an experienced way.
“you smell like flowers and—and fresh things,” he cried out quite joyously.
“what is it you smell of?
it’s cool and warm and sweet all at the same time.”
“it’s th’ wind from th’ moor,” said mary.
“it comes o’ sittin’ on th’
grass under a tree wi’ dickon an’ wi’ captain an’ soot an’ nut an’
shell.
it’s th’ springtime an’ out o’ doors an’ sunshine as smells so graidely.”
she said it as broadly as she could, and you do not know how broadly yorkshire sounds until you have heard someone speak it.
colin began to laugh.
“what are you doing?” he said.
“i never heard you talk like that before.
how funny it sounds.”
“i’m givin’ thee a bit o’ yorkshire,” answered mary triumphantly.
“i canna’ talk as graidely as dickon an’ martha can but tha’ sees i can shape a bit.
doesn’t tha’ understand a bit o’ yorkshire when tha’ hears it?
an’ tha’ a yorkshire lad thysel’ bred an’ born!
eh!
i wonder tha’rt not ashamed o’ thy face.”
and then she began to laugh too and they both laughed until they could not stop themselves and they laughed until the room echoed and mrs.
medlock opening the door to come in drew back into the corridor and stood listening amazed.
“well, upon my word!” she said, speaking rather broad yorkshire herself because there was no one to hear her and she was so astonished.
“whoever heard th’ like!
whoever on earth would ha’ thought it!”
there was so much to talk about.
it seemed as if colin could never hear enough of dickon and captain and soot and nut and shell and the pony whose name was jump.
mary had run round into the wood with dickon to see jump.
he was a tiny little shaggy moor pony with thick locks hanging over his eyes and with a pretty face and a nuzzling velvet nose.
he was rather thin with living on moor grass but he was as tough and wiry as if the muscle in his little legs had been made of steel springs.
he had lifted his head and whinnied softly the moment he saw dickon and he had trotted up to him and put his head across his shoulder and then dickon had talked into his ear and jump had talked back in odd little whinnies and puffs and snorts.
dickon had made him give mary his small front hoof and kiss her on her cheek with his velvet muzzle.
“does he really understand everything dickon says?” colin asked.
“it seems as if he does,” answered mary.
“dickon says anything will understand if you’re friends with it for sure, but you have to be friends for sure.”
colin lay quiet a little while and his strange gray eyes seemed to be staring at the wall, but mary saw he was thinking.
“i wish i was friends with things,” he said at last, “but i’m not.
i never had anything to be friends with, and i can’t bear people.”
“can’t you bear me?” asked mary.
“yes, i can,” he answered.
“it’s funny but i even like you.”
“ben weatherstaff said i was like him,” said mary.
“he said he’d warrant we’d both got the same nasty tempers.
i think you are like him too.
we are all three alike—you and i and ben weatherstaff.
he said we were neither of us much to look at and we were as sour as we looked.
but i don’t feel as sour as i used to before i knew the robin and dickon.”
“did you feel as if you hated people?”
“yes,” answered mary without any affectation.
“i should have detested you if i had seen you before i saw the robin and dickon.”
colin put out his thin hand and touched her.
“mary,” he said, “i wish i hadn’t said what i did about sending dickon away.
i hated you when you said he was like an angel and i laughed at you but—but perhaps he is.”
“well, it was rather funny to say it,” she admitted frankly, “because his nose does turn up and he has a big mouth and his clothes have patches all over them and he talks broad yorkshire, but—but if an angel did come to yorkshire and live on the moor—if there was a yorkshire angel—i believe he’d understand the green things and know how to make them grow and he would know how to talk to the wild creatures as dickon does and they’d know he was friends for sure.”
“i shouldn’t mind dickon looking at me,” said colin; “i want to see him.”
“i’m glad you said that,” answered mary, “because—because—”
quite suddenly it came into her mind that this was the minute to tell him.
colin knew something new was coming.
“because what?” he cried eagerly.
mary was so anxious that she got up from her stool and came to him and caught hold of both his hands.
“can i trust you?
i trusted dickon because birds trusted him.
can i trust you—for sure—for sure?” she implored.
her face was so solemn that he almost whispered his answer.
“yes—yes!”
“well, dickon will come to see you tomorrow morning, and he’ll bring his creatures with him.”
“oh!
oh!” colin cried out in delight.
“but that’s not all,” mary went on, almost pale with solemn excitement.
“the rest is better.
there is a door into the garden.
i found it.
it is under the ivy on the wall.”
if he had been a strong healthy boy colin would probably have shouted “hooray!
hooray!
hooray!” but he was weak and rather hysterical; his eyes grew bigger and bigger and he gasped for breath.
“oh!
mary!” he cried out with a half sob.
“shall i see it?
shall i get into it?
shall i live to get into it?” and he clutched her hands and dragged her toward him.
“of course you’ll see it!” snapped mary indignantly.
“of course you’ll live to get into it!
don’t be silly!”
and she was so un-hysterical and natural and childish that she brought him to his senses and he began to laugh at himself and a few minutes afterward she was sitting on her stool again telling him not what she imagined the secret garden to be like but what it really was, and colin’s aches and tiredness were forgotten and he was listening enraptured.
“it is just what you thought it would be,” he said at last.
“it sounds just as if you had really seen it.
you know i said that when you told me first.”
mary hesitated about two minutes and then boldly spoke the truth.
“i had seen it—and i had been in,” she said.
“i found the key and got in weeks ago.
but i daren’t tell you—i daren’t because i was so afraid i couldn’t trust you—for sure!”
chapter xix
“it has come!”
of course dr. craven had been sent for the morning after colin had had his tantrum.
he was always sent for at once when such a thing occurred and he always found, when he arrived, a white shaken boy lying on his bed, sulky and still so hysterical that he was ready to break into fresh sobbing at the least word.
in fact, dr. craven dreaded and detested the difficulties of these visits.
on this occasion he was away from misselthwaite manor until afternoon.
“how is he?” he asked mrs. medlock rather irritably when he arrived.
“he will break a blood-vessel in one of those fits some day.
the boy is half insane with hysteria and self-indulgence.”
“well, sir,” answered mrs. medlock, “you’ll scarcely believe your eyes when you see him.
that plain sour-faced child that’s almost as bad as himself has just bewitched him.
how she’s done it there’s no telling.
the lord knows she’s nothing to look at and you scarcely ever hear her speak, but she did what none of us dare do.
she just flew at him like a little cat last night, and stamped her feet and ordered him to stop screaming, and somehow she startled him so that he actually did stop, and this afternoon—well just come up and see, sir.
it’s past crediting.”
the scene which dr. craven beheld when he entered his patient’s room was indeed rather astonishing to him.
as mrs. medlock opened the door he heard laughing and chattering.
colin was on his sofa in his dressing-gown and he was sitting up quite straight looking at a picture in one of the garden books and talking to the plain child who at that moment could scarcely be called plain at all because her face was so glowing with enjoyment.
“those long spires of blue ones—we’ll have a lot of those,” colin was announcing.
“they’re called del-phin-iums.”
“dickon says they’re larkspurs made big and grand,” cried mistress mary.
“there are clumps there already.”
then they saw dr. craven and stopped.
mary became quite still and colin looked fretful.
“i am sorry to hear you were ill last night, my boy,” dr. craven said a trifle nervously.
he was rather a nervous man.
“i’m better now—much better,” colin answered, rather like a rajah.
“i’m going out in my chair in a day or two if it is fine.
i want some fresh air.”
dr. craven sat down by him and felt his pulse and looked at him curiously.
“it must be a very fine day,” he said, “and you must be very careful not to tire yourself.”
“fresh air won’t tire me,” said the young rajah.
as there had been occasions when this same young gentleman had shrieked aloud with rage and had insisted that fresh air would give him cold and kill him, it is not to be wondered at that his doctor felt somewhat startled.
“i thought you did not like fresh air,” he said.
“i don’t when i am by myself,” replied the rajah; “but my cousin is going out with me.”
“and the nurse, of course?” suggested dr. craven.
“no, i will not have the nurse,” so magnificently that mary could not help remembering how the young native prince had looked with his diamonds and emeralds and pearls stuck all over him and the great rubies on the small dark hand he had waved to command his servants to approach with salaams and receive his orders.
“my cousin knows how to take care of me.
i am always better when she is with me.
she made me better last night.
a very strong boy i know will push my carriage.”
dr. craven felt rather alarmed.
if this tiresome hysterical boy should chance to get well he himself would lose all chance of inheriting misselthwaite; but he was not an unscrupulous man, though he was a weak one, and he did not intend to let him run into actual danger.
“he must be a strong boy and a steady boy,” he said.
“and i must know something about him.
who is he?
what is his name?”
“it’s dickon,” mary spoke up suddenly.
she felt somehow that everybody who knew the moor must know dickon.
and she was right, too.
she saw that in a moment dr. craven’s serious face relaxed into a relieved smile.
“oh, dickon,” he said.
“if it is dickon you will be safe enough.
he’s as strong as a moor pony, is dickon.”
“and he’s trusty,” said mary.
“he’s th’ trustiest lad i’ yorkshire.”
she had been talking yorkshire to colin and she forgot herself.
“did dickon teach you that?” asked dr. craven, laughing outright.
“i’m learning it as if it was french,” said mary rather coldly.
“it’s like a native dialect in india.
very clever people try to learn them.
i like it and so does colin.”
“well, well,” he said.
“if it amuses you perhaps it won’t do you any harm.
did you take your bromide last night, colin?”
“no,” colin answered.
“i wouldn’t take it at first and after mary made me quiet she talked me to sleep—in a low voice—about the spring creeping into a garden.”
“that sounds soothing,” said dr. craven, more perplexed than ever and glancing sideways at mistress mary sitting on her stool and looking down silently at the carpet.
“you are evidently better, but you must remember—”
“i don’t want to remember,” interrupted the rajah, appearing again.
“when i lie by myself and remember i begin to have pains everywhere and i think of things that make me begin to scream because i hate them so.
if there was a doctor anywhere who could make you forget you were ill instead of remembering it i would have him brought here.” and he waved a thin hand which ought really to have been covered with royal signet rings made of rubies.
“it is because my cousin makes me forget that she makes me better.”
dr. craven had never made such a short stay after a “tantrum”; usually he was obliged to remain a very long time and do a great many things.
this afternoon he did not give any medicine or leave any new orders and he was spared any disagreeable scenes.
when he went downstairs he looked very thoughtful and when he talked to mrs. medlock in the library she felt that he was a much puzzled man.
“well, sir,” she ventured, “could you have believed it?”
“it is certainly a new state of affairs,” said the doctor.
“and there’s no denying it is better than the old one.”
“i believe susan sowerby’s right—i do that,” said mrs. medlock.
“i stopped in her cottage on my way to thwaite yesterday and had a bit of talk with her.
and she says to me, ‘well, sarah ann, she mayn’t be a good child, an’ she mayn’t be a pretty one, but she’s a child, an’
children needs children.’ we went to school together, susan sowerby and me.”
“she’s the best sick nurse i know,” said dr. craven.
“when i find her in a cottage i know the chances are that i shall save my patient.”
mrs. medlock smiled.
she was fond of susan sowerby.
“she’s got a way with her, has susan,” she went on quite volubly.
“i’ve been thinking all morning of one thing she said yesterday.
she says, ‘once when i was givin’ th’ children a bit of a preach after they’d been fightin’ i ses to ’em all, “when i was at school my jography told as th’ world was shaped like a orange an’ i found out before i was ten that th’ whole orange doesn’t belong to nobody.
no one owns more than his bit of a quarter an’ there’s times it seems like there’s not enow quarters to go round.
but don’t you—none o’ you—think as you own th’
whole orange or you’ll find out you’re mistaken, an’ you won’t find it out without hard knocks.” ‘what children learns from children,’ she says, ‘is that there’s no sense in grabbin’ at th’ whole orange—peel an’ all.
if you do you’ll likely not get even th’ pips, an’ them’s too bitter to eat.’”
“she’s a shrewd woman,” said dr. craven, putting on his coat.
“well, she’s got a way of saying things,” ended mrs. medlock, much pleased.
“sometimes i’ve said to her, ‘eh!
susan, if you was a different woman an’ didn’t talk such broad yorkshire i’ve seen the times when i should have said you was clever.’”
that night colin slept without once awakening and when he opened his eyes in the morning he lay still and smiled without knowing it—smiled because he felt so curiously comfortable.
it was actually nice to be awake, and he turned over and stretched his limbs luxuriously.
he felt as if tight strings which had held him had loosened themselves and let him go.
he did not know that dr. craven would have said that his nerves had relaxed and rested themselves.
instead of lying and staring at the wall and wishing he had not awakened, his mind was full of the plans he and mary had made yesterday, of pictures of the garden and of dickon and his wild creatures.
it was so nice to have things to think about.
and he had not been awake more than ten minutes when he heard feet running along the corridor and mary was at the door.
the next minute she was in the room and had run across to his bed, bringing with her a waft of fresh air full of the scent of the morning.
“you’ve been out!
you’ve been out!
there’s that nice smell of leaves!”
he cried.
she had been running and her hair was loose and blown and she was bright with the air and pink-cheeked, though he could not see it.
“it’s so beautiful!” she said, a little breathless with her speed.
“you never saw anything so beautiful!
it has come!
i thought it had come that other morning, but it was only coming.
it is here now!
it has come, the spring!
dickon says so!”
“has it?” cried colin, and though he really knew nothing about it he felt his heart beat.
he actually sat up in bed.
“open the window!” he added, laughing half with joyful excitement and half at his own fancy.
“perhaps we may hear golden trumpets!”
and though he laughed, mary was at the window in a moment and in a moment more it was opened wide and freshness and softness and scents and birds’ songs were pouring through.
“that’s fresh air,” she said.
“lie on your back and draw in long breaths of it.
that’s what dickon does when he’s lying on the moor.
he says he feels it in his veins and it makes him strong and he feels as if he could live forever and ever.
breathe it and breathe it.”
she was only repeating what dickon had told her, but she caught colin’s fancy.
“’forever and ever’!
does it make him feel like that?” he said, and he did as she told him, drawing in long deep breaths over and over again until he felt that something quite new and delightful was happening to him.
mary was at his bedside again.
“things are crowding up out of the earth,” she ran on in a hurry.
“and there are flowers uncurling and buds on everything and the green veil has covered nearly all the gray and the birds are in such a hurry about their nests for fear they may be too late that some of them are even fighting for places in the secret garden.
and the rose-bushes look as wick as wick can be, and there are primroses in the lanes and woods, and the seeds we planted are up, and dickon has brought the fox and the crow and the squirrels and a new-born lamb.”
and then she paused for breath.
the new-born lamb dickon had found three days before lying by its dead mother among the gorse bushes on the moor.
it was not the first motherless lamb he had found and he knew what to do with it.
he had taken it to the cottage wrapped in his jacket and he had let it lie near the fire and had fed it with warm milk.
it was a soft thing with a darling silly baby face and legs rather long for its body.
dickon had carried it over the moor in his arms and its feeding bottle was in his pocket with a squirrel, and when mary had sat under a tree with its limp warmness huddled on her lap she had felt as if she were too full of strange joy to speak.
a lamb—a lamb!
a living lamb who lay on your lap like a baby!
she was describing it with great joy and colin was listening and drawing in long breaths of air when the nurse entered.
she started a little at the sight of the open window.
she had sat stifling in the room many a warm day because her patient was sure that open windows gave people cold.
“are you sure you are not chilly, master colin?” she inquired.
“no,” was the answer.
“i am breathing long breaths of fresh air.
it makes you strong.
i am going to get up to the sofa for breakfast.
my cousin will have breakfast with me.”
the nurse went away, concealing a smile, to give the order for two breakfasts.
she found the servants’ hall a more amusing place than the invalid’s chamber and just now everybody wanted to hear the news from upstairs.
there was a great deal of joking about the unpopular young recluse who, as the cook said, “had found his master, and good for him.” the servants’ hall had been very tired of the tantrums, and the butler, who was a man with a family, had more than once expressed his opinion that the invalid would be all the better “for a good hiding.”
when colin was on his sofa and the breakfast for two was put upon the table he made an announcement to the nurse in his most rajah-like manner.
“a boy, and a fox, and a crow, and two squirrels, and a new-born lamb, are coming to see me this morning.
i want them brought upstairs as soon as they come,” he said.
“you are not to begin playing with the animals in the servants’ hall and keep them there.
i want them here.”
the nurse gave a slight gasp and tried to conceal it with a cough.
“yes, sir,” she answered.
“i’ll tell you what you can do,” added colin, waving his hand.
“you can tell martha to bring them here.
the boy is martha’s brother.
his name is dickon and he is an animal charmer.”
“i hope the animals won’t bite, master colin,” said the nurse.
“i told you he was a charmer,” said colin austerely.
“charmers’ animals never bite.”
“there are snake-charmers in india,” said mary.
“and they can put their snakes’ heads in their mouths.”
“goodness!” shuddered the nurse.
they ate their breakfast with the morning air pouring in upon them.
colin’s breakfast was a very good one and mary watched him with serious interest.
“you will begin to get fatter just as i did,” she said.
“i never wanted my breakfast when i was in india and now i always want it.”
“i wanted mine this morning,” said colin.
“perhaps it was the fresh air.
when do you think dickon will come?”
he was not long in coming.
in about ten minutes mary held up her hand.
“listen!” she said.
“did you hear a caw?”
colin listened and heard it, the oddest sound in the world to hear inside a house, a hoarse “caw-caw.”
“yes,” he answered.
“that’s soot,” said mary.
“listen again.
do you hear a bleat—a tiny one?”
“oh, yes!” cried colin, quite flushing.
“that’s the new-born lamb,” said mary.
“he’s coming.”
dickon’s moorland boots were thick and clumsy and though he tried to walk quietly they made a clumping sound as he walked through the long corridors.
mary and colin heard him marching—marching, until he passed through the tapestry door on to the soft carpet of colin’s own passage.
“if you please, sir,” announced martha, opening the door, “if you please, sir, here’s dickon an’ his creatures.”
dickon came in smiling his nicest wide smile.
the new-born lamb was in his arms and the little red fox trotted by his side.
nut sat on his left shoulder and soot on his right and shell’s head and paws peeped out of his coat pocket.
colin slowly sat up and stared and stared—as he had stared when he first saw mary; but this was a stare of wonder and delight.
the truth was that in spite of all he had heard he had not in the least understood what this boy would be like and that his fox and his crow and his squirrels and his lamb were so near to him and his friendliness that they seemed almost to be part of himself.
colin had never talked to a boy in his life and he was so overwhelmed by his own pleasure and curiosity that he did not even think of speaking.
but dickon did not feel the least shy or awkward.
he had not felt embarrassed because the crow had not known his language and had only stared and had not spoken to him the first time they met.
creatures were always like that until they found out about you.
he walked over to colin’s sofa and put the new-born lamb quietly on his lap, and immediately the little creature turned to the warm velvet dressing-gown and began to nuzzle and nuzzle into its folds and butt its tight-curled head with soft impatience against his side.
of course no boy could have helped speaking then.
“what is it doing?” cried colin.
“what does it want?”
“it wants its mother,” said dickon, smiling more and more.
“i brought it to thee a bit hungry because i knowed tha’d like to see it feed.”
he knelt down by the sofa and took a feeding-bottle from his pocket.
“come on, little ’un,” he said, turning the small woolly white head with a gentle brown hand.
“this is what tha’s after.
tha’ll get more out o’ this than tha’ will out o’ silk velvet coats.
there now,” and he pushed the rubber tip of the bottle into the nuzzling mouth and the lamb began to suck it with ravenous ecstasy.
after that there was no wondering what to say.
by the time the lamb fell asleep questions poured forth and dickon answered them all.
he told them how he had found the lamb just as the sun was rising three mornings ago.
he had been standing on the moor listening to a skylark and watching him swing higher and higher into the sky until he was only a speck in the heights of blue.
“i’d almost lost him but for his song an’ i was wonderin’ how a chap could hear it when it seemed as if he’d get out o’ th’ world in a minute—an’ just then i heard somethin’ else far off among th’ gorse bushes.
it was a weak bleatin’ an’ i knowed it was a new lamb as was hungry an’ i knowed it wouldn’t be hungry if it hadn’t lost its mother somehow, so i set off searchin’.
eh!
i did have a look for it.
i went in an’ out among th’ gorse bushes an’ round an’ round an’ i always seemed to take th’ wrong turnin’.
but at last i seed a bit o’ white by a rock on top o’ th’ moor an’ i climbed up an’ found th’ little ’un half dead wi’ cold an’ clemmin’.”
while he talked, soot flew solemnly in and out of the open window and cawed remarks about the scenery while nut and shell made excursions into the big trees outside and ran up and down trunks and explored branches.
captain curled up near dickon, who sat on the hearth-rug from preference.
they looked at the pictures in the gardening books and dickon knew all the flowers by their country names and knew exactly which ones were already growing in the secret garden.
“i couldna’ say that there name,” he said, pointing to one under which was written “aquilegia,” “but us calls that a columbine, an’ that there one it’s a snapdragon and they both grow wild in hedges, but these is garden ones an’ they’re bigger an’ grander.
there’s some big clumps o’
columbine in th’ garden.
they’ll look like a bed o’ blue an’ white butterflies flutterin’ when they’re out.”
“i’m going to see them,” cried colin.
“i am going to see them!”
“aye, that tha’ mun,” said mary quite seriously.
“an’ tha’ munnot lose no time about it.”
chapter xx
“i shall live forever—and ever—and ever!”
but they were obliged to wait more than a week because first there came some very windy days and then colin was threatened with a cold, which two things happening one after the other would no doubt have thrown him into a rage but that there was so much careful and mysterious planning to do and almost every day dickon came in, if only for a few minutes, to talk about what was happening on the moor and in the lanes and hedges and on the borders of streams.
the things he had to tell about otters’ and badgers’ and water-rats’ houses, not to mention birds’
nests and field-mice and their burrows, were enough to make you almost tremble with excitement when you heard all the intimate details from an animal charmer and realized with what thrilling eagerness and anxiety the whole busy underworld was working.
“they’re same as us,” said dickon, “only they have to build their homes every year.
an’ it keeps ’em so busy they fair scuffle to get ’em done.”
the most absorbing thing, however, was the preparations to be made before colin could be transported with sufficient secrecy to the garden.
no one must see the chair-carriage and dickon and mary after they turned a certain corner of the shrubbery and entered upon the walk outside the ivied walls.
as each day passed, colin had become more and more fixed in his feeling that the mystery surrounding the garden was one of its greatest charms.
nothing must spoil that.
no one must ever suspect that they had a secret.
people must think that he was simply going out with mary and dickon because he liked them and did not object to their looking at him.
they had long and quite delightful talks about their route.
they would go up this path and down that one and cross the other and go round among the fountain flower-beds as if they were looking at the “bedding-out plants” the head gardener, mr. roach, had been having arranged.
that would seem such a rational thing to do that no one would think it at all mysterious.
they would turn into the shrubbery walks and lose themselves until they came to the long walls.
it was almost as serious and elaborately thought out as the plans of march made by great generals in time of war.
rumors of the new and curious things which were occurring in the invalid’s apartments had of course filtered through the servants’ hall into the stable yards and out among the gardeners, but notwithstanding this, mr. roach was startled one day when he received orders from master colin’s room to the effect that he must report himself in the apartment no outsider had ever seen, as the invalid himself desired to speak to him.
“well, well,” he said to himself as he hurriedly changed his coat, “what’s to do now?
his royal highness that wasn’t to be looked at calling up a man he’s never set eyes on.”
mr. roach was not without curiosity.
he had never caught even a glimpse of the boy and had heard a dozen exaggerated stories about his uncanny looks and ways and his insane tempers.
the thing he had heard oftenest was that he might die at any moment and there had been numerous fanciful descriptions of a humped back and helpless limbs, given by people who had never seen him.
“things are changing in this house, mr. roach,” said mrs. medlock, as she led him up the back staircase to the corridor on to which opened the hitherto mysterious chamber.
“let’s hope they’re changing for the better, mrs. medlock,” he answered.
“they couldn’t well change for the worse,” she continued; “and queer as it all is there’s them as finds their duties made a lot easier to stand up under.
don’t you be surprised, mr. roach, if you find yourself in the middle of a menagerie and martha sowerby’s dickon more at home than you or me could ever be.”
there really was a sort of magic about dickon, as mary always privately believed.
when mr. roach heard his name he smiled quite leniently.
“he’d be at home in buckingham palace or at the bottom of a coal mine,”
he said.
“and yet it’s not impudence, either.
he’s just fine, is that lad.”
it was perhaps well he had been prepared or he might have been startled.
when the bedroom door was opened a large crow, which seemed quite at home perched on the high back of a carven chair, announced the entrance of a visitor by saying “caw—caw” quite loudly.
in spite of mrs. medlock’s warning, mr. roach only just escaped being sufficiently undignified to jump backward.
the young rajah was neither in bed nor on his sofa.
he was sitting in an armchair and a young lamb was standing by him shaking its tail in feeding-lamb fashion as dickon knelt giving it milk from its bottle.
a squirrel was perched on dickon’s bent back attentively nibbling a nut.
the little girl from india was sitting on a big footstool looking on.
“here is mr. roach, master colin,” said mrs. medlock.
the young rajah turned and looked his servitor over—at least that was what the head gardener felt happened.
“oh, you are roach, are you?” he said.
“i sent for you to give you some very important orders.”
“very good, sir,” answered roach, wondering if he was to receive instructions to fell all the oaks in the park or to transform the orchards into water-gardens.
“i am going out in my chair this afternoon,” said colin.
“if the fresh air agrees with me i may go out every day.
when i go, none of the gardeners are to be anywhere near the long walk by the garden walls.
no one is to be there.
i shall go out about two o’clock and everyone must keep away until i send word that they may go back to their work.”
“very good, sir,” replied mr. roach, much relieved to hear that the oaks might remain and that the orchards were safe.
“mary,” said colin, turning to her, “what is that thing you say in india when you have finished talking and want people to go?”
“you say, ‘you have my permission to go,’” answered mary.
the rajah waved his hand.
“you have my permission to go, roach,” he said.
“but, remember, this is very important.”
“caw—caw!” remarked the crow hoarsely but not impolitely.
“very good, sir.
thank you, sir,” said mr. roach, and mrs. medlock took him out of the room.
outside in the corridor, being a rather good-natured man, he smiled until he almost laughed.
“my word!” he said, “he’s got a fine lordly way with him, hasn’t he?
you’d think he was a whole royal family rolled into one—prince consort and all.”
“eh!” protested mrs. medlock, “we’ve had to let him trample all over everyone of us ever since he had feet and he thinks that’s what folks was born for.”
“perhaps he’ll grow out of it, if he lives,” suggested mr. roach.
“well, there’s one thing pretty sure,” said mrs. medlock.
“if he does live and that indian child stays here i’ll warrant she teaches him that the whole orange does not belong to him, as susan sowerby says.
and he’ll be likely to find out the size of his own quarter.”
inside the room colin was leaning back on his cushions.
“it’s all safe now,” he said.
“and this afternoon i shall see it—this afternoon i shall be in it!”
dickon went back to the garden with his creatures and mary stayed with colin.
she did not think he looked tired but he was very quiet before their lunch came and he was quiet while they were eating it.
she wondered why and asked him about it.
“what big eyes you’ve got, colin,” she said.
“when you are thinking they get as big as saucers.
what are you thinking about now?”
“i can’t help thinking about what it will look like,” he answered.
“the garden?” asked mary.
“the springtime,” he said.
“i was thinking that i’ve really never seen it before.
i scarcely ever went out and when i did go i never looked at it.
i didn’t even think about it.”
“i never saw it in india because there wasn’t any,” said mary.
shut in and morbid as his life had been, colin had more imagination than she had and at least he had spent a good deal of time looking at wonderful books and pictures.
“that morning when you ran in and said ‘it’s come!
it’s come!’, you made me feel quite queer.
it sounded as if things were coming with a great procession and big bursts and wafts of music.
i’ve a picture like it in one of my books—crowds of lovely people and children with garlands and branches with blossoms on them, everyone laughing and dancing and crowding and playing on pipes.
that was why i said, ‘perhaps we shall hear golden trumpets’ and told you to throw open the window.”
“how funny!” said mary.
“that’s really just what it feels like.
and if all the flowers and leaves and green things and birds and wild creatures danced past at once, what a crowd it would be!
i’m sure they’d dance and sing and flute and that would be the wafts of music.”
they both laughed but it was not because the idea was laughable but because they both so liked it.
a little later the nurse made colin ready.
she noticed that instead of lying like a log while his clothes were put on he sat up and made some efforts to help himself, and he talked and laughed with mary all the time.
“this is one of his good days, sir,” she said to dr. craven, who dropped in to inspect him.
“he’s in such good spirits that it makes him stronger.”
“i’ll call in again later in the afternoon, after he has come in,” said dr. craven.
“i must see how the going out agrees with him.
i wish,” in a very low voice, “that he would let you go with him.”
“i’d rather give up the case this moment, sir, than even stay here while it’s suggested,” answered the nurse.
with sudden firmness.
“i hadn’t really decided to suggest it,” said the doctor, with his slight nervousness.
“we’ll try the experiment.
dickon’s a lad i’d trust with a new-born child.”
the strongest footman in the house carried colin downstairs and put him in his wheeled chair near which dickon waited outside.
after the manservant had arranged his rugs and cushions the rajah waved his hand to him and to the nurse.
“you have my permission to go,” he said, and they both disappeared quickly and it must be confessed giggled when they were safely inside the house.
dickon began to push the wheeled chair slowly and steadily.
mistress mary walked beside it and colin leaned back and lifted his face to the sky.
the arch of it looked very high and the small snowy clouds seemed like white birds floating on outspread wings below its crystal blueness.
the wind swept in soft big breaths down from the moor and was strange with a wild clear scented sweetness.
colin kept lifting his thin chest to draw it in, and his big eyes looked as if it were they which were listening—listening, instead of his ears.
“there are so many sounds of singing and humming and calling out,” he said.
“what is that scent the puffs of wind bring?”
“it’s gorse on th’ moor that’s openin’ out,” answered dickon.
“eh!
th’
bees are at it wonderful today.”
not a human creature was to be caught sight of in the paths they took.
in fact every gardener or gardener’s lad had been witched away.
but they wound in and out among the shrubbery and out and round the fountain beds, following their carefully planned route for the mere mysterious pleasure of it.
but when at last they turned into the long walk by the ivied walls the excited sense of an approaching thrill made them, for some curious reason they could not have explained, begin to speak in whispers.
“this is it,” breathed mary.
“this is where i used to walk up and down and wonder and wonder.”
“is it?” cried colin, and his eyes began to search the ivy with eager curiousness.
“but i can see nothing,” he whispered.
“there is no door.”
“that’s what i thought,” said mary.
then there was a lovely breathless silence and the chair wheeled on.
“that is the garden where ben weatherstaff works,” said mary.
“is it?” said colin.
a few yards more and mary whispered again.
“this is where the robin flew over the wall,” she said.
“is it?” cried colin.
“oh!
i wish he’d come again!”
“and that,” said mary with solemn delight, pointing under a big lilac bush, “is where he perched on the little heap of earth and showed me the key.”
then colin sat up.
“where?
where?
there?” he cried, and his eyes were as big as the wolf’s in red riding-hood, when red riding-hood felt called upon to remark on them.
dickon stood still and the wheeled chair stopped.
“and this,” said mary, stepping on to the bed close to the ivy, “is where i went to talk to him when he chirped at me from the top of the wall.
and this is the ivy the wind blew back,” and she took hold of the hanging green curtain.
“oh!
is it—is it!” gasped colin.
“and here is the handle, and here is the door.
dickon push him in—push him in quickly!”
and dickon did it with one strong, steady, splendid push.
but colin had actually dropped back against his cushions, even though he gasped with delight, and he had covered his eyes with his hands and held them there shutting out everything until they were inside and the chair stopped as if by magic and the door was closed.
not till then did he take them away and look round and round and round as dickon and mary had done.
and over walls and earth and trees and swinging sprays and tendrils the fair green veil of tender little leaves had crept, and in the grass under the trees and the gray urns in the alcoves and here and there everywhere were touches or splashes of gold and purple and white and the trees were showing pink and snow above his head and there were fluttering of wings and faint sweet pipes and humming and scents and scents.
and the sun fell warm upon his face like a hand with a lovely touch.
and in wonder mary and dickon stood and stared at him.
he looked so strange and different because a pink glow of color had actually crept all over him—ivory face and neck and hands and all.
“i shall get well!
i shall get well!” he cried out.
“mary!
dickon!
i shall get well!
and i shall live forever and ever and ever!”
chapter xxi
ben weatherstaff
one of the strange things about living in the world is that it is only now and then one is quite sure one is going to live forever and ever and ever.
one knows it sometimes when one gets up at the tender solemn dawn-time and goes out and stands alone and throws one’s head far back and looks up and up and watches the pale sky slowly changing and flushing and marvelous unknown things happening until the east almost makes one cry out and one’s heart stands still at the strange unchanging majesty of the rising of the sun—which has been happening every morning for thousands and thousands and thousands of years.
one knows it then for a moment or so.
and one knows it sometimes when one stands by oneself in a wood at sunset and the mysterious deep gold stillness slanting through and under the branches seems to be saying slowly again and again something one cannot quite hear, however much one tries.
then sometimes the immense quiet of the dark blue at night with millions of stars waiting and watching makes one sure; and sometimes a sound of far-off music makes it true; and sometimes a look in someone’s eyes.
and it was like that with colin when he first saw and heard and felt the springtime inside the four high walls of a hidden garden.
that afternoon the whole world seemed to devote itself to being perfect and radiantly beautiful and kind to one boy.
perhaps out of pure heavenly goodness the spring came and crowned everything it possibly could into that one place.
more than once dickon paused in what he was doing and stood still with a sort of growing wonder in his eyes, shaking his head softly.
“eh!
it is graidely,” he said.
“i’m twelve goin’ on thirteen an’
there’s a lot o’ afternoons in thirteen years, but seems to me like i never seed one as graidely as this ’ere.”
“aye, it is a graidely one,” said mary, and she sighed for mere joy.
“i’ll warrant it’s the graidelest one as ever was in this world.”
“does tha’ think,” said colin with dreamy carefulness, “as happen it was made loike this ’ere all o’ purpose for me?”
“my word!” cried mary admiringly, “that there is a bit o’ good yorkshire.
tha’rt shapin’ first-rate—that tha’ art.”
and delight reigned.
they drew the chair under the plum-tree, which was snow-white with blossoms and musical with bees.
it was like a king’s canopy, a fairy king’s.
there were flowering cherry-trees near and apple-trees whose buds were pink and white, and here and there one had burst open wide.
between the blossoming branches of the canopy bits of blue sky looked down like wonderful eyes.
mary and dickon worked a little here and there and colin watched them.
they brought him things to look at—buds which were opening, buds which were tight closed, bits of twig whose leaves were just showing green, the feather of a woodpecker which had dropped on the grass, the empty shell of some bird early hatched.
dickon pushed the chair slowly round and round the garden, stopping every other moment to let him look at wonders springing out of the earth or trailing down from trees.
it was like being taken in state round the country of a magic king and queen and shown all the mysterious riches it contained.
“i wonder if we shall see the robin?” said colin.
“tha’ll see him often enow after a bit,” answered dickon.
“when th’
eggs hatches out th’ little chap he’ll be kep’ so busy it’ll make his head swim.
tha’ll see him flyin’ backward an’ for’ard carryin’ worms nigh as big as himsel’ an’ that much noise goin’ on in th’ nest when he gets there as fair flusters him so as he scarce knows which big mouth to drop th’ first piece in.
an’ gapin’ beaks an’ squawks on every side.
mother says as when she sees th’ work a robin has to keep them gapin’
beaks filled, she feels like she was a lady with nothin’ to do.
she says she’s seen th’ little chaps when it seemed like th’ sweat must be droppin’ off ’em, though folk can’t see it.”
this made them giggle so delightedly that they were obliged to cover their mouths with their hands, remembering that they must not be heard.
colin had been instructed as to the law of whispers and low voices several days before.
he liked the mysteriousness of it and did his best, but in the midst of excited enjoyment it is rather difficult never to laugh above a whisper.
every moment of the afternoon was full of new things and every hour the sunshine grew more golden.
the wheeled chair had been drawn back under the canopy and dickon had sat down on the grass and had just drawn out his pipe when colin saw something he had not had time to notice before.
“that’s a very old tree over there, isn’t it?” he said.
dickon looked across the grass at the tree and mary looked and there was a brief moment of stillness.
“yes,” answered dickon, after it, and his low voice had a very gentle sound.
mary gazed at the tree and thought.
“the branches are quite gray and there’s not a single leaf anywhere,”
colin went on.
“it’s quite dead, isn’t it?”
“aye,” admitted dickon.
“but them roses as has climbed all over it will near hide every bit o’ th’ dead wood when they’re full o’ leaves an’
flowers.
it won’t look dead then.
it’ll be th’ prettiest of all.”
mary still gazed at the tree and thought.
“it looks as if a big branch had been broken off,” said colin.
“i wonder how it was done.”
“it’s been done many a year,” answered dickon.
“eh!” with a sudden relieved start and laying his hand on colin.
“look at that robin!
there he is!
he’s been foragin’ for his mate.”
colin was almost too late but he just caught sight of him, the flash of red-breasted bird with something in his beak.
he darted through the greenness and into the close-grown corner and was out of sight.
colin leaned back on his cushion again, laughing a little.
“he’s taking her tea to her.
perhaps it’s five o’clock.
i think i’d like some tea myself.”
and so they were safe.
“it was magic which sent the robin,” said mary secretly to dickon afterward.
“i know it was magic.” for both she and dickon had been afraid colin might ask something about the tree whose branch had broken off ten years ago and they had talked it over together and dickon had stood and rubbed his head in a troubled way.
“we mun look as if it wasn’t no different from th’ other trees,” he had said.
“we couldn’t never tell him how it broke, poor lad.
if he says anything about it we mun—we mun try to look cheerful.”
“aye, that we mun,” had answered mary.
but she had not felt as if she looked cheerful when she gazed at the tree.
she wondered and wondered in those few moments if there was any reality in that other thing dickon had said.
he had gone on rubbing his rust-red hair in a puzzled way, but a nice comforted look had begun to grow in his blue eyes.
“mrs.
craven was a very lovely young lady,” he had gone on rather hesitatingly.
“an’ mother she thinks maybe she’s about misselthwaite many a time lookin’ after mester colin, same as all mothers do when they’re took out o’ th’ world.
they have to come back, tha’ sees.
happen she’s been in the garden an’ happen it was her set us to work, an’ told us to bring him here.”
mary had thought he meant something about magic.
she was a great believer in magic.
secretly she quite believed that dickon worked magic, of course good magic, on everything near him and that was why people liked him so much and wild creatures knew he was their friend.
she wondered, indeed, if it were not possible that his gift had brought the robin just at the right moment when colin asked that dangerous question.
she felt that his magic was working all the afternoon and making colin look like an entirely different boy.
it did not seem possible that he could be the crazy creature who had screamed and beaten and bitten his pillow.
even his ivory whiteness seemed to change.
the faint glow of color which had shown on his face and neck and hands when he first got inside the garden really never quite died away.
he looked as if he were made of flesh instead of ivory or wax.
they saw the robin carry food to his mate two or three times, and it was so suggestive of afternoon tea that colin felt they must have some.
“go and make one of the men servants bring some in a basket to the rhododendron walk,” he said.
“and then you and dickon can bring it here.”
it was an agreeable idea, easily carried out, and when the white cloth was spread upon the grass, with hot tea and buttered toast and crumpets, a delightfully hungry meal was eaten, and several birds on domestic errands paused to inquire what was going on and were led into investigating crumbs with great activity.
nut and shell whisked up trees with pieces of cake and soot took the entire half of a buttered crumpet into a corner and pecked at and examined and turned it over and made hoarse remarks about it until he decided to swallow it all joyfully in one gulp.
the afternoon was dragging towards its mellow hour.
the sun was deepening the gold of its lances, the bees were going home and the birds were flying past less often.
dickon and mary were sitting on the grass, the tea-basket was repacked ready to be taken back to the house, and colin was lying against his cushions with his heavy locks pushed back from his forehead and his face looking quite a natural color.
“i don’t want this afternoon to go,” he said; “but i shall come back tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after, and the day after.”
“you’ll get plenty of fresh air, won’t you?” said mary.
“i’m going to get nothing else,” he answered.
“i’ve seen the spring now and i’m going to see the summer.
i’m going to see everything grow here.
i’m going to grow here myself.”
“that tha’ will,” said dickon.
“us’ll have thee walkin’ about here an’
diggin’ same as other folk afore long.”
colin flushed tremendously.
“walk!” he said.
“dig!
shall i?”
dickon’s glance at him was delicately cautious.
neither he nor mary had ever asked if anything was the matter with his legs.
“for sure tha’ will,” he said stoutly.
“tha—tha’s got legs o’ thine own, same as other folks!”
mary was rather frightened until she heard colin’s answer.
“nothing really ails them,” he said, “but they are so thin and weak.
they shake so that i’m afraid to try to stand on them.”
both mary and dickon drew a relieved breath.
“when tha’ stops bein’ afraid tha’lt stand on ’em,” dickon said with renewed cheer.
“an’ tha’lt stop bein’ afraid in a bit.”
“i shall?” said colin, and he lay still as if he were wondering about things.
they were really very quiet for a little while.
the sun was dropping lower.
it was that hour when everything stills itself, and they really had had a busy and exciting afternoon.
colin looked as if he were resting luxuriously.
even the creatures had ceased moving about and had drawn together and were resting near them.
soot had perched on a low branch and drawn up one leg and dropped the gray film drowsily over his eyes.
mary privately thought he looked as if he might snore in a minute.
in the midst of this stillness it was rather startling when colin half lifted his head and exclaimed in a loud suddenly alarmed whisper:
“who is that man?”
dickon and mary scrambled to their feet.
“man!” they both cried in low quick voices.
colin pointed to the high wall.
“look!” he whispered excitedly.
“just look!”
mary and dickon wheeled about and looked.
there was ben weatherstaff’s indignant face glaring at them over the wall from the top of a ladder!
he actually shook his fist at mary.
“if i wasn’t a bachelder, an’ tha’ was a wench o’ mine,” he cried, “i’d give thee a hidin’!”
he mounted another step threateningly as if it were his energetic intention to jump down and deal with her; but as she came toward him he evidently thought better of it and stood on the top step of his ladder shaking his fist down at her.
“i never thowt much o’ thee!” he harangued.
“i couldna’ abide thee th’
first time i set eyes on thee.
a scrawny buttermilk-faced young besom, allus askin’ questions an’ pokin’ tha’ nose where it wasna, wanted.
i never knowed how tha’ got so thick wi’ me.
if it hadna’ been for th’
robin— drat him—”
“ben weatherstaff,” called out mary, finding her breath.
she stood below him and called up to him with a sort of gasp.
“ben weatherstaff, it was the robin who showed me the way!”
then it did seem as if ben really would scramble down on her side of the wall, he was so outraged.
“tha’ young bad ’un!” he called down at her.
“layin’ tha’ badness on a robin—not but what he’s impidint enow for anythin’.
him showin’ thee th’ way!
him!
eh!
tha’ young nowt”—she could see his next words burst out because he was overpowered by curiosity—“however i’ this world did tha’ get in?”
“it was the robin who showed me the way,” she protested obstinately.
“he didn’t know he was doing it but he did.
and i can’t tell you from here while you’re shaking your fist at me.”
he stopped shaking his fist very suddenly at that very moment and his jaw actually dropped as he stared over her head at something he saw coming over the grass toward him.
at the first sound of his torrent of words colin had been so surprised that he had only sat up and listened as if he were spellbound.
but in the midst of it he had recovered himself and beckoned imperiously to dickon.
“wheel me over there!” he commanded.
“wheel me quite close and stop right in front of him!”
and this, if you please, this is what ben weatherstaff beheld and which made his jaw drop.
a wheeled chair with luxurious cushions and robes which came toward him looking rather like some sort of state coach because a young rajah leaned back in it with royal command in his great black-rimmed eyes and a thin white hand extended haughtily toward him.
and it stopped right under ben weatherstaff’s nose.
it was really no wonder his mouth dropped open.
“do you know who i am?” demanded the rajah.
how ben weatherstaff stared!
his red old eyes fixed themselves on what was before him as if he were seeing a ghost.
he gazed and gazed and gulped a lump down his throat and did not say a word.
“do you know who i am?” demanded colin still more imperiously.
“answer!”
ben weatherstaff put his gnarled hand up and passed it over his eyes and over his forehead and then he did answer in a queer shaky voice.
“who tha’ art?” he said.
“aye, that i do—wi’ tha’ mother’s eyes starin’
at me out o’ tha’ face.
lord knows how tha’ come here.
but tha’rt th’
poor cripple.”
colin forgot that he had ever had a back.
his face flushed scarlet and he sat bolt upright.
“i’m not a cripple!” he cried out furiously.
“i’m not!”
“he’s not!” cried mary, almost shouting up the wall in her fierce indignation.
“he’s not got a lump as big as a pin!
i looked and there was none there—not one!”
ben weatherstaff passed his hand over his forehead again and gazed as if he could never gaze enough.
his hand shook and his mouth shook and his voice shook.
he was an ignorant old man and a tactless old man and he could only remember the things he had heard.
“tha’—tha’ hasn’t got a crooked back?” he said hoarsely.
“no!” shouted colin.
“tha’—tha’ hasn’t got crooked legs?” quavered ben more hoarsely yet.
it was too much.
the strength which colin usually threw into his tantrums rushed through him now in a new way.
never yet had he been accused of crooked legs—even in whispers—and the perfectly simple belief in their existence which was revealed by ben weatherstaff’s voice was more than rajah flesh and blood could endure.
his anger and insulted pride made him forget everything but this one moment and filled him with a power he had never known before, an almost unnatural strength.
“come here!” he shouted to dickon, and he actually began to tear the coverings off his lower limbs and disentangle himself.
“come here!
come here!
this minute!”
dickon was by his side in a second.
mary caught her breath in a short gasp and felt herself turn pale.
“he can do it!
he can do it!
he can do it!
he can!” she gabbled over to herself under her breath as fast as ever she could.
there was a brief fierce scramble, the rugs were tossed on the ground, dickon held colin’s arm, the thin legs were out, the thin feet were on the grass.
colin was standing upright—upright—as straight as an arrow and looking strangely tall—his head thrown back and his strange eyes flashing lightning.
“look at me!” he flung up at ben weatherstaff.
“just look at me—you!
just look at me!”
“he’s as straight as i am!” cried dickon.
“he’s as straight as any lad i’ yorkshire!”
what ben weatherstaff did mary thought queer beyond measure.
he choked and gulped and suddenly tears ran down his weather-wrinkled cheeks as he struck his old hands together.
“eh!” he burst forth, “th’ lies folk tells!
tha’rt as thin as a lath an’ as white as a wraith, but there’s not a knob on thee.
tha’lt make a mon yet.
god bless thee!”
dickon held colin’s arm strongly but the boy had not begun to falter.
he stood straighter and straighter and looked ben weatherstaff in the face.
“i’m your master,” he said, “when my father is away.
and you are to obey me.
this is my garden.
don’t dare to say a word about it!
you get down from that ladder and go out to the long walk and miss mary will meet you and bring you here.
i want to talk to you.
we did not want you, but now you will have to be in the secret.
be quick!”
ben weatherstaff’s crabbed old face was still wet with that one queer rush of tears.
it seemed as if he could not take his eyes from thin straight colin standing on his feet with his head thrown back.
“eh!
lad,” he almost whispered.
“eh!
my lad!” and then remembering himself he suddenly touched his hat gardener fashion and said, “yes, sir!
yes, sir!” and obediently disappeared as he descended the ladder.
chapter xxii
when the sun went down
when his head was out of sight colin turned to mary.
“go and meet him,” he said; and mary flew across the grass to the door under the ivy.
dickon was watching him with sharp eyes.
there were scarlet spots on his cheeks and he looked amazing, but he showed no signs of falling.
“i can stand,” he said, and his head was still held up and he said it quite grandly.
“i told thee tha’ could as soon as tha’ stopped bein’ afraid,” answered dickon.
“an’ tha’s stopped.”
“yes, i’ve stopped,” said colin.
then suddenly he remembered something mary had said.
“are you making magic?” he asked sharply.
dickon’s curly mouth spread in a cheerful grin.
“tha’s doin’ magic thysel’,” he said.
“it’s same magic as made these ’ere work out o’ th’ earth,” and he touched with his thick boot a clump of crocuses in the grass.
colin looked down at them.
“aye,” he said slowly, “there couldna’ be bigger magic than that there—there couldna’ be.”
he drew himself up straighter than ever.
“i’m going to walk to that tree,” he said, pointing to one a few feet away from him.
“i’m going to be standing when weatherstaff comes here.
i can rest against the tree if i like.
when i want to sit down i will sit down, but not before.
bring a rug from the chair.”
he walked to the tree and though dickon held his arm he was wonderfully steady.
when he stood against the tree trunk it was not too plain that he supported himself against it, and he still held himself so straight that he looked tall.
when ben weatherstaff came through the door in the wall he saw him standing there and he heard mary muttering something under her breath.
“what art sayin’?” he asked rather testily because he did not want his attention distracted from the long thin straight boy figure and proud face.
but she did not tell him.
what she was saying was this:
“you can do it!
you can do it!
i told you you could!
you can do it!
you can do it!
you can!”
she was saying it to colin because she wanted to make magic and keep him on his feet looking like that.
she could not bear that he should give in before ben weatherstaff.
he did not give in.
she was uplifted by a sudden feeling that he looked quite beautiful in spite of his thinness.
he fixed his eyes on ben weatherstaff in his funny imperious way.
“look at me!” he commanded.
“look at me all over!
am i a hunchback?
have i got crooked legs?”
ben weatherstaff had not quite got over his emotion, but he had recovered a little and answered almost in his usual way.
“not tha’,” he said.
“nowt o’ th’ sort.
what’s tha’ been doin’ with thysel’—hidin’ out o’ sight an’ lettin’ folk think tha’ was cripple an’
half-witted?”
“half-witted!” said colin angrily.
“who thought that?”
“lots o’ fools,” said ben.
“th’ world’s full o’ jackasses brayin’ an’
they never bray nowt but lies.
what did tha’ shut thysel’ up for?”
“everyone thought i was going to die,” said colin shortly.
“i’m not!”
and he said it with such decision ben weatherstaff looked him over, up and down, down and up.
“tha’ die!” he said with dry exultation.
“nowt o’ th’ sort!
tha’s got too much pluck in thee.
when i seed thee put tha’ legs on th’ ground in such a hurry i knowed tha’ was all right.
sit thee down on th’ rug a bit young mester an’ give me thy orders.”
there was a queer mixture of crabbed tenderness and shrewd understanding in his manner.
mary had poured out speech as rapidly as she could as they had come down the long walk.
the chief thing to be remembered, she had told him, was that colin was getting well—getting well.
the garden was doing it.
no one must let him remember about having humps and dying.
the rajah condescended to seat himself on a rug under the tree.
“what work do you do in the gardens, weatherstaff?” he inquired.
“anythin’ i’m told to do,” answered old ben.
“i’m kep’ on by favor—because she liked me.”
“she?” said colin.
“tha’ mother,” answered ben weatherstaff.
“my mother?” said colin, and he looked about him quietly.
“this was her garden, wasn’t it?”
“aye, it was that!” and ben weatherstaff looked about him too.
“she were main fond of it.”
“it is my garden now.
i am fond of it.
i shall come here every day,”
announced colin.
“but it is to be a secret.
my orders are that no one is to know that we come here.
dickon and my cousin have worked and made it come alive.
i shall send for you sometimes to help—but you must come when no one can see you.”
ben weatherstaff’s face twisted itself in a dry old smile.
“i’ve come here before when no one saw me,” he said.
“what!” exclaimed colin.
“when?”
“th’ last time i was here,” rubbing his chin and looking round, “was about two year’ ago.”
“but no one has been in it for ten years!” cried colin.
“there was no door!”
“i’m no one,” said old ben dryly.
“an’ i didn’t come through th’ door.
i come over th’ wall.
th’ rheumatics held me back th’ last two year’.”
“tha’ come an’ did a bit o’ prunin’!” cried dickon.
“i couldn’t make out how it had been done.”
“she was so fond of it—she was!” said ben weatherstaff slowly.
“an’ she was such a pretty young thing.
she says to me once, ‘ben,’ says she laughin’, ‘if ever i’m ill or if i go away you must take care of my roses.’ when she did go away th’ orders was no one was ever to come nigh.
but i come,” with grumpy obstinacy.
“over th’ wall i come—until th’ rheumatics stopped me—an’ i did a bit o’ work once a year.
she’d gave her order first.”
“it wouldn’t have been as wick as it is if tha’ hadn’t done it,” said dickon.
“i did wonder.”
“i’m glad you did it, weatherstaff,” said colin.
“you’ll know how to keep the secret.”
“aye, i’ll know, sir,” answered ben.
“an’ it’ll be easier for a man wi’
rheumatics to come in at th’ door.”
on the grass near the tree mary had dropped her trowel.
colin stretched out his hand and took it up.
an odd expression came into his face and he began to scratch at the earth.
his thin hand was weak enough but presently as they watched him—mary with quite breathless interest—he drove the end of the trowel into the soil and turned some over.
“you can do it!
you can do it!” said mary to herself.
“i tell you, you can!”
dickon’s round eyes were full of eager curiousness but he said not a word.
ben weatherstaff looked on with interested face.
colin persevered.
after he had turned a few trowelfuls of soil he spoke exultantly to dickon in his best yorkshire.
“tha’ said as tha’d have me walkin’ about here same as other folk—an’
tha’ said tha’d have me diggin’.
i thowt tha’ was just leein’ to please me.
this is only th’ first day an’ i’ve walked—an’ here i am diggin’.”
ben weatherstaff’s mouth fell open again when he heard him, but he ended by chuckling.
“eh!” he said, “that sounds as if tha’d got wits enow.
tha’rt a yorkshire lad for sure.
an’ tha’rt diggin’, too.
how’d tha’ like to plant a bit o’ somethin’?
i can get thee a rose in a pot.”
“go and get it!” said colin, digging excitedly.
“quick!
quick!”
it was done quickly enough indeed.
ben weatherstaff went his way forgetting rheumatics.
dickon took his spade and dug the hole deeper and wider than a new digger with thin white hands could make it.
mary slipped out to run and bring back a watering-can.
when dickon had deepened the hole colin went on turning the soft earth over and over.
he looked up at the sky, flushed and glowing with the strangely new exercise, slight as it was.
“i want to do it before the sun goes quite—quite down,” he said.
mary thought that perhaps the sun held back a few minutes just on purpose.
ben weatherstaff brought the rose in its pot from the greenhouse.
he hobbled over the grass as fast as he could.
he had begun to be excited, too.
he knelt down by the hole and broke the pot from the mould.
“here, lad,” he said, handing the plant to colin.
“set it in the earth thysel’ same as th’ king does when he goes to a new place.”
the thin white hands shook a little and colin’s flush grew deeper as he set the rose in the mould and held it while old ben made firm the earth.
it was filled in and pressed down and made steady.
mary was leaning forward on her hands and knees.
soot had flown down and marched forward to see what was being done.
nut and shell chattered about it from a cherry-tree.
“it’s planted!” said colin at last.
“and the sun is only slipping over the edge.
help me up, dickon.
i want to be standing when it goes.
that’s part of the magic.”
and dickon helped him, and the magic—or whatever it was—so gave him strength that when the sun did slip over the edge and end the strange lovely afternoon for them there he actually stood on his two feet—laughing.
chapter xxiii
magic
dr. craven had been waiting some time at the house when they returned to it.
he had indeed begun to wonder if it might not be wise to send someone out to explore the garden paths.
when colin was brought back to his room the poor man looked him over seriously.
“you should not have stayed so long,” he said.
“you must not overexert yourself.”
“i am not tired at all,” said colin.
“it has made me well.
tomorrow i am going out in the morning as well as in the afternoon.”
“i am not sure that i can allow it,” answered dr. craven.
“i am afraid it would not be wise.”
“it would not be wise to try to stop me,” said colin quite seriously.
“i am going.”
even mary had found out that one of colin’s chief peculiarities was that he did not know in the least what a rude little brute he was with his way of ordering people about.
he had lived on a sort of desert island all his life and as he had been the king of it he had made his own manners and had had no one to compare himself with.
mary had indeed been rather like him herself and since she had been at misselthwaite had gradually discovered that her own manners had not been of the kind which is usual or popular.
having made this discovery she naturally thought it of enough interest to communicate to colin.
so she sat and looked at him curiously for a few minutes after dr. craven had gone.
she wanted to make him ask her why she was doing it and of course she did.
“what are you looking at me for?” he said.
“i’m thinking that i am rather sorry for dr. craven.”
“so am i,” said colin calmly, but not without an air of some satisfaction.
“he won’t get misselthwaite at all now i’m not going to die.”
“i’m sorry for him because of that, of course,” said mary, “but i was thinking just then that it must have been very horrid to have had to be polite for ten years to a boy who was always rude.
i would never have done it.”
“am i rude?” colin inquired undisturbedly.
“if you had been his own boy and he had been a slapping sort of man,”
said mary, “he would have slapped you.”
“but he daren’t,” said colin.
“no, he daren’t,” answered mistress mary, thinking the thing out quite without prejudice.
“nobody ever dared to do anything you didn’t like—because you were going to die and things like that.
you were such a poor thing.”
“but,” announced colin stubbornly, “i am not going to be a poor thing.
i won’t let people think i’m one.
i stood on my feet this afternoon.”
“it is always having your own way that has made you so queer,” mary went on, thinking aloud.
colin turned his head, frowning.
“am i queer?” he demanded.
“yes,” answered mary, “very.
but you needn’t be cross,” she added impartially, “because so am i queer—and so is ben weatherstaff.
but i am not as queer as i was before i began to like people and before i found the garden.”
“i don’t want to be queer,” said colin.
“i am not going to be,” and he frowned again with determination.
he was a very proud boy.
he lay thinking for a while and then mary saw his beautiful smile begin and gradually change his whole face.
“i shall stop being queer,” he said, “if i go every day to the garden.
there is magic in there—good magic, you know, mary.
i am sure there is.”
“so am i,” said mary.
“even if it isn’t real magic,” colin said, “we can pretend it is.
something is there—something!”
“it’s magic,” said mary, “but not black.
it’s as white as snow.”
they always called it magic and indeed it seemed like it in the months that followed—the wonderful months—the radiant months—the amazing ones.
oh!
the things which happened in that garden!
if you have never had a garden you cannot understand, and if you have had a garden you will know that it would take a whole book to describe all that came to pass there.
at first it seemed that green things would never cease pushing their way through the earth, in the grass, in the beds, even in the crevices of the walls.
then the green things began to show buds and the buds began to unfurl and show color, every shade of blue, every shade of purple, every tint and hue of crimson.
in its happy days flowers had been tucked away into every inch and hole and corner.
ben weatherstaff had seen it done and had himself scraped out mortar from between the bricks of the wall and made pockets of earth for lovely clinging things to grow on.
iris and white lilies rose out of the grass in sheaves, and the green alcoves filled themselves with amazing armies of the blue and white flower lances of tall delphiniums or columbines or campanulas.
“she was main fond o’ them—she was,” ben weatherstaff said.
“she liked them things as was allus pointin’ up to th’ blue sky, she used to tell.
not as she was one o’ them as looked down on th’ earth—not her.
she just loved it but she said as th’ blue sky allus looked so joyful.”
the seeds dickon and mary had planted grew as if fairies had tended them.
satiny poppies of all tints danced in the breeze by the score, gaily defying flowers which had lived in the garden for years and which it might be confessed seemed rather to wonder how such new people had got there.
and the roses—the roses!
rising out of the grass, tangled round the sun-dial, wreathing the tree trunks and hanging from their branches, climbing up the walls and spreading over them with long garlands falling in cascades—they came alive day by day, hour by hour.
fair fresh leaves, and buds—and buds—tiny at first but swelling and working magic until they burst and uncurled into cups of scent delicately spilling themselves over their brims and filling the garden air.
colin saw it all, watching each change as it took place.
every morning he was brought out and every hour of each day when it didn’t rain he spent in the garden.
even gray days pleased him.
he would lie on the grass “watching things growing,” he said.
if you watched long enough, he declared, you could see buds unsheath themselves.
also you could make the acquaintance of strange busy insect things running about on various unknown but evidently serious errands, sometimes carrying tiny scraps of straw or feather or food, or climbing blades of grass as if they were trees from whose tops one could look out to explore the country.
a mole throwing up its mound at the end of its burrow and making its way out at last with the long-nailed paws which looked so like elfish hands, had absorbed him one whole morning.
ants’ ways, beetles’ ways, bees’ ways, frogs’ ways, birds’ ways, plants’ ways, gave him a new world to explore and when dickon revealed them all and added foxes’ ways, otters’ ways, ferrets’ ways, squirrels’ ways, and trout’
and water-rats’ and badgers’ ways, there was no end to the things to talk about and think over.
and this was not the half of the magic.
the fact that he had really once stood on his feet had set colin thinking tremendously and when mary told him of the spell she had worked he was excited and approved of it greatly.
he talked of it constantly.
“of course there must be lots of magic in the world,” he said wisely one day, “but people don’t know what it is like or how to make it.
perhaps the beginning is just to say nice things are going to happen until you make them happen.
i am going to try and experiment.”
the next morning when they went to the secret garden he sent at once for ben weatherstaff.
ben came as quickly as he could and found the rajah standing on his feet under a tree and looking very grand but also very beautifully smiling.
“good morning, ben weatherstaff,” he said.
“i want you and dickon and miss mary to stand in a row and listen to me because i am going to tell you something very important.”
“aye, aye, sir!” answered ben weatherstaff, touching his forehead.
(one of the long concealed charms of ben weatherstaff was that in his boyhood he had once run away to sea and had made voyages.
so he could reply like a sailor.)
“i am going to try a scientific experiment,” explained the rajah.
“when i grow up i am going to make great scientific discoveries and i am going to begin now with this experiment.”
“aye, aye, sir!” said ben weatherstaff promptly, though this was the first time he had heard of great scientific discoveries.
it was the first time mary had heard of them, either, but even at this stage she had begun to realize that, queer as he was, colin had read about a great many singular things and was somehow a very convincing sort of boy.
when he held up his head and fixed his strange eyes on you it seemed as if you believed him almost in spite of yourself though he was only ten years old—going on eleven.
at this moment he was especially convincing because he suddenly felt the fascination of actually making a sort of speech like a grown-up person.
“the great scientific discoveries i am going to make,” he went on, “will be about magic.
magic is a great thing and scarcely anyone knows anything about it except a few people in old books—and mary a little, because she was born in india where there are fakirs.
i believe dickon knows some magic, but perhaps he doesn’t know he knows it.
he charms animals and people.
i would never have let him come to see me if he had not been an animal charmer—which is a boy charmer, too, because a boy is an animal.
i am sure there is magic in everything, only we have not sense enough to get hold of it and make it do things for us—like electricity and horses and steam.”
this sounded so imposing that ben weatherstaff became quite excited and really could not keep still.
“aye, aye, sir,” he said and he began to stand up quite straight.
“when mary found this garden it looked quite dead,” the orator proceeded.
“then something began pushing things up out of the soil and making things out of nothing.
one day things weren’t there and another they were.
i had never watched things before and it made me feel very curious.
scientific people are always curious and i am going to be scientific.
i keep saying to myself, ‘what is it?
what is it?’ it’s something.
it can’t be nothing!
i don’t know its name so i call it magic.
i have never seen the sun rise but mary and dickon have and from what they tell me i am sure that is magic too.
something pushes it up and draws it.
sometimes since i’ve been in the garden i’ve looked up through the trees at the sky and i have had a strange feeling of being happy as if something were pushing and drawing in my chest and making me breathe fast.
magic is always pushing and drawing and making things out of nothing.
everything is made out of magic, leaves and trees, flowers and birds, badgers and foxes and squirrels and people.
so it must be all around us.
in this garden—in all the places.
the magic in this garden has made me stand up and know i am going to live to be a man.
i am going to make the scientific experiment of trying to get some and put it in myself and make it push and draw me and make me strong.
i don’t know how to do it but i think that if you keep thinking about it and calling it perhaps it will come.
perhaps that is the first baby way to get it.
when i was going to try to stand that first time mary kept saying to herself as fast as she could, ‘you can do it!
you can do it!’
and i did.
i had to try myself at the same time, of course, but her magic helped me—and so did dickon’s.
every morning and evening and as often in the daytime as i can remember i am going to say, ‘magic is in me!
magic is making me well!
i am going to be as strong as dickon, as strong as dickon!’ and you must all do it, too.
that is my experiment will you help, ben weatherstaff?”
“aye, aye, sir!” said ben weatherstaff.
“aye, aye!”
“if you keep doing it every day as regularly as soldiers go through drill we shall see what will happen and find out if the experiment succeeds.
you learn things by saying them over and over and thinking about them until they stay in your mind forever and i think it will be the same with magic.
if you keep calling it to come to you and help you it will get to be part of you and it will stay and do things.”
“i once heard an officer in india tell my mother that there were fakirs who said words over and over thousands of times,” said mary.
“i’ve heard jem fettleworth’s wife say th’ same thing over thousands o’
times—callin’ jem a drunken brute,” said ben weatherstaff dryly.
“summat allus come o’ that, sure enough.
he gave her a good hidin’ an’
went to th’ blue lion an’ got as drunk as a lord.”
colin drew his brows together and thought a few minutes.
then he cheered up.
“well,” he said, “you see something did come of it.
she used the wrong magic until she made him beat her.
if she’d used the right magic and had said something nice perhaps he wouldn’t have got as drunk as a lord and perhaps—perhaps he might have bought her a new bonnet.”
ben weatherstaff chuckled and there was shrewd admiration in his little old eyes.
“tha’rt a clever lad as well as a straight-legged one, mester colin,”
he said.
“next time i see bess fettleworth i’ll give her a bit of a hint o’ what magic will do for her.
she’d be rare an’ pleased if th’
sinetifik ’speriment worked—an’ so ’ud jem.”
dickon had stood listening to the lecture, his round eyes shining with curious delight.
nut and shell were on his shoulders and he held a long-eared white rabbit in his arm and stroked and stroked it softly while it laid its ears along its back and enjoyed itself.
“do you think the experiment will work?” colin asked him, wondering what he was thinking.
he so often wondered what dickon was thinking when he saw him looking at him or at one of his “creatures” with his happy wide smile.
he smiled now and his smile was wider than usual.
“aye,” he answered, “that i do.
it’ll work same as th’ seeds do when th’ sun shines on ’em.
it’ll work for sure.
shall us begin it now?”
colin was delighted and so was mary.
fired by recollections of fakirs and devotees in illustrations colin suggested that they should all sit cross-legged under the tree which made a canopy.
“it will be like sitting in a sort of temple,” said colin.
“i’m rather tired and i want to sit down.”
“eh!” said dickon, “tha’ mustn’t begin by sayin’ tha’rt tired.
tha’
might spoil th’ magic.”
colin turned and looked at him—into his innocent round eyes.
“that’s true,” he said slowly.
“i must only think of the magic.”
it all seemed most majestic and mysterious when they sat down in their circle.
ben weatherstaff felt as if he had somehow been led into appearing at a prayer-meeting.
ordinarily he was very fixed in being what he called “agen’ prayer-meetin’s” but this being the rajah’s affair he did not resent it and was indeed inclined to be gratified at being called upon to assist.
mistress mary felt solemnly enraptured.
dickon held his rabbit in his arm, and perhaps he made some charmer’s signal no one heard, for when he sat down, cross-legged like the rest, the crow, the fox, the squirrels and the lamb slowly drew near and made part of the circle, settling each into a place of rest as if of their own desire.
“the ‘creatures’ have come,” said colin gravely.
“they want to help us.”
colin really looked quite beautiful, mary thought.
he held his head high as if he felt like a sort of priest and his strange eyes had a wonderful look in them.
the light shone on him through the tree canopy.
“now we will begin,” he said.
“shall we sway backward and forward, mary, as if we were dervishes?”
“i canna’ do no swayin’ back’ard and for’ard,” said ben weatherstaff.
“i’ve got th’ rheumatics.”
“the magic will take them away,” said colin in a high priest tone, “but we won’t sway until it has done it.
we will only chant.”
“i canna’ do no chantin’” said ben weatherstaff a trifle testily.
“they turned me out o’ th’ church choir th’ only time i ever tried it.”
no one smiled.
they were all too much in earnest.
colin’s face was not even crossed by a shadow.
he was thinking only of the magic.
“then i will chant,” he said.
and he began, looking like a strange boy spirit.
“the sun is shining—the sun is shining.
that is the magic.
the flowers are growing—the roots are stirring.
that is the magic.
being alive is the magic—being strong is the magic.
the magic is in me—the magic is in me.
it is in me—it is in me.
it’s in everyone of us.
it’s in ben weatherstaff’s back.
magic!
magic!
come and help!”
he said it a great many times—not a thousand times but quite a goodly number.
mary listened entranced.
she felt as if it were at once queer and beautiful and she wanted him to go on and on.
ben weatherstaff began to feel soothed into a sort of dream which was quite agreeable.
the humming of the bees in the blossoms mingled with the chanting voice and drowsily melted into a doze.
dickon sat cross-legged with his rabbit asleep on his arm and a hand resting on the lamb’s back.
soot had pushed away a squirrel and huddled close to him on his shoulder, the gray film dropped over his eyes.
at last colin stopped.
“now i am going to walk round the garden,” he announced.
ben weatherstaff’s head had just dropped forward and he lifted it with a jerk.
“you have been asleep,” said colin.
“nowt o’ th’ sort,” mumbled ben.
“th’ sermon was good enow—but i’m bound to get out afore th’ collection.”
he was not quite awake yet.
“you’re not in church,” said colin.
“not me,” said ben, straightening himself.
“who said i were?
i heard every bit of it.
you said th’ magic was in my back.
th’ doctor calls it rheumatics.”
the rajah waved his hand.
“that was the wrong magic,” he said.
“you will get better.
you have my permission to go to your work.
but come back tomorrow.”
“i’d like to see thee walk round the garden,” grunted ben.
it was not an unfriendly grunt, but it was a grunt.
in fact, being a stubborn old party and not having entire faith in magic he had made up his mind that if he were sent away he would climb his ladder and look over the wall so that he might be ready to hobble back if there were any stumbling.
the rajah did not object to his staying and so the procession was formed.
it really did look like a procession.
colin was at its head with dickon on one side and mary on the other.
ben weatherstaff walked behind, and the “creatures” trailed after them, the lamb and the fox cub keeping close to dickon, the white rabbit hopping along or stopping to nibble and soot following with the solemnity of a person who felt himself in charge.
it was a procession which moved slowly but with dignity.
every few yards it stopped to rest.
colin leaned on dickon’s arm and privately ben weatherstaff kept a sharp lookout, but now and then colin took his hand from its support and walked a few steps alone.
his head was held up all the time and he looked very grand.
“the magic is in me!” he kept saying.
“the magic is making me strong!
i can feel it!
i can feel it!”
it seemed very certain that something was upholding and uplifting him.
he sat on the seats in the alcoves, and once or twice he sat down on the grass and several times he paused in the path and leaned on dickon, but he would not give up until he had gone all round the garden.
when he returned to the canopy tree his cheeks were flushed and he looked triumphant.
“i did it!
the magic worked!” he cried.
“that is my first scientific discovery.”
“what will dr. craven say?” broke out mary.
“he won’t say anything,” colin answered, “because he will not be told.
this is to be the biggest secret of all.
no one is to know anything about it until i have grown so strong that i can walk and run like any other boy.
i shall come here every day in my chair and i shall be taken back in it.
i won’t have people whispering and asking questions and i won’t let my father hear about it until the experiment has quite succeeded.
then sometime when he comes back to misselthwaite i shall just walk into his study and say ‘here i am; i am like any other boy.
i am quite well and i shall live to be a man.
it has been done by a scientific experiment.’”
“he will think he is in a dream,” cried mary.
“he won’t believe his eyes.”
colin flushed triumphantly.
he had made himself believe that he was going to get well, which was really more than half the battle, if he had been aware of it.
and the thought which stimulated him more than any other was this imagining what his father would look like when he saw that he had a son who was as straight and strong as other fathers’
sons.
one of his darkest miseries in the unhealthy morbid past days had been his hatred of being a sickly weak-backed boy whose father was afraid to look at him.
“he’ll be obliged to believe them,” he said.
“one of the things i am going to do, after the magic works and before i begin to make scientific discoveries, is to be an athlete.”
“we shall have thee takin’ to boxin’ in a week or so,” said ben weatherstaff.
“tha’lt end wi’ winnin’ th’ belt an’ bein’ champion prize-fighter of all england.”
colin fixed his eyes on him sternly.
“weatherstaff,” he said, “that is disrespectful.
you must not take liberties because you are in the secret.
however much the magic works i shall not be a prize-fighter.
i shall be a scientific discoverer.”
“ax pardon—ax pardon, sir” answered ben, touching his forehead in salute.
“i ought to have seed it wasn’t a jokin’ matter,” but his eyes twinkled and secretly he was immensely pleased.
he really did not mind being snubbed since the snubbing meant that the lad was gaining strength and spirit.
chapter xxiv
“let them laugh”
the secret garden was not the only one dickon worked in.
round the cottage on the moor there was a piece of ground enclosed by a low wall of rough stones.
early in the morning and late in the fading twilight and on all the days colin and mary did not see him, dickon worked there planting or tending potatoes and cabbages, turnips and carrots and herbs for his mother.
in the company of his “creatures” he did wonders there and was never tired of doing them, it seemed.
while he dug or weeded he whistled or sang bits of yorkshire moor songs or talked to soot or captain or the brothers and sisters he had taught to help him.
“we’d never get on as comfortable as we do,” mrs. sowerby said, “if it wasn’t for dickon’s garden.
anything’ll grow for him.
his ’taters and cabbages is twice th’ size of anyone else’s an’ they’ve got a flavor with ’em as nobody’s has.”
when she found a moment to spare she liked to go out and talk to him.
after supper there was still a long clear twilight to work in and that was her quiet time.
she could sit upon the low rough wall and look on and hear stories of the day.
she loved this time.
there were not only vegetables in this garden.
dickon had bought penny packages of flower seeds now and then and sown bright sweet-scented things among gooseberry bushes and even cabbages and he grew borders of mignonette and pinks and pansies and things whose seeds he could save year after year or whose roots would bloom each spring and spread in time into fine clumps.
the low wall was one of the prettiest things in yorkshire because he had tucked moorland foxglove and ferns and rock-cress and hedgerow flowers into every crevice until only here and there glimpses of the stones were to be seen.
“all a chap’s got to do to make ’em thrive, mother,” he would say, “is to be friends with ’em for sure.
they’re just like th’ ‘creatures.’ if they’re thirsty give ’em drink and if they’re hungry give ’em a bit o’
food.
they want to live same as we do.
if they died i should feel as if i’d been a bad lad and somehow treated them heartless.”
it was in these twilight hours that mrs. sowerby heard of all that happened at misselthwaite manor.
at first she was only told that “mester colin” had taken a fancy to going out into the grounds with miss mary and that it was doing him good.
but it was not long before it was agreed between the two children that dickon’s mother might “come into the secret.” somehow it was not doubted that she was “safe for sure.”
so one beautiful still evening dickon told the whole story, with all the thrilling details of the buried key and the robin and the gray haze which had seemed like deadness and the secret mistress mary had planned never to reveal.
the coming of dickon and how it had been told to him, the doubt of mester colin and the final drama of his introduction to the hidden domain, combined with the incident of ben weatherstaff’s angry face peering over the wall and mester colin’s sudden indignant strength, made mrs. sowerby’s nice-looking face quite change color several times.
“my word!” she said.
“it was a good thing that little lass came to th’
manor.
it’s been th’ makin’ o’ her an’ th’ savin, o’ him.
standin’ on his feet!
an’ us all thinkin’ he was a poor half-witted lad with not a straight bone in him.”
she asked a great many questions and her blue eyes were full of deep thinking.
“what do they make of it at th’ manor—him being so well an’ cheerful an’ never complainin’?” she inquired.
“they don’t know what to make of it,” answered dickon.
“every day as comes round his face looks different.
it’s fillin’ out and doesn’t look so sharp an’ th’ waxy color is goin’.
but he has to do his bit o’
complainin’,” with a highly entertained grin.
“what for, i’ mercy’s name?” asked mrs. sowerby.
dickon chuckled.
“he does it to keep them from guessin’ what’s happened.
if the doctor knew he’d found out he could stand on his feet he’d likely write and tell mester craven.
mester colin’s savin’ th’ secret to tell himself.
he’s goin’ to practise his magic on his legs every day till his father comes back an’ then he’s goin’ to march into his room an’ show him he’s as straight as other lads.
but him an’ miss mary thinks it’s best plan to do a bit o’ groanin’ an’ frettin’ now an’ then to throw folk off th’
scent.”
mrs. sowerby was laughing a low comfortable laugh long before he had finished his last sentence.
“eh!” she said, “that pair’s enjoyin’ theirselves i’ll warrant.
they’ll get a good bit o’ actin’ out of it an’ there’s nothin’ children likes as much as play actin’.
let’s hear what they do, dickon lad.”
dickon stopped weeding and sat up on his heels to tell her.
his eyes were twinkling with fun.
“mester colin is carried down to his chair every time he goes out,” he explained.
“an’ he flies out at john, th’ footman, for not carryin’ him careful enough.
he makes himself as helpless lookin’ as he can an’
never lifts his head until we’re out o’ sight o’ th’ house.
an’ he grunts an’ frets a good bit when he’s bein’ settled into his chair.
him an’ miss mary’s both got to enjoyin’ it an’ when he groans an’
complains she’ll say, ‘poor colin!
does it hurt you so much?
are you so weak as that, poor colin?’—but th’ trouble is that sometimes they can scarce keep from burstin’ out laughin’.
when we get safe into the garden they laugh till they’ve no breath left to laugh with.
an’ they have to stuff their faces into mester colin’s cushions to keep the gardeners from hearin’, if any of, ’em’s about.”
“th’ more they laugh th’ better for ’em!” said mrs. sowerby, still laughing herself.
“good healthy child laughin’s better than pills any day o’ th’ year.
that pair’ll plump up for sure.”
“they are plumpin’ up,” said dickon.
“they’re that hungry they don’t know how to get enough to eat without makin’ talk.
mester colin says if he keeps sendin’ for more food they won’t believe he’s an invalid at all.
miss mary says she’ll let him eat her share, but he says that if she goes hungry she’ll get thin an’ they mun both get fat at once.”
mrs. sowerby laughed so heartily at the revelation of this difficulty that she quite rocked backward and forward in her blue cloak, and dickon laughed with her.
“i’ll tell thee what, lad,” mrs. sowerby said when she could speak.
“i’ve thought of a way to help ’em.
when tha’ goes to ’em in th’
mornin’s tha’ shall take a pail o’ good new milk an’ i’ll bake ’em a crusty cottage loaf or some buns wi’ currants in ’em, same as you children like.
nothin’s so good as fresh milk an’ bread.
then they could take off th’ edge o’ their hunger while they were in their garden an’ th, fine food they get indoors ’ud polish off th’ corners.”
“eh!
mother!” said dickon admiringly, “what a wonder tha’ art!
tha’
always sees a way out o’ things.
they was quite in a pother yesterday.
they didn’t see how they was to manage without orderin’ up more food—they felt that empty inside.”
“they’re two young ’uns growin’ fast, an’ health’s comin’ back to both of ’em.
children like that feels like young wolves an’ food’s flesh an’
blood to ’em,” said mrs. sowerby.
then she smiled dickon’s own curving smile.
“eh!
but they’re enjoyin’ theirselves for sure,” she said.
she was quite right, the comfortable wonderful mother creature—and she had never been more so than when she said their “play actin’” would be their joy.
colin and mary found it one of their most thrilling sources of entertainment.
the idea of protecting themselves from suspicion had been unconsciously suggested to them first by the puzzled nurse and then by dr. craven himself.
“your appetite.
is improving very much, master colin,” the nurse had said one day.
“you used to eat nothing, and so many things disagreed with you.”
“nothing disagrees with me now” replied colin, and then seeing the nurse looking at him curiously he suddenly remembered that perhaps he ought not to appear too well just yet.
“at least things don’t so often disagree with me.
it’s the fresh air.”
“perhaps it is,” said the nurse, still looking at him with a mystified expression.
“but i must talk to dr. craven about it.”
“how she stared at you!” said mary when she went away.
“as if she thought there must be something to find out.”
“i won’t have her finding out things,” said colin.
“no one must begin to find out yet.”
when dr. craven came that morning he seemed puzzled, also.
he asked a number of questions, to colin’s great annoyance.
“you stay out in the garden a great deal,” he suggested.
“where do you go?”
colin put on his favorite air of dignified indifference to opinion.
“i will not let anyone know where i go,” he answered.
“i go to a place i like.
everyone has orders to keep out of the way.
i won’t be watched and stared at.
you know that!”
“you seem to be out all day but i do not think it has done you harm—i do not think so.
the nurse says that you eat much more than you have ever done before.”
“perhaps,” said colin, prompted by a sudden inspiration, “perhaps it is an unnatural appetite.”
“i do not think so, as your food seems to agree with you,” said dr.
craven.
“you are gaining flesh rapidly and your color is better.”
“perhaps—perhaps i am bloated and feverish,” said colin, assuming a discouraging air of gloom.
“people who are not going to live are often—different.”
dr. craven shook his head.
he was holding colin’s wrist and he pushed up his sleeve and felt his arm.
“you are not feverish,” he said thoughtfully, “and such flesh as you have gained is healthy.
if you can keep this up, my boy, we need not talk of dying.
your father will be happy to hear of this remarkable improvement.”
“i won’t have him told!” colin broke forth fiercely.
“it will only disappoint him if i get worse again—and i may get worse this very night.
i might have a raging fever.
i feel as if i might be beginning to have one now.
i won’t have letters written to my father—i won’t—i won’t!
you are making me angry and you know that is bad for me.
i feel hot already.
i hate being written about and being talked over as much as i hate being stared at!”
“hush-h!
my boy,” dr. craven soothed him.
“nothing shall be written without your permission.
you are too sensitive about things.
you must not undo the good which has been done.”
he said no more about writing to mr. craven and when he saw the nurse he privately warned her that such a possibility must not be mentioned to the patient.
“the boy is extraordinarily better,” he said.
“his advance seems almost abnormal.
but of course he is doing now of his own free will what we could not make him do before.
still, he excites himself very easily and nothing must be said to irritate him.”
mary and colin were much alarmed and talked together anxiously.
from this time dated their plan of “play actin’.”
“i may be obliged to have a tantrum,” said colin regretfully.
“i don’t want to have one and i’m not miserable enough now to work myself into a big one.
perhaps i couldn’t have one at all.
that lump doesn’t come in my throat now and i keep thinking of nice things instead of horrible ones.
but if they talk about writing to my father i shall have to do something.”
he made up his mind to eat less, but unfortunately it was not possible to carry out this brilliant idea when he wakened each morning with an amazing appetite and the table near his sofa was set with a breakfast of home-made bread and fresh butter, snow-white eggs, raspberry jam and clotted cream.
mary always breakfasted with him and when they found themselves at the table—particularly if there were delicate slices of sizzling ham sending forth tempting odors from under a hot silver cover—they would look into each other’s eyes in desperation.
“i think we shall have to eat it all this morning, mary,” colin always ended by saying.
“we can send away some of the lunch and a great deal of the dinner.”
but they never found they could send away anything and the highly polished condition of the empty plates returned to the pantry awakened much comment.
“i do wish,” colin would say also, “i do wish the slices of ham were thicker, and one muffin each is not enough for anyone.”
“it’s enough for a person who is going to die,” answered mary when first she heard this, “but it’s not enough for a person who is going to live.
i sometimes feel as if i could eat three when those nice fresh heather and gorse smells from the moor come pouring in at the open window.”
the morning that dickon—after they had been enjoying themselves in the garden for about two hours—went behind a big rosebush and brought forth two tin pails and revealed that one was full of rich new milk with cream on the top of it, and that the other held cottage-made currant buns folded in a clean blue and white napkin, buns so carefully tucked in that they were still hot, there was a riot of surprised joyfulness.
what a wonderful thing for mrs. sowerby to think of!
what a kind, clever woman she must be!
how good the buns were!
and what delicious fresh milk!
“magic is in her just as it is in dickon,” said colin.
“it makes her think of ways to do things—nice things.
she is a magic person.
tell her we are grateful, dickon—extremely grateful.”
he was given to using rather grown-up phrases at times.
he enjoyed them.
he liked this so much that he improved upon it.
“tell her she has been most bounteous and our gratitude is extreme.”
and then forgetting his grandeur he fell to and stuffed himself with buns and drank milk out of the pail in copious draughts in the manner of any hungry little boy who had been taking unusual exercise and breathing in moorland air and whose breakfast was more than two hours behind him.
this was the beginning of many agreeable incidents of the same kind.
they actually awoke to the fact that as mrs. sowerby had fourteen people to provide food for she might not have enough to satisfy two extra appetites every day.
so they asked her to let them send some of their shillings to buy things.
dickon made the stimulating discovery that in the wood in the park outside the garden where mary had first found him piping to the wild creatures there was a deep little hollow where you could build a sort of tiny oven with stones and roast potatoes and eggs in it.
roasted eggs were a previously unknown luxury and very hot potatoes with salt and fresh butter in them were fit for a woodland king—besides being deliciously satisfying.
you could buy both potatoes and eggs and eat as many as you liked without feeling as if you were taking food out of the mouths of fourteen people.
every beautiful morning the magic was worked by the mystic circle under the plum-tree which provided a canopy of thickening green leaves after its brief blossom-time was ended.
after the ceremony colin always took his walking exercise and throughout the day he exercised his newly found power at intervals.
each day he grew stronger and could walk more steadily and cover more ground.
and each day his belief in the magic grew stronger—as well it might.
he tried one experiment after another as he felt himself gaining strength and it was dickon who showed him the best things of all.
“yesterday,” he said one morning after an absence, “i went to thwaite for mother an’ near th’ blue cow inn i seed bob haworth.
he’s the strongest chap on th’ moor.
he’s the champion wrestler an’ he can jump higher than any other chap an’ throw th’ hammer farther.
he’s gone all th’ way to scotland for th’ sports some years.
he’s knowed me ever since i was a little ’un an’ he’s a friendly sort an’ i axed him some questions.
th’ gentry calls him a athlete and i thought o’ thee, mester colin, and i says, ‘how did tha’ make tha’ muscles stick out that way, bob?
did tha’ do anythin’ extra to make thysel’ so strong?’ an’ he says ‘well, yes, lad, i did.
a strong man in a show that came to thwaite once showed me how to exercise my arms an’ legs an’ every muscle in my body.
an’ i says, ‘could a delicate chap make himself stronger with ’em, bob?’ an’ he laughed an’ says, ‘art tha’ th’ delicate chap?’ an’ i says, ‘no, but i knows a young gentleman that’s gettin’ well of a long illness an’ i wish i knowed some o’ them tricks to tell him about.’ i didn’t say no names an’ he didn’t ask none.
he’s friendly same as i said an’ he stood up an’ showed me good-natured like, an’ i imitated what he did till i knowed it by heart.”
colin had been listening excitedly.
“can you show me?” he cried.
“will you?”
“aye, to be sure,” dickon answered, getting up.
“but he says tha’ mun do ’em gentle at first an’ be careful not to tire thysel’.
rest in between times an’ take deep breaths an’ don’t overdo.”
“i’ll be careful,” said colin.
“show me!
show me!
dickon, you are the most magic boy in the world!”
dickon stood up on the grass and slowly went through a carefully practical but simple series of muscle exercises.
colin watched them with widening eyes.
he could do a few while he was sitting down.
presently he did a few gently while he stood upon his already steadied feet.
mary began to do them also.
soot, who was watching the performance, became much disturbed and left his branch and hopped about restlessly because he could not do them too.
from that time the exercises were part of the day’s duties as much as the magic was.
it became possible for both colin and mary to do more of them each time they tried, and such appetites were the results that but for the basket dickon put down behind the bush each morning when he arrived they would have been lost.
but the little oven in the hollow and mrs. sowerby’s bounties were so satisfying that mrs. medlock and the nurse and dr. craven became mystified again.
you can trifle with your breakfast and seem to disdain your dinner if you are full to the brim with roasted eggs and potatoes and richly frothed new milk and oatcakes and buns and heather honey and clotted cream.
“they are eating next to nothing,” said the nurse.
“they’ll die of starvation if they can’t be persuaded to take some nourishment.
and yet see how they look.”
“look!” exclaimed mrs. medlock indignantly.
“eh!
i’m moithered to death with them.
they’re a pair of young satans.
bursting their jackets one day and the next turning up their noses at the best meals cook can tempt them with.
not a mouthful of that lovely young fowl and bread sauce did they set a fork into yesterday—and the poor woman fair invented a pudding for them—and back it’s sent.
she almost cried.
she’s afraid she’ll be blamed if they starve themselves into their graves.”
dr. craven came and looked at colin long and carefully, he wore an extremely worried expression when the nurse talked with him and showed him the almost untouched tray of breakfast she had saved for him to look at—but it was even more worried when he sat down by colin’s sofa and examined him.
he had been called to london on business and had not seen the boy for nearly two weeks.
when young things begin to gain health they gain it rapidly.
the waxen tinge had left, colins skin and a warm rose showed through it; his beautiful eyes were clear and the hollows under them and in his cheeks and temples had filled out.
his once dark, heavy locks had begun to look as if they sprang healthily from his forehead and were soft and warm with life.
his lips were fuller and of a normal color.
in fact as an imitation of a boy who was a confirmed invalid he was a disgraceful sight.
dr. craven held his chin in his hand and thought him over.
“i am sorry to hear that you do not eat anything,” he said.
“that will not do.
you will lose all you have gained—and you have gained amazingly.
you ate so well a short time ago.”
“i told you it was an unnatural appetite,” answered colin.
mary was sitting on her stool nearby and she suddenly made a very queer sound which she tried so violently to repress that she ended by almost choking.
“what is the matter?” said dr. craven, turning to look at her.
mary became quite severe in her manner.
“it was something between a sneeze and a cough,” she replied with reproachful dignity, “and it got into my throat.”
“but,” she said afterward to colin, “i couldn’t stop myself.
it just burst out because all at once i couldn’t help remembering that last big potato you ate and the way your mouth stretched when you bit through that thick lovely crust with jam and clotted cream on it.”
“is there any way in which those children can get food secretly?” dr.
craven inquired of mrs. medlock.
“there’s no way unless they dig it out of the earth or pick it off the trees,” mrs. medlock answered.
“they stay out in the grounds all day and see no one but each other.
and if they want anything different to eat from what’s sent up to them they need only ask for it.”
“well,” said dr. craven, “so long as going without food agrees with them we need not disturb ourselves.
the boy is a new creature.”
“so is the girl,” said mrs. medlock.
“she’s begun to be downright pretty since she’s filled out and lost her ugly little sour look.
her hair’s grown thick and healthy looking and she’s got a bright color.
the glummest, ill-natured little thing she used to be and now her and master colin laugh together like a pair of crazy young ones.
perhaps they’re growing fat on that.”
“perhaps they are,” said dr. craven.
“let them laugh.”
chapter xxv
the curtain
and the secret garden bloomed and bloomed and every morning revealed new miracles.
in the robin’s nest there were eggs and the robin’s mate sat upon them keeping them warm with her feathery little breast and careful wings.
at first she was very nervous and the robin himself was indignantly watchful.
even dickon did not go near the close-grown corner in those days, but waited until by the quiet working of some mysterious spell he seemed to have conveyed to the soul of the little pair that in the garden there was nothing which was not quite like themselves—nothing which did not understand the wonderfulness of what was happening to them—the immense, tender, terrible, heart-breaking beauty and solemnity of eggs.
if there had been one person in that garden who had not known through all his or her innermost being that if an egg were taken away or hurt the whole world would whirl round and crash through space and come to an end—if there had been even one who did not feel it and act accordingly there could have been no happiness even in that golden springtime air.
but they all knew it and felt it and the robin and his mate knew they knew it.
at first the robin watched mary and colin with sharp anxiety.
for some mysterious reason he knew he need not watch dickon.
the first moment he set his dew-bright black eye on dickon he knew he was not a stranger but a sort of robin without beak or feathers.
he could speak robin (which is a quite distinct language not to be mistaken for any other).
to speak robin to a robin is like speaking french to a frenchman.
dickon always spoke it to the robin himself, so the queer gibberish he used when he spoke to humans did not matter in the least.
the robin thought he spoke this gibberish to them because they were not intelligent enough to understand feathered speech.
his movements also were robin.
they never startled one by being sudden enough to seem dangerous or threatening.
any robin could understand dickon, so his presence was not even disturbing.
but at the outset it seemed necessary to be on guard against the other two.
in the first place the boy creature did not come into the garden on his legs.
he was pushed in on a thing with wheels and the skins of wild animals were thrown over him.
that in itself was doubtful.
then when he began to stand up and move about he did it in a queer unaccustomed way and the others seemed to have to help him.
the robin used to secrete himself in a bush and watch this anxiously, his head tilted first on one side and then on the other.
he thought that the slow movements might mean that he was preparing to pounce, as cats do.
when cats are preparing to pounce they creep over the ground very slowly.
the robin talked this over with his mate a great deal for a few days but after that he decided not to speak of the subject because her terror was so great that he was afraid it might be injurious to the eggs.
when the boy began to walk by himself and even to move more quickly it was an immense relief.
but for a long time—or it seemed a long time to the robin—he was a source of some anxiety.
he did not act as the other humans did.
he seemed very fond of walking but he had a way of sitting or lying down for a while and then getting up in a disconcerting manner to begin again.
one day the robin remembered that when he himself had been made to learn to fly by his parents he had done much the same sort of thing.
he had taken short flights of a few yards and then had been obliged to rest.
so it occurred to him that this boy was learning to fly—or rather to walk.
he mentioned this to his mate and when he told her that the eggs would probably conduct themselves in the same way after they were fledged she was quite comforted and even became eagerly interested and derived great pleasure from watching the boy over the edge of her nest—though she always thought that the eggs would be much cleverer and learn more quickly.
but then she said indulgently that humans were always more clumsy and slow than eggs and most of them never seemed really to learn to fly at all.
you never met them in the air or on tree-tops.
after a while the boy began to move about as the others did, but all three of the children at times did unusual things.
they would stand under the trees and move their arms and legs and heads about in a way which was neither walking nor running nor sitting down.
they went through these movements at intervals every day and the robin was never able to explain to his mate what they were doing or tying to do.
he could only say that he was sure that the eggs would never flap about in such a manner; but as the boy who could speak robin so fluently was doing the thing with them, birds could be quite sure that the actions were not of a dangerous nature.
of course neither the robin nor his mate had ever heard of the champion wrestler, bob haworth, and his exercises for making the muscles stand out like lumps.
robins are not like human beings; their muscles are always exercised from the first and so they develop themselves in a natural manner.
if you have to fly about to find every meal you eat, your muscles do not become atrophied (atrophied means wasted away through want of use).
when the boy was walking and running about and digging and weeding like the others, the nest in the corner was brooded over by a great peace and content.
fears for the eggs became things of the past.
knowing that your eggs were as safe as if they were locked in a bank vault and the fact that you could watch so many curious things going on made setting a most entertaining occupation.
on wet days the eggs’ mother sometimes felt even a little dull because the children did not come into the garden.
but even on wet days it could not be said that mary and colin were dull.
one morning when the rain streamed down unceasingly and colin was beginning to feel a little restive, as he was obliged to remain on his sofa because it was not safe to get up and walk about, mary had an inspiration.
“now that i am a real boy,” colin had said, “my legs and arms and all my body are so full of magic that i can’t keep them still.
they want to be doing things all the time.
do you know that when i waken in the morning, mary, when it’s quite early and the birds are just shouting outside and everything seems just shouting for joy—even the trees and things we can’t really hear—i feel as if i must jump out of bed and shout myself.
if i did it, just think what would happen!”
mary giggled inordinately.
“the nurse would come running and mrs. medlock would come running and they would be sure you had gone crazy and they’d send for the doctor,”
she said.
colin giggled himself.
he could see how they would all look—how horrified by his outbreak and how amazed to see him standing upright.
“i wish my father would come home,” he said.
“i want to tell him myself.
i’m always thinking about it—but we couldn’t go on like this much longer.
i can’t stand lying still and pretending, and besides i look too different.
i wish it wasn’t raining today.”
it was then mistress mary had her inspiration.
“colin,” she began mysteriously, “do you know how many rooms there are in this house?”
“about a thousand, i suppose,” he answered.
“there’s about a hundred no one ever goes into,” said mary.
“and one rainy day i went and looked into ever so many of them.
no one ever knew, though mrs. medlock nearly found me out.
i lost my way when i was coming back and i stopped at the end of your corridor.
that was the second time i heard you crying.”
colin started up on his sofa.
“a hundred rooms no one goes into,” he said.
“it sounds almost like a secret garden.
suppose we go and look at them.
wheel me in my chair and nobody would know we went.”
“that’s what i was thinking,” said mary.
“no one would dare to follow us.
there are galleries where you could run.
we could do our exercises.
there is a little indian room where there is a cabinet full of ivory elephants.
there are all sorts of rooms.”
“ring the bell,” said colin.
when the nurse came in he gave his orders.
“i want my chair,” he said.
“miss mary and i are going to look at the part of the house which is not used.
john can push me as far as the picture-gallery because there are some stairs.
then he must go away and leave us alone until i send for him again.”
rainy days lost their terrors that morning.
when the footman had wheeled the chair into the picture-gallery and left the two together in obedience to orders, colin and mary looked at each other delighted.
as soon as mary had made sure that john was really on his way back to his own quarters below stairs, colin got out of his chair.
“i am going to run from one end of the gallery to the other,” he said, “and then i am going to jump and then we will do bob haworth’s exercises.”
and they did all these things and many others.
they looked at the portraits and found the plain little girl dressed in green brocade and holding the parrot on her finger.
“all these,” said colin, “must be my relations.
they lived a long time ago.
that parrot one, i believe, is one of my great, great, great, great aunts.
she looks rather like you, mary—not as you look now but as you looked when you came here.
now you are a great deal fatter and better looking.”
“so are you,” said mary, and they both laughed.
they went to the indian room and amused themselves with the ivory elephants.
they found the rose-colored brocade boudoir and the hole in the cushion the mouse had left, but the mice had grown up and run away and the hole was empty.
they saw more rooms and made more discoveries than mary had made on her first pilgrimage.
they found new corridors and corners and flights of steps and new old pictures they liked and weird old things they did not know the use of.
it was a curiously entertaining morning and the feeling of wandering about in the same house with other people but at the same time feeling as if one were miles away from them was a fascinating thing.
“i’m glad we came,” colin said.
“i never knew i lived in such a big queer old place.
i like it.
we will ramble about every rainy day.
we shall always be finding new queer corners and things.”
that morning they had found among other things such good appetites that when they returned to colin’s room it was not possible to send the luncheon away untouched.
when the nurse carried the tray downstairs she slapped it down on the kitchen dresser so that mrs. loomis, the cook, could see the highly polished dishes and plates.
“look at that!” she said.
“this is a house of mystery, and those two children are the greatest mysteries in it.”
“if they keep that up every day,” said the strong young footman john, “there’d be small wonder that he weighs twice as much today as he did a month ago.
i should have to give up my place in time, for fear of doing my muscles an injury.”
that afternoon mary noticed that something new had happened in colin’s room.
she had noticed it the day before but had said nothing because she thought the change might have been made by chance.
she said nothing today but she sat and looked fixedly at the picture over the mantel.
she could look at it because the curtain had been drawn aside.
that was the change she noticed.
“i know what you want me to tell you,” said colin, after she had stared a few minutes.
“i always know when you want me to tell you something.
you are wondering why the curtain is drawn back.
i am going to keep it like that.”
“why?” asked mary.
“because it doesn’t make me angry any more to see her laughing.
i wakened when it was bright moonlight two nights ago and felt as if the magic was filling the room and making everything so splendid that i couldn’t lie still.
i got up and looked out of the window.
the room was quite light and there was a patch of moonlight on the curtain and somehow that made me go and pull the cord.
she looked right down at me as if she were laughing because she was glad i was standing there.
it made me like to look at her.
i want to see her laughing like that all the time.
i think she must have been a sort of magic person perhaps.”
“you are so like her now,” said mary, “that sometimes i think perhaps you are her ghost made into a boy.”
that idea seemed to impress colin.
he thought it over and then answered her slowly.
“if i were her ghost—my father would be fond of me,” he said.
“do you want him to be fond of you?” inquired mary.
“i used to hate it because he was not fond of me.
if he grew fond of me i think i should tell him about the magic.
it might make him more cheerful.”
chapter xxvi
“it’s mother!”
their belief in the magic was an abiding thing.
after the morning’s incantations colin sometimes gave them magic lectures.
“i like to do it,” he explained, “because when i grow up and make great scientific discoveries i shall be obliged to lecture about them and so this is practise.
i can only give short lectures now because i am very young, and besides ben weatherstaff would feel as if he were in church and he would go to sleep.”
“th’ best thing about lecturin’,” said ben, “is that a chap can get up an’ say aught he pleases an’ no other chap can answer him back.
i wouldn’t be agen’ lecturin’ a bit mysel’ sometimes.”
but when colin held forth under his tree old ben fixed devouring eyes on him and kept them there.
he looked him over with critical affection.
it was not so much the lecture which interested him as the legs which looked straighter and stronger each day, the boyish head which held itself up so well, the once sharp chin and hollow cheeks which had filled and rounded out and the eyes which had begun to hold the light he remembered in another pair.
sometimes when colin felt ben’s earnest gaze meant that he was much impressed he wondered what he was reflecting on and once when he had seemed quite entranced he questioned him.
“what are you thinking about, ben weatherstaff?” he asked.
“i was thinkin’” answered ben, “as i’d warrant tha’s gone up three or four pound this week.
i was lookin’ at tha’ calves an’ tha’ shoulders.
i’d like to get thee on a pair o’ scales.”
“it’s the magic and—and mrs. sowerby’s buns and milk and things,” said colin.
“you see the scientific experiment has succeeded.”
that morning dickon was too late to hear the lecture.
when he came he was ruddy with running and his funny face looked more twinkling than usual.
as they had a good deal of weeding to do after the rains they fell to work.
they always had plenty to do after a warm deep sinking rain.
the moisture which was good for the flowers was also good for the weeds which thrust up tiny blades of grass and points of leaves which must be pulled up before their roots took too firm hold.
colin was as good at weeding as anyone in these days and he could lecture while he was doing it.
“the magic works best when you work, yourself,” he said this morning.
“you can feel it in your bones and muscles.
i am going to read books about bones and muscles, but i am going to write a book about magic.
i am making it up now.
i keep finding out things.”
it was not very long after he had said this that he laid down his trowel and stood up on his feet.
he had been silent for several minutes and they had seen that he was thinking out lectures, as he often did.
when he dropped his trowel and stood upright it seemed to mary and dickon as if a sudden strong thought had made him do it.
he stretched himself out to his tallest height and he threw out his arms exultantly.
color glowed in his face and his strange eyes widened with joyfulness.
all at once he had realized something to the full.
“mary!
dickon!” he cried.
“just look at me!”
they stopped their weeding and looked at him.
“do you remember that first morning you brought me in here?” he demanded.
dickon was looking at him very hard.
being an animal charmer he could see more things than most people could and many of them were things he never talked about.
he saw some of them now in this boy.
“aye, that we do,” he answered.
mary looked hard too, but she said nothing.
“just this minute,” said colin, “all at once i remembered it myself—when i looked at my hand digging with the trowel—and i had to stand up on my feet to see if it was real.
and it is real!
i’m well—i’m well!”
“aye, that th’ art!” said dickon.
“i’m well!
i’m well!” said colin again, and his face went quite red all over.
he had known it before in a way, he had hoped it and felt it and thought about it, but just at that minute something had rushed all through him—a sort of rapturous belief and realization and it had been so strong that he could not help calling out.
“i shall live forever and ever and ever!” he cried grandly.
“i shall find out thousands and thousands of things.
i shall find out about people and creatures and everything that grows—like dickon—and i shall never stop making magic.
i’m well!
i’m well!
i feel—i feel as if i want to shout out something—something thankful, joyful!”
ben weatherstaff, who had been working near a rose-bush, glanced round at him.
“tha’ might sing th’ doxology,” he suggested in his dryest grunt.
he had no opinion of the doxology and he did not make the suggestion with any particular reverence.
but colin was of an exploring mind and he knew nothing about the doxology.
“what is that?” he inquired.
“dickon can sing it for thee, i’ll warrant,” replied ben weatherstaff.
dickon answered with his all-perceiving animal charmer’s smile.
“they sing it i’ church,” he said.
“mother says she believes th’
skylarks sings it when they gets up i’ th’ mornin’.”
“if she says that, it must be a nice song,” colin answered.
“i’ve never been in a church myself.
i was always too ill. sing it, dickon.
i want to hear it.”
dickon was quite simple and unaffected about it.
he understood what colin felt better than colin did himself.
he understood by a sort of instinct so natural that he did not know it was understanding.
he pulled off his cap and looked round still smiling.
“tha’ must take off tha’ cap,” he said to colin, “an’ so mun tha’, ben—an’ tha’ mun stand up, tha’ knows.”
colin took off his cap and the sun shone on and warmed his thick hair as he watched dickon intently.
ben weatherstaff scrambled up from his knees and bared his head too with a sort of puzzled half-resentful look on his old face as if he didn’t know exactly why he was doing this remarkable thing.
dickon stood out among the trees and rose-bushes and began to sing in quite a simple matter-of-fact way and in a nice strong boy voice:
“praise god from whom all blessings flow, praise him all creatures here below, praise him above ye heavenly host, praise father, son, and holy ghost.
amen.”
when he had finished, ben weatherstaff was standing quite still with his jaws set obstinately but with a disturbed look in his eyes fixed on colin.
colin’s face was thoughtful and appreciative.
“it is a very nice song,” he said.
“i like it.
perhaps it means just what i mean when i want to shout out that i am thankful to the magic.”
he stopped and thought in a puzzled way.
“perhaps they are both the same thing.
how can we know the exact names of everything?
sing it again, dickon.
let us try, mary.
i want to sing it, too.
it’s my song.
how does it begin?
‘praise god from whom all blessings flow’?”
and they sang it again, and mary and colin lifted their voices as musically as they could and dickon’s swelled quite loud and beautiful—and at the second line ben weatherstaff raspingly cleared his throat and at the third line he joined in with such vigor that it seemed almost savage and when the “amen” came to an end mary observed that the very same thing had happened to him which had happened when he found out that colin was not a cripple—his chin was twitching and he was staring and winking and his leathery old cheeks were wet.
“i never seed no sense in th’ doxology afore,” he said hoarsely, “but i may change my mind i’ time.
i should say tha’d gone up five pound this week mester colin—five on ’em!”
colin was looking across the garden at something attracting his attention and his expression had become a startled one.
“who is coming in here?” he said quickly.
“who is it?”
the door in the ivied wall had been pushed gently open and a woman had entered.
she had come in with the last line of their song and she had stood still listening and looking at them.
with the ivy behind her, the sunlight drifting through the trees and dappling her long blue cloak, and her nice fresh face smiling across the greenery she was rather like a softly colored illustration in one of colin’s books.
she had wonderful affectionate eyes which seemed to take everything in—all of them, even ben weatherstaff and the “creatures” and every flower that was in bloom.
unexpectedly as she had appeared, not one of them felt that she was an intruder at all.
dickon’s eyes lighted like lamps.
“it’s mother—that’s who it is!” he cried and went across the grass at a run.
colin began to move toward her, too, and mary went with him.
they both felt their pulses beat faster.
“it’s mother!” dickon said again when they met halfway.
“i knowed tha’
wanted to see her an’ i told her where th’ door was hid.”
colin held out his hand with a sort of flushed royal shyness but his eyes quite devoured her face.
“even when i was ill i wanted to see you,” he said, “you and dickon and the secret garden.
i’d never wanted to see anyone or anything before.”
the sight of his uplifted face brought about a sudden change in her own.
she flushed and the corners of her mouth shook and a mist seemed to sweep over her eyes.
“eh!
dear lad!” she broke out tremulously.
“eh!
dear lad!” as if she had not known she were going to say it.
she did not say, “mester colin,” but just “dear lad” quite suddenly.
she might have said it to dickon in the same way if she had seen something in his face which touched her.
colin liked it.
“are you surprised because i am so well?” he asked.
she put her hand on his shoulder and smiled the mist out of her eyes.
“aye, that i am!” she said; “but tha’rt so like thy mother tha’ made my heart jump.”
“do you think,” said colin a little awkwardly, “that will make my father like me?”
“aye, for sure, dear lad,” she answered and she gave his shoulder a soft quick pat.
“he mun come home—he mun come home.”
“susan sowerby,” said ben weatherstaff, getting close to her.
“look at th’ lad’s legs, wilt tha’?
they was like drumsticks i’ stockin’ two month’ ago—an’ i heard folk tell as they was bandy an’ knock-kneed both at th’ same time.
look at ’em now!”
susan sowerby laughed a comfortable laugh.
“they’re goin’ to be fine strong lad’s legs in a bit,” she said.
“let him go on playin’ an’ workin’ in the garden an’ eatin’ hearty an’
drinkin’ plenty o’ good sweet milk an’ there’ll not be a finer pair i’
yorkshire, thank god for it.”
she put both hands on mistress mary’s shoulders and looked her little face over in a motherly fashion.
“an’ thee, too!” she said.
“tha’rt grown near as hearty as our ’lisabeth ellen.
i’ll warrant tha’rt like thy mother too.
our martha told me as mrs. medlock heard she was a pretty woman.
tha’lt be like a blush rose when tha’ grows up, my little lass, bless thee.”
she did not mention that when martha came home on her “day out” and described the plain sallow child she had said that she had no confidence whatever in what mrs. medlock had heard.
“it doesn’t stand to reason that a pretty woman could be th’ mother o’ such a fou’ little lass,” she had added obstinately.
mary had not had time to pay much attention to her changing face.
she had only known that she looked “different” and seemed to have a great deal more hair and that it was growing very fast.
but remembering her pleasure in looking at the mem sahib in the past she was glad to hear that she might some day look like her.
susan sowerby went round their garden with them and was told the whole story of it and shown every bush and tree which had come alive.
colin walked on one side of her and mary on the other.
each of them kept looking up at her comfortable rosy face, secretly curious about the delightful feeling she gave them—a sort of warm, supported feeling.
it seemed as if she understood them as dickon understood his “creatures.”
she stooped over the flowers and talked about them as if they were children.
soot followed her and once or twice cawed at her and flew upon her shoulder as if it were dickon’s.
when they told her about the robin and the first flight of the young ones she laughed a motherly little mellow laugh in her throat.
“i suppose learnin’ ’em to fly is like learnin’ children to walk, but i’m feared i should be all in a worrit if mine had wings instead o’
legs,” she said.
it was because she seemed such a wonderful woman in her nice moorland cottage way that at last she was told about the magic.
“do you believe in magic?” asked colin after he had explained about indian fakirs.
“i do hope you do.”
“that i do, lad,” she answered.
“i never knowed it by that name but what does th’ name matter?
i warrant they call it a different name i’
france an’ a different one i’ germany.
th’ same thing as set th’ seeds swellin’ an’ th’ sun shinin’ made thee a well lad an’ it’s th’ good thing.
it isn’t like us poor fools as think it matters if us is called out of our names.
th’ big good thing doesn’t stop to worrit, bless thee.
it goes on makin’ worlds by th’ million—worlds like us.
never thee stop believin’ in th’ big good thing an’ knowin’ th’ world’s full of it—an’ call it what tha’ likes.
tha’ wert singin’ to it when i come into th’ garden.”
“i felt so joyful,” said colin, opening his beautiful strange eyes at her.
“suddenly i felt how different i was—how strong my arms and legs were, you know—and how i could dig and stand—and i jumped up and wanted to shout out something to anything that would listen.”
“th’ magic listened when tha’ sung th’ doxology.
it would ha’ listened to anything tha’d sung.
it was th’ joy that mattered.
eh!
lad, lad—what’s names to th’ joy maker,” and she gave his shoulders a quick soft pat again.
she had packed a basket which held a regular feast this morning, and when the hungry hour came and dickon brought it out from its hiding place, she sat down with them under their tree and watched them devour their food, laughing and quite gloating over their appetites.
she was full of fun and made them laugh at all sorts of odd things.
she told them stories in broad yorkshire and taught them new words.
she laughed as if she could not help it when they told her of the increasing difficulty there was in pretending that colin was still a fretful invalid.
“you see we can’t help laughing nearly all the time when we are together,” explained colin.
“and it doesn’t sound ill at all.
we try to choke it back but it will burst out and that sounds worse than ever.”
“there’s one thing that comes into my mind so often,” said mary, “and i can scarcely ever hold in when i think of it suddenly.
i keep thinking suppose colin’s face should get to look like a full moon.
it isn’t like one yet but he gets a tiny bit fatter every day—and suppose some morning it should look like one—what should we do!”
“bless us all, i can see tha’ has a good bit o’ play actin’ to do,”
said susan sowerby.
“but tha’ won’t have to keep it up much longer.
mester craven’ll come home.”
“do you think he will?” asked colin.
“why?”
susan sowerby chuckled softly.
“i suppose it ’ud nigh break thy heart if he found out before tha’ told him in tha’ own way,” she said.
“tha’s laid awake nights plannin’ it.”
“i couldn’t bear anyone else to tell him,” said colin.
“i think about different ways every day, i think now i just want to run into his room.”
“that’d be a fine start for him,” said susan sowerby.
“i’d like to see his face, lad.
i would that!
he mun come back—that he mun.”
one of the things they talked of was the visit they were to make to her cottage.
they planned it all.
they were to drive over the moor and lunch out of doors among the heather.
they would see all the twelve children and dickon’s garden and would not come back until they were tired.
susan sowerby got up at last to return to the house and mrs. medlock.
it was time for colin to be wheeled back also.
but before he got into his chair he stood quite close to susan and fixed his eyes on her with a kind of bewildered adoration and he suddenly caught hold of the fold of her blue cloak and held it fast.
“you are just what i—what i wanted,” he said.
“i wish you were my mother—as well as dickon’s!”
all at once susan sowerby bent down and drew him with her warm arms close against the bosom under the blue cloak—as if he had been dickon’s brother.
the quick mist swept over her eyes.
“eh!
dear lad!” she said.
“thy own mother’s in this ’ere very garden, i do believe.
she couldna’ keep out of it.
thy father mun come back to thee—he mun!”
chapter xxvii
in the garden
in each century since the beginning of the world wonderful things have been discovered.
in the last century more amazing things were found out than in any century before.
in this new century hundreds of things still more astounding will be brought to light.
at first people refuse to believe that a strange new thing can be done, then they begin to hope it can be done, then they see it can be done—then it is done and all the world wonders why it was not done centuries ago.
one of the new things people began to find out in the last century was that thoughts—just mere thoughts—are as powerful as electric batteries—as good for one as sunlight is, or as bad for one as poison.
to let a sad thought or a bad one get into your mind is as dangerous as letting a scarlet fever germ get into your body.
if you let it stay there after it has got in you may never get over it as long as you live.
so long as mistress mary’s mind was full of disagreeable thoughts about her dislikes and sour opinions of people and her determination not to be pleased by or interested in anything, she was a yellow-faced, sickly, bored and wretched child.
circumstances, however, were very kind to her, though she was not at all aware of it.
they began to push her about for her own good.
when her mind gradually filled itself with robins, and moorland cottages crowded with children, with queer crabbed old gardeners and common little yorkshire housemaids, with springtime and with secret gardens coming alive day by day, and also with a moor boy and his “creatures,” there was no room left for the disagreeable thoughts which affected her liver and her digestion and made her yellow and tired.
so long as colin shut himself up in his room and thought only of his fears and weakness and his detestation of people who looked at him and reflected hourly on humps and early death, he was a hysterical half-crazy little hypochondriac who knew nothing of the sunshine and the spring and also did not know that he could get well and could stand upon his feet if he tried to do it.
when new beautiful thoughts began to push out the old hideous ones, life began to come back to him, his blood ran healthily through his veins and strength poured into him like a flood.
his scientific experiment was quite practical and simple and there was nothing weird about it at all.
much more surprising things can happen to anyone who, when a disagreeable or discouraged thought comes into his mind, just has the sense to remember in time and push it out by putting in an agreeable determinedly courageous one.
two things cannot be in one place.
“where you tend a rose, my lad, a thistle cannot grow.”
while the secret garden was coming alive and two children were coming alive with it, there was a man wandering about certain far-away beautiful places in the norwegian fiords and the valleys and mountains of switzerland and he was a man who for ten years had kept his mind filled with dark and heart-broken thinking.
he had not been courageous; he had never tried to put any other thoughts in the place of the dark ones.
he had wandered by blue lakes and thought them; he had lain on mountain-sides with sheets of deep blue gentians blooming all about him and flower breaths filling all the air and he had thought them.
a terrible sorrow had fallen upon him when he had been happy and he had let his soul fill itself with blackness and had refused obstinately to allow any rift of light to pierce through.
he had forgotten and deserted his home and his duties.
when he traveled about, darkness so brooded over him that the sight of him was a wrong done to other people because it was as if he poisoned the air about him with gloom.
most strangers thought he must be either half mad or a man with some hidden crime on his soul.
he, was a tall man with a drawn face and crooked shoulders and the name he always entered on hotel registers was, “archibald craven, misselthwaite manor, yorkshire, england.”
he had traveled far and wide since the day he saw mistress mary in his study and told her she might have her “bit of earth.” he had been in the most beautiful places in europe, though he had remained nowhere more than a few days.
he had chosen the quietest and remotest spots.
he had been on the tops of mountains whose heads were in the clouds and had looked down on other mountains when the sun rose and touched them with such light as made it seem as if the world were just being born.
but the light had never seemed to touch himself until one day when he realized that for the first time in ten years a strange thing had happened.
he was in a wonderful valley in the austrian tyrol and he had been walking alone through such beauty as might have lifted, any man’s soul out of shadow.
he had walked a long way and it had not lifted his.
but at last he had felt tired and had thrown himself down to rest on a carpet of moss by a stream.
it was a clear little stream which ran quite merrily along on its narrow way through the luscious damp greenness.
sometimes it made a sound rather like very low laughter as it bubbled over and round stones.
he saw birds come and dip their heads to drink in it and then flick their wings and fly away.
it seemed like a thing alive and yet its tiny voice made the stillness seem deeper.
the valley was very, very still.
as he sat gazing into the clear running of the water, archibald craven gradually felt his mind and body both grow quiet, as quiet as the valley itself.
he wondered if he were going to sleep, but he was not.
he sat and gazed at the sunlit water and his eyes began to see things growing at its edge.
there was one lovely mass of blue forget-me-nots growing so close to the stream that its leaves were wet and at these he found himself looking as he remembered he had looked at such things years ago.
he was actually thinking tenderly how lovely it was and what wonders of blue its hundreds of little blossoms were.
he did not know that just that simple thought was slowly filling his mind—filling and filling it until other things were softly pushed aside.
it was as if a sweet clear spring had begun to rise in a stagnant pool and had risen and risen until at last it swept the dark water away.
but of course he did not think of this himself.
he only knew that the valley seemed to grow quieter and quieter as he sat and stared at the bright delicate blueness.
he did not know how long he sat there or what was happening to him, but at last he moved as if he were awakening and he got up slowly and stood on the moss carpet, drawing a long, deep, soft breath and wondering at himself.
something seemed to have been unbound and released in him, very quietly.
“what is it?” he said, almost in a whisper, and he passed his hand over his forehead.
“i almost feel as if—i were alive!”
i do not know enough about the wonderfulness of undiscovered things to be able to explain how this had happened to him.
neither does anyone else yet.
he did not understand at all himself—but he remembered this strange hour months afterward when he was at misselthwaite again and he found out quite by accident that on this very day colin had cried out as he went into the secret garden:
“i am going to live forever and ever and ever!”
the singular calmness remained with him the rest of the evening and he slept a new reposeful sleep; but it was not with him very long.
he did not know that it could be kept.
by the next night he had opened the doors wide to his dark thoughts and they had come trooping and rushing back.
he left the valley and went on his wandering way again.
but, strange as it seemed to him, there were minutes—sometimes half-hours—when, without his knowing why, the black burden seemed to lift itself again and he knew he was a living man and not a dead one.
slowly—slowly—for no reason that he knew of—he was “coming alive” with the garden.
as the golden summer changed into the deep golden autumn he went to the lake of como.
there he found the loveliness of a dream.
he spent his days upon the crystal blueness of the lake or he walked back into the soft thick verdure of the hills and tramped until he was tired so that he might sleep.
but by this time he had begun to sleep better, he knew, and his dreams had ceased to be a terror to him.
“perhaps,” he thought, “my body is growing stronger.”
it was growing stronger but—because of the rare peaceful hours when his thoughts were changed—his soul was slowly growing stronger, too.
he began to think of misselthwaite and wonder if he should not go home.
now and then he wondered vaguely about his boy and asked himself what he should feel when he went and stood by the carved four-posted bed again and looked down at the sharply chiseled ivory-white face while it slept and, the black lashes rimmed so startlingly the close-shut eyes.
he shrank from it.
one marvel of a day he had walked so far that when he returned the moon was high and full and all the world was purple shadow and silver.
the stillness of lake and shore and wood was so wonderful that he did not go into the villa he lived in.
he walked down to a little bowered terrace at the water’s edge and sat upon a seat and breathed in all the heavenly scents of the night.
he felt the strange calmness stealing over him and it grew deeper and deeper until he fell asleep.
he did not know when he fell asleep and when he began to dream; his dream was so real that he did not feel as if he were dreaming.
he remembered afterward how intensely wide awake and alert he had thought he was.
he thought that as he sat and breathed in the scent of the late roses and listened to the lapping of the water at his feet he heard a voice calling.
it was sweet and clear and happy and far away.
it seemed very far, but he heard it as distinctly as if it had been at his very side.
“archie!
archie!
archie!” it said, and then again, sweeter and clearer than before, “archie!
archie!”
he thought he sprang to his feet not even startled.
it was such a real voice and it seemed so natural that he should hear it.
“lilias!
lilias!” he answered.
“lilias!
where are you?”
“in the garden,” it came back like a sound from a golden flute.
“in the garden!”
and then the dream ended.
but he did not awaken.
he slept soundly and sweetly all through the lovely night.
when he did awake at last it was brilliant morning and a servant was standing staring at him.
he was an italian servant and was accustomed, as all the servants of the villa were, to accepting without question any strange thing his foreign master might do.
no one ever knew when he would go out or come in or where he would choose to sleep or if he would roam about the garden or lie in the boat on the lake all night.
the man held a salver with some letters on it and he waited quietly until mr. craven took them.
when he had gone away mr. craven sat a few moments holding them in his hand and looking at the lake.
his strange calm was still upon him and something more—a lightness as if the cruel thing which had been done had not happened as he thought—as if something had changed.
he was remembering the dream—the real—real dream.
“in the garden!” he said, wondering at himself.
“in the garden!
but the door is locked and the key is buried deep.”
when he glanced at the letters a few minutes later he saw that the one lying at the top of the rest was an english letter and came from yorkshire.
it was directed in a plain woman’s hand but it was not a hand he knew.
he opened it, scarcely thinking of the writer, but the first words attracted his attention at once.
“dear sir:
i am susan sowerby that made bold to speak to you once on the moor.
it was about miss mary i spoke.
i will make bold to speak again.
please, sir, i would come home if i was you.
i think you would be glad to come and—if you will excuse me, sir—i think your lady would ask you to come if she was here.
your obedient servant,
susan sowerby.”
mr. craven read the letter twice before he put it back in its envelope.
he kept thinking about the dream.
“i will go back to misselthwaite,” he said.
“yes, i’ll go at once.”
and he went through the garden to the villa and ordered pitcher to prepare for his return to england.
in a few days he was in yorkshire again, and on his long railroad journey he found himself thinking of his boy as he had never thought in all the ten years past.
during those years he had only wished to forget him.
now, though he did not intend to think about him, memories of him constantly drifted into his mind.
he remembered the black days when he had raved like a madman because the child was alive and the mother was dead.
he had refused to see it, and when he had gone to look at it at last it had been, such a weak wretched thing that everyone had been sure it would die in a few days.
but to the surprise of those who took care of it the days passed and it lived and then everyone believed it would be a deformed and crippled creature.
he had not meant to be a bad father, but he had not felt like a father at all.
he had supplied doctors and nurses and luxuries, but he had shrunk from the mere thought of the boy and had buried himself in his own misery.
the first time after a year’s absence he returned to misselthwaite and the small miserable looking thing languidly and indifferently lifted to his face the great gray eyes with black lashes round them, so like and yet so horribly unlike the happy eyes he had adored, he could not bear the sight of them and turned away pale as death.
after that he scarcely ever saw him except when he was asleep, and all he knew of him was that he was a confirmed invalid, with a vicious, hysterical, half-insane temper.
he could only be kept from furies dangerous to himself by being given his own way in every detail.
all this was not an uplifting thing to recall, but as the train whirled him through mountain passes and golden plains the man who was “coming alive” began to think in a new way and he thought long and steadily and deeply.
“perhaps i have been all wrong for ten years,” he said to himself.
“ten years is a long time.
it may be too late to do anything—quite too late.
what have i been thinking of!”
of course this was the wrong magic—to begin by saying “too late.” even colin could have told him that.
but he knew nothing of magic—either black or white.
this he had yet to learn.
he wondered if susan sowerby had taken courage and written to him only because the motherly creature had realized that the boy was much worse—was fatally ill. if he had not been under the spell of the curious calmness which had taken possession of him he would have been more wretched than ever.
but the calm had brought a sort of courage and hope with it.
instead of giving way to thoughts of the worst he actually found he was trying to believe in better things.
“could it be possible that she sees that i may be able to do him good and control him?” he thought.
“i will go and see her on my way to misselthwaite.”
but when on his way across the moor he stopped the carriage at the cottage, seven or eight children who were playing about gathered in a group and bobbing seven or eight friendly and polite curtsies told him that their mother had gone to the other side of the moor early in the morning to help a woman who had a new baby.
“our dickon,” they volunteered, was over at the manor working in one of the gardens where he went several days each week.
mr. craven looked over the collection of sturdy little bodies and round red-cheeked faces, each one grinning in its own particular way, and he awoke to the fact that they were a healthy likable lot.
he smiled at their friendly grins and took a golden sovereign from his pocket and gave it to “our ’lizabeth ellen” who was the oldest.
“if you divide that into eight parts there will be half a crown for each of, you,” he said.
then amid grins and chuckles and bobbing of curtsies he drove away, leaving ecstasy and nudging elbows and little jumps of joy behind.
the drive across the wonderfulness of the moor was a soothing thing.
why did it seem to give him a sense of homecoming which he had been sure he could never feel again—that sense of the beauty of land and sky and purple bloom of distance and a warming of the heart at drawing, nearer to the great old house which had held those of his blood for six hundred years?
how he had driven away from it the last time, shuddering to think of its closed rooms and the boy lying in the four-posted bed with the brocaded hangings.
was it possible that perhaps he might find him changed a little for the better and that he might overcome his shrinking from him?
how real that dream had been—how wonderful and clear the voice which called back to him, “in the garden—in the garden!”
“i will try to find the key,” he said.
“i will try to open the door.
i must—though i don’t know why.”
when he arrived at the manor the servants who received him with the usual ceremony noticed that he looked better and that he did not go to the remote rooms where he usually lived attended by pitcher.
he went into the library and sent for mrs. medlock.
she came to him somewhat excited and curious and flustered.
“how is master colin, medlock?” he inquired.
“well, sir,” mrs. medlock answered, “he’s—he’s different, in a manner of speaking.”
“worse?” he suggested.
mrs. medlock really was flushed.
“well, you see, sir,” she tried to explain, “neither dr. craven, nor the nurse, nor me can exactly make him out.”
“why is that?”
“to tell the truth, sir, master colin might be better and he might be changing for the worse.
his appetite, sir, is past understanding—and his ways—”
“has he become more—more peculiar?” her master, asked, knitting his brows anxiously.
“that’s it, sir.
he’s growing very peculiar—when you compare him with what he used to be.
he used to eat nothing and then suddenly he began to eat something enormous—and then he stopped again all at once and the meals were sent back just as they used to be.
you never knew, sir, perhaps, that out of doors he never would let himself be taken.
the things we’ve gone through to get him to go out in his chair would leave a body trembling like a leaf.
he’d throw himself into such a state that dr. craven said he couldn’t be responsible for forcing him.
well, sir, just without warning—not long after one of his worst tantrums he suddenly insisted on being taken out every day by miss mary and susan sowerby’s boy dickon that could push his chair.
he took a fancy to both miss mary and dickon, and dickon brought his tame animals, and, if you’ll credit it, sir, out of doors he will stay from morning until night.”
“how does he look?” was the next question.
“if he took his food natural, sir, you’d think he was putting on flesh—but we’re afraid it may be a sort of bloat.
he laughs sometimes in a queer way when he’s alone with miss mary.
he never used to laugh at all.
dr. craven is coming to see you at once, if you’ll allow him.
he never was as puzzled in his life.”
“where is master colin now?” mr. craven asked.
“in the garden, sir.
he’s always in the garden—though not a human creature is allowed to go near for fear they’ll look at him.”
mr. craven scarcely heard her last words.
“in the garden,” he said, and after he had sent mrs. medlock away he stood and repeated it again and again.
“in the garden!”
he had to make an effort to bring himself back to the place he was standing in and when he felt he was on earth again he turned and went out of the room.
he took his way, as mary had done, through the door in the shrubbery and among the laurels and the fountain beds.
the fountain was playing now and was encircled by beds of brilliant autumn flowers.
he crossed the lawn and turned into the long walk by the ivied walls.
he did not walk quickly, but slowly, and his eyes were on the path.
he felt as if he were being drawn back to the place he had so long forsaken, and he did not know why.
as he drew near to it his step became still more slow.
he knew where the door was even though the ivy hung thick over it—but he did not know exactly where it lay—that buried key.
so he stopped and stood still, looking about him, and almost the moment after he had paused he started and listened—asking himself if he were walking in a dream.
the ivy hung thick over the door, the key was buried under the shrubs, no human being had passed that portal for ten lonely years—and yet inside the garden there were sounds.
they were the sounds of running scuffling feet seeming to chase round and round under the trees, they were strange sounds of lowered suppressed voices—exclamations and smothered joyous cries.
it seemed actually like the laughter of young things, the uncontrollable laughter of children who were trying not to be heard but who in a moment or so—as their excitement mounted—would burst forth.
what in heaven’s name was he dreaming of—what in heaven’s name did he hear?
was he losing his reason and thinking he heard things which were not for human ears?
was it that the far clear voice had meant?
and then the moment came, the uncontrollable moment when the sounds forgot to hush themselves.
the feet ran faster and faster—they were nearing the garden door—there was quick strong young breathing and a wild outbreak of laughing shouts which could not be contained—and the door in the wall was flung wide open, the sheet of ivy swinging back, and a boy burst through it at full speed and, without seeing the outsider, dashed almost into his arms.
mr. craven had extended them just in time to save him from falling as a result of his unseeing dash against him, and when he held him away to look at him in amazement at his being there he truly gasped for breath.
he was a tall boy and a handsome one.
he was glowing with life and his running had sent splendid color leaping to his face.
he threw the thick hair back from his forehead and lifted a pair of strange gray eyes—eyes full of boyish laughter and rimmed with black lashes like a fringe.
it was the eyes which made mr. craven gasp for breath.
“who—what?
who!” he stammered.
this was not what colin had expected—this was not what he had planned.
he had never thought of such a meeting.
and yet to come dashing out—winning a race—perhaps it was even better.
he drew himself up to his very tallest.
mary, who had been running with him and had dashed through the door too, believed that he managed to make himself look taller than he had ever looked before—inches taller.
“father,” he said, “i’m colin.
you can’t believe it.
i scarcely can myself.
i’m colin.”
like mrs. medlock, he did not understand what his father meant when he said hurriedly:
“in the garden!
in the garden!”
“yes,” hurried on colin.
“it was the garden that did it—and mary and dickon and the creatures—and the magic.
no one knows.
we kept it to tell you when you came.
i’m well, i can beat mary in a race.
i’m going to be an athlete.”
he said it all so like a healthy boy—his face flushed, his words tumbling over each other in his eagerness—that mr. craven’s soul shook with unbelieving joy.
colin put out his hand and laid it on his father’s arm.
“aren’t you glad, father?” he ended.
“aren’t you glad?
i’m going to live forever and ever and ever!”
mr. craven put his hands on both the boy’s shoulders and held him still.
he knew he dared not even try to speak for a moment.
“take me into the garden, my boy,” he said at last.
“and tell me all about it.”
and so they led him in.
the place was a wilderness of autumn gold and purple and violet blue and flaming scarlet and on every side were sheaves of late lilies standing together—lilies which were white or white and ruby.
he remembered well when the first of them had been planted that just at this season of the year their late glories should reveal themselves.
late roses climbed and hung and clustered and the sunshine deepening the hue of the yellowing trees made one feel that one, stood in an embowered temple of gold.
the newcomer stood silent just as the children had done when they came into its grayness.
he looked round and round.
“i thought it would be dead,” he said.
“mary thought so at first,” said colin.
“but it came alive.”
then they sat down under their tree—all but colin, who wanted to stand while he told the story.
it was the strangest thing he had ever heard, archibald craven thought, as it was poured forth in headlong boy fashion.
mystery and magic and wild creatures, the weird midnight meeting—the coming of the spring—the passion of insulted pride which had dragged the young rajah to his feet to defy old ben weatherstaff to his face.
the odd companionship, the play acting, the great secret so carefully kept.
the listener laughed until tears came into his eyes and sometimes tears came into his eyes when he was not laughing.
the athlete, the lecturer, the scientific discoverer was a laughable, lovable, healthy young human thing.
“now,” he said at the end of the story, “it need not be a secret any more.
i dare say it will frighten them nearly into fits when they see me—but i am never going to get into the chair again.
i shall walk back with you, father—to the house.”
ben weatherstaff’s duties rarely took him away from the gardens, but on this occasion he made an excuse to carry some vegetables to the kitchen and being invited into the servants’ hall by mrs. medlock to drink a glass of beer he was on the spot—as he had hoped to be—when the most dramatic event misselthwaite manor had seen during the present generation actually took place.
one of the windows looking upon the courtyard gave also a glimpse of the lawn.
mrs. medlock, knowing ben had come from the gardens, hoped that he might have caught sight of his master and even by chance of his meeting with master colin.
“did you see either of them, weatherstaff?” she asked.
ben took his beer-mug from his mouth and wiped his lips with the back of his hand.
“aye, that i did,” he answered with a shrewdly significant air.
“both of them?” suggested mrs. medlock.
“both of ’em,” returned ben weatherstaff.
“thank ye kindly, ma’am, i could sup up another mug of it.”
“together?” said mrs. medlock, hastily overfilling his beer-mug in her excitement.
“together, ma’am,” and ben gulped down half of his new mug at one gulp.
“where was master colin?
how did he look?
what did they say to each other?”
“i didna’ hear that,” said ben, “along o’ only bein’ on th’ stepladder lookin over th’ wall.
but i’ll tell thee this.
there’s been things goin’ on outside as you house people knows nowt about.
an’ what tha’ll find out tha’ll find out soon.”
and it was not two minutes before he swallowed the last of his beer and waved his mug solemnly toward the window which took in through the shrubbery a piece of the lawn.
“look there,” he said, “if tha’s curious.
look what’s comin’ across th’
grass.”
when mrs. medlock looked she threw up her hands and gave a little shriek and every man and woman servant within hearing bolted across the servants’ hall and stood looking through the window with their eyes almost starting out of their heads.
across the lawn came the master of misselthwaite and he looked as many of them had never seen him.
and by his side with his head up in the air and his eyes full of laughter walked as strongly and steadily as any boy in yorkshire—master colin!
the jungle book
it was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the seeonee hills when father wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips.
mother wolf lay with her big gray nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived.
“augrh!” said father wolf.
“it is time to hunt again.” he was going to spring down hill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: “good luck go with you, o chief of the wolves.
and good luck and strong white teeth go with noble children that they may never forget the hungry in this world.”
it was the jackal tabaqui, the dish-licker and the wolves of india despise tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish-heaps.
but they are afraid of him too, because tabaqui, more than anyone else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of anyone, and runs through the forest biting everything in his way.
even the tiger runs and hides when little tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature.
we call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee the madness and run.
“enter, then, and look,” said father wolf stiffly, “but there is no food here.”
“for a wolf, no,” said tabaqui, “but for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast.
who are we, the gidur-log [the jackal people], to pick and choose?” he scuttled to the back of the cave, where he found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end merrily.
“all thanks for this good meal,” he said, licking his lips.
“how beautiful are the noble children!
how large are their eyes!
and so young too!
indeed, indeed, i might have remembered that the children of kings are men from the beginning.”
now, tabaqui knew as well as anyone else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces.
it pleased him to see mother and father wolf look uncomfortable.
tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully:
“shere khan, the big one, has shifted his hunting grounds.
he will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me.”
shere khan was the tiger who lived near the waingunga river, twenty miles away.
“he has no right!” father wolf began angrily “by the law of the jungle he has no right to change his quarters without due warning.
he will frighten every head of game within ten miles, and i i have to kill for two, these days.”
“his mother did not call him lungri [the lame one] for nothing,” said mother wolf quietly.
“he has been lame in one foot from his birth.
that is why he has only killed cattle.
now the villagers of the waingunga are angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry.
they will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight.
indeed, we are very grateful to shere khan!”
“shall i tell him of your gratitude?” said tabaqui.
“out!” snapped father wolf.
“out and hunt with thy master.
thou hast done harm enough for one night.”
“i go,” said tabaqui quietly.
“ye can hear shere khan below in the thickets.
i might have saved myself the message.”
father wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little river he heard the dry, angry, snarly, singsong whine of a tiger who has caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it.
“the fool!” said father wolf.
“to begin a night’s work with that noise!
does he think that our buck are like his fat waingunga bullocks?”
“h’sh.
it is neither bullock nor buck he hunts to-night,” said mother wolf.
“it is man.”
the whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come from every quarter of the compass.
it was the noise that bewilders woodcutters and gypsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger.
“man!” said father wolf, showing all his white teeth.
“faugh!
are there not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat man, and on our ground too!”
the law of the jungle, which never orders anything without a reason, forbids every beast to eat man except when he is killing to show his children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting grounds of his pack or tribe.
the real reason for this is that man-killing means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches.
then everybody in the jungle suffers.
the reason the beasts give among themselves is that man is the weakest and most defenseless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him.
they say too and it is true that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth.
the purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated “aaarh!” of the tiger’s charge.
then there was a howl an untigerish howl from shere khan.
“he has missed,” said mother wolf.
“what is it?”
father wolf ran out a few paces and heard shere khan muttering and mumbling savagely as he tumbled about in the scrub.
“the fool has had no more sense than to jump at a woodcutter’s campfire, and has burned his feet,” said father wolf with a grunt.
“tabaqui is with him.”
“something is coming uphill,” said mother wolf, twitching one ear.
“get ready.”
the bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and father wolf dropped with his haunches under him, ready for his leap.
then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world the wolf checked in mid-spring.
he made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself.
the result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground.
“man!” he snapped.
“a man’s cub.
look!”
directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked brown baby who could just walk as soft and as dimpled a little atom as ever came to a wolf’s cave at night.
he looked up into father wolf’s face, and laughed.
“is that a man’s cub?” said mother wolf.
“i have never seen one.
bring it here.”
a wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg without breaking it, and though father wolf’s jaws closed right on the child’s back not a tooth even scratched the skin as he laid it down among the cubs.
“how little!
how naked, and how bold!” said mother wolf softly.
the baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide.
“ahai!
he is taking his meal with the others.
and so this is a man’s cub.
now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man’s cub among her children?”
“i have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our pack or in my time,” said father wolf.
“he is altogether without hair, and i could kill him with a touch of my foot.
but see, he looks up and is not afraid.”
the moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for shere khan’s great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance.
tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking: “my lord, my lord, it went in here!”
“shere khan does us great honor,” said father wolf, but his eyes were very angry.
“what does shere khan need?”
“my quarry.
a man’s cub went this way,” said shere khan.
“its parents have run off.
give it to me.”
shere khan had jumped at a woodcutter’s campfire, as father wolf had said, and was furious from the pain of his burned feet.
but father wolf knew that the mouth of the cave was too narrow for a tiger to come in by.
even where he was, shere khan’s shoulders and forepaws were cramped for want of room, as a man’s would be if he tried to fight in a barrel.
“the wolves are a free people,” said father wolf.
“they take orders from the head of the pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer.
the man’s cub is ours to kill if we choose.”
“ye choose and ye do not choose!
what talk is this of choosing?
by the bull that i killed, am i to stand nosing into your dog’s den for my fair dues?
it is i, shere khan, who speak!”
the tiger’s roar filled the cave with thunder.
mother wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of shere khan.
“and it is i, raksha [the demon], who answers.
the man’s cub is mine, lungri mine to me!
he shall not be killed.
he shall live to run with the pack and to hunt with the pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs frog-eater fish-killer he shall hunt thee!
now get hence, or by the sambhur that i killed (i eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world!
go!”
father wolf looked on amazed.
he had almost forgotten the days when he won mother wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the pack and was not called the demon for compliment’s sake.
shere khan might have faced father wolf, but he could not stand up against mother wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death.
so he backed out of the cave mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted:
“each dog barks in his own yard!
we will see what the pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs.
the cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, o bush-tailed thieves!”
mother wolf threw herself down panting among the cubs, and father wolf said to her gravely:
“shere khan speaks this much truth.
the cub must be shown to the pack.
wilt thou still keep him, mother?”
“keep him!” she gasped.
“he came naked, by night, alone and very hungry; yet he was not afraid!
look, he has pushed one of my babes to one side already.
and that lame butcher would have killed him and would have run off to the waingunga while the villagers here hunted through all our lairs in revenge!
keep him?
assuredly i will keep him.
lie still, little frog.
o thou mowgli for mowgli the frog i will call thee the time will come when thou wilt hunt shere khan as he has hunted thee.”
“but what will our pack say?” said father wolf.
the law of the jungle lays down very clearly that any wolf may, when he marries, withdraw from the pack he belongs to.
but as soon as his cubs are old enough to stand on their feet he must bring them to the pack council, which is generally held once a month at full moon, in order that the other wolves may identify them.
after that inspection the cubs are free to run where they please, and until they have killed their first buck no excuse is accepted if a grown wolf of the pack kills one of them.
the punishment is death where the murderer can be found; and if you think for a minute you will see that this must be so.
father wolf waited till his cubs could run a little, and then on the night of the pack meeting took them and mowgli and mother wolf to the council rock a hilltop covered with stones and boulders where a hundred wolves could hide.
akela, the great gray lone wolf, who led all the pack by strength and cunning, lay out at full length on his rock, and below him sat forty or more wolves of every size and color, from badger-colored veterans who could handle a buck alone to young black three-year-olds who thought they could.
the lone wolf had led them for a year now.
he had fallen twice into a wolf trap in his youth, and once he had been beaten and left for dead; so he knew the manners and customs of men.
there was very little talking at the rock.
the cubs tumbled over each other in the center of the circle where their mothers and fathers sat, and now and again a senior wolf would go quietly up to a cub, look at him carefully, and return to his place on noiseless feet.
sometimes a mother would push her cub far out into the moonlight to be sure that he had not been overlooked.
akela from his rock would cry: “ye know the law ye know the law.
look well, o wolves!” and the anxious mothers would take up the call: “look look well, o wolves!”
at last and mother wolf’s neck bristles lifted as the time came father wolf pushed “mowgli the frog,” as they called him, into the center, where he sat laughing and playing with some pebbles that glistened in the moonlight.
akela never raised his head from his paws, but went on with the monotonous cry: “look well!” a muffled roar came up from behind the rocks the voice of shere khan crying: “the cub is mine.
give him to me.
what have the free people to do with a man’s cub?” akela never even twitched his ears.
all he said was: “look well, o wolves!
what have the free people to do with the orders of any save the free people?
look well!”
there was a chorus of deep growls, and a young wolf in his fourth year flung back shere khan’s question to akela: “what have the free people to do with a man’s cub?” now, the law of the jungle lays down that if there is any dispute as to the right of a cub to be accepted by the pack, he must be spoken for by at least two members of the pack who are not his father and mother.
“who speaks for this cub?” said akela.
“among the free people who speaks?” there was no answer and mother wolf got ready for what she knew would be her last fight, if things came to fighting.
then the only other creature who is allowed at the pack council baloo, the sleepy brown bear who teaches the wolf cubs the law of the jungle:
old baloo, who can come and go where he pleases because he eats only nuts and roots and honey rose upon his hind quarters and grunted.
“the man’s cub the man’s cub?” he said.
“i speak for the man’s cub.
there is no harm in a man’s cub.
i have no gift of words, but i speak the truth.
let him run with the pack, and be entered with the others.
i myself will teach him.”
“we need yet another,” said akela.
“baloo has spoken, and he is our teacher for the young cubs.
who speaks besides baloo?”
a black shadow dropped down into the circle.
it was bagheera the black panther, inky black all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk.
everybody knew bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path; for he was as cunning as tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant.
but he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down.
“o akela, and ye the free people,” he purred, “i have no right in your assembly, but the law of the jungle says that if there is a doubt which is not a killing matter in regard to a new cub, the life of that cub may be bought at a price.
and the law does not say who may or may not pay that price.
am i right?”
“good!
good!” said the young wolves, who are always hungry.
“listen to bagheera.
the cub can be bought for a price.
it is the law.”
“knowing that i have no right to speak here, i ask your leave.”
“speak then,” cried twenty voices.
“to kill a naked cub is shame.
besides, he may make better sport for you when he is grown.
baloo has spoken in his behalf.
now to baloo’s word i will add one bull, and a fat one, newly killed, not half a mile from here, if ye will accept the man’s cub according to the law.
is it difficult?”
there was a clamor of scores of voices, saying: “what matter?
he will die in the winter rains.
he will scorch in the sun.
what harm can a naked frog do us?
let him run with the pack.
where is the bull, bagheera?
let him be accepted.” and then came akela’s deep bay, crying:
“look well look well, o wolves!”
mowgli was still deeply interested in the pebbles, and he did not notice when the wolves came and looked at him one by one.
at last they all went down the hill for the dead bull, and only akela, bagheera, baloo, and mowgli’s own wolves were left.
shere khan roared still in the night, for he was very angry that mowgli had not been handed over to him.
“ay, roar well,” said bagheera, under his whiskers, “for the time will come when this naked thing will make thee roar to another tune, or i know nothing of man.”
“it was well done,” said akela.
“men and their cubs are very wise.
he may be a help in time.”
“truly, a help in time of need; for none can hope to lead the pack forever,” said bagheera.
akela said nothing.
he was thinking of the time that comes to every leader of every pack when his strength goes from him and he gets feebler and feebler, till at last he is killed by the wolves and a new leader comes up to be killed in his turn.
“take him away,” he said to father wolf, “and train him as befits one of the free people.”
and that is how mowgli was entered into the seeonee wolf pack for the price of a bull and on baloo’s good word.
now you must be content to skip ten or eleven whole years, and only guess at all the wonderful life that mowgli led among the wolves, because if it were written out it would fill ever so many books.
he grew up with the cubs, though they, of course, were grown wolves almost before he was a child.
and father wolf taught him his business, and the meaning of things in the jungle, till every rustle in the grass, every breath of the warm night air, every note of the owls above his head, every scratch of a bat’s claws as it roosted for a while in a tree, and every splash of every little fish jumping in a pool meant just as much to him as the work of his office means to a business man.
when he was not learning he sat out in the sun and slept, and ate and went to sleep again.
when he felt dirty or hot he swam in the forest pools; and when he wanted honey (baloo told him that honey and nuts were just as pleasant to eat as raw meat) he climbed up for it, and that bagheera showed him how to do.
bagheera would lie out on a branch and call, “come along, little brother,” and at first mowgli would cling like the sloth, but afterward he would fling himself through the branches almost as boldly as the gray ape.
he took his place at the council rock, too, when the pack met, and there he discovered that if he stared hard at any wolf, the wolf would be forced to drop his eyes, and so he used to stare for fun.
at other times he would pick the long thorns out of the pads of his friends, for wolves suffer terribly from thorns and burs in their coats.
he would go down the hillside into the cultivated lands by night, and look very curiously at the villagers in their huts, but he had a mistrust of men because bagheera showed him a square box with a drop gate so cunningly hidden in the jungle that he nearly walked into it, and told him that it was a trap.
he loved better than anything else to go with bagheera into the dark warm heart of the forest, to sleep all through the drowsy day, and at night see how bagheera did his killing.
bagheera killed right and left as he felt hungry, and so did mowgli with one exception.
as soon as he was old enough to understand things, bagheera told him that he must never touch cattle because he had been bought into the pack at the price of a bull’s life.
“all the jungle is thine,” said bagheera, “and thou canst kill everything that thou art strong enough to kill; but for the sake of the bull that bought thee thou must never kill or eat any cattle young or old.
that is the law of the jungle.” mowgli obeyed faithfully.
and he grew and grew strong as a boy must grow who does not know that he is learning any lessons, and who has nothing in the world to think of except things to eat.
mother wolf told him once or twice that shere khan was not a creature to be trusted, and that some day he must kill shere khan.
but though a young wolf would have remembered that advice every hour, mowgli forgot it because he was only a boy though he would have called himself a wolf if he had been able to speak in any human tongue.
shere khan was always crossing his path in the jungle, for as akela grew older and feebler the lame tiger had come to be great friends with the younger wolves of the pack, who followed him for scraps, a thing akela would never have allowed if he had dared to push his authority to the proper bounds.
then shere khan would flatter them and wonder that such fine young hunters were content to be led by a dying wolf and a man’s cub.
“they tell me,” shere khan would say, “that at council ye dare not look him between the eyes.” and the young wolves would growl and bristle.
bagheera, who had eyes and ears everywhere, knew something of this, and once or twice he told mowgli in so many words that shere khan would kill him some day.
mowgli would laugh and answer: “i have the pack and i have thee; and baloo, though he is so lazy, might strike a blow or two for my sake.
why should i be afraid?”
it was one very warm day that a new notion came to bagheera born of something that he had heard.
perhaps ikki the porcupine had told him; but he said to mowgli when they were deep in the jungle, as the boy lay with his head on bagheera’s beautiful black skin, “little brother, how often have i told thee that shere khan is thy enemy?”
“as many times as there are nuts on that palm,” said mowgli, who, naturally, could not count.
“what of it?
i am sleepy, bagheera, and shere khan is all long tail and loud talk like mao, the peacock.”
“but this is no time for sleeping.
baloo knows it; i know it; the pack know it; and even the foolish, foolish deer know.
tabaqui has told thee too.”
“ho!
ho!” said mowgli.
“tabaqui came to me not long ago with some rude talk that i was a naked man’s cub and not fit to dig pig-nuts.
but i caught tabaqui by the tail and swung him twice against a palm-tree to teach him better manners.”
“that was foolishness, for though tabaqui is a mischief-maker, he would have told thee of something that concerned thee closely.
open those eyes, little brother.
shere khan dare not kill thee in the jungle.
but remember, akela is very old, and soon the day comes when he cannot kill his buck, and then he will be leader no more.
many of the wolves that looked thee over when thou wast brought to the council first are old too, and the young wolves believe, as shere khan has taught them, that a man-cub has no place with the pack.
in a little time thou wilt be a man.”
“and what is a man that he should not run with his brothers?” said mowgli.
“i was born in the jungle.
i have obeyed the law of the jungle, and there is no wolf of ours from whose paws i have not pulled a thorn.
surely they are my brothers!”
bagheera stretched himself at full length and half shut his eyes.
“little brother,” said he, “feel under my jaw.”
mowgli put up his strong brown hand, and just under bagheera’s silky chin, where the giant rolling muscles were all hid by the glossy hair, he came upon a little bald spot.
“there is no one in the jungle that knows that i, bagheera, carry that mark the mark of the collar; and yet, little brother, i was born among men, and it was among men that my mother died in the cages of the king’s palace at oodeypore.
it was because of this that i paid the price for thee at the council when thou wast a little naked cub.
yes, i too was born among men.
i had never seen the jungle.
they fed me behind bars from an iron pan till one night i felt that i was bagheera the panther and no man’s plaything, and i broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw and came away.
and because i had learned the ways of men, i became more terrible in the jungle than shere khan.
is it not so?”
“yes,” said mowgli, “all the jungle fear bagheera all except mowgli.”
“oh, thou art a man’s cub,” said the black panther very tenderly.
“and even as i returned to my jungle, so thou must go back to men at last to the men who are thy brothers if thou art not killed in the council.”
“but why but why should any wish to kill me?” said mowgli.
“look at me,” said bagheera.
and mowgli looked at him steadily between the eyes.
the big panther turned his head away in half a minute.
“that is why,” he said, shifting his paw on the leaves.
“not even i can look thee between the eyes, and i was born among men, and i love thee, little brother.
the others they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet thine; because thou art wise; because thou hast pulled out thorns from their feet because thou art a man.”
“i did not know these things,” said mowgli sullenly, and he frowned under his heavy black eyebrows.
“what is the law of the jungle?
strike first and then give tongue.
by thy very carelessness they know that thou art a man.
but be wise.
it is in my heart that when akela misses his next kill and at each hunt it costs him more to pin the buck the pack will turn against him and against thee.
they will hold a jungle council at the rock, and then and then i have it!” said bagheera, leaping up.
“go thou down quickly to the men’s huts in the valley, and take some of the red flower which they grow there, so that when the time comes thou mayest have even a stronger friend than i or baloo or those of the pack that love thee.
get the red flower.”
by red flower bagheera meant fire, only no creature in the jungle will call fire by its proper name.
every beast lives in deadly fear of it, and invents a hundred ways of describing it.
“the red flower?” said mowgli.
“that grows outside their huts in the twilight.
i will get some.”
“there speaks the man’s cub,” said bagheera proudly.
“remember that it grows in little pots.
get one swiftly, and keep it by thee for time of need.”
“good!” said mowgli.
“i go.
but art thou sure, o my bagheera” he slipped his arm around the splendid neck and looked deep into the big eyes “art thou sure that all this is shere khan’s doing?”
“by the broken lock that freed me, i am sure, little brother.”
“then, by the bull that bought me, i will pay shere khan full tale for this, and it may be a little over,” said mowgli, and he bounded away.
“that is a man.
that is all a man,” said bagheera to himself, lying down again.
“oh, shere khan, never was a blacker hunting than that frog-hunt of thine ten years ago!”
mowgli was far and far through the forest, running hard, and his heart was hot in him.
he came to the cave as the evening mist rose, and drew breath, and looked down the valley.
the cubs were out, but mother wolf, at the back of the cave, knew by his breathing that something was troubling her frog.
“what is it, son?” she said.
“some bat’s chatter of shere khan,” he called back.
“i hunt among the plowed fields tonight,” and he plunged downward through the bushes, to the stream at the bottom of the valley.
there he checked, for he heard the yell of the pack hunting, heard the bellow of a hunted sambhur, and the snort as the buck turned at bay.
then there were wicked, bitter howls from the young wolves: “akela!
akela!
let the lone wolf show his strength.
room for the leader of the pack!
spring, akela!”
the lone wolf must have sprung and missed his hold, for mowgli heard the snap of his teeth and then a yelp as the sambhur knocked him over with his forefoot.
he did not wait for anything more, but dashed on; and the yells grew fainter behind him as he ran into the croplands where the villagers lived.
“bagheera spoke truth,” he panted, as he nestled down in some cattle fodder by the window of a hut.
“to-morrow is one day both for akela and for me.”
then he pressed his face close to the window and watched the fire on the hearth.
he saw the husbandman’s wife get up and feed it in the night with black lumps.
and when the morning came and the mists were all white and cold, he saw the man’s child pick up a wicker pot plastered inside with earth, fill it with lumps of red-hot charcoal, put it under his blanket, and go out to tend the cows in the byre.
“is that all?” said mowgli.
“if a cub can do it, there is nothing to fear.” so he strode round the corner and met the boy, took the pot from his hand, and disappeared into the mist while the boy howled with fear.
“they are very like me,” said mowgli, blowing into the pot as he had seen the woman do.
“this thing will die if i do not give it things to eat”; and he dropped twigs and dried bark on the red stuff.
halfway up the hill he met bagheera with the morning dew shining like moonstones on his coat.
“akela has missed,” said the panther.
“they would have killed him last night, but they needed thee also.
they were looking for thee on the hill.”
“i was among the plowed lands.
i am ready.
see!” mowgli held up the fire-pot.
“good!
now, i have seen men thrust a dry branch into that stuff, and presently the red flower blossomed at the end of it.
art thou not afraid?”
“no.
why should i fear?
i remember now if it is not a dream how, before i was a wolf, i lay beside the red flower, and it was warm and pleasant.”
all that day mowgli sat in the cave tending his fire pot and dipping dry branches into it to see how they looked.
he found a branch that satisfied him, and in the evening when tabaqui came to the cave and told him rudely enough that he was wanted at the council rock, he laughed till tabaqui ran away.
then mowgli went to the council, still laughing.
akela the lone wolf lay by the side of his rock as a sign that the leadership of the pack was open, and shere khan with his following of scrap-fed wolves walked to and fro openly being flattered.
bagheera lay close to mowgli, and the fire pot was between mowgli’s knees.
when they were all gathered together, shere khan began to speak a thing he would never have dared to do when akela was in his prime.
“he has no right,” whispered bagheera.
“say so.
he is a dog’s son.
he will be frightened.”
mowgli sprang to his feet.
“free people,” he cried, “does shere khan lead the pack?
what has a tiger to do with our leadership?”
“seeing that the leadership is yet open, and being asked to speak ”
shere khan began.
“by whom?” said mowgli.
“are we all jackals, to fawn on this cattle butcher?
the leadership of the pack is with the pack alone.”
there were yells of “silence, thou man’s cub!” “let him speak.
he has kept our law”; and at last the seniors of the pack thundered: “let the dead wolf speak.” when a leader of the pack has missed his kill, he is called the dead wolf as long as he lives, which is not long.
akela raised his old head wearily:
“free people, and ye too, jackals of shere khan, for twelve seasons i have led ye to and from the kill, and in all that time not one has been trapped or maimed.
now i have missed my kill.
ye know how that plot was made.
ye know how ye brought me up to an untried buck to make my weakness known.
it was cleverly done.
your right is to kill me here on the council rock, now.
therefore, i ask, who comes to make an end of the lone wolf?
for it is my right, by the law of the jungle, that ye come one by one.”
there was a long hush, for no single wolf cared to fight akela to the death.
then shere khan roared: “bah!
what have we to do with this toothless fool?
he is doomed to die!
it is the man-cub who has lived too long.
free people, he was my meat from the first.
give him to me.
i am weary of this man-wolf folly.
he has troubled the jungle for ten seasons.
give me the man-cub, or i will hunt here always, and not give you one bone.
he is a man, a man’s child, and from the marrow of my bones i hate him!”
then more than half the pack yelled: “a man!
a man!
what has a man to do with us?
let him go to his own place.”
“and turn all the people of the villages against us?” clamored shere khan.
“no, give him to me.
he is a man, and none of us can look him between the eyes.”
akela lifted his head again and said, “he has eaten our food.
he has slept with us.
he has driven game for us.
he has broken no word of the law of the jungle.”
“also, i paid for him with a bull when he was accepted.
the worth of a bull is little, but bagheera’s honor is something that he will perhaps fight for,” said bagheera in his gentlest voice.
“a bull paid ten years ago!” the pack snarled.
“what do we care for bones ten years old?”
“or for a pledge?” said bagheera, his white teeth bared under his lip.
“well are ye called the free people!”
“no man’s cub can run with the people of the jungle,” howled shere khan.
“give him to me!”
“he is our brother in all but blood,” akela went on, “and ye would kill him here!
in truth, i have lived too long.
some of ye are eaters of cattle, and of others i have heard that, under shere khan’s teaching, ye go by dark night and snatch children from the villager’s doorstep.
therefore i know ye to be cowards, and it is to cowards i speak.
it is certain that i must die, and my life is of no worth, or i would offer that in the man-cub’s place.
but for the sake of the honor of the pack, a little matter that by being without a leader ye have forgotten, i promise that if ye let the man-cub go to his own place, i will not, when my time comes to die, bare one tooth against ye.
i will die without fighting.
that will at least save the pack three lives.
more i cannot do; but if ye will, i can save ye the shame that comes of killing a brother against whom there is no fault a brother spoken for and bought into the pack according to the law of the jungle.”
“he is a man a man a man!” snarled the pack.
and most of the wolves began to gather round shere khan, whose tail was beginning to switch.
“now the business is in thy hands,” said bagheera to mowgli.
“we can do no more except fight.”
mowgli stood upright the fire pot in his hands.
then he stretched out his arms, and yawned in the face of the council; but he was furious with rage and sorrow, for, wolflike, the wolves had never told him how they hated him.
“listen you!” he cried.
“there is no need for this dog’s jabber.
ye have told me so often tonight that i am a man (and indeed i would have been a wolf with you to my life’s end) that i feel your words are true.
so i do not call ye my brothers any more, but sag [dogs], as a man should.
what ye will do, and what ye will not do, is not yours to say.
that matter is with me; and that we may see the matter more plainly, i, the man, have brought here a little of the red flower which ye, dogs, fear.”
he flung the fire pot on the ground, and some of the red coals lit a tuft of dried moss that flared up, as all the council drew back in terror before the leaping flames.
mowgli thrust his dead branch into the fire till the twigs lit and crackled, and whirled it above his head among the cowering wolves.
“thou art the master,” said bagheera in an undertone.
“save akela from the death.
he was ever thy friend.”
akela, the grim old wolf who had never asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous look at mowgli as the boy stood all naked, his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in the light of the blazing branch that made the shadows jump and quiver.
“good!” said mowgli, staring round slowly.
“i see that ye are dogs.
i go from you to my own people if they be my own people.
the jungle is shut to me, and i must forget your talk and your companionship.
but i will be more merciful than ye are.
because i was all but your brother in blood, i promise that when i am a man among men i will not betray ye to men as ye have betrayed me.” he kicked the fire with his foot, and the sparks flew up.
“there shall be no war between any of us in the pack.
but here is a debt to pay before i go.” he strode forward to where shere khan sat blinking stupidly at the flames, and caught him by the tuft on his chin.
bagheera followed in case of accidents.
“up, dog!” mowgli cried.
“up, when a man speaks, or i will set that coat ablaze!”
shere khan’s ears lay flat back on his head, and he shut his eyes, for the blazing branch was very near.
“this cattle-killer said he would kill me in the council because he had not killed me when i was a cub.
thus and thus, then, do we beat dogs when we are men.
stir a whisker, lungri, and i ram the red flower down thy gullet!” he beat shere khan over the head with the branch, and the tiger whimpered and whined in an agony of fear.
“pah!
singed jungle cat go now!
but remember when next i come to the council rock, as a man should come, it will be with shere khan’s hide on my head.
for the rest, akela goes free to live as he pleases.
ye will not kill him, because that is not my will.
nor do i think that ye will sit here any longer, lolling out your tongues as though ye were somebodies, instead of dogs whom i drive out thus!
go!” the fire was burning furiously at the end of the branch, and mowgli struck right and left round the circle, and the wolves ran howling with the sparks burning their fur.
at last there were only akela, bagheera, and perhaps ten wolves that had taken mowgli’s part.
then something began to hurt mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face.
“what is it?
what is it?” he said.
“i do not wish to leave the jungle, and i do not know what this is.
am i dying, bagheera?”
“no, little brother.
that is only tears such as men use,” said bagheera.
“now i know thou art a man, and a man’s cub no longer.
the jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward.
let them fall, mowgli.
they are only tears.” so mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before.
“now,” he said, “i will go to men.
but first i must say farewell to my mother.” and he went to the cave where she lived with father wolf, and he cried on her coat, while the four cubs howled miserably.
“ye will not forget me?” said mowgli.
“never while we can follow a trail,” said the cubs.
“come to the foot of the hill when thou art a man, and we will talk to thee; and we will come into the croplands to play with thee by night.”
“come soon!” said father wolf.
“oh, wise little frog, come again soon; for we be old, thy mother and i.”
“come soon,” said mother wolf, “little naked son of mine.
for, listen, child of man, i loved thee more than ever i loved my cubs.”
“i will surely come,” said mowgli.
“and when i come it will be to lay out shere khan’s hide upon the council rock.
do not forget me!
tell them in the jungle never to forget me!”
the dawn was beginning to break when mowgli went down the hillside alone, to meet those mysterious things that are called men.
hunting-song of the seeonee pack
as the dawn was breaking the sambhur belled         once, twice and again!
and a doe leaped up, and a doe leaped up      from the pond in the wood where the wild deer sup.
this i, scouting alone, beheld,         once, twice and again!
as the dawn was breaking the sambhur belled         once, twice and again!
and a wolf stole back, and a wolf stole back      to carry the word to the waiting pack,      and we sought and we found and we bayed on his track         once, twice and again!
as the dawn was breaking the wolf pack yelled         once, twice and again!
feet in the jungle that leave no mark!
eyes that can see in the dark the dark!
tongue give tongue to it!
hark!
o hark!
once, twice and again!
kaa’s hunting
his spots are the joy of the leopard: his horns are the         buffalo’s pride.
be clean, for the strength of the hunter is known by the         gloss of his hide.
if ye find that the bullock can toss you, or the heavy-browed         sambhur can gore;      ye need not stop work to inform us: we knew it ten seasons         before.
oppress not the cubs of the stranger, but hail them as sister         and brother,      for though they are little and fubsy, it may be the bear is         their mother.
“there is none like to me!” says the cub in the pride of his         earliest kill;      but the jungle is large and the cub he is small.
let him         think and be still.
maxims of baloo
all that is told here happened some time before mowgli was turned out of the seeonee wolf pack, or revenged himself on shere khan the tiger.
it was in the days when baloo was teaching him the law of the jungle.
the big, serious, old brown bear was delighted to have so quick a pupil, for the young wolves will only learn as much of the law of the jungle as applies to their own pack and tribe, and run away as soon as they can repeat the hunting verse “feet that make no noise; eyes that can see in the dark; ears that can hear the winds in their lairs, and sharp white teeth, all these things are the marks of our brothers except tabaqui the jackal and the hyaena whom we hate.” but mowgli, as a man-cub, had to learn a great deal more than this.
sometimes bagheera the black panther would come lounging through the jungle to see how his pet was getting on, and would purr with his head against a tree while mowgli recited the day’s lesson to baloo.
the boy could climb almost as well as he could swim, and swim almost as well as he could run.
so baloo, the teacher of the law, taught him the wood and water laws: how to tell a rotten branch from a sound one; how to speak politely to the wild bees when he came upon a hive of them fifty feet above ground; what to say to mang the bat when he disturbed him in the branches at midday; and how to warn the water-snakes in the pools before he splashed down among them.
none of the jungle people like being disturbed, and all are very ready to fly at an intruder.
then, too, mowgli was taught the strangers’ hunting call, which must be repeated aloud till it is answered, whenever one of the jungle-people hunts outside his own grounds.
it means, translated, “give me leave to hunt here because i am hungry.” and the answer is, “hunt then for food, but not for pleasure.”
all this will show you how much mowgli had to learn by heart, and he grew very tired of saying the same thing over a hundred times.
but, as baloo said to bagheera, one day when mowgli had been cuffed and run off in a temper, “a man’s cub is a man’s cub, and he must learn all the law of the jungle.”
“but think how small he is,” said the black panther, who would have spoiled mowgli if he had had his own way.
“how can his little head carry all thy long talk?”
“is there anything in the jungle too little to be killed?
no.
that is why i teach him these things, and that is why i hit him, very softly, when he forgets.”
“softly!
what dost thou know of softness, old iron-feet?” bagheera grunted.
“his face is all bruised today by thy softness.
ugh.”
“better he should be bruised from head to foot by me who love him than that he should come to harm through ignorance,” baloo answered very earnestly.
“i am now teaching him the master words of the jungle that shall protect him with the birds and the snake people, and all that hunt on four feet, except his own pack.
he can now claim protection, if he will only remember the words, from all in the jungle.
is not that worth a little beating?”
“well, look to it then that thou dost not kill the man-cub.
he is no tree trunk to sharpen thy blunt claws upon.
but what are those master words?
i am more likely to give help than to ask it” bagheera stretched out one paw and admired the steel-blue, ripping-chisel talons at the end of it “still i should like to know.”
“i will call mowgli and he shall say them if he will.
come, little brother!”
“my head is ringing like a bee tree,” said a sullen little voice over their heads, and mowgli slid down a tree trunk very angry and indignant, adding as he reached the ground: “i come for bagheera and not for thee, fat old baloo!”
“that is all one to me,” said baloo, though he was hurt and grieved.
“tell bagheera, then, the master words of the jungle that i have taught thee this day.”
“master words for which people?” said mowgli, delighted to show off.
“the jungle has many tongues.
i know them all.”
“a little thou knowest, but not much.
see, o bagheera, they never thank their teacher.
not one small wolfling has ever come back to thank old baloo for his teachings.
say the word for the hunting-people, then great scholar.”
“we be of one blood, ye and i,” said mowgli, giving the words the bear accent which all the hunting people use.
“good.
now for the birds.”
mowgli repeated, with the kite’s whistle at the end of the sentence.
“now for the snake-people,” said bagheera.
the answer was a perfectly indescribable hiss, and mowgli kicked up his feet behind, clapped his hands together to applaud himself, and jumped on to bagheera’s back, where he sat sideways, drumming with his heels on the glossy skin and making the worst faces he could think of at baloo.
“there there!
that was worth a little bruise,” said the brown bear tenderly.
“some day thou wilt remember me.” then he turned aside to tell bagheera how he had begged the master words from hathi the wild elephant, who knows all about these things, and how hathi had taken mowgli down to a pool to get the snake word from a water-snake, because baloo could not pronounce it, and how mowgli was now reasonably safe against all accidents in the jungle, because neither snake, bird, nor beast would hurt him.
“no one then is to be feared,” baloo wound up, patting his big furry stomach with pride.
“except his own tribe,” said bagheera, under his breath; and then aloud to mowgli, “have a care for my ribs, little brother!
what is all this dancing up and down?”
mowgli had been trying to make himself heard by pulling at bagheera’s shoulder fur and kicking hard.
when the two listened to him he was shouting at the top of his voice, “and so i shall have a tribe of my own, and lead them through the branches all day long.”
“what is this new folly, little dreamer of dreams?” said bagheera.
“yes, and throw branches and dirt at old baloo,” mowgli went on.
“they have promised me this.
ah!”
“whoof!” baloo’s big paw scooped mowgli off bagheera’s back, and as the boy lay between the big fore-paws he could see the bear was angry.
“mowgli,” said baloo, “thou hast been talking with the bandar-log the monkey people.”
mowgli looked at bagheera to see if the panther was angry too, and bagheera’s eyes were as hard as jade stones.
“thou hast been with the monkey people the gray apes the people without a law the eaters of everything.
that is great shame.”
“when baloo hurt my head,” said mowgli (he was still on his back), “i went away, and the gray apes came down from the trees and had pity on me.
no one else cared.” he snuffled a little.
“the pity of the monkey people!” baloo snorted.
“the stillness of the mountain stream!
the cool of the summer sun!
and then, man-cub?”
“and then, and then, they gave me nuts and pleasant things to eat, and they they carried me in their arms up to the top of the trees and said i was their blood brother except that i had no tail, and should be their leader some day.”
“they have no leader,” said bagheera.
“they lie.
they have always lied.”
“they were very kind and bade me come again.
why have i never been taken among the monkey people?
they stand on their feet as i do.
they do not hit me with their hard paws.
they play all day.
let me get up!
bad baloo, let me up!
i will play with them again.”
“listen, man-cub,” said the bear, and his voice rumbled like thunder on a hot night.
“i have taught thee all the law of the jungle for all the peoples of the jungle except the monkey-folk who live in the trees.
they have no law.
they are outcasts.
they have no speech of their own, but use the stolen words which they overhear when they listen, and peep, and wait up above in the branches.
their way is not our way.
they are without leaders.
they have no remembrance.
they boast and chatter and pretend that they are a great people about to do great affairs in the jungle, but the falling of a nut turns their minds to laughter and all is forgotten.
we of the jungle have no dealings with them.
we do not drink where the monkeys drink; we do not go where the monkeys go; we do not hunt where they hunt; we do not die where they die.
hast thou ever heard me speak of the bandar-log till today?”
“no,” said mowgli in a whisper, for the forest was very still now baloo had finished.
“the jungle-people put them out of their mouths and out of their minds.
they are very many, evil, dirty, shameless, and they desire, if they have any fixed desire, to be noticed by the jungle people.
but we do not notice them even when they throw nuts and filth on our heads.”
he had hardly spoken when a shower of nuts and twigs spattered down through the branches; and they could hear coughings and howlings and angry jumpings high up in the air among the thin branches.
“the monkey-people are forbidden,” said baloo, “forbidden to the jungle-people.
remember.”
“forbidden,” said bagheera, “but i still think baloo should have warned thee against them.”
“i i?
how was i to guess he would play with such dirt.
the monkey people!
faugh!”
a fresh shower came down on their heads and the two trotted away, taking mowgli with them.
what baloo had said about the monkeys was perfectly true.
they belonged to the tree-tops, and as beasts very seldom look up, there was no occasion for the monkeys and the jungle-people to cross each other’s path.
but whenever they found a sick wolf, or a wounded tiger, or bear, the monkeys would torment him, and would throw sticks and nuts at any beast for fun and in the hope of being noticed.
then they would howl and shriek senseless songs, and invite the jungle-people to climb up their trees and fight them, or would start furious battles over nothing among themselves, and leave the dead monkeys where the jungle-people could see them.
they were always just going to have a leader, and laws and customs of their own, but they never did, because their memories would not hold over from day to day, and so they compromised things by making up a saying, “what the bandar-log think now the jungle will think later,” and that comforted them a great deal.
none of the beasts could reach them, but on the other hand none of the beasts would notice them, and that was why they were so pleased when mowgli came to play with them, and they heard how angry baloo was.
they never meant to do any more the bandar-log never mean anything at all; but one of them invented what seemed to him a brilliant idea, and he told all the others that mowgli would be a useful person to keep in the tribe, because he could weave sticks together for protection from the wind; so, if they caught him, they could make him teach them.
of course mowgli, as a woodcutter’s child, inherited all sorts of instincts, and used to make little huts of fallen branches without thinking how he came to do it.
the monkey-people, watching in the trees, considered his play most wonderful.
this time, they said, they were really going to have a leader and become the wisest people in the jungle so wise that everyone else would notice and envy them.
therefore they followed baloo and bagheera and mowgli through the jungle very quietly till it was time for the midday nap, and mowgli, who was very much ashamed of himself, slept between the panther and the bear, resolving to have no more to do with the monkey people.
the next thing he remembered was feeling hands on his legs and arms hard, strong, little hands and then a swash of branches in his face, and then he was staring down through the swaying boughs as baloo woke the jungle with his deep cries and bagheera bounded up the trunk with every tooth bared.
the bandar-log howled with triumph and scuffled away to the upper branches where bagheera dared not follow, shouting:
“he has noticed us!
bagheera has noticed us.
all the jungle-people admire us for our skill and our cunning.” then they began their flight; and the flight of the monkey-people through tree-land is one of the things nobody can describe.
they have their regular roads and crossroads, up hills and down hills, all laid out from fifty to seventy or a hundred feet above ground, and by these they can travel even at night if necessary.
two of the strongest monkeys caught mowgli under the arms and swung off with him through the treetops, twenty feet at a bound.
had they been alone they could have gone twice as fast, but the boy’s weight held them back.
sick and giddy as mowgli was he could not help enjoying the wild rush, though the glimpses of earth far down below frightened him, and the terrible check and jerk at the end of the swing over nothing but empty air brought his heart between his teeth.
his escort would rush him up a tree till he felt the thinnest topmost branches crackle and bend under them, and then with a cough and a whoop would fling themselves into the air outward and downward, and bring up, hanging by their hands or their feet to the lower limbs of the next tree.
sometimes he could see for miles and miles across the still green jungle, as a man on the top of a mast can see for miles across the sea, and then the branches and leaves would lash him across the face, and he and his two guards would be almost down to earth again.
so, bounding and crashing and whooping and yelling, the whole tribe of bandar-log swept along the tree-roads with mowgli their prisoner.
for a time he was afraid of being dropped.
then he grew angry but knew better than to struggle, and then he began to think.
the first thing was to send back word to baloo and bagheera, for, at the pace the monkeys were going, he knew his friends would be left far behind.
it was useless to look down, for he could only see the topsides of the branches, so he stared upward and saw, far away in the blue, rann the kite balancing and wheeling as he kept watch over the jungle waiting for things to die.
rann saw that the monkeys were carrying something, and dropped a few hundred yards to find out whether their load was good to eat.
he whistled with surprise when he saw mowgli being dragged up to a treetop and heard him give the kite call for “we be of one blood, thou and i.”
the waves of the branches closed over the boy, but rann balanced away to the next tree in time to see the little brown face come up again.
“mark my trail!” mowgli shouted.
“tell baloo of the seeonee pack and bagheera of the council rock.”
“in whose name, brother?” rann had never seen mowgli before, though of course he had heard of him.
“mowgli, the frog.
man-cub they call me!
mark my trail!”
the last words were shrieked as he was being swung through the air, but rann nodded and rose up till he looked no bigger than a speck of dust, and there he hung, watching with his telescope eyes the swaying of the treetops as mowgli’s escort whirled along.
“they never go far,” he said with a chuckle.
“they never do what they set out to do.
always pecking at new things are the bandar-log.
this time, if i have any eye-sight, they have pecked down trouble for themselves, for baloo is no fledgling and bagheera can, as i know, kill more than goats.”
so he rocked on his wings, his feet gathered up under him, and waited.
meantime, baloo and bagheera were furious with rage and grief.
bagheera climbed as he had never climbed before, but the thin branches broke beneath his weight, and he slipped down, his claws full of bark.
“why didst thou not warn the man-cub?” he roared to poor baloo, who had set off at a clumsy trot in the hope of overtaking the monkeys.
“what was the use of half slaying him with blows if thou didst not warn him?”
“haste!
o haste!
we we may catch them yet!” baloo panted.
“at that speed!
it would not tire a wounded cow.
teacher of the law cub-beater a mile of that rolling to and fro would burst thee open.
sit still and think!
make a plan.
this is no time for chasing.
they may drop him if we follow too close.”
“arrula!
whoo!
they may have dropped him already, being tired of carrying him.
who can trust the bandar-log?
put dead bats on my head!
give me black bones to eat!
roll me into the hives of the wild bees that i may be stung to death, and bury me with the hyaena, for i am most miserable of bears!
arulala!
wahooa!
o mowgli, mowgli!
why did i not warn thee against the monkey-folk instead of breaking thy head?
now perhaps i may have knocked the day’s lesson out of his mind, and he will be alone in the jungle without the master words.”
baloo clasped his paws over his ears and rolled to and fro moaning.
“at least he gave me all the words correctly a little time ago,” said bagheera impatiently.
“baloo, thou hast neither memory nor respect.
what would the jungle think if i, the black panther, curled myself up like ikki the porcupine, and howled?”
“what do i care what the jungle thinks?
he may be dead by now.”
“unless and until they drop him from the branches in sport, or kill him out of idleness, i have no fear for the man-cub.
he is wise and well taught, and above all he has the eyes that make the jungle-people afraid.
but (and it is a great evil) he is in the power of the bandar-log, and they, because they live in trees, have no fear of any of our people.” bagheera licked one forepaw thoughtfully.
“fool that i am!
oh, fat, brown, root-digging fool that i am,” said baloo, uncoiling himself with a jerk, “it is true what hathi the wild elephant says: `to each his own fear’; and they, the bandar-log, fear kaa the rock snake.
he can climb as well as they can.
he steals the young monkeys in the night.
the whisper of his name makes their wicked tails cold.
let us go to kaa.”
“what will he do for us?
he is not of our tribe, being footless and with most evil eyes,” said bagheera.
“he is very old and very cunning.
above all, he is always hungry,” said baloo hopefully.
“promise him many goats.”
“he sleeps for a full month after he has once eaten.
he may be asleep now, and even were he awake what if he would rather kill his own goats?”
bagheera, who did not know much about kaa, was naturally suspicious.
“then in that case, thou and i together, old hunter, might make him see reason.” here baloo rubbed his faded brown shoulder against the panther, and they went off to look for kaa the rock python.
they found him stretched out on a warm ledge in the afternoon sun, admiring his beautiful new coat, for he had been in retirement for the last ten days changing his skin, and now he was very splendid darting his big blunt-nosed head along the ground, and twisting the thirty feet of his body into fantastic knots and curves, and licking his lips as he thought of his dinner to come.
“he has not eaten,” said baloo, with a grunt of relief, as soon as he saw the beautifully mottled brown and yellow jacket.
“be careful, bagheera!
he is always a little blind after he has changed his skin, and very quick to strike.”
kaa was not a poison snake in fact he rather despised the poison snakes as cowards but his strength lay in his hug, and when he had once lapped his huge coils round anybody there was no more to be said.
“good hunting!” cried baloo, sitting up on his haunches.
like all snakes of his breed kaa was rather deaf, and did not hear the call at first.
then he curled up ready for any accident, his head lowered.
“good hunting for us all,” he answered.
“oho, baloo, what dost thou do here?
good hunting, bagheera.
one of us at least needs food.
is there any news of game afoot?
a doe now, or even a young buck?
i am as empty as a dried well.”
“we are hunting,” said baloo carelessly.
he knew that you must not hurry kaa.
he is too big.
“give me permission to come with you,” said kaa.
“a blow more or less is nothing to thee, bagheera or baloo, but i i have to wait and wait for days in a wood-path and climb half a night on the mere chance of a young ape.
psshaw!
the branches are not what they were when i was young.
rotten twigs and dry boughs are they all.”
“maybe thy great weight has something to do with the matter,” said baloo.
“i am a fair length a fair length,” said kaa with a little pride.
“but for all that, it is the fault of this new-grown timber.
i came very near to falling on my last hunt very near indeed and the noise of my slipping, for my tail was not tight wrapped around the tree, waked the bandar-log, and they called me most evil names.”
“footless, yellow earth-worm,” said bagheera under his whiskers, as though he were trying to remember something.
“sssss!
have they ever called me that?” said kaa.
“something of that kind it was that they shouted to us last moon, but we never noticed them.
they will say anything even that thou hast lost all thy teeth, and wilt not face anything bigger than a kid, because (they are indeed shameless, these bandar-log) because thou art afraid of the he-goat’s horns,” bagheera went on sweetly.
now a snake, especially a wary old python like kaa, very seldom shows that he is angry, but baloo and bagheera could see the big swallowing muscles on either side of kaa’s throat ripple and bulge.
“the bandar-log have shifted their grounds,” he said quietly.
“when i came up into the sun today i heard them whooping among the tree-tops.”
“it it is the bandar-log that we follow now,” said baloo, but the words stuck in his throat, for that was the first time in his memory that one of the jungle-people had owned to being interested in the doings of the monkeys.
“beyond doubt then it is no small thing that takes two such hunters leaders in their own jungle i am certain on the trail of the bandar-log,” kaa replied courteously, as he swelled with curiosity.
“indeed,” baloo began, “i am no more than the old and sometimes very foolish teacher of the law to the seeonee wolf-cubs, and bagheera here ”
“is bagheera,” said the black panther, and his jaws shut with a snap, for he did not believe in being humble.
“the trouble is this, kaa.
those nut-stealers and pickers of palm leaves have stolen away our man-cub of whom thou hast perhaps heard.”
“i heard some news from ikki (his quills make him presumptuous) of a man-thing that was entered into a wolf pack, but i did not believe.
ikki is full of stories half heard and very badly told.”
“but it is true.
he is such a man-cub as never was,” said baloo.
“the best and wisest and boldest of man-cubs my own pupil, who shall make the name of baloo famous through all the jungles; and besides, i we love him, kaa.”
“ts!
ts!” said kaa, weaving his head to and fro.
“i also have known what love is.
there are tales i could tell that ”
“that need a clear night when we are all well fed to praise properly,”
said bagheera quickly.
“our man-cub is in the hands of the bandar-log now, and we know that of all the jungle-people they fear kaa alone.”
“they fear me alone.
they have good reason,” said kaa.
“chattering, foolish, vain vain, foolish, and chattering, are the monkeys.
but a man-thing in their hands is in no good luck.
they grow tired of the nuts they pick, and throw them down.
they carry a branch half a day, meaning to do great things with it, and then they snap it in two.
that man-thing is not to be envied.
they called me also `yellow fish’ was it not?”
“worm worm earth-worm,” said bagheera, “as well as other things which i cannot now say for shame.”
“we must remind them to speak well of their master.
aaa-ssp!
we must help their wandering memories.
now, whither went they with the cub?”
“the jungle alone knows.
toward the sunset, i believe,” said baloo.
“we had thought that thou wouldst know, kaa.”
“i?
how?
i take them when they come in my way, but i do not hunt the bandar-log, or frogs or green scum on a water-hole, for that matter.”
“up, up!
up, up!
hillo!
illo!
illo, look up, baloo of the seeonee wolf pack!”
baloo looked up to see where the voice came from, and there was rann the kite, sweeping down with the sun shining on the upturned flanges of his wings.
it was near rann’s bedtime, but he had ranged all over the jungle looking for the bear and had missed him in the thick foliage.
“what is it?” said baloo.
“i have seen mowgli among the bandar-log.
he bade me tell you.
i watched.
the bandar-log have taken him beyond the river to the monkey city to the cold lairs.
they may stay there for a night, or ten nights, or an hour.
i have told the bats to watch through the dark time.
that is my message.
good hunting, all you below!”
“full gorge and a deep sleep to you, rann,” cried bagheera.
“i will remember thee in my next kill, and put aside the head for thee alone, o best of kites!”
“it is nothing.
it is nothing.
the boy held the master word.
i could have done no less,” and rann circled up again to his roost.
“he has not forgotten to use his tongue,” said baloo with a chuckle of pride.
“to think of one so young remembering the master word for the birds too while he was being pulled across trees!”
“it was most firmly driven into him,” said bagheera.
“but i am proud of him, and now we must go to the cold lairs.”
they all knew where that place was, but few of the jungle people ever went there, because what they called the cold lairs was an old deserted city, lost and buried in the jungle, and beasts seldom use a place that men have once used.
the wild boar will, but the hunting tribes do not.
besides, the monkeys lived there as much as they could be said to live anywhere, and no self-respecting animal would come within eyeshot of it except in times of drought, when the half-ruined tanks and reservoirs held a little water.
“it is half a night’s journey at full speed,” said bagheera, and baloo looked very serious.
“i will go as fast as i can,” he said anxiously.
“we dare not wait for thee.
follow, baloo.
we must go on the quick-foot kaa and i.”
“feet or no feet, i can keep abreast of all thy four,” said kaa shortly.
baloo made one effort to hurry, but had to sit down panting, and so they left him to come on later, while bagheera hurried forward, at the quick panther-canter.
kaa said nothing, but, strive as bagheera might, the huge rock-python held level with him.
when they came to a hill stream, bagheera gained, because he bounded across while kaa swam, his head and two feet of his neck clearing the water, but on level ground kaa made up the distance.
“by the broken lock that freed me,” said bagheera, when twilight had fallen, “thou art no slow goer!”
“i am hungry,” said kaa.
“besides, they called me speckled frog.”
“worm earth-worm, and yellow to boot.”
“all one.
let us go on,” and kaa seemed to pour himself along the ground, finding the shortest road with his steady eyes, and keeping to it.
in the cold lairs the monkey-people were not thinking of mowgli’s friends at all.
they had brought the boy to the lost city, and were very much pleased with themselves for the time.
mowgli had never seen an indian city before, and though this was almost a heap of ruins it seemed very wonderful and splendid.
some king had built it long ago on a little hill.
you could still trace the stone causeways that led up to the ruined gates where the last splinters of wood hung to the worn, rusted hinges.
trees had grown into and out of the walls; the battlements were tumbled down and decayed, and wild creepers hung out of the windows of the towers on the walls in bushy hanging clumps.
a great roofless palace crowned the hill, and the marble of the courtyards and the fountains was split, and stained with red and green, and the very cobblestones in the courtyard where the king’s elephants used to live had been thrust up and apart by grasses and young trees.
from the palace you could see the rows and rows of roofless houses that made up the city looking like empty honeycombs filled with blackness; the shapeless block of stone that had been an idol in the square where four roads met; the pits and dimples at street corners where the public wells once stood, and the shattered domes of temples with wild figs sprouting on their sides.
the monkeys called the place their city, and pretended to despise the jungle-people because they lived in the forest.
and yet they never knew what the buildings were made for nor how to use them.
they would sit in circles on the hall of the king’s council chamber, and scratch for fleas and pretend to be men; or they would run in and out of the roofless houses and collect pieces of plaster and old bricks in a corner, and forget where they had hidden them, and fight and cry in scuffling crowds, and then break off to play up and down the terraces of the king’s garden, where they would shake the rose trees and the oranges in sport to see the fruit and flowers fall.
they explored all the passages and dark tunnels in the palace and the hundreds of little dark rooms, but they never remembered what they had seen and what they had not; and so drifted about in ones and twos or crowds telling each other that they were doing as men did.
they drank at the tanks and made the water all muddy, and then they fought over it, and then they would all rush together in mobs and shout: “there is no one in the jungle so wise and good and clever and strong and gentle as the bandar-log.” then all would begin again till they grew tired of the city and went back to the tree-tops, hoping the jungle-people would notice them.
mowgli, who had been trained under the law of the jungle, did not like or understand this kind of life.
the monkeys dragged him into the cold lairs late in the afternoon, and instead of going to sleep, as mowgli would have done after a long journey, they joined hands and danced about and sang their foolish songs.
one of the monkeys made a speech and told his companions that mowgli’s capture marked a new thing in the history of the bandar-log, for mowgli was going to show them how to weave sticks and canes together as a protection against rain and cold.
mowgli picked up some creepers and began to work them in and out, and the monkeys tried to imitate; but in a very few minutes they lost interest and began to pull their friends’ tails or jump up and down on all fours, coughing.
“i wish to eat,” said mowgli.
“i am a stranger in this part of the jungle.
bring me food, or give me leave to hunt here.”
twenty or thirty monkeys bounded away to bring him nuts and wild pawpaws.
but they fell to fighting on the road, and it was too much trouble to go back with what was left of the fruit.
mowgli was sore and angry as well as hungry, and he roamed through the empty city giving the strangers’ hunting call from time to time, but no one answered him, and mowgli felt that he had reached a very bad place indeed.
“all that baloo has said about the bandar-log is true,” he thought to himself.
“they have no law, no hunting call, and no leaders nothing but foolish words and little picking thievish hands.
so if i am starved or killed here, it will be all my own fault.
but i must try to return to my own jungle.
baloo will surely beat me, but that is better than chasing silly rose leaves with the bandar-log.”
no sooner had he walked to the city wall than the monkeys pulled him back, telling him that he did not know how happy he was, and pinching him to make him grateful.
he set his teeth and said nothing, but went with the shouting monkeys to a terrace above the red sandstone reservoirs that were half-full of rain water.
there was a ruined summer-house of white marble in the center of the terrace, built for queens dead a hundred years ago.
the domed roof had half fallen in and blocked up the underground passage from the palace by which the queens used to enter.
but the walls were made of screens of marble tracery beautiful milk-white fretwork, set with agates and cornelians and jasper and lapis lazuli, and as the moon came up behind the hill it shone through the open work, casting shadows on the ground like black velvet embroidery.
sore, sleepy, and hungry as he was, mowgli could not help laughing when the bandar-log began, twenty at a time, to tell him how great and wise and strong and gentle they were, and how foolish he was to wish to leave them.
“we are great.
we are free.
we are wonderful.
we are the most wonderful people in all the jungle!
we all say so, and so it must be true,” they shouted.
“now as you are a new listener and can carry our words back to the jungle-people so that they may notice us in future, we will tell you all about our most excellent selves.” mowgli made no objection, and the monkeys gathered by hundreds and hundreds on the terrace to listen to their own speakers singing the praises of the bandar-log, and whenever a speaker stopped for want of breath they would all shout together: “this is true; we all say so.” mowgli nodded and blinked, and said “yes” when they asked him a question, and his head spun with the noise.
“tabaqui the jackal must have bitten all these people,” he said to himself, “and now they have madness.
certainly this is dewanee, the madness.
do they never go to sleep?
now there is a cloud coming to cover that moon.
if it were only a big enough cloud i might try to run away in the darkness.
but i am tired.”
that same cloud was being watched by two good friends in the ruined ditch below the city wall, for bagheera and kaa, knowing well how dangerous the monkey-people were in large numbers, did not wish to run any risks.
the monkeys never fight unless they are a hundred to one, and few in the jungle care for those odds.
“i will go to the west wall,” kaa whispered, “and come down swiftly with the slope of the ground in my favor.
they will not throw themselves upon my back in their hundreds, but ”
“i know it,” said bagheera.
“would that baloo were here, but we must do what we can.
when that cloud covers the moon i shall go to the terrace.
they hold some sort of council there over the boy.”
“good hunting,” said kaa grimly, and glided away to the west wall.
that happened to be the least ruined of any, and the big snake was delayed awhile before he could find a way up the stones.
the cloud hid the moon, and as mowgli wondered what would come next he heard bagheera’s light feet on the terrace.
the black panther had raced up the slope almost without a sound and was striking he knew better than to waste time in biting right and left among the monkeys, who were seated round mowgli in circles fifty and sixty deep.
there was a howl of fright and rage, and then as bagheera tripped on the rolling kicking bodies beneath him, a monkey shouted: “there is only one here!
kill him!
kill.” a scuffling mass of monkeys, biting, scratching, tearing, and pulling, closed over bagheera, while five or six laid hold of mowgli, dragged him up the wall of the summerhouse and pushed him through the hole of the broken dome.
a man-trained boy would have been badly bruised, for the fall was a good fifteen feet, but mowgli fell as baloo had taught him to fall, and landed on his feet.
“stay there,” shouted the monkeys, “till we have killed thy friends, and later we will play with thee if the poison-people leave thee alive.”
“we be of one blood, ye and i,” said mowgli, quickly giving the snake’s call.
he could hear rustling and hissing in the rubbish all round him and gave the call a second time, to make sure.
“even ssso!
down hoods all!” said half a dozen low voices (every ruin in india becomes sooner or later a dwelling place of snakes, and the old summerhouse was alive with cobras).
“stand still, little brother, for thy feet may do us harm.”
mowgli stood as quietly as he could, peering through the open work and listening to the furious din of the fight round the black panther the yells and chatterings and scufflings, and bagheera’s deep, hoarse cough as he backed and bucked and twisted and plunged under the heaps of his enemies.
for the first time since he was born, bagheera was fighting for his life.
“baloo must be at hand; bagheera would not have come alone,” mowgli thought.
and then he called aloud: “to the tank, bagheera.
roll to the water tanks.
roll and plunge!
get to the water!”
bagheera heard, and the cry that told him mowgli was safe gave him new courage.
he worked his way desperately, inch by inch, straight for the reservoirs, halting in silence.
then from the ruined wall nearest the jungle rose up the rumbling war-shout of baloo.
the old bear had done his best, but he could not come before.
“bagheera,” he shouted, “i am here.
i climb!
i haste!
ahuwora!
the stones slip under my feet!
wait my coming, o most infamous bandar-log!” he panted up the terrace only to disappear to the head in a wave of monkeys, but he threw himself squarely on his haunches, and, spreading out his forepaws, hugged as many as he could hold, and then began to hit with a regular bat-bat-bat, like the flipping strokes of a paddle wheel.
a crash and a splash told mowgli that bagheera had fought his way to the tank where the monkeys could not follow.
the panther lay gasping for breath, his head just out of the water, while the monkeys stood three deep on the red steps, dancing up and down with rage, ready to spring upon him from all sides if he came out to help baloo.
it was then that bagheera lifted up his dripping chin, and in despair gave the snake’s call for protection “we be of one blood, ye and i” for he believed that kaa had turned tail at the last minute.
even baloo, half smothered under the monkeys on the edge of the terrace, could not help chuckling as he heard the black panther asking for help.
kaa had only just worked his way over the west wall, landing with a wrench that dislodged a coping stone into the ditch.
he had no intention of losing any advantage of the ground, and coiled and uncoiled himself once or twice, to be sure that every foot of his long body was in working order.
all that while the fight with baloo went on, and the monkeys yelled in the tank round bagheera, and mang the bat, flying to and fro, carried the news of the great battle over the jungle, till even hathi the wild elephant trumpeted, and, far away, scattered bands of the monkey-folk woke and came leaping along the tree-roads to help their comrades in the cold lairs, and the noise of the fight roused all the day birds for miles round.
then kaa came straight, quickly, and anxious to kill.
the fighting strength of a python is in the driving blow of his head backed by all the strength and weight of his body.
if you can imagine a lance, or a battering ram, or a hammer weighing nearly half a ton driven by a cool, quiet mind living in the handle of it, you can roughly imagine what kaa was like when he fought.
a python four or five feet long can knock a man down if he hits him fairly in the chest, and kaa was thirty feet long, as you know.
his first stroke was delivered into the heart of the crowd round baloo.
it was sent home with shut mouth in silence, and there was no need of a second.
the monkeys scattered with cries of “kaa!
it is kaa!
run!
run!”
generations of monkeys had been scared into good behavior by the stories their elders told them of kaa, the night thief, who could slip along the branches as quietly as moss grows, and steal away the strongest monkey that ever lived; of old kaa, who could make himself look so like a dead branch or a rotten stump that the wisest were deceived, till the branch caught them.
kaa was everything that the monkeys feared in the jungle, for none of them knew the limits of his power, none of them could look him in the face, and none had ever come alive out of his hug.
and so they ran, stammering with terror, to the walls and the roofs of the houses, and baloo drew a deep breath of relief.
his fur was much thicker than bagheera’s, but he had suffered sorely in the fight.
then kaa opened his mouth for the first time and spoke one long hissing word, and the far-away monkeys, hurrying to the defense of the cold lairs, stayed where they were, cowering, till the loaded branches bent and crackled under them.
the monkeys on the walls and the empty houses stopped their cries, and in the stillness that fell upon the city mowgli heard bagheera shaking his wet sides as he came up from the tank.
then the clamor broke out again.
the monkeys leaped higher up the walls.
they clung around the necks of the big stone idols and shrieked as they skipped along the battlements, while mowgli, dancing in the summerhouse, put his eye to the screenwork and hooted owl-fashion between his front teeth, to show his derision and contempt.
“get the man-cub out of that trap; i can do no more,” bagheera gasped.
“let us take the man-cub and go.
they may attack again.”
“they will not move till i order them.
stay you sssso!” kaa hissed, and the city was silent once more.
“i could not come before, brother, but i think i heard thee call” this was to bagheera.
“i i may have cried out in the battle,” bagheera answered.
“baloo, art thou hurt?
“i am not sure that they did not pull me into a hundred little bearlings,” said baloo, gravely shaking one leg after the other.
“wow!
i am sore.
kaa, we owe thee, i think, our lives bagheera and i.”
“no matter.
where is the manling?”
“here, in a trap.
i cannot climb out,” cried mowgli.
the curve of the broken dome was above his head.
“take him away.
he dances like mao the peacock.
he will crush our young,” said the cobras inside.
“hah!” said kaa with a chuckle, “he has friends everywhere, this manling.
stand back, manling.
and hide you, o poison people.
i break down the wall.”
kaa looked carefully till he found a discolored crack in the marble tracery showing a weak spot, made two or three light taps with his head to get the distance, and then lifting up six feet of his body clear of the ground, sent home half a dozen full-power smashing blows, nose-first.
the screen-work broke and fell away in a cloud of dust and rubbish, and mowgli leaped through the opening and flung himself between baloo and bagheera an arm around each big neck.
“art thou hurt?” said baloo, hugging him softly.
“i am sore, hungry, and not a little bruised.
but, oh, they have handled ye grievously, my brothers!
ye bleed.”
“others also,” said bagheera, licking his lips and looking at the monkey-dead on the terrace and round the tank.
“it is nothing, it is nothing, if thou art safe, oh, my pride of all little frogs!” whimpered baloo.
“of that we shall judge later,” said bagheera, in a dry voice that mowgli did not at all like.
“but here is kaa to whom we owe the battle and thou owest thy life.
thank him according to our customs, mowgli.”
mowgli turned and saw the great python’s head swaying a foot above his own.
“so this is the manling,” said kaa.
“very soft is his skin, and he is not unlike the bandar-log.
have a care, manling, that i do not mistake thee for a monkey some twilight when i have newly changed my coat.”
“we be one blood, thou and i,” mowgli answered.
“i take my life from thee tonight.
my kill shall be thy kill if ever thou art hungry, o kaa.”
“all thanks, little brother,” said kaa, though his eyes twinkled.
“and what may so bold a hunter kill?
i ask that i may follow when next he goes abroad.”
“i kill nothing, i am too little, but i drive goats toward such as can use them.
when thou art empty come to me and see if i speak the truth.
i have some skill in these [he held out his hands], and if ever thou art in a trap, i may pay the debt which i owe to thee, to bagheera, and to baloo, here.
good hunting to ye all, my masters.”
“well said,” growled baloo, for mowgli had returned thanks very prettily.
the python dropped his head lightly for a minute on mowgli’s shoulder.
“a brave heart and a courteous tongue,” said he.
“they shall carry thee far through the jungle, manling.
but now go hence quickly with thy friends.
go and sleep, for the moon sets, and what follows it is not well that thou shouldst see.”
the moon was sinking behind the hills and the lines of trembling monkeys huddled together on the walls and battlements looked like ragged shaky fringes of things.
baloo went down to the tank for a drink and bagheera began to put his fur in order, as kaa glided out into the center of the terrace and brought his jaws together with a ringing snap that drew all the monkeys’ eyes upon him.
“the moon sets,” he said.
“is there yet light enough to see?”
from the walls came a moan like the wind in the tree-tops “we see, o kaa.”
“good.
begins now the dance the dance of the hunger of kaa.
sit still and watch.”
he turned twice or thrice in a big circle, weaving his head from right to left.
then he began making loops and figures of eight with his body, and soft, oozy triangles that melted into squares and five-sided figures, and coiled mounds, never resting, never hurrying, and never stopping his low humming song.
it grew darker and darker, till at last the dragging, shifting coils disappeared, but they could hear the rustle of the scales.
baloo and bagheera stood still as stone, growling in their throats, their neck hair bristling, and mowgli watched and wondered.
“bandar-log,” said the voice of kaa at last, “can ye stir foot or hand without my order?
speak!”
“without thy order we cannot stir foot or hand, o kaa!”
“good!
come all one pace nearer to me.”
the lines of the monkeys swayed forward helplessly, and baloo and bagheera took one stiff step forward with them.
“nearer!” hissed kaa, and they all moved again.
mowgli laid his hands on baloo and bagheera to get them away, and the two great beasts started as though they had been waked from a dream.
“keep thy hand on my shoulder,” bagheera whispered.
“keep it there, or i must go back must go back to kaa.
aah!”
“it is only old kaa making circles on the dust,” said mowgli.
“let us go.” and the three slipped off through a gap in the walls to the jungle.
“whoof!” said baloo, when he stood under the still trees again.
“never more will i make an ally of kaa,” and he shook himself all over.
“he knows more than we,” said bagheera, trembling.
“in a little time, had i stayed, i should have walked down his throat.”
“many will walk by that road before the moon rises again,” said baloo.
“he will have good hunting after his own fashion.”
“but what was the meaning of it all?” said mowgli, who did not know anything of a python’s powers of fascination.
“i saw no more than a big snake making foolish circles till the dark came.
and his nose was all sore.
ho!
ho!”
“mowgli,” said bagheera angrily, “his nose was sore on thy account, as my ears and sides and paws, and baloo’s neck and shoulders are bitten on thy account.
neither baloo nor bagheera will be able to hunt with pleasure for many days.”
“it is nothing,” said baloo; “we have the man-cub again.”
“true, but he has cost us heavily in time which might have been spent in good hunting, in wounds, in hair i am half plucked along my back and last of all, in honor.
for, remember, mowgli, i, who am the black panther, was forced to call upon kaa for protection, and baloo and i were both made stupid as little birds by the hunger dance.
all this, man-cub, came of thy playing with the bandar-log.”
“true, it is true,” said mowgli sorrowfully.
“i am an evil man-cub, and my stomach is sad in me.”
“mf!
what says the law of the jungle, baloo?”
baloo did not wish to bring mowgli into any more trouble, but he could not tamper with the law, so he mumbled: “sorrow never stays punishment.
but remember, bagheera, he is very little.”
“i will remember.
but he has done mischief, and blows must be dealt now.
mowgli, hast thou anything to say?”
“nothing.
i did wrong.
baloo and thou are wounded.
it is just.”
bagheera gave him half a dozen love-taps from a panther’s point of view (they would hardly have waked one of his own cubs), but for a seven-year-old boy they amounted to as severe a beating as you could wish to avoid.
when it was all over mowgli sneezed, and picked himself up without a word.
“now,” said bagheera, “jump on my back, little brother, and we will go home.”
one of the beauties of jungle law is that punishment settles all scores.
there is no nagging afterward.
mowgli laid his head down on bagheera’s back and slept so deeply that he never waked when he was put down in the home-cave.
road-song of the bandar-log
here we go in a flung festoon,      half-way up to the jealous moon!
don’t you envy our pranceful bands?
don’t you wish you had extra hands?
wouldn’t you like if your tails were so
curved in the shape of a cupid’s bow?
now you’re angry, but never mind,         brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
here we sit in a branchy row,      thinking of beautiful things we know;      dreaming of deeds that we mean to do,      all complete, in a minute or two
something noble and wise and good,      done by merely wishing we could.
we’ve forgotten, but never mind,         brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
all the talk we ever have heard      uttered by bat or beast or bird
hide or fin or scale or feather
jabber it quickly and all together!
excellent!
wonderful!
once again!
now we are talking just like men!
let’s pretend we are ... never mind,         brother, thy tail hangs down behind!
this is the way of the monkey-kind.
then join our leaping lines that scumfish through the pines,      that rocket by where, light and high, the wild grape swings.
by the rubbish in our wake, and the noble noise we make,      be sure, be sure, we’re going to do some splendid things!
“tiger!
tiger!”
what of the hunting, hunter bold?
brother, the watch was long and cold.
what of the quarry ye went to kill?
brother, he crops in the jungle still.
where is the power that made your pride?
brother, it ebbs from my flank and side.
where is the haste that ye hurry by?
brother, i go to my lair to die.
now we must go back to the first tale.
when mowgli left the wolf’s cave after the fight with the pack at the council rock, he went down to the plowed lands where the villagers lived, but he would not stop there because it was too near to the jungle, and he knew that he had made at least one bad enemy at the council.
so he hurried on, keeping to the rough road that ran down the valley, and followed it at a steady jog-trot for nearly twenty miles, till he came to a country that he did not know.
the valley opened out into a great plain dotted over with rocks and cut up by ravines.
at one end stood a little village, and at the other the thick jungle came down in a sweep to the grazing-grounds, and stopped there as though it had been cut off with a hoe.
all over the plain, cattle and buffaloes were grazing, and when the little boys in charge of the herds saw mowgli they shouted and ran away, and the yellow pariah dogs that hang about every indian village barked.
mowgli walked on, for he was feeling hungry, and when he came to the village gate he saw the big thorn-bush that was drawn up before the gate at twilight, pushed to one side.
“umph!” he said, for he had come across more than one such barricade in his night rambles after things to eat.
“so men are afraid of the people of the jungle here also.” he sat down by the gate, and when a man came out he stood up, opened his mouth, and pointed down it to show that he wanted food.
the man stared, and ran back up the one street of the village shouting for the priest, who was a big, fat man dressed in white, with a red and yellow mark on his forehead.
the priest came to the gate, and with him at least a hundred people, who stared and talked and shouted and pointed at mowgli.
“they have no manners, these men folk,” said mowgli to himself.
“only the gray ape would behave as they do.” so he threw back his long hair and frowned at the crowd.
“what is there to be afraid of?” said the priest.
“look at the marks on his arms and legs.
they are the bites of wolves.
he is but a wolf-child run away from the jungle.”
of course, in playing together, the cubs had often nipped mowgli harder than they intended, and there were white scars all over his arms and legs.
but he would have been the last person in the world to call these bites, for he knew what real biting meant.
“arre!
arre!” said two or three women together.
“to be bitten by wolves, poor child!
he is a handsome boy.
he has eyes like red fire.
by my honor, messua, he is not unlike thy boy that was taken by the tiger.”
“let me look,” said a woman with heavy copper rings on her wrists and ankles, and she peered at mowgli under the palm of her hand.
“indeed he is not.
he is thinner, but he has the very look of my boy.”
the priest was a clever man, and he knew that messua was wife to the richest villager in the place.
so he looked up at the sky for a minute and said solemnly: “what the jungle has taken the jungle has restored.
take the boy into thy house, my sister, and forget not to honor the priest who sees so far into the lives of men.”
“by the bull that bought me,” said mowgli to himself, “but all this talking is like another looking-over by the pack!
well, if i am a man, a man i must become.”
the crowd parted as the woman beckoned mowgli to her hut, where there was a red lacquered bedstead, a great earthen grain chest with funny raised patterns on it, half a dozen copper cooking pots, an image of a hindu god in a little alcove, and on the wall a real looking glass, such as they sell at the country fairs.
she gave him a long drink of milk and some bread, and then she laid her hand on his head and looked into his eyes; for she thought perhaps that he might be her real son come back from the jungle where the tiger had taken him.
so she said, “nathoo, o nathoo!” mowgli did not show that he knew the name.
“dost thou not remember the day when i gave thee thy new shoes?” she touched his foot, and it was almost as hard as horn.
“no,”
she said sorrowfully, “those feet have never worn shoes, but thou art very like my nathoo, and thou shalt be my son.”
mowgli was uneasy, because he had never been under a roof before.
but as he looked at the thatch, he saw that he could tear it out any time if he wanted to get away, and that the window had no fastenings.
“what is the good of a man,” he said to himself at last, “if he does not understand man’s talk?
now i am as silly and dumb as a man would be with us in the jungle.
i must speak their talk.”
it was not for fun that he had learned while he was with the wolves to imitate the challenge of bucks in the jungle and the grunt of the little wild pig.
so, as soon as messua pronounced a word mowgli would imitate it almost perfectly, and before dark he had learned the names of many things in the hut.
there was a difficulty at bedtime, because mowgli would not sleep under anything that looked so like a panther trap as that hut, and when they shut the door he went through the window.
“give him his will,” said messua’s husband.
“remember he can never till now have slept on a bed.
if he is indeed sent in the place of our son he will not run away.”
so mowgli stretched himself in some long, clean grass at the edge of the field, but before he had closed his eyes a soft gray nose poked him under the chin.
“phew!” said gray brother (he was the eldest of mother wolf’s cubs).
“this is a poor reward for following thee twenty miles.
thou smellest of wood smoke and cattle altogether like a man already.
wake, little brother; i bring news.”
“are all well in the jungle?” said mowgli, hugging him.
“all except the wolves that were burned with the red flower.
now, listen.
shere khan has gone away to hunt far off till his coat grows again, for he is badly singed.
when he returns he swears that he will lay thy bones in the waingunga.”
“there are two words to that.
i also have made a little promise.
but news is always good.
i am tired to-night, very tired with new things, gray brother, but bring me the news always.”
“thou wilt not forget that thou art a wolf?
men will not make thee forget?” said gray brother anxiously.
“never.
i will always remember that i love thee and all in our cave.
but also i will always remember that i have been cast out of the pack.”
“and that thou mayest be cast out of another pack.
men are only men, little brother, and their talk is like the talk of frogs in a pond.
when i come down here again, i will wait for thee in the bamboos at the edge of the grazing-ground.”
for three months after that night mowgli hardly ever left the village gate, he was so busy learning the ways and customs of men.
first he had to wear a cloth round him, which annoyed him horribly; and then he had to learn about money, which he did not in the least understand, and about plowing, of which he did not see the use.
then the little children in the village made him very angry.
luckily, the law of the jungle had taught him to keep his temper, for in the jungle life and food depend on keeping your temper; but when they made fun of him because he would not play games or fly kites, or because he mispronounced some word, only the knowledge that it was unsportsmanlike to kill little naked cubs kept him from picking them up and breaking them in two.
he did not know his own strength in the least.
in the jungle he knew he was weak compared with the beasts, but in the village people said that he was as strong as a bull.
and mowgli had not the faintest idea of the difference that caste makes between man and man.
when the potter’s donkey slipped in the clay pit, mowgli hauled it out by the tail, and helped to stack the pots for their journey to the market at khanhiwara.
that was very shocking, too, for the potter is a low-caste man, and his donkey is worse.
when the priest scolded him, mowgli threatened to put him on the donkey too, and the priest told messua’s husband that mowgli had better be set to work as soon as possible; and the village head-man told mowgli that he would have to go out with the buffaloes next day, and herd them while they grazed.
no one was more pleased than mowgli; and that night, because he had been appointed a servant of the village, as it were, he went off to a circle that met every evening on a masonry platform under a great fig-tree.
it was the village club, and the head-man and the watchman and the barber, who knew all the gossip of the village, and old buldeo, the village hunter, who had a tower musket, met and smoked.
the monkeys sat and talked in the upper branches, and there was a hole under the platform where a cobra lived, and he had his little platter of milk every night because he was sacred; and the old men sat around the tree and talked, and pulled at the big huqas (the water-pipes) till far into the night.
they told wonderful tales of gods and men and ghosts; and buldeo told even more wonderful ones of the ways of beasts in the jungle, till the eyes of the children sitting outside the circle bulged out of their heads.
most of the tales were about animals, for the jungle was always at their door.
the deer and the wild pig grubbed up their crops, and now and again the tiger carried off a man at twilight, within sight of the village gates.
mowgli, who naturally knew something about what they were talking of, had to cover his face not to show that he was laughing, while buldeo, the tower musket across his knees, climbed on from one wonderful story to another, and mowgli’s shoulders shook.
buldeo was explaining how the tiger that had carried away messua’s son was a ghost-tiger, and his body was inhabited by the ghost of a wicked, old money-lender, who had died some years ago.
“and i know that this is true,” he said, “because purun dass always limped from the blow that he got in a riot when his account books were burned, and the tiger that i speak of he limps, too, for the tracks of his pads are unequal.”
“true, true, that must be the truth,” said the gray-beards, nodding together.
“are all these tales such cobwebs and moon talk?” said mowgli.
“that tiger limps because he was born lame, as everyone knows.
to talk of the soul of a money-lender in a beast that never had the courage of a jackal is child’s talk.”
buldeo was speechless with surprise for a moment, and the head-man stared.
“oho!
it is the jungle brat, is it?” said buldeo.
“if thou art so wise, better bring his hide to khanhiwara, for the government has set a hundred rupees on his life.
better still, talk not when thy elders speak.”
mowgli rose to go.
“all the evening i have lain here listening,” he called back over his shoulder, “and, except once or twice, buldeo has not said one word of truth concerning the jungle, which is at his very doors.
how, then, shall i believe the tales of ghosts and gods and goblins which he says he has seen?”
“it is full time that boy went to herding,” said the head-man, while buldeo puffed and snorted at mowgli’s impertinence.
the custom of most indian villages is for a few boys to take the cattle and buffaloes out to graze in the early morning, and bring them back at night.
the very cattle that would trample a white man to death allow themselves to be banged and bullied and shouted at by children that hardly come up to their noses.
so long as the boys keep with the herds they are safe, for not even the tiger will charge a mob of cattle.
but if they straggle to pick flowers or hunt lizards, they are sometimes carried off.
mowgli went through the village street in the dawn, sitting on the back of rama, the great herd bull.
the slaty-blue buffaloes, with their long, backward-sweeping horns and savage eyes, rose out their byres, one by one, and followed him, and mowgli made it very clear to the children with him that he was the master.
he beat the buffaloes with a long, polished bamboo, and told kamya, one of the boys, to graze the cattle by themselves, while he went on with the buffaloes, and to be very careful not to stray away from the herd.
an indian grazing ground is all rocks and scrub and tussocks and little ravines, among which the herds scatter and disappear.
the buffaloes generally keep to the pools and muddy places, where they lie wallowing or basking in the warm mud for hours.
mowgli drove them on to the edge of the plain where the waingunga came out of the jungle; then he dropped from rama’s neck, trotted off to a bamboo clump, and found gray brother.
“ah,” said gray brother, “i have waited here very many days.
what is the meaning of this cattle-herding work?”
“it is an order,” said mowgli.
“i am a village herd for a while.
what news of shere khan?”
“he has come back to this country, and has waited here a long time for thee.
now he has gone off again, for the game is scarce.
but he means to kill thee.”
“very good,” said mowgli.
“so long as he is away do thou or one of the four brothers sit on that rock, so that i can see thee as i come out of the village.
when he comes back wait for me in the ravine by the dhak tree in the center of the plain.
we need not walk into shere khan’s mouth.”
then mowgli picked out a shady place, and lay down and slept while the buffaloes grazed round him.
herding in india is one of the laziest things in the world.
the cattle move and crunch, and lie down, and move on again, and they do not even low.
they only grunt, and the buffaloes very seldom say anything, but get down into the muddy pools one after another, and work their way into the mud till only their noses and staring china-blue eyes show above the surface, and then they lie like logs.
the sun makes the rocks dance in the heat, and the herd children hear one kite (never any more) whistling almost out of sight overhead, and they know that if they died, or a cow died, that kite would sweep down, and the next kite miles away would see him drop and follow, and the next, and the next, and almost before they were dead there would be a score of hungry kites come out of nowhere.
then they sleep and wake and sleep again, and weave little baskets of dried grass and put grasshoppers in them; or catch two praying mantises and make them fight; or string a necklace of red and black jungle nuts; or watch a lizard basking on a rock, or a snake hunting a frog near the wallows.
then they sing long, long songs with odd native quavers at the end of them, and the day seems longer than most people’s whole lives, and perhaps they make a mud castle with mud figures of men and horses and buffaloes, and put reeds into the men’s hands, and pretend that they are kings and the figures are their armies, or that they are gods to be worshiped.
then evening comes and the children call, and the buffaloes lumber up out of the sticky mud with noises like gunshots going off one after the other, and they all string across the gray plain back to the twinkling village lights.
day after day mowgli would lead the buffaloes out to their wallows, and day after day he would see gray brother’s back a mile and a half away across the plain (so he knew that shere khan had not come back), and day after day he would lie on the grass listening to the noises round him, and dreaming of old days in the jungle.
if shere khan had made a false step with his lame paw up in the jungles by the waingunga, mowgli would have heard him in those long, still mornings.
at last a day came when he did not see gray brother at the signal place, and he laughed and headed the buffaloes for the ravine by the dhk tree, which was all covered with golden-red flowers.
there sat gray brother, every bristle on his back lifted.
“he has hidden for a month to throw thee off thy guard.
he crossed the ranges last night with tabaqui, hot-foot on thy trail,” said the wolf, panting.
mowgli frowned.
“i am not afraid of shere khan, but tabaqui is very cunning.”
“have no fear,” said gray brother, licking his lips a little.
“i met tabaqui in the dawn.
now he is telling all his wisdom to the kites, but he told me everything before i broke his back.
shere khan’s plan is to wait for thee at the village gate this evening for thee and for no one else.
he is lying up now, in the big dry ravine of the waingunga.”
“has he eaten today, or does he hunt empty?” said mowgli, for the answer meant life and death to him.
“he killed at dawn, a pig, and he has drunk too.
remember, shere khan could never fast, even for the sake of revenge.”
“oh!
fool, fool!
what a cub’s cub it is!
eaten and drunk too, and he thinks that i shall wait till he has slept!
now, where does he lie up?
if there were but ten of us we might pull him down as he lies.
these buffaloes will not charge unless they wind him, and i cannot speak their language.
can we get behind his track so that they may smell it?”
“he swam far down the waingunga to cut that off,” said gray brother.
“tabaqui told him that, i know.
he would never have thought of it alone.” mowgli stood with his finger in his mouth, thinking.
“the big ravine of the waingunga.
that opens out on the plain not half a mile from here.
i can take the herd round through the jungle to the head of the ravine and then sweep down but he would slink out at the foot.
we must block that end.
gray brother, canst thou cut the herd in two for me?”
“not i, perhaps but i have brought a wise helper.” gray brother trotted off and dropped into a hole.
then there lifted up a huge gray head that mowgli knew well, and the hot air was filled with the most desolate cry of all the jungle the hunting howl of a wolf at midday.
“akela!
akela!” said mowgli, clapping his hands.
“i might have known that thou wouldst not forget me.
we have a big work in hand.
cut the herd in two, akela.
keep the cows and calves together, and the bulls and the plow buffaloes by themselves.”
the two wolves ran, ladies’-chain fashion, in and out of the herd, which snorted and threw up its head, and separated into two clumps.
in one, the cow-buffaloes stood with their calves in the center, and glared and pawed, ready, if a wolf would only stay still, to charge down and trample the life out of him.
in the other, the bulls and the young bulls snorted and stamped, but though they looked more imposing they were much less dangerous, for they had no calves to protect.
no six men could have divided the herd so neatly.
“what orders!” panted akela.
“they are trying to join again.”
mowgli slipped on to rama’s back.
“drive the bulls away to the left, akela.
gray brother, when we are gone, hold the cows together, and drive them into the foot of the ravine.”
“how far?” said gray brother, panting and snapping.
“till the sides are higher than shere khan can jump,” shouted mowgli.
“keep them there till we come down.” the bulls swept off as akela bayed, and gray brother stopped in front of the cows.
they charged down on him, and he ran just before them to the foot of the ravine, as akela drove the bulls far to the left.
“well done!
another charge and they are fairly started.
careful, now careful, akela.
a snap too much and the bulls will charge.
hujah!
this is wilder work than driving black-buck.
didst thou think these creatures could move so swiftly?” mowgli called.
“i have have hunted these too in my time,” gasped akela in the dust.
“shall i turn them into the jungle?”
“ay!
turn.
swiftly turn them!
rama is mad with rage.
oh, if i could only tell him what i need of him to-day.”
the bulls were turned, to the right this time, and crashed into the standing thicket.
the other herd children, watching with the cattle half a mile away, hurried to the village as fast as their legs could carry them, crying that the buffaloes had gone mad and run away.
but mowgli’s plan was simple enough.
all he wanted to do was to make a big circle uphill and get at the head of the ravine, and then take the bulls down it and catch shere khan between the bulls and the cows; for he knew that after a meal and a full drink shere khan would not be in any condition to fight or to clamber up the sides of the ravine.
he was soothing the buffaloes now by voice, and akela had dropped far to the rear, only whimpering once or twice to hurry the rear-guard.
it was a long, long circle, for they did not wish to get too near the ravine and give shere khan warning.
at last mowgli rounded up the bewildered herd at the head of the ravine on a grassy patch that sloped steeply down to the ravine itself.
from that height you could see across the tops of the trees down to the plain below; but what mowgli looked at was the sides of the ravine, and he saw with a great deal of satisfaction that they ran nearly straight up and down, while the vines and creepers that hung over them would give no foothold to a tiger who wanted to get out.
“let them breathe, akela,” he said, holding up his hand.
“they have not winded him yet.
let them breathe.
i must tell shere khan who comes.
we have him in the trap.”
he put his hands to his mouth and shouted down the ravine it was almost like shouting down a tunnel and the echoes jumped from rock to rock.
after a long time there came back the drawling, sleepy snarl of a full-fed tiger just wakened.
“who calls?” said shere khan, and a splendid peacock fluttered up out of the ravine screeching.
“i, mowgli.
cattle thief, it is time to come to the council rock!
down hurry them down, akela!
down, rama, down!”
the herd paused for an instant at the edge of the slope, but akela gave tongue in the full hunting-yell, and they pitched over one after the other, just as steamers shoot rapids, the sand and stones spurting up round them.
once started, there was no chance of stopping, and before they were fairly in the bed of the ravine rama winded shere khan and bellowed.
“ha!
ha!” said mowgli, on his back.
“now thou knowest!” and the torrent of black horns, foaming muzzles, and staring eyes whirled down the ravine just as boulders go down in floodtime; the weaker buffaloes being shouldered out to the sides of the ravine where they tore through the creepers.
they knew what the business was before them the terrible charge of the buffalo herd against which no tiger can hope to stand.
shere khan heard the thunder of their hoofs, picked himself up, and lumbered down the ravine, looking from side to side for some way of escape, but the walls of the ravine were straight and he had to hold on, heavy with his dinner and his drink, willing to do anything rather than fight.
the herd splashed through the pool he had just left, bellowing till the narrow cut rang.
mowgli heard an answering bellow from the foot of the ravine, saw shere khan turn (the tiger knew if the worst came to the worst it was better to meet the bulls than the cows with their calves), and then rama tripped, stumbled, and went on again over something soft, and, with the bulls at his heels, crashed full into the other herd, while the weaker buffaloes were lifted clean off their feet by the shock of the meeting.
that charge carried both herds out into the plain, goring and stamping and snorting.
mowgli watched his time, and slipped off rama’s neck, laying about him right and left with his stick.
“quick, akela!
break them up.
scatter them, or they will be fighting one another.
drive them away, akela.
hai, rama!
hai, hai, hai!
my children.
softly now, softly!
it is all over.”
akela and gray brother ran to and fro nipping the buffaloes’ legs, and though the herd wheeled once to charge up the ravine again, mowgli managed to turn rama, and the others followed him to the wallows.
shere khan needed no more trampling.
he was dead, and the kites were coming for him already.
“brothers, that was a dog’s death,” said mowgli, feeling for the knife he always carried in a sheath round his neck now that he lived with men.
“but he would never have shown fight.
his hide will look well on the council rock.
we must get to work swiftly.”
a boy trained among men would never have dreamed of skinning a ten-foot tiger alone, but mowgli knew better than anyone else how an animal’s skin is fitted on, and how it can be taken off.
but it was hard work, and mowgli slashed and tore and grunted for an hour, while the wolves lolled out their tongues, or came forward and tugged as he ordered them.
presently a hand fell on his shoulder, and looking up he saw buldeo with the tower musket.
the children had told the village about the buffalo stampede, and buldeo went out angrily, only too anxious to correct mowgli for not taking better care of the herd.
the wolves dropped out of sight as soon as they saw the man coming.
“what is this folly?” said buldeo angrily.
“to think that thou canst skin a tiger!
where did the buffaloes kill him?
it is the lame tiger too, and there is a hundred rupees on his head.
well, well, we will overlook thy letting the herd run off, and perhaps i will give thee one of the rupees of the reward when i have taken the skin to khanhiwara.”
he fumbled in his waist cloth for flint and steel, and stooped down to singe shere khan’s whiskers.
most native hunters always singe a tiger’s whiskers to prevent his ghost from haunting them.
“hum!” said mowgli, half to himself as he ripped back the skin of a forepaw.
“so thou wilt take the hide to khanhiwara for the reward, and perhaps give me one rupee?
now it is in my mind that i need the skin for my own use.
heh!
old man, take away that fire!”
“what talk is this to the chief hunter of the village?
thy luck and the stupidity of thy buffaloes have helped thee to this kill.
the tiger has just fed, or he would have gone twenty miles by this time.
thou canst not even skin him properly, little beggar brat, and forsooth i, buldeo, must be told not to singe his whiskers.
mowgli, i will not give thee one anna of the reward, but only a very big beating.
leave the carcass!”
“by the bull that bought me,” said mowgli, who was trying to get at the shoulder, “must i stay babbling to an old ape all noon?
here, akela, this man plagues me.”
buldeo, who was still stooping over shere khan’s head, found himself sprawling on the grass, with a gray wolf standing over him, while mowgli went on skinning as though he were alone in all india.
“ye-es,” he said, between his teeth.
“thou art altogether right, buldeo.
thou wilt never give me one anna of the reward.
there is an old war between this lame tiger and myself a very old war, and i have won.”
to do buldeo justice, if he had been ten years younger he would have taken his chance with akela had he met the wolf in the woods, but a wolf who obeyed the orders of this boy who had private wars with man-eating tigers was not a common animal.
it was sorcery, magic of the worst kind, thought buldeo, and he wondered whether the amulet round his neck would protect him.
he lay as still as still, expecting every minute to see mowgli turn into a tiger too.
“maharaj!
great king,” he said at last in a husky whisper.
“yes,” said mowgli, without turning his head, chuckling a little.
“i am an old man.
i did not know that thou wast anything more than a herdsboy.
may i rise up and go away, or will thy servant tear me to pieces?”
“go, and peace go with thee.
only, another time do not meddle with my game.
let him go, akela.”
buldeo hobbled away to the village as fast as he could, looking back over his shoulder in case mowgli should change into something terrible.
when he got to the village he told a tale of magic and enchantment and sorcery that made the priest look very grave.
mowgli went on with his work, but it was nearly twilight before he and the wolves had drawn the great gay skin clear of the body.
“now we must hide this and take the buffaloes home!
help me to herd them, akela.”
the herd rounded up in the misty twilight, and when they got near the village mowgli saw lights, and heard the conches and bells in the temple blowing and banging.
half the village seemed to be waiting for him by the gate.
“that is because i have killed shere khan,” he said to himself.
but a shower of stones whistled about his ears, and the villagers shouted: “sorcerer!
wolf’s brat!
jungle demon!
go away!
get hence quickly or the priest will turn thee into a wolf again.
shoot, buldeo, shoot!”
the old tower musket went off with a bang, and a young buffalo bellowed in pain.
“more sorcery!” shouted the villagers.
“he can turn bullets.
buldeo, that was thy buffalo.”
“now what is this?” said mowgli, bewildered, as the stones flew thicker.
“they are not unlike the pack, these brothers of thine,” said akela, sitting down composedly.
“it is in my head that, if bullets mean anything, they would cast thee out.”
“wolf!
wolf’s cub!
go away!” shouted the priest, waving a sprig of the sacred tulsi plant.
“again?
last time it was because i was a man.
this time it is because i am a wolf.
let us go, akela.”
a woman it was messua ran across to the herd, and cried: “oh, my son, my son!
they say thou art a sorcerer who can turn himself into a beast at will.
i do not believe, but go away or they will kill thee.
buldeo says thou art a wizard, but i know thou hast avenged nathoo’s death.”
“come back, messua!” shouted the crowd.
“come back, or we will stone thee.”
mowgli laughed a little short ugly laugh, for a stone had hit him in the mouth.
“run back, messua.
this is one of the foolish tales they tell under the big tree at dusk.
i have at least paid for thy son’s life.
farewell; and run quickly, for i shall send the herd in more swiftly than their brickbats.
i am no wizard, messua.
farewell!”
“now, once more, akela,” he cried.
“bring the herd in.”
the buffaloes were anxious enough to get to the village.
they hardly needed akela’s yell, but charged through the gate like a whirlwind, scattering the crowd right and left.
“keep count!” shouted mowgli scornfully.
“it may be that i have stolen one of them.
keep count, for i will do your herding no more.
fare you well, children of men, and thank messua that i do not come in with my wolves and hunt you up and down your street.”
he turned on his heel and walked away with the lone wolf, and as he looked up at the stars he felt happy.
“no more sleeping in traps for me, akela.
let us get shere khan’s skin and go away.
no, we will not hurt the village, for messua was kind to me.”
when the moon rose over the plain, making it look all milky, the horrified villagers saw mowgli, with two wolves at his heels and a bundle on his head, trotting across at the steady wolf’s trot that eats up the long miles like fire.
then they banged the temple bells and blew the conches louder than ever.
and messua cried, and buldeo embroidered the story of his adventures in the jungle, till he ended by saying that akela stood up on his hind legs and talked like a man.
the moon was just going down when mowgli and the two wolves came to the hill of the council rock, and they stopped at mother wolf’s cave.
“they have cast me out from the man-pack, mother,” shouted mowgli, “but i come with the hide of shere khan to keep my word.”
mother wolf walked stiffly from the cave with the cubs behind her, and her eyes glowed as she saw the skin.
“i told him on that day, when he crammed his head and shoulders into this cave, hunting for thy life, little frog i told him that the hunter would be the hunted.
it is well done.”
“little brother, it is well done,” said a deep voice in the thicket.
“we were lonely in the jungle without thee,” and bagheera came running to mowgli’s bare feet.
they clambered up the council rock together, and mowgli spread the skin out on the flat stone where akela used to sit, and pegged it down with four slivers of bamboo, and akela lay down upon it, and called the old call to the council, “look look well, o wolves,”
exactly as he had called when mowgli was first brought there.
ever since akela had been deposed, the pack had been without a leader, hunting and fighting at their own pleasure.
but they answered the call from habit; and some of them were lame from the traps they had fallen into, and some limped from shot wounds, and some were mangy from eating bad food, and many were missing.
but they came to the council rock, all that were left of them, and saw shere khan’s striped hide on the rock, and the huge claws dangling at the end of the empty dangling feet.
it was then that mowgli made up a song that came up into his throat all by itself, and he shouted it aloud, leaping up and down on the rattling skin, and beating time with his heels till he had no more breath left, while gray brother and akela howled between the verses.
“look well, o wolves.
have i kept my word?” said mowgli.
and the wolves bayed “yes,” and one tattered wolf howled:
“lead us again, o akela.
lead us again, o man-cub, for we be sick of this lawlessness, and we would be the free people once more.”
“nay,” purred bagheera, “that may not be.
when ye are full-fed, the madness may come upon you again.
not for nothing are ye called the free people.
ye fought for freedom, and it is yours.
eat it, o wolves.”
“man-pack and wolf-pack have cast me out,” said mowgli.
“now i will hunt alone in the jungle.”
“and we will hunt with thee,” said the four cubs.
so mowgli went away and hunted with the four cubs in the jungle from that day on.
but he was not always alone, because, years afterward, he became a man and married.
but that is a story for grown-ups.
mowgli’s song
that he sang at the council rock when he      danced on shere khan’s hide
the song of mowgli i, mowgli, am singing.
let the jungle         listen to the things i have done.
shere khan said he would kill would kill!
at the gates in the         twilight he would kill mowgli, the frog!
he ate and he drank.
drink deep, shere khan, for when wilt thou         drink again?
sleep and dream of the kill.
i am alone on the grazing-grounds.
gray brother, come to me!
come to me, lone wolf, for there is big game afoot!
bring up the great bull buffaloes, the blue-skinned herd bulls         with the angry eyes.
drive them to and fro as i order.
sleepest thou still, shere khan?
wake, oh, wake!
here come i,         and the bulls are behind.
rama, the king of the buffaloes, stamped with his foot.
waters of         the waingunga, whither went shere khan?
he is not ikki to dig holes, nor mao, the peacock, that he should         fly.
he is not mang the bat, to hang in the branches.
little         bamboos that creak together, tell me where he ran?
ow!
he is there.
ahoo!
he is there.
under the feet of rama         lies the lame one!
up, shere khan!
up and kill!
here is meat; break the necks of the bulls!
hsh!
he is asleep.
we will not wake him, for his strength is         very great.
the kites have come down to see it.
the black         ants have come up to know it.
there is a great assembly in his         honor.
alala!
i have no cloth to wrap me.
the kites will see that i am         naked.
i am ashamed to meet all these people.
lend me thy coat, shere khan.
lend me thy gay striped coat that i         may go to the council rock.
by the bull that bought me i made a promise a little promise.
only thy coat is lacking before i keep my word.
with the knife, with the knife that men use, with the knife of the         hunter, i will stoop down for my gift.
waters of the waingunga, shere khan gives me his coat for the love         that he bears me.
pull, gray brother!
pull, akela!
heavy is         the hide of shere khan.
the man pack are angry.
they throw stones and talk child’s talk.
my mouth is bleeding.
let me run away.
through the night, through the hot night, run swiftly with me, my         brothers.
we will leave the lights of the village and go to         the low moon.
waters of the waingunga, the man-pack have cast me out.
i did         them no harm, but they were afraid of me.
why?
wolf pack, ye have cast me out too.
the jungle is shut to me and         the village gates are shut.
why?
as mang flies between the beasts and birds, so fly i between the         village and the jungle.
why?
i dance on the hide of shere khan, but my heart is very heavy.
my         mouth is cut and wounded with the stones from the village, but         my heart is very light, because i have come back to the jungle.
why?
these two things fight together in me as the snakes fight in the         spring.
the water comes out of my eyes; yet i laugh while it         falls.
why?
i am two mowglis, but the hide of shere khan is under my feet.
all the jungle knows that i have killed shere khan.
look look         well, o wolves!
ahae!
my heart is heavy with the things that i do not understand.
the white seal
oh!
hush thee, my baby, the night is behind us,         and black are the waters that sparkled so green.
the moon, o’er the combers, looks downward to find us         at rest in the hollows that rustle between.
where billow meets billow, then soft be thy pillow,         ah, weary wee flipperling, curl at thy ease!
the storm shall not wake thee, nor shark overtake thee,         asleep in the arms of the slow-swinging seas!
seal lullaby
all these things happened several years ago at a place called novastoshnah, or north east point, on the island of st. paul, away and away in the bering sea.
limmershin, the winter wren, told me the tale when he was blown on to the rigging of a steamer going to japan, and i took him down into my cabin and warmed and fed him for a couple of days till he was fit to fly back to st. paul’s again.
limmershin is a very quaint little bird, but he knows how to tell the truth.
nobody comes to novastoshnah except on business, and the only people who have regular business there are the seals.
they come in the summer months by hundreds and hundreds of thousands out of the cold gray sea.
for novastoshnah beach has the finest accommodation for seals of any place in all the world.
sea catch knew that, and every spring would swim from whatever place he happened to be in would swim like a torpedo-boat straight for novastoshnah and spend a month fighting with his companions for a good place on the rocks, as close to the sea as possible.
sea catch was fifteen years old, a huge gray fur seal with almost a mane on his shoulders, and long, wicked dog teeth.
when he heaved himself up on his front flippers he stood more than four feet clear of the ground, and his weight, if anyone had been bold enough to weigh him, was nearly seven hundred pounds.
he was scarred all over with the marks of savage fights, but he was always ready for just one fight more.
he would put his head on one side, as though he were afraid to look his enemy in the face; then he would shoot it out like lightning, and when the big teeth were firmly fixed on the other seal’s neck, the other seal might get away if he could, but sea catch would not help him.
yet sea catch never chased a beaten seal, for that was against the rules of the beach.
he only wanted room by the sea for his nursery.
but as there were forty or fifty thousand other seals hunting for the same thing each spring, the whistling, bellowing, roaring, and blowing on the beach was something frightful.
from a little hill called hutchinson’s hill, you could look over three and a half miles of ground covered with fighting seals; and the surf was dotted all over with the heads of seals hurrying to land and begin their share of the fighting.
they fought in the breakers, they fought in the sand, and they fought on the smooth-worn basalt rocks of the nurseries, for they were just as stupid and unaccommodating as men.
their wives never came to the island until late in may or early in june, for they did not care to be torn to pieces; and the young two-, three-, and four-year-old seals who had not begun housekeeping went inland about half a mile through the ranks of the fighters and played about on the sand dunes in droves and legions, and rubbed off every single green thing that grew.
they were called the holluschickie the bachelors and there were perhaps two or three hundred thousand of them at novastoshnah alone.
sea catch had just finished his forty-fifth fight one spring when matkah, his soft, sleek, gentle-eyed wife, came up out of the sea, and he caught her by the scruff of the neck and dumped her down on his reservation, saying gruffly: “late as usual.
where have you been?”
it was not the fashion for sea catch to eat anything during the four months he stayed on the beaches, and so his temper was generally bad.
matkah knew better than to answer back.
she looked round and cooed: “how thoughtful of you.
you’ve taken the old place again.”
“i should think i had,” said sea catch.
“look at me!”
he was scratched and bleeding in twenty places; one eye was almost out, and his sides were torn to ribbons.
“oh, you men, you men!” matkah said, fanning herself with her hind flipper.
“why can’t you be sensible and settle your places quietly?
you look as though you had been fighting with the killer whale.”
“i haven’t been doing anything but fight since the middle of may.
the beach is disgracefully crowded this season.
i’ve met at least a hundred seals from lukannon beach, house hunting.
why can’t people stay where they belong?”
“i’ve often thought we should be much happier if we hauled out at otter island instead of this crowded place,” said matkah.
“bah!
only the holluschickie go to otter island.
if we went there they would say we were afraid.
we must preserve appearances, my dear.”
sea catch sunk his head proudly between his fat shoulders and pretended to go to sleep for a few minutes, but all the time he was keeping a sharp lookout for a fight.
now that all the seals and their wives were on the land, you could hear their clamor miles out to sea above the loudest gales.
at the lowest counting there were over a million seals on the beach old seals, mother seals, tiny babies, and holluschickie, fighting, scuffling, bleating, crawling, and playing together going down to the sea and coming up from it in gangs and regiments, lying over every foot of ground as far as the eye could reach, and skirmishing about in brigades through the fog.
it is nearly always foggy at novastoshnah, except when the sun comes out and makes everything look all pearly and rainbow-colored for a little while.
kotick, matkah’s baby, was born in the middle of that confusion, and he was all head and shoulders, with pale, watery blue eyes, as tiny seals must be, but there was something about his coat that made his mother look at him very closely.
“sea catch,” she said, at last, “our baby’s going to be white!”
“empty clam-shells and dry seaweed!” snorted sea catch.
“there never has been such a thing in the world as a white seal.”
“i can’t help that,” said matkah; “there’s going to be now.” and she sang the low, crooning seal song that all the mother seals sing to their babies:
you mustn’t swim till you’re six weeks old,         or your head will be sunk by your heels;      and summer gales and killer whales         are bad for baby seals.
are bad for baby seals, dear rat,         as bad as bad can be;      but splash and grow strong,      and you can’t be wrong.
child of the open sea!
of course the little fellow did not understand the words at first.
he paddled and scrambled about by his mother’s side, and learned to scuffle out of the way when his father was fighting with another seal, and the two rolled and roared up and down the slippery rocks.
matkah used to go to sea to get things to eat, and the baby was fed only once in two days, but then he ate all he could and throve upon it.
the first thing he did was to crawl inland, and there he met tens of thousands of babies of his own age, and they played together like puppies, went to sleep on the clean sand, and played again.
the old people in the nurseries took no notice of them, and the holluschickie kept to their own grounds, and the babies had a beautiful playtime.
when matkah came back from her deep-sea fishing she would go straight to their playground and call as a sheep calls for a lamb, and wait until she heard kotick bleat.
then she would take the straightest of straight lines in his direction, striking out with her fore flippers and knocking the youngsters head over heels right and left.
there were always a few hundred mothers hunting for their children through the playgrounds, and the babies were kept lively.
but, as matkah told kotick, “so long as you don’t lie in muddy water and get mange, or rub the hard sand into a cut or scratch, and so long as you never go swimming when there is a heavy sea, nothing will hurt you here.”
little seals can no more swim than little children, but they are unhappy till they learn.
the first time that kotick went down to the sea a wave carried him out beyond his depth, and his big head sank and his little hind flippers flew up exactly as his mother had told him in the song, and if the next wave had not thrown him back again he would have drowned.
after that, he learned to lie in a beach pool and let the wash of the waves just cover him and lift him up while he paddled, but he always kept his eye open for big waves that might hurt.
he was two weeks learning to use his flippers; and all that while he floundered in and out of the water, and coughed and grunted and crawled up the beach and took catnaps on the sand, and went back again, until at last he found that he truly belonged to the water.
then you can imagine the times that he had with his companions, ducking under the rollers; or coming in on top of a comber and landing with a swash and a splutter as the big wave went whirling far up the beach; or standing up on his tail and scratching his head as the old people did; or playing “i’m the king of the castle” on slippery, weedy rocks that just stuck out of the wash. now and then he would see a thin fin, like a big shark’s fin, drifting along close to shore, and he knew that that was the killer whale, the grampus, who eats young seals when he can get them; and kotick would head for the beach like an arrow, and the fin would jig off slowly, as if it were looking for nothing at all.
late in october the seals began to leave st. paul’s for the deep sea, by families and tribes, and there was no more fighting over the nurseries, and the holluschickie played anywhere they liked.
“next year,” said matkah to kotick, “you will be a holluschickie; but this year you must learn how to catch fish.”
they set out together across the pacific, and matkah showed kotick how to sleep on his back with his flippers tucked down by his side and his little nose just out of the water.
no cradle is so comfortable as the long, rocking swell of the pacific.
when kotick felt his skin tingle all over, matkah told him he was learning the “feel of the water,” and that tingly, prickly feelings meant bad weather coming, and he must swim hard and get away.
“in a little time,” she said, “you’ll know where to swim to, but just now we’ll follow sea pig, the porpoise, for he is very wise.” a school of porpoises were ducking and tearing through the water, and little kotick followed them as fast as he could.
“how do you know where to go to?” he panted.
the leader of the school rolled his white eye and ducked under.
“my tail tingles, youngster,” he said.
“that means there’s a gale behind me.
come along!
when you’re south of the sticky water [he meant the equator] and your tail tingles, that means there’s a gale in front of you and you must head north.
come along!
the water feels bad here.”
this was one of very many things that kotick learned, and he was always learning.
matkah taught him to follow the cod and the halibut along the under-sea banks and wrench the rockling out of his hole among the weeds; how to skirt the wrecks lying a hundred fathoms below water and dart like a rifle bullet in at one porthole and out at another as the fishes ran; how to dance on the top of the waves when the lightning was racing all over the sky, and wave his flipper politely to the stumpy-tailed albatross and the man-of-war hawk as they went down the wind; how to jump three or four feet clear of the water like a dolphin, flippers close to the side and tail curved; to leave the flying fish alone because they are all bony; to take the shoulder-piece out of a cod at full speed ten fathoms deep, and never to stop and look at a boat or a ship, but particularly a row-boat.
at the end of six months what kotick did not know about deep-sea fishing was not worth the knowing.
and all that time he never set flipper on dry ground.
one day, however, as he was lying half asleep in the warm water somewhere off the island of juan fernandez, he felt faint and lazy all over, just as human people do when the spring is in their legs, and he remembered the good firm beaches of novastoshnah seven thousand miles away, the games his companions played, the smell of the seaweed, the seal roar, and the fighting.
that very minute he turned north, swimming steadily, and as he went on he met scores of his mates, all bound for the same place, and they said: “greeting, kotick!
this year we are all holluschickie, and we can dance the fire-dance in the breakers off lukannon and play on the new grass.
but where did you get that coat?”
kotick’s fur was almost pure white now, and though he felt very proud of it, he only said, “swim quickly!
my bones are aching for the land.” and so they all came to the beaches where they had been born, and heard the old seals, their fathers, fighting in the rolling mist.
that night kotick danced the fire-dance with the yearling seals.
the sea is full of fire on summer nights all the way down from novastoshnah to lukannon, and each seal leaves a wake like burning oil behind him and a flaming flash when he jumps, and the waves break in great phosphorescent streaks and swirls.
then they went inland to the holluschickie grounds and rolled up and down in the new wild wheat and told stories of what they had done while they had been at sea.
they talked about the pacific as boys would talk about a wood that they had been nutting in, and if anyone had understood them he could have gone away and made such a chart of that ocean as never was.
the three- and four-year-old holluschickie romped down from hutchinson’s hill crying: “out of the way, youngsters!
the sea is deep and you don’t know all that’s in it yet.
wait till you’ve rounded the horn.
hi, you yearling, where did you get that white coat?”
“i didn’t get it,” said kotick.
“it grew.” and just as he was going to roll the speaker over, a couple of black-haired men with flat red faces came from behind a sand dune, and kotick, who had never seen a man before, coughed and lowered his head.
the holluschickie just bundled off a few yards and sat staring stupidly.
the men were no less than kerick booterin, the chief of the seal-hunters on the island, and patalamon, his son.
they came from the little village not half a mile from the sea nurseries, and they were deciding what seals they would drive up to the killing pens for the seals were driven just like sheep to be turned into seal-skin jackets later on.
“ho!” said patalamon.
“look!
there’s a white seal!”
kerick booterin turned nearly white under his oil and smoke, for he was an aleut, and aleuts are not clean people.
then he began to mutter a prayer.
“don’t touch him, patalamon.
there has never been a white seal since since i was born.
perhaps it is old zaharrof’s ghost.
he was lost last year in the big gale.”
“i’m not going near him,” said patalamon.
“he’s unlucky.
do you really think he is old zaharrof come back?
i owe him for some gulls’ eggs.”
“don’t look at him,” said kerick.
“head off that drove of four-year-olds.
the men ought to skin two hundred to-day, but it’s the beginning of the season and they are new to the work.
a hundred will do.
quick!”
patalamon rattled a pair of seal’s shoulder bones in front of a herd of holluschickie and they stopped dead, puffing and blowing.
then he stepped near and the seals began to move, and kerick headed them inland, and they never tried to get back to their companions.
hundreds and hundreds of thousands of seals watched them being driven, but they went on playing just the same.
kotick was the only one who asked questions, and none of his companions could tell him anything, except that the men always drove seals in that way for six weeks or two months of every year.
“i am going to follow,” he said, and his eyes nearly popped out of his head as he shuffled along in the wake of the herd.
“the white seal is coming after us,” cried patalamon.
“that’s the first time a seal has ever come to the killing-grounds alone.”
“hsh!
don’t look behind you,” said kerick.
“it is zaharrof’s ghost!
i must speak to the priest about this.”
the distance to the killing-grounds was only half a mile, but it took an hour to cover, because if the seals went too fast kerick knew that they would get heated and then their fur would come off in patches when they were skinned.
so they went on very slowly, past sea lion’s neck, past webster house, till they came to the salt house just beyond the sight of the seals on the beach.
kotick followed, panting and wondering.
he thought that he was at the world’s end, but the roar of the seal nurseries behind him sounded as loud as the roar of a train in a tunnel.
then kerick sat down on the moss and pulled out a heavy pewter watch and let the drove cool off for thirty minutes, and kotick could hear the fog-dew dripping off the brim of his cap.
then ten or twelve men, each with an iron-bound club three or four feet long, came up, and kerick pointed out one or two of the drove that were bitten by their companions or too hot, and the men kicked those aside with their heavy boots made of the skin of a walrus’s throat, and then kerick said, “let go!” and then the men clubbed the seals on the head as fast as they could.
ten minutes later little kotick did not recognize his friends any more, for their skins were ripped off from the nose to the hind flippers, whipped off and thrown down on the ground in a pile.
that was enough for kotick.
he turned and galloped (a seal can gallop very swiftly for a short time) back to the sea; his little new mustache bristling with horror.
at sea lion’s neck, where the great sea lions sit on the edge of the surf, he flung himself flipper-overhead into the cool water and rocked there, gasping miserably.
“what’s here?” said a sea lion gruffly, for as a rule the sea lions keep themselves to themselves.
“scoochnie!
ochen scoochnie!” (“i’m lonesome, very lonesome!”) said kotick.
“they’re killing all the holluschickie on all the beaches!”
the sea lion turned his head inshore.
“nonsense!” he said.
“your friends are making as much noise as ever.
you must have seen old kerick polishing off a drove.
he’s done that for thirty years.”
“it’s horrible,” said kotick, backing water as a wave went over him, and steadying himself with a screw stroke of his flippers that brought him all standing within three inches of a jagged edge of rock.
“well done for a yearling!” said the sea lion, who could appreciate good swimming.
“i suppose it is rather awful from your way of looking at it, but if you seals will come here year after year, of course the men get to know of it, and unless you can find an island where no men ever come you will always be driven.”
“isn’t there any such island?” began kotick.
“i’ve followed the poltoos [the halibut] for twenty years, and i can’t say i’ve found it yet.
but look here you seem to have a fondness for talking to your betters suppose you go to walrus islet and talk to sea vitch.
he may know something.
don’t flounce off like that.
it’s a six-mile swim, and if i were you i should haul out and take a nap first, little one.”
kotick thought that that was good advice, so he swam round to his own beach, hauled out, and slept for half an hour, twitching all over, as seals will.
then he headed straight for walrus islet, a little low sheet of rocky island almost due northeast from novastoshnah, all ledges and rock and gulls’ nests, where the walrus herded by themselves.
he landed close to old sea vitch the big, ugly, bloated, pimpled, fat-necked, long-tusked walrus of the north pacific, who has no manners except when he is asleep as he was then, with his hind flippers half in and half out of the surf.
“wake up!” barked kotick, for the gulls were making a great noise.
“hah!
ho!
hmph!
what’s that?” said sea vitch, and he struck the next walrus a blow with his tusks and waked him up, and the next struck the next, and so on till they were all awake and staring in every direction but the right one.
“hi!
it’s me,” said kotick, bobbing in the surf and looking like a little white slug.
“well!
may i be skinned!” said sea vitch, and they all looked at kotick as you can fancy a club full of drowsy old gentlemen would look at a little boy.
kotick did not care to hear any more about skinning just then; he had seen enough of it.
so he called out: “isn’t there any place for seals to go where men don’t ever come?”
“go and find out,” said sea vitch, shutting his eyes.
“run away.
we’re busy here.”
kotick made his dolphin-jump in the air and shouted as loud as he could:
“clam-eater!
clam-eater!” he knew that sea vitch never caught a fish in his life but always rooted for clams and seaweed; though he pretended to be a very terrible person.
naturally the chickies and the gooverooskies and the epatkas the burgomaster gulls and the kittiwakes and the puffins, who are always looking for a chance to be rude, took up the cry, and so limmershin told me for nearly five minutes you could not have heard a gun fired on walrus islet.
all the population was yelling and screaming “clam-eater!
stareek [old man]!” while sea vitch rolled from side to side grunting and coughing.
“now will you tell?” said kotick, all out of breath.
“go and ask sea cow,” said sea vitch.
“if he is living still, he’ll be able to tell you.”
“how shall i know sea cow when i meet him?” said kotick, sheering off.
“he’s the only thing in the sea uglier than sea vitch,” screamed a burgomaster gull, wheeling under sea vitch’s nose.
“uglier, and with worse manners!
stareek!”
kotick swam back to novastoshnah, leaving the gulls to scream.
there he found that no one sympathized with him in his little attempt to discover a quiet place for the seals.
they told him that men had always driven the holluschickie it was part of the day’s work and that if he did not like to see ugly things he should not have gone to the killing grounds.
but none of the other seals had seen the killing, and that made the difference between him and his friends.
besides, kotick was a white seal.
“what you must do,” said old sea catch, after he had heard his son’s adventures, “is to grow up and be a big seal like your father, and have a nursery on the beach, and then they will leave you alone.
in another five years you ought to be able to fight for yourself.” even gentle matkah, his mother, said: “you will never be able to stop the killing.
go and play in the sea, kotick.” and kotick went off and danced the fire-dance with a very heavy little heart.
that autumn he left the beach as soon as he could, and set off alone because of a notion in his bullet-head.
he was going to find sea cow, if there was such a person in the sea, and he was going to find a quiet island with good firm beaches for seals to live on, where men could not get at them.
so he explored and explored by himself from the north to the south pacific, swimming as much as three hundred miles in a day and a night.
he met with more adventures than can be told, and narrowly escaped being caught by the basking shark, and the spotted shark, and the hammerhead, and he met all the untrustworthy ruffians that loaf up and down the seas, and the heavy polite fish, and the scarlet spotted scallops that are moored in one place for hundreds of years, and grow very proud of it; but he never met sea cow, and he never found an island that he could fancy.
if the beach was good and hard, with a slope behind it for seals to play on, there was always the smoke of a whaler on the horizon, boiling down blubber, and kotick knew what that meant.
or else he could see that seals had once visited the island and been killed off, and kotick knew that where men had come once they would come again.
he picked up with an old stumpy-tailed albatross, who told him that kerguelen island was the very place for peace and quiet, and when kotick went down there he was all but smashed to pieces against some wicked black cliffs in a heavy sleet-storm with lightning and thunder.
yet as he pulled out against the gale he could see that even there had once been a seal nursery.
and it was so in all the other islands that he visited.
limmershin gave a long list of them, for he said that kotick spent five seasons exploring, with a four months’ rest each year at novastoshnah, when the holluschickie used to make fun of him and his imaginary islands.
he went to the gallapagos, a horrid dry place on the equator, where he was nearly baked to death; he went to the georgia islands, the orkneys, emerald island, little nightingale island, gough’s island, bouvet’s island, the crossets, and even to a little speck of an island south of the cape of good hope.
but everywhere the people of the sea told him the same things.
seals had come to those islands once upon a time, but men had killed them all off.
even when he swam thousands of miles out of the pacific and got to a place called cape corrientes (that was when he was coming back from gough’s island), he found a few hundred mangy seals on a rock and they told him that men came there too.
that nearly broke his heart, and he headed round the horn back to his own beaches; and on his way north he hauled out on an island full of green trees, where he found an old, old seal who was dying, and kotick caught fish for him and told him all his sorrows.
“now,” said kotick, “i am going back to novastoshnah, and if i am driven to the killing-pens with the holluschickie i shall not care.”
the old seal said, “try once more.
i am the last of the lost rookery of masafuera, and in the days when men killed us by the hundred thousand there was a story on the beaches that some day a white seal would come out of the north and lead the seal people to a quiet place.
i am old, and i shall never live to see that day, but others will.
try once more.”
and kotick curled up his mustache (it was a beauty) and said, “i am the only white seal that has ever been born on the beaches, and i am the only seal, black or white, who ever thought of looking for new islands.”
this cheered him immensely; and when he came back to novastoshnah that summer, matkah, his mother, begged him to marry and settle down, for he was no longer a holluschick but a full-grown sea-catch, with a curly white mane on his shoulders, as heavy, as big, and as fierce as his father.
“give me another season,” he said.
“remember, mother, it is always the seventh wave that goes farthest up the beach.”
curiously enough, there was another seal who thought that she would put off marrying till the next year, and kotick danced the fire-dance with her all down lukannon beach the night before he set off on his last exploration.
this time he went westward, because he had fallen on the trail of a great shoal of halibut, and he needed at least one hundred pounds of fish a day to keep him in good condition.
he chased them till he was tired, and then he curled himself up and went to sleep on the hollows of the ground swell that sets in to copper island.
he knew the coast perfectly well, so about midnight, when he felt himself gently bumped on a weed-bed, he said, “hm, tide’s running strong tonight,” and turning over under water opened his eyes slowly and stretched.
then he jumped like a cat, for he saw huge things nosing about in the shoal water and browsing on the heavy fringes of the weeds.
“by the great combers of magellan!” he said, beneath his mustache.
“who in the deep sea are these people?”
they were like no walrus, sea lion, seal, bear, whale, shark, fish, squid, or scallop that kotick had ever seen before.
they were between twenty and thirty feet long, and they had no hind flippers, but a shovel-like tail that looked as if it had been whittled out of wet leather.
their heads were the most foolish-looking things you ever saw, and they balanced on the ends of their tails in deep water when they weren’t grazing, bowing solemnly to each other and waving their front flippers as a fat man waves his arm.
“ahem!” said kotick.
“good sport, gentlemen?” the big things answered by bowing and waving their flippers like the frog footman.
when they began feeding again kotick saw that their upper lip was split into two pieces that they could twitch apart about a foot and bring together again with a whole bushel of seaweed between the splits.
they tucked the stuff into their mouths and chumped solemnly.
“messy style of feeding, that,” said kotick.
they bowed again, and kotick began to lose his temper.
“very good,” he said.
“if you do happen to have an extra joint in your front flipper you needn’t show off so.
i see you bow gracefully, but i should like to know your names.” the split lips moved and twitched; and the glassy green eyes stared, but they did not speak.
“well!” said kotick.
“you’re the only people i’ve ever met uglier than sea vitch and with worse manners.”
then he remembered in a flash what the burgomaster gull had screamed to him when he was a little yearling at walrus islet, and he tumbled backward in the water, for he knew that he had found sea cow at last.
the sea cows went on schlooping and grazing and chumping in the weed, and kotick asked them questions in every language that he had picked up in his travels; and the sea people talk nearly as many languages as human beings.
but the sea cows did not answer because sea cow cannot talk.
he has only six bones in his neck where he ought to have seven, and they say under the sea that that prevents him from speaking even to his companions.
but, as you know, he has an extra joint in his foreflipper, and by waving it up and down and about he makes what answers to a sort of clumsy telegraphic code.
by daylight kotick’s mane was standing on end and his temper was gone where the dead crabs go.
then the sea cow began to travel northward very slowly, stopping to hold absurd bowing councils from time to time, and kotick followed them, saying to himself, “people who are such idiots as these are would have been killed long ago if they hadn’t found out some safe island.
and what is good enough for the sea cow is good enough for the sea catch.
all the same, i wish they’d hurry.”
it was weary work for kotick.
the herd never went more than forty or fifty miles a day, and stopped to feed at night, and kept close to the shore all the time; while kotick swam round them, and over them, and under them, but he could not hurry them up one-half mile.
as they went farther north they held a bowing council every few hours, and kotick nearly bit off his mustache with impatience till he saw that they were following up a warm current of water, and then he respected them more.
one night they sank through the shiny water sank like stones and for the first time since he had known them began to swim quickly.
kotick followed, and the pace astonished him, for he never dreamed that sea cow was anything of a swimmer.
they headed for a cliff by the shore a cliff that ran down into deep water, and plunged into a dark hole at the foot of it, twenty fathoms under the sea.
it was a long, long swim, and kotick badly wanted fresh air before he was out of the dark tunnel they led him through.
“my wig!” he said, when he rose, gasping and puffing, into open water at the farther end.
“it was a long dive, but it was worth it.”
the sea cows had separated and were browsing lazily along the edges of the finest beaches that kotick had ever seen.
there were long stretches of smooth-worn rock running for miles, exactly fitted to make seal-nurseries, and there were play-grounds of hard sand sloping inland behind them, and there were rollers for seals to dance in, and long grass to roll in, and sand dunes to climb up and down, and, best of all, kotick knew by the feel of the water, which never deceives a true sea catch, that no men had ever come there.
the first thing he did was to assure himself that the fishing was good, and then he swam along the beaches and counted up the delightful low sandy islands half hidden in the beautiful rolling fog.
away to the northward, out to sea, ran a line of bars and shoals and rocks that would never let a ship come within six miles of the beach, and between the islands and the mainland was a stretch of deep water that ran up to the perpendicular cliffs, and somewhere below the cliffs was the mouth of the tunnel.
“it’s novastoshnah over again, but ten times better,” said kotick.
“sea cow must be wiser than i thought.
men can’t come down the cliffs, even if there were any men; and the shoals to seaward would knock a ship to splinters.
if any place in the sea is safe, this is it.”
he began to think of the seal he had left behind him, but though he was in a hurry to go back to novastoshnah, he thoroughly explored the new country, so that he would be able to answer all questions.
then he dived and made sure of the mouth of the tunnel, and raced through to the southward.
no one but a sea cow or a seal would have dreamed of there being such a place, and when he looked back at the cliffs even kotick could hardly believe that he had been under them.
he was six days going home, though he was not swimming slowly; and when he hauled out just above sea lion’s neck the first person he met was the seal who had been waiting for him, and she saw by the look in his eyes that he had found his island at last.
but the holluschickie and sea catch, his father, and all the other seals laughed at him when he told them what he had discovered, and a young seal about his own age said, “this is all very well, kotick, but you can’t come from no one knows where and order us off like this.
remember we’ve been fighting for our nurseries, and that’s a thing you never did.
you preferred prowling about in the sea.”
the other seals laughed at this, and the young seal began twisting his head from side to side.
he had just married that year, and was making a great fuss about it.
“i’ve no nursery to fight for,” said kotick.
“i only want to show you all a place where you will be safe.
what’s the use of fighting?”
“oh, if you’re trying to back out, of course i’ve no more to say,” said the young seal with an ugly chuckle.
“will you come with me if i win?” said kotick.
and a green light came into his eye, for he was very angry at having to fight at all.
“very good,” said the young seal carelessly.
“if you win, i’ll come.”
he had no time to change his mind, for kotick’s head was out and his teeth sunk in the blubber of the young seal’s neck.
then he threw himself back on his haunches and hauled his enemy down the beach, shook him, and knocked him over.
then kotick roared to the seals: “i’ve done my best for you these five seasons past.
i’ve found you the island where you’ll be safe, but unless your heads are dragged off your silly necks you won’t believe.
i’m going to teach you now.
look out for yourselves!”
limmershin told me that never in his life and limmershin sees ten thousand big seals fighting every year never in all his little life did he see anything like kotick’s charge into the nurseries.
he flung himself at the biggest sea catch he could find, caught him by the throat, choked him and bumped him and banged him till he grunted for mercy, and then threw him aside and attacked the next.
you see, kotick had never fasted for four months as the big seals did every year, and his deep-sea swimming trips kept him in perfect condition, and, best of all, he had never fought before.
his curly white mane stood up with rage, and his eyes flamed, and his big dog teeth glistened, and he was splendid to look at.
old sea catch, his father, saw him tearing past, hauling the grizzled old seals about as though they had been halibut, and upsetting the young bachelors in all directions; and sea catch gave a roar and shouted: “he may be a fool, but he is the best fighter on the beaches!
don’t tackle your father, my son!
he’s with you!”
kotick roared in answer, and old sea catch waddled in with his mustache on end, blowing like a locomotive, while matkah and the seal that was going to marry kotick cowered down and admired their men-folk.
it was a gorgeous fight, for the two fought as long as there was a seal that dared lift up his head, and when there were none they paraded grandly up and down the beach side by side, bellowing.
at night, just as the northern lights were winking and flashing through the fog, kotick climbed a bare rock and looked down on the scattered nurseries and the torn and bleeding seals.
“now,” he said, “i’ve taught you your lesson.”
“my wig!” said old sea catch, boosting himself up stiffly, for he was fearfully mauled.
“the killer whale himself could not have cut them up worse.
son, i’m proud of you, and what’s more, i’ll come with you to your island if there is such a place.”
“hear you, fat pigs of the sea.
who comes with me to the sea cow’s tunnel?
answer, or i shall teach you again,” roared kotick.
there was a murmur like the ripple of the tide all up and down the beaches.
“we will come,” said thousands of tired voices.
“we will follow kotick, the white seal.”
then kotick dropped his head between his shoulders and shut his eyes proudly.
he was not a white seal any more, but red from head to tail.
all the same he would have scorned to look at or touch one of his wounds.
a week later he and his army (nearly ten thousand holluschickie and old seals) went away north to the sea cow’s tunnel, kotick leading them, and the seals that stayed at novastoshnah called them idiots.
but next spring, when they all met off the fishing banks of the pacific, kotick’s seals told such tales of the new beaches beyond sea cow’s tunnel that more and more seals left novastoshnah.
of course it was not all done at once, for the seals are not very clever, and they need a long time to turn things over in their minds, but year after year more seals went away from novastoshnah, and lukannon, and the other nurseries, to the quiet, sheltered beaches where kotick sits all the summer through, getting bigger and fatter and stronger each year, while the holluschickie play around him, in that sea where no man comes.
lukannon
this is the great deep-sea song that all the st. paul seals sing when they are heading back to their beaches in the summer.
it is a sort of very sad seal national anthem.
i met my mates in the morning (and, oh, but i am old!)
where roaring on the ledges the summer ground-swell rolled;      i heard them lift the chorus that drowned the breakers’ song
the beaches of lukannon two million voices strong.
the song of pleasant stations beside the salt lagoons,      the song of blowing squadrons that shuffled down the dunes,      the song of midnight dances that churned the sea to flame
the beaches of lukannon before the sealers came!
i met my mates in the morning (i’ll never meet them more!
);      they came and went in legions that darkened all the shore.
and o’er the foam-flecked offing as far as voice could reach      we hailed the landing-parties and we sang them up the beach.
the beaches of lukannon the winter wheat so tall
the dripping, crinkled lichens, and the sea-fog drenching all!
the platforms of our playground, all shining smooth and worn!
the beaches of lukannon the home where we were born!
i met my mates in the morning, a broken, scattered band.
men shoot us in the water and club us on the land;      men drive us to the salt house like silly sheep and tame,      and still we sing lukannon before the sealers came.
wheel down, wheel down to southward; oh, gooverooska, go!
and tell the deep-sea viceroys the story of our woe;      ere, empty as the shark’s egg the tempest flings ashore,      the beaches of lukannon shall know their sons no more!
“rikki-tikki-tavi”
at the hole where he went in      red-eye called to wrinkle-skin.
hear what little red-eye saith:
“nag, come up and dance with death!”
eye to eye and head to head,         (keep the measure, nag.)
this shall end when one is dead;         (at thy pleasure, nag.)
turn for turn and twist for twist
(run and hide thee, nag.)
hah!
the hooded death has missed!
(woe betide thee, nag!)
this is the story of the great war that rikki-tikki-tavi fought single-handed, through the bath-rooms of the big bungalow in segowlee cantonment.
darzee, the tailorbird, helped him, and chuchundra, the musk-rat, who never comes out into the middle of the floor, but always creeps round by the wall, gave him advice, but rikki-tikki did the real fighting.
he was a mongoose, rather like a little cat in his fur and his tail, but quite like a weasel in his head and his habits.
his eyes and the end of his restless nose were pink.
he could scratch himself anywhere he pleased with any leg, front or back, that he chose to use.
he could fluff up his tail till it looked like a bottle brush, and his war cry as he scuttled through the long grass was: “rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!”
one day, a high summer flood washed him out of the burrow where he lived with his father and mother, and carried him, kicking and clucking, down a roadside ditch.
he found a little wisp of grass floating there, and clung to it till he lost his senses.
when he revived, he was lying in the hot sun on the middle of a garden path, very draggled indeed, and a small boy was saying, “here’s a dead mongoose.
let’s have a funeral.”
“no,” said his mother, “let’s take him in and dry him.
perhaps he isn’t really dead.”
they took him into the house, and a big man picked him up between his finger and thumb and said he was not dead but half choked.
so they wrapped him in cotton wool, and warmed him over a little fire, and he opened his eyes and sneezed.
“now,” said the big man (he was an englishman who had just moved into the bungalow), “don’t frighten him, and we’ll see what he’ll do.”
it is the hardest thing in the world to frighten a mongoose, because he is eaten up from nose to tail with curiosity.
the motto of all the mongoose family is “run and find out,” and rikki-tikki was a true mongoose.
he looked at the cotton wool, decided that it was not good to eat, ran all round the table, sat up and put his fur in order, scratched himself, and jumped on the small boy’s shoulder.
“don’t be frightened, teddy,” said his father.
“that’s his way of making friends.”
“ouch!
he’s tickling under my chin,” said teddy.
rikki-tikki looked down between the boy’s collar and neck, snuffed at his ear, and climbed down to the floor, where he sat rubbing his nose.
“good gracious,” said teddy’s mother, “and that’s a wild creature!
i suppose he’s so tame because we’ve been kind to him.”
“all mongooses are like that,” said her husband.
“if teddy doesn’t pick him up by the tail, or try to put him in a cage, he’ll run in and out of the house all day long.
let’s give him something to eat.”
they gave him a little piece of raw meat.
rikki-tikki liked it immensely, and when it was finished he went out into the veranda and sat in the sunshine and fluffed up his fur to make it dry to the roots.
then he felt better.
“there are more things to find out about in this house,” he said to himself, “than all my family could find out in all their lives.
i shall certainly stay and find out.”
he spent all that day roaming over the house.
he nearly drowned himself in the bath-tubs, put his nose into the ink on a writing table, and burned it on the end of the big man’s cigar, for he climbed up in the big man’s lap to see how writing was done.
at nightfall he ran into teddy’s nursery to watch how kerosene lamps were lighted, and when teddy went to bed rikki-tikki climbed up too.
but he was a restless companion, because he had to get up and attend to every noise all through the night, and find out what made it.
teddy’s mother and father came in, the last thing, to look at their boy, and rikki-tikki was awake on the pillow.
“i don’t like that,” said teddy’s mother.
“he may bite the child.” “he’ll do no such thing,” said the father.
“teddy’s safer with that little beast than if he had a bloodhound to watch him.
if a snake came into the nursery now ”
but teddy’s mother wouldn’t think of anything so awful.
early in the morning rikki-tikki came to early breakfast in the veranda riding on teddy’s shoulder, and they gave him banana and some boiled egg.
he sat on all their laps one after the other, because every well-brought-up mongoose always hopes to be a house mongoose some day and have rooms to run about in; and rikki-tikki’s mother (she used to live in the general’s house at segowlee) had carefully told rikki what to do if ever he came across white men.
then rikki-tikki went out into the garden to see what was to be seen.
it was a large garden, only half cultivated, with bushes, as big as summer-houses, of marshal niel roses, lime and orange trees, clumps of bamboos, and thickets of high grass.
rikki-tikki licked his lips.
“this is a splendid hunting-ground,” he said, and his tail grew bottle-brushy at the thought of it, and he scuttled up and down the garden, snuffing here and there till he heard very sorrowful voices in a thorn-bush.
it was darzee, the tailorbird, and his wife.
they had made a beautiful nest by pulling two big leaves together and stitching them up the edges with fibers, and had filled the hollow with cotton and downy fluff.
the nest swayed to and fro, as they sat on the rim and cried.
“what is the matter?” asked rikki-tikki.
“we are very miserable,” said darzee.
“one of our babies fell out of the nest yesterday and nag ate him.”
“h’m!” said rikki-tikki, “that is very sad but i am a stranger here.
who is nag?”
darzee and his wife only cowered down in the nest without answering, for from the thick grass at the foot of the bush there came a low hiss a horrid cold sound that made rikki-tikki jump back two clear feet.
then inch by inch out of the grass rose up the head and spread hood of nag, the big black cobra, and he was five feet long from tongue to tail.
when he had lifted one-third of himself clear of the ground, he stayed balancing to and fro exactly as a dandelion tuft balances in the wind, and he looked at rikki-tikki with the wicked snake’s eyes that never change their expression, whatever the snake may be thinking of.
“who is nag?” said he.
“i am nag.
the great god brahm put his mark upon all our people, when the first cobra spread his hood to keep the sun off brahm as he slept.
look, and be afraid!”
he spread out his hood more than ever, and rikki-tikki saw the spectacle-mark on the back of it that looks exactly like the eye part of a hook-and-eye fastening.
he was afraid for the minute, but it is impossible for a mongoose to stay frightened for any length of time, and though rikki-tikki had never met a live cobra before, his mother had fed him on dead ones, and he knew that all a grown mongoose’s business in life was to fight and eat snakes.
nag knew that too and, at the bottom of his cold heart, he was afraid.
“well,” said rikki-tikki, and his tail began to fluff up again, “marks or no marks, do you think it is right for you to eat fledglings out of a nest?”
nag was thinking to himself, and watching the least little movement in the grass behind rikki-tikki.
he knew that mongooses in the garden meant death sooner or later for him and his family, but he wanted to get rikki-tikki off his guard.
so he dropped his head a little, and put it on one side.
“let us talk,” he said.
“you eat eggs.
why should not i eat birds?”
“behind you!
look behind you!” sang darzee.
rikki-tikki knew better than to waste time in staring.
he jumped up in the air as high as he could go, and just under him whizzed by the head of nagaina, nag’s wicked wife.
she had crept up behind him as he was talking, to make an end of him.
he heard her savage hiss as the stroke missed.
he came down almost across her back, and if he had been an old mongoose he would have known that then was the time to break her back with one bite; but he was afraid of the terrible lashing return stroke of the cobra.
he bit, indeed, but did not bite long enough, and he jumped clear of the whisking tail, leaving nagaina torn and angry.
“wicked, wicked darzee!” said nag, lashing up as high as he could reach toward the nest in the thorn-bush.
but darzee had built it out of reach of snakes, and it only swayed to and fro.
rikki-tikki felt his eyes growing red and hot (when a mongoose’s eyes grow red, he is angry), and he sat back on his tail and hind legs like a little kangaroo, and looked all round him, and chattered with rage.
but nag and nagaina had disappeared into the grass.
when a snake misses its stroke, it never says anything or gives any sign of what it means to do next.
rikki-tikki did not care to follow them, for he did not feel sure that he could manage two snakes at once.
so he trotted off to the gravel path near the house, and sat down to think.
it was a serious matter for him.
if you read the old books of natural history, you will find they say that when the mongoose fights the snake and happens to get bitten, he runs off and eats some herb that cures him.
that is not true.
the victory is only a matter of quickness of eye and quickness of foot snake’s blow against mongoose’s jump and as no eye can follow the motion of a snake’s head when it strikes, this makes things much more wonderful than any magic herb.
rikki-tikki knew he was a young mongoose, and it made him all the more pleased to think that he had managed to escape a blow from behind.
it gave him confidence in himself, and when teddy came running down the path, rikki-tikki was ready to be petted.
but just as teddy was stooping, something wriggled a little in the dust, and a tiny voice said: “be careful.
i am death!” it was karait, the dusty brown snakeling that lies for choice on the dusty earth; and his bite is as dangerous as the cobra’s.
but he is so small that nobody thinks of him, and so he does the more harm to people.
rikki-tikki’s eyes grew red again, and he danced up to karait with the peculiar rocking, swaying motion that he had inherited from his family.
it looks very funny, but it is so perfectly balanced a gait that you can fly off from it at any angle you please, and in dealing with snakes this is an advantage.
if rikki-tikki had only known, he was doing a much more dangerous thing than fighting nag, for karait is so small, and can turn so quickly, that unless rikki bit him close to the back of the head, he would get the return stroke in his eye or his lip.
but rikki did not know.
his eyes were all red, and he rocked back and forth, looking for a good place to hold.
karait struck out.
rikki jumped sideways and tried to run in, but the wicked little dusty gray head lashed within a fraction of his shoulder, and he had to jump over the body, and the head followed his heels close.
teddy shouted to the house: “oh, look here!
our mongoose is killing a snake.” and rikki-tikki heard a scream from teddy’s mother.
his father ran out with a stick, but by the time he came up, karait had lunged out once too far, and rikki-tikki had sprung, jumped on the snake’s back, dropped his head far between his forelegs, bitten as high up the back as he could get hold, and rolled away.
that bite paralyzed karait, and rikki-tikki was just going to eat him up from the tail, after the custom of his family at dinner, when he remembered that a full meal makes a slow mongoose, and if he wanted all his strength and quickness ready, he must keep himself thin.
he went away for a dust bath under the castor-oil bushes, while teddy’s father beat the dead karait.
“what is the use of that?” thought rikki-tikki.
“i have settled it all;” and then teddy’s mother picked him up from the dust and hugged him, crying that he had saved teddy from death, and teddy’s father said that he was a providence, and teddy looked on with big scared eyes.
rikki-tikki was rather amused at all the fuss, which, of course, he did not understand.
teddy’s mother might just as well have petted teddy for playing in the dust.
rikki was thoroughly enjoying himself.
that night at dinner, walking to and fro among the wine-glasses on the table, he might have stuffed himself three times over with nice things.
but he remembered nag and nagaina, and though it was very pleasant to be patted and petted by teddy’s mother, and to sit on teddy’s shoulder, his eyes would get red from time to time, and he would go off into his long war cry of “rikk-tikk-tikki-tikki-tchk!”
teddy carried him off to bed, and insisted on rikki-tikki sleeping under his chin.
rikki-tikki was too well bred to bite or scratch, but as soon as teddy was asleep he went off for his nightly walk round the house, and in the dark he ran up against chuchundra, the musk-rat, creeping around by the wall.
chuchundra is a broken-hearted little beast.
he whimpers and cheeps all the night, trying to make up his mind to run into the middle of the room.
but he never gets there.
“don’t kill me,” said chuchundra, almost weeping.
“rikki-tikki, don’t kill me!”
“do you think a snake-killer kills muskrats?” said rikki-tikki scornfully.
“those who kill snakes get killed by snakes,” said chuchundra, more sorrowfully than ever.
“and how am i to be sure that nag won’t mistake me for you some dark night?”
“there’s not the least danger,” said rikki-tikki.
“but nag is in the garden, and i know you don’t go there.”
“my cousin chua, the rat, told me ” said chuchundra, and then he stopped.
“told you what?”
“h’sh!
nag is everywhere, rikki-tikki.
you should have talked to chua in the garden.”
“i didn’t so you must tell me.
quick, chuchundra, or i’ll bite you!”
chuchundra sat down and cried till the tears rolled off his whiskers.
“i am a very poor man,” he sobbed.
“i never had spirit enough to run out into the middle of the room.
h’sh!
i mustn’t tell you anything.
can’t you hear, rikki-tikki?”
rikki-tikki listened.
the house was as still as still, but he thought he could just catch the faintest scratch-scratch in the world a noise as faint as that of a wasp walking on a window-pane the dry scratch of a snake’s scales on brick-work.
“that’s nag or nagaina,” he said to himself, “and he is crawling into the bath-room sluice.
you’re right, chuchundra; i should have talked to chua.”
he stole off to teddy’s bath-room, but there was nothing there, and then to teddy’s mother’s bathroom.
at the bottom of the smooth plaster wall there was a brick pulled out to make a sluice for the bath water, and as rikki-tikki stole in by the masonry curb where the bath is put, he heard nag and nagaina whispering together outside in the moonlight.
“when the house is emptied of people,” said nagaina to her husband, “he will have to go away, and then the garden will be our own again.
go in quietly, and remember that the big man who killed karait is the first one to bite.
then come out and tell me, and we will hunt for rikki-tikki together.”
“but are you sure that there is anything to be gained by killing the people?” said nag.
“everything.
when there were no people in the bungalow, did we have any mongoose in the garden?
so long as the bungalow is empty, we are king and queen of the garden; and remember that as soon as our eggs in the melon bed hatch (as they may tomorrow), our children will need room and quiet.”
“i had not thought of that,” said nag.
“i will go, but there is no need that we should hunt for rikki-tikki afterward.
i will kill the big man and his wife, and the child if i can, and come away quietly.
then the bungalow will be empty, and rikki-tikki will go.”
rikki-tikki tingled all over with rage and hatred at this, and then nag’s head came through the sluice, and his five feet of cold body followed it.
angry as he was, rikki-tikki was very frightened as he saw the size of the big cobra.
nag coiled himself up, raised his head, and looked into the bathroom in the dark, and rikki could see his eyes glitter.
“now, if i kill him here, nagaina will know; and if i fight him on the open floor, the odds are in his favor.
what am i to do?” said rikki-tikki-tavi.
nag waved to and fro, and then rikki-tikki heard him drinking from the biggest water-jar that was used to fill the bath.
“that is good,” said the snake.
“now, when karait was killed, the big man had a stick.
he may have that stick still, but when he comes in to bathe in the morning he will not have a stick.
i shall wait here till he comes.
nagaina do you hear me?
i shall wait here in the cool till daytime.”
there was no answer from outside, so rikki-tikki knew nagaina had gone away.
nag coiled himself down, coil by coil, round the bulge at the bottom of the water jar, and rikki-tikki stayed still as death.
after an hour he began to move, muscle by muscle, toward the jar.
nag was asleep, and rikki-tikki looked at his big back, wondering which would be the best place for a good hold.
“if i don’t break his back at the first jump,” said rikki, “he can still fight.
and if he fights o rikki!” he looked at the thickness of the neck below the hood, but that was too much for him; and a bite near the tail would only make nag savage.
“it must be the head”’ he said at last; “the head above the hood.
and, when i am once there, i must not let go.”
then he jumped.
the head was lying a little clear of the water jar, under the curve of it; and, as his teeth met, rikki braced his back against the bulge of the red earthenware to hold down the head.
this gave him just one second’s purchase, and he made the most of it.
then he was battered to and fro as a rat is shaken by a dog to and fro on the floor, up and down, and around in great circles, but his eyes were red and he held on as the body cart-whipped over the floor, upsetting the tin dipper and the soap dish and the flesh brush, and banged against the tin side of the bath.
as he held he closed his jaws tighter and tighter, for he made sure he would be banged to death, and, for the honor of his family, he preferred to be found with his teeth locked.
he was dizzy, aching, and felt shaken to pieces when something went off like a thunderclap just behind him.
a hot wind knocked him senseless and red fire singed his fur.
the big man had been wakened by the noise, and had fired both barrels of a shotgun into nag just behind the hood.
rikki-tikki held on with his eyes shut, for now he was quite sure he was dead.
but the head did not move, and the big man picked him up and said, “it’s the mongoose again, alice.
the little chap has saved our lives now.”
then teddy’s mother came in with a very white face, and saw what was left of nag, and rikki-tikki dragged himself to teddy’s bedroom and spent half the rest of the night shaking himself tenderly to find out whether he really was broken into forty pieces, as he fancied.
when morning came he was very stiff, but well pleased with his doings.
“now i have nagaina to settle with, and she will be worse than five nags, and there’s no knowing when the eggs she spoke of will hatch.
goodness!
i must go and see darzee,” he said.
without waiting for breakfast, rikki-tikki ran to the thornbush where darzee was singing a song of triumph at the top of his voice.
the news of nag’s death was all over the garden, for the sweeper had thrown the body on the rubbish-heap.
“oh, you stupid tuft of feathers!” said rikki-tikki angrily.
“is this the time to sing?”
“nag is dead is dead is dead!” sang darzee.
“the valiant rikki-tikki caught him by the head and held fast.
the big man brought the bang-stick, and nag fell in two pieces!
he will never eat my babies again.”
“all that’s true enough.
but where’s nagaina?” said rikki-tikki, looking carefully round him.
“nagaina came to the bathroom sluice and called for nag,” darzee went on, “and nag came out on the end of a stick the sweeper picked him up on the end of a stick and threw him upon the rubbish heap.
let us sing about the great, the red-eyed rikki-tikki!” and darzee filled his throat and sang.
“if i could get up to your nest, i’d roll your babies out!” said rikki-tikki.
“you don’t know when to do the right thing at the right time.
you’re safe enough in your nest there, but it’s war for me down here.
stop singing a minute, darzee.”
“for the great, the beautiful rikki-tikki’s sake i will stop,” said darzee.
“what is it, o killer of the terrible nag?”
“where is nagaina, for the third time?”
“on the rubbish heap by the stables, mourning for nag.
great is rikki-tikki with the white teeth.”
“bother my white teeth!
have you ever heard where she keeps her eggs?”
“in the melon bed, on the end nearest the wall, where the sun strikes nearly all day.
she hid them there weeks ago.”
“and you never thought it worth while to tell me?
the end nearest the wall, you said?”
“rikki-tikki, you are not going to eat her eggs?”
“not eat exactly; no.
darzee, if you have a grain of sense you will fly off to the stables and pretend that your wing is broken, and let nagaina chase you away to this bush.
i must get to the melon-bed, and if i went there now she’d see me.”
darzee was a feather-brained little fellow who could never hold more than one idea at a time in his head.
and just because he knew that nagaina’s children were born in eggs like his own, he didn’t think at first that it was fair to kill them.
but his wife was a sensible bird, and she knew that cobra’s eggs meant young cobras later on.
so she flew off from the nest, and left darzee to keep the babies warm, and continue his song about the death of nag.
darzee was very like a man in some ways.
she fluttered in front of nagaina by the rubbish heap and cried out, “oh, my wing is broken!
the boy in the house threw a stone at me and broke it.” then she fluttered more desperately than ever.
nagaina lifted up her head and hissed, “you warned rikki-tikki when i would have killed him.
indeed and truly, you’ve chosen a bad place to be lame in.” and she moved toward darzee’s wife, slipping along over the dust.
“the boy broke it with a stone!” shrieked darzee’s wife.
“well!
it may be some consolation to you when you’re dead to know that i shall settle accounts with the boy.
my husband lies on the rubbish heap this morning, but before night the boy in the house will lie very still.
what is the use of running away?
i am sure to catch you.
little fool, look at me!”
darzee’s wife knew better than to do that, for a bird who looks at a snake’s eyes gets so frightened that she cannot move.
darzee’s wife fluttered on, piping sorrowfully, and never leaving the ground, and nagaina quickened her pace.
rikki-tikki heard them going up the path from the stables, and he raced for the end of the melon patch near the wall.
there, in the warm litter above the melons, very cunningly hidden, he found twenty-five eggs, about the size of a bantam’s eggs, but with whitish skin instead of shell.
“i was not a day too soon,” he said, for he could see the baby cobras curled up inside the skin, and he knew that the minute they were hatched they could each kill a man or a mongoose.
he bit off the tops of the eggs as fast as he could, taking care to crush the young cobras, and turned over the litter from time to time to see whether he had missed any.
at last there were only three eggs left, and rikki-tikki began to chuckle to himself, when he heard darzee’s wife screaming:
“rikki-tikki, i led nagaina toward the house, and she has gone into the veranda, and oh, come quickly she means killing!”
rikki-tikki smashed two eggs, and tumbled backward down the melon-bed with the third egg in his mouth, and scuttled to the veranda as hard as he could put foot to the ground.
teddy and his mother and father were there at early breakfast, but rikki-tikki saw that they were not eating anything.
they sat stone-still, and their faces were white.
nagaina was coiled up on the matting by teddy’s chair, within easy striking distance of teddy’s bare leg, and she was swaying to and fro, singing a song of triumph.
“son of the big man that killed nag,” she hissed, “stay still.
i am not ready yet.
wait a little.
keep very still, all you three!
if you move i strike, and if you do not move i strike.
oh, foolish people, who killed my nag!”
teddy’s eyes were fixed on his father, and all his father could do was to whisper, “sit still, teddy.
you mustn’t move.
teddy, keep still.”
then rikki-tikki came up and cried, “turn round, nagaina.
turn and fight!”
“all in good time,” said she, without moving her eyes.
“i will settle my account with you presently.
look at your friends, rikki-tikki.
they are still and white.
they are afraid.
they dare not move, and if you come a step nearer i strike.”
“look at your eggs,” said rikki-tikki, “in the melon bed near the wall.
go and look, nagaina!”
the big snake turned half around, and saw the egg on the veranda.
“ah-h!
give it to me,” she said.
rikki-tikki put his paws one on each side of the egg, and his eyes were blood-red.
“what price for a snake’s egg?
for a young cobra?
for a young king cobra?
for the last the very last of the brood?
the ants are eating all the others down by the melon bed.”
nagaina spun clear round, forgetting everything for the sake of the one egg.
rikki-tikki saw teddy’s father shoot out a big hand, catch teddy by the shoulder, and drag him across the little table with the tea-cups, safe and out of reach of nagaina.
“tricked!
tricked!
tricked!
rikk-tck-tck!” chuckled rikki-tikki.
“the boy is safe, and it was i i i that caught nag by the hood last night in the bathroom.” then he began to jump up and down, all four feet together, his head close to the floor.
“he threw me to and fro, but he could not shake me off.
he was dead before the big man blew him in two.
i did it!
rikki-tikki-tck-tck!
come then, nagaina.
come and fight with me.
you shall not be a widow long.”
nagaina saw that she had lost her chance of killing teddy, and the egg lay between rikki-tikki’s paws.
“give me the egg, rikki-tikki.
give me the last of my eggs, and i will go away and never come back,” she said, lowering her hood.
“yes, you will go away, and you will never come back.
for you will go to the rubbish heap with nag.
fight, widow!
the big man has gone for his gun!
fight!”
rikki-tikki was bounding all round nagaina, keeping just out of reach of her stroke, his little eyes like hot coals.
nagaina gathered herself together and flung out at him.
rikki-tikki jumped up and backward.
again and again and again she struck, and each time her head came with a whack on the matting of the veranda and she gathered herself together like a watch spring.
then rikki-tikki danced in a circle to get behind her, and nagaina spun round to keep her head to his head, so that the rustle of her tail on the matting sounded like dry leaves blown along by the wind.
he had forgotten the egg.
it still lay on the veranda, and nagaina came nearer and nearer to it, till at last, while rikki-tikki was drawing breath, she caught it in her mouth, turned to the veranda steps, and flew like an arrow down the path, with rikki-tikki behind her.
when the cobra runs for her life, she goes like a whip-lash flicked across a horse’s neck.
rikki-tikki knew that he must catch her, or all the trouble would begin again.
she headed straight for the long grass by the thorn-bush, and as he was running rikki-tikki heard darzee still singing his foolish little song of triumph.
but darzee’s wife was wiser.
she flew off her nest as nagaina came along, and flapped her wings about nagaina’s head.
if darzee had helped they might have turned her, but nagaina only lowered her hood and went on.
still, the instant’s delay brought rikki-tikki up to her, and as she plunged into the rat-hole where she and nag used to live, his little white teeth were clenched on her tail, and he went down with her and very few mongooses, however wise and old they may be, care to follow a cobra into its hole.
it was dark in the hole; and rikki-tikki never knew when it might open out and give nagaina room to turn and strike at him.
he held on savagely, and stuck out his feet to act as brakes on the dark slope of the hot, moist earth.
then the grass by the mouth of the hole stopped waving, and darzee said, “it is all over with rikki-tikki!
we must sing his death song.
valiant rikki-tikki is dead!
for nagaina will surely kill him underground.”
so he sang a very mournful song that he made up on the spur of the minute, and just as he got to the most touching part, the grass quivered again, and rikki-tikki, covered with dirt, dragged himself out of the hole leg by leg, licking his whiskers.
darzee stopped with a little shout.
rikki-tikki shook some of the dust out of his fur and sneezed.
“it is all over,” he said.
“the widow will never come out again.” and the red ants that live between the grass stems heard him, and began to troop down one after another to see if he had spoken the truth.
rikki-tikki curled himself up in the grass and slept where he was slept and slept till it was late in the afternoon, for he had done a hard day’s work.
“now,” he said, when he awoke, “i will go back to the house.
tell the coppersmith, darzee, and he will tell the garden that nagaina is dead.”
the coppersmith is a bird who makes a noise exactly like the beating of a little hammer on a copper pot; and the reason he is always making it is because he is the town crier to every indian garden, and tells all the news to everybody who cares to listen.
as rikki-tikki went up the path, he heard his “attention” notes like a tiny dinner gong, and then the steady “ding-dong-tock!
nag is dead dong!
nagaina is dead!
ding-dong-tock!” that set all the birds in the garden singing, and the frogs croaking, for nag and nagaina used to eat frogs as well as little birds.
when rikki got to the house, teddy and teddy’s mother (she looked very white still, for she had been fainting) and teddy’s father came out and almost cried over him; and that night he ate all that was given him till he could eat no more, and went to bed on teddy’s shoulder, where teddy’s mother saw him when she came to look late at night.
“he saved our lives and teddy’s life,” she said to her husband.
“just think, he saved all our lives.”
rikki-tikki woke up with a jump, for the mongooses are light sleepers.
“oh, it’s you,” said he.
“what are you bothering for?
all the cobras are dead.
and if they weren’t, i’m here.”
rikki-tikki had a right to be proud of himself.
but he did not grow too proud, and he kept that garden as a mongoose should keep it, with tooth and jump and spring and bite, till never a cobra dared show its head inside the walls.
darzee’s chant
singer and tailor am i
doubled the joys that i know
proud of my lilt to the sky,         proud of the house that i sew
over and under, so weave i my music so weave i the house that i         sew.
sing to your fledglings again,         mother, oh lift up your head!
evil that plagued us is slain,         death in the garden lies dead.
terror that hid in the roses is impotent flung on the dung-hill      and dead!
who has delivered us, who?
tell me his nest and his name.
rikki, the valiant, the true,         tikki, with eyeballs of flame,      rikk-tikki-tikki, the ivory-fanged, the hunter with eyeballs of      flame!
give him the thanks of the birds,         bowing with tail feathers spread!
praise him with nightingale words
nay, i will praise him instead.
hear!
i will sing you the praise of the bottle-tailed rikki, with      eyeballs of red!
(here rikki-tikki interrupted, and the rest of the song is      lost.)
toomai of the elephants
i will remember what i was, i am sick of rope and chain
i will remember my old strength and all my forest affairs.
i will not sell my back to man for a bundle of sugar-cane:
i will go out to my own kind, and the wood-folk in their lairs.
i will go out until the day, until the morning break
out to the wind’s untainted kiss, the water’s clean caress;      i will forget my ankle-ring and snap my picket stake.
i will revisit my lost loves, and playmates masterless!
kala nag, which means black snake, had served the indian government in every way that an elephant could serve it for forty-seven years, and as he was fully twenty years old when he was caught, that makes him nearly seventy a ripe age for an elephant.
he remembered pushing, with a big leather pad on his forehead, at a gun stuck in deep mud, and that was before the afghan war of 1842, and he had not then come to his full strength.
his mother radha pyari, radha the darling, who had been caught in the same drive with kala nag, told him, before his little milk tusks had dropped out, that elephants who were afraid always got hurt.
kala nag knew that that advice was good, for the first time that he saw a shell burst he backed, screaming, into a stand of piled rifles, and the bayonets pricked him in all his softest places.
so, before he was twenty-five, he gave up being afraid, and so he was the best-loved and the best-looked-after elephant in the service of the government of india.
he had carried tents, twelve hundred pounds’ weight of tents, on the march in upper india.
he had been hoisted into a ship at the end of a steam crane and taken for days across the water, and made to carry a mortar on his back in a strange and rocky country very far from india, and had seen the emperor theodore lying dead in magdala, and had come back again in the steamer entitled, so the soldiers said, to the abyssinian war medal.
he had seen his fellow elephants die of cold and epilepsy and starvation and sunstroke up at a place called ali musjid, ten years later; and afterward he had been sent down thousands of miles south to haul and pile big balks of teak in the timberyards at moulmein.
there he had half killed an insubordinate young elephant who was shirking his fair share of work.
after that he was taken off timber-hauling, and employed, with a few score other elephants who were trained to the business, in helping to catch wild elephants among the garo hills.
elephants are very strictly preserved by the indian government.
there is one whole department which does nothing else but hunt them, and catch them, and break them in, and send them up and down the country as they are needed for work.
kala nag stood ten fair feet at the shoulders, and his tusks had been cut off short at five feet, and bound round the ends, to prevent them splitting, with bands of copper; but he could do more with those stumps than any untrained elephant could do with the real sharpened ones.
when, after weeks and weeks of cautious driving of scattered elephants across the hills, the forty or fifty wild monsters were driven into the last stockade, and the big drop gate, made of tree trunks lashed together, jarred down behind them, kala nag, at the word of command, would go into that flaring, trumpeting pandemonium (generally at night, when the flicker of the torches made it difficult to judge distances), and, picking out the biggest and wildest tusker of the mob, would hammer him and hustle him into quiet while the men on the backs of the other elephants roped and tied the smaller ones.
there was nothing in the way of fighting that kala nag, the old wise black snake, did not know, for he had stood up more than once in his time to the charge of the wounded tiger, and, curling up his soft trunk to be out of harm’s way, had knocked the springing brute sideways in mid-air with a quick sickle cut of his head, that he had invented all by himself; had knocked him over, and kneeled upon him with his huge knees till the life went out with a gasp and a howl, and there was only a fluffy striped thing on the ground for kala nag to pull by the tail.
“yes,” said big toomai, his driver, the son of black toomai who had taken him to abyssinia, and grandson of toomai of the elephants who had seen him caught, “there is nothing that the black snake fears except me.
he has seen three generations of us feed him and groom him, and he will live to see four.”
“he is afraid of me also,” said little toomai, standing up to his full height of four feet, with only one rag upon him.
he was ten years old, the eldest son of big toomai, and, according to custom, he would take his father’s place on kala nag’s neck when he grew up, and would handle the heavy iron ankus, the elephant goad, that had been worn smooth by his father, and his grandfather, and his great-grandfather.
he knew what he was talking of; for he had been born under kala nag’s shadow, had played with the end of his trunk before he could walk, had taken him down to water as soon as he could walk, and kala nag would no more have dreamed of disobeying his shrill little orders than he would have dreamed of killing him on that day when big toomai carried the little brown baby under kala nag’s tusks, and told him to salute his master that was to be.
“yes,” said little toomai, “he is afraid of me,” and he took long strides up to kala nag, called him a fat old pig, and made him lift up his feet one after the other.
“wah!” said little toomai, “thou art a big elephant,” and he wagged his fluffy head, quoting his father.
“the government may pay for elephants, but they belong to us mahouts.
when thou art old, kala nag, there will come some rich rajah, and he will buy thee from the government, on account of thy size and thy manners, and then thou wilt have nothing to do but to carry gold earrings in thy ears, and a gold howdah on thy back, and a red cloth covered with gold on thy sides, and walk at the head of the processions of the king.
then i shall sit on thy neck, o kala nag, with a silver ankus, and men will run before us with golden sticks, crying, `room for the king’s elephant!’ that will be good, kala nag, but not so good as this hunting in the jungles.”
“umph!” said big toomai.
“thou art a boy, and as wild as a buffalo-calf.
this running up and down among the hills is not the best government service.
i am getting old, and i do not love wild elephants.
give me brick elephant lines, one stall to each elephant, and big stumps to tie them to safely, and flat, broad roads to exercise upon, instead of this come-and-go camping.
aha, the cawnpore barracks were good.
there was a bazaar close by, and only three hours’ work a day.”
little toomai remembered the cawnpore elephant-lines and said nothing.
he very much preferred the camp life, and hated those broad, flat roads, with the daily grubbing for grass in the forage reserve, and the long hours when there was nothing to do except to watch kala nag fidgeting in his pickets.
what little toomai liked was to scramble up bridle paths that only an elephant could take; the dip into the valley below; the glimpses of the wild elephants browsing miles away; the rush of the frightened pig and peacock under kala nag’s feet; the blinding warm rains, when all the hills and valleys smoked; the beautiful misty mornings when nobody knew where they would camp that night; the steady, cautious drive of the wild elephants, and the mad rush and blaze and hullabaloo of the last night’s drive, when the elephants poured into the stockade like boulders in a landslide, found that they could not get out, and flung themselves at the heavy posts only to be driven back by yells and flaring torches and volleys of blank cartridge.
even a little boy could be of use there, and toomai was as useful as three boys.
he would get his torch and wave it, and yell with the best.
but the really good time came when the driving out began, and the keddah that is, the stockade looked like a picture of the end of the world, and men had to make signs to one another, because they could not hear themselves speak.
then little toomai would climb up to the top of one of the quivering stockade posts, his sun-bleached brown hair flying loose all over his shoulders, and he looking like a goblin in the torch-light.
and as soon as there was a lull you could hear his high-pitched yells of encouragement to kala nag, above the trumpeting and crashing, and snapping of ropes, and groans of the tethered elephants.
“mael, mael, kala nag!
(go on, go on, black snake!)
dant do!
(give him the tusk!)
somalo!
somalo!
(careful, careful!)
maro!
mar!
(hit him, hit him!)
mind the post!
arre!
arre!
hai!
yai!
kya-a-ah!” he would shout, and the big fight between kala nag and the wild elephant would sway to and fro across the keddah, and the old elephant catchers would wipe the sweat out of their eyes, and find time to nod to little toomai wriggling with joy on the top of the posts.
he did more than wriggle.
one night he slid down from the post and slipped in between the elephants and threw up the loose end of a rope, which had dropped, to a driver who was trying to get a purchase on the leg of a kicking young calf (calves always give more trouble than full-grown animals).
kala nag saw him, caught him in his trunk, and handed him up to big toomai, who slapped him then and there, and put him back on the post.
next morning he gave him a scolding and said, “are not good brick elephant lines and a little tent carrying enough, that thou must needs go elephant catching on thy own account, little worthless?
now those foolish hunters, whose pay is less than my pay, have spoken to petersen sahib of the matter.” little toomai was frightened.
he did not know much of white men, but petersen sahib was the greatest white man in the world to him.
he was the head of all the keddah operations the man who caught all the elephants for the government of india, and who knew more about the ways of elephants than any living man.
“what what will happen?” said little toomai.
“happen!
the worst that can happen.
petersen sahib is a madman.
else why should he go hunting these wild devils?
he may even require thee to be an elephant catcher, to sleep anywhere in these fever-filled jungles, and at last to be trampled to death in the keddah.
it is well that this nonsense ends safely.
next week the catching is over, and we of the plains are sent back to our stations.
then we will march on smooth roads, and forget all this hunting.
but, son, i am angry that thou shouldst meddle in the business that belongs to these dirty assamese jungle folk.
kala nag will obey none but me, so i must go with him into the keddah, but he is only a fighting elephant, and he does not help to rope them.
so i sit at my ease, as befits a mahout, not a mere hunter, a mahout, i say, and a man who gets a pension at the end of his service.
is the family of toomai of the elephants to be trodden underfoot in the dirt of a keddah?
bad one!
wicked one!
worthless son!
go and wash kala nag and attend to his ears, and see that there are no thorns in his feet.
or else petersen sahib will surely catch thee and make thee a wild hunter a follower of elephant’s foot tracks, a jungle bear.
bah!
shame!
go!”
little toomai went off without saying a word, but he told kala nag all his grievances while he was examining his feet.
“no matter,” said little toomai, turning up the fringe of kala nag’s huge right ear.
“they have said my name to petersen sahib, and perhaps and perhaps and perhaps who knows?
hai!
that is a big thorn that i have pulled out!”
the next few days were spent in getting the elephants together, in walking the newly caught wild elephants up and down between a couple of tame ones to prevent them giving too much trouble on the downward march to the plains, and in taking stock of the blankets and ropes and things that had been worn out or lost in the forest.
petersen sahib came in on his clever she-elephant pudmini; he had been paying off other camps among the hills, for the season was coming to an end, and there was a native clerk sitting at a table under a tree, to pay the drivers their wages.
as each man was paid he went back to his elephant, and joined the line that stood ready to start.
the catchers, and hunters, and beaters, the men of the regular keddah, who stayed in the jungle year in and year out, sat on the backs of the elephants that belonged to petersen sahib’s permanent force, or leaned against the trees with their guns across their arms, and made fun of the drivers who were going away, and laughed when the newly caught elephants broke the line and ran about.
big toomai went up to the clerk with little toomai behind him, and machua appa, the head tracker, said in an undertone to a friend of his, “there goes one piece of good elephant stuff at least.
‘tis a pity to send that young jungle-cock to molt in the plains.”
now petersen sahib had ears all over him, as a man must have who listens to the most silent of all living things the wild elephant.
he turned where he was lying all along on pudmini’s back and said, “what is that?
i did not know of a man among the plains-drivers who had wit enough to rope even a dead elephant.”
“this is not a man, but a boy.
he went into the keddah at the last drive, and threw barmao there the rope, when we were trying to get that young calf with the blotch on his shoulder away from his mother.”
machua appa pointed at little toomai, and petersen sahib looked, and little toomai bowed to the earth.
“he throw a rope?
he is smaller than a picket-pin.
little one, what is thy name?” said petersen sahib.
little toomai was too frightened to speak, but kala nag was behind him, and toomai made a sign with his hand, and the elephant caught him up in his trunk and held him level with pudmini’s forehead, in front of the great petersen sahib.
then little toomai covered his face with his hands, for he was only a child, and except where elephants were concerned, he was just as bashful as a child could be.
“oho!” said petersen sahib, smiling underneath his mustache, “and why didst thou teach thy elephant that trick?
was it to help thee steal green corn from the roofs of the houses when the ears are put out to dry?”
“not green corn, protector of the poor, melons,” said little toomai, and all the men sitting about broke into a roar of laughter.
most of them had taught their elephants that trick when they were boys.
little toomai was hanging eight feet up in the air, and he wished very much that he were eight feet underground.
“he is toomai, my son, sahib,” said big toomai, scowling.
“he is a very bad boy, and he will end in a jail, sahib.”
“of that i have my doubts,” said petersen sahib.
“a boy who can face a full keddah at his age does not end in jails.
see, little one, here are four annas to spend in sweetmeats because thou hast a little head under that great thatch of hair.
in time thou mayest become a hunter too.” big toomai scowled more than ever.
“remember, though, that keddahs are not good for children to play in,” petersen sahib went on.
“must i never go there, sahib?” asked little toomai with a big gasp.
“yes.” petersen sahib smiled again.
“when thou hast seen the elephants dance.
that is the proper time.
come to me when thou hast seen the elephants dance, and then i will let thee go into all the keddahs.”
there was another roar of laughter, for that is an old joke among elephant-catchers, and it means just never.
there are great cleared flat places hidden away in the forests that are called elephants’ ball-rooms, but even these are only found by accident, and no man has ever seen the elephants dance.
when a driver boasts of his skill and bravery the other drivers say, “and when didst thou see the elephants dance?”
kala nag put little toomai down, and he bowed to the earth again and went away with his father, and gave the silver four-anna piece to his mother, who was nursing his baby brother, and they all were put up on kala nag’s back, and the line of grunting, squealing elephants rolled down the hill path to the plains.
it was a very lively march on account of the new elephants, who gave trouble at every ford, and needed coaxing or beating every other minute.
big toomai prodded kala nag spitefully, for he was very angry, but little toomai was too happy to speak.
petersen sahib had noticed him, and given him money, so he felt as a private soldier would feel if he had been called out of the ranks and praised by his commander-in-chief.
“what did petersen sahib mean by the elephant dance?” he said, at last, softly to his mother.
big toomai heard him and grunted.
“that thou shouldst never be one of these hill buffaloes of trackers.
that was what he meant.
oh, you in front, what is blocking the way?”
an assamese driver, two or three elephants ahead, turned round angrily, crying: “bring up kala nag, and knock this youngster of mine into good behavior.
why should petersen sahib have chosen me to go down with you donkeys of the rice fields?
lay your beast alongside, toomai, and let him prod with his tusks.
by all the gods of the hills, these new elephants are possessed, or else they can smell their companions in the jungle.” kala nag hit the new elephant in the ribs and knocked the wind out of him, as big toomai said, “we have swept the hills of wild elephants at the last catch.
it is only your carelessness in driving.
must i keep order along the whole line?”
“hear him!” said the other driver.
“we have swept the hills!
ho!
ho!
you are very wise, you plains people.
anyone but a mud-head who never saw the jungle would know that they know that the drives are ended for the season.
therefore all the wild elephants to-night will but why should i waste wisdom on a river-turtle?”
“what will they do?” little toomai called out.
“ohe, little one.
art thou there?
well, i will tell thee, for thou hast a cool head.
they will dance, and it behooves thy father, who has swept all the hills of all the elephants, to double-chain his pickets to-night.”
“what talk is this?” said big toomai.
“for forty years, father and son, we have tended elephants, and we have never heard such moonshine about dances.”
“yes; but a plainsman who lives in a hut knows only the four walls of his hut.
well, leave thy elephants unshackled tonight and see what comes.
as for their dancing, i have seen the place where bapree-bap!
how many windings has the dihang river?
here is another ford, and we must swim the calves.
stop still, you behind there.”
and in this way, talking and wrangling and splashing through the rivers, they made their first march to a sort of receiving camp for the new elephants.
but they lost their tempers long before they got there.
then the elephants were chained by their hind legs to their big stumps of pickets, and extra ropes were fitted to the new elephants, and the fodder was piled before them, and the hill drivers went back to petersen sahib through the afternoon light, telling the plains drivers to be extra careful that night, and laughing when the plains drivers asked the reason.
little toomai attended to kala nag’s supper, and as evening fell, wandered through the camp, unspeakably happy, in search of a tom-tom.
when an indian child’s heart is full, he does not run about and make a noise in an irregular fashion.
he sits down to a sort of revel all by himself.
and little toomai had been spoken to by petersen sahib!
if he had not found what he wanted, i believe he would have been ill. but the sweetmeat seller in the camp lent him a little tom-tom a drum beaten with the flat of the hand and he sat down, cross-legged, before kala nag as the stars began to come out, the tom-tom in his lap, and he thumped and he thumped and he thumped, and the more he thought of the great honor that had been done to him, the more he thumped, all alone among the elephant fodder.
there was no tune and no words, but the thumping made him happy.
the new elephants strained at their ropes, and squealed and trumpeted from time to time, and he could hear his mother in the camp hut putting his small brother to sleep with an old, old song about the great god shiv, who once told all the animals what they should eat.
it is a very soothing lullaby, and the first verse says:
shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,      sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,      gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,      from the king upon the guddee to the beggar at the gate.
all things made he shiva the preserver.
mahadeo!
mahadeo!
he made all
thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,      and mother’s heart for sleepy head, o little son of mine!
little toomai came in with a joyous tunk-a-tunk at the end of each verse, till he felt sleepy and stretched himself on the fodder at kala nag’s side.
at last the elephants began to lie down one after another as is their custom, till only kala nag at the right of the line was left standing up; and he rocked slowly from side to side, his ears put forward to listen to the night wind as it blew very slowly across the hills.
the air was full of all the night noises that, taken together, make one big silence the click of one bamboo stem against the other, the rustle of something alive in the undergrowth, the scratch and squawk of a half-waked bird (birds are awake in the night much more often than we imagine), and the fall of water ever so far away.
little toomai slept for some time, and when he waked it was brilliant moonlight, and kala nag was still standing up with his ears cocked.
little toomai turned, rustling in the fodder, and watched the curve of his big back against half the stars in heaven, and while he watched he heard, so far away that it sounded no more than a pinhole of noise pricked through the stillness, the “hoot-toot” of a wild elephant.
all the elephants in the lines jumped up as if they had been shot, and their grunts at last waked the sleeping mahouts, and they came out and drove in the picket pegs with big mallets, and tightened this rope and knotted that till all was quiet.
one new elephant had nearly grubbed up his picket, and big toomai took off kala nag’s leg chain and shackled that elephant fore-foot to hind-foot, but slipped a loop of grass string round kala nag’s leg, and told him to remember that he was tied fast.
he knew that he and his father and his grandfather had done the very same thing hundreds of times before.
kala nag did not answer to the order by gurgling, as he usually did.
he stood still, looking out across the moonlight, his head a little raised and his ears spread like fans, up to the great folds of the garo hills.
“tend to him if he grows restless in the night,” said big toomai to little toomai, and he went into the hut and slept.
little toomai was just going to sleep, too, when he heard the coir string snap with a little “tang,” and kala nag rolled out of his pickets as slowly and as silently as a cloud rolls out of the mouth of a valley.
little toomai pattered after him, barefooted, down the road in the moonlight, calling under his breath, “kala nag!
kala nag!
take me with you, o kala nag!”
the elephant turned, without a sound, took three strides back to the boy in the moonlight, put down his trunk, swung him up to his neck, and almost before little toomai had settled his knees, slipped into the forest.
there was one blast of furious trumpeting from the lines, and then the silence shut down on everything, and kala nag began to move.
sometimes a tuft of high grass washed along his sides as a wave washes along the sides of a ship, and sometimes a cluster of wild-pepper vines would scrape along his back, or a bamboo would creak where his shoulder touched it.
but between those times he moved absolutely without any sound, drifting through the thick garo forest as though it had been smoke.
he was going uphill, but though little toomai watched the stars in the rifts of the trees, he could not tell in what direction.
then kala nag reached the crest of the ascent and stopped for a minute, and little toomai could see the tops of the trees lying all speckled and furry under the moonlight for miles and miles, and the blue-white mist over the river in the hollow.
toomai leaned forward and looked, and he felt that the forest was awake below him awake and alive and crowded.
a big brown fruit-eating bat brushed past his ear; a porcupine’s quills rattled in the thicket; and in the darkness between the tree stems he heard a hog-bear digging hard in the moist warm earth, and snuffing as it digged.
then the branches closed over his head again, and kala nag began to go down into the valley not quietly this time, but as a runaway gun goes down a steep bank in one rush.
the huge limbs moved as steadily as pistons, eight feet to each stride, and the wrinkled skin of the elbow points rustled.
the undergrowth on either side of him ripped with a noise like torn canvas, and the saplings that he heaved away right and left with his shoulders sprang back again and banged him on the flank, and great trails of creepers, all matted together, hung from his tusks as he threw his head from side to side and plowed out his pathway.
then little toomai laid himself down close to the great neck lest a swinging bough should sweep him to the ground, and he wished that he were back in the lines again.
the grass began to get squashy, and kala nag’s feet sucked and squelched as he put them down, and the night mist at the bottom of the valley chilled little toomai.
there was a splash and a trample, and the rush of running water, and kala nag strode through the bed of a river, feeling his way at each step.
above the noise of the water, as it swirled round the elephant’s legs, little toomai could hear more splashing and some trumpeting both upstream and down great grunts and angry snortings, and all the mist about him seemed to be full of rolling, wavy shadows.
“ai!” he said, half aloud, his teeth chattering.
“the elephant-folk are out tonight.
it is the dance, then!”
kala nag swashed out of the water, blew his trunk clear, and began another climb.
but this time he was not alone, and he had not to make his path.
that was made already, six feet wide, in front of him, where the bent jungle-grass was trying to recover itself and stand up.
many elephants must have gone that way only a few minutes before.
little toomai looked back, and behind him a great wild tusker with his little pig’s eyes glowing like hot coals was just lifting himself out of the misty river.
then the trees closed up again, and they went on and up, with trumpetings and crashings, and the sound of breaking branches on every side of them.
at last kala nag stood still between two tree-trunks at the very top of the hill.
they were part of a circle of trees that grew round an irregular space of some three or four acres, and in all that space, as little toomai could see, the ground had been trampled down as hard as a brick floor.
some trees grew in the center of the clearing, but their bark was rubbed away, and the white wood beneath showed all shiny and polished in the patches of moonlight.
there were creepers hanging from the upper branches, and the bells of the flowers of the creepers, great waxy white things like convolvuluses, hung down fast asleep.
but within the limits of the clearing there was not a single blade of green nothing but the trampled earth.
the moonlight showed it all iron gray, except where some elephants stood upon it, and their shadows were inky black.
little toomai looked, holding his breath, with his eyes starting out of his head, and as he looked, more and more and more elephants swung out into the open from between the tree trunks.
little toomai could only count up to ten, and he counted again and again on his fingers till he lost count of the tens, and his head began to swim.
outside the clearing he could hear them crashing in the undergrowth as they worked their way up the hillside, but as soon as they were within the circle of the tree trunks they moved like ghosts.
there were white-tusked wild males, with fallen leaves and nuts and twigs lying in the wrinkles of their necks and the folds of their ears; fat, slow-footed she-elephants, with restless, little pinky black calves only three or four feet high running under their stomachs; young elephants with their tusks just beginning to show, and very proud of them; lanky, scraggy old-maid elephants, with their hollow anxious faces, and trunks like rough bark; savage old bull elephants, scarred from shoulder to flank with great weals and cuts of bygone fights, and the caked dirt of their solitary mud baths dropping from their shoulders; and there was one with a broken tusk and the marks of the full-stroke, the terrible drawing scrape, of a tiger’s claws on his side.
they were standing head to head, or walking to and fro across the ground in couples, or rocking and swaying all by themselves scores and scores of elephants.
toomai knew that so long as he lay still on kala nag’s neck nothing would happen to him, for even in the rush and scramble of a keddah drive a wild elephant does not reach up with his trunk and drag a man off the neck of a tame elephant.
and these elephants were not thinking of men that night.
once they started and put their ears forward when they heard the chinking of a leg iron in the forest, but it was pudmini, petersen sahib’s pet elephant, her chain snapped short off, grunting, snuffling up the hillside.
she must have broken her pickets and come straight from petersen sahib’s camp; and little toomai saw another elephant, one that he did not know, with deep rope galls on his back and breast.
he, too, must have run away from some camp in the hills about.
at last there was no sound of any more elephants moving in the forest, and kala nag rolled out from his station between the trees and went into the middle of the crowd, clucking and gurgling, and all the elephants began to talk in their own tongue, and to move about.
still lying down, little toomai looked down upon scores and scores of broad backs, and wagging ears, and tossing trunks, and little rolling eyes.
he heard the click of tusks as they crossed other tusks by accident, and the dry rustle of trunks twined together, and the chafing of enormous sides and shoulders in the crowd, and the incessant flick and hissh of the great tails.
then a cloud came over the moon, and he sat in black darkness.
but the quiet, steady hustling and pushing and gurgling went on just the same.
he knew that there were elephants all round kala nag, and that there was no chance of backing him out of the assembly; so he set his teeth and shivered.
in a keddah at least there was torchlight and shouting, but here he was all alone in the dark, and once a trunk came up and touched him on the knee.
then an elephant trumpeted, and they all took it up for five or ten terrible seconds.
the dew from the trees above spattered down like rain on the unseen backs, and a dull booming noise began, not very loud at first, and little toomai could not tell what it was.
but it grew and grew, and kala nag lifted up one forefoot and then the other, and brought them down on the ground one-two, one-two, as steadily as trip-hammers.
the elephants were stamping all together now, and it sounded like a war drum beaten at the mouth of a cave.
the dew fell from the trees till there was no more left to fall, and the booming went on, and the ground rocked and shivered, and little toomai put his hands up to his ears to shut out the sound.
but it was all one gigantic jar that ran through him this stamp of hundreds of heavy feet on the raw earth.
once or twice he could feel kala nag and all the others surge forward a few strides, and the thumping would change to the crushing sound of juicy green things being bruised, but in a minute or two the boom of feet on hard earth began again.
a tree was creaking and groaning somewhere near him.
he put out his arm and felt the bark, but kala nag moved forward, still tramping, and he could not tell where he was in the clearing.
there was no sound from the elephants, except once, when two or three little calves squeaked together.
then he heard a thump and a shuffle, and the booming went on.
it must have lasted fully two hours, and little toomai ached in every nerve, but he knew by the smell of the night air that the dawn was coming.
the morning broke in one sheet of pale yellow behind the green hills, and the booming stopped with the first ray, as though the light had been an order.
before little toomai had got the ringing out of his head, before even he had shifted his position, there was not an elephant in sight except kala nag, pudmini, and the elephant with the rope-galls, and there was neither sign nor rustle nor whisper down the hillsides to show where the others had gone.
little toomai stared again and again.
the clearing, as he remembered it, had grown in the night.
more trees stood in the middle of it, but the undergrowth and the jungle grass at the sides had been rolled back.
little toomai stared once more.
now he understood the trampling.
the elephants had stamped out more room had stamped the thick grass and juicy cane to trash, the trash into slivers, the slivers into tiny fibers, and the fibers into hard earth.
“wah!” said little toomai, and his eyes were very heavy.
“kala nag, my lord, let us keep by pudmini and go to petersen sahib’s camp, or i shall drop from thy neck.”
the third elephant watched the two go away, snorted, wheeled round, and took his own path.
he may have belonged to some little native king’s establishment, fifty or sixty or a hundred miles away.
two hours later, as petersen sahib was eating early breakfast, his elephants, who had been double chained that night, began to trumpet, and pudmini, mired to the shoulders, with kala nag, very footsore, shambled into the camp.
little toomai’s face was gray and pinched, and his hair was full of leaves and drenched with dew, but he tried to salute petersen sahib, and cried faintly: “the dance the elephant dance!
i have seen it, and i die!” as kala nag sat down, he slid off his neck in a dead faint.
but, since native children have no nerves worth speaking of, in two hours he was lying very contentedly in petersen sahib’s hammock with petersen sahib’s shooting-coat under his head, and a glass of warm milk, a little brandy, with a dash of quinine, inside of him, and while the old hairy, scarred hunters of the jungles sat three deep before him, looking at him as though he were a spirit, he told his tale in short words, as a child will, and wound up with:
“now, if i lie in one word, send men to see, and they will find that the elephant folk have trampled down more room in their dance-room, and they will find ten and ten, and many times ten, tracks leading to that dance-room.
they made more room with their feet.
i have seen it.
kala nag took me, and i saw.
also kala nag is very leg-weary!”
little toomai lay back and slept all through the long afternoon and into the twilight, and while he slept petersen sahib and machua appa followed the track of the two elephants for fifteen miles across the hills.
petersen sahib had spent eighteen years in catching elephants, and he had only once before found such a dance-place.
machua appa had no need to look twice at the clearing to see what had been done there, or to scratch with his toe in the packed, rammed earth.
“the child speaks truth,” said he.
“all this was done last night, and i have counted seventy tracks crossing the river.
see, sahib, where pudmini’s leg-iron cut the bark of that tree!
yes; she was there too.”
they looked at one another and up and down, and they wondered.
for the ways of elephants are beyond the wit of any man, black or white, to fathom.
“forty years and five,” said machua appa, “have i followed my lord, the elephant, but never have i heard that any child of man had seen what this child has seen.
by all the gods of the hills, it is what can we say?” and he shook his head.
when they got back to camp it was time for the evening meal.
petersen sahib ate alone in his tent, but he gave orders that the camp should have two sheep and some fowls, as well as a double ration of flour and rice and salt, for he knew that there would be a feast.
big toomai had come up hotfoot from the camp in the plains to search for his son and his elephant, and now that he had found them he looked at them as though he were afraid of them both.
and there was a feast by the blazing campfires in front of the lines of picketed elephants, and little toomai was the hero of it all.
and the big brown elephant catchers, the trackers and drivers and ropers, and the men who know all the secrets of breaking the wildest elephants, passed him from one to the other, and they marked his forehead with blood from the breast of a newly killed jungle-cock, to show that he was a forester, initiated and free of all the jungles.
and at last, when the flames died down, and the red light of the logs made the elephants look as though they had been dipped in blood too, machua appa, the head of all the drivers of all the keddahs machua appa, petersen sahib’s other self, who had never seen a made road in forty years: machua appa, who was so great that he had no other name than machua appa, leaped to his feet, with little toomai held high in the air above his head, and shouted: “listen, my brothers.
listen, too, you my lords in the lines there, for i, machua appa, am speaking!
this little one shall no more be called little toomai, but toomai of the elephants, as his great-grandfather was called before him.
what never man has seen he has seen through the long night, and the favor of the elephant-folk and of the gods of the jungles is with him.
he shall become a great tracker.
he shall become greater than i, even i, machua appa!
he shall follow the new trail, and the stale trail, and the mixed trail, with a clear eye!
he shall take no harm in the keddah when he runs under their bellies to rope the wild tuskers; and if he slips before the feet of the charging bull elephant, the bull elephant shall know who he is and shall not crush him.
aihai!
my lords in the chains,” he whirled up the line of pickets “here is the little one that has seen your dances in your hidden places, the sight that never man saw!
give him honor, my lords!
salaam karo, my children.
make your salute to toomai of the elephants!
gunga pershad, ahaa!
hira guj, birchi guj, kuttar guj, ahaa!
pudmini, thou hast seen him at the dance, and thou too, kala nag, my pearl among elephants!
ahaa!
together!
to toomai of the elephants.
barrao!”
and at that last wild yell the whole line flung up their trunks till the tips touched their foreheads, and broke out into the full salute the crashing trumpet-peal that only the viceroy of india hears, the salaamut of the keddah.
but it was all for the sake of little toomai, who had seen what never man had seen before the dance of the elephants at night and alone in the heart of the garo hills!
shiv and the grasshopper
(the song that toomai’s mother sang to the baby)
shiv, who poured the harvest and made the winds to blow,      sitting at the doorways of a day of long ago,      gave to each his portion, food and toil and fate,      from the king upon the guddee to the beggar at the gate.
all things made he shiva the preserver.
mahadeo!
mahadeo!
he made all,
thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,         and mother’s heart for sleepy head, o little son of mine!
wheat he gave to rich folk, millet to the poor,      broken scraps for holy men that beg from door to door;      battle to the tiger, carrion to the kite,      and rags and bones to wicked wolves without the wall at night.
naught he found too lofty, none he saw too low
parbati beside him watched them come and go;      thought to cheat her husband, turning shiv to jest
stole the little grasshopper and hid it in her breast.
so she tricked him, shiva the preserver.
mahadeo!
mahadeo!
turn and see.
tall are the camels, heavy are the kine,         but this was least of little things, o little son of mine!
when the dole was ended, laughingly she said,      “master, of a million mouths, is not one unfed?”
laughing, shiv made answer, “all have had their part,      even he, the little one, hidden ‘neath thy heart.”
from her breast she plucked it, parbati the thief,      saw the least of little things gnawed a new-grown leaf!
saw and feared and wondered, making prayer to shiv,      who hath surely given meat to all that live.
all things made he shiva the preserver.
mahadeo!
mahadeo!
he made all,
thorn for the camel, fodder for the kine,         and mother’s heart for sleepy head, o little son of mine!
her majesty’s servants
you can work it out by fractions or by simple rule of three,      but the way of tweedle-dum is not the way of tweedle-dee.
you can twist it, you can turn it, you can plait it till you drop,      but the way of pilly winky’s not the way of winkie pop!
it had been raining heavily for one whole month raining on a camp of thirty thousand men and thousands of camels, elephants, horses, bullocks, and mules all gathered together at a place called rawal pindi, to be reviewed by the viceroy of india.
he was receiving a visit from the amir of afghanistan a wild king of a very wild country.
the amir had brought with him for a bodyguard eight hundred men and horses who had never seen a camp or a locomotive before in their lives savage men and savage horses from somewhere at the back of central asia.
every night a mob of these horses would be sure to break their heel ropes and stampede up and down the camp through the mud in the dark, or the camels would break loose and run about and fall over the ropes of the tents, and you can imagine how pleasant that was for men trying to go to sleep.
my tent lay far away from the camel lines, and i thought it was safe.
but one night a man popped his head in and shouted, “get out, quick!
they’re coming!
my tent’s gone!”
i knew who “they” were, so i put on my boots and waterproof and scuttled out into the slush.
little vixen, my fox terrier, went out through the other side; and then there was a roaring and a grunting and bubbling, and i saw the tent cave in, as the pole snapped, and begin to dance about like a mad ghost.
a camel had blundered into it, and wet and angry as i was, i could not help laughing.
then i ran on, because i did not know how many camels might have got loose, and before long i was out of sight of the camp, plowing my way through the mud.
at last i fell over the tail-end of a gun, and by that knew i was somewhere near the artillery lines where the cannon were stacked at night.
as i did not want to plowter about any more in the drizzle and the dark, i put my waterproof over the muzzle of one gun, and made a sort of wigwam with two or three rammers that i found, and lay along the tail of another gun, wondering where vixen had got to, and where i might be.
just as i was getting ready to go to sleep i heard a jingle of harness and a grunt, and a mule passed me shaking his wet ears.
he belonged to a screw-gun battery, for i could hear the rattle of the straps and rings and chains and things on his saddle pad.
the screw-guns are tiny little cannon made in two pieces, that are screwed together when the time comes to use them.
they are taken up mountains, anywhere that a mule can find a road, and they are very useful for fighting in rocky country.
behind the mule there was a camel, with his big soft feet squelching and slipping in the mud, and his neck bobbing to and fro like a strayed hen’s.
luckily, i knew enough of beast language not wild-beast language, but camp-beast language, of course from the natives to know what he was saying.
he must have been the one that flopped into my tent, for he called to the mule, “what shall i do?
where shall i go?
i have fought with a white thing that waved, and it took a stick and hit me on the neck.” (that was my broken tent pole, and i was very glad to know it.)
“shall we run on?”
“oh, it was you,” said the mule, “you and your friends, that have been disturbing the camp?
all right.
you’ll be beaten for this in the morning.
but i may as well give you something on account now.”
i heard the harness jingle as the mule backed and caught the camel two kicks in the ribs that rang like a drum.
“another time,” he said, “you’ll know better than to run through a mule battery at night, shouting `thieves and fire!’ sit down, and keep your silly neck quiet.”
the camel doubled up camel-fashion, like a two-foot rule, and sat down whimpering.
there was a regular beat of hoofs in the darkness, and a big troop-horse cantered up as steadily as though he were on parade, jumped a gun tail, and landed close to the mule.
“it’s disgraceful,” he said, blowing out his nostrils.
“those camels have racketed through our lines again the third time this week.
how’s a horse to keep his condition if he isn’t allowed to sleep.
who’s here?”
“i’m the breech-piece mule of number two gun of the first screw battery,” said the mule, “and the other’s one of your friends.
he’s waked me up too.
who are you?”
“number fifteen, e troop, ninth lancers dick cunliffe’s horse.
stand over a little, there.”
“oh, beg your pardon,” said the mule.
“it’s too dark to see much.
aren’t these camels too sickening for anything?
i walked out of my lines to get a little peace and quiet here.”
“my lords,” said the camel humbly, “we dreamed bad dreams in the night, and we were very much afraid.
i am only a baggage camel of the 39th native infantry, and i am not as brave as you are, my lords.”
“then why didn’t you stay and carry baggage for the 39th native infantry, instead of running all round the camp?” said the mule.
“they were such very bad dreams,” said the camel.
“i am sorry.
listen!
what is that?
shall we run on again?”
“sit down,” said the mule, “or you’ll snap your long stick-legs between the guns.” he cocked one ear and listened.
“bullocks!” he said.
“gun bullocks.
on my word, you and your friends have waked the camp very thoroughly.
it takes a good deal of prodding to put up a gun-bullock.”
i heard a chain dragging along the ground, and a yoke of the great sulky white bullocks that drag the heavy siege guns when the elephants won’t go any nearer to the firing, came shouldering along together.
and almost stepping on the chain was another battery mule, calling wildly for “billy.”
“that’s one of our recruits,” said the old mule to the troop horse.
“he’s calling for me.
here, youngster, stop squealing.
the dark never hurt anybody yet.”
the gun-bullocks lay down together and began chewing the cud, but the young mule huddled close to billy.
“things!” he said.
“fearful and horrible, billy!
they came into our lines while we were asleep.
d’you think they’ll kill us?”
“i’ve a very great mind to give you a number-one kicking,” said billy.
“the idea of a fourteen-hand mule with your training disgracing the battery before this gentleman!”
“gently, gently!” said the troop-horse.
“remember they are always like this to begin with.
the first time i ever saw a man (it was in australia when i was a three-year-old) i ran for half a day, and if i’d seen a camel, i should have been running still.”
nearly all our horses for the english cavalry are brought to india from australia, and are broken in by the troopers themselves.
“true enough,” said billy.
“stop shaking, youngster.
the first time they put the full harness with all its chains on my back i stood on my forelegs and kicked every bit of it off.
i hadn’t learned the real science of kicking then, but the battery said they had never seen anything like it.”
“but this wasn’t harness or anything that jingled,” said the young mule.
“you know i don’t mind that now, billy.
it was things like trees, and they fell up and down the lines and bubbled; and my head-rope broke, and i couldn’t find my driver, and i couldn’t find you, billy, so i ran off with with these gentlemen.”
“h’m!” said billy.
“as soon as i heard the camels were loose i came away on my own account.
when a battery a screw-gun mule calls gun-bullocks gentlemen, he must be very badly shaken up.
who are you fellows on the ground there?”
the gun bullocks rolled their cuds, and answered both together: “the seventh yoke of the first gun of the big gun battery.
we were asleep when the camels came, but when we were trampled on we got up and walked away.
it is better to lie quiet in the mud than to be disturbed on good bedding.
we told your friend here that there was nothing to be afraid of, but he knew so much that he thought otherwise.
wah!”
they went on chewing.
“that comes of being afraid,” said billy.
“you get laughed at by gun-bullocks.
i hope you like it, young un.”
the young mule’s teeth snapped, and i heard him say something about not being afraid of any beefy old bullock in the world.
but the bullocks only clicked their horns together and went on chewing.
“now, don’t be angry after you’ve been afraid.
that’s the worst kind of cowardice,” said the troop-horse.
“anybody can be forgiven for being scared in the night, i think, if they see things they don’t understand.
we’ve broken out of our pickets, again and again, four hundred and fifty of us, just because a new recruit got to telling tales of whip snakes at home in australia till we were scared to death of the loose ends of our head-ropes.”
“that’s all very well in camp,” said billy.
“i’m not above stampeding myself, for the fun of the thing, when i haven’t been out for a day or two.
but what do you do on active service?”
“oh, that’s quite another set of new shoes,” said the troop horse.
“dick cunliffe’s on my back then, and drives his knees into me, and all i have to do is to watch where i am putting my feet, and to keep my hind legs well under me, and be bridle-wise.”
“what’s bridle-wise?” said the young mule.
“by the blue gums of the back blocks,” snorted the troop-horse, “do you mean to say that you aren’t taught to be bridle-wise in your business?
how can you do anything, unless you can spin round at once when the rein is pressed on your neck?
it means life or death to your man, and of course that’s life and death to you.
get round with your hind legs under you the instant you feel the rein on your neck.
if you haven’t room to swing round, rear up a little and come round on your hind legs.
that’s being bridle-wise.”
“we aren’t taught that way,” said billy the mule stiffly.
“we’re taught to obey the man at our head: step off when he says so, and step in when he says so.
i suppose it comes to the same thing.
now, with all this fine fancy business and rearing, which must be very bad for your hocks, what do you do?”
“that depends,” said the troop-horse.
“generally i have to go in among a lot of yelling, hairy men with knives long shiny knives, worse than the farrier’s knives and i have to take care that dick’s boot is just touching the next man’s boot without crushing it.
i can see dick’s lance to the right of my right eye, and i know i’m safe.
i shouldn’t care to be the man or horse that stood up to dick and me when we’re in a hurry.”
“don’t the knives hurt?” said the young mule.
“well, i got one cut across the chest once, but that wasn’t dick’s fault ”
“a lot i should have cared whose fault it was, if it hurt!” said the young mule.
“you must,” said the troop horse.
“if you don’t trust your man, you may as well run away at once.
that’s what some of our horses do, and i don’t blame them.
as i was saying, it wasn’t dick’s fault.
the man was lying on the ground, and i stretched myself not to tread on him, and he slashed up at me.
next time i have to go over a man lying down i shall step on him hard.”
“h’m!” said billy.
“it sounds very foolish.
knives are dirty things at any time.
the proper thing to do is to climb up a mountain with a well-balanced saddle, hang on by all four feet and your ears too, and creep and crawl and wriggle along, till you come out hundreds of feet above anyone else on a ledge where there’s just room enough for your hoofs.
then you stand still and keep quiet never ask a man to hold your head, young un keep quiet while the guns are being put together, and then you watch the little poppy shells drop down into the tree-tops ever so far below.”
“don’t you ever trip?” said the troop-horse.
“they say that when a mule trips you can split a hen’s ear,” said billy.
“now and again perhaps a badly packed saddle will upset a mule, but it’s very seldom.
i wish i could show you our business.
it’s beautiful.
why, it took me three years to find out what the men were driving at.
the science of the thing is never to show up against the sky line, because, if you do, you may get fired at.
remember that, young un.
always keep hidden as much as possible, even if you have to go a mile out of your way.
i lead the battery when it comes to that sort of climbing.”
“fired at without the chance of running into the people who are firing!”
said the troop-horse, thinking hard.
“i couldn’t stand that.
i should want to charge with dick.”
“oh, no, you wouldn’t.
you know that as soon as the guns are in position they’ll do all the charging.
that’s scientific and neat.
but knives pah!”
the baggage-camel had been bobbing his head to and fro for some time past, anxious to get a word in edgewise.
then i heard him say, as he cleared his throat, nervously:
“i i i have fought a little, but not in that climbing way or that running way.”
“no.
now you mention it,” said billy, “you don’t look as though you were made for climbing or running much.
well, how was it, old hay-bales?”
“the proper way,” said the camel.
“we all sat down ”
“oh, my crupper and breastplate!” said the troop-horse under his breath.
“sat down!”
“we sat down a hundred of us,” the camel went on, “in a big square, and the men piled our packs and saddles, outside the square, and they fired over our backs, the men did, on all sides of the square.”
“what sort of men?
any men that came along?” said the troop-horse.
“they teach us in riding school to lie down and let our masters fire across us, but dick cunliffe is the only man i’d trust to do that.
it tickles my girths, and, besides, i can’t see with my head on the ground.”
“what does it matter who fires across you?” said the camel.
“there are plenty of men and plenty of other camels close by, and a great many clouds of smoke.
i am not frightened then.
i sit still and wait.”
“and yet,” said billy, “you dream bad dreams and upset the camp at night.
well, well!
before i’d lie down, not to speak of sitting down, and let a man fire across me, my heels and his head would have something to say to each other.
did you ever hear anything so awful as that?”
there was a long silence, and then one of the gun bullocks lifted up his big head and said, “this is very foolish indeed.
there is only one way of fighting.”
“oh, go on,” said billy.
“please don’t mind me.
i suppose you fellows fight standing on your tails?”
“only one way,” said the two together.
(they must have been twins.)
“this is that way.
to put all twenty yoke of us to the big gun as soon as two tails trumpets.” (“two tails” is camp slang for the elephant.)
“what does two tails trumpet for?” said the young mule.
“to show that he is not going any nearer to the smoke on the other side.
two tails is a great coward.
then we tug the big gun all together heya hullah!
heeyah!
hullah!
we do not climb like cats nor run like calves.
we go across the level plain, twenty yoke of us, till we are unyoked again, and we graze while the big guns talk across the plain to some town with mud walls, and pieces of the wall fall out, and the dust goes up as though many cattle were coming home.”
“oh!
and you choose that time for grazing?” said the young mule.
“that time or any other.
eating is always good.
we eat till we are yoked up again and tug the gun back to where two tails is waiting for it.
sometimes there are big guns in the city that speak back, and some of us are killed, and then there is all the more grazing for those that are left.
this is fate.
none the less, two tails is a great coward.
that is the proper way to fight.
we are brothers from hapur.
our father was a sacred bull of shiva.
we have spoken.”
“well, i’ve certainly learned something tonight,” said the troop-horse.
“do you gentlemen of the screw-gun battery feel inclined to eat when you are being fired at with big guns, and two tails is behind you?”
“about as much as we feel inclined to sit down and let men sprawl all over us, or run into people with knives.
i never heard such stuff.
a mountain ledge, a well-balanced load, a driver you can trust to let you pick your own way, and i’m your mule.
but the other things no!” said billy, with a stamp of his foot.
“of course,” said the troop horse, “everyone is not made in the same way, and i can quite see that your family, on your father’s side, would fail to understand a great many things.”
“never you mind my family on my father’s side,” said billy angrily, for every mule hates to be reminded that his father was a donkey.
“my father was a southern gentleman, and he could pull down and bite and kick into rags every horse he came across.
remember that, you big brown brumby!”
brumby means wild horse without any breeding.
imagine the feelings of sunol if a car-horse called her a “skate,” and you can imagine how the australian horse felt.
i saw the white of his eye glitter in the dark.
“see here, you son of an imported malaga jackass,” he said between his teeth, “i’d have you know that i’m related on my mother’s side to carbine, winner of the melbourne cup, and where i come from we aren’t accustomed to being ridden over roughshod by any parrot-mouthed, pig-headed mule in a pop-gun pea-shooter battery.
are you ready?”
“on your hind legs!” squealed billy.
they both reared up facing each other, and i was expecting a furious fight, when a gurgly, rumbly voice, called out of the darkness to the right “children, what are you fighting about there?
be quiet.”
both beasts dropped down with a snort of disgust, for neither horse nor mule can bear to listen to an elephant’s voice.
“it’s two tails!” said the troop-horse.
“i can’t stand him.
a tail at each end isn’t fair!”
“my feelings exactly,” said billy, crowding into the troop-horse for company.
“we’re very alike in some things.”
“i suppose we’ve inherited them from our mothers,” said the troop horse.
“it’s not worth quarreling about.
hi!
two tails, are you tied up?”
“yes,” said two tails, with a laugh all up his trunk.
“i’m picketed for the night.
i’ve heard what you fellows have been saying.
but don’t be afraid.
i’m not coming over.”
the bullocks and the camel said, half aloud, “afraid of two tails what nonsense!” and the bullocks went on, “we are sorry that you heard, but it is true.
two tails, why are you afraid of the guns when they fire?”
“well,” said two tails, rubbing one hind leg against the other, exactly like a little boy saying a poem, “i don’t quite know whether you’d understand.”
“we don’t, but we have to pull the guns,” said the bullocks.
“i know it, and i know you are a good deal braver than you think you are.
but it’s different with me.
my battery captain called me a pachydermatous anachronism the other day.”
“that’s another way of fighting, i suppose?” said billy, who was recovering his spirits.
“you don’t know what that means, of course, but i do.
it means betwixt and between, and that is just where i am.
i can see inside my head what will happen when a shell bursts, and you bullocks can’t.”
“i can,” said the troop-horse.
“at least a little bit.
i try not to think about it.”
“i can see more than you, and i do think about it.
i know there’s a great deal of me to take care of, and i know that nobody knows how to cure me when i’m sick.
all they can do is to stop my driver’s pay till i get well, and i can’t trust my driver.”
“ah!” said the troop horse.
“that explains it.
i can trust dick.”
“you could put a whole regiment of dicks on my back without making me feel any better.
i know just enough to be uncomfortable, and not enough to go on in spite of it.”
“we do not understand,” said the bullocks.
“i know you don’t.
i’m not talking to you.
you don’t know what blood is.”
“we do,” said the bullocks.
“it is red stuff that soaks into the ground and smells.”
the troop-horse gave a kick and a bound and a snort.
“don’t talk of it,” he said.
“i can smell it now, just thinking of it.
it makes me want to run when i haven’t dick on my back.”
“but it is not here,” said the camel and the bullocks.
“why are you so stupid?”
“it’s vile stuff,” said billy.
“i don’t want to run, but i don’t want to talk about it.”
“there you are!” said two tails, waving his tail to explain.
“surely.
yes, we have been here all night,” said the bullocks.
two tails stamped his foot till the iron ring on it jingled.
“oh, i’m not talking to you.
you can’t see inside your heads.”
“no.
we see out of our four eyes,” said the bullocks.
“we see straight in front of us.”
“if i could do that and nothing else, you wouldn’t be needed to pull the big guns at all.
if i was like my captain he can see things inside his head before the firing begins, and he shakes all over, but he knows too much to run away if i was like him i could pull the guns.
but if i were as wise as all that i should never be here.
i should be a king in the forest, as i used to be, sleeping half the day and bathing when i liked.
i haven’t had a good bath for a month.”
“that’s all very fine,” said billy.
“but giving a thing a long name doesn’t make it any better.”
“h’sh!” said the troop horse.
“i think i understand what two tails means.”
“you’ll understand better in a minute,” said two tails angrily.
“now you just explain to me why you don’t like this!”
he began trumpeting furiously at the top of his trumpet.
“stop that!” said billy and the troop horse together, and i could hear them stamp and shiver.
an elephant’s trumpeting is always nasty, especially on a dark night.
“i shan’t stop,” said two tails.
“won’t you explain that, please?
hhrrmph!
rrrt!
rrrmph!
rrrhha!” then he stopped suddenly, and i heard a little whimper in the dark, and knew that vixen had found me at last.
she knew as well as i did that if there is one thing in the world the elephant is more afraid of than another it is a little barking dog.
so she stopped to bully two tails in his pickets, and yapped round his big feet.
two tails shuffled and squeaked.
“go away, little dog!” he said.
“don’t snuff at my ankles, or i’ll kick at you.
good little dog nice little doggie, then!
go home, you yelping little beast!
oh, why doesn’t someone take her away?
she’ll bite me in a minute.”
“seems to me,” said billy to the troop horse, “that our friend two tails is afraid of most things.
now, if i had a full meal for every dog i’ve kicked across the parade-ground i should be as fat as two tails nearly.”
i whistled, and vixen ran up to me, muddy all over, and licked my nose, and told me a long tale about hunting for me all through the camp.
i never let her know that i understood beast talk, or she would have taken all sorts of liberties.
so i buttoned her into the breast of my overcoat, and two tails shuffled and stamped and growled to himself.
“extraordinary!
most extraordinary!” he said.
“it runs in our family.
now, where has that nasty little beast gone to?”
i heard him feeling about with his trunk.
“we all seem to be affected in various ways,” he went on, blowing his nose.
“now, you gentlemen were alarmed, i believe, when i trumpeted.”
“not alarmed, exactly,” said the troop-horse, “but it made me feel as though i had hornets where my saddle ought to be.
don’t begin again.”
“i’m frightened of a little dog, and the camel here is frightened by bad dreams in the night.”
“it is very lucky for us that we haven’t all got to fight in the same way,” said the troop-horse.
“what i want to know,” said the young mule, who had been quiet for a long time “what i want to know is, why we have to fight at all.”
“because we’re told to,” said the troop-horse, with a snort of contempt.
“orders,” said billy the mule, and his teeth snapped.
“hukm hai!” (it is an order!
), said the camel with a gurgle, and two tails and the bullocks repeated, “hukm hai!”
“yes, but who gives the orders?” said the recruit-mule.
“the man who walks at your head or sits on your back or holds the nose rope or twists your tail,” said billy and the troop-horse and the camel and the bullocks one after the other.
“but who gives them the orders?”
“now you want to know too much, young un,” said billy, “and that is one way of getting kicked.
all you have to do is to obey the man at your head and ask no questions.”
“he’s quite right,” said two tails.
“i can’t always obey, because i’m betwixt and between.
but billy’s right.
obey the man next to you who gives the order, or you’ll stop all the battery, besides getting a thrashing.”
the gun-bullocks got up to go.
“morning is coming,” they said.
“we will go back to our lines.
it is true that we only see out of our eyes, and we are not very clever.
but still, we are the only people to-night who have not been afraid.
good-night, you brave people.”
nobody answered, and the troop-horse said, to change the conversation, “where’s that little dog?
a dog means a man somewhere about.”
“here i am,” yapped vixen, “under the gun tail with my man.
you big, blundering beast of a camel you, you upset our tent.
my man’s very angry.”
“phew!” said the bullocks.
“he must be white!”
“of course he is,” said vixen.
“do you suppose i’m looked after by a black bullock-driver?”
“huah!
ouach!
ugh!” said the bullocks.
“let us get away quickly.”
they plunged forward in the mud, and managed somehow to run their yoke on the pole of an ammunition wagon, where it jammed.
“now you have done it,” said billy calmly.
“don’t struggle.
you’re hung up till daylight.
what on earth’s the matter?”
the bullocks went off into the long hissing snorts that indian cattle give, and pushed and crowded and slued and stamped and slipped and nearly fell down in the mud, grunting savagely.
“you’ll break your necks in a minute,” said the troop-horse.
“what’s the matter with white men?
i live with ‘em.”
“they eat us!
pull!” said the near bullock.
the yoke snapped with a twang, and they lumbered off together.
i never knew before what made indian cattle so scared of englishmen.
we eat beef a thing that no cattle-driver touches and of course the cattle do not like it.
“may i be flogged with my own pad-chains!
who’d have thought of two big lumps like those losing their heads?” said billy.
“never mind.
i’m going to look at this man.
most of the white men, i know, have things in their pockets,” said the troop-horse.
“i’ll leave you, then.
i can’t say i’m over-fond of ‘em myself.
besides, white men who haven’t a place to sleep in are more than likely to be thieves, and i’ve a good deal of government property on my back.
come along, young un, and we’ll go back to our lines.
good-night, australia!
see you on parade to-morrow, i suppose.
good-night, old hay-bale!
try to control your feelings, won’t you?
good-night, two tails!
if you pass us on the ground tomorrow, don’t trumpet.
it spoils our formation.”
billy the mule stumped off with the swaggering limp of an old campaigner, as the troop-horse’s head came nuzzling into my breast, and i gave him biscuits, while vixen, who is a most conceited little dog, told him fibs about the scores of horses that she and i kept.
“i’m coming to the parade to-morrow in my dog-cart,” she said.
“where will you be?”
“on the left hand of the second squadron.
i set the time for all my troop, little lady,” he said politely.
“now i must go back to dick.
my tail’s all muddy, and he’ll have two hours’ hard work dressing me for parade.”
the big parade of all the thirty thousand men was held that afternoon, and vixen and i had a good place close to the viceroy and the amir of afghanistan, with high, big black hat of astrakhan wool and the great diamond star in the center.
the first part of the review was all sunshine, and the regiments went by in wave upon wave of legs all moving together, and guns all in a line, till our eyes grew dizzy.
then the cavalry came up, to the beautiful cavalry canter of “bonnie dundee,” and vixen cocked her ear where she sat on the dog-cart.
the second squadron of the lancers shot by, and there was the troop-horse, with his tail like spun silk, his head pulled into his breast, one ear forward and one back, setting the time for all his squadron, his legs going as smoothly as waltz music.
then the big guns came by, and i saw two tails and two other elephants harnessed in line to a forty-pounder siege gun, while twenty yoke of oxen walked behind.
the seventh pair had a new yoke, and they looked rather stiff and tired.
last came the screw guns, and billy the mule carried himself as though he commanded all the troops, and his harness was oiled and polished till it winked.
i gave a cheer all by myself for billy the mule, but he never looked right or left.
the rain began to fall again, and for a while it was too misty to see what the troops were doing.
they had made a big half circle across the plain, and were spreading out into a line.
that line grew and grew and grew till it was three-quarters of a mile long from wing to wing one solid wall of men, horses, and guns.
then it came on straight toward the viceroy and the amir, and as it got nearer the ground began to shake, like the deck of a steamer when the engines are going fast.
unless you have been there you cannot imagine what a frightening effect this steady come-down of troops has on the spectators, even when they know it is only a review.
i looked at the amir.
up till then he had not shown the shadow of a sign of astonishment or anything else.
but now his eyes began to get bigger and bigger, and he picked up the reins on his horse’s neck and looked behind him.
for a minute it seemed as though he were going to draw his sword and slash his way out through the english men and women in the carriages at the back.
then the advance stopped dead, the ground stood still, the whole line saluted, and thirty bands began to play all together.
that was the end of the review, and the regiments went off to their camps in the rain, and an infantry band struck up with
the animals went in two by two,           hurrah!
the animals went in two by two,      the elephant and the battery mul’,      and they all got into the ark           for to get out of the rain!
then i heard an old grizzled, long-haired central asian chief, who had come down with the amir, asking questions of a native officer.
“now,” said he, “in what manner was this wonderful thing done?”
and the officer answered, “an order was given, and they obeyed.”
“but are the beasts as wise as the men?” said the chief.
“they obey, as the men do.
mule, horse, elephant, or bullock, he obeys his driver, and the driver his sergeant, and the sergeant his lieutenant, and the lieutenant his captain, and the captain his major, and the major his colonel, and the colonel his brigadier commanding three regiments, and the brigadier the general, who obeys the viceroy, who is the servant of the empress.
thus it is done.”
“would it were so in afghanistan!” said the chief, “for there we obey only our own wills.”
“and for that reason,” said the native officer, twirling his mustache, “your amir whom you do not obey must come here and take orders from our viceroy.”
the adventures of tom sawyer
chapter i
“tom!”
no answer.
“tom!”
no answer.
“what's gone with that boy,  i wonder?
you tom!”
no answer.
the old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them.
she seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy; they were her state pair, the pride of her heart, and were built for “style,” not service she could have seen through a pair of stove-lids just as well.
she looked perplexed for a moment, and then said, not fiercely, but still loud enough for the furniture to hear:
“well, i lay if i get hold of you i'll ”
she did not finish, for by this time she was bending down and punching under the bed with the broom, and so she needed breath to punctuate the punches with.
she resurrected nothing but the cat.
“i never did see the beat of that boy!”
she went to the open door and stood in it and looked out among the tomato vines and “jimpson” weeds that constituted the garden.
no tom.
so she lifted up her voice at an angle calculated for distance and shouted:
“y-o-u-u tom!”
there was a slight noise behind her and she turned just in time to seize a small boy by the slack of his roundabout and arrest his flight.
“there!
i might 'a' thought of that closet.
what you been doing in there?”
“nothing.”
“nothing!
look at your hands.
and look at your mouth.
what is that truck?”
“i don't know, aunt.”
“well, i know.
it's jam that's what it is.
forty times i've said if you didn't let that jam alone i'd skin you.
hand me that switch.”
the switch hovered in the air the peril was desperate
“my!
look behind you, aunt!”
the old lady whirled round, and snatched her skirts out of danger.
the lad fled on the instant, scrambled up the high board-fence, and disappeared over it.
his aunt polly stood surprised a moment, and then broke into a gentle laugh.
“hang the boy, can't i never learn anything?
ain't he played me tricks enough like that for me to be looking out for him by this time?
but old fools is the biggest fools there is.
can't learn an old dog new tricks, as the saying is.
but my goodness, he never plays them alike, two days, and how is a body to know what's coming?
he 'pears to know just how long he can torment me before i get my dander up, and he knows if he can make out to put me off for a minute or make me laugh, it's all down again and i can't hit him a lick.
i ain't doing my duty by that boy, and that's the lord's truth, goodness knows.
spare the rod and spile the child, as the good book says.
i'm a laying up sin and suffering for us both, i know.
he's full of the old scratch, but laws-a-me!
he's my own dead sister's boy, poor thing, and i ain't got the heart to lash him, somehow.
every time i let him off, my conscience does hurt me so, and every time i hit him my old heart most breaks.
well-a-well, man that is born of woman is of few days and full of trouble, as the scripture says, and i reckon it's so.
he'll play hookey this evening, * and [*
southwestern for “afternoon”] i'll just be obleeged to make him work, tomorrow, to punish him.
it's mighty hard to make him work saturdays, when all the boys is having holiday, but he hates work more than he hates anything else, and i've got to do some of my duty by him, or i'll be the ruination of the child.”
tom did play hookey, and he had a very good time.
he got back home barely in season to help jim, the small colored boy, saw next-day's wood and split the kindlings before supper at least he was there in time to tell his adventures to jim while jim did three-fourths of the work.
tom's younger brother (or rather half-brother) sid was already through with his part of the work (picking up chips), for he was a quiet boy, and had no adventurous, trouble-some ways.
while tom was eating his supper, and stealing sugar as opportunity offered, aunt polly asked him questions that were full of guile, and very deep for she wanted to trap him into damaging revealments.
like many other simple-hearted souls, it was her pet vanity to believe she was endowed with a talent for dark and mysterious diplomacy, and she loved to contemplate her most transparent devices as marvels of low cunning.
said she:
“tom, it was middling warm in school, warn't it?”
“yes'm.”
“powerful warm, warn't it?”
“yes'm.”
“didn't you want to go in a-swimming, tom?”
a bit of a scare shot through tom a touch of uncomfortable suspicion.
he searched aunt polly's face, but it told him nothing.
so he said:
“no'm well, not very much.”
the old lady reached out her hand and felt tom's shirt, and said:
“but you ain't too warm now, though.” and it flattered her to reflect that she had discovered that the shirt was dry without anybody knowing that that was what she had in her mind.
but in spite of her, tom knew where the wind lay, now.
so he forestalled what might be the next move:
“some of us pumped on our heads mine's damp yet.
see?”
aunt polly was vexed to think she had overlooked that bit of circumstantial evidence, and missed a trick.
then she had a new inspiration:
“tom, you didn't have to undo your shirt collar where i sewed it, to pump on your head, did you?
unbutton your jacket!”
the trouble vanished out of tom's face.
he opened his jacket.
his shirt collar was securely sewed.
“bother!
well, go 'long with you.
i'd made sure you'd played hookey and been a-swimming.
but i forgive ye, tom.
i reckon you're a kind of a singed cat, as the saying is better'n you look.
this time.”
she was half sorry her sagacity had miscarried, and half glad that tom had stumbled into obedient conduct for once.
but sidney said:
“well, now, if i didn't think you sewed his collar with white thread, but it's black.”
“why, i did sew it with white!
tom!”
but tom did not wait for the rest.
as he went out at the door he said:
“siddy, i'll lick you for that.”
in a safe place tom examined two large needles which were thrust into the lapels of his jacket, and had thread bound about them one needle carried white thread and the other black.
he said:
“she'd never noticed if it hadn't been for sid.
confound it!
sometimes she sews it with white, and sometimes she sews it with black.
i wish to gee-miny she'd stick to one or t'other i can't keep the run of 'em.
but i bet you i'll lam sid for that.
i'll learn him!”
he was not the model boy of the village.
he knew the model boy very well though and loathed him.
within two minutes, or even less, he had forgotten all his troubles.
not because his troubles were one whit less heavy and bitter to him than a man's are to a man, but because a new and powerful interest bore them down and drove them out of his mind for the time just as men's misfortunes are forgotten in the excitement of new enterprises.
this new interest was a valued novelty in whistling, which he had just acquired from a negro, and he was suffering to practise it un-disturbed.
it consisted in a peculiar bird-like turn, a sort of liquid warble, produced by touching the tongue to the roof of the mouth at short intervals in the midst of the music the reader probably remembers how to do it, if he has ever been a boy.
diligence and attention soon gave him the knack of it, and he strode down the street with his mouth full of harmony and his soul full of gratitude.
he felt much as an astronomer feels who has discovered a new planet no doubt, as far as strong, deep, unalloyed pleasure is concerned, the advantage was with the boy, not the astronomer.
the summer evenings were long.
it was not dark, yet.
presently tom checked his whistle.
a stranger was before him a boy a shade larger than himself.
a new-comer of any age or either sex was an im-pressive curiosity in the poor little shabby village of st. petersburg.
this boy was well dressed, too well dressed on a week-day.
this was simply as astounding.
his cap was a dainty thing, his close-buttoned blue cloth roundabout was new and natty, and so were his pantaloons.
he had shoes on and it was only friday.
he even wore a necktie, a bright bit of ribbon.
he had a citified air about him that ate into tom's vitals.
the more tom stared at the splendid marvel, the higher he turned up his nose at his finery and the shabbier and shabbier his own outfit seemed to him to grow.
neither boy spoke.
if one moved, the other moved but only sidewise, in a circle; they kept face to face and eye to eye all the time.
finally tom said:
“i can lick you!”
“i'd like to see you try it.”
“well, i can do it.”
“no you can't, either.”
“yes i can.”
“no you can't.”
“i can.”
“you can't.”
“can!”
“can't!”
an uncomfortable pause.
then tom said:
“what's your name?”
“'tisn't any of your business, maybe.”
“well i 'low i'll make it my business.”
“well why don't you?”
“if you say much, i will.”
“much much much.
there now.”
“oh, you think you're mighty smart, don't you?
i could lick you with one hand tied behind me, if i wanted to.”
“well why don't you do it?
you say you can do it.”
“well i will, if you fool with me.”
“oh yes i've seen whole families in the same fix.”
“smarty!
you think you're some, now, don't you?
oh, what a hat!”
“you can lump that hat if you don't like it.
i dare you to knock it off and anybody that'll take a dare will suck eggs.”
“you're a liar!”
“you're another.”
“you're a fighting liar and dasn't take it up.”
“aw take a walk!”
“say if you give me much more of your sass i'll take and bounce a rock off'n your head.”
“oh, of course you will.”
“well i will.”
“well why don't you do it then?
what do you keep saying you will for?
why don't you do it?
it's because you're afraid.”
“i ain't afraid.”
“you are.”
“i ain't.”
“you are.”
another pause, and more eying and sidling around each other.
presently they were shoulder to shoulder.
tom said:
“get away from here!”
“go away yourself!”
“i won't.”
“i won't either.”
so they stood, each with a foot placed at an angle as a brace, and both shoving with might and main, and glowering at each other with hate.
but neither could get an advantage.
after struggling till both were hot and flushed, each relaxed his strain with watchful caution, and tom said:
“you're a coward and a pup.
i'll tell my big brother on you, and he can thrash you with his little finger, and i'll make him do it, too.”
“what do i care for your big brother?
i've got a brother that's bigger than he is and what's more, he can throw him over that fence, too.”
[both brothers were imaginary.]
“that's a lie.”
“your saying so don't make it so.”
tom drew a line in the dust with his big toe, and said:
“i dare you to step over that, and i'll lick you till you can't stand up.
anybody that'll take a dare will steal sheep.”
the new boy stepped over promptly, and said:
“now you said you'd do it, now let's see you do it.”
“don't you crowd me now; you better look out.”
“well, you said you'd do it why don't you do it?”
“by jingo!
for two cents i will do it.”
the new boy took two broad coppers out of his pocket and held them out with derision.
tom struck them to the ground.
in an instant both boys were rolling and tumbling in the dirt, gripped together like cats; and for the space of a minute they tugged and tore at each other's hair and clothes, punched and scratched each other's nose, and covered themselves with dust and glory.
presently the confusion took form, and through the fog of battle tom appeared, seated astride the new boy, and pounding him with his fists.
“holler 'nuff!” said he.
the boy only struggled to free himself.
he was crying mainly from rage.
“holler 'nuff!” and the pounding went on.
at last the stranger got out a smothered “'nuff!” and tom let him up and said:
“now that'll learn you.
better look out who you're fooling with next time.”
the new boy went off brushing the dust from his clothes, sobbing, snuffling, and occasionally looking back and shaking his head and threatening what he would do to tom the “next time he caught him out.”
to which tom responded with jeers, and started off in high feather, and as soon as his back was turned the new boy snatched up a stone, threw it and hit him between the shoulders and then turned tail and ran like an antelope.
tom chased the traitor home, and thus found out where he lived.
he then held a position at the gate for some time, daring the enemy to come outside, but the enemy only made faces at him through the window and declined.
at last the enemy's mother appeared, and called tom a bad, vicious, vulgar child, and ordered him away.
so he went away; but he said he “'lowed” to “lay” for that boy.
he got home pretty late that night, and when he climbed cautiously in at the window, he uncovered an ambuscade, in the person of his aunt; and when she saw the state his clothes were in her resolution to turn his saturday holiday into captivity at hard labor became adamantine in its firmness.
chapter ii
saturday morning was come, and all the summer world was bright and fresh, and brimming with life.
there was a song in every heart; and if the heart was young the music issued at the lips.
there was cheer in every face and a spring in every step.
the locust-trees were in bloom and the fragrance of the blossoms filled the air.
cardiff hill, beyond the village and above it, was green with vegetation and it lay just far enough away to seem a delectable land, dreamy, reposeful, and inviting.
tom appeared on the sidewalk with a bucket of whitewash and a long-handled brush.
he surveyed the fence, and all gladness left him and a deep melancholy settled down upon his spirit.
thirty yards of board fence nine feet high.
life to him seemed hollow, and existence but a burden.
sighing, he dipped his brush and passed it along the topmost plank; repeated the operation; did it again; compared the insignificant whitewashed streak with the far-reaching continent of unwhitewashed fence, and sat down on a tree-box discouraged.
jim came skipping out at the gate with a tin pail, and singing buffalo gals.
bringing water from the town pump had always been hateful work in tom's eyes, before, but now it did not strike him so.
he remembered that there was company at the pump.
white, mulatto, and negro boys and girls were always there waiting their turns, resting, trading playthings, quarrelling, fighting, skylarking.
and he remembered that although the pump was only a hundred and fifty yards off, jim never got back with a bucket of water under an hour and even then somebody generally had to go after him.
tom said:
“say, jim, i'll fetch the water if you'll whitewash some.”
jim shook his head and said:
“can't, mars tom.
ole missis, she tole me i got to go an' git dis water an' not stop foolin' roun' wid anybody.
she say she spec' mars tom gwine to ax me to whitewash, an' so she tole me go 'long an' 'tend to my own business she 'lowed she'd 'tend to de whitewashin'.”
“oh, never you mind what she said, jim.
that's the way she always talks.
gimme the bucket i won't be gone only a a minute.
she won't ever know.”
“oh, i dasn't, mars tom.
ole missis she'd take an' tar de head off'n me.
'deed she would.”
“she!
she never licks anybody whacks 'em over the head with her thimble and who cares for that, i'd like to know.
she talks awful, but talk don't hurt anyways it don't if she don't cry.
jim, i'll give you a marvel.
i'll give you a white alley!”
jim began to waver.
“white alley, jim!
and it's a bully taw.”
“my!
dat's a mighty gay marvel, i tell you!
but mars tom i's powerful 'fraid ole missis ”
“and besides, if you will i'll show you my sore toe.”
jim was only human this attraction was too much for him.
he put down his pail, took the white alley, and bent over the toe with absorbing interest while the bandage was being unwound.
in another moment he was flying down the street with his pail and a tingling rear, tom was whitewashing with vigor, and aunt polly was retiring from the field with a slipper in her hand and triumph in her eye.
but tom's energy did not last.
he began to think of the fun he had planned for this day, and his sorrows multiplied.
soon the free boys would come tripping along on all sorts of delicious expeditions, and they would make a world of fun of him for having to work the very thought of it burnt him like fire.
he got out his worldly wealth and examined it bits of toys, marbles, and trash; enough to buy an exchange of work, maybe, but not half enough to buy so much as half an hour of pure freedom.
so he returned his straitened means to his pocket, and gave up the idea of trying to buy the boys.
at this dark and hopeless moment an inspiration burst upon him!
nothing less than a great, magnificent inspiration.
he took up his brush and went tranquilly to work.
ben rogers hove in sight presently the very boy, of all boys, whose ridicule he had been dreading.
ben's gait was the hop-skip-and-jump proof enough that his heart was light and his anticipations high.
he was eating an apple, and giving a long, melodious whoop, at intervals, followed by a deep-toned ding-dong-dong, ding-dong-dong, for he was personating a steamboat.
as he drew near, he slackened speed, took the middle of the street, leaned far over to starboard and rounded to ponderously and with laborious pomp and circumstance for he was personating the big missouri, and considered himself to be drawing nine feet of water.
he was boat and captain and engine-bells combined, so he had to imagine himself standing on his own hurricane-deck giving the orders and executing them:
“stop her, sir!
ting-a-ling-ling!” the headway ran almost out, and he drew up slowly toward the sidewalk.
“ship up to back!
ting-a-ling-ling!” his arms straightened and stiffened down his sides.
“set her back on the stabboard!
ting-a-ling-ling!
chow!
ch-chow-wow!
chow!” his right hand, mean-time, describing stately circles for it was representing a forty-foot wheel.
“let her go back on the labboard!
ting-a-ling-ling!
chow-ch-chow-chow!”
the left hand began to describe circles.
“stop the stabboard!
ting-a-ling-ling!
stop the labboard!
come ahead on the stabboard!
stop her!
let your outside turn over slow!
ting-a-ling-ling!
chow-ow-ow!
get out that head-line!
lively now!
come out with your spring-line what're you about there!
take a turn round that stump with the bight of it!
stand by that stage, now let her go!
done with the engines, sir!
ting-a-ling-ling!
sh't!
s'h't!
sh't!” (trying the gauge-cocks).
tom went on whitewashing paid no attention to the steamboat.
ben stared a moment and then said: “hi-yi!
you're up a stump, ain't you!”
no answer.
tom surveyed his last touch with the eye of an artist, then he gave his brush another gentle sweep and surveyed the result, as before.
ben ranged up alongside of him.
tom's mouth watered for the apple, but he stuck to his work.
ben said:
“hello, old chap, you got to work, hey?”
tom wheeled suddenly and said:
“why, it's you, ben!
i warn't noticing.”
“say i'm going in a-swimming, i am.
don't you wish you could?
but of course you'd druther work wouldn't you?
course you would!”
tom contemplated the boy a bit, and said:
“what do you call work?”
“why, ain't that work?”
tom resumed his whitewashing, and answered carelessly:
“well, maybe it is, and maybe it ain't.
all i know, is, it suits tom sawyer.”
“oh come, now, you don't mean to let on that you like it?”
the brush continued to move.
“like it?
well, i don't see why i oughtn't to like it.
does a boy get a chance to whitewash a fence every day?”
that put the thing in a new light.
ben stopped nibbling his apple.
tom swept his brush daintily back and forth stepped back to note the effect added a touch here and there criticised the effect again ben watching every move and getting more and more interested, more and more absorbed.
presently he said:
“say, tom, let me whitewash a little.”
tom considered, was about to consent; but he altered his mind:
“no no i reckon it wouldn't hardly do, ben.
you see, aunt polly's awful particular about this fence right here on the street, you know but if it was the back fence i wouldn't mind and she wouldn't.
yes, she's awful particular about this fence; it's got to be done very careful; i reckon there ain't one boy in a thousand, maybe two thousand, that can do it the way it's got to be done.”
“no is that so?
oh come, now lemme just try.
only just a little i'd let you, if you was me, tom.”
“ben, i'd like to, honest injun; but aunt polly well, jim wanted to do it, but she wouldn't let him; sid wanted to do it, and she wouldn't let sid.
now don't you see how i'm fixed?
if you was to tackle this fence and anything was to happen to it ”
“oh, shucks, i'll be just as careful.
now lemme try.
say i'll give you the core of my apple.”
“well, here no, ben, now don't.
i'm afeard ”
“i'll give you all of it!”
tom gave up the brush with reluctance in his face, but alacrity in his heart.
and while the late steamer big missouri worked and sweated in the sun, the retired artist sat on a barrel in the shade close by, dangled his legs, munched his apple, and planned the slaughter of more innocents.
there was no lack of material; boys happened along every little while; they came to jeer, but remained to whitewash.
by the time ben was fagged out, tom had traded the next chance to billy fisher for a kite, in good repair; and when he played out, johnny miller bought in for a dead rat and a string to swing it with and so on, and so on, hour after hour.
and when the middle of the afternoon came, from being a poor poverty-stricken boy in the morning, tom was literally rolling in wealth.
he had besides the things before mentioned, twelve marbles, part of a jews-harp, a piece of blue bottle-glass to look through, a spool cannon, a key that wouldn't unlock anything, a fragment of chalk, a glass stopper of a decanter, a tin soldier, a couple of tadpoles, six fire-crackers, a kitten with only one eye, a brass door-knob, a dog-collar but no dog the handle of a knife, four pieces of orange-peel, and a dilapidated old window sash.
he had had a nice, good, idle time all the while plenty of company and the fence had three coats of whitewash on it!
if he hadn't run out of whitewash he would have bankrupted every boy in the village.
tom said to himself that it was not such a hollow world, after all.
he had discovered a great law of human action, without knowing it namely, that in order to make a man or a boy covet a thing, it is only necessary to make the thing difficult to attain.
if he had been a great and wise philosopher, like the writer of this book, he would now have comprehended that work consists of whatever a body is obliged to do, and that play consists of whatever a body is not obliged to do.
and this would help him to understand why constructing artificial flowers or performing on a tread-mill is work, while rolling ten-pins or climbing mont blanc is only amusement.
there are wealthy gentlemen in england who drive four-horse passenger-coaches twenty or thirty miles on a daily line, in the summer, because the privilege costs them considerable money; but if they were offered wages for the service, that would turn it into work and then they would resign.
the boy mused awhile over the substantial change which had taken place in his worldly circumstances, and then wended toward headquarters to report.
chapter iii
tom presented himself before aunt polly, who was sitting by an open window in a pleasant rearward apartment, which was bedroom, breakfast-room, dining-room, and library, combined.
the balmy summer air, the restful quiet, the odor of the flowers, and the drowsing murmur of the bees had had their effect, and she was nodding over her knitting for she had no company but the cat, and it was asleep in her lap.
her spectacles were propped up on her gray head for safety.
she had thought that of course tom had deserted long ago, and she wondered at seeing him place himself in her power again in this intrepid way.
he said: “mayn't i go and play now, aunt?”
“what, a'ready?
how much have you done?”
“it's all done, aunt.”
“tom, don't lie to me i can't bear it.”
“i ain't, aunt; it is all done.”
aunt polly placed small trust in such evidence.
she went out to see for herself; and she would have been content to find twenty per cent.
of tom's statement true.
when she found the entire fence white-washed, and not only whitewashed but elaborately coated and recoated, and even a streak added to the ground, her astonishment was almost unspeakable.
she said:
“well, i never!
there's no getting round it, you can work when you're a mind to, tom.” and then she diluted the compliment by adding, “but it's powerful seldom you're a mind to, i'm bound to say.
well, go 'long and play; but mind you get back some time in a week, or i'll tan you.”
she was so overcome by the splendor of his achievement that she took him into the closet and selected a choice apple and delivered it to him, along with an improving lecture upon the added value and flavor a treat took to itself when it came without sin through virtuous effort.
and while she closed with a happy scriptural flourish, he “hooked” a doughnut.
then he skipped out, and saw sid just starting up the outside stairway that led to the back rooms on the second floor.
clods were handy and the air was full of them in a twinkling.
they raged around sid like a hail-storm; and before aunt polly could collect her surprised faculties and sally to the rescue, six or seven clods had taken personal effect, and tom was over the fence and gone.
there was a gate, but as a general thing he was too crowded for time to make use of it.
his soul was at peace, now that he had settled with sid for calling attention to his black thread and getting him into trouble.
tom skirted the block, and came round into a muddy alley that led by the back of his aunt's cow-stable.
he presently got safely beyond the reach of capture and punishment, and hastened toward the public square of the village, where two “military” companies of boys had met for conflict, according to previous appointment.
tom was general of one of these armies, joe harper (a bosom friend) general of the other.
these two great commanders did not condescend to fight in person that being better suited to the still smaller fry but sat together on an eminence and conducted the field operations by orders delivered through aides-de-camp.
tom's army won a great victory, after a long and hard-fought battle.
then the dead were counted, prisoners exchanged, the terms of the next disagreement agreed upon, and the day for the necessary battle appointed; after which the armies fell into line and marched away, and tom turned homeward alone.
as he was passing by the house where jeff thatcher lived, he saw a new girl in the garden a lovely little blue-eyed creature with yellow hair plaited into two long-tails, white summer frock and embroidered pan-talettes.
the fresh-crowned hero fell without firing a shot.
a certain amy lawrence vanished out of his heart and left not even a memory of herself behind.
he had thought he loved her to distraction; he had regarded his passion as adoration; and behold it was only a poor little evanescent partiality.
he had been months winning her; she had confessed hardly a week ago; he had been the happiest and the proudest boy in the world only seven short days, and here in one instant of time she had gone out of his heart like a casual stranger whose visit is done.
he worshipped this new angel with furtive eye, till he saw that she had discovered him; then he pretended he did not know she was present, and began to “show off” in all sorts of absurd boyish ways, in order to win her admiration.
he kept up this grotesque foolishness for some time; but by-and-by, while he was in the midst of some dangerous gymnastic performances, he glanced aside and saw that the little girl was wending her way toward the house.
tom came up to the fence and leaned on it, grieving, and hoping she would tarry yet awhile longer.
she halted a moment on the steps and then moved toward the door.
tom heaved a great sigh as she put her foot on the threshold.
but his face lit up, right away, for she tossed a pansy over the fence a moment before she disappeared.
the boy ran around and stopped within a foot or two of the flower, and then shaded his eyes with his hand and began to look down street as if he had discovered something of interest going on in that direction.
presently he picked up a straw and began trying to balance it on his nose, with his head tilted far back; and as he moved from side to side, in his efforts, he edged nearer and nearer toward the pansy; finally his bare foot rested upon it, his pliant toes closed upon it, and he hopped away with the treasure and disappeared round the corner.
but only for a minute only while he could button the flower inside his jacket, next his heart or next his stomach, possibly, for he was not much posted in anatomy, and not hypercritical, anyway.
he returned, now, and hung about the fence till nightfall, “showing off,” as before; but the girl never exhibited herself again, though tom comforted himself a little with the hope that she had been near some window, meantime, and been aware of his attentions.
finally he strode home reluctantly, with his poor head full of visions.
all through supper his spirits were so high that his aunt wondered “what had got into the child.” he took a good scolding about clodding sid, and did not seem to mind it in the least.
he tried to steal sugar under his aunt's very nose, and got his knuckles rapped for it.
he said:
“aunt, you don't whack sid when he takes it.”
“well, sid don't torment a body the way you do.
you'd be always into that sugar if i warn't watching you.”
presently she stepped into the kitchen, and sid, happy in his immunity, reached for the sugar-bowl a sort of glorying over tom which was wellnigh unbearable.
but sid's fingers slipped and the bowl dropped and broke.
tom was in ecstasies.
in such ecstasies that he even controlled his tongue and was silent.
he said to himself that he would not speak a word, even when his aunt came in, but would sit perfectly still till she asked who did the mischief; and then he would tell, and there would be nothing so good in the world as to see that pet model “catch it.” he was so brimful of exultation that he could hardly hold himself when the old lady came back and stood above the wreck discharging lightnings of wrath from over her spectacles.
he said to himself, “now it's coming!” and the next instant he was sprawling on the floor!
the potent palm was uplifted to strike again when tom cried out:
“hold on, now, what 'er you belting me for?
sid broke it!”
aunt polly paused, perplexed, and tom looked for healing pity.
but when she got her tongue again, she only said:
“umf!
well, you didn't get a lick amiss, i reckon.
you been into some other audacious mischief when i wasn't around, like enough.”
then her conscience reproached her, and she yearned to say something kind and loving; but she judged that this would be construed into a confession that she had been in the wrong, and discipline forbade that.
so she kept silence, and went about her affairs with a troubled heart.
tom sulked in a corner and exalted his woes.
he knew that in her heart his aunt was on her knees to him, and he was morosely gratified by the consciousness of it.
he would hang out no signals, he would take notice of none.
he knew that a yearning glance fell upon him, now and then, through a film of tears, but he refused recognition of it.
he pictured himself lying sick unto death and his aunt bending over him beseeching one little forgiving word, but he would turn his face to the wall, and die with that word unsaid.
ah, how would she feel then?
and he pictured himself brought home from the river, dead, with his curls all wet, and his sore heart at rest.
how she would throw herself upon him, and how her tears would fall like rain, and her lips pray god to give her back her boy and she would never, never abuse him any more!
but he would lie there cold and white and make no sign a poor little sufferer, whose griefs were at an end.
he so worked upon his feelings with the pathos of these dreams, that he had to keep swallowing, he was so like to choke; and his eyes swam in a blur of water, which overflowed when he winked, and ran down and trickled from the end of his nose.
and such a luxury to him was this petting of his sorrows, that he could not bear to have any worldly cheeriness or any grating delight intrude upon it; it was too sacred for such contact; and so, presently, when his cousin mary danced in, all alive with the joy of seeing home again after an age-long visit of one week to the country, he got up and moved in clouds and darkness out at one door as she brought song and sunshine in at the other.
he wandered far from the accustomed haunts of boys, and sought desolate places that were in harmony with his spirit.
a log raft in the river invited him, and he seated himself on its outer edge and contemplated the dreary vastness of the stream, wishing, the while, that he could only be drowned, all at once and unconsciously, without undergoing the uncomfortable routine devised by nature.
then he thought of his flower.
he got it out, rumpled and wilted, and it mightily increased his dismal felicity.
he wondered if she would pity him if she knew?
would she cry, and wish that she had a right to put her arms around his neck and comfort him?
or would she turn coldly away like all the hollow world?
this picture brought such an agony of pleasurable suffering that he worked it over and over again in his mind and set it up in new and varied lights, till he wore it threadbare.
at last he rose up sighing and departed in the darkness.
about half-past nine or ten o'clock he came along the deserted street to where the adored unknown lived; he paused a moment; no sound fell upon his listening ear; a candle was casting a dull glow upon the curtain of a second-story window.
was the sacred presence there?
he climbed the fence, threaded his stealthy way through the plants, till he stood under that window; he looked up at it long, and with emotion; then he laid him down on the ground under it, disposing himself upon his back, with his hands clasped upon his breast and holding his poor wilted flower.
and thus he would die out in the cold world, with no shelter over his homeless head, no friendly hand to wipe the death-damps from his brow, no loving face to bend pityingly over him when the great agony came.
and thus she would see him when she looked out upon the glad morning, and oh!
would she drop one little tear upon his poor, lifeless form, would she heave one little sigh to see a bright young life so rudely blighted, so untimely cut down?
the window went up, a maid-servant's discordant voice profaned the holy calm, and a deluge of water drenched the prone martyr's remains!
the strangling hero sprang up with a relieving snort.
there was a whiz as of a missile in the air, mingled with the murmur of a curse, a sound as of shivering glass followed, and a small, vague form went over the fence and shot away in the gloom.
not long after, as tom, all undressed for bed, was surveying his drenched garments by the light of a tallow dip, sid woke up; but if he had any dim idea of making any “references to allusions,” he thought better of it and held his peace, for there was danger in tom's eye.
tom turned in without the added vexation of prayers, and sid made mental note of the omission.
chapter iv
the sun rose upon a tranquil world, and beamed down upon the peaceful village like a benediction.
breakfast over, aunt polly had family worship: it began with a prayer built from the ground up of solid courses of scriptural quotations, welded together with a thin mortar of originality; and from the summit of this she delivered a grim chapter of the mosaic law, as from sinai.
then tom girded up his loins, so to speak, and went to work to “get his verses.” sid had learned his lesson days before.
tom bent all his energies to the memorizing of five verses, and he chose part of the sermon on the mount, because he could find no verses that were shorter.
at the end of half an hour tom had a vague general idea of his lesson, but no more, for his mind was traversing the whole field of human thought, and his hands were busy with distracting recreations.
mary took his book to hear him recite, and he tried to find his way through the fog:
“blessed are the a a ”
“poor”
“yes poor; blessed are the poor a a ”
“in spirit ”
“in spirit; blessed are the poor in spirit, for they they ”
“theirs ”
“for theirs.
blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.
blessed are they that mourn, for they they ”
“sh ”
“for they a ”
“s, h, a ”
“for they s, h oh, i don't know what it is!”
“shall!”
“oh, shall!
for they shall for they shall a a shall mourn a a blessed are they that shall they that a they that shall mourn, for they shall a shall what?
why don't you tell me, mary?
what do you want to be so mean for?”
“oh, tom, you poor thick-headed thing, i'm not teasing you.
i wouldn't do that.
you must go and learn it again.
don't you be discouraged, tom, you'll manage it and if you do, i'll give you something ever so nice.
there, now, that's a good boy.”
“all right!
what is it, mary, tell me what it is.”
“never you mind, tom.
you know if i say it's nice, it is nice.”
“you bet you that's so, mary.
all right, i'll tackle it again.”
and he did “tackle it again” and under the double pressure of curiosity and prospective gain he did it with such spirit that he accomplished a shining success.
mary gave him a brand-new “barlow” knife worth twelve and a half cents; and the convulsion of delight that swept his system shook him to his foundations.
true, the knife would not cut anything, but it was a “sure-enough” barlow, and there was inconceivable grandeur in that though where the western boys ever got the idea that such a weapon could possibly be counterfeited to its injury is an imposing mystery and will always remain so, perhaps.
tom contrived to scarify the cupboard with it, and was arranging to begin on the bureau, when he was called off to dress for sunday-school.
mary gave him a tin basin of water and a piece of soap, and he went outside the door and set the basin on a little bench there; then he dipped the soap in the water and laid it down; turned up his sleeves; poured out the water on the ground, gently, and then entered the kitchen and began to wipe his face diligently on the towel behind the door.
but mary removed the towel and said:
“now ain't you ashamed, tom.
you mustn't be so bad.
water won't hurt you.”
tom was a trifle disconcerted.
the basin was refilled, and this time he stood over it a little while, gathering resolution; took in a big breath and began.
when he entered the kitchen presently, with both eyes shut and groping for the towel with his hands, an honorable testimony of suds and water was dripping from his face.
but when he emerged from the towel, he was not yet satisfactory, for the clean territory stopped short at his chin and his jaws, like a mask; below and beyond this line there was a dark expanse of unirrigated soil that spread downward in front and backward around his neck.
mary took him in hand, and when she was done with him he was a man and a brother, without distinction of color, and his saturated hair was neatly brushed, and its short curls wrought into a dainty and symmetrical general effect.
[he privately smoothed out the curls, with labor and difficulty, and plastered his hair close down to his head; for he held curls to be effeminate, and his own filled his life with bitterness.]
then mary got out a suit of his clothing that had been used only on sundays during two years they were simply called his “other clothes” and so by that we know the size of his wardrobe.
the girl “put him to rights” after he had dressed himself; she buttoned his neat roundabout up to his chin, turned his vast shirt collar down over his shoulders, brushed him off and crowned him with his speckled straw hat.
he now looked exceedingly improved and uncomfortable.
he was fully as uncomfortable as he looked; for there was a restraint about whole clothes and cleanliness that galled him.
he hoped that mary would forget his shoes, but the hope was blighted; she coated them thoroughly with tallow, as was the custom, and brought them out.
he lost his temper and said he was always being made to do everything he didn't want to do.
but mary said, persuasively:
“please, tom that's a good boy.”
so he got into the shoes snarling.
mary was soon ready, and the three children set out for sunday-school a place that tom hated with his whole heart; but sid and mary were fond of it.
sabbath-school hours were from nine to half-past ten; and then church service.
two of the children always remained for the sermon voluntarily, and the other always remained too for stronger reasons.
the church's high-backed, uncushioned pews would seat about three hundred persons; the edifice was but a small, plain affair, with a sort of pine board tree-box on top of it for a steeple.
at the door tom dropped back a step and accosted a sunday-dressed comrade:
“say, billy, got a yaller ticket?”
“yes.”
“what'll you take for her?”
“what'll you give?”
“piece of lickrish and a fish-hook.”
“less see 'em.”
tom exhibited.
they were satisfactory, and the property changed hands.
then tom traded a couple of white alleys for three red tickets, and some small trifle or other for a couple of blue ones.
he waylaid other boys as they came, and went on buying tickets of various colors ten or fifteen minutes longer.
he entered the church, now, with a swarm of clean and noisy boys and girls, proceeded to his seat and started a quarrel with the first boy that came handy.
the teacher, a grave, elderly man, interfered; then turned his back a moment and tom pulled a boy's hair in the next bench, and was absorbed in his book when the boy turned around; stuck a pin in another boy, presently, in order to hear him say “ouch!” and got a new reprimand from his teacher.
tom's whole class were of a pattern restless, noisy, and troublesome.
when they came to recite their lessons, not one of them knew his verses perfectly, but had to be prompted all along.
however, they worried through, and each got his reward in small blue tickets, each with a passage of scripture on it; each blue ticket was pay for two verses of the recitation.
ten blue tickets equalled a red one, and could be exchanged for it; ten red tickets equalled a yellow one; for ten yellow tickets the superintendent gave a very plainly bound bible (worth forty cents in those easy times) to the pupil.
how many of my readers would have the industry and application to memorize two thousand verses, even for a dore bible?
and yet mary had acquired two bibles in this way it was the patient work of two years and a boy of german parentage had won four or five.
he once recited three thousand verses without stopping; but the strain upon his mental faculties was too great, and he was little better than an idiot from that day forth a grievous misfortune for the school, for on great occasions, before company, the superintendent (as tom expressed it)
had always made this boy come out and “spread himself.” only the older pupils managed to keep their tickets and stick to their tedious work long enough to get a bible, and so the delivery of one of these prizes was a rare and noteworthy circumstance; the successful pupil was so great and conspicuous for that day that on the spot every scholar's heart was fired with a fresh ambition that often lasted a couple of weeks.
it is possible that tom's mental stomach had never really hungered for one of those prizes, but unquestionably his entire being had for many a day longed for the glory and the eclat that came with it.
in due course the superintendent stood up in front of the pulpit, with a closed hymn-book in his hand and his forefinger inserted between its leaves, and commanded attention.
when a sunday-school superintendent makes his customary little speech, a hymn-book in the hand is as necessary as is the inevitable sheet of music in the hand of a singer who stands forward on the platform and sings a solo at a concert though why, is a mystery: for neither the hymn-book nor the sheet of music is ever referred to by the sufferer.
this superintendent was a slim creature of thirty-five, with a sandy goatee and short sandy hair; he wore a stiff standing-collar whose upper edge almost reached his ears and whose sharp points curved forward abreast the corners of his mouth a fence that compelled a straight lookout ahead, and a turning of the whole body when a side view was required; his chin was propped on a spreading cravat which was as broad and as long as a bank-note, and had fringed ends; his boot toes were turned sharply up, in the fashion of the day, like sleigh-runners an effect patiently and laboriously produced by the young men by sitting with their toes pressed against a wall for hours together.
mr. walters was very earnest of mien, and very sincere and honest at heart; and he held sacred things and places in such reverence, and so separated them from worldly matters, that unconsciously to himself his sunday-school voice had acquired a peculiar intonation which was wholly absent on week-days.
he began after this fashion:
“now, children, i want you all to sit up just as straight and pretty as you can and give me all your attention for a minute or two.
there that is it.
that is the way good little boys and girls should do.
i see one little girl who is looking out of the window i am afraid she thinks i am out there somewhere perhaps up in one of the trees making a speech to the little birds.
[applausive titter.]
i want to tell you how good it makes me feel to see so many bright, clean little faces assembled in a place like this, learning to do right and be good.” and so forth and so on.
it is not necessary to set down the rest of the oration.
it was of a pattern which does not vary, and so it is familiar to us all.
the latter third of the speech was marred by the resumption of fights and other recreations among certain of the bad boys, and by fidgetings and whisperings that extended far and wide, washing even to the bases of isolated and incorruptible rocks like sid and mary.
but now every sound ceased suddenly, with the subsidence of mr. walters' voice, and the conclusion of the speech was received with a burst of silent gratitude.
a good part of the whispering had been occasioned by an event which was more or less rare the entrance of visitors: lawyer thatcher, accompanied by a very feeble and aged man; a fine, portly, middle-aged gentleman with iron-gray hair; and a dignified lady who was doubtless the latter's wife.
the lady was leading a child.
tom had been restless and full of chafings and repinings; conscience-smitten, too he could not meet amy lawrence's eye, he could not brook her loving gaze.
but when he saw this small newcomer his soul was all ablaze with bliss in a moment.
the next moment he was “showing off” with all his might cuffing boys, pulling hair, making faces in a word, using every art that seemed likely to fascinate a girl and win her applause.
his exaltation had but one alloy the memory of his humiliation in this angel's garden and that record in sand was fast washing out, under the waves of happiness that were sweeping over it now.
the visitors were given the highest seat of honor, and as soon as mr.
walters' speech was finished, he introduced them to the school.
the middle-aged man turned out to be a prodigious personage no less a one than the county judge altogether the most august creation these children had ever looked upon and they wondered what kind of material he was made of and they half wanted to hear him roar, and were half afraid he might, too.
he was from constantinople, twelve miles away so he had travelled, and seen the world these very eyes had looked upon the county court-house which was said to have a tin roof.
the awe which these reflections inspired was attested by the impressive silence and the ranks of staring eyes.
this was the great judge thatcher, brother of their own lawyer.
jeff thatcher immediately went forward, to be familiar with the great man and be envied by the school.
it would have been music to his soul to hear the whisperings:
“look at him, jim!
he's a going up there.
say look!
he's a going to shake hands with him he is shaking hands with him!
by jings, don't you wish you was jeff?”
mr. walters fell to “showing off,” with all sorts of official bustlings and activities, giving orders, delivering judgments, discharging directions here, there, everywhere that he could find a target.
the librarian “showed off” running hither and thither with his arms full of books and making a deal of the splutter and fuss that insect authority delights in.
the young lady teachers “showed off” bending sweetly over pupils that were lately being boxed, lifting pretty warning fingers at bad little boys and patting good ones lovingly.
the young gentlemen teachers “showed off” with small scoldings and other little displays of authority and fine attention to discipline and most of the teachers, of both sexes, found business up at the library, by the pulpit; and it was business that frequently had to be done over again two or three times (with much seeming vexation).
the little girls “showed off” in various ways, and the little boys “showed off” with such diligence that the air was thick with paper wads and the murmur of scufflings.
and above it all the great man sat and beamed a majestic judicial smile upon all the house, and warmed himself in the sun of his own grandeur for he was “showing off,” too.
there was only one thing wanting to make mr. walters' ecstasy complete, and that was a chance to deliver a bible-prize and exhibit a prodigy.
several pupils had a few yellow tickets, but none had enough he had been around among the star pupils inquiring.
he would have given worlds, now, to have that german lad back again with a sound mind.
and now at this moment, when hope was dead, tom sawyer came forward with nine yellow tickets, nine red tickets, and ten blue ones, and demanded a bible.
this was a thunderbolt out of a clear sky.
walters was not expecting an application from this source for the next ten years.
but there was no getting around it here were the certified checks, and they were good for their face.
tom was therefore elevated to a place with the judge and the other elect, and the great news was announced from headquarters.
it was the most stunning surprise of the decade, and so profound was the sensation that it lifted the new hero up to the judicial one's altitude, and the school had two marvels to gaze upon in place of one.
the boys were all eaten up with envy but those that suffered the bitterest pangs were those who perceived too late that they themselves had contributed to this hated splendor by trading tickets to tom for the wealth he had amassed in selling whitewashing privileges.
these despised themselves, as being the dupes of a wily fraud, a guileful snake in the grass.
the prize was delivered to tom with as much effusion as the superintendent could pump up under the circumstances; but it lacked somewhat of the true gush, for the poor fellow's instinct taught him that there was a mystery here that could not well bear the light, perhaps; it was simply preposterous that this boy had warehoused two thousand sheaves of scriptural wisdom on his premises a dozen would strain his capacity, without a doubt.
amy lawrence was proud and glad, and she tried to make tom see it in her face but he wouldn't look.
she wondered; then she was just a grain troubled; next a dim suspicion came and went came again; she watched; a furtive glance told her worlds and then her heart broke, and she was jealous, and angry, and the tears came and she hated everybody.
tom most of all (she thought).
tom was introduced to the judge; but his tongue was tied, his breath would hardly come, his heart quaked partly because of the awful greatness of the man, but mainly because he was her parent.
he would have liked to fall down and worship him, if it were in the dark.
the judge put his hand on tom's head and called him a fine little man, and asked him what his name was.
the boy stammered, gasped, and got it out:
“tom.”
“oh, no, not tom it is ”
“thomas.”
“ah, that's it.
i thought there was more to it, maybe.
that's very well.
but you've another one i daresay, and you'll tell it to me, won't you?”
“tell the gentleman your other name, thomas,” said walters, “and say sir.
you mustn't forget your manners.”
“thomas sawyer sir.”
“that's it!
that's a good boy.
fine boy.
fine, manly little fellow.
two thousand verses is a great many very, very great many.
and you never can be sorry for the trouble you took to learn them; for knowledge is worth more than anything there is in the world; it's what makes great men and good men; you'll be a great man and a good man yourself, some day, thomas, and then you'll look back and say, it's all owing to the precious sunday-school privileges of my boyhood it's all owing to my dear teachers that taught me to learn it's all owing to the good superintendent, who encouraged me, and watched over me, and gave me a beautiful bible a splendid elegant bible to keep and have it all for my own, always it's all owing to right bringing up!
that is what you will say, thomas and you wouldn't take any money for those two thousand verses no indeed you wouldn't.
and now you wouldn't mind telling me and this lady some of the things you've learned no, i know you wouldn't for we are proud of little boys that learn.
now, no doubt you know the names of all the twelve disciples.
won't you tell us the names of the first two that were appointed?”
tom was tugging at a button-hole and looking sheepish.
he blushed, now, and his eyes fell.
mr. walters' heart sank within him.
he said to himself, it is not possible that the boy can answer the simplest question why did the judge ask him?
yet he felt obliged to speak up and say:
“answer the gentleman, thomas don't be afraid.”
tom still hung fire.
“now i know you'll tell me,” said the lady.
“the names of the first two disciples were ”
“david and goliah!”
let us draw the curtain of charity over the rest of the scene.
chapter v
about half-past ten the cracked bell of the small church began to ring, and presently the people began to gather for the morning sermon.
the sunday-school children distributed themselves about the house and occupied pews with their parents, so as to be under supervision.
aunt polly came, and tom and sid and mary sat with her tom being placed next the aisle, in order that he might be as far away from the open window and the seductive outside summer scenes as possible.
the crowd filed up the aisles: the aged and needy postmaster, who had seen better days; the mayor and his wife for they had a mayor there, among other unnecessaries; the justice of the peace; the widow douglass, fair, smart, and forty, a generous, good-hearted soul and well-to-do, her hill mansion the only palace in the town, and the most hospitable and much the most lavish in the matter of festivities that st. petersburg could boast; the bent and venerable major and mrs. ward; lawyer riverson, the new notable from a distance; next the belle of the village, followed by a troop of lawn-clad and ribbon-decked young heart-breakers; then all the young clerks in town in a body for they had stood in the vestibule sucking their cane-heads, a circling wall of oiled and simpering admirers, till the last girl had run their gantlet; and last of all came the model boy, willie mufferson, taking as heedful care of his mother as if she were cut glass.
he always brought his mother to church, and was the pride of all the matrons.
the boys all hated him, he was so good.
and besides, he had been “thrown up to them” so much.
his white handkerchief was hanging out of his pocket behind, as usual on sundays accidentally.
tom had no handkerchief, and he looked upon boys who had as snobs.
the congregation being fully assembled, now, the bell rang once more, to warn laggards and stragglers, and then a solemn hush fell upon the church which was only broken by the tittering and whispering of the choir in the gallery.
the choir always tittered and whispered all through service.
there was once a church choir that was not ill-bred, but i have forgotten where it was, now.
it was a great many years ago, and i can scarcely remember anything about it, but i think it was in some foreign country.
the minister gave out the hymn, and read it through with a relish, in a peculiar style which was much admired in that part of the country.
his voice began on a medium key and climbed steadily up till it reached a certain point, where it bore with strong emphasis upon the topmost word and then plunged down as if from a spring-board:
shall i be car-ri-ed toe the skies, on flow'ry beds of ease,
whilst others fight to win the prize, and sail thro' blood-y seas?
he was regarded as a wonderful reader.
at church “sociables” he was always called upon to read poetry; and when he was through, the ladies would lift up their hands and let them fall helplessly in their laps, and “wall” their eyes, and shake their heads, as much as to say, “words cannot express it; it is too beautiful, too beautiful for this mortal earth.”
after the hymn had been sung, the rev.
mr. sprague turned himself into a bulletin-board, and read off “notices” of meetings and societies and things till it seemed that the list would stretch out to the crack of doom a queer custom which is still kept up in america, even in cities, away here in this age of abundant newspapers.
often, the less there is to justify a traditional custom, the harder it is to get rid of it.
and now the minister prayed.
a good, generous prayer it was, and went into details: it pleaded for the church, and the little children of the church; for the other churches of the village; for the village itself; for the county; for the state; for the state officers; for the united states; for the churches of the united states; for congress; for the president; for the officers of the government; for poor sailors, tossed by stormy seas; for the oppressed millions groaning under the heel of european monarchies and oriental despotisms; for such as have the light and the good tidings, and yet have not eyes to see nor ears to hear withal; for the heathen in the far islands of the sea; and closed with a supplication that the words he was about to speak might find grace and favor, and be as seed sown in fertile ground, yielding in time a grateful harvest of good.
amen.
there was a rustling of dresses, and the standing congregation sat down.
the boy whose history this book relates did not enjoy the prayer, he only endured it if he even did that much.
he was restive all through it; he kept tally of the details of the prayer, unconsciously for he was not listening, but he knew the ground of old, and the clergyman's regular route over it and when a little trifle of new matter was interlarded, his ear detected it and his whole nature resented it; he considered additions unfair, and scoundrelly.
in the midst of the prayer a fly had lit on the back of the pew in front of him and tortured his spirit by calmly rubbing its hands together, embracing its head with its arms, and polishing it so vigorously that it seemed to almost part company with the body, and the slender thread of a neck was exposed to view; scraping its wings with its hind legs and smoothing them to its body as if they had been coat-tails; going through its whole toilet as tranquilly as if it knew it was perfectly safe.
as indeed it was; for as sorely as tom's hands itched to grab for it they did not dare he believed his soul would be instantly destroyed if he did such a thing while the prayer was going on.
but with the closing sentence his hand began to curve and steal forward; and the instant the “amen” was out the fly was a prisoner of war.
his aunt detected the act and made him let it go.
the minister gave out his text and droned along monotonously through an argument that was so prosy that many a head by and by began to nod and yet it was an argument that dealt in limitless fire and brimstone and thinned the predestined elect down to a company so small as to be hardly worth the saving.
tom counted the pages of the sermon; after church he always knew how many pages there had been, but he seldom knew anything else about the discourse.
however, this time he was really interested for a little while.
the minister made a grand and moving picture of the assembling together of the world's hosts at the millennium when the lion and the lamb should lie down together and a little child should lead them.
but the pathos, the lesson, the moral of the great spectacle were lost upon the boy; he only thought of the conspicuousness of the principal character before the on-looking nations; his face lit with the thought, and he said to himself that he wished he could be that child, if it was a tame lion.
now he lapsed into suffering again, as the dry argument was resumed.
presently he bethought him of a treasure he had and got it out.
it was a large black beetle with formidable jaws a “pinchbug,” he called it.
it was in a percussion-cap box.
the first thing the beetle did was to take him by the finger.
a natural fillip followed, the beetle went floundering into the aisle and lit on its back, and the hurt finger went into the boy's mouth.
the beetle lay there working its helpless legs, unable to turn over.
tom eyed it, and longed for it; but it was safe out of his reach.
other people uninterested in the sermon found relief in the beetle, and they eyed it too.
presently a vagrant poodle dog came idling along, sad at heart, lazy with the summer softness and the quiet, weary of captivity, sighing for change.
he spied the beetle; the drooping tail lifted and wagged.
he surveyed the prize; walked around it; smelt at it from a safe distance; walked around it again; grew bolder, and took a closer smell; then lifted his lip and made a gingerly snatch at it, just missing it; made another, and another; began to enjoy the diversion; subsided to his stomach with the beetle between his paws, and continued his experiments; grew weary at last, and then indifferent and absent-minded.
his head nodded, and little by little his chin descended and touched the enemy, who seized it.
there was a sharp yelp, a flirt of the poodle's head, and the beetle fell a couple of yards away, and lit on its back once more.
the neighboring spectators shook with a gentle inward joy, several faces went behind fans and hand-kerchiefs, and tom was entirely happy.
the dog looked foolish, and probably felt so; but there was resentment in his heart, too, and a craving for revenge.
so he went to the beetle and began a wary attack on it again; jumping at it from every point of a circle, lighting with his fore-paws within an inch of the creature, making even closer snatches at it with his teeth, and jerking his head till his ears flapped again.
but he grew tired once more, after a while; tried to amuse himself with a fly but found no relief; followed an ant around, with his nose close to the floor, and quickly wearied of that; yawned, sighed, forgot the beetle entirely, and sat down on it.
then there was a wild yelp of agony and the poodle went sailing up the aisle; the yelps continued, and so did the dog; he crossed the house in front of the altar; he flew down the other aisle; he crossed before the doors; he clamored up the home-stretch; his anguish grew with his progress, till presently he was but a woolly comet moving in its orbit with the gleam and the speed of light.
at last the frantic sufferer sheered from its course, and sprang into its master's lap; he flung it out of the window, and the voice of distress quickly thinned away and died in the distance.
by this time the whole church was red-faced and suffocating with suppressed laughter, and the sermon had come to a dead standstill.
the discourse was resumed presently, but it went lame and halting, all possibility of impressiveness being at an end; for even the gravest sentiments were constantly being received with a smothered burst of unholy mirth, under cover of some remote pew-back, as if the poor parson had said a rarely facetious thing.
it was a genuine relief to the whole congregation when the ordeal was over and the benediction pronounced.
tom sawyer went home quite cheerful, thinking to himself that there was some satisfaction about divine service when there was a bit of variety in it.
he had but one marring thought; he was willing that the dog should play with his pinchbug, but he did not think it was upright in him to carry it off.
chapter vi
monday morning found tom sawyer miserable.
monday morning always found him so because it began another week's slow suffering in school.
he generally began that day with wishing he had had no intervening holiday, it made the going into captivity and fetters again so much more odious.
tom lay thinking.
presently it occurred to him that he wished he was sick; then he could stay home from school.
here was a vague possibility.
he canvassed his system.
no ailment was found, and he investigated again.
this time he thought he could detect colicky symptoms, and he began to encourage them with considerable hope.
but they soon grew feeble, and presently died wholly away.
he reflected further.
suddenly he discovered something.
one of his upper front teeth was loose.
this was lucky; he was about to begin to groan, as a “starter,” as he called it, when it occurred to him that if he came into court with that argument, his aunt would pull it out, and that would hurt.
so he thought he would hold the tooth in reserve for the present, and seek further.
nothing offered for some little time, and then he remembered hearing the doctor tell about a certain thing that laid up a patient for two or three weeks and threatened to make him lose a finger.
so the boy eagerly drew his sore toe from under the sheet and held it up for inspection.
but now he did not know the necessary symptoms.
however, it seemed well worth while to chance it, so he fell to groaning with considerable spirit.
but sid slept on unconscious.
tom groaned louder, and fancied that he began to feel pain in the toe.
no result from sid.
tom was panting with his exertions by this time.
he took a rest and then swelled himself up and fetched a succession of admirable groans.
sid snored on.
tom was aggravated.
he said, “sid, sid!” and shook him.
this course worked well, and tom began to groan again.
sid yawned, stretched, then brought himself up on his elbow with a snort, and began to stare at tom.
tom went on groaning.
sid said:
“tom!
say, tom!” [no response.]
“here, tom!
tom!
what is the matter, tom?” and he shook him and looked in his face anxiously.
tom moaned out:
“oh, don't, sid.
don't joggle me.”
“why, what's the matter, tom?
i must call auntie.”
“no never mind.
it'll be over by and by, maybe.
don't call anybody.”
“but i must!
don't groan so, tom, it's awful.
how long you been this way?”
“hours.
ouch!
oh, don't stir so, sid, you'll kill me.”
“tom, why didn't you wake me sooner?
oh, tom, don't!
it makes my flesh crawl to hear you.
tom, what is the matter?”
“i forgive you everything, sid.
[groan.]
everything you've ever done to me.
when i'm gone ”
“oh, tom, you ain't dying, are you?
don't, tom oh, don't.
maybe ”
“i forgive everybody, sid.
[groan.]
tell 'em so, sid.
and sid, you give my window-sash and my cat with one eye to that new girl that's come to town, and tell her ”
but sid had snatched his clothes and gone.
tom was suffering in reality, now, so handsomely was his imagination working, and so his groans had gathered quite a genuine tone.
sid flew downstairs and said:
“oh, aunt polly, come!
tom's dying!”
“dying!”
“yes'm.
don't wait come quick!”
“rubbage!
i don't believe it!”
but she fled upstairs, nevertheless, with sid and mary at her heels.
and her face grew white, too, and her lip trembled.
when she reached the bedside she gasped out:
“you, tom!
tom, what's the matter with you?”
“oh, auntie, i'm ”
“what's the matter with you what is the matter with you, child?”
“oh, auntie, my sore toe's mortified!”
the old lady sank down into a chair and laughed a little, then cried a little, then did both together.
this restored her and she said:
“tom, what a turn you did give me.
now you shut up that nonsense and climb out of this.”
the groans ceased and the pain vanished from the toe.
the boy felt a little foolish, and he said:
“aunt polly, it seemed mortified, and it hurt so i never minded my tooth at all.”
“your tooth, indeed!
what's the matter with your tooth?”
“one of them's loose, and it aches perfectly awful.”
“there, there, now, don't begin that groaning again.
open your mouth.
well your tooth is loose, but you're not going to die about that.
mary, get me a silk thread, and a chunk of fire out of the kitchen.”
tom said:
“oh, please, auntie, don't pull it out.
it don't hurt any more.
i wish i may never stir if it does.
please don't, auntie.
i don't want to stay home from school.”
“oh, you don't, don't you?
so all this row was because you thought you'd get to stay home from school and go a-fishing?
tom, tom, i love you so, and you seem to try every way you can to break my old heart with your outrageousness.” by this time the dental instruments were ready.
the old lady made one end of the silk thread fast to tom's tooth with a loop and tied the other to the bedpost.
then she seized the chunk of fire and suddenly thrust it almost into the boy's face.
the tooth hung dangling by the bedpost, now.
but all trials bring their compensations.
as tom wended to school after breakfast, he was the envy of every boy he met because the gap in his upper row of teeth enabled him to expectorate in a new and admirable way.
he gathered quite a following of lads interested in the exhibition; and one that had cut his finger and had been a centre of fascination and homage up to this time, now found himself suddenly without an adherent, and shorn of his glory.
his heart was heavy, and he said with a disdain which he did not feel that it wasn't anything to spit like tom sawyer; but another boy said, “sour grapes!” and he wandered away a dismantled hero.
shortly tom came upon the juvenile pariah of the village, huckleberry finn, son of the town drunkard.
huckleberry was cordially hated and dreaded by all the mothers of the town, because he was idle and lawless and vulgar and bad and because all their children admired him so, and delighted in his forbidden society, and wished they dared to be like him.
tom was like the rest of the respectable boys, in that he envied huckleberry his gaudy outcast condition, and was under strict orders not to play with him.
so he played with him every time he got a chance.
huckleberry was always dressed in the cast-off clothes of full-grown men, and they were in perennial bloom and fluttering with rags.
his hat was a vast ruin with a wide crescent lopped out of its brim; his coat, when he wore one, hung nearly to his heels and had the rearward buttons far down the back; but one suspender supported his trousers; the seat of the trousers bagged low and contained nothing, the fringed legs dragged in the dirt when not rolled up.
huckleberry came and went, at his own free will.
he slept on doorsteps in fine weather and in empty hogsheads in wet; he did not have to go to school or to church, or call any being master or obey anybody; he could go fishing or swimming when and where he chose, and stay as long as it suited him; nobody forbade him to fight; he could sit up as late as he pleased; he was always the first boy that went barefoot in the spring and the last to resume leather in the fall; he never had to wash, nor put on clean clothes; he could swear wonderfully.
in a word, everything that goes to make life precious that boy had.
so thought every harassed, hampered, respectable boy in st. petersburg.
tom hailed the romantic outcast:
“hello, huckleberry!”
“hello yourself, and see how you like it.”
“what's that you got?”
“dead cat.”
“lemme see him, huck.
my, he's pretty stiff.
where'd you get him?”
“bought him off'n a boy.”
“what did you give?”
“i give a blue ticket and a bladder that i got at the slaughter-house.”
“where'd you get the blue ticket?”
“bought it off'n ben rogers two weeks ago for a hoop-stick.”
“say what is dead cats good for, huck?”
“good for?
cure warts with.”
“no!
is that so?
i know something that's better.”
“i bet you don't.
what is it?”
“why, spunk-water.”
“spunk-water!
i wouldn't give a dern for spunk-water.”
“you wouldn't, wouldn't you?
d'you ever try it?”
“no, i hain't.
but bob tanner did.”
“who told you so!”
“why, he told jeff thatcher, and jeff told johnny baker, and johnny told jim hollis, and jim told ben rogers, and ben told a nigger, and the nigger told me.
there now!”
“well, what of it?
they'll all lie.
leastways all but the nigger.
i don't know him.
but i never see a nigger that wouldn't lie.
shucks!
now you tell me how bob tanner done it, huck.”
“why, he took and dipped his hand in a rotten stump where the rain-water was.”
“in the daytime?”
“certainly.”
“with his face to the stump?”
“yes.
least i reckon so.”
“did he say anything?”
“i don't reckon he did.
i don't know.”
“aha!
talk about trying to cure warts with spunk-water such a blame fool way as that!
why, that ain't a-going to do any good.
you got to go all by yourself, to the middle of the woods, where you know there's a spunk-water stump, and just as it's midnight you back up against the stump and jam your hand in and say:
'barley-corn, barley-corn, injun-meal shorts, spunk-water, spunk-water, swaller these warts,'
and then walk away quick, eleven steps, with your eyes shut, and then turn around three times and walk home without speaking to anybody.
because if you speak the charm's busted.”
“well, that sounds like a good way; but that ain't the way bob tanner done.”
“no, sir, you can bet he didn't, becuz he's the wartiest boy in this town; and he wouldn't have a wart on him if he'd knowed how to work spunk-water.
i've took off thousands of warts off of my hands that way, huck.
i play with frogs so much that i've always got considerable many warts.
sometimes i take 'em off with a bean.”
“yes, bean's good.
i've done that.”
“have you?
what's your way?”
“you take and split the bean, and cut the wart so as to get some blood, and then you put the blood on one piece of the bean and take and dig a hole and bury it 'bout midnight at the crossroads in the dark of the moon, and then you burn up the rest of the bean.
you see that piece that's got the blood on it will keep drawing and drawing, trying to fetch the other piece to it, and so that helps the blood to draw the wart, and pretty soon off she comes.”
“yes, that's it, huck that's it; though when you're burying it if you say 'down bean; off wart; come no more to bother me!'
it's better.
that's the way joe harper does, and he's been nearly to coonville and most everywheres.
but say how do you cure 'em with dead cats?”
“why, you take your cat and go and get in the grave-yard 'long about midnight when somebody that was wicked has been buried; and when it's midnight a devil will come, or maybe two or three, but you can't see 'em, you can only hear something like the wind, or maybe hear 'em talk; and when they're taking that feller away, you heave your cat after 'em and say, 'devil follow corpse, cat follow devil, warts follow cat, i'm done with ye!'
that'll fetch any wart.”
“sounds right.
d'you ever try it, huck?”
“no, but old mother hopkins told me.”
“well, i reckon it's so, then.
becuz they say she's a witch.”
“say!
why, tom, i know she is.
she witched pap.
pap says so his own self.
he come along one day, and he see she was a-witching him, so he took up a rock, and if she hadn't dodged, he'd a got her.
well, that very night he rolled off'n a shed wher' he was a layin drunk, and broke his arm.”
“why, that's awful.
how did he know she was a-witching him?”
“lord, pap can tell, easy.
pap says when they keep looking at you right stiddy, they're a-witching you.
specially if they mumble.
becuz when they mumble they're saying the lord's prayer backards.”
“say, hucky, when you going to try the cat?”
“to-night.
i reckon they'll come after old hoss williams to-night.”
“but they buried him saturday.
didn't they get him saturday night?”
“why, how you talk!
how could their charms work till midnight?
and then it's sunday.
devils don't slosh around much of a sunday, i don't reckon.”
“i never thought of that.
that's so.
lemme go with you?”
“of course if you ain't afeard.”
“afeard!
'tain't likely.
will you meow?”
“yes and you meow back, if you get a chance.
last time, you kep' me a-meowing around till old hays went to throwing rocks at me and says 'dern that cat!'
and so i hove a brick through his window but don't you tell.”
“i won't.
i couldn't meow that night, becuz auntie was watching me, but i'll meow this time.
say what's that?”
“nothing but a tick.”
“where'd you get him?”
“out in the woods.”
“what'll you take for him?”
“i don't know.
i don't want to sell him.”
“all right.
it's a mighty small tick, anyway.”
“oh, anybody can run a tick down that don't belong to them.
i'm satisfied with it.
it's a good enough tick for me.”
“sho, there's ticks a plenty.
i could have a thousand of 'em if i wanted to.”
“well, why don't you?
becuz you know mighty well you can't.
this is a pretty early tick, i reckon.
it's the first one i've seen this year.”
“say, huck i'll give you my tooth for him.”
“less see it.”
tom got out a bit of paper and carefully unrolled it.
huckleberry viewed it wistfully.
the temptation was very strong.
at last he said:
“is it genuwyne?”
tom lifted his lip and showed the vacancy.
“well, all right,” said huckleberry, “it's a trade.”
tom enclosed the tick in the percussion-cap box that had lately been the pinchbug's prison, and the boys separated, each feeling wealthier than before.
when tom reached the little isolated frame school-house, he strode in briskly, with the manner of one who had come with all honest speed.
he hung his hat on a peg and flung himself into his seat with business-like alacrity.
the master, throned on high in his great splint-bottom arm-chair, was dozing, lulled by the drowsy hum of study.
the interruption roused him.
“thomas sawyer!”
tom knew that when his name was pronounced in full, it meant trouble.
“sir!”
“come up here.
now, sir, why are you late again, as usual?”
tom was about to take refuge in a lie, when he saw two long tails of yellow hair hanging down a back that he recognized by the electric sympathy of love; and by that form was the only vacant place on the girls' side of the school-house.
he instantly said:
“i stopped to talk with huckleberry finn!”
the master's pulse stood still, and he stared helplessly.
the buzz of study ceased.
the pupils wondered if this foolhardy boy had lost his mind.
the master said:
“you you did what?”
“stopped to talk with huckleberry finn.”
there was no mistaking the words.
“thomas sawyer, this is the most astounding confession i have ever listened to.
no mere ferule will answer for this offence.
take off your jacket.”
the master's arm performed until it was tired and the stock of switches notably diminished.
then the order followed:
“now, sir, go and sit with the girls!
and let this be a warning to you.”
the titter that rippled around the room appeared to abash the boy, but in reality that result was caused rather more by his worshipful awe of his unknown idol and the dread pleasure that lay in his high good fortune.
he sat down upon the end of the pine bench and the girl hitched herself away from him with a toss of her head.
nudges and winks and whispers traversed the room, but tom sat still, with his arms upon the long, low desk before him, and seemed to study his book.
by and by attention ceased from him, and the accustomed school murmur rose upon the dull air once more.
presently the boy began to steal furtive glances at the girl.
she observed it, “made a mouth” at him and gave him the back of her head for the space of a minute.
when she cautiously faced around again, a peach lay before her.
she thrust it away.
tom gently put it back.
she thrust it away again, but with less animosity.
tom patiently returned it to its place.
then she let it remain.
tom scrawled on his slate, “please take it i got more.” the girl glanced at the words, but made no sign.
now the boy began to draw something on the slate, hiding his work with his left hand.
for a time the girl refused to notice; but her human curiosity presently began to manifest itself by hardly perceptible signs.
the boy worked on, apparently unconscious.
the girl made a sort of non-committal attempt to see, but the boy did not betray that he was aware of it.
at last she gave in and hesitatingly whispered:
“let me see it.”
tom partly uncovered a dismal caricature of a house with two gable ends to it and a corkscrew of smoke issuing from the chimney.
then the girl's interest began to fasten itself upon the work and she forgot everything else.
when it was finished, she gazed a moment, then whispered:
“it's nice make a man.”
the artist erected a man in the front yard, that resembled a derrick.
he could have stepped over the house; but the girl was not hypercritical; she was satisfied with the monster, and whispered:
“it's a beautiful man now make me coming along.”
tom drew an hour-glass with a full moon and straw limbs to it and armed the spreading fingers with a portentous fan.
the girl said:
“it's ever so nice i wish i could draw.”
“it's easy,” whispered tom, “i'll learn you.”
“oh, will you?
when?”
“at noon.
do you go home to dinner?”
“i'll stay if you will.”
“good that's a whack.
what's your name?”
“becky thatcher.
what's yours?
oh, i know.
it's thomas sawyer.”
“that's the name they lick me by.
i'm tom when i'm good.
you call me tom, will you?”
“yes.”
now tom began to scrawl something on the slate, hiding the words from the girl.
but she was not backward this time.
she begged to see.
tom said:
“oh, it ain't anything.”
“yes it is.”
“no it ain't.
you don't want to see.”
“yes i do, indeed i do.
please let me.”
“you'll tell.”
“no i won't deed and deed and double deed won't.”
“you won't tell anybody at all?
ever, as long as you live?”
“no, i won't ever tell anybody.
now let me.”
“oh, you don't want to see!”
“now that you treat me so, i will see.” and she put her small hand upon his and a little scuffle ensued, tom pretending to resist in earnest but letting his hand slip by degrees till these words were revealed: “i love you.”
“oh, you bad thing!” and she hit his hand a smart rap, but reddened and looked pleased, nevertheless.
just at this juncture the boy felt a slow, fateful grip closing on his ear, and a steady lifting impulse.
in that wise he was borne across the house and deposited in his own seat, under a peppering fire of giggles from the whole school.
then the master stood over him during a few awful moments, and finally moved away to his throne without saying a word.
but although tom's ear tingled, his heart was jubilant.
as the school quieted down tom made an honest effort to study, but the turmoil within him was too great.
in turn he took his place in the reading class and made a botch of it; then in the geography class and turned lakes into mountains, mountains into rivers, and rivers into continents, till chaos was come again; then in the spelling class, and got “turned down,” by a succession of mere baby words, till he brought up at the foot and yielded up the pewter medal which he had worn with ostentation for months.
chapter vii
the harder tom tried to fasten his mind on his book, the more his ideas wandered.
so at last, with a sigh and a yawn, he gave it up.
it seemed to him that the noon recess would never come.
the air was utterly dead.
there was not a breath stirring.
it was the sleepiest of sleepy days.
the drowsing murmur of the five and twenty studying scholars soothed the soul like the spell that is in the murmur of bees.
away off in the flaming sunshine, cardiff hill lifted its soft green sides through a shimmering veil of heat, tinted with the purple of distance; a few birds floated on lazy wing high in the air; no other living thing was visible but some cows, and they were asleep.
tom's heart ached to be free, or else to have something of interest to do to pass the dreary time.
his hand wandered into his pocket and his face lit up with a glow of gratitude that was prayer, though he did not know it.
then furtively the percussion-cap box came out.
he released the tick and put him on the long flat desk.
the creature probably glowed with a gratitude that amounted to prayer, too, at this moment, but it was premature: for when he started thankfully to travel off, tom turned him aside with a pin and made him take a new direction.
tom's bosom friend sat next him, suffering just as tom had been, and now he was deeply and gratefully interested in this entertainment in an instant.
this bosom friend was joe harper.
the two boys were sworn friends all the week, and embattled enemies on saturdays.
joe took a pin out of his lapel and began to assist in exercising the prisoner.
the sport grew in interest momently.
soon tom said that they were interfering with each other, and neither getting the fullest benefit of the tick.
so he put joe's slate on the desk and drew a line down the middle of it from top to bottom.
“now,” said he, “as long as he is on your side you can stir him up and i'll let him alone; but if you let him get away and get on my side, you're to leave him alone as long as i can keep him from crossing over.”
“all right, go ahead; start him up.”
the tick escaped from tom, presently, and crossed the equator.
joe harassed him awhile, and then he got away and crossed back again.
this change of base occurred often.
while one boy was worrying the tick with absorbing interest, the other would look on with interest as strong, the two heads bowed together over the slate, and the two souls dead to all things else.
at last luck seemed to settle and abide with joe.
the tick tried this, that, and the other course, and got as excited and as anxious as the boys themselves, but time and again just as he would have victory in his very grasp, so to speak, and tom's fingers would be twitching to begin, joe's pin would deftly head him off, and keep possession.
at last tom could stand it no longer.
the temptation was too strong.
so he reached out and lent a hand with his pin.
joe was angry in a moment.
said he:
“tom, you let him alone.”
“i only just want to stir him up a little, joe.”
“no, sir, it ain't fair; you just let him alone.”
“blame it, i ain't going to stir him much.”
“let him alone, i tell you.”
“i won't!”
“you shall he's on my side of the line.”
“look here, joe harper, whose is that tick?”
“i don't care whose tick he is he's on my side of the line, and you sha'n't touch him.”
“well, i'll just bet i will, though.
he's my tick and i'll do what i blame please with him, or die!”
a tremendous whack came down on tom's shoulders, and its duplicate on joe's; and for the space of two minutes the dust continued to fly from the two jackets and the whole school to enjoy it.
the boys had been too absorbed to notice the hush that had stolen upon the school awhile before when the master came tiptoeing down the room and stood over them.
he had contemplated a good part of the performance before he contributed his bit of variety to it.
when school broke up at noon, tom flew to becky thatcher, and whispered in her ear:
“put on your bonnet and let on you're going home; and when you get to the corner, give the rest of 'em the slip, and turn down through the lane and come back.
i'll go the other way and come it over 'em the same way.”
so the one went off with one group of scholars, and the other with another.
in a little while the two met at the bottom of the lane, and when they reached the school they had it all to themselves.
then they sat together, with a slate before them, and tom gave becky the pencil and held her hand in his, guiding it, and so created another surprising house.
when the interest in art began to wane, the two fell to talking.
tom was swimming in bliss.
he said:
“do you love rats?”
“no!
i hate them!”
“well, i do, too live ones.
but i mean dead ones, to swing round your head with a string.”
“no, i don't care for rats much, anyway.
what i like is chewing-gum.”
“oh, i should say so!
i wish i had some now.”
“do you?
i've got some.
i'll let you chew it awhile, but you must give it back to me.”
that was agreeable, so they chewed it turn about, and dangled their legs against the bench in excess of contentment.
“was you ever at a circus?” said tom.
“yes, and my pa's going to take me again some time, if i'm good.”
“i been to the circus three or four times lots of times.
church ain't shucks to a circus.
there's things going on at a circus all the time.
i'm going to be a clown in a circus when i grow up.”
“oh, are you!
that will be nice.
they're so lovely, all spotted up.”
“yes, that's so.
and they get slathers of money most a dollar a day, ben rogers says.
say, becky, was you ever engaged?”
“what's that?”
“why, engaged to be married.”
“no.”
“would you like to?”
“i reckon so.
i don't know.
what is it like?”
“like?
why it ain't like anything.
you only just tell a boy you won't ever have anybody but him, ever ever ever, and then you kiss and that's all.
anybody can do it.”
“kiss?
what do you kiss for?”
“why, that, you know, is to well, they always do that.”
“everybody?”
“why, yes, everybody that's in love with each other.
do you remember what i wrote on the slate?”
“ye yes.”
“what was it?”
“i sha'n't tell you.”
“shall i tell you?”
“ye yes but some other time.”
“no, now.”
“no, not now to-morrow.”
“oh, no, now.
please, becky i'll whisper it, i'll whisper it ever so easy.”
becky hesitating, tom took silence for consent, and passed his arm about her waist and whispered the tale ever so softly, with his mouth close to her ear.
and then he added:
“now you whisper it to me just the same.”
she resisted, for a while, and then said:
“you turn your face away so you can't see, and then i will.
but you mustn't ever tell anybody will you, tom?
now you won't, will you?”
“no, indeed, indeed i won't.
now, becky.”
he turned his face away.
she bent timidly around till her breath stirred his curls and whispered, “i love you!”
then she sprang away and ran around and around the desks and benches, with tom after her, and took refuge in a corner at last, with her little white apron to her face.
tom clasped her about her neck and pleaded:
“now, becky, it's all done all over but the kiss.
don't you be afraid of that it ain't anything at all.
please, becky.” and he tugged at her apron and the hands.
by and by she gave up, and let her hands drop; her face, all glowing with the struggle, came up and submitted.
tom kissed the red lips and said:
“now it's all done, becky.
and always after this, you know, you ain't ever to love anybody but me, and you ain't ever to marry anybody but me, ever never and forever.
will you?”
“no, i'll never love anybody but you, tom, and i'll never marry anybody but you and you ain't to ever marry anybody but me, either.”
“certainly.
of course.
that's part of it.
and always coming to school or when we're going home, you're to walk with me, when there ain't anybody looking and you choose me and i choose you at parties, because that's the way you do when you're engaged.”
“it's so nice.
i never heard of it before.”
“oh, it's ever so gay!
why, me and amy lawrence ”
the big eyes told tom his blunder and he stopped, confused.
“oh, tom!
then i ain't the first you've ever been engaged to!”
the child began to cry.
tom said:
“oh, don't cry, becky, i don't care for her any more.”
“yes, you do, tom you know you do.”
tom tried to put his arm about her neck, but she pushed him away and turned her face to the wall, and went on crying.
tom tried again, with soothing words in his mouth, and was repulsed again.
then his pride was up, and he strode away and went outside.
he stood about, restless and uneasy, for a while, glancing at the door, every now and then, hoping she would repent and come to find him.
but she did not.
then he began to feel badly and fear that he was in the wrong.
it was a hard struggle with him to make new advances, now, but he nerved himself to it and entered.
she was still standing back there in the corner, sobbing, with her face to the wall.
tom's heart smote him.
he went to her and stood a moment, not knowing exactly how to proceed.
then he said hesitatingly:
“becky, i i don't care for anybody but you.”
no reply but sobs.
“becky” pleadingly.
“becky, won't you say something?”
more sobs.
tom got out his chiefest jewel, a brass knob from the top of an andiron, and passed it around her so that she could see it, and said:
“please, becky, won't you take it?”
she struck it to the floor.
then tom marched out of the house and over the hills and far away, to return to school no more that day.
presently becky began to suspect.
she ran to the door; he was not in sight; she flew around to the play-yard; he was not there.
then she called:
“tom!
come back, tom!”
she listened intently, but there was no answer.
she had no companions but silence and loneliness.
so she sat down to cry again and upbraid herself; and by this time the scholars began to gather again, and she had to hide her griefs and still her broken heart and take up the cross of a long, dreary, aching afternoon, with none among the strangers about her to exchange sorrows with.
chapter viii
tom dodged hither and thither through lanes until he was well out of the track of returning scholars, and then fell into a moody jog.
he crossed a small “branch” two or three times, because of a prevailing juvenile superstition that to cross water baffled pursuit.
half an hour later he was disappearing behind the douglas mansion on the summit of cardiff hill, and the school-house was hardly distinguishable away off in the valley behind him.
he entered a dense wood, picked his pathless way to the centre of it, and sat down on a mossy spot under a spreading oak.
there was not even a zephyr stirring; the dead noonday heat had even stilled the songs of the birds; nature lay in a trance that was broken by no sound but the occasional far-off hammering of a wood-pecker, and this seemed to render the pervading silence and sense of loneliness the more profound.
the boy's soul was steeped in melancholy; his feelings were in happy accord with his surroundings.
he sat long with his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands, meditating.
it seemed to him that life was but a trouble, at best, and he more than half envied jimmy hodges, so lately released; it must be very peaceful, he thought, to lie and slumber and dream forever and ever, with the wind whispering through the trees and caressing the grass and the flowers over the grave, and nothing to bother and grieve about, ever any more.
if he only had a clean sunday-school record he could be willing to go, and be done with it all.
now as to this girl.
what had he done?
nothing.
he had meant the best in the world, and been treated like a dog like a very dog.
she would be sorry some day maybe when it was too late.
ah, if he could only die temporarily!
but the elastic heart of youth cannot be compressed into one constrained shape long at a time.
tom presently began to drift insensibly back into the concerns of this life again.
what if he turned his back, now, and disappeared mysteriously?
what if he went away ever so far away, into unknown countries beyond the seas and never came back any more!
how would she feel then!
the idea of being a clown recurred to him now, only to fill him with disgust.
for frivolity and jokes and spotted tights were an offense, when they intruded themselves upon a spirit that was exalted into the vague august realm of the romantic.
no, he would be a soldier, and return after long years, all war-worn and illustrious.
no better still, he would join the indians, and hunt buffaloes and go on the warpath in the mountain ranges and the trackless great plains of the far west, and away in the future come back a great chief, bristling with feathers, hideous with paint, and prance into sunday-school, some drowsy summer morning, with a blood-curdling war-whoop, and sear the eyeballs of all his companions with unappeasable envy.
but no, there was something gaudier even than this.
he would be a pirate!
that was it!
now his future lay plain before him, and glowing with unimaginable splendor.
how his name would fill the world, and make people shudder!
how gloriously he would go plowing the dancing seas, in his long, low, black-hulled racer, the spirit of the storm, with his grisly flag flying at the fore!
and at the zenith of his fame, how he would suddenly appear at the old village and stalk into church, brown and weather-beaten, in his black velvet doublet and trunks, his great jack-boots, his crimson sash, his belt bristling with horse-pistols, his crime-rusted cutlass at his side, his slouch hat with waving plumes, his black flag unfurled, with the skull and crossbones on it, and hear with swelling ecstasy the whisperings, “it's tom sawyer the pirate!
the black avenger of the spanish main!”
yes, it was settled; his career was determined.
he would run away from home and enter upon it.
he would start the very next morning.
therefore he must now begin to get ready.
he would collect his resources together.
he went to a rotten log near at hand and began to dig under one end of it with his barlow knife.
he soon struck wood that sounded hollow.
he put his hand there and uttered this incantation impressively:
“what hasn't come here, come!
what's here, stay here!”
then he scraped away the dirt, and exposed a pine shingle.
he took it up and disclosed a shapely little treasure-house whose bottom and sides were of shingles.
in it lay a marble.
tom's astonishment was bound-less!
he scratched his head with a perplexed air, and said:
“well, that beats anything!”
then he tossed the marble away pettishly, and stood cogitating.
the truth was, that a superstition of his had failed, here, which he and all his comrades had always looked upon as infallible.
if you buried a marble with certain necessary incantations, and left it alone a fortnight, and then opened the place with the incantation he had just used, you would find that all the marbles you had ever lost had gathered themselves together there, meantime, no matter how widely they had been separated.
but now, this thing had actually and unquestionably failed.
tom's whole structure of faith was shaken to its foundations.
he had many a time heard of this thing succeeding but never of its failing before.
it did not occur to him that he had tried it several times before, himself, but could never find the hiding-places afterward.
he puzzled over the matter some time, and finally decided that some witch had interfered and broken the charm.
he thought he would satisfy himself on that point; so he searched around till he found a small sandy spot with a little funnel-shaped depression in it.
he laid himself down and put his mouth close to this depression and called
“doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what i want to know!
doodle-bug, doodle-bug, tell me what i want to know!”
the sand began to work, and presently a small black bug appeared for a second and then darted under again in a fright.
“he dasn't tell!
so it was a witch that done it.
i just knowed it.”
he well knew the futility of trying to contend against witches, so he gave up discouraged.
but it occurred to him that he might as well have the marble he had just thrown away, and therefore he went and made a patient search for it.
but he could not find it.
now he went back to his treasure-house and carefully placed himself just as he had been standing when he tossed the marble away; then he took another marble from his pocket and tossed it in the same way, saying:
“brother, go find your brother!”
he watched where it stopped, and went there and looked.
but it must have fallen short or gone too far; so he tried twice more.
the last repetition was successful.
the two marbles lay within a foot of each other.
just here the blast of a toy tin trumpet came faintly down the green aisles of the forest.
tom flung off his jacket and trousers, turned a suspender into a belt, raked away some brush behind the rotten log, disclosing a rude bow and arrow, a lath sword and a tin trumpet, and in a moment had seized these things and bounded away, barelegged, with fluttering shirt.
he presently halted under a great elm, blew an answering blast, and then began to tiptoe and look warily out, this way and that.
he said cautiously to an imaginary company:
“hold, my merry men!
keep hid till i blow.”
now appeared joe harper, as airily clad and elaborately armed as tom.
tom called:
“hold!
who comes here into sherwood forest without my pass?”
“guy of guisborne wants no man's pass.
who art thou that that ”
“dares to hold such language,” said tom, prompting for they talked “by the book,” from memory.
“who art thou that dares to hold such language?”
“i, indeed!
i am robin hood, as thy caitiff carcase soon shall know.”
“then art thou indeed that famous outlaw?
right gladly will i dispute with thee the passes of the merry wood.
have at thee!”
they took their lath swords, dumped their other traps on the ground, struck a fencing attitude, foot to foot, and began a grave, careful combat, “two up and two down.” presently tom said:
“now, if you've got the hang, go it lively!”
so they “went it lively,” panting and perspiring with the work.
by and by tom shouted:
“fall!
fall!
why don't you fall?”
“i sha'n't!
why don't you fall yourself?
you're getting the worst of it.”
“why, that ain't anything.
i can't fall; that ain't the way it is in the book.
the book says, 'then with one back-handed stroke he slew poor guy of guisborne.'
you're to turn around and let me hit you in the back.”
there was no getting around the authorities, so joe turned, received the whack and fell.
“now,” said joe, getting up, “you got to let me kill you.
that's fair.”
“why, i can't do that, it ain't in the book.”
“well, it's blamed mean that's all.”
“well, say, joe, you can be friar tuck or much the miller's son, and lam me with a quarter-staff; or i'll be the sheriff of nottingham and you be robin hood a little while and kill me.”
this was satisfactory, and so these adventures were carried out.
then tom became robin hood again, and was allowed by the treacherous nun to bleed his strength away through his neglected wound.
and at last joe, representing a whole tribe of weeping outlaws, dragged him sadly forth, gave his bow into his feeble hands, and tom said, “where this arrow falls, there bury poor robin hood under the greenwood tree.” then he shot the arrow and fell back and would have died, but he lit on a nettle and sprang up too gaily for a corpse.
the boys dressed themselves, hid their accoutrements, and went off grieving that there were no outlaws any more, and wondering what modern civilization could claim to have done to compensate for their loss.
they said they would rather be outlaws a year in sherwood forest than president of the united states forever.
chapter ix
at half-past nine, that night, tom and sid were sent to bed, as usual.
they said their prayers, and sid was soon asleep.
tom lay awake and waited, in restless impatience.
when it seemed to him that it must be nearly daylight, he heard the clock strike ten!
this was despair.
he would have tossed and fidgeted, as his nerves demanded, but he was afraid he might wake sid.
so he lay still, and stared up into the dark.
everything was dismally still.
by and by, out of the stillness, little, scarcely perceptible noises began to emphasize themselves.
the ticking of the clock began to bring itself into notice.
old beams began to crack mysteriously.
the stairs creaked faintly.
evidently spirits were abroad.
a measured, muffled snore issued from aunt polly's chamber.
and now the tiresome chirping of a cricket that no human ingenuity could locate, began.
next the ghastly ticking of a death-watch in the wall at the bed's head made tom shudder it meant that somebody's days were numbered.
then the howl of a far-off dog rose on the night air, and was answered by a fainter howl from a remoter distance.
tom was in an agony.
at last he was satisfied that time had ceased and eternity begun; he began to doze, in spite of himself; the clock chimed eleven, but he did not hear it.
and then there came, mingling with his half-formed dreams, a most melancholy caterwauling.
the raising of a neighboring window disturbed him.
a cry of “scat!
you devil!” and the crash of an empty bottle against the back of his aunt's woodshed brought him wide awake, and a single minute later he was dressed and out of the window and creeping along the roof of the “ell” on all fours.
he “meow'd” with caution once or twice, as he went; then jumped to the roof of the woodshed and thence to the ground.
huckleberry finn was there, with his dead cat.
the boys moved off and disappeared in the gloom.
at the end of half an hour they were wading through the tall grass of the graveyard.
it was a graveyard of the old-fashioned western kind.
it was on a hill, about a mile and a half from the village.
it had a crazy board fence around it, which leaned inward in places, and outward the rest of the time, but stood upright nowhere.
grass and weeds grew rank over the whole cemetery.
all the old graves were sunken in, there was not a tombstone on the place; round-topped, worm-eaten boards staggered over the graves, leaning for support and finding none.
“sacred to the memory of” so-and-so had been painted on them once, but it could no longer have been read, on the most of them, now, even if there had been light.
a faint wind moaned through the trees, and tom feared it might be the spirits of the dead, complaining at being disturbed.
the boys talked little, and only under their breath, for the time and the place and the pervading solemnity and silence oppressed their spirits.
they found the sharp new heap they were seeking, and ensconced themselves within the protection of three great elms that grew in a bunch within a few feet of the grave.
then they waited in silence for what seemed a long time.
the hooting of a distant owl was all the sound that troubled the dead stillness.
tom's reflections grew oppressive.
he must force some talk.
so he said in a whisper:
“hucky, do you believe the dead people like it for us to be here?”
huckleberry whispered:
“i wisht i knowed.
it's awful solemn like, ain't it?”
“i bet it is.”
there was a considerable pause, while the boys canvassed this matter inwardly.
then tom whispered:
“say, hucky do you reckon hoss williams hears us talking?”
“o' course he does.
least his sperrit does.”
tom, after a pause:
“i wish i'd said mister williams.
but i never meant any harm.
everybody calls him hoss.”
“a body can't be too partic'lar how they talk 'bout these-yer dead people, tom.”
this was a damper, and conversation died again.
presently tom seized his comrade's arm and said:
“sh!”
“what is it, tom?” and the two clung together with beating hearts.
“sh!
there 'tis again!
didn't you hear it?”
“i ”
“there!
now you hear it.”
“lord, tom, they're coming!
they're coming, sure.
what'll we do?”
“i dono.
think they'll see us?”
“oh, tom, they can see in the dark, same as cats.
i wisht i hadn't come.”
“oh, don't be afeard.
i don't believe they'll bother us.
we ain't doing any harm.
if we keep perfectly still, maybe they won't notice us at all.”
“i'll try to, tom, but, lord, i'm all of a shiver.”
“listen!”
the boys bent their heads together and scarcely breathed.
a muffled sound of voices floated up from the far end of the graveyard.
“look!
see there!” whispered tom.
“what is it?”
“it's devil-fire.
oh, tom, this is awful.”
some vague figures approached through the gloom, swinging an old-fashioned tin lantern that freckled the ground with innumerable little spangles of light.
presently huckleberry whispered with a shudder:
“it's the devils sure enough.
three of 'em!
lordy, tom, we're goners!
can you pray?”
“i'll try, but don't you be afeard.
they ain't going to hurt us.
'now i lay me down to sleep, i '”
“sh!”
“what is it, huck?”
“they're humans!
one of 'em is, anyway.
one of 'em's old muff potter's voice.”
“no 'tain't so, is it?”
“i bet i know it.
don't you stir nor budge.
he ain't sharp enough to notice us.
drunk, the same as usual, likely blamed old rip!”
“all right, i'll keep still.
now they're stuck.
can't find it.
here they come again.
now they're hot.
cold again.
hot again.
red hot!
they're p'inted right, this time.
say, huck, i know another o' them voices; it's injun joe.”
“that's so that murderin' half-breed!
i'd druther they was devils a dern sight.
what kin they be up to?”
the whisper died wholly out, now, for the three men had reached the grave and stood within a few feet of the boys' hiding-place.
“here it is,” said the third voice; and the owner of it held the lantern up and revealed the face of young doctor robinson.
potter and injun joe were carrying a handbarrow with a rope and a couple of shovels on it.
they cast down their load and began to open the grave.
the doctor put the lantern at the head of the grave and came and sat down with his back against one of the elm trees.
he was so close the boys could have touched him.
“hurry, men!” he said, in a low voice; “the moon might come out at any moment.”
they growled a response and went on digging.
for some time there was no noise but the grating sound of the spades discharging their freight of mould and gravel.
it was very monotonous.
finally a spade struck upon the coffin with a dull woody accent, and within another minute or two the men had hoisted it out on the ground.
they pried off the lid with their shovels, got out the body and dumped it rudely on the ground.
the moon drifted from behind the clouds and exposed the pallid face.
the barrow was got ready and the corpse placed on it, covered with a blanket, and bound to its place with the rope.
potter took out a large spring-knife and cut off the dangling end of the rope and then said:
“now the cussed thing's ready, sawbones, and you'll just out with another five, or here she stays.”
“that's the talk!” said injun joe.
“look here, what does this mean?” said the doctor.
“you required your pay in advance, and i've paid you.”
“yes, and you done more than that,” said injun joe, approaching the doctor, who was now standing.
“five years ago you drove me away from your father's kitchen one night, when i come to ask for something to eat, and you said i warn't there for any good; and when i swore i'd get even with you if it took a hundred years, your father had me jailed for a vagrant.
did you think i'd forget?
the injun blood ain't in me for nothing.
and now i've got you, and you got to settle, you know!”
he was threatening the doctor, with his fist in his face, by this time.
the doctor struck out suddenly and stretched the ruffian on the ground.
potter dropped his knife, and exclaimed:
“here, now, don't you hit my pard!” and the next moment he had grappled with the doctor and the two were struggling with might and main, trampling the grass and tearing the ground with their heels.
injun joe sprang to his feet, his eyes flaming with passion, snatched up potter's knife, and went creeping, catlike and stooping, round and round about the combatants, seeking an opportunity.
all at once the doctor flung himself free, seized the heavy headboard of williams' grave and felled potter to the earth with it and in the same instant the half-breed saw his chance and drove the knife to the hilt in the young man's breast.
he reeled and fell partly upon potter, flooding him with his blood, and in the same moment the clouds blotted out the dreadful spectacle and the two frightened boys went speeding away in the dark.
presently, when the moon emerged again, injun joe was standing over the two forms, contemplating them.
the doctor murmured inarticulately, gave a long gasp or two and was still.
the half-breed muttered:
“that score is settled damn you.”
then he robbed the body.
after which he put the fatal knife in potter's open right hand, and sat down on the dismantled coffin.
three four five minutes passed, and then potter began to stir and moan.
his hand closed upon the knife; he raised it, glanced at it, and let it fall, with a shudder.
then he sat up, pushing the body from him, and gazed at it, and then around him, confusedly.
his eyes met joe's.
“lord, how is this, joe?” he said.
“it's a dirty business,” said joe, without moving.
“what did you do it for?”
“i!
i never done it!”
“look here!
that kind of talk won't wash.”
potter trembled and grew white.
“i thought i'd got sober.
i'd no business to drink to-night.
but it's in my head yet worse'n when we started here.
i'm all in a muddle; can't recollect anything of it, hardly.
tell me, joe honest, now, old feller did i do it?
joe, i never meant to 'pon my soul and honor, i never meant to, joe.
tell me how it was, joe.
oh, it's awful and him so young and promising.”
“why, you two was scuffling, and he fetched you one with the headboard and you fell flat; and then up you come, all reeling and staggering like, and snatched the knife and jammed it into him, just as he fetched you another awful clip and here you've laid, as dead as a wedge til now.”
“oh, i didn't know what i was a-doing.
i wish i may die this minute if i did.
it was all on account of the whiskey and the excitement, i reckon.
i never used a weepon in my life before, joe.
i've fought, but never with weepons.
they'll all say that.
joe, don't tell!
say you won't tell, joe that's a good feller.
i always liked you, joe, and stood up for you, too.
don't you remember?
you won't tell, will you, joe?” and the poor creature dropped on his knees before the stolid murderer, and clasped his appealing hands.
“no, you've always been fair and square with me, muff potter, and i won't go back on you.
there, now, that's as fair as a man can say.”
“oh, joe, you're an angel.
i'll bless you for this the longest day i live.” and potter began to cry.
“come, now, that's enough of that.
this ain't any time for blubbering.
you be off yonder way and i'll go this.
move, now, and don't leave any tracks behind you.”
potter started on a trot that quickly increased to a run.
the half-breed stood looking after him.
he muttered:
“if he's as much stunned with the lick and fuddled with the rum as he had the look of being, he won't think of the knife till he's gone so far he'll be afraid to come back after it to such a place by himself chicken-heart!”
two or three minutes later the murdered man, the blanketed corpse, the lidless coffin, and the open grave were under no inspection but the moon's.
the stillness was complete again, too.
chapter x
the two boys flew on and on, toward the village, speechless with horror.
they glanced backward over their shoulders from time to time, apprehensively, as if they feared they might be followed.
every stump that started up in their path seemed a man and an enemy, and made them catch their breath; and as they sped by some outlying cottages that lay near the village, the barking of the aroused watch-dogs seemed to give wings to their feet.
“if we can only get to the old tannery before we break down!” whispered tom, in short catches between breaths.
“i can't stand it much longer.”
huckleberry's hard pantings were his only reply, and the boys fixed their eyes on the goal of their hopes and bent to their work to win it.
they gained steadily on it, and at last, breast to breast, they burst through the open door and fell grateful and exhausted in the sheltering shadows beyond.
by and by their pulses slowed down, and tom whispered:
“huckleberry, what do you reckon'll come of this?”
“if doctor robinson dies, i reckon hanging'll come of it.”
“do you though?”
“why, i know it, tom.”
tom thought a while, then he said:
“who'll tell?
we?”
“what are you talking about?
s'pose something happened and injun joe didn't hang?
why, he'd kill us some time or other, just as dead sure as we're a laying here.”
“that's just what i was thinking to myself, huck.”
“if anybody tells, let muff potter do it, if he's fool enough.
he's generally drunk enough.”
tom said nothing went on thinking.
presently he whispered:
“huck, muff potter don't know it.
how can he tell?”
“what's the reason he don't know it?”
“because he'd just got that whack when injun joe done it.
d'you reckon he could see anything?
d'you reckon he knowed anything?”
“by hokey, that's so, tom!”
“and besides, look-a-here maybe that whack done for him!”
“no, 'taint likely, tom.
he had liquor in him; i could see that; and besides, he always has.
well, when pap's full, you might take and belt him over the head with a church and you couldn't phase him.
he says so, his own self.
so it's the same with muff potter, of course.
but if a man was dead sober, i reckon maybe that whack might fetch him; i dono.”
after another reflective silence, tom said:
“hucky, you sure you can keep mum?”
“tom, we got to keep mum.
you know that.
that injun devil wouldn't make any more of drownding us than a couple of cats, if we was to squeak 'bout this and they didn't hang him.
now, look-a-here, tom, less take and swear to one another that's what we got to do swear to keep mum.”
“i'm agreed.
it's the best thing.
would you just hold hands and swear that we ”
“oh no, that wouldn't do for this.
that's good enough for little rubbishy common things specially with gals, cuz they go back on you anyway, and blab if they get in a huff but there orter be writing 'bout a big thing like this.
and blood.”
tom's whole being applauded this idea.
it was deep, and dark, and awful; the hour, the circumstances, the surroundings, were in keeping with it.
he picked up a clean pine shingle that lay in the moon-light, took a little fragment of “red keel” out of his pocket, got the moon on his work, and painfully scrawled these lines, emphasizing each slow down-stroke by clamping his tongue between his teeth, and letting up the pressure on the up-strokes.
[see next page.]
“huck finn and tom sawyer swears they will keep mum about this and they wish they may drop down dead in their tracks if they ever tell and rot.”
huckleberry was filled with admiration of tom's facility in writing, and the sublimity of his language.
he at once took a pin from his lapel and was going to prick his flesh, but tom said:
“hold on!
don't do that.
a pin's brass.
it might have verdigrease on it.”
“what's verdigrease?”
“it's p'ison.
that's what it is.
you just swaller some of it once you'll see.”
so tom unwound the thread from one of his needles, and each boy pricked the ball of his thumb and squeezed out a drop of blood.
in time, after many squeezes, tom managed to sign his initials, using the ball of his little finger for a pen.
then he showed huckleberry how to make an h and an f, and the oath was complete.
they buried the shingle close to the wall, with some dismal ceremonies and incantations, and the fetters that bound their tongues were considered to be locked and the key thrown away.
a figure crept stealthily through a break in the other end of the ruined building, now, but they did not notice it.
“tom,” whispered huckleberry, “does this keep us from ever telling always?”
“of course it does.
it don't make any difference what happens, we got to keep mum.
we'd drop down dead don't you know that?”
“yes, i reckon that's so.”
they continued to whisper for some little time.
presently a dog set up a long, lugubrious howl just outside within ten feet of them.
the boys clasped each other suddenly, in an agony of fright.
“which of us does he mean?” gasped huckleberry.
“i dono peep through the crack.
quick!”
“no, you, tom!”
“i can't i can't do it, huck!”
“please, tom.
there 'tis again!”
“oh, lordy, i'm thankful!” whispered tom.
“i know his voice.
it's bull harbison.” *
[* if mr. harbison owned a slave named bull, tom would have spoken of him as “harbison's bull,” but a son or a dog of that name was “bull harbison.”]
“oh, that's good i tell you, tom, i was most scared to death; i'd a bet anything it was a stray dog.”
the dog howled again.
the boys' hearts sank once more.
“oh, my!
that ain't no bull harbison!” whispered huckleberry.
“do, tom!”
tom, quaking with fear, yielded, and put his eye to the crack.
his whisper was hardly audible when he said:
“oh, huck, its a stray dog!”
“quick, tom, quick!
who does he mean?”
“huck, he must mean us both we're right together.”
“oh, tom, i reckon we're goners.
i reckon there ain't no mistake 'bout where i'll go to.
i been so wicked.”
“dad fetch it!
this comes of playing hookey and doing everything a feller's told not to do.
i might a been good, like sid, if i'd a tried but no, i wouldn't, of course.
but if ever i get off this time, i lay i'll just waller in sunday-schools!” and tom began to snuffle a little.
“you bad!” and huckleberry began to snuffle too.
“consound it, tom sawyer, you're just old pie, 'long-side o' what i am.
oh, lordy, lordy, lordy, i wisht i only had half your chance.”
tom choked off and whispered:
“look, hucky, look!
he's got his back to us!”
hucky looked, with joy in his heart.
“well, he has, by jingoes!
did he before?”
“yes, he did.
but i, like a fool, never thought.
oh, this is bully, you know.
now who can he mean?”
the howling stopped.
tom pricked up his ears.
“sh!
what's that?” he whispered.
“sounds like like hogs grunting.
no it's somebody snoring, tom.”
“that is it!
where 'bouts is it, huck?”
“i bleeve it's down at 'tother end.
sounds so, anyway.
pap used to sleep there, sometimes, 'long with the hogs, but laws bless you, he just lifts things when he snores.
besides, i reckon he ain't ever coming back to this town any more.”
the spirit of adventure rose in the boys' souls once more.
“hucky, do you das't to go if i lead?”
“i don't like to, much.
tom, s'pose it's injun joe!”
tom quailed.
but presently the temptation rose up strong again and the boys agreed to try, with the understanding that they would take to their heels if the snoring stopped.
so they went tiptoeing stealthily down, the one behind the other.
when they had got to within five steps of the snorer, tom stepped on a stick, and it broke with a sharp snap.
the man moaned, writhed a little, and his face came into the moonlight.
it was muff potter.
the boys' hearts had stood still, and their hopes too, when the man moved, but their fears passed away now.
they tip-toed out, through the broken weather-boarding, and stopped at a little distance to exchange a parting word.
that long, lugubrious howl rose on the night air again!
they turned and saw the strange dog standing within a few feet of where potter was lying, and facing potter, with his nose pointing heavenward.
“oh, geeminy, it's him!” exclaimed both boys, in a breath.
“say, tom they say a stray dog come howling around johnny miller's house, 'bout midnight, as much as two weeks ago; and a whippoorwill come in and lit on the banisters and sung, the very same evening; and there ain't anybody dead there yet.”
“well, i know that.
and suppose there ain't.
didn't gracie miller fall in the kitchen fire and burn herself terrible the very next saturday?”
“yes, but she ain't dead.
and what's more, she's getting better, too.”
“all right, you wait and see.
she's a goner, just as dead sure as muff potter's a goner.
that's what the niggers say, and they know all about these kind of things, huck.”
then they separated, cogitating.
when tom crept in at his bedroom window the night was almost spent.
he undressed with excessive caution, and fell asleep congratulating himself that nobody knew of his escapade.
he was not aware that the gently-snoring sid was awake, and had been so for an hour.
when tom awoke, sid was dressed and gone.
there was a late look in the light, a late sense in the atmosphere.
he was startled.
why had he not been called persecuted till he was up, as usual?
the thought filled him with bodings.
within five minutes he was dressed and down-stairs, feeling sore and drowsy.
the family were still at table, but they had finished breakfast.
there was no voice of rebuke; but there were averted eyes; there was a silence and an air of solemnity that struck a chill to the culprit's heart.
he sat down and tried to seem gay, but it was up-hill work; it roused no smile, no response, and he lapsed into silence and let his heart sink down to the depths.
after breakfast his aunt took him aside, and tom almost brightened in the hope that he was going to be flogged; but it was not so.
his aunt wept over him and asked him how he could go and break her old heart so; and finally told him to go on, and ruin himself and bring her gray hairs with sorrow to the grave, for it was no use for her to try any more.
this was worse than a thousand whippings, and tom's heart was sorer now than his body.
he cried, he pleaded for forgiveness, promised to reform over and over again, and then received his dismissal, feeling that he had won but an imperfect forgiveness and established but a feeble confidence.
he left the presence too miserable to even feel revengeful toward sid; and so the latter's prompt retreat through the back gate was unnecessary.
he moped to school gloomy and sad, and took his flogging, along with joe harper, for playing hookey the day before, with the air of one whose heart was busy with heavier woes and wholly dead to trifles.
then he betook himself to his seat, rested his elbows on his desk and his jaws in his hands, and stared at the wall with the stony stare of suffering that has reached the limit and can no further go.
his elbow was pressing against some hard substance.
after a long time he slowly and sadly changed his position, and took up this object with a sigh.
it was in a paper.
he unrolled it.
a long, lingering, colossal sigh followed, and his heart broke.
it was his brass andiron knob!
this final feather broke the camel's back.
chapter xi
close upon the hour of noon the whole village was suddenly electrified with the ghastly news.
no need of the as yet un-dreamed-of telegraph; the tale flew from man to man, from group to group, from house to house, with little less than telegraphic speed.
of course the schoolmaster gave holi-day for that afternoon; the town would have thought strangely of him if he had not.
a gory knife had been found close to the murdered man, and it had been recognized by somebody as belonging to muff potter so the story ran.
and it was said that a belated citizen had come upon potter washing himself in the “branch” about one or two o'clock in the morning, and that potter had at once sneaked off suspicious circumstances, especially the washing which was not a habit with potter.
it was also said that the town had been ransacked for this “murderer” (the public are not slow in the matter of sifting evidence and arriving at a verdict), but that he could not be found.
horsemen had departed down all the roads in every direction, and the sheriff “was confident” that he would be captured before night.
all the town was drifting toward the graveyard.
tom's heartbreak vanished and he joined the procession, not because he would not a thousand times rather go anywhere else, but because an awful, unaccountable fascination drew him on.
arrived at the dreadful place, he wormed his small body through the crowd and saw the dismal spectacle.
it seemed to him an age since he was there before.
somebody pinched his arm.
he turned, and his eyes met huckleberry's.
then both looked elsewhere at once, and wondered if anybody had noticed anything in their mutual glance.
but everybody was talking, and intent upon the grisly spectacle before them.
“poor fellow!” “poor young fellow!” “this ought to be a lesson to grave robbers!” “muff potter'll hang for this if they catch him!” this was the drift of remark; and the minister said, “it was a judgment; his hand is here.”
now tom shivered from head to heel; for his eye fell upon the stolid face of injun joe.
at this moment the crowd began to sway and struggle, and voices shouted, “it's him!
it's him!
he's coming himself!”
“who?
who?” from twenty voices.
“muff potter!”
“hallo, he's stopped!
look out, he's turning!
don't let him get away!”
people in the branches of the trees over tom's head said he wasn't trying to get away he only looked doubtful and perplexed.
“infernal impudence!” said a bystander; “wanted to come and take a quiet look at his work, i reckon didn't expect any company.”
the crowd fell apart, now, and the sheriff came through, ostentatiously leading potter by the arm.
the poor fellow's face was haggard, and his eyes showed the fear that was upon him.
when he stood before the murdered man, he shook as with a palsy, and he put his face in his hands and burst into tears.
“i didn't do it, friends,” he sobbed; “'pon my word and honor i never done it.”
“who's accused you?” shouted a voice.
this shot seemed to carry home.
potter lifted his face and looked around him with a pathetic hopelessness in his eyes.
he saw injun joe, and exclaimed:
“oh, injun joe, you promised me you'd never ”
“is that your knife?” and it was thrust before him by the sheriff.
potter would have fallen if they had not caught him and eased him to the ground.
then he said:
“something told me 't if i didn't come back and get ” he shuddered; then waved his nerveless hand with a vanquished gesture and said, “tell 'em, joe, tell 'em it ain't any use any more.”
then huckleberry and tom stood dumb and staring, and heard the stony-hearted liar reel off his serene statement, they expecting every moment that the clear sky would deliver god's lightnings upon his head, and wondering to see how long the stroke was delayed.
and when he had finished and still stood alive and whole, their wavering impulse to break their oath and save the poor betrayed prisoner's life faded and vanished away, for plainly this miscreant had sold himself to satan and it would be fatal to meddle with the property of such a power as that.
“why didn't you leave?
what did you want to come here for?” somebody said.
“i couldn't help it i couldn't help it,” potter moaned.
“i wanted to run away, but i couldn't seem to come anywhere but here.” and he fell to sobbing again.
injun joe repeated his statement, just as calmly, a few minutes afterward on the inquest, under oath; and the boys, seeing that the lightnings were still withheld, were confirmed in their belief that joe had sold himself to the devil.
he was now become, to them, the most balefully interesting object they had ever looked upon, and they could not take their fascinated eyes from his face.
they inwardly resolved to watch him nights, when opportunity should offer, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his dread master.
injun joe helped to raise the body of the murdered man and put it in a wagon for removal; and it was whispered through the shuddering crowd that the wound bled a little!
the boys thought that this happy circumstance would turn suspicion in the right direction; but they were disappointed, for more than one villager remarked:
“it was within three feet of muff potter when it done it.”
tom's fearful secret and gnawing conscience disturbed his sleep for as much as a week after this; and at breakfast one morning sid said:
“tom, you pitch around and talk in your sleep so much that you keep me awake half the time.”
tom blanched and dropped his eyes.
“it's a bad sign,” said aunt polly, gravely.
“what you got on your mind, tom?”
“nothing.
nothing 't i know of.” but the boy's hand shook so that he spilled his coffee.
“and you do talk such stuff,” sid said.
“last night you said, 'it's blood, it's blood, that's what it is!'
you said that over and over.
and you said, 'don't torment me so i'll tell!'
tell what?
what is it you'll tell?”
everything was swimming before tom.
there is no telling what might have happened, now, but luckily the concern passed out of aunt polly's face and she came to tom's relief without knowing it.
she said:
“sho!
it's that dreadful murder.
i dream about it most every night myself.
sometimes i dream it's me that done it.”
mary said she had been affected much the same way.
sid seemed satisfied.
tom got out of the presence as quick as he plausibly could, and after that he complained of toothache for a week, and tied up his jaws every night.
he never knew that sid lay nightly watching, and frequently slipped the bandage free and then leaned on his elbow listening a good while at a time, and afterward slipped the bandage back to its place again.
tom's distress of mind wore off gradually and the toothache grew irksome and was discarded.
if sid really managed to make anything out of tom's disjointed mutterings, he kept it to himself.
it seemed to tom that his schoolmates never would get done holding inquests on dead cats, and thus keeping his trouble present to his mind.
sid noticed that tom never was coroner at one of these inquiries, though it had been his habit to take the lead in all new enterprises; he noticed, too, that tom never acted as a witness and that was strange; and sid did not overlook the fact that tom even showed a marked aversion to these inquests, and always avoided them when he could.
sid marvelled, but said nothing.
however, even inquests went out of vogue at last, and ceased to torture tom's conscience.
every day or two, during this time of sorrow, tom watched his opportunity and went to the little grated jail-window and smuggled such small comforts through to the “murderer” as he could get hold of.
the jail was a trifling little brick den that stood in a marsh at the edge of the village, and no guards were afforded for it; indeed, it was seldom occupied.
these offerings greatly helped to ease tom's conscience.
the villagers had a strong desire to tar-and-feather injun joe and ride him on a rail, for body-snatching, but so formidable was his character that nobody could be found who was willing to take the lead in the matter, so it was dropped.
he had been careful to begin both of his inquest-statements with the fight, without confessing the grave-robbery that preceded it; therefore it was deemed wisest not to try the case in the courts at present.
chapter xii
one of the reasons why tom's mind had drifted away from its secret troubles was, that it had found a new and weighty matter to interest itself about.
becky thatcher had stopped coming to school.
tom had struggled with his pride a few days, and tried to “whistle her down the wind,” but failed.
he began to find himself hanging around her father's house, nights, and feeling very miserable.
she was ill. what if she should die!
there was distraction in the thought.
he no longer took an interest in war, nor even in piracy.
the charm of life was gone; there was nothing but dreariness left.
he put his hoop away, and his bat; there was no joy in them any more.
his aunt was concerned.
she began to try all manner of remedies on him.
she was one of those people who are infatuated with patent medicines and all new-fangled methods of producing health or mending it.
she was an inveterate experimenter in these things.
when something fresh in this line came out she was in a fever, right away, to try it; not on herself, for she was never ailing, but on anybody else that came handy.
she was a subscriber for all the “health” periodicals and phrenological frauds; and the solemn ignorance they were inflated with was breath to her nostrils.
all the “rot” they contained about ventilation, and how to go to bed, and how to get up, and what to eat, and what to drink, and how much exercise to take, and what frame of mind to keep one's self in, and what sort of clothing to wear, was all gospel to her, and she never observed that her health-journals of the current month customarily upset everything they had recommended the month before.
she was as simple-hearted and honest as the day was long, and so she was an easy victim.
she gathered together her quack periodicals and her quack medicines, and thus armed with death, went about on her pale horse, metaphorically speaking, with “hell following after.” but she never suspected that she was not an angel of healing and the balm of gilead in disguise, to the suffering neighbors.
the water treatment was new, now, and tom's low condition was a windfall to her.
she had him out at daylight every morning, stood him up in the wood-shed and drowned him with a deluge of cold water; then she scrubbed him down with a towel like a file, and so brought him to; then she rolled him up in a wet sheet and put him away under blankets till she sweated his soul clean and “the yellow stains of it came through his pores” as tom said.
yet notwithstanding all this, the boy grew more and more melancholy and pale and dejected.
she added hot baths, sitz baths, shower baths, and plunges.
the boy remained as dismal as a hearse.
she began to assist the water with a slim oatmeal diet and blister-plasters.
she calculated his capacity as she would a jug's, and filled him up every day with quack cure-alls.
tom had become indifferent to persecution by this time.
this phase filled the old lady's heart with consternation.
this indifference must be broken up at any cost.
now she heard of pain-killer for the first time.
she ordered a lot at once.
she tasted it and was filled with gratitude.
it was simply fire in a liquid form.
she dropped the water treatment and everything else, and pinned her faith to pain-killer.
she gave tom a teaspoonful and watched with the deepest anxiety for the result.
her troubles were instantly at rest, her soul at peace again; for the “indifference” was broken up.
the boy could not have shown a wilder, heartier interest, if she had built a fire under him.
tom felt that it was time to wake up; this sort of life might be romantic enough, in his blighted condition, but it was getting to have too little sentiment and too much distracting variety about it.
so he thought over various plans for relief, and finally hit upon that of professing to be fond of pain-killer.
he asked for it so often that he became a nuisance, and his aunt ended by telling him to help himself and quit bothering her.
if it had been sid, she would have had no misgivings to alloy her delight; but since it was tom, she watched the bottle clandestinely.
she found that the medicine did really diminish, but it did not occur to her that the boy was mending the health of a crack in the sitting-room floor with it.
one day tom was in the act of dosing the crack when his aunt's yellow cat came along, purring, eyeing the teaspoon avariciously, and begging for a taste.
tom said:
“don't ask for it unless you want it, peter.”
but peter signified that he did want it.
“you better make sure.”
peter was sure.
“now you've asked for it, and i'll give it to you, because there ain't anything mean about me; but if you find you don't like it, you mustn't blame anybody but your own self.”
peter was agreeable.
so tom pried his mouth open and poured down the pain-killer.
peter sprang a couple of yards in the air, and then delivered a war-whoop and set off round and round the room, banging against furniture, upsetting flower-pots, and making general havoc.
next he rose on his hind feet and pranced around, in a frenzy of enjoyment, with his head over his shoulder and his voice proclaiming his unappeasable happiness.
then he went tearing around the house again spreading chaos and destruction in his path.
aunt polly entered in time to see him throw a few double summersets, deliver a final mighty hurrah, and sail through the open window, carrying the rest of the flower-pots with him.
the old lady stood petrified with astonishment, peering over her glasses; tom lay on the floor expiring with laughter.
“tom, what on earth ails that cat?”
“i don't know, aunt,” gasped the boy.
“why, i never see anything like it.
what did make him act so?”
“deed i don't know, aunt polly; cats always act so when they're having a good time.”
“they do, do they?” there was something in the tone that made tom apprehensive.
“yes'm.
that is, i believe they do.”
“you do?”
“yes'm.”
the old lady was bending down, tom watching, with interest emphasized by anxiety.
too late he divined her “drift.” the handle of the telltale tea-spoon was visible under the bed-valance.
aunt polly took it, held it up.
tom winced, and dropped his eyes.
aunt polly raised him by the usual handle his ear and cracked his head soundly with her thimble.
“now, sir, what did you want to treat that poor dumb beast so, for?”
“i done it out of pity for him because he hadn't any aunt.”
“hadn't any aunt!
you numskull.
what has that got to do with it?”
“heaps.
because if he'd had one she'd a burnt him out herself!
she'd a roasted his bowels out of him 'thout any more feeling than if he was a human!”
aunt polly felt a sudden pang of remorse.
this was putting the thing in a new light; what was cruelty to a cat might be cruelty to a boy, too.
she began to soften; she felt sorry.
her eyes watered a little, and she put her hand on tom's head and said gently:
“i was meaning for the best, tom.
and, tom, it did do you good.”
tom looked up in her face with just a perceptible twinkle peeping through his gravity.
“i know you was meaning for the best, aunty, and so was i with peter.
it done him good, too.
i never see him get around so since ”
“oh, go 'long with you, tom, before you aggravate me again.
and you try and see if you can't be a good boy, for once, and you needn't take any more medicine.”
tom reached school ahead of time.
it was noticed that this strange thing had been occurring every day latterly.
and now, as usual of late, he hung about the gate of the schoolyard instead of playing with his comrades.
he was sick, he said, and he looked it.
he tried to seem to be looking everywhere but whither he really was looking down the road.
presently jeff thatcher hove in sight, and tom's face lighted; he gazed a moment, and then turned sorrowfully away.
when jeff arrived, tom accosted him; and “led up” warily to opportunities for remark about becky, but the giddy lad never could see the bait.
tom watched and watched, hoping whenever a frisking frock came in sight, and hating the owner of it as soon as he saw she was not the right one.
at last frocks ceased to appear, and he dropped hopelessly into the dumps; he entered the empty schoolhouse and sat down to suffer.
then one more frock passed in at the gate, and tom's heart gave a great bound.
the next instant he was out, and “going on” like an indian; yelling, laughing, chasing boys, jumping over the fence at risk of life and limb, throwing handsprings, standing on his head doing all the heroic things he could conceive of, and keeping a furtive eye out, all the while, to see if becky thatcher was noticing.
but she seemed to be unconscious of it all; she never looked.
could it be possible that she was not aware that he was there?
he carried his exploits to her immediate vicinity; came war-whooping around, snatched a boy's cap, hurled it to the roof of the schoolhouse, broke through a group of boys, tumbling them in every direction, and fell sprawling, himself, under becky's nose, almost upsetting her and she turned, with her nose in the air, and he heard her say: “mf!
some people think they're mighty smart always showing off!”
tom's cheeks burned.
he gathered himself up and sneaked off, crushed and crestfallen.
chapter xiii
tom's mind was made up now.
he was gloomy and desperate.
he was a forsaken, friendless boy, he said; nobody loved him; when they found out what they had driven him to, perhaps they would be sorry; he had tried to do right and get along, but they would not let him; since nothing would do them but to be rid of him, let it be so; and let them blame him for the consequences why shouldn't they?
what right had the friendless to complain?
yes, they had forced him to it at last: he would lead a life of crime.
there was no choice.
by this time he was far down meadow lane, and the bell for school to “take up” tinkled faintly upon his ear.
he sobbed, now, to think he should never, never hear that old familiar sound any more it was very hard, but it was forced on him; since he was driven out into the cold world, he must submit but he forgave them.
then the sobs came thick and fast.
just at this point he met his soul's sworn comrade, joe harper hard-eyed, and with evidently a great and dismal purpose in his heart.
plainly here were “two souls with but a single thought.” tom, wiping his eyes with his sleeve, began to blubber out something about a resolution to escape from hard usage and lack of sympathy at home by roaming abroad into the great world never to return; and ended by hoping that joe would not forget him.
but it transpired that this was a request which joe had just been going to make of tom, and had come to hunt him up for that purpose.
his mother had whipped him for drinking some cream which he had never tasted and knew nothing about; it was plain that she was tired of him and wished him to go; if she felt that way, there was nothing for him to do but succumb; he hoped she would be happy, and never regret having driven her poor boy out into the unfeeling world to suffer and die.
as the two boys walked sorrowing along, they made a new compact to stand by each other and be brothers and never separate till death relieved them of their troubles.
then they began to lay their plans.
joe was for being a hermit, and living on crusts in a remote cave, and dying, some time, of cold and want and grief; but after listening to tom, he conceded that there were some conspicuous advantages about a life of crime, and so he consented to be a pirate.
three miles below st. petersburg, at a point where the mississippi river was a trifle over a mile wide, there was a long, narrow, wooded island, with a shallow bar at the head of it, and this offered well as a rendezvous.
it was not inhabited; it lay far over toward the further shore, abreast a dense and almost wholly unpeopled forest.
so jackson's island was chosen.
who were to be the subjects of their piracies was a matter that did not occur to them.
then they hunted up huckleberry finn, and he joined them promptly, for all careers were one to him; he was indifferent.
they presently separated to meet at a lonely spot on the river-bank two miles above the village at the favorite hour which was midnight.
there was a small log raft there which they meant to capture.
each would bring hooks and lines, and such provision as he could steal in the most dark and mysterious way as became outlaws.
and before the afternoon was done, they had all managed to enjoy the sweet glory of spreading the fact that pretty soon the town would “hear something.” all who got this vague hint were cautioned to “be mum and wait.”
about midnight tom arrived with a boiled ham and a few trifles, and stopped in a dense undergrowth on a small bluff overlooking the meeting-place.
it was starlight, and very still.
the mighty river lay like an ocean at rest.
tom listened a moment, but no sound disturbed the quiet.
then he gave a low, distinct whistle.
it was answered from under the bluff.
tom whistled twice more; these signals were answered in the same way.
then a guarded voice said:
“who goes there?”
“tom sawyer, the black avenger of the spanish main.
name your names.”
“huck finn the red-handed, and joe harper the terror of the seas.” tom had furnished these titles, from his favorite literature.
“'tis well.
give the countersign.”
two hoarse whispers delivered the same awful word simultaneously to the brooding night:
“blood!”
then tom tumbled his ham over the bluff and let himself down after it, tearing both skin and clothes to some extent in the effort.
there was an easy, comfortable path along the shore under the bluff, but it lacked the advantages of difficulty and danger so valued by a pirate.
the terror of the seas had brought a side of bacon, and had about worn himself out with getting it there.
finn the red-handed had stolen a skillet and a quantity of half-cured leaf tobacco, and had also brought a few corn-cobs to make pipes with.
but none of the pirates smoked or “chewed” but himself.
the black avenger of the spanish main said it would never do to start without some fire.
that was a wise thought; matches were hardly known there in that day.
they saw a fire smouldering upon a great raft a hundred yards above, and they went stealthily thither and helped themselves to a chunk.
they made an imposing adventure of it, saying, “hist!” every now and then, and suddenly halting with finger on lip; moving with hands on imaginary dagger-hilts; and giving orders in dismal whispers that if “the foe” stirred, to “let him have it to the hilt,” because “dead men tell no tales.” they knew well enough that the raftsmen were all down at the village laying in stores or having a spree, but still that was no excuse for their conducting this thing in an unpiratical way.
they shoved off, presently, tom in command, huck at the after oar and joe at the forward.
tom stood amidships, gloomy-browed, and with folded arms, and gave his orders in a low, stern whisper:
“luff, and bring her to the wind!”
“aye-aye, sir!”
“steady, steady-y-y-y!”
“steady it is, sir!”
“let her go off a point!”
“point it is, sir!”
as the boys steadily and monotonously drove the raft toward mid-stream it was no doubt understood that these orders were given only for “style,” and were not intended to mean anything in particular.
“what sail's she carrying?”
“courses, tops'ls, and flying-jib, sir.”
“send the r'yals up!
lay out aloft, there, half a dozen of ye foretopmaststuns'l!
lively, now!”
“aye-aye, sir!”
“shake out that maintogalans'l!
sheets and braces!
now my hearties!”
“aye-aye, sir!”
“hellum-a-lee hard a port!
stand by to meet her when she comes!
port, port!
now, men!
with a will!
stead-y-y-y!”
“steady it is, sir!”
the raft drew beyond the middle of the river; the boys pointed her head right, and then lay on their oars.
the river was not high, so there was not more than a two or three mile current.
hardly a word was said during the next three-quarters of an hour.
now the raft was passing before the distant town.
two or three glimmering lights showed where it lay, peacefully sleeping, beyond the vague vast sweep of star-gemmed water, unconscious of the tremendous event that was happening.
the black avenger stood still with folded arms, “looking his last” upon the scene of his former joys and his later sufferings, and wishing “she” could see him now, abroad on the wild sea, facing peril and death with dauntless heart, going to his doom with a grim smile on his lips.
it was but a small strain on his imagination to remove jackson's island beyond eye-shot of the village, and so he “looked his last” with a broken and satisfied heart.
the other pirates were looking their last, too; and they all looked so long that they came near letting the current drift them out of the range of the island.
but they discovered the danger in time, and made shift to avert it.
about two o'clock in the morning the raft grounded on the bar two hundred yards above the head of the island, and they waded back and forth until they had landed their freight.
part of the little raft's belongings consisted of an old sail, and this they spread over a nook in the bushes for a tent to shelter their provisions; but they themselves would sleep in the open air in good weather, as became outlaws.
they built a fire against the side of a great log twenty or thirty steps within the sombre depths of the forest, and then cooked some bacon in the frying-pan for supper, and used up half of the corn “pone” stock they had brought.
it seemed glorious sport to be feasting in that wild, free way in the virgin forest of an unexplored and uninhabited island, far from the haunts of men, and they said they never would return to civilization.
the climbing fire lit up their faces and threw its ruddy glare upon the pillared tree-trunks of their forest temple, and upon the varnished foliage and festooning vines.
when the last crisp slice of bacon was gone, and the last allowance of corn pone devoured, the boys stretched themselves out on the grass, filled with contentment.
they could have found a cooler place, but they would not deny themselves such a romantic feature as the roasting campfire.
“ain't it gay?” said joe.
“it's nuts!” said tom.
“what would the boys say if they could see us?”
“say?
well, they'd just die to be here hey, hucky!”
“i reckon so,” said huckleberry; “anyways, i'm suited.
i don't want nothing better'n this.
i don't ever get enough to eat, gen'ally and here they can't come and pick at a feller and bullyrag him so.”
“it's just the life for me,” said tom.
“you don't have to get up, mornings, and you don't have to go to school, and wash, and all that blame foolishness.
you see a pirate don't have to do anything, joe, when he's ashore, but a hermit he has to be praying considerable, and then he don't have any fun, anyway, all by himself that way.”
“oh yes, that's so,” said joe, “but i hadn't thought much about it, you know.
i'd a good deal rather be a pirate, now that i've tried it.”
“you see,” said tom, “people don't go much on hermits, nowadays, like they used to in old times, but a pirate's always respected.
and a hermit's got to sleep on the hardest place he can find, and put sackcloth and ashes on his head, and stand out in the rain, and ”
“what does he put sackcloth and ashes on his head for?” inquired huck.
“i dono.
but they've got to do it.
hermits always do.
you'd have to do that if you was a hermit.”
“dern'd if i would,” said huck.
“well, what would you do?”
“i dono.
but i wouldn't do that.”
“why, huck, you'd have to.
how'd you get around it?”
“why, i just wouldn't stand it.
i'd run away.”
“run away!
well, you would be a nice old slouch of a hermit.
you'd be a disgrace.”
the red-handed made no response, being better employed.
he had finished gouging out a cob, and now he fitted a weed stem to it, loaded it with tobacco, and was pressing a coal to the charge and blowing a cloud of fragrant smoke he was in the full bloom of luxurious contentment.
the other pirates envied him this majestic vice, and secretly resolved to acquire it shortly.
presently huck said:
“what does pirates have to do?”
tom said:
“oh, they have just a bully time take ships and burn them, and get the money and bury it in awful places in their island where there's ghosts and things to watch it, and kill everybody in the ships make 'em walk a plank.”
“and they carry the women to the island,” said joe; “they don't kill the women.”
“no,” assented tom, “they don't kill the women they're too noble.
and the women's always beautiful, too.
“and don't they wear the bulliest clothes!
oh no!
all gold and silver and di'monds,” said joe, with enthusiasm.
“who?” said huck.
“why, the pirates.”
huck scanned his own clothing forlornly.
“i reckon i ain't dressed fitten for a pirate,” said he, with a regretful pathos in his voice; “but i ain't got none but these.”
but the other boys told him the fine clothes would come fast enough, after they should have begun their adventures.
they made him understand that his poor rags would do to begin with, though it was customary for wealthy pirates to start with a proper wardrobe.
gradually their talk died out and drowsiness began to steal upon the eyelids of the little waifs.
the pipe dropped from the fingers of the red-handed, and he slept the sleep of the conscience-free and the weary.
the terror of the seas and the black avenger of the spanish main had more difficulty in getting to sleep.
they said their prayers inwardly, and lying down, since there was nobody there with authority to make them kneel and recite aloud; in truth, they had a mind not to say them at all, but they were afraid to proceed to such lengths as that, lest they might call down a sudden and special thunderbolt from heaven.
then at once they reached and hovered upon the imminent verge of sleep but an intruder came, now, that would not “down.” it was conscience.
they began to feel a vague fear that they had been doing wrong to run away; and next they thought of the stolen meat, and then the real torture came.
they tried to argue it away by reminding conscience that they had purloined sweetmeats and apples scores of times; but conscience was not to be appeased by such thin plausibilities; it seemed to them, in the end, that there was no getting around the stubborn fact that taking sweetmeats was only “hooking,” while taking bacon and hams and such valuables was plain simple stealing and there was a command against that in the bible.
so they inwardly resolved that so long as they remained in the business, their piracies should not again be sullied with the crime of stealing.
then conscience granted a truce, and these curiously inconsistent pirates fell peacefully to sleep.
chapter xiv
when tom awoke in the morning, he wondered where he was.
he sat up and rubbed his eyes and looked around.
then he comprehended.
it was the cool gray dawn, and there was a delicious sense of repose and peace in the deep pervading calm and silence of the woods.
not a leaf stirred; not a sound obtruded upon great nature's meditation.
beaded dewdrops stood upon the leaves and grasses.
a white layer of ashes covered the fire, and a thin blue breath of smoke rose straight into the air.
joe and huck still slept.
now, far away in the woods a bird called; another answered; presently the hammering of a woodpecker was heard.
gradually the cool dim gray of the morning whitened, and as gradually sounds multiplied and life manifested itself.
the marvel of nature shaking off sleep and going to work unfolded itself to the musing boy.
a little green worm came crawling over a dewy leaf, lifting two-thirds of his body into the air from time to time and “sniffing around,” then proceeding again for he was measuring, tom said; and when the worm approached him, of its own accord, he sat as still as a stone, with his hopes rising and falling, by turns, as the creature still came toward him or seemed inclined to go elsewhere; and when at last it considered a painful moment with its curved body in the air and then came decisively down upon tom's leg and began a journey over him, his whole heart was glad for that meant that he was going to have a new suit of clothes without the shadow of a doubt a gaudy piratical uniform.
now a procession of ants appeared, from nowhere in particular, and went about their labors; one struggled manfully by with a dead spider five times as big as itself in its arms, and lugged it straight up a tree-trunk.
a brown spotted lady-bug climbed the dizzy height of a grass blade, and tom bent down close to it and said, “lady-bug, lady-bug, fly away home, your house is on fire, your children's alone,” and she took wing and went off to see about it which did not surprise the boy, for he knew of old that this insect was credulous about conflagrations, and he had practised upon its simplicity more than once.
a tumblebug came next, heaving sturdily at its ball, and tom touched the creature, to see it shut its legs against its body and pretend to be dead.
the birds were fairly rioting by this time.
a catbird, the northern mocker, lit in a tree over tom's head, and trilled out her imitations of her neighbors in a rapture of enjoyment; then a shrill jay swept down, a flash of blue flame, and stopped on a twig almost within the boy's reach, cocked his head to one side and eyed the strangers with a consuming curiosity; a gray squirrel and a big fellow of the “fox” kind came skurrying along, sitting up at intervals to inspect and chatter at the boys, for the wild things had probably never seen a human being before and scarcely knew whether to be afraid or not.
all nature was wide awake and stirring, now; long lances of sunlight pierced down through the dense foliage far and near, and a few butterflies came fluttering upon the scene.
tom stirred up the other pirates and they all clattered away with a shout, and in a minute or two were stripped and chasing after and tumbling over each other in the shallow limpid water of the white sandbar.
they felt no longing for the little village sleeping in the distance beyond the majestic waste of water.
a vagrant current or a slight rise in the river had carried off their raft, but this only gratified them, since its going was something like burning the bridge between them and civilization.
they came back to camp wonderfully refreshed, glad-hearted, and ravenous; and they soon had the camp-fire blazing up again.
huck found a spring of clear cold water close by, and the boys made cups of broad oak or hickory leaves, and felt that water, sweetened with such a wildwood charm as that, would be a good enough substitute for coffee.
while joe was slicing bacon for breakfast, tom and huck asked him to hold on a minute; they stepped to a promising nook in the river-bank and threw in their lines; almost immediately they had reward.
joe had not had time to get impatient before they were back again with some handsome bass, a couple of sun-perch and a small catfish provisions enough for quite a family.
they fried the fish with the bacon, and were astonished; for no fish had ever seemed so delicious before.
they did not know that the quicker a fresh-water fish is on the fire after he is caught the better he is; and they reflected little upon what a sauce open-air sleeping, open-air exercise, bathing, and a large ingredient of hunger make, too.
they lay around in the shade, after breakfast, while huck had a smoke, and then went off through the woods on an exploring expedition.
they tramped gayly along, over decaying logs, through tangled underbrush, among solemn monarchs of the forest, hung from their crowns to the ground with a drooping regalia of grape-vines.
now and then they came upon snug nooks carpeted with grass and jeweled with flowers.
they found plenty of things to be delighted with, but nothing to be astonished at.
they discovered that the island was about three miles long and a quarter of a mile wide, and that the shore it lay closest to was only separated from it by a narrow channel hardly two hundred yards wide.
they took a swim about every hour, so it was close upon the middle of the afternoon when they got back to camp.
they were too hungry to stop to fish, but they fared sumptuously upon cold ham, and then threw themselves down in the shade to talk.
but the talk soon began to drag, and then died.
the stillness, the solemnity that brooded in the woods, and the sense of loneliness, began to tell upon the spirits of the boys.
they fell to thinking.
a sort of undefined longing crept upon them.
this took dim shape, presently it was budding homesickness.
even finn the red-handed was dreaming of his doorsteps and empty hogsheads.
but they were all ashamed of their weakness, and none was brave enough to speak his thought.
for some time, now, the boys had been dully conscious of a peculiar sound in the distance, just as one sometimes is of the ticking of a clock which he takes no distinct note of.
but now this mysterious sound became more pronounced, and forced a recognition.
the boys started, glanced at each other, and then each assumed a listening attitude.
there was a long silence, profound and unbroken; then a deep, sullen boom came floating down out of the distance.
“what is it!” exclaimed joe, under his breath.
“i wonder,” said tom in a whisper.
“'tain't thunder,” said huckleberry, in an awed tone, “becuz thunder ”
“hark!” said tom.
“listen don't talk.”
they waited a time that seemed an age, and then the same muffled boom troubled the solemn hush.
“let's go and see.”
they sprang to their feet and hurried to the shore toward the town.
they parted the bushes on the bank and peered out over the water.
the little steam ferry-boat was about a mile below the village, drifting with the current.
her broad deck seemed crowded with people.
there were a great many skiffs rowing about or floating with the stream in the neighborhood of the ferryboat, but the boys could not determine what the men in them were doing.
presently a great jet of white smoke burst from the ferryboat's side, and as it expanded and rose in a lazy cloud, that same dull throb of sound was borne to the listeners again.
“i know now!” exclaimed tom; “somebody's drownded!”
“that's it!” said huck; “they done that last summer, when bill turner got drownded; they shoot a cannon over the water, and that makes him come up to the top.
yes, and they take loaves of bread and put quicksilver in 'em and set 'em afloat, and wherever there's anybody that's drownded, they'll float right there and stop.”
“yes, i've heard about that,” said joe.
“i wonder what makes the bread do that.”
“oh, it ain't the bread, so much,” said tom; “i reckon it's mostly what they say over it before they start it out.”
“but they don't say anything over it,” said huck.
“i've seen 'em and they don't.”
“well, that's funny,” said tom.
“but maybe they say it to themselves.
of course they do.
anybody might know that.”
the other boys agreed that there was reason in what tom said, because an ignorant lump of bread, uninstructed by an incantation, could not be expected to act very intelligently when set upon an errand of such gravity.
“by jings, i wish i was over there, now,” said joe.
“i do too” said huck “i'd give heaps to know who it is.”
the boys still listened and watched.
presently a revealing thought flashed through tom's mind, and he exclaimed:
“boys, i know who's drownded it's us!”
they felt like heroes in an instant.
here was a gorgeous triumph; they were missed; they were mourned; hearts were breaking on their account; tears were being shed; accusing memories of unkindness to these poor lost lads were rising up, and unavailing regrets and remorse were being indulged; and best of all, the departed were the talk of the whole town, and the envy of all the boys, as far as this dazzling notoriety was concerned.
this was fine.
it was worth while to be a pirate, after all.
as twilight drew on, the ferryboat went back to her accustomed business and the skiffs disappeared.
the pirates returned to camp.
they were jubilant with vanity over their new grandeur and the illustrious trouble they were making.
they caught fish, cooked supper and ate it, and then fell to guessing at what the village was thinking and saying about them; and the pictures they drew of the public distress on their account were gratifying to look upon from their point of view.
but when the shadows of night closed them in, they gradually ceased to talk, and sat gazing into the fire, with their minds evidently wandering elsewhere.
the excitement was gone, now, and tom and joe could not keep back thoughts of certain persons at home who were not enjoying this fine frolic as much as they were.
misgivings came; they grew troubled and unhappy; a sigh or two escaped, unawares.
by and by joe timidly ventured upon a roundabout “feeler” as to how the others might look upon a return to civilization not right now, but
tom withered him with derision!
huck, being uncommitted as yet, joined in with tom, and the waverer quickly “explained,” and was glad to get out of the scrape with as little taint of chicken-hearted home-sickness clinging to his garments as he could.
mutiny was effectually laid to rest for the moment.
as the night deepened, huck began to nod, and presently to snore.
joe followed next.
tom lay upon his elbow motionless, for some time, watching the two intently.
at last he got up cautiously, on his knees, and went searching among the grass and the flickering reflections flung by the campfire.
he picked up and inspected several large semi-cylinders of the thin white bark of a sycamore, and finally chose two which seemed to suit him.
then he knelt by the fire and painfully wrote something upon each of these with his “red keel”; one he rolled up and put in his jacket pocket, and the other he put in joe's hat and removed it to a little distance from the owner.
and he also put into the hat certain schoolboy treasures of almost inestimable value among them a lump of chalk, an india-rubber ball, three fishhooks, and one of that kind of marbles known as a “sure 'nough crystal.” then he tiptoed his way cautiously among the trees till he felt that he was out of hearing, and straightway broke into a keen run in the direction of the sandbar.
chapter xv
a few minutes later tom was in the shoal water of the bar, wading toward the illinois shore.
before the depth reached his middle he was halfway over; the current would permit no more wading, now, so he struck out confidently to swim the remaining hundred yards.
he swam quartering upstream, but still was swept downward rather faster than he had expected.
however, he reached the shore finally, and drifted along till he found a low place and drew himself out.
he put his hand on his jacket pocket, found his piece of bark safe, and then struck through the woods, following the shore, with streaming garments.
shortly before ten o'clock he came out into an open place opposite the village, and saw the ferryboat lying in the shadow of the trees and the high bank.
everything was quiet under the blinking stars.
he crept down the bank, watching with all his eyes, slipped into the water, swam three or four strokes and climbed into the skiff that did “yawl” duty at the boat's stern.
he laid himself down under the thwarts and waited, panting.
presently the cracked bell tapped and a voice gave the order to “cast off.” a minute or two later the skiff's head was standing high up, against the boat's swell, and the voyage was begun.
tom felt happy in his success, for he knew it was the boat's last trip for the night.
at the end of a long twelve or fifteen minutes the wheels stopped, and tom slipped overboard and swam ashore in the dusk, landing fifty yards downstream, out of danger of possible stragglers.
he flew along unfrequented alleys, and shortly found himself at his aunt's back fence.
he climbed over, approached the “ell,” and looked in at the sitting-room window, for a light was burning there.
there sat aunt polly, sid, mary, and joe harper's mother, grouped together, talking.
they were by the bed, and the bed was between them and the door.
tom went to the door and began to softly lift the latch; then he pressed gently and the door yielded a crack; he continued pushing cautiously, and quaking every time it creaked, till he judged he might squeeze through on his knees; so he put his head through and began, warily.
“what makes the candle blow so?” said aunt polly.
tom hurried up.
“why, that door's open, i believe.
why, of course it is.
no end of strange things now.
go 'long and shut it, sid.”
tom disappeared under the bed just in time.
he lay and “breathed”
himself for a time, and then crept to where he could almost touch his aunt's foot.
“but as i was saying,” said aunt polly, “he warn't bad, so to say only mischeevous.
only just giddy, and harum-scarum, you know.
he warn't any more responsible than a colt.
he never meant any harm, and he was the best-hearted boy that ever was” and she began to cry.
“it was just so with my joe always full of his devilment, and up to every kind of mischief, but he was just as unselfish and kind as he could be and laws bless me, to think i went and whipped him for taking that cream, never once recollecting that i throwed it out myself because it was sour, and i never to see him again in this world, never, never, never, poor abused boy!” and mrs. harper sobbed as if her heart would break.
“i hope tom's better off where he is,” said sid, “but if he'd been better in some ways ”
“sid!” tom felt the glare of the old lady's eye, though he could not see it.
“not a word against my tom, now that he's gone!
god'll take care of him never you trouble yourself, sir!
oh, mrs. harper, i don't know how to give him up!
i don't know how to give him up!
he was such a comfort to me, although he tormented my old heart out of me, 'most.”
“the lord giveth and the lord hath taken away blessed be the name of the lord!
but it's so hard oh, it's so hard!
only last saturday my joe busted a firecracker right under my nose and i knocked him sprawling.
little did i know then, how soon oh, if it was to do over again i'd hug him and bless him for it.”
“yes, yes, yes, i know just how you feel, mrs. harper, i know just exactly how you feel.
no longer ago than yesterday noon, my tom took and filled the cat full of pain-killer, and i did think the cretur would tear the house down.
and god forgive me, i cracked tom's head with my thimble, poor boy, poor dead boy.
but he's out of all his troubles now.
and the last words i ever heard him say was to reproach ”
but this memory was too much for the old lady, and she broke entirely down.
tom was snuffling, now, himself and more in pity of himself than anybody else.
he could hear mary crying, and putting in a kindly word for him from time to time.
he began to have a nobler opinion of himself than ever before.
still, he was sufficiently touched by his aunt's grief to long to rush out from under the bed and overwhelm her with joy and the theatrical gorgeousness of the thing appealed strongly to his nature, too, but he resisted and lay still.
he went on listening, and gathered by odds and ends that it was conjectured at first that the boys had got drowned while taking a swim; then the small raft had been missed; next, certain boys said the missing lads had promised that the village should “hear something” soon; the wise-heads had “put this and that together” and decided that the lads had gone off on that raft and would turn up at the next town below, presently; but toward noon the raft had been found, lodged against the missouri shore some five or six miles below the village and then hope perished; they must be drowned, else hunger would have driven them home by nightfall if not sooner.
it was believed that the search for the bodies had been a fruitless effort merely because the drowning must have occurred in mid-channel, since the boys, being good swimmers, would otherwise have escaped to shore.
this was wednesday night.
if the bodies continued missing until sunday, all hope would be given over, and the funerals would be preached on that morning.
tom shuddered.
mrs. harper gave a sobbing goodnight and turned to go.
then with a mutual impulse the two bereaved women flung themselves into each other's arms and had a good, consoling cry, and then parted.
aunt polly was tender far beyond her wont, in her goodnight to sid and mary.
sid snuffled a bit and mary went off crying with all her heart.
aunt polly knelt down and prayed for tom so touchingly, so appealingly, and with such measureless love in her words and her old trembling voice, that he was weltering in tears again, long before she was through.
he had to keep still long after she went to bed, for she kept making broken-hearted ejaculations from time to time, tossing unrestfully, and turning over.
but at last she was still, only moaning a little in her sleep.
now the boy stole out, rose gradually by the bedside, shaded the candle-light with his hand, and stood regarding her.
his heart was full of pity for her.
he took out his sycamore scroll and placed it by the candle.
but something occurred to him, and he lingered considering.
his face lighted with a happy solution of his thought; he put the bark hastily in his pocket.
then he bent over and kissed the faded lips, and straightway made his stealthy exit, latching the door behind him.
he threaded his way back to the ferry landing, found nobody at large there, and walked boldly on board the boat, for he knew she was tenantless except that there was a watchman, who always turned in and slept like a graven image.
he untied the skiff at the stern, slipped into it, and was soon rowing cautiously upstream.
when he had pulled a mile above the village, he started quartering across and bent himself stoutly to his work.
he hit the landing on the other side neatly, for this was a familiar bit of work to him.
he was moved to capture the skiff, arguing that it might be considered a ship and therefore legitimate prey for a pirate, but he knew a thorough search would be made for it and that might end in revelations.
so he stepped ashore and entered the woods.
he sat down and took a long rest, torturing himself meanwhile to keep awake, and then started warily down the home-stretch.
the night was far spent.
it was broad daylight before he found himself fairly abreast the island bar.
he rested again until the sun was well up and gilding the great river with its splendor, and then he plunged into the stream.
a little later he paused, dripping, upon the threshold of the camp, and heard joe say:
“no, tom's true-blue, huck, and he'll come back.
he won't desert.
he knows that would be a disgrace to a pirate, and tom's too proud for that sort of thing.
he's up to something or other.
now i wonder what?”
“well, the things is ours, anyway, ain't they?”
“pretty near, but not yet, huck.
the writing says they are if he ain't back here to breakfast.”
“which he is!” exclaimed tom, with fine dramatic effect, stepping grandly into camp.
a sumptuous breakfast of bacon and fish was shortly provided, and as the boys set to work upon it, tom recounted (and adorned) his adventures.
they were a vain and boastful company of heroes when the tale was done.
then tom hid himself away in a shady nook to sleep till noon, and the other pirates got ready to fish and explore.
chapter xvi
after dinner all the gang turned out to hunt for turtle eggs on the bar.
they went about poking sticks into the sand, and when they found a soft place they went down on their knees and dug with their hands.
sometimes they would take fifty or sixty eggs out of one hole.
they were perfectly round white things a trifle smaller than an english walnut.
they had a famous fried-egg feast that night, and another on friday morning.
after breakfast they went whooping and prancing out on the bar, and chased each other round and round, shedding clothes as they went, until they were naked, and then continued the frolic far away up the shoal water of the bar, against the stiff current, which latter tripped their legs from under them from time to time and greatly increased the fun.
and now and then they stooped in a group and splashed water in each other's faces with their palms, gradually approaching each other, with averted faces to avoid the strangling sprays, and finally gripping and struggling till the best man ducked his neighbor, and then they all went under in a tangle of white legs and arms and came up blowing, sputtering, laughing, and gasping for breath at one and the same time.
when they were well exhausted, they would run out and sprawl on the dry, hot sand, and lie there and cover themselves up with it, and by and by break for the water again and go through the original performance once more.
finally it occurred to them that their naked skin represented flesh-colored “tights” very fairly; so they drew a ring in the sand and had a circus with three clowns in it, for none would yield this proudest post to his neighbor.
next they got their marbles and played “knucks” and “ringtaw” and “keeps” till that amusement grew stale.
then joe and huck had another swim, but tom would not venture, because he found that in kicking off his trousers he had kicked his string of rattlesnake rattles off his ankle, and he wondered how he had escaped cramp so long without the protection of this mysterious charm.
he did not venture again until he had found it, and by that time the other boys were tired and ready to rest.
they gradually wandered apart, dropped into the “dumps,” and fell to gazing longingly across the wide river to where the village lay drowsing in the sun.
tom found himself writing “becky” in the sand with his big toe; he scratched it out, and was angry with himself for his weakness.
but he wrote it again, nevertheless; he could not help it.
he erased it once more and then took himself out of temptation by driving the other boys together and joining them.
but joe's spirits had gone down almost beyond resurrection.
he was so homesick that he could hardly endure the misery of it.
the tears lay very near the surface.
huck was melancholy, too.
tom was downhearted, but tried hard not to show it.
he had a secret which he was not ready to tell, yet, but if this mutinous depression was not broken up soon, he would have to bring it out.
he said, with a great show of cheerfulness:
“i bet there's been pirates on this island before, boys.
we'll explore it again.
they've hid treasures here somewhere.
how'd you feel to light on a rotten chest full of gold and silver hey?”
but it roused only faint enthusiasm, which faded out, with no reply.
tom tried one or two other seductions; but they failed, too.
it was discouraging work.
joe sat poking up the sand with a stick and looking very gloomy.
finally he said:
“oh, boys, let's give it up.
i want to go home.
it's so lonesome.”
“oh no, joe, you'll feel better by and by,” said tom.
“just think of the fishing that's here.”
“i don't care for fishing.
i want to go home.”
“but, joe, there ain't such another swimming-place anywhere.”
“swimming's no good.
i don't seem to care for it, somehow, when there ain't anybody to say i sha'n't go in.
i mean to go home.”
“oh, shucks!
baby!
you want to see your mother, i reckon.”
“yes, i do want to see my mother and you would, too, if you had one.
i ain't any more baby than you are.” and joe snuffled a little.
“well, we'll let the crybaby go home to his mother, won't we, huck?
poor thing does it want to see its mother?
and so it shall.
you like it here, don't you, huck?
we'll stay, won't we?”
huck said, “y-e-s” without any heart in it.
“i'll never speak to you again as long as i live,” said joe, rising.
“there now!” and he moved moodily away and began to dress himself.
“who cares!” said tom.
“nobody wants you to.
go 'long home and get laughed at.
oh, you're a nice pirate.
huck and me ain't crybabies.
we'll stay, won't we, huck?
let him go if he wants to.
i reckon we can get along without him, per'aps.”
but tom was uneasy, nevertheless, and was alarmed to see joe go sullenly on with his dressing.
and then it was discomforting to see huck eying joe's preparations so wistfully, and keeping up such an ominous silence.
presently, without a parting word, joe began to wade off toward the illinois shore.
tom's heart began to sink.
he glanced at huck.
huck could not bear the look, and dropped his eyes.
then he said:
“i want to go, too, tom.
it was getting so lonesome anyway, and now it'll be worse.
let's us go, too, tom.”
“i won't!
you can all go, if you want to.
i mean to stay.”
“tom, i better go.”
“well, go 'long who's hendering you.”
huck began to pick up his scattered clothes.
he said:
“tom, i wisht you'd come, too.
now you think it over.
we'll wait for you when we get to shore.”
“well, you'll wait a blame long time, that's all.”
huck started sorrowfully away, and tom stood looking after him, with a strong desire tugging at his heart to yield his pride and go along too.
he hoped the boys would stop, but they still waded slowly on.
it suddenly dawned on tom that it was become very lonely and still.
he made one final struggle with his pride, and then darted after his comrades, yelling:
“wait!
wait!
i want to tell you something!”
they presently stopped and turned around.
when he got to where they were, he began unfolding his secret, and they listened moodily till at last they saw the “point” he was driving at, and then they set up a warwhoop of applause and said it was “splendid!” and said if he had told them at first, they wouldn't have started away.
he made a plausible excuse; but his real reason had been the fear that not even the secret would keep them with him any very great length of time, and so he had meant to hold it in reserve as a last seduction.
the lads came gayly back and went at their sports again with a will, chattering all the time about tom's stupendous plan and admiring the genius of it.
after a dainty egg and fish dinner, tom said he wanted to learn to smoke, now.
joe caught at the idea and said he would like to try, too.
so huck made pipes and filled them.
these novices had never smoked anything before but cigars made of grapevine, and they “bit” the tongue, and were not considered manly anyway.
now they stretched themselves out on their elbows and began to puff, charily, and with slender confidence.
the smoke had an unpleasant taste, and they gagged a little, but tom said:
“why, it's just as easy!
if i'd a knowed this was all, i'd a learnt long ago.”
“so would i,” said joe.
“it's just nothing.”
“why, many a time i've looked at people smoking, and thought well i wish i could do that; but i never thought i could,” said tom.
“that's just the way with me, hain't it, huck?
you've heard me talk just that way haven't you, huck?
i'll leave it to huck if i haven't.”
“yes heaps of times,” said huck.
“well, i have too,” said tom; “oh, hundreds of times.
once down by the slaughter-house.
don't you remember, huck?
bob tanner was there, and johnny miller, and jeff thatcher, when i said it.
don't you remember, huck, 'bout me saying that?”
“yes, that's so,” said huck.
“that was the day after i lost a white alley.
no, 'twas the day before.”
“there i told you so,” said tom.
“huck recollects it.”
“i bleeve i could smoke this pipe all day,” said joe.
“i don't feel sick.”
“neither do i,” said tom.
“i could smoke it all day.
but i bet you jeff thatcher couldn't.”
“jeff thatcher!
why, he'd keel over just with two draws.
just let him try it once.
he'd see!”
“i bet he would.
and johnny miller i wish could see johnny miller tackle it once.”
“oh, don't i!” said joe.
“why, i bet you johnny miller couldn't any more do this than nothing.
just one little snifter would fetch him.”
“'deed it would, joe.
say i wish the boys could see us now.”
“so do i.”
“say boys, don't say anything about it, and some time when they're around, i'll come up to you and say, 'joe, got a pipe?
i want a smoke.'
and you'll say, kind of careless like, as if it warn't anything, you'll say, 'yes, i got my old pipe, and another one, but my tobacker ain't very good.'
and i'll say, 'oh, that's all right, if it's strong enough.'
and then you'll out with the pipes, and we'll light up just as ca'm, and then just see 'em look!”
“by jings, that'll be gay, tom!
i wish it was now!”
“so do i!
and when we tell 'em we learned when we was off pirating, won't they wish they'd been along?”
“oh, i reckon not!
i'll just bet they will!”
so the talk ran on.
but presently it began to flag a trifle, and grow disjointed.
the silences widened; the expectoration marvellously increased.
every pore inside the boys' cheeks became a spouting fountain; they could scarcely bail out the cellars under their tongues fast enough to prevent an inundation; little overflowings down their throats occurred in spite of all they could do, and sudden retchings followed every time.
both boys were looking very pale and miserable, now.
joe's pipe dropped from his nerveless fingers.
tom's followed.
both fountains were going furiously and both pumps bailing with might and main.
joe said feebly:
“i've lost my knife.
i reckon i better go and find it.”
tom said, with quivering lips and halting utterance:
“i'll help you.
you go over that way and i'll hunt around by the spring.
no, you needn't come, huck we can find it.”
so huck sat down again, and waited an hour.
then he found it lonesome, and went to find his comrades.
they were wide apart in the woods, both very pale, both fast asleep.
but something informed him that if they had had any trouble they had got rid of it.
they were not talkative at supper that night.
they had a humble look, and when huck prepared his pipe after the meal and was going to prepare theirs, they said no, they were not feeling very well something they ate at dinner had disagreed with them.
about midnight joe awoke, and called the boys.
there was a brooding oppressiveness in the air that seemed to bode something.
the boys huddled themselves together and sought the friendly companionship of the fire, though the dull dead heat of the breathless atmosphere was stifling.
they sat still, intent and waiting.
the solemn hush continued.
beyond the light of the fire everything was swallowed up in the blackness of darkness.
presently there came a quivering glow that vaguely revealed the foliage for a moment and then vanished.
by and by another came, a little stronger.
then another.
then a faint moan came sighing through the branches of the forest and the boys felt a fleeting breath upon their cheeks, and shuddered with the fancy that the spirit of the night had gone by.
there was a pause.
now a weird flash turned night into day and showed every little grassblade, separate and distinct, that grew about their feet.
and it showed three white, startled faces, too.
a deep peal of thunder went rolling and tumbling down the heavens and lost itself in sullen rumblings in the distance.
a sweep of chilly air passed by, rustling all the leaves and snowing the flaky ashes broadcast about the fire.
another fierce glare lit up the forest and an instant crash followed that seemed to rend the treetops right over the boys' heads.
they clung together in terror, in the thick gloom that followed.
a few big raindrops fell pattering upon the leaves.
“quick!
boys, go for the tent!” exclaimed tom.
they sprang away, stumbling over roots and among vines in the dark, no two plunging in the same direction.
a furious blast roared through the trees, making everything sing as it went.
one blinding flash after another came, and peal on peal of deafening thunder.
and now a drenching rain poured down and the rising hurricane drove it in sheets along the ground.
the boys cried out to each other, but the roaring wind and the booming thunderblasts drowned their voices utterly.
however, one by one they straggled in at last and took shelter under the tent, cold, scared, and streaming with water; but to have company in misery seemed something to be grateful for.
they could not talk, the old sail flapped so furiously, even if the other noises would have allowed them.
the tempest rose higher and higher, and presently the sail tore loose from its fastenings and went winging away on the blast.
the boys seized each others' hands and fled, with many tumblings and bruises, to the shelter of a great oak that stood upon the riverbank.
now the battle was at its highest.
under the ceaseless conflagration of lightning that flamed in the skies, everything below stood out in cleancut and shadowless distinctness: the bending trees, the billowy river, white with foam, the driving spray of spumeflakes, the dim outlines of the high bluffs on the other side, glimpsed through the drifting cloudrack and the slanting veil of rain.
every little while some giant tree yielded the fight and fell crashing through the younger growth; and the unflagging thunderpeals came now in ear-splitting explosive bursts, keen and sharp, and unspeakably appalling.
the storm culminated in one matchless effort that seemed likely to tear the island to pieces, burn it up, drown it to the treetops, blow it away, and deafen every creature in it, all at one and the same moment.
it was a wild night for homeless young heads to be out in.
but at last the battle was done, and the forces retired with weaker and weaker threatenings and grumblings, and peace resumed her sway.
the boys went back to camp, a good deal awed; but they found there was still something to be thankful for, because the great sycamore, the shelter of their beds, was a ruin, now, blasted by the lightnings, and they were not under it when the catastrophe happened.
everything in camp was drenched, the campfire as well; for they were but heedless lads, like their generation, and had made no provision against rain.
here was matter for dismay, for they were soaked through and chilled.
they were eloquent in their distress; but they presently discovered that the fire had eaten so far up under the great log it had been built against (where it curved upward and separated itself from the ground), that a handbreadth or so of it had escaped wetting; so they patiently wrought until, with shreds and bark gathered from the under sides of sheltered logs, they coaxed the fire to burn again.
then they piled on great dead boughs till they had a roaring furnace, and were gladhearted once more.
they dried their boiled ham and had a feast, and after that they sat by the fire and expanded and glorified their midnight adventure until morning, for there was not a dry spot to sleep on, anywhere around.
as the sun began to steal in upon the boys, drowsiness came over them, and they went out on the sandbar and lay down to sleep.
they got scorched out by and by, and drearily set about getting breakfast.
after the meal they felt rusty, and stiff-jointed, and a little homesick once more.
tom saw the signs, and fell to cheering up the pirates as well as he could.
but they cared nothing for marbles, or circus, or swimming, or anything.
he reminded them of the imposing secret, and raised a ray of cheer.
while it lasted, he got them interested in a new device.
this was to knock off being pirates, for a while, and be indians for a change.
they were attracted by this idea; so it was not long before they were stripped, and striped from head to heel with black mud, like so many zebras all of them chiefs, of course and then they went tearing through the woods to attack an english settlement.
by and by they separated into three hostile tribes, and darted upon each other from ambush with dreadful warwhoops, and killed and scalped each other by thousands.
it was a gory day.
consequently it was an extremely satisfactory one.
they assembled in camp toward suppertime, hungry and happy; but now a difficulty arose hostile indians could not break the bread of hospitality together without first making peace, and this was a simple impossibility without smoking a pipe of peace.
there was no other process that ever they had heard of.
two of the savages almost wished they had remained pirates.
however, there was no other way; so with such show of cheerfulness as they could muster they called for the pipe and took their whiff as it passed, in due form.
and behold, they were glad they had gone into savagery, for they had gained something; they found that they could now smoke a little without having to go and hunt for a lost knife; they did not get sick enough to be seriously uncomfortable.
they were not likely to fool away this high promise for lack of effort.
no, they practised cautiously, after supper, with right fair success, and so they spent a jubilant evening.
they were prouder and happier in their new acquirement than they would have been in the scalping and skinning of the six nations.
we will leave them to smoke and chatter and brag, since we have no further use for them at present.
chapter xvii
but there was no hilarity in the little town that same tranquil saturday afternoon.
the harpers, and aunt polly's family, were being put into mourning, with great grief and many tears.
an unusual quiet possessed the village, although it was ordinarily quiet enough, in all conscience.
the villagers conducted their concerns with an absent air, and talked little; but they sighed often.
the saturday holiday seemed a burden to the children.
they had no heart in their sports, and gradually gave them up.
in the afternoon becky thatcher found herself moping about the deserted schoolhouse yard, and feeling very melancholy.
but she found nothing there to comfort her.
she soliloquized:
“oh, if i only had a brass andiron-knob again!
but i haven't got anything now to remember him by.” and she choked back a little sob.
presently she stopped, and said to herself:
“it was right here.
oh, if it was to do over again, i wouldn't say that i wouldn't say it for the whole world.
but he's gone now; i'll never, never, never see him any more.”
this thought broke her down, and she wandered away, with tears rolling down her cheeks.
then quite a group of boys and girls playmates of tom's and joe's came by, and stood looking over the paling fence and talking in reverent tones of how tom did so-and-so the last time they saw him, and how joe said this and that small trifle (pregnant with awful prophecy, as they could easily see now!)
and each speaker pointed out the exact spot where the lost lads stood at the time, and then added something like “and i was a-standing just so just as i am now, and as if you was him i was as close as that and he smiled, just this way and then something seemed to go all over me, like awful, you know and i never thought what it meant, of course, but i can see now!”
then there was a dispute about who saw the dead boys last in life, and many claimed that dismal distinction, and offered evidences, more or less tampered with by the witness; and when it was ultimately decided who did see the departed last, and exchanged the last words with them, the lucky parties took upon themselves a sort of sacred importance, and were gaped at and envied by all the rest.
one poor chap, who had no other grandeur to offer, said with tolerably manifest pride in the remembrance:
“well, tom sawyer he licked me once.”
but that bid for glory was a failure.
most of the boys could say that, and so that cheapened the distinction too much.
the group loitered away, still recalling memories of the lost heroes, in awed voices.
when the sunday-school hour was finished, the next morning, the bell began to toll, instead of ringing in the usual way.
it was a very still sabbath, and the mournful sound seemed in keeping with the musing hush that lay upon nature.
the villagers began to gather, loitering a moment in the vestibule to converse in whispers about the sad event.
but there was no whispering in the house; only the funereal rustling of dresses as the women gathered to their seats disturbed the silence there.
none could remember when the little church had been so full before.
there was finally a waiting pause, an expectant dumbness, and then aunt polly entered, followed by sid and mary, and they by the harper family, all in deep black, and the whole congregation, the old minister as well, rose reverently and stood until the mourners were seated in the front pew.
there was another communing silence, broken at intervals by muffled sobs, and then the minister spread his hands abroad and prayed.
a moving hymn was sung, and the text followed: “i am the resurrection and the life.”
as the service proceeded, the clergyman drew such pictures of the graces, the winning ways, and the rare promise of the lost lads that every soul there, thinking he recognized these pictures, felt a pang in remembering that he had persistently blinded himself to them always before, and had as persistently seen only faults and flaws in the poor boys.
the minister related many a touching incident in the lives of the departed, too, which illustrated their sweet, generous natures, and the people could easily see, now, how noble and beautiful those episodes were, and remembered with grief that at the time they occurred they had seemed rank rascalities, well deserving of the cowhide.
the congregation became more and more moved, as the pathetic tale went on, till at last the whole company broke down and joined the weeping mourners in a chorus of anguished sobs, the preacher himself giving way to his feelings, and crying in the pulpit.
there was a rustle in the gallery, which nobody noticed; a moment later the church door creaked; the minister raised his streaming eyes above his handkerchief, and stood transfixed!
first one and then another pair of eyes followed the minister's, and then almost with one impulse the congregation rose and stared while the three dead boys came marching up the aisle, tom in the lead, joe next, and huck, a ruin of drooping rags, sneaking sheepishly in the rear!
they had been hid in the unused gallery listening to their own funeral sermon!
aunt polly, mary, and the harpers threw themselves upon their restored ones, smothered them with kisses and poured out thanksgivings, while poor huck stood abashed and uncomfortable, not knowing exactly what to do or where to hide from so many unwelcoming eyes.
he wavered, and started to slink away, but tom seized him and said:
“aunt polly, it ain't fair.
somebody's got to be glad to see huck.”
“and so they shall.
i'm glad to see him, poor motherless thing!” and the loving attentions aunt polly lavished upon him were the one thing capable of making him more uncomfortable than he was before.
suddenly the minister shouted at the top of his voice: “praise god from whom all blessings flow sing!
and put your hearts in it!”
and they did.
old hundred swelled up with a triumphant burst, and while it shook the rafters tom sawyer the pirate looked around upon the envying juveniles about him and confessed in his heart that this was the proudest moment of his life.
as the “sold” congregation trooped out they said they would almost be willing to be made ridiculous again to hear old hundred sung like that once more.
tom got more cuffs and kisses that day according to aunt polly's varying moods than he had earned before in a year; and he hardly knew which expressed the most gratefulness to god and affection for himself.
chapter xviii
that was tom's great secret the scheme to return home with his brother pirates and attend their own funerals.
they had paddled over to the missouri shore on a log, at dusk on saturday, landing five or six miles below the village; they had slept in the woods at the edge of the town till nearly daylight, and had then crept through back lanes and alleys and finished their sleep in the gallery of the church among a chaos of invalided benches.
at breakfast, monday morning, aunt polly and mary were very loving to tom, and very attentive to his wants.
there was an unusual amount of talk.
in the course of it aunt polly said:
“well, i don't say it wasn't a fine joke, tom, to keep everybody suffering 'most a week so you boys had a good time, but it is a pity you could be so hard-hearted as to let me suffer so.
if you could come over on a log to go to your funeral, you could have come over and give me a hint some way that you warn't dead, but only run off.”
“yes, you could have done that, tom,” said mary; “and i believe you would if you had thought of it.”
“would you, tom?” said aunt polly, her face lighting wistfully.
“say, now, would you, if you'd thought of it?”
“i well, i don't know.
'twould 'a' spoiled everything.”
“tom, i hoped you loved me that much,” said aunt polly, with a grieved tone that discomforted the boy.
“it would have been something if you'd cared enough to think of it, even if you didn't do it.”
“now, auntie, that ain't any harm,” pleaded mary; “it's only tom's giddy way he is always in such a rush that he never thinks of anything.”
“more's the pity.
sid would have thought.
and sid would have come and done it, too.
tom, you'll look back, some day, when it's too late, and wish you'd cared a little more for me when it would have cost you so little.”
“now, auntie, you know i do care for you,” said tom.
“i'd know it better if you acted more like it.”
“i wish now i'd thought,” said tom, with a repentant tone; “but i dreamt about you, anyway.
that's something, ain't it?”
“it ain't much a cat does that much but it's better than nothing.
what did you dream?”
“why, wednesday night i dreamt that you was sitting over there by the bed, and sid was sitting by the woodbox, and mary next to him.”
“well, so we did.
so we always do.
i'm glad your dreams could take even that much trouble about us.”
“and i dreamt that joe harper's mother was here.”
“why, she was here!
did you dream any more?”
“oh, lots.
but it's so dim, now.”
“well, try to recollect can't you?”
“somehow it seems to me that the wind the wind blowed the the ”
“try harder, tom!
the wind did blow something.
come!”
tom pressed his fingers on his forehead an anxious minute, and then said:
“i've got it now!
i've got it now!
it blowed the candle!”
“mercy on us!
go on, tom go on!”
“and it seems to me that you said, 'why, i believe that that door '”
“go on, tom!”
“just let me study a moment just a moment.
oh, yes you said you believed the door was open.”
“as i'm sitting here, i did!
didn't i, mary!
go on!”
“and then and then well i won't be certain, but it seems like as if you made sid go and and ”
“well?
well?
what did i make him do, tom?
what did i make him do?”
“you made him you oh, you made him shut it.”
“well, for the land's sake!
i never heard the beat of that in all my days!
don't tell me there ain't anything in dreams, any more.
sereny harper shall know of this before i'm an hour older.
i'd like to see her get around this with her rubbage 'bout superstition.
go on, tom!”
“oh, it's all getting just as bright as day, now.
next you said i warn't bad, only mischeevous and harum-scarum, and not any more responsible than than i think it was a colt, or something.”
“and so it was!
well, goodness gracious!
go on, tom!”
“and then you began to cry.”
“so i did.
so i did.
not the first time, neither.
and then ”
“then mrs. harper she began to cry, and said joe was just the same, and she wished she hadn't whipped him for taking cream when she'd throwed it out her own self ”
“tom!
the sperrit was upon you!
you was a prophesying that's what you was doing!
land alive, go on, tom!”
“then sid he said he said ”
“i don't think i said anything,” said sid.
“yes you did, sid,” said mary.
“shut your heads and let tom go on!
what did he say, tom?”
“he said i think he said he hoped i was better off where i was gone to, but if i'd been better sometimes ”
“there, d'you hear that!
it was his very words!”
“and you shut him up sharp.”
“i lay i did!
there must 'a' been an angel there.
there was an angel there, somewheres!”
“and mrs. harper told about joe scaring her with a firecracker, and you told about peter and the pain-killer ”
“just as true as i live!”
“and then there was a whole lot of talk 'bout dragging the river for us, and 'bout having the funeral sunday, and then you and old miss harper hugged and cried, and she went.”
“it happened just so!
it happened just so, as sure as i'm a-sitting in these very tracks.
tom, you couldn't told it more like if you'd 'a' seen it!
and then what?
go on, tom!”
“then i thought you prayed for me and i could see you and hear every word you said.
and you went to bed, and i was so sorry that i took and wrote on a piece of sycamore bark, 'we ain't dead we are only off being pirates,' and put it on the table by the candle; and then you looked so good, laying there asleep, that i thought i went and leaned over and kissed you on the lips.”
“did you, tom, did you!
i just forgive you everything for that!” and she seized the boy in a crushing embrace that made him feel like the guiltiest of villains.
“it was very kind, even though it was only a dream,” sid soliloquized just audibly.
“shut up, sid!
a body does just the same in a dream as he'd do if he was awake.
here's a big milum apple i've been saving for you, tom, if you was ever found again now go 'long to school.
i'm thankful to the good god and father of us all i've got you back, that's long-suffering and merciful to them that believe on him and keep his word, though goodness knows i'm unworthy of it, but if only the worthy ones got his blessings and had his hand to help them over the rough places, there's few enough would smile here or ever enter into his rest when the long night comes.
go 'long sid, mary, tom take yourselves off you've hendered me long enough.”
the children left for school, and the old lady to call on mrs. harper and vanquish her realism with tom's marvellous dream.
sid had better judgment than to utter the thought that was in his mind as he left the house.
it was this: “pretty thin as long a dream as that, without any mistakes in it!”
what a hero tom was become, now!
he did not go skipping and prancing, but moved with a dignified swagger as became a pirate who felt that the public eye was on him.
and indeed it was; he tried not to seem to see the looks or hear the remarks as he passed along, but they were food and drink to him.
smaller boys than himself flocked at his heels, as proud to be seen with him, and tolerated by him, as if he had been the drummer at the head of a procession or the elephant leading a menagerie into town.
boys of his own size pretended not to know he had been away at all; but they were consuming with envy, nevertheless.
they would have given anything to have that swarthy sun-tanned skin of his, and his glittering notoriety; and tom would not have parted with either for a circus.
at school the children made so much of him and of joe, and delivered such eloquent admiration from their eyes, that the two heroes were not long in becoming insufferably “stuck-up.” they began to tell their adventures to hungry listeners but they only began; it was not a thing likely to have an end, with imaginations like theirs to furnish material.
and finally, when they got out their pipes and went serenely puffing around, the very summit of glory was reached.
tom decided that he could be independent of becky thatcher now.
glory was sufficient.
he would live for glory.
now that he was distinguished, maybe she would be wanting to “make up.” well, let her she should see that he could be as indifferent as some other people.
presently she arrived.
tom pretended not to see her.
he moved away and joined a group of boys and girls and began to talk.
soon he observed that she was tripping gayly back and forth with flushed face and dancing eyes, pretending to be busy chasing schoolmates, and screaming with laughter when she made a capture; but he noticed that she always made her captures in his vicinity, and that she seemed to cast a conscious eye in his direction at such times, too.
it gratified all the vicious vanity that was in him; and so, instead of winning him, it only “set him up”
the more and made him the more diligent to avoid betraying that he knew she was about.
presently she gave over skylarking, and moved irresolutely about, sighing once or twice and glancing furtively and wistfully toward tom.
then she observed that now tom was talking more particularly to amy lawrence than to any one else.
she felt a sharp pang and grew disturbed and uneasy at once.
she tried to go away, but her feet were treacherous, and carried her to the group instead.
she said to a girl almost at tom's elbow with sham vivacity:
“why, mary austin!
you bad girl, why didn't you come to sunday-school?”
“i did come didn't you see me?”
“why, no!
did you?
where did you sit?”
“i was in miss peters' class, where i always go.
i saw you.”
“did you?
why, it's funny i didn't see you.
i wanted to tell you about the picnic.”
“oh, that's jolly.
who's going to give it?”
“my ma's going to let me have one.”
“oh, goody; i hope she'll let me come.”
“well, she will.
the picnic's for me.
she'll let anybody come that i want, and i want you.”
“that's ever so nice.
when is it going to be?”
“by and by.
maybe about vacation.”
“oh, won't it be fun!
you going to have all the girls and boys?”
“yes, every one that's friends to me or wants to be”; and she glanced ever so furtively at tom, but he talked right along to amy lawrence about the terrible storm on the island, and how the lightning tore the great sycamore tree “all to flinders” while he was “standing within three feet of it.”
“oh, may i come?” said grace miller.
“yes.”
“and me?” said sally rogers.
“yes.”
“and me, too?” said susy harper.
“and joe?”
“yes.”
and so on, with clapping of joyful hands till all the group had begged for invitations but tom and amy.
then tom turned coolly away, still talking, and took amy with him.
becky's lips trembled and the tears came to her eyes; she hid these signs with a forced gayety and went on chattering, but the life had gone out of the picnic, now, and out of everything else; she got away as soon as she could and hid herself and had what her sex call “a good cry.” then she sat moody, with wounded pride, till the bell rang.
she roused up, now, with a vindictive cast in her eye, and gave her plaited tails a shake and said she knew what she'd do.
at recess tom continued his flirtation with amy with jubilant self-satisfaction.
and he kept drifting about to find becky and lacerate her with the performance.
at last he spied her, but there was a sudden falling of his mercury.
she was sitting cosily on a little bench behind the schoolhouse looking at a picture-book with alfred temple and so absorbed were they, and their heads so close together over the book, that they did not seem to be conscious of anything in the world besides.
jealousy ran red-hot through tom's veins.
he began to hate himself for throwing away the chance becky had offered for a reconciliation.
he called himself a fool, and all the hard names he could think of.
he wanted to cry with vexation.
amy chatted happily along, as they walked, for her heart was singing, but tom's tongue had lost its function.
he did not hear what amy was saying, and whenever she paused expectantly he could only stammer an awkward assent, which was as often misplaced as otherwise.
he kept drifting to the rear of the schoolhouse, again and again, to sear his eyeballs with the hateful spectacle there.
he could not help it.
and it maddened him to see, as he thought he saw, that becky thatcher never once suspected that he was even in the land of the living.
but she did see, nevertheless; and she knew she was winning her fight, too, and was glad to see him suffer as she had suffered.
amy's happy prattle became intolerable.
tom hinted at things he had to attend to; things that must be done; and time was fleeting.
but in vain the girl chirped on.
tom thought, “oh, hang her, ain't i ever going to get rid of her?” at last he must be attending to those things and she said artlessly that she would be “around” when school let out.
and he hastened away, hating her for it.
“any other boy!” tom thought, grating his teeth.
“any boy in the whole town but that saint louis smarty that thinks he dresses so fine and is aristocracy!
oh, all right, i licked you the first day you ever saw this town, mister, and i'll lick you again!
you just wait till i catch you out!
i'll just take and ”
and he went through the motions of thrashing an imaginary boy pummelling the air, and kicking and gouging.
“oh, you do, do you?
you holler 'nough, do you?
now, then, let that learn you!” and so the imaginary flogging was finished to his satisfaction.
tom fled home at noon.
his conscience could not endure any more of amy's grateful happiness, and his jealousy could bear no more of the other distress.
becky resumed her picture inspections with alfred, but as the minutes dragged along and no tom came to suffer, her triumph began to cloud and she lost interest; gravity and absentmindedness followed, and then melancholy; two or three times she pricked up her ear at a footstep, but it was a false hope; no tom came.
at last she grew entirely miserable and wished she hadn't carried it so far.
when poor alfred, seeing that he was losing her, he did not know how, kept exclaiming: “oh, here's a jolly one!
look at this!” she lost patience at last, and said, “oh, don't bother me!
i don't care for them!” and burst into tears, and got up and walked away.
alfred dropped alongside and was going to try to comfort her, but she said:
“go away and leave me alone, can't you!
i hate you!”
so the boy halted, wondering what he could have done for she had said she would look at pictures all through the nooning and she walked on, crying.
then alfred went musing into the deserted schoolhouse.
he was humiliated and angry.
he easily guessed his way to the truth the girl had simply made a convenience of him to vent her spite upon tom sawyer.
he was far from hating tom the less when this thought occurred to him.
he wished there was some way to get that boy into trouble without much risk to himself.
tom's spelling-book fell under his eye.
here was his opportunity.
he gratefully opened to the lesson for the afternoon and poured ink upon the page.
becky, glancing in at a window behind him at the moment, saw the act, and moved on, without discovering herself.
she started homeward, now, intending to find tom and tell him; tom would be thankful and their troubles would be healed.
before she was half way home, however, she had changed her mind.
the thought of tom's treatment of her when she was talking about her picnic came scorching back and filled her with shame.
she resolved to let him get whipped on the damaged spelling-book's account, and to hate him forever, into the bargain.
chapter xix
tom arrived at home in a dreary mood, and the first thing his aunt said to him showed him that he had brought his sorrows to an unpromising market:
“tom, i've a notion to skin you alive!”
“auntie, what have i done?”
“well, you've done enough.
here i go over to sereny harper, like an old softy, expecting i'm going to make her believe all that rubbage about that dream, when lo and behold you she'd found out from joe that you was over here and heard all the talk we had that night.
tom, i don't know what is to become of a boy that will act like that.
it makes me feel so bad to think you could let me go to sereny harper and make such a fool of myself and never say a word.”
this was a new aspect of the thing.
his smartness of the morning had seemed to tom a good joke before, and very ingenious.
it merely looked mean and shabby now.
he hung his head and could not think of anything to say for a moment.
then he said:
“auntie, i wish i hadn't done it but i didn't think.”
“oh, child, you never think.
you never think of anything but your own selfishness.
you could think to come all the way over here from jackson's island in the night to laugh at our troubles, and you could think to fool me with a lie about a dream; but you couldn't ever think to pity us and save us from sorrow.”
“auntie, i know now it was mean, but i didn't mean to be mean.
i didn't, honest.
and besides, i didn't come over here to laugh at you that night.”
“what did you come for, then?”
“it was to tell you not to be uneasy about us, because we hadn't got drownded.”
“tom, tom, i would be the thankfullest soul in this world if i could believe you ever had as good a thought as that, but you know you never did and i know it, tom.”
“indeed and 'deed i did, auntie i wish i may never stir if i didn't.”
“oh, tom, don't lie don't do it.
it only makes things a hundred times worse.”
“it ain't a lie, auntie; it's the truth.
i wanted to keep you from grieving that was all that made me come.”
“i'd give the whole world to believe that it would cover up a power of sins, tom.
i'd 'most be glad you'd run off and acted so bad.
but it ain't reasonable; because, why didn't you tell me, child?”
“why, you see, when you got to talking about the funeral, i just got all full of the idea of our coming and hiding in the church, and i couldn't somehow bear to spoil it.
so i just put the bark back in my pocket and kept mum.”
“what bark?”
“the bark i had wrote on to tell you we'd gone pirating.
i wish, now, you'd waked up when i kissed you i do, honest.”
the hard lines in his aunt's face relaxed and a sudden tenderness dawned in her eyes.
“did you kiss me, tom?”
“why, yes, i did.”
“are you sure you did, tom?”
“why, yes, i did, auntie certain sure.”
“what did you kiss me for, tom?”
“because i loved you so, and you laid there moaning and i was so sorry.”
the words sounded like truth.
the old lady could not hide a tremor in her voice when she said:
“kiss me again, tom!
and be off with you to school, now, and don't bother me any more.”
the moment he was gone, she ran to a closet and got out the ruin of a jacket which tom had gone pirating in.
then she stopped, with it in her hand, and said to herself:
“no, i don't dare.
poor boy, i reckon he's lied about it but it's a blessed, blessed lie, there's such a comfort come from it.
i hope the lord i know the lord will forgive him, because it was such good-heartedness in him to tell it.
but i don't want to find out it's a lie.
i won't look.”
she put the jacket away, and stood by musing a minute.
twice she put out her hand to take the garment again, and twice she refrained.
once more she ventured, and this time she fortified herself with the thought:
“it's a good lie it's a good lie i won't let it grieve me.” so she sought the jacket pocket.
a moment later she was reading tom's piece of bark through flowing tears and saying: “i could forgive the boy, now, if he'd committed a million sins!”
chapter xx
there was something about aunt polly's manner, when she kissed tom, that swept away his low spirits and made him lighthearted and happy again.
he started to school and had the luck of coming upon becky thatcher at the head of meadow lane.
his mood always determined his manner.
without a moment's hesitation he ran to her and said:
“i acted mighty mean today, becky, and i'm so sorry.
i won't ever, ever do that way again, as long as ever i live please make up, won't you?”
the girl stopped and looked him scornfully in the face:
“i'll thank you to keep yourself to yourself, mr. thomas sawyer.
i'll never speak to you again.”
she tossed her head and passed on.
tom was so stunned that he had not even presence of mind enough to say “who cares, miss smarty?” until the right time to say it had gone by.
so he said nothing.
but he was in a fine rage, nevertheless.
he moped into the schoolyard wishing she were a boy, and imagining how he would trounce her if she were.
he presently encountered her and delivered a stinging remark as he passed.
she hurled one in return, and the angry breach was complete.
it seemed to becky, in her hot resentment, that she could hardly wait for school to “take in,”
she was so impatient to see tom flogged for the injured spelling-book.
if she had had any lingering notion of exposing alfred temple, tom's offensive fling had driven it entirely away.
poor girl, she did not know how fast she was nearing trouble herself.
the master, mr. dobbins, had reached middle age with an unsatisfied ambition.
the darling of his desires was, to be a doctor, but poverty had decreed that he should be nothing higher than a village schoolmaster.
every day he took a mysterious book out of his desk and absorbed himself in it at times when no classes were reciting.
he kept that book under lock and key.
there was not an urchin in school but was perishing to have a glimpse of it, but the chance never came.
every boy and girl had a theory about the nature of that book; but no two theories were alike, and there was no way of getting at the facts in the case.
now, as becky was passing by the desk, which stood near the door, she noticed that the key was in the lock!
it was a precious moment.
she glanced around; found herself alone, and the next instant she had the book in her hands.
the titlepage professor somebody's anatomy carried no information to her mind; so she began to turn the leaves.
she came at once upon a handsomely engraved and colored frontispiece a human figure, stark naked.
at that moment a shadow fell on the page and tom sawyer stepped in at the door and caught a glimpse of the picture.
becky snatched at the book to close it, and had the hard luck to tear the pictured page half down the middle.
she thrust the volume into the desk, turned the key, and burst out crying with shame and vexation.
“tom sawyer, you are just as mean as you can be, to sneak up on a person and look at what they're looking at.”
“how could i know you was looking at anything?”
“you ought to be ashamed of yourself, tom sawyer; you know you're going to tell on me, and oh, what shall i do, what shall i do!
i'll be whipped, and i never was whipped in school.”
then she stamped her little foot and said:
“be so mean if you want to!
i know something that's going to happen.
you just wait and you'll see!
hateful, hateful, hateful!” and she flung out of the house with a new explosion of crying.
tom stood still, rather flustered by this onslaught.
presently he said to himself:
“what a curious kind of a fool a girl is!
never been licked in school!
shucks!
what's a licking!
that's just like a girl they're so thin-skinned and chicken-hearted.
well, of course i ain't going to tell old dobbins on this little fool, because there's other ways of getting even on her, that ain't so mean; but what of it?
old dobbins will ask who it was tore his book.
nobody'll answer.
then he'll do just the way he always does ask first one and then t'other, and when he comes to the right girl he'll know it, without any telling.
girls' faces always tell on them.
they ain't got any backbone.
she'll get licked.
well, it's a kind of a tight place for becky thatcher, because there ain't any way out of it.” tom conned the thing a moment longer, and then added: “all right, though; she'd like to see me in just such a fix let her sweat it out!”
tom joined the mob of skylarking scholars outside.
in a few moments the master arrived and school “took in.” tom did not feel a strong interest in his studies.
every time he stole a glance at the girls' side of the room becky's face troubled him.
considering all things, he did not want to pity her, and yet it was all he could do to help it.
he could get up no exultation that was really worthy the name.
presently the spelling-book discovery was made, and tom's mind was entirely full of his own matters for a while after that.
becky roused up from her lethargy of distress and showed good interest in the proceedings.
she did not expect that tom could get out of his trouble by denying that he spilt the ink on the book himself; and she was right.
the denial only seemed to make the thing worse for tom.
becky supposed she would be glad of that, and she tried to believe she was glad of it, but she found she was not certain.
when the worst came to the worst, she had an impulse to get up and tell on alfred temple, but she made an effort and forced herself to keep still because, said she to herself, “he'll tell about me tearing the picture sure.
i wouldn't say a word, not to save his life!”
tom took his whipping and went back to his seat not at all broken-hearted, for he thought it was possible that he had unknowingly upset the ink on the spelling-book himself, in some skylarking bout he had denied it for form's sake and because it was custom, and had stuck to the denial from principle.
a whole hour drifted by, the master sat nodding in his throne, the air was drowsy with the hum of study.
by and by, mr. dobbins straightened himself up, yawned, then unlocked his desk, and reached for his book, but seemed undecided whether to take it out or leave it.
most of the pupils glanced up languidly, but there were two among them that watched his movements with intent eyes.
mr. dobbins fingered his book absently for a while, then took it out and settled himself in his chair to read!
tom shot a glance at becky.
he had seen a hunted and helpless rabbit look as she did, with a gun levelled at its head.
instantly he forgot his quarrel with her.
quick something must be done!
done in a flash, too!
but the very imminence of the emergency paralyzed his invention.
good!
he had an inspiration!
he would run and snatch the book, spring through the door and fly.
but his resolution shook for one little instant, and the chance was lost the master opened the volume.
if tom only had the wasted opportunity back again!
too late.
there was no help for becky now, he said.
the next moment the master faced the school.
every eye sank under his gaze.
there was that in it which smote even the innocent with fear.
there was silence while one might count ten the master was gathering his wrath.
then he spoke: “who tore this book?”
there was not a sound.
one could have heard a pin drop.
the stillness continued; the master searched face after face for signs of guilt.
“benjamin rogers, did you tear this book?”
a denial.
another pause.
“joseph harper, did you?”
another denial.
tom's uneasiness grew more and more intense under the slow torture of these proceedings.
the master scanned the ranks of boys considered a while, then turned to the girls:
“amy lawrence?”
a shake of the head.
“gracie miller?”
the same sign.
“susan harper, did you do this?”
another negative.
the next girl was becky thatcher.
tom was trembling from head to foot with excitement and a sense of the hopelessness of the situation.
“rebecca thatcher” [tom glanced at her face it was white with terror] “did you tear no, look me in the face” [her hands rose in appeal] “did you tear this book?”
a thought shot like lightning through tom's brain.
he sprang to his feet and shouted “i done it!”
the school stared in perplexity at this incredible folly.
tom stood a moment, to gather his dismembered faculties; and when he stepped forward to go to his punishment the surprise, the gratitude, the adoration that shone upon him out of poor becky's eyes seemed pay enough for a hundred floggings.
inspired by the splendor of his own act, he took without an outcry the most merciless flaying that even mr. dobbins had ever administered; and also received with indifference the added cruelty of a command to remain two hours after school should be dismissed for he knew who would wait for him outside till his captivity was done, and not count the tedious time as loss, either.
tom went to bed that night planning vengeance against alfred temple; for with shame and repentance becky had told him all, not forgetting her own treachery; but even the longing for vengeance had to give way, soon, to pleasanter musings, and he fell asleep at last with becky's latest words lingering dreamily in his ear
“tom, how could you be so noble!”
chapter xxi
vacation was approaching.
the schoolmaster, always severe, grew severer and more exacting than ever, for he wanted the school to make a good showing on “examination” day.
his rod and his ferule were seldom idle now at least among the smaller pupils.
only the biggest boys, and young ladies of eighteen and twenty, escaped lashing.
mr. dobbins' lashings were very vigorous ones, too; for although he carried, under his wig, a perfectly bald and shiny head, he had only reached middle age, and there was no sign of feebleness in his muscle.
as the great day approached, all the tyranny that was in him came to the surface; he seemed to take a vindictive pleasure in punishing the least shortcomings.
the consequence was, that the smaller boys spent their days in terror and suffering and their nights in plotting revenge.
they threw away no opportunity to do the master a mischief.
but he kept ahead all the time.
the retribution that followed every vengeful success was so sweeping and majestic that the boys always retired from the field badly worsted.
at last they conspired together and hit upon a plan that promised a dazzling victory.
they swore in the signpainter's boy, told him the scheme, and asked his help.
he had his own reasons for being delighted, for the master boarded in his father's family and had given the boy ample cause to hate him.
the master's wife would go on a visit to the country in a few days, and there would be nothing to interfere with the plan; the master always prepared himself for great occasions by getting pretty well fuddled, and the signpainter's boy said that when the dominie had reached the proper condition on examination evening he would “manage the thing” while he napped in his chair; then he would have him awakened at the right time and hurried away to school.
in the fulness of time the interesting occasion arrived.
at eight in the evening the schoolhouse was brilliantly lighted, and adorned with wreaths and festoons of foliage and flowers.
the master sat throned in his great chair upon a raised platform, with his blackboard behind him.
he was looking tolerably mellow.
three rows of benches on each side and six rows in front of him were occupied by the dignitaries of the town and by the parents of the pupils.
to his left, back of the rows of citizens, was a spacious temporary platform upon which were seated the scholars who were to take part in the exercises of the evening; rows of small boys, washed and dressed to an intolerable state of discomfort; rows of gawky big boys; snowbanks of girls and young ladies clad in lawn and muslin and conspicuously conscious of their bare arms, their grandmothers' ancient trinkets, their bits of pink and blue ribbon and the flowers in their hair.
all the rest of the house was filled with non-participating scholars.
the exercises began.
a very little boy stood up and sheepishly recited, “you'd scarce expect one of my age to speak in public on the stage,”
etc.
accompanying himself with the painfully exact and spasmodic gestures which a machine might have used supposing the machine to be a trifle out of order.
but he got through safely, though cruelly scared, and got a fine round of applause when he made his manufactured bow and retired.
a little shamefaced girl lisped, “mary had a little lamb,” etc., performed a compassion-inspiring curtsy, got her meed of applause, and sat down flushed and happy.
tom sawyer stepped forward with conceited confidence and soared into the unquenchable and indestructible “give me liberty or give me death”
speech, with fine fury and frantic gesticulation, and broke down in the middle of it.
a ghastly stage-fright seized him, his legs quaked under him and he was like to choke.
true, he had the manifest sympathy of the house but he had the house's silence, too, which was even worse than its sympathy.
the master frowned, and this completed the disaster.
tom struggled awhile and then retired, utterly defeated.
there was a weak attempt at applause, but it died early.
“the boy stood on the burning deck” followed; also “the assyrian came down,” and other declamatory gems.
then there were reading exercises, and a spelling fight.
the meagre latin class recited with honor.
the prime feature of the evening was in order, now original “compositions”
by the young ladies.
each in her turn stepped forward to the edge of the platform, cleared her throat, held up her manuscript (tied with dainty ribbon), and proceeded to read, with labored attention to “expression”
and punctuation.
the themes were the same that had been illuminated upon similar occasions by their mothers before them, their grandmothers, and doubtless all their ancestors in the female line clear back to the crusades.
“friendship” was one; “memories of other days”; “religion in history”; “dream land”; “the advantages of culture”; “forms of political government compared and contrasted”; “melancholy”; “filial love”; “heart longings,” etc., etc.
a prevalent feature in these compositions was a nursed and petted melancholy; another was a wasteful and opulent gush of “fine language”; another was a tendency to lug in by the ears particularly prized words and phrases until they were worn entirely out; and a peculiarity that conspicuously marked and marred them was the inveterate and intolerable sermon that wagged its crippled tail at the end of each and every one of them.
no matter what the subject might be, a brainracking effort was made to squirm it into some aspect or other that the moral and religious mind could contemplate with edification.
the glaring insincerity of these sermons was not sufficient to compass the banishment of the fashion from the schools, and it is not sufficient today; it never will be sufficient while the world stands, perhaps.
there is no school in all our land where the young ladies do not feel obliged to close their compositions with a sermon; and you will find that the sermon of the most frivolous and the least religious girl in the school is always the longest and the most relentlessly pious.
but enough of this.
homely truth is unpalatable.
let us return to the “examination.” the first composition that was read was one entitled “is this, then, life?” perhaps the reader can endure an extract from it:
“in the common walks of life, with what delightful emotions does the youthful mind look forward to some anticipated scene of festivity!
imagination is busy sketching rose-tinted pictures of joy.
in fancy, the voluptuous votary of fashion sees herself amid the festive throng, 'the observed of all observers.'
her graceful form, arrayed in snowy robes, is whirling through the mazes of the joyous dance; her eye is brightest, her step is lightest in the gay assembly.
“in such delicious fancies time quickly glides by, and the welcome hour arrives for her entrance into the elysian world, of which she has had such bright dreams.
how fairy-like does everything appear to her enchanted vision!
each new scene is more charming than the last.
but after a while she finds that beneath this goodly exterior, all is vanity, the flattery which once charmed her soul, now grates harshly upon her ear; the ballroom has lost its charms; and with wasted health and imbittered heart, she turns away with the conviction that earthly pleasures cannot satisfy the longings of the soul!”
and so forth and so on.
there was a buzz of gratification from time to time during the reading, accompanied by whispered ejaculations of “how sweet!” “how eloquent!” “so true!” etc., and after the thing had closed with a peculiarly afflicting sermon the applause was enthusiastic.
then arose a slim, melancholy girl, whose face had the “interesting”
paleness that comes of pills and indigestion, and read a “poem.” two stanzas of it will do:
“a missouri maiden's farewell to alabama
“alabama, goodbye!
i love thee well!
but yet for a while do i leave thee now!
sad, yes, sad thoughts of thee my heart doth swell, and burning recollections throng my brow!
for i have wandered through thy flowery woods; have roamed and read near tallapoosa's stream; have listened to tallassee's warring floods, and wooed on coosa's side aurora's beam.
“yet shame i not to bear an o'erfull heart, nor blush to turn behind my tearful eyes; 'tis from no stranger land i now must part, 'tis to no strangers left i yield these sighs.
welcome and home were mine within this state, whose vales i leave whose spires fade fast from me and cold must be mine eyes, and heart, and tete, when, dear alabama!
they turn cold on thee!” there were very few there who knew what “tete” meant, but the poem was very satisfactory, nevertheless.
next appeared a dark-complexioned, black-eyed, black-haired young lady, who paused an impressive moment, assumed a tragic expression, and began to read in a measured, solemn tone:
“a vision
“dark and tempestuous was night.
around the throne on high not a single star quivered; but the deep intonations of the heavy thunder constantly vibrated upon the ear; whilst the terrific lightning revelled in angry mood through the cloudy chambers of heaven, seeming to scorn the power exerted over its terror by the illustrious franklin!
even the boisterous winds unanimously came forth from their mystic homes, and blustered about as if to enhance by their aid the wildness of the scene.
“at such a time, so dark, so dreary, for human sympathy my very spirit sighed; but instead thereof,
“'my dearest friend, my counsellor, my comforter and guide my joy in grief, my second bliss in joy,' came to my side.
she moved like one of those bright beings pictured in the sunny walks of fancy's eden by the romantic and young, a queen of beauty unadorned save by her own transcendent loveliness.
so soft was her step, it failed to make even a sound, and but for the magical thrill imparted by her genial touch, as other unobtrusive beauties, she would have glided away unperceived unsought.
a strange sadness rested upon her features, like icy tears upon the robe of december, as she pointed to the contending elements without, and bade me contemplate the two beings presented.”
this nightmare occupied some ten pages of manuscript and wound up with a sermon so destructive of all hope to non-presbyterians that it took the first prize.
this composition was considered to be the very finest effort of the evening.
the mayor of the village, in delivering the prize to the author of it, made a warm speech in which he said that it was by far the most “eloquent” thing he had ever listened to, and that daniel webster himself might well be proud of it.
it may be remarked, in passing, that the number of compositions in which the word “beauteous” was over-fondled, and human experience referred to as “life's page,” was up to the usual average.
now the master, mellow almost to the verge of geniality, put his chair aside, turned his back to the audience, and began to draw a map of america on the blackboard, to exercise the geography class upon.
but he made a sad business of it with his unsteady hand, and a smothered titter rippled over the house.
he knew what the matter was, and set himself to right it.
he sponged out lines and remade them; but he only distorted them more than ever, and the tittering was more pronounced.
he threw his entire attention upon his work, now, as if determined not to be put down by the mirth.
he felt that all eyes were fastened upon him; he imagined he was succeeding, and yet the tittering continued; it even manifestly increased.
and well it might.
there was a garret above, pierced with a scuttle over his head; and down through this scuttle came a cat, suspended around the haunches by a string; she had a rag tied about her head and jaws to keep her from mewing; as she slowly descended she curved upward and clawed at the string, she swung downward and clawed at the intangible air.
the tittering rose higher and higher the cat was within six inches of the absorbed teacher's head down, down, a little lower, and she grabbed his wig with her desperate claws, clung to it, and was snatched up into the garret in an instant with her trophy still in her possession!
and how the light did blaze abroad from the master's bald pate for the signpainter's boy had gilded it!
that broke up the meeting.
the boys were avenged.
vacation had come.
note: the pretended “compositions” quoted in this chapter are taken without alteration from a volume entitled “prose and poetry, by a western lady” but they are exactly and precisely after the schoolgirl pattern, and hence are much happier than any mere imitations could be.
chapter xxii
tom joined the new order of cadets of temperance, being attracted by the showy character of their “regalia.” he promised to abstain from smoking, chewing, and profanity as long as he remained a member.
now he found out a new thing namely, that to promise not to do a thing is the surest way in the world to make a body want to go and do that very thing.
tom soon found himself tormented with a desire to drink and swear; the desire grew to be so intense that nothing but the hope of a chance to display himself in his red sash kept him from withdrawing from the order.
fourth of july was coming; but he soon gave that up gave it up before he had worn his shackles over forty-eight hours and fixed his hopes upon old judge frazer, justice of the peace, who was apparently on his deathbed and would have a big public funeral, since he was so high an official.
during three days tom was deeply concerned about the judge's condition and hungry for news of it.
sometimes his hopes ran high so high that he would venture to get out his regalia and practise before the looking-glass.
but the judge had a most discouraging way of fluctuating.
at last he was pronounced upon the mend and then convalescent.
tom was disgusted; and felt a sense of injury, too.
he handed in his resignation at once and that night the judge suffered a relapse and died.
tom resolved that he would never trust a man like that again.
the funeral was a fine thing.
the cadets paraded in a style calculated to kill the late member with envy.
tom was a free boy again, however there was something in that.
he could drink and swear, now but found to his surprise that he did not want to.
the simple fact that he could, took the desire away, and the charm of it.
tom presently wondered to find that his coveted vacation was beginning to hang a little heavily on his hands.
he attempted a diary but nothing happened during three days, and so he abandoned it.
the first of all the negro minstrel shows came to town, and made a sensation.
tom and joe harper got up a band of performers and were happy for two days.
even the glorious fourth was in some sense a failure, for it rained hard, there was no procession in consequence, and the greatest man in the world (as tom supposed), mr. benton, an actual united states senator, proved an overwhelming disappointment for he was not twenty-five feet high, nor even anywhere in the neighborhood of it.
a circus came.
the boys played circus for three days afterward in tents made of rag carpeting admission, three pins for boys, two for girls and then circusing was abandoned.
a phrenologist and a mesmerizer came and went again and left the village duller and drearier than ever.
there were some boys-and-girls' parties, but they were so few and so delightful that they only made the aching voids between ache the harder.
becky thatcher was gone to her constantinople home to stay with her parents during vacation so there was no bright side to life anywhere.
the dreadful secret of the murder was a chronic misery.
it was a very cancer for permanency and pain.
then came the measles.
during two long weeks tom lay a prisoner, dead to the world and its happenings.
he was very ill, he was interested in nothing.
when he got upon his feet at last and moved feebly downtown, a melancholy change had come over everything and every creature.
there had been a “revival,” and everybody had “got religion,” not only the adults, but even the boys and girls.
tom went about, hoping against hope for the sight of one blessed sinful face, but disappointment crossed him everywhere.
he found joe harper studying a testament, and turned sadly away from the depressing spectacle.
he sought ben rogers, and found him visiting the poor with a basket of tracts.
he hunted up jim hollis, who called his attention to the precious blessing of his late measles as a warning.
every boy he encountered added another ton to his depression; and when, in desperation, he flew for refuge at last to the bosom of huckleberry finn and was received with a scriptural quotation, his heart broke and he crept home and to bed realizing that he alone of all the town was lost, forever and forever.
and that night there came on a terrific storm, with driving rain, awful claps of thunder and blinding sheets of lightning.
he covered his head with the bedclothes and waited in a horror of suspense for his doom; for he had not the shadow of a doubt that all this hubbub was about him.
he believed he had taxed the forbearance of the powers above to the extremity of endurance and that this was the result.
it might have seemed to him a waste of pomp and ammunition to kill a bug with a battery of artillery, but there seemed nothing incongruous about the getting up such an expensive thunderstorm as this to knock the turf from under an insect like himself.
by and by the tempest spent itself and died without accomplishing its object.
the boy's first impulse was to be grateful, and reform.
his second was to wait for there might not be any more storms.
the next day the doctors were back; tom had relapsed.
the three weeks he spent on his back this time seemed an entire age.
when he got abroad at last he was hardly grateful that he had been spared, remembering how lonely was his estate, how companionless and forlorn he was.
he drifted listlessly down the street and found jim hollis acting as judge in a juvenile court that was trying a cat for murder, in the presence of her victim, a bird.
he found joe harper and huck finn up an alley eating a stolen melon.
poor lads!
they like tom had suffered a relapse.
chapter xxiii
at last the sleepy atmosphere was stirred and vigorously: the murder trial came on in the court.
it became the absorbing topic of village talk immediately.
tom could not get away from it.
every reference to the murder sent a shudder to his heart, for his troubled conscience and fears almost persuaded him that these remarks were put forth in his hearing as “feelers”; he did not see how he could be suspected of knowing anything about the murder, but still he could not be comfortable in the midst of this gossip.
it kept him in a cold shiver all the time.
he took huck to a lonely place to have a talk with him.
it would be some relief to unseal his tongue for a little while; to divide his burden of distress with another sufferer.
moreover, he wanted to assure himself that huck had remained discreet.
“huck, have you ever told anybody about that?”
“'bout what?”
“you know what.”
“oh 'course i haven't.”
“never a word?”
“never a solitary word, so help me.
what makes you ask?”
“well, i was afeard.”
“why, tom sawyer, we wouldn't be alive two days if that got found out.
you know that.”
tom felt more comfortable.
after a pause:
“huck, they couldn't anybody get you to tell, could they?”
“get me to tell?
why, if i wanted that halfbreed devil to drownd me they could get me to tell.
they ain't no different way.”
“well, that's all right, then.
i reckon we're safe as long as we keep mum.
but let's swear again, anyway.
it's more surer.”
“i'm agreed.”
so they swore again with dread solemnities.
“what is the talk around, huck?
i've heard a power of it.”
“talk?
well, it's just muff potter, muff potter, muff potter all the time.
it keeps me in a sweat, constant, so's i want to hide som'ers.”
“that's just the same way they go on round me.
i reckon he's a goner.
don't you feel sorry for him, sometimes?”
“most always most always.
he ain't no account; but then he hain't ever done anything to hurt anybody.
just fishes a little, to get money to get drunk on and loafs around considerable; but lord, we all do that leastways most of us preachers and such like.
but he's kind of good he give me half a fish, once, when there warn't enough for two; and lots of times he's kind of stood by me when i was out of luck.”
“well, he's mended kites for me, huck, and knitted hooks on to my line.
i wish we could get him out of there.”
“my!
we couldn't get him out, tom.
and besides, 'twouldn't do any good; they'd ketch him again.”
“yes so they would.
but i hate to hear 'em abuse him so like the dickens when he never done that.”
“i do too, tom.
lord, i hear 'em say he's the bloodiest looking villain in this country, and they wonder he wasn't ever hung before.”
“yes, they talk like that, all the time.
i've heard 'em say that if he was to get free they'd lynch him.”
“and they'd do it, too.”
the boys had a long talk, but it brought them little comfort.
as the twilight drew on, they found themselves hanging about the neighborhood of the little isolated jail, perhaps with an undefined hope that something would happen that might clear away their difficulties.
but nothing happened; there seemed to be no angels or fairies interested in this luckless captive.
the boys did as they had often done before went to the cell grating and gave potter some tobacco and matches.
he was on the ground floor and there were no guards.
his gratitude for their gifts had always smote their consciences before it cut deeper than ever, this time.
they felt cowardly and treacherous to the last degree when potter said:
“you've been mighty good to me, boys better'n anybody else in this town.
and i don't forget it, i don't.
often i says to myself, says i, 'i used to mend all the boys' kites and things, and show 'em where the good fishin' places was, and befriend 'em what i could, and now they've all forgot old muff when he's in trouble; but tom don't, and huck don't they don't forget him, says i, 'and i don't forget them.'
well, boys, i done an awful thing drunk and crazy at the time that's the only way i account for it and now i got to swing for it, and it's right.
right, and best, too, i reckon hope so, anyway.
well, we won't talk about that.
i don't want to make you feel bad; you've befriended me.
but what i want to say, is, don't you ever get drunk then you won't ever get here.
stand a litter furder west so that's it; it's a prime comfort to see faces that's friendly when a body's in such a muck of trouble, and there don't none come here but yourn.
good friendly faces good friendly faces.
git up on one another's backs and let me touch 'em.
that's it.
shake hands yourn'll come through the bars, but mine's too big.
little hands, and weak but they've helped muff potter a power, and they'd help him more if they could.”
tom went home miserable, and his dreams that night were full of horrors.
the next day and the day after, he hung about the courtroom, drawn by an almost irresistible impulse to go in, but forcing himself to stay out.
huck was having the same experience.
they studiously avoided each other.
each wandered away, from time to time, but the same dismal fascination always brought them back presently.
tom kept his ears open when idlers sauntered out of the courtroom, but invariably heard distressing news the toils were closing more and more relentlessly around poor potter.
at the end of the second day the village talk was to the effect that injun joe's evidence stood firm and unshaken, and that there was not the slightest question as to what the jury's verdict would be.
tom was out late, that night, and came to bed through the window.
he was in a tremendous state of excitement.
it was hours before he got to sleep.
all the village flocked to the courthouse the next morning, for this was to be the great day.
both sexes were about equally represented in the packed audience.
after a long wait the jury filed in and took their places; shortly afterward, potter, pale and haggard, timid and hopeless, was brought in, with chains upon him, and seated where all the curious eyes could stare at him; no less conspicuous was injun joe, stolid as ever.
there was another pause, and then the judge arrived and the sheriff proclaimed the opening of the court.
the usual whisperings among the lawyers and gathering together of papers followed.
these details and accompanying delays worked up an atmosphere of preparation that was as impressive as it was fascinating.
now a witness was called who testified that he found muff potter washing in the brook, at an early hour of the morning that the murder was discovered, and that he immediately sneaked away.
after some further questioning, counsel for the prosecution said:
“take the witness.”
the prisoner raised his eyes for a moment, but dropped them again when his own counsel said:
“i have no questions to ask him.”
the next witness proved the finding of the knife near the corpse.
counsel for the prosecution said:
“take the witness.”
“i have no questions to ask him,” potter's lawyer replied.
a third witness swore he had often seen the knife in potter's possession.
“take the witness.”
counsel for potter declined to question him.
the faces of the audience began to betray annoyance.
did this attorney mean to throw away his client's life without an effort?
several witnesses deposed concerning potter's guilty behavior when brought to the scene of the murder.
they were allowed to leave the stand without being cross-questioned.
every detail of the damaging circumstances that occurred in the graveyard upon that morning which all present remembered so well was brought out by credible witnesses, but none of them were cross-examined by potter's lawyer.
the perplexity and dissatisfaction of the house expressed itself in murmurs and provoked a reproof from the bench.
counsel for the prosecution now said:
“by the oaths of citizens whose simple word is above suspicion, we have fastened this awful crime, beyond all possibility of question, upon the unhappy prisoner at the bar.
we rest our case here.”
a groan escaped from poor potter, and he put his face in his hands and rocked his body softly to and fro, while a painful silence reigned in the courtroom.
many men were moved, and many women's compassion testified itself in tears.
counsel for the defence rose and said:
“your honor, in our remarks at the opening of this trial, we foreshadowed our purpose to prove that our client did this fearful deed while under the influence of a blind and irresponsible delirium produced by drink.
we have changed our mind.
we shall not offer that plea.” [then to the clerk:] “call thomas sawyer!”
a puzzled amazement awoke in every face in the house, not even excepting potter's.
every eye fastened itself with wondering interest upon tom as he rose and took his place upon the stand.
the boy looked wild enough, for he was badly scared.
the oath was administered.
“thomas sawyer, where were you on the seventeenth of june, about the hour of midnight?”
tom glanced at injun joe's iron face and his tongue failed him.
the audience listened breathless, but the words refused to come.
after a few moments, however, the boy got a little of his strength back, and managed to put enough of it into his voice to make part of the house hear:
“in the graveyard!”
“a little bit louder, please.
don't be afraid.
you were ”
“in the graveyard.”
a contemptuous smile flitted across injun joe's face.
“were you anywhere near horse williams' grave?”
“yes, sir.”
“speak up just a trifle louder.
how near were you?”
“near as i am to you.”
“were you hidden, or not?”
“i was hid.”
“where?”
“behind the elms that's on the edge of the grave.”
injun joe gave a barely perceptible start.
“any one with you?”
“yes, sir.
i went there with ”
“wait wait a moment.
never mind mentioning your companion's name.
we will produce him at the proper time.
did you carry anything there with you.”
tom hesitated and looked confused.
“speak out, my boy don't be diffident.
the truth is always respectable.
what did you take there?”
“only a a dead cat.”
there was a ripple of mirth, which the court checked.
“we will produce the skeleton of that cat.
now, my boy, tell us everything that occurred tell it in your own way don't skip anything, and don't be afraid.”
tom began hesitatingly at first, but as he warmed to his subject his words flowed more and more easily; in a little while every sound ceased but his own voice; every eye fixed itself upon him; with parted lips and bated breath the audience hung upon his words, taking no note of time, rapt in the ghastly fascinations of the tale.
the strain upon pent emotion reached its climax when the boy said:
“ and as the doctor fetched the board around and muff potter fell, injun joe jumped with the knife and ”
crash!
quick as lightning the halfbreed sprang for a window, tore his way through all opposers, and was gone!
chapter xxiv
tom was a glittering hero once more the pet of the old, the envy of the young.
his name even went into immortal print, for the village paper magnified him.
there were some that believed he would be president, yet, if he escaped hanging.
as usual, the fickle, unreasoning world took muff potter to its bosom and fondled him as lavishly as it had abused him before.
but that sort of conduct is to the world's credit; therefore it is not well to find fault with it.
tom's days were days of splendor and exultation to him, but his nights were seasons of horror.
injun joe infested all his dreams, and always with doom in his eye.
hardly any temptation could persuade the boy to stir abroad after nightfall.
poor huck was in the same state of wretchedness and terror, for tom had told the whole story to the lawyer the night before the great day of the trial, and huck was sore afraid that his share in the business might leak out, yet, notwithstanding injun joe's flight had saved him the suffering of testifying in court.
the poor fellow had got the attorney to promise secrecy, but what of that?
since tom's harassed conscience had managed to drive him to the lawyer's house by night and wring a dread tale from lips that had been sealed with the dismalest and most formidable of oaths, huck's confidence in the human race was wellnigh obliterated.
daily muff potter's gratitude made tom glad he had spoken; but nightly he wished he had sealed up his tongue.
half the time tom was afraid injun joe would never be captured; the other half he was afraid he would be.
he felt sure he never could draw a safe breath again until that man was dead and he had seen the corpse.
rewards had been offered, the country had been scoured, but no injun joe was found.
one of those omniscient and aweinspiring marvels, a detective, came up from st. louis, moused around, shook his head, looked wise, and made that sort of astounding success which members of that craft usually achieve.
that is to say, he “found a clew.” but you can't hang a “clew” for murder, and so after that detective had got through and gone home, tom felt just as insecure as he was before.
the slow days drifted on, and each left behind it a slightly lightened weight of apprehension.
chapter xxv
there comes a time in every rightly-constructed boy's life when he has a raging desire to go somewhere and dig for hidden treasure.
this desire suddenly came upon tom one day.
he sallied out to find joe harper, but failed of success.
next he sought ben rogers; he had gone fishing.
presently he stumbled upon huck finn the red-handed.
huck would answer.
tom took him to a private place and opened the matter to him confidentially.
huck was willing.
huck was always willing to take a hand in any enterprise that offered entertainment and required no capital, for he had a troublesome superabundance of that sort of time which is not money.
“where'll we dig?” said huck.
“oh, most anywhere.”
“why, is it hid all around?”
“no, indeed it ain't.
it's hid in mighty particular places, huck sometimes on islands, sometimes in rotten chests under the end of a limb of an old dead tree, just where the shadow falls at midnight; but mostly under the floor in ha'nted houses.”
“who hides it?”
“why, robbers, of course who'd you reckon?
sunday-school sup'rintendents?”
“i don't know.
if 'twas mine i wouldn't hide it; i'd spend it and have a good time.”
“so would i. but robbers don't do that way.
they always hide it and leave it there.”
“don't they come after it any more?”
“no, they think they will, but they generally forget the marks, or else they die.
anyway, it lays there a long time and gets rusty; and by and by somebody finds an old yellow paper that tells how to find the marks a paper that's got to be ciphered over about a week because it's mostly signs and hy'roglyphics.”
“hyro which?”
“hy'roglyphics pictures and things, you know, that don't seem to mean anything.”
“have you got one of them papers, tom?”
“no.”
“well then, how you going to find the marks?”
“i don't want any marks.
they always bury it under a ha'nted house or on an island, or under a dead tree that's got one limb sticking out.
well, we've tried jackson's island a little, and we can try it again some time; and there's the old ha'nted house up the still-house branch, and there's lots of dead-limb trees dead loads of 'em.”
“is it under all of them?”
“how you talk!
no!”
“then how you going to know which one to go for?”
“go for all of 'em!”
“why, tom, it'll take all summer.”
“well, what of that?
suppose you find a brass pot with a hundred dollars in it, all rusty and gray, or rotten chest full of di'monds.
how's that?”
huck's eyes glowed.
“that's bully.
plenty bully enough for me.
just you gimme the hundred dollars and i don't want no di'monds.”
“all right.
but i bet you i ain't going to throw off on di'monds.
some of 'em's worth twenty dollars apiece there ain't any, hardly, but's worth six bits or a dollar.”
“no!
is that so?”
“cert'nly anybody'll tell you so.
hain't you ever seen one, huck?”
“not as i remember.”
“oh, kings have slathers of them.”
“well, i don' know no kings, tom.”
“i reckon you don't.
but if you was to go to europe you'd see a raft of 'em hopping around.”
“do they hop?”
“hop?
your granny!
no!”
“well, what did you say they did, for?”
“shucks, i only meant you'd see 'em not hopping, of course what do they want to hop for?
but i mean you'd just see 'em scattered around, you know, in a kind of a general way.
like that old humpbacked richard.”
“richard?
what's his other name?”
“he didn't have any other name.
kings don't have any but a given name.”
“no?”
“but they don't.”
“well, if they like it, tom, all right; but i don't want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger.
but say where you going to dig first?”
“well, i don't know.
s'pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t'other side of still-house branch?”
“i'm agreed.”
so they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp.
they arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.
“i like this,” said tom.
“so do i.”
“say, huck, if we find a treasure here, what you going to do with your share?”
“well, i'll have pie and a glass of soda every day, and i'll go to every circus that comes along.
i bet i'll have a gay time.”
“well, ain't you going to save any of it?”
“save it?
what for?”
“why, so as to have something to live on, by and by.”
“oh, that ain't any use.
pap would come back to thish-yer town some day and get his claws on it if i didn't hurry up, and i tell you he'd clean it out pretty quick.
what you going to do with yourn, tom?”
“i'm going to buy a new drum, and a sure'nough sword, and a red necktie and a bull pup, and get married.”
“married!”
“that's it.”
“tom, you why, you ain't in your right mind.”
“wait you'll see.”
“well, that's the foolishest thing you could do.
look at pap and my mother.
fight!
why, they used to fight all the time.
i remember, mighty well.”
“that ain't anything.
the girl i'm going to marry won't fight.”
“tom, i reckon they're all alike.
they'll all comb a body.
now you better think 'bout this awhile.
i tell you you better.
what's the name of the gal?”
“it ain't a gal at all it's a girl.”
“it's all the same, i reckon; some says gal, some says girl both's right, like enough.
anyway, what's her name, tom?”
“i'll tell you some time not now.”
“all right that'll do.
only if you get married i'll be more lonesomer than ever.”
“no you won't.
you'll come and live with me.
now stir out of this and we'll go to digging.”
they worked and sweated for half an hour.
no result.
they toiled another halfhour.
still no result.
huck said:
“do they always bury it as deep as this?”
“sometimes not always.
not generally.
i reckon we haven't got the right place.”
so they chose a new spot and began again.
the labor dragged a little, but still they made progress.
they pegged away in silence for some time.
finally huck leaned on his shovel, swabbed the beaded drops from his brow with his sleeve, and said:
“where you going to dig next, after we get this one?”
“i reckon maybe we'll tackle the old tree that's over yonder on cardiff hill back of the widow's.”
“i reckon that'll be a good one.
but won't the widow take it away from us, tom?
it's on her land.”
“she take it away!
maybe she'd like to try it once.
whoever finds one of these hid treasures, it belongs to him.
it don't make any difference whose land it's on.”
that was satisfactory.
the work went on.
by and by huck said:
“blame it, we must be in the wrong place again.
what do you think?”
“it is mighty curious, huck.
i don't understand it.
sometimes witches interfere.
i reckon maybe that's what's the trouble now.”
“shucks!
witches ain't got no power in the daytime.”
“well, that's so.
i didn't think of that.
oh, i know what the matter is!
what a blamed lot of fools we are!
you got to find out where the shadow of the limb falls at midnight, and that's where you dig!”
“then consound it, we've fooled away all this work for nothing.
now hang it all, we got to come back in the night.
it's an awful long way.
can you get out?”
“i bet i will.
we've got to do it tonight, too, because if somebody sees these holes they'll know in a minute what's here and they'll go for it.”
“well, i'll come around and maow tonight.”
“all right.
let's hide the tools in the bushes.”
the boys were there that night, about the appointed time.
they sat in the shadow waiting.
it was a lonely place, and an hour made solemn by old traditions.
spirits whispered in the rustling leaves, ghosts lurked in the murky nooks, the deep baying of a hound floated up out of the distance, an owl answered with his sepulchral note.
the boys were subdued by these solemnities, and talked little.
by and by they judged that twelve had come; they marked where the shadow fell, and began to dig.
their hopes commenced to rise.
their interest grew stronger, and their industry kept pace with it.
the hole deepened and still deepened, but every time their hearts jumped to hear the pick strike upon something, they only suffered a new disappointment.
it was only a stone or a chunk.
at last tom said:
“it ain't any use, huck, we're wrong again.”
“well, but we can't be wrong.
we spotted the shadder to a dot.”
“i know it, but then there's another thing.”
“what's that?”.
“why, we only guessed at the time.
like enough it was too late or too early.”
huck dropped his shovel.
“that's it,” said he.
“that's the very trouble.
we got to give this one up.
we can't ever tell the right time, and besides this kind of thing's too awful, here this time of night with witches and ghosts a-fluttering around so.
i feel as if something's behind me all the time;  and i'm afeard to turn around, becuz maybe there's others in front a-waiting for a chance.
i been creeping all over, ever since i got here.”
“well, i've been pretty much so, too, huck.
they most always put in a dead man when they bury a treasure under a tree, to look out for it.”
“lordy!”
“yes, they do.
i've always heard that.”
“tom, i don't like to fool around much where there's dead people.
a body's bound to get into trouble with 'em, sure.”
“i don't like to stir 'em up, either.
s'pose this one here was to stick his skull out and say something!”
“don't tom!
it's awful.”
“well, it just is.
huck, i don't feel comfortable a bit.”
“say, tom, let's give this place up, and try somewheres else.”
“all right, i reckon we better.”
“what'll it be?”
tom considered awhile; and then said:
“the ha'nted house.
that's it!”
“blame it, i don't like ha'nted houses, tom.
why, they're a dern sight worse'n dead people.
dead people might talk, maybe, but they don't come sliding around in a shroud, when you ain't noticing, and peep over your shoulder all of a sudden and grit their teeth, the way a ghost does.
i couldn't stand such a thing as that, tom nobody could.”
“yes, but, huck, ghosts don't travel around only at night.
they won't hender us from digging there in the daytime.”
“well, that's so.
but you know mighty well people don't go about that ha'nted house in the day nor the night.”
“well, that's mostly because they don't like to go where a man's been murdered, anyway but nothing's ever been seen around that house except in the night just some blue lights slipping by the windows no regular ghosts.”
“well, where you see one of them blue lights flickering around, tom, you can bet there's a ghost mighty close behind it.
it stands to reason.
becuz you know that they don't anybody but ghosts use 'em.”
“yes, that's so.
but anyway they don't come around in the daytime, so what's the use of our being afeard?”
“well, all right.
we'll tackle the ha'nted house if you say so but i reckon it's taking chances.”
they had started down the hill by this time.
there in the middle of the moonlit valley below them stood the “ha'nted” house, utterly isolated, its fences gone long ago, rank weeds smothering the very doorsteps, the chimney crumbled to ruin, the window-sashes vacant, a corner of the roof caved in.
the boys gazed awhile, half expecting to see a blue light flit past a window; then talking in a low tone, as befitted the time and the circumstances, they struck far off to the right, to give the haunted house a wide berth, and took their way homeward through the woods that adorned the rearward side of cardiff hill.
chapter xxvi
about noon the next day the boys arrived at the dead tree; they had come for their tools.
tom was impatient to go to the haunted house; huck was measurably so, also but suddenly said:
“lookyhere, tom, do you know what day it is?”
tom mentally ran over the days of the week, and then quickly lifted his eyes with a startled look in them
“my!
i never once thought of it, huck!”
“well, i didn't neither, but all at once it popped onto me that it was friday.”
“blame it, a body can't be too careful, huck.
we might 'a' got into an awful scrape, tackling such a thing on a friday.”
“might!
better say we would!
there's some lucky days, maybe, but friday ain't.”
“any fool knows that.
i don't reckon you was the first that found it out, huck.”
“well, i never said i was, did i?
and friday ain't all, neither.
i had a rotten bad dream last night dreampt about rats.”
“no!
sure sign of trouble.
did they fight?”
“no.”
“well, that's good, huck.
when they don't fight it's only a sign that there's trouble around, you know.
all we got to do is to look mighty sharp and keep out of it.
we'll drop this thing for today, and play.
do you know robin hood, huck?”
“no.
who's robin hood?”
“why, he was one of the greatest men that was ever in england and the best.
he was a robber.”
“cracky, i wisht i was.
who did he rob?”
“only sheriffs and bishops and rich people and kings, and such like.
but he never bothered the poor.
he loved 'em.
he always divided up with 'em perfectly square.”
“well, he must 'a' been a brick.”
“i bet you he was, huck.
oh, he was the noblest man that ever was.
they ain't any such men now, i can tell you.
he could lick any man in england, with one hand tied behind him; and he could take his yew bow and plug a ten-cent piece every time, a mile and a half.”
“what's a yew bow?”
“i don't know.
it's some kind of a bow, of course.
and if he hit that dime only on the edge he would set down and cry and curse.
but we'll play robin hood it's nobby fun.
i'll learn you.”
“i'm agreed.”
so they played robin hood all the afternoon, now and then casting a yearning eye down upon the haunted house and passing a remark about the morrow's prospects and possibilities there.
as the sun began to sink into the west they took their way homeward athwart the long shadows of the trees and soon were buried from sight in the forests of cardiff hill.
on saturday, shortly after noon, the boys were at the dead tree again.
they had a smoke and a chat in the shade, and then dug a little in their last hole, not with great hope, but merely because tom said there were so many cases where people had given up a treasure after getting down within six inches of it, and then somebody else had come along and turned it up with a single thrust of a shovel.
the thing failed this time, however, so the boys shouldered their tools and went away feeling that they had not trifled with fortune, but had fulfilled all the requirements that belong to the business of treasure-hunting.
when they reached the haunted house there was something so weird and grisly about the dead silence that reigned there under the baking sun, and something so depressing about the loneliness and desolation of the place, that they were afraid, for a moment, to venture in.
then they crept to the door and took a trembling peep.
they saw a weedgrown, floorless room, unplastered, an ancient fireplace, vacant windows, a ruinous staircase; and here, there, and everywhere hung ragged and abandoned cobwebs.
they presently entered, softly, with quickened pulses, talking in whispers, ears alert to catch the slightest sound, and muscles tense and ready for instant retreat.
in a little while familiarity modified their fears and they gave the place a critical and interested examination, rather admiring their own boldness, and wondering at it, too.
next they wanted to look upstairs.
this was something like cutting off retreat, but they got to daring each other, and of course there could be but one result they threw their tools into a corner and made the ascent.
up there were the same signs of decay.
in one corner they found a closet that promised mystery, but the promise was a fraud there was nothing in it.
their courage was up now and well in hand.
they were about to go down and begin work when
“sh!” said tom.
“what is it?” whispered huck, blanching with fright.
“sh!...
there!...
hear it?”
“yes!...
oh, my!
let's run!”
“keep still!
don't you budge!
they're coming right toward the door.”
the boys stretched themselves upon the floor with their eyes to knotholes in the planking, and lay waiting, in a misery of fear.
“they've stopped.... no coming.... here they are.
don't whisper another word, huck.
my goodness, i wish i was out of this!”
two men entered.
each boy said to himself: “there's the old deaf and dumb spaniard that's been about town once or twice lately never saw t'other man before.”
“t'other” was a ragged, unkempt creature, with nothing very pleasant in his face.
the spaniard was wrapped in a serape; he had bushy white whiskers; long white hair flowed from under his sombrero, and he wore green goggles.
when they came in, “t'other” was talking in a low voice; they sat down on the ground, facing the door, with their backs to the wall, and the speaker continued his remarks.
his manner became less guarded and his words more distinct as he proceeded:
“no,” said he, “i've thought it all over, and i don't like it.
it's dangerous.”
“dangerous!” grunted the “deaf and dumb” spaniard to the vast surprise of the boys.
“milksop!”
this voice made the boys gasp and quake.
it was injun joe's!
there was silence for some time.
then joe said:
“what's any more dangerous than that job up yonder but nothing's come of it.”
“that's different.
away up the river so, and not another house about.
'twon't ever be known that we tried, anyway, long as we didn't succeed.”
“well, what's more dangerous than coming here in the daytime!
anybody would suspicion us that saw us.”
“i know that.
but there warn't any other place as handy after that fool of a job.
i want to quit this shanty.
i wanted to yesterday, only it warn't any use trying to stir out of here, with those infernal boys playing over there on the hill right in full view.”
“those infernal boys” quaked again under the inspiration of this remark, and thought how lucky it was that they had remembered it was friday and concluded to wait a day.
they wished in their hearts they had waited a year.
the two men got out some food and made a luncheon.
after a long and thoughtful silence, injun joe said:
“look here, lad you go back up the river where you belong.
wait there till you hear from me.
i'll take the chances on dropping into this town just once more, for a look.
we'll do that 'dangerous' job after i've spied around a little and think things look well for it.
then for texas!
we'll leg it together!”
this was satisfactory.
both men presently fell to yawning, and injun joe said:
“i'm dead for sleep!
it's your turn to watch.”
he curled down in the weeds and soon began to snore.
his comrade stirred him once or twice and he became quiet.
presently the watcher began to nod; his head drooped lower and lower, both men began to snore now.
the boys drew a long, grateful breath.
tom whispered:
“now's our chance come!”
huck said:
“i can't i'd die if they was to wake.”
tom urged huck held back.
at last tom rose slowly and softly, and started alone.
but the first step he made wrung such a hideous creak from the crazy floor that he sank down almost dead with fright.
he never made a second attempt.
the boys lay there counting the dragging moments till it seemed to them that time must be done and eternity growing gray; and then they were grateful to note that at last the sun was setting.
now one snore ceased.
injun joe sat up, stared around smiled grimly upon his comrade, whose head was drooping upon his knees stirred him up with his foot and said:
“here!
you're a watchman, ain't you!
all right, though nothing's happened.”
“my!
have i been asleep?”
“oh, partly, partly.
nearly time for us to be moving, pard.
what'll we do with what little swag we've got left?”
“i don't know leave it here as we've always done, i reckon.
no use to take it away till we start south.
six hundred and fifty in silver's something to carry.”
“well all right it won't matter to come here once more.”
“no but i'd say come in the night as we used to do it's better.”
“yes: but look here; it may be a good while before i get the right chance at that job; accidents might happen; 'tain't in such a very good place; we'll just regularly bury it and bury it deep.”
“good idea,” said the comrade, who walked across the room, knelt down, raised one of the rearward hearth-stones and took out a bag that jingled pleasantly.
he subtracted from it twenty or thirty dollars for himself and as much for injun joe, and passed the bag to the latter, who was on his knees in the corner, now, digging with his bowie-knife.
the boys forgot all their fears, all their miseries in an instant.
with gloating eyes they watched every movement.
luck!
the splendor of it was beyond all imagination!
six hundred dollars was money enough to make half a dozen boys rich!
here was treasure-hunting under the happiest auspices there would not be any bothersome uncertainty as to where to dig.
they nudged each other every moment eloquent nudges and easily understood, for they simply meant “oh, but ain't you glad now we're here!”
joe's knife struck upon something.
“hello!” said he.
“what is it?” said his comrade.
“half-rotten plank no, it's a box, i believe.
here bear a hand and we'll see what it's here for.
never mind, i've broke a hole.”
he reached his hand in and drew it out
“man, it's money!”
the two men examined the handful of coins.
they were gold.
the boys above were as excited as themselves, and as delighted.
joe's comrade said:
“we'll make quick work of this.
there's an old rusty pick over amongst the weeds in the corner the other side of the fireplace i saw it a minute ago.”
he ran and brought the boys' pick and shovel.
injun joe took the pick, looked it over critically, shook his head, muttered something to himself, and then began to use it.
the box was soon unearthed.
it was not very large; it was iron bound and had been very strong before the slow years had injured it.
the men contemplated the treasure awhile in blissful silence.
“pard, there's thousands of dollars here,” said injun joe.
“'twas always said that murrel's gang used to be around here one summer,” the stranger observed.
“i know it,” said injun joe; “and this looks like it, i should say.”
“now you won't need to do that job.”
the halfbreed frowned.
said he:
“you don't know me.
least you don't know all about that thing.
'tain't robbery altogether it's revenge!” and a wicked light flamed in his eyes.
“i'll need your help in it.
when it's finished then texas.
go home to your nance and your kids, and stand by till you hear from me.”
“well if you say so; what'll we do with this bury it again?”
“yes.
[ravishing delight overhead.]
no!
by the great sachem, no!
[profound distress overhead.]
i'd nearly forgot.
that pick had fresh earth on it!
[the boys were sick with terror in a moment.]
what business has a pick and a shovel here?
what business with fresh earth on them?
who brought them here and where are they gone?
have you heard anybody?
seen anybody?
what!
bury it again and leave them to come and see the ground disturbed?
not exactly not exactly.
we'll take it to my den.”
“why, of course!
might have thought of that before.
you mean number one?”
“no number two under the cross.
the other place is bad too common.”
“all right.
it's nearly dark enough to start.”
injun joe got up and went about from window to window cautiously peeping out.
presently he said:
“who could have brought those tools here?
do you reckon they can be upstairs?”
the boys' breath forsook them.
injun joe put his hand on his knife, halted a moment, undecided, and then turned toward the stairway.
the boys thought of the closet, but their strength was gone.
the steps came creaking up the stairs the intolerable distress of the situation woke the stricken resolution of the lads they were about to spring for the closet, when there was a crash of rotten timbers and injun joe landed on the ground amid the debris of the ruined stairway.
he gathered himself up cursing, and his comrade said:
“now what's the use of all that?
if it's anybody, and they're up there, let them stay there who cares?
if they want to jump down, now, and get into trouble, who objects?
it will be dark in fifteen minutes and then let them follow us if they want to.
i'm willing.
in my opinion, whoever hove those things in here caught a sight of us and took us for ghosts or devils or something.
i'll bet they're running yet.”
joe grumbled awhile; then he agreed with his friend that what daylight was left ought to be economized in getting things ready for leaving.
shortly afterward they slipped out of the house in the deepening twilight, and moved toward the river with their precious box.
tom and huck rose up, weak but vastly relieved, and stared after them through the chinks between the logs of the house.
follow?
not they.
they were content to reach ground again without broken necks, and take the townward track over the hill.
they did not talk much.
they were too much absorbed in hating themselves hating the ill luck that made them take the spade and the pick there.
but for that, injun joe never would have suspected.
he would have hidden the silver with the gold to wait there till his “revenge” was satisfied, and then he would have had the misfortune to find that money turn up missing.
bitter, bitter luck that the tools were ever brought there!
they resolved to keep a lookout for that spaniard when he should come to town spying out for chances to do his revengeful job, and follow him to “number two,” wherever that might be.
then a ghastly thought occurred to tom.
“revenge?
what if he means us, huck!”
“oh, don't!” said huck, nearly fainting.
they talked it all over, and as they entered town they agreed to believe that he might possibly mean somebody else at least that he might at least mean nobody but tom, since only tom had testified.
very, very small comfort it was to tom to be alone in danger!
company would be a palpable improvement, he thought.
chapter xxvii
the adventure of the day mightily tormented tom's dreams that night.
four times he had his hands on that rich treasure and four times it wasted to nothingness in his fingers as sleep forsook him and wakefulness brought back the hard reality of his misfortune.
as he lay in the early morning recalling the incidents of his great adventure, he noticed that they seemed curiously subdued and far away somewhat as if they had happened in another world, or in a time long gone by.
then it occurred to him that the great adventure itself must be a dream!
there was one very strong argument in favor of this idea namely, that the quantity of coin he had seen was too vast to be real.
he had never seen as much as fifty dollars in one mass before, and he was like all boys of his age and station in life, in that he imagined that all references to “hundreds” and “thousands” were mere fanciful forms of speech, and that no such sums really existed in the world.
he never had supposed for a moment that so large a sum as a hundred dollars was to be found in actual money in any one's possession.
if his notions of hidden treasure had been analyzed, they would have been found to consist of a handful of real dimes and a bushel of vague, splendid, ungraspable dollars.
but the incidents of his adventure grew sensibly sharper and clearer under the attrition of thinking them over, and so he presently found himself leaning to the impression that the thing might not have been a dream, after all.
this uncertainty must be swept away.
he would snatch a hurried breakfast and go and find huck.
huck was sitting on the gunwale of a flatboat, listlessly dangling his feet in the water and looking very melancholy.
tom concluded to let huck lead up to the subject.
if he did not do it, then the adventure would be proved to have been only a dream.
“hello, huck!”
“hello, yourself.”
silence, for a minute.
“tom, if we'd 'a' left the blame tools at the dead tree, we'd 'a' got the money.
oh, ain't it awful!”
“'tain't a dream, then, 'tain't a dream!
somehow i most wish it was.
dog'd if i don't, huck.”
“what ain't a dream?”
“oh, that thing yesterday.
i been half thinking it was.”
“dream!
if them stairs hadn't broke down you'd 'a' seen how much dream it was!
i've had dreams enough all night with that patch-eyed spanish devil going for me all through 'em rot him!”
“no, not rot him.
find him!
track the money!”
“tom, we'll never find him.
a feller don't have only one chance for such a pile and that one's lost.
i'd feel mighty shaky if i was to see him, anyway.”
“well, so'd i; but i'd like to see him, anyway and track him out to his number two.”
“number two yes, that's it.
i been thinking 'bout that.
but i can't make nothing out of it.
what do you reckon it is?”
“i dono.
it's too deep.
say, huck maybe it's the number of a house!”
“goody!...
no, tom, that ain't it.
if it is, it ain't in this one-horse town.
they ain't no numbers here.”
“well, that's so.
lemme think a minute.
here it's the number of a room in a tavern, you know!”
“oh, that's the trick!
they ain't only two taverns.
we can find out quick.”
“you stay here, huck, till i come.”
tom was off at once.
he did not care to have huck's company in public places.
he was gone half an hour.
he found that in the best tavern, no.
2 had long been occupied by a young lawyer, and was still so occupied.
in the less ostentatious house, no.
2 was a mystery.
the tavern-keeper's young son said it was kept locked all the time, and he never saw anybody go into it or come out of it except at night; he did not know any particular reason for this state of things; had had some little curiosity, but it was rather feeble; had made the most of the mystery by entertaining himself with the idea that that room was “ha'nted”; had noticed that there was a light in there the night before.
“that's what i've found out, huck.
i reckon that's the very no.
2 we're after.”
“i reckon it is, tom.
now what you going to do?”
“lemme think.”
tom thought a long time.
then he said:
“i'll tell you.
the back door of that no.
2 is the door that comes out into that little close alley between the tavern and the old rattle trap of a brick store.
now you get hold of all the doorkeys you can find, and i'll nip all of auntie's, and the first dark night we'll go there and try 'em.
and mind you, keep a lookout for injun joe, because he said he was going to drop into town and spy around once more for a chance to get his revenge.
if you see him, you just follow him; and if he don't go to that no.
2, that ain't the place.”
“lordy, i don't want to foller him by myself!”
“why, it'll be night, sure.
he mightn't ever see you and if he did, maybe he'd never think anything.”
“well, if it's pretty dark i reckon i'll track him.
i dono i dono.
i'll try.”
“you bet i'll follow him, if it's dark, huck.
why, he might 'a' found out he couldn't get his revenge, and be going right after that money.”
“it's so, tom, it's so.
i'll foller him; i will, by jingoes!”
“now you're talking!
don't you ever weaken, huck, and i won't.”
chapter xxviii
that night tom and huck were ready for their adventure.
they hung about the neighborhood of the tavern until after nine, one watching the alley at a distance and the other the tavern door.
nobody entered the alley or left it; nobody resembling the spaniard entered or left the tavern door.
the night promised to be a fair one; so tom went home with the understanding that if a considerable degree of darkness came on, huck was to come and “maow,” whereupon he would slip out and try the keys.
but the night remained clear, and huck closed his watch and retired to bed in an empty sugar hogshead about twelve.
tuesday the boys had the same ill luck.
also wednesday.
but thursday night promised better.
tom slipped out in good season with his aunt's old tin lantern, and a large towel to blindfold it with.
he hid the lantern in huck's sugar hogshead and the watch began.
an hour before midnight the tavern closed up and its lights (the only ones thereabouts)
were put out.
no spaniard had been seen.
nobody had entered or left the alley.
everything was auspicious.
the blackness of darkness reigned, the perfect stillness was interrupted only by occasional mutterings of distant thunder.
tom got his lantern, lit it in the hogshead, wrapped it closely in the towel, and the two adventurers crept in the gloom toward the tavern.
huck stood sentry and tom felt his way into the alley.
then there was a season of waiting anxiety that weighed upon huck's spirits like a mountain.
he began to wish he could see a flash from the lantern it would frighten him, but it would at least tell him that tom was alive yet.
it seemed hours since tom had disappeared.
surely he must have fainted; maybe he was dead; maybe his heart had burst under terror and excitement.
in his uneasiness huck found himself drawing closer and closer to the alley; fearing all sorts of dreadful things, and momentarily expecting some catastrophe to happen that would take away his breath.
there was not much to take away, for he seemed only able to inhale it by thimblefuls, and his heart would soon wear itself out, the way it was beating.
suddenly there was a flash of light and tom came tearing by him: “run!” said he; “run, for your life!”
he needn't have repeated it; once was enough; huck was making thirty or forty miles an hour before the repetition was uttered.
the boys never stopped till they reached the shed of a deserted slaughter-house at the lower end of the village.
just as they got within its shelter the storm burst and the rain poured down.
as soon as tom got his breath he said:
“huck, it was awful!
i tried two of the keys, just as soft as i could; but they seemed to make such a power of racket that i couldn't hardly get my breath i was so scared.
they wouldn't turn in the lock, either.
well, without noticing what i was doing, i took hold of the knob, and open comes the door!
it warn't locked!
i hopped in, and shook off the towel, and, great caesar's ghost!”
“what!
what'd you see, tom?”
“huck, i most stepped onto injun joe's hand!”
“no!”
“yes!
he was lying there, sound asleep on the floor, with his old patch on his eye and his arms spread out.”
“lordy, what did you do?
did he wake up?”
“no, never budged.
drunk, i reckon.
i just grabbed that towel and started!”
“i'd never 'a' thought of the towel, i bet!”
“well, i would.
my aunt would make me mighty sick if i lost it.”
“say, tom, did you see that box?”
“huck, i didn't wait to look around.
i didn't see the box, i didn't see the cross.
i didn't see anything but a bottle and a tin cup on the floor by injun joe; yes, i saw two barrels and lots more bottles in the room.
don't you see, now, what's the matter with that ha'nted room?”
“how?”
“why, it's ha'nted with whiskey!
maybe all the temperance taverns have got a ha'nted room, hey, huck?”
“well, i reckon maybe that's so.
who'd 'a' thought such a thing?
but say, tom, now's a mighty good time to get that box, if injun joe's drunk.”
“it is, that!
you try it!”
huck shuddered.
“well, no i reckon not.”
“and i reckon not, huck.
only one bottle alongside of injun joe ain't enough.
if there'd been three, he'd be drunk enough and i'd do it.”
there was a long pause for reflection, and then tom said:
“lookyhere, huck, less not try that thing any more till we know injun joe's not in there.
it's too scary.
now, if we watch every night, we'll be dead sure to see him go out, some time or other, and then we'll snatch that box quicker'n lightning.”
“well, i'm agreed.
i'll watch the whole night long, and i'll do it every night, too, if you'll do the other part of the job.”
“all right, i will.
all you got to do is to trot up hooper street a block and maow and if i'm asleep, you throw some gravel at the window and that'll fetch me.”
“agreed, and good as wheat!”
“now, huck, the storm's over, and i'll go home.
it'll begin to be daylight in a couple of hours.
you go back and watch that long, will you?”
“i said i would, tom, and i will.
i'll ha'nt that tavern every night for a year!
i'll sleep all day and i'll stand watch all night.”
“that's all right.
now, where you going to sleep?”
“in ben rogers' hayloft.
he lets me, and so does his pap's nigger man, uncle jake.
i tote water for uncle jake whenever he wants me to, and any time i ask him he gives me a little something to eat if he can spare it.
that's a mighty good nigger, tom.
he likes me, becuz i don't ever act as if i was above him.
sometime i've set right down and eat with him.
but you needn't tell that.
a body's got to do things when he's awful hungry he wouldn't want to do as a steady thing.”
“well, if i don't want you in the daytime, i'll let you sleep.
i won't come bothering around.
any time you see something's up, in the night, just skip right around and maow.”
chapter xxix
the first thing tom heard on friday morning was a glad piece of news judge thatcher's family had come back to town the night before.
both injun joe and the treasure sunk into secondary importance for a moment, and becky took the chief place in the boy's interest.
he saw her and they had an exhausting good time playing “hispy” and “gully-keeper”
with a crowd of their schoolmates.
the day was completed and crowned in a peculiarly satisfactory way: becky teased her mother to appoint the next day for the long-promised and long-delayed picnic, and she consented.
the child's delight was boundless; and tom's not more moderate.
the invitations were sent out before sunset, and straightway the young folks of the village were thrown into a fever of preparation and pleasurable anticipation.
tom's excitement enabled him to keep awake until a pretty late hour, and he had good hopes of hearing huck's “maow,” and of having his treasure to astonish becky and the picnickers with, next day; but he was disappointed.
no signal came that night.
morning came, eventually, and by ten or eleven o'clock a giddy and rollicking company were gathered at judge thatcher's, and everything was ready for a start.
it was not the custom for elderly people to mar the picnics with their presence.
the children were considered safe enough under the wings of a few young ladies of eighteen and a few young gentlemen of twenty-three or thereabouts.
the old steam ferry-boat was chartered for the occasion; presently the gay throng filed up the main street laden with provision-baskets.
sid was sick and had to miss the fun; mary remained at home to entertain him.
the last thing mrs.
thatcher said to becky, was:
“you'll not get back till late.
perhaps you'd better stay all night with some of the girls that live near the ferry-landing, child.”
“then i'll stay with susy harper, mamma.”
“very well.
and mind and behave yourself and don't be any trouble.”
presently, as they tripped along, tom said to becky:
“say i'll tell you what we'll do.
'stead of going to joe harper's we'll climb right up the hill and stop at the widow douglas'.
she'll have ice-cream!
she has it most every day dead loads of it.
and she'll be awful glad to have us.”
“oh, that will be fun!”
then becky reflected a moment and said:
“but what will mamma say?”
“how'll she ever know?”
the girl turned the idea over in her mind, and said reluctantly:
“i reckon it's wrong but ”
“but shucks!
your mother won't know, and so what's the harm?
all she wants is that you'll be safe; and i bet you she'd 'a' said go there if she'd 'a' thought of it.
i know she would!”
the widow douglas' splendid hospitality was a tempting bait.
it and tom's persuasions presently carried the day.
so it was decided to say nothing to anybody about the night's programme.
presently it occurred to tom that maybe huck might come this very night and give the signal.
the thought took a deal of the spirit out of his anticipations.
still he could not bear to give up the fun at widow douglas'.
and why should he give it up, he reasoned the signal did not come the night before, so why should it be any more likely to come tonight?
the sure fun of the evening outweighed the uncertain treasure; and, boy-like, he determined to yield to the stronger inclination and not allow himself to think of the box of money another time that day.
three miles below town the ferryboat stopped at the mouth of a woody hollow and tied up.
the crowd swarmed ashore and soon the forest distances and craggy heights echoed far and near with shoutings and laughter.
all the different ways of getting hot and tired were gone through with, and by-and-by the rovers straggled back to camp fortified with responsible appetites, and then the destruction of the good things began.
after the feast there was a refreshing season of rest and chat in the shade of spreading oaks.
by-and-by somebody shouted:
“who's ready for the cave?”
everybody was.
bundles of candles were procured, and straightway there was a general scamper up the hill.
the mouth of the cave was up the hillside an opening shaped like a letter a. its massive oaken door stood unbarred.
within was a small chamber, chilly as an icehouse, and walled by nature with solid limestone that was dewy with a cold sweat.
it was romantic and mysterious to stand here in the deep gloom and look out upon the green valley shining in the sun.
but the impressiveness of the situation quickly wore off, and the romping began again.
the moment a candle was lighted there was a general rush upon the owner of it; a struggle and a gallant defence followed, but the candle was soon knocked down or blown out, and then there was a glad clamor of laughter and a new chase.
but all things have an end.
by-and-by the procession went filing down the steep descent of the main avenue, the flickering rank of lights dimly revealing the lofty walls of rock almost to their point of junction sixty feet overhead.
this main avenue was not more than eight or ten feet wide.
every few steps other lofty and still narrower crevices branched from it on either hand for mcdougal's cave was but a vast labyrinth of crooked aisles that ran into each other and out again and led nowhere.
it was said that one might wander days and nights together through its intricate tangle of rifts and chasms, and never find the end of the cave; and that he might go down, and down, and still down, into the earth, and it was just the same labyrinth under labyrinth, and no end to any of them.
no man “knew” the cave.
that was an impossible thing.
most of the young men knew a portion of it, and it was not customary to venture much beyond this known portion.
tom sawyer knew as much of the cave as any one.
the procession moved along the main avenue some three-quarters of a mile, and then groups and couples began to slip aside into branch avenues, fly along the dismal corridors, and take each other by surprise at points where the corridors joined again.
parties were able to elude each other for the space of half an hour without going beyond the “known” ground.
by-and-by, one group after another came straggling back to the mouth of the cave, panting, hilarious, smeared from head to foot with tallow drippings, daubed with clay, and entirely delighted with the success of the day.
then they were astonished to find that they had been taking no note of time and that night was about at hand.
the clanging bell had been calling for half an hour.
however, this sort of close to the day's adventures was romantic and therefore satisfactory.
when the ferryboat with her wild freight pushed into the stream, nobody cared sixpence for the wasted time but the captain of the craft.
huck was already upon his watch when the ferryboat's lights went glinting past the wharf.
he heard no noise on board, for the young people were as subdued and still as people usually are who are nearly tired to death.
he wondered what boat it was, and why she did not stop at the wharf and then he dropped her out of his mind and put his attention upon his business.
the night was growing cloudy and dark.
ten o'clock came, and the noise of vehicles ceased, scattered lights began to wink out, all straggling foot-passengers disappeared, the village betook itself to its slumbers and left the small watcher alone with the silence and the ghosts.
eleven o'clock came, and the tavern lights were put out; darkness everywhere, now.
huck waited what seemed a weary long time, but nothing happened.
his faith was weakening.
was there any use?
was there really any use?
why not give it up and turn in?
a noise fell upon his ear.
he was all attention in an instant.
the alley door closed softly.
he sprang to the corner of the brick store.
the next moment two men brushed by him, and one seemed to have something under his arm.
it must be that box!
so they were going to remove the treasure.
why call tom now?
it would be absurd the men would get away with the box and never be found again.
no, he would stick to their wake and follow them; he would trust to the darkness for security from discovery.
so communing with himself, huck stepped out and glided along behind the men, cat-like, with bare feet, allowing them to keep just far enough ahead not to be invisible.
they moved up the river street three blocks, then turned to the left up a crossstreet.
they went straight ahead, then, until they came to the path that led up cardiff hill; this they took.
they passed by the old welshman's house, halfway up the hill, without hesitating, and still climbed upward.
good, thought huck, they will bury it in the old quarry.
but they never stopped at the quarry.
they passed on, up the summit.
they plunged into the narrow path between the tall sumach bushes, and were at once hidden in the gloom.
huck closed up and shortened his distance, now, for they would never be able to see him.
he trotted along awhile; then slackened his pace, fearing he was gaining too fast; moved on a piece, then stopped altogether; listened; no sound; none, save that he seemed to hear the beating of his own heart.
the hooting of an owl came over the hill ominous sound!
but no footsteps.
heavens, was everything lost!
he was about to spring with winged feet, when a man cleared his throat not four feet from him!
huck's heart shot into his throat, but he swallowed it again; and then he stood there shaking as if a dozen agues had taken charge of him at once, and so weak that he thought he must surely fall to the ground.
he knew where he was.
he knew he was within five steps of the stile leading into widow douglas'
grounds.
very well, he thought, let them bury it there; it won't be hard to find.
now there was a voice a very low voice injun joe's:
“damn her, maybe she's got company there's lights, late as it is.”
“i can't see any.”
this was that stranger's voice the stranger of the haunted house.
a deadly chill went to huck's heart this, then, was the “revenge” job!
his thought was, to fly.
then he remembered that the widow douglas had been kind to him more than once, and maybe these men were going to murder her.
he wished he dared venture to warn her; but he knew he didn't dare they might come and catch him.
he thought all this and more in the moment that elapsed between the stranger's remark and injun joe's next which was
“because the bush is in your way.
now this way now you see, don't you?”
“yes.
well, there is company there, i reckon.
better give it up.”
“give it up, and i just leaving this country forever!
give it up and maybe never have another chance.
i tell you again, as i've told you before, i don't care for her swag you may have it.
but her husband was rough on me many times he was rough on me and mainly he was the justice of the peace that jugged me for a vagrant.
and that ain't all.
it ain't a millionth part of it!
he had me horsewhipped!
horsewhipped in front of the jail, like a nigger!
with all the town looking on!
horsewhipped!
do you understand?
he took advantage of me and died.
but i'll take it out of her.”
“oh, don't kill her!
don't do that!”
“kill?
who said anything about killing?
i would kill him if he was here; but not her.
when you want to get revenge on a woman you don't kill her bosh!
you go for her looks.
you slit her nostrils you notch her ears like a sow!”
“by god, that's ”
“keep your opinion to yourself!
it will be safest for you.
i'll tie her to the bed.
if she bleeds to death, is that my fault?
i'll not cry, if she does.
my friend, you'll help me in this thing for my sake that's why you're here i mightn't be able alone.
if you flinch, i'll kill you.
do you understand that?
and if i have to kill you, i'll kill her and then i reckon nobody'll ever know much about who done this business.”
“well, if it's got to be done, let's get at it.
the quicker the better i'm all in a shiver.”
“do it now?
and company there?
look here i'll get suspicious of you, first thing you know.
no we'll wait till the lights are out there's no hurry.”
huck felt that a silence was going to ensue a thing still more awful than any amount of murderous talk; so he held his breath and stepped gingerly back; planted his foot carefully and firmly, after balancing, one-legged, in a precarious way and almost toppling over, first on one side and then on the other.
he took another step back, with the same elaboration and the same risks; then another and another, and a twig snapped under his foot!
his breath stopped and he listened.
there was no sound the stillness was perfect.
his gratitude was measureless.
now he turned in his tracks, between the walls of sumach bushes turned himself as carefully as if he were a ship and then stepped quickly but cautiously along.
when he emerged at the quarry he felt secure, and so he picked up his nimble heels and flew.
down, down he sped, till he reached the welshman's.
he banged at the door, and presently the heads of the old man and his two stalwart sons were thrust from windows.
“what's the row there?
who's banging?
what do you want?”
“let me in quick!
i'll tell everything.”
“why, who are you?”
“huckleberry finn quick, let me in!”
“huckleberry finn, indeed!
it ain't a name to open many doors, i judge!
but let him in, lads, and let's see what's the trouble.”
“please don't ever tell i told you,” were huck's first words when he got in.
“please don't i'd be killed, sure but the widow's been good friends to me sometimes, and i want to tell i will tell if you'll promise you won't ever say it was me.”
“by george, he has got something to tell, or he wouldn't act so!”
exclaimed the old man; “out with it and nobody here'll ever tell, lad.”
three minutes later the old man and his sons, well armed, were up the hill, and just entering the sumach path on tiptoe, their weapons in their hands.
huck accompanied them no further.
he hid behind a great bowlder and fell to listening.
there was a lagging, anxious silence, and then all of a sudden there was an explosion of firearms and a cry.
huck waited for no particulars.
he sprang away and sped down the hill as fast as his legs could carry him.
chapter xxx
as the earliest suspicion of dawn appeared on sunday morning, huck came groping up the hill and rapped gently at the old welshman's door.
the inmates were asleep, but it was a sleep that was set on a hair-trigger, on account of the exciting episode of the night.
a call came from a window:
“who's there!”
huck's scared voice answered in a low tone:
“please let me in!
it's only huck finn!”
“it's a name that can open this door night or day, lad!
and welcome!”
these were strange words to the vagabond boy's ears, and the pleasantest he had ever heard.
he could not recollect that the closing word had ever been applied in his case before.
the door was quickly unlocked, and he entered.
huck was given a seat and the old man and his brace of tall sons speedily dressed themselves.
“now, my boy, i hope you're good and hungry, because breakfast will be ready as soon as the sun's up, and we'll have a piping hot one, too make yourself easy about that!
i and the boys hoped you'd turn up and stop here last night.”
“i was awful scared,” said huck, “and i run.
i took out when the pistols went off, and i didn't stop for three mile.
i've come now becuz i wanted to know about it, you know; and i come before daylight becuz i didn't want to run across them devils, even if they was dead.”
“well, poor chap, you do look as if you'd had a hard night of it but there's a bed here for you when you've had your breakfast.
no, they ain't dead, lad we are sorry enough for that.
you see we knew right where to put our hands on them, by your description; so we crept along on tiptoe till we got within fifteen feet of them dark as a cellar that sumach path was and just then i found i was going to sneeze.
it was the meanest kind of luck!
i tried to keep it back, but no use 'twas bound to come, and it did come!
i was in the lead with my pistol raised, and when the sneeze started those scoundrels a-rustling to get out of the path, i sung out, 'fire boys!'
and blazed away at the place where the rustling was.
so did the boys.
but they were off in a jiffy, those villains, and we after them, down through the woods.
i judge we never touched them.
they fired a shot apiece as they started, but their bullets whizzed by and didn't do us any harm.
as soon as we lost the sound of their feet we quit chasing, and went down and stirred up the constables.
they got a posse together, and went off to guard the river bank, and as soon as it is light the sheriff and a gang are going to beat up the woods.
my boys will be with them presently.
i wish we had some sort of description of those rascals 'twould help a good deal.
but you couldn't see what they were like, in the dark, lad, i suppose?”
“oh yes; i saw them downtown and follered them.”
“splendid!
describe them describe them, my boy!”
“one's the old deaf and dumb spaniard that's ben around here once or twice, and t'other's a mean-looking, ragged ”
“that's enough, lad, we know the men!
happened on them in the woods back of the widow's one day, and they slunk away.
off with you, boys, and tell the sheriff get your breakfast tomorrow morning!”
the welshman's sons departed at once.
as they were leaving the room huck sprang up and exclaimed:
“oh, please don't tell anybody it was me that blowed on them!
oh, please!”
“all right if you say it, huck, but you ought to have the credit of what you did.”
“oh no, no!
please don't tell!”
when the young men were gone, the old welshman said:
“they won't tell and i won't.
but why don't you want it known?”
huck would not explain, further than to say that he already knew too much about one of those men and would not have the man know that he knew anything against him for the whole world he would be killed for knowing it, sure.
the old man promised secrecy once more, and said:
“how did you come to follow these fellows, lad?
were they looking suspicious?”
huck was silent while he framed a duly cautious reply.
then he said:
“well, you see, i'm a kind of a hard lot, least everybody says so, and i don't see nothing agin it and sometimes i can't sleep much, on account of thinking about it and sort of trying to strike out a new way of doing.
that was the way of it last night.
i couldn't sleep, and so i come along upstreet 'bout midnight, a-turning it all over, and when i got to that old shackly brick store by the temperance tavern, i backed up agin the wall to have another think.
well, just then along comes these two chaps slipping along close by me, with something under their arm, and i reckoned they'd stole it.
one was a-smoking, and t'other one wanted a light; so they stopped right before me and the cigars lit up their faces and i see that the big one was the deaf and dumb spaniard, by his white whiskers and the patch on his eye, and t'other one was a rusty, ragged-looking devil.”
“could you see the rags by the light of the cigars?”
this staggered huck for a moment.
then he said:
“well, i don't know but somehow it seems as if i did.”
“then they went on, and you ”
“follered 'em yes.
that was it.
i wanted to see what was up they sneaked along so.
i dogged 'em to the widder's stile, and stood in the dark and heard the ragged one beg for the widder, and the spaniard swear he'd spile her looks just as i told you and your two ”
“what!
the deaf and dumb man said all that!”
huck had made another terrible mistake!
he was trying his best to keep the old man from getting the faintest hint of who the spaniard might be, and yet his tongue seemed determined to get him into trouble in spite of all he could do.
he made several efforts to creep out of his scrape, but the old man's eye was upon him and he made blunder after blunder.
presently the welshman said:
“my boy, don't be afraid of me.
i wouldn't hurt a hair of your head for all the world.
no i'd protect you i'd protect you.
this spaniard is not deaf and dumb; you've let that slip without intending it; you can't cover that up now.
you know something about that spaniard that you want to keep dark.
now trust me tell me what it is, and trust me i won't betray you.”
huck looked into the old man's honest eyes a moment, then bent over and whispered in his ear:
“'tain't a spaniard it's injun joe!”
the welshman almost jumped out of his chair.
in a moment he said:
“it's all plain enough, now.
when you talked about notching ears and slitting noses i judged that that was your own embellishment, because white men don't take that sort of revenge.
but an injun!
that's a different matter altogether.”
during breakfast the talk went on, and in the course of it the old man said that the last thing which he and his sons had done, before going to bed, was to get a lantern and examine the stile and its vicinity for marks of blood.
they found none, but captured a bulky bundle of
“of what?”
if the words had been lightning they could not have leaped with a more stunning suddenness from huck's blanched lips.
his eyes were staring wide, now, and his breath suspended waiting for the answer.
the welshman started stared in return three seconds five seconds ten then replied:
“of burglar's tools.
why, what's the matter with you?”
huck sank back, panting gently, but deeply, unutterably grateful.
the welshman eyed him gravely, curiously and presently said:
“yes, burglar's tools.
that appears to relieve you a good deal.
but what did give you that turn?
what were you expecting we'd found?”
huck was in a close place the inquiring eye was upon him he would have given anything for material for a plausible answer nothing suggested itself the inquiring eye was boring deeper and deeper a senseless reply offered there was no time to weigh it, so at a venture he uttered it feebly:
“sunday-school books, maybe.”
poor huck was too distressed to smile, but the old man laughed loud and joyously, shook up the details of his anatomy from head to foot, and ended by saying that such a laugh was money in a-man's pocket, because it cut down the doctor's bill like everything.
then he added:
“poor old chap, you're white and jaded you ain't well a bit no wonder you're a little flighty and off your balance.
but you'll come out of it.
rest and sleep will fetch you out all right, i hope.”
huck was irritated to think he had been such a goose and betrayed such a suspicious excitement, for he had dropped the idea that the parcel brought from the tavern was the treasure, as soon as he had heard the talk at the widow's stile.
he had only thought it was not the treasure, however he had not known that it wasn't and so the suggestion of a captured bundle was too much for his self-possession.
but on the whole he felt glad the little episode had happened, for now he knew beyond all question that that bundle was not the bundle, and so his mind was at rest and exceedingly comfortable.
in fact, everything seemed to be drifting just in the right direction, now; the treasure must be still in no.
2, the men would be captured and jailed that day, and he and tom could seize the gold that night without any trouble or any fear of interruption.
just as breakfast was completed there was a knock at the door.
huck jumped for a hiding-place, for he had no mind to be connected even remotely with the late event.
the welshman admitted several ladies and gentlemen, among them the widow douglas, and noticed that groups of citizens were climbing up the hill to stare at the stile.
so the news had spread.
the welshman had to tell the story of the night to the visitors.
the widow's gratitude for her preservation was outspoken.
“don't say a word about it, madam.
there's another that you're more beholden to than you are to me and my boys, maybe, but he don't allow me to tell his name.
we wouldn't have been there but for him.”
of course this excited a curiosity so vast that it almost belittled the main matter but the welshman allowed it to eat into the vitals of his visitors, and through them be transmitted to the whole town, for he refused to part with his secret.
when all else had been learned, the widow said:
“i went to sleep reading in bed and slept straight through all that noise.
why didn't you come and wake me?”
“we judged it warn't worth while.
those fellows warn't likely to come again they hadn't any tools left to work with, and what was the use of waking you up and scaring you to death?
my three negro men stood guard at your house all the rest of the night.
they've just come back.”
more visitors came, and the story had to be told and retold for a couple of hours more.
there was no sabbath-school during day-school vacation, but everybody was early at church.
the stirring event was well canvassed.
news came that not a sign of the two villains had been yet discovered.
when the sermon was finished, judge thatcher's wife dropped alongside of mrs.
harper as she moved down the aisle with the crowd and said:
“is my becky going to sleep all day?
i just expected she would be tired to death.”
“your becky?”
“yes,” with a startled look “didn't she stay with you last night?”
“why, no.”
mrs. thatcher turned pale, and sank into a pew, just as aunt polly, talking briskly with a friend, passed by.
aunt polly said:
“goodmorning, mrs. thatcher.
goodmorning, mrs. harper.
i've got a boy that's turned up missing.
i reckon my tom stayed at your house last night one of you.
and now he's afraid to come to church.
i've got to settle with him.”
mrs. thatcher shook her head feebly and turned paler than ever.
“he didn't stay with us,” said mrs. harper, beginning to look uneasy.
a marked anxiety came into aunt polly's face.
“joe harper, have you seen my tom this morning?”
“no'm.”
“when did you see him last?”
joe tried to remember, but was not sure he could say.
the people had stopped moving out of church.
whispers passed along, and a boding uneasiness took possession of every countenance.
children were anxiously questioned, and young teachers.
they all said they had not noticed whether tom and becky were on board the ferryboat on the homeward trip; it was dark; no one thought of inquiring if any one was missing.
one young man finally blurted out his fear that they were still in the cave!
mrs. thatcher swooned away.
aunt polly fell to crying and wringing her hands.
the alarm swept from lip to lip, from group to group, from street to street, and within five minutes the bells were wildly clanging and the whole town was up!
the cardiff hill episode sank into instant insignificance, the burglars were forgotten, horses were saddled, skiffs were manned, the ferryboat ordered out, and before the horror was half an hour old, two hundred men were pouring down highroad and river toward the cave.
all the long afternoon the village seemed empty and dead.
many women visited aunt polly and mrs. thatcher and tried to comfort them.
they cried with them, too, and that was still better than words.
all the tedious night the town waited for news; but when the morning dawned at last, all the word that came was, “send more candles and send food.”
mrs. thatcher was almost crazed; and aunt polly, also.
judge thatcher sent messages of hope and encouragement from the cave, but they conveyed no real cheer.
the old welshman came home toward daylight, spattered with candle-grease, smeared with clay, and almost worn out.
he found huck still in the bed that had been provided for him, and delirious with fever.
the physicians were all at the cave, so the widow douglas came and took charge of the patient.
she said she would do her best by him, because, whether he was good, bad, or indifferent, he was the lord's, and nothing that was the lord's was a thing to be neglected.
the welshman said huck had good spots in him, and the widow said:
“you can depend on it.
that's the lord's mark.
he don't leave it off.
he never does.
puts it somewhere on every creature that comes from his hands.”
early in the forenoon parties of jaded men began to straggle into the village, but the strongest of the citizens continued searching.
all the news that could be gained was that remotenesses of the cavern were being ransacked that had never been visited before; that every corner and crevice was going to be thoroughly searched; that wherever one wandered through the maze of passages, lights were to be seen flitting hither and thither in the distance, and shoutings and pistol-shots sent their hollow reverberations to the ear down the sombre aisles.
in one place, far from the section usually traversed by tourists, the names “becky &
tom” had been found traced upon the rocky wall with candle-smoke, and near at hand a grease-soiled bit of ribbon.
mrs. thatcher recognized the ribbon and cried over it.
she said it was the last relic she should ever have of her child; and that no other memorial of her could ever be so precious, because this one parted latest from the living body before the awful death came.
some said that now and then, in the cave, a far-away speck of light would glimmer, and then a glorious shout would burst forth and a score of men go trooping down the echoing aisle and then a sickening disappointment always followed; the children were not there; it was only a searcher's light.
three dreadful days and nights dragged their tedious hours along, and the village sank into a hopeless stupor.
no one had heart for anything.
the accidental discovery, just made, that the proprietor of the temperance tavern kept liquor on his premises, scarcely fluttered the public pulse, tremendous as the fact was.
in a lucid interval, huck feebly led up to the subject of taverns, and finally asked dimly dreading the worst if anything had been discovered at the temperance tavern since he had been ill.
“yes,” said the widow.
huck started up in bed, wildeyed:
“what?
what was it?”
“liquor!
and the place has been shut up.
lie down, child what a turn you did give me!”
“only tell me just one thing only just one please!
was it tom sawyer that found it?”
the widow burst into tears.
“hush, hush, child, hush!
i've told you before, you must not talk.
you are very, very sick!”
then nothing but liquor had been found; there would have been a great powwow if it had been the gold.
so the treasure was gone forever gone forever!
but what could she be crying about?
curious that she should cry.
these thoughts worked their dim way through huck's mind, and under the weariness they gave him he fell asleep.
the widow said to herself:
“there he's asleep, poor wreck.
tom sawyer find it!
pity but somebody could find tom sawyer!
ah, there ain't many left, now, that's got hope enough, or strength enough, either, to go on searching.”
chapter xxxi
now to return to tom and becky's share in the picnic.
they tripped along the murky aisles with the rest of the company, visiting the familiar wonders of the cave wonders dubbed with rather over-descriptive names, such as “the drawing-room,” “the cathedral,” “aladdin's palace,” and so on.
presently the hide-and-seek frolicking began, and tom and becky engaged in it with zeal until the exertion began to grow a trifle wearisome; then they wandered down a sinuous avenue holding their candles aloft and reading the tangled webwork of names, dates, postoffice addresses, and mottoes with which the rocky walls had been frescoed (in candle-smoke).
still drifting along and talking, they scarcely noticed that they were now in a part of the cave whose walls were not frescoed.
they smoked their own names under an overhanging shelf and moved on.
presently they came to a place where a little stream of water, trickling over a ledge and carrying a limestone sediment with it, had, in the slow-dragging ages, formed a laced and ruffled niagara in gleaming and imperishable stone.
tom squeezed his small body behind it in order to illuminate it for becky's gratification.
he found that it curtained a sort of steep natural stairway which was enclosed between narrow walls, and at once the ambition to be a discoverer seized him.
becky responded to his call, and they made a smoke-mark for future guidance, and started upon their quest.
they wound this way and that, far down into the secret depths of the cave, made another mark, and branched off in search of novelties to tell the upper world about.
in one place they found a spacious cavern, from whose ceiling depended a multitude of shining stalactites of the length and circumference of a man's leg; they walked all about it, wondering and admiring, and presently left it by one of the numerous passages that opened into it.
this shortly brought them to a bewitching spring, whose basin was incrusted with a frostwork of glittering crystals; it was in the midst of a cavern whose walls were supported by many fantastic pillars which had been formed by the joining of great stalactites and stalagmites together, the result of the ceaseless water-drip of centuries.
under the roof vast knots of bats had packed themselves together, thousands in a bunch; the lights disturbed the creatures and they came flocking down by hundreds, squeaking and darting furiously at the candles.
tom knew their ways and the danger of this sort of conduct.
he seized becky's hand and hurried her into the first corridor that offered; and none too soon, for a bat struck becky's light out with its wing while she was passing out of the cavern.
the bats chased the children a good distance; but the fugitives plunged into every new passage that offered, and at last got rid of the perilous things.
tom found a subterranean lake, shortly, which stretched its dim length away until its shape was lost in the shadows.
he wanted to explore its borders, but concluded that it would be best to sit down and rest awhile, first.
now, for the first time, the deep stillness of the place laid a clammy hand upon the spirits of the children.
becky said:
“why, i didn't notice, but it seems ever so long since i heard any of the others.”
“come to think, becky, we are away down below them and i don't know how far away north, or south, or east, or whichever it is.
we couldn't hear them here.”
becky grew apprehensive.
“i wonder how long we've been down here, tom?
we better start back.”
“yes, i reckon we better.
p'raps we better.”
“can you find the way, tom?
it's all a mixed-up crookedness to me.”
“i reckon i could find it but then the bats.
if they put our candles out it will be an awful fix.
let's try some other way, so as not to go through there.”
“well.
but i hope we won't get lost.
it would be so awful!” and the girl shuddered at the thought of the dreadful possibilities.
they started through a corridor, and traversed it in silence a long way, glancing at each new opening, to see if there was anything familiar about the look of it; but they were all strange.
every time tom made an examination, becky would watch his face for an encouraging sign, and he would say cheerily:
“oh, it's all right.
this ain't the one, but we'll come to it right away!”
but he felt less and less hopeful with each failure, and presently began to turn off into diverging avenues at sheer random, in desperate hope of finding the one that was wanted.
he still said it was “all right,” but there was such a leaden dread at his heart that the words had lost their ring and sounded just as if he had said, “all is lost!” becky clung to his side in an anguish of fear, and tried hard to keep back the tears, but they would come.
at last she said:
“oh, tom, never mind the bats, let's go back that way!
we seem to get worse and worse off all the time.”
“listen!” said he.
profound silence; silence so deep that even their breathings were conspicuous in the hush.
tom shouted.
the call went echoing down the empty aisles and died out in the distance in a faint sound that resembled a ripple of mocking laughter.
“oh, don't do it again, tom, it is too horrid,” said becky.
“it is horrid, but i better, becky; they might hear us, you know,” and he shouted again.
the “might” was even a chillier horror than the ghostly laughter, it so confessed a perishing hope.
the children stood still and listened; but there was no result.
tom turned upon the back track at once, and hurried his steps.
it was but a little while before a certain indecision in his manner revealed another fearful fact to becky he could not find his way back!
“oh, tom, you didn't make any marks!”
“becky, i was such a fool!
such a fool!
i never thought we might want to come back!
no i can't find the way.
it's all mixed up.”
“tom, tom, we're lost!
we're lost!
we never can get out of this awful place!
oh, why did we ever leave the others!”
she sank to the ground and burst into such a frenzy of crying that tom was appalled with the idea that she might die, or lose her reason.
he sat down by her and put his arms around her; she buried her face in his bosom, she clung to him, she poured out her terrors, her unavailing regrets, and the far echoes turned them all to jeering laughter.
tom begged her to pluck up hope again, and she said she could not.
he fell to blaming and abusing himself for getting her into this miserable situation; this had a better effect.
she said she would try to hope again, she would get up and follow wherever he might lead if only he would not talk like that any more.
for he was no more to blame than she, she said.
so they moved on again aimlessly simply at random all they could do was to move, keep moving.
for a little while, hope made a show of reviving not with any reason to back it, but only because it is its nature to revive when the spring has not been taken out of it by age and familiarity with failure.
by-and-by tom took becky's candle and blew it out.
this economy meant so much!
words were not needed.
becky understood, and her hope died again.
she knew that tom had a whole candle and three or four pieces in his pockets yet he must economize.
by-and-by, fatigue began to assert its claims; the children tried to pay attention, for it was dreadful to think of sitting down when time was grown to be so precious, moving, in some direction, in any direction, was at least progress and might bear fruit; but to sit down was to invite death and shorten its pursuit.
at last becky's frail limbs refused to carry her farther.
she sat down.
tom rested with her, and they talked of home, and the friends there, and the comfortable beds and, above all, the light!
becky cried, and tom tried to think of some way of comforting her, but all his encouragements were grown thread-bare with use, and sounded like sarcasms.
fatigue bore so heavily upon becky that she drowsed off to sleep.
tom was grateful.
he sat looking into her drawn face and saw it grow smooth and natural under the influence of pleasant dreams; and by-and-by a smile dawned and rested there.
the peaceful face reflected somewhat of peace and healing into his own spirit, and his thoughts wandered away to bygone times and dreamy memories.
while he was deep in his musings, becky woke up with a breezy little laugh but it was stricken dead upon her lips, and a groan followed it.
“oh, how could i sleep!
i wish i never, never had waked!
no!
no, i don't, tom!
don't look so!
i won't say it again.”
“i'm glad you've slept, becky; you'll feel rested, now, and we'll find the way out.”
“we can try, tom; but i've seen such a beautiful country in my dream.
i reckon we are going there.”
“maybe not, maybe not.
cheer up, becky, and let's go on trying.”
they rose up and wandered along, hand in hand and hopeless.
they tried to estimate how long they had been in the cave, but all they knew was that it seemed days and weeks, and yet it was plain that this could not be, for their candles were not gone yet.
a long time after this they could not tell how long tom said they must go softly and listen for dripping water they must find a spring.
they found one presently, and tom said it was time to rest again.
both were cruelly tired, yet becky said she thought she could go a little farther.
she was surprised to hear tom dissent.
she could not understand it.
they sat down, and tom fastened his candle to the wall in front of them with some clay.
thought was soon busy; nothing was said for some time.
then becky broke the silence:
“tom, i am so hungry!”
tom took something out of his pocket.
“do you remember this?” said he.
becky almost smiled.
“it's our wedding-cake, tom.”
“yes i wish it was as big as a barrel, for it's all we've got.”
“i saved it from the picnic for us to dream on, tom, the way grownup people do with wedding-cake but it'll be our ”
she dropped the sentence where it was.
tom divided the cake and becky ate with good appetite, while tom nibbled at his moiety.
there was abundance of cold water to finish the feast with.
by-and-by becky suggested that they move on again.
tom was silent a moment.
then he said:
“becky, can you bear it if i tell you something?”
becky's face paled, but she thought she could.
“well, then, becky, we must stay here, where there's water to drink.
that little piece is our last candle!”
becky gave loose to tears and wailings.
tom did what he could to comfort her, but with little effect.
at length becky said:
“tom!”
“well, becky?”
“they'll miss us and hunt for us!”
“yes, they will!
certainly they will!”
“maybe they're hunting for us now, tom.”
“why, i reckon maybe they are.
i hope they are.”
“when would they miss us, tom?”
“when they get back to the boat, i reckon.”
“tom, it might be dark then would they notice we hadn't come?”
“i don't know.
but anyway, your mother would miss you as soon as they got home.”
a frightened look in becky's face brought tom to his senses and he saw that he had made a blunder.
becky was not to have gone home that night!
the children became silent and thoughtful.
in a moment a new burst of grief from becky showed tom that the thing in his mind had struck hers also that the sabbath morning might be half spent before mrs. thatcher discovered that becky was not at mrs. harper's.
the children fastened their eyes upon their bit of candle and watched it melt slowly and pitilessly away; saw the half inch of wick stand alone at last; saw the feeble flame rise and fall, climb the thin column of smoke, linger at its top a moment, and then the horror of utter darkness reigned!
how long afterward it was that becky came to a slow consciousness that she was crying in tom's arms, neither could tell.
all that they knew was, that after what seemed a mighty stretch of time, both awoke out of a dead stupor of sleep and resumed their miseries once more.
tom said it might be sunday, now maybe monday.
he tried to get becky to talk, but her sorrows were too oppressive, all her hopes were gone.
tom said that they must have been missed long ago, and no doubt the search was going on.
he would shout and maybe some one would come.
he tried it; but in the darkness the distant echoes sounded so hideously that he tried it no more.
the hours wasted away, and hunger came to torment the captives again.
a portion of tom's half of the cake was left; they divided and ate it.
but they seemed hungrier than before.
the poor morsel of food only whetted desire.
by-and-by tom said:
“sh!
did you hear that?”
both held their breath and listened.
there was a sound like the faintest, far-off shout.
instantly tom answered it, and leading becky by the hand, started groping down the corridor in its direction.
presently he listened again; again the sound was heard, and apparently a little nearer.
“it's them!” said tom; “they're coming!
come along, becky we're all right now!”
the joy of the prisoners was almost overwhelming.
their speed was slow, however, because pitfalls were somewhat common, and had to be guarded against.
they shortly came to one and had to stop.
it might be three feet deep, it might be a hundred there was no passing it at any rate.
tom got down on his breast and reached as far down as he could.
no bottom.
they must stay there and wait until the searchers came.
they listened; evidently the distant shoutings were growing more distant!
a moment or two more and they had gone altogether.
the heart-sinking misery of it!
tom whooped until he was hoarse, but it was of no use.
he talked hopefully to becky; but an age of anxious waiting passed and no sounds came again.
the children groped their way back to the spring.
the weary time dragged on; they slept again, and awoke famished and woe-stricken.
tom believed it must be tuesday by this time.
now an idea struck him.
there were some side passages near at hand.
it would be better to explore some of these than bear the weight of the heavy time in idleness.
he took a kite-line from his pocket, tied it to a projection, and he and becky started, tom in the lead, unwinding the line as he groped along.
at the end of twenty steps the corridor ended in a “jumping-off place.” tom got down on his knees and felt below, and then as far around the corner as he could reach with his hands conveniently; he made an effort to stretch yet a little farther to the right, and at that moment, not twenty yards away, a human hand, holding a candle, appeared from behind a rock!
tom lifted up a glorious shout, and instantly that hand was followed by the body it belonged to injun joe's!
tom was paralyzed; he could not move.
he was vastly gratified the next moment, to see the “spaniard” take to his heels and get himself out of sight.
tom wondered that joe had not recognized his voice and come over and killed him for testifying in court.
but the echoes must have disguised the voice.
without doubt, that was it, he reasoned.
tom's fright weakened every muscle in his body.
he said to himself that if he had strength enough to get back to the spring he would stay there, and nothing should tempt him to run the risk of meeting injun joe again.
he was careful to keep from becky what it was he had seen.
he told her he had only shouted “for luck.”
but hunger and wretchedness rise superior to fears in the long run.
another tedious wait at the spring and another long sleep brought changes.
the children awoke tortured with a raging hunger.
tom believed that it must be wednesday or thursday or even friday or saturday, now, and that the search had been given over.
he proposed to explore another passage.
he felt willing to risk injun joe and all other terrors.
but becky was very weak.
she had sunk into a dreary apathy and would not be roused.
she said she would wait, now, where she was, and die it would not be long.
she told tom to go with the kite-line and explore if he chose; but she implored him to come back every little while and speak to her; and she made him promise that when the awful time came, he would stay by her and hold her hand until all was over.
tom kissed her, with a choking sensation in his throat, and made a show of being confident of finding the searchers or an escape from the cave; then he took the kite-line in his hand and went groping down one of the passages on his hands and knees, distressed with hunger and sick with bodings of coming doom.
chapter xxxii
tuesday afternoon came, and waned to the twilight.
the village of st.
petersburg still mourned.
the lost children had not been found.
public prayers had been offered up for them, and many and many a private prayer that had the petitioner's whole heart in it; but still no good news came from the cave.
the majority of the searchers had given up the quest and gone back to their daily avocations, saying that it was plain the children could never be found.
mrs. thatcher was very ill, and a great part of the time delirious.
people said it was heartbreaking to hear her call her child, and raise her head and listen a whole minute at a time, then lay it wearily down again with a moan.
aunt polly had drooped into a settled melancholy, and her gray hair had grown almost white.
the village went to its rest on tuesday night, sad and forlorn.
away in the middle of the night a wild peal burst from the village bells, and in a moment the streets were swarming with frantic half-clad people, who shouted, “turn out!
turn out!
they're found!
they're found!”
tin pans and horns were added to the din, the population massed itself and moved toward the river, met the children coming in an open carriage drawn by shouting citizens, thronged around it, joined its homeward march, and swept magnificently up the main street roaring huzzah after huzzah!
the village was illuminated; nobody went to bed again; it was the greatest night the little town had ever seen.
during the first half-hour a procession of villagers filed through judge thatcher's house, seized the saved ones and kissed them, squeezed mrs. thatcher's hand, tried to speak but couldn't and drifted out raining tears all over the place.
aunt polly's happiness was complete, and mrs. thatcher's nearly so.
it would be complete, however, as soon as the messenger dispatched with the great news to the cave should get the word to her husband.
tom lay upon a sofa with an eager auditory about him and told the history of the wonderful adventure, putting in many striking additions to adorn it withal; and closed with a description of how he left becky and went on an exploring expedition; how he followed two avenues as far as his kite-line would reach; how he followed a third to the fullest stretch of the kite-line, and was about to turn back when he glimpsed a far-off speck that looked like daylight; dropped the line and groped toward it, pushed his head and shoulders through a small hole, and saw the broad mississippi rolling by!
and if it had only happened to be night he would not have seen that speck of daylight and would not have explored that passage any more!
he told how he went back for becky and broke the good news and she told him not to fret her with such stuff, for she was tired, and knew she was going to die, and wanted to.
he described how he labored with her and convinced her; and how she almost died for joy when she had groped to where she actually saw the blue speck of daylight; how he pushed his way out at the hole and then helped her out; how they sat there and cried for gladness; how some men came along in a skiff and tom hailed them and told them their situation and their famished condition; how the men didn't believe the wild tale at first, “because,” said they, “you are five miles down the river below the valley the cave is in” then took them aboard, rowed to a house, gave them supper, made them rest till two or three hours after dark and then brought them home.
before day-dawn, judge thatcher and the handful of searchers with him were tracked out, in the cave, by the twine clews they had strung behind them, and informed of the great news.
three days and nights of toil and hunger in the cave were not to be shaken off at once, as tom and becky soon discovered.
they were bedridden all of wednesday and thursday, and seemed to grow more and more tired and worn, all the time.
tom got about, a little, on thursday, was downtown friday, and nearly as whole as ever saturday; but becky did not leave her room until sunday, and then she looked as if she had passed through a wasting illness.
tom learned of huck's sickness and went to see him on friday, but could not be admitted to the bedroom; neither could he on saturday or sunday.
he was admitted daily after that, but was warned to keep still about his adventure and introduce no exciting topic.
the widow douglas stayed by to see that he obeyed.
at home tom learned of the cardiff hill event; also that the “ragged man's” body had eventually been found in the river near the ferry-landing; he had been drowned while trying to escape, perhaps.
about a fortnight after tom's rescue from the cave, he started off to visit huck, who had grown plenty strong enough, now, to hear exciting talk, and tom had some that would interest him, he thought.
judge thatcher's house was on tom's way, and he stopped to see becky.
the judge and some friends set tom to talking, and some one asked him ironically if he wouldn't like to go to the cave again.
tom said he thought he wouldn't mind it.
the judge said:
“well, there are others just like you, tom, i've not the least doubt.
but we have taken care of that.
nobody will get lost in that cave any more.”
“why?”
“because i had its big door sheathed with boiler iron two weeks ago, and triple-locked and i've got the keys.”
tom turned as white as a sheet.
“what's the matter, boy!
here, run, somebody!
fetch a glass of water!”
the water was brought and thrown into tom's face.
“ah, now you're all right.
what was the matter with you, tom?”
“oh, judge, injun joe's in the cave!”
chapter xxxiii
within a few minutes the news had spread, and a dozen skiff-loads of men were on their way to mcdougal's cave, and the ferryboat, well filled with passengers, soon followed.
tom sawyer was in the skiff that bore judge thatcher.
when the cave door was unlocked, a sorrowful sight presented itself in the dim twilight of the place.
injun joe lay stretched upon the ground, dead, with his face close to the crack of the door, as if his longing eyes had been fixed, to the latest moment, upon the light and the cheer of the free world outside.
tom was touched, for he knew by his own experience how this wretch had suffered.
his pity was moved, but nevertheless he felt an abounding sense of relief and security, now, which revealed to him in a degree which he had not fully appreciated before how vast a weight of dread had been lying upon him since the day he lifted his voice against this bloody-minded outcast.
injun joe's bowie-knife lay close by, its blade broken in two.
the great foundation-beam of the door had been chipped and hacked through, with tedious labor; useless labor, too, it was, for the native rock formed a sill outside it, and upon that stubborn material the knife had wrought no effect; the only damage done was to the knife itself.
but if there had been no stony obstruction there the labor would have been useless still, for if the beam had been wholly cut away injun joe could not have squeezed his body under the door, and he knew it.
so he had only hacked that place in order to be doing something in order to pass the weary time in order to employ his tortured faculties.
ordinarily one could find half a dozen bits of candle stuck around in the crevices of this vestibule, left there by tourists; but there were none now.
the prisoner had searched them out and eaten them.
he had also contrived to catch a few bats, and these, also, he had eaten, leaving only their claws.
the poor unfortunate had starved to death.
in one place, near at hand, a stalagmite had been slowly growing up from the ground for ages, builded by the water-drip from a stalactite overhead.
the captive had broken off the stalagmite, and upon the stump had placed a stone, wherein he had scooped a shallow hollow to catch the precious drop that fell once in every three minutes with the dreary regularity of a clock-tick a dessertspoonful once in four and twenty hours.
that drop was falling when the pyramids were new; when troy fell; when the foundations of rome were laid; when christ was crucified; when the conqueror created the british empire; when columbus sailed; when the massacre at lexington was “news.”
it is falling now; it will still be falling when all these things shall have sunk down the afternoon of history, and the twilight of tradition, and been swallowed up in the thick night of oblivion.
has everything a purpose and a mission?
did this drop fall patiently during five thousand years to be ready for this flitting human insect's need?
and has it another important object to accomplish ten thousand years to come?
no matter.
it is many and many a year since the hapless half-breed scooped out the stone to catch the priceless drops, but to this day the tourist stares longest at that pathetic stone and that slow-dropping water when he comes to see the wonders of mcdougal's cave.
injun joe's cup stands first in the list of the cavern's marvels; even “aladdin's palace”
cannot rival it.
injun joe was buried near the mouth of the cave; and people flocked there in boats and wagons from the towns and from all the farms and hamlets for seven miles around; they brought their children, and all sorts of provisions, and confessed that they had had almost as satisfactory a time at the funeral as they could have had at the hanging.
this funeral stopped the further growth of one thing the petition to the governor for injun joe's pardon.
the petition had been largely signed; many tearful and eloquent meetings had been held, and a committee of sappy women been appointed to go in deep mourning and wail around the governor, and implore him to be a merciful ass and trample his duty under foot.
injun joe was believed to have killed five citizens of the village, but what of that?
if he had been satan himself there would have been plenty of weaklings ready to scribble their names to a pardon-petition, and drip a tear on it from their permanently impaired and leaky water-works.
the morning after the funeral tom took huck to a private place to have an important talk.
huck had learned all about tom's adventure from the welshman and the widow douglas, by this time, but tom said he reckoned there was one thing they had not told him; that thing was what he wanted to talk about now.
huck's face saddened.
he said:
“i know what it is.
you got into no.
2 and never found anything but whiskey.
nobody told me it was you; but i just knowed it must 'a' ben you, soon as i heard 'bout that whiskey business; and i knowed you hadn't got the money becuz you'd 'a' got at me some way or other and told me even if you was mum to everybody else.
tom, something's always told me we'd never get holt of that swag.”
“why, huck, i never told on that tavern-keeper.
you know his tavern was all right the saturday i went to the picnic.
don't you remember you was to watch there that night?”
“oh yes!
why, it seems 'bout a year ago.
it was that very night that i follered injun joe to the widder's.”
“you followed him?”
“yes but you keep mum.
i reckon injun joe's left friends behind him, and i don't want 'em souring on me and doing me mean tricks.
if it hadn't ben for me he'd be down in texas now, all right.”
then huck told his entire adventure in confidence to tom, who had only heard of the welshman's part of it before.
“well,” said huck, presently, coming back to the main question, “whoever nipped the whiskey in no.
2, nipped the money, too, i reckon anyways it's a goner for us, tom.”
“huck, that money wasn't ever in no.
2!”
“what!” huck searched his comrade's face keenly.
“tom, have you got on the track of that money again?”
“huck, it's in the cave!”
huck's eyes blazed.
“say it again, tom.”
“the money's in the cave!”
“tom honest injun, now is it fun, or earnest?”
“earnest, huck just as earnest as ever i was in my life.
will you go in there with me and help get it out?”
“i bet i will!
i will if it's where we can blaze our way to it and not get lost.”
“huck, we can do that without the least little bit of trouble in the world.”
“good as wheat!
what makes you think the money's ”
“huck, you just wait till we get in there.
if we don't find it i'll agree to give you my drum and every thing i've got in the world.
i will, by jings.”
“all right it's a whiz.
when do you say?”
“right now, if you say it.
are you strong enough?”
“is it far in the cave?
i ben on my pins a little, three or four days, now, but i can't walk more'n a mile, tom least i don't think i could.”
“it's about five mile into there the way anybody but me would go, huck, but there's a mighty short cut that they don't anybody but me know about.
huck, i'll take you right to it in a skiff.
i'll float the skiff down there, and i'll pull it back again all by myself.
you needn't ever turn your hand over.”
“less start right off, tom.”
“all right.
we want some bread and meat, and our pipes, and a little bag or two, and two or three kite-strings, and some of these new-fangled things they call lucifer matches.
i tell you, many's the time i wished i had some when i was in there before.”
a trifle after noon the boys borrowed a small skiff from a citizen who was absent, and got under way at once.
when they were several miles below “cave hollow,” tom said:
“now you see this bluff here looks all alike all the way down from the cave hollow no houses, no wood-yards, bushes all alike.
but do you see that white place up yonder where there's been a landslide?
well, that's one of my marks.
we'll get ashore, now.”
they landed.
“now, huck, where we're a-standing you could touch that hole i got out of with a fishing-pole.
see if you can find it.”
huck searched all the place about, and found nothing.
tom proudly marched into a thick clump of sumach bushes and said:
“here you are!
look at it, huck; it's the snuggest hole in this country.
you just keep mum about it.
all along i've been wanting to be a robber, but i knew i'd got to have a thing like this, and where to run across it was the bother.
we've got it now, and we'll keep it quiet, only we'll let joe harper and ben rogers in because of course there's got to be a gang, or else there wouldn't be any style about it.
tom sawyer's gang it sounds splendid, don't it, huck?”
“well, it just does, tom.
and who'll we rob?”
“oh, most anybody.
waylay people that's mostly the way.”
“and kill them?”
“no, not always.
hive them in the cave till they raise a ransom.”
“what's a ransom?”
“money.
you make them raise all they can, off'n their friends; and after you've kept them a year, if it ain't raised then you kill them.
that's the general way.
only you don't kill the women.
you shut up the women, but you don't kill them.
they're always beautiful and rich, and awfully scared.
you take their watches and things, but you always take your hat off and talk polite.
they ain't anybody as polite as robbers you'll see that in any book.
well, the women get to loving you, and after they've been in the cave a week or two weeks they stop crying and after that you couldn't get them to leave.
if you drove them out they'd turn right around and come back.
it's so in all the books.”
“why, it's real bully, tom.
i believe it's better'n to be a pirate.”
“yes, it's better in some ways, because it's close to home and circuses and all that.”
by this time everything was ready and the boys entered the hole, tom in the lead.
they toiled their way to the farther end of the tunnel, then made their spliced kite-strings fast and moved on.
a few steps brought them to the spring, and tom felt a shudder quiver all through him.
he showed huck the fragment of candle-wick perched on a lump of clay against the wall, and described how he and becky had watched the flame struggle and expire.
the boys began to quiet down to whispers, now, for the stillness and gloom of the place oppressed their spirits.
they went on, and presently entered and followed tom's other corridor until they reached the “jumping-off place.” the candles revealed the fact that it was not really a precipice, but only a steep clay hill twenty or thirty feet high.
tom whispered:
“now i'll show you something, huck.”
he held his candle aloft and said:
“look as far around the corner as you can.
do you see that?
there on the big rock over yonder done with candle-smoke.”
“tom, it's a cross!”
“now where's your number two?
'under the cross,' hey?
right yonder's where i saw injun joe poke up his candle, huck!”
huck stared at the mystic sign awhile, and then said with a shaky voice:
“tom, less git out of here!”
“what!
and leave the treasure?”
“yes leave it.
injun joe's ghost is round about there, certain.”
“no it ain't, huck, no it ain't.
it would ha'nt the place where he died away out at the mouth of the cave five mile from here.”
“no, tom, it wouldn't.
it would hang round the money.
i know the ways of ghosts, and so do you.”
tom began to fear that huck was right.
mis-givings gathered in his mind.
but presently an idea occurred to him
“lookyhere, huck, what fools we're making of ourselves!
injun joe's ghost ain't a going to come around where there's a cross!”
the point was well taken.
it had its effect.
“tom, i didn't think of that.
but that's so.
it's luck for us, that cross is.
i reckon we'll climb down there and have a hunt for that box.”
tom went first, cutting rude steps in the clay hill as he descended.
huck followed.
four avenues opened out of the small cavern which the great rock stood in.
the boys examined three of them with no result.
they found a small recess in the one nearest the base of the rock, with a pallet of blankets spread down in it; also an old suspender, some bacon rind, and the well-gnawed bones of two or three fowls.
but there was no moneybox.
the lads searched and researched this place, but in vain.
tom said:
“he said under the cross.
well, this comes nearest to being under the cross.
it can't be under the rock itself, because that sets solid on the ground.”
they searched everywhere once more, and then sat down discouraged.
huck could suggest nothing.
by-and-by tom said:
“lookyhere, huck, there's footprints and some candle-grease on the clay about one side of this rock, but not on the other sides.
now, what's that for?
i bet you the money is under the rock.
i'm going to dig in the clay.”
“that ain't no bad notion, tom!” said huck with animation.
tom's “real barlow” was out at once, and he had not dug four inches before he struck wood.
“hey, huck!
you hear that?”
huck began to dig and scratch now.
some boards were soon uncovered and removed.
they had concealed a natural chasm which led under the rock.
tom got into this and held his candle as far under the rock as he could, but said he could not see to the end of the rift.
he proposed to explore.
he stooped and passed under; the narrow way descended gradually.
he followed its winding course, first to the right, then to the left, huck at his heels.
tom turned a short curve, by-and-by, and exclaimed:
“my goodness, huck, lookyhere!”
it was the treasure-box, sure enough, occupying a snug little cavern, along with an empty powder-keg, a couple of guns in leather cases, two or three pairs of old moccasins, a leather belt, and some other rubbish well soaked with the water-drip.
“got it at last!” said huck, ploughing among the tarnished coins with his hand.
“my, but we're rich, tom!”
“huck, i always reckoned we'd get it.
it's just too good to believe, but we have got it, sure!
say let's not fool around here.
let's snake it out.
lemme see if i can lift the box.”
it weighed about fifty pounds.
tom could lift it, after an awkward fashion, but could not carry it conveniently.
“i thought so,” he said; “they carried it like it was heavy, that day at the ha'nted house.
i noticed that.
i reckon i was right to think of fetching the little bags along.”
the money was soon in the bags and the boys took it up to the cross rock.
“now less fetch the guns and things,” said huck.
“no, huck leave them there.
they're just the tricks to have when we go to robbing.
we'll keep them there all the time, and we'll hold our orgies there, too.
it's an awful snug place for orgies.”
“what orgies?”
“i dono.
but robbers always have orgies, and of course we've got to have them, too.
come along, huck, we've been in here a long time.
it's getting late, i reckon.
i'm hungry, too.
we'll eat and smoke when we get to the skiff.”
they presently emerged into the clump of sumach bushes, looked warily out, found the coast clear, and were soon lunching and smoking in the skiff.
as the sun dipped toward the horizon they pushed out and got under way.
tom skimmed up the shore through the long twilight, chatting cheerily with huck, and landed shortly after dark.
“now, huck,” said tom, “we'll hide the money in the loft of the widow's woodshed, and i'll come up in the morning and we'll count it and divide, and then we'll hunt up a place out in the woods for it where it will be safe.
just you lay quiet here and watch the stuff till i run and hook benny taylor's little wagon; i won't be gone a minute.”
he disappeared, and presently returned with the wagon, put the two small sacks into it, threw some old rags on top of them, and started off, dragging his cargo behind him.
when the boys reached the welshman's house, they stopped to rest.
just as they were about to move on, the welshman stepped out and said:
“hallo, who's that?”
“huck and tom sawyer.”
“good!
come along with me, boys, you are keeping everybody waiting.
here hurry up, trot ahead i'll haul the wagon for you.
why, it's not as light as it might be.
got bricks in it?
or old metal?”
“old metal,” said tom.
“i judged so; the boys in this town will take more trouble and fool away more time hunting up six bits' worth of old iron to sell to the foundry than they would to make twice the money at regular work.
but that's human nature hurry along, hurry along!”
the boys wanted to know what the hurry was about.
“never mind; you'll see, when we get to the widow douglas'.”
huck said with some apprehension for he was long used to being falsely accused:
“mr.
jones, we haven't been doing nothing.”
the welshman laughed.
“well, i don't know, huck, my boy.
i don't know about that.
ain't you and the widow good friends?”
“yes.
well, she's ben good friends to me, anyway.”
“all right, then.
what do you want to be afraid for?”
this question was not entirely answered in huck's slow mind before he found himself pushed, along with tom, into mrs. douglas' drawing-room.
mr. jones left the wagon near the door and followed.
the place was grandly lighted, and everybody that was of any consequence in the village was there.
the thatchers were there, the harpers, the rogerses, aunt polly, sid, mary, the minister, the editor, and a great many more, and all dressed in their best.
the widow received the boys as heartily as any one could well receive two such looking beings.
they were covered with clay and candle-grease.
aunt polly blushed crimson with humiliation, and frowned and shook her head at tom.
nobody suffered half as much as the two boys did, however.
mr. jones said:
“tom wasn't at home, yet, so i gave him up; but i stumbled on him and huck right at my door, and so i just brought them along in a hurry.”
“and you did just right,” said the widow.
“come with me, boys.”
she took them to a bedchamber and said:
“now wash and dress yourselves.
here are two new suits of clothes shirts, socks, everything complete.
they're huck's no, no thanks, huck mr. jones bought one and i the other.
but they'll fit both of you.
get into them.
we'll wait come down when you are slicked up enough.”
then she left.
chapter xxxiv
huck said: “tom, we can slope, if we can find a rope.
the window ain't high from the ground.”
“shucks!
what do you want to slope for?”
“well, i ain't used to that kind of a crowd.
i can't stand it.
i ain't going down there, tom.”
“oh, bother!
it ain't anything.
i don't mind it a bit.
i'll take care of you.”
sid appeared.
“tom,” said he, “auntie has been waiting for you all the afternoon.
mary got your sunday clothes ready, and everybody's been fretting about you.
say ain't this grease and clay, on your clothes?”
“now, mr. siddy, you jist 'tend to your own business.
what's all this blowout about, anyway?”
“it's one of the widow's parties that she's always having.
this time it's for the welshman and his sons, on account of that scrape they helped her out of the other night.
and say i can tell you something, if you want to know.”
“well, what?”
“why, old mr. jones is going to try to spring something on the people here tonight, but i overheard him tell auntie today about it, as a secret, but i reckon it's not much of a secret now.
everybody knows the widow, too, for all she tries to let on she don't.
mr. jones was bound huck should be here couldn't get along with his grand secret without huck, you know!”
“secret about what, sid?”
“about huck tracking the robbers to the widow's.
i reckon mr. jones was going to make a grand time over his surprise, but i bet you it will drop pretty flat.”
sid chuckled in a very contented and satisfied way.
“sid, was it you that told?”
“oh, never mind who it was.
somebody told that's enough.”
“sid, there's only one person in this town mean enough to do that, and that's you.
if you had been in huck's place you'd 'a' sneaked down the hill and never told anybody on the robbers.
you can't do any but mean things, and you can't bear to see anybody praised for doing good ones.
there no thanks, as the widow says” and tom cuffed sid's ears and helped him to the door with several kicks.
“now go and tell auntie if you dare and tomorrow you'll catch it!”
some minutes later the widow's guests were at the supper-table, and a dozen children were propped up at little side-tables in the same room, after the fashion of that country and that day.
at the proper time mr.
jones made his little speech, in which he thanked the widow for the honor she was doing himself and his sons, but said that there was another person whose modesty
and so forth and so on.
he sprung his secret about huck's share in the adventure in the finest dramatic manner he was master of, but the surprise it occasioned was largely counterfeit and not as clamorous and effusive as it might have been under happier circumstances.
however, the widow made a pretty fair show of astonishment, and heaped so many compliments and so much gratitude upon huck that he almost forgot the nearly intolerable discomfort of his new clothes in the entirely intolerable discomfort of being set up as a target for everybody's gaze and everybody's laudations.
the widow said she meant to give huck a home under her roof and have him educated; and that when she could spare the money she would start him in business in a modest way.
tom's chance was come.
he said:
“huck don't need it.
huck's rich.”
nothing but a heavy strain upon the good manners of the company kept back the due and proper complimentary laugh at this pleasant joke.
but the silence was a little awkward.
tom broke it:
“huck's got money.
maybe you don't believe it, but he's got lots of it.
oh, you needn't smile i reckon i can show you.
you just wait a minute.”
tom ran out of doors.
the company looked at each other with a perplexed interest and inquiringly at huck, who was tongue-tied.
“sid, what ails tom?” said aunt polly.
“he well, there ain't ever any making of that boy out.
i never ”
tom entered, struggling with the weight of his sacks, and aunt polly did not finish her sentence.
tom poured the mass of yellow coin upon the table and said:
“there what did i tell you?
half of it's huck's and half of it's mine!”
the spectacle took the general breath away.
all gazed, nobody spoke for a moment.
then there was a unanimous call for an explanation.
tom said he could furnish it, and he did.
the tale was long, but brimful of interest.
there was scarcely an interruption from any one to break the charm of its flow.
when he had finished, mr. jones said:
“i thought i had fixed up a little surprise for this occasion, but it don't amount to anything now.
this one makes it sing mighty small, i'm willing to allow.”
the money was counted.
the sum amounted to a little over twelve thousand dollars.
it was more than any one present had ever seen at one time before, though several persons were there who were worth considerably more than that in property.
chapter xxxv
the reader may rest satisfied that tom's and huck's windfall made a mighty stir in the poor little village of st. petersburg.
so vast a sum, all in actual cash, seemed next to incredible.
it was talked about, gloated over, glorified, until the reason of many of the citizens tottered under the strain of the unhealthy excitement.
every “haunted”
house in st. petersburg and the neighboring villages was dissected, plank by plank, and its foundations dug up and ransacked for hidden treasure and not by boys, but men pretty grave, unromantic men, too, some of them.
wherever tom and huck appeared they were courted, admired, stared at.
the boys were not able to remember that their remarks had possessed weight before; but now their sayings were treasured and repeated; everything they did seemed somehow to be regarded as remarkable; they had evidently lost the power of doing and saying commonplace things; moreover, their past history was raked up and discovered to bear marks of conspicuous originality.
the village paper published biographical sketches of the boys.
the widow douglas put huck's money out at six per cent., and judge thatcher did the same with tom's at aunt polly's request.
each lad had an income, now, that was simply prodigious a dollar for every weekday in the year and half of the sundays.
it was just what the minister got no, it was what he was promised he generally couldn't collect it.
a dollar and a quarter a week would board, lodge, and school a boy in those old simple days and clothe him and wash him, too, for that matter.
judge thatcher had conceived a great opinion of tom.
he said that no commonplace boy would ever have got his daughter out of the cave.
when becky told her father, in strict confidence, how tom had taken her whipping at school, the judge was visibly moved; and when she pleaded grace for the mighty lie which tom had told in order to shift that whipping from her shoulders to his own, the judge said with a fine outburst that it was a noble, a generous, a magnanimous lie a lie that was worthy to hold up its head and march down through history breast to breast with george washington's lauded truth about the hatchet!
becky thought her father had never looked so tall and so superb as when he walked the floor and stamped his foot and said that.
she went straight off and told tom about it.
judge thatcher hoped to see tom a great lawyer or a great soldier some day.
he said he meant to look to it that tom should be admitted to the national military academy and afterward trained in the best law school in the country, in order that he might be ready for either career or both.
huck finn's wealth and the fact that he was now under the widow douglas'
protection introduced him into society no, dragged him into it, hurled him into it and his sufferings were almost more than he could bear.
the widow's servants kept him clean and neat, combed and brushed, and they bedded him nightly in unsympathetic sheets that had not one little spot or stain which he could press to his heart and know for a friend.
he had to eat with a knife and fork; he had to use napkin, cup, and plate; he had to learn his book, he had to go to church; he had to talk so properly that speech was become insipid in his mouth; whithersoever he turned, the bars and shackles of civilization shut him in and bound him hand and foot.
he bravely bore his miseries three weeks, and then one day turned up missing.
for forty-eight hours the widow hunted for him everywhere in great distress.
the public were profoundly concerned; they searched high and low, they dragged the river for his body.
early the third morning tom sawyer wisely went poking among some old empty hogsheads down behind the abandoned slaughter-house, and in one of them he found the refugee.
huck had slept there; he had just breakfasted upon some stolen odds and ends of food, and was lying off, now, in comfort, with his pipe.
he was unkempt, uncombed, and clad in the same old ruin of rags that had made him picturesque in the days when he was free and happy.
tom routed him out, told him the trouble he had been causing, and urged him to go home.
huck's face lost its tranquil content, and took a melancholy cast.
he said:
“don't talk about it, tom.
i've tried it, and it don't work; it don't work, tom.
it ain't for me; i ain't used to it.
the widder's good to me, and friendly; but i can't stand them ways.
she makes me get up just at the same time every morning; she makes me wash, they comb me all to thunder; she won't let me sleep in the woodshed; i got to wear them blamed clothes that just smothers me, tom; they don't seem to any air git through 'em, somehow; and they're so rotten nice that i can't set down, nor lay down, nor roll around anywher's; i hain't slid on a cellar-door for well, it 'pears to be years; i got to go to church and sweat and sweat i hate them ornery sermons!
i can't ketch a fly in there, i can't chaw.
i got to wear shoes all sunday.
the widder eats by a bell; she goes to bed by a bell; she gits up by a bell everything's so awful reg'lar a body can't stand it.”
“well, everybody does that way, huck.”
“tom, it don't make no difference.
i ain't everybody, and i can't stand it.
it's awful to be tied up so.
and grub comes too easy i don't take no interest in vittles, that way.
i got to ask to go a-fishing; i got to ask to go in a-swimming dern'd if i hain't got to ask to do everything.
well, i'd got to talk so nice it wasn't no comfort i'd got to go up in the attic and rip out awhile, every day, to git a taste in my mouth, or i'd a died, tom.
the widder wouldn't let me smoke; she wouldn't let me yell, she wouldn't let me gape, nor stretch, nor scratch, before folks ” [then with a spasm of special irritation and injury] “and dad fetch it, she prayed all the time!
i never see such a woman!
i had to shove, tom i just had to.
and besides, that school's going to open, and i'd a had to go to it well, i wouldn't stand that, tom.
looky-here, tom, being rich ain't what it's cracked up to be.
it's just worry and worry, and sweat and sweat, and a-wishing you was dead all the time.
now these clothes suits me, and this bar'l suits me, and i ain't ever going to shake 'em any more.
tom, i wouldn't ever got into all this trouble if it hadn't 'a' ben for that money; now you just take my sheer of it along with your'n, and gimme a ten-center sometimes not many times, becuz i don't give a dern for a thing 'thout it's tollable hard to git and you go and beg off for me with the widder.”
“oh, huck, you know i can't do that.
'tain't fair; and besides if you'll try this thing just a while longer you'll come to like it.”
“like it!
yes the way i'd like a hot stove if i was to set on it long enough.
no, tom, i won't be rich, and i won't live in them cussed smothery houses.
i like the woods, and the river, and hogsheads, and i'll stick to 'em, too.
blame it all!
just as we'd got guns, and a cave, and all just fixed to rob, here this dern foolishness has got to come up and spile it all!”
tom saw his opportunity
“lookyhere, huck, being rich ain't going to keep me back from turning robber.”
“no!
oh, good-licks; are you in real dead-wood earnest, tom?”
“just as dead earnest as i'm sitting here.
but huck, we can't let you into the gang if you ain't respectable, you know.”
huck's joy was quenched.
“can't let me in, tom?
didn't you let me go for a pirate?”
“yes, but that's different.
a robber is more high-toned than what a pirate is as a general thing.
in most countries they're awful high up in the nobility dukes and such.”
“now, tom, hain't you always ben friendly to me?
you wouldn't shet me out, would you, tom?
you wouldn't do that, now, would you, tom?”
“huck, i wouldn't want to, and i don't want to but what would people say?
why, they'd say, 'mph!
tom sawyer's gang!
pretty low characters in it!'
they'd mean you, huck.
you wouldn't like that, and i wouldn't.”
huck was silent for some time, engaged in a mental struggle.
finally he said:
“well, i'll go back to the widder for a month and tackle it and see if i can come to stand it, if you'll let me b'long to the gang, tom.”
“all right, huck, it's a whiz!
come along, old chap, and i'll ask the widow to let up on you a little, huck.”
“will you, tom now will you?
that's good.
if she'll let up on some of the roughest things, i'll smoke private and cuss private, and crowd through or bust.
when you going to start the gang and turn robbers?”
“oh, right off.
we'll get the boys together and have the initiation tonight, maybe.”
“have the which?”
“have the initiation.”
“what's that?”
“it's to swear to stand by one another, and never tell the gang's secrets, even if you're chopped all to flinders, and kill anybody and all his family that hurts one of the gang.”
“that's gay that's mighty gay, tom, i tell you.”
“well, i bet it is.
and all that swearing's got to be done at midnight, in the lonesomest, awfulest place you can find a ha'nted house is the best, but they're all ripped up now.”
“well, midnight's good, anyway, tom.”
“yes, so it is.
and you've got to swear on a coffin, and sign it with blood.”
“now, that's something like!
why, it's a million times bullier than pirating.
i'll stick to the widder till i rot, tom; and if i git to be a reg'lar ripper of a robber, and everybody talking 'bout it, i reckon she'll be proud she snaked me in out of the wet.”
conclusion
so endeth this chronicle.
it being strictly a history of a boy, it must stop here; the story could not go much further without becoming the history of a man.
when one writes a novel about grown people, he knows exactly where to stop that is, with a marriage; but when he writes of juveniles, he must stop where he best can.
most of the characters that perform in this book still live, and are prosperous and happy.
some day it may seem worth while to take up the story of the younger ones again and see what sort of men and women they turned out to be; therefore it will be wisest not to reveal any of that part of their lives at present.
a little princess
1
sara
once on a dark winter's day, when the yellow fog hung so thick and heavy in the streets of london that the lamps were lighted and the shop windows blazed with gas as they do at night, an odd-looking little girl sat in a cab with her father and was driven rather slowly through the big thoroughfares.
she sat with her feet tucked under her, and leaned against her father, who held her in his arm, as she stared out of the window at the passing people with a queer old-fashioned thoughtfulness in her big eyes.
she was such a little girl that one did not expect to see such a look on her small face.
it would have been an old look for a child of twelve, and sara crewe was only seven.
the fact was, however, that she was always dreaming and thinking odd things and could not herself remember any time when she had not been thinking things about grown-up people and the world they belonged to.
she felt as if she had lived a long, long time.
at this moment she was remembering the voyage she had just made from bombay with her father, captain crewe.
she was thinking of the big ship, of the lascars passing silently to and fro on it, of the children playing about on the hot deck, and of some young officers' wives who used to try to make her talk to them and laugh at the things she said.
principally, she was thinking of what a queer thing it was that at one time one was in india in the blazing sun, and then in the middle of the ocean, and then driving in a strange vehicle through strange streets where the day was as dark as the night.
she found this so puzzling that she moved closer to her father.
"papa," she said in a low, mysterious little voice which was almost a whisper, "papa."
"what is it, darling?"
captain crewe answered, holding her closer and looking down into her face.
"what is sara thinking of?"
"is this the place?"
sara whispered, cuddling still closer to him.
"is it, papa?"
"yes, little sara, it is.
we have reached it at last."
and though she was only seven years old, she knew that he felt sad when he said it.
it seemed to her many years since he had begun to prepare her mind for "the place," as she always called it.
her mother had died when she was born, so she had never known or missed her.
her young, handsome, rich, petting father seemed to be the only relation she had in the world.
they had always played together and been fond of each other.
she only knew he was rich because she had heard people say so when they thought she was not listening, and she had also heard them say that when she grew up she would be rich, too.
she did not know all that being rich meant.
she had always lived in a beautiful bungalow, and had been used to seeing many servants who made salaams to her and called her "missee sahib," and gave her her own way in everything.
she had had toys and pets and an ayah who worshipped her, and she had gradually learned that people who were rich had these things.
that, however, was all she knew about it.
during her short life only one thing had troubled her, and that thing was "the place" she was to be taken to some day.
the climate of india was very bad for children, and as soon as possible they were sent away from it generally to england and to school.
she had seen other children go away, and had heard their fathers and mothers talk about the letters they received from them.
she had known that she would be obliged to go also, and though sometimes her father's stories of the voyage and the new country had attracted her, she had been troubled by the thought that he could not stay with her.
"couldn't you go to that place with me, papa?"
she had asked when she was five years old.
"couldn't you go to school, too?
i would help you with your lessons."
"but you will not have to stay for a very long time, little sara," he had always said.
"you will go to a nice house where there will be a lot of little girls, and you will play together, and i will send you plenty of books, and you will grow so fast that it will seem scarcely a year before you are big enough and clever enough to come back and take care of papa."
she had liked to think of that.
to keep the house for her father; to ride with him, and sit at the head of his table when he had dinner parties; to talk to him and read his books that would be what she would like most in the world, and if one must go away to "the place" in england to attain it, she must make up her mind to go.
she did not care very much for other little girls, but if she had plenty of books she could console herself.
she liked books more than anything else, and was, in fact, always inventing stories of beautiful things and telling them to herself.
sometimes she had told them to her father, and he had liked them as much as she did.
"well, papa," she said softly, "if we are here i suppose we must be resigned."
he laughed at her old-fashioned speech and kissed her.
he was really not at all resigned himself, though he knew he must keep that a secret.
his quaint little sara had been a great companion to him, and he felt he should be a lonely fellow when, on his return to india, he went into his bungalow knowing he need not expect to see the small figure in its white frock come forward to meet him.
so he held her very closely in his arms as the cab rolled into the big, dull square in which stood the house which was their destination.
it was a big, dull, brick house, exactly like all the others in its row, but that on the front door there shone a brass plate on which was engraved in black letters:
miss minchin,
select seminary for young ladies.
"here we are, sara," said captain crewe, making his voice sound as cheerful as possible.
then he lifted her out of the cab and they mounted the steps and rang the bell.
sara often thought afterward that the house was somehow exactly like miss minchin.
it was respectable and well furnished, but everything in it was ugly; and the very armchairs seemed to have hard bones in them.
in the hall everything was hard and polished even the red cheeks of the moon face on the tall clock in the corner had a severe varnished look.
the drawing room into which they were ushered was covered by a carpet with a square pattern upon it, the chairs were square, and a heavy marble timepiece stood upon the heavy marble mantel.
as she sat down in one of the stiff mahogany chairs, sara cast one of her quick looks about her.
"i don't like it, papa," she said.
"but then i dare say soldiers even brave ones don't really like going into battle."
captain crewe laughed outright at this.
he was young and full of fun, and he never tired of hearing sara's queer speeches.
"oh, little sara," he said.
"what shall i do when i have no one to say solemn things to me?
no one else is as solemn as you are."
"but why do solemn things make you laugh so?"
inquired sara.
"because you are such fun when you say them," he answered, laughing still more.
and then suddenly he swept her into his arms and kissed her very hard, stopping laughing all at once and looking almost as if tears had come into his eyes.
it was just then that miss minchin entered the room.
she was very like her house, sara felt: tall and dull, and respectable and ugly.
she had large, cold, fishy eyes, and a large, cold, fishy smile.
it spread itself into a very large smile when she saw sara and captain crewe.
she had heard a great many desirable things of the young soldier from the lady who had recommended her school to him.
among other things, she had heard that he was a rich father who was willing to spend a great deal of money on his little daughter.
"it will be a great privilege to have charge of such a beautiful and promising child, captain crewe," she said, taking sara's hand and stroking it.
"lady meredith has told me of her unusual cleverness.
a clever child is a great treasure in an establishment like mine."
sara stood quietly, with her eyes fixed upon miss minchin's face.
she was thinking something odd, as usual.
"why does she say i am a beautiful child?"
she was thinking.
"i am not beautiful at all.
colonel grange's little girl, isobel, is beautiful.
she has dimples and rose-colored cheeks, and long hair the color of gold.
i have short black hair and green eyes; besides which, i am a thin child and not fair in the least.
i am one of the ugliest children i ever saw.
she is beginning by telling a story."
she was mistaken, however, in thinking she was an ugly child.
she was not in the least like isobel grange, who had been the beauty of the regiment, but she had an odd charm of her own.
she was a slim, supple creature, rather tall for her age, and had an intense, attractive little face.
her hair was heavy and quite black and only curled at the tips; her eyes were greenish gray, it is true, but they were big, wonderful eyes with long, black lashes, and though she herself did not like the color of them, many other people did.
still she was very firm in her belief that she was an ugly little girl, and she was not at all elated by miss minchin's flattery.
"i should be telling a story if i said she was beautiful," she thought; "and i should know i was telling a story.
i believe i am as ugly as she is in my way.
what did she say that for?"
after she had known miss minchin longer she learned why she had said it.
she discovered that she said the same thing to each papa and mamma who brought a child to her school.
sara stood near her father and listened while he and miss minchin talked.
she had been brought to the seminary because lady meredith's two little girls had been educated there, and captain crewe had a great respect for lady meredith's experience.
sara was to be what was known as "a parlor boarder," and she was to enjoy even greater privileges than parlor boarders usually did.
she was to have a pretty bedroom and sitting room of her own; she was to have a pony and a carriage, and a maid to take the place of the ayah who had been her nurse in india.
"i am not in the least anxious about her education," captain crewe said, with his gay laugh, as he held sara's hand and patted it.
"the difficulty will be to keep her from learning too fast and too much.
she is always sitting with her little nose burrowing into books.
she doesn't read them, miss minchin; she gobbles them up as if she were a little wolf instead of a little girl.
she is always starving for new books to gobble, and she wants grown-up books great, big, fat ones french and german as well as english history and biography and poets, and all sorts of things.
drag her away from her books when she reads too much.
make her ride her pony in the row or go out and buy a new doll.
she ought to play more with dolls."
"papa," said sara, "you see, if i went out and bought a new doll every few days i should have more than i could be fond of.
dolls ought to be intimate friends.
emily is going to be my intimate friend."
captain crewe looked at miss minchin and miss minchin looked at captain crewe.
"who is emily?"
she inquired.
"tell her, sara," captain crewe said, smiling.
sara's green-gray eyes looked very solemn and quite soft as she answered.
"she is a doll i haven't got yet," she said.
"she is a doll papa is going to buy for me.
we are going out together to find her.
i have called her emily.
she is going to be my friend when papa is gone.
i want her to talk to about him."
miss minchin's large, fishy smile became very flattering indeed.
"what an original child!"
she said.
"what a darling little creature!"
"yes," said captain crewe, drawing sara close.
"she is a darling little creature.
take great care of her for me, miss minchin."
sara stayed with her father at his hotel for several days; in fact, she remained with him until he sailed away again to india.
they went out and visited many big shops together, and bought a great many things.
they bought, indeed, a great many more things than sara needed; but captain crewe was a rash, innocent young man and wanted his little girl to have everything she admired and everything he admired himself, so between them they collected a wardrobe much too grand for a child of seven.
there were velvet dresses trimmed with costly furs, and lace dresses, and embroidered ones, and hats with great, soft ostrich feathers, and ermine coats and muffs, and boxes of tiny gloves and handkerchiefs and silk stockings in such abundant supplies that the polite young women behind the counters whispered to each other that the odd little girl with the big, solemn eyes must be at least some foreign princess perhaps the little daughter of an indian rajah.
and at last they found emily, but they went to a number of toy shops and looked at a great many dolls before they discovered her.
"i want her to look as if she wasn't a doll really," sara said.
"i want her to look as if she listens when i talk to her.
the trouble with dolls, papa" and she put her head on one side and reflected as she said it "the trouble with dolls is that they never seem to hear."
so they looked at big ones and little ones at dolls with black eyes and dolls with blue at dolls with brown curls and dolls with golden braids, dolls dressed and dolls undressed.
"you see," sara said when they were examining one who had no clothes.
"if, when i find her, she has no frocks, we can take her to a dressmaker and have her things made to fit.
they will fit better if they are tried on."
after a number of disappointments they decided to walk and look in at the shop windows and let the cab follow them.
they had passed two or three places without even going in, when, as they were approaching a shop which was really not a very large one, sara suddenly started and clutched her father's arm.
"oh, papa!"
she cried.
"there is emily!"
a flush had risen to her face and there was an expression in her green-gray eyes as if she had just recognized someone she was intimate with and fond of.
"she is actually waiting there for us!"
she said.
"let us go in to her."
"dear me," said captain crewe, "i feel as if we ought to have someone to introduce us."
"you must introduce me and i will introduce you," said sara.
"but i knew her the minute i saw her so perhaps she knew me, too."
perhaps she had known her.
she had certainly a very intelligent expression in her eyes when sara took her in her arms.
she was a large doll, but not too large to carry about easily; she had naturally curling golden-brown hair, which hung like a mantle about her, and her eyes were a deep, clear, gray-blue, with soft, thick eyelashes which were real eyelashes and not mere painted lines.
"of course," said sara, looking into her face as she held her on her knee, "of course papa, this is emily."
so emily was bought and actually taken to a children's outfitter's shop and measured for a wardrobe as grand as sara's own.
she had lace frocks, too, and velvet and muslin ones, and hats and coats and beautiful lace-trimmed underclothes, and gloves and handkerchiefs and furs.
"i should like her always to look as if she was a child with a good mother," said sara.
"i'm her mother, though i am going to make a companion of her."
captain crewe would really have enjoyed the shopping tremendously, but that a sad thought kept tugging at his heart.
this all meant that he was going to be separated from his beloved, quaint little comrade.
he got out of his bed in the middle of that night and went and stood looking down at sara, who lay asleep with emily in her arms.
her black hair was spread out on the pillow and emily's golden-brown hair mingled with it, both of them had lace-ruffled nightgowns, and both had long eyelashes which lay and curled up on their cheeks.
emily looked so like a real child that captain crewe felt glad she was there.
he drew a big sigh and pulled his mustache with a boyish expression.
"heigh-ho, little sara!"
he said to himself "i don't believe you know how much your daddy will miss you."
the next day he took her to miss minchin's and left her there.
he was to sail away the next morning.
he explained to miss minchin that his solicitors, messrs. barrow & skipworth, had charge of his affairs in england and would give her any advice she wanted, and that they would pay the bills she sent in for sara's expenses.
he would write to sara twice a week, and she was to be given every pleasure she asked for.
"she is a sensible little thing, and she never wants anything it isn't safe to give her," he said.
then he went with sara into her little sitting room and they bade each other good-by.
sara sat on his knee and held the lapels of his coat in her small hands, and looked long and hard at his face.
"are you learning me by heart, little sara?"
he said, stroking her hair.
"no," she answered.
"i know you by heart.
you are inside my heart."
and they put their arms round each other and kissed as if they would never let each other go.
when the cab drove away from the door, sara was sitting on the floor of her sitting room, with her hands under her chin and her eyes following it until it had turned the corner of the square.
emily was sitting by her, and she looked after it, too.
when miss minchin sent her sister, miss amelia, to see what the child was doing, she found she could not open the door.
"i have locked it," said a queer, polite little voice from inside.
"i want to be quite by myself, if you please."
miss amelia was fat and dumpy, and stood very much in awe of her sister.
she was really the better-natured person of the two, but she never disobeyed miss minchin.
she went downstairs again, looking almost alarmed.
"i never saw such a funny, old-fashioned child, sister," she said.
"she has locked herself in, and she is not making the least particle of noise."
"it is much better than if she kicked and screamed, as some of them do," miss minchin answered.
"i expected that a child as much spoiled as she is would set the whole house in an uproar.
if ever a child was given her own way in everything, she is."
"i've been opening her trunks and putting her things away," said miss amelia.
"i never saw anything like them sable and ermine on her coats, and real valenciennes lace on her underclothing.
you have seen some of her clothes.
what do you think of them?"
"i think they are perfectly ridiculous," replied miss minchin, sharply; "but they will look very well at the head of the line when we take the schoolchildren to church on sunday.
she has been provided for as if she were a little princess."
and upstairs in the locked room sara and emily sat on the floor and stared at the corner round which the cab had disappeared, while captain crewe looked backward, waving and kissing his hand as if he could not bear to stop.
2
a french lesson
when sara entered the schoolroom the next morning everybody looked at her with wide, interested eyes.
by that time every pupil from lavinia herbert, who was nearly thirteen and felt quite grown up, to lottie legh, who was only just four and the baby of the school had heard a great deal about her.
they knew very certainly that she was miss minchin's show pupil and was considered a credit to the establishment.
one or two of them had even caught a glimpse of her french maid, mariette, who had arrived the evening before.
lavinia had managed to pass sara's room when the door was open, and had seen mariette opening a box which had arrived late from some shop.
"it was full of petticoats with lace frills on them frills and frills," she whispered to her friend jessie as she bent over her geography.
"i saw her shaking them out.
i heard miss minchin say to miss amelia that her clothes were so grand that they were ridiculous for a child.
my mamma says that children should be dressed simply.
she has got one of those petticoats on now.
i saw it when she sat down."
"she has silk stockings on!"
whispered jessie, bending over her geography also.
"and what little feet!
i never saw such little feet."
"oh," sniffed lavinia, spitefully, "that is the way her slippers are made.
my mamma says that even big feet can be made to look small if you have a clever shoemaker.
i don't think she is pretty at all.
her eyes are such a queer color."
"she isn't pretty as other pretty people are," said jessie, stealing a glance across the room; "but she makes you want to look at her again.
she has tremendously long eyelashes, but her eyes are almost green."
sara was sitting quietly in her seat, waiting to be told what to do.
she had been placed near miss minchin's desk.
she was not abashed at all by the many pairs of eyes watching her.
she was interested and looked back quietly at the children who looked at her.
she wondered what they were thinking of, and if they liked miss minchin, and if they cared for their lessons, and if any of them had a papa at all like her own.
she had had a long talk with emily about her papa that morning.
"he is on the sea now, emily," she had said.
"we must be very great friends to each other and tell each other things.
emily, look at me.
you have the nicest eyes i ever saw but i wish you could speak."
she was a child full of imaginings and whimsical thoughts, and one of her fancies was that there would be a great deal of comfort in even pretending that emily was alive and really heard and understood.
after mariette had dressed her in her dark-blue schoolroom frock and tied her hair with a dark-blue ribbon, she went to emily, who sat in a chair of her own, and gave her a book.
"you can read that while i am downstairs," she said; and, seeing mariette looking at her curiously, she spoke to her with a serious little face.
"what i believe about dolls," she said, "is that they can do things they will not let us know about.
perhaps, really, emily can read and talk and walk, but she will only do it when people are out of the room.
that is her secret.
you see, if people knew that dolls could do things, they would make them work.
so, perhaps, they have promised each other to keep it a secret.
if you stay in the room, emily will just sit there and stare; but if you go out, she will begin to read, perhaps, or go and look out of the window.
then if she heard either of us coming, she would just run back and jump into her chair and pretend she had been there all the time."
"comme elle est drole!"
mariette said to herself, and when she went downstairs she told the head housemaid about it.
but she had already begun to like this odd little girl who had such an intelligent small face and such perfect manners.
she had taken care of children before who were not so polite.
sara was a very fine little person, and had a gentle, appreciative way of saying, "if you please, mariette," "thank you, mariette," which was very charming.
mariette told the head housemaid that she thanked her as if she was thanking a lady.
"elle a l'air d'une princesse, cette petite," she said.
indeed, she was very much pleased with her new little mistress and liked her place greatly.
after sara had sat in her seat in the schoolroom for a few minutes, being looked at by the pupils, miss minchin rapped in a dignified manner upon her desk.
"young ladies," she said, "i wish to introduce you to your new companion."
all the little girls rose in their places, and sara rose also.
"i shall expect you all to be very agreeable to miss crewe; she has just come to us from a great distance in fact, from india.
as soon as lessons are over you must make each other's acquaintance."
the pupils bowed ceremoniously, and sara made a little curtsy, and then they sat down and looked at each other again.
"sara," said miss minchin in her schoolroom manner, "come here to me."
she had taken a book from the desk and was turning over its leaves.
sara went to her politely.
"as your papa has engaged a french maid for you," she began, "i conclude that he wishes you to make a special study of the french language."
sara felt a little awkward.
"i think he engaged her," she said, "because he he thought i would like her, miss minchin."
"i am afraid," said miss minchin, with a slightly sour smile, "that you have been a very spoiled little girl and always imagine that things are done because you like them.
my impression is that your papa wished you to learn french."
if sara had been older or less punctilious about being quite polite to people, she could have explained herself in a very few words.
but, as it was, she felt a flush rising on her cheeks.
miss minchin was a very severe and imposing person, and she seemed so absolutely sure that sara knew nothing whatever of french that she felt as if it would be almost rude to correct her.
the truth was that sara could not remember the time when she had not seemed to know french.
her father had often spoken it to her when she had been a baby.
her mother had been a french woman, and captain crewe had loved her language, so it happened that sara had always heard and been familiar with it.
"i i have never really learned french, but but " she began, trying shyly to make herself clear.
one of miss minchin's chief secret annoyances was that she did not speak french herself, and was desirous of concealing the irritating fact.
she, therefore, had no intention of discussing the matter and laying herself open to innocent questioning by a new little pupil.
"that is enough," she said with polite tartness.
"if you have not learned, you must begin at once.
the french master, monsieur dufarge, will be here in a few minutes.
take this book and look at it until he arrives."
sara's cheeks felt warm.
she went back to her seat and opened the book.
she looked at the first page with a grave face.
she knew it would be rude to smile, and she was very determined not to be rude.
but it was very odd to find herself expected to study a page which told her that "le pere" meant "the father," and "la mere" meant "the mother."
miss minchin glanced toward her scrutinizingly.
"you look rather cross, sara," she said.
"i am sorry you do not like the idea of learning french."
"i am very fond of it," answered sara, thinking she would try again; "but "
"you must not say 'but' when you are told to do things," said miss minchin.
"look at your book again."
and sara did so, and did not smile, even when she found that "le fils"
meant "the son," and "le frere" meant "the brother."
"when monsieur dufarge comes," she thought, "i can make him understand."
monsieur dufarge arrived very shortly afterward.
he was a very nice, intelligent, middle-aged frenchman, and he looked interested when his eyes fell upon sara trying politely to seem absorbed in her little book of phrases.
"is this a new pupil for me, madame?"
he said to miss minchin.
"i hope that is my good fortune."
"her papa captain crewe is very anxious that she should begin the language.
but i am afraid she has a childish prejudice against it.
she does not seem to wish to learn," said miss minchin.
"i am sorry of that, mademoiselle," he said kindly to sara.
"perhaps, when we begin to study together, i may show you that it is a charming tongue."
little sara rose in her seat.
she was beginning to feel rather desperate, as if she were almost in disgrace.
she looked up into monsieur dufarge's face with her big, green-gray eyes, and they were quite innocently appealing.
she knew that he would understand as soon as she spoke.
she began to explain quite simply in pretty and fluent french.
madame had not understood.
she had not learned french exactly not out of books but her papa and other people had always spoken it to her, and she had read it and written it as she had read and written english.
her papa loved it, and she loved it because he did.
her dear mamma, who had died when she was born, had been french.
she would be glad to learn anything monsieur would teach her, but what she had tried to explain to madame was that she already knew the words in this book and she held out the little book of phrases.
when she began to speak miss minchin started quite violently and sat staring at her over her eyeglasses, almost indignantly, until she had finished.
monsieur dufarge began to smile, and his smile was one of great pleasure.
to hear this pretty childish voice speaking his own language so simply and charmingly made him feel almost as if he were in his native land which in dark, foggy days in london sometimes seemed worlds away.
when she had finished, he took the phrase book from her, with a look almost affectionate.
but he spoke to miss minchin.
"ah, madame," he said, "there is not much i can teach her.
she has not learned french; she is french.
her accent is exquisite."
"you ought to have told me," exclaimed miss minchin, much mortified, turning to sara.
"i i tried," said sara.
"i i suppose i did not begin right."
miss minchin knew she had tried, and that it had not been her fault that she was not allowed to explain.
and when she saw that the pupils had been listening and that lavinia and jessie were giggling behind their french grammars, she felt infuriated.
"silence, young ladies!"
she said severely, rapping upon the desk.
"silence at once!"
and she began from that minute to feel rather a grudge against her show pupil.
3
ermengarde
on that first morning, when sara sat at miss minchin's side, aware that the whole schoolroom was devoting itself to observing her, she had noticed very soon one little girl, about her own age, who looked at her very hard with a pair of light, rather dull, blue eyes.
she was a fat child who did not look as if she were in the least clever, but she had a good-naturedly pouting mouth.
her flaxen hair was braided in a tight pigtail, tied with a ribbon, and she had pulled this pigtail around her neck, and was biting the end of the ribbon, resting her elbows on the desk, as she stared wonderingly at the new pupil.
when monsieur dufarge began to speak to sara, she looked a little frightened; and when sara stepped forward and, looking at him with the innocent, appealing eyes, answered him, without any warning, in french, the fat little girl gave a startled jump, and grew quite red in her awed amazement.
having wept hopeless tears for weeks in her efforts to remember that "la mere" meant "the mother," and "le pere," "the father," when one spoke sensible english it was almost too much for her suddenly to find herself listening to a child her own age who seemed not only quite familiar with these words, but apparently knew any number of others, and could mix them up with verbs as if they were mere trifles.
she stared so hard and bit the ribbon on her pigtail so fast that she attracted the attention of miss minchin, who, feeling extremely cross at the moment, immediately pounced upon her.
"miss st.
john!"
she exclaimed severely.
"what do you mean by such conduct?
remove your elbows!
take your ribbon out of your mouth!
sit up at once!"
upon which miss st. john gave another jump, and when lavinia and jessie tittered she became redder than ever so red, indeed, that she almost looked as if tears were coming into her poor, dull, childish eyes; and sara saw her and was so sorry for her that she began rather to like her and want to be her friend.
it was a way of hers always to want to spring into any fray in which someone was made uncomfortable or unhappy.
"if sara had been a boy and lived a few centuries ago," her father used to say, "she would have gone about the country with her sword drawn, rescuing and defending everyone in distress.
she always wants to fight when she sees people in trouble."
so she took rather a fancy to fat, slow, little miss st. john, and kept glancing toward her through the morning.
she saw that lessons were no easy matter to her, and that there was no danger of her ever being spoiled by being treated as a show pupil.
her french lesson was a pathetic thing.
her pronunciation made even monsieur dufarge smile in spite of himself, and lavinia and jessie and the more fortunate girls either giggled or looked at her in wondering disdain.
but sara did not laugh.
she tried to look as if she did not hear when miss st. john called "le bon pain," "lee bong pang."
she had a fine, hot little temper of her own, and it made her feel rather savage when she heard the titters and saw the poor, stupid, distressed child's face.
"it isn't funny, really," she said between her teeth, as she bent over her book.
"they ought not to laugh."
when lessons were over and the pupils gathered together in groups to talk, sara looked for miss st. john, and finding her bundled rather disconsolately in a window-seat, she walked over to her and spoke.
she only said the kind of thing little girls always say to each other by way of beginning an acquaintance, but there was something friendly about sara, and people always felt it.
"what is your name?"
she said.
to explain miss st. john's amazement one must recall that a new pupil is, for a short time, a somewhat uncertain thing; and of this new pupil the entire school had talked the night before until it fell asleep quite exhausted by excitement and contradictory stories.
a new pupil with a carriage and a pony and a maid, and a voyage from india to discuss, was not an ordinary acquaintance.
"my name's ermengarde st. john," she answered.
"mine is sara crewe," said sara.
"yours is very pretty.
it sounds like a story book."
"do you like it?"
fluttered ermengarde.
"i i like yours."
miss st. john's chief trouble in life was that she had a clever father.
sometimes this seemed to her a dreadful calamity.
if you have a father who knows everything, who speaks seven or eight languages, and has thousands of volumes which he has apparently learned by heart, he frequently expects you to be familiar with the contents of your lesson books at least; and it is not improbable that he will feel you ought to be able to remember a few incidents of history and to write a french exercise.
ermengarde was a severe trial to mr. st. john.
he could not understand how a child of his could be a notably and unmistakably dull creature who never shone in anything.
"good heavens!"
he had said more than once, as he stared at her, "there are times when i think she is as stupid as her aunt eliza!"
if her aunt eliza had been slow to learn and quick to forget a thing entirely when she had learned it, ermengarde was strikingly like her.
she was the monumental dunce of the school, and it could not be denied.
"she must be made to learn," her father said to miss minchin.
consequently ermengarde spent the greater part of her life in disgrace or in tears.
she learned things and forgot them; or, if she remembered them, she did not understand them.
so it was natural that, having made sara's acquaintance, she should sit and stare at her with profound admiration.
"you can speak french, can't you?"
she said respectfully.
sara got on to the window-seat, which was a big, deep one, and, tucking up her feet, sat with her hands clasped round her knees.
"i can speak it because i have heard it all my life," she answered.
"you could speak it if you had always heard it."
"oh, no, i couldn't," said ermengarde.
"i never could speak it!"
"why?"
inquired sara, curiously.
ermengarde shook her head so that the pigtail wobbled.
"you heard me just now," she said.
"i'm always like that.
i can't say the words.
they're so queer."
she paused a moment, and then added with a touch of awe in her voice, "you are clever, aren't you?"
sara looked out of the window into the dingy square, where the sparrows were hopping and twittering on the wet, iron railings and the sooty branches of the trees.
she reflected a few moments.
she had heard it said very often that she was "clever," and she wondered if she was and if she was, how it had happened.
"i don't know," she said.
"i can't tell."
then, seeing a mournful look on the round, chubby face, she gave a little laugh and changed the subject.
"would you like to see emily?"
she inquired.
"who is emily?"
ermengarde asked, just as miss minchin had done.
"come up to my room and see," said sara, holding out her hand.
they jumped down from the window-seat together, and went upstairs.
"is it true," ermengarde whispered, as they went through the hall "is it true that you have a playroom all to yourself?"
"yes," sara answered.
"papa asked miss minchin to let me have one, because well, it was because when i play i make up stories and tell them to myself, and i don't like people to hear me.
it spoils it if i think people listen."
they had reached the passage leading to sara's room by this time, and ermengarde stopped short, staring, and quite losing her breath.
"you make up stories!"
she gasped.
"can you do that as well as speak french?
can you?"
sara looked at her in simple surprise.
"why, anyone can make up things," she said.
"have you never tried?"
she put her hand warningly on ermengarde's.
"let us go very quietly to the door," she whispered, "and then i will open it quite suddenly; perhaps we may catch her."
she was half laughing, but there was a touch of mysterious hope in her eyes which fascinated ermengarde, though she had not the remotest idea what it meant, or whom it was she wanted to "catch," or why she wanted to catch her.
whatsoever she meant, ermengarde was sure it was something delightfully exciting.
so, quite thrilled with expectation, she followed her on tiptoe along the passage.
they made not the least noise until they reached the door.
then sara suddenly turned the handle, and threw it wide open.
its opening revealed the room quite neat and quiet, a fire gently burning in the grate, and a wonderful doll sitting in a chair by it, apparently reading a book.
"oh, she got back to her seat before we could see her!"
sara explained.
"of course they always do.
they are as quick as lightning."
ermengarde looked from her to the doll and back again.
"can she walk?"
she asked breathlessly.
"yes," answered sara.
"at least i believe she can.
at least i pretend i believe she can.
and that makes it seem as if it were true.
have you never pretended things?"
"no," said ermengarde.
"never.
i tell me about it."
she was so bewitched by this odd, new companion that she actually stared at sara instead of at emily notwithstanding that emily was the most attractive doll person she had ever seen.
"let us sit down," said sara, "and i will tell you.
it's so easy that when you begin you can't stop.
you just go on and on doing it always.
and it's beautiful.
emily, you must listen.
this is ermengarde st.
john, emily.
ermengarde, this is emily.
would you like to hold her?"
"oh, may i?"
said ermengarde.
"may i, really?
she is beautiful!"
and emily was put into her arms.
never in her dull, short life had miss st. john dreamed of such an hour as the one she spent with the queer new pupil before they heard the lunch-bell ring and were obliged to go downstairs.
sara sat upon the hearth-rug and told her strange things.
she sat rather huddled up, and her green eyes shone and her cheeks flushed.
she told stories of the voyage, and stories of india; but what fascinated ermengarde the most was her fancy about the dolls who walked and talked, and who could do anything they chose when the human beings were out of the room, but who must keep their powers a secret and so flew back to their places "like lightning" when people returned to the room.
"we couldn't do it," said sara, seriously.
"you see, it's a kind of magic."
once, when she was relating the story of the search for emily, ermengarde saw her face suddenly change.
a cloud seemed to pass over it and put out the light in her shining eyes.
she drew her breath in so sharply that it made a funny, sad little sound, and then she shut her lips and held them tightly closed, as if she was determined either to do or not to do something.
ermengarde had an idea that if she had been like any other little girl, she might have suddenly burst out sobbing and crying.
but she did not.
"have you a a pain?"
ermengarde ventured.
"yes," sara answered, after a moment's silence.
"but it is not in my body."
then she added something in a low voice which she tried to keep quite steady, and it was this:  "do you love your father more than anything else in all the whole world?"
ermengarde's mouth fell open a little.
she knew that it would be far from behaving like a respectable child at a select seminary to say that it had never occurred to you that you could love your father, that you would do anything desperate to avoid being left alone in his society for ten minutes.
she was, indeed, greatly embarrassed.
"i i scarcely ever see him," she stammered.
"he is always in the library reading things."
"i love mine more than all the world ten times over," sara said.
"that is what my pain is.
he has gone away."
she put her head quietly down on her little, huddled-up knees, and sat very still for a few minutes.
"she's going to cry out loud," thought ermengarde, fearfully.
but she did not.
her short, black locks tumbled about her ears, and she sat still.
then she spoke without lifting her head.
"i promised him i would bear it," she said.
"and i will.
you have to bear things.
think what soldiers bear!
papa is a soldier.
if there was a war he would have to bear marching and thirstiness and, perhaps, deep wounds.
and he would never say a word not one word."
ermengarde could only gaze at her, but she felt that she was beginning to adore her.
she was so wonderful and different from anyone else.
presently, she lifted her face and shook back her black locks, with a queer little smile.
"if i go on talking and talking," she said, "and telling you things about pretending, i shall bear it better.
you don't forget, but you bear it better."
ermengarde did not know why a lump came into her throat and her eyes felt as if tears were in them.
"lavinia and jessie are 'best friends,'" she said rather huskily.
"i wish we could be 'best friends.'
would you have me for yours?
you're clever, and i'm the stupidest child in the school, but i oh, i do so like you!"
"i'm glad of that," said sara.
"it makes you thankful when you are liked.
yes.
we will be friends.
and i'll tell you what" a sudden gleam lighting her face "i can help you with your french lessons."
4
lottie
if sara had been a different kind of child, the life she led at miss minchin's select seminary for the next few years would not have been at all good for her.
she was treated more as if she were a distinguished guest at the establishment than as if she were a mere little girl.
if she had been a self-opinionated, domineering child, she might have become disagreeable enough to be unbearable through being so much indulged and flattered.
if she had been an indolent child, she would have learned nothing.
privately miss minchin disliked her, but she was far too worldly a woman to do or say anything which might make such a desirable pupil wish to leave her school.
she knew quite well that if sara wrote to her papa to tell him she was uncomfortable or unhappy, captain crewe would remove her at once.
miss minchin's opinion was that if a child were continually praised and never forbidden to do what she liked, she would be sure to be fond of the place where she was so treated.
accordingly, sara was praised for her quickness at her lessons, for her good manners, for her amiability to her fellow pupils, for her generosity if she gave sixpence to a beggar out of her full little purse; the simplest thing she did was treated as if it were a virtue, and if she had not had a disposition and a clever little brain, she might have been a very self-satisfied young person.
but the clever little brain told her a great many sensible and true things about herself and her circumstances, and now and then she talked these things over to ermengarde as time went on.
"things happen to people by accident," she used to say.
"a lot of nice accidents have happened to me.
it just happened that i always liked lessons and books, and could remember things when i learned them.
it just happened that i was born with a father who was beautiful and nice and clever, and could give me everything i liked.
perhaps i have not really a good temper at all, but if you have everything you want and everyone is kind to you, how can you help but be good-tempered?
i don't know" looking quite serious "how i shall ever find out whether i am really a nice child or a horrid one.
perhaps i'm a hideous child, and no one will ever know, just because i never have any trials."
"lavinia has no trials," said ermengarde, stolidly, "and she is horrid enough."
sara rubbed the end of her little nose reflectively, as she thought the matter over.
"well," she said at last, "perhaps perhaps that is because lavinia is growing."
this was the result of a charitable recollection of having heard miss amelia say that lavinia was growing so fast that she believed it affected her health and temper.
lavinia, in fact, was spiteful.
she was inordinately jealous of sara.
until the new pupil's arrival, she had felt herself the leader in the school.
she had led because she was capable of making herself extremely disagreeable if the others did not follow her.
she domineered over the little children, and assumed grand airs with those big enough to be her companions.
she was rather pretty, and had been the best-dressed pupil in the procession when the select seminary walked out two by two, until sara's velvet coats and sable muffs appeared, combined with drooping ostrich feathers, and were led by miss minchin at the head of the line.
this, at the beginning, had been bitter enough; but as time went on it became apparent that sara was a leader, too, and not because she could make herself disagreeable, but because she never did.
"there's one thing about sara crewe," jessie had enraged her "best friend" by saying honestly, "she's never 'grand' about herself the least bit, and you know she might be, lavvie.
i believe i couldn't help being just a little if i had so many fine things and was made such a fuss over.
it's disgusting, the way miss minchin shows her off when parents come."
"'dear sara must come into the drawing room and talk to mrs. musgrave about india,'" mimicked lavinia, in her most highly flavored imitation of miss minchin.
"'dear sara must speak french to lady pitkin.
her accent is so perfect.'
she didn't learn her french at the seminary, at any rate.
and there's nothing so clever in her knowing it.
she says herself she didn't learn it at all.
she just picked it up, because she always heard her papa speak it.
and, as to her papa, there is nothing so grand in being an indian officer."
"well," said jessie, slowly, "he's killed tigers.
he killed the one in the skin sara has in her room.
that's why she likes it so.
she lies on it and strokes its head, and talks to it as if it was a cat."
"she's always doing something silly," snapped lavinia.
"my mamma says that way of hers of pretending things is silly.
she says she will grow up eccentric."
it was quite true that sara was never "grand."
she was a friendly little soul, and shared her privileges and belongings with a free hand.
the little ones, who were accustomed to being disdained and ordered out of the way by mature ladies aged ten and twelve, were never made to cry by this most envied of them all.
she was a motherly young person, and when people fell down and scraped their knees, she ran and helped them up and patted them, or found in her pocket a bonbon or some other article of a soothing nature.
she never pushed them out of her way or alluded to their years as a humiliation and a blot upon their small characters.
"if you are four you are four," she said severely to lavinia on an occasion of her having it must be confessed slapped lottie and called her "a brat;" "but you will be five next year, and six the year after that.
and," opening large, convicting eyes, "it takes sixteen years to make you twenty."
"dear me," said lavinia, "how we can calculate!"
in fact, it was not to be denied that sixteen and four made twenty and twenty was an age the most daring were scarcely bold enough to dream of.
so the younger children adored sara.
more than once she had been known to have a tea party, made up of these despised ones, in her own room.
and emily had been played with, and emily's own tea service used the one with cups which held quite a lot of much-sweetened weak tea and had blue flowers on them.
no one had seen such a very real doll's tea set before.
from that afternoon sara was regarded as a goddess and a queen by the entire alphabet class.
lottie legh worshipped her to such an extent that if sara had not been a motherly person, she would have found her tiresome.
lottie had been sent to school by a rather flighty young papa who could not imagine what else to do with her.
her young mother had died, and as the child had been treated like a favorite doll or a very spoiled pet monkey or lap dog ever since the first hour of her life, she was a very appalling little creature.
when she wanted anything or did not want anything she wept and howled; and, as she always wanted the things she could not have, and did not want the things that were best for her, her shrill little voice was usually to be heard uplifted in wails in one part of the house or another.
her strongest weapon was that in some mysterious way she had found out that a very small girl who had lost her mother was a person who ought to be pitied and made much of.
she had probably heard some grown-up people talking her over in the early days, after her mother's death.
so it became her habit to make great use of this knowledge.
the first time sara took her in charge was one morning when, on passing a sitting room, she heard both miss minchin and miss amelia trying to suppress the angry wails of some child who, evidently, refused to be silenced.
she refused so strenuously indeed that miss minchin was obliged to almost shout in a stately and severe manner to make herself heard.
"what is she crying for?"
she almost yelled.
"oh oh oh!"
sara heard; "i haven't got any mam ma-a!"
"oh, lottie!"
screamed miss amelia.
"do stop, darling!
don't cry!
please don't!"
"oh!
oh!
oh!
oh!
oh!"
lottie howled tempestuously.
"haven't got any mam ma-a!"
"she ought to be whipped," miss minchin proclaimed.
"you shall be whipped, you naughty child!"
lottie wailed more loudly than ever.
miss amelia began to cry.
miss minchin's voice rose until it almost thundered, then suddenly she sprang up from her chair in impotent indignation and flounced out of the room, leaving miss amelia to arrange the matter.
sara had paused in the hall, wondering if she ought to go into the room, because she had recently begun a friendly acquaintance with lottie and might be able to quiet her.
when miss minchin came out and saw her, she looked rather annoyed.
she realized that her voice, as heard from inside the room, could not have sounded either dignified or amiable.
"oh, sara!"
she exclaimed, endeavoring to produce a suitable smile.
"i stopped," explained sara, "because i knew it was lottie and i thought, perhaps just perhaps, i could make her be quiet.
may i try, miss minchin?"
"if you can, you are a clever child," answered miss minchin, drawing in her mouth sharply.
then, seeing that sara looked slightly chilled by her asperity, she changed her manner.
"but you are clever in everything," she said in her approving way.
"i dare say you can manage her.
go in."
and she left her.
when sara entered the room, lottie was lying upon the floor, screaming and kicking her small fat legs violently, and miss amelia was bending over her in consternation and despair, looking quite red and damp with heat.
lottie had always found, when in her own nursery at home, that kicking and screaming would always be quieted by any means she insisted on.
poor plump miss amelia was trying first one method, and then another.
"poor darling," she said one moment, "i know you haven't any mamma, poor " then in quite another tone, "if you don't stop, lottie, i will shake you.
poor little angel!
there !
you wicked, bad, detestable child, i will smack you!
i will!"
sara went to them quietly.
she did not know at all what she was going to do, but she had a vague inward conviction that it would be better not to say such different kinds of things quite so helplessly and excitedly.
"miss amelia," she said in a low voice, "miss minchin says i may try to make her stop may i?"
miss amelia turned and looked at her hopelessly.
"oh, do you think you can?"
she gasped.
"i don't know whether i can", answered sara, still in her half-whisper; "but i will try."
miss amelia stumbled up from her knees with a heavy sigh, and lottie's fat little legs kicked as hard as ever.
"if you will steal out of the room," said sara, "i will stay with her."
"oh, sara!"
almost whimpered miss amelia.
"we never had such a dreadful child before.
i don't believe we can keep her."
but she crept out of the room, and was very much relieved to find an excuse for doing it.
sara stood by the howling furious child for a few moments, and looked down at her without saying anything.
then she sat down flat on the floor beside her and waited.
except for lottie's angry screams, the room was quite quiet.
this was a new state of affairs for little miss legh, who was accustomed, when she screamed, to hear other people protest and implore and command and coax by turns.
to lie and kick and shriek, and find the only person near you not seeming to mind in the least, attracted her attention.
she opened her tight-shut streaming eyes to see who this person was.
and it was only another little girl.
but it was the one who owned emily and all the nice things.
and she was looking at her steadily and as if she was merely thinking.
having paused for a few seconds to find this out, lottie thought she must begin again, but the quiet of the room and of sara's odd, interested face made her first howl rather half-hearted.
"i haven't any ma ma ma-a!"
she announced; but her voice was not so strong.
sara looked at her still more steadily, but with a sort of understanding in her eyes.
"neither have i," she said.
this was so unexpected that it was astounding.
lottie actually dropped her legs, gave a wriggle, and lay and stared.
a new idea will stop a crying child when nothing else will.
also it was true that while lottie disliked miss minchin, who was cross, and miss amelia, who was foolishly indulgent, she rather liked sara, little as she knew her.
she did not want to give up her grievance, but her thoughts were distracted from it, so she wriggled again, and, after a sulky sob, said, "where is she?"
sara paused a moment.
because she had been told that her mamma was in heaven, she had thought a great deal about the matter, and her thoughts had not been quite like those of other people.
"she went to heaven," she said.
"but i am sure she comes out sometimes to see me though i don't see her.
so does yours.
perhaps they can both see us now.
perhaps they are both in this room."
lottie sat bolt upright, and looked about her.
she was a pretty, little, curly-headed creature, and her round eyes were like wet forget-me-nots.
if her mamma had seen her during the last half-hour, she might not have thought her the kind of child who ought to be related to an angel.
sara went on talking.
perhaps some people might think that what she said was rather like a fairy story, but it was all so real to her own imagination that lottie began to listen in spite of herself.
she had been told that her mamma had wings and a crown, and she had been shown pictures of ladies in beautiful white nightgowns, who were said to be angels.
but sara seemed to be telling a real story about a lovely country where real people were.
"there are fields and fields of flowers," she said, forgetting herself, as usual, when she began, and talking rather as if she were in a dream, "fields and fields of lilies and when the soft wind blows over them it wafts the scent of them into the air and everybody always breathes it, because the soft wind is always blowing.
and little children run about in the lily fields and gather armfuls of them, and laugh and make little wreaths.
and the streets are shining.
and people are never tired, however far they walk.
they can float anywhere they like.
and there are walls made of pearl and gold all round the city, but they are low enough for the people to go and lean on them, and look down onto the earth and smile, and send beautiful messages."
whatsoever story she had begun to tell, lottie would, no doubt, have stopped crying, and been fascinated into listening; but there was no denying that this story was prettier than most others.
she dragged herself close to sara, and drank in every word until the end came far too soon.
when it did come, she was so sorry that she put up her lip ominously.
"i want to go there," she cried.
"i haven't any mamma in this school."
sara saw the danger signal, and came out of her dream.
she took hold of the chubby hand and pulled her close to her side with a coaxing little laugh.
"i will be your mamma," she said.
"we will play that you are my little girl.
and emily shall be your sister."
lottie's dimples all began to show themselves.
"shall she?"
she said.
"yes," answered sara, jumping to her feet.
"let us go and tell her.
and then i will wash your face and brush your hair."
to which lottie agreed quite cheerfully, and trotted out of the room and upstairs with her, without seeming even to remember that the whole of the last hour's tragedy had been caused by the fact that she had refused to be washed and brushed for lunch and miss minchin had been called in to use her majestic authority.
and from that time sara was an adopted mother.
5
becky
of course the greatest power sara possessed and the one which gained her even more followers than her luxuries and the fact that she was "the show pupil," the power that lavinia and certain other girls were most envious of, and at the same time most fascinated by in spite of themselves, was her power of telling stories and of making everything she talked about seem like a story, whether it was one or not.
anyone who has been at school with a teller of stories knows what the wonder means how he or she is followed about and besought in a whisper to relate romances; how groups gather round and hang on the outskirts of the favored party in the hope of being allowed to join in and listen.
sara not only could tell stories, but she adored telling them.
when she sat or stood in the midst of a circle and began to invent wonderful things, her green eyes grew big and shining, her cheeks flushed, and, without knowing that she was doing it, she began to act and made what she told lovely or alarming by the raising or dropping of her voice, the bend and sway of her slim body, and the dramatic movement of her hands.
she forgot that she was talking to listening children; she saw and lived with the fairy folk, or the kings and queens and beautiful ladies, whose adventures she was narrating.
sometimes when she had finished her story, she was quite out of breath with excitement, and would lay her hand on her thin, little, quick-rising chest, and half laugh as if at herself.
"when i am telling it," she would say, "it doesn't seem as if it was only made up.
it seems more real than you are more real than the schoolroom.
i feel as if i were all the people in the story one after the other.
it is queer."
she had been at miss minchin's school about two years when, one foggy winter's afternoon, as she was getting out of her carriage, comfortably wrapped up in her warmest velvets and furs and looking very much grander than she knew, she caught sight, as she crossed the pavement, of a dingy little figure standing on the area steps, and stretching its neck so that its wide-open eyes might peer at her through the railings.
something in the eagerness and timidity of the smudgy face made her look at it, and when she looked she smiled because it was her way to smile at people.
but the owner of the smudgy face and the wide-open eyes evidently was afraid that she ought not to have been caught looking at pupils of importance.
she dodged out of sight like a jack-in-the-box and scurried back into the kitchen, disappearing so suddenly that if she had not been such a poor little forlorn thing, sara would have laughed in spite of herself.
that very evening, as sara was sitting in the midst of a group of listeners in a corner of the schoolroom telling one of her stories, the very same figure timidly entered the room, carrying a coal box much too heavy for her, and knelt down upon the hearth rug to replenish the fire and sweep up the ashes.
she was cleaner than she had been when she peeped through the area railings, but she looked just as frightened.
she was evidently afraid to look at the children or seem to be listening.
she put on pieces of coal cautiously with her fingers so that she might make no disturbing noise, and she swept about the fire irons very softly.
but sara saw in two minutes that she was deeply interested in what was going on, and that she was doing her work slowly in the hope of catching a word here and there.
and realizing this, she raised her voice and spoke more clearly.
"the mermaids swam softly about in the crystal-green water, and dragged after them a fishing-net woven of deep-sea pearls," she said.
"the princess sat on the white rock and watched them."
it was a wonderful story about a princess who was loved by a prince merman, and went to live with him in shining caves under the sea.
the small drudge before the grate swept the hearth once and then swept it again.
having done it twice, she did it three times; and, as she was doing it the third time, the sound of the story so lured her to listen that she fell under the spell and actually forgot that she had no right to listen at all, and also forgot everything else.
she sat down upon her heels as she knelt on the hearth rug, and the brush hung idly in her fingers.
the voice of the storyteller went on and drew her with it into winding grottos under the sea, glowing with soft, clear blue light, and paved with pure golden sands.
strange sea flowers and grasses waved about her, and far away faint singing and music echoed.
the hearth brush fell from the work-roughened hand, and lavinia herbert looked round.
"that girl has been listening," she said.
the culprit snatched up her brush, and scrambled to her feet.
she caught at the coal box and simply scuttled out of the room like a frightened rabbit.
sara felt rather hot-tempered.
"i knew she was listening," she said.
"why shouldn't she?"
lavinia tossed her head with great elegance.
"well," she remarked, "i do not know whether your mamma would like you to tell stories to servant girls, but i know my mamma wouldn't like me to do it."
"my mamma!"
said sara, looking odd.
"i don't believe she would mind in the least.
she knows that stories belong to everybody."
"i thought," retorted lavinia, in severe recollection, "that your mamma was dead.
how can she know things?"
"do you think she doesn't know things?"
said sara, in her stern little voice.
sometimes she had a rather stern little voice.
"sara's mamma knows everything," piped in lottie.
"so does my mamma 'cept sara is my mamma at miss minchin's my other one knows everything.
the streets are shining, and there are fields and fields of lilies, and everybody gathers them.
sara tells me when she puts me to bed."
"you wicked thing," said lavinia, turning on sara; "making fairy stories about heaven."
"there are much more splendid stories in revelation," returned sara.
"just look and see!
how do you know mine are fairy stories?
but i can tell you" with a fine bit of unheavenly temper "you will never find out whether they are or not if you're not kinder to people than you are now.
come along, lottie."
and she marched out of the room, rather hoping that she might see the little servant again somewhere, but she found no trace of her when she got into the hall.
"who is that little girl who makes the fires?"
she asked mariette that night.
mariette broke forth into a flow of description.
ah, indeed, mademoiselle sara might well ask.
she was a forlorn little thing who had just taken the place of scullery maid though, as to being scullery maid, she was everything else besides.
she blacked boots and grates, and carried heavy coal-scuttles up and down stairs, and scrubbed floors and cleaned windows, and was ordered about by everybody.
she was fourteen years old, but was so stunted in growth that she looked about twelve.
in truth, mariette was sorry for her.
she was so timid that if one chanced to speak to her it appeared as if her poor, frightened eyes would jump out of her head.
"what is her name?"
asked sara, who had sat by the table, with her chin on her hands, as she listened absorbedly to the recital.
her name was becky.
mariette heard everyone below-stairs calling, "becky, do this," and "becky, do that," every five minutes in the day.
sara sat and looked into the fire, reflecting on becky for some time after mariette left her.
she made up a story of which becky was the ill-used heroine.
she thought she looked as if she had never had quite enough to eat.
her very eyes were hungry.
she hoped she should see her again, but though she caught sight of her carrying things up or down stairs on several occasions, she always seemed in such a hurry and so afraid of being seen that it was impossible to speak to her.
but a few weeks later, on another foggy afternoon, when she entered her sitting room she found herself confronting a rather pathetic picture.
in her own special and pet easy-chair before the bright fire, becky with a coal smudge on her nose and several on her apron, with her poor little cap hanging half off her head, and an empty coal box on the floor near her sat fast asleep, tired out beyond even the endurance of her hard-working young body.
she had been sent up to put the bedrooms in order for the evening.
there were a great many of them, and she had been running about all day.
sara's rooms she had saved until the last.
they were not like the other rooms, which were plain and bare.
ordinary pupils were expected to be satisfied with mere necessaries.
sara's comfortable sitting room seemed a bower of luxury to the scullery maid, though it was, in fact, merely a nice, bright little room.
but there were pictures and books in it, and curious things from india; there was a sofa and the low, soft chair; emily sat in a chair of her own, with the air of a presiding goddess, and there was always a glowing fire and a polished grate.
becky saved it until the end of her afternoon's work, because it rested her to go into it, and she always hoped to snatch a few minutes to sit down in the soft chair and look about her, and think about the wonderful good fortune of the child who owned such surroundings and who went out on the cold days in beautiful hats and coats one tried to catch a glimpse of through the area railing.
on this afternoon, when she had sat down, the sensation of relief to her short, aching legs had been so wonderful and delightful that it had seemed to soothe her whole body, and the glow of warmth and comfort from the fire had crept over her like a spell, until, as she looked at the red coals, a tired, slow smile stole over her smudged face, her head nodded forward without her being aware of it, her eyes drooped, and she fell fast asleep.
she had really been only about ten minutes in the room when sara entered, but she was in as deep a sleep as if she had been, like the sleeping beauty, slumbering for a hundred years.
but she did not look poor becky like a sleeping beauty at all.
she looked only like an ugly, stunted, worn-out little scullery drudge.
sara seemed as much unlike her as if she were a creature from another world.
on this particular afternoon she had been taking her dancing lesson, and the afternoon on which the dancing master appeared was rather a grand occasion at the seminary, though it occurred every week.
the pupils were attired in their prettiest frocks, and as sara danced particularly well, she was very much brought forward, and mariette was requested to make her as diaphanous and fine as possible.
today a frock the color of a rose had been put on her, and mariette had bought some real buds and made her a wreath to wear on her black locks.
she had been learning a new, delightful dance in which she had been skimming and flying about the room, like a large rose-colored butterfly, and the enjoyment and exercise had brought a brilliant, happy glow into her face.
when she entered the room, she floated in with a few of the butterfly steps and there sat becky, nodding her cap sideways off her head.
"oh!"
cried sara, softly, when she saw her.
"that poor thing!"
it did not occur to her to feel cross at finding her pet chair occupied by the small, dingy figure.
to tell the truth, she was quite glad to find it there.
when the ill-used heroine of her story wakened, she could talk to her.
she crept toward her quietly, and stood looking at her.
becky gave a little snore.
"i wish she'd waken herself," sara said.
"i don't like to waken her.
but miss minchin would be cross if she found out.
i'll just wait a few minutes."
she took a seat on the edge of the table, and sat swinging her slim, rose-colored legs, and wondering what it would be best to do.
miss amelia might come in at any moment, and if she did, becky would be sure to be scolded.
"but she is so tired," she thought.
"she is so tired!"
a piece of flaming coal ended her perplexity for her that very moment.
it broke off from a large lump and fell on to the fender.
becky started, and opened her eyes with a frightened gasp.
she did not know she had fallen asleep.
she had only sat down for one moment and felt the beautiful glow and here she found herself staring in wild alarm at the wonderful pupil, who sat perched quite near her, like a rose-colored fairy, with interested eyes.
she sprang up and clutched at her cap.
she felt it dangling over her ear, and tried wildly to put it straight.
oh, she had got herself into trouble now with a vengeance!
to have impudently fallen asleep on such a young lady's chair!
she would be turned out of doors without wages.
she made a sound like a big breathless sob.
"oh, miss!
oh, miss!"
she stuttered.
"i arst yer pardon, miss!
oh, i do, miss!"
sara jumped down, and came quite close to her.
"don't be frightened," she said, quite as if she had been speaking to a little girl like herself.
"it doesn't matter the least bit."
"i didn't go to do it, miss," protested becky.
"it was the warm fire an' me bein' so tired.
it it wasn't impertience!"
sara broke into a friendly little laugh, and put her hand on her shoulder.
"you were tired," she said; "you could not help it.
you are not really awake yet."
how poor becky stared at her!
in fact, she had never heard such a nice, friendly sound in anyone's voice before.
she was used to being ordered about and scolded, and having her ears boxed.
and this one in her rose-colored dancing afternoon splendor was looking at her as if she were not a culprit at all as if she had a right to be tired even to fall asleep!
the touch of the soft, slim little paw on her shoulder was the most amazing thing she had ever known.
"ain't ain't yer angry, miss?"
she gasped.
"ain't yer goin' to tell the missus?"
"no," cried out sara.
"of course i'm not."
the woeful fright in the coal-smutted face made her suddenly so sorry that she could scarcely bear it.
one of her queer thoughts rushed into her mind.
she put her hand against becky's cheek.
"why," she said, "we are just the same i am only a little girl like you.
it's just an accident that i am not you, and you are not me!"
becky did not understand in the least.
her mind could not grasp such amazing thoughts, and "an accident" meant to her a calamity in which some one was run over or fell off a ladder and was carried to "the 'orspital."
"a' accident, miss," she fluttered respectfully.
"is it?"
"yes," sara answered, and she looked at her dreamily for a moment.
but the next she spoke in a different tone.
she realized that becky did not know what she meant.
"have you done your work?"
she asked.
"dare you stay here a few minutes?"
becky lost her breath again.
"here, miss?
me?"
sara ran to the door, opened it, and looked out and listened.
"no one is anywhere about," she explained.
"if your bedrooms are finished, perhaps you might stay a tiny while.
i thought perhaps you might like a piece of cake."
the next ten minutes seemed to becky like a sort of delirium.
sara opened a cupboard, and gave her a thick slice of cake.
she seemed to rejoice when it was devoured in hungry bites.
she talked and asked questions, and laughed until becky's fears actually began to calm themselves, and she once or twice gathered boldness enough to ask a question or so herself, daring as she felt it to be.
"is that " she ventured, looking longingly at the rose-colored frock.
and she asked it almost in a whisper.
"is that there your best?"
"it is one of my dancing-frocks," answered sara.
"i like it, don't you?"
for a few seconds becky was almost speechless with admiration.
then she said in an awed voice, "onct i see a princess.
i was standin' in the street with the crowd outside covin' garden, watchin' the swells go inter the operer.
an' there was one everyone stared at most.
they ses to each other, 'that's the princess.'
she was a growed-up young lady, but she was pink all over gownd an' cloak, an' flowers an' all.
i called her to mind the minnit i see you, sittin' there on the table, miss.
you looked like her."
"i've often thought," said sara, in her reflecting voice, "that i should like to be a princess; i wonder what it feels like.
i believe i will begin pretending i am one."
becky stared at her admiringly, and, as before, did not understand her in the least.
she watched her with a sort of adoration.
very soon sara left her reflections and turned to her with a new question.
"becky," she said, "weren't you listening to that story?"
"yes, miss," confessed becky, a little alarmed again.
"i knowed i hadn't orter, but it was that beautiful i i couldn't help it."
"i liked you to listen to it," said sara.
"if you tell stories, you like nothing so much as to tell them to people who want to listen.
i don't know why it is.
would you like to hear the rest?"
becky lost her breath again.
"me hear it?"
she cried.
"like as if i was a pupil, miss!
all about the prince and the little white mer-babies swimming about laughing with stars in their hair?"
sara nodded.
"you haven't time to hear it now, i'm afraid," she said; "but if you will tell me just what time you come to do my rooms, i will try to be here and tell you a bit of it every day until it is finished.
it's a lovely long one and i'm always putting new bits to it."
"then," breathed becky, devoutly, "i wouldn't mind how heavy the coal boxes was or what the cook done to me, if if i might have that to think of."
"you may," said sara.
"i'll tell it all to you."
when becky went downstairs, she was not the same becky who had staggered up, loaded down by the weight of the coal scuttle.
she had an extra piece of cake in her pocket, and she had been fed and warmed, but not only by cake and fire.
something else had warmed and fed her, and the something else was sara.
when she was gone sara sat on her favorite perch on the end of her table.
her feet were on a chair, her elbows on her knees, and her chin in her hands.
"if i was a princess a real princess," she murmured, "i could scatter largess to the populace.
but even if i am only a pretend princess, i can invent little things to do for people.
things like this.
she was just as happy as if it was largess.
i'll pretend that to do things people like is scattering largess.
i've scattered largess."
6
the diamond mines
not very long after this a very exciting thing happened.
not only sara, but the entire school, found it exciting, and made it the chief subject of conversation for weeks after it occurred.
in one of his letters captain crewe told a most interesting story.
a friend who had been at school with him when he was a boy had unexpectedly come to see him in india.
he was the owner of a large tract of land upon which diamonds had been found, and he was engaged in developing the mines.
if all went as was confidently expected, he would become possessed of such wealth as it made one dizzy to think of; and because he was fond of the friend of his school days, he had given him an opportunity to share in this enormous fortune by becoming a partner in his scheme.
this, at least, was what sara gathered from his letters.
it is true that any other business scheme, however magnificent, would have had but small attraction for her or for the schoolroom; but "diamond mines" sounded so like the arabian nights that no one could be indifferent.
sara thought them enchanting, and painted pictures, for ermengarde and lottie, of labyrinthine passages in the bowels of the earth, where sparkling stones studded the walls and roofs and ceilings, and strange, dark men dug them out with heavy picks.
ermengarde delighted in the story, and lottie insisted on its being retold to her every evening.
lavinia was very spiteful about it, and told jessie that she didn't believe such things as diamond mines existed.
"my mamma has a diamond ring which cost forty pounds," she said.
"and it is not a big one, either.
if there were mines full of diamonds, people would be so rich it would be ridiculous."
"perhaps sara will be so rich that she will be ridiculous," giggled jessie.
"she's ridiculous without being rich," lavinia sniffed.
"i believe you hate her," said jessie.
"no, i don't," snapped lavinia.
"but i don't believe in mines full of diamonds."
"well, people have to get them from somewhere," said jessie.
"lavinia," with a new giggle, "what do you think gertrude says?"
"i don't know, i'm sure; and i don't care if it's something more about that everlasting sara."
"well, it is.
one of her 'pretends' is that she is a princess.
she plays it all the time even in school.
she says it makes her learn her lessons better.
she wants ermengarde to be one, too, but ermengarde says she is too fat."
"she is too fat," said lavinia.
"and sara is too thin."
naturally, jessie giggled again.
"she says it has nothing to do with what you look like, or what you have.
it has only to do with what you think of, and what you do."
"i suppose she thinks she could be a princess if she was a beggar,"
said lavinia.
"let us begin to call her your royal highness."
lessons for the day were over, and they were sitting before the schoolroom fire, enjoying the time they liked best.
it was the time when miss minchin and miss amelia were taking their tea in the sitting room sacred to themselves.
at this hour a great deal of talking was done, and a great many secrets changed hands, particularly if the younger pupils behaved themselves well, and did not squabble or run about noisily, which it must be confessed they usually did.
when they made an uproar the older girls usually interfered with scolding and shakes.
they were expected to keep order, and there was danger that if they did not, miss minchin or miss amelia would appear and put an end to festivities.
even as lavinia spoke the door opened and sara entered with lottie, whose habit was to trot everywhere after her like a little dog.
"there she is, with that horrid child!"
exclaimed lavinia in a whisper.
"if she's so fond of her, why doesn't she keep her in her own room?
she will begin howling about something in five minutes."
it happened that lottie had been seized with a sudden desire to play in the schoolroom, and had begged her adopted parent to come with her.
she joined a group of little ones who were playing in a corner.
sara curled herself up in the window-seat, opened a book, and began to read.
it was a book about the french revolution, and she was soon lost in a harrowing picture of the prisoners in the bastille men who had spent so many years in dungeons that when they were dragged out by those who rescued them, their long, gray hair and beards almost hid their faces, and they had forgotten that an outside world existed at all, and were like beings in a dream.
she was so far away from the schoolroom that it was not agreeable to be dragged back suddenly by a howl from lottie.
never did she find anything so difficult as to keep herself from losing her temper when she was suddenly disturbed while absorbed in a book.
people who are fond of books know the feeling of irritation which sweeps over them at such a moment.
the temptation to be unreasonable and snappish is one not easy to manage.
"it makes me feel as if someone had hit me," sara had told ermengarde once in confidence.
"and as if i want to hit back.
i have to remember things quickly to keep from saying something ill-tempered."
she had to remember things quickly when she laid her book on the window-seat and jumped down from her comfortable corner.
lottie had been sliding across the schoolroom floor, and, having first irritated lavinia and jessie by making a noise, had ended by falling down and hurting her fat knee.
she was screaming and dancing up and down in the midst of a group of friends and enemies, who were alternately coaxing and scolding her.
"stop this minute, you cry-baby!
stop this minute!"
lavinia commanded.
"i'm not a cry-baby ... i'm not!"
wailed lottie.
"sara, sa ra!"
"if she doesn't stop, miss minchin will hear her," cried jessie.
"lottie darling, i'll give you a penny!"
"i don't want your penny," sobbed lottie; and she looked down at the fat knee, and, seeing a drop of blood on it, burst forth again.
sara flew across the room and, kneeling down, put her arms round her.
"now, lottie," she said.
"now, lottie, you promised sara."
"she said i was a cry-baby," wept lottie.
sara patted her, but spoke in the steady voice lottie knew.
"but if you cry, you will be one, lottie pet.
you promised."
lottie remembered that she had promised, but she preferred to lift up her voice.
"i haven't any mamma," she proclaimed.
"i haven't a bit of mamma."
"yes, you have," said sara, cheerfully.
"have you forgotten?
don't you know that sara is your mamma?
don't you want sara for your mamma?"
lottie cuddled up to her with a consoled sniff.
"come and sit in the window-seat with me," sara went on, "and i'll whisper a story to you."
"will you?"
whimpered lottie.
"will you tell me about the diamond mines?"
"the diamond mines?"
broke out lavinia.
"nasty, little spoiled thing, i should like to slap her!"
sara got up quickly on her feet.
it must be remembered that she had been very deeply absorbed in the book about the bastille, and she had had to recall several things rapidly when she realized that she must go and take care of her adopted child.
she was not an angel, and she was not fond of lavinia.
"well," she said, with some fire, "i should like to slap you but i don't want to slap you!"
restraining herself.
"at least i both want to slap you and i should like to slap you but i won't slap you.
we are not little gutter children.
we are both old enough to know better."
here was lavinia's opportunity.
"ah, yes, your royal highness," she said.
"we are princesses, i believe.
at least one of us is.
the school ought to be very fashionable now miss minchin has a princess for a pupil."
sara started toward her.
she looked as if she were going to box her ears.
perhaps she was.
her trick of pretending things was the joy of her life.
she never spoke of it to girls she was not fond of.
her new "pretend" about being a princess was very near to her heart, and she was shy and sensitive about it.
she had meant it to be rather a secret, and here was lavinia deriding it before nearly all the school.
she felt the blood rush up into her face and tingle in her ears.
she only just saved herself.
if you were a princess, you did not fly into rages.
her hand dropped, and she stood quite still a moment.
when she spoke it was in a quiet, steady voice; she held her head up, and everybody listened to her.
"it's true," she said.
"sometimes i do pretend i am a princess.
i pretend i am a princess, so that i can try and behave like one."
lavinia could not think of exactly the right thing to say.
several times she had found that she could not think of a satisfactory reply when she was dealing with sara.
the reason for this was that, somehow, the rest always seemed to be vaguely in sympathy with her opponent.
she saw now that they were pricking up their ears interestedly.
the truth was, they liked princesses, and they all hoped they might hear something more definite about this one, and drew nearer sara accordingly.
lavinia could only invent one remark, and it fell rather flat.
"dear me," she said, "i hope, when you ascend the throne, you won't forget us!"
"i won't," said sara, and she did not utter another word, but stood quite still, and stared at her steadily as she saw her take jessie's arm and turn away.
after this, the girls who were jealous of her used to speak of her as "princess sara" whenever they wished to be particularly disdainful, and those who were fond of her gave her the name among themselves as a term of affection.
no one called her "princess" instead of "sara," but her adorers were much pleased with the picturesqueness and grandeur of the title, and miss minchin, hearing of it, mentioned it more than once to visiting parents, feeling that it rather suggested a sort of royal boarding school.
to becky it seemed the most appropriate thing in the world.
the acquaintance begun on the foggy afternoon when she had jumped up terrified from her sleep in the comfortable chair, had ripened and grown, though it must be confessed that miss minchin and miss amelia knew very little about it.
they were aware that sara was "kind" to the scullery maid, but they knew nothing of certain delightful moments snatched perilously when, the upstairs rooms being set in order with lightning rapidity, sara's sitting room was reached, and the heavy coal box set down with a sigh of joy.
at such times stories were told by installments, things of a satisfying nature were either produced and eaten or hastily tucked into pockets to be disposed of at night, when becky went upstairs to her attic to bed.
"but i has to eat 'em careful, miss," she said once; "'cos if i leaves crumbs the rats come out to get 'em."
"rats!"
exclaimed sara, in horror.
"are there rats there?"
"lots of 'em, miss," becky answered in quite a matter-of-fact manner.
"there mostly is rats an' mice in attics.
you gets used to the noise they makes scuttling about.
i've got so i don't mind 'em s' long as they don't run over my piller."
"ugh!"
said sara.
"you gets used to anythin' after a bit," said becky.
"you have to, miss, if you're born a scullery maid.
i'd rather have rats than cockroaches."
"so would i," said sara; "i suppose you might make friends with a rat in time, but i don't believe i should like to make friends with a cockroach."
sometimes becky did not dare to spend more than a few minutes in the bright, warm room, and when this was the case perhaps only a few words could be exchanged, and a small purchase slipped into the old-fashioned pocket becky carried under her dress skirt, tied round her waist with a band of tape.
the search for and discovery of satisfying things to eat which could be packed into small compass, added a new interest to sara's existence.
when she drove or walked out, she used to look into shop windows eagerly.
the first time it occurred to her to bring home two or three little meat pies, she felt that she had hit upon a discovery.
when she exhibited them, becky's eyes quite sparkled.
"oh, miss!"
she murmured.
"them will be nice an' fillin.'
it's fillin'ness that's best.
sponge cake's a 'evenly thing, but it melts away like if you understand, miss.
these'll just stay in yer stummick."
"well," hesitated sara, "i don't think it would be good if they stayed always, but i do believe they will be satisfying."
they were satisfying and so were beef sandwiches, bought at a cook-shop and so were rolls and bologna sausage.
in time, becky began to lose her hungry, tired feeling, and the coal box did not seem so unbearably heavy.
however heavy it was, and whatsoever the temper of the cook, and the hardness of the work heaped upon her shoulders, she had always the chance of the afternoon to look forward to the chance that miss sara would be able to be in her sitting room.
in fact, the mere seeing of miss sara would have been enough without meat pies.
if there was time only for a few words, they were always friendly, merry words that put heart into one; and if there was time for more, then there was an installment of a story to be told, or some other thing one remembered afterward and sometimes lay awake in one's bed in the attic to think over.
sara who was only doing what she unconsciously liked better than anything else, nature having made her for a giver had not the least idea what she meant to poor becky, and how wonderful a benefactor she seemed.
if nature has made you for a giver, your hands are born open, and so is your heart; and though there may be times when your hands are empty, your heart is always full, and you can give things out of that warm things, kind things, sweet things help and comfort and laughter and sometimes gay, kind laughter is the best help of all.
becky had scarcely known what laughter was through all her poor, little hard-driven life.
sara made her laugh, and laughed with her; and, though neither of them quite knew it, the laughter was as "fillin'" as the meat pies.
a few weeks before sara's eleventh birthday a letter came to her from her father, which did not seem to be written in such boyish high spirits as usual.
he was not very well, and was evidently overweighted by the business connected with the diamond mines.
"you see, little sara," he wrote, "your daddy is not a businessman at all, and figures and documents bother him.
he does not really understand them, and all this seems so enormous.
perhaps, if i was not feverish i should not be awake, tossing about, one half of the night and spend the other half in troublesome dreams.
if my little missus were here, i dare say she would give me some solemn, good advice.
you would, wouldn't you, little missus?"
one of his many jokes had been to call her his "little missus" because she had such an old-fashioned air.
he had made wonderful preparations for her birthday.
among other things, a new doll had been ordered in paris, and her wardrobe was to be, indeed, a marvel of splendid perfection.
when she had replied to the letter asking her if the doll would be an acceptable present, sara had been very quaint.
"i am getting very old," she wrote; "you see, i shall never live to have another doll given me.
this will be my last doll.
there is something solemn about it.
if i could write poetry, i am sure a poem about 'a last doll' would be very nice.
but i cannot write poetry.
i have tried, and it made me laugh.
it did not sound like watts or coleridge or shakespeare at all.
no one could ever take emily's place, but i should respect the last doll very much; and i am sure the school would love it.
they all like dolls, though some of the big ones the almost fifteen ones pretend they are too grown up."
captain crewe had a splitting headache when he read this letter in his bungalow in india.
the table before him was heaped with papers and letters which were alarming him and filling him with anxious dread, but he laughed as he had not laughed for weeks.
"oh," he said, "she's better fun every year she lives.
god grant this business may right itself and leave me free to run home and see her.
what wouldn't i give to have her little arms round my neck this minute!
what wouldn't i give!"
the birthday was to be celebrated by great festivities.
the schoolroom was to be decorated, and there was to be a party.
the boxes containing the presents were to be opened with great ceremony, and there was to be a glittering feast spread in miss minchin's sacred room.
when the day arrived the whole house was in a whirl of excitement.
how the morning passed nobody quite knew, because there seemed such preparations to be made.
the schoolroom was being decked with garlands of holly; the desks had been moved away, and red covers had been put on the forms which were arrayed round the room against the wall.
when sara went into her sitting room in the morning, she found on the table a small, dumpy package, tied up in a piece of brown paper.
she knew it was a present, and she thought she could guess whom it came from.
she opened it quite tenderly.
it was a square pincushion, made of not quite clean red flannel, and black pins had been stuck carefully into it to form the words, "menny hapy returns."
"oh!"
cried sara, with a warm feeling in her heart.
"what pains she has taken!
i like it so, it it makes me feel sorrowful."
but the next moment she was mystified.
on the under side of the pincushion was secured a card, bearing in neat letters the name "miss amelia minchin."
sara turned it over and over.
"miss amelia!"
she said to herself "how can it be!"
and just at that very moment she heard the door being cautiously pushed open and saw becky peeping round it.
there was an affectionate, happy grin on her face, and she shuffled forward and stood nervously pulling at her fingers.
"do yer like it, miss sara?"
she said.
"do yer?"
"like it?"
cried sara.
"you darling becky, you made it all yourself."
becky gave a hysteric but joyful sniff, and her eyes looked quite moist with delight.
"it ain't nothin' but flannin, an' the flannin ain't new; but i wanted to give yer somethin' an' i made it of nights.
i knew yer could pretend it was satin with diamond pins in.
i tried to when i was makin' it.
the card, miss," rather doubtfully; "'t warn't wrong of me to pick it up out o' the dust-bin, was it?
miss 'meliar had throwed it away.
i hadn't no card o' my own, an' i knowed it wouldn't be a proper presink if i didn't pin a card on so i pinned miss 'meliar's."
sara flew at her and hugged her.
she could not have told herself or anyone else why there was a lump in her throat.
"oh, becky!"
she cried out, with a queer little laugh, "i love you, becky i do, i do!"
"oh, miss!"
breathed becky.
"thank yer, miss, kindly; it ain't good enough for that.
the the flannin wasn't new."
7
the diamond mines again
when sara entered the holly-hung schoolroom in the afternoon, she did so as the head of a sort of procession.
miss minchin, in her grandest silk dress, led her by the hand.
a manservant followed, carrying the box containing the last doll, a housemaid carried a second box, and becky brought up the rear, carrying a third and wearing a clean apron and a new cap.
sara would have much preferred to enter in the usual way, but miss minchin had sent for her, and, after an interview in her private sitting room, had expressed her wishes.
"this is not an ordinary occasion," she said.
"i do not desire that it should be treated as one."
so sara was led grandly in and felt shy when, on her entry, the big girls stared at her and touched each other's elbows, and the little ones began to squirm joyously in their seats.
"silence, young ladies!"
said miss minchin, at the murmur which arose.
"james, place the box on the table and remove the lid.
emma, put yours upon a chair.
becky!"
suddenly and severely.
becky had quite forgotten herself in her excitement, and was grinning at lottie, who was wriggling with rapturous expectation.
she almost dropped her box, the disapproving voice so startled her, and her frightened, bobbing curtsy of apology was so funny that lavinia and jessie tittered.
"it is not your place to look at the young ladies," said miss minchin.
"you forget yourself.
put your box down."
becky obeyed with alarmed haste and hastily backed toward the door.
"you may leave us," miss minchin announced to the servants with a wave of her hand.
becky stepped aside respectfully to allow the superior servants to pass out first.
she could not help casting a longing glance at the box on the table.
something made of blue satin was peeping from between the folds of tissue paper.
"if you please, miss minchin," said sara, suddenly, "mayn't becky stay?"
it was a bold thing to do.
miss minchin was betrayed into something like a slight jump.
then she put her eyeglass up, and gazed at her show pupil disturbedly.
"becky!"
she exclaimed.
"my dearest sara!"
sara advanced a step toward her.
"i want her because i know she will like to see the presents," she explained.
"she is a little girl, too, you know."
miss minchin was scandalized.
she glanced from one figure to the other.
"my dear sara," she said, "becky is the scullery maid.
scullery maids er are not little girls."
it really had not occurred to her to think of them in that light.
scullery maids were machines who carried coal scuttles and made fires.
"but becky is," said sara.
"and i know she would enjoy herself.
please let her stay because it is my birthday."
miss minchin replied with much dignity:
"as you ask it as a birthday favor she may stay.
rebecca, thank miss sara for her great kindness."
becky had been backing into the corner, twisting the hem of her apron in delighted suspense.
she came forward, bobbing curtsies, but between sara's eyes and her own there passed a gleam of friendly understanding, while her words tumbled over each other.
"oh, if you please, miss!
i'm that grateful, miss!
i did want to see the doll, miss, that i did.
thank you, miss.
and thank you, ma'am," turning and making an alarmed bob to miss minchin "for letting me take the liberty."
miss minchin waved her hand again this time it was in the direction of the corner near the door.
"go and stand there," she commanded.
"not too near the young ladies."
becky went to her place, grinning.
she did not care where she was sent, so that she might have the luck of being inside the room, instead of being downstairs in the scullery, while these delights were going on.
she did not even mind when miss minchin cleared her throat ominously and spoke again.
"now, young ladies, i have a few words to say to you," she announced.
"she's going to make a speech," whispered one of the girls.
"i wish it was over."
sara felt rather uncomfortable.
as this was her party, it was probable that the speech was about her.
it is not agreeable to stand in a schoolroom and have a speech made about you.
"you are aware, young ladies," the speech began for it was a speech "that dear sara is eleven years old today."
"dear sara!"
murmured lavinia.
"several of you here have also been eleven years old, but sara's birthdays are rather different from other little girls' birthdays.
when she is older she will be heiress to a large fortune, which it will be her duty to spend in a meritorious manner."
"the diamond mines," giggled jessie, in a whisper.
sara did not hear her; but as she stood with her green-gray eyes fixed steadily on miss minchin, she felt herself growing rather hot.
when miss minchin talked about money, she felt somehow that she always hated her and, of course, it was disrespectful to hate grown-up people.
"when her dear papa, captain crewe, brought her from india and gave her into my care," the speech proceeded, "he said to me, in a jesting way, 'i am afraid she will be very rich, miss minchin.'
my reply was, 'her education at my seminary, captain crewe, shall be such as will adorn the largest fortune.'
sara has become my most accomplished pupil.
her french and her dancing are a credit to the seminary.
her manners which have caused you to call her princess sara are perfect.
her amiability she exhibits by giving you this afternoon's party.
i hope you appreciate her generosity.
i wish you to express your appreciation of it by saying aloud all together, 'thank you, sara!'"
the entire schoolroom rose to its feet as it had done the morning sara remembered so well.
"thank you, sara!"
it said, and it must be confessed that lottie jumped up and down.
sara looked rather shy for a moment.
she made a curtsy and it was a very nice one.
"thank you," she said, "for coming to my party."
"very pretty, indeed, sara," approved miss minchin.
"that is what a real princess does when the populace applauds her.
lavinia" scathingly "the sound you just made was extremely like a snort.
if you are jealous of your fellow-pupil, i beg you will express your feelings in some more lady-like manner.
now i will leave you to enjoy yourselves."
the instant she had swept out of the room the spell her presence always had upon them was broken.
the door had scarcely closed before every seat was empty.
the little girls jumped or tumbled out of theirs; the older ones wasted no time in deserting theirs.
there was a rush toward the boxes.
sara had bent over one of them with a delighted face.
"these are books, i know," she said.
the little children broke into a rueful murmur, and ermengarde looked aghast.
"does your papa send you books for a birthday present?"
she exclaimed.
"why, he's as bad as mine.
don't open them, sara."
"i like them," sara laughed, but she turned to the biggest box.
when she took out the last doll it was so magnificent that the children uttered delighted groans of joy, and actually drew back to gaze at it in breathless rapture.
"she is almost as big as lottie," someone gasped.
lottie clapped her hands and danced about, giggling.
"she's dressed for the theater," said lavinia.
"her cloak is lined with ermine."
"oh," cried ermengarde, darting forward, "she has an opera-glass in her hand a blue-and-gold one!"
"here is her trunk," said sara.
"let us open it and look at her things."
she sat down upon the floor and turned the key.
the children crowded clamoring around her, as she lifted tray after tray and revealed their contents.
never had the schoolroom been in such an uproar.
there were lace collars and silk stockings and handkerchiefs; there was a jewel case containing a necklace and a tiara which looked quite as if they were made of real diamonds; there was a long sealskin and muff, there were ball dresses and walking dresses and visiting dresses; there were hats and tea gowns and fans.
even lavinia and jessie forgot that they were too elderly to care for dolls, and uttered exclamations of delight and caught up things to look at them.
"suppose," sara said, as she stood by the table, putting a large, black-velvet hat on the impassively smiling owner of all these splendors "suppose she understands human talk and feels proud of being admired."
"you are always supposing things," said lavinia, and her air was very superior.
"i know i am," answered sara, undisturbedly.
"i like it.
there is nothing so nice as supposing.
it's almost like being a fairy.
if you suppose anything hard enough it seems as if it were real."
"it's all very well to suppose things if you have everything," said lavinia.
"could you suppose and pretend if you were a beggar and lived in a garret?"
sara stopped arranging the last doll's ostrich plumes, and looked thoughtful.
"i believe i could," she said.
"if one was a beggar, one would have to suppose and pretend all the time.
but it mightn't be easy."
she often thought afterward how strange it was that just as she had finished saying this just at that very moment miss amelia came into the room.
"sara," she said, "your papa's solicitor, mr. barrow, has called to see miss minchin, and, as she must talk to him alone and the refreshments are laid in her parlor, you had all better come and have your feast now, so that my sister can have her interview here in the schoolroom."
refreshments were not likely to be disdained at any hour, and many pairs of eyes gleamed.
miss amelia arranged the procession into decorum, and then, with sara at her side heading it, she led it away, leaving the last doll sitting upon a chair with the glories of her wardrobe scattered about her; dresses and coats hung upon chair backs, piles of lace-frilled petticoats lying upon their seats.
becky, who was not expected to partake of refreshments, had the indiscretion to linger a moment to look at these beauties it really was an indiscretion.
"go back to your work, becky," miss amelia had said; but she had stopped to pick up reverently first a muff and then a coat, and while she stood looking at them adoringly, she heard miss minchin upon the threshold, and, being smitten with terror at the thought of being accused of taking liberties, she rashly darted under the table, which hid her by its tablecloth.
miss minchin came into the room, accompanied by a sharp-featured, dry little gentleman, who looked rather disturbed.
miss minchin herself also looked rather disturbed, it must be admitted, and she gazed at the dry little gentleman with an irritated and puzzled expression.
she sat down with stiff dignity, and waved him to a chair.
"pray, be seated, mr. barrow," she said.
mr. barrow did not sit down at once.
his attention seemed attracted by the last doll and the things which surrounded her.
he settled his eyeglasses and looked at them in nervous disapproval.
the last doll herself did not seem to mind this in the least.
she merely sat upright and returned his gaze indifferently.
"a hundred pounds," mr. barrow remarked succinctly.
"all expensive material, and made at a parisian modiste's.
he spent money lavishly enough, that young man."
miss minchin felt offended.
this seemed to be a disparagement of her best patron and was a liberty.
even solicitors had no right to take liberties.
"i beg your pardon, mr. barrow," she said stiffly.
"i do not understand."
"birthday presents," said mr. barrow in the same critical manner, "to a child eleven years old!
mad extravagance, i call it."
miss minchin drew herself up still more rigidly.
"captain crewe is a man of fortune," she said.
"the diamond mines alone "
mr. barrow wheeled round upon her.
"diamond mines!"
he broke out.
"there are none!
never were!"
miss minchin actually got up from her chair.
"what!"
she cried.
"what do you mean?"
"at any rate," answered mr. barrow, quite snappishly, "it would have been much better if there never had been any."
"any diamond mines?"
ejaculated miss minchin, catching at the back of a chair and feeling as if a splendid dream was fading away from her.
"diamond mines spell ruin oftener than they spell wealth," said mr.
barrow.
"when a man is in the hands of a very dear friend and is not a businessman himself, he had better steer clear of the dear friend's diamond mines, or gold mines, or any other kind of mines dear friends want his money to put into.
the late captain crewe "
here miss minchin stopped him with a gasp.
"the late captain crewe!"
she cried out.
"the late!
you don't come to tell me that captain crewe is "
"he's dead, ma'am," mr. barrow answered with jerky brusqueness.
"died of jungle fever and business troubles combined.
the jungle fever might not have killed him if he had not been driven mad by the business troubles, and the business troubles might not have put an end to him if the jungle fever had not assisted.
captain crewe is dead!"
miss minchin dropped into her chair again.
the words he had spoken filled her with alarm.
"what were his business troubles?"
she said.
"what were they?"
"diamond mines," answered mr. barrow, "and dear friends and ruin."
miss minchin lost her breath.
"ruin!"
she gasped out.
"lost every penny.
that young man had too much money.
the dear friend was mad on the subject of the diamond mine.
he put all his own money into it, and all captain crewe's.
then the dear friend ran away captain crewe was already stricken with fever when the news came.
the shock was too much for him.
he died delirious, raving about his little girl and didn't leave a penny."
now miss minchin understood, and never had she received such a blow in her life.
her show pupil, her show patron, swept away from the select seminary at one blow.
she felt as if she had been outraged and robbed, and that captain crewe and sara and mr. barrow were equally to blame.
"do you mean to tell me," she cried out, "that he left nothing!
that sara will have no fortune!
that the child is a beggar!
that she is left on my hands a little pauper instead of an heiress?"
mr. barrow was a shrewd businessman, and felt it as well to make his own freedom from responsibility quite clear without any delay.
"she is certainly left a beggar," he replied.
"and she is certainly left on your hands, ma'am as she hasn't a relation in the world that we know of."
miss minchin started forward.
she looked as if she was going to open the door and rush out of the room to stop the festivities going on joyfully and rather noisily that moment over the refreshments.
"it is monstrous!"
she said.
"she's in my sitting room at this moment, dressed in silk gauze and lace petticoats, giving a party at my expense."
"she's giving it at your expense, madam, if she's giving it," said mr.
barrow, calmly.
"barrow & skipworth are not responsible for anything.
there never was a cleaner sweep made of a man's fortune.
captain crewe died without paying our last bill and it was a big one."
miss minchin turned back from the door in increased indignation.
this was worse than anyone could have dreamed of its being.
"that is what has happened to me!"
she cried.
"i was always so sure of his payments that i went to all sorts of ridiculous expenses for the child.
i paid the bills for that ridiculous doll and her ridiculous fantastic wardrobe.
the child was to have anything she wanted.
she has a carriage and a pony and a maid, and i've paid for all of them since the last cheque came."
mr. barrow evidently did not intend to remain to listen to the story of miss minchin's grievances after he had made the position of his firm clear and related the mere dry facts.
he did not feel any particular sympathy for irate keepers of boarding schools.
"you had better not pay for anything more, ma'am," he remarked, "unless you want to make presents to the young lady.
no one will remember you.
she hasn't a brass farthing to call her own."
"but what am i to do?"
demanded miss minchin, as if she felt it entirely his duty to make the matter right.
"what am i to do?"
"there isn't anything to do," said mr. barrow, folding up his eyeglasses and slipping them into his pocket.
"captain crewe is dead.
the child is left a pauper.
nobody is responsible for her but you."
"i am not responsible for her, and i refuse to be made responsible!"
miss minchin became quite white with rage.
mr. barrow turned to go.
"i have nothing to do with that, madam," he said uninterestedly.
"barrow & skipworth are not responsible.
very sorry the thing has happened, of course."
"if you think she is to be foisted off on me, you are greatly mistaken," miss minchin gasped.
"i have been robbed and cheated; i will turn her into the street!"
if she had not been so furious, she would have been too discreet to say quite so much.
she saw herself burdened with an extravagantly brought-up child whom she had always resented, and she lost all self-control.
mr. barrow undisturbedly moved toward the door.
"i wouldn't do that, madam," he commented; "it wouldn't look well.
unpleasant story to get about in connection with the establishment.
pupil bundled out penniless and without friends."
he was a clever business man, and he knew what he was saying.
he also knew that miss minchin was a business woman, and would be shrewd enough to see the truth.
she could not afford to do a thing which would make people speak of her as cruel and hard-hearted.
"better keep her and make use of her," he added.
"she's a clever child, i believe.
you can get a good deal out of her as she grows older."
"i will get a good deal out of her before she grows older!"
exclaimed miss minchin.
"i am sure you will, ma'am," said mr. barrow, with a little sinister smile.
"i am sure you will.
good morning!"
he bowed himself out and closed the door, and it must be confessed that miss minchin stood for a few moments and glared at it.
what he had said was quite true.
she knew it.
she had absolutely no redress.
her show pupil had melted into nothingness, leaving only a friendless, beggared little girl.
such money as she herself had advanced was lost and could not be regained.
and as she stood there breathless under her sense of injury, there fell upon her ears a burst of gay voices from her own sacred room, which had actually been given up to the feast.
she could at least stop this.
but as she started toward the door it was opened by miss amelia, who, when she caught sight of the changed, angry face, fell back a step in alarm.
"what is the matter, sister?"
she ejaculated.
miss minchin's voice was almost fierce when she answered:
"where is sara crewe?"
miss amelia was bewildered.
"sara!"
she stammered.
"why, she's with the children in your room, of course."
"has she a black frock in her sumptuous wardrobe?"
in bitter irony.
"a black frock?"
miss amelia stammered again.
"a black one?"
"she has frocks of every other color.
has she a black one?"
miss amelia began to turn pale.
"no ye-es!"
she said.
"but it is too short for her.
she has only the old black velvet, and she has outgrown it."
"go and tell her to take off that preposterous pink silk gauze, and put the black one on, whether it is too short or not.
she has done with finery!"
then miss amelia began to wring her fat hands and cry.
"oh, sister!"
she sniffed.
"oh, sister!
what can have happened?"
miss minchin wasted no words.
"captain crewe is dead," she said.
"he has died without a penny.
that spoiled, pampered, fanciful child is left a pauper on my hands."
miss amelia sat down quite heavily in the nearest chair.
"hundreds of pounds have i spent on nonsense for her.
and i shall never see a penny of it.
put a stop to this ridiculous party of hers.
go and make her change her frock at once."
"i?"
panted miss amelia.
"m-must i go and tell her now?"
"this moment!"
was the fierce answer.
"don't sit staring like a goose.
go!"
poor miss amelia was accustomed to being called a goose.
she knew, in fact, that she was rather a goose, and that it was left to geese to do a great many disagreeable things.
it was a somewhat embarrassing thing to go into the midst of a room full of delighted children, and tell the giver of the feast that she had suddenly been transformed into a little beggar, and must go upstairs and put on an old black frock which was too small for her.
but the thing must be done.
this was evidently not the time when questions might be asked.
she rubbed her eyes with her handkerchief until they looked quite red.
after which she got up and went out of the room, without venturing to say another word.
when her older sister looked and spoke as she had done just now, the wisest course to pursue was to obey orders without any comment.
miss minchin walked across the room.
she spoke to herself aloud without knowing that she was doing it.
during the last year the story of the diamond mines had suggested all sorts of possibilities to her.
even proprietors of seminaries might make fortunes in stocks, with the aid of owners of mines.
and now, instead of looking forward to gains, she was left to look back upon losses.
"the princess sara, indeed!"
she said.
"the child has been pampered as if she were a queen."
she was sweeping angrily past the corner table as she said it, and the next moment she started at the sound of a loud, sobbing sniff which issued from under the cover.
"what is that!"
she exclaimed angrily.
the loud, sobbing sniff was heard again, and she stooped and raised the hanging folds of the table cover.
"how dare you!"
she cried out.
"how dare you!
come out immediately!"
it was poor becky who crawled out, and her cap was knocked on one side, and her face was red with repressed crying.
"if you please, 'm it's me, mum," she explained.
"i know i hadn't ought to.
but i was lookin' at the doll, mum an' i was frightened when you come in an' slipped under the table."
"you have been there all the time, listening," said miss minchin.
"no, mum," becky protested, bobbing curtsies.
"not listenin' i thought i could slip out without your noticin', but i couldn't an' i had to stay.
but i didn't listen, mum i wouldn't for nothin'.
but i couldn't help hearin'."
suddenly it seemed almost as if she lost all fear of the awful lady before her.
she burst into fresh tears.
"oh, please, 'm," she said; "i dare say you'll give me warnin', mum but i'm so sorry for poor miss sara i'm so sorry!"
"leave the room!"
ordered miss minchin.
becky curtsied again, the tears openly streaming down her cheeks.
"yes, 'm; i will, 'm," she said, trembling; "but oh, i just wanted to arst you:  miss sara she's been such a rich young lady, an' she's been waited on, 'and and foot; an' what will she do now, mum, without no maid?
if if, oh please, would you let me wait on her after i've done my pots an' kettles?
i'd do 'em that quick if you'd let me wait on her now she's poor.
oh," breaking out afresh, "poor little miss sara, mum that was called a princess."
somehow, she made miss minchin feel more angry than ever.
that the very scullery maid should range herself on the side of this child whom she realized more fully than ever that she had never liked was too much.
she actually stamped her foot.
"no certainly not," she said.
"she will wait on herself, and on other people, too.
leave the room this instant, or you'll leave your place."
becky threw her apron over her head and fled.
she ran out of the room and down the steps into the scullery, and there she sat down among her pots and kettles, and wept as if her heart would break.
"it's exactly like the ones in the stories," she wailed.
"them pore princess ones that was drove into the world."
miss minchin had never looked quite so still and hard as she did when sara came to her, a few hours later, in response to a message she had sent her.
even by that time it seemed to sara as if the birthday party had either been a dream or a thing which had happened years ago, and had happened in the life of quite another little girl.
every sign of the festivities had been swept away; the holly had been removed from the schoolroom walls, and the forms and desks put back into their places.
miss minchin's sitting room looked as it always did all traces of the feast were gone, and miss minchin had resumed her usual dress.
the pupils had been ordered to lay aside their party frocks; and this having been done, they had returned to the schoolroom and huddled together in groups, whispering and talking excitedly.
"tell sara to come to my room," miss minchin had said to her sister.
"and explain to her clearly that i will have no crying or unpleasant scenes."
"sister," replied miss amelia, "she is the strangest child i ever saw.
she has actually made no fuss at all.
you remember she made none when captain crewe went back to india.
when i told her what had happened, she just stood quite still and looked at me without making a sound.
her eyes seemed to get bigger and bigger, and she went quite pale.
when i had finished, she still stood staring for a few seconds, and then her chin began to shake, and she turned round and ran out of the room and upstairs.
several of the other children began to cry, but she did not seem to hear them or to be alive to anything but just what i was saying.
it made me feel quite queer not to be answered; and when you tell anything sudden and strange, you expect people will say something whatever it is."
nobody but sara herself ever knew what had happened in her room after she had run upstairs and locked her door.
in fact, she herself scarcely remembered anything but that she walked up and down, saying over and over again to herself in a voice which did not seem her own, "my papa is dead!
my papa is dead!"
once she stopped before emily, who sat watching her from her chair, and cried out wildly, "emily!
do you hear?
do you hear papa is dead?
he is dead in india thousands of miles away."
when she came into miss minchin's sitting room in answer to her summons, her face was white and her eyes had dark rings around them.
her mouth was set as if she did not wish it to reveal what she had suffered and was suffering.
she did not look in the least like the rose-colored butterfly child who had flown about from one of her treasures to the other in the decorated schoolroom.
she looked instead a strange, desolate, almost grotesque little figure.
she had put on, without mariette's help, the cast-aside black-velvet frock.
it was too short and tight, and her slender legs looked long and thin, showing themselves from beneath the brief skirt.
as she had not found a piece of black ribbon, her short, thick, black hair tumbled loosely about her face and contrasted strongly with its pallor.
she held emily tightly in one arm, and emily was swathed in a piece of black material.
"put down your doll," said miss minchin.
"what do you mean by bringing her here?"
"no," sara answered.
"i will not put her down.
she is all i have.
my papa gave her to me."
she had always made miss minchin feel secretly uncomfortable, and she did so now.
she did not speak with rudeness so much as with a cold steadiness with which miss minchin felt it difficult to cope perhaps because she knew she was doing a heartless and inhuman thing.
"you will have no time for dolls in future," she said.
"you will have to work and improve yourself and make yourself useful."
sara kept her big, strange eyes fixed on her, and said not a word.
"everything will be very different now," miss minchin went on.
"i suppose miss amelia has explained matters to you."
"yes," answered sara.
"my papa is dead.
he left me no money.
i am quite poor."
"you are a beggar," said miss minchin, her temper rising at the recollection of what all this meant.
"it appears that you have no relations and no home, and no one to take care of you."
for a moment the thin, pale little face twitched, but sara again said nothing.
"what are you staring at?"
demanded miss minchin, sharply.
"are you so stupid that you cannot understand?
i tell you that you are quite alone in the world, and have no one to do anything for you, unless i choose to keep you here out of charity."
"i understand," answered sara, in a low tone; and there was a sound as if she had gulped down something which rose in her throat.
"i understand."
"that doll," cried miss minchin, pointing to the splendid birthday gift seated near "that ridiculous doll, with all her nonsensical, extravagant things i actually paid the bill for her!"
sara turned her head toward the chair.
"the last doll," she said.
"the last doll."
and her little mournful voice had an odd sound.
"the last doll, indeed!"
said miss minchin.
"and she is mine, not yours.
everything you own is mine."
"please take it away from me, then," said sara.
"i do not want it."
if she had cried and sobbed and seemed frightened, miss minchin might almost have had more patience with her.
she was a woman who liked to domineer and feel her power, and as she looked at sara's pale little steadfast face and heard her proud little voice, she quite felt as if her might was being set at naught.
"don't put on grand airs," she said.
"the time for that sort of thing is past.
you are not a princess any longer.
your carriage and your pony will be sent away your maid will be dismissed.
you will wear your oldest and plainest clothes your extravagant ones are no longer suited to your station.
you are like becky you must work for your living."
to her surprise, a faint gleam of light came into the child's eyes a shade of relief.
"can i work?"
she said.
"if i can work it will not matter so much.
what can i do?"
"you can do anything you are told," was the answer.
"you are a sharp child, and pick up things readily.
if you make yourself useful i may let you stay here.
you speak french well, and you can help with the younger children."
"may i?"
exclaimed sara.
"oh, please let me!
i know i can teach them.
i like them, and they like me."
"don't talk nonsense about people liking you," said miss minchin.
"you will have to do more than teach the little ones.
you will run errands and help in the kitchen as well as in the schoolroom.
if you don't please me, you will be sent away.
remember that.
now go."
sara stood still just a moment, looking at her.
in her young soul, she was thinking deep and strange things.
then she turned to leave the room.
"stop!"
said miss minchin.
"don't you intend to thank me?"
sara paused, and all the deep, strange thoughts surged up in her breast.
"what for?"
she said.
"for my kindness to you," replied miss minchin.
"for my kindness in giving you a home."
sara made two or three steps toward her.
her thin little chest heaved up and down, and she spoke in a strange un-childishly fierce way.
"you are not kind," she said.
"you are not kind, and it is not a home."
and she had turned and run out of the room before miss minchin could stop her or do anything but stare after her with stony anger.
she went up the stairs slowly, but panting for breath and she held emily tightly against her side.
"i wish she could talk," she said to herself.
"if she could speak if she could speak!"
she meant to go to her room and lie down on the tiger-skin, with her cheek upon the great cat's head, and look into the fire and think and think and think.
but just before she reached the landing miss amelia came out of the door and closed it behind her, and stood before it, looking nervous and awkward.
the truth was that she felt secretly ashamed of the thing she had been ordered to do.
"you you are not to go in there," she said.
"not go in?"
exclaimed sara, and she fell back a pace.
"that is not your room now," miss amelia answered, reddening a little.
somehow, all at once, sara understood.
she realized that this was the beginning of the change miss minchin had spoken of.
"where is my room?"
she asked, hoping very much that her voice did not shake.
"you are to sleep in the attic next to becky."
sara knew where it was.
becky had told her about it.
she turned, and mounted up two flights of stairs.
the last one was narrow, and covered with shabby strips of old carpet.
she felt as if she were walking away and leaving far behind her the world in which that other child, who no longer seemed herself, had lived.
this child, in her short, tight old frock, climbing the stairs to the attic, was quite a different creature.
when she reached the attic door and opened it, her heart gave a dreary little thump.
then she shut the door and stood against it and looked about her.
yes, this was another world.
the room had a slanting roof and was whitewashed.
the whitewash was dingy and had fallen off in places.
there was a rusty grate, an old iron bedstead, and a hard bed covered with a faded coverlet.
some pieces of furniture too much worn to be used downstairs had been sent up.
under the skylight in the roof, which showed nothing but an oblong piece of dull gray sky, there stood an old battered red footstool.
sara went to it and sat down.
she seldom cried.
she did not cry now.
she laid emily across her knees and put her face down upon her and her arms around her, and sat there, her little black head resting on the black draperies, not saying one word, not making one sound.
and as she sat in this silence there came a low tap at the door such a low, humble one that she did not at first hear it, and, indeed, was not roused until the door was timidly pushed open and a poor tear-smeared face appeared peeping round it.
it was becky's face, and becky had been crying furtively for hours and rubbing her eyes with her kitchen apron until she looked strange indeed.
"oh, miss," she said under her breath.
"might i would you allow me jest to come in?"
sara lifted her head and looked at her.
she tried to begin a smile, and somehow she could not.
suddenly and it was all through the loving mournfulness of becky's streaming eyes her face looked more like a child's not so much too old for her years.
she held out her hand and gave a little sob.
"oh, becky," she said.
"i told you we were just the same only two little girls just two little girls.
you see how true it is.
there's no difference now.
i'm not a princess anymore."
becky ran to her and caught her hand, and hugged it to her breast, kneeling beside her and sobbing with love and pain.
"yes, miss, you are," she cried, and her words were all broken.
"whats'ever 'appens to you whats'ever you'd be a princess all the same an' nothin' couldn't make you nothin' different."
8
in the attic
the first night she spent in her attic was a thing sara never forgot.
during its passing she lived through a wild, unchildlike woe of which she never spoke to anyone about her.
there was no one who would have understood.
it was, indeed, well for her that as she lay awake in the darkness her mind was forcibly distracted, now and then, by the strangeness of her surroundings.
it was, perhaps, well for her that she was reminded by her small body of material things.
if this had not been so, the anguish of her young mind might have been too great for a child to bear.
but, really, while the night was passing she scarcely knew that she had a body at all or remembered any other thing than one.
"my papa is dead!"
she kept whispering to herself.
"my papa is dead!"
it was not until long afterward that she realized that her bed had been so hard that she turned over and over in it to find a place to rest, that the darkness seemed more intense than any she had ever known, and that the wind howled over the roof among the chimneys like something which wailed aloud.
then there was something worse.
this was certain scufflings and scratchings and squeakings in the walls and behind the skirting boards.
she knew what they meant, because becky had described them.
they meant rats and mice who were either fighting with each other or playing together.
once or twice she even heard sharp-toed feet scurrying across the floor, and she remembered in those after days, when she recalled things, that when first she heard them she started up in bed and sat trembling, and when she lay down again covered her head with the bedclothes.
the change in her life did not come about gradually, but was made all at once.
"she must begin as she is to go on," miss minchin said to miss amelia.
"she must be taught at once what she is to expect."
mariette had left the house the next morning.
the glimpse sara caught of her sitting room, as she passed its open door, showed her that everything had been changed.
her ornaments and luxuries had been removed, and a bed had been placed in a corner to transform it into a new pupil's bedroom.
when she went down to breakfast she saw that her seat at miss minchin's side was occupied by lavinia, and miss minchin spoke to her coldly.
"you will begin your new duties, sara," she said, "by taking your seat with the younger children at a smaller table.
you must keep them quiet, and see that they behave well and do not waste their food.
you ought to have been down earlier.
lottie has already upset her tea."
that was the beginning, and from day to day the duties given to her were added to.
she taught the younger children french and heard their other lessons, and these were the least of her labors.
it was found that she could be made use of in numberless directions.
she could be sent on errands at any time and in all weathers.
she could be told to do things other people neglected.
the cook and the housemaids took their tone from miss minchin, and rather enjoyed ordering about the "young one" who had been made so much fuss over for so long.
they were not servants of the best class, and had neither good manners nor good tempers, and it was frequently convenient to have at hand someone on whom blame could be laid.
during the first month or two, sara thought that her willingness to do things as well as she could, and her silence under reproof, might soften those who drove her so hard.
in her proud little heart she wanted them to see that she was trying to earn her living and not accepting charity.
but the time came when she saw that no one was softened at all; and the more willing she was to do as she was told, the more domineering and exacting careless housemaids became, and the more ready a scolding cook was to blame her.
if she had been older, miss minchin would have given her the bigger girls to teach and saved money by dismissing an instructress; but while she remained and looked like a child, she could be made more useful as a sort of little superior errand girl and maid of all work.
an ordinary errand boy would not have been so clever and reliable.
sara could be trusted with difficult commissions and complicated messages.
she could even go and pay bills, and she combined with this the ability to dust a room well and to set things in order.
her own lessons became things of the past.
she was taught nothing, and only after long and busy days spent in running here and there at everybody's orders was she grudgingly allowed to go into the deserted schoolroom, with a pile of old books, and study alone at night.
"if i do not remind myself of the things i have learned, perhaps i may forget them," she said to herself.
"i am almost a scullery maid, and if i am a scullery maid who knows nothing, i shall be like poor becky.
i wonder if i could quite forget and begin to drop my h's and not remember that henry the eighth had six wives."
one of the most curious things in her new existence was her changed position among the pupils.
instead of being a sort of small royal personage among them, she no longer seemed to be one of their number at all.
she was kept so constantly at work that she scarcely ever had an opportunity of speaking to any of them, and she could not avoid seeing that miss minchin preferred that she should live a life apart from that of the occupants of the schoolroom.
"i will not have her forming intimacies and talking to the other children," that lady said.
"girls like a grievance, and if she begins to tell romantic stories about herself, she will become an ill-used heroine, and parents will be given a wrong impression.
it is better that she should live a separate life one suited to her circumstances.
i am giving her a home, and that is more than she has any right to expect from me."
sara did not expect much, and was far too proud to try to continue to be intimate with girls who evidently felt rather awkward and uncertain about her.
the fact was that miss minchin's pupils were a set of dull, matter-of-fact young people.
they were accustomed to being rich and comfortable, and as sara's frocks grew shorter and shabbier and queerer-looking, and it became an established fact that she wore shoes with holes in them and was sent out to buy groceries and carry them through the streets in a basket on her arm when the cook wanted them in a hurry, they felt rather as if, when they spoke to her, they were addressing an under servant.
"to think that she was the girl with the diamond mines," lavinia commented.
"she does look an object.
and she's queerer than ever.
i never liked her much, but i can't bear that way she has now of looking at people without speaking just as if she was finding them out."
"i am," said sara, promptly, when she heard of this.
"that's what i look at some people for.
i like to know about them.
i think them over afterward."
the truth was that she had saved herself annoyance several times by keeping her eye on lavinia, who was quite ready to make mischief, and would have been rather pleased to have made it for the ex-show pupil.
sara never made any mischief herself, or interfered with anyone.
she worked like a drudge; she tramped through the wet streets, carrying parcels and baskets; she labored with the childish inattention of the little ones' french lessons; as she became shabbier and more forlorn-looking, she was told that she had better take her meals downstairs; she was treated as if she was nobody's concern, and her heart grew proud and sore, but she never told anyone what she felt.
"soldiers don't complain," she would say between her small, shut teeth, "i am not going to do it; i will pretend this is part of a war."
but there were hours when her child heart might almost have broken with loneliness but for three people.
the first, it must be owned, was becky just becky.
throughout all that first night spent in the garret, she had felt a vague comfort in knowing that on the other side of the wall in which the rats scuffled and squeaked there was another young human creature.
and during the nights that followed the sense of comfort grew.
they had little chance to speak to each other during the day.
each had her own tasks to perform, and any attempt at conversation would have been regarded as a tendency to loiter and lose time.
"don't mind me, miss," becky whispered during the first morning, "if i don't say nothin' polite.
some un'd be down on us if i did.
i means 'please' an' 'thank you' an'
'beg pardon,' but i dassn't to take time to say it."
but before daybreak she used to slip into sara's attic and button her dress and give her such help as she required before she went downstairs to light the kitchen fire.
and when night came sara always heard the humble knock at her door which meant that her handmaid was ready to help her again if she was needed.
during the first weeks of her grief sara felt as if she were too stupefied to talk, so it happened that some time passed before they saw each other much or exchanged visits.
becky's heart told her that it was best that people in trouble should be left alone.
the second of the trio of comforters was ermengarde, but odd things happened before ermengarde found her place.
when sara's mind seemed to awaken again to the life about her, she realized that she had forgotten that an ermengarde lived in the world.
the two had always been friends, but sara had felt as if she were years the older.
it could not be contested that ermengarde was as dull as she was affectionate.
she clung to sara in a simple, helpless way; she brought her lessons to her that she might be helped; she listened to her every word and besieged her with requests for stories.
but she had nothing interesting to say herself, and she loathed books of every description.
she was, in fact, not a person one would remember when one was caught in the storm of a great trouble, and sara forgot her.
it had been all the easier to forget her because she had been suddenly called home for a few weeks.
when she came back she did not see sara for a day or two, and when she met her for the first time she encountered her coming down a corridor with her arms full of garments which were to be taken downstairs to be mended.
sara herself had already been taught to mend them.
she looked pale and unlike herself, and she was attired in the queer, outgrown frock whose shortness showed so much thin black leg.
ermengarde was too slow a girl to be equal to such a situation.
she could not think of anything to say.
she knew what had happened, but, somehow, she had never imagined sara could look like this so odd and poor and almost like a servant.
it made her quite miserable, and she could do nothing but break into a short hysterical laugh and exclaim aimlessly and as if without any meaning, "oh, sara, is that you?"
"yes," answered sara, and suddenly a strange thought passed through her mind and made her face flush.
she held the pile of garments in her arms, and her chin rested upon the top of it to keep it steady.
something in the look of her straight-gazing eyes made ermengarde lose her wits still more.
she felt as if sara had changed into a new kind of girl, and she had never known her before.
perhaps it was because she had suddenly grown poor and had to mend things and work like becky.
"oh," she stammered.
"how how are you?"
"i don't know," sara replied.
"how are you?"
"i'm i'm quite well," said ermengarde, overwhelmed with shyness.
then spasmodically she thought of something to say which seemed more intimate.
"are you are you very unhappy?"
she said in a rush.
then sara was guilty of an injustice.
just at that moment her torn heart swelled within her, and she felt that if anyone was as stupid as that, one had better get away from her.
"what do you think?"
she said.
"do you think i am very happy?"
and she marched past her without another word.
in course of time she realized that if her wretchedness had not made her forget things, she would have known that poor, dull ermengarde was not to be blamed for her unready, awkward ways.
she was always awkward, and the more she felt, the more stupid she was given to being.
but the sudden thought which had flashed upon her had made her over-sensitive.
"she is like the others," she had thought.
"she does not really want to talk to me.
she knows no one does."
so for several weeks a barrier stood between them.
when they met by chance sara looked the other way, and ermengarde felt too stiff and embarrassed to speak.
sometimes they nodded to each other in passing, but there were times when they did not even exchange a greeting.
"if she would rather not talk to me," sara thought, "i will keep out of her way.
miss minchin makes that easy enough."
miss minchin made it so easy that at last they scarcely saw each other at all.
at that time it was noticed that ermengarde was more stupid than ever, and that she looked listless and unhappy.
she used to sit in the window-seat, huddled in a heap, and stare out of the window without speaking.
once jessie, who was passing, stopped to look at her curiously.
"what are you crying for, ermengarde?"
she asked.
"i'm not crying," answered ermengarde, in a muffled, unsteady voice.
"you are," said jessie.
"a great big tear just rolled down the bridge of your nose and dropped off at the end of it.
and there goes another."
"well," said ermengarde, "i'm miserable and no one need interfere."
and she turned her plump back and took out her handkerchief and boldly hid her face in it.
that night, when sara went to her attic, she was later than usual.
she had been kept at work until after the hour at which the pupils went to bed, and after that she had gone to her lessons in the lonely schoolroom.
when she reached the top of the stairs, she was surprised to see a glimmer of light coming from under the attic door.
"nobody goes there but myself," she thought quickly, "but someone has lighted a candle."
someone had, indeed, lighted a candle, and it was not burning in the kitchen candlestick she was expected to use, but in one of those belonging to the pupils' bedrooms.
the someone was sitting upon the battered footstool, and was dressed in her nightgown and wrapped up in a red shawl.
it was ermengarde.
"ermengarde!"
cried sara.
she was so startled that she was almost frightened.
"you will get into trouble."
ermengarde stumbled up from her footstool.
she shuffled across the attic in her bedroom slippers, which were too large for her.
her eyes and nose were pink with crying.
"i know i shall if i'm found out."
she said.
"but i don't care i don't care a bit.
oh, sara, please tell me.
what is the matter?
why don't you like me any more?"
something in her voice made the familiar lump rise in sara's throat.
it was so affectionate and simple so like the old ermengarde who had asked her to be "best friends."
it sounded as if she had not meant what she had seemed to mean during these past weeks.
"i do like you," sara answered.
"i thought you see, everything is different now.
i thought you were different."
ermengarde opened her wet eyes wide.
"why, it was you who were different!"
she cried.
"you didn't want to talk to me.
i didn't know what to do.
it was you who were different after i came back."
sara thought a moment.
she saw she had made a mistake.
"i am different," she explained, "though not in the way you think.
miss minchin does not want me to talk to the girls.
most of them don't want to talk to me.
i thought perhaps you didn't.
so i tried to keep out of your way."
"oh, sara," ermengarde almost wailed in her reproachful dismay.
and then after one more look they rushed into each other's arms.
it must be confessed that sara's small black head lay for some minutes on the shoulder covered by the red shawl.
when ermengarde had seemed to desert her, she had felt horribly lonely.
afterward they sat down upon the floor together, sara clasping her knees with her arms, and ermengarde rolled up in her shawl.
ermengarde looked at the odd, big-eyed little face adoringly.
"i couldn't bear it any more," she said.
"i dare say you could live without me, sara; but i couldn't live without you.
i was nearly dead.
so tonight, when i was crying under the bedclothes, i thought all at once of creeping up here and just begging you to let us be friends again."
"you are nicer than i am," said sara.
"i was too proud to try and make friends.
you see, now that trials have come, they have shown that i am not a nice child.
i was afraid they would.
perhaps" wrinkling her forehead wisely "that is what they were sent for."
"i don't see any good in them," said ermengarde stoutly.
"neither do i to speak the truth," admitted sara, frankly.
"but i suppose there might be good in things, even if we don't see it.
there might" doubtfully "be good in miss minchin."
ermengarde looked round the attic with a rather fearsome curiosity.
"sara," she said, "do you think you can bear living here?"
sara looked round also.
"if i pretend it's quite different, i can," she answered; "or if i pretend it is a place in a story."
she spoke slowly.
her imagination was beginning to work for her.
it had not worked for her at all since her troubles had come upon her.
she had felt as if it had been stunned.
"other people have lived in worse places.
think of the count of monte cristo in the dungeons of the chateau d'if.
and think of the people in the bastille!"
"the bastille," half whispered ermengarde, watching her and beginning to be fascinated.
she remembered stories of the french revolution which sara had been able to fix in her mind by her dramatic relation of them.
no one but sara could have done it.
a well-known glow came into sara's eyes.
"yes," she said, hugging her knees, "that will be a good place to pretend about.
i am a prisoner in the bastille.
i have been here for years and years and years; and everybody has forgotten about me.
miss minchin is the jailer and becky" a sudden light adding itself to the glow in her eyes "becky is the prisoner in the next cell."
she turned to ermengarde, looking quite like the old sara.
"i shall pretend that," she said; "and it will be a great comfort."
ermengarde was at once enraptured and awed.
"and will you tell me all about it?"
she said.
"may i creep up here at night, whenever it is safe, and hear the things you have made up in the day?
it will seem as if we were more 'best friends' than ever."
"yes," answered sara, nodding.
"adversity tries people, and mine has tried you and proved how nice you are."
9
melchisedec
the third person in the trio was lottie.
she was a small thing and did not know what adversity meant, and was much bewildered by the alteration she saw in her young adopted mother.
she had heard it rumored that strange things had happened to sara, but she could not understand why she looked different why she wore an old black frock and came into the schoolroom only to teach instead of to sit in her place of honor and learn lessons herself.
there had been much whispering among the little ones when it had been discovered that sara no longer lived in the rooms in which emily had so long sat in state.
lottie's chief difficulty was that sara said so little when one asked her questions.
at seven mysteries must be made very clear if one is to understand them.
"are you very poor now, sara?"
she had asked confidentially the first morning her friend took charge of the small french class.
"are you as poor as a beggar?"
she thrust a fat hand into the slim one and opened round, tearful eyes.
"i don't want you to be as poor as a beggar."
she looked as if she was going to cry.
and sara hurriedly consoled her.
"beggars have nowhere to live," she said courageously.
"i have a place to live in."
"where do you live?"
persisted lottie.
"the new girl sleeps in your room, and it isn't pretty any more."
"i live in another room," said sara.
"is it a nice one?"
inquired lottie.
"i want to go and see it."
"you must not talk," said sara.
"miss minchin is looking at us.
she will be angry with me for letting you whisper."
she had found out already that she was to be held accountable for everything which was objected to.
if the children were not attentive, if they talked, if they were restless, it was she who would be reproved.
but lottie was a determined little person.
if sara would not tell her where she lived, she would find out in some other way.
she talked to her small companions and hung about the elder girls and listened when they were gossiping; and acting upon certain information they had unconsciously let drop, she started late one afternoon on a voyage of discovery, climbing stairs she had never known the existence of, until she reached the attic floor.
there she found two doors near each other, and opening one, she saw her beloved sara standing upon an old table and looking out of a window.
"sara!"
she cried, aghast.
"mamma sara!"
she was aghast because the attic was so bare and ugly and seemed so far away from all the world.
her short legs had seemed to have been mounting hundreds of stairs.
sara turned round at the sound of her voice.
it was her turn to be aghast.
what would happen now?
if lottie began to cry and any one chanced to hear, they were both lost.
she jumped down from her table and ran to the child.
"don't cry and make a noise," she implored.
"i shall be scolded if you do, and i have been scolded all day.
it's it's not such a bad room, lottie."
"isn't it?"
gasped lottie, and as she looked round it she bit her lip.
she was a spoiled child yet, but she was fond enough of her adopted parent to make an effort to control herself for her sake.
then, somehow, it was quite possible that any place in which sara lived might turn out to be nice.
"why isn't it, sara?"
she almost whispered.
sara hugged her close and tried to laugh.
there was a sort of comfort in the warmth of the plump, childish body.
she had had a hard day and had been staring out of the windows with hot eyes.
"you can see all sorts of things you can't see downstairs," she said.
"what sort of things?"
demanded lottie, with that curiosity sara could always awaken even in bigger girls.
"chimneys quite close to us with smoke curling up in wreaths and clouds and going up into the sky and sparrows hopping about and talking to each other just as if they were people and other attic windows where heads may pop out any minute and you can wonder who they belong to.
and it all feels as high up as if it was another world."
"oh, let me see it!"
cried lottie.
"lift me up!"
sara lifted her up, and they stood on the old table together and leaned on the edge of the flat window in the roof, and looked out.
anyone who has not done this does not know what a different world they saw.
the slates spread out on either side of them and slanted down into the rain gutter-pipes.
the sparrows, being at home there, twittered and hopped about quite without fear.
two of them perched on the chimney top nearest and quarrelled with each other fiercely until one pecked the other and drove him away.
the garret window next to theirs was shut because the house next door was empty.
"i wish someone lived there," sara said.
"it is so close that if there was a little girl in the attic, we could talk to each other through the windows and climb over to see each other, if we were not afraid of falling."
the sky seemed so much nearer than when one saw it from the street, that lottie was enchanted.
from the attic window, among the chimney pots, the things which were happening in the world below seemed almost unreal.
one scarcely believed in the existence of miss minchin and miss amelia and the schoolroom, and the roll of wheels in the square seemed a sound belonging to another existence.
"oh, sara!"
cried lottie, cuddling in her guarding arm.
"i like this attic i like it!
it is nicer than downstairs!"
"look at that sparrow," whispered sara.
"i wish i had some crumbs to throw to him."
"i have some!"
came in a little shriek from lottie.
"i have part of a bun in my pocket; i bought it with my penny yesterday, and i saved a bit."
when they threw out a few crumbs the sparrow jumped and flew away to an adjacent chimney top.
he was evidently not accustomed to intimates in attics, and unexpected crumbs startled him.
but when lottie remained quite still and sara chirped very softly almost as if she were a sparrow herself he saw that the thing which had alarmed him represented hospitality, after all.
he put his head on one side, and from his perch on the chimney looked down at the crumbs with twinkling eyes.
lottie could scarcely keep still.
"will he come?
will he come?"
she whispered.
"his eyes look as if he would," sara whispered back.
"he is thinking and thinking whether he dare.
yes, he will!
yes, he is coming!"
he flew down and hopped toward the crumbs, but stopped a few inches away from them, putting his head on one side again, as if reflecting on the chances that sara and lottie might turn out to be big cats and jump on him.
at last his heart told him they were really nicer than they looked, and he hopped nearer and nearer, darted at the biggest crumb with a lightning peck, seized it, and carried it away to the other side of his chimney.
"now he knows", said sara.
"and he will come back for the others."
he did come back, and even brought a friend, and the friend went away and brought a relative, and among them they made a hearty meal over which they twittered and chattered and exclaimed, stopping every now and then to put their heads on one side and examine lottie and sara.
lottie was so delighted that she quite forgot her first shocked impression of the attic.
in fact, when she was lifted down from the table and returned to earthly things, as it were, sara was able to point out to her many beauties in the room which she herself would not have suspected the existence of.
"it is so little and so high above everything," she said, "that it is almost like a nest in a tree.
the slanting ceiling is so funny.
see, you can scarcely stand up at this end of the room; and when the morning begins to come i can lie in bed and look right up into the sky through that flat window in the roof.
it is like a square patch of light.
if the sun is going to shine, little pink clouds float about, and i feel as if i could touch them.
and if it rains, the drops patter and patter as if they were saying something nice.
then if there are stars, you can lie and try to count how many go into the patch.
it takes such a lot.
and just look at that tiny, rusty grate in the corner.
if it was polished and there was a fire in it, just think how nice it would be.
you see, it's really a beautiful little room."
she was walking round the small place, holding lottie's hand and making gestures which described all the beauties she was making herself see.
she quite made lottie see them, too.
lottie could always believe in the things sara made pictures of.
"you see," she said, "there could be a thick, soft blue indian rug on the floor; and in that corner there could be a soft little sofa, with cushions to curl up on; and just over it could be a shelf full of books so that one could reach them easily; and there could be a fur rug before the fire, and hangings on the wall to cover up the whitewash, and pictures.
they would have to be little ones, but they could be beautiful; and there could be a lamp with a deep rose-colored shade; and a table in the middle, with things to have tea with; and a little fat copper kettle singing on the hob; and the bed could be quite different.
it could be made soft and covered with a lovely silk coverlet.
it could be beautiful.
and perhaps we could coax the sparrows until we made such friends with them that they would come and peck at the window and ask to be let in."
"oh, sara!"
cried lottie.
"i should like to live here!"
when sara had persuaded her to go downstairs again, and, after setting her on her way, had come back to her attic, she stood in the middle of it and looked about her.
the enchantment of her imaginings for lottie had died away.
the bed was hard and covered with its dingy quilt.
the whitewashed wall showed its broken patches, the floor was cold and bare, the grate was broken and rusty, and the battered footstool, tilted sideways on its injured leg, the only seat in the room.
she sat down on it for a few minutes and let her head drop in her hands.
the mere fact that lottie had come and gone away again made things seem a little worse just as perhaps prisoners feel a little more desolate after visitors come and go, leaving them behind.
"it's a lonely place," she said.
"sometimes it's the loneliest place in the world."
she was sitting in this way when her attention was attracted by a slight sound near her.
she lifted her head to see where it came from, and if she had been a nervous child she would have left her seat on the battered footstool in a great hurry.
a large rat was sitting up on his hind quarters and sniffing the air in an interested manner.
some of lottie's crumbs had dropped upon the floor and their scent had drawn him out of his hole.
he looked so queer and so like a gray-whiskered dwarf or gnome that sara was rather fascinated.
he looked at her with his bright eyes, as if he were asking a question.
he was evidently so doubtful that one of the child's queer thoughts came into her mind.
"i dare say it is rather hard to be a rat," she mused.
"nobody likes you.
people jump and run away and scream out, 'oh, a horrid rat!'
i shouldn't like people to scream and jump and say, 'oh, a horrid sara!'
the moment they saw me.
and set traps for me, and pretend they were dinner.
it's so different to be a sparrow.
but nobody asked this rat if he wanted to be a rat when he was made.
nobody said, 'wouldn't you rather be a sparrow?'"
she had sat so quietly that the rat had begun to take courage.
he was very much afraid of her, but perhaps he had a heart like the sparrow and it told him that she was not a thing which pounced.
he was very hungry.
he had a wife and a large family in the wall, and they had had frightfully bad luck for several days.
he had left the children crying bitterly, and felt he would risk a good deal for a few crumbs, so he cautiously dropped upon his feet.
"come on," said sara; "i'm not a trap.
you can have them, poor thing!
prisoners in the bastille used to make friends with rats.
suppose i make friends with you."
how it is that animals understand things i do not know, but it is certain that they do understand.
perhaps there is a language which is not made of words and everything in the world understands it.
perhaps there is a soul hidden in everything and it can always speak, without even making a sound, to another soul.
but whatsoever was the reason, the rat knew from that moment that he was safe even though he was a rat.
he knew that this young human being sitting on the red footstool would not jump up and terrify him with wild, sharp noises or throw heavy objects at him which, if they did not fall and crush him, would send him limping in his scurry back to his hole.
he was really a very nice rat, and did not mean the least harm.
when he had stood on his hind legs and sniffed the air, with his bright eyes fixed on sara, he had hoped that she would understand this, and would not begin by hating him as an enemy.
when the mysterious thing which speaks without saying any words told him that she would not, he went softly toward the crumbs and began to eat them.
as he did it he glanced every now and then at sara, just as the sparrows had done, and his expression was so very apologetic that it touched her heart.
she sat and watched him without making any movement.
one crumb was very much larger than the others in fact, it could scarcely be called a crumb.
it was evident that he wanted that piece very much, but it lay quite near the footstool and he was still rather timid.
"i believe he wants it to carry to his family in the wall," sara thought.
"if i do not stir at all, perhaps he will come and get it."
she scarcely allowed herself to breathe, she was so deeply interested.
the rat shuffled a little nearer and ate a few more crumbs, then he stopped and sniffed delicately, giving a side glance at the occupant of the footstool; then he darted at the piece of bun with something very like the sudden boldness of the sparrow, and the instant he had possession of it fled back to the wall, slipped down a crack in the skirting board, and was gone.
"i knew he wanted it for his children," said sara.
"i do believe i could make friends with him."
a week or so afterward, on one of the rare nights when ermengarde found it safe to steal up to the attic, when she tapped on the door with the tips of her fingers sara did not come to her for two or three minutes.
there was, indeed, such a silence in the room at first that ermengarde wondered if she could have fallen asleep.
then, to her surprise, she heard her utter a little, low laugh and speak coaxingly to someone.
"there!"
ermengarde heard her say.
"take it and go home, melchisedec!
go home to your wife!"
almost immediately sara opened the door, and when she did so she found ermengarde standing with alarmed eyes upon the threshold.
"who who are you talking to, sara?"
she gasped out.
sara drew her in cautiously, but she looked as if something pleased and amused her.
"you must promise not to be frightened not to scream the least bit, or i can't tell you," she answered.
ermengarde felt almost inclined to scream on the spot, but managed to control herself.
she looked all round the attic and saw no one.
and yet sara had certainly been speaking to someone.
she thought of ghosts.
"is it something that will frighten me?"
she asked timorously.
"some people are afraid of them," said sara.
"i was at first but i am not now."
"was it a ghost?"
quaked ermengarde.
"no," said sara, laughing.
"it was my rat."
ermengarde made one bound, and landed in the middle of the little dingy bed.
she tucked her feet under her nightgown and the red shawl.
she did not scream, but she gasped with fright.
"oh!
oh!"
she cried under her breath.
"a rat!
a rat!"
"i was afraid you would be frightened," said sara.
"but you needn't be.
i am making him tame.
he actually knows me and comes out when i call him.
are you too frightened to want to see him?"
the truth was that, as the days had gone on and, with the aid of scraps brought up from the kitchen, her curious friendship had developed, she had gradually forgotten that the timid creature she was becoming familiar with was a mere rat.
at first ermengarde was too much alarmed to do anything but huddle in a heap upon the bed and tuck up her feet, but the sight of sara's composed little countenance and the story of melchisedec's first appearance began at last to rouse her curiosity, and she leaned forward over the edge of the bed and watched sara go and kneel down by the hole in the skirting board.
"he he won't run out quickly and jump on the bed, will he?"
she said.
"no," answered sara.
"he's as polite as we are.
he is just like a person.
now watch!"
she began to make a low, whistling sound so low and coaxing that it could only have been heard in entire stillness.
she did it several times, looking entirely absorbed in it.
ermengarde thought she looked as if she were working a spell.
and at last, evidently in response to it, a gray-whiskered, bright-eyed head peeped out of the hole.
sara had some crumbs in her hand.
she dropped them, and melchisedec came quietly forth and ate them.
a piece of larger size than the rest he took and carried in the most businesslike manner back to his home.
"you see," said sara, "that is for his wife and children.
he is very nice.
he only eats the little bits.
after he goes back i can always hear his family squeaking for joy.
there are three kinds of squeaks.
one kind is the children's, and one is mrs. melchisedec's, and one is melchisedec's own."
ermengarde began to laugh.
"oh, sara!"
she said.
"you are queer but you are nice."
"i know i am queer," admitted sara, cheerfully; "and i try to be nice."
she rubbed her forehead with her little brown paw, and a puzzled, tender look came into her face.
"papa always laughed at me," she said; "but i liked it.
he thought i was queer, but he liked me to make up things.
i i can't help making up things.
if i didn't, i don't believe i could live."
she paused and glanced around the attic.
"i'm sure i couldn't live here," she added in a low voice.
ermengarde was interested, as she always was.
"when you talk about things," she said, "they seem as if they grew real.
you talk about melchisedec as if he was a person."
"he is a person," said sara.
"he gets hungry and frightened, just as we do; and he is married and has children.
how do we know he doesn't think things, just as we do?
his eyes look as if he was a person.
that was why i gave him a name."
she sat down on the floor in her favorite attitude, holding her knees.
"besides," she said, "he is a bastille rat sent to be my friend.
i can always get a bit of bread the cook has thrown away, and it is quite enough to support him."
"is it the bastille yet?"
asked ermengarde, eagerly.
"do you always pretend it is the bastille?"
"nearly always," answered sara.
"sometimes i try to pretend it is another kind of place; but the bastille is generally easiest particularly when it is cold."
just at that moment ermengarde almost jumped off the bed, she was so startled by a sound she heard.
it was like two distinct knocks on the wall.
"what is that?"
she exclaimed.
sara got up from the floor and answered quite dramatically:
"it is the prisoner in the next cell."
"becky!"
cried ermengarde, enraptured.
"yes," said sara.
"listen; the two knocks meant, 'prisoner, are you there?'"
she knocked three times on the wall herself, as if in answer.
"that means, 'yes, i am here, and all is well.'"
four knocks came from becky's side of the wall.
"that means," explained sara, "'then, fellow-sufferer, we will sleep in peace.
good night.'"
ermengarde quite beamed with delight.
"oh, sara!"
she whispered joyfully.
"it is like a story!"
"it is a story," said sara.
"everything's a story.
you are a story i am a story.
miss minchin is a story."
and she sat down again and talked until ermengarde forgot that she was a sort of escaped prisoner herself, and had to be reminded by sara that she could not remain in the bastille all night, but must steal noiselessly downstairs again and creep back into her deserted bed.
10
the indian gentleman
but it was a perilous thing for ermengarde and lottie to make pilgrimages to the attic.
they could never be quite sure when sara would be there, and they could scarcely ever be certain that miss amelia would not make a tour of inspection through the bedrooms after the pupils were supposed to be asleep.
so their visits were rare ones, and sara lived a strange and lonely life.
it was a lonelier life when she was downstairs than when she was in her attic.
she had no one to talk to; and when she was sent out on errands and walked through the streets, a forlorn little figure carrying a basket or a parcel, trying to hold her hat on when the wind was blowing, and feeling the water soak through her shoes when it was raining, she felt as if the crowds hurrying past her made her loneliness greater.
when she had been the princess sara, driving through the streets in her brougham, or walking, attended by mariette, the sight of her bright, eager little face and picturesque coats and hats had often caused people to look after her.
a happy, beautifully cared for little girl naturally attracts attention.
shabby, poorly dressed children are not rare enough and pretty enough to make people turn around to look at them and smile.
no one looked at sara in these days, and no one seemed to see her as she hurried along the crowded pavements.
she had begun to grow very fast, and, as she was dressed only in such clothes as the plainer remnants of her wardrobe would supply, she knew she looked very queer, indeed.
all her valuable garments had been disposed of, and such as had been left for her use she was expected to wear so long as she could put them on at all.
sometimes, when she passed a shop window with a mirror in it, she almost laughed outright on catching a glimpse of herself, and sometimes her face went red and she bit her lip and turned away.
in the evening, when she passed houses whose windows were lighted up, she used to look into the warm rooms and amuse herself by imagining things about the people she saw sitting before the fires or about the tables.
it always interested her to catch glimpses of rooms before the shutters were closed.
there were several families in the square in which miss minchin lived, with which she had become quite familiar in a way of her own.
the one she liked best she called the large family.
she called it the large family not because the members of it were big for, indeed, most of them were little but because there were so many of them.
there were eight children in the large family, and a stout, rosy mother, and a stout, rosy father, and a stout, rosy grandmother, and any number of servants.
the eight children were always either being taken out to walk or to ride in perambulators by comfortable nurses, or they were going to drive with their mamma, or they were flying to the door in the evening to meet their papa and kiss him and dance around him and drag off his overcoat and look in the pockets for packages, or they were crowding about the nursery windows and looking out and pushing each other and laughing in fact, they were always doing something enjoyable and suited to the tastes of a large family.
sara was quite fond of them, and had given them names out of books quite romantic names.
she called them the montmorencys when she did not call them the large family.
the fat, fair baby with the lace cap was ethelberta beauchamp montmorency; the next baby was violet cholmondeley montmorency; the little boy who could just stagger and who had such round legs was sydney cecil vivian montmorency; and then came lilian evangeline maud marion, rosalind gladys, guy clarence, veronica eustacia, and claude harold hector.
one evening a very funny thing happened though, perhaps, in one sense it was not a funny thing at all.
several of the montmorencys were evidently going to a children's party, and just as sara was about to pass the door they were crossing the pavement to get into the carriage which was waiting for them.
veronica eustacia and rosalind gladys, in white-lace frocks and lovely sashes, had just got in, and guy clarence, aged five, was following them.
he was such a pretty fellow and had such rosy cheeks and blue eyes, and such a darling little round head covered with curls, that sara forgot her basket and shabby cloak altogether in fact, forgot everything but that she wanted to look at him for a moment.
so she paused and looked.
it was christmas time, and the large family had been hearing many stories about children who were poor and had no mammas and papas to fill their stockings and take them to the pantomime children who were, in fact, cold and thinly clad and hungry.
in the stories, kind people sometimes little boys and girls with tender hearts invariably saw the poor children and gave them money or rich gifts, or took them home to beautiful dinners.
guy clarence had been affected to tears that very afternoon by the reading of such a story, and he had burned with a desire to find such a poor child and give her a certain sixpence he possessed, and thus provide for her for life.
an entire sixpence, he was sure, would mean affluence for evermore.
as he crossed the strip of red carpet laid across the pavement from the door to the carriage, he had this very sixpence in the pocket of his very short man-o-war trousers; and just as rosalind gladys got into the vehicle and jumped on the seat in order to feel the cushions spring under her, he saw sara standing on the wet pavement in her shabby frock and hat, with her old basket on her arm, looking at him hungrily.
he thought that her eyes looked hungry because she had perhaps had nothing to eat for a long time.
he did not know that they looked so because she was hungry for the warm, merry life his home held and his rosy face spoke of, and that she had a hungry wish to snatch him in her arms and kiss him.
he only knew that she had big eyes and a thin face and thin legs and a common basket and poor clothes.
so he put his hand in his pocket and found his sixpence and walked up to her benignly.
"here, poor little girl," he said.
"here is a sixpence.
i will give it to you."
sara started, and all at once realized that she looked exactly like poor children she had seen, in her better days, waiting on the pavement to watch her as she got out of her brougham.
and she had given them pennies many a time.
her face went red and then it went pale, and for a second she felt as if she could not take the dear little sixpence.
"oh, no!"
she said.
"oh, no, thank you; i mustn't take it, indeed!"
her voice was so unlike an ordinary street child's voice and her manner was so like the manner of a well-bred little person that veronica eustacia (whose real name was janet) and rosalind gladys (who was really called nora) leaned forward to listen.
but guy clarence was not to be thwarted in his benevolence.
he thrust the sixpence into her hand.
"yes, you must take it, poor little girl!"
he insisted stoutly.
"you can buy things to eat with it.
it is a whole sixpence!"
there was something so honest and kind in his face, and he looked so likely to be heartbrokenly disappointed if she did not take it, that sara knew she must not refuse him.
to be as proud as that would be a cruel thing.
so she actually put her pride in her pocket, though it must be admitted her cheeks burned.
"thank you," she said.
"you are a kind, kind little darling thing."
and as he scrambled joyfully into the carriage she went away, trying to smile, though she caught her breath quickly and her eyes were shining through a mist.
she had known that she looked odd and shabby, but until now she had not known that she might be taken for a beggar.
as the large family's carriage drove away, the children inside it were talking with interested excitement.
"oh, donald," (this was guy clarence's name), janet exclaimed alarmedly, "why did you offer that little girl your sixpence?
i'm sure she is not a beggar!"
"she didn't speak like a beggar!"
cried nora.
"and her face didn't really look like a beggar's face!"
"besides, she didn't beg," said janet.
"i was so afraid she might be angry with you.
you know, it makes people angry to be taken for beggars when they are not beggars."
"she wasn't angry," said donald, a trifle dismayed, but still firm.
"she laughed a little, and she said i was a kind, kind little darling thing.
and i was!"
stoutly.
"it was my whole sixpence."
janet and nora exchanged glances.
"a beggar girl would never have said that," decided janet.
"she would have said, 'thank yer kindly, little gentleman thank yer, sir;' and perhaps she would have bobbed a curtsy."
sara knew nothing about the fact, but from that time the large family was as profoundly interested in her as she was in it.
faces used to appear at the nursery windows when she passed, and many discussions concerning her were held round the fire.
"she is a kind of servant at the seminary," janet said.
"i don't believe she belongs to anybody.
i believe she is an orphan.
but she is not a beggar, however shabby she looks."
and afterward she was called by all of them, "the-little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar," which was, of course, rather a long name, and sounded very funny sometimes when the youngest ones said it in a hurry.
sara managed to bore a hole in the sixpence and hung it on an old bit of narrow ribbon round her neck.
her affection for the large family increased as, indeed, her affection for everything she could love increased.
she grew fonder and fonder of becky, and she used to look forward to the two mornings a week when she went into the schoolroom to give the little ones their french lesson.
her small pupils loved her, and strove with each other for the privilege of standing close to her and insinuating their small hands into hers.
it fed her hungry heart to feel them nestling up to her.
she made such friends with the sparrows that when she stood upon the table, put her head and shoulders out of the attic window, and chirped, she heard almost immediately a flutter of wings and answering twitters, and a little flock of dingy town birds appeared and alighted on the slates to talk to her and make much of the crumbs she scattered.
with melchisedec she had become so intimate that he actually brought mrs. melchisedec with him sometimes, and now and then one or two of his children.
she used to talk to him, and, somehow, he looked quite as if he understood.
there had grown in her mind rather a strange feeling about emily, who always sat and looked on at everything.
it arose in one of her moments of great desolateness.
she would have liked to believe or pretend to believe that emily understood and sympathized with her.
she did not like to own to herself that her only companion could feel and hear nothing.
she used to put her in a chair sometimes and sit opposite to her on the old red footstool, and stare and pretend about her until her own eyes would grow large with something which was almost like fear particularly at night when everything was so still, when the only sound in the attic was the occasional sudden scurry and squeak of melchisedec's family in the wall.
one of her "pretends" was that emily was a kind of good witch who could protect her.
sometimes, after she had stared at her until she was wrought up to the highest pitch of fancifulness, she would ask her questions and find herself almost feeling as if she would presently answer.
but she never did.
"as to answering, though," said sara, trying to console herself, "i don't answer very often.
i never answer when i can help it.
when people are insulting you, there is nothing so good for them as not to say a word just to look at them and think.
miss minchin turns pale with rage when i do it, miss amelia looks frightened, and so do the girls.
when you will not fly into a passion people know you are stronger than they are, because you are strong enough to hold in your rage, and they are not, and they say stupid things they wish they hadn't said afterward.
there's nothing so strong as rage, except what makes you hold it in that's stronger.
it's a good thing not to answer your enemies.
i scarcely ever do.
perhaps emily is more like me than i am like myself.
perhaps she would rather not answer her friends, even.
she keeps it all in her heart."
but though she tried to satisfy herself with these arguments, she did not find it easy.
when, after a long, hard day, in which she had been sent here and there, sometimes on long errands through wind and cold and rain, she came in wet and hungry, and was sent out again because nobody chose to remember that she was only a child, and that her slim legs might be tired and her small body might be chilled; when she had been given only harsh words and cold, slighting looks for thanks; when the cook had been vulgar and insolent; when miss minchin had been in her worst mood, and when she had seen the girls sneering among themselves at her shabbiness then she was not always able to comfort her sore, proud, desolate heart with fancies when emily merely sat upright in her old chair and stared.
one of these nights, when she came up to the attic cold and hungry, with a tempest raging in her young breast, emily's stare seemed so vacant, her sawdust legs and arms so inexpressive, that sara lost all control over herself.
there was nobody but emily no one in the world.
and there she sat.
"i shall die presently," she said at first.
emily simply stared.
"i can't bear this," said the poor child, trembling.
"i know i shall die.
i'm cold; i'm wet; i'm starving to death.
i've walked a thousand miles today, and they have done nothing but scold me from morning until night.
and because i could not find that last thing the cook sent me for, they would not give me any supper.
some men laughed at me because my old shoes made me slip down in the mud.
i'm covered with mud now.
and they laughed.
do you hear?"
she looked at the staring glass eyes and complacent face, and suddenly a sort of heartbroken rage seized her.
she lifted her little savage hand and knocked emily off the chair, bursting into a passion of sobbing sara who never cried.
"you are nothing but a doll!"
she cried.
"nothing but a doll doll doll!
you care for nothing.
you are stuffed with sawdust.
you never had a heart.
nothing could ever make you feel.
you are a doll!"
emily lay on the floor, with her legs ignominiously doubled up over her head, and a new flat place on the end of her nose; but she was calm, even dignified.
sara hid her face in her arms.
the rats in the wall began to fight and bite each other and squeak and scramble.
melchisedec was chastising some of his family.
sara's sobs gradually quieted themselves.
it was so unlike her to break down that she was surprised at herself.
after a while she raised her face and looked at emily, who seemed to be gazing at her round the side of one angle, and, somehow, by this time actually with a kind of glassy-eyed sympathy.
sara bent and picked her up.
remorse overtook her.
she even smiled at herself a very little smile.
"you can't help being a doll," she said with a resigned sigh, "any more than lavinia and jessie can help not having any sense.
we are not all made alike.
perhaps you do your sawdust best."
and she kissed her and shook her clothes straight, and put her back upon her chair.
she had wished very much that some one would take the empty house next door.
she wished it because of the attic window which was so near hers.
it seemed as if it would be so nice to see it propped open someday and a head and shoulders rising out of the square aperture.
"if it looked a nice head," she thought, "i might begin by saying, 'good morning,' and all sorts of things might happen.
but, of course, it's not really likely that anyone but under servants would sleep there."
one morning, on turning the corner of the square after a visit to the grocer's, the butcher's, and the baker's, she saw, to her great delight, that during her rather prolonged absence, a van full of furniture had stopped before the next house, the front doors were thrown open, and men in shirt sleeves were going in and out carrying heavy packages and pieces of furniture.
"it's taken!"
she said.
"it really is taken!
oh, i do hope a nice head will look out of the attic window!"
she would almost have liked to join the group of loiterers who had stopped on the pavement to watch the things carried in.
she had an idea that if she could see some of the furniture she could guess something about the people it belonged to.
"miss minchin's tables and chairs are just like her," she thought; "i remember thinking that the first minute i saw her, even though i was so little.
i told papa afterward, and he laughed and said it was true.
i am sure the large family have fat, comfortable armchairs and sofas, and i can see that their red-flowery wallpaper is exactly like them.
it's warm and cheerful and kind-looking and happy."
she was sent out for parsley to the greengrocer's later in the day, and when she came up the area steps her heart gave quite a quick beat of recognition.
several pieces of furniture had been set out of the van upon the pavement.
there was a beautiful table of elaborately wrought teakwood, and some chairs, and a screen covered with rich oriental embroidery.
the sight of them gave her a weird, homesick feeling.
she had seen things so like them in india.
one of the things miss minchin had taken from her was a carved teakwood desk her father had sent her.
"they are beautiful things," she said; "they look as if they ought to belong to a nice person.
all the things look rather grand.
i suppose it is a rich family."
the vans of furniture came and were unloaded and gave place to others all the day.
several times it so happened that sara had an opportunity of seeing things carried in.
it became plain that she had been right in guessing that the newcomers were people of large means.
all the furniture was rich and beautiful, and a great deal of it was oriental.
wonderful rugs and draperies and ornaments were taken from the vans, many pictures, and books enough for a library.
among other things there was a superb god buddha in a splendid shrine.
"someone in the family must have been in india," sara thought.
"they have got used to indian things and like them.
i am glad.
i shall feel as if they were friends, even if a head never looks out of the attic window."
when she was taking in the evening's milk for the cook (there was really no odd job she was not called upon to do), she saw something occur which made the situation more interesting than ever.
the handsome, rosy man who was the father of the large family walked across the square in the most matter-of-fact manner, and ran up the steps of the next-door house.
he ran up them as if he felt quite at home and expected to run up and down them many a time in the future.
he stayed inside quite a long time, and several times came out and gave directions to the workmen, as if he had a right to do so.
it was quite certain that he was in some intimate way connected with the newcomers and was acting for them.
"if the new people have children," sara speculated, "the large family children will be sure to come and play with them, and they might come up into the attic just for fun."
at night, after her work was done, becky came in to see her fellow prisoner and bring her news.
"it's a' nindian gentleman that's comin' to live next door, miss," she said.
"i don't know whether he's a black gentleman or not, but he's a nindian one.
he's very rich, an' he's ill, an' the gentleman of the large family is his lawyer.
he's had a lot of trouble, an' it's made him ill an' low in his mind.
he worships idols, miss.
he's an 'eathen an' bows down to wood an' stone.
i seen a' idol bein' carried in for him to worship.
somebody had oughter send him a trac'.
you can get a trac' for a penny."
sara laughed a little.
"i don't believe he worships that idol," she said; "some people like to keep them to look at because they are interesting.
my papa had a beautiful one, and he did not worship it."
but becky was rather inclined to prefer to believe that the new neighbor was "an 'eathen."
it sounded so much more romantic than that he should merely be the ordinary kind of gentleman who went to church with a prayer book.
she sat and talked long that night of what he would be like, of what his wife would be like if he had one, and of what his children would be like if they had children.
sara saw that privately she could not help hoping very much that they would all be black, and would wear turbans, and, above all, that like their parent they would all be "'eathens."
"i never lived next door to no 'eathens, miss," she said; "i should like to see what sort o' ways they'd have."
it was several weeks before her curiosity was satisfied, and then it was revealed that the new occupant had neither wife nor children.
he was a solitary man with no family at all, and it was evident that he was shattered in health and unhappy in mind.
a carriage drove up one day and stopped before the house.
when the footman dismounted from the box and opened the door the gentleman who was the father of the large family got out first.
after him there descended a nurse in uniform, then came down the steps two men-servants.
they came to assist their master, who, when he was helped out of the carriage, proved to be a man with a haggard, distressed face, and a skeleton body wrapped in furs.
he was carried up the steps, and the head of the large family went with him, looking very anxious.
shortly afterward a doctor's carriage arrived, and the doctor went in plainly to take care of him.
"there is such a yellow gentleman next door, sara," lottie whispered at the french class afterward.
"do you think he is a chinee?
the geography says the chinee men are yellow."
"no, he is not chinese," sara whispered back; "he is very ill.  go on with your exercise, lottie.
'non, monsieur.
je n'ai pas le canif de mon oncle.'"
that was the beginning of the story of the indian gentleman.
11
ram dass
there were fine sunsets even in the square, sometimes.
one could only see parts of them, however, between the chimneys and over the roofs.
from the kitchen windows one could not see them at all, and could only guess that they were going on because the bricks looked warm and the air rosy or yellow for a while, or perhaps one saw a blazing glow strike a particular pane of glass somewhere.
there was, however, one place from which one could see all the splendor of them: the piles of red or gold clouds in the west; or the purple ones edged with dazzling brightness; or the little fleecy, floating ones, tinged with rose-color and looking like flights of pink doves scurrying across the blue in a great hurry if there was a wind.
the place where one could see all this, and seem at the same time to breathe a purer air, was, of course, the attic window.
when the square suddenly seemed to begin to glow in an enchanted way and look wonderful in spite of its sooty trees and railings, sara knew something was going on in the sky; and when it was at all possible to leave the kitchen without being missed or called back, she invariably stole away and crept up the flights of stairs, and, climbing on the old table, got her head and body as far out of the window as possible.
when she had accomplished this, she always drew a long breath and looked all round her.
it used to seem as if she had all the sky and the world to herself.
no one else ever looked out of the other attics.
generally the skylights were closed; but even if they were propped open to admit air, no one seemed to come near them.
and there sara would stand, sometimes turning her face upward to the blue which seemed so friendly and near just like a lovely vaulted ceiling sometimes watching the west and all the wonderful things that happened there: the clouds melting or drifting or waiting softly to be changed pink or crimson or snow-white or purple or pale dove-gray.
sometimes they made islands or great mountains enclosing lakes of deep turquoise-blue, or liquid amber, or chrysoprase-green; sometimes dark headlands jutted into strange, lost seas; sometimes slender strips of wonderful lands joined other wonderful lands together.
there were places where it seemed that one could run or climb or stand and wait to see what next was coming until, perhaps, as it all melted, one could float away.
at least it seemed so to sara, and nothing had ever been quite so beautiful to her as the things she saw as she stood on the table her body half out of the skylight the sparrows twittering with sunset softness on the slates.
the sparrows always seemed to her to twitter with a sort of subdued softness just when these marvels were going on.
there was such a sunset as this a few days after the indian gentleman was brought to his new home; and, as it fortunately happened that the afternoon's work was done in the kitchen and nobody had ordered her to go anywhere or perform any task, sara found it easier than usual to slip away and go upstairs.
she mounted her table and stood looking out.
it was a wonderful moment.
there were floods of molten gold covering the west, as if a glorious tide was sweeping over the world.
a deep, rich yellow light filled the air; the birds flying across the tops of the houses showed quite black against it.
"it's a splendid one," said sara, softly, to herself.
"it makes me feel almost afraid as if something strange was just going to happen.
the splendid ones always make me feel like that."
she suddenly turned her head because she heard a sound a few yards away from her.
it was an odd sound like a queer little squeaky chattering.
it came from the window of the next attic.
someone had come to look at the sunset as she had.
there was a head and a part of a body emerging from the skylight, but it was not the head or body of a little girl or a housemaid; it was the picturesque white-swathed form and dark-faced, gleaming-eyed, white-turbaned head of a native indian man-servant "a lascar," sara said to herself quickly and the sound she had heard came from a small monkey he held in his arms as if he were fond of it, and which was snuggling and chattering against his breast.
as sara looked toward him he looked toward her.
the first thing she thought was that his dark face looked sorrowful and homesick.
she felt absolutely sure he had come up to look at the sun, because he had seen it so seldom in england that he longed for a sight of it.
she looked at him interestedly for a second, and then smiled across the slates.
she had learned to know how comforting a smile, even from a stranger, may be.
hers was evidently a pleasure to him.
his whole expression altered, and he showed such gleaming white teeth as he smiled back that it was as if a light had been illuminated in his dusky face.
the friendly look in sara's eyes was always very effective when people felt tired or dull.
it was perhaps in making his salute to her that he loosened his hold on the monkey.
he was an impish monkey and always ready for adventure, and it is probable that the sight of a little girl excited him.
he suddenly broke loose, jumped on to the slates, ran across them chattering, and actually leaped on to sara's shoulder, and from there down into her attic room.
it made her laugh and delighted her; but she knew he must be restored to his master if the lascar was his master and she wondered how this was to be done.
would he let her catch him, or would he be naughty and refuse to be caught, and perhaps get away and run off over the roofs and be lost?
that would not do at all.
perhaps he belonged to the indian gentleman, and the poor man was fond of him.
she turned to the lascar, feeling glad that she remembered still some of the hindustani she had learned when she lived with her father.
she could make the man understand.
she spoke to him in the language he knew.
"will he let me catch him?"
she asked.
she thought she had never seen more surprise and delight than the dark face expressed when she spoke in the familiar tongue.
the truth was that the poor fellow felt as if his gods had intervened, and the kind little voice came from heaven itself.
at once sara saw that he had been accustomed to european children.
he poured forth a flood of respectful thanks.
he was the servant of missee sahib.
the monkey was a good monkey and would not bite; but, unfortunately, he was difficult to catch.
he would flee from one spot to another, like the lightning.
he was disobedient, though not evil.
ram dass knew him as if he were his child, and ram dass he would sometimes obey, but not always.
if missee sahib would permit ram dass, he himself could cross the roof to her room, enter the windows, and regain the unworthy little animal.
but he was evidently afraid sara might think he was taking a great liberty and perhaps would not let him come.
but sara gave him leave at once.
"can you get across?"
she inquired.
"in a moment," he answered her.
"then come," she said; "he is flying from side to side of the room as if he was frightened."
ram dass slipped through his attic window and crossed to hers as steadily and lightly as if he had walked on roofs all his life.
he slipped through the skylight and dropped upon his feet without a sound.
then he turned to sara and salaamed again.
the monkey saw him and uttered a little scream.
ram dass hastily took the precaution of shutting the skylight, and then went in chase of him.
it was not a very long chase.
the monkey prolonged it a few minutes evidently for the mere fun of it, but presently he sprang chattering on to ram dass's shoulder and sat there chattering and clinging to his neck with a weird little skinny arm.
ram dass thanked sara profoundly.
she had seen that his quick native eyes had taken in at a glance all the bare shabbiness of the room, but he spoke to her as if he were speaking to the little daughter of a rajah, and pretended that he observed nothing.
he did not presume to remain more than a few moments after he had caught the monkey, and those moments were given to further deep and grateful obeisance to her in return for her indulgence.
this little evil one, he said, stroking the monkey, was, in truth, not so evil as he seemed, and his master, who was ill, was sometimes amused by him.
he would have been made sad if his favorite had run away and been lost.
then he salaamed once more and got through the skylight and across the slates again with as much agility as the monkey himself had displayed.
when he had gone sara stood in the middle of her attic and thought of many things his face and his manner had brought back to her.
the sight of his native costume and the profound reverence of his manner stirred all her past memories.
it seemed a strange thing to remember that she the drudge whom the cook had said insulting things to an hour ago had only a few years ago been surrounded by people who all treated her as ram dass had treated her; who salaamed when she went by, whose foreheads almost touched the ground when she spoke to them, who were her servants and her slaves.
it was like a sort of dream.
it was all over, and it could never come back.
it certainly seemed that there was no way in which any change could take place.
she knew what miss minchin intended that her future should be.
so long as she was too young to be used as a regular teacher, she would be used as an errand girl and servant and yet expected to remember what she had learned and in some mysterious way to learn more.
the greater number of her evenings she was supposed to spend at study, and at various indefinite intervals she was examined and knew she would have been severely admonished if she had not advanced as was expected of her.
the truth, indeed, was that miss minchin knew that she was too anxious to learn to require teachers.
give her books, and she would devour them and end by knowing them by heart.
she might be trusted to be equal to teaching a good deal in the course of a few years.
this was what would happen: when she was older she would be expected to drudge in the schoolroom as she drudged now in various parts of the house; they would be obliged to give her more respectable clothes, but they would be sure to be plain and ugly and to make her look somehow like a servant.
that was all there seemed to be to look forward to, and sara stood quite still for several minutes and thought it over.
then a thought came back to her which made the color rise in her cheek and a spark light itself in her eyes.
she straightened her thin little body and lifted her head.
"whatever comes," she said, "cannot alter one thing.
if i am a princess in rags and tatters, i can be a princess inside.
it would be easy to be a princess if i were dressed in cloth of gold, but it is a great deal more of a triumph to be one all the time when no one knows it.
there was marie antoinette when she was in prison and her throne was gone and she had only a black gown on, and her hair was white, and they insulted her and called her widow capet.
she was a great deal more like a queen then than when she was so gay and everything was so grand.
i like her best then.
those howling mobs of people did not frighten her.
she was stronger than they were, even when they cut her head off."
this was not a new thought, but quite an old one, by this time.
it had consoled her through many a bitter day, and she had gone about the house with an expression in her face which miss minchin could not understand and which was a source of great annoyance to her, as it seemed as if the child were mentally living a life which held her above the rest of the world.
it was as if she scarcely heard the rude and acid things said to her; or, if she heard them, did not care for them at all.
sometimes, when she was in the midst of some harsh, domineering speech, miss minchin would find the still, unchildish eyes fixed upon her with something like a proud smile in them.
at such times she did not know that sara was saying to herself:
"you don't know that you are saying these things to a princess, and that if i chose i could wave my hand and order you to execution.
i only spare you because i am a princess, and you are a poor, stupid, unkind, vulgar old thing, and don't know any better."
this used to interest and amuse her more than anything else; and queer and fanciful as it was, she found comfort in it and it was a good thing for her.
while the thought held possession of her, she could not be made rude and malicious by the rudeness and malice of those about her.
"a princess must be polite," she said to herself.
and so when the servants, taking their tone from their mistress, were insolent and ordered her about, she would hold her head erect and reply to them with a quaint civility which often made them stare at her.
"she's got more airs and graces than if she come from buckingham palace, that young one," said the cook, chuckling a little sometimes.
"i lose my temper with her often enough, but i will say she never forgets her manners.
'if you please, cook'; 'will you be so kind, cook?'
'i beg your pardon, cook'; 'may i trouble you, cook?'
she drops 'em about the kitchen as if they was nothing."
the morning after the interview with ram dass and his monkey, sara was in the schoolroom with her small pupils.
having finished giving them their lessons, she was putting the french exercise-books together and thinking, as she did it, of the various things royal personages in disguise were called upon to do:  alfred the great, for instance, burning the cakes and getting his ears boxed by the wife of the neat-herd.
how frightened she must have been when she found out what she had done.
if miss minchin should find out that she sara, whose toes were almost sticking out of her boots was a princess a real one!
the look in her eyes was exactly the look which miss minchin most disliked.
she would not have it; she was quite near her and was so enraged that she actually flew at her and boxed her ears exactly as the neat-herd's wife had boxed king alfred's.
it made sara start.
she wakened from her dream at the shock, and, catching her breath, stood still a second.
then, not knowing she was going to do it, she broke into a little laugh.
"what are you laughing at, you bold, impudent child?"
miss minchin exclaimed.
it took sara a few seconds to control herself sufficiently to remember that she was a princess.
her cheeks were red and smarting from the blows she had received.
"i was thinking," she answered.
"beg my pardon immediately," said miss minchin.
sara hesitated a second before she replied.
"i will beg your pardon for laughing, if it was rude," she said then; "but i won't beg your pardon for thinking."
"what were you thinking?"
demanded miss minchin.
"how dare you think?
what were you thinking?"
jessie tittered, and she and lavinia nudged each other in unison.
all the girls looked up from their books to listen.
really, it always interested them a little when miss minchin attacked sara.
sara always said something queer, and never seemed the least bit frightened.
she was not in the least frightened now, though her boxed ears were scarlet and her eyes were as bright as stars.
"i was thinking," she answered grandly and politely, "that you did not know what you were doing."
"that i did not know what i was doing?"
miss minchin fairly gasped.
"yes," said sara, "and i was thinking what would happen if i were a princess and you boxed my ears what i should do to you.
and i was thinking that if i were one, you would never dare to do it, whatever i said or did.
and i was thinking how surprised and frightened you would be if you suddenly found out "
she had the imagined future so clearly before her eyes that she spoke in a manner which had an effect even upon miss minchin.
it almost seemed for the moment to her narrow, unimaginative mind that there must be some real power hidden behind this candid daring.
"what?"
she exclaimed.
"found out what?"
"that i really was a princess," said sara, "and could do anything anything i liked."
every pair of eyes in the room widened to its full limit.
lavinia leaned forward on her seat to look.
"go to your room," cried miss minchin, breathlessly, "this instant!
leave the schoolroom!
attend to your lessons, young ladies!"
sara made a little bow.
"excuse me for laughing if it was impolite," she said, and walked out of the room, leaving miss minchin struggling with her rage, and the girls whispering over their books.
"did you see her?
did you see how queer she looked?"
jessie broke out.
"i shouldn't be at all surprised if she did turn out to be something.
suppose she should!"
12
the other side of the wall
when one lives in a row of houses, it is interesting to think of the things which are being done and said on the other side of the wall of the very rooms one is living in.
sara was fond of amusing herself by trying to imagine the things hidden by the wall which divided the select seminary from the indian gentleman's house.
she knew that the schoolroom was next to the indian gentleman's study, and she hoped that the wall was thick so that the noise made sometimes after lesson hours would not disturb him.
"i am growing quite fond of him," she said to ermengarde; "i should not like him to be disturbed.
i have adopted him for a friend.
you can do that with people you never speak to at all.
you can just watch them, and think about them and be sorry for them, until they seem almost like relations.
i'm quite anxious sometimes when i see the doctor call twice a day."
"i have very few relations," said ermengarde, reflectively, "and i'm very glad of it.
i don't like those i have.
my two aunts are always saying, 'dear me, ermengarde!
you are very fat.
you shouldn't eat sweets,' and my uncle is always asking me things like, 'when did edward the third ascend the throne?'
and, 'who died of a surfeit of lampreys?'"
sara laughed.
"people you never speak to can't ask you questions like that," she said; "and i'm sure the indian gentleman wouldn't even if he was quite intimate with you.
i am fond of him."
she had become fond of the large family because they looked happy; but she had become fond of the indian gentleman because he looked unhappy.
he had evidently not fully recovered from some very severe illness.
in the kitchen where, of course, the servants, through some mysterious means, knew everything there was much discussion of his case.
he was not an indian gentleman really, but an englishman who had lived in india.
he had met with great misfortunes which had for a time so imperilled his whole fortune that he had thought himself ruined and disgraced forever.
the shock had been so great that he had almost died of brain fever; and ever since he had been shattered in health, though his fortunes had changed and all his possessions had been restored to him.
his trouble and peril had been connected with mines.
"and mines with diamonds in 'em!"
said the cook.
"no savin's of mine never goes into no mines particular diamond ones" with a side glance at sara.
"we all know somethin' of them."
"he felt as my papa felt," sara thought.
"he was ill as my papa was; but he did not die."
so her heart was more drawn to him than before.
when she was sent out at night she used sometimes to feel quite glad, because there was always a chance that the curtains of the house next door might not yet be closed and she could look into the warm room and see her adopted friend.
when no one was about she used sometimes to stop, and, holding to the iron railings, wish him good night as if he could hear her.
"perhaps you can feel if you can't hear," was her fancy.
"perhaps kind thoughts reach people somehow, even through windows and doors and walls.
perhaps you feel a little warm and comforted, and don't know why, when i am standing here in the cold and hoping you will get well and happy again.
i am so sorry for you," she would whisper in an intense little voice.
"i wish you had a 'little missus' who could pet you as i used to pet papa when he had a headache.
i should like to be your 'little missus' myself, poor dear!
good night good night.
god bless you!"
she would go away, feeling quite comforted and a little warmer herself.
her sympathy was so strong that it seemed as if it must reach him somehow as he sat alone in his armchair by the fire, nearly always in a great dressing gown, and nearly always with his forehead resting in his hand as he gazed hopelessly into the fire.
he looked to sara like a man who had a trouble on his mind still, not merely like one whose troubles lay all in the past.
"he always seems as if he were thinking of something that hurts him now," she said to herself, "but he has got his money back and he will get over his brain fever in time, so he ought not to look like that.
i wonder if there is something else."
if there was something else something even servants did not hear of she could not help believing that the father of the large family knew it the gentleman she called mr. montmorency.
mr. montmorency went to see him often, and mrs. montmorency and all the little montmorencys went, too, though less often.
he seemed particularly fond of the two elder little girls the janet and nora who had been so alarmed when their small brother donald had given sara his sixpence.
he had, in fact, a very tender place in his heart for all children, and particularly for little girls.
janet and nora were as fond of him as he was of them, and looked forward with the greatest pleasure to the afternoons when they were allowed to cross the square and make their well-behaved little visits to him.
they were extremely decorous little visits because he was an invalid.
"he is a poor thing," said janet, "and he says we cheer him up.
we try to cheer him up very quietly."
janet was the head of the family, and kept the rest of it in order.
it was she who decided when it was discreet to ask the indian gentleman to tell stories about india, and it was she who saw when he was tired and it was the time to steal quietly away and tell ram dass to go to him.
they were very fond of ram dass.
he could have told any number of stories if he had been able to speak anything but hindustani.
the indian gentleman's real name was mr. carrisford, and janet told mr.
carrisford about the encounter with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar.
he was very much interested, and all the more so when he heard from ram dass of the adventure of the monkey on the roof.
ram dass made for him a very clear picture of the attic and its desolateness of the bare floor and broken plaster, the rusty, empty grate, and the hard, narrow bed.
"carmichael," he said to the father of the large family, after he had heard this description, "i wonder how many of the attics in this square are like that one, and how many wretched little servant girls sleep on such beds, while i toss on my down pillows, loaded and harassed by wealth that is, most of it not mine."
"my dear fellow," mr. carmichael answered cheerily, "the sooner you cease tormenting yourself the better it will be for you.
if you possessed all the wealth of all the indies, you could not set right all the discomforts in the world, and if you began to refurnish all the attics in this square, there would still remain all the attics in all the other squares and streets to put in order.
and there you are!"
mr. carrisford sat and bit his nails as he looked into the glowing bed of coals in the grate.
"do you suppose," he said slowly, after a pause "do you think it is possible that the other child the child i never cease thinking of, i believe could be could possibly be reduced to any such condition as the poor little soul next door?"
mr. carmichael looked at him uneasily.
he knew that the worst thing the man could do for himself, for his reason and his health, was to begin to think in the particular way of this particular subject.
"if the child at madame pascal's school in paris was the one you are in search of," he answered soothingly, "she would seem to be in the hands of people who can afford to take care of her.
they adopted her because she had been the favorite companion of their little daughter who died.
they had no other children, and madame pascal said that they were extremely well-to-do russians."
"and the wretched woman actually did not know where they had taken her!"
exclaimed mr. carrisford.
mr. carmichael shrugged his shoulders.
"she was a shrewd, worldly frenchwoman, and was evidently only too glad to get the child so comfortably off her hands when the father's death left her totally unprovided for.
women of her type do not trouble themselves about the futures of children who might prove burdens.
the adopted parents apparently disappeared and left no trace."
"but you say 'if the child was the one i am in search of.
you say 'if.'
we are not sure.
there was a difference in the name."
"madame pascal pronounced it as if it were carew instead of crewe but that might be merely a matter of pronunciation.
the circumstances were curiously similar.
an english officer in india had placed his motherless little girl at the school.
he had died suddenly after losing his fortune."
mr. carmichael paused a moment, as if a new thought had occurred to him.
"are you sure the child was left at a school in paris?
are you sure it was paris?"
"my dear fellow," broke forth carrisford, with restless bitterness, "i am sure of nothing.
i never saw either the child or her mother.
ralph crewe and i loved each other as boys, but we had not met since our school days, until we met in india.
i was absorbed in the magnificent promise of the mines.
he became absorbed, too.
the whole thing was so huge and glittering that we half lost our heads.
when we met we scarcely spoke of anything else.
i only knew that the child had been sent to school somewhere.
i do not even remember, now, how i knew it."
he was beginning to be excited.
he always became excited when his still weakened brain was stirred by memories of the catastrophes of the past.
mr. carmichael watched him anxiously.
it was necessary to ask some questions, but they must be put quietly and with caution.
"but you had reason to think the school was in paris?"
"yes," was the answer, "because her mother was a frenchwoman, and i had heard that she wished her child to be educated in paris.
it seemed only likely that she would be there."
"yes," mr. carmichael said, "it seems more than probable."
the indian gentleman leaned forward and struck the table with a long, wasted hand.
"carmichael," he said, "i must find her.
if she is alive, she is somewhere.
if she is friendless and penniless, it is through my fault.
how is a man to get back his nerve with a thing like that on his mind?
this sudden change of luck at the mines has made realities of all our most fantastic dreams, and poor crewe's child may be begging in the street!"
"no, no," said carmichael.
"try to be calm.
console yourself with the fact that when she is found you have a fortune to hand over to her."
"why was i not man enough to stand my ground when things looked black?"
carrisford groaned in petulant misery.
"i believe i should have stood my ground if i had not been responsible for other people's money as well as my own.
poor crewe had put into the scheme every penny that he owned.
he trusted me he loved me.
and he died thinking i had ruined him i tom carrisford, who played cricket at eton with him.
what a villain he must have thought me!"
"don't reproach yourself so bitterly."
"i don't reproach myself because the speculation threatened to fail i reproach myself for losing my courage.
i ran away like a swindler and a thief, because i could not face my best friend and tell him i had ruined him and his child."
the good-hearted father of the large family put his hand on his shoulder comfortingly.
"you ran away because your brain had given way under the strain of mental torture," he said.
"you were half delirious already.
if you had not been you would have stayed and fought it out.
you were in a hospital, strapped down in bed, raving with brain fever, two days after you left the place.
remember that."
carrisford dropped his forehead in his hands.
"good god!
yes," he said.
"i was driven mad with dread and horror.
i had not slept for weeks.
the night i staggered out of my house all the air seemed full of hideous things mocking and mouthing at me."
"that is explanation enough in itself," said mr. carmichael.
"how could a man on the verge of brain fever judge sanely!"
carrisford shook his drooping head.
"and when i returned to consciousness poor crewe was dead and buried.
and i seemed to remember nothing.
i did not remember the child for months and months.
even when i began to recall her existence everything seemed in a sort of haze."
he stopped a moment and rubbed his forehead.
"it sometimes seems so now when i try to remember.
surely i must sometime have heard crewe speak of the school she was sent to.
don't you think so?"
"he might not have spoken of it definitely.
you never seem even to have heard her real name."
"he used to call her by an odd pet name he had invented.
he called her his 'little missus.'
but the wretched mines drove everything else out of our heads.
we talked of nothing else.
if he spoke of the school, i forgot i forgot.
and now i shall never remember."
"come, come," said carmichael.
"we shall find her yet.
we will continue to search for madame pascal's good-natured russians.
she seemed to have a vague idea that they lived in moscow.
we will take that as a clue.
i will go to moscow."
"if i were able to travel, i would go with you," said carrisford; "but i can only sit here wrapped in furs and stare at the fire.
and when i look into it i seem to see crewe's gay young face gazing back at me.
he looks as if he were asking me a question.
sometimes i dream of him at night, and he always stands before me and asks the same question in words.
can you guess what he says, carmichael?"
mr. carmichael answered him in a rather low voice.
"not exactly," he said.
"he always says, 'tom, old man tom where is the little missus?'"
he caught at carmichael's hand and clung to it.
"i must be able to answer him i must!"
he said.
"help me to find her.
help me."
on the other side of the wall sara was sitting in her garret talking to melchisedec, who had come out for his evening meal.
"it has been hard to be a princess today, melchisedec," she said.
"it has been harder than usual.
it gets harder as the weather grows colder and the streets get more sloppy.
when lavinia laughed at my muddy skirt as i passed her in the hall, i thought of something to say all in a flash and i only just stopped myself in time.
you can't sneer back at people like that if you are a princess.
but you have to bite your tongue to hold yourself in.
i bit mine.
it was a cold afternoon, melchisedec.
and it's a cold night."
quite suddenly she put her black head down in her arms, as she often did when she was alone.
"oh, papa," she whispered, "what a long time it seems since i was your 'little missus'!"
this was what happened that day on both sides of the wall.
13
one of the populace
the winter was a wretched one.
there were days on which sara tramped through snow when she went on her errands; there were worse days when the snow melted and combined itself with mud to form slush; there were others when the fog was so thick that the lamps in the street were lighted all day and london looked as it had looked the afternoon, several years ago, when the cab had driven through the thoroughfares with sara tucked up on its seat, leaning against her father's shoulder.
on such days the windows of the house of the large family always looked delightfully cozy and alluring, and the study in which the indian gentleman sat glowed with warmth and rich color.
but the attic was dismal beyond words.
there were no longer sunsets or sunrises to look at, and scarcely ever any stars, it seemed to sara.
the clouds hung low over the skylight and were either gray or mud-color, or dropping heavy rain.
at four o'clock in the afternoon, even when there was no special fog, the daylight was at an end.
if it was necessary to go to her attic for anything, sara was obliged to light a candle.
the women in the kitchen were depressed, and that made them more ill-tempered than ever.
becky was driven like a little slave.
"'twarn't for you, miss," she said hoarsely to sara one night when she had crept into the attic "'twarn't for you, an' the bastille, an'
bein' the prisoner in the next cell, i should die.
that there does seem real now, doesn't it?
the missus is more like the head jailer every day she lives.
i can jest see them big keys you say she carries.
the cook she's like one of the under-jailers.
tell me some more, please, miss tell me about the subt'ranean passage we've dug under the walls."
"i'll tell you something warmer," shivered sara.
"get your coverlet and wrap it round you, and i'll get mine, and we will huddle close together on the bed, and i'll tell you about the tropical forest where the indian gentleman's monkey used to live.
when i see him sitting on the table near the window and looking out into the street with that mournful expression, i always feel sure he is thinking about the tropical forest where he used to swing by his tail from coconut trees.
i wonder who caught him, and if he left a family behind who had depended on him for coconuts."
"that is warmer, miss," said becky, gratefully; "but, someways, even the bastille is sort of heatin' when you gets to tellin' about it."
"that is because it makes you think of something else," said sara, wrapping the coverlet round her until only her small dark face was to be seen looking out of it.
"i've noticed this.
what you have to do with your mind, when your body is miserable, is to make it think of something else."
"can you do it, miss?"
faltered becky, regarding her with admiring eyes.
sara knitted her brows a moment.
"sometimes i can and sometimes i can't," she said stoutly.
"but when i can i'm all right.
and what i believe is that we always could if we practiced enough.
i've been practicing a good deal lately, and it's beginning to be easier than it used to be.
when things are horrible just horrible i think as hard as ever i can of being a princess.
i say to myself, 'i am a princess, and i am a fairy one, and because i am a fairy nothing can hurt me or make me uncomfortable.'
you don't know how it makes you forget" with a laugh.
she had many opportunities of making her mind think of something else, and many opportunities of proving to herself whether or not she was a princess.
but one of the strongest tests she was ever put to came on a certain dreadful day which, she often thought afterward, would never quite fade out of her memory even in the years to come.
for several days it had rained continuously; the streets were chilly and sloppy and full of dreary, cold mist; there was mud everywhere sticky london mud and over everything the pall of drizzle and fog.
of course there were several long and tiresome errands to be done there always were on days like this and sara was sent out again and again, until her shabby clothes were damp through.
the absurd old feathers on her forlorn hat were more draggled and absurd than ever, and her downtrodden shoes were so wet that they could not hold any more water.
added to this, she had been deprived of her dinner, because miss minchin had chosen to punish her.
she was so cold and hungry and tired that her face began to have a pinched look, and now and then some kind-hearted person passing her in the street glanced at her with sudden sympathy.
but she did not know that.
she hurried on, trying to make her mind think of something else.
it was really very necessary.
her way of doing it was to "pretend" and "suppose" with all the strength that was left in her.
but really this time it was harder than she had ever found it, and once or twice she thought it almost made her more cold and hungry instead of less so.
but she persevered obstinately, and as the muddy water squelched through her broken shoes and the wind seemed trying to drag her thin jacket from her, she talked to herself as she walked, though she did not speak aloud or even move her lips.
"suppose i had dry clothes on," she thought.
"suppose i had good shoes and a long, thick coat and merino stockings and a whole umbrella.
and suppose suppose just when i was near a baker's where they sold hot buns, i should find sixpence which belonged to nobody.
suppose if i did, i should go into the shop and buy six of the hottest buns and eat them all without stopping."
some very odd things happen in this world sometimes.
it certainly was an odd thing that happened to sara.
she had to cross the street just when she was saying this to herself.
the mud was dreadful she almost had to wade.
she picked her way as carefully as she could, but she could not save herself much; only, in picking her way, she had to look down at her feet and the mud, and in looking down just as she reached the pavement she saw something shining in the gutter.
it was actually a piece of silver a tiny piece trodden upon by many feet, but still with spirit enough left to shine a little.
not quite a sixpence, but the next thing to it a fourpenny piece.
in one second it was in her cold little red-and-blue hand.
"oh," she gasped, "it is true!
it is true!"
and then, if you will believe me, she looked straight at the shop directly facing her.
and it was a baker's shop, and a cheerful, stout, motherly woman with rosy cheeks was putting into the window a tray of delicious newly baked hot buns, fresh from the oven large, plump, shiny buns, with currants in them.
it almost made sara feel faint for a few seconds the shock, and the sight of the buns, and the delightful odors of warm bread floating up through the baker's cellar window.
she knew she need not hesitate to use the little piece of money.
it had evidently been lying in the mud for some time, and its owner was completely lost in the stream of passing people who crowded and jostled each other all day long.
"but i'll go and ask the baker woman if she has lost anything," she said to herself, rather faintly.
so she crossed the pavement and put her wet foot on the step.
as she did so she saw something that made her stop.
it was a little figure more forlorn even than herself a little figure which was not much more than a bundle of rags, from which small, bare, red muddy feet peeped out, only because the rags with which their owner was trying to cover them were not long enough.
above the rags appeared a shock head of tangled hair, and a dirty face with big, hollow, hungry eyes.
sara knew they were hungry eyes the moment she saw them, and she felt a sudden sympathy.
"this," she said to herself, with a little sigh, "is one of the populace and she is hungrier than i am."
the child this "one of the populace" stared up at sara, and shuffled herself aside a little, so as to give her room to pass.
she was used to being made to give room to everybody.
she knew that if a policeman chanced to see her he would tell her to "move on."
sara clutched her little fourpenny piece and hesitated for a few seconds.
then she spoke to her.
"are you hungry?"
she asked.
the child shuffled herself and her rags a little more.
"ain't i jist?"
she said in a hoarse voice.
"jist ain't i?"
"haven't you had any dinner?"
said sara.
"no dinner," more hoarsely still and with more shuffling.
"nor yet no bre'fast nor yet no supper.
no nothin'.
"since when?"
asked sara.
"dunno.
never got nothin' today nowhere.
i've axed an' axed."
just to look at her made sara more hungry and faint.
but those queer little thoughts were at work in her brain, and she was talking to herself, though she was sick at heart.
"if i'm a princess," she was saying, "if i'm a princess when they were poor and driven from their thrones they always shared with the populace if they met one poorer and hungrier than themselves.
they always shared.
buns are a penny each.
if it had been sixpence i could have eaten six.
it won't be enough for either of us.
but it will be better than nothing."
"wait a minute," she said to the beggar child.
she went into the shop.
it was warm and smelled deliciously.
the woman was just going to put some more hot buns into the window.
"if you please," said sara, "have you lost fourpence a silver fourpence?"
and she held the forlorn little piece of money out to her.
the woman looked at it and then at her at her intense little face and draggled, once fine clothes.
"bless us, no," she answered.
"did you find it?"
"yes," said sara.
"in the gutter."
"keep it, then," said the woman.
"it may have been there for a week, and goodness knows who lost it.
you could never find out."
"i know that," said sara, "but i thought i would ask you."
"not many would," said the woman, looking puzzled and interested and good-natured all at once.
"do you want to buy something?"
she added, as she saw sara glance at the buns.
"four buns, if you please," said sara.
"those at a penny each."
the woman went to the window and put some in a paper bag.
sara noticed that she put in six.
"i said four, if you please," she explained.
"i have only fourpence."
"i'll throw in two for makeweight," said the woman with her good-natured look.
"i dare say you can eat them sometime.
aren't you hungry?"
a mist rose before sara's eyes.
"yes," she answered.
"i am very hungry, and i am much obliged to you for your kindness; and" she was going to add "there is a child outside who is hungrier than i am."
but just at that moment two or three customers came in at once, and each one seemed in a hurry, so she could only thank the woman again and go out.
the beggar girl was still huddled up in the corner of the step.
she looked frightful in her wet and dirty rags.
she was staring straight before her with a stupid look of suffering, and sara saw her suddenly draw the back of her roughened black hand across her eyes to rub away the tears which seemed to have surprised her by forcing their way from under her lids.
she was muttering to herself.
sara opened the paper bag and took out one of the hot buns, which had already warmed her own cold hands a little.
"see," she said, putting the bun in the ragged lap, "this is nice and hot.
eat it, and you will not feel so hungry."
the child started and stared up at her, as if such sudden, amazing good luck almost frightened her; then she snatched up the bun and began to cram it into her mouth with great wolfish bites.
"oh, my!
oh, my!"
sara heard her say hoarsely, in wild delight.
"oh my!"
sara took out three more buns and put them down.
the sound in the hoarse, ravenous voice was awful.
"she is hungrier than i am," she said to herself.
"she's starving."
but her hand trembled when she put down the fourth bun.
"i'm not starving," she said and she put down the fifth.
the little ravening london savage was still snatching and devouring when she turned away.
she was too ravenous to give any thanks, even if she had ever been taught politeness which she had not.
she was only a poor little wild animal.
"good-bye," said sara.
when she reached the other side of the street she looked back.
the child had a bun in each hand and had stopped in the middle of a bite to watch her.
sara gave her a little nod, and the child, after another stare a curious lingering stare jerked her shaggy head in response, and until sara was out of sight she did not take another bite or even finish the one she had begun.
at that moment the baker-woman looked out of her shop window.
"well, i never!"
she exclaimed.
"if that young un hasn't given her buns to a beggar child!
it wasn't because she didn't want them, either.
well, well, she looked hungry enough.
i'd give something to know what she did it for."
she stood behind her window for a few moments and pondered.
then her curiosity got the better of her.
she went to the door and spoke to the beggar child.
"who gave you those buns?"
she asked her.
the child nodded her head toward sara's vanishing figure.
"what did she say?"
inquired the woman.
"axed me if i was 'ungry," replied the hoarse voice.
"what did you say?"
"said i was jist."
"and then she came in and got the buns, and gave them to you, did she?"
the child nodded.
"how many?"
"five."
the woman thought it over.
"left just one for herself," she said in a low voice.
"and she could have eaten the whole six i saw it in her eyes."
she looked after the little draggled far-away figure and felt more disturbed in her usually comfortable mind than she had felt for many a day.
"i wish she hadn't gone so quick," she said.
"i'm blest if she shouldn't have had a dozen."
then she turned to the child.
"are you hungry yet?"
she said.
"i'm allus hungry," was the answer, "but 't ain't as bad as it was."
"come in here," said the woman, and she held open the shop door.
the child got up and shuffled in.
to be invited into a warm place full of bread seemed an incredible thing.
she did not know what was going to happen.
she did not care, even.
"get yourself warm," said the woman, pointing to a fire in the tiny back room.
"and look here; when you are hard up for a bit of bread, you can come in here and ask for it.
i'm blest if i won't give it to you for that young one's sake."
*    *    *
sara found some comfort in her remaining bun.
at all events, it was very hot, and it was better than nothing.
as she walked along she broke off small pieces and ate them slowly to make them last longer.
"suppose it was a magic bun," she said, "and a bite was as much as a whole dinner.
i should be overeating myself if i went on like this."
it was dark when she reached the square where the select seminary was situated.
the lights in the houses were all lighted.
the blinds were not yet drawn in the windows of the room where she nearly always caught glimpses of members of the large family.
frequently at this hour she could see the gentleman she called mr. montmorency sitting in a big chair, with a small swarm round him, talking, laughing, perching on the arms of his seat or on his knees or leaning against them.
this evening the swarm was about him, but he was not seated.
on the contrary, there was a good deal of excitement going on.
it was evident that a journey was to be taken, and it was mr. montmorency who was to take it.
a brougham stood before the door, and a big portmanteau had been strapped upon it.
the children were dancing about, chattering and hanging on to their father.
the pretty rosy mother was standing near him, talking as if she was asking final questions.
sara paused a moment to see the little ones lifted up and kissed and the bigger ones bent over and kissed also.
"i wonder if he will stay away long," she thought.
"the portmanteau is rather big.
oh, dear, how they will miss him!
i shall miss him myself even though he doesn't know i am alive."
when the door opened she moved away remembering the sixpence but she saw the traveler come out and stand against the background of the warmly-lighted hall, the older children still hovering about him.
"will moscow be covered with snow?"
said the little girl janet.
"will there be ice everywhere?"
"shall you drive in a drosky?"
cried another.
"shall you see the czar?"
"i will write and tell you all about it," he answered, laughing.
"and i will send you pictures of muzhiks and things.
run into the house.
it is a hideous damp night.
i would rather stay with you than go to moscow.
good night!
good night, duckies!
god bless you!"
and he ran down the steps and jumped into the brougham.
"if you find the little girl, give her our love," shouted guy clarence, jumping up and down on the door mat.
then they went in and shut the door.
"did you see," said janet to nora, as they went back to the room "the little-girl-who-is-not-a-beggar was passing?
she looked all cold and wet, and i saw her turn her head over her shoulder and look at us.
mamma says her clothes always look as if they had been given her by someone who was quite rich someone who only let her have them because they were too shabby to wear.
the people at the school always send her out on errands on the horridest days and nights there are."
sara crossed the square to miss minchin's area steps, feeling faint and shaky.
"i wonder who the little girl is," she thought "the little girl he is going to look for."
and she went down the area steps, lugging her basket and finding it very heavy indeed, as the father of the large family drove quickly on his way to the station to take the train which was to carry him to moscow, where he was to make his best efforts to search for the lost little daughter of captain crewe.
14
what melchisedec heard and saw
on this very afternoon, while sara was out, a strange thing happened in the attic.
only melchisedec saw and heard it; and he was so much alarmed and mystified that he scuttled back to his hole and hid there, and really quaked and trembled as he peeped out furtively and with great caution to watch what was going on.
the attic had been very still all the day after sara had left it in the early morning.
the stillness had only been broken by the pattering of the rain upon the slates and the skylight.
melchisedec had, in fact, found it rather dull; and when the rain ceased to patter and perfect silence reigned, he decided to come out and reconnoiter, though experience taught him that sara would not return for some time.
he had been rambling and sniffing about, and had just found a totally unexpected and unexplained crumb left from his last meal, when his attention was attracted by a sound on the roof.
he stopped to listen with a palpitating heart.
the sound suggested that something was moving on the roof.
it was approaching the skylight; it reached the skylight.
the skylight was being mysteriously opened.
a dark face peered into the attic; then another face appeared behind it, and both looked in with signs of caution and interest.
two men were outside on the roof, and were making silent preparations to enter through the skylight itself.
one was ram dass and the other was a young man who was the indian gentleman's secretary; but of course melchisedec did not know this.
he only knew that the men were invading the silence and privacy of the attic; and as the one with the dark face let himself down through the aperture with such lightness and dexterity that he did not make the slightest sound, melchisedec turned tail and fled precipitately back to his hole.
he was frightened to death.
he had ceased to be timid with sara, and knew she would never throw anything but crumbs, and would never make any sound other than the soft, low, coaxing whistling; but strange men were dangerous things to remain near.
he lay close and flat near the entrance of his home, just managing to peep through the crack with a bright, alarmed eye.
how much he understood of the talk he heard i am not in the least able to say; but, even if he had understood it all, he would probably have remained greatly mystified.
the secretary, who was light and young, slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as ram dass had done; and he caught a last glimpse of melchisedec's vanishing tail.
"was that a rat?"
he asked ram dass in a whisper.
"yes; a rat, sahib," answered ram dass, also whispering.
"there are many in the walls."
"ugh!"
exclaimed the young man.
"it is a wonder the child is not terrified of them."
ram dass made a gesture with his hands.
he also smiled respectfully.
he was in this place as the intimate exponent of sara, though she had only spoken to him once.
"the child is the little friend of all things, sahib," he answered.
"she is not as other children.
i see her when she does not see me.
i slip across the slates and look at her many nights to see that she is safe.
i watch her from my window when she does not know i am near.
she stands on the table there and looks out at the sky as if it spoke to her.
the sparrows come at her call.
the rat she has fed and tamed in her loneliness.
the poor slave of the house comes to her for comfort.
there is a little child who comes to her in secret; there is one older who worships her and would listen to her forever if she might.
this i have seen when i have crept across the roof.
by the mistress of the house who is an evil woman she is treated like a pariah; but she has the bearing of a child who is of the blood of kings!"
"you seem to know a great deal about her," the secretary said.
"all her life each day i know," answered ram dass.
"her going out i know, and her coming in; her sadness and her poor joys; her coldness and her hunger.
i know when she is alone until midnight, learning from her books; i know when her secret friends steal to her and she is happier as children can be, even in the midst of poverty because they come and she may laugh and talk with them in whispers.
if she were ill i should know, and i would come and serve her if it might be done."
"you are sure no one comes near this place but herself, and that she will not return and surprise us.
she would be frightened if she found us here, and the sahib carrisford's plan would be spoiled."
ram dass crossed noiselessly to the door and stood close to it.
"none mount here but herself, sahib," he said.
"she has gone out with her basket and may be gone for hours.
if i stand here i can hear any step before it reaches the last flight of the stairs."
the secretary took a pencil and a tablet from his breast pocket.
"keep your ears open," he said; and he began to walk slowly and softly round the miserable little room, making rapid notes on his tablet as he looked at things.
first he went to the narrow bed.
he pressed his hand upon the mattress and uttered an exclamation.
"as hard as a stone," he said.
"that will have to be altered some day when she is out.
a special journey can be made to bring it across.
it cannot be done tonight."
he lifted the covering and examined the one thin pillow.
"coverlet dingy and worn, blanket thin, sheets patched and ragged," he said.
"what a bed for a child to sleep in and in a house which calls itself respectable!
there has not been a fire in that grate for many a day," glancing at the rusty fireplace.
"never since i have seen it," said ram dass.
"the mistress of the house is not one who remembers that another than herself may be cold."
the secretary was writing quickly on his tablet.
he looked up from it as he tore off a leaf and slipped it into his breast pocket.
"it is a strange way of doing the thing," he said.
"who planned it?"
ram dass made a modestly apologetic obeisance.
"it is true that the first thought was mine, sahib," he said; "though it was naught but a fancy.
i am fond of this child; we are both lonely.
it is her way to relate her visions to her secret friends.
being sad one night, i lay close to the open skylight and listened.
the vision she related told what this miserable room might be if it had comforts in it.
she seemed to see it as she talked, and she grew cheered and warmed as she spoke.
then she came to this fancy; and the next day, the sahib being ill and wretched, i told him of the thing to amuse him.
it seemed then but a dream, but it pleased the sahib.
to hear of the child's doings gave him entertainment.
he became interested in her and asked questions.
at last he began to please himself with the thought of making her visions real things."
"you think that it can be done while she sleeps?
suppose she awakened," suggested the secretary; and it was evident that whatsoever the plan referred to was, it had caught and pleased his fancy as well as the sahib carrisford's.
"i can move as if my feet were of velvet," ram dass replied; "and children sleep soundly even the unhappy ones.
i could have entered this room in the night many times, and without causing her to turn upon her pillow.
if the other bearer passes to me the things through the window, i can do all and she will not stir.
when she awakens she will think a magician has been here."
he smiled as if his heart warmed under his white robe, and the secretary smiled back at him.
"it will be like a story from the arabian nights," he said.
"only an oriental could have planned it.
it does not belong to london fogs."
they did not remain very long, to the great relief of melchisedec, who, as he probably did not comprehend their conversation, felt their movements and whispers ominous.
the young secretary seemed interested in everything.
he wrote down things about the floor, the fireplace, the broken footstool, the old table, the walls which last he touched with his hand again and again, seeming much pleased when he found that a number of old nails had been driven in various places.
"you can hang things on them," he said.
ram dass smiled mysteriously.
"yesterday, when she was out," he said, "i entered, bringing with me small, sharp nails which can be pressed into the wall without blows from a hammer.
i placed many in the plaster where i may need them.
they are ready."
the indian gentleman's secretary stood still and looked round him as he thrust his tablets back into his pocket.
"i think i have made notes enough; we can go now," he said.
"the sahib carrisford has a warm heart.
it is a thousand pities that he has not found the lost child."
"if he should find her his strength would be restored to him," said ram dass.
"his god may lead her to him yet."
then they slipped through the skylight as noiselessly as they had entered it.
and, after he was quite sure they had gone, melchisedec was greatly relieved, and in the course of a few minutes felt it safe to emerge from his hole again and scuffle about in the hope that even such alarming human beings as these might have chanced to carry crumbs in their pockets and drop one or two of them.
15
the magic
when sara had passed the house next door she had seen ram dass closing the shutters, and caught her glimpse of this room also.
"it is a long time since i saw a nice place from the inside," was the thought which crossed her mind.
there was the usual bright fire glowing in the grate, and the indian gentleman was sitting before it.
his head was resting in his hand, and he looked as lonely and unhappy as ever.
"poor man!"
said sara.
"i wonder what you are supposing."
and this was what he was "supposing" at that very moment.
"suppose," he was thinking, "suppose even if carmichael traces the people to moscow the little girl they took from madame pascal's school in paris is not the one we are in search of.
suppose she proves to be quite a different child.
what steps shall i take next?"
when sara went into the house she met miss minchin, who had come downstairs to scold the cook.
"where have you wasted your time?"
she demanded.
"you have been out for hours."
"it was so wet and muddy," sara answered, "it was hard to walk, because my shoes were so bad and slipped about."
"make no excuses," said miss minchin, "and tell no falsehoods."
sara went in to the cook.
the cook had received a severe lecture and was in a fearful temper as a result.
she was only too rejoiced to have someone to vent her rage on, and sara was a convenience, as usual.
"why didn't you stay all night?"
she snapped.
sara laid her purchases on the table.
"here are the things," she said.
the cook looked them over, grumbling.
she was in a very savage humor indeed.
"may i have something to eat?"
sara asked rather faintly.
"tea's over and done with," was the answer.
"did you expect me to keep it hot for you?"
sara stood silent for a second.
"i had no dinner," she said next, and her voice was quite low.
she made it low because she was afraid it would tremble.
"there's some bread in the pantry," said the cook.
"that's all you'll get at this time of day."
sara went and found the bread.
it was old and hard and dry.
the cook was in too vicious a humor to give her anything to eat with it.
it was always safe and easy to vent her spite on sara.
really, it was hard for the child to climb the three long flights of stairs leading to her attic.
she often found them long and steep when she was tired; but tonight it seemed as if she would never reach the top.
several times she was obliged to stop to rest.
when she reached the top landing she was glad to see the glimmer of a light coming from under her door.
that meant that ermengarde had managed to creep up to pay her a visit.
there was some comfort in that.
it was better than to go into the room alone and find it empty and desolate.
the mere presence of plump, comfortable ermengarde, wrapped in her red shawl, would warm it a little.
yes; there ermengarde was when she opened the door.
she was sitting in the middle of the bed, with her feet tucked safely under her.
she had never become intimate with melchisedec and his family, though they rather fascinated her.
when she found herself alone in the attic she always preferred to sit on the bed until sara arrived.
she had, in fact, on this occasion had time to become rather nervous, because melchisedec had appeared and sniffed about a good deal, and once had made her utter a repressed squeal by sitting up on his hind legs and, while he looked at her, sniffing pointedly in her direction.
"oh, sara," she cried out, "i am glad you have come.
melchy would sniff about so.
i tried to coax him to go back, but he wouldn't for such a long time.
i like him, you know; but it does frighten me when he sniffs right at me.
do you think he ever would jump?"
"no," answered sara.
ermengarde crawled forward on the bed to look at her.
"you do look tired, sara," she said; "you are quite pale."
"i am tired," said sara, dropping on to the lopsided footstool.
"oh, there's melchisedec, poor thing.
he's come to ask for his supper."
melchisedec had come out of his hole as if he had been listening for her footstep.
sara was quite sure he knew it.
he came forward with an affectionate, expectant expression as sara put her hand in her pocket and turned it inside out, shaking her head.
"i'm very sorry," she said.
"i haven't one crumb left.
go home, melchisedec, and tell your wife there was nothing in my pocket.
i'm afraid i forgot because the cook and miss minchin were so cross."
melchisedec seemed to understand.
he shuffled resignedly, if not contentedly, back to his home.
"i did not expect to see you tonight, ermie," sara said.
ermengarde hugged herself in the red shawl.
"miss amelia has gone out to spend the night with her old aunt," she explained.
"no one else ever comes and looks into the bedrooms after we are in bed.
i could stay here until morning if i wanted to."
she pointed toward the table under the skylight.
sara had not looked toward it as she came in.
a number of books were piled upon it.
ermengarde's gesture was a dejected one.
"papa has sent me some more books, sara," she said.
"there they are."
sara looked round and got up at once.
she ran to the table, and picking up the top volume, turned over its leaves quickly.
for the moment she forgot her discomforts.
"ah," she cried out, "how beautiful!
carlyle's french revolution.
i have so wanted to read that!"
"i haven't," said ermengarde.
"and papa will be so cross if i don't.
he'll expect me to know all about it when i go home for the holidays.
what shall i do?"
sara stopped turning over the leaves and looked at her with an excited flush on her cheeks.
"look here," she cried, "if you'll lend me these books, i'll read them and tell you everything that's in them afterward and i'll tell it so that you will remember it, too."
"oh, goodness!"
exclaimed ermengarde.
"do you think you can?"
"i know i can," sara answered.
"the little ones always remember what i tell them."
"sara," said ermengarde, hope gleaming in her round face, "if you'll do that, and make me remember, i'll i'll give you anything."
"i don't want you to give me anything," said sara.
"i want your books i want them!"
and her eyes grew big, and her chest heaved.
"take them, then," said ermengarde.
"i wish i wanted them but i don't.
i'm not clever, and my father is, and he thinks i ought to be."
sara was opening one book after the other.
"what are you going to tell your father?"
she asked, a slight doubt dawning in her mind.
"oh, he needn't know," answered ermengarde.
"he'll think i've read them."
sara put down her book and shook her head slowly.
"that's almost like telling lies," she said.
"and lies well, you see, they are not only wicked they're vulgar.
sometimes" reflectively "i've thought perhaps i might do something wicked i might suddenly fly into a rage and kill miss minchin, you know, when she was ill-treating me but i couldn't be vulgar.
why can't you tell your father i read them?"
"he wants me to read them," said ermengarde, a little discouraged by this unexpected turn of affairs.
"he wants you to know what is in them," said sara.
"and if i can tell it to you in an easy way and make you remember it, i should think he would like that."
"he'll like it if i learn anything in any way," said rueful ermengarde.
"you would if you were my father."
"it's not your fault that " began sara.
she pulled herself up and stopped rather suddenly.
she had been going to say, "it's not your fault that you are stupid."
"that what?"
ermengarde asked.
"that you can't learn things quickly," amended sara.
"if you can't, you can't.
if i can why, i can; that's all."
she always felt very tender of ermengarde, and tried not to let her feel too strongly the difference between being able to learn anything at once, and not being able to learn anything at all.
as she looked at her plump face, one of her wise, old-fashioned thoughts came to her.
"perhaps," she said, "to be able to learn things quickly isn't everything.
to be kind is worth a great deal to other people.
if miss minchin knew everything on earth and was like what she is now, she'd still be a detestable thing, and everybody would hate her.
lots of clever people have done harm and have been wicked.
look at robespierre "
she stopped and examined ermengarde's countenance, which was beginning to look bewildered.
"don't you remember?"
she demanded.
"i told you about him not long ago.
i believe you've forgotten."
"well, i don't remember all of it," admitted ermengarde.
"well, you wait a minute," said sara, "and i'll take off my wet things and wrap myself in the coverlet and tell you over again."
she took off her hat and coat and hung them on a nail against the wall, and she changed her wet shoes for an old pair of slippers.
then she jumped on the bed, and drawing the coverlet about her shoulders, sat with her arms round her knees.
"now, listen," she said.
she plunged into the gory records of the french revolution, and told such stories of it that ermengarde's eyes grew round with alarm and she held her breath.
but though she was rather terrified, there was a delightful thrill in listening, and she was not likely to forget robespierre again, or to have any doubts about the princesse de lamballe.
"you know they put her head on a pike and danced round it," sara explained.
"and she had beautiful floating blonde hair; and when i think of her, i never see her head on her body, but always on a pike, with those furious people dancing and howling."
it was agreed that mr. st. john was to be told the plan they had made, and for the present the books were to be left in the attic.
"now let's tell each other things," said sara.
"how are you getting on with your french lessons?"
"ever so much better since the last time i came up here and you explained the conjugations.
miss minchin could not understand why i did my exercises so well that first morning."
sara laughed a little and hugged her knees.
"she doesn't understand why lottie is doing her sums so well," she said; "but it is because she creeps up here, too, and i help her."
she glanced round the room.
"the attic would be rather nice if it wasn't so dreadful," she said, laughing again.
"it's a good place to pretend in."
the truth was that ermengarde did not know anything of the sometimes almost unbearable side of life in the attic and she had not a sufficiently vivid imagination to depict it for herself.
on the rare occasions that she could reach sara's room she only saw the side of it which was made exciting by things which were "pretended" and stories which were told.
her visits partook of the character of adventures; and though sometimes sara looked rather pale, and it was not to be denied that she had grown very thin, her proud little spirit would not admit of complaints.
she had never confessed that at times she was almost ravenous with hunger, as she was tonight.
she was growing rapidly, and her constant walking and running about would have given her a keen appetite even if she had had abundant and regular meals of a much more nourishing nature than the unappetizing, inferior food snatched at such odd times as suited the kitchen convenience.
she was growing used to a certain gnawing feeling in her young stomach.
"i suppose soldiers feel like this when they are on a long and weary march," she often said to herself.
she liked the sound of the phrase, "long and weary march."
it made her feel rather like a soldier.
she had also a quaint sense of being a hostess in the attic.
"if i lived in a castle," she argued, "and ermengarde was the lady of another castle, and came to see me, with knights and squires and vassals riding with her, and pennons flying, when i heard the clarions sounding outside the drawbridge i should go down to receive her, and i should spread feasts in the banquet hall and call in minstrels to sing and play and relate romances.
when she comes into the attic i can't spread feasts, but i can tell stories, and not let her know disagreeable things.
i dare say poor chatelaines had to do that in time of famine, when their lands had been pillaged."
she was a proud, brave little chatelaine, and dispensed generously the one hospitality she could offer the dreams she dreamed the visions she saw the imaginings which were her joy and comfort.
so, as they sat together, ermengarde did not know that she was faint as well as ravenous, and that while she talked she now and then wondered if her hunger would let her sleep when she was left alone.
she felt as if she had never been quite so hungry before.
"i wish i was as thin as you, sara," ermengarde said suddenly.
"i believe you are thinner than you used to be.
your eyes look so big, and look at the sharp little bones sticking out of your elbow!"
sara pulled down her sleeve, which had pushed itself up.
"i always was a thin child," she said bravely, "and i always had big green eyes."
"i love your queer eyes," said ermengarde, looking into them with affectionate admiration.
"they always look as if they saw such a long way.
i love them and i love them to be green though they look black generally."
"they are cat's eyes," laughed sara; "but i can't see in the dark with them because i have tried, and i couldn't i wish i could."
it was just at this minute that something happened at the skylight which neither of them saw.
if either of them had chanced to turn and look, she would have been startled by the sight of a dark face which peered cautiously into the room and disappeared as quickly and almost as silently as it had appeared.
not quite as silently, however.
sara, who had keen ears, suddenly turned a little and looked up at the roof.
"that didn't sound like melchisedec," she said.
"it wasn't scratchy enough."
"what?"
said ermengarde, a little startled.
"didn't you think you heard something?"
asked sara.
"n-no," ermengarde faltered.
"did you?"
{another ed.
has "no-no,"}
"perhaps i didn't," said sara; "but i thought i did.
it sounded as if something was on the slates something that dragged softly."
"what could it be?"
said ermengarde.
"could it be robbers?"
"no," sara began cheerfully.
"there is nothing to steal "
she broke off in the middle of her words.
they both heard the sound that checked her.
it was not on the slates, but on the stairs below, and it was miss minchin's angry voice.
sara sprang off the bed, and put out the candle.
"she is scolding becky," she whispered, as she stood in the darkness.
"she is making her cry."
"will she come in here?"
ermengarde whispered back, panic-stricken.
"no.
she will think i am in bed.
don't stir."
it was very seldom that miss minchin mounted the last flight of stairs.
sara could only remember that she had done it once before.
but now she was angry enough to be coming at least part of the way up, and it sounded as if she was driving becky before her.
"you impudent, dishonest child!"
they heard her say.
"cook tells me she has missed things repeatedly."
"'t warn't me, mum," said becky sobbing.
"i was 'ungry enough, but 't warn't me never!"
"you deserve to be sent to prison," said miss minchin's voice.
"picking and stealing!
half a meat pie, indeed!"
"'t warn't me," wept becky.
"i could 'ave eat a whole un but i never laid a finger on it."
miss minchin was out of breath between temper and mounting the stairs.
the meat pie had been intended for her special late supper.
it became apparent that she boxed becky's ears.
"don't tell falsehoods," she said.
"go to your room this instant."
both sara and ermengarde heard the slap, and then heard becky run in her slipshod shoes up the stairs and into her attic.
they heard her door shut, and knew that she threw herself upon her bed.
"i could 'ave e't two of 'em," they heard her cry into her pillow.
"an'
i never took a bite.
'twas cook give it to her policeman."
sara stood in the middle of the room in the darkness.
she was clenching her little teeth and opening and shutting fiercely her outstretched hands.
she could scarcely stand still, but she dared not move until miss minchin had gone down the stairs and all was still.
"the wicked, cruel thing!"
she burst forth.
"the cook takes things herself and then says becky steals them.
she doesn't!
she doesn't!
she's so hungry sometimes that she eats crusts out of the ash barrel!"
she pressed her hands hard against her face and burst into passionate little sobs, and ermengarde, hearing this unusual thing, was overawed by it.
sara was crying!
the unconquerable sara!
it seemed to denote something new some mood she had never known.
suppose suppose a new dread possibility presented itself to her kind, slow, little mind all at once.
she crept off the bed in the dark and found her way to the table where the candle stood.
she struck a match and lit the candle.
when she had lighted it, she bent forward and looked at sara, with her new thought growing to definite fear in her eyes.
"sara," she said in a timid, almost awe-stricken voice, "are are you never told me i don't want to be rude, but are you ever hungry?"
it was too much just at that moment.
the barrier broke down.
sara lifted her face from her hands.
"yes," she said in a new passionate way.
"yes, i am.
i'm so hungry now that i could almost eat you.
and it makes it worse to hear poor becky.
she's hungrier than i am."
ermengarde gasped.
"oh, oh!"
she cried woefully.
"and i never knew!"
"i didn't want you to know," sara said.
"it would have made me feel like a street beggar.
i know i look like a street beggar."
"no, you don't you don't!"
ermengarde broke in.
"your clothes are a little queer but you couldn't look like a street beggar.
you haven't a street-beggar face."
"a little boy once gave me a sixpence for charity," said sara, with a short little laugh in spite of herself.
"here it is."
and she pulled out the thin ribbon from her neck.
"he wouldn't have given me his christmas sixpence if i hadn't looked as if i needed it."
somehow the sight of the dear little sixpence was good for both of them.
it made them laugh a little, though they both had tears in their eyes.
"who was he?"
asked ermengarde, looking at it quite as if it had not been a mere ordinary silver sixpence.
"he was a darling little thing going to a party," said sara.
"he was one of the large family, the little one with the round legs the one i call guy clarence.
i suppose his nursery was crammed with christmas presents and hampers full of cakes and things, and he could see i had nothing."
ermengarde gave a little jump backward.
the last sentences had recalled something to her troubled mind and given her a sudden inspiration.
"oh, sara!"
she cried.
"what a silly thing i am not to have thought of it!"
"of what?"
"something splendid!"
said ermengarde, in an excited hurry.
"this very afternoon my nicest aunt sent me a box.
it is full of good things.
i never touched it, i had so much pudding at dinner, and i was so bothered about papa's books."
her words began to tumble over each other.
"it's got cake in it, and little meat pies, and jam tarts and buns, and oranges and red-currant wine, and figs and chocolate.
i'll creep back to my room and get it this minute, and we'll eat it now."
sara almost reeled.
when one is faint with hunger the mention of food has sometimes a curious effect.
she clutched ermengarde's arm.
"do you think you could?"
she ejaculated.
"i know i could," answered ermengarde, and she ran to the door opened it softly put her head out into the darkness, and listened.
then she went back to sara.
"the lights are out.
everybody's in bed.
i can creep and creep and no one will hear."
it was so delightful that they caught each other's hands and a sudden light sprang into sara's eyes.
"ermie!"
she said.
"let us pretend!
let us pretend it's a party!
and oh, won't you invite the prisoner in the next cell?"
"yes!
yes!
let us knock on the wall now.
the jailer won't hear."
sara went to the wall.
through it she could hear poor becky crying more softly.
she knocked four times.
"that means, 'come to me through the secret passage under the wall,'
she explained.
'i have something to communicate.'"
five quick knocks answered her.
"she is coming," she said.
almost immediately the door of the attic opened and becky appeared.
her eyes were red and her cap was sliding off, and when she caught sight of ermengarde she began to rub her face nervously with her apron.
"don't mind me a bit, becky!"
cried ermengarde.
"miss ermengarde has asked you to come in," said sara, "because she is going to bring a box of good things up here to us."
becky's cap almost fell off entirely, she broke in with such excitement.
"to eat, miss?"
she said.
"things that's good to eat?"
"yes," answered sara, "and we are going to pretend a party."
"and you shall have as much as you want to eat," put in ermengarde.
"i'll go this minute!"
she was in such haste that as she tiptoed out of the attic she dropped her red shawl and did not know it had fallen.
no one saw it for a minute or so.
becky was too much overpowered by the good luck which had befallen her.
"oh, miss!
oh, miss!"
she gasped; "i know it was you that asked her to let me come.
it it makes me cry to think of it."
and she went to sara's side and stood and looked at her worshipingly.
but in sara's hungry eyes the old light had begun to glow and transform her world for her.
here in the attic with the cold night outside with the afternoon in the sloppy streets barely passed with the memory of the awful unfed look in the beggar child's eyes not yet faded this simple, cheerful thing had happened like a thing of magic.
she caught her breath.
"somehow, something always happens," she cried, "just before things get to the very worst.
it is as if the magic did it.
if i could only just remember that always.
the worst thing never quite comes."
she gave becky a little cheerful shake.
"no, no!
you mustn't cry!"
she said.
"we must make haste and set the table."
"set the table, miss?"
said becky, gazing round the room.
"what'll we set it with?"
sara looked round the attic, too.
"there doesn't seem to be much," she answered, half laughing.
that moment she saw something and pounced upon it.
it was ermengarde's red shawl which lay upon the floor.
"here's the shawl," she cried.
"i know she won't mind it.
it will make such a nice red tablecloth."
they pulled the old table forward, and threw the shawl over it.
red is a wonderfully kind and comfortable color.
it began to make the room look furnished directly.
"how nice a red rug would look on the floor!"
exclaimed sara.
"we must pretend there is one!"
her eye swept the bare boards with a swift glance of admiration.
the rug was laid down already.
"how soft and thick it is!"
she said, with the little laugh which becky knew the meaning of; and she raised and set her foot down again delicately, as if she felt something under it.
"yes, miss," answered becky, watching her with serious rapture.
she was always quite serious.
"what next, now?"
said sara, and she stood still and put her hands over her eyes.
"something will come if i think and wait a little" in a soft, expectant voice.
"the magic will tell me."
one of her favorite fancies was that on "the outside," as she called it, thoughts were waiting for people to call them.
becky had seen her stand and wait many a time before, and knew that in a few seconds she would uncover an enlightened, laughing face.
in a moment she did.
"there!"
she cried.
"it has come!
i know now!
i must look among the things in the old trunk i had when i was a princess."
she flew to its corner and kneeled down.
it had not been put in the attic for her benefit, but because there was no room for it elsewhere.
nothing had been left in it but rubbish.
but she knew she should find something.
the magic always arranged that kind of thing in one way or another.
in a corner lay a package so insignificant-looking that it had been overlooked, and when she herself had found it she had kept it as a relic.
it contained a dozen small white handkerchiefs.
she seized them joyfully and ran to the table.
she began to arrange them upon the red table-cover, patting and coaxing them into shape with the narrow lace edge curling outward, her magic working its spells for her as she did it.
"these are the plates," she said.
"they are golden plates.
these are the richly embroidered napkins.
nuns worked them in convents in spain."
"did they, miss?"
breathed becky, her very soul uplifted by the information.
"you must pretend it," said sara.
"if you pretend it enough, you will see them."
"yes, miss," said becky; and as sara returned to the trunk she devoted herself to the effort of accomplishing an end so much to be desired.
sara turned suddenly to find her standing by the table, looking very queer indeed.
she had shut her eyes, and was twisting her face in strange convulsive contortions, her hands hanging stiffly clenched at her sides.
she looked as if she was trying to lift some enormous weight.
"what is the matter, becky?"
sara cried.
"what are you doing?"
becky opened her eyes with a start.
"i was a-'pretendin',' miss," she answered a little sheepishly; "i was tryin' to see it like you do.
i almost did," with a hopeful grin.
"but it takes a lot o' stren'th."
"perhaps it does if you are not used to it," said sara, with friendly sympathy; "but you don't know how easy it is when you've done it often.
i wouldn't try so hard just at first.
it will come to you after a while.
i'll just tell you what things are.
look at these."
she held an old summer hat in her hand which she had fished out of the bottom of the trunk.
there was a wreath of flowers on it.
she pulled the wreath off.
"these are garlands for the feast," she said grandly.
"they fill all the air with perfume.
there's a mug on the wash-stand, becky.
oh and bring the soap dish for a centerpiece."
becky handed them to her reverently.
"what are they now, miss?"
she inquired.
"you'd think they was made of crockery but i know they ain't."
"this is a carven flagon," said sara, arranging tendrils of the wreath about the mug.
"and this" bending tenderly over the soap dish and heaping it with roses "is purest alabaster encrusted with gems."
she touched the things gently, a happy smile hovering about her lips which made her look as if she were a creature in a dream.
"my, ain't it lovely!"
whispered becky.
"if we just had something for bonbon dishes," sara murmured.
"there!"
darting to the trunk again.
"i remember i saw something this minute."
it was only a bundle of wool wrapped in red and white tissue paper, but the tissue paper was soon twisted into the form of little dishes, and was combined with the remaining flowers to ornament the candlestick which was to light the feast.
only the magic could have made it more than an old table covered with a red shawl and set with rubbish from a long-unopened trunk.
but sara drew back and gazed at it, seeing wonders; and becky, after staring in delight, spoke with bated breath.
"this 'ere," she suggested, with a glance round the attic "is it the bastille now or has it turned into somethin' different?"
"oh, yes, yes!"
said sara.
"quite different.
it is a banquet hall!"
"my eye, miss!"
ejaculated becky.
"a blanket 'all!"
and she turned to view the splendors about her with awed bewilderment.
"a banquet hall," said sara.
"a vast chamber where feasts are given.
it has a vaulted roof, and a minstrels' gallery, and a huge chimney filled with blazing oaken logs, and it is brilliant with waxen tapers twinkling on every side."
"my eye, miss sara!"
gasped becky again.
then the door opened, and ermengarde came in, rather staggering under the weight of her hamper.
she started back with an exclamation of joy.
to enter from the chill darkness outside, and find one's self confronted by a totally unanticipated festal board, draped with red, adorned with white napery, and wreathed with flowers, was to feel that the preparations were brilliant indeed.
"oh, sara!"
she cried out.
"you are the cleverest girl i ever saw!"
"isn't it nice?"
said sara.
"they are things out of my old trunk.
i asked my magic, and it told me to go and look."
"but oh, miss," cried becky, "wait till she's told you what they are!
they ain't just oh, miss, please tell her," appealing to sara.
so sara told her, and because her magic helped her she made her almost see it all:  the golden platters the vaulted spaces the blazing logs the twinkling waxen tapers.
as the things were taken out of the hamper the frosted cakes the fruits the bonbons and the wine the feast became a splendid thing.
"it's like a real party!"
cried ermengarde.
"it's like a queen's table," sighed becky.
then ermengarde had a sudden brilliant thought.
"i'll tell you what, sara," she said.
"pretend you are a princess now and this is a royal feast."
"but it's your feast," said sara; "you must be the princess, and we will be your maids of honor."
"oh, i can't," said ermengarde.
"i'm too fat, and i don't know how.
you be her."
"well, if you want me to," said sara.
but suddenly she thought of something else and ran to the rusty grate.
"there is a lot of paper and rubbish stuffed in here!"
she exclaimed.
"if we light it, there will be a bright blaze for a few minutes, and we shall feel as if it was a real fire."
she struck a match and lighted it up with a great specious glow which illuminated the room.
"by the time it stops blazing," sara said, "we shall forget about its not being real."
she stood in the dancing glow and smiled.
"doesn't it look real?"
she said.
"now we will begin the party."
she led the way to the table.
she waved her hand graciously to ermengarde and becky.
she was in the midst of her dream.
"advance, fair damsels," she said in her happy dream-voice, "and be seated at the banquet table.
my noble father, the king, who is absent on a long journey, has commanded me to feast you."
she turned her head slightly toward the corner of the room.
"what, ho, there, minstrels!
strike up with your viols and bassoons.
princesses," she explained rapidly to ermengarde and becky, "always had minstrels to play at their feasts.
pretend there is a minstrel gallery up there in the corner.
now we will begin."
they had barely had time to take their pieces of cake into their hands not one of them had time to do more, when they all three sprang to their feet and turned pale faces toward the door listening listening.
someone was coming up the stairs.
there was no mistake about it.
each of them recognized the angry, mounting tread and knew that the end of all things had come.
"it's the missus!"
choked becky, and dropped her piece of cake upon the floor.
"yes," said sara, her eyes growing shocked and large in her small white face.
"miss minchin has found us out."
miss minchin struck the door open with a blow of her hand.
she was pale herself, but it was with rage.
she looked from the frightened faces to the banquet table, and from the banquet table to the last flicker of the burnt paper in the grate.
"i have been suspecting something of this sort," she exclaimed; "but i did not dream of such audacity.
lavinia was telling the truth."
so they knew that it was lavinia who had somehow guessed their secret and had betrayed them.
miss minchin strode over to becky and boxed her ears for a second time.
"you impudent creature!"
she said.
"you leave the house in the morning!"
sara stood quite still, her eyes growing larger, her face paler.
ermengarde burst into tears.
"oh, don't send her away," she sobbed.
"my aunt sent me the hamper.
we're only having a party."
"so i see," said miss minchin, witheringly.
"with the princess sara at the head of the table."
she turned fiercely on sara.
"it is your doing, i know," she cried.
"ermengarde would never have thought of such a thing.
you decorated the table, i suppose with this rubbish."
she stamped her foot at becky.
"go to your attic!"
she commanded, and becky stole away, her face hidden in her apron, her shoulders shaking.
then it was sara's turn again.
"i will attend to you tomorrow.
you shall have neither breakfast, dinner, nor supper!"
"i have not had either dinner or supper today, miss minchin," said sara, rather faintly.
"then all the better.
you will have something to remember.
don't stand there.
put those things into the hamper again."
she began to sweep them off the table into the hamper herself, and caught sight of ermengarde's new books.
"and you" to ermengarde "have brought your beautiful new books into this dirty attic.
take them up and go back to bed.
you will stay there all day tomorrow, and i shall write to your papa.
what would he say if he knew where you are tonight?"
something she saw in sara's grave, fixed gaze at this moment made her turn on her fiercely.
"what are you thinking of?"
she demanded.
"why do you look at me like that?"
"i was wondering," answered sara, as she had answered that notable day in the schoolroom.
"what were you wondering?"
it was very like the scene in the schoolroom.
there was no pertness in sara's manner.
it was only sad and quiet.
"i was wondering," she said in a low voice, "what my papa would say if he knew where i am tonight."
miss minchin was infuriated just as she had been before and her anger expressed itself, as before, in an intemperate fashion.
she flew at her and shook her.
"you insolent, unmanageable child!"
she cried.
"how dare you!
how dare you!"
she picked up the books, swept the rest of the feast back into the hamper in a jumbled heap, thrust it into ermengarde's arms, and pushed her before her toward the door.
"i will leave you to wonder," she said.
"go to bed this instant."
and she shut the door behind herself and poor stumbling ermengarde, and left sara standing quite alone.
the dream was quite at an end.
the last spark had died out of the paper in the grate and left only black tinder; the table was left bare, the golden plates and richly embroidered napkins, and the garlands were transformed again into old handkerchiefs, scraps of red and white paper, and discarded artificial flowers all scattered on the floor; the minstrels in the minstrel gallery had stolen away, and the viols and bassoons were still.
emily was sitting with her back against the wall, staring very hard.
sara saw her, and went and picked her up with trembling hands.
"there isn't any banquet left, emily," she said.
"and there isn't any princess.
there is nothing left but the prisoners in the bastille."
and she sat down and hid her face.
what would have happened if she had not hidden it just then, and if she had chanced to look up at the skylight at the wrong moment, i do not know perhaps the end of this chapter might have been quite different because if she had glanced at the skylight she would certainly have been startled by what she would have seen.
she would have seen exactly the same face pressed against the glass and peering in at her as it had peered in earlier in the evening when she had been talking to ermengarde.
but she did not look up.
she sat with her little black head in her arms for some time.
she always sat like that when she was trying to bear something in silence.
then she got up and went slowly to the bed.
"i can't pretend anything else while i am awake," she said.
"there wouldn't be any use in trying.
if i go to sleep, perhaps a dream will come and pretend for me."
she suddenly felt so tired perhaps through want of food that she sat down on the edge of the bed quite weakly.
"suppose there was a bright fire in the grate, with lots of little dancing flames," she murmured.
"suppose there was a comfortable chair before it and suppose there was a small table near, with a little hot hot supper on it.
and suppose" as she drew the thin coverings over her "suppose this was a beautiful soft bed, with fleecy blankets and large downy pillows.
suppose suppose " and her very weariness was good to her, for her eyes closed and she fell fast asleep.
she did not know how long she slept.
but she had been tired enough to sleep deeply and profoundly too deeply and soundly to be disturbed by anything, even by the squeaks and scamperings of melchisedec's entire family, if all his sons and daughters had chosen to come out of their hole to fight and tumble and play.
when she awakened it was rather suddenly, and she did not know that any particular thing had called her out of her sleep.
the truth was, however, that it was a sound which had called her back a real sound the click of the skylight as it fell in closing after a lithe white figure which slipped through it and crouched down close by upon the slates of the roof just near enough to see what happened in the attic, but not near enough to be seen.
at first she did not open her eyes.
she felt too sleepy and curiously enough too warm and comfortable.
she was so warm and comfortable, indeed, that she did not believe she was really awake.
she never was as warm and cozy as this except in some lovely vision.
"what a nice dream!"
she murmured.
"i feel quite warm.
i don't want to wake up."
of course it was a dream.
she felt as if warm, delightful bedclothes were heaped upon her.
she could actually feel blankets, and when she put out her hand it touched something exactly like a satin-covered eider-down quilt.
she must not awaken from this delight she must be quite still and make it last.
but she could not even though she kept her eyes closed tightly, she could not.
something was forcing her to awaken something in the room.
it was a sense of light, and a sound the sound of a crackling, roaring little fire.
"oh, i am awakening," she said mournfully.
"i can't help it i can't."
her eyes opened in spite of herself.
and then she actually smiled for what she saw she had never seen in the attic before, and knew she never should see.
"oh, i haven't awakened," she whispered, daring to rise on her elbow and look all about her.
"i am dreaming yet."
she knew it must be a dream, for if she were awake such things could not could not be.
do you wonder that she felt sure she had not come back to earth?
this is what she saw.
in the grate there was a glowing, blazing fire; on the hob was a little brass kettle hissing and boiling; spread upon the floor was a thick, warm crimson rug; before the fire a folding-chair, unfolded, and with cushions on it; by the chair a small folding-table, unfolded, covered with a white cloth, and upon it spread small covered dishes, a cup, a saucer, a teapot; on the bed were new warm coverings and a satin-covered down quilt; at the foot a curious wadded silk robe, a pair of quilted slippers, and some books.
the room of her dream seemed changed into fairyland and it was flooded with warm light, for a bright lamp stood on the table covered with a rosy shade.
she sat up, resting on her elbow, and her breathing came short and fast.
"it does not melt away," she panted.
"oh, i never had such a dream before."
she scarcely dared to stir; but at last she pushed the bedclothes aside, and put her feet on the floor with a rapturous smile.
"i am dreaming i am getting out of bed," she heard her own voice say; and then, as she stood up in the midst of it all, turning slowly from side to side "i am dreaming it stays real!
i'm dreaming it feels real.
it's bewitched or i'm bewitched.
i only think i see it all."
her words began to hurry themselves.
"if i can only keep on thinking it," she cried, "i don't care!
i don't care!"
she stood panting a moment longer, and then cried out again.
"oh, it isn't true!"
she said.
"it can't be true!
but oh, how true it seems!"
the blazing fire drew her to it, and she knelt down and held out her hands close to it so close that the heat made her start back.
"a fire i only dreamed wouldn't be hot," she cried.
she sprang up, touched the table, the dishes, the rug; she went to the bed and touched the blankets.
she took up the soft wadded dressing-gown, and suddenly clutched it to her breast and held it to her cheek.
"it's warm.
it's soft!"
she almost sobbed.
"it's real.
it must be!"
she threw it over her shoulders, and put her feet into the slippers.
"they are real, too.
it's all real!"
she cried.
"i am not i am not dreaming!"
she almost staggered to the books and opened the one which lay upon the top.
something was written on the flyleaf just a few words, and they were these:
"to the little girl in the attic.
from a friend."
when she saw that wasn't it a strange thing for her to do she put her face down upon the page and burst into tears.
"i don't know who it is," she said; "but somebody cares for me a little.
i have a friend."
she took her candle and stole out of her own room and into becky's, and stood by her bedside.
"becky, becky!"
she whispered as loudly as she dared.
"wake up!"
when becky wakened, and she sat upright staring aghast, her face still smudged with traces of tears, beside her stood a little figure in a luxurious wadded robe of crimson silk.
the face she saw was a shining, wonderful thing.
the princess sara as she remembered her stood at her very bedside, holding a candle in her hand.
"come," she said.
"oh, becky, come!"
becky was too frightened to speak.
she simply got up and followed her, with her mouth and eyes open, and without a word.
and when they crossed the threshold, sara shut the door gently and drew her into the warm, glowing midst of things which made her brain reel and her hungry senses faint.
"it's true!
it's true!"
she cried.
"i've touched them all.
they are as real as we are.
the magic has come and done it, becky, while we were asleep the magic that won't let those worst things ever quite happen."
16
the visitor
imagine, if you can, what the rest of the evening was like.
how they crouched by the fire which blazed and leaped and made so much of itself in the little grate.
how they removed the covers of the dishes, and found rich, hot, savory soup, which was a meal in itself, and sandwiches and toast and muffins enough for both of them.
the mug from the washstand was used as becky's tea cup, and the tea was so delicious that it was not necessary to pretend that it was anything but tea.
they were warm and full-fed and happy, and it was just like sara that, having found her strange good fortune real, she should give herself up to the enjoyment of it to the utmost.
she had lived such a life of imaginings that she was quite equal to accepting any wonderful thing that happened, and almost to cease, in a short time, to find it bewildering.
"i don't know anyone in the world who could have done it," she said; "but there has been someone.
and here we are sitting by their fire and and it's true!
and whoever it is wherever they are i have a friend, becky someone is my friend."
it cannot be denied that as they sat before the blazing fire, and ate the nourishing, comfortable food, they felt a kind of rapturous awe, and looked into each other's eyes with something like doubt.
"do you think," becky faltered once, in a whisper, "do you think it could melt away, miss?
hadn't we better be quick?"
and she hastily crammed her sandwich into her mouth.
if it was only a dream, kitchen manners would be overlooked.
"no, it won't melt away," said sara.
"i am eating this muffin, and i can taste it.
you never really eat things in dreams.
you only think you are going to eat them.
besides, i keep giving myself pinches; and i touched a hot piece of coal just now, on purpose."
the sleepy comfort which at length almost overpowered them was a heavenly thing.
it was the drowsiness of happy, well-fed childhood, and they sat in the fire glow and luxuriated in it until sara found herself turning to look at her transformed bed.
there were even blankets enough to share with becky.
the narrow couch in the next attic was more comfortable that night than its occupant had ever dreamed that it could be.
as she went out of the room, becky turned upon the threshold and looked about her with devouring eyes.
"if it ain't here in the mornin', miss," she said, "it's been here tonight, anyways, an' i shan't never forget it."
she looked at each particular thing, as if to commit it to memory.
"the fire was there", pointing with her finger, "an' the table was before it; an' the lamp was there, an' the light looked rosy red; an' there was a satin cover on your bed, an' a warm rug on the floor, an' everythin' looked beautiful; an'" she paused a second, and laid her hand on her stomach tenderly "there was soup an' sandwiches an' muffins there was."
and, with this conviction a reality at least, she went away.
through the mysterious agency which works in schools and among servants, it was quite well known in the morning that sara crewe was in horrible disgrace, that ermengarde was under punishment, and that becky would have been packed out of the house before breakfast, but that a scullery maid could not be dispensed with at once.
the servants knew that she was allowed to stay because miss minchin could not easily find another creature helpless and humble enough to work like a bounden slave for so few shillings a week.
the elder girls in the schoolroom knew that if miss minchin did not send sara away it was for practical reasons of her own.
"she's growing so fast and learning such a lot, somehow," said jessie to lavinia, "that she will be given classes soon, and miss minchin knows she will have to work for nothing.
it was rather nasty of you, lavvy, to tell about her having fun in the garret.
how did you find it out?"
"i got it out of lottie.
she's such a baby she didn't know she was telling me.
there was nothing nasty at all in speaking to miss minchin.
i felt it my duty" priggishly.
"she was being deceitful.
and it's ridiculous that she should look so grand, and be made so much of, in her rags and tatters!"
"what were they doing when miss minchin caught them?"
"pretending some silly thing.
ermengarde had taken up her hamper to share with sara and becky.
she never invites us to share things.
not that i care, but it's rather vulgar of her to share with servant girls in attics.
i wonder miss minchin didn't turn sara out even if she does want her for a teacher."
"if she was turned out where would she go?"
inquired jessie, a trifle anxiously.
"how do i know?"
snapped lavinia.
"she'll look rather queer when she comes into the schoolroom this morning, i should think after what's happened.
she had no dinner yesterday, and she's not to have any today."
jessie was not as ill-natured as she was silly.
she picked up her book with a little jerk.
"well, i think it's horrid," she said.
"they've no right to starve her to death."
when sara went into the kitchen that morning the cook looked askance at her, and so did the housemaids; but she passed them hurriedly.
she had, in fact, overslept herself a little, and as becky had done the same, neither had had time to see the other, and each had come downstairs in haste.
sara went into the scullery.
becky was violently scrubbing a kettle, and was actually gurgling a little song in her throat.
she looked up with a wildly elated face.
"it was there when i wakened, miss the blanket," she whispered excitedly.
"it was as real as it was last night."
"so was mine," said sara.
"it is all there now all of it.
while i was dressing i ate some of the cold things we left."
"oh, laws!
oh, laws!"
becky uttered the exclamation in a sort of rapturous groan, and ducked her head over her kettle just in time, as the cook came in from the kitchen.
miss minchin had expected to see in sara, when she appeared in the schoolroom, very much what lavinia had expected to see.
sara had always been an annoying puzzle to her, because severity never made her cry or look frightened.
when she was scolded she stood still and listened politely with a grave face; when she was punished she performed her extra tasks or went without her meals, making no complaint or outward sign of rebellion.
the very fact that she never made an impudent answer seemed to miss minchin a kind of impudence in itself.
but after yesterday's deprivation of meals, the violent scene of last night, the prospect of hunger today, she must surely have broken down.
it would be strange indeed if she did not come downstairs with pale cheeks and red eyes and an unhappy, humbled face.
miss minchin saw her for the first time when she entered the schoolroom to hear the little french class recite its lessons and superintend its exercises.
and she came in with a springing step, color in her cheeks, and a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth.
it was the most astonishing thing miss minchin had ever known.
it gave her quite a shock.
what was the child made of?
what could such a thing mean?
she called her at once to her desk.
"you do not look as if you realize that you are in disgrace," she said.
"are you absolutely hardened?"
the truth is that when one is still a child or even if one is grown up and has been well fed, and has slept long and softly and warm; when one has gone to sleep in the midst of a fairy story, and has wakened to find it real, one cannot be unhappy or even look as if one were; and one could not, if one tried, keep a glow of joy out of one's eyes.
miss minchin was almost struck dumb by the look of sara's eyes when she made her perfectly respectful answer.
"i beg your pardon, miss minchin," she said; "i know that i am in disgrace."
"be good enough not to forget it and look as if you had come into a fortune.
it is an impertinence.
and remember you are to have no food today."
"yes, miss minchin," sara answered; but as she turned away her heart leaped with the memory of what yesterday had been.
"if the magic had not saved me just in time," she thought, "how horrible it would have been!"
"she can't be very hungry," whispered lavinia.
"just look at her.
perhaps she is pretending she has had a good breakfast" with a spiteful laugh.
"she's different from other people," said jessie, watching sara with her class.
"sometimes i'm a bit frightened of her."
"ridiculous thing!"
ejaculated lavinia.
all through the day the light was in sara's face, and the color in her cheek.
the servants cast puzzled glances at her, and whispered to each other, and miss amelia's small blue eyes wore an expression of bewilderment.
what such an audacious look of well-being, under august displeasure could mean she could not understand.
it was, however, just like sara's singular obstinate way.
she was probably determined to brave the matter out.
one thing sara had resolved upon, as she thought things over.
the wonders which had happened must be kept a secret, if such a thing were possible.
if miss minchin should choose to mount to the attic again, of course all would be discovered.
but it did not seem likely that she would do so for some time at least, unless she was led by suspicion.
ermengarde and lottie would be watched with such strictness that they would not dare to steal out of their beds again.
ermengarde could be told the story and trusted to keep it secret.
if lottie made any discoveries, she could be bound to secrecy also.
perhaps the magic itself would help to hide its own marvels.
"but whatever happens," sara kept saying to herself all day "whatever happens, somewhere in the world there is a heavenly kind person who is my friend my friend.
if i never know who it is if i never can even thank him i shall never feel quite so lonely.
oh, the magic was good to me!"
if it was possible for weather to be worse than it had been the day before, it was worse this day wetter, muddier, colder.
there were more errands to be done, the cook was more irritable, and, knowing that sara was in disgrace, she was more savage.
but what does anything matter when one's magic has just proved itself one's friend.
sara's supper of the night before had given her strength, she knew that she should sleep well and warmly, and, even though she had naturally begun to be hungry again before evening, she felt that she could bear it until breakfast-time on the following day, when her meals would surely be given to her again.
it was quite late when she was at last allowed to go upstairs.
she had been told to go into the schoolroom and study until ten o'clock, and she had become interested in her work, and remained over her books later.
when she reached the top flight of stairs and stood before the attic door, it must be confessed that her heart beat rather fast.
"of course it might all have been taken away," she whispered, trying to be brave.
"it might only have been lent to me for just that one awful night.
but it was lent to me i had it.
it was real."
she pushed the door open and went in.
once inside, she gasped slightly, shut the door, and stood with her back against it looking from side to side.
the magic had been there again.
it actually had, and it had done even more than before.
the fire was blazing, in lovely leaping flames, more merrily than ever.
a number of new things had been brought into the attic which so altered the look of it that if she had not been past doubting she would have rubbed her eyes.
upon the low table another supper stood this time with cups and plates for becky as well as herself; a piece of bright, heavy, strange embroidery covered the battered mantel, and on it some ornaments had been placed.
all the bare, ugly things which could be covered with draperies had been concealed and made to look quite pretty.
some odd materials of rich colors had been fastened against the wall with fine, sharp tacks so sharp that they could be pressed into the wood and plaster without hammering.
some brilliant fans were pinned up, and there were several large cushions, big and substantial enough to use as seats.
a wooden box was covered with a rug, and some cushions lay on it, so that it wore quite the air of a sofa.
sara slowly moved away from the door and simply sat down and looked and looked again.
"it is exactly like something fairy come true," she said.
"there isn't the least difference.
i feel as if i might wish for anything diamonds or bags of gold and they would appear!
that wouldn't be any stranger than this.
is this my garret?
am i the same cold, ragged, damp sara?
and to think i used to pretend and pretend and wish there were fairies!
the one thing i always wanted was to see a fairy story come true.
i am living in a fairy story.
i feel as if i might be a fairy myself, and able to turn things into anything else."
she rose and knocked upon the wall for the prisoner in the next cell, and the prisoner came.
when she entered she almost dropped in a heap upon the floor.
for a few seconds she quite lost her breath.
"oh, laws!"
she gasped.
"oh, laws, miss!"
"you see," said sara.
on this night becky sat on a cushion upon the hearth rug and had a cup and saucer of her own.
when sara went to bed she found that she had a new thick mattress and big downy pillows.
her old mattress and pillow had been removed to becky's bedstead, and, consequently, with these additions becky had been supplied with unheard-of comfort.
"where does it all come from?"
becky broke forth once.
"laws, who does it, miss?"
"don't let us even ask," said sara.
"if it were not that i want to say, 'oh, thank you,' i would rather not know.
it makes it more beautiful."
from that time life became more wonderful day by day.
the fairy story continued.
almost every day something new was done.
some new comfort or ornament appeared each time sara opened the door at night, until in a short time the attic was a beautiful little room full of all sorts of odd and luxurious things.
the ugly walls were gradually entirely covered with pictures and draperies, ingenious pieces of folding furniture appeared, a bookshelf was hung up and filled with books, new comforts and conveniences appeared one by one, until there seemed nothing left to be desired.
when sara went downstairs in the morning, the remains of the supper were on the table; and when she returned to the attic in the evening, the magician had removed them and left another nice little meal.
miss minchin was as harsh and insulting as ever, miss amelia as peevish, and the servants were as vulgar and rude.
sara was sent on errands in all weathers, and scolded and driven hither and thither; she was scarcely allowed to speak to ermengarde and lottie; lavinia sneered at the increasing shabbiness of her clothes; and the other girls stared curiously at her when she appeared in the schoolroom.
but what did it all matter while she was living in this wonderful mysterious story?
it was more romantic and delightful than anything she had ever invented to comfort her starved young soul and save herself from despair.
sometimes, when she was scolded, she could scarcely keep from smiling.
"if you only knew!"
she was saying to herself.
"if you only knew!"
the comfort and happiness she enjoyed were making her stronger, and she had them always to look forward to.
if she came home from her errands wet and tired and hungry, she knew she would soon be warm and well fed after she had climbed the stairs.
during the hardest day she could occupy herself blissfully by thinking of what she should see when she opened the attic door, and wondering what new delight had been prepared for her.
in a very short time she began to look less thin.
color came into her cheeks, and her eyes did not seem so much too big for her face.
"sara crewe looks wonderfully well," miss minchin remarked disapprovingly to her sister.
"yes," answered poor, silly miss amelia.
"she is absolutely fattening.
she was beginning to look like a little starved crow."
"starved!"
exclaimed miss minchin, angrily.
"there was no reason why she should look starved.
she always had plenty to eat!"
"of of course," agreed miss amelia, humbly, alarmed to find that she had, as usual, said the wrong thing.
"there is something very disagreeable in seeing that sort of thing in a child of her age," said miss minchin, with haughty vagueness.
"what sort of thing?"
miss amelia ventured.
"it might almost be called defiance," answered miss minchin, feeling annoyed because she knew the thing she resented was nothing like defiance, and she did not know what other unpleasant term to use.
"the spirit and will of any other child would have been entirely humbled and broken by by the changes she has had to submit to.
but, upon my word, she seems as little subdued as if as if she were a princess."
"do you remember," put in the unwise miss amelia, "what she said to you that day in the schoolroom about what you would do if you found out that she was "
"no, i don't," said miss minchin.
"don't talk nonsense."
but she remembered very clearly indeed.
very naturally, even becky was beginning to look plumper and less frightened.
she could not help it.
she had her share in the secret fairy story, too.
she had two mattresses, two pillows, plenty of bed-covering, and every night a hot supper and a seat on the cushions by the fire.
the bastille had melted away, the prisoners no longer existed.
two comforted children sat in the midst of delights.
sometimes sara read aloud from her books, sometimes she learned her own lessons, sometimes she sat and looked into the fire and tried to imagine who her friend could be, and wished she could say to him some of the things in her heart.
then it came about that another wonderful thing happened.
a man came to the door and left several parcels.
all were addressed in large letters, "to the little girl in the right-hand attic."
sara herself was sent to open the door and take them in.
she laid the two largest parcels on the hall table, and was looking at the address, when miss minchin came down the stairs and saw her.
"take the things to the young lady to whom they belong," she said severely.
"don't stand there staring at them.
"they belong to me," answered sara, quietly.
"to you?"
exclaimed miss minchin.
"what do you mean?"
"i don't know where they come from," said sara, "but they are addressed to me.
i sleep in the right-hand attic.
becky has the other one."
miss minchin came to her side and looked at the parcels with an excited expression.
"what is in them?"
she demanded.
"i don't know," replied sara.
"open them," she ordered.
sara did as she was told.
when the packages were unfolded miss minchin's countenance wore suddenly a singular expression.
what she saw was pretty and comfortable clothing clothing of different kinds:
shoes, stockings, and gloves, and a warm and beautiful coat.
there were even a nice hat and an umbrella.
they were all good and expensive things, and on the pocket of the coat was pinned a paper, on which were written these words:  "to be worn every day.
will be replaced by others when necessary."
miss minchin was quite agitated.
this was an incident which suggested strange things to her sordid mind.
could it be that she had made a mistake, after all, and that the neglected child had some powerful though eccentric friend in the background perhaps some previously unknown relation, who had suddenly traced her whereabouts, and chose to provide for her in this mysterious and fantastic way?
relations were sometimes very odd particularly rich old bachelor uncles, who did not care for having children near them.
a man of that sort might prefer to overlook his young relation's welfare at a distance.
such a person, however, would be sure to be crotchety and hot-tempered enough to be easily offended.
it would not be very pleasant if there were such a one, and he should learn all the truth about the thin, shabby clothes, the scant food, and the hard work.
she felt very queer indeed, and very uncertain, and she gave a side glance at sara.
"well," she said, in a voice such as she had never used since the little girl lost her father, "someone is very kind to you.
as the things have been sent, and you are to have new ones when they are worn out, you may as well go and put them on and look respectable.
after you are dressed you may come downstairs and learn your lessons in the schoolroom.
you need not go out on any more errands today."
about half an hour afterward, when the schoolroom door opened and sara walked in, the entire seminary was struck dumb.
"my word!"
ejaculated jessie, jogging lavinia's elbow.
"look at the princess sara!"
everybody was looking, and when lavinia looked she turned quite red.
it was the princess sara indeed.
at least, since the days when she had been a princess, sara had never looked as she did now.
she did not seem the sara they had seen come down the back stairs a few hours ago.
she was dressed in the kind of frock lavinia had been used to envying her the possession of.
it was deep and warm in color, and beautifully made.
her slender feet looked as they had done when jessie had admired them, and the hair, whose heavy locks had made her look rather like a shetland pony when it fell loose about her small, odd face, was tied back with a ribbon.
"perhaps someone has left her a fortune," jessie whispered.
"i always thought something would happen to her.
she's so queer."
"perhaps the diamond mines have suddenly appeared again," said lavinia, scathingly.
"don't please her by staring at her in that way, you silly thing."
"sara," broke in miss minchin's deep voice, "come and sit here."
and while the whole schoolroom stared and pushed with elbows, and scarcely made any effort to conceal its excited curiosity, sara went to her old seat of honor, and bent her head over her books.
that night, when she went to her room, after she and becky had eaten their supper she sat and looked at the fire seriously for a long time.
"are you making something up in your head, miss?"
becky inquired with respectful softness.
when sara sat in silence and looked into the coals with dreaming eyes it generally meant that she was making a new story.
but this time she was not, and she shook her head.
"no," she answered.
"i am wondering what i ought to do."
becky stared still respectfully.
she was filled with something approaching reverence for everything sara did and said.
"i can't help thinking about my friend," sara explained.
"if he wants to keep himself a secret, it would be rude to try and find out who he is.
but i do so want him to know how thankful i am to him and how happy he has made me.
anyone who is kind wants to know when people have been made happy.
they care for that more than for being thanked.
i wish i do wish "
she stopped short because her eyes at that instant fell upon something standing on a table in a corner.
it was something she had found in the room when she came up to it only two days before.
it was a little writing-case fitted with paper and envelopes and pens and ink.
"oh," she exclaimed, "why did i not think of that before?"
she rose and went to the corner and brought the case back to the fire.
"i can write to him," she said joyfully, "and leave it on the table.
then perhaps the person who takes the things away will take it, too.
i won't ask him anything.
he won't mind my thanking him, i feel sure."
so she wrote a note.
this is what she said:
i hope you will not think it is impolite that i should write this note to you when you wish to keep yourself a secret.
please believe i do not mean to be impolite or try to find out anything at all; only i want to thank you for being so kind to me so heavenly kind and making everything like a fairy story.
i am so grateful to you, and i am so happy and so is becky.
becky feels just as thankful as i do it is all just as beautiful and wonderful to her as it is to me.
we used to be so lonely and cold and hungry, and now oh, just think what you have done for us!
please let me say just these words.
it seems as if i ought to say them.
thank you thank you thank you!
the little girl in the attic.
the next morning she left this on the little table, and in the evening it had been taken away with the other things; so she knew the magician had received it, and she was happier for the thought.
she was reading one of her new books to becky just before they went to their respective beds, when her attention was attracted by a sound at the skylight.
when she looked up from her page she saw that becky had heard the sound also, as she had turned her head to look and was listening rather nervously.
"something's there, miss," she whispered.
"yes," said sara, slowly.
"it sounds rather like a cat trying to get in."
she left her chair and went to the skylight.
it was a queer little sound she heard like a soft scratching.
she suddenly remembered something and laughed.
she remembered a quaint little intruder who had made his way into the attic once before.
she had seen him that very afternoon, sitting disconsolately on a table before a window in the indian gentleman's house.
"suppose," she whispered in pleased excitement "just suppose it was the monkey who got away again.
oh, i wish it was!"
she climbed on a chair, very cautiously raised the skylight, and peeped out.
it had been snowing all day, and on the snow, quite near her, crouched a tiny, shivering figure, whose small black face wrinkled itself piteously at sight of her.
"it is the monkey," she cried out.
"he has crept out of the lascar's attic, and he saw the light."
becky ran to her side.
"are you going to let him in, miss?"
she said.
"yes," sara answered joyfully.
"it's too cold for monkeys to be out.
they're delicate.
i'll coax him in."
she put a hand out delicately, speaking in a coaxing voice as she spoke to the sparrows and to melchisedec as if she were some friendly little animal herself.
"come along, monkey darling," she said.
"i won't hurt you."
he knew she would not hurt him.
he knew it before she laid her soft, caressing little paw on him and drew him towards her.
he had felt human love in the slim brown hands of ram dass, and he felt it in hers.
he let her lift him through the skylight, and when he found himself in her arms he cuddled up to her breast and looked up into her face.
"nice monkey!
nice monkey!"
she crooned, kissing his funny head.
"oh, i do love little animal things."
he was evidently glad to get to the fire, and when she sat down and held him on her knee he looked from her to becky with mingled interest and appreciation.
"he is plain-looking, miss, ain't he?"
said becky.
"he looks like a very ugly baby," laughed sara.
"i beg your pardon, monkey; but i'm glad you are not a baby.
your mother couldn't be proud of you, and no one would dare to say you looked like any of your relations.
oh, i do like you!"
she leaned back in her chair and reflected.
"perhaps he's sorry he's so ugly," she said, "and it's always on his mind.
i wonder if he has a mind.
monkey, my love, have you a mind?"
but the monkey only put up a tiny paw and scratched his head.
"what shall you do with him?"
becky asked.
"i shall let him sleep with me tonight, and then take him back to the indian gentleman tomorrow.
i am sorry to take you back, monkey; but you must go.
you ought to be fondest of your own family; and i'm not a real relation."
and when she went to bed she made him a nest at her feet, and he curled up and slept there as if he were a baby and much pleased with his quarters.
17
"it is the child!"
the next afternoon three members of the large family sat in the indian gentleman's library, doing their best to cheer him up.
they had been allowed to come in to perform this office because he had specially invited them.
he had been living in a state of suspense for some time, and today he was waiting for a certain event very anxiously.
this event was the return of mr. carmichael from moscow.
his stay there had been prolonged from week to week.
on his first arrival there, he had not been able satisfactorily to trace the family he had gone in search of.
when he felt at last sure that he had found them and had gone to their house, he had been told that they were absent on a journey.
his efforts to reach them had been unavailing, so he had decided to remain in moscow until their return.
mr. carrisford sat in his reclining chair, and janet sat on the floor beside him.
he was very fond of janet.
nora had found a footstool, and donald was astride the tiger's head which ornamented the rug made of the animal's skin.
it must be owned that he was riding it rather violently.
"don't chirrup so loud, donald," janet said.
"when you come to cheer an ill person up you don't cheer him up at the top of your voice.
perhaps cheering up is too loud, mr.
carrisford?"
turning to the indian gentleman.
but he only patted her shoulder.
"no, it isn't," he answered.
"and it keeps me from thinking too much."
"i'm going to be quiet," donald shouted.
"we'll all be as quiet as mice."
"mice don't make a noise like that," said janet.
donald made a bridle of his handkerchief and bounced up and down on the tiger's head.
"a whole lot of mice might," he said cheerfully.
"a thousand mice might."
"i don't believe fifty thousand mice would," said janet, severely; "and we have to be as quiet as one mouse."
mr. carrisford laughed and patted her shoulder again.
"papa won't be very long now," she said.
"may we talk about the lost little girl?"
"i don't think i could talk much about anything else just now," the indian gentleman answered, knitting his forehead with a tired look.
"we like her so much," said nora.
"we call her the little un-fairy princess."
"why?"
the indian gentleman inquired, because the fancies of the large family always made him forget things a little.
it was janet who answered.
"it is because, though she is not exactly a fairy, she will be so rich when she is found that she will be like a princess in a fairy tale.
we called her the fairy princess at first, but it didn't quite suit."
"is it true," said nora, "that her papa gave all his money to a friend to put in a mine that had diamonds in it, and then the friend thought he had lost it all and ran away because he felt as if he was a robber?"
"but he wasn't really, you know," put in janet, hastily.
the indian gentleman took hold of her hand quickly.
"no, he wasn't really," he said.
"i am sorry for the friend," janet said; "i can't help it.
he didn't mean to do it, and it would break his heart.
i am sure it would break his heart."
"you are an understanding little woman, janet," the indian gentleman said, and he held her hand close.
"did you tell mr. carrisford," donald shouted again, "about the little-girl-who-isn't-a-beggar?
did you tell him she has new nice clothes?
p'r'aps she's been found by somebody when she was lost."
"there's a cab!"
exclaimed janet.
"it's stopping before the door.
it is papa!"
they all ran to the windows to look out.
"yes, it's papa," donald proclaimed.
"but there is no little girl."
all three of them incontinently fled from the room and tumbled into the hall.
it was in this way they always welcomed their father.
they were to be heard jumping up and down, clapping their hands, and being caught up and kissed.
mr. carrisford made an effort to rise and sank back again.
"it is no use," he said.
"what a wreck i am!"
mr. carmichael's voice approached the door.
"no, children," he was saying; "you may come in after i have talked to mr. carrisford.
go and play with ram dass."
then the door opened and he came in.
he looked rosier than ever, and brought an atmosphere of freshness and health with him; but his eyes were disappointed and anxious as they met the invalid's look of eager question even as they grasped each other's hands.
"what news?"
mr. carrisford asked.
"the child the russian people adopted?"
"she is not the child we are looking for," was mr. carmichael's answer.
"she is much younger than captain crewe's little girl.
her name is emily carew.
i have seen and talked to her.
the russians were able to give me every detail."
how wearied and miserable the indian gentleman looked!
his hand dropped from mr. carmichael's.
"then the search has to be begun over again," he said.
"that is all.
please sit down."
mr. carmichael took a seat.
somehow, he had gradually grown fond of this unhappy man.
he was himself so well and happy, and so surrounded by cheerfulness and love, that desolation and broken health seemed pitifully unbearable things.
if there had been the sound of just one gay little high-pitched voice in the house, it would have been so much less forlorn.
and that a man should be compelled to carry about in his breast the thought that he had seemed to wrong and desert a child was not a thing one could face.
"come, come," he said in his cheery voice; "we'll find her yet."
"we must begin at once.
no time must be lost," mr. carrisford fretted.
"have you any new suggestion to make any whatsoever?"
mr. carmichael felt rather restless, and he rose and began to pace the room with a thoughtful, though uncertain face.
"well, perhaps," he said.
"i don't know what it may be worth.
the fact is, an idea occurred to me as i was thinking the thing over in the train on the journey from dover."
"what was it?
if she is alive, she is somewhere."
"yes; she is somewhere.
we have searched the schools in paris.
let us give up paris and begin in london.
that was my idea to search london."
"there are schools enough in london," said mr. carrisford.
then he slightly started, roused by a recollection.
"by the way, there is one next door."
"then we will begin there.
we cannot begin nearer than next door."
"no," said carrisford.
"there is a child there who interests me; but she is not a pupil.
and she is a little dark, forlorn creature, as unlike poor crewe as a child could be."
perhaps the magic was at work again at that very moment the beautiful magic.
it really seemed as if it might be so.
what was it that brought ram dass into the room even as his master spoke salaaming respectfully, but with a scarcely concealed touch of excitement in his dark, flashing eyes?
"sahib," he said, "the child herself has come the child the sahib felt pity for.
she brings back the monkey who had again run away to her attic under the roof.
i have asked that she remain.
it was my thought that it would please the sahib to see and speak with her."
"who is she?"
inquired mr. carmichael.
"god knows," mr. carrrisford answered.
"she is the child i spoke of.
a little drudge at the school."
he waved his hand to ram dass, and addressed him.
"yes, i should like to see her.
go and bring her in."
then he turned to mr. carmichael.
"while you have been away," he explained, "i have been desperate.
the days were so dark and long.
ram dass told me of this child's miseries, and together we invented a romantic plan to help her.
i suppose it was a childish thing to do; but it gave me something to plan and think of.
without the help of an agile, soft-footed oriental like ram dass, however, it could not have been done."
then sara came into the room.
she carried the monkey in her arms, and he evidently did not intend to part from her, if it could be helped.
he was clinging to her and chattering, and the interesting excitement of finding herself in the indian gentleman's room had brought a flush to sara's cheeks.
"your monkey ran away again," she said, in her pretty voice.
"he came to my garret window last night, and i took him in because it was so cold.
i would have brought him back if it had not been so late.
i knew you were ill and might not like to be disturbed."
the indian gentleman's hollow eyes dwelt on her with curious interest.
"that was very thoughtful of you," he said.
sara looked toward ram dass, who stood near the door.
"shall i give him to the lascar?"
she asked.
"how do you know he is a lascar?"
said the indian gentleman, smiling a little.
"oh, i know lascars," sara said, handing over the reluctant monkey.
"i was born in india."
the indian gentleman sat upright so suddenly, and with such a change of expression, that she was for a moment quite startled.
"you were born in india," he exclaimed, "were you?
come here."
and he held out his hand.
sara went to him and laid her hand in his, as he seemed to want to take it.
she stood still, and her green-gray eyes met his wonderingly.
something seemed to be the matter with him.
"you live next door?"
he demanded.
"yes; i live at miss minchin's seminary."
"but you are not one of her pupils?"
a strange little smile hovered about sara's mouth.
she hesitated a moment.
"i don't think i know exactly what i am," she replied.
"why not?"
"at first i was a pupil, and a parlor boarder; but now "
"you were a pupil!
what are you now?"
the queer little sad smile was on sara's lips again.
"i sleep in the attic, next to the scullery maid," she said.
"i run errands for the cook i do anything she tells me; and i teach the little ones their lessons."
"question her, carmichael," said mr. carrisford, sinking back as if he had lost his strength.
"question her; i cannot."
the big, kind father of the large family knew how to question little girls.
sara realized how much practice he had had when he spoke to her in his nice, encouraging voice.
"what do you mean by 'at first,' my child?"
he inquired.
"when i was first taken there by my papa."
"where is your papa?"
"he died," said sara, very quietly.
"he lost all his money and there was none left for me.
there was no one to take care of me or to pay miss minchin."
"carmichael!"
the indian gentleman cried out loudly.
"carmichael!"
"we must not frighten her," mr. carmichael said aside to him in a quick, low voice.
and he added aloud to sara, "so you were sent up into the attic, and made into a little drudge.
that was about it, wasn't it?"
"there was no one to take care of me," said sara.
"there was no money; i belong to nobody."
"how did your father lose his money?"
the indian gentleman broke in breathlessly.
"he did not lose it himself," sara answered, wondering still more each moment.
"he had a friend he was very fond of he was very fond of him.
it was his friend who took his money.
he trusted his friend too much."
the indian gentleman's breath came more quickly.
"the friend might have meant to do no harm," he said.
"it might have happened through a mistake."
sara did not know how unrelenting her quiet young voice sounded as she answered.
if she had known, she would surely have tried to soften it for the indian gentleman's sake.
"the suffering was just as bad for my papa," she said.
"it killed him."
"what was your father's name?"
the indian gentleman said.
"tell me."
"his name was ralph crewe," sara answered, feeling startled.
"captain crewe.
he died in india."
the haggard face contracted, and ram dass sprang to his master's side.
"carmichael," the invalid gasped, "it is the child the child!"
for a moment sara thought he was going to die.
ram dass poured out drops from a bottle, and held them to his lips.
sara stood near, trembling a little.
she looked in a bewildered way at mr. carmichael.
"what child am i?"
she faltered.
"he was your father's friend," mr. carmichael answered her.
"don't be frightened.
we have been looking for you for two years."
sara put her hand up to her forehead, and her mouth trembled.
she spoke as if she were in a dream.
"and i was at miss minchin's all the while," she half whispered.
"just on the other side of the wall."
18
"i tried not to be"
it was pretty, comfortable mrs. carmichael who explained everything.
she was sent for at once, and came across the square to take sara into her warm arms and make clear to her all that had happened.
the excitement of the totally unexpected discovery had been temporarily almost overpowering to mr. carrisford in his weak condition.
"upon my word," he said faintly to mr. carmichael, when it was suggested that the little girl should go into another room.
"i feel as if i do not want to lose sight of her."
"i will take care of her," janet said, "and mamma will come in a few minutes."
and it was janet who led her away.
"we're so glad you are found," she said.
"you don't know how glad we are that you are found."
donald stood with his hands in his pockets, and gazed at sara with reflecting and self-reproachful eyes.
"if i'd just asked what your name was when i gave you my sixpence," he said, "you would have told me it was sara crewe, and then you would have been found in a minute."
then mrs. carmichael came in.
she looked very much moved, and suddenly took sara in her arms and kissed her.
"you look bewildered, poor child," she said.
"and it is not to be wondered at."
sara could only think of one thing.
"was he," she said, with a glance toward the closed door of the library "was he the wicked friend?
oh, do tell me!"
mrs. carmichael was crying as she kissed her again.
she felt as if she ought to be kissed very often because she had not been kissed for so long.
"he was not wicked, my dear," she answered.
"he did not really lose your papa's money.
he only thought he had lost it; and because he loved him so much his grief made him so ill that for a time he was not in his right mind.
he almost died of brain fever, and long before he began to recover your poor papa was dead."
"and he did not know where to find me," murmured sara.
"and i was so near."
somehow, she could not forget that she had been so near.
"he believed you were in school in france," mrs. carmichael explained.
"and he was continually misled by false clues.
he has looked for you everywhere.
when he saw you pass by, looking so sad and neglected, he did not dream that you were his friend's poor child; but because you were a little girl, too, he was sorry for you, and wanted to make you happier.
and he told ram dass to climb into your attic window and try to make you comfortable."
sara gave a start of joy; her whole look changed.
"did ram dass bring the things?"
she cried out.
"did he tell ram dass to do it?
did he make the dream that came true?"
"yes, my dear yes!
he is kind and good, and he was sorry for you, for little lost sara crewe's sake."
the library door opened and mr. carmichael appeared, calling sara to him with a gesture.
"mr. carrisford is better already," he said.
"he wants you to come to him."
sara did not wait.
when the indian gentleman looked at her as she entered, he saw that her face was all alight.
she went and stood before his chair, with her hands clasped together against her breast.
"you sent the things to me," she said, in a joyful emotional little voice, "the beautiful, beautiful things?
you sent them!"
"yes, poor, dear child, i did," he answered her.
he was weak and broken with long illness and trouble, but he looked at her with the look she remembered in her father's eyes that look of loving her and wanting to take her in his arms.
it made her kneel down by him, just as she used to kneel by her father when they were the dearest friends and lovers in the world.
"then it is you who are my friend," she said; "it is you who are my friend!"
and she dropped her face on his thin hand and kissed it again and again.
"the man will be himself again in three weeks," mr. carmichael said aside to his wife.
"look at his face already."
in fact, he did look changed.
here was the "little missus," and he had new things to think of and plan for already.
in the first place, there was miss minchin.
she must be interviewed and told of the change which had taken place in the fortunes of her pupil.
sara was not to return to the seminary at all.
the indian gentleman was very determined upon that point.
she must remain where she was, and mr. carmichael should go and see miss minchin himself.
"i am glad i need not go back," said sara.
"she will be very angry.
she does not like me; though perhaps it is my fault, because i do not like her."
but, oddly enough, miss minchin made it unnecessary for mr. carmichael to go to her, by actually coming in search of her pupil herself.
she had wanted sara for something, and on inquiry had heard an astonishing thing.
one of the housemaids had seen her steal out of the area with something hidden under her cloak, and had also seen her go up the steps of the next door and enter the house.
"what does she mean!"
cried miss minchin to miss amelia.
"i don't know, i'm sure, sister," answered miss amelia.
"unless she has made friends with him because he has lived in india."
"it would be just like her to thrust herself upon him and try to gain his sympathies in some such impertinent fashion," said miss minchin.
"she must have been in the house for two hours.
i will not allow such presumption.
i shall go and inquire into the matter, and apologize for her intrusion."
sara was sitting on a footstool close to mr. carrisford's knee, and listening to some of the many things he felt it necessary to try to explain to her, when ram dass announced the visitor's arrival.
sara rose involuntarily, and became rather pale; but mr. carrisford saw that she stood quietly, and showed none of the ordinary signs of child terror.
miss minchin entered the room with a sternly dignified manner.
she was correctly and well dressed, and rigidly polite.
"i am sorry to disturb mr. carrisford," she said; "but i have explanations to make.
i am miss minchin, the proprietress of the young ladies' seminary next door."
the indian gentleman looked at her for a moment in silent scrutiny.
he was a man who had naturally a rather hot temper, and he did not wish it to get too much the better of him.
"so you are miss minchin?"
he said.
"i am, sir."
"in that case," the indian gentleman replied, "you have arrived at the right time.
my solicitor, mr. carmichael, was just on the point of going to see you."
mr. carmichael bowed slightly, and miss minchin looked from him to mr.
carrisford in amazement.
"your solicitor!"
she said.
"i do not understand.
i have come here as a matter of duty.
i have just discovered that you have been intruded upon through the forwardness of one of my pupils a charity pupil.
i came to explain that she intruded without my knowledge."
she turned upon sara.
"go home at once," she commanded indignantly.
"you shall be severely punished.
go home at once."
the indian gentleman drew sara to his side and patted her hand.
"she is not going."
miss minchin felt rather as if she must be losing her senses.
"not going!"
she repeated.
"no," said mr. carrisford.
"she is not going home if you give your house that name.
her home for the future will be with me."
miss minchin fell back in amazed indignation.
"with you!
with you sir!
what does this mean?"
"kindly explain the matter, carmichael," said the indian gentleman; "and get it over as quickly as possible."
and he made sara sit down again, and held her hands in his which was another trick of her papa's.
then mr. carmichael explained in the quiet, level-toned, steady manner of a man who knew his subject, and all its legal significance, which was a thing miss minchin understood as a business woman, and did not enjoy.
"mr. carrisford, madam," he said, "was an intimate friend of the late captain crewe.
he was his partner in certain large investments.
the fortune which captain crewe supposed he had lost has been recovered, and is now in mr. carrisford's hands."
"the fortune!"
cried miss minchin; and she really lost color as she uttered the exclamation.
"sara's fortune!"
"it will be sara's fortune," replied mr. carmichael, rather coldly.
"it is sara's fortune now, in fact.
certain events have increased it enormously.
the diamond mines have retrieved themselves."
"the diamond mines!"
miss minchin gasped out.
if this was true, nothing so horrible, she felt, had ever happened to her since she was born.
"the diamond mines," mr. carmichael repeated, and he could not help adding, with a rather sly, unlawyer-like smile, "there are not many princesses, miss minchin, who are richer than your little charity pupil, sara crewe, will be.
mr. carrisford has been searching for her for nearly two years; he has found her at last, and he will keep her."
after which he asked miss minchin to sit down while he explained matters to her fully, and went into such detail as was necessary to make it quite clear to her that sara's future was an assured one, and that what had seemed to be lost was to be restored to her tenfold; also, that she had in mr. carrisford a guardian as well as a friend.
miss minchin was not a clever woman, and in her excitement she was silly enough to make one desperate effort to regain what she could not help seeing she had lost through her worldly folly.
"he found her under my care," she protested.
"i have done everything for her.
but for me she should have starved in the streets."
here the indian gentleman lost his temper.
"as to starving in the streets," he said, "she might have starved more comfortably there than in your attic."
"captain crewe left her in my charge," miss minchin argued.
"she must return to it until she is of age.
she can be a parlor boarder again.
she must finish her education.
the law will interfere in my behalf."
"come, come, miss minchin," mr. carmichael interposed, "the law will do nothing of the sort.
if sara herself wishes to return to you, i dare say mr. carrisford might not refuse to allow it.
but that rests with sara."
"then," said miss minchin, "i appeal to sara.
i have not spoiled you, perhaps," she said awkwardly to the little girl; "but you know that your papa was pleased with your progress.
and ahem i have always been fond of you."
sara's green-gray eyes fixed themselves on her with the quiet, clear look miss minchin particularly disliked.
"have you, miss minchin?"
she said.
"i did not know that."
miss minchin reddened and drew herself up.
"you ought to have known it," said she; "but children, unfortunately, never know what is best for them.
amelia and i always said you were the cleverest child in the school.
will you not do your duty to your poor papa and come home with me?"
sara took a step toward her and stood still.
she was thinking of the day when she had been told that she belonged to nobody, and was in danger of being turned into the street; she was thinking of the cold, hungry hours she had spent alone with emily and melchisedec in the attic.
she looked miss minchin steadily in the face.
"you know why i will not go home with you, miss minchin," she said; "you know quite well."
a hot flush showed itself on miss minchin's hard, angry face.
"you will never see your companions again," she began.
"i will see that ermengarde and lottie are kept away "
mr. carmichael stopped her with polite firmness.
"excuse me," he said; "she will see anyone she wishes to see.
the parents of miss crewe's fellow-pupils are not likely to refuse her invitations to visit her at her guardian's house.
mr. carrisford will attend to that."
it must be confessed that even miss minchin flinched.
this was worse than the eccentric bachelor uncle who might have a peppery temper and be easily offended at the treatment of his niece.
a woman of sordid mind could easily believe that most people would not refuse to allow their children to remain friends with a little heiress of diamond mines.
and if mr. carrisford chose to tell certain of her patrons how unhappy sara crewe had been made, many unpleasant things might happen.
"you have not undertaken an easy charge," she said to the indian gentleman, as she turned to leave the room; "you will discover that very soon.
the child is neither truthful nor grateful.
i suppose" to sara "that you feel now that you are a princess again."
sara looked down and flushed a little, because she thought her pet fancy might not be easy for strangers even nice ones to understand at first.
"i tried not to be anything else," she answered in a low voice "even when i was coldest and hungriest i tried not to be."
"now it will not be necessary to try," said miss minchin, acidly, as ram dass salaamed her out of the room.
she returned home and, going to her sitting room, sent at once for miss amelia.
she sat closeted with her all the rest of the afternoon, and it must be admitted that poor miss amelia passed through more than one bad quarter of an hour.
she shed a good many tears, and mopped her eyes a good deal.
one of her unfortunate remarks almost caused her sister to snap her head entirely off, but it resulted in an unusual manner.
"i'm not as clever as you, sister," she said, "and i am always afraid to say things to you for fear of making you angry.
perhaps if i were not so timid it would be better for the school and for both of us.
i must say i've often thought it would have been better if you had been less severe on sara crewe, and had seen that she was decently dressed and more comfortable.
i know she was worked too hard for a child of her age, and i know she was only half fed "
"how dare you say such a thing!"
exclaimed miss minchin.
"i don't know how i dare," miss amelia answered, with a kind of reckless courage; "but now i've begun i may as well finish, whatever happens to me.
the child was a clever child and a good child and she would have paid you for any kindness you had shown her.
but you didn't show her any.
the fact was, she was too clever for you, and you always disliked her for that reason.
she used to see through us both "
"amelia!"
gasped her infuriated elder, looking as if she would box her ears and knock her cap off, as she had often done to becky.
but miss amelia's disappointment had made her hysterical enough not to care what occurred next.
"she did!
she did!"
she cried.
"she saw through us both.
she saw that you were a hard-hearted, worldly woman, and that i was a weak fool, and that we were both of us vulgar and mean enough to grovel on our knees for her money, and behave ill to her because it was taken from her though she behaved herself like a little princess even when she was a beggar.
she did she did like a little princess!"
and her hysterics got the better of the poor woman, and she began to laugh and cry both at once, and rock herself backward and forward.
"and now you've lost her," she cried wildly; "and some other school will get her and her money; and if she were like any other child she'd tell how she's been treated, and all our pupils would be taken away and we should be ruined.
and it serves us right; but it serves you right more than it does me, for you are a hard woman, maria minchin, you're a hard, selfish, worldly woman!"
and she was in danger of making so much noise with her hysterical chokes and gurgles that her sister was obliged to go to her and apply salts and sal volatile to quiet her, instead of pouring forth her indignation at her audacity.
and from that time forward, it may be mentioned, the elder miss minchin actually began to stand a little in awe of a sister who, while she looked so foolish, was evidently not quite so foolish as she looked, and might, consequently, break out and speak truths people did not want to hear.
that evening, when the pupils were gathered together before the fire in the schoolroom, as was their custom before going to bed, ermengarde came in with a letter in her hand and a queer expression on her round face.
it was queer because, while it was an expression of delighted excitement, it was combined with such amazement as seemed to belong to a kind of shock just received.
"what is the matter?"
cried two or three voices at once.
"is it anything to do with the row that has been going on?"
said lavinia, eagerly.
"there has been such a row in miss minchin's room, miss amelia has had something like hysterics and has had to go to bed."
ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half stunned.
"i have just had this letter from sara," she said, holding it out to let them see what a long letter it was.
"from sara!"
every voice joined in that exclamation.
"where is she?"
almost shrieked jessie.
"next door," said ermengarde, "with the indian gentleman."
"where?
where?
has she been sent away?
does miss minchin know?
was the row about that?
why did she write?
tell us!
tell us!"
there was a perfect babel, and lottie began to cry plaintively.
ermengarde answered them slowly as if she were half plunged out into what, at the moment, seemed the most important and self-explaining thing.
"there were diamond mines," she said stoutly; "there were!"
open mouths and open eyes confronted her.
"they were real," she hurried on.
"it was all a mistake about them.
something happened for a time, and mr. carrisford thought they were ruined "
"who is mr.
carrisford?"
shouted jessie.
"the indian gentleman.
and captain crewe thought so, too and he died; and mr. carrisford had brain fever and ran away, and he almost died.
and he did not know where sara was.
and it turned out that there were millions and millions of diamonds in the mines; and half of them belong to sara; and they belonged to her when she was living in the attic with no one but melchisedec for a friend, and the cook ordering her about.
and mr. carrisford found her this afternoon, and he has got her in his home and she will never come back and she will be more a princess than she ever was a hundred and fifty thousand times more.
and i am going to see her tomorrow afternoon.
there!"
even miss minchin herself could scarcely have controlled the uproar after this; and though she heard the noise, she did not try.
she was not in the mood to face anything more than she was facing in her room, while miss amelia was weeping in bed.
she knew that the news had penetrated the walls in some mysterious manner, and that every servant and every child would go to bed talking about it.
so until almost midnight the entire seminary, realizing somehow that all rules were laid aside, crowded round ermengarde in the schoolroom and heard read and re-read the letter containing a story which was quite as wonderful as any sara herself had ever invented, and which had the amazing charm of having happened to sara herself and the mystic indian gentleman in the very next house.
becky, who had heard it also, managed to creep up stairs earlier than usual.
she wanted to get away from people and go and look at the little magic room once more.
she did not know what would happen to it.
it was not likely that it would be left to miss minchin.
it would be taken away, and the attic would be bare and empty again.
glad as she was for sara's sake, she went up the last flight of stairs with a lump in her throat and tears blurring her sight.
there would be no fire tonight, and no rosy lamp; no supper, and no princess sitting in the glow reading or telling stories no princess!
she choked down a sob as she pushed the attic door open, and then she broke into a low cry.
the lamp was flushing the room, the fire was blazing, the supper was waiting; and ram dass was standing smiling into her startled face.
"missee sahib remembered," he said.
"she told the sahib all.
she wished you to know the good fortune which has befallen her.
behold a letter on the tray.
she has written.
she did not wish that you should go to sleep unhappy.
the sahib commands you to come to him tomorrow.
you are to be the attendant of missee sahib.
tonight i take these things back over the roof."
and having said this with a beaming face, he made a little salaam and slipped through the skylight with an agile silentness of movement which showed becky how easily he had done it before.
19
anne
never had such joy reigned in the nursery of the large family.
never had they dreamed of such delights as resulted from an intimate acquaintance with the little-girl-who-was-not-a-beggar.
the mere fact of her sufferings and adventures made her a priceless possession.
everybody wanted to be told over and over again the things which had happened to her.
when one was sitting by a warm fire in a big, glowing room, it was quite delightful to hear how cold it could be in an attic.
it must be admitted that the attic was rather delighted in, and that its coldness and bareness quite sank into insignificance when melchisedec was remembered, and one heard about the sparrows and things one could see if one climbed on the table and stuck one's head and shoulders out of the skylight.
of course the thing loved best was the story of the banquet and the dream which was true.
sara told it for the first time the day after she had been found.
several members of the large family came to take tea with her, and as they sat or curled up on the hearth-rug she told the story in her own way, and the indian gentleman listened and watched her.
when she had finished she looked up at him and put her hand on his knee.
"that is my part," she said.
"now won't you tell your part of it, uncle tom?"
he had asked her to call him always "uncle tom."
"i don't know your part yet, and it must be beautiful."
so he told them how, when he sat alone, ill and dull and irritable, ram dass had tried to distract him by describing the passers by, and there was one child who passed oftener than any one else; he had begun to be interested in her partly perhaps because he was thinking a great deal of a little girl, and partly because ram dass had been able to relate the incident of his visit to the attic in chase of the monkey.
he had described its cheerless look, and the bearing of the child, who seemed as if she was not of the class of those who were treated as drudges and servants.
bit by bit, ram dass had made discoveries concerning the wretchedness of her life.
he had found out how easy a matter it was to climb across the few yards of roof to the skylight, and this fact had been the beginning of all that followed.
"sahib," he had said one day, "i could cross the slates and make the child a fire when she is out on some errand.
when she returned, wet and cold, to find it blazing, she would think a magician had done it."
the idea had been so fanciful that mr. carrisford's sad face had lighted with a smile, and ram dass had been so filled with rapture that he had enlarged upon it and explained to his master how simple it would be to accomplish numbers of other things.
he had shown a childlike pleasure and invention, and the preparations for the carrying out of the plan had filled many a day with interest which would otherwise have dragged wearily.
on the night of the frustrated banquet ram dass had kept watch, all his packages being in readiness in the attic which was his own; and the person who was to help him had waited with him, as interested as himself in the odd adventure.
ram dass had been lying flat upon the slates, looking in at the skylight, when the banquet had come to its disastrous conclusion; he had been sure of the profoundness of sara's wearied sleep; and then, with a dark lantern, he had crept into the room, while his companion remained outside and handed the things to him.
when sara had stirred ever so faintly, ram dass had closed the lantern-slide and lain flat upon the floor.
these and many other exciting things the children found out by asking a thousand questions.
"i am so glad," sara said.
"i am so glad it was you who were my friend!"
there never were such friends as these two became.
somehow, they seemed to suit each other in a wonderful way.
the indian gentleman had never had a companion he liked quite as much as he liked sara.
in a month's time he was, as mr. carmichael had prophesied he would be, a new man.
he was always amused and interested, and he began to find an actual pleasure in the possession of the wealth he had imagined that he loathed the burden of.
there were so many charming things to plan for sara.
there was a little joke between them that he was a magician, and it was one of his pleasures to invent things to surprise her.
she found beautiful new flowers growing in her room, whimsical little gifts tucked under pillows, and once, as they sat together in the evening, they heard the scratch of a heavy paw on the door, and when sara went to find out what it was, there stood a great dog a splendid russian boarhound with a grand silver and gold collar bearing an inscription.
"i am boris," it read; "i serve the princess sara."
there was nothing the indian gentleman loved more than the recollection of the little princess in rags and tatters.
the afternoons in which the large family, or ermengarde and lottie, gathered to rejoice together were very delightful.
but the hours when sara and the indian gentleman sat alone and read or talked had a special charm of their own.
during their passing many interesting things occurred.
one evening, mr. carrisford, looking up from his book, noticed that his companion had not stirred for some time, but sat gazing into the fire.
"what are you 'supposing,' sara?"
he asked.
sara looked up, with a bright color on her cheek.
"i was supposing," she said; "i was remembering that hungry day, and a child i saw."
"but there were a great many hungry days," said the indian gentleman, with rather a sad tone in his voice.
"which hungry day was it?"
"i forgot you didn't know," said sara.
"it was the day the dream came true."
then she told him the story of the bun shop, and the fourpence she picked up out of the sloppy mud, and the child who was hungrier than herself.
she told it quite simply, and in as few words as possible; but somehow the indian gentleman found it necessary to shade his eyes with his hand and look down at the carpet.
"and i was supposing a kind of plan," she said, when she had finished.
"i was thinking i should like to do something."
"what was it?"
said mr. carrisford, in a low tone.
"you may do anything you like to do, princess."
"i was wondering," rather hesitated sara "you know, you say i have so much money i was wondering if i could go to see the bun-woman, and tell her that if, when hungry children particularly on those dreadful days come and sit on the steps, or look in at the window, she would just call them in and give them something to eat, she might send the bills to me.
could i do that?"
"you shall do it tomorrow morning," said the indian gentleman.
"thank you," said sara.
"you see, i know what it is to be hungry, and it is very hard when one cannot even pretend it away."
"yes, yes, my dear," said the indian gentleman.
"yes, yes, it must be.
try to forget it.
come and sit on this footstool near my knee, and only remember you are a princess."
"yes," said sara, smiling; "and i can give buns and bread to the populace."
and she went and sat on the stool, and the indian gentleman (he used to like her to call him that, too, sometimes) drew her small dark head down on his knee and stroked her hair.
the next morning, miss minchin, in looking out of her window, saw the things she perhaps least enjoyed seeing.
the indian gentleman's carriage, with its tall horses, drew up before the door of the next house, and its owner and a little figure, warm with soft, rich furs, descended the steps to get into it.
the little figure was a familiar one, and reminded miss minchin of days in the past.
it was followed by another as familiar the sight of which she found very irritating.
it was becky, who, in the character of delighted attendant, always accompanied her young mistress to her carriage, carrying wraps and belongings.
already becky had a pink, round face.
a little later the carriage drew up before the door of the baker's shop, and its occupants got out, oddly enough, just as the bun-woman was putting a tray of smoking-hot buns into the window.
when sara entered the shop the woman turned and looked at her, and, leaving the buns, came and stood behind the counter.
for a moment she looked at sara very hard indeed, and then her good-natured face lighted up.
"i'm sure that i remember you, miss," she said.
"and yet "
"yes," said sara; "once you gave me six buns for fourpence, and "
"and you gave five of 'em to a beggar child," the woman broke in on her.
"i've always remembered it.
i couldn't make it out at first."
she turned round to the indian gentleman and spoke her next words to him.
"i beg your pardon, sir, but there's not many young people that notices a hungry face in that way; and i've thought of it many a time.
excuse the liberty, miss," to sara "but you look rosier and well, better than you did that that "
"i am better, thank you," said sara.
"and i am much happier and i have come to ask you to do something for me."
"me, miss!"
exclaimed the bun-woman, smiling cheerfully.
"why, bless you!
yes, miss.
what can i do?"
and then sara, leaning on the counter, made her little proposal concerning the dreadful days and the hungry waifs and the buns.
the woman watched her, and listened with an astonished face.
"why, bless me!"
she said again when she had heard it all; "it'll be a pleasure to me to do it.
i am a working-woman myself and cannot afford to do much on my own account, and there's sights of trouble on every side; but, if you'll excuse me, i'm bound to say i've given away many a bit of bread since that wet afternoon, just along o' thinking of you an' how wet an' cold you was, an' how hungry you looked; an' yet you gave away your hot buns as if you was a princess."
the indian gentleman smiled involuntarily at this, and sara smiled a little, too, remembering what she had said to herself when she put the buns down on the ravenous child's ragged lap.
"she looked so hungry," she said.
"she was even hungrier than i was."
"she was starving," said the woman.
"many's the time she's told me of it since how she sat there in the wet, and felt as if a wolf was a-tearing at her poor young insides."
"oh, have you seen her since then?"
exclaimed sara.
"do you know where she is?"
"yes, i do," answered the woman, smiling more good-naturedly than ever.
"why, she's in that there back room, miss, an' has been for a month; an' a decent, well-meanin' girl she's goin' to turn out, an' such a help to me in the shop an' in the kitchen as you'd scarce believe, knowin' how she's lived."
she stepped to the door of the little back parlor and spoke; and the next minute a girl came out and followed her behind the counter.
and actually it was the beggar-child, clean and neatly clothed, and looking as if she had not been hungry for a long time.
she looked shy, but she had a nice face, now that she was no longer a savage, and the wild look had gone from her eyes.
she knew sara in an instant, and stood and looked at her as if she could never look enough.
"you see," said the woman, "i told her to come when she was hungry, and when she'd come i'd give her odd jobs to do; an' i found she was willing, and somehow i got to like her; and the end of it was, i've given her a place an' a home, and she helps me, an' behaves well, an'
is as thankful as a girl can be.
her name's anne.
she has no other."
the children stood and looked at each other for a few minutes; and then sara took her hand out of her muff and held it out across the counter, and anne took it, and they looked straight into each other's eyes.
"i am so glad," sara said.
"and i have just thought of something.
perhaps mrs. brown will let you be the one to give the buns and bread to the children.
perhaps you would like to do it because you know what it is to be hungry, too."
"yes, miss," said the girl.
and, somehow, sara felt as if she understood her, though she said so little, and only stood still and looked and looked after her as she went out of the shop with the indian gentleman, and they got into the carriage and drove away.
little women
chapter one
playing pilgrims
"christmas won't be christmas without any presents," grumbled jo, lying on the rug.
"it's so dreadful to be poor!"
sighed meg, looking down at her old dress.
"i don't think it's fair for some girls to have plenty of pretty things, and other girls nothing at all," added little amy, with an injured sniff.
"we've got father and mother, and each other," said beth contentedly from her corner.
the four young faces on which the firelight shone brightened at the cheerful words, but darkened again as jo said sadly, "we haven't got father, and shall not have him for a long time."
she didn't say "perhaps never," but each silently added it, thinking of father far away, where the fighting was.
nobody spoke for a minute; then meg said in an altered tone, "you know the reason mother proposed not having any presents this christmas was because it is going to be a hard winter for everyone; and she thinks we ought not to spend money for pleasure, when our men are suffering so in the army.
we can't do much, but we can make our little sacrifices, and ought to do it gladly.
but i am afraid i don't," and meg shook her head, as she thought regretfully of all the pretty things she wanted.
"but i don't think the little we should spend would do any good.
we've each got a dollar, and the army wouldn't be much helped by our giving that.
i agree not to expect anything from mother or you, but i do want to buy undine and sintran for myself.
i've wanted it so long," said jo, who was a bookworm.
"i planned to spend mine in new music," said beth, with a little sigh, which no one heard but the hearth brush and kettle-holder.
"i shall get a nice box of faber's drawing pencils; i really need them," said amy decidedly.
"mother didn't say anything about our money, and she won't wish us to give up everything.
let's each buy what we want, and have a little fun; i'm sure we work hard enough to earn it," cried jo, examining the heels of her shoes in a gentlemanly manner.
"i know i do teaching those tiresome children nearly all day, when i'm longing to enjoy myself at home," began meg, in the complaining tone again.
"you don't have half such a hard time as i do," said jo.
"how would you like to be shut up for hours with a nervous, fussy old lady, who keeps you trotting, is never satisfied, and worries you till you're ready to fly out the window or cry?"
"it's naughty to fret, but i do think washing dishes and keeping things tidy is the worst work in the world.
it makes me cross, and my hands get so stiff, i can't practice well at all."
and beth looked at her rough hands with a sigh that any one could hear that time.
"i don't believe any of you suffer as i do," cried amy, "for you don't have to go to school with impertinent girls, who plague you if you don't know your lessons, and laugh at your dresses, and label your father if he isn't rich, and insult you when your nose isn't nice."
"if you mean libel, i'd say so, and not talk about labels, as if papa was a pickle bottle," advised jo, laughing.
"i know what i mean, and you needn't be statirical about it.
it's proper to use good words, and improve your vocabilary," returned amy, with dignity.
"don't peck at one another, children.
don't you wish we had the money papa lost when we were little, jo?
dear me!
how happy and good we'd be, if we had no worries!"
said meg, who could remember better times.
"you said the other day you thought we were a deal happier than the king children, for they were fighting and fretting all the time, in spite of their money."
"so i did, beth.
well, i think we are.
for though we do have to work, we make fun of ourselves, and are a pretty jolly set, as jo would say."
"jo does use such slang words!"
observed amy, with a reproving look at the long figure stretched on the rug.
jo immediately sat up, put her hands in her pockets, and began to whistle.
"don't, jo.
it's so boyish!"
"that's why i do it."
"i detest rude, unladylike girls!"
"i hate affected, niminy-piminy chits!"
"birds in their little nests agree," sang beth, the peacemaker, with such a funny face that both sharp voices softened to a laugh, and the "pecking" ended for that time.
"really, girls, you are both to be blamed," said meg, beginning to lecture in her elder-sisterly fashion.
"you are old enough to leave off boyish tricks, and to behave better, josephine.
it didn't matter so much when you were a little girl, but now you are so tall, and turn up your hair, you should remember that you are a young lady."
"i'm not!
and if turning up my hair makes me one, i'll wear it in two tails till i'm twenty," cried jo, pulling off her net, and shaking down a chestnut mane.
"i hate to think i've got to grow up, and be miss march, and wear long gowns, and look as prim as a china aster!
it's bad enough to be a girl, anyway, when i like boy's games and work and manners!
i can't get over my disappointment in not being a boy.
and it's worse than ever now, for i'm dying to go and fight with papa.
and i can only stay home and knit, like a poky old woman!"
and jo shook the blue army sock till the needles rattled like castanets, and her ball bounded across the room.
"poor jo!
it's too bad, but it can't be helped.
so you must try to be contented with making your name boyish, and playing brother to us girls," said beth, stroking the rough head with a hand that all the dish washing and dusting in the world could not make ungentle in its touch.
"as for you, amy," continued meg, "you are altogether too particular and prim.
your airs are funny now, but you'll grow up an affected little goose, if you don't take care.
i like your nice manners and refined ways of speaking, when you don't try to be elegant.
but your absurd words are as bad as jo's slang."
"if jo is a tomboy and amy a goose, what am i, please?"
asked beth, ready to share the lecture.
"you're a dear, and nothing else," answered meg warmly, and no one contradicted her, for the 'mouse' was the pet of the family.
as young readers like to know 'how people look', we will take this moment to give them a little sketch of the four sisters, who sat knitting away in the twilight, while the december snow fell quietly without, and the fire crackled cheerfully within.
it was a comfortable room, though the carpet was faded and the furniture very plain, for a good picture or two hung on the walls, books filled the recesses, chrysanthemums and christmas roses bloomed in the windows, and a pleasant atmosphere of home peace pervaded it.
margaret, the eldest of the four, was sixteen, and very pretty, being plump and fair, with large eyes, plenty of soft brown hair, a sweet mouth, and white hands, of which she was rather vain.
fifteen-year-old jo was very tall, thin, and brown, and reminded one of a colt, for she never seemed to know what to do with her long limbs, which were very much in her way.
she had a decided mouth, a comical nose, and sharp, gray eyes, which appeared to see everything, and were by turns fierce, funny, or thoughtful.
her long, thick hair was her one beauty, but it was usually bundled into a net, to be out of her way.
round shoulders had jo, big hands and feet, a flyaway look to her clothes, and the uncomfortable appearance of a girl who was rapidly shooting up into a woman and didn't like it.
elizabeth, or beth, as everyone called her, was a rosy, smooth-haired, bright-eyed girl of thirteen, with a shy manner, a timid voice, and a peaceful expression which was seldom disturbed.
her father called her 'little miss tranquility', and the name suited her excellently, for she seemed to live in a happy world of her own, only venturing out to meet the few whom she trusted and loved.
amy, though the youngest, was a most important person, in her own opinion at least.
a regular snow maiden, with blue eyes, and yellow hair curling on her shoulders, pale and slender, and always carrying herself like a young lady mindful of her manners.
what the characters of the four sisters were we will leave to be found out.
the clock struck six and, having swept up the hearth, beth put a pair of slippers down to warm.
somehow the sight of the old shoes had a good effect upon the girls, for mother was coming, and everyone brightened to welcome her.
meg stopped lecturing, and lighted the lamp, amy got out of the easy chair without being asked, and jo forgot how tired she was as she sat up to hold the slippers nearer to the blaze.
"they are quite worn out.
marmee must have a new pair."
"i thought i'd get her some with my dollar," said beth.
"no, i shall!"
cried amy.
"i'm the oldest," began meg, but jo cut in with a decided, "i'm the man of the family now papa is away, and i shall provide the slippers, for he told me to take special care of mother while he was gone."
"i'll tell you what we'll do," said beth, "let's each get her something for christmas, and not get anything for ourselves."
"that's like you, dear!
what will we get?"
exclaimed jo.
everyone thought soberly for a minute, then meg announced, as if the idea was suggested by the sight of her own pretty hands, "i shall give her a nice pair of gloves."
"army shoes, best to be had," cried jo.
"some handkerchiefs, all hemmed," said beth.
"i'll get a little bottle of cologne.
she likes it, and it won't cost much, so i'll have some left to buy my pencils," added amy.
"how will we give the things?"
asked meg.
"put them on the table, and bring her in and see her open the bundles.
don't you remember how we used to do on our birthdays?"
answered jo.
"i used to be so frightened when it was my turn to sit in the chair with the crown on, and see you all come marching round to give the presents, with a kiss.
i liked the things and the kisses, but it was dreadful to have you sit looking at me while i opened the bundles,"
said beth, who was toasting her face and the bread for tea at the same time.
"let marmee think we are getting things for ourselves, and then surprise her.
we must go shopping tomorrow afternoon, meg.
there is so much to do about the play for christmas night," said jo, marching up and down, with her hands behind her back, and her nose in the air.
"i don't mean to act any more after this time.
i'm getting too old for such things," observed meg, who was as much a child as ever about 'dressing-up' frolics.
"you won't stop, i know, as long as you can trail round in a white gown with your hair down, and wear gold-paper jewelry.
you are the best actress we've got, and there'll be an end of everything if you quit the boards," said jo.
"we ought to rehearse tonight.
come here, amy, and do the fainting scene, for you are as stiff as a poker in that."
"i can't help it.
i never saw anyone faint, and i don't choose to make myself all black and blue, tumbling flat as you do.
if i can go down easily, i'll drop.
if i can't, i shall fall into a chair and be graceful.
i don't care if hugo does come at me with a pistol,"
returned amy, who was not gifted with dramatic power, but was chosen because she was small enough to be borne out shrieking by the villain of the piece.
"do it this way.
clasp your hands so, and stagger across the room, crying frantically, 'roderigo!
save me!
save me!'"
and away went jo, with a melodramatic scream which was truly thrilling.
amy followed, but she poked her hands out stiffly before her, and jerked herself along as if she went by machinery, and her "ow!"
was more suggestive of pins being run into her than of fear and anguish.
jo gave a despairing groan, and meg laughed outright, while beth let her bread burn as she watched the fun with interest.
"it's no use!
do the best you can when the time comes, and if the audience laughs, don't blame me.
come on, meg."
then things went smoothly, for don pedro defied the world in a speech of two pages without a single break.
hagar, the witch, chanted an awful incantation over her kettleful of simmering toads, with weird effect.
roderigo rent his chains asunder manfully, and hugo died in agonies of remorse and arsenic, with a wild, "ha!
ha!"
"it's the best we've had yet," said meg, as the dead villain sat up and rubbed his elbows.
"i don't see how you can write and act such splendid things, jo.
you're a regular shakespeare!"
exclaimed beth, who firmly believed that her sisters were gifted with wonderful genius in all things.
"not quite," replied jo modestly.
"i do think the witches curse, an operatic tragedy is rather a nice thing, but i'd like to try macbeth, if we only had a trapdoor for banquo.
i always wanted to do the killing part.
'is that a dagger that i see before me?"
muttered jo, rolling her eyes and clutching at the air, as she had seen a famous tragedian do.
"no, it's the toasting fork, with mother's shoe on it instead of the bread.
beth's stage-struck!"
cried meg, and the rehearsal ended in a general burst of laughter.
"glad to find you so merry, my girls," said a cheery voice at the door, and actors and audience turned to welcome a tall, motherly lady with a 'can i help you' look about her which was truly delightful.
she was not elegantly dressed, but a noble-looking woman, and the girls thought the gray cloak and unfashionable bonnet covered the most splendid mother in the world.
"well, dearies, how have you got on today?
there was so much to do, getting the boxes ready to go tomorrow, that i didn't come home to dinner.
has anyone called, beth?
how is your cold, meg?
jo, you look tired to death.
come and kiss me, baby."
while making these maternal inquiries mrs. march got her wet things off, her warm slippers on, and sitting down in the easy chair, drew amy to her lap, preparing to enjoy the happiest hour of her busy day.
the girls flew about, trying to make things comfortable, each in her own way.
meg arranged the tea table, jo brought wood and set chairs, dropping, over-turning, and clattering everything she touched.
beth trotted to and fro between parlor kitchen, quiet and busy, while amy gave directions to everyone, as she sat with her hands folded.
as they gathered about the table, mrs. march said, with a particularly happy face, "i've got a treat for you after supper."
a quick, bright smile went round like a streak of sunshine.
beth clapped her hands, regardless of the biscuit she held, and jo tossed up her napkin, crying, "a letter!
a letter!
three cheers for father!"
"yes, a nice long letter.
he is well, and thinks he shall get through the cold season better than we feared.
he sends all sorts of loving wishes for christmas, and an especial message to you girls," said mrs.
march, patting her pocket as if she had got a treasure there.
"hurry and get done!
don't stop to quirk your little finger and simper over your plate, amy," cried jo, choking on her tea and dropping her bread, butter side down, on the carpet in her haste to get at the treat.
beth ate no more, but crept away to sit in her shadowy corner and brood over the delight to come, till the others were ready.
"i think it was so splendid in father to go as chaplain when he was too old to be drafted, and not strong enough for a soldier," said meg warmly.
"don't i wish i could go as a drummer, a vivan what's its name?
or a nurse, so i could be near him and help him," exclaimed jo, with a groan.
"it must be very disagreeable to sleep in a tent, and eat all sorts of bad-tasting things, and drink out of a tin mug," sighed amy.
"when will he come home, marmee?"
asked beth, with a little quiver in her voice.
"not for many months, dear, unless he is sick.
he will stay and do his work faithfully as long as he can, and we won't ask for him back a minute sooner than he can be spared.
now come and hear the letter."
they all drew to the fire, mother in the big chair with beth at her feet, meg and amy perched on either arm of the chair, and jo leaning on the back, where no one would see any sign of emotion if the letter should happen to be touching.
very few letters were written in those hard times that were not touching, especially those which fathers sent home.
in this one little was said of the hardships endured, the dangers faced, or the homesickness conquered.
it was a cheerful, hopeful letter, full of lively descriptions of camp life, marches, and military news, and only at the end did the writer's heart over-flow with fatherly love and longing for the little girls at home.
"give them all of my dear love and a kiss.
tell them i think of them by day, pray for them by night, and find my best comfort in their affection at all times.
a year seems very long to wait before i see them, but remind them that while we wait we may all work, so that these hard days need not be wasted.
i know they will remember all i said to them, that they will be loving children to you, will do their duty faithfully, fight their bosom enemies bravely, and conquer themselves so beautifully that when i come back to them i may be fonder and prouder than ever of my little women."
everybody sniffed when they came to that part.
jo wasn't ashamed of the great tear that dropped off the end of her nose, and amy never minded the rumpling of her curls as she hid her face on her mother's shoulder and sobbed out, "i am a selfish girl!
but i'll truly try to be better, so he mayn't be disappointed in me by-and-by."
"we all will," cried meg.
"i think too much of my looks and hate to work, but won't any more, if i can help it."
"i'll try and be what he loves to call me, 'a little woman' and not be rough and wild, but do my duty here instead of wanting to be somewhere else," said jo, thinking that keeping her temper at home was a much harder task than facing a rebel or two down south.
beth said nothing, but wiped away her tears with the blue army sock and began to knit with all her might, losing no time in doing the duty that lay nearest her, while she resolved in her quiet little soul to be all that father hoped to find her when the year brought round the happy coming home.
mrs. march broke the silence that followed jo's words, by saying in her cheery voice, "do you remember how you used to play pilgrims progress when you were little things?
nothing delighted you more than to have me tie my piece bags on your backs for burdens, give you hats and sticks and rolls of paper, and let you travel through the house from the cellar, which was the city of destruction, up, up, to the housetop, where you had all the lovely things you could collect to make a celestial city."
"what fun it was, especially going by the lions, fighting apollyon, and passing through the valley where the hob-goblins were," said jo.
"i liked the place where the bundles fell off and tumbled downstairs,"
said meg.
"i don't remember much about it, except that i was afraid of the cellar and the dark entry, and always liked the cake and milk we had up at the top.
if i wasn't too old for such things, i'd rather like to play it over again," said amy, who began to talk of renouncing childish things at the mature age of twelve.
"we never are too old for this, my dear, because it is a play we are playing all the time in one way or another.
our burdens are here, our road is before us, and the longing for goodness and happiness is the guide that leads us through many troubles and mistakes to the peace which is a true celestial city.
now, my little pilgrims, suppose you begin again, not in play, but in earnest, and see how far on you can get before father comes home."
"really, mother?
where are our bundles?"
asked amy, who was a very literal young lady.
"each of you told what your burden was just now, except beth.
i rather think she hasn't got any," said her mother.
"yes, i have.
mine is dishes and dusters, and envying girls with nice pianos, and being afraid of people."
beth's bundle was such a funny one that everybody wanted to laugh, but nobody did, for it would have hurt her feelings very much.
"let us do it," said meg thoughtfully.
"it is only another name for trying to be good, and the story may help us, for though we do want to be good, it's hard work and we forget, and don't do our best."
"we were in the slough of despond tonight, and mother came and pulled us out as help did in the book.
we ought to have our roll of directions, like christian.
what shall we do about that?"
asked jo, delighted with the fancy which lent a little romance to the very dull task of doing her duty.
"look under your pillows christmas morning, and you will find your guidebook," replied mrs. march.
they talked over the new plan while old hannah cleared the table, then out came the four little work baskets, and the needles flew as the girls made sheets for aunt march.
it was uninteresting sewing, but tonight no one grumbled.
they adopted jo's plan of dividing the long seams into four parts, and calling the quarters europe, asia, africa, and america, and in that way got on capitally, especially when they talked about the different countries as they stitched their way through them.
at nine they stopped work, and sang, as usual, before they went to bed.
no one but beth could get much music out of the old piano, but she had a way of softly touching the yellow keys and making a pleasant accompaniment to the simple songs they sang.
meg had a voice like a flute, and she and her mother led the little choir.
amy chirped like a cricket, and jo wandered through the airs at her own sweet will, always coming out at the wrong place with a croak or a quaver that spoiled the most pensive tune.
they had always done this from the time they could lisp...
crinkle, crinkle, 'ittle 'tar,
and it had become a household custom, for the mother was a born singer.
the first sound in the morning was her voice as she went about the house singing like a lark, and the last sound at night was the same cheery sound, for the girls never grew too old for that familiar lullaby.
chapter two
a merry christmas
jo was the first to wake in the gray dawn of christmas morning.
no stockings hung at the fireplace, and for a moment she felt as much disappointed as she did long ago, when her little sock fell down because it was crammed so full of goodies.
then she remembered her mother's promise and, slipping her hand under her pillow, drew out a little crimson-covered book.
she knew it very well, for it was that beautiful old story of the best life ever lived, and jo felt that it was a true guidebook for any pilgrim going on a long journey.
she woke meg with a "merry christmas," and bade her see what was under her pillow.
a green-covered book appeared, with the same picture inside, and a few words written by their mother, which made their one present very precious in their eyes.
presently beth and amy woke to rummage and find their little books also, one dove-colored, the other blue, and all sat looking at and talking about them, while the east grew rosy with the coming day.
in spite of her small vanities, margaret had a sweet and pious nature, which unconsciously influenced her sisters, especially jo, who loved her very tenderly, and obeyed her because her advice was so gently given.
"girls," said meg seriously, looking from the tumbled head beside her to the two little night-capped ones in the room beyond, "mother wants us to read and love and mind these books, and we must begin at once.
we used to be faithful about it, but since father went away and all this war trouble unsettled us, we have neglected many things.
you can do as you please, but i shall keep my book on the table here and read a little every morning as soon as i wake, for i know it will do me good and help me through the day."
then she opened her new book and began to read.
jo put her arm round her and, leaning cheek to cheek, read also, with the quiet expression so seldom seen on her restless face.
"how good meg is!
come, amy, let's do as they do.
i'll help you with the hard words, and they'll explain things if we don't understand,"
whispered beth, very much impressed by the pretty books and her sisters' example.
"i'm glad mine is blue," said amy.
and then the rooms were very still while the pages were softly turned, and the winter sunshine crept in to touch the bright heads and serious faces with a christmas greeting.
"where is mother?"
asked meg, as she and jo ran down to thank her for their gifts, half an hour later.
"goodness only knows.
some poor creeter came a-beggin', and your ma went straight off to see what was needed.
there never was such a woman for givin' away vittles and drink, clothes and firin'," replied hannah, who had lived with the family since meg was born, and was considered by them all more as a friend than a servant.
"she will be back soon, i think, so fry your cakes, and have everything ready," said meg, looking over the presents which were collected in a basket and kept under the sofa, ready to be produced at the proper time.
"why, where is amy's bottle of cologne?"
she added, as the little flask did not appear.
"she took it out a minute ago, and went off with it to put a ribbon on it, or some such notion," replied jo, dancing about the room to take the first stiffness off the new army slippers.
"how nice my handkerchiefs look, don't they?
hannah washed and ironed them for me, and i marked them all myself," said beth, looking proudly at the somewhat uneven letters which had cost her such labor.
"bless the child!
she's gone and put 'mother' on them instead of 'm.
march'.
how funny!"
cried jo, taking one up.
"isn't that right?
i thought it was better to do it so, because meg's initials are m.m., and i don't want anyone to use these but marmee,"
said beth, looking troubled.
"it's all right, dear, and a very pretty idea, quite sensible too, for no one can ever mistake now.
it will please her very much, i know,"
said meg, with a frown for jo and a smile for beth.
"there's mother.
hide the basket, quick!"
cried jo, as a door slammed and steps sounded in the hall.
amy came in hastily, and looked rather abashed when she saw her sisters all waiting for her.
"where have you been, and what are you hiding behind you?"
asked meg, surprised to see, by her hood and cloak, that lazy amy had been out so early.
"don't laugh at me, jo!
i didn't mean anyone should know till the time came.
i only meant to change the little bottle for a big one, and i gave all my money to get it, and i'm truly trying not to be selfish any more."
as she spoke, amy showed the handsome flask which replaced the cheap one, and looked so earnest and humble in her little effort to forget herself that meg hugged her on the spot, and jo pronounced her 'a trump', while beth ran to the window, and picked her finest rose to ornament the stately bottle.
"you see i felt ashamed of my present, after reading and talking about being good this morning, so i ran round the corner and changed it the minute i was up, and i'm so glad, for mine is the handsomest now."
another bang of the street door sent the basket under the sofa, and the girls to the table, eager for breakfast.
"merry christmas, marmee!
many of them!
thank you for our books.
we read some, and mean to every day," they all cried in chorus.
"merry christmas, little daughters!
i'm glad you began at once, and hope you will keep on.
but i want to say one word before we sit down.
not far away from here lies a poor woman with a little newborn baby.
six children are huddled into one bed to keep from freezing, for they have no fire.
there is nothing to eat over there, and the oldest boy came to tell me they were suffering hunger and cold.
my girls, will you give them your breakfast as a christmas present?"
they were all unusually hungry, having waited nearly an hour, and for a minute no one spoke, only a minute, for jo exclaimed impetuously, "i'm so glad you came before we began!"
"may i go and help carry the things to the poor little children?"
asked beth eagerly.
"i shall take the cream and the muffings," added amy, heroically giving up the article she most liked.
meg was already covering the buckwheats, and piling the bread into one big plate.
"i thought you'd do it," said mrs. march, smiling as if satisfied.
"you shall all go and help me, and when we come back we will have bread and milk for breakfast, and make it up at dinnertime."
they were soon ready, and the procession set out.
fortunately it was early, and they went through back streets, so few people saw them, and no one laughed at the queer party.
a poor, bare, miserable room it was, with broken windows, no fire, ragged bedclothes, a sick mother, wailing baby, and a group of pale, hungry children cuddled under one old quilt, trying to keep warm.
how the big eyes stared and the blue lips smiled as the girls went in.
"ach, mein gott!
it is good angels come to us!"
said the poor woman, crying for joy.
"funny angels in hoods and mittens," said jo, and set them to laughing.
in a few minutes it really did seem as if kind spirits had been at work there.
hannah, who had carried wood, made a fire, and stopped up the broken panes with old hats and her own cloak.
mrs. march gave the mother tea and gruel, and comforted her with promises of help, while she dressed the little baby as tenderly as if it had been her own.
the girls meantime spread the table, set the children round the fire, and fed them like so many hungry birds, laughing, talking, and trying to understand the funny broken english.
"das ist gut!"
"die engel-kinder!"
cried the poor things as they ate and warmed their purple hands at the comfortable blaze.
the girls had never been called angel children before, and thought it very agreeable, especially jo, who had been considered a 'sancho' ever since she was born.
that was a very happy breakfast, though they didn't get any of it.
and when they went away, leaving comfort behind, i think there were not in all the city four merrier people than the hungry little girls who gave away their breakfasts and contented themselves with bread and milk on christmas morning.
"that's loving our neighbor better than ourselves, and i like it," said meg, as they set out their presents while their mother was upstairs collecting clothes for the poor hummels.
not a very splendid show, but there was a great deal of love done up in the few little bundles, and the tall vase of red roses, white chrysanthemums, and trailing vines, which stood in the middle, gave quite an elegant air to the table.
"she's coming!
strike up, beth!
open the door, amy!
three cheers for marmee!"
cried jo, prancing about while meg went to conduct mother to the seat of honor.
beth played her gayest march, amy threw open the door, and meg enacted escort with great dignity.
mrs. march was both surprised and touched, and smiled with her eyes full as she examined her presents and read the little notes which accompanied them.
the slippers went on at once, a new handkerchief was slipped into her pocket, well scented with amy's cologne, the rose was fastened in her bosom, and the nice gloves were pronounced a perfect fit.
there was a good deal of laughing and kissing and explaining, in the simple, loving fashion which makes these home festivals so pleasant at the time, so sweet to remember long afterward, and then all fell to work.
the morning charities and ceremonies took so much time that the rest of the day was devoted to preparations for the evening festivities.
being still too young to go often to the theater, and not rich enough to afford any great outlay for private performances, the girls put their wits to work, and necessity being the mother of invention, made whatever they needed.
very clever were some of their productions, pasteboard guitars, antique lamps made of old-fashioned butter boats covered with silver paper, gorgeous robes of old cotton, glittering with tin spangles from a pickle factory, and armor covered with the same useful diamond shaped bits left in sheets when the lids of preserve pots were cut out.
the big chamber was the scene of many innocent revels.
no gentleman were admitted, so jo played male parts to her heart's content and took immense satisfaction in a pair of russet leather boots given her by a friend, who knew a lady who knew an actor.
these boots, an old foil, and a slashed doublet once used by an artist for some picture, were jo's chief treasures and appeared on all occasions.
the smallness of the company made it necessary for the two principal actors to take several parts apiece, and they certainly deserved some credit for the hard work they did in learning three or four different parts, whisking in and out of various costumes, and managing the stage besides.
it was excellent drill for their memories, a harmless amusement, and employed many hours which otherwise would have been idle, lonely, or spent in less profitable society.
on christmas night, a dozen girls piled onto the bed which was the dress circle, and sat before the blue and yellow chintz curtains in a most flattering state of expectancy.
there was a good deal of rustling and whispering behind the curtain, a trifle of lamp smoke, and an occasional giggle from amy, who was apt to get hysterical in the excitement of the moment.
presently a bell sounded, the curtains flew apart, and the operatic tragedy began.
"a gloomy wood," according to the one playbill, was represented by a few shrubs in pots, green baize on the floor, and a cave in the distance.
this cave was made with a clothes horse for a roof, bureaus for walls, and in it was a small furnace in full blast, with a black pot on it and an old witch bending over it.
the stage was dark and the glow of the furnace had a fine effect, especially as real steam issued from the kettle when the witch took off the cover.
a moment was allowed for the first thrill to subside, then hugo, the villain, stalked in with a clanking sword at his side, a slouching hat, black beard, mysterious cloak, and the boots.
after pacing to and fro in much agitation, he struck his forehead, and burst out in a wild strain, singing of his hatred for roderigo, his love for zara, and his pleasing resolution to kill the one and win the other.
the gruff tones of hugo's voice, with an occasional shout when his feelings overcame him, were very impressive, and the audience applauded the moment he paused for breath.
bowing with the air of one accustomed to public praise, he stole to the cavern and ordered hagar to come forth with a commanding, "what ho, minion!
i need thee!"
out came meg, with gray horsehair hanging about her face, a red and black robe, a staff, and cabalistic signs upon her cloak.
hugo demanded a potion to make zara adore him, and one to destroy roderigo.
hagar, in a fine dramatic melody, promised both, and proceeded to call up the spirit who would bring the love philter.
hither, hither, from thy home,     airy sprite, i bid thee come!
born of roses, fed on dew,     charms and potions canst thou brew?
bring me here, with elfin speed,     the fragrant philter which i need.
make it sweet and swift and strong,     spirit, answer now my song!
a soft strain of music sounded, and then at the back of the cave appeared a little figure in cloudy white, with glittering wings, golden hair, and a garland of roses on its head.
waving a wand, it sang...
hither i come,     from my airy home,     afar in the silver moon.
take the magic spell,     and use it well,     or its power will vanish soon!
and dropping a small, gilded bottle at the witch's feet, the spirit vanished.
another chant from hagar produced another apparition, not a lovely one, for with a bang an ugly black imp appeared and, having croaked a reply, tossed a dark bottle at hugo and disappeared with a mocking laugh.
having warbled his thanks and put the potions in his boots, hugo departed, and hagar informed the audience that as he had killed a few of her friends in times past, she had cursed him, and intends to thwart his plans, and be revenged on him.
then the curtain fell, and the audience reposed and ate candy while discussing the merits of the play.
a good deal of hammering went on before the curtain rose again, but when it became evident what a masterpiece of stage carpentery had been got up, no one murmured at the delay.
it was truly superb.
a tower rose to the ceiling, halfway up appeared a window with a lamp burning in it, and behind the white curtain appeared zara in a lovely blue and silver dress, waiting for roderigo.
he came in gorgeous array, with plumed cap, red cloak, chestnut lovelocks, a guitar, and the boots, of course.
kneeling at the foot of the tower, he sang a serenade in melting tones.
zara replied and, after a musical dialogue, consented to fly.
then came the grand effect of the play.
roderigo produced a rope ladder, with five steps to it, threw up one end, and invited zara to descend.
timidly she crept from her lattice, put her hand on roderigo's shoulder, and was about to leap gracefully down when "alas!
alas for zara!"
she forgot her train.
it caught in the window, the tower tottered, leaned forward, fell with a crash, and buried the unhappy lovers in the ruins.
a universal shriek arose as the russet boots waved wildly from the wreck and a golden head emerged, exclaiming, "i told you so!
i told you so!"
with wonderful presence of mind, don pedro, the cruel sire, rushed in, dragged out his daughter, with a hasty aside...
"don't laugh!
act as if it was all right!"
and, ordering roderigo up, banished him from the kingdom with wrath and scorn.
though decidedly shaken by the fall from the tower upon him, roderigo defied the old gentleman and refused to stir.
this dauntless example fired zara.
she also defied her sire, and he ordered them both to the deepest dungeons of the castle.
a stout little retainer came in with chains and led them away, looking very much frightened and evidently forgetting the speech he ought to have made.
act third was the castle hall, and here hagar appeared, having come to free the lovers and finish hugo.
she hears him coming and hides, sees him put the potions into two cups of wine and bid the timid little servant, "bear them to the captives in their cells, and tell them i shall come anon."
the servant takes hugo aside to tell him something, and hagar changes the cups for two others which are harmless.
ferdinando, the 'minion', carries them away, and hagar puts back the cup which holds the poison meant for roderigo.
hugo, getting thirsty after a long warble, drinks it, loses his wits, and after a good deal of clutching and stamping, falls flat and dies, while hagar informs him what she has done in a song of exquisite power and melody.
this was a truly thrilling scene, though some persons might have thought that the sudden tumbling down of a quantity of long red hair rather marred the effect of the villain's death.
he was called before the curtain, and with great propriety appeared, leading hagar, whose singing was considered more wonderful than all the rest of the performance put together.
act fourth displayed the despairing roderigo on the point of stabbing himself because he has been told that zara has deserted him.
just as the dagger is at his heart, a lovely song is sung under his window, informing him that zara is true but in danger, and he can save her if he will.
a key is thrown in, which unlocks the door, and in a spasm of rapture he tears off his chains and rushes away to find and rescue his lady love.
act fifth opened with a stormy scene between zara and don pedro.
he wishes her to go into a convent, but she won't hear of it, and after a touching appeal, is about to faint when roderigo dashes in and demands her hand.
don pedro refuses, because he is not rich.
they shout and gesticulate tremendously but cannot agree, and rodrigo is about to bear away the exhausted zara, when the timid servant enters with a letter and a bag from hagar, who has mysteriously disappeared.
the latter informs the party that she bequeaths untold wealth to the young pair and an awful doom to don pedro, if he doesn't make them happy.
the bag is opened, and several quarts of tin money shower down upon the stage till it is quite glorified with the glitter.
this entirely softens the stern sire.
he consents without a murmur, all join in a joyful chorus, and the curtain falls upon the lovers kneeling to receive don pedro's blessing in attitudes of the most romantic grace.
tumultuous applause followed but received an unexpected check, for the cot bed, on which the dress circle was built, suddenly shut up and extinguished the enthusiastic audience.
roderigo and don pedro flew to the rescue, and all were taken out unhurt, though many were speechless with laughter.
the excitement had hardly subsided when hannah appeared, with "mrs. march's compliments, and would the ladies walk down to supper."
this was a surprise even to the actors, and when they saw the table, they looked at one another in rapturous amazement.
it was like marmee to get up a little treat for them, but anything so fine as this was unheard of since the departed days of plenty.
there was ice cream, actually two dishes of it, pink and white, and cake and fruit and distracting french bonbons and, in the middle of the table, four great bouquets of hot house flowers.
it quite took their breath away, and they stared first at the table and then at their mother, who looked as if she enjoyed it immensely.
"is it fairies?"
asked amy.
"santa claus," said beth.
"mother did it."
and meg smiled her sweetest, in spite of her gray beard and white eyebrows.
"aunt march had a good fit and sent the supper," cried jo, with a sudden inspiration.
"all wrong.
old mr. laurence sent it," replied mrs. march.
"the laurence boy's grandfather!
what in the world put such a thing into his head?
we don't know him!"
exclaimed meg.
"hannah told one of his servants about your breakfast party.
he is an odd old gentleman, but that pleased him.
he knew my father years ago, and he sent me a polite note this afternoon, saying he hoped i would allow him to express his friendly feeling toward my children by sending them a few trifles in honor of the day.
i could not refuse, and so you have a little feast at night to make up for the bread-and-milk breakfast."
"that boy put it into his head, i know he did!
he's a capital fellow, and i wish we could get acquainted.
he looks as if he'd like to know us but he's bashful, and meg is so prim she won't let me speak to him when we pass," said jo, as the plates went round, and the ice began to melt out of sight, with ohs and ahs of satisfaction.
"you mean the people who live in the big house next door, don't you?"
asked one of the girls.
"my mother knows old mr. laurence, but says he's very proud and doesn't like to mix with his neighbors.
he keeps his grandson shut up, when he isn't riding or walking with his tutor, and makes him study very hard.
we invited him to our party, but he didn't come.
mother says he's very nice, though he never speaks to us girls."
"our cat ran away once, and he brought her back, and we talked over the fence, and were getting on capitally, all about cricket, and so on, when he saw meg coming, and walked off.
i mean to know him some day, for he needs fun, i'm sure he does," said jo decidedly.
"i like his manners, and he looks like a little gentleman, so i've no objection to your knowing him, if a proper opportunity comes.
he brought the flowers himself, and i should have asked him in, if i had been sure what was going on upstairs.
he looked so wistful as he went away, hearing the frolic and evidently having none of his own."
"it's a mercy you didn't, mother!"
laughed jo, looking at her boots.
"but we'll have another play sometime that he can see.
perhaps he'll help act.
wouldn't that be jolly?"
"i never had such a fine bouquet before!
how pretty it is!"
and meg examined her flowers with great interest.
"they are lovely.
but beth's roses are sweeter to me," said mrs.
march, smelling the half-dead posy in her belt.
beth nestled up to her, and whispered softly, "i wish i could send my bunch to father.
i'm afraid he isn't having such a merry christmas as we are."
chapter three
the laurence boy
"jo!
jo!
where are you?"
cried meg at the foot of the garret stairs.
"here!"
answered a husky voice from above, and, running up, meg found her sister eating apples and crying over the heir of redclyffe, wrapped up in a comforter on an old three-legged sofa by the sunny window.
this was jo's favorite refuge, and here she loved to retire with half a dozen russets and a nice book, to enjoy the quiet and the society of a pet rat who lived near by and didn't mind her a particle.
as meg appeared, scrabble whisked into his hole.
jo shook the tears off her cheeks and waited to hear the news.
"such fun!
only see!
a regular note of invitation from mrs. gardiner for tomorrow night!"
cried meg, waving the precious paper and then proceeding to read it with girlish delight.
"'mrs.
gardiner would be happy to see miss march and miss josephine at a little dance on new year's eve.'
marmee is willing we should go, now what shall we wear?"
"what's the use of asking that, when you know we shall wear our poplins, because we haven't got anything else?"
answered jo with her mouth full.
"if i only had a silk!"
sighed meg.
"mother says i may when i'm eighteen perhaps, but two years is an everlasting time to wait."
"i'm sure our pops look like silk, and they are nice enough for us.
yours is as good as new, but i forgot the burn and the tear in mine.
whatever shall i do?
the burn shows badly, and i can't take any out."
"you must sit still all you can and keep your back out of sight.
the front is all right.
i shall have a new ribbon for my hair, and marmee will lend me her little pearl pin, and my new slippers are lovely, and my gloves will do, though they aren't as nice as i'd like."
"mine are spoiled with lemonade, and i can't get any new ones, so i shall have to go without," said jo, who never troubled herself much about dress.
"you must have gloves, or i won't go," cried meg decidedly.
"gloves are more important than anything else.
you can't dance without them, and if you don't i should be so mortified."
"then i'll stay still.
i don't care much for company dancing.
it's no fun to go sailing round.
i like to fly about and cut capers."
"you can't ask mother for new ones, they are so expensive, and you are so careless.
she said when you spoiled the others that she shouldn't get you any more this winter.
can't you make them do?"
"i can hold them crumpled up in my hand, so no one will know how stained they are.
that's all i can do.
no!
i'll tell you how we can manage, each wear one good one and carry a bad one.
don't you see?"
"your hands are bigger than mine, and you will stretch my glove dreadfully," began meg, whose gloves were a tender point with her.
"then i'll go without.
i don't care what people say!"
cried jo, taking up her book.
"you may have it, you may!
only don't stain it, and do behave nicely.
don't put your hands behind you, or stare, or say 'christopher columbus!'
will you?"
"don't worry about me.
i'll be as prim as i can and not get into any scrapes, if i can help it.
now go and answer your note, and let me finish this splendid story."
so meg went away to 'accept with thanks', look over her dress, and sing blithely as she did up her one real lace frill, while jo finished her story, her four apples, and had a game of romps with scrabble.
on new year's eve the parlor was deserted, for the two younger girls played dressing maids and the two elder were absorbed in the all-important business of 'getting ready for the party'.
simple as the toilets were, there was a great deal of running up and down, laughing and talking, and at one time a strong smell of burned hair pervaded the house.
meg wanted a few curls about her face, and jo undertook to pinch the papered locks with a pair of hot tongs.
"ought they to smoke like that?"
asked beth from her perch on the bed.
"it's the dampness drying," replied jo.
"what a queer smell!
it's like burned feathers," observed amy, smoothing her own pretty curls with a superior air.
"there, now i'll take off the papers and you'll see a cloud of little ringlets," said jo, putting down the tongs.
she did take off the papers, but no cloud of ringlets appeared, for the hair came with the papers, and the horrified hairdresser laid a row of little scorched bundles on the bureau before her victim.
"oh, oh, oh!
what have you done?
i'm spoiled!
i can't go!
my hair, oh, my hair!"
wailed meg, looking with despair at the uneven frizzle on her forehead.
"just my luck!
you shouldn't have asked me to do it.
i always spoil everything.
i'm so sorry, but the tongs were too hot, and so i've made a mess," groaned poor jo, regarding the little black pancakes with tears of regret.
"it isn't spoiled.
just frizzle it, and tie your ribbon so the ends come on your forehead a bit, and it will look like the last fashion.
i've seen many girls do it so," said amy consolingly.
"serves me right for trying to be fine.
i wish i'd let my hair alone,"
cried meg petulantly.
"so do i, it was so smooth and pretty.
but it will soon grow out again," said beth, coming to kiss and comfort the shorn sheep.
after various lesser mishaps, meg was finished at last, and by the united exertions of the entire family jo's hair was got up and her dress on.
they looked very well in their simple suits, meg's in silvery drab, with a blue velvet snood, lace frills, and the pearl pin.
jo in maroon, with a stiff, gentlemanly linen collar, and a white chrysanthemum or two for her only ornament.
each put on one nice light glove, and carried one soiled one, and all pronounced the effect "quite easy and fine".
meg's high-heeled slippers were very tight and hurt her, though she would not own it, and jo's nineteen hairpins all seemed stuck straight into her head, which was not exactly comfortable, but, dear me, let us be elegant or die.
"have a good time, dearies!"
said mrs. march, as the sisters went daintily down the walk.
"don't eat much supper, and come away at eleven when i send hannah for you."
as the gate clashed behind them, a voice cried from a window...
"girls, girls!
have you you both got nice pocket handkerchiefs?"
"yes, yes, spandy nice, and meg has cologne on hers," cried jo, adding with a laugh as they went on, "i do believe marmee would ask that if we were all running away from an earthquake."
"it is one of her aristocratic tastes, and quite proper, for a real lady is always known by neat boots, gloves, and handkerchief," replied meg, who had a good many little 'aristocratic tastes' of her own.
"now don't forget to keep the bad breadth out of sight, jo.
is my sash right?
and does my hair look very bad?"
said meg, as she turned from the glass in mrs. gardiner's dressing room after a prolonged prink.
"i know i shall forget.
if you see me doing anything wrong, just remind me by a wink, will you?"
returned jo, giving her collar a twitch and her head a hasty brush.
"no, winking isn't ladylike.
i'll lift my eyebrows if any thing is wrong, and nod if you are all right.
now hold your shoulder straight, and take short steps, and don't shake hands if you are introduced to anyone.
it isn't the thing."
"how do you learn all the proper ways?
i never can.
isn't that music gay?"
down they went, feeling a trifle timid, for they seldom went to parties, and informal as this little gathering was, it was an event to them.
mrs. gardiner, a stately old lady, greeted them kindly and handed them over to the eldest of her six daughters.
meg knew sallie and was at her ease very soon, but jo, who didn't care much for girls or girlish gossip, stood about, with her back carefully against the wall, and felt as much out of place as a colt in a flower garden.
half a dozen jovial lads were talking about skates in another part of the room, and she longed to go and join them, for skating was one of the joys of her life.
she telegraphed her wish to meg, but the eyebrows went up so alarmingly that she dared not stir.
no one came to talk to her, and one by one the group dwindled away till she was left alone.
she could not roam about and amuse herself, for the burned breadth would show, so she stared at people rather forlornly till the dancing began.
meg was asked at once, and the tight slippers tripped about so briskly that none would have guessed the pain their wearer suffered smilingly.
jo saw a big red headed youth approaching her corner, and fearing he meant to engage her, she slipped into a curtained recess, intending to peep and enjoy herself in peace.
unfortunately, another bashful person had chosen the same refuge, for, as the curtain fell behind her, she found herself face to face with the 'laurence boy'.
"dear me, i didn't know anyone was here!"
stammered jo, preparing to back out as speedily as she had bounced in.
but the boy laughed and said pleasantly, though he looked a little startled, "don't mind me, stay if you like."
"shan't i disturb you?"
"not a bit.
i only came here because i don't know many people and felt rather strange at first, you know."
"so did i.  don't go away, please, unless you'd rather."
the boy sat down again and looked at his pumps, till jo said, trying to be polite and easy, "i think i've had the pleasure of seeing you before.
you live near us, don't you?"
"next door."
and he looked up and laughed outright, for jo's prim manner was rather funny when he remembered how they had chatted about cricket when he brought the cat home.
that put jo at her ease and she laughed too, as she said, in her heartiest way, "we did have such a good time over your nice christmas present."
"grandpa sent it."
"but you put it into his head, didn't you, now?"
"how is your cat, miss march?"
asked the boy, trying to look sober while his black eyes shone with fun.
"nicely, thank you, mr. laurence.
but i am not miss march, i'm only jo," returned the young lady.
"i'm not mr. laurence, i'm only laurie."
"laurie laurence, what an odd name."
"my first name is theodore, but i don't like it, for the fellows called me dora, so i made them say laurie instead."
"i hate my name, too, so sentimental!
i wish every one would say jo instead of josephine.
how did you make the boys stop calling you dora?"
"i thrashed 'em."
"i can't thrash aunt march, so i suppose i shall have to bear it."
and jo resigned herself with a sigh.
"don't you like to dance, miss jo?"
asked laurie, looking as if he thought the name suited her.
"i like it well enough if there is plenty of room, and everyone is lively.
in a place like this i'm sure to upset something, tread on people's toes, or do something dreadful, so i keep out of mischief and let meg sail about.
don't you dance?"
"sometimes.
you see i've been abroad a good many years, and haven't been into company enough yet to know how you do things here."
"abroad!"
cried jo.
"oh, tell me about it!
i love dearly to hear people describe their travels."
laurie didn't seem to know where to begin, but jo's eager questions soon set him going, and he told her how he had been at school in vevay, where the boys never wore hats and had a fleet of boats on the lake, and for holiday fun went on walking trips about switzerland with their teachers.
"don't i wish i'd been there!"
cried jo.
"did you go to paris?"
"we spent last winter there."
"can you talk french?"
"we were not allowed to speak anything else at vevay."
"do say some!
i can read it, but can't pronounce."
"quel nom a cette jeune demoiselle en les pantoufles jolis?"
"how nicely you do it!
let me see ... you said, 'who is the young lady in the pretty slippers', didn't you?"
"oui, mademoiselle."
"it's my sister margaret, and you knew it was!
do you think she is pretty?"
"yes, she makes me think of the german girls, she looks so fresh and quiet, and dances like a lady."
jo quite glowed with pleasure at this boyish praise of her sister, and stored it up to repeat to meg.
both peeped and criticized and chatted till they felt like old acquaintances.
laurie's bashfulness soon wore off, for jo's gentlemanly demeanor amused and set him at his ease, and jo was her merry self again, because her dress was forgotten and nobody lifted their eyebrows at her.
she liked the 'laurence boy' better than ever and took several good looks at him, so that she might describe him to the girls, for they had no brothers, very few male cousins, and boys were almost unknown creatures to them.
"curly black hair, brown skin, big black eyes, handsome nose, fine teeth, small hands and feet, taller than i am, very polite, for a boy, and altogether jolly.
wonder how old he is?"
it was on the tip of jo's tongue to ask, but she checked herself in time and, with unusual tact, tried to find out in a round-about way.
"i suppose you are going to college soon?
i see you pegging away at your books, no, i mean studying hard."
and jo blushed at the dreadful 'pegging' which had escaped her.
laurie smiled but didn't seem shocked, and answered with a shrug.
"not for a year or two.
i won't go before seventeen, anyway."
"aren't you but fifteen?"
asked jo, looking at the tall lad, whom she had imagined seventeen already.
"sixteen, next month."
"how i wish i was going to college!
you don't look as if you liked it."
"i hate it!
nothing but grinding or skylarking.
and i don't like the way fellows do either, in this country."
"what do you like?"
"to live in italy, and to enjoy myself in my own way."
jo wanted very much to ask what his own way was, but his black brows looked rather threatening as he knit them, so she changed the subject by saying, as her foot kept time, "that's a splendid polka!
why don't you go and try it?"
"if you will come too," he answered, with a gallant little bow.
"i can't, for i told meg i wouldn't, because..." there jo stopped, and looked undecided whether to tell or to laugh.
"because, what?"
"you won't tell?"
"never!"
"well, i have a bad trick of standing before the fire, and so i burn my frocks, and i scorched this one, and though it's nicely mended, it shows, and meg told me to keep still so no one would see it.
you may laugh, if you want to.
it is funny, i know."
but laurie didn't laugh.
he only looked down a minute, and the expression of his face puzzled jo when he said very gently, "never mind that.
i'll tell you how we can manage.
there's a long hall out there, and we can dance grandly, and no one will see us.
please come."
jo thanked him and gladly went, wishing she had two neat gloves when she saw the nice, pearl-colored ones her partner wore.
the hall was empty, and they had a grand polka, for laurie danced well, and taught her the german step, which delighted jo, being full of swing and spring.
when the music stopped, they sat down on the stairs to get their breath, and laurie was in the midst of an account of a students'
festival at heidelberg when meg appeared in search of her sister.
she beckoned, and jo reluctantly followed her into a side room, where she found her on a sofa, holding her foot, and looking pale.
"i've sprained my ankle.
that stupid high heel turned and gave me a sad wrench.
it aches so, i can hardly stand, and i don't know how i'm ever going to get home," she said, rocking to and fro in pain.
"i knew you'd hurt your feet with those silly shoes.
i'm sorry.
but i don't see what you can do, except get a carriage, or stay here all night," answered jo, softly rubbing the poor ankle as she spoke.
"i can't have a carriage without its costing ever so much.
i dare say i can't get one at all, for most people come in their own, and it's a long way to the stable, and no one to send."
"i'll go."
"no, indeed!
it's past nine, and dark as egypt.
i can't stop here, for the house is full.
sallie has some girls staying with her.
i'll rest till hannah comes, and then do the best i can."
"i'll ask laurie.
he will go," said jo, looking relieved as the idea occurred to her.
"mercy, no!
don't ask or tell anyone.
get me my rubbers, and put these slippers with our things.
i can't dance anymore, but as soon as supper is over, watch for hannah and tell me the minute she comes."
"they are going out to supper now.
i'll stay with you.
i'd rather."
"no, dear, run along, and bring me some coffee.
i'm so tired i can't stir."
so meg reclined, with rubbers well hidden, and jo went blundering away to the dining room, which she found after going into a china closet, and opening the door of a room where old mr. gardiner was taking a little private refreshment.
making a dart at the table, she secured the coffee, which she immediately spilled, thereby making the front of her dress as bad as the back.
"oh, dear, what a blunderbuss i am!"
exclaimed jo, finishing meg's glove by scrubbing her gown with it.
"can i help you?"
said a friendly voice.
and there was laurie, with a full cup in one hand and a plate of ice in the other.
"i was trying to get something for meg, who is very tired, and someone shook me, and here i am in a nice state," answered jo, glancing dismally from the stained skirt to the coffee-colored glove.
"too bad!
i was looking for someone to give this to.
may i take it to your sister?"
"oh, thank you!
i'll show you where she is.
i don't offer to take it myself, for i should only get into another scrape if i did."
jo led the way, and as if used to waiting on ladies, laurie drew up a little table, brought a second installment of coffee and ice for jo, and was so obliging that even particular meg pronounced him a 'nice boy'.
they had a merry time over the bonbons and mottoes, and were in the midst of a quiet game of buzz, with two or three other young people who had strayed in, when hannah appeared.
meg forgot her foot and rose so quickly that she was forced to catch hold of jo, with an exclamation of pain.
"hush!
don't say anything," she whispered, adding aloud, "it's nothing.
i turned my foot a little, that's all," and limped upstairs to put her things on.
hannah scolded, meg cried, and jo was at her wits' end, till she decided to take things into her own hands.
slipping out, she ran down and, finding a servant, asked if he could get her a carriage.
it happened to be a hired waiter who knew nothing about the neighborhood and jo was looking round for help when laurie, who had heard what she said, came up and offered his grandfather's carriage, which had just come for him, he said.
"it's so early!
you can't mean to go yet?"
began jo, looking relieved but hesitating to accept the offer.
"i always go early, i do, truly!
please let me take you home.
it's all on my way, you know, and it rains, they say."
that settled it, and telling him of meg's mishap, jo gratefully accepted and rushed up to bring down the rest of the party.
hannah hated rain as much as a cat does so she made no trouble, and they rolled away in the luxurious close carriage, feeling very festive and elegant.
laurie went on the box so meg could keep her foot up, and the girls talked over their party in freedom.
"i had a capital time.
did you?"
asked jo, rumpling up her hair, and making herself comfortable.
"yes, till i hurt myself.
sallie's friend, annie moffat, took a fancy to me, and asked me to come and spend a week with her when sallie does.
she is going in the spring when the opera comes, and it will be perfectly splendid, if mother only lets me go," answered meg, cheering up at the thought.
"i saw you dancing with the red headed man i ran away from.
was he nice?"
"oh, very!
his hair is auburn, not red, and he was very polite, and i had a delicious redowa with him."
"he looked like a grasshopper in a fit when he did the new step.
laurie and i couldn't help laughing.
did you hear us?"
"no, but it was very rude.
what were you about all that time, hidden away there?"
jo told her adventures, and by the time she had finished they were at home.
with many thanks, they said good night and crept in, hoping to disturb no one, but the instant their door creaked, two little nightcaps bobbed up, and two sleepy but eager voices cried out...
"tell about the party!
tell about the party!"
with what meg called 'a great want of manners' jo had saved some bonbons for the little girls, and they soon subsided, after hearing the most thrilling events of the evening.
"i declare, it really seems like being a fine young lady, to come home from the party in a carriage and sit in my dressing gown with a maid to wait on me," said meg, as jo bound up her foot with arnica and brushed her hair.
"i don't believe fine young ladies enjoy themselves a bit more than we do, in spite of our burned hair, old gowns, one glove apiece and tight slippers that sprain our ankles when we are silly enough to wear them."
and i think jo was quite right.
chapter four
burdens
"oh, dear, how hard it does seem to take up our packs and go on,"
sighed meg the morning after the party, for now the holidays were over, the week of merrymaking did not fit her for going on easily with the task she never liked.
"i wish it was christmas or new year's all the time.
wouldn't it be fun?"
answered jo, yawning dismally.
"we shouldn't enjoy ourselves half so much as we do now.
but it does seem so nice to have little suppers and bouquets, and go to parties, and drive home, and read and rest, and not work.
it's like other people, you know, and i always envy girls who do such things, i'm so fond of luxury," said meg, trying to decide which of two shabby gowns was the least shabby.
"well, we can't have it, so don't let us grumble but shoulder our bundles and trudge along as cheerfully as marmee does.
i'm sure aunt march is a regular old man of the sea to me, but i suppose when i've learned to carry her without complaining, she will tumble off, or get so light that i shan't mind her."
this idea tickled jo's fancy and put her in good spirits, but meg didn't brighten, for her burden, consisting of four spoiled children, seemed heavier than ever.
she had not heart enough even to make herself pretty as usual by putting on a blue neck ribbon and dressing her hair in the most becoming way.
"where's the use of looking nice, when no one sees me but those cross midgets, and no one cares whether i'm pretty or not?"
she muttered, shutting her drawer with a jerk.
"i shall have to toil and moil all my days, with only little bits of fun now and then, and get old and ugly and sour, because i'm poor and can't enjoy my life as other girls do.
it's a shame!"
so meg went down, wearing an injured look, and wasn't at all agreeable at breakfast time.
everyone seemed rather out of sorts and inclined to croak.
beth had a headache and lay on the sofa, trying to comfort herself with the cat and three kittens.
amy was fretting because her lessons were not learned, and she couldn't find her rubbers.
jo would whistle and make a great racket getting ready.
mrs. march was very busy trying to finish a letter, which must go at once, and hannah had the grumps, for being up late didn't suit her.
"there never was such a cross family!"
cried jo, losing her temper when she had upset an inkstand, broken both boot lacings, and sat down upon her hat.
"you're the crossest person in it!"
returned amy, washing out the sum that was all wrong with the tears that had fallen on her slate.
"beth, if you don't keep these horrid cats down cellar i'll have them drowned," exclaimed meg angrily as she tried to get rid of the kitten which had scrambled up her back and stuck like a burr just out of reach.
jo laughed, meg scolded, beth implored, and amy wailed because she couldn't remember how much nine times twelve was.
"girls, girls, do be quiet one minute!
i must get this off by the early mail, and you drive me distracted with your worry," cried mrs.
march, crossing out the third spoiled sentence in her letter.
there was a momentary lull, broken by hannah, who stalked in, laid two hot turnovers on the table, and stalked out again.
these turnovers were an institution, and the girls called them 'muffs', for they had no others and found the hot pies very comforting to their hands on cold mornings.
hannah never forgot to make them, no matter how busy or grumpy she might be, for the walk was long and bleak.
the poor things got no other lunch and were seldom home before two.
"cuddle your cats and get over your headache, bethy.
goodbye, marmee.
we are a set of rascals this morning, but we'll come home regular angels.
now then, meg!"
and jo tramped away, feeling that the pilgrims were not setting out as they ought to do.
they always looked back before turning the corner, for their mother was always at the window to nod and smile, and wave her hand to them.
somehow it seemed as if they couldn't have got through the day without that, for whatever their mood might be, the last glimpse of that motherly face was sure to affect them like sunshine.
"if marmee shook her fist instead of kissing her hand to us, it would serve us right, for more ungrateful wretches than we are were never seen," cried jo, taking a remorseful satisfaction in the snowy walk and bitter wind.
"don't use such dreadful expressions," replied meg from the depths of the veil in which she had shrouded herself like a nun sick of the world.
"i like good strong words that mean something," replied jo, catching her hat as it took a leap off her head preparatory to flying away altogether.
"call yourself any names you like, but i am neither a rascal nor a wretch and i don't choose to be called so."
"you're a blighted being, and decidedly cross today because you can't sit in the lap of luxury all the time.
poor dear, just wait till i make my fortune, and you shall revel in carriages and ice cream and high-heeled slippers, and posies, and red-headed boys to dance with."
"how ridiculous you are, jo!"
but meg laughed at the nonsense and felt better in spite of herself.
"lucky for you i am, for if i put on crushed airs and tried to be dismal, as you do, we should be in a nice state.
thank goodness, i can always find something funny to keep me up.
don't croak any more, but come home jolly, there's a dear."
jo gave her sister an encouraging pat on the shoulder as they parted for the day, each going a different way, each hugging her little warm turnover, and each trying to be cheerful in spite of wintry weather, hard work, and the unsatisfied desires of pleasure-loving youth.
when mr. march lost his property in trying to help an unfortunate friend, the two oldest girls begged to be allowed to do something toward their own support, at least.
believing that they could not begin too early to cultivate energy, industry, and independence, their parents consented, and both fell to work with the hearty good will which in spite of all obstacles is sure to succeed at last.
margaret found a place as nursery governess and felt rich with her small salary.
as she said, she was 'fond of luxury', and her chief trouble was poverty.
she found it harder to bear than the others because she could remember a time when home was beautiful, life full of ease and pleasure, and want of any kind unknown.
she tried not to be envious or discontented, but it was very natural that the young girl should long for pretty things, gay friends, accomplishments, and a happy life.
at the kings' she daily saw all she wanted, for the children's older sisters were just out, and meg caught frequent glimpses of dainty ball dresses and bouquets, heard lively gossip about theaters, concerts, sleighing parties, and merrymakings of all kinds, and saw money lavished on trifles which would have been so precious to her.
poor meg seldom complained, but a sense of injustice made her feel bitter toward everyone sometimes, for she had not yet learned to know how rich she was in the blessings which alone can make life happy.
jo happened to suit aunt march, who was lame and needed an active person to wait upon her.
the childless old lady had offered to adopt one of the girls when the troubles came, and was much offended because her offer was declined.
other friends told the marches that they had lost all chance of being remembered in the rich old lady's will, but the unworldly marches only said...
"we can't give up our girls for a dozen fortunes.
rich or poor, we will keep together and be happy in one another."
the old lady wouldn't speak to them for a time, but happening to meet jo at a friend's, something in her comical face and blunt manners struck the old lady's fancy, and she proposed to take her for a companion.
this did not suit jo at all, but she accepted the place since nothing better appeared and, to every one's surprise, got on remarkably well with her irascible relative.
there was an occasional tempest, and once jo marched home, declaring she couldn't bear it longer, but aunt march always cleared up quickly, and sent for her to come back again with such urgency that she could not refuse, for in her heart she rather liked the peppery old lady.
i suspect that the real attraction was a large library of fine books, which was left to dust and spiders since uncle march died.
jo remembered the kind old gentleman, who used to let her build railroads and bridges with his big dictionaries, tell her stories about queer pictures in his latin books, and buy her cards of gingerbread whenever he met her in the street.
the dim, dusty room, with the busts staring down from the tall bookcases, the cozy chairs, the globes, and best of all, the wilderness of books in which she could wander where she liked, made the library a region of bliss to her.
the moment aunt march took her nap, or was busy with company, jo hurried to this quiet place, and curling herself up in the easy chair, devoured poetry, romance, history, travels, and pictures like a regular bookworm.
but, like all happiness, it did not last long, for as sure as she had just reached the heart of the story, the sweetest verse of a song, or the most perilous adventure of her traveler, a shrill voice called, "josy-phine!
josy-phine!"
and she had to leave her paradise to wind yarn, wash the poodle, or read belsham's essays by the hour together.
jo's ambition was to do something very splendid.
what it was, she had no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her, and meanwhile, found her greatest affliction in the fact that she couldn't read, run, and ride as much as she liked.
a quick temper, sharp tongue, and restless spirit were always getting her into scrapes, and her life was a series of ups and downs, which were both comic and pathetic.
but the training she received at aunt march's was just what she needed, and the thought that she was doing something to support herself made her happy in spite of the perpetual "josy-phine!"
beth was too bashful to go to school.
it had been tried, but she suffered so much that it was given up, and she did her lessons at home with her father.
even when he went away, and her mother was called to devote her skill and energy to soldiers' aid societies, beth went faithfully on by herself and did the best she could.
she was a housewifely little creature, and helped hannah keep home neat and comfortable for the workers, never thinking of any reward but to be loved.
long, quiet days she spent, not lonely nor idle, for her little world was peopled with imaginary friends, and she was by nature a busy bee.
there were six dolls to be taken up and dressed every morning, for beth was a child still and loved her pets as well as ever.
not one whole or handsome one among them, all were outcasts till beth took them in, for when her sisters outgrew these idols, they passed to her because amy would have nothing old or ugly.
beth cherished them all the more tenderly for that very reason, and set up a hospital for infirm dolls.
no pins were ever stuck into their cotton vitals, no harsh words or blows were ever given them, no neglect ever saddened the heart of the most repulsive, but all were fed and clothed, nursed and caressed with an affection which never failed.
one forlorn fragment of dollanity had belonged to jo and, having led a tempestuous life, was left a wreck in the rag bag, from which dreary poorhouse it was rescued by beth and taken to her refuge.
having no top to its head, she tied on a neat little cap, and as both arms and legs were gone, she hid these deficiencies by folding it in a blanket and devoting her best bed to this chronic invalid.
if anyone had known the care lavished on that dolly, i think it would have touched their hearts, even while they laughed.
she brought it bits of bouquets, she read to it, took it out to breathe fresh air, hidden under her coat, she sang it lullabies and never went to bed without kissing its dirty face and whispering tenderly, "i hope you'll have a good night, my poor dear."
beth had her troubles as well as the others, and not being an angel but a very human little girl, she often 'wept a little weep' as jo said, because she couldn't take music lessons and have a fine piano.
she loved music so dearly, tried so hard to learn, and practiced away so patiently at the jingling old instrument, that it did seem as if someone (not to hint aunt march) ought to help her.
nobody did, however, and nobody saw beth wipe the tears off the yellow keys, that wouldn't keep in tune, when she was all alone.
she sang like a little lark about her work, never was too tired for marmee and the girls, and day after day said hopefully to herself, "i know i'll get my music some time, if i'm good."
there are many beths in the world, shy and quiet, sitting in corners till needed, and living for others so cheerfully that no one sees the sacrifices till the little cricket on the hearth stops chirping, and the sweet, sunshiny presence vanishes, leaving silence and shadow behind.
if anybody had asked amy what the greatest trial of her life was, she would have answered at once, "my nose."
when she was a baby, jo had accidently dropped her into the coal hod, and amy insisted that the fall had ruined her nose forever.
it was not big nor red, like poor 'petrea's', it was only rather flat, and all the pinching in the world could not give it an aristocratic point.
no one minded it but herself, and it was doing its best to grow, but amy felt deeply the want of a grecian nose, and drew whole sheets of handsome ones to console herself.
"little raphael," as her sisters called her, had a decided talent for drawing, and was never so happy as when copying flowers, designing fairies, or illustrating stories with queer specimens of art.
her teachers complained that instead of doing her sums she covered her slate with animals, the blank pages of her atlas were used to copy maps on, and caricatures of the most ludicrous description came fluttering out of all her books at unlucky moments.
she got through her lessons as well as she could, and managed to escape reprimands by being a model of deportment.
she was a great favorite with her mates, being good-tempered and possessing the happy art of pleasing without effort.
her little airs and graces were much admired, so were her accomplishments, for besides her drawing, she could play twelve tunes, crochet, and read french without mispronouncing more than two-thirds of the words.
she had a plaintive way of saying, "when papa was rich we did so-and-so," which was very touching, and her long words were considered 'perfectly elegant' by the girls.
amy was in a fair way to be spoiled, for everyone petted her, and her small vanities and selfishnesses were growing nicely.
one thing, however, rather quenched the vanities.
she had to wear her cousin's clothes.
now florence's mama hadn't a particle of taste, and amy suffered deeply at having to wear a red instead of a blue bonnet, unbecoming gowns, and fussy aprons that did not fit.
everything was good, well made, and little worn, but amy's artistic eyes were much afflicted, especially this winter, when her school dress was a dull purple with yellow dots and no trimming.
"my only comfort," she said to meg, with tears in her eyes, "is that mother doesn't take tucks in my dresses whenever i'm naughty, as maria parks's mother does.
my dear, it's really dreadful, for sometimes she is so bad her frock is up to her knees, and she can't come to school.
when i think of this deggerredation, i feel that i can bear even my flat nose and purple gown with yellow sky-rockets on it."
meg was amy's confidant and monitor, and by some strange attraction of opposites jo was gentle beth's.
to jo alone did the shy child tell her thoughts, and over her big harum-scarum sister beth unconsciously exercised more influence than anyone in the family.
the two older girls were a great deal to one another, but each took one of the younger sisters into her keeping and watched over her in her own way, 'playing mother' they called it, and put their sisters in the places of discarded dolls with the maternal instinct of little women.
"has anybody got anything to tell?
it's been such a dismal day i'm really dying for some amusement," said meg, as they sat sewing together that evening.
"i had a queer time with aunt today, and, as i got the best of it, i'll tell you about it," began jo, who dearly loved to tell stories.
"i was reading that everlasting belsham, and droning away as i always do, for aunt soon drops off, and then i take out some nice book, and read like fury till she wakes up.
i actually made myself sleepy, and before she began to nod, i gave such a gape that she asked me what i meant by opening my mouth wide enough to take the whole book in at once."
"i wish i could, and be done with it," said i, trying not to be saucy.
"then she gave me a long lecture on my sins, and told me to sit and think them over while she just 'lost' herself for a moment.
she never finds herself very soon, so the minute her cap began to bob like a top-heavy dahlia, i whipped the vicar of wakefield out of my pocket, and read away, with one eye on him and one on aunt.
i'd just got to where they all tumbled into the water when i forgot and laughed out loud.
aunt woke up and, being more good-natured after her nap, told me to read a bit and show what frivolous work i preferred to the worthy and instructive belsham.
i did my very best, and she liked it, though she only said...
"'i don't understand what it's all about.
go back and begin it, child.'"
"back i went, and made the primroses as interesting as ever i could.
once i was wicked enough to stop in a thrilling place, and say meekly, 'i'm afraid it tires you, ma'am.
shan't i stop now?'"
"she caught up her knitting, which had dropped out of her hands, gave me a sharp look through her specs, and said, in her short way, 'finish the chapter, and don't be impertinent, miss'."
"did she own she liked it?"
asked meg.
"oh, bless you, no!
but she let old belsham rest, and when i ran back after my gloves this afternoon, there she was, so hard at the vicar that she didn't hear me laugh as i danced a jig in the hall because of the good time coming.
what a pleasant life she might have if only she chose!
i don't envy her much, in spite of her money, for after all rich people have about as many worries as poor ones, i think," added jo.
"that reminds me," said meg, "that i've got something to tell.
it isn't funny, like jo's story, but i thought about it a good deal as i came home.
at the kings' today i found everybody in a flurry, and one of the children said that her oldest brother had done something dreadful, and papa had sent him away.
i heard mrs. king crying and mr. king talking very loud, and grace and ellen turned away their faces when they passed me, so i shouldn't see how red and swollen their eyes were.
i didn't ask any questions, of course, but i felt so sorry for them and was rather glad i hadn't any wild brothers to do wicked things and disgrace the family."
"i think being disgraced in school is a great deal tryinger than anything bad boys can do," said amy, shaking her head, as if her experience of life had been a deep one.
"susie perkins came to school today with a lovely red carnelian ring.
i wanted it dreadfully, and wished i was her with all my might.
well, she drew a picture of mr.
davis, with a monstrous nose and a hump, and the words, 'young ladies, my eye is upon you!'
coming out of his mouth in a balloon thing.
we were laughing over it when all of a sudden his eye was on us, and he ordered susie to bring up her slate.
she was parrylized with fright, but she went, and oh, what do you think he did?
he took her by the ear the ear!
just fancy how horrid!
and led her to the recitation platform, and made her stand there half an hour, holding the slate so everyone could see."
"didn't the girls laugh at the picture?"
asked jo, who relished the scrape.
"laugh?
not one!
they sat still as mice, and susie cried quarts, i know she did.
i didn't envy her then, for i felt that millions of carnelian rings wouldn't have made me happy after that.
i never, never should have got over such a agonizing mortification."
and amy went on with her work, in the proud consciousness of virtue and the successful utterance of two long words in a breath.
"i saw something i liked this morning, and i meant to tell it at dinner, but i forgot," said beth, putting jo's topsy-turvy basket in order as she talked.
"when i went to get some oysters for hannah, mr.
laurence was in the fish shop, but he didn't see me, for i kept behind the fish barrel, and he was busy with mr. cutter the fish-man.
a poor woman came in with a pail and a mop, and asked mr. cutter if he would let her do some scrubbing for a bit of fish, because she hadn't any dinner for her children, and had been disappointed of a day's work.
mr. cutter was in a hurry and said 'no', rather crossly, so she was going away, looking hungry and sorry, when mr. laurence hooked up a big fish with the crooked end of his cane and held it out to her.
she was so glad and surprised she took it right into her arms, and thanked him over and over.
he told her to 'go along and cook it', and she hurried off, so happy!
wasn't it good of him?
oh, she did look so funny, hugging the big, slippery fish, and hoping mr. laurence's bed in heaven would be 'aisy'."
when they had laughed at beth's story, they asked their mother for one, and after a moments thought, she said soberly, "as i sat cutting out blue flannel jackets today at the rooms, i felt very anxious about father, and thought how lonely and helpless we should be, if anything happened to him.
it was not a wise thing to do, but i kept on worrying till an old man came in with an order for some clothes.
he sat down near me, and i began to talk to him, for he looked poor and tired and anxious.
"'have you sons in the army?'
i asked, for the note he brought was not to me."
"yes, ma'am.
i had four, but two were killed, one is a prisoner, and i'm going to the other, who is very sick in a washington hospital.'
he answered quietly."
"'you have done a great deal for your country, sir,' i said, feeling respect now, instead of pity."
"'not a mite more than i ought, ma'am.
i'd go myself, if i was any use.
as i ain't, i give my boys, and give 'em free.'"
"he spoke so cheerfully, looked so sincere, and seemed so glad to give his all, that i was ashamed of myself.
i'd given one man and thought it too much, while he gave four without grudging them.
i had all my girls to comfort me at home, and his last son was waiting, miles away, to say good-by to him, perhaps!
i felt so rich, so happy thinking of my blessings, that i made him a nice bundle, gave him some money, and thanked him heartily for the lesson he had taught me."
"tell another story, mother, one with a moral to it, like this.
i like to think about them afterward, if they are real and not too preachy,"
said jo, after a minute's silence.
mrs. march smiled and began at once, for she had told stories to this little audience for many years, and knew how to please them.
"once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented."
(here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.)
"these girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, 'if only we had this,' or 'if we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do.
so they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, 'when you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'"
(here jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.)
"being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were.
one discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior.
so they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and i believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice."
"now, marmee, that is very cunning of you to turn our own stories against us, and give us a sermon instead of a romance!"
cried meg.
"i like that kind of sermon.
it's the sort father used to tell us,"
said beth thoughtfully, putting the needles straight on jo's cushion.
"i don't complain near as much as the others do, and i shall be more careful than ever now, for i've had warning from susie's downfall,"
said amy morally.
"we needed that lesson, and we won't forget it.
if we do so, you just say to us, as old chloe did in uncle tom, 'tink ob yer marcies, chillen!'
'tink ob yer marcies!'"
added jo, who could not, for the life of her, help getting a morsel of fun out of the little sermon, though she took it to heart as much as any of them.
chapter five
being neighborly
"what in the world are you going to do now, jo?"
asked meg one snowy afternoon, as her sister came tramping through the hall, in rubber boots, old sack, and hood, with a broom in one hand and a shovel in the other.
"going out for exercise," answered jo with a mischievous twinkle in her eyes.
"i should think two long walks this morning would have been enough!
it's cold and dull out, and i advise you to stay warm and dry by the fire, as i do," said meg with a shiver.
"never take advice!
can't keep still all day, and not being a pussycat, i don't like to doze by the fire.
i like adventures, and i'm going to find some."
meg went back to toast her feet and read ivanhoe, and jo began to dig paths with great energy.
the snow was light, and with her broom she soon swept a path all round the garden, for beth to walk in when the sun came out and the invalid dolls needed air.
now, the garden separated the marches' house from that of mr. laurence.
both stood in a suburb of the city, which was still country-like, with groves and lawns, large gardens, and quiet streets.
a low hedge parted the two estates.
on one side was an old, brown house, looking rather bare and shabby, robbed of the vines that in summer covered its walls and the flowers, which then surrounded it.
on the other side was a stately stone mansion, plainly betokening every sort of comfort and luxury, from the big coach house and well-kept grounds to the conservatory and the glimpses of lovely things one caught between the rich curtains.
yet it seemed a lonely, lifeless sort of house, for no children frolicked on the lawn, no motherly face ever smiled at the windows, and few people went in and out, except the old gentleman and his grandson.
to jo's lively fancy, this fine house seemed a kind of enchanted palace, full of splendors and delights which no one enjoyed.
she had long wanted to behold these hidden glories, and to know the laurence boy, who looked as if he would like to be known, if he only knew how to begin.
since the party, she had been more eager than ever, and had planned many ways of making friends with him, but he had not been seen lately, and jo began to think he had gone away, when she one day spied a brown face at an upper window, looking wistfully down into their garden, where beth and amy were snow-balling one another.
"that boy is suffering for society and fun," she said to herself.
"his grandpa does not know what's good for him, and keeps him shut up all alone.
he needs a party of jolly boys to play with, or somebody young and lively.
i've a great mind to go over and tell the old gentleman so!"
the idea amused jo, who liked to do daring things and was always scandalizing meg by her queer performances.
the plan of 'going over'
was not forgotten.
and when the snowy afternoon came, jo resolved to try what could be done.
she saw mr. lawrence drive off, and then sallied out to dig her way down to the hedge, where she paused and took a survey.
all quiet, curtains down at the lower windows, servants out of sight, and nothing human visible but a curly black head leaning on a thin hand at the upper window.
"there he is," thought jo, "poor boy!
all alone and sick this dismal day.
it's a shame!
i'll toss up a snowball and make him look out, and then say a kind word to him."
up went a handful of soft snow, and the head turned at once, showing a face which lost its listless look in a minute, as the big eyes brightened and the mouth began to smile.
jo nodded and laughed, and flourished her broom as she called out...
"how do you do?
are you sick?"
laurie opened the window, and croaked out as hoarsely as a raven...
"better, thank you.
i've had a bad cold, and been shut up a week."
"i'm sorry.
what do you amuse yourself with?"
"nothing.
it's dull as tombs up here."
"don't you read?"
"not much.
they won't let me."
"can't somebody read to you?"
"grandpa does sometimes, but my books don't interest him, and i hate to ask brooke all the time."
"have someone come and see you then."
"there isn't anyone i'd like to see.
boys make such a row, and my head is weak."
"isn't there some nice girl who'd read and amuse you?
girls are quiet and like to play nurse."
"don't know any."
"you know us," began jo, then laughed and stopped.
"so i do!
will you come, please?"
cried laurie.
"i'm not quiet and nice, but i'll come, if mother will let me.
i'll go ask her.
shut the window, like a good boy, and wait till i come."
with that, jo shouldered her broom and marched into the house, wondering what they would all say to her.
laurie was in a flutter of excitement at the idea of having company, and flew about to get ready, for as mrs. march said, he was 'a little gentleman', and did honor to the coming guest by brushing his curly pate, putting on a fresh color, and trying to tidy up the room, which in spite of half a dozen servants, was anything but neat.
presently there came a loud ring, than a decided voice, asking for 'mr.
laurie', and a surprised-looking servant came running up to announce a young lady.
"all right, show her up, it's miss jo," said laurie, going to the door of his little parlor to meet jo, who appeared, looking rosy and quite at her ease, with a covered dish in one hand and beth's three kittens in the other.
"here i am, bag and baggage," she said briskly.
"mother sent her love, and was glad if i could do anything for you.
meg wanted me to bring some of her blanc mange, she makes it very nicely, and beth thought her cats would be comforting.
i knew you'd laugh at them, but i couldn't refuse, she was so anxious to do something."
it so happened that beth's funny loan was just the thing, for in laughing over the kits, laurie forgot his bashfulness, and grew sociable at once.
"that looks too pretty to eat," he said, smiling with pleasure, as jo uncovered the dish, and showed the blanc mange, surrounded by a garland of green leaves, and the scarlet flowers of amy's pet geranium.
"it isn't anything, only they all felt kindly and wanted to show it.
tell the girl to put it away for your tea.
it's so simple you can eat it, and being soft, it will slip down without hurting your sore throat.
what a cozy room this is!"
"it might be if it was kept nice, but the maids are lazy, and i don't know how to make them mind.
it worries me though."
"i'll right it up in two minutes, for it only needs to have the hearth brushed, so and the things made straight on the mantelpiece, so and the books put here, and the bottles there, and your sofa turned from the light, and the pillows plumped up a bit.
now then, you're fixed."
and so he was, for, as she laughed and talked, jo had whisked things into place and given quite a different air to the room.
laurie watched her in respectful silence, and when she beckoned him to his sofa, he sat down with a sigh of satisfaction, saying gratefully...
"how kind you are!
yes, that's what it wanted.
now please take the big chair and let me do something to amuse my company."
"no, i came to amuse you.
shall i read aloud?"
and jo looked affectionately toward some inviting books near by.
"thank you!
i've read all those, and if you don't mind, i'd rather talk," answered laurie.
"not a bit.
i'll talk all day if you'll only set me going.
beth says i never know when to stop."
"is beth the rosy one, who stays at home good deal and sometimes goes out with a little basket?"
asked laurie with interest.
"yes, that's beth.
she's my girl, and a regular good one she is, too."
"the pretty one is meg, and the curly-haired one is amy, i believe?"
"how did you find that out?"
laurie colored up, but answered frankly, "why, you see i often hear you calling to one another, and when i'm alone up here, i can't help looking over at your house, you always seem to be having such good times.
i beg your pardon for being so rude, but sometimes you forget to put down the curtain at the window where the flowers are.
and when the lamps are lighted, it's like looking at a picture to see the fire, and you all around the table with your mother.
her face is right opposite, and it looks so sweet behind the flowers, i can't help watching it.
i haven't got any mother, you know."
and laurie poked the fire to hide a little twitching of the lips that he could not control.
the solitary, hungry look in his eyes went straight to jo's warm heart.
she had been so simply taught that there was no nonsense in her head, and at fifteen she was as innocent and frank as any child.
laurie was sick and lonely, and feeling how rich she was in home and happiness, she gladly tried to share it with him.
her face was very friendly and her sharp voice unusually gentle as she said...
"we'll never draw that curtain any more, and i give you leave to look as much as you like.
i just wish, though, instead of peeping, you'd come over and see us.
mother is so splendid, she'd do you heaps of good, and beth would sing to you if i begged her to, and amy would dance.
meg and i would make you laugh over our funny stage properties, and we'd have jolly times.
wouldn't your grandpa let you?"
"i think he would, if your mother asked him.
he's very kind, though he does not look so, and he lets me do what i like, pretty much, only he's afraid i might be a bother to strangers," began laurie, brightening more and more.
"we are not strangers, we are neighbors, and you needn't think you'd be a bother.
we want to know you, and i've been trying to do it this ever so long.
we haven't been here a great while, you know, but we have got acquainted with all our neighbors but you."
"you see, grandpa lives among his books, and doesn't mind much what happens outside.
mr. brooke, my tutor, doesn't stay here, you know, and i have no one to go about with me, so i just stop at home and get on as i can."
"that's bad.
you ought to make an effort and go visiting everywhere you are asked, then you'll have plenty of friends, and pleasant places to go to.
never mind being bashful.
it won't last long if you keep going."
laurie turned red again, but wasn't offended at being accused of bashfulness, for there was so much good will in jo it was impossible not to take her blunt speeches as kindly as they were meant.
"do you like your school?"
asked the boy, changing the subject, after a little pause, during which he stared at the fire and jo looked about her, well pleased.
"don't go to school, i'm a businessman girl, i mean.
i go to wait on my great-aunt, and a dear, cross old soul she is, too," answered jo.
laurie opened his mouth to ask another question, but remembering just in time that it wasn't manners to make too many inquiries into people's affairs, he shut it again, and looked uncomfortable.
jo liked his good breeding, and didn't mind having a laugh at aunt march, so she gave him a lively description of the fidgety old lady, her fat poodle, the parrot that talked spanish, and the library where she reveled.
laurie enjoyed that immensely, and when she told about the prim old gentleman who came once to woo aunt march, and in the middle of a fine speech, how poll had tweaked his wig off to his great dismay, the boy lay back and laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and a maid popped her head in to see what was the matter.
"oh!
that does me no end of good.
tell on, please," he said, taking his face out of the sofa cushion, red and shining with merriment.
much elated with her success, jo did 'tell on', all about their plays and plans, their hopes and fears for father, and the most interesting events of the little world in which the sisters lived.
then they got to talking about books, and to jo's delight, she found that laurie loved them as well as she did, and had read even more than herself.
"if you like them so much, come down and see ours.
grandfather is out, so you needn't be afraid," said laurie, getting up.
"i'm not afraid of anything," returned jo, with a toss of the head.
"i don't believe you are!"
exclaimed the boy, looking at her with much admiration, though he privately thought she would have good reason to be a trifle afraid of the old gentleman, if she met him in some of his moods.
the atmosphere of the whole house being summerlike, laurie led the way from room to room, letting jo stop to examine whatever struck her fancy.
and so, at last they came to the library, where she clapped her hands and pranced, as she always did when especially delighted.
it was lined with books, and there were pictures and statues, and distracting little cabinets full of coins and curiosities, and sleepy hollow chairs, and queer tables, and bronzes, and best of all, a great open fireplace with quaint tiles all round it.
"what richness!"
sighed jo, sinking into the depth of a velour chair and gazing about her with an air of intense satisfaction.
"theodore laurence, you ought to be the happiest boy in the world," she added impressively.
"a fellow can't live on books," said laurie, shaking his head as he perched on a table opposite.
before he could more, a bell rang, and jo flew up, exclaiming with alarm, "mercy me!
it's your grandpa!"
"well, what if it is?
you are not afraid of anything, you know,"
returned the boy, looking wicked.
"i think i am a little bit afraid of him, but i don't know why i should be.
marmee said i might come, and i don't think you're any the worse for it," said jo, composing herself, though she kept her eyes on the door.
"i'm a great deal better for it, and ever so much obliged.
i'm only afraid you are very tired of talking to me.
it was so pleasant, i couldn't bear to stop," said laurie gratefully.
"the doctor to see you, sir," and the maid beckoned as she spoke.
"would you mind if i left you for a minute?
i suppose i must see him,"
said laurie.
"don't mind me.
i'm happy as a cricket here," answered jo.
laurie went away, and his guest amused herself in her own way.
she was standing before a fine portrait of the old gentleman when the door opened again, and without turning, she said decidedly, "i'm sure now that i shouldn't be afraid of him, for he's got kind eyes, though his mouth is grim, and he looks as if he had a tremendous will of his own.
he isn't as handsome as my grandfather, but i like him."
"thank you, ma'am," said a gruff voice behind her, and there, to her great dismay, stood old mr. laurence.
poor jo blushed till she couldn't blush any redder, and her heart began to beat uncomfortably fast as she thought what she had said.
for a minute a wild desire to run away possessed her, but that was cowardly, and the girls would laugh at her, so she resolved to stay and get out of the scrape as she could.
a second look showed her that the living eyes, under the bushy eyebrows, were kinder even than the painted ones, and there was a sly twinkle in them, which lessened her fear a good deal.
the gruff voice was gruffer than ever, as the old gentleman said abruptly, after the dreadful pause, "so you're not afraid of me, hey?"
"not much, sir."
"and you don't think me as handsome as your grandfather?"
"not quite, sir."
"and i've got a tremendous will, have i?"
"i only said i thought so."
"but you like me in spite of it?"
"yes, i do, sir."
that answer pleased the old gentleman.
he gave a short laugh, shook hands with her, and, putting his finger under her chin, turned up her face, examined it gravely, and let it go, saying with a nod, "you've got your grandfather's spirit, if you haven't his face.
he was a fine man, my dear, but what is better, he was a brave and an honest one, and i was proud to be his friend."
"thank you, sir," and jo was quite comfortable after that, for it suited her exactly.
"what have you been doing to this boy of mine, hey?"
was the next question, sharply put.
"only trying to be neighborly, sir."
and jo told how her visit came about.
"you think he needs cheering up a bit, do you?"
"yes, sir, he seems a little lonely, and young folks would do him good perhaps.
we are only girls, but we should be glad to help if we could, for we don't forget the splendid christmas present you sent us," said jo eagerly.
"tut, tut, tut!
that was the boy's affair.
how is the poor woman?"
"doing nicely, sir."
and off went jo, talking very fast, as she told all about the hummels, in whom her mother had interested richer friends than they were.
"just her father's way of doing good.
i shall come and see your mother some fine day.
tell her so.
there's the tea bell, we have it early on the boy's account.
come down and go on being neighborly."
"if you'd like to have me, sir."
"shouldn't ask you, if i didn't."
and mr. laurence offered her his arm with old-fashioned courtesy.
"what would meg say to this?"
thought jo, as she was marched away, while her eyes danced with fun as she imagined herself telling the story at home.
"hey!
why, what the dickens has come to the fellow?"
said the old gentleman, as laurie came running downstairs and brought up with a start of surprise at the astounding sight of jo arm in arm with his redoubtable grandfather.
"i didn't know you'd come, sir," he began, as jo gave him a triumphant little glance.
"that's evident, by the way you racket downstairs.
come to your tea, sir, and behave like a gentleman."
and having pulled the boy's hair by way of a caress, mr. laurence walked on, while laurie went through a series of comic evolutions behind their backs, which nearly produced an explosion of laughter from jo.
the old gentleman did not say much as he drank his four cups of tea, but he watched the young people, who soon chatted away like old friends, and the change in his grandson did not escape him.
there was color, light, and life in the boy's face now, vivacity in his manner, and genuine merriment in his laugh.
"she's right, the lad is lonely.
i'll see what these little girls can do for him," thought mr. laurence, as he looked and listened.
he liked jo, for her odd, blunt ways suited him, and she seemed to understand the boy almost as well as if she had been one herself.
if the laurences had been what jo called 'prim and poky', she would not have got on at all, for such people always made her shy and awkward.
but finding them free and easy, she was so herself, and made a good impression.
when they rose she proposed to go, but laurie said he had something more to show her, and took her away to the conservatory, which had been lighted for her benefit.
it seemed quite fairylike to jo, as she went up and down the walks, enjoying the blooming walls on either side, the soft light, the damp sweet air, and the wonderful vines and trees that hung about her, while her new friend cut the finest flowers till his hands were full.
then he tied them up, saying, with the happy look jo liked to see, "please give these to your mother, and tell her i like the medicine she sent me very much."
they found mr. laurence standing before the fire in the great drawing room, but jo's attention was entirely absorbed by a grand piano, which stood open.
"do you play?"
she asked, turning to laurie with a respectful expression.
"sometimes," he answered modestly.
"please do now.
i want to hear it, so i can tell beth."
"won't you first?"
"don't know how.
too stupid to learn, but i love music dearly."
so laurie played and jo listened, with her nose luxuriously buried in heliotrope and tea roses.
her respect and regard for the 'laurence'
boy increased very much, for he played remarkably well and didn't put on any airs.
she wished beth could hear him, but she did not say so, only praised him till he was quite abashed, and his grandfather came to his rescue.
"that will do, that will do, young lady.
too many sugarplums are not good for him.
his music isn't bad, but i hope he will do as well in more important things.
going?
well, i'm much obliged to you, and i hope you'll come again.
my respects to your mother.
good night, doctor jo."
he shook hands kindly, but looked as if something did not please him.
when they got into the hall, jo asked laurie if she had said something amiss.
he shook his head.
"no, it was me.
he doesn't like to hear me play."
"why not?"
"i'll tell you some day.
john is going home with you, as i can't."
"no need of that.
i am not a young lady, and it's only a step.
take care of yourself, won't you?"
"yes, but you will come again, i hope?"
"if you promise to come and see us after you are well."
"i will."
"good night, laurie!"
"good night, jo, good night!"
when all the afternoon's adventures had been told, the family felt inclined to go visiting in a body, for each found something very attractive in the big house on the other side of the hedge.
mrs. march wanted to talk of her father with the old man who had not forgotten him, meg longed to walk in the conservatory, beth sighed for the grand piano, and amy was eager to see the fine pictures and statues.
"mother, why didn't mr. laurence like to have laurie play?"
asked jo, who was of an inquiring disposition.
"i am not sure, but i think it was because his son, laurie's father, married an italian lady, a musician, which displeased the old man, who is very proud.
the lady was good and lovely and accomplished, but he did not like her, and never saw his son after he married.
they both died when laurie was a little child, and then his grandfather took him home.
i fancy the boy, who was born in italy, is not very strong, and the old man is afraid of losing him, which makes him so careful.
laurie comes naturally by his love of music, for he is like his mother, and i dare say his grandfather fears that he may want to be a musician.
at any rate, his skill reminds him of the woman he did not like, and so he 'glowered' as jo said."
"dear me, how romantic!"
exclaimed meg.
"how silly!"
said jo.
"let him be a musician if he wants to, and not plague his life out sending him to college, when he hates to go."
"that's why he has such handsome black eyes and pretty manners, i suppose.
italians are always nice," said meg, who was a little sentimental.
"what do you know about his eyes and his manners?
you never spoke to him, hardly," cried jo, who was not sentimental.
"i saw him at the party, and what you tell shows that he knows how to behave.
that was a nice little speech about the medicine mother sent him."
"he meant the blanc mange, i suppose."
"how stupid you are, child!
he meant you, of course."
"did he?"
and jo opened her eyes as if it had never occurred to her before.
"i never saw such a girl!
you don't know a compliment when you get it," said meg, with the air of a young lady who knew all about the matter.
"i think they are great nonsense, and i'll thank you not to be silly and spoil my fun.
laurie's a nice boy and i like him, and i won't have any sentimental stuff about compliments and such rubbish.
we'll all be good to him because he hasn't got any mother, and he may come over and see us, mayn't he, marmee?"
"yes, jo, your little friend is very welcome, and i hope meg will remember that children should be children as long as they can."
"i don't call myself a child, and i'm not in my teens yet," observed amy.
"what do you say, beth?"
"i was thinking about our 'pilgrim's progress'," answered beth, who had not heard a word.
"how we got out of the slough and through the wicket gate by resolving to be good, and up the steep hill by trying, and that maybe the house over there, full of splendid things, is going to be our palace beautiful."
"we have got to get by the lions first," said jo, as if she rather liked the prospect.
chapter six
beth finds the palace beautiful
the big house did prove a palace beautiful, though it took some time for all to get in, and beth found it very hard to pass the lions.
old mr. laurence was the biggest one, but after he had called, said something funny or kind to each one of the girls, and talked over old times with their mother, nobody felt much afraid of him, except timid beth.
the other lion was the fact that they were poor and laurie rich, for this made them shy of accepting favors which they could not return.
but, after a while, they found that he considered them the benefactors, and could not do enough to show how grateful he was for mrs. march's motherly welcome, their cheerful society, and the comfort he took in that humble home of theirs.
so they soon forgot their pride and interchanged kindnesses without stopping to think which was the greater.
all sorts of pleasant things happened about that time, for the new friendship flourished like grass in spring.
every one liked laurie, and he privately informed his tutor that "the marches were regularly splendid girls."
with the delightful enthusiasm of youth, they took the solitary boy into their midst and made much of him, and he found something very charming in the innocent companionship of these simple-hearted girls.
never having known mother or sisters, he was quick to feel the influences they brought about him, and their busy, lively ways made him ashamed of the indolent life he led.
he was tired of books, and found people so interesting now that mr. brooke was obliged to make very unsatisfactory reports, for laurie was always playing truant and running over to the marches'.
"never mind, let him take a holiday, and make it up afterward," said the old gentleman.
"the good lady next door says he is studying too hard and needs young society, amusement, and exercise.
i suspect she is right, and that i've been coddling the fellow as if i'd been his grandmother.
let him do what he likes, as long as he is happy.
he can't get into mischief in that little nunnery over there, and mrs.
march is doing more for him than we can."
what good times they had, to be sure.
such plays and tableaux, such sleigh rides and skating frolics, such pleasant evenings in the old parlor, and now and then such gay little parties at the great house.
meg could walk in the conservatory whenever she liked and revel in bouquets, jo browsed over the new library voraciously, and convulsed the old gentleman with her criticisms, amy copied pictures and enjoyed beauty to her heart's content, and laurie played 'lord of the manor' in the most delightful style.
but beth, though yearning for the grand piano, could not pluck up courage to go to the 'mansion of bliss', as meg called it.
she went once with jo, but the old gentleman, not being aware of her infirmity, stared at her so hard from under his heavy eyebrows, and said "hey!"
so loud, that he frightened her so much her 'feet chattered on the floor', she never told her mother, and she ran away, declaring she would never go there any more, not even for the dear piano.
no persuasions or enticements could overcome her fear, till, the fact coming to mr.
laurence's ear in some mysterious way, he set about mending matters.
during one of the brief calls he made, he artfully led the conversation to music, and talked away about great singers whom he had seen, fine organs he had heard, and told such charming anecdotes that beth found it impossible to stay in her distant corner, but crept nearer and nearer, as if fascinated.
at the back of his chair she stopped and stood listening, with her great eyes wide open and her cheeks red with excitement of this unusual performance.
taking no more notice of her than if she had been a fly, mr. laurence talked on about laurie's lessons and teachers.
and presently, as if the idea had just occurred to him, he said to mrs. march...
"the boy neglects his music now, and i'm glad of it, for he was getting too fond of it.
but the piano suffers for want of use.
wouldn't some of your girls like to run over, and practice on it now and then, just to keep it in tune, you know, ma'am?"
beth took a step forward, and pressed her hands tightly together to keep from clapping them, for this was an irresistible temptation, and the thought of practicing on that splendid instrument quite took her breath away.
before mrs. march could reply, mr. laurence went on with an odd little nod and smile...
"they needn't see or speak to anyone, but run in at any time.
for i'm shut up in my study at the other end of the house, laurie is out a great deal, and the servants are never near the drawing room after nine o'clock."
here he rose, as if going, and beth made up her mind to speak, for that last arrangement left nothing to be desired.
"please, tell the young ladies what i say, and if they don't care to come, why, never mind."
here a little hand slipped into his, and beth looked up at him with a face full of gratitude, as she said, in her earnest yet timid way...
"oh sir, they do care, very very much!"
"are you the musical girl?"
he asked, without any startling "hey!"
as he looked down at her very kindly.
"i'm beth.
i love it dearly, and i'll come, if you are quite sure nobody will hear me, and be disturbed," she added, fearing to be rude, and trembling at her own boldness as she spoke.
"not a soul, my dear.
the house is empty half the day, so come and drum away as much as you like, and i shall be obliged to you."
"how kind you are, sir!"
beth blushed like a rose under the friendly look he wore, but she was not frightened now, and gave the hand a grateful squeeze because she had no words to thank him for the precious gift he had given her.
the old gentleman softly stroked the hair off her forehead, and, stooping down, he kissed her, saying, in a tone few people ever heard...
"i had a little girl once, with eyes like these.
god bless you, my dear!
good day, madam."
and away he went, in a great hurry.
beth had a rapture with her mother, and then rushed up to impart the glorious news to her family of invalids, as the girls were not home.
how blithely she sang that evening, and how they all laughed at her because she woke amy in the night by playing the piano on her face in her sleep.
next day, having seen both the old and young gentleman out of the house, beth, after two or three retreats, fairly got in at the side door, and made her way as noiselessly as any mouse to the drawing room where her idol stood.
quite by accident, of course, some pretty, easy music lay on the piano, and with trembling fingers and frequent stops to listen and look about, beth at last touched the great instrument, and straightway forgot her fear, herself, and everything else but the unspeakable delight which the music gave her, for it was like the voice of a beloved friend.
she stayed till hannah came to take her home to dinner, but she had no appetite, and could only sit and smile upon everyone in a general state of beatitude.
after that, the little brown hood slipped through the hedge nearly every day, and the great drawing room was haunted by a tuneful spirit that came and went unseen.
she never knew that mr. laurence opened his study door to hear the old-fashioned airs he liked.
she never saw laurie mount guard in the hall to warn the servants away.
she never suspected that the exercise books and new songs which she found in the rack were put there for her especial benefit, and when he talked to her about music at home, she only thought how kind he was to tell things that helped her so much.
so she enjoyed herself heartily, and found, what isn't always the case, that her granted wish was all she had hoped.
perhaps it was because she was so grateful for this blessing that a greater was given her.
at any rate she deserved both.
"mother, i'm going to work mr. laurence a pair of slippers.
he is so kind to me, i must thank him, and i don't know any other way.
can i do it?"
asked beth, a few weeks after that eventful call of his.
"yes, dear.
it will please him very much, and be a nice way of thanking him.
the girls will help you about them, and i will pay for the making up," replied mrs. march, who took peculiar pleasure in granting beth's requests because she so seldom asked anything for herself.
after many serious discussions with meg and jo, the pattern was chosen, the materials bought, and the slippers begun.
a cluster of grave yet cheerful pansies on a deeper purple ground was pronounced very appropriate and pretty, and beth worked away early and late, with occasional lifts over hard parts.
she was a nimble little needlewoman, and they were finished before anyone got tired of them.
then she wrote a short, simple note, and with laurie's help, got them smuggled onto the study table one morning before the old gentleman was up.
when this excitement was over, beth waited to see what would happen.
all day passed and a part of the next before any acknowledgement arrived, and she was beginning to fear she had offended her crochety friend.
on the afternoon of the second day, she went out to do an errand, and give poor joanna, the invalid doll, her daily exercise.
as she came up the street, on her return, she saw three, yes, four heads popping in and out of the parlor windows, and the moment they saw her, several hands were waved, and several joyful voices screamed...
"here's a letter from the old gentleman!
come quick, and read it!"
"oh, beth, he's sent you..." began amy, gesticulating with unseemly energy, but she got no further, for jo quenched her by slamming down the window.
beth hurried on in a flutter of suspense.
at the door her sisters seized and bore her to the parlor in a triumphal procession, all pointing and all saying at once, "look there!
look there!"
beth did look, and turned pale with delight and surprise, for there stood a little cabinet piano, with a letter lying on the glossy lid, directed like a sign board to "miss elizabeth march."
"for me?"
gasped beth, holding onto jo and feeling as if she should tumble down, it was such an overwhelming thing altogether.
"yes, all for you, my precious!
isn't it splendid of him?
don't you think he's the dearest old man in the world?
here's the key in the letter.
we didn't open it, but we are dying to know what he says,"
cried jo, hugging her sister and offering the note.
"you read it!
i can't, i feel so queer!
oh, it is too lovely!"
and beth hid her face in jo's apron, quite upset by her present.
jo opened the paper and began to laugh, for the first words she saw were...
"miss march: "dear madam "
"how nice it sounds!
i wish someone would write to me so!"
said amy, who thought the old-fashioned address very elegant.
"'i have had many pairs of slippers in my life, but i never had any that suited me so well as yours,'" continues jo.
"'heart's-ease is my favorite flower, and these will always remind me of the gentle giver.
i like to pay my debts, so i know you will allow 'the old gentleman' to send you something which once belonged to the little grand daughter he lost.
with hearty thanks and best wishes, i remain "'your grateful friend and humble servant, 'james laurence'."
"there, beth, that's an honor to be proud of, i'm sure!
laurie told me how fond mr. laurence used to be of the child who died, and how he kept all her little things carefully.
just think, he's given you her piano.
that comes of having big blue eyes and loving music," said jo, trying to soothe beth, who trembled and looked more excited than she had ever been before.
"see the cunning brackets to hold candles, and the nice green silk, puckered up, with a gold rose in the middle, and the pretty rack and stool, all complete," added meg, opening the instrument and displaying its beauties.
"'your humble servant, james laurence'.
only think of his writing that to you.
i'll tell the girls.
they'll think it's splendid," said amy, much impressed by the note.
"try it, honey.
let's hear the sound of the baby pianny," said hannah, who always took a share in the family joys and sorrows.
so beth tried it, and everyone pronounced it the most remarkable piano ever heard.
it had evidently been newly tuned and put in apple-pie order, but, perfect as it was, i think the real charm lay in the happiest of all happy faces which leaned over it, as beth lovingly touched the beautiful black and white keys and pressed the bright pedals.
"you'll have to go and thank him," said jo, by way of a joke, for the idea of the child's really going never entered her head.
"yes, i mean to.
i guess i'll go now, before i get frightened thinking about it."
and, to the utter amazement of the assembled family, beth walked deliberately down the garden, through the hedge, and in at the laurences' door.
"well, i wish i may die if it ain't the queerest thing i ever see!
the pianny has turned her head!
she'd never have gone in her right mind,"
cried hannah, staring after her, while the girls were rendered quite speechless by the miracle.
they would have been still more amazed if they had seen what beth did afterward.
if you will believe me, she went and knocked at the study door before she gave herself time to think, and when a gruff voice called out, "come in!"
she did go in, right up to mr. laurence, who looked quite taken aback, and held out her hand, saying, with only a small quaver in her voice, "i came to thank you, sir, for..." but she didn't finish, for he looked so friendly that she forgot her speech and, only remembering that he had lost the little girl he loved, she put both arms round his neck and kissed him.
if the roof of the house had suddenly flown off, the old gentleman wouldn't have been more astonished.
but he liked it.
oh, dear, yes, he liked it amazingly!
and was so touched and pleased by that confiding little kiss that all his crustiness vanished, and he just set her on his knee, and laid his wrinkled cheek against her rosy one, feeling as if he had got his own little granddaughter back again.
beth ceased to fear him from that moment, and sat there talking to him as cozily as if she had known him all her life, for love casts out fear, and gratitude can conquer pride.
when she went home, he walked with her to her own gate, shook hands cordially, and touched his hat as he marched back again, looking very stately and erect, like a handsome, soldierly old gentleman, as he was.
when the girls saw that performance, jo began to dance a jig, by way of expressing her satisfaction, amy nearly fell out of the window in her surprise, and meg exclaimed, with up-lifted hands, "well, i do believe the world is coming to an end."
chapter seven
amy's valley of humiliation
"that boy is a perfect cyclops, isn't he?"
said amy one day, as laurie clattered by on horseback, with a flourish of his whip as he passed.
"how dare you say so, when he's got both his eyes?
and very handsome ones they are, too," cried jo, who resented any slighting remarks about her friend.
"i didn't say anything about his eyes, and i don't see why you need fire up when i admire his riding."
"oh, my goodness!
that little goose means a centaur, and she called him a cyclops," exclaimed jo, with a burst of laughter.
"you needn't be so rude, it's only a 'lapse of lingy', as mr. davis says," retorted amy, finishing jo with her latin.
"i just wish i had a little of the money laurie spends on that horse," she added, as if to herself, yet hoping her sisters would hear.
"why?"
asked meg kindly, for jo had gone off in another laugh at amy's second blunder.
"i need it so much.
i'm dreadfully in debt, and it won't be my turn to have the rag money for a month."
"in debt, amy?
what do you mean?"
and meg looked sober.
"why, i owe at least a dozen pickled limes, and i can't pay them, you know, till i have money, for marmee forbade my having anything charged at the shop."
"tell me all about it.
are limes the fashion now?
it used to be pricking bits of rubber to make balls."
and meg tried to keep her countenance, amy looked so grave and important.
"why, you see, the girls are always buying them, and unless you want to be thought mean, you must do it too.
it's nothing but limes now, for everyone is sucking them in their desks in schooltime, and trading them off for pencils, bead rings, paper dolls, or something else, at recess.
if one girl likes another, she gives her a lime.
if she's mad with her, she eats one before her face, and doesn't offer even a suck.
they treat by turns, and i've had ever so many but haven't returned them, and i ought for they are debts of honor, you know."
"how much will pay them off and restore your credit?"
asked meg, taking out her purse.
"a quarter would more than do it, and leave a few cents over for a treat for you.
don't you like limes?"
"not much.
you may have my share.
here's the money.
make it last as long as you can, for it isn't very plenty, you know."
"oh, thank you!
it must be so nice to have pocket money!
i'll have a grand feast, for i haven't tasted a lime this week.
i felt delicate about taking any, as i couldn't return them, and i'm actually suffering for one."
next day amy was rather late at school, but could not resist the temptation of displaying, with pardonable pride, a moist brown-paper parcel, before she consigned it to the inmost recesses of her desk.
during the next few minutes the rumor that amy march had got twenty-four delicious limes (she ate one on the way) and was going to treat circulated through her 'set', and the attentions of her friends became quite overwhelming.
katy brown invited her to her next party on the spot.
mary kingsley insisted on lending her her watch till recess, and jenny snow, a satirical young lady, who had basely twitted amy upon her limeless state, promptly buried the hatchet and offered to furnish answers to certain appalling sums.
but amy had not forgotten miss snow's cutting remarks about 'some persons whose noses were not too flat to smell other people's limes, and stuck-up people who were not too proud to ask for them', and she instantly crushed 'that snow girl's' hopes by the withering telegram, "you needn't be so polite all of a sudden, for you won't get any."
a distinguished personage happened to visit the school that morning, and amy's beautifully drawn maps received praise, which honor to her foe rankled in the soul of miss snow, and caused miss march to assume the airs of a studious young peacock.
but, alas, alas!
pride goes before a fall, and the revengeful snow turned the tables with disastrous success.
no sooner had the guest paid the usual stale compliments and bowed himself out, than jenny, under pretense of asking an important question, informed mr. davis, the teacher, that amy march had pickled limes in her desk.
now mr. davis had declared limes a contraband article, and solemnly vowed to publicly ferrule the first person who was found breaking the law.
this much-enduring man had succeeded in banishing chewing gum after a long and stormy war, had made a bonfire of the confiscated novels and newspapers, had suppressed a private post office, had forbidden distortions of the face, nicknames, and caricatures, and done all that one man could do to keep half a hundred rebellious girls in order.
boys are trying enough to human patience, goodness knows, but girls are infinitely more so, especially to nervous gentlemen with tyrannical tempers and no more talent for teaching than dr. blimber.
mr. davis knew any quantity of greek, latin, algebra, and ologies of all sorts so he was called a fine teacher, and manners, morals, feelings, and examples were not considered of any particular importance.
it was a most unfortunate moment for denouncing amy, and jenny knew it.
mr. davis had evidently taken his coffee too strong that morning, there was an east wind, which always affected his neuralgia, and his pupils had not done him the credit which he felt he deserved.
therefore, to use the expressive, if not elegant, language of a schoolgirl, "he was as nervous as a witch and as cross as a bear".
the word 'limes' was like fire to powder, his yellow face flushed, and he rapped on his desk with an energy which made jenny skip to her seat with unusual rapidity.
"young ladies, attention, if you please!"
at the stern order the buzz ceased, and fifty pairs of blue, black, gray, and brown eyes were obediently fixed upon his awful countenance.
"miss march, come to the desk."
amy rose to comply with outward composure, but a secret fear oppressed her, for the limes weighed upon her conscience.
"bring with you the limes you have in your desk," was the unexpected command which arrested her before she got out of her seat.
"don't take all."
whispered her neighbor, a young lady of great presence of mind.
amy hastily shook out half a dozen and laid the rest down before mr.
davis, feeling that any man possessing a human heart would relent when that delicious perfume met his nose.
unfortunately, mr. davis particularly detested the odor of the fashionable pickle, and disgust added to his wrath.
"is that all?"
"not quite," stammered amy.
"bring the rest immediately."
with a despairing glance at her set, she obeyed.
"you are sure there are no more?"
"i never lie, sir."
"so i see.
now take these disgusting things two by two, and throw them out of the window."
there was a simultaneous sigh, which created quite a little gust, as the last hope fled, and the treat was ravished from their longing lips.
scarlet with shame and anger, amy went to and fro six dreadful times, and as each doomed couple, looking oh, so plump and juicy, fell from her reluctant hands, a shout from the street completed the anguish of the girls, for it told them that their feast was being exulted over by the little irish children, who were their sworn foes.
this this was too much.
all flashed indignant or appealing glances at the inexorable davis, and one passionate lime lover burst into tears.
as amy returned from her last trip, mr. davis gave a portentous "hem!"
and said, in his most impressive manner...
"young ladies, you remember what i said to you a week ago.
i am sorry this has happened, but i never allow my rules to be infringed, and i never break my word.
miss march, hold out your hand."
amy started, and put both hands behind her, turning on him an imploring look which pleaded for her better than the words she could not utter.
she was rather a favorite with 'old davis', as, of course, he was called, and it's my private belief that he would have broken his word if the indignation of one irrepressible young lady had not found vent in a hiss.
that hiss, faint as it was, irritated the irascible gentleman, and sealed the culprit's fate.
"your hand, miss march!"
was the only answer her mute appeal received, and too proud to cry or beseech, amy set her teeth, threw back her head defiantly, and bore without flinching several tingling blows on her little palm.
they were neither many nor heavy, but that made no difference to her.
for the first time in her life she had been struck, and the disgrace, in her eyes, was as deep as if he had knocked her down.
"you will now stand on the platform till recess," said mr. davis, resolved to do the thing thoroughly, since he had begun.
that was dreadful.
it would have been bad enough to go to her seat, and see the pitying faces of her friends, or the satisfied ones of her few enemies, but to face the whole school, with that shame fresh upon her, seemed impossible, and for a second she felt as if she could only drop down where she stood, and break her heart with crying.
a bitter sense of wrong and the thought of jenny snow helped her to bear it, and, taking the ignominious place, she fixed her eyes on the stove funnel above what now seemed a sea of faces, and stood there, so motionless and white that the girls found it hard to study with that pathetic figure before them.
during the fifteen minutes that followed, the proud and sensitive little girl suffered a shame and pain which she never forgot.
to others it might seem a ludicrous or trivial affair, but to her it was a hard experience, for during the twelve years of her life she had been governed by love alone, and a blow of that sort had never touched her before.
the smart of her hand and the ache of her heart were forgotten in the sting of the thought, "i shall have to tell at home, and they will be so disappointed in me!"
the fifteen minutes seemed an hour, but they came to an end at last, and the word 'recess!'
had never seemed so welcome to her before.
"you can go, miss march," said mr. davis, looking, as he felt, uncomfortable.
he did not soon forget the reproachful glance amy gave him, as she went, without a word to anyone, straight into the anteroom, snatched her things, and left the place "forever," as she passionately declared to herself.
she was in a sad state when she got home, and when the older girls arrived, some time later, an indignation meeting was held at once.
mrs. march did not say much but looked disturbed, and comforted her afflicted little daughter in her tenderest manner.
meg bathed the insulted hand with glycerine and tears, beth felt that even her beloved kittens would fail as a balm for griefs like this, jo wrathfully proposed that mr. davis be arrested without delay, and hannah shook her fist at the 'villain' and pounded potatoes for dinner as if she had him under her pestle.
no notice was taken of amy's flight, except by her mates, but the sharp-eyed demoiselles discovered that mr. davis was quite benignant in the afternoon, also unusually nervous.
just before school closed, jo appeared, wearing a grim expression as she stalked up to the desk, and delivered a letter from her mother, then collected amy's property, and departed, carefully scraping the mud from her boots on the door mat, as if she shook the dust of the place off her feet.
"yes, you can have a vacation from school, but i want you to study a little every day with beth," said mrs. march that evening.
"i don't approve of corporal punishment, especially for girls.
i dislike mr.
davis's manner of teaching and don't think the girls you associate with are doing you any good, so i shall ask your father's advice before i send you anywhere else."
"that's good!
i wish all the girls would leave, and spoil his old school.
it's perfectly maddening to think of those lovely limes,"
sighed amy, with the air of a martyr.
"i am not sorry you lost them, for you broke the rules, and deserved some punishment for disobedience," was the severe reply, which rather disappointed the young lady, who expected nothing but sympathy.
"do you mean you are glad i was disgraced before the whole school?"
cried amy.
"i should not have chosen that way of mending a fault," replied her mother, "but i'm not sure that it won't do you more good than a bolder method.
you are getting to be rather conceited, my dear, and it is quite time you set about correcting it.
you have a good many little gifts and virtues, but there is no need of parading them, for conceit spoils the finest genius.
there is not much danger that real talent or goodness will be overlooked long, even if it is, the consciousness of possessing and using it well should satisfy one, and the great charm of all power is modesty."
"so it is!"
cried laurie, who was playing chess in a corner with jo.
"i knew a girl once, who had a really remarkable talent for music, and she didn't know it, never guessed what sweet little things she composed when she was alone, and wouldn't have believed it if anyone had told her."
"i wish i'd known that nice girl.
maybe she would have helped me, i'm so stupid," said beth, who stood beside him, listening eagerly.
"you do know her, and she helps you better than anyone else could,"
answered laurie, looking at her with such mischievous meaning in his merry black eyes that beth suddenly turned very red, and hid her face in the sofa cushion, quite overcome by such an unexpected discovery.
jo let laurie win the game to pay for that praise of her beth, who could not be prevailed upon to play for them after her compliment.
so laurie did his best, and sang delightfully, being in a particularly lively humor, for to the marches he seldom showed the moody side of his character.
when he was gone, amy, who had been pensive all evening, said suddenly, as if busy over some new idea, "is laurie an accomplished boy?"
"yes, he has had an excellent education, and has much talent.
he will make a fine man, if not spoiled by petting," replied her mother.
"and he isn't conceited, is he?"
asked amy.
"not in the least.
that is why he is so charming and we all like him so much."
"i see.
it's nice to have accomplishments and be elegant, but not to show off or get perked up," said amy thoughtfully.
"these things are always seen and felt in a person's manner and conversations, if modestly used, but it is not necessary to display them," said mrs. march.
"any more than it's proper to wear all your bonnets and gowns and ribbons at once, that folks may know you've got them," added jo, and the lecture ended in a laugh.
chapter eight
jo meets apollyon
"girls, where are you going?"
asked amy, coming into their room one saturday afternoon, and finding them getting ready to go out with an air of secrecy which excited her curiosity.
"never mind.
little girls shouldn't ask questions," returned jo sharply.
now if there is anything mortifying to our feelings when we are young, it is to be told that, and to be bidden to "run away, dear" is still more trying to us.
amy bridled up at this insult, and determined to find out the secret, if she teased for an hour.
turning to meg, who never refused her anything very long, she said coaxingly, "do tell me!
i should think you might let me go, too, for beth is fussing over her piano, and i haven't got anything to do, and am so lonely."
"i can't, dear, because you aren't invited," began meg, but jo broke in impatiently, "now, meg, be quiet or you will spoil it all.
you can't go, amy, so don't be a baby and whine about it."
"you are going somewhere with laurie, i know you are.
you were whispering and laughing together on the sofa last night, and you stopped when i came in.
aren't you going with him?"
"yes, we are.
now do be still, and stop bothering."
amy held her tongue, but used her eyes, and saw meg slip a fan into her pocket.
"i know!
i know!
you're going to the theater to see the seven castles!"
she cried, adding resolutely, "and i shall go, for mother said i might see it, and i've got my rag money, and it was mean not to tell me in time."
"just listen to me a minute, and be a good child," said meg soothingly.
"mother doesn't wish you to go this week, because your eyes are not well enough yet to bear the light of this fairy piece.
next week you can go with beth and hannah, and have a nice time."
"i don't like that half as well as going with you and laurie.
please let me.
i've been sick with this cold so long, and shut up, i'm dying for some fun.
do, meg!
i'll be ever so good," pleaded amy, looking as pathetic as she could.
"suppose we take her.
i don't believe mother would mind, if we bundle her up well," began meg.
"if she goes i shan't, and if i don't, laurie won't like it, and it will be very rude, after he invited only us, to go and drag in amy.
i should think she'd hate to poke herself where she isn't wanted," said jo crossly, for she disliked the trouble of overseeing a fidgety child when she wanted to enjoy herself.
her tone and manner angered amy, who began to put her boots on, saying, in her most aggravating way, "i shall go.
meg says i may, and if i pay for myself, laurie hasn't anything to do with it."
"you can't sit with us, for our seats are reserved, and you mustn't sit alone, so laurie will give you his place, and that will spoil our pleasure.
or he'll get another seat for you, and that isn't proper when you weren't asked.
you shan't stir a step, so you may just stay where you are," scolded jo, crosser than ever, having just pricked her finger in her hurry.
sitting on the floor with one boot on, amy began to cry and meg to reason with her, when laurie called from below, and the two girls hurried down, leaving their sister wailing.
for now and then she forgot her grown-up ways and acted like a spoiled child.
just as the party was setting out, amy called over the banisters in a threatening tone, "you'll be sorry for this, jo march, see if you ain't."
"fiddlesticks!"
returned jo, slamming the door.
they had a charming time, for the seven castles of the diamond lake was as brilliant and wonderful as heart could wish.
but in spite of the comical red imps, sparkling elves, and the gorgeous princes and princesses, jo's pleasure had a drop of bitterness in it.
the fairy queen's yellow curls reminded her of amy, and between the acts she amused herself with wondering what her sister would do to make her 'sorry for it'.
she and amy had had many lively skirmishes in the course of their lives, for both had quick tempers and were apt to be violent when fairly roused.
amy teased jo, and jo irritated amy, and semioccasional explosions occurred, of which both were much ashamed afterward.
although the oldest, jo had the least self-control, and had hard times trying to curb the fiery spirit which was continually getting her into trouble.
her anger never lasted long, and having humbly confessed her fault, she sincerely repented and tried to do better.
her sisters used to say that they rather liked to get jo into a fury because she was such an angel afterward.
poor jo tried desperately to be good, but her bosom enemy was always ready to flame up and defeat her, and it took years of patient effort to subdue it.
when they got home, they found amy reading in the parlor.
she assumed an injured air as they came in, never lifted her eyes from her book, or asked a single question.
perhaps curiosity might have conquered resentment, if beth had not been there to inquire and receive a glowing description of the play.
on going up to put away her best hat, jo's first look was toward the bureau, for in their last quarrel amy had soothed her feelings by turning jo's top drawer upside down on the floor.
everything was in its place, however, and after a hasty glance into her various closets, bags, and boxes, jo decided that amy had forgiven and forgotten her wrongs.
there jo was mistaken, for next day she made a discovery which produced a tempest.
meg, beth, and amy were sitting together, late in the afternoon, when jo burst into the room, looking excited and demanding breathlessly, "has anyone taken my book?"
meg and beth said, "no."
at once, and looked surprised.
amy poked the fire and said nothing.
jo saw her color rise and was down upon her in a minute.
"amy, you've got it!"
"no, i haven't."
"you know where it is, then!"
"no, i don't."
"that's a fib!"
cried jo, taking her by the shoulders, and looking fierce enough to frighten a much braver child than amy.
"it isn't.
i haven't got it, don't know where it is now, and don't care."
"you know something about it, and you'd better tell at once, or i'll make you."
and jo gave her a slight shake.
"scold as much as you like, you'll never see your silly old book again," cried amy, getting excited in her turn.
"why not?"
"i burned it up."
"what!
my little book i was so fond of, and worked over, and meant to finish before father got home?
have you really burned it?"
said jo, turning very pale, while her eyes kindled and her hands clutched amy nervously.
"yes, i did!
i told you i'd make you pay for being so cross yesterday, and i have, so..."
amy got no farther, for jo's hot temper mastered her, and she shook amy till her teeth chattered in her head, crying in a passion of grief and anger...
"you wicked, wicked girl!
i never can write it again, and i'll never forgive you as long as i live."
meg flew to rescue amy, and beth to pacify jo, but jo was quite beside herself, and with a parting box on her sister's ear, she rushed out of the room up to the old sofa in the garret, and finished her fight alone.
the storm cleared up below, for mrs. march came home, and, having heard the story, soon brought amy to a sense of the wrong she had done her sister.
jo's book was the pride of her heart, and was regarded by her family as a literary sprout of great promise.
it was only half a dozen little fairy tales, but jo had worked over them patiently, putting her whole heart into her work, hoping to make something good enough to print.
she had just copied them with great care, and had destroyed the old manuscript, so that amy's bonfire had consumed the loving work of several years.
it seemed a small loss to others, but to jo it was a dreadful calamity, and she felt that it never could be made up to her.
beth mourned as for a departed kitten, and meg refused to defend her pet.
mrs. march looked grave and grieved, and amy felt that no one would love her till she had asked pardon for the act which she now regretted more than any of them.
when the tea bell rang, jo appeared, looking so grim and unapproachable that it took all amy's courage to say meekly...
"please forgive me, jo.
i'm very, very sorry."
"i never shall forgive you," was jo's stern answer, and from that moment she ignored amy entirely.
no one spoke of the great trouble, not even mrs. march, for all had learned by experience that when jo was in that mood words were wasted, and the wisest course was to wait till some little accident, or her own generous nature, softened jo's resentment and healed the breach.
it was not a happy evening, for though they sewed as usual, while their mother read aloud from bremer, scott, or edgeworth, something was wanting, and the sweet home peace was disturbed.
they felt this most when singing time came, for beth could only play, jo stood dumb as a stone, and amy broke down, so meg and mother sang alone.
but in spite of their efforts to be as cheery as larks, the flutelike voices did not seem to chord as well as usual, and all felt out of tune.
as jo received her good-night kiss, mrs. march whispered gently, "my dear, don't let the sun go down upon your anger.
forgive each other, help each other, and begin again tomorrow."
jo wanted to lay her head down on that motherly bosom, and cry her grief and anger all away, but tears were an unmanly weakness, and she felt so deeply injured that she really couldn't quite forgive yet.
so she winked hard, shook her head, and said gruffly because amy was listening, "it was an abominable thing, and she doesn't deserve to be forgiven."
with that she marched off to bed, and there was no merry or confidential gossip that night.
amy was much offended that her overtures of peace had been repulsed, and began to wish she had not humbled herself, to feel more injured than ever, and to plume herself on her superior virtue in a way which was particularly exasperating.
jo still looked like a thunder cloud, and nothing went well all day.
it was bitter cold in the morning, she dropped her precious turnover in the gutter, aunt march had an attack of the fidgets, meg was sensitive, beth would look grieved and wistful when she got home, and amy kept making remarks about people who were always talking about being good and yet wouldn't even try when other people set them a virtuous example.
"everybody is so hateful, i'll ask laurie to go skating.
he is always kind and jolly, and will put me to rights, i know," said jo to herself, and off she went.
amy heard the clash of skates, and looked out with an impatient exclamation.
"there!
she promised i should go next time, for this is the last ice we shall have.
but it's no use to ask such a crosspatch to take me."
"don't say that.
you were very naughty, and it is hard to forgive the loss of her precious little book, but i think she might do it now, and i guess she will, if you try her at the right minute," said meg.
"go after them.
don't say anything till jo has got good-natured with laurie, than take a quiet minute and just kiss her, or do some kind thing, and i'm sure she'll be friends again with all her heart."
"i'll try," said amy, for the advice suited her, and after a flurry to get ready, she ran after the friends, who were just disappearing over the hill.
it was not far to the river, but both were ready before amy reached them.
jo saw her coming, and turned her back.
laurie did not see, for he was carefully skating along the shore, sounding the ice, for a warm spell had preceded the cold snap.
"i'll go on to the first bend, and see if it's all right before we begin to race," amy heard him say, as he shot away, looking like a young russian in his fur-trimmed coat and cap.
jo heard amy panting after her run, stamping her feet and blowing on her fingers as she tried to put her skates on, but jo never turned and went slowly zigzagging down the river, taking a bitter, unhappy sort of satisfaction in her sister's troubles.
she had cherished her anger till it grew strong and took possession of her, as evil thoughts and feelings always do unless cast out at once.
as laurie turned the bend, he shouted back...
"keep near the shore.
it isn't safe in the middle."
jo heard, but amy was struggling to her feet and did not catch a word.
jo glanced over her shoulder, and the little demon she was harboring said in her ear...
"no matter whether she heard or not, let her take care of herself."
laurie had vanished round the bend, jo was just at the turn, and amy, far behind, striking out toward the smoother ice in the middle of the river.
for a minute jo stood still with a strange feeling in her heart, then she resolved to go on, but something held and turned her round, just in time to see amy throw up her hands and go down, with a sudden crash of rotten ice, the splash of water, and a cry that made jo's heart stand still with fear.
she tried to call laurie, but her voice was gone.
she tried to rush forward, but her feet seemed to have no strength in them, and for a second, she could only stand motionless, staring with a terror-stricken face at the little blue hood above the black water.
something rushed swiftly by her, and laurie's voice cried out...
"bring a rail.
quick, quick!"
how she did it, she never knew, but for the next few minutes she worked as if possessed, blindly obeying laurie, who was quite self-possessed, and lying flat, held amy up by his arm and hockey stick till jo dragged a rail from the fence, and together they got the child out, more frightened than hurt.
"now then, we must walk her home as fast as we can.
pile our things on her, while i get off these confounded skates," cried laurie, wrapping his coat round amy, and tugging away at the straps which never seemed so intricate before.
shivering, dripping, and crying, they got amy home, and after an exciting time of it, she fell asleep, rolled in blankets before a hot fire.
during the bustle jo had scarcely spoken but flown about, looking pale and wild, with her things half off, her dress torn, and her hands cut and bruised by ice and rails and refractory buckles.
when amy was comfortably asleep, the house quiet, and mrs. march sitting by the bed, she called jo to her and began to bind up the hurt hands.
"are you sure she is safe?"
whispered jo, looking remorsefully at the golden head, which might have been swept away from her sight forever under the treacherous ice.
"quite safe, dear.
she is not hurt, and won't even take cold, i think, you were so sensible in covering and getting her home quickly," replied her mother cheerfully.
"laurie did it all.
i only let her go.
mother, if she should die, it would be my fault."
and jo dropped down beside the bed in a passion of penitent tears, telling all that had happened, bitterly condemning her hardness of heart, and sobbing out her gratitude for being spared the heavy punishment which might have come upon her.
"it's my dreadful temper!
i try to cure it, i think i have, and then it breaks out worse than ever.
oh, mother, what shall i do?
what shall i do?"
cried poor jo, in despair.
"watch and pray, dear, never get tired of trying, and never think it is impossible to conquer your fault," said mrs. march, drawing the blowzy head to her shoulder and kissing the wet cheek so tenderly that jo cried even harder.
"you don't know, you can't guess how bad it is!
it seems as if i could do anything when i'm in a passion.
i get so savage, i could hurt anyone and enjoy it.
i'm afraid i shall do something dreadful some day, and spoil my life, and make everybody hate me.
oh, mother, help me, do help me!"
"i will, my child, i will.
don't cry so bitterly, but remember this day, and resolve with all your soul that you will never know another like it.
jo, dear, we all have our temptations, some far greater than yours, and it often takes us all our lives to conquer them.
you think your temper is the worst in the world, but mine used to be just like it."
"yours, mother?
why, you are never angry!"
and for the moment jo forgot remorse in surprise.
"i've been trying to cure it for forty years, and have only succeeded in controlling it.
i am angry nearly every day of my life, jo, but i have learned not to show it, and i still hope to learn not to feel it, though it may take me another forty years to do so."
the patience and the humility of the face she loved so well was a better lesson to jo than the wisest lecture, the sharpest reproof.
she felt comforted at once by the sympathy and confidence given her.
the knowledge that her mother had a fault like hers, and tried to mend it, made her own easier to bear and strengthened her resolution to cure it, though forty years seemed rather a long time to watch and pray to a girl of fifteen.
"mother, are you angry when you fold your lips tight together and go out of the room sometimes, when aunt march scolds or people worry you?"
asked jo, feeling nearer and dearer to her mother than ever before.
"yes, i've learned to check the hasty words that rise to my lips, and when i feel that they mean to break out against my will, i just go away for a minute, and give myself a little shake for being so weak and wicked," answered mrs. march with a sigh and a smile, as she smoothed and fastened up jo's disheveled hair.
"how did you learn to keep still?
that is what troubles me, for the sharp words fly out before i know what i'm about, and the more i say the worse i get, till it's a pleasure to hurt people's feelings and say dreadful things.
tell me how you do it, marmee dear."
"my good mother used to help me..."
"as you do us..." interrupted jo, with a grateful kiss.
"but i lost her when i was a little older than you are, and for years had to struggle on alone, for i was too proud to confess my weakness to anyone else.
i had a hard time, jo, and shed a good many bitter tears over my failures, for in spite of my efforts i never seemed to get on.
then your father came, and i was so happy that i found it easy to be good.
but by-and-by, when i had four little daughters round me and we were poor, then the old trouble began again, for i am not patient by nature, and it tried me very much to see my children wanting anything."
"poor mother!
what helped you then?"
"your father, jo.
he never loses patience, never doubts or complains, but always hopes, and works and waits so cheerfully that one is ashamed to do otherwise before him.
he helped and comforted me, and showed me that i must try to practice all the virtues i would have my little girls possess, for i was their example.
it was easier to try for your sakes than for my own.
a startled or surprised look from one of you when i spoke sharply rebuked me more than any words could have done, and the love, respect, and confidence of my children was the sweetest reward i could receive for my efforts to be the woman i would have them copy."
"oh, mother, if i'm ever half as good as you, i shall be satisfied,"
cried jo, much touched.
"i hope you will be a great deal better, dear, but you must keep watch over your 'bosom enemy', as father calls it, or it may sadden, if not spoil your life.
you have had a warning.
remember it, and try with heart and soul to master this quick temper, before it brings you greater sorrow and regret than you have known today."
"i will try, mother, i truly will.
but you must help me, remind me, and keep me from flying out.
i used to see father sometimes put his finger on his lips, and look at you with a very kind but sober face, and you always folded your lips tight and went away.
was he reminding you then?"
asked jo softly.
"yes.
i asked him to help me so, and he never forgot it, but saved me from many a sharp word by that little gesture and kind look."
jo saw that her mother's eyes filled and her lips trembled as she spoke, and fearing that she had said too much, she whispered anxiously, "was it wrong to watch you and to speak of it?
i didn't mean to be rude, but it's so comfortable to say all i think to you, and feel so safe and happy here."
"my jo, you may say anything to your mother, for it is my greatest happiness and pride to feel that my girls confide in me and know how much i love them."
"i thought i'd grieved you."
"no, dear, but speaking of father reminded me how much i miss him, how much i owe him, and how faithfully i should watch and work to keep his little daughters safe and good for him."
"yet you told him to go, mother, and didn't cry when he went, and never complain now, or seem as if you needed any help," said jo, wondering.
"i gave my best to the country i love, and kept my tears till he was gone.
why should i complain, when we both have merely done our duty and will surely be the happier for it in the end?
if i don't seem to need help, it is because i have a better friend, even than father, to comfort and sustain me.
my child, the troubles and temptations of your life are beginning and may be many, but you can overcome and outlive them all if you learn to feel the strength and tenderness of your heavenly father as you do that of your earthly one.
the more you love and trust him, the nearer you will feel to him, and the less you will depend on human power and wisdom.
his love and care never tire or change, can never be taken from you, but may become the source of lifelong peace, happiness, and strength.
believe this heartily, and go to god with all your little cares, and hopes, and sins, and sorrows, as freely and confidingly as you come to your mother."
jo's only answer was to hold her mother close, and in the silence which followed the sincerest prayer she had ever prayed left her heart without words.
for in that sad yet happy hour, she had learned not only the bitterness of remorse and despair, but the sweetness of self-denial and self-control, and led by her mother's hand, she had drawn nearer to the friend who always welcomes every child with a love stronger than that of any father, tenderer than that of any mother.
amy stirred and sighed in her sleep, and as if eager to begin at once to mend her fault, jo looked up with an expression on her face which it had never worn before.
"i let the sun go down on my anger.
i wouldn't forgive her, and today, if it hadn't been for laurie, it might have been too late!
how could i be so wicked?"
said jo, half aloud, as she leaned over her sister softly stroking the wet hair scattered on the pillow.
as if she heard, amy opened her eyes, and held out her arms, with a smile that went straight to jo's heart.
neither said a word, but they hugged one another close, in spite of the blankets, and everything was forgiven and forgotten in one hearty kiss.
chapter nine
meg goes to vanity fair
"i do think it was the most fortunate thing in the world that those children should have the measles just now," said meg, one april day, as she stood packing the 'go abroady' trunk in her room, surrounded by her sisters.
"and so nice of annie moffat not to forget her promise.
a whole fortnight of fun will be regularly splendid," replied jo, looking like a windmill as she folded skirts with her long arms.
"and such lovely weather, i'm so glad of that," added beth, tidily sorting neck and hair ribbons in her best box, lent for the great occasion.
"i wish i was going to have a fine time and wear all these nice things," said amy with her mouth full of pins, as she artistically replenished her sister's cushion.
"i wish you were all going, but as you can't, i shall keep my adventures to tell you when i come back.
i'm sure it's the least i can do when you have been so kind, lending me things and helping me get ready," said meg, glancing round the room at the very simple outfit, which seemed nearly perfect in their eyes.
"what did mother give you out of the treasure box?"
asked amy, who had not been present at the opening of a certain cedar chest in which mrs.
march kept a few relics of past splendor, as gifts for her girls when the proper time came.
"a pair of silk stockings, that pretty carved fan, and a lovely blue sash.
i wanted the violet silk, but there isn't time to make it over, so i must be contented with my old tarlaton."
"it will look nice over my new muslin skirt, and the sash will set it off beautifully.
i wish i hadn't smashed my coral bracelet, for you might have had it," said jo, who loved to give and lend, but whose possessions were usually too dilapidated to be of much use.
"there is a lovely old-fashioned pearl set in the treasure chest, but mother said real flowers were the prettiest ornament for a young girl, and laurie promised to send me all i want," replied meg.
"now, let me see, there's my new gray walking suit, just curl up the feather in my hat, beth, then my poplin for sunday and the small party, it looks heavy for spring, doesn't it?
the violet silk would be so nice.
oh, dear!"
"never mind, you've got the tarlaton for the big party, and you always look like an angel in white," said amy, brooding over the little store of finery in which her soul delighted.
"it isn't low-necked, and it doesn't sweep enough, but it will have to do.
my blue housedress looks so well, turned and freshly trimmed, that i feel as if i'd got a new one.
my silk sacque isn't a bit the fashion, and my bonnet doesn't look like sallie's.
i didn't like to say anything, but i was sadly disappointed in my umbrella.
i told mother black with a white handle, but she forgot and bought a green one with a yellowish handle.
it's strong and neat, so i ought not to complain, but i know i shall feel ashamed of it beside annie's silk one with a gold top," sighed meg, surveying the little umbrella with great disfavor.
"change it," advised jo.
"i won't be so silly, or hurt marmee's feelings, when she took so much pains to get my things.
it's a nonsensical notion of mine, and i'm not going to give up to it.
my silk stockings and two pairs of new gloves are my comfort.
you are a dear to lend me yours, jo.
i feel so rich and sort of elegant, with two new pairs, and the old ones cleaned up for common."
and meg took a refreshing peep at her glove box.
"annie moffat has blue and pink bows on her nightcaps.
would you put some on mine?"
she asked, as beth brought up a pile of snowy muslins, fresh from hannah's hands.
"no, i wouldn't, for the smart caps won't match the plain gowns without any trimming on them.
poor folks shouldn't rig," said jo decidedly.
"i wonder if i shall ever be happy enough to have real lace on my clothes and bows on my caps?"
said meg impatiently.
"you said the other day that you'd be perfectly happy if you could only go to annie moffat's," observed beth in her quiet way.
"so i did!
well, i am happy, and i won't fret, but it does seem as if the more one gets the more one wants, doesn't it?
there now, the trays are ready, and everything in but my ball dress, which i shall leave for mother to pack," said meg, cheering up, as she glanced from the half-filled trunk to the many times pressed and mended white tarlaton, which she called her 'ball dress' with an important air.
the next day was fine, and meg departed in style for a fortnight of novelty and pleasure.
mrs. march had consented to the visit rather reluctantly, fearing that margaret would come back more discontented than she went.
but she begged so hard, and sallie had promised to take good care of her, and a little pleasure seemed so delightful after a winter of irksome work that the mother yielded, and the daughter went to take her first taste of fashionable life.
the moffats were very fashionable, and simple meg was rather daunted, at first, by the splendor of the house and the elegance of its occupants.
but they were kindly people, in spite of the frivolous life they led, and soon put their guest at her ease.
perhaps meg felt, without understanding why, that they were not particularly cultivated or intelligent people, and that all their gilding could not quite conceal the ordinary material of which they were made.
it certainly was agreeable to fare sumptuously, drive in a fine carriage, wear her best frock every day, and do nothing but enjoy herself.
it suited her exactly, and soon she began to imitate the manners and conversation of those about her, to put on little airs and graces, use french phrases, crimp her hair, take in her dresses, and talk about the fashions as well as she could.
the more she saw of annie moffat's pretty things, the more she envied her and sighed to be rich.
home now looked bare and dismal as she thought of it, work grew harder than ever, and she felt that she was a very destitute and much-injured girl, in spite of the new gloves and silk stockings.
she had not much time for repining, however, for the three young girls were busily employed in 'having a good time'.
they shopped, walked, rode, and called all day, went to theaters and operas or frolicked at home in the evening, for annie had many friends and knew how to entertain them.
her older sisters were very fine young ladies, and one was engaged, which was extremely interesting and romantic, meg thought.
mr. moffat was a fat, jolly old gentleman, who knew her father, and mrs. moffat, a fat, jolly old lady, who took as great a fancy to meg as her daughter had done.
everyone petted her, and 'daisey', as they called her, was in a fair way to have her head turned.
when the evening for the small party came, she found that the poplin wouldn't do at all, for the other girls were putting on thin dresses and making themselves very fine indeed.
so out came the tarlatan, looking older, limper, and shabbier than ever beside sallie's crisp new one.
meg saw the girls glance at it and then at one another, and her cheeks began to burn, for with all her gentleness she was very proud.
no one said a word about it, but sallie offered to dress her hair, and annie to tie her sash, and belle, the engaged sister, praised her white arms.
but in their kindness meg saw only pity for her poverty, and her heart felt very heavy as she stood by herself, while the others laughed, chattered, and flew about like gauzy butterflies.
the hard, bitter feeling was getting pretty bad, when the maid brought in a box of flowers.
before she could speak, annie had the cover off, and all were exclaiming at the lovely roses, heath, and fern within.
"it's for belle, of course, george always sends her some, but these are altogether ravishing," cried annie, with a great sniff.
"they are for miss march, the man said.
and here's a note," put in the maid, holding it to meg.
"what fun!
who are they from?
didn't know you had a lover," cried the girls, fluttering about meg in a high state of curiosity and surprise.
"the note is from mother, and the flowers from laurie," said meg simply, yet much gratified that he had not forgotten her.
"oh, indeed!"
said annie with a funny look, as meg slipped the note into her pocket as a sort of talisman against envy, vanity, and false pride, for the few loving words had done her good, and the flowers cheered her up by their beauty.
feeling almost happy again, she laid by a few ferns and roses for herself, and quickly made up the rest in dainty bouquets for the breasts, hair, or skirts of her friends, offering them so prettily that clara, the elder sister, told her she was 'the sweetest little thing she ever saw', and they looked quite charmed with her small attention.
somehow the kind act finished her despondency, and when all the rest went to show themselves to mrs. moffat, she saw a happy, bright-eyed face in the mirror, as she laid her ferns against her rippling hair and fastened the roses in the dress that didn't strike her as so very shabby now.
she enjoyed herself very much that evening, for she danced to her heart's content.
everyone was very kind, and she had three compliments.
annie made her sing, and some one said she had a remarkably fine voice.
major lincoln asked who 'the fresh little girl with the beautiful eyes' was, and mr. moffat insisted on dancing with her because she 'didn't dawdle, but had some spring in her', as he gracefully expressed it.
so altogether she had a very nice time, till she overheard a bit of conversation, which disturbed her extremely.
she was sitting just inside the conservatory, waiting for her partner to bring her an ice, when she heard a voice ask on the other side of the flowery wall...
"how old is he?"
"sixteen or seventeen, i should say," replied another voice.
"it would be a grand thing for one of those girls, wouldn't it?
sallie says they are very intimate now, and the old man quite dotes on them."
"mrs. m.  has made her plans, i dare say, and will play her cards well, early as it is.
the girl evidently doesn't think of it yet," said mrs.
moffat.
"she told that fib about her momma, as if she did know, and colored up when the flowers came quite prettily.
poor thing!
she'd be so nice if she was only got up in style.
do you think she'd be offended if we offered to lend her a dress for thursday?"
asked another voice.
"she's proud, but i don't believe she'd mind, for that dowdy tarlaton is all she has got.
she may tear it tonight, and that will be a good excuse for offering a decent one."
here meg's partner appeared, to find her looking much flushed and rather agitated.
she was proud, and her pride was useful just then, for it helped her hide her mortification, anger, and disgust at what she had just heard.
for, innocent and unsuspicious as she was, she could not help understanding the gossip of her friends.
she tried to forget it, but could not, and kept repeating to herself, "mrs. m.  has made her plans," "that fib about her mamma," and "dowdy tarlaton," till she was ready to cry and rush home to tell her troubles and ask for advice.
as that was impossible, she did her best to seem gay, and being rather excited, she succeeded so well that no one dreamed what an effort she was making.
she was very glad when it was all over and she was quiet in her bed, where she could think and wonder and fume till her head ached and her hot cheeks were cooled by a few natural tears.
those foolish, yet well meant words, had opened a new world to meg, and much disturbed the peace of the old one in which till now she had lived as happily as a child.
her innocent friendship with laurie was spoiled by the silly speeches she had overheard.
her faith in her mother was a little shaken by the worldly plans attributed to her by mrs. moffat, who judged others by herself, and the sensible resolution to be contented with the simple wardrobe which suited a poor man's daughter was weakened by the unnecessary pity of girls who thought a shabby dress one of the greatest calamities under heaven.
poor meg had a restless night, and got up heavy-eyed, unhappy, half resentful toward her friends, and half ashamed of herself for not speaking out frankly and setting everything right.
everybody dawdled that morning, and it was noon before the girls found energy enough even to take up their worsted work.
something in the manner of her friends struck meg at once.
they treated her with more respect, she thought, took quite a tender interest in what she said, and looked at her with eyes that plainly betrayed curiosity.
all this surprised and flattered her, though she did not understand it till miss belle looked up from her writing, and said, with a sentimental air...
"daisy, dear, i've sent an invitation to your friend, mr. laurence, for thursday.
we should like to know him, and it's only a proper compliment to you."
meg colored, but a mischievous fancy to tease the girls made her reply demurely, "you are very kind, but i'm afraid he won't come."
"why not, cherie?"
asked miss belle.
"he's too old."
"my child, what do you mean?
what is his age, i beg to know!"
cried miss clara.
"nearly seventy, i believe," answered meg, counting stitches to hide the merriment in her eyes.
"you sly creature!
of course we meant the young man," exclaimed miss belle, laughing.
"there isn't any, laurie is only a little boy."
and meg laughed also at the queer look which the sisters exchanged as she thus described her supposed lover.
"about your age," nan said.
"nearer my sister jo's; i am seventeen in august," returned meg, tossing her head.
"it's very nice of him to send you flowers, isn't it?"
said annie, looking wise about nothing.
"yes, he often does, to all of us, for their house is full, and we are so fond of them.
my mother and old mr. laurence are friends, you know, so it is quite natural that we children should play together," and meg hoped they would say no more.
"it's evident daisy isn't out yet," said miss clara to belle with a nod.
"quite a pastoral state of innocence all round," returned miss belle with a shrug.
"i'm going out to get some little matters for my girls.
can i do anything for you, young ladies?"
asked mrs. moffat, lumbering in like an elephant in silk and lace.
"no, thank you, ma'am," replied sallie.
"i've got my new pink silk for thursday and don't want a thing."
"nor i..." began meg, but stopped because it occurred to her that she did want several things and could not have them.
"what shall you wear?"
asked sallie.
"my old white one again, if i can mend it fit to be seen, it got sadly torn last night," said meg, trying to speak quite easily, but feeling very uncomfortable.
"why don't you send home for another?"
said sallie, who was not an observing young lady.
"i haven't got any other."
it cost meg an effort to say that, but sallie did not see it and exclaimed in amiable surprise, "only that?
how funny..."  she did not finish her speech, for belle shook her head at her and broke in, saying kindly...
"not at all.
where is the use of having a lot of dresses when she isn't out yet?
there's no need of sending home, daisy, even if you had a dozen, for i've got a sweet blue silk laid away, which i've outgrown, and you shall wear it to please me, won't you, dear?"
"you are very kind, but i don't mind my old dress if you don't, it does well enough for a little girl like me," said meg.
"now do let me please myself by dressing you up in style.
i admire to do it, and you'd be a regular little beauty with a touch here and there.
i shan't let anyone see you till you are done, and then we'll burst upon them like cinderella and her godmother going to the ball,"
said belle in her persuasive tone.
meg couldn't refuse the offer so kindly made, for a desire to see if she would be 'a little beauty' after touching up caused her to accept and forget all her former uncomfortable feelings toward the moffats.
on the thursday evening, belle shut herself up with her maid, and between them they turned meg into a fine lady.
they crimped and curled her hair, they polished her neck and arms with some fragrant powder, touched her lips with coralline salve to make them redder, and hortense would have added 'a soupcon of rouge', if meg had not rebelled.
they laced her into a sky-blue dress, which was so tight she could hardly breathe and so low in the neck that modest meg blushed at herself in the mirror.
a set of silver filagree was added, bracelets, necklace, brooch, and even earrings, for hortense tied them on with a bit of pink silk which did not show.
a cluster of tea-rose buds at the bosom, and a ruche, reconciled meg to the display of her pretty, white shoulders, and a pair of high-heeled silk boots satisfied the last wish of her heart.
a lace handkerchief, a plumy fan, and a bouquet in a shoulder holder finished her off, and miss belle surveyed her with the satisfaction of a little girl with a newly dressed doll.
"mademoiselle is charmante, tres jolie, is she not?"
cried hortense, clasping her hands in an affected rapture.
"come and show yourself," said miss belle, leading the way to the room where the others were waiting.
as meg went rustling after, with her long skirts trailing, her earrings tinkling, her curls waving, and her heart beating, she felt as if her fun had really begun at last, for the mirror had plainly told her that she was 'a little beauty'.
her friends repeated the pleasing phrase enthusiastically, and for several minutes she stood, like a jackdaw in the fable, enjoying her borrowed plumes, while the rest chattered like a party of magpies.
"while i dress, do you drill her, nan, in the management of her skirt and those french heels, or she will trip herself up.
take your silver butterfly, and catch up that long curl on the left side of her head, clara, and don't any of you disturb the charming work of my hands,"
said belle, as she hurried away, looking well pleased with her success.
"you don't look a bit like yourself, but you are very nice.
i'm nowhere beside you, for belle has heaps of taste, and you're quite french, i assure you.
let your flowers hang, don't be so careful of them, and be sure you don't trip," returned sallie, trying not to care that meg was prettier than herself.
keeping that warning carefully in mind, margaret got safely down stairs and sailed into the drawing rooms where the moffats and a few early guests were assembled.
she very soon discovered that there is a charm about fine clothes which attracts a certain class of people and secures their respect.
several young ladies, who had taken no notice of her before, were very affectionate all of a sudden.
several young gentlemen, who had only stared at her at the other party, now not only stared, but asked to be introduced, and said all manner of foolish but agreeable things to her, and several old ladies, who sat on the sofas, and criticized the rest of the party, inquired who she was with an air of interest.
she heard mrs. moffat reply to one of them...
"daisy march father a colonel in the army one of our first families, but reverses of fortune, you know; intimate friends of the laurences; sweet creature, i assure you; my ned is quite wild about her."
"dear me!"
said the old lady, putting up her glass for another observation of meg, who tried to look as if she had not heard and been rather shocked at mrs. moffat's fibs.
the 'queer feeling' did not pass away, but she imagined herself acting the new part of fine lady and so got on pretty well, though the tight dress gave her a side-ache, the train kept getting under her feet, and she was in constant fear lest her earrings should fly off and get lost or broken.
she was flirting her fan and laughing at the feeble jokes of a young gentleman who tried to be witty, when she suddenly stopped laughing and looked confused, for just opposite, she saw laurie.
he was staring at her with undisguised surprise, and disapproval also, she thought, for though he bowed and smiled, yet something in his honest eyes made her blush and wish she had her old dress on.
to complete her confusion, she saw belle nudge annie, and both glance from her to laurie, who, she was happy to see, looked unusually boyish and shy.
"silly creatures, to put such thoughts into my head.
i won't care for it, or let it change me a bit," thought meg, and rustled across the room to shake hands with her friend.
"i'm glad you came, i was afraid you wouldn't."
she said, with her most grown-up air.
"jo wanted me to come, and tell her how you looked, so i did," answered laurie, without turning his eyes upon her, though he half smiled at her maternal tone.
"what shall you tell her?"
asked meg, full of curiosity to know his opinion of her, yet feeling ill at ease with him for the first time.
"i shall say i didn't know you, for you look so grown-up and unlike yourself, i'm quite afraid of you," he said, fumbling at his glove button.
"how absurd of you!
the girls dressed me up for fun, and i rather like it.
wouldn't jo stare if she saw me?"
said meg, bent on making him say whether he thought her improved or not.
"yes, i think she would," returned laurie gravely.
"don't you like me so?"
asked meg.
"no, i don't," was the blunt reply.
"why not?"
in an anxious tone.
he glanced at her frizzled head, bare shoulders, and fantastically trimmed dress with an expression that abashed her more than his answer, which had not a particle of his usual politeness in it.
"i don't like fuss and feathers."
that was altogether too much from a lad younger than herself, and meg walked away, saying petulantly, "you are the rudest boy i ever saw."
feeling very much ruffled, she went and stood at a quiet window to cool her cheeks, for the tight dress gave her an uncomfortably brilliant color.
as she stood there, major lincoln passed by, and a minute after she heard him saying to his mother...
"they are making a fool of that little girl.
i wanted you to see her, but they have spoiled her entirely.
she's nothing but a doll tonight."
"oh, dear!"
sighed meg.
"i wish i'd been sensible and worn my own things, then i should not have disgusted other people, or felt so uncomfortable and ashamed of myself."
she leaned her forehead on the cool pane, and stood half hidden by the curtains, never minding that her favorite waltz had begun, till some one touched her, and turning, she saw laurie, looking penitent, as he said, with his very best bow and his hand out...
"please forgive my rudeness, and come and dance with me."
"i'm afraid it will be too disagreeable to you," said meg, trying to look offended and failing entirely.
"not a bit of it, i'm dying to do it.
come, i'll be good.
i don't like your gown, but i do think you are just splendid."
and he waved his hands, as if words failed to express his admiration.
meg smiled and relented, and whispered as they stood waiting to catch the time, "take care my skirt doesn't trip you up.
it's the plague of my life and i was a goose to wear it."
"pin it round your neck, and then it will be useful," said laurie, looking down at the little blue boots, which he evidently approved of.
away they went fleetly and gracefully, for having practiced at home, they were well matched, and the blithe young couple were a pleasant sight to see, as they twirled merrily round and round, feeling more friendly than ever after their small tiff.
"laurie, i want you to do me a favor, will you?"
said meg, as he stood fanning her when her breath gave out, which it did very soon though she would not own why.
"won't i!"
said laurie, with alacrity.
"please don't tell them at home about my dress tonight.
they won't understand the joke, and it will worry mother."
"then why did you do it?"
said laurie's eyes, so plainly that meg hastily added...
"i shall tell them myself all about it, and 'fess' to mother how silly i've been.
but i'd rather do it myself.
so you'll not tell, will you?"
"i give you my word i won't, only what shall i say when they ask me?"
"just say i looked pretty well and was having a good time."
"i'll say the first with all my heart, but how about the other?
you don't look as if you were having a good time.
are you?"
and laurie looked at her with an expression which made her answer in a whisper...
"no, not just now.
don't think i'm horrid.
i only wanted a little fun, but this sort doesn't pay, i find, and i'm getting tired of it."
"here comes ned moffat.
what does he want?"
said laurie, knitting his black brows as if he did not regard his young host in the light of a pleasant addition to the party.
"he put his name down for three dances, and i suppose he's coming for them.
what a bore!"
said meg, assuming a languid air which amused laurie immensely.
he did not speak to her again till suppertime, when he saw her drinking champagne with ned and his friend fisher, who were behaving 'like a pair of fools', as laurie said to himself, for he felt a brotherly sort of right to watch over the marches and fight their battles whenever a defender was needed.
"you'll have a splitting headache tomorrow, if you drink much of that.
i wouldn't, meg, your mother doesn't like it, you know," he whispered, leaning over her chair, as ned turned to refill her glass and fisher stooped to pick up her fan.
"i'm not meg tonight, i'm 'a doll' who does all sorts of crazy things.
tomorrow i shall put away my 'fuss and feathers' and be desperately good again," she answered with an affected little laugh.
"wish tomorrow was here, then," muttered laurie, walking off, ill-pleased at the change he saw in her.
meg danced and flirted, chattered and giggled, as the other girls did.
after supper she undertook the german, and blundered through it, nearly upsetting her partner with her long skirt, and romping in a way that scandalized laurie, who looked on and meditated a lecture.
but he got no chance to deliver it, for meg kept away from him till he came to say good night.
"remember!"
she said, trying to smile, for the splitting headache had already begun.
"silence a la mort," replied laurie, with a melodramatic flourish, as he went away.
this little bit of byplay excited annie's curiosity, but meg was too tired for gossip and went to bed, feeling as if she had been to a masquerade and hadn't enjoyed herself as much as she expected.
she was sick all the next day, and on saturday went home, quite used up with her fortnight's fun and feeling that she had 'sat in the lap of luxury'
long enough.
"it does seem pleasant to be quiet, and not have company manners on all the time.
home is a nice place, though it isn't splendid," said meg, looking about her with a restful expression, as she sat with her mother and jo on the sunday evening.
"i'm glad to hear you say so, dear, for i was afraid home would seem dull and poor to you after your fine quarters," replied her mother, who had given her many anxious looks that day.
for motherly eyes are quick to see any change in children's faces.
meg had told her adventures gayly and said over and over what a charming time she had had, but something still seemed to weigh upon her spirits, and when the younger girls were gone to bed, she sat thoughtfully staring at the fire, saying little and looking worried.
as the clock struck nine and jo proposed bed, meg suddenly left her chair and, taking beth's stool, leaned her elbows on her mother's knee, saying bravely...
"marmee, i want to 'fess'."
"i thought so.
what is it, dear?"
"shall i go away?"
asked jo discreetly.
"of course not.
don't i always tell you everything?
i was ashamed to speak of it before the younger children, but i want you to know all the dreadful things i did at the moffats'."
"we are prepared," said mrs. march, smiling but looking a little anxious.
"i told you they dressed me up, but i didn't tell you that they powdered and squeezed and frizzled, and made me look like a fashion-plate.
laurie thought i wasn't proper.
i know he did, though he didn't say so, and one man called me 'a doll'.
i knew it was silly, but they flattered me and said i was a beauty, and quantities of nonsense, so i let them make a fool of me."
"is that all?"
asked jo, as mrs. march looked silently at the downcast face of her pretty daughter, and could not find it in her heart to blame her little follies.
"no, i drank champagne and romped and tried to flirt, and was altogether abominable," said meg self-reproachfully.
"there is something more, i think."
and mrs. march smoothed the soft cheek, which suddenly grew rosy as meg answered slowly...
"yes.
it's very silly, but i want to tell it, because i hate to have people say and think such things about us and laurie."
then she told the various bits of gossip she had heard at the moffats', and as she spoke, jo saw her mother fold her lips tightly, as if ill pleased that such ideas should be put into meg's innocent mind.
"well, if that isn't the greatest rubbish i ever heard," cried jo indignantly.
"why didn't you pop out and tell them so on the spot?"
"i couldn't, it was so embarrassing for me.
i couldn't help hearing at first, and then i was so angry and ashamed, i didn't remember that i ought to go away."
"just wait till i see annie moffat, and i'll show you how to settle such ridiculous stuff.
the idea of having 'plans' and being kind to laurie because he's rich and may marry us by-and-by!
won't he shout when i tell him what those silly things say about us poor children?"
and jo laughed, as if on second thoughts the thing struck her as a good joke.
"if you tell laurie, i'll never forgive you!
she mustn't, must she, mother?"
said meg, looking distressed.
"no, never repeat that foolish gossip, and forget it as soon as you can," said mrs. march gravely.
"i was very unwise to let you go among people of whom i know so little, kind, i dare say, but worldly, ill-bred, and full of these vulgar ideas about young people.
i am more sorry than i can express for the mischief this visit may have done you, meg."
"don't be sorry, i won't let it hurt me.
i'll forget all the bad and remember only the good, for i did enjoy a great deal, and thank you very much for letting me go.
i'll not be sentimental or dissatisfied, mother.
i know i'm a silly little girl, and i'll stay with you till i'm fit to take care of myself.
but it is nice to be praised and admired, and i can't help saying i like it," said meg, looking half ashamed of the confession.
"that is perfectly natural, and quite harmless, if the liking does not become a passion and lead one to do foolish or unmaidenly things.
learn to know and value the praise which is worth having, and to excite the admiration of excellent people by being modest as well as pretty, meg."
margaret sat thinking a moment, while jo stood with her hands behind her, looking both interested and a little perplexed, for it was a new thing to see meg blushing and talking about admiration, lovers, and things of that sort.
and jo felt as if during that fortnight her sister had grown up amazingly, and was drifting away from her into a world where she could not follow.
"mother, do you have 'plans', as mrs. moffat said?"
asked meg bashfully.
"yes, my dear, i have a great many, all mothers do, but mine differ somewhat from mrs. moffat's, i suspect.
i will tell you some of them, for the time has come when a word may set this romantic little head and heart of yours right, on a very serious subject.
you are young, meg, but not too young to understand me, and mothers' lips are the fittest to speak of such things to girls like you.
jo, your turn will come in time, perhaps, so listen to my 'plans' and help me carry them out, if they are good."
jo went and sat on one arm of the chair, looking as if she thought they were about to join in some very solemn affair.
holding a hand of each, and watching the two young faces wistfully, mrs. march said, in her serious yet cheery way...
"i want my daughters to be beautiful, accomplished, and good.
to be admired, loved, and respected.
to have a happy youth, to be well and wisely married, and to lead useful, pleasant lives, with as little care and sorrow to try them as god sees fit to send.
to be loved and chosen by a good man is the best and sweetest thing which can happen to a woman, and i sincerely hope my girls may know this beautiful experience.
it is natural to think of it, meg, right to hope and wait for it, and wise to prepare for it, so that when the happy time comes, you may feel ready for the duties and worthy of the joy.
my dear girls, i am ambitious for you, but not to have you make a dash in the world, marry rich men merely because they are rich, or have splendid houses, which are not homes because love is wanting.
money is a needful and precious thing, and when well used, a noble thing, but i never want you to think it is the first or only prize to strive for.
i'd rather see you poor men's wives, if you were happy, beloved, contented, than queens on thrones, without self-respect and peace."
"poor girls don't stand any chance, belle says, unless they put themselves forward," sighed meg.
"then we'll be old maids," said jo stoutly.
"right, jo.
better be happy old maids than unhappy wives, or unmaidenly girls, running about to find husbands," said mrs. march decidedly.
"don't be troubled, meg, poverty seldom daunts a sincere lover.
some of the best and most honored women i know were poor girls, but so love-worthy that they were not allowed to be old maids.
leave these things to time.
make this home happy, so that you may be fit for homes of your own, if they are offered you, and contented here if they are not.
one thing remember, my girls.
mother is always ready to be your confidant, father to be your friend, and both of us hope and trust that our daughters, whether married or single, will be the pride and comfort of our lives."
"we will, marmee, we will!"
cried both, with all their hearts, as she bade them good night.
chapter ten
the p.c.
and p.o.
as spring came on, a new set of amusements became the fashion, and the lengthening days gave long afternoons for work and play of all sorts.
the garden had to be put in order, and each sister had a quarter of the little plot to do what she liked with.
hannah used to say, "i'd know which each of them gardings belonged to, ef i see 'em in chiny," and so she might, for the girls' tastes differed as much as their characters.
meg's had roses and heliotrope, myrtle, and a little orange tree in it.
jo's bed was never alike two seasons, for she was always trying experiments.
this year it was to be a plantation of sun flowers, the seeds of which cheerful and aspiring plant were to feed aunt cockle-top and her family of chicks.
beth had old-fashioned fragrant flowers in her garden, sweet peas and mignonette, larkspur, pinks, pansies, and southernwood, with chickweed for the birds and catnip for the pussies.
amy had a bower in hers, rather small and earwiggy, but very pretty to look at, with honeysuckle and morning-glories hanging their colored horns and bells in graceful wreaths all over it, tall white lilies, delicate ferns, and as many brilliant, picturesque plants as would consent to blossom there.
gardening, walks, rows on the river, and flower hunts employed the fine days, and for rainy ones, they had house diversions, some old, some new, all more or less original.
one of these was the 'p.c.
', for as secret societies were the fashion, it was thought proper to have one, and as all of the girls admired dickens, they called themselves the pickwick club.
with a few interruptions, they had kept this up for a year, and met every saturday evening in the big garret, on which occasions the ceremonies were as follows:  three chairs were arranged in a row before a table on which was a lamp, also four white badges, with a big 'p.c.'
in different colors on each, and the weekly newspaper called, the pickwick portfolio, to which all contributed something, while jo, who reveled in pens and ink, was the editor.
at seven o'clock, the four members ascended to the clubroom, tied their badges round their heads, and took their seats with great solemnity.
meg, as the eldest, was samuel pickwick, jo, being of a literary turn, augustus snodgrass, beth, because she was round and rosy, tracy tupman, and amy, who was always trying to do what she couldn't, was nathaniel winkle.
pickwick, the president, read the paper, which was filled with original tales, poetry, local news, funny advertisements, and hints, in which they good-naturedly reminded each other of their faults and short comings.
on one occasion, mr. pickwick put on a pair of spectacles without any glass, rapped upon the table, hemmed, and having stared hard at mr. snodgrass, who was tilting back in his chair, till he arranged himself properly, began to read:
"the pickwick portfolio"
may 20, 18
poet's corner
anniversary ode
again we meet to celebrate     with badge and solemn rite,     our fifty-second anniversary,     in pickwick hall, tonight.
we all are here in perfect health,     none gone from our small band:
again we see each well-known face,     and press each friendly hand.
our pickwick, always at his post,     with reverence we greet,     as, spectacles on nose, he reads     our well-filled weekly sheet.
although he suffers from a cold,     we joy to hear him speak,     for words of wisdom from him fall,     in spite of croak or squeak.
old six-foot snodgrass looms on high,     with elephantine grace,     and beams upon the company,     with brown and jovial face.
poetic fire lights up his eye,     he struggles 'gainst his lot.
behold ambition on his brow,     and on his nose, a blot.
next our peaceful tupman comes,     so rosy, plump, and sweet,     who chokes with laughter at the puns,     and tumbles off his seat.
prim little winkle too is here,     with every hair in place,     a model of propriety,     though he hates to wash his face.
the year is gone, we still unite     to joke and laugh and read,     and tread the path of literature     that doth to glory lead.
long may our paper prosper well,     our club unbroken be,     and coming years their blessings pour     on the useful, gay 'p.
c.'.
a.  snodgrass
the masked marriage     (a tale of venice)
gondola after gondola swept up to the marble     steps, and left its lovely load to swell the     brilliant throng that filled the stately halls of count     adelon.
knights and ladies, elves and pages, monks     and flower girls, all mingled gaily in the dance.
sweet voices and rich melody filled the air, and so     with mirth and music the masquerade went on.
"has your highness seen the lady viola tonight?"
asked a gallant troubadour of the fairy queen who     floated down the hall upon his arm.
"yes, is she not lovely, though so sad!
her     dress is well chosen, too, for in a week she weds     count antonio, whom she passionately hates."
"by my faith, i envy him.
yonder he comes,     arrayed like a bridegroom, except the black mask.
when that is off we shall see how he regards the     fair maid whose heart he cannot win, though her     stern father bestows her hand," returned the troubadour.
"tis whispered that she loves the young english     artist who haunts her steps, and is spurned by the     old count," said the lady, as they joined the dance.
the revel was at its height when a priest     appeared, and withdrawing the young pair to an alcove,     hung with purple velvet, he motioned them to kneel.
instant silence fell on the gay throng, and not a     sound, but the dash of fountains or the rustle of     orange groves sleeping in the moonlight, broke the     hush, as count de adelon spoke thus:
"my lords and ladies, pardon the ruse by which     i have gathered you here to witness the marriage of     my daughter.
father, we wait your services."
all eyes turned toward the bridal party, and a     murmur of amazement went through the throng, for     neither bride nor groom removed their masks.
curiosity     and wonder possessed all hearts, but respect restrained     all tongues till the holy rite was over.
then the     eager spectators gathered round the count, demanding     an explanation.
"gladly would i give it if i could, but i only     know that it was the whim of my timid viola, and i     yielded to it.
now, my children, let the play end.
unmask and receive my blessing."
but neither bent the knee, for the young bridegroom     replied in a tone that startled all listeners     as the mask fell, disclosing the noble face of ferdinand     devereux, the artist lover, and leaning on the     breast where now flashed the star of an english earl     was the lovely viola, radiant with joy and beauty.
"my lord, you scornfully bade me claim your     daughter when i could boast as high a name and vast a     fortune as the count antonio.
i can do more, for even     your ambitious soul cannot refuse the earl of devereux     and de vere, when he gives his ancient name and boundless     wealth in return for the beloved hand of this fair lady,     now my wife."
the count stood like one changed to stone, and     turning to the bewildered crowd, ferdinand added, with     a gay smile of triumph, "to you, my gallant friends, i     can only wish that your wooing may prosper as mine has     done, and that you may all win as fair a bride as i have     by this masked marriage."
s.  pickwick
why is the p.  c.  like the tower of babel?
it is full of unruly members.
the history of a squash
once upon a time a farmer planted a little seed     in his garden, and after a while it sprouted and became     a vine and bore many squashes.
one day in october,     when they were ripe, he picked one and took it     to market.
a grocerman bought and put it in his shop.
that same morning, a little girl in a brown hat     and blue dress, with a round face and snub nose, went     and bought it for her mother.
she lugged it home, cut     it up, and boiled it in the big pot, mashed some of it     with salt and butter, for dinner.
and to the rest she added     a pint of milk, two eggs, four spoons of sugar, nutmeg,     and some crackers, put it in a deep dish, and baked it     till it was brown and nice, and next day it was eaten     by a family named march.
t.  tupman
mr. pickwick, sir:
i address you upon the subject of sin the sinner     i mean is a man named winkle who makes trouble in his     club by laughing and sometimes won't write his piece in     this fine paper i hope you will pardon his badness and     let him send a french fable because he can't write out     of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains     in future i will try to take time by the fetlock and     prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that     means all right i am in haste as it is nearly school     time.
yours respectably,     n.  winkle
[the above is a manly and handsome acknowledgment of past     misdemeanors.
if our young friend studied punctuation, it     would be well.]
a sad accident
on friday last, we were startled by a violent shock     in our basement, followed by cries of distress.
on rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved     president prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and     fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes.
a perfect     scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall mr. pickwick     had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water,     upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form,  and torn     his garments badly.
on being removed from this perilous     situation, it was discovered that he had suffered     no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add,     is now doing well.
ed.
the public bereavement
it is our painful duty to record the sudden and     mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, mrs.
snowball pat paw.
this lovely and beloved cat was the     pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for     her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues     endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt     by the whole community.
when last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching     the butcher's cart, and it is feared that some villain,     tempted by her charms, basely stole her.
weeks have passed,     but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish     all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her     dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.
a sympathizing friend sends the following gem:
a lament     (for s.  b.  pat paw)
we mourn the loss of our little pet,     and sigh o'er her hapless fate,     for never more by the fire she'll sit,     nor play by the old green gate.
the little grave where her infant sleeps     is 'neath the chestnut tree.
but o'er her grave we may not weep,     we know not where it may be.
her empty bed, her idle ball,     will never see her more;     no gentle tap, no loving purr     is heard at the parlor door.
another cat comes after her mice,     a cat with a dirty face,     but she does not hunt as our darling did,     nor play with her airy grace.
her stealthy paws tread the very hall     where snowball used to play,     but she only spits at the dogs our pet     so gallantly drove away.
she is useful and mild, and does her best,     but she is not fair to see,     and we cannot give her your place dear,     nor worship her as we worship thee.
a.s.
advertisements
miss oranthy bluggage, the accomplished     strong-minded lecturer, will deliver her     famous lecture on "woman and her position"
at pickwick hall, next saturday evening,     after the usual performances.
a weekly meeting will be held at kitchen     place, to teach young ladies how to cook.
hannah brown will preside, and all are     invited to attend.
the dustpan society will meet on wednesday     next, and parade in the upper story of the     club house.
all members to appear in uniform     and shoulder their brooms at nine precisely.
mrs. beth bouncer will open her new     assortment of doll's millinery next week.
the latest paris fashions have arrived,     and orders are respectfully solicited.
a new play will appear at the barnville     theatre, in the course of a few weeks, which     will surpass anything ever seen on the american stage.
"the greek slave, or constantine the avenger," is the name     of this thrilling drama!!
!
hints
if s.p.
didn't use so much soap on his hands,     he wouldn't always be late at breakfast.
a.s.
is requested not to whistle in the street.
t.t.
please don't forget amy's napkin.
n.w.
must     not fret because his dress has not nine tucks.
weekly report
meg good.
jo bad.
beth very good.
amy middling.
as the president finished reading the paper (which i beg leave to assure my readers is a bona fide copy of one written by bona fide girls once upon a time), a round of applause followed, and then mr. snodgrass rose to make a proposition.
"mr. president and gentlemen," he began, assuming a parliamentary attitude and tone, "i wish to propose the admission of a new member one who highly deserves the honor, would be deeply grateful for it, and would add immensely to the spirit of the club, the literary value of the paper, and be no end jolly and nice.
i propose mr.
theodore laurence as an honorary member of the p.  c.  come now, do have him."
jo's sudden change of tone made the girls laugh, but all looked rather anxious, and no one said a word as snodgrass took his seat.
"we'll put it to a vote," said the president.
"all in favor of this motion please to manifest it by saying, 'aye'."
a loud response from snodgrass, followed, to everybody's surprise, by a timid one from beth.
"contrary-minded say, 'no'."
meg and amy were contrary-minded, and mr. winkle rose to say with great elegance, "we don't wish any boys, they only joke and bounce about.
this is a ladies' club, and we wish to be private and proper."
"i'm afraid he'll laugh at our paper, and make fun of us afterward,"
observed pickwick, pulling the little curl on her forehead, as she always did when doubtful.
up rose snodgrass, very much in earnest.
"sir, i give you my word as a gentleman, laurie won't do anything of the sort.
he likes to write, and he'll give a tone to our contributions and keep us from being sentimental, don't you see?
we can do so little for him, and he does so much for us, i think the least we can do is to offer him a place here, and make him welcome if he comes."
this artful allusion to benefits conferred brought tupman to his feet, looking as if he had quite made up his mind.
"yes; we ought to do it, even if we are afraid.
i say he may come, and his grandpa, too, if he likes."
this spirited burst from beth electrified the club, and jo left her seat to shake hands approvingly.
"now then, vote again.
everybody remember it's our laurie, and say, 'aye!'"
cried snodgrass excitedly.
"aye!
aye!
aye!"
replied three voices at once.
"good!
bless you!
now, as there's nothing like 'taking time by the fetlock', as winkle characteristically observes, allow me to present the new member."
and, to the dismay of the rest of the club, jo threw open the door of the closet, and displayed laurie sitting on a rag bag, flushed and twinkling with suppressed laughter.
"you rogue!
you traitor!
jo, how could you?"
cried the three girls, as snodgrass led her friend triumphantly forth, and producing both a chair and a badge, installed him in a jiffy.
"the coolness of you two rascals is amazing," began mr. pickwick, trying to get up an awful frown and only succeeding in producing an amiable smile.
but the new member was equal to the occasion, and rising, with a grateful salutation to the chair, said in the most engaging manner, "mr. president and ladies i beg pardon, gentlemen allow me to introduce myself as sam weller, the very humble servant of the club."
"good!
good!"
cried jo, pounding with the handle of the old warming pan on which she leaned.
"my faithful friend and noble patron," continued laurie with a wave of the hand, "who has so flatteringly presented me, is not to be blamed for the base stratagem of tonight.
i planned it, and she only gave in after lots of teasing."
"come now, don't lay it all on yourself.
you know i proposed the cupboard," broke in snodgrass, who was enjoying the joke amazingly.
"never mind what she says.
i'm the wretch that did it, sir," said the new member, with a welleresque nod to mr. pickwick.
"but on my honor, i never will do so again, and henceforth devote myself to the interest of this immortal club."
"hear!
hear!"
cried jo, clashing the lid of the warming pan like a cymbal.
"go on, go on!"
added winkle and tupman, while the president bowed benignly.
"i merely wish to say, that as a slight token of my gratitude for the honor done me, and as a means of promoting friendly relations between adjoining nations, i have set up a post office in the hedge in the lower corner of the garden, a fine, spacious building with padlocks on the doors and every convenience for the mails, also the females, if i may be allowed the expression.
it's the old martin house, but i've stopped up the door and made the roof open, so it will hold all sorts of things, and save our valuable time.
letters, manuscripts, books, and bundles can be passed in there, and as each nation has a key, it will be uncommonly nice, i fancy.
allow me to present the club key, and with many thanks for your favor, take my seat."
great applause as mr. weller deposited a little key on the table and subsided, the warming pan clashed and waved wildly, and it was some time before order could be restored.
a long discussion followed, and everyone came out surprising, for everyone did her best.
so it was an unusually lively meeting, and did not adjourn till a late hour, when it broke up with three shrill cheers for the new member.
no one ever regretted the admittance of sam weller, for a more devoted, well-behaved, and jovial member no club could have.
he certainly did add 'spirit' to the meetings, and 'a tone' to the paper, for his orations convulsed his hearers and his contributions were excellent, being patriotic, classical, comical, or dramatic, but never sentimental.
jo regarded them as worthy of bacon, milton, or shakespeare, and remodeled her own works with good effect, she thought.
the p.  o.  was a capital little institution, and flourished wonderfully, for nearly as many queer things passed through it as through the real post office.
tragedies and cravats, poetry and pickles, garden seeds and long letters, music and gingerbread, rubbers, invitations, scoldings, and puppies.
the old gentleman liked the fun, and amused himself by sending odd bundles, mysterious messages, and funny telegrams, and his gardener, who was smitten with hannah's charms, actually sent a love letter to jo's care.
how they laughed when the secret came out, never dreaming how many love letters that little post office would hold in the years to come.
chapter eleven
experiments
"the first of june!
the kings are off to the seashore tomorrow, and i'm free.
three months' vacation how i shall enjoy it!"
exclaimed meg, coming home one warm day to find jo laid upon the sofa in an unusual state of exhaustion, while beth took off her dusty boots, and amy made lemonade for the refreshment of the whole party.
"aunt march went today, for which, oh, be joyful!"
said jo.
"i was mortally afraid she'd ask me to go with her.
if she had, i should have felt as if i ought to do it, but plumfield is about as gay as a churchyard, you know, and i'd rather be excused.
we had a flurry getting the old lady off, and i had a fright every time she spoke to me, for i was in such a hurry to be through that i was uncommonly helpful and sweet, and feared she'd find it impossible to part from me.
i quaked till she was fairly in the carriage, and had a final fright, for as it drove of, she popped out her head, saying, 'josyphine, won't you ?'
i didn't hear any more, for i basely turned and fled.
i did actually run, and whisked round the corner where i felt safe."
"poor old jo!
she came in looking as if bears were after her," said beth, as she cuddled her sister's feet with a motherly air.
"aunt march is a regular samphire, is she not?"
observed amy, tasting her mixture critically.
"she means vampire, not seaweed, but it doesn't matter.
it's too warm to be particular about one's parts of speech," murmured jo.
"what shall you do all your vacation?"
asked amy, changing the subject with tact.
"i shall lie abed late, and do nothing," replied meg, from the depths of the rocking chair.
"i've been routed up early all winter and had to spend my days working for other people, so now i'm going to rest and revel to my heart's content."
"no," said jo, "that dozy way wouldn't suit me.
i've laid in a heap of books, and i'm going to improve my shining hours reading on my perch in the old apple tree, when i'm not having l  "
"don't say 'larks!'"
implored amy, as a return snub for the 'samphire'
correction.
"i'll say 'nightingales' then, with laurie.
that's proper and appropriate, since he's a warbler."
"don't let us do any lessons, beth, for a while, but play all the time and rest, as the girls mean to," proposed amy.
"well, i will, if mother doesn't mind.
i want to learn some new songs, and my children need fitting up for the summer.
they are dreadfully out of order and really suffering for clothes."
"may we, mother?"
asked meg, turning to mrs. march, who sat sewing in what they called 'marmee's corner'.
"you may try your experiment for a week and see how you like it.
i think by saturday night you will find that all play and no work is as bad as all work and no play."
"oh, dear, no!
it will be delicious, i'm sure," said meg complacently.
"i now propose a toast, as my 'friend and pardner, sairy gamp', says.
fun forever, and no grubbing!"
cried jo, rising, glass in hand, as the lemonade went round.
they all drank it merrily, and began the experiment by lounging for the rest of the day.
next morning, meg did not appear till ten o'clock.
her solitary breakfast did not taste good, and the room seemed lonely and untidy, for jo had not filled the vases, beth had not dusted, and amy's books lay scattered about.
nothing was neat and pleasant but 'marmee's corner', which looked as usual.
and there meg sat, to 'rest and read', which meant to yawn and imagine what pretty summer dresses she would get with her salary.
jo spent the morning on the river with laurie and the afternoon reading and crying over the wide, wide world, up in the apple tree.
beth began by rummaging everything out of the big closet where her family resided, but getting tired before half done, she left her establishment topsy-turvy and went to her music, rejoicing that she had no dishes to wash. amy arranged her bower, put on her best white frock, smoothed her curls, and sat down to draw under the honeysuckle, hoping someone would see and inquire who the young artist was.
as no one appeared but an inquisitive daddy-longlegs, who examined her work with interest, she went to walk, got caught in a shower, and came home dripping.
at teatime they compared notes, and all agreed that it had been a delightful, though unusually long day.
meg, who went shopping in the afternoon and got a 'sweet blue muslin', had discovered, after she had cut the breadths off, that it wouldn't wash, which mishap made her slightly cross.
jo had burned the skin off her nose boating, and got a raging headache by reading too long.
beth was worried by the confusion of her closet and the difficulty of learning three or four songs at once, and amy deeply regretted the damage done her frock, for katy brown's party was to be the next day and now like flora mcflimsey, she had 'nothing to wear'.
but these were mere trifles, and they assured their mother that the experiment was working finely.
she smiled, said nothing, and with hannah's help did their neglected work, keeping home pleasant and the domestic machinery running smoothly.
it was astonishing what a peculiar and uncomfortable state of things was produced by the 'resting and reveling' process.
the days kept getting longer and longer, the weather was unusually variable and so were tempers; an unsettled feeling possessed everyone, and satan found plenty of mischief for the idle hands to do.
as the height of luxury, meg put out some of her sewing, and then found time hang so heavily, that she fell to snipping and spoiling her clothes in her attempts to furbish them up a la moffat.
jo read till her eyes gave out and she was sick of books, got so fidgety that even good-natured laurie had a quarrel with her, and so reduced in spirits that she desperately wished she had gone with aunt march.
beth got on pretty well, for she was constantly forgetting that it was to be all play and no work, and fell back into her old ways now and then.
but something in the air affected her, and more than once her tranquility was much disturbed, so much so that on one occasion she actually shook poor dear joanna and told her she was 'a fright'.
amy fared worst of all, for her resources were small, and when her sisters left her to amuse herself, she soon found that accomplished and important little self a great burden.
she didn't like dolls, fairy tales were childish, and one couldn't draw all the time.
tea parties didn't amount to much, neither did picnics, unless very well conducted.
"if one could have a fine house, full of nice girls, or go traveling, the summer would be delightful, but to stay at home with three selfish sisters and a grown-up boy was enough to try the patience of a boaz," complained miss malaprop, after several days devoted to pleasure, fretting, and ennui.
no one would own that they were tired of the experiment, but by friday night each acknowledged to herself that she was glad the week was nearly done.
hoping to impress the lesson more deeply, mrs. march, who had a good deal of humor, resolved to finish off the trial in an appropriate manner, so she gave hannah a holiday and let the girls enjoy the full effect of the play system.
when they got up on saturday morning, there was no fire in the kitchen, no breakfast in the dining room, and no mother anywhere to be seen.
"mercy on us!
what has happened?"
cried jo, staring about her in dismay.
meg ran upstairs and soon came back again, looking relieved but rather bewildered, and a little ashamed.
"mother isn't sick, only very tired, and she says she is going to stay quietly in her room all day and let us do the best we can.
it's a very queer thing for her to do, she doesn't act a bit like herself.
but she says it has been a hard week for her, so we mustn't grumble but take care of ourselves."
"that's easy enough, and i like the idea, i'm aching for something to do, that is, some new amusement, you know," added jo quickly.
in fact it was an immense relief to them all to have a little work, and they took hold with a will, but soon realized the truth of hannah's saying, "housekeeping ain't no joke."
there was plenty of food in the larder, and while beth and amy set the table, meg and jo got breakfast, wondering as they did why servants ever talked about hard work.
"i shall take some up to mother, though she said we were not to think of her, for she'd take care of herself," said meg, who presided and felt quite matronly behind the teapot.
so a tray was fitted out before anyone began, and taken up with the cook's compliments.
the boiled tea was very bitter, the omelet scorched, and the biscuits speckled with saleratus, but mrs. march received her repast with thanks and laughed heartily over it after jo was gone.
"poor little souls, they will have a hard time, i'm afraid, but they won't suffer, and it will do them good," she said, producing the more palatable viands with which she had provided herself, and disposing of the bad breakfast, so that their feelings might not be hurt, a motherly little deception for which they were grateful.
many were the complaints below, and great the chagrin of the head cook at her failures.
"never mind, i'll get the dinner and be servant, you be mistress, keep your hands nice, see company, and give orders," said jo, who knew still less than meg about culinary affairs.
this obliging offer was gladly accepted, and margaret retired to the parlor, which she hastily put in order by whisking the litter under the sofa and shutting the blinds to save the trouble of dusting.
jo, with perfect faith in her own powers and a friendly desire to make up the quarrel, immediately put a note in the office, inviting laurie to dinner.
"you'd better see what you have got before you think of having company," said meg, when informed of the hospitable but rash act.
"oh, there's corned beef and plenty of potatoes, and i shall get some asparagus and a lobster, 'for a relish', as hannah says.
we'll have lettuce and make a salad.
i don't know how, but the book tells.
i'll have blanc mange and strawberries for dessert, and coffee too, if you want to be elegant."
"don't try too many messes, jo, for you can't make anything but gingerbread and molasses candy fit to eat.
i wash my hands of the dinner party, and since you have asked laurie on your own responsibility, you may just take care of him."
"i don't want you to do anything but be civil to him and help to the pudding.
you'll give me your advice if i get in a muddle, won't you?"
asked jo, rather hurt.
"yes, but i don't know much, except about bread and a few trifles.
you had better ask mother's leave before you order anything," returned meg prudently.
"of course i shall.
i'm not a fool."
and jo went off in a huff at the doubts expressed of her powers.
"get what you like, and don't disturb me.
i'm going out to dinner and can't worry about things at home," said mrs. march, when jo spoke to her.
"i never enjoyed housekeeping, and i'm going to take a vacation today, and read, write, go visiting, and amuse myself."
the unusual spectacle of her busy mother rocking comfortably and reading early in the morning made jo feel as if some unnatural phenomenon had occurred, for an eclipse, an earthquake, or a volcanic eruption would hardly have seemed stranger.
"everything is out of sorts, somehow," she said to herself, going downstairs.
"there's beth crying, that's a sure sign that something is wrong in this family.
if amy is bothering, i'll shake her."
feeling very much out of sorts herself, jo hurried into the parlor to find beth sobbing over pip, the canary, who lay dead in the cage with his little claws pathetically extended, as if imploring the food for want of which he had died.
"it's all my fault, i forgot him, there isn't a seed or a drop left.
oh, pip!
oh, pip!
how could i be so cruel to you?"
cried beth, taking the poor thing in her hands and trying to restore him.
jo peeped into his half-open eye, felt his little heart, and finding him stiff and cold, shook her head, and offered her domino box for a coffin.
"put him in the oven, and maybe he will get warm and revive," said amy hopefully.
"he's been starved, and he shan't be baked now he's dead.
i'll make him a shroud, and he shall be buried in the garden, and i'll never have another bird, never, my pip!
for i am too bad to own one," murmured beth, sitting on the floor with her pet folded in her hands.
"the funeral shall be this afternoon, and we will all go.
now, don't cry, bethy.
it's a pity, but nothing goes right this week, and pip has had the worst of the experiment.
make the shroud, and lay him in my box, and after the dinner party, we'll have a nice little funeral,"
said jo, beginning to feel as if she had undertaken a good deal.
leaving the others to console beth, she departed to the kitchen, which was in a most discouraging state of confusion.
putting on a big apron, she fell to work and got the dishes piled up ready for washing, when she discovered that the fire was out.
"here's a sweet prospect!"
muttered jo, slamming the stove door open, and poking vigorously among the cinders.
having rekindled the fire, she thought she would go to market while the water heated.
the walk revived her spirits, and flattering herself that she had made good bargains, she trudged home again, after buying a very young lobster, some very old asparagus, and two boxes of acid strawberries.
by the time she got cleared up, the dinner arrived and the stove was red-hot.
hannah had left a pan of bread to rise, meg had worked it up early, set it on the hearth for a second rising, and forgotten it.
meg was entertaining sallie gardiner in the parlor, when the door flew open and a floury, crocky, flushed, and disheveled figure appeared, demanding tartly...
"i say, isn't bread 'riz' enough when it runs over the pans?"
sallie began to laugh, but meg nodded and lifted her eyebrows as high as they would go, which caused the apparition to vanish and put the sour bread into the oven without further delay.
mrs. march went out, after peeping here and there to see how matters went, also saying a word of comfort to beth, who sat making a winding sheet, while the dear departed lay in state in the domino box.
a stralanguage cannot describe nge sense of helplessness fell upon the girls as the gray bonnet vanished round the corner, and despair seized them when a few minutes later miss crocker appeared, and said she'd come to dinner.
now this lady was a thin, yellow spinster, with a sharp nose and inquisitive eyes, who saw everything and gossiped about all she saw.
they disliked her, but had been taught to be kind to her, simply because she was old and poor and had few friends.
so meg gave her the easy chair and tried to entertain her, while she asked questions, criticized everything, and told stories of the people whom she knew.
language cannot describe the anxieties, experiences, and exertions which jo underwent that morning, and the dinner she served up became a standing joke.
fearing to ask any more advice, she did her best alone, and discovered that something more than energy and good will is necessary to make a cook.
she boiled the asparagus for an hour and was grieved to find the heads cooked off and the stalks harder than ever.
the bread burned black; for the salad dressing so aggravated her that she could not make it fit to eat.
the lobster was a scarlet mystery to her, but she hammered and poked till it was unshelled and its meager proportions concealed in a grove of lettuce leaves.
the potatoes had to be hurried, not to keep the asparagus waiting, and were not done at the last.
the blanc mange was lumpy, and the strawberries not as ripe as they looked, having been skilfully 'deaconed'.
"well, they can eat beef and bread and butter, if they are hungry, only it's mortifying to have to spend your whole morning for nothing,"
thought jo, as she rang the bell half an hour later than usual, and stood, hot, tired, and dispirited, surveying the feast spread before laurie, accustomed to all sorts of elegance, and miss crocker, whose tattling tongue would report them far and wide.
poor jo would gladly have gone under the table, as one thing after another was tasted and left, while amy giggled, meg looked distressed, miss crocker pursed her lips, and laurie talked and laughed with all his might to give a cheerful tone to the festive scene.
jo's one strong point was the fruit, for she had sugared it well, and had a pitcher of rich cream to eat with it.
her hot cheeks cooled a trifle, and she drew a long breath as the pretty glass plates went round, and everyone looked graciously at the little rosy islands floating in a sea of cream.
miss crocker tasted first, made a wry face, and drank some water hastily.
jo, who refused, thinking there might not be enough, for they dwindled sadly after the picking over, glanced at laurie, but he was eating away manfully, though there was a slight pucker about his mouth and he kept his eye fixed on his plate.
amy, who was fond of delicate fare, took a heaping spoonful, choked, hid her face in her napkin, and left the table precipitately.
"oh, what is it?"
exclaimed jo, trembling.
"salt instead of sugar, and the cream is sour," replied meg with a tragic gesture.
jo uttered a groan and fell back in her chair, remembering that she had given a last hasty powdering to the berries out of one of the two boxes on the kitchen table, and had neglected to put the milk in the refrigerator.
she turned scarlet and was on the verge of crying, when she met laurie's eyes, which would look merry in spite of his heroic efforts.
the comical side of the affair suddenly struck her, and she laughed till the tears ran down her cheeks.
so did everyone else, even 'croaker' as the girls called the old lady, and the unfortunate dinner ended gaily, with bread and butter, olives and fun.
"i haven't strength of mind enough to clear up now, so we will sober ourselves with a funeral," said jo, as they rose, and miss crocker made ready to go, being eager to tell the new story at another friend's dinner table.
they did sober themselves for beth's sake.
laurie dug a grave under the ferns in the grove, little pip was laid in, with many tears by his tender-hearted mistress, and covered with moss, while a wreath of violets and chickweed was hung on the stone which bore his epitaph, composed by jo while she struggled with the dinner.
here lies pip march,     who died the 7th of june;     loved and lamented sore,     and not forgotten soon.
at the conclusion of the ceremonies, beth retired to her room, overcome with emotion and lobster, but there was no place of repose, for the beds were not made, and she found her grief much assuaged by beating up the pillows and putting things in order.
meg helped jo clear away the remains of the feast, which took half the afternoon and left them so tired that they agreed to be contented with tea and toast for supper.
laurie took amy to drive, which was a deed of charity, for the sour cream seemed to have had a bad effect upon her temper.
mrs. march came home to find the three older girls hard at work in the middle of the afternoon, and a glance at the closet gave her an idea of the success of one part of the experiment.
before the housewives could rest, several people called, and there was a scramble to get ready to see them.
then tea must be got, errands done, and one or two necessary bits of sewing neglected until the last minute.
as twilight fell, dewy and still, one by one they gathered on the porch where the june roses were budding beautifully, and each groaned or sighed as she sat down, as if tired or troubled.
"what a dreadful day this has been!"
began jo, usually the first to speak.
"it has seemed shorter than usual, but so uncomfortable," said meg.
"not a bit like home," added amy.
"it can't seem so without marmee and little pip," sighed beth, glancing with full eyes at the empty cage above her head.
"here's mother, dear, and you shall have another bird tomorrow, if you want it."
as she spoke, mrs. march came and took her place among them, looking as if her holiday had not been much pleasanter than theirs.
"are you satisfied with your experiment, girls, or do you want another week of it?"
she asked, as beth nestled up to her and the rest turned toward her with brightening faces, as flowers turn toward the sun.
"i don't!"
cried jo decidedly.
"nor i," echoed the others.
"you think then, that it is better to have a few duties and live a little for others, do you?"
"lounging and larking doesn't pay," observed jo, shaking her head.
"i'm tired of it and mean to go to work at something right off."
"suppose you learn plain cooking.
that's a useful accomplishment, which no woman should be without," said mrs. march, laughing inaudibly at the recollection of jo's dinner party, for she had met miss crocker and heard her account of it.
"mother, did you go away and let everything be, just to see how we'd get on?"
cried meg, who had had suspicions all day.
"yes, i wanted you to see how the comfort of all depends on each doing her share faithfully.
while hannah and i did your work, you got on pretty well, though i don't think you were very happy or amiable.
so i thought, as a little lesson, i would show you what happens when everyone thinks only of herself.
don't you feel that it is pleasanter to help one another, to have daily duties which make leisure sweet when it comes, and to bear and forbear, that home may be comfortable and lovely to us all?"
"we do, mother, we do!"
cried the girls.
"then let me advise you to take up your little burdens again, for though they seem heavy sometimes, they are good for us, and lighten as we learn to carry them.
work is wholesome, and there is plenty for everyone.
it keeps us from ennui and mischief, is good for health and spirits, and gives us a sense of power and independence better than money or fashion."
"we'll work like bees, and love it too, see if we don't," said jo.
"i'll learn plain cooking for my holiday task, and the next dinner party i have shall be a success."
"i'll make the set of shirts for father, instead of letting you do it, marmee.
i can and i will, though i'm not fond of sewing.
that will be better than fussing over my own things, which are plenty nice enough as they are."
said meg.
"i'll do my lessons every day, and not spend so much time with my music and dolls.
i am a stupid thing, and ought to be studying, not playing," was beth's resolution, while amy followed their example by heroically declaring, "i shall learn to make buttonholes, and attend to my parts of speech."
"very good!
then i am quite satisfied with the experiment, and fancy that we shall not have to repeat it, only don't go to the other extreme and delve like slaves.
have regular hours for work and play, make each day both useful and pleasant, and prove that you understand the worth of time by employing it well.
then youth will be delightful, old age will bring few regrets, and life become a beautiful success, in spite of poverty."
"we'll remember, mother!"
and they did.
chapter twelve
camp laurence
beth was postmistress, for, being most at home, she could attend to it regularly, and dearly liked the daily task of unlocking the little door and distributing the mail.
one july day she came in with her hands full, and went about the house leaving letters and parcels like the penny post.
"here's your posy, mother!
laurie never forgets that," she said, putting the fresh nosegay in the vase that stood in 'marmee's corner', and was kept supplied by the affectionate boy.
"miss meg march, one letter and a glove," continued beth, delivering the articles to her sister, who sat near her mother, stitching wristbands.
"why, i left a pair over there, and here is only one," said meg, looking at the gray cotton glove.
"didn't you drop the other in the garden?"
"no, i'm sure i didn't, for there was only one in the office."
"i hate to have odd gloves!
never mind, the other may be found.
my letter is only a translation of the german song i wanted.
i think mr.
brooke did it, for this isn't laurie's writing."
mrs. march glanced at meg, who was looking very pretty in her gingham morning gown, with the little curls blowing about her forehead, and very womanly, as she sat sewing at her little worktable, full of tidy white rolls, so unconscious of the thought in her mother's mind as she sewed and sang, while her fingers flew and her thoughts were busied with girlish fancies as innocent and fresh as the pansies in her belt, that mrs. march smiled and was satisfied.
"two letters for doctor jo, a book, and a funny old hat, which covered the whole post office and stuck outside," said beth, laughing as she went into the study where jo sat writing.
"what a sly fellow laurie is!
i said i wished bigger hats were the fashion, because i burn my face every hot day.
he said, 'why mind the fashion?
wear a big hat, and be comfortable!'
i said i would if i had one, and he has sent me this, to try me.
i'll wear it for fun, and show him i don't care for the fashion."
and hanging the antique broad-brim on a bust of plato, jo read her letters.
one from her mother made her cheeks glow and her eyes fill, for it said to her...
my dear:
i write a little word to tell you with how much satisfaction i watch your efforts to control your temper.
you say nothing about your trials, failures, or successes, and think, perhaps, that no one sees them but the friend whose help you daily ask, if i may trust the well-worn cover of your guidebook.
i, too, have seen them all, and heartily believe in the sincerity of your resolution, since it begins to bear fruit.
go on, dear, patiently and bravely, and always believe that no one sympathizes more tenderly with you than your loving...
mother
"that does me good!
that's worth millions of money and pecks of praise.
oh, marmee, i do try!
i will keep on trying, and not get tired, since i have you to help me."
laying her head on her arms, jo wet her little romance with a few happy tears, for she had thought that no one saw and appreciated her efforts to be good, and this assurance was doubly precious, doubly encouraging, because unexpected and from the person whose commendation she most valued.
feeling stronger than ever to meet and subdue her apollyon, she pinned the note inside her frock, as a shield and a reminder, lest she be taken unaware, and proceeded to open her other letter, quite ready for either good or bad news.
in a big, dashing hand, laurie wrote...
dear jo, what ho!
some english girls and boys are coming to see me tomorrow and i want to have a jolly time.
if it's fine, i'm going to pitch my tent in longmeadow, and row up the whole crew to lunch and croquet have a fire, make messes, gypsy fashion, and all sorts of larks.
they are nice people, and like such things.
brooke will go to keep us boys steady, and kate vaughn will play propriety for the girls.
i want you all to come, can't let beth off at any price, and nobody shall worry her.
don't bother about rations, i'll see to that and everything else, only do come, there's a good fellow!
in a tearing hurry, yours ever, laurie.
"here's richness!"
cried jo, flying in to tell the news to meg.
"of course we can go, mother?
it will be such a help to laurie, for i can row, and meg see to the lunch, and the children be useful in some way."
"i hope the vaughns are not fine grown-up people.
do you know anything about them, jo?"
asked meg.
"only that there are four of them.
kate is older than you, fred and frank (twins) about my age, and a little girl (grace), who is nine or ten.
laurie knew them abroad, and liked the boys.
i fancied, from the way he primmed up his mouth in speaking of her, that he didn't admire kate much."
"i'm so glad my french print is clean, it's just the thing and so becoming!"
observed meg complacently.
"have you anything decent, jo?"
"scarlet and gray boating suit, good enough for me.
i shall row and tramp about, so i don't want any starch to think of.
you'll come, betty?"
"if you won't let any boys talk to me."
"not a boy!"
"i like to please laurie, and i'm not afraid of mr. brooke, he is so kind.
but i don't want to play, or sing, or say anything.
i'll work hard and not trouble anyone, and you'll take care of me, jo, so i'll go."
"that's my good girl.
you do try to fight off your shyness, and i love you for it.
fighting faults isn't easy, as i know, and a cheery word kind of gives a lift.
thank you, mother," and jo gave the thin cheek a grateful kiss, more precious to mrs. march than if it had given back the rosy roundness of her youth.
"i had a box of chocolate drops, and the picture i wanted to copy,"
said amy, showing her mail.
"and i got a note from mr. laurence, asking me to come over and play to him tonight, before the lamps are lighted, and i shall go," added beth, whose friendship with the old gentleman prospered finely.
"now let's fly round, and do double duty today, so that we can play tomorrow with free minds," said jo, preparing to replace her pen with a broom.
when the sun peeped into the girls' room early next morning to promise them a fine day, he saw a comical sight.
each had made such preparation for the fete as seemed necessary and proper.
meg had an extra row of little curlpapers across her forehead, jo had copiously anointed her afflicted face with cold cream, beth had taken joanna to bed with her to atone for the approaching separation, and amy had capped the climax by putting a clothespin on her nose to uplift the offending feature.
it was one of the kind artists use to hold the paper on their drawing boards, therefore quite appropriate and effective for the purpose it was now being put.
this funny spectacle appeared to amuse the sun, for he burst out with such radiance that jo woke up and roused her sisters by a hearty laugh at amy's ornament.
sunshine and laughter were good omens for a pleasure party, and soon a lively bustle began in both houses.
beth, who was ready first, kept reporting what went on next door, and enlivened her sisters' toilets by frequent telegrams from the window.
"there goes the man with the tent!
i see mrs. barker doing up the lunch in a hamper and a great basket.
now mr. laurence is looking up at the sky and the weathercock.
i wish he would go too.
there's laurie, looking like a sailor, nice boy!
oh, mercy me!
here's a carriage full of people, a tall lady, a little girl, and two dreadful boys.
one is lame, poor thing, he's got a crutch.
laurie didn't tell us that.
be quick, girls!
it's getting late.
why, there is ned moffat, i do declare.
meg, isn't that the man who bowed to you one day when we were shopping?"
"so it is.
how queer that he should come.
i thought he was at the mountains.
there is sallie.
i'm glad she got back in time.
am i all right, jo?"
cried meg in a flutter.
"a regular daisy.
hold up your dress and put your hat on straight, it looks sentimental tipped that way and will fly off at the first puff.
now then, come on!"
"oh, jo, you are not going to wear that awful hat?
it's too absurd!
you shall not make a guy of yourself," remonstrated meg, as jo tied down with a red ribbon the broad-brimmed, old-fashioned leghorn laurie had sent for a joke.
"i just will, though, for it's capital, so shady, light, and big.
it will make fun, and i don't mind being a guy if i'm comfortable."
with that jo marched straight away and the rest followed, a bright little band of sisters, all looking their best in summer suits, with happy faces under the jaunty hatbrims.
laurie ran to meet and present them to his friends in the most cordial manner.
the lawn was the reception room, and for several minutes a lively scene was enacted there.
meg was grateful to see that miss kate, though twenty, was dressed with a simplicity which american girls would do well to imitate, and who was much flattered by mr. ned's assurances that he came especially to see her.
jo understood why laurie 'primmed up his mouth' when speaking of kate, for that young lady had a standoff-don't-touch-me air, which contrasted strongly with the free and easy demeanor of the other girls.
beth took an observation of the new boys and decided that the lame one was not 'dreadful', but gentle and feeble, and she would be kind to him on that account.
amy found grace a well-mannered, merry, little person, and after staring dumbly at one another for a few minutes, they suddenly became very good friends.
tents, lunch, and croquet utensils having been sent on beforehand, the party was soon embarked, and the two boats pushed off together, leaving mr. laurence waving his hat on the shore.
laurie and jo rowed one boat, mr. brooke and ned the other, while fred vaughn, the riotous twin, did his best to upset both by paddling about in a wherry like a disturbed water bug.
jo's funny hat deserved a vote of thanks, for it was of general utility.
it broke the ice in the beginning by producing a laugh, it created quite a refreshing breeze, flapping to and fro as she rowed, and would make an excellent umbrella for the whole party, if a shower came up, she said.
miss kate decided that she was 'odd', but rather clever, and smiled upon her from afar.
meg, in the other boat, was delightfully situated, face to face with the rowers, who both admired the prospect and feathered their oars with uncommon 'skill and dexterity'.
mr. brooke was a grave, silent young man, with handsome brown eyes and a pleasant voice.
meg liked his quiet manners and considered him a walking encyclopedia of useful knowledge.
he never talked to her much, but he looked at her a good deal, and she felt sure that he did not regard her with aversion.
ned, being in college, of course put on all the airs which freshmen think it their bounden duty to assume.
he was not very wise, but very good-natured, and altogether an excellent person to carry on a picnic.
sallie gardiner was absorbed in keeping her white pique dress clean and chattering with the ubiquitous fred, who kept beth in constant terror by his pranks.
it was not far to longmeadow, but the tent was pitched and the wickets down by the time they arrived.
a pleasant green field, with three wide-spreading oaks in the middle and a smooth strip of turf for croquet.
"welcome to camp laurence!"
said the young host, as they landed with exclamations of delight.
"brooke is commander in chief, i am commissary general, the other fellows are staff officers, and you, ladies, are company.
the tent is for your especial benefit and that oak is your drawing room, this is the messroom and the third is the camp kitchen.
now, let's have a game before it gets hot, and then we'll see about dinner."
frank, beth, amy, and grace sat down to watch the game played by the other eight.
mr. brooke chose meg, kate, and fred.
laurie took sallie, jo, and ned.
the english played well, but the americans played better, and contested every inch of the ground as strongly as if the spirit of '76 inspired them.
jo and fred had several skirmishes and once narrowly escaped high words.
jo was through the last wicket and had missed the stroke, which failure ruffled her a good deal.
fred was close behind her and his turn came before hers.
he gave a stroke, his ball hit the wicket, and stopped an inch on the wrong side.
no one was very near, and running up to examine, he gave it a sly nudge with his toe, which put it just an inch on the right side.
"i'm through!
now, miss jo, i'll settle you, and get in first," cried the young gentleman, swinging his mallet for another blow.
"you pushed it.
i saw you.
it's my turn now," said jo sharply.
"upon my word, i didn't move it.
it rolled a bit, perhaps, but that is allowed.
so, stand off please, and let me have a go at the stake."
"we don't cheat in america, but you can, if you choose," said jo angrily.
"yankees are a deal the most tricky, everybody knows.
there you go!"
returned fred, croqueting her ball far away.
jo opened her lips to say something rude, but checked herself in time, colored up to her forehead and stood a minute, hammering down a wicket with all her might, while fred hit the stake and declared himself out with much exultation.
she went off to get her ball, and was a long time finding it among the bushes, but she came back, looking cool and quiet, and waited her turn patiently.
it took several strokes to regain the place she had lost, and when she got there, the other side had nearly won, for kate's ball was the last but one and lay near the stake.
"by george, it's all up with us!
goodbye, kate.
miss jo owes me one, so you are finished," cried fred excitedly, as they all drew near to see the finish.
"yankees have a trick of being generous to their enemies," said jo, with a look that made the lad redden, "especially when they beat them,"
she added, as, leaving kate's ball untouched, she won the game by a clever stroke.
laurie threw up his hat, then remembered that it wouldn't do to exult over the defeat of his guests, and stopped in the middle of the cheer to whisper to his friend, "good for you, jo!
he did cheat, i saw him.
we can't tell him so, but he won't do it again, take my word for it."
meg drew her aside, under pretense of pinning up a loose braid, and said approvingly, "it was dreadfully provoking, but you kept your temper, and i'm so glad, jo."
"don't praise me, meg, for i could box his ears this minute.
i should certainly have boiled over if i hadn't stayed among the nettles till i got my rage under control enough to hold my tongue.
it's simmering now, so i hope he'll keep out of my way," returned jo, biting her lips as she glowered at fred from under her big hat.
"time for lunch," said mr. brooke, looking at his watch.
"commissary general, will you make the fire and get water, while miss march, miss sallie, and i spread the table?
who can make good coffee?"
"jo can," said meg, glad to recommend her sister.
so jo, feeling that her late lessons in cookery were to do her honor, went to preside over the coffeepot, while the children collected dry sticks, and the boys made a fire and got water from a spring near by.
miss kate sketched and frank talked to beth, who was making little mats of braided rushes to serve as plates.
the commander in chief and his aides soon spread the tablecloth with an inviting array of eatables and drinkables, prettily decorated with green leaves.
jo announced that the coffee was ready, and everyone settled themselves to a hearty meal, for youth is seldom dyspeptic, and exercise develops wholesome appetites.
a very merry lunch it was, for everything seemed fresh and funny, and frequent peals of laughter startled a venerable horse who fed near by.
there was a pleasing inequality in the table, which produced many mishaps to cups and plates, acorns dropped in the milk, little black ants partook of the refreshments without being invited, and fuzzy caterpillars swung down from the tree to see what was going on.
three white-headed children peeped over the fence, and an objectionable dog barked at them from the other side of the river with all his might and main.
"there's salt here," said laurie, as he handed jo a saucer of berries.
"thank you, i prefer spiders," she replied, fishing up two unwary little ones who had gone to a creamy death.
"how dare you remind me of that horrid dinner party, when yours is so nice in every way?"
added jo, as they both laughed and ate out of one plate, the china having run short.
"i had an uncommonly good time that day, and haven't got over it yet.
this is no credit to me, you know, i don't do anything.
it's you and meg and brooke who make it all go, and i'm no end obliged to you.
what shall we do when we can't eat anymore?"
asked laurie, feeling that his trump card had been played when lunch was over.
"have games till it's cooler.
i brought authors, and i dare say miss kate knows something new and nice.
go and ask her.
she's company, and you ought to stay with her more."
"aren't you company too?
i thought she'd suit brooke, but he keeps talking to meg, and kate just stares at them through that ridiculous glass of hers.
i'm going, so you needn't try to preach propriety, for you can't do it, jo."
miss kate did know several new games, and as the girls would not, and the boys could not, eat any more, they all adjourned to the drawing room to play rig-marole.
"one person begins a story, any nonsense you like, and tells as long as he pleases, only taking care to stop short at some exciting point, when the next takes it up and does the same.
it's very funny when well done, and makes a perfect jumble of tragical comical stuff to laugh over.
please start it, mr. brooke," said kate, with a commanding air, which surprised meg, who treated the tutor with as much respect as any other gentleman.
lying on the grass at the feet of the two young ladies, mr. brooke obediently began the story, with the handsome brown eyes steadily fixed upon the sunshiny river.
"once on a time, a knight went out into the world to seek his fortune, for he had nothing but his sword and his shield.
he traveled a long while, nearly eight-and-twenty years, and had a hard time of it, till he came to the palace of a good old king, who had offered a reward to anyone who could tame and train a fine but unbroken colt, of which he was very fond.
the knight agreed to try, and got on slowly but surely, for the colt was a gallant fellow, and soon learned to love his new master, though he was freakish and wild.
every day, when he gave his lessons to this pet of the king's, the knight rode him through the city, and as he rode, he looked everywhere for a certain beautiful face, which he had seen many times in his dreams, but never found.
one day, as he went prancing down a quiet street, he saw at the window of a ruinous castle the lovely face.
he was delighted, inquired who lived in this old castle, and was told that several captive princesses were kept there by a spell, and spun all day to lay up money to buy their liberty.
the knight wished intensely that he could free them, but he was poor and could only go by each day, watching for the sweet face and longing to see it out in the sunshine.
at last he resolved to get into the castle and ask how he could help them.
he went and knocked.
the great door flew open, and he beheld..."
"a ravishingly lovely lady, who exclaimed, with a cry of rapture, 'at last!
at last!'"
continued kate, who had read french novels, and admired the style.
"'tis she!'
cried count gustave, and fell at her feet in an ecstasy of joy.
'oh, rise!'
she said, extending a hand of marble fairness.
'never!
till you tell me how i may rescue you,' swore the knight, still kneeling.
'alas, my cruel fate condemns me to remain here till my tyrant is destroyed.'
'where is the villain?'
'in the mauve salon.
go, brave heart, and save me from despair.'
'i obey, and return victorious or dead!'
with these thrilling words he rushed away, and flinging open the door of the mauve salon, was about to enter, when he received..."
"a stunning blow from the big greek lexicon, which an old fellow in a black gown fired at him," said ned.
"instantly, sir what's-his-name recovered himself, pitched the tyrant out of the window, and turned to join the lady, victorious, but with a bump on his brow, found the door locked, tore up the curtains, made a rope ladder, got halfway down when the ladder broke, and he went headfirst into the moat, sixty feet below.
could swim like a duck, paddled round the castle till he came to a little door guarded by two stout fellows, knocked their heads together till they cracked like a couple of nuts, then, by a trifling exertion of his prodigious strength, he smashed in the door, went up a pair of stone steps covered with dust a foot thick, toads as big as your fist, and spiders that would frighten you into hysterics, miss march.
at the top of these steps he came plump upon a sight that took his breath away and chilled his blood..."
"a tall figure, all in white with a veil over its face and a lamp in its wasted hand," went on meg.
"it beckoned, gliding noiselessly before him down a corridor as dark and cold as any tomb.
shadowy effigies in armor stood on either side, a dead silence reigned, the lamp burned blue, and the ghostly figure ever and anon turned its face toward him, showing the glitter of awful eyes through its white veil.
they reached a curtained door, behind which sounded lovely music.
he sprang forward to enter, but the specter plucked him back, and waved threateningly before him a..."
"snuffbox," said jo, in a sepulchral tone, which convulsed the audience.
"'thankee,' said the knight politely, as he took a pinch and sneezed seven times so violently that his head fell off.
'ha!
ha!'
laughed the ghost, and having peeped through the keyhole at the princesses spinning away for dear life, the evil spirit picked up her victim and put him in a large tin box, where there were eleven other knights packed together without their heads, like sardines, who all rose and began to..."
"dance a hornpipe," cut in fred, as jo paused for breath, "and, as they danced, the rubbishy old castle turned to a man-of-war in full sail.
'up with the jib, reef the tops'l halliards, helm hard alee, and man the guns!'
roared the captain, as a portuguese pirate hove in sight, with a flag black as ink flying from her foremast.
'go in and win, my hearties!'
says the captain, and a tremendous fight began.
of course the british beat they always do."
"no, they don't!"
cried jo, aside.
"having taken the pirate captain prisoner, sailed slap over the schooner, whose decks were piled high with dead and whose lee scuppers ran blood, for the order had been 'cutlasses, and die hard!'
'bosun's mate, take a bight of the flying-jib sheet, and start this villain if he doesn't confess his sins double quick,' said the british captain.
the portuguese held his tongue like a brick, and walked the plank, while the jolly tars cheered like mad.
but the sly dog dived, came up under the man-of-war, scuttled her, and down she went, with all sail set, 'to the bottom of the sea, sea, sea' where..."
"oh, gracious!
what shall i say?"
cried sallie, as fred ended his rigmarole, in which he had jumbled together pell-mell nautical phrases and facts out of one of his favorite books.
"well, they went to the bottom, and a nice mermaid welcomed them, but was much grieved on finding the box of headless knights, and kindly pickled them in brine, hoping to discover the mystery about them, for being a woman, she was curious.
by-and-by a diver came down, and the mermaid said, 'i'll give you a box of pearls if you can take it up,' for she wanted to restore the poor things to life, and couldn't raise the heavy load herself.
so the diver hoisted it up, and was much disappointed on opening it to find no pearls.
he left it in a great lonely field, where it was found by a..."
"little goose girl, who kept a hundred fat geese in the field," said amy, when sallie's invention gave out.
"the little girl was sorry for them, and asked an old woman what she should do to help them.
'your geese will tell you, they know everything.'
said the old woman.
so she asked what she should use for new heads, since the old ones were lost, and all the geese opened their hundred mouths and screamed..."
"'cabbages!'"
continued laurie promptly.
"'just the thing,' said the girl, and ran to get twelve fine ones from her garden.
she put them on, the knights revived at once, thanked her, and went on their way rejoicing, never knowing the difference, for there were so many other heads like them in the world that no one thought anything of it.
the knight in whom i'm interested went back to find the pretty face, and learned that the princesses had spun themselves free and all gone and married, but one.
he was in a great state of mind at that, and mounting the colt, who stood by him through thick and thin, rushed to the castle to see which was left.
peeping over the hedge, he saw the queen of his affections picking flowers in her garden.
'will you give me a rose?'
said he.
'you must come and get it.
i can't come to you, it isn't proper,' said she, as sweet as honey.
he tried to climb over the hedge, but it seemed to grow higher and higher.
then he tried to push through, but it grew thicker and thicker, and he was in despair.
so he patiently broke twig after twig till he had made a little hole through which he peeped, saying imploringly, 'let me in!
let me in!'
but the pretty princess did not seem to understand, for she picked her roses quietly, and left him to fight his way in.
whether he did or not, frank will tell you."
"i can't.
i'm not playing, i never do," said frank, dismayed at the sentimental predicament out of which he was to rescue the absurd couple.
beth had disappeared behind jo, and grace was asleep.
"so the poor knight is to be left sticking in the hedge, is he?"
asked mr. brooke, still watching the river, and playing with the wild rose in his buttonhole.
"i guess the princess gave him a posy, and opened the gate after a while," said laurie, smiling to himself, as he threw acorns at his tutor.
"what a piece of nonsense we have made!
with practice we might do something quite clever.
do you know truth?"
"i hope so," said meg soberly.
"the game, i mean?"
"what is it?"
said fred.
"why, you pile up your hands, choose a number, and draw out in turn, and the person who draws at the number has to answer truly any question put by the rest.
it's great fun."
"let's try it," said jo, who liked new experiments.
miss kate and mr. brooke, meg, and ned declined, but fred, sallie, jo, and laurie piled and drew, and the lot fell to laurie.
"who are your heroes?"
asked jo.
"grandfather and napoleon."
"which lady here do you think prettiest?"
said sallie.
"margaret."
"which do you like best?"
from fred.
"jo, of course."
"what silly questions you ask!"
and jo gave a disdainful shrug as the rest laughed at laurie's matter-of-fact tone.
"try again.
truth isn't a bad game," said fred.
"it's a very good one for you," retorted jo in a low voice.
her turn came next.
"what is your greatest fault?"
asked fred, by way of testing in her the virtue he lacked himself.
"a quick temper."
"what do you most wish for?"
said laurie.
"a pair of boot lacings," returned jo, guessing and defeating his purpose.
"not a true answer.
you must say what you really do want most."
"genius.
don't you wish you could give it to me, laurie?"
and she slyly smiled in his disappointed face.
"what virtues do you most admire in a man?"
asked sallie.
"courage and honesty."
"now my turn," said fred, as his hand came last.
"let's give it to him," whispered laurie to jo, who nodded and asked at once...
"didn't you cheat at croquet?"
"well, yes, a little bit."
"good!
didn't you take your story out of the sea lion?"
said laurie.
"rather."
"don't you think the english nation perfect in every respect?"
asked sallie.
"i should be ashamed of myself if i didn't."
"he's a true john bull.
now, miss sallie, you shall have a chance without waiting to draw.
i'll harrrow up your feelings first by asking if you don't think you are something of a flirt," said laurie, as jo nodded to fred as a sign that peace was declared.
"you impertinent boy!
of course i'm not," exclaimed sallie, with an air that proved the contrary.
"what do you hate most?"
asked fred.
"spiders and rice pudding."
"what do you like best?"
asked jo.
"dancing and french gloves."
"well, i think truth is a very silly play.
let's have a sensible game of authors to refresh our minds," proposed jo.
ned, frank, and the little girls joined in this, and while it went on, the three elders sat apart, talking.
miss kate took out her sketch again, and margaret watched her, while mr. brooke lay on the grass with a book, which he did not read.
"how beautifully you do it!
i wish i could draw," said meg, with mingled admiration and regret in her voice.
"why don't you learn?
i should think you had taste and talent for it,"
replied miss kate graciously.
"i haven't time."
"your mamma prefers other accomplishments, i fancy.
so did mine, but i proved to her that i had talent by taking a few lessons privately, and then she was quite willing i should go on.
can't you do the same with your governess?"
"i have none."
"i forgot young ladies in america go to school more than with us.
very fine schools they are, too, papa says.
you go to a private one, i suppose?"
"i don't go at all.
i am a governess myself."
"oh, indeed!"
said miss kate, but she might as well have said, "dear me, how dreadful!"
for her tone implied it, and something in her face made meg color, and wish she had not been so frank.
mr. brooke looked up and said quickly, "young ladies in america love independence as much as their ancestors did, and are admired and respected for supporting themselves."
"oh, yes, of course it's very nice and proper in them to do so.
we have many most respectable and worthy young women who do the same and are employed by the nobility, because, being the daughters of gentlemen, they are both well bred and accomplished, you know," said miss kate in a patronizing tone that hurt meg's pride, and made her work seem not only more distasteful, but degrading.
"did the german song suit, miss march?"
inquired mr. brooke, breaking an awkward pause.
"oh, yes!
it was very sweet, and i'm much obliged to whoever translated it for me."
and meg's downcast face brightened as she spoke.
"don't you read german?"
asked miss kate with a look of surprise.
"not very well.
my father, who taught me, is away, and i don't get on very fast alone, for i've no one to correct my pronunciation."
"try a little now.
here is schiller's mary stuart and a tutor who loves to teach."
and mr. brooke laid his book on her lap with an inviting smile.
"it's so hard i'm afraid to try," said meg, grateful, but bashful in the presence of the accomplished young lady beside her.
"i'll read a bit to encourage you."
and miss kate read one of the most beautiful passages in a perfectly correct but perfectly expressionless manner.
mr. brooke made no comment as she returned the book to meg, who said innocently, "i thought it was poetry."
"some of it is.
try this passage."
there was a queer smile about mr. brooke's mouth as he opened at poor mary's lament.
meg obediently following the long grass-blade which her new tutor used to point with, read slowly and timidly, unconsciously making poetry of the hard words by the soft intonation of her musical voice.
down the page went the green guide, and presently, forgetting her listener in the beauty of the sad scene, meg read as if alone, giving a little touch of tragedy to the words of the unhappy queen.
if she had seen the brown eyes then, she would have stopped short, but she never looked up, and the lesson was not spoiled for her.
"very well indeed!"
said mr. brooke, as she paused, quite ignoring her many mistakes, and looking as if he did indeed love to teach.
miss kate put up her glass, and, having taken a survey of the little tableau before her, shut her sketch book, saying with condescension, "you've a nice accent and in time will be a clever reader.
i advise you to learn, for german is a valuable accomplishment to teachers.
i must look after grace, she is romping."
and miss kate strolled away, adding to herself with a shrug, "i didn't come to chaperone a governess, though she is young and pretty.
what odd people these yankees are.
i'm afraid laurie will be quite spoiled among them."
"i forgot that english people rather turn up their noses at governesses and don't treat them as we do," said meg, looking after the retreating figure with an annoyed expression.
"tutors also have rather a hard time of it there, as i know to my sorrow.
there's no place like america for us workers, miss margaret."
and mr. brooke looked so contented and cheerful that meg was ashamed to lament her hard lot.
"i'm glad i live in it then.
i don't like my work, but i get a good deal of satisfaction out of it after all, so i won't complain.
i only wished i liked teaching as you do."
"i think you would if you had laurie for a pupil.
i shall be very sorry to lose him next year," said mr. brooke, busily punching holes in the turf.
"going to college, i suppose?"
meg's lips asked the question, but her eyes added, "and what becomes of you?"
"yes, it's high time he went, for he is ready, and as soon as he is off, i shall turn soldier.
i am needed."
"i am glad of that!"
exclaimed meg.
"i should think every young man would want to go, though it is hard for the mothers and sisters who stay at home," she added sorrowfully.
"i have neither, and very few friends to care whether i live or die,"
said mr. brooke rather bitterly as he absently put the dead rose in the hole he had made and covered it up, like a little grave.
"laurie and his grandfather would care a great deal, and we should all be very sorry to have any harm happen to you," said meg heartily.
"thank you, that sounds pleasant," began mr. brooke, looking cheerful again, but before he could finish his speech, ned, mounted on the old horse, came lumbering up to display his equestrian skill before the young ladies, and there was no more quiet that day.
"don't you love to ride?"
asked grace of amy, as they stood resting after a race round the field with the others, led by ned.
"i dote upon it.
my sister, meg, used to ride when papa was rich, but we don't keep any horses now, except ellen tree," added amy, laughing.
"tell me about ellen tree.
is it a donkey?"
asked grace curiously.
"why, you see, jo is crazy about horses and so am i, but we've only got an old sidesaddle and no horse.
out in our garden is an apple tree that has a nice low branch, so jo put the saddle on it, fixed some reins on the part that turns up, and we bounce away on ellen tree whenever we like."
"how funny!"
laughed grace.
"i have a pony at home, and ride nearly every day in the park with fred and kate.
it's very nice, for my friends go too, and the row is full of ladies and gentlemen."
"dear, how charming!
i hope i shall go abroad some day, but i'd rather go to rome than the row," said amy, who had not the remotest idea what the row was and wouldn't have asked for the world.
frank, sitting just behind the little girls, heard what they were saying, and pushed his crutch away from him with an impatient gesture as he watched the active lads going through all sorts of comical gymnastics.
beth, who was collecting the scattered author cards, looked up and said, in her shy yet friendly way, "i'm afraid you are tired.
can i do anything for you?"
"talk to me, please.
it's dull, sitting by myself," answered frank, who had evidently been used to being made much of at home.
if he asked her to deliver a latin oration, it would not have seemed a more impossible task to bashful beth, but there was no place to run to, no jo to hide behind now, and the poor boy looked so wistfully at her that she bravely resolved to try.
"what do you like to talk about?"
she asked, fumbling over the cards and dropping half as she tried to tie them up.
"well, i like to hear about cricket and boating and hunting," said frank, who had not yet learned to suit his amusements to his strength.
my heart!
what shall i do?
i don't know anything about them, thought beth, and forgetting the boy's misfortune in her flurry, she said, hoping to make him talk, "i never saw any hunting, but i suppose you know all about it."
"i did once, but i can never hunt again, for i got hurt leaping a confounded five-barred gate, so there are no more horses and hounds for me," said frank with a sigh that made beth hate herself for her innocent blunder.
"your deer are much prettier than our ugly buffaloes," she said, turning to the prairies for help and feeling glad that she had read one of the boys' books in which jo delighted.
buffaloes proved soothing and satisfactory, and in her eagerness to amuse another, beth forgot herself, and was quite unconscious of her sisters' surprise and delight at the unusual spectacle of beth talking away to one of the dreadful boys, against whom she had begged protection.
"bless her heart!
she pities him, so she is good to him," said jo, beaming at her from the croquet ground.
"i always said she was a little saint," added meg, as if there could be no further doubt of it.
"i haven't heard frank laugh so much for ever so long," said grace to amy, as they sat discussing dolls and making tea sets out of the acorn cups.
"my sister beth is a very fastidious girl, when she likes to be," said amy, well pleased at beth's success.
she meant 'facinating', but as grace didn't know the exact meaning of either word, fastidious sounded well and made a good impression.
an impromptu circus, fox and geese, and an amicable game of croquet finished the afternoon.
at sunset the tent was struck, hampers packed, wickets pulled up, boats loaded, and the whole party floated down the river, singing at the tops of their voices.
ned, getting sentimental, warbled a serenade with the pensive refrain...
alone, alone, ah!
woe, alone,
and at the lines...
we each are young, we each have a heart,     oh, why should we stand thus coldly apart?
he looked at meg with such a lackadiasical expression that she laughed outright and spoiled his song.
"how can you be so cruel to me?"
he whispered, under cover of a lively chorus.
"you've kept close to that starched-up englishwoman all day, and now you snub me."
"i didn't mean to, but you looked so funny i really couldn't help it,"
replied meg, passing over the first part of his reproach, for it was quite true that she had shunned him, remembering the moffat party and the talk after it.
ned was offended and turned to sallie for consolation, saying to her rather pettishly, "there isn't a bit of flirt in that girl, is there?"
"not a particle, but she's a dear," returned sallie, defending her friend even while confessing her shortcomings.
"she's not a stricken deer anyway," said ned, trying to be witty, and succeeding as well as very young gentlemen usually do.
on the lawn where it had gathered, the little party separated with cordial good nights and good-byes, for the vaughns were going to canada.
as the four sisters went home through the garden, miss kate looked after them, saying, without the patronizing tone in her voice, "in spite of their demonstrative manners, american girls are very nice when one knows them."
"i quite agree with you," said mr. brooke.
chapter thirteen
castles in the air
laurie lay luxuriously swinging to and fro in his hammock one warm september afternoon, wondering what his neighbors were about, but too lazy to go and find out.
he was in one of his moods, for the day had been both unprofitable and unsatisfactory, and he was wishing he could live it over again.
the hot weather made him indolent, and he had shirked his studies, tried mr. brooke's patience to the utmost, displeased his grandfather by practicing half the afternoon, frightened the maidservants half out of their wits by mischievously hinting that one of his dogs was going mad, and, after high words with the stableman about some fancied neglect of his horse, he had flung himself into his hammock to fume over the stupidity of the world in general, till the peace of the lovely day quieted him in spite of himself.
staring up into the green gloom of the horse-chestnut trees above him, he dreamed dreams of all sorts, and was just imagining himself tossing on the ocean in a voyage round the world, when the sound of voices brought him ashore in a flash.
peeping through the meshes of the hammock, he saw the marches coming out, as if bound on some expedition.
"what in the world are those girls about now?"
thought laurie, opening his sleepy eyes to take a good look, for there was something rather peculiar in the appearance of his neighbors.
each wore a large, flapping hat, a brown linen pouch slung over one shoulder, and carried a long staff.
meg had a cushion, jo a book, beth a basket, and amy a portfolio.
all walked quietly through the garden, out at the little back gate, and began to climb the hill that lay between the house and river.
"well, that's cool," said laurie to himself, "to have a picnic and never ask me!
they can't be going in the boat, for they haven't got the key.
perhaps they forgot it.
i'll take it to them, and see what's going on."
though possessed of half a dozen hats, it took him some time to find one, then there was a hunt for the key, which was at last discovered in his pocket, so that the girls were quite out of sight when he leaped the fence and ran after them.
taking the shortest way to the boathouse, he waited for them to appear, but no one came, and he went up the hill to take an observation.
a grove of pines covered one part of it, and from the heart of this green spot came a clearer sound than the soft sigh of the pines or the drowsy chirp of the crickets.
"here's a landscape!"
thought laurie, peeping through the bushes, and looking wide-awake and good-natured already.
it was a rather pretty little picture, for the sisters sat together in the shady nook, with sun and shadow flickering over them, the aromatic wind lifting their hair and cooling their hot cheeks, and all the little wood people going on with their affairs as if these were no strangers but old friends.
meg sat upon her cushion, sewing daintily with her white hands, and looking as fresh and sweet as a rose in her pink dress among the green.
beth was sorting the cones that lay thick under the hemlock near by, for she made pretty things with them.
amy was sketching a group of ferns, and jo was knitting as she read aloud.
a shadow passed over the boy's face as he watched them, feeling that he ought to go away because uninvited; yet lingering because home seemed very lonely and this quiet party in the woods most attractive to his restless spirit.
he stood so still that a squirrel, busy with its harvesting, ran down a pine close beside him, saw him suddenly and skipped back, scolding so shrilly that beth looked up, espied the wistful face behind the birches, and beckoned with a reassuring smile.
"may i come in, please?
or shall i be a bother?"
he asked, advancing slowly.
meg lifted her eyebrows, but jo scowled at her defiantly and said at once, "of course you may.
we should have asked you before, only we thought you wouldn't care for such a girl's game as this."
"i always like your games, but if meg doesn't want me, i'll go away."
"i've no objection, if you do something.
it's against the rules to be idle here," replied meg gravely but graciously.
"much obliged.
i'll do anything if you'll let me stop a bit, for it's as dull as the desert of sahara down there.
shall i sew, read, cone, draw, or do all at once?
bring on your bears.
i'm ready."
and laurie sat down with a submissive expression delightful to behold.
"finish this story while i set my heel," said jo, handing him the book.
"yes'm."
was the meek answer, as he began, doing his best to prove his gratitude for the favor of admission into the 'busy bee society'.
the story was not a long one, and when it was finished, he ventured to ask a few questions as a reward of merit.
"please, ma'am, could i inquire if this highly instructive and charming institution is a new one?"
"would you tell him?"
asked meg of her sisters.
"he'll laugh," said amy warningly.
"who cares?"
said jo.
"i guess he'll like it," added beth.
"of course i shall!
i give you my word i won't laugh.
tell away, jo, and don't be afraid."
"the idea of being afraid of you!
well, you see we used to play pilgrim's progress, and we have been going on with it in earnest, all winter and summer."
"yes, i know," said laurie, nodding wisely.
"who told you?"
demanded jo.
"spirits."
"no, i did.
i wanted to amuse him one night when you were all away, and he was rather dismal.
he did like it, so don't scold, jo," said beth meekly.
"you can't keep a secret.
never mind, it saves trouble now."
"go on, please," said laurie, as jo became absorbed in her work, looking a trifle displeased.
"oh, didn't she tell you about this new plan of ours?
well, we have tried not to waste our holiday, but each has had a task and worked at it with a will.
the vacation is nearly over, the stints are all done, and we are ever so glad that we didn't dawdle."
"yes, i should think so," and laurie thought regretfully of his own idle days.
"mother likes to have us out-of-doors as much as possible, so we bring our work here and have nice times.
for the fun of it we bring our things in these bags, wear the old hats, use poles to climb the hill, and play pilgrims, as we used to do years ago.
we call this hill the delectable mountain, for we can look far away and see the country where we hope to live some time."
jo pointed, and laurie sat up to examine, for through an opening in the wood one could look cross the wide, blue river, the meadows on the other side, far over the outskirts of the great city, to the green hills that rose to meet the sky.
the sun was low, and the heavens glowed with the splendor of an autumn sunset.
gold and purple clouds lay on the hilltops, and rising high into the ruddy light were silvery white peaks that shone like the airy spires of some celestial city.
"how beautiful that is!"
said laurie softly, for he was quick to see and feel beauty of any kind.
"it's often so, and we like to watch it, for it is never the same, but always splendid," replied amy, wishing she could paint it.
"jo talks about the country where we hope to live sometime the real country, she means, with pigs and chickens and haymaking.
it would be nice, but i wish the beautiful country up there was real, and we could ever go to it," said beth musingly.
"there is a lovelier country even than that, where we shall go, by-and-by, when we are good enough," answered meg with her sweetest voice.
"it seems so long to wait, so hard to do.
i want to fly away at once, as those swallows fly, and go in at that splendid gate."
"you'll get there, beth, sooner or later, no fear of that," said jo.
"i'm the one that will have to fight and work, and climb and wait, and maybe never get in after all."
"you'll have me for company, if that's any comfort.
i shall have to do a deal of traveling before i come in sight of your celestial city.
if i arrive late, you'll say a good word for me, won't you, beth?"
something in the boy's face troubled his little friend, but she said cheerfully, with her quiet eyes on the changing clouds, "if people really want to go, and really try all their lives, i think they will get in, for i don't believe there are any locks on that door or any guards at the gate.
i always imagine it is as it is in the picture, where the shining ones stretch out their hands to welcome poor christian as he comes up from the river."
"wouldn't it be fun if all the castles in the air which we make could come true, and we could live in them?"
said jo, after a little pause.
"i've made such quantities it would be hard to choose which i'd have,"
said laurie, lying flat and throwing cones at the squirrel who had betrayed him.
"you'd have to take your favorite one.
what is it?"
asked meg.
"if i tell mine, will you tell yours?"
"yes, if the girls will too."
"we will.
now, laurie."
"after i'd seen as much of the world as i want to, i'd like to settle in germany and have just as much music as i choose.
i'm to be a famous musician myself, and all creation is to rush to hear me.
and i'm never to be bothered about money or business, but just enjoy myself and live for what i like.
that's my favorite castle.
what's yours, meg?"
margaret seemed to find it a little hard to tell hers, and waved a brake before her face, as if to disperse imaginary gnats, while she said slowly, "i should like a lovely house, full of all sorts of luxurious things nice food, pretty clothes, handsome furniture, pleasant people, and heaps of money.
i am to be mistress of it, and manage it as i like, with plenty of servants, so i never need work a bit.
how i should enjoy it!
for i wouldn't be idle, but do good, and make everyone love me dearly."
"wouldn't you have a master for your castle in the air?"
asked laurie slyly.
"i said 'pleasant people', you know," and meg carefully tied up her shoe as she spoke, so that no one saw her face.
"why don't you say you'd have a splendid, wise, good husband and some angelic little children?
you know your castle wouldn't be perfect without," said blunt jo, who had no tender fancies yet, and rather scorned romance, except in books.
"you'd have nothing but horses, inkstands, and novels in yours,"
answered meg petulantly.
"wouldn't i though?
i'd have a stable full of arabian steeds, rooms piled high with books, and i'd write out of a magic inkstand, so that my works should be as famous as laurie's music.
i want to do something splendid before i go into my castle, something heroic or wonderful that won't be forgotten after i'm dead.
i don't know what, but i'm on the watch for it, and mean to astonish you all some day.
i think i shall write books, and get rich and famous, that would suit me, so that is my favorite dream."
"mine is to stay at home safe with father and mother, and help take care of the family," said beth contentedly.
"don't you wish for anything else?"
asked laurie.
"since i had my little piano, i am perfectly satisfied.
i only wish we may all keep well and be together, nothing else."
"i have ever so many wishes, but the pet one is to be an artist, and go to rome, and do fine pictures, and be the best artist in the whole world," was amy's modest desire.
"we're an ambitious set, aren't we?
every one of us, but beth, wants to be rich and famous, and gorgeous in every respect.
i do wonder if any of us will ever get our wishes," said laurie, chewing grass like a meditative calf.
"i've got the key to my castle in the air, but whether i can unlock the door remains to be seen," observed jo mysteriously.
"i've got the key to mine, but i'm not allowed to try it.
hang college!"
muttered laurie with an impatient sigh.
"here's mine!"
and amy waved her pencil.
"i haven't got any," said meg forlornly.
"yes, you have," said laurie at once.
"where?"
"in your face."
"nonsense, that's of no use."
"wait and see if it doesn't bring you something worth having," replied the boy, laughing at the thought of a charming little secret which he fancied he knew.
meg colored behind the brake, but asked no questions and looked across the river with the same expectant expression which mr. brooke had worn when he told the story of the knight.
"if we are all alive ten years hence, let's meet, and see how many of us have got our wishes, or how much nearer we are then than now," said jo, always ready with a plan.
"bless me!
how old i shall be, twenty-seven!"
exclaimed meg, who felt grown up already, having just reached seventeen.
"you and i will be twenty-six, teddy, beth twenty-four, and amy twenty-two.
what a venerable party!"
said jo.
"i hope i shall have done something to be proud of by that time, but i'm such a lazy dog, i'm afraid i shall dawdle, jo."
"you need a motive, mother says, and when you get it, she is sure you'll work splendidly."
"is she?
by jupiter, i will, if i only get the chance!"
cried laurie, sitting up with sudden energy.
"i ought to be satisfied to please grandfather, and i do try, but it's working against the grain, you see, and comes hard.
he wants me to be an india merchant, as he was, and i'd rather be shot.
i hate tea and silk and spices, and every sort of rubbish his old ships bring, and i don't care how soon they go to the bottom when i own them.
going to college ought to satisfy him, for if i give him four years he ought to let me off from the business.
but he's set, and i've got to do just as he did, unless i break away and please myself, as my father did.
if there was anyone left to stay with the old gentleman, i'd do it tomorrow."
laurie spoke excitedly, and looked ready to carry his threat into execution on the slightest provocation, for he was growing up very fast and, in spite of his indolent ways, had a young man's hatred of subjection, a young man's restless longing to try the world for himself.
"i advise you to sail away in one of your ships, and never come home again till you have tried your own way," said jo, whose imagination was fired by the thought of such a daring exploit, and whose sympathy was excited by what she called 'teddy's wrongs'.
"that's not right, jo.
you mustn't talk in that way, and laurie mustn't take your bad advice.
you should do just what your grandfather wishes, my dear boy," said meg in her most maternal tone.
"do your best at college, and when he sees that you try to please him, i'm sure he won't be hard on you or unjust to you.
as you say, there is no one else to stay with and love him, and you'd never forgive yourself if you left him without his permission.
don't be dismal or fret, but do your duty and you'll get your reward, as good mr. brooke has, by being respected and loved."
"what do you know about him?"
asked laurie, grateful for the good advice, but objecting to the lecture, and glad to turn the conversation from himself after his unusual outbreak.
"only what your grandpa told us about him, how he took good care of his own mother till she died, and wouldn't go abroad as tutor to some nice person because he wouldn't leave her.
and how he provides now for an old woman who nursed his mother, and never tells anyone, but is just as generous and patient and good as he can be."
"so he is, dear old fellow!"
said laurie heartily, as meg paused, looking flushed and earnest with her story.
"it's like grandpa to find out all about him without letting him know, and to tell all his goodness to others, so that they might like him.
brooke couldn't understand why your mother was so kind to him, asking him over with me and treating him in her beautiful friendly way.
he thought she was just perfect, and talked about it for days and days, and went on about you all in flaming style.
if ever i do get my wish, you see what i'll do for brooke."
"begin to do something now by not plaguing his life out," said meg sharply.
"how do you know i do, miss?"
"i can always tell by his face when he goes away.
if you have been good, he looks satisfied and walks briskly.
if you have plagued him, he's sober and walks slowly, as if he wanted to go back and do his work better."
"well, i like that?
so you keep an account of my good and bad marks in brooke's face, do you?
i see him bow and smile as he passes your window, but i didn't know you'd got up a telegraph."
"we haven't.
don't be angry, and oh, don't tell him i said anything!
it was only to show that i cared how you get on, and what is said here is said in confidence, you know," cried meg, much alarmed at the thought of what might follow from her careless speech.
"i don't tell tales," replied laurie, with his 'high and mighty' air, as jo called a certain expression which he occasionally wore.
"only if brooke is going to be a thermometer, i must mind and have fair weather for him to report."
"please don't be offended.
i didn't mean to preach or tell tales or be silly.
i only thought jo was encouraging you in a feeling which you'd be sorry for by-and-by.
you are so kind to us, we feel as if you were our brother and say just what we think.
forgive me, i meant it kindly."
and meg offered her hand with a gesture both affectionate and timid.
ashamed of his momentary pique, laurie squeezed the kind little hand, and said frankly, "i'm the one to be forgiven.
i'm cross and have been out of sorts all day.
i like to have you tell me my faults and be sisterly, so don't mind if i am grumpy sometimes.
i thank you all the same."
bent on showing that he was not offended, he made himself as agreeable as possible, wound cotton for meg, recited poetry to please jo, shook down cones for beth, and helped amy with her ferns, proving himself a fit person to belong to the 'busy bee society'.
in the midst of an animated discussion on the domestic habits of turtles (one of those amiable creatures having strolled up from the river), the faint sound of a bell warned them that hannah had put the tea 'to draw', and they would just have time to get home to supper.
"may i come again?"
asked laurie.
"yes, if you are good, and love your book, as the boys in the primer are told to do," said meg, smiling.
"i'll try."
"then you may come, and i'll teach you to knit as the scotchmen do.
there's a demand for socks just now," added jo, waving hers like a big blue worsted banner as they parted at the gate.
that night, when beth played to mr. laurence in the twilight, laurie, standing in the shadow of the curtain, listened to the little david, whose simple music always quieted his moody spirit, and watched the old man, who sat with his gray head on his hand, thinking tender thoughts of the dead child he had loved so much.
remembering the conversation of the afternoon, the boy said to himself, with the resolve to make the sacrifice cheerfully, "i'll let my castle go, and stay with the dear old gentleman while he needs me, for i am all he has."
chapter fourteen
secrets
jo was very busy in the garret, for the october days began to grow chilly, and the afternoons were short.
for two or three hours the sun lay warmly in the high window, showing jo seated on the old sofa, writing busily, with her papers spread out upon a trunk before her, while scrabble, the pet rat, promenaded the beams overhead, accompanied by his oldest son, a fine young fellow, who was evidently very proud of his whiskers.
quite absorbed in her work, jo scribbled away till the last page was filled, when she signed her name with a flourish and threw down her pen, exclaiming...
"there, i've done my best!
if this won't suit i shall have to wait till i can do better."
lying back on the sofa, she read the manuscript carefully through, making dashes here and there, and putting in many exclamation points, which looked like little balloons.
then she tied it up with a smart red ribbon, and sat a minute looking at it with a sober, wistful expression, which plainly showed how earnest her work had been.
jo's desk up here was an old tin kitchen which hung against the wall.
in it she kept her papers, and a few books, safely shut away from scrabble, who, being likewise of a literary turn, was fond of making a circulating library of such books as were left in his way by eating the leaves.
from this tin receptacle jo produced another manuscript, and putting both in her pocket, crept quietly downstairs, leaving her friends to nibble on her pens and taste her ink.
she put on her hat and jacket as noiselessly as possible, and going to the back entry window, got out upon the roof of a low porch, swung herself down to the grassy bank, and took a roundabout way to the road.
once there, she composed herself, hailed a passing omnibus, and rolled away to town, looking very merry and mysterious.
if anyone had been watching her, he would have thought her movements decidedly peculiar, for on alighting, she went off at a great pace till she reached a certain number in a certain busy street.
having found the place with some difficulty, she went into the doorway, looked up the dirty stairs, and after standing stock still a minute, suddenly dived into the street and walked away as rapidly as she came.
this maneuver she repeated several times, to the great amusement of a black-eyed young gentleman lounging in the window of a building opposite.
on returning for the third time, jo gave herself a shake, pulled her hat over her eyes, and walked up the stairs, looking as if she were going to have all her teeth out.
there was a dentist's sign, among others, which adorned the entrance, and after staring a moment at the pair of artificial jaws which slowly opened and shut to draw attention to a fine set of teeth, the young gentleman put on his coat, took his hat, and went down to post himself in the opposite doorway, saying with a smile and a shiver, "it's like her to come alone, but if she has a bad time she'll need someone to help her home."
in ten minutes jo came running downstairs with a very red face and the general appearance of a person who had just passed through a trying ordeal of some sort.
when she saw the young gentleman she looked anything but pleased, and passed him with a nod.
but he followed, asking with an air of sympathy, "did you have a bad time?"
"not very."
"you got through quickly."
"yes, thank goodness!"
"why did you go alone?"
"didn't want anyone to know."
"you're the oddest fellow i ever saw.
how many did you have out?"
jo looked at her friend as if she did not understand him, then began to laugh as if mightily amused at something.
"there are two which i want to have come out, but i must wait a week."
"what are you laughing at?
you are up to some mischief, jo," said laurie, looking mystified.
"so are you.
what were you doing, sir, up in that billiard saloon?"
"begging your pardon, ma'am, it wasn't a billiard saloon, but a gymnasium, and i was taking a lesson in fencing."
"i'm glad of that."
"why?"
"you can teach me, and then when we play hamlet, you can be laertes, and we'll make a fine thing of the fencing scene."
laurie burst out with a hearty boy's laugh, which made several passers-by smile in spite of themselves.
"i'll teach you whether we play hamlet or not.
it's grand fun and will straighten you up capitally.
but i don't believe that was your only reason for saying 'i'm glad' in that decided way, was it now?"
"no, i was glad that you were not in the saloon, because i hope you never go to such places.
do you?"
"not often."
"i wish you wouldn't."
"it's no harm, jo.
i have billiards at home, but it's no fun unless you have good players, so, as i'm fond of it, i come sometimes and have a game with ned moffat or some of the other fellows."
"oh, dear, i'm so sorry, for you'll get to liking it better and better, and will waste time and money, and grow like those dreadful boys.
i did hope you'd stay respectable and be a satisfaction to your friends,"
said jo, shaking her head.
"can't a fellow take a little innocent amusement now and then without losing his respectability?"
asked laurie, looking nettled.
"that depends upon how and where he takes it.
i don't like ned and his set, and wish you'd keep out of it.
mother won't let us have him at our house, though he wants to come.
and if you grow like him she won't be willing to have us frolic together as we do now."
"won't she?"
asked laurie anxiously.
"no, she can't bear fashionable young men, and she'd shut us all up in bandboxes rather than have us associate with them."
"well, she needn't get out her bandboxes yet.
i'm not a fashionable party and don't mean to be, but i do like harmless larks now and then, don't you?"
"yes, nobody minds them, so lark away, but don't get wild, will you?
or there will be an end of all our good times."
"i'll be a double distilled saint."
"i can't bear saints.
just be a simple, honest, respectable boy, and we'll never desert you.
i don't know what i should do if you acted like mr. king's son.
he had plenty of money, but didn't know how to spend it, and got tipsy and gambled, and ran away, and forged his father's name, i believe, and was altogether horrid."
"you think i'm likely to do the same?
much obliged."
"no, i don't oh, dear, no!
but i hear people talking about money being such a temptation, and i sometimes wish you were poor.
i shouldn't worry then."
"do you worry about me, jo?"
"a little, when you look moody and discontented, as you sometimes do, for you've got such a strong will, if you once get started wrong, i'm afraid it would be hard to stop you."
laurie walked in silence a few minutes, and jo watched him, wishing she had held her tongue, for his eyes looked angry, though his lips smiled as if at her warnings.
"are you going to deliver lectures all the way home?"
he asked presently.
"of course not.
why?"
"because if you are, i'll take a bus.
if you're not, i'd like to walk with you and tell you something very interesting."
"i won't preach any more, and i'd like to hear the news immensely."
"very well, then, come on.
it's a secret, and if i tell you, you must tell me yours."
"i haven't got any," began jo, but stopped suddenly, remembering that she had.
"you know you have you can't hide anything, so up and 'fess, or i won't tell," cried laurie.
"is your secret a nice one?"
"oh, isn't it!
all about people you know, and such fun!
you ought to hear it, and i've been aching to tell it this long time.
come, you begin."
"you'll not say anything about it at home, will you?"
"not a word."
"and you won't tease me in private?"
"i never tease."
"yes, you do.
you get everything you want out of people.
i don't know how you do it, but you are a born wheedler."
"thank you.
fire away."
"well, i've left two stories with a newspaperman, and he's to give his answer next week," whispered jo, in her confidant's ear.
"hurrah for miss march, the celebrated american authoress!"
cried laurie, throwing up his hat and catching it again, to the great delight of two ducks, four cats, five hens, and half a dozen irish children, for they were out of the city now.
"hush!
it won't come to anything, i dare say, but i couldn't rest till i had tried, and i said nothing about it because i didn't want anyone else to be disappointed."
"it won't fail.
why, jo, your stories are works of shakespeare compared to half the rubbish that is published every day.
won't it be fun to see them in print, and shan't we feel proud of our authoress?"
jo's eyes sparkled, for it is always pleasant to be believed in, and a friend's praise is always sweeter than a dozen newspaper puffs.
"where's your secret?
play fair, teddy, or i'll never believe you again," she said, trying to extinguish the brilliant hopes that blazed up at a word of encouragement.
"i may get into a scrape for telling, but i didn't promise not to, so i will, for i never feel easy in my mind till i've told you any plummy bit of news i get.
i know where meg's glove is."
"is that all?"
said jo, looking disappointed, as laurie nodded and twinkled with a face full of mysterious intelligence.
"it's quite enough for the present, as you'll agree when i tell you where it is."
"tell, then."
laurie bent, and whispered three words in jo's ear, which produced a comical change.
she stood and stared at him for a minute, looking both surprised and displeased, then walked on, saying sharply, "how do you know?"
"saw it."
"where?"
"pocket."
"all this time?"
"yes, isn't that romantic?"
"no, it's horrid."
"don't you like it?"
"of course i don't.
it's ridiculous, it won't be allowed.
my patience!
what would meg say?"
"you are not to tell anyone.
mind that."
"i didn't promise."
"that was understood, and i trusted you."
"well, i won't for the present, anyway, but i'm disgusted, and wish you hadn't told me."
"i thought you'd be pleased."
"at the idea of anybody coming to take meg away?
no, thank you."
"you'll feel better about it when somebody comes to take you away."
"i'd like to see anyone try it," cried jo fiercely.
"so should i!"
and laurie chuckled at the idea.
"i don't think secrets agree with me, i feel rumpled up in my mind since you told me that," said jo rather ungratefully.
"race down this hill with me, and you'll be all right," suggested laurie.
no one was in sight, the smooth road sloped invitingly before her, and finding the temptation irresistible, jo darted away, soon leaving hat and comb behind her and scattering hairpins as she ran.
laurie reached the goal first and was quite satisfied with the success of his treatment, for his atlanta came panting up with flying hair, bright eyes, ruddy cheeks, and no signs of dissatisfaction in her face.
"i wish i was a horse, then i could run for miles in this splendid air, and not lose my breath.
it was capital, but see what a guy it's made me.
go, pick up my things, like a cherub, as you are," said jo, dropping down under a maple tree, which was carpeting the bank with crimson leaves.
laurie leisurely departed to recover the lost property, and jo bundled up her braids, hoping no one would pass by till she was tidy again.
but someone did pass, and who should it be but meg, looking particularly ladylike in her state and festival suit, for she had been making calls.
"what in the world are you doing here?"
she asked, regarding her disheveled sister with well-bred surprise.
"getting leaves," meekly answered jo, sorting the rosy handful she had just swept up.
"and hairpins," added laurie, throwing half a dozen into jo's lap.
"they grow on this road, meg, so do combs and brown straw hats."
"you have been running, jo.
how could you?
when will you stop such romping ways?"
said meg reprovingly, as she settled her cuffs and smoothed her hair, with which the wind had taken liberties.
"never till i'm stiff and old and have to use a crutch.
don't try to make me grow up before my time, meg.
it's hard enough to have you change all of a sudden.
let me be a little girl as long as i can."
as she spoke, jo bent over the leaves to hide the trembling of her lips, for lately she had felt that margaret was fast getting to be a woman, and laurie's secret made her dread the separation which must surely come some time and now seemed very near.
he saw the trouble in her face and drew meg's attention from it by asking quickly, "where have you been calling, all so fine?"
"at the gardiners', and sallie has been telling me all about belle moffat's wedding.
it was very splendid, and they have gone to spend the winter in paris.
just think how delightful that must be!"
"do you envy her, meg?"
said laurie.
"i'm afraid i do."
"i'm glad of it!"
muttered jo, tying on her hat with a jerk.
"why?"
asked meg, looking surprised.
"because if you care much about riches, you will never go and marry a poor man," said jo, frowning at laurie, who was mutely warning her to mind what she said.
"i shall never 'go and marry' anyone," observed meg, walking on with great dignity while the others followed, laughing, whispering, skipping stones, and 'behaving like children', as meg said to herself, though she might have been tempted to join them if she had not had her best dress on.
for a week or two, jo behaved so queerly that her sisters were quite bewildered.
she rushed to the door when the postman rang, was rude to mr. brooke whenever they met, would sit looking at meg with a woe-begone face, occasionally jumping up to shake and then kiss her in a very mysterious manner.
laurie and she were always making signs to one another, and talking about 'spread eagles' till the girls declared they had both lost their wits.
on the second saturday after jo got out of the window, meg, as she sat sewing at her window, was scandalized by the sight of laurie chasing jo all over the garden and finally capturing her in amy's bower.
what went on there, meg could not see, but shrieks of laughter were heard, followed by the murmur of voices and a great flapping of newspapers.
"what shall we do with that girl?
she never will behave like a young lady," sighed meg, as she watched the race with a disapproving face.
"i hope she won't.
she is so funny and dear as she is," said beth, who had never betrayed that she was a little hurt at jo's having secrets with anyone but her.
"it's very trying, but we never can make her commy la fo," added amy, who sat making some new frills for herself, with her curls tied up in a very becoming way, two agreeable things that made her feel unusually elegant and ladylike.
in a few minutes jo bounced in, laid herself on the sofa, and affected to read.
"have you anything interesting there?"
asked meg, with condescension.
"nothing but a story, won't amount to much, i guess," returned jo, carefully keeping the name of the paper out of sight.
"you'd better read it aloud.
that will amuse us and keep you out of mischief," said amy in her most grown-up tone.
"what's the name?"
asked beth, wondering why jo kept her face behind the sheet.
"the rival painters."
"that sounds well.
read it," said meg.
with a loud "hem!"
and a long breath, jo began to read very fast.
the girls listened with interest, for the tale was romantic, and somewhat pathetic, as most of the characters died in the end.
"i like that about the splendid picture," was amy's approving remark, as jo paused.
"i prefer the lovering part.
viola and angelo are two of our favorite names, isn't that queer?"
said meg, wiping her eyes, for the lovering part was tragical.
"who wrote it?"
asked beth, who had caught a glimpse of jo's face.
the reader suddenly sat up, cast away the paper, displaying a flushed countenance, and with a funny mixture of solemnity and excitement replied in a loud voice, "your sister."
"you?"
cried meg, dropping her work.
"it's very good," said amy critically.
"i knew it!
i knew it!
oh, my jo, i am so proud!"
and beth ran to hug her sister and exult over this splendid success.
dear me, how delighted they all were, to be sure!
how meg wouldn't believe it till she saw the words.
"miss josephine march," actually printed in the paper.
how graciously amy criticized the artistic parts of the story, and offered hints for a sequel, which unfortunately couldn't be carried out, as the hero and heroine were dead.
how beth got excited, and skipped and sang with joy.
how hannah came in to exclaim, "sakes alive, well i never!"
in great astonishment at 'that jo's doin's'.
how proud mrs. march was when she knew it.
how jo laughed, with tears in her eyes, as she declared she might as well be a peacock and done with it, and how the 'spread eagle' might be said to flap his wings triumphantly over the house of march, as the paper passed from hand to hand.
"tell us about it."
"when did it come?"
"how much did you get for it?"
"what will father say?"
"won't laurie laugh?"
cried the family, all in one breath as they clustered about jo, for these foolish, affectionate people made a jubilee of every little household joy.
"stop jabbering, girls, and i'll tell you everything," said jo, wondering if miss burney felt any grander over her evelina than she did over her 'rival painters'.
having told how she disposed of her tales, jo added, "and when i went to get my answer, the man said he liked them both, but didn't pay beginners, only let them print in his paper, and noticed the stories.
it was good practice, he said, and when the beginners improved, anyone would pay.
so i let him have the two stories, and today this was sent to me, and laurie caught me with it and insisted on seeing it, so i let him.
and he said it was good, and i shall write more, and he's going to get the next paid for, and i am so happy, for in time i may be able to support myself and help the girls."
jo's breath gave out here, and wrapping her head in the paper, she bedewed her little story with a few natural tears, for to be independent and earn the praise of those she loved were the dearest wishes of her heart, and this seemed to be the first step toward that happy end.
chapter fifteen
a telegram
"november is the most disagreeable month in the whole year," said margaret, standing at the window one dull afternoon, looking out at the frostbitten garden.
"that's the reason i was born in it," observed jo pensively, quite unconscious of the blot on her nose.
"if something very pleasant should happen now, we should think it a delightful month," said beth, who took a hopeful view of everything, even november.
"i dare say, but nothing pleasant ever does happen in this family,"
said meg, who was out of sorts.
"we go grubbing along day after day, without a bit of change, and very little fun.
we might as well be in a treadmill."
"my patience, how blue we are!"
cried jo.
"i don't much wonder, poor dear, for you see other girls having splendid times, while you grind, grind, year in and year out.
oh, don't i wish i could manage things for you as i do for my heroines!
you're pretty enough and good enough already, so i'd have some rich relation leave you a fortune unexpectedly.
then you'd dash out as an heiress, scorn everyone who has slighted you, go abroad, and come home my lady something in a blaze of splendor and elegance."
"people don't have fortunes left them in that style nowadays, men have to work and women marry for money.
it's a dreadfully unjust world,"
said meg bitterly.
"jo and i are going to make fortunes for you all.
just wait ten years, and see if we don't," said amy, who sat in a corner making mud pies, as hannah called her little clay models of birds, fruit, and faces.
"can't wait, and i'm afraid i haven't much faith in ink and dirt, though i'm grateful for your good intentions."
meg sighed, and turned to the frostbitten garden again.
jo groaned and leaned both elbows on the table in a despondent attitude, but amy spatted away energetically, and beth, who sat at the other window, said, smiling, "two pleasant things are going to happen right away.
marmee is coming down the street, and laurie is tramping through the garden as if he had something nice to tell."
in they both came, mrs. march with her usual question, "any letter from father, girls?"
and laurie to say in his persuasive way, "won't some of you come for a drive?
i've been working away at mathematics till my head is in a muddle, and i'm going to freshen my wits by a brisk turn.
it's a dull day, but the air isn't bad, and i'm going to take brooke home, so it will be gay inside, if it isn't out.
come, jo, you and beth will go, won't you?"
"of course we will."
"much obliged, but i'm busy."
and meg whisked out her workbasket, for she had agreed with her mother that it was best, for her at least, not to drive too often with the young gentleman.
"we three will be ready in a minute," cried amy, running away to wash her hands.
"can i do anything for you, madam mother?"
asked laurie, leaning over mrs. march's chair with the affectionate look and tone he always gave her.
"no, thank you, except call at the office, if you'll be so kind, dear.
it's our day for a letter, and the postman hasn't been.
father is as regular as the sun, but there's some delay on the way, perhaps."
a sharp ring interrupted her, and a minute after hannah came in with a letter.
"it's one of them horrid telegraph things, mum," she said, handling it as if she was afraid it would explode and do some damage.
at the word 'telegraph', mrs. march snatched it, read the two lines it contained, and dropped back into her chair as white as if the little paper had sent a bullet to her heart.
laurie dashed downstairs for water, while meg and hannah supported her, and jo read aloud, in a frightened voice...
mrs. march:
your husband is very ill.  come at once.
s.  hale     blank hospital, washington.
how still the room was as they listened breathlessly, how strangely the day darkened outside, and how suddenly the whole world seemed to change, as the girls gathered about their mother, feeling as if all the happiness and support of their lives was about to be taken from them.
mrs. march was herself again directly, read the message over, and stretched out her arms to her daughters, saying, in a tone they never forgot, "i shall go at once, but it may be too late.
oh, children, children, help me to bear it!"
for several minutes there was nothing but the sound of sobbing in the room, mingled with broken words of comfort, tender assurances of help, and hopeful whispers that died away in tears.
poor hannah was the first to recover, and with unconscious wisdom she set all the rest a good example, for with her, work was panacea for most afflictions.
"the lord keep the dear man!
i won't waste no time a-cryin', but git your things ready right away, mum," she said heartily, as she wiped her face on her apron, gave her mistress a warm shake of the hand with her own hard one, and went away to work like three women in one.
"she's right, there's no time for tears now.
be calm, girls, and let me think."
they tried to be calm, poor things, as their mother sat up, looking pale but steady, and put away her grief to think and plan for them.
"where's laurie?"
she asked presently, when she had collected her thoughts and decided on the first duties to be done.
"here, ma'am.
oh, let me do something!"
cried the boy, hurrying from the next room whither he had withdrawn, feeling that their first sorrow was too sacred for even his friendly eyes to see.
"send a telegram saying i will come at once.
the next train goes early in the morning.
i'll take that."
"what else?
the horses are ready.
i can go anywhere, do anything," he said, looking ready to fly to the ends of the earth.
"leave a note at aunt march's.
jo, give me that pen and paper."
tearing off the blank side of one of her newly copied pages, jo drew the table before her mother, well knowing that money for the long, sad journey must be borrowed, and feeling as if she could do anything to add a little to the sum for her father.
"now go, dear, but don't kill yourself driving at a desperate pace.
there is no need of that."
mrs. march's warning was evidently thrown away, for five minutes later laurie tore by the window on his own fleet horse, riding as if for his life.
"jo, run to the rooms, and tell mrs. king that i can't come.
on the way get these things.
i'll put them down, they'll be needed and i must go prepared for nursing.
hospital stores are not always good.
beth, go and ask mr. laurence for a couple of bottles of old wine.
i'm not too proud to beg for father.
he shall have the best of everything.
amy, tell hannah to get down the black trunk, and meg, come and help me find my things, for i'm half bewildered."
writing, thinking, and directing all at once might well bewilder the poor lady, and meg begged her to sit quietly in her room for a little while, and let them work.
everyone scattered like leaves before a gust of wind, and the quiet, happy household was broken up as suddenly as if the paper had been an evil spell.
mr. laurence came hurrying back with beth, bringing every comfort the kind old gentleman could think of for the invalid, and friendliest promises of protection for the girls during the mother's absence, which comforted her very much.
there was nothing he didn't offer, from his own dressing gown to himself as escort.
but the last was impossible.
mrs. march would not hear of the old gentleman's undertaking the long journey, yet an expression of relief was visible when he spoke of it, for anxiety ill fits one for traveling.
he saw the look, knit his heavy eyebrows, rubbed his hands, and marched abruptly away, saying he'd be back directly.
no one had time to think of him again till, as meg ran through the entry, with a pair of rubbers in one hand and a cup of tea in the other, she came suddenly upon mr. brooke.
"i'm very sorry to hear of this, miss march," he said, in the kind, quiet tone which sounded very pleasantly to her perturbed spirit.
"i came to offer myself as escort to your mother.
mr. laurence has commissions for me in washington, and it will give me real satisfaction to be of service to her there."
down dropped the rubbers, and the tea was very near following, as meg put out her hand, with a face so full of gratitude that mr. brooke would have felt repaid for a much greater sacrifice than the trifling one of time and comfort which he was about to take.
"how kind you all are!
mother will accept, i'm sure, and it will be such a relief to know that she has someone to take care of her.
thank you very, very much!"
meg spoke earnestly, and forgot herself entirely till something in the brown eyes looking down at her made her remember the cooling tea, and lead the way into the parlor, saying she would call her mother.
everything was arranged by the time laurie returned with a note from aunt march, enclosing the desired sum, and a few lines repeating what she had often said before, that she had always told them it was absurd for march to go into the army, always predicted that no good would come of it, and she hoped they would take her advice the next time.
mrs.
march put the note in the fire, the money in her purse, and went on with her preparations, with her lips folded tightly in a way which jo would have understood if she had been there.
the short afternoon wore away.
all other errands were done, and meg and her mother busy at some necessary needlework, while beth and amy got tea, and hannah finished her ironing with what she called a 'slap and a bang', but still jo did not come.
they began to get anxious, and laurie went off to find her, for no one knew what freak jo might take into her head.
he missed her, however, and she came walking in with a very queer expression of countenance, for there was a mixture of fun and fear, satisfaction and regret in it, which puzzled the family as much as did the roll of bills she laid before her mother, saying with a little choke in her voice, "that's my contribution toward making father comfortable and bringing him home!"
"my dear, where did you get it?
twenty-five dollars!
jo, i hope you haven't done anything rash?"
"no, it's mine honestly.
i didn't beg, borrow, or steal it.
i earned it, and i don't think you'll blame me, for i only sold what was my own."
as she spoke, jo took off her bonnet, and a general outcry arose, for all her abundant hair was cut short.
"your hair!
your beautiful hair!"
"oh, jo, how could you?
your one beauty."
"my dear girl, there was no need of this."
"she doesn't look like my jo any more, but i love her dearly for it!"
as everyone exclaimed, and beth hugged the cropped head tenderly, jo assumed an indifferent air, which did not deceive anyone a particle, and said, rumpling up the brown bush and trying to look as if she liked it, "it doesn't affect the fate of the nation, so don't wail, beth.
it will be good for my vanity, i was getting too proud of my wig.
it will do my brains good to have that mop taken off.
my head feels deliciously light and cool, and the barber said i could soon have a curly crop, which will be boyish, becoming, and easy to keep in order.
i'm satisfied, so please take the money and let's have supper."
"tell me all about it, jo.
i am not quite satisfied, but i can't blame you, for i know how willingly you sacrificed your vanity, as you call it, to your love.
but, my dear, it was not necessary, and i'm afraid you will regret it one of these days," said mrs. march.
"no, i won't!"
returned jo stoutly, feeling much relieved that her prank was not entirely condemned.
"what made you do it?"
asked amy, who would as soon have thought of cutting off her head as her pretty hair.
"well, i was wild to do something for father," replied jo, as they gathered about the table, for healthy young people can eat even in the midst of trouble.
"i hate to borrow as much as mother does, and i knew aunt march would croak, she always does, if you ask for a ninepence.
meg gave all her quarterly salary toward the rent, and i only got some clothes with mine, so i felt wicked, and was bound to have some money, if i sold the nose off my face to get it."
"you needn't feel wicked, my child!
you had no winter things and got the simplest with your own hard earnings," said mrs. march with a look that warmed jo's heart.
"i hadn't the least idea of selling my hair at first, but as i went along i kept thinking what i could do, and feeling as if i'd like to dive into some of the rich stores and help myself.
in a barber's window i saw tails of hair with the prices marked, and one black tail, not so thick as mine, was forty dollars.
it came to me all of a sudden that i had one thing to make money out of, and without stopping to think, i walked in, asked if they bought hair, and what they would give for mine."
"i don't see how you dared to do it," said beth in a tone of awe.
"oh, he was a little man who looked as if he merely lived to oil his hair.
he rather stared at first, as if he wasn't used to having girls bounce into his shop and ask him to buy their hair.
he said he didn't care about mine, it wasn't the fashionable color, and he never paid much for it in the first place.
the work put into it made it dear, and so on.
it was getting late, and i was afraid if it wasn't done right away that i shouldn't have it done at all, and you know when i start to do a thing, i hate to give it up.
so i begged him to take it, and told him why i was in such a hurry.
it was silly, i dare say, but it changed his mind, for i got rather excited, and told the story in my topsy-turvy way, and his wife heard, and said so kindly, 'take it, thomas, and oblige the young lady.
i'd do as much for our jimmy any day if i had a spire of hair worth selling."
"who was jimmy?"
asked amy, who liked to have things explained as they went along.
"her son, she said, who was in the army.
how friendly such things make strangers feel, don't they?
she talked away all the time the man clipped, and diverted my mind nicely."
"didn't you feel dreadfully when the first cut came?"
asked meg, with a shiver.
"i took a last look at my hair while the man got his things, and that was the end of it.
i never snivel over trifles like that.
i will confess, though, i felt queer when i saw the dear old hair laid out on the table, and felt only the short rough ends of my head.
it almost seemed as if i'd an arm or leg off.
the woman saw me look at it, and picked out a long lock for me to keep.
i'll give it to you, marmee, just to remember past glories by, for a crop is so comfortable i don't think i shall ever have a mane again."
mrs. march folded the wavy chestnut lock, and laid it away with a short gray one in her desk.
she only said, "thank you, deary," but something in her face made the girls change the subject, and talk as cheerfully as they could about mr. brooke's kindness, the prospect of a fine day tomorrow, and the happy times they would have when father came home to be nursed.
no one wanted to go to bed when at ten o'clock mrs. march put by the last finished job, and said, "come girls."
beth went to the piano and played the father's favorite hymn.
all began bravely, but broke down one by one till beth was left alone, singing with all her heart, for to her music was always a sweet consoler.
"go to bed and don't talk, for we must be up early and shall need all the sleep we can get.
good night, my darlings," said mrs. march, as the hymn ended, for no one cared to try another.
they kissed her quietly, and went to bed as silently as if the dear invalid lay in the next room.
beth and amy soon fell asleep in spite of the great trouble, but meg lay awake, thinking the most serious thoughts she had ever known in her short life.
jo lay motionless, and her sister fancied that she was asleep, till a stifled sob made her exclaim, as she touched a wet cheek...
"jo, dear, what is it?
are you crying about father?"
"no, not now."
"what then?"
"my... my hair!"
burst out poor jo, trying vainly to smother her emotion in the pillow.
it did not seem at all comical to meg, who kissed and caressed the afflicted heroine in the tenderest manner.
"i'm not sorry," protested jo, with a choke.
"i'd do it again tomorrow, if i could.
it's only the vain part of me that goes and cries in this silly way.
don't tell anyone, it's all over now.
i thought you were asleep, so i just made a little private moan for my one beauty.
how came you to be awake?"
"i can't sleep, i'm so anxious," said meg.
"think about something pleasant, and you'll soon drop off."
"i tried it, but felt wider awake than ever."
"what did you think of?"
"handsome faces eyes particularly," answered meg, smiling to herself in the dark.
"what color do you like best?"
"brown, that is, sometimes.
blue are lovely."
jo laughed, and meg sharply ordered her not to talk, then amiably promised to make her hair curl, and fell asleep to dream of living in her castle in the air.
the clocks were striking midnight and the rooms were very still as a figure glided quietly from bed to bed, smoothing a coverlet here, settling a pillow there, and pausing to look long and tenderly at each unconscious face, to kiss each with lips that mutely blessed, and to pray the fervent prayers which only mothers utter.
as she lifted the curtain to look out into the dreary night, the moon broke suddenly from behind the clouds and shone upon her like a bright, benignant face, which seemed to whisper in the silence, "be comforted, dear soul!
there is always light behind the clouds."
chapter sixteen
letters
in the cold gray dawn the sisters lit their lamp and read their chapter with an earnestness never felt before.
for now the shadow of a real trouble had come, the little books were full of help and comfort, and as they dressed, they agreed to say goodbye cheerfully and hopefully, and send their mother on her anxious journey unsaddened by tears or complaints from them.
everything seemed very strange when they went down, so dim and still outside, so full of light and bustle within.
breakfast at that early hour seemed odd, and even hannah's familiar face looked unnatural as she flew about her kitchen with her nightcap on.
the big trunk stood ready in the hall, mother's cloak and bonnet lay on the sofa, and mother herself sat trying to eat, but looking so pale and worn with sleeplessness and anxiety that the girls found it very hard to keep their resolution.
meg's eyes kept filling in spite of herself, jo was obliged to hide her face in the kitchen roller more than once, and the little girls wore a grave, troubled expression, as if sorrow was a new experience to them.
nobody talked much, but as the time drew very near and they sat waiting for the carriage, mrs. march said to the girls, who were all busied about her, one folding her shawl, another smoothing out the strings of her bonnet, a third putting on her overshoes, and a fourth fastening up her travelling bag...
"children, i leave you to hannah's care and mr. laurence's protection.
hannah is faithfulness itself, and our good neighbor will guard you as if you were his own.
i have no fears for you, yet i am anxious that you should take this trouble rightly.
don't grieve and fret when i am gone, or think that you can be idle and comfort yourselves by being idle and trying to forget.
go on with your work as usual, for work is a blessed solace.
hope and keep busy, and whatever happens, remember that you never can be fatherless."
"yes, mother."
"meg, dear, be prudent, watch over your sisters, consult hannah, and in any perplexity, go to mr. laurence.
be patient, jo, don't get despondent or do rash things, write to me often, and be my brave girl, ready to help and cheer all.
beth, comfort yourself with your music, and be faithful to the little home duties, and you, amy, help all you can, be obedient, and keep happy safe at home."
"we will, mother!
we will!"
the rattle of an approaching carriage made them all start and listen.
that was the hard minute, but the girls stood it well.
no one cried, no one ran away or uttered a lamentation, though their hearts were very heavy as they sent loving messages to father, remembering, as they spoke that it might be too late to deliver them.
they kissed their mother quietly, clung about her tenderly, and tried to wave their hands cheerfully when she drove away.
laurie and his grandfather came over to see her off, and mr. brooke looked so strong and sensible and kind that the girls christened him 'mr.
greatheart' on the spot.
"good-by, my darlings!
god bless and keep us all!"
whispered mrs.
march, as she kissed one dear little face after the other, and hurried into the carriage.
as she rolled away, the sun came out, and looking back, she saw it shining on the group at the gate like a good omen.
they saw it also, and smiled and waved their hands, and the last thing she beheld as she turned the corner was the four bright faces, and behind them like a bodyguard, old mr. laurence, faithful hannah, and devoted laurie.
"how kind everyone is to us!"
she said, turning to find fresh proof of it in the respectful sympathy of the young man's face.
"i don't see how they can help it," returned mr. brooke, laughing so infectiously that mrs. march could not help smiling.
and so the journey began with the good omens of sunshine, smiles, and cheerful words.
"i feel as if there had been an earthquake," said jo, as their neighbors went home to breakfast, leaving them to rest and refresh themselves.
"it seems as if half the house was gone," added meg forlornly.
beth opened her lips to say something, but could only point to the pile of nicely mended hose which lay on mother's table, showing that even in her last hurried moments she had thought and worked for them.
it was a little thing, but it went straight to their hearts, and in spite of their brave resolutions, they all broke down and cried bitterly.
hannah wisely allowed them to relieve their feelings, and when the shower showed signs of clearing up, she came to the rescue, armed with a coffeepot.
"now, my dear young ladies, remember what your ma said, and don't fret.
come and have a cup of coffee all round, and then let's fall to work and be a credit to the family."
coffee was a treat, and hannah showed great tact in making it that morning.
no one could resist her persuasive nods, or the fragrant invitation issuing from the nose of the coffee pot.
they drew up to the table, exchanged their handkerchiefs for napkins, and in ten minutes were all right again.
"'hope and keep busy', that's the motto for us, so let's see who will remember it best.
i shall go to aunt march, as usual.
oh, won't she lecture though!"
said jo, as she sipped with returning spirit.
"i shall go to my kings, though i'd much rather stay at home and attend to things here," said meg, wishing she hadn't made her eyes so red.
"no need of that.
beth and i can keep house perfectly well," put in amy, with an important air.
"hannah will tell us what to do, and we'll have everything nice when you come home," added beth, getting out her mop and dish tub without delay.
"i think anxiety is very interesting," observed amy, eating sugar pensively.
the girls couldn't help laughing, and felt better for it, though meg shook her head at the young lady who could find consolation in a sugar bowl.
the sight of the turnovers made jo sober again; and when the two went out to their daily tasks, they looked sorrowfully back at the window where they were accustomed to see their mother's face.
it was gone, but beth had remembered the little household ceremony, and there she was, nodding away at them like a rosyfaced mandarin.
"that's so like my beth!"
said jo, waving her hat, with a grateful face.
"goodbye, meggy, i hope the kings won't strain today.
don't fret about father, dear," she added, as they parted.
"and i hope aunt march won't croak.
your hair is becoming, and it looks very boyish and nice," returned meg, trying not to smile at the curly head, which looked comically small on her tall sister's shoulders.
"that's my only comfort."
and, touching her hat a la laurie, away went jo, feeling like a shorn sheep on a wintry day.
news from their father comforted the girls very much, for though dangerously ill, the presence of the best and tenderest of nurses had already done him good.
mr. brooke sent a bulletin every day, and as the head of the family, meg insisted on reading the dispatches, which grew more cheerful as the week passed.
at first, everyone was eager to write, and plump envelopes were carefully poked into the letter box by one or other of the sisters, who felt rather important with their washington correspondence.
as one of these packets contained characteristic notes from the party, we will rob an imaginary mail, and read them.
my dearest mother:
it is impossible to tell you how happy your last letter made us, for the news was so good we couldn't help laughing and crying over it.
how very kind mr. brooke is, and how fortunate that mr. laurence's business detains him near you so long, since he is so useful to you and father.
the girls are all as good as gold.
jo helps me with the sewing, and insists on doing all sorts of hard jobs.
i should be afraid she might overdo, if i didn't know her 'moral fit' wouldn't last long.
beth is as regular about her tasks as a clock, and never forgets what you told her.
she grieves about father, and looks sober except when she is at her little piano.
amy minds me nicely, and i take great care of her.
she does her own hair, and i am teaching her to make buttonholes and mend her stockings.
she tries very hard, and i know you will be pleased with her improvement when you come.
mr. laurence watches over us like a motherly old hen, as jo says, and laurie is very kind and neighborly.
he and jo keep us merry, for we get pretty blue sometimes, and feel like orphans, with you so far away.
hannah is a perfect saint.
she does not scold at all, and always calls me miss margaret, which is quite proper, you know, and treats me with respect.
we are all well and busy, but we long, day and night, to have you back.
give my dearest love to father, and believe me, ever your own...
meg
this note, prettily written on scented paper, was a great contrast to the next, which was scribbled on a big sheet of thin foreign paper, ornamented with blots and all manner of flourishes and curly-tailed letters.
my precious marmee:
three cheers for dear father!
brooke was a trump to telegraph right off, and let us know the minute he was better.
i rushed up garret when the letter came, and tried to thank god for being so good to us, but i could only cry, and say, "i'm glad!
i'm glad!"
didn't that do as well as a regular prayer?
for i felt a great many in my heart.
we have such funny times, and now i can enjoy them, for everyone is so desperately good, it's like living in a nest of turtledoves.
you'd laugh to see meg head the table and try to be motherish.
she gets prettier every day, and i'm in love with her sometimes.
the children are regular archangels, and i well, i'm jo, and never shall be anything else.
oh, i must tell you that i came near having a quarrel with laurie.
i freed my mind about a silly little thing, and he was offended.
i was right, but didn't speak as i ought, and he marched home, saying he wouldn't come again till i begged pardon.
i declared i wouldn't and got mad.
it lasted all day.
i felt bad and wanted you very much.
laurie and i are both so proud, it's hard to beg pardon.
but i thought he'd come to it, for i was in the right.
he didn't come, and just at night i remembered what you said when amy fell into the river.
i read my little book, felt better, resolved not to let the sun set on my anger, and ran over to tell laurie i was sorry.
i met him at the gate, coming for the same thing.
we both laughed, begged each other's pardon, and felt all good and comfortable again.
i made a 'pome' yesterday, when i was helping hannah wash, and as father likes my silly little things, i put it in to amuse him.
give him my lovingest hug that ever was, and kiss yourself a dozen times for your...
topsy-turvy jo
a song from the suds
queen of my tub, i merrily sing,     while the white foam rises high,     and sturdily wash and rinse and wring,     and fasten the clothes to dry.
then out in the free fresh air they swing,     under the sunny sky.
i wish we could wash from our hearts and souls     the stains of the week away,     and let water and air by their magic make     ourselves as pure as they.
then on the earth there would be indeed,     a glorious washing day!
along the path of a useful life,     will heart's-ease ever bloom.
the busy mind has no time to think     of sorrow or care or gloom.
and anxious thoughts may be swept away,     as we bravely wield a broom.
i am glad a task to me is given,     to labor at day by day,     for it brings me health and strength and hope,     and i cheerfully learn to say,     "head, you may think, heart, you may feel,     but, hand, you shall work alway!"
dear mother,
there is only room for me to send my love, and some pressed pansies from the root i have been keeping safe in the house for father to see.
i read every morning, try to be good all day, and sing myself to sleep with father's tune.
i can't sing 'land of the leal' now, it makes me cry.
everyone is very kind, and we are as happy as we can be without you.
amy wants the rest of the page, so i must stop.
i didn't forget to cover the holders, and i wind the clock and air the rooms every day.
kiss dear father on the cheek he calls mine.
oh, do come soon to your loving...
little beth
ma chere mamma,
we are all well i do my lessons always and never corroberate the girls meg says i mean contradick so i put in both words and you can take the properest.
meg is a great comfort to me and lets me have jelly every night at tea its so good for me jo says because it keeps me sweet tempered.
laurie is not as respeckful as he ought to be now i am almost in my teens, he calls me chick and hurts my feelings by talking french to me very fast when i say merci or bon jour as hattie king does.
the sleeves of my blue dress were all worn out, and meg put in new ones, but the full front came wrong and they are more blue than the dress.
i felt bad but did not fret i bear my troubles well but i do wish hannah would put more starch in my aprons and have buckwheats every day.
can't she?
didn't i make that interrigation point nice?
meg says my punchtuation and spelling are disgraceful and i am mortyfied but dear me i have so many things to do, i can't stop.
adieu, i send heaps of love to papa.
your affectionate daughter...
amy curtis march
dear mis march,
i jes drop a line to say we git on fust rate.
the girls is clever and fly round right smart.
miss meg is going to make a proper good housekeeper.
she hes the liking for it, and gits the hang of things surprisin quick.
jo doos beat all for goin ahead, but she don't stop to cal'k'late fust, and you never know where she's like to bring up.
she done out a tub of clothes on monday, but she starched 'em afore they was wrenched, and blued a pink calico dress till i thought i should a died a laughin.
beth is the best of little creeters, and a sight of help to me, bein so forehanded and dependable.
she tries to learn everything, and really goes to market beyond her years, likewise keeps accounts, with my help, quite wonderful.
we have got on very economical so fur.
i don't let the girls hev coffee only once a week, accordin to your wish, and keep em on plain wholesome vittles.
amy does well without frettin, wearin her best clothes and eatin sweet stuff.
mr. laurie is as full of didoes as usual, and turns the house upside down frequent, but he heartens the girls, so i let em hev full swing.
the old gentleman sends heaps of things, and is rather wearin, but means wal, and it aint my place to say nothin.
my bread is riz, so no more at this time.
i send my duty to mr. march, and hope he's seen the last of his pewmonia.
yours respectful,
hannah mullet
head nurse of ward no.
2,
all serene on the rappahannock, troops in fine condition, commisary department well conducted, the home guard under colonel teddy always on duty, commander in chief general laurence reviews the army daily, quartermaster mullet keeps order in camp, and major lion does picket duty at night.
a salute of twenty-four guns was fired on receipt of good news from washington, and a dress parade took place at headquarters.
commander in chief sends best wishes, in which he is heartily joined by...
colonel teddy
dear madam:
the little girls are all well.
beth and my boy report daily.
hannah is a model servant, and guards pretty meg like a dragon.
glad the fine weather holds.
pray make brooke useful, and draw on me for funds if expenses exceed your estimate.
don't let your husband want anything.
thank god he is mending.
your sincere friend and servant, james laurence
chapter seventeen
little faithful
for a week the amount of virtue in the old house would have supplied the neighborhood.
it was really amazing, for everyone seemed in a heavenly frame of mind, and self-denial was all the fashion.
relieved of their first anxiety about their father, the girls insensibly relaxed their praiseworthy efforts a little, and began to fall back into old ways.
they did not forget their motto, but hoping and keeping busy seemed to grow easier, and after such tremendous exertions, they felt that endeavor deserved a holiday, and gave it a good many.
jo caught a bad cold through neglect to cover the shorn head enough, and was ordered to stay at home till she was better, for aunt march didn't like to hear people read with colds in their heads.
jo liked this, and after an energetic rummage from garret to cellar, subsided on the sofa to nurse her cold with arsenicum and books.
amy found that housework and art did not go well together, and returned to her mud pies.
meg went daily to her pupils, and sewed, or thought she did, at home, but much time was spent in writing long letters to her mother, or reading the washington dispatches over and over.
beth kept on, with only slight relapses into idleness or grieving.
all the little duties were faithfully done each day, and many of her sisters' also, for they were forgetful, and the house seemed like a clock whose pendulum was gone a-visiting.
when her heart got heavy with longings for mother or fears for father, she went away into a certain closet, hid her face in the folds of a dear old gown, and made her little moan and prayed her little prayer quietly by herself.
nobody knew what cheered her up after a sober fit, but everyone felt how sweet and helpful beth was, and fell into a way of going to her for comfort or advice in their small affairs.
all were unconscious that this experience was a test of character, and when the first excitement was over, felt that they had done well and deserved praise.
so they did, but their mistake was in ceasing to do well, and they learned this lesson through much anxiety and regret.
"meg, i wish you'd go and see the hummels.
you know mother told us not to forget them."
said beth, ten days after mrs. march's departure.
"i'm too tired to go this afternoon," replied meg, rocking comfortably as she sewed.
"can't you, jo?"
asked beth.
"too stormy for me with my cold."
"i thought it was almost well."
"it's well enough for me to go out with laurie, but not well enough to go to the hummels'," said jo, laughing, but looking a little ashamed of her inconsistency.
"why don't you go yourself?"
asked meg.
"i have been every day, but the baby is sick, and i don't know what to do for it.
mrs. hummel goes away to work, and lottchen takes care of it.
but it gets sicker and sicker, and i think you or hannah ought to go."
beth spoke earnestly, and meg promised she would go tomorrow.
"ask hannah for some nice little mess, and take it round, beth, the air will do you good," said jo, adding apologetically, "i'd go but i want to finish my writing."
"my head aches and i'm tired, so i thought maybe some of you would go,"
said beth.
"amy will be in presently, and she will run down for us," suggested meg.
so beth lay down on the sofa, the others returned to their work, and the hummels were forgotten.
an hour passed.
amy did not come, meg went to her room to try on a new dress, jo was absorbed in her story, and hannah was sound asleep before the kitchen fire, when beth quietly put on her hood, filled her basket with odds and ends for the poor children, and went out into the chilly air with a heavy head and a grieved look in her patient eyes.
it was late when she came back, and no one saw her creep upstairs and shut herself into her mother's room.
half an hour after, jo went to 'mother's closet' for something, and there found little beth sitting on the medicine chest, looking very grave, with red eyes and a camphor bottle in her hand.
"christopher columbus!
what's the matter?"
cried jo, as beth put out her hand as if to warn her off, and asked quickly.
.
.
"you've had the scarlet fever, haven't you?"
"years ago, when meg did.
why?"
"then i'll tell you.
oh, jo, the baby's dead!"
"what baby?"
"mrs. hummel's.
it died in my lap before she got home," cried beth with a sob.
"my poor dear, how dreadful for you!
i ought to have gone," said jo, taking her sister in her arms as she sat down in her mother's big chair, with a remorseful face.
"it wasn't dreadful, jo, only so sad!
i saw in a minute it was sicker, but lottchen said her mother had gone for a doctor, so i took baby and let lotty rest.
it seemed asleep, but all of a sudden if gave a little cry and trembled, and then lay very still.
i tried to warm its feet, and lotty gave it some milk, but it didn't stir, and i knew it was dead."
"don't cry, dear!
what did you do?"
"i just sat and held it softly till mrs. hummel came with the doctor.
he said it was dead, and looked at heinrich and minna, who have sore throats.
'scarlet fever, ma'am.
ought to have called me before,' he said crossly.
mrs. hummel told him she was poor, and had tried to cure baby herself, but now it was too late, and she could only ask him to help the others and trust to charity for his pay.
he smiled then, and was kinder, but it was very sad, and i cried with them till he turned round all of a sudden, and told me to go home and take belladonna right away, or i'd have the fever."
"no, you won't!"
cried jo, hugging her close, with a frightened look.
"oh, beth, if you should be sick i never could forgive myself!
what shall we do?"
"don't be frightened, i guess i shan't have it badly.
i looked in mother's book, and saw that it begins with headache, sore throat, and queer feelings like mine, so i did take some belladonna, and i feel better," said beth, laying her cold hands on her hot forehead and trying to look well.
"if mother was only at home!"
exclaimed jo, seizing the book, and feeling that washington was an immense way off.
she read a page, looked at beth, felt her head, peeped into her throat, and then said gravely, "you've been over the baby every day for more than a week, and among the others who are going to have it, so i'm afraid you are going to have it, beth.
i'll call hannah, she knows all about sickness."
"don't let amy come.
she never had it, and i should hate to give it to her.
can't you and meg have it over again?"
asked beth, anxiously.
"i guess not.
don't care if i do.
serve me right, selfish pig, to let you go, and stay writing rubbish myself!"
muttered jo, as she went to consult hannah.
the good soul was wide awake in a minute, and took the lead at once, assuring that there was no need to worry; every one had scarlet fever, and if rightly treated, nobody died, all of which jo believed, and felt much relieved as they went up to call meg.
"now i'll tell you what we'll do," said hannah, when she had examined and questioned beth, "we will have dr. bangs, just to take a look at you, dear, and see that we start right.
then we'll send amy off to aunt march's for a spell, to keep her out of harm's way, and one of you girls can stay at home and amuse beth for a day or two."
"i shall stay, of course, i'm oldest," began meg, looking anxious and self-reproachful.
"i shall, because it's my fault she is sick.
i told mother i'd do the errands, and i haven't," said jo decidedly.
"which will you have, beth?
there ain't no need of but one," aid hannah.
"jo, please."
and beth leaned her head against her sister with a contented look, which effectually settled that point.
"i'll go and tell amy," said meg, feeling a little hurt, yet rather relieved on the whole, for she did not like nursing, and jo did.
amy rebelled outright, and passionately declared that she had rather have the fever than go to aunt march.
meg reasoned, pleaded, and commanded, all in vain.
amy protested that she would not go, and meg left her in despair to ask hannah what should be done.
before she came back, laurie walked into the parlor to find amy sobbing, with her head in the sofa cushions.
she told her story, expecting to be consoled, but laurie only put his hands in his pockets and walked about the room, whistling softly, as he knit his brows in deep thought.
presently he sat down beside her, and said, in his most wheedlesome tone, "now be a sensible little woman, and do as they say.
no, don't cry, but hear what a jolly plan i've got.
you go to aunt march's, and i'll come and take you out every day, driving or walking, and we'll have capital times.
won't that be better than moping here?"
"i don't wish to be sent off as if i was in the way," began amy, in an injured voice.
"bless your heart, child, it's to keep you well.
you don't want to be sick, do you?"
"no, i'm sure i don't, but i dare say i shall be, for i've been with beth all the time."
"that's the very reason you ought to go away at once, so that you may escape it.
change of air and care will keep you well, i dare say, or if it does not entirely, you will have the fever more lightly.
i advise you to be off as soon as you can, for scarlet fever is no joke, miss."
"but it's dull at aunt march's, and she is so cross," said amy, looking rather frightened.
"it won't be dull with me popping in every day to tell you how beth is, and take you out gallivanting.
the old lady likes me, and i'll be as sweet as possible to her, so she won't peck at us, whatever we do."
"will you take me out in the trotting wagon with puck?"
"on my honor as a gentleman."
"and come every single day?"
"see if i don't!"
"and bring me back the minute beth is well?"
"the identical minute."
"and go to the theater, truly?"
"a dozen theaters, if we may."
"well i guess i will," said amy slowly.
"good girl!
call meg, and tell her you'll give in," said laurie, with an approving pat, which annoyed amy more than the 'giving in'.
meg and jo came running down to behold the miracle which had been wrought, and amy, feeling very precious and self-sacrificing, promised to go, if the doctor said beth was going to be ill.
"how is the little dear?"
asked laurie, for beth was his especial pet, and he felt more anxious about her than he liked to show.
"she is lying down on mother's bed, and feels better.
the baby's death troubled her, but i dare say she has only got cold.
hannah says she thinks so, but she looks worried, and that makes me fidgety," answered meg.
"what a trying world it is!"
said jo, rumpling up her hair in a fretful way.
"no sooner do we get out of one trouble than down comes another.
there doesn't seem to be anything to hold on to when mother's gone, so i'm all at sea."
"well, don't make a porcupine of yourself, it isn't becoming.
settle your wig, jo, and tell me if i shall telegraph to your mother, or do anything?"
asked laurie, who never had been reconciled to the loss of his friend's one beauty.
"that is what troubles me," said meg.
"i think we ought to tell her if beth is really ill, but hannah says we mustn't, for mother can't leave father, and it will only make them anxious.
beth won't be sick long, and hannah knows just what to do, and mother said we were to mind her, so i suppose we must, but it doesn't seem quite right to me."
"hum, well, i can't say.
suppose you ask grandfather after the doctor has been."
"we will.
jo, go and get dr. bangs at once," commanded meg.
"we can't decide anything till he has been."
"stay where you are, jo.
i'm errand boy to this establishment," said laurie, taking up his cap.
"i'm afraid you are busy," began meg.
"no, i've done my lessons for the day."
"do you study in vacation time?"
asked jo.
"i follow the good example my neighbors set me," was laurie's answer, as he swung himself out of the room.
"i have great hopes for my boy," observed jo, watching him fly over the fence with an approving smile.
"he does very well, for a boy," was meg's somewhat ungracious answer, for the subject did not interest her.
dr. bangs came, said beth had symptoms of the fever, but he thought she would have it lightly, though he looked sober over the hummel story.
amy was ordered off at once, and provided with something to ward off danger, she departed in great state, with jo and laurie as escort.
aunt march received them with her usual hospitality.
"what do you want now?"
she asked, looking sharply over her spectacles, while the parrot, sitting on the back of her chair, called out...
"go away.
no boys allowed here."
laurie retired to the window, and jo told her story.
"no more than i expected, if you are allowed to go poking about among poor folks.
amy can stay and make herself useful if she isn't sick, which i've no doubt she will be, looks like it now.
don't cry, child, it worries me to hear people sniff."
amy was on the point of crying, but laurie slyly pulled the parrot's tail, which caused polly to utter an astonished croak and call out, "bless my boots!"
in such a funny way, that she laughed instead.
"what do you hear from your mother?"
asked the old lady gruffly.
"father is much better," replied jo, trying to keep sober.
"oh, is he?
well, that won't last long, i fancy.
march never had any stamina," was the cheerful reply.
"ha, ha!
never say die, take a pinch of snuff, goodbye, goodbye!"
squalled polly, dancing on her perch, and clawing at the old lady's cap as laurie tweaked him in the rear.
"hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!
and, jo, you'd better go at once.
it isn't proper to be gadding about so late with a rattlepated boy like..."
"hold your tongue, you disrespectful old bird!"
cried polly, tumbling off the chair with a bounce, and running to peck the 'rattlepated' boy, who was shaking with laughter at the last speech.
"i don't think i can bear it, but i'll try," thought amy, as she was left alone with aunt march.
"get along, you fright!"
screamed polly, and at that rude speech amy could not restrain a sniff.
chapter eighteen
dark days
beth did have the fever, and was much sicker than anyone but hannah and the doctor suspected.
the girls knew nothing about illness, and mr.
laurence was not allowed to see her, so hannah had everything her own way, and busy dr. bangs did his best, but left a good deal to the excellent nurse.
meg stayed at home, lest she should infect the kings, and kept house, feeling very anxious and a little guilty when she wrote letters in which no mention was made of beth's illness.
she could not think it right to deceive her mother, but she had been bidden to mind hannah, and hannah wouldn't hear of 'mrs.
march bein' told, and worried just for sech a trifle.'
jo devoted herself to beth day and night, not a hard task, for beth was very patient, and bore her pain uncomplainingly as long as she could control herself.
but there came a time when during the fever fits she began to talk in a hoarse, broken voice, to play on the coverlet as if on her beloved little piano, and try to sing with a throat so swollen that there was no music left, a time when she did not know the familiar faces around her, but addressed them by wrong names, and called imploringly for her mother.
then jo grew frightened, meg begged to be allowed to write the truth, and even hannah said she 'would think of it, though there was no danger yet'.
a letter from washington added to their trouble, for mr. march had had a relapse, and could not think of coming home for a long while.
how dark the days seemed now, how sad and lonely the house, and how heavy were the hearts of the sisters as they worked and waited, while the shadow of death hovered over the once happy home.
then it was that margaret, sitting alone with tears dropping often on her work, felt how rich she had been in things more precious than any luxuries money could buy in love, protection, peace, and health, the real blessings of life.
then it was that jo, living in the darkened room, with that suffering little sister always before her eyes and that pathetic voice sounding in her ears, learned to see the beauty and the sweetness of beth's nature, to feel how deep and tender a place she filled in all hearts, and to acknowledge the worth of beth's unselfish ambition to live for others, and make home happy by that exercise of those simple virtues which all may possess, and which all should love and value more than talent, wealth, or beauty.
and amy, in her exile, longed eagerly to be at home, that she might work for beth, feeling now that no service would be hard or irksome, and remembering, with regretful grief, how many neglected tasks those willing hands had done for her.
laurie haunted the house like a restless ghost, and mr. laurence locked the grand piano, because he could not bear to be reminded of the young neighbor who used to make the twilight pleasant for him.
everyone missed beth.
the milkman, baker, grocer, and butcher inquired how she did, poor mrs. hummel came to beg pardon for her thoughtlessness and to get a shroud for minna, the neighbors sent all sorts of comforts and good wishes, and even those who knew her best were surprised to find how many friends shy little beth had made.
meanwhile she lay on her bed with old joanna at her side, for even in her wanderings she did not forget her forlorn protege.
she longed for her cats, but would not have them brought, lest they should get sick, and in her quiet hours she was full of anxiety about jo.
she sent loving messages to amy, bade them tell her mother that she would write soon, and often begged for pencil and paper to try to say a word, that father might not think she had neglected him.
but soon even these intervals of consciousness ended, and she lay hour after hour, tossing to and fro, with incoherent words on her lips, or sank into a heavy sleep which brought her no refreshment.
dr. bangs came twice a day, hannah sat up at night, meg kept a telegram in her desk all ready to send off at any minute, and jo never stirred from beth's side.
the first of december was a wintry day indeed to them, for a bitter wind blew, snow fell fast, and the year seemed getting ready for its death.
when dr. bangs came that morning, he looked long at beth, held the hot hand in both his own for a minute, and laid it gently down, saying, in a low voice to hannah, "if mrs. march can leave her husband she'd better be sent for."
hannah nodded without speaking, for her lips twitched nervously, meg dropped down into a chair as the strength seemed to go out of her limbs at the sound of those words, and jo, standing with a pale face for a minute, ran to the parlor, snatched up the telegram, and throwing on her things, rushed out into the storm.
she was soon back, and while noiselessly taking off her cloak, laurie came in with a letter, saying that mr. march was mending again.
jo read it thankfully, but the heavy weight did not seem lifted off her heart, and her face was so full of misery that laurie asked quickly, "what is it?
is beth worse?"
"i've sent for mother," said jo, tugging at her rubber boots with a tragic expression.
"good for you, jo!
did you do it on your own responsibility?"
asked laurie, as he seated her in the hall chair and took off the rebellious boots, seeing how her hands shook.
"no.
the doctor told us to."
"oh, jo, it's not so bad as that?"
cried laurie, with a startled face.
"yes, it is.
she doesn't know us, she doesn't even talk about the flocks of green doves, as she calls the vine leaves on the wall.
she doesn't look like my beth, and there's nobody to help us bear it.
mother and father both gone, and god seems so far away i can't find him."
as the tears streamed fast down poor jo's cheeks, she stretched out her hand in a helpless sort of way, as if groping in the dark, and laurie took it in his, whispering as well as he could with a lump in his throat, "i'm here.
hold on to me, jo, dear!"
she could not speak, but she did 'hold on', and the warm grasp of the friendly human hand comforted her sore heart, and seemed to lead her nearer to the divine arm which alone could uphold her in her trouble.
laurie longed to say something tender and comfortable, but no fitting words came to him, so he stood silent, gently stroking her bent head as her mother used to do.
it was the best thing he could have done, far more soothing than the most eloquent words, for jo felt the unspoken sympathy, and in the silence learned the sweet solace which affection administers to sorrow.
soon she dried the tears which had relieved her, and looked up with a grateful face.
"thank you, teddy, i'm better now.
i don't feel so forlorn, and will try to bear it if it comes."
"keep hoping for the best, that will help you, jo.
soon your mother will be here, and then everything will be all right."
"i'm so glad father is better.
now she won't feel so bad about leaving him.
oh, me!
it does seem as if all the troubles came in a heap, and i got the heaviest part on my shoulders," sighed jo, spreading her wet handkerchief over her knees to dry.
"doesn't meg pull fair?"
asked laurie, looking indignant.
"oh, yes, she tries to, but she can't love bethy as i do, and she won't miss her as i shall.
beth is my conscience, and i can't give her up.
i can't!
i can't!"
down went jo's face into the wet handkerchief, and she cried despairingly, for she had kept up bravely till now and never shed a tear.
laurie drew his hand across his eyes, but could not speak till he had subdued the choky feeling in his throat and steadied his lips.
it might be unmanly, but he couldn't help it, and i am glad of it.
presently, as jo's sobs quieted, he said hopefully, "i don't think she will die.
she's so good, and we all love her so much, i don't believe god will take her away yet."
"the good and dear people always do die," groaned jo, but she stopped crying, for her friend's words cheered her up in spite of her own doubts and fears.
"poor girl, you're worn out.
it isn't like you to be forlorn.
stop a bit.
i'll hearten you up in a jiffy."
laurie went off two stairs at a time, and jo laid her wearied head down on beth's little brown hood, which no one had thought of moving from the table where she left it.
it must have possessed some magic, for the submissive spirit of its gentle owner seemed to enter into jo, and when laurie came running down with a glass of wine, she took it with a smile, and said bravely, "i drink  health to my beth!
you are a good doctor, teddy, and such a comfortable friend.
how can i ever pay you?"
she added, as the wine refreshed her body, as the kind words had done her troubled mind.
"i'll send my bill, by-and-by, and tonight i'll give you something that will warm the cockles of your heart better than quarts of wine," said laurie, beaming at her with a face of suppressed satisfaction at something.
"what is it?"
cried jo, forgetting her woes for a minute in her wonder.
"i telegraphed to your mother yesterday, and brooke answered she'd come at once, and she'll be here tonight, and everything will be all right.
aren't you glad i did it?"
laurie spoke very fast, and turned red and excited all in a minute, for he had kept his plot a secret, for fear of disappointing the girls or harming beth.
jo grew quite white, flew out of her chair, and the moment he stopped speaking she electrified him by throwing her arms round his neck, and crying out, with a joyful cry, "oh, laurie!
oh, mother!
i am so glad!"
she did not weep again, but laughed hysterically, and trembled and clung to her friend as if she was a little bewildered by the sudden news.
laurie, though decidedly amazed, behaved with great presence of mind.
he patted her back soothingly, and finding that she was recovering, followed it up by a bashful kiss or two, which brought jo round at once.
holding on to the banisters, she put him gently away, saying breathlessly, "oh, don't!
i didn't mean to, it was dreadful of me, but you were such a dear to go and do it in spite of hannah that i couldn't help flying at you.
tell me all about it, and don't give me wine again, it makes me act so."
"i don't mind," laughed laurie, as he settled his tie.
"why, you see i got fidgety, and so did grandpa.
we thought hannah was overdoing the authority business, and your mother ought to know.
she'd never forgive us if beth...  well, if anything happened, you know.
so i got grandpa to say it was high time we did something, and off i pelted to the office yesterday, for the doctor looked sober, and hannah most took my head off when i proposed a telegram.
i never can bear to be 'lorded over', so that settled my mind, and i did it.
your mother will come, i know, and the late train is in at two a.m. i shall go for her, and you've only got to bottle up your rapture, and keep beth quiet till that blessed lady gets here."
"laurie, you're an angel!
how shall i ever thank you?"
"fly at me again.
i rather liked it," said laurie, looking mischievous, a thing he had not done for a fortnight.
"no, thank you.
i'll do it by proxy, when your grandpa comes.
don't tease, but go home and rest, for you'll be up half the night.
bless you, teddy, bless you!"
jo had backed into a corner, and as she finished her speech, she vanished precipitately into the kitchen, where she sat down upon a dresser and told the assembled cats that she was "happy, oh, so happy!"
while laurie departed, feeling that he had made a rather neat thing of it.
"that's the interferingest chap i ever see, but i forgive him and do hope mrs. march is coming right away," said hannah, with an air of relief, when jo told the good news.
meg had a quiet rapture, and then brooded over the letter, while jo set the sickroom in order, and hannah "knocked up a couple of pies in case of company unexpected".
a breath of fresh air seemed to blow through the house, and something better than sunshine brightened the quiet rooms.
everything appeared to feel the hopeful change.
beth's bird began to chirp again, and a half-blown rose was discovered on amy's bush in the window.
the fires seemed to burn with unusual cheeriness, and every time the girls met, their pale faces broke into smiles as they hugged one another, whispering encouragingly, "mother's coming, dear!
mother's coming!"
every one rejoiced but beth.
she lay in that heavy stupor, alike unconscious of hope and joy, doubt and danger.
it was a piteous sight, the once rosy face so changed and vacant, the once busy hands so weak and wasted, the once smiling lips quite dumb, and the once pretty, well-kept hair scattered rough and tangled on the pillow.
all day she lay so, only rousing now and then to mutter, "water!"
with lips so parched they could hardly shape the word.
all day jo and meg hovered over her, watching, waiting, hoping, and trusting in god and mother, and all day the snow fell, the bitter wind raged, and the hours dragged slowly by.
but night came at last, and every time the clock struck, the sisters, still sitting on either side of the bed, looked at each other with brightening eyes, for each hour brought help nearer.
the doctor had been in to say that some change, for better or worse, would probably take place about midnight, at which time he would return.
hannah, quite worn out, lay down on the sofa at the bed's foot and fell fast asleep, mr. laurence marched to and fro in the parlor, feeling that he would rather face a rebel battery than mrs. march's countenance as she entered.
laurie lay on the rug, pretending to rest, but staring into the fire with the thoughtful look which made his black eyes beautifully soft and clear.
the girls never forgot that night, for no sleep came to them as they kept their watch, with that dreadful sense of powerlessness which comes to us in hours like those.
"if god spares beth, i never will complain again," whispered meg earnestly.
"if god spares beth, i'll try to love and serve him all my life,"
answered jo, with equal fervor.
"i wish i had no heart, it aches so," sighed meg, after a pause.
"if life is often as hard as this, i don't see how we ever shall get through it," added her sister despondently.
here the clock struck twelve, and both forgot themselves in watching beth, for they fancied a change passed over her wan face.
the house was still as death, and nothing but the wailing of the wind broke the deep hush.
weary hannah slept on, and no one but the sisters saw the pale shadow which seemed to fall upon the little bed.
an hour went by, and nothing happened except laurie's quiet departure for the station.
another hour, still no one came, and anxious fears of delay in the storm, or accidents by the way, or, worst of all, a great grief at washington, haunted the girls.
it was past two, when jo, who stood at the window thinking how dreary the world looked in its winding sheet of snow, heard a movement by the bed, and turning quickly, saw meg kneeling before their mother's easy chair with her face hidden.
a dreadful fear passed coldly over jo, as she thought, "beth is dead, and meg is afraid to tell me."
she was back at her post in an instant, and to her excited eyes a great change seemed to have taken place.
the fever flush and the look of pain were gone, and the beloved little face looked so pale and peaceful in its utter repose that jo felt no desire to weep or to lament.
leaning low over this dearest of her sisters, she kissed the damp forehead with her heart on her lips, and softly whispered, "good-by, my beth.
good-by!"
as if awaked by the stir, hannah started out of her sleep, hurried to the bed, looked at beth, felt her hands, listened at her lips, and then, throwing her apron over her head, sat down to rock to and fro, exclaiming, under her breath, "the fever's turned, she's sleepin'
nat'ral, her skin's damp, and she breathes easy.
praise be given!
oh, my goodness me!"
before the girls could believe the happy truth, the doctor came to confirm it.
he was a homely man, but they thought his face quite heavenly when he smiled and said, with a fatherly look at them, "yes, my dears, i think the little girl will pull through this time.
keep the house quiet, let her sleep, and when she wakes, give her..."
what they were to give, neither heard, for both crept into the dark hall, and, sitting on the stairs, held each other close, rejoicing with hearts too full for words.
when they went back to be kissed and cuddled by faithful hannah, they found beth lying, as she used to do, with her cheek pillowed on her hand, the dreadful pallor gone, and breathing quietly, as if just fallen asleep.
"if mother would only come now!"
said jo, as the winter night began to wane.
"see," said meg, coming up with a white, half-opened rose, "i thought this would hardly be ready to lay in beth's hand tomorrow if she went away from us.
but it has blossomed in the night, and now i mean to put it in my vase here, so that when the darling wakes, the first thing she sees will be the little rose, and mother's face."
never had the sun risen so beautifully, and never had the world seemed so lovely as it did to the heavy eyes of meg and jo, as they looked out in the early morning, when their long, sad vigil was done.
"it looks like a fairy world," said meg, smiling to herself, as she stood behind the curtain, watching the dazzling sight.
"hark!"
cried jo, starting to her feet.
yes, there was a sound of bells at the door below, a cry from hannah, and then laurie's voice saying in a joyful whisper, "girls, she's come!
she's come!"
chapter nineteen
amy's will
while these things were happening at home, amy was having hard times at aunt march's.
she felt her exile deeply, and for the first time in her life, realized how much she was beloved and petted at home.
aunt march never petted any one; she did not approve of it, but she meant to be kind, for the well-behaved little girl pleased her very much, and aunt march had a soft place in her old heart for her nephew's children, though she didn't think it proper to confess it.
she really did her best to make amy happy, but, dear me, what mistakes she made.
some old people keep young at heart in spite of wrinkles and gray hairs, can sympathize with children's little cares and joys, make them feel at home, and can hide wise lessons under pleasant plays, giving and receiving friendship in the sweetest way.
but aunt march had not this gift, and she worried amy very much with her rules and orders, her prim ways, and long, prosy talks.
finding the child more docile and amiable than her sister, the old lady felt it her duty to try and counteract, as far as possible, the bad effects of home freedom and indulgence.
so she took amy by the hand, and taught her as she herself had been taught sixty years ago, a process which carried dismay to amy's soul, and made her feel like a fly in the web of a very strict spider.
she had to wash the cups every morning, and polish up the old-fashioned spoons, the fat silver teapot, and the glasses till they shone.
then she must dust the room, and what a trying job that was.
not a speck escaped aunt march's eye, and all the furniture had claw legs and much carving, which was never dusted to suit.
then polly had to be fed, the lap dog combed, and a dozen trips upstairs and down to get things or deliver orders, for the old lady was very lame and seldom left her big chair.
after these tiresome labors, she must do her lessons, which was a daily trial of every virtue she possessed.
then she was allowed one hour for exercise or play, and didn't she enjoy it?
laurie came every day, and wheedled aunt march till amy was allowed to go out with him, when they walked and rode and had capital times.
after dinner, she had to read aloud, and sit still while the old lady slept, which she usually did for an hour, as she dropped off over the first page.
then patchwork or towels appeared, and amy sewed with outward meekness and inward rebellion till dusk, when she was allowed to amuse herself as she liked till teatime.
the evenings were the worst of all, for aunt march fell to telling long stories about her youth, which were so unutterably dull that amy was always ready to go to bed, intending to cry over her hard fate, but usually going to sleep before she had squeezed out more than a tear or two.
if it had not been for laurie, and old esther, the maid, she felt that she never could have got through that dreadful time.
the parrot alone was enough to drive her distracted, for he soon felt that she did not admire him, and revenged himself by being as mischievous as possible.
he pulled her hair whenever she came near him, upset his bread and milk to plague her when she had newly cleaned his cage, made mop bark by pecking at him while madam dozed, called her names before company, and behaved in all respects like an reprehensible old bird.
then she could not endure the dog, a fat, cross beast who snarled and yelped at her when she made his toilet, and who lay on his back with all his legs in the air and a most idiotic expression of countenance when he wanted something to eat, which was about a dozen times a day.
the cook was bad-tempered, the old coachman was deaf, and esther the only one who ever took any notice of the young lady.
esther was a frenchwoman, who had lived with 'madame', as she called her mistress, for many years, and who rather tyrannized over the old lady, who could not get along without her.
her real name was estelle, but aunt march ordered her to change it, and she obeyed, on condition that she was never asked to change her religion.
she took a fancy to mademoiselle, and amused her very much with odd stories of her life in france, when amy sat with her while she got up madame's laces.
she also allowed her to roam about the great house, and examine the curious and pretty things stored away in the big wardrobes and the ancient chests, for aunt march hoarded like a magpie.
amy's chief delight was an indian cabinet, full of queer drawers, little pigeonholes, and secret places, in which were kept all sorts of ornaments, some precious, some merely curious, all more or less antique.
to examine and arrange these things gave amy great satisfaction, especially the jewel cases, in which on velvet cushions reposed the ornaments which had adorned a belle forty years ago.
there was the garnet set which aunt march wore when she came out, the pearls her father gave her on her wedding day, her lover's diamonds, the jet mourning rings and pins, the queer lockets, with portraits of dead friends and weeping willows made of hair inside, the baby bracelets her one little daughter had worn, uncle march's big watch, with the red seal so many childish hands had played with, and in a box all by itself lay aunt march's wedding ring, too small now for her fat finger, but put carefully away like the most precious jewel of them all.
"which would mademoiselle choose if she had her will?"
asked esther, who always sat near to watch over and lock up the valuables.
"i like the diamonds best, but there is no necklace among them, and i'm fond of necklaces, they are so becoming.
i should choose this if i might," replied amy, looking with great admiration at a string of gold and ebony beads from which hung a heavy cross of the same.
"i, too, covet that, but not as a necklace.
ah, no!
to me it is a rosary, and as such i should use it like a good catholic," said esther, eyeing the handsome thing wistfully.
"is it meant to use as you use the string of good-smelling wooden beads hanging over your glass?"
asked amy.
"truly, yes, to pray with.
it would be pleasing to the saints if one used so fine a rosary as this, instead of wearing it as a vain bijou."
"you seem to take a great deal of comfort in your prayers, esther, and always come down looking quiet and satisfied.
i wish i could."
"if mademoiselle was a catholic, she would find true comfort, but as that is not to be, it would be well if you went apart each day to meditate and pray, as did the good mistress whom i served before madame.
she had a little chapel, and in it found solacement for much trouble."
"would it be right for me to do so too?"
asked amy, who in her loneliness felt the need of help of some sort, and found that she was apt to forget her little book, now that beth was not there to remind her of it.
"it would be excellent and charming, and i shall gladly arrange the little dressing room for you if you like it.
say nothing to madame, but when she sleeps go you and sit alone a while to think good thoughts, and pray the dear god preserve your sister."
esther was truly pious, and quite sincere in her advice, for she had an affectionate heart, and felt much for the sisters in their anxiety.
amy liked the idea, and gave her leave to arrange the light closet next her room, hoping it would do her good.
"i wish i knew where all these pretty things would go when aunt march dies," she said, as she slowly replaced the shining rosary and shut the jewel cases one by one.
"to you and your sisters.
i know it, madame confides in me.
i witnessed her will, and it is to be so," whispered esther smiling.
"how nice!
but i wish she'd let us have them now.
procrastination is not agreeable," observed amy, taking a last look at the diamonds.
"it is too soon yet for the young ladies to wear these things.
the first one who is affianced will have the pearls, madame has said it, and i have a fancy that the little turquoise ring will be given to you when you go, for madame approves your good behavior and charming manners."
"do you think so?
oh, i'll be a lamb, if i can only have that lovely ring!
it's ever so much prettier than kitty bryant's.
i do like aunt march after all."
and amy tried on the blue ring with a delighted face and a firm resolve to earn it.
from that day she was a model of obedience, and the old lady complacently admired the success of her training.
esther fitted up the closet with a little table, placed a footstool before it, and over it a picture taken from one of the shut-up rooms.
she thought it was of no great value, but, being appropriate, she borrowed it, well knowing that madame would never know it, nor care if she did.
it was, however, a very valuable copy of one of the famous pictures of the world, and amy's beauty-loving eyes were never tired of looking up at the sweet face of the divine mother, while her tender thoughts of her own were busy at her heart.
on the table she laid her little testament and hymnbook, kept a vase always full of the best flowers laurie brought her, and came every day to 'sit alone' thinking good thoughts, and praying the dear god to preserve her sister.
esther had given her a rosary of black beads with a silver cross, but amy hung it up and did not use it, feeling doubtful as to its fitness for protestant prayers.
the little girl was very sincere in all this, for being left alone outside the safe home nest, she felt the need of some kind hand to hold by so sorely that she instinctively turned to the strong and tender friend, whose fatherly love most closely surrounds his little children.
she missed her mother's help to understand and rule herself, but having been taught where to look, she did her best to find the way and walk in it confidingly.
but, amy was a young pilgrim, and just now her burden seemed very heavy.
she tried to forget herself, to keep cheerful, and be satisfied with doing right, though no one saw or praised her for it.
in her first effort at being very, very good, she decided to make her will, as aunt march had done, so that if she did fall ill and die, her possessions might be justly and generously divided.
it cost her a pang even to think of giving up the little treasures which in her eyes were as precious as the old lady's jewels.
during one of her play hours she wrote out the important document as well as she could, with some help from esther as to certain legal terms, and when the good-natured frenchwoman had signed her name, amy felt relieved and laid it by to show laurie, whom she wanted as a second witness.
as it was a rainy day, she went upstairs to amuse herself in one of the large chambers, and took polly with her for company.
in this room there was a wardrobe full of old-fashioned costumes with which esther allowed her to play, and it was her favorite amusement to array herself in the faded brocades, and parade up and down before the long mirror, making stately curtsies, and sweeping her train about with a rustle which delighted her ears.
so busy was she on this day that she did not hear laurie's ring nor see his face peeping in at her as she gravely promenaded to and fro, flirting her fan and tossing her head, on which she wore a great pink turban, contrasting oddly with her blue brocade dress and yellow quilted petticoat.
she was obliged to walk carefully, for she had on high-heeled shoes, and, as laurie told jo afterward, it was a comical sight to see her mince along in her gay suit, with polly sidling and bridling just behind her, imitating her as well as he could, and occasionally stopping to laugh or exclaim, "ain't we fine?
get along, you fright!
hold your tongue!
kiss me, dear!
ha!
ha!"
having with difficulty restrained an explosion of merriment, lest it should offend her majesty, laurie tapped and was graciously received.
"sit down and rest while i put these things away, then i want to consult you about a very serious matter," said amy, when she had shown her splendor and driven polly into a corner.
"that bird is the trial of my life," she continued, removing the pink mountain from her head, while laurie seated himself astride a chair.
"yesterday, when aunt was asleep and i was trying to be as still as a mouse, polly began to squall and flap about in his cage, so i went to let him out, and found a big spider there.
i poked it out, and it ran under the bookcase.
polly marched straight after it, stooped down and peeped under the bookcase, saying, in his funny way, with a cock of his eye, 'come out and take a walk, my dear.'
i couldn't help laughing, which made poll swear, and aunt woke up and scolded us both."
"did the spider accept the old fellow's invitation?"
asked laurie, yawning.
"yes, out it came, and away ran polly, frightened to death, and scrambled up on aunt's chair, calling out, 'catch her!
catch her!
catch her!'
as i chased the spider."
"that's a lie!
oh, lor!"
cried the parrot, pecking at laurie's toes.
"i'd wring your neck if you were mine, you old torment," cried laurie, shaking his fist at the bird, who put his head on one side and gravely croaked, "allyluyer!
bless your buttons, dear!"
"now i'm ready," said amy, shutting the wardrobe and taking a piece of paper out of her pocket.
"i want you to read that, please, and tell me if it is legal and right.
i felt i ought to do it, for life is uncertain and i don't want any ill feeling over my tomb."
laurie bit his lips, and turning a little from the pensive speaker, read the following document, with praiseworthy gravity, considering the spelling:
my last will and testiment
i, amy curtis march, being in my sane mind, go give and bequeethe all my earthly property viz.
to wit: namely
to my father, my best pictures, sketches, maps, and works of art, including frames.
also my $100, to do what he likes with.
to my mother, all my clothes, except the blue apron with pockets also my likeness, and my medal, with much love.
to my dear sister margaret, i give my turkquoise ring (if i get it), also my green box with the doves on it, also my piece of real lace for her neck, and my sketch of her as a memorial of her 'little girl'.
to jo i leave my breastpin, the one mended with sealing wax, also my bronze inkstand she lost the cover and my most precious plaster rabbit, because i am sorry i burned up her story.
to beth (if she lives after me) i give my dolls and the little bureau, my fan, my linen collars and my new slippers if she can wear them being thin when she gets well.
and i herewith also leave her my regret that i ever made fun of old joanna.
to my friend and neighbor theodore laurence i bequeethe my paper mashay portfolio, my clay model of a horse though he did say it hadn't any neck.
also in return for his great kindness in the hour of affliction any one of my artistic works he likes, noter dame is the best.
to our venerable benefactor mr. laurence i leave my purple box with a looking glass in the cover which will be nice for his pens and remind him of the departed girl who thanks him for his favors to her family, especially beth.
i wish my favorite playmate kitty bryant to have the blue silk apron and my gold-bead ring with a kiss.
to hannah i give the bandbox she wanted and all the patchwork i leave hoping she 'will remember me, when it you see'.
and now having disposed of my most valuable property i hope all will be satisfied and not blame the dead.
i forgive everyone, and trust we may all meet when the trump shall sound.
amen.
to this will and testiment i set my hand and seal on this 20th day of nov.  anni domino 1861.
amy curtis march
witnesses:
estelle valnor, theodore laurence.
the last name was written in pencil, and amy explained that he was to rewrite it in ink and seal it up for her properly.
"what put it into your head?
did anyone tell you about beth's giving away her things?"
asked laurie soberly, as amy laid a bit of red tape, with sealing wax, a taper, and a standish before him.
she explained and then asked anxiously, "what about beth?"
"i'm sorry i spoke, but as i did, i'll tell you.
she felt so ill one day that she told jo she wanted to give her piano to meg, her cats to you, and the poor old doll to jo, who would love it for her sake.
she was sorry she had so little to give, and left locks of hair to the rest of us, and her best love to grandpa.
she never thought of a will."
laurie was signing and sealing as he spoke, and did not look up till a great tear dropped on the paper.
amy's face was full of trouble, but she only said, "don't people put sort of postscripts to their wills, sometimes?"
"yes, 'codicils', they call them."
"put one in mine then, that i wish all my curls cut off, and given round to my friends.
i forgot it, but i want it done though it will spoil my looks."
laurie added it, smiling at amy's last and greatest sacrifice.
then he amused her for an hour, and was much interested in all her trials.
but when he came to go, amy held him back to whisper with trembling lips, "is there really any danger about beth?"
"i'm afraid there is, but we must hope for the best, so don't cry, dear."
and laurie put his arm about her with a brotherly gesture which was very comforting.
when he had gone, she went to her little chapel, and sitting in the twilight, prayed for beth, with streaming tears and an aching heart, feeling that a million turquoise rings would not console her for the loss of her gentle little sister.
chapter twenty
confidential
i don't think i have any words in which to tell the meeting of the mother and daughters.
such hours are beautiful to live, but very hard to describe, so i will leave it to the imagination of my readers, merely saying that the house was full of genuine happiness, and that meg's tender hope was realized, for when beth woke from that long, healing sleep, the first objects on which her eyes fell were the little rose and mother's face.
too weak to wonder at anything, she only smiled and nestled close in the loving arms about her, feeling that the hungry longing was satisfied at last.
then she slept again, and the girls waited upon their mother, for she would not unclasp the thin hand which clung to hers even in sleep.
hannah had 'dished up' an astonishing breakfast for the traveler, finding it impossible to vent her excitement in any other way, and meg and jo fed their mother like dutiful young storks, while they listened to her whispered account of father's state, mr. brooke's promise to stay and nurse him, the delays which the storm occasioned on the homeward journey, and the unspeakable comfort laurie's hopeful face had given her when she arrived, worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and cold.
what a strange yet pleasant day that was.
so brilliant and gay without, for all the world seemed abroad to welcome the first snow.
so quiet and reposeful within, for everyone slept, spent with watching, and a sabbath stillness reigned through the house, while nodding hannah mounted guard at the door.
with a blissful sense of burdens lifted off, meg and jo closed their weary eyes, and lay at rest, like storm-beaten boats safe at anchor in a quiet harbor.
mrs. march would not leave beth's side, but rested in the big chair, waking often to look at, touch, and brood over her child, like a miser over some recovered treasure.
laurie meanwhile posted off to comfort amy, and told his story so well that aunt march actually 'sniffed' herself, and never once said "i told you so".
amy came out so strong on this occasion that i think the good thoughts in the little chapel really began to bear fruit.
she dried her tears quickly, restrained her impatience to see her mother, and never even thought of the turquoise ring, when the old lady heartily agreed in laurie's opinion, that she behaved 'like a capital little woman'.
even polly seemed impressed, for he called her a good girl, blessed her buttons, and begged her to "come and take a walk, dear", in his most affable tone.
she would very gladly have gone out to enjoy the bright wintry weather, but discovering that laurie was dropping with sleep in spite of manful efforts to conceal the fact, she persuaded him to rest on the sofa, while she wrote a note to her mother.
she was a long time about it, and when she returned, he was stretched out with both arms under his head, sound asleep, while aunt march had pulled down the curtains and sat doing nothing in an unusual fit of benignity.
after a while, they began to think he was not going to wake up till night, and i'm not sure that he would, had he not been effectually roused by amy's cry of joy at sight of her mother.
there probably were a good many happy little girls in and about the city that day, but it is my private opinion that amy was the happiest of all, when she sat in her mother's lap and told her trials, receiving consolation and compensation in the shape of approving smiles and fond caresses.
they were alone together in the chapel, to which her mother did not object when its purpose was explained to her.
"on the contrary, i like it very much, dear," looking from the dusty rosary to the well-worn little book, and the lovely picture with its garland of evergreen.
"it is an excellent plan to have some place where we can go to be quiet, when things vex or grieve us.
there are a good many hard times in this life of ours, but we can always bear them if we ask help in the right way.
i think my little girl is learning this."
"yes, mother, and when i go home i mean to have a corner in the big closet to put my books and the copy of that picture which i've tried to make.
the woman's face is not good, it's too beautiful for me to draw, but the baby is done better, and i love it very much.
i like to think he was a little child once, for then i don't seem so far away, and that helps me."
as amy pointed to the smiling christ child on his mother's knee, mrs.
march saw something on the lifted hand that made her smile.
she said nothing, but amy understood the look, and after a minute's pause, she added gravely, "i wanted to speak to you about this, but i forgot it.
aunt gave me the ring today.
she called me to her and kissed me, and put it on my finger, and said i was a credit to her, and she'd like to keep me always.
she gave that funny guard to keep the turquoise on, as it's too big.
i'd like to wear them mother, can i?"
"they are very pretty, but i think you're rather too young for such ornaments, amy," said mrs. march, looking at the plump little hand, with the band of sky-blue stones on the forefinger, and the quaint guard formed of two tiny golden hands clasped together.
"i'll try not to be vain," said amy.
"i don't think i like it only because it's so pretty, but i want to wear it as the girl in the story wore her bracelet, to remind me of something."
"do you mean aunt march?"
asked her mother, laughing.
"no, to remind me not to be selfish."
amy looked so earnest and sincere about it that her mother stopped laughing, and listened respectfully to the little plan.
"i've thought a great deal lately about my 'bundle of naughties', and being selfish is the largest one in it, so i'm going to try hard to cure it, if i can.
beth isn't selfish, and that's the reason everyone loves her and feels so bad at the thoughts of losing her.
people wouldn't feel so bad about me if i was sick, and i don't deserve to have them, but i'd like to be loved and missed by a great many friends, so i'm going to try and be like beth all i can.
i'm apt to forget my resolutions, but if i had something always about me to remind me, i guess i should do better.
may we try this way?"
"yes, but i have more faith in the corner of the big closet.
wear your ring, dear, and do your best.
i think you will prosper, for the sincere wish to be good is half the battle.
now i must go back to beth.
keep up your heart, little daughter, and we will soon have you home again."
that evening while meg was writing to her father to report the traveler's safe arrival, jo slipped upstairs into beth's room, and finding her mother in her usual place, stood a minute twisting her fingers in her hair, with a worried gesture and an undecided look.
"what is it, deary?"
asked mrs. march, holding out her hand, with a face which invited confidence.
"i want to tell you something, mother."
"about meg?"
"how quickly you guessed!
yes, it's about her, and though it's a little thing, it fidgets me."
"beth is asleep.
speak low, and tell me all about it.
that moffat hasn't been here, i hope?"
asked mrs. march rather sharply.
"no.
i should have shut the door in his face if he had," said jo, settling herself on the floor at her mother's feet.
"last summer meg left a pair of gloves over at the laurences' and only one was returned.
we forgot about it, till teddy told me that mr. brooke owned that he liked meg but didn't dare say so, she was so young and he so poor.
now, isn't it a dreadful state of things?"
"do you think meg cares for him?"
asked mrs. march, with an anxious look.
"mercy me!
i don't know anything about love and such nonsense!"
cried jo, with a funny mixture of interest and contempt.
"in novels, the girls show it by starting and blushing, fainting away, growing thin, and acting like fools.
now meg does not do anything of the sort.
she eats and drinks and sleeps like a sensible creature, she looks straight in my face when i talk about that man, and only blushes a little bit when teddy jokes about lovers.
i forbid him to do it, but he doesn't mind me as he ought."
"then you fancy that meg is not interested in john?"
"who?"
cried jo, staring.
"mr. brooke.
i call him 'john' now.
we fell into the way of doing so at the hospital, and he likes it."
"oh, dear!
i know you'll take his part.
he's been good to father, and you won't send him away, but let meg marry him, if she wants to.
mean thing!
to go petting papa and helping you, just to wheedle you into liking him."
and jo pulled her hair again with a wrathful tweak.
"my dear, don't get angry about it, and i will tell you how it happened.
john went with me at mr. laurence's request, and was so devoted to poor father that we couldn't help getting fond of him.
he was perfectly open and honorable about meg, for he told us he loved her, but would earn a comfortable home before he asked her to marry him.
he only wanted our leave to love her and work for her, and the right to make her love him if he could.
he is a truly excellent young man, and we could not refuse to listen to him, but i will not consent to meg's engaging herself so young."
"of course not.
it would be idiotic!
i knew there was mischief brewing.
i felt it, and now it's worse than i imagined.
i just wish i could marry meg myself, and keep her safe in the family."
this odd arrangement made mrs. march smile, but she said gravely, "jo, i confide in you and don't wish you to say anything to meg yet.
when john comes back, and i see them together, i can judge better of her feelings toward him."
"she'll see those handsome eyes that she talks about, and then it will be all up with her.
she's got such a soft heart, it will melt like butter in the sun if anyone looks sentimentlly at her.
she read the short reports he sent more than she did your letters, and pinched me when i spoke of it, and likes brown eyes, and doesn't think john an ugly name, and she'll go and fall in love, and there's an end of peace and fun, and cozy times together.
i see it all!
they'll go lovering around the house, and we shall have to dodge.
meg will be absorbed and no good to me any more.
brooke will scratch up a fortune somehow, carry her off, and make a hole in the family, and i shall break my heart, and everything will be abominably uncomfortable.
oh, dear me!
why weren't we all boys, then there wouldn't be any bother."
jo leaned her chin on her knees in a disconsolate attitude and shook her fist at the reprehensible john.
mrs. march sighed, and jo looked up with an air of relief.
"you don't like it, mother?
i'm glad of it.
let's send him about his business, and not tell meg a word of it, but all be happy together as we always have been."
"i did wrong to sigh, jo.
it is natural and right you should all go to homes of your own in time, but i do want to keep my girls as long as i can, and i am sorry that this happened so soon, for meg is only seventeen and it will be some years before john can make a home for her.
your father and i have agreed that she shall not bind herself in any way, nor be married, before twenty.
if she and john love one another, they can wait, and test the love by doing so.
she is conscientious, and i have no fear of her treating him unkindly.
my pretty, tender hearted girl!
i hope things will go happily with her."
"hadn't you rather have her marry a rich man?"
asked jo, as her mother's voice faltered a little over the last words.
"money is a good and useful thing, jo, and i hope my girls will never feel the need of it too bitterly, nor be tempted by too much.
i should like to know that john was firmly established in some good business, which gave him an income large enough to keep free from debt and make meg comfortable.
i'm not ambitious for a splendid fortune, a fashionable position, or a great name for my girls.
if rank and money come with love and virtue, also, i should accept them gratefully, and enjoy your good fortune, but i know, by experience, how much genuine happiness can be had in a plain little house, where the daily bread is earned, and some privations give sweetness to the few pleasures.
i am content to see meg begin humbly, for if i am not mistaken, she will be rich in the possession of a good man's heart, and that is better than a fortune."
"i understand, mother, and quite agree, but i'm disappointed about meg, for i'd planned to have her marry teddy by-and-by and sit in the lap of luxury all her days.
wouldn't it be nice?"
asked jo, looking up with a brighter face.
"he is younger than she, you know," began mrs. march, but jo broke in...
"only a little, he's old for his age, and tall, and can be quite grown-up in his manners if he likes.
then he's rich and generous and good, and loves us all, and i say it's a pity my plan is spoiled."
"i'm afraid laurie is hardly grown-up enough for meg, and altogether too much of a weathercock just now for anyone to depend on.
don't make plans, jo, but let time and their own hearts mate your friends.
we can't meddle safely in such matters, and had better not get 'romantic rubbish' as you call it, into our heads, lest it spoil our friendship."
"well, i won't, but i hate to see things going all crisscross and getting snarled up, when a pull here and a snip there would straighten it out.
i wish wearing flatirons on our heads would keep us from growing up.
but buds will be roses, and kittens cats, more's the pity!"
"what's that about flatirons and cats?"
asked meg, as she crept into the room with the finished letter in her hand.
"only one of my stupid speeches.
i'm going to bed.
come, peggy," said jo, unfolding herself like an animated puzzle.
"quite right, and beautifully written.
please add that i send my love to john," said mrs. march, as she glanced over the letter and gave it back.
"do you call him 'john'?"
asked meg, smiling, with her innocent eyes looking down into her mother's.
"yes, he has been like a son to us, and we are very fond of him,"
replied mrs. march, returning the look with a keen one.
"i'm glad of that, he is so lonely.
good night, mother, dear.
it is so inexpressibly comfortable to have you here," was meg's answer.
the kiss her mother gave her was a very tender one, and as she went away, mrs. march said, with a mixture of satisfaction and regret, "she does not love john yet, but will soon learn to."
chapter twenty-one
laurie makes mischief, and jo makes peace
jo's face was a study next day, for the secret rather weighed upon her, and she found it hard not to look mysterious and important.
meg observed it, but did not trouble herself to make inquiries, for she had learned that the best way to manage jo was by the law of contraries, so she felt sure of being told everything if she did not ask.
she was rather surprised, therefore, when the silence remained unbroken, and jo assumed a patronizing air, which decidedly aggravated meg, who in turn assumed an air of dignified reserve and devoted herself to her mother.
this left jo to her own devices, for mrs. march had taken her place as nurse, and bade her rest, exercise, and amuse herself after her long confinement.
amy being gone, laurie was her only refuge, and much as she enjoyed his society, she rather dreaded him just then, for he was an incorrigible tease, and she feared he would coax the secret from her.
she was quite right, for the mischief-loving lad no sooner suspected a mystery than he set himself to find it out, and led jo a trying life of it.
he wheedled, bribed, ridiculed, threatened, and scolded; affected indifference, that he might surprise the truth from her; declared he knew, then that he didn't care; and at last, by dint of perseverance, he satisfied himself that it concerned meg and mr. brooke.
feeling indignant that he was not taken into his tutor's confidence, he set his wits to work to devise some proper retaliation for the slight.
meg meanwhile had apparently forgotten the matter and was absorbed in preparations for her father's return, but all of a sudden a change seemed to come over her, and, for a day or two, she was quite unlike herself.
she started when spoken to, blushed when looked at, was very quiet, and sat over her sewing, with a timid, troubled look on her face.
to her mother's inquiries she answered that she was quite well, and jo's she silenced by begging to be let alone.
"she feels it in the air love, i mean and she's going very fast.
she's got most of the symptoms is twittery and cross, doesn't eat, lies awake, and mopes in corners.
i caught her singing that song he gave her, and once she said 'john', as you do, and then turned as red as a poppy.
whatever shall we do?"
said jo, looking ready for any measures, however violent.
"nothing but wait.
let her alone, be kind and patient, and father's coming will settle everything," replied her mother.
"here's a note to you, meg, all sealed up.
how odd!
teddy never seals mine," said jo next day, as she distributed the contents of the little post office.
mrs. march and jo were deep in their own affairs, when a sound from meg made them look up to see her staring at her note with a frightened face.
"my child, what is it?"
cried her mother, running to her, while jo tried to take the paper which had done the mischief.
"it's all a mistake, he didn't send it.
oh, jo, how could you do it?"
and meg hid her face in her hands, crying as if her heart were quite broken.
"me!
i've done nothing!
what's she talking about?"
cried jo, bewildered.
meg's mild eyes kindled with anger as she pulled a crumpled note from her pocket and threw it at jo, saying reproachfully, "you wrote it, and that bad boy helped you.
how could you be so rude, so mean, and cruel to us both?"
jo hardly heard her, for she and her mother were reading the note, which was written in a peculiar hand.
"my dearest margaret,
"i can no longer restrain my passion, and must know my fate before i return.
i dare not tell your parents yet, but i think they would consent if they knew that we adored one another.
mr. laurence will help me to some good place, and then, my sweet girl, you will make me happy.
i implore you to say nothing to your family yet, but to send one word of hope through laurie to,
"your devoted john."
"oh, the little villain!
that's the way he meant to pay me for keeping my word to mother.
i'll give him a hearty scolding and bring him over to beg pardon," cried jo, burning to execute immediate justice.
but her mother held her back, saying, with a look she seldom wore...
"stop, jo, you must clear yourself first.
you have played so many pranks that i am afraid you have had a hand in this."
"on my word, mother, i haven't!
i never saw that note before, and don't know anything about it, as true as i live!"
said jo, so earnestly that they believed her.
"if i had taken part in it i'd have done it better than this, and have written a sensible note.
i should think you'd have known mr. brooke wouldn't write such stuff as that," she added, scornfully tossing down the paper.
"it's like his writing," faltered meg, comparing it with the note in her hand.
"oh, meg, you didn't answer it?"
cried mrs. march quickly.
"yes, i did!"
and meg hid her face again, overcome with shame.
"here's a scrape!
do let me bring that wicked boy over to explain and be lectured.
i can't rest till i get hold of him."
and jo made for the door again.
"hush!
let me handle this, for it is worse than i thought.
margaret, tell me the whole story," commanded mrs. march, sitting down by meg, yet keeping hold of jo, lest she should fly off.
"i received the first letter from laurie, who didn't look as if he knew anything about it," began meg, without looking up.
"i was worried at first and meant to tell you, then i remembered how you liked mr.
brooke, so i thought you wouldn't mind if i kept my little secret for a few days.
i'm so silly that i liked to think no one knew, and while i was deciding what to say, i felt like the girls in books, who have such things to do.
forgive me, mother, i'm paid for my silliness now.
i never can look him in the face again."
"what did you say to him?"
asked mrs. march.
"i only said i was too young to do anything about it yet, that i didn't wish to have secrets from you, and he must speak to father.
i was very grateful for his kindness, and would be his friend, but nothing more, for a long while."
mrs. march smiled, as if well pleased, and jo clapped her hands, exclaiming, with a laugh, "you are almost equal to caroline percy, who was a pattern of prudence!
tell on, meg.
what did he say to that?"
"he writes in a different way entirely, telling me that he never sent any love letter at all, and is very sorry that my roguish sister, jo, should take liberties with our names.
it's very kind and respectful, but think how dreadful for me!"
meg leaned against her mother, looking the image of despair, and jo tramped about the room, calling laurie names.
all of a sudden she stopped, caught up the two notes, and after looking at them closely, said decidedly, "i don't believe brooke ever saw either of these letters.
teddy wrote both, and keeps yours to crow over me with because i wouldn't tell him my secret."
"don't have any secrets, jo.
tell it to mother and keep out of trouble, as i should have done," said meg warningly.
"bless you, child!
mother told me."
"that will do, jo.
i'll comfort meg while you go and get laurie.
i shall sift the matter to the bottom, and put a stop to such pranks at once."
away ran jo, and mrs. march gently told meg mr. brooke's real feelings.
"now, dear, what are your own?
do you love him enough to wait till he can make a home for you, or will you keep yourself quite free for the present?"
"i've been so scared and worried, i don't want to have anything to do with lovers for a long while, perhaps never," answered meg petulantly.
"if john doesn't know anything about this nonsense, don't tell him, and make jo and laurie hold their tongues.
i won't be deceived and plagued and made a fool of.
it's a shame!"
seeing meg's usually gentle temper was roused and her pride hurt by this mischievous joke, mrs. march soothed her by promises of entire silence and great discretion for the future.
the instant laurie's step was heard in the hall, meg fled into the study, and mrs. march received the culprit alone.
jo had not told him why he was wanted, fearing he wouldn't come, but he knew the minute he saw mrs. march's face, and stood twirling his hat with a guilty air which convicted him at once.
jo was dismissed, but chose to march up and down the hall like a sentinel, having some fear that the prisoner might bolt.
the sound of voices in the parlor rose and fell for half an hour, but what happened during that interview the girls never knew.
when they were called in, laurie was standing by their mother with such a penitent face that jo forgave him on the spot, but did not think it wise to betray the fact.
meg received his humble apology, and was much comforted by the assurance that brooke knew nothing of the joke.
"i'll never tell him to my dying day, wild horses shan't drag it out of me, so you'll forgive me, meg, and i'll do anything to show how out-and-out sorry i am," he added, looking very much ashamed of himself.
"i'll try, but it was a very ungentlemanly thing to do, i didn't think you could be so sly and malicious, laurie," replied meg, trying to hide her maidenly confusion under a gravely reproachful air.
"it was altogether abominable, and i don't deserve to be spoken to for a month, but you will, though, won't you?"
and laurie folded his hands together with such and imploring gesture, as he spoke in his irresistibly persuasive tone, that it was impossible to frown upon him in spite of his scandalous behavior.
meg pardoned him, and mrs. march's grave face relaxed, in spite of her efforts to keep sober, when she heard him declare that he would atone for his sins by all sorts of penances, and abase himself like a worm before the injured damsel.
jo stood aloof, meanwhile, trying to harden her heart against him, and succeeding only in primming up her face into an expression of entire disapprobation.
laurie looked at her once or twice, but as she showed no sign of relenting, he felt injured, and turned his back on her till the others were done with him, when he made her a low bow and walked off without a word.
as soon as he had gone, she wished she had been more forgiving, and when meg and her mother went upstairs, she felt lonely and longed for teddy.
after resisting for some time, she yielded to the impulse, and armed with a book to return, went over to the big house.
"is mr. laurence in?"
asked jo, of a housemaid, who was coming downstairs.
"yes, miss, but i don't believe he's seeable just yet."
"why not?
is he ill?"
"la, no miss, but he's had a scene with mr. laurie, who is in one of his tantrums about something, which vexes the old gentleman, so i dursn't go nigh him."
"where is laurie?"
"shut up in his room, and he won't answer, though i've been a-tapping.
i don't know what's to become of the dinner, for it's ready, and there's no one to eat it."
"i'll go and see what the matter is.
i'm not afraid of either of them."
up went jo, and knocked smartly on the door of laurie's little study.
"stop that, or i'll open the door and make you!"
called out the young gentleman in a threatening tone.
jo immediately knocked again.
the door flew open, and in she bounced before laurie could recover from his surprise.
seeing that he really was out of temper, jo, who knew how to manage him, assumed a contrite expression, and going artistically down upon her knees, said meekly, "please forgive me for being so cross.
i came to make it up, and can't go away till i have."
"it's all right.
get up, and don't be a goose, jo," was the cavalier reply to her petition.
"thank you, i will.
could i ask what's the matter?
you don't look exactly easy in your mind."
"i've been shaken, and i won't bear it!"
growled laurie indignantly.
"who did it?"
demanded jo.
"grandfather.
if it had been anyone else i'd have..." and the injured youth finished his sentence by an energetic gesture of the right arm.
"that's nothing.
i often shake you, and you don't mind," said jo soothingly.
"pooh!
you're a girl, and it's fun, but i'll allow no man to shake me!"
"i don't think anyone would care to try it, if you looked as much like a thundercloud as you do now.
why were you treated so?"
"just because i wouldn't say what your mother wanted me for.
i'd promised not to tell, and of course i wasn't going to break my word."
"couldn't you satisfy your grandpa in any other way?"
"no, he would have the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
i'd have told my part of the scrape, if i could without bringing meg in.
as i couldn't, i held my tongue, and bore the scolding till the old gentleman collared me.
then i bolted, for fear i should forget myself."
"it wasn't nice, but he's sorry, i know, so go down and make up.
i'll help you."
"hanged if i do!
i'm not going to be lectured and pummelled by everyone, just for a bit of a frolic.
i was sorry about meg, and begged pardon like a man, but i won't do it again, when i wasn't in the wrong."
"he didn't know that."
"he ought to trust me, and not act as if i was a baby.
it's no use, jo, he's got to learn that i'm able to take care of myself, and don't need anyone's apron string to hold on by."
"what pepper pots you are!"
sighed jo.
"how do you mean to settle this affair?"
"well, he ought to beg pardon, and believe me when i say i can't tell him what the fuss's about."
"bless you!
he won't do that."
"i won't go down till he does."
"now, teddy, be sensible.
let it pass, and i'll explain what i can.
you can't stay here, so what's the use of being melodramatic?"
"i don't intend to stay here long, anyway.
i'll slip off and take a journey somewhere, and when grandpa misses me he'll come round fast enough."
"i dare say, but you ought not to go and worry him."
"don't preach.
i'll go to washington and see brooke.
it's gay there, and i'll enjoy myself after the troubles."
"what fun you'd have!
i wish i could run off too," said jo, forgetting her part of mentor in lively visions of martial life at the capital.
"come on, then!
why not?
you go and surprise your father, and i'll stir up old brooke.
it would be a glorious joke.
let's do it, jo.
we'll leave a letter saying we are all right, and trot off at once.
i've got money enough.
it will do you good, and no harm, as you go to your father."
for a moment jo looked as if she would agree, for wild as the plan was, it just suited her.
she was tired of care and confinement, longed for change, and thoughts of her father blended temptingly with the novel charms of camps and hospitals, liberty and fun.
her eyes kindled as they turned wistfully toward the window, but they fell on the old house opposite, and she shook her head with sorrowful decision.
"if i was a boy, we'd run away together, and have a capital time, but as i'm a miserable girl, i must be proper and stop at home.
don't tempt me, teddy, it's a crazy plan."
"that's the fun of it," began laurie, who had got a willful fit on him and was possessed to break out of bounds in some way.
"hold your tongue!"
cried jo, covering her ears.
"'prunes and prisms'
are my doom, and i may as well make up my mind to it.
i came here to moralize, not to hear things that make me skip to think of."
"i know meg would wet-blanket such a proposal, but i thought you had more spirit," began laurie insinuatingly.
"bad boy, be quiet!
sit down and think of your own sins, don't go making me add to mine.
if i get your grandpa to apologize for the shaking, will you give up running away?"
asked jo seriously.
"yes, but you won't do it," answered laurie, who wished to make up, but felt that his outraged dignity must be appeased first.
"if i can manage the young one, i can the old one," muttered jo, as she walked away, leaving laurie bent over a railroad map with his head propped up on both hands.
"come in!"
and mr. laurence's gruff voice sounded gruffer than ever, as jo tapped at his door.
"it's only me, sir, come to return a book," she said blandly, as she entered.
"want any more?"
asked the old gentleman, looking grim and vexed, but trying not to show it.
"yes, please.
i like old sam so well, i think i'll try the second volume," returned jo, hoping to propitiate him by accepting a second dose of boswell's johnson, as he had recommended that lively work.
the shaggy eyebrows unbent a little as he rolled the steps toward the shelf where the johnsonian literature was placed.
jo skipped up, and sitting on the top step, affected to be searching for her book, but was really wondering how best to introduce the dangerous object of her visit.
mr. laurence seemed to suspect that something was brewing in her mind, for after taking several brisk turns about the room, he faced round on her, speaking so abruptly that rasselas tumbled face downward on the floor.
"what has that boy been about?
don't try to shield him.
i know he has been in mischief by the way he acted when he came home.
i can't get a word from him, and when i threatened to shake the truth out of him he bolted upstairs and locked himself into his room."
"he did wrong, but we forgave him, and all promised not to say a word to anyone," began jo reluctantly.
"that won't do.
he shall not shelter himself behind a promise from you softhearted girls.
if he's done anything amiss, he shall confess, beg pardon, and be punished.
out with it, jo.
i won't be kept in the dark."
mr. laurence looked so alarming and spoke so sharply that jo would have gladly run away, if she could, but she was perched aloft on the steps, and he stood at the foot, a lion in the path, so she had to stay and brave it out.
"indeed, sir, i cannot tell.
mother forbade it.
laurie has confessed, asked pardon, and been punished quite enough.
we don't keep silence to shield him, but someone else, and it will make more trouble if you interfere.
please don't.
it was partly my fault, but it's all right now.
so let's forget it, and talk about the rambler or something pleasant."
"hang the rambler!
come down and give me your word that this harum-scarum boy of mine hasn't done anything ungrateful or impertinent.
if he has, after all your kindness to him, i'll thrash him with my own hands."
the threat sounded awful, but did not alarm jo, for she knew the irascible old gentleman would never lift a finger against his grandson, whatever he might say to the contrary.
she obediently descended, and made as light of the prank as she could without betraying meg or forgetting the truth.
"hum... ha... well, if the boy held his tongue because he promised, and not from obstinacy, i'll forgive him.
he's a stubborn fellow and hard to manage," said mr. laurence, rubbing up his hair till it looked as if he had been out in a gale, and smoothing the frown from his brow with an air of relief.
"so am i, but a kind word will govern me when all the king's horses and all the king's men couldn't," said jo, trying to say a kind word for her friend, who seemed to get out of one scrape only to fall into another.
"you think i'm not kind to him, hey?"
was the sharp answer.
"oh, dear no, sir.
you are rather too kind sometimes, and then just a trifle hasty when he tries your patience.
don't you think you are?"
jo was determined to have it out now, and tried to look quite placid, though she quaked a little after her bold speech.
to her great relief and surprise, the old gentleman only threw his spectacles onto the table with a rattle and exclaimed frankly, "you're right, girl, i am!
i love the boy, but he tries my patience past bearing, and i know how it will end, if we go on so."
"i'll tell you, he'll run away."
jo was sorry for that speech the minute it was made.
she meant to warn him that laurie would not bear much restraint, and hoped he would be more forebearing with the lad.
mr. laurence's ruddy face changed suddenly, and he sat down, with a troubled glance at the picture of a handsome man, which hung over his table.
it was laurie's father, who had run away in his youth, and married against the imperious old man's will.
jo fancied he remembered and regretted the past, and she wished she had held her tongue.
"he won't do it unless he is very much worried, and only threatens it sometimes, when he gets tired of studying.
i often think i should like to, especially since my hair was cut, so if you ever miss us, you may advertise for two boys and look among the ships bound for india."
she laughed as she spoke, and mr. laurence looked relieved, evidently taking the whole as a joke.
"you hussy, how dare you talk in that way?
where's your respect for me, and your proper bringing up?
bless the boys and girls!
what torments they are, yet we can't do without them," he said, pinching her cheeks good-humoredly.
"go and bring that boy down to his dinner, tell him it's all right, and advise him not to put on tragedy airs with his grandfather.
i won't bear it."
"he won't come, sir.
he feels badly because you didn't believe him when he said he couldn't tell.
i think the shaking hurt his feelings very much."
jo tried to look pathetic but must have failed, for mr. laurence began to laugh, and she knew the day was won.
"i'm sorry for that, and ought to thank him for not shaking me, i suppose.
what the dickens does the fellow expect?"
and the old gentleman looked a trifle ashamed of his own testiness.
"if i were you, i'd write him an apology, sir.
he says he won't come down till he has one, and talks about washington, and goes on in an absurd way.
a formal apology will make him see how foolish he is, and bring him down quite amiable.
try it.
he likes fun, and this way is better than talking.
i'll carry it up, and teach him his duty."
mr. laurence gave her a sharp look, and put on his spectacles, saying slowly, "you're a sly puss, but i don't mind being managed by you and beth.
here, give me a bit of paper, and let us have done with this nonsense."
the note was written in the terms which one gentleman would use to another after offering some deep insult.
jo dropped a kiss on the top of mr. laurence's bald head, and ran up to slip the apology under laurie's door, advising him through the keyhole to be submissive, decorous, and a few other agreeable impossibilities.
finding the door locked again, she left the note to do its work, and was going quietly away, when the young gentleman slid down the banisters, and waited for her at the bottom, saying, with his most virtuous expression of countenance, "what a good fellow you are, jo!
did you get blown up?"
he added, laughing.
"no, he was pretty mild, on the whole."
"ah!
i got it all round.
even you cast me off over there, and i felt just ready to go to the deuce," he began apologetically.
"don't talk that way, turn over a new leaf and begin again, teddy, my son."
"i keep turning over new leaves, and spoiling them, as i used to spoil my copybooks, and i make so many beginnings there never will be an end," he said dolefully.
"go and eat your dinner, you'll feel better after it.
men always croak when they are hungry," and jo whisked out at the front door after that.
"that's a 'label' on my 'sect'," answered laurie, quoting amy, as he went to partake of humble pie dutifully with his grandfather, who was quite saintly in temper and overwhelmingly respectful in manner all the rest of the day.
everyone thought the matter ended and the little cloud blown over, but the mischief was done, for though others forgot it, meg remembered.
she never alluded to a certain person, but she thought of him a good deal, dreamed dreams more than ever, and once jo, rummaging her sister's desk for stamps, found a bit of paper scribbled over with the words, 'mrs.
john brooke', whereat she groaned tragically and cast it into the fire, feeling that laurie's prank had hastened the evil day for her.
chapter twenty-two
pleasant meadows
like sunshine after a storm were the peaceful weeks which followed.
the invalids improved rapidly, and mr. march began to talk of returning early in the new year.
beth was soon able to lie on the study sofa all day, amusing herself with the well-beloved cats at first, and in time with doll's sewing, which had fallen sadly behind-hand.
her once active limbs were so stiff and feeble that jo took her for a daily airing about the house in her strong arms.
meg cheerfully blackened and burned her white hands cooking delicate messes for 'the dear', while amy, a loyal slave of the ring, celebrated her return by giving away as many of her treasures as she could prevail on her sisters to accept.
as christmas approached, the usual mysteries began to haunt the house, and jo frequently convulsed the family by proposing utterly impossible or magnificently absurd ceremonies, in honor of this unusually merry christmas.
laurie was equally impracticable, and would have had bonfires, skyrockets, and triumphal arches, if he had had his own way.
after many skirmishes and snubbings, the ambitious pair were considered effectually quenched and went about with forlorn faces, which were rather belied by explosions of laughter when the two got together.
several days of unusually mild weather fitly ushered in a splendid christmas day.
hannah 'felt in her bones' that it was going to be an unusually fine day, and she proved herself a true prophetess, for everybody and everything seemed bound to produce a grand success.
to begin with, mr. march wrote that he should soon be with them, then beth felt uncommonly well that morning, and, being dressed in her mother's gift, a soft crimson merino wrapper, was borne in high triumph to the window to behold the offering of jo and laurie.
the unquenchables had done their best to be worthy of the name, for like elves they had worked by night and conjured up a comical surprise.
out in the garden stood a stately snow maiden, crowned with holly, bearing a basket of fruit and flowers in one hand, a great roll of music in the other, a perfect rainbow of an afghan round her chilly shoulders, and a christmas carol issuing from her lips on a pink paper streamer.
the jungfrau to beth
god bless you, dear queen bess!
may nothing you dismay,     but health and peace and happiness     be yours, this christmas day.
here's fruit to feed our busy bee,     and flowers for her nose.
here's music for her pianee,     an afghan for her toes,
a portrait of joanna, see,     by raphael no.
2,     who laboured with great industry     to make it fair and true.
accept a ribbon red, i beg,     for madam purrer's tail,     and ice cream made by lovely peg,     a mont blanc in a pail.
their dearest love my makers laid     within my breast of snow.
accept it, and the alpine maid,     from laurie and from jo.
how beth laughed when she saw it, how laurie ran up and down to bring in the gifts, and what ridiculous speeches jo made as she presented them.
"i'm so full of happiness, that if father was only here, i couldn't hold one drop more," said beth, quite sighing with contentment as jo carried her off to the study to rest after the excitement, and to refresh herself with some of the delicious grapes the 'jungfrau' had sent her.
"so am i," added jo, slapping the pocket wherein reposed the long-desired undine and sintram.
"i'm sure i am," echoed amy, poring over the engraved copy of the madonna and child, which her mother had given her in a pretty frame.
"of course i am!"
cried meg, smoothing the silvery folds of her first silk dress, for mr. laurence had insisted on giving it.
"how can i be otherwise?"
said mrs. march gratefully, as her eyes went from her husband's letter to beth's smiling face, and her hand caressed the brooch made of gray and golden, chestnut and dark brown hair, which the girls had just fastened on her breast.
now and then, in this workaday world, things do happen in the delightful storybook fashion, and what a comfort it is.
half an hour after everyone had said they were so happy they could only hold one drop more, the drop came.
laurie opened the parlor door and popped his head in very quietly.
he might just as well have turned a somersault and uttered an indian war whoop, for his face was so full of suppressed excitement and his voice so treacherously joyful that everyone jumped up, though he only said, in a queer, breathless voice, "here's another christmas present for the march family."
before the words were well out of his mouth, he was whisked away somehow, and in his place appeared a tall man, muffled up to the eyes, leaning on the arm of another tall man, who tried to say something and couldn't.
of course there was a general stampede, and for several minutes everybody seemed to lose their wits, for the strangest things were done, and no one said a word.
mr. march became invisible in the embrace of four pairs of loving arms.
jo disgraced herself by nearly fainting away, and had to be doctored by laurie in the china closet.
mr. brooke kissed meg entirely by mistake, as he somewhat incoherently explained.
and amy, the dignified, tumbled over a stool, and never stopping to get up, hugged and cried over her father's boots in the most touching manner.
mrs. march was the first to recover herself, and held up her hand with a warning, "hush!
remember beth."
but it was too late.
the study door flew open, the little red wrapper appeared on the threshold, joy put strength into the feeble limbs, and beth ran straight into her father's arms.
never mind what happened just after that, for the full hearts overflowed, washing away the bitterness of the past and leaving only the sweetness of the present.
it was not at all romantic, but a hearty laugh set everybody straight again, for hannah was discovered behind the door, sobbing over the fat turkey, which she had forgotten to put down when she rushed up from the kitchen.
as the laugh subsided, mrs. march began to thank mr. brooke for his faithful care of her husband, at which mr. brooke suddenly remembered that mr. march needed rest, and seizing laurie, he precipitately retired.
then the two invalids were ordered to repose, which they did, by both sitting in one big chair and talking hard.
mr. march told how he had longed to surprise them, and how, when the fine weather came, he had been allowed by his doctor to take advantage of it, how devoted brooke had been, and how he was altogether a most estimable and upright young man.
why mr. march paused a minute just there, and after a glance at meg, who was violently poking the fire, looked at his wife with an inquiring lift of the eyebrows, i leave you to imagine.
also why mrs. march gently nodded her head and asked, rather abruptly, if he wouldn't like to have something to eat.
jo saw and understood the look, and she stalked grimly away to get wine and beef tea, muttering to herself as she slammed the door, "i hate estimable young men with brown eyes!"
there never was such a christmas dinner as they had that day.
the fat turkey was a sight to behold, when hannah sent him up, stuffed, browned, and decorated.
so was the plum pudding, which melted in one's mouth, likewise the jellies, in which amy reveled like a fly in a honeypot.
everything turned out well, which was a mercy, hannah said, "for my mind was that flustered, mum, that it's a merrycle i didn't roast the pudding, and stuff the turkey with raisins, let alone bilin'
of it in a cloth."
mr. laurence and his grandson dined with them, also mr. brooke, at whom jo glowered darkly, to laurie's infinite amusement.
two easy chairs stood side by side at the head of the table, in which sat beth and her father, feasting modestly on chicken and a little fruit.
they drank healths, told stories, sang songs, 'reminisced', as the old folks say, and had a thoroughly good time.
a sleigh ride had been planned, but the girls would not leave their father, so the guests departed early, and as twilight gathered, the happy family sat together round the fire.
"just a year ago we were groaning over the dismal christmas we expected to have.
do you remember?"
asked jo, breaking a short pause which had followed a long conversation about many things.
"rather a pleasant year on the whole!"
said meg, smiling at the fire, and congratulating herself on having treated mr. brooke with dignity.
"i think it's been a pretty hard one," observed amy, watching the light shine on her ring with thoughtful eyes.
"i'm glad it's over, because we've got you back," whispered beth, who sat on her father's knee.
"rather a rough road for you to travel, my little pilgrims, especially the latter part of it.
but you have got on bravely, and i think the burdens are in a fair way to tumble off very soon," said mr. march, looking with fatherly satisfaction at the four young faces gathered round him.
"how do you know?
did mother tell you?"
asked jo.
"not much.
straws show which way the wind blows, and i've made several discoveries today."
"oh, tell us what they are!"
cried meg, who sat beside him.
"here is one."
and taking up the hand which lay on the arm of his chair, he pointed to the roughened forefinger, a burn on the back, and two or three little hard spots on the palm.
"i remember a time when this hand was white and smooth, and your first care was to keep it so.
it was very pretty then, but to me it is much prettier now, for in this seeming blemishes i read a little history.
a burnt offering has been made to vanity, this hardened palm has earned something better than blisters, and i'm sure the sewing done by these pricked fingers will last a long time, so much good will went into the stitches.
meg, my dear, i value the womanly skill which keeps home happy more than white hands or fashionable accomplishments.
i'm proud to shake this good, industrious little hand, and hope i shall not soon be asked to give it away."
if meg had wanted a reward for hours of patient labor, she received it in the hearty pressure of her father's hand and the approving smile he gave her.
"what about jo?
please say something nice, for she has tried so hard and been so very, very good to me," said beth in her father's ear.
he laughed and looked across at the tall girl who sat opposite, with an unusually mild expression in her face.
"in spite of the curly crop, i don't see the 'son jo' whom i left a year ago," said mr. march.
"i see a young lady who pins her collar straight, laces her boots neatly, and neither whistles, talks slang, nor lies on the rug as she used to do.
her face is rather thin and pale just now, with watching and anxiety, but i like to look at it, for it has grown gentler, and her voice is lower.
she doesn't bounce, but moves quietly, and takes care of a certain little person in a motherly way which delights me.
i rather miss my wild girl, but if i get a strong, helpful, tenderhearted woman in her place, i shall feel quite satisfied.
i don't know whether the shearing sobered our black sheep, but i do know that in all washington i couldn't find anything beautiful enough to be bought with the five-and-twenty dollars my good girl sent me."
jo's keen eyes were rather dim for a minute, and her thin face grew rosy in the firelight as she received her father's praise, feeling that she did deserve a portion of it.
"now, beth," said amy, longing for her turn, but ready to wait.
"there's so little of her, i'm afraid to say much, for fear she will slip away altogether, though she is not so shy as she used to be,"
began their father cheerfully.
but recollecting how nearly he had lost her, he held her close, saying tenderly, with her cheek against his own, "i've got you safe, my beth, and i'll keep you so, please god."
after a minute's silence, he looked down at amy, who sat on the cricket at his feet, and said, with a caress of the shining hair...
"i observed that amy took drumsticks at dinner, ran errands for her mother all the afternoon, gave meg her place tonight, and has waited on every one with patience and good humor.
i also observe that she does not fret much nor look in the glass, and has not even mentioned a very pretty ring which she wears, so i conclude that she has learned to think of other people more and of herself less, and has decided to try and mold her character as carefully as she molds her little clay figures.
i am glad of this, for though i should be very proud of a graceful statue made by her, i shall be infinitely prouder of a lovable daughter with a talent for making life beautiful to herself and others."
"what are you thinking of, beth?"
asked jo, when amy had thanked her father and told about her ring.
"i read in pilgrim's progress today how, after many troubles, christian and hopeful came to a pleasant green meadow where lilies bloomed all year round, and there they rested happily, as we do now, before they went on to their journey's end," answered beth, adding, as she slipped out of her father's arms and went to the instrument, "it's singing time now, and i want to be in my old place.
i'll try to sing the song of the shepherd boy which the pilgrims heard.
i made the music for father, because he likes the verses."
so, sitting at the dear little piano, beth softly touched the keys, and in the sweet voice they had never thought to hear again, sang to her own accompaniment the quaint hymn, which was a singularly fitting song for her.
he that is down need fear no fall,     he that is low no pride.
he that is humble ever shall     have god to be his guide.
i am content with what i have,     little be it, or much.
and, lord!
contentment still i crave,     because thou savest such.
fulness to them a burden is,     that go on pilgrimage.
here little, and hereafter bliss,     is best from age to age!
chapter twenty-three
aunt march settles the question
like bees swarming after their queen, mother and daughters hovered about mr. march the next day, neglecting everything to look at, wait upon, and listen to the new invalid, who was in a fair way to be killed by kindness.
as he sat propped up in a big chair by beth's sofa, with the other three close by, and hannah popping in her head now and then 'to peek at the dear man', nothing seemed needed to complete their happiness.
but something was needed, and the elder ones felt it, though none confessed the fact.
mr. and mrs. march looked at one another with an anxious expression, as their eyes followed meg.
jo had sudden fits of sobriety, and was seen to shake her fist at mr. brooke's umbrella, which had been left in the hall.
meg was absent-minded, shy, and silent, started when the bell rang, and colored when john's name was mentioned.
amy said, "everyone seemed waiting for something, and couldn't settle down, which was queer, since father was safe at home,"
and beth innocently wondered why their neighbors didn't run over as usual.
laurie went by in the afternoon, and seeing meg at the window, seemed suddenly possessed with a melodramatic fit, for he fell down on one knee in the snow, beat his breast, tore his hair, and clasped his hands imploringly, as if begging some boon.
and when meg told him to behave himself and go away, he wrung imaginary tears out of his handkerchief, and staggered round the corner as if in utter despair.
"what does the goose mean?"
said meg, laughing and trying to look unconscious.
"he's showing you how your john will go on by-and-by.
touching, isn't it?"
answered jo scornfully.
"don't say my john, it isn't proper or true," but meg's voice lingered over the words as if they sounded pleasant to her.
"please don't plague me, jo, i've told you i don't care much about him, and there isn't to be anything said, but we are all to be friendly, and go on as before."
"we can't, for something has been said, and laurie's mischief has spoiled you for me.
i see it, and so does mother.
you are not like your old self a bit, and seem ever so far away from me.
i don't mean to plague you and will bear it like a man, but i do wish it was all settled.
i hate to wait, so if you mean ever to do it, make haste and have it over quickly," said jo pettishly.
"i can't say anything till he speaks, and he won't, because father said i was too young," began meg, bending over her work with a queer little smile, which suggested that she did not quite agree with her father on that point.
"if he did speak, you wouldn't know what to say, but would cry or blush, or let him have his own way, instead of giving a good, decided no."
"i'm not so silly and weak as you think.
i know just what i should say, for i've planned it all, so i needn't be taken unawares.
there's no knowing what may happen, and i wished to be prepared."
jo couldn't help smiling at the important air which meg had unconsciously assumed and which was as becoming as the pretty color varying in her cheeks.
"would you mind telling me what you'd say?"
asked jo more respectfully.
"not at all.
you are sixteen now, quite old enough to be my confidant, and my experience will be useful to you by-and-by, perhaps, in your own affairs of this sort."
"don't mean to have any.
it's fun to watch other people philander, but i should feel like a fool doing it myself," said jo, looking alarmed at the thought.
"i think not, if you liked anyone very much, and he liked you."
meg spoke as if to herself, and glanced out at the lane where she had often seen lovers walking together in the summer twilight.
"i thought you were going to tell your speech to that man," said jo, rudely shortening her sister's little reverie.
"oh, i should merely say, quite calmly and decidedly, 'thank you, mr.
brooke, you are very kind, but i agree with father that i am too young to enter into any engagement at present, so please say no more, but let us be friends as we were.'"
"hum, that's stiff and cool enough!
i don't believe you'll ever say it, and i know he won't be satisfied if you do.
if he goes on like the rejected lovers in books, you'll give in, rather than hurt his feelings."
"no, i won't.
i shall tell him i've made up my mind, and shall walk out of the room with dignity."
meg rose as she spoke, and was just going to rehearse the dignified exit, when a step in the hall made her fly into her seat and begin to sew as fast as if her life depended on finishing that particular seam in a given time.
jo smothered a laugh at the sudden change, and when someone gave a modest tap, opened the door with a grim aspect which was anything but hospitable.
"good afternoon.
i came to get my umbrella, that is, to see how your father finds himself today," said mr. brooke, getting a trifle confused as his eyes went from one telltale face to the other.
"it's very well, he's in the rack.
i'll get him, and tell it you are here."
and having jumbled her father and the umbrella well together in her reply, jo slipped out of the room to give meg a chance to make her speech and air her dignity.
but the instant she vanished, meg began to sidle toward the door, murmuring...
"mother will like to see you.
pray sit down, i'll call her."
"don't go.
are you afraid of me, margaret?"
and mr. brooke looked so hurt that meg thought she must have done something very rude.
she blushed up to the little curls on her forehead, for he had never called her margaret before, and she was surprised to find how natural and sweet it seemed to hear him say it.
anxious to appear friendly and at her ease, she put out her hand with a confiding gesture, and said gratefully...
"how can i be afraid when you have been so kind to father?
i only wish i could thank you for it."
"shall i tell you how?"
asked mr. brooke, holding the small hand fast in both his own, and looking down at meg with so much love in the brown eyes that her heart began to flutter, and she both longed to run away and to stop and listen.
"oh no, please don't, i'd rather not," she said, trying to withdraw her hand, and looking frightened in spite of her denial.
"i won't trouble you.
i only want to know if you care for me a little, meg.
i love you so much, dear," added mr. brooke tenderly.
this was the moment for the calm, proper speech, but meg didn't make it.
she forgot every word of it, hung her head, and answered, "i don't know," so softly that john had to stoop down to catch the foolish little reply.
he seemed to think it was worth the trouble, for he smiled to himself as if quite satisfied, pressed the plump hand gratefully, and said in his most persuasive tone, "will you try and find out?
i want to know so much, for i can't go to work with any heart until i learn whether i am to have my reward in the end or not."
"i'm too young," faltered meg, wondering why she was so fluttered, yet rather enjoying it.
"i'll wait, and in the meantime, you could be learning to like me.
would it be a very hard lesson, dear?"
"not if i chose to learn it, but.
.
."
"please choose to learn, meg.
i love to teach, and this is easier than german," broke in john, getting possession of the other hand, so that she had no way of hiding her face as he bent to look into it.
his tone was properly beseeching, but stealing a shy look at him, meg saw that his eyes were merry as well as tender, and that he wore the satisfied smile of one who had no doubt of his success.
this nettled her.
annie moffat's foolish lessons in coquetry came into her mind, and the love of power, which sleeps in the bosoms of the best of little women, woke up all of a sudden and took possession of her.
she felt excited and strange, and not knowing what else to do, followed a capricious impulse, and, withdrawing her hands, said petulantly, "i don't choose.
please go away and let me be!"
poor mr. brooke looked as if his lovely castle in the air was tumbling about his ears, for he had never seen meg in such a mood before, and it rather bewildered him.
"do you really mean that?"
he asked anxiously, following her as she walked away.
"yes, i do.
i don't want to be worried about such things.
father says i needn't, it's too soon and i'd rather not."
"mayn't i hope you'll change your mind by-and-by?
i'll wait and say nothing till you have had more time.
don't play with me, meg.
i didn't think that of you."
"don't think of me at all.
i'd rather you wouldn't," said meg, taking a naughty satisfaction in trying her lover's patience and her own power.
he was grave and pale now, and looked decidedly more like the novel heroes whom she admired, but he neither slapped his forehead nor tramped about the room as they did.
he just stood looking at her so wistfully, so tenderly, that she found her heart relenting in spite of herself.
what would have happened next i cannot say, if aunt march had not come hobbling in at this interesting minute.
the old lady couldn't resist her longing to see her nephew, for she had met laurie as she took her airing, and hearing of mr. march's arrival, drove straight out to see him.
the family were all busy in the back part of the house, and she had made her way quietly in, hoping to surprise them.
she did surprise two of them so much that meg started as if she had seen a ghost, and mr. brooke vanished into the study.
"bless me, what's all this?"
cried the old lady with a rap of her cane as she glanced from the pale young gentleman to the scarlet young lady.
"it's father's friend.
i'm so surprised to see you!"
stammered meg, feeling that she was in for a lecture now.
"that's evident," returned aunt march, sitting down.
"but what is father's friend saying to make you look like a peony?
there's mischief going on, and i insist upon knowing what it is," with another rap.
"we were only talking.
mr. brooke came for his umbrella," began meg, wishing that mr. brooke and the umbrella were safely out of the house.
"brooke?
that boy's tutor?
ah!
i understand now.
i know all about it.
jo blundered into a wrong message in one of your father's letters, and i made her tell me.
you haven't gone and accepted him, child?"
cried aunt march, looking scandalized.
"hush!
he'll hear.
shan't i call mother?"
said meg, much troubled.
"not yet.
i've something to say to you, and i must free my mind at once.
tell me, do you mean to marry this cook?
if you do, not one penny of my money ever goes to you.
remember that, and be a sensible girl," said the old lady impressively.
now aunt march possessed in perfection the art of rousing the spirit of opposition in the gentlest people, and enjoyed doing it.
the best of us have a spice of perversity in us, especially when we are young and in love.
if aunt march had begged meg to accept john brooke, she would probably have declared she couldn't think of it, but as she was preemptorily ordered not to like him, she immediately made up her mind that she would.
inclination as well as perversity made the decision easy, and being already much excited, meg opposed the old lady with unusual spirit.
"i shall marry whom i please, aunt march, and you can leave your money to anyone you like," she said, nodding her head with a resolute air.
"highty-tighty!
is that the way you take my advice, miss?
you'll be sorry for it by-and-by, when you've tried love in a cottage and found it a failure."
"it can't be a worse one than some people find in big houses," retorted meg.
aunt march put on her glasses and took a look at the girl, for she did not know her in this new mood.
meg hardly knew herself, she felt so brave and independent, so glad to defend john and assert her right to love him, if she liked.
aunt march saw that she had begun wrong, and after a little pause, made a fresh start, saying as mildly as she could, "now, meg, my dear, be reasonable and take my advice.
i mean it kindly, and don't want you to spoil your whole life by making a mistake at the beginning.
you ought to marry well and help your family.
it's your duty to make a rich match and it ought to be impressed upon you."
"father and mother don't think so.
they like john though he is poor."
"your parents, my dear, have no more worldly wisdom than a pair of babies."
"i'm glad of it," cried meg stoutly.
aunt march took no notice, but went on with her lecture.
"this rook is poor and hasn't got any rich relations, has he?"
"no, but he has many warm friends."
"you can't live on friends, try it and see how cool they'll grow.
he hasn't any business, has he?"
"not yet.
mr. laurence is going to help him."
"that won't last long.
james laurence is a crotchety old fellow and not to be depended on.
so you intend to marry a man without money, position, or business, and go on working harder than you do now, when you might be comfortable all your days by minding me and doing better?
i thought you had more sense, meg."
"i couldn't do better if i waited half my life!
john is good and wise, he's got heaps of talent, he's willing to work and sure to get on, he's so energetic and brave.
everyone likes and respects him, and i'm proud to think he cares for me, though i'm so poor and young and silly," said meg, looking prettier than ever in her earnestness.
"he knows you have got rich relations, child.
that's the secret of his liking, i suspect."
"aunt march, how dare you say such a thing?
john is above such meanness, and i won't listen to you a minute if you talk so," cried meg indignantly, forgetting everything but the injustice of the old lady's suspicions.
"my john wouldn't marry for money, any more than i would.
we are willing to work and we mean to wait.
i'm not afraid of being poor, for i've been happy so far, and i know i shall be with him because he loves me, and i..."
meg stopped there, remembering all of a sudden that she hadn't made up her mind, that she had told 'her john' to go away, and that he might be overhearing her inconsistent remarks.
aunt march was very angry, for she had set her heart on having her pretty niece make a fine match, and something in the girl's happy young face made the lonely old woman feel both sad and sour.
"well, i wash my hands of the whole affair!
you are a willful child, and you've lost more than you know by this piece of folly.
no, i won't stop.
i'm disappointed in you, and haven't spirits to see your father now.
don't expect anything from me when you are married.
your mr.
brooke's friends must take care of you.
i'm done with you forever."
and slamming the door in meg's face, aunt march drove off in high dudgeon.
she seemed to take all the girl's courage with her, for when left alone, meg stood for a moment, undecided whether to laugh or cry.
before she could make up her mind, she was taken possession of by mr.
brooke, who said all in one breath, "i couldn't help hearing, meg.
thank you for defending me, and aunt march for proving that you do care for me a little bit."
"i didn't know how much till she abused you," began meg.
"and i needn't go away, but may stay and be happy, may i, dear?"
here was another fine chance to make the crushing speech and the stately exit, but meg never thought of doing either, and disgraced herself forever in jo's eyes by meekly whispering, "yes,  john," and hiding her face on mr. brooke's waistcoat.
fifteen minutes after aunt march's departure, jo came softly downstairs, paused an instant at the parlor door, and hearing no sound within, nodded and smiled with a satisfied expression, saying to herself, "she has seen him away as we planned, and that affair is settled.
i'll go and hear the fun, and have a good laugh over it."
but poor jo never got her laugh, for she was transfixed upon the threshold by a spectacle which held her there, staring with her mouth nearly as wide open as her eyes.
going in to exult over a fallen enemy and to praise a strong-minded sister for the banishment of an objectionable lover, it certainly was a shock to behold the aforesaid enemy serenely sitting on the sofa, with the strongminded sister enthroned upon his knee and wearing an expression of the most abject submission.
jo gave a sort of gasp, as if a cold shower bath had suddenly fallen upon her, for such an unexpected turning of the tables actually took her breath away.
at the odd sound the lovers turned and saw her.
meg jumped up, looking both proud and shy, but 'that man', as jo called him, actually laughed and said coolly, as he kissed the astonished newcomer, "sister jo, congratulate us!"
that was adding insult to injury, it was altogether too much, and making some wild demonstration with her hands, jo vanished without a word.
rushing upstairs, she startled the invalids by exclaiming tragically as she burst into the room, "oh, do somebody go down quick!
john brooke is acting dreadfully, and meg likes it!"
mr. and mrs. march left the room with speed, and casting herself upon the bed, jo cried and scolded tempestuously as she told the awful news to beth and amy.
the little girls, however, considered it a most agreeable and interesting event, and jo got little comfort from them, so she went up to her refuge in the garret, and confided her troubles to the rats.
nobody ever knew what went on in the parlor that afternoon, but a great deal of talking was done, and quiet mr. brooke astonished his friends by the eloquence and spirit with which he pleaded his suit, told his plans, and persuaded them to arrange everything just as he wanted it.
the tea bell rang before he had finished describing the paradise which he meant to earn for meg, and he proudly took her in to supper, both looking so happy that jo hadn't the heart to be jealous or dismal.
amy was very much impressed by john's devotion and meg's dignity, beth beamed at them from a distance, while mr. and mrs. march surveyed the young couple with such tender satisfaction that it was perfectly evident aunt march was right in calling them as 'unworldly as a pair of babies'.
no one ate much, but everyone looked very happy, and the old room seemed to brighten up amazingly when the first romance of the family began there.
"you can't say nothing pleasant ever happens now, can you, meg?"
said amy, trying to decide how she would group the lovers in a sketch she was planning to make.
"no, i'm sure i can't.
how much has happened since i said that!
it seems a year ago," answered meg, who was in a blissful dream lifted far above such common things as bread and butter.
"the joys come close upon the sorrows this time, and i rather think the changes have begun," said mrs. march.
"in most families there comes, now and then, a year full of events.
this has been such a one, but it ends well, after all."
"hope the next will end better," muttered jo, who found it very hard to see meg absorbed in a stranger before her face, for jo loved a few persons very dearly and dreaded to have their affection lost or lessened in any way.
"i hope the third year from this will end better.
i mean it shall, if i live to work out my plans," said mr. brooke, smiling at meg, as if everything had become possible to him now.
"doesn't it seem very long to wait?"
asked amy, who was in a hurry for the wedding.
"i've got so much to learn before i shall be ready, it seems a short time to me," answered meg, with a sweet gravity in her face never seen there before.
"you have only to wait, i am to do the work," said john beginning his labors by picking up meg's napkin, with an expression which caused jo to shake her head, and then say to herself with an air of relief as the front door banged, "here comes laurie.
now we shall have some sensible conversation."
but jo was mistaken, for laurie came prancing in, overflowing with good spirits, bearing a great bridal-looking bouquet for 'mrs.
john brooke', and evidently laboring under the delusion that the whole affair had been brought about by his excellent management.
"i knew brooke would have it all his own way, he always does, for when he makes up his mind to accomplish anything, it's done though the sky falls," said laurie, when he had presented his offering and his congratulations.
"much obliged for that recommendation.
i take it as a good omen for the future and invite you to my wedding on the spot," answered mr.
brooke, who felt at peace with all mankind, even his mischievous pupil.
"i'll come if i'm at the ends of the earth, for the sight of jo's face alone on that occasion would be worth a long journey.
you don't look festive, ma'am, what's the matter?"
asked laurie, following her into a corner of the parlor, whither all had adjourned to greet mr. laurence.
"i don't approve of the match, but i've made up my mind to bear it, and shall not say a word against it," said jo solemnly.
"you can't know how hard it is for me to give up meg," she continued with a little quiver in her voice.
"you don't give her up.
you only go halves," said laurie consolingly.
"it can never be the same again.
i've lost my dearest friend," sighed jo.
"you've got me, anyhow.
i'm not good for much, i know, but i'll stand by you, jo, all the days of my life.
upon my word i will!"
and laurie meant what he said.
"i know you will, and i'm ever so much obliged.
you are always a great comfort to me, teddy," returned jo, gratefully shaking hands.
"well, now, don't be dismal, there's a good fellow.
it's all right you see.
meg is happy, brooke will fly round and get settled immediately, grandpa will attend to him, and it will be very jolly to see meg in her own little house.
we'll have capital times after she is gone, for i shall be through college before long, and then we'll go abroad on some nice trip or other.
wouldn't that console you?"
"i rather think it would, but there's no knowing what may happen in three years," said jo thoughtfully.
"that's true.
don't you wish you could take a look forward and see where we shall all be then?
i do," returned laurie.
"i think not, for i might see something sad, and everyone looks so happy now, i don't believe they could be much improved."
and jo's eyes went slowly round the room, brightening as they looked, for the prospect was a pleasant one.
father and mother sat together, quietly reliving the first chapter of the romance which for them began some twenty years ago.
amy was drawing the lovers, who sat apart in a beautiful world of their own, the light of which touched their faces with a grace the little artist could not copy.
beth lay on her sofa, talking cheerily with her old friend, who held her little hand as if he felt that it possessed the power to lead him along the peaceful way she walked.
jo lounged in her favorite low seat, with the grave quiet look which best became her, and laurie, leaning on the back of her chair, his chin on a level with her curly head, smiled with his friendliest aspect, and nodded at her in the long glass which reflected them both.
so the curtain falls upon meg, jo, beth, and amy.
whether it ever rises again, depends upon the reception given the first act of the domestic drama called little women.
little women part 2
in order that we may start afresh and go to meg's wedding...
chapter twenty-four
gossip
in order that we may start afresh and go to meg's wedding with free minds, it will be well to begin with a little gossip about the marches.
and here let me premise that if any of the elders think there is too much 'lovering' in the story, as i fear they may (i'm not afraid the young folks will make that objection), i can only say with mrs. march, "what can you expect when i have four gay girls in the house, and a dashing young neighbor over the way?"
the three years that have passed have brought but few changes to the quiet family.
the war is over, and mr. march safely at home, busy with his books and the small parish which found in him a minister by nature as by grace, a quiet, studious man, rich in the wisdom that is better than learning, the charity which calls all mankind 'brother', the piety that blossoms into character, making it august and lovely.
these attributes, in spite of poverty and the strict integrity which shut him out from the more worldly successes, attracted to him many admirable persons, as naturally as sweet herbs draw bees, and as naturally he gave them the honey into which fifty years of hard experience had distilled no bitter drop.
earnest young men found the gray-headed scholar as young at heart as they; thoughtful or troubled women instinctively brought their doubts to him, sure of finding the gentlest sympathy, the wisest counsel.
sinners told their sins to the pure-hearted old man and were both rebuked and saved.
gifted men found a companion in him.
ambitious men caught glimpses of nobler ambitions than their own, and even worldlings confessed that his beliefs were beautiful and true, although 'they wouldn't pay'.
to outsiders the five energetic women seemed to rule the house, and so they did in many things, but the quiet scholar, sitting among his books, was still the head of the family, the household conscience, anchor, and comforter, for to him the busy, anxious women always turned in troublous times, finding him, in the truest sense of those sacred words, husband and father.
the girls gave their hearts into their mother's keeping, their souls into their father's, and to both parents, who lived and labored so faithfully for them, they gave a love that grew with their growth and bound them tenderly together by the sweetest tie which blesses life and outlives death.
mrs. march is as brisk and cheery, though rather grayer, than when we saw her last, and just now so absorbed in meg's affairs that the hospitals and homes still full of wounded 'boys' and soldiers' widows, decidedly miss the motherly missionary's visits.
john brooke did his duty manfully for a year, got wounded, was sent home, and not allowed to return.
he received no stars or bars, but he deserved them, for he cheerfully risked all he had, and life and love are very precious when both are in full bloom.
perfectly resigned to his discharge, he devoted himself to getting well, preparing for business, and earning a home for meg.
with the good sense and sturdy independence that characterized him, he refused mr. laurence's more generous offers, and accepted the place of bookkeeper, feeling better satisfied to begin with an honestly earned salary than by running any risks with borrowed money.
meg had spent the time in working as well as waiting, growing womanly in character, wise in housewifely arts, and prettier than ever, for love is a great beautifier.
she had her girlish ambitions and hopes, and felt some disappointment at the humble way in which the new life must begin.
ned moffat had just married sallie gardiner, and meg couldn't help contrasting their fine house and carriage, many gifts, and splendid outfit with her own, and secretly wishing she could have the same.
but somehow envy and discontent soon vanished when she thought of all the patient love and labor john had put into the little home awaiting her, and when they sat together in the twilight, talking over their small plans, the future always grew so beautiful and bright that she forgot sallie's splendor and felt herself the richest, happiest girl in christendom.
jo never went back to aunt march, for the old lady took such a fancy to amy that she bribed her with the offer of drawing lessons from one of the best teachers going, and for the sake of this advantage, amy would have served a far harder mistress.
so she gave her mornings to duty, her afternoons to pleasure, and prospered finely.
jo meantime devoted herself to literature and beth, who remained delicate long after the fever was a thing of the past.
not an invalid exactly, but never again the rosy, healthy creature she had been, yet always hopeful, happy, and serene, and busy with the quiet duties she loved, everyone's friend, and an angel in the house, long before those who loved her most had learned to know it.
as long as the spread eagle paid her a dollar a column for her 'rubbish', as she called it, jo felt herself a woman of means, and spun her little romances diligently.
but great plans fermented in her busy brain and ambitious mind, and the old tin kitchen in the garret held a slowly increasing pile of blotted manuscript, which was one day to place the name of march upon the roll of fame.
laurie, having dutifully gone to college to please his grandfather, was now getting through it in the easiest possible manner to please himself.
a universal favorite, thanks to money, manners, much talent, and the kindest heart that ever got its owner into scrapes by trying to get other people out of them, he stood in great danger of being spoiled, and probably would have been, like many another promising boy, if he had not possessed a talisman against evil in the memory of the kind old man who was bound up in his success, the motherly friend who watched over him as if he were her son, and last, but not least by any means, the knowledge that four innocent girls loved, admired, and believed in him with all their hearts.
being only 'a glorious human boy', of course he frolicked and flirted, grew dandified, aquatic, sentimental, or gymnastic, as college fashions ordained, hazed and was hazed, talked slang, and more than once came perilously near suspension and expulsion.
but as high spirits and the love of fun were the causes of these pranks, he always managed to save himself by frank confession, honorable atonement, or the irresistible power of persuasion which he possessed in perfection.
in fact, he rather prided himself on his narrow escapes, and liked to thrill the girls with graphic accounts of his triumphs over wrathful tutors, dignified professors, and vanquished enemies.
the 'men of my class', were heroes in the eyes of the girls, who never wearied of the exploits of 'our fellows', and were frequently allowed to bask in the smiles of these great creatures, when laurie brought them home with him.
amy especially enjoyed this high honor, and became quite a belle among them, for her ladyship early felt and learned to use the gift of fascination with which she was endowed.
meg was too much absorbed in her private and particular john to care for any other lords of creation, and beth too shy to do more than peep at them and wonder how amy dared to order them about so, but jo felt quite in her own element, and found it very difficult to refrain from imitating the gentlemanly attitudes, phrases, and feats, which seemed more natural to her than the decorums prescribed for young ladies.
they all liked jo immensely, but never fell in love with her, though very few escaped without paying the tribute of a sentimental sigh or two at amy's shrine.
and speaking of sentiment brings us very naturally to the 'dovecote'.
that was the name of the little brown house mr. brooke had prepared for meg's first home.
laurie had christened it, saying it was highly appropriate to the gentle lovers who 'went on together like a pair of turtledoves, with first a bill and then a coo'.
it was a tiny house, with a little garden behind and a lawn about as big as a pocket handkerchief in the front.
here meg meant to have a fountain, shrubbery, and a profusion of lovely flowers, though just at present the fountain was represented by a weather-beaten urn, very like a dilapidated slopbowl, the shrubbery consisted of several young larches, undecided whether to live or die, and the profusion of flowers was merely hinted by regiments of sticks to show where seeds were planted.
but inside, it was altogether charming, and the happy bride saw no fault from garret to cellar.
to be sure, the hall was so narrow it was fortunate that they had no piano, for one never could have been got in whole, the dining room was so small that six people were a tight fit, and the kitchen stairs seemed built for the express purpose of precipitating both servants and china pell-mell into the coalbin.
but once get used to these slight blemishes and nothing could be more complete, for good sense and good taste had presided over the furnishing, and the result was highly satisfactory.
there were no marble-topped tables, long mirrors, or lace curtains in the little parlor, but simple furniture, plenty of books, a fine picture or two, a stand of flowers in the bay window, and, scattered all about, the pretty gifts which came from friendly hands and were the fairer for the loving messages they brought.
i don't think the parian psyche laurie gave lost any of its beauty because john put up the bracket it stood upon, that any upholsterer could have draped the plain muslin curtains more gracefully than amy's artistic hand, or that any store-room was ever better provided with good wishes, merry words, and happy hopes than that in which jo and her mother put away meg's few boxes, barrels, and bundles, and i am morally certain that the spandy new kitchen never could have looked so cozy and neat if hannah had not arranged every pot and pan a dozen times over, and laid the fire all ready for lighting the minute 'mis.
brooke came home'.
i also doubt if any young matron ever began life with so rich a supply of dusters, holders, and piece bags, for beth made enough to last till the silver wedding came round, and invented three different kinds of dishcloths for the express service of the bridal china.
people who hire all these things done for them never know what they lose, for the homeliest tasks get beautified if loving hands do them, and meg found so many proofs of this that everything in her small nest, from the kitchen roller to the silver vase on her parlor table, was eloquent of home love and tender forethought.
what happy times they had planning together, what solemn shopping excursions, what funny mistakes they made, and what shouts of laughter arose over laurie's ridiculous bargains.
in his love of jokes, this young gentleman, though nearly through college, was a much of a boy as ever.
his last whim had been to bring with him on his weekly visits some new, useful, and ingenious article for the young housekeeper.
now a bag of remarkable clothespins, next, a wonderful nutmeg grater which fell to pieces at the first trial, a knife cleaner that spoiled all the knives, or a sweeper that picked the nap neatly off the carpet and left the dirt, labor-saving soap that took the skin off one's hands, infallible cements which stuck firmly to nothing but the fingers of the deluded buyer, and every kind of tinware, from a toy savings bank for odd pennies, to a wonderful boiler which would wash articles in its own steam with every prospect of exploding in the process.
in vain meg begged him to stop.
john laughed at him, and jo called him 'mr.
toodles'.
he was possessed with a mania for patronizing yankee ingenuity, and seeing his friends fitly furnished forth.
so each week beheld some fresh absurdity.
everything was done at last, even to amy's arranging different colored soaps to match the different colored rooms, and beth's setting the table for the first meal.
"are you satisfied?
does it seem like home, and do you feel as if you should be happy here?"
asked mrs. march, as she and her daughter went through the new kingdom arm in arm, for just then they seemed to cling together more tenderly than ever.
"yes, mother, perfectly satisfied, thanks to you all, and so happy that i can't talk about it," with a look that was far better than words.
"if she only had a servant or two it would be all right," said amy, coming out of the parlor, where she had been trying to decide whether the bronze mercury looked best on the whatnot or the mantlepiece.
"mother and i have talked that over, and i have made up my mind to try her way first.
there will be so little to do that with lotty to run my errands and help me here and there, i shall only have enough work to keep me from getting lazy or homesick," answered meg tranquilly.
"sallie moffat has four," began amy.
"if meg had four, the house wouldn't hold them, and master and missis would have to camp in the garden," broke in jo, who, enveloped in a big blue pinafore, was giving the last polish to the door handles.
"sallie isn't a poor man's wife, and many maids are in keeping with her fine establishment.
meg and john begin humbly, but i have a feeling that there will be quite as much happiness in the little house as in the big one.
it's a great mistake for young girls like meg to leave themselves nothing to do but dress, give orders, and gossip.
when i was first married, i used to long for my new clothes to wear out or get torn, so that i might have the pleasure of mending them, for i got heartily sick of doing fancywork and tending my pocket handkerchief."
"why didn't you go into the kitchen and make messes, as sallie says she does to amuse herself, though they never turn out well and the servants laugh at her," said meg.
"i did after a while, not to 'mess' but to learn of hannah how things should be done, that my servants need not laugh at me.
it was play then, but there came a time when i was truly grateful that i not only possessed the will but the power to cook wholesome food for my little girls, and help myself when i could no longer afford to hire help.
you begin at the other end, meg, dear, but the lessons you learn now will be of use to you by-and-by when john is a richer man, for the mistress of a house, however splendid, should know how work ought to be done, if she wishes to be well and honestly served."
"yes, mother, i'm sure of that," said meg, listening respectfully to the little lecture, for the best of women will hold forth upon the all absorbing subject of house keeping.
"do you know i like this room most of all in my baby house," added meg, a minute after, as they went upstairs and she looked into her well-stored linen closet.
beth was there, laying the snowy piles smoothly on the shelves and exulting over the goodly array.
all three laughed as meg spoke, for that linen closet was a joke.
you see, having said that if meg married 'that brooke' she shouldn't have a cent of her money, aunt march was rather in a quandary when time had appeased her wrath and made her repent her vow.
she never broke her word, and was much exercised in her mind how to get round it, and at last devised a plan whereby she could satisfy herself.
mrs. carrol, florence's mamma, was ordered to buy, have made, and marked a generous supply of house and table linen, and send it as her present, all of which was faithfully done, but the secret leaked out, and was greatly enjoyed by the family, for aunt march tried to look utterly unconscious, and insisted that she could give nothing but the old-fashioned pearls long promised to the first bride.
"that's a housewifely taste which i am glad to see.
i had a young friend who set up housekeeping with six sheets, but she had finger bowls for company and that satisfied her," said mrs. march, patting the damask tablecloths, with a truly feminine appreciation of their fineness.
"i haven't a single finger bowl, but this is a setout that will last me all my days, hannah says."
and meg looked quite contented, as well she might.
a tall, broad-shouldered young fellow, with a cropped head, a felt basin of a hat, and a flyaway coat, came tramping down the road at a great pace, walked over the low fence without stopping to open the gate, straight up to mrs. march, with both hands out and a hearty...
"here i am, mother!
yes, it's all right."
the last words were in answer to the look the elder lady gave him, a kindly questioning look which the handsome eyes met so frankly that the little ceremony closed, as usual, with a motherly kiss.
"for mrs. john brooke, with the maker's congratulations and compliments.
bless you, beth!
what a refreshing spectacle you are, jo.
amy, you are getting altogether too handsome for a single lady."
as laurie spoke, he delivered a brown paper parcel to meg, pulled beth's hair ribbon, stared at jo's big pinafore, and fell into an attitude of mock rapture before amy, then shook hands all round, and everyone began to talk.
"where is john?"
asked meg anxiously.
"stopped to get the license for tomorrow, ma'am."
"which side won the last match, teddy?"
inquired jo, who persisted in feeling an interest in manly sports despite her nineteen years.
"ours, of course.
wish you'd been there to see."
"how is the lovely miss randal?"
asked amy with a significant smile.
"more cruel than ever.
don't you see how i'm pining away?"
and laurie gave his broad chest a sounding slap and heaved a melodramatic sigh.
"what's the last joke?
undo the bundle and see, meg," said beth, eying the knobby parcel with curiosity.
"it's a useful thing to have in the house in case of fire or thieves,"
observed laurie, as a watchman's rattle appeared, amid the laughter of the girls.
"any time when john is away and you get frightened, mrs. meg, just swing that out of the front window, and it will rouse the neighborhood in a jiffy.
nice thing, isn't it?"
and laurie gave them a sample of its powers that made them cover up their ears.
"there's gratitude for you!
and speaking of gratitude reminds me to mention that you may thank hannah for saving your wedding cake from destruction.
i saw it going into your house as i came by, and if she hadn't defended it manfully i'd have had a pick at it, for it looked like a remarkably plummy one."
"i wonder if you will ever grow up, laurie," said meg in a matronly tone.
"i'm doing my best, ma'am, but can't get much higher, i'm afraid, as six feet is about all men can do in these degenerate days," responded the young gentleman, whose head was about level with the little chandelier.
"i suppose it would be profanation to eat anything in this spick-and-span bower, so as i'm tremendously hungry, i propose an adjournment," he added presently.
"mother and i are going to wait for john.
there are some last things to settle," said meg, bustling away.
"beth and i are going over to kitty bryant's to get more flowers for tomorrow," added amy, tying a picturesque hat over her picturesque curls, and enjoying the effect as much as anybody.
"come, jo, don't desert a fellow.
i'm in such a state of exhaustion i can't get home without help.
don't take off your apron, whatever you do, it's peculiarly becoming," said laurie, as jo bestowed his especial aversion in her capacious pocket and offered her arm to support his feeble steps.
"now, teddy, i want to talk seriously to you about tomorrow," began jo, as they strolled away together.
"you must promise to behave well, and not cut up any pranks, and spoil our plans."
"not a prank."
"and don't say funny things when we ought to be sober."
"i never do.
you are the one for that."
"and i implore you not to look at me during the ceremony.
i shall certainly laugh if you do."
"you won't see me, you'll be crying so hard that the thick fog round you will obscure the prospect."
"i never cry unless for some great affliction."
"such as fellows going to college, hey?"
cut in laurie, with suggestive laugh.
"don't be a peacock.
i only moaned a trifle to keep the girls company."
"exactly.
i say, jo, how is grandpa this week?
pretty amiable?"
"very.
why, have you got into a scrape and want to know how he'll take it?"
asked jo rather sharply.
"now, jo, do you think i'd look your mother in the face and say 'all right', if it wasn't?"
and laurie stopped short, with an injured air.
"no, i don't."
"then don't go and be suspicious.
i only want some money," said laurie, walking on again, appeased by her hearty tone.
"you spend a great deal, teddy."
"bless you, i don't spend it, it spends itself somehow, and is gone before i know it."
"you are so generous and kind-hearted that you let people borrow, and can't say 'no' to anyone.
we heard about henshaw and all you did for him.
if you always spent money in that way, no one would blame you,"
said jo warmly.
"oh, he made a mountain out of a molehill.
you wouldn't have me let that fine fellow work himself to death just for want of a little help, when he is worth a dozen of us lazy chaps, would you?"
"of course not, but i don't see the use of your having seventeen waistcoats, endless neckties, and a new hat every time you come home.
i thought you'd got over the dandy period, but every now and then it breaks out in a new spot.
just now it's the fashion to be hideous, to make your head look like a scrubbing brush, wear a strait jacket, orange gloves, and clumping square-toed boots.
if it was cheap ugliness, i'd say nothing, but it costs as much as the other, and i don't get any satisfaction out of it."
laurie threw back his head, and laughed so heartily at this attack, that the felt hat fell off, and jo walked on it, which insult only afforded him an opportunity for expatiating on the advantages of a rough-and-ready costume, as he folded up the maltreated hat, and stuffed it into his pocket.
"don't lecture any more, there's a good soul!
i have enough all through the week, and like to enjoy myself when i come home.
i'll get myself up regardless of expense tomorrow and be a satisfaction to my friends."
"i'll leave you in peace if you'll only let your hair grow.
i'm not aristocratic, but i do object to being seen with a person who looks like a young prize fighter," observed jo severely.
"this unassuming style promotes study, that's why we adopt it,"
returned laurie, who certainly could not be accused of vanity, having voluntarily sacrificed a handsome curly crop to the demand for quarter-inch-long stubble.
"by the way, jo, i think that little parker is really getting desperate about amy.
he talks of her constantly, writes poetry, and moons about in a most suspicious manner.
he'd better nip his little passion in the bud, hadn't he?"
added laurie, in a confidential, elder brotherly tone, after a minute's silence.
"of course he had.
we don't want any more marrying in this family for years to come.
mercy on us, what are the children thinking of?"
and jo looked as much scandalized as if amy and little parker were not yet in their teens.
"it's a fast age, and i don't know what we are coming to, ma'am.
you are a mere infant, but you'll go next, jo, and we'll be left lamenting," said laurie, shaking his head over the degeneracy of the times.
"don't be alarmed.
i'm not one of the agreeable sort.
nobody will want me, and it's a mercy, for there should always be one old maid in a family."
"you won't give anyone a chance," said laurie, with a sidelong glance and a little more color than before in his sunburned face.
"you won't show the soft side of your character, and if a fellow gets a peep at it by accident and can't help showing that he likes it, you treat him as mrs. gummidge did her sweetheart, throw cold water over him, and get so thorny no one dares touch or look at you."
"i don't like that sort of thing.
i'm too busy to be worried with nonsense, and i think it's dreadful to break up families so.
now don't say any more about it.
meg's wedding has turned all our heads, and we talk of nothing but lovers and such absurdities.
i don't wish to get cross, so let's change the subject;"  and jo looked quite ready to fling cold water on the slightest provocation.
whatever his feelings might have been, laurie found a vent for them in a long low whistle and the fearful prediction as they parted at the gate, "mark my words, jo, you'll go next."
chapter twenty-five
the first wedding
the june roses over the porch were awake bright and early on that morning, rejoicing with all their hearts in the cloudless sunshine, like friendly little neighbors, as they were.
quite flushed with excitement were their ruddy faces, as they swung in the wind, whispering to one another what they had seen, for some peeped in at the dining room windows where the feast was spread, some climbed up to nod and smile at the sisters as they dressed the bride, others waved a welcome to those who came and went on various errands in garden, porch, and hall, and all, from the rosiest full-blown flower to the palest baby bud, offered their tribute of beauty and fragrance to the gentle mistress who had loved and tended them so long.
meg looked very like a rose herself, for all that was best and sweetest in heart and soul seemed to bloom into her face that day, making it fair and tender, with a charm more beautiful than beauty.
neither silk, lace, nor orange flowers would she have.
"i don't want a fashionable wedding, but only those about me whom i love, and to them i wish to look and be my familiar self."
so she made her wedding gown herself, sewing into it the tender hopes and innocent romances of a girlish heart.
her sisters braided up her pretty hair, and the only ornaments she wore were the lilies of the valley, which 'her john' liked best of all the flowers that grew.
"you do look just like our own dear meg, only so very sweet and lovely that i should hug you if it wouldn't crumple your dress," cried amy, surveying her with delight when all was done.
"then i am satisfied.
but please hug and kiss me, everyone, and don't mind my dress.
i want a great many crumples of this sort put into it today,"  and meg opened her arms to her sisters, who clung about her with april faces for a minute, feeling that the new love had not changed the old.
"now i'm going to tie john's cravat for him, and then to stay a few minutes with father quietly in the study,"  and meg ran down to perform these little ceremonies, and then to follow her mother wherever she went, conscious that in spite of the smiles on the motherly face, there was a secret sorrow hid in the motherly heart at the flight of the first bird from the nest.
as the younger girls stand together, giving the last touches to their simple toilet, it may be a good time to tell of a few changes which three years have wrought in their appearance, for all are looking their best just now.
jo's angles are much softened, she has learned to carry herself with ease, if not grace.
the curly crop has lengthened into a thick coil, more becoming to the small head atop of the tall figure.
there is a fresh color in her brown cheeks, a soft shine in her eyes, and only gentle words fall from her sharp tongue today.
beth has grown slender, pale, and more quiet than ever.
the beautiful, kind eyes are larger, and in them lies an expression that saddens one, although it is not sad itself.
it is the shadow of pain which touches the young face with such pathetic patience, but beth seldom complains and always speaks hopefully of 'being better soon'.
amy is with truth considered 'the flower of the family', for at sixteen she has the air and bearing of a full-grown woman, not beautiful, but possessed of that indescribable charm called grace.
one saw it in the lines of her figure, the make and motion of her hands, the flow of her dress, the droop of her hair, unconscious yet harmonious, and as attractive to many as beauty itself.
amy's nose still afflicted her, for it never would grow grecian, so did her mouth, being too wide, and having a decided chin.
these offending features gave character to her whole face, but she never could see it, and consoled herself with her wonderfully fair complexion, keen blue eyes, and curls more golden and abundant than ever.
all three wore suits of thin silver gray (their best gowns for the summer), with blush roses in hair and bosom, and all three looked just what they were, fresh-faced, happy-hearted girls, pausing a moment in their busy lives to read with wistful eyes the sweetest chapter in the romance of womanhood.
there were to be no ceremonious performances, everything was to be as natural and homelike as possible, so when aunt march arrived, she was scandalized to see the bride come running to welcome and lead her in, to find the bridegroom fastening up a garland that had fallen down, and to catch a glimpse of the paternal minister marching upstairs with a grave countenance and a wine bottle under each arm.
"upon my word, here's a state of things!"
cried the old lady, taking the seat of honor prepared for her, and settling the folds of her lavender moire with a great rustle.
"you oughtn't to be seen till the last minute, child."
"i'm not a show, aunty, and no one is coming to stare at me, to criticize my dress, or count the cost of my luncheon.
i'm too happy to care what anyone says or thinks, and i'm going to have my little wedding just as i like it.
john, dear, here's your hammer."
and away went meg to help 'that man' in his highly improper employment.
mr. brooke didn't even say, "thank you," but as he stooped for the unromantic tool, he kissed his little bride behind the folding door, with a look that made aunt march whisk out her pocket handkerchief with a sudden dew in her sharp old eyes.
a crash, a cry, and a laugh from laurie, accompanied by the indecorous exclamation, "jupiter ammon!
jo's upset the cake again!"
caused a momentary flurry, which was hardly over when a flock of cousins arrived, and 'the party came in', as beth used to say when a child.
"don't let that young giant come near me, he worries me worse than mosquitoes," whispered the old lady to amy, as the rooms filled and laurie's black head towered above the rest.
"he has promised to be very good today, and he can be perfectly elegant if he likes," returned amy, and gliding away to warn hercules to beware of the dragon, which warning caused him to haunt the old lady with a devotion that nearly distracted her.
there was no bridal procession, but a sudden silence fell upon the room as mr. march and the young couple took their places under the green arch.
mother and sisters gathered close, as if loath to give meg up.
the fatherly voice broke more than once, which only seemed to make the service more beautiful and solemn.
the bridegroom's hand trembled visibly, and no one heard his replies.
but meg looked straight up in her husband's eyes, and said, "i will!"
with such tender trust in her own face and voice that her mother's heart rejoiced and aunt march sniffed audibly.
jo did not cry, though she was very near it once, and was only saved from a demonstration by the consciousness that laurie was staring fixedly at her, with a comical mixture of merriment and emotion in his wicked black eyes.
beth kept her face hidden on her mother's shoulder, but amy stood like a graceful statue, with a most becoming ray of sunshine touching her white forehead and the flower in her hair.
it wasn't at all the thing, i'm afraid, but the minute she was fairly married, meg cried, "the first kiss for marmee!"
and turning, gave it with her heart on her lips.
during the next fifteen minutes she looked more like a rose than ever, for everyone availed themselves of their privileges to the fullest extent, from mr. laurence to old hannah, who, adorned with a headdress fearfully and wonderfully made, fell upon her in the hall, crying with a sob and a chuckle, "bless you, deary, a hundred times!
the cake ain't hurt a mite, and everything looks lovely."
everybody cleared up after that, and said something brilliant, or tried to, which did just as well, for laughter is ready when hearts are light.
there was no display of gifts, for they were already in the little house, nor was there an elaborate breakfast, but a plentiful lunch of cake and fruit, dressed with flowers.
mr. laurence and aunt march shrugged and smiled at one another when water, lemonade, and coffee were found to be to only sorts of nectar which the three hebes carried round.
no one said anything, till laurie, who insisted on serving the bride, appeared before her, with a loaded salver in his hand and a puzzled expression on his face.
"has jo smashed all the bottles by accident?"
he whispered, "or am i merely laboring under a delusion that i saw some lying about loose this morning?"
"no, your grandfather kindly offered us his best, and aunt march actually sent some, but father put away a little for beth, and dispatched the rest to the soldier's home.
you know he thinks that wine should be used only in illness, and mother says that neither she nor her daughters will ever offer it to any young man under her roof."
meg spoke seriously and expected to see laurie frown or laugh, but he did neither, for after a quick look at her, he said, in his impetuous way, "i like that!
for i've seen enough harm done to wish other women would think as you do."
"you are not made wise by experience, i hope?"
and there was an anxious accent in meg's voice.
"no.
i give you my word for it.
don't think too well of me, either, this is not one of my temptations.
being brought up where wine is as common as water and almost as harmless, i don't care for it, but when a pretty girl offers it, one doesn't like to refuse, you see."
"but you will, for the sake of others, if not for your own.
come, laurie, promise, and give me one more reason to call this the happiest day of my life."
a demand so sudden and so serious made the young man hesitate a moment, for ridicule is often harder to bear than self-denial.
meg knew that if he gave the promise he would keep it at all costs, and feeling her power, used it as a woman may for her friend's good.
she did not speak, but she looked up at him with a face made very eloquent by happiness, and a smile which said, "no one can refuse me anything today."
laurie certainly could not, and with an answering smile, he gave her his hand, saying heartily, "i promise, mrs.
brooke!"
"i thank you, very, very much."
"and i drink 'long life to your resolution', teddy," cried jo, baptizing him with a splash of lemonade, as she waved her glass and beamed approvingly upon him.
so the toast was drunk, the pledge made and loyally kept in spite of many temptations, for with instinctive wisdom, the girls seized a happy moment to do their friend a service, for which he thanked them all his life.
after lunch, people strolled about, by twos and threes, through the house and garden, enjoying the sunshine without and within.
meg and john happened to be standing together in the middle of the grass plot, when laurie was seized with an inspiration which put the finishing touch to this unfashionable wedding.
"all the married people take hands and dance round the new-made husband and wife, as the germans do, while we bachelors and spinsters prance in couples outside!"
cried laurie, promenading down the path with amy, with such infectious spirit and skill that everyone else followed their example without a murmur.
mr. and mrs. march, aunt and uncle carrol began it, others rapidly joined in, even sallie moffat, after a moment's hesitation, threw her train over her arm and whisked ned into the ring.
but the crowning joke was mr. laurence and aunt march, for when the stately old gentleman chasseed solemnly up to the old lady, she just tucked her cane under her arm, and hopped briskly away to join hands with the rest and dance about the bridal pair, while the young folks pervaded the garden like butterflies on a midsummer day.
want of breath brought the impromptu ball to a close, and then people began to go.
"i wish you well, my dear, i heartily wish you well, but i think you'll be sorry for it," said aunt march to meg, adding to the bridegroom, as he led her to the carriage, "you've got a treasure, young man, see that you deserve it."
"that is the prettiest wedding i've been to for an age, ned, and i don't see why, for there wasn't a bit of style about it," observed mrs.
moffat to her husband, as they drove away.
"laurie, my lad, if you ever want to indulge in this sort of thing, get one of those little girls to help you, and i shall be perfectly satisfied," said mr. laurence, settling himself in his easy chair to rest after the excitement of the morning.
"i'll do my best to gratify you, sir," was laurie's unusually dutiful reply, as he carefully unpinned the posy jo had put in his buttonhole.
the little house was not far away, and the only bridal journey meg had was the quiet walk with john from the old home to the new.
when she came down, looking like a pretty quakeress in her dove-colored suit and straw bonnet tied with white, they all gathered about her to say 'good-by', as tenderly as if she had been going to make the grand tour.
"don't feel that i am separated from you, marmee dear, or that i love you any the less for loving john so much," she said, clinging to her mother, with full eyes for a moment.
"i shall come every day, father, and expect to keep my old place in all your hearts, though i am married.
beth is going to be with me a great deal, and the other girls will drop in now and then to laugh at my housekeeping struggles.
thank you all for my happy wedding day.
good-by, good-by!"
they stood watching her, with faces full of love and hope and tender pride as she walked away, leaning on her husband's arm, with her hands full of flowers and the june sunshine brightening her happy face and so meg's married life began.
chapter twenty-six
artistic attempts
it takes people a long time to learn the difference between talent and genius, especially ambitious young men and women.
amy was learning this distinction through much tribulation, for mistaking enthusiasm for inspiration, she attempted every branch of art with youthful audacity.
for a long time there was a lull in the 'mud-pie' business, and she devoted herself to the finest pen-and-ink drawing, in which she showed such taste and skill that her graceful handiwork proved both pleasant and profitable.
but over-strained eyes caused pen and ink to be laid aside for a bold attempt at poker-sketching.
while this attack lasted, the family lived in constant fear of a conflagration, for the odor of burning wood pervaded the house at all hours, smoke issued from attic and shed with alarming frequency, red-hot pokers lay about promiscuously, and hannah never went to bed without a pail of water and the dinner bell at her door in case of fire.
raphael's face was found boldly executed on the underside of the moulding board, and bacchus on the head of a beer barrel.
a chanting cherub adorned the cover of the sugar bucket, and attempts to portray romeo and juliet supplied kindling for some time.
from fire to oil was a natural transition for burned fingers, and amy fell to painting with undiminished ardor.
an artist friend fitted her out with his castoff palettes, brushes, and colors, and she daubed away, producing pastoral and marine views such as were never seen on land or sea.
her monstrosities in the way of cattle would have taken prizes at an agricultural fair, and the perilous pitching of her vessels would have produced seasickness in the most nautical observer, if the utter disregard to all known rules of shipbuilding and rigging had not convulsed him with laughter at the first glance.
swarthy boys and dark-eyed madonnas, staring at you from one corner of the studio, suggested murillo; oily brown shadows of faces with a lurid streak in the wrong place, meant rembrandt; buxom ladies and dropiscal infants, rubens; and turner appeared in tempests of blue thunder, orange lightning, brown rain, and purple clouds, with a tomato-colored splash in the middle, which might be the sun or a bouy, a sailor's shirt or a king's robe, as the spectator pleased.
charcoal portraits came next, and the entire family hung in a row, looking as wild and crocky as if just evoked from a coalbin.
softened into crayon sketches, they did better, for the likenesses were good, and amy's hair, jo's nose, meg's mouth, and laurie's eyes were pronounced 'wonderfully fine'.
a return to clay and plaster followed, and ghostly casts of her acquaintances haunted corners of the house, or tumbled off closet shelves onto people's heads.
children were enticed in as models, till their incoherent accounts of her mysterious doings caused miss amy to be regarded in the light of a young ogress.
her efforts in this line, however, were brought to an abrupt close by an untoward accident, which quenched her ardor.
other models failing her for a time, she undertook to cast her own pretty foot, and the family were one day alarmed by an unearthly bumping and screaming and running to the rescue, found the young enthusiast hopping wildly about the shed with her foot held fast in a pan full of plaster, which had hardened with unexpected rapidity.
with much difficulty and some danger she was dug out, for jo was so overcome with laughter while she excavated that her knife went too far, cut the poor foot, and left a lasting memorial of one artistic attempt, at least.
after this amy subsided, till a mania for sketching from nature set her to haunting river, field, and wood, for picturesque studies, and sighing for ruins to copy.
she caught endless colds sitting on damp grass to book 'a delicious bit', composed of a stone, a stump, one mushroom, and a broken mullein stalk, or 'a heavenly mass of clouds', that looked like a choice display of featherbeds when done.
she sacrificed her complexion floating on the river in the midsummer sun to study light and shade, and got a wrinkle over her nose trying after 'points of sight', or whatever the squint-and-string performance is called.
if 'genius is eternal patience', as michelangelo affirms, amy had some claim to the divine attribute, for she persevered in spite of all obstacles, failures, and discouragements, firmly believing that in time she should do something worthy to be called 'high art'.
she was learning, doing, and enjoying other things, meanwhile, for she had resolved to be an attractive and accomplished woman, even if she never became a great artist.
here she succeeded better, for she was one of those happily created beings who please without effort, make friends everywhere, and take life so gracefully and easily that less fortunate souls are tempted to believe that such are born under a lucky star.
everybody liked her, for among her good gifts was tact.
she had an instinctive sense of what was pleasing and proper, always said the right thing to the right person, did just what suited the time and place, and was so self-possessed that her sisters used to say, "if amy went to court without any rehearsal beforehand, she'd know exactly what to do."
one of her weaknesses was a desire to move in 'our best society', without being quite sure what the best really was.
money, position, fashionable accomplishments, and elegant manners were most desirable things in her eyes, and she liked to associate with those who possessed them, often mistaking the false for the true, and admiring what was not admirable.
never forgetting that by birth she was a gentlewoman, she cultivated her aristocratic tastes and feelings, so that when the opportunity came she might be ready to take the place from which poverty now excluded her.
"my lady," as her friends called her, sincerely desired to be a genuine lady, and was so at heart, but had yet to learn that money cannot buy refinement of nature, that rank does not always confer nobility, and that true breeding makes itself felt in spite of external drawbacks.
"i want to ask a favor of you, mamma," amy said, coming in with an important air one day.
"well, little girl, what is it?"
replied her mother, in whose eyes the stately young lady still remained 'the baby'.
"our drawing class breaks up next week, and before the girls separate for the summer, i want to ask them out here for a day.
they are wild to see the river, sketch the broken bridge, and copy some of the things they admire in my book.
they have been very kind to me in many ways, and i am grateful, for they are all rich and i know i am poor, yet they never made any difference."
"why should they?"
and mrs. march put the question with what the girls called her 'maria theresa air'.
"you know as well as i that it does make a difference with nearly everyone, so don't ruffle up like a dear, motherly hen, when your chickens get pecked by smarter birds.
the ugly duckling turned out a swan, you know."
and amy smiled without bitterness, for she possessed a happy temper and hopeful spirit.
mrs. march laughed, and smoothed down her maternal pride as she asked, "well, my swan, what is your plan?"
"i should like to ask the girls out to lunch next week, to take them for a drive to the places they want to see, a row on the river, perhaps, and make a little artistic fete for them."
"that looks feasible.
what do you want for lunch?
cake, sandwiches, fruit, and coffee will be all that is necessary, i suppose?"
"oh, dear, no!
we must have cold tongue and chicken, french chocolate and ice cream, besides.
the girls are used to such things, and i want my lunch to be proper and elegant, though i do work for my living."
"how many young ladies are there?"
asked her mother, beginning to look sober.
"twelve or fourteen in the class, but i dare say they won't all come."
"bless me, child, you will have to charter an omnibus to carry them about."
"why, mother, how can you think of such a thing?
not more than six or eight will probably come, so i shall hire a beach wagon and borrow mr.
laurence's cherry-bounce."
(hannah's pronunciation of char-a-banc.)
"all of this will be expensive, amy."
"not very.
i've calculated the cost, and i'll pay for it myself."
"don't you think, dear, that as these girls are used to such things, and the best we can do will be nothing new, that some simpler plan would be pleasanter to them, as a change if nothing more, and much better for us than buying or borrowing what we don't need, and attempting a style not in keeping with our circumstances?"
"if i can't have it as i like, i don't care to have it at all.
i know that i can carry it out perfectly well, if you and the girls will help a little, and i don't see why i can't if i'm willing to pay for it,"
said amy, with the decision which opposition was apt to change into obstinacy.
mrs. march knew that experience was an excellent teacher, and when it was possible she left her children to learn alone the lessons which she would gladly have made easier, if they had not objected to taking advice as much as they did salts and senna.
"very well, amy, if your heart is set upon it, and you see your way through without too great an outlay of money, time, and temper, i'll say no more.
talk it over with the girls, and whichever way you decide, i'll do my best to help you."
"thanks, mother, you are always so kind."
and away went amy to lay her plan before her sisters.
meg agreed at once, and promised her aid, gladly offering anything she possessed, from her little house itself to her very best saltspoons.
but jo frowned upon the whole project and would have nothing to do with it at first.
"why in the world should you spend your money, worry your family, and turn the house upside down for a parcel of girls who don't care a sixpence for you?
i thought you had too much pride and sense to truckle to any mortal woman just because she wears french boots and rides in a coupe," said jo, who, being called from the tragic climax of her novel, was not in the best mood for social enterprises.
"i don't truckle, and i hate being patronized as much as you do!"
returned amy indignantly, for the two still jangled when such questions arose.
"the girls do care for me, and i for them, and there's a great deal of kindness and sense and talent among them, in spite of what you call fashionable nonsense.
you don't care to make people like you, to go into good society, and cultivate your manners and tastes.
i do, and i mean to make the most of every chance that comes.
you can go through the world with your elbows out and your nose in the air, and call it independence, if you like.
that's not my way."
when amy had whetted her tongue and freed her mind she usually got the best of it, for she seldom failed to have common sense on her side, while jo carried her love of liberty and hate of conventionalities to such an unlimited extent that she naturally found herself worsted in an argument.
amy's definition of jo's idea of independence was such a good hit that both burst out laughing, and the discussion took a more amiable turn.
much against her will, jo at length consented to sacrifice a day to mrs. grundy, and help her sister through what she regarded as 'a nonsensical business'.
the invitations were sent, nearly all accepted, and the following monday was set apart for the grand event.
hannah was out of humor because her week's work was deranged, and prophesied that "ef the washin' and ironin' warn't done reg'lar, nothin' would go well anywheres".
this hitch in the mainspring of the domestic machinery had a bad effect upon the whole concern, but amy's motto was 'nil desperandum', and having made up her mind what to do, she proceeded to do it in spite of all obstacles.
to begin with, hannah's cooking didn't turn out well.
the chicken was tough, the tongue too salty, and the chocolate wouldn't froth properly.
then the cake and ice cost more than amy expected, so did the wagon, and various other expenses, which seemed trifling at the outset, counted up rather alarmingly afterward.
beth got a cold and took to her bed.
meg had an unusual number of callers to keep her at home, and jo was in such a divided state of mind that her breakages, accidents, and mistakes were uncommonly numerous, serious, and trying.
if it was not fair on monday, the young ladies were to come on tuesday, an arrangement which aggravated jo and hannah to the last degree.
on monday morning the weather was in that undecided state which is more exasperating than a steady pour.
it drizzled a little, shone a little, blew a little, and didn't make up its mind till it was too late for anyone else to make up theirs.
amy was up at dawn, hustling people out of their beds and through their breakfasts, that the house might be got in order.
the parlor struck her as looking uncommonly shabby, but without stopping to sigh for what she had not, she skillfully made the best of what she had, arranging chairs over the worn places in the carpet, covering stains on the walls with homemade statuary, which gave an artistic air to the room, as did the lovely vases of flowers jo scattered about.
the lunch looked charming, and as she surveyed it, she sincerely hoped it would taste well, and that the borrowed glass, china, and silver would get safely home again.
the carriages were promised, meg and mother were all ready to do the honors, beth was able to help hannah behind the scenes, jo had engaged to be as lively and amiable as an absent mind, and aching head, and a very decided disapproval of everybody and everything would allow, and as she wearily dressed, amy cheered herself with anticipations of the happy moment when, lunch safely over, she should drive away with her friends for an afternoon of artistic delights, for the 'cherry bounce' and the broken bridge were her strong points.
then came the hours of suspense, during which she vibrated from parlor to porch, while public opinion varied like the weathercock.
a smart shower at eleven had evidently quenched the enthusiasm of the young ladies who were to arrive at twelve, for nobody came, and at two the exhausted family sat down in a blaze of sunshine to consume the perishable portions of the feast, that nothing might be lost.
"no doubt about the weather today, they will certainly come, so we must fly round and be ready for them," said amy, as the sun woke her next morning.
she spoke briskly, but in her secret soul she wished she had said nothing about tuesday, for her interest like her cake was getting a little stale.
"i can't get any lobsters, so you will have to do without salad today,"
said mr. march, coming in half an hour later, with an expression of placid despair.
"use the chicken then, the toughness won't matter in a salad," advised his wife.
"hannah left it on the kitchen table a minute, and the kittens got at it.
i'm very sorry, amy," added beth, who was still a patroness of cats.
"then i must have a lobster, for tongue alone won't do," said amy decidedly.
"shall i rush into town and demand one?"
asked jo, with the magnanimity of a martyr.
"you'd come bringing it home under your arm without any paper, just to try me.
i'll go myself," answered amy, whose temper was beginning to fail.
shrouded in a thick veil and armed with a genteel traveling basket, she departed, feeling that a cool drive would soothe her ruffled spirit and fit her for the labors of the day.
after some delay, the object of her desire was procured, likewise a bottle of dressing to prevent further loss of time at home, and off she drove again, well pleased with her own forethought.
as the omnibus contained only one other passenger, a sleepy old lady, amy pocketed her veil and beguiled the tedium of the way by trying to find out where all her money had gone to.
so busy was she with her card full of refractory figures that she did not observe a newcomer, who entered without stopping the vehicle, till a masculine voice said, "good morning, miss march," and, looking up, she beheld one of laurie's most elegant college friends.
fervently hoping that he would get out before she did, amy utterly ignored the basket at her feet, and congratulating herself that she had on her new traveling dress, returned the young man's greeting with her usual suavity and spirit.
they got on excellently, for amy's chief care was soon set at rest by learning that the gentleman would leave first, and she was chatting away in a peculiarly lofty strain, when the old lady got out.
in stumbling to the door, she upset the basket, and oh horror!
the lobster, in all its vulgar size and brilliancy, was revealed to the highborn eyes of a tudor!
"by jove, she's forgotten her dinner!"
cried the unconscious youth, poking the scarlet monster into its place with his cane, and preparing to hand out the basket after the old lady.
"please don't it's it's mine," murmured amy, with a face nearly as red as her fish.
"oh, really, i beg pardon.
it's an uncommonly fine one, isn't it?"
said tudor, with great presence of mind, and an air of sober interest that did credit to his breeding.
amy recovered herself in a breath, set her basket boldly on the seat, and said, laughing, "don't you wish you were to have some of the salad he's going to make, and to see the charming young ladies who are to eat it?"
now that was tact, for two of the ruling foibles of the masculine mind were touched.
the lobster was instantly surrounded by a halo of pleasing reminiscences, and curiosity about 'the charming young ladies'
diverted his mind from the comical mishap.
"i suppose he'll laugh and joke over it with laurie, but i shan't see them, that's a comfort," thought amy, as tudor bowed and departed.
she did not mention this meeting at home (though she discovered that, thanks to the upset, her new dress was much damaged by the rivulets of dressing that meandered down the skirt), but went through with the preparations which now seemed more irksome than before, and at twelve o'clock all was ready again.
feeling that the neighbors were interested in her movements, she wished to efface the memory of yesterday's failure by a grand success today, so she ordered the 'cherry bounce', and drove away in state to meet and escort her guests to the banquet.
"there's the rumble, they're coming!
i'll go onto the porch and meet them.
it looks hospitable, and i want the poor child to have a good time after all her trouble," said mrs. march, suiting the action to the word.
but after one glance, she retired, with an indescribable expression, for looking quite lost in the big carriage, sat amy and one young lady.
"run, beth, and help hannah clear half the things off the table.
it will be too absurd to put a luncheon for twelve before a single girl,"
cried jo, hurrying away to the lower regions, too excited to stop even for a laugh.
in came amy, quite calm and delightfully cordial to the one guest who had kept her promise.
the rest of the family, being of a dramatic turn, played their parts equally well, and miss eliott found them a most hilarious set, for it was impossible to control entirely the merriment which possessed them.
the remodeled lunch being gaily partaken of, the studio and garden visited, and art discussed with enthusiasm, amy ordered a buggy (alas for the elegant cherry-bounce), and drove her friend quietly about the neighborhood till sunset, when 'the party went out'.
as she came walking in, looking very tired but as composed as ever, she observed that every vestige of the unfortunate fete had disappeared, except a suspicious pucker about the corners of jo's mouth.
"you've had a loverly afternoon for your drive, dear," said her mother, as respectfully as if the whole twelve had come.
"miss eliott is a very sweet girl, and seemed to enjoy herself, i thought," observed beth, with unusual warmth.
"could you spare me some of your cake?
i really need some, i have so much company, and i can't make such delicious stuff as yours," asked meg soberly.
"take it all.
i'm the only one here who likes sweet things, and it will mold before i can dispose of it," answered amy, thinking with a sigh of the generous store she had laid in for such an end as this.
"it's a pity laurie isn't here to help us," began jo, as they sat down to ice cream and salad for the second time in two days.
a warning look from her mother checked any further remarks, and the whole family ate in heroic silence, till mr. march mildly observed, "salad was one of the favorite dishes of the ancients, and evelyn..."
here a general explosion of laughter cut short the 'history of salads', to the great surprise of the learned gentleman.
"bundle everything into a basket and send it to the hummels.
germans like messes.
i'm sick of the sight of this, and there's no reason you should all die of a surfeit because i've been a fool," cried amy, wiping her eyes.
"i thought i should have died when i saw you two girls rattling about in the what-you-call-it, like two little kernels in a very big nutshell, and mother waiting in state to receive the throng," sighed jo, quite spent with laughter.
"i'm very sorry you were disappointed, dear, but we all did our best to satisfy you," said mrs. march, in a tone full of motherly regret.
"i am satisfied.
i've done what i undertook, and it's not my fault that it failed.
i comfort myself with that," said amy with a little quiver in her voice.
"i thank you all very much for helping me, and i'll thank you still more if you won't allude to it for a month, at least."
no one did for several months, but the word 'fete' always produced a general smile, and laurie's birthday gift to amy was a tiny coral lobster in the shape of a charm for her watch guard.
chapter twenty-seven
literary lessons
fortune suddenly smiled upon jo, and dropped a good luck penny in her path.
not a golden penny, exactly, but i doubt if half a million would have given more real happiness then did the little sum that came to her in this wise.
every few weeks she would shut herself up in her room, put on her scribbling suit, and 'fall into a vortex', as she expressed it, writing away at her novel with all her heart and soul, for till that was finished she could find no peace.
her 'scribbling suit' consisted of a black woolen pinafore on which she could wipe her pen at will, and a cap of the same material, adorned with a cheerful red bow, into which she bundled her hair when the decks were cleared for action.
this cap was a beacon to the inquiring eyes of her family, who during these periods kept their distance, merely popping in their heads semi-occasionally to ask, with interest, "does genius burn, jo?"
they did not always venture even to ask this question, but took an observation of the cap, and judged accordingly.
if this expressive article of dress was drawn low upon the forehead, it was a sign that hard work was going on, in exciting moments it was pushed rakishly askew, and when despair seized the author it was plucked wholly off, and cast upon the floor.
at such times the intruder silently withdrew, and not until the red bow was seen gaily erect upon the gifted brow, did anyone dare address jo.
she did not think herself a genius by any means, but when the writing fit came on, she gave herself up to it with entire abandon, and led a blissful life, unconscious of want, care, or bad weather, while she sat safe and happy in an imaginary world, full of friends almost as real and dear to her as any in the flesh.
sleep forsook her eyes, meals stood untasted, day and night were all too short to enjoy the happiness which blessed her only at such times, and made these hours worth living, even if they bore no other fruit.
the divine afflatus usually lasted a week or two, and then she emerged from her 'vortex', hungry, sleepy, cross, or despondent.
she was just recovering from one of these attacks when she was prevailed upon to escort miss crocker to a lecture, and in return for her virtue was rewarded with a new idea.
it was a people's course, the lecture on the pyramids, and jo rather wondered at the choice of such a subject for such an audience, but took it for granted that some great social evil would be remedied or some great want supplied by unfolding the glories of the pharaohs to an audience whose thoughts were busy with the price of coal and flour, and whose lives were spent in trying to solve harder riddles than that of the sphinx.
they were early, and while miss crocker set the heel of her stocking, jo amused herself by examining the faces of the people who occupied the seat with them.
on her left were two matrons, with massive foreheads and bonnets to match, discussing women's rights and making tatting.
beyond sat a pair of humble lovers, artlessly holding each other by the hand, a somber spinster eating peppermints out of a paper bag, and an old gentleman taking his preparatory nap behind a yellow bandanna.
on her right, her only neighbor was a studious looking lad absorbed in a newspaper.
it was a pictorial sheet, and jo examined the work of art nearest her, idly wondering what fortuitous concatenation of circumstances needed the melodramatic illustration of an indian in full war costume, tumbling over a precipice with a wolf at his throat, while two infuriated young gentlemen, with unnaturally small feet and big eyes, were stabbing each other close by, and a disheveled female was flying away in the background with her mouth wide open.
pausing to turn a page, the lad saw her looking and, with boyish good nature offered half his paper, saying bluntly, "want to read it?
that's a first-rate story."
jo accepted it with a smile, for she had never outgrown her liking for lads, and soon found herself involved in the usual labyrinth of love, mystery, and murder, for the story belonged to that class of light literature in which the passions have a holiday, and when the author's invention fails, a grand catastrophe clears the stage of one half the dramatis personae, leaving the other half to exult over their downfall.
"prime, isn't it?"
asked the boy, as her eye went down the last paragraph of her portion.
"i think you and i could do as well as that if we tried," returned jo, amused at his admiration of the trash.
"i should think i was a pretty lucky chap if i could.
she makes a good living out of such stories, they say."
and he pointed to the name of mrs. s.l.a.n.g.
northbury, under the title of the tale.
"do you know her?"
asked jo, with sudden interest.
"no, but i read all her pieces, and i know a fellow who works in the office where this paper is printed."
"do you say she makes a good living out of stories like this?"
and jo looked more respectfully at the agitated group and thickly sprinkled exclamation points that adorned the page.
"guess she does!
she knows just what folks like, and gets paid well for writing it."
here the lecture began, but jo heard very little of it, for while professor sands was prosing away about belzoni, cheops, scarabei, and hieroglyphics, she was covertly taking down the address of the paper, and boldly resolving to try for the hundred-dollar prize offered in its columns for a sensational story.
by the time the lecture ended and the audience awoke, she had built up a splendid fortune for herself (not the first founded on paper), and was already deep in the concoction of her story, being unable to decide whether the duel should come before the elopement or after the murder.
she said nothing of her plan at home, but fell to work next day, much to the disquiet of her mother, who always looked a little anxious when 'genius took to burning'.
jo had never tried this style before, contenting herself with very mild romances for the spread eagle.
her experience and miscellaneous reading were of service now, for they gave her some idea of dramatic effect, and supplied plot, language, and costumes.
her story was as full of desperation and despair as her limited acquaintance with those uncomfortable emotions enabled her to make it, and having located it in lisbon, she wound up with an earthquake, as a striking and appropriate denouement.
the manuscript was privately dispatched, accompanied by a note, modestly saying that if the tale didn't get the prize, which the writer hardly dared expect, she would be very glad to receive any sum it might be considered worth.
six weeks is a long time to wait, and a still longer time for a girl to keep a secret, but jo did both, and was just beginning to give up all hope of ever seeing her manuscript again, when a letter arrived which almost took her breath away, for on opening it, a check for a hundred dollars fell into her lap.
for a minute she stared at it as if it had been a snake, then she read her letter and began to cry.
if the amiable gentleman who wrote that kindly note could have known what intense happiness he was giving a fellow creature, i think he would devote his leisure hours, if he has any, to that amusement, for jo valued the letter more than the money, because it was encouraging, and after years of effort it was so pleasant to find that she had learned to do something, though it was only to write a sensation story.
a prouder young woman was seldom seen than she, when, having composed herself, she electrified the family by appearing before them with the letter in one hand, the check in the other, announcing that she had won the prize.
of course there was a great jubilee, and when the story came everyone read and praised it, though after her father had told her that the language was good, the romance fresh and hearty, and the tragedy quite thrilling, he shook his head, and said in his unworldly way...
"you can do better than this, jo.
aim at the highest, and never mind the money."
"i think the money is the best part of it.
what will you do with such a fortune?"
asked amy, regarding the magic slip of paper with a reverential eye.
"send beth and mother to the seaside for a month or two," answered jo promptly.
to the seaside they went, after much discussion, and though beth didn't come home as plump and rosy as could be desired, she was much better, while mrs. march declared she felt ten years younger.
so jo was satisfied with the investment of her prize money, and fell to work with a cheery spirit, bent on earning more of those delightful checks.
she did earn several that year, and began to feel herself a power in the house, for by the magic of a pen, her 'rubbish' turned into comforts for them all.
the duke's daughter paid the butcher's bill, a phantom hand put down a new carpet, and the curse of the coventrys proved the blessing of the marches in the way of groceries and gowns.
wealth is certainly a most desirable thing, but poverty has its sunny side, and one of the sweet uses of adversity is the genuine satisfaction which comes from hearty work of head or hand, and to the inspiration of necessity, we owe half the wise, beautiful, and useful blessings of the world.
jo enjoyed a taste of this satisfaction, and ceased to envy richer girls, taking great comfort in the knowledge that she could supply her own wants, and need ask no one for a penny.
little notice was taken of her stories, but they found a market, and encouraged by this fact, she resolved to make a bold stroke for fame and fortune.
having copied her novel for the fourth time, read it to all her confidential friends, and submitted it with fear and trembling to three publishers, she at last disposed of it, on condition that she would cut it down one third, and omit all the parts which she particularly admired.
"now i must either bundle it back in to my tin kitchen to mold, pay for printing it myself, or chop it up to suit purchasers and get what i can for it.
fame is a very good thing to have in the house, but cash is more convenient, so i wish to take the sense of the meeting on this important subject," said jo, calling a family council.
"don't spoil your book, my girl, for there is more in it than you know, and the idea is well worked out.
let it wait and ripen," was her father's advice, and he practiced what he preached, having waited patiently thirty years for fruit of his own to ripen, and being in no haste to gather it even now when it was sweet and mellow.
"it seems to me that jo will profit more by taking the trial than by waiting," said mrs. march.
"criticism is the best test of such work, for it will show her both unsuspected merits and faults, and help her to do better next time.
we are too partial, but the praise and blame of outsiders will prove useful, even if she gets but little money."
"yes," said jo, knitting her brows, "that's just it.
i've been fussing over the thing so long, i really don't know whether it's good, bad, or indifferent.
it will be a great help to have cool, impartial persons take a look at it, and tell me what they think of it."
"i wouldn't leave a word out of it.
you'll spoil it if you do, for the interest of the story is more in the minds than in the actions of the people, and it will be all a muddle if you don't explain as you go on,"
said meg, who firmly believed that this book was the most remarkable novel ever written.
"but mr. allen says, 'leave out the explanations, make it brief and dramatic, and let the characters tell the story'," interrupted jo, turning to the publisher's note.
"do as he tells you.
he knows what will sell, and we don't.
make a good, popular book, and get as much money as you can.
by-and-by, when you've got a name, you can afford to digress, and have philosophical and metaphysical people in your novels," said amy, who took a strictly practical view of the subject.
"well," said jo, laughing, "if my people are 'philosophical and metaphysical', it isn't my fault, for i know nothing about such things, except what i hear father say, sometimes.
if i've got some of his wise ideas jumbled up with my romance, so much the better for me.
now, beth, what do you say?"
"i should so like to see it printed soon," was all beth said, and smiled in saying it.
but there was an unconscious emphasis on the last word, and a wistful look in the eyes that never lost their childlike candor, which chilled jo's heart for a minute with a forboding fear, and decided her to make her little venture 'soon'.
so, with spartan firmness, the young authoress laid her first-born on her table, and chopped it up as ruthlessly as any ogre.
in the hope of pleasing everyone, she took everyone's advice, and like the old man and his donkey in the fable suited nobody.
her father liked the metaphysical streak which had unconsciously got into it, so that was allowed to remain though she had her doubts about it.
her mother thought that there was a trifle too much description.
out, therefore it came, and with it many necessary links in the story.
meg admired the tragedy, so jo piled up the agony to suit her, while amy objected to the fun, and, with the best intentions in life, jo quenched the spritly scenes which relieved the somber character of the story.
then, to complicate the ruin, she cut it down one third, and confidingly sent the poor little romance, like a picked robin, out into the big, busy world to try its fate.
well, it was printed, and she got three hundred dollars for it, likewise plenty of praise and blame, both so much greater than she expected that she was thrown into a state of bewilderment from which it took her some time to recover.
"you said, mother, that criticism would help me.
but how can it, when it's so contradictory that i don't know whether i've written a promising book or broken all the ten commandments?"
cried poor jo, turning over a heap of notices, the perusal of which filled her with pride and joy one minute, wrath and dismay the next.
"this man says, 'an exquisite book, full of truth, beauty, and earnestness.'
'all is sweet, pure, and healthy.'"
continued the perplexed authoress.
"the next, 'the theory of the book is bad, full of morbid fancies, spiritualistic ideas, and unnatural characters.'
now, as i had no theory of any kind, don't believe in spiritualism, and copied my characters from life, i don't see how this critic can be right.
another says, 'it's one of the best american novels which has appeared for years.'
(i know better than that), and the next asserts that 'though it is original, and written with great force and feeling, it is a dangerous book.'
'tisn't!
some make fun of it, some overpraise, and nearly all insist that i had a deep theory to expound, when i only wrote it for the pleasure and the money.
i wish i'd printed the whole or not at all, for i do hate to be so misjudged."
her family and friends administered comfort and commendation liberally.
yet it was a hard time for sensitive, high-spirited jo, who meant so well and had apparently done so ill.  but it did her good, for those whose opinion had real value gave her the criticism which is an author's best education, and when the first soreness was over, she could laugh at her poor little book, yet believe in it still, and feel herself the wiser and stronger for the buffeting she had received.
"not being a genius, like keats, it won't kill me," she said stoutly, "and i've got the joke on my side, after all, for the parts that were taken straight out of real life are denounced as impossible and absurd, and the scenes that i made up out of my own silly head are pronounced 'charmingly natural, tender, and true'.
so i'll comfort myself with that, and when i'm ready, i'll up again and take another."
chapter twenty-eight
domestic experiences
like most other young matrons, meg began her married life with the determination to be a model housekeeper.
john should find home a paradise, he should always see a smiling face, should fare sumptuously every day, and never know the loss of a button.
she brought so much love, energy, and cheerfulness to the work that she could not but succeed, in spite of some obstacles.
her paradise was not a tranquil one, for the little woman fussed, was over-anxious to please, and bustled about like a true martha, cumbered with many cares.
she was too tired, sometimes, even to smile, john grew dyspeptic after a course of dainty dishes and ungratefully demanded plain fare.
as for buttons, she soon learned to wonder where they went, to shake her head over the carelessness of men, and to threaten to make him sew them on himself, and see if his work would stand impatient and clumsy fingers any better than hers.
they were very happy, even after they discovered that they couldn't live on love alone.
john did not find meg's beauty diminished, though she beamed at him from behind the familiar coffee pot.
nor did meg miss any of the romance from the daily parting, when her husband followed up his kiss with the tender inquiry, "shall i send some veal or mutton for dinner, darling?"
the little house ceased to be a glorified bower, but it became a home, and the young couple soon felt that it was a change for the better.
at first they played keep-house, and frolicked over it like children.
then john took steadily to business, feeling the cares of the head of a family upon his shoulders, and meg laid by her cambric wrappers, put on a big apron, and fell to work, as before said, with more energy than discretion.
while the cooking mania lasted she went through mrs. cornelius's receipt book as if it were a mathematical exercise, working out the problems with patience and care.
sometimes her family were invited in to help eat up a too bounteous feast of successes, or lotty would be privately dispatched with a batch of failures, which were to be concealed from all eyes in the convenient stomachs of the little hummels.
an evening with john over the account books usually produced a temporary lull in the culinary enthusiasm, and a frugal fit would ensue, during which the poor man was put through a course of bread pudding, hash, and warmed-over coffee, which tried his soul, although he bore it with praiseworthy fortitude.
before the golden mean was found, however, meg added to her domestic possessions what young couples seldom get on long without, a family jar.
fired with a housewifely wish to see her storeroom stocked with homemade preserves, she undertook to put up her own currant jelly.
john was requested to order home a dozen or so of little pots and an extra quantity of sugar, for their own currants were ripe and were to be attended to at once.
as john firmly believed that 'my wife' was equal to anything, and took a natural pride in her skill, he resolved that she should be gratified, and their only crop of fruit laid by in a most pleasing form for winter use.
home came four dozen delightful little pots, half a barrel of sugar, and a small boy to pick the currants for her.
with her pretty hair tucked into a little cap, arms bared to the elbow, and a checked apron which had a coquettish look in spite of the bib, the young housewife fell to work, feeling no doubts about her success, for hadn't she seen hannah do it hundreds of times?
the array of pots rather amazed her at first, but john was so fond of jelly, and the nice little jars would look so well on the top shelf, that meg resolved to fill them all, and spent a long day picking, boiling, straining, and fussing over her jelly.
she did her best, she asked advice of mrs. cornelius, she racked her brain to remember what hannah did that she left undone, she reboiled, resugared, and restrained, but that dreadful stuff wouldn't 'jell'.
she longed to run home, bib and all, and ask mother to lend her a hand, but john and she had agreed that they would never annoy anyone with their private worries, experiments, or quarrels.
they had laughed over that last word as if the idea it suggested was a most preposterous one, but they had held to their resolve, and whenever they could get on without help they did so, and no one interfered, for mrs. march had advised the plan.
so meg wrestled alone with the refractory sweetmeats all that hot summer day, and at five o'clock sat down in her topsy-turvey kitchen, wrung her bedaubed hands, lifted up her voice and wept.
now, in the first flush of the new life, she had often said, "my husband shall always feel free to bring a friend home whenever he likes.
i shall always be prepared.
there shall be no flurry, no scolding, no discomfort, but a neat house, a cheerful wife, and a good dinner.
john, dear, never stop to ask my leave, invite whom you please, and be sure of a welcome from me."
how charming that was, to be sure!
john quite glowed with pride to hear her say it, and felt what a blessed thing it was to have a superior wife.
but, although they had had company from time to time, it never happened to be unexpected, and meg had never had an opportunity to distinguish herself till now.
it always happens so in this vale of tears, there is an inevitability about such things which we can only wonder at, deplore, and bear as we best can.
if john had not forgotten all about the jelly, it really would have been unpardonable in him to choose that day, of all the days in the year, to bring a friend home to dinner unexpectedly.
congratulating himself that a handsome repast had been ordered that morning, feeling sure that it would be ready to the minute, and indulging in pleasant anticipations of the charming effect it would produce, when his pretty wife came running out to meet him, he escorted his friend to his mansion, with the irrepressible satisfaction of a young host and husband.
it is a world of disappointments, as john discovered when he reached the dovecote.
the front door usually stood hospitably open.
now it was not only shut, but locked, and yesterday's mud still adorned the steps.
the parlor windows were closed and curtained, no picture of the pretty wife sewing on the piazza, in white, with a distracting little bow in her hair, or a bright-eyed hostess, smiling a shy welcome as she greeted her guest.
nothing of the sort, for not a soul appeared but a sanginary-looking boy asleep under the current bushes.
"i'm afraid something has happened.
step into the garden, scott, while i look up mrs. brooke," said john, alarmed at the silence and solitude.
round the house he hurried, led by a pungent smell of burned sugar, and mr. scott strolled after him, with a queer look on his face.
he paused discreetly at a distance when brooke disappeared, but he could both see and hear, and being a bachelor, enjoyed the prospect mightily.
in the kitchen reigned confusion and despair.
one edition of jelly was trickled from pot to pot, another lay upon the floor, and a third was burning gaily on the stove.
lotty, with teutonic phlegm, was calmly eating bread and currant wine, for the jelly was still in a hopelessly liquid state, while mrs. brooke, with her apron over her head, sat sobbing dismally.
"my dearest girl, what is the matter?"
cried john, rushing in, with awful visions of scalded hands, sudden news of affliction, and secret consternation at the thought of the guest in the garden.
"oh, john, i am so tired and hot and cross and worried!
i've been at it till i'm all worn out.
do come and help me or i shall die!"
and the exhausted housewife cast herself upon his breast, giving him a sweet welcome in every sense of the word, for her pinafore had been baptized at the same time as the floor.
"what worries you dear?
has anything dreadful happened?"
asked the anxious john, tenderly kissing the crown of the little cap, which was all askew.
"yes," sobbed meg despairingly.
"tell me quick, then.
don't cry.
i can bear anything better than that.
out with it, love."
"the... the jelly won't jell and i don't know what to do!"
john brooke laughed then as he never dared to laugh afterward, and the derisive scott smiled involuntarily as he heard the hearty peal, which put the finishing stroke to poor meg's woe.
"is that all?
fling it out of the window, and don't bother any more about it.
i'll buy you quarts if you want it, but for heaven's sake don't have hysterics, for i've brought jack scott home to dinner, and..."
john got no further, for meg cast him off, and clasped her hands with a tragic gesture as she fell into a chair, exclaiming in a tone of mingled indignation, reproach, and dismay...
"a man to dinner, and everything in a mess!
john brooke, how could you do such a thing?"
"hush, he's in the garden!
i forgot the confounded jelly, but it can't be helped now," said john, surveying the prospect with an anxious eye.
"you ought to have sent word, or told me this morning, and you ought to have remembered how busy i was," continued meg petulantly, for even turtledoves will peck when ruffled.
"i didn't know it this morning, and there was no time to send word, for i met him on the way out.
i never thought of asking leave, when you have always told me to do as i liked.
i never tried it before, and hang me if i ever do again!"
added john, with an aggrieved air.
"i should hope not!
take him away at once.
i can't see him, and there isn't any dinner."
"well, i like that!
where's the beef and vegetables i sent home, and the pudding you promised?"
cried john, rushing to the larder.
"i hadn't time to cook anything.
i meant to dine at mother's.
i'm sorry, but i was so busy," and meg's tears began again.
john was a mild man, but he was human, and after a long day's work to come home tired, hungry, and hopeful, to find a chaotic house, an empty table, and a cross wife was not exactly conducive to repose of mind or manner.
he restrained himself however, and the little squall would have blown over, but for one unlucky word.
"it's a scrape, i acknowledge, but if you will lend a hand, we'll pull through and have a good time yet.
don't cry, dear, but just exert yourself a bit, and fix us up something to eat.
we're both as hungry as hunters, so we shan't mind what it is.
give us the cold meat, and bread and cheese.
we won't ask for jelly."
he meant it to be a good-natured joke, but that one word sealed his fate.
meg thought it was too cruel to hint about her sad failure, and the last atom of patience vanished as he spoke.
"you must get yourself out of the scrape as you can.
i'm too used up to 'exert' myself for anyone.
it's like a man to propose a bone and vulgar bread and cheese for company.
i won't have anything of the sort in my house.
take that scott up to mother's, and tell him i'm away, sick, dead, anything.
i won't see him, and you two can laugh at me and my jelly as much as you like.
you won't have anything else here."
and having delivered her defiance all on one breath, meg cast away her pinafore and precipitately left the field to bemoan herself in her own room.
what those two creatures did in her absence, she never knew, but mr.
scott was not taken 'up to mother's', and when meg descended, after they had strolled away together, she found traces of a promiscuous lunch which filled her with horror.
lotty reported that they had eaten "a much, and greatly laughed, and the master bid her throw away all the sweet stuff, and hide the pots."
meg longed to go and tell mother, but a sense of shame at her own short-comings, of loyalty to john, "who might be cruel, but nobody should know it," restrained her, and after a summary cleaning up, she dressed herself prettily, and sat down to wait for john to come and be forgiven.
unfortunately, john didn't come, not seeing the matter in that light.
he had carried it off as a good joke with scott, excused his little wife as well as he could, and played the host so hospitably that his friend enjoyed the impromptu dinner, and promised to come again, but john was angry, though he did not show it, he felt that meg had deserted him in his hour of need.
"it wasn't fair to tell a man to bring folks home any time, with perfect freedom, and when he took you at your word, to flame up and blame him, and leave him in the lurch, to be laughed at or pitied.
no, by george, it wasn't!
and meg must know it."
he had fumed inwardly during the feast, but when the flurry was over and he strolled home after seeing scott off, a milder mood came over him.
"poor little thing!
it was hard upon her when she tried so heartily to please me.
she was wrong, of course, but then she was young.
i must be patient and teach her."
he hoped she had not gone home he hated gossip and interference.
for a minute he was ruffled again at the mere thought of it, and then the fear that meg would cry herself sick softened his heart, and sent him on at a quicker pace, resolving to be calm and kind, but firm, quite firm, and show her where she had failed in her duty to her spouse.
meg likewise resolved to be 'calm and kind, but firm', and show him his duty.
she longed to run to meet him, and beg pardon, and be kissed and comforted, as she was sure of being, but, of course, she did nothing of the sort, and when she saw john coming, began to hum quite naturally, as she rocked and sewed, like a lady of leisure in her best parlor.
john was a little disappointed not to find a tender niobe, but feeling that his dignity demanded the first apology, he made none, only came leisurely in and laid himself upon the sofa with the singularly relevant remark, "we are going to have a new moon, my dear."
"i've no objection," was meg's equally soothing remark.
a few other topics of general interest were introduced by mr. brooke and wet-blanketed by mrs. brooke, and conversation languished.
john went to one window, unfolded his paper, and wrapped himself in it, figuratively speaking.
meg went to the other window, and sewed as if new rosettes for slippers were among the necessaries of life.
neither spoke.
both looked quite 'calm and firm', and both felt desperately uncomfortable.
"oh, dear," thought meg, "married life is very trying, and does need infinite patience as well as love, as mother says."
the word 'mother'
suggested other maternal counsels given long ago, and received with unbelieving protests.
"john is a good man, but he has his faults, and you must learn to see and bear with them, remembering your own.
he is very decided, but never will be obstinate, if you reason kindly, not oppose impatiently.
he is very accurate, and particular about the truth a good trait, though you call him 'fussy'.
never deceive him by look or word, meg, and he will give you the confidence you deserve, the support you need.
he has a temper, not like ours one flash and then all over but the white, still anger that is seldom stirred, but once kindled is hard to quench.
be careful, be very careful, not to wake his anger against yourself, for peace and happiness depend on keeping his respect.
watch yourself, be the first to ask pardon if you both err, and guard against the little piques, misunderstandings, and hasty words that often pave the way for bitter sorrow and regret."
these words came back to meg, as she sat sewing in the sunset, especially the last.
this was the first serious disagreement, her own hasty speeches sounded both silly and unkind, as she recalled them, her own anger looked childish now, and thoughts of poor john coming home to such a scene quite melted her heart.
she glanced at him with tears in her eyes, but he did not see them.
she put down her work and got up, thinking, "i will be the first to say, 'forgive me'", but he did not seem to hear her.
she went very slowly across the room, for pride was hard to swallow, and stood by him, but he did not turn his head.
for a minute she felt as if she really couldn't do it, then came the thought, "this is the beginning.
i'll do my part, and have nothing to reproach myself with," and stooping down, she softly kissed her husband on the forehead.
of course that settled it.
the penitent kiss was better than a world of words, and john had her on his knee in a minute, saying tenderly...
"it was too bad to laugh at the poor little jelly pots.
forgive me, dear.
i never will again!"
but he did, oh bless you, yes, hundreds of times, and so did meg, both declaring that it was the sweetest jelly they ever made, for family peace was preserved in that little family jar.
after this, meg had mr. scott to dinner by special invitation, and served him up a pleasant feast without a cooked wife for the first course, on which occasion she was so gay and gracious, and made everything go off so charmingly, that mr. scott told john he was a lucky fellow, and shook his head over the hardships of bachelorhood all the way home.
in the autumn, new trials and experiences came to meg.
sallie moffat renewed her friendship, was always running out for a dish of gossip at the little house, or inviting 'that poor dear' to come in and spend the day at the big house.
it was pleasant, for in dull weather meg often felt lonely.
all were busy at home, john absent till night, and nothing to do but sew, or read, or potter about.
so it naturally fell out that meg got into the way of gadding and gossiping with her friend.
seeing sallie's pretty things made her long for such, and pity herself because she had not got them.
sallie was very kind, and often offered her the coveted trifles, but meg declined them, knowing that john wouldn't like it, and then this foolish little woman went and did what john disliked even worse.
she knew her husband's income, and she loved to feel that he trusted her, not only with his happiness, but what some men seem to value more his money.
she knew where it was, was free to take what she liked, and all he asked was that she should keep account of every penny, pay bills once a month, and remember that she was a poor man's wife.
till now she had done well, been prudent and exact, kept her little account books neatly, and showed them to him monthly without fear.
but that autumn the serpent got into meg's paradise, and tempted her like many a modern eve, not with apples, but with dress.
meg didn't like to be pitied and made to feel poor.
it irritated her, but she was ashamed to confess it, and now and then she tried to console herself by buying something pretty, so that sallie needn't think she had to economize.
she always felt wicked after it, for the pretty things were seldom necessaries, but then they cost so little, it wasn't worth worrying about, so the trifles increased unconsciously, and in the shopping excursions she was no longer a passive looker-on.
but the trifles cost more than one would imagine, and when she cast up her accounts at the end of the month the sum total rather scared her.
john was busy that month and left the bills to her, the next month he was absent, but the third he had a grand quarterly settling up, and meg never forgot it.
a few days before she had done a dreadful thing, and it weighed upon her conscience.
sallie had been buying silks, and meg longed for a new one, just a handsome light one for parties, her black silk was so common, and thin things for evening wear were only proper for girls.
aunt march usually gave the sisters a present of twenty-five dollars apiece at new year's.
that was only a month to wait, and here was a lovely violet silk going at a bargain, and she had the money, if she only dared to take it.
john always said what was his was hers, but would he think it right to spend not only the prospective five-and-twenty, but another five-and-twenty out of the household fund?
that was the question.
sallie had urged her to do it, had offered to lend the money, and with the best intentions in life had tempted meg beyond her strength.
in an evil moment the shopman held up the lovely, shimmering folds, and said, "a bargain, i assure, you, ma'am."
she answered, "i'll take it," and it was cut off and paid for, and sallie had exulted, and she had laughed as if it were a thing of no consequence, and driven away, feeling as if she had stolen something, and the police were after her.
when she got home, she tried to assuage the pangs of remorse by spreading forth the lovely silk, but it looked less silvery now, didn't become her, after all, and the words 'fifty dollars' seemed stamped like a pattern down each breadth.
she put it away, but it haunted her, not delightfully as a new dress should, but dreadfully like the ghost of a folly that was not easily laid.
when john got out his books that night, meg's heart sank, and for the first time in her married life, she was afraid of her husband.
the kind, brown eyes looked as if they could be stern, and though he was unusually merry, she fancied he had found her out, but didn't mean to let her know it.
the house bills were all paid, the books all in order.
john had praised her, and was undoing the old pocketbook which they called the 'bank', when meg, knowing that it was quite empty, stopped his hand, saying nervously...
"you haven't seen my private expense book yet."
john never asked to see it, but she always insisted on his doing so, and used to enjoy his masculine amazement at the queer things women wanted, and made him guess what piping was, demand fiercely the meaning of a hug-me-tight, or wonder how a little thing composed of three rosebuds, a bit of velvet, and a pair of strings, could possibly be a bonnet, and cost six dollars.
that night he looked as if he would like the fun of quizzing her figures and pretending to be horrified at her extravagance, as he often did, being particularly proud of his prudent wife.
the little book was brought slowly out and laid down before him.
meg got behind his chair under pretense of smoothing the wrinkles out of his tired forehead, and standing there, she said, with her panic increasing with every word...
"john, dear, i'm ashamed to show you my book, for i've really been dreadfully extravagant lately.
i go about so much i must have things, you know, and sallie advised my getting it, so i did, and my new year's money will partly pay for it, but i was sorry after i had done it, for i knew you'd think it wrong in me."
john laughed, and drew her round beside him, saying goodhumoredly, "don't go and hide.
i won't beat you if you have got a pair of killing boots.
i'm rather proud of my wife's feet, and don't mind if she does pay eight or nine dollars for her boots, if they are good ones."
that had been one of her last 'trifles', and john's eye had fallen on it as he spoke.
"oh, what will he say when he comes to that awful fifty dollars!"
thought meg, with a shiver.
"it's worse than boots, it's a silk dress," she said, with the calmness of desperation, for she wanted the worst over.
"well, dear, what is the 'dem'd total', as mr. mantalini says?"
that didn't sound like john, and she knew he was looking up at her with the straightforward look that she had always been ready to meet and answer with one as frank till now.
she turned the page and her head at the same time, pointing to the sum which would have been bad enough without the fifty, but which was appalling to her with that added.
for a minute the room was very still, then john said slowly but she could feel it cost him an effort to express no displeasure .
.
.
"well, i don't know that fifty is much for a dress, with all the furbelows and notions you have to have to finish it off these days."
"it isn't made or trimmed," sighed meg, faintly, for a sudden recollection of the cost still to be incurred quite overwhelmed her.
"twenty-five yards of silk seems a good deal to cover one small woman, but i've no doubt my wife will look as fine as ned moffat's when she gets it on," said john dryly.
"i know you are angry, john, but i can't help it.
i don't mean to waste your money, and i didn't think those little things would count up so.
i can't resist them when i see sallie buying all she wants, and pitying me because i don't.
i try to be contented, but it is hard, and i'm tired of being poor."
the last words were spoken so low she thought he did not hear them, but he did, and they wounded him deeply, for he had denied himself many pleasures for meg's sake.
she could have bitten her tongue out the minute she had said it, for john pushed the books away and got up, saying with a little quiver in his voice, "i was afraid of this.
i do my best, meg."
if he had scolded her, or even shaken her, it would not have broken her heart like those few words.
she ran to him and held him close, crying, with repentant tears, "oh, john, my dear, kind, hard-working boy.
i didn't mean it!
it was so wicked, so untrue and ungrateful, how could i say it!
oh, how could i say it!"
he was very kind, forgave her readily, and did not utter one reproach, but meg knew that she had done and said a thing which would not be forgotten soon, although he might never allude to it again.
she had promised to love him for better or worse, and then she, his wife, had reproached him with his poverty, after spending his earnings recklessly.
it was dreadful, and the worst of it was john went on so quietly afterward, just as if nothing had happened, except that he stayed in town later, and worked at night when she had gone to cry herself to sleep.
a week of remorse nearly made meg sick, and the discovery that john had countermanded the order for his new greatcoat reduced her to a state of despair which was pathetic to behold.
he had simply said, in answer to her surprised inquiries as to the change, "i can't afford it, my dear."
meg said no more, but a few minutes after he found her in the hall with her face buried in the old greatcoat, crying as if her heart would break.
they had a long talk that night, and meg learned to love her husband better for his poverty, because it seemed to have made a man of him, given him the strength and courage to fight his own way, and taught him a tender patience with which to bear and comfort the natural longings and failures of those he loved.
next day she put her pride in her pocket, went to sallie, told the truth, and asked her to buy the silk as a favor.
the good-natured mrs.
moffat willingly did so, and had the delicacy not to make her a present of it immediately afterward.
then meg ordered home the greatcoat, and when john arrived, she put it on, and asked him how he liked her new silk gown.
one can imagine what answer he made, how he received his present, and what a blissful state of things ensued.
john came home early, meg gadded no more, and that greatcoat was put on in the morning by a very happy husband, and taken off at night by a most devoted little wife.
so the year rolled round, and at midsummer there came to meg a new experience, the deepest and tenderest of a woman's life.
laurie came sneaking into the kitchen of the dovecote one saturday, with an excited face, and was received with the clash of cymbals, for hannah clapped her hands with a saucepan in one and the cover in the other.
"how's the little mamma?
where is everybody?
why didn't you tell me before i came home?"
began laurie in a loud whisper.
"happy as a queen, the dear!
every soul of 'em is upstairs a worshipin'.
we didn't want no hurrycanes round.
now you go into the parlor, and i'll send 'em down to you," with which somewhat involved reply hannah vanished, chuckling ecstatically.
presently jo appeared, proudly bearing a flannel bundle laid forth upon a large pillow.
jo's face was very sober, but her eyes twinkled, and there was an odd sound in her voice of repressed emotion of some sort.
"shut your eyes and hold out your arms," she said invitingly.
laurie backed precipitately into a corner, and put his hands behind him with an imploring gesture.
"no, thank you.
i'd rather not.
i shall drop it or smash it, as sure as fate."
"then you shan't see your nevvy," said jo decidedly, turning as if to go.
"i will, i will!
only you must be responsible for damages."
and obeying orders, laurie heroically shut his eyes while something was put into his arms.
a peal of laughter from jo, amy, mrs. march, hannah, and john caused him to open them the next minute, to find himself invested with two babies instead of one.
no wonder they laughed, for the expression of his face was droll enough to convulse a quaker, as he stood and stared wildly from the unconscious innocents to the hilarious spectators with such dismay that jo sat down on the floor and screamed.
"twins, by jupiter!"
was all he said for a minute, then turning to the women with an appealing look that was comically piteous, he added, "take 'em quick, somebody!
i'm going to laugh, and i shall drop 'em."
jo rescued his babies, and marched up and down, with one on each arm, as if already initiated into the mysteries of babytending, while laurie laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks.
"it's the best joke of the season, isn't it?
i wouldn't have told you, for i set my heart on surprising you, and i flatter myself i've done it," said jo, when she got her breath.
"i never was more staggered in my life.
isn't it fun?
are they boys?
what are you going to name them?
let's have another look.
hold me up, jo, for upon my life it's one too many for me," returned laurie, regarding the infants with the air of a big, benevolent newfoundland looking at a pair of infantile kittens.
"boy and girl.
aren't they beauties?"
said the proud papa, beaming upon the little red squirmers as if they were unfledged angels.
"most remarkable children i ever saw.
which is which?"
and laurie bent like a well-sweep to examine the prodigies.
"amy put a blue ribbon on the boy and a pink on the girl, french fashion, so you can always tell.
besides, one has blue eyes and one brown.
kiss them, uncle teddy," said wicked jo.
"i'm afraid they mightn't like it," began laurie, with unusual timidity in such matters.
"of course they will, they are used to it now.
do it this minute, sir!"
commanded jo, fearing he might propose a proxy.
laurie screwed up his face and obeyed with a gingerly peck at each little cheek that produced another laugh, and made the babies squeal.
"there, i knew they didn't like it!
that's the boy, see him kick, he hits out with his fists like a good one.
now then, young brooke, pitch into a man of your own size, will you?"
cried laurie, delighted with a poke in the face from a tiny fist, flapping aimlessly about.
"he's to be named john laurence, and the girl margaret, after mother and grandmother.
we shall call her daisey, so as not to have two megs, and i suppose the mannie will be jack, unless we find a better name,"
said amy, with aunt-like interest.
"name him demijohn, and call him demi for short," said laurie.
"daisy and demi, just the thing!
i knew teddy would do it," cried jo clapping her hands.
teddy certainly had done it that time, for the babies were 'daisy' and 'demi' to the end of the chapter.
chapter twenty-nine
calls
"come, jo, it's time."
"for what?"
"you don't mean to say you have forgotten that you promised to make half a dozen calls with me today?"
"i've done a good many rash and foolish things in my life, but i don't think i ever was mad enough to say i'd make six calls in one day, when a single one upsets me for a week."
"yes, you did, it was a bargain between us.
i was to finish the crayon of beth for you, and you were to go properly with me, and return our neighbors' visits."
"if it was fair, that was in the bond, and i stand to the letter of my bond, shylock.
there is a pile of clouds in the east, it's not fair, and i don't go."
"now, that's shirking.
it's a lovely day, no prospect of rain, and you pride yourself on keeping promises, so be honorable, come and do your duty, and then be at peace for another six months."
at that minute jo was particularly absorbed in dressmaking, for she was mantua-maker general to the family, and took especial credit to herself because she could use a needle as well as a pen.
it was very provoking to be arrested in the act of a first trying-on, and ordered out to make calls in her best array on a warm july day.
she hated calls of the formal sort, and never made any till amy compelled her with a bargain, bribe, or promise.
in the present instance there was no escape, and having clashed her scissors rebelliously, while protesting that she smelled thunder, she gave in, put away her work, and taking up her hat and gloves with an air of resignation, told amy the victim was ready.
"jo march, you are perverse enough to provoke a saint!
you don't intend to make calls in that state, i hope," cried amy, surveying her with amazement.
"why not?
i'm neat and cool and comfortable, quite proper for a dusty walk on a warm day.
if people care more for my clothes than they do for me, i don't wish to see them.
you can dress for both, and be as elegant as you please.
it pays for you to be fine.
it doesn't for me, and furbelows only worry me."
"oh, dear!"
sighed amy, "now she's in a contrary fit, and will drive me distracted before i can get her properly ready.
i'm sure it's no pleasure to me to go today, but it's a debt we owe society, and there's no one to pay it but you and me.
i'll do anything for you, jo, if you'll only dress yourself nicely, and come and help me do the civil.
you can talk so well, look so aristocratic in your best things, and behave so beautifully, if you try, that i'm proud of you.
i'm afraid to go alone, do come and take care of me."
"you're an artful little puss to flatter and wheedle your cross old sister in that way.
the idea of my being aristocratic and well-bred, and your being afraid to go anywhere alone!
i don't know which is the most absurd.
well, i'll go if i must, and do my best.
you shall be commander of the expedition, and i'll obey blindly, will that satisfy you?"
said jo, with a sudden change from perversity to lamblike submission.
"you're a perfect cherub!
now put on all your best things, and i'll tell you how to behave at each place, so that you will make a good impression.
i want people to like you, and they would if you'd only try to be a little more agreeable.
do your hair the pretty way, and put the pink rose in your bonnet.
it's becoming, and you look too sober in your plain suit.
take your light gloves and the embroidered handkerchief.
we'll stop at meg's, and borrow her white sunshade, and then you can have my dove-colored one."
while amy dressed, she issued her orders, and jo obeyed them, not without entering her protest, however, for she sighed as she rustled into her new organdie, frowned darkly at herself as she tied her bonnet strings in an irreproachable bow, wrestled viciously with pins as she put on her collar, wrinkled up her features generally as she shook out the handkerchief, whose embroidery was as irritating to her nose as the present mission was to her feelings, and when she had squeezed her hands into tight gloves with three buttons and a tassel, as the last touch of elegance, she turned to amy with an imbecile expression of countenance, saying meekly...
"i'm perfectly miserable, but if you consider me presentable, i die happy."
"you're highly satisfactory.
turn slowly round, and let me get a careful view."
jo revolved, and amy gave a touch here and there, then fell back, with her head on one side, observing graciously, "yes, you'll do.
your head is all i could ask, for that white bonnet with the rose is quite ravishing.
hold back your shoulders, and carry your hands easily, no matter if your gloves do pinch.
there's one thing you can do well, jo, that is, wear a shawl.
i can't, but it's very nice to see you, and i'm so glad aunt march gave you that lovely one.
it's simple, but handsome, and those folds over the arm are really artistic.
is the point of my mantle in the middle, and have i looped my dress evenly?
i like to show my boots, for my feet are pretty, though my nose isn't."
"you are a thing of beauty and a joy forever," said jo, looking through her hand with the air of a connoisseur at the blue feather against the golden hair.
"am i to drag my best dress through the dust, or loop it up, please, ma'am?"
"hold it up when you walk, but drop it in the house.
the sweeping style suits you best, and you must learn to trail your skirts gracefully.
you haven't half buttoned one cuff, do it at once.
you'll never look finished if you are not careful about the little details, for they make up the pleasing whole."
jo sighed, and proceeded to burst the buttons off her glove, in doing up her cuff, but at last both were ready, and sailed away, looking as 'pretty as picters', hannah said, as she hung out of the upper window to watch them.
"now, jo dear, the chesters consider themselves very elegant people, so i want you to put on your best deportment.
don't make any of your abrupt remarks, or do anything odd, will you?
just be calm, cool, and quiet, that's safe and ladylike, and you can easily do it for fifteen minutes," said amy, as they approached the first place, having borrowed the white parasol and been inspected by meg, with a baby on each arm.
"let me see.
'calm, cool, and quiet', yes, i think i can promise that.
i've played the part of a prim young lady on the stage, and i'll try it off.
my powers are great, as you shall see, so be easy in your mind, my child."
amy looked relieved, but naughty jo took her at her word, for during the first call she sat with every limb gracefully composed, every fold correctly draped, calm as a summer sea, cool as a snowbank, and as silent as the sphinx.
in vain mrs. chester alluded to her 'charming novel', and the misses chester introduced parties, picnics, the opera, and the fashions.
each and all were answered by a smile, a bow, and a demure "yes" or "no" with the chill on.
in vain amy telegraphed the word 'talk', tried to draw her out, and administered covert pokes with her foot.
jo sat as if blandly unconscious of it all, with deportment like maud's face, 'icily regular, splendidly null'.
"what a haughty, uninteresting creature that oldest miss march is!"
was the unfortunately audible remark of one of the ladies, as the door closed upon their guests.
jo laughed noiselessly all through the hall, but amy looked disgusted at the failure of her instructions, and very naturally laid the blame upon jo.
"how could you mistake me so?
i merely meant you to be properly dignified and composed, and you made yourself a perfect stock and stone.
try to be sociable at the lambs'.
gossip as other girls do, and be interested in dress and flirtations and whatever nonsense comes up.
they move in the best society, are valuable persons for us to know, and i wouldn't fail to make a good impression there for anything."
"i'll be agreeable.
i'll gossip and giggle, and have horrors and raptures over any trifle you like.
i rather enjoy this, and now i'll imitate what is called 'a charming girl'.
i can do it, for i have may chester as a model, and i'll improve upon her.
see if the lambs don't say, 'what a lively, nice creature that jo march is!"
amy felt anxious, as well she might, for when jo turned freakish there was no knowing where she would stop.
amy's face was a study when she saw her sister skim into the next drawing room, kiss all the young ladies with effusion, beam graciously upon the young gentlemen, and join in the chat with a spirit which amazed the beholder.
amy was taken possession of by mrs. lamb, with whom she was a favorite, and forced to hear a long account of lucretia's last attack, while three delightful young gentlemen hovered near, waiting for a pause when they might rush in and rescue her.
so situated, she was powerless to check jo, who seemed possessed by a spirit of mischief, and talked away as volubly as the lady.
a knot of heads gathered about her, and amy strained her ears to hear what was going on, for broken sentences filled her with curiosity, and frequent peals of laughter made her wild to share the fun.
one may imagine her suffering on overhearing fragments of this sort of conversation.
"she rides splendidly.
who taught her?"
"no one.
she used to practice mounting, holding the reins, and sitting straight on an old saddle in a tree.
now she rides anything, for she doesn't know what fear is, and the stableman lets her have horses cheap because she trains them to carry ladies so well.
she has such a passion for it, i often tell her if everything else fails, she can be a horsebreaker, and get her living so."
at this awful speech amy contained herself with difficulty, for the impression was being given that she was rather a fast young lady, which was her especial aversion.
but what could she do?
for the old lady was in the middle of her story, and long before it was done, jo was off again, making more droll revelations and committing still more fearful blunders.
"yes, amy was in despair that day, for all the good beasts were gone, and of three left, one was lame, one blind, and the other so balky that you had to put dirt in his mouth before he would start.
nice animal for a pleasure party, wasn't it?"
"which did she choose?"
asked one of the laughing gentlemen, who enjoyed the subject.
"none of them.
she heard of a young horse at the farm house over the river, and though a lady had never ridden him, she resolved to try, because he was handsome and spirited.
her struggles were really pathetic.
there was no one to bring the horse to the saddle, so she took the saddle to the horse.
my dear creature, she actually rowed it over the river, put it on her head, and marched up to the barn to the utter amazement of the old man!"
"did she ride the horse?"
"of course she did, and had a capital time.
i expected to see her brought home in fragments, but she managed him perfectly, and was the life of the party."
"well, i call that plucky!"
and young mr. lamb turned an approving glance upon amy, wondering what his mother could be saying to make the girl look so red and uncomfortable.
she was still redder and more uncomfortable a moment after, when a sudden turn in the conversation introduced the subject of dress.
one of the young ladies asked jo where she got the pretty drab hat she wore to the picnic and stupid jo, instead of mentioning the place where it was bought two years ago, must needs answer with unnecessary frankness, "oh, amy painted it.
you can't buy those soft shades, so we paint ours any color we like.
it's a great comfort to have an artistic sister."
"isn't that an original idea?"
cried miss lamb, who found jo great fun.
"that's nothing compared to some of her brilliant performances.
there's nothing the child can't do.
why, she wanted a pair of blue boots for sallie's party, so she just painted her soiled white ones the loveliest shade of sky blue you ever saw, and they looked exactly like satin,"
added jo, with an air of pride in her sister's accomplishments that exasperated amy till she felt that it would be a relief to throw her cardcase at her.
"we read a story of yours the other day, and enjoyed it very much,"
observed the elder miss lamb, wishing to compliment the literary lady, who did not look the character just then, it must be confessed.
any mention of her 'works' always had a bad effect upon jo, who either grew rigid and looked offended, or changed the subject with a brusque remark, as now.
"sorry you could find nothing better to read.
i write that rubbish because it sells, and ordinary people like it.
are you going to new york this winter?"
as miss lamb had 'enjoyed' the story, this speech was not exactly grateful or complimentary.
the minute it was made jo saw her mistake, but fearing to make the matter worse, suddenly remembered that it was for her to make the first move toward departure, and did so with an abruptness that left three people with half-finished sentences in their mouths.
"amy, we must go.
good-by, dear, do come and see us.
we are pining for a visit.
i don't dare to ask you, mr. lamb, but if you should come, i don't think i shall have the heart to send you away."
jo said this with such a droll imitation of may chester's gushing style that amy got out of the room as rapidly as possible, feeling a strong desire to laugh and cry at the same time.
"didn't i do well?"
asked jo, with a satisfied air as they walked away.
"nothing could have been worse," was amy's crushing reply.
"what possessed you to tell those stories about my saddle, and the hats and boots, and all the rest of it?"
"why, it's funny, and amuses people.
they know we are poor, so it's no use pretending that we have grooms, buy three or four hats a season, and have things as easy and fine as they do."
"you needn't go and tell them all our little shifts, and expose our poverty in that perfectly unnecessary way.
you haven't a bit of proper pride, and never will learn when to hold your tongue and when to speak," said amy despairingly.
poor jo looked abashed, and silently chafed the end of her nose with the stiff handkerchief, as if performing a penance for her misdemeanors.
"how shall i behave here?"
she asked, as they approached the third mansion.
"just as you please.
i wash my hands of you," was amy's short answer.
"then i'll enjoy myself.
the boys are at home, and we'll have a comfortable time.
goodness knows i need a little change, for elegance has a bad effect upon my constitution," returned jo gruffly, being disturbed by her failure to suit.
an enthusiastic welcome from three big boys and several pretty children speedily soothed her ruffled feelings, and leaving amy to entertain the hostess and mr. tudor, who happened to be calling likewise, jo devoted herself to the young folks and found the change refreshing.
she listened to college stories with deep interest, caressed pointers and poodles without a murmur, agreed heartily that "tom brown was a brick,"
regardless of the improper form of praise, and when one lad proposed a visit to his turtle tank, she went with an alacrity which caused mamma to smile upon her, as that motherly lady settled the cap which was left in a ruinous condition by filial hugs, bearlike but affectionate, and dearer to her than the most faultless coiffure from the hands of an inspired frenchwoman.
leaving her sister to her own devices, amy proceeded to enjoy herself to her heart's content.
mr. tudor's uncle had married an english lady who was third cousin to a living lord, and amy regarded the whole family with great respect, for in spite of her american birth and breeding, she possessed that reverence for titles which haunts the best of us that unacknowledged loyalty to the early faith in kings which set the most democratic nation under the sun in ferment at the coming of a royal yellow-haired laddie, some years ago, and which still has something to do with the love the young country bears the old, like that of a big son for an imperious little mother, who held him while she could, and let him go with a farewell scolding when he rebelled.
but even the satisfaction of talking with a distant connection of the british nobility did not render amy forgetful of time, and when the proper number of minutes had passed, she reluctantly tore herself from this aristocratic society, and looked about for jo, fervently hoping that her incorrigible sister would not be found in any position which should bring disgrace upon the name of march.
it might have been worse, but amy considered it bad.
for jo sat on the grass, with an encampment of boys about her, and a dirty-footed dog reposing on the skirt of her state and festival dress, as she related one of laurie's pranks to her admiring audience.
one small child was poking turtles with amy's cherished parasol, a second was eating gingerbread over jo's best bonnet, and a third playing ball with her gloves, but all were enjoying themselves, and when jo collected her damaged property to go, her escort accompanied her, begging her to come again, "it was such fun to hear about laurie's larks."
"capital boys, aren't they?
i feel quite young and brisk again after that."
said jo, strolling along with her hands behind her, partly from habit, partly to conceal the bespattered parasol.
"why do you always avoid mr.
tudor?"
asked amy, wisely refraining from any comment upon jo's dilapidated appearance.
"don't like him, he puts on airs, snubs his sisters, worries his father, and doesn't speak respectfully of his mother.
laurie says he is fast, and i don't consider him a desirable acquaintance, so i let him alone."
"you might treat him civilly, at least.
you gave him a cool nod, and just now you bowed and smiled in the politest way to tommy chamberlain, whose father keeps a grocery store.
if you had just reversed the nod and the bow, it would have been right," said amy reprovingly.
"no, it wouldn't," returned jo, "i neither like, respect, nor admire tudor, though his grandfather's uncle's nephew's niece was a third cousin to a lord.
tommy is poor and bashful and good and very clever.
i think well of him, and like to show that i do, for he is a gentleman in spite of the brown paper parcels."
"it's no use trying to argue with you," began amy.
"not the least, my dear," interrupted jo, "so let us look amiable, and drop a card here, as the kings are evidently out, for which i'm deeply grateful."
the family cardcase having done its duty the girls walked on, and jo uttered another thanksgiving on reaching the fifth house, and being told that the young ladies were engaged.
"now let us go home, and never mind aunt march today.
we can run down there any time, and it's really a pity to trail through the dust in our best bibs and tuckers, when we are tired and cross."
"speak for yourself, if you please.
aunt march likes to have us pay her the compliment of coming in style, and making a formal call.
it's a little thing to do, but it gives her pleasure, and i don't believe it will hurt your things half so much as letting dirty dogs and clumping boys spoil them.
stoop down, and let me take the crumbs off of your bonnet."
"what a good girl you are, amy!"
said jo, with a repentant glance from her own damaged costume to that of her sister, which was fresh and spotless still.
"i wish it was as easy for me to do little things to please people as it is for you.
i think of them, but it takes too much time to do them, so i wait for a chance to confer a great favor, and let the small ones slip, but they tell best in the end, i fancy."
amy smiled and was mollified at once, saying with a maternal air, "women should learn to be agreeable, particularly poor ones, for they have no other way of repaying the kindnesses they receive.
if you'd remember that, and practice it, you'd be better liked than i am, because there is more of you."
"i'm a crotchety old thing, and always shall be, but i'm willing to own that you are right, only it's easier for me to risk my life for a person than to be pleasant to him when i don't feel like it.
it's a great misfortune to have such strong likes and dislikes, isn't it?"
"it's a greater not to be able to hide them.
i don't mind saying that i don't approve of tudor any more than you do, but i'm not called upon to tell him so.
neither are you, and there is no use in making yourself disagreeable because he is."
"but i think girls ought to show when they disapprove of young men, and how can they do it except by their manners?
preaching does not do any good, as i know to my sorrow, since i've had teddie to manage.
but there are many little ways in which i can influence him without a word, and i say we ought to do it to others if we can."
"teddy is a remarkable boy, and can't be taken as a sample of other boys," said amy, in a tone of solemn conviction, which would have convulsed the 'remarkable boy' if he had heard it.
"if we were belles, or women of wealth and position, we might do something, perhaps, but for us to frown at one set of young gentlemen because we don't approve of them, and smile upon another set because we do, wouldn't have a particle of effect, and we should only be considered odd and puritanical."
"so we are to countenance things and people which we detest, merely because we are not belles and millionaires, are we?
that's a nice sort of morality."
"i can't argue about it, i only know that it's the way of the world, and people who set themselves against it only get laughed at for their pains.
i don't like reformers, and i hope you never try to be one."
"i do like them, and i shall be one if i can, for in spite of the laughing the world would never get on without them.
we can't agree about that, for you belong to the old set, and i to the new.
you will get on the best, but i shall have the liveliest time of it.
i should rather enjoy the brickbats and hooting, i think."
"well, compose yourself now, and don't worry aunt with your new ideas."
"i'll try not to, but i'm always possessed to burst out with some particularly blunt speech or revolutionary sentiment before her.
it's my doom, and i can't help it."
they found aunt carrol with the old lady, both absorbed in some very interesting subject, but they dropped it as the girls came in, with a conscious look which betrayed that they had been talking about their nieces.
jo was not in a good humor, and the perverse fit returned, but amy, who had virtuously done her duty, kept her temper and pleased everybody, was in a most angelic frame of mind.
this amiable spirit was felt at once, and both aunts 'my deared' her affectionately, looking what they afterward said emphatically, "that child improves every day."
"are you going to help about the fair, dear?"
asked mrs. carrol, as amy sat down beside her with the confiding air elderly people like so well in the young.
"yes, aunt.
mrs. chester asked me if i would, and i offered to tend a table, as i have nothing but my time to give."
"i'm not," put in jo decidedly.
"i hate to be patronized, and the chesters think it's a great favor to allow us to help with their highly connected fair.
i wonder you consented, amy, they only want you to work."
"i am willing to work.
it's for the freedmen as well as the chesters, and i think it very kind of them to let me share the labor and the fun.
patronage does not trouble me when it is well meant."
"quite right and proper.
i like your grateful spirit, my dear.
it's a pleasure to help people who appreciate our efforts.
some do not, and that is trying," observed aunt march, looking over her spectacles at jo, who sat apart, rocking herself, with a somewhat morose expression.
if jo had only known what a great happiness was wavering in the balance for one of them, she would have turned dove-like in a minute, but unfortunately, we don't have windows in our breasts, and cannot see what goes on in the minds of our friends.
better for us that we cannot as a general thing, but now and then it would be such a comfort, such a saving of time and temper.
by her next speech, jo deprived herself of several years of pleasure, and received a timely lesson in the art of holding her tongue.
"i don't like favors, they oppress and make me feel like a slave.
i'd rather do everything for myself, and be perfectly independent."
"ahem!"
coughed aunt carrol softly, with a look at aunt march.
"i told you so," said aunt march, with a decided nod to aunt carrol.
mercifully unconscious of what she had done, jo sat with her nose in the air, and a revolutionary aspect which was anything but inviting.
"do you speak french, dear?"
asked mrs. carrol, laying a hand on amy's.
"pretty well, thanks to aunt march, who lets esther talk to me as often as i like," replied amy, with a grateful look, which caused the old lady to smile affably.
"how are you about languages?"
asked mrs. carrol of jo.
"don't know a word.
i'm very stupid about studying anything, can't bear french, it's such a slippery, silly sort of language," was the brusque reply.
another look passed between the ladies, and aunt march said to amy, "you are quite strong and well now, dear, i believe?
eyes don't trouble you any more, do they?"
"not at all, thank you, ma'am.
i'm very well, and mean to do great things next winter, so that i may be ready for rome, whenever that joyful time arrives."
"good girl!
you deserve to go, and i'm sure you will some day," said aunt march, with an approving pat on the head, as amy picked up her ball for her.
crosspatch, draw the latch,     sit by the fire and spin,
squalled polly, bending down from his perch on the back of her chair to peep into jo's face, with such a comical air of impertinent inquiry that it was impossible to help laughing.
"most observing bird," said the old lady.
"come and take a walk, my dear?"
cried polly, hopping toward the china closet, with a look suggestive of a lump of sugar.
"thank you, i will.
come amy."
and jo brought the visit to an end, feeling more strongly than ever that calls did have a bad effect upon her constitution.
she shook hands in a gentlemanly manner, but amy kissed both the aunts, and the girls departed, leaving behind them the impression of shadow and sunshine, which impression caused aunt march to say, as they vanished...
"you'd better do it, mary.
i'll supply the money."
and aunt carrol to reply decidedly, "i certainly will, if her father and mother consent."
chapter thirty
consequences
mrs. chester's fair was so very elegant and select that it was considered a great honor by the young ladies of the neighborhood to be invited to take a table, and everyone was much interested in the matter.
amy was asked, but jo was not, which was fortunate for all parties, as her elbows were decidedly akimbo at this period of her life, and it took a good many hard knocks to teach her how to get on easily.
the 'haughty, uninteresting creature' was let severely alone, but amy's talent and taste were duly complimented by the offer of the art table, and she exerted herself to prepare and secure appropriate and valuable contributions to it.
everything went on smoothly till the day before the fair opened, then there occurred one of the little skirmishes which it is almost impossible to avoid, when some five-and-twenty women, old and young, with all their private piques and prejudices, try to work together.
may chester was rather jealous of amy because the latter was a greater favorite than herself, and just at this time several trifling circumstances occurred to increase the feeling.
amy's dainty pen-and-ink work entirely eclipsed may's painted vases that was one thorn.
then the all conquering tudor had danced four times with amy at a late party and only once with may that was thorn number two.
but the chief grievance that rankled in her soul, and gave an excuse for her unfriendly conduct, was a rumor which some obliging gossip had whispered to her, that the march girls had made fun of her at the lambs'.
all the blame of this should have fallen upon jo, for her naughty imitation had been too lifelike to escape detection, and the frolicsome lambs had permitted the joke to escape.
no hint of this had reached the culprits, however, and amy's dismay can be imagined, when, the very evening before the fair, as she was putting the last touches to her pretty table, mrs. chester, who, of course, resented the supposed ridicule of her daughter, said, in a bland tone, but with a cold look...
"i find, dear, that there is some feeling among the young ladies about my giving this table to anyone but my girls.
as this is the most prominent, and some say the most attractive table of all, and they are the chief getters-up of the fair, it is thought best for them to take this place.
i'm sorry, but i know you are too sincerely interested in the cause to mind a little personal disappointment, and you shall have another table if you like."
mrs. chester fancied beforehand that it would be easy to deliver this little speech, but when the time came, she found it rather difficult to utter it naturally, with amy's unsuspicious eyes looking straight at her full of surprise and trouble.
amy felt that there was something behind this, but could not guess what, and said quietly, feeling hurt, and showing that she did, "perhaps you had rather i took no table at all?"
"now, my dear, don't have any ill feeling, i beg.
it's merely a matter of expediency, you see, my girls will naturally take the lead, and this table is considered their proper place.
i think it very appropriate to you, and feel very grateful for your efforts to make it so pretty, but we must give up our private wishes, of course, and i will see that you have a good place elsewhere.
wouldn't you like the flower table?
the little girls undertook it, but they are discouraged.
you could make a charming thing of it, and the flower table is always attractive you know."
"especially to gentlemen," added may, with a look which enlightened amy as to one cause of her sudden fall from favor.
she colored angrily, but took no other notice of that girlish sarcasm, and answered with unexpected amiability...
"it shall be as you please, mrs. chester.
i'll give up my place here at once, and attend to the flowers, if you like."
"you can put your own things on your own table, if you prefer," began may, feeling a little conscience-stricken, as she looked at the pretty racks, the painted shells, and quaint illuminations amy had so carefully made and so gracefully arranged.
she meant it kindly, but amy mistook her meaning, and said quickly...
"oh, certainly, if they are in your way," and sweeping her contributions into her apron, pell-mell, she walked off, feeling that herself and her works of art had been insulted past forgiveness.
"now she's mad.
oh, dear, i wish i hadn't asked you to speak,  mama,"
said may, looking disconsolately at the empty spaces on her table.
"girls' quarrels are soon over," returned her mother, feeling a trifle ashamed of her own part in this one, as well she might.
the little girls hailed amy and her treasures with delight, which cordial reception somewhat soothed her perturbed spirit, and she fell to work, determined to succeed florally, if she could not artistically.
but everything seemed against her.
it was late, and she was tired.
everyone was too busy with their own affairs to help her, and the little girls were only hindrances, for the dears fussed and chattered like so many magpies, making a great deal of confusion in their artless efforts to preserve the most perfect order.
the evergreen arch wouldn't stay firm after she got it up, but wiggled and threatened to tumble down on her head when the hanging baskets were filled.
her best tile got a splash of water, which left a sepia tear on the cupid's cheek.
she bruised her hands with hammering, and got cold working in a draft, which last affliction filled her with apprehensions for the morrow.
any girl reader who has suffered like afflictions will sympathize with poor amy and wish her well through her task.
there was great indignation at home when she told her story that evening.
her mother said it was a shame, but told her she had done right.
beth declared she wouldn't go to the fair at all, and jo demanded why she didn't take all her pretty things and leave those mean people to get on without her.
"because they are mean is no reason why i should be.
i hate such things, and though i think i've a right to be hurt, i don't intend to show it.
they will feel that more than angry speeches or huffy actions, won't they, marmee?"
"that's the right spirit, my dear.
a kiss for a blow is always best, though it's not very easy to give it sometimes," said her mother, with the air of one who had learned the difference between preaching and practicing.
in spite of various very natural temptations to resent and retaliate, amy adhered to her resolution all the next day, bent on conquering her enemy by kindness.
she began well, thanks to a silent reminder that came to her unexpectedly, but most opportunely.
as she arranged her table that morning, while the little girls were in the anteroom filling the baskets, she took up her pet production, a little book, the antique cover of which her father had found among his treasures, and in which on leaves of vellum she had beautifully illuminated different texts.
as she turned the pages rich in dainty devices with very pardonable pride, her eye fell upon one verse that made her stop and think.
framed in a brilliant scrollwork of scarlet, blue and gold, with little spirits of good will helping one another up and down among the thorns and flowers, were the words, "thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself."
"i ought, but i don't," thought amy, as her eye went from the bright page to may's discontented face behind the big vases, that could not hide the vacancies her pretty work had once filled.
amy stood a minute, turning the leaves in her hand, reading on each some sweet rebuke for all heartburnings and uncharitableness of spirit.
many wise and true sermons are preached us every day by unconscious ministers in street, school, office, or home.
even a fair table may become a pulpit, if it can offer the good and helpful words which are never out of season.
amy's conscience preached her a little sermon from that text, then and there, and she did what many of us do not always do, took the sermon to heart, and straightway put it in practice.
a group of girls were standing about may's table, admiring the pretty things, and talking over the change of saleswomen.
they dropped their voices, but amy knew they were speaking of her, hearing one side of the story and judging accordingly.
it was not pleasant, but a better spirit had come over her, and presently a chance offered for proving it.
she heard may say sorrowfully...
"it's too bad, for there is no time to make other things, and i don't want to fill up with odds and ends.
the table was just complete then.
now it's spoiled."
"i dare say she'd put them back if you asked her," suggested someone.
"how could i after all the fuss?"
began may, but she did not finish, for amy's voice came across the hall, saying pleasantly...
"you may have them, and welcome, without asking, if you want them.
i was just thinking i'd offer to put them back, for they belong to your table rather than mine.
here they are, please take them, and forgive me if i was hasty in carrying them away last night."
as she spoke, amy returned her contribution, with a nod and a smile, and hurried away again, feeling that it was easier to do a friendly thing than it was to stay and be thanked for it.
"now, i call that lovely of her, don't you?"
cried one girl.
may's answer was inaudible, but another young lady, whose temper was evidently a little soured by making lemonade, added, with a disagreeable laugh, "very lovely, for she knew she wouldn't sell them at her own table."
now, that was hard.
when we make little sacrifices we like to have them appreciated, at least, and for a minute amy was sorry she had done it, feeling that virtue was not always its own reward.
but it is, as she presently discovered, for her spirits began to rise, and her table to blossom under her skillful hands, the girls were very kind, and that one little act seemed to have cleared the atmosphere amazingly.
it was a very long day and a hard one for amy, as she sat behind her table, often quite alone, for the little girls deserted very soon.
few cared to buy flowers in summer, and her bouquets began to droop long before night.
the art table was the most attractive in the room.
there was a crowd about it all day long, and the tenders were constantly flying to and fro with important faces and rattling money boxes.
amy often looked wistfully across, longing to be there, where she felt at home and happy, instead of in a corner with nothing to do.
it might seem no hardship to some of us, but to a pretty, blithe young girl, it was not only tedious, but very trying, and the thought of laurie and his friends made it a real martyrdom.
she did not go home till night, and then she looked so pale and quiet that they knew the day had been a hard one, though she made no complaint, and did not even tell what she had done.
her mother gave her an extra cordial cup of tea.
beth helped her dress, and made a charming little wreath for her hair, while jo astonished her family by getting herself up with unusual care, and hinting darkly that the tables were about to be turned.
"don't do anything rude, pray jo; i won't have any fuss made, so let it all pass and behave yourself," begged amy, as she departed early, hoping to find a reinforcement of flowers to refresh her poor little table.
"i merely intend to make myself entrancingly agreeable to every one i know, and to keep them in your corner as long as possible.
teddy and his boys will lend a hand, and we'll have a good time yet."
returned jo, leaning over the gate to watch for laurie.
presently the familiar tramp was heard in the dusk, and she ran out to meet him.
"is that my boy?"
"as sure as this is my girl!"
and laurie tucked her hand under his arm with the air of a man whose every wish was gratified.
"oh, teddy, such doings!"
and jo told amy's wrongs with sisterly zeal.
"a flock of our fellows are going to drive over by-and-by, and i'll be hanged if i don't make them buy every flower she's got, and camp down before her table afterward," said laurie, espousing her cause with warmth.
"the flowers are not at all nice, amy says, and the fresh ones may not arrive in time.
i don't wish to be unjust or suspicious, but i shouldn't wonder if they never came at all.
when people do one mean thing they are very likely to do another," observed jo in a disgusted tone.
"didn't hayes give you the best out of our gardens?
i told him to."
"i didn't know that, he forgot, i suppose, and, as your grandpa was poorly, i didn't like to worry him by asking, though i did want some."
"now, jo, how could you think there was any need of asking?
they are just as much yours as mine.
don't we always go halves in everything?"
began laurie, in the tone that always made jo turn thorny.
"gracious, i hope not!
half of some of your things wouldn't suit me at all.
but we mustn't stand philandering here.
i've got to help amy, so you go and make yourself splendid, and if you'll be so very kind as to let hayes take a few nice flowers up to the hall, i'll bless you forever."
"couldn't you do it now?"
asked laurie, so suggestively that jo shut the gate in his face with inhospitable haste, and called through the bars, "go away, teddy, i'm busy."
thanks to the conspirators, the tables were turned that night, for hayes sent up a wilderness of flowers, with a loverly basket arranged in his best manner for a centerpiece.
then the march family turned out en masse, and jo exerted herself to some purpose, for people not only came, but stayed, laughing at her nonsense, admiring amy's taste, and apparently enjoying themselves very much.
laurie and his friends gallantly threw themselves into the breach, bought up the bouquets, encamped before the table, and made that corner the liveliest spot in the room.
amy was in her element now, and out of gratitude, if nothing more, was as spritely and gracious as possible, coming to the conclusion, about that time, that virtue was its own reward, after all.
jo behaved herself with exemplary propriety, and when amy was happily surrounded by her guard of honor, jo circulated about the hall, picking up various bits of gossip, which enlightened her upon the subject of the chester change of base.
she reproached herself for her share of the ill feeling and resolved to exonerate amy as soon as possible.
she also discovered what amy had done about the things in the morning, and considered her a model of magnanimity.
as she passed the art table, she glanced over it for her sister's things, but saw no sign of them.
"tucked away out of sight, i dare say," thought jo, who could forgive her own wrongs, but hotly resented any insult offered her family.
"good evening, miss jo.
how does amy get on?"
asked may with a conciliatory air, for she wanted to show that she also could be generous.
"she has sold everything she had that was worth selling, and now she is enjoying herself.
the flower table is always attractive, you know, 'especially to gentlemen'."
jo couldn't resist giving that little slap, but may took it so meekly she regretted it a minute after, and fell to praising the great vases, which still remained unsold.
"is amy's illumination anywhere about?
i took a fancy to buy that for father," said jo, very anxious to learn the fate of her sister's work.
"everything of amy's sold long ago.
i took care that the right people saw them, and they made a nice little sum of money for us," returned may, who had overcome sundry small temptations, as well as amy had, that day.
much gratified, jo rushed back to tell the good news, and amy looked both touched and surprised by the report of may's word and manner.
"now, gentlemen, i want you to go and do your duty by the other tables as generously as you have by mine, especially the art table," she said, ordering out 'teddy's own', as the girls called the college friends.
"'charge, chester, charge!'
is the motto for that table, but do your duty like men, and you'll get your money's worth of art in every sense of the word," said the irrepressible jo, as the devoted phalanx prepared to take the field.
"to hear is to obey, but march is fairer far than may," said little parker, making a frantic effort to be both witty and tender, and getting promptly quenched by laurie, who said...
"very well, my son, for a small boy!"
and walked him off, with a paternal pat on the head.
"buy the vases," whispered amy to laurie, as a final heaping of coals of fire on her enemy's head.
to may's great delight, mr. laurence not only bought the vases, but pervaded the hall with one under each arm.
the other gentlemen speculated with equal rashness in all sorts of frail trifles, and wandered helplessly about afterward, burdened with wax flowers, painted fans, filigree portfolios, and other useful and appropriate purchases.
aunt carrol was there, heard the story, looked pleased, and said something to mrs. march in a corner, which made the latter lady beam with satisfaction, and watch amy with a face full of mingled pride and anxiety, though she did not betray the cause of her pleasure till several days later.
the fair was pronounced a success, and when may bade amy goodnight, she did not gush as usual, but gave her an affectionate kiss, and a look which said 'forgive and forget'.
that satisfied amy, and when she got home she found the vases paraded on the parlor chimney piece with a great bouquet in each.
"the reward of merit for a magnanimous march,"
as laurie announced with a flourish.
"you've a deal more principle and generosity and nobleness of character than i ever gave you credit for, amy.
you've behaved sweetly, and i respect you with all my heart," said jo warmly, as they brushed their hair together late that night.
"yes, we all do, and love her for being so ready to forgive.
it must have been dreadfully hard, after working so long and setting your heart on selling your own pretty things.
i don't believe i could have done it as kindly as you did," added beth from her pillow.
"why, girls, you needn't praise me so.
i only did as i'd be done by.
you laugh at me when i say i want to be a lady, but i mean a true gentlewoman in mind and manners, and i try to do it as far as i know how.
i can't explain exactly, but i want to be above the little meannesses and follies and faults that spoil so many women.
i'm far from it now, but i do my best, and hope in time to be what mother is."
amy spoke earnestly, and jo said, with a cordial hug, "i understand now what you mean, and i'll never laugh at you again.
you are getting on faster than you think, and i'll take lessons of you in true politeness, for you've learned the secret, i believe.
try away, deary, you'll get your reward some day, and no one will be more delighted than i shall."
a week later amy did get her reward, and poor jo found it hard to be delighted.
a letter came from aunt carrol, and mrs. march's face was illuminated to such a degree when she read it that jo and beth, who were with her, demanded what the glad tidings were.
"aunt carrol is going abroad next month, and wants..."
"me to go with her!"
burst in jo, flying out of her chair in an uncontrollable rapture.
"no, dear, not you.
it's amy."
"oh, mother!
she's too young, it's my turn first.
i've wanted it so long.
it would do me so much good, and be so altogether splendid.
i must go!"
"i'm afraid it's impossible, jo.
aunt says amy, decidedly, and it is not for us to dictate when she offers such a favor."
"it's always so.
amy has all the fun and i have all the work.
it isn't fair, oh, it isn't fair!"
cried jo passionately.
"i'm afraid it's partly your own fault, dear.
when aunt spoke to me the other day, she regretted your blunt manners and too independent spirit, and here she writes, as if quoting something you had said 'i planned at first to ask jo, but as 'favors burden her', and she 'hates french', i think i won't venture to invite her.
amy is more docile, will make a good companion for flo, and receive gratefully any help the trip may give her."
"oh, my tongue, my abominable tongue!
why can't i learn to keep it quiet?"
groaned jo, remembering words which had been her undoing.
when she had heard the explanation of the quoted phrases, mrs. march said sorrowfully...
"i wish you could have gone, but there is no hope of it this time, so try to bear it cheerfully, and don't sadden amy's pleasure by reproaches or regrets."
"i'll try," said jo, winking hard as she knelt down to pick up the basket she had joyfully upset.
"i'll take a leaf out of her book, and try not only to seem glad, but to be so, and not grudge her one minute of happiness.
but it won't be easy, for it is a dreadful disappointment," and poor jo bedewed the little fat pincushion she held with several very bitter tears.
"jo, dear, i'm very selfish, but i couldn't spare you, and i'm glad you are not going quite yet," whispered beth, embracing her, basket and all, with such a clinging touch and loving face that jo felt comforted in spite of the sharp regret that made her want to box her own ears, and humbly beg aunt carrol to burden her with this favor, and see how gratefully she would bear it.
by the time amy came in, jo was able to take her part in the family jubilation, not quite as heartily as usual, perhaps, but without repinings at amy's good fortune.
the young lady herself received the news as tidings of great joy, went about in a solemn sort of rapture, and began to sort her colors and pack her pencils that evening, leaving such trifles as clothes, money, and passports to those less absorbed in visions of art than herself.
"it isn't a mere pleasure trip to me, girls," she said impressively, as she scraped her best palette.
"it will decide my career, for if i have any genius, i shall find it out in rome, and will do something to prove it."
"suppose you haven't?"
said jo, sewing away, with red eyes, at the new collars which were to be handed over to amy.
"then i shall come home and teach drawing for my living," replied the aspirant for fame, with philosophic composure.
but she made a wry face at the prospect, and scratched away at her palette as if bent on vigorous measures before she gave up her hopes.
"no, you won't.
you hate hard work, and you'll marry some rich man, and come home to sit in the lap of luxury all your days," said jo.
"your predictions sometimes come to pass, but i don't believe that one will.
i'm sure i wish it would, for if i can't be an artist myself, i should like to be able to help those who are," said amy, smiling, as if the part of lady bountiful would suit her better than that of a poor drawing teacher.
"hum!"
said jo, with a sigh.
"if you wish it you'll have it, for your wishes are always granted mine never."
"would you like to go?"
asked amy, thoughtfully patting her nose with her knife.
"rather!"
"well, in a year or two i'll send for you, and we'll dig in the forum for relics, and carry out all the plans we've made so many times."
"thank you.
i'll remind you of your promise when that joyful day comes, if it ever does," returned jo, accepting the vague but magnificent offer as gratefully as she could.
there was not much time for preparation, and the house was in a ferment till amy was off.
jo bore up very well till the last flutter of blue ribbon vanished, when she retired to her refuge, the garret, and cried till she couldn't cry any more.
amy likewise bore up stoutly till the steamer sailed.
then just as the gangway was about to be withdrawn, it suddenly came over her that a whole ocean was soon to roll between her and those who loved her best, and she clung to laurie, the last lingerer, saying with a sob...
"oh, take care of them for me, and if anything should happen..."
"i will, dear, i will, and if anything happens, i'll come and comfort you," whispered laurie, little dreaming that he would be called upon to keep his word.
so amy sailed away to find the old world, which is always new and beautiful to young eyes, while her father and friend watched her from the shore, fervently hoping that none but gentle fortunes would befall the happy-hearted girl, who waved her hand to them till they could see nothing but the summer sunshine dazzling on the sea.
chapter thirty-one
our foreign correspondent
london
dearest people, here i really sit at a front window of the bath hotel, piccadilly.
it's not a fashionable place, but uncle stopped here years ago, and won't go anywhere else.
however, we don't mean to stay long, so it's no great matter.
oh, i can't begin to tell you how i enjoy it all!
i never can, so i'll only give you bits out of my notebook, for i've done nothing but sketch and scribble since i started.
i sent a line from halifax, when i felt pretty miserable, but after that i got on delightfully, seldom ill, on deck all day, with plenty of pleasant people to amuse me.
everyone was very kind to me, especially the officers.
don't laugh, jo, gentlemen really are very necessary aboard ship, to hold on to, or to wait upon one, and as they have nothing to do, it's a mercy to make them useful, otherwise they would smoke themselves to death, i'm afraid.
aunt and flo were poorly all the way, and liked to be let alone, so when i had done what i could for them, i went and enjoyed myself.
such walks on deck, such sunsets, such splendid air and waves!
it was almost as exciting as riding a fast horse, when we went rushing on so grandly.
i wish beth could have come, it would have done her so much good.
as for jo, she would have gone up and sat on the maintop jib, or whatever the high thing is called, made friends with the engineers, and tooted on the captain's speaking trumpet, she'd have been in such a state of rapture.
it was all heavenly, but i was glad to see the irish coast, and found it very lovely, so green and sunny, with brown cabins here and there, ruins on some of the hills, and gentlemen's countryseats in the valleys, with deer feeding in the parks.
it was early in the morning, but i didn't regret getting up to see it, for the bay was full of little boats, the shore so picturesque, and a rosy sky overhead.
i never shall forget it.
at queenstown one of my new acquaintances left us, mr. lennox, and when i said something about the lakes of killarney, he sighed, and sung, with a look at me...
"oh, have you e'er heard of kate kearney?
she lives on the banks of killarney;     from the glance of her eye,     shun danger and fly,     for fatal's the glance of kate kearney."
wasn't that nonsensical?
we only stopped at liverpool a few hours.
it's a dirty, noisy place, and i was glad to leave it.
uncle rushed out and bought a pair of dogskin gloves, some ugly, thick shoes, and an umbrella, and got shaved à la mutton chop, the first thing.
then he flattered himself that he looked like a true briton, but the first time he had the mud cleaned off his shoes, the little bootblack knew that an american stood in them, and said, with a grin, "there yer har, sir.
i've given 'em the latest yankee shine."
it amused uncle immensely.
oh, i must tell you what that absurd lennox did!
he got his friend ward, who came on with us, to order a bouquet for me, and the first thing i saw in my room was a lovely one, with "robert lennox's compliments," on the card.
wasn't that fun, girls?
i like traveling.
i never shall get to london if i don't hurry.
the trip was like riding through a long picture gallery, full of lovely landscapes.
the farmhouses were my delight, with thatched roofs, ivy up to the eaves, latticed windows, and stout women with rosy children at the doors.
the very cattle looked more tranquil than ours, as they stood knee-deep in clover, and the hens had a contented cluck, as if they never got nervous like yankee biddies.
such perfect color i never saw, the grass so green, sky so blue, grain so yellow, woods so dark, i was in a rapture all the way.
so was flo, and we kept bouncing from one side to the other, trying to see everything while we were whisking along at the rate of sixty miles an hour.
aunt was tired and went to sleep, but uncle read his guidebook, and wouldn't be astonished at anything.
this is the way we went on.
amy, flying up "oh, that must be kenilworth, that gray place among the trees!"
flo, darting to my window "how sweet!
we must go there sometime, won't we papa?"
uncle, calmly admiring his boots "no, my dear, not unless you want beer, that's a brewery."
a pause then flo cried out, "bless me, there's a gallows and a man going up."
"where, where?"
shrieks amy, staring out at two tall posts with a crossbeam and some dangling chains.
"a colliery," remarks uncle, with a twinkle of the eye.
"here's a lovely flock of lambs all lying down," says amy.
"see, papa, aren't they pretty?"
added flo sentimentally.
"geese, young ladies," returns uncle, in a tone that keeps us quiet till flo settles down to enjoy the flirtations of captain cavendish, and i have the scenery all to myself.
of course it rained when we got to london, and there was nothing to be seen but fog and umbrellas.
we rested, unpacked, and shopped a little between the showers.
aunt mary got me some new things, for i came off in such a hurry i wasn't half ready.
a white hat and blue feather, a muslin dress to match, and the loveliest mantle you ever saw.
shopping in regent street is perfectly splendid.
things seem so cheap, nice ribbons only sixpence a yard.
i laid in a stock, but shall get my gloves in paris.
doesn't that sound sort of elegant and rich?
flo and i, for the fun of it, ordered a hansom cab, while aunt and uncle were out, and went for a drive, though we learned afterward that it wasn't the thing for young ladies to ride in them alone.
it was so droll!
for when we were shut in by the wooden apron, the man drove so fast that flo was frightened, and told me to stop him, but he was up outside behind somewhere, and i couldn't get at him.
he didn't hear me call, nor see me flap my parasol in front, and there we were, quite helpless, rattling away, and whirling around corners at a breakneck pace.
at last, in my despair, i saw a little door in the roof, and on poking it open, a red eye appeared, and a beery voice said...
"now, then, mum?"
i gave my order as soberly as i could, and slamming down the door, with an "aye, aye, mum," the man made his horse walk, as if going to a funeral.
i poked again and said, "a little faster," then off he went, helter-skelter as before, and we resigned ourselves to our fate.
today was fair, and we went to hyde park, close by, for we are more aristocratic than we look.
the duke of devonshire lives near.
i often see his footmen lounging at the back gate, and the duke of wellington's house is not far off.
such sights as i saw, my dear!
it was as good as punch, for there were fat dowagers rolling about in their red and yellow coaches, with gorgeous jeameses in silk stockings and velvet coats, up behind, and powdered coachmen in front.
smart maids, with the rosiest children i ever saw, handsome girls, looking half asleep, dandies in queer english hats and lavender kids lounging about, and tall soldiers, in short red jackets and muffin caps stuck on one side, looking so funny i longed to sketch them.
rotten row means 'route de roi', or the king's way, but now it's more like a riding school than anything else.
the horses are splendid, and the men, especially the grooms, ride well, but the women are stiff, and bounce, which isn't according to our rules.
i longed to show them a tearing american gallop, for they trotted solemnly up and down, in their scant habits and high hats, looking like the women in a toy noah's ark.
everyone rides old men, stout ladies, little children and the young folks do a deal of flirting here, i saw a pair exchange rose buds, for it's the thing to wear one in the button-hole, and i thought it rather a nice little idea.
in the p.m.  to westminster abbey, but don't expect me to describe it, that's impossible, so i'll only say it was sublime!
this evening we are going to see fechter, which will be an appropriate end to the happiest day of my life.
it's very late, but i can't let my letter go in the morning without telling you what happened last evening.
who do you think came in, as we were at tea?
laurie's english friends, fred and frank vaughn!
i was so surprised, for i shouldn't have known them but for the cards.
both are tall fellows with whiskers, fred handsome in the english style, and frank much better, for he only limps slightly, and uses no crutches.
they had heard from laurie where we were to be, and came to ask us to their house, but uncle won't go, so we shall return the call, and see them as we can.
they went to the theater with us, and we did have such a good time, for frank devoted himself to flo, and fred and i talked over past, present, and future fun as if we had known each other all our days.
tell beth frank asked for her, and was sorry to hear of her ill health.
fred laughed when i spoke of jo, and sent his 'respectful compliments to the big hat'.
neither of them had forgotten camp laurence, or the fun we had there.
what ages ago it seems, doesn't it?
aunt is tapping on the wall for the third time, so i must stop.
i really feel like a dissipated london fine lady, writing here so late, with my room full of pretty things, and my head a jumble of parks, theaters, new gowns, and gallant creatures who say "ah!"
and twirl their blond mustaches with the true english lordliness.
i long to see you all, and in spite of my nonsense am, as ever, your loving...
amy
paris
dear girls,
in my last i told you about our london visit, how kind the vaughns were, and what pleasant parties they made for us.
i enjoyed the trips to hampton court and the kensington museum more than anything else, for at hampton i saw raphael's cartoons, and at the museum, rooms full of pictures by turner, lawrence, reynolds, hogarth, and the other great creatures.
the day in richmond park was charming, for we had a regular english picnic, and i had more splendid oaks and groups of deer than i could copy, also heard a nightingale, and saw larks go up.
we 'did'
london to our heart's content, thanks to fred and frank, and were sorry to go away, for though english people are slow to take you in, when they once make up their minds to do it they cannot be outdone in hospitality, i think.
the vaughns hope to meet us in rome next winter, and i shall be dreadfully disappointed if they don't, for grace and i are great friends, and the boys very nice fellows, especially fred.
well, we were hardly settled here, when he turned up again, saying he had come for a holiday, and was going to switzerland.
aunt looked sober at first, but he was so cool about it she couldn't say a word.
and now we get on nicely, and are very glad he came, for he speaks french like a native, and i don't know what we should do without him.
uncle doesn't know ten words, and insists on talking english very loud, as if it would make people understand him.
aunt's pronunciation is old-fashioned, and flo and i, though we flattered ourselves that we knew a good deal, find we don't, and are very grateful to have fred do the 'parley vooing', as uncle calls it.
such delightful times as we are having!
sight-seeing from morning till night, stopping for nice lunches in the gay cafes, and meeting with all sorts of droll adventures.
rainy days i spend in the louvre, revelling in pictures.
jo would turn up her naughty nose at some of the finest, because she has no soul for art, but i have, and i'm cultivating eye and taste as fast as i can.
she would like the relics of great people better, for i've seen her napoleon's cocked hat and gray coat, his baby's cradle and his old toothbrush, also marie antoinette's little shoe, the ring of saint denis, charlemagne's sword, and many other interesting things.
i'll talk for hours about them when i come, but haven't time to write.
the palais royale is a heavenly place, so full of bijouterie and lovely things that i'm nearly distracted because i can't buy them.
fred wanted to get me some, but of course i didn't allow it.
then the bois and champs elysees are tres magnifique.
i've seen the imperial family several times, the emperor an ugly, hard-looking man, the empress pale and pretty, but dressed in bad taste, i thought purple dress, green hat, and yellow gloves.
little nap is a handsome boy, who sits chatting to his tutor, and kisses his hand to the people as he passes in his four-horse barouche, with postilions in red satin jackets and a mounted guard before and behind.
we often walk in the tuileries gardens, for they are lovely, though the antique luxembourg gardens suit me better.
pere la chaise is very curious, for many of the tombs are like small rooms, and looking in, one sees a table, with images or pictures of the dead, and chairs for the mourners to sit in when they come to lament.
that is so frenchy.
our rooms are on the rue de rivoli, and sitting on the balcony, we look up and down the long, brilliant street.
it is so pleasant that we spend our evenings talking there when too tired with our day's work to go out.
fred is very entertaining, and is altogether the most agreeable young man i ever knew except laurie, whose manners are more charming.
i wish fred was dark, for i don't fancy light men, however, the vaughns are very rich and come of an excellent family, so i won't find fault with their yellow hair, as my own is yellower.
next week we are off to germany and switzerland, and as we shall travel fast, i shall only be able to give you hasty letters.
i keep my diary, and try to 'remember correctly and describe clearly all that i see and admire', as father advised.
it is good practice for me, and with my sketchbook will give you a better idea of my tour than these scribbles.
adieu, i embrace you tenderly.
"votre amie."
heidelberg
my dear mamma,
having a quiet hour before we leave for berne, i'll try to tell you what has happened, for some of it is very important, as you will see.
the sail up the rhine was perfect, and i just sat and enjoyed it with all my might.
get father's old guidebooks and read about it.
i haven't words beautiful enough to describe it.
at coblentz we had a lovely time, for some students from bonn, with whom fred got acquainted on the boat, gave us a serenade.
it was a moonlight night, and about one o'clock flo and i were waked by the most delicious music under our windows.
we flew up, and hid behind the curtains, but sly peeps showed us fred and the students singing away down below.
it was the most romantic thing i ever saw the river, the bridge of boats, the great fortress opposite, moonlight everywhere, and music fit to melt a heart of stone.
when they were done we threw down some flowers, and saw them scramble for them, kiss their hands to the invisible ladies, and go laughing away, to smoke and drink beer, i suppose.
next morning fred showed me one of the crumpled flowers in his vest pocket, and looked very sentimental.
i laughed at him, and said i didn't throw it, but flo, which seemed to disgust him, for he tossed it out of the window, and turned sensible again.
i'm afraid i'm going to have trouble with that boy, it begins to look like it.
the baths at nassau were very gay, so was baden-baden, where fred lost some money, and i scolded him.
he needs someone to look after him when frank is not with him.
kate said once she hoped he'd marry soon, and i quite agree with her that it would be well for him.
frankfurt was delightful.
i saw goethe's house, schiller's statue, and dannecker's famous 'ariadne.'
it was very lovely, but i should have enjoyed it more if i had known the story better.
i didn't like to ask, as everyone knew it or pretended they did.
i wish jo would tell me all about it.
i ought to have read more, for i find i don't know anything, and it mortifies me.
now comes the serious part, for it happened here, and fred has just gone.
he has been so kind and jolly that we all got quite fond of him.
i never thought of anything but a traveling friendship till the serenade night.
since then i've begun to feel that the moonlight walks, balcony talks, and daily adventures were something more to him than fun.
i haven't flirted, mother, truly, but remembered what you said to me, and have done my very best.
i can't help it if people like me.
i don't try to make them, and it worries me if i don't care for them, though jo says i haven't got any heart.
now i know mother will shake her head, and the girls say, "oh, the mercenary little wretch!
", but i've made up my mind, and if fred asks me, i shall accept him, though i'm not madly in love.
i like him, and we get on comfortably together.
he is handsome, young, clever enough, and very rich ever so much richer than the laurences.
i don't think his family would object, and i should be very happy, for they are all kind, well-bred, generous people, and they like me.
fred, as the eldest twin, will have the estate, i suppose, and such a splendid one it is!
a city house in a fashionable street, not so showy as our big houses, but twice as comfortable and full of solid luxury, such as english people believe in.
i like it, for it's genuine.
i've seen the plate, the family jewels, the old servants, and pictures of the country place, with its park, great house, lovely grounds, and fine horses.
oh, it would be all i should ask!
and i'd rather have it than any title such as girls snap up so readily, and find nothing behind.
i may be mercenary, but i hate poverty, and don't mean to bear it a minute longer than i can help.
one of us must marry well.
meg didn't, jo won't, beth can't yet, so i shall, and make everything okay all round.
i wouldn't marry a man i hated or despised.
you may be sure of that, and though fred is not my model hero, he does very well, and in time i should get fond enough of him if he was very fond of me, and let me do just as i liked.
so i've been turning the matter over in my mind the last week, for it was impossible to help seeing that fred liked me.
he said nothing, but little things showed it.
he never goes with flo, always gets on my side of the carriage, table, or promenade, looks sentimental when we are alone, and frowns at anyone else who ventures to speak to me.
yesterday at dinner, when an austrian officer stared at us and then said something to his friend, a rakish-looking baron, about 'ein wonderschones blondchen', fred looked as fierce as a lion, and cut his meat so savagely it nearly flew off his plate.
he isn't one of the cool, stiff englishmen, but is rather peppery, for he has scotch blood in him, as one might guess from his bonnie blue eyes.
well, last evening we went up to the castle about sunset, at least all of us but fred, who was to meet us there after going to the post restante for letters.
we had a charming time poking about the ruins, the vaults where the monster tun is, and the beautiful gardens made by the elector long ago for his english wife.
i liked the great terrace best, for the view was divine, so while the rest went to see the rooms inside, i sat there trying to sketch the gray stone lion's head on the wall, with scarlet woodbine sprays hanging round it.
i felt as if i'd got into a romance, sitting there, watching the neckar rolling through the valley, listening to the music of the austrian band below, and waiting for my lover, like a real storybook girl.
i had a feeling that something was going to happen and i was ready for it.
i didn't feel blushy or quakey, but quite cool and only a little excited.
by-and-by i heard fred's voice, and then he came hurrying through the great arch to find me.
he looked so troubled that i forgot all about myself, and asked what the matter was.
he said he'd just got a letter begging him to come home, for frank was very ill.  so he was going at once on the night train and only had time to say good-by.
i was very sorry for him, and disappointed for myself, but only for a minute because he said, as he shook hands, and said it in a way that i could not mistake,  "i shall soon come back, you won't forget me, amy?"
i didn't promise, but i looked at him, and he seemed satisfied, and there was no time for anything but messages and good-byes, for he was off in an hour, and we all miss him very much.
i know he wanted to speak, but i think, from something he once hinted, that he had promised his father not to do anything of the sort yet a while, for he is a rash boy, and the old gentleman dreads a foreign daughter-in-law.
we shall soon meet in rome, and then, if i don't change my mind, i'll say "yes, thank you," when he says "will you, please?"
of course this is all very private, but i wished you to know what was going on.
don't be anxious about me, remember i am your 'prudent amy', and be sure i will do nothing rashly.
send me as much advice as you like.
i'll use it if i can.
i wish i could see you for a good talk, marmee.
love and trust me.
ever your amy
chapter thirty-two
tender troubles
"jo, i'm anxious about beth."
"why, mother, she has seemed unusually well since the babies came."
"it's not her health that troubles me now, it's her spirits.
i'm sure there is something on her mind, and i want you to discover what it is."
"what makes you think so, mother?"
"she sits alone a good deal, and doesn't talk to her father as much as she used.
i found her crying over the babies the other day.
when she sings, the songs are always sad ones, and now and then i see a look in her face that i don't understand.
this isn't like beth, and it worries me."
"have you asked her about it?"
"i have tried once or twice, but she either evaded my questions or looked so distressed that i stopped.
i never force my children's confidence, and i seldom have to wait for long."
mrs. march glanced at jo as she spoke, but the face opposite seemed quite unconscious of any secret disquietude but beth's, and after sewing thoughtfully for a minute, jo said, "i think she is growing up, and so begins to dream dreams, and have hopes and fears and fidgets, without knowing why or being able to explain them.
why, mother, beth's eighteen, but we don't realize it, and treat her like a child, forgetting she's a woman."
"so she is.
dear heart, how fast you do grow up," returned her mother with a sigh and a smile.
"can't be helped, marmee, so you must resign yourself to all sorts of worries, and let your birds hop out of the nest, one by one.
i promise never to hop very far, if that is any comfort to you."
"it's a great comfort, jo.
i always feel strong when you are at home, now meg is gone.
beth is too feeble and amy too young to depend upon, but when the tug comes, you are always ready."
"why, you know i don't mind hard jobs much, and there must always be one scrub in a family.
amy is splendid in fine works and i'm not, but i feel in my element when all the carpets are to be taken up, or half the family fall sick at once.
amy is distinguishing herself abroad, but if anything is amiss at home, i'm your man."
"i leave beth to your hands, then, for she will open her tender little heart to her jo sooner than to anyone else.
be very kind, and don't let her think anyone watches or talks about her.
if she only would get quite strong and cheerful again, i shouldn't have a wish in the world."
"happy woman!
i've got heaps."
"my dear, what are they?"
"i'll settle bethy's troubles, and then i'll tell you mine.
they are not very wearing, so they'll keep."
and jo stitched away, with a wise nod which set her mother's heart at rest about her for the present at least.
while apparently absorbed in her own affairs, jo watched beth, and after many conflicting conjectures, finally settled upon one which seemed to explain the change in her.
a slight incident gave jo the clue to the mystery, she thought, and lively fancy, loving heart did the rest.
she was affecting to write busily one saturday afternoon, when she and beth were alone together.
yet as she scribbled, she kept her eye on her sister, who seemed unusually quiet.
sitting at the window, beth's work often dropped into her lap, and she leaned her head upon her hand, in a dejected attitude, while her eyes rested on the dull, autumnal landscape.
suddenly some one passed below, whistling like an operatic blackbird, and a voice called out, "all serene!
coming in tonight."
beth started, leaned forward, smiled and nodded, watched the passer-by till his quick tramp died away, then said softly as if to herself, "how strong and well and happy that dear boy looks."
"hum!"
said jo, still intent upon her sister's face, for the bright color faded as quickly as it came, the smile vanished, and presently a tear lay shining on the window ledge.
beth whisked it off, and in her half-averted face read a tender sorrow that made her own eyes fill.
fearing to betray herself, she slipped away, murmuring something about needing more paper.
"mercy on me, beth loves laurie!"
she said, sitting down in her own room, pale with the shock of the discovery which she believed she had just made.
"i never dreamed of such a thing.
what will mother say?
i wonder if her..."  there jo stopped and turned scarlet with a sudden thought.
"if he shouldn't love back again, how dreadful it would be.
he must.
i'll make him!"
and she shook her head threateningly at the picture of the mischievous-looking boy laughing at her from the wall.
"oh dear, we are growing up with a vengeance.
here's meg married and a mamma, amy flourishing away at paris, and beth in love.
i'm the only one that has sense enough to keep out of mischief."
jo thought intently for a minute with her eyes fixed on the picture, then she smoothed out her wrinkled forehead and said, with a decided nod at the face opposite, "no thank you, sir, you're very charming, but you've no more stability than a weathercock.
so you needn't write touching notes and smile in that insinuating way, for it won't do a bit of good, and i won't have it."
then she sighed, and fell into a reverie from which she did not wake till the early twilight sent her down to take new observations, which only confirmed her suspicion.
though laurie flirted with amy and joked with jo, his manner to beth had always been peculiarly kind and gentle, but so was everybody's.
therefore, no one thought of imagining that he cared more for her than for the others.
indeed, a general impression had prevailed in the family of late that 'our boy' was getting fonder than ever of jo, who, however, wouldn't hear a word upon the subject and scolded violently if anyone dared to suggest it.
if they had known the various tender passages which had been nipped in the bud, they would have had the immense satisfaction of saying, "i told you so."
but jo hated 'philandering', and wouldn't allow it, always having a joke or a smile ready at the least sign of impending danger.
when laurie first went to college, he fell in love about once a month, but these small flames were as brief as ardent, did no damage, and much amused jo, who took great interest in the alternations of hope, despair, and resignation, which were confided to her in their weekly conferences.
but there came a time when laurie ceased to worship at many shrines, hinted darkly at one all-absorbing passion, and indulged occasionally in byronic fits of gloom.
then he avoided the tender subject altogether, wrote philosophical notes to jo, turned studious, and gave out that he was going to 'dig', intending to graduate in a blaze of glory.
this suited the young lady better than twilight confidences, tender pressures of the hand, and eloquent glances of the eye, for with jo, brain developed earlier than heart, and she preferred imaginary heroes to real ones, because when tired of them, the former could be shut up in the tin kitchen till called for, and the latter were less manageable.
things were in this state when the grand discovery was made, and jo watched laurie that night as she had never done before.
if she had not got the new idea into her head, she would have seen nothing unusual in the fact that beth was very quiet, and laurie very kind to her.
but having given the rein to her lively fancy, it galloped away with her at a great pace, and common sense, being rather weakened by a long course of romance writing, did not come to the rescue.
as usual beth lay on the sofa and laurie sat in a low chair close by, amusing her with all sorts of gossip, for she depended on her weekly 'spin', and he never disappointed her.
but that evening jo fancied that beth's eyes rested on the lively, dark face beside her with peculiar pleasure, and that she listened with intense interest to an account of some exciting cricket match, though the phrases, 'caught off a tice', 'stumped off his ground', and 'the leg hit for three', were as intelligible to her as sanskrit.
she also fancied, having set her heart upon seeing it, that she saw a certain increase of gentleness in laurie's manner, that he dropped his voice now and then, laughed less than usual, was a little absent-minded, and settled the afghan over beth's feet with an assiduity that was really almost tender.
"who knows?
stranger things have happened," thought jo, as she fussed about the room.
"she will make quite an angel of him, and he will make life delightfully easy and pleasant for the dear, if they only love each other.
i don't see how he can help it, and i do believe he would if the rest of us were out of the way."
as everyone was out of the way but herself, jo began to feel that she ought to dispose of herself with all speed.
but where should she go?
and burning to lay herself upon the shrine of sisterly devotion, she sat down to settle that point.
now, the old sofa was a regular patriarch of a sofa long, broad, well-cushioned, and low, a trifle shabby, as well it might be, for the girls had slept and sprawled on it as babies, fished over the back, rode on the arms, and had menageries under it as children, and rested tired heads, dreamed dreams, and listened to tender talk on it as young women.
they all loved it, for it was a family refuge, and one corner had always been jo's favorite lounging place.
among the many pillows that adorned the venerable couch was one, hard, round, covered with prickly horsehair, and furnished with a knobby button at each end.
this repulsive pillow was her especial property, being used as a weapon of defense, a barricade, or a stern preventive of too much slumber.
laurie knew this pillow well, and had cause to regard it with deep aversion, having been unmercifully pummeled with it in former days when romping was allowed, and now frequently debarred by it from the seat he most coveted next to jo in the sofa corner.
if 'the sausage' as they called it, stood on end, it was a sign that he might approach and repose, but if it lay flat across the sofa, woe to man, woman, or child who dared disturb it!
that evening jo forgot to barricade her corner, and had not been in her seat five minutes, before a massive form appeared beside her, and with both arms spread over the sofa back, both long legs stretched out before him, laurie exclaimed, with a sigh of satisfaction...
"now, this is filling at the price."
"no slang," snapped jo, slamming down the pillow.
but it was too late, there was no room for it, and coasting onto the floor, it disappeared in a most mysterious manner.
"come, jo, don't be thorny.
after studying himself to a skeleton all the week, a fellow deserves petting and ought to get it."
"beth will pet you.
i'm busy."
"no, she's not to be bothered with me, but you like that sort of thing, unless you've suddenly lost your taste for it.
have you?
do you hate your boy, and want to fire pillows at him?"
anything more wheedlesome than that touching appeal was seldom heard, but jo quenched 'her boy' by turning on him with a stern query, "how many bouquets have you sent miss randal this week?"
"not one, upon my word.
she's engaged.
now then."
"i'm glad of it, that's one of your foolish extravagances, sending flowers and things to girls for whom you don't care two pins,"
continued jo reprovingly.
"sensible girls for whom i do care whole papers of pins won't let me send them 'flowers and things', so what can i do?
my feelings need a 'vent'."
"mother doesn't approve of flirting even in fun, and you do flirt desperately, teddy."
"i'd give anything if i could answer, 'so do you'.
as i can't, i'll merely say that i don't see any harm in that pleasant little game, if all parties understand that it's only play."
"well, it does look pleasant, but i can't learn how it's done.
i've tried, because one feels awkward in company not to do as everybody else is doing, but i don't seem to get on", said jo, forgetting to play mentor.
"take lessons of amy, she has a regular talent for it."
"yes, she does it very prettily, and never seems to go too far.
i suppose it's natural to some people to please without trying, and others to always say and do the wrong thing in the wrong place."
"i'm glad you can't flirt.
it's really refreshing to see a sensible, straightforward girl, who can be jolly and kind without making a fool of herself.
between ourselves, jo, some of the girls i know really do go on at such a rate i'm ashamed of them.
they don't mean any harm, i'm sure, but if they knew how we fellows talked about them afterward, they'd mend their ways, i fancy."
"they do the same, and as their tongues are the sharpest, you fellows get the worst of it, for you are as silly as they, every bit.
if you behaved properly, they would, but knowing you like their nonsense, they keep it up, and then you blame them."
"much you know about it, ma'am," said laurie in a superior tone.
"we don't like romps and flirts, though we may act as if we did sometimes.
the pretty, modest girls are never talked about, except respectfully, among gentleman.
bless your innocent soul!
if you could be in my place for a month you'd see things that would astonish you a trifle.
upon my word, when i see one of those harum-scarum girls, i always want to say with our friend cock robin...
"out upon you, fie upon you,      bold-faced jig!"
it was impossible to help laughing at the funny conflict between laurie's chivalrous reluctance to speak ill of womankind, and his very natural dislike of the unfeminine folly of which fashionable society showed him many samples.
jo knew that 'young laurence' was regarded as a most eligible parti by worldly mamas, was much smiled upon by their daughters, and flattered enough by ladies of all ages to make a coxcomb of him, so she watched him rather jealously, fearing he would be spoiled, and rejoiced more than she confessed to find that he still believed in modest girls.
returning suddenly to her admonitory tone, she said, dropping her voice, "if you must have a 'vent', teddy, go and devote yourself to one of the 'pretty, modest girls' whom you do respect, and not waste your time with the silly ones."
"you really advise it?"
and laurie looked at her with an odd mixture of anxiety and merriment in his face.
"yes, i do, but you'd better wait till you are through college, on the whole, and be fitting yourself for the place meantime.
you're not half good enough for well, whoever the modest girl may be."
and jo looked a little queer likewise, for a name had almost escaped her.
"that i'm not!"
acquiesced laurie, with an expression of humility quite new to him, as he dropped his eyes and absently wound jo's apron tassel round his finger.
"mercy on us, this will never do," thought jo, adding aloud, "go and sing to me.
i'm dying for some music, and always like yours."
"i'd rather stay here, thank you."
"well, you can't, there isn't room.
go and make yourself useful, since you are too big to be ornamental.
i thought you hated to be tied to a woman's apron string?"
retorted jo, quoting certain rebellious words of his own.
"ah, that depends on who wears the apron!"
and laurie gave an audacious tweak at the tassel.
"are you going?"
demanded jo, diving for the pillow.
he fled at once, and the minute it was well, "up with the bonnets of bonnie dundee," she slipped away to return no more till the young gentleman departed in high dudgeon.
jo lay long awake that night, and was just dropping off when the sound of a stifled sob made her fly to beth's bedside, with the anxious inquiry, "what is it, dear?"
"i thought you were asleep," sobbed beth.
"is it the old pain, my precious?"
"no, it's a new one, but i can bear it," and beth tried to check her tears.
"tell me all about it, and let me cure it as i often did the other."
"you can't, there is no cure."
there beth's voice gave way, and clinging to her sister, she cried so despairingly that jo was frightened.
"where is it?
shall i call mother?"
"no, no, don't call her, don't tell her.
i shall be better soon.
lie down here and 'poor' my head.
i'll be quiet and go to sleep, indeed i will."
jo obeyed, but as her hand went softly to and fro across beth's hot forehead and wet eyelids, her heart was very full and she longed to speak.
but young as she was, jo had learned that hearts, like flowers, cannot be rudely handled, but must open naturally, so though she believed she knew the cause of beth's new pain, she only said, in her tenderest tone, "does anything trouble you, deary?"
"yes, jo," after a long pause.
"wouldn't it comfort you to tell me what it is?"
"not now, not yet."
"then i won't ask, but remember, bethy, that mother and jo are always glad to hear and help you, if they can."
"i know it.
i'll tell you by-and-by."
"is the pain better now?"
"oh, yes, much better, you are so comfortable, jo."
"go to sleep, dear.
i'll stay with you."
so cheek to cheek they fell asleep, and on the morrow beth seemed quite herself again, for at eighteen neither heads nor hearts ache long, and a loving word can medicine most ills.
but jo had made up her mind, and after pondering over a project for some days, she confided it to her mother.
"you asked me the other day what my wishes were.
i'll tell you one of them, marmee," she began, as they sat along together.
"i want to go away somewhere this winter for a change."
"why, jo?"
and her mother looked up quickly, as if the words suggested a double meaning.
with her eyes on her work jo answered soberly, "i want something new.
i feel restless and anxious to be seeing, doing, and learning more than i am.
i brood too much over my own small affairs, and need stirring up, so as i can be spared this winter, i'd like to hop a little way and try my wings."
"where will you hop?"
"to new york.
i had a bright idea yesterday, and this is it.
you know mrs. kirke wrote to you for some respectable young person to teach her children and sew.
it's rather hard to find just the thing, but i think i should suit if i tried."
"my dear, go out to service in that great boarding house!"
and mrs.
march looked surprised, but not displeased.
"it's not exactly going out to service, for mrs. kirke is your friend the kindest soul that ever lived and would make things pleasant for me, i know.
her family is separate from the rest, and no one knows me there.
don't care if they do.
it's honest work, and i'm not ashamed of it."
"nor i.  but your writing?"
"all the better for the change.
i shall see and hear new things, get new ideas, and even if i haven't much time there, i shall bring home quantities of material for my rubbish."
"i have no doubt of it, but are these your only reasons for this sudden fancy?"
"no, mother."
"may i know the others?"
jo looked up and jo looked down, then said slowly, with sudden color in her cheeks.
"it may be vain and wrong to say it, but i'm afraid laurie is getting too fond of me."
"then you don't care for him in the way it is evident he begins to care for you?"
and mrs. march looked anxious as she put the question.
"mercy, no!
i love the dear boy, as i always have, and am immensely proud of him, but as for anything more, it's out of the question."
"i'm glad of that, jo."
"why, please?"
"because, dear, i don't think you suited to one another.
as friends you are very happy, and your frequent quarrels soon blow over, but i fear you would both rebel if you were mated for life.
you are too much alike and too fond of freedom, not to mention hot tempers and strong wills, to get on happily together, in a relation which needs infinite patience and forbearance, as well as love."
"that's just the feeling i had, though i couldn't express it.
i'm glad you think he is only beginning to care for me.
it would trouble me sadly to make him unhappy, for i couldn't fall in love with the dear old fellow merely out of gratitude, could i?"
"you are sure of his feeling for you?"
the color deepened in jo's cheeks as she answered, with the look of mingled pleasure, pride, and pain which young girls wear when speaking of first lovers, "i'm afraid it is so, mother.
he hasn't said anything, but he looks a great deal.
i think i had better go away before it comes to anything."
"i agree with you, and if it can be managed you shall go."
jo looked relieved, and after a pause, said, smiling, "how mrs. moffat would wonder at your want of management, if she knew, and how she will rejoice that annie may still hope."
"ah, jo, mothers may differ in their management, but the hope is the same in all the desire to see their children happy.
meg is so, and i am content with her success.
you i leave to enjoy your liberty till you tire of it, for only then will you find that there is something sweeter.
amy is my chief care now, but her good sense will help her.
for beth, i indulge no hopes except that she may be well.
by the way, she seems brighter this last day or two.
have you spoken to her?'
"yes, she owned she had a trouble, and promised to tell me by-and-by.
i said no more, for i think i know it," and jo told her little story.
mrs. march shook her head, and did not take so romantic a view of the case, but looked grave, and repeated her opinion that for laurie's sake jo should go away for a time.
"let us say nothing about it to him till the plan is settled, then i'll run away before he can collect his wits and be tragic.
beth must think i'm going to please myself, as i am, for i can't talk about laurie to her.
but she can pet and comfort him after i'm gone, and so cure him of this romantic notion.
he's been through so many little trials of the sort, he's used to it, and will soon get over his lovelornity."
jo spoke hopefully, but could not rid herself of the foreboding fear that this 'little trial' would be harder than the others, and that laurie would not get over his 'lovelornity' as easily as heretofore.
the plan was talked over in a family council and agreed upon, for mrs.
kirke gladly accepted jo, and promised to make a pleasant home for her.
the teaching would render her independent, and such leisure as she got might be made profitable by writing, while the new scenes and society would be both useful and agreeable.
jo liked the prospect and was eager to be gone, for the home nest was growing too narrow for her restless nature and adventurous spirit.
when all was settled, with fear and trembling she told laurie, but to her surprise he took it very quietly.
he had been graver than usual of late, but very pleasant, and when jokingly accused of turning over a new leaf, he answered soberly, "so i am, and i mean this one shall stay turned."
jo was very much relieved that one of his virtuous fits should come on just then, and made her preparations with a lightened heart, for beth seemed more cheerful, and hoped she was doing the best for all.
"one thing i leave in your especial care," she said, the night before she left.
"you mean your papers?"
asked beth.
"no, my boy.
be very good to him, won't you?"
"of course i will, but i can't fill your place, and he'll miss you sadly."
"it won't hurt him, so remember, i leave him in your charge, to plague, pet, and keep in order."
"i'll do my best, for your sake," promised beth, wondering why jo looked at her so queerly.
when laurie said good-by, he whispered significantly, "it won't do a bit of good, jo.
my eye is on you, so mind what you do, or i'll come and bring you home."
chapter thirty-three
jo's journal
new york, november
dear marmee and beth,
i'm going to write you a regular volume, for i've got heaps to tell, though i'm not a fine young lady traveling on the continent.
when i lost sight of father's dear old face, i felt a trifle blue, and might have shed a briny drop or two, if an irish lady with four small children, all crying more or less, hadn't diverted my mind, for i amused myself by dropping gingerbread nuts over the seat every time they opened their mouths to roar.
soon the sun came out, and taking it as a good omen, i cleared up likewise and enjoyed my journey with all my heart.
mrs. kirke welcomed me so kindly i felt at home at once, even in that big house full of strangers.
she gave me a funny little sky parlor all she had, but there is a stove in it, and a nice table in a sunny window, so i can sit here and write whenever i like.
a fine view and a church tower opposite atone for the many stairs, and i took a fancy to my den on the spot.
the nursery, where i am to teach and sew, is a pleasant room next mrs. kirke's private parlor, and the two little girls are pretty children, rather spoiled, i fancy, but they took to me after telling them the seven bad pigs, and i've no doubt i shall make a model governess.
i am to have my meals with the children, if i prefer it to the great table, and for the present i do, for i am bashful, though no one will believe it.
"now, my dear, make yourself at home," said mrs. k.  in her motherly way, "i'm on the drive from morning to night, as you may suppose with such a family, but a great anxiety will be off my mind if i know the children are safe with you.
my rooms are always open to you, and your own shall be as comfortable as i can make it.
there are some pleasant people in the house if you feel sociable, and your evenings are always free.
come to me if anything goes wrong, and be as happy as you can.
there's the tea bell, i must run and change my cap."
and off she bustled, leaving me to settle myself in my new nest.
as i went downstairs soon after, i saw something i liked.
the flights are very long in this tall house, and as i stood waiting at the head of the third one for a little servant girl to lumber up, i saw a gentleman come along behind her, take the heavy hod of coal out of her hand, carry it all the way up, put it down at a door near by, and walk away, saying, with a kind nod and a foreign accent, "it goes better so.
the little back is too young to haf such heaviness."
wasn't it good of him?
i like such things, for as father says, trifles show character.
when i mentioned it to mrs. k., that evening, she laughed, and said, "that must have been professor bhaer, he's always doing things of that sort."
mrs. k.  told me he was from berlin, very learned and good, but poor as a church mouse, and gives lessons to support himself and two little orphan nephews whom he is educating here, according to the wishes of his sister, who married an american.
not a very romantic story, but it interested me, and i was glad to hear that mrs. k.  lends him her parlor for some of his scholars.
there is a glass door between it and the nursery, and i mean to peep at him, and then i'll tell you how he looks.
he's almost forty, so it's no harm, marmee.
after tea and a go-to-bed romp with the little girls, i attacked the big workbasket, and had a quiet evening chatting with my new friend.
i shall keep a journal-letter, and send it once a week, so goodnight, and more tomorrow.
tuesday eve
had a lively time in my seminary this morning, for the children acted like sancho, and at one time i really thought i should shake them all round.
some good angel inspired me to try gymnastics, and i kept it up till they were glad to sit down and keep still.
after luncheon, the girl took them out for a walk, and i went to my needlework like little mabel 'with a willing mind'.
i was thanking my stars that i'd learned to make nice buttonholes, when the parlor door opened and shut, and someone began to hum, kennst du das land, like a big bumblebee.
it was dreadfully improper, i know, but i couldn't resist the temptation, and lifting one end of the curtain before the glass door, i peeped in.
professor bhaer was there, and while he arranged his books, i took a good look at him.
a regular german rather stout, with brown hair tumbled all over his head, a bushy beard, good nose, the kindest eyes i ever saw, and a splendid big voice that does one's ears good, after our sharp or slipshod american gabble.
his clothes were rusty, his hands were large, and he hadn't a really handsome feature in his face, except his beautiful teeth, yet i liked him, for he had a fine head, his linen was very nice, and he looked like a gentleman, though two buttons were off his coat and there was a patch on one shoe.
he looked sober in spite of his humming, till he went to the window to turn the hyacinth bulbs toward the sun, and stroke the cat, who received him like an old friend.
then he smiled, and when a tap came at the door, called out in a loud, brisk tone, "herein!"
i was just going to run, when i caught sight of a morsel of a child carrying a big book, and stopped, to see what was going on.
"me wants me bhaer," said the mite, slamming down her book and running to meet him.
"thou shalt haf thy bhaer.
come, then, and take a goot hug from him, my tina," said the professor, catching her up with a laugh, and holding her so high over his head that she had to stoop her little face to kiss him.
"now me mus tuddy my lessin," went on the funny little thing.
so he put her up at the table, opened the great dictionary she had brought, and gave her a paper and pencil, and she scribbled away, turning a leaf now and then, and passing her little fat finger down the page, as if finding a word, so soberly that i nearly betrayed myself by a laugh, while mr. bhaer stood stroking her pretty hair with a fatherly look that made me think she must be his own, though she looked more french than german.
another knock and the appearance of two young ladies sent me back to my work, and there i virtuously remained through all the noise and gabbling that went on next door.
one of the girls kept laughing affectedly, and saying, "now professor," in a coquettish tone, and the other pronounced her german with an accent that must have made it hard for him to keep sober.
both seemed to try his patience sorely, for more than once i heard him say emphatically, "no, no, it is not so, you haf not attend to what i say," and once there was a loud rap, as if he struck the table with his book, followed by the despairing exclamation, "prut!
it all goes bad this day."
poor man, i pitied him, and when the girls were gone, took just one more peep to see if he survived it.
he seemed to have thrown himself back in his chair, tired out, and sat there with his eyes shut till the clock struck two, when he jumped up, put his books in his pocket, as if ready for another lesson, and taking little tina who had fallen asleep on the sofa in his arms, he carried her quietly away.
i fancy he has a hard life of it.
mrs. kirke asked me if i wouldn't go down to the five o'clock dinner, and feeling a little bit homesick, i thought i would, just to see what sort of people are under the same roof with me.
so i made myself respectable and tried to slip in behind mrs. kirke, but as she is short and i'm tall, my efforts at concealment were rather a failure.
she gave me a seat by her, and after my face cooled off, i plucked up courage and looked about me.
the long table was full, and every one intent on getting their dinner, the gentlemen especially, who seemed to be eating on time, for they bolted in every sense of the word, vanishing as soon as they were done.
there was the usual assortment of young men absorbed in themselves, young couples absorbed in each other, married ladies in their babies, and old gentlemen in politics.
i don't think i shall care to have much to do with any of them, except one sweetfaced maiden lady, who looks as if she had something in her.
cast away at the very bottom of the table was the professor, shouting answers to the questions of a very inquisitive, deaf old gentleman on one side, and talking philosophy with a frenchman on the other.
if amy had been here, she'd have turned her back on him forever because, sad to relate, he had a great appetite, and shoveled in his dinner in a manner which would have horrified 'her ladyship'.
i didn't mind, for i like 'to see folks eat with a relish', as hannah says, and the poor man must have needed a deal of food after teaching idiots all day.
as i went upstairs after dinner, two of the young men were settling their hats before the hall mirror, and i heard one say low to the other, "who's the new party?"
"governess, or something of that sort."
"what the deuce is she at our table for?"
"friend of the old lady's."
"handsome head, but no style."
"not a bit of it.
give us a light and come on."
i felt angry at first, and then i didn't care, for a governess is as good as a clerk, and i've got sense, if i haven't style, which is more than some people have, judging from the remarks of the elegant beings who clattered away, smoking like bad chimneys.
i hate ordinary people!
thursday
yesterday was a quiet day spent in teaching, sewing, and writing in my little room, which is very cozy, with a light and fire.
i picked up a few bits of news and was introduced to the professor.
it seems that tina is the child of the frenchwoman who does the fine ironing in the laundry here.
the little thing has lost her heart to mr. bhaer, and follows him about the house like a dog whenever he is at home, which delights him, as he is very fond of children, though a 'bacheldore'.
kitty and minnie kirke likewise regard him with affection, and tell all sorts of stories about the plays he invents, the presents he brings, and the splendid tales he tells.
the younger men quiz him, it seems, call him old fritz, lager beer, ursa major, and make all manner of jokes on his name.
but he enjoys it like a boy, mrs. kirke says, and takes it so good-naturedly that they all like him in spite of his foreign ways.
the maiden lady is a miss norton, rich, cultivated, and kind.
she spoke to me at dinner today (for i went to table again, it's such fun to watch people), and asked me to come and see her at her room.
she has fine books and pictures, knows interesting persons, and seems friendly, so i shall make myself agreeable, for i do want to get into good society, only it isn't the same sort that amy likes.
i was in our parlor last evening when mr. bhaer came in with some newspapers for mrs. kirke.
she wasn't there, but minnie, who is a little old woman, introduced me very prettily.
"this is mamma's friend, miss march."
"yes, and she's jolly and we like her lots," added kitty, who is an 'enfant terrible'.
we both bowed, and then we laughed, for the prim introduction and the blunt addition were rather a comical contrast.
"ah, yes, i hear these naughty ones go to vex you, mees marsch.
if so again, call at me and i come," he said, with a threatening frown that delighted the little wretches.
i promised i would, and he departed, but it seems as if i was doomed to see a good deal of him, for today as i passed his door on my way out, by accident i knocked against it with my umbrella.
it flew open, and there he stood in his dressing gown, with a big blue sock on one hand and a darning needle in the other.
he didn't seem at all ashamed of it, for when i explained and hurried on, he waved his hand, sock and all, saying in his loud, cheerful way...
"you haf a fine day to make your walk.
bon voyage, mademoiselle."
i laughed all the way downstairs, but it was a little pathetic, also to think of the poor man having to mend his own clothes.
the german gentlemen embroider, i know, but darning hose is another thing and not so pretty.
saturday
nothing has happened to write about, except a call on miss norton, who has a room full of pretty things, and who was very charming, for she showed me all her treasures, and asked me if i would sometimes go with her to lectures and concerts, as her escort, if i enjoyed them.
she put it as a favor, but i'm sure mrs. kirke has told her about us, and she does it out of kindness to me.
i'm as proud as lucifer, but such favors from such people don't burden me, and i accepted gratefully.
when i got back to the nursery there was such an uproar in the parlor that i looked in, and there was mr. bhaer down on his hands and knees, with tina on his back, kitty leading him with a jump rope, and minnie feeding two small boys with seedcakes, as they roared and ramped in cages built of chairs.
"we are playing nargerie," explained kitty.
"dis is mine effalunt!"
added tina, holding on by the professor's hair.
"mamma always allows us to do what we like saturday afternoon, when franz and emil come, doesn't she, mr.
bhaer?"
said minnie.
the 'effalunt' sat up, looking as much in earnest as any of them, and said soberly to me, "i gif you my wort it is so, if we make too large a noise you shall say hush!
to us, and we go more softly."
i promised to do so, but left the door open and enjoyed the fun as much as they did, for a more glorious frolic i never witnessed.
they played tag and soldiers, danced and sang, and when it began to grow dark they all piled onto the sofa about the professor, while he told charming fairy stories of the storks on the chimney tops, and the little 'koblods', who ride the snowflakes as they fall.
i wish americans were as simple and natural as germans, don't you?
i'm so fond of writing, i should go spinning on forever if motives of economy didn't stop me, for though i've used thin paper and written fine, i tremble to think of the stamps this long letter will need.
pray forward amy's as soon as you can spare them.
my small news will sound very flat after her splendors, but you will like them, i know.
is teddy studying so hard that he can't find time to write to his friends?
take good care of him for me, beth, and tell me all about the babies, and give heaps of love to everyone.
from your faithful jo.
p.s.
on reading over my letter, it strikes me as rather bhaery, but i am always interested in odd people, and i really had nothing else to write about.
bless you!
december
my precious betsey,
as this is to be a scribble-scrabble letter, i direct it to you, for it may amuse you, and give you some idea of my goings on, for though quiet, they are rather amusing, for which, oh, be joyful!
after what amy would call herculaneum efforts, in the way of mental and moral agriculture, my young ideas begin to shoot and my little twigs to bend as i could wish.
they are not so interesting to me as tina and the boys, but i do my duty by them, and they are fond of me.
franz and emil are jolly little lads, quite after my own heart, for the mixture of german and american spirit in them produces a constant state of effervescence.
saturday afternoons are riotous times, whether spent in the house or out, for on pleasant days they all go to walk, like a seminary, with the professor and myself to keep order, and then such fun!
we are very good friends now, and i've begun to take lessons.
i really couldn't help it, and it all came about in such a droll way that i must tell you.
to begin at the beginning, mrs. kirke called to me one day as i passed mr. bhaer's room where she was rummaging.
"did you ever see such a den, my dear?
just come and help me put these books to rights, for i've turned everything upside down, trying to discover what he has done with the six new handkerchiefs i gave him not long ago."
i went in, and while we worked i looked about me, for it was 'a den' to be sure.
books and papers everywhere, a broken meerschaum, and an old flute over the mantlepiece as if done with, a ragged bird without any tail chirped on one window seat, and a box of white mice adorned the other.
half-finished boats and bits of string lay among the manuscripts.
dirty little boots stood drying before the fire, and traces of the dearly beloved boys, for whom he makes a slave of himself, were to be seen all over the room.
after a grand rummage three of the missing articles were found, one over the bird cage, one covered with ink, and a third burned brown, having been used as a holder.
"such a man!"
laughed good-natured mrs. k., as she put the relics in the rag bag.
"i suppose the others are torn up to rig ships, bandage cut fingers, or make kite tails.
it's dreadful, but i can't scold him.
he's so absent-minded and goodnatured, he lets those boys ride over him roughshod.
i agreed to do his washing and mending, but he forgets to give out his things and i forget to look them over, so he comes to a sad pass sometimes."
"let me mend them," said i.
"i don't mind it, and he needn't know.
i'd like to, he's so kind to me about bringing my letters and lending books."
so i have got his things in order, and knit heels into two pairs of the socks, for they were boggled out of shape with his queer darns.
nothing was said, and i hoped he wouldn't find it out, but one day last week he caught me at it.
hearing the lessons he gives to others has interested and amused me so much that i took a fancy to learn, for tina runs in and out, leaving the door open, and i can hear.
i had been sitting near this door, finishing off the last sock, and trying to understand what he said to a new scholar, who is as stupid as i am.
the girl had gone, and i thought he had also, it was so still, and i was busily gabbling over a verb, and rocking to and fro in a most absurd way, when a little crow made me look up, and there was mr. bhaer looking and laughing quietly, while he made signs to tina not to betray him.
"so!"
he said, as i stopped and stared like a goose, "you peep at me, i peep at you, and this is not bad, but see, i am not pleasanting when i say, haf you a wish for german?"
"yes, but you are too busy.
i am too stupid to learn," i blundered out, as red as a peony.
"prut!
we will make the time, and we fail not to find the sense.
at efening i shall gif a little lesson with much gladness, for look you, mees marsch, i haf this debt to pay."
and he pointed to my work 'yes,'
they say to one another, these so kind ladies, 'he is a stupid old fellow, he will see not what we do, he will never observe that his sock heels go not in holes any more, he will think his buttons grow out new when they fall, and believe that strings make theirselves.'
"ah!
but i haf an eye, and i see much.
i haf a heart, and i feel thanks for this.
come, a little lesson then and now, or no more good fairy works for me and mine."
of course i couldn't say anything after that, and as it really is a splendid opportunity, i made the bargain, and we began.
i took four lessons, and then i stuck fast in a grammatical bog.
the professor was very patient with me, but it must have been torment to him, and now and then he'd look at me with such an expression of mild despair that it was a toss-up with me whether to laugh or cry.
i tried both ways, and when it came to a sniff or utter mortification and woe, he just threw the grammar on to the floor and marched out of the room.
i felt myself disgraced and deserted forever, but didn't blame him a particle, and was scrambling my papers together, meaning to rush upstairs and shake myself hard, when in he came, as brisk and beaming as if i'd covered myself in glory.
"now we shall try a new way.
you and i will read these pleasant little marchen together, and dig no more in that dry book, that goes in the corner for making us trouble."
he spoke so kindly, and opened hans anderson's fairy tales so invitingly before me, that i was more ashamed than ever, and went at my lesson in a neck-or-nothing style that seemed to amuse him immensely.
i forgot my bashfulness, and pegged away (no other word will express it) with all my might, tumbling over long words, pronouncing according to inspiration of the minute, and doing my very best.
when i finished reading my first page, and stopped for breath, he clapped his hands and cried out in his hearty way, "das ist gut!
now we go well!
my turn.
i do him in german, gif me your ear."
and away he went, rumbling out the words with his strong voice and a relish which was good to see as well as hear.
fortunately the story was the constant tin soldier, which is droll, you know, so i could laugh, and i did, though i didn't understand half he read, for i couldn't help it, he was so earnest, i so excited, and the whole thing so comical.
after that we got on better, and now i read my lessons pretty well, for this way of studying suits me, and i can see that the grammar gets tucked into the tales and poetry as one gives pills in jelly.
i like it very much, and he doesn't seem tired of it yet, which is very good of him, isn't it?
i mean to give him something on christmas, for i dare not offer money.
tell me something nice, marmee.
i'm glad laurie seems so happy and busy, that he has given up smoking and lets his hair grow.
you see beth manages him better than i did.
i'm not jealous, dear, do your best, only don't make a saint of him.
i'm afraid i couldn't like him without a spice of human naughtiness.
read him bits of my letters.
i haven't time to write much, and that will do just as well.
thank heaven beth continues so comfortable.
january
a happy new year to you all, my dearest family, which of course includes mr. l.  and a young man by the name of teddy.
i can't tell you how much i enjoyed your christmas bundle, for i didn't get it till night and had given up hoping.
your letter came in the morning, but you said nothing about a parcel, meaning it for a surprise, so i was disappointed, for i'd had a 'kind of feeling' that you wouldn't forget me.
i felt a little low in my mind as i sat up in my room after tea, and when the big, muddy, battered-looking bundle was brought to me, i just hugged it and pranced.
it was so homey and refreshing that i sat down on the floor and read and looked and ate and laughed and cried, in my usual absurd way.
the things were just what i wanted, and all the better for being made instead of bought.
beth's new 'ink bib' was capital, and hannah's box of hard gingerbread will be a treasure.
i'll be sure and wear the nice flannels you sent, marmee, and read carefully the books father has marked.
thank you all, heaps and heaps!
speaking of books reminds me that i'm getting rich in that line, for on new year's day mr. bhaer gave me a fine shakespeare.
it is one he values much, and i've often admired it, set up in the place of honor with his german bible, plato, homer, and milton, so you may imagine how i felt when he brought it down, without its cover, and showed me my own name in it, "from my friend friedrich bhaer".
"you say often you wish a library.
here i gif you one, for between these lids (he meant covers) is many books in one.
read him well, and he will help you much, for the study of character in this book will help you to read it in the world and paint it with your pen."
i thanked him as well as i could, and talk now about 'my library', as if i had a hundred books.
i never knew how much there was in shakespeare before, but then i never had a bhaer to explain it to me.
now don't laugh at his horrid name.
it isn't pronounced either bear or beer, as people will say it, but something between the two, as only germans can give it.
i'm glad you both like what i tell you about him, and hope you will know him some day.
mother would admire his warm heart, father his wise head.
i admire both, and feel rich in my new 'friend friedrich bhaer'.
not having much money, or knowing what he'd like, i got several little things, and put them about the room, where he would find them unexpectedly.
they were useful, pretty, or funny, a new standish on his table, a little vase for his flower, he always has one, or a bit of green in a glass, to keep him fresh, he says, and a holder for his blower, so that he needn't burn up what amy calls 'mouchoirs'.
i made it like those beth invented, a big butterfly with a fat body, and black and yellow wings, worsted feelers, and bead eyes.
it took his fancy immensely, and he put it on his mantlepiece as an article of virtue, so it was rather a failure after all.
poor as he is, he didn't forget a servant or a child in the house, and not a soul here, from the french laundrywoman to miss norton forgot him.
i was so glad of that.
they got up a masquerade, and had a gay time new year's eve.
i didn't mean to go down, having no dress.
but at the last minute, mrs. kirke remembered some old brocades, and miss norton lent me lace and feathers.
so i dressed up as mrs. malaprop, and sailed in with a mask on.
no one knew me, for i disguised my voice, and no one dreamed of the silent, haughty miss march (for they think i am very stiff and cool, most of them, and so i am to whippersnappers) could dance and dress, and burst out into a 'nice derangement of epitaphs, like an allegory on the banks of the nile'.
i enjoyed it very much, and when we unmasked it was fun to see them stare at me.
i heard one of the young men tell another that he knew i'd been an actress, in fact, he thought he remembered seeing me at one of the minor theaters.
meg will relish that joke.
mr. bhaer was nick bottom, and tina was titania, a perfect little fairy in his arms.
to see them dance was 'quite a landscape', to use a teddyism.
i had a very happy new year, after all, and when i thought it over in my room, i felt as if i was getting on a little in spite of my many failures, for i'm cheerful all the time now, work with a will, and take more interest in other people than i used to, which is satisfactory.
bless you all!
ever your loving...  jo
chapter thirty-four
friend
though very happy in the social atmosphere about her, and very busy with the daily work that earned her bread and made it sweeter for the effort, jo still found time for literary labors.
the purpose which now took possession of her was a natural one to a poor and ambitious girl, but the means she took to gain her end were not the best.
she saw that money conferred power, money and power, therefore, she resolved to have, not to be used for herself alone, but for those whom she loved more than life.
the dream of filling home with comforts, giving beth everything she wanted, from strawberries in winter to an organ in her bedroom, going abroad herself, and always having more than enough, so that she might indulge in the luxury of charity, had been for years jo's most cherished castle in the air.
the prize-story experience had seemed to open a way which might, after long traveling and much uphill work, lead to this delightful chateau en espagne.
but the novel disaster quenched her courage for a time, for public opinion is a giant which has frightened stouter-hearted jacks on bigger beanstalks than hers.
like that immortal hero, she reposed awhile after the first attempt, which resulted in a tumble and the least lovely of the giant's treasures, if i remember rightly.
but the 'up again and take another' spirit was as strong in jo as in jack, so she scrambled up on the shady side this time and got more booty, but nearly left behind her what was far more precious than the moneybags.
she took to writing sensation stories, for in those dark ages, even all-perfect america read rubbish.
she told no one, but concocted a 'thrilling tale', and boldly carried it herself to mr. dashwood, editor of the weekly volcano.
she had never read sartor resartus, but she had a womanly instinct that clothes possess an influence more powerful over many than the worth of character or the magic of manners.
so she dressed herself in her best, and trying to persuade herself that she was neither excited nor nervous, bravely climbed two pairs of dark and dirty stairs to find herself in a disorderly room, a cloud of cigar smoke, and the presence of three gentlemen, sitting with their heels rather higher than their hats, which articles of dress none of them took the trouble to remove on her appearance.
somewhat daunted by this reception, jo hesitated on the threshold, murmuring in much embarrassment...
"excuse me, i was looking for the weekly volcano office.
i wished to see mr.
dashwood."
down went the highest pair of heels, up rose the smokiest gentleman, and carefully cherishing his cigar between his fingers, he advanced with a nod and a countenance expressive of nothing but sleep.
feeling that she must get through the matter somehow, jo produced her manuscript and, blushing redder and redder with each sentence, blundered out fragments of the little speech carefully prepared for the occasion.
"a friend of mine desired me to offer a story just as an experiment would like your opinion be glad to write more if this suits."
while she blushed and blundered, mr. dashwood had taken the manuscript, and was turning over the leaves with a pair of rather dirty fingers, and casting critical glances up and down the neat pages.
"not a first attempt, i take it?"
observing that the pages were numbered, covered only on one side, and not tied up with a ribbon sure sign of a novice.
"no, sir.
she has had some experience, and got a prize for a tale in the blarneystone banner."
"oh, did she?"
and mr. dashwood gave jo a quick look, which seemed to take note of everything she had on, from the bow in her bonnet to the buttons on her boots.
"well, you can leave it, if you like.
we've more of this sort of thing on hand than we know what to do with at present, but i'll run my eye over it, and give you an answer next week."
now, jo did not like to leave it, for mr. dashwood didn't suit her at all, but, under the circumstances, there was nothing for her to do but bow and walk away, looking particularly tall and dignified, as she was apt to do when nettled or abashed.
just then she was both, for it was perfectly evident from the knowing glances exchanged among the gentlemen that her little fiction of 'my friend' was considered a good joke, and a laugh, produced by some inaudible remark of the editor, as he closed the door, completed her discomfiture.
half resolving never to return, she went home, and worked off her irritation by stitching pinafores vigorously, and in an hour or two was cool enough to laugh over the scene and long for next week.
when she went again, mr. dashwood was alone, whereat she rejoiced.
mr.
dashwood was much wider awake than before, which was agreeable, and mr.
dashwood was not too deeply absorbed in a cigar to remember his manners, so the second interview was much more comfortable than the first.
"we'll take this (editors never say i), if you don't object to a few alterations.
it's too long, but omitting the passages i've marked will make it just the right length," he said, in a businesslike tone.
jo hardly knew her own ms.  again, so crumpled and underscored were its pages and paragraphs, but feeling as a tender parent might on being asked to cut off her baby's legs in order that it might fit into a new cradle, she looked at the marked passages and was surprised to find that all the moral reflections which she had carefully put in as ballast for much romance had been stricken out.
"but, sir, i thought every story should have some sort of a moral, so i took care to have a few of my sinners repent."
mr. dashwoods's editorial gravity relaxed into a smile, for jo had forgotten her 'friend', and spoken as only an author could.
"people want to be amused, not preached at, you know.
morals don't sell nowadays."
which was not quite a correct statement, by the way.
"you think it would do with these alterations, then?"
"yes, it's a new plot, and pretty well worked up language good, and so on," was mr. dashwood's affable reply.
"what do you that is, what compensation " began jo, not exactly knowing how to express herself.
"oh, yes, well, we give from twenty-five to thirty for things of this sort.
pay when it comes out," returned mr. dashwood, as if that point had escaped him.
such trifles do escape the editorial mind, it is said.
"very well, you can have it," said jo, handing back the story with a satisfied air, for after the dollar-a-column work, even twenty-five seemed good pay.
"shall i tell my friend you will take another if she has one better than this?"
asked jo, unconscious of her little slip of the tongue, and emboldened by her success.
"well, we'll look at it.
can't promise to take it.
tell her to make it short and spicy, and never mind the moral.
what name would your friend like to put on it?"
in a careless tone.
"none at all, if you please, she doesn't wish her name to appear and has no nom de plume," said jo, blushing in spite of herself.
"just as she likes, of course.
the tale will be out next week.
will you call for the money, or shall i send it?"
asked mr. dashwood, who felt a natural desire to know who his new contributor might be.
"i'll call.
good morning, sir."
as she departed, mr. dashwood put up his feet, with the graceful remark, "poor and proud, as usual, but she'll do."
following mr. dashwood's directions, and making mrs. northbury her model, jo rashly took a plunge into the frothy sea of sensational literature, but thanks to the life preserver thrown her by a friend, she came up again not much the worse for her ducking.
like most young scribblers, she went abroad for her characters and scenery, and banditti, counts, gypsies, nuns, and duchesses appeared upon her stage, and played their parts with as much accuracy and spirit as could be expected.
her readers were not particular about such trifles as grammar, punctuation, and probability, and mr. dashwood graciously permitted her to fill his columns at the lowest prices, not thinking it necessary to tell her that the real cause of his hospitality was the fact that one of his hacks, on being offered higher wages, had basely left him in the lurch.
she soon became interested in her work, for her emaciated purse grew stout, and the little hoard she was making to take beth to the mountains next summer grew slowly but surely as the weeks passed.
one thing disturbed her satisfaction, and that was that she did not tell them at home.
she had a feeling that father and mother would not approve, and preferred to have her own way first, and beg pardon afterward.
it was easy to keep her secret, for no name appeared with her stories.
mr. dashwood had of course found it out very soon, but promised to be dumb, and for a wonder kept his word.
she thought it would do her no harm, for she sincerely meant to write nothing of which she would be ashamed, and quieted all pricks of conscience by anticipations of the happy minute when she should show her earnings and laugh over her well-kept secret.
but mr. dashwood rejected any but thrilling tales, and as thrills could not be produced except by harrowing up the souls of the readers, history and romance, land and sea, science and art, police records and lunatic asylums, had to be ransacked for the purpose.
jo soon found that her innocent experience had given her but few glimpses of the tragic world which underlies society, so regarding it in a business light, she set about supplying her deficiencies with characteristic energy.
eager to find material for stories, and bent on making them original in plot, if not masterly in execution, she searched newspapers for accidents, incidents, and crimes.
she excited the suspicions of public librarians by asking for works on poisons.
she studied faces in the street, and characters, good, bad, and indifferent, all about her.
she delved in the dust of ancient times for facts or fictions so old that they were as good as new, and introduced herself to folly, sin, and misery, as well as her limited opportunities allowed.
she thought she was prospering finely, but unconsciously she was beginning to desecrate some of the womanliest attributes of a woman's character.
she was living in bad society, and imaginary though it was, its influence affected her, for she was feeding heart and fancy on dangerous and unsubstantial food, and was fast brushing the innocent bloom from her nature by a premature acquaintance with the darker side of life, which comes soon enough to all of us.
she was beginning to feel rather than see this, for much describing of other people's passions and feelings set her to studying and speculating about her own, a morbid amusement in which healthy young minds do not voluntarily indulge.
wrongdoing always brings its own punishment, and when jo most needed hers, she got it.
i don't know whether the study of shakespeare helped her to read character, or the natural instinct of a woman for what was honest, brave, and strong, but while endowing her imaginary heroes with every perfection under the sun, jo was discovering a live hero, who interested her in spite of many human imperfections.
mr. bhaer, in one of their conversations, had advised her to study simple, true, and lovely characters, wherever she found them, as good training for a writer.
jo took him at his word, for she coolly turned round and studied him a proceeding which would have much surprised him, had he known it, for the worthy professor was very humble in his own conceit.
why everybody liked him was what puzzled jo, at first.
he was neither rich nor great, young nor handsome, in no respect what is called fascinating, imposing, or brilliant, and yet he was as attractive as a genial fire, and people seemed to gather about him as naturally as about a warm hearth.
he was poor, yet always appeared to be giving something away; a stranger, yet everyone was his friend; no longer young, but as happy-hearted as a boy; plain and peculiar, yet his face looked beautiful to many, and his oddities were freely forgiven for his sake.
jo often watched him, trying to discover the charm, and at last decided that it was benevolence which worked the miracle.
if he had any sorrow, 'it sat with its head under its wing', and he turned only his sunny side to the world.
there were lines upon his forehead, but time seemed to have touched him gently, remembering how kind he was to others.
the pleasant curves about his mouth were the memorials of many friendly words and cheery laughs, his eyes were never cold or hard, and his big hand had a warm, strong grasp that was more expressive than words.
his very clothes seemed to partake of the hospitable nature of the wearer.
they looked as if they were at ease, and liked to make him comfortable.
his capacious waistcoat was suggestive of a large heart underneath.
his rusty coat had a social air, and the baggy pockets plainly proved that little hands often went in empty and came out full.
his very boots were benevolent, and his collars never stiff and raspy like other people's.
"that's it!"
said jo to herself, when she at length discovered that genuine good will toward one's fellow men could beautify and dignify even a stout german teacher, who shoveled in his dinner, darned his own socks, and was burdened with the name of bhaer.
jo valued goodness highly, but she also possessed a most feminine respect for intellect, and a little discovery which she made about the professor added much to her regard for him.
he never spoke of himself, and no one ever knew that in his native city he had been a man much honored and esteemed for learning and integrity, till a countryman came to see him.
he never spoke of himself, and in a conversation with miss norton divulged the pleasing fact.
from her jo learned it, and liked it all the better because mr. bhaer had never told it.
she felt proud to know that he was an honored professor in berlin, though only a poor language-master in america, and his homely, hard-working life was much beautified by the spice of romance which this discovery gave it.
another and a better gift than intellect was shown her in a most unexpected manner.
miss norton had the entree into most society, which jo would have had no chance of seeing but for her.
the solitary woman felt an interest in the ambitious girl, and kindly conferred many favors of this sort both on jo and the professor.
she took them with her one night to a select symposium, held in honor of several celebrities.
jo went prepared to bow down and adore the mighty ones whom she had worshiped with youthful enthusiasm afar off.
but her reverence for genius received a severe shock that night, and it took her some time to recover from the discovery that the great creatures were only men and women after all.
imagine her dismay, on stealing a glance of timid admiration at the poet whose lines suggested an ethereal being fed on 'spirit, fire, and dew', to behold him devouring his supper with an ardor which flushed his intellectual countenance.
turning as from a fallen idol, she made other discoveries which rapidly dispelled her romantic illusions.
the great novelist vibrated between two decanters with the regularity of a pendulum; the famous divine flirted openly with one of the madame de staels of the age, who looked daggers at another corinne, who was amiably satirizing her, after outmaneuvering her in efforts to absorb the profound philosopher, who imbibed tea johnsonianly and appeared to slumber, the loquacity of the lady rendering speech impossible.
the scientific celebrities, forgetting their mollusks and glacial periods, gossiped about art, while devoting themselves to oysters and ices with characteristic energy; the young musician, who was charming the city like a second orpheus, talked horses; and the specimen of the british nobility present happened to be the most ordinary man of the party.
before the evening was half over, jo felt so completely disillusioned, that she sat down in a corner to recover herself.
mr. bhaer soon joined her, looking rather out of his element, and presently several of the philosophers, each mounted on his hobby, came ambling up to hold an intellectual tournament in the recess.
the conversations were miles beyond jo's comprehension, but she enjoyed it, though kant and hegel were unknown gods, the subjective and objective unintelligible terms, and the only thing 'evolved from her inner consciousness' was a bad headache after it was all over.
it dawned upon her gradually that the world was being picked to pieces, and put together on new and, according to the talkers, on infinitely better principles than before, that religion was in a fair way to be reasoned into nothingness, and intellect was to be the only god.
jo knew nothing about philosophy or metaphysics of any sort, but a curious excitement, half pleasurable, half painful, came over her as she listened with a sense of being turned adrift into time and space, like a young balloon out on a holiday.
she looked round to see how the professor liked it, and found him looking at her with the grimmest expression she had ever seen him wear.
he shook his head and beckoned her to come away, but she was fascinated just then by the freedom of speculative philosophy, and kept her seat, trying to find out what the wise gentlemen intended to rely upon after they had annihilated all the old beliefs.
now, mr. bhaer was a diffident man and slow to offer his own opinions, not because they were unsettled, but too sincere and earnest to be lightly spoken.
as he glanced from jo to several other young people, attracted by the brilliancy of the philosophic pyrotechnics, he knit his brows and longed to speak, fearing that some inflammable young soul would be led astray by the rockets, to find when the display was over that they had only an empty stick or a scorched hand.
he bore it as long as he could, but when he was appealed to for an opinion, he blazed up with honest indignation and defended religion with all the eloquence of truth an eloquence which made his broken english musical and his plain face beautiful.
he had a hard fight, for the wise men argued well, but he didn't know when he was beaten and stood to his colors like a man.
somehow, as he talked, the world got right again to jo.
the old beliefs, that had lasted so long, seemed better than the new.
god was not a blind force, and immortality was not a pretty fable, but a blessed fact.
she felt as if she had solid ground under her feet again, and when mr. bhaer paused, outtalked but not one whit convinced, jo wanted to clap her hands and thank him.
she did neither, but she remembered the scene, and gave the professor her heartiest respect, for she knew it cost him an effort to speak out then and there, because his conscience would not let him be silent.
she began to see that character is a better possession than money, rank, intellect, or beauty, and to feel that if greatness is what a wise man has defined it to be, 'truth, reverence, and good will', then her friend friedrich bhaer was not only good, but great.
this belief strengthened daily.
she valued his esteem, she coveted his respect, she wanted to be worthy of his friendship, and just when the wish was sincerest, she came near to losing everything.
it all grew out of a cocked hat, for one evening the professor came in to give jo her lesson with a paper soldier cap on his head, which tina had put there and he had forgotten to take off.
"it's evident he doesn't look in his glass before coming down," thought jo, with a smile, as he said "goot efening," and sat soberly down, quite unconscious of the ludicrous contrast between his subject and his headgear, for he was going to read her the death of wallenstein.
she said nothing at first, for she liked to hear him laugh out his big, hearty laugh when anything funny happened, so she left him to discover it for himself, and presently forgot all about it, for to hear a german read schiller is rather an absorbing occupation.
after the reading came the lesson, which was a lively one, for jo was in a gay mood that night, and the cocked hat kept her eyes dancing with merriment.
the professor didn't know what to make of her, and stopped at last to ask with an air of mild surprise that was irresistible.
.
.
"mees marsch, for what do you laugh in your master's face?
haf you no respect for me, that you go on so bad?"
"how can i be respectful, sir, when you forget to take your hat off?"
said jo.
lifting his hand to his head, the absent-minded professor gravely felt and removed the little cocked hat, looked at it a minute, and then threw back his head and laughed like a merry bass viol.
"ah!
i see him now, it is that imp tina who makes me a fool with my cap.
well, it is nothing, but see you, if this lesson goes not well, you too shall wear him."
but the lesson did not go at all for a few minutes because mr. bhaer caught sight of a picture on the hat, and unfolding it, said with great disgust, "i wish these papers did not come in the house.
they are not for children to see,  nor young people to read.
it is not well, and i haf no patience with those who make this harm."
jo glanced at the sheet and saw a pleasing illustration composed of a lunatic, a corpse, a villain, and a viper.
she did not like it, but the impulse that made her turn it over was not one of displeasure but fear, because for a minute she fancied the paper was the volcano.
it was not, however, and her panic subsided as she remembered that even if it had been and one of her own tales in it, there would have been no name to betray her.
she had betrayed herself, however, by a look and a blush, for though an absent man, the professor saw a good deal more than people fancied.
he knew that jo wrote, and had met her down among the newspaper offices more than once, but as she never spoke of it, he asked no questions in spite of a strong desire to see her work.
now it occurred to him that she was doing what she was ashamed to own, and it troubled him.
he did not say to himself, "it is none of my business.
i've no right to say anything," as many people would have done.
he only remembered that she was young and poor, a girl far away from mother's love and father's care, and he was moved to help her with an impulse as quick and natural as that which would prompt him to put out his hand to save a baby from a puddle.
all this flashed through his mind in a minute, but not a trace of it appeared in his face, and by the time the paper was turned, and jo's needle threaded, he was ready to say quite naturally, but very gravely...
"yes, you are right to put it from you.
i do not think that good young girls should see such things.
they are made pleasant to some, but i would more rather give my boys gunpowder to play with than this bad trash."
"all may not be bad, only silly, you know, and if there is a demand for it, i don't see any harm in supplying it.
many very respectable people make an honest living out of what are called sensation stories," said jo, scratching gathers so energetically that a row of little slits followed her pin.
"there is a demand for whisky, but i think you and i do not care to sell it.
if the respectable people knew what harm they did, they would not feel that the living was honest.
they haf no right to put poison in the sugarplum, and let the small ones eat it.
no, they should think a little, and sweep mud in the street before they do this thing."
mr. bhaer spoke warmly, and walked to the fire, crumpling the paper in his hands.
jo sat still, looking as if the fire had come to her, for her cheeks burned long after the cocked hat had turned to smoke and gone harmlessly up the chimney.
"i should like much to send all the rest after him," muttered the professor, coming back with a relieved air.
jo thought what a blaze her pile of papers upstairs would make, and her hard-earned money lay rather heavily on her conscience at that minute.
then she thought consolingly to herself, "mine are not like that, they are only silly, never bad, so i won't be worried," and taking up her book, she said, with a studious face, "shall we go on, sir?
i'll be very good and proper now."
"i shall hope so," was all he said, but he meant more than she imagined, and the grave, kind look he gave her made her feel as if the words weekly volcano were printed in large type on her forehead.
as soon as she went to her room, she got out her papers, and carefully reread every one of her stories.
being a little shortsighted, mr.
bhaer sometimes used eye glasses, and jo had tried them once, smiling to see how they magnified the fine print of her book.
now she seemed to have on the professor's mental or moral spectacles also, for the faults of these poor stories glared at her dreadfully and filled her with dismay.
"they are trash, and will soon be worse trash if i go on, for each is more sensational than the last.
i've gone blindly on, hurting myself and other people, for the sake of money.
i know it's so, for i can't read this stuff in sober earnest without being horribly ashamed of it, and what should i do if they were seen at home or mr. bhaer got hold of them?"
jo turned hot at the bare idea, and stuffed the whole bundle into her stove, nearly setting the chimney afire with the blaze.
"yes, that's the best place for such inflammable nonsense.
i'd better burn the house down, i suppose, than let other people blow themselves up with my gunpowder," she thought as she watched the demon of the jura whisk away, a little black cinder with fiery eyes.
but when nothing remained of all her three month's work except a heap of ashes and the money in her lap, jo looked sober, as she sat on the floor, wondering what she ought to do about her wages.
"i think i haven't done much harm yet, and may keep this to pay for my time," she said, after a long meditation, adding impatiently, "i almost wish i hadn't any conscience, it's so inconvenient.
if i didn't care about doing right, and didn't feel uncomfortable when doing wrong, i should get on capitally.
i can't help wishing sometimes, that mother and father hadn't been so particular about such things."
ah, jo, instead of wishing that, thank god that 'father and mother were particular', and pity from your heart those who have no such guardians to hedge them round with principles which may seem like prison walls to impatient youth, but which will prove sure foundations to build character upon in womanhood.
jo wrote no more sensational stories, deciding that the money did not pay for her share of the sensation, but going to the other extreme, as is the way with people of her stamp, she took a course of mrs.
sherwood, miss edgeworth, and hannah more, and then produced a tale which might have been more properly called an essay or a sermon, so intensely moral was it.
she had her doubts about it from the beginning, for her lively fancy and girlish romance felt as ill at ease in the new style as she would have done masquerading in the stiff and cumbrous costume of the last century.
she sent this didactic gem to several markets, but it found no purchaser, and she was inclined to agree with mr. dashwood that morals didn't sell.
then she tried a child's story, which she could easily have disposed of if she had not been mercenary enough to demand filthy lucre for it.
the only person who offered enough to make it worth her while to try juvenile literature was a worthy gentleman who felt it his mission to convert all the world to his particular belief.
but much as she liked to write for children, jo could not consent to depict all her naughty boys as being eaten by bears or tossed by mad bulls because they did not go to a particular sabbath school, nor all the good infants who did go as rewarded by every kind of bliss, from gilded gingerbread to escorts of angels when they departed this life with psalms or sermons on their lisping tongues.
so nothing came of these trials, and jo corked up her inkstand, and said in a fit of very wholesome humility...
"i don't know anything.
i'll wait until i do before i try again, and meantime, 'sweep mud in the street' if i can't do better, that's honest, at least."
which decision proved that her second tumble down the beanstalk had done her some good.
while these internal revolutions were going on, her external life had been as busy and uneventful as usual, and if she sometimes looked serious or a little sad no one observed it but professor bhaer.
he did it so quietly that jo never knew he was watching to see if she would accept and profit by his reproof, but she stood the test, and he was satisfied, for though no words passed between them, he knew that she had given up writing.
not only did he guess it by the fact that the second finger of her right hand was no longer inky, but she spent her evenings downstairs now, was met no more among newspaper offices, and studied with a dogged patience, which assured him that she was bent on occupying her mind with something useful, if not pleasant.
he helped her in many ways, proving himself a true friend, and jo was happy, for while her pen lay idle, she was learning other lessons besides german, and laying a foundation for the sensation story of her own life.
it was a pleasant winter and a long one, for she did not leave mrs.
kirke till june.
everyone seemed sorry when the time came.
the children were inconsolable, and mr. bhaer's hair stuck straight up all over his head, for he always rumpled it wildly when disturbed in mind.
"going home?
ah, you are happy that you haf a home to go in," he said, when she told him, and sat silently pulling his beard in the corner, while she held a little levee on that last evening.
she was going early, so she bade them all goodbye overnight, and when his turn came, she said warmly, "now, sir, you won't forget to come and see us, if you ever travel our way, will you?
i'll never forgive you if you do, for i want them all to know my friend."
"do you?
shall i come?"
he asked, looking down at her with an eager expression which she did not see.
"yes, come next month.
laurie graduates then, and you'd enjoy commencement as something new."
"that is your best friend, of whom you speak?"
he said in an altered tone.
"yes, my boy teddy.
i'm very proud of him and should like you to see him."
jo looked up then, quite unconscious of anything but her own pleasure in the prospect of showing them to one another.
something in mr.
bhaer's face suddenly recalled the fact that she might find laurie more than a 'best friend', and simply because she particularly wished not to look as if anything was the matter, she involuntarily began to blush, and the more she tried not to, the redder she grew.
if it had not been for tina on her knee.
she didn't know what would have become of her.
fortunately the child was moved to hug her, so she managed to hide her face an instant, hoping the professor did not see it.
but he did, and his own changed again from that momentary anxiety to its usual expression, as he said cordially...
"i fear i shall not make the time for that, but i wish the friend much success, and you all happiness.
gott bless you!"
and with that, he shook hands warmly, shouldered tina, and went away.
but after the boys were abed, he sat long before his fire with the tired look on his face and the 'heimweh', or homesickness, lying heavy at his heart.
once, when he remembered jo as she sat with the little child in her lap and that new softness in her face, he leaned his head on his hands a minute, and then roamed about the room, as if in search of something that he could not find.
"it is not for me, i must not hope it now," he said to himself, with a sigh that was almost a groan.
then, as if reproaching himself for the longing that he could not repress, he went and kissed the two tousled heads upon the pillow, took down his seldom-used meerschaum, and opened his plato.
he did his best and did it manfully, but i don't think he found that a pair of rampant boys, a pipe, or even the divine plato, were very satisfactory substitutes for wife and child at home.
early as it was, he was at the station next morning to see jo off, and thanks to him, she began her solitary journey with the pleasant memory of a familiar face smiling its farewell, a bunch of violets to keep her company, and best of all, the happy thought, "well, the winter's gone, and i've written no books, earned no fortune, but i've made a friend worth having and i'll try to keep him all my life."
chapter thirty-five
heartache
whatever his motive might have been, laurie studied to some purpose that year, for he graduated with honor, and gave the latin oration with the grace of a phillips and the eloquence of a demosthenes, so his friends said.
they were all there, his grandfather oh, so proud mr.
and mrs. march, john and meg, jo and beth, and all exulted over him with the sincere admiration which boys make light of at the time, but fail to win from the world by any after-triumphs.
"i've got to stay for this confounded supper, but i shall be home early tomorrow.
you'll come and meet me as usual, girls?"
laurie said, as he put the sisters into the carriage after the joys of the day were over.
he said 'girls', but he meant jo, for she was the only one who kept up the old custom.
she had not the heart to refuse her splendid, successful boy anything, and answered warmly...
"i'll come, teddy, rain or shine, and march before you, playing 'hail the conquering hero comes' on a jew's-harp."
laurie thanked her with a look that made her think in a sudden panic, "oh, deary me!
i know he'll say something, and then what shall i do?"
evening meditation and morning work somewhat allayed her fears, and having decided that she wouldn't be vain enough to think people were going to propose when she had given them every reason to know what her answer would be, she set forth at the appointed time, hoping teddy wouldn't do anything to make her hurt his poor feelings.
a call at meg's, and a refreshing sniff and sip at the daisy and demijohn, still further fortified her for the tete-a-tete, but when she saw a stalwart figure looming in the distance, she had a strong desire to turn about and run away.
"where's the jew's-harp, jo?"
cried laurie, as soon as he was within speaking distance.
"i forgot it."
and jo took heart again, for that salutation could not be called lover-like.
she always used to take his arm on these occasions, now she did not, and he made no complaint, which was a bad sign, but talked on rapidly about all sorts of faraway subjects, till they turned from the road into the little path that led homeward through the grove.
then he walked more slowly, suddenly lost his fine flow of language, and now and then a dreadful pause occurred.
to rescue the conversation from one of the wells of silence into which it kept falling, jo said hastily, "now you must have a good long holiday!"
"i intend to."
something in his resolute tone made jo look up quickly to find him looking down at her with an expression that assured her the dreaded moment had come, and made her put out her hand with an imploring, "no, teddy.
please don't!"
"i will, and you must hear me.
it's no use, jo, we've got to have it out, and the sooner the better for both of us," he answered, getting flushed and excited all at once.
"say what you like then.
i'll listen," said jo, with a desperate sort of patience.
laurie was a young lover, but he was in earnest, and meant to 'have it out', if he died in the attempt, so he plunged into the subject with characteristic impetuousity, saying in a voice that would get choky now and then, in spite of manful efforts to keep it steady...
"i've loved you ever since i've known you, jo, couldn't help it, you've been so good to me.
i've tried to show it, but you wouldn't let me.
now i'm going to make you hear, and give me an answer, for i can't go on so any longer."
"i wanted to save you this.
i thought you'd understand..." began jo, finding it a great deal harder than she expected.
"i know you did, but the girls are so queer you never know what they mean.
they say no when they mean yes, and drive a man out of his wits just for the fun of it," returned laurie, entrenching himself behind an undeniable fact.
"i don't.
i never wanted to make you care for me so, and i went away to keep you from it if i could."
"i thought so.
it was like you, but it was no use.
i only loved you all the more, and i worked hard to please you, and i gave up billiards and everything you didn't like, and waited and never complained, for i hoped you'd love me, though i'm not half good enough..." here there was a choke that couldn't be controlled, so he decapitated buttercups while he cleared his 'confounded throat'.
"you, you are, you're a great deal too good for me, and i'm so grateful to you, and so proud and fond of you, i don't know why i can't love you as you want me to.
i've tried, but i can't change the feeling, and it would be a lie to say i do when i don't."
"really, truly, jo?"
he stopped short, and caught both her hands as he put his question with a look that she did not soon forget.
"really, truly, dear."
they were in the grove now, close by the stile, and when the last words fell reluctantly from jo's lips, laurie dropped her hands and turned as if to go on, but for once in his life the fence was too much for him.
so he just laid his head down on the mossy post, and stood so still that jo was frightened.
"oh, teddy, i'm sorry, so desperately sorry, i could kill myself if it would do any good!
i wish you wouldn't take it so hard, i can't help it.
you know it's impossible for people to make themselves love other people if they don't," cried jo inelegantly but remorsefully, as she softly patted his shoulder, remembering the time when he had comforted her so long ago.
"they do sometimes," said a muffled voice from the post.
"i don't believe it's the right sort of love, and i'd rather not try it," was the decided answer.
there was a long pause, while a blackbird sung blithely on the willow by the river, and the tall grass rustled in the wind.
presently jo said very soberly, as she sat down on the step of the stile, "laurie, i want to tell you something."
he started as if he had been shot, threw up his head, and cried out in a fierce tone, "don't tell me that, jo, i can't bear it now!"
"tell what?"
she asked, wondering at his violence.
"that you love that old man."
"what old man?"
demanded jo, thinking he must mean his grandfather.
"that devilish professor you were always writing about.
if you say you love him, i know i shall do something desperate;" and he looked as if he would keep his word, as he clenched his hands with a wrathful spark in his eyes.
jo wanted to laugh, but restrained herself and said warmly, for she too, was getting excited with all this, "don't swear, teddy!
he isn't old, nor anything bad, but good and kind, and the best friend i've got, next to you.
pray, don't fly into a passion.
i want to be kind, but i know i shall get angry if you abuse my professor.
i haven't the least idea of loving him or anybody else."
"but you will after a while, and then what will become of me?"
"you'll love someone else too, like a sensible boy, and forget all this trouble."
"i can't love anyone else, and i'll never forget you, jo, never!
never!"
with a stamp to emphasize his passionate words.
"what shall i do with him?"
sighed jo, finding that emotions were more unmanagable than she expected.
"you haven't heard what i wanted to tell you.
sit down and listen, for indeed i want to do right and make you happy," she said, hoping to soothe him with a little reason, which proved that she knew nothing about love.
seeing a ray of hope in that last speech, laurie threw himself down on the grass at her feet, leaned his arm on the lower step of the stile, and looked up at her with an expectant face.
now that arrangement was not conducive to calm speech or clear thought on jo's part, for how could she say hard things to her boy while he watched her with eyes full of love and longing, and lashes still wet with the bitter drop or two her hardness of heart had wrung from him?
she gently turned his head away, saying, as she stroked the wavy hair which had been allowed to grow for her sake how touching that was, to be sure!
"i agree with mother that you and i are not suited to each other, because our quick tempers and strong wills would probably make us very miserable, if we were so foolish as to..." jo paused a little over the last word, but laurie uttered it with a rapturous expression.
"marry no we shouldn't!
if you loved me, jo, i should be a perfect saint, for you could make me anything you like."
"no, i can't.
i've tried and failed, and i won't risk our happiness by such a serious experiment.
we don't agree and we never shall, so we'll be good friends all our lives, but we won't go and do anything rash."
"yes, we will if we get the chance," muttered laurie rebelliously.
"now do be reasonable, and take a sensible view of the case," implored jo, almost at her wit's end.
"i won't be reasonable.
i don't want to take what you call 'a sensible view'.
it won't help me, and it only makes it harder.
i don't believe you've got any heart."
"i wish i hadn't."
there was a little quiver in jo's voice, and thinking it a good omen, laurie turned round, bringing all his persuasive powers to bear as he said, in the wheedlesome tone that had never been so dangerously wheedlesome before, "don't disappoint us, dear!
everyone expects it.
grandpa has set his heart upon it, your people like it, and i can't get on without you.
say you will, and let's be happy.
do, do!"
not until months afterward did jo understand how she had the strength of mind to hold fast to the resolution she had made when she decided that she did not love her boy, and never could.
it was very hard to do, but she did it, knowing that delay was both useless and cruel.
"i can't say 'yes' truly, so i won't say it at all.
you'll see that i'm right, by-and-by, and thank me for it..." she began solemnly.
"i'll be hanged if i do!"
and laurie bounced up off the grass, burning with indignation at the very idea.
"yes, you will!"
persisted jo.
"you'll get over this after a while, and find some lovely accomplished girl, who will adore you, and make a fine mistress for your fine house.
i shouldn't.
i'm homely and awkward and odd and old, and you'd be ashamed of me, and we should quarrel we can't help it even now, you see and i shouldn't like elegant society and you would, and you'd hate my scribbling, and i couldn't get on without it, and we should be unhappy, and wish we hadn't done it, and everything would be horrid!"
"anything more?"
asked laurie, finding it hard to listen patiently to this prophetic burst.
"nothing more, except that i don't believe i shall ever marry.
i'm happy as i am, and love my liberty too well to be in a hurry to give it up for any mortal man."
"i know better!"
broke in laurie.
"you think so now, but there'll come a time when you will care for somebody, and you'll love him tremendously, and live and die for him.
i know you will, it's your way, and i shall have to stand by and see it," and the despairing lover cast his hat upon the ground with a gesture that would have seemed comical, if his face had not been so tragic.
"yes, i will live and die for him, if he ever comes and makes me love him in spite of myself, and you must do the best you can!"
cried jo, losing patience with poor teddy.
"i've done my best, but you won't be reasonable, and it's selfish of you to keep teasing for what i can't give.
i shall always be fond of you, very fond indeed, as a friend, but i'll never marry you, and the sooner you believe it the better for both of us so now!"
that speech was like gunpowder.
laurie looked at her a minute as if he did not quite know what to do with himself, then turned sharply away, saying in a desperate sort of tone, "you'll be sorry some day, jo."
"oh, where are you going?"
she cried, for his face frightened her.
"to the devil!"
was the consoling answer.
for a minute jo's heart stood still, as he swung himself down the bank toward the river, but it takes much folly, sin or misery to send a young man to a violent death, and laurie was not one of the weak sort who are conquered by a single failure.
he had no thought of a melodramatic plunge, but some blind instinct led him to fling hat and coat into his boat, and row away with all his might, making better time up the river than he had done in any race.
jo drew a long breath and unclasped her hands as she watched the poor fellow trying to outstrip the trouble which he carried in his heart.
"that will do him good, and he'll come home in such a tender, penitent state of mind, that i shan't dare to see him," she said, adding, as she went slowly home, feeling as if she had murdered some innocent thing, and buried it under the leaves.
"now i must go and prepare mr.
laurence to be very kind to my poor boy.
i wish he'd love beth, perhaps he may in time, but i begin to think i was mistaken about her.
oh dear!
how can girls like to have lovers and refuse them?
i think it's dreadful."
being sure that no one could do it so well as herself, she went straight to mr. laurence, told the hard story bravely through, and then broke down, crying so dismally over her own insensibility that the kind old gentleman, though sorely disappointed, did not utter a reproach.
he found it difficult to understand how any girl could help loving laurie, and hoped she would change her mind, but he knew even better than jo that love cannot be forced, so he shook his head sadly and resolved to carry his boy out of harm's way, for young impetuosity's parting words to jo disturbed him more than he would confess.
when laurie came home, dead tired but quite composed, his grandfather met him as if he knew nothing, and kept up the delusion very successfully for an hour or two.
but when they sat together in the twilight, the time they used to enjoy so much, it was hard work for the old man to ramble on as usual, and harder still for the young one to listen to praises of the last year's success, which to him now seemed like love's labor lost.
he bore it as long as he could, then went to his piano and began to play.
the windows were open, and jo, walking in the garden with beth, for once understood music better than her sister, for he played the 'sonata pathetique', and played it as he never did before.
"that's very fine, i dare say, but it's sad enough to make one cry.
give us something gayer, lad," said mr. laurence, whose kind old heart was full of sympathy, which he longed to show but knew not how.
laurie dashed into a livelier strain, played stormily for several minutes, and would have got through bravely, if in a momentary lull mrs. march's voice had not been heard calling, "jo, dear, come in.
i want you."
just what laurie longed to say, with a different meaning!
as he listened, he lost his place, the music ended with a broken chord, and the musician sat silent in the dark.
"i can't stand this," muttered the old gentleman.
up he got, groped his way to the piano, laid a kind hand on either of the broad shoulders, and said, as gently as a woman, "i know, my boy, i know."
no answer for an instant, then laurie asked sharply, "who told you?"
"jo herself."
"then there's an end of it!"
and he shook off his grandfather's hands with an impatient motion, for though grateful for the sympathy, his man's pride could not bear a man's pity.
"not quite.
i want to say one thing, and then there shall be an end of it," returned mr. laurence with unusual mildness.
"you won't care to stay at home now, perhaps?"
"i don't intend to run away from a girl.
jo can't prevent my seeing her, and i shall stay and do it as long as i like," interrupted laurie in a defiant tone.
"not if you are the gentleman i think you.
i'm disappointed, but the girl can't help it, and the only thing left for you to do is to go away for a time.
where will you go?"
"anywhere.
i don't care what becomes of me," and laurie got up with a reckless laugh that grated on his grandfather's ear.
"take it like a man, and don't do anything rash, for god's sake.
why not go abroad, as you planned, and forget it?"
"i can't."
"but you've been wild to go, and i promised you should when you got through college."
"ah, but i didn't mean to go alone!"
and laurie walked fast through the room with an expression which it was well his grandfather did not see.
"i don't ask you to go alone.
there's someone ready and glad to go with you, anywhere in the world."
"who, sir?"
stopping to listen.
"myself."
laurie came back as quickly as he went, and put out his hand, saying huskily, "i'm a selfish brute, but you know grandfather "
"lord help me, yes, i do know, for i've been through it all before, once in my own young days, and then with your father.
now, my dear boy, just sit quietly down and hear my plan.
it's all settled, and can be carried out at once," said mr. laurence, keeping hold of the young man, as if fearful that he would break away as his father had done before him.
"well, sir, what is it?"
and laurie sat down, without a sign of interest in face or voice.
"there is business in london that needs looking after.
i meant you should attend to it, but i can do it better myself, and things here will get on very well with brooke to manage them.
my partners do almost everything, i'm merely holding on until you take my place, and can be off at any time."
"but you hate traveling, sir.
i can't ask it of you at your age,"
began laurie, who was grateful for the sacrifice, but much preferred to go alone, if he went at all.
the old gentleman knew that perfectly well, and particularly desired to prevent it, for the mood in which he found his grandson assured him that it would not be wise to leave him to his own devices.
so, stifling a natural regret at the thought of the home comforts he would leave behind him, he said stoutly, "bless your soul, i'm not superannuated yet.
i quite enjoy the idea.
it will do me good, and my old bones won't suffer, for traveling nowadays is almost as easy as sitting in a chair."
a restless movement from laurie suggested that his chair was not easy, or that he did not like the plan, and made the old man add hastily, "i don't mean to be a marplot or a burden.
i go because i think you'd feel happier than if i was left behind.
i don't intend to gad about with you, but leave you free to go where you like, while i amuse myself in my own way.
i've friends in london and paris, and should like to visit them.
meantime you can go to italy, germany, switzerland, where you will, and enjoy pictures, music, scenery, and adventures to your heart's content."
now, laurie felt just then that his heart was entirely broken and the world a howling wilderness, but at the sound of certain words which the old gentleman artfully introduced into his closing sentence, the broken heart gave an unexpected leap, and a green oasis or two suddenly appeared in the howling wilderness.
he sighed, and then said, in a spiritless tone, "just as you like, sir.
it doesn't matter where i go or what i do."
"it does to me, remember that, my lad.
i give you entire liberty, but i trust you to make an honest use of it.
promise me that, laurie."
"anything you like, sir."
"good," thought the old gentleman.
"you don't care now, but there'll come a time when that promise will keep you out of mischief, or i'm much mistaken."
being an energetic individual, mr. laurence struck while the iron was hot, and before the blighted being recovered spirit enough to rebel, they were off.
during the time necessary for preparation, laurie bore himself as young gentleman usually do in such cases.
he was moody, irritable, and pensive by turns, lost his appetite, neglected his dress and devoted much time to playing tempestuously on his piano, avoided jo, but consoled himself by staring at her from his window, with a tragic face that haunted her dreams by night and oppressed her with a heavy sense of guilt by day.
unlike some sufferers, he never spoke of his unrequited passion, and would allow no one, not even mrs. march, to attempt consolation or offer sympathy.
on some accounts, this was a relief to his friends, but the weeks before his departure were very uncomfortable, and everyone rejoiced that the 'poor, dear fellow was going away to forget his trouble, and come home happy'.
of course, he smiled darkly at their delusion, but passed it by with the sad superiority of one who knew that his fidelity like his love was unalterable.
when the parting came he affected high spirits, to conceal certain inconvenient emotions which seemed inclined to assert themselves.
this gaiety did not impose upon anybody, but they tried to look as if it did for his sake, and he got on very well till mrs. march kissed him, with a whisper full of motherly solicitude.
then feeling that he was going very fast, he hastily embraced them all round, not forgetting the afflicted hannah, and ran downstairs as if for his life.
jo followed a minute after to wave her hand to him if he looked round.
he did look round, came back, put his arms about her as she stood on the step above him, and looked up at her with a face that made his short appeal eloquent and pathetic.
"oh, jo, can't you?"
"teddy, dear, i wish i could!"
that was all, except a little pause.
then laurie straightened himself up, said, "it's all right, never mind," and went away without another word.
ah, but it wasn't all right, and jo did mind, for while the curly head lay on her arm a minute after her hard answer, she felt as if she had stabbed her dearest friend, and when he left her without a look behind him, she knew that the boy laurie never would come again.
chapter thirty-six
beth's secret
when jo came home that spring, she had been struck with the change in beth.
no one spoke of it or seemed aware of it, for it had come too gradually to startle those who saw her daily, but to eyes sharpened by absence, it was very plain and a heavy weight fell on jo's heart as she saw her sister's face.
it was no paler and but littler thinner than in the autumn, yet there was a strange, transparent look about it, as if the mortal was being slowly refined away, and the immortal shining through the frail flesh with an indescribably pathetic beauty.
jo saw and felt it, but said nothing at the time, and soon the first impression lost much of its power, for beth seemed happy, no one appeared to doubt that she was better, and presently in other cares jo for a time forgot her fear.
but when laurie was gone, and peace prevailed again, the vague anxiety returned and haunted her.
she had confessed her sins and been forgiven, but when she showed her savings and proposed a mountain trip, beth had thanked her heartily, but begged not to go so far away from home.
another little visit to the seashore would suit her better, and as grandma could not be prevailed upon to leave the babies, jo took beth down to the quiet place, where she could live much in the open air, and let the fresh sea breezes blow a little color into her pale cheeks.
it was not a fashionable place, but even among the pleasant people there, the girls made few friends, preferring to live for one another.
beth was too shy to enjoy society, and jo too wrapped up in her to care for anyone else.
so they were all in all to each other, and came and went, quite unconscious of the interest they excited in those about them, who watched with sympathetic eyes the strong sister and the feeble one, always together, as if they felt instinctively that a long separation was not far away.
they did feel it, yet neither spoke of it, for often between ourselves and those nearest and dearest to us there exists a reserve which it is very hard to overcome.
jo felt as if a veil had fallen between her heart and beth's, but when she put out her hand to lift it up, there seemed something sacred in the silence, and she waited for beth to speak.
she wondered, and was thankful also, that her parents did not seem to see what she saw, and during the quiet weeks when the shadows grew so plain to her, she said nothing of it to those at home, believing that it would tell itself when beth came back no better.
she wondered still more if her sister really guessed the hard truth, and what thoughts were passing through her mind during the long hours when she lay on the warm rocks with her head in jo's lap, while the winds blew healthfully over her and the sea made music at her feet.
one day beth told her.
jo thought she was asleep, she lay so still, and putting down her book, sat looking at her with wistful eyes, trying to see signs of hope in the faint color on beth's cheeks.
but she could not find enough to satisfy her, for the cheeks were very thin, and the hands seemed too feeble to hold even the rosy little shells they had been collecting.
it came to her then more bitterly than ever that beth was slowly drifting away from her, and her arms instinctively tightened their hold upon the dearest treasure she possessed.
for a minute her eyes were too dim for seeing, and when they cleared, beth was looking up at her so tenderly that there was hardly any need for her to say, "jo, dear, i'm glad you know it.
i've tried to tell you, but i couldn't."
there was no answer except her sister's cheek against her own, not even tears, for when most deeply moved, jo did not cry.
she was the weaker then, and beth tried to comfort and sustain her, with her arms about her and the soothing words she whispered in her ear.
"i've known it for a good while, dear, and now i'm used to it, it isn't hard to think of or to bear.
try to see it so and don't be troubled about me, because it's best, indeed it is."
"is this what made you so unhappy in the autumn, beth?
you did not feel it then, and keep it to yourself so long, did you?"
asked jo, refusing to see or say that it was best, but glad to know that laurie had no part in beth's trouble.
"yes, i gave up hoping then, but i didn't like to own it.
i tried to think it was a sick fancy, and would not let it trouble anyone.
but when i saw you all so well and strong and full of happy plans, it was hard to feel that i could never be like you, and then i was miserable, jo."
"oh, beth, and you didn't tell me, didn't let me comfort and help you?
how could you shut me out, bear it all alone?"
jo's voice was full of tender reproach, and her heart ached to think of the solitary struggle that must have gone on while beth learned to say goodbye to health, love, and life, and take up her cross so cheerfully.
"perhaps it was wrong, but i tried to do right.
i wasn't sure, no one said anything, and i hoped i was mistaken.
it would have been selfish to frighten you all when marmee was so anxious about meg, and amy away, and you so happy with laurie at least i thought so then."
"and i thought you loved him, beth, and i went away because i couldn't," cried jo, glad to say all the truth.
beth looked so amazed at the idea that jo smiled in spite of her pain, and added softly, "then you didn't, dearie?
i was afraid it was so, and imagined your poor little heart full of lovelornity all that while."
"why, jo, how could i, when he was so fond of you?"
asked beth, as innocently as a child.
"i do love him dearly.
he is so good to me, how can i help it?
but he could never be anything to me but my brother.
i hope he truly will be, sometime."
"not through me," said jo decidedly.
"amy is left for him, and they would suit excellently, but i have no heart for such things, now.
i don't care what becomes of anybody but you, beth.
you must get well."
"i want to, oh, so much!
i try, but every day i lose a little, and feel more sure that i shall never gain it back.
it's like the tide, jo, when it turns, it goes slowly, but it can't be stopped."
"it shall be stopped, your tide must not turn so soon, nineteen is too young, beth.
i can't let you go.
i'll work and pray and fight against it.
i'll keep you in spite of everything.
there must be ways, it can't be too late.
god won't be so cruel as to take you from me,"
cried poor jo rebelliously, for her spirit was far less piously submissive than beth's.
simple, sincere people seldom speak much of their piety.
it shows itself in acts rather than in words, and has more influence than homilies or protestations.
beth could not reason upon or explain the faith that gave her courage and patience to give up life, and cheerfully wait for death.
like a confiding child, she asked no questions, but left everything to god and nature, father and mother of us all, feeling sure that they, and they only, could teach and strengthen heart and spirit for this life and the life to come.
she did not rebuke jo with saintly speeches, only loved her better for her passionate affection, and clung more closely to the dear human love, from which our father never means us to be weaned, but through which he draws us closer to himself.
she could not say, "i'm glad to go," for life was very sweet for her.
she could only sob out, "i try to be willing," while she held fast to jo, as the first bitter wave of this great sorrow broke over them together.
by and by beth said, with recovered serenity, "you'll tell them this when we go home?"
"i think they will see it without words," sighed jo, for now it seemed to her that beth changed every day.
"perhaps not.
i've heard that the people who love best are often blindest to such things.
if they don't see it, you will tell them for me.
i don't want any secrets, and it's kinder to prepare them.
meg has john and the babies to comfort her, but you must stand by father and mother, won't you jo?"
"if i can.
but, beth, i don't give up yet.
i'm going to believe that it is a sick fancy, and not let you think it's true."
said jo, trying to speak cheerfully.
beth lay a minute thinking, and then said in her quiet way, "i don't know how to express myself, and shouldn't try to anyone but you, because i can't speak out except to my jo.
i only mean to say that i have a feeling that it never was intended i should live long.
i'm not like the rest of you.
i never made any plans about what i'd do when i grew up.
i never thought of being married, as you all did.
i couldn't seem to imagine myself anything but stupid little beth, trotting about at home, of no use anywhere but there.
i never wanted to go away, and the hard part now is the leaving you all.
i'm not afraid, but it seems as if i should be homesick for you even in heaven."
jo could not speak, and for several minutes there was no sound but the sigh of the wind and the lapping of the tide.
a white-winged gull flew by, with the flash of sunshine on its silvery breast.
beth watched it till it vanished, and her eyes were full of sadness.
a little gray-coated sand bird came tripping over the beach 'peeping' softly to itself, as if enjoying the sun and sea.
it came quite close to beth, and looked at her with a friendly eye and sat upon a warm stone, dressing its wet feathers, quite at home.
beth smiled and felt comforted, for the tiny thing seemed to offer its small friendship and remind her that a pleasant world was still to be enjoyed.
"dear little bird!
see, jo, how tame it is.
i like peeps better than the gulls.
they are not so wild and handsome, but they seem happy, confiding little things.
i used to call them my birds last summer, and mother said they reminded her of me busy, quaker-colored creatures, always near the shore, and always chirping that contented little song of theirs.
you are the gull, jo, strong and wild, fond of the storm and the wind, flying far out to sea, and happy all alone.
meg is the turtledove, and amy is like the lark she writes about, trying to get up among the clouds, but always dropping down into its nest again.
dear little girl!
she's so ambitious, but her heart is good and tender, and no matter how high she flies, she never will forget home.
i hope i shall see her again, but she seems so far away."
"she is coming in the spring, and i mean that you shall be all ready to see and enjoy her.
i'm going to have you well and rosy by that time,"
began jo, feeling that of all the changes in beth, the talking change was the greatest, for it seemed to cost no effort now, and she thought aloud in a way quite unlike bashful beth.
"jo, dear, don't hope any more.
it won't do any good.
i'm sure of that.
we won't be miserable, but enjoy being together while we wait.
we'll have happy times, for i don't suffer much, and i think the tide will go out easily, if you help me."
jo leaned down to kiss the tranquil face, and with that silent kiss, she dedicated herself soul and body to beth.
she was right.
there was no need of any words when they got home, for father and mother saw plainly now what they had prayed to be saved from seeing.
tired with her short journey, beth went at once to bed, saying how glad she was to be home, and when jo went down, she found that she would be spared the hard task of telling beth's secret.
her father stood leaning his head on the mantelpiece and did not turn as she came in, but her mother stretched out her arms as if for help, and jo went to comfort her without a word.
chapter thirty-seven
new impressions
at three o'clock in the afternoon, all the fashionable world at nice may be seen on the promenade des anglais a charming place, for the wide walk, bordered with palms, flowers, and tropical shrubs, is bounded on one side by the sea, on the other by the grand drive, lined with hotels and villas, while beyond lie orange orchards and the hills.
many nations are represented, many languages spoken, many costumes worn, and on a sunny day the spectacle is as gay and brilliant as a carnival.
haughty english, lively french, sober germans, handsome spaniards, ugly russians, meek jews, free-and-easy americans, all drive, sit, or saunter here, chatting over the news, and criticizing the latest celebrity who has arrived ristori or dickens, victor emmanuel or the queen of the sandwich islands.
the equipages are as varied as the company and attract as much attention, especially the low basket barouches in which ladies drive themselves, with a pair of dashing ponies, gay nets to keep their voluminous flounces from overflowing the diminutive vehicles, and little grooms on the perch behind.
along this walk, on christmas day, a tall young man walked slowly, with his hands behind him, and a somewhat absent expression of countenance.
he looked like an italian, was dressed like an englishman, and had the independent air of an american a combination which caused sundry pairs of feminine eyes to look approvingly after him, and sundry dandies in black velvet suits, with rose-colored neckties, buff gloves, and orange flowers in their buttonholes, to shrug their shoulders, and then envy him his inches.
there were plenty of pretty faces to admire, but the young man took little notice of them, except to glance now and then at some blonde girl in blue.
presently he strolled out of the promenade and stood a moment at the crossing, as if undecided whether to go and listen to the band in the jardin publique, or to wander along the beach toward castle hill.
the quick trot of ponies' feet made him look up, as one of the little carriages, containing a single young lady, came rapidly down the street.
the lady was young, blonde, and dressed in blue.
he stared a minute, then his whole face woke up, and, waving his hat like a boy, he hurried forward to meet her.
"oh, laurie, is it really you?
i thought you'd never come!"
cried amy, dropping the reins and holding out both hands, to the great scandalization of a french mamma, who hastened her daughter's steps, lest she should be demoralized by beholding the free manners of these 'mad english'.
"i was detained by the way, but i promised to spend christmas with you, and here i am."
"how is your grandfather?
when did you come?
where are you staying?"
"very well last night at the chauvain.
i called at your hotel, but you were out."
"i have so much to say, i don't know where to begin!
get in and we can talk at our ease.
i was going for a drive and longing for company.
flo's saving up for tonight."
"what happens then, a ball?"
"a christmas party at our hotel.
there are many americans there, and they give it in honor of the day.
you'll go with us, of course?
aunt will be charmed."
"thank you.
where now?"
asked laurie, leaning back and folding his arms, a proceeding which suited amy, who preferred to drive, for her parasol whip and blue reins over the white ponies' backs afforded her infinite satisfaction.
"i'm going to the bankers first for letters, and then to castle hill.
the view is so lovely, and i like to feed the peacocks.
have you ever been there?"
"often, years ago, but i don't mind having a look at it."
"now tell me all about yourself.
the last i heard of you, your grandfather wrote that he expected you from berlin."
"yes, i spent a month there and then joined him in paris, where he has settled for the winter.
he has friends there and finds plenty to amuse him, so i go and come, and we get on capitally."
"that's a sociable arrangement," said amy, missing something in laurie's manner, though she couldn't tell what.
"why, you see, he hates to travel, and i hate to keep still, so we each suit ourselves, and there is no trouble.
i am often with him, and he enjoys my adventures, while i like to feel that someone is glad to see me when i get back from my wanderings.
dirty old hole, isn't it?"
he added, with a look of disgust as they drove along the boulevard to the place napoleon in the old city.
"the dirt is picturesque, so i don't mind.
the river and the hills are delicious, and these glimpses of the narrow cross streets are my delight.
now we shall have to wait for that procession to pass.
it's going to the church of st.
john."
while laurie listlessly watched the procession of priests under their canopies, white-veiled nuns bearing lighted tapers, and some brotherhood in blue chanting as they walked, amy watched him, and felt a new sort of shyness steal over her, for he was changed, and she could not find the merry-faced boy she left in the moody-looking man beside her.
he was handsomer than ever and greatly improved, she thought, but now that the flush of pleasure at meeting her was over, he looked tired and spiritless not sick, nor exactly unhappy, but older and graver than a year or two of prosperous life should have made him.
she couldn't understand it and did not venture to ask questions, so she shook her head and touched up her ponies, as the procession wound away across the arches of the paglioni bridge and vanished in the church.
"que pensez-vous?"
she said, airing her french, which had improved in quantity, if not in quality, since she came abroad.
"that mademoiselle has made good use of her time, and the result is charming," replied laurie, bowing with his hand on his heart and an admiring look.
she blushed with pleasure, but somehow the compliment did not satisfy her like the blunt praises he used to give her at home, when he promenaded round her on festival occasions, and told her she was 'altogether jolly', with a hearty smile and an approving pat on the head.
she didn't like the new tone, for though not blase, it sounded indifferent in spite of the look.
"if that's the way he's going to grow up, i wish he'd stay a boy," she thought, with a curious sense of disappointment and discomfort, trying meantime to seem quite easy and gay.
at avigdor's she found the precious home letters and, giving the reins to laurie, read them luxuriously as they wound up the shady road between green hedges, where tea roses bloomed as freshly as in june.
"beth is very poorly, mother says.
i often think i ought to go home, but they all say 'stay'.
so i do, for i shall never have another chance like this," said amy, looking sober over one page.
"i think you are right, there.
you could do nothing at home, and it is a great comfort to them to know that you are well and happy, and enjoying so much, my dear."
he drew a little nearer, and looked more like his old self as he said that, and the fear that sometimes weighed on amy's heart was lightened, for the look, the act, the brotherly 'my dear', seemed to assure her that if any trouble did come, she would not be alone in a strange land.
presently she laughed and showed him a small sketch of jo in her scribbling suit, with the bow rampantly erect upon her cap, and issuing from her mouth the words, 'genius burns!
'.
laurie smiled, took it, put it in his vest pocket 'to keep it from blowing away', and listened with interest to the lively letter amy read him.
"this will be a regularly merry christmas to me, with presents in the morning, you and letters in the afternoon, and a party at night," said amy, as they alighted among the ruins of the old fort, and a flock of splendid peacocks came trooping about them, tamely waiting to be fed.
while amy stood laughing on the bank above him as she scattered crumbs to the brilliant birds, laurie looked at her as she had looked at him, with a natural curiosity to see what changes time and absence had wrought.
he found nothing to perplex or disappoint, much to admire and approve, for overlooking a few little affectations of speech and manner, she was as sprightly and graceful as ever, with the addition of that indescribable something in dress and bearing which we call elegance.
always mature for her age, she had gained a certain aplomb in both carriage and conversation, which made her seem more of a woman of the world than she was, but her old petulance now and then showed itself, her strong will still held its own, and her native frankness was unspoiled by foreign polish.
laurie did not read all this while he watched her feed the peacocks, but he saw enough to satisfy and interest him, and carried away a pretty little picture of a bright-faced girl standing in the sunshine, which brought out the soft hue of her dress, the fresh color of her cheeks, the golden gloss of her hair, and made her a prominent figure in the pleasant scene.
as they came up onto the stone plateau that crowns the hill, amy waved her hand as if welcoming him to her favorite haunt, and said, pointing here and there, "do you remember the cathedral and the corso, the fishermen dragging their nets in the bay, and the lovely road to villa franca, schubert's tower, just below, and best of all, that speck far out to sea which they say is corsica?"
"i remember.
it's not much changed," he answered without enthusiasm.
"what jo would give for a sight of that famous speck!"
said amy, feeling in good spirits and anxious to see him so also.
"yes," was all he said, but he turned and strained his eyes to see the island which a greater usurper than even napoleon now made interesting in his sight.
"take a good look at it for her sake, and then come and tell me what you have been doing with yourself all this while," said amy, seating herself, ready for a good talk.
but she did not get it, for though he joined her and answered all her questions freely, she could only learn that he had roved about the continent and been to greece.
so after idling away an hour, they drove home again, and having paid his respects to mrs. carrol, laurie left them, promising to return in the evening.
it must be recorded of amy that she deliberately prinked that night.
time and absence had done its work on both the young people.
she had seen her old friend in a new light, not as 'our boy', but as a handsome and agreeable man, and she was conscious of a very natural desire to find favor in his sight.
amy knew her good points, and made the most of them with the taste and skill which is a fortune to a poor and pretty woman.
tarlatan and tulle were cheap at nice, so she enveloped herself in them on such occasions, and following the sensible english fashion of simple dress for young girls, got up charming little toilettes with fresh flowers, a few trinkets, and all manner of dainty devices, which were both inexpensive and effective.
it must be confessed that the artist sometimes got possession of the woman, and indulged in antique coiffures, statuesque attitudes, and classic draperies.
but, dear heart, we all have our little weaknesses, and find it easy to pardon such in the young, who satisfy our eyes with their comeliness, and keep our hearts merry with their artless vanities.
"i do want him to think i look well, and tell them so at home," said amy to herself, as she put on flo's old white silk ball dress, and covered it with a cloud of fresh illusion, out of which her white shoulders and golden head emerged with a most artistic effect.
her hair she had the sense to let alone, after gathering up the thick waves and curls into a hebe-like knot at the back of her head.
"it's not the fashion, but it's becoming, and i can't afford to make a fright of myself," she used to say, when advised to frizzle, puff, or braid, as the latest style commanded.
having no ornaments fine enough for this important occasion, amy looped her fleecy skirts with rosy clusters of azalea, and framed the white shoulders in delicate green vines.
remembering the painted boots, she surveyed her white satin slippers with girlish satisfaction, and chasseed down the room, admiring her aristocratic feet all by herself.
"my new fan just matches my flowers, my gloves fit to a charm, and the real lace on aunt's mouchoir gives an air to my whole dress.
if i only had a classical nose and mouth i should be perfectly happy," she said, surveying herself with a critical eye and a candle in each hand.
in spite of this affliction, she looked unusually gay and graceful as she glided away.
she seldom ran it did not suit her style, she thought, for being tall, the stately and junoesque was more appropriate than the sportive or piquante.
she walked up and down the long saloon while waiting for laurie, and once arranged herself under the chandelier, which had a good effect upon her hair, then she thought better of it, and went away to the other end of the room, as if ashamed of the girlish desire to have the first view a propitious one.
it so happened that she could not have done a better thing, for laurie came in so quietly she did not hear him, and as she stood at the distant window, with her head half turned and one hand gathering up her dress, the slender, white figure against the red curtains was as effective as a well-placed statue.
"good evening, diana!"
said laurie, with the look of satisfaction she liked to see in his eyes when they rested on her.
"good evening, apollo!"
she answered, smiling back at him, for he too looked unusually debonair, and the thought of entering the ballroom on the arm of such a personable man caused amy to pity the four plain misses davis from the bottom of her heart.
"here are your flowers.
i arranged them myself, remembering that you didn't like what hannah calls a 'sot-bookay'," said laurie, handing her a delicate nosegay, in a holder that she had long coveted as she daily passed it in cardiglia's window.
"how kind you are!"
she exclaimed gratefully.
"if i'd known you were coming i'd have had something ready for you today, though not as pretty as this, i'm afraid."
"thank you.
it isn't what it should be, but you have improved it," he added, as she snapped the silver bracelet on her wrist.
"please don't."
"i thought you liked that sort of thing."
"not from you, it doesn't sound natural, and i like your old bluntness better."
"i'm glad of it," he answered, with a look of relief, then buttoned her gloves for her, and asked if his tie was straight, just as he used to do when they went to parties together at home.
the company assembled in the long salle a manger, that evening, was such as one sees nowhere but on the continent.
the hospitable americans had invited every acquaintance they had in nice, and having no prejudice against titles, secured a few to add luster to their christmas ball.
a russian prince condescended to sit in a corner for an hour and talk with a massive lady, dressed like hamlet's mother in black velvet with a pearl bridle under her chin.
a polish count, aged eighteen, devoted himself to the ladies, who pronounced him, 'a fascinating dear', and a german serene something, having come to supper alone, roamed vaguely about, seeking what he might devour.
baron rothschild's private secretary, a large-nosed jew in tight boots, affably beamed upon the world, as if his master's name crowned him with a golden halo.
a stout frenchman, who knew the emperor, came to indulge his mania for dancing, and lady de jones, a british matron, adorned the scene with her little family of eight.
of course, there were many light-footed, shrill-voiced american girls, handsome, lifeless-looking english ditto, and a few plain but piquante french demoiselles, likewise the usual set of traveling young gentlemen who disported themselves gaily, while mammas of all nations lined the walls and smiled upon them benignly when they danced with their daughters.
any young girl can imagine amy's state of mind when she 'took the stage' that night, leaning on laurie's arm.
she knew she looked well, she loved to dance, she felt that her foot was on her native heath in a ballroom, and enjoyed the delightful sense of power which comes when young girls first discover the new and lovely kingdom they are born to rule by virtue of beauty, youth, and womanhood.
she did pity the davis girls, who were awkward, plain, and destitute of escort, except a grim papa and three grimmer maiden aunts, and she bowed to them in her friendliest manner as she passed, which was good of her, as it permitted them to see her dress, and burn with curiosity to know who her distinguished-looking friend might be.
with the first burst of the band, amy's color rose, her eyes began to sparkle, and her feet to tap the floor impatiently, for she danced well and wanted laurie to know it.
therefore the shock she received can better be imagined than described, when he said in a perfectly tranquil tone, "do you care to dance?"
"one usually does at a ball."
her amazed look and quick answer caused laurie to repair his error as fast as possible.
"i meant the first dance.
may i have the honor?"
"i can give you one if i put off the count.
he dances divinely, but he will excuse me, as you are an old friend," said amy, hoping that the name would have a good effect, and show laurie that she was not to be trifled with.
"nice little boy, but rather a short pole to support...
a daughter of the gods,     devinely tall, and most divinely fair,"
was all the satisfaction she got, however.
the set in which they found themselves was composed of english, and amy was compelled to walk decorously through a cotillion, feeling all the while as if she could dance the tarantella with relish.
laurie resigned her to the 'nice little boy', and went to do his duty to flo, without securing amy for the joys to come, which reprehensible want of forethought was properly punished, for she immediately engaged herself till supper, meaning to relent if he then gave any signs penitence.
she showed him her ball book with demure satisfaction when he strolled instead of rushed up to claim her for the next, a glorious polka redowa.
but his polite regrets didn't impose upon her, and when she galloped away with the count, she saw laurie sit down by her aunt with an actual expression of relief.
that was unpardonable, and amy took no more notice of him for a long while, except a word now and then when she came to her chaperon between the dances for a necessary pin or a moment's rest.
her anger had a good effect, however, for she hid it under a smiling face, and seemed unusually blithe and brilliant.
laurie's eyes followed her with pleasure, for she neither romped nor sauntered, but danced with spirit and grace, making the delightsome pastime what it should be.
he very naturally fell to studying her from this new point of view, and before the evening was half over, had decided that 'little amy was going to make a very charming woman'.
it was a lively scene, for soon the spirit of the social season took possession of everyone, and christmas merriment made all faces shine, hearts happy, and heels light.
the musicians fiddled, tooted, and banged as if they enjoyed it, everybody danced who could, and those who couldn't admired their neighbors with uncommon warmth.
the air was dark with davises, and many joneses gamboled like a flock of young giraffes.
the golden secretary darted through the room like a meteor with a dashing french-woman who carpeted the floor with her pink satin train.
the serene teuton found the supper-table and was happy, eating steadily through the bill of fare, and dismayed the garcons by the ravages he committed.
but the emperor's friend covered himself with glory, for he danced everything, whether he knew it or not, and introduced impromptu pirouettes when the figures bewildered him.
the boyish abandon of that stout man was charming to behold, for though he 'carried weight', he danced like an india-rubber ball.
he ran, he flew, he pranced, his face glowed, his bald head shown, his coattails waved wildly, his pumps actually twinkled in the air, and when the music stopped, he wiped the drops from his brow, and beamed upon his fellow men like a french pickwick without glasses.
amy and her pole distinguished themselves by equal enthusiasm but more graceful agility, and laurie found himself involuntarily keeping time to the rhythmic rise and fall of the white slippers as they flew by as indefatigably as if winged.
when little vladimir finally relinquished her, with assurances that he was 'desolated to leave so early', she was ready to rest, and see how her recreant knight had borne his punishment.
it had been successful, for at three-and-twenty, blighted affections find a balm in friendly society, and young nerves will thrill, young blood dance, and healthy young spirits rise, when subjected to the enchantment of beauty, light, music, and motion.
laurie had a waked-up look as he rose to give her his seat, and when he hurried away to bring her some supper, she said to herself, with a satisfied smile, "ah, i thought that would do him good!"
"you look like balzac's 'femme peinte par elle-meme'," he said, as he fanned her with one hand and held her coffee cup in the other.
"my rouge won't come off."
and amy rubbed her brilliant cheek, and showed him her white glove with a sober simplicity that made him laugh outright.
"what do you call this stuff?"
he asked, touching a fold of her dress that had blown over his knee.
"illusion."
"good name for it.
it's very pretty new thing, isn't it?"
"it's as old as the hills.
you have seen it on dozens of girls, and you never found out that it was pretty till now stupide!"
"i never saw it on you before, which accounts for the mistake, you see."
"none of that, it is forbidden.
i'd rather take coffee than compliments just now.
no, don't lounge, it makes me nervous."
laurie sat bold upright, and meekly took her empty plate feeling an odd sort of pleasure in having 'little amy' order him about, for she had lost her shyness now, and felt an irrestible desire to trample on him, as girls have a delightful way of doing when lords of creation show any signs of subjection.
"where did you learn all this sort of thing?"
he asked with a quizzical look.
"as 'this sort of thing' is rather a vague expression, would you kindly explain?"
returned amy, knowing perfectly well what he meant, but wickedly leaving him to describe what is indescribable.
"well the general air, the style, the self-possession, the the illusion you know", laughed laurie, breaking down and helping himself out of his quandary with the new word.
amy was gratified, but of course didn't show it, and demurely answered, "foreign life polishes one in spite of one's self.
i study as well as play, and as for this" with a little gesture toward her dress "why, tulle is cheap, posies to be had for nothing, and i am used to making the most of my poor little things."
amy rather regretted that last sentence, fearing it wasn't in good taste, but laurie liked her better for it, and found himself both admiring and respecting the brave patience that made the most of opportunity, and the cheerful spirit that covered poverty with flowers.
amy did not know why he looked at her so kindly, nor why he filled up her book with his own name, and devoted himself to her for the rest of the evening in the most delightful manner; but the impulse that wrought this agreeable change was the result of one of the new impressions which both of them were unconsciously giving and receiving.
chapter thirty-eight
on the shelf
in france the young girls have a dull time of it till they are married, when 'vive la liberte!'
becomes their motto.
in america, as everyone knows, girls early sign the declaration of independence, and enjoy their freedom with republican zest, but the young matrons usually abdicate with the first heir to the throne and go into a seclusion almost as close as a french nunnery, though by no means as quiet.
whether they like it or not, they are virtually put upon the shelf as soon as the wedding excitement is over, and most of them might exclaim, as did a very pretty woman the other day, "i'm as handsome as ever, but no one takes any notice of me because i'm married."
not being a belle or even a fashionable lady, meg did not experience this affliction till her babies were a year old, for in her little world primitive customs prevailed, and she found herself more admired and beloved than ever.
as she was a womanly little woman, the maternal instinct was very strong, and she was entirely absorbed in her children, to the utter exclusion of everything and everybody else.
day and night she brooded over them with tireless devotion and anxiety, leaving john to the tender mercies of the help, for an irish lady now presided over the kitchen department.
being a domestic man, john decidedly missed the wifely attentions he had been accustomed to receive, but as he adored his babies, he cheerfully relinquished his comfort for a time, supposing with masculine ignorance that peace would soon be restored.
but three months passed, and there was no return of repose.
meg looked worn and nervous, the babies absorbed every minute of her time, the house was neglected, and kitty, the cook, who took life 'aisy', kept him on short commons.
when he went out in the morning he was bewildered by small commissions for the captive mamma, if he came gaily in at night, eager to embrace his family, he was quenched by a "hush!
they are just asleep after worrying all day."
if he proposed a little amusement at home, "no, it would disturb the babies."
if he hinted at a lecture or a concert, he was answered with a reproachful look, and a decided "leave my children for pleasure, never!"
his sleep was broken by infant wails and visions of a phantom figure pacing noiselessly to and fro in the watches of the night.
his meals were interrupted by the frequent flight of the presiding genius, who deserted him, half-helped, if a muffled chirp sounded from the nest above.
and when he read his paper of an evening, demi's colic got into the shipping list and daisy's fall affected the price of stocks, for mrs. brooke was only interested in domestic news.
the poor man was very uncomfortable, for the children had bereft him of his wife, home was merely a nursery and the perpetual 'hushing' made him feel like a brutal intruder whenever he entered the sacred precincts of babyland.
he bore it very patiently for six months, and when no signs of amendment appeared, he did what other paternal exiles do tried to get a little comfort elsewhere.
scott had married and gone to housekeeping not far off, and john fell into the way of running over for an hour or two of an evening, when his own parlor was empty, and his own wife singing lullabies that seemed to have no end.
mrs.
scott was a lively, pretty girl, with nothing to do but be agreeable, and she performed her mission most successfully.
the parlor was always bright and attractive, the chessboard ready, the piano in tune, plenty of gay gossip, and a nice little supper set forth in tempting style.
john would have preferred his own fireside if it had not been so lonely, but as it was he gratefully took the next best thing and enjoyed his neighbor's society.
meg rather approved of the new arrangement at first, and found it a relief to know that john was having a good time instead of dozing in the parlor, or tramping about the house and waking the children.
but by-and-by, when the teething worry was over and the idols went to sleep at proper hours, leaving mamma time to rest, she began to miss john, and find her workbasket dull company, when he was not sitting opposite in his old dressing gown, comfortably scorching his slippers on the fender.
she would not ask him to stay at home, but felt injured because he did not know that she wanted him without being told, entirely forgetting the many evenings he had waited for her in vain.
she was nervous and worn out with watching and worry, and in that unreasonable frame of mind which the best of mothers occasionally experience when domestic cares oppress them.
want of exercise robs them of cheerfulness, and too much devotion to that idol of american women, the teapot, makes them feel as if they were all nerve and no muscle.
"yes," she would say, looking in the glass, "i'm getting old and ugly.
john doesn't find me interesting any longer, so he leaves his faded wife and goes to see his pretty neighbor, who has no incumbrances.
well, the babies love me, they don't care if i am thin and pale and haven't time to crimp my hair, they are my comfort, and some day john will see what i've gladly sacrificed for them, won't he, my precious?"
to which pathetic appeal daisy would answer with a coo, or demi with a crow, and meg would put by her lamentations for a maternal revel, which soothed her solitude for the time being.
but the pain increased as politics absorbed john, who was always running over to discuss interesting points with scott, quite unconscious that meg missed him.
not a word did she say, however, till her mother found her in tears one day, and insisted on knowing what the matter was, for meg's drooping spirits had not escaped her observation.
"i wouldn't tell anyone except you, mother, but i really do need advice, for if john goes on much longer i might as well be widowed,"
replied mrs. brooke, drying her tears on daisy's bib with an injured air.
"goes on how, my dear?"
asked her mother anxiously.
"he's away all day, and at night when i want to see him, he is continually going over to the scotts'.
it isn't fair that i should have the hardest work, and never any amusement.
men are very selfish, even the best of them."
"so are women.
don't blame john till you see where you are wrong yourself."
"but it can't be right for him to neglect me."
"don't you neglect him?"
"why, mother, i thought you'd take my part!"
"so i do, as far as sympathizing goes, but i think the fault is yours, meg."
"i don't see how."
"let me show you.
did john ever neglect you, as you call it, while you made it a point to give him your society of an evening, his only leisure time?"
"no, but i can't do it now, with two babies to tend."
"i think you could, dear, and i think you ought.
may i speak quite freely, and will you remember that it's mother who blames as well as mother who sympathizes?"
"indeed i will!
speak to me as if i were little meg again.
i often feel as if i needed teaching more than ever since these babies look to me for everything."
meg drew her low chair beside her mother's, and with a little interruption in either lap, the two women rocked and talked lovingly together, feeling that the tie of motherhood made them more one than ever.
"you have only made the mistake that most young wives make forgotten your duty to your husband in your love for your children.
a very natural and forgivable mistake, meg, but one that had better be remedied before you take to different ways, for children should draw you nearer than ever, not separate you, as if they were all yours, and john had nothing to do but support them.
i've seen it for some weeks, but have not spoken, feeling sure it would come right in time."
"i'm afraid it won't.
if i ask him to stay, he'll think i'm jealous, and i wouldn't insult him by such an idea.
he doesn't see that i want him, and i don't know how to tell him without words."
"make it so pleasant he won't want to go away.
my dear, he's longing for his little home, but it isn't home without you, and you are always in the nursery."
"oughtn't i to be there?"
"not all the time, too much confinement makes you nervous, and then you are unfitted for everything.
besides, you owe something to john as well as to the babies.
don't neglect husband for children, don't shut him out of the nursery, but teach him how to help in it.
his place is there as well as yours, and the children need him.
let him feel that he has a part to do, and he will do it gladly and faithfully, and it will be better for you all."
"you really think so, mother?"
"i know it, meg, for i've tried it, and i seldom give advice unless i've proved its practicability.
when you and jo were little, i went on just as you are, feeling as if i didn't do my duty unless i devoted myself wholly to you.
poor father took to his books, after i had refused all offers of help, and left me to try my experiment alone.
i struggled along as well as i could, but jo was too much for me.
i nearly spoiled her by indulgence.
you were poorly, and i worried about you till i fell sick myself.
then father came to the rescue, quietly managed everything, and made himself so helpful that i saw my mistake, and never have been able to get on without him since.
that is the secret of our home happiness.
he does not let business wean him from the little cares and duties that affect us all, and i try not to let domestic worries destroy my interest in his pursuits.
each do our part alone in many things, but at home we work together, always."
"it is so, mother, and my great wish is to be to my husband and children what you have been to yours.
show me how, i'll do anything you say."
"you always were my docile daughter.
well, dear, if i were you, i'd let john have more to do with the management of demi, for the boy needs training, and it's none too soon to begin.
then i'd do what i have often proposed, let hannah come and help you.
she is a capital nurse, and you may trust the precious babies to her while you do more housework.
you need the exercise, hannah would enjoy the rest, and john would find his wife again.
go out more, keep cheerful as well as busy, for you are the sunshine-maker of the family, and if you get dismal there is no fair weather.
then i'd try to take an interest in whatever john likes talk with him, let him read to you, exchange ideas, and help each other in that way.
don't shut yourself up in a bandbox because you are a woman, but understand what is going on, and educate yourself to take your part in the world's work, for it all affects you and yours."
"john is so sensible, i'm afraid he will think i'm stupid if i ask questions about politics and things."
"i don't believe he would.
love covers a multitude of sins, and of whom could you ask more freely than of him?
try it, and see if he doesn't find your society far more agreeable than mrs. scott's suppers."
"i will.
poor john!
i'm afraid i have neglected him sadly, but i thought i was right, and he never said anything."
"he tried not to be selfish, but he has felt rather forlorn, i fancy.
this is just the time, meg, when young married people are apt to grow apart, and the very time when they ought to be most together, for the first tenderness soon wears off, unless care is taken to preserve it.
and no time is so beautiful and precious to parents as the first years of the little lives given to them to train.
don't let john be a stranger to the babies, for they will do more to keep him safe and happy in this world of trial and temptation than anything else, and through them you will learn to know and love one another as you should.
now, dear, good-by.
think over mother's preachment, act upon it if it seems good, and god bless you all."
meg did think it over, found it good, and acted upon it, though the first attempt was not made exactly as she planned to have it.
of course the children tyrannized over her, and ruled the house as soon as they found out that kicking and squalling brought them whatever they wanted.
mamma was an abject slave to their caprices, but papa was not so easily subjugated, and occasionally afflicted his tender spouse by an attempt at paternal discipline with his obstreperous son.
for demi inherited a trifle of his sire's firmness of character, we won't call it obstinacy, and when he made up his little mind to have or to do anything, all the king's horses and all the king's men could not change that pertinacious little mind.
mamma thought the dear too young to be taught to conquer his prejudices, but papa believed that it never was too soon to learn obedience.
so master demi early discovered that when he undertook to 'wrastle' with 'parpar', he always got the worst of it, yet like the englishman, baby respected the man who conquered him, and loved the father whose grave "no, no," was more impressive than all mamma's love pats.
a few days after the talk with her mother, meg resolved to try a social evening with john, so she ordered a nice supper, set the parlor in order, dressed herself prettily, and put the children to bed early, that nothing should interfere with her experiment.
but unfortunately demi's most unconquerable prejudice was against going to bed, and that night he decided to go on a rampage.
so poor meg sang and rocked, told stories and tried every sleep-prevoking wile she could devise, but all in vain, the big eyes wouldn't shut, and long after daisy had gone to byelow, like the chubby little bunch of good nature she was, naughty demi lay staring at the light, with the most discouragingly wide-awake expression of countenance.
"will demi lie still like a good boy, while mamma runs down and gives poor papa his tea?"
asked meg, as the hall door softly closed, and the well-known step went tip-toeing into the dining room.
"me has tea!"
said demi, preparing to join in the revel.
"no, but i'll save you some little cakies for breakfast, if you'll go bye-bye like daisy.
will you, lovey?"
"iss!"
and demi shut his eyes tight, as if to catch sleep and hurry the desired day.
taking advantage of the propitious moment, meg slipped away and ran down to greet her husband with a smiling face and the little blue bow in her hair which was his especial admiration.
he saw it at once and said with pleased surprise, "why, little mother, how gay we are tonight.
do you expect company?"
"only you, dear."
"is it a birthday, anniversary, or anything?"
"no, i'm tired of being dowdy, so i dressed up as a change.
you always make yourself nice for table, no matter how tired you are, so why shouldn't i when i have the time?"
"i do it out of respect for you, my dear," said old-fashioned john.
"ditto, ditto, mr. brooke," laughed meg, looking young and pretty again, as she nodded to him over the teapot.
"well, it's altogether delightful, and like old times.
this tastes right.
i drink your health, dear."
and john sipped his tea with an air of reposeful rapture, which was of very short duration however, for as he put down his cup, the door handle rattled mysteriously, and a little voice was heard, saying impatiently...
"opy doy.
me's tummin!"
"it's that naughty boy.
i told him to go to sleep alone, and here he is, downstairs, getting his death a-cold pattering over that canvas,"
said meg, answering the call.
"mornin' now," announced demi in joyful tone as he entered, with his long nightgown gracefully festooned over his arm and every curl bobbing gayly as he pranced about the table, eyeing the 'cakies' with loving glances.
"no, it isn't morning yet.
you must go to bed, and not trouble poor mamma.
then you can have the little cake with sugar on it."
"me loves parpar," said the artful one, preparing to climb the paternal knee and revel in forbidden joys.
but john shook his head, and said to meg...
"if you told him to stay up there, and go to sleep alone, make him do it, or he will never learn to mind you."
"yes, of course.
come, demi,"  and meg led her son away, feeling a strong desire to spank the little marplot who hopped beside her, laboring under the delusion that the bribe was to be administered as soon as they reached the nursery.
nor was he disappointed, for that shortsighted woman actually gave him a lump of sugar, tucked him into his bed, and forbade any more promenades till morning.
"iss!"
said demi the perjured, blissfully sucking his sugar, and regarding his first attempt as eminently successful.
meg returned to her place, and supper was progressing pleasantly, when the little ghost walked again, and exposed the maternal delinquencies by boldly demanding, "more sudar, marmar."
"now this won't do," said john, hardening his heart against the engaging little sinner.
"we shall never know any peace till that child learns to go to bed properly.
you have made a slave of yourself long enough.
give him one lesson, and then there will be an end of it.
put him in his bed and leave him, meg."
"he won't stay there, he never does unless i sit by him."
"i'll manage him.
demi, go upstairs, and get into your bed, as mamma bids you."
"s'ant!"
replied the young rebel, helping himself to the coveted 'cakie', and beginning to eat the same with calm audacity.
"you must never say that to papa.
i shall carry you if you don't go yourself."
"go 'way, me don't love parpar."
and demi retired to his mother's skirts for protection.
but even that refuge proved unavailing, for he was delivered over to the enemy, with a "be gentle with him, john," which struck the culprit with dismay, for when mamma deserted him, then the judgment day was at hand.
bereft of his cake, defrauded of his frolic, and borne away by a strong hand to that detested bed, poor demi could not restrain his wrath, but openly defied papa, and kicked and screamed lustily all the way upstairs.
the minute he was put into bed on one side, he rolled out on the other, and made for the door, only to be ignominiously caught up by the tail of his little toga and put back again, which lively performance was kept up till the young man's strength gave out, when he devoted himself to roaring at the top of his voice.
this vocal exercise usually conquered meg, but john sat as unmoved as the post which is popularly believed to be deaf.
no coaxing, no sugar, no lullaby, no story, even the light was put out and only the red glow of the fire enlivened the 'big dark' which demi regarded with curiosity rather than fear.
this new order of things disgusted him, and he howled dismally for 'marmar', as his angry passions subsided, and recollections of his tender bondwoman returned to the captive autocrat.
the plaintive wail which succeeded the passionate roar went to meg's heart, and she ran up to say beseechingly...
"let me stay with him, he'll be good now, john."
"no, my dear.
i've told him he must go to sleep, as you bid him, and he must, if i stay here all night."
"but he'll cry himself sick," pleaded meg, reproaching herself for deserting her boy.
"no, he won't, he's so tired he will soon drop off and then the matter is settled, for he will understand that he has got to mind.
don't interfere, i'll manage him."
"he's my child, and i can't have his spirit broken by harshness."
"he's my child, and i won't have his temper spoiled by indulgence.
go down, my dear, and leave the boy to me."
when john spoke in that masterful tone, meg always obeyed, and never regretted her docility.
"please let me kiss him once, john?"
"certainly.
demi, say good night to mamma, and let her go and rest, for she is very tired with taking care of you all day."
meg always insisted upon it that the kiss won the victory, for after it was given, demi sobbed more quietly, and lay quite still at the bottom of the bed, whither he had wriggled in his anguish of mind.
"poor little man, he's worn out with sleep and crying.
i'll cover him up, and then go and set meg's heart at rest," thought john, creeping to the bedside, hoping to find his rebellious heir asleep.
but he wasn't, for the moment his father peeped at him, demi's eyes opened, his little chin began to quiver, and he put up his arms, saying with a penitent hiccough, "me's dood, now."
sitting on the stairs outside meg wondered at the long silence which followed the uproar, and after imagining all sorts of impossible accidents, she slipped into the room to set her fears at rest.
demi lay fast asleep, not in his usual spreadeagle attitude, but in a subdued bunch, cuddled close in the circle of his father's arm and holding his father's finger, as if he felt that justice was tempered with mercy, and had gone to sleep a sadder and wiser baby.
so held, john had waited with a womanly patience till the little hand relaxed its hold, and while waiting had fallen asleep, more tired by that tussle with his son than with his whole day's work.
as meg stood watching the two faces on the pillow, she smiled to herself, and then slipped away again, saying in a satisfied tone, "i never need fear that john will be too harsh with my babies.
he does know how to manage them, and will be a great help, for demi is getting too much for me."
when john came down at last, expecting to find a pensive or reproachful wife, he was agreeably surprised to find meg placidly trimming a bonnet, and to be greeted with the request to read something about the election, if he was not too tired.
john saw in a minute that a revolution of some kind was going on, but wisely asked no questions, knowing that meg was such a transparent little person, she couldn't keep a secret to save her life, and therefore the clue would soon appear.
he read a long debate with the most amiable readiness and then explained it in his most lucid manner, while meg tried to look deeply interested, to ask intelligent questions, and keep her thoughts from wandering from the state of the nation to the state of her bonnet.
in her secret soul, however, she decided that politics were as bad as mathematics, and that the mission of politicians seemed to be calling each other names, but she kept these feminine ideas to herself, and when john paused, shook her head and said with what she thought diplomatic ambiguity, "well, i really don't see what we are coming to."
john laughed, and watched her for a minute, as she poised a pretty little preparation of lace and flowers on her hand, and regarded it with the genuine interest which his harangue had failed to waken.
"she is trying to like politics for my sake, so i'll try and like millinery for hers, that's only fair," thought john the just, adding aloud, "that's very pretty.
is it what you call a breakfast cap?"
"my dear man, it's a bonnet!
my very best go-to-concert-and-theater bonnet."
"i beg your pardon, it was so small, i naturally mistook it for one of the flyaway things you sometimes wear.
how do you keep it on?"
"these bits of lace are fastened under the chin with a rosebud, so,"
and meg illustrated by putting on the bonnet and regarding him with an air of calm satisfaction that was irresistible.
"it's a love of a bonnet, but i prefer the face inside, for it looks young and happy again," and john kissed the smiling face, to the great detriment of the rosebud under the chin.
"i'm glad you like it, for i want you to take me to one of the new concerts some night.
i really need some music to put me in tune.
will you, please?"
"of course i will, with all my heart, or anywhere else you like.
you have been shut up so long, it will do you no end of good, and i shall enjoy it, of all things.
what put it into your head, little mother?"
"well, i had a talk with marmee the other day, and told her how nervous and cross and out of sorts i felt, and she said i needed change and less care, so hannah is to help me with the children, and i'm to see to things about the house more, and now and then have a little fun, just to keep me from getting to be a fidgety, broken-down old woman before my time.
it's only an experiment, john, and i want to try it for your sake as much as for mine, because i've neglected you shamefully lately, and i'm going to make home what it used to be, if i can.
you don't object, i hope?"
never mind what john said, or what a very narrow escape the little bonnet had from utter ruin.
all that we have any business to know is that john did not appear to object, judging from the changes which gradually took place in the house and its inmates.
it was not all paradise by any means, but everyone was better for the division of labor system.
the children throve under the paternal rule, for accurate, steadfast john brought order and obedience into babydom, while meg recovered her spirits and composed her nerves by plenty of wholesome exercise, a little pleasure, and much confidential conversation with her sensible husband.
home grew homelike again, and john had no wish to leave it, unless he took meg with him.
the scotts came to the brookes' now, and everyone found the little house a cheerful place, full of happiness, content, and family love.
even sallie moffatt liked to go there.
"it is always so quiet and pleasant here, it does me good, meg," she used to say, looking about her with wistful eyes, as if trying to discover the charm, that she might use it in her great house, full of splendid loneliness, for there were no riotous, sunny-faced babies there, and ned lived in a world of his own, where there was no place for her.
this household happiness did not come all at once, but john and meg had found the key to it, and each year of married life taught them how to use it, unlocking the treasuries of real home love and mutual helpfulness, which the poorest may possess, and the richest cannot buy.
this is the sort of shelf on which young wives and mothers may consent to be laid, safe from the restless fret and fever of the world, finding loyal lovers in the little sons and daughters who cling to them, undaunted by sorrow, poverty, or age, walking side by side, through fair and stormy weather, with a faithful friend, who is, in the true sense of the good old saxon word, the 'house-band', and learning, as meg learned, that a woman's happiest kingdom is home, her highest honor the art of ruling it not as a queen, but as a wise wife and mother.
chapter thirty-nine
lazy laurence
laurie went to nice intending to stay a week, and remained a month.
he was tired of wandering about alone, and amy's familiar presence seemed to give a homelike charm to the foreign scenes in which she bore a part.
he rather missed the 'petting' he used to receive, and enjoyed a taste of it again, for no attentions, however flattering, from strangers, were half so pleasant as the sisterly adoration of the girls at home.
amy never would pet him like the others, but she was very glad to see him now, and quite clung to him, feeling that he was the representative of the dear family for whom she longed more than she would confess.
they naturally took comfort in each other's society and were much together, riding, walking, dancing, or dawdling, for at nice no one can be very industrious during the gay season.
but, while apparently amusing themselves in the most careless fashion, they were half-consciously making discoveries and forming opinions about each other.
amy rose daily in the estimation of her friend, but he sank in hers, and each felt the truth before a word was spoken.
amy tried to please, and succeeded, for she was grateful for the many pleasures he gave her, and repaid him with the little services to which womanly women know how to lend an indescribable charm.
laurie made no effort of any kind, but just let himself drift along as comfortably as possible, trying to forget, and feeling that all women owed him a kind word because one had been cold to him.
it cost him no effort to be generous, and he would have given amy all the trinkets in nice if she would have taken them, but at the same time he felt that he could not change the opinion she was forming of him, and he rather dreaded the keen blue eyes that seemed to watch him with such half-sorrowful, half-scornful surprise.
"all the rest have gone to monaco for the day.
i preferred to stay at home and write letters.
they are done now, and i am going to valrosa to sketch, will you come?"
said amy, as she joined laurie one lovely day when he lounged in as usual, about noon.
"well, yes, but isn't it rather warm for such a long walk?"
he answered slowly, for the shaded salon looked inviting after the glare without.
"i'm going to have the little carriage, and baptiste can drive, so you'll have nothing to do but hold your umbrella, and keep your gloves nice," returned amy, with a sarcastic glance at the immaculate kids, which were a weak point with laurie.
"then i'll go with pleasure."
and he put out his hand for her sketchbook.
but she tucked it under her arm with a sharp...
"don't trouble yourself.
it's no exertion to me, but you don't look equal to it."
laurie lifted his eyebrows and followed at a leisurely pace as she ran downstairs, but when they got into the carriage he took the reins himself, and left little baptiste nothing to do but fold his arms and fall asleep on his perch.
the two never quarreled.
amy was too well-bred, and just now laurie was too lazy, so in a minute he peeped under her hatbrim with an inquiring air.
she answered him with a smile, and they went on together in the most amicable manner.
it was a lovely drive, along winding roads rich in the picturesque scenes that delight beauty-loving eyes.
here an ancient monastery, whence the solemn chanting of the monks came down to them.
there a bare-legged shepherd, in wooden shoes, pointed hat, and rough jacket over one shoulder, sat piping on a stone while his goats skipped among the rocks or lay at his feet.
meek, mouse-colored donkeys, laden with panniers of freshly cut grass passed by, with a pretty girl in a capaline sitting between the green piles, or an old woman spinning with a distaff as she went.
brown, soft-eyed children ran out from the quaint stone hovels to offer nosegays, or bunches of oranges still on the bough.
gnarled olive trees covered the hills with their dusky foliage, fruit hung golden in the orchard, and great scarlet anemones fringed the roadside, while beyond green slopes and craggy heights, the maritime alps rose sharp and white against the blue italian sky.
valrosa well deserved its name, for in that climate of perpetual summer roses blossomed everywhere.
they overhung the archway, thrust themselves between the bars of the great gate with a sweet welcome to passers-by, and lined the avenue, winding through lemon trees and feathery palms up to the villa on the hill.
every shadowy nook, where seats invited one to stop and rest, was a mass of bloom, every cool grotto had its marble nymph smiling from a veil of flowers and every fountain reflected crimson, white, or pale pink roses, leaning down to smile at their own beauty.
roses covered the walls of the house, draped the cornices, climbed the pillars, and ran riot over the balustrade of the wide terrace, whence one looked down on the sunny mediterranean, and the white-walled city on its shore.
"this is a regular honeymoon paradise, isn't it?
did you ever see such roses?"
asked amy, pausing on the terrace to enjoy the view, and a luxurious whiff of perfume that came wandering by.
"no, nor felt such thorns," returned laurie, with his thumb in his mouth, after a vain attempt to capture a solitary scarlet flower that grew just beyond his reach.
"try lower down, and pick those that have no thorns," said amy, gathering three of the tiny cream-colored ones that starred the wall behind her.
she put them in his buttonhole as a peace offering, and he stood a minute looking down at them with a curious expression, for in the italian part of his nature there was a touch of superstition, and he was just then in that state of half-sweet, half-bitter melancholy, when imaginative young men find significance in trifles and food for romance everywhere.
he had thought of jo in reaching after the thorny red rose, for vivid flowers became her, and she had often worn ones like that from the greenhouse at home.
the pale roses amy gave him were the sort that the italians lay in dead hands, never in bridal wreaths, and for a moment he wondered if the omen was for jo or for himself, but the next instant his american common sense got the better of sentimentality, and he laughed a heartier laugh than amy had heard since he came.
"it's good advice, you'd better take it and save your fingers," she said, thinking her speech amused him.
"thank you, i will," he answered in jest, and a few months later he did it in earnest.
"laurie, when are you going to your grandfather?"
she asked presently, as she settled herself on a rustic seat.
"very soon."
"you have said that a dozen times within the last three weeks."
"i dare say, short answers save trouble."
"he expects you, and you really ought to go."
"hospitable creature!
i know it."
"then why don't you do it?"
"natural depravity, i suppose."
"natural indolence, you mean.
it's really dreadful!"
and amy looked severe.
"not so bad as it seems, for i should only plague him if i went, so i might as well stay and plague you a little longer, you can bear it better, in fact i think it agrees with you excellently," and laurie composed himself for a lounge on the broad ledge of the balustrade.
amy shook her head and opened her sketchbook with an air of resignation, but she had made up her mind to lecture 'that boy' and in a minute she began again.
"what are you doing just now?"
"watching lizards."
"no, no.
i mean what do you intend and wish to do?"
"smoke a cigarette, if you'll allow me."
"how provoking you are!
i don't approve of cigars and i will only allow it on condition that you let me put you into my sketch.
i need a figure."
"with all the pleasure in life.
how will you have me, full length or three-quarters, on my head or my heels?
i should respectfully suggest a recumbent posture, then put yourself in also and call it 'dolce far niente'."
"stay as you are, and go to sleep if you like.
i intend to work hard,"
said amy in her most energetic tone.
"what delightful enthusiasm!"
and he leaned against a tall urn with an air of entire satisfaction.
"what would jo say if she saw you now?"
asked amy impatiently, hoping to stir him up by the mention of her still more energetic sister's name.
"as usual, 'go away, teddy.
i'm busy!'"
he laughed as he spoke, but the laugh was not natural, and a shade passed over his face, for the utterance of the familiar name touched the wound that was not healed yet.
both tone and shadow struck amy, for she had seen and heard them before, and now she looked up in time to catch a new expression on laurie's face a hard bitter look, full of pain, dissatisfaction, and regret.
it was gone before she could study it and the listless expression back again.
she watched him for a moment with artistic pleasure, thinking how like an italian he looked, as he lay basking in the sun with uncovered head and eyes full of southern dreaminess, for he seemed to have forgotten her and fallen into a reverie.
"you look like the effigy of a young knight asleep on his tomb," she said, carefully tracing the well-cut profile defined against the dark stone.
"wish i was!"
"that's a foolish wish, unless you have spoiled your life.
you are so changed, i sometimes think " there amy stopped, with a half-timid, half-wistful look, more significant than her unfinished speech.
laurie saw and understood the affectionate anxiety which she hesitated to express, and looking straight into her eyes, said, just as he used to say it to her mother, "it's all right, ma'am."
that satisfied her and set at rest the doubts that had begun to worry her lately.
it also touched her, and she showed that it did, by the cordial tone in which she said...
"i'm glad of that!
i didn't think you'd been a very bad boy, but i fancied you might have wasted money at that wicked baden-baden, lost your heart to some charming frenchwoman with a husband, or got into some of the scrapes that young men seem to consider a necessary part of a foreign tour.
don't stay out there in the sun, come and lie on the grass here and 'let us be friendly', as jo used to say when we got in the sofa corner and told secrets."
laurie obediently threw himself down on the turf, and began to amuse himself by sticking daisies into the ribbons of amy's hat, that lay there.
"i'm all ready for the secrets."
and he glanced up with a decided expression of interest in his eyes.
"i've none to tell.
you may begin."
"haven't one to bless myself with.
i thought perhaps you'd had some news from home.."
"you have heard all that has come lately.
don't you hear often?
i fancied jo would send you volumes."
"she's very busy.
i'm roving about so, it's impossible to be regular, you know.
when do you begin your great work of art, raphaella?"
he asked, changing the subject abruptly after another pause, in which he had been wondering if amy knew his secret and wanted to talk about it.
"never," she answered, with a despondent but decided air.
"rome took all the vanity out of me, for after seeing the wonders there, i felt too insignificant to live and gave up all my foolish hopes in despair."
"why should you, with so much energy and talent?"
"that's just why, because talent isn't genius, and no amount of energy can make it so.
i want to be great, or nothing.
i won't be a common-place dauber, so i don't intend to try any more."
"and what are you going to do with yourself now, if i may ask?"
"polish up my other talents, and be an ornament to society, if i get the chance."
it was a characteristic speech, and sounded daring, but audacity becomes young people, and amy's ambition had a good foundation.
laurie smiled, but he liked the spirit with which she took up a new purpose when a long-cherished one died, and spent no time lamenting.
"good!
and here is where fred vaughn comes in, i fancy."
amy preserved a discreet silence, but there was a conscious look in her downcast face that made laurie sit up and say gravely, "now i'm going to play brother, and ask questions.
may i?"
"i don't promise to answer."
"your face will, if your tongue won't.
you aren't woman of the world enough yet to hide your feelings, my dear.
i heard rumors about fred and you last year, and it's my private opinion that if he had not been called home so suddenly and detained so long, something would have come of it, hey?"
"that's not for me to say," was amy's grim reply, but her lips would smile, and there was a traitorous sparkle of the eye which betrayed that she knew her power and enjoyed the knowledge.
"you are not engaged, i hope?"
and laurie looked very elder-brotherly and grave all of a sudden.
"no."
"but you will be, if he comes back and goes properly down on his knees, won't you?"
"very likely."
"then you are fond of old fred?"
"i could be, if i tried."
"but you don't intend to try till the proper moment?
bless my soul, what unearthly prudence!
he's a good fellow, amy, but not the man i fancied you'd like."
"he is rich, a gentleman, and has delightful manners," began amy, trying to be quite cool and dignified, but feeling a little ashamed of herself, in spite of the sincerity of her intentions.
"i understand.
queens of society can't get on without money, so you mean to make a good match, and start in that way?
quite right and proper, as the world goes, but it sounds odd from the lips of one of your mother's girls."
"true, nevertheless."
a short speech, but the quiet decision with which it was uttered contrasted curiously with the young speaker.
laurie felt this instinctively and laid himself down again, with a sense of disappointment which he could not explain.
his look and silence, as well as a certain inward self-disapproval, ruffled amy, and made her resolve to deliver her lecture without delay.
"i wish you'd do me the favor to rouse yourself a little," she said sharply.
"do it for me, there's a dear girl."
"i could, if i tried."
and she looked as if she would like doing it in the most summary style.
"try, then.
i give you leave," returned laurie, who enjoyed having someone to tease, after his long abstinence from his favorite pastime.
"you'd be angry in five minutes."
"i'm never angry with you.
it takes two flints to make a fire.
you are as cool and soft as snow."
"you don't know what i can do.
snow produces a glow and a tingle, if applied rightly.
your indifference is half affectation, and a good stirring up would prove it."
"stir away, it won't hurt me and it may amuse you, as the big man said when his little wife beat him.
regard me in the light of a husband or a carpet, and beat till you are tired, if that sort of exercise agrees with you."
being decidedly nettled herself, and longing to see him shake off the apathy that so altered him, amy sharpened both tongue and pencil, and began.
"flo and i have got a new name for you.
it's lazy laurence.
how do you like it?"
she thought it would annoy him, but he only folded his arms under his head, with an imperturbable, "that's not bad.
thank you, ladies."
"do you want to know what i honestly think of you?"
"pining to be told."
"well, i despise you."
if she had even said 'i hate you' in a petulant or coquettish tone, he would have laughed and rather liked it, but the grave, almost sad, accent in her voice made him open his eyes, and ask quickly...
"why, if you please?"
"because, with every chance for being good, useful, and happy, you are faulty, lazy, and miserable."
"strong language, mademoiselle."
"if you like it, i'll go on."
"pray do, it's quite interesting."
"i thought you'd find it so.
selfish people always like to talk about themselves."
"am i selfish?"
the question slipped out involuntarily and in a tone of surprise, for the one virtue on which he prided himself was generosity.
"yes, very selfish," continued amy, in a calm, cool voice, twice as effective just then as an angry one.
"i'll show you how, for i've studied you while we were frolicking, and i'm not at all satisfied with you.
here you have been abroad nearly six months, and done nothing but waste time and money and disappoint your friends."
"isn't a fellow to have any pleasure after a four-year grind?"
"you don't look as if you'd had much.
at any rate, you are none the better for it, as far as i can see.
i said when we first met that you had improved.
now i take it all back, for i don't think you half so nice as when i left you at home.
you have grown abominably lazy, you like gossip, and waste time on frivolous things, you are contented to be petted and admired by silly people, instead of being loved and respected by wise ones.
with money, talent, position, health, and beauty, ah you like that old vanity!
but it's the truth, so i can't help saying it, with all these splendid things to use and enjoy, you can find nothing to do but dawdle, and instead of being the man you ought to be, you are only..."  there she stopped, with a look that had both pain and pity in it.
"saint laurence on a gridiron," added laurie, blandly finishing the sentence.
but the lecture began to take effect, for there was a wide-awake sparkle in his eyes now and a half-angry, half-injured expression replaced the former indifference.
"i supposed you'd take it so.
you men tell us we are angels, and say we can make you what we will, but the instant we honestly try to do you good, you laugh at us and won't listen, which proves how much your flattery is worth."
amy spoke bitterly, and turned her back on the exasperating martyr at her feet.
in a minute a hand came down over the page, so that she could not draw, and laurie's voice said, with a droll imitation of a penitent child, "i will be good, oh, i will be good!"
but amy did not laugh, for she was in earnest, and tapping on the outspread hand with her pencil, said soberly, "aren't you ashamed of a hand like that?
it's as soft and white as a woman's, and looks as if it never did anything but wear jouvin's best gloves and pick flowers for ladies.
you are not a dandy, thank heaven, so i'm glad to see there are no diamonds or big seal rings on it, only the little old one jo gave you so long ago.
dear soul, i wish she was here to help me!"
"so do i!"
the hand vanished as suddenly as it came, and there was energy enough in the echo of her wish to suit even amy.
she glanced down at him with a new thought in her mind, but he was lying with his hat half over his face, as if for shade, and his mustache hid his mouth.
she only saw his chest rise and fall, with a long breath that might have been a sigh, and the hand that wore the ring nestled down into the grass, as if to hide something too precious or too tender to be spoken of.
all in a minute various hints and trifles assumed shape and significance in amy's mind, and told her what her sister never had confided to her.
she remembered that laurie never spoke voluntarily of jo, she recalled the shadow on his face just now, the change in his character, and the wearing of the little old ring which was no ornament to a handsome hand.
girls are quick to read such signs and feel their eloquence.
amy had fancied that perhaps a love trouble was at the bottom of the alteration, and now she was sure of it.
her keen eyes filled, and when she spoke again, it was in a voice that could be beautifully soft and kind when she chose to make it so.
"i know i have no right to talk so to you, laurie, and if you weren't the sweetest-tempered fellow in the world, you'd be very angry with me.
but we are all so fond and proud of you, i couldn't bear to think they should be disappointed in you at home as i have been, though, perhaps they would understand the change better than i do."
"i think they would," came from under the hat, in a grim tone, quite as touching as a broken one.
"they ought to have told me, and not let me go blundering and scolding, when i should have been more kind and patient than ever.
i never did like that miss randal and now i hate her!"
said artful amy, wishing to be sure of her facts this time.
"hang miss randal!"
and laurie knocked the hat off his face with a look that left no doubt of his sentiments toward that young lady.
"i beg pardon, i thought..." and there she paused diplomatically.
"no, you didn't, you knew perfectly well i never cared for anyone but jo," laurie said that in his old, impetuous tone, and turned his face away as he spoke.
"i did think so, but as they never said anything about it, and you came away, i supposed i was mistaken.
and jo wouldn't be kind to you?
why, i was sure she loved you dearly."
"she was kind, but not in the right way, and it's lucky for her she didn't love me, if i'm the good-for-nothing fellow you think me.
it's her fault though, and you may tell her so."
the hard, bitter look came back again as he said that, and it troubled amy, for she did not know what balm to apply.
"i was wrong, i didn't know.
i'm very sorry i was so cross, but i can't help wishing you'd bear it better, teddy, dear."
"don't, that's her name for me!"
and laurie put up his hand with a quick gesture to stop the words spoken in jo's half-kind, half-reproachful tone.
"wait till you've tried it yourself," he added in a low voice, as he pulled up the grass by the handful.
"i'd take it manfully, and be respected if i couldn't be loved," said amy, with the decision of one who knew nothing about it.
now, laurie flattered himself that he had borne it remarkably well, making no moan, asking no sympathy, and taking his trouble away to live it down alone.
amy's lecture put the matter in a new light, and for the first time it did look weak and selfish to lose heart at the first failure, and shut himself up in moody indifference.
he felt as if suddenly shaken out of a pensive dream and found it impossible to go to sleep again.
presently he sat up and asked slowly, "do you think jo would despise me as you do?"
"yes, if she saw you now.
she hates lazy people.
why don't you do something splendid, and make her love you?"
"i did my best, but it was no use."
"graduating well, you mean?
that was no more than you ought to have done, for your grandfather's sake.
it would have been shameful to fail after spending so much time and money, when everyone knew that you could do well."
"i did fail, say what you will, for jo wouldn't love me," began laurie, leaning his head on his hand in a despondent attitude.
"no, you didn't, and you'll say so in the end, for it did you good, and proved that you could do something if you tried.
if you'd only set about another task of some sort, you'd soon be your hearty, happy self again, and forget your trouble."
"that's impossible."
"try it and see.
you needn't shrug your shoulders, and think, 'much she knows about such things'.
i don't pretend to be wise, but i am observing, and i see a great deal more than you'd imagine.
i'm interested in other people's experiences and inconsistencies, and though i can't explain, i remember and use them for my own benefit.
love jo all your days, if you choose, but don't let it spoil you, for it's wicked to throw away so many good gifts because you can't have the one you want.
there, i won't lecture any more, for i know you'll wake up and be a man in spite of that hardhearted girl."
neither spoke for several minutes.
laurie sat turning the little ring on his finger, and amy put the last touches to the hasty sketch she had been working at while she talked.
presently she put it on his knee, merely saying, "how do you like that?"
he looked and then he smiled, as he could not well help doing, for it was capitally done, the long, lazy figure on the grass, with listless face, half-shut eyes, and one hand holding a cigar, from which came the little wreath of smoke that encircled the dreamer's head.
"how well you draw!"
he said, with a genuine surprise and pleasure at her skill, adding, with a half-laugh, "yes, that's me."
"as you are.
this is as you were."
and amy laid another sketch beside the one he held.
it was not nearly so well done, but there was a life and spirit in it which atoned for many faults, and it recalled the past so vividly that a sudden change swept over the young man's face as he looked.
only a rough sketch of laurie taming a horse.
hat and coat were off, and every line of the active figure, resolute face, and commanding attitude was full of energy and meaning.
the handsome brute, just subdued, stood arching his neck under the tightly drawn rein, with one foot impatiently pawing the ground, and ears pricked up as if listening for the voice that had mastered him.
in the ruffled mane, the rider's breezy hair and erect attitude, there was a suggestion of suddenly arrested motion, of strength, courage, and youthful buoyancy that contrasted sharply with the supine grace of the 'dolce far niente'
sketch.
laurie said nothing but as his eye went from one to the other, amy saw him flush up and fold his lips together as if he read and accepted the little lesson she had given him.
that satisfied her, and without waiting for him to speak, she said, in her sprightly way...
"don't you remember the day you played rarey with puck, and we all looked on?
meg and beth were frightened, but jo clapped and pranced, and i sat on the fence and drew you.
i found that sketch in my portfolio the other day, touched it up, and kept it to show you."
"much obliged.
you've improved immensely since then, and i congratulate you.
may i venture to suggest in 'a honeymoon paradise'
that five o'clock is the dinner hour at your hotel?"
laurie rose as he spoke, returned the pictures with a smile and a bow and looked at his watch, as if to remind her that even moral lectures should have an end.
he tried to resume his former easy, indifferent air, but it was an affectation now, for the rousing had been more effacious than he would confess.
amy felt the shade of coldness in his manner, and said to herself...
"now, i've offended him.
well, if it does him good, i'm glad, if it makes him hate me, i'm sorry, but it's true, and i can't take back a word of it."
they laughed and chatted all the way home, and little baptiste, up behind, thought that monsieur and madamoiselle were in charming spirits.
but both felt ill at ease.
the friendly frankness was disturbed, the sunshine had a shadow over it, and despite their apparent gaiety, there was a secret discontent in the heart of each.
"shall we see you this evening, mon frere?"
asked amy, as they parted at her aunt's door.
"unfortunately i have an engagement.
au revoir, madamoiselle," and laurie bent as if to kiss her hand, in the foreign fashion, which became him better than many men.
something in his face made amy say quickly and warmly...
"no, be yourself with me, laurie, and part in the good old way.
i'd rather have a hearty english handshake than all the sentimental salutations in france."
"goodbye, dear," and with these words, uttered in the tone she liked, laurie left her, after a handshake almost painful in its heartiness.
next morning, instead of the usual call, amy received a note which made her smile at the beginning and sigh at the end.
my dear mentor, please make my adieux to your aunt, and exult within yourself, for 'lazy laurence' has gone to his grandpa, like the best of boys.
a pleasant winter to you, and may the gods grant you a blissful honeymoon at valrosa!
i think fred would be benefited by a rouser.
tell him so, with my congratulations.
yours gratefully, telemachus
"good boy!
i'm glad he's gone," said amy, with an approving smile.
the next minute her face fell as she glanced about the empty room, adding, with an involuntary sigh, "yes, i am glad, but how i shall miss him."
chapter forty
the valley of the shadow
when the first bitterness was over, the family accepted the inevitable, and tried to bear it cheerfully, helping one another by the increased affection which comes to bind households tenderly together in times of trouble.
they put away their grief, and each did his or her part toward making that last year a happy one.
the pleasantest room in the house was set apart for beth, and in it was gathered everything that she most loved, flowers, pictures, her piano, the little worktable, and the beloved pussies.
father's best books found their way there, mother's easy chair, jo's desk, amy's finest sketches, and every day meg brought her babies on a loving pilgrimage, to make sunshine for aunty beth.
john quietly set apart a little sum, that he might enjoy the pleasure of keeping the invalid supplied with the fruit she loved and longed for.
old hannah never wearied of concocting dainty dishes to tempt a capricious appetite, dropping tears as she worked, and from across the sea came little gifts and cheerful letters, seeming to bring breaths of warmth and fragrance from lands that know no winter.
here, cherished like a household saint in its shrine, sat beth, tranquil and busy as ever, for nothing could change the sweet, unselfish nature, and even while preparing to leave life, she tried to make it happier for those who should remain behind.
the feeble fingers were never idle, and one of her pleasures was to make little things for the school children daily passing to and fro, to drop a pair of mittens from her window for a pair of purple hands, a needlebook for some small mother of many dolls, penwipers for young penmen toiling through forests of pothooks, scrapbooks for picture-loving eyes, and all manner of pleasant devices, till the reluctant climbers of the ladder of learning found their way strewn with flowers, as it were, and came to regard the gentle giver as a sort of fairy godmother, who sat above there, and showered down gifts miraculously suited to their tastes and needs.
if beth had wanted any reward, she found it in the bright little faces always turned up to her window, with nods and smiles, and the droll little letters which came to her, full of blots and gratitude.
the first few months were very happy ones, and beth often used to look round, and say "how beautiful this is!"
as they all sat together in her sunny room, the babies kicking and crowing on the floor, mother and sisters working near, and father reading, in his pleasant voice, from the wise old books which seemed rich in good and comfortable words, as applicable now as when written centuries ago, a little chapel, where a paternal priest taught his flock the hard lessons all must learn, trying to show them that hope can comfort love, and faith make resignation possible.
simple sermons, that went straight to the souls of those who listened, for the father's heart was in the minister's religion, and the frequent falter in the voice gave a double eloquence to the words he spoke or read.
it was well for all that this peaceful time was given them as preparation for the sad hours to come, for by-and-by, beth said the needle was 'so heavy', and put it down forever.
talking wearied her, faces troubled her, pain claimed her for its own, and her tranquil spirit was sorrowfully perturbed by the ills that vexed her feeble flesh.
ah me!
such heavy days, such long, long nights, such aching hearts and imploring prayers, when those who loved her best were forced to see the thin hands stretched out to them beseechingly, to hear the bitter cry, "help me, help me!"
and to feel that there was no help.
a sad eclipse of the serene soul, a sharp struggle of the young life with death, but both were mercifully brief, and then the natural rebellion over, the old peace returned more beautiful than ever.
with the wreck of her frail body, beth's soul grew strong, and though she said little, those about her felt that she was ready, saw that the first pilgrim called was likewise the fittest, and waited with her on the shore, trying to see the shining ones coming to receive her when she crossed the river.
jo never left her for an hour since beth had said "i feel stronger when you are here."
she slept on a couch in the room, waking often to renew the fire, to feed, lift, or wait upon the patient creature who seldom asked for anything, and 'tried not to be a trouble'.
all day she haunted the room, jealous of any other nurse, and prouder of being chosen then than of any honor her life ever brought her.
precious and helpful hours to jo, for now her heart received the teaching that it needed.
lessons in patience were so sweetly taught her that she could not fail to learn them, charity for all, the lovely spirit that can forgive and truly forget unkindness, the loyalty to duty that makes the hardest easy, and the sincere faith that fears nothing, but trusts undoubtingly.
often when she woke jo found beth reading in her well-worn little book, heard her singing softly, to beguile the sleepless night, or saw her lean her face upon her hands, while slow tears dropped through the transparent fingers, and jo would lie watching her with thoughts too deep for tears, feeling that beth, in her simple, unselfish way, was trying to wean herself from the dear old life, and fit herself for the life to come, by sacred words of comfort, quiet prayers, and the music she loved so well.
seeing this did more for jo than the wisest sermons, the saintliest hymns, the most fervent prayers that any voice could utter.
for with eyes made clear by many tears, and a heart softened by the tenderest sorrow, she recognized the beauty of her sister's life uneventful, unambitious, yet full of the genuine virtues which 'smell sweet, and blossom in the dust', the self-forgetfulness that makes the humblest on earth remembered soonest in heaven, the true success which is possible to all.
one night when beth looked among the books upon her table, to find something to make her forget the mortal weariness that was almost as hard to bear as pain, as she turned the leaves of her old favorite, pilgrims's progress, she found a little paper, scribbled over in jo's hand.
the name caught her eye and the blurred look of the lines made her sure that tears had fallen on it.
"poor jo!
she's fast asleep, so i won't wake her to ask leave.
she shows me all her things, and i don't think she'll mind if i look at this", thought beth, with a glance at her sister, who lay on the rug, with the tongs beside her, ready to wake up the minute the log fell apart.
my beth
sitting patient in the shadow     till the blessed light shall come,     a serene and saintly presence     sanctifies our troubled home.
earthly joys and hopes and sorrows     break like ripples on the strand     of the deep and solemn river     where her willing feet now stand.
o my sister, passing from me,     out of human care and strife,     leave me, as a gift, those virtues     which have beautified your life.
dear, bequeath me that great patience     which has power to sustain     a cheerful, uncomplaining spirit     in its prison-house of pain.
give me, for i need it sorely,     of that courage, wise and sweet,     which has made the path of duty     green beneath your willing feet.
give me that unselfish nature,     that with charity divine     can pardon wrong for love's dear sake
meek heart, forgive me mine!
thus our parting daily loseth     something of its bitter pain,     and while learning this hard lesson,     my great loss becomes my gain.
for the touch of grief will render     my wild nature more serene,     give to life new aspirations,     a new trust in the unseen.
henceforth, safe across the river,     i shall see forever more     a beloved, household spirit     waiting for me on the shore.
hope and faith, born of my sorrow,     guardian angels shall become,     and the sister gone before me     by their hands shall lead me home.
blurred and blotted, faulty and feeble as the lines were, they brought a look of inexpressible comfort to beth's face, for her one regret had been that she had done so little, and this seemed to assure her that her life had not been useless, that her death would not bring the despair she feared.
as she sat with the paper folded between her hands, the charred log fell asunder.
jo started up, revived the blaze, and crept to the bedside, hoping beth slept.
"not asleep, but so happy, dear.
see, i found this and read it.
i knew you wouldn't care.
have i been all that to you, jo?"
she asked, with wistful, humble earnestness.
"oh, beth, so much, so much!"
and jo's head went down upon the pillow beside her sister's.
"then i don't feel as if i'd wasted my life.
i'm not so good as you make me, but i have tried to do right.
and now, when it's too late to begin even to do better, it's such a comfort to know that someone loves me so much, and feels as if i'd helped them."
"more than any one in the world, beth.
i used to think i couldn't let you go, but i'm learning to feel that i don't lose you, that you'll be more to me than ever, and death can't part us, though it seems to."
"i know it cannot, and i don't fear it any longer, for i'm sure i shall be your beth still, to love and help you more than ever.
you must take my place, jo, and be everything to father and mother when i'm gone.
they will turn to you, don't fail them, and if it's hard to work alone, remember that i don't forget you, and that you'll be happier in doing that than writing splendid books or seeing all the world, for love is the only thing that we can carry with us when we go, and it makes the end so easy."
"i'll try, beth."
and then and there jo renounced her old ambition, pledged herself to a new and better one, acknowledging the poverty of other desires, and feeling the blessed solace of a belief in the immortality of love.
so the spring days came and went, the sky grew clearer, the earth greener, the flowers were up fairly early, and the birds came back in time to say goodbye to beth, who, like a tired but trustful child, clung to the hands that had led her all her life, as father and mother guided her tenderly through the valley of the shadow, and gave her up to god.
seldom except in books do the dying utter memorable words, see visions, or depart with beatified countenances, and those who have sped many parting souls know that to most the end comes as naturally and simply as sleep.
as beth had hoped, the 'tide went out easily', and in the dark hour before dawn, on the bosom where she had drawn her first breath, she quietly drew her last, with no farewell but one loving look, one little sigh.
with tears and prayers and tender hands, mother and sisters made her ready for the long sleep that pain would never mar again, seeing with grateful eyes the beautiful serenity that soon replaced the pathetic patience that had wrung their hearts so long, and feeling with reverent joy that to their darling death was a benignant angel, not a phantom full of dread.
when morning came, for the first time in many months the fire was out, jo's place was empty, and the room was very still.
but a bird sang blithely on a budding bough, close by, the snowdrops blossomed freshly at the window, and the spring sunshine streamed in like a benediction over the placid face upon the pillow, a face so full of painless peace that those who loved it best smiled through their tears, and thanked god that beth was well at last.
chapter forty-one
learning to forget
amy's lecture did laurie good, though, of course, he did not own it till long afterward.
men seldom do, for when women are the advisers, the lords of creation don't take the advice till they have persuaded themselves that it is just what they intended to do.
then they act upon it, and, if it succeeds, they give the weaker vessel half the credit of it.
if it fails, they generously give her the whole.
laurie went back to his grandfather, and was so dutifully devoted for several weeks that the old gentleman declared the climate of nice had improved him wonderfully, and he had better try it again.
there was nothing the young gentleman would have liked better, but elephants could not have dragged him back after the scolding he had received.
pride forbid, and whenever the longing grew very strong, he fortified his resolution by repeating the words that had made the deepest impression "i despise you."
"go and do something splendid that will make her love you."
laurie turned the matter over in his mind so often that he soon brought himself to confess that he had been selfish and lazy, but then when a man has a great sorrow, he should be indulged in all sorts of vagaries till he has lived it down.
he felt that his blighted affections were quite dead now, and though he should never cease to be a faithful mourner, there was no occasion to wear his weeds ostentatiously.
jo wouldn't love him, but he might make her respect and admire him by doing something which should prove that a girl's 'no' had not spoiled his life.
he had always meant to do something, and amy's advice was quite unnecessary.
he had only been waiting till the aforesaid blighted affections were decently interred.
that being done, he felt that he was ready to 'hide his stricken heart, and still toil on'.
as goethe, when he had a joy or a grief, put it into a song, so laurie resolved to embalm his love sorrow in music, and to compose a requiem which should harrow up jo's soul and melt the heart of every hearer.
therefore the next time the old gentleman found him getting restless and moody and ordered him off, he went to vienna, where he had musical friends, and fell to work with the firm determination to distinguish himself.
but whether the sorrow was too vast to be embodied in music, or music too ethereal to uplift a mortal woe, he soon discovered that the requiem was beyond him just at present.
it was evident that his mind was not in working order yet, and his ideas needed clarifying, for often in the middle of a plaintive strain, he would find himself humming a dancing tune that vividly recalled the christmas ball at nice, especially the stout frenchman, and put an effectual stop to tragic composition for the time being.
then he tried an opera, for nothing seemed impossible in the beginning, but here again unforeseen difficulties beset him.
he wanted jo for his heroine, and called upon his memory to supply him with tender recollections and romantic visions of his love.
but memory turned traitor, and as if possessed by the perverse spirit of the girl, would only recall jo's oddities, faults, and freaks, would only show her in the most unsentimental aspects beating mats with her head tied up in a bandanna, barricading herself with the sofa pillow, or throwing cold water over his passion a la gummidge and an irresistable laugh spoiled the pensive picture he was endeavoring to paint.
jo wouldn't be put into the opera at any price, and he had to give her up with a "bless that girl, what a torment she is!"
and a clutch at his hair, as became a distracted composer.
when he looked about him for another and a less intractable damsel to immortalize in melody, memory produced one with the most obliging readiness.
this phantom wore many faces, but it always had golden hair, was enveloped in a diaphanous cloud, and floated airily before his mind's eye in a pleasing chaos of roses, peacocks, white ponies, and blue ribbons.
he did not give the complacent wraith any name, but he took her for his heroine and grew quite fond of her, as well he might, for he gifted her with every gift and grace under the sun, and escorted her, unscathed, through trials which would have annihilated any mortal woman.
thanks to this inspiration, he got on swimmingly for a time, but gradually the work lost its charm, and he forgot to compose, while he sat musing, pen in hand, or roamed about the gay city to get some new ideas and refresh his mind, which seemed to be in a somewhat unsettled state that winter.
he did not do much, but he thought a great deal and was conscious of a change of some sort going on in spite of himself.
"it's genius simmering, perhaps.
i'll let it simmer, and see what comes of it," he said, with a secret suspicion all the while that it wasn't genius, but something far more common.
whatever it was, it simmered to some purpose, for he grew more and more discontented with his desultory life, began to long for some real and earnest work to go at, soul and body, and finally came to the wise conclusion that everyone who loved music was not a composer.
returning from one of mozart's grand operas, splendidly performed at the royal theatre, he looked over his own, played a few of the best parts, sat staring at the busts of mendelssohn, beethoven, and bach, who stared benignly back again.
then suddenly he tore up his music sheets, one by one, and as the last fluttered out of his hand, he said soberly to himself...
"she is right!
talent isn't genius, and you can't make it so.
that music has taken the vanity out of me as rome took it out of her, and i won't be a humbug any longer.
now what shall i do?"
that seemed a hard question to answer, and laurie began to wish he had to work for his daily bread.
now if ever, occurred an eligible opportunity for 'going to the devil', as he once forcibly expressed it, for he had plenty of money and nothing to do, and satan is proverbially fond of providing employment for full and idle hands.
the poor fellow had temptations enough from without and from within, but he withstood them pretty well, for much as he valued liberty, he valued good faith and confidence more, so his promise to his grandfather, and his desire to be able to look honestly into the eyes of the women who loved him, and say "all's well," kept him safe and steady.
very likely some mrs. grundy will observe, "i don't believe it, boys will be boys, young men must sow their wild oats, and women must not expect miracles."
i dare say you don't, mrs. grundy, but it's true nevertheless.
women work a good many miracles, and i have a persuasion that they may perform even that of raising the standard of manhood by refusing to echo such sayings.
let the boys be boys, the longer the better, and let the young men sow their wild oats if they must.
but mothers, sisters, and friends may help to make the crop a small one, and keep many tares from spoiling the harvest, by believing, and showing that they believe, in the possibility of loyalty to the virtues which make men manliest in good women's eyes.
if it is a feminine delusion, leave us to enjoy it while we may, for without it half the beauty and the romance of life is lost, and sorrowful forebodings would embitter all our hopes of the brave, tenderhearted little lads, who still love their mothers better than themselves and are not ashamed to own it.
laurie thought that the task of forgetting his love for jo would absorb all his powers for years, but to his great surprise he discovered it grew easier every day.
he refused to believe it at first, got angry with himself, and couldn't understand it, but these hearts of ours are curious and contrary things, and time and nature work their will in spite of us.
laurie's heart wouldn't ache.
the wound persisted in healing with a rapidity that astonished him, and instead of trying to forget, he found himself trying to remember.
he had not foreseen this turn of affairs, and was not prepared for it.
he was disgusted with himself, surprised at his own fickleness, and full of a queer mixture of disappointment and relief that he could recover from such a tremendous blow so soon.
he carefully stirred up the embers of his lost love, but they refused to burst into a blaze.
there was only a comfortable glow that warmed and did him good without putting him into a fever, and he was reluctantly obliged to confess that the boyish passion was slowly subsiding into a more tranquil sentiment, very tender, a little sad and resentful still, but that was sure to pass away in time, leaving a brotherly affection which would last unbroken to the end.
as the word 'brotherly' passed through his mind in one of his reveries, he smiled, and glanced up at the picture of mozart that was before him...
"well, he was a great man, and when he couldn't have one sister he took the other, and was happy."
laurie did not utter the words, but he thought them, and the next instant kissed the little old ring, saying to himself, "no, i won't!
i haven't forgotten, i never can.
i'll try again, and if that fails, why then..."
leaving his sentence unfinished, he seized pen and paper and wrote to jo, telling her that he could not settle to anything while there was the least hope of her changing her mind.
couldn't she, wouldn't she and let him come home and be happy?
while waiting for an answer he did nothing, but he did it energetically, for he was in a fever of impatience.
it came at last, and settled his mind effectually on one point, for jo decidedly couldn't and wouldn't.
she was wrapped up in beth, and never wished to hear the word love again.
then she begged him to be happy with somebody else, but always keep a little corner of his heart for his loving sister jo.
in a postscript she desired him not to tell amy that beth was worse, she was coming home in the spring and there was no need of saddening the remainder of her stay.
that would be time enough, please god, but laurie must write to her often, and not let her feel lonely, homesick or anxious.
"so i will, at once.
poor little girl, it will be a sad going home for her, i'm afraid," and laurie opened his desk, as if writing to amy had been the proper conclusion of the sentence left unfinished some weeks before.
but he did not write the letter that day, for as he rummaged out his best paper, he came across something which changed his purpose.
tumbling about in one part of the desk among bills, passports, and business documents of various kinds were several of jo's letters, and in another compartment were three notes from amy, carefully tied up with one of her blue ribbons and sweetly suggestive of the little dead roses put away inside.
with a half-repentant, half-amused expression, laurie gathered up all jo's letters, smoothed, folded, and put them neatly into a small drawer of the desk, stood a minute turning the ring thoughtfully on his finger, then slowly drew it off, laid it with the letters, locked the drawer, and went out to hear high mass at saint stefan's, feeling as if there had been a funeral, and though not overwhelmed with affliction, this seemed a more proper way to spend the rest of the day than in writing letters to charming young ladies.
the letter went very soon, however, and was promptly answered, for amy was homesick, and confessed it in the most delightfully confiding manner.
the correspondence flourished famously, and letters flew to and fro with unfailing regularity all through the early spring.
laurie sold his busts, made allumettes of his opera, and went back to paris, hoping somebody would arrive before long.
he wanted desperately to go to nice, but would not till he was asked, and amy would not ask him, for just then she was having little experiences of her own, which made her rather wish to avoid the quizzical eyes of 'our boy'.
fred vaughn had returned, and put the question to which she had once decided to answer, "yes, thank you," but now she said, "no, thank you,"
kindly but steadily, for when the time came, her courage failed her, and she found that something more than money and position was needed to satisfy the new longing that filled her heart so full of tender hopes and fears.
the words, "fred is a good fellow, but not at all the man i fancied you would ever like," and laurie's face when he uttered them, kept returning to her as pertinaciously as her own did when she said in look, if not in words, "i shall marry for money."
it troubled her to remember that now, she wished she could take it back, it sounded so unwomanly.
she didn't want laurie to think her a heartless,  worldly creature.
she didn't care to be a queen of society now half so much as she did to be a lovable woman.
she was so glad he didn't hate her for the dreadful things she said, but took them so beautifully and was kinder than ever.
his letters were such a comfort, for the home letters were very irregular and not half so satisfactory as his when they did come.
it was not only a pleasure, but a duty to answer them, for the poor fellow was forlorn, and needed petting, since jo persisted in being stonyhearted.
she ought to have made an effort and tried to love him.
it couldn't be very hard, many people would be proud and glad to have such a dear boy care for them.
but jo never would act like other girls, so there was nothing to do but be very kind and treat him like a brother.
if all brothers were treated as well as laurie was at this period, they would be a much happier race of beings than they are.
amy never lectured now.
she asked his opinion on all subjects, she was interested in everything he did, made charming little presents for him, and sent him two letters a week, full of lively gossip, sisterly confidences, and captivating sketches of the lovely scenes about her.
as few brothers are complimented by having their letters carried about in their sister's pockets, read and reread diligently, cried over when short, kissed when long, and treasured carefully, we will not hint that amy did any of these fond and foolish things.
but she certainly did grow a little pale and pensive that spring, lost much of her relish for society, and went out sketching alone a good deal.
she never had much to show when she came home, but was studying nature, i dare say, while she sat for hours, with her hands folded, on the terrace at valrosa, or absently sketched any fancy that occurred to her, a stalwart knight carved on a tomb, a young man asleep in the grass, with his hat over his eyes, or a curly haired girl in gorgeous array, promenading down a ballroom on the arm of a tall gentleman, both faces being left a blur according to the last fashion in art, which was safe but not altogether satisfactory.
her aunt thought that she regretted her answer to fred, and finding denials useless and explanations impossible, amy left her to think what she liked, taking care that laurie should know that fred had gone to egypt.
that was all, but he understood it, and looked relieved, as he said to himself, with a venerable air...
"i was sure she would think better of it.
poor old fellow!
i've been through it all, and i can sympathize."
with that he heaved a great sigh, and then, as if he had discharged his duty to the past, put his feet up on the sofa and enjoyed amy's letter luxuriously.
while these changes were going on abroad, trouble had come at home.
but the letter telling that beth was failing never reached amy, and when they next found her the grass was green above her sister.
the sad news met her at at vevay, for the heat had driven them from nice in may, and they had travelled slowly to switzerland, by way of genoa and the italian lakes.
she bore it very well, and quietly submitted to the family decree that she should not shorten her visit, for since it was too late to say goodbye to beth, she had better stay, and let absence soften her sorrow.
but her heart was very heavy, she longed to be at home, and every day looked wistfully across the lake, waiting for laurie to come and comfort her.
he did come very soon, for the same mail brought letters to them both, but he was in germany, and it took some days to reach him.
the moment he read it, he packed his knapsack, bade adieu to his fellow pedestrians, and was off to keep his promise, with a heart full of joy and sorrow, hope and suspense.
he knew vevay well, and as soon as the boat touched the little quay, he hurried along the shore to la tour, where the carrols were living en pension.
the garcon was in despair that the whole family had gone to take a promenade on the lake, but no, the blonde mademoiselle might be in the chateau garden.
if monsieur would give himself the pain of sitting down, a flash of time should present her.
but monsieur could not wait even a 'flash of time', and in the middle of the speech departed to find mademoiselle himself.
a pleasant old garden on the borders of the lovely lake, with chestnuts rustling overhead, ivy climbing everywhere, and the black shadow of the tower falling far across the sunny water.
at one corner of the wide, low wall was a seat, and here amy often came to read or work, or console herself with the beauty all about her.
she was sitting here that day, leaning her head on her hand, with a homesick heart and heavy eyes, thinking of beth and wondering why laurie did not come.
she did not hear him cross the courtyard beyond, nor see him pause in the archway that led from the subterranean path into the garden.
he stood a minute looking at her with new eyes, seeing what no one had ever seen before, the tender side of amy's character.
everything about her mutely suggested love and sorrow, the blotted letters in her lap, the black ribbon that tied up her hair, the womanly pain and patience in her face, even the little ebony cross at her throat seemed pathetic to laurie, for he had given it to her, and she wore it as her only ornament.
if he had any doubts about the reception she would give him, they were set at rest the minute she looked up and saw him, for dropping everything, she ran to him, exclaiming in a tone of unmistakable love and longing...
"oh, laurie, laurie, i knew you'd come to me!"
i think everything was said and settled then, for as they stood together quite silent for a moment, with the dark head bent down protectingly over the light one, amy felt that no one could comfort and sustain her so well as laurie, and laurie decided that amy was the only woman in the world who could fill jo's place and make him happy.
he did not tell her so, but she was not disappointed, for both felt the truth, were satisfied, and gladly left the rest to silence.
in a minute amy went back to her place, and while she dried her tears, laurie gathered up the scattered papers, finding in the sight of sundry well-worn letters and suggestive sketches good omens for the future.
as he sat down beside her, amy felt shy again, and turned rosy red at the recollection of her impulsive greeting.
"i couldn't help it, i felt so lonely and sad, and was so very glad to see you.
it was such a surprise to look up and find you, just as i was beginning to fear you wouldn't come," she said, trying in vain to speak quite naturally.
"i came the minute i heard.
i wish i could say something to comfort you for the loss of dear little beth, but i can only feel, and..."  he could not get any further, for he too turned bashful all of a sudden, and did not quite know what to say.
he longed to lay amy's head down on his shoulder, and tell her to have a good cry, but he did not dare, so took her hand instead, and gave it a sympathetic squeeze that was better than words.
"you needn't say anything, this comforts me," she said softly.
"beth is well and happy, and i mustn't wish her back, but i dread the going home, much as i long to see them all.
we won't talk about it now, for it makes me cry, and i want to enjoy you while you stay.
you needn't go right back, need you?"
"not if you want me, dear."
"i do, so much.
aunt and flo are very kind, but you seem like one of the family, and it would be so comfortable to have you for a little while."
amy spoke and looked so like a homesick child whose heart was full that laurie forgot his bashfulness all at once, and gave her just what she wanted the petting she was used to and the cheerful conversation she needed.
"poor little soul, you look as if you'd grieved yourself half sick!
i'm going to take care of you, so don't cry any more, but come and walk about with me, the wind is too chilly for you to sit still," he said, in the half-caressing, half-commanding way that amy liked, as he tied on her hat, drew her arm through his, and began to pace up and down the sunny walk under the new-leaved chestnuts.
he felt more at ease upon his legs, and amy found it pleasant to have a strong arm to lean upon, a familiar face to smile at her, and a kind voice to talk delightfully for her alone.
the quaint old garden had sheltered many pairs of lovers, and seemed expressly made for them, so sunny and secluded was it, with nothing but the tower to overlook them, and the wide lake to carry away the echo of their words, as it rippled by below.
for an hour this new pair walked and talked, or rested on the wall, enjoying the sweet influences which gave such a charm to time and place, and when an unromantic dinner bell warned them away, amy felt as if she left her burden of loneliness and sorrow behind her in the chateau garden.
the moment mrs. carrol saw the girl's altered face, she was illuminated with a new idea, and exclaimed to herself, "now i understand it all the child has been pining for young laurence.
bless my heart, i never thought of such a thing!"
with praiseworthy discretion, the good lady said nothing, and betrayed no sign of enlightenment, but cordially urged laurie to stay and begged amy to enjoy his society, for it would do her more good than so much solitude.
amy was a model of docility, and as her aunt was a good deal occupied with flo, she was left to entertain her friend, and did it with more than her usual success.
at nice, laurie had lounged and amy had scolded.
at vevay, laurie was never idle, but always walking, riding, boating, or studying in the most energetic manner, while amy admired everything he did and followed his example as far and as fast as she could.
he said the change was owing to the climate, and she did not contradict him, being glad of a like excuse for her own recovered health and spirits.
the invigorating air did them both good, and much exercise worked wholesome changes in minds as well as bodies.
they seemed to get clearer views of life and duty up there among the everlasting hills.
the fresh winds blew away desponding doubts, delusive fancies, and moody mists.
the warm spring sunshine brought out all sorts of aspiring ideas, tender hopes, and happy thoughts.
the lake seemed to wash away the troubles of the past, and the grand old mountains to look benignly down upon them saying, "little children, love one another."
in spite of the new sorrow, it was a very happy time, so happy that laurie could not bear to disturb it by a word.
it took him a little while to recover from his surprise at the cure of his first, and as he had firmly believed, his last and only love.
he consoled himself for the seeming disloyalty by the thought that jo's sister was almost the same as jo's self, and the conviction that it would have been impossible to love any other woman but amy so soon and so well.
his first wooing had been of the tempestuous order, and he looked back upon it as if through a long vista of years with a feeling of compassion blended with regret.
he was not ashamed of it, but put it away as one of the bitter-sweet experiences of his life, for which he could be grateful when the pain was over.
his second wooing, he resolved, should be as calm and simple as possible.
there was no need of having a scene, hardly any need of telling amy that he loved her, she knew it without words and had given him his answer long ago.
it all came about so naturally that no one could complain, and he knew that everybody would be pleased, even jo.
but when our first little passion has been crushed, we are apt to be wary and slow in making a second trial, so laurie let the days pass, enjoying every hour, and leaving to chance the utterance of the word that would put an end to the first and sweetest part of his new romance.
he had rather imagined that the denoument would take place in the chateau garden by moonlight, and in the most graceful and decorous manner, but it turned out exactly the reverse, for the matter was settled on the lake at noonday in a few blunt words.
they had been floating about all the morning, from gloomy st.  gingolf to sunny montreux, with the alps of savoy on one side, mont st.  bernard and the dent du midi on the other, pretty vevay in the valley, and lausanne upon the hill beyond, a cloudless blue sky overhead, and the bluer lake below, dotted with the picturesque boats that look like white-winged gulls.
they had been talking of bonnivard, as they glided past chillon, and of rousseau, as they looked up at clarens, where he wrote his heloise.
neither had read it, but they knew it was a love story, and each privately wondered if it was half as interesting as their own.
amy had been dabbling her hand in the water during the little pause that fell between them, and when she looked up, laurie was leaning on his oars with an expression in his eyes that made her say hastily, merely for the sake of saying something...
"you must be tired.
rest a little, and let me row.
it will do me good, for since you came i have been altogether lazy and luxurious."
"i'm not tired, but you may take an oar, if you like.
there's room enough, though i have to sit nearly in the middle, else the boat won't trim," returned laurie, as if he rather liked the arrangement.
feeling that she had not mended matters much, amy took the offered third of a seat, shook her hair over her face, and accepted an oar.
she rowed as well as she did many other things, and though she used both hands, and laurie but one, the oars kept time, and the boat went smoothly through the water.
"how well we pull together, don't we?"
said amy, who objected to silence just then.
"so well that i wish we might always pull in the same boat.
will you, amy?"
very tenderly.
"yes, laurie," very low.
then they both stopped rowing, and unconsciously added a pretty little tableau of human love and happiness to the dissolving views reflected in the lake.
chapter forty-two
all alone
it was easy to promise self-abnegation when self was wrapped up in another, and heart and soul were purified by a sweet example.
but when the helpful voice was silent, the daily lesson over, the beloved presence gone, and nothing remained but loneliness and grief, then jo found her promise very hard to keep.
how could she 'comfort father and mother' when her own heart ached with a ceaseless longing for her sister, how could she 'make the house cheerful' when all its light and warmth and beauty seemed to have deserted it when beth left the old home for the new, and where in all the world could she 'find some useful, happy work to do', that would take the place of the loving service which had been its own reward?
she tried in a blind, hopeless way to do her duty, secretly rebelling against it all the while, for it seemed unjust that her few joys should be lessened, her burdens made heavier, and life get harder and harder as she toiled along.
some people seemed to get all sunshine, and some all shadow.
it was not fair, for she tried more than amy to be good, but never got any reward, only disappointment, trouble and hard work.
poor jo, these were dark days to her, for something like despair came over her when she thought of spending all her life in that quiet house, devoted to humdrum cares, a few small pleasures, and the duty that never seemed to grow any easier.
"i can't do it.
i wasn't meant for a life like this, and i know i shall break away and do something desperate if somebody doesn't come and help me," she said to herself, when her first efforts failed and she fell into the moody, miserable state of mind which often comes when strong wills have to yield to the inevitable.
but someone did come and help her, though jo did not recognize her good angels at once because they wore familiar shapes and used the simple spells best fitted to poor humanity.
often she started up at night, thinking beth called her, and when the sight of the little empty bed made her cry with the bitter cry of unsubmissive sorrow, "oh, beth, come back!
come back!"
she did not stretch out her yearning arms in vain.
for, as quick to hear her sobbing as she had been to hear her sister's faintest whisper, her mother came to comfort her, not with words only, but the patient tenderness that soothes by a touch, tears that were mute reminders of a greater grief than jo's, and broken whispers, more eloquent than prayers, because hopeful resignation went hand-in-hand with natural sorrow.
sacred moments, when heart talked to heart in the silence of the night, turning affliction to a blessing, which chastened grief and strengthened love.
feeling this, jo's burden seemed easier to bear, duty grew sweeter, and life looked more endurable, seen from the safe shelter of her mother's arms.
when aching heart was a little comforted, troubled mind likewise found help, for one day she went to the study, and leaning over the good gray head lifted to welcome her with a tranquil smile, she said very humbly, "father, talk to me as you did to beth.
i need it more than she did, for i'm all wrong."
"my dear, nothing can comfort me like this," he answered, with a falter in his voice, and both arms round her, as if he too, needed help, and did not fear to ask for it.
then, sitting in beth's little chair close beside him, jo told her troubles, the resentful sorrow for her loss, the fruitless efforts that discouraged her, the want of faith that made life look so dark, and all the sad bewilderment which we call despair.
she gave him entire confidence, he gave her the help she needed, and both found consolation in the act.
for the time had come when they could talk together not only as father and daughter, but as man and woman, able and glad to serve each other with mutual sympathy as well as mutual love.
happy, thoughtful times there in the old study which jo called 'the church of one member', and from which she came with fresh courage, recovered cheerfulness, and a more submissive spirit.
for the parents who had taught one child to meet death without fear, were trying now to teach another to accept life without despondency or distrust, and to use its beautiful opportunities with gratitude and power.
other helps had jo humble, wholesome duties and delights that would not be denied their part in serving her, and which she slowly learned to see and value.
brooms and dishcloths never could be as distasteful as they once had been, for beth had presided over both, and something of her housewifely spirit seemed to linger around the little mop and the old brush, never thrown away.
as she used them, jo found herself humming the songs beth used to hum, imitating beth's orderly ways, and giving the little touches here and there that kept everything fresh and cozy, which was the first step toward making home happy, though she didn't know it till hannah said with an approving squeeze of the hand...
"you thoughtful creeter, you're determined we shan't miss that dear lamb ef you can help it.
we don't say much, but we see it, and the lord will bless you for't, see ef he don't."
as they sat sewing together, jo discovered how much improved her sister meg was, how well she could talk, how much she knew about good, womanly impulses, thoughts, and feelings, how happy she was in husband and children, and how much they were all doing for each other.
"marriage is an excellent thing, after all.
i wonder if i should blossom out half as well as you have, if i tried it?, always 'perwisin' i could," said jo, as she constructed a kite for demi in the topsy-turvy nursery.
"it's just what you need to bring out the tender womanly half of your nature, jo.
you are like a chestnut burr, prickly outside, but silky-soft within, and a sweet kernal, if one can only get at it.
love will make you show your heart one day, and then the rough burr will fall off."
"frost opens chestnut burrs, ma'am, and it takes a good shake to bring them down.
boys go nutting, and i don't care to be bagged by them,"
returned jo, pasting away at the kite which no wind that blows would ever carry up, for daisy had tied herself on as a bob.
meg laughed, for she was glad to see a glimmer of jo's old spirit, but she felt it her duty to enforce her opinion by every argument in her power, and the sisterly chats were not wasted, especially as two of meg's most effective arguments were the babies, whom jo loved tenderly.
grief is the best opener of some hearts, and jo's was nearly ready for the bag.
a little more sunshine to ripen the nut, then, not a boy's impatient shake, but a man's hand reached up to pick it gently from the burr, and find the kernal sound and sweet.
if she suspected this, she would have shut up tight, and been more prickly than ever, fortunately she wasn't thinking about herself, so when the time came, down she dropped.
now, if she had been the heroine of a moral storybook, she ought at this period of her life to have become quite saintly, renounced the world, and gone about doing good in a mortified bonnet, with tracts in her pocket.
but, you see, jo wasn't a heroine, she was only a struggling human girl like hundreds of others, and she just acted out her nature, being sad, cross, listless, or energetic, as the mood suggested.
it's highly virtuous to say we'll be good, but we can't do it all at once, and it takes a long pull, a strong pull, and a pull all together before some of us even get our feet set in the right way.
jo had got so far, she was learning to do her duty, and to feel unhappy if she did not, but to do it cheerfully, ah, that was another thing!
she had often said she wanted to do something splendid, no matter how hard, and now she had her wish, for what could be more beautiful than to devote her life to father and mother, trying to make home as happy to them as they had to her?
and if difficulties were necessary to increase the splendor of the effort, what could be harder for a restless, ambitious girl than to give up her own hopes, plans, and desires, and cheerfully live for others?
providence had taken her at her word.
here was the task, not what she had expected, but better because self had no part in it.
now, could she do it?
she decided that she would try, and in her first attempt she found the helps i have suggested.
still another was given her, and she took it, not as a reward, but as a comfort, as christian took the refreshment afforded by the little arbor where he rested, as he climbed the hill called difficulty.
"why don't you write?
that always used to make you happy," said her mother once, when the desponding fit over-shadowed jo.
"i've no heart to write, and if i had, nobody cares for my things."
"we do.
write something for us, and never mind the rest of the world.
try it, dear.
i'm sure it would do you good, and please us very much."
"don't believe i can."
but jo got out her desk and began to overhaul her half-finished manuscripts.
an hour afterward her mother peeped in and there she was, scratching away, with her black pinafore on, and an absorbed expression, which caused mrs. march to smile and slip away, well pleased with the success of her suggestion.
jo never knew how it happened, but something got into that story that went straight to the hearts of those who read it, for when her family had laughed and cried over it, her father sent it, much against her will, to one of the popular magazines, and to her utter surprise, it was not only paid for, but others requested.
letters from several persons, whose praise was honor, followed the appearance of the little story, newspapers copied it, and strangers as well as friends admired it.
for a small thing it was a great success, and jo was more astonished than when her novel was commended and condemned all at once.
"i don't understand it.
what can there be in a simple little story like that to make people praise it so?"
she said, quite bewildered.
"there is truth in it, jo, that's the secret.
humor and pathos make it alive, and you have found your style at last.
you wrote with no thoughts of fame and money, and put your heart into it, my daughter.
you have had the bitter, now comes the sweet.
do your best, and grow as happy as we are in your success."
"if there is anything good or true in what i write, it isn't mine.
i owe it all to you and mother and beth," said jo, more touched by her father's words than by any amount of praise from the world.
so taught by love and sorrow, jo wrote her little stories, and sent them away to make friends for themselves and her, finding it a very charitable world to such humble wanderers, for they were kindly welcomed, and sent home comfortable tokens to their mother, like dutiful children whom good fortune overtakes.
when amy and laurie wrote of their engagement, mrs. march feared that jo would find it difficult to rejoice over it, but her fears were soon set at rest, for though jo looked grave at first, she took it very quietly, and was full of hopes and plans for 'the children' before she read the letter twice.
it was a sort of written duet, wherein each glorified the other in loverlike fashion, very pleasant to read and satisfactory to think of, for no one had any objection to make.
"you like it, mother?"
said jo, as they laid down the closely written sheets and looked at one another.
"yes, i hoped it would be so, ever since amy wrote that she had refused fred.
i felt sure then that something better than what you call the 'mercenary spirit' had come over her, and a hint here and there in her letters made me suspect that love and laurie would win the day."
"how sharp you are, marmee, and how silent!
you never said a word to me."
"mothers have need of sharp eyes and discreet tongues when they have girls to manage.
i was half afraid to put the idea into your head, lest you should write and congratulate them before the thing was settled."
"i'm not the scatterbrain i was.
you may trust me.
i'm sober and sensible enough for anyone's confidante now."
"so you are, my dear, and i should have made you mine, only i fancied it might pain you to learn that your teddy loved someone else."
"now, mother, did you really think i could be so silly and selfish, after i'd refused his love, when it was freshest, if not best?"
"i knew you were sincere then, jo, but lately i have thought that if he came back, and asked again, you might perhaps, feel like giving another answer.
forgive me, dear, i can't help seeing that you are very lonely, and sometimes there is a hungry look in your eyes that goes to my heart.
so i fancied that your boy might fill the empty place if he tried now."
"no, mother, it is better as it is, and i'm glad amy has learned to love him.
but you are right in one thing.
i am lonely, and perhaps if teddy had tried again, i might have said 'yes', not because i love him any more, but because i care more to be loved than when he went away."
"i'm glad of that, jo, for it shows that you are getting on.
there are plenty to love you, so try to be satisfied with father and mother, sisters and brothers, friends and babies, till the best lover of all comes to give you your reward."
"mothers are the best lovers in the world, but i don't mind whispering to marmee that i'd like to try all kinds.
it's very curious, but the more i try to satisfy myself with all sorts of natural affections, the more i seem to want.
i'd no idea hearts could take in so many.
mine is so elastic, it never seems full now, and i used to be quite contented with my family.
i don't understand it."
"i do," and mrs. march smiled her wise smile, as jo turned back the leaves to read what amy said of laurie.
"it is so beautiful to be loved as laurie loves me.
he isn't sentimental, doesn't say much about it, but i see and feel it in all he says and does, and it makes me so happy and so humble that i don't seem to be the same girl i was.
i never knew how good and generous and tender he was till now, for he lets me read his heart, and i find it full of noble impulses and hopes and purposes, and am so proud to know it's mine.
he says he feels as if he 'could make a prosperous voyage now with me aboard as mate, and lots of love for ballast'.
i pray he may, and try to be all he believes me, for i love my gallant captain with all my heart and soul and might, and never will desert him, while god lets us be together.
oh, mother, i never knew how much like heaven this world could be, when two people love and live for one another!"
"and that's our cool, reserved, and worldly amy!
truly, love does work miracles.
how very, very happy they must be!"
and jo laid the rustling sheets together with a careful hand, as one might shut the covers of a lovely romance, which holds the reader fast till the end comes, and he finds himself alone in the workaday world again.
by-and-by jo roamed away upstairs, for it was rainy, and she could not walk.
a restless spirit possessed her, and the old feeling came again, not bitter as it once was, but a sorrowfully patient wonder why one sister should have all she asked, the other nothing.
it was not true, she knew that and tried to put it away, but the natural craving for affection was strong, and amy's happiness woke the hungry longing for someone to 'love with heart and soul, and cling to while god let them be together'.
up in the garret, where jo's unquiet wanderings ended stood four little wooden chests in a row, each marked with its owners name, and each filled with relics of the childhood and girlhood ended now for all.
jo glanced into them, and when she came to her own, leaned her chin on the edge, and stared absently at the chaotic collection, till a bundle of old exercise books caught her eye.
she drew them out, turned them over, and relived that pleasant winter at kind mrs. kirke's.
she had smiled at first, then she looked thoughtful, next sad, and when she came to a little message written in the professor's hand, her lips began to tremble, the books slid out of her lap, and she sat looking at the friendly words, as they took a new meaning, and touched a tender spot in her heart.
"wait for me, my friend.
i may be a little late, but i shall surely come."
"oh, if he only would!
so kind, so good, so patient with me always, my dear old fritz.
i didn't value him half enough when i had him, but now how i should love to see him, for everyone seems going away from me, and i'm all alone."
and holding the little paper fast, as if it were a promise yet to be fulfilled, jo laid her head down on a comfortable rag bag, and cried, as if in opposition to the rain pattering on the roof.
was it all self-pity, loneliness, or low spirits?
or was it the waking up of a sentiment which had bided its time as patiently as its inspirer?
who shall say?
chapter forty-three
surprises
jo was alone in the twilight, lying on the old sofa, looking at the fire, and thinking.
it was her favorite way of spending the hour of dusk.
no one disturbed her, and she used to lie there on beth's little red pillow, planning stories, dreaming dreams, or thinking tender thoughts of the sister who never seemed far away.
her face looked tired, grave, and rather sad, for tomorrow was her birthday, and she was thinking how fast the years went by, how old she was getting, and how little she seemed to have accomplished.
almost twenty-five, and nothing to show for it.
jo was mistaken in that.
there was a good deal to show, and by-and-by she saw, and was grateful for it.
"an old maid, that's what i'm to be.
a literary spinster, with a pen for a spouse, a family of stories for children, and twenty years hence a morsel of fame, perhaps, when, like poor johnson, i'm old and can't enjoy it, solitary, and can't share it, independent, and don't need it.
well, i needn't be a sour saint nor a selfish sinner, and, i dare say, old maids are very comfortable when they get used to it, but..." and there jo sighed, as if the prospect was not inviting.
it seldom is, at first, and thirty seems the end of all things to five-and-twenty.
but it's not as bad as it looks, and one can get on quite happily if one has something in one's self to fall back upon.
at twenty-five, girls begin to talk about being old maids, but secretly resolve that they never will be.
at thirty they say nothing about it, but quietly accept the fact, and if sensible, console themselves by remembering that they have twenty more useful, happy years, in which they may be learning to grow old gracefully.
don't laugh at the spinsters, dear girls, for often very tender, tragic romances are hidden away in the hearts that beat so quietly under the sober gowns, and many silent sacrifices of youth, health, ambition, love itself, make the faded faces beautiful in god's sight.
even the sad, sour sisters should be kindly dealt with, because they have missed the sweetest part of life, if for no other reason.
and looking at them with compassion, not contempt, girls in their bloom should remember that they too may miss the blossom time.
that rosy cheeks don't last forever, that silver threads will come in the bonnie brown hair, and that, by-and-by, kindness and respect will be as sweet as love and admiration now.
gentlemen, which means boys, be courteous to the old maids, no matter how poor and plain and prim, for the only chivalry worth having is that which is the readiest to pay deference to the old, protect the feeble, and serve womankind, regardless of rank, age, or color.
just recollect the good aunts who have not only lectured and fussed, but nursed and petted, too often without thanks, the scrapes they have helped you out of, the tips they have given you from their small store, the stitches the patient old fingers have set for you, the steps the willing old feet have taken, and gratefully pay the dear old ladies the little attentions that women love to receive as long as they live.
the bright-eyed girls are quick to see such traits, and will like you all the better for them, and if death, almost the only power that can part mother and son, should rob you of yours, you will be sure to find a tender welcome and maternal cherishing from some aunt priscilla, who has kept the warmest corner of her lonely old heart for 'the best nevvy in the world'.
jo must have fallen asleep (as i dare say my reader has during this little homily), for suddenly laurie's ghost seemed to stand before her, a substantial, lifelike ghost, leaning over her with the very look he used to wear when he felt a good deal and didn't like to show it.
but, like jenny in the ballad...
"she could not think it he,"
and lay staring up at him in startled silence, till he stooped and kissed her.
then she knew him, and flew up, crying joyfully...
"oh my teddy!
oh my teddy!"
"dear jo, you are glad to see me, then?"
"glad!
my blessed boy, words can't express my gladness.
where's amy?"
"your mother has got her down at meg's.
we stopped there by the way, and there was no getting my wife out of their clutches."
"your what?"
cried jo, for laurie uttered those two words with an unconscious pride and satisfaction which betrayed him.
"oh, the dickens!
now i've done it," and he looked so guilty that jo was down on him like a flash.
"you've gone and got married!"
"yes, please, but i never will again," and he went down upon his knees, with a penitent clasping of hands, and a face full of mischief, mirth, and triumph.
"actually married?"
"very much so, thank you."
"mercy on us.
what dreadful thing will you do next?"
and jo fell into her seat with a gasp.
"a characteristic, but not exactly complimentary, congratulation,"
returned laurie, still in an abject attitude, but beaming with satisfaction.
"what can you expect, when you take one's breath away, creeping in like a burglar, and letting cats out of bags like that?
get up, you ridiculous boy, and tell me all about it."
"not a word, unless you let me come in my old place, and promise not to barricade."
jo laughed at that as she had not done for many a long day, and patted the sofa invitingly, as she said in a cordial tone, "the old pillow is up garret, and we don't need it now.
so, come and 'fess, teddy."
"how good it sounds to hear you say 'teddy'!
no one ever calls me that but you," and laurie sat down with an air of great content.
"what does amy call you?"
"my lord."
"that's like her.
well, you look it," and jo's eye plainly betrayed that she found her boy comelier than ever.
the pillow was gone, but there was a barricade, nevertheless, a natural one, raised by time, absence, and change of heart.
both felt it, and for a minute looked at one another as if that invisible barrier cast a little shadow over them.
it was gone directly however, for laurie said, with a vain attempt at dignity...
"don't i look like a married man and the head of a family?"
"not a bit, and you never will.
you've grown bigger and bonnier, but you are the same scapegrace as ever."
"now really, jo, you ought to treat me with more respect," began laurie, who enjoyed it all immensely.
"how can i, when the mere idea of you, married and settled, is so irresistibly funny that i can't keep sober!"
answered jo, smiling all over her face, so infectiously that they had another laugh, and then settled down for a good talk, quite in the pleasant old fashion.
"it's no use your going out in the cold to get amy, for they are all coming up presently.
i couldn't wait.
i wanted to be the one to tell you the grand surprise, and have 'first skim' as we used to say when we squabbled about the cream."
"of course you did, and spoiled your story by beginning at the wrong end.
now, start right, and tell me how it all happened.
i'm pining to know."
"well, i did it to please amy," began laurie, with a twinkle that made jo exclaim...
"fib number one.
amy did it to please you.
go on, and tell the truth, if you can, sir."
"now she's beginning to marm it.
isn't it jolly to hear her?"
said laurie to the fire, and the fire glowed and sparkled as if it quite agreed.
"it's all the same, you know, she and i being one.
we planned to come home with the carrols, a month or more ago, but they suddenly changed their minds, and decided to pass another winter in paris.
but grandpa wanted to come home.
he went to please me, and i couldn't let him go alone, neither could i leave amy, and mrs. carrol had got english notions about chaperons and such nonsense, and wouldn't let amy come with us.
so i just settled the difficulty by saying, 'let's be married, and then we can do as we like'."
"of course you did.
you always have things to suit you."
"not always," and something in laurie's voice made jo say hastily...
"how did you ever get aunt to agree?"
"it was hard work, but between us, we talked her over, for we had heaps of good reasons on our side.
there wasn't time to write and ask leave, but you all liked it, had consented to it by-and-by, and it was only 'taking time by the fetlock', as my wife says."
"aren't we proud of those two words, and don't we like to say them?"
interrupted jo, addressing the fire in her turn, and watching with delight the happy light it seemed to kindle in the eyes that had been so tragically gloomy when she saw them last.
"a trifle, perhaps, she's such a captivating little woman i can't help being proud of her.
well, then uncle and aunt were there to play propriety.
we were so absorbed in one another we were of no mortal use apart, and that charming arrangement would make everything easy all round, so we did it."
"when, where, how?"
asked jo, in a fever of feminine interest and curiosity, for she could not realize it a particle.
"six weeks ago, at the american consul's, in paris, a very quiet wedding of course, for even in our happiness we didn't forget dear little beth."
jo put her hand in his as he said that, and laurie gently smoothed the little red pillow, which he remembered well.
"why didn't you let us know afterward?"
asked jo, in a quieter tone, when they had sat quite still a minute.
"we wanted to surprise you.
we thought we were coming directly home, at first, but the dear old gentleman, as soon as we were married, found he couldn't be ready under a month, at least, and sent us off to spend our honeymoon wherever we liked.
amy had once called valrosa a regular honeymoon home, so we went there, and were as happy as people are but once in their lives.
my faith!
wasn't it love among the roses!"
laurie seemed to forget jo for a minute, and jo was glad of it, for the fact that he told her these things so freely and so naturally assured her that he had quite forgiven and forgotten.
she tried to draw away her hand, but as if he guessed the thought that prompted the half-involuntary impulse, laurie held it fast, and said, with a manly gravity she had never seen in him before...
"jo, dear, i want to say one thing, and then we'll put it by forever.
as i told you in my letter when i wrote that amy had been so kind to me, i never shall stop loving you, but the love is altered, and i have learned to see that it is better as it is.
amy and you changed places in my heart, that's all.
i think it was meant to be so, and would have come about naturally, if i had waited, as you tried to make me, but i never could be patient, and so i got a heartache.
i was a boy then, headstrong and violent, and it took a hard lesson to show me my mistake.
for it was one, jo, as you said, and i found it out, after making a fool of myself.
upon my word, i was so tumbled up in my mind, at one time, that i didn't know which i loved best, you or amy, and tried to love you both alike.
but i couldn't, and when i saw her in switzerland, everything seemed to clear up all at once.
you both got into your right places, and i felt sure that it was well off with the old love before it was on with the new, that i could honestly share my heart between sister jo and wife amy, and love them dearly.
will you believe it, and go back to the happy old times when we first knew one another?"
"i'll believe it, with all my heart, but, teddy, we never can be boy and girl again.
the happy old times can't come back, and we mustn't expect it.
we are man and woman now, with sober work to do, for playtime is over, and we must give up frolicking.
i'm sure you feel this.
i see the change in you, and you'll find it in me.
i shall miss my boy, but i shall love the man as much, and admire him more, because he means to be what i hoped he would.
we can't be little playmates any longer, but we will be brother and sister, to love and help one another all our lives, won't we, laurie?"
he did not say a word, but took the hand she offered him, and laid his face down on it for a minute, feeling that out of the grave of a boyish passion, there had risen a beautiful, strong friendship to bless them both.
presently jo said cheerfully, for she didn't want the coming home to be a sad one, "i can't make it true that you children are really married and going to set up housekeeping.
why, it seems only yesterday that i was buttoning amy's pinafore, and pulling your hair when you teased.
mercy me, how time does fly!"
"as one of the children is older than yourself, you needn't talk so like a grandma.
i flatter myself i'm a 'gentleman growed' as peggotty said of david, and when you see amy, you'll find her rather a precocious infant," said laurie, looking amused at her maternal air.
"you may be a little older in years, but i'm ever so much older in feeling, teddy.
women always are, and this last year has been such a hard one that i feel forty."
"poor jo!
we left you to bear it alone, while we went pleasuring.
you are older.
here's a line, and there's another.
unless you smile, your eyes look sad, and when i touched the cushion, just now, i found a tear on it.
you've had a great deal to bear, and had to bear it all alone.
what a selfish beast i've been!"
and laurie pulled his own hair, with a remorseful look.
but jo only turned over the traitorous pillow, and answered, in a tone which she tried to make more cheerful, "no, i had father and mother to help me, and the dear babies to comfort me, and the thought that you and amy were safe and happy, to make the troubles here easier to bear.
i am lonely, sometimes, but i dare say it's good for me, and..."
"you never shall be again," broke in laurie, putting his arm about her, as if to fence out every human ill.  "amy and i can't get on without you, so you must come and teach 'the children' to keep house, and go halves in everything, just as we used to do, and let us pet you, and all be blissfully happy and friendly together."
"if i shouldn't be in the way, it would be very pleasant.
i begin to feel quite young already, for somehow all my troubles seemed to fly away when you came.
you always were a comfort, teddy," and jo leaned her head on his shoulder, just as she did years ago, when beth lay ill and laurie told her to hold on to him.
he looked down at her, wondering if she remembered the time, but jo was smiling to herself, as if in truth her troubles had all vanished at his coming.
"you are the same jo still, dropping tears about one minute, and laughing the next.
you look a little wicked now.
what is it, grandma?"
"i was wondering how you and amy get on together."
"like angels!"
"yes, of course, but which rules?"
"i don't mind telling you that she does now, at least i let her think so, it pleases her, you know.
by-and-by we shall take turns, for marriage, they say, halves one's rights and doubles one's duties."
"you'll go on as you begin, and amy will rule you all the days of your life."
"well, she does it so imperceptibly that i don't think i shall mind much.
she is the sort of woman who knows how to rule well.
in fact, i rather like it, for she winds one round her finger as softly and prettily as a skein of silk, and makes you feel as if she was doing you a favor all the while."
"that ever i should live to see you a henpecked husband and enjoying it!"
cried jo, with uplifted hands.
it was good to see laurie square his shoulders, and smile with masculine scorn at that insinuation, as he replied, with his "high and mighty" air, "amy is too well-bred for that, and i am not the sort of man to submit to it.
my wife and i respect ourselves and one another too much ever to tyrannize or quarrel."
jo liked that, and thought the new dignity very becoming, but the boy seemed changing very fast into the man, and regret mingled with her pleasure.
"i am sure of that.
amy and you never did quarrel as we used to.
she is the sun and i the wind, in the fable, and the sun managed the man best, you remember."
"she can blow him up as well as shine on him," laughed laurie.
"such a lecture as i got at nice!
i give you my word it was a deal worse than any of your scoldings, a regular rouser.
i'll tell you all about it sometime, she never will, because after telling me that she despised and was ashamed of me, she lost her heart to the despicable party and married the good-for-nothing."
"what baseness!
well, if she abuses you, come to me, and i'll defend you."
"i look as if i needed it, don't i?"
said laurie, getting up and striking an attitude which suddenly changed from the imposing to the rapturous, as amy's voice was heard calling, "where is she?
where's my dear old jo?"
in trooped the whole family, and everyone was hugged and kissed all over again, and after several vain attempts, the three wanderers were set down to be looked at and exulted over.
mr. laurence, hale and hearty as ever, was quite as much improved as the others by his foreign tour, for the crustiness seemed to be nearly gone, and the old-fashioned courtliness had received a polish which made it kindlier than ever.
it was good to see him beam at 'my children', as he called the young pair.
it was better still to see amy pay him the daughterly duty and affection which completely won his old heart, and best of all, to watch laurie revolve about the two, as if never tired of enjoying the pretty picture they made.
the minute she put her eyes upon amy, meg became conscious that her own dress hadn't a parisian air, that young mrs. moffat would be entirely eclipsed by young mrs. laurence, and that 'her ladyship' was altogether a most elegant and graceful woman.
jo thought, as she watched the pair, "how well they look together!
i was right, and laurie has found the beautiful, accomplished girl who will become his home better than clumsy old jo, and be a pride, not a torment to him."
mrs. march and her husband smiled and nodded at each other with happy faces, for they saw that their youngest had done well, not only in worldly things, but the better wealth of love, confidence, and happiness.
for amy's face was full of the soft brightness which betokens a peaceful heart, her voice had a new tenderness in it, and the cool, prim carriage was changed to a gentle dignity, both womanly and winning.
no little affectations marred it, and the cordial sweetness of her manner was more charming than the new beauty or the old grace, for it stamped her at once with the unmistakable sign of the true gentlewoman she had hoped to become.
"love has done much for our little girl," said her mother softly.
"she has had a good example before her all her life, my dear," mr.
march whispered back, with a loving look at the worn face and gray head beside him.
daisy found it impossible to keep her eyes off her 'pitty aunty', but attached herself like a lap dog to the wonderful chatelaine full of delightful charms.
demi paused to consider the new relationship before he compromised himself by the rash acceptance of a bribe, which took the tempting form of a family of wooden bears from berne.
a flank movement produced an unconditional surrender, however, for laurie knew where to have him.
"young man, when i first had the honor of making your acquaintance you hit me in the face.
now i demand the satisfaction of a gentleman," and with that the tall uncle proceeded to toss and tousle the small nephew in a way that damaged his philosophical dignity as much as it delighted his boyish soul.
"blest if she ain't in silk from head to foot; ain't it a relishin'
sight to see her settin' there as fine as a fiddle, and hear folks calling little amy 'mis.
laurence!'"
muttered old hannah, who could not resist frequent "peeks" through the slide as she set the table in a most decidedly promiscuous manner.
mercy on us, how they did talk!
first one, then the other, then all burst out together trying to tell the history of three years in half an hour.
it was fortunate that tea was at hand, to produce a lull and provide refreshment for they would have been hoarse and faint if they had gone on much longer.
such a happy procession as filed away into the little dining room!
mr. march proudly escorted mrs. laurence.
mrs.
march as proudly leaned on the arm of 'my son'.
the old gentleman took jo, with a whispered, "you must be my girl now," and a glance at the empty corner by the fire, that made jo whisper back, "i'll try to fill her place, sir."
the twins pranced behind, feeling that the millennium was at hand, for everyone was so busy with the newcomers that they were left to revel at their own sweet will, and you may be sure they made the most of the opportunity.
didn't they steal sips of tea, stuff gingerbread ad libitum, get a hot biscuit apiece, and as a crowning trespass, didn't they each whisk a captivating little tart into their tiny pockets, there to stick and crumble treacherously, teaching them that both human nature and a pastry are frail?
burdened with the guilty consciousness of the sequestered tarts, and fearing that dodo's sharp eyes would pierce the thin disguise of cambric and merino which hid their booty, the little sinners attached themselves to 'dranpa', who hadn't his spectacles on.
amy, who was handed about like refreshments, returned to the parlor on father laurence's arm.
the others paired off as before, and this arrangement left jo companionless.
she did not mind it at the minute, for she lingered to answer hannah's eager inquiry.
"will miss amy ride in her coop (coupe), and use all them lovely silver dishes that's stored away over yander?"
"shouldn't wonder if she drove six white horses, ate off gold plate, and wore diamonds and point lace every day.
teddy thinks nothing too good for her," returned jo with infinite satisfaction.
"no more there is!
will you have hash or fishballs for breakfast?"
asked hannah, who wisely mingled poetry and prose.
"i don't care," and jo shut the door, feeling that food was an uncongenial topic just then.
she stood a minute looking at the party vanishing above, and as demi's short plaid legs toiled up the last stair, a sudden sense of loneliness came over her so strongly that she looked about her with dim eyes, as if to find something to lean upon, for even teddy had deserted her.
if she had known what birthday gift was coming every minute nearer and nearer, she would not have said to herself, "i'll weep a little weep when i go to bed.
it won't do to be dismal now."
then she drew her hand over her eyes, for one of her boyish habits was never to know where her handkerchief was, and had just managed to call up a smile when there came a knock at the porch door.
she opened with hospitable haste, and started as if another ghost had come to surprise her, for there stood a tall bearded gentleman, beaming on her from the darkness like a midnight sun.
"oh, mr. bhaer, i am so glad to see you!"
cried jo, with a clutch, as if she feared the night would swallow him up before she could get him in.
"and i to see miss marsch, but no, you haf a party," and the professor paused as the sound of voices and the tap of dancing feet came down to them.
"no, we haven't, only the family.
my sister and friends have just come home, and we are all very happy.
come in, and make one of us."
though a very social man, i think mr. bhaer would have gone decorously away, and come again another day, but how could he, when jo shut the door behind him, and bereft him of his hat?
perhaps her face had something to do with it, for she forgot to hide her joy at seeing him, and showed it with a frankness that proved irresistible to the solitary man, whose welcome far exceeded his boldest hopes.
"if i shall not be monsieur de trop, i will so gladly see them all.
you haf been ill, my friend?"
he put the question abruptly, for, as jo hung up his coat, the light fell on her face, and he saw a change in it.
"not ill, but tired and sorrowful.
we have had trouble since i saw you last."
"ah, yes, i know.
my heart was sore for you when i heard that," and he shook hands again, with such a sympathetic face that jo felt as if no comfort could equal the look of the kind eyes, the grasp of the big, warm hand.
"father, mother, this is my friend, professor bhaer," she said, with a face and tone of such irrepressible pride and pleasure that she might as well have blown a trumpet and opened the door with a flourish.
if the stranger had any doubts about his reception, they were set at rest in a minute by the cordial welcome he received.
everyone greeted him kindly, for jo's sake at first, but very soon they liked him for his own.
they could not help it, for he carried the talisman that opens all hearts, and these simple people warmed to him at once, feeling even the more friendly because he was poor.
for poverty enriches those who live above it, and is a sure passport to truly hospitable spirits.
mr. bhaer sat looking about him with the air of a traveler who knocks at a strange door, and when it opens, finds himself at home.
the children went to him like bees to a honeypot, and establishing themselves on each knee, proceeded to captivate him by rifling his pockets, pulling his beard, and investigating his watch, with juvenile audacity.
the women telegraphed their approval to one another, and mr. march, feeling that he had got a kindred spirit, opened his choicest stores for his guest's benefit, while silent john listened and enjoyed the talk, but said not a word, and mr. laurence found it impossible to go to sleep.
if jo had not been otherwise engaged, laurie's behavior would have amused her, for a faint twinge, not of jealousy, but something like suspicion, caused that gentleman to stand aloof at first, and observe the newcomer with brotherly circumspection.
but it did not last long.
he got interested in spite of himself, and before he knew it, was drawn into the circle.
for mr. bhaer talked well in this genial atmosphere, and did himself justice.
he seldom spoke to laurie, but he looked at him often, and a shadow would pass across his face, as if regretting his own lost youth, as he watched the young man in his prime.
then his eyes would turn to jo so wistfully that she would have surely answered the mute inquiry if she had seen it.
but jo had her own eyes to take care of, and feeling that they could not be trusted, she prudently kept them on the little sock she was knitting, like a model maiden aunt.
a stealthy glance now and then refreshed her like sips of fresh water after a dusty walk, for the sidelong peeps showed her several propitious omens.
mr. bhaer's face had lost the absent-minded expression, and looked all alive with interest in the present moment, actually young and handsome, she thought, forgetting to compare him with laurie, as she usually did strange men, to their great detriment.
then he seemed quite inspired, though the burial customs of the ancients, to which the conversation had strayed, might not be considered an exhilarating topic.
jo quite glowed with triumph when teddy got quenched in an argument, and thought to herself, as she watched her father's absorbed face, "how he would enjoy having such a man as my professor to talk with every day!"
lastly, mr. bhaer was dressed in a new suit of black, which made him look more like a gentleman than ever.
his bushy hair had been cut and smoothly brushed, but didn't stay in order long, for in exciting moments, he rumpled it up in the droll way he used to do, and jo liked it rampantly erect better than flat, because she thought it gave his fine forehead a jove-like aspect.
poor jo, how she did glorify that plain man, as she sat knitting away so quietly, yet letting nothing escape her, not even the fact that mr. bhaer actually had gold sleeve-buttons in his immaculate wristbands.
"dear old fellow!
he couldn't have got himself up with more care if he'd been going a-wooing," said jo to herself, and then a sudden thought born of the words made her blush so dreadfully that she had to drop her ball, and go down after it to hide her face.
the maneuver did not succeed as well as she expected, however, for though just in the act of setting fire to a funeral pyre, the professor dropped his torch, metaphorically speaking, and made a dive after the little blue ball.
of course they bumped their heads smartly together, saw stars, and both came up flushed and laughing, without the ball, to resume their seats, wishing they had not left them.
nobody knew where the evening went to, for hannah skillfully abstracted the babies at an early hour, nodding like two rosy poppies, and mr.
laurence went home to rest.
the others sat round the fire, talking away, utterly regardless of the lapse of time, till meg, whose maternal mind was impressed with a firm conviction that daisy had tumbled out of bed, and demi set his nightgown afire studying the structure of matches, made a move to go.
"we must have our sing, in the good old way, for we are all together again once more," said jo, feeling that a good shout would be a safe and pleasant vent for the jubilant emotions of her soul.
they were not all there.
but no one found the words thoughtless or untrue, for beth still seemed among them, a peaceful presence, invisible, but dearer than ever, since death could not break the household league that love made dissoluble.
the little chair stood in its old place.
the tidy basket, with the bit of work she left unfinished when the needle grew 'so heavy', was still on its accustomed shelf.
the beloved instrument, seldom touched now had not been moved, and above it beth's face, serene and smiling, as in the early days, looked down upon them, seeming to say, "be happy.
i am here."
"play something, amy.
let them hear how much you have improved," said laurie, with pardonable pride in his promising pupil.
but amy whispered, with full eyes, as she twirled the faded stool, "not tonight, dear.
i can't show off tonight."
but she did show something better than brilliancy or skill, for she sang beth's songs with a tender music in her voice which the best master could not have taught, and touched the listener's hearts with a sweeter power than any other inspiration could have given her.
the room was very still, when the clear voice failed suddenly at the last line of beth's favorite hymn.
it was hard to say...
earth hath no sorrow that heaven cannot heal;
and amy leaned against her husband, who stood behind her, feeling that her welcome home was not quite perfect without beth's kiss.
"now, we must finish with mignon's song, for mr. bhaer sings that,"
said jo, before the pause grew painful.
and mr. bhaer cleared his throat with a gratified "hem!"
as he stepped into the corner where jo stood, saying...
"you will sing with me?
we go excellently well together."
a pleasing fiction, by the way, for jo had no more idea of music than a grasshopper.
but she would have consented if he had proposed to sing a whole opera, and warbled away, blissfully regardless of time and tune.
it didn't much matter, for mr. bhaer sang like a true german, heartily and well, and jo soon subsided into a subdued hum, that she might listen to the mellow voice that seemed to sing for her alone.
know'st thou the land where the citron blooms,
used to be the professor's favorite line, for 'das land' meant germany to him, but now he seemed to dwell, with peculiar warmth and melody, upon the words...
there, oh there, might i with thee,     o, my beloved, go
and one listener was so thrilled by the tender invitation that she longed to say she did know the land, and would joyfully depart thither whenever he liked.
the song was considered a great success, and the singer retired covered with laurels.
but a few minutes afterward, he forgot his manners entirely, and stared at amy putting on her bonnet, for she had been introduced simply as 'my sister', and no one had called her by her new name since he came.
he forgot himself still further when laurie said, in his most gracious manner, at parting...
"my wife and i are very glad to meet you, sir.
please remember that there is always a welcome waiting for you over the way."
then the professor thanked him so heartily, and looked so suddenly illuminated with satisfaction, that laurie thought him the most delightfully demonstrative old fellow he ever met.
"i too shall go, but i shall gladly come again, if you will gif me leave, dear madame, for a little business in the city will keep me here some days."
he spoke to mrs. march, but he looked at jo, and the mother's voice gave as cordial an assent as did the daughter's eyes, for mrs. march was not so blind to her children's interest as mrs. moffat supposed.
"i suspect that is a wise man," remarked mr. march, with placid satisfaction, from the hearthrug, after the last guest had gone.
"i know he is a good one," added mrs. march, with decided approval, as she wound up the clock.
"i thought you'd like him," was all jo said, as she slipped away to her bed.
she wondered what the business was that brought mr. bhaer to the city, and finally decided that he had been appointed to some great honor, somewhere, but had been too modest to mention the fact.
if she had seen his face when, safe in his own room, he looked at the picture of a severe and rigid young lady, with a good deal of hair, who appeared to be gazing darkly into futurity, it might have thrown some light upon the subject, especially when he turned off the gas, and kissed the picture in the dark.
chapter forty-four
my lord and lady
"please, madam mother, could you lend me my wife for half an hour?
the luggage has come, and i've been making hay of amy's paris finery, trying to find some things i want," said laurie, coming in the next day to find mrs. laurence sitting in her mother's lap, as if being made 'the baby' again.
"certainly.
go, dear, i forgot that you have any home but this," and mrs. march pressed the white hand that wore the wedding ring, as if asking pardon for her maternal covetousness.
"i shouldn't have come over if i could have helped it, but i can't get on without my little woman any more than a..."
"weathercock can without the wind," suggested jo, as he paused for a simile.
jo had grown quite her own saucy self again since teddy came home.
"exactly, for amy keeps me pointing due west most of the time, with only an occasional whiffle round to the south, and i haven't had an easterly spell since i was married.
don't know anything about the north, but am altogether salubrious and balmy, hey, my lady?"
"lovely weather so far.
i don't know how long it will last, but i'm not afraid of storms, for i'm learning how to sail my ship.
come home, dear, and i'll find your bootjack.
i suppose that's what you are rummaging after among my things.
men are so helpless, mother," said amy, with a matronly air, which delighted her husband.
"what are you going to do with yourselves after you get settled?"
asked jo, buttoning amy's cloak as she used to button her pinafores.
"we have our plans.
we don't mean to say much about them yet, because we are such very new brooms, but we don't intend to be idle.
i'm going into business with a devotion that shall delight grandfather, and prove to him that i'm not spoiled.
i need something of the sort to keep me steady.
i'm tired of dawdling, and mean to work like a man."
"and amy, what is she going to do?"
asked mrs. march, well pleased at laurie's decision and the energy with which he spoke.
"after doing the civil all round, and airing our best bonnet, we shall astonish you by the elegant hospitalities of our mansion, the brilliant society we shall draw about us, and the beneficial influence we shall exert over the world at large.
that's about it, isn't it, madame recamier?"
asked laurie with a quizzical look at amy.
"time will show.
come away, impertinence, and don't shock my family by calling me names before their faces," answered amy, resolving that there should be a home with a good wife in it before she set up a salon as a queen of society.
"how happy those children seem together!"
observed mr. march, finding it difficult to become absorbed in his aristotle after the young couple had gone.
"yes, and i think it will last," added mrs. march, with the restful expression of a pilot who has brought a ship safely into port.
"i know it will.
happy amy!"
and jo sighed, then smiled brightly as professor bhaer opened the gate with an impatient push.
later in the evening, when his mind had been set at rest about the bootjack, laurie said suddenly to his wife, "mrs.
laurence."
"my lord!"
"that man intends to marry our jo!"
"i hope so, don't you, dear?"
"well, my love, i consider him a trump, in the fullest sense of that expressive word, but i do wish he was a little younger and a good deal richer."
"now, laurie, don't be too fastidious and worldly-minded.
if they love one another it doesn't matter a particle how old they are nor how poor.
women never should marry for money..." amy caught herself up short as the words escaped her, and looked at her husband, who replied, with malicious gravity...
"certainly not, though you do hear charming girls say that they intend to do it sometimes.
if my memory serves me, you once thought it your duty to make a rich match.
that accounts, perhaps, for your marrying a good-for-nothing like me."
"oh, my dearest boy, don't, don't say that!
i forgot you were rich when i said 'yes'.
i'd have married you if you hadn't a penny, and i sometimes wish you were poor that i might show how much i love you."
and amy, who was very dignified in public and very fond in private, gave convincing proofs of the truth of her words.
"you don't really think i am such a mercenary creature as i tried to be once, do you?
it would break my heart if you didn't believe that i'd gladly pull in the same boat with you, even if you had to get your living by rowing on the lake."
"am i an idiot and a brute?
how could i think so, when you refused a richer man for me, and won't let me give you half i want to now, when i have the right?
girls do it every day, poor things, and are taught to think it is their only salvation, but you had better lessons, and though i trembled for you at one time, i was not disappointed, for the daughter was true to the mother's teaching.
i told mamma so yesterday, and she looked as glad and grateful as if i'd given her a check for a million, to be spent in charity.
you are not listening to my moral remarks, mrs. laurence," and laurie paused, for amy's eyes had an absent look, though fixed upon his face.
"yes, i am, and admiring the mole in your chin at the same time.
i don't wish to make you vain, but i must confess that i'm prouder of my handsome husband than of all his money.
don't laugh, but your nose is such a comfort to me," and amy softly caressed the well-cut feature with artistic satisfaction.
laurie had received many compliments in his life, but never one that suited him better, as he plainly showed though he did laugh at his wife's peculiar taste, while she said slowly, "may i ask you a question, dear?"
"of course, you may."
"shall you care if jo does marry mr.
bhaer?"
"oh, that's the trouble is it?
i thought there was something in the dimple that didn't quite suit you.
not being a dog in the manger, but the happiest fellow alive, i assure you i can dance at jo's wedding with a heart as light as my heels.
do you doubt it, my darling?"
amy looked up at him, and was satisfied.
her little jealous fear vanished forever, and she thanked him, with a face full of love and confidence.
"i wish we could do something for that capital old professor.
couldn't we invent a rich relation, who shall obligingly die out there in germany, and leave him a tidy little fortune?"
said laurie, when they began to pace up and down the long drawing room, arm in arm, as they were fond of doing, in memory of the chateau garden.
"jo would find us out, and spoil it all.
she is very proud of him, just as he is, and said yesterday that she thought poverty was a beautiful thing."
"bless her dear heart!
she won't think so when she has a literary husband, and a dozen little professors and professorins to support.
we won't interfere now, but watch our chance, and do them a good turn in spite of themselves.
i owe jo for a part of my education, and she believes in people's paying their honest debts, so i'll get round her in that way."
"how delightful it is to be able to help others, isn't it?
that was always one of my dreams, to have the power of giving freely, and thanks to you, the dream has come true."
"ah, we'll do quantities of good, won't we?
there's one sort of poverty that i particularly like to help.
out-and-out beggars get taken care of, but poor gentle folks fare badly, because they won't ask, and people don't dare to offer charity.
yet there are a thousand ways of helping them, if one only knows how to do it so delicately that it does not offend.
i must say, i like to serve a decayed gentleman better than a blarnerying beggar.
i suppose it's wrong, but i do, though it is harder."
"because it takes a gentleman to do it," added the other member of the domestic admiration society.
"thank you, i'm afraid i don't deserve that pretty compliment.
but i was going to say that while i was dawdling about abroad, i saw a good many talented young fellows making all sorts of sacrifices, and enduring real hardships, that they might realize their dreams.
splendid fellows, some of them, working like heros,  poor and friendless, but so full of courage, patience, and ambition that i was ashamed of myself, and longed to give them a right good lift.
those are people whom it's a satisfaction to help, for if they've got genius, it's an honor to be allowed to serve them, and not let it be lost or delayed for want of fuel to keep the pot boiling.
if they haven't, it's a pleasure to comfort the poor souls, and keep them from despair when they find it out."
"yes, indeed, and there's another class who can't ask, and who suffer in silence.
i know something of it, for i belonged to it before you made a princess of me, as the king does the beggarmaid in the old story.
ambitious girls have a hard time, laurie, and often have to see youth, health, and precious opportunities go by, just for want of a little help at the right minute.
people have been very kind to me, and whenever i see girls struggling along, as we used to do, i want to put out my hand and help them, as i was helped."
"and so you shall, like an angel as you are!"
cried laurie, resolving, with a glow of philanthropic zeal, to found and endow an institution for the express benefit of young women with artistic tendencies.
"rich people have no right to sit down and enjoy themselves, or let their money accumulate for others to waste.
it's not half so sensible to leave legacies when one dies as it is to use the money wisely while alive, and enjoy making one's fellow creatures happy with it.
we'll have a good time ourselves, and add an extra relish to our own pleasure by giving other people a generous taste.
will you be a little dorcas, going about emptying a big basket of comforts, and filling it up with good deeds?"
"with all my heart, if you will be a brave st.  martin, stopping as you ride gallantly through the world to share your cloak with the beggar."
"it's a bargain, and we shall get the best of it!"
so the young pair shook hands upon it, and then paced happily on again, feeling that their pleasant home was more homelike because they hoped to brighten other homes, believing that their own feet would walk more uprightly along the flowery path before them, if they smoothed rough ways for other feet, and feeling that their hearts were more closely knit together by a love which could tenderly remember those less blest than they.
chapter forty-five
daisy and demi
i cannot feel that i have done my duty as humble historian of the march family, without devoting at least one chapter to the two most precious and important members of it.
daisy and demi had now arrived at years of discretion, for in this fast age babies of three or four assert their rights, and get them, too, which is more than many of their elders do.
if there ever were a pair of twins in danger of being utterly spoiled by adoration, it was these prattling brookes.
of course they were the most remarkable children ever born, as will be shown when i mention that they walked at eight months, talked fluently at twelve months, and at two years they took their places at table, and behaved with a propriety which charmed all beholders.
at three, daisy demanded a 'needler', and actually made a bag with four stitches in it.
she likewise set up housekeeping in the sideboard, and managed a microscopic cooking stove with a skill that brought tears of pride to hannah's eyes, while demi learned his letters with his grandfather, who invented a new mode of teaching the alphabet by forming letters with his arms and legs, thus uniting gymnastics for head and heels.
the boy early developed a mechanical genius which delighted his father and distracted his mother, for he tried to imitate every machine he saw, and kept the nursery in a chaotic condition, with his 'sewinsheen', a mysterious structure of string, chairs, clothespins, and spools, for wheels to go 'wound and wound'.
also a basket hung over the back of a chair, in which he vainly tried to hoist his too confiding sister, who, with feminine devotion, allowed her little head to be bumped till rescued, when the young inventor indignantly remarked, "why, marmar, dat's my lellywaiter, and me's trying to pull her up."
though utterly unlike in character, the twins got on remarkably well together, and seldom quarreled more than thrice a day.
of course, demi tyrannized over daisy, and gallantly defended her from every other aggressor, while daisy made a galley slave of herself, and adored her brother as the one perfect being in the world.
a rosy, chubby, sunshiny little soul was daisy, who found her way to everybody's heart, and nestled there.
one of the captivating children, who seem made to be kissed and cuddled, adorned and adored like little goddesses, and produced for general approval on all festive occasions.
her small virtues were so sweet that she would have been quite angelic if a few small naughtinesses had not kept her delightfully human.
it was all fair weather in her world, and every morning she scrambled up to the window in her little nightgown to look out, and say, no matter whether it rained or shone, "oh, pitty day, oh, pitty day!"
everyone was a friend, and she offered kisses to a stranger so confidingly that the most inveterate bachelor relented, and baby-lovers became faithful worshipers.
"me loves evvybody," she once said, opening her arms, with her spoon in one hand, and her mug in the other, as if eager to embrace and nourish the whole world.
as she grew, her mother began to feel that the dovecote would be blessed by the presence of an inmate as serene and loving as that which had helped to make the old house home, and to pray that she might be spared a loss like that which had lately taught them how long they had entertained an angel unawares.
her grandfather often called her 'beth', and her grandmother watched over her with untiring devotion, as if trying to atone for some past mistake, which no eye but her own could see.
demi, like a true yankee, was of an inquiring turn, wanting to know everything, and often getting much disturbed because he could not get satisfactory answers to his perpetual "what for?"
he also possessed a philosophic bent, to the great delight of his grandfather, who used to hold socratic conversations with him, in which the precocious pupil occasionally posed his teacher, to the undisguised satisfaction of the womenfolk.
"what makes my legs go, dranpa?"
asked the young philosopher, surveying those active portions of his frame with a meditative air, while resting after a go-to-bed frolic one night.
"it's your little mind, demi," replied the sage, stroking the yellow head respectfully.
"what is a little mine?"
"it is something which makes your body move, as the spring made the wheels go in my watch when i showed it to you."
"open me.
i want to see it go wound."
"i can't do that any more than you could open the watch.
god winds you up, and you go till he stops you."
"does i?"
and demi's brown eyes grew big and bright as he took in the new thought.
"is i wounded up like the watch?"
"yes, but i can't show you how, for it is done when we don't see."
demi felt his back, as if expecting to find it like that of the watch, and then gravely remarked, "i dess dod does it when i's asleep."
a careful explanation followed, to which he listened so attentively that his anxious grandmother said, "my dear, do you think it wise to talk about such things to that baby?
he's getting great bumps over his eyes, and learning to ask the most unanswerable questions."
"if he is old enough to ask the question he is old enough to receive true answers.
i am not putting the thoughts into his head, but helping him unfold those already there.
these children are wiser than we are, and i have no doubt the boy understands every word i have said to him.
now, demi, tell me where you keep your mind."
if the boy had replied like alcibiades, "by the gods, socrates, i cannot tell," his grandfather would not have been surprised, but when, after standing a moment on one leg, like a meditative young stork, he answered, in a tone of calm conviction, "in my little belly," the old gentleman could only join in grandma's laugh, and dismiss the class in metaphysics.
there might have been cause for maternal anxiety, if demi had not given convincing proofs that he was a true boy, as well as a budding philosopher, for often, after a discussion which caused hannah to prophesy, with ominous nods, "that child ain't long for this world," he would turn about and set her fears at rest by some of the pranks with which dear, dirty, naughty little rascals distract and delight their parent's souls.
meg made many moral rules, and tried to keep them, but what mother was ever proof against the winning wiles, the ingenious evasions, or the tranquil audacity of the miniature men and women who so early show themselves accomplished artful dodgers?
"no more raisins, demi.
they'll make you sick," says mamma to the young person who offers his services in the kitchen with unfailing regularity on plum-pudding day.
"me likes to be sick."
"i don't want to have you, so run away and help daisy make patty cakes."
he reluctantly departs, but his wrongs weigh upon his spirit, and by-and-by when an opportunity comes to redress them, he outwits mamma by a shrewd bargain.
"now you have been good children, and i'll play anything you like,"
says meg, as she leads her assistant cooks upstairs, when the pudding is safely bouncing in the pot.
"truly, marmar?"
asks demi, with a brilliant idea in his well-powdered head.
"yes, truly.
anything you say," replies the shortsighted parent, preparing herself to sing, "the three little kittens" half a dozen times over, or to take her family to "buy a penny bun," regardless of wind or limb.
but demi corners her by the cool reply...
"then we'll go and eat up all the raisins."
aunt dodo was chief playmate and confidante of both children, and the trio turned the little house topsy-turvy.
aunt amy was as yet only a name to them, aunt beth soon faded into a pleasantly vague memory, but aunt dodo was a living reality, and they made the most of her, for which compliment she was deeply grateful.
but when mr. bhaer came, jo neglected her playfellows, and dismay and desolation fell upon their little souls.
daisy, who was fond of going about peddling kisses, lost her best customer and became bankrupt.
demi, with infantile penetration, soon discovered that dodo like to play with 'the bear-man'
better than she did him, but though hurt, he concealed his anguish, for he hadn't the heart to insult a rival who kept a mine of chocolate drops in his waistcoat pocket, and a watch that could be taken out of its case and freely shaken by ardent admirers.
some persons might have considered these pleasing liberties as bribes, but demi didn't see it in that light, and continued to patronize the 'the bear-man' with pensive affability, while daisy bestowed her small affections upon him at the third call, and considered his shoulder her throne, his arm her refuge, his gifts treasures surpassing worth.
gentlemen are sometimes seized with sudden fits of admiration for the young relatives of ladies whom they honor with their regard, but this counterfeit philoprogenitiveness sits uneasily upon them, and does not deceive anybody a particle.
mr. bhaer's devotion was sincere, however likewise effective for honesty is the best policy in love as in law.
he was one of the men who are at home with children, and looked particularly well when little faces made a pleasant contrast with his manly one.
his business, whatever it was, detained him from day to day, but evening seldom failed to bring him out to see well, he always asked for mr. march, so i suppose he was the attraction.
the excellent papa labored under the delusion that he was, and reveled in long discussions with the kindred spirit, till a chance remark of his more observing grandson suddenly enlightened him.
mr. bhaer came in one evening to pause on the threshold of the study, astonished by the spectacle that met his eye.
prone upon the floor lay mr. march, with his respectable legs in the air, and beside him, likewise prone, was demi, trying to imitate the attitude with his own short, scarlet-stockinged legs, both grovelers so seriously absorbed that they were unconscious of spectators, till mr. bhaer laughed his sonorous laugh, and jo cried out, with a scandalized face...
"father, father, here's the professor!"
down went the black legs and up came the gray head, as the preceptor said, with undisturbed dignity, "good evening, mr. bhaer.
excuse me for a moment.
we are just finishing our lesson.
now, demi, make the letter and tell its name."
"i knows him!"
and, after a few convulsive efforts, the red legs took the shape of a pair of compasses, and the intelligent pupil triumphantly shouted, "it's a we, dranpa, it's a we!"
"he's a born weller," laughed jo, as her parent gathered himself up, and her nephew tried to stand on his head, as the only mode of expressing his satisfaction that school was over.
"what have you been at today, bubchen?"
asked mr. bhaer, picking up the gymnast.
"me went to see little mary."
"and what did you there?"
"i kissed her," began demi, with artless frankness.
"prut!
thou beginnest early.
what did the little mary say to that?"
asked mr. bhaer, continuing to confess the young sinner, who stood upon the knee, exploring the waistcoat pocket.
"oh, she liked it, and she kissed me, and i liked it.
don't little boys like little girls?"
asked demi, with his mouth full, and an air of bland satisfaction.
"you precocious chick!
who put that into your head?"
said jo, enjoying the innocent revelation as much as the professor.
"'tisn't in mine head, it's in mine mouf," answered literal demi, putting out his tongue, with a chocolate drop on it, thinking she alluded to confectionery, not ideas.
"thou shouldst save some for the little friend.
sweets to the sweet, mannling," and mr. bhaer offered jo some, with a look that made her wonder if chocolate was not the nectar drunk by the gods.
demi also saw the smile, was impressed by it, and artlessy inquired.
..
"do great boys like great girls, to, 'fessor?"
like young washington, mr. bhaer 'couldn't tell a lie', so he gave the somewhat vague reply that he believed they did sometimes, in a tone that made mr. march put down his clothesbrush, glance at jo's retiring face, and then sink into his chair, looking as if the 'precocious chick' had put an idea into his head that was both sweet and sour.
why dodo, when she caught him in the china closet half an hour afterward, nearly squeezed the breath out of his little body with a tender embrace, instead of shaking him for being there, and why she followed up this novel performance by the unexpected gift of a big slice of bread and jelly, remained one of the problems over which demi puzzled his small wits, and was forced to leave unsolved forever.
chapter forty-six
under the umbrella
while laurie and amy were taking conjugal strolls over velvet carpets, as they set their house in order, and planned a blissful future, mr.
bhaer and jo were enjoying promenades of a different sort, along muddy roads and sodden fields.
"i always do take a walk toward evening, and i don't know why i should give it up, just because i happen to meet the professor on his way out," said jo to herself, after two or three encounters, for though there were two paths to meg's whichever one she took she was sure to meet him, either going or returning.
he was always walking rapidly, and never seemed to see her until quite close, when he would look as if his short-sighted eyes had failed to recognize the approaching lady till that moment.
then, if she was going to meg's he always had something for the babies.
if her face was turned homeward, he had merely strolled down to see the river, and was just returning, unless they were tired of his frequent calls.
under the circumstances, what could jo do but greet him civilly, and invite him in?
if she was tired of his visits, she concealed her weariness with perfect skill, and took care that there should be coffee for supper, "as friedrich i mean mr. bhaer doesn't like tea."
by the second week, everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, yet everyone tried to look as if they were stone-blind to the changes in jo's face.
they never asked why she sang about her work, did up her hair three times a day, and got so blooming with her evening exercise.
and no one seemed to have the slightest suspicion that professor bhaer, while talking philosophy with the father, was giving the daughter lessons in love.
jo couldn't even lose her heart in a decorous manner, but sternly tried to quench her feelings, and failing to do so, led a somewhat agitated life.
she was mortally afraid of being laughed at for surrendering, after her many and vehement declarations of independence.
laurie was her especial dread, but thanks to the new manager, he behaved with praiseworthy propriety, never called mr. bhaer 'a capital old fellow'
in public, never alluded, in the remotest manner, to jo's improved appearance, or expressed the least surprise at seeing the professor's hat on the marches' table nearly every evening.
but he exulted in private and longed for the time to come when he could give jo a piece of plate, with a bear and a ragged staff on it as an appropriate coat of arms.
for a fortnight, the professor came and went with lover-like regularity.
then he stayed away for three whole days, and made no sign, a proceeding which caused everybody to look sober, and jo to become pensive, at first, and then alas for romance very cross.
"disgusted, i dare say, and gone home as suddenly as he came.
it's nothing to me, of course, but i should think he would have come and bid us goodbye like a gentleman," she said to herself, with a despairing look at the gate, as she put on her things for the customary walk one dull afternoon.
"you'd better take the little umbrella, dear.
it looks like rain,"
said her mother, observing that she had on her new bonnet, but not alluding to the fact.
"yes, marmee, do you want anything in town?
i've got to run in and get some paper," returned jo, pulling out the bow under her chin before the glass as an excuse for not looking at her mother.
"yes, i want some twilled silesia, a paper of number nine needles, and two yards of narrow lavender ribbon.
have you got your thick boots on, and something warm under your cloak?"
"i believe so," answered jo absently.
"if you happen to meet mr. bhaer, bring him home to tea.
i quite long to see the dear man," added mrs. march.
jo heard that, but made no answer, except to kiss her mother, and walk rapidly away, thinking with a glow of gratitude, in spite of her heartache, "how good she is to me!
what do girls do who haven't any mothers to help them through their troubles?"
the dry-goods stores were not down among the counting-houses, banks, and wholesale warerooms, where gentlemen most do congregate, but jo found herself in that part of the city before she did a single errand, loitering along as if waiting for someone, examining engineering instruments in one window and samples of wool in another, with most unfeminine interest, tumbling over barrels, being half-smothered by descending bales, and hustled unceremoniously by busy men who looked as if they wondered 'how the deuce she got there'.
a drop of rain on her cheek recalled her thoughts from baffled hopes to ruined ribbons.
for the drops continued to fall, and being a woman as well as a lover, she felt that, though it was too late to save her heart, she might her bonnet.
now she remembered the little umbrella, which she had forgotten to take in her hurry to be off, but regret was unavailing, and nothing could be done but borrow one or submit to a drenching.
she looked up at the lowering sky, down at the crimson bow already flecked with black, forward along the muddy street, then one long, lingering look behind, at a certain grimy warehouse, with 'hoffmann, swartz, &
co.' over the door, and said to herself, with a sternly reproachful air...
"it serves me right!
what business had i to put on all my best things and come philandering down here, hoping to see the professor?
jo, i'm ashamed of you!
no, you shall not go there to borrow an umbrella, or find out where he is, from his friends.
you shall trudge away, and do your errands in the rain, and if you catch your death and ruin your bonnet, it's no more than you deserve.
now then!"
with that she rushed across the street so impetuously that she narrowly escaped annihilation from a passing truck, and precipitated herself into the arms of a stately old gentleman, who said, "i beg pardon, ma'am," and looked mortally offended.
somewhat daunted, jo righted herself, spread her handkerchief over the devoted ribbons, and putting temptation behind her, hurried on, with increasing dampness about the ankles, and much clashing of umbrellas overhead.
the fact that a somewhat dilapidated blue one remained stationary above the unprotected bonnet attracted her attention, and looking up, she saw mr. bhaer looking down.
"i feel to know the strong-minded lady who goes so bravely under many horse noses, and so fast through much mud.
what do you down here, my friend?"
"i'm shopping."
mr. bhaer smiled, as he glanced from the pickle factory on one side to the wholesale hide and leather concern on the other, but he only said politely, "you haf no umbrella.
may i go also, and take for you the bundles?"
"yes, thank you."
jo's cheeks were as red as her ribbon, and she wondered what he thought of her, but she didn't care, for in a minute she found herself walking away arm in arm with her professor, feeling as if the sun had suddenly burst out with uncommon brilliancy, that the world was all right again, and that one thoroughly happy woman was paddling through the wet that day.
"we thought you had gone," said jo hastily, for she knew he was looking at her.
her bonnet wasn't big enough to hide her face, and she feared he might think the joy it betrayed unmaidenly.
"did you believe that i should go with no farewell to those who haf been so heavenly kind to me?"
he asked so reproachfully that she felt as if she had insulted him by the suggestion, and answered heartily...
"no, i didn't.
i knew you were busy about your own affairs, but we rather missed you, father and mother especially."
"and you?"
"i'm always glad to see you, sir."
in her anxiety to keep her voice quite calm, jo made it rather cool, and the frosty little monosyllable at the end seemed to chill the professor, for his smile vanished, as he said gravely...
"i thank you, and come one more time before i go."
"you are going, then?"
"i haf no longer any business here, it is done."
"successfully, i hope?"
said jo, for the bitterness of disappointment was in that short reply of his.
"i ought to think so, for i haf a way opened to me by which i can make my bread and gif my junglings much help."
"tell me, please!
i like to know all about the the boys," said jo eagerly.
"that is so kind, i gladly tell you.
my friends find for me a place in a college, where i teach as at home, and earn enough to make the way smooth for franz and emil.
for this i should be grateful, should i not?"
"indeed you should.
how splendid it will be to have you doing what you like, and be able to see you often, and the boys!"
cried jo, clinging to the lads as an excuse for the satisfaction she could not help betraying.
"ah!
but we shall not meet often, i fear, this place is at the west."
"so far away!"
and jo left her skirts to their fate, as if it didn't matter now what became of her clothes or herself.
mr. bhaer could read several languages, but he had not learned to read women yet.
he flattered himself that he knew jo pretty well, and was, therefore, much amazed by the contradictions of voice, face, and manner, which she showed him in rapid succession that day, for she was in half a dozen different moods in the course of half an hour.
when she met him she looked surprised, though it was impossible to help suspecting that she had come for that express purpose.
when he offered her his arm, she took it with a look that filled him with delight, but when he asked if she missed him, she gave such a chilly, formal reply that despair fell upon him.
on learning his good fortune she almost clapped her hands.
was the joy all for the boys?
then on hearing his destination, she said, "so far away!"
in a tone of despair that lifted him on to a pinnacle of hope, but the next minute she tumbled him down again by observing, like one entirely absorbed in the matter...
"here's the place for my errands.
will you come in?
it won't take long."
jo rather prided herself upon her shopping capabilities, and particularly wished to impress her escort with the neatness and dispatch with which she would accomplish the business.
but owing to the flutter she was in, everything went amiss.
she upset the tray of needles, forgot the silesia was to be 'twilled' till it was cut off, gave the wrong change, and covered herself with confusion by asking for lavender ribbon at the calico counter.
mr. bhaer stood by, watching her blush and blunder, and as he watched, his own bewilderment seemed to subside, for he was beginning to see that on some occasions, women, like dreams, go by contraries.
when they came out, he put the parcel under his arm with a more cheerful aspect, and splashed through the puddles as if he rather enjoyed it on the whole.
"should we no do a little what you call shopping for the babies, and haf a farewell feast tonight if i go for my last call at your so pleasant home?"
he asked, stopping before a window full of fruit and flowers.
"what will we buy?"
asked jo, ignoring the latter part of his speech, and sniffing the mingled odors with an affectation of delight as they went in.
"may they haf oranges and figs?"
asked mr. bhaer, with a paternal air.
"they eat them when they can get them."
"do you care for nuts?"
"like a squirrel."
"hamburg grapes.
yes, we shall drink to the fatherland in those?"
jo frowned upon that piece of extravagance, and asked why he didn't buy a frail of dates, a cask of raisins, and a bag of almonds, and be done with it?
whereat mr. bhaer confiscated her purse, produced his own, and finished the marketing by buying several pounds of grapes, a pot of rosy daisies, and a pretty jar of honey, to be regarded in the light of a demijohn.
then distorting his pockets with knobby bundles, and giving her the flowers to hold, he put up the old umbrella, and they traveled on again.
"miss marsch, i haf a great favor to ask of you," began the professor, after a moist promenade of half a block.
"yes, sir?"
and jo's heart began to beat so hard she was afraid he would hear it.
"i am bold to say it in spite of the rain, because so short a time remains to me."
"yes, sir," and jo nearly crushed the small flowerpot with the sudden squeeze she gave it.
"i wish to get a little dress for my tina, and i am too stupid to go alone.
will you kindly gif me a word of taste and help?"
"yes, sir," and jo felt as calm and cool all of a sudden as if she had stepped into a refrigerator.
"perhaps also a shawl for tina's mother, she is so poor and sick, and the husband is such a care.
yes, yes, a thick, warm shawl would be a friendly thing to take the little mother."
"i'll do it with pleasure, mr.
bhaer."
"i'm going very fast, and he's getting dearer every minute," added jo to herself, then with a mental shake she entered into the business with an energy that was pleasant to behold.
mr. bhaer left it all to her, so she chose a pretty gown for tina, and then ordered out the shawls.
the clerk, being a married man, condescended to take an interest in the couple, who appeared to be shopping for their family.
"your lady may prefer this.
it's a superior article, a most desirable color, quite chaste and genteel," he said, shaking out a comfortable gray shawl, and throwing it over jo's shoulders.
"does this suit you, mr.
bhaer?"
she asked, turning her back to him, and feeling deeply grateful for the chance of hiding her face.
"excellently well, we will haf it," answered the professor, smiling to himself as he paid for it, while jo continued to rummage the counters like a confirmed bargain-hunter.
"now shall we go home?"
he asked, as if the words were very pleasant to him.
"yes, it's late, and i'm so tired."
jo's voice was more pathetic than she knew.
for now the sun seemed to have gone in as suddenly as it came out, and the world grew muddy and miserable again, and for the first time she discovered that her feet were cold, her head ached, and that her heart was colder than the former, fuller of pain than the latter.
mr. bhaer was going away, he only cared for her as a friend, it was all a mistake, and the sooner it was over the better.
with this idea in her head, she hailed an approaching omnibus with such a hasty gesture that the daisies flew out of the pot and were badly damaged.
"this is not our omniboos," said the professor, waving the loaded vehicle away, and stopping to pick up the poor little flowers.
"i beg your pardon.
i didn't see the name distinctly.
never mind, i can walk.
i'm used to plodding in the mud," returned jo, winking hard, because she would have died rather than openly wipe her eyes.
mr. bhaer saw the drops on her cheeks, though she turned her head away.
the sight seemed to touch him very much, for suddenly stooping down, he asked in a tone that meant a great deal, "heart's dearest, why do you cry?"
now, if jo had not been new to this sort of thing she would have said she wasn't crying, had a cold in her head, or told any other feminine fib proper to the occasion.
instead of which, that undignified creature answered, with an irrepressible sob, "because you are going away."
"ach, mein gott, that is so good!"
cried mr. bhaer, managing to clasp his hands in spite of the umbrella and the bundles, "jo, i haf nothing but much love to gif you.
i came to see if you could care for it, and i waited to be sure that i was something more than a friend.
am i?
can you make a little place in your heart for old fritz?"
he added, all in one breath.
"oh, yes!"
said jo, and he was quite satisfied, for she folded both hands over his arm, and looked up at him with an expression that plainly showed how happy she would be to walk through life beside him, even though she had no better shelter than the old umbrella, if he carried it.
it was certainly proposing under difficulties, for even if he had desired to do so, mr. bhaer could not go down upon his knees, on account of the mud.
neither could he offer jo his hand, except figuratively, for both were full.
much less could he indulge in tender remonstrations in the open street, though he was near it.
so the only way in which he could express his rapture was to look at her, with an expression which glorified his face to such a degree that there actually seemed to be little rainbows in the drops that sparkled on his beard.
if he had not loved jo very much, i don't think he could have done it then, for she looked far from lovely, with her skirts in a deplorable state, her rubber boots splashed to the ankle, and her bonnet a ruin.
fortunately, mr. bhaer considered her the most beautiful woman living, and she found him more "jove-like" than ever, though his hatbrim was quite limp with the little rills trickling thence upon his shoulders (for he held the umbrella all over jo), and every finger of his gloves needed mending.
passers-by probably thought them a pair of harmless lunatics, for they entirely forgot to hail a bus, and strolled leisurely along, oblivious of deepening dusk and fog.
little they cared what anybody thought, for they were enjoying the happy hour that seldom comes but once in any life, the magical moment which bestows youth on the old, beauty on the plain, wealth on the poor, and gives human hearts a foretaste of heaven.
the professor looked as if he had conquered a kingdom, and the world had nothing more to offer him in the way of bliss.
while jo trudged beside him, feeling as if her place had always been there, and wondering how she ever could have chosen any other lot.
of course, she was the first to speak intelligibly, i mean, for the emotional remarks which followed her impetuous "oh, yes!"
were not of a coherent or reportable character.
"friedrich, why didn't you..."
"ah, heaven, she gifs me the name that no one speaks since minna died!"
cried the professor, pausing in a puddle to regard her with grateful delight.
"i always call you so to myself i forgot, but i won't unless you like it."
"like it?
it is more sweet to me than i can tell.
say 'thou', also, and i shall say your language is almost as beautiful as mine."
"isn't 'thou' a little sentimental?"
asked jo, privately thinking it a lovely monosyllable.
"sentimental?
yes.
thank gott, we germans believe in sentiment, and keep ourselves young mit it.
your english 'you' is so cold, say 'thou', heart's dearest, it means so much to me," pleaded mr. bhaer, more like a romantic student than a grave professor.
"well, then, why didn't thou tell me all this sooner?"
asked jo bashfully.
"now i shall haf to show thee all my heart, and i so gladly will, because thou must take care of it hereafter.
see, then, my jo ah, the dear, funny little name i had a wish to tell something the day i said goodbye in new york, but i thought the handsome friend was betrothed to thee, and so i spoke not.
wouldst thou have said 'yes', then, if i had spoken?"
"i don't know.
i'm afraid not, for i didn't have any heart just then."
"prut!
that i do not believe.
it was asleep till the fairy prince came through the wood, and waked it up.
ah, well, 'die erste liebe ist die beste', but that i should not expect."
"yes, the first love is the best, but be so contented, for i never had another.
teddy was only a boy, and soon got over his little fancy,"
said jo, anxious to correct the professor's mistake.
"good!
then i shall rest happy, and be sure that thou givest me all.
i haf waited so long, i am grown selfish, as thou wilt find, professorin."
"i like that," cried jo, delighted with her new name.
"now tell me what brought you, at last, just when i wanted you?"
"this," and mr. bhaer took a little worn paper out of his waistcoat pocket.
jo unfolded it, and looked much abashed, for it was one of her own contributions to a paper that paid for poetry, which accounted for her sending it an occasional attempt.
"how could that bring you?"
she asked, wondering what he meant.
"i found it by chance.
i knew it by the names and the initials, and in it there was one little verse that seemed to call me.
read and find him.
i will see that you go not in the wet."
in the garret
four little chests all in a row,     dim with dust, and worn by time,     all fashioned and filled, long ago,     by children now in their prime.
four little keys hung side by side,     with faded ribbons, brave and gay     when fastened there, with childish pride,     long ago, on a rainy day.
four little names, one on each lid,     carved out by a boyish hand,     and underneath there lieth hid     histories of the happy band     once playing here, and pausing oft     to hear the sweet refrain,     that came and went on the roof aloft,     in the falling summer rain.
"meg" on the first lid, smooth and fair.
i look in with loving eyes,     for folded here, with well-known care,     a goodly gathering lies,     the record of a peaceful life
gifts to gentle child and girl,     a bridal gown, lines to a wife,     a tiny shoe, a baby curl.
no toys in this first chest remain,     for all are carried away,     in their old age, to join again     in another small meg's play.
ah, happy mother!
well i know     you hear, like a sweet refrain,     lullabies ever soft and low     in the falling summer rain.
"jo" on the next lid, scratched and worn,     and within a motley store     of headless dolls, of schoolbooks torn,     birds and beasts that speak no more,     spoils brought home from the fairy ground     only trod by youthful feet,     dreams of a future never found,     memories of a past still sweet,     half-writ poems, stories wild,     april letters, warm and cold,     diaries of a wilful child,     hints of a woman early old,     a woman in a lonely home,     hearing, like a sad refrain
"be worthy, love, and love will come,"
in the falling summer rain.
my beth!
the dust is always swept     from the lid that bears your name,     as if by loving eyes that wept,     by careful hands that often came.
death canonized for us one saint,     ever less human than divine,     and still we lay, with tender plaint,     relics in this household shrine
the silver bell, so seldom rung,     the little cap which last she wore,     the fair, dead catherine that hung     by angels borne above her door.
the songs she sang, without lament,     in her prison-house of pain,     forever are they sweetly blent     with the falling summer rain.
upon the last lid's polished field
legend now both fair and true     a gallant knight bears on his shield,     "amy" in letters gold and blue.
within lie snoods that bound her hair,     slippers that have danced their last,     faded flowers laid by with care,     fans whose airy toils are past,     gay valentines, all ardent flames,     trifles that have borne their part     in girlish hopes and fears and shames,     the record of a maiden heart     now learning fairer, truer spells,     hearing, like a blithe refrain,     the silver sound of bridal bells     in the falling summer rain.
four little chests all in a row,     dim with dust, and worn by time,     four women, taught by weal and woe     to love and labor in their prime.
four sisters, parted for an hour,     none lost, one only gone before,     made by love's immortal power,     nearest and dearest evermore.
oh, when these hidden stores of ours     lie open to the father's sight,     may they be rich in golden hours,     deeds that show fairer for the light,     lives whose brave music long shall ring,     like a spirit-stirring strain,     souls that shall gladly soar and sing     in the long sunshine after rain.
"it's very bad poetry, but i felt it when i wrote it, one day when i was very lonely, and had a good cry on a rag bag.
i never thought it would go where it could tell tales," said jo, tearing up the verses the professor had treasured so long.
"let it go, it has done its duty, and i will haf a fresh one when i read all the brown book in which she keeps her little secrets," said mr. bhaer with a smile as he watched the fragments fly away on the wind.
"yes," he added earnestly, "i read that, and i think to myself, she has a sorrow, she is lonely, she would find comfort in true love.
i haf a heart full, full for her.
shall i not go and say, 'if this is not too poor a thing to gif for what i shall hope to receive, take it in gott's name?'"
"and so you came to find that it was not too poor, but the one precious thing i needed," whispered jo.
"i had no courage to think that at first, heavenly kind as was your welcome to me.
but soon i began to hope, and then i said, 'i will haf her if i die for it,' and so i will!"
cried mr. bhaer, with a defiant nod, as if the walls of mist closing round them were barriers which he was to surmount or valiantly knock down.
jo thought that was splendid, and resolved to be worthy of her knight, though he did not come prancing on a charger in gorgeous array.
"what made you stay away so long?"
she asked presently, finding it so pleasant to ask confidential questions and get delightful answers that she could not keep silent.
"it was not easy, but i could not find the heart to take you from that so happy home until i could haf a prospect of one to gif you, after much time, perhaps, and hard work.
how could i ask you to gif up so much for a poor old fellow, who has no fortune but a little learning?"
"i'm glad you are poor.
i couldn't bear a rich husband," said jo decidedly, adding in a softer tone, "don't fear poverty.
i've known it long enough to lose my dread and be happy working for those i love, and don't call yourself old forty is the prime of life.
i couldn't help loving you if you were seventy!"
the professor found that so touching that he would have been glad of his handkerchief, if he could have got at it.
as he couldn't, jo wiped his eyes for him, and said, laughing, as she took away a bundle or two...
"i may be strong-minded, but no one can say i'm out of my sphere now, for woman's special mission is supposed to be drying tears and bearing burdens.
i'm to carry my share, friedrich, and help to earn the home.
make up your mind to that, or i'll never go," she added resolutely, as he tried to reclaim his load.
"we shall see.
haf you patience to wait a long time, jo?
i must go away and do my work alone.
i must help my boys first, because, even for you, i may not break my word to minna.
can you forgif that, and be happy while we hope and wait?"
"yes, i know i can, for we love one another, and that makes all the rest easy to bear.
i have my duty, also, and my work.
i couldn't enjoy myself if i neglected them even for you, so there's no need of hurry or impatience.
you can do your part out west, i can do mine here, and both be happy hoping for the best, and leaving the future to be as god wills."
"ah!
thou gifest me such hope and courage, and i haf nothing to gif back but a full heart and these empty hands," cried the professor, quite overcome.
jo never, never would learn to be proper, for when he said that as they stood upon the steps, she just put both hands into his, whispering tenderly, "not empty now," and stooping down, kissed her friedrich under the umbrella.
it was dreadful, but she would have done it if the flock of draggle-tailed sparrows on the hedge had been human beings, for she was very far gone indeed, and quite regardless of everything but her own happiness.
though it came in such a very simple guise, that was the crowning moment of both their lives, when, turning from the night and storm and loneliness to the household light and warmth and peace waiting to receive them, with a glad "welcome home!"
jo led her lover in, and shut the door.
chapter forty-seven
harvest time
for a year jo and her professor worked and waited, hoped and loved, met occasionally, and wrote such voluminous letters that the rise in the price of paper was accounted for, laurie said.
the second year began rather soberly, for their prospects did not brighten, and aunt march died suddenly.
but when their first sorrow was over for they loved the old lady in spite of her sharp tongue they found they had cause for rejoicing, for she had left plumfield to jo, which made all sorts of joyful things possible.
"it's a fine old place, and will bring a handsome sum, for of course you intend to sell it," said laurie, as they were all talking the matter over some weeks later.
"no, i don't," was jo's decided answer, as she petted the fat poodle, whom she had adopted, out of respect to his former mistress.
"you don't mean to live there?"
"yes, i do."
"but, my dear girl, it's an immense house, and will take a power of money to keep it in order.
the garden and orchard alone need two or three men, and farming isn't in bhaer's line, i take it."
"he'll try his hand at it there, if i propose it."
"and you expect to live on the produce of the place?
well, that sounds paradisiacal, but you'll find it desperate hard work."
"the crop we are going to raise is a profitable one," and jo laughed.
"of what is this fine crop to consist, ma'am?"
"boys.
i want to open a school for little lads a good, happy, homelike school, with me to take care of them and fritz to teach them."
"that's a truly joian plan for you!
isn't that just like her?"
cried laurie, appealing to the family, who looked as much surprised as he.
"i like it," said mrs. march decidedly.
"so do i," added her husband, who welcomed the thought of a chance for trying the socratic method of education on modern youth.
"it will be an immense care for jo," said meg, stroking the head of her one all-absorbing son.
"jo can do it, and be happy in it.
it's a splendid idea.
tell us all about it," cried mr. laurence, who had been longing to lend the lovers a hand, but knew that they would refuse his help.
"i knew you'd stand by me, sir.
amy does too i see it in her eyes, though she prudently waits to turn it over in her mind before she speaks.
now, my dear people," continued jo earnestly, "just understand that this isn't a new idea of mine, but a long cherished plan.
before my fritz came, i used to think how, when i'd made my fortune, and no one needed me at home, i'd hire a big house, and pick up some poor, forlorn little lads who hadn't any mothers, and take care of them, and make life jolly for them before it was too late.
i see so many going to ruin for want of help at the right minute, i love so to do anything for them, i seem to feel their wants, and sympathize with their troubles, and oh, i should so like to be a mother to them!"
mrs. march held out her hand to jo, who took it, smiling, with tears in her eyes, and went on in the old enthusiastic way, which they had not seen for a long while.
"i told my plan to fritz once, and he said it was just what he would like, and agreed to try it when we got rich.
bless his dear heart, he's been doing it all his life helping poor boys, i mean, not getting rich, that he'll never be.
money doesn't stay in his pocket long enough to lay up any.
but now, thanks to my good old aunt, who loved me better than i ever deserved, i'm rich, at least i feel so, and we can live at plumfield perfectly well, if we have a flourishing school.
it's just the place for boys, the house is big, and the furniture strong and plain.
there's plenty of room for dozens inside, and splendid grounds outside.
they could help in the garden and orchard.
such work is healthy, isn't it, sir?
then fritz could train and teach in his own way, and father will help him.
i can feed and nurse and pet and scold them, and mother will be my stand-by.
i've always longed for lots of boys, and never had enough, now i can fill the house full and revel in the little dears to my heart's content.
think what luxury
plumfield my own, and a wilderness of boys to enjoy it with me."
as jo waved her hands and gave a sigh of rapture, the family went off into a gale of merriment, and mr. laurence laughed till they thought he'd have an apoplectic fit.
"i don't see anything funny," she said gravely, when she could be heard.
"nothing could be more natural and proper than for my professor to open a school, and for me to prefer to reside in my own estate."
"she is putting on airs already," said laurie, who regarded the idea in the light of a capital joke.
"but may i inquire how you intend to support the establishment?
if all the pupils are little ragamuffins, i'm afraid your crop won't be profitable in a worldly sense, mrs.
bhaer."
"now don't be a wet-blanket, teddy.
of course i shall have rich pupils, also perhaps begin with such altogether.
then, when i've got a start, i can take in a ragamuffin or two, just for a relish.
rich people's children often need care and comfort, as well as poor.
i've seen unfortunate little creatures left to servants, or backward ones pushed forward, when it's real cruelty.
some are naughty through mismanagment or neglect, and some lose their mothers.
besides, the best have to get through the hobbledehoy age, and that's the very time they need most patience and kindness.
people laugh at them, and hustle them about, try to keep them out of sight, and expect them to turn all at once from pretty children into fine young men.
they don't complain much plucky little souls but they feel it.
i've been through something of it, and i know all about it.
i've a special interest in such young bears, and like to show them that i see the warm, honest, well-meaning boys' hearts, in spite of the clumsy arms and legs and the topsy-turvy heads.
i've had experience, too, for haven't i brought up one boy to be a pride and honor to his family?"
"i'll testify that you tried to do it," said laurie with a grateful look.
"and i've succeeded beyond my hopes, for here you are, a steady, sensible businessman, doing heaps of good with your money, and laying up the blessings of the poor, instead of dollars.
but you are not merely a businessman, you love good and beautiful things, enjoy them yourself, and let others go halves, as you always did in the old times.
i am proud of you, teddy, for you get better every year, and everyone feels it, though you won't let them say so.
yes, and when i have my flock, i'll just point to you, and say 'there's your model, my lads'."
poor laurie didn't know where to look, for, man though he was, something of the old bashfulness came over him as this burst of praise made all faces turn approvingly upon him.
"i say, jo, that's rather too much," he began, just in his old boyish way.
"you have all done more for me than i can ever thank you for, except by doing my best not to disappoint you.
you have rather cast me off lately, jo, but i've had the best of help, nevertheless.
so, if i've got on at all, you may thank these two for it," and he laid one hand gently on his grandfather's head, and the other on amy's golden one, for the three were never far apart.
"i do think that families are the most beautiful things in all the world!"
burst out jo, who was in an unusually up-lifted frame of mind just then.
"when i have one of my own, i hope it will be as happy as the three i know and love the best.
if john and my fritz were only here, it would be quite a little heaven on earth," she added more quietly.
and that night when she went to her room after a blissful evening of family counsels, hopes, and plans, her heart was so full of happiness that she could only calm it by kneeling beside the empty bed always near her own, and thinking tender thoughts of beth.
it was a very astonishing year altogether, for things seemed to happen in an unusually rapid and delightful manner.
almost before she knew where she was, jo found herself married and settled at plumfield.
then a family of six or seven boys sprung up like mushrooms, and flourished surprisingly, poor boys as well as rich, for mr. laurence was continually finding some touching case of destitution, and begging the bhaers to take pity on the child, and he would gladly pay a trifle for its support.
in this way, the sly old gentleman got round proud jo, and furnished her with the style of boy in which she most delighted.
of course it was uphill work at first, and jo made queer mistakes, but the wise professor steered her safely into calmer waters, and the most rampant ragamuffin was conquered in the end.
how jo did enjoy her 'wilderness of boys', and how poor, dear aunt march would have lamented had she been there to see the sacred precincts of prim, well-ordered plumfield overrun with toms, dicks, and harrys!
there was a sort of poetic justice about it, after all, for the old lady had been the terror of the boys for miles around, and now the exiles feasted freely on forbidden plums, kicked up the gravel with profane boots unreproved, and played cricket in the big field where the irritable 'cow with a crumpled horn' used to invite rash youths to come and be tossed.
it became a sort of boys' paradise, and laurie suggested that it should be called the 'bhaer-garten', as a compliment to its master and appropriate to its inhabitants.
it never was a fashionable school, and the professor did not lay up a fortune, but it was just what jo intended it to be 'a happy, homelike place for boys, who needed teaching, care, and kindness'.
every room in the big house was soon full.
every little plot in the garden soon had its owner.
a regular menagerie appeared in barn and shed, for pet animals were allowed.
and three times a day, jo smiled at her fritz from the head of a long table lined on either side with rows of happy young faces, which all turned to her with affectionate eyes, confiding words, and grateful hearts, full of love for 'mother bhaer'.
she had boys enough now, and did not tire of them, though they were not angels, by any means, and some of them caused both professor and professorin much trouble and anxiety.
but her faith in the good spot which exists in the heart of the naughtiest, sauciest, most tantalizing little ragamuffin gave her patience, skill, and in time success, for no mortal boy could hold out long with father bhaer shining on him as benevolently as the sun, and mother bhaer forgiving him seventy times seven.
very precious to jo was the friendship of the lads, their penitent sniffs and whispers after wrongdoing, their droll or touching little confidences, their pleasant enthusiasms, hopes, and plans, even their misfortunes, for they only endeared them to her all the more.
there were slow boys and bashful boys, feeble boys and riotous boys, boys that lisped and boys that stuttered, one or two lame ones, and a merry little quadroon, who could not be taken in elsewhere, but who was welcome to the 'bhaer-garten', though some people predicted that his admission would ruin the school.
yes, jo was a very happy woman there, in spite of hard work, much anxiety, and a perpetual racket.
she enjoyed it heartily and found the applause of her boys more satisfying than any praise of the world, for now she told no stories except to her flock of enthusiastic believers and admirers.
as the years went on, two little lads of her own came to increase her happiness rob, named for grandpa, and teddy, a happy-go-lucky baby, who seemed to have inherited his papa's sunshiny temper as well as his mother's lively spirit.
how they ever grew up alive in that whirlpool of boys was a mystery to their grandma and aunts, but they flourished like dandelions in spring, and their rough nurses loved and served them well.
there were a great many holidays at plumfield, and one of the most delightful was the yearly apple-picking.
for then the marches, laurences, brookes and bhaers turned out in full force and made a day of it.
five years after jo's wedding, one of these fruitful festivals occurred, a mellow october day, when the air was full of an exhilarating freshness which made the spirits rise and the blood dance healthily in the veins.
the old orchard wore its holiday attire.
goldenrod and asters fringed the mossy walls.
grasshoppers skipped briskly in the sere grass, and crickets chirped like fairy pipers at a feast.
squirrels were busy with their small harvesting.
birds twittered their adieux from the alders in the lane, and every tree stood ready to send down its shower of red or yellow apples at the first shake.
everybody was there.
everybody laughed and sang, climbed up and tumbled down.
everybody declared that there never had been such a perfect day or such a jolly set to enjoy it, and everyone gave themselves up to the simple pleasures of the hour as freely as if there were no such things as care or sorrow in the world.
mr. march strolled placidly about, quoting tusser, cowley, and columella to mr. laurence, while enjoying...
the gentle apple's winey juice.
the professor charged up and down the green aisles like a stout teutonic knight, with a pole for a lance, leading on the boys, who made a hook and ladder company of themselves, and performed wonders in the way of ground and lofty tumbling.
laurie devoted himself to the little ones, rode his small daughter in a bushel-basket, took daisy up among the bird's nests, and kept adventurous rob from breaking his neck.
mrs. march and meg sat among the apple piles like a pair of pomonas, sorting the contributions that kept pouring in, while amy with a beautiful motherly expression in her face sketched the various groups, and watched over one pale lad, who sat adoring her with his little crutch beside him.
jo was in her element that day, and rushed about, with her gown pinned up, and her hat anywhere but on her head, and her baby tucked under her arm, ready for any lively adventure which might turn up.
little teddy bore a charmed life, for nothing ever happened to him, and jo never felt any anxiety when he was whisked up into a tree by one lad, galloped off on the back of another, or supplied with sour russets by his indulgent papa, who labored under the germanic delusion that babies could digest anything, from pickled cabbage to buttons, nails, and their own small shoes.
she knew that little ted would turn up again in time, safe and rosy, dirty and serene, and she always received him back with a hearty welcome, for jo loved her babies tenderly.
at four o'clock a lull took place, and baskets remained empty, while the apple pickers rested and compared rents and bruises.
then jo and meg, with a detachment of the bigger boys, set forth the supper on the grass, for an out-of-door tea was always the crowning joy of the day.
the land literally flowed with milk and honey on such occasions, for the lads were not required to sit at table, but allowed to partake of refreshment as they liked freedom being the sauce best beloved by the boyish soul.
they availed themselves of the rare privilege to the fullest extent, for some tried the pleasing experiment of drinking milk while standing on their heads, others lent a charm to leapfrog by eating pie in the pauses of the game, cookies were sown broadcast over the field, and apple turnovers roosted in the trees like a new style of bird.
the little girls had a private tea party, and ted roved among the edibles at his own sweet will.
when no one could eat any more, the professor proposed the first regular toast, which was always drunk at such times "aunt march, god bless her!"
a toast heartily given by the good man, who never forgot how much he owed her, and quietly drunk by the boys, who had been taught to keep her memory green.
"now, grandma's sixtieth birthday!
long life to her, with three times three!"
that was given with a will, as you may well believe, and the cheering once begun, it was hard to stop it.
everybody's health was proposed, from mr. laurence, who was considered their special patron, to the astonished guinea pig, who had strayed from its proper sphere in search of its young master.
demi, as the oldest grandchild, then presented the queen of the day with various gifts, so numerous that they were transported to the festive scene in a wheelbarrow.
funny presents, some of them, but what would have been defects to other eyes were ornaments to grandma's for the children's gifts were all their own.
every stitch daisy's patient little fingers had put into the handkerchiefs she hemmed was better than embroidery to mrs. march.
demi's miracle of mechanical skill, though the cover wouldn't shut, rob's footstool had a wiggle in its uneven legs that she declared was soothing, and no page of the costly book amy's child gave her was so fair as that on which appeared in tipsy capitals, the words "to dear grandma, from her little beth."
during the ceremony the boys had mysteriously disappeared, and when mrs. march had tried to thank her children, and broken down, while teddy wiped her eyes on his pinafore, the professor suddenly began to sing.
then, from above him, voice after voice took up the words, and from tree to tree echoed the music of the unseen choir, as the boys sang with all their hearts the little song that jo had written, laurie set to music, and the professor trained his lads to give with the best effect.
this was something altogether new, and it proved a grand success, for mrs. march couldn't get over her surprise, and insisted on shaking hands with every one of the featherless birds, from tall franz and emil to the little quadroon, who had the sweetest voice of all.
after this, the boys dispersed for a final lark, leaving mrs. march and her daughters under the festival tree.
"i don't think i ever ought to call myself 'unlucky jo' again, when my greatest wish has been so beautifully gratified," said mrs. bhaer, taking teddy's little fist out of the milk pitcher, in which he was rapturously churning.
"and yet your life is very different from the one you pictured so long ago.
do you remember our castles in the air?"
asked amy, smiling as she watched laurie and john playing cricket with the boys.
"dear fellows!
it does my heart good to see them forget business and frolic for a day," answered jo, who now spoke in a maternal way of all mankind.
"yes, i remember, but the life i wanted then seems selfish, lonely, and cold to me now.
i haven't given up the hope that i may write a good book yet, but i can wait, and i'm sure it will be all the better for such experiences and illustrations as these," and jo pointed from the lively lads in the distance to her father, leaning on the professor's arm, as they walked to and fro in the sunshine, deep in one of the conversations which both enjoyed so much, and then to her mother, sitting enthroned among her daughters, with their children in her lap and at her feet, as if all found help and happiness in the face which never could grow old to them.
"my castle was the most nearly realized of all.
i asked for splendid things, to be sure, but in my heart i knew i should be satisfied, if i had a little home, and john, and some dear children like these.
i've got them all, thank god, and am the happiest woman in the world," and meg laid her hand on her tall boy's head, with a face full of tender and devout content.
"my castle is very different from what i planned, but i would not alter it, though, like jo, i don't relinquish all my artistic hopes, or confine myself to helping others fulfill their dreams of beauty.
i've begun to model a figure of baby, and laurie says it is the best thing i've ever done.
i think so, myself, and mean to do it in marble, so that, whatever happens, i may at least keep the image of my little angel."
as amy spoke, a great tear dropped on the golden hair of the sleeping child in her arms, for her one well-beloved daughter was a frail little creature and the dread of losing her was the shadow over amy's sunshine.
this cross was doing much for both father and mother, for one love and sorrow bound them closely together.
amy's nature was growing sweeter, deeper, and more tender.
laurie was growing more serious, strong, and firm, and both were learning that beauty, youth, good fortune, even love itself, cannot keep care and pain, loss and sorrow, from the most blessed for ...
into each life some rain must fall,     some days must be dark and sad and dreary.
"she is growing better, i am sure of it, my dear.
don't despond, but hope and keep happy," said mrs. march, as tenderhearted daisy stooped from her knee to lay her rosy cheek against her little cousin's pale one.
"i never ought to, while i have you to cheer me up, marmee, and laurie to take more than half of every burden," replied amy warmly.
"he never lets me see his anxiety, but is so sweet and patient with me, so devoted to beth, and such a stay and comfort to me always that i can't love him enough.
so, in spite of my one cross, i can say with meg, 'thank god, i'm a happy woman.'"
"there's no need for me to say it, for everyone can see that i'm far happier than i deserve," added jo, glancing from her good husband to her chubby children, tumbling on the grass beside her.
"fritz is getting gray and stout.
i'm growing as thin as a shadow, and am thirty.
we never shall be rich, and plumfield may burn up any night, for that incorrigible tommy bangs will smoke sweet-fern cigars under the bed-clothes, though he's set himself afire three times already.
but in spite of these unromantic facts, i have nothing to complain of, and never was so jolly in my life.
excuse the remark, but living among boys, i can't help using their expressions now and then."
"yes, jo, i think your harvest will be a good one," began mrs. march, frightening away a big black cricket that was staring teddy out of countenance.
"not half so good as yours, mother.
here it is, and we never can thank you enough for the patient sowing and reaping you have done," cried jo, with the loving impetuosity which she never would outgrow.
"i hope there will be more wheat and fewer tares every year," said amy softly.
"a large sheaf, but i know there's room in your heart for it, marmee dear," added meg's tender voice.
touched to the heart, mrs. march could only stretch out her arms, as if to gather children and grandchildren to herself, and say, with face and voice full of motherly love, gratitude, and humility...
"oh, my girls, however long you may live, i never can wish you a greater happiness than this!"
just so stories
in the sea, once upon a time, o my best beloved, there was a whale, and he ate fishes.
he ate the starfish and the garfish, and the crab and the dab, and the plaice and the dace, and the skate and his mate, and the mackereel and the pickereel, and the really truly twirly-whirly eel.
all the fishes he could find in all the sea he ate with his mouth so!
till at last there was only one small fish left in all the sea, and he was a small ‘stute fish, and he swam a little behind the whale’s right ear, so as to be out of harm’s way.
then the whale stood up on his tail and said, ‘i’m hungry.’ and the small ‘stute fish said in a small ‘stute voice, ‘noble and generous cetacean, have you ever tasted man?’
‘no,’ said the whale.
‘what is it like?’
‘nice,’ said the small ‘stute fish.
‘nice but nubbly.’
‘then fetch me some,’ said the whale, and he made the sea froth up with his tail.
‘one at a time is enough,’ said the ‘stute fish.
‘if you swim to latitude fifty north, longitude forty west (that is magic), you will find, sitting on a raft, in the middle of the sea, with nothing on but a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must not forget the suspenders, best beloved), and a jack-knife, one ship-wrecked mariner, who, it is only fair to tell you, is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.’
so the whale swam and swam to latitude fifty north, longitude forty west, as fast as he could swim, and on a raft, in the middle of the sea, with nothing to wear except a pair of blue canvas breeches, a pair of suspenders (you must particularly remember the suspenders, best beloved), and a jack-knife, he found one single, solitary shipwrecked mariner, trailing his toes in the water.
(he had his mummy’s leave to paddle, or else he would never have done it, because he was a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.)
then the whale opened his mouth back and back and back till it nearly touched his tail, and he swallowed the shipwrecked mariner, and the raft he was sitting on, and his blue canvas breeches, and the suspenders (which you must not forget), and the jack-knife he swallowed them all down into his warm, dark, inside cup-boards, and then he smacked his lips so, and turned round three times on his tail.
but as soon as the mariner, who was a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, found himself truly inside the whale’s warm, dark, inside cup-boards, he stumped and he jumped and he thumped and he bumped, and he pranced and he danced, and he banged and he clanged, and he hit and he bit, and he leaped and he creeped, and he prowled and he howled, and he hopped and he dropped, and he cried and he sighed, and he crawled and he bawled, and he stepped and he lepped, and he danced hornpipes where he shouldn’t, and the whale felt most unhappy indeed.
(have you forgotten the suspenders?)
so he said to the ‘stute fish, ‘this man is very nubbly, and besides he is making me hiccough.
what shall i do?’
‘tell him to come out,’ said the ‘stute fish.
so the whale called down his own throat to the shipwrecked mariner, ‘come out and behave yourself.
i’ve got the hiccoughs.’
‘nay, nay!’ said the mariner.
‘not so, but far otherwise.
take me to my natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-albion, and i’ll think about it.’
and he began to dance more than ever.
‘you had better take him home,’ said the ‘stute fish to the whale.
‘i ought to have warned you that he is a man of infinite-resource-and-sagacity.’
so the whale swam and swam and swam, with both flippers and his tail, as hard as he could for the hiccoughs; and at last he saw the mariner’s natal-shore and the white-cliffs-of-albion, and he rushed half-way up the beach, and opened his mouth wide and wide and wide, and said, ‘change here for winchester, ashuelot, nashua, keene, and stations on the fitchburg road;’ and just as he said ‘fitch’ the mariner walked out of his mouth.
but while the whale had been swimming, the mariner, who was indeed a person of infinite-resource-and-sagacity, had taken his jack-knife and cut up the raft into a little square grating all running criss-cross, and he had tied it firm with his suspenders (now, you know why you were not to forget the suspenders!
), and he dragged that grating good and tight into the whale’s throat, and there it stuck!
then he recited the following sloka, which, as you have not heard it, i will now proceed to relate
by means of a grating   i have stopped your ating.
for the mariner he was also an hi-ber-ni-an.
and he stepped out on the shingle, and went home to his mother, who had given him leave to trail his toes in the water; and he married and lived happily ever afterward.
so did the whale.
but from that day on, the grating in his throat, which he could neither cough up nor swallow down, prevented him eating anything except very, very small fish; and that is the reason why whales nowadays never eat men or boys or little girls.
the small ‘stute fish went and hid himself in the mud under the door-sills of the equator.
he was afraid that the whale might be angry with him.
the sailor took the jack-knife home.
he was wearing the blue canvas breeches when he walked out on the shingle.
the suspenders were left behind, you see, to tie the grating with; and that is the end of that tale.
when the cabin port-holes are dark and green        because of the seas outside;      when the ship goes wop (with a wiggle between)
and the steward falls into the soup-tureen,        and the trunks begin to slide;      when nursey lies on the floor in a heap,      and mummy tells you to let her sleep,      and you aren’t waked or washed or dressed,      why, then you will know (if you haven’t guessed)
you’re ‘fifty north and forty west!’
how the camel got his hump
now this is the next tale, and it tells how the camel got his big hump.
in the beginning of years, when the world was so new and all, and the animals were just beginning to work for man, there was a camel, and he lived in the middle of a howling desert because he did not want to work; and besides, he was a howler himself.
so he ate sticks and thorns and tamarisks and milkweed and prickles, most ‘scruciating idle; and when anybody spoke to him he said ‘humph!’ just ‘humph!’ and no more.
presently the horse came to him on monday morning, with a saddle on his back and a bit in his mouth, and said, ‘camel, o camel, come out and trot like the rest of us.’
‘humph!’ said the camel; and the horse went away and told the man.
presently the dog came to him, with a stick in his mouth, and said, ‘camel, o camel, come and fetch and carry like the rest of us.’
‘humph!’ said the camel; and the dog went away and told the man.
presently the ox came to him, with the yoke on his neck and said, ‘camel, o camel, come and plough like the rest of us.’
‘humph!’ said the camel; and the ox went away and told the man.
at the end of the day the man called the horse and the dog and the ox together, and said, ‘three, o three, i’m very sorry for you (with the world so new-and-all); but that humph-thing in the desert can’t work, or he would have been here by now, so i am going to leave him alone, and you must work double-time to make up for it.’
that made the three very angry (with the world so new-and-all), and they held a palaver, and an indaba, and a punchayet, and a pow-wow on the edge of the desert; and the camel came chewing on milkweed most ‘scruciating idle, and laughed at them.
then he said ‘humph!’ and went away again.
presently there came along the djinn in charge of all deserts, rolling in a cloud of dust (djinns always travel that way because it is magic), and he stopped to palaver and pow-pow with the three.
‘djinn of all deserts,’ said the horse, ‘is it right for any one to be idle, with the world so new-and-all?’
‘certainly not,’ said the djinn.
‘well,’ said the horse, ‘there’s a thing in the middle of your howling desert (and he’s a howler himself) with a long neck and long legs, and he hasn’t done a stroke of work since monday morning.
he won’t trot.’
‘whew!’ said the djinn, whistling, ‘that’s my camel, for all the gold in arabia!
what does he say about it?’
‘he says “humph!”’ said the dog; ‘and he won’t fetch and carry.’
‘does he say anything else?’
‘only “humph!”; and he won’t plough,’ said the ox.
‘very good,’ said the djinn.
‘i’ll humph him if you will kindly wait a minute.’
the djinn rolled himself up in his dust-cloak, and took a bearing across the desert, and found the camel most ‘scruciatingly idle, looking at his own reflection in a pool of water.
‘my long and bubbling friend,’ said the djinn, ‘what’s this i hear of your doing no work, with the world so new-and-all?’
‘humph!’ said the camel.
the djinn sat down, with his chin in his hand, and began to think a great magic, while the camel looked at his own reflection in the pool of water.
‘you’ve given the three extra work ever since monday morning, all on account of your ‘scruciating idleness,’ said the djinn; and he went on thinking magics, with his chin in his hand.
‘humph!’ said the camel.
‘i shouldn’t say that again if i were you,’ said the djinn; you might say it once too often.
bubbles, i want you to work.’
and the camel said ‘humph!’ again; but no sooner had he said it than he saw his back, that he was so proud of, puffing up and puffing up into a great big lolloping humph.
‘do you see that?’ said the djinn.
‘that’s your very own humph that you’ve brought upon your very own self by not working.
to-day is thursday, and you’ve done no work since monday, when the work began.
now you are going to work.’
‘how can i,’ said the camel, ‘with this humph on my back?’
‘that’s made a-purpose,’ said the djinn, ‘all because you missed those three days.
you will be able to work now for three days without eating, because you can live on your humph; and don’t you ever say i never did anything for you.
come out of the desert and go to the three, and behave.
humph yourself!’
and the camel humphed himself, humph and all, and went away to join the three.
and from that day to this the camel always wears a humph (we call it ‘hump’ now, not to hurt his feelings); but he has never yet caught up with the three days that he missed at the beginning of the world, and he has never yet learned how to behave.
the camel’s hump is an ugly lump        which well you may see at the zoo;      but uglier yet is the hump we get        from having too little to do.
kiddies and grown-ups too-oo-oo,      if we haven’t enough to do-oo-oo,          we get the hump
cameelious hump
the hump that is black and blue!
we climb out of bed with a frouzly head        and a snarly-yarly voice.
we shiver and scowl and we grunt and we growl        at our bath and our boots and our toys;
and there ought to be a corner for me      (and i know there is one for you)
when we get the hump
cameelious hump
the hump that is black and blue!
the cure for this ill is not to sit still,        or frowst with a book by the fire;      but to take a large hoe and a shovel also,        and dig till you gently perspire;
and then you will find that the sun and the wind.
and the djinn of the garden too,          have lifted the hump
the horrible hump
the hump that is black and blue!
i get it as well as you-oo-oo
if i haven’t enough to do-oo-oo
we all get hump
cameelious hump
kiddies and grown-ups too!
how the rhinoceros got his skin
once upon a time, on an uninhabited island on the shores of the red sea, there lived a parsee from whose hat the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour.
and the parsee lived by the red sea with nothing but his hat and his knife and a cooking-stove of the kind that you must particularly never touch.
and one day he took flour and water and currants and plums and sugar and things, and made himself one cake which was two feet across and three feet thick.
it was indeed a superior comestible (that’s magic), and he put it on stove because he was allowed to cook on the stove, and he baked it and he baked it till it was all done brown and smelt most sentimental.
but just as he was going to eat it there came down to the beach from the altogether uninhabited interior one rhinoceros with a horn on his nose, two piggy eyes, and few manners.
in those days the rhinoceros’s skin fitted him quite tight.
there were no wrinkles in it anywhere.
he looked exactly like a noah’s ark rhinoceros, but of course much bigger.
all the same, he had no manners then, and he has no manners now, and he never will have any manners.
he said, ‘how!’ and the parsee left that cake and climbed to the top of a palm tree with nothing on but his hat, from which the rays of the sun were always reflected in more-than-oriental splendour.
and the rhinoceros upset the oil-stove with his nose, and the cake rolled on the sand, and he spiked that cake on the horn of his nose, and he ate it, and he went away, waving his tail, to the desolate and exclusively uninhabited interior which abuts on the islands of mazanderan, socotra, and promontories of the larger equinox.
then the parsee came down from his palm-tree and put the stove on its legs and recited the following sloka, which, as you have not heard, i will now proceed to relate:
them that takes cakes   which the parsee-man bakes   makes dreadful mistakes.
and there was a great deal more in that than you would think.
because, five weeks later, there was a heat wave in the red sea, and everybody took off all the clothes they had.
the parsee took off his hat; but the rhinoceros took off his skin and carried it over his shoulder as he came down to the beach to bathe.
in those days it buttoned underneath with three buttons and looked like a waterproof.
he said nothing whatever about the parsee’s cake, because he had eaten it all; and he never had any manners, then, since, or henceforward.
he waddled straight into the water and blew bubbles through his nose, leaving his skin on the beach.
presently the parsee came by and found the skin, and he smiled one smile that ran all round his face two times.
then he danced three times round the skin and rubbed his hands.
then he went to his camp and filled his hat with cake-crumbs, for the parsee never ate anything but cake, and never swept out his camp.
he took that skin, and he shook that skin, and he scrubbed that skin, and he rubbed that skin just as full of old, dry, stale, tickly cake-crumbs and some burned currants as ever it could possibly hold.
then he climbed to the top of his palm-tree and waited for the rhinoceros to come out of the water and put it on.
and the rhinoceros did.
he buttoned it up with the three buttons, and it tickled like cake crumbs in bed.
then he wanted to scratch, but that made it worse; and then he lay down on the sands and rolled and rolled and rolled, and every time he rolled the cake crumbs tickled him worse and worse and worse.
then he ran to the palm-tree and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed himself against it.
he rubbed so much and so hard that he rubbed his skin into a great fold over his shoulders, and another fold underneath, where the buttons used to be (but he rubbed the buttons off), and he rubbed some more folds over his legs.
and it spoiled his temper, but it didn’t make the least difference to the cake-crumbs.
they were inside his skin and they tickled.
so he went home, very angry indeed and horribly scratchy; and from that day to this every rhinoceros has great folds in his skin and a very bad temper, all on account of the cake-crumbs inside.
but the parsee came down from his palm-tree, wearing his hat, from which the rays of the sun were reflected in more-than-oriental splendour, packed up his cooking-stove, and went away in the direction of orotavo, amygdala, the upland meadows of anantarivo, and the marshes of sonaput.
this uninhabited island        is off cape gardafui,      by the beaches of socotra        and the pink arabian sea:
but it’s hot too hot from suez        for the likes of you and me          ever to go          in a p. and o.
and call on the cake-parsee!
how the leopard got his spots
in the days when everybody started fair, best beloved, the leopard lived in a place called the high veldt.
‘member it wasn’t the low veldt, or the bush veldt, or the sour veldt, but the ‘sclusively bare, hot, shiny high veldt, where there was sand and sandy-coloured rock and ‘sclusively tufts of sandy-yellowish grass.
the giraffe and the zebra and the eland and the koodoo and the hartebeest lived there; and they were ‘sclusively sandy-yellow-brownish all over; but the leopard, he was the ‘sclusivest sandiest-yellowish-brownest of them all a greyish-yellowish catty-shaped kind of beast, and he matched the ‘sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish colour of the high veldt to one hair.
this was very bad for the giraffe and the zebra and the rest of them; for he would lie down by a ‘sclusively yellowish-greyish-brownish stone or clump of grass, and when the giraffe or the zebra or the eland or the koodoo or the bush-buck or the bonte-buck came by he would surprise them out of their jumpsome lives.
he would indeed!
and, also, there was an ethiopian with bows and arrows (a ‘sclusively greyish-brownish-yellowish man he was then), who lived on the high veldt with the leopard; and the two used to hunt together the ethiopian with his bows and arrows, and the leopard ‘sclusively with his teeth and claws till the giraffe and the eland and the koodoo and the quagga and all the rest of them didn’t know which way to jump, best beloved.
they didn’t indeed!
after a long time things lived for ever so long in those days they learned to avoid anything that looked like a leopard or an ethiopian; and bit by bit the giraffe began it, because his legs were the longest they went away from the high veldt.
they scuttled for days and days and days till they came to a great forest, ‘sclusively full of trees and bushes and stripy, speckly, patchy-blatchy shadows, and there they hid: and after another long time, what with standing half in the shade and half out of it, and what with the slippery-slidy shadows of the trees falling on them, the giraffe grew blotchy, and the zebra grew stripy, and the eland and the koodoo grew darker, with little wavy grey lines on their backs like bark on a tree trunk; and so, though you could hear them and smell them, you could very seldom see them, and then only when you knew precisely where to look.
they had a beautiful time in the ‘sclusively speckly-spickly shadows of the forest, while the leopard and the ethiopian ran about over the ‘sclusively greyish-yellowish-reddish high veldt outside, wondering where all their breakfasts and their dinners and their teas had gone.
at last they were so hungry that they ate rats and beetles and rock-rabbits, the leopard and the ethiopian, and then they had the big tummy-ache, both together; and then they met baviaan the dog-headed, barking baboon, who is quite the wisest animal in all south africa.
said leopard to baviaan (and it was a very hot day), ‘where has all the game gone?’
and baviaan winked.
he knew.
said the ethiopian to baviaan, ‘can you tell me the present habitat of the aboriginal fauna?’ (that meant just the same thing, but the ethiopian always used long words.
he was a grown-up.)
and baviaan winked.
he knew.
then said baviaan, ‘the game has gone into other spots; and my advice to you, leopard, is to go into other spots as soon as you can.’
and the ethiopian said, ‘that is all very fine, but i wish to know whither the aboriginal fauna has migrated.’
then said baviaan, ‘the aboriginal fauna has joined the aboriginal flora because it was high time for a change; and my advice to you, ethiopian, is to change as soon as you can.’
that puzzled the leopard and the ethiopian, but they set off to look for the aboriginal flora, and presently, after ever so many days, they saw a great, high, tall forest full of tree trunks all ‘sclusively speckled and sprottled and spottled, dotted and splashed and slashed and hatched and cross-hatched with shadows.
(say that quickly aloud, and you will see how very shadowy the forest must have been.)
‘what is this,’ said the leopard, ‘that is so ‘sclusively dark, and yet so full of little pieces of light?’
‘i don’t know, said the ethiopian, ‘but it ought to be the aboriginal flora.
i can smell giraffe, and i can hear giraffe, but i can’t see giraffe.’
‘that’s curious,’ said the leopard.
‘i suppose it is because we have just come in out of the sunshine.
i can smell zebra, and i can hear zebra, but i can’t see zebra.’
‘wait a bit, said the ethiopian.
‘it’s a long time since we’ve hunted ‘em.
perhaps we’ve forgotten what they were like.’
‘fiddle!’ said the leopard.
‘i remember them perfectly on the high veldt, especially their marrow-bones.
giraffe is about seventeen feet high, of a ‘sclusively fulvous golden-yellow from head to heel; and zebra is about four and a half feet high, of a’sclusively grey-fawn colour from head to heel.’
‘umm, said the ethiopian, looking into the speckly-spickly shadows of the aboriginal flora-forest.
‘then they ought to show up in this dark place like ripe bananas in a smokehouse.’
but they didn’t.
the leopard and the ethiopian hunted all day; and though they could smell them and hear them, they never saw one of them.
‘for goodness’ sake,’ said the leopard at tea-time, ‘let us wait till it gets dark.
this daylight hunting is a perfect scandal.’
so they waited till dark, and then the leopard heard something breathing sniffily in the starlight that fell all stripy through the branches, and he jumped at the noise, and it smelt like zebra, and it felt like zebra, and when he knocked it down it kicked like zebra, but he couldn’t see it.
so he said, ‘be quiet, o you person without any form.
i am going to sit on your head till morning, because there is something about you that i don’t understand.’
presently he heard a grunt and a crash and a scramble, and the ethiopian called out, ‘i’ve caught a thing that i can’t see.
it smells like giraffe, and it kicks like giraffe, but it hasn’t any form.’
‘don’t you trust it,’ said the leopard.
‘sit on its head till the morning same as me.
they haven’t any form any of ‘em.’
so they sat down on them hard till bright morning-time, and then leopard said, ‘what have you at your end of the table, brother?’
the ethiopian scratched his head and said, ‘it ought to be ‘sclusively a rich fulvous orange-tawny from head to heel, and it ought to be giraffe; but it is covered all over with chestnut blotches.
what have you at your end of the table, brother?’
and the leopard scratched his head and said, ‘it ought to be ‘sclusively a delicate greyish-fawn, and it ought to be zebra; but it is covered all over with black and purple stripes.
what in the world have you been doing to yourself, zebra?
don’t you know that if you were on the high veldt i could see you ten miles off?
you haven’t any form.’
‘yes,’ said the zebra, ‘but this isn’t the high veldt.
can’t you see?’
‘i can now,’ said the leopard.
‘but i couldn’t all yesterday.
how is it done?’
‘let us up,’ said the zebra, ‘and we will show you.
they let the zebra and the giraffe get up; and zebra moved away to some little thorn-bushes where the sunlight fell all stripy, and giraffe moved off to some tallish trees where the shadows fell all blotchy.
‘now watch,’ said the zebra and the giraffe.
‘this is the way it’s done.
one two three!
and where’s your breakfast?’
leopard stared, and ethiopian stared, but all they could see were stripy shadows and blotched shadows in the forest, but never a sign of zebra and giraffe.
they had just walked off and hidden themselves in the shadowy forest.
‘hi!
hi!’ said the ethiopian.
‘that’s a trick worth learning.
take a lesson by it, leopard.
you show up in this dark place like a bar of soap in a coal-scuttle.’
‘ho!
ho!’ said the leopard.
‘would it surprise you very much to know that you show up in this dark place like a mustard-plaster on a sack of coals?’
‘well, calling names won’t catch dinner, said the ethiopian.
‘the long and the little of it is that we don’t match our backgrounds.
i’m going to take baviaan’s advice.
he told me i ought to change; and as i’ve nothing to change except my skin i’m going to change that.’
‘what to?’ said the leopard, tremendously excited.
‘to a nice working blackish-brownish colour, with a little purple in it, and touches of slaty-blue.
it will be the very thing for hiding in hollows and behind trees.’
so he changed his skin then and there, and the leopard was more excited than ever; he had never seen a man change his skin before.
‘but what about me?’ he said, when the ethiopian had worked his last little finger into his fine new black skin.
‘you take baviaan’s advice too.
he told you to go into spots.’
‘so i did,’ said the leopard.
i went into other spots as fast as i could.
i went into this spot with you, and a lot of good it has done me.’
‘oh,’ said the ethiopian, ‘baviaan didn’t mean spots in south africa.
he meant spots on your skin.’
‘what’s the use of that?’ said the leopard.
‘think of giraffe,’ said the ethiopian.
‘or if you prefer stripes, think of zebra.
they find their spots and stripes give them per-feet satisfaction.’
‘umm,’ said the leopard.
‘i wouldn’t look like zebra not for ever so.’
‘well, make up your mind,’ said the ethiopian, ‘because i’d hate to go hunting without you, but i must if you insist on looking like a sun-flower against a tarred fence.’
‘i’ll take spots, then,’ said the leopard; ‘but don’t make ‘em too vulgar-big.
i wouldn’t look like giraffe not for ever so.’
‘i’ll make ‘em with the tips of my fingers,’ said the ethiopian.
‘there’s plenty of black left on my skin still.
stand over!’
then the ethiopian put his five fingers close together (there was plenty of black left on his new skin still) and pressed them all over the leopard, and wherever the five fingers touched they left five little black marks, all close together.
you can see them on any leopard’s skin you like, best beloved.
sometimes the fingers slipped and the marks got a little blurred; but if you look closely at any leopard now you will see that there are always five spots off five fat black finger-tips.
‘now you are a beauty!’ said the ethiopian.
‘you can lie out on the bare ground and look like a heap of pebbles.
you can lie out on the naked rocks and look like a piece of pudding-stone.
you can lie out on a leafy branch and look like sunshine sifting through the leaves; and you can lie right across the centre of a path and look like nothing in particular.
think of that and purr!’
‘but if i’m all this,’ said the leopard, ‘why didn’t you go spotty too?’
‘oh, plain black’s best for a nigger,’ said the ethiopian.
‘now come along and we’ll see if we can’t get even with mr. one-two-three where’s your breakfast!’
so they went away and lived happily ever afterward, best beloved.
that is all.
oh, now and then you will hear grown-ups say, ‘can the ethiopian change his skin or the leopard his spots?’ i don’t think even grown-ups would keep on saying such a silly thing if the leopard and the ethiopian hadn’t done it once do you?
but they will never do it again, best beloved.
they are quite contented as they are.
i am the most wise baviaan, saying in most wise tones,    ‘let us melt into the landscape just us two by our lones.’
people have come in a carriage calling.
but mummy is there....
yes, i can go if you take me nurse says she don’t care.
let’s go up to the pig-sties and sit on the farmyard rails!
let’s say things to the bunnies, and watch ‘em skitter their tails!
let’s oh, anything, daddy, so long as it’s you and me,    and going truly exploring, and not being in till tea!
here’s your boots (i’ve brought ‘em), and here’s your cap and stick,    and here’s your pipe and tobacco.
oh, come along out of it quick.
the elephant’s child
in the high and far-off times the elephant, o best beloved, had no trunk.
he had only a blackish, bulgy nose, as big as a boot, that he could wriggle about from side to side; but he couldn’t pick up things with it.
but there was one elephant a new elephant an elephant’s child who was full of ‘satiable curtiosity, and that means he asked ever so many questions.
and he lived in africa, and he filled all africa with his ‘satiable curtiosities.
he asked his tall aunt, the ostrich, why her tail-feathers grew just so, and his tall aunt the ostrich spanked him with her hard, hard claw.
he asked his tall uncle, the giraffe, what made his skin spotty, and his tall uncle, the giraffe, spanked him with his hard, hard hoof.
and still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity!
he asked his broad aunt, the hippopotamus, why her eyes were red, and his broad aunt, the hippopotamus, spanked him with her broad, broad hoof; and he asked his hairy uncle, the baboon, why melons tasted just so, and his hairy uncle, the baboon, spanked him with his hairy, hairy paw.
and still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity!
he asked questions about everything that he saw, or heard, or felt, or smelt, or touched, and all his uncles and his aunts spanked him.
and still he was full of ‘satiable curtiosity!
one fine morning in the middle of the precession of the equinoxes this ‘satiable elephant’s child asked a new fine question that he had never asked before.
he asked, ‘what does the crocodile have for dinner?’ then everybody said, ‘hush!’ in a loud and dretful tone, and they spanked him immediately and directly, without stopping, for a long time.
by and by, when that was finished, he came upon kolokolo bird sitting in the middle of a wait-a-bit thorn-bush, and he said, ‘my father has spanked me, and my mother has spanked me; all my aunts and uncles have spanked me for my ‘satiable curtiosity; and still i want to know what the crocodile has for dinner!’
then kolokolo bird said, with a mournful cry, ‘go to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy limpopo river, all set about with fever-trees, and find out.’
that very next morning, when there was nothing left of the equinoxes, because the precession had preceded according to precedent, this ‘satiable elephant’s child took a hundred pounds of bananas (the little short red kind), and a hundred pounds of sugar-cane (the long purple kind), and seventeen melons (the greeny-crackly kind), and said to all his dear families, ‘goodbye.
i am going to the great grey-green, greasy limpopo river, all set about with fever-trees, to find out what the crocodile has for dinner.’ and they all spanked him once more for luck, though he asked them most politely to stop.
then he went away, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up.
he went from graham’s town to kimberley, and from kimberley to khama’s country, and from khama’s country he went east by north, eating melons all the time, till at last he came to the banks of the great grey-green, greasy limpopo river, all set about with fever-trees, precisely as kolokolo bird had said.
now you must know and understand, o best beloved, that till that very week, and day, and hour, and minute, this ‘satiable elephant’s child had never seen a crocodile, and did not know what one was like.
it was all his ‘satiable curtiosity.
the first thing that he found was a bi-coloured-python-rock-snake curled round a rock.
‘’scuse me,’ said the elephant’s child most politely, ‘but have you seen such a thing as a crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’
‘have i seen a crocodile?’ said the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake, in a voice of dretful scorn.
‘what will you ask me next?’
‘’scuse me,’ said the elephant’s child, ‘but could you kindly tell me what he has for dinner?’
then the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake uncoiled himself very quickly from the rock, and spanked the elephant’s child with his scalesome, flailsome tail.
‘that is odd,’ said the elephant’s child, ‘because my father and my mother, and my uncle and my aunt, not to mention my other aunt, the hippopotamus, and my other uncle, the baboon, have all spanked me for my ‘satiable curtiosity and i suppose this is the same thing.
so he said good-bye very politely to the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake, and helped to coil him up on the rock again, and went on, a little warm, but not at all astonished, eating melons, and throwing the rind about, because he could not pick it up, till he trod on what he thought was a log of wood at the very edge of the great grey-green, greasy limpopo river, all set about with fever-trees.
but it was really the crocodile, o best beloved, and the crocodile winked one eye like this!
‘’scuse me,’ said the elephant’s child most politely, ‘but do you happen to have seen a crocodile in these promiscuous parts?’
then the crocodile winked the other eye, and lifted half his tail out of the mud; and the elephant’s child stepped back most politely, because he did not wish to be spanked again.
‘come hither, little one,’ said the crocodile.
‘why do you ask such things?’
‘’scuse me,’ said the elephant’s child most politely, ‘but my father has spanked me, my mother has spanked me, not to mention my tall aunt, the ostrich, and my tall uncle, the giraffe, who can kick ever so hard, as well as my broad aunt, the hippopotamus, and my hairy uncle, the baboon, and including the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake, with the scalesome, flailsome tail, just up the bank, who spanks harder than any of them; and so, if it’s quite all the same to you, i don’t want to be spanked any more.’
‘come hither, little one,’ said the crocodile, ‘for i am the crocodile,’
and he wept crocodile-tears to show it was quite true.
then the elephant’s child grew all breathless, and panted, and kneeled down on the bank and said, ‘you are the very person i have been looking for all these long days.
will you please tell me what you have for dinner?’
‘come hither, little one,’ said the crocodile, ‘and i’ll whisper.’
then the elephant’s child put his head down close to the crocodile’s musky, tusky mouth, and the crocodile caught him by his little nose, which up to that very week, day, hour, and minute, had been no bigger than a boot, though much more useful.
‘i think, said the crocodile and he said it between his teeth, like this ‘i think to-day i will begin with elephant’s child!’
at this, o best beloved, the elephant’s child was much annoyed, and he said, speaking through his nose, like this, ‘led go!
you are hurtig be!’
then the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake scuffled down from the bank and said, ‘my young friend, if you do not now, immediately and instantly, pull as hard as ever you can, it is my opinion that your acquaintance in the large-pattern leather ulster’ (and by this he meant the crocodile)
‘will jerk you into yonder limpid stream before you can say jack robinson.’
this is the way bi-coloured-python-rock-snakes always talk.
then the elephant’s child sat back on his little haunches, and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose began to stretch.
and the crocodile floundered into the water, making it all creamy with great sweeps of his tail, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled.
and the elephant’s child’s nose kept on stretching; and the elephant’s child spread all his little four legs and pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and his nose kept on stretching; and the crocodile threshed his tail like an oar, and he pulled, and pulled, and pulled, and at each pull the elephant’s child’s nose grew longer and longer and it hurt him hijjus!
then the elephant’s child felt his legs slipping, and he said through his nose, which was now nearly five feet long, ‘this is too butch for be!’
then the bi-coloured-python-rock-snake came down from the bank, and knotted himself in a double-clove-hitch round the elephant’s child’s hind legs, and said, ‘rash and inexperienced traveller, we will now seriously devote ourselves to a little high tension, because if we do not, it is my impression that yonder self-propelling man-of-war with the armour-plated upper deck’ (and by this, o best beloved, he meant the crocodile), ‘will permanently vitiate your future career.
that is the way all bi-coloured-python-rock-snakes always talk.
it may be worth while, therefore, previously to advert to those curious imaginary portraits of him which even down to the present day confidently challenge the faith of the landsman.
it is time to set the world right in this matter, by proving such pictures of the whale all wrong.
it may be that the primal source of all those pictorial delusions will be found among the oldest hindoo, egyptian, and grecian sculptures.
for ever since those inventive but unscrupulous times when on the marble panellings of temples, the pedestals of statues, and on shields, medallions, cups, and coins, the dolphin was drawn in scales of chain-armor like saladin’s, and a helmeted head like st. george’s; ever since then has something of the same sort of license prevailed, not only in most popular pictures of the whale, but in many scientific presentations of him.
now, by all odds, the most ancient extant portrait anyways purporting to be the whale’s, is to be found in the famous cavern-pagoda of elephanta, in india.
the brahmins maintain that in the almost endless sculptures of that immemorial pagoda, all the trades and pursuits, every conceivable avocation of man, were prefigured ages before any of them actually came into being.
no wonder then, that in some sort our noble profession of whaling should have been there shadowed forth.
the hindoo whale referred to, occurs in a separate department of the wall, depicting the incarnation of vishnu in the form of leviathan, learnedly known as the matse avatar.
but though this sculpture is half man and half whale, so as only to give the tail of the latter, yet that small section of him is all wrong.
it looks more like the tapering tail of an anaconda, than the broad palms of the true whale’s majestic flukes.
but go to the old galleries, and look now at a great christian painter’s portrait of this fish; for he succeeds no better than the antediluvian hindoo.
it is guido’s picture of perseus rescuing andromeda from the sea-monster or whale.
where did guido get the model of such a strange creature as that?
nor does hogarth, in painting the same scene in his own “perseus descending,” make out one whit better.
the huge corpulence of that hogarthian monster undulates on the surface, scarcely drawing one inch of water.
it has a sort of howdah on its back, and its distended tusked mouth into which the billows are rolling, might be taken for the traitors’ gate leading from the thames by water into the tower.
then, there are the prodromus whales of old scotch sibbald, and jonah’s whale, as depicted in the prints of old bibles and the cuts of old primers.
what shall be said of these?
as for the book-binder’s whale winding like a vine-stalk round the stock of a descending anchor—as stamped and gilded on the backs and title-pages of many books both old and new—that is a very picturesque but purely fabulous creature, imitated, i take it, from the like figures on antique vases.
though universally denominated a dolphin, i nevertheless call this book-binder’s fish an attempt at a whale; because it was so intended when the device was first introduced.
it was introduced by an old italian publisher somewhere about the 15th century, during the revival of learning; and in those days, and even down to a comparatively late period, dolphins were popularly supposed to be a species of the leviathan.
in the vignettes and other embellishments of some ancient books you will at times meet with very curious touches at the whale, where all manner of spouts, jets d’eau, hot springs and cold, saratoga and baden-baden, come bubbling up from his unexhausted brain.
in the title-page of the original edition of the “advancement of learning” you will find some curious whales.
but quitting all these unprofessional attempts, let us glance at those pictures of leviathan purporting to be sober, scientific delineations, by those who know.
in old harris’s collection of voyages there are some plates of whales extracted from a dutch book of voyages, a.d. 1671, entitled “a whaling voyage to spitzbergen in the ship jonas in the whale, peter peterson of friesland, master.” in one of those plates the whales, like great rafts of logs, are represented lying among ice-isles, with white bears running over their living backs.
in another plate, the prodigious blunder is made of representing the whale with perpendicular flukes.
then again, there is an imposing quarto, written by one captain colnett, a post captain in the english navy, entitled “a voyage round cape horn into the south seas, for the purpose of extending the spermaceti whale fisheries.” in this book is an outline purporting to be a “picture of a physeter or spermaceti whale, drawn by scale from one killed on the coast of mexico, august, 1793, and hoisted on deck.”
i doubt not the captain had this veracious picture taken for the benefit of his marines.
to mention but one thing about it, let me say that it has an eye which applied, according to the accompanying scale, to a full grown sperm whale, would make the eye of that whale a bow-window some five feet long.
ah, my gallant captain, why did ye not give us jonah looking out of that eye!
nor are the most conscientious compilations of natural history for the benefit of the young and tender, free from the same heinousness of mistake.
look at that popular work “goldsmith’s animated nature.” in the abridged london edition of 1807, there are plates of an alleged “whale” and a “narwhale.” i do not wish to seem inelegant, but this unsightly whale looks much like an amputated sow; and, as for the narwhale, one glimpse at it is enough to amaze one, that in this nineteenth century such a hippogriff could be palmed for genuine upon any intelligent public of schoolboys.
then, again, in 1825, bernard germain, count de lacépède, a great naturalist, published a scientific systemized whale book, wherein are several pictures of the different species of the leviathan.
all these are not only incorrect, but the picture of the mysticetus or greenland whale (that is to say, the right whale), even scoresby, a long experienced man as touching that species, declares not to have its counterpart in nature.
but the placing of the cap-sheaf to all this blundering business was reserved for the scientific frederick cuvier, brother to the famous baron.
in 1836, he published a natural history of whales, in which he gives what he calls a picture of the sperm whale.
before showing that picture to any nantucketer, you had best provide for your summary retreat from nantucket.
in a word, frederick cuvier’s sperm whale is not a sperm whale, but a squash.
of course, he never had the benefit of a whaling voyage (such men seldom have), but whence he derived that picture, who can tell?
perhaps he got it as his scientific predecessor in the same field, desmarest, got one of his authentic abortions; that is, from a chinese drawing.
and what sort of lively lads with the pencil those chinese are, many queer cups and saucers inform us.
as for the sign-painters’ whales seen in the streets hanging over the shops of oil-dealers, what shall be said of them?
they are generally richard iii.
whales, with dromedary humps, and very savage; breakfasting on three or four sailor tarts, that is whaleboats full of mariners: their deformities floundering in seas of blood and blue paint.
but these manifold mistakes in depicting the whale are not so very surprising after all.
consider!
most of the scientific drawings have been taken from the stranded fish; and these are about as correct as a drawing of a wrecked ship, with broken back, would correctly represent the noble animal itself in all its undashed pride of hull and spars.
though elephants have stood for their full-lengths, the living leviathan has never yet fairly floated himself for his portrait.
the living whale, in his full majesty and significance, is only to be seen at sea in unfathomable waters; and afloat the vast bulk of him is out of sight, like a launched line-of-battle ship; and out of that element it is a thing eternally impossible for mortal man to hoist him bodily into the air, so as to preserve all his mighty swells and undulations.
and, not to speak of the highly presumable difference of contour between a young sucking whale and a full-grown platonian leviathan; yet, even in the case of one of those young sucking whales hoisted to a ship’s deck, such is then the outlandish, eel-like, limbered, varying shape of him, that his precise expression the devil himself could not catch.
but it may be fancied, that from the naked skeleton of the stranded whale, accurate hints may be derived touching his true form.
not at all.
for it is one of the more curious things about this leviathan, that his skeleton gives very little idea of his general shape.
though jeremy bentham’s skeleton, which hangs for candelabra in the library of one of his executors, correctly conveys the idea of a burly-browed utilitarian old gentleman, with all jeremy’s other leading personal characteristics; yet nothing of this kind could be inferred from any leviathan’s articulated bones.
in fact, as the great hunter says, the mere skeleton of the whale bears the same relation to the fully invested and padded animal as the insect does to the chrysalis that so roundingly envelopes it.
this peculiarity is strikingly evinced in the head, as in some part of this book will be incidentally shown.
it is also very curiously displayed in the side fin, the bones of which almost exactly answer to the bones of the human hand, minus only the thumb.
this fin has four regular bone-fingers, the index, middle, ring, and little finger.
but all these are permanently lodged in their fleshy covering, as the human fingers in an artificial covering.
“however recklessly the whale may sometimes serve us,” said humorous stubb one day, “he can never be truly said to handle us without mittens.”
for all these reasons, then, any way you may look at it, you must needs conclude that the great leviathan is that one creature in the world which must remain unpainted to the last.
true, one portrait may hit the mark much nearer than another, but none can hit it with any very considerable degree of exactness.
so there is no earthly way of finding out precisely what the whale really looks like.
and the only mode in which you can derive even a tolerable idea of his living contour, is by going a whaling yourself; but by so doing, you run no small risk of being eternally stove and sunk by him.
wherefore, it seems to me you had best not be too fastidious in your curiosity touching this leviathan.
chapter 56. of the less erroneous pictures of whales, and the true pictures of whaling scenes.
in connexion with the monstrous pictures of whales, i am strongly tempted here to enter upon those still more monstrous stories of them which are to be found in certain books, both ancient and modern, especially in pliny, purchas, hackluyt, harris, cuvier, etc.
but i pass that matter by.
i know of only four published outlines of the great sperm whale; colnett’s, huggins’s, frederick cuvier’s, and beale’s.
in the previous chapter colnett and cuvier have been referred to.
huggins’s is far better than theirs; but, by great odds, beale’s is the best.
all beale’s drawings of this whale are good, excepting the middle figure in the picture of three whales in various attitudes, capping his second chapter.
his frontispiece, boats attacking sperm whales, though no doubt calculated to excite the civil scepticism of some parlor men, is admirably correct and life-like in its general effect.
some of the sperm whale drawings in j. ross browne are pretty correct in contour; but they are wretchedly engraved.
that is not his fault though.
of the right whale, the best outline pictures are in scoresby; but they are drawn on too small a scale to convey a desirable impression.
he has but one picture of whaling scenes, and this is a sad deficiency, because it is by such pictures only, when at all well done, that you can derive anything like a truthful idea of the living whale as seen by his living hunters.
but, taken for all in all, by far the finest, though in some details not the most correct, presentations of whales and whaling scenes to be anywhere found, are two large french engravings, well executed, and taken from paintings by one garnery.
respectively, they represent attacks on the sperm and right whale.
in the first engraving a noble sperm whale is depicted in full majesty of might, just risen beneath the boat from the profundities of the ocean, and bearing high in the air upon his back the terrific wreck of the stoven planks.
the prow of the boat is partially unbroken, and is drawn just balancing upon the monster’s spine; and standing in that prow, for that one single incomputable flash of time, you behold an oarsman, half shrouded by the incensed boiling spout of the whale, and in the act of leaping, as if from a precipice.
the action of the whole thing is wonderfully good and true.
the half-emptied line-tub floats on the whitened sea; the wooden poles of the spilled harpoons obliquely bob in it; the heads of the swimming crew are scattered about the whale in contrasting expressions of affright; while in the black stormy distance the ship is bearing down upon the scene.
serious fault might be found with the anatomical details of this whale, but let that pass; since, for the life of me, i could not draw so good a one.
in the second engraving, the boat is in the act of drawing alongside the barnacled flank of a large running right whale, that rolls his black weedy bulk in the sea like some mossy rock-slide from the patagonian cliffs.
his jets are erect, full, and black like soot; so that from so abounding a smoke in the chimney, you would think there must be a brave supper cooking in the great bowels below.
sea fowls are pecking at the small crabs, shell-fish, and other sea candies and maccaroni, which the right whale sometimes carries on his pestilent back.
and all the while the thick-lipped leviathan is rushing through the deep, leaving tons of tumultuous white curds in his wake, and causing the slight boat to rock in the swells like a skiff caught nigh the paddle-wheels of an ocean steamer.
thus, the foreground is all raging commotion; but behind, in admirable artistic contrast, is the glassy level of a sea becalmed, the drooping unstarched sails of the powerless ship, and the inert mass of a dead whale, a conquered fortress, with the flag of capture lazily hanging from the whale-pole inserted into his spout-hole.
who garnery the painter is, or was, i know not.
but my life for it he was either practically conversant with his subject, or else marvellously tutored by some experienced whaleman.
the french are the lads for painting action.
go and gaze upon all the paintings of europe, and where will you find such a gallery of living and breathing commotion on canvas, as in that triumphal hall at versailles; where the beholder fights his way, pell-mell, through the consecutive great battles of france; where every sword seems a flash of the northern lights, and the successive armed kings and emperors dash by, like a charge of crowned centaurs?
not wholly unworthy of a place in that gallery, are these sea battle-pieces of garnery.
the natural aptitude of the french for seizing the picturesqueness of things seems to be peculiarly evinced in what paintings and engravings they have of their whaling scenes.
with not one tenth of england’s experience in the fishery, and not the thousandth part of that of the americans, they have nevertheless furnished both nations with the only finished sketches at all capable of conveying the real spirit of the whale hunt.
for the most part, the english and american whale draughtsmen seem entirely content with presenting the mechanical outline of things, such as the vacant profile of the whale; which, so far as picturesqueness of effect is concerned, is about tantamount to sketching the profile of a pyramid.
even scoresby, the justly renowned right whaleman, after giving us a stiff full length of the greenland whale, and three or four delicate miniatures of narwhales and porpoises, treats us to a series of classical engravings of boat hooks, chopping knives, and grapnels; and with the microscopic diligence of a leuwenhoeck submits to the inspection of a shivering world ninety-six fac-similes of magnified arctic snow crystals.
i mean no disparagement to the excellent voyager (i honor him for a veteran), but in so important a matter it was certainly an oversight not to have procured for every crystal a sworn affidavit taken before a greenland justice of the peace.
in addition to those fine engravings from garnery, there are two other french engravings worthy of note, by some one who subscribes himself “h.
durand.” one of them, though not precisely adapted to our present purpose, nevertheless deserves mention on other accounts.
it is a quiet noon-scene among the isles of the pacific; a french whaler anchored, inshore, in a calm, and lazily taking water on board; the loosened sails of the ship, and the long leaves of the palms in the background, both drooping together in the breezeless air.
the effect is very fine, when considered with reference to its presenting the hardy fishermen under one of their few aspects of oriental repose.
the other engraving is quite a different affair: the ship hove-to upon the open sea, and in the very heart of the leviathanic life, with a right whale alongside; the vessel (in the act of cutting-in) hove over to the monster as if to a quay; and a boat, hurriedly pushing off from this scene of activity, is about giving chase to whales in the distance.
the harpoons and lances lie levelled for use; three oarsmen are just setting the mast in its hole; while from a sudden roll of the sea, the little craft stands half-erect out of the water, like a rearing horse.
from the ship, the smoke of the torments of the boiling whale is going up like the smoke over a village of smithies; and to windward, a black cloud, rising up with earnest of squalls and rains, seems to quicken the activity of the excited seamen.
chapter 57. of whales in paint; in teeth; in wood; in sheet-iron; in stone; in mountains; in stars.
on tower-hill, as you go down to the london docks, you may have seen a crippled beggar (or kedger, as the sailors say) holding a painted board before him, representing the tragic scene in which he lost his leg.
there are three whales and three boats; and one of the boats (presumed to contain the missing leg in all its original integrity) is being crunched by the jaws of the foremost whale.
any time these ten years, they tell me, has that man held up that picture, and exhibited that stump to an incredulous world.
but the time of his justification has now come.
his three whales are as good whales as were ever published in wapping, at any rate; and his stump as unquestionable a stump as any you will find in the western clearings.
but, though for ever mounted on that stump, never a stump-speech does the poor whaleman make; but, with downcast eyes, stands ruefully contemplating his own amputation.
throughout the pacific, and also in nantucket, and new bedford, and sag harbor, you will come across lively sketches of whales and whaling-scenes, graven by the fishermen themselves on sperm whale-teeth, or ladies’ busks wrought out of the right whale-bone, and other like skrimshander articles, as the whalemen call the numerous little ingenious contrivances they elaborately carve out of the rough material, in their hours of ocean leisure.
some of them have little boxes of dentistical-looking implements, specially intended for the skrimshandering business.
but, in general, they toil with their jack-knives alone; and, with that almost omnipotent tool of the sailor, they will turn you out anything you please, in the way of a mariner’s fancy.
long exile from christendom and civilization inevitably restores a man to that condition in which god placed him, i.e.
what is called savagery.
your true whale-hunter is as much a savage as an iroquois.
i myself am a savage, owning no allegiance but to the king of the cannibals; and ready at any moment to rebel against him.
now, one of the peculiar characteristics of the savage in his domestic hours, is his wonderful patience of industry.
an ancient hawaiian war-club or spear-paddle, in its full multiplicity and elaboration of carving, is as great a trophy of human perseverance as a latin lexicon.
for, with but a bit of broken sea-shell or a shark’s tooth, that miraculous intricacy of wooden net-work has been achieved; and it has cost steady years of steady application.
as with the hawaiian savage, so with the white sailor-savage.
with the same marvellous patience, and with the same single shark’s tooth, of his one poor jack-knife, he will carve you a bit of bone sculpture, not quite as workmanlike, but as close packed in its maziness of design, as the greek savage, achilles’s shield; and full of barbaric spirit and suggestiveness, as the prints of that fine old dutch savage, albert durer.
wooden whales, or whales cut in profile out of the small dark slabs of the noble south sea war-wood, are frequently met with in the forecastles of american whalers.
some of them are done with much accuracy.
at some old gable-roofed country houses you will see brass whales hung by the tail for knockers to the road-side door.
when the porter is sleepy, the anvil-headed whale would be best.
but these knocking whales are seldom remarkable as faithful essays.
on the spires of some old-fashioned churches you will see sheet-iron whales placed there for weather-cocks; but they are so elevated, and besides that are to all intents and purposes so labelled with “hands off!” you cannot examine them closely enough to decide upon their merit.
in bony, ribby regions of the earth, where at the base of high broken cliffs masses of rock lie strewn in fantastic groupings upon the plain, you will often discover images as of the petrified forms of the leviathan partly merged in grass, which of a windy day breaks against them in a surf of green surges.
then, again, in mountainous countries where the traveller is continually girdled by amphitheatrical heights; here and there from some lucky point of view you will catch passing glimpses of the profiles of whales defined along the undulating ridges.
but you must be a thorough whaleman, to see these sights; and not only that, but if you wish to return to such a sight again, you must be sure and take the exact intersecting latitude and longitude of your first stand-point, else so chance-like are such observations of the hills, that your precise, previous stand-point would require a laborious re-discovery; like the soloma islands, which still remain incognita, though once high-ruffed mendanna trod them and old figuera chronicled them.
nor when expandingly lifted by your subject, can you fail to trace out great whales in the starry heavens, and boats in pursuit of them; as when long filled with thoughts of war the eastern nations saw armies locked in battle among the clouds.
thus at the north have i chased leviathan round and round the pole with the revolutions of the bright points that first defined him to me.
and beneath the effulgent antarctic skies i have boarded the argo-navis, and joined the chase against the starry cetus far beyond the utmost stretch of hydrus and the flying fish.
with a frigate’s anchors for my bridle-bitts and fasces of harpoons for spurs, would i could mount that whale and leap the topmost skies, to see whether the fabled heavens with all their countless tents really lie encamped beyond my mortal sight!
chapter 58. brit.
steering north-eastward from the crozetts, we fell in with vast meadows of brit, the minute, yellow substance, upon which the right whale largely feeds.
for leagues and leagues it undulated round us, so that we seemed to be sailing through boundless fields of ripe and golden wheat.
on the second day, numbers of right whales were seen, who, secure from the attack of a sperm whaler like the pequod, with open jaws sluggishly swam through the brit, which, adhering to the fringing fibres of that wondrous venetian blind in their mouths, was in that manner separated from the water that escaped at the lip.
as morning mowers, who side by side slowly and seethingly advance their scythes through the long wet grass of marshy meads; even so these monsters swam, making a strange, grassy, cutting sound; and leaving behind them endless swaths of blue upon the yellow sea.
*
*that part of the sea known among whalemen as the “brazil banks” does not bear that name as the banks of newfoundland do, because of there being shallows and soundings there, but because of this remarkable meadow-like appearance, caused by the vast drifts of brit continually floating in those latitudes, where the right whale is often chased.
but it was only the sound they made as they parted the brit which at all reminded one of mowers.
seen from the mast-heads, especially when they paused and were stationary for a while, their vast black forms looked more like lifeless masses of rock than anything else.
and as in the great hunting countries of india, the stranger at a distance will sometimes pass on the plains recumbent elephants without knowing them to be such, taking them for bare, blackened elevations of the soil; even so, often, with him, who for the first time beholds this species of the leviathans of the sea.
and even when recognised at last, their immense magnitude renders it very hard really to believe that such bulky masses of overgrowth can possibly be instinct, in all parts, with the same sort of life that lives in a dog or a horse.
indeed, in other respects, you can hardly regard any creatures of the deep with the same feelings that you do those of the shore.
for though some old naturalists have maintained that all creatures of the land are of their kind in the sea; and though taking a broad general view of the thing, this may very well be; yet coming to specialties, where, for example, does the ocean furnish any fish that in disposition answers to the sagacious kindness of the dog?
the accursed shark alone can in any generic respect be said to bear comparative analogy to him.
but though, to landsmen in general, the native inhabitants of the seas have ever been regarded with emotions unspeakably unsocial and repelling; though we know the sea to be an everlasting terra incognita, so that columbus sailed over numberless unknown worlds to discover his one superficial western one; though, by vast odds, the most terrific of all mortal disasters have immemorially and indiscriminately befallen tens and hundreds of thousands of those who have gone upon the waters; though but a moment’s consideration will teach, that however baby man may brag of his science and skill, and however much, in a flattering future, that science and skill may augment; yet for ever and for ever, to the crack of doom, the sea will insult and murder him, and pulverize the stateliest, stiffest frigate he can make; nevertheless, by the continual repetition of these very impressions, man has lost that sense of the full awfulness of the sea which aboriginally belongs to it.
the first boat we read of, floated on an ocean, that with portuguese vengeance had whelmed a whole world without leaving so much as a widow.
that same ocean rolls now; that same ocean destroyed the wrecked ships of last year.
yea, foolish mortals, noah’s flood is not yet subsided; two thirds of the fair world it yet covers.
wherein differ the sea and the land, that a miracle upon one is not a miracle upon the other?
preternatural terrors rested upon the hebrews, when under the feet of korah and his company the live ground opened and swallowed them up for ever; yet not a modern sun ever sets, but in precisely the same manner the live sea swallows up ships and crews.
but not only is the sea such a foe to man who is an alien to it, but it is also a fiend to its own off-spring; worse than the persian host who murdered his own guests; sparing not the creatures which itself hath spawned.
like a savage tigress that tossing in the jungle overlays her own cubs, so the sea dashes even the mightiest whales against the rocks, and leaves them there side by side with the split wrecks of ships.
no mercy, no power but its own controls it.
panting and snorting like a mad battle steed that has lost its rider, the masterless ocean overruns the globe.
consider the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water, unapparent for the most part, and treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure.
consider also the devilish brilliance and beauty of many of its most remorseless tribes, as the dainty embellished shape of many species of sharks.
consider, once more, the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began.
consider all this; and then turn to this green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself?
for as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half known life.
god keep thee!
push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!
chapter 59. squid.
slowly wading through the meadows of brit, the pequod still held on her way north-eastward towards the island of java; a gentle air impelling her keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering masts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a plain.
and still, at wide intervals in the silvery night, the lonely, alluring jet would be seen.
but one transparent blue morning, when a stillness almost preternatural spread over the sea, however unattended with any stagnant calm; when the long burnished sun-glade on the waters seemed a golden finger laid across them, enjoining some secrecy; when the slippered waves whispered together as they softly ran on; in this profound hush of the visible sphere a strange spectre was seen by daggoo from the main-mast-head.
in the distance, a great white mass lazily rose, and rising higher and higher, and disentangling itself from the azure, at last gleamed before our prow like a snow-slide, new slid from the hills.
thus glistening for a moment, as slowly it subsided, and sank.
then once more arose, and silently gleamed.
it seemed not a whale; and yet is this moby dick?
thought daggoo.
again the phantom went down, but on re-appearing once more, with a stiletto-like cry that startled every man from his nod, the negro yelled out—“there!
there again!
there she breaches!
right ahead!
the white whale, the white whale!”
upon this, the seamen rushed to the yard-arms, as in swarming-time the bees rush to the boughs.
bare-headed in the sultry sun, ahab stood on the bowsprit, and with one hand pushed far behind in readiness to wave his orders to the helmsman, cast his eager glance in the direction indicated aloft by the outstretched motionless arm of daggoo.
whether the flitting attendance of the one still and solitary jet had gradually worked upon ahab, so that he was now prepared to connect the ideas of mildness and repose with the first sight of the particular whale he pursued; however this was, or whether his eagerness betrayed him; whichever way it might have been, no sooner did he distinctly perceive the white mass, than with a quick intensity he instantly gave orders for lowering.
the four boats were soon on the water; ahab’s in advance, and all swiftly pulling towards their prey.
soon it went down, and while, with oars suspended, we were awaiting its reappearance, lo!
in the same spot where it sank, once more it slowly rose.
almost forgetting for the moment all thoughts of moby dick, we now gazed at the most wondrous phenomenon which the secret seas have hitherto revealed to mankind.
a vast pulpy mass, furlongs in length and breadth, of a glancing cream-colour, lay floating on the water, innumerable long arms radiating from its centre, and curling and twisting like a nest of anacondas, as if blindly to clutch at any hapless object within reach.
no perceptible face or front did it have; no conceivable token of either sensation or instinct; but undulated there on the billows, an unearthly, formless, chance-like apparition of life.
as with a low sucking sound it slowly disappeared again, starbuck still gazing at the agitated waters where it had sunk, with a wild voice exclaimed—“almost rather had i seen moby dick and fought him, than to have seen thee, thou white ghost!”
“what was it, sir?” said flask.
“the great live squid, which, they say, few whale-ships ever beheld, and returned to their ports to tell of it.”
but ahab said nothing; turning his boat, he sailed back to the vessel; the rest as silently following.
whatever superstitions the sperm whalemen in general have connected with the sight of this object, certain it is, that a glimpse of it being so very unusual, that circumstance has gone far to invest it with portentousness.
so rarely is it beheld, that though one and all of them declare it to be the largest animated thing in the ocean, yet very few of them have any but the most vague ideas concerning its true nature and form; notwithstanding, they believe it to furnish to the sperm whale his only food.
for though other species of whales find their food above water, and may be seen by man in the act of feeding, the spermaceti whale obtains his whole food in unknown zones below the surface; and only by inference is it that any one can tell of what, precisely, that food consists.
at times, when closely pursued, he will disgorge what are supposed to be the detached arms of the squid; some of them thus exhibited exceeding twenty and thirty feet in length.
they fancy that the monster to which these arms belonged ordinarily clings by them to the bed of the ocean; and that the sperm whale, unlike other species, is supplied with teeth in order to attack and tear it.
there seems some ground to imagine that the great kraken of bishop pontoppodan may ultimately resolve itself into squid.
the manner in which the bishop describes it, as alternately rising and sinking, with some other particulars he narrates, in all this the two correspond.
but much abatement is necessary with respect to the incredible bulk he assigns it.
by some naturalists who have vaguely heard rumors of the mysterious creature, here spoken of, it is included among the class of cuttle-fish, to which, indeed, in certain external respects it would seem to belong, but only as the anak of the tribe.
chapter 60. the line.
with reference to the whaling scene shortly to be described, as well as for the better understanding of all similar scenes elsewhere presented, i have here to speak of the magical, sometimes horrible whale-line.
the line originally used in the fishery was of the best hemp, slightly vapored with tar, not impregnated with it, as in the case of ordinary ropes; for while tar, as ordinarily used, makes the hemp more pliable to the rope-maker, and also renders the rope itself more convenient to the sailor for common ship use; yet, not only would the ordinary quantity too much stiffen the whale-line for the close coiling to which it must be subjected; but as most seamen are beginning to learn, tar in general by no means adds to the rope’s durability or strength, however much it may give it compactness and gloss.
of late years the manilla rope has in the american fishery almost entirely superseded hemp as a material for whale-lines; for, though not so durable as hemp, it is stronger, and far more soft and elastic; and i will add (since there is an æsthetics in all things), is much more handsome and becoming to the boat, than hemp.
hemp is a dusky, dark fellow, a sort of indian; but manilla is as a golden-haired circassian to behold.
the whale-line is only two-thirds of an inch in thickness.
at first sight, you would not think it so strong as it really is.
by experiment its one and fifty yarns will each suspend a weight of one hundred and twenty pounds; so that the whole rope will bear a strain nearly equal to three tons.
in length, the common sperm whale-line measures something over two hundred fathoms.
towards the stern of the boat it is spirally coiled away in the tub, not like the worm-pipe of a still though, but so as to form one round, cheese-shaped mass of densely bedded “sheaves,” or layers of concentric spiralizations, without any hollow but the “heart,” or minute vertical tube formed at the axis of the cheese.
as the least tangle or kink in the coiling would, in running out, infallibly take somebody’s arm, leg, or entire body off, the utmost precaution is used in stowing the line in its tub.
some harpooneers will consume almost an entire morning in this business, carrying the line high aloft and then reeving it downwards through a block towards the tub, so as in the act of coiling to free it from all possible wrinkles and twists.
in the english boats two tubs are used instead of one; the same line being continuously coiled in both tubs.
there is some advantage in this; because these twin-tubs being so small they fit more readily into the boat, and do not strain it so much; whereas, the american tub, nearly three feet in diameter and of proportionate depth, makes a rather bulky freight for a craft whose planks are but one half-inch in thickness; for the bottom of the whale-boat is like critical ice, which will bear up a considerable distributed weight, but not very much of a concentrated one.
when the painted canvas cover is clapped on the american line-tub, the boat looks as if it were pulling off with a prodigious great wedding-cake to present to the whales.
both ends of the line are exposed; the lower end terminating in an eye-splice or loop coming up from the bottom against the side of the tub, and hanging over its edge completely disengaged from everything.
this arrangement of the lower end is necessary on two accounts.
first:
in order to facilitate the fastening to it of an additional line from a neighboring boat, in case the stricken whale should sound so deep as to threaten to carry off the entire line originally attached to the harpoon.
in these instances, the whale of course is shifted like a mug of ale, as it were, from the one boat to the other; though the first boat always hovers at hand to assist its consort.
second: this arrangement is indispensable for common safety’s sake; for were the lower end of the line in any way attached to the boat, and were the whale then to run the line out to the end almost in a single, smoking minute as he sometimes does, he would not stop there, for the doomed boat would infallibly be dragged down after him into the profundity of the sea; and in that case no town-crier would ever find her again.
before lowering the boat for the chase, the upper end of the line is taken aft from the tub, and passing round the loggerhead there, is again carried forward the entire length of the boat, resting crosswise upon the loom or handle of every man’s oar, so that it jogs against his wrist in rowing; and also passing between the men, as they alternately sit at the opposite gunwales, to the leaded chocks or grooves in the extreme pointed prow of the boat, where a wooden pin or skewer the size of a common quill, prevents it from slipping out.
from the chocks it hangs in a slight festoon over the bows, and is then passed inside the boat again; and some ten or twenty fathoms (called box-line) being coiled upon the box in the bows, it continues its way to the gunwale still a little further aft, and is then attached to the short-warp—the rope which is immediately connected with the harpoon; but previous to that connexion, the short-warp goes through sundry mystifications too tedious to detail.
thus the whale-line folds the whole boat in its complicated coils, twisting and writhing around it in almost every direction.
all the oarsmen are involved in its perilous contortions; so that to the timid eye of the landsman, they seem as indian jugglers, with the deadliest snakes sportively festooning their limbs.
nor can any son of mortal woman, for the first time, seat himself amid those hempen intricacies, and while straining his utmost at the oar, bethink him that at any unknown instant the harpoon may be darted, and all these horrible contortions be put in play like ringed lightnings; he cannot be thus circumstanced without a shudder that makes the very marrow in his bones to quiver in him like a shaken jelly.
yet habit—strange thing!
what cannot habit accomplish?—gayer sallies, more merry mirth, better jokes, and brighter repartees, you never heard over your mahogany, than you will hear over the half-inch white cedar of the whale-boat, when thus hung in hangman’s nooses; and, like the six burghers of calais before king edward, the six men composing the crew pull into the jaws of death, with a halter around every neck, as you may say.
perhaps a very little thought will now enable you to account for those repeated whaling disasters—some few of which are casually chronicled—of this man or that man being taken out of the boat by the line, and lost.
for, when the line is darting out, to be seated then in the boat, is like being seated in the midst of the manifold whizzings of a steam-engine in full play, when every flying beam, and shaft, and wheel, is grazing you.
it is worse; for you cannot sit motionless in the heart of these perils, because the boat is rocking like a cradle, and you are pitched one way and the other, without the slightest warning; and only by a certain self-adjusting buoyancy and simultaneousness of volition and action, can you escape being made a mazeppa of, and run away with where the all-seeing sun himself could never pierce you out.
again: as the profound calm which only apparently precedes and prophesies of the storm, is perhaps more awful than the storm itself; for, indeed, the calm is but the wrapper and envelope of the storm; and contains it in itself, as the seemingly harmless rifle holds the fatal powder, and the ball, and the explosion; so the graceful repose of the line, as it silently serpentines about the oarsmen before being brought into actual play—this is a thing which carries more of true terror than any other aspect of this dangerous affair.
but why say more?
all men live enveloped in whale-lines.
all are born with halters round their necks; but it is only when caught in the swift, sudden turn of death, that mortals realize the silent, subtle, ever-present perils of life.
and if you be a philosopher, though seated in the whale-boat, you would not at heart feel one whit more of terror, than though seated before your evening fire with a poker, and not a harpoon, by your side.
chapter 61. stubb kills a whale.
if to starbuck the apparition of the squid was a thing of portents, to queequeg it was quite a different object.
“when you see him ’quid,” said the savage, honing his harpoon in the bow of his hoisted boat, “then you quick see him ’parm whale.”
the next day was exceedingly still and sultry, and with nothing special to engage them, the pequod’s crew could hardly resist the spell of sleep induced by such a vacant sea.
for this part of the indian ocean through which we then were voyaging is not what whalemen call a lively ground; that is, it affords fewer glimpses of porpoises, dolphins, flying-fish, and other vivacious denizens of more stirring waters, than those off the rio de la plata, or the in-shore ground off peru.
it was my turn to stand at the foremast-head; and with my shoulders leaning against the slackened royal shrouds, to and fro i idly swayed in what seemed an enchanted air.
no resolution could withstand it; in that dreamy mood losing all consciousness, at last my soul went out of my body; though my body still continued to sway as a pendulum will, long after the power which first moved it is withdrawn.
ere forgetfulness altogether came over me, i had noticed that the seamen at the main and mizzen-mast-heads were already drowsy.
so that at last all three of us lifelessly swung from the spars, and for every swing that we made there was a nod from below from the slumbering helmsman.
the waves, too, nodded their indolent crests; and across the wide trance of the sea, east nodded to west, and the sun over all.
suddenly bubbles seemed bursting beneath my closed eyes; like vices my hands grasped the shrouds; some invisible, gracious agency preserved me; with a shock i came back to life.
and lo!
close under our lee, not forty fathoms off, a gigantic sperm whale lay rolling in the water like the capsized hull of a frigate, his broad, glossy back, of an ethiopian hue, glistening in the sun’s rays like a mirror.
but lazily undulating in the trough of the sea, and ever and anon tranquilly spouting his vapory jet, the whale looked like a portly burgher smoking his pipe of a warm afternoon.
but that pipe, poor whale, was thy last.
as if struck by some enchanter’s wand, the sleepy ship and every sleeper in it all at once started into wakefulness; and more than a score of voices from all parts of the vessel, simultaneously with the three notes from aloft, shouted forth the accustomed cry, as the great fish slowly and regularly spouted the sparkling brine into the air.
“clear away the boats!
luff!” cried ahab.
and obeying his own order, he dashed the helm down before the helmsman could handle the spokes.
the sudden exclamations of the crew must have alarmed the whale; and ere the boats were down, majestically turning, he swam away to the leeward, but with such a steady tranquillity, and making so few ripples as he swam, that thinking after all he might not as yet be alarmed, ahab gave orders that not an oar should be used, and no man must speak but in whispers.
so seated like ontario indians on the gunwales of the boats, we swiftly but silently paddled along; the calm not admitting of the noiseless sails being set.
presently, as we thus glided in chase, the monster perpendicularly flitted his tail forty feet into the air, and then sank out of sight like a tower swallowed up.
“there go flukes!” was the cry, an announcement immediately followed by stubb’s producing his match and igniting his pipe, for now a respite was granted.
after the full interval of his sounding had elapsed, the whale rose again, and being now in advance of the smoker’s boat, and much nearer to it than to any of the others, stubb counted upon the honor of the capture.
it was obvious, now, that the whale had at length become aware of his pursuers.
all silence of cautiousness was therefore no longer of use.
paddles were dropped, and oars came loudly into play.
and still puffing at his pipe, stubb cheered on his crew to the assault.
yes, a mighty change had come over the fish.
all alive to his jeopardy, he was going “head out”; that part obliquely projecting from the mad yeast which he brewed.
*
*it will be seen in some other place of what a very light substance the entire interior of the sperm whale’s enormous head consists.
though apparently the most massive, it is by far the most buoyant part about him.
so that with ease he elevates it in the air, and invariably does so when going at his utmost speed.
besides, such is the breadth of the upper part of the front of his head, and such the tapering cut-water formation of the lower part, that by obliquely elevating his head, he thereby may be said to transform himself from a bluff-bowed sluggish galliot into a sharppointed new york pilot-boat.
“start her, start her, my men!
don’t hurry yourselves; take plenty of time—but start her; start her like thunder-claps, that’s all,” cried stubb, spluttering out the smoke as he spoke.
“start her, now; give ’em the long and strong stroke, tashtego.
start her, tash, my boy—start her, all; but keep cool, keep cool—cucumbers is the word—easy, easy—only start her like grim death and grinning devils, and raise the buried dead perpendicular out of their graves, boys—that’s all.
start her!”
“woo-hoo!
wa-hee!” screamed the gay-header in reply, raising some old war-whoop to the skies; as every oarsman in the strained boat involuntarily bounced forward with the one tremendous leading stroke which the eager indian gave.
but his wild screams were answered by others quite as wild.
“kee-hee!
kee-hee!” yelled daggoo, straining forwards and backwards on his seat, like a pacing tiger in his cage.
“ka-la!
koo-loo!” howled queequeg, as if smacking his lips over a mouthful of grenadier’s steak.
and thus with oars and yells the keels cut the sea.
meanwhile, stubb retaining his place in the van, still encouraged his men to the onset, all the while puffing the smoke from his mouth.
like desperadoes they tugged and they strained, till the welcome cry was heard—“stand up, tashtego!—give it to him!” the harpoon was hurled.
“stern all!” the oarsmen backed water; the same moment something went hot and hissing along every one of their wrists.
it was the magical line.
an instant before, stubb had swiftly caught two additional turns with it round the loggerhead, whence, by reason of its increased rapid circlings, a hempen blue smoke now jetted up and mingled with the steady fumes from his pipe.
as the line passed round and round the loggerhead; so also, just before reaching that point, it blisteringly passed through and through both of stubb’s hands, from which the hand-cloths, or squares of quilted canvas sometimes worn at these times, had accidentally dropped.
it was like holding an enemy’s sharp two-edged sword by the blade, and that enemy all the time striving to wrest it out of your clutch.
“wet the line!
wet the line!” cried stubb to the tub oarsman (him seated by the tub) who, snatching off his hat, dashed sea-water into it.
* more turns were taken, so that the line began holding its place.
the boat now flew through the boiling water like a shark all fins.
stubb and tashtego here changed places—stem for stern—a staggering business truly in that rocking commotion.
*partly to show the indispensableness of this act, it may here be stated, that, in the old dutch fishery, a mop was used to dash the running line with water; in many other ships, a wooden piggin, or bailer, is set apart for that purpose.
your hat, however, is the most convenient.
from the vibrating line extending the entire length of the upper part of the boat, and from its now being more tight than a harpstring, you would have thought the craft had two keels—one cleaving the water, the other the air—as the boat churned on through both opposing elements at once.
a continual cascade played at the bows; a ceaseless whirling eddy in her wake; and, at the slightest motion from within, even but of a little finger, the vibrating, cracking craft canted over her spasmodic gunwale into the sea.
thus they rushed; each man with might and main clinging to his seat, to prevent being tossed to the foam; and the tall form of tashtego at the steering oar crouching almost double, in order to bring down his centre of gravity.
whole atlantics and pacifics seemed passed as they shot on their way, till at length the whale somewhat slackened his flight.
“haul in—haul in!” cried stubb to the bowsman!
and, facing round towards the whale, all hands began pulling the boat up to him, while yet the boat was being towed on.
soon ranging up by his flank, stubb, firmly planting his knee in the clumsy cleat, darted dart after dart into the flying fish; at the word of command, the boat alternately sterning out of the way of the whale’s horrible wallow, and then ranging up for another fling.
the red tide now poured from all sides of the monster like brooks down a hill.
his tormented body rolled not in brine but in blood, which bubbled and seethed for furlongs behind in their wake.
the slanting sun playing upon this crimson pond in the sea, sent back its reflection into every face, so that they all glowed to each other like red men.
and all the while, jet after jet of white smoke was agonizingly shot from the spiracle of the whale, and vehement puff after puff from the mouth of the excited headsman; as at every dart, hauling in upon his crooked lance (by the line attached to it), stubb straightened it again and again, by a few rapid blows against the gunwale, then again and again sent it into the whale.
“pull up—pull up!” he now cried to the bowsman, as the waning whale relaxed in his wrath.
“pull up!—close to!” and the boat ranged along the fish’s flank.
when reaching far over the bow, stubb slowly churned his long sharp lance into the fish, and kept it there, carefully churning and churning, as if cautiously seeking to feel after some gold watch that the whale might have swallowed, and which he was fearful of breaking ere he could hook it out.
but that gold watch he sought was the innermost life of the fish.
and now it is struck; for, starting from his trance into that unspeakable thing called his “flurry,” the monster horribly wallowed in his blood, overwrapped himself in impenetrable, mad, boiling spray, so that the imperilled craft, instantly dropping astern, had much ado blindly to struggle out from that phrensied twilight into the clear air of the day.
and now abating in his flurry, the whale once more rolled out into view; surging from side to side; spasmodically dilating and contracting his spout-hole, with sharp, cracking, agonized respirations.
at last, gush after gush of clotted red gore, as if it had been the purple lees of red wine, shot into the frighted air; and falling back again, ran dripping down his motionless flanks into the sea.
his heart had burst!
“he’s dead, mr. stubb,” said daggoo.
“yes; both pipes smoked out!” and withdrawing his own from his mouth, stubb scattered the dead ashes over the water; and, for a moment, stood thoughtfully eyeing the vast corpse he had made.
chapter 62. the dart.
a word concerning an incident in the last chapter.
according to the invariable usage of the fishery, the whale-boat pushes off from the ship, with the headsman or whale-killer as temporary steersman, and the harpooneer or whale-fastener pulling the foremost oar, the one known as the harpooneer-oar.
now it needs a strong, nervous arm to strike the first iron into the fish; for often, in what is called a long dart, the heavy implement has to be flung to the distance of twenty or thirty feet.
but however prolonged and exhausting the chase, the harpooneer is expected to pull his oar meanwhile to the uttermost; indeed, he is expected to set an example of superhuman activity to the rest, not only by incredible rowing, but by repeated loud and intrepid exclamations; and what it is to keep shouting at the top of one’s compass, while all the other muscles are strained and half started—what that is none know but those who have tried it.
for one, i cannot bawl very heartily and work very recklessly at one and the same time.
in this straining, bawling state, then, with his back to the fish, all at once the exhausted harpooneer hears the exciting cry—“stand up, and give it to him!” he now has to drop and secure his oar, turn round on his centre half way, seize his harpoon from the crotch, and with what little strength may remain, he essays to pitch it somehow into the whale.
no wonder, taking the whole fleet of whalemen in a body, that out of fifty fair chances for a dart, not five are successful; no wonder that so many hapless harpooneers are madly cursed and disrated; no wonder that some of them actually burst their blood-vessels in the boat; no wonder that some sperm whalemen are absent four years with four barrels; no wonder that to many ship owners, whaling is but a losing concern; for it is the harpooneer that makes the voyage, and if you take the breath out of his body how can you expect to find it there when most wanted!
again, if the dart be successful, then at the second critical instant, that is, when the whale starts to run, the boatheader and harpooneer likewise start to running fore and aft, to the imminent jeopardy of themselves and every one else.
it is then they change places; and the headsman, the chief officer of the little craft, takes his proper station in the bows of the boat.
now, i care not who maintains the contrary, but all this is both foolish and unnecessary.
the headsman should stay in the bows from first to last; he should both dart the harpoon and the lance, and no rowing whatever should be expected of him, except under circumstances obvious to any fisherman.
i know that this would sometimes involve a slight loss of speed in the chase; but long experience in various whalemen of more than one nation has convinced me that in the vast majority of failures in the fishery, it has not by any means been so much the speed of the whale as the before described exhaustion of the harpooneer that has caused them.
to insure the greatest efficiency in the dart, the harpooneers of this world must start to their feet from out of idleness, and not from out of toil.
chapter 63. the crotch.
out of the trunk, the branches grow; out of them, the twigs.
so, in productive subjects, grow the chapters.
the crotch alluded to on a previous page deserves independent mention.
it is a notched stick of a peculiar form, some two feet in length, which is perpendicularly inserted into the starboard gunwale near the bow, for the purpose of furnishing a rest for the wooden extremity of the harpoon, whose other naked, barbed end slopingly projects from the prow.
thereby the weapon is instantly at hand to its hurler, who snatches it up as readily from its rest as a backwoodsman swings his rifle from the wall.
it is customary to have two harpoons reposing in the crotch, respectively called the first and second irons.
but these two harpoons, each by its own cord, are both connected with the line; the object being this: to dart them both, if possible, one instantly after the other into the same whale; so that if, in the coming drag, one should draw out, the other may still retain a hold.
it is a doubling of the chances.
but it very often happens that owing to the instantaneous, violent, convulsive running of the whale upon receiving the first iron, it becomes impossible for the harpooneer, however lightning-like in his movements, to pitch the second iron into him.
nevertheless, as the second iron is already connected with the line, and the line is running, hence that weapon must, at all events, be anticipatingly tossed out of the boat, somehow and somewhere; else the most terrible jeopardy would involve all hands.
tumbled into the water, it accordingly is in such cases; the spare coils of box line (mentioned in a preceding chapter) making this feat, in most instances, prudently practicable.
but this critical act is not always unattended with the saddest and most fatal casualties.
furthermore: you must know that when the second iron is thrown overboard, it thenceforth becomes a dangling, sharp-edged terror, skittishly curvetting about both boat and whale, entangling the lines, or cutting them, and making a prodigious sensation in all directions.
nor, in general, is it possible to secure it again until the whale is fairly captured and a corpse.
consider, now, how it must be in the case of four boats all engaging one unusually strong, active, and knowing whale; when owing to these qualities in him, as well as to the thousand concurring accidents of such an audacious enterprise, eight or ten loose second irons may be simultaneously dangling about him.
for, of course, each boat is supplied with several harpoons to bend on to the line should the first one be ineffectually darted without recovery.
all these particulars are faithfully narrated here, as they will not fail to elucidate several most important, however intricate passages, in scenes hereafter to be painted.
chapter 64. stubb’s supper.
stubb’s whale had been killed some distance from the ship.
it was a calm; so, forming a tandem of three boats, we commenced the slow business of towing the trophy to the pequod.
and now, as we eighteen men with our thirty-six arms, and one hundred and eighty thumbs and fingers, slowly toiled hour after hour upon that inert, sluggish corpse in the sea; and it seemed hardly to budge at all, except at long intervals; good evidence was hereby furnished of the enormousness of the mass we moved.
for, upon the great canal of hang-ho, or whatever they call it, in china, four or five laborers on the foot-path will draw a bulky freighted junk at the rate of a mile an hour; but this grand argosy we towed heavily forged along, as if laden with pig-lead in bulk.
darkness came on; but three lights up and down in the pequod’s main-rigging dimly guided our way; till drawing nearer we saw ahab dropping one of several more lanterns over the bulwarks.
vacantly eyeing the heaving whale for a moment, he issued the usual orders for securing it for the night, and then handing his lantern to a seaman, went his way into the cabin, and did not come forward again until morning.
though, in overseeing the pursuit of this whale, captain ahab had evinced his customary activity, to call it so; yet now that the creature was dead, some vague dissatisfaction, or impatience, or despair, seemed working in him; as if the sight of that dead body reminded him that moby dick was yet to be slain; and though a thousand other whales were brought to his ship, all that would not one jot advance his grand, monomaniac object.
very soon you would have thought from the sound on the pequod’s decks, that all hands were preparing to cast anchor in the deep; for heavy chains are being dragged along the deck, and thrust rattling out of the port-holes.
but by those clanking links, the vast corpse itself, not the ship, is to be moored.
tied by the head to the stern, and by the tail to the bows, the whale now lies with its black hull close to the vessel’s and seen through the darkness of the night, which obscured the spars and rigging aloft, the two—ship and whale, seemed yoked together like colossal bullocks, whereof one reclines while the other remains standing.
*
*a little item may as well be related here.
the strongest and most reliable hold which the ship has upon the whale when moored alongside, is by the flukes or tail; and as from its greater density that part is relatively heavier than any other (excepting the side-fins), its flexibility even in death, causes it to sink low beneath the surface; so that with the hand you cannot get at it from the boat, in order to put the chain round it.
but this difficulty is ingeniously overcome: a small, strong line is prepared with a wooden float at its outer end, and a weight in its middle, while the other end is secured to the ship.
by adroit management the wooden float is made to rise on the other side of the mass, so that now having girdled the whale, the chain is readily made to follow suit; and being slipped along the body, is at last locked fast round the smallest part of the tail, at the point of junction with its broad flukes or lobes.
if moody ahab was now all quiescence, at least so far as could be known on deck, stubb, his second mate, flushed with conquest, betrayed an unusual but still good-natured excitement.
such an unwonted bustle was he in that the staid starbuck, his official superior, quietly resigned to him for the time the sole management of affairs.
one small, helping cause of all this liveliness in stubb, was soon made strangely manifest.
stubb was a high liver; he was somewhat intemperately fond of the whale as a flavorish thing to his palate.
“a steak, a steak, ere i sleep!
you, daggoo!
overboard you go, and cut me one from his small!”
here be it known, that though these wild fishermen do not, as a general thing, and according to the great military maxim, make the enemy defray the current expenses of the war (at least before realizing the proceeds of the voyage), yet now and then you find some of these nantucketers who have a genuine relish for that particular part of the sperm whale designated by stubb; comprising the tapering extremity of the body.
about midnight that steak was cut and cooked; and lighted by two lanterns of sperm oil, stubb stoutly stood up to his spermaceti supper at the capstan-head, as if that capstan were a sideboard.
nor was stubb the only banqueter on whale’s flesh that night.
mingling their mumblings with his own mastications, thousands on thousands of sharks, swarming round the dead leviathan, smackingly feasted on its fatness.
the few sleepers below in their bunks were often startled by the sharp slapping of their tails against the hull, within a few inches of the sleepers’ hearts.
peering over the side you could just see them (as before you heard them) wallowing in the sullen, black waters, and turning over on their backs as they scooped out huge globular pieces of the whale of the bigness of a human head.
this particular feat of the shark seems all but miraculous.
how at such an apparently unassailable surface, they contrive to gouge out such symmetrical mouthfuls, remains a part of the universal problem of all things.
the mark they thus leave on the whale, may best be likened to the hollow made by a carpenter in countersinking for a screw.
though amid all the smoking horror and diabolism of a sea-fight, sharks will be seen longingly gazing up to the ship’s decks, like hungry dogs round a table where red meat is being carved, ready to bolt down every killed man that is tossed to them; and though, while the valiant butchers over the deck-table are thus cannibally carving each other’s live meat with carving-knives all gilded and tasselled, the sharks, also, with their jewel-hilted mouths, are quarrelsomely carving away under the table at the dead meat; and though, were you to turn the whole affair upside down, it would still be pretty much the same thing, that is to say, a shocking sharkish business enough for all parties; and though sharks also are the invariable outriders of all slave ships crossing the atlantic, systematically trotting alongside, to be handy in case a parcel is to be carried anywhere, or a dead slave to be decently buried; and though one or two other like instances might be set down, touching the set terms, places, and occasions, when sharks do most socially congregate, and most hilariously feast; yet is there no conceivable time or occasion when you will find them in such countless numbers, and in gayer or more jovial spirits, than around a dead sperm whale, moored by night to a whaleship at sea.
if you have never seen that sight, then suspend your decision about the propriety of devil-worship, and the expediency of conciliating the devil.
but, as yet, stubb heeded not the mumblings of the banquet that was going on so nigh him, no more than the sharks heeded the smacking of his own epicurean lips.
“cook, cook!—where’s that old fleece?” he cried at length, widening his legs still further, as if to form a more secure base for his supper; and, at the same time darting his fork into the dish, as if stabbing with his lance; “cook, you cook!—sail this way, cook!”
the old black, not in any very high glee at having been previously roused from his warm hammock at a most unseasonable hour, came shambling along from his galley, for, like many old blacks, there was something the matter with his knee-pans, which he did not keep well scoured like his other pans; this old fleece, as they called him, came shuffling and limping along, assisting his step with his tongs, which, after a clumsy fashion, were made of straightened iron hoops; this old ebony floundered along, and in obedience to the word of command, came to a dead stop on the opposite side of stubb’s sideboard; when, with both hands folded before him, and resting on his two-legged cane, he bowed his arched back still further over, at the same time sideways inclining his head, so as to bring his best ear into play.
“cook,” said stubb, rapidly lifting a rather reddish morsel to his mouth, “don’t you think this steak is rather overdone?
you’ve been beating this steak too much, cook; it’s too tender.
don’t i always say that to be good, a whale-steak must be tough?
there are those sharks now over the side, don’t you see they prefer it tough and rare?
what a shindy they are kicking up!
cook, go and talk to ’em; tell ’em they are welcome to help themselves civilly, and in moderation, but they must keep quiet.
blast me, if i can hear my own voice.
away, cook, and deliver my message.
here, take this lantern,” snatching one from his sideboard; “now then, go and preach to ’em!”
sullenly taking the offered lantern, old fleece limped across the deck to the bulwarks; and then, with one hand dropping his light low over the sea, so as to get a good view of his congregation, with the other hand he solemnly flourished his tongs, and leaning far over the side in a mumbling voice began addressing the sharks, while stubb, softly crawling behind, overheard all that was said.
“fellow-critters: i’se ordered here to say dat you must stop dat dam noise dare.
you hear?
stop dat dam smackin’ ob de lip!
massa stubb say dat you can fill your dam bellies up to de hatchings, but by gor!
you must stop dat dam racket!”
“cook,” here interposed stubb, accompanying the word with a sudden slap on the shoulder,—“cook!
why, damn your eyes, you mustn’t swear that way when you’re preaching.
that’s no way to convert sinners, cook!”
“who dat?
den preach to him yourself,” sullenly turning to go.
“no, cook; go on, go on.”
“well, den, belubed fellow-critters:”—
“right!” exclaimed stubb, approvingly, “coax ’em to it; try that,” and fleece continued.
“do you is all sharks, and by natur wery woracious, yet i zay to you, fellow-critters, dat dat woraciousness—’top dat dam slappin’ ob de tail!
how you tink to hear, spose you keep up such a dam slappin’ and bitin’ dare?”
“cook,” cried stubb, collaring him, “i won’t have that swearing.
talk to ’em gentlemanly.”
once more the sermon proceeded.
“your woraciousness, fellow-critters, i don’t blame ye so much for; dat is natur, and can’t be helped; but to gobern dat wicked natur, dat is de pint.
you is sharks, sartin; but if you gobern de shark in you, why den you be angel; for all angel is not’ing more dan de shark well goberned.
now, look here, bred’ren, just try wonst to be cibil, a helping yourselbs from dat whale.
don’t be tearin’ de blubber out your neighbour’s mout, i say.
is not one shark dood right as toder to dat whale?
and, by gor, none on you has de right to dat whale; dat whale belong to some one else.
i know some o’ you has berry brig mout, brigger dan oders; but den de brig mouts sometimes has de small bellies; so dat de brigness of de mout is not to swaller wid, but to bit off de blubber for de small fry ob sharks, dat can’t get into de scrouge to help demselves.”
“well done, old fleece!” cried stubb, “that’s christianity; go on.”
“no use goin’ on; de dam willains will keep a scougin’ and slappin’
each oder, massa stubb; dey don’t hear one word; no use a-preachin’ to such dam g’uttons as you call ’em, till dare bellies is full, and dare bellies is bottomless; and when dey do get ’em full, dey wont hear you den; for den dey sink in de sea, go fast to sleep on de coral, and can’t hear not’ing at all, no more, for eber and eber.”
“upon my soul, i am about of the same opinion; so give the benediction, fleece, and i’ll away to my supper.”
upon this, fleece, holding both hands over the fishy mob, raised his shrill voice, and cried—
“cussed fellow-critters!
kick up de damndest row as ever you can; fill your dam’ bellies ’till dey bust—and den die.”
“now, cook,” said stubb, resuming his supper at the capstan; “stand just where you stood before, there, over against me, and pay particular attention.”
“all dention,” said fleece, again stooping over upon his tongs in the desired position.
“well,” said stubb, helping himself freely meanwhile; “i shall now go back to the subject of this steak.
in the first place, how old are you, cook?”
“what dat do wid de ’teak,” said the old black, testily.
“silence!
how old are you, cook?”
“’bout ninety, dey say,” he gloomily muttered.
“and you have lived in this world hard upon one hundred years, cook, and don’t know yet how to cook a whale-steak?” rapidly bolting another mouthful at the last word, so that morsel seemed a continuation of the question.
“where were you born, cook?”
“’hind de hatchway, in ferry-boat, goin’ ober de roanoke.”
“born in a ferry-boat!
that’s queer, too.
but i want to know what country you were born in, cook!”
“didn’t i say de roanoke country?” he cried sharply.
“no, you didn’t, cook; but i’ll tell you what i’m coming to, cook.
you must go home and be born over again; you don’t know how to cook a whale-steak yet.”
“bress my soul, if i cook noder one,” he growled, angrily, turning round to depart.
“come back, cook;—here, hand me those tongs;—now take that bit of steak there, and tell me if you think that steak cooked as it should be?
take it, i say”—holding the tongs towards him—“take it, and taste it.”
faintly smacking his withered lips over it for a moment, the old negro muttered, “best cooked ’teak i eber taste; joosy, berry joosy.”
“cook,” said stubb, squaring himself once more; “do you belong to the church?”
“passed one once in cape-down,” said the old man sullenly.
“and you have once in your life passed a holy church in cape-town, where you doubtless overheard a holy parson addressing his hearers as his beloved fellow-creatures, have you, cook!
and yet you come here, and tell me such a dreadful lie as you did just now, eh?” said stubb.
“where do you expect to go to, cook?”
“go to bed berry soon,” he mumbled, half-turning as he spoke.
“avast!
heave to!
i mean when you die, cook.
it’s an awful question.
now what’s your answer?”
“when dis old brack man dies,” said the negro slowly, changing his whole air and demeanor, “he hisself won’t go nowhere; but some bressed angel will come and fetch him.”
“fetch him?
how?
in a coach and four, as they fetched elijah?
and fetch him where?”
“up dere,” said fleece, holding his tongs straight over his head, and keeping it there very solemnly.
“so, then, you expect to go up into our main-top, do you, cook, when you are dead?
but don’t you know the higher you climb, the colder it gets?
main-top, eh?”
“didn’t say dat t’all,” said fleece, again in the sulks.
“you said up there, didn’t you?
and now look yourself, and see where your tongs are pointing.
but, perhaps you expect to get into heaven by crawling through the lubber’s hole, cook; but, no, no, cook, you don’t get there, except you go the regular way, round by the rigging.
it’s a ticklish business, but must be done, or else it’s no go.
but none of us are in heaven yet.
drop your tongs, cook, and hear my orders.
do ye hear?
hold your hat in one hand, and clap t’other a’top of your heart, when i’m giving my orders, cook.
what!
that your heart, there?—that’s your gizzard!
aloft!
aloft!—that’s it—now you have it.
hold it there now, and pay attention.”
“all ’dention,” said the old black, with both hands placed as desired, vainly wriggling his grizzled head, as if to get both ears in front at one and the same time.
“well then, cook, you see this whale-steak of yours was so very bad, that i have put it out of sight as soon as possible; you see that, don’t you?
well, for the future, when you cook another whale-steak for my private table here, the capstan, i’ll tell you what to do so as not to spoil it by overdoing.
hold the steak in one hand, and show a live coal to it with the other; that done, dish it; d’ye hear?
and now to-morrow, cook, when we are cutting in the fish, be sure you stand by to get the tips of his fins; have them put in pickle.
as for the ends of the flukes, have them soused, cook.
there, now ye may go.”
but fleece had hardly got three paces off, when he was recalled.
“cook, give me cutlets for supper to-morrow night in the mid-watch.
d’ye hear?
away you sail, then.—halloa!
stop!
make a bow before you go.—avast heaving again!
whale-balls for breakfast—don’t forget.”
“wish, by gor!
whale eat him, ’stead of him eat whale.
i’m bressed if he ain’t more of shark dan massa shark hisself,” muttered the old man, limping away; with which sage ejaculation he went to his hammock.
chapter 65. the whale as a dish.
that mortal man should feed upon the creature that feeds his lamp, and, like stubb, eat him by his own light, as you may say; this seems so outlandish a thing that one must needs go a little into the history and philosophy of it.
it is upon record, that three centuries ago the tongue of the right whale was esteemed a great delicacy in france, and commanded large prices there.
also, that in henry viiith’s time, a certain cook of the court obtained a handsome reward for inventing an admirable sauce to be eaten with barbacued porpoises, which, you remember, are a species of whale.
porpoises, indeed, are to this day considered fine eating.
the meat is made into balls about the size of billiard balls, and being well seasoned and spiced might be taken for turtle-balls or veal balls.
the old monks of dunfermline were very fond of them.
they had a great porpoise grant from the crown.
the fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all hands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but when you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet long, it takes away your appetite.
only the most unprejudiced of men like stubb, nowadays partake of cooked whales; but the esquimaux are not so fastidious.
we all know how they live upon whales, and have rare old vintages of prime old train oil.
zogranda, one of their most famous doctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, as being exceedingly juicy and nourishing.
and this reminds me that certain englishmen, who long ago were accidentally left in greenland by a whaling vessel—that these men actually lived for several months on the mouldy scraps of whales which had been left ashore after trying out the blubber.
among the dutch whalemen these scraps are called “fritters”; which, indeed, they greatly resemble, being brown and crisp, and smelling something like old amsterdam housewives’ dough-nuts or oly-cooks, when fresh.
they have such an eatable look that the most self-denying stranger can hardly keep his hands off.
but what further depreciates the whale as a civilized dish, is his exceeding richness.
he is the great prize ox of the sea, too fat to be delicately good.
look at his hump, which would be as fine eating as the buffalo’s (which is esteemed a rare dish), were it not such a solid pyramid of fat.
but the spermaceti itself, how bland and creamy that is; like the transparent, half-jellied, white meat of a cocoanut in the third month of its growth, yet far too rich to supply a substitute for butter.
nevertheless, many whalemen have a method of absorbing it into some other substance, and then partaking of it.
in the long try watches of the night it is a common thing for the seamen to dip their ship-biscuit into the huge oil-pots and let them fry there awhile.
many a good supper have i thus made.
in the case of a small sperm whale the brains are accounted a fine dish.
the casket of the skull is broken into with an axe, and the two plump, whitish lobes being withdrawn (precisely resembling two large puddings), they are then mixed with flour, and cooked into a most delectable mess, in flavor somewhat resembling calves’ head, which is quite a dish among some epicures; and every one knows that some young bucks among the epicures, by continually dining upon calves’ brains, by and by get to have a little brains of their own, so as to be able to tell a calf’s head from their own heads; which, indeed, requires uncommon discrimination.
and that is the reason why a young buck with an intelligent looking calf’s head before him, is somehow one of the saddest sights you can see.
the head looks a sort of reproachfully at him, with an “et tu brute!” expression.
it is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e.
that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light.
but no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as a murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does.
go to the meat-market of a saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds.
does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal’s jaw?
cannibals?
who is not a cannibal?
i tell you it will be more tolerable for the fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident fejee, i say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy paté-de-foie-gras.
but stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he?
and that is adding insult to injury, is it?
look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?—what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating?
and what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose?
with a feather of the same fowl.
and with what quill did the secretary of the society for the suppression of cruelty to ganders formally indite his circulars?
it is only within the last month or two that that society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.
chapter 66. the shark massacre.
when in the southern fishery, a captured sperm whale, after long and weary toil, is brought alongside late at night, it is not, as a general thing at least, customary to proceed at once to the business of cutting him in.
for that business is an exceedingly laborious one; is not very soon completed; and requires all hands to set about it.
therefore, the common usage is to take in all sail; lash the helm a’lee; and then send every one below to his hammock till daylight, with the reservation that, until that time, anchor-watches shall be kept; that is, two and two for an hour, each couple, the crew in rotation shall mount the deck to see that all goes well.
but sometimes, especially upon the line in the pacific, this plan will not answer at all; because such incalculable hosts of sharks gather round the moored carcase, that were he left so for six hours, say, on a stretch, little more than the skeleton would be visible by morning.
in most other parts of the ocean, however, where these fish do not so largely abound, their wondrous voracity can be at times considerably diminished, by vigorously stirring them up with sharp whaling-spades, a procedure notwithstanding, which, in some instances, only seems to tickle them into still greater activity.
but it was not thus in the present case with the pequod’s sharks; though, to be sure, any man unaccustomed to such sights, to have looked over her side that night, would have almost thought the whole round sea was one huge cheese, and those sharks the maggots in it.
nevertheless, upon stubb setting the anchor-watch after his supper was concluded; and when, accordingly, queequeg and a forecastle seaman came on deck, no small excitement was created among the sharks; for immediately suspending the cutting stages over the side, and lowering three lanterns, so that they cast long gleams of light over the turbid sea, these two mariners, darting their long whaling-spades, kept up an incessant murdering of the sharks,* by striking the keen steel deep into their skulls, seemingly their only vital part.
but in the foamy confusion of their mixed and struggling hosts, the marksmen could not always hit their mark; and this brought about new revelations of the incredible ferocity of the foe.
they viciously snapped, not only at each other’s disembowelments, but like flexible bows, bent round, and bit their own; till those entrails seemed swallowed over and over again by the same mouth, to be oppositely voided by the gaping wound.
nor was this all.
it was unsafe to meddle with the corpses and ghosts of these creatures.
a sort of generic or pantheistic vitality seemed to lurk in their very joints and bones, after what might be called the individual life had departed.
killed and hoisted on deck for the sake of his skin, one of these sharks almost took poor queequeg’s hand off, when he tried to shut down the dead lid of his murderous jaw.
*the whaling-spade used for cutting-in is made of the very best steel; is about the bigness of a man’s spread hand; and in general shape, corresponds to the garden implement after which it is named; only its sides are perfectly flat, and its upper end considerably narrower than the lower.
this weapon is always kept as sharp as possible; and when being used is occasionally honed, just like a razor.
in its socket, a stiff pole, from twenty to thirty feet long, is inserted for a handle.
“queequeg no care what god made him shark,” said the savage, agonizingly lifting his hand up and down; “wedder fejee god or nantucket god; but de god wat made shark must be one dam ingin.”
chapter 67. cutting in.
it was a saturday night, and such a sabbath as followed!
ex officio professors of sabbath breaking are all whalemen.
the ivory pequod was turned into what seemed a shamble; every sailor a butcher.
you would have thought we were offering up ten thousand red oxen to the sea gods.
in the first place, the enormous cutting tackles, among other ponderous things comprising a cluster of blocks generally painted green, and which no single man can possibly lift—this vast bunch of grapes was swayed up to the main-top and firmly lashed to the lower mast-head, the strongest point anywhere above a ship’s deck.
the end of the hawser-like rope winding through these intricacies, was then conducted to the windlass, and the huge lower block of the tackles was swung over the whale; to this block the great blubber hook, weighing some one hundred pounds, was attached.
and now suspended in stages over the side, starbuck and stubb, the mates, armed with their long spades, began cutting a hole in the body for the insertion of the hook just above the nearest of the two side-fins.
this done, a broad, semicircular line is cut round the hole, the hook is inserted, and the main body of the crew striking up a wild chorus, now commence heaving in one dense crowd at the windlass.
when instantly, the entire ship careens over on her side; every bolt in her starts like the nail-heads of an old house in frosty weather; she trembles, quivers, and nods her frighted mast-heads to the sky.
more and more she leans over to the whale, while every gasping heave of the windlass is answered by a helping heave from the billows; till at last, a swift, startling snap is heard; with a great swash the ship rolls upwards and backwards from the whale, and the triumphant tackle rises into sight dragging after it the disengaged semicircular end of the first strip of blubber.
now as the blubber envelopes the whale precisely as the rind does an orange, so is it stripped off from the body precisely as an orange is sometimes stripped by spiralizing it.
for the strain constantly kept up by the windlass continually keeps the whale rolling over and over in the water, and as the blubber in one strip uniformly peels off along the line called the “scarf,” simultaneously cut by the spades of starbuck and stubb, the mates; and just as fast as it is thus peeled off, and indeed by that very act itself, it is all the time being hoisted higher and higher aloft till its upper end grazes the main-top; the men at the windlass then cease heaving, and for a moment or two the prodigious blood-dripping mass sways to and fro as if let down from the sky, and every one present must take good heed to dodge it when it swings, else it may box his ears and pitch him headlong overboard.
one of the attending harpooneers now advances with a long, keen weapon called a boarding-sword, and watching his chance he dexterously slices out a considerable hole in the lower part of the swaying mass.
into this hole, the end of the second alternating great tackle is then hooked so as to retain a hold upon the blubber, in order to prepare for what follows.
whereupon, this accomplished swordsman, warning all hands to stand off, once more makes a scientific dash at the mass, and with a few sidelong, desperate, lunging slicings, severs it completely in twain; so that while the short lower part is still fast, the long upper strip, called a blanket-piece, swings clear, and is all ready for lowering.
the heavers forward now resume their song, and while the one tackle is peeling and hoisting a second strip from the whale, the other is slowly slackened away, and down goes the first strip through the main hatchway right beneath, into an unfurnished parlor called the blubber-room.
into this twilight apartment sundry nimble hands keep coiling away the long blanket-piece as if it were a great live mass of plaited serpents.
and thus the work proceeds; the two tackles hoisting and lowering simultaneously; both whale and windlass heaving, the heavers singing, the blubber-room gentlemen coiling, the mates scarfing, the ship straining, and all hands swearing occasionally, by way of assuaging the general friction.
chapter 68. the blanket.
i have given no small attention to that not unvexed subject, the skin of the whale.
i have had controversies about it with experienced whalemen afloat, and learned naturalists ashore.
my original opinion remains unchanged; but it is only an opinion.
the question is, what and where is the skin of the whale?
already you know what his blubber is.
that blubber is something of the consistence of firm, close-grained beef, but tougher, more elastic and compact, and ranges from eight or ten to twelve and fifteen inches in thickness.
now, however preposterous it may at first seem to talk of any creature’s skin as being of that sort of consistence and thickness, yet in point of fact these are no arguments against such a presumption; because you cannot raise any other dense enveloping layer from the whale’s body but that same blubber; and the outermost enveloping layer of any animal, if reasonably dense, what can that be but the skin?
true, from the unmarred dead body of the whale, you may scrape off with your hand an infinitely thin, transparent substance, somewhat resembling the thinnest shreds of isinglass, only it is almost as flexible and soft as satin; that is, previous to being dried, when it not only contracts and thickens, but becomes rather hard and brittle.
i have several such dried bits, which i use for marks in my whale-books.
it is transparent, as i said before; and being laid upon the printed page, i have sometimes pleased myself with fancying it exerted a magnifying influence.
at any rate, it is pleasant to read about whales through their own spectacles, as you may say.
but what i am driving at here is this.
that same infinitely thin, isinglass substance, which, i admit, invests the entire body of the whale, is not so much to be regarded as the skin of the creature, as the skin of the skin, so to speak; for it were simply ridiculous to say, that the proper skin of the tremendous whale is thinner and more tender than the skin of a new-born child.
but no more of this.
assuming the blubber to be the skin of the whale; then, when this skin, as in the case of a very large sperm whale, will yield the bulk of one hundred barrels of oil; and, when it is considered that, in quantity, or rather weight, that oil, in its expressed state, is only three fourths, and not the entire substance of the coat; some idea may hence be had of the enormousness of that animated mass, a mere part of whose mere integument yields such a lake of liquid as that.
reckoning ten barrels to the ton, you have ten tons for the net weight of only three quarters of the stuff of the whale’s skin.
in life, the visible surface of the sperm whale is not the least among the many marvels he presents.
almost invariably it is all over obliquely crossed and re-crossed with numberless straight marks in thick array, something like those in the finest italian line engravings.
but these marks do not seem to be impressed upon the isinglass substance above mentioned, but seem to be seen through it, as if they were engraved upon the body itself.
nor is this all.
in some instances, to the quick, observant eye, those linear marks, as in a veritable engraving, but afford the ground for far other delineations.
these are hieroglyphical; that is, if you call those mysterious cyphers on the walls of pyramids hieroglyphics, then that is the proper word to use in the present connexion.
by my retentive memory of the hieroglyphics upon one sperm whale in particular, i was much struck with a plate representing the old indian characters chiselled on the famous hieroglyphic palisades on the banks of the upper mississippi.
like those mystic rocks, too, the mystic-marked whale remains undecipherable.
this allusion to the indian rocks reminds me of another thing.
besides all the other phenomena which the exterior of the sperm whale presents, he not seldom displays the back, and more especially his flanks, effaced in great part of the regular linear appearance, by reason of numerous rude scratches, altogether of an irregular, random aspect.
i should say that those new england rocks on the sea-coast, which agassiz imagines to bear the marks of violent scraping contact with vast floating icebergs—i should say, that those rocks must not a little resemble the sperm whale in this particular.
it also seems to me that such scratches in the whale are probably made by hostile contact with other whales; for i have most remarked them in the large, full-grown bulls of the species.
a word or two more concerning this matter of the skin or blubber of the whale.
it has already been said, that it is stript from him in long pieces, called blanket-pieces.
like most sea-terms, this one is very happy and significant.
for the whale is indeed wrapt up in his blubber as in a real blanket or counterpane; or, still better, an indian poncho slipt over his head, and skirting his extremity.
it is by reason of this cosy blanketing of his body, that the whale is enabled to keep himself comfortable in all weathers, in all seas, times, and tides.
what would become of a greenland whale, say, in those shuddering, icy seas of the north, if unsupplied with his cosy surtout?
true, other fish are found exceedingly brisk in those hyperborean waters; but these, be it observed, are your cold-blooded, lungless fish, whose very bellies are refrigerators; creatures, that warm themselves under the lee of an iceberg, as a traveller in winter would bask before an inn fire; whereas, like man, the whale has lungs and warm blood.
freeze his blood, and he dies.
how wonderful is it then—except after explanation—that this great monster, to whom corporeal warmth is as indispensable as it is to man; how wonderful that he should be found at home, immersed to his lips for life in those arctic waters!
where, when seamen fall overboard, they are sometimes found, months afterwards, perpendicularly frozen into the hearts of fields of ice, as a fly is found glued in amber.
but more surprising is it to know, as has been proved by experiment, that the blood of a polar whale is warmer than that of a borneo negro in summer.
it does seem to me, that herein we see the rare virtue of a strong individual vitality, and the rare virtue of thick walls, and the rare virtue of interior spaciousness.
oh, man!
admire and model thyself after the whale!
do thou, too, remain warm among ice.
do thou, too, live in this world without being of it.
be cool at the equator; keep thy blood fluid at the pole.
like the great dome of st. peter’s, and like the great whale, retain, o man!
in all seasons a temperature of thine own.
but how easy and how hopeless to teach these fine things!
of erections, how few are domed like st. peter’s!
of creatures, how few vast as the whale!
chapter 69. the funeral.
“haul in the chains!
let the carcase go astern!”
the vast tackles have now done their duty.
the peeled white body of the beheaded whale flashes like a marble sepulchre; though changed in hue, it has not perceptibly lost anything in bulk.
it is still colossal.
slowly it floats more and more away, the water round it torn and splashed by the insatiate sharks, and the air above vexed with rapacious flights of screaming fowls, whose beaks are like so many insulting poniards in the whale.
the vast white headless phantom floats further and further from the ship, and every rod that it so floats, what seem square roods of sharks and cubic roods of fowls, augment the murderous din.
for hours and hours from the almost stationary ship that hideous sight is seen.
beneath the unclouded and mild azure sky, upon the fair face of the pleasant sea, wafted by the joyous breezes, that great mass of death floats on and on, till lost in infinite perspectives.
there’s a most doleful and most mocking funeral!
the sea-vultures all in pious mourning, the air-sharks all punctiliously in black or speckled.
in life but few of them would have helped the whale, i ween, if peradventure he had needed it; but upon the banquet of his funeral they most piously do pounce.
oh, horrible vultureism of earth!
from which not the mightiest whale is free.
nor is this the end.
desecrated as the body is, a vengeful ghost survives and hovers over it to scare.
espied by some timid man-of-war or blundering discovery-vessel from afar, when the distance obscuring the swarming fowls, nevertheless still shows the white mass floating in the sun, and the white spray heaving high against it; straightway the whale’s unharming corpse, with trembling fingers is set down in the log—shoals, rocks, and breakers hereabouts: beware!
and for years afterwards, perhaps, ships shun the place; leaping over it as silly sheep leap over a vacuum, because their leader originally leaped there when a stick was held.
there’s your law of precedents; there’s your utility of traditions; there’s the story of your obstinate survival of old beliefs never bottomed on the earth, and now not even hovering in the air!
there’s orthodoxy!
thus, while in life the great whale’s body may have been a real terror to his foes, in his death his ghost becomes a powerless panic to a world.
are you a believer in ghosts, my friend?
there are other ghosts than the cock-lane one, and far deeper men than doctor johnson who believe in them.
chapter 70. the sphynx.
it should not have been omitted that previous to completely stripping the body of the leviathan, he was beheaded.
now, the beheading of the sperm whale is a scientific anatomical feat, upon which experienced whale surgeons very much pride themselves: and not without reason.
consider that the whale has nothing that can properly be called a neck; on the contrary, where his head and body seem to join, there, in that very place, is the thickest part of him.
remember, also, that the surgeon must operate from above, some eight or ten feet intervening between him and his subject, and that subject almost hidden in a discoloured, rolling, and oftentimes tumultuous and bursting sea.
bear in mind, too, that under these untoward circumstances he has to cut many feet deep in the flesh; and in that subterraneous manner, without so much as getting one single peep into the ever-contracting gash thus made, he must skilfully steer clear of all adjacent, interdicted parts, and exactly divide the spine at a critical point hard by its insertion into the skull.
do you not marvel, then, at stubb’s boast, that he demanded but ten minutes to behead a sperm whale?
when first severed, the head is dropped astern and held there by a cable till the body is stripped.
that done, if it belong to a small whale it is hoisted on deck to be deliberately disposed of.
but, with a full grown leviathan this is impossible; for the sperm whale’s head embraces nearly one third of his entire bulk, and completely to suspend such a burden as that, even by the immense tackles of a whaler, this were as vain a thing as to attempt weighing a dutch barn in jewellers’
scales.
the pequod’s whale being decapitated and the body stripped, the head was hoisted against the ship’s side—about half way out of the sea, so that it might yet in great part be buoyed up by its native element.
and there with the strained craft steeply leaning over to it, by reason of the enormous downward drag from the lower mast-head, and every yard-arm on that side projecting like a crane over the waves; there, that blood-dripping head hung to the pequod’s waist like the giant holofernes’s from the girdle of judith.
when this last task was accomplished it was noon, and the seamen went below to their dinner.
silence reigned over the before tumultuous but now deserted deck.
an intense copper calm, like a universal yellow lotus, was more and more unfolding its noiseless measureless leaves upon the sea.
a short space elapsed, and up into this noiselessness came ahab alone from his cabin.
taking a few turns on the quarter-deck, he paused to gaze over the side, then slowly getting into the main-chains he took stubb’s long spade—still remaining there after the whale’s decapitation—and striking it into the lower part of the half-suspended mass, placed its other end crutch-wise under one arm, and so stood leaning over with eyes attentively fixed on this head.
it was a black and hooded head; and hanging there in the midst of so intense a calm, it seemed the sphynx’s in the desert.
“speak, thou vast and venerable head,” muttered ahab, “which, though ungarnished with a beard, yet here and there lookest hoary with mosses; speak, mighty head, and tell us the secret thing that is in thee.
of all divers, thou hast dived the deepest.
that head upon which the upper sun now gleams, has moved amid this world’s foundations.
where unrecorded names and navies rust, and untold hopes and anchors rot; where in her murderous hold this frigate earth is ballasted with bones of millions of the drowned; there, in that awful water-land, there was thy most familiar home.
thou hast been where bell or diver never went; hast slept by many a sailor’s side, where sleepless mothers would give their lives to lay them down.
thou saw’st the locked lovers when leaping from their flaming ship; heart to heart they sank beneath the exulting wave; true to each other, when heaven seemed false to them.
thou saw’st the murdered mate when tossed by pirates from the midnight deck; for hours he fell into the deeper midnight of the insatiate maw; and his murderers still sailed on unharmed—while swift lightnings shivered the neighboring ship that would have borne a righteous husband to outstretched, longing arms.
o head!
thou hast seen enough to split the planets and make an infidel of abraham, and not one syllable is thine!”
“sail ho!” cried a triumphant voice from the main-mast-head.
“aye?
well, now, that’s cheering,” cried ahab, suddenly erecting himself, while whole thunder-clouds swept aside from his brow.
“that lively cry upon this deadly calm might almost convert a better man.—where away?”
“three points on the starboard bow, sir, and bringing down her breeze to us!
“better and better, man.
would now st. paul would come along that way, and to my breezelessness bring his breeze!
o nature, and o soul of man!
how far beyond all utterance are your linked analogies!
not the smallest atom stirs or lives on matter, but has its cunning duplicate in mind.”
chapter 71. the jeroboam’s story.
hand in hand, ship and breeze blew on; but the breeze came faster than the ship, and soon the pequod began to rock.
by and by, through the glass the stranger’s boats and manned mast-heads proved her a whale-ship.
but as she was so far to windward, and shooting by, apparently making a passage to some other ground, the pequod could not hope to reach her.
so the signal was set to see what response would be made.
here be it said, that like the vessels of military marines, the ships of the american whale fleet have each a private signal; all which signals being collected in a book with the names of the respective vessels attached, every captain is provided with it.
thereby, the whale commanders are enabled to recognise each other upon the ocean, even at considerable distances and with no small facility.
the pequod’s signal was at last responded to by the stranger’s setting her own; which proved the ship to be the jeroboam of nantucket.
squaring her yards, she bore down, ranged abeam under the pequod’s lee, and lowered a boat; it soon drew nigh; but, as the side-ladder was being rigged by starbuck’s order to accommodate the visiting captain, the stranger in question waved his hand from his boat’s stern in token of that proceeding being entirely unnecessary.
it turned out that the jeroboam had a malignant epidemic on board, and that mayhew, her captain, was fearful of infecting the pequod’s company.
for, though himself and boat’s crew remained untainted, and though his ship was half a rifle-shot off, and an incorruptible sea and air rolling and flowing between; yet conscientiously adhering to the timid quarantine of the land, he peremptorily refused to come into direct contact with the pequod.
but this did by no means prevent all communications.
preserving an interval of some few yards between itself and the ship, the jeroboam’s boat by the occasional use of its oars contrived to keep parallel to the pequod, as she heavily forged through the sea (for by this time it blew very fresh), with her main-topsail aback; though, indeed, at times by the sudden onset of a large rolling wave, the boat would be pushed some way ahead; but would be soon skilfully brought to her proper bearings again.
subject to this, and other the like interruptions now and then, a conversation was sustained between the two parties; but at intervals not without still another interruption of a very different sort.
pulling an oar in the jeroboam’s boat, was a man of a singular appearance, even in that wild whaling life where individual notabilities make up all totalities.
he was a small, short, youngish man, sprinkled all over his face with freckles, and wearing redundant yellow hair.
a long-skirted, cabalistically-cut coat of a faded walnut tinge enveloped him; the overlapping sleeves of which were rolled up on his wrists.
a deep, settled, fanatic delirium was in his eyes.
so soon as this figure had been first descried, stubb had exclaimed—“that’s he!
that’s he!—the long-togged scaramouch the town-ho’s company told us of!” stubb here alluded to a strange story told of the jeroboam, and a certain man among her crew, some time previous when the pequod spoke the town-ho.
according to this account and what was subsequently learned, it seemed that the scaramouch in question had gained a wonderful ascendency over almost everybody in the jeroboam.
his story was this:
he had been originally nurtured among the crazy society of neskyeuna shakers, where he had been a great prophet; in their cracked, secret meetings having several times descended from heaven by the way of a trap-door, announcing the speedy opening of the seventh vial, which he carried in his vest-pocket; but, which, instead of containing gunpowder, was supposed to be charged with laudanum.
a strange, apostolic whim having seized him, he had left neskyeuna for nantucket, where, with that cunning peculiar to craziness, he assumed a steady, common-sense exterior, and offered himself as a green-hand candidate for the jeroboam’s whaling voyage.
they engaged him; but straightway upon the ship’s getting out of sight of land, his insanity broke out in a freshet.
he announced himself as the archangel gabriel, and commanded the captain to jump overboard.
he published his manifesto, whereby he set himself forth as the deliverer of the isles of the sea and vicar-general of all oceanica.
the unflinching earnestness with which he declared these things;—the dark, daring play of his sleepless, excited imagination, and all the preternatural terrors of real delirium, united to invest this gabriel in the minds of the majority of the ignorant crew, with an atmosphere of sacredness.
moreover, they were afraid of him.
as such a man, however, was not of much practical use in the ship, especially as he refused to work except when he pleased, the incredulous captain would fain have been rid of him; but apprised that that individual’s intention was to land him in the first convenient port, the archangel forthwith opened all his seals and vials—devoting the ship and all hands to unconditional perdition, in case this intention was carried out.
so strongly did he work upon his disciples among the crew, that at last in a body they went to the captain and told him if gabriel was sent from the ship, not a man of them would remain.
he was therefore forced to relinquish his plan.
nor would they permit gabriel to be any way maltreated, say or do what he would; so that it came to pass that gabriel had the complete freedom of the ship.
the consequence of all this was, that the archangel cared little or nothing for the captain and mates; and since the epidemic had broken out, he carried a higher hand than ever; declaring that the plague, as he called it, was at his sole command; nor should it be stayed but according to his good pleasure.
the sailors, mostly poor devils, cringed, and some of them fawned before him; in obedience to his instructions, sometimes rendering him personal homage, as to a god.
such things may seem incredible; but, however wondrous, they are true.
nor is the history of fanatics half so striking in respect to the measureless self-deception of the fanatic himself, as his measureless power of deceiving and bedevilling so many others.
but it is time to return to the pequod.
“i fear not thy epidemic, man,” said ahab from the bulwarks, to captain mayhew, who stood in the boat’s stern; “come on board.”
but now gabriel started to his feet.
“think, think of the fevers, yellow and bilious!
beware of the horrible plague!”
“gabriel!
gabriel!” cried captain mayhew; “thou must either—” but that instant a headlong wave shot the boat far ahead, and its seethings drowned all speech.
“hast thou seen the white whale?” demanded ahab, when the boat drifted back.
“think, think of thy whale-boat, stoven and sunk!
beware of the horrible tail!”
“i tell thee again, gabriel, that—” but again the boat tore ahead as if dragged by fiends.
nothing was said for some moments, while a succession of riotous waves rolled by, which by one of those occasional caprices of the seas were tumbling, not heaving it.
meantime, the hoisted sperm whale’s head jogged about very violently, and gabriel was seen eyeing it with rather more apprehensiveness than his archangel nature seemed to warrant.
when this interlude was over, captain mayhew began a dark story concerning moby dick; not, however, without frequent interruptions from gabriel, whenever his name was mentioned, and the crazy sea that seemed leagued with him.
it seemed that the jeroboam had not long left home, when upon speaking a whale-ship, her people were reliably apprised of the existence of moby dick, and the havoc he had made.
greedily sucking in this intelligence, gabriel solemnly warned the captain against attacking the white whale, in case the monster should be seen; in his gibbering insanity, pronouncing the white whale to be no less a being than the shaker god incarnated; the shakers receiving the bible.
but when, some year or two afterwards, moby dick was fairly sighted from the mast-heads, macey, the chief mate, burned with ardour to encounter him; and the captain himself being not unwilling to let him have the opportunity, despite all the archangel’s denunciations and forewarnings, macey succeeded in persuading five men to man his boat.
with them he pushed off; and, after much weary pulling, and many perilous, unsuccessful onsets, he at last succeeded in getting one iron fast.
meantime, gabriel, ascending to the main-royal mast-head, was tossing one arm in frantic gestures, and hurling forth prophecies of speedy doom to the sacrilegious assailants of his divinity.
now, while macey, the mate, was standing up in his boat’s bow, and with all the reckless energy of his tribe was venting his wild exclamations upon the whale, and essaying to get a fair chance for his poised lance, lo!
a broad white shadow rose from the sea; by its quick, fanning motion, temporarily taking the breath out of the bodies of the oarsmen.
next instant, the luckless mate, so full of furious life, was smitten bodily into the air, and making a long arc in his descent, fell into the sea at the distance of about fifty yards.
not a chip of the boat was harmed, nor a hair of any oarsman’s head; but the mate for ever sank.
it is well to parenthesize here, that of the fatal accidents in the sperm-whale fishery, this kind is perhaps almost as frequent as any.
sometimes, nothing is injured but the man who is thus annihilated; oftener the boat’s bow is knocked off, or the thigh-board, in which the headsman stands, is torn from its place and accompanies the body.
but strangest of all is the circumstance, that in more instances than one, when the body has been recovered, not a single mark of violence is discernible; the man being stark dead.
the whole calamity, with the falling form of macey, was plainly descried from the ship.
raising a piercing shriek—“the vial!
the vial!”
gabriel called off the terror-stricken crew from the further hunting of the whale.
this terrible event clothed the archangel with added influence; because his credulous disciples believed that he had specifically fore-announced it, instead of only making a general prophecy, which any one might have done, and so have chanced to hit one of many marks in the wide margin allowed.
he became a nameless terror to the ship.
mayhew having concluded his narration, ahab put such questions to him, that the stranger captain could not forbear inquiring whether he intended to hunt the white whale, if opportunity should offer.
to which ahab answered—“aye.” straightway, then, gabriel once more started to his feet, glaring upon the old man, and vehemently exclaimed, with downward pointed finger—“think, think of the blasphemer—dead, and down there!—beware of the blasphemer’s end!”
ahab stolidly turned aside; then said to mayhew, “captain, i have just bethought me of my letter-bag; there is a letter for one of thy officers, if i mistake not.
starbuck, look over the bag.”
every whale-ship takes out a goodly number of letters for various ships, whose delivery to the persons to whom they may be addressed, depends upon the mere chance of encountering them in the four oceans.
thus, most letters never reach their mark; and many are only received after attaining an age of two or three years or more.
soon starbuck returned with a letter in his hand.
it was sorely tumbled, damp, and covered with a dull, spotted, green mould, in consequence of being kept in a dark locker of the cabin.
of such a letter, death himself might well have been the post-boy.
“can’st not read it?” cried ahab.
“give it me, man.
aye, aye, it’s but a dim scrawl;—what’s this?” as he was studying it out, starbuck took a long cutting-spade pole, and with his knife slightly split the end, to insert the letter there, and in that way, hand it to the boat, without its coming any closer to the ship.
meantime, ahab holding the letter, muttered, “mr.
har—yes, mr. harry—(a woman’s pinny hand,—the man’s wife, i’ll wager)—aye—mr.
harry macey, ship jeroboam;—why it’s macey, and he’s dead!”
“poor fellow!
poor fellow!
and from his wife,” sighed mayhew; “but let me have it.”
“nay, keep it thyself,” cried gabriel to ahab; “thou art soon going that way.”
“curses throttle thee!” yelled ahab.
“captain mayhew, stand by now to receive it”; and taking the fatal missive from starbuck’s hands, he caught it in the slit of the pole, and reached it over towards the boat.
but as he did so, the oarsmen expectantly desisted from rowing; the boat drifted a little towards the ship’s stern; so that, as if by magic, the letter suddenly ranged along with gabriel’s eager hand.
he clutched it in an instant, seized the boat-knife, and impaling the letter on it, sent it thus loaded back into the ship.
it fell at ahab’s feet.
then gabriel shrieked out to his comrades to give way with their oars, and in that manner the mutinous boat rapidly shot away from the pequod.
as, after this interlude, the seamen resumed their work upon the jacket of the whale, many strange things were hinted in reference to this wild affair.
chapter 72. the monkey-rope.
in the tumultuous business of cutting-in and attending to a whale, there is much running backwards and forwards among the crew.
now hands are wanted here, and then again hands are wanted there.
there is no staying in any one place; for at one and the same time everything has to be done everywhere.
it is much the same with him who endeavors the description of the scene.
we must now retrace our way a little.
it was mentioned that upon first breaking ground in the whale’s back, the blubber-hook was inserted into the original hole there cut by the spades of the mates.
but how did so clumsy and weighty a mass as that same hook get fixed in that hole?
it was inserted there by my particular friend queequeg, whose duty it was, as harpooneer, to descend upon the monster’s back for the special purpose referred to.
but in very many cases, circumstances require that the harpooneer shall remain on the whale till the whole flensing or stripping operation is concluded.
the whale, be it observed, lies almost entirely submerged, excepting the immediate parts operated upon.
so down there, some ten feet below the level of the deck, the poor harpooneer flounders about, half on the whale and half in the water, as the vast mass revolves like a tread-mill beneath him.
on the occasion in question, queequeg figured in the highland costume—a shirt and socks—in which to my eyes, at least, he appeared to uncommon advantage; and no one had a better chance to observe him, as will presently be seen.
being the savage’s bowsman, that is, the person who pulled the bow-oar in his boat (the second one from forward), it was my cheerful duty to attend upon him while taking that hard-scrabble scramble upon the dead whale’s back.
you have seen italian organ-boys holding a dancing-ape by a long cord.
just so, from the ship’s steep side, did i hold queequeg down there in the sea, by what is technically called in the fishery a monkey-rope, attached to a strong strip of canvas belted round his waist.
it was a humorously perilous business for both of us.
for, before we proceed further, it must be said that the monkey-rope was fast at both ends; fast to queequeg’s broad canvas belt, and fast to my narrow leather one.
so that for better or for worse, we two, for the time, were wedded; and should poor queequeg sink to rise no more, then both usage and honor demanded, that instead of cutting the cord, it should drag me down in his wake.
so, then, an elongated siamese ligature united us.
queequeg was my own inseparable twin brother; nor could i any way get rid of the dangerous liabilities which the hempen bond entailed.
so strongly and metaphysically did i conceive of my situation then, that while earnestly watching his motions, i seemed distinctly to perceive that my own individuality was now merged in a joint stock company of two; that my free will had received a mortal wound; and that another’s mistake or misfortune might plunge innocent me into unmerited disaster and death.
therefore, i saw that here was a sort of interregnum in providence; for its even-handed equity never could have so gross an injustice.
and yet still further pondering—while i jerked him now and then from between the whale and ship, which would threaten to jam him—still further pondering, i say, i saw that this situation of mine was the precise situation of every mortal that breathes; only, in most cases, he, one way or other, has this siamese connexion with a plurality of other mortals.
if your banker breaks, you snap; if your apothecary by mistake sends you poison in your pills, you die.
true, you may say that, by exceeding caution, you may possibly escape these and the multitudinous other evil chances of life.
but handle queequeg’s monkey-rope heedfully as i would, sometimes he jerked it so, that i came very near sliding overboard.
nor could i possibly forget that, do what i would, i only had the management of one end of it.
*
*the monkey-rope is found in all whalers; but it was only in the pequod that the monkey and his holder were ever tied together.
this improvement upon the original usage was introduced by no less a man than stubb, in order to afford the imperilled harpooneer the strongest possible guarantee for the faithfulness and vigilance of his monkey-rope holder.
i have hinted that i would often jerk poor queequeg from between the whale and the ship—where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant rolling and swaying of both.
but this was not the only jamming jeopardy he was exposed to.
unappalled by the massacre made upon them during the night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before pent blood which began to flow from the carcass—the rabid creatures swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.
and right in among those sharks was queequeg; who often pushed them aside with his floundering feet.
a thing altogether incredible were it not that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise miscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.
nevertheless, it may well be believed that since they have such a ravenous finger in the pie, it is deemed but wise to look sharp to them.
accordingly, besides the monkey-rope, with which i now and then jerked the poor fellow from too close a vicinity to the maw of what seemed a peculiarly ferocious shark—he was provided with still another protection.
suspended over the side in one of the stages, tashtego and daggoo continually flourished over his head a couple of keen whale-spades, wherewith they slaughtered as many sharks as they could reach.
this procedure of theirs, to be sure, was very disinterested and benevolent of them.
they meant queequeg’s best happiness, i admit; but in their hasty zeal to befriend him, and from the circumstance that both he and the sharks were at times half hidden by the blood-muddled water, those indiscreet spades of theirs would come nearer amputating a leg than a tail.
but poor queequeg, i suppose, straining and gasping there with that great iron hook—poor queequeg, i suppose, only prayed to his yojo, and gave up his life into the hands of his gods.
well, well, my dear comrade and twin-brother, thought i, as i drew in and then slacked off the rope to every swell of the sea—what matters it, after all?
are you not the precious image of each and all of us men in this whaling world?
that unsounded ocean you gasp in, is life; those sharks, your foes; those spades, your friends; and what between sharks and spades you are in a sad pickle and peril, poor lad.
but courage!
there is good cheer in store for you, queequeg.
for now, as with blue lips and blood-shot eyes the exhausted savage at last climbs up the chains and stands all dripping and involuntarily trembling over the side; the steward advances, and with a benevolent, consolatory glance hands him—what?
some hot cognac?
no!
hands him, ye gods!
hands him a cup of tepid ginger and water!
“ginger?
do i smell ginger?” suspiciously asked stubb, coming near.
“yes, this must be ginger,” peering into the as yet untasted cup.
then standing as if incredulous for a while, he calmly walked towards the astonished steward slowly saying, “ginger?
ginger?
and will you have the goodness to tell me, mr. dough-boy, where lies the virtue of ginger?
ginger!
is ginger the sort of fuel you use, dough-boy, to kindle a fire in this shivering cannibal?
ginger!—what the devil is ginger?
sea-coal?
firewood?—lucifer matches?—tinder?—gunpowder?—what the devil is ginger, i say, that you offer this cup to our poor queequeg here.”
“there is some sneaking temperance society movement about this business,” he suddenly added, now approaching starbuck, who had just come from forward.
“will you look at that kannakin, sir: smell of it, if you please.” then watching the mate’s countenance, he added, “the steward, mr. starbuck, had the face to offer that calomel and jalap to queequeg, there, this instant off the whale.
is the steward an apothecary, sir?
and may i ask whether this is the sort of bitters by which he blows back the life into a half-drowned man?”
“i trust not,” said starbuck, “it is poor stuff enough.”
“aye, aye, steward,” cried stubb, “we’ll teach you to drug a harpooneer; none of your apothecary’s medicine here; you want to poison us, do ye?
you have got out insurances on our lives and want to murder us all, and pocket the proceeds, do ye?”
“it was not me,” cried dough-boy, “it was aunt charity that brought the ginger on board; and bade me never give the harpooneers any spirits, but only this ginger-jub—so she called it.”
“ginger-jub!
you gingerly rascal!
take that!
and run along with ye to the lockers, and get something better.
i hope i do no wrong, mr.
starbuck.
it is the captain’s orders—grog for the harpooneer on a whale.”
“enough,” replied starbuck, “only don’t hit him again, but—”
“oh, i never hurt when i hit, except when i hit a whale or something of that sort; and this fellow’s a weazel.
what were you about saying, sir?”
“only this: go down with him, and get what thou wantest thyself.”
when stubb reappeared, he came with a dark flask in one hand, and a sort of tea-caddy in the other.
the first contained strong spirits, and was handed to queequeg; the second was aunt charity’s gift, and that was freely given to the waves.
chapter 73. stubb and flask kill a right whale; and then have a talk over him.
it must be borne in mind that all this time we have a sperm whale’s prodigious head hanging to the pequod’s side.
but we must let it continue hanging there a while till we can get a chance to attend to it.
for the present other matters press, and the best we can do now for the head, is to pray heaven the tackles may hold.
now, during the past night and forenoon, the pequod had gradually drifted into a sea, which, by its occasional patches of yellow brit, gave unusual tokens of the vicinity of right whales, a species of the leviathan that but few supposed to be at this particular time lurking anywhere near.
and though all hands commonly disdained the capture of those inferior creatures; and though the pequod was not commissioned to cruise for them at all, and though she had passed numbers of them near the crozetts without lowering a boat; yet now that a sperm whale had been brought alongside and beheaded, to the surprise of all, the announcement was made that a right whale should be captured that day, if opportunity offered.
nor was this long wanting.
tall spouts were seen to leeward; and two boats, stubb’s and flask’s, were detached in pursuit.
pulling further and further away, they at last became almost invisible to the men at the mast-head.
but suddenly in the distance, they saw a great heap of tumultuous white water, and soon after news came from aloft that one or both the boats must be fast.
an interval passed and the boats were in plain sight, in the act of being dragged right towards the ship by the towing whale.
so close did the monster come to the hull, that at first it seemed as if he meant it malice; but suddenly going down in a maelstrom, within three rods of the planks, he wholly disappeared from view, as if diving under the keel.
“cut, cut!” was the cry from the ship to the boats, which, for one instant, seemed on the point of being brought with a deadly dash against the vessel’s side.
but having plenty of line yet in the tubs, and the whale not sounding very rapidly, they paid out abundance of rope, and at the same time pulled with all their might so as to get ahead of the ship.
for a few minutes the struggle was intensely critical; for while they still slacked out the tightened line in one direction, and still plied their oars in another, the contending strain threatened to take them under.
but it was only a few feet advance they sought to gain.
and they stuck to it till they did gain it; when instantly, a swift tremor was felt running like lightning along the keel, as the strained line, scraping beneath the ship, suddenly rose to view under her bows, snapping and quivering; and so flinging off its drippings, that the drops fell like bits of broken glass on the water, while the whale beyond also rose to sight, and once more the boats were free to fly.
but the fagged whale abated his speed, and blindly altering his course, went round the stern of the ship towing the two boats after him, so that they performed a complete circuit.
meantime, they hauled more and more upon their lines, till close flanking him on both sides, stubb answered flask with lance for lance; and thus round and round the pequod the battle went, while the multitudes of sharks that had before swum round the sperm whale’s body, rushed to the fresh blood that was spilled, thirstily drinking at every new gash, as the eager israelites did at the new bursting fountains that poured from the smitten rock.
at last his spout grew thick, and with a frightful roll and vomit, he turned upon his back a corpse.
while the two headsmen were engaged in making fast cords to his flukes, and in other ways getting the mass in readiness for towing, some conversation ensued between them.
“i wonder what the old man wants with this lump of foul lard,” said stubb, not without some disgust at the thought of having to do with so ignoble a leviathan.
“wants with it?” said flask, coiling some spare line in the boat’s bow, “did you never hear that the ship which but once has a sperm whale’s head hoisted on her starboard side, and at the same time a right whale’s on the larboard; did you never hear, stubb, that that ship can never afterwards capsize?”
“why not?
“i don’t know, but i heard that gamboge ghost of a fedallah saying so, and he seems to know all about ships’ charms.
but i sometimes think he’ll charm the ship to no good at last.
i don’t half like that chap, stubb.
did you ever notice how that tusk of his is a sort of carved into a snake’s head, stubb?”
“sink him!
i never look at him at all; but if ever i get a chance of a dark night, and he standing hard by the bulwarks, and no one by; look down there, flask”—pointing into the sea with a peculiar motion of both hands—“aye, will i!
flask, i take that fedallah to be the devil in disguise.
do you believe that cock and bull story about his having been stowed away on board ship?
he’s the devil, i say.
the reason why you don’t see his tail, is because he tucks it up out of sight; he carries it coiled away in his pocket, i guess.
blast him!
now that i think of it, he’s always wanting oakum to stuff into the toes of his boots.”
“he sleeps in his boots, don’t he?
he hasn’t got any hammock; but i’ve seen him lay of nights in a coil of rigging.”
“no doubt, and it’s because of his cursed tail; he coils it down, do ye see, in the eye of the rigging.”
“what’s the old man have so much to do with him for?”
“striking up a swap or a bargain, i suppose.”
“bargain?—about what?”
“why, do ye see, the old man is hard bent after that white whale, and the devil there is trying to come round him, and get him to swap away his silver watch, or his soul, or something of that sort, and then he’ll surrender moby dick.”
“pooh!
stubb, you are skylarking; how can fedallah do that?”
“i don’t know, flask, but the devil is a curious chap, and a wicked one, i tell ye.
why, they say as how he went a sauntering into the old flag-ship once, switching his tail about devilish easy and gentlemanlike, and inquiring if the old governor was at home.
well, he was at home, and asked the devil what he wanted.
the devil, switching his hoofs, up and says, ‘i want john.’ ‘what for?’ says the old governor.
‘what business is that of yours,’ says the devil, getting mad,—‘i want to use him.’ ‘take him,’ says the governor—and by the lord, flask, if the devil didn’t give john the asiatic cholera before he got through with him, i’ll eat this whale in one mouthful.
but look sharp—ain’t you all ready there?
well, then, pull ahead, and let’s get the whale alongside.”
“i think i remember some such story as you were telling,” said flask, when at last the two boats were slowly advancing with their burden towards the ship, “but i can’t remember where.”
“three spaniards?
adventures of those three bloody-minded soldadoes?
did ye read it there, flask?
i guess ye did?”
“no: never saw such a book; heard of it, though.
but now, tell me, stubb, do you suppose that that devil you was speaking of just now, was the same you say is now on board the pequod?”
“am i the same man that helped kill this whale?
doesn’t the devil live for ever; who ever heard that the devil was dead?
did you ever see any parson a wearing mourning for the devil?
and if the devil has a latch-key to get into the admiral’s cabin, don’t you suppose he can crawl into a porthole?
tell me that, mr. flask?”
“how old do you suppose fedallah is, stubb?”
“do you see that mainmast there?” pointing to the ship; “well, that’s the figure one; now take all the hoops in the pequod’s hold, and string along in a row with that mast, for oughts, do you see; well, that wouldn’t begin to be fedallah’s age.
nor all the coopers in creation couldn’t show hoops enough to make oughts enough.”
“but see here, stubb, i thought you a little boasted just now, that you meant to give fedallah a sea-toss, if you got a good chance.
now, if he’s so old as all those hoops of yours come to, and if he is going to live for ever, what good will it do to pitch him overboard—tell me that?
“give him a good ducking, anyhow.”
“but he’d crawl back.”
“duck him again; and keep ducking him.”
“suppose he should take it into his head to duck you, though—yes, and drown you—what then?”
“i should like to see him try it; i’d give him such a pair of black eyes that he wouldn’t dare to show his face in the admiral’s cabin again for a long while, let alone down in the orlop there, where he lives, and hereabouts on the upper decks where he sneaks so much.
damn the devil, flask; so you suppose i’m afraid of the devil?
who’s afraid of him, except the old governor who daresn’t catch him and put him in double-darbies, as he deserves, but lets him go about kidnapping people; aye, and signed a bond with him, that all the people the devil kidnapped, he’d roast for him?
there’s a governor!”
“do you suppose fedallah wants to kidnap captain ahab?”
“do i suppose it?
you’ll know it before long, flask.
but i am going now to keep a sharp look-out on him; and if i see anything very suspicious going on, i’ll just take him by the nape of his neck, and say—look here, beelzebub, you don’t do it; and if he makes any fuss, by the lord i’ll make a grab into his pocket for his tail, take it to the capstan, and give him such a wrenching and heaving, that his tail will come short off at the stump—do you see; and then, i rather guess when he finds himself docked in that queer fashion, he’ll sneak off without the poor satisfaction of feeling his tail between his legs.”
“and what will you do with the tail, stubb?”
“do with it?
sell it for an ox whip when we get home;—what else?”
“now, do you mean what you say, and have been saying all along, stubb?”
“mean or not mean, here we are at the ship.”
the boats were here hailed, to tow the whale on the larboard side, where fluke chains and other necessaries were already prepared for securing him.
“didn’t i tell you so?” said flask; “yes, you’ll soon see this right whale’s head hoisted up opposite that parmacetti’s.”
in good time, flask’s saying proved true.
as before, the pequod steeply leaned over towards the sperm whale’s head, now, by the counterpoise of both heads, she regained her even keel; though sorely strained, you may well believe.
so, when on one side you hoist in locke’s head, you go over that way; but now, on the other side, hoist in kant’s and you come back again; but in very poor plight.
thus, some minds for ever keep trimming boat.
oh, ye foolish!
throw all these thunder-heads overboard, and then you will float light and right.
in disposing of the body of a right whale, when brought alongside the ship, the same preliminary proceedings commonly take place as in the case of a sperm whale; only, in the latter instance, the head is cut off whole, but in the former the lips and tongue are separately removed and hoisted on deck, with all the well known black bone attached to what is called the crown-piece.
but nothing like this, in the present case, had been done.
the carcases of both whales had dropped astern; and the head-laden ship not a little resembled a mule carrying a pair of overburdening panniers.
meantime, fedallah was calmly eyeing the right whale’s head, and ever and anon glancing from the deep wrinkles there to the lines in his own hand.
and ahab chanced so to stand, that the parsee occupied his shadow; while, if the parsee’s shadow was there at all it seemed only to blend with, and lengthen ahab’s.
as the crew toiled on, laplandish speculations were bandied among them, concerning all these passing things.
chapter 74. the sperm whale’s head—contrasted view.
here, now, are two great whales, laying their heads together; let us join them, and lay together our own.
of the grand order of folio leviathans, the sperm whale and the right whale are by far the most noteworthy.
they are the only whales regularly hunted by man.
to the nantucketer, they present the two extremes of all the known varieties of the whale.
as the external difference between them is mainly observable in their heads; and as a head of each is this moment hanging from the pequod’s side; and as we may freely go from one to the other, by merely stepping across the deck:—where, i should like to know, will you obtain a better chance to study practical cetology than here?
in the first place, you are struck by the general contrast between these heads.
both are massive enough in all conscience; but there is a certain mathematical symmetry in the sperm whale’s which the right whale’s sadly lacks.
there is more character in the sperm whale’s head.
as you behold it, you involuntarily yield the immense superiority to him, in point of pervading dignity.
in the present instance, too, this dignity is heightened by the pepper and salt colour of his head at the summit, giving token of advanced age and large experience.
in short, he is what the fishermen technically call a “grey-headed whale.”
let us now note what is least dissimilar in these heads—namely, the two most important organs, the eye and the ear.
far back on the side of the head, and low down, near the angle of either whale’s jaw, if you narrowly search, you will at last see a lashless eye, which you would fancy to be a young colt’s eye; so out of all proportion is it to the magnitude of the head.
now, from this peculiar sideway position of the whale’s eyes, it is plain that he can never see an object which is exactly ahead, no more than he can one exactly astern.
in a word, the position of the whale’s eyes corresponds to that of a man’s ears; and you may fancy, for yourself, how it would fare with you, did you sideways survey objects through your ears.
you would find that you could only command some thirty degrees of vision in advance of the straight side-line of sight; and about thirty more behind it.
if your bitterest foe were walking straight towards you, with dagger uplifted in broad day, you would not be able to see him, any more than if he were stealing upon you from behind.
in a word, you would have two backs, so to speak; but, at the same time, also, two fronts (side fronts): for what is it that makes the front of a man—what, indeed, but his eyes?
moreover, while in most other animals that i can now think of, the eyes are so planted as imperceptibly to blend their visual power, so as to produce one picture and not two to the brain; the peculiar position of the whale’s eyes, effectually divided as they are by many cubic feet of solid head, which towers between them like a great mountain separating two lakes in valleys; this, of course, must wholly separate the impressions which each independent organ imparts.
the whale, therefore, must see one distinct picture on this side, and another distinct picture on that side; while all between must be profound darkness and nothingness to him.
man may, in effect, be said to look out on the world from a sentry-box with two joined sashes for his window.
but with the whale, these two sashes are separately inserted, making two distinct windows, but sadly impairing the view.
this peculiarity of the whale’s eyes is a thing always to be borne in mind in the fishery; and to be remembered by the reader in some subsequent scenes.
a curious and most puzzling question might be started concerning this visual matter as touching the leviathan.
but i must be content with a hint.
so long as a man’s eyes are open in the light, the act of seeing is involuntary; that is, he cannot then help mechanically seeing whatever objects are before him.
nevertheless, any one’s experience will teach him, that though he can take in an undiscriminating sweep of things at one glance, it is quite impossible for him, attentively, and completely, to examine any two things—however large or however small—at one and the same instant of time; never mind if they lie side by side and touch each other.
but if you now come to separate these two objects, and surround each by a circle of profound darkness; then, in order to see one of them, in such a manner as to bring your mind to bear on it, the other will be utterly excluded from your contemporary consciousness.
how is it, then, with the whale?
true, both his eyes, in themselves, must simultaneously act; but is his brain so much more comprehensive, combining, and subtle than man’s, that he can at the same moment of time attentively examine two distinct prospects, one on one side of him, and the other in an exactly opposite direction?
if he can, then is it as marvellous a thing in him, as if a man were able simultaneously to go through the demonstrations of two distinct problems in euclid.
nor, strictly investigated, is there any incongruity in this comparison.
it may be but an idle whim, but it has always seemed to me, that the extraordinary vacillations of movement displayed by some whales when beset by three or four boats; the timidity and liability to queer frights, so common to such whales; i think that all this indirectly proceeds from the helpless perplexity of volition, in which their divided and diametrically opposite powers of vision must involve them.
but the ear of the whale is full as curious as the eye.
if you are an entire stranger to their race, you might hunt over these two heads for hours, and never discover that organ.
the ear has no external leaf whatever; and into the hole itself you can hardly insert a quill, so wondrously minute is it.
it is lodged a little behind the eye.
with respect to their ears, this important difference is to be observed between the sperm whale and the right.
while the ear of the former has an external opening, that of the latter is entirely and evenly covered over with a membrane, so as to be quite imperceptible from without.
is it not curious, that so vast a being as the whale should see the world through so small an eye, and hear the thunder through an ear which is smaller than a hare’s?
but if his eyes were broad as the lens of herschel’s great telescope; and his ears capacious as the porches of cathedrals; would that make him any longer of sight, or sharper of hearing?
not at all.—why then do you try to “enlarge” your mind?
subtilize it.
let us now with whatever levers and steam-engines we have at hand, cant over the sperm whale’s head, that it may lie bottom up; then, ascending by a ladder to the summit, have a peep down the mouth; and were it not that the body is now completely separated from it, with a lantern we might descend into the great kentucky mammoth cave of his stomach.
but let us hold on here by this tooth, and look about us where we are.
what a really beautiful and chaste-looking mouth!
from floor to ceiling, lined, or rather papered with a glistening white membrane, glossy as bridal satins.
but come out now, and look at this portentous lower jaw, which seems like the long narrow lid of an immense snuff-box, with the hinge at one end, instead of one side.
if you pry it up, so as to get it overhead, and expose its rows of teeth, it seems a terrific portcullis; and such, alas!
it proves to many a poor wight in the fishery, upon whom these spikes fall with impaling force.
but far more terrible is it to behold, when fathoms down in the sea, you see some sulky whale, floating there suspended, with his prodigious jaw, some fifteen feet long, hanging straight down at right-angles with his body, for all the world like a ship’s jib-boom.
this whale is not dead; he is only dispirited; out of sorts, perhaps; hypochondriac; and so supine, that the hinges of his jaw have relaxed, leaving him there in that ungainly sort of plight, a reproach to all his tribe, who must, no doubt, imprecate lock-jaws upon him.
in most cases this lower jaw—being easily unhinged by a practised artist—is disengaged and hoisted on deck for the purpose of extracting the ivory teeth, and furnishing a supply of that hard white whalebone with which the fishermen fashion all sorts of curious articles, including canes, umbrella-stocks, and handles to riding-whips.
with a long, weary hoist the jaw is dragged on board, as if it were an anchor; and when the proper time comes—some few days after the other work—queequeg, daggoo, and tashtego, being all accomplished dentists, are set to drawing teeth.
with a keen cutting-spade, queequeg lances the gums; then the jaw is lashed down to ringbolts, and a tackle being rigged from aloft, they drag out these teeth, as michigan oxen drag stumps of old oaks out of wild wood lands.
there are generally forty-two teeth in all; in old whales, much worn down, but undecayed; nor filled after our artificial fashion.
the jaw is afterwards sawn into slabs, and piled away like joists for building houses.
chapter 75. the right whale’s head—contrasted view.
crossing the deck, let us now have a good long look at the right whale’s head.
as in general shape the noble sperm whale’s head may be compared to a roman war-chariot (especially in front, where it is so broadly rounded); so, at a broad view, the right whale’s head bears a rather inelegant resemblance to a gigantic galliot-toed shoe.
two hundred years ago an old dutch voyager likened its shape to that of a shoemaker’s last.
and in this same last or shoe, that old woman of the nursery tale, with the swarming brood, might very comfortably be lodged, she and all her progeny.
but as you come nearer to this great head it begins to assume different aspects, according to your point of view.
if you stand on its summit and look at these two f-shaped spoutholes, you would take the whole head for an enormous bass-viol, and these spiracles, the apertures in its sounding-board.
then, again, if you fix your eye upon this strange, crested, comb-like incrustation on the top of the mass—this green, barnacled thing, which the greenlanders call the “crown,” and the southern fishers the “bonnet” of the right whale; fixing your eyes solely on this, you would take the head for the trunk of some huge oak, with a bird’s nest in its crotch.
at any rate, when you watch those live crabs that nestle here on this bonnet, such an idea will be almost sure to occur to you; unless, indeed, your fancy has been fixed by the technical term “crown” also bestowed upon it; in which case you will take great interest in thinking how this mighty monster is actually a diademed king of the sea, whose green crown has been put together for him in this marvellous manner.
but if this whale be a king, he is a very sulky looking fellow to grace a diadem.
look at that hanging lower lip!
what a huge sulk and pout is there!
a sulk and pout, by carpenter’s measurement, about twenty feet long and five feet deep; a sulk and pout that will yield you some 500 gallons of oil and more.
a great pity, now, that this unfortunate whale should be hare-lipped.
the fissure is about a foot across.
probably the mother during an important interval was sailing down the peruvian coast, when earthquakes caused the beach to gape.
over this lip, as over a slippery threshold, we now slide into the mouth.
upon my word were i at mackinaw, i should take this to be the inside of an indian wigwam.
good lord!
is this the road that jonah went?
the roof is about twelve feet high, and runs to a pretty sharp angle, as if there were a regular ridge-pole there; while these ribbed, arched, hairy sides, present us with those wondrous, half vertical, scimetar-shaped slats of whalebone, say three hundred on a side, which depending from the upper part of the head or crown bone, form those venetian blinds which have elsewhere been cursorily mentioned.
the edges of these bones are fringed with hairy fibres, through which the right whale strains the water, and in whose intricacies he retains the small fish, when openmouthed he goes through the seas of brit in feeding time.
in the central blinds of bone, as they stand in their natural order, there are certain curious marks, curves, hollows, and ridges, whereby some whalemen calculate the creature’s age, as the age of an oak by its circular rings.
though the certainty of this criterion is far from demonstrable, yet it has the savor of analogical probability.
at any rate, if we yield to it, we must grant a far greater age to the right whale than at first glance will seem reasonable.
in old times, there seem to have prevailed the most curious fancies concerning these blinds.
one voyager in purchas calls them the wondrous “whiskers” inside of the whale’s mouth;* another, “hogs’ bristles”; a third old gentleman in hackluyt uses the following elegant language:
“there are about two hundred and fifty fins growing on each side of his upper chop, which arch over his tongue on each side of his mouth.”
*this reminds us that the right whale really has a sort of whisker, or rather a moustache, consisting of a few scattered white hairs on the upper part of the outer end of the lower jaw.
sometimes these tufts impart a rather brigandish expression to his otherwise solemn countenance.
as every one knows, these same “hogs’ bristles,” “fins,” “whiskers,”
“blinds,” or whatever you please, furnish to the ladies their busks and other stiffening contrivances.
but in this particular, the demand has long been on the decline.
it was in queen anne’s time that the bone was in its glory, the farthingale being then all the fashion.
and as those ancient dames moved about gaily, though in the jaws of the whale, as you may say; even so, in a shower, with the like thoughtlessness, do we nowadays fly under the same jaws for protection; the umbrella being a tent spread over the same bone.
but now forget all about blinds and whiskers for a moment, and, standing in the right whale’s mouth, look around you afresh.
seeing all these colonnades of bone so methodically ranged about, would you not think you were inside of the great haarlem organ, and gazing upon its thousand pipes?
for a carpet to the organ we have a rug of the softest turkey—the tongue, which is glued, as it were, to the floor of the mouth.
it is very fat and tender, and apt to tear in pieces in hoisting it on deck.
this particular tongue now before us; at a passing glance i should say it was a six-barreler; that is, it will yield you about that amount of oil.
ere this, you must have plainly seen the truth of what i started with—that the sperm whale and the right whale have almost entirely different heads.
to sum up, then: in the right whale’s there is no great well of sperm; no ivory teeth at all; no long, slender mandible of a lower jaw, like the sperm whale’s.
nor in the sperm whale are there any of those blinds of bone; no huge lower lip; and scarcely anything of a tongue.
again, the right whale has two external spout-holes, the sperm whale only one.
look your last, now, on these venerable hooded heads, while they yet lie together; for one will soon sink, unrecorded, in the sea; the other will not be very long in following.
can you catch the expression of the sperm whale’s there?
it is the same he died with, only some of the longer wrinkles in the forehead seem now faded away.
i think his broad brow to be full of a prairie-like placidity, born of a speculative indifference as to death.
but mark the other head’s expression.
see that amazing lower lip, pressed by accident against the vessel’s side, so as firmly to embrace the jaw.
does not this whole head seem to speak of an enormous practical resolution in facing death?
this right whale i take to have been a stoic; the sperm whale, a platonian, who might have taken up spinoza in his latter years.
chapter 76. the battering-ram.
ere quitting, for the nonce, the sperm whale’s head, i would have you, as a sensible physiologist, simply—particularly remark its front aspect, in all its compacted collectedness.
i would have you investigate it now with the sole view of forming to yourself some unexaggerated, intelligent estimate of whatever battering-ram power may be lodged there.
here is a vital point; for you must either satisfactorily settle this matter with yourself, or for ever remain an infidel as to one of the most appalling, but not the less true events, perhaps anywhere to be found in all recorded history.
you observe that in the ordinary swimming position of the sperm whale, the front of his head presents an almost wholly vertical plane to the water; you observe that the lower part of that front slopes considerably backwards, so as to furnish more of a retreat for the long socket which receives the boom-like lower jaw; you observe that the mouth is entirely under the head, much in the same way, indeed, as though your own mouth were entirely under your chin.
moreover you observe that the whale has no external nose; and that what nose he has—his spout hole—is on the top of his head; you observe that his eyes and ears are at the sides of his head, nearly one third of his entire length from the front.
wherefore, you must now have perceived that the front of the sperm whale’s head is a dead, blind wall, without a single organ or tender prominence of any sort whatsoever.
furthermore, you are now to consider that only in the extreme, lower, backward sloping part of the front of the head, is there the slightest vestige of bone; and not till you get near twenty feet from the forehead do you come to the full cranial development.
so that this whole enormous boneless mass is as one wad.
finally, though, as will soon be revealed, its contents partly comprise the most delicate oil; yet, you are now to be apprised of the nature of the substance which so impregnably invests all that apparent effeminacy.
in some previous place i have described to you how the blubber wraps the body of the whale, as the rind wraps an orange.
just so with the head; but with this difference: about the head this envelope, though not so thick, is of a boneless toughness, inestimable by any man who has not handled it.
the severest pointed harpoon, the sharpest lance darted by the strongest human arm, impotently rebounds from it.
it is as though the forehead of the sperm whale were paved with horses’ hoofs.
i do not think that any sensation lurks in it.
bethink yourself also of another thing.
when two large, loaded indiamen chance to crowd and crush towards each other in the docks, what do the sailors do?
they do not suspend between them, at the point of coming contact, any merely hard substance, like iron or wood.
no, they hold there a large, round wad of tow and cork, enveloped in the thickest and toughest of ox-hide.
that bravely and uninjured takes the jam which would have snapped all their oaken handspikes and iron crow-bars.
by itself this sufficiently illustrates the obvious fact i drive at.
but supplementary to this, it has hypothetically occurred to me, that as ordinary fish possess what is called a swimming bladder in them, capable, at will, of distension or contraction; and as the sperm whale, as far as i know, has no such provision in him; considering, too, the otherwise inexplicable manner in which he now depresses his head altogether beneath the surface, and anon swims with it high elevated out of the water; considering the unobstructed elasticity of its envelope; considering the unique interior of his head; it has hypothetically occurred to me, i say, that those mystical lung-celled honeycombs there may possibly have some hitherto unknown and unsuspected connexion with the outer air, so as to be susceptible to atmospheric distension and contraction.
if this be so, fancy the irresistibleness of that might, to which the most impalpable and destructive of all elements contributes.
now, mark.
unerringly impelling this dead, impregnable, uninjurable wall, and this most buoyant thing within; there swims behind it all a mass of tremendous life, only to be adequately estimated as piled wood is—by the cord; and all obedient to one volition, as the smallest insect.
so that when i shall hereafter detail to you all the specialities and concentrations of potency everywhere lurking in this expansive monster; when i shall show you some of his more inconsiderable braining feats; i trust you will have renounced all ignorant incredulity, and be ready to abide by this; that though the sperm whale stove a passage through the isthmus of darien, and mixed the atlantic with the pacific, you would not elevate one hair of your eye-brow.
for unless you own the whale, you are but a provincial and sentimentalist in truth.
but clear truth is a thing for salamander giants only to encounter; how small the chances for the provincials then?
what befell the weakling youth lifting the dread goddess’s veil at lais?
chapter 77. the great heidelburgh tun.
now comes the baling of the case.
but to comprehend it aright, you must know something of the curious internal structure of the thing operated upon.
regarding the sperm whale’s head as a solid oblong, you may, on an inclined plane, sideways divide it into two quoins,* whereof the lower is the bony structure, forming the cranium and jaws, and the upper an unctuous mass wholly free from bones; its broad forward end forming the expanded vertical apparent forehead of the whale.
at the middle of the forehead horizontally subdivide this upper quoin, and then you have two almost equal parts, which before were naturally divided by an internal wall of a thick tendinous substance.
*quoin is not a euclidean term.
it belongs to the pure nautical mathematics.
i know not that it has been defined before.
a quoin is a solid which differs from a wedge in having its sharp end formed by the steep inclination of one side, instead of the mutual tapering of both sides.
the lower subdivided part, called the junk, is one immense honeycomb of oil, formed by the crossing and recrossing, into ten thousand infiltrated cells, of tough elastic white fibres throughout its whole extent.
the upper part, known as the case, may be regarded as the great heidelburgh tun of the sperm whale.
and as that famous great tierce is mystically carved in front, so the whale’s vast plaited forehead forms innumerable strange devices for the emblematical adornment of his wondrous tun.
moreover, as that of heidelburgh was always replenished with the most excellent of the wines of the rhenish valleys, so the tun of the whale contains by far the most precious of all his oily vintages; namely, the highly-prized spermaceti, in its absolutely pure, limpid, and odoriferous state.
nor is this precious substance found unalloyed in any other part of the creature.
though in life it remains perfectly fluid, yet, upon exposure to the air, after death, it soon begins to concrete; sending forth beautiful crystalline shoots, as when the first thin delicate ice is just forming in water.
a large whale’s case generally yields about five hundred gallons of sperm, though from unavoidable circumstances, considerable of it is spilled, leaks, and dribbles away, or is otherwise irrevocably lost in the ticklish business of securing what you can.
i know not with what fine and costly material the heidelburgh tun was coated within, but in superlative richness that coating could not possibly have compared with the silken pearl-coloured membrane, like the lining of a fine pelisse, forming the inner surface of the sperm whale’s case.
it will have been seen that the heidelburgh tun of the sperm whale embraces the entire length of the entire top of the head; and since—as has been elsewhere set forth—the head embraces one third of the whole length of the creature, then setting that length down at eighty feet for a good sized whale, you have more than twenty-six feet for the depth of the tun, when it is lengthwise hoisted up and down against a ship’s side.
as in decapitating the whale, the operator’s instrument is brought close to the spot where an entrance is subsequently forced into the spermaceti magazine; he has, therefore, to be uncommonly heedful, lest a careless, untimely stroke should invade the sanctuary and wastingly let out its invaluable contents.
it is this decapitated end of the head, also, which is at last elevated out of the water, and retained in that position by the enormous cutting tackles, whose hempen combinations, on one side, make quite a wilderness of ropes in that quarter.
thus much being said, attend now, i pray you, to that marvellous and—in this particular instance—almost fatal operation whereby the sperm whale’s great heidelburgh tun is tapped.
chapter 78. cistern and buckets.
nimble as a cat, tashtego mounts aloft; and without altering his erect posture, runs straight out upon the overhanging mainyard-arm, to the part where it exactly projects over the hoisted tun.
he has carried with him a light tackle called a whip, consisting of only two parts, travelling through a single-sheaved block.
securing this block, so that it hangs down from the yard-arm, he swings one end of the rope, till it is caught and firmly held by a hand on deck.
then, hand-over-hand, down the other part, the indian drops through the air, till dexterously he lands on the summit of the head.
there—still high elevated above the rest of the company, to whom he vivaciously cries—he seems some turkish muezzin calling the good people to prayers from the top of a tower.
a short-handled sharp spade being sent up to him, he diligently searches for the proper place to begin breaking into the tun.
in this business he proceeds very heedfully, like a treasure-hunter in some old house, sounding the walls to find where the gold is masoned in.
by the time this cautious search is over, a stout iron-bound bucket, precisely like a well-bucket, has been attached to one end of the whip; while the other end, being stretched across the deck, is there held by two or three alert hands.
these last now hoist the bucket within grasp of the indian, to whom another person has reached up a very long pole.
inserting this pole into the bucket, tashtego downward guides the bucket into the tun, till it entirely disappears; then giving the word to the seamen at the whip, up comes the bucket again, all bubbling like a dairy-maid’s pail of new milk.
carefully lowered from its height, the full-freighted vessel is caught by an appointed hand, and quickly emptied into a large tub.
then remounting aloft, it again goes through the same round until the deep cistern will yield no more.
towards the end, tashtego has to ram his long pole harder and harder, and deeper and deeper into the tun, until some twenty feet of the pole have gone down.
now, the people of the pequod had been baling some time in this way; several tubs had been filled with the fragrant sperm; when all at once a queer accident happened.
whether it was that tashtego, that wild indian, was so heedless and reckless as to let go for a moment his one-handed hold on the great cabled tackles suspending the head; or whether the place where he stood was so treacherous and oozy; or whether the evil one himself would have it to fall out so, without stating his particular reasons; how it was exactly, there is no telling now; but, on a sudden, as the eightieth or ninetieth bucket came suckingly up—my god!
poor tashtego—like the twin reciprocating bucket in a veritable well, dropped head-foremost down into this great tun of heidelburgh, and with a horrible oily gurgling, went clean out of sight!
“man overboard!” cried daggoo, who amid the general consternation first came to his senses.
“swing the bucket this way!” and putting one foot into it, so as the better to secure his slippery hand-hold on the whip itself, the hoisters ran him high up to the top of the head, almost before tashtego could have reached its interior bottom.
meantime, there was a terrible tumult.
looking over the side, they saw the before lifeless head throbbing and heaving just below the surface of the sea, as if that moment seized with some momentous idea; whereas it was only the poor indian unconsciously revealing by those struggles the perilous depth to which he had sunk.
at this instant, while daggoo, on the summit of the head, was clearing the whip—which had somehow got foul of the great cutting tackles—a sharp cracking noise was heard; and to the unspeakable horror of all, one of the two enormous hooks suspending the head tore out, and with a vast vibration the enormous mass sideways swung, till the drunk ship reeled and shook as if smitten by an iceberg.
the one remaining hook, upon which the entire strain now depended, seemed every instant to be on the point of giving way; an event still more likely from the violent motions of the head.
“come down, come down!” yelled the seamen to daggoo, but with one hand holding on to the heavy tackles, so that if the head should drop, he would still remain suspended; the negro having cleared the foul line, rammed down the bucket into the now collapsed well, meaning that the buried harpooneer should grasp it, and so be hoisted out.
“in heaven’s name, man,” cried stubb, “are you ramming home a cartridge there?—avast!
how will that help him; jamming that iron-bound bucket on top of his head?
avast, will ye!”
“stand clear of the tackle!” cried a voice like the bursting of a rocket.
almost in the same instant, with a thunder-boom, the enormous mass dropped into the sea, like niagara’s table-rock into the whirlpool; the suddenly relieved hull rolled away from it, to far down her glittering copper; and all caught their breath, as half swinging—now over the sailors’ heads, and now over the water—daggoo, through a thick mist of spray, was dimly beheld clinging to the pendulous tackles, while poor, buried-alive tashtego was sinking utterly down to the bottom of the sea!
but hardly had the blinding vapor cleared away, when a naked figure with a boarding-sword in his hand, was for one swift moment seen hovering over the bulwarks.
the next, a loud splash announced that my brave queequeg had dived to the rescue.
one packed rush was made to the side, and every eye counted every ripple, as moment followed moment, and no sign of either the sinker or the diver could be seen.
some hands now jumped into a boat alongside, and pushed a little off from the ship.
“ha!
ha!” cried daggoo, all at once, from his now quiet, swinging perch overhead; and looking further off from the side, we saw an arm thrust upright from the blue waves; a sight strange to see, as an arm thrust forth from the grass over a grave.
“both!
both!—it is both!”—cried daggoo again with a joyful shout; and soon after, queequeg was seen boldly striking out with one hand, and with the other clutching the long hair of the indian.
drawn into the waiting boat, they were quickly brought to the deck; but tashtego was long in coming to, and queequeg did not look very brisk.
now, how had this noble rescue been accomplished?
why, diving after the slowly descending head, queequeg with his keen sword had made side lunges near its bottom, so as to scuttle a large hole there; then dropping his sword, had thrust his long arm far inwards and upwards, and so hauled out poor tash by the head.
he averred, that upon first thrusting in for him, a leg was presented; but well knowing that that was not as it ought to be, and might occasion great trouble;—he had thrust back the leg, and by a dexterous heave and toss, had wrought a somerset upon the indian; so that with the next trial, he came forth in the good old way—head foremost.
as for the great head itself, that was doing as well as could be expected.
and thus, through the courage and great skill in obstetrics of queequeg, the deliverance, or rather, delivery of tashtego, was successfully accomplished, in the teeth, too, of the most untoward and apparently hopeless impediments; which is a lesson by no means to be forgotten.
midwifery should be taught in the same course with fencing and boxing, riding and rowing.
i know that this queer adventure of the gay-header’s will be sure to seem incredible to some landsmen, though they themselves may have either seen or heard of some one’s falling into a cistern ashore; an accident which not seldom happens, and with much less reason too than the indian’s, considering the exceeding slipperiness of the curb of the sperm whale’s well.
but, peradventure, it may be sagaciously urged, how is this?
we thought the tissued, infiltrated head of the sperm whale, was the lightest and most corky part about him; and yet thou makest it sink in an element of a far greater specific gravity than itself.
we have thee there.
not at all, but i have ye; for at the time poor tash fell in, the case had been nearly emptied of its lighter contents, leaving little but the dense tendinous wall of the well—a double welded, hammered substance, as i have before said, much heavier than the sea water, and a lump of which sinks in it like lead almost.
but the tendency to rapid sinking in this substance was in the present instance materially counteracted by the other parts of the head remaining undetached from it, so that it sank very slowly and deliberately indeed, affording queequeg a fair chance for performing his agile obstetrics on the run, as you may say.
yes, it was a running delivery, so it was.
now, had tashtego perished in that head, it had been a very precious perishing; smothered in the very whitest and daintiest of fragrant spermaceti; coffined, hearsed, and tombed in the secret inner chamber and sanctum sanctorum of the whale.
only one sweeter end can readily be recalled—the delicious death of an ohio honey-hunter, who seeking honey in the crotch of a hollow tree, found such exceeding store of it, that leaning too far over, it sucked him in, so that he died embalmed.
how many, think ye, have likewise fallen into plato’s honey head, and sweetly perished there?
chapter 79. the prairie.
to scan the lines of his face, or feel the bumps on the head of this leviathan; this is a thing which no physiognomist or phrenologist has as yet undertaken.
such an enterprise would seem almost as hopeful as for lavater to have scrutinized the wrinkles on the rock of gibraltar, or for gall to have mounted a ladder and manipulated the dome of the pantheon.
still, in that famous work of his, lavater not only treats of the various faces of men, but also attentively studies the faces of horses, birds, serpents, and fish; and dwells in detail upon the modifications of expression discernible therein.
nor have gall and his disciple spurzheim failed to throw out some hints touching the phrenological characteristics of other beings than man.
therefore, though i am but ill qualified for a pioneer, in the application of these two semi-sciences to the whale, i will do my endeavor.
i try all things; i achieve what i can.
physiognomically regarded, the sperm whale is an anomalous creature.
he has no proper nose.
and since the nose is the central and most conspicuous of the features; and since it perhaps most modifies and finally controls their combined expression; hence it would seem that its entire absence, as an external appendage, must very largely affect the countenance of the whale.
for as in landscape gardening, a spire, cupola, monument, or tower of some sort, is deemed almost indispensable to the completion of the scene; so no face can be physiognomically in keeping without the elevated open-work belfry of the nose.
dash the nose from phidias’s marble jove, and what a sorry remainder!
nevertheless, leviathan is of so mighty a magnitude, all his proportions are so stately, that the same deficiency which in the sculptured jove were hideous, in him is no blemish at all.
nay, it is an added grandeur.
a nose to the whale would have been impertinent.
as on your physiognomical voyage you sail round his vast head in your jolly-boat, your noble conceptions of him are never insulted by the reflection that he has a nose to be pulled.
a pestilent conceit, which so often will insist upon obtruding even when beholding the mightiest royal beadle on his throne.
in some particulars, perhaps the most imposing physiognomical view to be had of the sperm whale, is that of the full front of his head.
this aspect is sublime.
in thought, a fine human brow is like the east when troubled with the morning.
in the repose of the pasture, the curled brow of the bull has a touch of the grand in it.
pushing heavy cannon up mountain defiles, the elephant’s brow is majestic.
human or animal, the mystical brow is as that great golden seal affixed by the german emperors to their decrees.
it signifies—“god: done this day by my hand.” but in most creatures, nay in man himself, very often the brow is but a mere strip of alpine land lying along the snow line.
few are the foreheads which like shakespeare’s or melancthon’s rise so high, and descend so low, that the eyes themselves seem clear, eternal, tideless mountain lakes; and all above them in the forehead’s wrinkles, you seem to track the antlered thoughts descending there to drink, as the highland hunters track the snow prints of the deer.
but in the great sperm whale, this high and mighty god-like dignity inherent in the brow is so immensely amplified, that gazing on it, in that full front view, you feel the deity and the dread powers more forcibly than in beholding any other object in living nature.
for you see no one point precisely; not one distinct feature is revealed; no nose, eyes, ears, or mouth; no face; he has none, proper; nothing but that one broad firmament of a forehead, pleated with riddles; dumbly lowering with the doom of boats, and ships, and men.
nor, in profile, does this wondrous brow diminish; though that way viewed its grandeur does not domineer upon you so.
in profile, you plainly perceive that horizontal, semi-crescentic depression in the forehead’s middle, which, in man, is lavater’s mark of genius.
but how?
genius in the sperm whale?
has the sperm whale ever written a book, spoken a speech?
no, his great genius is declared in his doing nothing particular to prove it.
it is moreover declared in his pyramidical silence.
and this reminds me that had the great sperm whale been known to the young orient world, he would have been deified by their child-magian thoughts.
they deified the crocodile of the nile, because the crocodile is tongueless; and the sperm whale has no tongue, or at least it is so exceedingly small, as to be incapable of protrusion.
if hereafter any highly cultured, poetical nation shall lure back to their birth-right, the merry may-day gods of old; and livingly enthrone them again in the now egotistical sky; in the now unhaunted hill; then be sure, exalted to jove’s high seat, the great sperm whale shall lord it.
champollion deciphered the wrinkled granite hieroglyphics.
but there is no champollion to decipher the egypt of every man’s and every being’s face.
physiognomy, like every other human science, is but a passing fable.
if then, sir william jones, who read in thirty languages, could not read the simplest peasant’s face in its profounder and more subtle meanings, how may unlettered ishmael hope to read the awful chaldee of the sperm whale’s brow?
i but put that brow before you.
read it if you can.
chapter 80. the nut.
if the sperm whale be physiognomically a sphinx, to the phrenologist his brain seems that geometrical circle which it is impossible to square.
in the full-grown creature the skull will measure at least twenty feet in length.
unhinge the lower jaw, and the side view of this skull is as the side of a moderately inclined plane resting throughout on a level base.
but in life—as we have elsewhere seen—this inclined plane is angularly filled up, and almost squared by the enormous superincumbent mass of the junk and sperm.
at the high end the skull forms a crater to bed that part of the mass; while under the long floor of this crater—in another cavity seldom exceeding ten inches in length and as many in depth—reposes the mere handful of this monster’s brain.
the brain is at least twenty feet from his apparent forehead in life; it is hidden away behind its vast outworks, like the innermost citadel within the amplified fortifications of quebec.
so like a choice casket is it secreted in him, that i have known some whalemen who peremptorily deny that the sperm whale has any other brain than that palpable semblance of one formed by the cubic-yards of his sperm magazine.
lying in strange folds, courses, and convolutions, to their apprehensions, it seems more in keeping with the idea of his general might to regard that mystic part of him as the seat of his intelligence.
it is plain, then, that phrenologically the head of this leviathan, in the creature’s living intact state, is an entire delusion.
as for his true brain, you can then see no indications of it, nor feel any.
the whale, like all things that are mighty, wears a false brow to the common world.
if you unload his skull of its spermy heaps and then take a rear view of its rear end, which is the high end, you will be struck by its resemblance to the human skull, beheld in the same situation, and from the same point of view.
indeed, place this reversed skull (scaled down to the human magnitude) among a plate of men’s skulls, and you would involuntarily confound it with them; and remarking the depressions on one part of its summit, in phrenological phrase you would say—this man had no self-esteem, and no veneration.
and by those negations, considered along with the affirmative fact of his prodigious bulk and power, you can best form to yourself the truest, though not the most exhilarating conception of what the most exalted potency is.
but if from the comparative dimensions of the whale’s proper brain, you deem it incapable of being adequately charted, then i have another idea for you.
if you attentively regard almost any quadruped’s spine, you will be struck with the resemblance of its vertebræ to a strung necklace of dwarfed skulls, all bearing rudimental resemblance to the skull proper.
it is a german conceit, that the vertebræ are absolutely undeveloped skulls.
but the curious external resemblance, i take it the germans were not the first men to perceive.
a foreign friend once pointed it out to me, in the skeleton of a foe he had slain, and with the vertebræ of which he was inlaying, in a sort of basso-relievo, the beaked prow of his canoe.
now, i consider that the phrenologists have omitted an important thing in not pushing their investigations from the cerebellum through the spinal canal.
for i believe that much of a man’s character will be found betokened in his backbone.
i would rather feel your spine than your skull, whoever you are.
a thin joist of a spine never yet upheld a full and noble soul.
i rejoice in my spine, as in the firm audacious staff of that flag which i fling half out to the world.
apply this spinal branch of phrenology to the sperm whale.
his cranial cavity is continuous with the first neck-vertebra; and in that vertebra the bottom of the spinal canal will measure ten inches across, being eight in height, and of a triangular figure with the base downwards.
as it passes through the remaining vertebræ the canal tapers in size, but for a considerable distance remains of large capacity.
now, of course, this canal is filled with much the same strangely fibrous substance—the spinal cord—as the brain; and directly communicates with the brain.
and what is still more, for many feet after emerging from the brain’s cavity, the spinal cord remains of an undecreasing girth, almost equal to that of the brain.
under all these circumstances, would it be unreasonable to survey and map out the whale’s spine phrenologically?
for, viewed in this light, the wonderful comparative smallness of his brain proper is more than compensated by the wonderful comparative magnitude of his spinal cord.
but leaving this hint to operate as it may with the phrenologists, i would merely assume the spinal theory for a moment, in reference to the sperm whale’s hump.
this august hump, if i mistake not, rises over one of the larger vertebræ, and is, therefore, in some sort, the outer convex mould of it.
from its relative situation then, i should call this high hump the organ of firmness or indomitableness in the sperm whale.
and that the great monster is indomitable, you will yet have reason to know.
chapter 81. the pequod meets the virgin.
the predestinated day arrived, and we duly met the ship jungfrau, derick de deer, master, of bremen.
at one time the greatest whaling people in the world, the dutch and germans are now among the least; but here and there at very wide intervals of latitude and longitude, you still occasionally meet with their flag in the pacific.
for some reason, the jungfrau seemed quite eager to pay her respects.
while yet some distance from the pequod, she rounded to, and dropping a boat, her captain was impelled towards us, impatiently standing in the bows instead of the stern.
“what has he in his hand there?” cried starbuck, pointing to something wavingly held by the german.
“impossible!—a lamp-feeder!”
“not that,” said stubb, “no, no, it’s a coffee-pot, mr. starbuck; he’s coming off to make us our coffee, is the yarman; don’t you see that big tin can there alongside of him?—that’s his boiling water.
oh!
he’s all right, is the yarman.”
“go along with you,” cried flask, “it’s a lamp-feeder and an oil-can.
he’s out of oil, and has come a-begging.”
however curious it may seem for an oil-ship to be borrowing oil on the whale-ground, and however much it may invertedly contradict the old proverb about carrying coals to newcastle, yet sometimes such a thing really happens; and in the present case captain derick de deer did indubitably conduct a lamp-feeder as flask did declare.
as he mounted the deck, ahab abruptly accosted him, without at all heeding what he had in his hand; but in his broken lingo, the german soon evinced his complete ignorance of the white whale; immediately turning the conversation to his lamp-feeder and oil can, with some remarks touching his having to turn into his hammock at night in profound darkness—his last drop of bremen oil being gone, and not a single flying-fish yet captured to supply the deficiency; concluding by hinting that his ship was indeed what in the fishery is technically called a clean one (that is, an empty one), well deserving the name of jungfrau or the virgin.
his necessities supplied, derick departed; but he had not gained his ship’s side, when whales were almost simultaneously raised from the mast-heads of both vessels; and so eager for the chase was derick, that without pausing to put his oil-can and lamp-feeder aboard, he slewed round his boat and made after the leviathan lamp-feeders.
now, the game having risen to leeward, he and the other three german boats that soon followed him, had considerably the start of the pequod’s keels.
there were eight whales, an average pod.
aware of their danger, they were going all abreast with great speed straight before the wind, rubbing their flanks as closely as so many spans of horses in harness.
they left a great, wide wake, as though continually unrolling a great wide parchment upon the sea.
full in this rapid wake, and many fathoms in the rear, swam a huge, humped old bull, which by his comparatively slow progress, as well as by the unusual yellowish incrustations overgrowing him, seemed afflicted with the jaundice, or some other infirmity.
whether this whale belonged to the pod in advance, seemed questionable; for it is not customary for such venerable leviathans to be at all social.
nevertheless, he stuck to their wake, though indeed their back water must have retarded him, because the white-bone or swell at his broad muzzle was a dashed one, like the swell formed when two hostile currents meet.
his spout was short, slow, and laborious; coming forth with a choking sort of gush, and spending itself in torn shreds, followed by strange subterranean commotions in him, which seemed to have egress at his other buried extremity, causing the waters behind him to upbubble.
“who’s got some paregoric?” said stubb, “he has the stomach-ache, i’m afraid.
lord, think of having half an acre of stomach-ache!
adverse winds are holding mad christmas in him, boys.
it’s the first foul wind i ever knew to blow from astern; but look, did ever whale yaw so before?
it must be, he’s lost his tiller.”
as an overladen indiaman bearing down the hindostan coast with a deck load of frightened horses, careens, buries, rolls, and wallows on her way; so did this old whale heave his aged bulk, and now and then partly turning over on his cumbrous rib-ends, expose the cause of his devious wake in the unnatural stump of his starboard fin.
whether he had lost that fin in battle, or had been born without it, it were hard to say.
“only wait a bit, old chap, and i’ll give ye a sling for that wounded arm,” cried cruel flask, pointing to the whale-line near him.
“mind he don’t sling thee with it,” cried starbuck.
“give way, or the german will have him.”
with one intent all the combined rival boats were pointed for this one fish, because not only was he the largest, and therefore the most valuable whale, but he was nearest to them, and the other whales were going with such great velocity, moreover, as almost to defy pursuit for the time.
at this juncture the pequod’s keels had shot by the three german boats last lowered; but from the great start he had had, derick’s boat still led the chase, though every moment neared by his foreign rivals.
the only thing they feared, was, that from being already so nigh to his mark, he would be enabled to dart his iron before they could completely overtake and pass him.
as for derick, he seemed quite confident that this would be the case, and occasionally with a deriding gesture shook his lamp-feeder at the other boats.
“the ungracious and ungrateful dog!” cried starbuck; “he mocks and dares me with the very poor-box i filled for him not five minutes ago!”—then in his old intense whisper—“give way, greyhounds!
dog to it!”
“i tell ye what it is, men”—cried stubb to his crew—“it’s against my religion to get mad; but i’d like to eat that villainous yarman—pull—won’t ye?
are ye going to let that rascal beat ye?
do ye love brandy?
a hogshead of brandy, then, to the best man.
come, why don’t some of ye burst a blood-vessel?
who’s that been dropping an anchor overboard—we don’t budge an inch—we’re becalmed.
halloo, here’s grass growing in the boat’s bottom—and by the lord, the mast there’s budding.
this won’t do, boys.
look at that yarman!
the short and long of it is, men, will ye spit fire or not?”
“oh!
see the suds he makes!” cried flask, dancing up and down—“what a hump—oh, do pile on the beef—lays like a log!
oh!
my lads, do spring—slap-jacks and quahogs for supper, you know, my lads—baked clams and muffins—oh, do, do, spring,—he’s a hundred barreller—don’t lose him now—don’t oh, don’t!—see that yarman—oh, won’t ye pull for your duff, my lads—such a sog!
such a sogger!
don’t ye love sperm?
there goes three thousand dollars, men!—a bank!—a whole bank!
the bank of england!—oh, do, do, do!—what’s that yarman about now?”
at this moment derick was in the act of pitching his lamp-feeder at the advancing boats, and also his oil-can; perhaps with the double view of retarding his rivals’ way, and at the same time economically accelerating his own by the momentary impetus of the backward toss.
“the unmannerly dutch dogger!” cried stubb.
“pull now, men, like fifty thousand line-of-battle-ship loads of red-haired devils.
what d’ye say, tashtego; are you the man to snap your spine in two-and-twenty pieces for the honor of old gayhead?
what d’ye say?”
“i say, pull like god-dam,”—cried the indian.
fiercely, but evenly incited by the taunts of the german, the pequod’s three boats now began ranging almost abreast; and, so disposed, momentarily neared him.
in that fine, loose, chivalrous attitude of the headsman when drawing near to his prey, the three mates stood up proudly, occasionally backing the after oarsman with an exhilarating cry of, “there she slides, now!
hurrah for the white-ash breeze!
down with the yarman!
sail over him!”
but so decided an original start had derick had, that spite of all their gallantry, he would have proved the victor in this race, had not a righteous judgment descended upon him in a crab which caught the blade of his midship oarsman.
while this clumsy lubber was striving to free his white-ash, and while, in consequence, derick’s boat was nigh to capsizing, and he thundering away at his men in a mighty rage;—that was a good time for starbuck, stubb, and flask.
with a shout, they took a mortal start forwards, and slantingly ranged up on the german’s quarter.
an instant more, and all four boats were diagonically in the whale’s immediate wake, while stretching from them, on both sides, was the foaming swell that he made.
it was a terrific, most pitiable, and maddening sight.
the whale was now going head out, and sending his spout before him in a continual tormented jet; while his one poor fin beat his side in an agony of fright.
now to this hand, now to that, he yawed in his faltering flight, and still at every billow that he broke, he spasmodically sank in the sea, or sideways rolled towards the sky his one beating fin.
so have i seen a bird with clipped wing making affrighted broken circles in the air, vainly striving to escape the piratical hawks.
but the bird has a voice, and with plaintive cries will make known her fear; but the fear of this vast dumb brute of the sea, was chained up and enchanted in him; he had no voice, save that choking respiration through his spiracle, and this made the sight of him unspeakably pitiable; while still, in his amazing bulk, portcullis jaw, and omnipotent tail, there was enough to appal the stoutest man who so pitied.
seeing now that but a very few moments more would give the pequod’s boats the advantage, and rather than be thus foiled of his game, derick chose to hazard what to him must have seemed a most unusually long dart, ere the last chance would for ever escape.
but no sooner did his harpooneer stand up for the stroke, than all three tigers—queequeg, tashtego, daggoo—instinctively sprang to their feet, and standing in a diagonal row, simultaneously pointed their barbs; and darted over the head of the german harpooneer, their three nantucket irons entered the whale.
blinding vapors of foam and white-fire!
the three boats, in the first fury of the whale’s headlong rush, bumped the german’s aside with such force, that both derick and his baffled harpooneer were spilled out, and sailed over by the three flying keels.
“don’t be afraid, my butter-boxes,” cried stubb, casting a passing glance upon them as he shot by; “ye’ll be picked up presently—all right—i saw some sharks astern—st.
bernard’s dogs, you know—relieve distressed travellers.
hurrah!
this is the way to sail now.
every keel a sunbeam!
hurrah!—here we go like three tin kettles at the tail of a mad cougar!
this puts me in mind of fastening to an elephant in a tilbury on a plain—makes the wheel-spokes fly, boys, when you fasten to him that way; and there’s danger of being pitched out too, when you strike a hill.
hurrah!
this is the way a fellow feels when he’s going to davy jones—all a rush down an endless inclined plane!
hurrah!
this whale carries the everlasting mail!”
but the monster’s run was a brief one.
giving a sudden gasp, he tumultuously sounded.
with a grating rush, the three lines flew round the loggerheads with such a force as to gouge deep grooves in them; while so fearful were the harpooneers that this rapid sounding would soon exhaust the lines, that using all their dexterous might, they caught repeated smoking turns with the rope to hold on; till at last—owing to the perpendicular strain from the lead-lined chocks of the boats, whence the three ropes went straight down into the blue—the gunwales of the bows were almost even with the water, while the three sterns tilted high in the air.
and the whale soon ceasing to sound, for some time they remained in that attitude, fearful of expending more line, though the position was a little ticklish.
but though boats have been taken down and lost in this way, yet it is this “holding on,” as it is called; this hooking up by the sharp barbs of his live flesh from the back; this it is that often torments the leviathan into soon rising again to meet the sharp lance of his foes.
yet not to speak of the peril of the thing, it is to be doubted whether this course is always the best; for it is but reasonable to presume, that the longer the stricken whale stays under water, the more he is exhausted.
because, owing to the enormous surface of him—in a full grown sperm whale something less than 2000 square feet—the pressure of the water is immense.
we all know what an astonishing atmospheric weight we ourselves stand up under; even here, above-ground, in the air; how vast, then, the burden of a whale, bearing on his back a column of two hundred fathoms of ocean!
it must at least equal the weight of fifty atmospheres.
one whaleman has estimated it at the weight of twenty line-of-battle ships, with all their guns, and stores, and men on board.
as the three boats lay there on that gently rolling sea, gazing down into its eternal blue noon; and as not a single groan or cry of any sort, nay, not so much as a ripple or a bubble came up from its depths; what landsman would have thought, that beneath all that silence and placidity, the utmost monster of the seas was writhing and wrenching in agony!
not eight inches of perpendicular rope were visible at the bows.
seems it credible that by three such thin threads the great leviathan was suspended like the big weight to an eight day clock.
suspended?
and to what?
to three bits of board.
is this the creature of whom it was once so triumphantly said—“canst thou fill his skin with barbed irons?
or his head with fish-spears?
the sword of him that layeth at him cannot hold, the spear, the dart, nor the habergeon: he esteemeth iron as straw; the arrow cannot make him flee; darts are counted as stubble; he laugheth at the shaking of a spear!” this the creature?
this he?
oh!
that unfulfilments should follow the prophets.
for with the strength of a thousand thighs in his tail, leviathan had run his head under the mountains of the sea, to hide him from the pequod’s fish-spears!
in that sloping afternoon sunlight, the shadows that the three boats sent down beneath the surface, must have been long enough and broad enough to shade half xerxes’ army.
who can tell how appalling to the wounded whale must have been such huge phantoms flitting over his head!
“stand by, men; he stirs,” cried starbuck, as the three lines suddenly vibrated in the water, distinctly conducting upwards to them, as by magnetic wires, the life and death throbs of the whale, so that every oarsman felt them in his seat.
the next moment, relieved in great part from the downward strain at the bows, the boats gave a sudden bounce upwards, as a small icefield will, when a dense herd of white bears are scared from it into the sea.
“haul in!
haul in!” cried starbuck again; “he’s rising.”
the lines, of which, hardly an instant before, not one hand’s breadth could have been gained, were now in long quick coils flung back all dripping into the boats, and soon the whale broke water within two ship’s lengths of the hunters.
his motions plainly denoted his extreme exhaustion.
in most land animals there are certain valves or flood-gates in many of their veins, whereby when wounded, the blood is in some degree at least instantly shut off in certain directions.
not so with the whale; one of whose peculiarities it is to have an entire non-valvular structure of the blood-vessels, so that when pierced even by so small a point as a harpoon, a deadly drain is at once begun upon his whole arterial system; and when this is heightened by the extraordinary pressure of water at a great distance below the surface, his life may be said to pour from him in incessant streams.
yet so vast is the quantity of blood in him, and so distant and numerous its interior fountains, that he will keep thus bleeding and bleeding for a considerable period; even as in a drought a river will flow, whose source is in the well-springs of far-off and undiscernible hills.
even now, when the boats pulled upon this whale, and perilously drew over his swaying flukes, and the lances were darted into him, they were followed by steady jets from the new made wound, which kept continually playing, while the natural spout-hole in his head was only at intervals, however rapid, sending its affrighted moisture into the air.
from this last vent no blood yet came, because no vital part of him had thus far been struck.
his life, as they significantly call it, was untouched.
as the boats now more closely surrounded him, the whole upper part of his form, with much of it that is ordinarily submerged, was plainly revealed.
his eyes, or rather the places where his eyes had been, were beheld.
as strange misgrown masses gather in the knot-holes of the noblest oaks when prostrate, so from the points which the whale’s eyes had once occupied, now protruded blind bulbs, horribly pitiable to see.
but pity there was none.
for all his old age, and his one arm, and his blind eyes, he must die the death and be murdered, in order to light the gay bridals and other merry-makings of men, and also to illuminate the solemn churches that preach unconditional inoffensiveness by all to all.
still rolling in his blood, at last he partially disclosed a strangely discoloured bunch or protuberance, the size of a bushel, low down on the flank.
“a nice spot,” cried flask; “just let me prick him there once.”
“avast!” cried starbuck, “there’s no need of that!”
but humane starbuck was too late.
at the instant of the dart an ulcerous jet shot from this cruel wound, and goaded by it into more than sufferable anguish, the whale now spouting thick blood, with swift fury blindly darted at the craft, bespattering them and their glorying crews all over with showers of gore, capsizing flask’s boat and marring the bows.
it was his death stroke.
for, by this time, so spent was he by loss of blood, that he helplessly rolled away from the wreck he had made; lay panting on his side, impotently flapped with his stumped fin, then over and over slowly revolved like a waning world; turned up the white secrets of his belly; lay like a log, and died.
it was most piteous, that last expiring spout.
as when by unseen hands the water is gradually drawn off from some mighty fountain, and with half-stifled melancholy gurglings the spray-column lowers and lowers to the ground—so the last long dying spout of the whale.
soon, while the crews were awaiting the arrival of the ship, the body showed symptoms of sinking with all its treasures unrifled.
immediately, by starbuck’s orders, lines were secured to it at different points, so that ere long every boat was a buoy; the sunken whale being suspended a few inches beneath them by the cords.
by very heedful management, when the ship drew nigh, the whale was transferred to her side, and was strongly secured there by the stiffest fluke-chains, for it was plain that unless artificially upheld, the body would at once sink to the bottom.
it so chanced that almost upon first cutting into him with the spade, the entire length of a corroded harpoon was found imbedded in his flesh, on the lower part of the bunch before described.
but as the stumps of harpoons are frequently found in the dead bodies of captured whales, with the flesh perfectly healed around them, and no prominence of any kind to denote their place; therefore, there must needs have been some other unknown reason in the present case fully to account for the ulceration alluded to.
but still more curious was the fact of a lance-head of stone being found in him, not far from the buried iron, the flesh perfectly firm about it.
who had darted that stone lance?
and when?
it might have been darted by some nor’ west indian long before america was discovered.
what other marvels might have been rummaged out of this monstrous cabinet there is no telling.
but a sudden stop was put to further discoveries, by the ship’s being unprecedentedly dragged over sideways to the sea, owing to the body’s immensely increasing tendency to sink.
however, starbuck, who had the ordering of affairs, hung on to it to the last; hung on to it so resolutely, indeed, that when at length the ship would have been capsized, if still persisting in locking arms with the body; then, when the command was given to break clear from it, such was the immovable strain upon the timber-heads to which the fluke-chains and cables were fastened, that it was impossible to cast them off.
meantime everything in the pequod was aslant.
to cross to the other side of the deck was like walking up the steep gabled roof of a house.
the ship groaned and gasped.
many of the ivory inlayings of her bulwarks and cabins were started from their places, by the unnatural dislocation.
in vain handspikes and crows were brought to bear upon the immovable fluke-chains, to pry them adrift from the timberheads; and so low had the whale now settled that the submerged ends could not be at all approached, while every moment whole tons of ponderosity seemed added to the sinking bulk, and the ship seemed on the point of going over.
“hold on, hold on, won’t ye?” cried stubb to the body, “don’t be in such a devil of a hurry to sink!
by thunder, men, we must do something or go for it.
no use prying there; avast, i say with your handspikes, and run one of ye for a prayer book and a pen-knife, and cut the big chains.”
“knife?
aye, aye,” cried queequeg, and seizing the carpenter’s heavy hatchet, he leaned out of a porthole, and steel to iron, began slashing at the largest fluke-chains.
but a few strokes, full of sparks, were given, when the exceeding strain effected the rest.
with a terrific snap, every fastening went adrift; the ship righted, the carcase sank.
now, this occasional inevitable sinking of the recently killed sperm whale is a very curious thing; nor has any fisherman yet adequately accounted for it.
usually the dead sperm whale floats with great buoyancy, with its side or belly considerably elevated above the surface.
if the only whales that thus sank were old, meagre, and broken-hearted creatures, their pads of lard diminished and all their bones heavy and rheumatic; then you might with some reason assert that this sinking is caused by an uncommon specific gravity in the fish so sinking, consequent upon this absence of buoyant matter in him.
but it is not so.
for young whales, in the highest health, and swelling with noble aspirations, prematurely cut off in the warm flush and may of life, with all their panting lard about them; even these brawny, buoyant heroes do sometimes sink.
be it said, however, that the sperm whale is far less liable to this accident than any other species.
where one of that sort go down, twenty right whales do.
this difference in the species is no doubt imputable in no small degree to the greater quantity of bone in the right whale; his venetian blinds alone sometimes weighing more than a ton; from this incumbrance the sperm whale is wholly free.
but there are instances where, after the lapse of many hours or several days, the sunken whale again rises, more buoyant than in life.
but the reason of this is obvious.
gases are generated in him; he swells to a prodigious magnitude; becomes a sort of animal balloon.
a line-of-battle ship could hardly keep him under then.
in the shore whaling, on soundings, among the bays of new zealand, when a right whale gives token of sinking, they fasten buoys to him, with plenty of rope; so that when the body has gone down, they know where to look for it when it shall have ascended again.
it was not long after the sinking of the body that a cry was heard from the pequod’s mast-heads, announcing that the jungfrau was again lowering her boats; though the only spout in sight was that of a fin-back, belonging to the species of uncapturable whales, because of its incredible power of swimming.
nevertheless, the fin-back’s spout is so similar to the sperm whale’s, that by unskilful fishermen it is often mistaken for it.
and consequently derick and all his host were now in valiant chase of this unnearable brute.
the virgin crowding all sail, made after her four young keels, and thus they all disappeared far to leeward, still in bold, hopeful chase.
oh!
many are the fin-backs, and many are the dericks, my friend.
chapter 82. the honor and glory of whaling.
there are some enterprises in which a careful disorderliness is the true method.
the more i dive into this matter of whaling, and push my researches up to the very spring-head of it so much the more am i impressed with its great honorableness and antiquity; and especially when i find so many great demi-gods and heroes, prophets of all sorts, who one way or other have shed distinction upon it, i am transported with the reflection that i myself belong, though but subordinately, to so emblazoned a fraternity.
the gallant perseus, a son of jupiter, was the first whaleman; and to the eternal honor of our calling be it said, that the first whale attacked by our brotherhood was not killed with any sordid intent.
those were the knightly days of our profession, when we only bore arms to succor the distressed, and not to fill men’s lamp-feeders.
every one knows the fine story of perseus and andromeda; how the lovely andromeda, the daughter of a king, was tied to a rock on the sea-coast, and as leviathan was in the very act of carrying her off, perseus, the prince of whalemen, intrepidly advancing, harpooned the monster, and delivered and married the maid.
it was an admirable artistic exploit, rarely achieved by the best harpooneers of the present day; inasmuch as this leviathan was slain at the very first dart.
and let no man doubt this arkite story; for in the ancient joppa, now jaffa, on the syrian coast, in one of the pagan temples, there stood for many ages the vast skeleton of a whale, which the city’s legends and all the inhabitants asserted to be the identical bones of the monster that perseus slew.
when the romans took joppa, the same skeleton was carried to italy in triumph.
what seems most singular and suggestively important in this story, is this: it was from joppa that jonah set sail.
akin to the adventure of perseus and andromeda—indeed, by some supposed to be indirectly derived from it—is that famous story of st. george and the dragon; which dragon i maintain to have been a whale; for in many old chronicles whales and dragons are strangely jumbled together, and often stand for each other.
“thou art as a lion of the waters, and as a dragon of the sea,” saith ezekiel; hereby, plainly meaning a whale; in truth, some versions of the bible use that word itself.
besides, it would much subtract from the glory of the exploit had st. george but encountered a crawling reptile of the land, instead of doing battle with the great monster of the deep.
any man may kill a snake, but only a perseus, a st. george, a coffin, have the heart in them to march boldly up to a whale.
let not the modern paintings of this scene mislead us; for though the creature encountered by that valiant whaleman of old is vaguely represented of a griffin-like shape, and though the battle is depicted on land and the saint on horseback, yet considering the great ignorance of those times, when the true form of the whale was unknown to artists; and considering that as in perseus’ case, st. george’s whale might have crawled up out of the sea on the beach; and considering that the animal ridden by st. george might have been only a large seal, or sea-horse; bearing all this in mind, it will not appear altogether incompatible with the sacred legend and the ancientest draughts of the scene, to hold this so-called dragon no other than the great leviathan himself.
in fact, placed before the strict and piercing truth, this whole story will fare like that fish, flesh, and fowl idol of the philistines, dagon by name; who being planted before the ark of israel, his horse’s head and both the palms of his hands fell off from him, and only the stump or fishy part of him remained.
thus, then, one of our own noble stamp, even a whaleman, is the tutelary guardian of england; and by good rights, we harpooneers of nantucket should be enrolled in the most noble order of st. george.
and therefore, let not the knights of that honorable company (none of whom, i venture to say, have ever had to do with a whale like their great patron), let them never eye a nantucketer with disdain, since even in our woollen frocks and tarred trowsers we are much better entitled to st. george’s decoration than they.
whether to admit hercules among us or not, concerning this i long remained dubious: for though according to the greek mythologies, that antique crockett and kit carson—that brawny doer of rejoicing good deeds, was swallowed down and thrown up by a whale; still, whether that strictly makes a whaleman of him, that might be mooted.
it nowhere appears that he ever actually harpooned his fish, unless, indeed, from the inside.
nevertheless, he may be deemed a sort of involuntary whaleman; at any rate the whale caught him, if he did not the whale.
i claim him for one of our clan.
but, by the best contradictory authorities, this grecian story of hercules and the whale is considered to be derived from the still more ancient hebrew story of jonah and the whale; and vice versâ; certainly they are very similar.
if i claim the demi-god then, why not the prophet?
nor do heroes, saints, demigods, and prophets alone comprise the whole roll of our order.
our grand master is still to be named; for like royal kings of old times, we find the head waters of our fraternity in nothing short of the great gods themselves.
that wondrous oriental story is now to be rehearsed from the shaster, which gives us the dread vishnoo, one of the three persons in the godhead of the hindoos; gives us this divine vishnoo himself for our lord;—vishnoo, who, by the first of his ten earthly incarnations, has for ever set apart and sanctified the whale.
when brahma, or the god of gods, saith the shaster, resolved to recreate the world after one of its periodical dissolutions, he gave birth to vishnoo, to preside over the work; but the vedas, or mystical books, whose perusal would seem to have been indispensable to vishnoo before beginning the creation, and which therefore must have contained something in the shape of practical hints to young architects, these vedas were lying at the bottom of the waters; so vishnoo became incarnate in a whale, and sounding down in him to the uttermost depths, rescued the sacred volumes.
was not this vishnoo a whaleman, then?
even as a man who rides a horse is called a horseman?
perseus, st. george, hercules, jonah, and vishnoo!
there’s a member-roll for you!
what club but the whaleman’s can head off like that?
chapter 83. jonah historically regarded.
reference was made to the historical story of jonah and the whale in the preceding chapter.
now some nantucketers rather distrust this historical story of jonah and the whale.
but then there were some sceptical greeks and romans, who, standing out from the orthodox pagans of their times, equally doubted the story of hercules and the whale, and arion and the dolphin; and yet their doubting those traditions did not make those traditions one whit the less facts, for all that.
one old sag-harbor whaleman’s chief reason for questioning the hebrew story was this:—he had one of those quaint old-fashioned bibles, embellished with curious, unscientific plates; one of which represented jonah’s whale with two spouts in his head—a peculiarity only true with respect to a species of the leviathan (the right whale, and the varieties of that order), concerning which the fishermen have this saying, “a penny roll would choke him”; his swallow is so very small.
but, to this, bishop jebb’s anticipative answer is ready.
it is not necessary, hints the bishop, that we consider jonah as tombed in the whale’s belly, but as temporarily lodged in some part of his mouth.
and this seems reasonable enough in the good bishop.
for truly, the right whale’s mouth would accommodate a couple of whist-tables, and comfortably seat all the players.
possibly, too, jonah might have ensconced himself in a hollow tooth; but, on second thoughts, the right whale is toothless.
another reason which sag-harbor (he went by that name) urged for his want of faith in this matter of the prophet, was something obscurely in reference to his incarcerated body and the whale’s gastric juices.
but this objection likewise falls to the ground, because a german exegetist supposes that jonah must have taken refuge in the floating body of a dead whale—even as the french soldiers in the russian campaign turned their dead horses into tents, and crawled into them.
besides, it has been divined by other continental commentators, that when jonah was thrown overboard from the joppa ship, he straightway effected his escape to another vessel near by, some vessel with a whale for a figure-head; and, i would add, possibly called “the whale,” as some craft are nowadays christened the “shark,” the “gull,” the “eagle.” nor have there been wanting learned exegetists who have opined that the whale mentioned in the book of jonah merely meant a life-preserver—an inflated bag of wind—which the endangered prophet swam to, and so was saved from a watery doom.
poor sag-harbor, therefore, seems worsted all round.
but he had still another reason for his want of faith.
it was this, if i remember right: jonah was swallowed by the whale in the mediterranean sea, and after three days he was vomited up somewhere within three days’ journey of nineveh, a city on the tigris, very much more than three days’ journey across from the nearest point of the mediterranean coast.
how is that?
but was there no other way for the whale to land the prophet within that short distance of nineveh?
yes.
he might have carried him round by the way of the cape of good hope.
but not to speak of the passage through the whole length of the mediterranean, and another passage up the persian gulf and red sea, such a supposition would involve the complete circumnavigation of all africa in three days, not to speak of the tigris waters, near the site of nineveh, being too shallow for any whale to swim in.
besides, this idea of jonah’s weathering the cape of good hope at so early a day would wrest the honor of the discovery of that great headland from bartholomew diaz, its reputed discoverer, and so make modern history a liar.
but all these foolish arguments of old sag-harbor only evinced his foolish pride of reason—a thing still more reprehensible in him, seeing that he had but little learning except what he had picked up from the sun and the sea.
i say it only shows his foolish, impious pride, and abominable, devilish rebellion against the reverend clergy.
for by a portuguese catholic priest, this very idea of jonah’s going to nineveh via the cape of good hope was advanced as a signal magnification of the general miracle.
and so it was.
besides, to this day, the highly enlightened turks devoutly believe in the historical story of jonah.
and some three centuries ago, an english traveller in old harris’s voyages, speaks of a turkish mosque built in honor of jonah, in which mosque was a miraculous lamp that burnt without any oil.
chapter 84. pitchpoling.
to make them run easily and swiftly, the axles of carriages are anointed; and for much the same purpose, some whalers perform an analogous operation upon their boat; they grease the bottom.
nor is it to be doubted that as such a procedure can do no harm, it may possibly be of no contemptible advantage; considering that oil and water are hostile; that oil is a sliding thing, and that the object in view is to make the boat slide bravely.
queequeg believed strongly in anointing his boat, and one morning not long after the german ship jungfrau disappeared, took more than customary pains in that occupation; crawling under its bottom, where it hung over the side, and rubbing in the unctuousness as though diligently seeking to insure a crop of hair from the craft’s bald keel.
he seemed to be working in obedience to some particular presentiment.
nor did it remain unwarranted by the event.
towards noon whales were raised; but so soon as the ship sailed down to them, they turned and fled with swift precipitancy; a disordered flight, as of cleopatra’s barges from actium.
nevertheless, the boats pursued, and stubb’s was foremost.
by great exertion, tashtego at last succeeded in planting one iron; but the stricken whale, without at all sounding, still continued his horizontal flight, with added fleetness.
such unintermitted strainings upon the planted iron must sooner or later inevitably extract it.
it became imperative to lance the flying whale, or be content to lose him.
but to haul the boat up to his flank was impossible, he swam so fast and furious.
what then remained?
of all the wondrous devices and dexterities, the sleights of hand and countless subtleties, to which the veteran whaleman is so often forced, none exceed that fine manœuvre with the lance called pitchpoling.
small sword, or broad sword, in all its exercises boasts nothing like it.
it is only indispensable with an inveterate running whale; its grand fact and feature is the wonderful distance to which the long lance is accurately darted from a violently rocking, jerking boat, under extreme headway.
steel and wood included, the entire spear is some ten or twelve feet in length; the staff is much slighter than that of the harpoon, and also of a lighter material—pine.
it is furnished with a small rope called a warp, of considerable length, by which it can be hauled back to the hand after darting.
but before going further, it is important to mention here, that though the harpoon may be pitchpoled in the same way with the lance, yet it is seldom done; and when done, is still less frequently successful, on account of the greater weight and inferior length of the harpoon as compared with the lance, which in effect become serious drawbacks.
as a general thing, therefore, you must first get fast to a whale, before any pitchpoling comes into play.
look now at stubb; a man who from his humorous, deliberate coolness and equanimity in the direst emergencies, was specially qualified to excel in pitchpoling.
look at him; he stands upright in the tossed bow of the flying boat; wrapt in fleecy foam, the towing whale is forty feet ahead.
handling the long lance lightly, glancing twice or thrice along its length to see if it be exactly straight, stubb whistlingly gathers up the coil of the warp in one hand, so as to secure its free end in his grasp, leaving the rest unobstructed.
then holding the lance full before his waistband’s middle, he levels it at the whale; when, covering him with it, he steadily depresses the butt-end in his hand, thereby elevating the point till the weapon stands fairly balanced upon his palm, fifteen feet in the air.
he minds you somewhat of a juggler, balancing a long staff on his chin.
next moment with a rapid, nameless impulse, in a superb lofty arch the bright steel spans the foaming distance, and quivers in the life spot of the whale.
instead of sparkling water, he now spouts red blood.
“that drove the spigot out of him!” cried stubb.
“’tis july’s immortal fourth; all fountains must run wine today!
would now, it were old orleans whiskey, or old ohio, or unspeakable old monongahela!
then, tashtego, lad, i’d have ye hold a canakin to the jet, and we’d drink round it!
yea, verily, hearts alive, we’d brew choice punch in the spread of his spout-hole there, and from that live punch-bowl quaff the living stuff.”
again and again to such gamesome talk, the dexterous dart is repeated, the spear returning to its master like a greyhound held in skilful leash.
the agonized whale goes into his flurry; the tow-line is slackened, and the pitchpoler dropping astern, folds his hands, and mutely watches the monster die.
chapter 85. the fountain.
that for six thousand years—and no one knows how many millions of ages before—the great whales should have been spouting all over the sea, and sprinkling and mistifying the gardens of the deep, as with so many sprinkling or mistifying pots; and that for some centuries back, thousands of hunters should have been close by the fountain of the whale, watching these sprinklings and spoutings—that all this should be, and yet, that down to this blessed minute (fifteen and a quarter minutes past one o’clock p.m. of this sixteenth day of december, a.d.
1851), it should still remain a problem, whether these spoutings are, after all, really water, or nothing but vapor—this is surely a noteworthy thing.
let us, then, look at this matter, along with some interesting items contingent.
every one knows that by the peculiar cunning of their gills, the finny tribes in general breathe the air which at all times is combined with the element in which they swim; hence, a herring or a cod might live a century, and never once raise its head above the surface.
but owing to his marked internal structure which gives him regular lungs, like a human being’s, the whale can only live by inhaling the disengaged air in the open atmosphere.
wherefore the necessity for his periodical visits to the upper world.
but he cannot in any degree breathe through his mouth, for, in his ordinary attitude, the sperm whale’s mouth is buried at least eight feet beneath the surface; and what is still more, his windpipe has no connexion with his mouth.
no, he breathes through his spiracle alone; and this is on the top of his head.
if i say, that in any creature breathing is only a function indispensable to vitality, inasmuch as it withdraws from the air a certain element, which being subsequently brought into contact with the blood imparts to the blood its vivifying principle, i do not think i shall err; though i may possibly use some superfluous scientific words.
assume it, and it follows that if all the blood in a man could be aerated with one breath, he might then seal up his nostrils and not fetch another for a considerable time.
that is to say, he would then live without breathing.
anomalous as it may seem, this is precisely the case with the whale, who systematically lives, by intervals, his full hour and more (when at the bottom) without drawing a single breath, or so much as in any way inhaling a particle of air; for, remember, he has no gills.
how is this?
between his ribs and on each side of his spine he is supplied with a remarkable involved cretan labyrinth of vermicelli-like vessels, which vessels, when he quits the surface, are completely distended with oxygenated blood.
so that for an hour or more, a thousand fathoms in the sea, he carries a surplus stock of vitality in him, just as the camel crossing the waterless desert carries a surplus supply of drink for future use in its four supplementary stomachs.
the anatomical fact of this labyrinth is indisputable; and that the supposition founded upon it is reasonable and true, seems the more cogent to me, when i consider the otherwise inexplicable obstinacy of that leviathan in having his spoutings out, as the fishermen phrase it.
this is what i mean.
if unmolested, upon rising to the surface, the sperm whale will continue there for a period of time exactly uniform with all his other unmolested risings.
say he stays eleven minutes, and jets seventy times, that is, respires seventy breaths; then whenever he rises again, he will be sure to have his seventy breaths over again, to a minute.
now, if after he fetches a few breaths you alarm him, so that he sounds, he will be always dodging up again to make good his regular allowance of air.
and not till those seventy breaths are told, will he finally go down to stay out his full term below.
remark, however, that in different individuals these rates are different; but in any one they are alike.
now, why should the whale thus insist upon having his spoutings out, unless it be to replenish his reservoir of air, ere descending for good?
how obvious is it, too, that this necessity for the whale’s rising exposes him to all the fatal hazards of the chase.
for not by hook or by net could this vast leviathan be caught, when sailing a thousand fathoms beneath the sunlight.
not so much thy skill, then, o hunter, as the great necessities that strike the victory to thee!
in man, breathing is incessantly going on—one breath only serving for two or three pulsations; so that whatever other business he has to attend to, waking or sleeping, breathe he must, or die he will.
but the sperm whale only breathes about one seventh or sunday of his time.
it has been said that the whale only breathes through his spout-hole; if it could truthfully be added that his spouts are mixed with water, then i opine we should be furnished with the reason why his sense of smell seems obliterated in him; for the only thing about him that at all answers to his nose is that identical spout-hole; and being so clogged with two elements, it could not be expected to have the power of smelling.
but owing to the mystery of the spout—whether it be water or whether it be vapor—no absolute certainty can as yet be arrived at on this head.
sure it is, nevertheless, that the sperm whale has no proper olfactories.
but what does he want of them?
no roses, no violets, no cologne-water in the sea.
furthermore, as his windpipe solely opens into the tube of his spouting canal, and as that long canal—like the grand erie canal—is furnished with a sort of locks (that open and shut) for the downward retention of air or the upward exclusion of water, therefore the whale has no voice; unless you insult him by saying, that when he so strangely rumbles, he talks through his nose.
but then again, what has the whale to say?
seldom have i known any profound being that had anything to say to this world, unless forced to stammer out something by way of getting a living.
oh!
happy that the world is such an excellent listener!
now, the spouting canal of the sperm whale, chiefly intended as it is for the conveyance of air, and for several feet laid along, horizontally, just beneath the upper surface of his head, and a little to one side; this curious canal is very much like a gas-pipe laid down in a city on one side of a street.
but the question returns whether this gas-pipe is also a water-pipe; in other words, whether the spout of the sperm whale is the mere vapor of the exhaled breath, or whether that exhaled breath is mixed with water taken in at the mouth, and discharged through the spiracle.
it is certain that the mouth indirectly communicates with the spouting canal; but it cannot be proved that this is for the purpose of discharging water through the spiracle.
because the greatest necessity for so doing would seem to be, when in feeding he accidentally takes in water.
but the sperm whale’s food is far beneath the surface, and there he cannot spout even if he would.
besides, if you regard him very closely, and time him with your watch, you will find that when unmolested, there is an undeviating rhyme between the periods of his jets and the ordinary periods of respiration.
but why pester one with all this reasoning on the subject?
speak out!
you have seen him spout; then declare what the spout is; can you not tell water from air?
my dear sir, in this world it is not so easy to settle these plain things.
i have ever found your plain things the knottiest of all.
and as for this whale spout, you might almost stand in it, and yet be undecided as to what it is precisely.
the central body of it is hidden in the snowy sparkling mist enveloping it; and how can you certainly tell whether any water falls from it, when, always, when you are close enough to a whale to get a close view of his spout, he is in a prodigious commotion, the water cascading all around him.
and if at such times you should think that you really perceived drops of moisture in the spout, how do you know that they are not merely condensed from its vapor; or how do you know that they are not those identical drops superficially lodged in the spout-hole fissure, which is countersunk into the summit of the whale’s head?
for even when tranquilly swimming through the mid-day sea in a calm, with his elevated hump sun-dried as a dromedary’s in the desert; even then, the whale always carries a small basin of water on his head, as under a blazing sun you will sometimes see a cavity in a rock filled up with rain.
nor is it at all prudent for the hunter to be over curious touching the precise nature of the whale spout.
it will not do for him to be peering into it, and putting his face in it.
you cannot go with your pitcher to this fountain and fill it, and bring it away.
for even when coming into slight contact with the outer, vapory shreds of the jet, which will often happen, your skin will feverishly smart, from the acridness of the thing so touching it.
and i know one, who coming into still closer contact with the spout, whether with some scientific object in view, or otherwise, i cannot say, the skin peeled off from his cheek and arm.
wherefore, among whalemen, the spout is deemed poisonous; they try to evade it.
another thing; i have heard it said, and i do not much doubt it, that if the jet is fairly spouted into your eyes, it will blind you.
the wisest thing the investigator can do then, it seems to me, is to let this deadly spout alone.
still, we can hypothesize, even if we cannot prove and establish.
my hypothesis is this: that the spout is nothing but mist.
and besides other reasons, to this conclusion i am impelled, by considerations touching the great inherent dignity and sublimity of the sperm whale; i account him no common, shallow being, inasmuch as it is an undisputed fact that he is never found on soundings, or near shores; all other whales sometimes are.
he is both ponderous and profound.
and i am convinced that from the heads of all ponderous profound beings, such as plato, pyrrho, the devil, jupiter, dante, and so on, there always goes up a certain semi-visible steam, while in the act of thinking deep thoughts.
while composing a little treatise on eternity, i had the curiosity to place a mirror before me; and ere long saw reflected there, a curious involved worming and undulation in the atmosphere over my head.
the invariable moisture of my hair, while plunged in deep thought, after six cups of hot tea in my thin shingled attic, of an august noon; this seems an additional argument for the above supposition.
and how nobly it raises our conceit of the mighty, misty monster, to behold him solemnly sailing through a calm tropical sea; his vast, mild head overhung by a canopy of vapor, engendered by his incommunicable contemplations, and that vapor—as you will sometimes see it—glorified by a rainbow, as if heaven itself had put its seal upon his thoughts.
for, d’ye see, rainbows do not visit the clear air; they only irradiate vapor.
and so, through all the thick mists of the dim doubts in my mind, divine intuitions now and then shoot, enkindling my fog with a heavenly ray.
and for this i thank god; for all have doubts; many deny; but doubts or denials, few along with them, have intuitions.
doubts of all things earthly, and intuitions of some things heavenly; this combination makes neither believer nor infidel, but makes a man who regards them both with equal eye.
chapter 86. the tail.
other poets have warbled the praises of the soft eye of the antelope, and the lovely plumage of the bird that never alights; less celestial, i celebrate a tail.
reckoning the largest sized sperm whale’s tail to begin at that point of the trunk where it tapers to about the girth of a man, it comprises upon its upper surface alone, an area of at least fifty square feet.
the compact round body of its root expands into two broad, firm, flat palms or flukes, gradually shoaling away to less than an inch in thickness.
at the crotch or junction, these flukes slightly overlap, then sideways recede from each other like wings, leaving a wide vacancy between.
in no living thing are the lines of beauty more exquisitely defined than in the crescentic borders of these flukes.
at its utmost expansion in the full grown whale, the tail will considerably exceed twenty feet across.
the entire member seems a dense webbed bed of welded sinews; but cut into it, and you find that three distinct strata compose it:—upper, middle, and lower.
the fibres in the upper and lower layers, are long and horizontal; those of the middle one, very short, and running crosswise between the outside layers.
this triune structure, as much as anything else, imparts power to the tail.
to the student of old roman walls, the middle layer will furnish a curious parallel to the thin course of tiles always alternating with the stone in those wonderful relics of the antique, and which undoubtedly contribute so much to the great strength of the masonry.
but as if this vast local power in the tendinous tail were not enough, the whole bulk of the leviathan is knit over with a warp and woof of muscular fibres and filaments, which passing on either side the loins and running down into the flukes, insensibly blend with them, and largely contribute to their might; so that in the tail the confluent measureless force of the whole whale seems concentrated to a point.
could annihilation occur to matter, this were the thing to do it.
nor does this—its amazing strength, at all tend to cripple the graceful flexion of its motions; where infantileness of ease undulates through a titanism of power.
on the contrary, those motions derive their most appalling beauty from it.
real strength never impairs beauty or harmony, but it often bestows it; and in everything imposingly beautiful, strength has much to do with the magic.
take away the tied tendons that all over seem bursting from the marble in the carved hercules, and its charm would be gone.
as devout eckerman lifted the linen sheet from the naked corpse of goethe, he was overwhelmed with the massive chest of the man, that seemed as a roman triumphal arch.
when angelo paints even god the father in human form, mark what robustness is there.
and whatever they may reveal of the divine love in the son, the soft, curled, hermaphroditical italian pictures, in which his idea has been most successfully embodied; these pictures, so destitute as they are of all brawniness, hint nothing of any power, but the mere negative, feminine one of submission and endurance, which on all hands it is conceded, form the peculiar practical virtues of his teachings.
such is the subtle elasticity of the organ i treat of, that whether wielded in sport, or in earnest, or in anger, whatever be the mood it be in, its flexions are invariably marked by exceeding grace.
therein no fairy’s arm can transcend it.
five great motions are peculiar to it.
first, when used as a fin for progression; second, when used as a mace in battle; third, in sweeping; fourth, in lobtailing; fifth, in peaking flukes.
first: being horizontal in its position, the leviathan’s tail acts in a different manner from the tails of all other sea creatures.
it never wriggles.
in man or fish, wriggling is a sign of inferiority.
to the whale, his tail is the sole means of propulsion.
scroll-wise coiled forwards beneath the body, and then rapidly sprung backwards, it is this which gives that singular darting, leaping motion to the monster when furiously swimming.
his side-fins only serve to steer by.
second: it is a little significant, that while one sperm whale only fights another sperm whale with his head and jaw, nevertheless, in his conflicts with man, he chiefly and contemptuously uses his tail.
in striking at a boat, he swiftly curves away his flukes from it, and the blow is only inflicted by the recoil.
if it be made in the unobstructed air, especially if it descend to its mark, the stroke is then simply irresistible.
no ribs of man or boat can withstand it.
your only salvation lies in eluding it; but if it comes sideways through the opposing water, then partly owing to the light buoyancy of the whale-boat, and the elasticity of its materials, a cracked rib or a dashed plank or two, a sort of stitch in the side, is generally the most serious result.
these submerged side blows are so often received in the fishery, that they are accounted mere child’s play.
some one strips off a frock, and the hole is stopped.
third: i cannot demonstrate it, but it seems to me, that in the whale the sense of touch is concentrated in the tail; for in this respect there is a delicacy in it only equalled by the daintiness of the elephant’s trunk.
this delicacy is chiefly evinced in the action of sweeping, when in maidenly gentleness the whale with a certain soft slowness moves his immense flukes from side to side upon the surface of the sea; and if he feel but a sailor’s whisker, woe to that sailor, whiskers and all.
what tenderness there is in that preliminary touch!
had this tail any prehensile power, i should straightway bethink me of darmonodes’ elephant that so frequented the flower-market, and with low salutations presented nosegays to damsels, and then caressed their zones.
on more accounts than one, a pity it is that the whale does not possess this prehensile virtue in his tail; for i have heard of yet another elephant, that when wounded in the fight, curved round his trunk and extracted the dart.
fourth: stealing unawares upon the whale in the fancied security of the middle of solitary seas, you find him unbent from the vast corpulence of his dignity, and kitten-like, he plays on the ocean as if it were a hearth.
but still you see his power in his play.
the broad palms of his tail are flirted high into the air; then smiting the surface, the thunderous concussion resounds for miles.
you would almost think a great gun had been discharged; and if you noticed the light wreath of vapor from the spiracle at his other extremity, you would think that that was the smoke from the touch-hole.
fifth: as in the ordinary floating posture of the leviathan the flukes lie considerably below the level of his back, they are then completely out of sight beneath the surface; but when he is about to plunge into the deeps, his entire flukes with at least thirty feet of his body are tossed erect in the air, and so remain vibrating a moment, till they downwards shoot out of view.
excepting the sublime breach—somewhere else to be described—this peaking of the whale’s flukes is perhaps the grandest sight to be seen in all animated nature.
out of the bottomless profundities the gigantic tail seems spasmodically snatching at the highest heaven.
so in dreams, have i seen majestic satan thrusting forth his tormented colossal claw from the flame baltic of hell.
but in gazing at such scenes, it is all in all what mood you are in; if in the dantean, the devils will occur to you; if in that of isaiah, the archangels.
standing at the mast-head of my ship during a sunrise that crimsoned sky and sea, i once saw a large herd of whales in the east, all heading towards the sun, and for a moment vibrating in concert with peaked flukes.
as it seemed to me at the time, such a grand embodiment of adoration of the gods was never beheld, even in persia, the home of the fire worshippers.
as ptolemy philopater testified of the african elephant, i then testified of the whale, pronouncing him the most devout of all beings.
for according to king juba, the military elephants of antiquity often hailed the morning with their trunks uplifted in the profoundest silence.
the chance comparison in this chapter, between the whale and the elephant, so far as some aspects of the tail of the one and the trunk of the other are concerned, should not tend to place those two opposite organs on an equality, much less the creatures to which they respectively belong.
for as the mightiest elephant is but a terrier to leviathan, so, compared with leviathan’s tail, his trunk is but the stalk of a lily.
the most direful blow from the elephant’s trunk were as the playful tap of a fan, compared with the measureless crush and crash of the sperm whale’s ponderous flukes, which in repeated instances have one after the other hurled entire boats with all their oars and crews into the air, very much as an indian juggler tosses his balls.
*
*though all comparison in the way of general bulk between the whale and the elephant is preposterous, inasmuch as in that particular the elephant stands in much the same respect to the whale that a dog does to the elephant; nevertheless, there are not wanting some points of curious similitude; among these is the spout.
it is well known that the elephant will often draw up water or dust in his trunk, and then elevating it, jet it forth in a stream.
the more i consider this mighty tail, the more do i deplore my inability to express it.
at times there are gestures in it, which, though they would well grace the hand of man, remain wholly inexplicable.
in an extensive herd, so remarkable, occasionally, are these mystic gestures, that i have heard hunters who have declared them akin to free-mason signs and symbols; that the whale, indeed, by these methods intelligently conversed with the world.
nor are there wanting other motions of the whale in his general body, full of strangeness, and unaccountable to his most experienced assailant.
dissect him how i may, then, i but go skin deep; i know him not, and never will.
but if i know not even the tail of this whale, how understand his head?
much more, how comprehend his face, when face he has none?
thou shalt see my back parts, my tail, he seems to say, but my face shall not be seen.
but i cannot completely make out his back parts; and hint what he will about his face, i say again he has no face.
chapter 87. the grand armada.
the long and narrow peninsula of malacca, extending south-eastward from the territories of birmah, forms the most southerly point of all asia.
in a continuous line from that peninsula stretch the long islands of sumatra, java, bally, and timor; which, with many others, form a vast mole, or rampart, lengthwise connecting asia with australia, and dividing the long unbroken indian ocean from the thickly studded oriental archipelagoes.
this rampart is pierced by several sally-ports for the convenience of ships and whales; conspicuous among which are the straits of sunda and malacca.
by the straits of sunda, chiefly, vessels bound to china from the west, emerge into the china seas.
those narrow straits of sunda divide sumatra from java; and standing midway in that vast rampart of islands, buttressed by that bold green promontory, known to seamen as java head; they not a little correspond to the central gateway opening into some vast walled empire: and considering the inexhaustible wealth of spices, and silks, and jewels, and gold, and ivory, with which the thousand islands of that oriental sea are enriched, it seems a significant provision of nature, that such treasures, by the very formation of the land, should at least bear the appearance, however ineffectual, of being guarded from the all-grasping western world.
the shores of the straits of sunda are unsupplied with those domineering fortresses which guard the entrances to the mediterranean, the baltic, and the propontis.
unlike the danes, these orientals do not demand the obsequious homage of lowered top-sails from the endless procession of ships before the wind, which for centuries past, by night and by day, have passed between the islands of sumatra and java, freighted with the costliest cargoes of the east.
but while they freely waive a ceremonial like this, they do by no means renounce their claim to more solid tribute.
time out of mind the piratical proas of the malays, lurking among the low shaded coves and islets of sumatra, have sallied out upon the vessels sailing through the straits, fiercely demanding tribute at the point of their spears.
though by the repeated bloody chastisements they have received at the hands of european cruisers, the audacity of these corsairs has of late been somewhat repressed; yet, even at the present day, we occasionally hear of english and american vessels, which, in those waters, have been remorselessly boarded and pillaged.
with a fair, fresh wind, the pequod was now drawing nigh to these straits; ahab purposing to pass through them into the javan sea, and thence, cruising northwards, over waters known to be frequented here and there by the sperm whale, sweep inshore by the philippine islands, and gain the far coast of japan, in time for the great whaling season there.
by these means, the circumnavigating pequod would sweep almost all the known sperm whale cruising grounds of the world, previous to descending upon the line in the pacific; where ahab, though everywhere else foiled in his pursuit, firmly counted upon giving battle to moby dick, in the sea he was most known to frequent; and at a season when he might most reasonably be presumed to be haunting it.
but how now?
in this zoned quest, does ahab touch no land?
does his crew drink air?
surely, he will stop for water.
nay.
for a long time, now, the circus-running sun has raced within his fiery ring, and needs no sustenance but what’s in himself.
so ahab.
mark this, too, in the whaler.
while other hulls are loaded down with alien stuff, to be transferred to foreign wharves; the world-wandering whale-ship carries no cargo but herself and crew, their weapons and their wants.
she has a whole lake’s contents bottled in her ample hold.
she is ballasted with utilities; not altogether with unusable pig-lead and kentledge.
she carries years’ water in her.
clear old prime nantucket water; which, when three years afloat, the nantucketer, in the pacific, prefers to drink before the brackish fluid, but yesterday rafted off in casks, from the peruvian or indian streams.
hence it is, that, while other ships may have gone to china from new york, and back again, touching at a score of ports, the whale-ship, in all that interval, may not have sighted one grain of soil; her crew having seen no man but floating seamen like themselves.
so that did you carry them the news that another flood had come; they would only answer—“well, boys, here’s the ark!”
now, as many sperm whales had been captured off the western coast of java, in the near vicinity of the straits of sunda; indeed, as most of the ground, roundabout, was generally recognised by the fishermen as an excellent spot for cruising; therefore, as the pequod gained more and more upon java head, the look-outs were repeatedly hailed, and admonished to keep wide awake.
but though the green palmy cliffs of the land soon loomed on the starboard bow, and with delighted nostrils the fresh cinnamon was snuffed in the air, yet not a single jet was descried.
almost renouncing all thought of falling in with any game hereabouts, the ship had well nigh entered the straits, when the customary cheering cry was heard from aloft, and ere long a spectacle of singular magnificence saluted us.
but here be it premised, that owing to the unwearied activity with which of late they have been hunted over all four oceans, the sperm whales, instead of almost invariably sailing in small detached companies, as in former times, are now frequently met with in extensive herds, sometimes embracing so great a multitude, that it would almost seem as if numerous nations of them had sworn solemn league and covenant for mutual assistance and protection.
to this aggregation of the sperm whale into such immense caravans, may be imputed the circumstance that even in the best cruising grounds, you may now sometimes sail for weeks and months together, without being greeted by a single spout; and then be suddenly saluted by what sometimes seems thousands on thousands.
broad on both bows, at the distance of some two or three miles, and forming a great semicircle, embracing one half of the level horizon, a continuous chain of whale-jets were up-playing and sparkling in the noon-day air.
unlike the straight perpendicular twin-jets of the right whale, which, dividing at top, fall over in two branches, like the cleft drooping boughs of a willow, the single forward-slanting spout of the sperm whale presents a thick curled bush of white mist, continually rising and falling away to leeward.
seen from the pequod’s deck, then, as she would rise on a high hill of the sea, this host of vapory spouts, individually curling up into the air, and beheld through a blending atmosphere of bluish haze, showed like the thousand cheerful chimneys of some dense metropolis, descried of a balmy autumnal morning, by some horseman on a height.
as marching armies approaching an unfriendly defile in the mountains, accelerate their march, all eagerness to place that perilous passage in their rear, and once more expand in comparative security upon the plain; even so did this vast fleet of whales now seem hurrying forward through the straits; gradually contracting the wings of their semicircle, and swimming on, in one solid, but still crescentic centre.
crowding all sail the pequod pressed after them; the harpooneers handling their weapons, and loudly cheering from the heads of their yet suspended boats.
if the wind only held, little doubt had they, that chased through these straits of sunda, the vast host would only deploy into the oriental seas to witness the capture of not a few of their number.
and who could tell whether, in that congregated caravan, moby dick himself might not temporarily be swimming, like the worshipped white-elephant in the coronation procession of the siamese!
so with stun-sail piled on stun-sail, we sailed along, driving these leviathans before us; when, of a sudden, the voice of tashtego was heard, loudly directing attention to something in our wake.
corresponding to the crescent in our van, we beheld another in our rear.
it seemed formed of detached white vapors, rising and falling something like the spouts of the whales; only they did not so completely come and go; for they constantly hovered, without finally disappearing.
levelling his glass at this sight, ahab quickly revolved in his pivot-hole, crying, “aloft there, and rig whips and buckets to wet the sails;—malays, sir, and after us!”
as if too long lurking behind the headlands, till the pequod should fairly have entered the straits, these rascally asiatics were now in hot pursuit, to make up for their over-cautious delay.
but when the swift pequod, with a fresh leading wind, was herself in hot chase; how very kind of these tawny philanthropists to assist in speeding her on to her own chosen pursuit,—mere riding-whips and rowels to her, that they were.
as with glass under arm, ahab to-and-fro paced the deck; in his forward turn beholding the monsters he chased, and in the after one the bloodthirsty pirates chasing him; some such fancy as the above seemed his.
and when he glanced upon the green walls of the watery defile in which the ship was then sailing, and bethought him that through that gate lay the route to his vengeance, and beheld, how that through that same gate he was now both chasing and being chased to his deadly end; and not only that, but a herd of remorseless wild pirates and inhuman atheistical devils were infernally cheering him on with their curses;—when all these conceits had passed through his brain, ahab’s brow was left gaunt and ribbed, like the black sand beach after some stormy tide has been gnawing it, without being able to drag the firm thing from its place.
but thoughts like these troubled very few of the reckless crew; and when, after steadily dropping and dropping the pirates astern, the pequod at last shot by the vivid green cockatoo point on the sumatra side, emerging at last upon the broad waters beyond; then, the harpooneers seemed more to grieve that the swift whales had been gaining upon the ship, than to rejoice that the ship had so victoriously gained upon the malays.
but still driving on in the wake of the whales, at length they seemed abating their speed; gradually the ship neared them; and the wind now dying away, word was passed to spring to the boats.
but no sooner did the herd, by some presumed wonderful instinct of the sperm whale, become notified of the three keels that were after them,—though as yet a mile in their rear,—than they rallied again, and forming in close ranks and battalions, so that their spouts all looked like flashing lines of stacked bayonets, moved on with redoubled velocity.
stripped to our shirts and drawers, we sprang to the white-ash, and after several hours’ pulling were almost disposed to renounce the chase, when a general pausing commotion among the whales gave animating token that they were now at last under the influence of that strange perplexity of inert irresolution, which, when the fishermen perceive it in the whale, they say he is gallied.
the compact martial columns in which they had been hitherto rapidly and steadily swimming, were now broken up in one measureless rout; and like king porus’ elephants in the indian battle with alexander, they seemed going mad with consternation.
in all directions expanding in vast irregular circles, and aimlessly swimming hither and thither, by their short thick spoutings, they plainly betrayed their distraction of panic.
this was still more strangely evinced by those of their number, who, completely paralysed as it were, helplessly floated like water-logged dismantled ships on the sea.
had these leviathans been but a flock of simple sheep, pursued over the pasture by three fierce wolves, they could not possibly have evinced such excessive dismay.
but this occasional timidity is characteristic of almost all herding creatures.
though banding together in tens of thousands, the lion-maned buffaloes of the west have fled before a solitary horseman.
witness, too, all human beings, how when herded together in the sheepfold of a theatre’s pit, they will, at the slightest alarm of fire, rush helter-skelter for the outlets, crowding, trampling, jamming, and remorselessly dashing each other to death.
best, therefore, withhold any amazement at the strangely gallied whales before us, for there is no folly of the beasts of the earth which is not infinitely outdone by the madness of men.
though many of the whales, as has been said, were in violent motion, yet it is to be observed that as a whole the herd neither advanced nor retreated, but collectively remained in one place.
as is customary in those cases, the boats at once separated, each making for some one lone whale on the outskirts of the shoal.
in about three minutes’ time, queequeg’s harpoon was flung; the stricken fish darted blinding spray in our faces, and then running away with us like light, steered straight for the heart of the herd.
though such a movement on the part of the whale struck under such circumstances, is in no wise unprecedented; and indeed is almost always more or less anticipated; yet does it present one of the more perilous vicissitudes of the fishery.
for as the swift monster drags you deeper and deeper into the frantic shoal, you bid adieu to circumspect life and only exist in a delirious throb.
as, blind and deaf, the whale plunged forward, as if by sheer power of speed to rid himself of the iron leech that had fastened to him; as we thus tore a white gash in the sea, on all sides menaced as we flew, by the crazed creatures to and fro rushing about us; our beset boat was like a ship mobbed by ice-isles in a tempest, and striving to steer through their complicated channels and straits, knowing not at what moment it may be locked in and crushed.
but not a bit daunted, queequeg steered us manfully; now sheering off from this monster directly across our route in advance; now edging away from that, whose colossal flukes were suspended overhead, while all the time, starbuck stood up in the bows, lance in hand, pricking out of our way whatever whales he could reach by short darts, for there was no time to make long ones.
nor were the oarsmen quite idle, though their wonted duty was now altogether dispensed with.
they chiefly attended to the shouting part of the business.
“out of the way, commodore!” cried one, to a great dromedary that of a sudden rose bodily to the surface, and for an instant threatened to swamp us.
“hard down with your tail, there!” cried a second to another, which, close to our gunwale, seemed calmly cooling himself with his own fan-like extremity.
all whaleboats carry certain curious contrivances, originally invented by the nantucket indians, called druggs.
two thick squares of wood of equal size are stoutly clenched together, so that they cross each other’s grain at right angles; a line of considerable length is then attached to the middle of this block, and the other end of the line being looped, it can in a moment be fastened to a harpoon.
it is chiefly among gallied whales that this drugg is used.
for then, more whales are close round you than you can possibly chase at one time.
but sperm whales are not every day encountered; while you may, then, you must kill all you can.
and if you cannot kill them all at once, you must wing them, so that they can be afterwards killed at your leisure.
hence it is, that at times like these the drugg, comes into requisition.
our boat was furnished with three of them.
the first and second were successfully darted, and we saw the whales staggeringly running off, fettered by the enormous sidelong resistance of the towing drugg.
they were cramped like malefactors with the chain and ball.
but upon flinging the third, in the act of tossing overboard the clumsy wooden block, it caught under one of the seats of the boat, and in an instant tore it out and carried it away, dropping the oarsman in the boat’s bottom as the seat slid from under him.
on both sides the sea came in at the wounded planks, but we stuffed two or three drawers and shirts in, and so stopped the leaks for the time.
it had been next to impossible to dart these drugged-harpoons, were it not that as we advanced into the herd, our whale’s way greatly diminished; moreover, that as we went still further and further from the circumference of commotion, the direful disorders seemed waning.
so that when at last the jerking harpoon drew out, and the towing whale sideways vanished; then, with the tapering force of his parting momentum, we glided between two whales into the innermost heart of the shoal, as if from some mountain torrent we had slid into a serene valley lake.
here the storms in the roaring glens between the outermost whales, were heard but not felt.
in this central expanse the sea presented that smooth satin-like surface, called a sleek, produced by the subtle moisture thrown off by the whale in his more quiet moods.
yes, we were now in that enchanted calm which they say lurks at the heart of every commotion.
and still in the distracted distance we beheld the tumults of the outer concentric circles, and saw successive pods of whales, eight or ten in each, swiftly going round and round, like multiplied spans of horses in a ring; and so closely shoulder to shoulder, that a titanic circus-rider might easily have over-arched the middle ones, and so have gone round on their backs.
owing to the density of the crowd of reposing whales, more immediately surrounding the embayed axis of the herd, no possible chance of escape was at present afforded us.
we must watch for a breach in the living wall that hemmed us in; the wall that had only admitted us in order to shut us up.
keeping at the centre of the lake, we were occasionally visited by small tame cows and calves; the women and children of this routed host.
now, inclusive of the occasional wide intervals between the revolving outer circles, and inclusive of the spaces between the various pods in any one of those circles, the entire area at this juncture, embraced by the whole multitude, must have contained at least two or three square miles.
at any rate—though indeed such a test at such a time might be deceptive—spoutings might be discovered from our low boat that seemed playing up almost from the rim of the horizon.
i mention this circumstance, because, as if the cows and calves had been purposely locked up in this innermost fold; and as if the wide extent of the herd had hitherto prevented them from learning the precise cause of its stopping; or, possibly, being so young, unsophisticated, and every way innocent and inexperienced; however it may have been, these smaller whales—now and then visiting our becalmed boat from the margin of the lake—evinced a wondrous fearlessness and confidence, or else a still becharmed panic which it was impossible not to marvel at.
like household dogs they came snuffling round us, right up to our gunwales, and touching them; till it almost seemed that some spell had suddenly domesticated them.
queequeg patted their foreheads; starbuck scratched their backs with his lance; but fearful of the consequences, for the time refrained from darting it.
but far beneath this wondrous world upon the surface, another and still stranger world met our eyes as we gazed over the side.
for, suspended in those watery vaults, floated the forms of the nursing mothers of the whales, and those that by their enormous girth seemed shortly to become mothers.
the lake, as i have hinted, was to a considerable depth exceedingly transparent; and as human infants while suckling will calmly and fixedly gaze away from the breast, as if leading two different lives at the time; and while yet drawing mortal nourishment, be still spiritually feasting upon some unearthly reminiscence;—even so did the young of these whales seem looking up towards us, but not at us, as if we were but a bit of gulfweed in their new-born sight.
floating on their sides, the mothers also seemed quietly eyeing us.
one of these little infants, that from certain queer tokens seemed hardly a day old, might have measured some fourteen feet in length, and some six feet in girth.
he was a little frisky; though as yet his body seemed scarce yet recovered from that irksome position it had so lately occupied in the maternal reticule; where, tail to head, and all ready for the final spring, the unborn whale lies bent like a tartar’s bow.
the delicate side-fins, and the palms of his flukes, still freshly retained the plaited crumpled appearance of a baby’s ears newly arrived from foreign parts.
“line!
line!” cried queequeg, looking over the gunwale; “him fast!
him fast!—who line him!
who struck?—two whale; one big, one little!”
“what ails ye, man?” cried starbuck.
“look-e here,” said queequeg, pointing down.
as when the stricken whale, that from the tub has reeled out hundreds of fathoms of rope; as, after deep sounding, he floats up again, and shows the slackened curling line buoyantly rising and spiralling towards the air; so now, starbuck saw long coils of the umbilical cord of madame leviathan, by which the young cub seemed still tethered to its dam.
not seldom in the rapid vicissitudes of the chase, this natural line, with the maternal end loose, becomes entangled with the hempen one, so that the cub is thereby trapped.
some of the subtlest secrets of the seas seemed divulged to us in this enchanted pond.
we saw young leviathan amours in the deep.
*
*the sperm whale, as with all other species of the leviathan, but unlike most other fish, breeds indifferently at all seasons; after a gestation which may probably be set down at nine months, producing but one at a time; though in some few known instances giving birth to an esau and jacob:—a contingency provided for in suckling by two teats, curiously situated, one on each side of the anus; but the breasts themselves extend upwards from that.
when by chance these precious parts in a nursing whale are cut by the hunter’s lance, the mother’s pouring milk and blood rivallingly discolour the sea for rods.
the milk is very sweet and rich; it has been tasted by man; it might do well with strawberries.
when overflowing with mutual esteem, the whales salute more hominum.
and thus, though surrounded by circle upon circle of consternations and affrights, did these inscrutable creatures at the centre freely and fearlessly indulge in all peaceful concernments; yea, serenely revelled in dalliance and delight.
but even so, amid the tornadoed atlantic of my being, do i myself still for ever centrally disport in mute calm; and while ponderous planets of unwaning woe revolve round me, deep down and deep inland there i still bathe me in eternal mildness of joy.
meanwhile, as we thus lay entranced, the occasional sudden frantic spectacles in the distance evinced the activity of the other boats, still engaged in drugging the whales on the frontier of the host; or possibly carrying on the war within the first circle, where abundance of room and some convenient retreats were afforded them.
but the sight of the enraged drugged whales now and then blindly darting to and fro across the circles, was nothing to what at last met our eyes.
it is sometimes the custom when fast to a whale more than commonly powerful and alert, to seek to hamstring him, as it were, by sundering or maiming his gigantic tail-tendon.
it is done by darting a short-handled cutting-spade, to which is attached a rope for hauling it back again.
a whale wounded (as we afterwards learned) in this part, but not effectually, as it seemed, had broken away from the boat, carrying along with him half of the harpoon line; and in the extraordinary agony of the wound, he was now dashing among the revolving circles like the lone mounted desperado arnold, at the battle of saratoga, carrying dismay wherever he went.
but agonizing as was the wound of this whale, and an appalling spectacle enough, any way; yet the peculiar horror with which he seemed to inspire the rest of the herd, was owing to a cause which at first the intervening distance obscured from us.
but at length we perceived that by one of the unimaginable accidents of the fishery, this whale had become entangled in the harpoon-line that he towed; he had also run away with the cutting-spade in him; and while the free end of the rope attached to that weapon, had permanently caught in the coils of the harpoon-line round his tail, the cutting-spade itself had worked loose from his flesh.
so that tormented to madness, he was now churning through the water, violently flailing with his flexible tail, and tossing the keen spade about him, wounding and murdering his own comrades.
this terrific object seemed to recall the whole herd from their stationary fright.
first, the whales forming the margin of our lake began to crowd a little, and tumble against each other, as if lifted by half spent billows from afar; then the lake itself began faintly to heave and swell; the submarine bridal-chambers and nurseries vanished; in more and more contracting orbits the whales in the more central circles began to swim in thickening clusters.
yes, the long calm was departing.
a low advancing hum was soon heard; and then like to the tumultuous masses of block-ice when the great river hudson breaks up in spring, the entire host of whales came tumbling upon their inner centre, as if to pile themselves up in one common mountain.
instantly starbuck and queequeg changed places; starbuck taking the stern.
“oars!
oars!” he intensely whispered, seizing the helm—“gripe your oars, and clutch your souls, now!
my god, men, stand by!
shove him off, you queequeg—the whale there!—prick him!—hit him!
stand up—stand up, and stay so!
spring, men—pull, men; never mind their backs—scrape them!—scrape away!”
the boat was now all but jammed between two vast black bulks, leaving a narrow dardanelles between their long lengths.
but by desperate endeavor we at last shot into a temporary opening; then giving way rapidly, and at the same time earnestly watching for another outlet.
after many similar hair-breadth escapes, we at last swiftly glided into what had just been one of the outer circles, but now crossed by random whales, all violently making for one centre.
this lucky salvation was cheaply purchased by the loss of queequeg’s hat, who, while standing in the bows to prick the fugitive whales, had his hat taken clean from his head by the air-eddy made by the sudden tossing of a pair of broad flukes close by.
riotous and disordered as the universal commotion now was, it soon resolved itself into what seemed a systematic movement; for having clumped together at last in one dense body, they then renewed their onward flight with augmented fleetness.
further pursuit was useless; but the boats still lingered in their wake to pick up what drugged whales might be dropped astern, and likewise to secure one which flask had killed and waifed.
the waif is a pennoned pole, two or three of which are carried by every boat; and which, when additional game is at hand, are inserted upright into the floating body of a dead whale, both to mark its place on the sea, and also as token of prior possession, should the boats of any other ship draw near.
the result of this lowering was somewhat illustrative of that sagacious saying in the fishery,—the more whales the less fish.
of all the drugged whales only one was captured.
the rest contrived to escape for the time, but only to be taken, as will hereafter be seen, by some other craft than the pequod.
chapter 88. schools and schoolmasters.
the previous chapter gave account of an immense body or herd of sperm whales, and there was also then given the probable cause inducing those vast aggregations.
now, though such great bodies are at times encountered, yet, as must have been seen, even at the present day, small detached bands are occasionally observed, embracing from twenty to fifty individuals each.
such bands are known as schools.
they generally are of two sorts; those composed almost entirely of females, and those mustering none but young vigorous males, or bulls, as they are familiarly designated.
in cavalier attendance upon the school of females, you invariably see a male of full grown magnitude, but not old; who, upon any alarm, evinces his gallantry by falling in the rear and covering the flight of his ladies.
in truth, this gentleman is a luxurious ottoman, swimming about over the watery world, surroundingly accompanied by all the solaces and endearments of the harem.
the contrast between this ottoman and his concubines is striking; because, while he is always of the largest leviathanic proportions, the ladies, even at full growth, are not more than one-third of the bulk of an average-sized male.
they are comparatively delicate, indeed; i dare say, not to exceed half a dozen yards round the waist.
nevertheless, it cannot be denied, that upon the whole they are hereditarily entitled to en bon point.
it is very curious to watch this harem and its lord in their indolent ramblings.
like fashionables, they are for ever on the move in leisurely search of variety.
you meet them on the line in time for the full flower of the equatorial feeding season, having just returned, perhaps, from spending the summer in the northern seas, and so cheating summer of all unpleasant weariness and warmth.
by the time they have lounged up and down the promenade of the equator awhile, they start for the oriental waters in anticipation of the cool season there, and so evade the other excessive temperature of the year.
when serenely advancing on one of these journeys, if any strange suspicious sights are seen, my lord whale keeps a wary eye on his interesting family.
should any unwarrantably pert young leviathan coming that way, presume to draw confidentially close to one of the ladies, with what prodigious fury the bashaw assails him, and chases him away!
high times, indeed, if unprincipled young rakes like him are to be permitted to invade the sanctity of domestic bliss; though do what the bashaw will, he cannot keep the most notorious lothario out of his bed; for, alas!
all fish bed in common.
as ashore, the ladies often cause the most terrible duels among their rival admirers; just so with the whales, who sometimes come to deadly battle, and all for love.
they fence with their long lower jaws, sometimes locking them together, and so striving for the supremacy like elks that warringly interweave their antlers.
not a few are captured having the deep scars of these encounters,—furrowed heads, broken teeth, scolloped fins; and in some instances, wrenched and dislocated mouths.
but supposing the invader of domestic bliss to betake himself away at the first rush of the harem’s lord, then is it very diverting to watch that lord.
gently he insinuates his vast bulk among them again and revels there awhile, still in tantalizing vicinity to young lothario, like pious solomon devoutly worshipping among his thousand concubines.
granting other whales to be in sight, the fishermen will seldom give chase to one of these grand turks; for these grand turks are too lavish of their strength, and hence their unctuousness is small.
as for the sons and the daughters they beget, why, those sons and daughters must take care of themselves; at least, with only the maternal help.
for like certain other omnivorous roving lovers that might be named, my lord whale has no taste for the nursery, however much for the bower; and so, being a great traveller, he leaves his anonymous babies all over the world; every baby an exotic.
in good time, nevertheless, as the ardour of youth declines; as years and dumps increase; as reflection lends her solemn pauses; in short, as a general lassitude overtakes the sated turk; then a love of ease and virtue supplants the love for maidens; our ottoman enters upon the impotent, repentant, admonitory stage of life, forswears, disbands the harem, and grown to an exemplary, sulky old soul, goes about all alone among the meridians and parallels saying his prayers, and warning each young leviathan from his amorous errors.
now, as the harem of whales is called by the fishermen a school, so is the lord and master of that school technically known as the schoolmaster.
it is therefore not in strict character, however admirably satirical, that after going to school himself, he should then go abroad inculcating not what he learned there, but the folly of it.
his title, schoolmaster, would very naturally seem derived from the name bestowed upon the harem itself, but some have surmised that the man who first thus entitled this sort of ottoman whale, must have read the memoirs of vidocq, and informed himself what sort of a country-schoolmaster that famous frenchman was in his younger days, and what was the nature of those occult lessons he inculcated into some of his pupils.
the same secludedness and isolation to which the schoolmaster whale betakes himself in his advancing years, is true of all aged sperm whales.
almost universally, a lone whale—as a solitary leviathan is called—proves an ancient one.
like venerable moss-bearded daniel boone, he will have no one near him but nature herself; and her he takes to wife in the wilderness of waters, and the best of wives she is, though she keeps so many moody secrets.
the schools composing none but young and vigorous males, previously mentioned, offer a strong contrast to the harem schools.
for while those female whales are characteristically timid, the young males, or forty-barrel-bulls, as they call them, are by far the most pugnacious of all leviathans, and proverbially the most dangerous to encounter; excepting those wondrous grey-headed, grizzled whales, sometimes met, and these will fight you like grim fiends exasperated by a penal gout.
the forty-barrel-bull schools are larger than the harem schools.
like a mob of young collegians, they are full of fight, fun, and wickedness, tumbling round the world at such a reckless, rollicking rate, that no prudent underwriter would insure them any more than he would a riotous lad at yale or harvard.
they soon relinquish this turbulence though, and when about three-fourths grown, break up, and separately go about in quest of settlements, that is, harems.
another point of difference between the male and female schools is still more characteristic of the sexes.
say you strike a forty-barrel-bull—poor devil!
all his comrades quit him.
but strike a member of the harem school, and her companions swim around her with every token of concern, sometimes lingering so near her and so long, as themselves to fall a prey.
chapter 89. fast-fish and loose-fish.
the allusion to the waif and waif-poles in the last chapter but one, necessitates some account of the laws and regulations of the whale fishery, of which the waif may be deemed the grand symbol and badge.
it frequently happens that when several ships are cruising in company, a whale may be struck by one vessel, then escape, and be finally killed and captured by another vessel; and herein are indirectly comprised many minor contingencies, all partaking of this one grand feature.
for example,—after a weary and perilous chase and capture of a whale, the body may get loose from the ship by reason of a violent storm; and drifting far away to leeward, be retaken by a second whaler, who, in a calm, snugly tows it alongside, without risk of life or line.
thus the most vexatious and violent disputes would often arise between the fishermen, were there not some written or unwritten, universal, undisputed law applicable to all cases.
perhaps the only formal whaling code authorized by legislative enactment, was that of holland.
it was decreed by the states-general in a.d. 1695. but though no other nation has ever had any written whaling law, yet the american fishermen have been their own legislators and lawyers in this matter.
they have provided a system which for terse comprehensiveness surpasses justinian’s pandects and the by-laws of the chinese society for the suppression of meddling with other people’s business.
yes; these laws might be engraven on a queen anne’s farthing, or the barb of a harpoon, and worn round the neck, so small are they.
i. a fast-fish belongs to the party fast to it.
ii.
a loose-fish is fair game for anybody who can soonest catch it.
but what plays the mischief with this masterly code is the admirable brevity of it, which necessitates a vast volume of commentaries to expound it.
first: what is a fast-fish?
alive or dead a fish is technically fast, when it is connected with an occupied ship or boat, by any medium at all controllable by the occupant or occupants,—a mast, an oar, a nine-inch cable, a telegraph wire, or a strand of cobweb, it is all the same.
likewise a fish is technically fast when it bears a waif, or any other recognised symbol of possession; so long as the party waifing it plainly evince their ability at any time to take it alongside, as well as their intention so to do.
these are scientific commentaries; but the commentaries of the whalemen themselves sometimes consist in hard words and harder knocks—the coke-upon-littleton of the fist.
true, among the more upright and honorable whalemen allowances are always made for peculiar cases, where it would be an outrageous moral injustice for one party to claim possession of a whale previously chased or killed by another party.
but others are by no means so scrupulous.
some fifty years ago there was a curious case of whale-trover litigated in england, wherein the plaintiffs set forth that after a hard chase of a whale in the northern seas; and when indeed they (the plaintiffs) had succeeded in harpooning the fish; they were at last, through peril of their lives, obliged to forsake not only their lines, but their boat itself.
ultimately the defendants (the crew of another ship) came up with the whale, struck, killed, seized, and finally appropriated it before the very eyes of the plaintiffs.
and when those defendants were remonstrated with, their captain snapped his fingers in the plaintiffs’
teeth, and assured them that by way of doxology to the deed he had done, he would now retain their line, harpoons, and boat, which had remained attached to the whale at the time of the seizure.
wherefore the plaintiffs now sued for the recovery of the value of their whale, line, harpoons, and boat.
mr. erskine was counsel for the defendants; lord ellenborough was the judge.
in the course of the defence, the witty erskine went on to illustrate his position, by alluding to a recent crim.
con.
case, wherein a gentleman, after in vain trying to bridle his wife’s viciousness, had at last abandoned her upon the seas of life; but in the course of years, repenting of that step, he instituted an action to recover possession of her.
erskine was on the other side; and he then supported it by saying, that though the gentleman had originally harpooned the lady, and had once had her fast, and only by reason of the great stress of her plunging viciousness, had at last abandoned her; yet abandon her he did, so that she became a loose-fish; and therefore when a subsequent gentleman re-harpooned her, the lady then became that subsequent gentleman’s property, along with whatever harpoon might have been found sticking in her.
now in the present case erskine contended that the examples of the whale and the lady were reciprocally illustrative of each other.
these pleadings, and the counter pleadings, being duly heard, the very learned judge in set terms decided, to wit,—that as for the boat, he awarded it to the plaintiffs, because they had merely abandoned it to save their lives; but that with regard to the controverted whale, harpoons, and line, they belonged to the defendants; the whale, because it was a loose-fish at the time of the final capture; and the harpoons and line because when the fish made off with them, it (the fish)
acquired a property in those articles; and hence anybody who afterwards took the fish had a right to them.
now the defendants afterwards took the fish; ergo, the aforesaid articles were theirs.
a common man looking at this decision of the very learned judge, might possibly object to it.
but ploughed up to the primary rock of the matter, the two great principles laid down in the twin whaling laws previously quoted, and applied and elucidated by lord ellenborough in the above cited case; these two laws touching fast-fish and loose-fish, i say, will, on reflection, be found the fundamentals of all human jurisprudence; for notwithstanding its complicated tracery of sculpture, the temple of the law, like the temple of the philistines, has but two props to stand on.
is it not a saying in every one’s mouth, possession is half of the law:
that is, regardless of how the thing came into possession?
but often possession is the whole of the law.
what are the sinews and souls of russian serfs and republican slaves but fast-fish, whereof possession is the whole of the law?
what to the rapacious landlord is the widow’s last mite but a fast-fish?
what is yonder undetected villain’s marble mansion with a door-plate for a waif; what is that but a fast-fish?
what is the ruinous discount which mordecai, the broker, gets from poor woebegone, the bankrupt, on a loan to keep woebegone’s family from starvation; what is that ruinous discount but a fast-fish?
what is the archbishop of savesoul’s income of £100,000 seized from the scant bread and cheese of hundreds of thousands of broken-backed laborers (all sure of heaven without any of savesoul’s help) what is that globular £100,000 but a fast-fish?
what are the duke of dunder’s hereditary towns and hamlets but fast-fish?
what to that redoubted harpooneer, john bull, is poor ireland, but a fast-fish?
what to that apostolic lancer, brother jonathan, is texas but a fast-fish?
and concerning all these, is not possession the whole of the law?
but if the doctrine of fast-fish be pretty generally applicable, the kindred doctrine of loose-fish is still more widely so.
that is internationally and universally applicable.
what was america in 1492 but a loose-fish, in which columbus struck the spanish standard by way of waifing it for his royal master and mistress?
what was poland to the czar?
what greece to the turk?
what india to england?
what at last will mexico be to the united states?
all loose-fish.
what are the rights of man and the liberties of the world but loose-fish?
what all men’s minds and opinions but loose-fish?
what is the principle of religious belief in them but a loose-fish?
what to the ostentatious smuggling verbalists are the thoughts of thinkers but loose-fish?
what is the great globe itself but a loose-fish?
and what are you, reader, but a loose-fish and a fast-fish, too?
chapter 90. heads or tails.
“de balena vero sufficit, si rex habeat caput, et regina caudam.”
bracton, l. 3, c. 3.
latin from the books of the laws of england, which taken along with the context, means, that of all whales captured by anybody on the coast of that land, the king, as honorary grand harpooneer, must have the head, and the queen be respectfully presented with the tail.
a division which, in the whale, is much like halving an apple; there is no intermediate remainder.
now as this law, under a modified form, is to this day in force in england; and as it offers in various respects a strange anomaly touching the general law of fast and loose-fish, it is here treated of in a separate chapter, on the same courteous principle that prompts the english railways to be at the expense of a separate car, specially reserved for the accommodation of royalty.
in the first place, in curious proof of the fact that the above-mentioned law is still in force, i proceed to lay before you a circumstance that happened within the last two years.
it seems that some honest mariners of dover, or sandwich, or some one of the cinque ports, had after a hard chase succeeded in killing and beaching a fine whale which they had originally descried afar off from the shore.
now the cinque ports are partially or somehow under the jurisdiction of a sort of policeman or beadle, called a lord warden.
holding the office directly from the crown, i believe, all the royal emoluments incident to the cinque port territories become by assignment his.
by some writers this office is called a sinecure.
but not so.
because the lord warden is busily employed at times in fobbing his perquisites; which are his chiefly by virtue of that same fobbing of them.
now when these poor sun-burnt mariners, bare-footed, and with their trowsers rolled high up on their eely legs, had wearily hauled their fat fish high and dry, promising themselves a good £150 from the precious oil and bone; and in fantasy sipping rare tea with their wives, and good ale with their cronies, upon the strength of their respective shares; up steps a very learned and most christian and charitable gentleman, with a copy of blackstone under his arm; and laying it upon the whale’s head, he says—“hands off!
this fish, my masters, is a fast-fish.
i seize it as the lord warden’s.” upon this the poor mariners in their respectful consternation—so truly english—knowing not what to say, fall to vigorously scratching their heads all round; meanwhile ruefully glancing from the whale to the stranger.
but that did in nowise mend the matter, or at all soften the hard heart of the learned gentleman with the copy of blackstone.
at length one of them, after long scratching about for his ideas, made bold to speak,
“please, sir, who is the lord warden?”
“the duke.”
“but the duke had nothing to do with taking this fish?”
“it is his.”
“we have been at great trouble, and peril, and some expense, and is all that to go to the duke’s benefit; we getting nothing at all for our pains but our blisters?”
“it is his.”
“is the duke so very poor as to be forced to this desperate mode of getting a livelihood?”
“it is his.”
“i thought to relieve my old bed-ridden mother by part of my share of this whale.”
“it is his.”
“won’t the duke be content with a quarter or a half?”
“it is his.”
in a word, the whale was seized and sold, and his grace the duke of wellington received the money.
thinking that viewed in some particular lights, the case might by a bare possibility in some small degree be deemed, under the circumstances, a rather hard one, an honest clergyman of the town respectfully addressed a note to his grace, begging him to take the case of those unfortunate mariners into full consideration.
to which my lord duke in substance replied (both letters were published)
that he had already done so, and received the money, and would be obliged to the reverend gentleman if for the future he (the reverend gentleman) would decline meddling with other people’s business.
is this the still militant old man, standing at the corners of the three kingdoms, on all hands coercing alms of beggars?
it will readily be seen that in this case the alleged right of the duke to the whale was a delegated one from the sovereign.
we must needs inquire then on what principle the sovereign is originally invested with that right.
the law itself has already been set forth.
but plowdon gives us the reason for it.
says plowdon, the whale so caught belongs to the king and queen, “because of its superior excellence.” and by the soundest commentators this has ever been held a cogent argument in such matters.
but why should the king have the head, and the queen the tail?
a reason for that, ye lawyers!
in his treatise on “queen-gold,” or queen-pinmoney, an old king’s bench author, one william prynne, thus discourseth: “ye tail is ye queen’s, that ye queen’s wardrobe may be supplied with ye whalebone.” now this was written at a time when the black limber bone of the greenland or right whale was largely used in ladies’ bodices.
but this same bone is not in the tail; it is in the head, which is a sad mistake for a sagacious lawyer like prynne.
but is the queen a mermaid, to be presented with a tail?
an allegorical meaning may lurk here.
there are two royal fish so styled by the english law writers—the whale and the sturgeon; both royal property under certain limitations, and nominally supplying the tenth branch of the crown’s ordinary revenue.
i know not that any other author has hinted of the matter; but by inference it seems to me that the sturgeon must be divided in the same way as the whale, the king receiving the highly dense and elastic head peculiar to that fish, which, symbolically regarded, may possibly be humorously grounded upon some presumed congeniality.
and thus there seems a reason in all things, even in law.
chapter 91. the pequod meets the rose-bud.
“in vain it was to rake for ambergriese in the paunch of this leviathan, insufferable fetor denying not inquiry.” sir t. browne, v.e.
it was a week or two after the last whaling scene recounted, and when we were slowly sailing over a sleepy, vapory, mid-day sea, that the many noses on the pequod’s deck proved more vigilant discoverers than the three pairs of eyes aloft.
a peculiar and not very pleasant smell was smelt in the sea.
“i will bet something now,” said stubb, “that somewhere hereabouts are some of those drugged whales we tickled the other day.
i thought they would keel up before long.”
presently, the vapors in advance slid aside; and there in the distance lay a ship, whose furled sails betokened that some sort of whale must be alongside.
as we glided nearer, the stranger showed french colours from his peak; and by the eddying cloud of vulture sea-fowl that circled, and hovered, and swooped around him, it was plain that the whale alongside must be what the fishermen call a blasted whale, that is, a whale that has died unmolested on the sea, and so floated an unappropriated corpse.
it may well be conceived, what an unsavory odor such a mass must exhale; worse than an assyrian city in the plague, when the living are incompetent to bury the departed.
so intolerable indeed is it regarded by some, that no cupidity could persuade them to moor alongside of it.
yet are there those who will still do it; notwithstanding the fact that the oil obtained from such subjects is of a very inferior quality, and by no means of the nature of attar-of-rose.
coming still nearer with the expiring breeze, we saw that the frenchman had a second whale alongside; and this second whale seemed even more of a nosegay than the first.
in truth, it turned out to be one of those problematical whales that seem to dry up and die with a sort of prodigious dyspepsia, or indigestion; leaving their defunct bodies almost entirely bankrupt of anything like oil.
nevertheless, in the proper place we shall see that no knowing fisherman will ever turn up his nose at such a whale as this, however much he may shun blasted whales in general.
the pequod had now swept so nigh to the stranger, that stubb vowed he recognised his cutting spade-pole entangled in the lines that were knotted round the tail of one of these whales.
“there’s a pretty fellow, now,” he banteringly laughed, standing in the ship’s bows, “there’s a jackal for ye!
i well know that these crappoes of frenchmen are but poor devils in the fishery; sometimes lowering their boats for breakers, mistaking them for sperm whale spouts; yes, and sometimes sailing from their port with their hold full of boxes of tallow candles, and cases of snuffers, foreseeing that all the oil they will get won’t be enough to dip the captain’s wick into; aye, we all know these things; but look ye, here’s a crappo that is content with our leavings, the drugged whale there, i mean; aye, and is content too with scraping the dry bones of that other precious fish he has there.
poor devil!
i say, pass round a hat, some one, and let’s make him a present of a little oil for dear charity’s sake.
for what oil he’ll get from that drugged whale there, wouldn’t be fit to burn in a jail; no, not in a condemned cell.
and as for the other whale, why, i’ll agree to get more oil by chopping up and trying out these three masts of ours, than he’ll get from that bundle of bones; though, now that i think of it, it may contain something worth a good deal more than oil; yes, ambergris.
i wonder now if our old man has thought of that.
it’s worth trying.
yes, i’m for it;” and so saying he started for the quarter-deck.
by this time the faint air had become a complete calm; so that whether or no, the pequod was now fairly entrapped in the smell, with no hope of escaping except by its breezing up again.
issuing from the cabin, stubb now called his boat’s crew, and pulled off for the stranger.
drawing across her bow, he perceived that in accordance with the fanciful french taste, the upper part of her stem-piece was carved in the likeness of a huge drooping stalk, was painted green, and for thorns had copper spikes projecting from it here and there; the whole terminating in a symmetrical folded bulb of a bright red colour.
upon her head boards, in large gilt letters, he read “bouton de rose,”—rose-button, or rose-bud; and this was the romantic name of this aromatic ship.
though stubb did not understand the bouton part of the inscription, yet the word rose, and the bulbous figure-head put together, sufficiently explained the whole to him.
“a wooden rose-bud, eh?” he cried with his hand to his nose, “that will do very well; but how like all creation it smells!”
now in order to hold direct communication with the people on deck, he had to pull round the bows to the starboard side, and thus come close to the blasted whale; and so talk over it.
arrived then at this spot, with one hand still to his nose, he bawled—“bouton-de-rose, ahoy!
are there any of you bouton-de-roses that speak english?”
“yes,” rejoined a guernsey-man from the bulwarks, who turned out to be the chief-mate.
“well, then, my bouton-de-rose-bud, have you seen the white whale?”
“what whale?”
“the white whale—a sperm whale—moby dick, have ye seen him?
“never heard of such a whale.
cachalot blanche!
white whale—no.”
“very good, then; good bye now, and i’ll call again in a minute.”
then rapidly pulling back towards the pequod, and seeing ahab leaning over the quarter-deck rail awaiting his report, he moulded his two hands into a trumpet and shouted—“no, sir!
no!” upon which ahab retired, and stubb returned to the frenchman.
he now perceived that the guernsey-man, who had just got into the chains, and was using a cutting-spade, had slung his nose in a sort of bag.
“what’s the matter with your nose, there?” said stubb.
“broke it?”
“i wish it was broken, or that i didn’t have any nose at all!” answered the guernsey-man, who did not seem to relish the job he was at very much.
“but what are you holding yours for?”
“oh, nothing!
it’s a wax nose; i have to hold it on.
fine day, ain’t it?
air rather gardenny, i should say; throw us a bunch of posies, will ye, bouton-de-rose?”
“what in the devil’s name do you want here?” roared the guernseyman, flying into a sudden passion.
“oh!
keep cool—cool?
yes, that’s the word!
why don’t you pack those whales in ice while you’re working at ’em?
but joking aside, though; do you know, rose-bud, that it’s all nonsense trying to get any oil out of such whales?
as for that dried up one, there, he hasn’t a gill in his whole carcase.”
“i know that well enough; but, d’ye see, the captain here won’t believe it; this is his first voyage; he was a cologne manufacturer before.
but come aboard, and mayhap he’ll believe you, if he won’t me; and so i’ll get out of this dirty scrape.”
“anything to oblige ye, my sweet and pleasant fellow,” rejoined stubb, and with that he soon mounted to the deck.
there a queer scene presented itself.
the sailors, in tasselled caps of red worsted, were getting the heavy tackles in readiness for the whales.
but they worked rather slow and talked very fast, and seemed in anything but a good humor.
all their noses upwardly projected from their faces like so many jib-booms.
now and then pairs of them would drop their work, and run up to the mast-head to get some fresh air.
some thinking they would catch the plague, dipped oakum in coal-tar, and at intervals held it to their nostrils.
others having broken the stems of their pipes almost short off at the bowl, were vigorously puffing tobacco-smoke, so that it constantly filled their olfactories.
stubb was struck by a shower of outcries and anathemas proceeding from the captain’s round-house abaft; and looking in that direction saw a fiery face thrust from behind the door, which was held ajar from within.
this was the tormented surgeon, who, after in vain remonstrating against the proceedings of the day, had betaken himself to the captain’s round-house (cabinet he called it) to avoid the pest; but still, could not help yelling out his entreaties and indignations at times.
marking all this, stubb argued well for his scheme, and turning to the guernsey-man had a little chat with him, during which the stranger mate expressed his detestation of his captain as a conceited ignoramus, who had brought them all into so unsavory and unprofitable a pickle.
sounding him carefully, stubb further perceived that the guernsey-man had not the slightest suspicion concerning the ambergris.
he therefore held his peace on that head, but otherwise was quite frank and confidential with him, so that the two quickly concocted a little plan for both circumventing and satirizing the captain, without his at all dreaming of distrusting their sincerity.
according to this little plan of theirs, the guernsey-man, under cover of an interpreter’s office, was to tell the captain what he pleased, but as coming from stubb; and as for stubb, he was to utter any nonsense that should come uppermost in him during the interview.
by this time their destined victim appeared from his cabin.
he was a small and dark, but rather delicate looking man for a sea-captain, with large whiskers and moustache, however; and wore a red cotton velvet vest with watch-seals at his side.
to this gentleman, stubb was now politely introduced by the guernsey-man, who at once ostentatiously put on the aspect of interpreting between them.
“what shall i say to him first?” said he.
“why,” said stubb, eyeing the velvet vest and the watch and seals, “you may as well begin by telling him that he looks a sort of babyish to me, though i don’t pretend to be a judge.”
“he says, monsieur,” said the guernsey-man, in french, turning to his captain, “that only yesterday his ship spoke a vessel, whose captain and chief-mate, with six sailors, had all died of a fever caught from a blasted whale they had brought alongside.”
upon this the captain started, and eagerly desired to know more.
“what now?” said the guernsey-man to stubb.
“why, since he takes it so easy, tell him that now i have eyed him carefully, i’m quite certain that he’s no more fit to command a whale-ship than a st. jago monkey.
in fact, tell him from me he’s a baboon.”
“he vows and declares, monsieur, that the other whale, the dried one, is far more deadly than the blasted one; in fine, monsieur, he conjures us, as we value our lives, to cut loose from these fish.”
instantly the captain ran forward, and in a loud voice commanded his crew to desist from hoisting the cutting-tackles, and at once cast loose the cables and chains confining the whales to the ship.
“what now?” said the guernsey-man, when the captain had returned to them.
“why, let me see; yes, you may as well tell him now that—that—in fact, tell him i’ve diddled him, and (aside to himself) perhaps somebody else.”
“he says, monsieur, that he’s very happy to have been of any service to us.”
hearing this, the captain vowed that they were the grateful parties (meaning himself and mate) and concluded by inviting stubb down into his cabin to drink a bottle of bordeaux.
“he wants you to take a glass of wine with him,” said the interpreter.
“thank him heartily; but tell him it’s against my principles to drink with the man i’ve diddled.
in fact, tell him i must go.”
“he says, monsieur, that his principles won’t admit of his drinking; but that if monsieur wants to live another day to drink, then monsieur had best drop all four boats, and pull the ship away from these whales, for it’s so calm they won’t drift.”
by this time stubb was over the side, and getting into his boat, hailed the guernsey-man to this effect,—that having a long tow-line in his boat, he would do what he could to help them, by pulling out the lighter whale of the two from the ship’s side.
while the frenchman’s boats, then, were engaged in towing the ship one way, stubb benevolently towed away at his whale the other way, ostentatiously slacking out a most unusually long tow-line.
presently a breeze sprang up; stubb feigned to cast off from the whale; hoisting his boats, the frenchman soon increased his distance, while the pequod slid in between him and stubb’s whale.
whereupon stubb quickly pulled to the floating body, and hailing the pequod to give notice of his intentions, at once proceeded to reap the fruit of his unrighteous cunning.
seizing his sharp boat-spade, he commenced an excavation in the body, a little behind the side fin.
you would almost have thought he was digging a cellar there in the sea; and when at length his spade struck against the gaunt ribs, it was like turning up old roman tiles and pottery buried in fat english loam.
his boat’s crew were all in high excitement, eagerly helping their chief, and looking as anxious as gold-hunters.
and all the time numberless fowls were diving, and ducking, and screaming, and yelling, and fighting around them.
stubb was beginning to look disappointed, especially as the horrible nosegay increased, when suddenly from out the very heart of this plague, there stole a faint stream of perfume, which flowed through the tide of bad smells without being absorbed by it, as one river will flow into and then along with another, without at all blending with it for a time.
“i have it, i have it,” cried stubb, with delight, striking something in the subterranean regions, “a purse!
a purse!”
dropping his spade, he thrust both hands in, and drew out handfuls of something that looked like ripe windsor soap, or rich mottled old cheese; very unctuous and savory withal.
you might easily dent it with your thumb; it is of a hue between yellow and ash colour.
and this, good friends, is ambergris, worth a gold guinea an ounce to any druggist.
some six handfuls were obtained; but more was unavoidably lost in the sea, and still more, perhaps, might have been secured were it not for impatient ahab’s loud command to stubb to desist, and come on board, else the ship would bid them good bye.
chapter 92. ambergris.
now this ambergris is a very curious substance, and so important as an article of commerce, that in 1791 a certain nantucket-born captain coffin was examined at the bar of the english house of commons on that subject.
for at that time, and indeed until a comparatively late day, the precise origin of ambergris remained, like amber itself, a problem to the learned.
though the word ambergris is but the french compound for grey amber, yet the two substances are quite distinct.
for amber, though at times found on the sea-coast, is also dug up in some far inland soils, whereas ambergris is never found except upon the sea.
besides, amber is a hard, transparent, brittle, odorless substance, used for mouth-pieces to pipes, for beads and ornaments; but ambergris is soft, waxy, and so highly fragrant and spicy, that it is largely used in perfumery, in pastiles, precious candles, hair-powders, and pomatum.
the turks use it in cooking, and also carry it to mecca, for the same purpose that frankincense is carried to st. peter’s in rome.
some wine merchants drop a few grains into claret, to flavor it.
who would think, then, that such fine ladies and gentlemen should regale themselves with an essence found in the inglorious bowels of a sick whale!
yet so it is.
by some, ambergris is supposed to be the cause, and by others the effect, of the dyspepsia in the whale.
how to cure such a dyspepsia it were hard to say, unless by administering three or four boat loads of brandreth’s pills, and then running out of harm’s way, as laborers do in blasting rocks.
i have forgotten to say that there were found in this ambergris, certain hard, round, bony plates, which at first stubb thought might be sailors’ trowsers buttons; but it afterwards turned out that they were nothing more than pieces of small squid bones embalmed in that manner.
now that the incorruption of this most fragrant ambergris should be found in the heart of such decay; is this nothing?
bethink thee of that saying of st. paul in corinthians, about corruption and incorruption; how that we are sown in dishonor, but raised in glory.
and likewise call to mind that saying of paracelsus about what it is that maketh the best musk.
also forget not the strange fact that of all things of ill-savor, cologne-water, in its rudimental manufacturing stages, is the worst.
i should like to conclude the chapter with the above appeal, but cannot, owing to my anxiety to repel a charge often made against whalemen, and which, in the estimation of some already biased minds, might be considered as indirectly substantiated by what has been said of the frenchman’s two whales.
elsewhere in this volume the slanderous aspersion has been disproved, that the vocation of whaling is throughout a slatternly, untidy business.
but there is another thing to rebut.
they hint that all whales always smell bad.
now how did this odious stigma originate?
i opine, that it is plainly traceable to the first arrival of the greenland whaling ships in london, more than two centuries ago.
because those whalemen did not then, and do not now, try out their oil at sea as the southern ships have always done; but cutting up the fresh blubber in small bits, thrust it through the bung holes of large casks, and carry it home in that manner; the shortness of the season in those icy seas, and the sudden and violent storms to which they are exposed, forbidding any other course.
the consequence is, that upon breaking into the hold, and unloading one of these whale cemeteries, in the greenland dock, a savor is given forth somewhat similar to that arising from excavating an old city grave-yard, for the foundations of a lying-in hospital.
i partly surmise also, that this wicked charge against whalers may be likewise imputed to the existence on the coast of greenland, in former times, of a dutch village called schmerenburgh or smeerenberg, which latter name is the one used by the learned fogo von slack, in his great work on smells, a text-book on that subject.
as its name imports (smeer, fat; berg, to put up), this village was founded in order to afford a place for the blubber of the dutch whale fleet to be tried out, without being taken home to holland for that purpose.
it was a collection of furnaces, fat-kettles, and oil sheds; and when the works were in full operation certainly gave forth no very pleasant savor.
but all this is quite different with a south sea sperm whaler; which in a voyage of four years perhaps, after completely filling her hold with oil, does not, perhaps, consume fifty days in the business of boiling out; and in the state that it is casked, the oil is nearly scentless.
the truth is, that living or dead, if but decently treated, whales as a species are by no means creatures of ill odor; nor can whalemen be recognised, as the people of the middle ages affected to detect a jew in the company, by the nose.
nor indeed can the whale possibly be otherwise than fragrant, when, as a general thing, he enjoys such high health; taking abundance of exercise; always out of doors; though, it is true, seldom in the open air.
i say, that the motion of a sperm whale’s flukes above water dispenses a perfume, as when a musk-scented lady rustles her dress in a warm parlor.
what then shall i liken the sperm whale to for fragrance, considering his magnitude?
must it not be to that famous elephant, with jewelled tusks, and redolent with myrrh, which was led out of an indian town to do honor to alexander the great?
chapter 93. the castaway.
it was but some few days after encountering the frenchman, that a most significant event befell the most insignificant of the pequod’s crew; an event most lamentable; and which ended in providing the sometimes madly merry and predestinated craft with a living and ever accompanying prophecy of whatever shattered sequel might prove her own.
now, in the whale ship, it is not every one that goes in the boats.
some few hands are reserved called ship-keepers, whose province it is to work the vessel while the boats are pursuing the whale.
as a general thing, these ship-keepers are as hardy fellows as the men comprising the boats’ crews.
but if there happen to be an unduly slender, clumsy, or timorous wight in the ship, that wight is certain to be made a ship-keeper.
it was so in the pequod with the little negro pippin by nick-name, pip by abbreviation.
poor pip!
ye have heard of him before; ye must remember his tambourine on that dramatic midnight, so gloomy-jolly.
in outer aspect, pip and dough-boy made a match, like a black pony and a white one, of equal developments, though of dissimilar colour, driven in one eccentric span.
but while hapless dough-boy was by nature dull and torpid in his intellects, pip, though over tender-hearted, was at bottom very bright, with that pleasant, genial, jolly brightness peculiar to his tribe; a tribe, which ever enjoy all holidays and festivities with finer, freer relish than any other race.
for blacks, the year’s calendar should show naught but three hundred and sixty-five fourth of julys and new year’s days.
nor smile so, while i write that this little black was brilliant, for even blackness has its brilliancy; behold yon lustrous ebony, panelled in king’s cabinets.
but pip loved life, and all life’s peaceable securities; so that the panic-striking business in which he had somehow unaccountably become entrapped, had most sadly blurred his brightness; though, as ere long will be seen, what was thus temporarily subdued in him, in the end was destined to be luridly illumined by strange wild fires, that fictitiously showed him off to ten times the natural lustre with which in his native tolland county in connecticut, he had once enlivened many a fiddler’s frolic on the green; and at melodious even-tide, with his gay ha-ha!
had turned the round horizon into one star-belled tambourine.
so, though in the clear air of day, suspended against a blue-veined neck, the pure-watered diamond drop will healthful glow; yet, when the cunning jeweller would show you the diamond in its most impressive lustre, he lays it against a gloomy ground, and then lights it up, not by the sun, but by some unnatural gases.
then come out those fiery effulgences, infernally superb; then the evil-blazing diamond, once the divinest symbol of the crystal skies, looks like some crown-jewel stolen from the king of hell.
but let us to the story.
it came to pass, that in the ambergris affair stubb’s after-oarsman chanced so to sprain his hand, as for a time to become quite maimed; and, temporarily, pip was put into his place.
the first time stubb lowered with him, pip evinced much nervousness; but happily, for that time, escaped close contact with the whale; and therefore came off not altogether discreditably; though stubb observing him, took care, afterwards, to exhort him to cherish his courageousness to the utmost, for he might often find it needful.
now upon the second lowering, the boat paddled upon the whale; and as the fish received the darted iron, it gave its customary rap, which happened, in this instance, to be right under poor pip’s seat.
the involuntary consternation of the moment caused him to leap, paddle in hand, out of the boat; and in such a way, that part of the slack whale line coming against his chest, he breasted it overboard with him, so as to become entangled in it, when at last plumping into the water.
that instant the stricken whale started on a fierce run, the line swiftly straightened; and presto!
poor pip came all foaming up to the chocks of the boat, remorselessly dragged there by the line, which had taken several turns around his chest and neck.
tashtego stood in the bows.
he was full of the fire of the hunt.
he hated pip for a poltroon.
snatching the boat-knife from its sheath, he suspended its sharp edge over the line, and turning towards stubb, exclaimed interrogatively, “cut?” meantime pip’s blue, choked face plainly looked, do, for god’s sake!
all passed in a flash.
in less than half a minute, this entire thing happened.
“damn him, cut!” roared stubb; and so the whale was lost and pip was saved.
so soon as he recovered himself, the poor little negro was assailed by yells and execrations from the crew.
tranquilly permitting these irregular cursings to evaporate, stubb then in a plain, business-like, but still half humorous manner, cursed pip officially; and that done, unofficially gave him much wholesome advice.
the substance was, never jump from a boat, pip, except—but all the rest was indefinite, as the soundest advice ever is.
now, in general, stick to the boat, is your true motto in whaling; but cases will sometimes happen when leap from the boat, is still better.
moreover, as if perceiving at last that if he should give undiluted conscientious advice to pip, he would be leaving him too wide a margin to jump in for the future; stubb suddenly dropped all advice, and concluded with a peremptory command, “stick to the boat, pip, or by the lord, i won’t pick you up if you jump; mind that.
we can’t afford to lose whales by the likes of you; a whale would sell for thirty times what you would, pip, in alabama.
bear that in mind, and don’t jump any more.” hereby perhaps stubb indirectly hinted, that though man loved his fellow, yet man is a money-making animal, which propensity too often interferes with his benevolence.
but we are all in the hands of the gods; and pip jumped again.
it was under very similar circumstances to the first performance; but this time he did not breast out the line; and hence, when the whale started to run, pip was left behind on the sea, like a hurried traveller’s trunk.
alas!
stubb was but too true to his word.
it was a beautiful, bounteous, blue day; the spangled sea calm and cool, and flatly stretching away, all round, to the horizon, like gold-beater’s skin hammered out to the extremest.
bobbing up and down in that sea, pip’s ebon head showed like a head of cloves.
no boat-knife was lifted when he fell so rapidly astern.
stubb’s inexorable back was turned upon him; and the whale was winged.
in three minutes, a whole mile of shoreless ocean was between pip and stubb.
out from the centre of the sea, poor pip turned his crisp, curling, black head to the sun, another lonely castaway, though the loftiest and the brightest.
now, in calm weather, to swim in the open ocean is as easy to the practised swimmer as to ride in a spring-carriage ashore.
but the awful lonesomeness is intolerable.
the intense concentration of self in the middle of such a heartless immensity, my god!
who can tell it?
mark, how when sailors in a dead calm bathe in the open sea—mark how closely they hug their ship and only coast along her sides.
but had stubb really abandoned the poor little negro to his fate?
no; he did not mean to, at least.
because there were two boats in his wake, and he supposed, no doubt, that they would of course come up to pip very quickly, and pick him up; though, indeed, such considerations towards oarsmen jeopardized through their own timidity, is not always manifested by the hunters in all similar instances; and such instances not unfrequently occur; almost invariably in the fishery, a coward, so called, is marked with the same ruthless detestation peculiar to military navies and armies.
but it so happened, that those boats, without seeing pip, suddenly spying whales close to them on one side, turned, and gave chase; and stubb’s boat was now so far away, and he and all his crew so intent upon his fish, that pip’s ringed horizon began to expand around him miserably.
by the merest chance the ship itself at last rescued him; but from that hour the little negro went about the deck an idiot; such, at least, they said he was.
the sea had jeeringly kept his finite body up, but drowned the infinite of his soul.
not drowned entirely, though.
rather carried down alive to wondrous depths, where strange shapes of the unwarped primal world glided to and fro before his passive eyes; and the miser-merman, wisdom, revealed his hoarded heaps; and among the joyous, heartless, ever-juvenile eternities, pip saw the multitudinous, god-omnipresent, coral insects, that out of the firmament of waters heaved the colossal orbs.
he saw god’s foot upon the treadle of the loom, and spoke it; and therefore his shipmates called him mad.
so man’s insanity is heaven’s sense; and wandering from all mortal reason, man comes at last to that celestial thought, which, to reason, is absurd and frantic; and weal or woe, feels then uncompromised, indifferent as his god.
for the rest, blame not stubb too hardly.
the thing is common in that fishery; and in the sequel of the narrative, it will then be seen what like abandonment befell myself.
chapter 94. a squeeze of the hand.
that whale of stubb’s, so dearly purchased, was duly brought to the pequod’s side, where all those cutting and hoisting operations previously detailed, were regularly gone through, even to the baling of the heidelburgh tun, or case.
while some were occupied with this latter duty, others were employed in dragging away the larger tubs, so soon as filled with the sperm; and when the proper time arrived, this same sperm was carefully manipulated ere going to the try-works, of which anon.
it had cooled and crystallized to such a degree, that when, with several others, i sat down before a large constantine’s bath of it, i found it strangely concreted into lumps, here and there rolling about in the liquid part.
it was our business to squeeze these lumps back into fluid.
a sweet and unctuous duty!
no wonder that in old times this sperm was such a favourite cosmetic.
such a clearer!
such a sweetener!
such a softener!
such a delicious molifier!
after having my hands in it for only a few minutes, my fingers felt like eels, and began, as it were, to serpentine and spiralise.
as i sat there at my ease, cross-legged on the deck; after the bitter exertion at the windlass; under a blue tranquil sky; the ship under indolent sail, and gliding so serenely along; as i bathed my hands among those soft, gentle globules of infiltrated tissues, woven almost within the hour; as they richly broke to my fingers, and discharged all their opulence, like fully ripe grapes their wine; as i snuffed up that uncontaminated aroma,—literally and truly, like the smell of spring violets; i declare to you, that for the time i lived as in a musky meadow; i forgot all about our horrible oath; in that inexpressible sperm, i washed my hands and my heart of it; i almost began to credit the old paracelsan superstition that sperm is of rare virtue in allaying the heat of anger; while bathing in that bath, i felt divinely free from all ill-will, or petulance, or malice, of any sort whatsoever.
squeeze!
squeeze!
squeeze!
all the morning long; i squeezed that sperm till i myself almost melted into it; i squeezed that sperm till a strange sort of insanity came over me; and i found myself unwittingly squeezing my co-laborers’ hands in it, mistaking their hands for the gentle globules.
such an abounding, affectionate, friendly, loving feeling did this avocation beget; that at last i was continually squeezing their hands, and looking up into their eyes sentimentally; as much as to say,—oh!
my dear fellow beings, why should we longer cherish any social acerbities, or know the slightest ill-humor or envy!
come; let us squeeze hands all round; nay, let us all squeeze ourselves into each other; let us squeeze ourselves universally into the very milk and sperm of kindness.
would that i could keep squeezing that sperm for ever!
for now, since by many prolonged, repeated experiences, i have perceived that in all cases man must eventually lower, or at least shift, his conceit of attainable felicity; not placing it anywhere in the intellect or the fancy; but in the wife, the heart, the bed, the table, the saddle, the fireside, the country; now that i have perceived all this, i am ready to squeeze case eternally.
in thoughts of the visions of the night, i saw long rows of angels in paradise, each with his hands in a jar of spermaceti.
now, while discoursing of sperm, it behooves to speak of other things akin to it, in the business of preparing the sperm whale for the try-works.
first comes white-horse, so called, which is obtained from the tapering part of the fish, and also from the thicker portions of his flukes.
it is tough with congealed tendons—a wad of muscle—but still contains some oil.
after being severed from the whale, the white-horse is first cut into portable oblongs ere going to the mincer.
they look much like blocks of berkshire marble.
plum-pudding is the term bestowed upon certain fragmentary parts of the whale’s flesh, here and there adhering to the blanket of blubber, and often participating to a considerable degree in its unctuousness.
it is a most refreshing, convivial, beautiful object to behold.
as its name imports, it is of an exceedingly rich, mottled tint, with a bestreaked snowy and golden ground, dotted with spots of the deepest crimson and purple.
it is plums of rubies, in pictures of citron.
spite of reason, it is hard to keep yourself from eating it.
i confess, that once i stole behind the foremast to try it.
it tasted something as i should conceive a royal cutlet from the thigh of louis le gros might have tasted, supposing him to have been killed the first day after the venison season, and that particular venison season contemporary with an unusually fine vintage of the vineyards of champagne.
there is another substance, and a very singular one, which turns up in the course of this business, but which i feel it to be very puzzling adequately to describe.
it is called slobgollion; an appellation original with the whalemen, and even so is the nature of the substance.
it is an ineffably oozy, stringy affair, most frequently found in the tubs of sperm, after a prolonged squeezing, and subsequent decanting.
i hold it to be the wondrously thin, ruptured membranes of the case, coalescing.
gurry, so called, is a term properly belonging to right whalemen, but sometimes incidentally used by the sperm fishermen.
it designates the dark, glutinous substance which is scraped off the back of the greenland or right whale, and much of which covers the decks of those inferior souls who hunt that ignoble leviathan.
nippers.
strictly this word is not indigenous to the whale’s vocabulary.
but as applied by whalemen, it becomes so.
a whaleman’s nipper is a short firm strip of tendinous stuff cut from the tapering part of leviathan’s tail: it averages an inch in thickness, and for the rest, is about the size of the iron part of a hoe.
edgewise moved along the oily deck, it operates like a leathern squilgee; and by nameless blandishments, as of magic, allures along with it all impurities.
but to learn all about these recondite matters, your best way is at once to descend into the blubber-room, and have a long talk with its inmates.
this place has previously been mentioned as the receptacle for the blanket-pieces, when stript and hoisted from the whale.
when the proper time arrives for cutting up its contents, this apartment is a scene of terror to all tyros, especially by night.
on one side, lit by a dull lantern, a space has been left clear for the workmen.
they generally go in pairs,—a pike-and-gaffman and a spade-man.
the whaling-pike is similar to a frigate’s boarding-weapon of the same name.
the gaff is something like a boat-hook.
with his gaff, the gaffman hooks on to a sheet of blubber, and strives to hold it from slipping, as the ship pitches and lurches about.
meanwhile, the spade-man stands on the sheet itself, perpendicularly chopping it into the portable horse-pieces.
this spade is sharp as hone can make it; the spademan’s feet are shoeless; the thing he stands on will sometimes irresistibly slide away from him, like a sledge.
if he cuts off one of his own toes, or one of his assistants’, would you be very much astonished?
toes are scarce among veteran blubber-room men.
chapter 95. the cassock.
had you stepped on board the pequod at a certain juncture of this post-mortemizing of the whale; and had you strolled forward nigh the windlass, pretty sure am i that you would have scanned with no small curiosity a very strange, enigmatical object, which you would have seen there, lying along lengthwise in the lee scuppers.
not the wondrous cistern in the whale’s huge head; not the prodigy of his unhinged lower jaw; not the miracle of his symmetrical tail; none of these would so surprise you, as half a glimpse of that unaccountable cone,—longer than a kentuckian is tall, nigh a foot in diameter at the base, and jet-black as yojo, the ebony idol of queequeg.
and an idol, indeed, it is; or, rather, in old times, its likeness was.
such an idol as that found in the secret groves of queen maachah in judea; and for worshipping which, king asa, her son, did depose her, and destroyed the idol, and burnt it for an abomination at the brook kedron, as darkly set forth in the 15th chapter of the first book of kings.
look at the sailor, called the mincer, who now comes along, and assisted by two allies, heavily backs the grandissimus, as the mariners call it, and with bowed shoulders, staggers off with it as if he were a grenadier carrying a dead comrade from the field.
extending it upon the forecastle deck, he now proceeds cylindrically to remove its dark pelt, as an african hunter the pelt of a boa.
this done he turns the pelt inside out, like a pantaloon leg; gives it a good stretching, so as almost to double its diameter; and at last hangs it, well spread, in the rigging, to dry.
ere long, it is taken down; when removing some three feet of it, towards the pointed extremity, and then cutting two slits for arm-holes at the other end, he lengthwise slips himself bodily into it.
the mincer now stands before you invested in the full canonicals of his calling.
immemorial to all his order, this investiture alone will adequately protect him, while employed in the peculiar functions of his office.
that office consists in mincing the horse-pieces of blubber for the pots; an operation which is conducted at a curious wooden horse, planted endwise against the bulwarks, and with a capacious tub beneath it, into which the minced pieces drop, fast as the sheets from a rapt orator’s desk.
arrayed in decent black; occupying a conspicuous pulpit; intent on bible leaves; what a candidate for an archbishopric, what a lad for a pope were this mincer!
*
*bible leaves!
bible leaves!
this is the invariable cry from the mates to the mincer.
it enjoins him to be careful, and cut his work into as thin slices as possible, inasmuch as by so doing the business of boiling out the oil is much accelerated, and its quantity considerably increased, besides perhaps improving it in quality.
chapter 96. the try-works.
besides her hoisted boats, an american whaler is outwardly distinguished by her try-works.
she presents the curious anomaly of the most solid masonry joining with oak and hemp in constituting the completed ship.
it is as if from the open field a brick-kiln were transported to her planks.
the try-works are planted between the foremast and mainmast, the most roomy part of the deck.
the timbers beneath are of a peculiar strength, fitted to sustain the weight of an almost solid mass of brick and mortar, some ten feet by eight square, and five in height.
the foundation does not penetrate the deck, but the masonry is firmly secured to the surface by ponderous knees of iron bracing it on all sides, and screwing it down to the timbers.
on the flanks it is cased with wood, and at top completely covered by a large, sloping, battened hatchway.
removing this hatch we expose the great try-pots, two in number, and each of several barrels’ capacity.
when not in use, they are kept remarkably clean.
sometimes they are polished with soapstone and sand, till they shine within like silver punch-bowls.
during the night-watches some cynical old sailors will crawl into them and coil themselves away there for a nap.
while employed in polishing them—one man in each pot, side by side—many confidential communications are carried on, over the iron lips.
it is a place also for profound mathematical meditation.
it was in the left hand try-pot of the pequod, with the soapstone diligently circling round me, that i was first indirectly struck by the remarkable fact, that in geometry all bodies gliding along the cycloid, my soapstone for example, will descend from any point in precisely the same time.
removing the fire-board from the front of the try-works, the bare masonry of that side is exposed, penetrated by the two iron mouths of the furnaces, directly underneath the pots.
these mouths are fitted with heavy doors of iron.
the intense heat of the fire is prevented from communicating itself to the deck, by means of a shallow reservoir extending under the entire inclosed surface of the works.
by a tunnel inserted at the rear, this reservoir is kept replenished with water as fast as it evaporates.
there are no external chimneys; they open direct from the rear wall.
and here let us go back for a moment.
it was about nine o’clock at night that the pequod’s try-works were first started on this present voyage.
it belonged to stubb to oversee the business.
“all ready there?
off hatch, then, and start her.
you cook, fire the works.” this was an easy thing, for the carpenter had been thrusting his shavings into the furnace throughout the passage.
here be it said that in a whaling voyage the first fire in the try-works has to be fed for a time with wood.
after that no wood is used, except as a means of quick ignition to the staple fuel.
in a word, after being tried out, the crisp, shrivelled blubber, now called scraps or fritters, still contains considerable of its unctuous properties.
these fritters feed the flames.
like a plethoric burning martyr, or a self-consuming misanthrope, once ignited, the whale supplies his own fuel and burns by his own body.
would that he consumed his own smoke!
for his smoke is horrible to inhale, and inhale it you must, and not only that, but you must live in it for the time.
it has an unspeakable, wild, hindoo odor about it, such as may lurk in the vicinity of funereal pyres.
it smells like the left wing of the day of judgment; it is an argument for the pit.
by midnight the works were in full operation.
we were clear from the carcase; sail had been made; the wind was freshening; the wild ocean darkness was intense.
but that darkness was licked up by the fierce flames, which at intervals forked forth from the sooty flues, and illuminated every lofty rope in the rigging, as with the famed greek fire.
the burning ship drove on, as if remorselessly commissioned to some vengeful deed.
so the pitch and sulphur-freighted brigs of the bold hydriote, canaris, issuing from their midnight harbors, with broad sheets of flame for sails, bore down upon the turkish frigates, and folded them in conflagrations.
the hatch, removed from the top of the works, now afforded a wide hearth in front of them.
standing on this were the tartarean shapes of the pagan harpooneers, always the whale-ship’s stokers.
with huge pronged poles they pitched hissing masses of blubber into the scalding pots, or stirred up the fires beneath, till the snaky flames darted, curling, out of the doors to catch them by the feet.
the smoke rolled away in sullen heaps.
to every pitch of the ship there was a pitch of the boiling oil, which seemed all eagerness to leap into their faces.
opposite the mouth of the works, on the further side of the wide wooden hearth, was the windlass.
this served for a sea-sofa.
here lounged the watch, when not otherwise employed, looking into the red heat of the fire, till their eyes felt scorched in their heads.
their tawny features, now all begrimed with smoke and sweat, their matted beards, and the contrasting barbaric brilliancy of their teeth, all these were strangely revealed in the capricious emblazonings of the works.
as they narrated to each other their unholy adventures, their tales of terror told in words of mirth; as their uncivilized laughter forked upwards out of them, like the flames from the furnace; as to and fro, in their front, the harpooneers wildly gesticulated with their huge pronged forks and dippers; as the wind howled on, and the sea leaped, and the ship groaned and dived, and yet steadfastly shot her red hell further and further into the blackness of the sea and the night, and scornfully champed the white bone in her mouth, and viciously spat round her on all sides; then the rushing pequod, freighted with savages, and laden with fire, and burning a corpse, and plunging into that blackness of darkness, seemed the material counterpart of her monomaniac commander’s soul.
so seemed it to me, as i stood at her helm, and for long hours silently guided the way of this fire-ship on the sea.
wrapped, for that interval, in darkness myself, i but the better saw the redness, the madness, the ghastliness of others.
the continual sight of the fiend shapes before me, capering half in smoke and half in fire, these at last begat kindred visions in my soul, so soon as i began to yield to that unaccountable drowsiness which ever would come over me at a midnight helm.
but that night, in particular, a strange (and ever since inexplicable)
thing occurred to me.
starting from a brief standing sleep, i was horribly conscious of something fatally wrong.
the jaw-bone tiller smote my side, which leaned against it; in my ears was the low hum of sails, just beginning to shake in the wind; i thought my eyes were open; i was half conscious of putting my fingers to the lids and mechanically stretching them still further apart.
but, spite of all this, i could see no compass before me to steer by; though it seemed but a minute since i had been watching the card, by the steady binnacle lamp illuminating it.
nothing seemed before me but a jet gloom, now and then made ghastly by flashes of redness.
uppermost was the impression, that whatever swift, rushing thing i stood on was not so much bound to any haven ahead as rushing from all havens astern.
a stark, bewildered feeling, as of death, came over me.
convulsively my hands grasped the tiller, but with the crazy conceit that the tiller was, somehow, in some enchanted way, inverted.
my god!
what is the matter with me?
thought i. lo!
in my brief sleep i had turned myself about, and was fronting the ship’s stern, with my back to her prow and the compass.
in an instant i faced back, just in time to prevent the vessel from flying up into the wind, and very probably capsizing her.
how glad and how grateful the relief from this unnatural hallucination of the night, and the fatal contingency of being brought by the lee!
look not too long in the face of the fire, o man!
never dream with thy hand on the helm!
turn not thy back to the compass; accept the first hint of the hitching tiller; believe not the artificial fire, when its redness makes all things look ghastly.
to-morrow, in the natural sun, the skies will be bright; those who glared like devils in the forking flames, the morn will show in far other, at least gentler, relief; the glorious, golden, glad sun, the only true lamp—all others but liars!
nevertheless the sun hides not virginia’s dismal swamp, nor rome’s accursed campagna, nor wide sahara, nor all the millions of miles of deserts and of griefs beneath the moon.
the sun hides not the ocean, which is the dark side of this earth, and which is two thirds of this earth.
so, therefore, that mortal man who hath more of joy than sorrow in him, that mortal man cannot be true—not true, or undeveloped.
with books the same.
the truest of all men was the man of sorrows, and the truest of all books is solomon’s, and ecclesiastes is the fine hammered steel of woe.
“all is vanity.” all.
this wilful world hath not got hold of unchristian solomon’s wisdom yet.
but he who dodges hospitals and jails, and walks fast crossing graveyards, and would rather talk of operas than hell; calls cowper, young, pascal, rousseau, poor devils all of sick men; and throughout a care-free lifetime swears by rabelais as passing wise, and therefore jolly;—not that man is fitted to sit down on tomb-stones, and break the green damp mould with unfathomably wondrous solomon.
but even solomon, he says, “the man that wandereth out of the way of understanding shall remain” (i.e., even while living) “in the congregation of the dead.” give not thyself up, then, to fire, lest it invert thee, deaden thee; as for the time it did me.
there is a wisdom that is woe; but there is a woe that is madness.
and there is a catskill eagle in some souls that can alike dive down into the blackest gorges, and soar out of them again and become invisible in the sunny spaces.
and even if he for ever flies within the gorge, that gorge is in the mountains; so that even in his lowest swoop the mountain eagle is still higher than other birds upon the plain, even though they soar.
chapter 97. the lamp.
had you descended from the pequod’s try-works to the pequod’s forecastle, where the off duty watch were sleeping, for one single moment you would have almost thought you were standing in some illuminated shrine of canonized kings and counsellors.
there they lay in their triangular oaken vaults, each mariner a chiselled muteness; a score of lamps flashing upon his hooded eyes.
in merchantmen, oil for the sailor is more scarce than the milk of queens.
to dress in the dark, and eat in the dark, and stumble in darkness to his pallet, this is his usual lot.
but the whaleman, as he seeks the food of light, so he lives in light.
he makes his berth an aladdin’s lamp, and lays him down in it; so that in the pitchiest night the ship’s black hull still houses an illumination.
see with what entire freedom the whaleman takes his handful of lamps—often but old bottles and vials, though—to the copper cooler at the try-works, and replenishes them there, as mugs of ale at a vat.
he burns, too, the purest of oil, in its unmanufactured, and, therefore, unvitiated state; a fluid unknown to solar, lunar, or astral contrivances ashore.
it is sweet as early grass butter in april.
he goes and hunts for his oil, so as to be sure of its freshness and genuineness, even as the traveller on the prairie hunts up his own supper of game.
chapter 98. stowing down and clearing up.
already has it been related how the great leviathan is afar off descried from the mast-head; how he is chased over the watery moors, and slaughtered in the valleys of the deep; how he is then towed alongside and beheaded; and how (on the principle which entitled the headsman of old to the garments in which the beheaded was killed) his great padded surtout becomes the property of his executioner; how, in due time, he is condemned to the pots, and, like shadrach, meshach, and abednego, his spermaceti, oil, and bone pass unscathed through the fire;—but now it remains to conclude the last chapter of this part of the description by rehearsing—singing, if i may—the romantic proceeding of decanting off his oil into the casks and striking them down into the hold, where once again leviathan returns to his native profundities, sliding along beneath the surface as before; but, alas!
never more to rise and blow.
while still warm, the oil, like hot punch, is received into the six-barrel casks; and while, perhaps, the ship is pitching and rolling this way and that in the midnight sea, the enormous casks are slewed round and headed over, end for end, and sometimes perilously scoot across the slippery deck, like so many land slides, till at last man-handled and stayed in their course; and all round the hoops, rap, rap, go as many hammers as can play upon them, for now, ex officio, every sailor is a cooper.
at length, when the last pint is casked, and all is cool, then the great hatchways are unsealed, the bowels of the ship are thrown open, and down go the casks to their final rest in the sea.
this done, the hatches are replaced, and hermetically closed, like a closet walled up.
in the sperm fishery, this is perhaps one of the most remarkable incidents in all the business of whaling.
one day the planks stream with freshets of blood and oil; on the sacred quarter-deck enormous masses of the whale’s head are profanely piled; great rusty casks lie about, as in a brewery yard; the smoke from the try-works has besooted all the bulwarks; the mariners go about suffused with unctuousness; the entire ship seems great leviathan himself; while on all hands the din is deafening.
but a day or two after, you look about you, and prick your ears in this self-same ship; and were it not for the tell-tale boats and try-works, you would all but swear you trod some silent merchant vessel, with a most scrupulously neat commander.
the unmanufactured sperm oil possesses a singularly cleansing virtue.
this is the reason why the decks never look so white as just after what they call an affair of oil.
besides, from the ashes of the burned scraps of the whale, a potent lye is readily made; and whenever any adhesiveness from the back of the whale remains clinging to the side, that lye quickly exterminates it.
hands go diligently along the bulwarks, and with buckets of water and rags restore them to their full tidiness.
the soot is brushed from the lower rigging.
all the numerous implements which have been in use are likewise faithfully cleansed and put away.
the great hatch is scrubbed and placed upon the try-works, completely hiding the pots; every cask is out of sight; all tackles are coiled in unseen nooks; and when by the combined and simultaneous industry of almost the entire ship’s company, the whole of this conscientious duty is at last concluded, then the crew themselves proceed to their own ablutions; shift themselves from top to toe; and finally issue to the immaculate deck, fresh and all aglow, as bridegrooms new-leaped from out the daintiest holland.
now, with elated step, they pace the planks in twos and threes, and humorously discourse of parlors, sofas, carpets, and fine cambrics; propose to mat the deck; think of having hanging to the top; object not to taking tea by moonlight on the piazza of the forecastle.
to hint to such musked mariners of oil, and bone, and blubber, were little short of audacity.
they know not the thing you distantly allude to.
away, and bring us napkins!
but mark: aloft there, at the three mast heads, stand three men intent on spying out more whales, which, if caught, infallibly will again soil the old oaken furniture, and drop at least one small grease-spot somewhere.
yes; and many is the time, when, after the severest uninterrupted labors, which know no night; continuing straight through for ninety-six hours; when from the boat, where they have swelled their wrists with all day rowing on the line,—they only step to the deck to carry vast chains, and heave the heavy windlass, and cut and slash, yea, and in their very sweatings to be smoked and burned anew by the combined fires of the equatorial sun and the equatorial try-works; when, on the heel of all this, they have finally bestirred themselves to cleanse the ship, and make a spotless dairy room of it; many is the time the poor fellows, just buttoning the necks of their clean frocks, are startled by the cry of “there she blows!” and away they fly to fight another whale, and go through the whole weary thing again.
oh!
my friends, but this is man-killing!
yet this is life.
for hardly have we mortals by long toilings extracted from this world’s vast bulk its small but valuable sperm; and then, with weary patience, cleansed ourselves from its defilements, and learned to live here in clean tabernacles of the soul; hardly is this done, when—there she blows!—the ghost is spouted up, and away we sail to fight some other world, and go through young life’s old routine again.
oh!
the metempsychosis!
oh!
pythagoras, that in bright greece, two thousand years ago, did die, so good, so wise, so mild; i sailed with thee along the peruvian coast last voyage—and, foolish as i am, taught thee, a green simple boy, how to splice a rope!
chapter 99. the doubloon.
ere now it has been related how ahab was wont to pace his quarter-deck, taking regular turns at either limit, the binnacle and mainmast; but in the multiplicity of other things requiring narration it has not been added how that sometimes in these walks, when most plunged in his mood, he was wont to pause in turn at each spot, and stand there strangely eyeing the particular object before him.
when he halted before the binnacle, with his glance fastened on the pointed needle in the compass, that glance shot like a javelin with the pointed intensity of his purpose; and when resuming his walk he again paused before the mainmast, then, as the same riveted glance fastened upon the riveted gold coin there, he still wore the same aspect of nailed firmness, only dashed with a certain wild longing, if not hopefulness.
but one morning, turning to pass the doubloon, he seemed to be newly attracted by the strange figures and inscriptions stamped on it, as though now for the first time beginning to interpret for himself in some monomaniac way whatever significance might lurk in them.
and some certain significance lurks in all things, else all things are little worth, and the round world itself but an empty cipher, except to sell by the cartload, as they do hills about boston, to fill up some morass in the milky way.
now this doubloon was of purest, virgin gold, raked somewhere out of the heart of gorgeous hills, whence, east and west, over golden sands, the head-waters of many a pactolus flows.
and though now nailed amidst all the rustiness of iron bolts and the verdigris of copper spikes, yet, untouchable and immaculate to any foulness, it still preserved its quito glow.
nor, though placed amongst a ruthless crew and every hour passed by ruthless hands, and through the livelong nights shrouded with thick darkness which might cover any pilfering approach, nevertheless every sunrise found the doubloon where the sunset left it last.
for it was set apart and sanctified to one awe-striking end; and however wanton in their sailor ways, one and all, the mariners revered it as the white whale’s talisman.
sometimes they talked it over in the weary watch by night, wondering whose it was to be at last, and whether he would ever live to spend it.
now those noble golden coins of south america are as medals of the sun and tropic token-pieces.
here palms, alpacas, and volcanoes; sun’s disks and stars; ecliptics, horns-of-plenty, and rich banners waving, are in luxuriant profusion stamped; so that the precious gold seems almost to derive an added preciousness and enhancing glories, by passing through those fancy mints, so spanishly poetic.
it so chanced that the doubloon of the pequod was a most wealthy example of these things.
on its round border it bore the letters, republica del ecuador: quito.
so this bright coin came from a country planted in the middle of the world, and beneath the great equator, and named after it; and it had been cast midway up the andes, in the unwaning clime that knows no autumn.
zoned by those letters you saw the likeness of three andes’ summits; from one a flame; a tower on another; on the third a crowing cock; while arching over all was a segment of the partitioned zodiac, the signs all marked with their usual cabalistics, and the keystone sun entering the equinoctial point at libra.
before this equatorial coin, ahab, not unobserved by others, was now pausing.
“there’s something ever egotistical in mountain-tops and towers, and all other grand and lofty things; look here,—three peaks as proud as lucifer.
the firm tower, that is ahab; the volcano, that is ahab; the courageous, the undaunted, and victorious fowl, that, too, is ahab; all are ahab; and this round gold is but the image of the rounder globe, which, like a magician’s glass, to each and every man in turn but mirrors back his own mysterious self.
great pains, small gains for those who ask the world to solve them; it cannot solve itself.
methinks now this coined sun wears a ruddy face; but see!
aye, he enters the sign of storms, the equinox!
and but six months before he wheeled out of a former equinox at aries!
from storm to storm!
so be it, then.
born in throes, ’tis fit that man should live in pains and die in pangs!
so be it, then!
here’s stout stuff for woe to work on.
so be it, then.”
“no fairy fingers can have pressed the gold, but devil’s claws must have left their mouldings there since yesterday,” murmured starbuck to himself, leaning against the bulwarks.
“the old man seems to read belshazzar’s awful writing.
i have never marked the coin inspectingly.
he goes below; let me read.
a dark valley between three mighty, heaven-abiding peaks, that almost seem the trinity, in some faint earthly symbol.
so in this vale of death, god girds us round; and over all our gloom, the sun of righteousness still shines a beacon and a hope.
if we bend down our eyes, the dark vale shows her mouldy soil; but if we lift them, the bright sun meets our glance half way, to cheer.
yet, oh, the great sun is no fixture; and if, at midnight, we would fain snatch some sweet solace from him, we gaze for him in vain!
this coin speaks wisely, mildly, truly, but still sadly to me.
i will quit it, lest truth shake me falsely.”
“there now’s the old mogul,” soliloquized stubb by the try-works, “he’s been twigging it; and there goes starbuck from the same, and both with faces which i should say might be somewhere within nine fathoms long.
and all from looking at a piece of gold, which did i have it now on negro hill or in corlaer’s hook, i’d not look at it very long ere spending it.
humph!
in my poor, insignificant opinion, i regard this as queer.
i have seen doubloons before now in my voyagings; your doubloons of old spain, your doubloons of peru, your doubloons of chili, your doubloons of bolivia, your doubloons of popayan; with plenty of gold moidores and pistoles, and joes, and half joes, and quarter joes.
what then should there be in this doubloon of the equator that is so killing wonderful?
by golconda!
let me read it once.
halloa!
here’s signs and wonders truly!
that, now, is what old bowditch in his epitome calls the zodiac, and what my almanac below calls ditto.
i’ll get the almanac and as i have heard devils can be raised with daboll’s arithmetic, i’ll try my hand at raising a meaning out of these queer curvicues here with the massachusetts calendar.
here’s the book.
let’s see now.
signs and wonders; and the sun, he’s always among ’em.
hem, hem, hem; here they are—here they go—all alive:—aries, or the ram; taurus, or the bull and jimimi!
here’s gemini himself, or the twins.
well; the sun he wheels among ’em.
aye, here on the coin he’s just crossing the threshold between two of twelve sitting-rooms all in a ring.
book!
you lie there; the fact is, you books must know your places.
you’ll do to give us the bare words and facts, but we come in to supply the thoughts.
that’s my small experience, so far as the massachusetts calendar, and bowditch’s navigator, and daboll’s arithmetic go.
signs and wonders, eh?
pity if there is nothing wonderful in signs, and significant in wonders!
there’s a clue somewhere; wait a bit; hist—hark!
by jove, i have it!
look you, doubloon, your zodiac here is the life of man in one round chapter; and now i’ll read it off, straight out of the book.
come, almanack!
to begin: there’s aries, or the ram—lecherous dog, he begets us; then, taurus, or the bull—he bumps us the first thing; then gemini, or the twins—that is, virtue and vice; we try to reach virtue, when lo!
comes cancer the crab, and drags us back; and here, going from virtue, leo, a roaring lion, lies in the path—he gives a few fierce bites and surly dabs with his paw; we escape, and hail virgo, the virgin!
that’s our first love; we marry and think to be happy for aye, when pop comes libra, or the scales—happiness weighed and found wanting; and while we are very sad about that, lord!
how we suddenly jump, as scorpio, or the scorpion, stings us in the rear; we are curing the wound, when whang come the arrows all round; sagittarius, or the archer, is amusing himself.
as we pluck out the shafts, stand aside!
here’s the battering-ram, capricornus, or the goat; full tilt, he comes rushing, and headlong we are tossed; when aquarius, or the water-bearer, pours out his whole deluge and drowns us; and to wind up with pisces, or the fishes, we sleep.
there’s a sermon now, writ in high heaven, and the sun goes through it every year, and yet comes out of it all alive and hearty.
jollily he, aloft there, wheels through toil and trouble; and so, alow here, does jolly stubb.
oh, jolly’s the word for aye!
adieu, doubloon!
but stop; here comes little king-post; dodge round the try-works, now, and let’s hear what he’ll have to say.
there; he’s before it; he’ll out with something presently.
so, so; he’s beginning.”
“i see nothing here, but a round thing made of gold, and whoever raises a certain whale, this round thing belongs to him.
so, what’s all this staring been about?
it is worth sixteen dollars, that’s true; and at two cents the cigar, that’s nine hundred and sixty cigars.
i won’t smoke dirty pipes like stubb, but i like cigars, and here’s nine hundred and sixty of them; so here goes flask aloft to spy ’em out.”
“shall i call that wise or foolish, now; if it be really wise it has a foolish look to it; yet, if it be really foolish, then has it a sort of wiseish look to it.
but, avast; here comes our old manxman—the old hearse-driver, he must have been, that is, before he took to the sea.
he luffs up before the doubloon; halloa, and goes round on the other side of the mast; why, there’s a horse-shoe nailed on that side; and now he’s back again; what does that mean?
hark!
he’s muttering—voice like an old worn-out coffee-mill.
prick ears, and listen!”
“if the white whale be raised, it must be in a month and a day, when the sun stands in some one of these signs.
i’ve studied signs, and know their marks; they were taught me two score years ago, by the old witch in copenhagen.
now, in what sign will the sun then be?
the horse-shoe sign; for there it is, right opposite the gold.
and what’s the horse-shoe sign?
the lion is the horse-shoe sign—the roaring and devouring lion.
ship, old ship!
my old head shakes to think of thee.”
“there’s another rendering now; but still one text.
all sorts of men in one kind of world, you see.
dodge again!
here comes queequeg—all tattooing—looks like the signs of the zodiac himself.
what says the cannibal?
as i live he’s comparing notes; looking at his thigh bone; thinks the sun is in the thigh, or in the calf, or in the bowels, i suppose, as the old women talk surgeon’s astronomy in the back country.
and by jove, he’s found something there in the vicinity of his thigh—i guess it’s sagittarius, or the archer.
no: he don’t know what to make of the doubloon; he takes it for an old button off some king’s trowsers.
but, aside again!
here comes that ghost-devil, fedallah; tail coiled out of sight as usual, oakum in the toes of his pumps as usual.
what does he say, with that look of his?
ah, only makes a sign to the sign and bows himself; there is a sun on the coin—fire worshipper, depend upon it.
ho!
more and more.
this way comes pip—poor boy!
would he had died, or i; he’s half horrible to me.
he too has been watching all of these interpreters—myself included—and look now, he comes to read, with that unearthly idiot face.
stand away again and hear him.
hark!”
“i look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
“upon my soul, he’s been studying murray’s grammar!
improving his mind, poor fellow!
but what’s that he says now—hist!”
“i look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
“why, he’s getting it by heart—hist!
again.”
“i look, you look, he looks; we look, ye look, they look.”
“well, that’s funny.”
“and i, you, and he; and we, ye, and they, are all bats; and i’m a crow, especially when i stand a’top of this pine tree here.
caw!
caw!
caw!
caw!
caw!
caw!
ain’t i a crow?
and where’s the scare-crow?
there he stands; two bones stuck into a pair of old trowsers, and two more poked into the sleeves of an old jacket.”
“wonder if he means me?—complimentary!—poor lad!—i could go hang myself.
any way, for the present, i’ll quit pip’s vicinity.
i can stand the rest, for they have plain wits; but he’s too crazy-witty for my sanity.
so, so, i leave him muttering.”
“here’s the ship’s navel, this doubloon here, and they are all on fire to unscrew it.
but, unscrew your navel, and what’s the consequence?
then again, if it stays here, that is ugly, too, for when aught’s nailed to the mast it’s a sign that things grow desperate.
ha, ha!
old ahab!
the white whale; he’ll nail ye!
this is a pine tree.
my father, in old tolland county, cut down a pine tree once, and found a silver ring grown over in it; some old darkey’s wedding ring.
how did it get there?
and so they’ll say in the resurrection, when they come to fish up this old mast, and find a doubloon lodged in it, with bedded oysters for the shaggy bark.
oh, the gold!
the precious, precious, gold!
the green miser’ll hoard ye soon!
hish!
hish!
god goes ’mong the worlds blackberrying.
cook!
ho, cook!
and cook us!
jenny!
hey, hey, hey, hey, hey, jenny, jenny!
and get your hoe-cake done!”
chapter 100. leg and arm.
the pequod, of nantucket, meets the samuel enderby, of london.
“ship, ahoy!
hast seen the white whale?”
so cried ahab, once more hailing a ship showing english colours, bearing down under the stern.
trumpet to mouth, the old man was standing in his hoisted quarter-boat, his ivory leg plainly revealed to the stranger captain, who was carelessly reclining in his own boat’s bow.
he was a darkly-tanned, burly, good-natured, fine-looking man, of sixty or thereabouts, dressed in a spacious roundabout, that hung round him in festoons of blue pilot-cloth; and one empty arm of this jacket streamed behind him like the broidered arm of a hussar’s surcoat.
“hast seen the white whale?”
“see you this?” and withdrawing it from the folds that had hidden it, he held up a white arm of sperm whale bone, terminating in a wooden head like a mallet.
“man my boat!” cried ahab, impetuously, and tossing about the oars near him—“stand by to lower!”
in less than a minute, without quitting his little craft, he and his crew were dropped to the water, and were soon alongside of the stranger.
but here a curious difficulty presented itself.
in the excitement of the moment, ahab had forgotten that since the loss of his leg he had never once stepped on board of any vessel at sea but his own, and then it was always by an ingenious and very handy mechanical contrivance peculiar to the pequod, and a thing not to be rigged and shipped in any other vessel at a moment’s warning.
now, it is no very easy matter for anybody—except those who are almost hourly used to it, like whalemen—to clamber up a ship’s side from a boat on the open sea; for the great swells now lift the boat high up towards the bulwarks, and then instantaneously drop it half way down to the kelson.
so, deprived of one leg, and the strange ship of course being altogether unsupplied with the kindly invention, ahab now found himself abjectly reduced to a clumsy landsman again; hopelessly eyeing the uncertain changeful height he could hardly hope to attain.
it has before been hinted, perhaps, that every little untoward circumstance that befell him, and which indirectly sprang from his luckless mishap, almost invariably irritated or exasperated ahab.
and in the present instance, all this was heightened by the sight of the two officers of the strange ship, leaning over the side, by the perpendicular ladder of nailed cleets there, and swinging towards him a pair of tastefully-ornamented man-ropes; for at first they did not seem to bethink them that a one-legged man must be too much of a cripple to use their sea bannisters.
but this awkwardness only lasted a minute, because the strange captain, observing at a glance how affairs stood, cried out, “i see, i see!—avast heaving there!
jump, boys, and swing over the cutting-tackle.”
as good luck would have it, they had had a whale alongside a day or two previous, and the great tackles were still aloft, and the massive curved blubber-hook, now clean and dry, was still attached to the end.
this was quickly lowered to ahab, who at once comprehending it all, slid his solitary thigh into the curve of the hook (it was like sitting in the fluke of an anchor, or the crotch of an apple tree), and then giving the word, held himself fast, and at the same time also helped to hoist his own weight, by pulling hand-over-hand upon one of the running parts of the tackle.
soon he was carefully swung inside the high bulwarks, and gently landed upon the capstan head.
with his ivory arm frankly thrust forth in welcome, the other captain advanced, and ahab, putting out his ivory leg, and crossing the ivory arm (like two sword-fish blades) cried out in his walrus way, “aye, aye, hearty!
let us shake bones together!—an arm and a leg!—an arm that never can shrink, d’ye see; and a leg that never can run.
where did’st thou see the white whale?—how long ago?”
“the white whale,” said the englishman, pointing his ivory arm towards the east, and taking a rueful sight along it, as if it had been a telescope; “there i saw him, on the line, last season.”
“and he took that arm off, did he?” asked ahab, now sliding down from the capstan, and resting on the englishman’s shoulder, as he did so.
“aye, he was the cause of it, at least; and that leg, too?”
“spin me the yarn,” said ahab; “how was it?”
“it was the first time in my life that i ever cruised on the line,”
began the englishman.
“i was ignorant of the white whale at that time.
well, one day we lowered for a pod of four or five whales, and my boat fastened to one of them; a regular circus horse he was, too, that went milling and milling round so, that my boat’s crew could only trim dish, by sitting all their sterns on the outer gunwale.
presently up breaches from the bottom of the sea a bouncing great whale, with a milky-white head and hump, all crows’ feet and wrinkles.”
“it was he, it was he!” cried ahab, suddenly letting out his suspended breath.
“and harpoons sticking in near his starboard fin.”
“aye, aye—they were mine—my irons,” cried ahab, exultingly—“but on!”
“give me a chance, then,” said the englishman, good-humoredly.
“well, this old great-grandfather, with the white head and hump, runs all afoam into the pod, and goes to snapping furiously at my fast-line!
“aye, i see!—wanted to part it; free the fast-fish—an old trick—i know him.”
“how it was exactly,” continued the one-armed commander, “i do not know; but in biting the line, it got foul of his teeth, caught there somehow; but we didn’t know it then; so that when we afterwards pulled on the line, bounce we came plump on to his hump!
instead of the other whale’s; that went off to windward, all fluking.
seeing how matters stood, and what a noble great whale it was—the noblest and biggest i ever saw, sir, in my life—i resolved to capture him, spite of the boiling rage he seemed to be in.
and thinking the hap-hazard line would get loose, or the tooth it was tangled to might draw (for i have a devil of a boat’s crew for a pull on a whale-line); seeing all this, i say, i jumped into my first mate’s boat—mr.
mounttop’s here (by the way, captain—mounttop; mounttop—the captain);—as i was saying, i jumped into mounttop’s boat, which, d’ye see, was gunwale and gunwale with mine, then; and snatching the first harpoon, let this old great-grandfather have it.
but, lord, look you, sir—hearts and souls alive, man—the next instant, in a jiff, i was blind as a bat—both eyes out—all befogged and bedeadened with black foam—the whale’s tail looming straight up out of it, perpendicular in the air, like a marble steeple.
no use sterning all, then; but as i was groping at midday, with a blinding sun, all crown-jewels; as i was groping, i say, after the second iron, to toss it overboard—down comes the tail like a lima tower, cutting my boat in two, leaving each half in splinters; and, flukes first, the white hump backed through the wreck, as though it was all chips.
we all struck out.
to escape his terrible flailings, i seized hold of my harpoon-pole sticking in him, and for a moment clung to that like a sucking fish.
but a combing sea dashed me off, and at the same instant, the fish, taking one good dart forwards, went down like a flash; and the barb of that cursed second iron towing along near me caught me here” (clapping his hand just below his shoulder); “yes, caught me just here, i say, and bore me down to hell’s flames, i was thinking; when, when, all of a sudden, thank the good god, the barb ript its way along the flesh—clear along the whole length of my arm—came out nigh my wrist, and up i floated;—and that gentleman there will tell you the rest (by the way, captain—dr.
bunger, ship’s surgeon:
bunger, my lad,—the captain).
now, bunger boy, spin your part of the yarn.”
the professional gentleman thus familiarly pointed out, had been all the time standing near them, with nothing specific visible, to denote his gentlemanly rank on board.
his face was an exceedingly round but sober one; he was dressed in a faded blue woollen frock or shirt, and patched trowsers; and had thus far been dividing his attention between a marlingspike he held in one hand, and a pill-box held in the other, occasionally casting a critical glance at the ivory limbs of the two crippled captains.
but, at his superior’s introduction of him to ahab, he politely bowed, and straightway went on to do his captain’s bidding.
“it was a shocking bad wound,” began the whale-surgeon; “and, taking my advice, captain boomer here, stood our old sammy—”
“samuel enderby is the name of my ship,” interrupted the one-armed captain, addressing ahab; “go on, boy.”
“stood our old sammy off to the northward, to get out of the blazing hot weather there on the line.
but it was no use—i did all i could; sat up with him nights; was very severe with him in the matter of diet—”
“oh, very severe!” chimed in the patient himself; then suddenly altering his voice, “drinking hot rum toddies with me every night, till he couldn’t see to put on the bandages; and sending me to bed, half seas over, about three o’clock in the morning.
oh, ye stars!
he sat up with me indeed, and was very severe in my diet.
oh!
a great watcher, and very dietetically severe, is dr. bunger.
(bunger, you dog, laugh out!
why don’t ye?
you know you’re a precious jolly rascal.)
but, heave ahead, boy, i’d rather be killed by you than kept alive by any other man.”
“my captain, you must have ere this perceived, respected sir”—said the imperturbable godly-looking bunger, slightly bowing to ahab—“is apt to be facetious at times; he spins us many clever things of that sort.
but i may as well say—en passant, as the french remark—that i myself—that is to say, jack bunger, late of the reverend clergy—am a strict total abstinence man; i never drink—”
“water!” cried the captain; “he never drinks it; it’s a sort of fits to him; fresh water throws him into the hydrophobia; but go on—go on with the arm story.”
“yes, i may as well,” said the surgeon, coolly.
“i was about observing, sir, before captain boomer’s facetious interruption, that spite of my best and severest endeavors, the wound kept getting worse and worse; the truth was, sir, it was as ugly gaping wound as surgeon ever saw; more than two feet and several inches long.
i measured it with the lead line.
in short, it grew black; i knew what was threatened, and off it came.
but i had no hand in shipping that ivory arm there; that thing is against all rule”—pointing at it with the marlingspike—“that is the captain’s work, not mine; he ordered the carpenter to make it; he had that club-hammer there put to the end, to knock some one’s brains out with, i suppose, as he tried mine once.
he flies into diabolical passions sometimes.
do ye see this dent, sir”—removing his hat, and brushing aside his hair, and exposing a bowl-like cavity in his skull, but which bore not the slightest scarry trace, or any token of ever having been a wound—“well, the captain there will tell you how that came here; he knows.”
“no, i don’t,” said the captain, “but his mother did; he was born with it.
oh, you solemn rogue, you—you bunger!
was there ever such another bunger in the watery world?
bunger, when you die, you ought to die in pickle, you dog; you should be preserved to future ages, you rascal.”
“what became of the white whale?” now cried ahab, who thus far had been impatiently listening to this by-play between the two englishmen.
“oh!” cried the one-armed captain, “oh, yes!
well; after he sounded, we didn’t see him again for some time; in fact, as i before hinted, i didn’t then know what whale it was that had served me such a trick, till some time afterwards, when coming back to the line, we heard about moby dick—as some call him—and then i knew it was he.”
“did’st thou cross his wake again?”
“twice.”
“but could not fasten?”
“didn’t want to try to: ain’t one limb enough?
what should i do without this other arm?
and i’m thinking moby dick doesn’t bite so much as he swallows.”
“well, then,” interrupted bunger, “give him your left arm for bait to get the right.
do you know, gentlemen”—very gravely and mathematically bowing to each captain in succession—“do you know, gentlemen, that the digestive organs of the whale are so inscrutably constructed by divine providence, that it is quite impossible for him to completely digest even a man’s arm?
and he knows it too.
so that what you take for the white whale’s malice is only his awkwardness.
for he never means to swallow a single limb; he only thinks to terrify by feints.
but sometimes he is like the old juggling fellow, formerly a patient of mine in ceylon, that making believe swallow jack-knives, once upon a time let one drop into him in good earnest, and there it stayed for a twelvemonth or more; when i gave him an emetic, and he heaved it up in small tacks, d’ye see.
no possible way for him to digest that jack-knife, and fully incorporate it into his general bodily system.
yes, captain boomer, if you are quick enough about it, and have a mind to pawn one arm for the sake of the privilege of giving decent burial to the other, why in that case the arm is yours; only let the whale have another chance at you shortly, that’s all.”
“no, thank ye, bunger,” said the english captain, “he’s welcome to the arm he has, since i can’t help it, and didn’t know him then; but not to another one.
no more white whales for me; i’ve lowered for him once, and that has satisfied me.
there would be great glory in killing him, i know that; and there is a ship-load of precious sperm in him, but, hark ye, he’s best let alone; don’t you think so, captain?”—glancing at the ivory leg.
“he is.
but he will still be hunted, for all that.
what is best let alone, that accursed thing is not always what least allures.
he’s all a magnet!
how long since thou saw’st him last?
which way heading?”
“bless my soul, and curse the foul fiend’s,” cried bunger, stoopingly walking round ahab, and like a dog, strangely snuffing; “this man’s blood—bring the thermometer!—it’s at the boiling point!—his pulse makes these planks beat!—sir!”—taking a lancet from his pocket, and drawing near to ahab’s arm.
“avast!” roared ahab, dashing him against the bulwarks—“man the boat!
which way heading?”
“good god!” cried the english captain, to whom the question was put.
“what’s the matter?
he was heading east, i think.—is your captain crazy?” whispering fedallah.
but fedallah, putting a finger on his lip, slid over the bulwarks to take the boat’s steering oar, and ahab, swinging the cutting-tackle towards him, commanded the ship’s sailors to stand by to lower.
in a moment he was standing in the boat’s stern, and the manilla men were springing to their oars.
in vain the english captain hailed him.
with back to the stranger ship, and face set like a flint to his own, ahab stood upright till alongside of the pequod.
chapter 101. the decanter.
ere the english ship fades from sight, be it set down here, that she hailed from london, and was named after the late samuel enderby, merchant of that city, the original of the famous whaling house of enderby & sons; a house which in my poor whaleman’s opinion, comes not far behind the united royal houses of the tudors and bourbons, in point of real historical interest.
how long, prior to the year of our lord 1775, this great whaling house was in existence, my numerous fish-documents do not make plain; but in that year (1775) it fitted out the first english ships that ever regularly hunted the sperm whale; though for some score of years previous (ever since 1726) our valiant coffins and maceys of nantucket and the vineyard had in large fleets pursued that leviathan, but only in the north and south atlantic: not elsewhere.
be it distinctly recorded here, that the nantucketers were the first among mankind to harpoon with civilized steel the great sperm whale; and that for half a century they were the only people of the whole globe who so harpooned him.
in 1778, a fine ship, the amelia, fitted out for the express purpose, and at the sole charge of the vigorous enderbys, boldly rounded cape horn, and was the first among the nations to lower a whale-boat of any sort in the great south sea.
the voyage was a skilful and lucky one; and returning to her berth with her hold full of the precious sperm, the amelia’s example was soon followed by other ships, english and american, and thus the vast sperm whale grounds of the pacific were thrown open.
but not content with this good deed, the indefatigable house again bestirred itself: samuel and all his sons—how many, their mother only knows—and under their immediate auspices, and partly, i think, at their expense, the british government was induced to send the sloop-of-war rattler on a whaling voyage of discovery into the south sea.
commanded by a naval post-captain, the rattler made a rattling voyage of it, and did some service; how much does not appear.
but this is not all.
in 1819, the same house fitted out a discovery whale ship of their own, to go on a tasting cruise to the remote waters of japan.
that ship—well called the “syren”—made a noble experimental cruise; and it was thus that the great japanese whaling ground first became generally known.
the syren in this famous voyage was commanded by a captain coffin, a nantucketer.
all honor to the enderbies, therefore, whose house, i think, exists to the present day; though doubtless the original samuel must long ago have slipped his cable for the great south sea of the other world.
the ship named after him was worthy of the honor, being a very fast sailer and a noble craft every way.
i boarded her once at midnight somewhere off the patagonian coast, and drank good flip down in the forecastle.
it was a fine gam we had, and they were all trumps—every soul on board.
a short life to them, and a jolly death.
and that fine gam i had—long, very long after old ahab touched her planks with his ivory heel—it minds me of the noble, solid, saxon hospitality of that ship; and may my parson forget me, and the devil remember me, if i ever lose sight of it.
flip?
did i say we had flip?
yes, and we flipped it at the rate of ten gallons the hour; and when the squall came (for it’s squally off there by patagonia), and all hands—visitors and all—were called to reef topsails, we were so top-heavy that we had to swing each other aloft in bowlines; and we ignorantly furled the skirts of our jackets into the sails, so that we hung there, reefed fast in the howling gale, a warning example to all drunken tars.
however, the masts did not go overboard; and by and by we scrambled down, so sober, that we had to pass the flip again, though the savage salt spray bursting down the forecastle scuttle, rather too much diluted and pickled it to my taste.
the beef was fine—tough, but with body in it.
they said it was bull-beef; others, that it was dromedary beef; but i do not know, for certain, how that was.
they had dumplings too; small, but substantial, symmetrically globular, and indestructible dumplings.
i fancied that you could feel them, and roll them about in you after they were swallowed.
if you stooped over too far forward, you risked their pitching out of you like billiard-balls.
the bread—but that couldn’t be helped; besides, it was an anti-scorbutic; in short, the bread contained the only fresh fare they had.
but the forecastle was not very light, and it was very easy to step over into a dark corner when you ate it.
but all in all, taking her from truck to helm, considering the dimensions of the cook’s boilers, including his own live parchment boilers; fore and aft, i say, the samuel enderby was a jolly ship; of good fare and plenty; fine flip and strong; crack fellows all, and capital from boot heels to hat-band.
but why was it, think ye, that the samuel enderby, and some other english whalers i know of—not all though—were such famous, hospitable ships; that passed round the beef, and the bread, and the can, and the joke; and were not soon weary of eating, and drinking, and laughing?
i will tell you.
the abounding good cheer of these english whalers is matter for historical research.
nor have i been at all sparing of historical whale research, when it has seemed needed.
the english were preceded in the whale fishery by the hollanders, zealanders, and danes; from whom they derived many terms still extant in the fishery; and what is yet more, their fat old fashions, touching plenty to eat and drink.
for, as a general thing, the english merchant-ship scrimps her crew; but not so the english whaler.
hence, in the english, this thing of whaling good cheer is not normal and natural, but incidental and particular; and, therefore, must have some special origin, which is here pointed out, and will be still further elucidated.
during my researches in the leviathanic histories, i stumbled upon an ancient dutch volume, which, by the musty whaling smell of it, i knew must be about whalers.
the title was, “dan coopman,” wherefore i concluded that this must be the invaluable memoirs of some amsterdam cooper in the fishery, as every whale ship must carry its cooper.
i was reinforced in this opinion by seeing that it was the production of one “fitz swackhammer.” but my friend dr. snodhead, a very learned man, professor of low dutch and high german in the college of santa claus and st. pott’s, to whom i handed the work for translation, giving him a box of sperm candles for his trouble—this same dr. snodhead, so soon as he spied the book, assured me that “dan coopman” did not mean “the cooper,” but “the merchant.” in short, this ancient and learned low dutch book treated of the commerce of holland; and, among other subjects, contained a very interesting account of its whale fishery.
and in this chapter it was, headed, “smeer,” or “fat,” that i found a long detailed list of the outfits for the larders and cellars of 180 sail of dutch whalemen; from which list, as translated by dr. snodhead, i transcribe the following:
400,000 lbs.
of beef.
60,000 lbs.
friesland pork.
150,000 lbs.
of stock fish.
550,000 lbs.
of biscuit.
72,000 lbs.
of soft bread.
2,800 firkins of butter.
20,000 lbs.
texel & leyden cheese.
144,000 lbs.
cheese (probably an inferior article).
550 ankers of geneva.
10,800 barrels of beer.
most statistical tables are parchingly dry in the reading; not so in the present case, however, where the reader is flooded with whole pipes, barrels, quarts, and gills of good gin and good cheer.
at the time, i devoted three days to the studious digesting of all this beer, beef, and bread, during which many profound thoughts were incidentally suggested to me, capable of a transcendental and platonic application; and, furthermore, i compiled supplementary tables of my own, touching the probable quantity of stock-fish, etc., consumed by every low dutch harpooneer in that ancient greenland and spitzbergen whale fishery.
in the first place, the amount of butter, and texel and leyden cheese consumed, seems amazing.
i impute it, though, to their naturally unctuous natures, being rendered still more unctuous by the nature of their vocation, and especially by their pursuing their game in those frigid polar seas, on the very coasts of that esquimaux country where the convivial natives pledge each other in bumpers of train oil.
the quantity of beer, too, is very large, 10,800 barrels.
now, as those polar fisheries could only be prosecuted in the short summer of that climate, so that the whole cruise of one of these dutch whalemen, including the short voyage to and from the spitzbergen sea, did not much exceed three months, say, and reckoning 30 men to each of their fleet of 180 sail, we have 5,400 low dutch seamen in all; therefore, i say, we have precisely two barrels of beer per man, for a twelve weeks’
allowance, exclusive of his fair proportion of that 550 ankers of gin.
now, whether these gin and beer harpooneers, so fuddled as one might fancy them to have been, were the right sort of men to stand up in a boat’s head, and take good aim at flying whales; this would seem somewhat improbable.
yet they did aim at them, and hit them too.
but this was very far north, be it remembered, where beer agrees well with the constitution; upon the equator, in our southern fishery, beer would be apt to make the harpooneer sleepy at the mast-head and boozy in his boat; and grievous loss might ensue to nantucket and new bedford.
but no more; enough has been said to show that the old dutch whalers of two or three centuries ago were high livers; and that the english whalers have not neglected so excellent an example.
for, say they, when cruising in an empty ship, if you can get nothing better out of the world, get a good dinner out of it, at least.
and this empties the decanter.
chapter 102. a bower in the arsacides.
hitherto, in descriptively treating of the sperm whale, i have chiefly dwelt upon the marvels of his outer aspect; or separately and in detail upon some few interior structural features.
but to a large and thorough sweeping comprehension of him, it behooves me now to unbutton him still further, and untagging the points of his hose, unbuckling his garters, and casting loose the hooks and the eyes of the joints of his innermost bones, set him before you in his ultimatum; that is to say, in his unconditional skeleton.
but how now, ishmael?
how is it, that you, a mere oarsman in the fishery, pretend to know aught about the subterranean parts of the whale?
did erudite stubb, mounted upon your capstan, deliver lectures on the anatomy of the cetacea; and by help of the windlass, hold up a specimen rib for exhibition?
explain thyself, ishmael.
can you land a full-grown whale on your deck for examination, as a cook dishes a roast-pig?
surely not.
a veritable witness have you hitherto been, ishmael; but have a care how you seize the privilege of jonah alone; the privilege of discoursing upon the joists and beams; the rafters, ridge-pole, sleepers, and under-pinnings, making up the frame-work of leviathan; and belike of the tallow-vats, dairy-rooms, butteries, and cheeseries in his bowels.
i confess, that since jonah, few whalemen have penetrated very far beneath the skin of the adult whale; nevertheless, i have been blessed with an opportunity to dissect him in miniature.
in a ship i belonged to, a small cub sperm whale was once bodily hoisted to the deck for his poke or bag, to make sheaths for the barbs of the harpoons, and for the heads of the lances.
think you i let that chance go, without using my boat-hatchet and jack-knife, and breaking the seal and reading all the contents of that young cub?
and as for my exact knowledge of the bones of the leviathan in their gigantic, full grown development, for that rare knowledge i am indebted to my late royal friend tranquo, king of tranque, one of the arsacides.
for being at tranque, years ago, when attached to the trading-ship dey of algiers, i was invited to spend part of the arsacidean holidays with the lord of tranque, at his retired palm villa at pupella; a sea-side glen not very far distant from what our sailors called bamboo-town, his capital.
among many other fine qualities, my royal friend tranquo, being gifted with a devout love for all matters of barbaric vertu, had brought together in pupella whatever rare things the more ingenious of his people could invent; chiefly carved woods of wonderful devices, chiselled shells, inlaid spears, costly paddles, aromatic canoes; and all these distributed among whatever natural wonders, the wonder-freighted, tribute-rendering waves had cast upon his shores.
chief among these latter was a great sperm whale, which, after an unusually long raging gale, had been found dead and stranded, with his head against a cocoa-nut tree, whose plumage-like, tufted droopings seemed his verdant jet.
when the vast body had at last been stripped of its fathom-deep enfoldings, and the bones become dust dry in the sun, then the skeleton was carefully transported up the pupella glen, where a grand temple of lordly palms now sheltered it.
the ribs were hung with trophies; the vertebræ were carved with arsacidean annals, in strange hieroglyphics; in the skull, the priests kept up an unextinguished aromatic flame, so that the mystic head again sent forth its vapory spout; while, suspended from a bough, the terrific lower jaw vibrated over all the devotees, like the hair-hung sword that so affrighted damocles.
it was a wondrous sight.
the wood was green as mosses of the icy glen; the trees stood high and haughty, feeling their living sap; the industrious earth beneath was as a weaver’s loom, with a gorgeous carpet on it, whereof the ground-vine tendrils formed the warp and woof, and the living flowers the figures.
all the trees, with all their laden branches; all the shrubs, and ferns, and grasses; the message-carrying air; all these unceasingly were active.
through the lacings of the leaves, the great sun seemed a flying shuttle weaving the unwearied verdure.
oh, busy weaver!
unseen weaver!—pause!—one word!—whither flows the fabric?
what palace may it deck?
wherefore all these ceaseless toilings?
speak, weaver!—stay thy hand!—but one single word with thee!
nay—the shuttle flies—the figures float from forth the loom; the freshet-rushing carpet for ever slides away.
the weaver-god, he weaves; and by that weaving is he deafened, that he hears no mortal voice; and by that humming, we, too, who look on the loom are deafened; and only when we escape it shall we hear the thousand voices that speak through it.
for even so it is in all material factories.
the spoken words that are inaudible among the flying spindles; those same words are plainly heard without the walls, bursting from the opened casements.
thereby have villainies been detected.
ah, mortal!
then, be heedful; for so, in all this din of the great world’s loom, thy subtlest thinkings may be overheard afar.
now, amid the green, life-restless loom of that arsacidean wood, the great, white, worshipped skeleton lay lounging—a gigantic idler!
yet, as the ever-woven verdant warp and woof intermixed and hummed around him, the mighty idler seemed the cunning weaver; himself all woven over with the vines; every month assuming greener, fresher verdure; but himself a skeleton.
life folded death; death trellised life; the grim god wived with youthful life, and begat him curly-headed glories.
now, when with royal tranquo i visited this wondrous whale, and saw the skull an altar, and the artificial smoke ascending from where the real jet had issued, i marvelled that the king should regard a chapel as an object of vertu.
he laughed.
but more i marvelled that the priests should swear that smoky jet of his was genuine.
to and fro i paced before this skeleton—brushed the vines aside—broke through the ribs—and with a ball of arsacidean twine, wandered, eddied long amid its many winding, shaded colonnades and arbours.
but soon my line was out; and following it back, i emerged from the opening where i entered.
i saw no living thing within; naught was there but bones.
cutting me a green measuring-rod, i once more dived within the skeleton.
from their arrow-slit in the skull, the priests perceived me taking the altitude of the final rib, “how now!” they shouted; “dar’st thou measure this our god!
that’s for us.” “aye, priests—well, how long do ye make him, then?” but hereupon a fierce contest rose among them, concerning feet and inches; they cracked each other’s sconces with their yard-sticks—the great skull echoed—and seizing that lucky chance, i quickly concluded my own admeasurements.
these admeasurements i now propose to set before you.
but first, be it recorded, that, in this matter, i am not free to utter any fancied measurement i please.
because there are skeleton authorities you can refer to, to test my accuracy.
there is a leviathanic museum, they tell me, in hull, england, one of the whaling ports of that country, where they have some fine specimens of fin-backs and other whales.
likewise, i have heard that in the museum of manchester, in new hampshire, they have what the proprietors call “the only perfect specimen of a greenland or river whale in the united states.” moreover, at a place in yorkshire, england, burton constable by name, a certain sir clifford constable has in his possession the skeleton of a sperm whale, but of moderate size, by no means of the full-grown magnitude of my friend king tranquo’s.
in both cases, the stranded whales to which these two skeletons belonged, were originally claimed by their proprietors upon similar grounds.
king tranquo seizing his because he wanted it; and sir clifford, because he was lord of the seignories of those parts.
sir clifford’s whale has been articulated throughout; so that, like a great chest of drawers, you can open and shut him, in all his bony cavities—spread out his ribs like a gigantic fan—and swing all day upon his lower jaw.
locks are to be put upon some of his trap-doors and shutters; and a footman will show round future visitors with a bunch of keys at his side.
sir clifford thinks of charging twopence for a peep at the whispering gallery in the spinal column; threepence to hear the echo in the hollow of his cerebellum; and sixpence for the unrivalled view from his forehead.
the skeleton dimensions i shall now proceed to set down are copied verbatim from my right arm, where i had them tattooed; as in my wild wanderings at that period, there was no other secure way of preserving such valuable statistics.
but as i was crowded for space, and wished the other parts of my body to remain a blank page for a poem i was then composing—at least, what untattooed parts might remain—i did not trouble myself with the odd inches; nor, indeed, should inches at all enter into a congenial admeasurement of the whale.
chapter 103. measurement of the whale’s skeleton.
in the first place, i wish to lay before you a particular, plain statement, touching the living bulk of this leviathan, whose skeleton we are briefly to exhibit.
such a statement may prove useful here.
according to a careful calculation i have made, and which i partly base upon captain scoresby’s estimate, of seventy tons for the largest sized greenland whale of sixty feet in length; according to my careful calculation, i say, a sperm whale of the largest magnitude, between eighty-five and ninety feet in length, and something less than forty feet in its fullest circumference, such a whale will weigh at least ninety tons; so that, reckoning thirteen men to a ton, he would considerably outweigh the combined population of a whole village of one thousand one hundred inhabitants.
think you not then that brains, like yoked cattle, should be put to this leviathan, to make him at all budge to any landsman’s imagination?
having already in various ways put before you his skull, spout-hole, jaw, teeth, tail, forehead, fins, and divers other parts, i shall now simply point out what is most interesting in the general bulk of his unobstructed bones.
but as the colossal skull embraces so very large a proportion of the entire extent of the skeleton; as it is by far the most complicated part; and as nothing is to be repeated concerning it in this chapter, you must not fail to carry it in your mind, or under your arm, as we proceed, otherwise you will not gain a complete notion of the general structure we are about to view.
in length, the sperm whale’s skeleton at tranque measured seventy-two feet; so that when fully invested and extended in life, he must have been ninety feet long; for in the whale, the skeleton loses about one fifth in length compared with the living body.
of this seventy-two feet, his skull and jaw comprised some twenty feet, leaving some fifty feet of plain back-bone.
attached to this back-bone, for something less than a third of its length, was the mighty circular basket of ribs which once enclosed his vitals.
to me this vast ivory-ribbed chest, with the long, unrelieved spine, extending far away from it in a straight line, not a little resembled the hull of a great ship new-laid upon the stocks, when only some twenty of her naked bow-ribs are inserted, and the keel is otherwise, for the time, but a long, disconnected timber.
the ribs were ten on a side.
the first, to begin from the neck, was nearly six feet long; the second, third, and fourth were each successively longer, till you came to the climax of the fifth, or one of the middle ribs, which measured eight feet and some inches.
from that part, the remaining ribs diminished, till the tenth and last only spanned five feet and some inches.
in general thickness, they all bore a seemly correspondence to their length.
the middle ribs were the most arched.
in some of the arsacides they are used for beams whereon to lay footpath bridges over small streams.
in considering these ribs, i could not but be struck anew with the circumstance, so variously repeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale is by no means the mould of his invested form.
the largest of the tranque ribs, one of the middle ones, occupied that part of the fish which, in life, is greatest in depth.
now, the greatest depth of the invested body of this particular whale must have been at least sixteen feet; whereas, the corresponding rib measured but little more than eight feet.
so that this rib only conveyed half of the true notion of the living magnitude of that part.
besides, for some way, where i now saw but a naked spine, all that had been once wrapped round with tons of added bulk in flesh, muscle, blood, and bowels.
still more, for the ample fins, i here saw but a few disordered joints; and in place of the weighty and majestic, but boneless flukes, an utter blank!
how vain and foolish, then, thought i, for timid untravelled man to try to comprehend aright this wondrous whale, by merely poring over his dead attenuated skeleton, stretched in this peaceful wood.
no.
only in the heart of quickest perils; only when within the eddyings of his angry flukes; only on the profound unbounded sea, can the fully invested whale be truly and livingly found out.
but the spine.
for that, the best way we can consider it is, with a crane, to pile its bones high up on end.
no speedy enterprise.
but now it’s done, it looks much like pompey’s pillar.
there are forty and odd vertebræ in all, which in the skeleton are not locked together.
they mostly lie like the great knobbed blocks on a gothic spire, forming solid courses of heavy masonry.
the largest, a middle one, is in width something less than three feet, and in depth more than four.
the smallest, where the spine tapers away into the tail, is only two inches in width, and looks something like a white billiard-ball.
i was told that there were still smaller ones, but they had been lost by some little cannibal urchins, the priest’s children, who had stolen them to play marbles with.
thus we see how that the spine of even the hugest of living things tapers off at last into simple child’s play.
chapter 104. the fossil whale.
from his mighty bulk the whale affords a most congenial theme whereon to enlarge, amplify, and generally expatiate.
would you, you could not compress him.
by good rights he should only be treated of in imperial folio.
not to tell over again his furlongs from spiracle to tail, and the yards he measures about the waist; only think of the gigantic involutions of his intestines, where they lie in him like great cables and hawsers coiled away in the subterranean orlop-deck of a line-of-battle-ship.
since i have undertaken to manhandle this leviathan, it behooves me to approve myself omnisciently exhaustive in the enterprise; not overlooking the minutest seminal germs of his blood, and spinning him out to the uttermost coil of his bowels.
having already described him in most of his present habitatory and anatomical peculiarities, it now remains to magnify him in an archæological, fossiliferous, and antediluvian point of view.
applied to any other creature than the leviathan—to an ant or a flea—such portly terms might justly be deemed unwarrantably grandiloquent.
but when leviathan is the text, the case is altered.
fain am i to stagger to this emprise under the weightiest words of the dictionary.
and here be it said, that whenever it has been convenient to consult one in the course of these dissertations, i have invariably used a huge quarto edition of johnson, expressly purchased for that purpose; because that famous lexicographer’s uncommon personal bulk more fitted him to compile a lexicon to be used by a whale author like me.
one often hears of writers that rise and swell with their subject, though it may seem but an ordinary one.
how, then, with me, writing of this leviathan?
unconsciously my chirography expands into placard capitals.
give me a condor’s quill!
give me vesuvius’ crater for an inkstand!
friends, hold my arms!
for in the mere act of penning my thoughts of this leviathan, they weary me, and make me faint with their outreaching comprehensiveness of sweep, as if to include the whole circle of the sciences, and all the generations of whales, and men, and mastodons, past, present, and to come, with all the revolving panoramas of empire on earth, and throughout the whole universe, not excluding its suburbs.
such, and so magnifying, is the virtue of a large and liberal theme!
we expand to its bulk.
to produce a mighty book, you must choose a mighty theme.
no great and enduring volume can ever be written on the flea, though many there be who have tried it.
ere entering upon the subject of fossil whales, i present my credentials as a geologist, by stating that in my miscellaneous time i have been a stone-mason, and also a great digger of ditches, canals and wells, wine-vaults, cellars, and cisterns of all sorts.
likewise, by way of preliminary, i desire to remind the reader, that while in the earlier geological strata there are found the fossils of monsters now almost completely extinct; the subsequent relics discovered in what are called the tertiary formations seem the connecting, or at any rate intercepted links, between the antichronical creatures, and those whose remote posterity are said to have entered the ark; all the fossil whales hitherto discovered belong to the tertiary period, which is the last preceding the superficial formations.
and though none of them precisely answer to any known species of the present time, they are yet sufficiently akin to them in general respects, to justify their taking rank as cetacean fossils.
detached broken fossils of pre-adamite whales, fragments of their bones and skeletons, have within thirty years past, at various intervals, been found at the base of the alps, in lombardy, in france, in england, in scotland, and in the states of louisiana, mississippi, and alabama.
among the more curious of such remains is part of a skull, which in the year 1779 was disinterred in the rue dauphine in paris, a short street opening almost directly upon the palace of the tuileries; and bones disinterred in excavating the great docks of antwerp, in napoleon’s time.
cuvier pronounced these fragments to have belonged to some utterly unknown leviathanic species.
but by far the most wonderful of all cetacean relics was the almost complete vast skeleton of an extinct monster, found in the year 1842, on the plantation of judge creagh, in alabama.
the awe-stricken credulous slaves in the vicinity took it for the bones of one of the fallen angels.
the alabama doctors declared it a huge reptile, and bestowed upon it the name of basilosaurus.
but some specimen bones of it being taken across the sea to owen, the english anatomist, it turned out that this alleged reptile was a whale, though of a departed species.
a significant illustration of the fact, again and again repeated in this book, that the skeleton of the whale furnishes but little clue to the shape of his fully invested body.
so owen rechristened the monster zeuglodon; and in his paper read before the london geological society, pronounced it, in substance, one of the most extraordinary creatures which the mutations of the globe have blotted out of existence.
when i stand among these mighty leviathan skeletons, skulls, tusks, jaws, ribs, and vertebræ, all characterized by partial resemblances to the existing breeds of sea-monsters; but at the same time bearing on the other hand similar affinities to the annihilated antichronical leviathans, their incalculable seniors; i am, by a flood, borne back to that wondrous period, ere time itself can be said to have begun; for time began with man.
here saturn’s grey chaos rolls over me, and i obtain dim, shuddering glimpses into those polar eternities; when wedged bastions of ice pressed hard upon what are now the tropics; and in all the 25,000 miles of this world’s circumference, not an inhabitable hand’s breadth of land was visible.
then the whole world was the whale’s; and, king of creation, he left his wake along the present lines of the andes and the himmalehs.
who can show a pedigree like leviathan?
ahab’s harpoon had shed older blood than the pharaoh’s.
methuselah seems a school-boy.
i look round to shake hands with shem.
i am horror-struck at this antemosaic, unsourced existence of the unspeakable terrors of the whale, which, having been before all time, must needs exist after all humane ages are over.
but not alone has this leviathan left his pre-adamite traces in the stereotype plates of nature, and in limestone and marl bequeathed his ancient bust; but upon egyptian tablets, whose antiquity seems to claim for them an almost fossiliferous character, we find the unmistakable print of his fin.
in an apartment of the great temple of denderah, some fifty years ago, there was discovered upon the granite ceiling a sculptured and painted planisphere, abounding in centaurs, griffins, and dolphins, similar to the grotesque figures on the celestial globe of the moderns.
gliding among them, old leviathan swam as of yore; was there swimming in that planisphere, centuries before solomon was cradled.
nor must there be omitted another strange attestation of the antiquity of the whale, in his own osseous post-diluvian reality, as set down by the venerable john leo, the old barbary traveller.
“not far from the sea-side, they have a temple, the rafters and beams of which are made of whale-bones; for whales of a monstrous size are oftentimes cast up dead upon that shore.
the common people imagine, that by a secret power bestowed by god upon the temple, no whale can pass it without immediate death.
but the truth of the matter is, that on either side of the temple, there are rocks that shoot two miles into the sea, and wound the whales when they light upon ’em.
they keep a whale’s rib of an incredible length for a miracle, which lying upon the ground with its convex part uppermost, makes an arch, the head of which cannot be reached by a man upon a camel’s back.
this rib (says john leo) is said to have layn there a hundred years before i saw it.
their historians affirm, that a prophet who prophesy’d of mahomet, came from this temple, and some do not stand to assert, that the prophet jonas was cast forth by the whale at the base of the temple.”
in this afric temple of the whale i leave you, reader, and if you be a nantucketer, and a whaleman, you will silently worship there.
chapter 105. does the whale’s magnitude diminish?—will he perish?
inasmuch, then, as this leviathan comes floundering down upon us from the head-waters of the eternities, it may be fitly inquired, whether, in the long course of his generations, he has not degenerated from the original bulk of his sires.
but upon investigation we find, that not only are the whales of the present day superior in magnitude to those whose fossil remains are found in the tertiary system (embracing a distinct geological period prior to man), but of the whales found in that tertiary system, those belonging to its latter formations exceed in size those of its earlier ones.
of all the pre-adamite whales yet exhumed, by far the largest is the alabama one mentioned in the last chapter, and that was less than seventy feet in length in the skeleton.
whereas, we have already seen, that the tape-measure gives seventy-two feet for the skeleton of a large sized modern whale.
and i have heard, on whalemen’s authority, that sperm whales have been captured near a hundred feet long at the time of capture.
but may it not be, that while the whales of the present hour are an advance in magnitude upon those of all previous geological periods; may it not be, that since adam’s time they have degenerated?
assuredly, we must conclude so, if we are to credit the accounts of such gentlemen as pliny, and the ancient naturalists generally.
for pliny tells us of whales that embraced acres of living bulk, and aldrovandus of others which measured eight hundred feet in length—rope walks and thames tunnels of whales!
and even in the days of banks and solander, cooke’s naturalists, we find a danish member of the academy of sciences setting down certain iceland whales (reydan-siskur, or wrinkled bellies) at one hundred and twenty yards; that is, three hundred and sixty feet.
and lacépède, the french naturalist, in his elaborate history of whales, in the very beginning of his work (page 3), sets down the right whale at one hundred metres, three hundred and twenty-eight feet.
and this work was published so late as a.d. 1825.
but will any whaleman believe these stories?
no.
the whale of to-day is as big as his ancestors in pliny’s time.
and if ever i go where pliny is, i, a whaleman (more than he was), will make bold to tell him so.
because i cannot understand how it is, that while the egyptian mummies that were buried thousands of years before even pliny was born, do not measure so much in their coffins as a modern kentuckian in his socks; and while the cattle and other animals sculptured on the oldest egyptian and nineveh tablets, by the relative proportions in which they are drawn, just as plainly prove that the high-bred, stall-fed, prize cattle of smithfield, not only equal, but far exceed in magnitude the fattest of pharaoh’s fat kine; in the face of all this, i will not admit that of all animals the whale alone should have degenerated.
but still another inquiry remains; one often agitated by the more recondite nantucketers.
whether owing to the almost omniscient look-outs at the mast-heads of the whale-ships, now penetrating even through behring’s straits, and into the remotest secret drawers and lockers of the world; and the thousand harpoons and lances darted along all continental coasts; the moot point is, whether leviathan can long endure so wide a chase, and so remorseless a havoc; whether he must not at last be exterminated from the waters, and the last whale, like the last man, smoke his last pipe, and then himself evaporate in the final puff.
comparing the humped herds of whales with the humped herds of buffalo, which, not forty years ago, overspread by tens of thousands the prairies of illinois and missouri, and shook their iron manes and scowled with their thunder-clotted brows upon the sites of populous river-capitals, where now the polite broker sells you land at a dollar an inch; in such a comparison an irresistible argument would seem furnished, to show that the hunted whale cannot now escape speedy extinction.
but you must look at this matter in every light.
though so short a period ago—not a good lifetime—the census of the buffalo in illinois exceeded the census of men now in london, and though at the present day not one horn or hoof of them remains in all that region; and though the cause of this wondrous extermination was the spear of man; yet the far different nature of the whale-hunt peremptorily forbids so inglorious an end to the leviathan.
forty men in one ship hunting the sperm whales for forty-eight months think they have done extremely well, and thank god, if at last they carry home the oil of forty fish.
whereas, in the days of the old canadian and indian hunters and trappers of the west, when the far west (in whose sunset suns still rise) was a wilderness and a virgin, the same number of moccasined men, for the same number of months, mounted on horse instead of sailing in ships, would have slain not forty, but forty thousand and more buffaloes; a fact that, if need were, could be statistically stated.
nor, considered aright, does it seem any argument in favour of the gradual extinction of the sperm whale, for example, that in former years (the latter part of the last century, say) these leviathans, in small pods, were encountered much oftener than at present, and, in consequence, the voyages were not so prolonged, and were also much more remunerative.
because, as has been elsewhere noticed, those whales, influenced by some views to safety, now swim the seas in immense caravans, so that to a large degree the scattered solitaries, yokes, and pods, and schools of other days are now aggregated into vast but widely separated, unfrequent armies.
that is all.
and equally fallacious seems the conceit, that because the so-called whale-bone whales no longer haunt many grounds in former years abounding with them, hence that species also is declining.
for they are only being driven from promontory to cape; and if one coast is no longer enlivened with their jets, then, be sure, some other and remoter strand has been very recently startled by the unfamiliar spectacle.
furthermore: concerning these last mentioned leviathans, they have two firm fortresses, which, in all human probability, will for ever remain impregnable.
and as upon the invasion of their valleys, the frosty swiss have retreated to their mountains; so, hunted from the savannas and glades of the middle seas, the whale-bone whales can at last resort to their polar citadels, and diving under the ultimate glassy barriers and walls there, come up among icy fields and floes; and in a charmed circle of everlasting december, bid defiance to all pursuit from man.
but as perhaps fifty of these whale-bone whales are harpooned for one cachalot, some philosophers of the forecastle have concluded that this positive havoc has already very seriously diminished their battalions.
but though for some time past a number of these whales, not less than 13,000, have been annually slain on the nor’ west coast by the americans alone; yet there are considerations which render even this circumstance of little or no account as an opposing argument in this matter.
natural as it is to be somewhat incredulous concerning the populousness of the more enormous creatures of the globe, yet what shall we say to harto, the historian of goa, when he tells us that at one hunting the king of siam took 4,000 elephants; that in those regions elephants are numerous as droves of cattle in the temperate climes.
and there seems no reason to doubt that if these elephants, which have now been hunted for thousands of years, by semiramis, by porus, by hannibal, and by all the successive monarchs of the east—if they still survive there in great numbers, much more may the great whale outlast all hunting, since he has a pasture to expatiate in, which is precisely twice as large as all asia, both americas, europe and africa, new holland, and all the isles of the sea combined.
moreover: we are to consider, that from the presumed great longevity of whales, their probably attaining the age of a century and more, therefore at any one period of time, several distinct adult generations must be contemporary.
and what that is, we may soon gain some idea of, by imagining all the grave-yards, cemeteries, and family vaults of creation yielding up the live bodies of all the men, women, and children who were alive seventy-five years ago; and adding this countless host to the present human population of the globe.
wherefore, for all these things, we account the whale immortal in his species, however perishable in his individuality.
he swam the seas before the continents broke water; he once swam over the site of the tuileries, and windsor castle, and the kremlin.
in noah’s flood he despised noah’s ark; and if ever the world is to be again flooded, like the netherlands, to kill off its rats, then the eternal whale will still survive, and rearing upon the topmost crest of the equatorial flood, spout his frothed defiance to the skies.
chapter 106. ahab’s leg.
the precipitating manner in which captain ahab had quitted the samuel enderby of london, had not been unattended with some small violence to his own person.
he had lighted with such energy upon a thwart of his boat that his ivory leg had received a half-splintering shock.
and when after gaining his own deck, and his own pivot-hole there, he so vehemently wheeled round with an urgent command to the steersman (it was, as ever, something about his not steering inflexibly enough); then, the already shaken ivory received such an additional twist and wrench, that though it still remained entire, and to all appearances lusty, yet ahab did not deem it entirely trustworthy.
and, indeed, it seemed small matter for wonder, that for all his pervading, mad recklessness, ahab did at times give careful heed to the condition of that dead bone upon which he partly stood.
for it had not been very long prior to the pequod’s sailing from nantucket, that he had been found one night lying prone upon the ground, and insensible; by some unknown, and seemingly inexplicable, unimaginable casualty, his ivory limb having been so violently displaced, that it had stake-wise smitten, and all but pierced his groin; nor was it without extreme difficulty that the agonizing wound was entirely cured.
nor, at the time, had it failed to enter his monomaniac mind, that all the anguish of that then present suffering was but the direct issue of a former woe; and he too plainly seemed to see, that as the most poisonous reptile of the marsh perpetuates his kind as inevitably as the sweetest songster of the grove; so, equally with every felicity, all miserable events do naturally beget their like.
yea, more than equally, thought ahab; since both the ancestry and posterity of grief go further than the ancestry and posterity of joy.
for, not to hint of this: that it is an inference from certain canonic teachings, that while some natural enjoyments here shall have no children born to them for the other world, but, on the contrary, shall be followed by the joy-childlessness of all hell’s despair; whereas, some guilty mortal miseries shall still fertilely beget to themselves an eternally progressive progeny of griefs beyond the grave; not at all to hint of this, there still seems an inequality in the deeper analysis of the thing.
for, thought ahab, while even the highest earthly felicities ever have a certain unsignifying pettiness lurking in them, but, at bottom, all heartwoes, a mystic significance, and, in some men, an archangelic grandeur; so do their diligent tracings-out not belie the obvious deduction.
to trail the genealogies of these high mortal miseries, carries us at last among the sourceless primogenitures of the gods; so that, in the face of all the glad, hay-making suns, and soft cymballing, round harvest-moons, we must needs give in to this: that the gods themselves are not for ever glad.
the ineffaceable, sad birth-mark in the brow of man, is but the stamp of sorrow in the signers.
unwittingly here a secret has been divulged, which perhaps might more properly, in set way, have been disclosed before.
with many other particulars concerning ahab, always had it remained a mystery to some, why it was, that for a certain period, both before and after the sailing of the pequod, he had hidden himself away with such grand-lama-like exclusiveness; and, for that one interval, sought speechless refuge, as it were, among the marble senate of the dead.
captain peleg’s bruited reason for this thing appeared by no means adequate; though, indeed, as touching all ahab’s deeper part, every revelation partook more of significant darkness than of explanatory light.
but, in the end, it all came out; this one matter did, at least.
that direful mishap was at the bottom of his temporary recluseness.
and not only this, but to that ever-contracting, dropping circle ashore, who, for any reason, possessed the privilege of a less banned approach to him; to that timid circle the above hinted casualty—remaining, as it did, moodily unaccounted for by ahab—invested itself with terrors, not entirely underived from the land of spirits and of wails.
so that, through their zeal for him, they had all conspired, so far as in them lay, to muffle up the knowledge of this thing from others; and hence it was, that not till a considerable interval had elapsed, did it transpire upon the pequod’s decks.
but be all this as it may; let the unseen, ambiguous synod in the air, or the vindictive princes and potentates of fire, have to do or not with earthly ahab, yet, in this present matter of his leg, he took plain practical procedures;—he called the carpenter.
and when that functionary appeared before him, he bade him without delay set about making a new leg, and directed the mates to see him supplied with all the studs and joists of jaw-ivory (sperm whale) which had thus far been accumulated on the voyage, in order that a careful selection of the stoutest, clearest-grained stuff might be secured.
this done, the carpenter received orders to have the leg completed that night; and to provide all the fittings for it, independent of those pertaining to the distrusted one in use.
moreover, the ship’s forge was ordered to be hoisted out of its temporary idleness in the hold; and, to accelerate the affair, the blacksmith was commanded to proceed at once to the forging of whatever iron contrivances might be needed.
chapter 107. the carpenter.
seat thyself sultanically among the moons of saturn, and take high abstracted man alone; and he seems a wonder, a grandeur, and a woe.
but from the same point, take mankind in mass, and for the most part, they seem a mob of unnecessary duplicates, both contemporary and hereditary.
but most humble though he was, and far from furnishing an example of the high, humane abstraction; the pequod’s carpenter was no duplicate; hence, he now comes in person on this stage.
like all sea-going ship carpenters, and more especially those belonging to whaling vessels, he was, to a certain off-handed, practical extent, alike experienced in numerous trades and callings collateral to his own; the carpenter’s pursuit being the ancient and outbranching trunk of all those numerous handicrafts which more or less have to do with wood as an auxiliary material.
but, besides the application to him of the generic remark above, this carpenter of the pequod was singularly efficient in those thousand nameless mechanical emergencies continually recurring in a large ship, upon a three or four years’ voyage, in uncivilized and far-distant seas.
for not to speak of his readiness in ordinary duties:—repairing stove boats, sprung spars, reforming the shape of clumsy-bladed oars, inserting bull’s eyes in the deck, or new tree-nails in the side planks, and other miscellaneous matters more directly pertaining to his special business; he was moreover unhesitatingly expert in all manner of conflicting aptitudes, both useful and capricious.
the one grand stage where he enacted all his various parts so manifold, was his vice-bench; a long rude ponderous table furnished with several vices, of different sizes, and both of iron and of wood.
at all times except when whales were alongside, this bench was securely lashed athwartships against the rear of the try-works.
a belaying pin is found too large to be easily inserted into its hole:
the carpenter claps it into one of his ever-ready vices, and straightway files it smaller.
a lost land-bird of strange plumage strays on board, and is made a captive: out of clean shaved rods of right-whale bone, and cross-beams of sperm whale ivory, the carpenter makes a pagoda-looking cage for it.
an oarsman sprains his wrist: the carpenter concocts a soothing lotion.
stubb longed for vermillion stars to be painted upon the blade of his every oar; screwing each oar in his big vice of wood, the carpenter symmetrically supplies the constellation.
a sailor takes a fancy to wear shark-bone ear-rings: the carpenter drills his ears.
another has the toothache: the carpenter out pincers, and clapping one hand upon his bench bids him be seated there; but the poor fellow unmanageably winces under the unconcluded operation; whirling round the handle of his wooden vice, the carpenter signs him to clap his jaw in that, if he would have him draw the tooth.
thus, this carpenter was prepared at all points, and alike indifferent and without respect in all.
teeth he accounted bits of ivory; heads he deemed but top-blocks; men themselves he lightly held for capstans.
but while now upon so wide a field thus variously accomplished and with such liveliness of expertness in him, too; all this would seem to argue some uncommon vivacity of intelligence.
but not precisely so.
for nothing was this man more remarkable, than for a certain impersonal stolidity as it were; impersonal, i say; for it so shaded off into the surrounding infinite of things, that it seemed one with the general stolidity discernible in the whole visible world; which while pauselessly active in uncounted modes, still eternally holds its peace, and ignores you, though you dig foundations for cathedrals.
yet was this half-horrible stolidity in him, involving, too, as it appeared, an all-ramifying heartlessness;—yet was it oddly dashed at times, with an old, crutch-like, antediluvian, wheezing humorousness, not unstreaked now and then with a certain grizzled wittiness; such as might have served to pass the time during the midnight watch on the bearded forecastle of noah’s ark.
was it that this old carpenter had been a life-long wanderer, whose much rolling, to and fro, not only had gathered no moss; but what is more, had rubbed off whatever small outward clingings might have originally pertained to him?
he was a stript abstract; an unfractioned integral; uncompromised as a new-born babe; living without premeditated reference to this world or the next.
you might almost say, that this strange uncompromisedness in him involved a sort of unintelligence; for in his numerous trades, he did not seem to work so much by reason or by instinct, or simply because he had been tutored to it, or by any intermixture of all these, even or uneven; but merely by a kind of deaf and dumb, spontaneous literal process.
he was a pure manipulator; his brain, if he had ever had one, must have early oozed along into the muscles of his fingers.
he was like one of those unreasoning but still highly useful, multum in parvo, sheffield contrivances, assuming the exterior—though a little swelled—of a common pocket knife; but containing, not only blades of various sizes, but also screw-drivers, cork-screws, tweezers, awls, pens, rulers, nail-filers, countersinkers.
so, if his superiors wanted to use the carpenter for a screw-driver, all they had to do was to open that part of him, and the screw was fast: or if for tweezers, take him up by the legs, and there they were.
yet, as previously hinted, this omnitooled, open-and-shut carpenter, was, after all, no mere machine of an automaton.
if he did not have a common soul in him, he had a subtle something that somehow anomalously did its duty.
what that was, whether essence of quicksilver, or a few drops of hartshorn, there is no telling.
but there it was; and there it had abided for now some sixty years or more.
and this it was, this same unaccountable, cunning life-principle in him; this it was, that kept him a great part of the time soliloquizing; but only like an unreasoning wheel, which also hummingly soliloquizes; or rather, his body was a sentry-box and this soliloquizer on guard there, and talking all the time to keep himself awake.
chapter 108. ahab and the carpenter.
the deck—first night watch.
(carpenter standing before his vice-bench, and by the light of two lanterns busily filing the ivory joist for the leg, which joist is firmly fixed in the vice.
slabs of ivory, leather straps, pads, screws, and various tools of all sorts lying about the bench.
forward, the red flame of the forge is seen, where the blacksmith is at work.)
drat the file, and drat the bone!
that is hard which should be soft, and that is soft which should be hard.
so we go, who file old jaws and shinbones.
let’s try another.
aye, now, this works better (sneezes).
halloa, this bone dust is (sneezes)—why it’s (sneezes)—yes it’s (sneezes)—bless my soul, it won’t let me speak!
this is what an old fellow gets now for working in dead lumber.
saw a live tree, and you don’t get this dust; amputate a live bone, and you don’t get it (sneezes).
come, come, you old smut, there, bear a hand, and let’s have that ferule and buckle-screw; i’ll be ready for them presently.
lucky now (sneezes) there’s no knee-joint to make; that might puzzle a little; but a mere shinbone—why it’s easy as making hop-poles; only i should like to put a good finish on.
time, time; if i but only had the time, i could turn him out as neat a leg now as ever (sneezes)
scraped to a lady in a parlor.
those buckskin legs and calves of legs i’ve seen in shop windows wouldn’t compare at all.
they soak water, they do; and of course get rheumatic, and have to be doctored (sneezes) with washes and lotions, just like live legs.
there; before i saw it off, now, i must call his old mogulship, and see whether the length will be all right; too short, if anything, i guess.
ha!
that’s the heel; we are in luck; here he comes, or it’s somebody else, that’s certain.
ahab (advancing).
(during the ensuing scene, the carpenter continues sneezing at times.)
well, manmaker!
just in time, sir.
if the captain pleases, i will now mark the length.
let me measure, sir.
measured for a leg!
good.
well, it’s not the first time.
about it!
there; keep thy finger on it.
this is a cogent vice thou hast here, carpenter; let me feel its grip once.
so, so; it does pinch some.
oh, sir, it will break bones—beware, beware!
no fear; i like a good grip; i like to feel something in this slippery world that can hold, man.
what’s prometheus about there?—the blacksmith, i mean—what’s he about?
he must be forging the buckle-screw, sir, now.
right.
it’s a partnership; he supplies the muscle part.
he makes a fierce red flame there!
aye, sir; he must have the white heat for this kind of fine work.
um-m. so he must.
i do deem it now a most meaning thing, that that old greek, prometheus, who made men, they say, should have been a blacksmith, and animated them with fire; for what’s made in fire must properly belong to fire; and so hell’s probable.
how the soot flies!
this must be the remainder the greek made the africans of.
carpenter, when he’s through with that buckle, tell him to forge a pair of steel shoulder-blades; there’s a pedlar aboard with a crushing pack.
sir?
hold; while prometheus is about it, i’ll order a complete man after a desirable pattern.
imprimis, fifty feet high in his socks; then, chest modelled after the thames tunnel; then, legs with roots to ’em, to stay in one place; then, arms three feet through the wrist; no heart at all, brass forehead, and about a quarter of an acre of fine brains; and let me see—shall i order eyes to see outwards?
no, but put a sky-light on top of his head to illuminate inwards.
there, take the order, and away.
now, what’s he speaking about, and who’s he speaking to, i should like to know?
shall i keep standing here?
(aside).
’tis but indifferent architecture to make a blind dome; here’s one.
no, no, no; i must have a lantern.
ho, ho!
that’s it, hey?
here are two, sir; one will serve my turn.
what art thou thrusting that thief-catcher into my face for, man?
thrusted light is worse than presented pistols.
i thought, sir, that you spoke to carpenter.
carpenter?
why that’s—but no;—a very tidy, and, i may say, an extremely gentlemanlike sort of business thou art in here, carpenter;—or would’st thou rather work in clay?
sir?—clay?
clay, sir?
that’s mud; we leave clay to ditchers, sir.
the fellow’s impious!
what art thou sneezing about?
bone is rather dusty, sir.
take the hint, then; and when thou art dead, never bury thyself under living people’s noses.
sir?—oh!
ah!—i guess so;—yes—oh, dear!
look ye, carpenter, i dare say thou callest thyself a right good workmanlike workman, eh?
well, then, will it speak thoroughly well for thy work, if, when i come to mount this leg thou makest, i shall nevertheless feel another leg in the same identical place with it; that is, carpenter, my old lost leg; the flesh and blood one, i mean.
canst thou not drive that old adam away?
truly, sir, i begin to understand somewhat now.
yes, i have heard something curious on that score, sir; how that a dismasted man never entirely loses the feeling of his old spar, but it will be still pricking him at times.
may i humbly ask if it be really so, sir?
it is, man.
look, put thy live leg here in the place where mine once was; so, now, here is only one distinct leg to the eye, yet two to the soul.
where thou feelest tingling life; there, exactly there, there to a hair, do i. is’t a riddle?
i should humbly call it a poser, sir.
hist, then.
how dost thou know that some entire, living, thinking thing may not be invisibly and uninterpenetratingly standing precisely where thou now standest; aye, and standing there in thy spite?
in thy most solitary hours, then, dost thou not fear eavesdroppers?
hold, don’t speak!
and if i still feel the smart of my crushed leg, though it be now so long dissolved; then, why mayst not thou, carpenter, feel the fiery pains of hell for ever, and without a body?
hah!
good lord!
truly, sir, if it comes to that, i must calculate over again; i think i didn’t carry a small figure, sir.
look ye, pudding-heads should never grant premises.—how long before the leg is done?
perhaps an hour, sir.
bungle away at it then, and bring it to me (turns to go).
oh, life!
here i am, proud as greek god, and yet standing debtor to this blockhead for a bone to stand on!
cursed be that mortal inter-indebtedness which will not do away with ledgers.
i would be free as air; and i’m down in the whole world’s books.
i am so rich, i could have given bid for bid with the wealthiest prætorians at the auction of the roman empire (which was the world’s); and yet i owe for the flesh in the tongue i brag with.
by heavens!
i’ll get a crucible, and into it, and dissolve myself down to one small, compendious vertebra.
so.
carpenter (resuming his work).
well, well, well!
stubb knows him best of all, and stubb always says he’s queer; says nothing but that one sufficient little word queer; he’s queer, says stubb; he’s queer—queer, queer; and keeps dinning it into mr. starbuck all the time—queer—sir—queer, queer, very queer.
and here’s his leg!
yes, now that i think of it, here’s his bedfellow!
has a stick of whale’s jaw-bone for a wife!
and this is his leg; he’ll stand on this.
what was that now about one leg standing in three places, and all three places standing in one hell—how was that?
oh!
i don’t wonder he looked so scornful at me!
i’m a sort of strange-thoughted sometimes, they say; but that’s only haphazard-like.
then, a short, little old body like me, should never undertake to wade out into deep waters with tall, heron-built captains; the water chucks you under the chin pretty quick, and there’s a great cry for life-boats.
and here’s the heron’s leg!
long and slim, sure enough!
now, for most folks one pair of legs lasts a lifetime, and that must be because they use them mercifully, as a tender-hearted old lady uses her roly-poly old coach-horses.
but ahab; oh he’s a hard driver.
look, driven one leg to death, and spavined the other for life, and now wears out bone legs by the cord.
halloa, there, you smut!
bear a hand there with those screws, and let’s finish it before the resurrection fellow comes a-calling with his horn for all legs, true or false, as brewery-men go round collecting old beer barrels, to fill ’em up again.
what a leg this is!
it looks like a real live leg, filed down to nothing but the core; he’ll be standing on this to-morrow; he’ll be taking altitudes on it.
halloa!
i almost forgot the little oval slate, smoothed ivory, where he figures up the latitude.
so, so; chisel, file, and sand-paper, now!
chapter 109. ahab and starbuck in the cabin.
according to usage they were pumping the ship next morning; and lo!
no inconsiderable oil came up with the water; the casks below must have sprung a bad leak.
much concern was shown; and starbuck went down into the cabin to report this unfavourable affair.
*
*in sperm-whalemen with any considerable quantity of oil on board, it is a regular semi-weekly duty to conduct a hose into the hold, and drench the casks with sea-water; which afterwards, at varying intervals, is removed by the ship’s pumps.
hereby the casks are sought to be kept damply tight; while by the changed character of the withdrawn water, the mariners readily detect any serious leakage in the precious cargo.
now, from the south and west the pequod was drawing nigh to formosa and the bashee isles, between which lies one of the tropical outlets from the china waters into the pacific.
and so starbuck found ahab with a general chart of the oriental archipelagoes spread before him; and another separate one representing the long eastern coasts of the japanese islands—niphon, matsmai, and sikoke.
with his snow-white new ivory leg braced against the screwed leg of his table, and with a long pruning-hook of a jack-knife in his hand, the wondrous old man, with his back to the gangway door, was wrinkling his brow, and tracing his old courses again.
“who’s there?” hearing the footstep at the door, but not turning round to it.
“on deck!
begone!”
“captain ahab mistakes; it is i. the oil in the hold is leaking, sir.
we must up burtons and break out.”
“up burtons and break out?
now that we are nearing japan; heave-to here for a week to tinker a parcel of old hoops?”
“either do that, sir, or waste in one day more oil than we may make good in a year.
what we come twenty thousand miles to get is worth saving, sir.”
“so it is, so it is; if we get it.”
“i was speaking of the oil in the hold, sir.”
“and i was not speaking or thinking of that at all.
begone!
let it leak!
i’m all aleak myself.
aye!
leaks in leaks!
not only full of leaky casks, but those leaky casks are in a leaky ship; and that’s a far worse plight than the pequod’s, man.
yet i don’t stop to plug my leak; for who can find it in the deep-loaded hull; or how hope to plug it, even if found, in this life’s howling gale?
starbuck!
i’ll not have the burtons hoisted.”
“what will the owners say, sir?”
“let the owners stand on nantucket beach and outyell the typhoons.
what cares ahab?
owners, owners?
thou art always prating to me, starbuck, about those miserly owners, as if the owners were my conscience.
but look ye, the only real owner of anything is its commander; and hark ye, my conscience is in this ship’s keel.—on deck!”
“captain ahab,” said the reddening mate, moving further into the cabin, with a daring so strangely respectful and cautious that it almost seemed not only every way seeking to avoid the slightest outward manifestation of itself, but within also seemed more than half distrustful of itself; “a better man than i might well pass over in thee what he would quickly enough resent in a younger man; aye, and in a happier, captain ahab.”
“devils!
dost thou then so much as dare to critically think of me?—on deck!”
“nay, sir, not yet; i do entreat.
and i do dare, sir—to be forbearing!
shall we not understand each other better than hitherto, captain ahab?”
ahab seized a loaded musket from the rack (forming part of most south-sea-men’s cabin furniture), and pointing it towards starbuck, exclaimed: “there is one god that is lord over the earth, and one captain that is lord over the pequod.—on deck!”
for an instant in the flashing eyes of the mate, and his fiery cheeks, you would have almost thought that he had really received the blaze of the levelled tube.
but, mastering his emotion, he half calmly rose, and as he quitted the cabin, paused for an instant and said: “thou hast outraged, not insulted me, sir; but for that i ask thee not to beware of starbuck; thou wouldst but laugh; but let ahab beware of ahab; beware of thyself, old man.”
“he waxes brave, but nevertheless obeys; most careful bravery that!”
murmured ahab, as starbuck disappeared.
“what’s that he said—ahab beware of ahab—there’s something there!” then unconsciously using the musket for a staff, with an iron brow he paced to and fro in the little cabin; but presently the thick plaits of his forehead relaxed, and returning the gun to the rack, he went to the deck.
“thou art but too good a fellow, starbuck,” he said lowly to the mate; then raising his voice to the crew: “furl the t’gallant-sails, and close-reef the top-sails, fore and aft; back the main-yard; up burton, and break out in the main-hold.”
it were perhaps vain to surmise exactly why it was, that as respecting starbuck, ahab thus acted.
it may have been a flash of honesty in him; or mere prudential policy which, under the circumstance, imperiously forbade the slightest symptom of open disaffection, however transient, in the important chief officer of his ship.
however it was, his orders were executed; and the burtons were hoisted.
chapter 110. queequeg in his coffin.
upon searching, it was found that the casks last struck into the hold were perfectly sound, and that the leak must be further off.
so, it being calm weather, they broke out deeper and deeper, disturbing the slumbers of the huge ground-tier butts; and from that black midnight sending those gigantic moles into the daylight above.
so deep did they go; and so ancient, and corroded, and weedy the aspect of the lowermost puncheons, that you almost looked next for some mouldy corner-stone cask containing coins of captain noah, with copies of the posted placards, vainly warning the infatuated old world from the flood.
tierce after tierce, too, of water, and bread, and beef, and shooks of staves, and iron bundles of hoops, were hoisted out, till at last the piled decks were hard to get about; and the hollow hull echoed under foot, as if you were treading over empty catacombs, and reeled and rolled in the sea like an air-freighted demijohn.
top-heavy was the ship as a dinnerless student with all aristotle in his head.
well was it that the typhoons did not visit them then.
now, at this time it was that my poor pagan companion, and fast bosom-friend, queequeg, was seized with a fever, which brought him nigh to his endless end.
be it said, that in this vocation of whaling, sinecures are unknown; dignity and danger go hand in hand; till you get to be captain, the higher you rise the harder you toil.
so with poor queequeg, who, as harpooneer, must not only face all the rage of the living whale, but—as we have elsewhere seen—mount his dead back in a rolling sea; and finally descend into the gloom of the hold, and bitterly sweating all day in that subterraneous confinement, resolutely manhandle the clumsiest casks and see to their stowage.
to be short, among whalemen, the harpooneers are the holders, so called.
poor queequeg!
when the ship was about half disembowelled, you should have stooped over the hatchway, and peered down upon him there; where, stripped to his woollen drawers, the tattooed savage was crawling about amid that dampness and slime, like a green spotted lizard at the bottom of a well.
and a well, or an ice-house, it somehow proved to him, poor pagan; where, strange to say, for all the heat of his sweatings, he caught a terrible chill which lapsed into a fever; and at last, after some days’ suffering, laid him in his hammock, close to the very sill of the door of death.
how he wasted and wasted away in those few long-lingering days, till there seemed but little left of him but his frame and tattooing.
but as all else in him thinned, and his cheek-bones grew sharper, his eyes, nevertheless, seemed growing fuller and fuller; they became of a strange softness of lustre; and mildly but deeply looked out at you there from his sickness, a wondrous testimony to that immortal health in him which could not die, or be weakened.
and like circles on the water, which, as they grow fainter, expand; so his eyes seemed rounding and rounding, like the rings of eternity.
an awe that cannot be named would steal over you as you sat by the side of this waning savage, and saw as strange things in his face, as any beheld who were bystanders when zoroaster died.
for whatever is truly wondrous and fearful in man, never yet was put into words or books.
and the drawing near of death, which alike levels all, alike impresses all with a last revelation, which only an author from the dead could adequately tell.
so that—let us say it again—no dying chaldee or greek had higher and holier thoughts than those, whose mysterious shades you saw creeping over the face of poor queequeg, as he quietly lay in his swaying hammock, and the rolling sea seemed gently rocking him to his final rest, and the ocean’s invisible flood-tide lifted him higher and higher towards his destined heaven.
not a man of the crew but gave him up; and, as for queequeg himself, what he thought of his case was forcibly shown by a curious favour he asked.
he called one to him in the grey morning watch, when the day was just breaking, and taking his hand, said that while in nantucket he had chanced to see certain little canoes of dark wood, like the rich war-wood of his native isle; and upon inquiry, he had learned that all whalemen who died in nantucket, were laid in those same dark canoes, and that the fancy of being so laid had much pleased him; for it was not unlike the custom of his own race, who, after embalming a dead warrior, stretched him out in his canoe, and so left him to be floated away to the starry archipelagoes; for not only do they believe that the stars are isles, but that far beyond all visible horizons, their own mild, uncontinented seas, interflow with the blue heavens; and so form the white breakers of the milky way.
he added, that he shuddered at the thought of being buried in his hammock, according to the usual sea-custom, tossed like something vile to the death-devouring sharks.
no: he desired a canoe like those of nantucket, all the more congenial to him, being a whaleman, that like a whale-boat these coffin-canoes were without a keel; though that involved but uncertain steering, and much lee-way adown the dim ages.
now, when this strange circumstance was made known aft, the carpenter was at once commanded to do queequeg’s bidding, whatever it might include.
there was some heathenish, coffin-coloured old lumber aboard, which, upon a long previous voyage, had been cut from the aboriginal groves of the lackaday islands, and from these dark planks the coffin was recommended to be made.
no sooner was the carpenter apprised of the order, than taking his rule, he forthwith with all the indifferent promptitude of his character, proceeded into the forecastle and took queequeg’s measure with great accuracy, regularly chalking queequeg’s person as he shifted the rule.
“ah!
poor fellow!
he’ll have to die now,” ejaculated the long island sailor.
going to his vice-bench, the carpenter for convenience sake and general reference, now transferringly measured on it the exact length the coffin was to be, and then made the transfer permanent by cutting two notches at its extremities.
this done, he marshalled the planks and his tools, and to work.
when the last nail was driven, and the lid duly planed and fitted, he lightly shouldered the coffin and went forward with it, inquiring whether they were ready for it yet in that direction.
overhearing the indignant but half-humorous cries with which the people on deck began to drive the coffin away, queequeg, to every one’s consternation, commanded that the thing should be instantly brought to him, nor was there any denying him; seeing that, of all mortals, some dying men are the most tyrannical; and certainly, since they will shortly trouble us so little for evermore, the poor fellows ought to be indulged.
leaning over in his hammock, queequeg long regarded the coffin with an attentive eye.
he then called for his harpoon, had the wooden stock drawn from it, and then had the iron part placed in the coffin along with one of the paddles of his boat.
all by his own request, also, biscuits were then ranged round the sides within: a flask of fresh water was placed at the head, and a small bag of woody earth scraped up in the hold at the foot; and a piece of sail-cloth being rolled up for a pillow, queequeg now entreated to be lifted into his final bed, that he might make trial of its comforts, if any it had.
he lay without moving a few minutes, then told one to go to his bag and bring out his little god, yojo.
then crossing his arms on his breast with yojo between, he called for the coffin lid (hatch he called it) to be placed over him.
the head part turned over with a leather hinge, and there lay queequeg in his coffin with little but his composed countenance in view.
“rarmai” (it will do; it is easy), he murmured at last, and signed to be replaced in his hammock.
but ere this was done, pip, who had been slily hovering near by all this while, drew nigh to him where he lay, and with soft sobbings, took him by the hand; in the other, holding his tambourine.
“poor rover!
will ye never have done with all this weary roving?
where go ye now?
but if the currents carry ye to those sweet antilles where the beaches are only beat with water-lilies, will ye do one little errand for me?
seek out one pip, who’s now been missing long: i think he’s in those far antilles.
if ye find him, then comfort him; for he must be very sad; for look!
he’s left his tambourine behind;—i found it.
rig-a-dig, dig, dig!
now, queequeg, die; and i’ll beat ye your dying march.”
“i have heard,” murmured starbuck, gazing down the scuttle, “that in violent fevers, men, all ignorance, have talked in ancient tongues; and that when the mystery is probed, it turns out always that in their wholly forgotten childhood those ancient tongues had been really spoken in their hearing by some lofty scholars.
so, to my fond faith, poor pip, in this strange sweetness of his lunacy, brings heavenly vouchers of all our heavenly homes.
where learned he that, but there?—hark!
he speaks again: but more wildly now.”
“form two and two!
let’s make a general of him!
ho, where’s his harpoon?
lay it across here.—rig-a-dig, dig, dig!
huzza!
oh for a game cock now to sit upon his head and crow!
queequeg dies game!—mind ye that; queequeg dies game!—take ye good heed of that; queequeg dies game!
i say; game, game, game!
but base little pip, he died a coward; died all a’shiver;—out upon pip!
hark ye; if ye find pip, tell all the antilles he’s a runaway; a coward, a coward, a coward!
tell them he jumped from a whale-boat!
i’d never beat my tambourine over base pip, and hail him general, if he were once more dying here.
no, no!
shame upon all cowards—shame upon them!
let ’em go drown like pip, that jumped from a whale-boat.
shame!
shame!”
during all this, queequeg lay with closed eyes, as if in a dream.
pip was led away, and the sick man was replaced in his hammock.
but now that he had apparently made every preparation for death; now that his coffin was proved a good fit, queequeg suddenly rallied; soon there seemed no need of the carpenter’s box: and thereupon, when some expressed their delighted surprise, he, in substance, said, that the cause of his sudden convalescence was this;—at a critical moment, he had just recalled a little duty ashore, which he was leaving undone; and therefore had changed his mind about dying: he could not die yet, he averred.
they asked him, then, whether to live or die was a matter of his own sovereign will and pleasure.
he answered, certainly.
in a word, it was queequeg’s conceit, that if a man made up his mind to live, mere sickness could not kill him: nothing but a whale, or a gale, or some violent, ungovernable, unintelligent destroyer of that sort.
now, there is this noteworthy difference between savage and civilized; that while a sick, civilized man may be six months convalescing, generally speaking, a sick savage is almost half-well again in a day.
so, in good time my queequeg gained strength; and at length after sitting on the windlass for a few indolent days (but eating with a vigorous appetite) he suddenly leaped to his feet, threw out his arms and legs, gave himself a good stretching, yawned a little bit, and then springing into the head of his hoisted boat, and poising a harpoon, pronounced himself fit for a fight.
with a wild whimsiness, he now used his coffin for a sea-chest; and emptying into it his canvas bag of clothes, set them in order there.
many spare hours he spent, in carving the lid with all manner of grotesque figures and drawings; and it seemed that hereby he was striving, in his rude way, to copy parts of the twisted tattooing on his body.
and this tattooing had been the work of a departed prophet and seer of his island, who, by those hieroglyphic marks, had written out on his body a complete theory of the heavens and the earth, and a mystical treatise on the art of attaining truth; so that queequeg in his own proper person was a riddle to unfold; a wondrous work in one volume; but whose mysteries not even himself could read, though his own live heart beat against them; and these mysteries were therefore destined in the end to moulder away with the living parchment whereon they were inscribed, and so be unsolved to the last.
and this thought it must have been which suggested to ahab that wild exclamation of his, when one morning turning away from surveying poor queequeg—“oh, devilish tantalization of the gods!”
chapter 111. the pacific.
when gliding by the bashee isles we emerged at last upon the great south sea; were it not for other things, i could have greeted my dear pacific with uncounted thanks, for now the long supplication of my youth was answered; that serene ocean rolled eastwards from me a thousand leagues of blue.
there is, one knows not what sweet mystery about this sea, whose gently awful stirrings seem to speak of some hidden soul beneath; like those fabled undulations of the ephesian sod over the buried evangelist st.
john.
and meet it is, that over these sea-pastures, wide-rolling watery prairies and potters’ fields of all four continents, the waves should rise and fall, and ebb and flow unceasingly; for here, millions of mixed shades and shadows, drowned dreams, somnambulisms, reveries; all that we call lives and souls, lie dreaming, dreaming, still; tossing like slumberers in their beds; the ever-rolling waves but made so by their restlessness.
to any meditative magian rover, this serene pacific, once beheld, must ever after be the sea of his adoption.
it rolls the midmost waters of the world, the indian ocean and atlantic being but its arms.
the same waves wash the moles of the new-built californian towns, but yesterday planted by the recentest race of men, and lave the faded but still gorgeous skirts of asiatic lands, older than abraham; while all between float milky-ways of coral isles, and low-lying, endless, unknown archipelagoes, and impenetrable japans.
thus this mysterious, divine pacific zones the world’s whole bulk about; makes all coasts one bay to it; seems the tide-beating heart of earth.
lifted by those eternal swells, you needs must own the seductive god, bowing your head to pan.
but few thoughts of pan stirred ahab’s brain, as standing like an iron statue at his accustomed place beside the mizen rigging, with one nostril he unthinkingly snuffed the sugary musk from the bashee isles (in whose sweet woods mild lovers must be walking), and with the other consciously inhaled the salt breath of the new found sea; that sea in which the hated white whale must even then be swimming.
launched at length upon these almost final waters, and gliding towards the japanese cruising-ground, the old man’s purpose intensified itself.
his firm lips met like the lips of a vice; the delta of his forehead’s veins swelled like overladen brooks; in his very sleep, his ringing cry ran through the vaulted hull, “stern all!
the white whale spouts thick blood!”
chapter 112. the blacksmith.
availing himself of the mild, summer-cool weather that now reigned in these latitudes, and in preparation for the peculiarly active pursuits shortly to be anticipated, perth, the begrimed, blistered old blacksmith, had not removed his portable forge to the hold again, after concluding his contributory work for ahab’s leg, but still retained it on deck, fast lashed to ringbolts by the foremast; being now almost incessantly invoked by the headsmen, and harpooneers, and bowsmen to do some little job for them; altering, or repairing, or new shaping their various weapons and boat furniture.
often he would be surrounded by an eager circle, all waiting to be served; holding boat-spades, pike-heads, harpoons, and lances, and jealously watching his every sooty movement, as he toiled.
nevertheless, this old man’s was a patient hammer wielded by a patient arm.
no murmur, no impatience, no petulance did come from him.
silent, slow, and solemn; bowing over still further his chronically broken back, he toiled away, as if toil were life itself, and the heavy beating of his hammer the heavy beating of his heart.
and so it was.—most miserable!
a peculiar walk in this old man, a certain slight but painful appearing yawing in his gait, had at an early period of the voyage excited the curiosity of the mariners.
and to the importunity of their persisted questionings he had finally given in; and so it came to pass that every one now knew the shameful story of his wretched fate.
belated, and not innocently, one bitter winter’s midnight, on the road running between two country towns, the blacksmith half-stupidly felt the deadly numbness stealing over him, and sought refuge in a leaning, dilapidated barn.
the issue was, the loss of the extremities of both feet.
out of this revelation, part by part, at last came out the four acts of the gladness, and the one long, and as yet uncatastrophied fifth act of the grief of his life’s drama.
he was an old man, who, at the age of nearly sixty, had postponedly encountered that thing in sorrow’s technicals called ruin.
he had been an artisan of famed excellence, and with plenty to do; owned a house and garden; embraced a youthful, daughter-like, loving wife, and three blithe, ruddy children; every sunday went to a cheerful-looking church, planted in a grove.
but one night, under cover of darkness, and further concealed in a most cunning disguisement, a desperate burglar slid into his happy home, and robbed them all of everything.
and darker yet to tell, the blacksmith himself did ignorantly conduct this burglar into his family’s heart.
it was the bottle conjuror!
upon the opening of that fatal cork, forth flew the fiend, and shrivelled up his home.
now, for prudent, most wise, and economic reasons, the blacksmith’s shop was in the basement of his dwelling, but with a separate entrance to it; so that always had the young and loving healthy wife listened with no unhappy nervousness, but with vigorous pleasure, to the stout ringing of her young-armed old husband’s hammer; whose reverberations, muffled by passing through the floors and walls, came up to her, not unsweetly, in her nursery; and so, to stout labor’s iron lullaby, the blacksmith’s infants were rocked to slumber.
oh, woe on woe!
oh, death, why canst thou not sometimes be timely?
hadst thou taken this old blacksmith to thyself ere his full ruin came upon him, then had the young widow had a delicious grief, and her orphans a truly venerable, legendary sire to dream of in their after years; and all of them a care-killing competency.
but death plucked down some virtuous elder brother, on whose whistling daily toil solely hung the responsibilities of some other family, and left the worse than useless old man standing, till the hideous rot of life should make him easier to harvest.
why tell the whole?
the blows of the basement hammer every day grew more and more between; and each blow every day grew fainter than the last; the wife sat frozen at the window, with tearless eyes, glitteringly gazing into the weeping faces of her children; the bellows fell; the forge choked up with cinders; the house was sold; the mother dived down into the long church-yard grass; her children twice followed her thither; and the houseless, familyless old man staggered off a vagabond in crape; his every woe unreverenced; his grey head a scorn to flaxen curls!
death seems the only desirable sequel for a career like this; but death is only a launching into the region of the strange untried; it is but the first salutation to the possibilities of the immense remote, the wild, the watery, the unshored; therefore, to the death-longing eyes of such men, who still have left in them some interior compunctions against suicide, does the all-contributed and all-receptive ocean alluringly spread forth his whole plain of unimaginable, taking terrors, and wonderful, new-life adventures; and from the hearts of infinite pacifics, the thousand mermaids sing to them—“come hither, broken-hearted; here is another life without the guilt of intermediate death; here are wonders supernatural, without dying for them.
come hither!
bury thyself in a life which, to your now equally abhorred and abhorring, landed world, is more oblivious than death.
come hither!
put up thy gravestone, too, within the churchyard, and come hither, till we marry thee!”
hearkening to these voices, east and west, by early sunrise, and by fall of eve, the blacksmith’s soul responded, aye, i come!
and so perth went a-whaling.
chapter 113. the forge.
with matted beard, and swathed in a bristling shark-skin apron, about mid-day, perth was standing between his forge and anvil, the latter placed upon an iron-wood log, with one hand holding a pike-head in the coals, and with the other at his forge’s lungs, when captain ahab came along, carrying in his hand a small rusty-looking leathern bag.
while yet a little distance from the forge, moody ahab paused; till at last, perth, withdrawing his iron from the fire, began hammering it upon the anvil—the red mass sending off the sparks in thick hovering flights, some of which flew close to ahab.
“are these thy mother carey’s chickens, perth?
they are always flying in thy wake; birds of good omen, too, but not to all;—look here, they burn; but thou—thou liv’st among them without a scorch.”
“because i am scorched all over, captain ahab,” answered perth, resting for a moment on his hammer; “i am past scorching; not easily can’st thou scorch a scar.”
“well, well; no more.
thy shrunk voice sounds too calmly, sanely woeful to me.
in no paradise myself, i am impatient of all misery in others that is not mad.
thou should’st go mad, blacksmith; say, why dost thou not go mad?
how can’st thou endure without being mad?
do the heavens yet hate thee, that thou can’st not go mad?—what wert thou making there?”
“welding an old pike-head, sir; there were seams and dents in it.”
“and can’st thou make it all smooth again, blacksmith, after such hard usage as it had?”
“i think so, sir.”
“and i suppose thou can’st smoothe almost any seams and dents; never mind how hard the metal, blacksmith?”
“aye, sir, i think i can; all seams and dents but one.”
“look ye here, then,” cried ahab, passionately advancing, and leaning with both hands on perth’s shoulders; “look ye here—here—can ye smoothe out a seam like this, blacksmith,” sweeping one hand across his ribbed brow; “if thou could’st, blacksmith, glad enough would i lay my head upon thy anvil, and feel thy heaviest hammer between my eyes.
answer!
can’st thou smoothe this seam?”
“oh!
that is the one, sir!
said i not all seams and dents but one?”
“aye, blacksmith, it is the one; aye, man, it is unsmoothable; for though thou only see’st it here in my flesh, it has worked down into the bone of my skull—that is all wrinkles!
but, away with child’s play; no more gaffs and pikes to-day.
look ye here!” jingling the leathern bag, as if it were full of gold coins.
“i, too, want a harpoon made; one that a thousand yoke of fiends could not part, perth; something that will stick in a whale like his own fin-bone.
there’s the stuff,” flinging the pouch upon the anvil.
“look ye, blacksmith, these are the gathered nail-stubbs of the steel shoes of racing horses.”
“horse-shoe stubbs, sir?
why, captain ahab, thou hast here, then, the best and stubbornest stuff we blacksmiths ever work.”
“i know it, old man; these stubbs will weld together like glue from the melted bones of murderers.
quick!
forge me the harpoon.
and forge me first, twelve rods for its shank; then wind, and twist, and hammer these twelve together like the yarns and strands of a tow-line.
quick!
i’ll blow the fire.”
when at last the twelve rods were made, ahab tried them, one by one, by spiralling them, with his own hand, round a long, heavy iron bolt.
“a flaw!” rejecting the last one.
“work that over again, perth.”
this done, perth was about to begin welding the twelve into one, when ahab stayed his hand, and said he would weld his own iron.
as, then, with regular, gasping hems, he hammered on the anvil, perth passing to him the glowing rods, one after the other, and the hard pressed forge shooting up its intense straight flame, the parsee passed silently, and bowing over his head towards the fire, seemed invoking some curse or some blessing on the toil.
but, as ahab looked up, he slid aside.
“what’s that bunch of lucifers dodging about there for?” muttered stubb, looking on from the forecastle.
“that parsee smells fire like a fusee; and smells of it himself, like a hot musket’s powder-pan.”
at last the shank, in one complete rod, received its final heat; and as perth, to temper it, plunged it all hissing into the cask of water near by, the scalding steam shot up into ahab’s bent face.
“would’st thou brand me, perth?” wincing for a moment with the pain; “have i been but forging my own branding-iron, then?”
“pray god, not that; yet i fear something, captain ahab.
is not this harpoon for the white whale?”
“for the white fiend!
but now for the barbs; thou must make them thyself, man.
here are my razors—the best of steel; here, and make the barbs sharp as the needle-sleet of the icy sea.”
for a moment, the old blacksmith eyed the razors as though he would fain not use them.
“take them, man, i have no need for them; for i now neither shave, sup, nor pray till—but here—to work!”
fashioned at last into an arrowy shape, and welded by perth to the shank, the steel soon pointed the end of the iron; and as the blacksmith was about giving the barbs their final heat, prior to tempering them, he cried to ahab to place the water-cask near.
“no, no—no water for that; i want it of the true death-temper.
ahoy, there!
tashtego, queequeg, daggoo!
what say ye, pagans!
will ye give me as much blood as will cover this barb?” holding it high up.
a cluster of dark nods replied, yes.
three punctures were made in the heathen flesh, and the white whale’s barbs were then tempered.
“ego non baptizo te in nomine patris, sed in nomine diaboli!”
deliriously howled ahab, as the malignant iron scorchingly devoured the baptismal blood.
now, mustering the spare poles from below, and selecting one of hickory, with the bark still investing it, ahab fitted the end to the socket of the iron.
a coil of new tow-line was then unwound, and some fathoms of it taken to the windlass, and stretched to a great tension.
pressing his foot upon it, till the rope hummed like a harp-string, then eagerly bending over it, and seeing no strandings, ahab exclaimed, “good!
and now for the seizings.”
at one extremity the rope was unstranded, and the separate spread yarns were all braided and woven round the socket of the harpoon; the pole was then driven hard up into the socket; from the lower end the rope was traced half-way along the pole’s length, and firmly secured so, with intertwistings of twine.
this done, pole, iron, and rope—like the three fates—remained inseparable, and ahab moodily stalked away with the weapon; the sound of his ivory leg, and the sound of the hickory pole, both hollowly ringing along every plank.
but ere he entered his cabin, light, unnatural, half-bantering, yet most piteous sound was heard.
oh, pip!
thy wretched laugh, thy idle but unresting eye; all thy strange mummeries not unmeaningly blended with the black tragedy of the melancholy ship, and mocked it!
chapter 114. the gilder.
penetrating further and further into the heart of the japanese cruising ground, the pequod was soon all astir in the fishery.
often, in mild, pleasant weather, for twelve, fifteen, eighteen, and twenty hours on the stretch, they were engaged in the boats, steadily pulling, or sailing, or paddling after the whales, or for an interlude of sixty or seventy minutes calmly awaiting their uprising; though with but small success for their pains.
at such times, under an abated sun; afloat all day upon smooth, slow heaving swells; seated in his boat, light as a birch canoe; and so sociably mixing with the soft waves themselves, that like hearth-stone cats they purr against the gunwale; these are the times of dreamy quietude, when beholding the tranquil beauty and brilliancy of the ocean’s skin, one forgets the tiger heart that pants beneath it; and would not willingly remember, that this velvet paw but conceals a remorseless fang.
these are the times, when in his whale-boat the rover softly feels a certain filial, confident, land-like feeling towards the sea; that he regards it as so much flowery earth; and the distant ship revealing only the tops of her masts, seems struggling forward, not through high rolling waves, but through the tall grass of a rolling prairie: as when the western emigrants’ horses only show their erected ears, while their hidden bodies widely wade through the amazing verdure.
the long-drawn virgin vales; the mild blue hill-sides; as over these there steals the hush, the hum; you almost swear that play-wearied children lie sleeping in these solitudes, in some glad may-time, when the flowers of the woods are plucked.
and all this mixes with your most mystic mood; so that fact and fancy, half-way meeting, interpenetrate, and form one seamless whole.
nor did such soothing scenes, however temporary, fail of at least as temporary an effect on ahab.
but if these secret golden keys did seem to open in him his own secret golden treasuries, yet did his breath upon them prove but tarnishing.
oh, grassy glades!
oh, ever vernal endless landscapes in the soul; in ye,—though long parched by the dead drought of the earthy life,—in ye, men yet may roll, like young horses in new morning clover; and for some few fleeting moments, feel the cool dew of the life immortal on them.
would to god these blessed calms would last.
but the mingled, mingling threads of life are woven by warp and woof: calms crossed by storms, a storm for every calm.
there is no steady unretracing progress in this life; we do not advance through fixed gradations, and at the last one pause:—through infancy’s unconscious spell, boyhood’s thoughtless faith, adolescence’ doubt (the common doom), then scepticism, then disbelief, resting at last in manhood’s pondering repose of if.
but once gone through, we trace the round again; and are infants, boys, and men, and ifs eternally.
where lies the final harbor, whence we unmoor no more?
in what rapt ether sails the world, of which the weariest will never weary?
where is the foundling’s father hidden?
our souls are like those orphans whose unwedded mothers die in bearing them: the secret of our paternity lies in their grave, and we must there to learn it.
and that same day, too, gazing far down from his boat’s side into that same golden sea, starbuck lowly murmured:—
“loveliness unfathomable, as ever lover saw in his young bride’s eye!—tell me not of thy teeth-tiered sharks, and thy kidnapping cannibal ways.
let faith oust fact; let fancy oust memory; i look deep down and do believe.”
and stubb, fish-like, with sparkling scales, leaped up in that same golden light:—
“i am stubb, and stubb has his history; but here stubb takes oaths that he has always been jolly!”
chapter 115. the pequod meets the bachelor.
and jolly enough were the sights and the sounds that came bearing down before the wind, some few weeks after ahab’s harpoon had been welded.
it was a nantucket ship, the bachelor, which had just wedged in her last cask of oil, and bolted down her bursting hatches; and now, in glad holiday apparel, was joyously, though somewhat vain-gloriously, sailing round among the widely-separated ships on the ground, previous to pointing her prow for home.
the three men at her mast-head wore long streamers of narrow red bunting at their hats; from the stern, a whale-boat was suspended, bottom down; and hanging captive from the bowsprit was seen the long lower jaw of the last whale they had slain.
signals, ensigns, and jacks of all colours were flying from her rigging, on every side.
sideways lashed in each of her three basketed tops were two barrels of sperm; above which, in her top-mast cross-trees, you saw slender breakers of the same precious fluid; and nailed to her main truck was a brazen lamp.
as was afterwards learned, the bachelor had met with the most surprising success; all the more wonderful, for that while cruising in the same seas numerous other vessels had gone entire months without securing a single fish.
not only had barrels of beef and bread been given away to make room for the far more valuable sperm, but additional supplemental casks had been bartered for, from the ships she had met; and these were stowed along the deck, and in the captain’s and officers’ state-rooms.
even the cabin table itself had been knocked into kindling-wood; and the cabin mess dined off the broad head of an oil-butt, lashed down to the floor for a centrepiece.
in the forecastle, the sailors had actually caulked and pitched their chests, and filled them; it was humorously added, that the cook had clapped a head on his largest boiler, and filled it; that the steward had plugged his spare coffee-pot and filled it; that the harpooneers had headed the sockets of their irons and filled them; that indeed everything was filled with sperm, except the captain’s pantaloons pockets, and those he reserved to thrust his hands into, in self-complacent testimony of his entire satisfaction.
as this glad ship of good luck bore down upon the moody pequod, the barbarian sound of enormous drums came from her forecastle; and drawing still nearer, a crowd of her men were seen standing round her huge try-pots, which, covered with the parchment-like poke or stomach skin of the black fish, gave forth a loud roar to every stroke of the clenched hands of the crew.
on the quarter-deck, the mates and harpooneers were dancing with the olive-hued girls who had eloped with them from the polynesian isles; while suspended in an ornamented boat, firmly secured aloft between the foremast and mainmast, three long island negroes, with glittering fiddle-bows of whale ivory, were presiding over the hilarious jig.
meanwhile, others of the ship’s company were tumultuously busy at the masonry of the try-works, from which the huge pots had been removed.
you would have almost thought they were pulling down the cursed bastille, such wild cries they raised, as the now useless brick and mortar were being hurled into the sea.
lord and master over all this scene, the captain stood erect on the ship’s elevated quarter-deck, so that the whole rejoicing drama was full before him, and seemed merely contrived for his own individual diversion.
and ahab, he too was standing on his quarter-deck, shaggy and black, with a stubborn gloom; and as the two ships crossed each other’s wakes—one all jubilations for things passed, the other all forebodings as to things to come—their two captains in themselves impersonated the whole striking contrast of the scene.
“come aboard, come aboard!” cried the gay bachelor’s commander, lifting a glass and a bottle in the air.
“hast seen the white whale?” gritted ahab in reply.
“no; only heard of him; but don’t believe in him at all,” said the other good-humoredly.
“come aboard!”
“thou art too damned jolly.
sail on.
hast lost any men?”
“not enough to speak of—two islanders, that’s all;—but come aboard, old hearty, come along.
i’ll soon take that black from your brow.
come along, will ye (merry’s the play); a full ship and homeward-bound.”
“how wondrous familiar is a fool!” muttered ahab; then aloud, “thou art a full ship and homeward bound, thou sayst; well, then, call me an empty ship, and outward-bound.
so go thy ways, and i will mine.
forward there!
set all sail, and keep her to the wind!”
and thus, while the one ship went cheerily before the breeze, the other stubbornly fought against it; and so the two vessels parted; the crew of the pequod looking with grave, lingering glances towards the receding bachelor; but the bachelor’s men never heeding their gaze for the lively revelry they were in.
and as ahab, leaning over the taffrail, eyed the homeward-bound craft, he took from his pocket a small vial of sand, and then looking from the ship to the vial, seemed thereby bringing two remote associations together, for that vial was filled with nantucket soundings.
chapter 116. the dying whale.
not seldom in this life, when, on the right side, fortune’s favourites sail close by us, we, though all adroop before, catch somewhat of the rushing breeze, and joyfully feel our bagging sails fill out.
so seemed it with the pequod.
for next day after encountering the gay bachelor, whales were seen and four were slain; and one of them by ahab.
it was far down the afternoon; and when all the spearings of the crimson fight were done: and floating in the lovely sunset sea and sky, sun and whale both stilly died together; then, such a sweetness and such plaintiveness, such inwreathing orisons curled up in that rosy air, that it almost seemed as if far over from the deep green convent valleys of the manilla isles, the spanish land-breeze, wantonly turned sailor, had gone to sea, freighted with these vesper hymns.
soothed again, but only soothed to deeper gloom, ahab, who had sterned off from the whale, sat intently watching his final wanings from the now tranquil boat.
for that strange spectacle observable in all sperm whales dying—the turning sunwards of the head, and so expiring—that strange spectacle, beheld of such a placid evening, somehow to ahab conveyed a wondrousness unknown before.
“he turns and turns him to it,—how slowly, but how steadfastly, his homage-rendering and invoking brow, with his last dying motions.
he too worships fire; most faithful, broad, baronial vassal of the sun!—oh that these too-favouring eyes should see these too-favouring sights.
look!
here, far water-locked; beyond all hum of human weal or woe; in these most candid and impartial seas; where to traditions no rocks furnish tablets; where for long chinese ages, the billows have still rolled on speechless and unspoken to, as stars that shine upon the niger’s unknown source; here, too, life dies sunwards full of faith; but see!
no sooner dead, than death whirls round the corpse, and it heads some other way.
“oh, thou dark hindoo half of nature, who of drowned bones hast builded thy separate throne somewhere in the heart of these unverdured seas; thou art an infidel, thou queen, and too truly speakest to me in the wide-slaughtering typhoon, and the hushed burial of its after calm.
nor has this thy whale sunwards turned his dying head, and then gone round again, without a lesson to me.
“oh, trebly hooped and welded hip of power!
oh, high aspiring, rainbowed jet!—that one strivest, this one jettest all in vain!
in vain, oh whale, dost thou seek intercedings with yon all-quickening sun, that only calls forth life, but gives it not again.
yet dost thou, darker half, rock me with a prouder, if a darker faith.
all thy unnamable imminglings float beneath me here; i am buoyed by breaths of once living things, exhaled as air, but water now.
“then hail, for ever hail, o sea, in whose eternal tossings the wild fowl finds his only rest.
born of earth, yet suckled by the sea; though hill and valley mothered me, ye billows are my foster-brothers!”
chapter 117. the whale watch.
the four whales slain that evening had died wide apart; one, far to windward; one, less distant, to leeward; one ahead; one astern.
these last three were brought alongside ere nightfall; but the windward one could not be reached till morning; and the boat that had killed it lay by its side all night; and that boat was ahab’s.
the waif-pole was thrust upright into the dead whale’s spout-hole; and the lantern hanging from its top, cast a troubled flickering glare upon the black, glossy back, and far out upon the midnight waves, which gently chafed the whale’s broad flank, like soft surf upon a beach.
ahab and all his boat’s crew seemed asleep but the parsee; who crouching in the bow, sat watching the sharks, that spectrally played round the whale, and tapped the light cedar planks with their tails.
a sound like the moaning in squadrons over asphaltites of unforgiven ghosts of gomorrah, ran shuddering through the air.
started from his slumbers, ahab, face to face, saw the parsee; and hooped round by the gloom of the night they seemed the last men in a flooded world.
“i have dreamed it again,” said he.
“of the hearses?
have i not said, old man, that neither hearse nor coffin can be thine?”
“and who are hearsed that die on the sea?”
“but i said, old man, that ere thou couldst die on this voyage, two hearses must verily be seen by thee on the sea; the first not made by mortal hands; and the visible wood of the last one must be grown in america.”
“aye, aye!
a strange sight that, parsee:—a hearse and its plumes floating over the ocean with the waves for the pall-bearers.
ha!
such a sight we shall not soon see.”
“believe it or not, thou canst not die till it be seen, old man.”
“and what was that saying about thyself?”
“though it come to the last, i shall still go before thee thy pilot.”
“and when thou art so gone before—if that ever befall—then ere i can follow, thou must still appear to me, to pilot me still?—was it not so?
well, then, did i believe all ye say, oh my pilot!
i have here two pledges that i shall yet slay moby dick and survive it.”
“take another pledge, old man,” said the parsee, as his eyes lighted up like fire-flies in the gloom—“hemp only can kill thee.”
“the gallows, ye mean.—i am immortal then, on land and on sea,” cried ahab, with a laugh of derision;—“immortal on land and on sea!”
both were silent again, as one man.
the grey dawn came on, and the slumbering crew arose from the boat’s bottom, and ere noon the dead whale was brought to the ship.
chapter 118. the quadrant.
the season for the line at length drew near; and every day when ahab, coming from his cabin, cast his eyes aloft, the vigilant helmsman would ostentatiously handle his spokes, and the eager mariners quickly run to the braces, and would stand there with all their eyes centrally fixed on the nailed doubloon; impatient for the order to point the ship’s prow for the equator.
in good time the order came.
it was hard upon high noon; and ahab, seated in the bows of his high-hoisted boat, was about taking his wonted daily observation of the sun to determine his latitude.
now, in that japanese sea, the days in summer are as freshets of effulgences.
that unblinkingly vivid japanese sun seems the blazing focus of the glassy ocean’s immeasurable burning-glass.
the sky looks lacquered; clouds there are none; the horizon floats; and this nakedness of unrelieved radiance is as the insufferable splendors of god’s throne.
well that ahab’s quadrant was furnished with coloured glasses, through which to take sight of that solar fire.
so, swinging his seated form to the roll of the ship, and with his astrological-looking instrument placed to his eye, he remained in that posture for some moments to catch the precise instant when the sun should gain its precise meridian.
meantime while his whole attention was absorbed, the parsee was kneeling beneath him on the ship’s deck, and with face thrown up like ahab’s, was eyeing the same sun with him; only the lids of his eyes half hooded their orbs, and his wild face was subdued to an earthly passionlessness.
at length the desired observation was taken; and with his pencil upon his ivory leg, ahab soon calculated what his latitude must be at that precise instant.
then falling into a moment’s revery, he again looked up towards the sun and murmured to himself: “thou sea-mark!
thou high and mighty pilot!
thou tellest me truly where i am—but canst thou cast the least hint where i shall be?
or canst thou tell where some other thing besides me is this moment living?
where is moby dick?
this instant thou must be eyeing him.
these eyes of mine look into the very eye that is even now beholding him; aye, and into the eye that is even now equally beholding the objects on the unknown, thither side of thee, thou sun!”
then gazing at his quadrant, and handling, one after the other, its numerous cabalistical contrivances, he pondered again, and muttered:
“foolish toy!
babies’ plaything of haughty admirals, and commodores, and captains; the world brags of thee, of thy cunning and might; but what after all canst thou do, but tell the poor, pitiful point, where thou thyself happenest to be on this wide planet, and the hand that holds thee: no!
not one jot more!
thou canst not tell where one drop of water or one grain of sand will be to-morrow noon; and yet with thy impotence thou insultest the sun!
science!
curse thee, thou vain toy; and cursed be all the things that cast man’s eyes aloft to that heaven, whose live vividness but scorches him, as these old eyes are even now scorched with thy light, o sun!
level by nature to this earth’s horizon are the glances of man’s eyes; not shot from the crown of his head, as if god had meant him to gaze on his firmament.
curse thee, thou quadrant!” dashing it to the deck, “no longer will i guide my earthly way by thee; the level ship’s compass, and the level dead-reckoning, by log and by line; these shall conduct me, and show me my place on the sea.
aye,” lighting from the boat to the deck, “thus i trample on thee, thou paltry thing that feebly pointest on high; thus i split and destroy thee!”
as the frantic old man thus spoke and thus trampled with his live and dead feet, a sneering triumph that seemed meant for ahab, and a fatalistic despair that seemed meant for himself—these passed over the mute, motionless parsee’s face.
unobserved he rose and glided away; while, awestruck by the aspect of their commander, the seamen clustered together on the forecastle, till ahab, troubledly pacing the deck, shouted out—“to the braces!
up helm!—square in!”
in an instant the yards swung round; and as the ship half-wheeled upon her heel, her three firm-seated graceful masts erectly poised upon her long, ribbed hull, seemed as the three horatii pirouetting on one sufficient steed.
standing between the knight-heads, starbuck watched the pequod’s tumultuous way, and ahab’s also, as he went lurching along the deck.
“i have sat before the dense coal fire and watched it all aglow, full of its tormented flaming life; and i have seen it wane at last, down, down, to dumbest dust.
old man of oceans!
of all this fiery life of thine, what will at length remain but one little heap of ashes!”
“aye,” cried stubb, “but sea-coal ashes—mind ye that, mr.
starbuck—sea-coal, not your common charcoal.
well, well; i heard ahab mutter, ‘here some one thrusts these cards into these old hands of mine; swears that i must play them, and no others.’ and damn me, ahab, but thou actest right; live in the game, and die in it!”
chapter 119. the candles.
warmest climes but nurse the cruellest fangs: the tiger of bengal crouches in spiced groves of ceaseless verdure.
skies the most effulgent but basket the deadliest thunders: gorgeous cuba knows tornadoes that never swept tame northern lands.
so, too, it is, that in these resplendent japanese seas the mariner encounters the direst of all storms, the typhoon.
it will sometimes burst from out that cloudless sky, like an exploding bomb upon a dazed and sleepy town.
towards evening of that day, the pequod was torn of her canvas, and bare-poled was left to fight a typhoon which had struck her directly ahead.
when darkness came on, sky and sea roared and split with the thunder, and blazed with the lightning, that showed the disabled masts fluttering here and there with the rags which the first fury of the tempest had left for its after sport.
holding by a shroud, starbuck was standing on the quarter-deck; at every flash of the lightning glancing aloft, to see what additional disaster might have befallen the intricate hamper there; while stubb and flask were directing the men in the higher hoisting and firmer lashing of the boats.
but all their pains seemed naught.
though lifted to the very top of the cranes, the windward quarter boat (ahab’s) did not escape.
a great rolling sea, dashing high up against the reeling ship’s high teetering side, stove in the boat’s bottom at the stern, and left it again, all dripping through like a sieve.
“bad work, bad work!
mr. starbuck,” said stubb, regarding the wreck, “but the sea will have its way.
stubb, for one, can’t fight it.
you see, mr. starbuck, a wave has such a great long start before it leaps, all round the world it runs, and then comes the spring!
but as for me, all the start i have to meet it, is just across the deck here.
but never mind; it’s all in fun: so the old song says;”—(sings.)
oh!
jolly is the gale, and a joker is the whale, a’ flourishin’ his   tail,— such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad, is the   ocean, oh!
the scud all a flyin’, that’s his flip only foamin’; when he stirs in   the spicin’,— such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,   is the ocean, oh!
thunder splits the ships, but he only smacks his lips, a tastin’ of   this flip,— such a funny, sporty, gamy, jesty, joky, hoky-poky lad,   is the ocean, oh!
“avast stubb,” cried starbuck, “let the typhoon sing, and strike his harp here in our rigging; but if thou art a brave man thou wilt hold thy peace.”
“but i am not a brave man; never said i was a brave man; i am a coward; and i sing to keep up my spirits.
and i tell you what it is, mr.
starbuck, there’s no way to stop my singing in this world but to cut my throat.
and when that’s done, ten to one i sing ye the doxology for a wind-up.”
“madman!
look through my eyes if thou hast none of thine own.”
“what!
how can you see better of a dark night than anybody else, never mind how foolish?”
“here!” cried starbuck, seizing stubb by the shoulder, and pointing his hand towards the weather bow, “markest thou not that the gale comes from the eastward, the very course ahab is to run for moby dick?
the very course he swung to this day noon?
now mark his boat there; where is that stove?
in the stern-sheets, man; where he is wont to stand—his stand-point is stove, man!
now jump overboard, and sing away, if thou must!
“i don’t half understand ye: what’s in the wind?”
“yes, yes, round the cape of good hope is the shortest way to nantucket,” soliloquized starbuck suddenly, heedless of stubb’s question.
“the gale that now hammers at us to stave us, we can turn it into a fair wind that will drive us towards home.
yonder, to windward, all is blackness of doom; but to leeward, homeward—i see it lightens up there; but not with the lightning.”
at that moment in one of the intervals of profound darkness, following the flashes, a voice was heard at his side; and almost at the same instant a volley of thunder peals rolled overhead.
“who’s there?”
“old thunder!” said ahab, groping his way along the bulwarks to his pivot-hole; but suddenly finding his path made plain to him by elbowed lances of fire.
now, as the lightning rod to a spire on shore is intended to carry off the perilous fluid into the soil; so the kindred rod which at sea some ships carry to each mast, is intended to conduct it into the water.
but as this conductor must descend to considerable depth, that its end may avoid all contact with the hull; and as moreover, if kept constantly towing there, it would be liable to many mishaps, besides interfering not a little with some of the rigging, and more or less impeding the vessel’s way in the water; because of all this, the lower parts of a ship’s lightning-rods are not always overboard; but are generally made in long slender links, so as to be the more readily hauled up into the chains outside, or thrown down into the sea, as occasion may require.
“the rods!
the rods!” cried starbuck to the crew, suddenly admonished to vigilance by the vivid lightning that had just been darting flambeaux, to light ahab to his post.
“are they overboard?
drop them over, fore and aft.
quick!”
“avast!” cried ahab; “let’s have fair play here, though we be the weaker side.
yet i’ll contribute to raise rods on the himmalehs and andes, that all the world may be secured; but out on privileges!
let them be, sir.”
“look aloft!” cried starbuck.
“the corpusants!
the corpusants!”
all the yard-arms were tipped with a pallid fire; and touched at each tri-pointed lightning-rod-end with three tapering white flames, each of the three tall masts was silently burning in that sulphurous air, like three gigantic wax tapers before an altar.
“blast the boat!
let it go!” cried stubb at this instant, as a swashing sea heaved up under his own little craft, so that its gunwale violently jammed his hand, as he was passing a lashing.
“blast it!”—but slipping backward on the deck, his uplifted eyes caught the flames; and immediately shifting his tone he cried—“the corpusants have mercy on us all!”
to sailors, oaths are household words; they will swear in the trance of the calm, and in the teeth of the tempest; they will imprecate curses from the topsail-yard-arms, when most they teeter over to a seething sea; but in all my voyagings, seldom have i heard a common oath when god’s burning finger has been laid on the ship; when his “mene, mene, tekel upharsin” has been woven into the shrouds and the cordage.
while this pallidness was burning aloft, few words were heard from the enchanted crew; who in one thick cluster stood on the forecastle, all their eyes gleaming in that pale phosphorescence, like a far away constellation of stars.
relieved against the ghostly light, the gigantic jet negro, daggoo, loomed up to thrice his real stature, and seemed the black cloud from which the thunder had come.
the parted mouth of tashtego revealed his shark-white teeth, which strangely gleamed as if they too had been tipped by corpusants; while lit up by the preternatural light, queequeg’s tattooing burned like satanic blue flames on his body.
the tableau all waned at last with the pallidness aloft; and once more the pequod and every soul on her decks were wrapped in a pall.
a moment or two passed, when starbuck, going forward, pushed against some one.
it was stubb.
“what thinkest thou now, man; i heard thy cry; it was not the same in the song.”
“no, no, it wasn’t; i said the corpusants have mercy on us all; and i hope they will, still.
but do they only have mercy on long faces?—have they no bowels for a laugh?
and look ye, mr. starbuck—but it’s too dark to look.
hear me, then: i take that mast-head flame we saw for a sign of good luck; for those masts are rooted in a hold that is going to be chock a’ block with sperm-oil, d’ye see; and so, all that sperm will work up into the masts, like sap in a tree.
yes, our three masts will yet be as three spermaceti candles—that’s the good promise we saw.”
at that moment starbuck caught sight of stubb’s face slowly beginning to glimmer into sight.
glancing upwards, he cried: “see!
see!” and once more the high tapering flames were beheld with what seemed redoubled supernaturalness in their pallor.
“the corpusants have mercy on us all,” cried stubb, again.
at the base of the mainmast, full beneath the doubloon and the flame, the parsee was kneeling in ahab’s front, but with his head bowed away from him; while near by, from the arched and overhanging rigging, where they had just been engaged securing a spar, a number of the seamen, arrested by the glare, now cohered together, and hung pendulous, like a knot of numbed wasps from a drooping, orchard twig.
in various enchanted attitudes, like the standing, or stepping, or running skeletons in herculaneum, others remained rooted to the deck; but all their eyes upcast.
“aye, aye, men!” cried ahab.
“look up at it; mark it well; the white flame but lights the way to the white whale!
hand me those mainmast links there; i would fain feel this pulse, and let mine beat against it; blood against fire!
so.”
then turning—the last link held fast in his left hand, he put his foot upon the parsee; and with fixed upward eye, and high-flung right arm, he stood erect before the lofty tri-pointed trinity of flames.
“oh!
thou clear spirit of clear fire, whom on these seas i as persian once did worship, till in the sacramental act so burned by thee, that to this hour i bear the scar; i now know thee, thou clear spirit, and i now know that thy right worship is defiance.
to neither love nor reverence wilt thou be kind; and e’en for hate thou canst but kill; and all are killed.
no fearless fool now fronts thee.
i own thy speechless, placeless power; but to the last gasp of my earthquake life will dispute its unconditional, unintegral mastery in me.
in the midst of the personified impersonal, a personality stands here.
though but a point at best; whencesoe’er i came; wheresoe’er i go; yet while i earthly live, the queenly personality lives in me, and feels her royal rights.
but war is pain, and hate is woe.
come in thy lowest form of love, and i will kneel and kiss thee; but at thy highest, come as mere supernal power; and though thou launchest navies of full-freighted worlds, there’s that in here that still remains indifferent.
oh, thou clear spirit, of thy fire thou madest me, and like a true child of fire, i breathe it back to thee.”
[sudden, repeated flashes of lightning; the nine flames leap lengthwise to thrice their previous height; ahab, with the rest, closes his eyes, his right hand pressed hard upon them.]
“i own thy speechless, placeless power; said i not so?
nor was it wrung from me; nor do i now drop these links.
thou canst blind; but i can then grope.
thou canst consume; but i can then be ashes.
take the homage of these poor eyes, and shutter-hands.
i would not take it.
the lightning flashes through my skull; mine eye-balls ache and ache; my whole beaten brain seems as beheaded, and rolling on some stunning ground.
oh, oh!
yet blindfold, yet will i talk to thee.
light though thou be, thou leapest out of darkness; but i am darkness leaping out of light, leaping out of thee!
the javelins cease; open eyes; see, or not?
there burn the flames!
oh, thou magnanimous!
now i do glory in my genealogy.
but thou art but my fiery father; my sweet mother, i know not.
oh, cruel!
what hast thou done with her?
there lies my puzzle; but thine is greater.
thou knowest not how came ye, hence callest thyself unbegotten; certainly knowest not thy beginning, hence callest thyself unbegun.
i know that of me, which thou knowest not of thyself, oh, thou omnipotent.
there is some unsuffusing thing beyond thee, thou clear spirit, to whom all thy eternity is but time, all thy creativeness mechanical.
through thee, thy flaming self, my scorched eyes do dimly see it.
oh, thou foundling fire, thou hermit immemorial, thou too hast thy incommunicable riddle, thy unparticipated grief.
here again with haughty agony, i read my sire.
leap!
leap up, and lick the sky!
i leap with thee; i burn with thee; would fain be welded with thee; defyingly i worship thee!”
“the boat!
the boat!” cried starbuck, “look at thy boat, old man!”
ahab’s harpoon, the one forged at perth’s fire, remained firmly lashed in its conspicuous crotch, so that it projected beyond his whale-boat’s bow; but the sea that had stove its bottom had caused the loose leather sheath to drop off; and from the keen steel barb there now came a levelled flame of pale, forked fire.
as the silent harpoon burned there like a serpent’s tongue, starbuck grasped ahab by the arm—“god, god is against thee, old man; forbear!
’tis an ill voyage!
ill begun, ill continued; let me square the yards, while we may, old man, and make a fair wind of it homewards, to go on a better voyage than this.”
overhearing starbuck, the panic-stricken crew instantly ran to the braces—though not a sail was left aloft.
for the moment all the aghast mate’s thoughts seemed theirs; they raised a half mutinous cry.
but dashing the rattling lightning links to the deck, and snatching the burning harpoon, ahab waved it like a torch among them; swearing to transfix with it the first sailor that but cast loose a rope’s end.
petrified by his aspect, and still more shrinking from the fiery dart that he held, the men fell back in dismay, and ahab again spoke:—
“all your oaths to hunt the white whale are as binding as mine; and heart, soul, and body, lungs and life, old ahab is bound.
and that ye may know to what tune this heart beats; look ye here; thus i blow out the last fear!” and with one blast of his breath he extinguished the flame.
as in the hurricane that sweeps the plain, men fly the neighborhood of some lone, gigantic elm, whose very height and strength but render it so much the more unsafe, because so much the more a mark for thunderbolts; so at those last words of ahab’s many of the mariners did run from him in a terror of dismay.
chapter 120. the deck towards the end of the first night watch.
ahab standing by the helm.
starbuck approaching him.
“we must send down the main-top-sail yard, sir.
the band is working loose and the lee lift is half-stranded.
shall i strike it, sir?”
“strike nothing; lash it.
if i had sky-sail poles, i’d sway them up now.”
“sir!—in god’s name!—sir?”
“well.”
“the anchors are working, sir.
shall i get them inboard?”
“strike nothing, and stir nothing, but lash everything.
the wind rises, but it has not got up to my table-lands yet.
quick, and see to it.—by masts and keels!
he takes me for the hunch-backed skipper of some coasting smack.
send down my main-top-sail yard!
ho, gluepots!
loftiest trucks were made for wildest winds, and this brain-truck of mine now sails amid the cloud-scud.
shall i strike that?
oh, none but cowards send down their brain-trucks in tempest time.
what a hooroosh aloft there!
i would e’en take it for sublime, did i not know that the colic is a noisy malady.
oh, take medicine, take medicine!”
chapter 121. midnight.—the forecastle bulwarks.
stubb and flask mounted on them, and passing additional lashings over the anchors there hanging.
“no, stubb; you may pound that knot there as much as you please, but you will never pound into me what you were just now saying.
and how long ago is it since you said the very contrary?
didn’t you once say that whatever ship ahab sails in, that ship should pay something extra on its insurance policy, just as though it were loaded with powder barrels aft and boxes of lucifers forward?
stop, now; didn’t you say so?”
“well, suppose i did?
what then?
i’ve part changed my flesh since that time, why not my mind?
besides, supposing we are loaded with powder barrels aft and lucifers forward; how the devil could the lucifers get afire in this drenching spray here?
why, my little man, you have pretty red hair, but you couldn’t get afire now.
shake yourself; you’re aquarius, or the water-bearer, flask; might fill pitchers at your coat collar.
don’t you see, then, that for these extra risks the marine insurance companies have extra guarantees?
here are hydrants, flask.
but hark, again, and i’ll answer ye the other thing.
first take your leg off from the crown of the anchor here, though, so i can pass the rope; now listen.
what’s the mighty difference between holding a mast’s lightning-rod in the storm, and standing close by a mast that hasn’t got any lightning-rod at all in a storm?
don’t you see, you timber-head, that no harm can come to the holder of the rod, unless the mast is first struck?
what are you talking about, then?
not one ship in a hundred carries rods, and ahab,—aye, man, and all of us,—were in no more danger then, in my poor opinion, than all the crews in ten thousand ships now sailing the seas.
why, you king-post, you, i suppose you would have every man in the world go about with a small lightning-rod running up the corner of his hat, like a militia officer’s skewered feather, and trailing behind like his sash.
why don’t ye be sensible, flask?
it’s easy to be sensible; why don’t ye, then?
any man with half an eye can be sensible.”
“i don’t know that, stubb.
you sometimes find it rather hard.”
“yes, when a fellow’s soaked through, it’s hard to be sensible, that’s a fact.
and i am about drenched with this spray.
never mind; catch the turn there, and pass it.
seems to me we are lashing down these anchors now as if they were never going to be used again.
tying these two anchors here, flask, seems like tying a man’s hands behind him.
and what big generous hands they are, to be sure.
these are your iron fists, hey?
what a hold they have, too!
i wonder, flask, whether the world is anchored anywhere; if she is, she swings with an uncommon long cable, though.
there, hammer that knot down, and we’ve done.
so; next to touching land, lighting on deck is the most satisfactory.
i say, just wring out my jacket skirts, will ye?
thank ye.
they laugh at long-togs so, flask; but seems to me, a long tailed coat ought always to be worn in all storms afloat.
the tails tapering down that way, serve to carry off the water, d’ye see.
same with cocked hats; the cocks form gable-end eave-troughs, flask.
no more monkey-jackets and tarpaulins for me; i must mount a swallow-tail, and drive down a beaver; so.
halloa!
whew!
there goes my tarpaulin overboard; lord, lord, that the winds that come from heaven should be so unmannerly!
this is a nasty night, lad.”
chapter 122. midnight aloft.—thunder and lightning.
the main-top-sail yard.—tashtego passing new lashings around it.
“um, um, um.
stop that thunder!
plenty too much thunder up here.
what’s the use of thunder?
um, um, um.
we don’t want thunder; we want rum; give us a glass of rum.
um, um, um!”
chapter 123. the musket.
during the most violent shocks of the typhoon, the man at the pequod’s jaw-bone tiller had several times been reelingly hurled to the deck by its spasmodic motions, even though preventer tackles had been attached to it—for they were slack—because some play to the tiller was indispensable.
in a severe gale like this, while the ship is but a tossed shuttlecock to the blast, it is by no means uncommon to see the needles in the compasses, at intervals, go round and round.
it was thus with the pequod’s; at almost every shock the helmsman had not failed to notice the whirling velocity with which they revolved upon the cards; it is a sight that hardly anyone can behold without some sort of unwonted emotion.
some hours after midnight, the typhoon abated so much, that through the strenuous exertions of starbuck and stubb—one engaged forward and the other aft—the shivered remnants of the jib and fore and main-top-sails were cut adrift from the spars, and went eddying away to leeward, like the feathers of an albatross, which sometimes are cast to the winds when that storm-tossed bird is on the wing.
the three corresponding new sails were now bent and reefed, and a storm-trysail was set further aft; so that the ship soon went through the water with some precision again; and the course—for the present, east-south-east—which he was to steer, if practicable, was once more given to the helmsman.
for during the violence of the gale, he had only steered according to its vicissitudes.
but as he was now bringing the ship as near her course as possible, watching the compass meanwhile, lo!
a good sign!
the wind seemed coming round astern; aye, the foul breeze became fair!
instantly the yards were squared, to the lively song of “ho!
the fair wind!
oh-ye-ho, cheerly men!” the crew singing for joy, that so promising an event should so soon have falsified the evil portents preceding it.
in compliance with the standing order of his commander—to report immediately, and at any one of the twenty-four hours, any decided change in the affairs of the deck,—starbuck had no sooner trimmed the yards to the breeze—however reluctantly and gloomily,—than he mechanically went below to apprise captain ahab of the circumstance.
ere knocking at his state-room, he involuntarily paused before it a moment.
the cabin lamp—taking long swings this way and that—was burning fitfully, and casting fitful shadows upon the old man’s bolted door,—a thin one, with fixed blinds inserted, in place of upper panels.
the isolated subterraneousness of the cabin made a certain humming silence to reign there, though it was hooped round by all the roar of the elements.
the loaded muskets in the rack were shiningly revealed, as they stood upright against the forward bulkhead.
starbuck was an honest, upright man; but out of starbuck’s heart, at that instant when he saw the muskets, there strangely evolved an evil thought; but so blent with its neutral or good accompaniments that for the instant he hardly knew it for itself.
“he would have shot me once,” he murmured, “yes, there’s the very musket that he pointed at me;—that one with the studded stock; let me touch it—lift it.
strange, that i, who have handled so many deadly lances, strange, that i should shake so now.
loaded?
i must see.
aye, aye; and powder in the pan;—that’s not good.
best spill it?—wait.
i’ll cure myself of this.
i’ll hold the musket boldly while i think.—i come to report a fair wind to him.
but how fair?
fair for death and doom,—that’s fair for moby dick.
it’s a fair wind that’s only fair for that accursed fish.—the very tube he pointed at me!—the very one; this one—i hold it here; he would have killed me with the very thing i handle now.—aye and he would fain kill all his crew.
does he not say he will not strike his spars to any gale?
has he not dashed his heavenly quadrant?
and in these same perilous seas, gropes he not his way by mere dead reckoning of the error-abounding log?
and in this very typhoon, did he not swear that he would have no lightning-rods?
but shall this crazed old man be tamely suffered to drag a whole ship’s company down to doom with him?—yes, it would make him the wilful murderer of thirty men and more, if this ship come to any deadly harm; and come to deadly harm, my soul swears this ship will, if ahab have his way.
if, then, he were this instant—put aside, that crime would not be his.
ha!
is he muttering in his sleep?
yes, just there,—in there, he’s sleeping.
sleeping?
aye, but still alive, and soon awake again.
i can’t withstand thee, then, old man.
not reasoning; not remonstrance; not entreaty wilt thou hearken to; all this thou scornest.
flat obedience to thy own flat commands, this is all thou breathest.
aye, and say’st the men have vow’d thy vow; say’st all of us are ahabs.
great god forbid!—but is there no other way?
no lawful way?—make him a prisoner to be taken home?
what!
hope to wrest this old man’s living power from his own living hands?
only a fool would try it.
say he were pinioned even; knotted all over with ropes and hawsers; chained down to ring-bolts on this cabin floor; he would be more hideous than a caged tiger, then.
i could not endure the sight; could not possibly fly his howlings; all comfort, sleep itself, inestimable reason would leave me on the long intolerable voyage.
what, then, remains?
the land is hundreds of leagues away, and locked japan the nearest.
i stand alone here upon an open sea, with two oceans and a whole continent between me and law.—aye, aye, ’tis so.—is heaven a murderer when its lightning strikes a would-be murderer in his bed, tindering sheets and skin together?—and would i be a murderer, then, if”—and slowly, stealthily, and half sideways looking, he placed the loaded musket’s end against the door.
“on this level, ahab’s hammock swings within; his head this way.
a touch, and starbuck may survive to hug his wife and child again.—oh mary!
mary!—boy!
boy!
boy!—but if i wake thee not to death, old man, who can tell to what unsounded deeps starbuck’s body this day week may sink, with all the crew!
great god, where art thou?
shall i?
shall i?—the wind has gone down and shifted, sir; the fore and main topsails are reefed and set; she heads her course.”
“stern all!
oh moby dick, i clutch thy heart at last!”
such were the sounds that now came hurtling from out the old man’s tormented sleep, as if starbuck’s voice had caused the long dumb dream to speak.
the yet levelled musket shook like a drunkard’s arm against the panel; starbuck seemed wrestling with an angel; but turning from the door, he placed the death-tube in its rack, and left the place.
“he’s too sound asleep, mr. stubb; go thou down, and wake him, and tell him.
i must see to the deck here.
thou know’st what to say.”
chapter 124. the needle.
next morning the not-yet-subsided sea rolled in long slow billows of mighty bulk, and striving in the pequod’s gurgling track, pushed her on like giants’ palms outspread.
the strong, unstaggering breeze abounded so, that sky and air seemed vast outbellying sails; the whole world boomed before the wind.
muffled in the full morning light, the invisible sun was only known by the spread intensity of his place; where his bayonet rays moved on in stacks.
emblazonings, as of crowned babylonian kings and queens, reigned over everything.
the sea was as a crucible of molten gold, that bubblingly leaps with light and heat.
long maintaining an enchanted silence, ahab stood apart; and every time the tetering ship loweringly pitched down her bowsprit, he turned to eye the bright sun’s rays produced ahead; and when she profoundly settled by the stern, he turned behind, and saw the sun’s rearward place, and how the same yellow rays were blending with his undeviating wake.
“ha, ha, my ship!
thou mightest well be taken now for the sea-chariot of the sun.
ho, ho!
all ye nations before my prow, i bring the sun to ye!
yoke on the further billows; hallo!
a tandem, i drive the sea!”
but suddenly reined back by some counter thought, he hurried towards the helm, huskily demanding how the ship was heading.
“east-sou-east, sir,” said the frightened steersman.
“thou liest!” smiting him with his clenched fist.
“heading east at this hour in the morning, and the sun astern?”
upon this every soul was confounded; for the phenomenon just then observed by ahab had unaccountably escaped every one else; but its very blinding palpableness must have been the cause.
thrusting his head half way into the binnacle, ahab caught one glimpse of the compasses; his uplifted arm slowly fell; for a moment he almost seemed to stagger.
standing behind him starbuck looked, and lo!
the two compasses pointed east, and the pequod was as infallibly going west.
but ere the first wild alarm could get out abroad among the crew, the old man with a rigid laugh exclaimed, “i have it!
it has happened before.
mr. starbuck, last night’s thunder turned our compasses—that’s all.
thou hast before now heard of such a thing, i take it.”
“aye; but never before has it happened to me, sir,” said the pale mate, gloomily.
here, it must needs be said, that accidents like this have in more than one case occurred to ships in violent storms.
the magnetic energy, as developed in the mariner’s needle, is, as all know, essentially one with the electricity beheld in heaven; hence it is not to be much marvelled at, that such things should be.
instances where the lightning has actually struck the vessel, so as to smite down some of the spars and rigging, the effect upon the needle has at times been still more fatal; all its loadstone virtue being annihilated, so that the before magnetic steel was of no more use than an old wife’s knitting needle.
but in either case, the needle never again, of itself, recovers the original virtue thus marred or lost; and if the binnacle compasses be affected, the same fate reaches all the others that may be in the ship; even were the lowermost one inserted into the kelson.
deliberately standing before the binnacle, and eyeing the transpointed compasses, the old man, with the sharp of his extended hand, now took the precise bearing of the sun, and satisfied that the needles were exactly inverted, shouted out his orders for the ship’s course to be changed accordingly.
the yards were hard up; and once more the pequod thrust her undaunted bows into the opposing wind, for the supposed fair one had only been juggling her.
meanwhile, whatever were his own secret thoughts, starbuck said nothing, but quietly he issued all requisite orders; while stubb and flask—who in some small degree seemed then to be sharing his feelings—likewise unmurmuringly acquiesced.
as for the men, though some of them lowly rumbled, their fear of ahab was greater than their fear of fate.
but as ever before, the pagan harpooneers remained almost wholly unimpressed; or if impressed, it was only with a certain magnetism shot into their congenial hearts from inflexible ahab’s.
for a space the old man walked the deck in rolling reveries.
but chancing to slip with his ivory heel, he saw the crushed copper sight-tubes of the quadrant he had the day before dashed to the deck.
“thou poor, proud heaven-gazer and sun’s pilot!
yesterday i wrecked thee, and to-day the compasses would fain have wrecked me.
so, so.
but ahab is lord over the level loadstone yet.
mr. starbuck—a lance without a pole; a top-maul, and the smallest of the sail-maker’s needles.
quick!”
accessory, perhaps, to the impulse dictating the thing he was now about to do, were certain prudential motives, whose object might have been to revive the spirits of his crew by a stroke of his subtile skill, in a matter so wondrous as that of the inverted compasses.
besides, the old man well knew that to steer by transpointed needles, though clumsily practicable, was not a thing to be passed over by superstitious sailors, without some shudderings and evil portents.
“men,” said he, steadily turning upon the crew, as the mate handed him the things he had demanded, “my men, the thunder turned old ahab’s needles; but out of this bit of steel ahab can make one of his own, that will point as true as any.”
abashed glances of servile wonder were exchanged by the sailors, as this was said; and with fascinated eyes they awaited whatever magic might follow.
but starbuck looked away.
with a blow from the top-maul ahab knocked off the steel head of the lance, and then handing to the mate the long iron rod remaining, bade him hold it upright, without its touching the deck.
then, with the maul, after repeatedly smiting the upper end of this iron rod, he placed the blunted needle endwise on the top of it, and less strongly hammered that, several times, the mate still holding the rod as before.
then going through some small strange motions with it—whether indispensable to the magnetizing of the steel, or merely intended to augment the awe of the crew, is uncertain—he called for linen thread; and moving to the binnacle, slipped out the two reversed needles there, and horizontally suspended the sail-needle by its middle, over one of the compass-cards.
at first, the steel went round and round, quivering and vibrating at either end; but at last it settled to its place, when ahab, who had been intently watching for this result, stepped frankly back from the binnacle, and pointing his stretched arm towards it, exclaimed,—“look ye, for yourselves, if ahab be not lord of the level loadstone!
the sun is east, and that compass swears it!”
one after another they peered in, for nothing but their own eyes could persuade such ignorance as theirs, and one after another they slunk away.
in his fiery eyes of scorn and triumph, you then saw ahab in all his fatal pride.
chapter 125. the log and line.
while now the fated pequod had been so long afloat this voyage, the log and line had but very seldom been in use.
owing to a confident reliance upon other means of determining the vessel’s place, some merchantmen, and many whalemen, especially when cruising, wholly neglect to heave the log; though at the same time, and frequently more for form’s sake than anything else, regularly putting down upon the customary slate the course steered by the ship, as well as the presumed average rate of progression every hour.
it had been thus with the pequod.
the wooden reel and angular log attached hung, long untouched, just beneath the railing of the after bulwarks.
rains and spray had damped it; sun and wind had warped it; all the elements had combined to rot a thing that hung so idly.
but heedless of all this, his mood seized ahab, as he happened to glance upon the reel, not many hours after the magnet scene, and he remembered how his quadrant was no more, and recalled his frantic oath about the level log and line.
the ship was sailing plungingly; astern the billows rolled in riots.
“forward, there!
heave the log!”
two seamen came.
the golden-hued tahitian and the grizzly manxman.
“take the reel, one of ye, i’ll heave.”
they went towards the extreme stern, on the ship’s lee side, where the deck, with the oblique energy of the wind, was now almost dipping into the creamy, sidelong-rushing sea.
the manxman took the reel, and holding it high up, by the projecting handle-ends of the spindle, round which the spool of line revolved, so stood with the angular log hanging downwards, till ahab advanced to him.
ahab stood before him, and was lightly unwinding some thirty or forty turns to form a preliminary hand-coil to toss overboard, when the old manxman, who was intently eyeing both him and the line, made bold to speak.
“sir, i mistrust it; this line looks far gone, long heat and wet have spoiled it.”
“’twill hold, old gentleman.
long heat and wet, have they spoiled thee?
thou seem’st to hold.
or, truer perhaps, life holds thee; not thou it.”
“i hold the spool, sir.
but just as my captain says.
with these grey hairs of mine ’tis not worth while disputing, ’specially with a superior, who’ll ne’er confess.”
“what’s that?
there now’s a patched professor in queen nature’s granite-founded college; but methinks he’s too subservient.
where wert thou born?”
“in the little rocky isle of man, sir.”
“excellent!
thou’st hit the world by that.”
“i know not, sir, but i was born there.”
“in the isle of man, hey?
well, the other way, it’s good.
here’s a man from man; a man born in once independent man, and now unmanned of man; which is sucked in—by what?
up with the reel!
the dead, blind wall butts all inquiring heads at last.
up with it!
so.”
the log was heaved.
the loose coils rapidly straightened out in a long dragging line astern, and then, instantly, the reel began to whirl.
in turn, jerkingly raised and lowered by the rolling billows, the towing resistance of the log caused the old reelman to stagger strangely.
“hold hard!”
snap!
the overstrained line sagged down in one long festoon; the tugging log was gone.
“i crush the quadrant, the thunder turns the needles, and now the mad sea parts the log-line.
but ahab can mend all.
haul in here, tahitian; reel up, manxman.
and look ye, let the carpenter make another log, and mend thou the line.
see to it.”
“there he goes now; to him nothing’s happened; but to me, the skewer seems loosening out of the middle of the world.
haul in, haul in, tahitian!
these lines run whole, and whirling out: come in broken, and dragging slow.
ha, pip?
come to help; eh, pip?”
“pip?
whom call ye pip?
pip jumped from the whale-boat.
pip’s missing.
let’s see now if ye haven’t fished him up here, fisherman.
it drags hard; i guess he’s holding on.
jerk him, tahiti!
jerk him off; we haul in no cowards here.
ho!
there’s his arm just breaking water.
a hatchet!
a hatchet!
cut it off—we haul in no cowards here.
captain ahab!
sir, sir!
here’s pip, trying to get on board again.”
“peace, thou crazy loon,” cried the manxman, seizing him by the arm.
“away from the quarter-deck!”
“the greater idiot ever scolds the lesser,” muttered ahab, advancing.
“hands off from that holiness!
where sayest thou pip was, boy?
“astern there, sir, astern!
lo!
lo!”
“and who art thou, boy?
i see not my reflection in the vacant pupils of thy eyes.
oh god!
that man should be a thing for immortal souls to sieve through!
who art thou, boy?”
“bell-boy, sir; ship’s-crier; ding, dong, ding!
pip!
pip!
pip!
one hundred pounds of clay reward for pip; five feet high—looks cowardly—quickest known by that!
ding, dong, ding!
who’s seen pip the coward?”
“there can be no hearts above the snow-line.
oh, ye frozen heavens!
look down here.
ye did beget this luckless child, and have abandoned him, ye creative libertines.
here, boy; ahab’s cabin shall be pip’s home henceforth, while ahab lives.
thou touchest my inmost centre, boy; thou art tied to me by cords woven of my heart-strings.
come, let’s down.”
“what’s this?
here’s velvet shark-skin,” intently gazing at ahab’s hand, and feeling it.
“ah, now, had poor pip but felt so kind a thing as this, perhaps he had ne’er been lost!
this seems to me, sir, as a man-rope; something that weak souls may hold by.
oh, sir, let old perth now come and rivet these two hands together; the black one with the white, for i will not let this go.”
“oh, boy, nor will i thee, unless i should thereby drag thee to worse horrors than are here.
come, then, to my cabin.
lo!
ye believers in gods all goodness, and in man all ill, lo you!
see the omniscient gods oblivious of suffering man; and man, though idiotic, and knowing not what he does, yet full of the sweet things of love and gratitude.
come!
i feel prouder leading thee by thy black hand, than though i grasped an emperor’s!”
“there go two daft ones now,” muttered the old manxman.
“one daft with strength, the other daft with weakness.
but here’s the end of the rotten line—all dripping, too.
mend it, eh?
i think we had best have a new line altogether.
i’ll see mr. stubb about it.”
chapter 126. the life-buoy.
steering now south-eastward by ahab’s levelled steel, and her progress solely determined by ahab’s level log and line; the pequod held on her path towards the equator.
making so long a passage through such unfrequented waters, descrying no ships, and ere long, sideways impelled by unvarying trade winds, over waves monotonously mild; all these seemed the strange calm things preluding some riotous and desperate scene.
at last, when the ship drew near to the outskirts, as it were, of the equatorial fishing-ground, and in the deep darkness that goes before the dawn, was sailing by a cluster of rocky islets; the watch—then headed by flask—was startled by a cry so plaintively wild and unearthly—like half-articulated wailings of the ghosts of all herod’s murdered innocents—that one and all, they started from their reveries, and for the space of some moments stood, or sat, or leaned all transfixedly listening, like the carved roman slave, while that wild cry remained within hearing.
the christian or civilized part of the crew said it was mermaids, and shuddered; but the pagan harpooneers remained unappalled.
yet the grey manxman—the oldest mariner of all—declared that the wild thrilling sounds that were heard, were the voices of newly drowned men in the sea.
below in his hammock, ahab did not hear of this till grey dawn, when he came to the deck; it was then recounted to him by flask, not unaccompanied with hinted dark meanings.
he hollowly laughed, and thus explained the wonder.
those rocky islands the ship had passed were the resort of great numbers of seals, and some young seals that had lost their dams, or some dams that had lost their cubs, must have risen nigh the ship and kept company with her, crying and sobbing with their human sort of wail.
but this only the more affected some of them, because most mariners cherish a very superstitious feeling about seals, arising not only from their peculiar tones when in distress, but also from the human look of their round heads and semi-intelligent faces, seen peeringly uprising from the water alongside.
in the sea, under certain circumstances, seals have more than once been mistaken for men.
but the bodings of the crew were destined to receive a most plausible confirmation in the fate of one of their number that morning.
at sun-rise this man went from his hammock to his mast-head at the fore; and whether it was that he was not yet half waked from his sleep (for sailors sometimes go aloft in a transition state), whether it was thus with the man, there is now no telling; but, be that as it may, he had not been long at his perch, when a cry was heard—a cry and a rushing—and looking up, they saw a falling phantom in the air; and looking down, a little tossed heap of white bubbles in the blue of the sea.
the life-buoy—a long slender cask—was dropped from the stern, where it always hung obedient to a cunning spring; but no hand rose to seize it, and the sun having long beat upon this cask it had shrunken, so that it slowly filled, and that parched wood also filled at its every pore; and the studded iron-bound cask followed the sailor to the bottom, as if to yield him his pillow, though in sooth but a hard one.
and thus the first man of the pequod that mounted the mast to look out for the white whale, on the white whale’s own peculiar ground; that man was swallowed up in the deep.
but few, perhaps, thought of that at the time.
indeed, in some sort, they were not grieved at this event, at least as a portent; for they regarded it, not as a foreshadowing of evil in the future, but as the fulfilment of an evil already presaged.
they declared that now they knew the reason of those wild shrieks they had heard the night before.
but again the old manxman said nay.
the lost life-buoy was now to be replaced; starbuck was directed to see to it; but as no cask of sufficient lightness could be found, and as in the feverish eagerness of what seemed the approaching crisis of the voyage, all hands were impatient of any toil but what was directly connected with its final end, whatever that might prove to be; therefore, they were going to leave the ship’s stern unprovided with a buoy, when by certain strange signs and inuendoes queequeg hinted a hint concerning his coffin.
“a life-buoy of a coffin!” cried starbuck, starting.
“rather queer, that, i should say,” said stubb.
“it will make a good enough one,” said flask, “the carpenter here can arrange it easily.”
“bring it up; there’s nothing else for it,” said starbuck, after a melancholy pause.
“rig it, carpenter; do not look at me so—the coffin, i mean.
dost thou hear me?
rig it.”
“and shall i nail down the lid, sir?” moving his hand as with a hammer.
“aye.”
“and shall i caulk the seams, sir?” moving his hand as with a caulking-iron.
“aye.”
“and shall i then pay over the same with pitch, sir?” moving his hand as with a pitch-pot.
“away!
what possesses thee to this?
make a life-buoy of the coffin, and no more.—mr.
stubb, mr. flask, come forward with me.”
“he goes off in a huff.
the whole he can endure; at the parts he baulks.
now i don’t like this.
i make a leg for captain ahab, and he wears it like a gentleman; but i make a bandbox for queequeg, and he won’t put his head into it.
are all my pains to go for nothing with that coffin?
and now i’m ordered to make a life-buoy of it.
it’s like turning an old coat; going to bring the flesh on the other side now.
i don’t like this cobbling sort of business—i don’t like it at all; it’s undignified; it’s not my place.
let tinkers’ brats do tinkerings; we are their betters.
i like to take in hand none but clean, virgin, fair-and-square mathematical jobs, something that regularly begins at the beginning, and is at the middle when midway, and comes to an end at the conclusion; not a cobbler’s job, that’s at an end in the middle, and at the beginning at the end.
it’s the old woman’s tricks to be giving cobbling jobs.
lord!
what an affection all old women have for tinkers.
i know an old woman of sixty-five who ran away with a bald-headed young tinker once.
and that’s the reason i never would work for lonely widow old women ashore, when i kept my job-shop in the vineyard; they might have taken it into their lonely old heads to run off with me.
but heigh-ho!
there are no caps at sea but snow-caps.
let me see.
nail down the lid; caulk the seams; pay over the same with pitch; batten them down tight, and hang it with the snap-spring over the ship’s stern.
were ever such things done before with a coffin?
some superstitious old carpenters, now, would be tied up in the rigging, ere they would do the job.
but i’m made of knotty aroostook hemlock; i don’t budge.
cruppered with a coffin!
sailing about with a grave-yard tray!
but never mind.
we workers in woods make bridal-bedsteads and card-tables, as well as coffins and hearses.
we work by the month, or by the job, or by the profit; not for us to ask the why and wherefore of our work, unless it be too confounded cobbling, and then we stash it if we can.
hem!
i’ll do the job, now, tenderly.
i’ll have me—let’s see—how many in the ship’s company, all told?
but i’ve forgotten.
any way, i’ll have me thirty separate, turk’s-headed life-lines, each three feet long hanging all round to the coffin.
then, if the hull go down, there’ll be thirty lively fellows all fighting for one coffin, a sight not seen very often beneath the sun!
come hammer, caulking-iron, pitch-pot, and marling-spike!
let’s to it.”
chapter 127. the deck.
the coffin laid upon two line-tubs, between the vice-bench and the open hatchway; the carpenter caulking its seams; the string of twisted oakum slowly unwinding from a large roll of it placed in the bosom of his frock.—ahab comes slowly from the cabin-gangway, and hears pip following him.
“back, lad; i will be with ye again presently.
he goes!
not this hand complies with my humor more genially than that boy.—middle aisle of a church!
what’s here?”
“life-buoy, sir.
mr. starbuck’s orders.
oh, look, sir!
beware the hatchway!”
“thank ye, man.
thy coffin lies handy to the vault.”
“sir?
the hatchway?
oh!
so it does, sir, so it does.”
“art not thou the leg-maker?
look, did not this stump come from thy shop?”
“i believe it did, sir; does the ferrule stand, sir?”
“well enough.
but art thou not also the undertaker?”
“aye, sir; i patched up this thing here as a coffin for queequeg; but they’ve set me now to turning it into something else.”
“then tell me; art thou not an arrant, all-grasping, intermeddling, monopolising, heathenish old scamp, to be one day making legs, and the next day coffins to clap them in, and yet again life-buoys out of those same coffins?
thou art as unprincipled as the gods, and as much of a jack-of-all-trades.”
“but i do not mean anything, sir.
i do as i do.”
“the gods again.
hark ye, dost thou not ever sing working about a coffin?
the titans, they say, hummed snatches when chipping out the craters for volcanoes; and the grave-digger in the play sings, spade in hand.
dost thou never?”
“sing, sir?
do i sing?
oh, i’m indifferent enough, sir, for that; but the reason why the grave-digger made music must have been because there was none in his spade, sir.
but the caulking mallet is full of it.
hark to it.”
“aye, and that’s because the lid there’s a sounding-board; and what in all things makes the sounding-board is this—there’s naught beneath.
and yet, a coffin with a body in it rings pretty much the same, carpenter.
hast thou ever helped carry a bier, and heard the coffin knock against the churchyard gate, going in?
“faith, sir, i’ve——”
“faith?
what’s that?”
“why, faith, sir, it’s only a sort of exclamation-like—that’s all, sir.”
“um, um; go on.”
“i was about to say, sir, that——”
“art thou a silk-worm?
dost thou spin thy own shroud out of thyself?
look at thy bosom!
despatch!
and get these traps out of sight.”
“he goes aft.
that was sudden, now; but squalls come sudden in hot latitudes.
i’ve heard that the isle of albemarle, one of the gallipagos, is cut by the equator right in the middle.
seems to me some sort of equator cuts yon old man, too, right in his middle.
he’s always under the line—fiery hot, i tell ye!
he’s looking this way—come, oakum; quick.
here we go again.
this wooden mallet is the cork, and i’m the professor of musical glasses—tap, tap!”
(ahab to himself.)
“there’s a sight!
there’s a sound!
the greyheaded woodpecker tapping the hollow tree!
blind and dumb might well be envied now.
see!
that thing rests on two line-tubs, full of tow-lines.
a most malicious wag, that fellow.
rat-tat!
so man’s seconds tick!
oh!
how immaterial are all materials!
what things real are there, but imponderable thoughts?
here now’s the very dreaded symbol of grim death, by a mere hap, made the expressive sign of the help and hope of most endangered life.
a life-buoy of a coffin!
does it go further?
can it be that in some spiritual sense the coffin is, after all, but an immortality-preserver!
i’ll think of that.
but no.
so far gone am i in the dark side of earth, that its other side, the theoretic bright one, seems but uncertain twilight to me.
will ye never have done, carpenter, with that accursed sound?
i go below; let me not see that thing here when i return again.
now, then, pip, we’ll talk this over; i do suck most wondrous philosophies from thee!
some unknown conduits from the unknown worlds must empty into thee!”
chapter 128. the pequod meets the rachel.
next day, a large ship, the rachel, was descried, bearing directly down upon the pequod, all her spars thickly clustering with men.
at the time the pequod was making good speed through the water; but as the broad-winged windward stranger shot nigh to her, the boastful sails all fell together as blank bladders that are burst, and all life fled from the smitten hull.
“bad news; she brings bad news,” muttered the old manxman.
but ere her commander, who, with trumpet to mouth, stood up in his boat; ere he could hopefully hail, ahab’s voice was heard.
“hast seen the white whale?”
“aye, yesterday.
have ye seen a whale-boat adrift?”
throttling his joy, ahab negatively answered this unexpected question; and would then have fain boarded the stranger, when the stranger captain himself, having stopped his vessel’s way, was seen descending her side.
a few keen pulls, and his boat-hook soon clinched the pequod’s main-chains, and he sprang to the deck.
immediately he was recognised by ahab for a nantucketer he knew.
but no formal salutation was exchanged.
“where was he?—not killed!—not killed!” cried ahab, closely advancing.
“how was it?”
it seemed that somewhat late on the afternoon of the day previous, while three of the stranger’s boats were engaged with a shoal of whales, which had led them some four or five miles from the ship; and while they were yet in swift chase to windward, the white hump and head of moby dick had suddenly loomed up out of the water, not very far to leeward; whereupon, the fourth rigged boat—a reserved one—had been instantly lowered in chase.
after a keen sail before the wind, this fourth boat—the swiftest keeled of all—seemed to have succeeded in fastening—at least, as well as the man at the mast-head could tell anything about it.
in the distance he saw the diminished dotted boat; and then a swift gleam of bubbling white water; and after that nothing more; whence it was concluded that the stricken whale must have indefinitely run away with his pursuers, as often happens.
there was some apprehension, but no positive alarm, as yet.
the recall signals were placed in the rigging; darkness came on; and forced to pick up her three far to windward boats—ere going in quest of the fourth one in the precisely opposite direction—the ship had not only been necessitated to leave that boat to its fate till near midnight, but, for the time, to increase her distance from it.
but the rest of her crew being at last safe aboard, she crowded all sail—stunsail on stunsail—after the missing boat; kindling a fire in her try-pots for a beacon; and every other man aloft on the look-out.
but though when she had thus sailed a sufficient distance to gain the presumed place of the absent ones when last seen; though she then paused to lower her spare boats to pull all around her; and not finding anything, had again dashed on; again paused, and lowered her boats; and though she had thus continued doing till daylight; yet not the least glimpse of the missing keel had been seen.
the story told, the stranger captain immediately went on to reveal his object in boarding the pequod.
he desired that ship to unite with his own in the search; by sailing over the sea some four or five miles apart, on parallel lines, and so sweeping a double horizon, as it were.
“i will wager something now,” whispered stubb to flask, “that some one in that missing boat wore off that captain’s best coat; mayhap, his watch—he’s so cursed anxious to get it back.
who ever heard of two pious whale-ships cruising after one missing whale-boat in the height of the whaling season?
see, flask, only see how pale he looks—pale in the very buttons of his eyes—look—it wasn’t the coat—it must have been the—”
“my boy, my own boy is among them.
for god’s sake—i beg, i conjure”—here exclaimed the stranger captain to ahab, who thus far had but icily received his petition.
“for eight-and-forty hours let me charter your ship—i will gladly pay for it, and roundly pay for it—if there be no other way—for eight-and-forty hours only—only that—you must, oh, you must, and you shall do this thing.”
“his son!” cried stubb, “oh, it’s his son he’s lost!
i take back the coat and watch—what says ahab?
we must save that boy.”
“he’s drowned with the rest on ’em, last night,” said the old manx sailor standing behind them; “i heard; all of ye heard their spirits.”
now, as it shortly turned out, what made this incident of the rachel’s the more melancholy, was the circumstance, that not only was one of the captain’s sons among the number of the missing boat’s crew; but among the number of the other boat’s crews, at the same time, but on the other hand, separated from the ship during the dark vicissitudes of the chase, there had been still another son; as that for a time, the wretched father was plunged to the bottom of the cruellest perplexity; which was only solved for him by his chief mate’s instinctively adopting the ordinary procedure of a whale-ship in such emergencies, that is, when placed between jeopardized but divided boats, always to pick up the majority first.
but the captain, for some unknown constitutional reason, had refrained from mentioning all this, and not till forced to it by ahab’s iciness did he allude to his one yet missing boy; a little lad, but twelve years old, whose father with the earnest but unmisgiving hardihood of a nantucketer’s paternal love, had thus early sought to initiate him in the perils and wonders of a vocation almost immemorially the destiny of all his race.
nor does it unfrequently occur, that nantucket captains will send a son of such tender age away from them, for a protracted three or four years’ voyage in some other ship than their own; so that their first knowledge of a whaleman’s career shall be unenervated by any chance display of a father’s natural but untimely partiality, or undue apprehensiveness and concern.
meantime, now the stranger was still beseeching his poor boon of ahab; and ahab still stood like an anvil, receiving every shock, but without the least quivering of his own.
“i will not go,” said the stranger, “till you say aye to me.
do to me as you would have me do to you in the like case.
for you too have a boy, captain ahab—though but a child, and nestling safely at home now—a child of your old age too—yes, yes, you relent; i see it—run, run, men, now, and stand by to square in the yards.”
“avast,” cried ahab—“touch not a rope-yarn”; then in a voice that prolongingly moulded every word—“captain gardiner, i will not do it.
even now i lose time.
good-bye, good-bye.
god bless ye, man, and may i forgive myself, but i must go.
mr. starbuck, look at the binnacle watch, and in three minutes from this present instant warn off all strangers: then brace forward again, and let the ship sail as before.”
hurriedly turning, with averted face, he descended into his cabin, leaving the strange captain transfixed at this unconditional and utter rejection of his so earnest suit.
but starting from his enchantment, gardiner silently hurried to the side; more fell than stepped into his boat, and returned to his ship.
soon the two ships diverged their wakes; and long as the strange vessel was in view, she was seen to yaw hither and thither at every dark spot, however small, on the sea.
this way and that her yards were swung round; starboard and larboard, she continued to tack; now she beat against a head sea; and again it pushed her before it; while all the while, her masts and yards were thickly clustered with men, as three tall cherry trees, when the boys are cherrying among the boughs.
but by her still halting course and winding, woeful way, you plainly saw that this ship that so wept with spray, still remained without comfort.
she was rachel, weeping for her children, because they were not.
chapter 129. the cabin.
(ahab moving to go on deck; pip catches him by the hand to follow.)
“lad, lad, i tell thee thou must not follow ahab now.
the hour is coming when ahab would not scare thee from him, yet would not have thee by him.
there is that in thee, poor lad, which i feel too curing to my malady.
like cures like; and for this hunt, my malady becomes my most desired health.
do thou abide below here, where they shall serve thee, as if thou wert the captain.
aye, lad, thou shalt sit here in my own screwed chair; another screw to it, thou must be.”
“no, no, no!
ye have not a whole body, sir; do ye but use poor me for your one lost leg; only tread upon me, sir; i ask no more, so i remain a part of ye.”
“oh!
spite of million villains, this makes me a bigot in the fadeless fidelity of man!—and a black!
and crazy!—but methinks like-cures-like applies to him too; he grows so sane again.”
“they tell me, sir, that stubb did once desert poor little pip, whose drowned bones now show white, for all the blackness of his living skin.
but i will never desert ye, sir, as stubb did him.
sir, i must go with ye.”
“if thou speakest thus to me much more, ahab’s purpose keels up in him.
i tell thee no; it cannot be.”
“oh good master, master, master!
“weep so, and i will murder thee!
have a care, for ahab too is mad.
listen, and thou wilt often hear my ivory foot upon the deck, and still know that i am there.
and now i quit thee.
thy hand!—met!
true art thou, lad, as the circumference to its centre.
so: god for ever bless thee; and if it come to that,—god for ever save thee, let what will befall.”
(ahab goes; pip steps one step forward.)
“here he this instant stood; i stand in his air,—but i’m alone.
now were even poor pip here i could endure it, but he’s missing.
pip!
pip!
ding, dong, ding!
who’s seen pip?
he must be up here; let’s try the door.
what?
neither lock, nor bolt, nor bar; and yet there’s no opening it.
it must be the spell; he told me to stay here: aye, and told me this screwed chair was mine.
here, then, i’ll seat me, against the transom, in the ship’s full middle, all her keel and her three masts before me.
here, our old sailors say, in their black seventy-fours great admirals sometimes sit at table, and lord it over rows of captains and lieutenants.
ha!
what’s this?
epaulets!
epaulets!
the epaulets all come crowding!
pass round the decanters; glad to see ye; fill up, monsieurs!
what an odd feeling, now, when a black boy’s host to white men with gold lace upon their coats!—monsieurs, have ye seen one pip?—a little negro lad, five feet high, hang-dog look, and cowardly!
jumped from a whale-boat once;—seen him?
no!
well then, fill up again, captains, and let’s drink shame upon all cowards!
i name no names.
shame upon them!
put one foot upon the table.
shame upon all cowards.—hist!
above there, i hear ivory—oh, master!
master!
i am indeed down-hearted when you walk over me.
but here i’ll stay, though this stern strikes rocks; and they bulge through; and oysters come to join me.”
chapter 130. the hat.
and now that at the proper time and place, after so long and wide a preliminary cruise, ahab,—all other whaling waters swept—seemed to have chased his foe into an ocean-fold, to slay him the more securely there; now, that he found himself hard by the very latitude and longitude where his tormenting wound had been inflicted; now that a vessel had been spoken which on the very day preceding had actually encountered moby dick;—and now that all his successive meetings with various ships contrastingly concurred to show the demoniac indifference with which the white whale tore his hunters, whether sinning or sinned against; now it was that there lurked a something in the old man’s eyes, which it was hardly sufferable for feeble souls to see.
as the unsetting polar star, which through the livelong, arctic, six months’ night sustains its piercing, steady, central gaze; so ahab’s purpose now fixedly gleamed down upon the constant midnight of the gloomy crew.
it domineered above them so, that all their bodings, doubts, misgivings, fears, were fain to hide beneath their souls, and not sprout forth a single spear or leaf.
in this foreshadowing interval too, all humor, forced or natural, vanished.
stubb no more strove to raise a smile; starbuck no more strove to check one.
alike, joy and sorrow, hope and fear, seemed ground to finest dust, and powdered, for the time, in the clamped mortar of ahab’s iron soul.
like machines, they dumbly moved about the deck, ever conscious that the old man’s despot eye was on them.
but did you deeply scan him in his more secret confidential hours; when he thought no glance but one was on him; then you would have seen that even as ahab’s eyes so awed the crew’s, the inscrutable parsee’s glance awed his; or somehow, at least, in some wild way, at times affected it.
such an added, gliding strangeness began to invest the thin fedallah now; such ceaseless shudderings shook him; that the men looked dubious at him; half uncertain, as it seemed, whether indeed he were a mortal substance, or else a tremulous shadow cast upon the deck by some unseen being’s body.
and that shadow was always hovering there.
for not by night, even, had fedallah ever certainly been known to slumber, or go below.
he would stand still for hours: but never sat or leaned; his wan but wondrous eyes did plainly say—we two watchmen never rest.
nor, at any time, by night or day could the mariners now step upon the deck, unless ahab was before them; either standing in his pivot-hole, or exactly pacing the planks between two undeviating limits,—the main-mast and the mizen; or else they saw him standing in the cabin-scuttle,—his living foot advanced upon the deck, as if to step; his hat slouched heavily over his eyes; so that however motionless he stood, however the days and nights were added on, that he had not swung in his hammock; yet hidden beneath that slouching hat, they could never tell unerringly whether, for all this, his eyes were really closed at times; or whether he was still intently scanning them; no matter, though he stood so in the scuttle for a whole hour on the stretch, and the unheeded night-damp gathered in beads of dew upon that stone-carved coat and hat.
the clothes that the night had wet, the next day’s sunshine dried upon him; and so, day after day, and night after night; he went no more beneath the planks; whatever he wanted from the cabin that thing he sent for.
he ate in the same open air; that is, his two only meals,—breakfast and dinner: supper he never touched; nor reaped his beard; which darkly grew all gnarled, as unearthed roots of trees blown over, which still grow idly on at naked base, though perished in the upper verdure.
but though his whole life was now become one watch on deck; and though the parsee’s mystic watch was without intermission as his own; yet these two never seemed to speak—one man to the other—unless at long intervals some passing unmomentous matter made it necessary.
though such a potent spell seemed secretly to join the twain; openly, and to the awe-struck crew, they seemed pole-like asunder.
if by day they chanced to speak one word; by night, dumb men were both, so far as concerned the slightest verbal interchange.
at times, for longest hours, without a single hail, they stood far parted in the starlight; ahab in his scuttle, the parsee by the mainmast; but still fixedly gazing upon each other; as if in the parsee ahab saw his forethrown shadow, in ahab the parsee his abandoned substance.
and yet, somehow, did ahab—in his own proper self, as daily, hourly, and every instant, commandingly revealed to his subordinates,—ahab seemed an independent lord; the parsee but his slave.
still again both seemed yoked together, and an unseen tyrant driving them; the lean shade siding the solid rib.
for be this parsee what he may, all rib and keel was solid ahab.
at the first faintest glimmering of the dawn, his iron voice was heard from aft,—“man the mast-heads!”—and all through the day, till after sunset and after twilight, the same voice every hour, at the striking of the helmsman’s bell, was heard—“what d’ye see?—sharp!
sharp!”
but when three or four days had slided by, after meeting the children-seeking rachel; and no spout had yet been seen; the monomaniac old man seemed distrustful of his crew’s fidelity; at least, of nearly all except the pagan harpooneers; he seemed to doubt, even, whether stubb and flask might not willingly overlook the sight he sought.
but if these suspicions were really his, he sagaciously refrained from verbally expressing them, however his actions might seem to hint them.
“i will have the first sight of the whale myself,”—he said.
“aye!
ahab must have the doubloon!” and with his own hands he rigged a nest of basketed bowlines; and sending a hand aloft, with a single sheaved block, to secure to the main-mast head, he received the two ends of the downward-reeved rope; and attaching one to his basket prepared a pin for the other end, in order to fasten it at the rail.
this done, with that end yet in his hand and standing beside the pin, he looked round upon his crew, sweeping from one to the other; pausing his glance long upon daggoo, queequeg, tashtego; but shunning fedallah; and then settling his firm relying eye upon the chief mate, said,—“take the rope, sir—i give it into thy hands, starbuck.” then arranging his person in the basket, he gave the word for them to hoist him to his perch, starbuck being the one who secured the rope at last; and afterwards stood near it.
and thus, with one hand clinging round the royal mast, ahab gazed abroad upon the sea for miles and miles,—ahead, astern, this side, and that,—within the wide expanded circle commanded at so great a height.
when in working with his hands at some lofty almost isolated place in the rigging, which chances to afford no foothold, the sailor at sea is hoisted up to that spot, and sustained there by the rope; under these circumstances, its fastened end on deck is always given in strict charge to some one man who has the special watch of it.
because in such a wilderness of running rigging, whose various different relations aloft cannot always be infallibly discerned by what is seen of them at the deck; and when the deck-ends of these ropes are being every few minutes cast down from the fastenings, it would be but a natural fatality, if, unprovided with a constant watchman, the hoisted sailor should by some carelessness of the crew be cast adrift and fall all swooping to the sea.
so ahab’s proceedings in this matter were not unusual; the only strange thing about them seemed to be, that starbuck, almost the one only man who had ever ventured to oppose him with anything in the slightest degree approaching to decision—one of those too, whose faithfulness on the look-out he had seemed to doubt somewhat;—it was strange, that this was the very man he should select for his watchman; freely giving his whole life into such an otherwise distrusted person’s hands.
now, the first time ahab was perched aloft; ere he had been there ten minutes; one of those red-billed savage sea-hawks which so often fly incommodiously close round the manned mast-heads of whalemen in these latitudes; one of these birds came wheeling and screaming round his head in a maze of untrackably swift circlings.
then it darted a thousand feet straight up into the air; then spiralized downwards, and went eddying again round his head.
but with his gaze fixed upon the dim and distant horizon, ahab seemed not to mark this wild bird; nor, indeed, would any one else have marked it much, it being no uncommon circumstance; only now almost the least heedful eye seemed to see some sort of cunning meaning in almost every sight.
“your hat, your hat, sir!” suddenly cried the sicilian seaman, who being posted at the mizen-mast-head, stood directly behind ahab, though somewhat lower than his level, and with a deep gulf of air dividing them.
but already the sable wing was before the old man’s eyes; the long hooked bill at his head: with a scream, the black hawk darted away with his prize.
an eagle flew thrice round tarquin’s head, removing his cap to replace it, and thereupon tanaquil, his wife, declared that tarquin would be king of rome.
but only by the replacing of the cap was that omen accounted good.
ahab’s hat was never restored; the wild hawk flew on and on with it; far in advance of the prow: and at last disappeared; while from the point of that disappearance, a minute black spot was dimly discerned, falling from that vast height into the sea.
chapter 131. the pequod meets the delight.
the intense pequod sailed on; the rolling waves and days went by; the life-buoy-coffin still lightly swung; and another ship, most miserably misnamed the delight, was descried.
as she drew nigh, all eyes were fixed upon her broad beams, called shears, which, in some whaling-ships, cross the quarter-deck at the height of eight or nine feet; serving to carry the spare, unrigged, or disabled boats.
upon the stranger’s shears were beheld the shattered, white ribs, and some few splintered planks, of what had once been a whale-boat; but you now saw through this wreck, as plainly as you see through the peeled, half-unhinged, and bleaching skeleton of a horse.
“hast seen the white whale?”
“look!” replied the hollow-cheeked captain from his taffrail; and with his trumpet he pointed to the wreck.
“hast killed him?”
“the harpoon is not yet forged that ever will do that,” answered the other, sadly glancing upon a rounded hammock on the deck, whose gathered sides some noiseless sailors were busy in sewing together.
“not forged!” and snatching perth’s levelled iron from the crotch, ahab held it out, exclaiming—“look ye, nantucketer; here in this hand i hold his death!
tempered in blood, and tempered by lightning are these barbs; and i swear to temper them triply in that hot place behind the fin, where the white whale most feels his accursed life!”
“then god keep thee, old man—see’st thou that”—pointing to the hammock—“i bury but one of five stout men, who were alive only yesterday; but were dead ere night.
only that one i bury; the rest were buried before they died; you sail upon their tomb.” then turning to his crew—“are ye ready there?
place the plank then on the rail, and lift the body; so, then—oh!
god”—advancing towards the hammock with uplifted hands—“may the resurrection and the life——”
“brace forward!
up helm!” cried ahab like lightning to his men.
but the suddenly started pequod was not quick enough to escape the sound of the splash that the corpse soon made as it struck the sea; not so quick, indeed, but that some of the flying bubbles might have sprinkled her hull with their ghostly baptism.
as ahab now glided from the dejected delight, the strange life-buoy hanging at the pequod’s stern came into conspicuous relief.
“ha!
yonder!
look yonder, men!” cried a foreboding voice in her wake.
“in vain, oh, ye strangers, ye fly our sad burial; ye but turn us your taffrail to show us your coffin!”
chapter 132. the symphony.
it was a clear steel-blue day.
the firmaments of air and sea were hardly separable in that all-pervading azure; only, the pensive air was transparently pure and soft, with a woman’s look, and the robust and man-like sea heaved with long, strong, lingering swells, as samson’s chest in his sleep.
hither, and thither, on high, glided the snow-white wings of small, unspeckled birds; these were the gentle thoughts of the feminine air; but to and fro in the deeps, far down in the bottomless blue, rushed mighty leviathans, sword-fish, and sharks; and these were the strong, troubled, murderous thinkings of the masculine sea.
but though thus contrasting within, the contrast was only in shades and shadows without; those two seemed one; it was only the sex, as it were, that distinguished them.
aloft, like a royal czar and king, the sun seemed giving this gentle air to this bold and rolling sea; even as bride to groom.
and at the girdling line of the horizon, a soft and tremulous motion—most seen here at the equator—denoted the fond, throbbing trust, the loving alarms, with which the poor bride gave her bosom away.
tied up and twisted; gnarled and knotted with wrinkles; haggardly firm and unyielding; his eyes glowing like coals, that still glow in the ashes of ruin; untottering ahab stood forth in the clearness of the morn; lifting his splintered helmet of a brow to the fair girl’s forehead of heaven.
oh, immortal infancy, and innocency of the azure!
invisible winged creatures that frolic all round us!
sweet childhood of air and sky!
how oblivious were ye of old ahab’s close-coiled woe!
but so have i seen little miriam and martha, laughing-eyed elves, heedlessly gambol around their old sire; sporting with the circle of singed locks which grew on the marge of that burnt-out crater of his brain.
slowly crossing the deck from the scuttle, ahab leaned over the side and watched how his shadow in the water sank and sank to his gaze, the more and the more that he strove to pierce the profundity.
but the lovely aromas in that enchanted air did at last seem to dispel, for a moment, the cankerous thing in his soul.
that glad, happy air, that winsome sky, did at last stroke and caress him; the step-mother world, so long cruel—forbidding—now threw affectionate arms round his stubborn neck, and did seem to joyously sob over him, as if over one, that however wilful and erring, she could yet find it in her heart to save and to bless.
from beneath his slouched hat ahab dropped a tear into the sea; nor did all the pacific contain such wealth as that one wee drop.
starbuck saw the old man; saw him, how he heavily leaned over the side; and he seemed to hear in his own true heart the measureless sobbing that stole out of the centre of the serenity around.
careful not to touch him, or be noticed by him, he yet drew near to him, and stood there.
ahab turned.
“starbuck!”
“sir.”
“oh, starbuck!
it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky.
on such a day—very much such a sweetness as this—i struck my first whale—a boy-harpooneer of eighteen!
forty—forty—forty years ago!—ago!
forty years of continual whaling!
forty years of privation, and peril, and storm-time!
forty years on the pitiless sea!
for forty years has ahab forsaken the peaceful land, for forty years to make war on the horrors of the deep!
aye and yes, starbuck, out of those forty years i have not spent three ashore.
when i think of this life i have led; the desolation of solitude it has been; the masoned, walled-town of a captain’s exclusiveness, which admits but small entrance to any sympathy from the green country without—oh, weariness!
heaviness!
guinea-coast slavery of solitary command!—when i think of all this; only half-suspected, not so keenly known to me before—and how for forty years i have fed upon dry salted fare—fit emblem of the dry nourishment of my soil!—when the poorest landsman has had fresh fruit to his daily hand, and broken the world’s fresh bread to my mouldy crusts—away, whole oceans away, from that young girl-wife i wedded past fifty, and sailed for cape horn the next day, leaving but one dent in my marriage pillow—wife?
wife?—rather a widow with her husband alive!
aye, i widowed that poor girl when i married her, starbuck; and then, the madness, the frenzy, the boiling blood and the smoking brow, with which, for a thousand lowerings old ahab has furiously, foamingly chased his prey—more a demon than a man!—aye, aye!
what a forty years’
fool—fool—old fool, has old ahab been!
why this strife of the chase?
why weary, and palsy the arm at the oar, and the iron, and the lance?
how the richer or better is ahab now?
behold.
oh, starbuck!
is it not hard, that with this weary load i bear, one poor leg should have been snatched from under me?
here, brush this old hair aside; it blinds me, that i seem to weep.
locks so grey did never grow but from out some ashes!
but do i look very old, so very, very old, starbuck?
i feel deadly faint, bowed, and humped, as though i were adam, staggering beneath the piled centuries since paradise.
god!
god!
god!—crack my heart!—stave my brain!—mockery!
mockery!
bitter, biting mockery of grey hairs, have i lived enough joy to wear ye; and seem and feel thus intolerably old?
close!
stand close to me, starbuck; let me look into a human eye; it is better than to gaze into sea or sky; better than to gaze upon god.
by the green land; by the bright hearth-stone!
this is the magic glass, man; i see my wife and my child in thine eye.
no, no; stay on board, on board!—lower not when i do; when branded ahab gives chase to moby dick.
that hazard shall not be thine.
no, no!
not with the far away home i see in that eye!”
“oh, my captain!
my captain!
noble soul!
grand old heart, after all!
why should any one give chase to that hated fish!
away with me!
let us fly these deadly waters!
let us home!
wife and child, too, are starbuck’s—wife and child of his brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow youth; even as thine, sir, are the wife and child of thy loving, longing, paternal old age!
away!
let us away!—this instant let me alter the course!
how cheerily, how hilariously, o my captain, would we bowl on our way to see old nantucket again!
i think, sir, they have some such mild blue days, even as this, in nantucket.”
“they have, they have.
i have seen them—some summer days in the morning.
about this time—yes, it is his noon nap now—the boy vivaciously wakes; sits up in bed; and his mother tells him of me, of cannibal old me; how i am abroad upon the deep, but will yet come back to dance him again.”
“’tis my mary, my mary herself!
she promised that my boy, every morning, should be carried to the hill to catch the first glimpse of his father’s sail!
yes, yes!
no more!
it is done!
we head for nantucket!
come, my captain, study out the course, and let us away!
see, see!
the boy’s face from the window!
the boy’s hand on the hill!”
but ahab’s glance was averted; like a blighted fruit tree he shook, and cast his last, cindered apple to the soil.
“what is it, what nameless, inscrutable, unearthly thing is it; what cozening, hidden lord and master, and cruel, remorseless emperor commands me; that against all natural lovings and longings, i so keep pushing, and crowding, and jamming myself on all the time; recklessly making me ready to do what in my own proper, natural heart, i durst not so much as dare?
is ahab, ahab?
is it i, god, or who, that lifts this arm?
but if the great sun move not of himself; but is as an errand-boy in heaven; nor one single star can revolve, but by some invisible power; how then can this one small heart beat; this one small brain think thoughts; unless god does that beating, does that thinking, does that living, and not i. by heaven, man, we are turned round and round in this world, like yonder windlass, and fate is the handspike.
and all the time, lo!
that smiling sky, and this unsounded sea!
look!
see yon albicore!
who put it into him to chase and fang that flying-fish?
where do murderers go, man!
who’s to doom, when the judge himself is dragged to the bar?
but it is a mild, mild wind, and a mild looking sky; and the air smells now, as if it blew from a far-away meadow; they have been making hay somewhere under the slopes of the andes, starbuck, and the mowers are sleeping among the new-mown hay.
sleeping?
aye, toil we how we may, we all sleep at last on the field.
sleep?
aye, and rust amid greenness; as last year’s scythes flung down, and left in the half-cut swaths—starbuck!”
but blanched to a corpse’s hue with despair, the mate had stolen away.
ahab crossed the deck to gaze over on the other side; but started at two reflected, fixed eyes in the water there.
fedallah was motionlessly leaning over the same rail.
chapter 133. the chase—first day.
that night, in the mid-watch, when the old man—as his wont at intervals—stepped forth from the scuttle in which he leaned, and went to his pivot-hole, he suddenly thrust out his face fiercely, snuffing up the sea air as a sagacious ship’s dog will, in drawing nigh to some barbarous isle.
he declared that a whale must be near.
soon that peculiar odor, sometimes to a great distance given forth by the living sperm whale, was palpable to all the watch; nor was any mariner surprised when, after inspecting the compass, and then the dog-vane, and then ascertaining the precise bearing of the odor as nearly as possible, ahab rapidly ordered the ship’s course to be slightly altered, and the sail to be shortened.
the acute policy dictating these movements was sufficiently vindicated at daybreak, by the sight of a long sleek on the sea directly and lengthwise ahead, smooth as oil, and resembling in the pleated watery wrinkles bordering it, the polished metallic-like marks of some swift tide-rip, at the mouth of a deep, rapid stream.
“man the mast-heads!
call all hands!”
thundering with the butts of three clubbed handspikes on the forecastle deck, daggoo roused the sleepers with such judgment claps that they seemed to exhale from the scuttle, so instantaneously did they appear with their clothes in their hands.
“what d’ye see?” cried ahab, flattening his face to the sky.
“nothing, nothing sir!” was the sound hailing down in reply.
“t’gallant sails!—stunsails!
alow and aloft, and on both sides!”
all sail being set, he now cast loose the life-line, reserved for swaying him to the main royal-mast head; and in a few moments they were hoisting him thither, when, while but two thirds of the way aloft, and while peering ahead through the horizontal vacancy between the main-top-sail and top-gallant-sail, he raised a gull-like cry in the air.
“there she blows!—there she blows!
a hump like a snow-hill!
it is moby dick!”
fired by the cry which seemed simultaneously taken up by the three look-outs, the men on deck rushed to the rigging to behold the famous whale they had so long been pursuing.
ahab had now gained his final perch, some feet above the other look-outs, tashtego standing just beneath him on the cap of the top-gallant-mast, so that the indian’s head was almost on a level with ahab’s heel.
from this height the whale was now seen some mile or so ahead, at every roll of the sea revealing his high sparkling hump, and regularly jetting his silent spout into the air.
to the credulous mariners it seemed the same silent spout they had so long ago beheld in the moonlit atlantic and indian oceans.
“and did none of ye see it before?” cried ahab, hailing the perched men all around him.
“i saw him almost that same instant, sir, that captain ahab did, and i cried out,” said tashtego.
“not the same instant; not the same—no, the doubloon is mine, fate reserved the doubloon for me.
i only; none of ye could have raised the white whale first.
there she blows!—there she blows!—there she blows!
there again!—there again!” he cried, in long-drawn, lingering, methodic tones, attuned to the gradual prolongings of the whale’s visible jets.
“he’s going to sound!
in stunsails!
down top-gallant-sails!
stand by three boats.
mr. starbuck, remember, stay on board, and keep the ship.
helm there!
luff, luff a point!
so; steady, man, steady!
there go flukes!
no, no; only black water!
all ready the boats there?
stand by, stand by!
lower me, mr. starbuck; lower, lower,—quick, quicker!” and he slid through the air to the deck.
“he is heading straight to leeward, sir,” cried stubb, “right away from us; cannot have seen the ship yet.”
“be dumb, man!
stand by the braces!
hard down the helm!—brace up!
shiver her!—shiver her!—so; well that!
boats, boats!”
soon all the boats but starbuck’s were dropped; all the boat-sails set—all the paddles plying; with rippling swiftness, shooting to leeward; and ahab heading the onset.
a pale, death-glimmer lit up fedallah’s sunken eyes; a hideous motion gnawed his mouth.
like noiseless nautilus shells, their light prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe.
as they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread.
at length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish foam.
he saw the vast, involved wrinkles of the slightly projecting head beyond.
before it, far out on the soft turkish-rugged waters, went the glistening white shadow from his broad, milky forehead, a musical rippling playfully accompanying the shade; and behind, the blue waters interchangeably flowed over into the moving valley of his steady wake; and on either hand bright bubbles arose and danced by his side.
but these were broken again by the light toes of hundreds of gay fowl softly feathering the sea, alternate with their fitful flight; and like to some flag-staff rising from the painted hull of an argosy, the tall but shattered pole of a recent lance projected from the white whale’s back; and at intervals one of the cloud of soft-toed fowls hovering, and to and fro skimming like a canopy over the fish, silently perched and rocked on this pole, the long tail feathers streaming like pennons.
a gentle joyousness—a mighty mildness of repose in swiftness, invested the gliding whale.
not the white bull jupiter swimming away with ravished europa clinging to his graceful horns; his lovely, leering eyes sideways intent upon the maid; with smooth bewitching fleetness, rippling straight for the nuptial bower in crete; not jove, not that great majesty supreme!
did surpass the glorified white whale as he so divinely swam.
on each soft side—coincident with the parted swell, that but once leaving him, then flowed so wide away—on each bright side, the whale shed off enticings.
no wonder there had been some among the hunters who namelessly transported and allured by all this serenity, had ventured to assail it; but had fatally found that quietude but the vesture of tornadoes.
yet calm, enticing calm, oh, whale!
thou glidest on, to all who for the first time eye thee, no matter how many in that same way thou may’st have bejuggled and destroyed before.
and thus, through the serene tranquillities of the tropical sea, among waves whose hand-clappings were suspended by exceeding rapture, moby dick moved on, still withholding from sight the full terrors of his submerged trunk, entirely hiding the wrenched hideousness of his jaw.
but soon the fore part of him slowly rose from the water; for an instant his whole marbleized body formed a high arch, like virginia’s natural bridge, and warningly waving his bannered flukes in the air, the grand god revealed himself, sounded, and went out of sight.
hoveringly halting, and dipping on the wing, the white sea-fowls longingly lingered over the agitated pool that he left.
with oars apeak, and paddles down, the sheets of their sails adrift, the three boats now stilly floated, awaiting moby dick’s reappearance.
“an hour,” said ahab, standing rooted in his boat’s stern; and he gazed beyond the whale’s place, towards the dim blue spaces and wide wooing vacancies to leeward.
it was only an instant; for again his eyes seemed whirling round in his head as he swept the watery circle.
the breeze now freshened; the sea began to swell.
“the birds!—the birds!” cried tashtego.
in long indian file, as when herons take wing, the white birds were now all flying towards ahab’s boat; and when within a few yards began fluttering over the water there, wheeling round and round, with joyous, expectant cries.
their vision was keener than man’s; ahab could discover no sign in the sea.
but suddenly as he peered down and down into its depths, he profoundly saw a white living spot no bigger than a white weasel, with wonderful celerity uprising, and magnifying as it rose, till it turned, and then there were plainly revealed two long crooked rows of white, glistening teeth, floating up from the undiscoverable bottom.
it was moby dick’s open mouth and scrolled jaw; his vast, shadowed bulk still half blending with the blue of the sea.
the glittering mouth yawned beneath the boat like an open-doored marble tomb; and giving one sidelong sweep with his steering oar, ahab whirled the craft aside from this tremendous apparition.
then, calling upon fedallah to change places with him, went forward to the bows, and seizing perth’s harpoon, commanded his crew to grasp their oars and stand by to stern.
now, by reason of this timely spinning round the boat upon its axis, its bow, by anticipation, was made to face the whale’s head while yet under water.
but as if perceiving this stratagem, moby dick, with that malicious intelligence ascribed to him, sidelingly transplanted himself, as it were, in an instant, shooting his pleated head lengthwise beneath the boat.
through and through; through every plank and each rib, it thrilled for an instant, the whale obliquely lying on his back, in the manner of a biting shark, slowly and feelingly taking its bows full within his mouth, so that the long, narrow, scrolled lower jaw curled high up into the open air, and one of the teeth caught in a row-lock.
the bluish pearl-white of the inside of the jaw was within six inches of ahab’s head, and reached higher than that.
in this attitude the white whale now shook the slight cedar as a mildly cruel cat her mouse.
with unastonished eyes fedallah gazed, and crossed his arms; but the tiger-yellow crew were tumbling over each other’s heads to gain the uttermost stern.
and now, while both elastic gunwales were springing in and out, as the whale dallied with the doomed craft in this devilish way; and from his body being submerged beneath the boat, he could not be darted at from the bows, for the bows were almost inside of him, as it were; and while the other boats involuntarily paused, as before a quick crisis impossible to withstand, then it was that monomaniac ahab, furious with this tantalizing vicinity of his foe, which placed him all alive and helpless in the very jaws he hated; frenzied with all this, he seized the long bone with his naked hands, and wildly strove to wrench it from its gripe.
as now he thus vainly strove, the jaw slipped from him; the frail gunwales bent in, collapsed, and snapped, as both jaws, like an enormous shears, sliding further aft, bit the craft completely in twain, and locked themselves fast again in the sea, midway between the two floating wrecks.
these floated aside, the broken ends drooping, the crew at the stern-wreck clinging to the gunwales, and striving to hold fast to the oars to lash them across.
at that preluding moment, ere the boat was yet snapped, ahab, the first to perceive the whale’s intent, by the crafty upraising of his head, a movement that loosed his hold for the time; at that moment his hand had made one final effort to push the boat out of the bite.
but only slipping further into the whale’s mouth, and tilting over sideways as it slipped, the boat had shaken off his hold on the jaw; spilled him out of it, as he leaned to the push; and so he fell flat-faced upon the sea.
ripplingly withdrawing from his prey, moby dick now lay at a little distance, vertically thrusting his oblong white head up and down in the billows; and at the same time slowly revolving his whole spindled body; so that when his vast wrinkled forehead rose—some twenty or more feet out of the water—the now rising swells, with all their confluent waves, dazzlingly broke against it; vindictively tossing their shivered spray still higher into the air.
* so, in a gale, the but half baffled channel billows only recoil from the base of the eddystone, triumphantly to overleap its summit with their scud.
*this motion is peculiar to the sperm whale.
it receives its designation (pitchpoling) from its being likened to that preliminary up-and-down poise of the whale-lance, in the exercise called pitchpoling, previously described.
by this motion the whale must best and most comprehensively view whatever objects may be encircling him.
but soon resuming his horizontal attitude, moby dick swam swiftly round and round the wrecked crew; sideways churning the water in his vengeful wake, as if lashing himself up to still another and more deadly assault.
the sight of the splintered boat seemed to madden him, as the blood of grapes and mulberries cast before antiochus’s elephants in the book of maccabees.
meanwhile ahab half smothered in the foam of the whale’s insolent tail, and too much of a cripple to swim,—though he could still keep afloat, even in the heart of such a whirlpool as that; helpless ahab’s head was seen, like a tossed bubble which the least chance shock might burst.
from the boat’s fragmentary stern, fedallah incuriously and mildly eyed him; the clinging crew, at the other drifting end, could not succor him; more than enough was it for them to look to themselves.
for so revolvingly appalling was the white whale’s aspect, and so planetarily swift the ever-contracting circles he made, that he seemed horizontally swooping upon them.
and though the other boats, unharmed, still hovered hard by; still they dared not pull into the eddy to strike, lest that should be the signal for the instant destruction of the jeopardized castaways, ahab and all; nor in that case could they themselves hope to escape.
with straining eyes, then, they remained on the outer edge of the direful zone, whose centre had now become the old man’s head.
meantime, from the beginning all this had been descried from the ship’s mast heads; and squaring her yards, she had borne down upon the scene; and was now so nigh, that ahab in the water hailed her!—“sail on the”—but that moment a breaking sea dashed on him from moby dick, and whelmed him for the time.
but struggling out of it again, and chancing to rise on a towering crest, he shouted,—“sail on the whale!—drive him off!”
the pequod’s prows were pointed; and breaking up the charmed circle, she effectually parted the white whale from his victim.
as he sullenly swam off, the boats flew to the rescue.
dragged into stubb’s boat with blood-shot, blinded eyes, the white brine caking in his wrinkles; the long tension of ahab’s bodily strength did crack, and helplessly he yielded to his body’s doom: for a time, lying all crushed in the bottom of stubb’s boat, like one trodden under foot of herds of elephants.
far inland, nameless wails came from him, as desolate sounds from out ravines.
but this intensity of his physical prostration did but so much the more abbreviate it.
in an instant’s compass, great hearts sometimes condense to one deep pang, the sum total of those shallow pains kindly diffused through feebler men’s whole lives.
and so, such hearts, though summary in each one suffering; still, if the gods decree it, in their life-time aggregate a whole age of woe, wholly made up of instantaneous intensities; for even in their pointless centres, those noble natures contain the entire circumferences of inferior souls.
“the harpoon,” said ahab, half way rising, and draggingly leaning on one bended arm—“is it safe?”
“aye, sir, for it was not darted; this is it,” said stubb, showing it.
“lay it before me;—any missing men?”
“one, two, three, four, five;—there were five oars, sir, and here are five men.”
“that’s good.—help me, man; i wish to stand.
so, so, i see him!
there!
there!
going to leeward still; what a leaping spout!—hands off from me!
the eternal sap runs up in ahab’s bones again!
set the sail; out oars; the helm!”
it is often the case that when a boat is stove, its crew, being picked up by another boat, help to work that second boat; and the chase is thus continued with what is called double-banked oars.
it was thus now.
but the added power of the boat did not equal the added power of the whale, for he seemed to have treble-banked his every fin; swimming with a velocity which plainly showed, that if now, under these circumstances, pushed on, the chase would prove an indefinitely prolonged, if not a hopeless one; nor could any crew endure for so long a period, such an unintermitted, intense straining at the oar; a thing barely tolerable only in some one brief vicissitude.
the ship itself, then, as it sometimes happens, offered the most promising intermediate means of overtaking the chase.
accordingly, the boats now made for her, and were soon swayed up to their cranes—the two parts of the wrecked boat having been previously secured by her—and then hoisting everything to her side, and stacking her canvas high up, and sideways outstretching it with stun-sails, like the double-jointed wings of an albatross; the pequod bore down in the leeward wake of moby-dick.
at the well known, methodic intervals, the whale’s glittering spout was regularly announced from the manned mast-heads; and when he would be reported as just gone down, ahab would take the time, and then pacing the deck, binnacle-watch in hand, so soon as the last second of the allotted hour expired, his voice was heard.—“whose is the doubloon now?
d’ye see him?” and if the reply was, no, sir!
straightway he commanded them to lift him to his perch.
in this way the day wore on; ahab, now aloft and motionless; anon, unrestingly pacing the planks.
as he was thus walking, uttering no sound, except to hail the men aloft, or to bid them hoist a sail still higher, or to spread one to a still greater breadth—thus to and fro pacing, beneath his slouched hat, at every turn he passed his own wrecked boat, which had been dropped upon the quarter-deck, and lay there reversed; broken bow to shattered stern.
at last he paused before it; and as in an already over-clouded sky fresh troops of clouds will sometimes sail across, so over the old man’s face there now stole some such added gloom as this.
stubb saw him pause; and perhaps intending, not vainly, though, to evince his own unabated fortitude, and thus keep up a valiant place in his captain’s mind, he advanced, and eyeing the wreck exclaimed—“the thistle the ass refused; it pricked his mouth too keenly, sir; ha!
ha!”
“what soulless thing is this that laughs before a wreck?
man, man!
did i not know thee brave as fearless fire (and as mechanical) i could swear thou wert a poltroon.
groan nor laugh should be heard before a wreck.”
“aye, sir,” said starbuck drawing near, “’tis a solemn sight; an omen, and an ill one.”
“omen?
omen?—the dictionary!
if the gods think to speak outright to man, they will honorably speak outright; not shake their heads, and give an old wives’ darkling hint.—begone!
ye two are the opposite poles of one thing; starbuck is stubb reversed, and stubb is starbuck; and ye two are all mankind; and ahab stands alone among the millions of the peopled earth, nor gods nor men his neighbors!
cold, cold—i shiver!—how now?
aloft there!
d’ye see him?
sing out for every spout, though he spout ten times a second!”
the day was nearly done; only the hem of his golden robe was rustling.
soon, it was almost dark, but the look-out men still remained unset.
“can’t see the spout now, sir;—too dark”—cried a voice from the air.
“how heading when last seen?”
“as before, sir,—straight to leeward.”
“good!
he will travel slower now ’tis night.
down royals and top-gallant stun-sails, mr. starbuck.
we must not run over him before morning; he’s making a passage now, and may heave-to a while.
helm there!
keep her full before the wind!—aloft!
come down!—mr.
stubb, send a fresh hand to the fore-mast head, and see it manned till morning.”—then advancing towards the doubloon in the main-mast—“men, this gold is mine, for i earned it; but i shall let it abide here till the white whale is dead; and then, whosoever of ye first raises him, upon the day he shall be killed, this gold is that man’s; and if on that day i shall again raise him, then, ten times its sum shall be divided among all of ye!
away now!—the deck is thine, sir!”
and so saying, he placed himself half way within the scuttle, and slouching his hat, stood there till dawn, except when at intervals rousing himself to see how the night wore on.
chapter 134. the chase—second day.
at day-break, the three mast-heads were punctually manned afresh.
“d’ye see him?” cried ahab after allowing a little space for the light to spread.
“see nothing, sir.”
“turn up all hands and make sail!
he travels faster than i thought for;—the top-gallant sails!—aye, they should have been kept on her all night.
but no matter—’tis but resting for the rush.”
here be it said, that this pertinacious pursuit of one particular whale, continued through day into night, and through night into day, is a thing by no means unprecedented in the south sea fishery.
for such is the wonderful skill, prescience of experience, and invincible confidence acquired by some great natural geniuses among the nantucket commanders; that from the simple observation of a whale when last descried, they will, under certain given circumstances, pretty accurately foretell both the direction in which he will continue to swim for a time, while out of sight, as well as his probable rate of progression during that period.
and, in these cases, somewhat as a pilot, when about losing sight of a coast, whose general trending he well knows, and which he desires shortly to return to again, but at some further point; like as this pilot stands by his compass, and takes the precise bearing of the cape at present visible, in order the more certainly to hit aright the remote, unseen headland, eventually to be visited: so does the fisherman, at his compass, with the whale; for after being chased, and diligently marked, through several hours of daylight, then, when night obscures the fish, the creature’s future wake through the darkness is almost as established to the sagacious mind of the hunter, as the pilot’s coast is to him.
so that to this hunter’s wondrous skill, the proverbial evanescence of a thing writ in water, a wake, is to all desired purposes well nigh as reliable as the steadfast land.
and as the mighty iron leviathan of the modern railway is so familiarly known in its every pace, that, with watches in their hands, men time his rate as doctors that of a baby’s pulse; and lightly say of it, the up train or the down train will reach such or such a spot, at such or such an hour; even so, almost, there are occasions when these nantucketers time that other leviathan of the deep, according to the observed humor of his speed; and say to themselves, so many hours hence this whale will have gone two hundred miles, will have about reached this or that degree of latitude or longitude.
but to render this acuteness at all successful in the end, the wind and the sea must be the whaleman’s allies; for of what present avail to the becalmed or windbound mariner is the skill that assures him he is exactly ninety-three leagues and a quarter from his port?
inferable from these statements, are many collateral subtile matters touching the chase of whales.
the ship tore on; leaving such a furrow in the sea as when a cannon-ball, missent, becomes a plough-share and turns up the level field.
“by salt and hemp!” cried stubb, “but this swift motion of the deck creeps up one’s legs and tingles at the heart.
this ship and i are two brave fellows!—ha, ha!
some one take me up, and launch me, spine-wise, on the sea,—for by live-oaks!
my spine’s a keel.
ha, ha!
we go the gait that leaves no dust behind!”
“there she blows—she blows!—she blows!—right ahead!” was now the mast-head cry.
“aye, aye!” cried stubb, “i knew it—ye can’t escape—blow on and split your spout, o whale!
the mad fiend himself is after ye!
blow your trump—blister your lungs!—ahab will dam off your blood, as a miller shuts his watergate upon the stream!”
and stubb did but speak out for well nigh all that crew.
the frenzies of the chase had by this time worked them bubblingly up, like old wine worked anew.
whatever pale fears and forebodings some of them might have felt before; these were not only now kept out of sight through the growing awe of ahab, but they were broken up, and on all sides routed, as timid prairie hares that scatter before the bounding bison.
the hand of fate had snatched all their souls; and by the stirring perils of the previous day; the rack of the past night’s suspense; the fixed, unfearing, blind, reckless way in which their wild craft went plunging towards its flying mark; by all these things, their hearts were bowled along.
the wind that made great bellies of their sails, and rushed the vessel on by arms invisible as irresistible; this seemed the symbol of that unseen agency which so enslaved them to the race.
they were one man, not thirty.
for as the one ship that held them all; though it was put together of all contrasting things—oak, and maple, and pine wood; iron, and pitch, and hemp—yet all these ran into each other in the one concrete hull, which shot on its way, both balanced and directed by the long central keel; even so, all the individualities of the crew, this man’s valor, that man’s fear; guilt and guiltiness, all varieties were welded into oneness, and were all directed to that fatal goal which ahab their one lord and keel did point to.
the rigging lived.
the mast-heads, like the tops of tall palms, were outspreadingly tufted with arms and legs.
clinging to a spar with one hand, some reached forth the other with impatient wavings; others, shading their eyes from the vivid sunlight, sat far out on the rocking yards; all the spars in full bearing of mortals, ready and ripe for their fate.
ah!
how they still strove through that infinite blueness to seek out the thing that might destroy them!
“why sing ye not out for him, if ye see him?” cried ahab, when, after the lapse of some minutes since the first cry, no more had been heard.
“sway me up, men; ye have been deceived; not moby dick casts one odd jet that way, and then disappears.”
it was even so; in their headlong eagerness, the men had mistaken some other thing for the whale-spout, as the event itself soon proved; for hardly had ahab reached his perch; hardly was the rope belayed to its pin on deck, when he struck the key-note to an orchestra, that made the air vibrate as with the combined discharges of rifles.
the triumphant halloo of thirty buckskin lungs was heard, as—much nearer to the ship than the place of the imaginary jet, less than a mile ahead—moby dick bodily burst into view!
for not by any calm and indolent spoutings; not by the peaceable gush of that mystic fountain in his head, did the white whale now reveal his vicinity; but by the far more wondrous phenomenon of breaching.
rising with his utmost velocity from the furthest depths, the sperm whale thus booms his entire bulk into the pure element of air, and piling up a mountain of dazzling foam, shows his place to the distance of seven miles and more.
in those moments, the torn, enraged waves he shakes off, seem his mane; in some cases, this breaching is his act of defiance.
“there she breaches!
there she breaches!” was the cry, as in his immeasurable bravadoes the white whale tossed himself salmon-like to heaven.
so suddenly seen in the blue plain of the sea, and relieved against the still bluer margin of the sky, the spray that he raised, for the moment, intolerably glittered and glared like a glacier; and stood there gradually fading and fading away from its first sparkling intensity, to the dim mistiness of an advancing shower in a vale.
“aye, breach your last to the sun, moby dick!” cried ahab, “thy hour and thy harpoon are at hand!—down!
down all of ye, but one man at the fore.
the boats!—stand by!”
unmindful of the tedious rope-ladders of the shrouds, the men, like shooting stars, slid to the deck, by the isolated backstays and halyards; while ahab, less dartingly, but still rapidly was dropped from his perch.
“lower away,” he cried, so soon as he had reached his boat—a spare one, rigged the afternoon previous.
“mr.
starbuck, the ship is thine—keep away from the boats, but keep near them.
lower, all!”
as if to strike a quick terror into them, by this time being the first assailant himself, moby dick had turned, and was now coming for the three crews.
ahab’s boat was central; and cheering his men, he told them he would take the whale head-and-head,—that is, pull straight up to his forehead,—a not uncommon thing; for when within a certain limit, such a course excludes the coming onset from the whale’s sidelong vision.
but ere that close limit was gained, and while yet all three boats were plain as the ship’s three masts to his eye; the white whale churning himself into furious speed, almost in an instant as it were, rushing among the boats with open jaws, and a lashing tail, offered appalling battle on every side; and heedless of the irons darted at him from every boat, seemed only intent on annihilating each separate plank of which those boats were made.
but skilfully manœuvred, incessantly wheeling like trained chargers in the field; the boats for a while eluded him; though, at times, but by a plank’s breadth; while all the time, ahab’s unearthly slogan tore every other cry but his to shreds.
but at last in his untraceable evolutions, the white whale so crossed and recrossed, and in a thousand ways entangled the slack of the three lines now fast to him, that they foreshortened, and, of themselves, warped the devoted boats towards the planted irons in him; though now for a moment the whale drew aside a little, as if to rally for a more tremendous charge.
seizing that opportunity, ahab first paid out more line: and then was rapidly hauling and jerking in upon it again—hoping that way to disencumber it of some snarls—when lo!—a sight more savage than the embattled teeth of sharks!
caught and twisted—corkscrewed in the mazes of the line, loose harpoons and lances, with all their bristling barbs and points, came flashing and dripping up to the chocks in the bows of ahab’s boat.
only one thing could be done.
seizing the boat-knife, he critically reached within—through—and then, without—the rays of steel; dragged in the line beyond, passed it, inboard, to the bowsman, and then, twice sundering the rope near the chocks—dropped the intercepted fagot of steel into the sea; and was all fast again.
that instant, the white whale made a sudden rush among the remaining tangles of the other lines; by so doing, irresistibly dragged the more involved boats of stubb and flask towards his flukes; dashed them together like two rolling husks on a surf-beaten beach, and then, diving down into the sea, disappeared in a boiling maelstrom, in which, for a space, the odorous cedar chips of the wrecks danced round and round, like the grated nutmeg in a swiftly stirred bowl of punch.
while the two crews were yet circling in the waters, reaching out after the revolving line-tubs, oars, and other floating furniture, while aslope little flask bobbed up and down like an empty vial, twitching his legs upwards to escape the dreaded jaws of sharks; and stubb was lustily singing out for some one to ladle him up; and while the old man’s line—now parting—admitted of his pulling into the creamy pool to rescue whom he could;—in that wild simultaneousness of a thousand concreted perils,—ahab’s yet unstricken boat seemed drawn up towards heaven by invisible wires,—as, arrow-like, shooting perpendicularly from the sea, the white whale dashed his broad forehead against its bottom, and sent it, turning over and over, into the air; till it fell again—gunwale downwards—and ahab and his men struggled out from under it, like seals from a sea-side cave.
the first uprising momentum of the whale—modifying its direction as he struck the surface—involuntarily launched him along it, to a little distance from the centre of the destruction he had made; and with his back to it, he now lay for a moment slowly feeling with his flukes from side to side; and whenever a stray oar, bit of plank, the least chip or crumb of the boats touched his skin, his tail swiftly drew back, and came sideways smiting the sea.
but soon, as if satisfied that his work for that time was done, he pushed his pleated forehead through the ocean, and trailing after him the intertangled lines, continued his leeward way at a traveller’s methodic pace.
as before, the attentive ship having descried the whole fight, again came bearing down to the rescue, and dropping a boat, picked up the floating mariners, tubs, oars, and whatever else could be caught at, and safely landed them on her decks.
some sprained shoulders, wrists, and ankles; livid contusions; wrenched harpoons and lances; inextricable intricacies of rope; shattered oars and planks; all these were there; but no fatal or even serious ill seemed to have befallen any one.
as with fedallah the day before, so ahab was now found grimly clinging to his boat’s broken half, which afforded a comparatively easy float; nor did it so exhaust him as the previous day’s mishap.
but when he was helped to the deck, all eyes were fastened upon him; as instead of standing by himself he still half-hung upon the shoulder of starbuck, who had thus far been the foremost to assist him.
his ivory leg had been snapped off, leaving but one short sharp splinter.
“aye, aye, starbuck, ’tis sweet to lean sometimes, be the leaner who he will; and would old ahab had leaned oftener than he has.”
“the ferrule has not stood, sir,” said the carpenter, now coming up; “i put good work into that leg.”
“but no bones broken, sir, i hope,” said stubb with true concern.
“aye!
and all splintered to pieces, stubb!—d’ye see it.—but even with a broken bone, old ahab is untouched; and i account no living bone of mine one jot more me, than this dead one that’s lost.
nor white whale, nor man, nor fiend, can so much as graze old ahab in his own proper and inaccessible being.
can any lead touch yonder floor, any mast scrape yonder roof?—aloft there!
which way?”
“dead to leeward, sir.”
“up helm, then; pile on the sail again, ship keepers!
down the rest of the spare boats and rig them—mr.
starbuck away, and muster the boat’s crews.”
“let me first help thee towards the bulwarks, sir.”
“oh, oh, oh!
how this splinter gores me now!
accursed fate!
that the unconquerable captain in the soul should have such a craven mate!”
“sir?”
“my body, man, not thee.
give me something for a cane—there, that shivered lance will do.
muster the men.
surely i have not seen him yet.
by heaven it cannot be!—missing?—quick!
call them all.”
the old man’s hinted thought was true.
upon mustering the company, the parsee was not there.
“the parsee!” cried stubb—“he must have been caught in——”
“the black vomit wrench thee!—run all of ye above, alow, cabin, forecastle—find him—not gone—not gone!”
but quickly they returned to him with the tidings that the parsee was nowhere to be found.
“aye, sir,” said stubb—“caught among the tangles of your line—i thought i saw him dragging under.”
“my line!
my line?
gone?—gone?
what means that little word?—what death-knell rings in it, that old ahab shakes as if he were the belfry.
the harpoon, too!—toss over the litter there,—d’ye see it?—the forged iron, men, the white whale’s—no, no, no,—blistered fool!
this hand did dart it!—’tis in the fish!—aloft there!
keep him nailed—quick!—all hands to the rigging of the boats—collect the oars—harpooneers!
the irons, the irons!—hoist the royals higher—a pull on all the sheets!—helm there!
steady, steady for your life!
i’ll ten times girdle the unmeasured globe; yea and dive straight through it, but i’ll slay him yet!”
“great god!
but for one single instant show thyself,” cried starbuck; “never, never wilt thou capture him, old man—in jesus’ name no more of this, that’s worse than devil’s madness.
two days chased; twice stove to splinters; thy very leg once more snatched from under thee; thy evil shadow gone—all good angels mobbing thee with warnings:—what more wouldst thou have?—shall we keep chasing this murderous fish till he swamps the last man?
shall we be dragged by him to the bottom of the sea?
shall we be towed by him to the infernal world?
oh, oh,—impiety and blasphemy to hunt him more!”
“starbuck, of late i’ve felt strangely moved to thee; ever since that hour we both saw—thou know’st what, in one another’s eyes.
but in this matter of the whale, be the front of thy face to me as the palm of this hand—a lipless, unfeatured blank.
ahab is for ever ahab, man.
this whole act’s immutably decreed.
’twas rehearsed by thee and me a billion years before this ocean rolled.
fool!
i am the fates’ lieutenant; i act under orders.
look thou, underling!
that thou obeyest mine.—stand round me, men.
ye see an old man cut down to the stump; leaning on a shivered lance; propped up on a lonely foot.
’tis ahab—his body’s part; but ahab’s soul’s a centipede, that moves upon a hundred legs.
i feel strained, half stranded, as ropes that tow dismasted frigates in a gale; and i may look so.
but ere i break, ye’ll hear me crack; and till ye hear that, know that ahab’s hawser tows his purpose yet.
believe ye, men, in the things called omens?
then laugh aloud, and cry encore!
for ere they drown, drowning things will twice rise to the surface; then rise again, to sink for evermore.
so with moby dick—two days he’s floated—tomorrow will be the third.
aye, men, he’ll rise once more,—but only to spout his last!
d’ye feel brave men, brave?”
“as fearless fire,” cried stubb.
“and as mechanical,” muttered ahab.
then as the men went forward, he muttered on: “the things called omens!
and yesterday i talked the same to starbuck there, concerning my broken boat.
oh!
how valiantly i seek to drive out of others’ hearts what’s clinched so fast in mine!—the parsee—the parsee!—gone, gone?
and he was to go before:—but still was to be seen again ere i could perish—how’s that?—there’s a riddle now might baffle all the lawyers backed by the ghosts of the whole line of judges:—like a hawk’s beak it pecks my brain.
i’ll, i’ll solve it, though!”
when dusk descended, the whale was still in sight to leeward.
so once more the sail was shortened, and everything passed nearly as on the previous night; only, the sound of hammers, and the hum of the grindstone was heard till nearly daylight, as the men toiled by lanterns in the complete and careful rigging of the spare boats and sharpening their fresh weapons for the morrow.
meantime, of the broken keel of ahab’s wrecked craft the carpenter made him another leg; while still as on the night before, slouched ahab stood fixed within his scuttle; his hid, heliotrope glance anticipatingly gone backward on its dial; sat due eastward for the earliest sun.
chapter 135. the chase.—third day.
the morning of the third day dawned fair and fresh, and once more the solitary night-man at the fore-mast-head was relieved by crowds of the daylight look-outs, who dotted every mast and almost every spar.
“d’ye see him?” cried ahab; but the whale was not yet in sight.
“in his infallible wake, though; but follow that wake, that’s all.
helm there; steady, as thou goest, and hast been going.
what a lovely day again!
were it a new-made world, and made for a summer-house to the angels, and this morning the first of its throwing open to them, a fairer day could not dawn upon that world.
here’s food for thought, had ahab time to think; but ahab never thinks; he only feels, feels, feels; that’s tingling enough for mortal man!
to think’s audacity.
god only has that right and privilege.
thinking is, or ought to be, a coolness and a calmness; and our poor hearts throb, and our poor brains beat too much for that.
and yet, i’ve sometimes thought my brain was very calm—frozen calm, this old skull cracks so, like a glass in which the contents turned to ice, and shiver it.
and still this hair is growing now; this moment growing, and heat must breed it; but no, it’s like that sort of common grass that will grow anywhere, between the earthy clefts of greenland ice or in vesuvius lava.
how the wild winds blow it; they whip it about me as the torn shreds of split sails lash the tossed ship they cling to.
a vile wind that has no doubt blown ere this through prison corridors and cells, and wards of hospitals, and ventilated them, and now comes blowing hither as innocent as fleeces.
out upon it!—it’s tainted.
were i the wind, i’d blow no more on such a wicked, miserable world.
i’d crawl somewhere to a cave, and slink there.
and yet, ’tis a noble and heroic thing, the wind!
who ever conquered it?
in every fight it has the last and bitterest blow.
run tilting at it, and you but run through it.
ha!
a coward wind that strikes stark naked men, but will not stand to receive a single blow.
even ahab is a braver thing—a nobler thing than that.
would now the wind but had a body; but all the things that most exasperate and outrage mortal man, all these things are bodiless, but only bodiless as objects, not as agents.
there’s a most special, a most cunning, oh, a most malicious difference!
and yet, i say again, and swear it now, that there’s something all glorious and gracious in the wind.
these warm trade winds, at least, that in the clear heavens blow straight on, in strong and steadfast, vigorous mildness; and veer not from their mark, however the baser currents of the sea may turn and tack, and mightiest mississippies of the land swift and swerve about, uncertain where to go at last.
and by the eternal poles!
these same trades that so directly blow my good ship on; these trades, or something like them—something so unchangeable, and full as strong, blow my keeled soul along!
to it!
aloft there!
what d’ye see?”
“nothing, sir.”
“nothing!
and noon at hand!
the doubloon goes a-begging!
see the sun!
aye, aye, it must be so.
i’ve oversailed him.
how, got the start?
aye, he’s chasing me now; not i, him—that’s bad; i might have known it, too.
fool!
the lines—the harpoons he’s towing.
aye, aye, i have run him by last night.
about!
about!
come down, all of ye, but the regular look outs!
man the braces!”
steering as she had done, the wind had been somewhat on the pequod’s quarter, so that now being pointed in the reverse direction, the braced ship sailed hard upon the breeze as she rechurned the cream in her own white wake.
“against the wind he now steers for the open jaw,” murmured starbuck to himself, as he coiled the new-hauled main-brace upon the rail.
“god keep us, but already my bones feel damp within me, and from the inside wet my flesh.
i misdoubt me that i disobey my god in obeying him!”
“stand by to sway me up!” cried ahab, advancing to the hempen basket.
“we should meet him soon.”
“aye, aye, sir,” and straightway starbuck did ahab’s bidding, and once more ahab swung on high.
a whole hour now passed; gold-beaten out to ages.
time itself now held long breaths with keen suspense.
but at last, some three points off the weather bow, ahab descried the spout again, and instantly from the three mast-heads three shrieks went up as if the tongues of fire had voiced it.
“forehead to forehead i meet thee, this third time, moby dick!
on deck there!—brace sharper up; crowd her into the wind’s eye.
he’s too far off to lower yet, mr. starbuck.
the sails shake!
stand over that helmsman with a top-maul!
so, so; he travels fast, and i must down.
but let me have one more good round look aloft here at the sea; there’s time for that.
an old, old sight, and yet somehow so young; aye, and not changed a wink since i first saw it, a boy, from the sand-hills of nantucket!
the same!—the same!—the same to noah as to me.
there’s a soft shower to leeward.
such lovely leewardings!
they must lead somewhere—to something else than common land, more palmy than the palms.
leeward!
the white whale goes that way; look to windward, then; the better if the bitterer quarter.
but good bye, good bye, old mast-head!
what’s this?—green?
aye, tiny mosses in these warped cracks.
no such green weather stains on ahab’s head!
there’s the difference now between man’s old age and matter’s.
but aye, old mast, we both grow old together; sound in our hulls, though, are we not, my ship?
aye, minus a leg, that’s all.
by heaven this dead wood has the better of my live flesh every way.
i can’t compare with it; and i’ve known some ships made of dead trees outlast the lives of men made of the most vital stuff of vital fathers.
what’s that he said?
he should still go before me, my pilot; and yet to be seen again?
but where?
will i have eyes at the bottom of the sea, supposing i descend those endless stairs?
and all night i’ve been sailing from him, wherever he did sink to.
aye, aye, like many more thou told’st direful truth as touching thyself, o parsee; but, ahab, there thy shot fell short.
good-bye, mast-head—keep a good eye upon the whale, the while i’m gone.
we’ll talk to-morrow, nay, to-night, when the white whale lies down there, tied by head and tail.”
he gave the word; and still gazing round him, was steadily lowered through the cloven blue air to the deck.
in due time the boats were lowered; but as standing in his shallop’s stern, ahab just hovered upon the point of the descent, he waved to the mate,—who held one of the tackle-ropes on deck—and bade him pause.
“starbuck!”
“sir?”
“for the third time my soul’s ship starts upon this voyage, starbuck.”
“aye, sir, thou wilt have it so.”
“some ships sail from their ports, and ever afterwards are missing, starbuck!”
“truth, sir: saddest truth.”
“some men die at ebb tide; some at low water; some at the full of the flood;—and i feel now like a billow that’s all one crested comb, starbuck.
i am old;—shake hands with me, man.”
their hands met; their eyes fastened; starbuck’s tears the glue.
“oh, my captain, my captain!—noble heart—go not—go not!—see, it’s a brave man that weeps; how great the agony of the persuasion then!”
“lower away!”—cried ahab, tossing the mate’s arm from him.
“stand by the crew!”
in an instant the boat was pulling round close under the stern.
“the sharks!
the sharks!” cried a voice from the low cabin-window there; “o master, my master, come back!”
but ahab heard nothing; for his own voice was high-lifted then; and the boat leaped on.
yet the voice spake true; for scarce had he pushed from the ship, when numbers of sharks, seemingly rising from out the dark waters beneath the hull, maliciously snapped at the blades of the oars, every time they dipped in the water; and in this way accompanied the boat with their bites.
it is a thing not uncommonly happening to the whale-boats in those swarming seas; the sharks at times apparently following them in the same prescient way that vultures hover over the banners of marching regiments in the east.
but these were the first sharks that had been observed by the pequod since the white whale had been first descried; and whether it was that ahab’s crew were all such tiger-yellow barbarians, and therefore their flesh more musky to the senses of the sharks—a matter sometimes well known to affect them,—however it was, they seemed to follow that one boat without molesting the others.
“heart of wrought steel!” murmured starbuck gazing over the side, and following with his eyes the receding boat—“canst thou yet ring boldly to that sight?—lowering thy keel among ravening sharks, and followed by them, open-mouthed to the chase; and this the critical third day?—for when three days flow together in one continuous intense pursuit; be sure the first is the morning, the second the noon, and the third the evening and the end of that thing—be that end what it may.
oh!
my god!
what is this that shoots through me, and leaves me so deadly calm, yet expectant,—fixed at the top of a shudder!
future things swim before me, as in empty outlines and skeletons; all the past is somehow grown dim.
mary, girl!
thou fadest in pale glories behind me; boy!
i seem to see but thy eyes grown wondrous blue.
strangest problems of life seem clearing; but clouds sweep between—is my journey’s end coming?
my legs feel faint; like his who has footed it all day.
feel thy heart,—beats it yet?
stir thyself, starbuck!—stave it off—move, move!
speak aloud!—mast-head there!
see ye my boy’s hand on the hill?—crazed;—aloft there!—keep thy keenest eye upon the boats:—mark well the whale!—ho!
again!—drive off that hawk!
see!
he pecks—he tears the vane”—pointing to the red flag flying at the main-truck—“ha!
he soars away with it!—where’s the old man now?
see’st thou that sight, oh ahab!—shudder, shudder!”
the boats had not gone very far, when by a signal from the mast-heads—a downward pointed arm, ahab knew that the whale had sounded; but intending to be near him at the next rising, he held on his way a little sideways from the vessel; the becharmed crew maintaining the profoundest silence, as the head-beat waves hammered and hammered against the opposing bow.
“drive, drive in your nails, oh ye waves!
to their uttermost heads drive them in!
ye but strike a thing without a lid; and no coffin and no hearse can be mine:—and hemp only can kill me!
ha!
ha!”
suddenly the waters around them slowly swelled in broad circles; then quickly upheaved, as if sideways sliding from a submerged berg of ice, swiftly rising to the surface.
a low rumbling sound was heard; a subterraneous hum; and then all held their breaths; as bedraggled with trailing ropes, and harpoons, and lances, a vast form shot lengthwise, but obliquely from the sea.
shrouded in a thin drooping veil of mist, it hovered for a moment in the rainbowed air; and then fell swamping back into the deep.
crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a shower of flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the marble trunk of the whale.
“give way!” cried ahab to the oarsmen, and the boats darted forward to the attack; but maddened by yesterday’s fresh irons that corroded in him, moby dick seemed combinedly possessed by all the angels that fell from heaven.
the wide tiers of welded tendons overspreading his broad white forehead, beneath the transparent skin, looked knitted together; as head on, he came churning his tail among the boats; and once more flailed them apart; spilling out the irons and lances from the two mates’ boats, and dashing in one side of the upper part of their bows, but leaving ahab’s almost without a scar.
while daggoo and queequeg were stopping the strained planks; and as the whale swimming out from them, turned, and showed one entire flank as he shot by them again; at that moment a quick cry went up.
lashed round and round to the fish’s back; pinioned in the turns upon turns in which, during the past night, the whale had reeled the involutions of the lines around him, the half torn body of the parsee was seen; his sable raiment frayed to shreds; his distended eyes turned full upon old ahab.
the harpoon dropped from his hand.
“befooled, befooled!”—drawing in a long lean breath—“aye, parsee!
i see thee again.—aye, and thou goest before; and this, this then is the hearse that thou didst promise.
but i hold thee to the last letter of thy word.
where is the second hearse?
away, mates, to the ship!
those boats are useless now; repair them if ye can in time, and return to me; if not, ahab is enough to die—down, men!
the first thing that but offers to jump from this boat i stand in, that thing i harpoon.
ye are not other men, but my arms and my legs; and so obey me.—where’s the whale?
gone down again?”
but he looked too nigh the boat; for as if bent upon escaping with the corpse he bore, and as if the particular place of the last encounter had been but a stage in his leeward voyage, moby dick was now again steadily swimming forward; and had almost passed the ship,—which thus far had been sailing in the contrary direction to him, though for the present her headway had been stopped.
he seemed swimming with his utmost velocity, and now only intent upon pursuing his own straight path in the sea.
“oh!
ahab,” cried starbuck, “not too late is it, even now, the third day, to desist.
see!
moby dick seeks thee not.
it is thou, thou, that madly seekest him!”
setting sail to the rising wind, the lonely boat was swiftly impelled to leeward, by both oars and canvas.
and at last when ahab was sliding by the vessel, so near as plainly to distinguish starbuck’s face as he leaned over the rail, he hailed him to turn the vessel about, and follow him, not too swiftly, at a judicious interval.
glancing upwards, he saw tashtego, queequeg, and daggoo, eagerly mounting to the three mast-heads; while the oarsmen were rocking in the two staved boats which had but just been hoisted to the side, and were busily at work in repairing them.
one after the other, through the port-holes, as he sped, he also caught flying glimpses of stubb and flask, busying themselves on deck among bundles of new irons and lances.
as he saw all this; as he heard the hammers in the broken boats; far other hammers seemed driving a nail into his heart.
but he rallied.
and now marking that the vane or flag was gone from the main-mast-head, he shouted to tashtego, who had just gained that perch, to descend again for another flag, and a hammer and nails, and so nail it to the mast.
whether fagged by the three days’ running chase, and the resistance to his swimming in the knotted hamper he bore; or whether it was some latent deceitfulness and malice in him: whichever was true, the white whale’s way now began to abate, as it seemed, from the boat so rapidly nearing him once more; though indeed the whale’s last start had not been so long a one as before.
and still as ahab glided over the waves the unpitying sharks accompanied him; and so pertinaciously stuck to the boat; and so continually bit at the plying oars, that the blades became jagged and crunched, and left small splinters in the sea, at almost every dip.
“heed them not!
those teeth but give new rowlocks to your oars.
pull on!
’tis the better rest, the shark’s jaw than the yielding water.”
“but at every bite, sir, the thin blades grow smaller and smaller!”
“they will last long enough!
pull on!—but who can tell”—he muttered—“whether these sharks swim to feast on the whale or on ahab?—but pull on!
aye, all alive, now—we near him.
the helm!
take the helm!
let me pass,”—and so saying two of the oarsmen helped him forward to the bows of the still flying boat.
at length as the craft was cast to one side, and ran ranging along with the white whale’s flank, he seemed strangely oblivious of its advance—as the whale sometimes will—and ahab was fairly within the smoky mountain mist, which, thrown off from the whale’s spout, curled round his great, monadnock hump; he was even thus close to him; when, with body arched back, and both arms lengthwise high-lifted to the poise, he darted his fierce iron, and his far fiercer curse into the hated whale.
as both steel and curse sank to the socket, as if sucked into a morass, moby dick sideways writhed; spasmodically rolled his nigh flank against the bow, and, without staving a hole in it, so suddenly canted the boat over, that had it not been for the elevated part of the gunwale to which he then clung, ahab would once more have been tossed into the sea.
as it was, three of the oarsmen—who foreknew not the precise instant of the dart, and were therefore unprepared for its effects—these were flung out; but so fell, that, in an instant two of them clutched the gunwale again, and rising to its level on a combing wave, hurled themselves bodily inboard again; the third man helplessly dropping astern, but still afloat and swimming.
almost simultaneously, with a mighty volition of ungraduated, instantaneous swiftness, the white whale darted through the weltering sea.
but when ahab cried out to the steersman to take new turns with the line, and hold it so; and commanded the crew to turn round on their seats, and tow the boat up to the mark; the moment the treacherous line felt that double strain and tug, it snapped in the empty air!
“what breaks in me?
some sinew cracks!—’tis whole again; oars!
oars!
burst in upon him!”
hearing the tremendous rush of the sea-crashing boat, the whale wheeled round to present his blank forehead at bay; but in that evolution, catching sight of the nearing black hull of the ship; seemingly seeing in it the source of all his persecutions; bethinking it—it may be—a larger and nobler foe; of a sudden, he bore down upon its advancing prow, smiting his jaws amid fiery showers of foam.
ahab staggered; his hand smote his forehead.
“i grow blind; hands!
stretch out before me that i may yet grope my way.
is’t night?”
“the whale!
the ship!” cried the cringing oarsmen.
“oars!
oars!
slope downwards to thy depths, o sea, that ere it be for ever too late, ahab may slide this last, last time upon his mark!
i see: the ship!
the ship!
dash on, my men!
will ye not save my ship?”
but as the oarsmen violently forced their boat through the sledge-hammering seas, the before whale-smitten bow-ends of two planks burst through, and in an instant almost, the temporarily disabled boat lay nearly level with the waves; its half-wading, splashing crew, trying hard to stop the gap and bale out the pouring water.
meantime, for that one beholding instant, tashtego’s mast-head hammer remained suspended in his hand; and the red flag, half-wrapping him as with a plaid, then streamed itself straight out from him, as his own forward-flowing heart; while starbuck and stubb, standing upon the bowsprit beneath, caught sight of the down-coming monster just as soon as he.
“the whale, the whale!
up helm, up helm!
oh, all ye sweet powers of air, now hug me close!
let not starbuck die, if die he must, in a woman’s fainting fit.
up helm, i say—ye fools, the jaw!
the jaw!
is this the end of all my bursting prayers?
all my life-long fidelities?
oh, ahab, ahab, lo, thy work.
steady!
helmsman, steady.
nay, nay!
up helm again!
he turns to meet us!
oh, his unappeasable brow drives on towards one, whose duty tells him he cannot depart.
my god, stand by me now!”
“stand not by me, but stand under me, whoever you are that will now help stubb; for stubb, too, sticks here.
i grin at thee, thou grinning whale!
who ever helped stubb, or kept stubb awake, but stubb’s own unwinking eye?
and now poor stubb goes to bed upon a mattrass that is all too soft; would it were stuffed with brushwood!
i grin at thee, thou grinning whale!
look ye, sun, moon, and stars!
i call ye assassins of as good a fellow as ever spouted up his ghost.
for all that, i would yet ring glasses with ye, would ye but hand the cup!
oh, oh!
oh, oh!
thou grinning whale, but there’ll be plenty of gulping soon!
why fly ye not, o ahab!
for me, off shoes and jacket to it; let stubb die in his drawers!
a most mouldy and over salted death, though;—cherries!
cherries!
cherries!
oh, flask, for one red cherry ere we die!”
“cherries?
i only wish that we were where they grow.
oh, stubb, i hope my poor mother’s drawn my part-pay ere this; if not, few coppers will now come to her, for the voyage is up.”
from the ship’s bows, nearly all the seamen now hung inactive; hammers, bits of plank, lances, and harpoons, mechanically retained in their hands, just as they had darted from their various employments; all their enchanted eyes intent upon the whale, which from side to side strangely vibrating his predestinating head, sent a broad band of overspreading semicircular foam before him as he rushed.
retribution, swift vengeance, eternal malice were in his whole aspect, and spite of all that mortal man could do, the solid white buttress of his forehead smote the ship’s starboard bow, till men and timbers reeled.
some fell flat upon their faces.
like dislodged trucks, the heads of the harpooneers aloft shook on their bull-like necks.
through the breach, they heard the waters pour, as mountain torrents down a flume.
“the ship!
the hearse!—the second hearse!” cried ahab from the boat; “its wood could only be american!”
diving beneath the settling ship, the whale ran quivering along its keel; but turning under water, swiftly shot to the surface again, far off the other bow, but within a few yards of ahab’s boat, where, for a time, he lay quiescent.
“i turn my body from the sun.
what ho, tashtego!
let me hear thy hammer.
oh!
ye three unsurrendered spires of mine; thou uncracked keel; and only god-bullied hull; thou firm deck, and haughty helm, and pole-pointed prow,—death-glorious ship!
must ye then perish, and without me?
am i cut off from the last fond pride of meanest shipwrecked captains?
oh, lonely death on lonely life!
oh, now i feel my topmost greatness lies in my topmost grief.
ho, ho!
from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death!
towards thee i roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale; to the last i grapple with thee; from hell’s heart i stab at thee; for hate’s sake i spit my last breath at thee.
sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool!
and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing thee, though tied to thee, thou damned whale!
thus, i give up the spear!”
the harpoon was darted; the stricken whale flew forward; with igniting velocity the line ran through the grooves;—ran foul.
ahab stooped to clear it; he did clear it; but the flying turn caught him round the neck, and voicelessly as turkish mutes bowstring their victim, he was shot out of the boat, ere the crew knew he was gone.
next instant, the heavy eye-splice in the rope’s final end flew out of the stark-empty tub, knocked down an oarsman, and smiting the sea, disappeared in its depths.
for an instant, the tranced boat’s crew stood still; then turned.
“the ship?
great god, where is the ship?” soon they through dim, bewildering mediums saw her sidelong fading phantom, as in the gaseous fata morgana; only the uppermost masts out of water; while fixed by infatuation, or fidelity, or fate, to their once lofty perches, the pagan harpooneers still maintained their sinking lookouts on the sea.
and now, concentric circles seized the lone boat itself, and all its crew, and each floating oar, and every lance-pole, and spinning, animate and inanimate, all round and round in one vortex, carried the smallest chip of the pequod out of sight.
but as the last whelmings intermixingly poured themselves over the sunken head of the indian at the mainmast, leaving a few inches of the erect spar yet visible, together with long streaming yards of the flag, which calmly undulated, with ironical coincidings, over the destroying billows they almost touched;—at that instant, a red arm and a hammer hovered backwardly uplifted in the open air, in the act of nailing the flag faster and yet faster to the subsiding spar.
a sky-hawk that tauntingly had followed the main-truck downwards from its natural home among the stars, pecking at the flag, and incommoding tashtego there; this bird now chanced to intercept its broad fluttering wing between the hammer and the wood; and simultaneously feeling that etherial thrill, the submerged savage beneath, in his death-gasp, kept his hammer frozen there; and so the bird of heaven, with archangelic shrieks, and his imperial beak thrust upwards, and his whole captive form folded in the flag of ahab, went down with his ship, which, like satan, would not sink to hell till she had dragged a living part of heaven along with her, and helmeted herself with it.
now small fowls flew screaming over the yet yawning gulf; a sullen white surf beat against its steep sides; then all collapsed, and the great shroud of the sea rolled on as it rolled five thousand years ago.
epilogue
“and i only am escaped alone to tell thee” job.
the drama’s done.
why then here does any one step forth?—because one did survive the wreck.
it so chanced, that after the parsee’s disappearance, i was he whom the fates ordained to take the place of ahab’s bowsman, when that bowsman assumed the vacant post; the same, who, when on the last day the three men were tossed from out of the rocking boat, was dropped astern.
so, floating on the margin of the ensuing scene, and in full sight of it, when the halfspent suction of the sunk ship reached me, i was then, but slowly, drawn towards the closing vortex.
when i reached it, it had subsided to a creamy pool.
round and round, then, and ever contracting towards the button-like black bubble at the axis of that slowly wheeling circle, like another ixion i did revolve.
till, gaining that vital centre, the black bubble upward burst; and now, liberated by reason of its cunning spring, and, owing to its great buoyancy, rising with great force, the coffin life-buoy shot lengthwise from the sea, fell over, and floated by my side.
buoyed up by that coffin, for almost one whole day and night, i floated on a soft and dirgelike main.
the unharming sharks, they glided by as if with padlocks on their mouths; the savage sea-hawks sailed with sheathed beaks.
on the second day, a sail drew near, nearer, and picked me up at last.
it was the devious-cruising rachel, that in her retracing search after her missing children, only found another orphan.
treasure island
part one the old buccaneer
1
the old sea-dog at the admiral benbow
squire trelawney, dr. livesey, and the rest of these gentlemen having asked me to write down the whole particulars about treasure island, from the beginning to the end, keeping nothing back but the bearings of the island, and that only because there is still treasure not yet lifted, i take up my pen in the year of grace 17 and go back to the time when my father kept the admiral benbow inn and the brown old seaman with the sabre cut first took up his lodging under our roof.
i remember him as if it were yesterday, as he came plodding to the inn door, his sea-chest following behind him in a hand-barrow a tall, strong, heavy, nut-brown man, his tarry pigtail falling over the shoulder of his soiled blue coat, his hands ragged and scarred, with black, broken nails, and the sabre cut across one cheek, a dirty, livid white.
i remember him looking round the cover and whistling to himself as he did so, and then breaking out in that old sea-song that he sang so often afterwards:
“fifteen men on the dead man's chest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
in the high, old tottering voice that seemed to have been tuned and broken at the capstan bars.
then he rapped on the door with a bit of stick like a handspike that he carried, and when my father appeared, called roughly for a glass of rum.
this, when it was brought to him, he drank slowly, like a connoisseur, lingering on the taste and still looking about him at the cliffs and up at our signboard.
“this is a handy cove,” says he at length; “and a pleasant sittyated grog-shop.
much company, mate?”
my father told him no, very little company, the more was the pity.
“well, then,” said he, “this is the berth for me.
here you, matey,” he cried to the man who trundled the barrow; “bring up alongside and help up my chest.
i'll stay here a bit,” he continued.
“i'm a plain man; rum and bacon and eggs is what i want, and that head up there for to watch ships off.
what you mought call me?
you mought call me captain.
oh, i see what you're at there”; and he threw down three or four gold pieces on the threshold.
“you can tell me when i've worked through that,” says he, looking as fierce as a commander.
and indeed bad as his clothes were and coarsely as he spoke, he had none of the appearance of a man who sailed before the mast, but seemed like a mate or skipper accustomed to be obeyed or to strike.
the man who came with the barrow told us the mail had set him down the morning before at the royal george, that he had inquired what inns there were along the coast, and hearing ours well spoken of, i suppose, and described as lonely, had chosen it from the others for his place of residence.
and that was all we could learn of our guest.
he was a very silent man by custom.
all day he hung round the cove or upon the cliffs with a brass telescope; all evening he sat in a corner of the parlour next the fire and drank rum and water very strong.
mostly he would not speak when spoken to, only look up sudden and fierce and blow through his nose like a fog-horn; and we and the people who came about our house soon learned to let him be.
every day when he came back from his stroll he would ask if any seafaring men had gone by along the road.
at first we thought it was the want of company of his own kind that made him ask this question, but at last we began to see he was desirous to avoid them.
when a seaman did put up at the admiral benbow (as now and then some did, making by the coast road for bristol) he would look in at him through the curtained door before he entered the parlour; and he was always sure to be as silent as a mouse when any such was present.
for me, at least, there was no secret about the matter, for i was, in a way, a sharer in his alarms.
he had taken me aside one day and promised me a silver fourpenny on the first of every month if i would only keep my “weather-eye open for a seafaring man with one leg”
and let him know the moment he appeared.
often enough when the first of the month came round and i applied to him for my wage, he would only blow through his nose at me and stare me down, but before the week was out he was sure to think better of it, bring me my four-penny piece, and repeat his orders to look out for “the seafaring man with one leg.”
how that personage haunted my dreams, i need scarcely tell you.
on stormy nights, when the wind shook the four corners of the house and the surf roared along the cove and up the cliffs, i would see him in a thousand forms, and with a thousand diabolical expressions.
now the leg would be cut off at the knee, now at the hip; now he was a monstrous kind of a creature who had never had but the one leg, and that in the middle of his body.
to see him leap and run and pursue me over hedge and ditch was the worst of nightmares.
and altogether i paid pretty dear for my monthly fourpenny piece, in the shape of these abominable fancies.
but though i was so terrified by the idea of the seafaring man with one leg, i was far less afraid of the captain himself than anybody else who knew him.
there were nights when he took a deal more rum and water than his head would carry; and then he would sometimes sit and sing his wicked, old, wild sea-songs, minding nobody; but sometimes he would call for glasses round and force all the trembling company to listen to his stories or bear a chorus to his singing.
often i have heard the house shaking with “yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum,” all the neighbours joining in for dear life, with the fear of death upon them, and each singing louder than the other to avoid remark.
for in these fits he was the most overriding companion ever known; he would slap his hand on the table for silence all round; he would fly up in a passion of anger at a question, or sometimes because none was put, and so he judged the company was not following his story.
nor would he allow anyone to leave the inn till he had drunk himself sleepy and reeled off to bed.
his stories were what frightened people worst of all.
dreadful stories they were about hanging, and walking the plank, and storms at sea, and the dry tortugas, and wild deeds and places on the spanish main.
by his own account he must have lived his life among some of the wickedest men that god ever allowed upon the sea, and the language in which he told these stories shocked our plain country people almost as much as the crimes that he described.
my father was always saying the inn would be ruined, for people would soon cease coming there to be tyrannized over and put down, and sent shivering to their beds; but i really believe his presence did us good.
people were frightened at the time, but on looking back they rather liked it; it was a fine excitement in a quiet country life, and there was even a party of the younger men who pretended to admire him, calling him a “true sea-dog” and a “real old salt” and such like names, and saying there was the sort of man that made england terrible at sea.
in one way, indeed, he bade fair to ruin us, for he kept on staying week after week, and at last month after month, so that all the money had been long exhausted, and still my father never plucked up the heart to insist on having more.
if ever he mentioned it, the captain blew through his nose so loudly that you might say he roared, and stared my poor father out of the room.
i have seen him wringing his hands after such a rebuff, and i am sure the annoyance and the terror he lived in must have greatly hastened his early and unhappy death.
all the time he lived with us the captain made no change whatever in his dress but to buy some stockings from a hawker.
one of the cocks of his hat having fallen down, he let it hang from that day forth, though it was a great annoyance when it blew.
i remember the appearance of his coat, which he patched himself upstairs in his room, and which, before the end, was nothing but patches.
he never wrote or received a letter, and he never spoke with any but the neighbours, and with these, for the most part, only when drunk on rum.
the great sea-chest none of us had ever seen open.
he was only once crossed, and that was towards the end, when my poor father was far gone in a decline that took him off.
dr. livesey came late one afternoon to see the patient, took a bit of dinner from my mother, and went into the parlour to smoke a pipe until his horse should come down from the hamlet, for we had no stabling at the old benbow.
i followed him in, and i remember observing the contrast the neat, bright doctor, with his powder as white as snow and his bright, black eyes and pleasant manners, made with the coltish country folk, and above all, with that filthy, heavy, bleared scarecrow of a pirate of ours, sitting, far gone in rum, with his arms on the table.
suddenly he the captain, that is began to pipe up his eternal song:
“fifteen men on the dead man's chest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
drink and the devil had done for the rest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
at first i had supposed “the dead man's chest” to be that identical big box of his upstairs in the front room, and the thought had been mingled in my nightmares with that of the one-legged seafaring man.
but by this time we had all long ceased to pay any particular notice to the song; it was new, that night, to nobody but dr. livesey, and on him i observed it did not produce an agreeable effect, for he looked up for a moment quite angrily before he went on with his talk to old taylor, the gardener, on a new cure for the rheumatics.
in the meantime, the captain gradually brightened up at his own music, and at last flapped his hand upon the table before him in a way we all knew to mean silence.
the voices stopped at once, all but dr. livesey's; he went on as before speaking clear and kind and drawing briskly at his pipe between every word or two.
the captain glared at him for a while, flapped his hand again, glared still harder, and at last broke out with a villainous, low oath, “silence, there, between decks!”
“were you addressing me, sir?” says the doctor; and when the ruffian had told him, with another oath, that this was so, “i have only one thing to say to you, sir,” replies the doctor, “that if you keep on drinking rum, the world will soon be quit of a very dirty scoundrel!”
the old fellow's fury was awful.
he sprang to his feet, drew and opened a sailor's clasp-knife, and balancing it open on the palm of his hand, threatened to pin the doctor to the wall.
the doctor never so much as moved.
he spoke to him as before, over his shoulder and in the same tone of voice, rather high, so that all the room might hear, but perfectly calm and steady: “if you do not put that knife this instant in your pocket, i promise, upon my honour, you shall hang at the next assizes.”
then followed a battle of looks between them, but the captain soon knuckled under, put up his weapon, and resumed his seat, grumbling like a beaten dog.
“and now, sir,” continued the doctor, “since i now know there's such a fellow in my district, you may count i'll have an eye upon you day and night.
i'm not a doctor only; i'm a magistrate; and if i catch a breath of complaint against you, if it's only for a piece of incivility like tonight's, i'll take effectual means to have you hunted down and routed out of this.
let that suffice.”
soon after, dr. livesey's horse came to the door and he rode away, but the captain held his peace that evening, and for many evenings to come.
2
black dog appears and disappears
it was not very long after this that there occurred the first of the mysterious events that rid us at last of the captain, though not, as you will see, of his affairs.
it was a bitter cold winter, with long, hard frosts and heavy gales; and it was plain from the first that my poor father was little likely to see the spring.
he sank daily, and my mother and i had all the inn upon our hands, and were kept busy enough without paying much regard to our unpleasant guest.
it was one january morning, very early a pinching, frosty morning the cove all grey with hoar-frost, the ripple lapping softly on the stones, the sun still low and only touching the hilltops and shining far to seaward.
the captain had risen earlier than usual and set out down the beach, his cutlass swinging under the broad skirts of the old blue coat, his brass telescope under his arm, his hat tilted back upon his head.
i remember his breath hanging like smoke in his wake as he strode off, and the last sound i heard of him as he turned the big rock was a loud snort of indignation, as though his mind was still running upon dr. livesey.
well, mother was upstairs with father and i was laying the breakfast-table against the captain's return when the parlour door opened and a man stepped in on whom i had never set my eyes before.
he was a pale, tallowy creature, wanting two fingers of the left hand, and though he wore a cutlass, he did not look much like a fighter.
i had always my eye open for seafaring men, with one leg or two, and i remember this one puzzled me.
he was not sailorly, and yet he had a smack of the sea about him too.
i asked him what was for his service, and he said he would take rum; but as i was going out of the room to fetch it, he sat down upon a table and motioned me to draw near.
i paused where i was, with my napkin in my hand.
“come here, sonny,” says he.
“come nearer here.”
i took a step nearer.
“is this here table for my mate bill?” he asked with a kind of leer.
i told him i did not know his mate bill, and this was for a person who stayed in our house whom we called the captain.
“well,” said he, “my mate bill would be called the captain, as like as not.
he has a cut on one cheek and a mighty pleasant way with him, particularly in drink, has my mate bill.
we'll put it, for argument like, that your captain has a cut on one cheek and we'll put it, if you like, that that cheek's the right one.
ah, well!
i told you.
now, is my mate bill in this here house?”
i told him he was out walking.
“which way, sonny?
which way is he gone?”
and when i had pointed out the rock and told him how the captain was likely to return, and how soon, and answered a few other questions, “ah,” said he, “this'll be as good as drink to my mate bill.”
the expression of his face as he said these words was not at all pleasant, and i had my own reasons for thinking that the stranger was mistaken, even supposing he meant what he said.
but it was no affair of mine, i thought; and besides, it was difficult to know what to do.
the stranger kept hanging about just inside the inn door, peering round the corner like a cat waiting for a mouse.
once i stepped out myself into the road, but he immediately called me back, and as i did not obey quick enough for his fancy, a most horrible change came over his tallowy face, and he ordered me in with an oath that made me jump.
as soon as i was back again he returned to his former manner, half fawning, half sneering, patted me on the shoulder, told me i was a good boy and he had taken quite a fancy to me.
“i have a son of my own,” said he, “as like you as two blocks, and he's all the pride of my 'art.
but the great thing for boys is discipline, sonny discipline.
now, if you had sailed along of bill, you wouldn't have stood there to be spoke to twice not you.
that was never bill's way, nor the way of sich as sailed with him.
and here, sure enough, is my mate bill, with a spy-glass under his arm, bless his old 'art, to be sure.
you and me'll just go back into the parlour, sonny, and get behind the door, and we'll give bill a little surprise bless his 'art, i say again.”
so saying, the stranger backed along with me into the parlour and put me behind him in the corner so that we were both hidden by the open door.
i was very uneasy and alarmed, as you may fancy, and it rather added to my fears to observe that the stranger was certainly frightened himself.
he cleared the hilt of his cutlass and loosened the blade in the sheath; and all the time we were waiting there he kept swallowing as if he felt what we used to call a lump in the throat.
at last in strode the captain, slammed the door behind him, without looking to the right or left, and marched straight across the room to where his breakfast awaited him.
“bill,” said the stranger in a voice that i thought he had tried to make bold and big.
the captain spun round on his heel and fronted us; all the brown had gone out of his face, and even his nose was blue; he had the look of a man who sees a ghost, or the evil one, or something worse, if anything can be; and upon my word, i felt sorry to see him all in a moment turn so old and sick.
“come, bill, you know me; you know an old shipmate, bill, surely,” said the stranger.
the captain made a sort of gasp.
“black dog!” said he.
“and who else?” returned the other, getting more at his ease.
“black dog as ever was, come for to see his old shipmate billy, at the admiral benbow inn.
ah, bill, bill, we have seen a sight of times, us two, since i lost them two talons,” holding up his mutilated hand.
“now, look here,” said the captain; “you've run me down; here i am; well, then, speak up; what is it?”
“that's you, bill,” returned black dog, “you're in the right of it, billy.
i'll have a glass of rum from this dear child here, as i've took such a liking to; and we'll sit down, if you please, and talk square, like old shipmates.”
when i returned with the rum, they were already seated on either side of the captain's breakfast-table black dog next to the door and sitting sideways so as to have one eye on his old shipmate and one, as i thought, on his retreat.
he bade me go and leave the door wide open.
“none of your keyholes for me, sonny,” he said; and i left them together and retired into the bar.
for a long time, though i certainly did my best to listen, i could hear nothing but a low gattling; but at last the voices began to grow higher, and i could pick up a word or two, mostly oaths, from the captain.
“no, no, no, no; and an end of it!” he cried once.
and again, “if it comes to swinging, swing all, say i.”
then all of a sudden there was a tremendous explosion of oaths and other noises the chair and table went over in a lump, a clash of steel followed, and then a cry of pain, and the next instant i saw black dog in full flight, and the captain hotly pursuing, both with drawn cutlasses, and the former streaming blood from the left shoulder.
just at the door the captain aimed at the fugitive one last tremendous cut, which would certainly have split him to the chine had it not been intercepted by our big signboard of admiral benbow.
you may see the notch on the lower side of the frame to this day.
that blow was the last of the battle.
once out upon the road, black dog, in spite of his wound, showed a wonderful clean pair of heels and disappeared over the edge of the hill in half a minute.
the captain, for his part, stood staring at the signboard like a bewildered man.
then he passed his hand over his eyes several times and at last turned back into the house.
“jim,” says he, “rum”; and as he spoke, he reeled a little, and caught himself with one hand against the wall.
“are you hurt?” cried i.
“rum,” he repeated.
“i must get away from here.
rum!
rum!”
i ran to fetch it, but i was quite unsteadied by all that had fallen out, and i broke one glass and fouled the tap, and while i was still getting in my own way, i heard a loud fall in the parlour, and running in, beheld the captain lying full length upon the floor.
at the same instant my mother, alarmed by the cries and fighting, came running downstairs to help me.
between us we raised his head.
he was breathing very loud and hard, but his eyes were closed and his face a horrible colour.
“dear, deary me,” cried my mother, “what a disgrace upon the house!
and your poor father sick!”
in the meantime, we had no idea what to do to help the captain, nor any other thought but that he had got his death-hurt in the scuffle with the stranger.
i got the rum, to be sure, and tried to put it down his throat, but his teeth were tightly shut and his jaws as strong as iron.
it was a happy relief for us when the door opened and doctor livesey came in, on his visit to my father.
“oh, doctor,” we cried, “what shall we do?
where is he wounded?”
“wounded?
a fiddle-stick's end!” said the doctor.
“no more wounded than you or i. the man has had a stroke, as i warned him.
now, mrs. hawkins, just you run upstairs to your husband and tell him, if possible, nothing about it.
for my part, i must do my best to save this fellow's trebly worthless life; jim, you get me a basin.”
when i got back with the basin, the doctor had already ripped up the captain's sleeve and exposed his great sinewy arm.
it was tattooed in several places.
“here's luck,” “a fair wind,” and “billy bones his fancy,” were very neatly and clearly executed on the forearm; and up near the shoulder there was a sketch of a gallows and a man hanging from it done, as i thought, with great spirit.
“prophetic,” said the doctor, touching this picture with his finger.
“and now, master billy bones, if that be your name, we'll have a look at the colour of your blood.
jim,” he said, “are you afraid of blood?”
“no, sir,” said i.
“well, then,” said he, “you hold the basin”; and with that he took his lancet and opened a vein.
a great deal of blood was taken before the captain opened his eyes and looked mistily about him.
first he recognized the doctor with an unmistakable frown; then his glance fell upon me, and he looked relieved.
but suddenly his colour changed, and he tried to raise himself, crying, “where's black dog?”
“there is no black dog here,” said the doctor, “except what you have on your own back.
you have been drinking rum; you have had a stroke, precisely as i told you; and i have just, very much against my own will, dragged you headforemost out of the grave.
now, mr. bones ”
“that's not my name,” he interrupted.
“much i care,” returned the doctor.
“it's the name of a buccaneer of my acquaintance; and i call you by it for the sake of shortness, and what i have to say to you is this; one glass of rum won't kill you, but if you take one you'll take another and another, and i stake my wig if you don't break off short, you'll die do you understand that?
die, and go to your own place, like the man in the bible.
come, now, make an effort.
i'll help you to your bed for once.”
between us, with much trouble, we managed to hoist him upstairs, and laid him on his bed, where his head fell back on the pillow as if he were almost fainting.
“now, mind you,” said the doctor, “i clear my conscience the name of rum for you is death.”
and with that he went off to see my father, taking me with him by the arm.
“this is nothing,” he said as soon as he had closed the door.
“i have drawn blood enough to keep him quiet awhile; he should lie for a week where he is that is the best thing for him and you; but another stroke would settle him.”
3
the black spot
about noon i stopped at the captain's door with some cooling drinks and medicines.
he was lying very much as we had left him, only a little higher, and he seemed both weak and excited.
“jim,” he said, “you're the only one here that's worth anything, and you know i've been always good to you.
never a month but i've given you a silver fourpenny for yourself.
and now you see, mate, i'm pretty low, and deserted by all; and jim, you'll bring me one noggin of rum, now, won't you, matey?”
“the doctor ” i began.
but he broke in cursing the doctor, in a feeble voice but heartily.
“doctors is all swabs,” he said; “and that doctor there, why, what do he know about seafaring men?
i been in places hot as pitch, and mates dropping round with yellow jack, and the blessed land a-heaving like the sea with earthquakes what to the doctor know of lands like that?
and i lived on rum, i tell you.
it's been meat and drink, and man and wife, to me; and if i'm not to have my rum now i'm a poor old hulk on a lee shore, my blood'll be on you, jim, and that doctor swab”; and he ran on again for a while with curses.
“look, jim, how my fingers fidges,”
he continued in the pleading tone.
“i can't keep 'em still, not i. i haven't had a drop this blessed day.
that doctor's a fool, i tell you.
if i don't have a dram o' rum, jim, i'll have the horrors; i seen some on 'em already.
i seen old flint in the corner there, behind you; as plain as print, i seen him; and if i get the horrors, i'm a man that has lived rough, and i'll raise cain.
your doctor hisself said one glass wouldn't hurt me.
i'll give you a golden guinea for a noggin, jim.”
he was growing more and more excited, and this alarmed me for my father, who was very low that day and needed quiet; besides, i was reassured by the doctor's words, now quoted to me, and rather offended by the offer of a bribe.
“i want none of your money,” said i, “but what you owe my father.
i'll get you one glass, and no more.”
when i brought it to him, he seized it greedily and drank it out.
“aye, aye,” said he, “that's some better, sure enough.
and now, matey, did that doctor say how long i was to lie here in this old berth?”
“a week at least,” said i.
“thunder!” he cried.
“a week!
i can't do that; they'd have the black spot on me by then.
the lubbers is going about to get the wind of me this blessed moment; lubbers as couldn't keep what they got, and want to nail what is another's.
is that seamanly behaviour, now, i want to know?
but i'm a saving soul.
i never wasted good money of mine, nor lost it neither; and i'll trick 'em again.
i'm not afraid on 'em.
i'll shake out another reef, matey, and daddle 'em again.”
as he was thus speaking, he had risen from bed with great difficulty, holding to my shoulder with a grip that almost made me cry out, and moving his legs like so much dead weight.
his words, spirited as they were in meaning, contrasted sadly with the weakness of the voice in which they were uttered.
he paused when he had got into a sitting position on the edge.
“that doctor's done me,” he murmured.
“my ears is singing.
lay me back.”
before i could do much to help him he had fallen back again to his former place, where he lay for a while silent.
“jim,” he said at length, “you saw that seafaring man today?”
“black dog?” i asked.
“ah!
black dog,” says he.
“he's a bad un; but there's worse that put him on.
now, if i can't get away nohow, and they tip me the black spot, mind you, it's my old sea-chest they're after; you get on a horse you can, can't you?
well, then, you get on a horse, and go to well, yes, i will!
to that eternal doctor swab, and tell him to pipe all hands magistrates and sich and he'll lay 'em aboard at the admiral benbow all old flint's crew, man and boy, all on 'em that's left.
i was first mate, i was, old flint's first mate, and i'm the on'y one as knows the place.
he gave it me at savannah, when he lay a-dying, like as if i was to now, you see.
but you won't peach unless they get the black spot on me, or unless you see that black dog again or a seafaring man with one leg, jim him above all.”
“but what is the black spot, captain?” i asked.
“that's a summons, mate.
i'll tell you if they get that.
but you keep your weather-eye open, jim, and i'll share with you equals, upon my honour.”
he wandered a little longer, his voice growing weaker; but soon after i had given him his medicine, which he took like a child, with the remark, “if ever a seaman wanted drugs, it's me,” he fell at last into a heavy, swoon-like sleep, in which i left him.
what i should have done had all gone well i do not know.
probably i should have told the whole story to the doctor, for i was in mortal fear lest the captain should repent of his confessions and make an end of me.
but as things fell out, my poor father died quite suddenly that evening, which put all other matters on one side.
our natural distress, the visits of the neighbours, the arranging of the funeral, and all the work of the inn to be carried on in the meanwhile kept me so busy that i had scarcely time to think of the captain, far less to be afraid of him.
he got downstairs next morning, to be sure, and had his meals as usual, though he ate little and had more, i am afraid, than his usual supply of rum, for he helped himself out of the bar, scowling and blowing through his nose, and no one dared to cross him.
on the night before the funeral he was as drunk as ever; and it was shocking, in that house of mourning, to hear him singing away at his ugly old sea-song; but weak as he was, we were all in the fear of death for him, and the doctor was suddenly taken up with a case many miles away and was never near the house after my father's death.
i have said the captain was weak, and indeed he seemed rather to grow weaker than regain his strength.
he clambered up and down stairs, and went from the parlour to the bar and back again, and sometimes put his nose out of doors to smell the sea, holding on to the walls as he went for support and breathing hard and fast like a man on a steep mountain.
he never particularly addressed me, and it is my belief he had as good as forgotten his confidences; but his temper was more flighty, and allowing for his bodily weakness, more violent than ever.
he had an alarming way now when he was drunk of drawing his cutlass and laying it bare before him on the table.
but with all that, he minded people less and seemed shut up in his own thoughts and rather wandering.
once, for instance, to our extreme wonder, he piped up to a different air, a kind of country love-song that he must have learned in his youth before he had begun to follow the sea.
so things passed until, the day after the funeral, and about three o'clock of a bitter, foggy, frosty afternoon, i was standing at the door for a moment, full of sad thoughts about my father, when i saw someone drawing slowly near along the road.
he was plainly blind, for he tapped before him with a stick and wore a great green shade over his eyes and nose; and he was hunched, as if with age or weakness, and wore a huge old tattered sea-cloak with a hood that made him appear positively deformed.
i never saw in my life a more dreadful-looking figure.
he stopped a little from the inn, and raising his voice in an odd sing-song, addressed the air in front of him, “will any kind friend inform a poor blind man, who has lost the precious sight of his eyes in the gracious defence of his native country, england and god bless king george!
where or in what part of this country he may now be?”
“you are at the admiral benbow, black hill cove, my good man,” said i.
“i hear a voice,” said he, “a young voice.
will you give me your hand, my kind young friend, and lead me in?”
i held out my hand, and the horrible, soft-spoken, eyeless creature gripped it in a moment like a vise.
i was so much startled that i struggled to withdraw, but the blind man pulled me close up to him with a single action of his arm.
“now, boy,” he said, “take me in to the captain.”
“sir,” said i, “upon my word i dare not.”
“oh,” he sneered, “that's it!
take me in straight or i'll break your arm.”
and he gave it, as he spoke, a wrench that made me cry out.
“sir,” said i, “it is for yourself i mean.
the captain is not what he used to be.
he sits with a drawn cutlass.
another gentleman ”
“come, now, march,” interrupted he; and i never heard a voice so cruel, and cold, and ugly as that blind man's.
it cowed me more than the pain, and i began to obey him at once, walking straight in at the door and towards the parlour, where our sick old buccaneer was sitting, dazed with rum.
the blind man clung close to me, holding me in one iron fist and leaning almost more of his weight on me than i could carry.
“lead me straight up to him, and when i'm in view, cry out, 'here's a friend for you, bill.'
if you don't, i'll do this,” and with that he gave me a twitch that i thought would have made me faint.
between this and that, i was so utterly terrified of the blind beggar that i forgot my terror of the captain, and as i opened the parlour door, cried out the words he had ordered in a trembling voice.
the poor captain raised his eyes, and at one look the rum went out of him and left him staring sober.
the expression of his face was not so much of terror as of mortal sickness.
he made a movement to rise, but i do not believe he had enough force left in his body.
“now, bill, sit where you are,” said the beggar.
“if i can't see, i can hear a finger stirring.
business is business.
hold out your left hand.
boy, take his left hand by the wrist and bring it near to my right.”
we both obeyed him to the letter, and i saw him pass something from the hollow of the hand that held his stick into the palm of the captain's, which closed upon it instantly.
“and now that's done,” said the blind man; and at the words he suddenly left hold of me, and with incredible accuracy and nimbleness, skipped out of the parlour and into the road, where, as i still stood motionless, i could hear his stick go tap-tap-tapping into the distance.
it was some time before either i or the captain seemed to gather our senses, but at length, and about at the same moment, i released his wrist, which i was still holding, and he drew in his hand and looked sharply into the palm.
“ten o'clock!” he cried.
“six hours.
we'll do them yet,” and he sprang to his feet.
even as he did so, he reeled, put his hand to his throat, stood swaying for a moment, and then, with a peculiar sound, fell from his whole height face foremost to the floor.
i ran to him at once, calling to my mother.
but haste was all in vain.
the captain had been struck dead by thundering apoplexy.
it is a curious thing to understand, for i had certainly never liked the man, though of late i had begun to pity him, but as soon as i saw that he was dead, i burst into a flood of tears.
it was the second death i had known, and the sorrow of the first was still fresh in my heart.
4
the sea-chest
i lost no time, of course, in telling my mother all that i knew, and perhaps should have told her long before, and we saw ourselves at once in a difficult and dangerous position.
some of the man's money if he had any was certainly due to us, but it was not likely that our captain's shipmates, above all the two specimens seen by me, black dog and the blind beggar, would be inclined to give up their booty in payment of the dead man's debts.
the captain's order to mount at once and ride for doctor livesey would have left my mother alone and unprotected, which was not to be thought of.
indeed, it seemed impossible for either of us to remain much longer in the house; the fall of coals in the kitchen grate, the very ticking of the clock, filled us with alarms.
the neighbourhood, to our ears, seemed haunted by approaching footsteps; and what between the dead body of the captain on the parlour floor and the thought of that detestable blind beggar hovering near at hand and ready to return, there were moments when, as the saying goes, i jumped in my skin for terror.
something must speedily be resolved upon, and it occurred to us at last to go forth together and seek help in the neighbouring hamlet.
no sooner said than done.
bare-headed as we were, we ran out at once in the gathering evening and the frosty fog.
the hamlet lay not many hundred yards away, though out of view, on the other side of the next cove; and what greatly encouraged me, it was in an opposite direction from that whence the blind man had made his appearance and whither he had presumably returned.
we were not many minutes on the road, though we sometimes stopped to lay hold of each other and hearken.
but there was no unusual sound nothing but the low wash of the ripple and the croaking of the inmates of the wood.
it was already candle-light when we reached the hamlet, and i shall never forget how much i was cheered to see the yellow shine in doors and windows; but that, as it proved, was the best of the help we were likely to get in that quarter.
for you would have thought men would have been ashamed of themselves no soul would consent to return with us to the admiral benbow.
the more we told of our troubles, the more man, woman, and child they clung to the shelter of their houses.
the name of captain flint, though it was strange to me, was well enough known to some there and carried a great weight of terror.
some of the men who had been to field-work on the far side of the admiral benbow remembered, besides, to have seen several strangers on the road, and taking them to be smugglers, to have bolted away; and one at least had seen a little lugger in what we called kitt's hole.
for that matter, anyone who was a comrade of the captain's was enough to frighten them to death.
and the short and the long of the matter was, that while we could get several who were willing enough to ride to dr. livesey's, which lay in another direction, not one would help us to defend the inn.
they say cowardice is infectious; but then argument is, on the other hand, a great emboldener; and so when each had said his say, my mother made them a speech.
she would not, she declared, lose money that belonged to her fatherless boy; “if none of the rest of you dare,”
she said, “jim and i dare.
back we will go, the way we came, and small thanks to you big, hulking, chicken-hearted men.
we'll have that chest open, if we die for it.
and i'll thank you for that bag, mrs. crossley, to bring back our lawful money in.”
of course i said i would go with my mother, and of course they all cried out at our foolhardiness, but even then not a man would go along with us.
all they would do was to give me a loaded pistol lest we were attacked, and to promise to have horses ready saddled in case we were pursued on our return, while one lad was to ride forward to the doctor's in search of armed assistance.
my heart was beating finely when we two set forth in the cold night upon this dangerous venture.
a full moon was beginning to rise and peered redly through the upper edges of the fog, and this increased our haste, for it was plain, before we came forth again, that all would be as bright as day, and our departure exposed to the eyes of any watchers.
we slipped along the hedges, noiseless and swift, nor did we see or hear anything to increase our terrors, till, to our relief, the door of the admiral benbow had closed behind us.
i slipped the bolt at once, and we stood and panted for a moment in the dark, alone in the house with the dead captain's body.
then my mother got a candle in the bar, and holding each other's hands, we advanced into the parlour.
he lay as we had left him, on his back, with his eyes open and one arm stretched out.
“draw down the blind, jim,” whispered my mother; “they might come and watch outside.
and now,” said she when i had done so, “we have to get the key off that; and who's to touch it, i should like to know!” and she gave a kind of sob as she said the words.
i went down on my knees at once.
on the floor close to his hand there was a little round of paper, blackened on the one side.
i could not doubt that this was the black spot; and taking it up, i found written on the other side, in a very good, clear hand, this short message: “you have till ten tonight.”
“he had till ten, mother,” said i; and just as i said it, our old clock began striking.
this sudden noise startled us shockingly; but the news was good, for it was only six.
“now, jim,” she said, “that key.”
i felt in his pockets, one after another.
a few small coins, a thimble, and some thread and big needles, a piece of pigtail tobacco bitten away at the end, his gully with the crooked handle, a pocket compass, and a tinder box were all that they contained, and i began to despair.
“perhaps it's round his neck,” suggested my mother.
overcoming a strong repugnance, i tore open his shirt at the neck, and there, sure enough, hanging to a bit of tarry string, which i cut with his own gully, we found the key.
at this triumph we were filled with hope and hurried upstairs without delay to the little room where he had slept so long and where his box had stood since the day of his arrival.
it was like any other seaman's chest on the outside, the initial “b”
burned on the top of it with a hot iron, and the corners somewhat smashed and broken as by long, rough usage.
“give me the key,” said my mother; and though the lock was very stiff, she had turned it and thrown back the lid in a twinkling.
a strong smell of tobacco and tar rose from the interior, but nothing was to be seen on the top except a suit of very good clothes, carefully brushed and folded.
they had never been worn, my mother said.
under that, the miscellany began a quadrant, a tin canikin, several sticks of tobacco, two brace of very handsome pistols, a piece of bar silver, an old spanish watch and some other trinkets of little value and mostly of foreign make, a pair of compasses mounted with brass, and five or six curious west indian shells.
i have often wondered since why he should have carried about these shells with him in his wandering, guilty, and hunted life.
in the meantime, we had found nothing of any value but the silver and the trinkets, and neither of these were in our way.
underneath there was an old boat-cloak, whitened with sea-salt on many a harbour-bar.
my mother pulled it up with impatience, and there lay before us, the last things in the chest, a bundle tied up in oilcloth, and looking like papers, and a canvas bag that gave forth, at a touch, the jingle of gold.
“i'll show these rogues that i'm an honest woman,” said my mother.
“i'll have my dues, and not a farthing over.
hold mrs. crossley's bag.” and she began to count over the amount of the captain's score from the sailor's bag into the one that i was holding.
it was a long, difficult business, for the coins were of all countries and sizes doubloons, and louis d'ors, and guineas, and pieces of eight, and i know not what besides, all shaken together at random.
the guineas, too, were about the scarcest, and it was with these only that my mother knew how to make her count.
when we were about half-way through, i suddenly put my hand upon her arm, for i had heard in the silent frosty air a sound that brought my heart into my mouth the tap-tapping of the blind man's stick upon the frozen road.
it drew nearer and nearer, while we sat holding our breath.
then it struck sharp on the inn door, and then we could hear the handle being turned and the bolt rattling as the wretched being tried to enter; and then there was a long time of silence both within and without.
at last the tapping recommenced, and, to our indescribable joy and gratitude, died slowly away again until it ceased to be heard.
“mother,” said i, “take the whole and let's be going,” for i was sure the bolted door must have seemed suspicious and would bring the whole hornet's nest about our ears, though how thankful i was that i had bolted it, none could tell who had never met that terrible blind man.
but my mother, frightened as she was, would not consent to take a fraction more than was due to her and was obstinately unwilling to be content with less.
it was not yet seven, she said, by a long way; she knew her rights and she would have them; and she was still arguing with me when a little low whistle sounded a good way off upon the hill.
that was enough, and more than enough, for both of us.
“i'll take what i have,” she said, jumping to her feet.
“and i'll take this to square the count,” said i, picking up the oilskin packet.
next moment we were both groping downstairs, leaving the candle by the empty chest; and the next we had opened the door and were in full retreat.
we had not started a moment too soon.
the fog was rapidly dispersing; already the moon shone quite clear on the high ground on either side; and it was only in the exact bottom of the dell and round the tavern door that a thin veil still hung unbroken to conceal the first steps of our escape.
far less than half-way to the hamlet, very little beyond the bottom of the hill, we must come forth into the moonlight.
nor was this all, for the sound of several footsteps running came already to our ears, and as we looked back in their direction, a light tossing to and fro and still rapidly advancing showed that one of the newcomers carried a lantern.
“my dear,” said my mother suddenly, “take the money and run on.
i am going to faint.”
this was certainly the end for both of us, i thought.
how i cursed the cowardice of the neighbours; how i blamed my poor mother for her honesty and her greed, for her past foolhardiness and present weakness!
we were just at the little bridge, by good fortune; and i helped her, tottering as she was, to the edge of the bank, where, sure enough, she gave a sigh and fell on my shoulder.
i do not know how i found the strength to do it at all, and i am afraid it was roughly done, but i managed to drag her down the bank and a little way under the arch.
farther i could not move her, for the bridge was too low to let me do more than crawl below it.
so there we had to stay my mother almost entirely exposed and both of us within earshot of the inn.
5
the last of the blind man
my curiosity, in a sense, was stronger than my fear, for i could not remain where i was, but crept back to the bank again, whence, sheltering my head behind a bush of broom, i might command the road before our door.
i was scarcely in position ere my enemies began to arrive, seven or eight of them, running hard, their feet beating out of time along the road and the man with the lantern some paces in front.
three men ran together, hand in hand; and i made out, even through the mist, that the middle man of this trio was the blind beggar.
the next moment his voice showed me that i was right.
“down with the door!” he cried.
“aye, aye, sir!” answered two or three; and a rush was made upon the admiral benbow, the lantern-bearer following; and then i could see them pause, and hear speeches passed in a lower key, as if they were surprised to find the door open.
but the pause was brief, for the blind man again issued his commands.
his voice sounded louder and higher, as if he were afire with eagerness and rage.
“in, in, in!” he shouted, and cursed them for their delay.
four or five of them obeyed at once, two remaining on the road with the formidable beggar.
there was a pause, then a cry of surprise, and then a voice shouting from the house, “bill's dead.”
but the blind man swore at them again for their delay.
“search him, some of you shirking lubbers, and the rest of you aloft and get the chest,” he cried.
i could hear their feet rattling up our old stairs, so that the house must have shook with it.
promptly afterwards, fresh sounds of astonishment arose; the window of the captain's room was thrown open with a slam and a jingle of broken glass, and a man leaned out into the moonlight, head and shoulders, and addressed the blind beggar on the road below him.
“pew,” he cried, “they've been before us.
someone's turned the chest out alow and aloft.”
“is it there?” roared pew.
“the money's there.”
the blind man cursed the money.
“flint's fist, i mean,” he cried.
“we don't see it here nohow,” returned the man.
“here, you below there, is it on bill?” cried the blind man again.
at that another fellow, probably him who had remained below to search the captain's body, came to the door of the inn.
“bill's been overhauled a'ready,” said he; “nothin' left.”
“it's these people of the inn it's that boy.
i wish i had put his eyes out!” cried the blind man, pew.
“there were no time ago they had the door bolted when i tried it.
scatter, lads, and find 'em.”
“sure enough, they left their glim here,” said the fellow from the window.
“scatter and find 'em!
rout the house out!” reiterated pew, striking with his stick upon the road.
then there followed a great to-do through all our old inn, heavy feet pounding to and fro, furniture thrown over, doors kicked in, until the very rocks re-echoed and the men came out again, one after another, on the road and declared that we were nowhere to be found.
and just the same whistle that had alarmed my mother and myself over the dead captain's money was once more clearly audible through the night, but this time twice repeated.
i had thought it to be the blind man's trumpet, so to speak, summoning his crew to the assault, but i now found that it was a signal from the hillside towards the hamlet, and from its effect upon the buccaneers, a signal to warn them of approaching danger.
“there's dirk again,” said one.
“twice!
we'll have to budge, mates.”
“budge, you skulk!” cried pew.
“dirk was a fool and a coward from the first you wouldn't mind him.
they must be close by; they can't be far; you have your hands on it.
scatter and look for them, dogs!
oh, shiver my soul,” he cried, “if i had eyes!”
this appeal seemed to produce some effect, for two of the fellows began to look here and there among the lumber, but half-heartedly, i thought, and with half an eye to their own danger all the time, while the rest stood irresolute on the road.
“you have your hands on thousands, you fools, and you hang a leg!
you'd be as rich as kings if you could find it, and you know it's here, and you stand there skulking.
there wasn't one of you dared face bill, and i did it a blind man!
and i'm to lose my chance for you!
i'm to be a poor, crawling beggar, sponging for rum, when i might be rolling in a coach!
if you had the pluck of a weevil in a biscuit you would catch them still.”
“hang it, pew, we've got the doubloons!” grumbled one.
“they might have hid the blessed thing,” said another.
“take the georges, pew, and don't stand here squalling.”
squalling was the word for it; pew's anger rose so high at these objections till at last, his passion completely taking the upper hand, he struck at them right and left in his blindness and his stick sounded heavily on more than one.
these, in their turn, cursed back at the blind miscreant, threatened him in horrid terms, and tried in vain to catch the stick and wrest it from his grasp.
this quarrel was the saving of us, for while it was still raging, another sound came from the top of the hill on the side of the hamlet the tramp of horses galloping.
almost at the same time a pistol-shot, flash and report, came from the hedge side.
and that was plainly the last signal of danger, for the buccaneers turned at once and ran, separating in every direction, one seaward along the cove, one slant across the hill, and so on, so that in half a minute not a sign of them remained but pew.
him they had deserted, whether in sheer panic or out of revenge for his ill words and blows i know not; but there he remained behind, tapping up and down the road in a frenzy, and groping and calling for his comrades.
finally he took a wrong turn and ran a few steps past me, towards the hamlet, crying, “johnny, black dog, dirk,”
and other names, “you won't leave old pew, mates not old pew!”
just then the noise of horses topped the rise, and four or five riders came in sight in the moonlight and swept at full gallop down the slope.
at this pew saw his error, turned with a scream, and ran straight for the ditch, into which he rolled.
but he was on his feet again in a second and made another dash, now utterly bewildered, right under the nearest of the coming horses.
the rider tried to save him, but in vain.
down went pew with a cry that rang high into the night; and the four hoofs trampled and spurned him and passed by.
he fell on his side, then gently collapsed upon his face and moved no more.
i leaped to my feet and hailed the riders.
they were pulling up, at any rate, horrified at the accident; and i soon saw what they were.
one, tailing out behind the rest, was a lad that had gone from the hamlet to dr. livesey's; the rest were revenue officers, whom he had met by the way, and with whom he had had the intelligence to return at once.
some news of the lugger in kitt's hole had found its way to supervisor dance and set him forth that night in our direction, and to that circumstance my mother and i owed our preservation from death.
pew was dead, stone dead.
as for my mother, when we had carried her up to the hamlet, a little cold water and salts and that soon brought her back again, and she was none the worse for her terror, though she still continued to deplore the balance of the money.
in the meantime the supervisor rode on, as fast as he could, to kitt's hole; but his men had to dismount and grope down the dingle, leading, and sometimes supporting, their horses, and in continual fear of ambushes; so it was no great matter for surprise that when they got down to the hole the lugger was already under way, though still close in.
he hailed her.
a voice replied, telling him to keep out of the moonlight or he would get some lead in him, and at the same time a bullet whistled close by his arm.
soon after, the lugger doubled the point and disappeared.
mr. dance stood there, as he said, “like a fish out of water,” and all he could do was to dispatch a man to b   to warn the cutter.
“and that,” said he, “is just about as good as nothing.
they've got off clean, and there's an end.
only,” he added, “i'm glad i trod on master pew's corns,” for by this time he had heard my story.
i went back with him to the admiral benbow, and you cannot imagine a house in such a state of smash; the very clock had been thrown down by these fellows in their furious hunt after my mother and myself; and though nothing had actually been taken away except the captain's money-bag and a little silver from the till, i could see at once that we were ruined.
mr. dance could make nothing of the scene.
“they got the money, you say?
well, then, hawkins, what in fortune were they after?
more money, i suppose?”
“no, sir; not money, i think,” replied i.
“in fact, sir, i believe i have the thing in my breast pocket; and to tell you the truth, i should like to get it put in safety.”
“to be sure, boy; quite right,” said he.
“i'll take it, if you like.”
“i thought perhaps dr. livesey ” i began.
“perfectly right,” he interrupted very cheerily, “perfectly right a gentleman and a magistrate.
and, now i come to think of it, i might as well ride round there myself and report to him or squire.
master pew's dead, when all's done; not that i regret it, but he's dead, you see, and people will make it out against an officer of his majesty's revenue, if make it out they can.
now, i'll tell you, hawkins, if you like, i'll take you along.”
i thanked him heartily for the offer, and we walked back to the hamlet where the horses were.
by the time i had told mother of my purpose they were all in the saddle.
“dogger,” said mr. dance, “you have a good horse; take up this lad behind you.”
as soon as i was mounted, holding on to dogger's belt, the supervisor gave the word, and the party struck out at a bouncing trot on the road to dr. livesey's house.
6
the captain's papers
we rode hard all the way till we drew up before dr. livesey's door.
the house was all dark to the front.
mr. dance told me to jump down and knock, and dogger gave me a stirrup to descend by.
the door was opened almost at once by the maid.
“is dr. livesey in?” i asked.
no, she said, he had come home in the afternoon but had gone up to the hall to dine and pass the evening with the squire.
“so there we go, boys,” said mr. dance.
this time, as the distance was short, i did not mount, but ran with dogger's stirrup-leather to the lodge gates and up the long, leafless, moonlit avenue to where the white line of the hall buildings looked on either hand on great old gardens.
here mr. dance dismounted, and taking me along with him, was admitted at a word into the house.
the servant led us down a matted passage and showed us at the end into a great library, all lined with bookcases and busts upon the top of them, where the squire and dr. livesey sat, pipe in hand, on either side of a bright fire.
i had never seen the squire so near at hand.
he was a tall man, over six feet high, and broad in proportion, and he had a bluff, rough-and-ready face, all roughened and reddened and lined in his long travels.
his eyebrows were very black, and moved readily, and this gave him a look of some temper, not bad, you would say, but quick and high.
“come in, mr. dance,” says he, very stately and condescending.
“good evening, dance,” says the doctor with a nod.
“and good evening to you, friend jim.
what good wind brings you here?”
the supervisor stood up straight and stiff and told his story like a lesson; and you should have seen how the two gentlemen leaned forward and looked at each other, and forgot to smoke in their surprise and interest.
when they heard how my mother went back to the inn, dr.
livesey fairly slapped his thigh, and the squire cried “bravo!” and broke his long pipe against the grate.
long before it was done, mr.
trelawney (that, you will remember, was the squire's name) had got up from his seat and was striding about the room, and the doctor, as if to hear the better, had taken off his powdered wig and sat there looking very strange indeed with his own close-cropped black poll.
at last mr. dance finished the story.
“mr.
dance,” said the squire, “you are a very noble fellow.
and as for riding down that black, atrocious miscreant, i regard it as an act of virtue, sir, like stamping on a cockroach.
this lad hawkins is a trump, i perceive.
hawkins, will you ring that bell?
mr. dance must have some ale.”
“and so, jim,” said the doctor, “you have the thing that they were after, have you?”
“here it is, sir,” said i, and gave him the oilskin packet.
the doctor looked it all over, as if his fingers were itching to open it; but instead of doing that, he put it quietly in the pocket of his coat.
“squire,” said he, “when dance has had his ale he must, of course, be off on his majesty's service; but i mean to keep jim hawkins here to sleep at my house, and with your permission, i propose we should have up the cold pie and let him sup.”
“as you will, livesey,” said the squire; “hawkins has earned better than cold pie.”
so a big pigeon pie was brought in and put on a sidetable, and i made a hearty supper, for i was as hungry as a hawk, while mr. dance was further complimented and at last dismissed.
“and now, squire,” said the doctor.
“and now, livesey,” said the squire in the same breath.
“one at a time, one at a time,” laughed dr. livesey.
“you have heard of this flint, i suppose?”
“heard of him!” cried the squire.
“heard of him, you say!
he was the bloodthirstiest buccaneer that sailed.
blackbeard was a child to flint.
the spaniards were so prodigiously afraid of him that, i tell you, sir, i was sometimes proud he was an englishman.
i've seen his top-sails with these eyes, off trinidad, and the cowardly son of a rum-puncheon that i sailed with put back put back, sir, into port of spain.”
“well, i've heard of him myself, in england,” said the doctor.
“but the point is, had he money?”
“money!” cried the squire.
“have you heard the story?
what were these villains after but money?
what do they care for but money?
for what would they risk their rascal carcasses but money?”
“that we shall soon know,” replied the doctor.
“but you are so confoundedly hot-headed and exclamatory that i cannot get a word in.
what i want to know is this: supposing that i have here in my pocket some clue to where flint buried his treasure, will that treasure amount to much?”
“amount, sir!” cried the squire.
“it will amount to this: if we have the clue you talk about, i fit out a ship in bristol dock, and take you and hawkins here along, and i'll have that treasure if i search a year.”
“very well,” said the doctor.
“now, then, if jim is agreeable, we'll open the packet”; and he laid it before him on the table.
the bundle was sewn together, and the doctor had to get out his instrument case and cut the stitches with his medical scissors.
it contained two things a book and a sealed paper.
“first of all we'll try the book,” observed the doctor.
the squire and i were both peering over his shoulder as he opened it, for dr. livesey had kindly motioned me to come round from the side-table, where i had been eating, to enjoy the sport of the search.
on the first page there were only some scraps of writing, such as a man with a pen in his hand might make for idleness or practice.
one was the same as the tattoo mark, “billy bones his fancy”; then there was “mr.
w.
bones, mate,” “no more rum,” “off palm key he got itt,” and some other snatches, mostly single words and unintelligible.
i could not help wondering who it was that had “got itt,” and what “itt” was that he got.
a knife in his back as like as not.
“not much instruction there,” said dr. livesey as he passed on.
the next ten or twelve pages were filled with a curious series of entries.
there was a date at one end of the line and at the other a sum of money, as in common account-books, but instead of explanatory writing, only a varying number of crosses between the two.
on the 12th of june, 1745, for instance, a sum of seventy pounds had plainly become due to someone, and there was nothing but six crosses to explain the cause.
in a few cases, to be sure, the name of a place would be added, as “offe caraccas,” or a mere entry of latitude and longitude, as “62o 17' 20”, 19o 2' 40”.”
the record lasted over nearly twenty years, the amount of the separate entries growing larger as time went on, and at the end a grand total had been made out after five or six wrong additions, and these words appended, “bones, his pile.”
“i can't make head or tail of this,” said dr. livesey.
“the thing is as clear as noonday,” cried the squire.
“this is the black-hearted hound's account-book.
these crosses stand for the names of ships or towns that they sank or plundered.
the sums are the scoundrel's share, and where he feared an ambiguity, you see he added something clearer.
'offe caraccas,' now; you see, here was some unhappy vessel boarded off that coast.
god help the poor souls that manned her coral long ago.”
“right!” said the doctor.
“see what it is to be a traveller.
right!
and the amounts increase, you see, as he rose in rank.”
there was little else in the volume but a few bearings of places noted in the blank leaves towards the end and a table for reducing french, english, and spanish moneys to a common value.
“thrifty man!” cried the doctor.
“he wasn't the one to be cheated.”
“and now,” said the squire, “for the other.”
the paper had been sealed in several places with a thimble by way of seal; the very thimble, perhaps, that i had found in the captain's pocket.
the doctor opened the seals with great care, and there fell out the map of an island, with latitude and longitude, soundings, names of hills and bays and inlets, and every particular that would be needed to bring a ship to a safe anchorage upon its shores.
it was about nine miles long and five across, shaped, you might say, like a fat dragon standing up, and had two fine land-locked harbours, and a hill in the centre part marked “the spy-glass.” there were several additions of a later date, but above all, three crosses of red ink two on the north part of the island, one in the southwest and beside this last, in the same red ink, and in a small, neat hand, very different from the captain's tottery characters, these words: “bulk of treasure here.”
over on the back the same hand had written this further information:
tall tree, spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to      the n. of n.n.e.
skeleton island e.s.e.
and by e.
ten feet.
the bar silver is in the north cache; you can find      it by the trend of the east hummock, ten fathoms      south of the black crag with the face on it.
the arms are easy found, in the sand-hill, n.
point of north inlet cape, bearing e. and a      quarter n.
j.f.
that was all; but brief as it was, and to me incomprehensible, it filled the squire and dr. livesey with delight.
“livesey,” said the squire, “you will give up this wretched practice at once.
tomorrow i start for bristol.
in three weeks' time three weeks!
two weeks ten days we'll have the best ship, sir, and the choicest crew in england.
hawkins shall come as cabin-boy.
you'll make a famous cabin-boy, hawkins.
you, livesey, are ship's doctor; i am admiral.
we'll take redruth, joyce, and hunter.
we'll have favourable winds, a quick passage, and not the least difficulty in finding the spot, and money to eat, to roll in, to play duck and drake with ever after.”
“trelawney,” said the doctor, “i'll go with you; and i'll go bail for it, so will jim, and be a credit to the undertaking.
there's only one man i'm afraid of.”
“and who's that?” cried the squire.
“name the dog, sir!”
“you,” replied the doctor; “for you cannot hold your tongue.
we are not the only men who know of this paper.
these fellows who attacked the inn tonight bold, desperate blades, for sure and the rest who stayed aboard that lugger, and more, i dare say, not far off, are, one and all, through thick and thin, bound that they'll get that money.
we must none of us go alone till we get to sea.
jim and i shall stick together in the meanwhile; you'll take joyce and hunter when you ride to bristol, and from first to last, not one of us must breathe a word of what we've found.”
“livesey,” returned the squire, “you are always in the right of it.
i'll be as silent as the grave.”
part two the sea-cook
7
i go to bristol
it was longer than the squire imagined ere we were ready for the sea, and none of our first plans not even dr. livesey's, of keeping me beside him could be carried out as we intended.
the doctor had to go to london for a physician to take charge of his practice; the squire was hard at work at bristol; and i lived on at the hall under the charge of old redruth, the gamekeeper, almost a prisoner, but full of sea-dreams and the most charming anticipations of strange islands and adventures.
i brooded by the hour together over the map, all the details of which i well remembered.
sitting by the fire in the housekeeper's room, i approached that island in my fancy from every possible direction; i explored every acre of its surface; i climbed a thousand times to that tall hill they call the spy-glass, and from the top enjoyed the most wonderful and changing prospects.
sometimes the isle was thick with savages, with whom we fought, sometimes full of dangerous animals that hunted us, but in all my fancies nothing occurred to me so strange and tragic as our actual adventures.
so the weeks passed on, till one fine day there came a letter addressed to dr. livesey, with this addition, “to be opened, in the case of his absence, by tom redruth or young hawkins.” obeying this order, we found, or rather i found for the gamekeeper was a poor hand at reading anything but print the following important news:
old anchor inn, bristol, march 1, 17
dear livesey as i do not know whether you      are at the hall or still in london, i send this in      double to both places.
the ship is bought and fitted.
she lies at      anchor, ready for sea.
you never imagined a      sweeter schooner a child might sail her two      hundred tons; name, hispaniola.
i got her through my old friend, blandly, who      has proved himself throughout the most surprising      trump.
the admirable fellow literally slaved in      my interest, and so, i may say, did everyone in      bristol, as soon as they got wind of the port we      sailed for treasure, i mean.
“redruth,” said i, interrupting the letter, “dr.
livesey will not like that.
the squire has been talking, after all.”
“well, who's a better right?” growled the gamekeeper.
“a pretty rum go if squire ain't to talk for dr. livesey, i should think.”
at that i gave up all attempts at commentary and read straight on:
blandly himself found the hispaniola, and      by the most admirable management got her for the      merest trifle.
there is a class of men in bristol      monstrously prejudiced against blandly.
they go      the length of declaring that this honest creature      would do anything for money, that the hispaniola      belonged to him, and that he sold it me absurdly      high the most transparent calumnies.
none of them      dare, however, to deny the merits of the ship.
so far there was not a hitch.
the      workpeople, to be sure riggers and what not were      most annoyingly slow; but time cured that.
it was      the crew that troubled me.
i wished a round score of men in case of      natives, buccaneers, or the odious french and i      had the worry of the deuce itself to find so much      as half a dozen, till the most remarkable stroke      of fortune brought me the very man that i      required.
i was standing on the dock, when, by the      merest accident, i fell in talk with him.
i found      he was an old sailor, kept a public-house, knew      all the seafaring men in bristol, had lost his      health ashore, and wanted a good berth as cook to      get to sea again.
he had hobbled down there that      morning, he said, to get a smell of the salt.
i was monstrously touched so would you have      been and, out of pure pity, i engaged him on the      spot to be ship's cook.
long john silver, he is      called, and has lost a leg; but that i regarded as      a recommendation, since he lost it in his      country's service, under the immortal hawke.
he      has no pension, livesey.
imagine the abominable      age we live in!
well, sir, i thought i had only found a cook,      but it was a crew i had discovered.
between      silver and myself we got together in a few days a      company of the toughest old salts imaginable not      pretty to look at, but fellows, by their faces, of      the most indomitable spirit.
i declare we could      fight a frigate.
long john even got rid of two out of the six      or seven i had already engaged.
he showed me in a      moment that they were just the sort of fresh-water      swabs we had to fear in an adventure of      importance.
i am in the most magnificent health and      spirits, eating like a bull, sleeping like a tree,      yet i shall not enjoy a moment till i hear my old      tarpaulins tramping round the capstan.
seaward,      ho!
hang the treasure!
it's the glory of the sea      that has turned my head.
so now, livesey, come      post; do not lose an hour, if you respect me.
let young hawkins go at once to see his      mother, with redruth for a guard; and then both      come full speed to bristol.
john trelawney
postscript i did not tell you that blandly,      who, by the way, is to send a consort after us if      we don't turn up by the end of august, had found      an admirable fellow for sailing master a stiff      man, which i regret, but in all other respects a      treasure.
long john silver unearthed a very      competent man for a mate, a man named arrow.
i      have a boatswain who pipes, livesey; so things      shall go man-o'-war fashion on board the good ship      hispaniola.
i forgot to tell you that silver is a man of      substance; i know of my own knowledge that he has      a banker's account, which has never been      overdrawn.
he leaves his wife to manage the inn;      and as she is a woman of colour, a pair of old      bachelors like you and i may be excused for      guessing that it is the wife, quite as much as the      health, that sends him back to roving.
j. t.
p.p.s.
hawkins may stay one night with his      mother.
j. t.
you can fancy the excitement into which that letter put me.
i was half beside myself with glee; and if ever i despised a man, it was old tom redruth, who could do nothing but grumble and lament.
any of the under-gamekeepers would gladly have changed places with him; but such was not the squire's pleasure, and the squire's pleasure was like law among them all.
nobody but old redruth would have dared so much as even to grumble.
the next morning he and i set out on foot for the admiral benbow, and there i found my mother in good health and spirits.
the captain, who had so long been a cause of so much discomfort, was gone where the wicked cease from troubling.
the squire had had everything repaired, and the public rooms and the sign repainted, and had added some furniture above all a beautiful armchair for mother in the bar.
he had found her a boy as an apprentice also so that she should not want help while i was gone.
it was on seeing that boy that i understood, for the first time, my situation.
i had thought up to that moment of the adventures before me, not at all of the home that i was leaving; and now, at sight of this clumsy stranger, who was to stay here in my place beside my mother, i had my first attack of tears.
i am afraid i led that boy a dog's life, for as he was new to the work, i had a hundred opportunities of setting him right and putting him down, and i was not slow to profit by them.
the night passed, and the next day, after dinner, redruth and i were afoot again and on the road.
i said good-bye to mother and the cove where i had lived since i was born, and the dear old admiral benbow since he was repainted, no longer quite so dear.
one of my last thoughts was of the captain, who had so often strode along the beach with his cocked hat, his sabre-cut cheek, and his old brass telescope.
next moment we had turned the corner and my home was out of sight.
the mail picked us up about dusk at the royal george on the heath.
i was wedged in between redruth and a stout old gentleman, and in spite of the swift motion and the cold night air, i must have dozed a great deal from the very first, and then slept like a log up hill and down dale through stage after stage, for when i was awakened at last it was by a punch in the ribs, and i opened my eyes to find that we were standing still before a large building in a city street and that the day had already broken a long time.
“where are we?” i asked.
“bristol,” said tom.
“get down.”
mr. trelawney had taken up his residence at an inn far down the docks to superintend the work upon the schooner.
thither we had now to walk, and our way, to my great delight, lay along the quays and beside the great multitude of ships of all sizes and rigs and nations.
in one, sailors were singing at their work, in another there were men aloft, high over my head, hanging to threads that seemed no thicker than a spider's.
though i had lived by the shore all my life, i seemed never to have been near the sea till then.
the smell of tar and salt was something new.
i saw the most wonderful figureheads, that had all been far over the ocean.
i saw, besides, many old sailors, with rings in their ears, and whiskers curled in ringlets, and tarry pigtails, and their swaggering, clumsy sea-walk; and if i had seen as many kings or archbishops i could not have been more delighted.
and i was going to sea myself, to sea in a schooner, with a piping boatswain and pig-tailed singing seamen, to sea, bound for an unknown island, and to seek for buried treasure!
while i was still in this delightful dream, we came suddenly in front of a large inn and met squire trelawney, all dressed out like a sea-officer, in stout blue cloth, coming out of the door with a smile on his face and a capital imitation of a sailor's walk.
“here you are,” he cried, “and the doctor came last night from london.
bravo!
the ship's company complete!”
“oh, sir,” cried i, “when do we sail?”
“sail!” says he.
“we sail tomorrow!”
8
at the sign of the spy-glass
when i had done breakfasting the squire gave me a note addressed to john silver, at the sign of the spy-glass, and told me i should easily find the place by following the line of the docks and keeping a bright lookout for a little tavern with a large brass telescope for sign.
i set off, overjoyed at this opportunity to see some more of the ships and seamen, and picked my way among a great crowd of people and carts and bales, for the dock was now at its busiest, until i found the tavern in question.
it was a bright enough little place of entertainment.
the sign was newly painted; the windows had neat red curtains; the floor was cleanly sanded.
there was a street on each side and an open door on both, which made the large, low room pretty clear to see in, in spite of clouds of tobacco smoke.
the customers were mostly seafaring men, and they talked so loudly that i hung at the door, almost afraid to enter.
as i was waiting, a man came out of a side room, and at a glance i was sure he must be long john.
his left leg was cut off close by the hip, and under the left shoulder he carried a crutch, which he managed with wonderful dexterity, hopping about upon it like a bird.
he was very tall and strong, with a face as big as a ham plain and pale, but intelligent and smiling.
indeed, he seemed in the most cheerful spirits, whistling as he moved about among the tables, with a merry word or a slap on the shoulder for the more favoured of his guests.
now, to tell you the truth, from the very first mention of long john in squire trelawney's letter i had taken a fear in my mind that he might prove to be the very one-legged sailor whom i had watched for so long at the old benbow.
but one look at the man before me was enough.
i had seen the captain, and black dog, and the blind man, pew, and i thought i knew what a buccaneer was like a very different creature, according to me, from this clean and pleasant-tempered landlord.
i plucked up courage at once, crossed the threshold, and walked right up to the man where he stood, propped on his crutch, talking to a customer.
“mr.
silver, sir?” i asked, holding out the note.
“yes, my lad,” said he; “such is my name, to be sure.
and who may you be?” and then as he saw the squire's letter, he seemed to me to give something almost like a start.
“oh!” said he, quite loud, and offering his hand.
“i see.
you are our new cabin-boy; pleased i am to see you.”
and he took my hand in his large firm grasp.
just then one of the customers at the far side rose suddenly and made for the door.
it was close by him, and he was out in the street in a moment.
but his hurry had attracted my notice, and i recognized him at glance.
it was the tallow-faced man, wanting two fingers, who had come first to the admiral benbow.
“oh,” i cried, “stop him!
it's black dog!”
“i don't care two coppers who he is,” cried silver.
“but he hasn't paid his score.
harry, run and catch him.”
one of the others who was nearest the door leaped up and started in pursuit.
“if he were admiral hawke he shall pay his score,” cried silver; and then, relinquishing my hand, “who did you say he was?” he asked.
“black what?”
“dog, sir,” said i.
“has mr. trelawney not told you of the buccaneers?
he was one of them.”
“so?” cried silver.
“in my house!
ben, run and help harry.
one of those swabs, was he?
was that you drinking with him, morgan?
step up here.”
the man whom he called morgan an old, grey-haired, mahogany-faced sailor came forward pretty sheepishly, rolling his quid.
“now, morgan,” said long john very sternly, “you never clapped your eyes on that black black dog before, did you, now?”
“not i, sir,” said morgan with a salute.
“you didn't know his name, did you?”
“no, sir.”
“by the powers, tom morgan, it's as good for you!” exclaimed the landlord.
“if you had been mixed up with the like of that, you would never have put another foot in my house, you may lay to that.
and what was he saying to you?”
“i don't rightly know, sir,” answered morgan.
“do you call that a head on your shoulders, or a blessed dead-eye?”
cried long john.
“don't rightly know, don't you!
perhaps you don't happen to rightly know who you was speaking to, perhaps?
come, now, what was he jawing v'yages, cap'ns, ships?
pipe up!
what was it?”
“we was a-talkin' of keel-hauling,” answered morgan.
“keel-hauling, was you?
and a mighty suitable thing, too, and you may lay to that.
get back to your place for a lubber, tom.”
and then, as morgan rolled back to his seat, silver added to me in a confidential whisper that was very flattering, as i thought, “he's quite an honest man, tom morgan, on'y stupid.
and now,” he ran on again, aloud, “let's see black dog?
no, i don't know the name, not i. yet i kind of think i've yes, i've seen the swab.
he used to come here with a blind beggar, he used.”
“that he did, you may be sure,” said i.
“i knew that blind man too.
his name was pew.”
“it was!” cried silver, now quite excited.
“pew!
that were his name for certain.
ah, he looked a shark, he did!
if we run down this black dog, now, there'll be news for cap'n trelawney!
ben's a good runner; few seamen run better than ben.
he should run him down, hand over hand, by the powers!
he talked o' keel-hauling, did he?
i'll keel-haul him!”
all the time he was jerking out these phrases he was stumping up and down the tavern on his crutch, slapping tables with his hand, and giving such a show of excitement as would have convinced an old bailey judge or a bow street runner.
my suspicions had been thoroughly reawakened on finding black dog at the spy-glass, and i watched the cook narrowly.
but he was too deep, and too ready, and too clever for me, and by the time the two men had come back out of breath and confessed that they had lost the track in a crowd, and been scolded like thieves, i would have gone bail for the innocence of long john silver.
“see here, now, hawkins,” said he, “here's a blessed hard thing on a man like me, now, ain't it?
there's cap'n trelawney what's he to think?
here i have this confounded son of a dutchman sitting in my own house drinking of my own rum!
here you comes and tells me of it plain; and here i let him give us all the slip before my blessed deadlights!
now, hawkins, you do me justice with the cap'n.
you're a lad, you are, but you're as smart as paint.
i see that when you first come in.
now, here it is: what could i do, with this old timber i hobble on?
when i was an a b master mariner i'd have come up alongside of him, hand over hand, and broached him to in a brace of old shakes, i would; but now ”
and then, all of a sudden, he stopped, and his jaw dropped as though he had remembered something.
“the score!” he burst out.
“three goes o' rum!
why, shiver my timbers, if i hadn't forgotten my score!”
and falling on a bench, he laughed until the tears ran down his cheeks.
i could not help joining, and we laughed together, peal after peal, until the tavern rang again.
“why, what a precious old sea-calf i am!” he said at last, wiping his cheeks.
“you and me should get on well, hawkins, for i'll take my davy i should be rated ship's boy.
but come now, stand by to go about.
this won't do.
dooty is dooty, messmates.
i'll put on my old cockerel hat, and step along of you to cap'n trelawney, and report this here affair.
for mind you, it's serious, young hawkins; and neither you nor me's come out of it with what i should make so bold as to call credit.
nor you neither, says you; not smart none of the pair of us smart.
but dash my buttons!
that was a good un about my score.”
and he began to laugh again, and that so heartily, that though i did not see the joke as he did, i was again obliged to join him in his mirth.
on our little walk along the quays, he made himself the most interesting companion, telling me about the different ships that we passed by, their rig, tonnage, and nationality, explaining the work that was going forward how one was discharging, another taking in cargo, and a third making ready for sea and every now and then telling me some little anecdote of ships or seamen or repeating a nautical phrase till i had learned it perfectly.
i began to see that here was one of the best of possible shipmates.
when we got to the inn, the squire and dr. livesey were seated together, finishing a quart of ale with a toast in it, before they should go aboard the schooner on a visit of inspection.
long john told the story from first to last, with a great deal of spirit and the most perfect truth.
“that was how it were, now, weren't it, hawkins?” he would say, now and again, and i could always bear him entirely out.
the two gentlemen regretted that black dog had got away, but we all agreed there was nothing to be done, and after he had been complimented, long john took up his crutch and departed.
“all hands aboard by four this afternoon,” shouted the squire after him.
“aye, aye, sir,” cried the cook, in the passage.
“well, squire,” said dr. livesey, “i don't put much faith in your discoveries, as a general thing; but i will say this, john silver suits me.”
“the man's a perfect trump,” declared the squire.
“and now,” added the doctor, “jim may come on board with us, may he not?”
“to be sure he may,” says squire.
“take your hat, hawkins, and we'll see the ship.”
9
powder and arms
the hispaniola lay some way out, and we went under the figureheads and round the sterns of many other ships, and their cables sometimes grated underneath our keel, and sometimes swung above us.
at last, however, we got alongside, and were met and saluted as we stepped aboard by the mate, mr. arrow, a brown old sailor with earrings in his ears and a squint.
he and the squire were very thick and friendly, but i soon observed that things were not the same between mr. trelawney and the captain.
this last was a sharp-looking man who seemed angry with everything on board and was soon to tell us why, for we had hardly got down into the cabin when a sailor followed us.
“captain smollett, sir, axing to speak with you,” said he.
“i am always at the captain's orders.
show him in,” said the squire.
the captain, who was close behind his messenger, entered at once and shut the door behind him.
“well, captain smollett, what have you to say?
all well, i hope; all shipshape and seaworthy?”
“well, sir,” said the captain, “better speak plain, i believe, even at the risk of offence.
i don't like this cruise; i don't like the men; and i don't like my officer.
that's short and sweet.”
“perhaps, sir, you don't like the ship?” inquired the squire, very angry, as i could see.
“i can't speak as to that, sir, not having seen her tried,” said the captain.
“she seems a clever craft; more i can't say.”
“possibly, sir, you may not like your employer, either?” says the squire.
but here dr. livesey cut in.
“stay a bit,” said he, “stay a bit.
no use of such questions as that but to produce ill feeling.
the captain has said too much or he has said too little, and i'm bound to say that i require an explanation of his words.
you don't, you say, like this cruise.
now, why?”
“i was engaged, sir, on what we call sealed orders, to sail this ship for that gentleman where he should bid me,” said the captain.
“so far so good.
but now i find that every man before the mast knows more than i do.
i don't call that fair, now, do you?”
“no,” said dr. livesey, “i don't.”
“next,” said the captain, “i learn we are going after treasure hear it from my own hands, mind you.
now, treasure is ticklish work; i don't like treasure voyages on any account, and i don't like them, above all, when they are secret and when (begging your pardon, mr. trelawney) the secret has been told to the parrot.”
“silver's parrot?” asked the squire.
“it's a way of speaking,” said the captain.
“blabbed, i mean.
it's my belief neither of you gentlemen know what you are about, but i'll tell you my way of it life or death, and a close run.”
“that is all clear, and, i dare say, true enough,” replied dr. livesey.
“we take the risk, but we are not so ignorant as you believe us.
next, you say you don't like the crew.
are they not good seamen?”
“i don't like them, sir,” returned captain smollett.
“and i think i should have had the choosing of my own hands, if you go to that.”
“perhaps you should,” replied the doctor.
“my friend should, perhaps, have taken you along with him; but the slight, if there be one, was unintentional.
and you don't like mr. arrow?”
“i don't, sir.
i believe he's a good seaman, but he's too free with the crew to be a good officer.
a mate should keep himself to himself shouldn't drink with the men before the mast!”
“do you mean he drinks?” cried the squire.
“no, sir,” replied the captain, “only that he's too familiar.”
“well, now, and the short and long of it, captain?” asked the doctor.
“tell us what you want.”
“well, gentlemen, are you determined to go on this cruise?”
“like iron,” answered the squire.
“very good,” said the captain.
“then, as you've heard me very patiently, saying things that i could not prove, hear me a few words more.
they are putting the powder and the arms in the fore hold.
now, you have a good place under the cabin; why not put them there?
first point.
then, you are bringing four of your own people with you, and they tell me some of them are to be berthed forward.
why not give them the berths here beside the cabin?
second point.”
“any more?” asked mr. trelawney.
“one more,” said the captain.
“there's been too much blabbing already.”
“far too much,” agreed the doctor.
“i'll tell you what i've heard myself,” continued captain smollett:
“that you have a map of an island, that there's crosses on the map to show where treasure is, and that the island lies ” and then he named the latitude and longitude exactly.
“i never told that,” cried the squire, “to a soul!”
“the hands know it, sir,” returned the captain.
“livesey, that must have been you or hawkins,” cried the squire.
“it doesn't much matter who it was,” replied the doctor.
and i could see that neither he nor the captain paid much regard to mr. trelawney's protestations.
neither did i, to be sure, he was so loose a talker; yet in this case i believe he was really right and that nobody had told the situation of the island.
“well, gentlemen,” continued the captain, “i don't know who has this map; but i make it a point, it shall be kept secret even from me and mr.
arrow.
otherwise i would ask you to let me resign.”
“i see,” said the doctor.
“you wish us to keep this matter dark and to make a garrison of the stern part of the ship, manned with my friend's own people, and provided with all the arms and powder on board.
in other words, you fear a mutiny.”
“sir,” said captain smollett, “with no intention to take offence, i deny your right to put words into my mouth.
no captain, sir, would be justified in going to sea at all if he had ground enough to say that.
as for mr. arrow, i believe him thoroughly honest; some of the men are the same; all may be for what i know.
but i am responsible for the ship's safety and the life of every man jack aboard of her.
i see things going, as i think, not quite right.
and i ask you to take certain precautions or let me resign my berth.
and that's all.”
“captain smollett,” began the doctor with a smile, “did ever you hear the fable of the mountain and the mouse?
you'll excuse me, i dare say, but you remind me of that fable.
when you came in here, i'll stake my wig, you meant more than this.”
“doctor,” said the captain, “you are smart.
when i came in here i meant to get discharged.
i had no thought that mr. trelawney would hear a word.”
“no more i would,” cried the squire.
“had livesey not been here i should have seen you to the deuce.
as it is, i have heard you.
i will do as you desire, but i think the worse of you.”
“that's as you please, sir,” said the captain.
“you'll find i do my duty.”
and with that he took his leave.
“trelawney,” said the doctor, “contrary to all my notions, i believed you have managed to get two honest men on board with you that man and john silver.”
“silver, if you like,” cried the squire; “but as for that intolerable humbug, i declare i think his conduct unmanly, unsailorly, and downright un-english.”
“well,” says the doctor, “we shall see.”
when we came on deck, the men had begun already to take out the arms and powder, yo-ho-ing at their work, while the captain and mr. arrow stood by superintending.
the new arrangement was quite to my liking.
the whole schooner had been overhauled; six berths had been made astern out of what had been the after-part of the main hold; and this set of cabins was only joined to the galley and forecastle by a sparred passage on the port side.
it had been originally meant that the captain, mr. arrow, hunter, joyce, the doctor, and the squire were to occupy these six berths.
now redruth and i were to get two of them and mr. arrow and the captain were to sleep on deck in the companion, which had been enlarged on each side till you might almost have called it a round-house.
very low it was still, of course; but there was room to swing two hammocks, and even the mate seemed pleased with the arrangement.
even he, perhaps, had been doubtful as to the crew, but that is only guess, for as you shall hear, we had not long the benefit of his opinion.
we were all hard at work, changing the powder and the berths, when the last man or two, and long john along with them, came off in a shore-boat.
the cook came up the side like a monkey for cleverness, and as soon as he saw what was doing, “so ho, mates!” says he.
“what's this?”
“we're a-changing of the powder, jack,” answers one.
“why, by the powers,” cried long john, “if we do, we'll miss the morning tide!”
“my orders!” said the captain shortly.
“you may go below, my man.
hands will want supper.”
“aye, aye, sir,” answered the cook, and touching his forelock, he disappeared at once in the direction of his galley.
“that's a good man, captain,” said the doctor.
“very likely, sir,” replied captain smollett.
“easy with that, men easy,” he ran on, to the fellows who were shifting the powder; and then suddenly observing me examining the swivel we carried amidships, a long brass nine, “here you, ship's boy,” he cried, “out o' that!
off with you to the cook and get some work.”
and then as i was hurrying off i heard him say, quite loudly, to the doctor, “i'll have no favourites on my ship.”
i assure you i was quite of the squire's way of thinking, and hated the captain deeply.
10
the voyage
all that night we were in a great bustle getting things stowed in their place, and boatfuls of the squire's friends, mr. blandly and the like, coming off to wish him a good voyage and a safe return.
we never had a night at the admiral benbow when i had half the work; and i was dog-tired when, a little before dawn, the boatswain sounded his pipe and the crew began to man the capstan-bars.
i might have been twice as weary, yet i would not have left the deck, all was so new and interesting to me the brief commands, the shrill note of the whistle, the men bustling to their places in the glimmer of the ship's lanterns.
“now, barbecue, tip us a stave,” cried one voice.
“the old one,” cried another.
“aye, aye, mates,” said long john, who was standing by, with his crutch under his arm, and at once broke out in the air and words i knew so well:
“fifteen men on the dead man's chest ”
and then the whole crew bore chorus:
“yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
and at the third “ho!” drove the bars before them with a will.
even at that exciting moment it carried me back to the old admiral benbow in a second, and i seemed to hear the voice of the captain piping in the chorus.
but soon the anchor was short up; soon it was hanging dripping at the bows; soon the sails began to draw, and the land and shipping to flit by on either side; and before i could lie down to snatch an hour of slumber the hispaniola had begun her voyage to the isle of treasure.
i am not going to relate that voyage in detail.
it was fairly prosperous.
the ship proved to be a good ship, the crew were capable seamen, and the captain thoroughly understood his business.
but before we came the length of treasure island, two or three things had happened which require to be known.
mr. arrow, first of all, turned out even worse than the captain had feared.
he had no command among the men, and people did what they pleased with him.
but that was by no means the worst of it, for after a day or two at sea he began to appear on deck with hazy eye, red cheeks, stuttering tongue, and other marks of drunkenness.
time after time he was ordered below in disgrace.
sometimes he fell and cut himself; sometimes he lay all day long in his little bunk at one side of the companion; sometimes for a day or two he would be almost sober and attend to his work at least passably.
in the meantime, we could never make out where he got the drink.
that was the ship's mystery.
watch him as we pleased, we could do nothing to solve it; and when we asked him to his face, he would only laugh if he were drunk, and if he were sober deny solemnly that he ever tasted anything but water.
he was not only useless as an officer and a bad influence amongst the men, but it was plain that at this rate he must soon kill himself outright, so nobody was much surprised, nor very sorry, when one dark night, with a head sea, he disappeared entirely and was seen no more.
“overboard!” said the captain.
“well, gentlemen, that saves the trouble of putting him in irons.”
but there we were, without a mate; and it was necessary, of course, to advance one of the men.
the boatswain, job anderson, was the likeliest man aboard, and though he kept his old title, he served in a way as mate.
mr. trelawney had followed the sea, and his knowledge made him very useful, for he often took a watch himself in easy weather.
and the coxswain, israel hands, was a careful, wily, old, experienced seaman who could be trusted at a pinch with almost anything.
he was a great confidant of long john silver, and so the mention of his name leads me on to speak of our ship's cook, barbecue, as the men called him.
aboard ship he carried his crutch by a lanyard round his neck, to have both hands as free as possible.
it was something to see him wedge the foot of the crutch against a bulkhead, and propped against it, yielding to every movement of the ship, get on with his cooking like someone safe ashore.
still more strange was it to see him in the heaviest of weather cross the deck.
he had a line or two rigged up to help him across the widest spaces long john's earrings, they were called; and he would hand himself from one place to another, now using the crutch, now trailing it alongside by the lanyard, as quickly as another man could walk.
yet some of the men who had sailed with him before expressed their pity to see him so reduced.
“he's no common man, barbecue,” said the coxswain to me.
“he had good schooling in his young days and can speak like a book when so minded; and brave a lion's nothing alongside of long john!
i seen him grapple four and knock their heads together him unarmed.”
all the crew respected and even obeyed him.
he had a way of talking to each and doing everybody some particular service.
to me he was unweariedly kind, and always glad to see me in the galley, which he kept as clean as a new pin, the dishes hanging up burnished and his parrot in a cage in one corner.
“come away, hawkins,” he would say; “come and have a yarn with john.
nobody more welcome than yourself, my son.
sit you down and hear the news.
here's cap'n flint i calls my parrot cap'n flint, after the famous buccaneer here's cap'n flint predicting success to our v'yage.
wasn't you, cap'n?”
and the parrot would say, with great rapidity, “pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!” till you wondered that it was not out of breath, or till john threw his handkerchief over the cage.
“now, that bird,” he would say, “is, maybe, two hundred years old, hawkins they live forever mostly; and if anybody's seen more wickedness, it must be the devil himself.
she's sailed with england, the great cap'n england, the pirate.
she's been at madagascar, and at malabar, and surinam, and providence, and portobello.
she was at the fishing up of the wrecked plate ships.
it's there she learned 'pieces of eight,' and little wonder; three hundred and fifty thousand of 'em, hawkins!
she was at the boarding of the viceroy of the indies out of goa, she was; and to look at her you would think she was a babby.
but you smelt powder didn't you, cap'n?”
“stand by to go about,” the parrot would scream.
“ah, she's a handsome craft, she is,” the cook would say, and give her sugar from his pocket, and then the bird would peck at the bars and swear straight on, passing belief for wickedness.
“there,” john would add, “you can't touch pitch and not be mucked, lad.
here's this poor old innocent bird o' mine swearing blue fire, and none the wiser, you may lay to that.
she would swear the same, in a manner of speaking, before chaplain.” and john would touch his forelock with a solemn way he had that made me think he was the best of men.
in the meantime, the squire and captain smollett were still on pretty distant terms with one another.
the squire made no bones about the matter; he despised the captain.
the captain, on his part, never spoke but when he was spoken to, and then sharp and short and dry, and not a word wasted.
he owned, when driven into a corner, that he seemed to have been wrong about the crew, that some of them were as brisk as he wanted to see and all had behaved fairly well.
as for the ship, he had taken a downright fancy to her.
“she'll lie a point nearer the wind than a man has a right to expect of his own married wife, sir.
but,” he would add, “all i say is, we're not home again, and i don't like the cruise.”
the squire, at this, would turn away and march up and down the deck, chin in air.
“a trifle more of that man,” he would say, “and i shall explode.”
we had some heavy weather, which only proved the qualities of the hispaniola.
every man on board seemed well content, and they must have been hard to please if they had been otherwise, for it is my belief there was never a ship's company so spoiled since noah put to sea.
double grog was going on the least excuse; there was duff on odd days, as, for instance, if the squire heard it was any man's birthday, and always a barrel of apples standing broached in the waist for anyone to help himself that had a fancy.
“never knew good come of it yet,” the captain said to dr. livesey.
“spoil forecastle hands, make devils.
that's my belief.”
but good did come of the apple barrel, as you shall hear, for if it had not been for that, we should have had no note of warning and might all have perished by the hand of treachery.
this was how it came about.
we had run up the trades to get the wind of the island we were after i am not allowed to be more plain and now we were running down for it with a bright lookout day and night.
it was about the last day of our outward voyage by the largest computation; some time that night, or at latest before noon of the morrow, we should sight the treasure island.
we were heading s.s.w.
and had a steady breeze abeam and a quiet sea.
the hispaniola rolled steadily, dipping her bowsprit now and then with a whiff of spray.
all was drawing alow and aloft; everyone was in the bravest spirits because we were now so near an end of the first part of our adventure.
now, just after sundown, when all my work was over and i was on my way to my berth, it occurred to me that i should like an apple.
i ran on deck.
the watch was all forward looking out for the island.
the man at the helm was watching the luff of the sail and whistling away gently to himself, and that was the only sound excepting the swish of the sea against the bows and around the sides of the ship.
in i got bodily into the apple barrel, and found there was scarce an apple left; but sitting down there in the dark, what with the sound of the waters and the rocking movement of the ship, i had either fallen asleep or was on the point of doing so when a heavy man sat down with rather a clash close by.
the barrel shook as he leaned his shoulders against it, and i was just about to jump up when the man began to speak.
it was silver's voice, and before i had heard a dozen words, i would not have shown myself for all the world, but lay there, trembling and listening, in the extreme of fear and curiosity, for from these dozen words i understood that the lives of all the honest men aboard depended upon me alone.
11
what i heard in the apple barrel
“no, not i,” said silver.
“flint was cap'n; i was quartermaster, along of my timber leg.
the same broadside i lost my leg, old pew lost his deadlights.
it was a master surgeon, him that ampytated me out of college and all latin by the bucket, and what not; but he was hanged like a dog, and sun-dried like the rest, at corso castle.
that was roberts' men, that was, and comed of changing names to their ships royal fortune and so on.
now, what a ship was christened, so let her stay, i says.
so it was with the cassandra, as brought us all safe home from malabar, after england took the viceroy of the indies; so it was with the old walrus, flint's old ship, as i've seen amuck with the red blood and fit to sink with gold.”
“ah!” cried another voice, that of the youngest hand on board, and evidently full of admiration.
“he was the flower of the flock, was flint!”
“davis was a man too, by all accounts,” said silver.
“i never sailed along of him; first with england, then with flint, that's my story; and now here on my own account, in a manner of speaking.
i laid by nine hundred safe, from england, and two thousand after flint.
that ain't bad for a man before the mast all safe in bank.
'tain't earning now, it's saving does it, you may lay to that.
where's all england's men now?
i dunno.
where's flint's?
why, most on 'em aboard here, and glad to get the duff been begging before that, some on 'em.
old pew, as had lost his sight, and might have thought shame, spends twelve hundred pound in a year, like a lord in parliament.
where is he now?
well, he's dead now and under hatches; but for two year before that, shiver my timbers, the man was starving!
he begged, and he stole, and he cut throats, and starved at that, by the powers!”
“well, it ain't much use, after all,” said the young seaman.
“'tain't much use for fools, you may lay to it that, nor nothing,”
cried silver.
“but now, you look here: you're young, you are, but you're as smart as paint.
i see that when i set my eyes on you, and i'll talk to you like a man.”
you may imagine how i felt when i heard this abominable old rogue addressing another in the very same words of flattery as he had used to myself.
i think, if i had been able, that i would have killed him through the barrel.
meantime, he ran on, little supposing he was overheard.
“here it is about gentlemen of fortune.
they lives rough, and they risk swinging, but they eat and drink like fighting-cocks, and when a cruise is done, why, it's hundreds of pounds instead of hundreds of farthings in their pockets.
now, the most goes for rum and a good fling, and to sea again in their shirts.
but that's not the course i lay.
i puts it all away, some here, some there, and none too much anywheres, by reason of suspicion.
i'm fifty, mark you; once back from this cruise, i set up gentleman in earnest.
time enough too, says you.
ah, but i've lived easy in the meantime, never denied myself o' nothing heart desires, and slep'
soft and ate dainty all my days but when at sea.
and how did i begin?
before the mast, like you!”
“well,” said the other, “but all the other money's gone now, ain't it?
you daren't show face in bristol after this.”
“why, where might you suppose it was?” asked silver derisively.
“at bristol, in banks and places,” answered his companion.
“it were,” said the cook; “it were when we weighed anchor.
but my old missis has it all by now.
and the spy-glass is sold, lease and goodwill and rigging; and the old girl's off to meet me.
i would tell you where, for i trust you, but it'd make jealousy among the mates.”
“and can you trust your missis?” asked the other.
“gentlemen of fortune,” returned the cook, “usually trusts little among themselves, and right they are, you may lay to it.
but i have a way with me, i have.
when a mate brings a slip on his cable one as knows me, i mean it won't be in the same world with old john.
there was some that was feared of pew, and some that was feared of flint; but flint his own self was feared of me.
feared he was, and proud.
they was the roughest crew afloat, was flint's; the devil himself would have been feared to go to sea with them.
well now, i tell you, i'm not a boasting man, and you seen yourself how easy i keep company, but when i was quartermaster, lambs wasn't the word for flint's old buccaneers.
ah, you may be sure of yourself in old john's ship.”
“well, i tell you now,” replied the lad, “i didn't half a quarter like the job till i had this talk with you, john; but there's my hand on it now.”
“and a brave lad you were, and smart too,” answered silver, shaking hands so heartily that all the barrel shook, “and a finer figurehead for a gentleman of fortune i never clapped my eyes on.”
by this time i had begun to understand the meaning of their terms.
by a “gentleman of fortune” they plainly meant neither more nor less than a common pirate, and the little scene that i had overheard was the last act in the corruption of one of the honest hands perhaps of the last one left aboard.
but on this point i was soon to be relieved, for silver giving a little whistle, a third man strolled up and sat down by the party.
“dick's square,” said silver.
“oh, i know'd dick was square,” returned the voice of the coxswain, israel hands.
“he's no fool, is dick.” and he turned his quid and spat.
“but look here,” he went on, “here's what i want to know, barbecue: how long are we a-going to stand off and on like a blessed bumboat?
i've had a'most enough o' cap'n smollett; he's hazed me long enough, by thunder!
i want to go into that cabin, i do.
i want their pickles and wines, and that.”
“israel,” said silver, “your head ain't much account, nor ever was.
but you're able to hear, i reckon; leastways, your ears is big enough.
now, here's what i say: you'll berth forward, and you'll live hard, and you'll speak soft, and you'll keep sober till i give the word; and you may lay to that, my son.”
“well, i don't say no, do i?” growled the coxswain.
“what i say is, when?
that's what i say.”
“when!
by the powers!” cried silver.
“well now, if you want to know, i'll tell you when.
the last moment i can manage, and that's when.
here's a first-rate seaman, cap'n smollett, sails the blessed ship for us.
here's this squire and doctor with a map and such i don't know where it is, do i?
no more do you, says you.
well then, i mean this squire and doctor shall find the stuff, and help us to get it aboard, by the powers.
then we'll see.
if i was sure of you all, sons of double dutchmen, i'd have cap'n smollett navigate us half-way back again before i struck.”
“why, we're all seamen aboard here, i should think,” said the lad dick.
“we're all forecastle hands, you mean,” snapped silver.
“we can steer a course, but who's to set one?
that's what all you gentlemen split on, first and last.
if i had my way, i'd have cap'n smollett work us back into the trades at least; then we'd have no blessed miscalculations and a spoonful of water a day.
but i know the sort you are.
i'll finish with 'em at the island, as soon's the blunt's on board, and a pity it is.
but you're never happy till you're drunk.
split my sides, i've a sick heart to sail with the likes of you!”
“easy all, long john,” cried israel.
“who's a-crossin' of you?”
“why, how many tall ships, think ye, now, have i seen laid aboard?
and how many brisk lads drying in the sun at execution dock?” cried silver.
“and all for this same hurry and hurry and hurry.
you hear me?
i seen a thing or two at sea, i have.
if you would on'y lay your course, and a p'int to windward, you would ride in carriages, you would.
but not you!
i know you.
you'll have your mouthful of rum tomorrow, and go hang.”
“everybody knowed you was a kind of a chapling, john; but there's others as could hand and steer as well as you,” said israel.
“they liked a bit o' fun, they did.
they wasn't so high and dry, nohow, but took their fling, like jolly companions every one.”
“so?” says silver.
“well, and where are they now?
pew was that sort, and he died a beggar-man.
flint was, and he died of rum at savannah.
ah, they was a sweet crew, they was!
on'y, where are they?”
“but,” asked dick, “when we do lay 'em athwart, what are we to do with 'em, anyhow?”
“there's the man for me!” cried the cook admiringly.
“that's what i call business.
well, what would you think?
put 'em ashore like maroons?
that would have been england's way.
or cut 'em down like that much pork?
that would have been flint's, or billy bones's.”
“billy was the man for that,” said israel.
“'dead men don't bite,' says he.
well, he's dead now hisself; he knows the long and short on it now; and if ever a rough hand come to port, it was billy.”
“right you are,” said silver; “rough and ready.
but mark you here, i'm an easy man i'm quite the gentleman, says you; but this time it's serious.
dooty is dooty, mates.
i give my vote death.
when i'm in parlyment and riding in my coach, i don't want none of these sea-lawyers in the cabin a-coming home, unlooked for, like the devil at prayers.
wait is what i say; but when the time comes, why, let her rip!”
“john,” cries the coxswain, “you're a man!”
“you'll say so, israel when you see,” said silver.
“only one thing i claim i claim trelawney.
i'll wring his calf's head off his body with these hands, dick!” he added, breaking off.
“you just jump up, like a sweet lad, and get me an apple, to wet my pipe like.”
you may fancy the terror i was in!
i should have leaped out and run for it if i had found the strength, but my limbs and heart alike misgave me.
i heard dick begin to rise, and then someone seemingly stopped him, and the voice of hands exclaimed, “oh, stow that!
don't you get sucking of that bilge, john.
let's have a go of the rum.”
“dick,” said silver, “i trust you.
i've a gauge on the keg, mind.
there's the key; you fill a pannikin and bring it up.”
terrified as i was, i could not help thinking to myself that this must have been how mr. arrow got the strong waters that destroyed him.
dick was gone but a little while, and during his absence israel spoke straight on in the cook's ear.
it was but a word or two that i could catch, and yet i gathered some important news, for besides other scraps that tended to the same purpose, this whole clause was audible: “not another man of them'll jine.” hence there were still faithful men on board.
when dick returned, one after another of the trio took the pannikin and drank one “to luck,” another with a “here's to old flint,” and silver himself saying, in a kind of song, “here's to ourselves, and hold your luff, plenty of prizes and plenty of duff.”
just then a sort of brightness fell upon me in the barrel, and looking up, i found the moon had risen and was silvering the mizzen-top and shining white on the luff of the fore-sail; and almost at the same time the voice of the lookout shouted, “land ho!”
12
council of war
there was a great rush of feet across the deck.
i could hear people tumbling up from the cabin and the forecastle, and slipping in an instant outside my barrel, i dived behind the fore-sail, made a double towards the stern, and came out upon the open deck in time to join hunter and dr. livesey in the rush for the weather bow.
there all hands were already congregated.
a belt of fog had lifted almost simultaneously with the appearance of the moon.
away to the south-west of us we saw two low hills, about a couple of miles apart, and rising behind one of them a third and higher hill, whose peak was still buried in the fog.
all three seemed sharp and conical in figure.
so much i saw, almost in a dream, for i had not yet recovered from my horrid fear of a minute or two before.
and then i heard the voice of captain smollett issuing orders.
the hispaniola was laid a couple of points nearer the wind and now sailed a course that would just clear the island on the east.
“and now, men,” said the captain, when all was sheeted home, “has any one of you ever seen that land ahead?”
“i have, sir,” said silver.
“i've watered there with a trader i was cook in.”
“the anchorage is on the south, behind an islet, i fancy?” asked the captain.
“yes, sir; skeleton island they calls it.
it were a main place for pirates once, and a hand we had on board knowed all their names for it.
that hill to the nor'ard they calls the fore-mast hill; there are three hills in a row running south'ard fore, main, and mizzen, sir.
but the main that's the big un, with the cloud on it they usually calls the spy-glass, by reason of a lookout they kept when they was in the anchorage cleaning, for it's there they cleaned their ships, sir, asking your pardon.”
“i have a chart here,” says captain smollett.
“see if that's the place.”
long john's eyes burned in his head as he took the chart, but by the fresh look of the paper i knew he was doomed to disappointment.
this was not the map we found in billy bones's chest, but an accurate copy, complete in all things names and heights and soundings with the single exception of the red crosses and the written notes.
sharp as must have been his annoyance, silver had the strength of mind to hide it.
“yes, sir,” said he, “this is the spot, to be sure, and very prettily drawed out.
who might have done that, i wonder?
the pirates were too ignorant, i reckon.
aye, here it is: 'capt.
kidd's anchorage' just the name my shipmate called it.
there's a strong current runs along the south, and then away nor'ard up the west coast.
right you was, sir,”
says he, “to haul your wind and keep the weather of the island.
leastways, if such was your intention as to enter and careen, and there ain't no better place for that in these waters.”
“thank you, my man,” says captain smollett.
“i'll ask you later on to give us a help.
you may go.”
i was surprised at the coolness with which john avowed his knowledge of the island, and i own i was half-frightened when i saw him drawing nearer to myself.
he did not know, to be sure, that i had overheard his council from the apple barrel, and yet i had by this time taken such a horror of his cruelty, duplicity, and power that i could scarce conceal a shudder when he laid his hand upon my arm.
“ah,” says he, “this here is a sweet spot, this island a sweet spot for a lad to get ashore on.
you'll bathe, and you'll climb trees, and you'll hunt goats, you will; and you'll get aloft on them hills like a goat yourself.
why, it makes me young again.
i was going to forget my timber leg, i was.
it's a pleasant thing to be young and have ten toes, and you may lay to that.
when you want to go a bit of exploring, you just ask old john, and he'll put up a snack for you to take along.”
and clapping me in the friendliest way upon the shoulder, he hobbled off forward and went below.
captain smollett, the squire, and dr. livesey were talking together on the quarter-deck, and anxious as i was to tell them my story, i durst not interrupt them openly.
while i was still casting about in my thoughts to find some probable excuse, dr. livesey called me to his side.
he had left his pipe below, and being a slave to tobacco, had meant that i should fetch it; but as soon as i was near enough to speak and not to be overheard, i broke immediately, “doctor, let me speak.
get the captain and squire down to the cabin, and then make some pretence to send for me.
i have terrible news.”
the doctor changed countenance a little, but next moment he was master of himself.
“thank you, jim,” said he quite loudly, “that was all i wanted to know,”
as if he had asked me a question.
and with that he turned on his heel and rejoined the other two.
they spoke together for a little, and though none of them started, or raised his voice, or so much as whistled, it was plain enough that dr. livesey had communicated my request, for the next thing that i heard was the captain giving an order to job anderson, and all hands were piped on deck.
“my lads,” said captain smollett, “i've a word to say to you.
this land that we have sighted is the place we have been sailing for.
mr.
trelawney, being a very open-handed gentleman, as we all know, has just asked me a word or two, and as i was able to tell him that every man on board had done his duty, alow and aloft, as i never ask to see it done better, why, he and i and the doctor are going below to the cabin to drink your health and luck, and you'll have grog served out for you to drink our health and luck.
i'll tell you what i think of this: i think it handsome.
and if you think as i do, you'll give a good sea-cheer for the gentleman that does it.”
the cheer followed that was a matter of course; but it rang out so full and hearty that i confess i could hardly believe these same men were plotting for our blood.
“one more cheer for cap'n smollett,” cried long john when the first had subsided.
and this also was given with a will.
on the top of that the three gentlemen went below, and not long after, word was sent forward that jim hawkins was wanted in the cabin.
i found them all three seated round the table, a bottle of spanish wine and some raisins before them, and the doctor smoking away, with his wig on his lap, and that, i knew, was a sign that he was agitated.
the stern window was open, for it was a warm night, and you could see the moon shining behind on the ship's wake.
“now, hawkins,” said the squire, “you have something to say.
speak up.”
i did as i was bid, and as short as i could make it, told the whole details of silver's conversation.
nobody interrupted me till i was done, nor did any one of the three of them make so much as a movement, but they kept their eyes upon my face from first to last.
“jim,” said dr. livesey, “take a seat.”
and they made me sit down at table beside them, poured me out a glass of wine, filled my hands with raisins, and all three, one after the other, and each with a bow, drank my good health, and their service to me, for my luck and courage.
“now, captain,” said the squire, “you were right, and i was wrong.
i own myself an ass, and i await your orders.”
“no more an ass than i, sir,” returned the captain.
“i never heard of a crew that meant to mutiny but what showed signs before, for any man that had an eye in his head to see the mischief and take steps according.
but this crew,” he added, “beats me.”
“captain,” said the doctor, “with your permission, that's silver.
a very remarkable man.”
“he'd look remarkably well from a yard-arm, sir,” returned the captain.
“but this is talk; this don't lead to anything.
i see three or four points, and with mr. trelawney's permission, i'll name them.”
“you, sir, are the captain.
it is for you to speak,” says mr. trelawney grandly.
“first point,” began mr. smollett.
“we must go on, because we can't turn back.
if i gave the word to go about, they would rise at once.
second point, we have time before us at least until this treasure's found.
third point, there are faithful hands.
now, sir, it's got to come to blows sooner or later, and what i propose is to take time by the forelock, as the saying is, and come to blows some fine day when they least expect it.
we can count, i take it, on your own home servants, mr.
trelawney?”
“as upon myself,” declared the squire.
“three,” reckoned the captain; “ourselves make seven, counting hawkins here.
now, about the honest hands?”
“most likely trelawney's own men,” said the doctor; “those he had picked up for himself before he lit on silver.”
“nay,” replied the squire.
“hands was one of mine.”
“i did think i could have trusted hands,” added the captain.
“and to think that they're all englishmen!” broke out the squire.
“sir, i could find it in my heart to blow the ship up.”
“well, gentlemen,” said the captain, “the best that i can say is not much.
we must lay to, if you please, and keep a bright lookout.
it's trying on a man, i know.
it would be pleasanter to come to blows.
but there's no help for it till we know our men.
lay to, and whistle for a wind, that's my view.”
“jim here,” said the doctor, “can help us more than anyone.
the men are not shy with him, and jim is a noticing lad.”
“hawkins, i put prodigious faith in you,” added the squire.
i began to feel pretty desperate at this, for i felt altogether helpless; and yet, by an odd train of circumstances, it was indeed through me that safety came.
in the meantime, talk as we pleased, there were only seven out of the twenty-six on whom we knew we could rely; and out of these seven one was a boy, so that the grown men on our side were six to their nineteen.
part three my shore adventure
13
how my shore adventure began
the appearance of the island when i came on deck next morning was altogether changed.
although the breeze had now utterly ceased, we had made a great deal of way during the night and were now lying becalmed about half a mile to the south-east of the low eastern coast.
grey-coloured woods covered a large part of the surface.
this even tint was indeed broken up by streaks of yellow sand-break in the lower lands, and by many tall trees of the pine family, out-topping the others some singly, some in clumps; but the general colouring was uniform and sad.
the hills ran up clear above the vegetation in spires of naked rock.
all were strangely shaped, and the spy-glass, which was by three or four hundred feet the tallest on the island, was likewise the strangest in configuration, running up sheer from almost every side and then suddenly cut off at the top like a pedestal to put a statue on.
the hispaniola was rolling scuppers under in the ocean swell.
the booms were tearing at the blocks, the rudder was banging to and fro, and the whole ship creaking, groaning, and jumping like a manufactory.
i had to cling tight to the backstay, and the world turned giddily before my eyes, for though i was a good enough sailor when there was way on, this standing still and being rolled about like a bottle was a thing i never learned to stand without a qualm or so, above all in the morning, on an empty stomach.
perhaps it was this perhaps it was the look of the island, with its grey, melancholy woods, and wild stone spires, and the surf that we could both see and hear foaming and thundering on the steep beach at least, although the sun shone bright and hot, and the shore birds were fishing and crying all around us, and you would have thought anyone would have been glad to get to land after being so long at sea, my heart sank, as the saying is, into my boots; and from the first look onward, i hated the very thought of treasure island.
we had a dreary morning's work before us, for there was no sign of any wind, and the boats had to be got out and manned, and the ship warped three or four miles round the corner of the island and up the narrow passage to the haven behind skeleton island.
i volunteered for one of the boats, where i had, of course, no business.
the heat was sweltering, and the men grumbled fiercely over their work.
anderson was in command of my boat, and instead of keeping the crew in order, he grumbled as loud as the worst.
“well,” he said with an oath, “it's not forever.”
i thought this was a very bad sign, for up to that day the men had gone briskly and willingly about their business; but the very sight of the island had relaxed the cords of discipline.
all the way in, long john stood by the steersman and conned the ship.
he knew the passage like the palm of his hand, and though the man in the chains got everywhere more water than was down in the chart, john never hesitated once.
“there's a strong scour with the ebb,” he said, “and this here passage has been dug out, in a manner of speaking, with a spade.”
we brought up just where the anchor was in the chart, about a third of a mile from each shore, the mainland on one side and skeleton island on the other.
the bottom was clean sand.
the plunge of our anchor sent up clouds of birds wheeling and crying over the woods, but in less than a minute they were down again and all was once more silent.
the place was entirely land-locked, buried in woods, the trees coming right down to high-water mark, the shores mostly flat, and the hilltops standing round at a distance in a sort of amphitheatre, one here, one there.
two little rivers, or rather two swamps, emptied out into this pond, as you might call it; and the foliage round that part of the shore had a kind of poisonous brightness.
from the ship we could see nothing of the house or stockade, for they were quite buried among trees; and if it had not been for the chart on the companion, we might have been the first that had ever anchored there since the island arose out of the seas.
there was not a breath of air moving, nor a sound but that of the surf booming half a mile away along the beaches and against the rocks outside.
a peculiar stagnant smell hung over the anchorage a smell of sodden leaves and rotting tree trunks.
i observed the doctor sniffing and sniffing, like someone tasting a bad egg.
“i don't know about treasure,” he said, “but i'll stake my wig there's fever here.”
if the conduct of the men had been alarming in the boat, it became truly threatening when they had come aboard.
they lay about the deck growling together in talk.
the slightest order was received with a black look and grudgingly and carelessly obeyed.
even the honest hands must have caught the infection, for there was not one man aboard to mend another.
mutiny, it was plain, hung over us like a thunder-cloud.
and it was not only we of the cabin party who perceived the danger.
long john was hard at work going from group to group, spending himself in good advice, and as for example no man could have shown a better.
he fairly outstripped himself in willingness and civility; he was all smiles to everyone.
if an order were given, john would be on his crutch in an instant, with the cheeriest “aye, aye, sir!” in the world; and when there was nothing else to do, he kept up one song after another, as if to conceal the discontent of the rest.
of all the gloomy features of that gloomy afternoon, this obvious anxiety on the part of long john appeared the worst.
we held a council in the cabin.
“sir,” said the captain, “if i risk another order, the whole ship'll come about our ears by the run.
you see, sir, here it is.
i get a rough answer, do i not?
well, if i speak back, pikes will be going in two shakes; if i don't, silver will see there's something under that, and the game's up.
now, we've only one man to rely on.”
“and who is that?” asked the squire.
“silver, sir,” returned the captain; “he's as anxious as you and i to smother things up.
this is a tiff; he'd soon talk 'em out of it if he had the chance, and what i propose to do is to give him the chance.
let's allow the men an afternoon ashore.
if they all go, why we'll fight the ship.
if they none of them go, well then, we hold the cabin, and god defend the right.
if some go, you mark my words, sir, silver'll bring 'em aboard again as mild as lambs.”
it was so decided; loaded pistols were served out to all the sure men; hunter, joyce, and redruth were taken into our confidence and received the news with less surprise and a better spirit than we had looked for, and then the captain went on deck and addressed the crew.
“my lads,” said he, “we've had a hot day and are all tired and out of sorts.
a turn ashore'll hurt nobody the boats are still in the water; you can take the gigs, and as many as please may go ashore for the afternoon.
i'll fire a gun half an hour before sundown.”
i believe the silly fellows must have thought they would break their shins over treasure as soon as they were landed, for they all came out of their sulks in a moment and gave a cheer that started the echo in a faraway hill and sent the birds once more flying and squalling round the anchorage.
the captain was too bright to be in the way.
he whipped out of sight in a moment, leaving silver to arrange the party, and i fancy it was as well he did so.
had he been on deck, he could no longer so much as have pretended not to understand the situation.
it was as plain as day.
silver was the captain, and a mighty rebellious crew he had of it.
the honest hands and i was soon to see it proved that there were such on board must have been very stupid fellows.
or rather, i suppose the truth was this, that all hands were disaffected by the example of the ringleaders only some more, some less; and a few, being good fellows in the main, could neither be led nor driven any further.
it is one thing to be idle and skulk and quite another to take a ship and murder a number of innocent men.
at last, however, the party was made up.
six fellows were to stay on board, and the remaining thirteen, including silver, began to embark.
then it was that there came into my head the first of the mad notions that contributed so much to save our lives.
if six men were left by silver, it was plain our party could not take and fight the ship; and since only six were left, it was equally plain that the cabin party had no present need of my assistance.
it occurred to me at once to go ashore.
in a jiffy i had slipped over the side and curled up in the fore-sheets of the nearest boat, and almost at the same moment she shoved off.
no one took notice of me, only the bow oar saying, “is that you, jim?
keep your head down.” but silver, from the other boat, looked sharply over and called out to know if that were me; and from that moment i began to regret what i had done.
the crews raced for the beach, but the boat i was in, having some start and being at once the lighter and the better manned, shot far ahead of her consort, and the bow had struck among the shore-side trees and i had caught a branch and swung myself out and plunged into the nearest thicket while silver and the rest were still a hundred yards behind.
“jim, jim!” i heard him shouting.
but you may suppose i paid no heed; jumping, ducking, and breaking through, i ran straight before my nose till i could run no longer.
14
the first blow
i was so pleased at having given the slip to long john that i began to enjoy myself and look around me with some interest on the strange land that i was in.
i had crossed a marshy tract full of willows, bulrushes, and odd, outlandish, swampy trees; and i had now come out upon the skirts of an open piece of undulating, sandy country, about a mile long, dotted with a few pines and a great number of contorted trees, not unlike the oak in growth, but pale in the foliage, like willows.
on the far side of the open stood one of the hills, with two quaint, craggy peaks shining vividly in the sun.
i now felt for the first time the joy of exploration.
the isle was uninhabited; my shipmates i had left behind, and nothing lived in front of me but dumb brutes and fowls.
i turned hither and thither among the trees.
here and there were flowering plants, unknown to me; here and there i saw snakes, and one raised his head from a ledge of rock and hissed at me with a noise not unlike the spinning of a top.
little did i suppose that he was a deadly enemy and that the noise was the famous rattle.
then i came to a long thicket of these oaklike trees live, or evergreen, oaks, i heard afterwards they should be called which grew low along the sand like brambles, the boughs curiously twisted, the foliage compact, like thatch.
the thicket stretched down from the top of one of the sandy knolls, spreading and growing taller as it went, until it reached the margin of the broad, reedy fen, through which the nearest of the little rivers soaked its way into the anchorage.
the marsh was steaming in the strong sun, and the outline of the spy-glass trembled through the haze.
all at once there began to go a sort of bustle among the bulrushes; a wild duck flew up with a quack, another followed, and soon over the whole surface of the marsh a great cloud of birds hung screaming and circling in the air.
i judged at once that some of my shipmates must be drawing near along the borders of the fen.
nor was i deceived, for soon i heard the very distant and low tones of a human voice, which, as i continued to give ear, grew steadily louder and nearer.
this put me in a great fear, and i crawled under cover of the nearest live-oak and squatted there, hearkening, as silent as a mouse.
another voice answered, and then the first voice, which i now recognized to be silver's, once more took up the story and ran on for a long while in a stream, only now and again interrupted by the other.
by the sound they must have been talking earnestly, and almost fiercely; but no distinct word came to my hearing.
at last the speakers seemed to have paused and perhaps to have sat down, for not only did they cease to draw any nearer, but the birds themselves began to grow more quiet and to settle again to their places in the swamp.
and now i began to feel that i was neglecting my business, that since i had been so foolhardy as to come ashore with these desperadoes, the least i could do was to overhear them at their councils, and that my plain and obvious duty was to draw as close as i could manage, under the favourable ambush of the crouching trees.
i could tell the direction of the speakers pretty exactly, not only by the sound of their voices but by the behaviour of the few birds that still hung in alarm above the heads of the intruders.
crawling on all fours, i made steadily but slowly towards them, till at last, raising my head to an aperture among the leaves, i could see clear down into a little green dell beside the marsh, and closely set about with trees, where long john silver and another of the crew stood face to face in conversation.
the sun beat full upon them.
silver had thrown his hat beside him on the ground, and his great, smooth, blond face, all shining with heat, was lifted to the other man's in a kind of appeal.
“mate,” he was saying, “it's because i thinks gold dust of you gold dust, and you may lay to that!
if i hadn't took to you like pitch, do you think i'd have been here a-warning of you?
all's up you can't make nor mend; it's to save your neck that i'm a-speaking, and if one of the wild uns knew it, where'd i be, tom now, tell me, where'd i be?”
“silver,” said the other man and i observed he was not only red in the face, but spoke as hoarse as a crow, and his voice shook too, like a taut rope “silver,” says he, “you're old, and you're honest, or has the name for it; and you've money too, which lots of poor sailors hasn't; and you're brave, or i'm mistook.
and will you tell me you'll let yourself be led away with that kind of a mess of swabs?
not you!
as sure as god sees me, i'd sooner lose my hand.
if i turn agin my dooty ”
and then all of a sudden he was interrupted by a noise.
i had found one of the honest hands well, here, at that same moment, came news of another.
far away out in the marsh there arose, all of a sudden, a sound like the cry of anger, then another on the back of it; and then one horrid, long-drawn scream.
the rocks of the spy-glass re-echoed it a score of times; the whole troop of marsh-birds rose again, darkening heaven, with a simultaneous whirr; and long after that death yell was still ringing in my brain, silence had re-established its empire, and only the rustle of the redescending birds and the boom of the distant surges disturbed the languor of the afternoon.
tom had leaped at the sound, like a horse at the spur, but silver had not winked an eye.
he stood where he was, resting lightly on his crutch, watching his companion like a snake about to spring.
“john!” said the sailor, stretching out his hand.
“hands off!” cried silver, leaping back a yard, as it seemed to me, with the speed and security of a trained gymnast.
“hands off, if you like, john silver,” said the other.
“it's a black conscience that can make you feared of me.
but in heaven's name, tell me, what was that?”
“that?” returned silver, smiling away, but warier than ever, his eye a mere pin-point in his big face, but gleaming like a crumb of glass.
“that?
oh, i reckon that'll be alan.”
and at this point tom flashed out like a hero.
“alan!” he cried.
“then rest his soul for a true seaman!
and as for you, john silver, long you've been a mate of mine, but you're mate of mine no more.
if i die like a dog, i'll die in my dooty.
you've killed alan, have you?
kill me too, if you can.
but i defies you.”
and with that, this brave fellow turned his back directly on the cook and set off walking for the beach.
but he was not destined to go far.
with a cry john seized the branch of a tree, whipped the crutch out of his armpit, and sent that uncouth missile hurtling through the air.
it struck poor tom, point foremost, and with stunning violence, right between the shoulders in the middle of his back.
his hands flew up, he gave a sort of gasp, and fell.
whether he were injured much or little, none could ever tell.
like enough, to judge from the sound, his back was broken on the spot.
but he had no time given him to recover.
silver, agile as a monkey even without leg or crutch, was on the top of him next moment and had twice buried his knife up to the hilt in that defenceless body.
from my place of ambush, i could hear him pant aloud as he struck the blows.
i do not know what it rightly is to faint, but i do know that for the next little while the whole world swam away from before me in a whirling mist; silver and the birds, and the tall spy-glass hilltop, going round and round and topsy-turvy before my eyes, and all manner of bells ringing and distant voices shouting in my ear.
when i came again to myself the monster had pulled himself together, his crutch under his arm, his hat upon his head.
just before him tom lay motionless upon the sward; but the murderer minded him not a whit, cleansing his blood-stained knife the while upon a wisp of grass.
everything else was unchanged, the sun still shining mercilessly on the steaming marsh and the tall pinnacle of the mountain, and i could scarce persuade myself that murder had been actually done and a human life cruelly cut short a moment since before my eyes.
but now john put his hand into his pocket, brought out a whistle, and blew upon it several modulated blasts that rang far across the heated air.
i could not tell, of course, the meaning of the signal, but it instantly awoke my fears.
more men would be coming.
i might be discovered.
they had already slain two of the honest people; after tom and alan, might not i come next?
instantly i began to extricate myself and crawl back again, with what speed and silence i could manage, to the more open portion of the wood.
as i did so, i could hear hails coming and going between the old buccaneer and his comrades, and this sound of danger lent me wings.
as soon as i was clear of the thicket, i ran as i never ran before, scarce minding the direction of my flight, so long as it led me from the murderers; and as i ran, fear grew and grew upon me until it turned into a kind of frenzy.
indeed, could anyone be more entirely lost than i?
when the gun fired, how should i dare to go down to the boats among those fiends, still smoking from their crime?
would not the first of them who saw me wring my neck like a snipe's?
would not my absence itself be an evidence to them of my alarm, and therefore of my fatal knowledge?
it was all over, i thought.
good-bye to the hispaniola; good-bye to the squire, the doctor, and the captain!
there was nothing left for me but death by starvation or death by the hands of the mutineers.
all this while, as i say, i was still running, and without taking any notice, i had drawn near to the foot of the little hill with the two peaks and had got into a part of the island where the live-oaks grew more widely apart and seemed more like forest trees in their bearing and dimensions.
mingled with these were a few scattered pines, some fifty, some nearer seventy, feet high.
the air too smelt more freshly than down beside the marsh.
and here a fresh alarm brought me to a standstill with a thumping heart.
15
the man of the island
from the side of the hill, which was here steep and stony, a spout of gravel was dislodged and fell rattling and bounding through the trees.
my eyes turned instinctively in that direction, and i saw a figure leap with great rapidity behind the trunk of a pine.
what it was, whether bear or man or monkey, i could in no wise tell.
it seemed dark and shaggy; more i knew not.
but the terror of this new apparition brought me to a stand.
i was now, it seemed, cut off upon both sides; behind me the murderers, before me this lurking nondescript.
and immediately i began to prefer the dangers that i knew to those i knew not.
silver himself appeared less terrible in contrast with this creature of the woods, and i turned on my heel, and looking sharply behind me over my shoulder, began to retrace my steps in the direction of the boats.
instantly the figure reappeared, and making a wide circuit, began to head me off.
i was tired, at any rate; but had i been as fresh as when i rose, i could see it was in vain for me to contend in speed with such an adversary.
from trunk to trunk the creature flitted like a deer, running manlike on two legs, but unlike any man that i had ever seen, stooping almost double as it ran.
yet a man it was, i could no longer be in doubt about that.
i began to recall what i had heard of cannibals.
i was within an ace of calling for help.
but the mere fact that he was a man, however wild, had somewhat reassured me, and my fear of silver began to revive in proportion.
i stood still, therefore, and cast about for some method of escape; and as i was so thinking, the recollection of my pistol flashed into my mind.
as soon as i remembered i was not defenceless, courage glowed again in my heart and i set my face resolutely for this man of the island and walked briskly towards him.
he was concealed by this time behind another tree trunk; but he must have been watching me closely, for as soon as i began to move in his direction he reappeared and took a step to meet me.
then he hesitated, drew back, came forward again, and at last, to my wonder and confusion, threw himself on his knees and held out his clasped hands in supplication.
at that i once more stopped.
“who are you?” i asked.
“ben gunn,” he answered, and his voice sounded hoarse and awkward, like a rusty lock.
“i'm poor ben gunn, i am; and i haven't spoke with a christian these three years.”
i could now see that he was a white man like myself and that his features were even pleasing.
his skin, wherever it was exposed, was burnt by the sun; even his lips were black, and his fair eyes looked quite startling in so dark a face.
of all the beggar-men that i had seen or fancied, he was the chief for raggedness.
he was clothed with tatters of old ship's canvas and old sea-cloth, and this extraordinary patchwork was all held together by a system of the most various and incongruous fastenings, brass buttons, bits of stick, and loops of tarry gaskin.
about his waist he wore an old brass-buckled leather belt, which was the one thing solid in his whole accoutrement.
“three years!” i cried.
“were you shipwrecked?”
“nay, mate,” said he; “marooned.”
i had heard the word, and i knew it stood for a horrible kind of punishment common enough among the buccaneers, in which the offender is put ashore with a little powder and shot and left behind on some desolate and distant island.
“marooned three years agone,” he continued, “and lived on goats since then, and berries, and oysters.
wherever a man is, says i, a man can do for himself.
but, mate, my heart is sore for christian diet.
you mightn't happen to have a piece of cheese about you, now?
no?
well, many's the long night i've dreamed of cheese toasted, mostly and woke up again, and here i were.”
“if ever i can get aboard again,” said i, “you shall have cheese by the stone.”
all this time he had been feeling the stuff of my jacket, smoothing my hands, looking at my boots, and generally, in the intervals of his speech, showing a childish pleasure in the presence of a fellow creature.
but at my last words he perked up into a kind of startled slyness.
“if ever you can get aboard again, says you?” he repeated.
“why, now, who's to hinder you?”
“not you, i know,” was my reply.
“and right you was,” he cried.
“now you what do you call yourself, mate?”
“jim,” i told him.
“jim, jim,” says he, quite pleased apparently.
“well, now, jim, i've lived that rough as you'd be ashamed to hear of.
now, for instance, you wouldn't think i had had a pious mother to look at me?” he asked.
“why, no, not in particular,” i answered.
“ah, well,” said he, “but i had remarkable pious.
and i was a civil, pious boy, and could rattle off my catechism that fast, as you couldn't tell one word from another.
and here's what it come to, jim, and it begun with chuck-farthen on the blessed grave-stones!
that's what it begun with, but it went further'n that; and so my mother told me, and predicked the whole, she did, the pious woman!
but it were providence that put me here.
i've thought it all out in this here lonely island, and i'm back on piety.
you don't catch me tasting rum so much, but just a thimbleful for luck, of course, the first chance i have.
i'm bound i'll be good, and i see the way to.
and, jim” looking all round him and lowering his voice to a whisper “i'm rich.”
i now felt sure that the poor fellow had gone crazy in his solitude, and i suppose i must have shown the feeling in my face, for he repeated the statement hotly: “rich!
rich!
i says.
and i'll tell you what: i'll make a man of you, jim.
ah, jim, you'll bless your stars, you will, you was the first that found me!”
and at this there came suddenly a lowering shadow over his face, and he tightened his grasp upon my hand and raised a forefinger threateningly before my eyes.
“now, jim, you tell me true: that ain't flint's ship?” he asked.
at this i had a happy inspiration.
i began to believe that i had found an ally, and i answered him at once.
“it's not flint's ship, and flint is dead; but i'll tell you true, as you ask me there are some of flint's hands aboard; worse luck for the rest of us.”
“not a man with one leg?” he gasped.
“silver?” i asked.
“ah, silver!” says he.
“that were his name.”
“he's the cook, and the ringleader too.”
he was still holding me by the wrist, and at that he give it quite a wring.
“if you was sent by long john,” he said, “i'm as good as pork, and i know it.
but where was you, do you suppose?”
i had made my mind up in a moment, and by way of answer told him the whole story of our voyage and the predicament in which we found ourselves.
he heard me with the keenest interest, and when i had done he patted me on the head.
“you're a good lad, jim,” he said; “and you're all in a clove hitch, ain't you?
well, you just put your trust in ben gunn ben gunn's the man to do it.
would you think it likely, now, that your squire would prove a liberal-minded one in case of help him being in a clove hitch, as you remark?”
i told him the squire was the most liberal of men.
“aye, but you see,” returned ben gunn, “i didn't mean giving me a gate to keep, and a suit of livery clothes, and such; that's not my mark, jim.
what i mean is, would he be likely to come down to the toon of, say one thousand pounds out of money that's as good as a man's own already?”
“i am sure he would,” said i.
“as it was, all hands were to share.”
“and a passage home?” he added with a look of great shrewdness.
“why,” i cried, “the squire's a gentleman.
and besides, if we got rid of the others, we should want you to help work the vessel home.”
“ah,” said he, “so you would.” and he seemed very much relieved.
“now, i'll tell you what,” he went on.
“so much i'll tell you, and no more.
i were in flint's ship when he buried the treasure; he and six along six strong seamen.
they was ashore nigh on a week, and us standing off and on in the old walrus.
one fine day up went the signal, and here come flint by himself in a little boat, and his head done up in a blue scarf.
the sun was getting up, and mortal white he looked about the cutwater.
but, there he was, you mind, and the six all dead dead and buried.
how he done it, not a man aboard us could make out.
it was battle, murder, and sudden death, leastways him against six.
billy bones was the mate; long john, he was quartermaster; and they asked him where the treasure was.
'ah,' says he, 'you can go ashore, if you like, and stay,' he says; 'but as for the ship, she'll beat up for more, by thunder!'
that's what he said.
“well, i was in another ship three years back, and we sighted this island.
'boys,' said i, 'here's flint's treasure; let's land and find it.'
the cap'n was displeased at that, but my messmates were all of a mind and landed.
twelve days they looked for it, and every day they had the worse word for me, until one fine morning all hands went aboard.
'as for you, benjamin gunn,' says they, 'here's a musket,' they says, 'and a spade, and pick-axe.
you can stay here and find flint's money for yourself,' they says.
“well, jim, three years have i been here, and not a bite of christian diet from that day to this.
but now, you look here; look at me.
do i look like a man before the mast?
no, says you.
nor i weren't, neither, i says.”
and with that he winked and pinched me hard.
“just you mention them words to your squire, jim,” he went on.
“nor he weren't, neither that's the words.
three years he were the man of this island, light and dark, fair and rain; and sometimes he would maybe think upon a prayer (says you), and sometimes he would maybe think of his old mother, so be as she's alive (you'll say); but the most part of gunn's time (this is what you'll say) the most part of his time was took up with another matter.
and then you'll give him a nip, like i do.”
and he pinched me again in the most confidential manner.
“then,” he continued, “then you'll up, and you'll say this: gunn is a good man (you'll say), and he puts a precious sight more confidence a precious sight, mind that in a gen'leman born than in these gen'leman of fortune, having been one hisself.”
“well,” i said, “i don't understand one word that you've been saying.
but that's neither here nor there; for how am i to get on board?”
“ah,” said he, “that's the hitch, for sure.
well, there's my boat, that i made with my two hands.
i keep her under the white rock.
if the worst come to the worst, we might try that after dark.
hi!” he broke out.
“what's that?”
for just then, although the sun had still an hour or two to run, all the echoes of the island awoke and bellowed to the thunder of a cannon.
“they have begun to fight!” i cried.
“follow me.”
and i began to run towards the anchorage, my terrors all forgotten, while close at my side the marooned man in his goatskins trotted easily and lightly.
“left, left,” says he; “keep to your left hand, mate jim!
under the trees with you!
theer's where i killed my first goat.
they don't come down here now; they're all mastheaded on them mountings for the fear of benjamin gunn.
ah!
and there's the cetemery” cemetery, he must have meant.
“you see the mounds?
i come here and prayed, nows and thens, when i thought maybe a sunday would be about doo.
it weren't quite a chapel, but it seemed more solemn like; and then, says you, ben gunn was short-handed no chapling, nor so much as a bible and a flag, you says.”
so he kept talking as i ran, neither expecting nor receiving any answer.
the cannon-shot was followed after a considerable interval by a volley of small arms.
another pause, and then, not a quarter of a mile in front of me, i beheld the union jack flutter in the air above a wood.
part four the stockade
16
narrative continued by the doctor: how the ship was abandoned
it was about half past one three bells in the sea phrase that the two boats went ashore from the hispaniola.
the captain, the squire, and i were talking matters over in the cabin.
had there been a breath of wind, we should have fallen on the six mutineers who were left aboard with us, slipped our cable, and away to sea.
but the wind was wanting; and to complete our helplessness, down came hunter with the news that jim hawkins had slipped into a boat and was gone ashore with the rest.
it never occurred to us to doubt jim hawkins, but we were alarmed for his safety.
with the men in the temper they were in, it seemed an even chance if we should see the lad again.
we ran on deck.
the pitch was bubbling in the seams; the nasty stench of the place turned me sick; if ever a man smelt fever and dysentery, it was in that abominable anchorage.
the six scoundrels were sitting grumbling under a sail in the forecastle; ashore we could see the gigs made fast and a man sitting in each, hard by where the river runs in.
one of them was whistling “lillibullero.”
waiting was a strain, and it was decided that hunter and i should go ashore with the jolly-boat in quest of information.
the gigs had leaned to their right, but hunter and i pulled straight in, in the direction of the stockade upon the chart.
the two who were left guarding their boats seemed in a bustle at our appearance; “lillibullero” stopped off, and i could see the pair discussing what they ought to do.
had they gone and told silver, all might have turned out differently; but they had their orders, i suppose, and decided to sit quietly where they were and hark back again to “lillibullero.”
there was a slight bend in the coast, and i steered so as to put it between us; even before we landed we had thus lost sight of the gigs.
i jumped out and came as near running as i durst, with a big silk handkerchief under my hat for coolness' sake and a brace of pistols ready primed for safety.
i had not gone a hundred yards when i reached the stockade.
this was how it was: a spring of clear water rose almost at the top of a knoll.
well, on the knoll, and enclosing the spring, they had clapped a stout loghouse fit to hold two score of people on a pinch and loopholed for musketry on either side.
all round this they had cleared a wide space, and then the thing was completed by a paling six feet high, without door or opening, too strong to pull down without time and labour and too open to shelter the besiegers.
the people in the log-house had them in every way; they stood quiet in shelter and shot the others like partridges.
all they wanted was a good watch and food; for, short of a complete surprise, they might have held the place against a regiment.
what particularly took my fancy was the spring.
for though we had a good enough place of it in the cabin of the hispaniola, with plenty of arms and ammunition, and things to eat, and excellent wines, there had been one thing overlooked we had no water.
i was thinking this over when there came ringing over the island the cry of a man at the point of death.
i was not new to violent death i have served his royal highness the duke of cumberland, and got a wound myself at fontenoy but i know my pulse went dot and carry one.
“jim hawkins is gone,” was my first thought.
it is something to have been an old soldier, but more still to have been a doctor.
there is no time to dilly-dally in our work.
and so now i made up my mind instantly, and with no time lost returned to the shore and jumped on board the jolly-boat.
by good fortune hunter pulled a good oar.
we made the water fly, and the boat was soon alongside and i aboard the schooner.
i found them all shaken, as was natural.
the squire was sitting down, as white as a sheet, thinking of the harm he had led us to, the good soul!
and one of the six forecastle hands was little better.
“there's a man,” says captain smollett, nodding towards him, “new to this work.
he came nigh-hand fainting, doctor, when he heard the cry.
another touch of the rudder and that man would join us.”
i told my plan to the captain, and between us we settled on the details of its accomplishment.
we put old redruth in the gallery between the cabin and the forecastle, with three or four loaded muskets and a mattress for protection.
hunter brought the boat round under the stern-port, and joyce and i set to work loading her with powder tins, muskets, bags of biscuits, kegs of pork, a cask of cognac, and my invaluable medicine chest.
in the meantime, the squire and the captain stayed on deck, and the latter hailed the coxswain, who was the principal man aboard.
“mr.
hands,” he said, “here are two of us with a brace of pistols each.
if any one of you six make a signal of any description, that man's dead.”
they were a good deal taken aback, and after a little consultation one and all tumbled down the fore companion, thinking no doubt to take us on the rear.
but when they saw redruth waiting for them in the sparred galley, they went about ship at once, and a head popped out again on deck.
“down, dog!” cries the captain.
and the head popped back again; and we heard no more, for the time, of these six very faint-hearted seamen.
by this time, tumbling things in as they came, we had the jolly-boat loaded as much as we dared.
joyce and i got out through the stern-port, and we made for shore again as fast as oars could take us.
this second trip fairly aroused the watchers along shore.
“lillibullero”
was dropped again; and just before we lost sight of them behind the little point, one of them whipped ashore and disappeared.
i had half a mind to change my plan and destroy their boats, but i feared that silver and the others might be close at hand, and all might very well be lost by trying for too much.
we had soon touched land in the same place as before and set to provision the block house.
all three made the first journey, heavily laden, and tossed our stores over the palisade.
then, leaving joyce to guard them one man, to be sure, but with half a dozen muskets hunter and i returned to the jolly-boat and loaded ourselves once more.
so we proceeded without pausing to take breath, till the whole cargo was bestowed, when the two servants took up their position in the block house, and i, with all my power, sculled back to the hispaniola.
that we should have risked a second boat load seems more daring than it really was.
they had the advantage of numbers, of course, but we had the advantage of arms.
not one of the men ashore had a musket, and before they could get within range for pistol shooting, we flattered ourselves we should be able to give a good account of a half-dozen at least.
the squire was waiting for me at the stern window, all his faintness gone from him.
he caught the painter and made it fast, and we fell to loading the boat for our very lives.
pork, powder, and biscuit was the cargo, with only a musket and a cutlass apiece for the squire and me and redruth and the captain.
the rest of the arms and powder we dropped overboard in two fathoms and a half of water, so that we could see the bright steel shining far below us in the sun, on the clean, sandy bottom.
by this time the tide was beginning to ebb, and the ship was swinging round to her anchor.
voices were heard faintly halloaing in the direction of the two gigs; and though this reassured us for joyce and hunter, who were well to the eastward, it warned our party to be off.
redruth retreated from his place in the gallery and dropped into the boat, which we then brought round to the ship's counter, to be handier for captain smollett.
“now, men,” said he, “do you hear me?”
there was no answer from the forecastle.
“it's to you, abraham gray it's to you i am speaking.”
still no reply.
“gray,” resumed mr. smollett, a little louder, “i am leaving this ship, and i order you to follow your captain.
i know you are a good man at bottom, and i dare say not one of the lot of you's as bad as he makes out.
i have my watch here in my hand; i give you thirty seconds to join me in.”
there was a pause.
“come, my fine fellow,” continued the captain; “don't hang so long in stays.
i'm risking my life and the lives of these good gentlemen every second.”
there was a sudden scuffle, a sound of blows, and out burst abraham gray with a knife cut on the side of the cheek, and came running to the captain like a dog to the whistle.
“i'm with you, sir,” said he.
and the next moment he and the captain had dropped aboard of us, and we had shoved off and given way.
we were clear out of the ship, but not yet ashore in our stockade.
17
narrative continued by the doctor: the jolly-boat's last trip
this fifth trip was quite different from any of the others.
in the first place, the little gallipot of a boat that we were in was gravely overloaded.
five grown men, and three of them trelawney, redruth, and the captain over six feet high, was already more than she was meant to carry.
add to that the powder, pork, and bread-bags.
the gunwale was lipping astern.
several times we shipped a little water, and my breeches and the tails of my coat were all soaking wet before we had gone a hundred yards.
the captain made us trim the boat, and we got her to lie a little more evenly.
all the same, we were afraid to breathe.
in the second place, the ebb was now making a strong rippling current running westward through the basin, and then south'ard and seaward down the straits by which we had entered in the morning.
even the ripples were a danger to our overloaded craft, but the worst of it was that we were swept out of our true course and away from our proper landing-place behind the point.
if we let the current have its way we should come ashore beside the gigs, where the pirates might appear at any moment.
“i cannot keep her head for the stockade, sir,” said i to the captain.
i was steering, while he and redruth, two fresh men, were at the oars.
“the tide keeps washing her down.
could you pull a little stronger?”
“not without swamping the boat,” said he.
“you must bear up, sir, if you please bear up until you see you're gaining.”
i tried and found by experiment that the tide kept sweeping us westward until i had laid her head due east, or just about right angles to the way we ought to go.
“we'll never get ashore at this rate,” said i.
“if it's the only course that we can lie, sir, we must even lie it,”
returned the captain.
“we must keep upstream.
you see, sir,” he went on, “if once we dropped to leeward of the landing-place, it's hard to say where we should get ashore, besides the chance of being boarded by the gigs; whereas, the way we go the current must slacken, and then we can dodge back along the shore.”
“the current's less a'ready, sir,” said the man gray, who was sitting in the fore-sheets; “you can ease her off a bit.”
“thank you, my man,” said i, quite as if nothing had happened, for we had all quietly made up our minds to treat him like one of ourselves.
suddenly the captain spoke up again, and i thought his voice was a little changed.
“the gun!” said he.
“i have thought of that,” said i, for i made sure he was thinking of a bombardment of the fort.
“they could never get the gun ashore, and if they did, they could never haul it through the woods.”
“look astern, doctor,” replied the captain.
we had entirely forgotten the long nine; and there, to our horror, were the five rogues busy about her, getting off her jacket, as they called the stout tarpaulin cover under which she sailed.
not only that, but it flashed into my mind at the same moment that the round-shot and the powder for the gun had been left behind, and a stroke with an axe would put it all into the possession of the evil ones abroad.
“israel was flint's gunner,” said gray hoarsely.
at any risk, we put the boat's head direct for the landing-place.
by this time we had got so far out of the run of the current that we kept steerage way even at our necessarily gentle rate of rowing, and i could keep her steady for the goal.
but the worst of it was that with the course i now held we turned our broadside instead of our stern to the hispaniola and offered a target like a barn door.
i could hear as well as see that brandy-faced rascal israel hands plumping down a round-shot on the deck.
“who's the best shot?” asked the captain.
“mr.
trelawney, out and away,” said i.
“mr.
trelawney, will you please pick me off one of these men, sir?
hands, if possible,” said the captain.
trelawney was as cool as steel.
he looked to the priming of his gun.
“now,” cried the captain, “easy with that gun, sir, or you'll swamp the boat.
all hands stand by to trim her when he aims.”
the squire raised his gun, the rowing ceased, and we leaned over to the other side to keep the balance, and all was so nicely contrived that we did not ship a drop.
they had the gun, by this time, slewed round upon the swivel, and hands, who was at the muzzle with the rammer, was in consequence the most exposed.
however, we had no luck, for just as trelawney fired, down he stooped, the ball whistled over him, and it was one of the other four who fell.
the cry he gave was echoed not only by his companions on board but by a great number of voices from the shore, and looking in that direction i saw the other pirates trooping out from among the trees and tumbling into their places in the boats.
“here come the gigs, sir,” said i.
“give way, then,” cried the captain.
“we mustn't mind if we swamp her now.
if we can't get ashore, all's up.”
“only one of the gigs is being manned, sir,” i added; “the crew of the other most likely going round by shore to cut us off.”
“they'll have a hot run, sir,” returned the captain.
“jack ashore, you know.
it's not them i mind; it's the round-shot.
carpet bowls!
my lady's maid couldn't miss.
tell us, squire, when you see the match, and we'll hold water.”
in the meanwhile we had been making headway at a good pace for a boat so overloaded, and we had shipped but little water in the process.
we were now close in; thirty or forty strokes and we should beach her, for the ebb had already disclosed a narrow belt of sand below the clustering trees.
the gig was no longer to be feared; the little point had already concealed it from our eyes.
the ebb-tide, which had so cruelly delayed us, was now making reparation and delaying our assailants.
the one source of danger was the gun.
“if i durst,” said the captain, “i'd stop and pick off another man.”
but it was plain that they meant nothing should delay their shot.
they had never so much as looked at their fallen comrade, though he was not dead, and i could see him trying to crawl away.
“ready!” cried the squire.
“hold!” cried the captain, quick as an echo.
and he and redruth backed with a great heave that sent her stern bodily under water.
the report fell in at the same instant of time.
this was the first that jim heard, the sound of the squire's shot not having reached him.
where the ball passed, not one of us precisely knew, but i fancy it must have been over our heads and that the wind of it may have contributed to our disaster.
at any rate, the boat sank by the stern, quite gently, in three feet of water, leaving the captain and myself, facing each other, on our feet.
the other three took complete headers, and came up again drenched and bubbling.
so far there was no great harm.
no lives were lost, and we could wade ashore in safety.
but there were all our stores at the bottom, and to make things worse, only two guns out of five remained in a state for service.
mine i had snatched from my knees and held over my head, by a sort of instinct.
as for the captain, he had carried his over his shoulder by a bandoleer, and like a wise man, lock uppermost.
the other three had gone down with the boat.
to add to our concern, we heard voices already drawing near us in the woods along shore, and we had not only the danger of being cut off from the stockade in our half-crippled state but the fear before us whether, if hunter and joyce were attacked by half a dozen, they would have the sense and conduct to stand firm.
hunter was steady, that we knew; joyce was a doubtful case a pleasant, polite man for a valet and to brush one's clothes, but not entirely fitted for a man of war.
with all this in our minds, we waded ashore as fast as we could, leaving behind us the poor jolly-boat and a good half of all our powder and provisions.
18
narrative continued by the doctor: end of the first day's fighting
we made our best speed across the strip of wood that now divided us from the stockade, and at every step we took the voices of the buccaneers rang nearer.
soon we could hear their footfalls as they ran and the cracking of the branches as they breasted across a bit of thicket.
i began to see we should have a brush for it in earnest and looked to my priming.
“captain,” said i, “trelawney is the dead shot.
give him your gun; his own is useless.”
they exchanged guns, and trelawney, silent and cool as he had been since the beginning of the bustle, hung a moment on his heel to see that all was fit for service.
at the same time, observing gray to be unarmed, i handed him my cutlass.
it did all our hearts good to see him spit in his hand, knit his brows, and make the blade sing through the air.
it was plain from every line of his body that our new hand was worth his salt.
forty paces farther we came to the edge of the wood and saw the stockade in front of us.
we struck the enclosure about the middle of the south side, and almost at the same time, seven mutineers job anderson, the boatswain, at their head appeared in full cry at the southwestern corner.
they paused as if taken aback, and before they recovered, not only the squire and i, but hunter and joyce from the block house, had time to fire.
the four shots came in rather a scattering volley, but they did the business: one of the enemy actually fell, and the rest, without hesitation, turned and plunged into the trees.
after reloading, we walked down the outside of the palisade to see to the fallen enemy.
he was stone dead shot through the heart.
we began to rejoice over our good success when just at that moment a pistol cracked in the bush, a ball whistled close past my ear, and poor tom redruth stumbled and fell his length on the ground.
both the squire and i returned the shot, but as we had nothing to aim at, it is probable we only wasted powder.
then we reloaded and turned our attention to poor tom.
the captain and gray were already examining him, and i saw with half an eye that all was over.
i believe the readiness of our return volley had scattered the mutineers once more, for we were suffered without further molestation to get the poor old gamekeeper hoisted over the stockade and carried, groaning and bleeding, into the log-house.
poor old fellow, he had not uttered one word of surprise, complaint, fear, or even acquiescence from the very beginning of our troubles till now, when we had laid him down in the log-house to die.
he had lain like a trojan behind his mattress in the gallery; he had followed every order silently, doggedly, and well; he was the oldest of our party by a score of years; and now, sullen, old, serviceable servant, it was he that was to die.
the squire dropped down beside him on his knees and kissed his hand, crying like a child.
“be i going, doctor?” he asked.
“tom, my man,” said i, “you're going home.”
“i wish i had had a lick at them with the gun first,” he replied.
“tom,” said the squire, “say you forgive me, won't you?”
“would that be respectful like, from me to you, squire?” was the answer.
“howsoever, so be it, amen!”
after a little while of silence, he said he thought somebody might read a prayer.
“it's the custom, sir,” he added apologetically.
and not long after, without another word, he passed away.
in the meantime the captain, whom i had observed to be wonderfully swollen about the chest and pockets, had turned out a great many various stores the british colours, a bible, a coil of stoutish rope, pen, ink, the log-book, and pounds of tobacco.
he had found a longish fir-tree lying felled and trimmed in the enclosure, and with the help of hunter he had set it up at the corner of the log-house where the trunks crossed and made an angle.
then, climbing on the roof, he had with his own hand bent and run up the colours.
this seemed mightily to relieve him.
he re-entered the log-house and set about counting up the stores as if nothing else existed.
but he had an eye on tom's passage for all that, and as soon as all was over, came forward with another flag and reverently spread it on the body.
“don't you take on, sir,” he said, shaking the squire's hand.
“all's well with him; no fear for a hand that's been shot down in his duty to captain and owner.
it mayn't be good divinity, but it's a fact.”
then he pulled me aside.
“dr.
livesey,” he said, “in how many weeks do you and squire expect the consort?”
i told him it was a question not of weeks but of months, that if we were not back by the end of august blandly was to send to find us, but neither sooner nor later.
“you can calculate for yourself,” i said.
“why, yes,” returned the captain, scratching his head; “and making a large allowance, sir, for all the gifts of providence, i should say we were pretty close hauled.”
“how do you mean?” i asked.
“it's a pity, sir, we lost that second load.
that's what i mean,”
replied the captain.
“as for powder and shot, we'll do.
but the rations are short, very short so short, dr. livesey, that we're perhaps as well without that extra mouth.”
and he pointed to the dead body under the flag.
just then, with a roar and a whistle, a round-shot passed high above the roof of the log-house and plumped far beyond us in the wood.
“oho!” said the captain.
“blaze away!
you've little enough powder already, my lads.”
at the second trial, the aim was better, and the ball descended inside the stockade, scattering a cloud of sand but doing no further damage.
“captain,” said the squire, “the house is quite invisible from the ship.
it must be the flag they are aiming at.
would it not be wiser to take it in?”
“strike my colours!” cried the captain.
“no, sir, not i”; and as soon as he had said the words, i think we all agreed with him.
for it was not only a piece of stout, seamanly, good feeling; it was good policy besides and showed our enemies that we despised their cannonade.
all through the evening they kept thundering away.
ball after ball flew over or fell short or kicked up the sand in the enclosure, but they had to fire so high that the shot fell dead and buried itself in the soft sand.
we had no ricochet to fear, and though one popped in through the roof of the log-house and out again through the floor, we soon got used to that sort of horse-play and minded it no more than cricket.
“there is one good thing about all this,” observed the captain; “the wood in front of us is likely clear.
the ebb has made a good while; our stores should be uncovered.
volunteers to go and bring in pork.”
gray and hunter were the first to come forward.
well armed, they stole out of the stockade, but it proved a useless mission.
the mutineers were bolder than we fancied or they put more trust in israel's gunnery.
for four or five of them were busy carrying off our stores and wading out with them to one of the gigs that lay close by, pulling an oar or so to hold her steady against the current.
silver was in the stern-sheets in command; and every man of them was now provided with a musket from some secret magazine of their own.
the captain sat down to his log, and here is the beginning of the entry:
alexander smollett, master; david livesey, ship's      doctor; abraham gray, carpenter's mate; john      trelawney, owner; john hunter and richard joyce,      owner's servants, landsmen being all that is left      faithful of the ship's company with stores for ten      days at short rations, came ashore this day and flew      british colours on the log-house in treasure island.
thomas redruth, owner's servant, landsman, shot by the      mutineers; james hawkins, cabin-boy
and at the same time, i was wondering over poor jim hawkins' fate.
a hail on the land side.
“somebody hailing us,” said hunter, who was on guard.
“doctor!
squire!
captain!
hullo, hunter, is that you?” came the cries.
and i ran to the door in time to see jim hawkins, safe and sound, come climbing over the stockade.
19
narrative resumed by jim hawkins: the garrison in the stockade
as soon as ben gunn saw the colours he came to a halt, stopped me by the arm, and sat down.
“now,” said he, “there's your friends, sure enough.”
“far more likely it's the mutineers,” i answered.
“that!” he cried.
“why, in a place like this, where nobody puts in but gen'lemen of fortune, silver would fly the jolly roger, you don't make no doubt of that.
no, that's your friends.
there's been blows too, and i reckon your friends has had the best of it; and here they are ashore in the old stockade, as was made years and years ago by flint.
ah, he was the man to have a headpiece, was flint!
barring rum, his match were never seen.
he were afraid of none, not he; on'y silver silver was that genteel.”
“well,” said i, “that may be so, and so be it; all the more reason that i should hurry on and join my friends.”
“nay, mate,” returned ben, “not you.
you're a good boy, or i'm mistook; but you're on'y a boy, all told.
now, ben gunn is fly.
rum wouldn't bring me there, where you're going not rum wouldn't, till i see your born gen'leman and gets it on his word of honour.
and you won't forget my words; 'a precious sight (that's what you'll say), a precious sight more confidence' and then nips him.”
and he pinched me the third time with the same air of cleverness.
“and when ben gunn is wanted, you know where to find him, jim.
just wheer you found him today.
and him that comes is to have a white thing in his hand, and he's to come alone.
oh!
and you'll say this: 'ben gunn,' says you, 'has reasons of his own.
'”
“well,” said i, “i believe i understand.
you have something to propose, and you wish to see the squire or the doctor, and you're to be found where i found you.
is that all?”
“and when?
says you,” he added.
“why, from about noon observation to about six bells.”
“good,” said i, “and now may i go?”
“you won't forget?” he inquired anxiously.
“precious sight, and reasons of his own, says you.
reasons of his own; that's the mainstay; as between man and man.
well, then” still holding me “i reckon you can go, jim.
and, jim, if you was to see silver, you wouldn't go for to sell ben gunn?
wild horses wouldn't draw it from you?
no, says you.
and if them pirates camp ashore, jim, what would you say but there'd be widders in the morning?”
here he was interrupted by a loud report, and a cannonball came tearing through the trees and pitched in the sand not a hundred yards from where we two were talking.
the next moment each of us had taken to his heels in a different direction.
for a good hour to come frequent reports shook the island, and balls kept crashing through the woods.
i moved from hiding-place to hiding-place, always pursued, or so it seemed to me, by these terrifying missiles.
but towards the end of the bombardment, though still i durst not venture in the direction of the stockade, where the balls fell oftenest, i had begun, in a manner, to pluck up my heart again, and after a long detour to the east, crept down among the shore-side trees.
the sun had just set, the sea breeze was rustling and tumbling in the woods and ruffling the grey surface of the anchorage; the tide, too, was far out, and great tracts of sand lay uncovered; the air, after the heat of the day, chilled me through my jacket.
the hispaniola still lay where she had anchored; but, sure enough, there was the jolly roger the black flag of piracy flying from her peak.
even as i looked, there came another red flash and another report that sent the echoes clattering, and one more round-shot whistled through the air.
it was the last of the cannonade.
i lay for some time watching the bustle which succeeded the attack.
men were demolishing something with axes on the beach near the stockade the poor jolly-boat, i afterwards discovered.
away, near the mouth of the river, a great fire was glowing among the trees, and between that point and the ship one of the gigs kept coming and going, the men, whom i had seen so gloomy, shouting at the oars like children.
but there was a sound in their voices which suggested rum.
at length i thought i might return towards the stockade.
i was pretty far down on the low, sandy spit that encloses the anchorage to the east, and is joined at half-water to skeleton island; and now, as i rose to my feet, i saw, some distance further down the spit and rising from among low bushes, an isolated rock, pretty high, and peculiarly white in colour.
it occurred to me that this might be the white rock of which ben gunn had spoken and that some day or other a boat might be wanted and i should know where to look for one.
then i skirted among the woods until i had regained the rear, or shoreward side, of the stockade, and was soon warmly welcomed by the faithful party.
i had soon told my story and began to look about me.
the log-house was made of unsquared trunks of pine roof, walls, and floor.
the latter stood in several places as much as a foot or a foot and a half above the surface of the sand.
there was a porch at the door, and under this porch the little spring welled up into an artificial basin of a rather odd kind no other than a great ship's kettle of iron, with the bottom knocked out, and sunk “to her bearings,” as the captain said, among the sand.
little had been left besides the framework of the house, but in one corner there was a stone slab laid down by way of hearth and an old rusty iron basket to contain the fire.
the slopes of the knoll and all the inside of the stockade had been cleared of timber to build the house, and we could see by the stumps what a fine and lofty grove had been destroyed.
most of the soil had been washed away or buried in drift after the removal of the trees; only where the streamlet ran down from the kettle a thick bed of moss and some ferns and little creeping bushes were still green among the sand.
very close around the stockade too close for defence, they said the wood still flourished high and dense, all of fir on the land side, but towards the sea with a large admixture of live-oaks.
the cold evening breeze, of which i have spoken, whistled through every chink of the rude building and sprinkled the floor with a continual rain of fine sand.
there was sand in our eyes, sand in our teeth, sand in our suppers, sand dancing in the spring at the bottom of the kettle, for all the world like porridge beginning to boil.
our chimney was a square hole in the roof; it was but a little part of the smoke that found its way out, and the rest eddied about the house and kept us coughing and piping the eye.
add to this that gray, the new man, had his face tied up in a bandage for a cut he had got in breaking away from the mutineers and that poor old tom redruth, still unburied, lay along the wall, stiff and stark, under the union jack.
if we had been allowed to sit idle, we should all have fallen in the blues, but captain smollett was never the man for that.
all hands were called up before him, and he divided us into watches.
the doctor and gray and i for one; the squire, hunter, and joyce upon the other.
tired though we all were, two were sent out for firewood; two more were set to dig a grave for redruth; the doctor was named cook; i was put sentry at the door; and the captain himself went from one to another, keeping up our spirits and lending a hand wherever it was wanted.
from time to time the doctor came to the door for a little air and to rest his eyes, which were almost smoked out of his head, and whenever he did so, he had a word for me.
“that man smollett,” he said once, “is a better man than i am.
and when i say that it means a deal, jim.”
another time he came and was silent for a while.
then he put his head on one side, and looked at me.
“is this ben gunn a man?” he asked.
“i do not know, sir,” said i.
“i am not very sure whether he's sane.”
“if there's any doubt about the matter, he is,” returned the doctor.
“a man who has been three years biting his nails on a desert island, jim, can't expect to appear as sane as you or me.
it doesn't lie in human nature.
was it cheese you said he had a fancy for?”
“yes, sir, cheese,” i answered.
“well, jim,” says he, “just see the good that comes of being dainty in your food.
you've seen my snuff-box, haven't you?
and you never saw me take snuff, the reason being that in my snuff-box i carry a piece of parmesan cheese a cheese made in italy, very nutritious.
well, that's for ben gunn!”
before supper was eaten we buried old tom in the sand and stood round him for a while bare-headed in the breeze.
a good deal of firewood had been got in, but not enough for the captain's fancy, and he shook his head over it and told us we “must get back to this tomorrow rather livelier.” then, when we had eaten our pork and each had a good stiff glass of brandy grog, the three chiefs got together in a corner to discuss our prospects.
it appears they were at their wits' end what to do, the stores being so low that we must have been starved into surrender long before help came.
but our best hope, it was decided, was to kill off the buccaneers until they either hauled down their flag or ran away with the hispaniola.
from nineteen they were already reduced to fifteen, two others were wounded, and one at least the man shot beside the gun severely wounded, if he were not dead.
every time we had a crack at them, we were to take it, saving our own lives, with the extremest care.
and besides that, we had two able allies rum and the climate.
as for the first, though we were about half a mile away, we could hear them roaring and singing late into the night; and as for the second, the doctor staked his wig that, camped where they were in the marsh and unprovided with remedies, the half of them would be on their backs before a week.
“so,” he added, “if we are not all shot down first they'll be glad to be packing in the schooner.
it's always a ship, and they can get to buccaneering again, i suppose.”
“first ship that ever i lost,” said captain smollett.
i was dead tired, as you may fancy; and when i got to sleep, which was not till after a great deal of tossing, i slept like a log of wood.
the rest had long been up and had already breakfasted and increased the pile of firewood by about half as much again when i was wakened by a bustle and the sound of voices.
“flag of truce!” i heard someone say; and then, immediately after, with a cry of surprise, “silver himself!”
and at that, up i jumped, and rubbing my eyes, ran to a loophole in the wall.
20
silver's embassy
sure enough, there were two men just outside the stockade, one of them waving a white cloth, the other, no less a person than silver himself, standing placidly by.
it was still quite early, and the coldest morning that i think i ever was abroad in a chill that pierced into the marrow.
the sky was bright and cloudless overhead, and the tops of the trees shone rosily in the sun.
but where silver stood with his lieutenant, all was still in shadow, and they waded knee-deep in a low white vapour that had crawled during the night out of the morass.
the chill and the vapour taken together told a poor tale of the island.
it was plainly a damp, feverish, unhealthy spot.
“keep indoors, men,” said the captain.
“ten to one this is a trick.”
then he hailed the buccaneer.
“who goes?
stand, or we fire.”
“flag of truce,” cried silver.
the captain was in the porch, keeping himself carefully out of the way of a treacherous shot, should any be intended.
he turned and spoke to us, “doctor's watch on the lookout.
dr. livesey take the north side, if you please; jim, the east; gray, west.
the watch below, all hands to load muskets.
lively, men, and careful.”
and then he turned again to the mutineers.
“and what do you want with your flag of truce?” he cried.
this time it was the other man who replied.
“cap'n silver, sir, to come on board and make terms,” he shouted.
“cap'n silver!
don't know him.
who's he?” cried the captain.
and we could hear him adding to himself, “cap'n, is it?
my heart, and here's promotion!”
long john answered for himself.
“me, sir.
these poor lads have chosen me cap'n, after your desertion, sir” laying a particular emphasis upon the word “desertion.” “we're willing to submit, if we can come to terms, and no bones about it.
all i ask is your word, cap'n smollett, to let me safe and sound out of this here stockade, and one minute to get out o'
shot before a gun is fired.”
“my man,” said captain smollett, “i have not the slightest desire to talk to you.
if you wish to talk to me, you can come, that's all.
if there's any treachery, it'll be on your side, and the lord help you.”
“that's enough, cap'n,” shouted long john cheerily.
“a word from you's enough.
i know a gentleman, and you may lay to that.”
we could see the man who carried the flag of truce attempting to hold silver back.
nor was that wonderful, seeing how cavalier had been the captain's answer.
but silver laughed at him aloud and slapped him on the back as if the idea of alarm had been absurd.
then he advanced to the stockade, threw over his crutch, got a leg up, and with great vigour and skill succeeded in surmounting the fence and dropping safely to the other side.
i will confess that i was far too much taken up with what was going on to be of the slightest use as sentry; indeed, i had already deserted my eastern loophole and crept up behind the captain, who had now seated himself on the threshold, with his elbows on his knees, his head in his hands, and his eyes fixed on the water as it bubbled out of the old iron kettle in the sand.
he was whistling “come, lasses and lads.”
silver had terrible hard work getting up the knoll.
what with the steepness of the incline, the thick tree stumps, and the soft sand, he and his crutch were as helpless as a ship in stays.
but he stuck to it like a man in silence, and at last arrived before the captain, whom he saluted in the handsomest style.
he was tricked out in his best; an immense blue coat, thick with brass buttons, hung as low as to his knees, and a fine laced hat was set on the back of his head.
“here you are, my man,” said the captain, raising his head.
“you had better sit down.”
“you ain't a-going to let me inside, cap'n?” complained long john.
“it's a main cold morning, to be sure, sir, to sit outside upon the sand.”
“why, silver,” said the captain, “if you had pleased to be an honest man, you might have been sitting in your galley.
it's your own doing.
you're either my ship's cook and then you were treated handsome or cap'n silver, a common mutineer and pirate, and then you can go hang!”
“well, well, cap'n,” returned the sea-cook, sitting down as he was bidden on the sand, “you'll have to give me a hand up again, that's all.
a sweet pretty place you have of it here.
ah, there's jim!
the top of the morning to you, jim.
doctor, here's my service.
why, there you all are together like a happy family, in a manner of speaking.”
“if you have anything to say, my man, better say it,” said the captain.
“right you were, cap'n smollett,” replied silver.
“dooty is dooty, to be sure.
well now, you look here, that was a good lay of yours last night.
i don't deny it was a good lay.
some of you pretty handy with a handspike-end.
and i'll not deny neither but what some of my people was shook maybe all was shook; maybe i was shook myself; maybe that's why i'm here for terms.
but you mark me, cap'n, it won't do twice, by thunder!
we'll have to do sentry-go and ease off a point or so on the rum.
maybe you think we were all a sheet in the wind's eye.
but i'll tell you i was sober; i was on'y dog tired; and if i'd awoke a second sooner, i'd 'a caught you at the act, i would.
he wasn't dead when i got round to him, not he.”
“well?” says captain smollett as cool as can be.
all that silver said was a riddle to him, but you would never have guessed it from his tone.
as for me, i began to have an inkling.
ben gunn's last words came back to my mind.
i began to suppose that he had paid the buccaneers a visit while they all lay drunk together round their fire, and i reckoned up with glee that we had only fourteen enemies to deal with.
“well, here it is,” said silver.
“we want that treasure, and we'll have it that's our point!
you would just as soon save your lives, i reckon; and that's yours.
you have a chart, haven't you?”
“that's as may be,” replied the captain.
“oh, well, you have, i know that,” returned long john.
“you needn't be so husky with a man; there ain't a particle of service in that, and you may lay to it.
what i mean is, we want your chart.
now, i never meant you no harm, myself.”
“that won't do with me, my man,” interrupted the captain.
“we know exactly what you meant to do, and we don't care, for now, you see, you can't do it.”
and the captain looked at him calmly and proceeded to fill a pipe.
“if abe gray ” silver broke out.
“avast there!” cried mr. smollett.
“gray told me nothing, and i asked him nothing; and what's more, i would see you and him and this whole island blown clean out of the water into blazes first.
so there's my mind for you, my man, on that.”
this little whiff of temper seemed to cool silver down.
he had been growing nettled before, but now he pulled himself together.
“like enough,” said he.
“i would set no limits to what gentlemen might consider shipshape, or might not, as the case were.
and seein' as how you are about to take a pipe, cap'n, i'll make so free as do likewise.”
and he filled a pipe and lighted it; and the two men sat silently smoking for quite a while, now looking each other in the face, now stopping their tobacco, now leaning forward to spit.
it was as good as the play to see them.
“now,” resumed silver, “here it is.
you give us the chart to get the treasure by, and drop shooting poor seamen and stoving of their heads in while asleep.
you do that, and we'll offer you a choice.
either you come aboard along of us, once the treasure shipped, and then i'll give you my affy-davy, upon my word of honour, to clap you somewhere safe ashore.
or if that ain't to your fancy, some of my hands being rough and having old scores on account of hazing, then you can stay here, you can.
we'll divide stores with you, man for man; and i'll give my affy-davy, as before to speak the first ship i sight, and send 'em here to pick you up.
now, you'll own that's talking.
handsomer you couldn't look to get, now you.
and i hope” raising his voice “that all hands in this here block house will overhaul my words, for what is spoke to one is spoke to all.”
captain smollett rose from his seat and knocked out the ashes of his pipe in the palm of his left hand.
“is that all?” he asked.
“every last word, by thunder!” answered john.
“refuse that, and you've seen the last of me but musket-balls.”
“very good,” said the captain.
“now you'll hear me.
if you'll come up one by one, unarmed, i'll engage to clap you all in irons and take you home to a fair trial in england.
if you won't, my name is alexander smollett, i've flown my sovereign's colours, and i'll see you all to davy jones.
you can't find the treasure.
you can't sail the ship there's not a man among you fit to sail the ship.
you can't fight us gray, there, got away from five of you.
your ship's in irons, master silver; you're on a lee shore, and so you'll find.
i stand here and tell you so; and they're the last good words you'll get from me, for in the name of heaven, i'll put a bullet in your back when next i meet you.
tramp, my lad.
bundle out of this, please, hand over hand, and double quick.”
silver's face was a picture; his eyes started in his head with wrath.
he shook the fire out of his pipe.
“give me a hand up!” he cried.
“not i,” returned the captain.
“who'll give me a hand up?” he roared.
not a man among us moved.
growling the foulest imprecations, he crawled along the sand till he got hold of the porch and could hoist himself again upon his crutch.
then he spat into the spring.
“there!” he cried.
“that's what i think of ye.
before an hour's out, i'll stove in your old block house like a rum puncheon.
laugh, by thunder, laugh!
before an hour's out, ye'll laugh upon the other side.
them that die'll be the lucky ones.”
and with a dreadful oath he stumbled off, ploughed down the sand, was helped across the stockade, after four or five failures, by the man with the flag of truce, and disappeared in an instant afterwards among the trees.
21
the attack
as soon as silver disappeared, the captain, who had been closely watching him, turned towards the interior of the house and found not a man of us at his post but gray.
it was the first time we had ever seen him angry.
“quarters!” he roared.
and then, as we all slunk back to our places, “gray,” he said, “i'll put your name in the log; you've stood by your duty like a seaman.
mr. trelawney, i'm surprised at you, sir.
doctor, i thought you had worn the king's coat!
if that was how you served at fontenoy, sir, you'd have been better in your berth.”
the doctor's watch were all back at their loopholes, the rest were busy loading the spare muskets, and everyone with a red face, you may be certain, and a flea in his ear, as the saying is.
the captain looked on for a while in silence.
then he spoke.
“my lads,” said he, “i've given silver a broadside.
i pitched it in red-hot on purpose; and before the hour's out, as he said, we shall be boarded.
we're outnumbered, i needn't tell you that, but we fight in shelter; and a minute ago i should have said we fought with discipline.
i've no manner of doubt that we can drub them, if you choose.”
then he went the rounds and saw, as he said, that all was clear.
on the two short sides of the house, east and west, there were only two loopholes; on the south side where the porch was, two again; and on the north side, five.
there was a round score of muskets for the seven of us; the firewood had been built into four piles tables, you might say one about the middle of each side, and on each of these tables some ammunition and four loaded muskets were laid ready to the hand of the defenders.
in the middle, the cutlasses lay ranged.
“toss out the fire,” said the captain; “the chill is past, and we mustn't have smoke in our eyes.”
the iron fire-basket was carried bodily out by mr. trelawney, and the embers smothered among sand.
“hawkins hasn't had his breakfast.
hawkins, help yourself, and back to your post to eat it,” continued captain smollett.
“lively, now, my lad; you'll want it before you've done.
hunter, serve out a round of brandy to all hands.”
and while this was going on, the captain completed, in his own mind, the plan of the defence.
“doctor, you will take the door,” he resumed.
“see, and don't expose yourself; keep within, and fire through the porch.
hunter, take the east side, there.
joyce, you stand by the west, my man.
mr. trelawney, you are the best shot you and gray will take this long north side, with the five loopholes; it's there the danger is.
if they can get up to it and fire in upon us through our own ports, things would begin to look dirty.
hawkins, neither you nor i are much account at the shooting; we'll stand by to load and bear a hand.”
as the captain had said, the chill was past.
as soon as the sun had climbed above our girdle of trees, it fell with all its force upon the clearing and drank up the vapours at a draught.
soon the sand was baking and the resin melting in the logs of the block house.
jackets and coats were flung aside, shirts thrown open at the neck and rolled up to the shoulders; and we stood there, each at his post, in a fever of heat and anxiety.
an hour passed away.
“hang them!” said the captain.
“this is as dull as the doldrums.
gray, whistle for a wind.”
and just at that moment came the first news of the attack.
“if you please, sir,” said joyce, “if i see anyone, am i to fire?”
“i told you so!” cried the captain.
“thank you, sir,” returned joyce with the same quiet civility.
nothing followed for a time, but the remark had set us all on the alert, straining ears and eyes the musketeers with their pieces balanced in their hands, the captain out in the middle of the block house with his mouth very tight and a frown on his face.
so some seconds passed, till suddenly joyce whipped up his musket and fired.
the report had scarcely died away ere it was repeated and repeated from without in a scattering volley, shot behind shot, like a string of geese, from every side of the enclosure.
several bullets struck the log-house, but not one entered; and as the smoke cleared away and vanished, the stockade and the woods around it looked as quiet and empty as before.
not a bough waved, not the gleam of a musket-barrel betrayed the presence of our foes.
“did you hit your man?” asked the captain.
“no, sir,” replied joyce.
“i believe not, sir.”
“next best thing to tell the truth,” muttered captain smollett.
“load his gun, hawkins.
how many should say there were on your side, doctor?”
“i know precisely,” said dr. livesey.
“three shots were fired on this side.
i saw the three flashes two close together one farther to the west.”
“three!” repeated the captain.
“and how many on yours, mr. trelawney?”
but this was not so easily answered.
there had come many from the north seven by the squire's computation, eight or nine according to gray.
from the east and west only a single shot had been fired.
it was plain, therefore, that the attack would be developed from the north and that on the other three sides we were only to be annoyed by a show of hostilities.
but captain smollett made no change in his arrangements.
if the mutineers succeeded in crossing the stockade, he argued, they would take possession of any unprotected loophole and shoot us down like rats in our own stronghold.
nor had we much time left to us for thought.
suddenly, with a loud huzza, a little cloud of pirates leaped from the woods on the north side and ran straight on the stockade.
at the same moment, the fire was once more opened from the woods, and a rifle ball sang through the doorway and knocked the doctor's musket into bits.
the boarders swarmed over the fence like monkeys.
squire and gray fired again and yet again; three men fell, one forwards into the enclosure, two back on the outside.
but of these, one was evidently more frightened than hurt, for he was on his feet again in a crack and instantly disappeared among the trees.
two had bit the dust, one had fled, four had made good their footing inside our defences, while from the shelter of the woods seven or eight men, each evidently supplied with several muskets, kept up a hot though useless fire on the log-house.
the four who had boarded made straight before them for the building, shouting as they ran, and the men among the trees shouted back to encourage them.
several shots were fired, but such was the hurry of the marksmen that not one appears to have taken effect.
in a moment, the four pirates had swarmed up the mound and were upon us.
the head of job anderson, the boatswain, appeared at the middle loophole.
“at 'em, all hands all hands!” he roared in a voice of thunder.
at the same moment, another pirate grasped hunter's musket by the muzzle, wrenched it from his hands, plucked it through the loophole, and with one stunning blow, laid the poor fellow senseless on the floor.
meanwhile a third, running unharmed all around the house, appeared suddenly in the doorway and fell with his cutlass on the doctor.
our position was utterly reversed.
a moment since we were firing, under cover, at an exposed enemy; now it was we who lay uncovered and could not return a blow.
the log-house was full of smoke, to which we owed our comparative safety.
cries and confusion, the flashes and reports of pistol-shots, and one loud groan rang in my ears.
“out, lads, out, and fight 'em in the open!
cutlasses!” cried the captain.
i snatched a cutlass from the pile, and someone, at the same time snatching another, gave me a cut across the knuckles which i hardly felt.
i dashed out of the door into the clear sunlight.
someone was close behind, i knew not whom.
right in front, the doctor was pursuing his assailant down the hill, and just as my eyes fell upon him, beat down his guard and sent him sprawling on his back with a great slash across the face.
“round the house, lads!
round the house!” cried the captain; and even in the hurly-burly, i perceived a change in his voice.
mechanically, i obeyed, turned eastwards, and with my cutlass raised, ran round the corner of the house.
next moment i was face to face with anderson.
he roared aloud, and his hanger went up above his head, flashing in the sunlight.
i had not time to be afraid, but as the blow still hung impending, leaped in a trice upon one side, and missing my foot in the soft sand, rolled headlong down the slope.
when i had first sallied from the door, the other mutineers had been already swarming up the palisade to make an end of us.
one man, in a red night-cap, with his cutlass in his mouth, had even got upon the top and thrown a leg across.
well, so short had been the interval that when i found my feet again all was in the same posture, the fellow with the red night-cap still half-way over, another still just showing his head above the top of the stockade.
and yet, in this breath of time, the fight was over and the victory was ours.
gray, following close behind me, had cut down the big boatswain ere he had time to recover from his last blow.
another had been shot at a loophole in the very act of firing into the house and now lay in agony, the pistol still smoking in his hand.
a third, as i had seen, the doctor had disposed of at a blow.
of the four who had scaled the palisade, one only remained unaccounted for, and he, having left his cutlass on the field, was now clambering out again with the fear of death upon him.
“fire fire from the house!” cried the doctor.
“and you, lads, back into cover.”
but his words were unheeded, no shot was fired, and the last boarder made good his escape and disappeared with the rest into the wood.
in three seconds nothing remained of the attacking party but the five who had fallen, four on the inside and one on the outside of the palisade.
the doctor and gray and i ran full speed for shelter.
the survivors would soon be back where they had left their muskets, and at any moment the fire might recommence.
the house was by this time somewhat cleared of smoke, and we saw at a glance the price we had paid for victory.
hunter lay beside his loophole, stunned; joyce by his, shot through the head, never to move again; while right in the centre, the squire was supporting the captain, one as pale as the other.
“the captain's wounded,” said mr. trelawney.
“have they run?” asked mr. smollett.
“all that could, you may be bound,” returned the doctor; “but there's five of them will never run again.”
“five!” cried the captain.
“come, that's better.
five against three leaves us four to nine.
that's better odds than we had at starting.
we were seven to nineteen then, or thought we were, and that's as bad to bear.” *
*the mutineers were soon only eight in number, for the man shot by mr.
trelawney on board the schooner died that same evening of his wound.
but this was, of course, not known till after by the faithful party.
part five my sea adventure
22
how my sea adventure began
there was no return of the mutineers not so much as another shot out of the woods.
they had “got their rations for that day,” as the captain put it, and we had the place to ourselves and a quiet time to overhaul the wounded and get dinner.
squire and i cooked outside in spite of the danger, and even outside we could hardly tell what we were at, for horror of the loud groans that reached us from the doctor's patients.
out of the eight men who had fallen in the action, only three still breathed that one of the pirates who had been shot at the loophole, hunter, and captain smollett; and of these, the first two were as good as dead; the mutineer indeed died under the doctor's knife, and hunter, do what we could, never recovered consciousness in this world.
he lingered all day, breathing loudly like the old buccaneer at home in his apoplectic fit, but the bones of his chest had been crushed by the blow and his skull fractured in falling, and some time in the following night, without sign or sound, he went to his maker.
as for the captain, his wounds were grievous indeed, but not dangerous.
no organ was fatally injured.
anderson's ball for it was job that shot him first had broken his shoulder-blade and touched the lung, not badly; the second had only torn and displaced some muscles in the calf.
he was sure to recover, the doctor said, but in the meantime, and for weeks to come, he must not walk nor move his arm, nor so much as speak when he could help it.
my own accidental cut across the knuckles was a flea-bite.
doctor livesey patched it up with plaster and pulled my ears for me into the bargain.
after dinner the squire and the doctor sat by the captain's side awhile in consultation; and when they had talked to their hearts' content, it being then a little past noon, the doctor took up his hat and pistols, girt on a cutlass, put the chart in his pocket, and with a musket over his shoulder crossed the palisade on the north side and set off briskly through the trees.
gray and i were sitting together at the far end of the block house, to be out of earshot of our officers consulting; and gray took his pipe out of his mouth and fairly forgot to put it back again, so thunder-struck he was at this occurrence.
“why, in the name of davy jones,” said he, “is dr. livesey mad?”
“why no,” says i.
“he's about the last of this crew for that, i take it.”
“well, shipmate,” said gray, “mad he may not be; but if he's not, you mark my words, i am.”
“i take it,” replied i, “the doctor has his idea; and if i am right, he's going now to see ben gunn.”
i was right, as appeared later; but in the meantime, the house being stifling hot and the little patch of sand inside the palisade ablaze with midday sun, i began to get another thought into my head, which was not by any means so right.
what i began to do was to envy the doctor walking in the cool shadow of the woods with the birds about him and the pleasant smell of the pines, while i sat grilling, with my clothes stuck to the hot resin, and so much blood about me and so many poor dead bodies lying all around that i took a disgust of the place that was almost as strong as fear.
all the time i was washing out the block house, and then washing up the things from dinner, this disgust and envy kept growing stronger and stronger, till at last, being near a bread-bag, and no one then observing me, i took the first step towards my escapade and filled both pockets of my coat with biscuit.
i was a fool, if you like, and certainly i was going to do a foolish, over-bold act; but i was determined to do it with all the precautions in my power.
these biscuits, should anything befall me, would keep me, at least, from starving till far on in the next day.
the next thing i laid hold of was a brace of pistols, and as i already had a powder-horn and bullets, i felt myself well supplied with arms.
as for the scheme i had in my head, it was not a bad one in itself.
i was to go down the sandy spit that divides the anchorage on the east from the open sea, find the white rock i had observed last evening, and ascertain whether it was there or not that ben gunn had hidden his boat, a thing quite worth doing, as i still believe.
but as i was certain i should not be allowed to leave the enclosure, my only plan was to take french leave and slip out when nobody was watching, and that was so bad a way of doing it as made the thing itself wrong.
but i was only a boy, and i had made my mind up.
well, as things at last fell out, i found an admirable opportunity.
the squire and gray were busy helping the captain with his bandages, the coast was clear, i made a bolt for it over the stockade and into the thickest of the trees, and before my absence was observed i was out of cry of my companions.
this was my second folly, far worse than the first, as i left but two sound men to guard the house; but like the first, it was a help towards saving all of us.
i took my way straight for the east coast of the island, for i was determined to go down the sea side of the spit to avoid all chance of observation from the anchorage.
it was already late in the afternoon, although still warm and sunny.
as i continued to thread the tall woods, i could hear from far before me not only the continuous thunder of the surf, but a certain tossing of foliage and grinding of boughs which showed me the sea breeze had set in higher than usual.
soon cool draughts of air began to reach me, and a few steps farther i came forth into the open borders of the grove, and saw the sea lying blue and sunny to the horizon and the surf tumbling and tossing its foam along the beach.
i have never seen the sea quiet round treasure island.
the sun might blaze overhead, the air be without a breath, the surface smooth and blue, but still these great rollers would be running along all the external coast, thundering and thundering by day and night; and i scarce believe there is one spot in the island where a man would be out of earshot of their noise.
i walked along beside the surf with great enjoyment, till, thinking i was now got far enough to the south, i took the cover of some thick bushes and crept warily up to the ridge of the spit.
behind me was the sea, in front the anchorage.
the sea breeze, as though it had the sooner blown itself out by its unusual violence, was already at an end; it had been succeeded by light, variable airs from the south and south-east, carrying great banks of fog; and the anchorage, under lee of skeleton island, lay still and leaden as when first we entered it.
the hispaniola, in that unbroken mirror, was exactly portrayed from the truck to the waterline, the jolly roger hanging from her peak.
alongside lay one of the gigs, silver in the stern-sheets him i could always recognize while a couple of men were leaning over the stern bulwarks, one of them with a red cap the very rogue that i had seen some hours before stride-legs upon the palisade.
apparently they were talking and laughing, though at that distance upwards of a mile i could, of course, hear no word of what was said.
all at once there began the most horrid, unearthly screaming, which at first startled me badly, though i had soon remembered the voice of captain flint and even thought i could make out the bird by her bright plumage as she sat perched upon her master's wrist.
soon after, the jolly-boat shoved off and pulled for shore, and the man with the red cap and his comrade went below by the cabin companion.
just about the same time, the sun had gone down behind the spy-glass, and as the fog was collecting rapidly, it began to grow dark in earnest.
i saw i must lose no time if i were to find the boat that evening.
the white rock, visible enough above the brush, was still some eighth of a mile further down the spit, and it took me a goodish while to get up with it, crawling, often on all fours, among the scrub.
night had almost come when i laid my hand on its rough sides.
right below it there was an exceedingly small hollow of green turf, hidden by banks and a thick underwood about knee-deep, that grew there very plentifully; and in the centre of the dell, sure enough, a little tent of goat-skins, like what the gipsies carry about with them in england.
i dropped into the hollow, lifted the side of the tent, and there was ben gunn's boat home-made if ever anything was home-made; a rude, lop-sided framework of tough wood, and stretched upon that a covering of goat-skin, with the hair inside.
the thing was extremely small, even for me, and i can hardly imagine that it could have floated with a full-sized man.
there was one thwart set as low as possible, a kind of stretcher in the bows, and a double paddle for propulsion.
i had not then seen a coracle, such as the ancient britons made, but i have seen one since, and i can give you no fairer idea of ben gunn's boat than by saying it was like the first and the worst coracle ever made by man.
but the great advantage of the coracle it certainly possessed, for it was exceedingly light and portable.
well, now that i had found the boat, you would have thought i had had enough of truantry for once, but in the meantime i had taken another notion and become so obstinately fond of it that i would have carried it out, i believe, in the teeth of captain smollett himself.
this was to slip out under cover of the night, cut the hispaniola adrift, and let her go ashore where she fancied.
i had quite made up my mind that the mutineers, after their repulse of the morning, had nothing nearer their hearts than to up anchor and away to sea; this, i thought, it would be a fine thing to prevent, and now that i had seen how they left their watchmen unprovided with a boat, i thought it might be done with little risk.
down i sat to wait for darkness, and made a hearty meal of biscuit.
it was a night out of ten thousand for my purpose.
the fog had now buried all heaven.
as the last rays of daylight dwindled and disappeared, absolute blackness settled down on treasure island.
and when, at last, i shouldered the coracle and groped my way stumblingly out of the hollow where i had supped, there were but two points visible on the whole anchorage.
one was the great fire on shore, by which the defeated pirates lay carousing in the swamp.
the other, a mere blur of light upon the darkness, indicated the position of the anchored ship.
she had swung round to the ebb her bow was now towards me the only lights on board were in the cabin, and what i saw was merely a reflection on the fog of the strong rays that flowed from the stern window.
the ebb had already run some time, and i had to wade through a long belt of swampy sand, where i sank several times above the ankle, before i came to the edge of the retreating water, and wading a little way in, with some strength and dexterity, set my coracle, keel downwards, on the surface.
23
the ebb-tide runs
the coracle as i had ample reason to know before i was done with her was a very safe boat for a person of my height and weight, both buoyant and clever in a seaway; but she was the most cross-grained, lop-sided craft to manage.
do as you pleased, she always made more leeway than anything else, and turning round and round was the manoeuvre she was best at.
even ben gunn himself has admitted that she was “queer to handle till you knew her way.”
certainly i did not know her way.
she turned in every direction but the one i was bound to go; the most part of the time we were broadside on, and i am very sure i never should have made the ship at all but for the tide.
by good fortune, paddle as i pleased, the tide was still sweeping me down; and there lay the hispaniola right in the fairway, hardly to be missed.
first she loomed before me like a blot of something yet blacker than darkness, then her spars and hull began to take shape, and the next moment, as it seemed (for, the farther i went, the brisker grew the current of the ebb), i was alongside of her hawser and had laid hold.
the hawser was as taut as a bowstring, and the current so strong she pulled upon her anchor.
all round the hull, in the blackness, the rippling current bubbled and chattered like a little mountain stream.
one cut with my sea-gully and the hispaniola would go humming down the tide.
so far so good, but it next occurred to my recollection that a taut hawser, suddenly cut, is a thing as dangerous as a kicking horse.
ten to one, if i were so foolhardy as to cut the hispaniola from her anchor, i and the coracle would be knocked clean out of the water.
this brought me to a full stop, and if fortune had not again particularly favoured me, i should have had to abandon my design.
but the light airs which had begun blowing from the south-east and south had hauled round after nightfall into the south-west.
just while i was meditating, a puff came, caught the hispaniola, and forced her up into the current; and to my great joy, i felt the hawser slacken in my grasp, and the hand by which i held it dip for a second under water.
with that i made my mind up, took out my gully, opened it with my teeth, and cut one strand after another, till the vessel swung only by two.
then i lay quiet, waiting to sever these last when the strain should be once more lightened by a breath of wind.
all this time i had heard the sound of loud voices from the cabin, but to say truth, my mind had been so entirely taken up with other thoughts that i had scarcely given ear.
now, however, when i had nothing else to do, i began to pay more heed.
one i recognized for the coxswain's, israel hands, that had been flint's gunner in former days.
the other was, of course, my friend of the red night-cap.
both men were plainly the worse of drink, and they were still drinking, for even while i was listening, one of them, with a drunken cry, opened the stern window and threw out something, which i divined to be an empty bottle.
but they were not only tipsy; it was plain that they were furiously angry.
oaths flew like hailstones, and every now and then there came forth such an explosion as i thought was sure to end in blows.
but each time the quarrel passed off and the voices grumbled lower for a while, until the next crisis came and in its turn passed away without result.
on shore, i could see the glow of the great camp-fire burning warmly through the shore-side trees.
someone was singing, a dull, old, droning sailor's song, with a droop and a quaver at the end of every verse, and seemingly no end to it at all but the patience of the singer.
i had heard it on the voyage more than once and remembered these words:
“but one man of her crew alive,      what put to sea with seventy-five.”
and i thought it was a ditty rather too dolefully appropriate for a company that had met such cruel losses in the morning.
but, indeed, from what i saw, all these buccaneers were as callous as the sea they sailed on.
at last the breeze came; the schooner sidled and drew nearer in the dark; i felt the hawser slacken once more, and with a good, tough effort, cut the last fibres through.
the breeze had but little action on the coracle, and i was almost instantly swept against the bows of the hispaniola.
at the same time, the schooner began to turn upon her heel, spinning slowly, end for end, across the current.
i wrought like a fiend, for i expected every moment to be swamped; and since i found i could not push the coracle directly off, i now shoved straight astern.
at length i was clear of my dangerous neighbour, and just as i gave the last impulsion, my hands came across a light cord that was trailing overboard across the stern bulwarks.
instantly i grasped it.
why i should have done so i can hardly say.
it was at first mere instinct, but once i had it in my hands and found it fast, curiosity began to get the upper hand, and i determined i should have one look through the cabin window.
i pulled in hand over hand on the cord, and when i judged myself near enough, rose at infinite risk to about half my height and thus commanded the roof and a slice of the interior of the cabin.
by this time the schooner and her little consort were gliding pretty swiftly through the water; indeed, we had already fetched up level with the camp-fire.
the ship was talking, as sailors say, loudly, treading the innumerable ripples with an incessant weltering splash; and until i got my eye above the window-sill i could not comprehend why the watchmen had taken no alarm.
one glance, however, was sufficient; and it was only one glance that i durst take from that unsteady skiff.
it showed me hands and his companion locked together in deadly wrestle, each with a hand upon the other's throat.
i dropped upon the thwart again, none too soon, for i was near overboard.
i could see nothing for the moment but these two furious, encrimsoned faces swaying together under the smoky lamp, and i shut my eyes to let them grow once more familiar with the darkness.
the endless ballad had come to an end at last, and the whole diminished company about the camp-fire had broken into the chorus i had heard so often:
“fifteen men on the dead man's chest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!
drink and the devil had done for the rest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
i was just thinking how busy drink and the devil were at that very moment in the cabin of the hispaniola, when i was surprised by a sudden lurch of the coracle.
at the same moment, she yawed sharply and seemed to change her course.
the speed in the meantime had strangely increased.
i opened my eyes at once.
all round me were little ripples, combing over with a sharp, bristling sound and slightly phosphorescent.
the hispaniola herself, a few yards in whose wake i was still being whirled along, seemed to stagger in her course, and i saw her spars toss a little against the blackness of the night; nay, as i looked longer, i made sure she also was wheeling to the southward.
i glanced over my shoulder, and my heart jumped against my ribs.
there, right behind me, was the glow of the camp-fire.
the current had turned at right angles, sweeping round along with it the tall schooner and the little dancing coracle; ever quickening, ever bubbling higher, ever muttering louder, it went spinning through the narrows for the open sea.
suddenly the schooner in front of me gave a violent yaw, turning, perhaps, through twenty degrees; and almost at the same moment one shout followed another from on board; i could hear feet pounding on the companion ladder and i knew that the two drunkards had at last been interrupted in their quarrel and awakened to a sense of their disaster.
i lay down flat in the bottom of that wretched skiff and devoutly recommended my spirit to its maker.
at the end of the straits, i made sure we must fall into some bar of raging breakers, where all my troubles would be ended speedily; and though i could, perhaps, bear to die, i could not bear to look upon my fate as it approached.
so i must have lain for hours, continually beaten to and fro upon the billows, now and again wetted with flying sprays, and never ceasing to expect death at the next plunge.
gradually weariness grew upon me; a numbness, an occasional stupor, fell upon my mind even in the midst of my terrors, until sleep at last supervened and in my sea-tossed coracle i lay and dreamed of home and the old admiral benbow.
24
the cruise of the coracle
it was broad day when i awoke and found myself tossing at the south-west end of treasure island.
the sun was up but was still hid from me behind the great bulk of the spy-glass, which on this side descended almost to the sea in formidable cliffs.
haulbowline head and mizzen-mast hill were at my elbow, the hill bare and dark, the head bound with cliffs forty or fifty feet high and fringed with great masses of fallen rock.
i was scarce a quarter of a mile to seaward, and it was my first thought to paddle in and land.
that notion was soon given over.
among the fallen rocks the breakers spouted and bellowed; loud reverberations, heavy sprays flying and falling, succeeded one another from second to second; and i saw myself, if i ventured nearer, dashed to death upon the rough shore or spending my strength in vain to scale the beetling crags.
nor was that all, for crawling together on flat tables of rock or letting themselves drop into the sea with loud reports i beheld huge slimy monsters soft snails, as it were, of incredible bigness two or three score of them together, making the rocks to echo with their barkings.
i have understood since that they were sea lions, and entirely harmless.
but the look of them, added to the difficulty of the shore and the high running of the surf, was more than enough to disgust me of that landing-place.
i felt willing rather to starve at sea than to confront such perils.
in the meantime i had a better chance, as i supposed, before me.
north of haulbowline head, the land runs in a long way, leaving at low tide a long stretch of yellow sand.
to the north of that, again, there comes another cape cape of the woods, as it was marked upon the chart buried in tall green pines, which descended to the margin of the sea.
i remembered what silver had said about the current that sets northward along the whole west coast of treasure island, and seeing from my position that i was already under its influence, i preferred to leave haulbowline head behind me and reserve my strength for an attempt to land upon the kindlier-looking cape of the woods.
there was a great, smooth swell upon the sea.
the wind blowing steady and gentle from the south, there was no contrariety between that and the current, and the billows rose and fell unbroken.
had it been otherwise, i must long ago have perished; but as it was, it is surprising how easily and securely my little and light boat could ride.
often, as i still lay at the bottom and kept no more than an eye above the gunwale, i would see a big blue summit heaving close above me; yet the coracle would but bounce a little, dance as if on springs, and subside on the other side into the trough as lightly as a bird.
i began after a little to grow very bold and sat up to try my skill at paddling.
but even a small change in the disposition of the weight will produce violent changes in the behaviour of a coracle.
and i had hardly moved before the boat, giving up at once her gentle dancing movement, ran straight down a slope of water so steep that it made me giddy, and struck her nose, with a spout of spray, deep into the side of the next wave.
i was drenched and terrified, and fell instantly back into my old position, whereupon the coracle seemed to find her head again and led me as softly as before among the billows.
it was plain she was not to be interfered with, and at that rate, since i could in no way influence her course, what hope had i left of reaching land?
i began to be horribly frightened, but i kept my head, for all that.
first, moving with all care, i gradually baled out the coracle with my sea-cap; then, getting my eye once more above the gunwale, i set myself to study how it was she managed to slip so quietly through the rollers.
i found each wave, instead of the big, smooth glossy mountain it looks from shore or from a vessel's deck, was for all the world like any range of hills on dry land, full of peaks and smooth places and valleys.
the coracle, left to herself, turning from side to side, threaded, so to speak, her way through these lower parts and avoided the steep slopes and higher, toppling summits of the wave.
“well, now,” thought i to myself, “it is plain i must lie where i am and not disturb the balance; but it is plain also that i can put the paddle over the side and from time to time, in smooth places, give her a shove or two towards land.” no sooner thought upon than done.
there i lay on my elbows in the most trying attitude, and every now and again gave a weak stroke or two to turn her head to shore.
it was very tiring and slow work, yet i did visibly gain ground; and as we drew near the cape of the woods, though i saw i must infallibly miss that point, i had still made some hundred yards of easting.
i was, indeed, close in.
i could see the cool green tree-tops swaying together in the breeze, and i felt sure i should make the next promontory without fail.
it was high time, for i now began to be tortured with thirst.
the glow of the sun from above, its thousandfold reflection from the waves, the sea-water that fell and dried upon me, caking my very lips with salt, combined to make my throat burn and my brain ache.
the sight of the trees so near at hand had almost made me sick with longing, but the current had soon carried me past the point, and as the next reach of sea opened out, i beheld a sight that changed the nature of my thoughts.
right in front of me, not half a mile away, i beheld the hispaniola under sail.
i made sure, of course, that i should be taken; but i was so distressed for want of water that i scarce knew whether to be glad or sorry at the thought, and long before i had come to a conclusion, surprise had taken entire possession of my mind and i could do nothing but stare and wonder.
the hispaniola was under her main-sail and two jibs, and the beautiful white canvas shone in the sun like snow or silver.
when i first sighted her, all her sails were drawing; she was lying a course about north-west, and i presumed the men on board were going round the island on their way back to the anchorage.
presently she began to fetch more and more to the westward, so that i thought they had sighted me and were going about in chase.
at last, however, she fell right into the wind's eye, was taken dead aback, and stood there awhile helpless, with her sails shivering.
“clumsy fellows,” said i; “they must still be drunk as owls.” and i thought how captain smollett would have set them skipping.
meanwhile the schooner gradually fell off and filled again upon another tack, sailed swiftly for a minute or so, and brought up once more dead in the wind's eye.
again and again was this repeated.
to and fro, up and down, north, south, east, and west, the hispaniola sailed by swoops and dashes, and at each repetition ended as she had begun, with idly flapping canvas.
it became plain to me that nobody was steering.
and if so, where were the men?
either they were dead drunk or had deserted her, i thought, and perhaps if i could get on board i might return the vessel to her captain.
the current was bearing coracle and schooner southward at an equal rate.
as for the latter's sailing, it was so wild and intermittent, and she hung each time so long in irons, that she certainly gained nothing, if she did not even lose.
if only i dared to sit up and paddle, i made sure that i could overhaul her.
the scheme had an air of adventure that inspired me, and the thought of the water breaker beside the fore companion doubled my growing courage.
up i got, was welcomed almost instantly by another cloud of spray, but this time stuck to my purpose and set myself, with all my strength and caution, to paddle after the unsteered hispaniola.
once i shipped a sea so heavy that i had to stop and bail, with my heart fluttering like a bird, but gradually i got into the way of the thing and guided my coracle among the waves, with only now and then a blow upon her bows and a dash of foam in my face.
i was now gaining rapidly on the schooner; i could see the brass glisten on the tiller as it banged about, and still no soul appeared upon her decks.
i could not choose but suppose she was deserted.
if not, the men were lying drunk below, where i might batten them down, perhaps, and do what i chose with the ship.
for some time she had been doing the worse thing possible for me standing still.
she headed nearly due south, yawing, of course, all the time.
each time she fell off, her sails partly filled, and these brought her in a moment right to the wind again.
i have said this was the worst thing possible for me, for helpless as she looked in this situation, with the canvas cracking like cannon and the blocks trundling and banging on the deck, she still continued to run away from me, not only with the speed of the current, but by the whole amount of her leeway, which was naturally great.
but now, at last, i had my chance.
the breeze fell for some seconds, very low, and the current gradually turning her, the hispaniola revolved slowly round her centre and at last presented me her stern, with the cabin window still gaping open and the lamp over the table still burning on into the day.
the main-sail hung drooped like a banner.
she was stock-still but for the current.
for the last little while i had even lost, but now redoubling my efforts, i began once more to overhaul the chase.
i was not a hundred yards from her when the wind came again in a clap; she filled on the port tack and was off again, stooping and skimming like a swallow.
my first impulse was one of despair, but my second was towards joy.
round she came, till she was broadside on to me round still till she had covered a half and then two thirds and then three quarters of the distance that separated us.
i could see the waves boiling white under her forefoot.
immensely tall she looked to me from my low station in the coracle.
and then, of a sudden, i began to comprehend.
i had scarce time to think scarce time to act and save myself.
i was on the summit of one swell when the schooner came stooping over the next.
the bowsprit was over my head.
i sprang to my feet and leaped, stamping the coracle under water.
with one hand i caught the jib-boom, while my foot was lodged between the stay and the brace; and as i still clung there panting, a dull blow told me that the schooner had charged down upon and struck the coracle and that i was left without retreat on the hispaniola.
25
i strike the jolly roger
i had scarce gained a position on the bowsprit when the flying jib flapped and filled upon the other tack, with a report like a gun.
the schooner trembled to her keel under the reverse, but next moment, the other sails still drawing, the jib flapped back again and hung idle.
this had nearly tossed me off into the sea; and now i lost no time, crawled back along the bowsprit, and tumbled head foremost on the deck.
i was on the lee side of the forecastle, and the mainsail, which was still drawing, concealed from me a certain portion of the after-deck.
not a soul was to be seen.
the planks, which had not been swabbed since the mutiny, bore the print of many feet, and an empty bottle, broken by the neck, tumbled to and fro like a live thing in the scuppers.
suddenly the hispaniola came right into the wind.
the jibs behind me cracked aloud, the rudder slammed to, the whole ship gave a sickening heave and shudder, and at the same moment the main-boom swung inboard, the sheet groaning in the blocks, and showed me the lee after-deck.
there were the two watchmen, sure enough: red-cap on his back, as stiff as a handspike, with his arms stretched out like those of a crucifix and his teeth showing through his open lips; israel hands propped against the bulwarks, his chin on his chest, his hands lying open before him on the deck, his face as white, under its tan, as a tallow candle.
for a while the ship kept bucking and sidling like a vicious horse, the sails filling, now on one tack, now on another, and the boom swinging to and fro till the mast groaned aloud under the strain.
now and again too there would come a cloud of light sprays over the bulwark and a heavy blow of the ship's bows against the swell; so much heavier weather was made of it by this great rigged ship than by my home-made, lop-sided coracle, now gone to the bottom of the sea.
at every jump of the schooner, red-cap slipped to and fro, but what was ghastly to behold neither his attitude nor his fixed teeth-disclosing grin was anyway disturbed by this rough usage.
at every jump too, hands appeared still more to sink into himself and settle down upon the deck, his feet sliding ever the farther out, and the whole body canting towards the stern, so that his face became, little by little, hid from me; and at last i could see nothing beyond his ear and the frayed ringlet of one whisker.
at the same time, i observed, around both of them, splashes of dark blood upon the planks and began to feel sure that they had killed each other in their drunken wrath.
while i was thus looking and wondering, in a calm moment, when the ship was still, israel hands turned partly round and with a low moan writhed himself back to the position in which i had seen him first.
the moan, which told of pain and deadly weakness, and the way in which his jaw hung open went right to my heart.
but when i remembered the talk i had overheard from the apple barrel, all pity left me.
i walked aft until i reached the main-mast.
“come aboard, mr. hands,” i said ironically.
he rolled his eyes round heavily, but he was too far gone to express surprise.
all he could do was to utter one word, “brandy.”
it occurred to me there was no time to lose, and dodging the boom as it once more lurched across the deck, i slipped aft and down the companion stairs into the cabin.
it was such a scene of confusion as you can hardly fancy.
all the lockfast places had been broken open in quest of the chart.
the floor was thick with mud where ruffians had sat down to drink or consult after wading in the marshes round their camp.
the bulkheads, all painted in clear white and beaded round with gilt, bore a pattern of dirty hands.
dozens of empty bottles clinked together in corners to the rolling of the ship.
one of the doctor's medical books lay open on the table, half of the leaves gutted out, i suppose, for pipelights.
in the midst of all this the lamp still cast a smoky glow, obscure and brown as umber.
i went into the cellar; all the barrels were gone, and of the bottles a most surprising number had been drunk out and thrown away.
certainly, since the mutiny began, not a man of them could ever have been sober.
foraging about, i found a bottle with some brandy left, for hands; and for myself i routed out some biscuit, some pickled fruits, a great bunch of raisins, and a piece of cheese.
with these i came on deck, put down my own stock behind the rudder head and well out of the coxswain's reach, went forward to the water-breaker, and had a good deep drink of water, and then, and not till then, gave hands the brandy.
he must have drunk a gill before he took the bottle from his mouth.
“aye,” said he, “by thunder, but i wanted some o' that!”
i had sat down already in my own corner and begun to eat.
“much hurt?” i asked him.
he grunted, or rather, i might say, he barked.
“if that doctor was aboard,” he said, “i'd be right enough in a couple of turns, but i don't have no manner of luck, you see, and that's what's the matter with me.
as for that swab, he's good and dead, he is,” he added, indicating the man with the red cap.
“he warn't no seaman anyhow.
and where mought you have come from?”
“well,” said i, “i've come aboard to take possession of this ship, mr. hands; and you'll please regard me as your captain until further notice.”
he looked at me sourly enough but said nothing.
some of the colour had come back into his cheeks, though he still looked very sick and still continued to slip out and settle down as the ship banged about.
“by the by,” i continued, “i can't have these colours, mr. hands; and by your leave, i'll strike 'em.
better none than these.”
and again dodging the boom, i ran to the colour lines, handed down their cursed black flag, and chucked it overboard.
“god save the king!” said i, waving my cap.
“and there's an end to captain silver!”
he watched me keenly and slyly, his chin all the while on his breast.
“i reckon,” he said at last, “i reckon, cap'n hawkins, you'll kind of want to get ashore now.
s'pose we talks.”
“why, yes,” says i, “with all my heart, mr. hands.
say on.” and i went back to my meal with a good appetite.
“this man,” he began, nodding feebly at the corpse “ o'brien were his name, a rank irelander this man and me got the canvas on her, meaning for to sail her back.
well, he's dead now, he is as dead as bilge; and who's to sail this ship, i don't see.
without i gives you a hint, you ain't that man, as far's i can tell.
now, look here, you gives me food and drink and a old scarf or ankecher to tie my wound up, you do, and i'll tell you how to sail her, and that's about square all round, i take it.”
“i'll tell you one thing,” says i: “i'm not going back to captain kidd's anchorage.
i mean to get into north inlet and beach her quietly there.”
“to be sure you did,” he cried.
“why, i ain't sich an infernal lubber after all.
i can see, can't i?
i've tried my fling, i have, and i've lost, and it's you has the wind of me.
north inlet?
why, i haven't no ch'ice, not i!
i'd help you sail her up to execution dock, by thunder!
so i would.”
well, as it seemed to me, there was some sense in this.
we struck our bargain on the spot.
in three minutes i had the hispaniola sailing easily before the wind along the coast of treasure island, with good hopes of turning the northern point ere noon and beating down again as far as north inlet before high water, when we might beach her safely and wait till the subsiding tide permitted us to land.
then i lashed the tiller and went below to my own chest, where i got a soft silk handkerchief of my mother's.
with this, and with my aid, hands bound up the great bleeding stab he had received in the thigh, and after he had eaten a little and had a swallow or two more of the brandy, he began to pick up visibly, sat straighter up, spoke louder and clearer, and looked in every way another man.
the breeze served us admirably.
we skimmed before it like a bird, the coast of the island flashing by and the view changing every minute.
soon we were past the high lands and bowling beside low, sandy country, sparsely dotted with dwarf pines, and soon we were beyond that again and had turned the corner of the rocky hill that ends the island on the north.
i was greatly elated with my new command, and pleased with the bright, sunshiny weather and these different prospects of the coast.
i had now plenty of water and good things to eat, and my conscience, which had smitten me hard for my desertion, was quieted by the great conquest i had made.
i should, i think, have had nothing left me to desire but for the eyes of the coxswain as they followed me derisively about the deck and the odd smile that appeared continually on his face.
it was a smile that had in it something both of pain and weakness a haggard old man's smile; but there was, besides that, a grain of derision, a shadow of treachery, in his expression as he craftily watched, and watched, and watched me at my work.
26
israel hands
the wind, serving us to a desire, now hauled into the west.
we could run so much the easier from the north-east corner of the island to the mouth of the north inlet.
only, as we had no power to anchor and dared not beach her till the tide had flowed a good deal farther, time hung on our hands.
the coxswain told me how to lay the ship to; after a good many trials i succeeded, and we both sat in silence over another meal.
“cap'n,” said he at length with that same uncomfortable smile, “here's my old shipmate, o'brien; s'pose you was to heave him overboard.
i ain't partic'lar as a rule, and i don't take no blame for settling his hash, but i don't reckon him ornamental now, do you?”
“i'm not strong enough, and i don't like the job; and there he lies, for me,” said i.
“this here's an unlucky ship, this hispaniola, jim,” he went on, blinking.
“there's a power of men been killed in this hispaniola a sight o' poor seamen dead and gone since you and me took ship to bristol.
i never seen sich dirty luck, not i. there was this here o'brien now he's dead, ain't he?
well now, i'm no scholar, and you're a lad as can read and figure, and to put it straight, do you take it as a dead man is dead for good, or do he come alive again?”
“you can kill the body, mr. hands, but not the spirit; you must know that already,” i replied.
“o'brien there is in another world, and may be watching us.”
“ah!” says he.
“well, that's unfort'nate appears as if killing parties was a waste of time.
howsomever, sperrits don't reckon for much, by what i've seen.
i'll chance it with the sperrits, jim.
and now, you've spoke up free, and i'll take it kind if you'd step down into that there cabin and get me a well, a shiver my timbers!
i can't hit the name on 't; well, you get me a bottle of wine, jim this here brandy's too strong for my head.”
now, the coxswain's hesitation seemed to be unnatural, and as for the notion of his preferring wine to brandy, i entirely disbelieved it.
the whole story was a pretext.
he wanted me to leave the deck so much was plain; but with what purpose i could in no way imagine.
his eyes never met mine; they kept wandering to and fro, up and down, now with a look to the sky, now with a flitting glance upon the dead o'brien.
all the time he kept smiling and putting his tongue out in the most guilty, embarrassed manner, so that a child could have told that he was bent on some deception.
i was prompt with my answer, however, for i saw where my advantage lay and that with a fellow so densely stupid i could easily conceal my suspicions to the end.
“some wine?” i said.
“far better.
will you have white or red?”
“well, i reckon it's about the blessed same to me, shipmate,” he replied; “so it's strong, and plenty of it, what's the odds?”
“all right,” i answered.
“i'll bring you port, mr. hands.
but i'll have to dig for it.”
with that i scuttled down the companion with all the noise i could, slipped off my shoes, ran quietly along the sparred gallery, mounted the forecastle ladder, and popped my head out of the fore companion.
i knew he would not expect to see me there, yet i took every precaution possible, and certainly the worst of my suspicions proved too true.
he had risen from his position to his hands and knees, and though his leg obviously hurt him pretty sharply when he moved for i could hear him stifle a groan yet it was at a good, rattling rate that he trailed himself across the deck.
in half a minute he had reached the port scuppers and picked, out of a coil of rope, a long knife, or rather a short dirk, discoloured to the hilt with blood.
he looked upon it for a moment, thrusting forth his under jaw, tried the point upon his hand, and then, hastily concealing it in the bosom of his jacket, trundled back again into his old place against the bulwark.
this was all that i required to know.
israel could move about, he was now armed, and if he had been at so much trouble to get rid of me, it was plain that i was meant to be the victim.
what he would do afterwards whether he would try to crawl right across the island from north inlet to the camp among the swamps or whether he would fire long tom, trusting that his own comrades might come first to help him was, of course, more than i could say.
yet i felt sure that i could trust him in one point, since in that our interests jumped together, and that was in the disposition of the schooner.
we both desired to have her stranded safe enough, in a sheltered place, and so that, when the time came, she could be got off again with as little labour and danger as might be; and until that was done i considered that my life would certainly be spared.
while i was thus turning the business over in my mind, i had not been idle with my body.
i had stolen back to the cabin, slipped once more into my shoes, and laid my hand at random on a bottle of wine, and now, with this for an excuse, i made my reappearance on the deck.
hands lay as i had left him, all fallen together in a bundle and with his eyelids lowered as though he were too weak to bear the light.
he looked up, however, at my coming, knocked the neck off the bottle like a man who had done the same thing often, and took a good swig, with his favourite toast of “here's luck!” then he lay quiet for a little, and then, pulling out a stick of tobacco, begged me to cut him a quid.
“cut me a junk o' that,” says he, “for i haven't no knife and hardly strength enough, so be as i had.
ah, jim, jim, i reckon i've missed stays!
cut me a quid, as'll likely be the last, lad, for i'm for my long home, and no mistake.”
“well,” said i, “i'll cut you some tobacco, but if i was you and thought myself so badly, i would go to my prayers like a christian man.”
“why?” said he.
“now, you tell me why.”
“why?” i cried.
“you were asking me just now about the dead.
you've broken your trust; you've lived in sin and lies and blood; there's a man you killed lying at your feet this moment, and you ask me why!
for god's mercy, mr. hands, that's why.”
i spoke with a little heat, thinking of the bloody dirk he had hidden in his pocket and designed, in his ill thoughts, to end me with.
he, for his part, took a great draught of the wine and spoke with the most unusual solemnity.
“for thirty years,” he said, “i've sailed the seas and seen good and bad, better and worse, fair weather and foul, provisions running out, knives going, and what not.
well, now i tell you, i never seen good come o' goodness yet.
him as strikes first is my fancy; dead men don't bite; them's my views amen, so be it.
and now, you look here,” he added, suddenly changing his tone, “we've had about enough of this foolery.
the tide's made good enough by now.
you just take my orders, cap'n hawkins, and we'll sail slap in and be done with it.”
all told, we had scarce two miles to run; but the navigation was delicate, the entrance to this northern anchorage was not only narrow and shoal, but lay east and west, so that the schooner must be nicely handled to be got in.
i think i was a good, prompt subaltern, and i am very sure that hands was an excellent pilot, for we went about and about and dodged in, shaving the banks, with a certainty and a neatness that were a pleasure to behold.
scarcely had we passed the heads before the land closed around us.
the shores of north inlet were as thickly wooded as those of the southern anchorage, but the space was longer and narrower and more like, what in truth it was, the estuary of a river.
right before us, at the southern end, we saw the wreck of a ship in the last stages of dilapidation.
it had been a great vessel of three masts but had lain so long exposed to the injuries of the weather that it was hung about with great webs of dripping seaweed, and on the deck of it shore bushes had taken root and now flourished thick with flowers.
it was a sad sight, but it showed us that the anchorage was calm.
“now,” said hands, “look there; there's a pet bit for to beach a ship in.
fine flat sand, never a cat's paw, trees all around of it, and flowers a-blowing like a garding on that old ship.”
“and once beached,” i inquired, “how shall we get her off again?”
“why, so,” he replied: “you take a line ashore there on the other side at low water, take a turn about one of them big pines; bring it back, take a turn around the capstan, and lie to for the tide.
come high water, all hands take a pull upon the line, and off she comes as sweet as natur'.
and now, boy, you stand by.
we're near the bit now, and she's too much way on her.
starboard a little so steady starboard larboard a little steady steady!”
so he issued his commands, which i breathlessly obeyed, till, all of a sudden, he cried, “now, my hearty, luff!” and i put the helm hard up, and the hispaniola swung round rapidly and ran stem on for the low, wooded shore.
the excitement of these last manoeuvres had somewhat interfered with the watch i had kept hitherto, sharply enough, upon the coxswain.
even then i was still so much interested, waiting for the ship to touch, that i had quite forgot the peril that hung over my head and stood craning over the starboard bulwarks and watching the ripples spreading wide before the bows.
i might have fallen without a struggle for my life had not a sudden disquietude seized upon me and made me turn my head.
perhaps i had heard a creak or seen his shadow moving with the tail of my eye; perhaps it was an instinct like a cat's; but, sure enough, when i looked round, there was hands, already half-way towards me, with the dirk in his right hand.
we must both have cried out aloud when our eyes met, but while mine was the shrill cry of terror, his was a roar of fury like a charging bully's.
at the same instant, he threw himself forward and i leapt sideways towards the bows.
as i did so, i let go of the tiller, which sprang sharp to leeward, and i think this saved my life, for it struck hands across the chest and stopped him, for the moment, dead.
before he could recover, i was safe out of the corner where he had me trapped, with all the deck to dodge about.
just forward of the main-mast i stopped, drew a pistol from my pocket, took a cool aim, though he had already turned and was once more coming directly after me, and drew the trigger.
the hammer fell, but there followed neither flash nor sound; the priming was useless with sea-water.
i cursed myself for my neglect.
why had not i, long before, reprimed and reloaded my only weapons?
then i should not have been as now, a mere fleeing sheep before this butcher.
wounded as he was, it was wonderful how fast he could move, his grizzled hair tumbling over his face, and his face itself as red as a red ensign with his haste and fury.
i had no time to try my other pistol, nor indeed much inclination, for i was sure it would be useless.
one thing i saw plainly: i must not simply retreat before him, or he would speedily hold me boxed into the bows, as a moment since he had so nearly boxed me in the stern.
once so caught, and nine or ten inches of the blood-stained dirk would be my last experience on this side of eternity.
i placed my palms against the main-mast, which was of a goodish bigness, and waited, every nerve upon the stretch.
seeing that i meant to dodge, he also paused; and a moment or two passed in feints on his part and corresponding movements upon mine.
it was such a game as i had often played at home about the rocks of black hill cove, but never before, you may be sure, with such a wildly beating heart as now.
still, as i say, it was a boy's game, and i thought i could hold my own at it against an elderly seaman with a wounded thigh.
indeed my courage had begun to rise so high that i allowed myself a few darting thoughts on what would be the end of the affair, and while i saw certainly that i could spin it out for long, i saw no hope of any ultimate escape.
well, while things stood thus, suddenly the hispaniola struck, staggered, ground for an instant in the sand, and then, swift as a blow, canted over to the port side till the deck stood at an angle of forty-five degrees and about a puncheon of water splashed into the scupper holes and lay, in a pool, between the deck and bulwark.
we were both of us capsized in a second, and both of us rolled, almost together, into the scuppers, the dead red-cap, with his arms still spread out, tumbling stiffly after us.
so near were we, indeed, that my head came against the coxswain's foot with a crack that made my teeth rattle.
blow and all, i was the first afoot again, for hands had got involved with the dead body.
the sudden canting of the ship had made the deck no place for running on; i had to find some new way of escape, and that upon the instant, for my foe was almost touching me.
quick as thought, i sprang into the mizzen shrouds, rattled up hand over hand, and did not draw a breath till i was seated on the cross-trees.
i had been saved by being prompt; the dirk had struck not half a foot below me as i pursued my upward flight; and there stood israel hands with his mouth open and his face upturned to mine, a perfect statue of surprise and disappointment.
now that i had a moment to myself, i lost no time in changing the priming of my pistol, and then, having one ready for service, and to make assurance doubly sure, i proceeded to draw the load of the other and recharge it afresh from the beginning.
my new employment struck hands all of a heap; he began to see the dice going against him, and after an obvious hesitation, he also hauled himself heavily into the shrouds, and with the dirk in his teeth, began slowly and painfully to mount.
it cost him no end of time and groans to haul his wounded leg behind him, and i had quietly finished my arrangements before he was much more than a third of the way up.
then, with a pistol in either hand, i addressed him.
“one more step, mr. hands,” said i, “and i'll blow your brains out!
dead men don't bite, you know,” i added with a chuckle.
he stopped instantly.
i could see by the working of his face that he was trying to think, and the process was so slow and laborious that, in my new-found security, i laughed aloud.
at last, with a swallow or two, he spoke, his face still wearing the same expression of extreme perplexity.
in order to speak he had to take the dagger from his mouth, but in all else he remained unmoved.
“jim,” says he, “i reckon we're fouled, you and me, and we'll have to sign articles.
i'd have had you but for that there lurch, but i don't have no luck, not i; and i reckon i'll have to strike, which comes hard, you see, for a master mariner to a ship's younker like you, jim.”
i was drinking in his words and smiling away, as conceited as a cock upon a wall, when, all in a breath, back went his right hand over his shoulder.
something sang like an arrow through the air; i felt a blow and then a sharp pang, and there i was pinned by the shoulder to the mast.
in the horrid pain and surprise of the moment i scarce can say it was by my own volition, and i am sure it was without a conscious aim both my pistols went off, and both escaped out of my hands.
they did not fall alone; with a choked cry, the coxswain loosed his grasp upon the shrouds and plunged head first into the water.
27
“pieces of eight”
owing to the cant of the vessel, the masts hung far out over the water, and from my perch on the cross-trees i had nothing below me but the surface of the bay.
hands, who was not so far up, was in consequence nearer to the ship and fell between me and the bulwarks.
he rose once to the surface in a lather of foam and blood and then sank again for good.
as the water settled, i could see him lying huddled together on the clean, bright sand in the shadow of the vessel's sides.
a fish or two whipped past his body.
sometimes, by the quivering of the water, he appeared to move a little, as if he were trying to rise.
but he was dead enough, for all that, being both shot and drowned, and was food for fish in the very place where he had designed my slaughter.
i was no sooner certain of this than i began to feel sick, faint, and terrified.
the hot blood was running over my back and chest.
the dirk, where it had pinned my shoulder to the mast, seemed to burn like a hot iron; yet it was not so much these real sufferings that distressed me, for these, it seemed to me, i could bear without a murmur; it was the horror i had upon my mind of falling from the cross-trees into that still green water, beside the body of the coxswain.
i clung with both hands till my nails ached, and i shut my eyes as if to cover up the peril.
gradually my mind came back again, my pulses quieted down to a more natural time, and i was once more in possession of myself.
it was my first thought to pluck forth the dirk, but either it stuck too hard or my nerve failed me, and i desisted with a violent shudder.
oddly enough, that very shudder did the business.
the knife, in fact, had come the nearest in the world to missing me altogether; it held me by a mere pinch of skin, and this the shudder tore away.
the blood ran down the faster, to be sure, but i was my own master again and only tacked to the mast by my coat and shirt.
these last i broke through with a sudden jerk, and then regained the deck by the starboard shrouds.
for nothing in the world would i have again ventured, shaken as i was, upon the overhanging port shrouds from which israel had so lately fallen.
i went below and did what i could for my wound; it pained me a good deal and still bled freely, but it was neither deep nor dangerous, nor did it greatly gall me when i used my arm.
then i looked around me, and as the ship was now, in a sense, my own, i began to think of clearing it from its last passenger the dead man, o'brien.
he had pitched, as i have said, against the bulwarks, where he lay like some horrible, ungainly sort of puppet, life-size, indeed, but how different from life's colour or life's comeliness!
in that position i could easily have my way with him, and as the habit of tragical adventures had worn off almost all my terror for the dead, i took him by the waist as if he had been a sack of bran and with one good heave, tumbled him overboard.
he went in with a sounding plunge; the red cap came off and remained floating on the surface; and as soon as the splash subsided, i could see him and israel lying side by side, both wavering with the tremulous movement of the water.
o'brien, though still quite a young man, was very bald.
there he lay, with that bald head across the knees of the man who had killed him and the quick fishes steering to and fro over both.
i was now alone upon the ship; the tide had just turned.
the sun was within so few degrees of setting that already the shadow of the pines upon the western shore began to reach right across the anchorage and fall in patterns on the deck.
the evening breeze had sprung up, and though it was well warded off by the hill with the two peaks upon the east, the cordage had begun to sing a little softly to itself and the idle sails to rattle to and fro.
i began to see a danger to the ship.
the jibs i speedily doused and brought tumbling to the deck, but the main-sail was a harder matter.
of course, when the schooner canted over, the boom had swung out-board, and the cap of it and a foot or two of sail hung even under water.
i thought this made it still more dangerous; yet the strain was so heavy that i half feared to meddle.
at last i got my knife and cut the halyards.
the peak dropped instantly, a great belly of loose canvas floated broad upon the water, and since, pull as i liked, i could not budge the downhall, that was the extent of what i could accomplish.
for the rest, the hispaniola must trust to luck, like myself.
by this time the whole anchorage had fallen into shadow the last rays, i remember, falling through a glade of the wood and shining bright as jewels on the flowery mantle of the wreck.
it began to be chill; the tide was rapidly fleeting seaward, the schooner settling more and more on her beam-ends.
i scrambled forward and looked over.
it seemed shallow enough, and holding the cut hawser in both hands for a last security, i let myself drop softly overboard.
the water scarcely reached my waist; the sand was firm and covered with ripple marks, and i waded ashore in great spirits, leaving the hispaniola on her side, with her main-sail trailing wide upon the surface of the bay.
about the same time, the sun went fairly down and the breeze whistled low in the dusk among the tossing pines.
at least, and at last, i was off the sea, nor had i returned thence empty-handed.
there lay the schooner, clear at last from buccaneers and ready for our own men to board and get to sea again.
i had nothing nearer my fancy than to get home to the stockade and boast of my achievements.
possibly i might be blamed a bit for my truantry, but the recapture of the hispaniola was a clenching answer, and i hoped that even captain smollett would confess i had not lost my time.
so thinking, and in famous spirits, i began to set my face homeward for the block house and my companions.
i remembered that the most easterly of the rivers which drain into captain kidd's anchorage ran from the two-peaked hill upon my left, and i bent my course in that direction that i might pass the stream while it was small.
the wood was pretty open, and keeping along the lower spurs, i had soon turned the corner of that hill, and not long after waded to the mid-calf across the watercourse.
this brought me near to where i had encountered ben gunn, the maroon; and i walked more circumspectly, keeping an eye on every side.
the dusk had come nigh hand completely, and as i opened out the cleft between the two peaks, i became aware of a wavering glow against the sky, where, as i judged, the man of the island was cooking his supper before a roaring fire.
and yet i wondered, in my heart, that he should show himself so careless.
for if i could see this radiance, might it not reach the eyes of silver himself where he camped upon the shore among the marshes?
gradually the night fell blacker; it was all i could do to guide myself even roughly towards my destination; the double hill behind me and the spy-glass on my right hand loomed faint and fainter; the stars were few and pale; and in the low ground where i wandered i kept tripping among bushes and rolling into sandy pits.
suddenly a kind of brightness fell about me.
i looked up; a pale glimmer of moonbeams had alighted on the summit of the spy-glass, and soon after i saw something broad and silvery moving low down behind the trees, and knew the moon had risen.
with this to help me, i passed rapidly over what remained to me of my journey, and sometimes walking, sometimes running, impatiently drew near to the stockade.
yet, as i began to thread the grove that lies before it, i was not so thoughtless but that i slacked my pace and went a trifle warily.
it would have been a poor end of my adventures to get shot down by my own party in mistake.
the moon was climbing higher and higher, its light began to fall here and there in masses through the more open districts of the wood, and right in front of me a glow of a different colour appeared among the trees.
it was red and hot, and now and again it was a little darkened as it were, the embers of a bonfire smouldering.
for the life of me i could not think what it might be.
at last i came right down upon the borders of the clearing.
the western end was already steeped in moonshine; the rest, and the block house itself, still lay in a black shadow chequered with long silvery streaks of light.
on the other side of the house an immense fire had burned itself into clear embers and shed a steady, red reverberation, contrasted strongly with the mellow paleness of the moon.
there was not a soul stirring nor a sound beside the noises of the breeze.
i stopped, with much wonder in my heart, and perhaps a little terror also.
it had not been our way to build great fires; we were, indeed, by the captain's orders, somewhat niggardly of firewood, and i began to fear that something had gone wrong while i was absent.
i stole round by the eastern end, keeping close in shadow, and at a convenient place, where the darkness was thickest, crossed the palisade.
to make assurance surer, i got upon my hands and knees and crawled, without a sound, towards the corner of the house.
as i drew nearer, my heart was suddenly and greatly lightened.
it is not a pleasant noise in itself, and i have often complained of it at other times, but just then it was like music to hear my friends snoring together so loud and peaceful in their sleep.
the sea-cry of the watch, that beautiful “all's well,” never fell more reassuringly on my ear.
in the meantime, there was no doubt of one thing; they kept an infamous bad watch.
if it had been silver and his lads that were now creeping in on them, not a soul would have seen daybreak.
that was what it was, thought i, to have the captain wounded; and again i blamed myself sharply for leaving them in that danger with so few to mount guard.
by this time i had got to the door and stood up.
all was dark within, so that i could distinguish nothing by the eye.
as for sounds, there was the steady drone of the snorers and a small occasional noise, a flickering or pecking that i could in no way account for.
with my arms before me i walked steadily in.
i should lie down in my own place (i thought with a silent chuckle) and enjoy their faces when they found me in the morning.
my foot struck something yielding it was a sleeper's leg; and he turned and groaned, but without awaking.
and then, all of a sudden, a shrill voice broke forth out of the darkness:
“pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!” and so forth, without pause or change, like the clacking of a tiny mill.
silver's green parrot, captain flint!
it was she whom i had heard pecking at a piece of bark; it was she, keeping better watch than any human being, who thus announced my arrival with her wearisome refrain.
i had no time left me to recover.
at the sharp, clipping tone of the parrot, the sleepers awoke and sprang up; and with a mighty oath, the voice of silver cried, “who goes?”
i turned to run, struck violently against one person, recoiled, and ran full into the arms of a second, who for his part closed upon and held me tight.
“bring a torch, dick,” said silver when my capture was thus assured.
and one of the men left the log-house and presently returned with a lighted brand.
part six captain silver
28
in the enemy's camp
the red glare of the torch, lighting up the interior of the block house, showed me the worst of my apprehensions realized.
the pirates were in possession of the house and stores: there was the cask of cognac, there were the pork and bread, as before, and what tenfold increased my horror, not a sign of any prisoner.
i could only judge that all had perished, and my heart smote me sorely that i had not been there to perish with them.
there were six of the buccaneers, all told; not another man was left alive.
five of them were on their feet, flushed and swollen, suddenly called out of the first sleep of drunkenness.
the sixth had only risen upon his elbow; he was deadly pale, and the blood-stained bandage round his head told that he had recently been wounded, and still more recently dressed.
i remembered the man who had been shot and had run back among the woods in the great attack, and doubted not that this was he.
the parrot sat, preening her plumage, on long john's shoulder.
he himself, i thought, looked somewhat paler and more stern than i was used to.
he still wore the fine broadcloth suit in which he had fulfilled his mission, but it was bitterly the worse for wear, daubed with clay and torn with the sharp briers of the wood.
“so,” said he, “here's jim hawkins, shiver my timbers!
dropped in, like, eh?
well, come, i take that friendly.”
and thereupon he sat down across the brandy cask and began to fill a pipe.
“give me a loan of the link, dick,” said he; and then, when he had a good light, “that'll do, lad,” he added; “stick the glim in the wood heap; and you, gentlemen, bring yourselves to!
you needn't stand up for mr. hawkins; he'll excuse you, you may lay to that.
and so, jim” stopping the tobacco “here you were, and quite a pleasant surprise for poor old john.
i see you were smart when first i set my eyes on you, but this here gets away from me clean, it do.”
to all this, as may be well supposed, i made no answer.
they had set me with my back against the wall, and i stood there, looking silver in the face, pluckily enough, i hope, to all outward appearance, but with black despair in my heart.
silver took a whiff or two of his pipe with great composure and then ran on again.
“now, you see, jim, so be as you are here,” says he, “i'll give you a piece of my mind.
i've always liked you, i have, for a lad of spirit, and the picter of my own self when i was young and handsome.
i always wanted you to jine and take your share, and die a gentleman, and now, my cock, you've got to.
cap'n smollett's a fine seaman, as i'll own up to any day, but stiff on discipline.
'dooty is dooty,' says he, and right he is.
just you keep clear of the cap'n.
the doctor himself is gone dead again you 'ungrateful scamp' was what he said; and the short and the long of the whole story is about here: you can't go back to your own lot, for they won't have you; and without you start a third ship's company all by yourself, which might be lonely, you'll have to jine with cap'n silver.”
so far so good.
my friends, then, were still alive, and though i partly believed the truth of silver's statement, that the cabin party were incensed at me for my desertion, i was more relieved than distressed by what i heard.
“i don't say nothing as to your being in our hands,” continued silver, “though there you are, and you may lay to it.
i'm all for argyment; i never seen good come out o' threatening.
if you like the service, well, you'll jine; and if you don't, jim, why, you're free to answer no free and welcome, shipmate; and if fairer can be said by mortal seaman, shiver my sides!”
“am i to answer, then?” i asked with a very tremulous voice.
through all this sneering talk, i was made to feel the threat of death that overhung me, and my cheeks burned and my heart beat painfully in my breast.
“lad,” said silver, “no one's a-pressing of you.
take your bearings.
none of us won't hurry you, mate; time goes so pleasant in your company, you see.”
“well,” says i, growing a bit bolder, “if i'm to choose, i declare i have a right to know what's what, and why you're here, and where my friends are.”
“wot's wot?” repeated one of the buccaneers in a deep growl.
“ah, he'd be a lucky one as knowed that!”
“you'll perhaps batten down your hatches till you're spoke to, my friend,” cried silver truculently to this speaker.
and then, in his first gracious tones, he replied to me, “yesterday morning, mr.
hawkins,” said he, “in the dog-watch, down came doctor livesey with a flag of truce.
says he, 'cap'n silver, you're sold out.
ship's gone.'
well, maybe we'd been taking a glass, and a song to help it round.
i won't say no.
leastways, none of us had looked out.
we looked out, and by thunder, the old ship was gone!
i never seen a pack o' fools look fishier; and you may lay to that, if i tells you that looked the fishiest.
'well,' says the doctor, 'let's bargain.'
we bargained, him and i, and here we are: stores, brandy, block house, the firewood you was thoughtful enough to cut, and in a manner of speaking, the whole blessed boat, from cross-trees to kelson.
as for them, they've tramped; i don't know where's they are.”
he drew again quietly at his pipe.
“and lest you should take it into that head of yours,” he went on, “that you was included in the treaty, here's the last word that was said: 'how many are you,' says i, 'to leave?'
'four,' says he; 'four, and one of us wounded.
as for that boy, i don't know where he is, confound him,' says he, 'nor i don't much care.
we're about sick of him.'
these was his words.
“is that all?” i asked.
“well, it's all that you're to hear, my son,” returned silver.
“and now i am to choose?”
“and now you are to choose, and you may lay to that,” said silver.
“well,” said i, “i am not such a fool but i know pretty well what i have to look for.
let the worst come to the worst, it's little i care.
i've seen too many die since i fell in with you.
but there's a thing or two i have to tell you,” i said, and by this time i was quite excited; “and the first is this: here you are, in a bad way ship lost, treasure lost, men lost, your whole business gone to wreck; and if you want to know who did it it was i!
i was in the apple barrel the night we sighted land, and i heard you, john, and you, dick johnson, and hands, who is now at the bottom of the sea, and told every word you said before the hour was out.
and as for the schooner, it was i who cut her cable, and it was i that killed the men you had aboard of her, and it was i who brought her where you'll never see her more, not one of you.
the laugh's on my side; i've had the top of this business from the first; i no more fear you than i fear a fly.
kill me, if you please, or spare me.
but one thing i'll say, and no more; if you spare me, bygones are bygones, and when you fellows are in court for piracy, i'll save you all i can.
it is for you to choose.
kill another and do yourselves no good, or spare me and keep a witness to save you from the gallows.”
i stopped, for, i tell you, i was out of breath, and to my wonder, not a man of them moved, but all sat staring at me like as many sheep.
and while they were still staring, i broke out again, “and now, mr. silver,”
i said, “i believe you're the best man here, and if things go to the worst, i'll take it kind of you to let the doctor know the way i took it.”
“i'll bear it in mind,” said silver with an accent so curious that i could not, for the life of me, decide whether he were laughing at my request or had been favourably affected by my courage.
“i'll put one to that,” cried the old mahogany-faced seaman morgan by name whom i had seen in long john's public-house upon the quays of bristol.
“it was him that knowed black dog.”
“well, and see here,” added the sea-cook.
“i'll put another again to that, by thunder!
for it was this same boy that faked the chart from billy bones.
first and last, we've split upon jim hawkins!”
“then here goes!” said morgan with an oath.
and he sprang up, drawing his knife as if he had been twenty.
“avast, there!” cried silver.
“who are you, tom morgan?
maybe you thought you was cap'n here, perhaps.
by the powers, but i'll teach you better!
cross me, and you'll go where many a good man's gone before you, first and last, these thirty year back some to the yard-arm, shiver my timbers, and some by the board, and all to feed the fishes.
there's never a man looked me between the eyes and seen a good day a'terwards, tom morgan, you may lay to that.”
morgan paused, but a hoarse murmur rose from the others.
“tom's right,” said one.
“i stood hazing long enough from one,” added another.
“i'll be hanged if i'll be hazed by you, john silver.”
“did any of you gentlemen want to have it out with me?” roared silver, bending far forward from his position on the keg, with his pipe still glowing in his right hand.
“put a name on what you're at; you ain't dumb, i reckon.
him that wants shall get it.
have i lived this many years, and a son of a rum puncheon cock his hat athwart my hawse at the latter end of it?
you know the way; you're all gentlemen o' fortune, by your account.
well, i'm ready.
take a cutlass, him that dares, and i'll see the colour of his inside, crutch and all, before that pipe's empty.”
not a man stirred; not a man answered.
“that's your sort, is it?” he added, returning his pipe to his mouth.
“well, you're a gay lot to look at, anyway.
not much worth to fight, you ain't.
p'r'aps you can understand king george's english.
i'm cap'n here by 'lection.
i'm cap'n here because i'm the best man by a long sea-mile.
you won't fight, as gentlemen o' fortune should; then, by thunder, you'll obey, and you may lay to it!
i like that boy, now; i never seen a better boy than that.
he's more a man than any pair of rats of you in this here house, and what i say is this: let me see him that'll lay a hand on him that's what i say, and you may lay to it.”
there was a long pause after this.
i stood straight up against the wall, my heart still going like a sledge-hammer, but with a ray of hope now shining in my bosom.
silver leant back against the wall, his arms crossed, his pipe in the corner of his mouth, as calm as though he had been in church; yet his eye kept wandering furtively, and he kept the tail of it on his unruly followers.
they, on their part, drew gradually together towards the far end of the block house, and the low hiss of their whispering sounded in my ear continuously, like a stream.
one after another, they would look up, and the red light of the torch would fall for a second on their nervous faces; but it was not towards me, it was towards silver that they turned their eyes.
“you seem to have a lot to say,” remarked silver, spitting far into the air.
“pipe up and let me hear it, or lay to.”
“ax your pardon, sir,” returned one of the men; “you're pretty free with some of the rules; maybe you'll kindly keep an eye upon the rest.
this crew's dissatisfied; this crew don't vally bullying a marlin-spike; this crew has its rights like other crews, i'll make so free as that; and by your own rules, i take it we can talk together.
i ax your pardon, sir, acknowledging you for to be captaing at this present; but i claim my right, and steps outside for a council.”
and with an elaborate sea-salute, this fellow, a long, ill-looking, yellow-eyed man of five and thirty, stepped coolly towards the door and disappeared out of the house.
one after another the rest followed his example, each making a salute as he passed, each adding some apology.
“according to rules,” said one.
“forecastle council,” said morgan.
and so with one remark or another all marched out and left silver and me alone with the torch.
the sea-cook instantly removed his pipe.
“now, look you here, jim hawkins,” he said in a steady whisper that was no more than audible, “you're within half a plank of death, and what's a long sight worse, of torture.
they're going to throw me off.
but, you mark, i stand by you through thick and thin.
i didn't mean to; no, not till you spoke up.
i was about desperate to lose that much blunt, and be hanged into the bargain.
but i see you was the right sort.
i says to myself, you stand by hawkins, john, and hawkins'll stand by you.
you're his last card, and by the living thunder, john, he's yours!
back to back, says i. you save your witness, and he'll save your neck!”
i began dimly to understand.
“you mean all's lost?” i asked.
“aye, by gum, i do!” he answered.
“ship gone, neck gone that's the size of it.
once i looked into that bay, jim hawkins, and seen no schooner well, i'm tough, but i gave out.
as for that lot and their council, mark me, they're outright fools and cowards.
i'll save your life if so be as i can from them.
but, see here, jim tit for tat you save long john from swinging.”
i was bewildered; it seemed a thing so hopeless he was asking he, the old buccaneer, the ringleader throughout.
“what i can do, that i'll do,” i said.
“it's a bargain!” cried long john.
“you speak up plucky, and by thunder, i've a chance!”
he hobbled to the torch, where it stood propped among the firewood, and took a fresh light to his pipe.
“understand me, jim,” he said, returning.
“i've a head on my shoulders, i have.
i'm on squire's side now.
i know you've got that ship safe somewheres.
how you done it, i don't know, but safe it is.
i guess hands and o'brien turned soft.
i never much believed in neither of them.
now you mark me.
i ask no questions, nor i won't let others.
i know when a game's up, i do; and i know a lad that's staunch.
ah, you that's young you and me might have done a power of good together!”
he drew some cognac from the cask into a tin cannikin.
“will you taste, messmate?” he asked; and when i had refused: “well, i'll take a dram myself, jim,” said he.
“i need a caulker, for there's trouble on hand.
and talking o' trouble, why did that doctor give me the chart, jim?”
my face expressed a wonder so unaffected that he saw the needlessness of further questions.
“ah, well, he did, though,” said he.
“and there's something under that, no doubt something, surely, under that, jim bad or good.”
and he took another swallow of the brandy, shaking his great fair head like a man who looks forward to the worst.
29
the black spot again
the council of buccaneers had lasted some time, when one of them re-entered the house, and with a repetition of the same salute, which had in my eyes an ironical air, begged for a moment's loan of the torch.
silver briefly agreed, and this emissary retired again, leaving us together in the dark.
“there's a breeze coming, jim,” said silver, who had by this time adopted quite a friendly and familiar tone.
i turned to the loophole nearest me and looked out.
the embers of the great fire had so far burned themselves out and now glowed so low and duskily that i understood why these conspirators desired a torch.
about half-way down the slope to the stockade, they were collected in a group; one held the light, another was on his knees in their midst, and i saw the blade of an open knife shine in his hand with varying colours in the moon and torchlight.
the rest were all somewhat stooping, as though watching the manoeuvres of this last.
i could just make out that he had a book as well as a knife in his hand, and was still wondering how anything so incongruous had come in their possession when the kneeling figure rose once more to his feet and the whole party began to move together towards the house.
“here they come,” said i; and i returned to my former position, for it seemed beneath my dignity that they should find me watching them.
“well, let 'em come, lad let 'em come,” said silver cheerily.
“i've still a shot in my locker.”
the door opened, and the five men, standing huddled together just inside, pushed one of their number forward.
in any other circumstances it would have been comical to see his slow advance, hesitating as he set down each foot, but holding his closed right hand in front of him.
“step up, lad,” cried silver.
“i won't eat you.
hand it over, lubber.
i know the rules, i do; i won't hurt a depytation.”
thus encouraged, the buccaneer stepped forth more briskly, and having passed something to silver, from hand to hand, slipped yet more smartly back again to his companions.
the sea-cook looked at what had been given him.
“the black spot!
i thought so,” he observed.
“where might you have got the paper?
why, hillo!
look here, now; this ain't lucky!
you've gone and cut this out of a bible.
what fool's cut a bible?”
“ah, there!” said morgan.
“there!
wot did i say?
no good'll come o'
that, i said.”
“well, you've about fixed it now, among you,” continued silver.
“you'll all swing now, i reckon.
what soft-headed lubber had a bible?”
“it was dick,” said one.
“dick, was it?
then dick can get to prayers,” said silver.
“he's seen his slice of luck, has dick, and you may lay to that.”
but here the long man with the yellow eyes struck in.
“belay that talk, john silver,” he said.
“this crew has tipped you the black spot in full council, as in dooty bound; just you turn it over, as in dooty bound, and see what's wrote there.
then you can talk.”
“thanky, george,” replied the sea-cook.
“you always was brisk for business, and has the rules by heart, george, as i'm pleased to see.
well, what is it, anyway?
ah!
'deposed' that's it, is it?
very pretty wrote, to be sure; like print, i swear.
your hand o' write, george?
why, you was gettin' quite a leadin' man in this here crew.
you'll be cap'n next, i shouldn't wonder.
just oblige me with that torch again, will you?
this pipe don't draw.”
“come, now,” said george, “you don't fool this crew no more.
you're a funny man, by your account; but you're over now, and you'll maybe step down off that barrel and help vote.”
“i thought you said you knowed the rules,” returned silver contemptuously.
“leastways, if you don't, i do; and i wait here and i'm still your cap'n, mind till you outs with your grievances and i reply; in the meantime, your black spot ain't worth a biscuit.
after that, we'll see.”
“oh,” replied george, “you don't be under no kind of apprehension; we're all square, we are.
first, you've made a hash of this cruise you'll be a bold man to say no to that.
second, you let the enemy out o' this here trap for nothing.
why did they want out?
i dunno, but it's pretty plain they wanted it.
third, you wouldn't let us go at them upon the march.
oh, we see through you, john silver; you want to play booty, that's what's wrong with you.
and then, fourth, there's this here boy.”
“is that all?” asked silver quietly.
“enough, too,” retorted george.
“we'll all swing and sun-dry for your bungling.”
“well now, look here, i'll answer these four p'ints; one after another i'll answer 'em.
i made a hash o' this cruise, did i?
well now, you all know what i wanted, and you all know if that had been done that we'd 'a been aboard the hispaniola this night as ever was, every man of us alive, and fit, and full of good plum-duff, and the treasure in the hold of her, by thunder!
well, who crossed me?
who forced my hand, as was the lawful cap'n?
who tipped me the black spot the day we landed and began this dance?
ah, it's a fine dance i'm with you there and looks mighty like a hornpipe in a rope's end at execution dock by london town, it does.
but who done it?
why, it was anderson, and hands, and you, george merry!
and you're the last above board of that same meddling crew; and you have the davy jones's insolence to up and stand for cap'n over me you, that sank the lot of us!
by the powers!
but this tops the stiffest yarn to nothing.”
silver paused, and i could see by the faces of george and his late comrades that these words had not been said in vain.
“that's for number one,” cried the accused, wiping the sweat from his brow, for he had been talking with a vehemence that shook the house.
“why, i give you my word, i'm sick to speak to you.
you've neither sense nor memory, and i leave it to fancy where your mothers was that let you come to sea.
sea!
gentlemen o' fortune!
i reckon tailors is your trade.”
“go on, john,” said morgan.
“speak up to the others.”
“ah, the others!” returned john.
“they're a nice lot, ain't they?
you say this cruise is bungled.
ah!
by gum, if you could understand how bad it's bungled, you would see!
we're that near the gibbet that my neck's stiff with thinking on it.
you've seen 'em, maybe, hanged in chains, birds about 'em, seamen p'inting 'em out as they go down with the tide.
'who's that?'
says one.
'that!
why, that's john silver.
i knowed him well,' says another.
and you can hear the chains a-jangle as you go about and reach for the other buoy.
now, that's about where we are, every mother's son of us, thanks to him, and hands, and anderson, and other ruination fools of you.
and if you want to know about number four, and that boy, why, shiver my timbers, isn't he a hostage?
are we a-going to waste a hostage?
no, not us; he might be our last chance, and i shouldn't wonder.
kill that boy?
not me, mates!
and number three?
ah, well, there's a deal to say to number three.
maybe you don't count it nothing to have a real college doctor to see you every day you, john, with your head broke or you, george merry, that had the ague shakes upon you not six hours agone, and has your eyes the colour of lemon peel to this same moment on the clock?
and maybe, perhaps, you didn't know there was a consort coming either?
but there is, and not so long till then; and we'll see who'll be glad to have a hostage when it comes to that.
and as for number two, and why i made a bargain well, you came crawling on your knees to me to make it on your knees you came, you was that downhearted and you'd have starved too if i hadn't but that's a trifle!
you look there that's why!”
and he cast down upon the floor a paper that i instantly recognized none other than the chart on yellow paper, with the three red crosses, that i had found in the oilcloth at the bottom of the captain's chest.
why the doctor had given it to him was more than i could fancy.
but if it were inexplicable to me, the appearance of the chart was incredible to the surviving mutineers.
they leaped upon it like cats upon a mouse.
it went from hand to hand, one tearing it from another; and by the oaths and the cries and the childish laughter with which they accompanied their examination, you would have thought, not only they were fingering the very gold, but were at sea with it, besides, in safety.
“yes,” said one, “that's flint, sure enough.
j. f., and a score below, with a clove hitch to it; so he done ever.”
“mighty pretty,” said george.
“but how are we to get away with it, and us no ship.”
silver suddenly sprang up, and supporting himself with a hand against the wall: “now i give you warning, george,” he cried.
“one more word of your sauce, and i'll call you down and fight you.
how?
why, how do i know?
you had ought to tell me that you and the rest, that lost me my schooner, with your interference, burn you!
but not you, you can't; you hain't got the invention of a cockroach.
but civil you can speak, and shall, george merry, you may lay to that.”
“that's fair enow,” said the old man morgan.
“fair!
i reckon so,” said the sea-cook.
“you lost the ship; i found the treasure.
who's the better man at that?
and now i resign, by thunder!
elect whom you please to be your cap'n now; i'm done with it.”
“silver!” they cried.
“barbecue forever!
barbecue for cap'n!”
“so that's the toon, is it?” cried the cook.
“george, i reckon you'll have to wait another turn, friend; and lucky for you as i'm not a revengeful man.
but that was never my way.
and now, shipmates, this black spot?
'tain't much good now, is it?
dick's crossed his luck and spoiled his bible, and that's about all.”
“it'll do to kiss the book on still, won't it?” growled dick, who was evidently uneasy at the curse he had brought upon himself.
“a bible with a bit cut out!” returned silver derisively.
“not it.
it don't bind no more'n a ballad-book.”
“don't it, though?” cried dick with a sort of joy.
“well, i reckon that's worth having too.”
“here, jim here's a cur'osity for you,” said silver, and he tossed me the paper.
it was around about the size of a crown piece.
one side was blank, for it had been the last leaf; the other contained a verse or two of revelation these words among the rest, which struck sharply home upon my mind: “without are dogs and murderers.” the printed side had been blackened with wood ash, which already began to come off and soil my fingers; on the blank side had been written with the same material the one word “depposed.” i have that curiosity beside me at this moment, but not a trace of writing now remains beyond a single scratch, such as a man might make with his thumb-nail.
that was the end of the night's business.
soon after, with a drink all round, we lay down to sleep, and the outside of silver's vengeance was to put george merry up for sentinel and threaten him with death if he should prove unfaithful.
it was long ere i could close an eye, and heaven knows i had matter enough for thought in the man whom i had slain that afternoon, in my own most perilous position, and above all, in the remarkable game that i saw silver now engaged upon keeping the mutineers together with one hand and grasping with the other after every means, possible and impossible, to make his peace and save his miserable life.
he himself slept peacefully and snored aloud, yet my heart was sore for him, wicked as he was, to think on the dark perils that environed and the shameful gibbet that awaited him.
30
on parole
i was wakened indeed, we were all wakened, for i could see even the sentinel shake himself together from where he had fallen against the door-post by a clear, hearty voice hailing us from the margin of the wood:
“block house, ahoy!” it cried.
“here's the doctor.”
and the doctor it was.
although i was glad to hear the sound, yet my gladness was not without admixture.
i remembered with confusion my insubordinate and stealthy conduct, and when i saw where it had brought me among what companions and surrounded by what dangers i felt ashamed to look him in the face.
he must have risen in the dark, for the day had hardly come; and when i ran to a loophole and looked out, i saw him standing, like silver once before, up to the mid-leg in creeping vapour.
“you, doctor!
top o' the morning to you, sir!” cried silver, broad awake and beaming with good nature in a moment.
“bright and early, to be sure; and it's the early bird, as the saying goes, that gets the rations.
george, shake up your timbers, son, and help dr. livesey over the ship's side.
all a-doin' well, your patients was all well and merry.”
so he pattered on, standing on the hilltop with his crutch under his elbow and one hand upon the side of the log-house quite the old john in voice, manner, and expression.
“we've quite a surprise for you too, sir,” he continued.
“we've a little stranger here he!
he!
a noo boarder and lodger, sir, and looking fit and taut as a fiddle; slep' like a supercargo, he did, right alongside of john stem to stem we was, all night.”
dr. livesey was by this time across the stockade and pretty near the cook, and i could hear the alteration in his voice as he said, “not jim?”
“the very same jim as ever was,” says silver.
the doctor stopped outright, although he did not speak, and it was some seconds before he seemed able to move on.
“well, well,” he said at last, “duty first and pleasure afterwards, as you might have said yourself, silver.
let us overhaul these patients of yours.”
a moment afterwards he had entered the block house and with one grim nod to me proceeded with his work among the sick.
he seemed under no apprehension, though he must have known that his life, among these treacherous demons, depended on a hair; and he rattled on to his patients as if he were paying an ordinary professional visit in a quiet english family.
his manner, i suppose, reacted on the men, for they behaved to him as if nothing had occurred, as if he were still ship's doctor and they still faithful hands before the mast.
“you're doing well, my friend,” he said to the fellow with the bandaged head, “and if ever any person had a close shave, it was you; your head must be as hard as iron.
well, george, how goes it?
you're a pretty colour, certainly; why, your liver, man, is upside down.
did you take that medicine?
did he take that medicine, men?”
“aye, aye, sir, he took it, sure enough,” returned morgan.
“because, you see, since i am mutineers' doctor, or prison doctor as i prefer to call it,” says doctor livesey in his pleasantest way, “i make it a point of honour not to lose a man for king george (god bless him!)
and the gallows.”
the rogues looked at each other but swallowed the home-thrust in silence.
“dick don't feel well, sir,” said one.
“don't he?” replied the doctor.
“well, step up here, dick, and let me see your tongue.
no, i should be surprised if he did!
the man's tongue is fit to frighten the french.
another fever.”
“ah, there,” said morgan, “that comed of sp'iling bibles.”
“that comes as you call it of being arrant asses,” retorted the doctor, “and not having sense enough to know honest air from poison, and the dry land from a vile, pestiferous slough.
i think it most probable though of course it's only an opinion that you'll all have the deuce to pay before you get that malaria out of your systems.
camp in a bog, would you?
silver, i'm surprised at you.
you're less of a fool than many, take you all round; but you don't appear to me to have the rudiments of a notion of the rules of health.
“well,” he added after he had dosed them round and they had taken his prescriptions, with really laughable humility, more like charity schoolchildren than blood-guilty mutineers and pirates “well, that's done for today.
and now i should wish to have a talk with that boy, please.”
and he nodded his head in my direction carelessly.
george merry was at the door, spitting and spluttering over some bad-tasted medicine; but at the first word of the doctor's proposal he swung round with a deep flush and cried “no!” and swore.
silver struck the barrel with his open hand.
“si-lence!” he roared and looked about him positively like a lion.
“doctor,” he went on in his usual tones, “i was a-thinking of that, knowing as how you had a fancy for the boy.
we're all humbly grateful for your kindness, and as you see, puts faith in you and takes the drugs down like that much grog.
and i take it i've found a way as'll suit all.
hawkins, will you give me your word of honour as a young gentleman for a young gentleman you are, although poor born your word of honour not to slip your cable?”
i readily gave the pledge required.
“then, doctor,” said silver, “you just step outside o' that stockade, and once you're there i'll bring the boy down on the inside, and i reckon you can yarn through the spars.
good day to you, sir, and all our dooties to the squire and cap'n smollett.”
the explosion of disapproval, which nothing but silver's black looks had restrained, broke out immediately the doctor had left the house.
silver was roundly accused of playing double of trying to make a separate peace for himself, of sacrificing the interests of his accomplices and victims, and, in one word, of the identical, exact thing that he was doing.
it seemed to me so obvious, in this case, that i could not imagine how he was to turn their anger.
but he was twice the man the rest were, and his last night's victory had given him a huge preponderance on their minds.
he called them all the fools and dolts you can imagine, said it was necessary i should talk to the doctor, fluttered the chart in their faces, asked them if they could afford to break the treaty the very day they were bound a-treasure-hunting.
“no, by thunder!” he cried.
“it's us must break the treaty when the time comes; and till then i'll gammon that doctor, if i have to ile his boots with brandy.”
and then he bade them get the fire lit, and stalked out upon his crutch, with his hand on my shoulder, leaving them in a disarray, and silenced by his volubility rather than convinced.
“slow, lad, slow,” he said.
“they might round upon us in a twinkle of an eye if we was seen to hurry.”
very deliberately, then, did we advance across the sand to where the doctor awaited us on the other side of the stockade, and as soon as we were within easy speaking distance silver stopped.
“you'll make a note of this here also, doctor,” says he, “and the boy'll tell you how i saved his life, and were deposed for it too, and you may lay to that.
doctor, when a man's steering as near the wind as me playing chuck-farthing with the last breath in his body, like you wouldn't think it too much, mayhap, to give him one good word?
you'll please bear in mind it's not my life only now it's that boy's into the bargain; and you'll speak me fair, doctor, and give me a bit o' hope to go on, for the sake of mercy.”
silver was a changed man once he was out there and had his back to his friends and the block house; his cheeks seemed to have fallen in, his voice trembled; never was a soul more dead in earnest.
“why, john, you're not afraid?” asked dr. livesey.
“doctor, i'm no coward; no, not i not so much!” and he snapped his fingers.
“if i was i wouldn't say it.
but i'll own up fairly, i've the shakes upon me for the gallows.
you're a good man and a true; i never seen a better man!
and you'll not forget what i done good, not any more than you'll forget the bad, i know.
and i step aside see here and leave you and jim alone.
and you'll put that down for me too, for it's a long stretch, is that!”
so saying, he stepped back a little way, till he was out of earshot, and there sat down upon a tree-stump and began to whistle, spinning round now and again upon his seat so as to command a sight, sometimes of me and the doctor and sometimes of his unruly ruffians as they went to and fro in the sand between the fire which they were busy rekindling and the house, from which they brought forth pork and bread to make the breakfast.
“so, jim,” said the doctor sadly, “here you are.
as you have brewed, so shall you drink, my boy.
heaven knows, i cannot find it in my heart to blame you, but this much i will say, be it kind or unkind: when captain smollett was well, you dared not have gone off; and when he was ill and couldn't help it, by george, it was downright cowardly!”
i will own that i here began to weep.
“doctor,” i said, “you might spare me.
i have blamed myself enough; my life's forfeit anyway, and i should have been dead by now if silver hadn't stood for me; and doctor, believe this, i can die and i dare say i deserve it but what i fear is torture.
if they come to torture me ”
“jim,” the doctor interrupted, and his voice was quite changed, “jim, i can't have this.
whip over, and we'll run for it.”
“doctor,” said i, “i passed my word.”
“i know, i know,” he cried.
“we can't help that, jim, now.
i'll take it on my shoulders, holus bolus, blame and shame, my boy; but stay here, i cannot let you.
jump!
one jump, and you're out, and we'll run for it like antelopes.”
“no,” i replied; “you know right well you wouldn't do the thing yourself neither you nor squire nor captain; and no more will i. silver trusted me; i passed my word, and back i go.
but, doctor, you did not let me finish.
if they come to torture me, i might let slip a word of where the ship is, for i got the ship, part by luck and part by risking, and she lies in north inlet, on the southern beach, and just below high water.
at half tide she must be high and dry.”
“the ship!” exclaimed the doctor.
rapidly i described to him my adventures, and he heard me out in silence.
“there is a kind of fate in this,” he observed when i had done.
“every step, it's you that saves our lives; and do you suppose by any chance that we are going to let you lose yours?
that would be a poor return, my boy.
you found out the plot; you found ben gunn the best deed that ever you did, or will do, though you live to ninety.
oh, by jupiter, and talking of ben gunn!
why, this is the mischief in person.
silver!” he cried.
“silver!
i'll give you a piece of advice,” he continued as the cook drew near again; “don't you be in any great hurry after that treasure.”
“why, sir, i do my possible, which that ain't,” said silver.
“i can only, asking your pardon, save my life and the boy's by seeking for that treasure; and you may lay to that.”
“well, silver,” replied the doctor, “if that is so, i'll go one step further: look out for squalls when you find it.”
“sir,” said silver, “as between man and man, that's too much and too little.
what you're after, why you left the block house, why you given me that there chart, i don't know, now, do i?
and yet i done your bidding with my eyes shut and never a word of hope!
but no, this here's too much.
if you won't tell me what you mean plain out, just say so and i'll leave the helm.”
“no,” said the doctor musingly; “i've no right to say more; it's not my secret, you see, silver, or, i give you my word, i'd tell it you.
but i'll go as far with you as i dare go, and a step beyond, for i'll have my wig sorted by the captain or i'm mistaken!
and first, i'll give you a bit of hope; silver, if we both get alive out of this wolf-trap, i'll do my best to save you, short of perjury.”
silver's face was radiant.
“you couldn't say more, i'm sure, sir, not if you was my mother,” he cried.
“well, that's my first concession,” added the doctor.
“my second is a piece of advice: keep the boy close beside you, and when you need help, halloo.
i'm off to seek it for you, and that itself will show you if i speak at random.
good-bye, jim.”
and dr. livesey shook hands with me through the stockade, nodded to silver, and set off at a brisk pace into the wood.
31
the treasure-hunt flint's pointer
“jim,” said silver when we were alone, “if i saved your life, you saved mine; and i'll not forget it.
i seen the doctor waving you to run for it with the tail of my eye, i did; and i seen you say no, as plain as hearing.
jim, that's one to you.
this is the first glint of hope i had since the attack failed, and i owe it you.
and now, jim, we're to go in for this here treasure-hunting, with sealed orders too, and i don't like it; and you and me must stick close, back to back like, and we'll save our necks in spite o' fate and fortune.”
just then a man hailed us from the fire that breakfast was ready, and we were soon seated here and there about the sand over biscuit and fried junk.
they had lit a fire fit to roast an ox, and it was now grown so hot that they could only approach it from the windward, and even there not without precaution.
in the same wasteful spirit, they had cooked, i suppose, three times more than we could eat; and one of them, with an empty laugh, threw what was left into the fire, which blazed and roared again over this unusual fuel.
i never in my life saw men so careless of the morrow; hand to mouth is the only word that can describe their way of doing; and what with wasted food and sleeping sentries, though they were bold enough for a brush and be done with it, i could see their entire unfitness for anything like a prolonged campaign.
even silver, eating away, with captain flint upon his shoulder, had not a word of blame for their recklessness.
and this the more surprised me, for i thought he had never shown himself so cunning as he did then.
“aye, mates,” said he, “it's lucky you have barbecue to think for you with this here head.
i got what i wanted, i did.
sure enough, they have the ship.
where they have it, i don't know yet; but once we hit the treasure, we'll have to jump about and find out.
and then, mates, us that has the boats, i reckon, has the upper hand.”
thus he kept running on, with his mouth full of the hot bacon; thus he restored their hope and confidence, and, i more than suspect, repaired his own at the same time.
“as for hostage,” he continued, “that's his last talk, i guess, with them he loves so dear.
i've got my piece o' news, and thanky to him for that; but it's over and done.
i'll take him in a line when we go treasure-hunting, for we'll keep him like so much gold, in case of accidents, you mark, and in the meantime.
once we got the ship and treasure both and off to sea like jolly companions, why then we'll talk mr. hawkins over, we will, and we'll give him his share, to be sure, for all his kindness.”
it was no wonder the men were in a good humour now.
for my part, i was horribly cast down.
should the scheme he had now sketched prove feasible, silver, already doubly a traitor, would not hesitate to adopt it.
he had still a foot in either camp, and there was no doubt he would prefer wealth and freedom with the pirates to a bare escape from hanging, which was the best he had to hope on our side.
nay, and even if things so fell out that he was forced to keep his faith with dr. livesey, even then what danger lay before us!
what a moment that would be when the suspicions of his followers turned to certainty and he and i should have to fight for dear life he a cripple and i a boy against five strong and active seamen!
add to this double apprehension the mystery that still hung over the behaviour of my friends, their unexplained desertion of the stockade, their inexplicable cession of the chart, or harder still to understand, the doctor's last warning to silver, “look out for squalls when you find it,” and you will readily believe how little taste i found in my breakfast and with how uneasy a heart i set forth behind my captors on the quest for treasure.
we made a curious figure, had anyone been there to see us all in soiled sailor clothes and all but me armed to the teeth.
silver had two guns slung about him one before and one behind besides the great cutlass at his waist and a pistol in each pocket of his square-tailed coat.
to complete his strange appearance, captain flint sat perched upon his shoulder and gabbling odds and ends of purposeless sea-talk.
i had a line about my waist and followed obediently after the sea-cook, who held the loose end of the rope, now in his free hand, now between his powerful teeth.
for all the world, i was led like a dancing bear.
the other men were variously burthened, some carrying picks and shovels for that had been the very first necessary they brought ashore from the hispaniola others laden with pork, bread, and brandy for the midday meal.
all the stores, i observed, came from our stock, and i could see the truth of silver's words the night before.
had he not struck a bargain with the doctor, he and his mutineers, deserted by the ship, must have been driven to subsist on clear water and the proceeds of their hunting.
water would have been little to their taste; a sailor is not usually a good shot; and besides all that, when they were so short of eatables, it was not likely they would be very flush of powder.
well, thus equipped, we all set out even the fellow with the broken head, who should certainly have kept in shadow and straggled, one after another, to the beach, where the two gigs awaited us.
even these bore trace of the drunken folly of the pirates, one in a broken thwart, and both in their muddy and unbailed condition.
both were to be carried along with us for the sake of safety; and so, with our numbers divided between them, we set forth upon the bosom of the anchorage.
as we pulled over, there was some discussion on the chart.
the red cross was, of course, far too large to be a guide; and the terms of the note on the back, as you will hear, admitted of some ambiguity.
they ran, the reader may remember, thus:
tall tree, spy-glass shoulder, bearing a point to      the n. of n.n.e.
skeleton island e.s.e.
and by e.
ten feet.
a tall tree was thus the principal mark.
now, right before us the anchorage was bounded by a plateau from two to three hundred feet high, adjoining on the north the sloping southern shoulder of the spy-glass and rising again towards the south into the rough, cliffy eminence called the mizzen-mast hill.
the top of the plateau was dotted thickly with pine-trees of varying height.
every here and there, one of a different species rose forty or fifty feet clear above its neighbours, and which of these was the particular “tall tree” of captain flint could only be decided on the spot, and by the readings of the compass.
yet, although that was the case, every man on board the boats had picked a favourite of his own ere we were half-way over, long john alone shrugging his shoulders and bidding them wait till they were there.
we pulled easily, by silver's directions, not to weary the hands prematurely, and after quite a long passage, landed at the mouth of the second river that which runs down a woody cleft of the spy-glass.
thence, bending to our left, we began to ascend the slope towards the plateau.
at the first outset, heavy, miry ground and a matted, marish vegetation greatly delayed our progress; but by little and little the hill began to steepen and become stony under foot, and the wood to change its character and to grow in a more open order.
it was, indeed, a most pleasant portion of the island that we were now approaching.
a heavy-scented broom and many flowering shrubs had almost taken the place of grass.
thickets of green nutmeg-trees were dotted here and there with the red columns and the broad shadow of the pines; and the first mingled their spice with the aroma of the others.
the air, besides, was fresh and stirring, and this, under the sheer sunbeams, was a wonderful refreshment to our senses.
the party spread itself abroad, in a fan shape, shouting and leaping to and fro.
about the centre, and a good way behind the rest, silver and i followed i tethered by my rope, he ploughing, with deep pants, among the sliding gravel.
from time to time, indeed, i had to lend him a hand, or he must have missed his footing and fallen backward down the hill.
we had thus proceeded for about half a mile and were approaching the brow of the plateau when the man upon the farthest left began to cry aloud, as if in terror.
shout after shout came from him, and the others began to run in his direction.
“he can't 'a found the treasure,” said old morgan, hurrying past us from the right, “for that's clean a-top.”
indeed, as we found when we also reached the spot, it was something very different.
at the foot of a pretty big pine and involved in a green creeper, which had even partly lifted some of the smaller bones, a human skeleton lay, with a few shreds of clothing, on the ground.
i believe a chill struck for a moment to every heart.
“he was a seaman,” said george merry, who, bolder than the rest, had gone up close and was examining the rags of clothing.
“leastways, this is good sea-cloth.”
“aye, aye,” said silver; “like enough; you wouldn't look to find a bishop here, i reckon.
but what sort of a way is that for bones to lie?
'tain't in natur'.”
indeed, on a second glance, it seemed impossible to fancy that the body was in a natural position.
but for some disarray (the work, perhaps, of the birds that had fed upon him or of the slow-growing creeper that had gradually enveloped his remains) the man lay perfectly straight his feet pointing in one direction, his hands, raised above his head like a diver's, pointing directly in the opposite.
“i've taken a notion into my old numbskull,” observed silver.
“here's the compass; there's the tip-top p'int o' skeleton island, stickin'
out like a tooth.
just take a bearing, will you, along the line of them bones.”
it was done.
the body pointed straight in the direction of the island, and the compass read duly e.s.e.
and by e.
“i thought so,” cried the cook; “this here is a p'inter.
right up there is our line for the pole star and the jolly dollars.
but, by thunder!
if it don't make me cold inside to think of flint.
this is one of his jokes, and no mistake.
him and these six was alone here; he killed 'em, every man; and this one he hauled here and laid down by compass, shiver my timbers!
they're long bones, and the hair's been yellow.
aye, that would be allardyce.
you mind allardyce, tom morgan?”
“aye, aye,” returned morgan; “i mind him; he owed me money, he did, and took my knife ashore with him.”
“speaking of knives,” said another, “why don't we find his'n lying round?
flint warn't the man to pick a seaman's pocket; and the birds, i guess, would leave it be.”
“by the powers, and that's true!” cried silver.
“there ain't a thing left here,” said merry, still feeling round among the bones; “not a copper doit nor a baccy box.
it don't look nat'ral to me.”
“no, by gum, it don't,” agreed silver; “not nat'ral, nor not nice, says you.
great guns!
messmates, but if flint was living, this would be a hot spot for you and me.
six they were, and six are we; and bones is what they are now.”
“i saw him dead with these here deadlights,” said morgan.
“billy took me in.
there he laid, with penny-pieces on his eyes.”
“dead aye, sure enough he's dead and gone below,” said the fellow with the bandage; “but if ever sperrit walked, it would be flint's.
dear heart, but he died bad, did flint!”
“aye, that he did,” observed another; “now he raged, and now he hollered for the rum, and now he sang.
'fifteen men' were his only song, mates; and i tell you true, i never rightly liked to hear it since.
it was main hot, and the windy was open, and i hear that old song comin' out as clear as clear and the death-haul on the man already.”
“come, come,” said silver; “stow this talk.
he's dead, and he don't walk, that i know; leastways, he won't walk by day, and you may lay to that.
care killed a cat.
fetch ahead for the doubloons.”
we started, certainly; but in spite of the hot sun and the staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate and shouting through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath.
the terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits.
32
the treasure-hunt the voice among the trees
partly from the damping influence of this alarm, partly to rest silver and the sick folk, the whole party sat down as soon as they had gained the brow of the ascent.
the plateau being somewhat tilted towards the west, this spot on which we had paused commanded a wide prospect on either hand.
before us, over the tree-tops, we beheld the cape of the woods fringed with surf; behind, we not only looked down upon the anchorage and skeleton island, but saw clear across the spit and the eastern lowlands a great field of open sea upon the east.
sheer above us rose the spyglass, here dotted with single pines, there black with precipices.
there was no sound but that of the distant breakers, mounting from all round, and the chirp of countless insects in the brush.
not a man, not a sail, upon the sea; the very largeness of the view increased the sense of solitude.
silver, as he sat, took certain bearings with his compass.
“there are three 'tall trees'” said he, “about in the right line from skeleton island.
'spy-glass shoulder,' i take it, means that lower p'int there.
it's child's play to find the stuff now.
i've half a mind to dine first.”
“i don't feel sharp,” growled morgan.
“thinkin' o' flint i think it were as done me.”
“ah, well, my son, you praise your stars he's dead,” said silver.
“he were an ugly devil,” cried a third pirate with a shudder; “that blue in the face too!”
“that was how the rum took him,” added merry.
“blue!
well, i reckon he was blue.
that's a true word.”
ever since they had found the skeleton and got upon this train of thought, they had spoken lower and lower, and they had almost got to whispering by now, so that the sound of their talk hardly interrupted the silence of the wood.
all of a sudden, out of the middle of the trees in front of us, a thin, high, trembling voice struck up the well-known air and words:
“fifteen men on the dead man's chest
yo-ho-ho, and a bottle of rum!”
i never have seen men more dreadfully affected than the pirates.
the colour went from their six faces like enchantment; some leaped to their feet, some clawed hold of others; morgan grovelled on the ground.
“it's flint, by   !” cried merry.
the song had stopped as suddenly as it began broken off, you would have said, in the middle of a note, as though someone had laid his hand upon the singer's mouth.
coming through the clear, sunny atmosphere among the green tree-tops, i thought it had sounded airily and sweetly; and the effect on my companions was the stranger.
“come,” said silver, struggling with his ashen lips to get the word out; “this won't do.
stand by to go about.
this is a rum start, and i can't name the voice, but it's someone skylarking someone that's flesh and blood, and you may lay to that.”
his courage had come back as he spoke, and some of the colour to his face along with it.
already the others had begun to lend an ear to this encouragement and were coming a little to themselves, when the same voice broke out again not this time singing, but in a faint distant hail that echoed yet fainter among the clefts of the spy-glass.
“darby m'graw,” it wailed for that is the word that best describes the sound “darby m'graw!
darby m'graw!” again and again and again; and then rising a little higher, and with an oath that i leave out: “fetch aft the rum, darby!”
the buccaneers remained rooted to the ground, their eyes starting from their heads.
long after the voice had died away they still stared in silence, dreadfully, before them.
“that fixes it!” gasped one.
“let's go.”
“they was his last words,” moaned morgan, “his last words above board.”
dick had his bible out and was praying volubly.
he had been well brought up, had dick, before he came to sea and fell among bad companions.
still silver was unconquered.
i could hear his teeth rattle in his head, but he had not yet surrendered.
“nobody in this here island ever heard of darby,” he muttered; “not one but us that's here.” and then, making a great effort: “shipmates,”
he cried, “i'm here to get that stuff, and i'll not be beat by man or devil.
i never was feared of flint in his life, and, by the powers, i'll face him dead.
there's seven hundred thousand pound not a quarter of a mile from here.
when did ever a gentleman o' fortune show his stern to that much dollars for a boozy old seaman with a blue mug and him dead too?”
but there was no sign of reawakening courage in his followers, rather, indeed, of growing terror at the irreverence of his words.
“belay there, john!” said merry.
“don't you cross a sperrit.”
and the rest were all too terrified to reply.
they would have run away severally had they dared; but fear kept them together, and kept them close by john, as if his daring helped them.
he, on his part, had pretty well fought his weakness down.
“sperrit?
well, maybe,” he said.
“but there's one thing not clear to me.
there was an echo.
now, no man ever seen a sperrit with a shadow; well then, what's he doing with an echo to him, i should like to know?
that ain't in natur', surely?”
this argument seemed weak enough to me.
but you can never tell what will affect the superstitious, and to my wonder, george merry was greatly relieved.
“well, that's so,” he said.
“you've a head upon your shoulders, john, and no mistake.
'bout ship, mates!
this here crew is on a wrong tack, i do believe.
and come to think on it, it was like flint's voice, i grant you, but not just so clear-away like it, after all.
it was liker somebody else's voice now it was liker ”
“by the powers, ben gunn!” roared silver.
“aye, and so it were,” cried morgan, springing on his knees.
“ben gunn it were!”
“it don't make much odds, do it, now?” asked dick.
“ben gunn's not here in the body any more'n flint.”
but the older hands greeted this remark with scorn.
“why, nobody minds ben gunn,” cried merry; “dead or alive, nobody minds him.”
it was extraordinary how their spirits had returned and how the natural colour had revived in their faces.
soon they were chatting together, with intervals of listening; and not long after, hearing no further sound, they shouldered the tools and set forth again, merry walking first with silver's compass to keep them on the right line with skeleton island.
he had said the truth: dead or alive, nobody minded ben gunn.
dick alone still held his bible, and looked around him as he went, with fearful glances; but he found no sympathy, and silver even joked him on his precautions.
“i told you,” said he “i told you you had sp'iled your bible.
if it ain't no good to swear by, what do you suppose a sperrit would give for it?
not that!” and he snapped his big fingers, halting a moment on his crutch.
but dick was not to be comforted; indeed, it was soon plain to me that the lad was falling sick; hastened by heat, exhaustion, and the shock of his alarm, the fever, predicted by dr. livesey, was evidently growing swiftly higher.
it was fine open walking here, upon the summit; our way lay a little downhill, for, as i have said, the plateau tilted towards the west.
the pines, great and small, grew wide apart; and even between the clumps of nutmeg and azalea, wide open spaces baked in the hot sunshine.
striking, as we did, pretty near north-west across the island, we drew, on the one hand, ever nearer under the shoulders of the spy-glass, and on the other, looked ever wider over that western bay where i had once tossed and trembled in the coracle.
the first of the tall trees was reached, and by the bearings proved the wrong one.
so with the second.
the third rose nearly two hundred feet into the air above a clump of underwood a giant of a vegetable, with a red column as big as a cottage, and a wide shadow around in which a company could have manoeuvred.
it was conspicuous far to sea both on the east and west and might have been entered as a sailing mark upon the chart.
but it was not its size that now impressed my companions; it was the knowledge that seven hundred thousand pounds in gold lay somewhere buried below its spreading shadow.
the thought of the money, as they drew nearer, swallowed up their previous terrors.
their eyes burned in their heads; their feet grew speedier and lighter; their whole soul was bound up in that fortune, that whole lifetime of extravagance and pleasure, that lay waiting there for each of them.
silver hobbled, grunting, on his crutch; his nostrils stood out and quivered; he cursed like a madman when the flies settled on his hot and shiny countenance; he plucked furiously at the line that held me to him and from time to time turned his eyes upon me with a deadly look.
certainly he took no pains to hide his thoughts, and certainly i read them like print.
in the immediate nearness of the gold, all else had been forgotten: his promise and the doctor's warning were both things of the past, and i could not doubt that he hoped to seize upon the treasure, find and board the hispaniola under cover of night, cut every honest throat about that island, and sail away as he had at first intended, laden with crimes and riches.
shaken as i was with these alarms, it was hard for me to keep up with the rapid pace of the treasure-hunters.
now and again i stumbled, and it was then that silver plucked so roughly at the rope and launched at me his murderous glances.
dick, who had dropped behind us and now brought up the rear, was babbling to himself both prayers and curses as his fever kept rising.
this also added to my wretchedness, and to crown all, i was haunted by the thought of the tragedy that had once been acted on that plateau, when that ungodly buccaneer with the blue face he who died at savannah, singing and shouting for drink had there, with his own hand, cut down his six accomplices.
this grove that was now so peaceful must then have rung with cries, i thought; and even with the thought i could believe i heard it ringing still.
we were now at the margin of the thicket.
“huzza, mates, all together!” shouted merry; and the foremost broke into a run.
and suddenly, not ten yards further, we beheld them stop.
a low cry arose.
silver doubled his pace, digging away with the foot of his crutch like one possessed; and next moment he and i had come also to a dead halt.
before us was a great excavation, not very recent, for the sides had fallen in and grass had sprouted on the bottom.
in this were the shaft of a pick broken in two and the boards of several packing-cases strewn around.
on one of these boards i saw, branded with a hot iron, the name walrus the name of flint's ship.
all was clear to probation.
the cache had been found and rifled; the seven hundred thousand pounds were gone!
33
the fall of a chieftain
there never was such an overturn in this world.
each of these six men was as though he had been struck.
but with silver the blow passed almost instantly.
every thought of his soul had been set full-stretch, like a racer, on that money; well, he was brought up, in a single second, dead; and he kept his head, found his temper, and changed his plan before the others had had time to realize the disappointment.
“jim,” he whispered, “take that, and stand by for trouble.”
and he passed me a double-barrelled pistol.
at the same time, he began quietly moving northward, and in a few steps had put the hollow between us two and the other five.
then he looked at me and nodded, as much as to say, “here is a narrow corner,” as, indeed, i thought it was.
his looks were not quite friendly, and i was so revolted at these constant changes that i could not forbear whispering, “so you've changed sides again.”
there was no time left for him to answer in.
the buccaneers, with oaths and cries, began to leap, one after another, into the pit and to dig with their fingers, throwing the boards aside as they did so.
morgan found a piece of gold.
he held it up with a perfect spout of oaths.
it was a two-guinea piece, and it went from hand to hand among them for a quarter of a minute.
“two guineas!” roared merry, shaking it at silver.
“that's your seven hundred thousand pounds, is it?
you're the man for bargains, ain't you?
you're him that never bungled nothing, you wooden-headed lubber!”
“dig away, boys,” said silver with the coolest insolence; “you'll find some pig-nuts and i shouldn't wonder.”
“pig-nuts!” repeated merry, in a scream.
“mates, do you hear that?
i tell you now, that man there knew it all along.
look in the face of him and you'll see it wrote there.”
“ah, merry,” remarked silver, “standing for cap'n again?
you're a pushing lad, to be sure.”
but this time everyone was entirely in merry's favour.
they began to scramble out of the excavation, darting furious glances behind them.
one thing i observed, which looked well for us: they all got out upon the opposite side from silver.
well, there we stood, two on one side, five on the other, the pit between us, and nobody screwed up high enough to offer the first blow.
silver never moved; he watched them, very upright on his crutch, and looked as cool as ever i saw him.
he was brave, and no mistake.
at last merry seemed to think a speech might help matters.
“mates,” says he, “there's two of them alone there; one's the old cripple that brought us all here and blundered us down to this; the other's that cub that i mean to have the heart of.
now, mates ”
he was raising his arm and his voice, and plainly meant to lead a charge.
but just then crack!
crack!
crack!
three musket-shots flashed out of the thicket.
merry tumbled head foremost into the excavation; the man with the bandage spun round like a teetotum and fell all his length upon his side, where he lay dead, but still twitching; and the other three turned and ran for it with all their might.
before you could wink, long john had fired two barrels of a pistol into the struggling merry, and as the man rolled up his eyes at him in the last agony, “george,” said he, “i reckon i settled you.”
at the same moment, the doctor, gray, and ben gunn joined us, with smoking muskets, from among the nutmeg-trees.
“forward!” cried the doctor.
“double quick, my lads.
we must head 'em off the boats.”
and we set off at a great pace, sometimes plunging through the bushes to the chest.
i tell you, but silver was anxious to keep up with us.
the work that man went through, leaping on his crutch till the muscles of his chest were fit to burst, was work no sound man ever equalled; and so thinks the doctor.
as it was, he was already thirty yards behind us and on the verge of strangling when we reached the brow of the slope.
“doctor,” he hailed, “see there!
no hurry!”
sure enough there was no hurry.
in a more open part of the plateau, we could see the three survivors still running in the same direction as they had started, right for mizzenmast hill.
we were already between them and the boats; and so we four sat down to breathe, while long john, mopping his face, came slowly up with us.
“thank ye kindly, doctor,” says he.
“you came in in about the nick, i guess, for me and hawkins.
and so it's you, ben gunn!” he added.
“well, you're a nice one, to be sure.”
“i'm ben gunn, i am,” replied the maroon, wriggling like an eel in his embarrassment.
“and,” he added, after a long pause, “how do, mr. silver?
pretty well, i thank ye, says you.”
“ben, ben,” murmured silver, “to think as you've done me!”
the doctor sent back gray for one of the pick-axes deserted, in their flight, by the mutineers, and then as we proceeded leisurely downhill to where the boats were lying, related in a few words what had taken place.
it was a story that profoundly interested silver; and ben gunn, the half-idiot maroon, was the hero from beginning to end.
ben, in his long, lonely wanderings about the island, had found the skeleton it was he that had rifled it; he had found the treasure; he had dug it up (it was the haft of his pick-axe that lay broken in the excavation); he had carried it on his back, in many weary journeys, from the foot of the tall pine to a cave he had on the two-pointed hill at the north-east angle of the island, and there it had lain stored in safety since two months before the arrival of the hispaniola.
when the doctor had wormed this secret from him on the afternoon of the attack, and when next morning he saw the anchorage deserted, he had gone to silver, given him the chart, which was now useless given him the stores, for ben gunn's cave was well supplied with goats' meat salted by himself given anything and everything to get a chance of moving in safety from the stockade to the two-pointed hill, there to be clear of malaria and keep a guard upon the money.
“as for you, jim,” he said, “it went against my heart, but i did what i thought best for those who had stood by their duty; and if you were not one of these, whose fault was it?”
that morning, finding that i was to be involved in the horrid disappointment he had prepared for the mutineers, he had run all the way to the cave, and leaving the squire to guard the captain, had taken gray and the maroon and started, making the diagonal across the island to be at hand beside the pine.
soon, however, he saw that our party had the start of him; and ben gunn, being fleet of foot, had been dispatched in front to do his best alone.
then it had occurred to him to work upon the superstitions of his former shipmates, and he was so far successful that gray and the doctor had come up and were already ambushed before the arrival of the treasure-hunters.
“ah,” said silver, “it were fortunate for me that i had hawkins here.
you would have let old john be cut to bits, and never given it a thought, doctor.”
“not a thought,” replied dr. livesey cheerily.
and by this time we had reached the gigs.
the doctor, with the pick-axe, demolished one of them, and then we all got aboard the other and set out to go round by sea for north inlet.
this was a run of eight or nine miles.
silver, though he was almost killed already with fatigue, was set to an oar, like the rest of us, and we were soon skimming swiftly over a smooth sea.
soon we passed out of the straits and doubled the south-east corner of the island, round which, four days ago, we had towed the hispaniola.
as we passed the two-pointed hill, we could see the black mouth of ben gunn's cave and a figure standing by it, leaning on a musket.
it was the squire, and we waved a handkerchief and gave him three cheers, in which the voice of silver joined as heartily as any.
three miles farther, just inside the mouth of north inlet, what should we meet but the hispaniola, cruising by herself?
the last flood had lifted her, and had there been much wind or a strong tide current, as in the southern anchorage, we should never have found her more, or found her stranded beyond help.
as it was, there was little amiss beyond the wreck of the main-sail.
another anchor was got ready and dropped in a fathom and a half of water.
we all pulled round again to rum cove, the nearest point for ben gunn's treasure-house; and then gray, single-handed, returned with the gig to the hispaniola, where he was to pass the night on guard.
a gentle slope ran up from the beach to the entrance of the cave.
at the top, the squire met us.
to me he was cordial and kind, saying nothing of my escapade either in the way of blame or praise.
at silver's polite salute he somewhat flushed.
“john silver,” he said, “you're a prodigious villain and imposter a monstrous imposter, sir.
i am told i am not to prosecute you.
well, then, i will not.
but the dead men, sir, hang about your neck like mill-stones.”
“thank you kindly, sir,” replied long john, again saluting.
“i dare you to thank me!” cried the squire.
“it is a gross dereliction of my duty.
stand back.”
and thereupon we all entered the cave.
it was a large, airy place, with a little spring and a pool of clear water, overhung with ferns.
the floor was sand.
before a big fire lay captain smollett; and in a far corner, only duskily flickered over by the blaze, i beheld great heaps of coin and quadrilaterals built of bars of gold.
that was flint's treasure that we had come so far to seek and that had cost already the lives of seventeen men from the hispaniola.
how many it had cost in the amassing, what blood and sorrow, what good ships scuttled on the deep, what brave men walking the plank blindfold, what shot of cannon, what shame and lies and cruelty, perhaps no man alive could tell.
yet there were still three upon that island silver, and old morgan, and ben gunn who had each taken his share in these crimes, as each had hoped in vain to share in the reward.
“come in, jim,” said the captain.
“you're a good boy in your line, jim, but i don't think you and me'll go to sea again.
you're too much of the born favourite for me.
is that you, john silver?
what brings you here, man?”
“come back to my dooty, sir,” returned silver.
“ah!” said the captain, and that was all he said.
what a supper i had of it that night, with all my friends around me; and what a meal it was, with ben gunn's salted goat and some delicacies and a bottle of old wine from the hispaniola.
never, i am sure, were people gayer or happier.
and there was silver, sitting back almost out of the firelight, but eating heartily, prompt to spring forward when anything was wanted, even joining quietly in our laughter the same bland, polite, obsequious seaman of the voyage out.
34
and last
the next morning we fell early to work, for the transportation of this great mass of gold near a mile by land to the beach, and thence three miles by boat to the hispaniola, was a considerable task for so small a number of workmen.
the three fellows still abroad upon the island did not greatly trouble us; a single sentry on the shoulder of the hill was sufficient to ensure us against any sudden onslaught, and we thought, besides, they had had more than enough of fighting.
therefore the work was pushed on briskly.
gray and ben gunn came and went with the boat, while the rest during their absences piled treasure on the beach.
two of the bars, slung in a rope's end, made a good load for a grown man one that he was glad to walk slowly with.
for my part, as i was not much use at carrying, i was kept busy all day in the cave packing the minted money into bread-bags.
it was a strange collection, like billy bones's hoard for the diversity of coinage, but so much larger and so much more varied that i think i never had more pleasure than in sorting them.
english, french, spanish, portuguese, georges, and louises, doubloons and double guineas and moidores and sequins, the pictures of all the kings of europe for the last hundred years, strange oriental pieces stamped with what looked like wisps of string or bits of spider's web, round pieces and square pieces, and pieces bored through the middle, as if to wear them round your neck nearly every variety of money in the world must, i think, have found a place in that collection; and for number, i am sure they were like autumn leaves, so that my back ached with stooping and my fingers with sorting them out.
day after day this work went on; by every evening a fortune had been stowed aboard, but there was another fortune waiting for the morrow; and all this time we heard nothing of the three surviving mutineers.
at last i think it was on the third night the doctor and i were strolling on the shoulder of the hill where it overlooks the lowlands of the isle, when, from out the thick darkness below, the wind brought us a noise between shrieking and singing.
it was only a snatch that reached our ears, followed by the former silence.
“heaven forgive them,” said the doctor; “'tis the mutineers!”
“all drunk, sir,” struck in the voice of silver from behind us.
silver, i should say, was allowed his entire liberty, and in spite of daily rebuffs, seemed to regard himself once more as quite a privileged and friendly dependent.
indeed, it was remarkable how well he bore these slights and with what unwearying politeness he kept on trying to ingratiate himself with all.
yet, i think, none treated him better than a dog, unless it was ben gunn, who was still terribly afraid of his old quartermaster, or myself, who had really something to thank him for; although for that matter, i suppose, i had reason to think even worse of him than anybody else, for i had seen him meditating a fresh treachery upon the plateau.
accordingly, it was pretty gruffly that the doctor answered him.
“drunk or raving,” said he.
“right you were, sir,” replied silver; “and precious little odds which, to you and me.”
“i suppose you would hardly ask me to call you a humane man,” returned the doctor with a sneer, “and so my feelings may surprise you, master silver.
but if i were sure they were raving as i am morally certain one, at least, of them is down with fever i should leave this camp, and at whatever risk to my own carcass, take them the assistance of my skill.”
“ask your pardon, sir, you would be very wrong,” quoth silver.
“you would lose your precious life, and you may lay to that.
i'm on your side now, hand and glove; and i shouldn't wish for to see the party weakened, let alone yourself, seeing as i know what i owes you.
but these men down there, they couldn't keep their word no, not supposing they wished to; and what's more, they couldn't believe as you could.”
“no,” said the doctor.
“you're the man to keep your word, we know that.”
well, that was about the last news we had of the three pirates.
only once we heard a gunshot a great way off and supposed them to be hunting.
a council was held, and it was decided that we must desert them on the island to the huge glee, i must say, of ben gunn, and with the strong approval of gray.
we left a good stock of powder and shot, the bulk of the salt goat, a few medicines, and some other necessaries, tools, clothing, a spare sail, a fathom or two of rope, and by the particular desire of the doctor, a handsome present of tobacco.
that was about our last doing on the island.
before that, we had got the treasure stowed and had shipped enough water and the remainder of the goat meat in case of any distress; and at last, one fine morning, we weighed anchor, which was about all that we could manage, and stood out of north inlet, the same colours flying that the captain had flown and fought under at the palisade.
the three fellows must have been watching us closer than we thought for, as we soon had proved.
for coming through the narrows, we had to lie very near the southern point, and there we saw all three of them kneeling together on a spit of sand, with their arms raised in supplication.
it went to all our hearts, i think, to leave them in that wretched state; but we could not risk another mutiny; and to take them home for the gibbet would have been a cruel sort of kindness.
the doctor hailed them and told them of the stores we had left, and where they were to find them.
but they continued to call us by name and appeal to us, for god's sake, to be merciful and not leave them to die in such a place.
at last, seeing the ship still bore on her course and was now swiftly drawing out of earshot, one of them i know not which it was leapt to his feet with a hoarse cry, whipped his musket to his shoulder, and sent a shot whistling over silver's head and through the main-sail.
after that, we kept under cover of the bulwarks, and when next i looked out they had disappeared from the spit, and the spit itself had almost melted out of sight in the growing distance.
that was, at least, the end of that; and before noon, to my inexpressible joy, the highest rock of treasure island had sunk into the blue round of sea.
we were so short of men that everyone on board had to bear a hand only the captain lying on a mattress in the stern and giving his orders, for though greatly recovered he was still in want of quiet.
we laid her head for the nearest port in spanish america, for we could not risk the voyage home without fresh hands; and as it was, what with baffling winds and a couple of fresh gales, we were all worn out before we reached it.
it was just at sundown when we cast anchor in a most beautiful land-locked gulf, and were immediately surrounded by shore boats full of negroes and mexican indians and half-bloods selling fruits and vegetables and offering to dive for bits of money.
the sight of so many good-humoured faces (especially the blacks), the taste of the tropical fruits, and above all the lights that began to shine in the town made a most charming contrast to our dark and bloody sojourn on the island; and the doctor and the squire, taking me along with them, went ashore to pass the early part of the night.
here they met the captain of an english man-of-war, fell in talk with him, went on board his ship, and, in short, had so agreeable a time that day was breaking when we came alongside the hispaniola.
ben gunn was on deck alone, and as soon as we came on board he began, with wonderful contortions, to make us a confession.
silver was gone.
the maroon had connived at his escape in a shore boat some hours ago, and he now assured us he had only done so to preserve our lives, which would certainly have been forfeit if “that man with the one leg had stayed aboard.” but this was not all.
the sea-cook had not gone empty-handed.
he had cut through a bulkhead unobserved and had removed one of the sacks of coin, worth perhaps three or four hundred guineas, to help him on his further wanderings.
i think we were all pleased to be so cheaply quit of him.
well, to make a long story short, we got a few hands on board, made a good cruise home, and the hispaniola reached bristol just as mr. blandly was beginning to think of fitting out her consort.
five men only of those who had sailed returned with her.
“drink and the devil had done for the rest,” with a vengeance, although, to be sure, we were not quite in so bad a case as that other ship they sang about:
with one man of her crew alive,      what put to sea with seventy-five.
all of us had an ample share of the treasure and used it wisely or foolishly, according to our natures.
captain smollett is now retired from the sea.
gray not only saved his money, but being suddenly smit with the desire to rise, also studied his profession, and he is now mate and part owner of a fine full-rigged ship, married besides, and the father of a family.
as for ben gunn, he got a thousand pounds, which he spent or lost in three weeks, or to be more exact, in nineteen days, for he was back begging on the twentieth.
then he was given a lodge to keep, exactly as he had feared upon the island; and he still lives, a great favourite, though something of a butt, with the country boys, and a notable singer in church on sundays and saints' days.
of silver we have heard no more.
that formidable seafaring man with one leg has at last gone clean out of my life; but i dare say he met his old negress, and perhaps still lives in comfort with her and captain flint.
it is to be hoped so, i suppose, for his chances of comfort in another world are very small.
the bar silver and the arms still lie, for all that i know, where flint buried them; and certainly they shall lie there for me.
oxen and wain-ropes would not bring me back again to that accursed island; and the worst dreams that ever i have are when i hear the surf booming about its coasts or start upright in bed with the sharp voice of captain flint still ringing in my ears: “pieces of eight!
pieces of eight!”
the idiot
i.
towards the end of november, during a thaw, at nine o’clock one morning, a train on the warsaw and petersburg railway was approaching the latter city at full speed.
the morning was so damp and misty that it was only with great difficulty that the day succeeded in breaking; and it was impossible to distinguish anything more than a few yards away from the carriage windows.
some of the passengers by this particular train were returning from abroad; but the third-class carriages were the best filled, chiefly with insignificant persons of various occupations and degrees, picked up at the different stations nearer town.
all of them seemed weary, and most of them had sleepy eyes and a shivering expression, while their complexions generally appeared to have taken on the colour of the fog outside.
when day dawned, two passengers in one of the third-class carriages found themselves opposite each other.
both were young fellows, both were rather poorly dressed, both had remarkable faces, and both were evidently anxious to start a conversation.
if they had but known why, at this particular moment, they were both remarkable persons, they would undoubtedly have wondered at the strange chance which had set them down opposite to one another in a third-class carriage of the warsaw railway company.
one of them was a young fellow of about twenty-seven, not tall, with black curling hair, and small, grey, fiery eyes.
his nose was broad and flat, and he had high cheek bones; his thin lips were constantly compressed into an impudent, ironical it might almost be called a malicious smile; but his forehead was high and well formed, and atoned for a good deal of the ugliness of the lower part of his face.
a special feature of this physiognomy was its death-like pallor, which gave to the whole man an indescribably emaciated appearance in spite of his hard look, and at the same time a sort of passionate and suffering expression which did not harmonize with his impudent, sarcastic smile and keen, self-satisfied bearing.
he wore a large fur or rather astrachan overcoat, which had kept him warm all night, while his neighbour had been obliged to bear the full severity of a russian november night entirely unprepared.
his wide sleeveless mantle with a large cape to it the sort of cloak one sees upon travellers during the winter months in switzerland or north italy was by no means adapted to the long cold journey through russia, from eydkuhnen to st. petersburg.
the wearer of this cloak was a young fellow, also of about twenty-six or twenty-seven years of age, slightly above the middle height, very fair, with a thin, pointed and very light coloured beard; his eyes were large and blue, and had an intent look about them, yet that heavy expression which some people affirm to be a peculiarity as well as evidence, of an epileptic subject.
his face was decidedly a pleasant one for all that; refined, but quite colourless, except for the circumstance that at this moment it was blue with cold.
he held a bundle made up of an old faded silk handkerchief that apparently contained all his travelling wardrobe, and wore thick shoes and gaiters, his whole appearance being very un-russian.
his black-haired neighbour inspected these peculiarities, having nothing better to do, and at length remarked, with that rude enjoyment of the discomforts of others which the common classes so often show:
“cold?”
“very,” said his neighbour, readily, “and this is a thaw, too.
fancy if it had been a hard frost!
i never thought it would be so cold in the old country.
i’ve grown quite out of the way of it.”
“what, been abroad, i suppose?”
“yes, straight from switzerland.”
“wheugh!
my goodness!” the black-haired young fellow whistled, and then laughed.
the conversation proceeded.
the readiness of the fair-haired young man in the cloak to answer all his opposite neighbour’s questions was surprising.
he seemed to have no suspicion of any impertinence or inappropriateness in the fact of such questions being put to him.
replying to them, he made known to the inquirer that he certainly had been long absent from russia, more than four years; that he had been sent abroad for his health; that he had suffered from some strange nervous malady a kind of epilepsy, with convulsive spasms.
his interlocutor burst out laughing several times at his answers; and more than ever, when to the question, “whether he had been cured?” the patient replied:
“no, they did not cure me.”
“hey!
that’s it!
you stumped up your money for nothing, and we believe in those fellows, here!” remarked the black-haired individual, sarcastically.
“gospel truth, sir, gospel truth!” exclaimed another passenger, a shabbily dressed man of about forty, who looked like a clerk, and possessed a red nose and a very blotchy face.
“gospel truth!
all they do is to get hold of our good russian money free, gratis, and for nothing.”
“oh, but you’re quite wrong in my particular instance,” said the swiss patient, quietly.
“of course i can’t argue the matter, because i know only my own case; but my doctor gave me money and he had very little to pay my journey back, besides having kept me at his own expense, while there, for nearly two years.”
“why?
was there no one else to pay for you?” asked the black-haired one.
“no mr. pavlicheff, who had been supporting me there, died a couple of years ago.
i wrote to mrs. general epanchin at the time (she is a distant relative of mine), but she did not answer my letter.
and so eventually i came back.”
“and where have you come to?”
“that is where am i going to stay?
i i really don’t quite know yet, i ”
both the listeners laughed again.
“i suppose your whole set-up is in that bundle, then?” asked the first.
“i bet anything it is!” exclaimed the red-nosed passenger, with extreme satisfaction, “and that he has precious little in the luggage van!
though of course poverty is no crime we must remember that!”
it appeared that it was indeed as they had surmised.
the young fellow hastened to admit the fact with wonderful readiness.
“your bundle has some importance, however,” continued the clerk, when they had laughed their fill (it was observable that the subject of their mirth joined in the laughter when he saw them laughing); “for though i dare say it is not stuffed full of friedrichs d’or and louis d’or judge from your costume and gaiters still if you can add to your possessions such a valuable property as a relation like mrs. general epanchin, then your bundle becomes a significant object at once.
that is, of course, if you really are a relative of mrs. epanchin’s, and have not made a little error through well, absence of mind, which is very common to human beings; or, say through a too luxuriant fancy?”
“oh, you are right again,” said the fair-haired traveller, “for i really am almost wrong when i say she and i are related.
she is hardly a relation at all; so little, in fact, that i was not in the least surprised to have no answer to my letter.
i expected as much.”
“h’m!
you spent your postage for nothing, then.
h’m!
you are candid, however and that is commendable.
h’m!
mrs. epanchin oh yes!
a most eminent person.
i know her.
as for mr. pavlicheff, who supported you in switzerland, i know him too at least, if it was nicolai andreevitch of that name?
a fine fellow he was and had a property of four thousand souls in his day.”
“yes, nicolai andreevitch that was his name,” and the young fellow looked earnestly and with curiosity at the all-knowing gentleman with the red nose.
this sort of character is met with pretty frequently in a certain class.
they are people who know everyone that is, they know where a man is employed, what his salary is, whom he knows, whom he married, what money his wife had, who are his cousins, and second cousins, etc., etc.
these men generally have about a hundred pounds a year to live on, and they spend their whole time and talents in the amassing of this style of knowledge, which they reduce or raise to the standard of a science.
during the latter part of the conversation the black-haired young man had become very impatient.
he stared out of the window, and fidgeted, and evidently longed for the end of the journey.
he was very absent; he would appear to listen and heard nothing; and he would laugh of a sudden, evidently with no idea of what he was laughing about.
“excuse me,” said the red-nosed man to the young fellow with the bundle, rather suddenly; “whom have i the honour to be talking to?”
“prince lef nicolaievitch muishkin,” replied the latter, with perfect readiness.
“prince muishkin?
lef nicolaievitch?
h’m!
i don’t know, i’m sure!
i may say i have never heard of such a person,” said the clerk, thoughtfully.
“at least, the name, i admit, is historical.
karamsin must mention the family name, of course, in his history but as an individual one never hears of any prince muishkin nowadays.”
“of course not,” replied the prince; “there are none, except myself.
i believe i am the last and only one.
as to my forefathers, they have always been a poor lot; my own father was a sublieutenant in the army.
i don’t know how mrs. epanchin comes into the muishkin family, but she is descended from the princess muishkin, and she, too, is the last of her line.”
“and did you learn science and all that, with your professor over there?” asked the black-haired passenger.
“oh yes i did learn a little, but ”
“i’ve never learned anything whatever,” said the other.
“oh, but i learned very little, you know!” added the prince, as though excusing himself.
“they could not teach me very much on account of my illness.”
“do you know the rogojins?” asked his questioner, abruptly.
“no, i don’t not at all!
i hardly know anyone in russia.
why, is that your name?”
“yes, i am rogojin, parfen rogojin.”
“parfen rogojin?
dear me then don’t you belong to those very rogojins, perhaps ” began the clerk, with a very perceptible increase of civility in his tone.
“yes those very ones,” interrupted rogojin, impatiently, and with scant courtesy.
i may remark that he had not once taken any notice of the blotchy-faced passenger, and had hitherto addressed all his remarks direct to the prince.
“dear me is it possible?” observed the clerk, while his face assumed an expression of great deference and servility if not of absolute alarm: “what, a son of that very semen rogojin hereditary honourable citizen who died a month or so ago and left two million and a half of roubles?”
“and how do you know that he left two million and a half of roubles?”
asked rogojin, disdainfully, and not deigning so much as to look at the other.
“however, it’s true enough that my father died a month ago, and that here am i returning from pskoff, a month after, with hardly a boot to my foot.
they’ve treated me like a dog!
i’ve been ill of fever at pskoff the whole time, and not a line, nor farthing of money, have i received from my mother or my confounded brother!”
“and now you’ll have a million roubles, at least goodness gracious me!”
exclaimed the clerk, rubbing his hands.
“five weeks since, i was just like yourself,” continued rogojin, addressing the prince, “with nothing but a bundle and the clothes i wore.
i ran away from my father and came to pskoff to my aunt’s house, where i caved in at once with fever, and he went and died while i was away.
all honour to my respected father’s memory but he uncommonly nearly killed me, all the same.
give you my word, prince, if i hadn’t cut and run then, when i did, he’d have murdered me like a dog.”
“i suppose you angered him somehow?” asked the prince, looking at the millionaire with considerable curiosity.
but though there may have been something remarkable in the fact that this man was heir to millions of roubles there was something about him which surprised and interested the prince more than that.
rogojin, too, seemed to have taken up the conversation with unusual alacrity it appeared that he was still in a considerable state of excitement, if not absolutely feverish, and was in real need of someone to talk to for the mere sake of talking, as safety-valve to his agitation.
as for his red-nosed neighbour, the latter since the information as to the identity of rogojin hung over him, seemed to be living on the honey of his words and in the breath of his nostrils, catching at every syllable as though it were a pearl of great price.
“oh, yes; i angered him i certainly did anger him,” replied rogojin.
“but what puts me out so is my brother.
of course my mother couldn’t do anything she’s too old and whatever brother senka says is law for her!
but why couldn’t he let me know?
he sent a telegram, they say.
what’s the good of a telegram?
it frightened my aunt so that she sent it back to the office unopened, and there it’s been ever since!
it’s only thanks to konief that i heard at all; he wrote me all about it.
he says my brother cut off the gold tassels from my father’s coffin, at night ‘because they’re worth a lot of money!’ says he.
why, i can get him sent off to siberia for that alone, if i like; it’s sacrilege.
here, you scarecrow!” he added, addressing the clerk at his side, “is it sacrilege or not, by law?”
“sacrilege, certainly certainly sacrilege,” said the latter.
“and it’s siberia for sacrilege, isn’t it?”
“undoubtedly so; siberia, of course!”
“they will think that i’m still ill,” continued rogojin to the prince, “but i sloped off quietly, seedy as i was, took the train and came away.
aha, brother senka, you’ll have to open your gates and let me in, my boy!
i know he told tales about me to my father i know that well enough but i certainly did rile my father about nastasia philipovna that’s very sure, and that was my own doing.”
“nastasia philipovna?” said the clerk, as though trying to think out something.
“come, you know nothing about her,” said rogojin, impatiently.
“and supposing i do know something?” observed the other, triumphantly.
“bosh!
there are plenty of nastasia philipovnas.
and what an impertinent beast you are!” he added angrily.
“i thought some creature like you would hang on to me as soon as i got hold of my money.”
“oh, but i do know, as it happens,” said the clerk in an aggravating manner.
“lebedeff knows all about her.
you are pleased to reproach me, your excellency, but what if i prove that i am right after all?
nastasia phillpovna’s family name is barashkoff i know, you see and she is a very well known lady, indeed, and comes of a good family, too.
she is connected with one totski, afanasy ivanovitch, a man of considerable property, a director of companies, and so on, and a great friend of general epanchin, who is interested in the same matters as he is.”
“my eyes!” said rogojin, really surprised at last.
“the devil take the fellow, how does he know that?”
“why, he knows everything lebedeff knows everything!
i was a month or two with lihachof after his father died, your excellency, and while he was knocking about he’s in the debtor’s prison now i was with him, and he couldn’t do a thing without lebedeff; and i got to know nastasia philipovna and several people at that time.”
“nastasia philipovna?
why, you don’t mean to say that she and lihachof ” cried rogojin, turning quite pale.
“no, no, no, no, no!
nothing of the sort, i assure you!” said lebedeff, hastily.
“oh dear no, not for the world!
totski’s the only man with any chance there.
oh, no!
he takes her to his box at the opera at the french theatre of an evening, and the officers and people all look at her and say, ‘by jove, there’s the famous nastasia philipovna!’ but no one ever gets any further than that, for there is nothing more to say.”
“yes, it’s quite true,” said rogojin, frowning gloomily; “so zaleshoff told me.
i was walking about the nefsky one fine day, prince, in my father’s old coat, when she suddenly came out of a shop and stepped into her carriage.
i swear i was all of a blaze at once.
then i met zaleshoff looking like a hair-dresser’s assistant, got up as fine as i don’t know who, while i looked like a tinker.
‘don’t flatter yourself, my boy,’ said he; ‘she’s not for such as you; she’s a princess, she is, and her name is nastasia philipovna barashkoff, and she lives with totski, who wishes to get rid of her because he’s growing rather old fifty-five or so and wants to marry a certain beauty, the loveliest woman in all petersburg.’ and then he told me that i could see nastasia philipovna at the opera-house that evening, if i liked, and described which was her box.
well, i’d like to see my father allowing any of us to go to the theatre; he’d sooner have killed us, any day.
however, i went for an hour or so and saw nastasia philipovna, and i never slept a wink all night after.
next morning my father happened to give me two government loan bonds to sell, worth nearly five thousand roubles each.
‘sell them,’ said he, ‘and then take seven thousand five hundred roubles to the office, give them to the cashier, and bring me back the rest of the ten thousand, without looking in anywhere on the way; look sharp, i shall be waiting for you.’ well, i sold the bonds, but i didn’t take the seven thousand roubles to the office; i went straight to the english shop and chose a pair of earrings, with a diamond the size of a nut in each.
they cost four hundred roubles more than i had, so i gave my name, and they trusted me.
with the earrings i went at once to zaleshoff’s.
‘come on!’ i said, ‘come on to nastasia philipovna’s,’ and off we went without more ado.
i tell you i hadn’t a notion of what was about me or before me or below my feet all the way; i saw nothing whatever.
we went straight into her drawing-room, and then she came out to us.
“i didn’t say right out who i was, but zaleshoff said: ‘from parfen rogojin, in memory of his first meeting with you yesterday; be so kind as to accept these!’
“she opened the parcel, looked at the earrings, and laughed.
“‘thank your friend mr. rogojin for his kind attention,’ says she, and bowed and went off.
why didn’t i die there on the spot?
the worst of it all was, though, that the beast zaleshoff got all the credit of it!
i was short and abominably dressed, and stood and stared in her face and never said a word, because i was shy, like an ass!
and there was he all in the fashion, pomaded and dressed out, with a smart tie on, bowing and scraping; and i bet anything she took him for me all the while!
“‘look here now,’ i said, when we came out, ‘none of your interference here after this do you understand?’ he laughed: ‘and how are you going to settle up with your father?’ says he.
i thought i might as well jump into the neva at once without going home first; but it struck me that i wouldn’t, after all, and i went home feeling like one of the damned.”
“my goodness!” shivered the clerk.
“and his father,” he added, for the prince’s instruction, “and his father would have given a man a ticket to the other world for ten roubles any day not to speak of ten thousand!”
the prince observed rogojin with great curiosity; he seemed paler than ever at this moment.
“what do you know about it?” cried the latter.
“well, my father learned the whole story at once, and zaleshoff blabbed it all over the town besides.
so he took me upstairs and locked me up, and swore at me for an hour.
‘this is only a foretaste,’ says he; ‘wait a bit till night comes, and i’ll come back and talk to you again.’
“well, what do you think?
the old fellow went straight off to nastasia philipovna, touched the floor with his forehead, and began blubbering and beseeching her on his knees to give him back the diamonds.
so after awhile she brought the box and flew out at him.
‘there,’ she says, ‘take your earrings, you wretched old miser; although they are ten times dearer than their value to me now that i know what it must have cost parfen to get them!
give parfen my compliments,’ she says, ‘and thank him very much!’ well, i meanwhile had borrowed twenty-five roubles from a friend, and off i went to pskoff to my aunt’s.
the old woman there lectured me so that i left the house and went on a drinking tour round the public-houses of the place.
i was in a high fever when i got to pskoff, and by nightfall i was lying delirious in the streets somewhere or other!”
“oho!
we’ll make nastasia philipovna sing another song now!” giggled lebedeff, rubbing his hands with glee.
“hey, my boy, we’ll get her some proper earrings now!
we’ll get her such earrings that ”
“look here,” cried rogojin, seizing him fiercely by the arm, “look here, if you so much as name nastasia philipovna again, i’ll tan your hide as sure as you sit there!”
“aha!
do by all means!
if you tan my hide you won’t turn me away from your society.
you’ll bind me to you, with your lash, for ever.
ha, ha!
here we are at the station, though.”
sure enough, the train was just steaming in as he spoke.
though rogojin had declared that he left pskoff secretly, a large collection of friends had assembled to greet him, and did so with profuse waving of hats and shouting.
“why, there’s zaleshoff here, too!” he muttered, gazing at the scene with a sort of triumphant but unpleasant smile.
then he suddenly turned to the prince: “prince, i don’t know why i have taken a fancy to you; perhaps because i met you just when i did.
but no, it can’t be that, for i met this fellow” (nodding at lebedeff) “too, and i have not taken a fancy to him by any means.
come to see me, prince; we’ll take off those gaiters of yours and dress you up in a smart fur coat, the best we can buy.
you shall have a dress coat, best quality, white waistcoat, anything you like, and your pocket shall be full of money.
come, and you shall go with me to nastasia philipovna’s.
now then will you come or no?”
“accept, accept, prince lef nicolaievitch” said lebedef solemnly; “don’t let it slip!
accept, quick!”
prince muishkin rose and stretched out his hand courteously, while he replied with some cordiality:
“i will come with the greatest pleasure, and thank you very much for taking a fancy to me.
i dare say i may even come today if i have time, for i tell you frankly that i like you very much too.
i liked you especially when you told us about the diamond earrings; but i liked you before that as well, though you have such a dark-clouded sort of face.
thanks very much for the offer of clothes and a fur coat; i certainly shall require both clothes and coat very soon.
as for money, i have hardly a copeck about me at this moment.”
“you shall have lots of money; by the evening i shall have plenty; so come along!”
“that’s true enough, he’ll have lots before evening!” put in lebedeff.
“but, look here, are you a great hand with the ladies?
let’s know that first?” asked rogojin.
“oh no, oh no!” said the prince; “i couldn’t, you know my illness i hardly ever saw a soul.”
“h’m!
well here, you fellow you can come along with me now if you like!” cried rogojin to lebedeff, and so they all left the carriage.
lebedeff had his desire.
he went off with the noisy group of rogojin’s friends towards the voznesensky, while the prince’s route lay towards the litaynaya.
it was damp and wet.
the prince asked his way of passers-by, and finding that he was a couple of miles or so from his destination, he determined to take a droshky.
ii.
general epanchin lived in his own house near the litaynaya.
besides this large residence five-sixths of which was let in flats and lodgings the general was owner of another enormous house in the sadovaya bringing in even more rent than the first.
besides these houses he had a delightful little estate just out of town, and some sort of factory in another part of the city.
general epanchin, as everyone knew, had a good deal to do with certain government monopolies; he was also a voice, and an important one, in many rich public companies of various descriptions; in fact, he enjoyed the reputation of being a well-to-do man of busy habits, many ties, and affluent means.
he had made himself indispensable in several quarters, amongst others in his department of the government; and yet it was a known fact that fedor ivanovitch epanchin was a man of no education whatever, and had absolutely risen from the ranks.
this last fact could, of course, reflect nothing but credit upon the general; and yet, though unquestionably a sagacious man, he had his own little weaknesses very excusable ones, one of which was a dislike to any allusion to the above circumstance.
he was undoubtedly clever.
for instance, he made a point of never asserting himself when he would gain more by keeping in the background; and in consequence many exalted personages valued him principally for his humility and simplicity, and because “he knew his place.” and yet if these good people could only have had a peep into the mind of this excellent fellow who “knew his place” so well!
the fact is that, in spite of his knowledge of the world and his really remarkable abilities, he always liked to appear to be carrying out other people’s ideas rather than his own.
and also, his luck seldom failed him, even at cards, for which he had a passion that he did not attempt to conceal.
he played for high stakes, and moved, altogether, in very varied society.
as to age, general epanchin was in the very prime of life; that is, about fifty-five years of age, the flowering time of existence, when real enjoyment of life begins.
his healthy appearance, good colour, sound, though discoloured teeth, sturdy figure, preoccupied air during business hours, and jolly good humour during his game at cards in the evening, all bore witness to his success in life, and combined to make existence a bed of roses to his excellency.
the general was lord of a flourishing family, consisting of his wife and three grown-up daughters.
he had married young, while still a lieutenant, his wife being a girl of about his own age, who possessed neither beauty nor education, and who brought him no more than fifty souls of landed property, which little estate served, however, as a nest-egg for far more important accumulations.
the general never regretted his early marriage, or regarded it as a foolish youthful escapade; and he so respected and feared his wife that he was very near loving her.
mrs. epanchin came of the princely stock of muishkin, which if not a brilliant, was, at all events, a decidedly ancient family; and she was extremely proud of her descent.
with a few exceptions, the worthy couple had lived through their long union very happily.
while still young the wife had been able to make important friends among the aristocracy, partly by virtue of her family descent, and partly by her own exertions; while, in after life, thanks to their wealth and to the position of her husband in the service, she took her place among the higher circles as by right.
during these last few years all three of the general’s daughters alexandra, adelaida, and aglaya had grown up and matured.
of course they were only epanchins, but their mother’s family was noble; they might expect considerable fortunes; their father had hopes of attaining to very high rank indeed in his country’s service all of which was satisfactory.
all three of the girls were decidedly pretty, even the eldest, alexandra, who was just twenty-five years old.
the middle daughter was now twenty-three, while the youngest, aglaya, was twenty.
this youngest girl was absolutely a beauty, and had begun of late to attract considerable attention in society.
but this was not all, for every one of the three was clever, well educated, and accomplished.
it was a matter of general knowledge that the three girls were very fond of one another, and supported each other in every way; it was even said that the two elder ones had made certain sacrifices for the sake of the idol of the household, aglaya.
in society they not only disliked asserting themselves, but were actually retiring.
certainly no one could blame them for being too arrogant or haughty, and yet everybody was well aware that they were proud and quite understood their own value.
the eldest was musical, while the second was a clever artist, which fact she had concealed until lately.
in a word, the world spoke well of the girls; but they were not without their enemies, and occasionally people talked with horror of the number of books they had read.
they were in no hurry to marry.
they liked good society, but were not too keen about it.
all this was the more remarkable, because everyone was well aware of the hopes and aims of their parents.
it was about eleven o’clock in the forenoon when the prince rang the bell at general epanchin’s door.
the general lived on the first floor or flat of the house, as modest a lodging as his position permitted.
a liveried servant opened the door, and the prince was obliged to enter into long explanations with this gentleman, who, from the first glance, looked at him and his bundle with grave suspicion.
at last, however, on the repeated positive assurance that he really was prince muishkin, and must absolutely see the general on business, the bewildered domestic showed him into a little ante-chamber leading to a waiting-room that adjoined the general’s study, there handing him over to another servant, whose duty it was to be in this ante-chamber all the morning, and announce visitors to the general.
this second individual wore a dress coat, and was some forty years of age; he was the general’s special study servant, and well aware of his own importance.
“wait in the next room, please; and leave your bundle here,” said the door-keeper, as he sat down comfortably in his own easy-chair in the ante-chamber.
he looked at the prince in severe surprise as the latter settled himself in another chair alongside, with his bundle on his knees.
“if you don’t mind, i would rather sit here with you,” said the prince; “i should prefer it to sitting in there.”
“oh, but you can’t stay here.
you are a visitor a guest, so to speak.
is it the general himself you wish to see?”
the man evidently could not take in the idea of such a shabby-looking visitor, and had decided to ask once more.
“yes i have business ” began the prince.
“i do not ask you what your business may be, all i have to do is to announce you; and unless the secretary comes in here i cannot do that.”
the man’s suspicions seemed to increase more and more.
the prince was too unlike the usual run of daily visitors; and although the general certainly did receive, on business, all sorts and conditions of men, yet in spite of this fact the servant felt great doubts on the subject of this particular visitor.
the presence of the secretary as an intermediary was, he judged, essential in this case.
“surely you are from abroad?” he inquired at last, in a confused sort of way.
he had begun his sentence intending to say, “surely you are not prince muishkin, are you?”
“yes, straight from the train!
did not you intend to say, ‘surely you are not prince muishkin?’ just now, but refrained out of politeness?”
“h’m!” grunted the astonished servant.
“i assure you i am not deceiving you; you shall not have to answer for me.
as to my being dressed like this, and carrying a bundle, there’s nothing surprising in that the fact is, my circumstances are not particularly rosy at this moment.”
“h’m!
no, i’m not afraid of that, you see; i have to announce you, that’s all.
the secretary will be out directly that is, unless you yes, that’s the rub unless you come, you must allow me to ask you you’ve not come to beg, have you?”
“oh dear no, you can be perfectly easy on that score.
i have quite another matter on hand.”
“you must excuse my asking, you know.
your appearance led me to think but just wait for the secretary; the general is busy now, but the secretary is sure to come out.”
“oh well, look here, if i have some time to wait, would you mind telling me, is there any place about where i could have a smoke?
i have my pipe and tobacco with me.”
“smoke?” said the man, in shocked but disdainful surprise, blinking his eyes at the prince as though he could not believe his senses.
“no, sir, you cannot smoke here, and i wonder you are not ashamed of the very suggestion.
ha, ha!
a cool idea that, i declare!”
“oh, i didn’t mean in this room!
i know i can’t smoke here, of course.
i’d adjourn to some other room, wherever you like to show me to.
you see, i’m used to smoking a good deal, and now i haven’t had a puff for three hours; however, just as you like.”
“now how on earth am i to announce a man like that?” muttered the servant.
“in the first place, you’ve no right in here at all; you ought to be in the waiting-room, because you’re a sort of visitor a guest, in fact and i shall catch it for this.
look here, do you intend to take up you abode with us?” he added, glancing once more at the prince’s bundle, which evidently gave him no peace.
“no, i don’t think so.
i don’t think i should stay even if they were to invite me.
i’ve simply come to make their acquaintance, and nothing more.”
“make their acquaintance?” asked the man, in amazement, and with redoubled suspicion.
“then why did you say you had business with the general?”
“oh well, very little business.
there is one little matter some advice i am going to ask him for; but my principal object is simply to introduce myself, because i am prince muishkin, and madame epanchin is the last of her branch of the house, and besides herself and me there are no other muishkins left.”
“what you’re a relation then, are you?” asked the servant, so bewildered that he began to feel quite alarmed.
“well, hardly so.
if you stretch a point, we are relations, of course, but so distant that one cannot really take cognizance of it.
i once wrote to your mistress from abroad, but she did not reply.
however, i have thought it right to make acquaintance with her on my arrival.
i am telling you all this in order to ease your mind, for i see you are still far from comfortable on my account.
all you have to do is to announce me as prince muishkin, and the object of my visit will be plain enough.
if i am received very good; if not, well, very good again.
but they are sure to receive me, i should think; madame epanchin will naturally be curious to see the only remaining representative of her family.
she values her muishkin descent very highly, if i am rightly informed.”
the prince’s conversation was artless and confiding to a degree, and the servant could not help feeling that as from visitor to common serving-man this state of things was highly improper.
his conclusion was that one of two things must be the explanation either that this was a begging impostor, or that the prince, if prince he were, was simply a fool, without the slightest ambition; for a sensible prince with any ambition would certainly not wait about in ante-rooms with servants, and talk of his own private affairs like this.
in either case, how was he to announce this singular visitor?
“i really think i must request you to step into the next room!” he said, with all the insistence he could muster.
“why?
if i had been sitting there now, i should not have had the opportunity of making these personal explanations.
i see you are still uneasy about me and keep eyeing my cloak and bundle.
don’t you think you might go in yourself now, without waiting for the secretary to come out?”
“no, no!
i can’t announce a visitor like yourself without the secretary.
besides the general said he was not to be disturbed he is with the colonel c .
gavrila ardalionovitch goes in without announcing.”
“who may that be?
a clerk?”
“what?
gavrila ardalionovitch?
oh no; he belongs to one of the companies.
look here, at all events put your bundle down, here.”
“yes, i will if i may; and can i take off my cloak”
“of course; you can’t go in there with it on, anyhow.”
the prince rose and took off his mantle, revealing a neat enough morning costume a little worn, but well made.
he wore a steel watch chain and from this chain there hung a silver geneva watch.
fool the prince might be, still, the general’s servant felt that it was not correct for him to continue to converse thus with a visitor, in spite of the fact that the prince pleased him somehow.
“and what time of day does the lady receive?” the latter asked, reseating himself in his old place.
“oh, that’s not in my province!
i believe she receives at any time; it depends upon the visitors.
the dressmaker goes in at eleven.
gavrila ardalionovitch is allowed much earlier than other people, too; he is even admitted to early lunch now and then.”
“it is much warmer in the rooms here than it is abroad at this season,”
observed the prince; “but it is much warmer there out of doors.
as for the houses a russian can’t live in them in the winter until he gets accustomed to them.”
“don’t they heat them at all?”
“well, they do heat them a little; but the houses and stoves are so different to ours.”
“h’m!
were you long away?”
“four years!
and i was in the same place nearly all the time, in one village.”
“you must have forgotten russia, hadn’t you?”
“yes, indeed i had a good deal; and, would you believe it, i often wonder at myself for not having forgotten how to speak russian?
even now, as i talk to you, i keep saying to myself ‘how well i am speaking it.’ perhaps that is partly why i am so talkative this morning.
i assure you, ever since yesterday evening i have had the strongest desire to go on and on talking russian.”
“h’m!
yes; did you live in petersburg in former years?”
this good flunkey, in spite of his conscientious scruples, really could not resist continuing such a very genteel and agreeable conversation.
“in petersburg?
oh no!
hardly at all, and now they say so much is changed in the place that even those who did know it well are obliged to relearn what they knew.
they talk a good deal about the new law courts, and changes there, don’t they?”
“h’m!
yes, that’s true enough.
well now, how is the law over there, do they administer it more justly than here?”
“oh, i don’t know about that!
i’ve heard much that is good about our legal administration, too.
there is no capital punishment here for one thing.”
“is there over there?”
“yes i saw an execution in france at lyons.
schneider took me over with him to see it.”
“what, did they hang the fellow?”
“no, they cut off people’s heads in france.”
“what did the fellow do?
yell?”
“oh no it’s the work of an instant.
they put a man inside a frame and a sort of broad knife falls by machinery they call the thing a guillotine it falls with fearful force and weight the head springs off so quickly that you can’t wink your eye in between.
but all the preparations are so dreadful.
when they announce the sentence, you know, and prepare the criminal and tie his hands, and cart him off to the scaffold that’s the fearful part of the business.
the people all crowd round even women though they don’t at all approve of women looking on.”
“no, it’s not a thing for women.”
“of course not of course not!
bah!
the criminal was a fine intelligent fearless man; le gros was his name; and i may tell you believe it or not, as you like that when that man stepped upon the scaffold he cried, he did indeed, he was as white as a bit of paper.
isn’t it a dreadful idea that he should have cried cried!
whoever heard of a grown man crying from fear not a child, but a man who never had cried before a grown man of forty-five years.
imagine what must have been going on in that man’s mind at such a moment; what dreadful convulsions his whole spirit must have endured; it is an outrage on the soul that’s what it is.
because it is said ‘thou shalt not kill,’ is he to be killed because he murdered some one else?
no, it is not right, it’s an impossible theory.
i assure you, i saw the sight a month ago and it’s dancing before my eyes to this moment.
i dream of it, often.”
the prince had grown animated as he spoke, and a tinge of colour suffused his pale face, though his way of talking was as quiet as ever.
the servant followed his words with sympathetic interest.
clearly he was not at all anxious to bring the conversation to an end.
who knows?
perhaps he too was a man of imagination and with some capacity for thought.
“well, at all events it is a good thing that there’s no pain when the poor fellow’s head flies off,” he remarked.
“do you know, though,” cried the prince warmly, “you made that remark now, and everyone says the same thing, and the machine is designed with the purpose of avoiding pain, this guillotine i mean; but a thought came into my head then: what if it be a bad plan after all?
you may laugh at my idea, perhaps but i could not help its occurring to me all the same.
now with the rack and tortures and so on you suffer terrible pain of course; but then your torture is bodily pain only (although no doubt you have plenty of that) until you die.
but here i should imagine the most terrible part of the whole punishment is, not the bodily pain at all but the certain knowledge that in an hour, then in ten minutes, then in half a minute, then now this very instant your soul must quit your body and that you will no longer be a man and that this is certain, certain!
that’s the point the certainty of it.
just that instant when you place your head on the block and hear the iron grate over your head then that quarter of a second is the most awful of all.
“this is not my own fantastical opinion many people have thought the same; but i feel it so deeply that i’ll tell you what i think.
i believe that to execute a man for murder is to punish him immeasurably more dreadfully than is equivalent to his crime.
a murder by sentence is far more dreadful than a murder committed by a criminal.
the man who is attacked by robbers at night, in a dark wood, or anywhere, undoubtedly hopes and hopes that he may yet escape until the very moment of his death.
there are plenty of instances of a man running away, or imploring for mercy at all events hoping on in some degree even after his throat was cut.
but in the case of an execution, that last hope having which it is so immeasurably less dreadful to die, is taken away from the wretch and certainty substituted in its place!
there is his sentence, and with it that terrible certainty that he cannot possibly escape death which, i consider, must be the most dreadful anguish in the world.
you may place a soldier before a cannon’s mouth in battle, and fire upon him and he will still hope.
but read to that same soldier his death-sentence, and he will either go mad or burst into tears.
who dares to say that any man can suffer this without going mad?
no, no!
it is an abuse, a shame, it is unnecessary why should such a thing exist?
doubtless there may be men who have been sentenced, who have suffered this mental anguish for a while and then have been reprieved; perhaps such men may have been able to relate their feelings afterwards.
our lord christ spoke of this anguish and dread.
no!
no!
no!
no man should be treated so, no man, no man!”
the servant, though of course he could not have expressed all this as the prince did, still clearly entered into it and was greatly conciliated, as was evident from the increased amiability of his expression.
“if you are really very anxious for a smoke,” he remarked, “i think it might possibly be managed, if you are very quick about it.
you see they might come out and inquire for you, and you wouldn’t be on the spot.
you see that door there?
go in there and you’ll find a little room on the right; you can smoke there, only open the window, because i ought not to allow it really, and .” but there was no time, after all.
a young fellow entered the ante-room at this moment, with a bundle of papers in his hand.
the footman hastened to help him take off his overcoat.
the new arrival glanced at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.
“this gentleman declares, gavrila ardalionovitch,” began the man, confidentially and almost familiarly, “that he is prince muishkin and a relative of madame epanchin’s.
he has just arrived from abroad, with nothing but a bundle by way of luggage .”
the prince did not hear the rest, because at this point the servant continued his communication in a whisper.
gavrila ardalionovitch listened attentively, and gazed at the prince with great curiosity.
at last he motioned the man aside and stepped hurriedly towards the prince.
“are you prince muishkin?” he asked, with the greatest courtesy and amiability.
he was a remarkably handsome young fellow of some twenty-eight summers, fair and of middle height; he wore a small beard, and his face was most intelligent.
yet his smile, in spite of its sweetness, was a little thin, if i may so call it, and showed his teeth too evenly; his gaze though decidedly good-humoured and ingenuous, was a trifle too inquisitive and intent to be altogether agreeable.
“probably when he is alone he looks quite different, and hardly smiles at all!” thought the prince.
he explained about himself in a few words, very much the same as he had told the footman and rogojin beforehand.
gavrila ardalionovitch meanwhile seemed to be trying to recall something.
“was it not you, then, who sent a letter a year or less ago from switzerland, i think it was to elizabetha prokofievna (mrs. epanchin)?”
“it was.”
“oh, then, of course they will remember who you are.
you wish to see the general?
i’ll tell him at once he will be free in a minute; but you you had better wait in the ante-chamber, hadn’t you?
why is he here?” he added, severely, to the man.
“i tell you, sir, he wished it himself!”
at this moment the study door opened, and a military man, with a portfolio under his arm, came out talking loudly, and after bidding good-bye to someone inside, took his departure.
“you there, gania?” cried a voice from the study, “come in here, will you?”
gavrila ardalionovitch nodded to the prince and entered the room hastily.
a couple of minutes later the door opened again and the affable voice of gania cried:
“come in please, prince!”
iii.
general ivan fedorovitch epanchin was standing in the middle of the room, and gazed with great curiosity at the prince as he entered.
he even advanced a couple of steps to meet him.
the prince came forward and introduced himself.
“quite so,” replied the general, “and what can i do for you?”
“oh, i have no special business; my principal object was to make your acquaintance.
i should not like to disturb you.
i do not know your times and arrangements here, you see, but i have only just arrived.
i came straight from the station.
i am come direct from switzerland.”
the general very nearly smiled, but thought better of it and kept his smile back.
then he reflected, blinked his eyes, stared at his guest once more from head to foot; then abruptly motioned him to a chair, sat down himself, and waited with some impatience for the prince to speak.
gania stood at his table in the far corner of the room, turning over papers.
“i have not much time for making acquaintances, as a rule,” said the general, “but as, of course, you have your object in coming, i ”
“i felt sure you would think i had some object in view when i resolved to pay you this visit,” the prince interrupted; “but i give you my word, beyond the pleasure of making your acquaintance i had no personal object whatever.”
“the pleasure is, of course, mutual; but life is not all pleasure, as you are aware.
there is such a thing as business, and i really do not see what possible reason there can be, or what we have in common to ”
“oh, there is no reason, of course, and i suppose there is nothing in common between us, or very little; for if i am prince muishkin, and your wife happens to be a member of my house, that can hardly be called a ‘reason.’ i quite understand that.
and yet that was my whole motive for coming.
you see i have not been in russia for four years, and knew very little about anything when i left.
i had been very ill for a long time, and i feel now the need of a few good friends.
in fact, i have a certain question upon which i much need advice, and do not know whom to go to for it.
i thought of your family when i was passing through berlin.
‘they are almost relations,’ i said to myself, ‘so i’ll begin with them; perhaps we may get on with each other, i with them and they with me, if they are kind people;’ and i have heard that you are very kind people!”
“oh, thank you, thank you, i’m sure,” replied the general, considerably taken aback.
“may i ask where you have taken up your quarters?”
“nowhere, as yet.”
“what, straight from the station to my house?
and how about your luggage?”
“i only had a small bundle, containing linen, with me, nothing more.
i can carry it in my hand, easily.
there will be plenty of time to take a room in some hotel by the evening.”
“oh, then you do intend to take a room?”
“of course.”
“to judge from your words, you came straight to my house with the intention of staying there.”
“that could only have been on your invitation.
i confess, however, that i should not have stayed here even if you had invited me, not for any particular reason, but because it is well, contrary to my practice and nature, somehow.”
“oh, indeed!
then it is perhaps as well that i neither did invite you, nor do invite you now.
excuse me, prince, but we had better make this matter clear, once for all.
we have just agreed that with regard to our relationship there is not much to be said, though, of course, it would have been very delightful to us to feel that such relationship did actually exist; therefore, perhaps ”
“therefore, perhaps i had better get up and go away?” said the prince, laughing merrily as he rose from his place; just as merrily as though the circumstances were by no means strained or difficult.
“and i give you my word, general, that though i know nothing whatever of manners and customs of society, and how people live and all that, yet i felt quite sure that this visit of mine would end exactly as it has ended now.
oh, well, i suppose it’s all right; especially as my letter was not answered.
well, good-bye, and forgive me for having disturbed you!”
the prince’s expression was so good-natured at this moment, and so entirely free from even a suspicion of unpleasant feeling was the smile with which he looked at the general as he spoke, that the latter suddenly paused, and appeared to gaze at his guest from quite a new point of view, all in an instant.
“do you know, prince,” he said, in quite a different tone, “i do not know you at all, yet, and after all, elizabetha prokofievna would very likely be pleased to have a peep at a man of her own name.
wait a little, if you don’t mind, and if you have time to spare?”
“oh, i assure you i’ve lots of time, my time is entirely my own!” and the prince immediately replaced his soft, round hat on the table.
“i confess, i thought elizabetha prokofievna would very likely remember that i had written her a letter.
just now your servant outside there was dreadfully suspicious that i had come to beg of you.
i noticed that!
probably he has very strict instructions on that score; but i assure you i did not come to beg.
i came to make some friends.
but i am rather bothered at having disturbed you; that’s all i care about.
”
“look here, prince,” said the general, with a cordial smile, “if you really are the sort of man you appear to be, it may be a source of great pleasure to us to make your better acquaintance; but, you see, i am a very busy man, and have to be perpetually sitting here and signing papers, or off to see his excellency, or to my department, or somewhere; so that though i should be glad to see more of people, nice people you see, i however, i am sure you are so well brought up that you will see at once, and but how old are you, prince?”
“twenty-six.”
“no?
i thought you very much younger.”
“yes, they say i have a ‘young’ face.
as to disturbing you i shall soon learn to avoid doing that, for i hate disturbing people.
besides, you and i are so differently constituted, i should think, that there must be very little in common between us.
not that i will ever believe there is nothing in common between any two people, as some declare is the case.
i am sure people make a great mistake in sorting each other into groups, by appearances; but i am boring you, i see, you ”
“just two words: have you any means at all?
or perhaps you may be intending to undertake some sort of employment?
excuse my questioning you, but ”
“oh, my dear sir, i esteem and understand your kindness in putting the question.
no; at present i have no means whatever, and no employment either, but i hope to find some.
i was living on other people abroad.
schneider, the professor who treated me and taught me, too, in switzerland, gave me just enough money for my journey, so that now i have but a few copecks left.
there certainly is one question upon which i am anxious to have advice, but ”
“tell me, how do you intend to live now, and what are your plans?”
interrupted the general.
“i wish to work, somehow or other.”
“oh yes, but then, you see, you are a philosopher.
have you any talents, or ability in any direction that is, any that would bring in money and bread?
excuse me again ”
“oh, don’t apologize.
no, i don’t think i have either talents or special abilities of any kind; on the contrary.
i have always been an invalid and unable to learn much.
as for bread, i should think ”
the general interrupted once more with questions; while the prince again replied with the narrative we have heard before.
it appeared that the general had known pavlicheff; but why the latter had taken an interest in the prince, that young gentleman could not explain; probably by virtue of the old friendship with his father, he thought.
the prince had been left an orphan when quite a little child, and pavlicheff had entrusted him to an old lady, a relative of his own, living in the country, the child needing the fresh air and exercise of country life.
he was educated, first by a governess, and afterwards by a tutor, but could not remember much about this time of his life.
his fits were so frequent then, that they made almost an idiot of him (the prince used the expression “idiot” himself).
pavlicheff had met professor schneider in berlin, and the latter had persuaded him to send the boy to switzerland, to schneider’s establishment there, for the cure of his epilepsy, and, five years before this time, the prince was sent off.
but pavlicheff had died two or three years since, and schneider had himself supported the young fellow, from that day to this, at his own expense.
although he had not quite cured him, he had greatly improved his condition; and now, at last, at the prince’s own desire, and because of a certain matter which came to the ears of the latter, schneider had despatched the young man to russia.
the general was much astonished.
“then you have no one, absolutely no one in russia?” he asked.
“no one, at present; but i hope to make friends; and then i have a letter from ”
“at all events,” put in the general, not listening to the news about the letter, “at all events, you must have learned something, and your malady would not prevent your undertaking some easy work, in one of the departments, for instance?”
“oh dear no, oh no!
as for a situation, i should much like to find one for i am anxious to discover what i really am fit for.
i have learned a good deal in the last four years, and, besides, i read a great many russian books.”
“russian books, indeed?
then, of course, you can read and write quite correctly?”
“oh dear, yes!”
“capital!
and your handwriting?”
“ah, there i am really talented!
i may say i am a real caligraphist.
let me write you something, just to show you,” said the prince, with some excitement.
“with pleasure!
in fact, it is very necessary.
i like your readiness, prince; in fact, i must say i i like you very well, altogether,” said the general.
“what delightful writing materials you have here, such a lot of pencils and things, and what beautiful paper!
it’s a charming room altogether.
i know that picture, it’s a swiss view.
i’m sure the artist painted it from nature, and that i have seen the very place ”
“quite likely, though i bought it here.
gania, give the prince some paper.
here are pens and paper; now then, take this table.
what’s this?” the general continued to gania, who had that moment taken a large photograph out of his portfolio, and shown it to his senior.
“halloa!
nastasia philipovna!
did she send it you herself?
herself?” he inquired, with much curiosity and great animation.
“she gave it me just now, when i called in to congratulate her.
i asked her for it long ago.
i don’t know whether she meant it for a hint that i had come empty-handed, without a present for her birthday, or what,”
added gania, with an unpleasant smile.
“oh, nonsense, nonsense,” said the general, with decision.
“what extraordinary ideas you have, gania!
as if she would hint; that’s not her way at all.
besides, what could you give her, without having thousands at your disposal?
you might have given her your portrait, however.
has she ever asked you for it?”
“no, not yet.
very likely she never will.
i suppose you haven’t forgotten about tonight, have you, ivan fedorovitch?
you were one of those specially invited, you know.”
“oh no, i remember all right, and i shall go, of course.
i should think so!
she’s twenty-five years old today!
and, you know, gania, you must be ready for great things; she has promised both myself and afanasy ivanovitch that she will give a decided answer tonight, yes or no.
so be prepared!”
gania suddenly became so ill at ease that his face grew paler than ever.
“are you sure she said that?” he asked, and his voice seemed to quiver as he spoke.
“yes, she promised.
we both worried her so that she gave in; but she wished us to tell you nothing about it until the day.”
the general watched gania’s confusion intently, and clearly did not like it.
“remember, ivan fedorovitch,” said gania, in great agitation, “that i was to be free too, until her decision; and that even then i was to have my ‘yes or no’ free.”
“why, don’t you, aren’t you ” began the general, in alarm.
“oh, don’t misunderstand ”
“but, my dear fellow, what are you doing, what do you mean?”
“oh, i’m not rejecting her.
i may have expressed myself badly, but i didn’t mean that.”
“reject her!
i should think not!” said the general with annoyance, and apparently not in the least anxious to conceal it.
“why, my dear fellow, it’s not a question of your rejecting her, it is whether you are prepared to receive her consent joyfully, and with proper satisfaction.
how are things going on at home?”
“at home?
oh, i can do as i like there, of course; only my father will make a fool of himself, as usual.
he is rapidly becoming a general nuisance.
i don’t ever talk to him now, but i hold him in check, safe enough.
i swear if it had not been for my mother, i should have shown him the way out, long ago.
my mother is always crying, of course, and my sister sulks.
i had to tell them at last that i intended to be master of my own destiny, and that i expect to be obeyed at home.
at least, i gave my sister to understand as much, and my mother was present.”
“well, i must say, i cannot understand it!” said the general, shrugging his shoulders and dropping his hands.
“you remember your mother, nina alexandrovna, that day she came and sat here and groaned and when i asked her what was the matter, she says, ‘oh, it’s such a dishonour to us!’ dishonour!
stuff and nonsense!
i should like to know who can reproach nastasia philipovna, or who can say a word of any kind against her.
did she mean because nastasia had been living with totski?
what nonsense it is!
you would not let her come near your daughters, says nina alexandrovna.
what next, i wonder?
i don’t see how she can fail to to understand ”
“her own position?” prompted gania.
“she does understand.
don’t be annoyed with her.
i have warned her not to meddle in other people’s affairs.
however, although there’s comparative peace at home at present, the storm will break if anything is finally settled tonight.”
the prince heard the whole of the foregoing conversation, as he sat at the table, writing.
he finished at last, and brought the result of his labour to the general’s desk.
“so this is nastasia philipovna,” he said, looking attentively and curiously at the portrait.
“how wonderfully beautiful!” he immediately added, with warmth.
the picture was certainly that of an unusually lovely woman.
she was photographed in a black silk dress of simple design, her hair was evidently dark and plainly arranged, her eyes were deep and thoughtful, the expression of her face passionate, but proud.
she was rather thin, perhaps, and a little pale.
both gania and the general gazed at the prince in amazement.
“how do you know it’s nastasia philipovna?” asked the general; “you surely don’t know her already, do you?”
“yes, i do!
i have only been one day in russia, but i have heard of the great beauty!” and the prince proceeded to narrate his meeting with rogojin in the train and the whole of the latter’s story.
“there’s news!” said the general in some excitement, after listening to the story with engrossed attention.
“oh, of course it’s nothing but humbug!” cried gania, a little disturbed, however.
“it’s all humbug; the young merchant was pleased to indulge in a little innocent recreation!
i have heard something of rogojin!”
“yes, so have i!” replied the general.
“nastasia philipovna told us all about the earrings that very day.
but now it is quite a different matter.
you see the fellow really has a million of roubles, and he is passionately in love.
the whole story smells of passion, and we all know what this class of gentry is capable of when infatuated.
i am much afraid of some disagreeable scandal, i am indeed!”
“you are afraid of the million, i suppose,” said gania, grinning and showing his teeth.
“and you are not, i presume, eh?”
“how did he strike you, prince?” asked gania, suddenly.
“did he seem to be a serious sort of a man, or just a common rowdy fellow?
what was your own opinion about the matter?”
while gania put this question, a new idea suddenly flashed into his brain, and blazed out, impatiently, in his eyes.
the general, who was really agitated and disturbed, looked at the prince too, but did not seem to expect much from his reply.
“i really don’t quite know how to tell you,” replied the prince, “but it certainly did seem to me that the man was full of passion, and not, perhaps, quite healthy passion.
he seemed to be still far from well.
very likely he will be in bed again in a day or two, especially if he lives fast.”
“no!
do you think so?” said the general, catching at the idea.
“yes, i do think so!”
“yes, but the sort of scandal i referred to may happen at any moment.
it may be this very evening,” remarked gania to the general, with a smile.
“of course; quite so.
in that case it all depends upon what is going on in her brain at this moment.”
“you know the kind of person she is at times.”
“how?
what kind of person is she?” cried the general, arrived at the limits of his patience.
“look here, gania, don’t you go annoying her tonight.
what you are to do is to be as agreeable towards her as ever you can.
well, what are you smiling at?
you must understand, gania, that i have no interest whatever in speaking like this.
whichever way the question is settled, it will be to my advantage.
nothing will move totski from his resolution, so i run no risk.
if there is anything i desire, you must know that it is your benefit only.
can’t you trust me?
you are a sensible fellow, and i have been counting on you; for, in this matter, that, that ”
“yes, that’s the chief thing,” said gania, helping the general out of his difficulties again, and curling his lips in an envenomed smile, which he did not attempt to conceal.
he gazed with his fevered eyes straight into those of the general, as though he were anxious that the latter might read his thoughts.
the general grew purple with anger.
“yes, of course it is the chief thing!” he cried, looking sharply at gania.
“what a very curious man you are, gania!
you actually seem to be glad to hear of this millionaire fellow’s arrival just as though you wished for an excuse to get out of the whole thing.
this is an affair in which you ought to act honestly with both sides, and give due warning, to avoid compromising others.
but, even now, there is still time.
do you understand me?
i wish to know whether you desire this arrangement or whether you do not?
if not, say so, and and welcome!
no one is trying to force you into the snare, gavrila ardalionovitch, if you see a snare in the matter, at least.”
“i do desire it,” murmured gania, softly but firmly, lowering his eyes; and he relapsed into gloomy silence.
the general was satisfied.
he had excited himself, and was evidently now regretting that he had gone so far.
he turned to the prince, and suddenly the disagreeable thought of the latter’s presence struck him, and the certainty that he must have heard every word of the conversation.
but he felt at ease in another moment; it only needed one glance at the prince to see that in that quarter there was nothing to fear.
“oh!” cried the general, catching sight of the prince’s specimen of caligraphy, which the latter had now handed him for inspection.
“why, this is simply beautiful; look at that, gania, there’s real talent there!”
on a sheet of thick writing-paper the prince had written in medieval characters the legend:
“the gentle abbot pafnute signed this.”
“there,” explained the prince, with great delight and animation, “there, that’s the abbot’s real signature from a manuscript of the fourteenth century.
all these old abbots and bishops used to write most beautifully, with such taste and so much care and diligence.
have you no copy of pogodin, general?
if you had one i could show you another type.
stop a bit here you have the large round writing common in france during the eighteenth century.
some of the letters are shaped quite differently from those now in use.
it was the writing current then, and employed by public writers generally.
i copied this from one of them, and you can see how good it is.
look at the well-rounded a and d. i have tried to translate the french character into the russian letters a difficult thing to do, but i think i have succeeded fairly.
here is a fine sentence, written in a good, original hand ‘zeal triumphs over all.’ that is the script of the russian war office.
that is how official documents addressed to important personages should be written.
the letters are round, the type black, and the style somewhat remarkable.
a stylist would not allow these ornaments, or attempts at flourishes just look at these unfinished tails!
but it has distinction and really depicts the soul of the writer.
he would like to give play to his imagination, and follow the inspiration of his genius, but a soldier is only at ease in the guard-room, and the pen stops half-way, a slave to discipline.
how delightful!
the first time i met an example of this handwriting, i was positively astonished, and where do you think i chanced to find it?
in switzerland, of all places!
now that is an ordinary english hand.
it can hardly be improved, it is so refined and exquisite almost perfection.
this is an example of another kind, a mixture of styles.
the copy was given me by a french commercial traveller.
it is founded on the english, but the downstrokes are a little blacker, and more marked.
notice that the oval has some slight modification it is more rounded.
this writing allows for flourishes; now a flourish is a dangerous thing!
its use requires such taste, but, if successful, what a distinction it gives to the whole!
it results in an incomparable type one to fall in love with!”
“dear me!
how you have gone into all the refinements and details of the question!
why, my dear fellow, you are not a caligraphist, you are an artist!
eh, gania?”
“wonderful!” said gania.
“and he knows it too,” he added, with a sarcastic smile.
“you may smile, but there’s a career in this,” said the general.
“you don’t know what a great personage i shall show this to, prince.
why, you can command a situation at thirty-five roubles per month to start with.
however, it’s half-past twelve,” he concluded, looking at his watch; “so to business, prince, for i must be setting to work and shall not see you again today.
sit down a minute.
i have told you that i cannot receive you myself very often, but i should like to be of some assistance to you, some small assistance, of a kind that would give you satisfaction.
i shall find you a place in one of the state departments, an easy place but you will require to be accurate.
now, as to your plans in the house, or rather in the family of gania here my young friend, whom i hope you will know better his mother and sister have prepared two or three rooms for lodgers, and let them to highly recommended young fellows, with board and attendance.
i am sure nina alexandrovna will take you in on my recommendation.
there you will be comfortable and well taken care of; for i do not think, prince, that you are the sort of man to be left to the mercy of fate in a town like petersburg.
nina alexandrovna, gania’s mother, and varvara alexandrovna, are ladies for whom i have the highest possible esteem and respect.
nina alexandrovna is the wife of general ardalion alexandrovitch, my old brother in arms, with whom, i regret to say, on account of certain circumstances, i am no longer acquainted.
i give you all this information, prince, in order to make it clear to you that i am personally recommending you to this family, and that in so doing, i am more or less taking upon myself to answer for you.
the terms are most reasonable, and i trust that your salary will very shortly prove amply sufficient for your expenditure.
of course pocket-money is a necessity, if only a little; do not be angry, prince, if i strongly recommend you to avoid carrying money in your pocket.
but as your purse is quite empty at the present moment, you must allow me to press these twenty-five roubles upon your acceptance, as something to begin with.
of course we will settle this little matter another time, and if you are the upright, honest man you look, i anticipate very little trouble between us on that score.
taking so much interest in you as you may perceive i do, i am not without my object, and you shall know it in good time.
you see, i am perfectly candid with you.
i hope, gania, you have nothing to say against the prince’s taking up his abode in your house?”
“oh, on the contrary!
my mother will be very glad,” said gania, courteously and kindly.
“i think only one of your rooms is engaged as yet, is it not?
that fellow ferd-ferd ”
“ferdishenko.”
“yes i don’t like that ferdishenko.
i can’t understand why nastasia philipovna encourages him so.
is he really her cousin, as he says?”
“oh dear no, it’s all a joke.
no more cousin than i am.”
“well, what do you think of the arrangement, prince?”
“thank you, general; you have behaved very kindly to me; all the more so since i did not ask you to help me.
i don’t say that out of pride.
i certainly did not know where to lay my head tonight.
rogojin asked me to come to his house, of course, but ”
“rogojin?
no, no, my good fellow.
i should strongly recommend you, paternally, or, if you prefer it, as a friend, to forget all about rogojin, and, in fact, to stick to the family into which you are about to enter.”
“thank you,” began the prince; “and since you are so very kind there is just one matter which i ”
“you must really excuse me,” interrupted the general, “but i positively haven’t another moment now.
i shall just tell elizabetha prokofievna about you, and if she wishes to receive you at once as i shall advise her i strongly recommend you to ingratiate yourself with her at the first opportunity, for my wife may be of the greatest service to you in many ways.
if she cannot receive you now, you must be content to wait till another time.
meanwhile you, gania, just look over these accounts, will you?
we mustn’t forget to finish off that matter ”
the general left the room, and the prince never succeeded in broaching the business which he had on hand, though he had endeavoured to do so four times.
gania lit a cigarette and offered one to the prince.
the latter accepted the offer, but did not talk, being unwilling to disturb gania’s work.
he commenced to examine the study and its contents.
but gania hardly so much as glanced at the papers lying before him; he was absent and thoughtful, and his smile and general appearance struck the prince still more disagreeably now that the two were left alone together.
suddenly gania approached our hero who was at the moment standing over nastasia philipovna’s portrait, gazing at it.
“do you admire that sort of woman, prince?” he asked, looking intently at him.
he seemed to have some special object in the question.
“it’s a wonderful face,” said the prince, “and i feel sure that her destiny is not by any means an ordinary, uneventful one.
her face is smiling enough, but she must have suffered terribly hasn’t she?
her eyes show it those two bones there, the little points under her eyes, just where the cheek begins.
it’s a proud face too, terribly proud!
and i i can’t say whether she is good and kind, or not.
oh, if she be but good!
that would make all well!”
“and would you marry a woman like that, now?” continued gania, never taking his excited eyes off the prince’s face.
“i cannot marry at all,” said the latter.
“i am an invalid.”
“would rogojin marry her, do you think?”
“why not?
certainly he would, i should think.
he would marry her tomorrow!
marry her tomorrow and murder her in a week!”
hardly had the prince uttered the last word when gania gave such a fearful shudder that the prince almost cried out.
“what’s the matter?” said he, seizing gania’s hand.
“your highness!
his excellency begs your presence in her excellency’s apartments!” announced the footman, appearing at the door.
the prince immediately followed the man out of the room.
iv.
all three of the miss epanchins were fine, healthy girls, well-grown, with good shoulders and busts, and strong almost masculine hands; and, of course, with all the above attributes, they enjoyed capital appetites, of which they were not in the least ashamed.
elizabetha prokofievna sometimes informed the girls that they were a little too candid in this matter, but in spite of their outward deference to their mother these three young women, in solemn conclave, had long agreed to modify the unquestioning obedience which they had been in the habit of according to her; and mrs. general epanchin had judged it better to say nothing about it, though, of course, she was well aware of the fact.
it is true that her nature sometimes rebelled against these dictates of reason, and that she grew yearly more capricious and impatient; but having a respectful and well-disciplined husband under her thumb at all times, she found it possible, as a rule, to empty any little accumulations of spleen upon his head, and therefore the harmony of the family was kept duly balanced, and things went as smoothly as family matters can.
mrs. epanchin had a fair appetite herself, and generally took her share of the capital mid-day lunch which was always served for the girls, and which was nearly as good as a dinner.
the young ladies used to have a cup of coffee each before this meal, at ten o’clock, while still in bed.
this was a favourite and unalterable arrangement with them.
at half-past twelve, the table was laid in the small dining-room, and occasionally the general himself appeared at the family gathering, if he had time.
besides tea and coffee, cheese, honey, butter, pan-cakes of various kinds (the lady of the house loved these best), cutlets, and so on, there was generally strong beef soup, and other substantial delicacies.
on the particular morning on which our story has opened, the family had assembled in the dining-room, and were waiting the general’s appearance, the latter having promised to come this day.
if he had been one moment late, he would have been sent for at once; but he turned up punctually.
as he came forward to wish his wife good-morning and kiss her hands, as his custom was, he observed something in her look which boded ill. he thought he knew the reason, and had expected it, but still, he was not altogether comfortable.
his daughters advanced to kiss him, too, and though they did not look exactly angry, there was something strange in their expression as well.
the general was, owing to certain circumstances, a little inclined to be too suspicious at home, and needlessly nervous; but, as an experienced father and husband, he judged it better to take measures at once to protect himself from any dangers there might be in the air.
however, i hope i shall not interfere with the proper sequence of my narrative too much, if i diverge for a moment at this point, in order to explain the mutual relations between general epanchin’s family and others acting a part in this history, at the time when we take up the thread of their destiny.
i have already stated that the general, though he was a man of lowly origin, and of poor education, was, for all that, an experienced and talented husband and father.
among other things, he considered it undesirable to hurry his daughters to the matrimonial altar and to worry them too much with assurances of his paternal wishes for their happiness, as is the custom among parents of many grown-up daughters.
he even succeeded in ranging his wife on his side on this question, though he found the feat very difficult to accomplish, because unnatural; but the general’s arguments were conclusive, and founded upon obvious facts.
the general considered that the girls’ taste and good sense should be allowed to develop and mature deliberately, and that the parents’ duty should merely be to keep watch, in order that no strange or undesirable choice be made; but that the selection once effected, both father and mother were bound from that moment to enter heart and soul into the cause, and to see that the matter progressed without hindrance until the altar should be happily reached.
besides this, it was clear that the epanchins’ position gained each year, with geometrical accuracy, both as to financial solidity and social weight; and, therefore, the longer the girls waited, the better was their chance of making a brilliant match.
but again, amidst the incontrovertible facts just recorded, one more, equally significant, rose up to confront the family; and this was, that the eldest daughter, alexandra, had imperceptibly arrived at her twenty-fifth birthday.
almost at the same moment, afanasy ivanovitch totski, a man of immense wealth, high connections, and good standing, announced his intention of marrying.
afanasy ivanovitch was a gentleman of fifty-five years of age, artistically gifted, and of most refined tastes.
he wished to marry well, and, moreover, he was a keen admirer and judge of beauty.
now, since totski had, of late, been upon terms of great cordiality with epanchin, which excellent relations were intensified by the fact that they were, so to speak, partners in several financial enterprises, it so happened that the former now put in a friendly request to the general for counsel with regard to the important step he meditated.
might he suggest, for instance, such a thing as a marriage between himself and one of the general’s daughters?
evidently the quiet, pleasant current of the family life of the epanchins was about to undergo a change.
the undoubted beauty of the family, par excellence, was the youngest, aglaya, as aforesaid.
but totski himself, though an egotist of the extremest type, realized that he had no chance there; aglaya was clearly not for such as he.
perhaps the sisterly love and friendship of the three girls had more or less exaggerated aglaya’s chances of happiness.
in their opinion, the latter’s destiny was not merely to be very happy; she was to live in a heaven on earth.
aglaya’s husband was to be a compendium of all the virtues, and of all success, not to speak of fabulous wealth.
the two elder sisters had agreed that all was to be sacrificed by them, if need be, for aglaya’s sake; her dowry was to be colossal and unprecedented.
the general and his wife were aware of this agreement, and, therefore, when totski suggested himself for one of the sisters, the parents made no doubt that one of the two elder girls would probably accept the offer, since totski would certainly make no difficulty as to dowry.
the general valued the proposal very highly.
he knew life, and realized what such an offer was worth.
the answer of the sisters to the communication was, if not conclusive, at least consoling and hopeful.
it made known that the eldest, alexandra, would very likely be disposed to listen to a proposal.
alexandra was a good-natured girl, though she had a will of her own.
she was intelligent and kind-hearted, and, if she were to marry totski, she would make him a good wife.
she did not care for a brilliant marriage; she was eminently a woman calculated to soothe and sweeten the life of any man; decidedly pretty, if not absolutely handsome.
what better could totski wish?
so the matter crept slowly forward.
the general and totski had agreed to avoid any hasty and irrevocable step.
alexandra’s parents had not even begun to talk to their daughters freely upon the subject, when suddenly, as it were, a dissonant chord was struck amid the harmony of the proceedings.
mrs. epanchin began to show signs of discontent, and that was a serious matter.
a certain circumstance had crept in, a disagreeable and troublesome factor, which threatened to overturn the whole business.
this circumstance had come into existence eighteen years before.
close to an estate of totski’s, in one of the central provinces of russia, there lived, at that time, a poor gentleman whose estate was of the wretchedest description.
this gentleman was noted in the district for his persistent ill-fortune; his name was barashkoff, and, as regards family and descent, he was vastly superior to totski, but his estate was mortgaged to the last acre.
one day, when he had ridden over to the town to see a creditor, the chief peasant of his village followed him shortly after, with the news that his house had been burnt down, and that his wife had perished with it, but his children were safe.
even barashkoff, inured to the storms of evil fortune as he was, could not stand this last stroke.
he went mad and died shortly after in the town hospital.
his estate was sold for the creditors; and the little girls two of them, of seven and eight years of age respectively, were adopted by totski, who undertook their maintenance and education in the kindness of his heart.
they were brought up together with the children of his german bailiff.
very soon, however, there was only one of them left nastasia philipovna for the other little one died of whooping-cough.
totski, who was living abroad at this time, very soon forgot all about the child; but five years after, returning to russia, it struck him that he would like to look over his estate and see how matters were going there, and, arrived at his bailiff’s house, he was not long in discovering that among the children of the latter there now dwelt a most lovely little girl of twelve, sweet and intelligent, and bright, and promising to develop beauty of most unusual quality as to which last totski was an undoubted authority.
he only stayed at his country seat a few days on this occasion, but he had time to make his arrangements.
great changes took place in the child’s education; a good governess was engaged, a swiss lady of experience and culture.
for four years this lady resided in the house with little nastia, and then the education was considered complete.
the governess took her departure, and another lady came down to fetch nastia, by totski’s instructions.
the child was now transported to another of totski’s estates in a distant part of the country.
here she found a delightful little house, just built, and prepared for her reception with great care and taste; and here she took up her abode together with the lady who had accompanied her from her old home.
in the house there were two experienced maids, musical instruments of all sorts, a charming “young lady’s library,” pictures, paint-boxes, a lap-dog, and everything to make life agreeable.
within a fortnight totski himself arrived, and from that time he appeared to have taken a great fancy to this part of the world and came down each summer, staying two and three months at a time.
so passed four years peacefully and happily, in charming surroundings.
at the end of that time, and about four months after totski’s last visit (he had stayed but a fortnight on this occasion), a report reached nastasia philipovna that he was about to be married in st. petersburg, to a rich, eminent, and lovely woman.
the report was only partially true, the marriage project being only in an embryo condition; but a great change now came over nastasia philipovna.
she suddenly displayed unusual decision of character; and without wasting time in thought, she left her country home and came up to st. petersburg, straight to totski’s house, all alone.
the latter, amazed at her conduct, began to express his displeasure; but he very soon became aware that he must change his voice, style, and everything else, with this young lady; the good old times were gone.
an entirely new and different woman sat before him, between whom and the girl he had left in the country last july there seemed nothing in common.
in the first place, this new woman understood a good deal more than was usual for young people of her age; so much indeed, that totski could not help wondering where she had picked up her knowledge.
surely not from her “young lady’s library”?
it even embraced legal matters, and the “world” in general, to a considerable extent.
her character was absolutely changed.
no more of the girlish alternations of timidity and petulance, the adorable naivete, the reveries, the tears, the playfulness... it was an entirely new and hitherto unknown being who now sat and laughed at him, and informed him to his face that she had never had the faintest feeling for him of any kind, except loathing and contempt contempt which had followed closely upon her sensations of surprise and bewilderment after her first acquaintance with him.
this new woman gave him further to understand that though it was absolutely the same to her whom he married, yet she had decided to prevent this marriage for no particular reason, but that she chose to do so, and because she wished to amuse herself at his expense for that it was “quite her turn to laugh a little now!”
such were her words very likely she did not give her real reason for this eccentric conduct; but, at all events, that was all the explanation she deigned to offer.
meanwhile, totski thought the matter over as well as his scattered ideas would permit.
his meditations lasted a fortnight, however, and at the end of that time his resolution was taken.
the fact was, totski was at that time a man of fifty years of age; his position was solid and respectable; his place in society had long been firmly fixed upon safe foundations; he loved himself, his personal comforts, and his position better than all the world, as every respectable gentleman should!
at the same time his grasp of things in general soon showed totski that he now had to deal with a being who was outside the pale of the ordinary rules of traditional behaviour, and who would not only threaten mischief but would undoubtedly carry it out, and stop for no one.
there was evidently, he concluded, something at work here; some storm of the mind, some paroxysm of romantic anger, goodness knows against whom or what, some insatiable contempt in a word, something altogether absurd and impossible, but at the same time most dangerous to be met with by any respectable person with a position in society to keep up.
for a man of totski’s wealth and standing, it would, of course, have been the simplest possible matter to take steps which would rid him at once from all annoyance; while it was obviously impossible for nastasia philipovna to harm him in any way, either legally or by stirring up a scandal, for, in case of the latter danger, he could so easily remove her to a sphere of safety.
however, these arguments would only hold good in case of nastasia acting as others might in such an emergency.
she was much more likely to overstep the bounds of reasonable conduct by some extraordinary eccentricity.
here the sound judgment of totski stood him in good stead.
he realized that nastasia philipovna must be well aware that she could do nothing by legal means to injure him, and that her flashing eyes betrayed some entirely different intention.
nastasia philipovna was quite capable of ruining herself, and even of perpetrating something which would send her to siberia, for the mere pleasure of injuring a man for whom she had developed so inhuman a sense of loathing and contempt.
he had sufficient insight to understand that she valued nothing in the world herself least of all and he made no attempt to conceal the fact that he was a coward in some respects.
for instance, if he had been told that he would be stabbed at the altar, or publicly insulted, he would undoubtedly have been frightened; but not so much at the idea of being murdered, or wounded, or insulted, as at the thought that if such things were to happen he would be made to look ridiculous in the eyes of society.
he knew well that nastasia thoroughly understood him and where to wound him and how, and therefore, as the marriage was still only in embryo, totski decided to conciliate her by giving it up.
his decision was strengthened by the fact that nastasia philipovna had curiously altered of late.
it would be difficult to conceive how different she was physically, at the present time, to the girl of a few years ago.
she was pretty then... but now!...
totski laughed angrily when he thought how short-sighted he had been.
in days gone by he remembered how he had looked at her beautiful eyes, how even then he had marvelled at their dark mysterious depths, and at their wondering gaze which seemed to seek an answer to some unknown riddle.
her complexion also had altered.
she was now exceedingly pale, but, curiously, this change only made her more beautiful.
like most men of the world, totski had rather despised such a cheaply-bought conquest, but of late years he had begun to think differently about it.
it had struck him as long ago as last spring that he ought to be finding a good match for nastasia; for instance, some respectable and reasonable young fellow serving in a government office in another part of the country.
how maliciously nastasia laughed at the idea of such a thing, now!
however, it appeared to totski that he might make use of her in another way; and he determined to establish her in st. petersburg, surrounding her with all the comforts and luxuries that his wealth could command.
in this way he might gain glory in certain circles.
five years of this petersburg life went by, and, of course, during that time a great deal happened.
totski’s position was very uncomfortable; having “funked” once, he could not totally regain his ease.
he was afraid, he did not know why, but he was simply afraid of nastasia philipovna.
for the first two years or so he had suspected that she wished to marry him herself, and that only her vanity prevented her telling him so.
he thought that she wanted him to approach her with a humble proposal from his own side.
but to his great, and not entirely pleasurable amazement, he discovered that this was by no means the case, and that were he to offer himself he would be refused.
he could not understand such a state of things, and was obliged to conclude that it was pride, the pride of an injured and imaginative woman, which had gone to such lengths that it preferred to sit and nurse its contempt and hatred in solitude rather than mount to heights of hitherto unattainable splendour.
to make matters worse, she was quite impervious to mercenary considerations, and could not be bribed in any way.
finally, totski took cunning means to try to break his chains and be free.
he tried to tempt her in various ways to lose her heart; he invited princes, hussars, secretaries of embassies, poets, novelists, even socialists, to see her; but not one of them all made the faintest impression upon nastasia.
it was as though she had a pebble in place of a heart, as though her feelings and affections were dried up and withered for ever.
she lived almost entirely alone; she read, she studied, she loved music.
her principal acquaintances were poor women of various grades, a couple of actresses, and the family of a poor schoolteacher.
among these people she was much beloved.
she received four or five friends sometimes, of an evening.
totski often came.
lately, too, general epanchin had been enabled with great difficulty to introduce himself into her circle.
gania made her acquaintance also, and others were ferdishenko, an ill-bred, and would-be witty, young clerk, and ptitsin, a money-lender of modest and polished manners, who had risen from poverty.
in fact, nastasia philipovna’s beauty became a thing known to all the town; but not a single man could boast of anything more than his own admiration for her; and this reputation of hers, and her wit and culture and grace, all confirmed totski in the plan he had now prepared.
and it was at this moment that general epanchin began to play so large and important a part in the story.
when totski had approached the general with his request for friendly counsel as to a marriage with one of his daughters, he had made a full and candid confession.
he had said that he intended to stop at no means to obtain his freedom; even if nastasia were to promise to leave him entirely alone in future, he would not (he said) believe and trust her; words were not enough for him; he must have solid guarantees of some sort.
so he and the general determined to try what an attempt to appeal to her heart would effect.
having arrived at nastasia’s house one day, with epanchin, totski immediately began to speak of the intolerable torment of his position.
he admitted that he was to blame for all, but candidly confessed that he could not bring himself to feel any remorse for his original guilt towards herself, because he was a man of sensual passions which were inborn and ineradicable, and that he had no power over himself in this respect; but that he wished, seriously, to marry at last, and that the whole fate of the most desirable social union which he contemplated, was in her hands; in a word, he confided his all to her generosity of heart.
general epanchin took up his part and spoke in the character of father of a family; he spoke sensibly, and without wasting words over any attempt at sentimentality, he merely recorded his full admission of her right to be the arbiter of totski’s destiny at this moment.
he then pointed out that the fate of his daughter, and very likely of both his other daughters, now hung upon her reply.
to nastasia’s question as to what they wished her to do, totski confessed that he had been so frightened by her, five years ago, that he could never now be entirely comfortable until she herself married.
he immediately added that such a suggestion from him would, of course, be absurd, unless accompanied by remarks of a more pointed nature.
he very well knew, he said, that a certain young gentleman of good family, namely, gavrila ardalionovitch ivolgin, with whom she was acquainted, and whom she received at her house, had long loved her passionately, and would give his life for some response from her.
the young fellow had confessed this love of his to him (totski) and had also admitted it in the hearing of his benefactor, general epanchin.
lastly, he could not help being of opinion that nastasia must be aware of gania’s love for her, and if he (totski) mistook not, she had looked with some favour upon it, being often lonely, and rather tired of her present life.
having remarked how difficult it was for him, of all people, to speak to her of these matters, totski concluded by saying that he trusted nastasia philipovna would not look with contempt upon him if he now expressed his sincere desire to guarantee her future by a gift of seventy-five thousand roubles.
he added that the sum would have been left her all the same in his will, and that therefore she must not consider the gift as in any way an indemnification to her for anything, but that there was no reason, after all, why a man should not be allowed to entertain a natural desire to lighten his conscience, etc., etc.
; in fact, all that would naturally be said under the circumstances.
totski was very eloquent all through, and, in conclusion, just touched on the fact that not a soul in the world, not even general epanchin, had ever heard a word about the above seventy-five thousand roubles, and that this was the first time he had ever given expression to his intentions in respect to them.
nastasia philipovna’s reply to this long rigmarole astonished both the friends considerably.
not only was there no trace of her former irony, of her old hatred and enmity, and of that dreadful laughter, the very recollection of which sent a cold chill down totski’s back to this very day; but she seemed charmed and really glad to have the opportunity of talking seriously with him for once in a way.
she confessed that she had long wished to have a frank and free conversation and to ask for friendly advice, but that pride had hitherto prevented her; now, however, that the ice was broken, nothing could be more welcome to her than this opportunity.
first, with a sad smile, and then with a twinkle of merriment in her eyes, she admitted that such a storm as that of five years ago was now quite out of the question.
she said that she had long since changed her views of things, and recognized that facts must be taken into consideration in spite of the feelings of the heart.
what was done was done and ended, and she could not understand why totski should still feel alarmed.
she next turned to general epanchin and observed, most courteously, that she had long since known of his daughters, and that she had heard none but good report; that she had learned to think of them with deep and sincere respect.
the idea alone that she could in any way serve them, would be to her both a pride and a source of real happiness.
it was true that she was lonely in her present life; totski had judged her thoughts aright.
she longed to rise, if not to love, at least to family life and new hopes and objects, but as to gavrila ardalionovitch, she could not as yet say much.
she thought it must be the case that he loved her; she felt that she too might learn to love him, if she could be sure of the firmness of his attachment to herself; but he was very young, and it was a difficult question to decide.
what she specially liked about him was that he worked, and supported his family by his toil.
she had heard that he was proud and ambitious; she had heard much that was interesting of his mother and sister, she had heard of them from mr.
ptitsin, and would much like to make their acquaintance, but another question!
would they like to receive her into their house?
at all events, though she did not reject the idea of this marriage, she desired not to be hurried.
as for the seventy-five thousand roubles, mr. totski need not have found any difficulty or awkwardness about the matter; she quite understood the value of money, and would, of course, accept the gift.
she thanked him for his delicacy, however, but saw no reason why gavrila ardalionovitch should not know about it.
she would not marry the latter, she said, until she felt persuaded that neither on his part nor on the part of his family did there exist any sort of concealed suspicions as to herself.
she did not intend to ask forgiveness for anything in the past, which fact she desired to be known.
she did not consider herself to blame for anything that had happened in former years, and she thought that gavrila ardalionovitch should be informed as to the relations which had existed between herself and totski during the last five years.
if she accepted this money it was not to be considered as indemnification for her misfortune as a young girl, which had not been in any degree her own fault, but merely as compensation for her ruined life.
she became so excited and agitated during all these explanations and confessions that general epanchin was highly gratified, and considered the matter satisfactorily arranged once for all.
but the once bitten totski was twice shy, and looked for hidden snakes among the flowers.
however, the special point to which the two friends particularly trusted to bring about their object (namely, gania’s attractiveness for nastasia philipovna), stood out more and more prominently; the pourparlers had commenced, and gradually even totski began to believe in the possibility of success.
before long nastasia and gania had talked the matter over.
very little was said her modesty seemed to suffer under the infliction of discussing such a question.
but she recognized his love, on the understanding that she bound herself to nothing whatever, and that she reserved the right to say “no” up to the very hour of the marriage ceremony.
gania was to have the same right of refusal at the last moment.
it soon became clear to gania, after scenes of wrath and quarrellings at the domestic hearth, that his family were seriously opposed to the match, and that nastasia was aware of this fact was equally evident.
she said nothing about it, though he daily expected her to do so.
there were several rumours afloat, before long, which upset totski’s equanimity a good deal, but we will not now stop to describe them; merely mentioning an instance or two.
one was that nastasia had entered into close and secret relations with the epanchin girls a most unlikely rumour; another was that nastasia had long satisfied herself of the fact that gania was merely marrying her for money, and that his nature was gloomy and greedy, impatient and selfish, to an extraordinary degree; and that although he had been keen enough in his desire to achieve a conquest before, yet since the two friends had agreed to exploit his passion for their own purposes, it was clear enough that he had begun to consider the whole thing a nuisance and a nightmare.
in his heart passion and hate seemed to hold divided sway, and although he had at last given his consent to marry the woman (as he said), under the stress of circumstances, yet he promised himself that he would “take it out of her,” after marriage.
nastasia seemed to totski to have divined all this, and to be preparing something on her own account, which frightened him to such an extent that he did not dare communicate his views even to the general.
but at times he would pluck up his courage and be full of hope and good spirits again, acting, in fact, as weak men do act in such circumstances.
however, both the friends felt that the thing looked rosy indeed when one day nastasia informed them that she would give her final answer on the evening of her birthday, which anniversary was due in a very short time.
a strange rumour began to circulate, meanwhile; no less than that the respectable and highly respected general epanchin was himself so fascinated by nastasia philipovna that his feeling for her amounted almost to passion.
what he thought to gain by gania’s marriage to the girl it was difficult to imagine.
possibly he counted on gania’s complaisance; for totski had long suspected that there existed some secret understanding between the general and his secretary.
at all events the fact was known that he had prepared a magnificent present of pearls for nastasia’s birthday, and that he was looking forward to the occasion when he should present his gift with the greatest excitement and impatience.
the day before her birthday he was in a fever of agitation.
mrs. epanchin, long accustomed to her husband’s infidelities, had heard of the pearls, and the rumour excited her liveliest curiosity and interest.
the general remarked her suspicions, and felt that a grand explanation must shortly take place which fact alarmed him much.
this is the reason why he was so unwilling to take lunch (on the morning upon which we took up this narrative) with the rest of his family.
before the prince’s arrival he had made up his mind to plead business, and “cut” the meal; which simply meant running away.
he was particularly anxious that this one day should be passed especially the evening without unpleasantness between himself and his family; and just at the right moment the prince turned up “as though heaven had sent him on purpose,” said the general to himself, as he left the study to seek out the wife of his bosom.
v.
mrs. general epanchin was a proud woman by nature.
what must her feelings have been when she heard that prince muishkin, the last of his and her line, had arrived in beggar’s guise, a wretched idiot, a recipient of charity all of which details the general gave out for greater effect!
he was anxious to steal her interest at the first swoop, so as to distract her thoughts from other matters nearer home.
mrs. epanchin was in the habit of holding herself very straight, and staring before her, without speaking, in moments of excitement.
she was a fine woman of the same age as her husband, with a slightly hooked nose, a high, narrow forehead, thick hair turning a little grey, and a sallow complexion.
her eyes were grey and wore a very curious expression at times.
she believed them to be most effective a belief that nothing could alter.
“what, receive him!
now, at once?” asked mrs. epanchin, gazing vaguely at her husband as he stood fidgeting before her.
“oh, dear me, i assure you there is no need to stand on ceremony with him,” the general explained hastily.
“he is quite a child, not to say a pathetic-looking creature.
he has fits of some sort, and has just arrived from switzerland, straight from the station, dressed like a german and without a farthing in his pocket.
i gave him twenty-five roubles to go on with, and am going to find him some easy place in one of the government offices.
i should like you to ply him well with the victuals, my dears, for i should think he must be very hungry.”
“you astonish me,” said the lady, gazing as before.
“fits, and hungry too!
what sort of fits?”
“oh, they don’t come on frequently, besides, he’s a regular child, though he seems to be fairly educated.
i should like you, if possible, my dears,” the general added, making slowly for the door, “to put him through his paces a bit, and see what he is good for.
i think you should be kind to him; it is a good deed, you know however, just as you like, of course but he is a sort of relation, remember, and i thought it might interest you to see the young fellow, seeing that this is so.”
“oh, of course, mamma, if we needn’t stand on ceremony with him, we must give the poor fellow something to eat after his journey; especially as he has not the least idea where to go to,” said alexandra, the eldest of the girls.
“besides, he’s quite a child; we can entertain him with a little hide-and-seek, in case of need,” said adelaida.
“hide-and-seek?
what do you mean?” inquired mrs. epanchin.
“oh, do stop pretending, mamma,” cried aglaya, in vexation.
“send him up, father; mother allows.”
the general rang the bell and gave orders that the prince should be shown in.
“only on condition that he has a napkin under his chin at lunch, then,”
said mrs. epanchin, “and let fedor, or mavra, stand behind him while he eats.
is he quiet when he has these fits?
he doesn’t show violence, does he?”
“on the contrary, he seems to be very well brought up.
his manners are excellent but here he is himself.
here you are, prince let me introduce you, the last of the muishkins, a relative of your own, my dear, or at least of the same name.
receive him kindly, please.
they’ll bring in lunch directly, prince; you must stop and have some, but you must excuse me.
i’m in a hurry, i must be off ”
“we all know where you must be off to!” said mrs. epanchin, in a meaning voice.
“yes, yes i must hurry away, i’m late!
look here, dears, let him write you something in your albums; you’ve no idea what a wonderful caligraphist he is, wonderful talent!
he has just written out ‘abbot pafnute signed this’ for me.
well, au revoir!”
“stop a minute; where are you off to?
who is this abbot?” cried mrs.
epanchin to her retreating husband in a tone of excited annoyance.
“yes, my dear, it was an old abbot of that name i must be off to see the count, he’s waiting for me, i’m late good-bye!
au revoir, prince!” and the general bolted at full speed.
“oh, yes i know what count you’re going to see!” remarked his wife in a cutting manner, as she turned her angry eyes on the prince.
“now then, what’s all this about?
what abbot who’s pafnute?” she added, brusquely.
“mamma!” said alexandra, shocked at her rudeness.
aglaya stamped her foot.
“nonsense!
let me alone!” said the angry mother.
“now then, prince, sit down here, no, nearer, come nearer the light!
i want to have a good look at you.
so, now then, who is this abbot?”
“abbot pafnute,” said our friend, seriously and with deference.
“pafnute, yes.
and who was he?”
mrs. epanchin put these questions hastily and brusquely, and when the prince answered she nodded her head sagely at each word he said.
“the abbot pafnute lived in the fourteenth century,” began the prince; “he was in charge of one of the monasteries on the volga, about where our present kostroma government lies.
he went to oreol and helped in the great matters then going on in the religious world; he signed an edict there, and i have seen a print of his signature; it struck me, so i copied it.
when the general asked me, in his study, to write something for him, to show my handwriting, i wrote ‘the abbot pafnute signed this,’ in the exact handwriting of the abbot.
the general liked it very much, and that’s why he recalled it just now.”
“aglaya, make a note of ‘pafnute,’ or we shall forget him.
h’m!
and where is this signature?”
“i think it was left on the general’s table.”
“let it be sent for at once!”
“oh, i’ll write you a new one in half a minute,” said the prince, “if you like!”
“of course, mamma!” said alexandra.
“but let’s have lunch now, we are all hungry!”
“yes; come along, prince,” said the mother, “are you very hungry?”
“yes; i must say that i am pretty hungry, thanks very much.”
“h’m!
i like to see that you know your manners; and you are by no means such a person as the general thought fit to describe you.
come along; you sit here, opposite to me,” she continued, “i wish to be able to see your face.
alexandra, adelaida, look after the prince!
he doesn’t seem so very ill, does he?
i don’t think he requires a napkin under his chin, after all; are you accustomed to having one on, prince?”
“formerly, when i was seven years old or so.
i believe i wore one; but now i usually hold my napkin on my knee when i eat.”
“of course, of course!
and about your fits?”
“fits?” asked the prince, slightly surprised.
“i very seldom have fits nowadays.
i don’t know how it may be here, though; they say the climate may be bad for me.”
“he talks very well, you know!” said mrs. epanchin, who still continued to nod at each word the prince spoke.
“i really did not expect it at all; in fact, i suppose it was all stuff and nonsense on the general’s part, as usual.
eat away, prince, and tell me where you were born, and where you were brought up.
i wish to know all about you, you interest me very much!”
the prince expressed his thanks once more, and eating heartily the while, recommenced the narrative of his life in switzerland, all of which we have heard before.
mrs. epanchin became more and more pleased with her guest; the girls, too, listened with considerable attention.
in talking over the question of relationship it turned out that the prince was very well up in the matter and knew his pedigree off by heart.
it was found that scarcely any connection existed between himself and mrs.
epanchin, but the talk, and the opportunity of conversing about her family tree, gratified the latter exceedingly, and she rose from the table in great good humour.
“let’s all go to my boudoir,” she said, “and they shall bring some coffee in there.
that’s the room where we all assemble and busy ourselves as we like best,” she explained.
“alexandra, my eldest, here, plays the piano, or reads or sews; adelaida paints landscapes and portraits (but never finishes any); and aglaya sits and does nothing.
i don’t work too much, either.
here we are, now; sit down, prince, near the fire and talk to us.
i want to hear you relate something.
i wish to make sure of you first and then tell my old friend, princess bielokonski, about you.
i wish you to know all the good people and to interest them.
now then, begin!”
“mamma, it’s rather a strange order, that!” said adelaida, who was fussing among her paints and paint-brushes at the easel.
aglaya and alexandra had settled themselves with folded hands on a sofa, evidently meaning to be listeners.
the prince felt that the general attention was concentrated upon himself.
“i should refuse to say a word if i were ordered to tell a story like that!” observed aglaya.
“why?
what’s there strange about it?
he has a tongue.
why shouldn’t he tell us something?
i want to judge whether he is a good story-teller; anything you like, prince how you liked switzerland, what was your first impression, anything.
you’ll see, he’ll begin directly and tell us all about it beautifully.”
“the impression was forcible ” the prince began.
“there, you see, girls,” said the impatient lady, “he has begun, you see.”
“well, then, let him talk, mamma,” said alexandra.
“this prince is a great humbug and by no means an idiot,” she whispered to aglaya.
“oh, i saw that at once,” replied the latter.
“i don’t think it at all nice of him to play a part.
what does he wish to gain by it, i wonder?”
“my first impression was a very strong one,” repeated the prince.
“when they took me away from russia, i remember i passed through many german towns and looked out of the windows, but did not trouble so much as to ask questions about them.
this was after a long series of fits.
i always used to fall into a sort of torpid condition after such a series, and lost my memory almost entirely; and though i was not altogether without reason at such times, yet i had no logical power of thought.
this would continue for three or four days, and then i would recover myself again.
i remember my melancholy was intolerable; i felt inclined to cry; i sat and wondered and wondered uncomfortably; the consciousness that everything was strange weighed terribly upon me; i could understand that it was all foreign and strange.
i recollect i awoke from this state for the first time at basle, one evening; the bray of a donkey aroused me, a donkey in the town market.
i saw the donkey and was extremely pleased with it, and from that moment my head seemed to clear.”
“a donkey?
how strange!
yet it is not strange.
anyone of us might fall in love with a donkey!
it happened in mythological times,” said madame epanchin, looking wrathfully at her daughters, who had begun to laugh.
“go on, prince.”
“since that evening i have been specially fond of donkeys.
i began to ask questions about them, for i had never seen one before; and i at once came to the conclusion that this must be one of the most useful of animals strong, willing, patient, cheap; and, thanks to this donkey, i began to like the whole country i was travelling through; and my melancholy passed away.”
“all this is very strange and interesting,” said mrs. epanchin.
“now let’s leave the donkey and go on to other matters.
what are you laughing at, aglaya?
and you too, adelaida?
the prince told us his experiences very cleverly; he saw the donkey himself, and what have you ever seen?
you have never been abroad.”
“i have seen a donkey though, mamma!” said aglaya.
“and i’ve heard one!” said adelaida.
all three of the girls laughed out loud, and the prince laughed with them.
“well, it’s too bad of you,” said mamma.
“you must forgive them, prince; they are good girls.
i am very fond of them, though i often have to be scolding them; they are all as silly and mad as march hares.”
“oh, why shouldn’t they laugh?” said the prince.
“i shouldn’t have let the chance go by in their place, i know.
but i stick up for the donkey, all the same; he’s a patient, good-natured fellow.”
“are you a patient man, prince?
i ask out of curiosity,” said mrs.
epanchin.
all laughed again.
“oh, that wretched donkey again, i see!” cried the lady.
“i assure you, prince, i was not guilty of the least ”
“insinuation?
oh!
i assure you, i take your word for it.” and the prince continued laughing merrily.
“i must say it’s very nice of you to laugh.
i see you really are a kind-hearted fellow,” said mrs. epanchin.
“i’m not always kind, though.”
“i am kind myself, and always kind too, if you please!” she retorted, unexpectedly; “and that is my chief fault, for one ought not to be always kind.
i am often angry with these girls and their father; but the worst of it is, i am always kindest when i am cross.
i was very angry just before you came, and aglaya there read me a lesson thanks, aglaya, dear come and kiss me there that’s enough” she added, as aglaya came forward and kissed her lips and then her hand.
“now then, go on, prince.
perhaps you can think of something more exciting than about the donkey, eh?”
“i must say, again, i can’t understand how you can expect anyone to tell you stories straight away, so,” said adelaida.
“i know i never could!”
“yes, but the prince can, because he is clever cleverer than you are by ten or twenty times, if you like.
there, that’s so, prince; and seriously, let’s drop the donkey now what else did you see abroad, besides the donkey?”
“yes, but the prince told us about the donkey very cleverly, all the same,” said alexandra.
“i have always been most interested to hear how people go mad and get well again, and that sort of thing.
especially when it happens suddenly.”
“quite so, quite so!” cried mrs. epanchin, delighted.
“i see you can be sensible now and then, alexandra.
you were speaking of switzerland, prince?”
“yes.
we came to lucerne, and i was taken out in a boat.
i felt how lovely it was, but the loveliness weighed upon me somehow or other, and made me feel melancholy.”
“why?” asked alexandra.
“i don’t know; i always feel like that when i look at the beauties of nature for the first time; but then, i was ill at that time, of course!”
“oh, but i should like to see it!” said adelaida; “and i don’t know when we shall ever go abroad.
i’ve been two years looking out for a good subject for a picture.
i’ve done all i know.
‘the north and south i know by heart,’ as our poet observes.
do help me to a subject, prince.”
“oh, but i know nothing about painting.
it seems to me one only has to look, and paint what one sees.”
“but i don’t know how to see!”
“nonsense, what rubbish you talk!” the mother struck in.
“not know how to see!
open your eyes and look!
if you can’t see here, you won’t see abroad either.
tell us what you saw yourself, prince!”
“yes, that’s better,” said adelaida; “the prince learned to see abroad.”
“oh, i hardly know!
you see, i only went to restore my health.
i don’t know whether i learned to see, exactly.
i was very happy, however, nearly all the time.”
“happy!
you can be happy?” cried aglaya.
“then how can you say you did not learn to see?
i should think you could teach us to see!”
“oh!
do teach us,” laughed adelaida.
“oh!
i can’t do that,” said the prince, laughing too.
“i lived almost all the while in one little swiss village; what can i teach you?
at first i was only just not absolutely dull; then my health began to improve then every day became dearer and more precious to me, and the longer i stayed, the dearer became the time to me; so much so that i could not help observing it; but why this was so, it would be difficult to say.”
“so that you didn’t care to go away anywhere else?”
“well, at first i did; i was restless; i didn’t know however i should manage to support life you know there are such moments, especially in solitude.
there was a waterfall near us, such a lovely thin streak of water, like a thread but white and moving.
it fell from a great height, but it looked quite low, and it was half a mile away, though it did not seem fifty paces.
i loved to listen to it at night, but it was then that i became so restless.
sometimes i went and climbed the mountain and stood there in the midst of the tall pines, all alone in the terrible silence, with our little village in the distance, and the sky so blue, and the sun so bright, and an old ruined castle on the mountain-side, far away.
i used to watch the line where earth and sky met, and longed to go and seek there the key of all mysteries, thinking that i might find there a new life, perhaps some great city where life should be grander and richer and then it struck me that life may be grand enough even in a prison.”
“i read that last most praiseworthy thought in my manual, when i was twelve years old,” said aglaya.
“all this is pure philosophy,” said adelaida.
“you are a philosopher, prince, and have come here to instruct us in your views.”
“perhaps you are right,” said the prince, smiling.
“i think i am a philosopher, perhaps, and who knows, perhaps i do wish to teach my views of things to those i meet with?”
“your philosophy is rather like that of an old woman we know, who is rich and yet does nothing but try how little she can spend.
she talks of nothing but money all day.
your great philosophical idea of a grand life in a prison and your four happy years in that swiss village are like this, rather,” said aglaya.
“as to life in a prison, of course there may be two opinions,” said the prince.
“i once heard the story of a man who lived twelve years in a prison i heard it from the man himself.
he was one of the persons under treatment with my professor; he had fits, and attacks of melancholy, then he would weep, and once he tried to commit suicide.
his life in prison was sad enough; his only acquaintances were spiders and a tree that grew outside his grating but i think i had better tell you of another man i met last year.
there was a very strange feature in this case, strange because of its extremely rare occurrence.
this man had once been brought to the scaffold in company with several others, and had had the sentence of death by shooting passed upon him for some political crime.
twenty minutes later he had been reprieved and some other punishment substituted; but the interval between the two sentences, twenty minutes, or at least a quarter of an hour, had been passed in the certainty that within a few minutes he must die.
i was very anxious to hear him speak of his impressions during that dreadful time, and i several times inquired of him as to what he thought and felt.
he remembered everything with the most accurate and extraordinary distinctness, and declared that he would never forget a single iota of the experience.
“about twenty paces from the scaffold, where he had stood to hear the sentence, were three posts, fixed in the ground, to which to fasten the criminals (of whom there were several).
the first three criminals were taken to the posts, dressed in long white tunics, with white caps drawn over their faces, so that they could not see the rifles pointed at them.
then a group of soldiers took their stand opposite to each post.
my friend was the eighth on the list, and therefore he would have been among the third lot to go up.
a priest went about among them with a cross: and there was about five minutes of time left for him to live.
“he said that those five minutes seemed to him to be a most interminable period, an enormous wealth of time; he seemed to be living, in these minutes, so many lives that there was no need as yet to think of that last moment, so that he made several arrangements, dividing up the time into portions one for saying farewell to his companions, two minutes for that; then a couple more for thinking over his own life and career and all about himself; and another minute for a last look around.
he remembered having divided his time like this quite well.
while saying good-bye to his friends he recollected asking one of them some very usual everyday question, and being much interested in the answer.
then having bade farewell, he embarked upon those two minutes which he had allotted to looking into himself; he knew beforehand what he was going to think about.
he wished to put it to himself as quickly and clearly as possible, that here was he, a living, thinking man, and that in three minutes he would be nobody; or if somebody or something, then what and where?
he thought he would decide this question once for all in these last three minutes.
a little way off there stood a church, and its gilded spire glittered in the sun.
he remembered staring stubbornly at this spire, and at the rays of light sparkling from it.
he could not tear his eyes from these rays of light; he got the idea that these rays were his new nature, and that in three minutes he would become one of them, amalgamated somehow with them.
“the repugnance to what must ensue almost immediately, and the uncertainty, were dreadful, he said; but worst of all was the idea, ‘what should i do if i were not to die now?
what if i were to return to life again?
what an eternity of days, and all mine!
how i should grudge and count up every minute of it, so as to waste not a single instant!’
he said that this thought weighed so upon him and became such a terrible burden upon his brain that he could not bear it, and wished they would shoot him quickly and have done with it.”
the prince paused and all waited, expecting him to go on again and finish the story.
“is that all?” asked aglaya.
“all?
yes,” said the prince, emerging from a momentary reverie.
“and why did you tell us this?”
“oh, i happened to recall it, that’s all!
it fitted into the conversation ”
“you probably wish to deduce, prince,” said alexandra, “that moments of time cannot be reckoned by money value, and that sometimes five minutes are worth priceless treasures.
all this is very praiseworthy; but may i ask about this friend of yours, who told you the terrible experience of his life?
he was reprieved, you say; in other words, they did restore to him that ‘eternity of days.’ what did he do with these riches of time?
did he keep careful account of his minutes?”
“oh no, he didn’t!
i asked him myself.
he said that he had not lived a bit as he had intended, and had wasted many, and many a minute.”
“very well, then there’s an experiment, and the thing is proved; one cannot live and count each moment; say what you like, but one cannot.”
“that is true,” said the prince, “i have thought so myself.
and yet, why shouldn’t one do it?”
“you think, then, that you could live more wisely than other people?”
said aglaya.
“i have had that idea.”
“and you have it still?”
“yes i have it still,” the prince replied.
he had contemplated aglaya until now, with a pleasant though rather timid smile, but as the last words fell from his lips he began to laugh, and looked at her merrily.
“you are not very modest!” said she.
“but how brave you are!” said he.
“you are laughing, and i that man’s tale impressed me so much, that i dreamt of it afterwards; yes, i dreamt of those five minutes...”
he looked at his listeners again with that same serious, searching expression.
“you are not angry with me?” he asked suddenly, and with a kind of nervous hurry, although he looked them straight in the face.
“why should we be angry?” they cried.
“only because i seem to be giving you a lecture, all the time!”
at this they laughed heartily.
“please don’t be angry with me,” continued the prince.
“i know very well that i have seen less of life than other people, and have less knowledge of it.
i must appear to speak strangely sometimes...”
he said the last words nervously.
“you say you have been happy, and that proves you have lived, not less, but more than other people.
why make all these excuses?” interrupted aglaya in a mocking tone of voice.
“besides, you need not mind about lecturing us; you have nothing to boast of.
with your quietism, one could live happily for a hundred years at least.
one might show you the execution of a felon, or show you one’s little finger.
you could draw a moral from either, and be quite satisfied.
that sort of existence is easy enough.”
“i can’t understand why you always fly into a temper,” said mrs.
epanchin, who had been listening to the conversation and examining the faces of the speakers in turn.
“i do not understand what you mean.
what has your little finger to do with it?
the prince talks well, though he is not amusing.
he began all right, but now he seems sad.”
“never mind, mamma!
prince, i wish you had seen an execution,” said aglaya.
“i should like to ask you a question about that, if you had.”
“i have seen an execution,” said the prince.
“you have!” cried aglaya.
“i might have guessed it.
that’s a fitting crown to the rest of the story.
if you have seen an execution, how can you say you lived happily all the while?”
“but is there capital punishment where you were?” asked adelaida.
“i saw it at lyons.
schneider took us there, and as soon as we arrived we came in for that.”
“well, and did you like it very much?
was it very edifying and instructive?” asked aglaya.
“no, i didn’t like it at all, and was ill after seeing it; but i confess i stared as though my eyes were fixed to the sight.
i could not tear them away.”
“i, too, should have been unable to tear my eyes away,” said aglaya.
“they do not at all approve of women going to see an execution there.
the women who do go are condemned for it afterwards in the newspapers.”
“that is, by contending that it is not a sight for women they admit that it is a sight for men.
i congratulate them on the deduction.
i suppose you quite agree with them, prince?”
“tell us about the execution,” put in adelaida.
“i would much rather not, just now,” said the prince, a little disturbed and frowning slightly.
“you don’t seem to want to tell us,” said aglaya, with a mocking air.
“no, the thing is, i was telling all about the execution a little while ago, and ”
“whom did you tell about it?”
“the man-servant, while i was waiting to see the general.”
“our man-servant?” exclaimed several voices at once.
“yes, the one who waits in the entrance hall, a greyish, red-faced man ”
“the prince is clearly a democrat,” remarked aglaya.
“well, if you could tell aleksey about it, surely you can tell us too.”
“i do so want to hear about it,” repeated adelaida.
“just now, i confess,” began the prince, with more animation, “when you asked me for a subject for a picture, i confess i had serious thoughts of giving you one.
i thought of asking you to draw the face of a criminal, one minute before the fall of the guillotine, while the wretched man is still standing on the scaffold, preparatory to placing his neck on the block.”
“what, his face?
only his face?” asked adelaida.
“that would be a strange subject indeed.
and what sort of a picture would that make?”
“oh, why not?” the prince insisted, with some warmth.
“when i was in basle i saw a picture very much in that style i should like to tell you about it; i will some time or other; it struck me very forcibly.”
“oh, you shall tell us about the basle picture another time; now we must have all about the execution,” said adelaida.
“tell us about that face as it appeared to your imagination how should it be drawn?
just the face alone, do you mean?”
“it was just a minute before the execution,” began the prince, readily, carried away by the recollection and evidently forgetting everything else in a moment; “just at the instant when he stepped off the ladder on to the scaffold.
he happened to look in my direction: i saw his eyes and understood all, at once but how am i to describe it?
i do so wish you or somebody else could draw it, you, if possible.
i thought at the time what a picture it would make.
you must imagine all that went before, of course, all all.
he had lived in the prison for some time and had not expected that the execution would take place for at least a week yet he had counted on all the formalities and so on taking time; but it so happened that his papers had been got ready quickly.
at five o’clock in the morning he was asleep it was october, and at five in the morning it was cold and dark.
the governor of the prison comes in on tip-toe and touches the sleeping man’s shoulder gently.
he starts up.
‘what is it?’
he says.
‘the execution is fixed for ten o’clock.’ he was only just awake, and would not believe at first, but began to argue that his papers would not be out for a week, and so on.
when he was wide awake and realized the truth, he became very silent and argued no more so they say; but after a bit he said: ‘it comes very hard on one so suddenly’ and then he was silent again and said nothing.
“the three or four hours went by, of course, in necessary preparations the priest, breakfast, (coffee, meat, and some wine they gave him; doesn’t it seem ridiculous?)
and yet i believe these people give them a good breakfast out of pure kindness of heart, and believe that they are doing a good action.
then he is dressed, and then begins the procession through the town to the scaffold.
i think he, too, must feel that he has an age to live still while they cart him along.
probably he thought, on the way, ‘oh, i have a long, long time yet.
three streets of life yet!
when we’ve passed this street there’ll be that other one; and then that one where the baker’s shop is on the right; and when shall we get there?
it’s ages, ages!’ around him are crowds shouting, yelling ten thousand faces, twenty thousand eyes.
all this has to be endured, and especially the thought: ‘here are ten thousand men, and not one of them is going to be executed, and yet i am to die.’ well, all that is preparatory.
“at the scaffold there is a ladder, and just there he burst into tears and this was a strong man, and a terribly wicked one, they say!
there was a priest with him the whole time, talking; even in the cart as they drove along, he talked and talked.
probably the other heard nothing; he would begin to listen now and then, and at the third word or so he had forgotten all about it.
“at last he began to mount the steps; his legs were tied, so that he had to take very small steps.
the priest, who seemed to be a wise man, had stopped talking now, and only held the cross for the wretched fellow to kiss.
at the foot of the ladder he had been pale enough; but when he set foot on the scaffold at the top, his face suddenly became the colour of paper, positively like white notepaper.
his legs must have become suddenly feeble and helpless, and he felt a choking in his throat you know the sudden feeling one has in moments of terrible fear, when one does not lose one’s wits, but is absolutely powerless to move?
if some dreadful thing were suddenly to happen; if a house were just about to fall on one; don’t you know how one would long to sit down and shut one’s eyes and wait, and wait?
well, when this terrible feeling came over him, the priest quickly pressed the cross to his lips, without a word a little silver cross it was and he kept on pressing it to the man’s lips every second.
and whenever the cross touched his lips, the eyes would open for a moment, and the legs moved once, and he kissed the cross greedily, hurriedly just as though he were anxious to catch hold of something in case of its being useful to him afterwards, though he could hardly have had any connected religious thoughts at the time.
and so up to the very block.
“how strange that criminals seldom swoon at such a moment!
on the contrary, the brain is especially active, and works incessantly probably hard, hard, hard like an engine at full pressure.
i imagine that various thoughts must beat loud and fast through his head all unfinished ones, and strange, funny thoughts, very likely!
like this, for instance: ‘that man is looking at me, and he has a wart on his forehead!
and the executioner has burst one of his buttons, and the lowest one is all rusty!’ and meanwhile he notices and remembers everything.
there is one point that cannot be forgotten, round which everything else dances and turns about; and because of this point he cannot faint, and this lasts until the very final quarter of a second, when the wretched neck is on the block and the victim listens and waits and knows that’s the point, he knows that he is just now about to die, and listens for the rasp of the iron over his head.
if i lay there, i should certainly listen for that grating sound, and hear it, too!
there would probably be but the tenth part of an instant left to hear it in, but one would certainly hear it.
and imagine, some people declare that when the head flies off it is conscious of having flown off!
just imagine what a thing to realize!
fancy if consciousness were to last for even five seconds!
“draw the scaffold so that only the top step of the ladder comes in clearly.
the criminal must be just stepping on to it, his face as white as note-paper.
the priest is holding the cross to his blue lips, and the criminal kisses it, and knows and sees and understands everything.
the cross and the head there’s your picture; the priest and the executioner, with his two assistants, and a few heads and eyes below.
those might come in as subordinate accessories a sort of mist.
there’s a picture for you.” the prince paused, and looked around.
“certainly that isn’t much like quietism,” murmured alexandra, half to herself.
“now tell us about your love affairs,” said adelaida, after a moment’s pause.
the prince gazed at her in amazement.
“you know,” adelaida continued, “you owe us a description of the basle picture; but first i wish to hear how you fell in love.
don’t deny the fact, for you did, of course.
besides, you stop philosophizing when you are telling about anything.”
“why are you ashamed of your stories the moment after you have told them?” asked aglaya, suddenly.
“how silly you are!” said mrs. epanchin, looking indignantly towards the last speaker.
“yes, that wasn’t a clever remark,” said alexandra.
“don’t listen to her, prince,” said mrs. epanchin; “she says that sort of thing out of mischief.
don’t think anything of their nonsense, it means nothing.
they love to chaff, but they like you.
i can see it in their faces i know their faces.”
“i know their faces, too,” said the prince, with a peculiar stress on the words.
“how so?” asked adelaida, with curiosity.
“what do you know about our faces?” exclaimed the other two, in chorus.
but the prince was silent and serious.
all awaited his reply.
“i’ll tell you afterwards,” he said quietly.
“ah, you want to arouse our curiosity!” said aglaya.
“and how terribly solemn you are about it!”
“very well,” interrupted adelaida, “then if you can read faces so well, you must have been in love.
come now; i’ve guessed let’s have the secret!”
“i have not been in love,” said the prince, as quietly and seriously as before.
“i have been happy in another way.”
“how, how?”
“well, i’ll tell you,” said the prince, apparently in a deep reverie.
vi.
“here you all are,” began the prince, “settling yourselves down to listen to me with so much curiosity, that if i do not satisfy you you will probably be angry with me.
no, no!
i’m only joking!” he added, hastily, with a smile.
“well, then they were all children there, and i was always among children and only with children.
they were the children of the village in which i lived, and they went to the school there all of them.
i did not teach them, oh no; there was a master for that, one jules thibaut.
i may have taught them some things, but i was among them just as an outsider, and i passed all four years of my life there among them.
i wished for nothing better; i used to tell them everything and hid nothing from them.
their fathers and relations were very angry with me, because the children could do nothing without me at last, and used to throng after me at all times.
the schoolmaster was my greatest enemy in the end!
i had many enemies, and all because of the children.
even schneider reproached me.
what were they afraid of?
one can tell a child everything, anything.
i have often been struck by the fact that parents know their children so little.
they should not conceal so much from them.
how well even little children understand that their parents conceal things from them, because they consider them too young to understand!
children are capable of giving advice in the most important matters.
how can one deceive these dear little birds, when they look at one so sweetly and confidingly?
i call them birds because there is nothing in the world better than birds!
“however, most of the people were angry with me about one and the same thing; but thibaut simply was jealous of me.
at first he had wagged his head and wondered how it was that the children understood what i told them so well, and could not learn from him; and he laughed like anything when i replied that neither he nor i could teach them very much, but that they might teach us a good deal.
“how he could hate me and tell scandalous stories about me, living among children as he did, is what i cannot understand.
children soothe and heal the wounded heart.
i remember there was one poor fellow at our professor’s who was being treated for madness, and you have no idea what those children did for him, eventually.
i don’t think he was mad, but only terribly unhappy.
but i’ll tell you all about him another day.
now i must get on with this story.
“the children did not love me at first; i was such a sickly, awkward kind of a fellow then and i know i am ugly.
besides, i was a foreigner.
the children used to laugh at me, at first; and they even went so far as to throw stones at me, when they saw me kiss marie.
i only kissed her once in my life no, no, don’t laugh!” the prince hastened to suppress the smiles of his audience at this point.
“it was not a matter of love at all!
if only you knew what a miserable creature she was, you would have pitied her, just as i did.
she belonged to our village.
her mother was an old, old woman, and they used to sell string and thread, and soap and tobacco, out of the window of their little house, and lived on the pittance they gained by this trade.
the old woman was ill and very old, and could hardly move.
marie was her daughter, a girl of twenty, weak and thin and consumptive; but still she did heavy work at the houses around, day by day.
well, one fine day a commercial traveller betrayed her and carried her off; and a week later he deserted her.
she came home dirty, draggled, and shoeless; she had walked for a whole week without shoes; she had slept in the fields, and caught a terrible cold; her feet were swollen and sore, and her hands torn and scratched all over.
she never had been pretty even before; but her eyes were quiet, innocent, kind eyes.
“she was very quiet always and i remember once, when she had suddenly begun singing at her work, everyone said, ‘marie tried to sing today!’
and she got so chaffed that she was silent for ever after.
she had been treated kindly in the place before; but when she came back now ill and shunned and miserable not one of them all had the slightest sympathy for her.
cruel people!
oh, what hazy understandings they have on such matters!
her mother was the first to show the way.
she received her wrathfully, unkindly, and with contempt.
‘you have disgraced me,’ she said.
she was the first to cast her into ignominy; but when they all heard that marie had returned to the village, they ran out to see her and crowded into the little cottage old men, children, women, girls such a hurrying, stamping, greedy crowd.
marie was lying on the floor at the old woman’s feet, hungry, torn, draggled, crying, miserable.
“when everyone crowded into the room she hid her face in her dishevelled hair and lay cowering on the floor.
everyone looked at her as though she were a piece of dirt off the road.
the old men scolded and condemned, and the young ones laughed at her.
the women condemned her too, and looked at her contemptuously, just as though she were some loathsome insect.
“her mother allowed all this to go on, and nodded her head and encouraged them.
the old woman was very ill at that time, and knew she was dying (she really did die a couple of months later), and though she felt the end approaching she never thought of forgiving her daughter, to the very day of her death.
she would not even speak to her.
she made her sleep on straw in a shed, and hardly gave her food enough to support life.
“marie was very gentle to her mother, and nursed her, and did everything for her; but the old woman accepted all her services without a word and never showed her the slightest kindness.
marie bore all this; and i could see when i got to know her that she thought it quite right and fitting, considering herself the lowest and meanest of creatures.
“when the old woman took to her bed finally, the other old women in the village sat with her by turns, as the custom is there; and then marie was quite driven out of the house.
they gave her no food at all, and she could not get any work in the village; none would employ her.
the men seemed to consider her no longer a woman, they said such dreadful things to her.
sometimes on sundays, if they were drunk enough, they used to throw her a penny or two, into the mud, and marie would silently pick up the money.
she had began to spit blood at that time.
“at last her rags became so tattered and torn that she was ashamed of appearing in the village any longer.
the children used to pelt her with mud; so she begged to be taken on as assistant cowherd, but the cowherd would not have her.
then she took to helping him without leave; and he saw how valuable her assistance was to him, and did not drive her away again; on the contrary, he occasionally gave her the remnants of his dinner, bread and cheese.
he considered that he was being very kind.
when the mother died, the village parson was not ashamed to hold marie up to public derision and shame.
marie was standing at the coffin’s head, in all her rags, crying.
“a crowd of people had collected to see how she would cry.
the parson, a young fellow ambitious of becoming a great preacher, began his sermon and pointed to marie.
‘there,’ he said, ‘there is the cause of the death of this venerable woman’ (which was a lie, because she had been ill for at least two years) ‘there she stands before you, and dares not lift her eyes from the ground, because she knows that the finger of god is upon her.
look at her tatters and rags the badge of those who lose their virtue.
who is she?
her daughter!’ and so on to the end.
“and just fancy, this infamy pleased them, all of them, nearly.
only the children had altered for then they were all on my side and had learned to love marie.
“this is how it was: i had wished to do something for marie; i longed to give her some money, but i never had a farthing while i was there.
but i had a little diamond pin, and this i sold to a travelling pedlar; he gave me eight francs for it it was worth at least forty.
“i long sought to meet marie alone; and at last i did meet her, on the hillside beyond the village.
i gave her the eight francs and asked her to take care of the money because i could get no more; and then i kissed her and said that she was not to suppose i kissed her with any evil motives or because i was in love with her, for that i did so solely out of pity for her, and because from the first i had not accounted her as guilty so much as unfortunate.
i longed to console and encourage her somehow, and to assure her that she was not the low, base thing which she and others strove to make out; but i don’t think she understood me.
she stood before me, dreadfully ashamed of herself, and with downcast eyes; and when i had finished she kissed my hand.
i would have kissed hers, but she drew it away.
just at this moment the whole troop of children saw us.
(i found out afterwards that they had long kept a watch upon me.)
they all began whistling and clapping their hands, and laughing at us.
marie ran away at once; and when i tried to talk to them, they threw stones at me.
all the village heard of it the same day, and marie’s position became worse than ever.
the children would not let her pass now in the streets, but annoyed her and threw dirt at her more than before.
they used to run after her she racing away with her poor feeble lungs panting and gasping, and they pelting her and shouting abuse at her.
“once i had to interfere by force; and after that i took to speaking to them every day and whenever i could.
occasionally they stopped and listened; but they teased marie all the same.
“i told them how unhappy marie was, and after a while they stopped their abuse of her, and let her go by silently.
little by little we got into the way of conversing together, the children and i. i concealed nothing from them, i told them all.
they listened very attentively and soon began to be sorry for marie.
at last some of them took to saying ‘good-morning’ to her, kindly, when they met her.
it is the custom there to salute anyone you meet with ‘good-morning’ whether acquainted or not.
i can imagine how astonished marie was at these first greetings from the children.
“once two little girls got hold of some food and took it to her, and came back and told me.
they said she had burst into tears, and that they loved her very much now.
very soon after that they all became fond of marie, and at the same time they began to develop the greatest affection for myself.
they often came to me and begged me to tell them stories.
i think i must have told stories well, for they did so love to hear them.
at last i took to reading up interesting things on purpose to pass them on to the little ones, and this went on for all the rest of my time there, three years.
later, when everyone even schneider was angry with me for hiding nothing from the children, i pointed out how foolish it was, for they always knew things, only they learnt them in a way that soiled their minds but not so from me.
one has only to remember one’s own childhood to admit the truth of this.
but nobody was convinced... it was two weeks before her mother died that i had kissed marie; and when the clergyman preached that sermon the children were all on my side.
“when i told them what a shame it was of the parson to talk as he had done, and explained my reason, they were so angry that some of them went and broke his windows with stones.
of course i stopped them, for that was not right, but all the village heard of it, and how i caught it for spoiling the children!
everyone discovered now that the little ones had taken to being fond of marie, and their parents were terribly alarmed; but marie was so happy.
the children were forbidden to meet her; but they used to run out of the village to the herd and take her food and things; and sometimes just ran off there and kissed her, and said, ‘je vous aime, marie!’ and then trotted back again.
they imagined that i was in love with marie, and this was the only point on which i did not undeceive them, for they got such enjoyment out of it.
and what delicacy and tenderness they showed!
“in the evening i used to walk to the waterfall.
there was a spot there which was quite closed in and hidden from view by large trees; and to this spot the children used to come to me.
they could not bear that their dear leon should love a poor girl without shoes to her feet and dressed all in rags and tatters.
so, would you believe it, they actually clubbed together, somehow, and bought her shoes and stockings, and some linen, and even a dress!
i can’t understand how they managed it, but they did it, all together.
when i asked them about it they only laughed and shouted, and the little girls clapped their hands and kissed me.
i sometimes went to see marie secretly, too.
she had become very ill, and could hardly walk.
she still went with the herd, but could not help the herdsman any longer.
she used to sit on a stone near, and wait there almost motionless all day, till the herd went home.
her consumption was so advanced, and she was so weak, that she used to sit with closed eyes, breathing heavily.
her face was as thin as a skeleton’s, and sweat used to stand on her white brow in large drops.
i always found her sitting just like that.
i used to come up quietly to look at her; but marie would hear me, open her eyes, and tremble violently as she kissed my hands.
i did not take my hand away because it made her happy to have it, and so she would sit and cry quietly.
sometimes she tried to speak; but it was very difficult to understand her.
she was almost like a madwoman, with excitement and ecstasy, whenever i came.
occasionally the children came with me; when they did so, they would stand some way off and keep guard over us, so as to tell me if anybody came near.
this was a great pleasure to them.
“when we left her, marie used to relapse at once into her old condition, and sit with closed eyes and motionless limbs.
one day she could not go out at all, and remained at home all alone in the empty hut; but the children very soon became aware of the fact, and nearly all of them visited her that day as she lay alone and helpless in her miserable bed.
“for two days the children looked after her, and then, when the village people got to know that marie was really dying, some of the old women came and took it in turns to sit by her and look after her a bit.
i think they began to be a little sorry for her in the village at last; at all events they did not interfere with the children any more, on her account.
“marie lay in a state of uncomfortable delirium the whole while; she coughed dreadfully.
the old women would not let the children stay in the room; but they all collected outside the window each morning, if only for a moment, and shouted ‘bon jour, notre bonne marie!’ and marie no sooner caught sight of, or heard them, and she became quite animated at once, and, in spite of the old women, would try to sit up and nod her head and smile at them, and thank them.
the little ones used to bring her nice things and sweets to eat, but she could hardly touch anything.
thanks to them, i assure you, the girl died almost perfectly happy.
she almost forgot her misery, and seemed to accept their love as a sort of symbol of pardon for her offence, though she never ceased to consider herself a dreadful sinner.
they used to flutter at her window just like little birds, calling out: ‘nous t’aimons, marie!’
“she died very soon; i had thought she would live much longer.
the day before her death i went to see her for the last time, just before sunset.
i think she recognized me, for she pressed my hand.
“next morning they came and told me that marie was dead.
the children could not be restrained now; they went and covered her coffin with flowers, and put a wreath of lovely blossoms on her head.
the pastor did not throw any more shameful words at the poor dead woman; but there were very few people at the funeral.
however, when it came to carrying the coffin, all the children rushed up, to carry it themselves.
of course they could not do it alone, but they insisted on helping, and walked alongside and behind, crying.
“they have planted roses all round her grave, and every year they look after the flowers and make marie’s resting-place as beautiful as they can.
i was in ill odour after all this with the parents of the children, and especially with the parson and schoolmaster.
schneider was obliged to promise that i should not meet them and talk to them; but we conversed from a distance by signs, and they used to write me sweet little notes.
afterwards i came closer than ever to those little souls, but even then it was very dear to me, to have them so fond of me.
“schneider said that i did the children great harm by my pernicious ‘system’; what nonsense that was!
and what did he mean by my system?
he said afterwards that he believed i was a child myself just before i came away.
‘you have the form and face of an adult’ he said, ‘but as regards soul, and character, and perhaps even intelligence, you are a child in the completest sense of the word, and always will be, if you live to be sixty.’ i laughed very much, for of course that is nonsense.
but it is a fact that i do not care to be among grown-up people and much prefer the society of children.
however kind people may be to me, i never feel quite at home with them, and am always glad to get back to my little companions.
now my companions have always been children, not because i was a child myself once, but because young things attract me.
on one of the first days of my stay in switzerland, i was strolling about alone and miserable, when i came upon the children rushing noisily out of school, with their slates and bags, and books, their games, their laughter and shouts and my soul went out to them.
i stopped and laughed happily as i watched their little feet moving so quickly.
girls and boys, laughing and crying; for as they went home many of them found time to fight and make peace, to weep and play.
i forgot my troubles in looking at them.
and then, all those three years, i tried to understand why men should be for ever tormenting themselves.
i lived the life of a child there, and thought i should never leave the little village; indeed, i was far from thinking that i should ever return to russia.
but at last i recognized the fact that schneider could not keep me any longer.
and then something so important happened, that schneider himself urged me to depart.
i am going to see now if can get good advice about it.
perhaps my lot in life will be changed; but that is not the principal thing.
the principal thing is the entire change that has already come over me.
i left many things behind me too many.
they have gone.
on the journey i said to myself, ‘i am going into the world of men.
i don’t know much, perhaps, but a new life has begun for me.’ i made up my mind to be honest, and steadfast in accomplishing my task.
perhaps i shall meet with troubles and many disappointments, but i have made up my mind to be polite and sincere to everyone; more cannot be asked of me.
people may consider me a child if they like.
i am often called an idiot, and at one time i certainly was so ill that i was nearly as bad as an idiot; but i am not an idiot now.
how can i possibly be so when i know myself that i am considered one?
“when i received a letter from those dear little souls, while passing through berlin, i only then realized how much i loved them.
it was very, very painful, getting that first little letter.
how melancholy they had been when they saw me off!
for a month before, they had been talking of my departure and sorrowing over it; and at the waterfall, of an evening, when we parted for the night, they would hug me so tight and kiss me so warmly, far more so than before.
and every now and then they would turn up one by one when i was alone, just to give me a kiss and a hug, to show their love for me.
the whole flock went with me to the station, which was about a mile from the village, and every now and then one of them would stop to throw his arms round me, and all the little girls had tears in their voices, though they tried hard not to cry.
as the train steamed out of the station, i saw them all standing on the platform waving to me and crying ‘hurrah!’ till they were lost in the distance.
“i assure you, when i came in here just now and saw your kind faces (i can read faces well) my heart felt light for the first time since that moment of parting.
i think i must be one of those who are born to be in luck, for one does not often meet with people whom one feels he can love from the first sight of their faces; and yet, no sooner do i step out of the railway carriage than i happen upon you!
“i know it is more or less a shamefaced thing to speak of one’s feelings before others; and yet here am i talking like this to you, and am not a bit ashamed or shy.
i am an unsociable sort of fellow and shall very likely not come to see you again for some time; but don’t think the worse of me for that.
it is not that i do not value your society; and you must never suppose that i have taken offence at anything.
“you asked me about your faces, and what i could read in them; i will tell you with the greatest pleasure.
you, adelaida ivanovna, have a very happy face; it is the most sympathetic of the three.
not to speak of your natural beauty, one can look at your face and say to one’s self, ‘she has the face of a kind sister.’ you are simple and merry, but you can see into another’s heart very quickly.
that’s what i read in your face.
“you too, alexandra ivanovna, have a very lovely face; but i think you may have some secret sorrow.
your heart is undoubtedly a kind, good one, but you are not merry.
there is a certain suspicion of ‘shadow’ in your face, like in that of holbein’s madonna in dresden.
so much for your face.
have i guessed right?
“as for your face, lizabetha prokofievna, i not only think, but am perfectly sure, that you are an absolute child in all, in all, mind, both good and bad and in spite of your years.
don’t be angry with me for saying so; you know what my feelings for children are.
and do not suppose that i am so candid out of pure simplicity of soul.
oh dear no, it is by no means the case!
perhaps i have my own very profound object in view.”
vii.
when the prince ceased speaking all were gazing merrily at him even aglaya; but lizabetha prokofievna looked the jolliest of all.
“well!” she cried, “we have ‘put him through his paces,’ with a vengeance!
my dears, you imagined, i believe, that you were about to patronize this young gentleman, like some poor protégé picked up somewhere, and taken under your magnificent protection.
what fools we were, and what a specially big fool is your father!
well done, prince!
i assure you the general actually asked me to put you through your paces, and examine you.
as to what you said about my face, you are absolutely correct in your judgment.
i am a child, and know it.
i knew it long before you said so; you have expressed my own thoughts.
i think your nature and mine must be extremely alike, and i am very glad of it.
we are like two drops of water, only you are a man and i a woman, and i’ve not been to switzerland, and that is all the difference between us.”
“don’t be in a hurry, mother; the prince says that he has some motive behind his simplicity,” cried aglaya.
“yes, yes, so he does,” laughed the others.
“oh, don’t you begin bantering him,” said mamma.
“he is probably a good deal cleverer than all three of you girls put together.
we shall see.
only you haven’t told us anything about aglaya yet, prince; and aglaya and i are both waiting to hear.”
“i cannot say anything at present.
i’ll tell you afterwards.”
“why?
her face is clear enough, isn’t it?”
“oh yes, of course.
you are very beautiful, aglaya ivanovna, so beautiful that one is afraid to look at you.”
“is that all?
what about her character?” persisted mrs. epanchin.
“it is difficult to judge when such beauty is concerned.
i have not prepared my judgment.
beauty is a riddle.”
“that means that you have set aglaya a riddle!” said adelaida.
“guess it, aglaya!
but she’s pretty, prince, isn’t she?”
“most wonderfully so,” said the latter, warmly, gazing at aglaya with admiration.
“almost as lovely as nastasia philipovna, but quite a different type.”
all present exchanged looks of surprise.
“as lovely as who?” said mrs. epanchin.
“as nastasia philipovna?
where have you seen nastasia philipovna?
what nastasia philipovna?”
“gavrila ardalionovitch showed the general her portrait just now.”
“how so?
did he bring the portrait for my husband?”
“only to show it.
nastasia philipovna gave it to gavrila ardalionovitch today, and the latter brought it here to show to the general.”
“i must see it!” cried mrs. epanchin.
“where is the portrait?
if she gave it to him, he must have it; and he is still in the study.
he never leaves before four o’clock on wednesdays.
send for gavrila ardalionovitch at once.
no, i don’t long to see him so much.
look here, dear prince, be so kind, will you?
just step to the study and fetch this portrait!
say we want to look at it.
please do this for me, will you?”
“he is a nice fellow, but a little too simple,” said adelaida, as the prince left the room.
“he is, indeed,” said alexandra; “almost laughably so at times.”
neither one nor the other seemed to give expression to her full thoughts.
“he got out of it very neatly about our faces, though,” said aglaya.
“he flattered us all round, even mamma.”
“nonsense!” cried the latter.
“he did not flatter me.
it was i who found his appreciation flattering.
i think you are a great deal more foolish than he is.
he is simple, of course, but also very knowing.
just like myself.”
“how stupid of me to speak of the portrait,” thought the prince as he entered the study, with a feeling of guilt at his heart, “and yet, perhaps i was right after all.” he had an idea, unformed as yet, but a strange idea.
gavrila ardalionovitch was still sitting in the study, buried in a mass of papers.
he looked as though he did not take his salary from the public company, whose servant he was, for a sinecure.
he grew very wroth and confused when the prince asked for the portrait, and explained how it came about that he had spoken of it.
“oh, curse it all,” he said; “what on earth must you go blabbing for?
you know nothing about the thing, and yet idiot!” he added, muttering the last word to himself in irrepressible rage.
“i am very sorry; i was not thinking at the time.
i merely said that aglaya was almost as beautiful as nastasia philipovna.”
gania asked for further details; and the prince once more repeated the conversation.
gania looked at him with ironical contempt the while.
“nastasia philipovna,” he began, and there paused; he was clearly much agitated and annoyed.
the prince reminded him of the portrait.
“listen, prince,” said gania, as though an idea had just struck him, “i wish to ask you a great favour, and yet i really don’t know ”
he paused again, he was trying to make up his mind to something, and was turning the matter over.
the prince waited quietly.
once more gania fixed him with intent and questioning eyes.
“prince,” he began again, “they are rather angry with me, in there, owing to a circumstance which i need not explain, so that i do not care to go in at present without an invitation.
i particularly wish to speak to aglaya, but i have written a few words in case i shall not have the chance of seeing her” (here the prince observed a small note in his hand), “and i do not know how to get my communication to her.
don’t you think you could undertake to give it to her at once, but only to her, mind, and so that no one else should see you give it?
it isn’t much of a secret, but still well, will you do it?”
“i don’t quite like it,” replied the prince.
“oh, but it is absolutely necessary for me,” gania entreated.
“believe me, if it were not so, i would not ask you; how else am i to get it to her?
it is most important, dreadfully important!”
gania was evidently much alarmed at the idea that the prince would not consent to take his note, and he looked at him now with an expression of absolute entreaty.
“well, i will take it then.”
“but mind, nobody is to see!” cried the delighted gania “and of course i may rely on your word of honour, eh?”
“i won’t show it to anyone,” said the prince.
“the letter is not sealed ” continued gania, and paused in confusion.
“oh, i won’t read it,” said the prince, quite simply.
he took up the portrait, and went out of the room.
gania, left alone, clutched his head with his hands.
“one word from her,” he said, “one word from her, and i may yet be free.”
he could not settle himself to his papers again, for agitation and excitement, but began walking up and down the room from corner to corner.
the prince walked along, musing.
he did not like his commission, and disliked the idea of gania sending a note to aglaya at all; but when he was two rooms distant from the drawing-room, where they all were, he stopped as though recalling something; went to the window, nearer the light, and began to examine the portrait in his hand.
he longed to solve the mystery of something in the face of nastasia philipovna, something which had struck him as he looked at the portrait for the first time; the impression had not left him.
it was partly the fact of her marvellous beauty that struck him, and partly something else.
there was a suggestion of immense pride and disdain in the face almost of hatred, and at the same time something confiding and very full of simplicity.
the contrast aroused a deep sympathy in his heart as he looked at the lovely face.
the blinding loveliness of it was almost intolerable, this pale thin face with its flaming eyes; it was a strange beauty.
the prince gazed at it for a minute or two, then glanced around him, and hurriedly raised the portrait to his lips.
when, a minute after, he reached the drawing-room door, his face was quite composed.
but just as he reached the door he met aglaya coming out alone.
“gavrila ardalionovitch begged me to give you this,” he said, handing her the note.
aglaya stopped, took the letter, and gazed strangely into the prince’s eyes.
there was no confusion in her face; a little surprise, perhaps, but that was all.
by her look she seemed merely to challenge the prince to an explanation as to how he and gania happened to be connected in this matter.
but her expression was perfectly cool and quiet, and even condescending.
so they stood for a moment or two, confronting one another.
at length a faint smile passed over her face, and she passed by him without a word.
mrs. epanchin examined the portrait of nastasia philipovna for some little while, holding it critically at arm’s length.
“yes, she is pretty,” she said at last, “even very pretty.
i have seen her twice, but only at a distance.
so you admire this kind of beauty, do you?” she asked the prince, suddenly.
“yes, i do this kind.”
“do you mean especially this kind?”
“yes, especially this kind.”
“why?”
“there is much suffering in this face,” murmured the prince, more as though talking to himself than answering the question.
“i think you are wandering a little, prince,” mrs. epanchin decided, after a lengthened survey of his face; and she tossed the portrait on to the table, haughtily.
alexandra took it, and adelaida came up, and both the girls examined the photograph.
just then aglaya entered the room.
“what a power!” cried adelaida suddenly, as she earnestly examined the portrait over her sister’s shoulder.
“whom?
what power?” asked her mother, crossly.
“such beauty is real power,” said adelaida.
“with such beauty as that one might overthrow the world.” she returned to her easel thoughtfully.
aglaya merely glanced at the portrait frowned, and put out her underlip; then went and sat down on the sofa with folded hands.
mrs.
epanchin rang the bell.
“ask gavrila ardalionovitch to step this way,” said she to the man who answered.
“mamma!” cried alexandra, significantly.
“i shall just say two words to him, that’s all,” said her mother, silencing all objection by her manner; she was evidently seriously put out.
“you see, prince, it is all secrets with us, just now all secrets.
it seems to be the etiquette of the house, for some reason or other.
stupid nonsense, and in a matter which ought to be approached with all candour and open-heartedness.
there is a marriage being talked of, and i don’t like this marriage ”
“mamma, what are you saying?” said alexandra again, hurriedly.
“well, what, my dear girl?
as if you can possibly like it yourself?
the heart is the great thing, and the rest is all rubbish though one must have sense as well.
perhaps sense is really the great thing.
don’t smile like that, aglaya.
i don’t contradict myself.
a fool with a heart and no brains is just as unhappy as a fool with brains and no heart.
i am one and you are the other, and therefore both of us suffer, both of us are unhappy.”
“why are you so unhappy, mother?” asked adelaida, who alone of all the company seemed to have preserved her good temper and spirits up to now.
“in the first place, because of my carefully brought-up daughters,” said mrs. epanchin, cuttingly; “and as that is the best reason i can give you we need not bother about any other at present.
enough of words, now!
we shall see how both of you (i don’t count aglaya) will manage your business, and whether you, most revered alexandra ivanovna, will be happy with your fine mate.”
“ah!” she added, as gania suddenly entered the room, “here’s another marrying subject.
how do you do?” she continued, in response to gania’s bow; but she did not invite him to sit down.
“you are going to be married?”
“married?
how what marriage?” murmured gania, overwhelmed with confusion.
“are you about to take a wife?
i ask, if you prefer that expression.”
“no, no i i no!” said gania, bringing out his lie with a tell-tale blush of shame.
he glanced keenly at aglaya, who was sitting some way off, and dropped his eyes immediately.
aglaya gazed coldly, intently, and composedly at him, without taking her eyes off his face, and watched his confusion.
“no?
you say no, do you?” continued the pitiless mrs. general.
“very well, i shall remember that you told me this wednesday morning, in answer to my question, that you are not going to be married.
what day is it, wednesday, isn’t it?”
“yes, i think so!” said adelaida.
“you never know the day of the week; what’s the day of the month?”
“twenty-seventh!” said gania.
“twenty-seventh; very well.
good-bye now; you have a good deal to do, i’m sure, and i must dress and go out.
take your portrait.
give my respects to your unfortunate mother, nina alexandrovna.
au revoir, dear prince, come in and see us often, do; and i shall tell old princess bielokonski about you.
i shall go and see her on purpose.
and listen, my dear boy, i feel sure that god has sent you to petersburg from switzerland on purpose for me.
maybe you will have other things to do, besides, but you are sent chiefly for my sake, i feel sure of it.
god sent you to me!
au revoir!
alexandra, come with me, my dear.”
mrs. epanchin left the room.
gania confused, annoyed, furious took up his portrait, and turned to the prince with a nasty smile on his face.
“prince,” he said, “i am just going home.
if you have not changed your mind as to living with us, perhaps you would like to come with me.
you don’t know the address, i believe?”
“wait a minute, prince,” said aglaya, suddenly rising from her seat, “do write something in my album first, will you?
father says you are a most talented caligraphist; i’ll bring you my book in a minute.” she left the room.
“well, au revoir, prince,” said adelaida, “i must be going too.” she pressed the prince’s hand warmly, and gave him a friendly smile as she left the room.
she did not so much as look at gania.
“this is your doing, prince,” said gania, turning on the latter so soon as the others were all out of the room.
“this is your doing, sir!
you have been telling them that i am going to be married!” he said this in a hurried whisper, his eyes flashing with rage and his face ablaze.
“you shameless tattler!”
“i assure you, you are under a delusion,” said the prince, calmly and politely.
“i did not even know that you were to be married.”
“you heard me talking about it, the general and me.
you heard me say that everything was to be settled today at nastasia philipovna’s, and you went and blurted it out here.
you lie if you deny it.
who else could have told them?
devil take it, sir, who could have told them except yourself?
didn’t the old woman as good as hint as much to me?”
“if she hinted to you who told her you must know best, of course; but i never said a word about it.”
“did you give my note?
is there an answer?” interrupted gania, impatiently.
but at this moment aglaya came back, and the prince had no time to reply.
“there, prince,” said she, “there’s my album.
now choose a page and write me something, will you?
there’s a pen, a new one; do you mind a steel one?
i have heard that you caligraphists don’t like steel pens.”
conversing with the prince, aglaya did not even seem to notice that gania was in the room.
but while the prince was getting his pen ready, finding a page, and making his preparations to write, gania came up to the fireplace where aglaya was standing, to the right of the prince, and in trembling, broken accents said, almost in her ear:
“one word, just one word from you, and i’m saved.”
the prince turned sharply round and looked at both of them.
gania’s face was full of real despair; he seemed to have said the words almost unconsciously and on the impulse of the moment.
aglaya gazed at him for some seconds with precisely the same composure and calm astonishment as she had shown a little while before, when the prince handed her the note, and it appeared that this calm surprise and seemingly absolute incomprehension of what was said to her, were more terribly overwhelming to gania than even the most plainly expressed disdain would have been.
“what shall i write?” asked the prince.
“i’ll dictate to you,” said aglaya, coming up to the table.
“now then, are you ready?
write, ‘i never condescend to bargain!’ now put your name and the date.
let me see it.”
the prince handed her the album.
“capital!
how beautifully you have written it!
thanks so much.
au revoir, prince.
wait a minute,” she added, “i want to give you something for a keepsake.
come with me this way, will you?”
the prince followed her.
arrived at the dining-room, she stopped.
“read this,” she said, handing him gania’s note.
the prince took it from her hand, but gazed at her in bewilderment.
“oh!
i know you haven’t read it, and that you could never be that man’s accomplice.
read it, i wish you to read it.”
the letter had evidently been written in a hurry:
“my fate is to be decided today” (it ran), “you know how.
this day i must give my word irrevocably.
i have no right to ask your help, and i dare not allow myself to indulge in any hopes; but once you said just one word, and that word lighted up the night of my life, and became the beacon of my days.
say one more such word, and save me from utter ruin.
only tell me, ‘break off the whole thing!’ and i will do so this very day.
oh!
what can it cost you to say just this one word?
in doing so you will but be giving me a sign of your sympathy for me, and of your pity; only this, only this; nothing more, nothing.
i dare not indulge in any hope, because i am unworthy of it.
but if you say but this word, i will take up my cross again with joy, and return once more to my battle with poverty.
i shall meet the storm and be glad of it; i shall rise up with renewed strength.
“send me back then this one word of sympathy, only sympathy, i swear to you; and oh!
do not be angry with the audacity of despair, with the drowning man who has dared to make this last effort to save himself from perishing beneath the waters.
“g.l.”
“this man assures me,” said aglaya, scornfully, when the prince had finished reading the letter, “that the words ‘break off everything’
do not commit me to anything whatever; and himself gives me a written guarantee to that effect, in this letter.
observe how ingenuously he underlines certain words, and how crudely he glosses over his hidden thoughts.
he must know that if he ‘broke off everything,’ first, by himself, and without telling me a word about it or having the slightest hope on my account, that in that case i should perhaps be able to change my opinion of him, and even accept his friendship.
he must know that, but his soul is such a wretched thing.
he knows it and cannot make up his mind; he knows it and yet asks for guarantees.
he cannot bring himself to trust, he wants me to give him hopes of myself before he lets go of his hundred thousand roubles.
as to the ‘former word’ which he declares ‘lighted up the night of his life,’ he is simply an impudent liar; i merely pitied him once.
but he is audacious and shameless.
he immediately began to hope, at that very moment.
i saw it.
he has tried to catch me ever since; he is still fishing for me.
well, enough of this.
take the letter and give it back to him, as soon as you have left our house; not before, of course.”
“and what shall i tell him by way of answer?”
“nothing of course!
that’s the best answer.
is it the case that you are going to live in his house?”
“yes, your father kindly recommended me to him.”
“then look out for him, i warn you!
he won’t forgive you easily, for taking back the letter.”
aglaya pressed the prince’s hand and left the room.
her face was serious and frowning; she did not even smile as she nodded good-bye to him at the door.
“i’ll just get my parcel and we’ll go,” said the prince to gania, as he re-entered the drawing-room.
gania stamped his foot with impatience.
his face looked dark and gloomy with rage.
at last they left the house behind them, the prince carrying his bundle.
“the answer quick the answer!” said gania, the instant they were outside.
“what did she say?
did you give the letter?” the prince silently held out the note.
gania was struck motionless with amazement.
“how, what?
my letter?” he cried.
“he never delivered it!
i might have guessed it, oh!
curse him!
of course she did not understand what i meant, naturally!
why why why didn’t you give her the note, you ”
“excuse me; i was able to deliver it almost immediately after receiving your commission, and i gave it, too, just as you asked me to.
it has come into my hands now because aglaya ivanovna has just returned it to me.”
“how?
when?”
“as soon as i finished writing in her album for her, and when she asked me to come out of the room with her (you heard?
), we went into the dining-room, and she gave me your letter to read, and then told me to return it.”
“to read?” cried gania, almost at the top of his voice; “to read, and you read it?”
and again he stood like a log in the middle of the pavement; so amazed that his mouth remained open after the last word had left it.
“yes, i have just read it.”
“and she gave it you to read herself herself?”
“yes, herself; and you may believe me when i tell you that i would not have read it for anything without her permission.”
gania was silent for a minute or two, as though thinking out some problem.
suddenly he cried:
“it’s impossible, she cannot have given it to you to read!
you are lying.
you read it yourself!”
“i am telling you the truth,” said the prince in his former composed tone of voice; “and believe me, i am extremely sorry that the circumstance should have made such an unpleasant impression upon you!”
“but, you wretched man, at least she must have said something?
there must be some answer from her!”
“yes, of course, she did say something!”
“out with it then, damn it!
out with it at once!” and gania stamped his foot twice on the pavement.
“as soon as i had finished reading it, she told me that you were fishing for her; that you wished to compromise her so far as to receive some hopes from her, trusting to which hopes you might break with the prospect of receiving a hundred thousand roubles.
she said that if you had done this without bargaining with her, if you had broken with the money prospects without trying to force a guarantee out of her first, she might have been your friend.
that’s all, i think.
oh no, when i asked her what i was to say, as i took the letter, she replied that ‘no answer is the best answer.’ i think that was it.
forgive me if i do not use her exact expressions.
i tell you the sense as i understood it myself.”
ungovernable rage and madness took entire possession of gania, and his fury burst out without the least attempt at restraint.
“oh!
that’s it, is it!” he yelled.
“she throws my letters out of the window, does she!
oh!
and she does not condescend to bargain, while i do, eh?
we shall see, we shall see!
i shall pay her out for this.”
he twisted himself about with rage, and grew paler and paler; he shook his fist.
so the pair walked along a few steps.
gania did not stand on ceremony with the prince; he behaved just as though he were alone in his room.
he clearly counted the latter as a nonentity.
but suddenly he seemed to have an idea, and recollected himself.
“but how was it?” he asked, “how was it that you (idiot that you are),”
he added to himself, “were so very confidential a couple of hours after your first meeting with these people?
how was that, eh?”
up to this moment jealousy had not been one of his torments; now it suddenly gnawed at his heart.
“that is a thing i cannot undertake to explain,” replied the prince.
gania looked at him with angry contempt.
“oh!
i suppose the present she wished to make to you, when she took you into the dining-room, was her confidence, eh?”
“i suppose that was it; i cannot explain it otherwise.”
“but why, why?
devil take it, what did you do in there?
why did they fancy you?
look here, can’t you remember exactly what you said to them, from the very beginning?
can’t you remember?”
“oh, we talked of a great many things.
when first i went in we began to speak of switzerland.”
“oh, the devil take switzerland!”
“then about executions.”
“executions?”
“yes at least about one.
then i told the whole three years’ story of my life, and the history of a poor peasant girl ”
“oh, damn the peasant girl!
go on, go on!” said gania, impatiently.
“then how schneider told me about my childish nature, and ”
“oh, curse schneider and his dirty opinions!
go on.”
“then i began to talk about faces, at least about the expressions of faces, and said that aglaya ivanovna was nearly as lovely as nastasia philipovna.
it was then i blurted out about the portrait ”
“but you didn’t repeat what you heard in the study?
you didn’t repeat that eh?”
“no, i tell you i did not.”
“then how did they look here!
did aglaya show my letter to the old lady?”
“oh, there i can give you my fullest assurance that she did not.
i was there all the while she had no time to do it!”
“but perhaps you may not have observed it, oh, you damned idiot, you!”
he shouted, quite beside himself with fury.
“you can’t even describe what went on.”
gania having once descended to abuse, and receiving no check, very soon knew no bounds or limit to his licence, as is often the way in such cases.
his rage so blinded him that he had not even been able to detect that this “idiot,” whom he was abusing to such an extent, was very far from being slow of comprehension, and had a way of taking in an impression, and afterwards giving it out again, which was very un-idiotic indeed.
but something a little unforeseen now occurred.
“i think i ought to tell you, gavrila ardalionovitch,” said the prince, suddenly, “that though i once was so ill that i really was little better than an idiot, yet now i am almost recovered, and that, therefore, it is not altogether pleasant to be called an idiot to my face.
of course your anger is excusable, considering the treatment you have just experienced; but i must remind you that you have twice abused me rather rudely.
i do not like this sort of thing, and especially so at the first time of meeting a man, and, therefore, as we happen to be at this moment standing at a crossroad, don’t you think we had better part, you to the left, homewards, and i to the right, here?
i have twenty-five roubles, and i shall easily find a lodging.”
gania was much confused, and blushed for shame “do forgive me, prince!”
he cried, suddenly changing his abusive tone for one of great courtesy.
“for heaven’s sake, forgive me!
you see what a miserable plight i am in, but you hardly know anything of the facts of the case as yet.
if you did, i am sure you would forgive me, at least partially.
of course it was inexcusable of me, i know, but ”
“oh, dear me, i really do not require such profuse apologies,” replied the prince, hastily.
“i quite understand how unpleasant your position is, and that is what made you abuse me.
so come along to your house, after all.
i shall be delighted ”
“i am not going to let him go like this,” thought gania, glancing angrily at the prince as they walked along.
“the fellow has sucked everything out of me, and now he takes off his mask there’s something more than appears, here we shall see.
it shall all be as clear as water by tonight, everything!”
but by this time they had reached gania’s house.
viii.
the flat occupied by gania and his family was on the third floor of the house.
it was reached by a clean light staircase, and consisted of seven rooms, a nice enough lodging, and one would have thought a little too good for a clerk on two thousand roubles a year.
but it was designed to accommodate a few lodgers on board terms, and had been taken a few months since, much to the disgust of gania, at the urgent request of his mother and his sister, varvara ardalionovna, who longed to do something to increase the family income a little, and fixed their hopes upon letting lodgings.
gania frowned upon the idea.
he thought it infra dig, and did not quite like appearing in society afterwards that society in which he had been accustomed to pose up to now as a young man of rather brilliant prospects.
all these concessions and rebuffs of fortune, of late, had wounded his spirit severely, and his temper had become extremely irritable, his wrath being generally quite out of proportion to the cause.
but if he had made up his mind to put up with this sort of life for a while, it was only on the plain understanding with his inner self that he would very soon change it all, and have things as he chose again.
yet the very means by which he hoped to make this change threatened to involve him in even greater difficulties than he had had before.
the flat was divided by a passage which led straight out of the entrance-hall.
along one side of this corridor lay the three rooms which were designed for the accommodation of the “highly recommended” lodgers.
besides these three rooms there was another small one at the end of the passage, close to the kitchen, which was allotted to general ivolgin, the nominal master of the house, who slept on a wide sofa, and was obliged to pass into and out of his room through the kitchen, and up or down the back stairs.
colia, gania’s young brother, a school-boy of thirteen, shared this room with his father.
he, too, had to sleep on an old sofa, a narrow, uncomfortable thing with a torn rug over it; his chief duty being to look after his father, who needed to be watched more and more every day.
the prince was given the middle room of the three, the first being occupied by one ferdishenko, while the third was empty.
but gania first conducted the prince to the family apartments.
these consisted of a “salon,” which became the dining-room when required; a drawing-room, which was only a drawing-room in the morning, and became gania’s study in the evening, and his bedroom at night; and lastly nina alexandrovna’s and varvara’s bedroom, a small, close chamber which they shared together.
in a word, the whole place was confined, and a “tight fit” for the party.
gania used to grind his teeth with rage over the state of affairs; though he was anxious to be dutiful and polite to his mother.
however, it was very soon apparent to anyone coming into the house, that gania was the tyrant of the family.
nina alexandrovna and her daughter were both seated in the drawing-room, engaged in knitting, and talking to a visitor, ivan petrovitch ptitsin.
the lady of the house appeared to be a woman of about fifty years of age, thin-faced, and with black lines under the eyes.
she looked ill and rather sad; but her face was a pleasant one for all that; and from the first word that fell from her lips, any stranger would at once conclude that she was of a serious and particularly sincere nature.
in spite of her sorrowful expression, she gave the idea of possessing considerable firmness and decision.
her dress was modest and simple to a degree, dark and elderly in style; but both her face and appearance gave evidence that she had seen better days.
varvara was a girl of some twenty-three summers, of middle height, thin, but possessing a face which, without being actually beautiful, had the rare quality of charm, and might fascinate even to the extent of passionate regard.
she was very like her mother: she even dressed like her, which proved that she had no taste for smart clothes.
the expression of her grey eyes was merry and gentle, when it was not, as lately, too full of thought and anxiety.
the same decision and firmness was to be observed in her face as in her mother’s, but her strength seemed to be more vigorous than that of nina alexandrovna.
she was subject to outbursts of temper, of which even her brother was a little afraid.
the present visitor, ptitsin, was also afraid of her.
this was a young fellow of something under thirty, dressed plainly, but neatly.
his manners were good, but rather ponderously so.
his dark beard bore evidence to the fact that he was not in any government employ.
he could speak well, but preferred silence.
on the whole he made a decidedly agreeable impression.
he was clearly attracted by varvara, and made no secret of his feelings.
she trusted him in a friendly way, but had not shown him any decided encouragement as yet, which fact did not quell his ardour in the least.
nina alexandrovna was very fond of him, and had grown quite confidential with him of late.
ptitsin, as was well known, was engaged in the business of lending out money on good security, and at a good rate of interest.
he was a great friend of gania’s.
after a formal introduction by gania (who greeted his mother very shortly, took no notice of his sister, and immediately marched ptitsin out of the room), nina alexandrovna addressed a few kind words to the prince and forthwith requested colia, who had just appeared at the door, to show him to the “middle room.”
colia was a nice-looking boy.
his expression was simple and confiding, and his manners were very polite and engaging.
“where’s your luggage?” he asked, as he led the prince away to his room.
“i had a bundle; it’s in the entrance hall.”
“i’ll bring it you directly.
we only have a cook and one maid, so i have to help as much as i can.
varia looks after things, generally, and loses her temper over it.
gania says you have only just arrived from switzerland?”
“yes.”
“is it jolly there?”
“very.”
“mountains?”
“yes.”
“i’ll go and get your bundle.”
here varvara joined them.
“the maid shall bring your bed-linen directly.
have you a portmanteau?”
“no; a bundle your brother has just gone to the hall for it.”
“there’s nothing there except this,” said colia, returning at this moment.
“where did you put it?”
“oh!
but that’s all i have,” said the prince, taking it.
“ah!
i thought perhaps ferdishenko had taken it.”
“don’t talk nonsense,” said varia, severely.
she seemed put out, and was only just polite with the prince.
“oho!” laughed the boy, “you can be nicer than that to me, you know i’m not ptitsin!”
“you ought to be whipped, colia, you silly boy.
if you want anything”
(to the prince) “please apply to the servant.
we dine at half-past four.
you can take your dinner with us, or have it in your room, just as you please.
come along, colia, don’t disturb the prince.”
at the door they met gania coming in.
“is father in?” he asked.
colia whispered something in his ear and went out.
“just a couple of words, prince, if you’ll excuse me.
don’t blab over there about what you may see here, or in this house as to all that about aglaya and me, you know.
things are not altogether pleasant in this establishment devil take it all!
you’ll see.
at all events keep your tongue to yourself for today.”
“i assure you i ‘blabbed’ a great deal less than you seem to suppose,”
said the prince, with some annoyance.
clearly the relations between gania and himself were by no means improving.
“oh well; i caught it quite hot enough today, thanks to you.
however, i forgive you.”
“i think you might fairly remember that i was not in any way bound, i had no reason to be silent about that portrait.
you never asked me not to mention it.”
“pfu!
what a wretched room this is dark, and the window looking into the yard.
your coming to our house is, in no respect, opportune.
however, it’s not my affair.
i don’t keep the lodgings.”
ptitsin here looked in and beckoned to gania, who hastily left the room, in spite of the fact that he had evidently wished to say something more and had only made the remark about the room to gain time.
the prince had hardly had time to wash and tidy himself a little when the door opened once more, and another figure appeared.
this was a gentleman of about thirty, tall, broad-shouldered, and red-haired; his face was red, too, and he possessed a pair of thick lips, a wide nose, small eyes, rather bloodshot, and with an ironical expression in them; as though he were perpetually winking at someone.
his whole appearance gave one the idea of impudence; his dress was shabby.
he opened the door just enough to let his head in.
his head remained so placed for a few seconds while he quietly scrutinized the room; the door then opened enough to admit his body; but still he did not enter.
he stood on the threshold and examined the prince carefully.
at last he gave the door a final shove, entered, approached the prince, took his hand and seated himself and the owner of the room on two chairs side by side.
“ferdishenko,” he said, gazing intently and inquiringly into the prince’s eyes.
“very well, what next?” said the latter, almost laughing in his face.
“a lodger here,” continued the other, staring as before.
“do you wish to make acquaintance?” asked the prince.
“ah!” said the visitor, passing his fingers through his hair and sighing.
he then looked over to the other side of the room and around it.
“got any money?” he asked, suddenly.
“not much.”
“how much?”
“twenty-five roubles.”
“let’s see it.”
the prince took his banknote out and showed it to ferdishenko.
the latter unfolded it and looked at it; then he turned it round and examined the other side; then he held it up to the light.
“how strange that it should have browned so,” he said, reflectively.
“these twenty-five rouble notes brown in a most extraordinary way, while other notes often grow paler.
take it.”
the prince took his note.
ferdishenko rose.
“i came here to warn you,” he said.
“in the first place, don’t lend me any money, for i shall certainly ask you to.”
“very well.”
“shall you pay here?”
“yes, i intend to.”
“oh!
i don’t intend to.
thanks.
i live here, next door to you; you noticed a room, did you?
don’t come to me very often; i shall see you here quite often enough.
have you seen the general?”
“no.”
“nor heard him?”
“no; of course not.”
“well, you’ll both hear and see him soon; he even tries to borrow money from me.
avis au lecteur.
good-bye; do you think a man can possibly live with a name like ferdishenko?”
“why not?”
“good-bye.”
and so he departed.
the prince found out afterwards that this gentleman made it his business to amaze people with his originality and wit, but that it did not as a rule “come off.” he even produced a bad impression on some people, which grieved him sorely; but he did not change his ways for all that.
as he went out of the prince’s room, he collided with yet another visitor coming in.
ferdishenko took the opportunity of making several warning gestures to the prince from behind the new arrival’s back, and left the room in conscious pride.
this next arrival was a tall red-faced man of about fifty-five, with greyish hair and whiskers, and large eyes which stood out of their sockets.
his appearance would have been distinguished had it not been that he gave the idea of being rather dirty.
he was dressed in an old coat, and he smelled of vodka when he came near.
his walk was effective, and he clearly did his best to appear dignified, and to impress people by his manner.
this gentleman now approached the prince slowly, and with a most courteous smile; silently took his hand and held it in his own, as he examined the prince’s features as though searching for familiar traits therein.
“‘tis he, ‘tis he!” he said at last, quietly, but with much solemnity.
“as though he were alive once more.
i heard the familiar name the dear familiar name and, oh!
how it reminded me of the irrevocable past prince muishkin, i believe?”
“exactly so.”
“general ivolgin retired and unfortunate.
may i ask your christian and generic names?”
“lef nicolaievitch.”
“so, so the son of my old, i may say my childhood’s friend, nicolai petrovitch.”
“my father’s name was nicolai lvovitch.”
“lvovitch,” repeated the general without the slightest haste, and with perfect confidence, just as though he had not committed himself the least in the world, but merely made a little slip of the tongue.
he sat down, and taking the prince’s hand, drew him to a seat next to himself.
“i carried you in my arms as a baby,” he observed.
“really?” asked the prince.
“why, it’s twenty years since my father died.”
“yes, yes twenty years and three months.
we were educated together; i went straight into the army, and he ”
“my father went into the army, too.
he was a sub-lieutenant in the vasiliefsky regiment.”
“no, sir in the bielomirsky; he changed into the latter shortly before his death.
i was at his bedside when he died, and gave him my blessing for eternity.
your mother ” the general paused, as though overcome with emotion.
“she died a few months later, from a cold,” said the prince.
“oh, not cold believe an old man not from a cold, but from grief for her prince.
oh your mother, your mother!
heigh-ho!
youth youth!
your father and i old friends as we were nearly murdered each other for her sake.”
the prince began to be a little incredulous.
“i was passionately in love with her when she was engaged engaged to my friend.
the prince noticed the fact and was furious.
he came and woke me at seven o’clock one morning.
i rise and dress in amazement; silence on both sides.
i understand it all.
he takes a couple of pistols out of his pocket across a handkerchief without witnesses.
why invite witnesses when both of us would be walking in eternity in a couple of minutes?
the pistols are loaded; we stretch the handkerchief and stand opposite one another.
we aim the pistols at each other’s hearts.
suddenly tears start to our eyes, our hands shake; we weep, we embrace the battle is one of self-sacrifice now!
the prince shouts, ‘she is yours;’ i cry, ‘she is yours ’ in a word, in a word you’ve come to live with us, hey?”
“yes yes for a while, i think,” stammered the prince.
“prince, mother begs you to come to her,” said colia, appearing at the door.
the prince rose to go, but the general once more laid his hand in a friendly manner on his shoulder, and dragged him down on to the sofa.
“as the true friend of your father, i wish to say a few words to you,”
he began.
“i have suffered there was a catastrophe.
i suffered without a trial; i had no trial.
nina alexandrovna my wife, is an excellent woman, so is my daughter varvara.
we have to let lodgings because we are poor a dreadful, unheard-of come-down for us for me, who should have been a governor-general; but we are very glad to have you, at all events.
meanwhile there is a tragedy in the house.”
the prince looked inquiringly at the other.
“yes, a marriage is being arranged a marriage between a questionable woman and a young fellow who might be a flunkey.
they wish to bring this woman into the house where my wife and daughter reside, but while i live and breathe she shall never enter my doors.
i shall lie at the threshold, and she shall trample me underfoot if she does.
i hardly talk to gania now, and avoid him as much as i can.
i warn you of this beforehand, but you cannot fail to observe it.
but you are the son of my old friend, and i hope ”
“prince, be so kind as to come to me for a moment in the drawing-room,”
said nina alexandrovna herself, appearing at the door.
“imagine, my dear,” cried the general, “it turns out that i have nursed the prince on my knee in the old days.” his wife looked searchingly at him, and glanced at the prince, but said nothing.
the prince rose and followed her; but hardly had they reached the drawing-room, and nina alexandrovna had begun to talk hurriedly, when in came the general.
she immediately relapsed into silence.
the master of the house may have observed this, but at all events he did not take any notice of it; he was in high good humour.
“a son of my old friend, dear,” he cried; “surely you must remember prince nicolai lvovitch?
you saw him at at tver.”
“i don’t remember any nicolai lvovitch.
was that your father?” she inquired of the prince.
“yes, but he died at elizabethgrad, not at tver,” said the prince, rather timidly.
“so pavlicheff told me.”
“no, tver,” insisted the general; “he removed just before his death.
you were very small and cannot remember; and pavlicheff, though an excellent fellow, may have made a mistake.”
“you knew pavlicheff then?”
“oh, yes a wonderful fellow; but i was present myself.
i gave him my blessing.”
“my father was just about to be tried when he died,” said the prince, “although i never knew of what he was accused.
he died in hospital.”
“oh!
it was the kolpakoff business, and of course he would have been acquitted.”
“yes?
do you know that for a fact?” asked the prince, whose curiosity was aroused by the general’s words.
“i should think so indeed!” cried the latter.
“the court-martial came to no decision.
it was a mysterious, an impossible business, one might say!
captain larionoff, commander of the company, had died; his command was handed over to the prince for the moment.
very well.
this soldier, kolpakoff, stole some leather from one of his comrades, intending to sell it, and spent the money on drink.
well!
the prince you understand that what follows took place in the presence of the sergeant-major, and a corporal the prince rated kolpakoff soundly, and threatened to have him flogged.
well, kolpakoff went back to the barracks, lay down on a camp bedstead, and in a quarter of an hour was dead: you quite understand?
it was, as i said, a strange, almost impossible, affair.
in due course kolpakoff was buried; the prince wrote his report, the deceased’s name was removed from the roll.
all as it should be, is it not?
but exactly three months later at the inspection of the brigade, the man kolpakoff was found in the third company of the second battalion of infantry, novozemlianski division, just as if nothing had happened!”
“what?” said the prince, much astonished.
“it did not occur it’s a mistake!” said nina alexandrovna quickly, looking, at the prince rather anxiously.
“mon mari se trompe,” she added, speaking in french.
“my dear, ‘se trompe’ is easily said.
do you remember any case at all like it?
everybody was at their wits’ end.
i should be the first to say ‘qu’on se trompe,’ but unfortunately i was an eye-witness, and was also on the commission of inquiry.
everything proved that it was really he, the very same soldier kolpakoff who had been given the usual military funeral to the sound of the drum.
it is of course a most curious case nearly an impossible one.
i recognize that... but ”
“father, your dinner is ready,” said varvara at this point, putting her head in at the door.
“very glad, i’m particularly hungry.
yes, yes, a strange coincidence almost a psychological ”
“your soup’ll be cold; do come.”
“coming, coming,” said the general.
“son of my old friend ” he was heard muttering as he went down the passage.
“you will have to excuse very much in my husband, if you stay with us,”
said nina alexandrovna; “but he will not disturb you often.
he dines alone.
everyone has his little peculiarities, you know, and some people perhaps have more than those who are most pointed at and laughed at.
one thing i must beg of you if my husband applies to you for payment for board and lodging, tell him that you have already paid me.
of course anything paid by you to the general would be as fully settled as if paid to me, so far as you are concerned; but i wish it to be so, if you please, for convenience’ sake.
what is it, varia?”
varia had quietly entered the room, and was holding out the portrait of nastasia philipovna to her mother.
nina alexandrovna started, and examined the photograph intently, gazing at it long and sadly.
at last she looked up inquiringly at varia.
“it’s a present from herself to him,” said varia; “the question is to be finally decided this evening.”
“this evening!” repeated her mother in a tone of despair, but softly, as though to herself.
“then it’s all settled, of course, and there’s no hope left to us.
she has anticipated her answer by the present of her portrait.
did he show it you himself?” she added, in some surprise.
“you know we have hardly spoken to each other for a whole month.
ptitsin told me all about it; and the photo was lying under the table, and i picked it up.”
“prince,” asked nina alexandrovna, “i wanted to inquire whether you have known my son long?
i think he said that you had only arrived today from somewhere.”
the prince gave a short narrative of what we have heard before, leaving out the greater part.
the two ladies listened intently.
“i did not ask about gania out of curiosity,” said the elder, at last.
“i wish to know how much you know about him, because he said just now that we need not stand on ceremony with you.
what, exactly, does that mean?”
at this moment gania and ptitsin entered the room together, and nina alexandrovna immediately became silent again.
the prince remained seated next to her, but varia moved to the other end of the room; the portrait of nastasia philipovna remained lying as before on the work-table.
gania observed it there, and with a frown of annoyance snatched it up and threw it across to his writing-table, which stood at the other end of the room.
“is it today, gania?” asked nina alexandrovna, at last.
“is what today?” cried the former.
then suddenly recollecting himself, he turned sharply on the prince.
“oh,” he growled, “i see, you are here, that explains it!
is it a disease, or what, that you can’t hold your tongue?
look here, understand once for all, prince ”
“i am to blame in this, gania no one else,” said ptitsin.
gania glanced inquiringly at the speaker.
“it’s better so, you know, gania especially as, from one point of view, the matter may be considered as settled,” said ptitsin; and sitting down a little way from the table he began to study a paper covered with pencil writing.
gania stood and frowned, he expected a family scene.
he never thought of apologizing to the prince, however.
“if it’s all settled, gania, then of course mr. ptitsin is right,” said nina alexandrovna.
“don’t frown.
you need not worry yourself, gania; i shall ask you no questions.
you need not tell me anything you don’t like.
i assure you i have quite submitted to your will.” she said all this, knitting away the while as though perfectly calm and composed.
gania was surprised, but cautiously kept silence and looked at his mother, hoping that she would express herself more clearly.
nina alexandrovna observed his cautiousness and added, with a bitter smile:
“you are still suspicious, i see, and do not believe me; but you may be quite at your ease.
there shall be no more tears, nor questions not from my side, at all events.
all i wish is that you may be happy, you know that.
i have submitted to my fate; but my heart will always be with you, whether we remain united, or whether we part.
of course i only answer for myself you can hardly expect your sister ”
“my sister again,” cried gania, looking at her with contempt and almost hate.
“look here, mother, i have already given you my word that i shall always respect you fully and absolutely, and so shall everyone else in this house, be it who it may, who shall cross this threshold.”
gania was so much relieved that he gazed at his mother almost affectionately.
“i was not at all afraid for myself, gania, as you know well.
it was not for my own sake that i have been so anxious and worried all this time!
they say it is all to be settled to-day.
what is to be settled?”
“she has promised to tell me tonight at her own house whether she consents or not,” replied gania.
“we have been silent on this subject for three weeks,” said his mother, “and it was better so; and now i will only ask you one question.
how can she give her consent and make you a present of her portrait when you do not love her?
how can such a such a ”
“practised hand eh?”
“i was not going to express myself so.
but how could you so blind her?”
nina alexandrovna’s question betrayed intense annoyance.
gania waited a moment and then said, without taking the trouble to conceal the irony of his tone:
“there you are, mother, you are always like that.
you begin by promising that there are to be no reproaches or insinuations or questions, and here you are beginning them at once.
we had better drop the subject we had, really.
i shall never leave you, mother; any other man would cut and run from such a sister as this.
see how she is looking at me at this moment!
besides, how do you know that i am blinding nastasia philipovna?
as for varia, i don’t care she can do just as she pleases.
there, that’s quite enough!”
gania’s irritation increased with every word he uttered, as he walked up and down the room.
these conversations always touched the family sores before long.
“i have said already that the moment she comes in i go out, and i shall keep my word,” remarked varia.
“out of obstinacy” shouted gania.
“you haven’t married, either, thanks to your obstinacy.
oh, you needn’t frown at me, varvara!
you can go at once for all i care; i am sick enough of your company.
what, you are going to leave us are you, too?” he cried, turning to the prince, who was rising from his chair.
gania’s voice was full of the most uncontrolled and uncontrollable irritation.
the prince turned at the door to say something, but perceiving in gania’s expression that there was but that one drop wanting to make the cup overflow, he changed his mind and left the room without a word.
a few minutes later he was aware from the noisy voices in the drawing room, that the conversation had become more quarrelsome than ever after his departure.
he crossed the salon and the entrance-hall, so as to pass down the corridor into his own room.
as he came near the front door he heard someone outside vainly endeavouring to ring the bell, which was evidently broken, and only shook a little, without emitting any sound.
the prince took down the chain and opened the door.
he started back in amazement for there stood nastasia philipovna.
he knew her at once from her photograph.
her eyes blazed with anger as she looked at him.
she quickly pushed by him into the hall, shouldering him out of her way, and said, furiously, as she threw off her fur cloak:
“if you are too lazy to mend your bell, you should at least wait in the hall to let people in when they rattle the bell handle.
there, now, you’ve dropped my fur cloak dummy!”
sure enough the cloak was lying on the ground.
nastasia had thrown it off her towards the prince, expecting him to catch it, but the prince had missed it.
“now then announce me, quick!”
the prince wanted to say something, but was so confused and astonished that he could not.
however, he moved off towards the drawing-room with the cloak over his arm.
“now then, where are you taking my cloak to?
ha, ha, ha!
are you mad?”
the prince turned and came back, more confused than ever.
when she burst out laughing, he smiled, but his tongue could not form a word as yet.
at first, when he had opened the door and saw her standing before him, he had become as pale as death; but now the red blood had rushed back to his cheeks in a torrent.
“why, what an idiot it is!” cried nastasia, stamping her foot with irritation.
“go on, do!
whom are you going to announce?”
“nastasia philipovna,” murmured the prince.
“and how do you know that?” she asked him, sharply.
“i have never seen you before!”
“go on, announce me what’s that noise?”
“they are quarrelling,” said the prince, and entered the drawing-room, just as matters in there had almost reached a crisis.
nina alexandrovna had forgotten that she had “submitted to everything!” she was defending varia.
ptitsin was taking her part, too.
not that varia was afraid of standing up for herself.
she was by no means that sort of a girl; but her brother was becoming ruder and more intolerable every moment.
her usual practice in such cases as the present was to say nothing, but stare at him, without taking her eyes off his face for an instant.
this manoeuvre, as she well knew, could drive gania distracted.
just at this moment the door opened and the prince entered, announcing:
“nastasia philipovna!”
ix.
silence immediately fell on the room; all looked at the prince as though they neither understood, nor hoped to understand.
gania was motionless with horror.
nastasia’s arrival was a most unexpected and overwhelming event to all parties.
in the first place, she had never been before.
up to now she had been so haughty that she had never even asked gania to introduce her to his parents.
of late she had not so much as mentioned them.
gania was partly glad of this; but still he had put it to her debit in the account to be settled after marriage.
he would have borne anything from her rather than this visit.
but one thing seemed to him quite clear her visit now, and the present of her portrait on this particular day, pointed out plainly enough which way she intended to make her decision!
the incredulous amazement with which all regarded the prince did not last long, for nastasia herself appeared at the door and passed in, pushing by the prince again.
“at last i’ve stormed the citadel!
why do you tie up your bell?” she said, merrily, as she pressed gania’s hand, the latter having rushed up to her as soon as she made her appearance.
“what are you looking so upset about?
introduce me, please!”
the bewildered gania introduced her first to varia, and both women, before shaking hands, exchanged looks of strange import.
nastasia, however, smiled amiably; but varia did not try to look amiable, and kept her gloomy expression.
she did not even vouchsafe the usual courteous smile of etiquette.
gania darted a terrible glance of wrath at her for this, but nina alexandrovna mended matters a little when gania introduced her at last.
hardly, however, had the old lady begun about her “highly gratified feelings,” and so on, when nastasia left her, and flounced into a chair by gania’s side in the corner by the window, and cried: “where’s your study?
and where are the the lodgers?
you do take in lodgers, don’t you?”
gania looked dreadfully put out, and tried to say something in reply, but nastasia interrupted him:
“why, where are you going to squeeze lodgers in here?
don’t you use a study?
does this sort of thing pay?” she added, turning to nina alexandrovna.
“well, it is troublesome, rather,” said the latter; “but i suppose it will ‘pay’ pretty well.
we have only just begun, however ”
again nastasia philipovna did not hear the sentence out.
she glanced at gania, and cried, laughing, “what a face!
my goodness, what a face you have on at this moment!”
indeed, gania did not look in the least like himself.
his bewilderment and his alarmed perplexity passed off, however, and his lips now twitched with rage as he continued to stare evilly at his laughing guest, while his countenance became absolutely livid.
there was another witness, who, though standing at the door motionless and bewildered himself, still managed to remark gania’s death-like pallor, and the dreadful change that had come over his face.
this witness was the prince, who now advanced in alarm and muttered to gania:
“drink some water, and don’t look like that!”
it was clear that he came out with these words quite spontaneously, on the spur of the moment.
but his speech was productive of much for it appeared that all gania’s rage now overflowed upon the prince.
he seized him by the shoulder and gazed with an intensity of loathing and revenge at him, but said nothing as though his feelings were too strong to permit of words.
general agitation prevailed.
nina alexandrovna gave a little cry of anxiety; ptitsin took a step forward in alarm; colia and ferdishenko stood stock still at the door in amazement; only varia remained coolly watching the scene from under her eyelashes.
she did not sit down, but stood by her mother with folded hands.
however, gania recollected himself almost immediately.
he let go of the prince and burst out laughing.
“why, are you a doctor, prince, or what?” he asked, as naturally as possible.
“i declare you quite frightened me!
nastasia philipovna, let me introduce this interesting character to you though i have only known him myself since the morning.”
nastasia gazed at the prince in bewilderment.
“prince?
he a prince?
why, i took him for the footman, just now, and sent him in to announce me!
ha, ha, ha, isn’t that good!”
“not bad that, not bad at all!” put in ferdishenko, “se non è vero ”
“i rather think i pitched into you, too, didn’t i?
forgive me do!
who is he, did you say?
what prince?
muishkin?” she added, addressing gania.
“he is a lodger of ours,” explained the latter.
“an idiot!” the prince distinctly heard the word half whispered from behind him.
this was ferdishenko’s voluntary information for nastasia’s benefit.
“tell me, why didn’t you put me right when i made such a dreadful mistake just now?” continued the latter, examining the prince from head to foot without the slightest ceremony.
she awaited the answer as though convinced that it would be so foolish that she must inevitably fail to restrain her laughter over it.
“i was astonished, seeing you so suddenly ” murmured the prince.
“how did you know who i was?
where had you seen me before?
and why were you so struck dumb at the sight of me?
what was there so overwhelming about me?”
“oho!
ho, ho, ho!” cried ferdishenko.
“now then, prince!
my word, what things i would say if i had such a chance as that!
my goodness, prince go on!”
“so should i, in your place, i’ve no doubt!” laughed the prince to ferdishenko; then continued, addressing nastasia: “your portrait struck me very forcibly this morning; then i was talking about you to the epanchins; and then, in the train, before i reached petersburg, parfen rogojin told me a good deal about you; and at the very moment that i opened the door to you i happened to be thinking of you, when there you stood before me!”
“and how did you recognize me?”
“from the portrait!”
“what else?”
“i seemed to imagine you exactly as you are i seemed to have seen you somewhere.”
“where where?”
“i seem to have seen your eyes somewhere; but it cannot be!
i have not seen you i never was here before.
i may have dreamed of you, i don’t know.”
the prince said all this with manifest effort in broken sentences, and with many drawings of breath.
he was evidently much agitated.
nastasia philipovna looked at him inquisitively, but did not laugh.
“bravo, prince!” cried ferdishenko, delighted.
at this moment a loud voice from behind the group which hedged in the prince and nastasia philipovna, divided the crowd, as it were, and before them stood the head of the family, general ivolgin.
he was dressed in evening clothes; his moustache was dyed.
this apparition was too much for gania.
vain and ambitious almost to morbidness, he had had much to put up with in the last two months, and was seeking feverishly for some means of enabling himself to lead a more presentable kind of existence.
at home, he now adopted an attitude of absolute cynicism, but he could not keep this up before nastasia philipovna, although he had sworn to make her pay after marriage for all he suffered now.
he was experiencing a last humiliation, the bitterest of all, at this moment the humiliation of blushing for his own kindred in his own house.
a question flashed through his mind as to whether the game was really worth the candle.
for that had happened at this moment, which for two months had been his nightmare; which had filled his soul with dread and shame the meeting between his father and nastasia philipovna.
he had often tried to imagine such an event, but had found the picture too mortifying and exasperating, and had quietly dropped it.
very likely he anticipated far worse things than was at all necessary; it is often so with vain persons.
he had long since determined, therefore, to get his father out of the way, anywhere, before his marriage, in order to avoid such a meeting; but when nastasia entered the room just now, he had been so overwhelmed with astonishment, that he had not thought of his father, and had made no arrangements to keep him out of the way.
and now it was too late there he was, and got up, too, in a dress coat and white tie, and nastasia in the very humour to heap ridicule on him and his family circle; of this last fact, he felt quite persuaded.
what else had she come for?
there were his mother and his sister sitting before her, and she seemed to have forgotten their very existence already; and if she behaved like that, he thought, she must have some object in view.
ferdishenko led the general up to nastasia philipovna.
“ardalion alexandrovitch ivolgin,” said the smiling general, with a low bow of great dignity, “an old soldier, unfortunate, and the father of this family; but happy in the hope of including in that family so exquisite ”
he did not finish his sentence, for at this moment ferdishenko pushed a chair up from behind, and the general, not very firm on his legs, at this post-prandial hour, flopped into it backwards.
it was always a difficult thing to put this warrior to confusion, and his sudden descent left him as composed as before.
he had sat down just opposite to nastasia, whose fingers he now took, and raised to his lips with great elegance, and much courtesy.
the general had once belonged to a very select circle of society, but he had been turned out of it two or three years since on account of certain weaknesses, in which he now indulged with all the less restraint; but his good manners remained with him to this day, in spite of all.
nastasia philipovna seemed delighted at the appearance of this latest arrival, of whom she had of course heard a good deal by report.
“i have heard that my son ” began ardalion alexandrovitch.
“your son, indeed!
a nice papa you are!
you might have come to see me anyhow, without compromising anyone.
do you hide yourself, or does your son hide you?”
“the children of the nineteenth century, and their parents ” began the general, again.
“nastasia philipovna, will you excuse the general for a moment?
someone is inquiring for him,” said nina alexandrovna in a loud voice, interrupting the conversation.
“excuse him?
oh no, i have wished to see him too long for that.
why, what business can he have?
he has retired, hasn’t he?
you won’t leave me, general, will you?”
“i give you my word that he shall come and see you but he he needs rest just now.”
“general, they say you require rest,” said nastasia philipovna, with the melancholy face of a child whose toy is taken away.
ardalion alexandrovitch immediately did his best to make his foolish position a great deal worse.
“my dear, my dear!” he said, solemnly and reproachfully, looking at his wife, with one hand on his heart.
“won’t you leave the room, mamma?” asked varia, aloud.
“no, varia, i shall sit it out to the end.”
nastasia must have overheard both question and reply, but her vivacity was not in the least damped.
on the contrary, it seemed to increase.
she immediately overwhelmed the general once more with questions, and within five minutes that gentleman was as happy as a king, and holding forth at the top of his voice, amid the laughter of almost all who heard him.
colia jogged the prince’s arm.
“can’t you get him out of the room, somehow?
do, please,” and tears of annoyance stood in the boy’s eyes.
“curse that gania!” he muttered, between his teeth.
“oh yes, i knew general epanchin well,” general ivolgin was saying at this moment; “he and prince nicolai ivanovitch muishkin whose son i have this day embraced after an absence of twenty years and i, were three inseparables.
alas one is in the grave, torn to pieces by calumnies and bullets; another is now before you, still battling with calumnies and bullets ”
“bullets?” cried nastasia.
“yes, here in my chest.
i received them at the siege of kars, and i feel them in bad weather now.
and as to the third of our trio, epanchin, of course after that little affair with the poodle in the railway carriage, it was all up between us.”
“poodle?
what was that?
and in a railway carriage?
dear me,” said nastasia, thoughtfully, as though trying to recall something to mind.
“oh, just a silly, little occurrence, really not worth telling, about princess bielokonski’s governess, miss smith, and oh, it is really not worth telling!”
“no, no, we must have it!” cried nastasia merrily.
“yes, of course,” said ferdishenko.
“c’est du nouveau.”
“ardalion,” said nina alexandrovitch, entreatingly.
“papa, you are wanted!” cried colia.
“well, it is a silly little story, in a few words,” began the delighted general.
“a couple of years ago, soon after the new railway was opened, i had to go somewhere or other on business.
well, i took a first-class ticket, sat down, and began to smoke, or rather continued to smoke, for i had lighted up before.
i was alone in the carriage.
smoking is not allowed, but is not prohibited either; it is half allowed so to speak, winked at.
i had the window open.”
“suddenly, just before the whistle, in came two ladies with a little poodle, and sat down opposite to me; not bad-looking women; one was in light blue, the other in black silk.
the poodle, a beauty with a silver collar, lay on light blue’s knee.
they looked haughtily about, and talked english together.
i took no notice, just went on smoking.
i observed that the ladies were getting angry over my cigar, doubtless.
one looked at me through her tortoise-shell eyeglass.
“i took no notice, because they never said a word.
if they didn’t like the cigar, why couldn’t they say so?
not a word, not a hint!
suddenly, and without the very slightest suspicion of warning, ‘light blue’ seizes my cigar from between my fingers, and, wheugh!
out of the window with it!
well, on flew the train, and i sat bewildered, and the young woman, tall and fair, and rather red in the face, too red, glared at me with flashing eyes.
“i didn’t say a word, but with extreme courtesy, i may say with most refined courtesy, i reached my finger and thumb over towards the poodle, took it up delicately by the nape of the neck, and chucked it out of the window, after the cigar.
the train went flying on, and the poodle’s yells were lost in the distance.”
“oh, you naughty man!” cried nastasia, laughing and clapping her hands like a child.
“bravo!” said ferdishenko.
ptitsin laughed too, though he had been very sorry to see the general appear.
even colia laughed and said, “bravo!”
“and i was right, truly right,” cried the general, with warmth and solemnity, “for if cigars are forbidden in railway carriages, poodles are much more so.”
“well, and what did the lady do?” asked nastasia, impatiently.
“she ah, that’s where all the mischief of it lies!” replied ivolgin, frowning.
“without a word, as it were, of warning, she slapped me on the cheek!
an extraordinary woman!”
“and you?”
the general dropped his eyes, and elevated his brows; shrugged his shoulders, tightened his lips, spread his hands, and remained silent.
at last he blurted out:
“i lost my head!”
“did you hit her?”
“no, oh no!
there was a great flare-up, but i didn’t hit her!
i had to struggle a little, purely to defend myself; but the very devil was in the business.
it turned out that ‘light blue’ was an englishwoman, governess or something, at princess bielokonski’s, and the other woman was one of the old-maid princesses bielokonski.
well, everybody knows what great friends the princess and mrs. epanchin are, so there was a pretty kettle of fish.
all the bielokonskis went into mourning for the poodle.
six princesses in tears, and the englishwoman shrieking!
“of course i wrote an apology, and called, but they would not receive either me or my apology, and the epanchins cut me, too!”
“but wait,” said nastasia.
“how is it that, five or six days since, i read exactly the same story in the paper, as happening between a frenchman and an english girl?
the cigar was snatched away exactly as you describe, and the poodle was chucked out of the window after it.
the slapping came off, too, as in your case; and the girl’s dress was light blue!”
the general blushed dreadfully; colia blushed too; and ptitsin turned hastily away.
ferdishenko was the only one who laughed as gaily as before.
as to gania, i need not say that he was miserable; he stood dumb and wretched and took no notice of anybody.
“i assure you,” said the general, “that exactly the same thing happened to myself!”
“i remembered there was some quarrel between father and miss smith, the bielokonski’s governess,” said colia.
“how very curious, point for point the same anecdote, and happening at different ends of europe!
even the light blue dress the same,” continued the pitiless nastasia.
“i must really send you the paper.”
“you must observe,” insisted the general, “that my experience was two years earlier.”
“ah!
that’s it, no doubt!”
nastasia philipovna laughed hysterically.
“father, will you hear a word from me outside!” said gania, his voice shaking with agitation, as he seized his father by the shoulder.
his eyes shone with a blaze of hatred.
at this moment there was a terrific bang at the front door, almost enough to break it down.
some most unusual visitor must have arrived.
colia ran to open.
x.
the entrance-hall suddenly became full of noise and people.
to judge from the sounds which penetrated to the drawing-room, a number of people had already come in, and the stampede continued.
several voices were talking and shouting at once; others were talking and shouting on the stairs outside; it was evidently a most extraordinary visit that was about to take place.
everyone exchanged startled glances.
gania rushed out towards the dining-room, but a number of men had already made their way in, and met him.
“ah!
here he is, the judas!” cried a voice which the prince recognized at once.
“how d’ye do, gania, you old blackguard?”
“yes, that’s the man!” said another voice.
there was no room for doubt in the prince’s mind: one of the voices was rogojin’s, and the other lebedeff’s.
gania stood at the door like a block and looked on in silence, putting no obstacle in the way of their entrance, and ten or a dozen men marched in behind parfen rogojin.
they were a decidedly mixed-looking collection, and some of them came in in their furs and caps.
none of them were quite drunk, but all appeared to be considerably excited.
they seemed to need each other’s support, morally, before they dared come in; not one of them would have entered alone but with the rest each one was brave enough.
even rogojin entered rather cautiously at the head of his troop; but he was evidently preoccupied.
he appeared to be gloomy and morose, and had clearly come with some end in view.
all the rest were merely chorus, brought in to support the chief character.
besides lebedeff there was the dandy zalesheff, who came in without his coat and hat, two or three others followed his example; the rest were more uncouth.
they included a couple of young merchants, a man in a great-coat, a medical student, a little pole, a small fat man who laughed continuously, and an enormously tall stout one who apparently put great faith in the strength of his fists.
a couple of “ladies” of some sort put their heads in at the front door, but did not dare come any farther.
colia promptly banged the door in their faces and locked it.
“hallo, gania, you blackguard!
you didn’t expect rogojin, eh?” said the latter, entering the drawing-room, and stopping before gania.
but at this moment he saw, seated before him, nastasia philipovna.
he had not dreamed of meeting her here, evidently, for her appearance produced a marvellous effect upon him.
he grew pale, and his lips became actually blue.
“i suppose it is true, then!” he muttered to himself, and his face took on an expression of despair.
“so that’s the end of it!
now you, sir, will you answer me or not?” he went on suddenly, gazing at gania with ineffable malice.
“now then, you ”
he panted, and could hardly speak for agitation.
he advanced into the room mechanically; but perceiving nina alexandrovna and varia he became more or less embarrassed, in spite of his excitement.
his followers entered after him, and all paused a moment at sight of the ladies.
of course their modesty was not fated to be long-lived, but for a moment they were abashed.
once let them begin to shout, however, and nothing on earth should disconcert them.
“what, you here too, prince?” said rogojin, absently, but a little surprised all the same “still in your gaiters, eh?” he sighed, and forgot the prince next moment, and his wild eyes wandered over to nastasia again, as though attracted in that direction by some magnetic force.
nastasia looked at the new arrivals with great curiosity.
gania recollected himself at last.
“excuse me, sirs,” he said, loudly, “but what does all this mean?”
he glared at the advancing crowd generally, but addressed his remarks especially to their captain, rogojin.
“you are not in a stable, gentlemen, though you may think it my mother and sister are present.”
“yes, i see your mother and sister,” muttered rogojin, through his teeth; and lebedeff seemed to feel himself called upon to second the statement.
“at all events, i must request you to step into the salon,” said gania, his rage rising quite out of proportion to his words, “and then i shall inquire ”
“what, he doesn’t know me!” said rogojin, showing his teeth disagreeably.
“he doesn’t recognize rogojin!” he did not move an inch, however.
“i have met you somewhere, i believe, but ”
“met me somewhere, pfu!
why, it’s only three months since i lost two hundred roubles of my father’s money to you, at cards.
the old fellow died before he found out.
ptitsin knows all about it.
why, i’ve only to pull out a three-rouble note and show it to you, and you’d crawl on your hands and knees to the other end of the town for it; that’s the sort of man you are.
why, i’ve come now, at this moment, to buy you up!
oh, you needn’t think that because i wear these boots i have no money.
i have lots of money, my beauty, enough to buy up you and all yours together.
so i shall, if i like to!
i’ll buy you up!
i will!” he yelled, apparently growing more and more intoxicated and excited.
“oh, nastasia philipovna!
don’t turn me out!
say one word, do!
are you going to marry this man, or not?”
rogojin asked his question like a lost soul appealing to some divinity, with the reckless daring of one appointed to die, who has nothing to lose.
he awaited the reply in deadly anxiety.
nastasia philipovna gazed at him with a haughty, ironical expression of face; but when she glanced at nina alexandrovna and varia, and from them to gania, she changed her tone, all of a sudden.
“certainly not; what are you thinking of?
what could have induced you to ask such a question?” she replied, quietly and seriously, and even, apparently, with some astonishment.
“no?
no?” shouted rogojin, almost out of his mind with joy.
“you are not going to, after all?
and they told me oh, nastasia philipovna they said you had promised to marry him, him!
as if you could do it!
him pooh!
i don’t mind saying it to everyone i’d buy him off for a hundred roubles, any day pfu!
give him a thousand, or three if he likes, poor devil, and he’d cut and run the day before his wedding, and leave his bride to me!
wouldn’t you, gania, you blackguard?
you’d take three thousand, wouldn’t you?
here’s the money!
look, i’ve come on purpose to pay you off and get your receipt, formally.
i said i’d buy you up, and so i will.”
“get out of this, you drunken beast!” cried gania, who was red and white by turns.
rogojin’s troop, who were only waiting for an excuse, set up a howl at this.
lebedeff stepped forward and whispered something in parfen’s ear.
“you’re right, clerk,” said the latter, “you’re right, tipsy spirit you’re right!
nastasia philipovna,” he added, looking at her like some lunatic, harmless generally, but suddenly wound up to a pitch of audacity, “here are eighteen thousand roubles, and and you shall have more .” here he threw a packet of bank-notes tied up in white paper, on the table before her, not daring to say all he wished to say.
“no no no!” muttered lebedeff, clutching at his arm.
he was clearly aghast at the largeness of the sum, and thought a far smaller amount should have been tried first.
“no, you fool you don’t know whom you are dealing with and it appears i am a fool, too!” said parfen, trembling beneath the flashing glance of nastasia.
“oh, curse it all!
what a fool i was to listen to you!” he added, with profound melancholy.
nastasia philipovna, observing his woe-begone expression, suddenly burst out laughing.
“eighteen thousand roubles, for me?
why, you declare yourself a fool at once,” she said, with impudent familiarity, as she rose from the sofa and prepared to go.
gania watched the whole scene with a sinking of the heart.
“forty thousand, then forty thousand roubles instead of eighteen!
ptitsin and another have promised to find me forty thousand roubles by seven o’clock tonight.
forty thousand roubles paid down on the nail!”
the scene was growing more and more disgraceful; but nastasia philipovna continued to laugh and did not go away.
nina alexandrovna and varia had both risen from their places and were waiting, in silent horror, to see what would happen.
varia’s eyes were all ablaze with anger; but the scene had a different effect on nina alexandrovna.
she paled and trembled, and looked more and more like fainting every moment.
“very well then, a hundred thousand!
a hundred thousand!
paid this very day.
ptitsin!
find it for me.
a good share shall stick to your fingers come!”
“you are mad!” said ptitsin, coming up quickly and seizing him by the hand.
“you’re drunk the police will be sent for if you don’t look out.
think where you are.”
“yes, he’s boasting like a drunkard,” added nastasia, as though with the sole intention of goading him.
“i do not boast!
you shall have a hundred thousand, this very day.
ptitsin, get the money, you gay usurer!
take what you like for it, but get it by the evening!
i’ll show that i’m in earnest!” cried rogojin, working himself up into a frenzy of excitement.
“come, come; what’s all this?” cried general ivolgin, suddenly and angrily, coming close up to rogojin.
the unexpectedness of this sally on the part of the hitherto silent old man caused some laughter among the intruders.
“halloa!
what’s this now?” laughed rogojin.
“you come along with me, old fellow!
you shall have as much to drink as you like.”
“oh, it’s too horrible!” cried poor colia, sobbing with shame and annoyance.
“surely there must be someone among all of you here who will turn this shameless creature out of the room?” cried varia, suddenly.
she was shaking and trembling with rage.
“that’s me, i suppose.
i’m the shameless creature!” cried nastasia philipovna, with amused indifference.
“dear me, and i came like a fool, as i am to invite them over to my house for the evening!
look how your sister treats me, gavrila ardalionovitch.”
for some moments gania stood as if stunned or struck by lightning, after his sister’s speech.
but seeing that nastasia philipovna was really about to leave the room this time, he sprang at varia and seized her by the arm like a madman.
“what have you done?” he hissed, glaring at her as though he would like to annihilate her on the spot.
he was quite beside himself, and could hardly articulate his words for rage.
“what have i done?
where are you dragging me to?”
“do you wish me to beg pardon of this creature because she has come here to insult our mother and disgrace the whole household, you low, base wretch?” cried varia, looking back at her brother with proud defiance.
a few moments passed as they stood there face to face, gania still holding her wrist tightly.
varia struggled once twice to get free; then could restrain herself no longer, and spat in his face.
“there’s a girl for you!” cried nastasia philipovna.
“mr.
ptitsin, i congratulate you on your choice.”
gania lost his head.
forgetful of everything he aimed a blow at varia, which would inevitably have laid her low, but suddenly another hand caught his.
between him and varia stood the prince.
“enough enough!” said the latter, with insistence, but all of a tremble with excitement.
“are you going to cross my path for ever, damn you!” cried gania; and, loosening his hold on varia, he slapped the prince’s face with all his force.
exclamations of horror arose on all sides.
the prince grew pale as death; he gazed into gania’s eyes with a strange, wild, reproachful look; his lips trembled and vainly endeavoured to form some words; then his mouth twisted into an incongruous smile.
“very well never mind about me; but i shall not allow you to strike her!” he said, at last, quietly.
then, suddenly, he could bear it no longer, and covering his face with his hands, turned to the wall, and murmured in broken accents:
“oh!
how ashamed you will be of this afterwards!”
gania certainly did look dreadfully abashed.
colia rushed up to comfort the prince, and after him crowded varia, rogojin and all, even the general.
“it’s nothing, it’s nothing!” said the prince, and again he wore the smile which was so inconsistent with the circumstances.
“yes, he will be ashamed!” cried rogojin.
“you will be properly ashamed of yourself for having injured such a such a sheep” (he could not find a better word).
“prince, my dear fellow, leave this and come away with me.
i’ll show you how rogojin shows his affection for his friends.”
nastasia philipovna was also much impressed, both with gania’s action and with the prince’s reply.
her usually thoughtful, pale face, which all this while had been so little in harmony with the jests and laughter which she had seemed to put on for the occasion, was now evidently agitated by new feelings, though she tried to conceal the fact and to look as though she were as ready as ever for jesting and irony.
“i really think i must have seen him somewhere!” she murmured seriously enough.
“oh, aren’t you ashamed of yourself aren’t you ashamed?
are you really the sort of woman you are trying to represent yourself to be?
is it possible?” the prince was now addressing nastasia, in a tone of reproach, which evidently came from his very heart.
nastasia philipovna looked surprised, and smiled, but evidently concealed something beneath her smile and with some confusion and a glance at gania she left the room.
however, she had not reached the outer hall when she turned round, walked quickly up to nina alexandrovna, seized her hand and lifted it to her lips.
“he guessed quite right.
i am not that sort of woman,” she whispered hurriedly, flushing red all over.
then she turned again and left the room so quickly that no one could imagine what she had come back for.
all they saw was that she said something to nina alexandrovna in a hurried whisper, and seemed to kiss her hand.
varia, however, both saw and heard all, and watched nastasia out of the room with an expression of wonder.
gania recollected himself in time to rush after her in order to show her out, but she had gone.
he followed her to the stairs.
“don’t come with me,” she cried, “au revoir, till the evening do you hear?
au revoir!”
he returned thoughtful and confused; the riddle lay heavier than ever on his soul.
he was troubled about the prince, too, and so bewildered that he did not even observe rogojin’s rowdy band crowd past him and step on his toes, at the door as they went out.
they were all talking at once.
rogojin went ahead of the others, talking to ptitsin, and apparently insisting vehemently upon something very important.
“you’ve lost the game, gania” he cried, as he passed the latter.
gania gazed after him uneasily, but said nothing.
xi.
the prince now left the room and shut himself up in his own chamber.
colia followed him almost at once, anxious to do what he could to console him.
the poor boy seemed to be already so attached to him that he could hardly leave him.
“you were quite right to go away!” he said.
“the row will rage there worse than ever now; and it’s like this every day with us and all through that nastasia philipovna.”
“you have so many sources of trouble here, colia,” said the prince.
“yes, indeed, and it is all our own fault.
but i have a great friend who is much worse off even than we are.
would you like to know him?”
“yes, very much.
is he one of your school-fellows?”
“well, not exactly.
i will tell you all about him some day.... what do you think of nastasia philipovna?
she is beautiful, isn’t she?
i had never seen her before, though i had a great wish to do so.
she fascinated me.
i could forgive gania if he were to marry her for love, but for money!
oh dear!
that is horrible!”
“yes, your brother does not attract me much.”
“i am not surprised at that.
after what you... but i do hate that way of looking at things!
because some fool, or a rogue pretending to be a fool, strikes a man, that man is to be dishonoured for his whole life, unless he wipes out the disgrace with blood, or makes his assailant beg forgiveness on his knees!
i think that so very absurd and tyrannical.
lermontoff’s bal masque is based on that idea a stupid and unnatural one, in my opinion; but he was hardly more than a child when he wrote it.”
“i like your sister very much.”
“did you see how she spat in gania’s face!
varia is afraid of no one.
but you did not follow her example, and yet i am sure it was not through cowardice.
here she comes!
speak of a wolf and you see his tail!
i felt sure that she would come.
she is very generous, though of course she has her faults.”
varia pounced upon her brother.
“this is not the place for you,” said she.
“go to father.
is he plaguing you, prince?”
“not in the least; on the contrary, he interests me.”
“scolding as usual, varia!
it is the worst thing about her.
after all, i believe father may have started off with rogojin.
no doubt he is sorry now.
perhaps i had better go and see what he is doing,” added colia, running off.
“thank god, i have got mother away, and put her to bed without another scene!
gania is worried and ashamed not without reason!
what a spectacle!
i have come to thank you once more, prince, and to ask you if you knew nastasia philipovna before?”
“no, i have never known her.”
“then what did you mean, when you said straight out to her that she was not really ‘like that’?
you guessed right, i fancy.
it is quite possible she was not herself at the moment, though i cannot fathom her meaning.
evidently she meant to hurt and insult us.
i have heard curious tales about her before now, but if she came to invite us to her house, why did she behave so to my mother?
ptitsin knows her very well; he says he could not understand her today.
with rogojin, too!
no one with a spark of self-respect could have talked like that in the house of her...
mother is extremely vexed on your account, too...
“that is nothing!” said the prince, waving his hand.
“but how meek she was when you spoke to her!”
“meek!
what do you mean?”
“you told her it was a shame for her to behave so, and her manner changed at once; she was like another person.
you have some influence over her, prince,” added varia, smiling a little.
the door opened at this point, and in came gania most unexpectedly.
he was not in the least disconcerted to see varia there, but he stood a moment at the door, and then approached the prince quietly.
“prince,” he said, with feeling, “i was a blackguard.
forgive me!” his face gave evidence of suffering.
the prince was considerably amazed, and did not reply at once.
“oh, come, forgive me, forgive me!” gania insisted, rather impatiently.
“if you like, i’ll kiss your hand.
there!”
the prince was touched; he took gania’s hands, and embraced him heartily, while each kissed the other.
“i never, never thought you were like that,” said muishkin, drawing a deep breath.
“i thought you you weren’t capable of ”
“of what?
apologizing, eh?
and where on earth did i get the idea that you were an idiot?
you always observe what other people pass by unnoticed; one could talk sense to you, but ”
“here is another to whom you should apologize,” said the prince, pointing to varia.
“no, no!
they are all enemies!
i’ve tried them often enough, believe me,” and gania turned his back on varia with these words.
“but if i beg you to make it up?” said varia.
“and you’ll go to nastasia philipovna’s this evening ”
“if you insist: but, judge for yourself, can i go, ought i to go?”
“but she is not that sort of woman, i tell you!” said gania, angrily.
“she was only acting.”
“i know that i know that; but what a part to play!
and think what she must take you for, gania!
i know she kissed mother’s hand, and all that, but she laughed at you, all the same.
all this is not good enough for seventy-five thousand roubles, my dear boy.
you are capable of honourable feelings still, and that’s why i am talking to you so.
oh!
do take care what you are doing!
don’t you know yourself that it will end badly, gania?”
so saying, and in a state of violent agitation, varia left the room.
“there, they are all like that,” said gania, laughing, “just as if i do not know all about it much better than they do.”
he sat down with these words, evidently intending to prolong his visit.
“if you know it so well,” said the prince a little timidly, “why do you choose all this worry for the sake of the seventy-five thousand, which, you confess, does not cover it?”
“i didn’t mean that,” said gania; “but while we are upon the subject, let me hear your opinion.
is all this worry worth seventy-five thousand or not?”
“certainly not.”
“of course!
and it would be a disgrace to marry so, eh?”
“a great disgrace.”
“oh, well, then you may know that i shall certainly do it, now.
i shall certainly marry her.
i was not quite sure of myself before, but now i am.
don’t say a word: i know what you want to tell me ”
“no.
i was only going to say that what surprises me most of all is your extraordinary confidence.”
“how so?
what in?”
“that nastasia philipovna will accept you, and that the question is as good as settled; and secondly, that even if she did, you would be able to pocket the money.
of course, i know very little about it, but that’s my view.
when a man marries for money it often happens that the wife keeps the money in her own hands.”
“of course, you don’t know all; but, i assure you, you needn’t be afraid, it won’t be like that in our case.
there are circumstances,”
said gania, rather excitedly.
“and as to her answer to me, there’s no doubt about that.
why should you suppose she will refuse me?”
“oh, i only judge by what i see.
varvara ardalionovna said just now ”
“oh she they don’t know anything about it!
nastasia was only chaffing rogojin.
i was alarmed at first, but i have thought better of it now; she was simply laughing at him.
she looks on me as a fool because i show that i meant her money, and doesn’t realize that there are other men who would deceive her in far worse fashion.
i’m not going to pretend anything, and you’ll see she’ll marry me, all right.
if she likes to live quietly, so she shall; but if she gives me any of her nonsense, i shall leave her at once, but i shall keep the money.
i’m not going to look a fool; that’s the first thing, not to look a fool.”
“but nastasia philipovna seems to me to be such a sensible woman, and, as such, why should she run blindly into this business?
that’s what puzzles me so,” said the prince.
“you don’t know all, you see; i tell you there are things and besides, i’m sure that she is persuaded that i love her to distraction, and i give you my word i have a strong suspicion that she loves me, too in her own way, of course.
she thinks she will be able to make a sort of slave of me all my life; but i shall prepare a little surprise for her.
i don’t know whether i ought to be confidential with you, prince; but, i assure you, you are the only decent fellow i have come across.
i have not spoken so sincerely as i am doing at this moment for years.
there are uncommonly few honest people about, prince; there isn’t one honester than ptitsin, he’s the best of the lot.
are you laughing?
you don’t know, perhaps, that blackguards like honest people, and being one myself i like you.
why am i a blackguard?
tell me honestly, now.
they all call me a blackguard because of her, and i have got into the way of thinking myself one.
that’s what is so bad about the business.”
“i for one shall never think you a blackguard again,” said the prince.
“i confess i had a poor opinion of you at first, but i have been so joyfully surprised about you just now; it’s a good lesson for me.
i shall never judge again without a thorough trial.
i see now that you are not only not a blackguard, but are not even quite spoiled.
i see that you are quite an ordinary man, not original in the least degree, but rather weak.”
gania laughed sarcastically, but said nothing.
the prince, seeing that he did not quite like the last remark, blushed, and was silent too.
“has my father asked you for money?” asked gania, suddenly.
“no.”
“don’t give it to him if he does.
fancy, he was a decent, respectable man once!
he was received in the best society; he was not always the liar he is now.
of course, wine is at the bottom of it all; but he is a good deal worse than an innocent liar now.
do you know that he keeps a mistress?
i can’t understand how mother is so long-suffering.
did he tell you the story of the siege of kars?
or perhaps the one about his grey horse that talked?
he loves to enlarge on these absurd histories.”
and gania burst into a fit of laughter.
suddenly he turned to the prince and asked: “why are you looking at me like that?”
“i am surprised to see you laugh in that way, like a child.
you came to make friends with me again just now, and you said, ‘i will kiss your hand, if you like,’ just as a child would have said it.
and then, all at once you are talking of this mad project of these seventy-five thousand roubles!
it all seems so absurd and impossible.”
“well, what conclusion have you reached?”
“that you are rushing madly into the undertaking, and that you would do well to think it over again.
it is more than possible that varvara ardalionovna is right.”
“ah!
now you begin to moralize!
i know that i am only a child, very well,” replied gania impatiently.
“that is proved by my having this conversation with you.
it is not for money only, prince, that i am rushing into this affair,” he continued, hardly master of his words, so closely had his vanity been touched.
“if i reckoned on that i should certainly be deceived, for i am still too weak in mind and character.
i am obeying a passion, an impulse perhaps, because i have but one aim, one that overmasters all else.
you imagine that once i am in possession of these seventy-five thousand roubles, i shall rush to buy a carriage... no, i shall go on wearing the old overcoat i have worn for three years, and i shall give up my club.
i shall follow the example of men who have made their fortunes.
when ptitsin was seventeen he slept in the street, he sold pen-knives, and began with a copeck; now he has sixty thousand roubles, but to get them, what has he not done?
well, i shall be spared such a hard beginning, and shall start with a little capital.
in fifteen years people will say, ‘look, that’s ivolgin, the king of the jews!’ you say that i have no originality.
now mark this, prince there is nothing so offensive to a man of our time and race than to be told that he is wanting in originality, that he is weak in character, has no particular talent, and is, in short, an ordinary person.
you have not even done me the honour of looking upon me as a rogue.
do you know, i could have knocked you down for that just now!
you wounded me more cruelly than epanchin, who thinks me capable of selling him my wife!
observe, it was a perfectly gratuitous idea on his part, seeing there has never been any discussion of it between us!
this has exasperated me, and i am determined to make a fortune!
i will do it!
once i am rich, i shall be a genius, an extremely original man.
one of the vilest and most hateful things connected with money is that it can buy even talent; and will do so as long as the world lasts.
you will say that this is childish or romantic.
well, that will be all the better for me, but the thing shall be done.
i will carry it through.
he laughs most, who laughs last.
why does epanchin insult me?
simply because, socially, i am a nobody.
however, enough for the present.
colia has put his nose in to tell us dinner is ready, twice.
i’m dining out.
i shall come and talk to you now and then; you shall be comfortable enough with us.
they are sure to make you one of the family.
i think you and i will either be great friends or enemies.
look here now, supposing i had kissed your hand just now, as i offered to do in all sincerity, should i have hated you for it afterwards?”
“certainly, but not always.
you would not have been able to keep it up, and would have ended by forgiving me,” said the prince, after a pause for reflection, and with a pleasant smile.
“oho, how careful one has to be with you, prince!
haven’t you put a drop of poison in that remark now, eh?
by the way ha, ha, ha!
i forgot to ask, was i right in believing that you were a good deal struck yourself with nastasia philipovna.”
“ye-yes.”
“are you in love with her?”
“n-no.”
“and yet you flush up as red as a rosebud!
come it’s all right.
i’m not going to laugh at you.
do you know she is a very virtuous woman?
believe it or not, as you like.
you think she and totski not a bit of it, not a bit of it!
not for ever so long!
au revoir!”
gania left the room in great good humour.
the prince stayed behind, and meditated alone for a few minutes.
at length, colia popped his head in once more.
“i don’t want any dinner, thanks, colia.
i had too good a lunch at general epanchin’s.”
colia came into the room and gave the prince a note; it was from the general and was carefully sealed up.
it was clear from colia’s face how painful it was to him to deliver the missive.
the prince read it, rose, and took his hat.
“it’s only a couple of yards,” said colia, blushing.
“he’s sitting there over his bottle and how they can give him credit, i cannot understand.
don’t tell mother i brought you the note, prince; i have sworn not to do it a thousand times, but i’m always so sorry for him.
don’t stand on ceremony, give him some trifle, and let that end it.”
“come along, colia, i want to see your father.
i have an idea,” said the prince.
xii.
colia took the prince to a public-house in the litaynaya, not far off.
in one of the side rooms there sat at a table looking like one of the regular guests of the establishment ardalion alexandrovitch, with a bottle before him, and a newspaper on his knee.
he was waiting for the prince, and no sooner did the latter appear than he began a long harangue about something or other; but so far gone was he that the prince could hardly understand a word.
“i have not got a ten-rouble note,” said the prince; “but here is a twenty-five.
change it and give me back the fifteen, or i shall be left without a farthing myself.”
“oh, of course, of course; and you quite understand that i ”
“yes; and i have another request to make, general.
have you ever been at nastasia philipovna’s?”
“i?
i?
do you mean me?
often, my friend, often!
i only pretended i had not in order to avoid a painful subject.
you saw today, you were a witness, that i did all that a kind, an indulgent father could do.
now a father of altogether another type shall step into the scene.
you shall see; the old soldier shall lay bare this intrigue, or a shameless woman will force her way into a respectable and noble family.”
“yes, quite so.
i wished to ask you whether you could show me the way to nastasia philipovna’s tonight.
i must go; i have business with her; i was not invited but i was introduced.
anyhow i am ready to trespass the laws of propriety if only i can get in somehow or other.”
“my dear young friend, you have hit on my very idea.
it was not for this rubbish i asked you to come over here” (he pocketed the money, however, at this point), “it was to invite your alliance in the campaign against nastasia philipovna tonight.
how well it sounds, ‘general ivolgin and prince muishkin.’ that’ll fetch her, i think, eh?
capital!
we’ll go at nine; there’s time yet.”
“where does she live?”
“oh, a long way off, near the great theatre, just in the square there it won’t be a large party.”
the general sat on and on.
he had ordered a fresh bottle when the prince arrived; this took him an hour to drink, and then he had another, and another, during the consumption of which he told pretty nearly the whole story of his life.
the prince was in despair.
he felt that though he had but applied to this miserable old drunkard because he saw no other way of getting to nastasia philipovna’s, yet he had been very wrong to put the slightest confidence in such a man.
at last he rose and declared that he would wait no longer.
the general rose too, drank the last drops that he could squeeze out of the bottle, and staggered into the street.
muishkin began to despair.
he could not imagine how he had been so foolish as to trust this man.
he only wanted one thing, and that was to get to nastasia philipovna’s, even at the cost of a certain amount of impropriety.
but now the scandal threatened to be more than he had bargained for.
by this time ardalion alexandrovitch was quite intoxicated, and he kept his companion listening while he discoursed eloquently and pathetically on subjects of all kinds, interspersed with torrents of recrimination against the members of his family.
he insisted that all his troubles were caused by their bad conduct, and time alone would put an end to them.
at last they reached the litaynaya.
the thaw increased steadily, a warm, unhealthy wind blew through the streets, vehicles splashed through the mud, and the iron shoes of horses and mules rang on the paving stones.
crowds of melancholy people plodded wearily along the footpaths, with here and there a drunken man among them.
“do you see those brightly-lighted windows?” said the general.
“many of my old comrades-in-arms live about here, and i, who served longer, and suffered more than any of them, am walking on foot to the house of a woman of rather questionable reputation!
a man, look you, who has thirteen bullets on his breast!...
you don’t believe it?
well, i can assure you it was entirely on my account that pirogoff telegraphed to paris, and left sebastopol at the greatest risk during the siege.
nelaton, the tuileries surgeon, demanded a safe conduct, in the name of science, into the besieged city in order to attend my wounds.
the government knows all about it.
‘that’s the ivolgin with thirteen bullets in him!’ that’s how they speak of me.... do you see that house, prince?
one of my old friends lives on the first floor, with his large family.
in this and five other houses, three overlooking nevsky, two in the morskaya, are all that remain of my personal friends.
nina alexandrovna gave them up long ago, but i keep in touch with them still... i may say i find refreshment in this little coterie, in thus meeting my old acquaintances and subordinates, who worship me still, in spite of all.
general sokolovitch (by the way, i have not called on him lately, or seen anna fedorovna)... you know, my dear prince, when a person does not receive company himself, he gives up going to other people’s houses involuntarily.
and yet... well... you look as if you didn’t believe me.... well now, why should i not present the son of my old friend and companion to this delightful family general ivolgin and prince muishkin?
you will see a lovely girl what am i saying a lovely girl?
no, indeed, two, three!
ornaments of this city and of society: beauty, education, culture the woman question poetry everything!
added to which is the fact that each one will have a dot of at least eighty thousand roubles.
no bad thing, eh?...
in a word i absolutely must introduce you to them: it is a duty, an obligation.
general ivolgin and prince muishkin.
tableau!”
“at once?
now?
you must have forgotten...” began the prince.
“no, i have forgotten nothing.
come!
this is the house up this magnificent staircase.
i am surprised not to see the porter, but .... it is a holiday... and the man has gone off... drunken fool!
why have they not got rid of him?
sokolovitch owes all the happiness he has had in the service and in his private life to me, and me alone, but... here we are.”
the prince followed quietly, making no further objection for fear of irritating the old man.
at the same time he fervently hoped that general sokolovitch and his family would fade away like a mirage in the desert, so that the visitors could escape, by merely returning downstairs.
but to his horror he saw that general ivolgin was quite familiar with the house, and really seemed to have friends there.
at every step he named some topographical or biographical detail that left nothing to be desired on the score of accuracy.
when they arrived at last, on the first floor, and the general turned to ring the bell to the right, the prince decided to run away, but a curious incident stopped him momentarily.
“you have made a mistake, general,” said he.
“the name on the door is koulakoff, and you were going to see general sokolovitch.”
“koulakoff... koulakoff means nothing.
this is sokolovitch’s flat, and i am ringing at his door.... what do i care for koulakoff?...
here comes someone to open.”
in fact, the door opened directly, and the footman informed the visitors that the family were all away.
“what a pity!
what a pity!
it’s just my luck!” repeated ardalion alexandrovitch over and over again, in regretful tones.
“when your master and mistress return, my man, tell them that general ivolgin and prince muishkin desired to present themselves, and that they were extremely sorry, excessively grieved...”
just then another person belonging to the household was seen at the back of the hall.
it was a woman of some forty years, dressed in sombre colours, probably a housekeeper or a governess.
hearing the names she came forward with a look of suspicion on her face.
“marie alexandrovna is not at home,” said she, staring hard at the general.
“she has gone to her mother’s, with alexandra michailovna.”
“alexandra michailovna out, too!
how disappointing!
would you believe it, i am always so unfortunate!
may i most respectfully ask you to present my compliments to alexandra michailovna, and remind her... tell her, that with my whole heart i wish for her what she wished for herself on thursday evening, while she was listening to chopin’s ballade.
she will remember.
i wish it with all sincerity.
general ivolgin and prince muishkin!”
the woman’s face changed; she lost her suspicious expression.
“i will not fail to deliver your message,” she replied, and bowed them out.
as they went downstairs the general regretted repeatedly that he had failed to introduce the prince to his friends.
“you know i am a bit of a poet,” said he.
“have you noticed it?
the poetic soul, you know.” then he added suddenly “but after all...
after all i believe we made a mistake this time!
i remember that the sokolovitch’s live in another house, and what is more, they are just now in moscow.
yes, i certainly was at fault.
however, it is of no consequence.”
“just tell me,” said the prince in reply, “may i count still on your assistance?
or shall i go on alone to see nastasia philipovna?”
“count on my assistance?
go alone?
how can you ask me that question, when it is a matter on which the fate of my family so largely depends?
you don’t know ivolgin, my friend.
to trust ivolgin is to trust a rock; that’s how the first squadron i commanded spoke of me.
‘depend upon ivolgin,’ said they all, ‘he is as steady as a rock.’ but, excuse me, i must just call at a house on our way, a house where i have found consolation and help in all my trials for years.”
“you are going home?”
“no... i wish... to visit madame terentieff, the widow of captain terentieff, my old subordinate and friend.
she helps me to keep up my courage, and to bear the trials of my domestic life, and as i have an extra burden on my mind today...”
“it seems to me,” interrupted the prince, “that i was foolish to trouble you just now.
however, at present you... good-bye!”
“indeed, you must not go away like that, young man, you must not!” cried the general.
“my friend here is a widow, the mother of a family; her words come straight from her heart, and find an echo in mine.
a visit to her is merely an affair of a few minutes; i am quite at home in her house.
i will have a wash, and dress, and then we can drive to the grand theatre.
make up your mind to spend the evening with me.... we are just there that’s the house... why, colia!
you here!
well, is marfa borisovna at home or have you only just come?”
“oh no!
i have been here a long while,” replied colia, who was at the front door when the general met him.
“i am keeping hippolyte company.
he is worse, and has been in bed all day.
i came down to buy some cards.
marfa borisovna expects you.
but what a state you are in, father!” added the boy, noticing his father’s unsteady gait.
“well, let us go in.”
on meeting colia the prince determined to accompany the general, though he made up his mind to stay as short a time as possible.
he wanted colia, but firmly resolved to leave the general behind.
he could not forgive himself for being so simple as to imagine that ivolgin would be of any use.
the three climbed up the long staircase until they reached the fourth floor where madame terentieff lived.
“you intend to introduce the prince?” asked colia, as they went up.
“yes, my boy.
i wish to present him: general ivolgin and prince muishkin!
but what’s the matter?...
what?...
how is marfa borisovna?”
“you know, father, you would have done much better not to come at all!
she is ready to eat you up!
you have not shown yourself since the day before yesterday and she is expecting the money.
why did you promise her any?
you are always the same!
well, now you will have to get out of it as best you can.”
they stopped before a somewhat low doorway on the fourth floor.
ardalion alexandrovitch, evidently much out of countenance, pushed muishkin in front.
“i will wait here,” he stammered.
“i should like to surprise her.
....”
colia entered first, and as the door stood open, the mistress of the house peeped out.
the surprise of the general’s imagination fell very flat, for she at once began to address him in terms of reproach.
marfa borisovna was about forty years of age.
she wore a dressing-jacket, her feet were in slippers, her face painted, and her hair was in dozens of small plaits.
no sooner did she catch sight of ardalion alexandrovitch than she screamed:
“there he is, that wicked, mean wretch!
i knew it was he!
my heart misgave me!”
the old man tried to put a good face on the affair.
“come, let us go in it’s all right,” he whispered in the prince’s ear.
but it was more serious than he wished to think.
as soon as the visitors had crossed the low dark hall, and entered the narrow reception-room, furnished with half a dozen cane chairs, and two small card-tables, madame terentieff, in the shrill tones habitual to her, continued her stream of invectives.
“are you not ashamed?
are you not ashamed?
you barbarian!
you tyrant!
you have robbed me of all i possessed you have sucked my bones to the marrow.
how long shall i be your victim?
shameless, dishonourable man!”
“marfa borisovna!
marfa borisovna!
here is... the prince muishkin!
general ivolgin and prince muishkin,” stammered the disconcerted old man.
“would you believe,” said the mistress of the house, suddenly addressing the prince, “would you believe that that man has not even spared my orphan children?
he has stolen everything i possessed, sold everything, pawned everything; he has left me nothing nothing!
what am i to do with your iou’s, you cunning, unscrupulous rogue?
answer, devourer!
answer, heart of stone!
how shall i feed my orphans?
with what shall i nourish them?
and now he has come, he is drunk!
he can scarcely stand.
how, oh how, have i offended the almighty, that he should bring this curse upon me!
answer, you worthless villain, answer!”
but this was too much for the general.
“here are twenty-five roubles, marfa borisovna... it is all that i can give... and i owe even these to the prince’s generosity my noble friend.
i have been cruelly deceived.
such is... life... now... excuse me, i am very weak,” he continued, standing in the centre of the room, and bowing to all sides.
“i am faint; excuse me!
lenotchka... a cushion... my dear!”
lenotchka, a little girl of eight, ran to fetch the cushion at once, and placed it on the rickety old sofa.
the general meant to have said much more, but as soon as he had stretched himself out, he turned his face to the wall, and slept the sleep of the just.
with a grave and ceremonious air, marfa borisovna motioned the prince to a chair at one of the card-tables.
she seated herself opposite, leaned her right cheek on her hand, and sat in silence, her eyes fixed on muishkin, now and again sighing deeply.
the three children, two little girls and a boy, lenotchka being the eldest, came and leant on the table and also stared steadily at him.
presently colia appeared from the adjoining room.
“i am very glad indeed to have met you here, colia,” said the prince.
“can you do something for me?
i must see nastasia philipovna, and i asked ardalion alexandrovitch just now to take me to her house, but he has gone to sleep, as you see.
will you show me the way, for i do not know the street?
i have the address, though; it is close to the grand theatre.”
“nastasia philipovna?
she does not live there, and to tell you the truth my father has never been to her house!
it is strange that you should have depended on him!
she lives near wladimir street, at the five corners, and it is quite close by.
will you go directly?
it is just half-past nine.
i will show you the way with pleasure.”
colia and the prince went off together.
alas!
the latter had no money to pay for a cab, so they were obliged to walk.
“i should have liked to have taken you to see hippolyte,” said colia.
“he is the eldest son of the lady you met just now, and was in the next room.
he is ill, and has been in bed all day.
but he is rather strange, and extremely sensitive, and i thought he might be upset considering the circumstances in which you came... somehow it touches me less, as it concerns my father, while it is his mother.
that, of course, makes a great difference.
what is a terrible disgrace to a woman, does not disgrace a man, at least not in the same way.
perhaps public opinion is wrong in condemning one sex, and excusing the other.
hippolyte is an extremely clever boy, but so prejudiced.
he is really a slave to his opinions.”
“do you say he is consumptive?”
“yes.
it really would be happier for him to die young.
if i were in his place i should certainly long for death.
he is unhappy about his brother and sisters, the children you saw.
if it were possible, if we only had a little money, we should leave our respective families, and live together in a little apartment of our own.
it is our dream.
but, do you know, when i was talking over your affair with him, he was angry, and said that anyone who did not call out a man who had given him a blow was a coward.
he is very irritable to-day, and i left off arguing the matter with him.
so nastasia philipovna has invited you to go and see her?”
“to tell the truth, she has not.”
“then how do you come to be going there?” cried colia, so much astonished that he stopped short in the middle of the pavement.
“and...
and are you going to her ‘at home’ in that costume?”
“i don’t know, really, whether i shall be allowed in at all.
if she will receive me, so much the better.
if not, the matter is ended.
as to my clothes what can i do?”
“are you going there for some particular reason, or only as a way of getting into her society, and that of her friends?”
“no, i have really an object in going... that is, i am going on business it is difficult to explain, but...”
“well, whether you go on business or not is your affair, i do not want to know.
the only important thing, in my eyes, is that you should not be going there simply for the pleasure of spending your evening in such company cocottes, generals, usurers!
if that were the case i should despise and laugh at you.
there are terribly few honest people here, and hardly any whom one can respect, although people put on airs varia especially!
have you noticed, prince, how many adventurers there are nowadays?
especially here, in our dear russia.
how it has happened i never can understand.
there used to be a certain amount of solidity in all things, but now what happens?
everything is exposed to the public gaze, veils are thrown back, every wound is probed by careless fingers.
we are for ever present at an orgy of scandalous revelations.
parents blush when they remember their old-fashioned morality.
at moscow lately a father was heard urging his son to stop at nothing at nothing, mind you!
to get money!
the press seized upon the story, of course, and now it is public property.
look at my father, the general!
see what he is, and yet, i assure you, he is an honest man!
only... he drinks too much, and his morals are not all we could desire.
yes, that’s true!
i pity him, to tell the truth, but i dare not say so, because everybody would laugh at me but i do pity him!
and who are the really clever men, after all?
money-grubbers, every one of them, from the first to the last.
hippolyte finds excuses for money-lending, and says it is a necessity.
he talks about the economic movement, and the ebb and flow of capital; the devil knows what he means.
it makes me angry to hear him talk so, but he is soured by his troubles.
just imagine the general keeps his mother but she lends him money!
she lends it for a week or ten days at very high interest!
isn’t it disgusting?
and then, you would hardly believe it, but my mother nina alexandrovna helps hippolyte in all sorts of ways, sends him money and clothes.
she even goes as far as helping the children, through hippolyte, because their mother cares nothing about them, and varia does the same.”
“well, just now you said there were no honest nor good people about, that there were only money-grubbers and here they are quite close at hand, these honest and good people, your mother and varia!
i think there is a good deal of moral strength in helping people in such circumstances.”
“varia does it from pride, and likes showing off, and giving herself airs.
as to my mother, i really do admire her yes, and honour her.
hippolyte, hardened as he is, feels it.
he laughed at first, and thought it vulgar of her but now, he is sometimes quite touched and overcome by her kindness.
h’m!
you call that being strong and good?
i will remember that!
gania knows nothing about it.
he would say that it was encouraging vice.”
“ah, gania knows nothing about it?
it seems there are many things that gania does not know,” exclaimed the prince, as he considered colia’s last words.
“do you know, i like you very much indeed, prince?
i shall never forget about this afternoon.”
“i like you too, colia.”
“listen to me!
you are going to live here, are you not?” said colia.
“i mean to get something to do directly, and earn money.
then shall we three live together?
you, and i, and hippolyte?
we will hire a flat, and let the general come and visit us.
what do you say?”
“it would be very pleasant,” returned the prince.
“but we must see.
i am really rather worried just now.
what!
are we there already?
is that the house?
what a long flight of steps!
and there’s a porter!
well, colia i don’t know what will come of it all.”
the prince seemed quite distracted for the moment.
“you must tell me all about it tomorrow!
don’t be afraid.
i wish you success; we agree so entirely that i can do so, although i do not understand why you are here.
good-bye!” cried colia excitedly.
“now i will rush back and tell hippolyte all about our plans and proposals!
but as to your getting in don’t be in the least afraid.
you will see her.
she is so original about everything.
it’s the first floor.
the porter will show you.”
xiii.
the prince was very nervous as he reached the outer door; but he did his best to encourage himself with the reflection that the worst thing that could happen to him would be that he would not be received, or, perhaps, received, then laughed at for coming.
but there was another question, which terrified him considerably, and that was: what was he going to do when he did get in?
and to this question he could fashion no satisfactory reply.
if only he could find an opportunity of coming close up to nastasia philipovna and saying to her: “don’t ruin yourself by marrying this man.
he does not love you, he only loves your money.
he told me so himself, and so did aglaya ivanovna, and i have come on purpose to warn you” but even that did not seem quite a legitimate or practicable thing to do.
then, again, there was another delicate question, to which he could not find an answer; dared not, in fact, think of it; but at the very idea of which he trembled and blushed.
however, in spite of all his fears and heart-quakings he went in, and asked for nastasia philipovna.
nastasia occupied a medium-sized, but distinctly tasteful, flat, beautifully furnished and arranged.
at one period of these five years of petersburg life, totski had certainly not spared his expenditure upon her.
he had calculated upon her eventual love, and tried to tempt her with a lavish outlay upon comforts and luxuries, knowing too well how easily the heart accustoms itself to comforts, and how difficult it is to tear one’s self away from luxuries which have become habitual and, little by little, indispensable.
nastasia did not reject all this, she even loved her comforts and luxuries, but, strangely enough, never became, in the least degree, dependent upon them, and always gave the impression that she could do just as well without them.
in fact, she went so far as to inform totski on several occasions that such was the case, which the latter gentleman considered a very unpleasant communication indeed.
but, of late, totski had observed many strange and original features and characteristics in nastasia, which he had neither known nor reckoned upon in former times, and some of these fascinated him, even now, in spite of the fact that all his old calculations with regard to her were long ago cast to the winds.
a maid opened the door for the prince (nastasia’s servants were all females) and, to his surprise, received his request to announce him to her mistress without any astonishment.
neither his dirty boots, nor his wide-brimmed hat, nor his sleeveless cloak, nor his evident confusion of manner, produced the least impression upon her.
she helped him off with his cloak, and begged him to wait a moment in the ante-room while she announced him.
the company assembled at nastasia philipovna’s consisted of none but her most intimate friends, and formed a very small party in comparison with her usual gatherings on this anniversary.
in the first place there were present totski, and general epanchin.
they were both highly amiable, but both appeared to be labouring under a half-hidden feeling of anxiety as to the result of nastasia’s deliberations with regard to gania, which result was to be made public this evening.
then, of course, there was gania who was by no means so amiable as his elders, but stood apart, gloomy, and miserable, and silent.
he had determined not to bring varia with him; but nastasia had not even asked after her, though no sooner had he arrived than she had reminded him of the episode between himself and the prince.
the general, who had heard nothing of it before, began to listen with some interest, while gania, drily, but with perfect candour, went through the whole history, including the fact of his apology to the prince.
he finished by declaring that the prince was a most extraordinary man, and goodness knows why he had been considered an idiot hitherto, for he was very far from being one.
nastasia listened to all this with great interest; but the conversation soon turned to rogojin and his visit, and this theme proved of the greatest attraction to both totski and the general.
ptitsin was able to afford some particulars as to rogojin’s conduct since the afternoon.
he declared that he had been busy finding money for the latter ever since, and up to nine o’clock, rogojin having declared that he must absolutely have a hundred thousand roubles by the evening.
he added that rogojin was drunk, of course; but that he thought the money would be forthcoming, for the excited and intoxicated rapture of the fellow impelled him to give any interest or premium that was asked of him, and there were several others engaged in beating up the money, also.
all this news was received by the company with somewhat gloomy interest.
nastasia was silent, and would not say what she thought about it.
gania was equally uncommunicative.
the general seemed the most anxious of all, and decidedly uneasy.
the present of pearls which he had prepared with so much joy in the morning had been accepted but coldly, and nastasia had smiled rather disagreeably as she took it from him.
ferdishenko was the only person present in good spirits.
totski himself, who had the reputation of being a capital talker, and was usually the life and soul of these entertainments, was as silent as any on this occasion, and sat in a state of, for him, most uncommon perturbation.
the rest of the guests (an old tutor or schoolmaster, goodness knows why invited; a young man, very timid, and shy and silent; a rather loud woman of about forty, apparently an actress; and a very pretty, well-dressed german lady who hardly said a word all the evening) not only had no gift for enlivening the proceedings, but hardly knew what to say for themselves when addressed.
under these circumstances the arrival of the prince came almost as a godsend.
the announcement of his name gave rise to some surprise and to some smiles, especially when it became evident, from nastasia’s astonished look, that she had not thought of inviting him.
but her astonishment once over, nastasia showed such satisfaction that all prepared to greet the prince with cordial smiles of welcome.
“of course,” remarked general epanchin, “he does this out of pure innocence.
it’s a little dangerous, perhaps, to encourage this sort of freedom; but it is rather a good thing that he has arrived just at this moment.
he may enliven us a little with his originalities.”
“especially as he asked himself,” said ferdishenko.
“what’s that got to do with it?” asked the general, who loathed ferdishenko.
“why, he must pay toll for his entrance,” explained the latter.
“h’m!
prince muishkin is not ferdishenko,” said the general, impatiently.
this worthy gentleman could never quite reconcile himself to the idea of meeting ferdishenko in society, and on an equal footing.
“oh general, spare ferdishenko!” replied the other, smiling.
“i have special privileges.”
“what do you mean by special privileges?”
“once before i had the honour of stating them to the company.
i will repeat the explanation to-day for your excellency’s benefit.
you see, excellency, all the world is witty and clever except myself.
i am neither.
as a kind of compensation i am allowed to tell the truth, for it is a well-known fact that only stupid people tell ‘the truth.’ added to this, i am a spiteful man, just because i am not clever.
if i am offended or injured i bear it quite patiently until the man injuring me meets with some misfortune.
then i remember, and take my revenge.
i return the injury sevenfold, as ivan petrovitch ptitsin says.
(of course he never does so himself.)
excellency, no doubt you recollect kryloff’s fable, ‘the lion and the ass’?
well now, that’s you and i. that fable was written precisely for us.”
“you seem to be talking nonsense again, ferdishenko,” growled the general.
“what is the matter, excellency?
i know how to keep my place.
when i said just now that we, you and i, were the lion and the ass of kryloff’s fable, of course it is understood that i take the role of the ass.
your excellency is the lion of which the fable remarks:
‘a mighty lion, terror of the woods,    was shorn of his great prowess by old age.’
and i, your excellency, am the ass.”
“i am of your opinion on that last point,” said ivan fedorovitch, with ill-concealed irritation.
all this was no doubt extremely coarse, and moreover it was premeditated, but after all ferdishenko had persuaded everyone to accept him as a buffoon.
“if i am admitted and tolerated here,” he had said one day, “it is simply because i talk in this way.
how can anyone possibly receive such a man as i am?
i quite understand.
now, could i, a ferdishenko, be allowed to sit shoulder to shoulder with a clever man like afanasy ivanovitch?
there is one explanation, only one.
i am given the position because it is so entirely inconceivable!”
but these vulgarities seemed to please nastasia philipovna, although too often they were both rude and offensive.
those who wished to go to her house were forced to put up with ferdishenko.
possibly the latter was not mistaken in imagining that he was received simply in order to annoy totski, who disliked him extremely.
gania also was often made the butt of the jester’s sarcasms, who used this method of keeping in nastasia philipovna’s good graces.
“the prince will begin by singing us a fashionable ditty,” remarked ferdishenko, and looked at the mistress of the house, to see what she would say.
“i don’t think so, ferdishenko; please be quiet,” answered nastasia philipovna dryly.
“a-ah!
if he is to be under special patronage, i withdraw my claws.”
but nastasia philipovna had now risen and advanced to meet the prince.
“i was so sorry to have forgotten to ask you to come, when i saw you,”
she said, “and i am delighted to be able to thank you personally now, and to express my pleasure at your resolution.”
so saying she gazed into his eyes, longing to see whether she could make any guess as to the explanation of his motive in coming to her house.
the prince would very likely have made some reply to her kind words, but he was so dazzled by her appearance that he could not speak.
nastasia noticed this with satisfaction.
she was in full dress this evening; and her appearance was certainly calculated to impress all beholders.
she took his hand and led him towards her other guests.
but just before they reached the drawing-room door, the prince stopped her, and hurriedly and in great agitation whispered to her:
“you are altogether perfection; even your pallor and thinness are perfect; one could not wish you otherwise.
i did so wish to come and see you.
i forgive me, please ”
“don’t apologize,” said nastasia, laughing; “you spoil the whole originality of the thing.
i think what they say about you must be true, that you are so original.
so you think me perfection, do you?”
“yes.”
“h’m!
well, you may be a good reader of riddles but you are wrong there, at all events.
i’ll remind you of this, tonight.”
nastasia introduced the prince to her guests, to most of whom he was already known.
totski immediately made some amiable remark.
all seemed to brighten up at once, and the conversation became general.
nastasia made the prince sit down next to herself.
“dear me, there’s nothing so very curious about the prince dropping in, after all,” remarked ferdishenko.
“it’s quite a clear case,” said the hitherto silent gania.
“i have watched the prince almost all day, ever since the moment when he first saw nastasia philipovna’s portrait, at general epanchin’s.
i remember thinking at the time what i am now pretty sure of; and what, i may say in passing, the prince confessed to myself.”
gania said all this perfectly seriously, and without the slightest appearance of joking; indeed, he seemed strangely gloomy.
“i did not confess anything to you,” said the prince, blushing.
“i only answered your question.”
“bravo!
that’s frank, at any rate!” shouted ferdishenko, and there was general laughter.
“oh prince, prince!
i never should have thought it of you;” said general epanchin.
“and i imagined you a philosopher!
oh, you silent fellows!”
“judging from the fact that the prince blushed at this innocent joke, like a young girl, i should think that he must, as an honourable man, harbour the noblest intentions,” said the old toothless schoolmaster, most unexpectedly; he had not so much as opened his mouth before.
this remark provoked general mirth, and the old fellow himself laughed loudest of the lot, but ended with a stupendous fit of coughing.
nastasia philipovna, who loved originality and drollery of all kinds, was apparently very fond of this old man, and rang the bell for more tea to stop his coughing.
it was now half-past ten o’clock.
“gentlemen, wouldn’t you like a little champagne now?” she asked.
“i have it all ready; it will cheer us up do now no ceremony!”
this invitation to drink, couched, as it was, in such informal terms, came very strangely from nastasia philipovna.
her usual entertainments were not quite like this; there was more style about them.
however, the wine was not refused; each guest took a glass excepting gania, who drank nothing.
it was extremely difficult to account for nastasia’s strange condition of mind, which became more evident each moment, and which none could avoid noticing.
she took her glass, and vowed she would empty it three times that evening.
she was hysterical, and laughed aloud every other minute with no apparent reason the next moment relapsing into gloom and thoughtfulness.
some of her guests suspected that she must be ill; but concluded at last that she was expecting something, for she continued to look at her watch impatiently and unceasingly; she was most absent and strange.
“you seem to be a little feverish tonight,” said the actress.
“yes; i feel quite ill. i have been obliged to put on this shawl i feel so cold,” replied nastasia.
she certainly had grown very pale, and every now and then she tried to suppress a trembling in her limbs.
“had we not better allow our hostess to retire?” asked totski of the general.
“not at all, gentlemen, not at all!
your presence is absolutely necessary to me tonight,” said nastasia, significantly.
as most of those present were aware that this evening a certain very important decision was to be taken, these words of nastasia philipovna’s appeared to be fraught with much hidden interest.
the general and totski exchanged looks; gania fidgeted convulsively in his chair.
“let’s play at some game!” suggested the actress.
“i know a new and most delightful game, added ferdishenko.
“what is it?” asked the actress.
“well, when we tried it we were a party of people, like this, for instance; and somebody proposed that each of us, without leaving his place at the table, should relate something about himself.
it had to be something that he really and honestly considered the very worst action he had ever committed in his life.
but he was to be honest that was the chief point!
he wasn’t to be allowed to lie.”
“what an extraordinary idea!” said the general.
“that’s the beauty of it, general!”
“it’s a funny notion,” said totski, “and yet quite natural it’s only a new way of boasting.”
“perhaps that is just what was so fascinating about it.”
“why, it would be a game to cry over not to laugh at!” said the actress.
“did it succeed?” asked nastasia philipovna.
“come, let’s try it, let’s try it; we really are not quite so jolly as we might be let’s try it!
we may like it; it’s original, at all events!”
“yes,” said ferdishenko; “it’s a good idea come along the men begin.
of course no one need tell a story if he prefers to be disobliging.
we must draw lots!
throw your slips of paper, gentlemen, into this hat, and the prince shall draw for turns.
it’s a very simple game; all you have to do is to tell the story of the worst action of your life.
it’s as simple as anything.
i’ll prompt anyone who forgets the rules!”
no one liked the idea much.
some smiled, some frowned; some objected, but faintly, not wishing to oppose nastasia’s wishes; for this new idea seemed to be rather well received by her.
she was still in an excited, hysterical state, laughing convulsively at nothing and everything.
her eyes were blazing, and her cheeks showed two bright red spots against the white.
the melancholy appearance of some of her guests seemed to add to her sarcastic humour, and perhaps the very cynicism and cruelty of the game proposed by ferdishenko pleased her.
at all events she was attracted by the idea, and gradually her guests came round to her side; the thing was original, at least, and might turn out to be amusing.
“and supposing it’s something that one one can’t speak about before ladies?”
asked the timid and silent young man.
“why, then of course, you won’t say anything about it.
as if there are not plenty of sins to your score without the need of those!” said ferdishenko.
“but i really don’t know which of my actions is the worst,” said the lively actress.
“ladies are exempted if they like.”
“and how are you to know that one isn’t lying?
and if one lies the whole point of the game is lost,” said gania.
“oh, but think how delightful to hear how one’s friends lie!
besides you needn’t be afraid, gania; everybody knows what your worst action is without the need of any lying on your part.
only think, gentlemen,” and ferdishenko here grew quite enthusiastic, “only think with what eyes we shall observe one another tomorrow, after our tales have been told!”
“but surely this is a joke, nastasia philipovna?” asked totski.
“you don’t really mean us to play this game.”
“whoever is afraid of wolves had better not go into the wood,” said nastasia, smiling.
“but, pardon me, mr. ferdishenko, is it possible to make a game out of this kind of thing?” persisted totski, growing more and more uneasy.
“i assure you it can’t be a success.”
“and why not?
why, the last time i simply told straight off about how i stole three roubles.”
“perhaps so; but it is hardly possible that you told it so that it seemed like truth, or so that you were believed.
and, as gavrila ardalionovitch has said, the least suggestion of a falsehood takes all point out of the game.
it seems to me that sincerity, on the other hand, is only possible if combined with a kind of bad taste that would be utterly out of place here.”
“how subtle you are, afanasy ivanovitch!
you astonish me,” cried ferdishenko.
“you will remark, gentlemen, that in saying that i could not recount the story of my theft so as to be believed, afanasy ivanovitch has very ingeniously implied that i am not capable of thieving (it would have been bad taste to say so openly); and all the time he is probably firmly convinced, in his own mind, that i am very well capable of it!
but now, gentlemen, to business!
put in your slips, ladies and gentlemen is yours in, mr. totski?
so then we are all ready; now prince, draw, please.” the prince silently put his hand into the hat, and drew the names.
ferdishenko was first, then ptitsin, then the general, totski next, his own fifth, then gania, and so on; the ladies did not draw.
“oh, dear!
oh, dear!” cried ferdishenko.
“i did so hope the prince would come out first, and then the general.
well, gentlemen, i suppose i must set a good example!
what vexes me much is that i am such an insignificant creature that it matters nothing to anybody whether i have done bad actions or not!
besides, which am i to choose?
it’s an embarras de richesse.
shall i tell how i became a thief on one occasion only, to convince afanasy ivanovitch that it is possible to steal without being a thief?”
“do go on, ferdishenko, and don’t make unnecessary preface, or you’ll never finish,” said nastasia philipovna.
all observed how irritable and cross she had become since her last burst of laughter; but none the less obstinately did she stick to her absurd whim about this new game.
totski sat looking miserable enough.
the general lingered over his champagne, and seemed to be thinking of some story for the time when his turn should come.
xiv.
“i have no wit, nastasia philipovna,” began ferdishenko, “and therefore i talk too much, perhaps.
were i as witty, now, as mr. totski or the general, i should probably have sat silent all the evening, as they have.
now, prince, what do you think?
are there not far more thieves than honest men in this world?
don’t you think we may say there does not exist a single person so honest that he has never stolen anything whatever in his life?”
“what a silly idea,” said the actress.
“of course it is not the case.
i have never stolen anything, for one.”
“h’m!
very well, daria alexeyevna; you have not stolen anything agreed.
but how about the prince, now look how he is blushing!”
“i think you are partially right, but you exaggerate,” said the prince, who had certainly blushed up, of a sudden, for some reason or other.
“ferdishenko either tell us your story, or be quiet, and mind your own business.
you exhaust all patience,” cuttingly and irritably remarked nastasia philipovna.
“immediately, immediately!
as for my story, gentlemen, it is too stupid and absurd to tell you.
“i assure you i am not a thief, and yet i have stolen; i cannot explain why.
it was at semeon ivanovitch ishenka’s country house, one sunday.
he had a dinner party.
after dinner the men stayed at the table over their wine.
it struck me to ask the daughter of the house to play something on the piano; so i passed through the corner room to join the ladies.
in that room, on maria ivanovna’s writing-table, i observed a three-rouble note.
she must have taken it out for some purpose, and left it lying there.
there was no one about.
i took up the note and put it in my pocket; why, i can’t say.
i don’t know what possessed me to do it, but it was done, and i went quickly back to the dining-room and reseated myself at the dinner-table.
i sat and waited there in a great state of excitement.
i talked hard, and told lots of stories, and laughed like mad; then i joined the ladies.
“in half an hour or so the loss was discovered, and the servants were being put under examination.
daria, the housemaid was suspected.
i exhibited the greatest interest and sympathy, and i remember that poor daria quite lost her head, and that i began assuring her, before everyone, that i would guarantee her forgiveness on the part of her mistress, if she would confess her guilt.
they all stared at the girl, and i remember a wonderful attraction in the reflection that here was i sermonizing away, with the money in my own pocket all the while.
i went and spent the three roubles that very evening at a restaurant.
i went in and asked for a bottle of lafite, and drank it up; i wanted to be rid of the money.
“i did not feel much remorse either then or afterwards; but i would not repeat the performance believe it or not as you please.
there that’s all.”
“only, of course that’s not nearly your worst action,” said the actress, with evident dislike in her face.
“that was a psychological phenomenon, not an action,” remarked totski.
“and what about the maid?” asked nastasia philipovna, with undisguised contempt.
“oh, she was turned out next day, of course.
it’s a very strict household, there!”
“and you allowed it?”
“i should think so, rather!
i was not going to return and confess next day,” laughed ferdishenko, who seemed a little surprised at the disagreeable impression which his story had made on all parties.
“how mean you were!” said nastasia.
“bah!
you wish to hear a man tell of his worst actions, and you expect the story to come out goody-goody!
one’s worst actions always are mean.
we shall see what the general has to say for himself now.
all is not gold that glitters, you know; and because a man keeps his carriage he need not be specially virtuous, i assure you, all sorts of people keep carriages.
and by what means?”
in a word, ferdishenko was very angry and rapidly forgetting himself; his whole face was drawn with passion.
strange as it may appear, he had expected much better success for his story.
these little errors of taste on ferdishenko’s part occurred very frequently.
nastasia trembled with rage, and looked fixedly at him, whereupon he relapsed into alarmed silence.
he realized that he had gone a little too far.
“had we not better end this game?” asked totski.
“it’s my turn, but i plead exemption,” said ptitsin.
“you don’t care to oblige us?” asked nastasia.
“i cannot, i assure you.
i confess i do not understand how anyone can play this game.”
“then, general, it’s your turn,” continued nastasia philipovna, “and if you refuse, the whole game will fall through, which will disappoint me very much, for i was looking forward to relating a certain ‘page of my own life.’ i am only waiting for you and afanasy ivanovitch to have your turns, for i require the support of your example,” she added, smiling.
“oh, if you put it in that way,” cried the general, excitedly, “i’m ready to tell the whole story of my life, but i must confess that i prepared a little story in anticipation of my turn.”
nastasia smiled amiably at him; but evidently her depression and irritability were increasing with every moment.
totski was dreadfully alarmed to hear her promise a revelation out of her own life.
“i, like everyone else,” began the general, “have committed certain not altogether graceful actions, so to speak, during the course of my life.
but the strangest thing of all in my case is, that i should consider the little anecdote which i am now about to give you as a confession of the worst of my ‘bad actions.’ it is thirty-five years since it all happened, and yet i cannot to this very day recall the circumstances without, as it were, a sudden pang at the heart.
“it was a silly affair i was an ensign at the time.
you know ensigns their blood is boiling water, their circumstances generally penurious.
well, i had a servant nikifor who used to do everything for me in my quarters, economized and managed for me, and even laid hands on anything he could find (belonging to other people), in order to augment our household goods; but a faithful, honest fellow all the same.
“i was strict, but just by nature.
at that time we were stationed in a small town.
i was quartered at an old widow’s house, a lieutenant’s widow of eighty years of age.
she lived in a wretched little wooden house, and had not even a servant, so poor was she.
“her relations had all died off her husband was dead and buried forty years since; and a niece, who had lived with her and bullied her up to three years ago, was dead too; so that she was quite alone.
“well, i was precious dull with her, especially as she was so childish that there was nothing to be got out of her.
eventually, she stole a fowl of mine; the business is a mystery to this day; but it could have been no one but herself.
i requested to be quartered somewhere else, and was shifted to the other end of the town, to the house of a merchant with a large family, and a long beard, as i remember him.
nikifor and i were delighted to go; but the old lady was not pleased at our departure.
“well, a day or two afterwards, when i returned from drill, nikifor says to me: ‘we oughtn’t to have left our tureen with the old lady, i’ve nothing to serve the soup in.’
“i asked how it came about that the tureen had been left.
nikifor explained that the old lady refused to give it up, because, she said, we had broken her bowl, and she must have our tureen in place of it; she had declared that i had so arranged the matter with herself.
“this baseness on her part of course aroused my young blood to fever heat; i jumped up, and away i flew.
“i arrived at the old woman’s house beside myself.
she was sitting in a corner all alone, leaning her face on her hand.
i fell on her like a clap of thunder.
‘you old wretch!’ i yelled and all that sort of thing, in real russian style.
well, when i began cursing at her, a strange thing happened.
i looked at her, and she stared back with her eyes starting out of her head, but she did not say a word.
she seemed to sway about as she sat, and looked and looked at me in the strangest way.
well, i soon stopped swearing and looked closer at her, asked her questions, but not a word could i get out of her.
the flies were buzzing about the room and only this sound broke the silence; the sun was setting outside; i didn’t know what to make of it, so i went away.
“before i reached home i was met and summoned to the major’s, so that it was some while before i actually got there.
when i came in, nikifor met me.
‘have you heard, sir, that our old lady is dead?’ ‘dead, when?’ ‘oh, an hour and a half ago.’ that meant nothing more nor less than that she was dying at the moment when i pounced on her and began abusing her.
“this produced a great effect upon me.
i used to dream of the poor old woman at nights.
i really am not superstitious, but two days after, i went to her funeral, and as time went on i thought more and more about her.
i said to myself, ‘this woman, this human being, lived to a great age.
she had children, a husband and family, friends and relations; her household was busy and cheerful; she was surrounded by smiling faces; and then suddenly they are gone, and she is left alone like a solitary fly... like a fly, cursed with the burden of her age.
at last, god calls her to himself.
at sunset, on a lovely summer’s evening, my little old woman passes away a thought, you will notice, which offers much food for reflection and behold!
instead of tears and prayers to start her on her last journey, she has insults and jeers from a young ensign, who stands before her with his hands in his pockets, making a terrible row about a soup tureen!’ of course i was to blame, and even now that i have time to look back at it calmly, i pity the poor old thing no less.
i repeat that i wonder at myself, for after all i was not really responsible.
why did she take it into her head to die at that moment?
but the more i thought of it, the more i felt the weight of it upon my mind; and i never got quite rid of the impression until i put a couple of old women into an almshouse and kept them there at my own expense.
there, that’s all.
i repeat i dare say i have committed many a grievous sin in my day; but i cannot help always looking back upon this as the worst action i have ever perpetrated.”
“h’m!
and instead of a bad action, your excellency has detailed one of your noblest deeds,” said ferdishenko.
“ferdishenko is ‘done.’”
“dear me, general,” said nastasia philipovna, absently, “i really never imagined you had such a good heart.”
the general laughed with great satisfaction, and applied himself once more to the champagne.
it was now totski’s turn, and his story was awaited with great curiosity while all eyes turned on nastasia philipovna, as though anticipating that his revelation must be connected somehow with her.
nastasia, during the whole of his story, pulled at the lace trimming of her sleeve, and never once glanced at the speaker.
totski was a handsome man, rather stout, with a very polite and dignified manner.
he was always well dressed, and his linen was exquisite.
he had plump white hands, and wore a magnificent diamond ring on one finger.
“what simplifies the duty before me considerably, in my opinion,” he began, “is that i am bound to recall and relate the very worst action of my life.
in such circumstances there can, of course, be no doubt.
one’s conscience very soon informs one what is the proper narrative to tell.
i admit, that among the many silly and thoughtless actions of my life, the memory of one comes prominently forward and reminds me that it lay long like a stone on my heart.
some twenty years since, i paid a visit to platon ordintzeff at his country-house.
he had just been elected marshal of the nobility, and had come there with his young wife for the winter holidays.
anfisa alexeyevna’s birthday came off just then, too, and there were two balls arranged.
at that time dumas-fils’ beautiful work, la dame aux camélias a novel which i consider imperishable had just come into fashion.
in the provinces all the ladies were in raptures over it, those who had read it, at least.
camellias were all the fashion.
everyone inquired for them, everybody wanted them; and a grand lot of camellias are to be got in a country town as you all know and two balls to provide for!
“poor peter volhofskoi was desperately in love with anfisa alexeyevna.
i don’t know whether there was anything i mean i don’t know whether he could possibly have indulged in any hope.
the poor fellow was beside himself to get her a bouquet of camellias.
countess sotski and sophia bespalova, as everyone knew, were coming with white camellia bouquets.
anfisa wished for red ones, for effect.
well, her husband platon was driven desperate to find some.
and the day before the ball, anfisa’s rival snapped up the only red camellias to be had in the place, from under platon’s nose, and platon wretched man was done for.
now if peter had only been able to step in at this moment with a red bouquet, his little hopes might have made gigantic strides.
a woman’s gratitude under such circumstances would have been boundless but it was practically an impossibility.
“the night before the ball i met peter, looking radiant.
‘what is it?’
i ask.
‘i’ve found them, eureka!’ ‘no!
where, where?’ ‘at ekshaisk (a little town fifteen miles off) there’s a rich old merchant, who keeps a lot of canaries, has no children, and he and his wife are devoted to flowers.
he’s got some camellias.’ ‘and what if he won’t let you have them?’ ‘i’ll go on my knees and implore till i get them.
i won’t go away.’ ‘when shall you start?’ ‘tomorrow morning at five o’clock.’ ‘go on,’ i said, ‘and good luck to you.’
“i was glad for the poor fellow, and went home.
but an idea got hold of me somehow.
i don’t know how.
it was nearly two in the morning.
i rang the bell and ordered the coachman to be waked up and sent to me.
he came.
i gave him a tip of fifteen roubles, and told him to get the carriage ready at once.
in half an hour it was at the door.
i got in and off we went.
“by five i drew up at the ekshaisky inn.
i waited there till dawn, and soon after six i was off, and at the old merchant trepalaf’s.
“‘camellias!’ i said, ‘father, save me, save me, let me have some camellias!’ he was a tall, grey old man a terrible-looking old gentleman.
‘not a bit of it,’ he says.
‘i won’t.’ down i went on my knees.
‘don’t say so, don’t think what you’re doing!’ i cried; ‘it’s a matter of life and death!’ ‘if that’s the case, take them,’ says he.
so up i get, and cut such a bouquet of red camellias!
he had a whole greenhouse full of them lovely ones.
the old fellow sighs.
i pull out a hundred roubles.
‘no, no!’ says he, ‘don’t insult me that way.’ ‘oh, if that’s the case, give it to the village hospital,’ i say.
‘ah,’ he says, ‘that’s quite a different matter; that’s good of you and generous.
i’ll pay it in there for you with pleasure.’ i liked that old fellow, russian to the core, de la vraie souche.
i went home in raptures, but took another road in order to avoid peter.
immediately on arriving i sent up the bouquet for anfisa to see when she awoke.
“you may imagine her ecstasy, her gratitude.
the wretched platon, who had almost died since yesterday of the reproaches showered upon him, wept on my shoulder.
of course poor peter had no chance after this.
“i thought he would cut my throat at first, and went about armed ready to meet him.
but he took it differently; he fainted, and had brain fever and convulsions.
a month after, when he had hardly recovered, he went off to the crimea, and there he was shot.
“i assure you this business left me no peace for many a long year.
why did i do it?
i was not in love with her myself; i’m afraid it was simply mischief pure ‘cussedness’ on my part.
“if i hadn’t seized that bouquet from under his nose he might have been alive now, and a happy man.
he might have been successful in life, and never have gone to fight the turks.”
totski ended his tale with the same dignity that had characterized its commencement.
nastasia philipovna’s eyes were flashing in a most unmistakable way, now; and her lips were all a-quiver by the time totski finished his story.
all present watched both of them with curiosity.
“you were right, totski,” said nastasia, “it is a dull game and a stupid one.
i’ll just tell my story, as i promised, and then we’ll play cards.”
“yes, but let’s have the story first!” cried the general.
“prince,” said nastasia philipovna, unexpectedly turning to muishkin, “here are my old friends, totski and general epanchin, who wish to marry me off.
tell me what you think.
shall i marry or not?
as you decide, so shall it be.”
totski grew white as a sheet.
the general was struck dumb.
all present started and listened intently.
gania sat rooted to his chair.
“marry whom?” asked the prince, faintly.
“gavrila ardalionovitch ivolgin,” said nastasia, firmly and evenly.
there were a few seconds of dead silence.
the prince tried to speak, but could not form his words; a great weight seemed to lie upon his breast and suffocate him.
“n-no!
don’t marry him!” he whispered at last, drawing his breath with an effort.
“so be it, then.
gavrila ardalionovitch,” she spoke solemnly and forcibly, “you hear the prince’s decision?
take it as my decision; and let that be the end of the matter for good and all.”
“nastasia philipovna!” cried totski, in a quaking voice.
“nastasia philipovna!” said the general, in persuasive but agitated tones.
everyone in the room fidgeted in their places, and waited to see what was coming next.
“well, gentlemen!” she continued, gazing around in apparent astonishment; “what do you all look so alarmed about?
why are you so upset?”
“but recollect, nastasia philipovna,” stammered totski, “you gave a promise, quite a free one, and and you might have spared us this.
i am confused and bewildered, i know; but, in a word, at such a moment, and before company, and all so-so-irregular, finishing off a game with a serious matter like this, a matter of honour, and of heart, and ”
“i don’t follow you, afanasy ivanovitch; you are losing your head.
in the first place, what do you mean by ‘before company’?
isn’t the company good enough for you?
and what’s all that about ‘a game’?
i wished to tell my little story, and i told it!
don’t you like it?
you heard what i said to the prince?
‘as you decide, so it shall be!’ if he had said ‘yes,’ i should have given my consent!
but he said ‘no,’ so i refused.
here was my whole life hanging on his one word!
surely i was serious enough?”
“the prince!
what on earth has the prince got to do with it?
who the deuce is the prince?” cried the general, who could conceal his wrath no longer.
“the prince has this to do with it that i see in him for the first time in all my life, a man endowed with real truthfulness of spirit, and i trust him.
he trusted me at first sight, and i trust him!”
“it only remains for me, then, to thank nastasia philipovna for the great delicacy with which she has treated me,” said gania, as pale as death, and with quivering lips.
“that is my plain duty, of course; but the prince what has he to do in the matter?”
“i see what you are driving at,” said nastasia philipovna.
“you imply that the prince is after the seventy-five thousand roubles i quite understand you.
mr. totski, i forgot to say, ‘take your seventy-five thousand roubles’ i don’t want them.
i let you go free for nothing take your freedom!
you must need it.
nine years and three months’ captivity is enough for anybody.
tomorrow i shall start afresh today i am a free agent for the first time in my life.
“general, you must take your pearls back, too give them to your wife here they are!
tomorrow i shall leave this flat altogether, and then there’ll be no more of these pleasant little social gatherings, ladies and gentlemen.”
so saying, she scornfully rose from her seat as though to depart.
“nastasia philipovna!
nastasia philipovna!”
the words burst involuntarily from every mouth.
all present started up in bewildered excitement; all surrounded her; all had listened uneasily to her wild, disconnected sentences.
all felt that something had happened, something had gone very far wrong indeed, but no one could make head or tail of the matter.
at this moment there was a furious ring at the bell, and a great knock at the door exactly similar to the one which had startled the company at gania’s house in the afternoon.
“ah, ah!
here’s the climax at last, at half-past twelve!” cried nastasia philipovna.
“sit down, gentlemen, i beg you.
something is about to happen.”
so saying, she reseated herself; a strange smile played on her lips.
she sat quite still, but watched the door in a fever of impatience.
“rogojin and his hundred thousand roubles, no doubt of it,” muttered ptitsin to himself.
xv.
katia, the maid-servant, made her appearance, terribly frightened.
“goodness knows what it means, ma’am,” she said.
“there is a whole collection of men come all tipsy and want to see you.
they say that ‘it’s rogojin, and she knows all about it.’”
“it’s all right, katia, let them all in at once.”
“surely not all, ma’am?
they seem so disorderly it’s dreadful to see them.”
“yes all, katia, all every one of them.
let them in, or they’ll come in whether you like or no.
listen!
what a noise they are making!
perhaps you are offended, gentlemen, that i should receive such guests in your presence?
i am very sorry, and ask your forgiveness, but it cannot be helped and i should be very grateful if you could all stay and witness this climax.
however, just as you please, of course.”
the guests exchanged glances; they were annoyed and bewildered by the episode; but it was clear enough that all this had been pre-arranged and expected by nastasia philipovna, and that there was no use in trying to stop her now for she was little short of insane.
besides, they were naturally inquisitive to see what was to happen.
there was nobody who would be likely to feel much alarm.
there were but two ladies present; one of whom was the lively actress, who was not easily frightened, and the other the silent german beauty who, it turned out, did not understand a word of russian, and seemed to be as stupid as she was lovely.
her acquaintances invited her to their “at homes” because she was so decorative.
she was exhibited to their guests like a valuable picture, or vase, or statue, or firescreen.
as for the men, ptitsin was one of rogojin’s friends; ferdishenko was as much at home as a fish in the sea, gania, not yet recovered from his amazement, appeared to be chained to a pillory.
the old professor did not in the least understand what was happening; but when he noticed how extremely agitated the mistress of the house, and her friends, seemed, he nearly wept, and trembled with fright: but he would rather have died than leave nastasia philipovna at such a crisis, for he loved her as if she were his own granddaughter.
afanasy ivanovitch greatly disliked having anything to do with the affair, but he was too much interested to leave, in spite of the mad turn things had taken; and a few words that had dropped from the lips of nastasia puzzled him so much, that he felt he could not go without an explanation.
he resolved therefore, to see it out, and to adopt the attitude of silent spectator, as most suited to his dignity.
general epanchin alone determined to depart.
he was annoyed at the manner in which his gift had been returned, as though he had condescended, under the influence of passion, to place himself on a level with ptitsin and ferdishenko, his self-respect and sense of duty now returned together with a consciousness of what was due to his social rank and official importance.
in short, he plainly showed his conviction that a man in his position could have nothing to do with rogojin and his companions.
but nastasia interrupted him at his first words.
“ah, general!” she cried, “i was forgetting!
if i had only foreseen this unpleasantness!
i won’t insist on keeping you against your will, although i should have liked you to be beside me now.
in any case, i am most grateful to you for your visit, and flattering attention... but if you are afraid...”
“excuse me, nastasia philipovna,” interrupted the general, with chivalric generosity.
“to whom are you speaking?
i have remained until now simply because of my devotion to you, and as for danger, i am only afraid that the carpets may be ruined, and the furniture smashed!...
you should shut the door on the lot, in my opinion.
but i confess that i am extremely curious to see how it ends.”
“rogojin!” announced ferdishenko.
“what do you think about it?” said the general in a low voice to totski.
“is she mad?
i mean mad in the medical sense of the word .... eh?”
“i’ve always said she was predisposed to it,” whispered afanasy ivanovitch slyly.
“perhaps it is a fever!”
since their visit to gania’s home, rogojin’s followers had been increased by two new recruits a dissolute old man, the hero of some ancient scandal, and a retired sub-lieutenant.
a laughable story was told of the former.
he possessed, it was said, a set of false teeth, and one day when he wanted money for a drinking orgy, he pawned them, and was never able to reclaim them!
the officer appeared to be a rival of the gentleman who was so proud of his fists.
he was known to none of rogojin’s followers, but as they passed by the nevsky, where he stood begging, he had joined their ranks.
his claim for the charity he desired seemed based on the fact that in the days of his prosperity he had given away as much as fifteen roubles at a time.
the rivals seemed more than a little jealous of one another.
the athlete appeared injured at the admission of the “beggar” into the company.
by nature taciturn, he now merely growled occasionally like a bear, and glared contemptuously upon the “beggar,” who, being somewhat of a man of the world, and a diplomatist, tried to insinuate himself into the bear’s good graces.
he was a much smaller man than the athlete, and doubtless was conscious that he must tread warily.
gently and without argument he alluded to the advantages of the english style in boxing, and showed himself a firm believer in western institutions.
the athlete’s lips curled disdainfully, and without honouring his adversary with a formal denial, he exhibited, as if by accident, that peculiarly russian object an enormous fist, clenched, muscular, and covered with red hairs!
the sight of this pre-eminently national attribute was enough to convince anybody, without words, that it was a serious matter for those who should happen to come into contact with it.
none of the band were very drunk, for the leader had kept his intended visit to nastasia in view all day, and had done his best to prevent his followers from drinking too much.
he was sober himself, but the excitement of this chaotic day the strangest day of his life had affected him so that he was in a dazed, wild condition, which almost resembled drunkenness.
he had kept but one idea before him all day, and for that he had worked in an agony of anxiety and a fever of suspense.
his lieutenants had worked so hard from five o’clock until eleven, that they actually had collected a hundred thousand roubles for him, but at such terrific expense, that the rate of interest was only mentioned among them in whispers and with bated breath.
as before, rogojin walked in advance of his troop, who followed him with mingled self-assertion and timidity.
they were specially frightened of nastasia philipovna herself, for some reason.
many of them expected to be thrown downstairs at once, without further ceremony, the elegant and irresistible zaleshoff among them.
but the party led by the athlete, without openly showing their hostile intentions, silently nursed contempt and even hatred for nastasia philipovna, and marched into her house as they would have marched into an enemy’s fortress.
arrived there, the luxury of the rooms seemed to inspire them with a kind of respect, not unmixed with alarm.
so many things were entirely new to their experience the choice furniture, the pictures, the great statue of venus.
they followed their chief into the salon, however, with a kind of impudent curiosity.
there, the sight of general epanchin among the guests, caused many of them to beat a hasty retreat into the adjoining room, the “boxer” and “beggar” being among the first to go.
a few only, of whom lebedeff made one, stood their ground; he had contrived to walk side by side with rogojin, for he quite understood the importance of a man who had a fortune of a million odd roubles, and who at this moment carried a hundred thousand in his hand.
it may be added that the whole company, not excepting lebedeff, had the vaguest idea of the extent of their powers, and of how far they could safely go.
at some moments lebedeff was sure that right was on their side; at others he tried uneasily to remember various cheering and reassuring articles of the civil code.
rogojin, when he stepped into the room, and his eyes fell upon nastasia, stopped short, grew white as a sheet, and stood staring; it was clear that his heart was beating painfully.
so he stood, gazing intently, but timidly, for a few seconds.
suddenly, as though bereft of his senses, he moved forward, staggering helplessly, towards the table.
on his way he collided against ptitsin’s chair, and put his dirty foot on the lace skirt of the silent lady’s dress; but he neither apologized for this, nor even noticed it.
on reaching the table, he placed upon it a strange-looking object, which he had carried with him into the drawing-room.
this was a paper packet, some six or seven inches thick, and eight or nine in length, wrapped in an old newspaper, and tied round three or four times with string.
having placed this before her, he stood with drooped arms and head, as though awaiting his sentence.
his costume was the same as it had been in the morning, except for a new silk handkerchief round his neck, bright green and red, fastened with a huge diamond pin, and an enormous diamond ring on his dirty forefinger.
lebedeff stood two or three paces behind his chief; and the rest of the band waited about near the door.
the two maid-servants were both peeping in, frightened and amazed at this unusual and disorderly scene.
“what is that?” asked nastasia philipovna, gazing intently at rogojin, and indicating the paper packet.
“a hundred thousand,” replied the latter, almost in a whisper.
“oh!
so he kept his word there’s a man for you!
well, sit down, please take that chair.
i shall have something to say to you presently.
who are all these with you?
the same party?
let them come in and sit down.
there’s room on that sofa, there are some chairs and there’s another sofa!
well, why don’t they sit down?”
sure enough, some of the brave fellows entirely lost their heads at this point, and retreated into the next room.
others, however, took the hint and sat down, as far as they could from the table, however; feeling braver in proportion to their distance from nastasia.
rogojin took the chair offered him, but he did not sit long; he soon stood up again, and did not reseat himself.
little by little he began to look around him and discern the other guests.
seeing gania, he smiled venomously and muttered to himself, “look at that!”
he gazed at totski and the general with no apparent confusion, and with very little curiosity.
but when he observed that the prince was seated beside nastasia philipovna, he could not take his eyes off him for a long while, and was clearly amazed.
he could not account for the prince’s presence there.
it was not in the least surprising that rogojin should be, at this time, in a more or less delirious condition; for not to speak of the excitements of the day, he had spent the night before in the train, and had not slept more than a wink for forty-eight hours.
“this, gentlemen, is a hundred thousand roubles,” said nastasia philipovna, addressing the company in general, “here, in this dirty parcel.
this afternoon rogojin yelled, like a madman, that he would bring me a hundred thousand in the evening, and i have been waiting for him all the while.
he was bargaining for me, you know; first he offered me eighteen thousand; then he rose to forty, and then to a hundred thousand.
and he has kept his word, see!
my goodness, how white he is!
all this happened this afternoon, at gania’s.
i had gone to pay his mother a visit my future family, you know!
and his sister said to my very face, surely somebody will turn this shameless creature out.
after which she spat in her brother gania’s face a girl of character, that!”
“nastasia philipovna!” began the general, reproachfully.
he was beginning to put his own interpretation on the affair.
“well, what, general?
not quite good form, eh?
oh, nonsense!
here have i been sitting in my box at the french theatre for the last five years like a statue of inaccessible virtue, and kept out of the way of all admirers, like a silly little idiot!
now, there’s this man, who comes and pays down his hundred thousand on the table, before you all, in spite of my five years of innocence and proud virtue, and i dare be sworn he has his sledge outside waiting to carry me off.
he values me at a hundred thousand!
i see you are still angry with me, gania!
why, surely you never really wished to take me into your family?
me, rogojin’s mistress!
what did the prince say just now?”
“i never said you were rogojin’s mistress you are not!” said the prince, in trembling accents.
“nastasia philipovna, dear soul!” cried the actress, impatiently, “do be calm, dear!
if it annoys you so all this do go away and rest!
of course you would never go with this wretched fellow, in spite of his hundred thousand roubles!
take his money and kick him out of the house; that’s the way to treat him and the likes of him!
upon my word, if it were my business, i’d soon clear them all out!”
the actress was a kind-hearted woman, and highly impressionable.
she was very angry now.
“don’t be cross, daria alexeyevna!” laughed nastasia.
“i was not angry when i spoke; i wasn’t reproaching gania.
i don’t know how it was that i ever could have indulged the whim of entering an honest family like his.
i saw his mother and kissed her hand, too.
i came and stirred up all that fuss, gania, this afternoon, on purpose to see how much you could swallow you surprised me, my friend you did, indeed.
surely you could not marry a woman who accepts pearls like those you knew the general was going to give me, on the very eve of her marriage?
and rogojin!
why, in your own house and before your own brother and sister, he bargained with me!
yet you could come here and expect to be betrothed to me before you left the house!
you almost brought your sister, too.
surely what rogojin said about you is not really true: that you would crawl all the way to the other end of the town, on hands and knees, for three roubles?”
“yes, he would!” said rogojin, quietly, but with an air of absolute conviction.
“h’m!
and he receives a good salary, i’m told.
well, what should you get but disgrace and misery if you took a wife you hated into your family (for i know very well that you do hate me)?
no, no!
i believe now that a man like you would murder anyone for money sharpen a razor and come up behind his best friend and cut his throat like a sheep i’ve read of such people.
everyone seems money-mad nowadays.
no, no!
i may be shameless, but you are far worse.
i don’t say a word about that other ”
“nastasia philipovna, is this really you?
you, once so refined and delicate of speech.
oh, what a tongue!
what dreadful things you are saying,” cried the general, wringing his hands in real grief.
“i am intoxicated, general.
i am having a day out, you know it’s my birthday!
i have long looked forward to this happy occasion.
daria alexeyevna, you see that nosegay-man, that monsieur aux camelias, sitting there laughing at us?”
“i am not laughing, nastasia philipovna; i am only listening with all my attention,” said totski, with dignity.
“well, why have i worried him, for five years, and never let him go free?
is he worth it?
he is only just what he ought to be nothing particular.
he thinks i am to blame, too.
he gave me my education, kept me like a countess.
money my word!
what a lot of money he spent over me!
and he tried to find me an honest husband first, and then this gania, here.
and what do you think?
all these five years i did not live with him, and yet i took his money, and considered i was quite justified.
“you say, take the hundred thousand and kick that man out.
it is true, it is an abominable business, as you say.
i might have married long ago, not gania oh, no!
but that would have been abominable too.
“would you believe it, i had some thoughts of marrying totski, four years ago!
i meant mischief, i confess but i could have had him, i give you my word; he asked me himself.
but i thought, no!
it’s not worthwhile to take such advantage of him.
no!
i had better go on to the streets, or accept rogojin, or become a washerwoman or something for i have nothing of my own, you know.
i shall go away and leave everything behind, to the last rag he shall have it all back.
and who would take me without anything?
ask gania, there, whether he would.
why, even ferdishenko wouldn’t have me!”
“no, ferdishenko would not; he is a candid fellow, nastasia philipovna,”
said that worthy.
“but the prince would.
you sit here making complaints, but just look at the prince.
i’ve been observing him for a long while.”
nastasia philipovna looked keenly round at the prince.
“is that true?” she asked.
“quite true,” whispered the prince.
“you’ll take me as i am, with nothing?”
“i will, nastasia philipovna.”
“here’s a pretty business!” cried the general.
“however, it might have been expected of him.”
the prince continued to regard nastasia with a sorrowful, but intent and piercing, gaze.
“here’s another alternative for me,” said nastasia, turning once more to the actress; “and he does it out of pure kindness of heart.
i know him.
i’ve found a benefactor.
perhaps, though, what they say about him may be true that he’s an we know what.
and what shall you live on, if you are really so madly in love with rogojin’s mistress, that you are ready to marry her eh?”
“i take you as a good, honest woman, nastasia philipovna not as rogojin’s mistress.”
“who?
i?
good and honest?”
“yes, you.”
“oh, you get those ideas out of novels, you know.
times are changed now, dear prince; the world sees things as they really are.
that’s all nonsense.
besides, how can you marry?
you need a nurse, not a wife.”
the prince rose and began to speak in a trembling, timid tone, but with the air of a man absolutely sure of the truth of his words.
“i know nothing, nastasia philipovna.
i have seen nothing.
you are right so far; but i consider that you would be honouring me, and not i you.
i am a nobody.
you have suffered, you have passed through hell and emerged pure, and that is very much.
why do you shame yourself by desiring to go with rogojin?
you are delirious.
you have returned to mr. totski his seventy-five thousand roubles, and declared that you will leave this house and all that is in it, which is a line of conduct that not one person here would imitate.
nastasia philipovna, i love you!
i would die for you.
i shall never let any man say one word against you, nastasia philipovna!
and if we are poor, i can work for both.”
as the prince spoke these last words a titter was heard from ferdishenko; lebedeff laughed too.
the general grunted with irritation; ptitsin and totski barely restrained their smiles.
the rest all sat listening, open-mouthed with wonder.
“but perhaps we shall not be poor; we may be very rich, nastasia philipovna,” continued the prince, in the same timid, quivering tones.
“i don’t know for certain, and i’m sorry to say i haven’t had an opportunity of finding out all day; but i received a letter from moscow, while i was in switzerland, from a mr. salaskin, and he acquaints me with the fact that i am entitled to a very large inheritance.
this letter ”
the prince pulled a letter out of his pocket.
“is he raving?” said the general.
“are we really in a mad-house?”
there was silence for a moment.
then ptitsin spoke.
“i think you said, prince, that your letter was from salaskin?
salaskin is a very eminent man, indeed, in his own world; he is a wonderfully clever solicitor, and if he really tells you this, i think you may be pretty sure that he is right.
it so happens, luckily, that i know his handwriting, for i have lately had business with him.
if you would allow me to see it, i should perhaps be able to tell you.”
the prince held out the letter silently, but with a shaking hand.
“what, what?” said the general, much agitated.
“what’s all this?
is he really heir to anything?”
all present concentrated their attention upon ptitsin, reading the prince’s letter.
the general curiosity had received a new fillip.
ferdishenko could not sit still.
rogojin fixed his eyes first on the prince, and then on ptitsin, and then back again; he was extremely agitated.
lebedeff could not stand it.
he crept up and read over ptitsin’s shoulder, with the air of a naughty boy who expects a box on the ear every moment for his indiscretion.
xvi.
“it’s good business,” said ptitsin, at last, folding the letter and handing it back to the prince.
“you will receive, without the slightest trouble, by the last will and testament of your aunt, a very large sum of money indeed.”
“impossible!” cried the general, starting up as if he had been shot.
ptitsin explained, for the benefit of the company, that the prince’s aunt had died five months since.
he had never known her, but she was his mother’s own sister, the daughter of a moscow merchant, one paparchin, who had died a bankrupt.
but the elder brother of this same paparchin, had been an eminent and very rich merchant.
a year since it had so happened that his only two sons had both died within the same month.
this sad event had so affected the old man that he, too, had died very shortly after.
he was a widower, and had no relations left, excepting the prince’s aunt, a poor woman living on charity, who was herself at the point of death from dropsy; but who had time, before she died, to set salaskin to work to find her nephew, and to make her will bequeathing her newly-acquired fortune to him.
it appeared that neither the prince, nor the doctor with whom he lived in switzerland, had thought of waiting for further communications; but the prince had started straight away with salaskin’s letter in his pocket.
“one thing i may tell you, for certain,” concluded ptitsin, addressing the prince, “that there is no question about the authenticity of this matter.
anything that salaskin writes you as regards your unquestionable right to this inheritance, you may look upon as so much money in your pocket.
i congratulate you, prince; you may receive a million and a half of roubles, perhaps more; i don’t know.
all i do know is that paparchin was a very rich merchant indeed.”
“hurrah!” cried lebedeff, in a drunken voice.
“hurrah for the last of the muishkins!”
“my goodness me!
and i gave him twenty-five roubles this morning as though he were a beggar,” blurted out the general, half senseless with amazement.
“well, i congratulate you, i congratulate you!” and the general rose from his seat and solemnly embraced the prince.
all came forward with congratulations; even those of rogojin’s party who had retreated into the next room, now crept softly back to look on.
for the moment even nastasia philipovna was forgotten.
but gradually the consciousness crept back into the minds of each one present that the prince had just made her an offer of marriage.
the situation had, therefore, become three times as fantastic as before.
totski sat and shrugged his shoulders, bewildered.
he was the only guest left sitting at this time; the others had thronged round the table in disorder, and were all talking at once.
it was generally agreed, afterwards, in recalling that evening, that from this moment nastasia philipovna seemed entirely to lose her senses.
she continued to sit still in her place, looking around at her guests with a strange, bewildered expression, as though she were trying to collect her thoughts, and could not.
then she suddenly turned to the prince, and glared at him with frowning brows; but this only lasted one moment.
perhaps it suddenly struck her that all this was a jest, but his face seemed to reassure her.
she reflected, and smiled again, vaguely.
“so i am really a princess,” she whispered to herself, ironically, and glancing accidentally at daria alexeyevna’s face, she burst out laughing.
“ha, ha, ha!” she cried, “this is an unexpected climax, after all.
i didn’t expect this.
what are you all standing up for, gentlemen?
sit down; congratulate me and the prince!
ferdishenko, just step out and order some more champagne, will you?
katia, pasha,” she added suddenly, seeing the servants at the door, “come here!
i’m going to be married, did you hear?
to the prince.
he has a million and a half of roubles; he is prince muishkin, and has asked me to marry him.
here, prince, come and sit by me; and here comes the wine.
now then, ladies and gentlemen, where are your congratulations?”
“hurrah!” cried a number of voices.
a rush was made for the wine by rogojin’s followers, though, even among them, there seemed some sort of realization that the situation had changed.
rogojin stood and looked on, with an incredulous smile, screwing up one side of his mouth.
“prince, my dear fellow, do remember what you are about,” said the general, approaching muishkin, and pulling him by the coat sleeve.
nastasia philipovna overheard the remark, and burst out laughing.
“no, no, general!” she cried.
“you had better look out!
i am the princess now, you know.
the prince won’t let you insult me.
afanasy ivanovitch, why don’t you congratulate me?
i shall be able to sit at table with your new wife, now.
aha!
you see what i gain by marrying a prince!
a million and a half, and a prince, and an idiot into the bargain, they say.
what better could i wish for?
life is only just about to commence for me in earnest.
rogojin, you are a little too late.
away with your paper parcel!
i’m going to marry the prince; i’m richer than you are now.”
but rogojin understood how things were tending, at last.
an inexpressibly painful expression came over his face.
he wrung his hands; a groan made its way up from the depths of his soul.
“surrender her, for god’s sake!” he said to the prince.
all around burst out laughing.
“what?
surrender her to you?” cried daria alexeyevna.
“to a fellow who comes and bargains for a wife like a moujik!
the prince wishes to marry her, and you ”
“so do i, so do i!
this moment, if i could!
i’d give every farthing i have to do it.”
“you drunken moujik,” said daria alexeyevna, once more.
“you ought to be kicked out of the place.”
the laughter became louder than ever.
“do you hear, prince?” said nastasia philipovna.
“do you hear how this moujik of a fellow goes on bargaining for your bride?”
“he is drunk,” said the prince, quietly, “and he loves you very much.”
“won’t you be ashamed, afterwards, to reflect that your wife very nearly ran away with rogojin?”
“oh, you were raving, you were in a fever; you are still half delirious.”
“and won’t you be ashamed when they tell you, afterwards, that your wife lived at totski’s expense so many years?”
“no; i shall not be ashamed of that.
you did not so live by your own will.”
“and you’ll never reproach me with it?”
“never.”
“take care, don’t commit yourself for a whole lifetime.”
“nastasia philipovna.” said the prince, quietly, and with deep emotion, “i said before that i shall esteem your consent to be my wife as a great honour to myself, and shall consider that it is you who will honour me, not i you, by our marriage.
you laughed at these words, and others around us laughed as well; i heard them.
very likely i expressed myself funnily, and i may have looked funny, but, for all that, i believe i understand where honour lies, and what i said was but the literal truth.
you were about to ruin yourself just now, irrevocably; you would never have forgiven yourself for so doing afterwards; and yet, you are absolutely blameless.
it is impossible that your life should be altogether ruined at your age.
what matter that rogojin came bargaining here, and that gavrila ardalionovitch would have deceived you if he could?
why do you continually remind us of these facts?
i assure you once more that very few could find it in them to act as you have acted this day.
as for your wish to go with rogojin, that was simply the idea of a delirious and suffering brain.
you are still quite feverish; you ought to be in bed, not here.
you know quite well that if you had gone with rogojin, you would have become a washer-woman next day, rather than stay with him.
you are proud, nastasia philipovna, and perhaps you have really suffered so much that you imagine yourself to be a desperately guilty woman.
you require a great deal of petting and looking after, nastasia philipovna, and i will do this.
i saw your portrait this morning, and it seemed quite a familiar face to me; it seemed to me that the portrait-face was calling to me for help.
i i shall respect you all my life, nastasia philipovna,” concluded the prince, as though suddenly recollecting himself, and blushing to think of the sort of company before whom he had said all this.
ptitsin bowed his head and looked at the ground, overcome by a mixture of feelings.
totski muttered to himself: “he may be an idiot, but he knows that flattery is the best road to success here.”
the prince observed gania’s eyes flashing at him, as though they would gladly annihilate him then and there.
“that’s a kind-hearted man, if you like,” said daria alexeyevna, whose wrath was quickly evaporating.
“a refined man, but lost,” murmured the general.
totski took his hat and rose to go.
he and the general exchanged glances, making a private arrangement, thereby, to leave the house together.
“thank you, prince; no one has ever spoken to me like that before,”
began nastasia philipovna.
“men have always bargained for me, before this; and not a single respectable man has ever proposed to marry me.
do you hear, afanasy ivanovitch?
what do you think of what the prince has just been saying?
it was almost immodest, wasn’t it?
you, rogojin, wait a moment, don’t go yet!
i see you don’t intend to move however.
perhaps i may go with you yet.
where did you mean to take me to?”
“to ekaterinhof,” replied lebedeff.
rogojin simply stood staring, with trembling lips, not daring to believe his ears.
he was stunned, as though from a blow on the head.
“what are you thinking of, my dear nastasia?” said daria alexeyevna in alarm.
“what are you saying?” “you are not going mad, are you?”
nastasia philipovna burst out laughing and jumped up from the sofa.
“you thought i should accept this good child’s invitation to ruin him, did you?” she cried.
“that’s totski’s way, not mine.
he’s fond of children.
come along, rogojin, get your money ready!
we won’t talk about marrying just at this moment, but let’s see the money at all events.
come!
i may not marry you, either.
i don’t know.
i suppose you thought you’d keep the money, if i did!
ha, ha, ha!
nonsense!
i have no sense of shame left.
i tell you i have been totski’s concubine.
prince, you must marry aglaya ivanovna, not nastasia philipovna, or this fellow ferdishenko will always be pointing the finger of scorn at you.
you aren’t afraid, i know; but i should always be afraid that i had ruined you, and that you would reproach me for it.
as for what you say about my doing you honour by marrying you well, totski can tell you all about that.
you had your eye on aglaya, gania, you know you had; and you might have married her if you had not come bargaining.
you are all like this.
you should choose, once for all, between disreputable women, and respectable ones, or you are sure to get mixed.
look at the general, how he’s staring at me!”
“this is too horrible,” said the general, starting to his feet.
all were standing up now.
nastasia was absolutely beside herself.
“i am very proud, in spite of what i am,” she continued.
“you called me ‘perfection’ just now, prince.
a nice sort of perfection to throw up a prince and a million and a half of roubles in order to be able to boast of the fact afterwards!
what sort of a wife should i make for you, after all i have said?
afanasy ivanovitch, do you observe i have really and truly thrown away a million of roubles?
and you thought that i should consider your wretched seventy-five thousand, with gania thrown in for a husband, a paradise of bliss!
take your seventy-five thousand back, sir; you did not reach the hundred thousand.
rogojin cut a better dash than you did.
i’ll console gania myself; i have an idea about that.
but now i must be off!
i’ve been in prison for ten years.
i’m free at last!
well, rogojin, what are you waiting for?
let’s get ready and go.”
“come along!” shouted rogojin, beside himself with joy.
“hey!
all of you fellows!
wine!
round with it!
fill the glasses!”
“get away!” he shouted frantically, observing that daria alexeyevna was approaching to protest against nastasia’s conduct.
“get away, she’s mine, everything’s mine!
she’s a queen, get away!”
he was panting with ecstasy.
he walked round and round nastasia philipovna and told everybody to “keep their distance.”
all the rogojin company were now collected in the drawing-room; some were drinking, some laughed and talked: all were in the highest and wildest spirits.
ferdishenko was doing his best to unite himself to them; the general and totski again made an attempt to go.
gania, too stood hat in hand ready to go; but seemed to be unable to tear his eyes away from the scene before him.
“get out, keep your distance!” shouted rogojin.
“what are you shouting about there!” cried nastasia “i’m not yours yet.
i may kick you out for all you know i haven’t taken your money yet; there it all is on the table.
here, give me over that packet!
is there a hundred thousand roubles in that one packet?
pfu!
what abominable stuff it looks!
oh!
nonsense, daria alexeyevna; you surely did not expect me to ruin him?” (indicating the prince).
“fancy him nursing me!
why, he needs a nurse himself!
the general, there, will be his nurse now, you’ll see.
here, prince, look here!
your bride is accepting money.
what a disreputable woman she must be!
and you wished to marry her!
what are you crying about?
is it a bitter dose?
never mind, you shall laugh yet.
trust to time.” (in spite of these words there were two large tears rolling down nastasia’s own cheeks.)
“it’s far better to think twice of it now than afterwards.
oh!
you mustn’t cry like that!
there’s katia crying, too.
what is it, katia, dear?
i shall leave you and pasha a lot of things, i’ve laid them out for you already; but good-bye, now.
i made an honest girl like you serve a low woman like myself.
it’s better so, prince, it is indeed.
you’d begin to despise me afterwards we should never be happy.
oh!
you needn’t swear, prince, i shan’t believe you, you know.
how foolish it would be, too!
no, no; we’d better say good-bye and part friends.
i am a bit of a dreamer myself, and i used to dream of you once.
very often during those five years down at his estate i used to dream and think, and i always imagined just such a good, honest, foolish fellow as you, one who should come and say to me: ‘you are an innocent woman, nastasia philipovna, and i adore you.’ i dreamt of you often.
i used to think so much down there that i nearly went mad; and then this fellow here would come down.
he would stay a couple of months out of the twelve, and disgrace and insult and deprave me, and then go; so that i longed to drown myself in the pond a thousand times over; but i did not dare do it.
i hadn’t the heart, and now well, are you ready, rogojin?”
“ready keep your distance, all of you!”
“we’re all ready,” said several of his friends.
“the troikas [sledges drawn by three horses abreast.]
are at the door, bells and all.”
nastasia philipovna seized the packet of bank-notes.
“gania, i have an idea.
i wish to recompense you why should you lose all?
rogojin, would he crawl for three roubles as far as the vassiliostrof?”
“oh, wouldn’t he just!”
“well, look here, gania.
i wish to look into your heart once more, for the last time.
you’ve worried me for the last three months now it’s my turn.
do you see this packet?
it contains a hundred thousand roubles.
now, i’m going to throw it into the fire, here before all these witnesses.
as soon as the fire catches hold of it, you put your hands into the fire and pick it out without gloves, you know.
you must have bare hands, and you must turn your sleeves up.
pull it out, i say, and it’s all yours.
you may burn your fingers a little, of course; but then it’s a hundred thousand roubles, remember it won’t take you long to lay hold of it and snatch it out.
i shall so much admire you if you put your hands into the fire for my money.
all here present may be witnesses that the whole packet of money is yours if you get it out.
if you don’t get it out, it shall burn.
i will let no one else come; away get away, all of you it’s my money!
rogojin has bought me with it.
is it my money, rogojin?”
“yes, my queen; it’s your own money, my joy.”
“get away then, all of you.
i shall do as i like with my own don’t meddle!
ferdishenko, make up the fire, quick!”
“nastasia philipovna, i can’t; my hands won’t obey me,” said ferdishenko, astounded and helpless with bewilderment.
“nonsense,” cried nastasia philipovna, seizing the poker and raking a couple of logs together.
no sooner did a tongue of flame burst out than she threw the packet of notes upon it.
everyone gasped; some even crossed themselves.
“she’s mad she’s mad!” was the cry.
“oughtn’t-oughtn’t we to secure her?” asked the general of ptitsin, in a whisper; “or shall we send for the authorities?
why, she’s mad, isn’t she isn’t she, eh?”
“n-no, i hardly think she is actually mad,” whispered ptitsin, who was as white as his handkerchief, and trembling like a leaf.
he could not take his eyes off the smouldering packet.
“she’s mad surely, isn’t she?” the general appealed to totski.
“i told you she wasn’t an ordinary woman,” replied the latter, who was as pale as anyone.
“oh, but, positively, you know a hundred thousand roubles!”
“goodness gracious!
good heavens!” came from all quarters of the room.
all now crowded round the fire and thronged to see what was going on; everyone lamented and gave vent to exclamations of horror and woe.
some jumped up on chairs in order to get a better view.
daria alexeyevna ran into the next room and whispered excitedly to katia and pasha.
the beautiful german disappeared altogether.
“my lady!
my sovereign!” lamented lebedeff, falling on his knees before nastasia philipovna, and stretching out his hands towards the fire; “it’s a hundred thousand roubles, it is indeed, i packed it up myself, i saw the money!
my queen, let me get into the fire after it say the word i’ll put my whole grey head into the fire for it!
i have a poor lame wife and thirteen children.
my father died of starvation last week.
nastasia philipovna, nastasia philipovna!” the wretched little man wept, and groaned, and crawled towards the fire.
“away, out of the way!” cried nastasia.
“make room, all of you!
gania, what are you standing there for?
don’t stand on ceremony.
put in your hand!
there’s your whole happiness smouldering away, look!
quick!”
but gania had borne too much that day, and especially this evening, and he was not prepared for this last, quite unexpected trial.
the crowd parted on each side of him and he was left face to face with nastasia philipovna, three paces from her.
she stood by the fire and waited, with her intent gaze fixed upon him.
gania stood before her, in his evening clothes, holding his white gloves and hat in his hand, speechless and motionless, with arms folded and eyes fixed on the fire.
a silly, meaningless smile played on his white, death-like lips.
he could not take his eyes off the smouldering packet; but it appeared that something new had come to birth in his soul as though he were vowing to himself that he would bear this trial.
he did not move from his place.
in a few seconds it became evident to all that he did not intend to rescue the money.
“hey!
look at it, it’ll burn in another minute or two!” cried nastasia philipovna.
“you’ll hang yourself afterwards, you know, if it does!
i’m not joking.”
the fire, choked between a couple of smouldering pieces of wood, had died down for the first few moments after the packet was thrown upon it.
but a little tongue of fire now began to lick the paper from below, and soon, gathering courage, mounted the sides of the parcel, and crept around it.
in another moment, the whole of it burst into flames, and the exclamations of woe and horror were redoubled.
“nastasia philipovna!” lamented lebedeff again, straining towards the fireplace; but rogojin dragged him away, and pushed him to the rear once more.
the whole of rogojin’s being was concentrated in one rapturous gaze of ecstasy.
he could not take his eyes off nastasia.
he stood drinking her in, as it were.
he was in the seventh heaven of delight.
“oh, what a queen she is!” he ejaculated, every other minute, throwing out the remark for anyone who liked to catch it.
“that’s the sort of woman for me!
which of you would think of doing a thing like that, you blackguards, eh?” he yelled.
he was hopelessly and wildly beside himself with ecstasy.
the prince watched the whole scene, silent and dejected.
“i’ll pull it out with my teeth for one thousand,” said ferdishenko.
“so would i,” said another, from behind, “with pleasure.
devil take the thing!” he added, in a tempest of despair, “it will all be burnt up in a minute it’s burning, it’s burning!”
“it’s burning, it’s burning!” cried all, thronging nearer and nearer to the fire in their excitement.
“gania, don’t be a fool!
i tell you for the last time.”
“get on, quick!” shrieked ferdishenko, rushing wildly up to gania, and trying to drag him to the fire by the sleeve of his coat.
“get it, you dummy, it’s burning away fast!
oh damn the thing!”
gania hurled ferdishenko from him; then he turned sharp round and made for the door.
but he had not gone a couple of steps when he tottered and fell to the ground.
“he’s fainted!” the cry went round.
“and the money’s burning still,” lebedeff lamented.
“burning for nothing,” shouted others.
“katia-pasha!
bring him some water!” cried nastasia philipovna.
then she took the tongs and fished out the packet.
nearly the whole of the outer covering was burned away, but it was soon evident that the contents were hardly touched.
the packet had been wrapped in a threefold covering of newspaper, and the notes were safe.
all breathed more freely.
“some dirty little thousand or so may be touched,” said lebedeff, immensely relieved, “but there’s very little harm done, after all.”
“it’s all his the whole packet is for him, do you hear all of you?”
cried nastasia philipovna, placing the packet by the side of gania.
“he restrained himself, and didn’t go after it; so his self-respect is greater than his thirst for money.
all right he’ll come to directly he must have the packet or he’ll cut his throat afterwards.
there!
he’s coming to himself.
general, totski, all of you, did you hear me?
the money is all gania’s.
i give it to him, fully conscious of my action, as recompense for well, for anything he thinks best.
tell him so.
let it lie here beside him.
off we go, rogojin!
goodbye, prince.
i have seen a man for the first time in my life.
goodbye, afanasy ivanovitch and thanks!”
the rogojin gang followed their leader and nastasia philipovna to the entrance-hall, laughing and shouting and whistling.
in the hall the servants were waiting, and handed her her fur cloak.
martha, the cook, ran in from the kitchen.
nastasia kissed them all round.
“are you really throwing us all over, little mother?
where, where are you going to?
and on your birthday, too!” cried the four girls, crying over her and kissing her hands.
“i am going out into the world, katia; perhaps i shall be a laundress.
i don’t know.
no more of afanasy ivanovitch, anyhow.
give him my respects.
don’t think badly of me, girls.”
the prince hurried down to the front gate where the party were settling into the troikas, all the bells tinkling a merry accompaniment the while.
the general caught him up on the stairs:
“prince, prince!” he cried, seizing hold of his arm, “recollect yourself!
drop her, prince!
you see what sort of a woman she is.
i am speaking to you like a father.”
the prince glanced at him, but said nothing.
he shook himself free, and rushed on downstairs.
the general was just in time to see the prince take the first sledge he could get, and, giving the order to ekaterinhof, start off in pursuit of the troikas.
then the general’s fine grey horse dragged that worthy home, with some new thoughts, and some new hopes and calculations developing in his brain, and with the pearls in his pocket, for he had not forgotten to bring them along with him, being a man of business.
amid his new thoughts and ideas there came, once or twice, the image of nastasia philipovna.
the general sighed.
“i’m sorry, really sorry,” he muttered.
“she’s a ruined woman.
mad!
mad!
however, the prince is not for nastasia philipovna now, perhaps it’s as well.”
two more of nastasia’s guests, who walked a short distance together, indulged in high moral sentiments of a similar nature.
“do you know, totski, this is all very like what they say goes on among the japanese?” said ptitsin.
“the offended party there, they say, marches off to his insulter and says to him, ‘you insulted me, so i have come to rip myself open before your eyes;’ and with these words he does actually rip his stomach open before his enemy, and considers, doubtless, that he is having all possible and necessary satisfaction and revenge.
there are strange characters in the world, sir!”
“h’m!
and you think there was something of this sort here, do you?
dear me a very remarkable comparison, you know!
but you must have observed, my dear ptitsin, that i did all i possibly could.
i could do no more than i did.
and you must admit that there are some rare qualities in this woman.
i felt i could not speak in that bedlam, or i should have been tempted to cry out, when she reproached me, that she herself was my best justification.
such a woman could make anyone forget all reason everything!
even that moujik, rogojin, you saw, brought her a hundred thousand roubles!
of course, all that happened tonight was ephemeral, fantastic, unseemly yet it lacked neither colour nor originality.
my god!
what might not have been made of such a character combined with such beauty!
yet in spite of all efforts in spite of all education, even all those gifts are wasted!
she is an uncut diamond....
i have often said so.”
and afanasy ivanovitch heaved a deep sigh.
part ii
i.
two days after the strange conclusion to nastasia philipovna’s birthday party, with the record of which we concluded the first part of this story, prince muishkin hurriedly left st. petersburg for moscow, in order to see after some business connected with the receipt of his unexpected fortune.
it was said that there were other reasons for his hurried departure; but as to this, and as to his movements in moscow, and as to his prolonged absence from st. petersburg, we are able to give very little information.
the prince was away for six months, and even those who were most interested in his destiny were able to pick up very little news about him all that while.
true, certain rumours did reach his friends, but these were both strange and rare, and each one contradicted the last.
of course the epanchin family was much interested in his movements, though he had not had time to bid them farewell before his departure.
the general, however, had had an opportunity of seeing him once or twice since the eventful evening, and had spoken very seriously with him; but though he had seen the prince, as i say, he told his family nothing about the circumstance.
in fact, for a month or so after his departure it was considered not the thing to mention the prince’s name in the epanchin household.
only mrs. epanchin, at the commencement of this period, had announced that she had been “cruelly mistaken in the prince!” and a day or two after, she had added, evidently alluding to him, but not mentioning his name, that it was an unalterable characteristic of hers to be mistaken in people.
then once more, ten days later, after some passage of arms with one of her daughters, she had remarked sententiously.
“we have had enough of mistakes.
i shall be more careful in future!” however, it was impossible to avoid remarking that there was some sense of oppression in the household something unspoken, but felt; something strained.
all the members of the family wore frowning looks.
the general was unusually busy; his family hardly ever saw him.
as to the girls, nothing was said openly, at all events; and probably very little in private.
they were proud damsels, and were not always perfectly confidential even among themselves.
but they understood each other thoroughly at the first word on all occasions; very often at the first glance, so that there was no need of much talking as a rule.
one fact, at least, would have been perfectly plain to an outsider, had any such person been on the spot; and that was, that the prince had made a very considerable impression upon the family, in spite of the fact that he had but once been inside the house, and then only for a short time.
of course, if analyzed, this impression might have proved to be nothing more than a feeling of curiosity; but be it what it might, there it undoubtedly was.
little by little, the rumours spread about town became lost in a maze of uncertainty.
it was said that some foolish young prince, name unknown, had suddenly come into possession of a gigantic fortune, and had married a french ballet dancer.
this was contradicted, and the rumour circulated that it was a young merchant who had come into the enormous fortune and married the great ballet dancer, and that at the wedding the drunken young fool had burned seventy thousand roubles at a candle out of pure bravado.
however, all these rumours soon died down, to which circumstance certain facts largely contributed.
for instance, the whole of the rogojin troop had departed, with him at their head, for moscow.
this was exactly a week after a dreadful orgy at the ekaterinhof gardens, where nastasia philipovna had been present.
it became known that after this orgy nastasia philipovna had entirely disappeared, and that she had since been traced to moscow; so that the exodus of the rogojin band was found consistent with this report.
there were rumours current as to gania, too; but circumstances soon contradicted these.
he had fallen seriously ill, and his illness precluded his appearance in society, and even at business, for over a month.
as soon as he had recovered, however, he threw up his situation in the public company under general epanchin’s direction, for some unknown reason, and the post was given to another.
he never went near the epanchins’ house at all, and was exceedingly irritable and depressed.
varvara ardalionovna married ptitsin this winter, and it was said that the fact of gania’s retirement from business was the ultimate cause of the marriage, since gania was now not only unable to support his family, but even required help himself.
we may mention that gania was no longer mentioned in the epanchin household any more than the prince was; but that a certain circumstance in connection with the fatal evening at nastasia’s house became known to the general, and, in fact, to all the family the very next day.
this fact was that gania had come home that night, but had refused to go to bed.
he had awaited the prince’s return from ekaterinhof with feverish impatience.
on the latter’s arrival, at six in the morning, gania had gone to him in his room, bringing with him the singed packet of money, which he had insisted that the prince should return to nastasia philipovna without delay.
it was said that when gania entered the prince’s room, he came with anything but friendly feelings, and in a condition of despair and misery; but that after a short conversation, he had stayed on for a couple of hours with him, sobbing continuously and bitterly the whole time.
they had parted upon terms of cordial friendship.
the epanchins heard about this, as well as about the episode at nastasia philipovna’s.
it was strange, perhaps, that the facts should become so quickly, and fairly accurately, known.
as far as gania was concerned, it might have been supposed that the news had come through varvara ardalionovna, who had suddenly become a frequent visitor of the epanchin girls, greatly to their mother’s surprise.
but though varvara had seen fit, for some reason, to make friends with them, it was not likely that she would have talked to them about her brother.
she had plenty of pride, in spite of the fact that in thus acting she was seeking intimacy with people who had practically shown her brother the door.
she and the epanchin girls had been acquainted in childhood, although of late they had met but rarely.
even now varvara hardly ever appeared in the drawing-room, but would slip in by a back way.
lizabetha prokofievna, who disliked varvara, although she had a great respect for her mother, was much annoyed by this sudden intimacy, and put it down to the general “contrariness” of her daughters, who were “always on the lookout for some new way of opposing her.” nevertheless, varvara continued her visits.
a month after muishkin’s departure, mrs. epanchin received a letter from her old friend princess bielokonski (who had lately left for moscow), which letter put her into the greatest good humour.
she did not divulge its contents either to her daughters or the general, but her conduct towards the former became affectionate in the extreme.
she even made some sort of confession to them, but they were unable to understand what it was about.
she actually relaxed towards the general a little he had been long disgraced and though she managed to quarrel with them all the next day, yet she soon came round, and from her general behaviour it was to be concluded that she had had good news of some sort, which she would like, but could not make up her mind, to disclose.
however, a week later she received another letter from the same source, and at last resolved to speak.
she solemnly announced that she had heard from old princess bielokonski, who had given her most comforting news about “that queer young prince.”
her friend had hunted him up, and found that all was going well with him.
he had since called in person upon her, making an extremely favourable impression, for the princess had received him each day since, and had introduced him into several good houses.
the girls could see that their mother concealed a great deal from them, and left out large pieces of the letter in reading it to them.
however, the ice was broken, and it suddenly became possible to mention the prince’s name again.
and again it became evident how very strong was the impression the young man had made in the household by his one visit there.
mrs. epanchin was surprised at the effect which the news from moscow had upon the girls, and they were no less surprised that after solemnly remarking that her most striking characteristic was “being mistaken in people” she should have troubled to obtain for the prince the favour and protection of so powerful an old lady as the princess bielokonski.
as soon as the ice was thus broken, the general lost no time in showing that he, too, took the greatest interest in the subject.
he admitted that he was interested, but said that it was merely in the business side of the question.
it appeared that, in the interests of the prince, he had made arrangements in moscow for a careful watch to be kept upon the prince’s business affairs, and especially upon salaskin.
all that had been said as to the prince being an undoubted heir to a fortune turned out to be perfectly true; but the fortune proved to be much smaller than was at first reported.
the estate was considerably encumbered with debts; creditors turned up on all sides, and the prince, in spite of all advice and entreaty, insisted upon managing all matters of claim himself which, of course, meant satisfying everybody all round, although half the claims were absolutely fraudulent.
mrs. epanchin confirmed all this.
she said the princess had written to much the same effect, and added that there was no curing a fool.
but it was plain, from her expression of face, how strongly she approved of this particular young fool’s doings.
in conclusion, the general observed that his wife took as great an interest in the prince as though he were her own son; and that she had commenced to be especially affectionate towards aglaya was a self-evident fact.
all this caused the general to look grave and important.
but, alas!
this agreeable state of affairs very soon changed once more.
a couple of weeks went by, and suddenly the general and his wife were once more gloomy and silent, and the ice was as firm as ever.
the fact was, the general, who had heard first, how nastasia philipovna had fled to moscow and had been discovered there by rogojin; that she had then disappeared once more, and been found again by rogojin, and how after that she had almost promised to marry him, now received news that she had once more disappeared, almost on the very day fixed for her wedding, flying somewhere into the interior of russia this time, and that prince muishkin had left all his affairs in the hands of salaskin and disappeared also but whether he was with nastasia, or had only set off in search of her, was unknown.
lizabetha prokofievna received confirmatory news from the princess and alas, two months after the prince’s first departure from st. petersburg, darkness and mystery once more enveloped his whereabouts and actions, and in the epanchin family the ice of silence once more formed over the subject.
varia, however, informed the girls of what had happened, she having received the news from ptitsin, who generally knew more than most people.
to make an end, we may say that there were many changes in the epanchin household in the spring, so that it was not difficult to forget the prince, who sent no news of himself.
the epanchin family had at last made up their minds to spend the summer abroad, all except the general, who could not waste time in “travelling for enjoyment,” of course.
this arrangement was brought about by the persistence of the girls, who insisted that they were never allowed to go abroad because their parents were too anxious to marry them off.
perhaps their parents had at last come to the conclusion that husbands might be found abroad, and that a summer’s travel might bear fruit.
the marriage between alexandra and totski had been broken off.
since the prince’s departure from st. petersburg no more had been said about it; the subject had been dropped without ceremony, much to the joy of mrs.
general, who, announced that she was “ready to cross herself with both hands” in gratitude for the escape.
the general, however, regretted totski for a long while.
“such a fortune!” he sighed, “and such a good, easy-going fellow!”
after a time it became known that totski had married a french marquise, and was to be carried off by her to paris, and then to brittany.
“oh, well,” thought the general, “he’s lost to us for good, now.”
so the epanchins prepared to depart for the summer.
but now another circumstance occurred, which changed all the plans once more, and again the intended journey was put off, much to the delight of the general and his spouse.
a certain prince s   arrived in st. petersburg from moscow, an eminent and honourable young man.
he was one of those active persons who always find some good work with which to employ themselves.
without forcing himself upon the public notice, modest and unobtrusive, this young prince was concerned with much that happened in the world in general.
he had served, at first, in one of the civil departments, had then attended to matters connected with the local government of provincial towns, and had of late been a corresponding member of several important scientific societies.
he was a man of excellent family and solid means, about thirty-five years of age.
prince s   made the acquaintance of the general’s family, and adelaida, the second girl, made a great impression upon him.
towards the spring he proposed to her, and she accepted him.
the general and his wife were delighted.
the journey abroad was put off, and the wedding was fixed for a day not very distant.
the trip abroad might have been enjoyed later on by mrs. epanchin and her two remaining daughters, but for another circumstance.
it so happened that prince s   introduced a distant relation of his own into the epanchin family one evgenie pavlovitch, a young officer of about twenty-eight years of age, whose conquests among the ladies in moscow had been proverbial.
this young gentleman no sooner set eyes on aglaya than he became a frequent visitor at the house.
he was witty, well-educated, and extremely wealthy, as the general very soon discovered.
his past reputation was the only thing against him.
nothing was said; there were not even any hints dropped; but still, it seemed better to the parents to say nothing more about going abroad this season, at all events.
aglaya herself perhaps was of a different opinion.
all this happened just before the second appearance of our hero upon the scene.
by this time, to judge from appearances, poor prince muishkin had been quite forgotten in st. petersburg.
if he had appeared suddenly among his acquaintances, he would have been received as one from the skies; but we must just glance at one more fact before we conclude this preface.
colia ivolgin, for some time after the prince’s departure, continued his old life.
that is, he went to school, looked after his father, helped varia in the house, and ran her errands, and went frequently to see his friend, hippolyte.
the lodgers had disappeared very quickly ferdishenko soon after the events at nastasia philipovna’s, while the prince went to moscow, as we know.
gania and his mother went to live with varia and ptitsin immediately after the latter’s wedding, while the general was housed in a debtor’s prison by reason of certain iou’s given to the captain’s widow under the impression that they would never be formally used against him.
this unkind action much surprised poor ardalion alexandrovitch, the victim, as he called himself, of an “unbounded trust in the nobility of the human heart.”
when he signed those notes of hand he never dreamt that they would be a source of future trouble.
the event showed that he was mistaken.
“trust in anyone after this!
have the least confidence in man or woman!” he cried in bitter tones, as he sat with his new friends in prison, and recounted to them his favourite stories of the siege of kars, and the resuscitated soldier.
on the whole, he accommodated himself very well to his new position.
ptitsin and varia declared that he was in the right place, and gania was of the same opinion.
the only person who deplored his fate was poor nina alexandrovna, who wept bitter tears over him, to the great surprise of her household, and, though always in feeble health, made a point of going to see him as often as possible.
since the general’s “mishap,” as colia called it, and the marriage of his sister, the boy had quietly possessed himself of far more freedom.
his relations saw little of him, for he rarely slept at home.
he made many new friends; and was moreover, a frequent visitor at the debtor’s prison, to which he invariably accompanied his mother.
varia, who used to be always correcting him, never spoke to him now on the subject of his frequent absences, and the whole household was surprised to see gania, in spite of his depression, on quite friendly terms with his brother.
this was something new, for gania had been wont to look upon colia as a kind of errand-boy, treating him with contempt, threatening to “pull his ears,” and in general driving him almost wild with irritation.
it seemed now that gania really needed his brother, and the latter, for his part, felt as if he could forgive gania much since he had returned the hundred thousand roubles offered to him by nastasia philipovna.
three months after the departure of the prince, the ivolgin family discovered that colia had made acquaintance with the epanchins, and was on very friendly terms with the daughters.
varia heard of it first, though colia had not asked her to introduce him.
little by little the family grew quite fond of him.
madame epanchin at first looked on him with disdain, and received him coldly, but in a short time he grew to please her, because, as she said, he “was candid and no flatterer” a very true description.
from the first he put himself on an equality with his new friends, and though he sometimes read newspapers and books to the mistress of the house, it was simply because he liked to be useful.
one day, however, he and lizabetha prokofievna quarrelled seriously about the “woman question,” in the course of a lively discussion on that burning subject.
he told her that she was a tyrant, and that he would never set foot in her house again.
it may seem incredible, but a day or two after, madame epanchin sent a servant with a note begging him to return, and colia, without standing on his dignity, did so at once.
aglaya was the only one of the family whose good graces he could not gain, and who always spoke to him haughtily, but it so happened that the boy one day succeeded in giving the proud maiden a surprise.
it was about easter, when, taking advantage of a momentary tête-à-tête colia handed aglaya a letter, remarking that he “had orders to deliver it to her privately.” she stared at him in amazement, but he did not wait to hear what she had to say, and went out.
aglaya broke the seal, and read as follows:
“once you did me the honour of giving me your confidence.
perhaps you have quite forgotten me now!
how is it that i am writing to you?
i do not know; but i am conscious of an irresistible desire to remind you of my existence, especially you.
how many times i have needed all three of you; but only you have dwelt always in my mind’s eye.
i need you i need you very much.
i will not write about myself.
i have nothing to tell you.
but i long for you to be happy.
are you happy?
that is all i wished to say to you your brother,
“pr.
l. muishkin.”
on reading this short and disconnected note, aglaya suddenly blushed all over, and became very thoughtful.
it would be difficult to describe her thoughts at that moment.
one of them was, “shall i show it to anyone?” but she was ashamed to show it.
so she ended by hiding it in her table drawer, with a very strange, ironical smile upon her lips.
next day, she took it out, and put it into a large book, as she usually did with papers which she wanted to be able to find easily.
she laughed when, about a week later, she happened to notice the name of the book, and saw that it was don quixote, but it would be difficult to say exactly why.
i cannot say, either, whether she showed the letter to her sisters.
but when she had read it herself once more, it suddenly struck her that surely that conceited boy, colia, had not been the one chosen correspondent of the prince all this while.
she determined to ask him, and did so with an exaggerated show of carelessness.
he informed her haughtily that though he had given the prince his permanent address when the latter left town, and had offered his services, the prince had never before given him any commission to perform, nor had he written until the following lines arrived, with aglaya’s letter.
aglaya took the note, and read it.
“dear colia, please be so kind as to give the enclosed sealed letter to aglaya ivanovna.
keep well ever your loving,
“pr.
l. muishkin.”
“it seems absurd to trust a little pepper-box like you,” said aglaya, as she returned the note, and walked past the “pepper-box” with an expression of great contempt.
this was more than colia could bear.
he had actually borrowed gania’s new green tie for the occasion, without saying why he wanted it, in order to impress her.
he was very deeply mortified.
ii.
it was the beginning of june, and for a whole week the weather in st. petersburg had been magnificent.
the epanchins had a luxurious country-house at pavlofsk, [one of the fashionable summer resorts near st.
petersburg.]
and to this spot mrs. epanchin determined to proceed without further delay.
in a couple of days all was ready, and the family had left town.
a day or two after this removal to pavlofsk, prince muishkin arrived in st. petersburg by the morning train from moscow.
no one met him; but, as he stepped out of the carriage, he suddenly became aware of two strangely glowing eyes fixed upon him from among the crowd that met the train.
on endeavouring to re-discover the eyes, and see to whom they belonged, he could find nothing to guide him.
it must have been a hallucination.
but the disagreeable impression remained, and without this, the prince was sad and thoughtful already, and seemed to be much preoccupied.
his cab took him to a small and bad hotel near the litaynaya.
here he engaged a couple of rooms, dark and badly furnished.
he washed and changed, and hurriedly left the hotel again, as though anxious to waste no time.
anyone who now saw him for the first time since he left petersburg would judge that he had improved vastly so far as his exterior was concerned.
his clothes certainly were very different; they were more fashionable, perhaps even too much so, and anyone inclined to mockery might have found something to smile at in his appearance.
but what is there that people will not smile at?
the prince took a cab and drove to a street near the nativity, where he soon discovered the house he was seeking.
it was a small wooden villa, and he was struck by its attractive and clean appearance; it stood in a pleasant little garden, full of flowers.
the windows looking on the street were open, and the sound of a voice, reading aloud or making a speech, came through them.
it rose at times to a shout, and was interrupted occasionally by bursts of laughter.
prince muishkin entered the court-yard, and ascended the steps.
a cook with her sleeves turned up to the elbows opened the door.
the visitor asked if mr. lebedeff were at home.
“he is in there,” said she, pointing to the salon.
the room had a blue wall-paper, and was well, almost pretentiously, furnished, with its round table, its divan, and its bronze clock under a glass shade.
there was a narrow pier-glass against the wall, and a chandelier adorned with lustres hung by a bronze chain from the ceiling.
when the prince entered, lebedeff was standing in the middle of the room, his back to the door.
he was in his shirt-sleeves, on account of the extreme heat, and he seemed to have just reached the peroration of his speech, and was impressively beating his breast.
his audience consisted of a youth of about fifteen years of age with a clever face, who had a book in his hand, though he was not reading; a young lady of twenty, in deep mourning, stood near him with an infant in her arms; another girl of thirteen, also in black, was laughing loudly, her mouth wide open; and on the sofa lay a handsome young man, with black hair and eyes, and a suspicion of beard and whiskers.
he frequently interrupted the speaker and argued with him, to the great delight of the others.
“lukian timofeyovitch!
lukian timofeyovitch!
here’s someone to see you!
look here!...
a gentleman to speak to you!...
well, it’s not my fault!”
and the cook turned and went away red with anger.
lebedeff started, and at sight of the prince stood like a statue for a moment.
then he moved up to him with an ingratiating smile, but stopped short again.
“prince!
ex-ex-excellency!” he stammered.
then suddenly he ran towards the girl with the infant, a movement so unexpected by her that she staggered and fell back, but next moment he was threatening the other child, who was standing, still laughing, in the doorway.
she screamed, and ran towards the kitchen.
lebedeff stamped his foot angrily; then, seeing the prince regarding him with amazement, he murmured apologetically “pardon to show respect!...
he-he!”
“you are quite wrong...” began the prince.
“at once... at once... in one moment!”
he rushed like a whirlwind from the room, and muishkin looked inquiringly at the others.
they were all laughing, and the guest joined in the chorus.
“he has gone to get his coat,” said the boy.
“how annoying!” exclaimed the prince.
“i thought... tell me, is he...”
“you think he is drunk?” cried the young man on the sofa.
“not in the least.
he’s only had three or four small glasses, perhaps five; but what is that?
the usual thing!”
as the prince opened his mouth to answer, he was interrupted by the girl, whose sweet face wore an expression of absolute frankness.
“he never drinks much in the morning; if you have come to talk business with him, do it now.
it is the best time.
he sometimes comes back drunk in the evening; but just now he passes the greater part of the evening in tears, and reads passages of holy scripture aloud, because our mother died five weeks ago.”
“no doubt he ran off because he did not know what to say to you,”
said the youth on the divan.
“i bet he is trying to cheat you, and is thinking how best to do it.”
just then lebedeff returned, having put on his coat.
“five weeks!” said he, wiping his eyes.
“only five weeks!
poor orphans!”
“but why wear a coat in holes,” asked the girl, “when your new one is hanging behind the door?
did you not see it?”
“hold your tongue, dragon-fly!” he scolded.
“what a plague you are!” he stamped his foot irritably, but she only laughed, and answered:
“are you trying to frighten me?
i am not tania, you know, and i don’t intend to run away.
look, you are waking lubotchka, and she will have convulsions again.
why do you shout like that?”
“well, well!
i won’t again,” said the master of the house, his anxiety getting the better of his temper.
he went up to his daughter, and looked at the child in her arms, anxiously making the sign of the cross over her three times.
“god bless her!
god bless her!” he cried with emotion.
“this little creature is my daughter luboff,” addressing the prince.
“my wife, helena, died at her birth; and this is my big daughter vera, in mourning, as you see; and this, this, oh, this,” pointing to the young man on the divan...
“well, go on!
never mind me!” mocked the other.
“don’t be afraid!”
“excellency!
have you read that account of the murder of the zemarin family, in the newspaper?” cried lebedeff, all of a sudden.
“yes,” said muishkin, with some surprise.
“well, that is the murderer!
it is he in fact ”
“what do you mean?” asked the visitor.
“i am speaking allegorically, of course; but he will be the murderer of a zemarin family in the future.
he is getting ready.
...”
they all laughed, and the thought crossed the prince’s mind that perhaps lebedeff was really trifling in this way because he foresaw inconvenient questions, and wanted to gain time.
“he is a traitor!
a conspirator!” shouted lebedeff, who seemed to have lost all control over himself.
“a monster!
a slanderer!
ought i to treat him as a nephew, the son of my sister anisia?”
“oh!
do be quiet!
you must be drunk!
he has taken it into his head to play the lawyer, prince, and he practices speechifying, and is always repeating his eloquent pleadings to his children.
and who do you think was his last client?
an old woman who had been robbed of five hundred roubles, her all, by some rogue of a usurer, besought him to take up her case, instead of which he defended the usurer himself, a jew named zeidler, because this jew promised to give him fifty roubles....”
“it was to be fifty if i won the case, only five if i lost,” interrupted lebedeff, speaking in a low tone, a great contrast to his earlier manner.
“well!
naturally he came to grief: the law is not administered as it used to be, and he only got laughed at for his pains.
but he was much pleased with himself in spite of that.
‘most learned judge!’ said he, ‘picture this unhappy man, crippled by age and infirmities, who gains his living by honourable toil picture him, i repeat, robbed of his all, of his last mouthful; remember, i entreat you, the words of that learned legislator, “let mercy and justice alike rule the courts of law.”’ now, would you believe it, excellency, every morning he recites this speech to us from beginning to end, exactly as he spoke it before the magistrate.
to-day we have heard it for the fifth time.
he was just starting again when you arrived, so much does he admire it.
he is now preparing to undertake another case.
i think, by the way, that you are prince muishkin?
colia tells me you are the cleverest man he has ever known....”
“the cleverest in the world,” interrupted his uncle hastily.
“i do not pay much attention to that opinion,” continued the young man calmly.
“colia is very fond of you, but he,” pointing to lebedeff, “is flattering you.
i can assure you i have no intention of flattering you, or anyone else, but at least you have some common-sense.
well, will you judge between us?
shall we ask the prince to act as arbitrator?” he went on, addressing his uncle.
“i am so glad you chanced to come here, prince.”
“i agree,” said lebedeff, firmly, looking round involuntarily at his daughter, who had come nearer, and was listening attentively to the conversation.
“what is it all about?” asked the prince, frowning.
his head ached, and he felt sure that lebedeff was trying to cheat him in some way, and only talking to put off the explanation that he had come for.
“i will tell you all the story.
i am his nephew; he did speak the truth there, although he is generally telling lies.
i am at the university, and have not yet finished my course.
i mean to do so, and i shall, for i have a determined character.
i must, however, find something to do for the present, and therefore i have got employment on the railway at twenty-four roubles a month.
i admit that my uncle has helped me once or twice before.
well, i had twenty roubles in my pocket, and i gambled them away.
can you believe that i should be so low, so base, as to lose money in that way?”
“and the man who won it is a rogue, a rogue whom you ought not to have paid!” cried lebedeff.
“yes, he is a rogue, but i was obliged to pay him,” said the young man.
“as to his being a rogue, he is assuredly that, and i am not saying it because he beat you.
he is an ex-lieutenant, prince, dismissed from the service, a teacher of boxing, and one of rogojin’s followers.
they are all lounging about the pavements now that rogojin has turned them off.
of course, the worst of it is that, knowing he was a rascal, and a card-sharper, i none the less played palki with him, and risked my last rouble.
to tell the truth, i thought to myself, ‘if i lose, i will go to my uncle, and i am sure he will not refuse to help me.’ now that was base cowardly and base!”
“that is so,” observed lebedeff quietly; “cowardly and base.”
“well, wait a bit, before you begin to triumph,” said the nephew viciously; for the words seemed to irritate him.
“he is delighted!
i came to him here and told him everything: i acted honourably, for i did not excuse myself.
i spoke most severely of my conduct, as everyone here can witness.
but i must smarten myself up before i take up my new post, for i am really like a tramp.
just look at my boots!
i cannot possibly appear like this, and if i am not at the bureau at the time appointed, the job will be given to someone else; and i shall have to try for another.
now i only beg for fifteen roubles, and i give my word that i will never ask him for anything again.
i am also ready to promise to repay my debt in three months’ time, and i will keep my word, even if i have to live on bread and water.
my salary will amount to seventy-five roubles in three months.
the sum i now ask, added to what i have borrowed already, will make a total of about thirty-five roubles, so you see i shall have enough to pay him and confound him!
if he wants interest, he shall have that, too!
haven’t i always paid back the money he lent me before?
why should he be so mean now?
he grudges my having paid that lieutenant; there can be no other reason!
that’s the kind he is a dog in the manger!”
“and he won’t go away!” cried lebedeff.
“he has installed himself here, and here he remains!”
“i have told you already, that i will not go away until i have got what i ask.
why are you smiling, prince?
you look as if you disapproved of me.”
“i am not smiling, but i really think you are in the wrong, somewhat,”
replied muishkin, reluctantly.
“don’t shuffle!
say plainly that you think that i am quite wrong, without any ‘somewhat’!
why ‘somewhat’?”
“i will say you are quite wrong, if you wish.”
“if i wish!
that’s good, i must say!
do you think i am deceived as to the flagrant impropriety of my conduct?
i am quite aware that his money is his own, and that my action is much like an attempt at extortion.
but you-you don’t know what life is!
if people don’t learn by experience, they never understand.
they must be taught.
my intentions are perfectly honest; on my conscience he will lose nothing, and i will pay back the money with interest.
added to which he has had the moral satisfaction of seeing me disgraced.
what does he want more?
and what is he good for if he never helps anyone?
look what he does himself!
just ask him about his dealings with others, how he deceives people!
how did he manage to buy this house?
you may cut off my head if he has not let you in for something and if he is not trying to cheat you again.
you are smiling.
you don’t believe me?”
“it seems to me that all this has nothing to do with your affairs,”
remarked the prince.
“i have lain here now for three days,” cried the young man without noticing, “and i have seen a lot!
fancy!
he suspects his daughter, that angel, that orphan, my cousin he suspects her, and every evening he searches her room, to see if she has a lover hidden in it!
he comes here too on tiptoe, creeping softly oh, so softly and looks under the sofa my bed, you know.
he is mad with suspicion, and sees a thief in every corner.
he runs about all night long; he was up at least seven times last night, to satisfy himself that the windows and doors were barred, and to peep into the oven.
that man who appears in court for scoundrels, rushes in here in the night and prays, lying prostrate, banging his head on the ground by the half-hour and for whom do you think he prays?
who are the sinners figuring in his drunken petitions?
i have heard him with my own ears praying for the repose of the soul of the countess du barry!
colia heard it too.
he is as mad as a march hare!”
“you hear how he slanders me, prince,” said lebedeff, almost beside himself with rage.
“i may be a drunkard, an evil-doer, a thief, but at least i can say one thing for myself.
he does not know how should he, mocker that he is?
that when he came into the world it was i who washed him, and dressed him in his swathing-bands, for my sister anisia had lost her husband, and was in great poverty.
i was very little better off than she, but i sat up night after night with her, and nursed both mother and child; i used to go downstairs and steal wood for them from the house-porter.
how often did i sing him to sleep when i was half dead with hunger!
in short, i was more than a father to him, and now now he jeers at me!
even if i did cross myself, and pray for the repose of the soul of the comtesse du barry, what does it matter?
three days ago, for the first time in my life, i read her biography in an historical dictionary.
do you know who she was?
you there!” addressing his nephew.
“speak!
do you know?”
“of course no one knows anything about her but you,” muttered the young man in a would-be jeering tone.
“she was a countess who rose from shame to reign like a queen.
an empress wrote to her, with her own hand, as ‘ma chère cousine.’ at a lever-du-roi one morning (do you know what a lever-du-roi was?)
a cardinal, a papal legate, offered to put on her stockings; a high and holy person like that looked on it as an honour!
did you know this?
i see by your expression that you did not!
well, how did she die?
answer!”
“oh!
do stop you are too absurd!”
“this is how she died.
after all this honour and glory, after having been almost a queen, she was guillotined by that butcher, samson.
she was quite innocent, but it had to be done, for the satisfaction of the fishwives of paris.
she was so terrified, that she did not understand what was happening.
but when samson seized her head, and pushed her under the knife with his foot, she cried out: ‘wait a moment!
wait a moment, monsieur!’ well, because of that moment of bitter suffering, perhaps the saviour will pardon her other faults, for one cannot imagine a greater agony.
as i read the story my heart bled for her.
and what does it matter to you, little worm, if i implored the divine mercy for her, great sinner as she was, as i said my evening prayer?
i might have done it because i doubted if anyone had ever crossed himself for her sake before.
it may be that in the other world she will rejoice to think that a sinner like herself has cried to heaven for the salvation of her soul.
why are you laughing?
you believe nothing, atheist!
and your story was not even correct!
if you had listened to what i was saying, you would have heard that i did not only pray for the comtesse du barry.
i said, ‘oh lord!
give rest to the soul of that great sinner, the comtesse du barry, and to all unhappy ones like her.’ you see that is quite a different thing, for how many sinners there are, how many women, who have passed through the trials of this life, are now suffering and groaning in purgatory!
i prayed for you, too, in spite of your insolence and impudence, also for your fellows, as it seems that you claim to know how i pray...”
“oh!
that’s enough in all conscience!
pray for whom you choose, and the devil take them and you!
we have a scholar here; you did not know that, prince?” he continued, with a sneer.
“he reads all sorts of books and memoirs now.”
“at any rate, your uncle has a kind heart,” remarked the prince, who really had to force himself to speak to the nephew, so much did he dislike him.
“oh, now you are going to praise him!
he will be set up!
he puts his hand on his heart, and he is delighted!
i never said he was a man without heart, but he is a rascal that’s the pity of it.
and then, he is addicted to drink, and his mind is unhinged, like that of most people who have taken more than is good for them for years.
he loves his children oh, i know that well enough!
he respected my aunt, his late wife... and he even has a sort of affection for me.
he has remembered me in his will.”
“i shall leave you nothing!” exclaimed his uncle angrily.
“listen to me, lebedeff,” said the prince in a decided voice, turning his back on the young man.
“i know by experience that when you choose, you can be business-like... i have very little time to spare, and if you... by the way excuse me what is your christian name?
i have forgotten it.”
“ti-ti-timofey.”
“and?”
“lukianovitch.”
everyone in the room began to laugh.
“he is telling lies!” cried the nephew.
“even now he cannot speak the truth.
he is not called timofey lukianovitch, prince, but lukian timofeyovitch.
now do tell us why you must needs lie about it?
lukian or timofey, it is all the same to you, and what difference can it make to the prince?
he tells lies without the least necessity, simply by force of habit, i assure you.”
“is that true?” said the prince impatiently.
“my name really is lukian timofeyovitch,” acknowledged lebedeff, lowering his eyes, and putting his hand on his heart.
“well, for god’s sake, what made you say the other?”
“to humble myself,” murmured lebedeff.
“what on earth do you mean?
oh i if only i knew where colia was at this moment!” cried the prince, standing up, as if to go.
“i can tell you all about colia,” said the young man
“oh!
no, no!” said lebedeff, hurriedly.
“colia spent the night here, and this morning went after his father, whom you let out of prison by paying his debts heaven only knows why!
yesterday the general promised to come and lodge here, but he did not appear.
most probably he slept at the hotel close by.
no doubt colia is there, unless he has gone to pavlofsk to see the epanchins.
he had a little money, and was intending to go there yesterday.
he must be either at the hotel or at pavlofsk.”
“at pavlofsk!
he is at pavlofsk, undoubtedly!” interrupted lebedeff....
“but come let us go into the garden we will have coffee there....” and lebedeff seized the prince’s arm, and led him from the room.
they went across the yard, and found themselves in a delightful little garden with the trees already in their summer dress of green, thanks to the unusually fine weather.
lebedeff invited his guest to sit down on a green seat before a table of the same colour fixed in the earth, and took a seat facing him.
in a few minutes the coffee appeared, and the prince did not refuse it.
the host kept his eyes fixed on muishkin, with an expression of passionate servility.
“i knew nothing about your home before,” said the prince absently, as if he were thinking of something else.
“poor orphans,” began lebedeff, his face assuming a mournful air, but he stopped short, for the other looked at him inattentively, as if he had already forgotten his own remark.
they waited a few minutes in silence, while lebedeff sat with his eyes fixed mournfully on the young man’s face.
“well!” said the latter, at last rousing himself.
“ah!
yes!
you know why i came, lebedeff.
your letter brought me.
speak!
tell me all about it.”
the clerk, rather confused, tried to say something, hesitated, began to speak, and again stopped.
the prince looked at him gravely.
“i think i understand, lukian timofeyovitch: you were not sure that i should come.
you did not think i should start at the first word from you, and you merely wrote to relieve your conscience.
however, you see now that i have come, and i have had enough of trickery.
give up serving, or trying to serve, two masters.
rogojin has been here these three weeks.
have you managed to sell her to him as you did before?
tell me the truth.”
“he discovered everything, the monster... himself......”
“don’t abuse him; though i dare say you have something to complain of....”
“he beat me, he thrashed me unmercifully!” replied lebedeff vehemently.
“he set a dog on me in moscow, a bloodhound, a terrible beast that chased me all down the street.”
“you seem to take me for a child, lebedeff.
tell me, is it a fact that she left him while they were in moscow?”
“yes, it is a fact, and this time, let me tell you, on the very eve of their marriage!
it was a question of minutes when she slipped off to petersburg.
she came to me directly she arrived ‘save me, lukian!
find me some refuge, and say nothing to the prince!’ she is afraid of you, even more than she is of him, and in that she shows her wisdom!” and lebedeff slily put his finger to his brow as he said the last words.
“and now it is you who have brought them together again?”
“excellency, how could i, how could i prevent it?”
“that will do.
i can find out for myself.
only tell me, where is she now?
at his house?
with him?”
“oh no!
certainly not!
‘i am free,’ she says; you know how she insists on that point.
‘i am entirely free.’ she repeats it over and over again.
she is living in petersburgskaia, with my sister-in-law, as i told you in my letter.”
“she is there at this moment?”
“yes, unless she has gone to pavlofsk: the fine weather may have tempted her, perhaps, into the country, with daria alexeyevna.
‘i am quite free,’ she says.
only yesterday she boasted of her freedom to nicolai ardalionovitch a bad sign,” added lebedeff, smiling.
“colia goes to see her often, does he not?”
“he is a strange boy, thoughtless, and inclined to be indiscreet.”
“is it long since you saw her?”
“i go to see her every day, every day.”
“then you were there yesterday?”
“n-no: i have not been these three last days.”
“it is a pity you have taken too much wine, lebedeff i want to ask you something... but...”
“all right!
all right!
i am not drunk,” replied the clerk, preparing to listen.
“tell me, how was she when you left her?”
“she is a woman who is seeking...”
“seeking?”
“she seems always to be searching about, as if she had lost something.
the mere idea of her coming marriage disgusts her; she looks on it as an insult.
she cares as much for him as for a piece of orange-peel not more.
yet i am much mistaken if she does not look on him with fear and trembling.
she forbids his name to be mentioned before her, and they only meet when unavoidable.
he understands, well enough!
but it must be gone through.
she is restless, mocking, deceitful, violent....”
“deceitful and violent?”
“yes, violent.
i can give you a proof of it.
a few days ago she tried to pull my hair because i said something that annoyed her.
i tried to soothe her by reading the apocalypse aloud.”
“what?” exclaimed the prince, thinking he had not heard aright.
“by reading the apocalypse.
the lady has a restless imagination, he-he!
she has a liking for conversation on serious subjects, of any kind; in fact they please her so much, that it flatters her to discuss them.
now for fifteen years at least i have studied the apocalypse, and she agrees with me in thinking that the present is the epoch represented by the third horse, the black one whose rider holds a measure in his hand.
it seems to me that everything is ruled by measure in our century; all men are clamouring for their rights; ‘a measure of wheat for a penny, and three measures of barley for a penny.’ but, added to this, men desire freedom of mind and body, a pure heart, a healthy life, and all god’s good gifts.
now by pleading their rights alone, they will never attain all this, so the white horse, with his rider death, comes next, and is followed by hell.
we talked about this matter when we met, and it impressed her very much.”
“do you believe all this?” asked muishkin, looking curiously at his companion.
“i both believe it and explain it.
i am but a poor creature, a beggar, an atom in the scale of humanity.
who has the least respect for lebedeff?
he is a target for all the world, the butt of any fool who chooses to kick him.
but in interpreting revelation i am the equal of anyone, great as he may be!
such is the power of the mind and the spirit.
i have made a lordly personage tremble, as he sat in his armchair... only by talking to him of things concerning the spirit.
two years ago, on easter eve, his excellency nil alexeyovitch, whose subordinate i was then, wished to hear what i had to say, and sent a message by peter zakkaritch to ask me to go to his private room.
‘they tell me you expound the prophecies relating to antichrist,’ said he, when we were alone.
‘is that so?’ ‘yes,’ i answered unhesitatingly, and i began to give some comments on the apostle’s allegorical vision.
at first he smiled, but when we reached the numerical computations and correspondences, he trembled, and turned pale.
then he begged me to close the book, and sent me away, promising to put my name on the reward list.
that took place as i said on the eve of easter, and eight days later his soul returned to god.”
“what?”
“it is the truth.
one evening after dinner he stumbled as he stepped out of his carriage.
he fell, and struck his head on the curb, and died immediately.
he was seventy-three years of age, and had a red face, and white hair; he deluged himself with scent, and was always smiling like a child.
peter zakkaritch recalled my interview with him, and said, ‘you foretold his death.’”
the prince rose from his seat, and lebedeff, surprised to see his guest preparing to go so soon, remarked: “you are not interested?” in a respectful tone.
“i am not very well, and my head aches.
doubtless the effect of the journey,” replied the prince, frowning.
“you should go into the country,” said lebedeff timidly.
the prince seemed to be considering the suggestion.
“you see, i am going into the country myself in three days, with my children and belongings.
the little one is delicate; she needs change of air; and during our absence this house will be done up.
i am going to pavlofsk.”
“you are going to pavlofsk too?” asked the prince sharply.
“everybody seems to be going there.
have you a house in that neighbourhood?”
“i don’t know of many people going to pavlofsk, and as for the house, ivan ptitsin has let me one of his villas rather cheaply.
it is a pleasant place, lying on a hill surrounded by trees, and one can live there for a mere song.
there is good music to be heard, so no wonder it is popular.
i shall stay in the lodge.
as to the villa itself...”
“have you let it?”
“n-no not exactly.”
“let it to me,” said the prince.
now this was precisely what lebedeff had made up his mind to do in the last three minutes.
not that he had any difficulty in finding a tenant; in fact the house was occupied at present by a chance visitor, who had told lebedeff that he would perhaps take it for the summer months.
the clerk knew very well that this “perhaps” meant “certainly,” but as he thought he could make more out of a tenant like the prince, he felt justified in speaking vaguely about the present inhabitant’s intentions.
“this is quite a coincidence,” thought he, and when the subject of price was mentioned, he made a gesture with his hand, as if to waive away a question of so little importance.
“oh well, as you like!” said muishkin.
“i will think it over.
you shall lose nothing!”
they were walking slowly across the garden.
“but if you... i could...” stammered lebedeff, “if... if you please, prince, tell you something on the subject which would interest you, i am sure.” he spoke in wheedling tones, and wriggled as he walked along.
muishkin stopped short.
“daria alexeyevna also has a villa at pavlofsk.”
“well?”
“a certain person is very friendly with her, and intends to visit her pretty often.”
“well?”
“aglaya ivanovna...”
“oh stop, lebedeff!” interposed muishkin, feeling as if he had been touched on an open wound.
“that... that has nothing to do with me.
i should like to know when you are going to start.
the sooner the better as far as i am concerned, for i am at an hotel.”
they had left the garden now, and were crossing the yard on their way to the gate.
“well, leave your hotel at once and come here; then we can all go together to pavlofsk the day after tomorrow.”
“i will think about it,” said the prince dreamily, and went off.
the clerk stood looking after his guest, struck by his sudden absent-mindedness.
he had not even remembered to say goodbye, and lebedeff was the more surprised at the omission, as he knew by experience how courteous the prince usually was.
iii.
it was now close on twelve o’clock.
the prince knew that if he called at the epanchins’ now he would only find the general, and that the latter might probably carry him straight off to pavlofsk with him; whereas there was one visit he was most anxious to make without delay.
so at the risk of missing general epanchin altogether, and thus postponing his visit to pavlofsk for a day, at least, the prince decided to go and look for the house he desired to find.
the visit he was about to pay was, in some respects, a risky one.
he was in two minds about it, but knowing that the house was in the gorohovaya, not far from the sadovaya, he determined to go in that direction, and to try to make up his mind on the way.
arrived at the point where the gorohovaya crosses the sadovaya, he was surprised to find how excessively agitated he was.
he had no idea that his heart could beat so painfully.
one house in the gorohovaya began to attract his attention long before he reached it, and the prince remembered afterwards that he had said to himself: “that is the house, i’m sure of it.” he came up to it quite curious to discover whether he had guessed right, and felt that he would be disagreeably impressed to find that he had actually done so.
the house was a large gloomy-looking structure, without the slightest claim to architectural beauty, in colour a dirty green.
there are a few of these old houses, built towards the end of the last century, still standing in that part of st. petersburg, and showing little change from their original form and colour.
they are solidly built, and are remarkable for the thickness of their walls, and for the fewness of their windows, many of which are covered by gratings.
on the ground-floor there is usually a money-changer’s shop, and the owner lives over it.
without as well as within, the houses seem inhospitable and mysterious an impression which is difficult to explain, unless it has something to do with the actual architectural style.
these houses are almost exclusively inhabited by the merchant class.
arrived at the gate, the prince looked up at the legend over it, which ran:
“house of rogojin, hereditary and honourable citizen.”
he hesitated no longer; but opened the glazed door at the bottom of the outer stairs and made his way up to the second storey.
the place was dark and gloomy-looking; the walls of the stone staircase were painted a dull red.
rogojin and his mother and brother occupied the whole of the second floor.
the servant who opened the door to muishkin led him, without taking his name, through several rooms and up and down many steps until they arrived at a door, where he knocked.
parfen rogojin opened the door himself.
on seeing the prince he became deadly white, and apparently fixed to the ground, so that he was more like a marble statue than a human being.
the prince had expected some surprise, but rogojin evidently considered his visit an impossible and miraculous event.
he stared with an expression almost of terror, and his lips twisted into a bewildered smile.
“parfen!
perhaps my visit is ill-timed.
i i can go away again if you like,” said muishkin at last, rather embarrassed.
“no, no; it’s all right, come in,” said parfen, recollecting himself.
they were evidently on quite familiar terms.
in moscow they had had many occasions of meeting; indeed, some few of those meetings were but too vividly impressed upon their memories.
they had not met now, however, for three months.
the deathlike pallor, and a sort of slight convulsion about the lips, had not left rogojin’s face.
though he welcomed his guest, he was still obviously much disturbed.
as he invited the prince to sit down near the table, the latter happened to turn towards him, and was startled by the strange expression on his face.
a painful recollection flashed into his mind.
he stood for a time, looking straight at rogojin, whose eyes seemed to blaze like fire.
at last rogojin smiled, though he still looked agitated and shaken.
“what are you staring at me like that for?” he muttered.
“sit down.”
the prince took a chair.
“parfen,” he said, “tell me honestly, did you know that i was coming to petersburg or no?”
“oh, i supposed you were coming,” the other replied, smiling sarcastically, “and i was right in my supposition, you see; but how was i to know that you would come today?”
a certain strangeness and impatience in his manner impressed the prince very forcibly.
“and if you had known that i was coming today, why be so irritated about it?” he asked, in quiet surprise.
“why did you ask me?”
“because when i jumped out of the train this morning, two eyes glared at me just as yours did a moment since.”
“ha!
and whose eyes may they have been?” said rogojin, suspiciously.
it seemed to the prince that he was trembling.
“i don’t know; i thought it was a hallucination.
i often have hallucinations nowadays.
i feel just as i did five years ago when my fits were about to come on.”
“well, perhaps it was a hallucination, i don’t know,” said parfen.
he tried to give the prince an affectionate smile, and it seemed to the latter as though in this smile of his something had broken, and that he could not mend it, try as he would.
“shall you go abroad again then?” he asked, and suddenly added, “do you remember how we came up in the train from pskoff together?
you and your cloak and leggings, eh?”
and rogojin burst out laughing, this time with unconcealed malice, as though he were glad that he had been able to find an opportunity for giving vent to it.
“have you quite taken up your quarters here?” asked the prince
“yes, i’m at home.
where else should i go to?”
“we haven’t met for some time.
meanwhile i have heard things about you which i should not have believed to be possible.”
“what of that?
people will say anything,” said rogojin drily.
“at all events, you’ve disbanded your troop and you are living in your own house instead of being fast and loose about the place; that’s all very good.
is this house all yours, or joint property?”
“it is my mother’s.
you get to her apartments by that passage.”
“where’s your brother?”
“in the other wing.”
“is he married?”
“widower.
why do you want to know all this?”
the prince looked at him, but said nothing.
he had suddenly relapsed into musing, and had probably not heard the question at all.
rogojin did not insist upon an answer, and there was silence for a few moments.
“i guessed which was your house from a hundred yards off,” said the prince at last.
“why so?”
“i don’t quite know.
your house has the aspect of yourself and all your family; it bears the stamp of the rogojin life; but ask me why i think so, and i can tell you nothing.
it is nonsense, of course.
i am nervous about this kind of thing troubling me so much.
i had never before imagined what sort of a house you would live in, and yet no sooner did i set eyes on this one than i said to myself that it must be yours.”
“really!” said rogojin vaguely, not taking in what the prince meant by his rather obscure remarks.
the room they were now sitting in was a large one, lofty but dark, well furnished, principally with writing-tables and desks covered with papers and books.
a wide sofa covered with red morocco evidently served rogojin for a bed.
on the table beside which the prince had been invited to seat himself lay some books; one containing a marker where the reader had left off, was a volume of solovieff’s history.
some oil-paintings in worn gilded frames hung on the walls, but it was impossible to make out what subjects they represented, so blackened were they by smoke and age.
one, a life-sized portrait, attracted the prince’s attention.
it showed a man of about fifty, wearing a long riding-coat of german cut.
he had two medals on his breast; his beard was white, short and thin; his face yellow and wrinkled, with a sly, suspicious expression in the eyes.
“that is your father, is it not?” asked the prince.
“yes, it is,” replied rogojin with an unpleasant smile, as if he had expected his guest to ask the question, and then to make some disagreeable remark.
“was he one of the old believers?”
“no, he went to church, but to tell the truth he really preferred the old religion.
this was his study and is now mine.
why did you ask if he were an old believer?”
“are you going to be married here?”
“ye-yes!” replied rogojin, starting at the unexpected question.
“soon?”
“you know yourself it does not depend on me.”
“parfen, i am not your enemy, and i do not intend to oppose your intentions in any way.
i repeat this to you now just as i said it to you once before on a very similar occasion.
when you were arranging for your projected marriage in moscow, i did not interfere with you you know i did not.
that first time she fled to me from you, from the very altar almost, and begged me to ‘save her from you.’ afterwards she ran away from me again, and you found her and arranged your marriage with her once more; and now, i hear, she has run away from you and come to petersburg.
is it true?
lebedeff wrote me to this effect, and that’s why i came here.
that you had once more arranged matters with nastasia philipovna i only learned last night in the train from a friend of yours, zaleshoff if you wish to know.
“i confess i came here with an object.
i wished to persuade nastasia to go abroad for her health; she requires it.
both mind and body need a change badly.
i did not intend to take her abroad myself.
i was going to arrange for her to go without me.
now i tell you honestly, parfen, if it is true that all is made up between you, i will not so much as set eyes upon her, and i will never even come to see you again.
“you know quite well that i am telling the truth, because i have always been frank with you.
i have never concealed my own opinion from you.
i have always told you that i consider a marriage between you and her would be ruin to her.
you would also be ruined, and perhaps even more hopelessly.
if this marriage were to be broken off again, i admit i should be greatly pleased; but at the same time i have not the slightest intention of trying to part you.
you may be quite easy in your mind, and you need not suspect me.
you know yourself whether i was ever really your rival or not, even when she ran away and came to me.
“there, you are laughing at me i know why you laugh.
it is perfectly true that we lived apart from one another all the time, in different towns.
i told you before that i did not love her with love, but with pity!
you said then that you understood me; did you really understand me or not?
what hatred there is in your eyes at this moment!
i came to relieve your mind, because you are dear to me also.
i love you very much, parfen; and now i shall go away and never come back again.
goodbye.”
the prince rose.
“stay a little,” said parfen, not leaving his chair and resting his head on his right hand.
“i haven’t seen you for a long time.”
the prince sat down again.
both were silent for a few moments.
“when you are not with me i hate you, lef nicolaievitch.
i have loathed you every day of these three months since i last saw you.
by heaven i have!” said rogojin.
“i could have poisoned you at any minute.
now, you have been with me but a quarter of an hour, and all my malice seems to have melted away, and you are as dear to me as ever.
stay here a little longer.”
“when i am with you you trust me; but as soon as my back is turned you suspect me,” said the prince, smiling, and trying to hide his emotion.
“i trust your voice, when i hear you speak.
i quite understand that you and i cannot be put on a level, of course.”
“why did you add that?
there!
now you are cross again,” said the prince, wondering.
“we were not asked, you see.
we were made different, with different tastes and feelings, without being consulted.
you say you love her with pity.
i have no pity for her.
she hates me that’s the plain truth of the matter.
i dream of her every night, and always that she is laughing at me with another man.
and so she does laugh at me.
she thinks no more of marrying me than if she were changing her shoe.
would you believe it, i haven’t seen her for five days, and i daren’t go near her.
she asks me what i come for, as if she were not content with having disgraced me ”
“disgraced you!
how?”
“just as though you didn’t know!
why, she ran away from me, and went to you.
you admitted it yourself, just now.”
“but surely you do not believe that she...”
“that she did not disgrace me at moscow with that officer, zemtuznikoff?
i know for certain she did, after having fixed our marriage-day herself!”
“impossible!” cried the prince.
“i know it for a fact,” replied rogojin, with conviction.
“it is not like her, you say?
my friend, that’s absurd.
perhaps such an act would horrify her, if she were with you, but it is quite different where i am concerned.
she looks on me as vermin.
her affair with keller was simply to make a laughing-stock of me.
you don’t know what a fool she made of me in moscow; and the money i spent over her!
the money!
the money!”
“and you can marry her now, parfen!
what will come of it all?” said the prince, with dread in his voice.
rogojin gazed back gloomily, and with a terrible expression in his eyes, but said nothing.
“i haven’t been to see her for five days,” he repeated, after a slight pause.
“i’m afraid of being turned out.
she says she’s still her own mistress, and may turn me off altogether, and go abroad.
she told me this herself,” he said, with a peculiar glance at muishkin.
“i think she often does it merely to frighten me.
she is always laughing at me, for some reason or other; but at other times she’s angry, and won’t say a word, and that’s what i’m afraid of.
i took her a shawl one day, the like of which she might never have seen, although she did live in luxury and she gave it away to her maid, katia.
sometimes when i can keep away no longer, i steal past the house on the sly, and once i watched at the gate till dawn i thought something was going on and she saw me from the window.
she asked me what i should do if i found she had deceived me.
i said, ‘you know well enough.’”
“what did she know?” cried the prince.
“how was i to tell?” replied rogojin, with an angry laugh.
“i did my best to catch her tripping in moscow, but did not succeed.
however, i caught hold of her one day, and said: ‘you are engaged to be married into a respectable family, and do you know what sort of a woman you are?
that’s the sort of woman you are,’ i said.”
“you told her that?”
“yes.”
“well, go on.”
“she said, ‘i wouldn’t even have you for a footman now, much less for a husband.’ ‘i shan’t leave the house,’ i said, ‘so it doesn’t matter.’
‘then i shall call somebody and have you kicked out,’ she cried.
so then i rushed at her, and beat her till she was bruised all over.”
“impossible!” cried the prince, aghast.
“i tell you it’s true,” said rogojin quietly, but with eyes ablaze with passion.
“then for a day and a half i neither slept, nor ate, nor drank, and would not leave her.
i knelt at her feet: ‘i shall die here,’ i said, ‘if you don’t forgive me; and if you have me turned out, i shall drown myself; because, what should i be without you now?’ she was like a madwoman all that day; now she would cry; now she would threaten me with a knife; now she would abuse me.
she called in zaleshoff and keller, and showed me to them, shamed me in their presence.
‘let’s all go to the theatre,’ she says, ‘and leave him here if he won’t go it’s not my business.
they’ll give you some tea, parfen semeonovitch, while i am away, for you must be hungry.’ she came back from the theatre alone.
‘those cowards wouldn’t come,’ she said.
‘they are afraid of you, and tried to frighten me, too.
“he won’t go away as he came,” they said, “he’ll cut your throat see if he doesn’t.” now, i shall go to my bedroom, and i shall not even lock my door, just to show you how much i am afraid of you.
you must be shown that once for all.
did you have tea?’ ‘no,’ i said, ‘and i don’t intend to.’ ‘ha, ha!
you are playing off your pride against your stomach!
that sort of heroism doesn’t sit well on you,’ she said.
“with that she did as she had said she would; she went to bed, and did not lock her door.
in the morning she came out.
‘are you quite mad?’ she said, sharply.
‘why, you’ll die of hunger like this.’ ‘forgive me,’
i said.
‘no, i won’t, and i won’t marry you.
i’ve said it.
surely you haven’t sat in this chair all night without sleeping?’ ‘i didn’t sleep,’ i said.
‘h’m!
how sensible of you.
and are you going to have no breakfast or dinner today?’ ‘i told you i wouldn’t.
forgive me!’ ‘you’ve no idea how unbecoming this sort of thing is to you,’ she said, ‘it’s like putting a saddle on a cow’s back.
do you think you are frightening me?
my word, what a dreadful thing that you should sit here and eat no food!
how terribly frightened i am!’ she wasn’t angry long, and didn’t seem to remember my offence at all.
i was surprised, for she is a vindictive, resentful woman but then i thought that perhaps she despised me too much to feel any resentment against me.
and that’s the truth.
“she came up to me and said, ‘do you know who the pope of rome is?’
‘i’ve heard of him,’ i said.
‘i suppose you’ve read the universal history, parfen semeonovitch, haven’t you?’ she asked.
‘i’ve learned nothing at all,’ i said.
‘then i’ll lend it to you to read.
you must know there was a roman pope once, and he was very angry with a certain emperor; so the emperor came and neither ate nor drank, but knelt before the pope’s palace till he should be forgiven.
and what sort of vows do you think that emperor was making during all those days on his knees?
stop, i’ll read it to you!’ then she read me a lot of verses, where it said that the emperor spent all the time vowing vengeance against the pope.
‘you don’t mean to say you don’t approve of the poem, parfen semeonovitch,’ she says.
‘all you have read out is perfectly true,’ say i.
‘aha!’ says she, ‘you admit it’s true, do you?
and you are making vows to yourself that if i marry you, you will remind me of all this, and take it out of me.’ ‘i don’t know,’ i say, ‘perhaps i was thinking like that, and perhaps i was not.
i’m not thinking of anything just now.’ ‘what are your thoughts, then?’ ‘i’m thinking that when you rise from your chair and go past me, i watch you, and follow you with my eyes; if your dress does but rustle, my heart sinks; if you leave the room, i remember every little word and action, and what your voice sounded like, and what you said.
i thought of nothing all last night, but sat here listening to your sleeping breath, and heard you move a little, twice.’ ‘and as for your attack upon me,’ she says, ‘i suppose you never once thought of that?’ ‘perhaps i did think of it, and perhaps not,’ i say.
‘and what if i don’t either forgive you or marry, you?’
‘i tell you i shall go and drown myself.’ ‘h’m!’ she said, and then relapsed into silence.
then she got angry, and went out.
‘i suppose you’d murder me before you drowned yourself, though!’ she cried as she left the room.
“an hour later, she came to me again, looking melancholy.
‘i will marry you, parfen semeonovitch,’ she says, not because i’m frightened of you, but because it’s all the same to me how i ruin myself.
and how can i do it better?
sit down; they’ll bring you some dinner directly.
and if i do marry you, i’ll be a faithful wife to you you need not doubt that.’
then she thought a bit, and said, ‘at all events, you are not a flunkey; at first, i thought you were no better than a flunkey.’ and she arranged the wedding and fixed the day straight away on the spot.
“then, in another week, she had run away again, and came here to lebedeff’s; and when i found her here, she said to me, ‘i’m not going to renounce you altogether, but i wish to put off the wedding a bit longer yet just as long as i like for i am still my own mistress; so you may wait, if you like.’ that’s how the matter stands between us now.
what do you think of all this, lef nicolaievitch?”
“‘what do you think of it yourself?” replied the prince, looking sadly at rogojin.
“as if i can think anything about it!
i ” he was about to say more, but stopped in despair.
the prince rose again, as if he would leave.
“at all events, i shall not interfere with you!” he murmured, as though making answer to some secret thought of his own.
“i’ll tell you what!” cried rogojin, and his eyes flashed fire.
“i can’t understand your yielding her to me like this; i don’t understand it.
have you given up loving her altogether?
at first you suffered badly i know it i saw it.
besides, why did you come post-haste after us?
out of pity, eh?
he, he, he!” his mouth curved in a mocking smile.
“do you think i am deceiving you?” asked the prince.
“no!
i trust you but i can’t understand.
it seems to me that your pity is greater than my love.” a hungry longing to speak his mind out seemed to flash in the man’s eyes, combined with an intense anger.
“your love is mingled with hatred, and therefore, when your love passes, there will be the greater misery,” said the prince.
“i tell you this, parfen ”
“what!
that i’ll cut her throat, you mean?”
the prince shuddered.
“you’ll hate her afterwards for all your present love, and for all the torment you are suffering on her account now.
what seems to me the most extraordinary thing is, that she can again consent to marry you, after all that has passed between you.
when i heard the news yesterday, i could hardly bring myself to believe it.
why, she has run twice from you, from the very altar rails, as it were.
she must have some presentiment of evil.
what can she want with you now?
your money?
nonsense!
besides, i should think you must have made a fairly large hole in your fortune already.
surely it is not because she is so very anxious to find a husband?
she could find many a one besides yourself.
anyone would be better than you, because you will murder her, and i feel sure she must know that but too well by now.
is it because you love her so passionately?
indeed, that may be it.
i have heard that there are women who want just that kind of love... but still...” the prince paused, reflectively.
“what are you grinning at my father’s portrait again for?” asked rogojin, suddenly.
he was carefully observing every change in the expression of the prince’s face.
“i smiled because the idea came into my head that if it were not for this unhappy passion of yours you might have, and would have, become just such a man as your father, and that very quickly, too.
you’d have settled down in this house of yours with some silent and obedient wife.
you would have spoken rarely, trusted no one, heeded no one, and thought of nothing but making money.”
“laugh away!
she said exactly the same, almost word for word, when she saw my father’s portrait.
it’s remarkable how entirely you and she are at one now-a-days.”
“what, has she been here?” asked the prince with curiosity.
“yes!
she looked long at the portrait and asked all about my father.
‘you’d be just such another,’ she said at last, and laughed.
‘you have such strong passions, parfen,’ she said, ‘that they’d have taken you to siberia in no time if you had not, luckily, intelligence as well.
for you have a good deal of intelligence.’ (she said this believe it or not.
the first time i ever heard anything of that sort from her.)
‘you’d soon have thrown up all this rowdyism that you indulge in now, and you’d have settled down to quiet, steady money-making, because you have little education; and here you’d have stayed just like your father before you.
and you’d have loved your money so that you’d amass not two million, like him, but ten million; and you’d have died of hunger on your money bags to finish up with, for you carry everything to extremes.’ there, that’s exactly word for word as she said it to me.
she never talked to me like that before.
she always talks nonsense and laughs when she’s with me.
we went all over this old house together.
‘i shall change all this,’ i said, ‘or else i’ll buy a new house for the wedding.’ ‘no, no!’
she said, ‘don’t touch anything; leave it all as it is; i shall live with your mother when i marry you.’
“i took her to see my mother, and she was as respectful and kind as though she were her own daughter.
mother has been almost demented ever since father died she’s an old woman.
she sits and bows from her chair to everyone she sees.
if you left her alone and didn’t feed her for three days, i don’t believe she would notice it.
well, i took her hand, and i said, ‘give your blessing to this lady, mother, she’s going to be my wife.’ so nastasia kissed mother’s hand with great feeling.
‘she must have suffered terribly, hasn’t she?’ she said.
she saw this book here lying before me.
‘what!
have you begun to read russian history?’ she asked.
she told me once in moscow, you know, that i had better get solovieff’s russian history and read it, because i knew nothing.
‘that’s good,’ she said, ‘you go on like that, reading books.
i’ll make you a list myself of the books you ought to read first shall i?’ she had never once spoken to me like this before; it was the first time i felt i could breathe before her like a living creature.”
“i’m very, very glad to hear of this, parfen,” said the prince, with real feeling.
“who knows?
maybe god will yet bring you near to one another.”
“never, never!” cried rogojin, excitedly.
“look here, parfen; if you love her so much, surely you must be anxious to earn her respect?
and if you do so wish, surely you may hope to?
i said just now that i considered it extraordinary that she could still be ready to marry you.
well, though i cannot yet understand it, i feel sure she must have some good reason, or she wouldn’t do it.
she is sure of your love; but besides that, she must attribute something else to you some good qualities, otherwise the thing would not be.
what you have just said confirms my words.
you say yourself that she found it possible to speak to you quite differently from her usual manner.
you are suspicious, you know, and jealous, therefore when anything annoying happens to you, you exaggerate its significance.
of course, of course, she does not think so ill of you as you say.
why, if she did, she would simply be walking to death by drowning or by the knife, with her eyes wide open, when she married you.
it is impossible!
as if anybody would go to their death deliberately!”
rogojin listened to the prince’s excited words with a bitter smile.
his conviction was, apparently, unalterable.
“how dreadfully you look at me, parfen!” said the prince, with a feeling of dread.
“water or the knife?” said the latter, at last.
“ha, ha that’s exactly why she is going to marry me, because she knows for certain that the knife awaits her.
prince, can it be that you don’t even yet see what’s at the root of it all?”
“i don’t understand you.”
“perhaps he really doesn’t understand me!
they do say that you are a you know what!
she loves another there, you can understand that much!
just as i love her, exactly so she loves another man.
and that other man is do you know who?
it’s you.
there you didn’t know that, eh?”
“i?”
“you, you!
she has loved you ever since that day, her birthday!
only she thinks she cannot marry you, because it would be the ruin of you.
‘everybody knows what sort of a woman i am,’ she says.
she told me all this herself, to my very face!
she’s afraid of disgracing and ruining you, she says, but it doesn’t matter about me.
she can marry me all right!
notice how much consideration she shows for me!”
“but why did she run away to me, and then again from me to ”
“from you to me?
ha, ha!
that’s nothing!
why, she always acts as though she were in a delirium now-a-days!
either she says, ‘come on, i’ll marry you!
let’s have the wedding quickly!’ and fixes the day, and seems in a hurry for it, and when it begins to come near she feels frightened; or else some other idea gets into her head goodness knows!
you’ve seen her you know how she goes on laughing and crying and raving!
there’s nothing extraordinary about her having run away from you!
she ran away because she found out how dearly she loved you.
she could not bear to be near you.
you said just now that i had found her at moscow, when she ran away from you.
i didn’t do anything of the sort; she came to me herself, straight from you.
‘name the day i’m ready!’ she said.
‘let’s have some champagne, and go and hear the gipsies sing!’ i tell you she’d have thrown herself into the water long ago if it were not for me!
she doesn’t do it because i am, perhaps, even more dreadful to her than the water!
she’s marrying me out of spite; if she marries me, i tell you, it will be for spite!”
“but how do you, how can you ” began the prince, gazing with dread and horror at rogojin.
“why don’t you finish your sentence?
shall i tell you what you were thinking to yourself just then?
you were thinking, ‘how can she marry him after this?
how can it possibly be permitted?’ oh, i know what you were thinking about!”
“i didn’t come here for that purpose, parfen.
that was not in my mind ”
“that may be!
perhaps you didn’t come with the idea, but the idea is certainly there now!
ha, ha!
well, that’s enough!
what are you upset about?
didn’t you really know it all before?
you astonish me!”
“all this is mere jealousy it is some malady of yours, parfen!
you exaggerate everything,” said the prince, excessively agitated.
“what are you doing?”
“let go of it!” said parfen, seizing from the prince’s hand a knife which the latter had at that moment taken up from the table, where it lay beside the history.
parfen replaced it where it had been.
“i seemed to know it i felt it, when i was coming back to petersburg,”
continued the prince, “i did not want to come, i wished to forget all this, to uproot it from my memory altogether!
well, good-bye what is the matter?”
he had absently taken up the knife a second time, and again rogojin snatched it from his hand, and threw it down on the table.
it was a plain looking knife, with a bone handle, a blade about eight inches long, and broad in proportion, it did not clasp.
seeing that the prince was considerably struck by the fact that he had twice seized this knife out of his hand, rogojin caught it up with some irritation, put it inside the book, and threw the latter across to another table.
“do you cut your pages with it, or what?” asked muishkin, still rather absently, as though unable to throw off a deep preoccupation into which the conversation had thrown him.
“yes.”
“it’s a garden knife, isn’t it?”
“yes.
can’t one cut pages with a garden knife?”
“it’s quite new.”
“well, what of that?
can’t i buy a new knife if i like?” shouted rogojin furiously, his irritation growing with every word.
the prince shuddered, and gazed fixedly at parfen.
suddenly he burst out laughing.
“why, what an idea!” he said.
“i didn’t mean to ask you any of these questions; i was thinking of something quite different!
but my head is heavy, and i seem so absent-minded nowadays!
well, good-bye i can’t remember what i wanted to say good-bye!”
“not that way,” said rogojin.
“there, i’ve forgotten that too!”
“this way come along i’ll show you.”
iv.
they passed through the same rooms which the prince had traversed on his arrival.
in the largest there were pictures on the walls, portraits and landscapes of little interest.
over the door, however, there was one of strange and rather striking shape; it was six or seven feet in length, and not more than a foot in height.
it represented the saviour just taken from the cross.
the prince glanced at it, but took no further notice.
he moved on hastily, as though anxious to get out of the house.
but rogojin suddenly stopped underneath the picture.
“my father picked up all these pictures very cheap at auctions, and so on,” he said; “they are all rubbish, except the one over the door, and that is valuable.
a man offered five hundred roubles for it last week.”
“yes that’s a copy of a holbein,” said the prince, looking at it again, “and a good copy, too, so far as i am able to judge.
i saw the picture abroad, and could not forget it what’s the matter?”
rogojin had dropped the subject of the picture and walked on.
of course his strange frame of mind was sufficient to account for his conduct; but, still, it seemed queer to the prince that he should so abruptly drop a conversation commenced by himself.
rogojin did not take any notice of his question.
“lef nicolaievitch,” said rogojin, after a pause, during which the two walked along a little further, “i have long wished to ask you, do you believe in god?”
“how strangely you speak, and how odd you look!” said the other, involuntarily.
“i like looking at that picture,” muttered rogojin, not noticing, apparently, that the prince had not answered his question.
“that picture!
that picture!” cried muishkin, struck by a sudden idea.
“why, a man’s faith might be ruined by looking at that picture!”
“so it is!” said rogojin, unexpectedly.
they had now reached the front door.
the prince stopped.
“how?” he said.
“what do you mean?
i was half joking, and you took me up quite seriously!
why do you ask me whether i believe in god?”
“oh, no particular reason.
i meant to ask you before many people are unbelievers nowadays, especially russians, i have been told.
you ought to know you’ve lived abroad.”
rogojin laughed bitterly as he said these words, and opening the door, held it for the prince to pass out.
muishkin looked surprised, but went out.
the other followed him as far as the landing of the outer stairs, and shut the door behind him.
they both now stood facing one another, as though oblivious of where they were, or what they had to do next.
“well, good-bye!” said the prince, holding out his hand.
“good-bye,” said rogojin, pressing it hard, but quite mechanically.
the prince made one step forward, and then turned round.
“as to faith,” he said, smiling, and evidently unwilling to leave rogojin in this state “as to faith, i had four curious conversations in two days, a week or so ago.
one morning i met a man in the train, and made acquaintance with him at once.
i had often heard of him as a very learned man, but an atheist; and i was very glad of the opportunity of conversing with so eminent and clever a person.
he doesn’t believe in god, and he talked a good deal about it, but all the while it appeared to me that he was speaking outside the subject.
and it has always struck me, both in speaking to such men and in reading their books, that they do not seem really to be touching on that at all, though on the surface they may appear to do so.
i told him this, but i dare say i did not clearly express what i meant, for he could not understand me.
“that same evening i stopped at a small provincial hotel, and it so happened that a dreadful murder had been committed there the night before, and everybody was talking about it.
two peasants elderly men and old friends had had tea together there the night before, and were to occupy the same bedroom.
they were not drunk but one of them had noticed for the first time that his friend possessed a silver watch which he was wearing on a chain.
he was by no means a thief, and was, as peasants go, a rich man; but this watch so fascinated him that he could not restrain himself.
he took a knife, and when his friend turned his back, he came up softly behind, raised his eyes to heaven, crossed himself, and saying earnestly ‘god forgive me, for christ’s sake!’ he cut his friend’s throat like a sheep, and took the watch.”
rogojin roared with laughter.
he laughed as though he were in a sort of fit.
it was strange to see him laughing so after the sombre mood he had been in just before.
“oh, i like that!
that beats anything!” he cried convulsively, panting for breath.
“one is an absolute unbeliever; the other is such a thorough-going believer that he murders his friend to the tune of a prayer!
oh, prince, prince, that’s too good for anything!
you can’t have invented it.
it’s the best thing i’ve heard!”
“next morning i went out for a stroll through the town,” continued the prince, so soon as rogojin was a little quieter, though his laughter still burst out at intervals, “and soon observed a drunken-looking soldier staggering about the pavement.
he came up to me and said, ‘buy my silver cross, sir!
you shall have it for fourpence it’s real silver.’ i looked, and there he held a cross, just taken off his own neck, evidently, a large tin one, made after the byzantine pattern.
i fished out fourpence, and put his cross on my own neck, and i could see by his face that he was as pleased as he could be at the thought that he had succeeded in cheating a foolish gentleman, and away he went to drink the value of his cross.
at that time everything that i saw made a tremendous impression upon me.
i had understood nothing about russia before, and had only vague and fantastic memories of it.
so i thought, ‘i will wait awhile before i condemn this judas.
only god knows what may be hidden in the hearts of drunkards.’
“well, i went homewards, and near the hotel i came across a poor woman, carrying a child a baby of some six weeks old.
the mother was quite a girl herself.
the baby was smiling up at her, for the first time in its life, just at that moment; and while i watched the woman she suddenly crossed herself, oh, so devoutly!
‘what is it, my good woman?’ i asked her.
(i was never but asking questions then!)
‘exactly as is a mother’s joy when her baby smiles for the first time into her eyes, so is god’s joy when one of his children turns and prays to him for the first time, with all his heart!’ this is what that poor woman said to me, almost word for word; and such a deep, refined, truly religious thought it was a thought in which the whole essence of christianity was expressed in one flash that is, the recognition of god as our father, and of god’s joy in men as his own children, which is the chief idea of christ.
she was a simple country-woman a mother, it’s true and perhaps, who knows, she may have been the wife of the drunken soldier!
“listen, parfen; you put a question to me just now.
this is my reply.
the essence of religious feeling has nothing to do with reason, or atheism, or crime, or acts of any kind it has nothing to do with these things and never had.
there is something besides all this, something which the arguments of the atheists can never touch.
but the principal thing, and the conclusion of my argument, is that this is most clearly seen in the heart of a russian.
this is a conviction which i have gained while i have been in this russia of ours.
yes, parfen!
there is work to be done; there is work to be done in this russian world!
remember what talks we used to have in moscow!
and i never wished to come here at all; and i never thought to meet you like this, parfen!
well, well good-bye good-bye!
god be with you!”
he turned and went downstairs.
“lef nicolaievitch!” cried parfen, before he had reached the next landing.
“have you got that cross you bought from the soldier with you?”
“yes, i have,” and the prince stopped again.
“show it me, will you?”
a new fancy!
the prince reflected, and then mounted the stairs once more.
he pulled out the cross without taking it off his neck.
“give it to me,” said parfen.
“why?
do you ”
the prince would rather have kept this particular cross.
“i’ll wear it; and you shall have mine.
i’ll take it off at once.”
“you wish to exchange crosses?
very well, parfen, if that’s the case, i’m glad enough that makes us brothers, you know.”
the prince took off his tin cross, parfen his gold one, and the exchange was made.
parfen was silent.
with sad surprise the prince observed that the look of distrust, the bitter, ironical smile, had still not altogether left his newly-adopted brother’s face.
at moments, at all events, it showed itself but too plainly,
at last rogojin took the prince’s hand, and stood so for some moments, as though he could not make up his mind.
then he drew him along, murmuring almost inaudibly,
“come!”
they stopped on the landing, and rang the bell at a door opposite to parfen’s own lodging.
an old woman opened to them and bowed low to parfen, who asked her some questions hurriedly, but did not wait to hear her answer.
he led the prince on through several dark, cold-looking rooms, spotlessly clean, with white covers over all the furniture.
without the ceremony of knocking, parfen entered a small apartment, furnished like a drawing-room, but with a polished mahogany partition dividing one half of it from what was probably a bedroom.
in one corner of this room sat an old woman in an arm-chair, close to the stove.
she did not look very old, and her face was a pleasant, round one; but she was white-haired and, as one could detect at the first glance, quite in her second childhood.
she wore a black woollen dress, with a black handkerchief round her neck and shoulders, and a white cap with black ribbons.
her feet were raised on a footstool.
beside her sat another old woman, also dressed in mourning, and silently knitting a stocking; this was evidently a companion.
they both looked as though they never broke the silence.
the first old woman, so soon as she saw rogojin and the prince, smiled and bowed courteously several times, in token of her gratification at their visit.
“mother,” said rogojin, kissing her hand, “here is my great friend, prince muishkin; we have exchanged crosses; he was like a real brother to me at moscow at one time, and did a great deal for me.
bless him, mother, as you would bless your own son.
wait a moment, let me arrange your hands for you.”
but the old lady, before parfen had time to touch her, raised her right hand, and, with three fingers held up, devoutly made the sign of the cross three times over the prince.
she then nodded her head kindly at him once more.
“there, come along, lef nicolaievitch; that’s all i brought you here for,” said rogojin.
when they reached the stairs again he added:
“she understood nothing of what i said to her, and did not know what i wanted her to do, and yet she blessed you; that shows she wished to do so herself.
well, goodbye; it’s time you went, and i must go too.”
he opened his own door.
“well, let me at least embrace you and say goodbye, you strange fellow!”
cried the prince, looking with gentle reproach at rogojin, and advancing towards him.
but the latter had hardly raised his arms when he dropped them again.
he could not make up his mind to it; he turned away from the prince in order to avoid looking at him.
he could not embrace him.
“don’t be afraid,” he muttered, indistinctly, “though i have taken your cross, i shall not murder you for your watch.” so saying, he laughed suddenly, and strangely.
then in a moment his face became transfigured; he grew deadly white, his lips trembled, his eyes burned like fire.
he stretched out his arms and held the prince tightly to him, and said in a strangled voice:
“well, take her!
it’s fate!
she’s yours.
i surrender her.... remember rogojin!” and pushing the prince from him, without looking back at him, he hurriedly entered his own flat, and banged the door.
v.
it was late now, nearly half-past two, and the prince did not find general epanchin at home.
he left a card, and determined to look up colia, who had a room at a small hotel near.
colia was not in, but he was informed that he might be back shortly, and had left word that if he were not in by half-past three it was to be understood that he had gone to pavlofsk to general epanchin’s, and would dine there.
the prince decided to wait till half-past three, and ordered some dinner.
at half-past three there was no sign of colia.
the prince waited until four o’clock, and then strolled off mechanically wherever his feet should carry him.
in early summer there are often magnificent days in st.
petersburg bright, hot and still.
this happened to be such a day.
for some time the prince wandered about without aim or object.
he did not know the town well.
he stopped to look about him on bridges, at street corners.
he entered a confectioner’s shop to rest, once.
he was in a state of nervous excitement and perturbation; he noticed nothing and no one; and he felt a craving for solitude, to be alone with his thoughts and his emotions, and to give himself up to them passively.
he loathed the idea of trying to answer the questions that would rise up in his heart and mind.
“i am not to blame for all this,” he thought to himself, half unconsciously.
towards six o’clock he found himself at the station of the tsarsko-selski railway.
he was tired of solitude now; a new rush of feeling took hold of him, and a flood of light chased away the gloom, for a moment, from his soul.
he took a ticket to pavlofsk, and determined to get there as fast as he could, but something stopped him; a reality, and not a fantasy, as he was inclined to think it.
he was about to take his place in a carriage, when he suddenly threw away his ticket and came out again, disturbed and thoughtful.
a few moments later, in the street, he recalled something that had bothered him all the afternoon.
he caught himself engaged in a strange occupation which he now recollected he had taken up at odd moments for the last few hours it was looking about all around him for something, he did not know what.
he had forgotten it for a while, half an hour or so, and now, suddenly, the uneasy search had recommenced.
but he had hardly become conscious of this curious phenomenon, when another recollection suddenly swam through his brain, interesting him for the moment, exceedingly.
he remembered that the last time he had been engaged in looking around him for the unknown something, he was standing before a cutler’s shop, in the window of which were exposed certain goods for sale.
he was extremely anxious now to discover whether this shop and these goods really existed, or whether the whole thing had been a hallucination.
he felt in a very curious condition today, a condition similar to that which had preceded his fits in bygone years.
he remembered that at such times he had been particularly absentminded, and could not discriminate between objects and persons unless he concentrated special attention upon them.
he remembered seeing something in the window marked at sixty copecks.
therefore, if the shop existed and if this object were really in the window, it would prove that he had been able to concentrate his attention on this article at a moment when, as a general rule, his absence of mind would have been too great to admit of any such concentration; in fact, very shortly after he had left the railway station in such a state of agitation.
so he walked back looking about him for the shop, and his heart beat with intolerable impatience.
ah!
here was the very shop, and there was the article marked “60 cop.” of course, it’s sixty copecks, he thought, and certainly worth no more.
this idea amused him and he laughed.
but it was a hysterical laugh; he was feeling terribly oppressed.
he remembered clearly that just here, standing before this window, he had suddenly turned round, just as earlier in the day he had turned and found the dreadful eyes of rogojin fixed upon him.
convinced, therefore, that in this respect at all events he had been under no delusion, he left the shop and went on.
this must be thought out; it was clear that there had been no hallucination at the station then, either; something had actually happened to him, on both occasions; there was no doubt of it.
but again a loathing for all mental exertion overmastered him; he would not think it out now, he would put it off and think of something else.
he remembered that during his epileptic fits, or rather immediately preceding them, he had always experienced a moment or two when his whole heart, and mind, and body seemed to wake up to vigour and light; when he became filled with joy and hope, and all his anxieties seemed to be swept away for ever; these moments were but presentiments, as it were, of the one final second (it was never more than a second) in which the fit came upon him.
that second, of course, was inexpressible.
when his attack was over, and the prince reflected on his symptoms, he used to say to himself: “these moments, short as they are, when i feel such extreme consciousness of myself, and consequently more of life than at other times, are due only to the disease to the sudden rupture of normal conditions.
therefore they are not really a higher kind of life, but a lower.” this reasoning, however, seemed to end in a paradox, and lead to the further consideration: “what matter though it be only disease, an abnormal tension of the brain, if when i recall and analyze the moment, it seems to have been one of harmony and beauty in the highest degree an instant of deepest sensation, overflowing with unbounded joy and rapture, ecstatic devotion, and completest life?”
vague though this sounds, it was perfectly comprehensible to muishkin, though he knew that it was but a feeble expression of his sensations.
that there was, indeed, beauty and harmony in those abnormal moments, that they really contained the highest synthesis of life, he could not doubt, nor even admit the possibility of doubt.
he felt that they were not analogous to the fantastic and unreal dreams due to intoxication by hashish, opium or wine.
of that he could judge, when the attack was over.
these instants were characterized to define it in a word by an intense quickening of the sense of personality.
since, in the last conscious moment preceding the attack, he could say to himself, with full understanding of his words: “i would give my whole life for this one instant,” then doubtless to him it really was worth a lifetime.
for the rest, he thought the dialectical part of his argument of little worth; he saw only too clearly that the result of these ecstatic moments was stupefaction, mental darkness, idiocy.
no argument was possible on that point.
his conclusion, his estimate of the “moment,” doubtless contained some error, yet the reality of the sensation troubled him.
what’s more unanswerable than a fact?
and this fact had occurred.
the prince had confessed unreservedly to himself that the feeling of intense beatitude in that crowded moment made the moment worth a lifetime.
“i feel then,” he said one day to rogojin in moscow, “i feel then as if i understood those amazing words ‘there shall be no more time.’” and he added with a smile: “no doubt the epileptic mahomet refers to that same moment when he says that he visited all the dwellings of allah, in less time than was needed to empty his pitcher of water.” yes, he had often met rogojin in moscow, and many were the subjects they discussed.
“he told me i had been a brother to him,” thought the prince.
“he said so today, for the first time.”
he was sitting in the summer garden on a seat under a tree, and his mind dwelt on the matter.
it was about seven o’clock, and the place was empty.
the stifling atmosphere foretold a storm, and the prince felt a certain charm in the contemplative mood which possessed him.
he found pleasure, too, in gazing at the exterior objects around him.
all the time he was trying to forget some thing, to escape from some idea that haunted him; but melancholy thoughts came back, though he would so willingly have escaped from them.
he remembered suddenly how he had been talking to the waiter, while he dined, about a recently committed murder which the whole town was discussing, and as he thought of it something strange came over him.
he was seized all at once by a violent desire, almost a temptation, against which he strove in vain.
he jumped up and walked off as fast as he could towards the “petersburg side.” [one of the quarters of st.
petersburg.]
he had asked someone, a little while before, to show him which was the petersburg side, on the banks of the neva.
he had not gone there, however; and he knew very well that it was of no use to go now, for he would certainly not find lebedeff’s relation at home.
he had the address, but she must certainly have gone to pavlofsk, or colia would have let him know.
if he were to go now, it would merely be out of curiosity, but a sudden, new idea had come into his head.
however, it was something to move on and know where he was going.
a minute later he was still moving on, but without knowing anything.
he could no longer think out his new idea.
he tried to take an interest in all he saw; in the sky, in the neva.
he spoke to some children he met.
he felt his epileptic condition becoming more and more developed.
the evening was very close; thunder was heard some way off.
the prince was haunted all that day by the face of lebedeff’s nephew whom he had seen for the first time that morning, just as one is haunted at times by some persistent musical refrain.
by a curious association of ideas, the young man always appeared as the murderer of whom lebedeff had spoken when introducing him to muishkin.
yes, he had read something about the murder, and that quite recently.
since he came to russia, he had heard many stories of this kind, and was interested in them.
his conversation with the waiter, an hour ago, chanced to be on the subject of this murder of the zemarins, and the latter had agreed with him about it.
he thought of the waiter again, and decided that he was no fool, but a steady, intelligent man: though, said he to himself, “god knows what he may really be; in a country with which one is unfamiliar it is difficult to understand the people one meets.” he was beginning to have a passionate faith in the russian soul, however, and what discoveries he had made in the last six months, what unexpected discoveries!
but every soul is a mystery, and depths of mystery lie in the soul of a russian.
he had been intimate with rogojin, for example, and a brotherly friendship had sprung up between them yet did he really know him?
what chaos and ugliness fills the world at times!
what a self-satisfied rascal is that nephew of lebedeff’s!
“but what am i thinking,” continued the prince to himself.
“can he really have committed that crime?
did he kill those six persons?
i seem to be confusing things... how strange it all is.... my head goes round... and lebedeff’s daughter how sympathetic and charming her face was as she held the child in her arms!
what an innocent look and child-like laugh she had!
it is curious that i had forgotten her until now.
i expect lebedeff adores her and i really believe, when i think of it, that as sure as two and two make four, he is fond of that nephew, too!”
well, why should he judge them so hastily!
could he really say what they were, after one short visit?
even lebedeff seemed an enigma today.
did he expect to find him so?
he had never seen him like that before.
lebedeff and the comtesse du barry!
good heavens!
if rogojin should really kill someone, it would not, at any rate, be such a senseless, chaotic affair.
a knife made to a special pattern, and six people killed in a kind of delirium.
but rogojin also had a knife made to a special pattern.
can it be that rogojin wishes to murder anyone?
the prince began to tremble violently.
“it is a crime on my part to imagine anything so base, with such cynical frankness.” his face reddened with shame at the thought; and then there came across him as in a flash the memory of the incidents at the pavlofsk station, and at the other station in the morning; and the question asked him by rogojin about the eyes and rogojin’s cross, that he was even now wearing; and the benediction of rogojin’s mother; and his embrace on the darkened staircase that last supreme renunciation and now, to find himself full of this new “idea,” staring into shop-windows, and looking round for things how base he was!
despair overmastered his soul; he would not go on, he would go back to his hotel; he even turned and went the other way; but a moment after he changed his mind again and went on in the old direction.
why, here he was on the petersburg side already, quite close to the house!
where was his “idea”?
he was marching along without it now.
yes, his malady was coming back, it was clear enough; all this gloom and heaviness, all these “ideas,” were nothing more nor less than a fit coming on; perhaps he would have a fit this very day.
but just now all the gloom and darkness had fled, his heart felt full of joy and hope, there was no such thing as doubt.
and yes, he hadn’t seen her for so long; he really must see her.
he wished he could meet rogojin; he would take his hand, and they would go to her together.
his heart was pure, he was no rival of parfen’s.
tomorrow, he would go and tell him that he had seen her.
why, he had only come for the sole purpose of seeing her, all the way from moscow!
perhaps she might be here still, who knows?
she might not have gone away to pavlofsk yet.
yes, all this must be put straight and above-board, there must be no more passionate renouncements, such as rogojin’s.
it must all be clear as day.
cannot rogojin’s soul bear the light?
he said he did not love her with sympathy and pity; true, he added that “your pity is greater than my love,” but he was not quite fair on himself there.
kin!
rogojin reading a book wasn’t that sympathy beginning?
did it not show that he comprehended his relations with her?
and his story of waiting day and night for her forgiveness?
that didn’t look quite like passion alone.
and as to her face, could it inspire nothing but passion?
could her face inspire passion at all now?
oh, it inspired suffering, grief, overwhelming grief of the soul!
a poignant, agonizing memory swept over the prince’s heart.
yes, agonizing.
he remembered how he had suffered that first day when he thought he observed in her the symptoms of madness.
he had almost fallen into despair.
how could he have lost his hold upon her when she ran away from him to rogojin?
he ought to have run after her himself, rather than wait for news as he had done.
can rogojin have failed to observe, up to now, that she is mad?
rogojin attributes her strangeness to other causes, to passion!
what insane jealousy!
what was it he had hinted at in that suggestion of his?
the prince suddenly blushed, and shuddered to his very heart.
but why recall all this?
there was insanity on both sides.
for him, the prince, to love this woman with passion, was unthinkable.
it would be cruel and inhuman.
yes.
rogojin is not fair to himself; he has a large heart; he has aptitude for sympathy.
when he learns the truth, and finds what a pitiable being is this injured, broken, half-insane creature, he will forgive her all the torment she has caused him.
he will become her slave, her brother, her friend.
compassion will teach even rogojin, it will show him how to reason.
compassion is the chief law of human existence.
oh, how guilty he felt towards rogojin!
and, for a few warm, hasty words spoken in moscow, parfen had called him “brother,” while he but no, this was delirium!
it would all come right!
that gloomy parfen had implied that his faith was waning; he must suffer dreadfully.
he said he liked to look at that picture; it was not that he liked it, but he felt the need of looking at it.
rogojin was not merely a passionate soul; he was a fighter.
he was fighting for the restoration of his dying faith.
he must have something to hold on to and believe, and someone to believe in.
what a strange picture that of holbein’s is!
why, this is the street, and here’s the house, no.
16.
the prince rang the bell, and asked for nastasia philipovna.
the lady of the house came out, and stated that nastasia had gone to stay with daria alexeyevna at pavlofsk, and might be there some days.
madame filisoff was a little woman of forty, with a cunning face, and crafty, piercing eyes.
when, with an air of mystery, she asked her visitor’s name, he refused at first to answer, but in a moment he changed his mind, and left strict instructions that it should be given to nastasia philipovna.
the urgency of his request seemed to impress madame filisoff, and she put on a knowing expression, as if to say, “you need not be afraid, i quite understand.” the prince’s name evidently was a great surprise to her.
he stood and looked absently at her for a moment, then turned, and took the road back to his hotel.
but he went away not as he came.
a great change had suddenly come over him.
he went blindly forward; his knees shook under him; he was tormented by “ideas”; his lips were blue, and trembled with a feeble, meaningless smile.
his demon was upon him once more.
what had happened to him?
why was his brow clammy with drops of moisture, his knees shaking beneath him, and his soul oppressed with a cold gloom?
was it because he had just seen these dreadful eyes again?
why, he had left the summer garden on purpose to see them; that had been his “idea.” he had wished to assure himself that he would see them once more at that house.
then why was he so overwhelmed now, having seen them as he expected?
just as though he had not expected to see them!
yes, they were the very same eyes; and no doubt about it.
the same that he had seen in the crowd that morning at the station, the same that he had surprised in rogojin’s rooms some hours later, when the latter had replied to his inquiry with a sneering laugh, “well, whose eyes were they?” then for the third time they had appeared just as he was getting into the train on his way to see aglaya.
he had had a strong impulse to rush up to rogojin, and repeat his words of the morning “whose eyes are they?” instead he had fled from the station, and knew nothing more, until he found himself gazing into the window of a cutler’s shop, and wondering if a knife with a staghorn handle would cost more than sixty copecks.
and as the prince sat dreaming in the summer garden under a lime-tree, a wicked demon had come and whispered in his car: “rogojin has been spying upon you and watching you all the morning in a frenzy of desperation.
when he finds you have not gone to pavlofsk a terrible discovery for him he will surely go at once to that house in petersburg side, and watch for you there, although only this morning you gave your word of honour not to see her, and swore that you had not come to petersburg for that purpose.” and thereupon the prince had hastened off to that house, and what was there in the fact that he had met rogojin there?
he had only seen a wretched, suffering creature, whose state of mind was gloomy and miserable, but most comprehensible.
in the morning rogojin had seemed to be trying to keep out of the way; but at the station this afternoon he had stood out, he had concealed himself, indeed, less than the prince himself; at the house, now, he had stood fifty yards off on the other side of the road, with folded hands, watching, plainly in view and apparently desirous of being seen.
he had stood there like an accuser, like a judge, not like a a what?
and why had not the prince approached him and spoken to him, instead of turning away and pretending he had seen nothing, although their eyes met?
(yes, their eyes had met, and they had looked at each other.)
why, he had himself wished to take rogojin by the hand and go in together, he had himself determined to go to him on the morrow and tell him that he had seen her, he had repudiated the demon as he walked to the house, and his heart had been full of joy.
was there something in the whole aspect of the man, today, sufficient to justify the prince’s terror, and the awful suspicions of his demon?
something seen, but indescribable, which filled him with dreadful presentiments?
yes, he was convinced of it convinced of what?
(oh, how mean and hideous of him to feel this conviction, this presentiment!
how he blamed himself for it!)
“speak if you dare, and tell me, what is the presentiment?” he repeated to himself, over and over again.
“put it into words, speak out clearly and distinctly.
oh, miserable coward that i am!” the prince flushed with shame for his own baseness.
“how shall i ever look this man in the face again?
my god, what a day!
and what a nightmare, what a nightmare!”
there was a moment, during this long, wretched walk back from the petersburg side, when the prince felt an irresistible desire to go straight to rogojin’s, wait for him, embrace him with tears of shame and contrition, and tell him of his distrust, and finish with it once for all.
but here he was back at his hotel.
how often during the day he had thought of this hotel with loathing its corridor, its rooms, its stairs.
how he had dreaded coming back to it, for some reason.
“what a regular old woman i am today,” he had said to himself each time, with annoyance.
“i believe in every foolish presentiment that comes into my head.”
he stopped for a moment at the door; a great flush of shame came over him.
“i am a coward, a wretched coward,” he said, and moved forward again; but once more he paused.
among all the incidents of the day, one recurred to his mind to the exclusion of the rest; although now that his self-control was regained, and he was no longer under the influence of a nightmare, he was able to think of it calmly.
it concerned the knife on rogojin’s table.
“why should not rogojin have as many knives on his table as he chooses?”
thought the prince, wondering at his suspicions, as he had done when he found himself looking into the cutler’s window.
“what could it have to do with me?” he said to himself again, and stopped as if rooted to the ground by a kind of paralysis of limb such as attacks people under the stress of some humiliating recollection.
the doorway was dark and gloomy at any time; but just at this moment it was rendered doubly so by the fact that the thunder-storm had just broken, and the rain was coming down in torrents.
and in the semi-darkness the prince distinguished a man standing close to the stairs, apparently waiting.
there was nothing particularly significant in the fact that a man was standing back in the doorway, waiting to come out or go upstairs; but the prince felt an irresistible conviction that he knew this man, and that it was rogojin.
the man moved on up the stairs; a moment later the prince passed up them, too.
his heart froze within him.
“in a minute or two i shall know all,” he thought.
the staircase led to the first and second corridors of the hotel, along which lay the guests’ bedrooms.
as is often the case in petersburg houses, it was narrow and very dark, and turned around a massive stone column.
on the first landing, which was as small as the necessary turn of the stairs allowed, there was a niche in the column, about half a yard wide, and in this niche the prince felt convinced that a man stood concealed.
he thought he could distinguish a figure standing there.
he would pass by quickly and not look.
he took a step forward, but could bear the uncertainty no longer and turned his head.
the eyes the same two eyes met his!
the man concealed in the niche had also taken a step forward.
for one second they stood face to face.
suddenly the prince caught the man by the shoulder and twisted him round towards the light, so that he might see his face more clearly.
rogojin’s eyes flashed, and a smile of insanity distorted his countenance.
his right hand was raised, and something glittered in it.
the prince did not think of trying to stop it.
all he could remember afterwards was that he seemed to have called out:
“parfen!
i won’t believe it.”
next moment something appeared to burst open before him: a wonderful inner light illuminated his soul.
this lasted perhaps half a second, yet he distinctly remembered hearing the beginning of the wail, the strange, dreadful wail, which burst from his lips of its own accord, and which no effort of will on his part could suppress.
next moment he was absolutely unconscious; black darkness blotted out everything.
he had fallen in an epileptic fit.
*****
as is well known, these fits occur instantaneously.
the face, especially the eyes, become terribly disfigured, convulsions seize the limbs, a terrible cry breaks from the sufferer, a wail from which everything human seems to be blotted out, so that it is impossible to believe that the man who has just fallen is the same who emitted the dreadful cry.
it seems more as though some other being, inside the stricken one, had cried.
many people have borne witness to this impression; and many cannot behold an epileptic fit without a feeling of mysterious terror and dread.
such a feeling, we must suppose, overtook rogojin at this moment, and saved the prince’s life.
not knowing that it was a fit, and seeing his victim disappear head foremost into the darkness, hearing his head strike the stone steps below with a crash, rogojin rushed downstairs, skirting the body, and flung himself headlong out of the hotel, like a raving madman.
the prince’s body slipped convulsively down the steps till it rested at the bottom.
very soon, in five minutes or so, he was discovered, and a crowd collected around him.
a pool of blood on the steps near his head gave rise to grave fears.
was it a case of accident, or had there been a crime?
it was, however, soon recognized as a case of epilepsy, and identification and proper measures for restoration followed one another, owing to a fortunate circumstance.
colia ivolgin had come back to his hotel about seven o’clock, owing to a sudden impulse which made him refuse to dine at the epanchins’, and, finding a note from the prince awaiting him, had sped away to the latter’s address.
arrived there, he ordered a cup of tea and sat sipping it in the coffee-room.
while there he heard excited whispers of someone just found at the bottom of the stairs in a fit; upon which he had hurried to the spot, with a presentiment of evil, and at once recognized the prince.
the sufferer was immediately taken to his room, and though he partially regained consciousness, he lay long in a semi-dazed condition.
the doctor stated that there was no danger to be apprehended from the wound on the head, and as soon as the prince could understand what was going on around him, colia hired a carriage and took him away to lebedeff’s.
there he was received with much cordiality, and the departure to the country was hastened on his account.
three days later they were all at pavlofsk.
vi.
lebedeff’s country-house was not large, but it was pretty and convenient, especially the part which was let to the prince.
a row of orange and lemon trees and jasmines, planted in green tubs, stood on the fairly wide terrace.
according to lebedeff, these trees gave the house a most delightful aspect.
some were there when he bought it, and he was so charmed with the effect that he promptly added to their number.
when the tubs containing these plants arrived at the villa and were set in their places, lebedeff kept running into the street to enjoy the view of the house, and every time he did so the rent to be demanded from the future tenant went up with a bound.
this country villa pleased the prince very much in his state of physical and mental exhaustion.
on the day that they left for pavlofsk, that is the day after his attack, he appeared almost well, though in reality he felt very far from it.
the faces of those around him for the last three days had made a pleasant impression.
he was pleased to see, not only colia, who had become his inseparable companion, but lebedeff himself and all the family, except the nephew, who had left the house.
he was also glad to receive a visit from general ivolgin, before leaving st.
petersburg.
it was getting late when the party arrived at pavlofsk, but several people called to see the prince, and assembled in the verandah.
gania was the first to arrive.
he had grown so pale and thin that the prince could hardly recognize him.
then came varia and ptitsin, who were rusticating in the neighbourhood.
as to general ivolgin, he scarcely budged from lebedeff’s house, and seemed to have moved to pavlofsk with him.
lebedeff did his best to keep ardalion alexandrovitch by him, and to prevent him from invading the prince’s quarters.
he chatted with him confidentially, so that they might have been taken for old friends.
during those three days the prince had noticed that they frequently held long conversations; he often heard their voices raised in argument on deep and learned subjects, which evidently pleased lebedeff.
he seemed as if he could not do without the general.
but it was not only ardalion alexandrovitch whom lebedeff kept out of the prince’s way.
since they had come to the villa, he treated his own family the same.
upon the pretext that his tenant needed quiet, he kept him almost in isolation, and muishkin protested in vain against this excess of zeal.
lebedeff stamped his feet at his daughters and drove them away if they attempted to join the prince on the terrace; not even vera was excepted.
“they will lose all respect if they are allowed to be so free and easy; besides it is not proper for them,” he declared at last, in answer to a direct question from the prince.
“why on earth not?” asked the latter.
“really, you know, you are making yourself a nuisance, by keeping guard over me like this.
i get bored all by myself; i have told you so over and over again, and you get on my nerves more than ever by waving your hands and creeping in and out in the mysterious way you do.”
it was a fact that lebedeff, though he was so anxious to keep everyone else from disturbing the patient, was continually in and out of the prince’s room himself.
he invariably began by opening the door a crack and peering in to see if the prince was there, or if he had escaped; then he would creep softly up to the arm-chair, sometimes making muishkin jump by his sudden appearance.
he always asked if the patient wanted anything, and when the latter replied that he only wanted to be left in peace, he would turn away obediently and make for the door on tip-toe, with deprecatory gestures to imply that he had only just looked in, that he would not speak a word, and would go away and not intrude again; which did not prevent him from reappearing in ten minutes or a quarter of an hour.
colia had free access to the prince, at which lebedeff was quite disgusted and indignant.
he would listen at the door for half an hour at a time while the two were talking.
colia found this out, and naturally told the prince of his discovery.
“do you think yourself my master, that you try to keep me under lock and key like this?” said the prince to lebedeff.
“in the country, at least, i intend to be free, and you may make up your mind that i mean to see whom i like, and go where i please.”
“why, of course,” replied the clerk, gesticulating with his hands.
the prince looked him sternly up and down.
“well, lukian timofeyovitch, have you brought the little cupboard that you had at the head of your bed with you here?”
“no, i left it where it was.”
“impossible!”
“it cannot be moved; you would have to pull the wall down, it is so firmly fixed.”
“perhaps you have one like it here?”
“i have one that is even better, much better; that is really why i bought this house.”
“ah!
what visitor did you turn away from my door, about an hour ago?”
“the-the general.
i would not let him in; there is no need for him to visit you, prince... i have the deepest esteem for him, he is a a great man.
you don’t believe it?
well, you will see, and yet, most excellent prince, you had much better not receive him.”
“may i ask why?
and also why you walk about on tiptoe and always seem as if you were going to whisper a secret in my ear whenever you come near me?”
“i am vile, vile; i know it!” cried lebedeff, beating his breast with a contrite air.
“but will not the general be too hospitable for you?”
“too hospitable?”
“yes.
first, he proposes to come and live in my house.
well and good; but he sticks at nothing; he immediately makes himself one of the family.
we have talked over our respective relations several times, and discovered that we are connected by marriage.
it seems also that you are a sort of nephew on his mother’s side; he was explaining it to me again only yesterday.
if you are his nephew, it follows that i must also be a relation of yours, most excellent prince.
never mind about that, it is only a foible; but just now he assured me that all his life, from the day he was made an ensign to the 11th of last june, he has entertained at least two hundred guests at his table every day.
finally, he went so far as to say that they never rose from the table; they dined, supped, and had tea, for fifteen hours at a stretch.
this went on for thirty years without a break; there was barely time to change the table-cloth; directly one person left, another took his place.
on feast-days he entertained as many as three hundred guests, and they numbered seven hundred on the thousandth anniversary of the foundation of the russian empire.
it amounts to a passion with him; it makes one uneasy to hear of it.
it is terrible to have to entertain people who do things on such a scale.
that is why i wonder whether such a man is not too hospitable for you and me.”
“but you seem to be on the best of terms with him?”
“quite fraternal i look upon it as a joke.
let us be brothers-in-law, it is all the same to me, rather an honour than not.
but in spite of the two hundred guests and the thousandth anniversary of the russian empire, i can see that he is a very remarkable man.
i am quite sincere.
you said just now that i always looked as if i was going to tell you a secret; you are right.
i have a secret to tell you: a certain person has just let me know that she is very anxious for a secret interview with you.”
“why should it be secret?
not at all; i will call on her myself tomorrow.”
“no, oh no!” cried lebedeff, waving his arms; “if she is afraid, it is not for the reason you think.
by the way, do you know that the monster comes every day to inquire after your health?”
“you call him a monster so often that it makes me suspicious.”
“you must have no suspicions, none whatever,” said lebedeff quickly.
“i only want you to know that the person in question is not afraid of him, but of something quite, quite different.”
“what on earth is she afraid of, then?
tell me plainly, without any more beating about the bush,” said the prince, exasperated by the other’s mysterious grimaces.
“ah that is the secret,” said lebedeff, with a smile.
“whose secret?”
“yours.
you forbade me yourself to mention it before you, most excellent prince,” murmured lebedeff.
then, satisfied that he had worked up muishkin’s curiosity to the highest pitch, he added abruptly: “she is afraid of aglaya ivanovna.”
the prince frowned for a moment in silence, and then said suddenly:
“really, lebedeff, i must leave your house.
where are gavrila ardalionovitch and the ptitsins?
are they here?
have you chased them away, too?”
“they are coming, they are coming; and the general as well.
i will open all the doors; i will call all my daughters, all of them, this very minute,” said lebedeff in a low voice, thoroughly frightened, and waving his hands as he ran from door to door.
at that moment colia appeared on the terrace; he announced that lizabetha prokofievna and her three daughters were close behind him.
moved by this news, lebedeff hurried up to the prince.
“shall i call the ptitsins, and gavrila ardalionovitch?
shall i let the general in?” he asked.
“why not?
let in anyone who wants to see me.
i assure you, lebedeff, you have misunderstood my position from the very first; you have been wrong all along.
i have not the slightest reason to hide myself from anyone,”
replied the prince gaily.
seeing him laugh, lebedeff thought fit to laugh also, and though much agitated his satisfaction was quite visible.
colia was right; the epanchin ladies were only a few steps behind him.
as they approached the terrace other visitors appeared from lebedeff’s side of the house the ptitsins, gania, and ardalion alexandrovitch.
the epanchins had only just heard of the prince’s illness and of his presence in pavlofsk, from colia; and up to this time had been in a state of considerable bewilderment about him.
the general brought the prince’s card down from town, and mrs. epanchin had felt convinced that he himself would follow his card at once; she was much excited.
in vain the girls assured her that a man who had not written for six months would not be in such a dreadful hurry, and that probably he had enough to do in town without needing to bustle down to pavlofsk to see them.
their mother was quite angry at the very idea of such a thing, and announced her absolute conviction that he would turn up the next day at latest.
so next day the prince was expected all the morning, and at dinner, tea, and supper; and when he did not appear in the evening, mrs. epanchin quarrelled with everyone in the house, finding plenty of pretexts without so much as mentioning the prince’s name.
on the third day there was no talk of him at all, until aglaya remarked at dinner: “mamma is cross because the prince hasn’t turned up,” to which the general replied that it was not his fault.
mrs. epanchin misunderstood the observation, and rising from her place she left the room in majestic wrath.
in the evening, however, colia came with the story of the prince’s adventures, so far as he knew them.
mrs.
epanchin was triumphant; although colia had to listen to a long lecture.
“he idles about here the whole day long, one can’t get rid of him; and then when he is wanted he does not come.
he might have sent a line if he did not wish to inconvenience himself.”
at the words “one can’t get rid of him,” colia was very angry, and nearly flew into a rage; but he resolved to be quiet for the time and show his resentment later.
if the words had been less offensive he might have forgiven them, so pleased was he to see lizabetha prokofievna worried and anxious about the prince’s illness.
she would have insisted on sending to petersburg at once, for a certain great medical celebrity; but her daughters dissuaded her, though they were not willing to stay behind when she at once prepared to go and visit the invalid.
aglaya, however, suggested that it was a little unceremonious to go en masse to see him.
“very well then, stay at home,” said mrs. epanchin, “and a good thing too, for evgenie pavlovitch is coming down and there will be no one at home to receive him.”
of course, after this, aglaya went with the rest.
in fact, she had never had the slightest intention of doing otherwise.
prince s., who was in the house, was requested to escort the ladies.
he had been much interested when he first heard of the prince from the epanchins.
it appeared that they had known one another before, and had spent some time together in a little provincial town three months ago.
prince s. had greatly taken to him, and was delighted with the opportunity of meeting him again.
the general had not come down from town as yet, nor had evgenie pavlovitch arrived.
it was not more than two or three hundred yards from the epanchins’
house to lebedeff’s.
the first disagreeable impression experienced by mrs. epanchin was to find the prince surrounded by a whole assembly of other guests not to mention the fact that some of those present were particularly detestable in her eyes.
the next annoying circumstance was when an apparently strong and healthy young fellow, well dressed, and smiling, came forward to meet her on the terrace, instead of the half-dying unfortunate whom she had expected to see.
she was astonished and vexed, and her disappointment pleased colia immensely.
of course he could have undeceived her before she started, but the mischievous boy had been careful not to do that, foreseeing the probably laughable disgust that she would experience when she found her dear friend, the prince, in good health.
colia was indelicate enough to voice the delight he felt at his success in managing to annoy lizabetha prokofievna, with whom, in spite of their really amicable relations, he was constantly sparring.
“just wait a while, my boy!” said she; “don’t be too certain of your triumph.” and she sat down heavily, in the arm-chair pushed forward by the prince.
lebedeff, ptitsin, and general ivolgin hastened to find chairs for the young ladies.
varia greeted them joyfully, and they exchanged confidences in ecstatic whispers.
“i must admit, prince, i was a little put out to see you up and about like this i expected to find you in bed; but i give you my word, i was only annoyed for an instant, before i collected my thoughts properly.
i am always wiser on second thoughts, and i dare say you are the same.
i assure you i am as glad to see you well as though you were my own son, yes, and more; and if you don’t believe me the more shame to you, and it’s not my fault.
but that spiteful boy delights in playing all sorts of tricks.
you are his patron, it seems.
well, i warn you that one fine morning i shall deprive myself of the pleasure of his further acquaintance.”
“what have i done wrong now?” cried colia.
“what was the good of telling you that the prince was nearly well again?
you would not have believed me; it was so much more interesting to picture him on his death-bed.”
“how long do you remain here, prince?” asked madame epanchin.
“all the summer, and perhaps longer.”
“you are alone, aren’t you, not married?”
“no, i’m not married!” replied the prince, smiling at the ingenuousness of this little feeler.
“oh, you needn’t laugh!
these things do happen, you know!
now then why didn’t you come to us?
we have a wing quite empty.
but just as you like, of course.
do you lease it from him?
this fellow, i mean,” she added, nodding towards lebedeff.
“and why does he always wriggle so?”
at that moment vera, carrying the baby in her arms as usual, came out of the house, on to the terrace.
lebedeff kept fidgeting among the chairs, and did not seem to know what to do with himself, though he had no intention of going away.
he no sooner caught sight of his daughter, than he rushed in her direction, waving his arms to keep her away; he even forgot himself so far as to stamp his foot.
“is he mad?” asked madame epanchin suddenly.
“no, he...”
“perhaps he is drunk?
your company is rather peculiar,” she added, with a glance at the other guests....
“but what a pretty girl!
who is she?”
“that is lebedeff’s daughter vera lukianovna.”
“indeed?
she looks very sweet.
i should like to make her acquaintance.”
the words were hardly out of her mouth, when lebedeff dragged vera forward, in order to present her.
“orphans, poor orphans!” he began in a pathetic voice.
“the child she carries is an orphan, too.
she is vera’s sister, my daughter luboff.
the day this babe was born, six weeks ago, my wife died, by the will of god almighty.... yes... vera takes her mother’s place, though she is but her sister... nothing more... nothing more...”
“and you!
you are nothing more than a fool, if you’ll excuse me!
well!
well!
you know that yourself, i expect,” said the lady indignantly.
lebedeff bowed low.
“it is the truth,” he replied, with extreme respect.
“oh, mr. lebedeff, i am told you lecture on the apocalypse.
is it true?”
asked aglaya.
“yes, that is so... for the last fifteen years.”
“i have heard of you, and i think read of you in the newspapers.”
“no, that was another commentator, whom the papers named.
he is dead, however, and i have taken his place,” said the other, much delighted.
“we are neighbours, so will you be so kind as to come over one day and explain the apocalypse to me?” said aglaya.
“i do not understand it in the least.”
“allow me to warn you,” interposed general ivolgin, “that he is the greatest charlatan on earth.” he had taken the chair next to the girl, and was impatient to begin talking.
“no doubt there are pleasures and amusements peculiar to the country,” he continued, “and to listen to a pretended student holding forth on the book of the revelations may be as good as any other.
it may even be original.
but... you seem to be looking at me with some surprise may i introduce myself general ivolgin i carried you in my arms as a baby ”
“delighted, i’m sure,” said aglaya; “i am acquainted with varvara ardalionovna and nina alexandrovna.” she was trying hard to restrain herself from laughing.
mrs. epanchin flushed up; some accumulation of spleen in her suddenly needed an outlet.
she could not bear this general ivolgin whom she had once known, long ago in society.
“you are deviating from the truth, sir, as usual!” she remarked, boiling over with indignation; “you never carried her in your life!”
“you have forgotten, mother,” said aglaya, suddenly.
“he really did carry me about, in tver, you know.
i was six years old, i remember.
he made me a bow and arrow, and i shot a pigeon.
don’t you remember shooting a pigeon, you and i, one day?”
“yes, and he made me a cardboard helmet, and a little wooden sword i remember!” said adelaida.
“yes, i remember too!” said alexandra.
“you quarrelled about the wounded pigeon, and adelaida was put in the corner, and stood there with her helmet and sword and all.”
the poor general had merely made the remark about having carried aglaya in his arms because he always did so begin a conversation with young people.
but it happened that this time he had really hit upon the truth, though he had himself entirely forgotten the fact.
but when adelaida and aglaya recalled the episode of the pigeon, his mind became filled with memories, and it is impossible to describe how this poor old man, usually half drunk, was moved by the recollection.
“i remember i remember it all!” he cried.
“i was captain then.
you were such a lovely little thing nina alexandrovna!
gania, listen!
i was received then by general epanchin.”
“yes, and look what you have come to now!” interrupted mrs. epanchin.
“however, i see you have not quite drunk your better feelings away.
but you’ve broken your wife’s heart, sir and instead of looking after your children, you have spent your time in public-houses and debtors’
prisons!
go away, my friend, stand in some corner and weep, and bemoan your fallen dignity, and perhaps god will forgive you yet!
go, go!
i’m serious!
there’s nothing so favourable for repentance as to think of the past with feelings of remorse!”
there was no need to repeat that she was serious.
the general, like all drunkards, was extremely emotional and easily touched by recollections of his better days.
he rose and walked quietly to the door, so meekly that mrs. epanchin was instantly sorry for him.
“ardalion alexandrovitch,” she cried after him, “wait a moment, we are all sinners!
when you feel that your conscience reproaches you a little less, come over to me and we’ll have a talk about the past!
i dare say i am fifty times more of a sinner than you are!
and now go, go, good-bye, you had better not stay here!” she added, in alarm, as he turned as though to come back.
“don’t go after him just now, colia, or he’ll be vexed, and the benefit of this moment will be lost!” said the prince, as the boy was hurrying out of the room.
“quite true!
much better to go in half an hour or so,” said mrs. epanchin.
“that’s what comes of telling the truth for once in one’s life!” said lebedeff.
“it reduced him to tears.”
“come, come!
the less you say about it the better to judge from all i have heard about you!” replied mrs. epanchin.
the prince took the first opportunity of informing the epanchin ladies that he had intended to pay them a visit that day, if they had not themselves come this afternoon, and lizabetha prokofievna replied that she hoped he would still do so.
by this time some of the visitors had disappeared.
ptitsin had tactfully retreated to lebedeff’s wing; and gania soon followed him.
the latter had behaved modestly, but with dignity, on this occasion of his first meeting with the epanchins since the rupture.
twice mrs.
epanchin had deliberately examined him from head to foot; but he had stood fire without flinching.
he was certainly much changed, as anyone could see who had not met him for some time; and this fact seemed to afford aglaya a good deal of satisfaction.
“that was gavrila ardalionovitch, who just went out, wasn’t it?” she asked suddenly, interrupting somebody else’s conversation to make the remark.
“yes, it was,” said the prince.
“i hardly knew him; he is much changed, and for the better!”
“i am very glad,” said the prince.
“he has been very ill,” added varia.
“how has he changed for the better?” asked mrs. epanchin.
“i don’t see any change for the better!
what’s better in him?
where did you get that idea from?
what’s better?”
“there’s nothing better than the ‘poor knight’!” said colia, who was standing near the last speaker’s chair.
“i quite agree with you there!” said prince s., laughing.
“so do i,” said adelaida, solemnly.
“what poor knight?” asked mrs. epanchin, looking round at the face of each of the speakers in turn.
seeing, however, that aglaya was blushing, she added, angrily:
“what nonsense you are all talking!
what do you mean by poor knight?”
“it’s not the first time this urchin, your favourite, has shown his impudence by twisting other people’s words,” said aglaya, haughtily.
every time that aglaya showed temper (and this was very often), there was so much childish pouting, such “school-girlishness,” as it were, in her apparent wrath, that it was impossible to avoid smiling at her, to her own unutterable indignation.
on these occasions she would say, “how can they, how dare they laugh at me?”
this time everyone laughed at her, her sisters, prince s., prince muishkin (though he himself had flushed for some reason), and colia.
aglaya was dreadfully indignant, and looked twice as pretty in her wrath.
“he’s always twisting round what one says,” she cried.
“i am only repeating your own exclamation!” said colia.
“a month ago you were turning over the pages of your don quixote, and suddenly called out ‘there is nothing better than the poor knight.’ i don’t know whom you were referring to, of course, whether to don quixote, or evgenie pavlovitch, or someone else, but you certainly said these words, and afterwards there was a long conversation...”
“you are inclined to go a little too far, my good boy, with your guesses,” said mrs. epanchin, with some show of annoyance.
“but it’s not i alone,” cried colia.
“they all talked about it, and they do still.
why, just now prince s. and adelaida ivanovna declared that they upheld ‘the poor knight’; so evidently there does exist a ‘poor knight’; and if it were not for adelaida ivanovna, we should have known long ago who the ‘poor knight’ was.”
“why, how am i to blame?” asked adelaida, smiling.
“you wouldn’t draw his portrait for us, that’s why you are to blame!
aglaya ivanovna asked you to draw his portrait, and gave you the whole subject of the picture.
she invented it herself; and you wouldn’t.”
“what was i to draw?
according to the lines she quoted:
“‘from his face he never lifted     that eternal mask of steel.’”
“what sort of a face was i to draw?
i couldn’t draw a mask.”
“i don’t know what you are driving at; what mask do you mean?” said mrs. epanchin, irritably.
she began to see pretty clearly though what it meant, and whom they referred to by the generally accepted title of “poor knight.” but what specially annoyed her was that the prince was looking so uncomfortable, and blushing like a ten-year-old child.
“well, have you finished your silly joke?” she added, “and am i to be told what this ‘poor knight’ means, or is it a solemn secret which cannot be approached lightly?”
but they all laughed on.
“it’s simply that there is a russian poem,” began prince s., evidently anxious to change the conversation, “a strange thing, without beginning or end, and all about a ‘poor knight.’ a month or so ago, we were all talking and laughing, and looking up a subject for one of adelaida’s pictures you know it is the principal business of this family to find subjects for adelaida’s pictures.
well, we happened upon this ‘poor knight.’ i don’t remember who thought of it first ”
“oh!
aglaya ivanovna did,” said colia.
“very likely i don’t recollect,” continued prince s.
“some of us laughed at the subject; some liked it; but she declared that, in order to make a picture of the gentleman, she must first see his face.
we then began to think over all our friends’ faces to see if any of them would do, and none suited us, and so the matter stood; that’s all.
i don’t know why nicolai ardalionovitch has brought up the joke now.
what was appropriate and funny then, has quite lost all interest by this time.”
“probably there’s some new silliness about it,” said mrs. epanchin, sarcastically.
“there is no silliness about it at all only the profoundest respect,”
said aglaya, very seriously.
she had quite recovered her temper; in fact, from certain signs, it was fair to conclude that she was delighted to see this joke going so far; and a careful observer might have remarked that her satisfaction dated from the moment when the fact of the prince’s confusion became apparent to all.
“‘profoundest respect!’ what nonsense!
first, insane giggling, and then, all of a sudden, a display of ‘profoundest respect.’ why respect?
tell me at once, why have you suddenly developed this ‘profound respect,’
eh?”
“because,” replied aglaya gravely, “in the poem the knight is described as a man capable of living up to an ideal all his life.
that sort of thing is not to be found every day among the men of our times.
in the poem it is not stated exactly what the ideal was, but it was evidently some vision, some revelation of pure beauty, and the knight wore round his neck, instead of a scarf, a rosary.
a device a. n. b. the meaning of which is not explained, was inscribed on his shield ”
“no, a. n. d.,” corrected colia.
“i say a. n. b., and so it shall be!” cried aglaya, irritably.
“anyway, the ‘poor knight’ did not care what his lady was, or what she did.
he had chosen his ideal, and he was bound to serve her, and break lances for her, and acknowledge her as the ideal of pure beauty, whatever she might say or do afterwards.
if she had taken to stealing, he would have championed her just the same.
i think the poet desired to embody in this one picture the whole spirit of medieval chivalry and the platonic love of a pure and high-souled knight.
of course it’s all an ideal, and in the ‘poor knight’ that spirit reached the utmost limit of asceticism.
he is a don quixote, only serious and not comical.
i used not to understand him, and laughed at him, but now i love the ‘poor knight,’ and respect his actions.”
so ended aglaya; and, to look at her, it was difficult, indeed, to judge whether she was joking or in earnest.
“pooh!
he was a fool, and his actions were the actions of a fool,” said mrs. epanchin; “and as for you, young woman, you ought to know better.
at all events, you are not to talk like that again.
what poem is it?
recite it!
i want to hear this poem!
i have hated poetry all my life.
prince, you must excuse this nonsense.
we neither of us like this sort of thing!
be patient!”
they certainly were put out, both of them.
the prince tried to say something, but he was too confused, and could not get his words out.
aglaya, who had taken such liberties in her little speech, was the only person present, perhaps, who was not in the least embarrassed.
she seemed, in fact, quite pleased.
she now rose solemnly from her seat, walked to the centre of the terrace, and stood in front of the prince’s chair.
all looked on with some surprise, and prince s. and her sisters with feelings of decided alarm, to see what new frolic she was up to; it had gone quite far enough already, they thought.
but aglaya evidently thoroughly enjoyed the affectation and ceremony with which she was introducing her recitation of the poem.
mrs. epanchin was just wondering whether she would not forbid the performance after all, when, at the very moment that aglaya commenced her declamation, two new guests, both talking loudly, entered from the street.
the new arrivals were general epanchin and a young man.
their entrance caused some slight commotion.
vii.
the young fellow accompanying the general was about twenty-eight, tall, and well built, with a handsome and clever face, and bright black eyes, full of fun and intelligence.
aglaya did not so much as glance at the new arrivals, but went on with her recitation, gazing at the prince the while in an affected manner, and at him alone.
it was clear to him that she was doing all this with some special object.
but the new guests at least somewhat eased his strained and uncomfortable position.
seeing them approaching, he rose from his chair, and nodding amicably to the general, signed to him not to interrupt the recitation.
he then got behind his chair, and stood there with his left hand resting on the back of it.
thanks to this change of position, he was able to listen to the ballad with far less embarrassment than before.
mrs. epanchin had also twice motioned to the new arrivals to be quiet, and stay where they were.
the prince was much interested in the young man who had just entered.
he easily concluded that this was evgenie pavlovitch radomski, of whom he had already heard mention several times.
he was puzzled, however, by the young man’s plain clothes, for he had always heard of evgenie pavlovitch as a military man.
an ironical smile played on evgenie’s lips all the while the recitation was proceeding, which showed that he, too, was probably in the secret of the ‘poor knight’ joke.
but it had become quite a different matter with aglaya.
all the affectation of manner which she had displayed at the beginning disappeared as the ballad proceeded.
she spoke the lines in so serious and exalted a manner, and with so much taste, that she even seemed to justify the exaggerated solemnity with which she had stepped forward.
it was impossible to discern in her now anything but a deep feeling for the spirit of the poem which she had undertaken to interpret.
her eyes were aglow with inspiration, and a slight tremor of rapture passed over her lovely features once or twice.
she continued to recite:
“once there came a vision glorious,    mystic, dreadful, wondrous fair;    burned itself into his spirit,    and abode for ever there!
“never more from that sweet moment
gazéd he on womankind;    he was dumb to love and wooing    and to all their graces blind.
“full of love for that sweet vision,    brave and pure he took the field;    with his blood he stained the letters    n. p. b. upon his shield.
“‘lumen caeli, sancta rosa!’
shouting on the foe he fell,    and like thunder rang his war-cry    o’er the cowering infidel.
“then within his distant castle,    home returned, he dreamed his days
silent, sad, and when death took him    he was mad, the legend says.”
when recalling all this afterwards the prince could not for the life of him understand how to reconcile the beautiful, sincere, pure nature of the girl with the irony of this jest.
that it was a jest there was no doubt whatever; he knew that well enough, and had good reason, too, for his conviction; for during her recitation of the ballad aglaya had deliberately changed the letters a. n. b. into n. p. b. he was quite sure she had not done this by accident, and that his ears had not deceived him.
at all events her performance which was a joke, of course, if rather a crude one, was premeditated.
they had evidently talked (and laughed) over the ‘poor knight’ for more than a month.
yet aglaya had brought out these letters n. p. b. not only without the slightest appearance of irony, or even any particular accentuation, but with so even and unbroken an appearance of seriousness that assuredly anyone might have supposed that these initials were the original ones written in the ballad.
the thing made an uncomfortable impression upon the prince.
of course mrs. epanchin saw nothing either in the change of initials or in the insinuation embodied therein.
general epanchin only knew that there was a recitation of verses going on, and took no further interest in the matter.
of the rest of the audience, many had understood the allusion and wondered both at the daring of the lady and at the motive underlying it, but tried to show no sign of their feelings.
but evgenie pavlovitch (as the prince was ready to wager) both comprehended and tried his best to show that he comprehended; his smile was too mocking to leave any doubt on that point.
“how beautiful that is!” cried mrs. epanchin, with sincere admiration.
“whose is it?”
“pushkin’s, mama, of course!
don’t disgrace us all by showing your ignorance,” said adelaida.
“as soon as we reach home give it to me to read.”
“i don’t think we have a copy of pushkin in the house.”
“there are a couple of torn volumes somewhere; they have been lying about from time immemorial,” added alexandra.
“send feodor or alexey up by the very first train to buy a copy, then.
aglaya, come here kiss me, dear, you recited beautifully!
but,”
she added in a whisper, “if you were sincere i am sorry for you.
if it was a joke, i do not approve of the feelings which prompted you to do it, and in any case you would have done far better not to recite it at all.
do you understand?
now come along, young woman; we’ve sat here too long.
i’ll speak to you about this another time.”
meanwhile the prince took the opportunity of greeting general epanchin, and the general introduced evgenie pavlovitch to him.
“i caught him up on the way to your house,” explained the general.
“he had heard that we were all here.”
“yes, and i heard that you were here, too,” added evgenie pavlovitch; “and since i had long promised myself the pleasure of seeking not only your acquaintance but your friendship, i did not wish to waste time, but came straight on.
i am sorry to hear that you are unwell.”
“oh, but i’m quite well now, thank you, and very glad to make your acquaintance.
prince s. has often spoken to me about you,” said muishkin, and for an instant the two men looked intently into one another’s eyes.
the prince remarked that evgenie pavlovitch’s plain clothes had evidently made a great impression upon the company present, so much so that all other interests seemed to be effaced before this surprising fact.
his change of dress was evidently a matter of some importance.
adelaida and alexandra poured out a stream of questions; prince s., a relative of the young man, appeared annoyed; and ivan fedorovitch quite excited.
aglaya alone was not interested.
she merely looked closely at evgenie for a minute, curious perhaps as to whether civil or military clothes became him best, then turned away and paid no more attention to him or his costume.
lizabetha prokofievna asked no questions, but it was clear that she was uneasy, and the prince fancied that evgenie was not in her good graces.
“he has astonished me,” said ivan fedorovitch.
“i nearly fell down with surprise.
i could hardly believe my eyes when i met him in petersburg just now.
why this haste?
that’s what i want to know.
he has always said himself that there is no need to break windows.”
evgenie pavlovitch remarked here that he had spoken of his intention of leaving the service long ago.
he had, however, always made more or less of a joke about it, so no one had taken him seriously.
for that matter he joked about everything, and his friends never knew what to believe, especially if he did not wish them to understand him.
“i have only retired for a time,” said he, laughing.
“for a few months; at most for a year.”
“but there is no necessity for you to retire at all,” complained the general, “as far as i know.”
“i want to go and look after my country estates.
you advised me to do that yourself,” was the reply.
“and then i wish to go abroad.”
after a few more expostulations, the conversation drifted into other channels, but the prince, who had been an attentive listener, thought all this excitement about so small a matter very curious.
“there must be more in it than appears,” he said to himself.
“i see the ‘poor knight’ has come on the scene again,” said evgenie pavlovitch, stepping to aglaya’s side.
to the amazement of the prince, who overheard the remark, aglaya looked haughtily and inquiringly at the questioner, as though she would give him to know, once for all, that there could be no talk between them about the ‘poor knight,’ and that she did not understand his question.
“but not now!
it is too late to send to town for a pushkin now.
it is much too late, i say!” colia was exclaiming in a loud voice.
“i have told you so at least a hundred times.”
“yes, it is really much too late to send to town now,” said evgenie pavlovitch, who had escaped from aglaya as rapidly as possible.
“i am sure the shops are shut in petersburg; it is past eight o’clock,” he added, looking at his watch.
“we have done without him so far,” interrupted adelaida in her turn.
“surely we can wait until to-morrow.”
“besides,” said colia, “it is quite unusual, almost improper, for people in our position to take any interest in literature.
ask evgenie pavlovitch if i am not right.
it is much more fashionable to drive a waggonette with red wheels.”
“you got that from some magazine, colia,” remarked adelaida.
“he gets most of his conversation in that way,” laughed evgenie pavlovitch.
“he borrows whole phrases from the reviews.
i have long had the pleasure of knowing both nicholai ardalionovitch and his conversational methods, but this time he was not repeating something he had read; he was alluding, no doubt, to my yellow waggonette, which has, or had, red wheels.
but i have exchanged it, so you are rather behind the times, colia.”
the prince had been listening attentively to radomski’s words, and thought his manner very pleasant.
when colia chaffed him about his waggonette he had replied with perfect equality and in a friendly fashion.
this pleased muishkin.
at this moment vera came up to lizabetha prokofievna, carrying several large and beautifully bound books, apparently quite new.
“what is it?” demanded the lady.
“this is pushkin,” replied the girl.
“papa told me to offer it to you.”
“what?
impossible!” exclaimed mrs. epanchin.
“not as a present, not as a present!
i should not have taken the liberty,” said lebedeff, appearing suddenly from behind his daughter.
“it is our own pushkin, our family copy, annenkoff’s edition; it could not be bought now.
i beg to suggest, with great respect, that your excellency should buy it, and thus quench the noble literary thirst which is consuming you at this moment,” he concluded grandiloquently.
“oh!
if you will sell it, very good and thank you.
you shall not be a loser!
but for goodness’ sake, don’t twist about like that, sir!
i have heard of you; they tell me you are a very learned person.
we must have a talk one of these days.
you will bring me the books yourself?”
“with the greatest respect... and... and veneration,” replied lebedeff, making extraordinary grimaces.
“well, bring them, with or without respect, provided always you do not drop them on the way; but on the condition,” went on the lady, looking full at him, “that you do not cross my threshold.
i do not intend to receive you today.
you may send your daughter vera at once, if you like.
i am much pleased with her.”
“why don’t you tell him about them?” said vera impatiently to her father.
“they will come in, whether you announce them or not, and they are beginning to make a row.
lef nicolaievitch,” she addressed herself to the prince “four men are here asking for you.
they have waited some time, and are beginning to make a fuss, and papa will not bring them in.”
“who are these people?” said the prince.
“they say that they have come on business, and they are the kind of men, who, if you do not see them here, will follow you about the street.
it would be better to receive them, and then you will get rid of them.
gavrila ardalionovitch and ptitsin are both there, trying to make them hear reason.”
“pavlicheff’s son!
it is not worth while!” cried lebedeff.
“there is no necessity to see them, and it would be most unpleasant for your excellency.
they do not deserve...”
“what?
pavlicheff’s son!” cried the prince, much perturbed.
“i know...
i know but i entrusted this matter to gavrila ardalionovitch.
he told me...”
at that moment gania, accompanied by ptitsin, came out to the terrace.
from an adjoining room came a noise of angry voices, and general ivolgin, in loud tones, seemed to be trying to shout them down.
colia rushed off at once to investigate the cause of the uproar.
“this is most interesting!” observed evgenie pavlovitch.
“i expect he knows all about it!” thought the prince.
“what, the son of pavlicheff?
and who may this son of pavlicheff be?”
asked general epanchin with surprise; and looking curiously around him, he discovered that he alone had no clue to the mystery.
expectation and suspense were on every face, with the exception of that of the prince, who stood gravely wondering how an affair so entirely personal could have awakened such lively and widespread interest in so short a time.
aglaya went up to him with a peculiarly serious look.
“it will be well,” she said, “if you put an end to this affair yourself at once: but you must allow us to be your witnesses.
they want to throw mud at you, prince, and you must be triumphantly vindicated.
i give you joy beforehand!”
“and i also wish for justice to be done, once for all,” cried madame epanchin, “about this impudent claim.
deal with them promptly, prince, and don’t spare them!
i am sick of hearing about the affair, and many a quarrel i have had in your cause.
but i confess i am anxious to see what happens, so do make them come out here, and we will remain.
you have heard people talking about it, no doubt?” she added, turning to prince s.
“of course,” said he.
“i have heard it spoken about at your house, and i am anxious to see these young men!”
“they are nihilists, are they not?”
“no, they are not nihilists,” explained lebedeff, who seemed much excited.
“this is another lot a special group.
according to my nephew they are more advanced even than the nihilists.
you are quite wrong, excellency, if you think that your presence will intimidate them; nothing intimidates them.
educated men, learned men even, are to be found among nihilists; these go further, in that they are men of action.
the movement is, properly speaking, a derivative from nihilism though they are only known indirectly, and by hearsay, for they never advertise their doings in the papers.
they go straight to the point.
for them, it is not a question of showing that pushkin is stupid, or that russia must be torn in pieces.
no; but if they have a great desire for anything, they believe they have a right to get it even at the cost of the lives, say, of eight persons.
they are checked by no obstacles.
in fact, prince, i should not advise you...”
but muishkin had risen, and was on his way to open the door for his visitors.
“you are slandering them, lebedeff,” said he, smiling.
“you are always thinking about your nephew’s conduct.
don’t believe him, lizabetha prokofievna.
i can assure you gorsky and daniloff are exceptions and that these are only... mistaken.
however, i do not care about receiving them here, in public.
excuse me, lizabetha prokofievna.
they are coming, and you can see them, and then i will take them away.
please come in, gentlemen!”
another thought tormented him: he wondered was this an arranged business arranged to happen when he had guests in his house, and in anticipation of his humiliation rather than of his triumph?
but he reproached himself bitterly for such a thought, and felt as if he should die of shame if it were discovered.
when his new visitors appeared, he was quite ready to believe himself infinitely less to be respected than any of them.
four persons entered, led by general ivolgin, in a state of great excitement, and talking eloquently.
“he is for me, undoubtedly!” thought the prince, with a smile.
colia also had joined the party, and was talking with animation to hippolyte, who listened with a jeering smile on his lips.
the prince begged the visitors to sit down.
they were all so young that it made the proceedings seem even more extraordinary.
ivan fedorovitch, who really understood nothing of what was going on, felt indignant at the sight of these youths, and would have interfered in some way had it not been for the extreme interest shown by his wife in the affair.
he therefore remained, partly through curiosity, partly through good-nature, hoping that his presence might be of some use.
but the bow with which general ivolgin greeted him irritated him anew; he frowned, and decided to be absolutely silent.
as to the rest, one was a man of thirty, the retired officer, now a boxer, who had been with rogojin, and in his happier days had given fifteen roubles at a time to beggars.
evidently he had joined the others as a comrade to give them moral, and if necessary material, support.
the man who had been spoken of as “pavlicheff’s son,” although he gave the name of antip burdovsky, was about twenty-two years of age, fair, thin and rather tall.
he was remarkable for the poverty, not to say uncleanliness, of his personal appearance: the sleeves of his overcoat were greasy; his dirty waistcoat, buttoned up to his neck, showed not a trace of linen; a filthy black silk scarf, twisted till it resembled a cord, was round his neck, and his hands were unwashed.
he looked round with an air of insolent effrontery.
his face, covered with pimples, was neither thoughtful nor even contemptuous; it wore an expression of complacent satisfaction in demanding his rights and in being an aggrieved party.
his voice trembled, and he spoke so fast, and with such stammerings, that he might have been taken for a foreigner, though the purest russian blood ran in his veins.
lebedeff’s nephew, whom the reader has seen already, accompanied him, and also the youth named hippolyte terentieff.
the latter was only seventeen or eighteen.
he had an intelligent face, though it was usually irritated and fretful in expression.
his skeleton-like figure, his ghastly complexion, the brightness of his eyes, and the red spots of colour on his cheeks, betrayed the victim of consumption to the most casual glance.
he coughed persistently, and panted for breath; it looked as though he had but a few weeks more to live.
he was nearly dead with fatigue, and fell, rather than sat, into a chair.
the rest bowed as they came in; and being more or less abashed, put on an air of extreme self-assurance.
in short, their attitude was not that which one would have expected in men who professed to despise all trivialities, all foolish mundane conventions, and indeed everything, except their own personal interests.
“antip burdovsky,” stuttered the son of pavlicheff.
“vladimir doktorenko,” said lebedeff’s nephew briskly, and with a certain pride, as if he boasted of his name.
“keller,” murmured the retired officer.
“hippolyte terentieff,” cried the last-named, in a shrill voice.
they sat now in a row facing the prince, and frowned, and played with their caps.
all appeared ready to speak, and yet all were silent; the defiant expression on their faces seemed to say, “no, sir, you don’t take us in!” it could be felt that the first word spoken by anyone present would bring a torrent of speech from the whole deputation.
viii.
“i did not expect you, gentlemen,” began the prince.
“i have been ill until to-day.
a month ago,” he continued, addressing himself to antip burdovsky, “i put your business into gavrila ardalionovitch ivolgin’s hands, as i told you then.
i do not in the least object to having a personal interview... but you will agree with me that this is hardly the time... i propose that we go into another room, if you will not keep me long... as you see, i have friends here, and believe me...”
“friends as many as you please, but allow me,” interrupted the harsh voice of lebedeff’s nephew “allow me to tell you that you might have treated us rather more politely, and not have kept us waiting at least two hours...
“no doubt... and i... is that acting like a prince?
and you... you may be a general!
but i... i am not your valet!
and i... i...” stammered antip burdovsky.
he was extremely excited; his lips trembled, and the resentment of an embittered soul was in his voice.
but he spoke so indistinctly that hardly a dozen words could be gathered.
“it was a princely action!” sneered hippolyte.
“if anyone had treated me so,” grumbled the boxer.
“i mean to say that if i had been in burdovsky’s place...i...”
“gentlemen, i did not know you were there; i have only just been informed, i assure you,” repeated muishkin.
“we are not afraid of your friends, prince,” remarked lebedeff’s nephew, “for we are within our rights.”
the shrill tones of hippolyte interrupted him.
“what right have you...
by what right do you demand us to submit this matter, about burdovsky...
to the judgment of your friends?
we know only too well what the judgment of your friends will be!...”
this beginning gave promise of a stormy discussion.
the prince was much discouraged, but at last he managed to make himself heard amid the vociferations of his excited visitors.
“if you,” he said, addressing burdovsky “if you prefer not to speak here, i offer again to go into another room with you... and as to your waiting to see me, i repeat that i only this instant heard...”
“well, you have no right, you have no right, no right at all!...
your friends indeed!”... gabbled burdovsky, defiantly examining the faces round him, and becoming more and more excited.
“you have no right!...”
as he ended thus abruptly, he leant forward, staring at the prince with his short-sighted, bloodshot eyes.
the latter was so astonished, that he did not reply, but looked steadily at him in return.
“lef nicolaievitch!” interposed madame epanchin, suddenly, “read this at once, this very moment!
it is about this business.”
she held out a weekly comic paper, pointing to an article on one of its pages.
just as the visitors were coming in, lebedeff, wishing to ingratiate himself with the great lady, had pulled this paper from his pocket, and presented it to her, indicating a few columns marked in pencil.
lizabetha prokofievna had had time to read some of it, and was greatly upset.
“would it not be better to peruse it alone... later,” asked the prince, nervously.
“no, no, read it read it at once directly, and aloud, aloud!” cried she, calling colia to her and giving him the journal.
“read it aloud, so that everyone may hear it!”
an impetuous woman, lizabetha prokofievna sometimes weighed her anchors and put out to sea quite regardless of the possible storms she might encounter.
ivan fedorovitch felt a sudden pang of alarm, but the others were merely curious, and somewhat surprised.
colia unfolded the paper, and began to read, in his clear, high-pitched voice, the following article:
“proletarians and scions of nobility!
an episode of the brigandage of today and every day!
progress!
reform!
justice!”
“strange things are going on in our so-called holy russia in this age of reform and great enterprises; this age of patriotism in which hundreds of millions are yearly sent abroad; in which industry is encouraged, and the hands of labour paralyzed, etc.
; there is no end to this, gentlemen, so let us come to the point.
a strange thing has happened to a scion of our defunct aristocracy.
(de profundis!)
the grandfathers of these scions ruined themselves at the gaming-tables; their fathers were forced to serve as officers or subalterns; some have died just as they were about to be tried for innocent thoughtlessness in the handling of public funds.
their children are sometimes congenital idiots, like the hero of our story; sometimes they are found in the dock at the assizes, where they are generally acquitted by the jury for edifying motives; sometimes they distinguish themselves by one of those burning scandals that amaze the public and add another blot to the stained record of our age.
six months ago that is, last winter this particular scion returned to russia, wearing gaiters like a foreigner, and shivering with cold in an old scantily-lined cloak.
he had come from switzerland, where he had just undergone a successful course of treatment for idiocy (sic!
).
certainly fortune favoured him, for, apart from the interesting malady of which he was cured in switzerland (can there be a cure for idiocy?)
his story proves the truth of the russian proverb that ‘happiness is the right of certain classes!’ judge for yourselves.
our subject was an infant in arms when he lost his father, an officer who died just as he was about to be court-martialled for gambling away the funds of his company, and perhaps also for flogging a subordinate to excess (remember the good old days, gentlemen).
the orphan was brought up by the charity of a very rich russian landowner.
in the good old days, this man, whom we will call p  , owned four thousand souls as serfs (souls as serfs!
can you understand such an expression, gentlemen?
i cannot; it must be looked up in a dictionary before one can understand it; these things of a bygone day are already unintelligible to us).
he appears to have been one of those russian parasites who lead an idle existence abroad, spending the summer at some spa, and the winter in paris, to the greater profit of the organizers of public balls.
it may safely be said that the manager of the chateau des fleurs (lucky man!)
pocketed at least a third of the money paid by russian peasants to their lords in the days of serfdom.
however this may be, the gay p   brought up the orphan like a prince, provided him with tutors and governesses (pretty, of course!)
whom he chose himself in paris.
but the little aristocrat, the last of his noble race, was an idiot.
the governesses, recruited at the chateau des fleurs, laboured in vain; at twenty years of age their pupil could not speak in any language, not even russian.
but ignorance of the latter was still excusable.
at last p   was seized with a strange notion; he imagined that in switzerland they could change an idiot into a man of sense.
after all, the idea was quite logical; a parasite and landowner naturally supposed that intelligence was a marketable commodity like everything else, and that in switzerland especially it could be bought for money.
the case was entrusted to a celebrated swiss professor, and cost thousands of roubles; the treatment lasted five years.
needless to say, the idiot did not become intelligent, but it is alleged that he grew into something more or less resembling a man.
at this stage p   died suddenly, and, as usual, he had made no will and left his affairs in disorder.
a crowd of eager claimants arose, who cared nothing about any last scion of a noble race undergoing treatment in switzerland, at the expense of the deceased, as a congenital idiot.
idiot though he was, the noble scion tried to cheat his professor, and they say he succeeded in getting him to continue the treatment gratis for two years, by concealing the death of his benefactor.
but the professor himself was a charlatan.
getting anxious at last when no money was forthcoming, and alarmed above all by his patient’s appetite, he presented him with a pair of old gaiters and a shabby cloak and packed him off to russia, third class.
it would seem that fortune had turned her back upon our hero.
not at all; fortune, who lets whole populations die of hunger, showered all her gifts at once upon the little aristocrat, like kryloff’s cloud which passes over an arid plain and empties itself into the sea.
he had scarcely arrived in st. petersburg, when a relation of his mother’s (who was of bourgeois origin, of course), died at moscow.
he was a merchant, an old believer, and he had no children.
he left a fortune of several millions in good current coin, and everything came to our noble scion, our gaitered baron, formerly treated for idiocy in a swiss lunatic asylum.
instantly the scene changed, crowds of friends gathered round our baron, who meanwhile had lost his head over a celebrated demi-mondaine; he even discovered some relations; moreover a number of young girls of high birth burned to be united to him in lawful matrimony.
could anyone possibly imagine a better match?
aristocrat, millionaire, and idiot, he has every advantage!
one might hunt in vain for his equal, even with the lantern of diogenes; his like is not to be had even by getting it made to order!”
“oh, i don’t know what this means” cried ivan fedorovitch, transported with indignation.
“leave off, colia,” begged the prince.
exclamations arose on all sides.
“let him go on reading at all costs!” ordered lizabetha prokofievna, evidently preserving her composure by a desperate effort.
“prince, if the reading is stopped, you and i will quarrel.”
colia had no choice but to obey.
with crimson cheeks he read on unsteadily:
“but while our young millionaire dwelt as it were in the empyrean, something new occurred.
one fine morning a man called upon him, calm and severe of aspect, distinguished, but plainly dressed.
politely, but in dignified terms, as befitted his errand, he briefly explained the motive for his visit.
he was a lawyer of enlightened views; his client was a young man who had consulted him in confidence.
this young man was no other than the son of p  , though he bears another name.
in his youth p  , the sensualist, had seduced a young girl, poor but respectable.
she was a serf, but had received a european education.
finding that a child was expected, he hastened her marriage with a man of noble character who had loved her for a long time.
he helped the young couple for a time, but he was soon obliged to give up, for the high-minded husband refused to accept anything from him.
soon the careless nobleman forgot all about his former mistress and the child she had borne him; then, as we know, he died intestate.
p  ’s son, born after his mother’s marriage, found a true father in the generous man whose name he bore.
but when he also died, the orphan was left to provide for himself, his mother now being an invalid who had lost the use of her limbs.
leaving her in a distant province, he came to the capital in search of pupils.
by dint of daily toil he earned enough to enable him to follow the college courses, and at last to enter the university.
but what can one earn by teaching the children of russian merchants at ten copecks a lesson, especially with an invalid mother to keep?
even her death did not much diminish the hardships of the young man’s struggle for existence.
now this is the question: how, in the name of justice, should our scion have argued the case?
our readers will think, no doubt, that he would say to himself:
‘p   showered benefits upon me all my life; he spent tens of thousands of roubles to educate me, to provide me with governesses, and to keep me under treatment in switzerland.
now i am a millionaire, and p  ’s son, a noble young man who is not responsible for the faults of his careless and forgetful father, is wearing himself out giving ill-paid lessons.
according to justice, all that was done for me ought to have been done for him.
the enormous sums spent upon me were not really mine; they came to me by an error of blind fortune, when they ought to have gone to p  ’s son.
they should have gone to benefit him, not me, in whom p
interested himself by a mere caprice, instead of doing his duty as a father.
if i wished to behave nobly, justly, and with delicacy, i ought to bestow half my fortune upon the son of my benefactor; but as economy is my favourite virtue, and i know this is not a case in which the law can intervene, i will not give up half my millions.
but it would be too openly vile, too flagrantly infamous, if i did not at least restore to p  ’s son the tens of thousands of roubles spent in curing my idiocy.
this is simply a case of conscience and of strict justice.
whatever would have become of me if p   had not looked after my education, and had taken care of his own son instead of me?’
“no, gentlemen, our scions of the nobility do not reason thus.
the lawyer, who had taken up the matter purely out of friendship to the young man, and almost against his will, invoked every consideration of justice, delicacy, honour, and even plain figures; in vain, the ex-patient of the swiss lunatic asylum was inflexible.
all this might pass, but the sequel is absolutely unpardonable, and not to be excused by any interesting malady.
this millionaire, having but just discarded the old gaiters of his professor, could not even understand that the noble young man slaving away at his lessons was not asking for charitable help, but for his rightful due, though the debt was not a legal one; that, correctly speaking, he was not asking for anything, but it was merely his friends who had thought fit to bestir themselves on his behalf.
with the cool insolence of a bloated capitalist, secure in his millions, he majestically drew a banknote for fifty roubles from his pocket-book and sent it to the noble young man as a humiliating piece of charity.
you can hardly believe it, gentlemen!
you are scandalized and disgusted; you cry out in indignation!
but that is what he did!
needless to say, the money was returned, or rather flung back in his face.
the case is not within the province of the law, it must be referred to the tribunal of public opinion; this is what we now do, guaranteeing the truth of all the details which we have related.”
when colia had finished reading, he handed the paper to the prince, and retired silently to a corner of the room, hiding his face in his hands.
he was overcome by a feeling of inexpressible shame; his boyish sensitiveness was wounded beyond endurance.
it seemed to him that something extraordinary, some sudden catastrophe had occurred, and that he was almost the cause of it, because he had read the article aloud.
yet all the others were similarly affected.
the girls were uncomfortable and ashamed.
lizabetha prokofievna restrained her violent anger by a great effort; perhaps she bitterly regretted her interference in the matter; for the present she kept silence.
the prince felt as very shy people often do in such a case; he was so ashamed of the conduct of other people, so humiliated for his guests, that he dared not look them in the face.
ptitsin, varia, gania, and lebedeff himself, all looked rather confused.
stranger still, hippolyte and the “son of pavlicheff”
also seemed slightly surprised, and lebedeff’s nephew was obviously far from pleased.
the boxer alone was perfectly calm; he twisted his moustaches with affected dignity, and if his eyes were cast down it was certainly not in confusion, but rather in noble modesty, as if he did not wish to be insolent in his triumph.
it was evident that he was delighted with the article.
“the devil knows what it means,” growled ivan fedorovitch, under his breath; “it must have taken the united wits of fifty footmen to write it.”
“may i ask your reason for such an insulting supposition, sir?” said hippolyte, trembling with rage.
“you will admit yourself, general, that for an honourable man, if the author is an honourable man, that is an an insult,” growled the boxer suddenly, with convulsive jerkings of his shoulders.
“in the first place, it is not for you to address me as ‘sir,’ and, in the second place, i refuse to give you any explanation,” said ivan fedorovitch vehemently; and he rose without another word, and went and stood on the first step of the flight that led from the verandah to the street, turning his back on the company.
he was indignant with lizabetha prokofievna, who did not think of moving even now.
“gentlemen, gentlemen, let me speak at last,” cried the prince, anxious and agitated.
“please let us understand one another.
i say nothing about the article, gentlemen, except that every word is false; i say this because you know it as well as i do.
it is shameful.
i should be surprised if any one of you could have written it.”
“i did not know of its existence till this moment,” declared hippolyte.
“i do not approve of it.”
“i knew it had been written, but i would not have advised its publication,” said lebedeff’s nephew, “because it is premature.”
“i knew it, but i have a right.
i... i...” stammered the “son of pavlicheff.”
“what!
did you write all that yourself?
is it possible?” asked the prince, regarding burdovsky with curiosity.
“one might dispute your right to ask such questions,” observed lebedeff’s nephew.
“i was only surprised that mr. burdovsky should have however, this is what i have to say.
since you had already given the matter publicity, why did you object just now, when i began to speak of it to my friends?”
“at last!” murmured lizabetha prokofievna indignantly.
lebedeff could restrain himself no longer; he made his way through the row of chairs.
“prince,” he cried, “you are forgetting that if you consented to receive and hear them, it was only because of your kind heart which has no equal, for they had not the least right to demand it, especially as you had placed the matter in the hands of gavrila ardalionovitch, which was also extremely kind of you.
you are also forgetting, most excellent prince, that you are with friends, a select company; you cannot sacrifice them to these gentlemen, and it is only for you to have them turned out this instant.
as the master of the house i shall have great pleasure ....”
“quite right!” agreed general ivolgin in a loud voice.
“that will do, lebedeff, that will do ” began the prince, when an indignant outcry drowned his words.
“excuse me, prince, excuse me, but now that will not do,” shouted lebedeff’s nephew, his voice dominating all the others.
“the matter must be clearly stated, for it is obviously not properly understood.
they are calling in some legal chicanery, and upon that ground they are threatening to turn us out of the house!
really, prince, do you think we are such fools as not to be aware that this matter does not come within the law, and that legally we cannot claim a rouble from you?
but we are also aware that if actual law is not on our side, human law is for us, natural law, the law of common-sense and conscience, which is no less binding upon every noble and honest man that is, every man of sane judgment because it is not to be found in miserable legal codes.
if we come here without fear of being turned out (as was threatened just now)
because of the imperative tone of our demand, and the unseemliness of such a visit at this late hour (though it was not late when we arrived, we were kept waiting in your anteroom), if, i say, we came in without fear, it is just because we expected to find you a man of sense; i mean, a man of honour and conscience.
it is quite true that we did not present ourselves humbly, like your flatterers and parasites, but holding up our heads as befits independent men.
we present no petition, but a proud and free demand (note it well, we do not beseech, we demand!).
we ask you fairly and squarely in a dignified manner.
do you believe that in this affair of burdovsky you have right on your side?
do you admit that pavlicheff overwhelmed you with benefits, and perhaps saved your life?
if you admit it (which we take for granted), do you intend, now that you are a millionaire, and do you not think it in conformity with justice, to indemnify burdovsky?
yes or no?
if it is yes, or, in other words, if you possess what you call honour and conscience, and we more justly call common-sense, then accede to our demand, and the matter is at an end.
give us satisfaction, without entreaties or thanks from us; do not expect thanks from us, for what you do will be done not for our sake, but for the sake of justice.
if you refuse to satisfy us, that is, if your answer is no, we will go away at once, and there will be an end of the matter.
but we will tell you to your face before the present company that you are a man of vulgar and undeveloped mind; we will openly deny you the right to speak in future of your honour and conscience, for you have not paid the fair price of such a right.
i have no more to say i have put the question before you.
now turn us out if you dare.
you can do it; force is on your side.
but remember that we do not beseech, we demand!
we do not beseech, we demand!”
with these last excited words, lebedeff’s nephew was silent.
“we demand, we demand, we demand, we do not beseech,” spluttered burdovsky, red as a lobster.
the speech of lebedeff’s nephew caused a certain stir among the company; murmurs arose, though with the exception of lebedeff, who was still very much excited, everyone was careful not to interfere in the matter.
strangely enough, lebedeff, although on the prince’s side, seemed quite proud of his nephew’s eloquence.
gratified vanity was visible in the glances he cast upon the assembled company.
“in my opinion, mr. doktorenko,” said the prince, in rather a low voice, “you are quite right in at least half of what you say.
i would go further and say that you are altogether right, and that i quite agree with you, if there were not something lacking in your speech.
i cannot undertake to say precisely what it is, but you have certainly omitted something, and you cannot be quite just while there is something lacking.
but let us put that aside and return to the point.
tell me what induced you to publish this article.
every word of it is a calumny, and i think, gentlemen, that you have been guilty of a mean action.”
“allow me ”
“sir ”
“what?
what?
what?” cried all the visitors at once, in violent agitation.
“as to the article,” said hippolyte in his croaking voice, “i have told you already that we none of us approve of it!
there is the writer,” he added, pointing to the boxer, who sat beside him.
“i quite admit that he has written it in his old regimental manner, with an equal disregard for style and decency.
i know he is a cross between a fool and an adventurer; i make no bones about telling him so to his face every day.
but after all he is half justified; publicity is the lawful right of every man; consequently, burdovsky is not excepted.
let him answer for his own blunders.
as to the objection which i made just now in the name of all, to the presence of your friends, i think i ought to explain, gentlemen, that i only did so to assert our rights, though we really wished to have witnesses; we had agreed unanimously upon the point before we came in.
we do not care who your witnesses may be, or whether they are your friends or not.
as they cannot fail to recognize burdovsky’s right (seeing that it is mathematically demonstrable), it is just as well that the witnesses should be your friends.
the truth will only be more plainly evident.”
“it is quite true; we had agreed upon that point,” said lebedeff’s nephew, in confirmation.
“if that is the case, why did you begin by making such a fuss about it?”
asked the astonished prince.
the boxer was dying to get in a few words; owing, no doubt, to the presence of the ladies, he was becoming quite jovial.
“as to the article, prince,” he said, “i admit that i wrote it, in spite of the severe criticism of my poor friend, in whom i always overlook many things because of his unfortunate state of health.
but i wrote and published it in the form of a letter, in the paper of a friend.
i showed it to no one but burdovsky, and i did not read it all through, even to him.
he immediately gave me permission to publish it, but you will admit that i might have done so without his consent.
publicity is a noble, beneficent, and universal right.
i hope, prince, that you are too progressive to deny this?”
“i deny nothing, but you must confess that your article ”
“is a bit thick, you mean?
well, in a way that is in the public interest; you will admit that yourself, and after all one cannot overlook a blatant fact.
so much the worse for the guilty parties, but the public welfare must come before everything.
as to certain inaccuracies and figures of speech, so to speak, you will also admit that the motive, aim, and intention, are the chief thing.
it is a question, above all, of making a wholesome example; the individual case can be examined afterwards; and as to the style well, the thing was meant to be humorous, so to speak, and, after all, everybody writes like that; you must admit it yourself!
ha, ha!”
“but, gentlemen, i assure you that you are quite astray,” exclaimed the prince.
“you have published this article upon the supposition that i would never consent to satisfy mr. burdovsky.
acting on that conviction, you have tried to intimidate me by this publication and to be revenged for my supposed refusal.
but what did you know of my intentions?
it may be that i have resolved to satisfy mr. burdovsky’s claim.
i now declare openly, in the presence of these witnesses, that i will do so.”
“the noble and intelligent word of an intelligent and most noble man, at last!” exclaimed the boxer.
“good god!” exclaimed lizabetha prokofievna involuntarily.
“this is intolerable,” growled the general.
“allow me, gentlemen, allow me,” urged the prince.
“i will explain matters to you.
five weeks ago i received a visit from tchebaroff, your agent, mr. burdovsky.
you have given a very flattering description of him in your article, mr. keller,” he continued, turning to the boxer with a smile, “but he did not please me at all.
i saw at once that tchebaroff was the moving spirit in the matter, and, to speak frankly, i thought he might have induced you, mr. burdovsky, to make this claim, by taking advantage of your simplicity.”
“you have no right.... i am not simple,” stammered burdovsky, much agitated.
“you have no sort of right to suppose such things,” said lebedeff’s nephew in a tone of authority.
“it is most offensive!” shrieked hippolyte; “it is an insulting suggestion, false, and most ill-timed.”
“i beg your pardon, gentlemen; please excuse me,” said the prince.
“i thought absolute frankness on both sides would be best, but have it your own way.
i told tchebaroff that, as i was not in petersburg, i would commission a friend to look into the matter without delay, and that i would let you know, mr. burdovsky.
gentlemen, i have no hesitation in telling you that it was the fact of tchebaroff’s intervention that made me suspect a fraud.
oh!
do not take offence at my words, gentlemen, for heaven’s sake do not be so touchy!” cried the prince, seeing that burdovsky was getting excited again, and that the rest were preparing to protest.
“if i say i suspected a fraud, there is nothing personal in that.
i had never seen any of you then; i did not even know your names; i only judged by tchebaroff; i am speaking quite generally if you only knew how i have been ‘done’ since i came into my fortune!”
“you are shockingly naive, prince,” said lebedeff’s nephew in mocking tones.
“besides, though you are a prince and a millionaire, and even though you may really be simple and good-hearted, you can hardly be outside the general law,” hippolyte declared loudly.
“perhaps not; it is very possible,” the prince agreed hastily, “though i do not know what general law you allude to.
i will go on only please do not take offence without good cause.
i assure you i do not mean to offend you in the least.
really, it is impossible to speak three words sincerely without your flying into a rage!
at first i was amazed when tchebaroff told me that pavlicheff had a son, and that he was in such a miserable position.
pavlicheff was my benefactor, and my father’s friend.
oh, mr. keller, why does your article impute things to my father without the slightest foundation?
he never squandered the funds of his company nor ill-treated his subordinates, i am absolutely certain of it; i cannot imagine how you could bring yourself to write such a calumny!
but your assertions concerning pavlicheff are absolutely intolerable!
you do not scruple to make a libertine of that noble man; you call him a sensualist as coolly as if you were speaking the truth, and yet it would not be possible to find a chaster man.
he was even a scholar of note, and in correspondence with several celebrated scientists, and spent large sums in the interests of science.
as to his kind heart and his good actions, you were right indeed when you said that i was almost an idiot at that time, and could hardly understand anything (i could speak and understand russian, though), but now i can appreciate what i remember ”
“excuse me,” interrupted hippolyte, “is not this rather sentimental?
you said you wished to come to the point; please remember that it is after nine o’clock.”
“very well, gentlemen very well,” replied the prince.
“at first i received the news with mistrust, then i said to myself that i might be mistaken, and that pavlicheff might possibly have had a son.
but i was absolutely amazed at the readiness with which the son had revealed the secret of his birth at the expense of his mother’s honour.
for tchebaroff had already menaced me with publicity in our interview....”
“what nonsense!” lebedeff’s nephew interrupted violently.
“you have no right you have no right!” cried burdovsky.
“the son is not responsible for the misdeeds of his father; and the mother is not to blame,” added hippolyte, with warmth.
“that seems to me all the more reason for sparing her,” said the prince timidly.
“prince, you are not only simple, but your simplicity is almost past the limit,” said lebedeff’s nephew, with a sarcastic smile.
“but what right had you?” said hippolyte in a very strange tone.
“none none whatever,” agreed the prince hastily.
“i admit you are right there, but it was involuntary, and i immediately said to myself that my personal feelings had nothing to do with it, that if i thought it right to satisfy the demands of mr. burdovsky, out of respect for the memory of pavlicheff, i ought to do so in any case, whether i esteemed mr.
burdovsky or not.
i only mentioned this, gentlemen, because it seemed so unnatural to me for a son to betray his mother’s secret in such a way.
in short, that is what convinced me that tchebaroff must be a rogue, and that he had induced mr. burdovsky to attempt this fraud.”
“but this is intolerable!” cried the visitors, some of them starting to their feet.
“gentlemen, i supposed from this that poor mr. burdovsky must be a simple-minded man, quite defenceless, and an easy tool in the hands of rogues.
that is why i thought it my duty to try and help him as ‘pavlicheff’s son’; in the first place by rescuing him from the influence of tchebaroff, and secondly by making myself his friend.
i have resolved to give him ten thousand roubles; that is about the sum which i calculate that pavlicheff must have spent on me.”
“what, only ten thousand!” cried hippolyte.
“well, prince, your arithmetic is not up to much, or else you are mighty clever at it, though you affect the air of a simpleton,” said lebedeff’s nephew.
“i will not accept ten thousand roubles,” said burdovsky.
“accept, antip,” whispered the boxer eagerly, leaning past the back of hippolyte’s chair to give his friend this piece of advice.
“take it for the present; we can see about more later on.”
“look here, mr. muishkin,” shouted hippolyte, “please understand that we are not fools, nor idiots, as your guests seem to imagine; these ladies who look upon us with such scorn, and especially this fine gentleman”
(pointing to evgenie pavlovitch) “whom i have not the honour of knowing, though i think i have heard some talk about him ”
“really, really, gentlemen,” cried the prince in great agitation, “you are misunderstanding me again.
in the first place, mr. keller, you have greatly overestimated my fortune in your article.
i am far from being a millionaire.
i have barely a tenth of what you suppose.
secondly, my treatment in switzerland was very far from costing tens of thousands of roubles.
schneider received six hundred roubles a year, and he was only paid for the first three years.
as to the pretty governesses whom pavlicheff is supposed to have brought from paris, they only exist in mr. keller’s imagination; it is another calumny.
according to my calculations, the sum spent on me was very considerably under ten thousand roubles, but i decided on that sum, and you must admit that in paying a debt i could not offer mr. burdovsky more, however kindly disposed i might be towards him; delicacy forbids it; i should seem to be offering him charity instead of rightful payment.
i don’t know how you cannot see that, gentlemen!
besides, i had no intention of leaving the matter there.
i meant to intervene amicably later on and help to improve poor mr. burdovsky’s position.
it is clear that he has been deceived, or he would never have agreed to anything so vile as the scandalous revelations about his mother in mr. keller’s article.
but, gentlemen, why are you getting angry again?
are we never to come to an understanding?
well, the event has proved me right!
i have just seen with my own eyes the proof that my conjecture was correct!” he added, with increasing eagerness.
he meant to calm his hearers, and did not perceive that his words had only increased their irritation.
“what do you mean?
what are you convinced of?” they demanded angrily.
“in the first place, i have had the opportunity of getting a correct idea of mr. burdovsky.
i see what he is for myself.
he is an innocent man, deceived by everyone!
a defenceless victim, who deserves indulgence!
secondly, gavrila ardalionovitch, in whose hands i had placed the matter, had his first interview with me barely an hour ago.
i had not heard from him for some time, as i was away, and have been ill for three days since my return to st. petersburg.
he tells me that he has exposed the designs of tchebaroff and has proof that justifies my opinion of him.
i know, gentlemen, that many people think me an idiot.
counting upon my reputation as a man whose purse-strings are easily loosened, tchebaroff thought it would be a simple matter to fleece me, especially by trading on my gratitude to pavlicheff.
but the main point is listen, gentlemen, let me finish!
the main point is that mr.
burdovsky is not pavlicheff’s son at all.
gavrila ardalionovitch has just told me of his discovery, and assures me that he has positive proofs.
well, what do you think of that?
it is scarcely credible, even after all the tricks that have been played upon me.
please note that we have positive proofs!
i can hardly believe it myself, i assure you; i do not yet believe it; i am still doubtful, because gavrila ardalionovitch has not had time to go into details; but there can be no further doubt that tchebaroff is a rogue!
he has deceived poor mr. burdovsky, and all of you, gentlemen, who have come forward so nobly to support your friend (he evidently needs support, i quite see that!).
he has abused your credulity and involved you all in an attempted fraud, for when all is said and done this claim is nothing else!”
“what!
a fraud?
what, he is not pavlicheff’s son?
impossible!”
these exclamations but feebly expressed the profound bewilderment into which the prince’s words had plunged burdovsky’s companions.
“certainly it is a fraud!
since mr. burdovsky is not pavlicheff’s son, his claim is neither more nor less than attempted fraud (supposing, of course, that he had known the truth), but the fact is that he has been deceived.
i insist on this point in order to justify him; i repeat that his simple-mindedness makes him worthy of pity, and that he cannot stand alone; otherwise he would have behaved like a scoundrel in this matter.
but i feel certain that he does not understand it!
i was just the same myself before i went to switzerland; i stammered incoherently; one tries to express oneself and cannot.
i understand that.
i am all the better able to pity mr. burdovsky, because i know from experience what it is to be like that, and so i have a right to speak.
well, though there is no such person as ‘pavlicheff’s son,’ and it is all nothing but a humbug, yet i will keep to my decision, and i am prepared to give up ten thousand roubles in memory of pavlicheff.
before mr. burdovsky made this claim, i proposed to found a school with this money, in memory of my benefactor, but i shall honour his memory quite as well by giving the ten thousand roubles to mr. burdovsky, because, though he was not pavlicheff’s son, he was treated almost as though he were.
that is what gave a rogue the opportunity of deceiving him; he really did think himself pavlicheff’s son.
listen, gentlemen; this matter must be settled; keep calm; do not get angry; and sit down!
gavrila ardalionovitch will explain everything to you at once, and i confess that i am very anxious to hear all the details myself.
he says that he has even been to pskoff to see your mother, mr. burdovsky; she is not dead, as the article which was just read to us makes out.
sit down, gentlemen, sit down!”
the prince sat down, and at length prevailed upon burdovsky’s company to do likewise.
during the last ten or twenty minutes, exasperated by continual interruptions, he had raised his voice, and spoken with great vehemence.
now, no doubt, he bitterly regretted several words and expressions which had escaped him in his excitement.
if he had not been driven beyond the limits of endurance, he would not have ventured to express certain conjectures so openly.
he had no sooner sat down than his heart was torn by sharp remorse.
besides insulting burdovsky with the supposition, made in the presence of witnesses, that he was suffering from the complaint for which he had himself been treated in switzerland, he reproached himself with the grossest indelicacy in having offered him the ten thousand roubles before everyone.
“i ought to have waited till to-morrow and offered him the money when we were alone,” thought muishkin.
“now it is too late, the mischief is done!
yes, i am an idiot, an absolute idiot!” he said to himself, overcome with shame and regret.
till then gavrila ardalionovitch had sat apart in silence.
when the prince called upon him, he came and stood by his side, and in a calm, clear voice began to render an account of the mission confided to him.
all conversation ceased instantly.
everyone, especially the burdovsky party, listened with the utmost curiosity.
ix.
“you will not deny, i am sure,” said gavrila ardalionovitch, turning to burdovsky, who sat looking at him with wide-open eyes, perplexed and astonished.
“you will not deny, seriously, that you were born just two years after your mother’s legal marriage to mr. burdovsky, your father.
nothing would be easier than to prove the date of your birth from well-known facts; we can only look on mr. keller’s version as a work of imagination, and one, moreover, extremely offensive both to you and your mother.
of course he distorted the truth in order to strengthen your claim, and to serve your interests.
mr. keller said that he previously consulted you about his article in the paper, but did not read it to you as a whole.
certainly he could not have read that passage.
....”
“as a matter of fact, i did not read it,” interrupted the boxer, “but its contents had been given me on unimpeachable authority, and i...”
“excuse me, mr. keller,” interposed gavrila ardalionovitch.
“allow me to speak.
i assure you your article shall be mentioned in its proper place, and you can then explain everything, but for the moment i would rather not anticipate.
quite accidentally, with the help of my sister, varvara ardalionovna ptitsin, i obtained from one of her intimate friends, madame zoubkoff, a letter written to her twenty-five years ago, by nicolai andreevitch pavlicheff, then abroad.
after getting into communication with this lady, i went by her advice to timofei fedorovitch viazovkin, a retired colonel, and one of pavlicheff’s oldest friends.
he gave me two more letters written by the latter when he was still in foreign parts.
these three documents, their dates, and the facts mentioned in them, prove in the most undeniable manner, that eighteen months before your birth, nicolai andreevitch went abroad, where he remained for three consecutive years.
your mother, as you are well aware, has never been out of russia.... it is too late to read the letters now; i am content to state the fact.
but if you desire it, come to me tomorrow morning, bring witnesses and writing experts with you, and i will prove the absolute truth of my story.
from that moment the question will be decided.”
these words caused a sensation among the listeners, and there was a general movement of relief.
burdovsky got up abruptly.
“if that is true,” said he, “i have been deceived, grossly deceived, but not by tchebaroff: and for a long time past, a long time.
i do not wish for experts, not i, nor to go to see you.
i believe you.
i give it up.... but i refuse the ten thousand roubles.
good-bye.”
“wait five minutes more, mr. burdovsky,” said gavrila ardalionovitch pleasantly.
“i have more to say.
some rather curious and important facts have come to light, and it is absolutely necessary, in my opinion, that you should hear them.
you will not regret, i fancy, to have the whole matter thoroughly cleared up.”
burdovsky silently resumed his seat, and bent his head as though in profound thought.
his friend, lebedeff’s nephew, who had risen to accompany him, also sat down again.
he seemed much disappointed, though as self-confident as ever.
hippolyte looked dejected and sulky, as well as surprised.
he had just been attacked by a violent fit of coughing, so that his handkerchief was stained with blood.
the boxer looked thoroughly frightened.
“oh, antip!” cried he in a miserable voice, “i did say to you the other day the day before yesterday that perhaps you were not really pavlicheff’s son!”
there were sounds of half-smothered laughter at this.
“now, that is a valuable piece of information, mr. keller,” replied gania.
“however that may be, i have private information which convinces me that mr. burdovsky, though doubtless aware of the date of his birth, knew nothing at all about pavlicheff’s sojourn abroad.
indeed, he passed the greater part of his life out of russia, returning at intervals for short visits.
the journey in question is in itself too unimportant for his friends to recollect it after more than twenty years; and of course mr. burdovsky could have known nothing about it, for he was not born.
as the event has proved, it was not impossible to find evidence of his absence, though i must confess that chance has helped me in a quest which might very well have come to nothing.
it was really almost impossible for burdovsky or tchebaroff to discover these facts, even if it had entered their heads to try.
naturally they never dreamt...”
here the voice of hippolyte suddenly intervened.
“allow me, mr. ivolgin,” he said irritably.
“what is the good of all this rigmarole?
pardon me.
all is now clear, and we acknowledge the truth of your main point.
why go into these tedious details?
you wish perhaps to boast of the cleverness of your investigation, to cry up your talents as detective?
or perhaps your intention is to excuse burdovsky, by proving that he took up the matter in ignorance?
well, i consider that extremely impudent on your part!
you ought to know that burdovsky has no need of being excused or justified by you or anyone else!
it is an insult!
the affair is quite painful enough for him without that.
will nothing make you understand?”
“enough!
enough!
mr. terentieff,” interrupted gania.
“don’t excite yourself; you seem very ill, and i am sorry for that.
i am almost done, but there are a few facts to which i must briefly refer, as i am convinced that they ought to be clearly explained once for all....”
a movement of impatience was noticed in his audience as he resumed: “i merely wish to state, for the information of all concerned, that the reason for mr. pavlicheff’s interest in your mother, mr. burdovsky, was simply that she was the sister of a serf-girl with whom he was deeply in love in his youth, and whom most certainly he would have married but for her sudden death.
i have proofs that this circumstance is almost, if not quite, forgotten.
i may add that when your mother was about ten years old, pavlicheff took her under his care, gave her a good education, and later, a considerable dowry.
his relations were alarmed, and feared he might go so far as to marry her, but she gave her hand to a young land-surveyor named burdovsky when she reached the age of twenty.
i can even say definitely that it was a marriage of affection.
after his wedding your father gave up his occupation as land-surveyor, and with his wife’s dowry of fifteen thousand roubles went in for commercial speculations.
as he had had no experience, he was cheated on all sides, and took to drink in order to forget his troubles.
he shortened his life by his excesses, and eight years after his marriage he died.
your mother says herself that she was left in the direst poverty, and would have died of starvation had it not been for pavlicheff, who generously allowed her a yearly pension of six hundred roubles.
many people recall his extreme fondness for you as a little boy.
your mother confirms this, and agrees with others in thinking that he loved you the more because you were a sickly child, stammering in your speech, and almost deformed for it is known that all his life nicolai andreevitch had a partiality for unfortunates of every kind, especially children.
in my opinion this is most important.
i may add that i discovered yet another fact, the last on which i employed my detective powers.
seeing how fond pavlicheff was of you, it was thanks to him you went to school, and also had the advantage of special teachers his relations and servants grew to believe that you were his son, and that your father had been betrayed by his wife.
i may point out that this idea was only accredited generally during the last years of pavlicheff’s life, when his next-of-kin were trembling about the succession, when the earlier story was quite forgotten, and when all opportunity for discovering the truth had seemingly passed away.
no doubt you, mr. burdovsky, heard this conjecture, and did not hesitate to accept it as true.
i have had the honour of making your mother’s acquaintance, and i find that she knows all about these reports.
what she does not know is that you, her son, should have listened to them so complaisantly.
i found your respected mother at pskoff, ill and in deep poverty, as she has been ever since the death of your benefactor.
she told me with tears of gratitude how you had supported her; she expects much of you, and believes fervently in your future success...”
“oh, this is unbearable!” said lebedeff’s nephew impatiently.
“what is the good of all this romancing?”
“it is revolting and unseemly!” cried hippolyte, jumping up in a fury.
burdovsky alone sat silent and motionless.
“what is the good of it?” repeated gavrila ardalionovitch, with pretended surprise.
“well, firstly, because now perhaps mr. burdovsky is quite convinced that mr. pavlicheff’s love for him came simply from generosity of soul, and not from paternal duty.
it was most necessary to impress this fact upon his mind, considering that he approved of the article written by mr. keller.
i speak thus because i look on you, mr.
burdovsky, as an honourable man.
secondly, it appears that there was no intention of cheating in this case, even on the part of tchebaroff.
i wish to say this quite plainly, because the prince hinted a while ago that i too thought it an attempt at robbery and extortion.
on the contrary, everyone has been quite sincere in the matter, and although tchebaroff may be somewhat of a rogue, in this business he has acted simply as any sharp lawyer would do under the circumstances.
he looked at it as a case that might bring him in a lot of money, and he did not calculate badly; because on the one hand he speculated on the generosity of the prince, and his gratitude to the late mr. pavlicheff, and on the other to his chivalrous ideas as to the obligations of honour and conscience.
as to mr. burdovsky, allowing for his principles, we may acknowledge that he engaged in the business with very little personal aim in view.
at the instigation of tchebaroff and his other friends, he decided to make the attempt in the service of truth, progress, and humanity.
in short, the conclusion may be drawn that, in spite of all appearances, mr. burdovsky is a man of irreproachable character, and thus the prince can all the more readily offer him his friendship, and the assistance of which he spoke just now...”
“hush!
hush!
gavrila ardalionovitch!” cried muishkin in dismay, but it was too late.
“i said, and i have repeated it over and over again,” shouted burdovsky furiously, “that i did not want the money.
i will not take it... why...i will not... i am going away!”
he was rushing hurriedly from the terrace, when lebedeff’s nephew seized his arms, and said something to him in a low voice.
burdovsky turned quickly, and drawing an addressed but unsealed envelope from his pocket, he threw it down on a little table beside the prince.
“there’s the money!...
how dare you?...
the money!”
“those are the two hundred and fifty roubles you dared to send him as a charity, by the hands of tchebaroff,” explained doktorenko.
“hippolyte, stop, please!
it’s so dreadfully undignified,” said varia.
“well, only for the sake of a lady,” said hippolyte, laughing.
“i am ready to put off the reckoning, but only put it off, varvara ardalionovna, because an explanation between your brother and myself has become an absolute necessity, and i could not think of leaving the house without clearing up all misunderstandings first.”
“in a word, you are a wretched little scandal-monger,” cried gania, “and you cannot go away without a scandal!”
“you see,” said hippolyte, coolly, “you can’t restrain yourself.
you’ll be dreadfully sorry afterwards if you don’t speak out now.
come, you shall have the first say.
i’ll wait.”
gania was silent and merely looked contemptuously at him.
“you won’t?
very well.
i shall be as short as possible, for my part.
two or three times to-day i have had the word ‘hospitality’ pushed down my throat; this is not fair.
in inviting me here you yourself entrapped me for your own use; you thought i wished to revenge myself upon the prince.
you heard that aglaya ivanovna had been kind to me and read my confession.
making sure that i should give myself up to your interests, you hoped that you might get some assistance out of me.
i will not go into details.
i don’t ask either admission or confirmation of this from yourself; i am quite content to leave you to your conscience, and to feel that we understand one another capitally.”
“what a history you are weaving out of the most ordinary circumstances!”
cried varia.
“i told you the fellow was nothing but a scandal-monger,” said gania.
“excuse me, varia ardalionovna, i will proceed.
i can, of course, neither love nor respect the prince, though he is a good-hearted fellow, if a little queer.
but there is no need whatever for me to hate him.
i quite understood your brother when he first offered me aid against the prince, though i did not show it; i knew well that your brother was making a ridiculous mistake in me.
i am ready to spare him, however, even now; but solely out of respect for yourself, varvara ardalionovna.
“having now shown you that i am not quite such a fool as i look, and that i have to be fished for with a rod and line for a good long while before i am caught, i will proceed to explain why i specially wished to make your brother look a fool.
that my motive power is hate, i do not attempt to conceal.
i have felt that before dying (and i am dying, however much fatter i may appear to you), i must absolutely make a fool of, at least, one of that class of men which has dogged me all my life, which i hate so cordially, and which is so prominently represented by your much esteemed brother.
i should not enjoy paradise nearly so much without having done this first.
i hate you, gavrila ardalionovitch, solely (this may seem curious to you, but i repeat) solely because you are the type, and incarnation, and head, and crown of the most impudent, the most self-satisfied, the most vulgar and detestable form of commonplaceness.
you are ordinary of the ordinary; you have no chance of ever fathering the pettiest idea of your own.
and yet you are as jealous and conceited as you can possibly be; you consider yourself a great genius; of this you are persuaded, although there are dark moments of doubt and rage, when even this fact seems uncertain.
there are spots of darkness on your horizon, though they will disappear when you become completely stupid.
but a long and chequered path lies before you, and of this i am glad.
in the first place you will never gain a certain person.”
“come, come!
this is intolerable!
you had better stop, you little mischief-making wretch!” cried varia.
gania had grown very pale; he trembled, but said nothing.
hippolyte paused, and looked at him intently and with great gratification.
he then turned his gaze upon varia, bowed, and went out, without adding another word.
gania might justly complain of the hardness with which fate treated him.
varia dared not speak to him for a long while, as he strode past her, backwards and forwards.
at last he went and stood at the window, looking out, with his back turned towards her.
there was a fearful row going on upstairs again.
“are you off?” said gania, suddenly, remarking that she had risen and was about to leave the room.
“wait a moment look at this.”
he approached the table and laid a small sheet of paper before her.
it looked like a little note.
“good heavens!” cried varia, raising her hands.
this was the note:
“gavrila ardolionovitch, persuaded of your kindness of heart, i have determined to ask your advice on a matter of great importance to myself.
i should like to meet you tomorrow morning at seven o’clock by the green bench in the park.
it is not far from our house.
varvara ardalionovna, who must accompany you, knows the place well.
“a.
e.”
“what on earth is one to make of a girl like that?” said varia.
gania, little as he felt inclined for swagger at this moment, could not avoid showing his triumph, especially just after such humiliating remarks as those of hippolyte.
a smile of self-satisfaction beamed on his face, and varia too was brimming over with delight.
“and this is the very day that they were to announce the engagement!
what will she do next?”
“what do you suppose she wants to talk about tomorrow?” asked gania.
“oh, that’s all the same!
the chief thing is that she wants to see you after six months’ absence.
look here, gania, this is a serious business.
don’t swagger again and lose the game play carefully, but don’t funk, do you understand?
as if she could possibly avoid seeing what i have been working for all this last six months!
and just imagine, i was there this morning and not a word of this!
i was there, you know, on the sly.
the old lady did not know, or she would have kicked me out.
i ran some risk for you, you see.
i did so want to find out, at all hazards.”
here there was a frantic noise upstairs once more; several people seemed to be rushing downstairs at once.
“now, gania,” cried varia, frightened, “we can’t let him go out!
we can’t afford to have a breath of scandal about the town at this moment.
run after him and beg his pardon quick.”
but the father of the family was out in the road already.
colia was carrying his bag for him; nina alexandrovna stood and cried on the doorstep; she wanted to run after the general, but ptitsin kept her back.
“you will only excite him more,” he said.
“he has nowhere else to go to he’ll be back here in half an hour.
i’ve talked it all over with colia; let him play the fool a bit, it will do him good.”
“what are you up to?
where are you off to?
you’ve nowhere to go to, you know,” cried gania, out of the window.
“come back, father; the neighbours will hear!” cried varia.
the general stopped, turned round, raised his hands and remarked: “my curse be upon this house!”
“which observation should always be made in as theatrical a tone as possible,” muttered gania, shutting the window with a bang.
the neighbours undoubtedly did hear.
varia rushed out of the room.
no sooner had his sister left him alone, than gania took the note out of his pocket, kissed it, and pirouetted around.
iii.
as a general rule, old general ivolgin’s paroxysms ended in smoke.
he had before this experienced fits of sudden fury, but not very often, because he was really a man of peaceful and kindly disposition.
he had tried hundreds of times to overcome the dissolute habits which he had contracted of late years.
he would suddenly remember that he was “a father,” would be reconciled with his wife, and shed genuine tears.
his feeling for nina alexandrovna amounted almost to adoration; she had pardoned so much in silence, and loved him still in spite of the state of degradation into which he had fallen.
but the general’s struggles with his own weakness never lasted very long.
he was, in his way, an impetuous man, and a quiet life of repentance in the bosom of his family soon became insupportable to him.
in the end he rebelled, and flew into rages which he regretted, perhaps, even as he gave way to them, but which were beyond his control.
he picked quarrels with everyone, began to hold forth eloquently, exacted unlimited respect, and at last disappeared from the house, and sometimes did not return for a long time.
he had given up interfering in the affairs of his family for two years now, and knew nothing about them but what he gathered from hearsay.
but on this occasion there was something more serious than usual.
everyone seemed to know something, but to be afraid to talk about it.
the general had turned up in the bosom of his family two or three days before, but not, as usual, with the olive branch of peace in his hand, not in the garb of penitence in which he was usually clad on such occasions but, on the contrary, in an uncommonly bad temper.
he had arrived in a quarrelsome mood, pitching into everyone he came across, and talking about all sorts and kinds of subjects in the most unexpected manner, so that it was impossible to discover what it was that was really putting him out.
at moments he would be apparently quite bright and happy; but as a rule he would sit moody and thoughtful.
he would abruptly commence to hold forth about the epanchins, about lebedeff, or the prince, and equally abruptly would stop short and refuse to speak another word, answering all further questions with a stupid smile, unconscious that he was smiling, or that he had been asked a question.
the whole of the previous night he had spent tossing about and groaning, and poor nina alexandrovna had been busy making cold compresses and warm fomentations and so on, without being very clear how to apply them.
he had fallen asleep after a while, but not for long, and had awaked in a state of violent hypochondria which had ended in his quarrel with hippolyte, and the solemn cursing of ptitsin’s establishment generally.
it was also observed during those two or three days that he was in a state of morbid self-esteem, and was specially touchy on all points of honour.
colia insisted, in discussing the matter with his mother, that all this was but the outcome of abstinence from drink, or perhaps of pining after lebedeff, with whom up to this time the general had been upon terms of the greatest friendship; but with whom, for some reason or other, he had quarrelled a few days since, parting from him in great wrath.
there had also been a scene with the prince.
colia had asked an explanation of the latter, but had been forced to conclude that he was not told the whole truth.
if hippolyte and nina alexandrovna had, as gania suspected, had some special conversation about the general’s actions, it was strange that the malicious youth, whom gania had called a scandal-monger to his face, had not allowed himself a similar satisfaction with colia.
the fact is that probably hippolyte was not quite so black as gania painted him; and it was hardly likely that he had informed nina alexandrovna of certain events, of which we know, for the mere pleasure of giving her pain.
we must never forget that human motives are generally far more complicated than we are apt to suppose, and that we can very rarely accurately describe the motives of another.
it is much better for the writer, as a rule, to content himself with the bare statement of events; and we shall take this line with regard to the catastrophe recorded above, and shall state the remaining events connected with the general’s trouble shortly, because we feel that we have already given to this secondary character in our story more attention than we originally intended.
the course of events had marched in the following order.
when lebedeff returned, in company with the general, after their expedition to town a few days since, for the purpose of investigation, he brought the prince no information whatever.
if the latter had not himself been occupied with other thoughts and impressions at the time, he must have observed that lebedeff not only was very uncommunicative, but even appeared anxious to avoid him.
when the prince did give the matter a little attention, he recalled the fact that during these days he had always found lebedeff to be in radiantly good spirits, when they happened to meet; and further, that the general and lebedeff were always together.
the two friends did not seem ever to be parted for a moment.
occasionally the prince heard loud talking and laughing upstairs, and once he detected the sound of a jolly soldier’s song going on above, and recognized the unmistakable bass of the general’s voice.
but the sudden outbreak of song did not last; and for an hour afterwards the animated sound of apparently drunken conversation continued to be heard from above.
at length there was the clearest evidence of a grand mutual embracing, and someone burst into tears.
shortly after this, however, there was a violent but short-lived quarrel, with loud talking on both sides.
all these days colia had been in a state of great mental preoccupation.
muishkin was usually out all day, and only came home late at night.
on his return he was invariably informed that colia had been looking for him.
however, when they did meet, colia never had anything particular to tell him, excepting that he was highly dissatisfied with the general and his present condition of mind and behaviour.
“they drag each other about the place,” he said, “and get drunk together at the pub close by here, and quarrel in the street on the way home, and embrace one another after it, and don’t seem to part for a moment.”
when the prince pointed out that there was nothing new about that, for that they had always behaved in this manner together, colia did not know what to say; in fact he could not explain what it was that specially worried him, just now, about his father.
on the morning following the bacchanalian songs and quarrels recorded above, as the prince stepped out of the house at about eleven o’clock, the general suddenly appeared before him, much agitated.
“i have long sought the honour and opportunity of meeting you much-esteemed lef nicolaievitch,” he murmured, pressing the prince’s hand very hard, almost painfully so; “long very long.”
the prince begged him to step in and sit down.
“no i will not sit down, i am keeping you, i see, another time!
i think i may be permitted to congratulate you upon the realization of your heart’s best wishes, is it not so?”
“what best wishes?”
the prince blushed.
he thought, as so many in his position do, that nobody had seen, heard, noticed, or understood anything.
“oh be easy, sir, be easy!
i shall not wound your tenderest feelings.
i’ve been through it all myself, and i know well how unpleasant it is when an outsider sticks his nose in where he is not wanted.
i experience this every morning.
i came to speak to you about another matter, though, an important matter.
a very important matter, prince.”
the latter requested him to take a seat once more, and sat down himself.
“well just for one second, then.
the fact is, i came for advice.
of course i live now without any very practical objects in life; but, being full of self-respect, in which quality the ordinary russian is so deficient as a rule, and of activity, i am desirous, in a word, prince, of placing myself and my wife and children in a position of in fact, i want advice.”
the prince commended his aspirations with warmth.
“quite so quite so!
but this is all mere nonsense.
i came here to speak of something quite different, something very important, prince.
and i have determined to come to you as to a man in whose sincerity and nobility of feeling i can trust like like are you surprised at my words, prince?”
the prince was watching his guest, if not with much surprise, at all events with great attention and curiosity.
the old man was very pale; every now and then his lips trembled, and his hands seemed unable to rest quietly, but continually moved from place to place.
he had twice already jumped up from his chair and sat down again without being in the least aware of it.
he would take up a book from the table and open it talking all the while, look at the heading of a chapter, shut it and put it back again, seizing another immediately, but holding it unopened in his hand, and waving it in the air as he spoke.
“but enough!” he cried, suddenly.
“i see i have been boring you with my ”
“not in the least not in the least, i assure you.
on the contrary, i am listening most attentively, and am anxious to guess ”
“prince, i wish to place myself in a respectable position i wish to esteem myself and to ”
“my dear sir, a man of such noble aspirations is worthy of all esteem by virtue of those aspirations alone.”
the prince brought out his “copy-book sentence” in the firm belief that it would produce a good effect.
he felt instinctively that some such well-sounding humbug, brought out at the proper moment, would soothe the old man’s feelings, and would be specially acceptable to such a man in such a position.
at all hazards, his guest must be despatched with heart relieved and spirit comforted; that was the problem before the prince at this moment.
the phrase flattered the general, touched him, and pleased him mightily.
he immediately changed his tone, and started off on a long and solemn explanation.
but listen as he would, the prince could make neither head nor tail of it.
the general spoke hotly and quickly for ten minutes; he spoke as though his words could not keep pace with his crowding thoughts.
tears stood in his eyes, and yet his speech was nothing but a collection of disconnected sentences, without beginning and without end a string of unexpected words and unexpected sentiments colliding with one another, and jumping over one another, as they burst from his lips.
“enough!” he concluded at last, “you understand me, and that is the great thing.
a heart like yours cannot help understanding the sufferings of another.
prince, you are the ideal of generosity; what are other men beside yourself?
but you are young accept my blessing!
my principal object is to beg you to fix an hour for a most important conversation that is my great hope, prince.
my heart needs but a little friendship and sympathy, and yet i cannot always find means to satisfy it.”
“but why not now?
i am ready to listen, and ”
“no, no prince, not now!
now is a dream!
and it is too, too important!
it is to be the hour of fate to me my own hour.
our interview is not to be broken in upon by every chance comer, every impertinent guest and there are plenty of such stupid, impertinent fellows” (he bent over and whispered mysteriously, with a funny, frightened look on his face) “who are unworthy to tie your shoe, prince.
i don’t say mine, mind you will understand me, prince.
only you understand me, prince no one else.
he doesn’t understand me, he is absolutely absolutely unable to sympathize.
the first qualification for understanding another is heart.”
the prince was rather alarmed at all this, and was obliged to end by appointing the same hour of the following day for the interview desired.
the general left him much comforted and far less agitated than when he had arrived.
at seven in the evening, the prince sent to request lebedeff to pay him a visit.
lebedeff came at once, and “esteemed it an honour,” as he observed, the instant he entered the room.
he acted as though there had never been the slightest suspicion of the fact that he had systematically avoided the prince for the last three days.
he sat down on the edge of his chair, smiling and making faces, and rubbing his hands, and looking as though he were in delighted expectation of hearing some important communication, which had been long guessed by all.
the prince was instantly covered with confusion; for it appeared to be plain that everyone expected something of him that everyone looked at him as though anxious to congratulate him, and greeted him with hints, and smiles, and knowing looks.
keller, for instance, had run into the house three times of late, “just for a moment,” and each time with the air of desiring to offer his congratulations.
colia, too, in spite of his melancholy, had once or twice begun sentences in much the same strain of suggestion or insinuation.
the prince, however, immediately began, with some show of annoyance, to question lebedeff categorically, as to the general’s present condition, and his opinion thereon.
he described the morning’s interview in a few words.
“everyone has his worries, prince, especially in these strange and troublous times of ours,” lebedeff replied, drily, and with the air of a man disappointed of his reasonable expectations.
“dear me, what a philosopher you are!” laughed the prince.
“philosophy is necessary, sir very necessary in our day.
it is too much neglected.
as for me, much esteemed prince, i am sensible of having experienced the honour of your confidence in a certain matter up to a certain point, but never beyond that point.
i do not for a moment complain ”
“lebedeff, you seem to be angry for some reason!” said the prince.
“not the least bit in the world, esteemed and revered prince!
not the least bit in the world!” cried lebedeff, solemnly, with his hand upon his heart.
“on the contrary, i am too painfully aware that neither by my position in the world, nor by my gifts of intellect and heart, nor by my riches, nor by any former conduct of mine, have i in any way deserved your confidence, which is far above my highest aspirations and hopes.
oh no, prince; i may serve you, but only as your humble slave!
i am not angry, oh no!
not angry; pained perhaps, but nothing more.”
“my dear lebedeff, i ”
“oh, nothing more, nothing more!
i was saying to myself but now... ‘i am quite unworthy of friendly relations with him,’ say i; ‘but perhaps as landlord of this house i may, at some future date, in his good time, receive information as to certain imminent and much to be desired changes ’”
so saying lebedeff fixed the prince with his sharp little eyes, still in hope that he would get his curiosity satisfied.
the prince looked back at him in amazement.
“i don’t understand what you are driving at!” he cried, almost angrily, “and, and what an intriguer you are, lebedeff!” he added, bursting into a fit of genuine laughter.
lebedeff followed suit at once, and it was clear from his radiant face that he considered his prospects of satisfaction immensely improved.
“and do you know,” the prince continued, “i am amazed at your naive ways, lebedeff!
don’t be angry with me not only yours, everybody else’s also!
you are waiting to hear something from me at this very moment with such simplicity that i declare i feel quite ashamed of myself for having nothing whatever to tell you.
i swear to you solemnly, that there is nothing to tell.
there!
can you take that in?” the prince laughed again.
lebedeff assumed an air of dignity.
it was true enough that he was sometimes naive to a degree in his curiosity; but he was also an excessively cunning gentleman, and the prince was almost converting him into an enemy by his repeated rebuffs.
the prince did not snub lebedeff’s curiosity, however, because he felt any contempt for him; but simply because the subject was too delicate to talk about.
only a few days before he had looked upon his own dreams almost as crimes.
but lebedeff considered the refusal as caused by personal dislike to himself, and was hurt accordingly.
indeed, there was at this moment a piece of news, most interesting to the prince, which lebedeff knew and even had wished to tell him, but which he now kept obstinately to himself.
“and what can i do for you, esteemed prince?
since i am told you sent for me just now,” he said, after a few moments’ silence.
“oh, it was about the general,” began the prince, waking abruptly from the fit of musing which he too had indulged in “and and about the theft you told me of.”
“that is er about what theft?”
“oh come!
just as if you didn’t understand, lukian timofeyovitch!
what are you up to?
i can’t make you out!
the money, the money, sir!
the four hundred roubles that you lost that day.
you came and told me about it one morning, and then went off to petersburg.
there, now do you understand?”
“oh h h!
you mean the four hundred roubles!” said lebedeff, dragging the words out, just as though it had only just dawned upon him what the prince was talking about.
“thanks very much, prince, for your kind interest you do me too much honour.
i found the money, long ago!”
“you found it?
thank god for that!”
“your exclamation proves the generous sympathy of your nature, prince; for four hundred roubles to a struggling family man like myself is no small matter!”
“i didn’t mean that; at least, of course, i’m glad for your sake, too,”
added the prince, correcting himself, “but how did you find it?”
“very simply indeed!
i found it under the chair upon which my coat had hung; so that it is clear the purse simply fell out of the pocket and on to the floor!”
“under the chair?
impossible!
why, you told me yourself that you had searched every corner of the room?
how could you not have looked in the most likely place of all?”
“of course i looked there, of course i did!
very much so!
i looked and scrambled about, and felt for it, and wouldn’t believe it was not there, and looked again and again.
it is always so in such cases.
one longs and expects to find a lost article; one sees it is not there, and the place is as bare as one’s palm; and yet one returns and looks again and again, fifteen or twenty times, likely enough!”
“oh, quite so, of course.
but how was it in your case?
i don’t quite understand,” said the bewildered prince.
“you say it wasn’t there at first, and that you searched the place thoroughly, and yet it turned up on that very spot!”
“yes, sir on that very spot.” the prince gazed strangely at lebedeff.
“and the general?” he asked, abruptly.
“the the general?
how do you mean, the general?” said lebedeff, dubiously, as though he had not taken in the drift of the prince’s remark.
“oh, good heavens!
i mean, what did the general say when the purse turned up under the chair?
you and he had searched for it together there, hadn’t you?”
“quite so together!
but the second time i thought better to say nothing about finding it.
i found it alone.”
“but why in the world and the money?
was it all there?”
“i opened the purse and counted it myself; right to a single rouble.”
“i think you might have come and told me,” said the prince, thoughtfully.
“oh i didn’t like to disturb you, prince, in the midst of your private and doubtless most interesting personal reflections.
besides, i wanted to appear, myself, to have found nothing.
i took the purse, and opened it, and counted the money, and shut it and put it down again under the chair.”
“what in the world for?”
“oh, just out of curiosity,” said lebedeff, rubbing his hands and sniggering.
“what, it’s still there then, is it?
ever since the day before yesterday?”
“oh no!
you see, i was half in hopes the general might find it.
because if i found it, why should not he too observe an object lying before his very eyes?
i moved the chair several times so as to expose the purse to view, but the general never saw it.
he is very absent just now, evidently.
he talks and laughs and tells stories, and suddenly flies into a rage with me, goodness knows why.”
“well, but have you taken the purse away now?”
“no, it disappeared from under the chair in the night.”
“where is it now, then?”
“here,” laughed lebedeff, at last, rising to his full height and looking pleasantly at the prince, “here, in the lining of my coat.
look, you can feel it for yourself, if you like!”
sure enough there was something sticking out of the front of the coat something large.
it certainly felt as though it might well be the purse fallen through a hole in the pocket into the lining.
“i took it out and had a look at it; it’s all right.
i’ve let it slip back into the lining now, as you see, and so i have been walking about ever since yesterday morning; it knocks against my legs when i walk along.”
“h’m!
and you take no notice of it?”
“quite so, i take no notice of it.
ha, ha!
and think of this, prince, my pockets are always strong and whole, and yet, here in one night, is a huge hole.
i know the phenomenon is unworthy of your notice; but such is the case.
i examined the hole, and i declare it actually looks as though it had been made with a pen-knife, a most improbable contingency.”
“and and the general?”
“ah, very angry all day, sir; all yesterday and all today.
he shows decided bacchanalian predilections at one time, and at another is tearful and sensitive, but at any moment he is liable to paroxysms of such rage that i assure you, prince, i am quite alarmed.
i am not a military man, you know.
yesterday we were sitting together in the tavern, and the lining of my coat was quite accidentally, of course sticking out right in front.
the general squinted at it, and flew into a rage.
he never looks me quite in the face now, unless he is very drunk or maudlin; but yesterday he looked at me in such a way that a shiver went all down my back.
i intend to find the purse tomorrow; but till then i am going to have another night of it with him.”
“what’s the good of tormenting him like this?” cried the prince.
“i don’t torment him, prince, i don’t indeed!” cried lebedeff, hotly.
“i love him, my dear sir, i esteem him; and believe it or not, i love him all the better for this business, yes and value him more.”
lebedeff said this so seriously that the prince quite lost his temper with him.
“nonsense!
love him and torment him so!
why, by the very fact that he put the purse prominently before you, first under the chair and then in your lining, he shows that he does not wish to deceive you, but is anxious to beg your forgiveness in this artless way.
do you hear?
he is asking your pardon.
he confides in the delicacy of your feelings, and in your friendship for him.
and you can allow yourself to humiliate so thoroughly honest a man!”
“thoroughly honest, quite so, prince, thoroughly honest!” said lebedeff, with flashing eyes.
“and only you, prince, could have found so very appropriate an expression.
i honour you for it, prince.
very well, that’s settled; i shall find the purse now and not tomorrow.
here, i find it and take it out before your eyes!
and the money is all right.
take it, prince, and keep it till tomorrow, will you?
tomorrow or next day i’ll take it back again.
i think, prince, that the night after its disappearance it was buried under a bush in the garden.
so i believe what do you think of that?”
“well, take care you don’t tell him to his face that you have found the purse.
simply let him see that it is no longer in the lining of your coat, and form his own conclusions.”
“do you think so?
had i not just better tell him i have found it, and pretend i never guessed where it was?”
“no, i don’t think so,” said the prince, thoughtfully; “it’s too late for that that would be dangerous now.
no, no!
better say nothing about it.
be nice with him, you know, but don’t show him oh, you know well enough ”
“i know, prince, of course i know, but i’m afraid i shall not carry it out; for to do so one needs a heart like your own.
he is so very irritable just now, and so proud.
at one moment he will embrace me, and the next he flies out at me and sneers at me, and then i stick the lining forward on purpose.
well, au revoir, prince, i see i am keeping you, and boring you, too, interfering with your most interesting private reflections.”
“now, do be careful!
secrecy, as before!”
“oh, silence isn’t the word!
softly, softly!”
but in spite of this conclusion to the episode, the prince remained as puzzled as ever, if not more so.
he awaited next morning’s interview with the general most impatiently.
iv.
the time appointed was twelve o’clock, and the prince, returning home unexpectedly late, found the general waiting for him.
at the first glance, he saw that the latter was displeased, perhaps because he had been kept waiting.
the prince apologized, and quickly took a seat.
he seemed strangely timid before the general this morning, for some reason, and felt as though his visitor were some piece of china which he was afraid of breaking.
on scrutinizing him, the prince soon saw that the general was quite a different man from what he had been the day before; he looked like one who had come to some momentous resolve.
his calmness, however, was more apparent than real.
he was courteous, but there was a suggestion of injured innocence in his manner.
“i’ve brought your book back,” he began, indicating a book lying on the table.
“much obliged to you for lending it to me.”
“ah, yes.
well, did you read it, general?
it’s curious, isn’t it?” said the prince, delighted to be able to open up conversation upon an outside subject.
“curious enough, yes, but crude, and of course dreadful nonsense; probably the man lies in every other sentence.”
the general spoke with considerable confidence, and dragged his words out with a conceited drawl.
“oh, but it’s only the simple tale of an old soldier who saw the french enter moscow.
some of his remarks were wonderfully interesting.
remarks of an eye-witness are always valuable, whoever he be, don’t you think so?”
“had i been the publisher i should not have printed it.
as to the evidence of eye-witnesses, in these days people prefer impudent lies to the stories of men of worth and long service.
i know of some notes of the year 1812, which i have determined, prince, to leave this house, mr. lebedeff’s house.”
the general looked significantly at his host.
“of course you have your own lodging at pavlofsk at at your daughter’s house,” began the prince, quite at a loss what to say.
he suddenly recollected that the general had come for advice on a most important matter, affecting his destiny.
“at my wife’s; in other words, at my own place, my daughter’s house.”
“i beg your pardon, i ”
“i leave lebedeff’s house, my dear prince, because i have quarrelled with this person.
i broke with him last night, and am very sorry that i did not do so before.
i expect respect, prince, even from those to whom i give my heart, so to speak.
prince, i have often given away my heart, and am nearly always deceived.
this person was quite unworthy of the gift.”
“there is much that might be improved in him,” said the prince, moderately, “but he has some qualities which though amid them one cannot but discern a cunning nature reveal what is often a diverting intellect.”
the prince’s tone was so natural and respectful that the general could not possibly suspect him of any insincerity.
“oh, that he possesses good traits, i was the first to show, when i very nearly made him a present of my friendship.
i am not dependent upon his hospitality, and upon his house; i have my own family.
i do not attempt to justify my own weakness.
i have drunk with this man, and perhaps i deplore the fact now, but i did not take him up for the sake of drink alone (excuse the crudeness of the expression, prince); i did not make friends with him for that alone.
i was attracted by his good qualities; but when the fellow declares that he was a child in 1812, and had his left leg cut off, and buried in the vagarkoff cemetery, in moscow, such a cock-and-bull story amounts to disrespect, my dear sir, to to impudent exaggeration.”
“oh, he was very likely joking; he said it for fun.”
“i quite understand you.
you mean that an innocent lie for the sake of a good joke is harmless, and does not offend the human heart.
some people lie, if you like to put it so, out of pure friendship, in order to amuse their fellows; but when a man makes use of extravagance in order to show his disrespect and to make clear how the intimacy bores him, it is time for a man of honour to break off the said intimacy, and to teach the offender his place.”
the general flushed with indignation as he spoke.
“oh, but lebedeff cannot have been in moscow in 1812. he is much too young; it is all nonsense.”
“very well, but even if we admit that he was alive in 1812, can one believe that a french chasseur pointed a cannon at him for a lark, and shot his left leg off?
he says he picked his own leg up and took it away and buried it in the cemetery.
he swore he had a stone put up over it with the inscription: ‘here lies the leg of collegiate secretary lebedeff,’ and on the other side, ‘rest, beloved ashes, till the morn of joy,’ and that he has a service read over it every year (which is simply sacrilege), and goes to moscow once a year on purpose.
he invites me to moscow in order to prove his assertion, and show me his leg’s tomb, and the very cannon that shot him; he says it’s the eleventh from the gate of the kremlin, an old-fashioned falconet taken from the french afterwards.”
“and, meanwhile both his legs are still on his body,” said the prince, laughing.
“i assure you, it is only an innocent joke, and you need not be angry about it.”
“excuse me wait a minute he says that the leg we see is a wooden one, made by tchernosvitoff.”
“they do say one can dance with those!”
“quite so, quite so; and he swears that his wife never found out that one of his legs was wooden all the while they were married.
when i showed him the ridiculousness of all this, he said, ‘well, if you were one of napoleon’s pages in 1812, you might let me bury my leg in the moscow cemetery.’ ”
“why, did you say ” began the prince, and paused in confusion.
the general gazed at his host disdainfully.
“oh, go on,” he said, “finish your sentence, by all means.
say how odd it appears to you that a man fallen to such a depth of humiliation as i, can ever have been the actual eye-witness of great events.
go on, i don’t mind!
has he found time to tell you scandal about me?”
“no, i’ve heard nothing of this from lebedeff, if you mean lebedeff.”
“h’m; i thought differently.
you see, we were talking over this period of history.
i was criticizing a current report of something which then happened, and having been myself an eye-witness of the occurrence you are smiling, prince you are looking at my face as if ”
“oh no!
not at all i ”
“i am rather young-looking, i know; but i am actually older than i appear to be.
i was ten or eleven in the year 1812. i don’t know my age exactly, but it has always been a weakness of mine to make it out less than it really is.”
“i assure you, general, i do not in the least doubt your statement.
one of our living autobiographers states that when he was a small baby in moscow in 1812 the french soldiers fed him with bread.”
“well, there you see!” said the general, condescendingly.
“there is nothing whatever unusual about my tale.
truth very often appears to be impossible.
i was a page it sounds strange, i dare say.
had i been fifteen years old i should probably have been terribly frightened when the french arrived, as my mother was (who had been too slow about clearing out of moscow); but as i was only just ten i was not in the least alarmed, and rushed through the crowd to the very door of the palace when napoleon alighted from his horse.”
“undoubtedly, at ten years old you would not have felt the sense of fear, as you say,” blurted out the prince, horribly uncomfortable in the sensation that he was just about to blush.
“of course; and it all happened so easily and naturally.
and yet, were a novelist to describe the episode, he would put in all kinds of impossible and incredible details.”
“oh,” cried the prince, “i have often thought that!
why, i know of a murder, for the sake of a watch.
it’s in all the papers now.
but if some writer had invented it, all the critics would have jumped down his throat and said the thing was too improbable for anything.
and yet you read it in the paper, and you can’t help thinking that out of these strange disclosures is to be gained the full knowledge of russian life and character.
you said that well, general; it is so true,” concluded the prince, warmly, delighted to have found a refuge from the fiery blushes which had covered his face.
“yes, it’s quite true, isn’t it?” cried the general, his eyes sparkling with gratification.
“a small boy, a child, would naturally realize no danger; he would shove his way through the crowds to see the shine and glitter of the uniforms, and especially the great man of whom everyone was speaking, for at that time all the world had been talking of no one but this man for some years past.
the world was full of his name; i so to speak drew it in with my mother’s milk.
napoleon, passing a couple of paces from me, caught sight of me accidentally.
i was very well dressed, and being all alone, in that crowd, as you will easily imagine...”
“oh, of course!
naturally the sight impressed him, and proved to him that not all the aristocracy had left moscow; that at least some nobles and their children had remained behind.”
“just so!
just so!
he wanted to win over the aristocracy!
when his eagle eye fell on me, mine probably flashed back in response.
‘voilà un garçon bien éveillé!
qui est ton père?’ i immediately replied, almost panting with excitement, ‘a general, who died on the battle-fields of his country!’
‘le fils d’un boyard et d’un brave, pardessus le marché.
j’aime les boyards.
m’aimes-tu, petit?’
“to this keen question i replied as keenly, ‘the russian heart can recognize a great man even in the bitter enemy of his country.’ at least, i don’t remember the exact words, you know, but the idea was as i say.
napoleon was struck; he thought a minute and then said to his suite: ‘i like that boy’s pride; if all russians think like this child, then ’ he didn’t finish, but went on and entered the palace.
i instantly mixed with his suite, and followed him.
i was already in high favour.
i remember when he came into the first hall, the emperor stopped before a portrait of the empress katherine, and after a thoughtful glance remarked, ‘that was a great woman,’ and passed on.
“well, in a couple of days i was known all over the palace and the kremlin as ‘le petit boyard.’ i only went home to sleep.
they were nearly out of their minds about me at home.
a couple of days after this, napoleon’s page, de bazancour, died; he had not been able to stand the trials of the campaign.
napoleon remembered me; i was taken away without explanation; the dead page’s uniform was tried on me, and when i was taken before the emperor, dressed in it, he nodded his head to me, and i was told that i was appointed to the vacant post of page.
“well, i was glad enough, for i had long felt the greatest sympathy for this man; and then the pretty uniform and all that only a child, you know and so on.
it was a dark green dress coat with gold buttons red facings, white trousers, and a white silk waistcoat silk stockings, shoes with buckles, and top-boots if i were riding out with his majesty or with the suite.
“though the position of all of us at that time was not particularly brilliant, and the poverty was dreadful all round, yet the etiquette at court was strictly preserved, and the more strictly in proportion to the growth of the forebodings of disaster.”
“quite so, quite so, of course!” murmured the poor prince, who didn’t know where to look.
“your memoirs would be most interesting.”
the general was, of course, repeating what he had told lebedeff the night before, and thus brought it out glibly enough, but here he looked suspiciously at the prince out of the corners of his eyes.
“my memoirs!” he began, with redoubled pride and dignity.
“write my memoirs?
the idea has not tempted me.
and yet, if you please, my memoirs have long been written, but they shall not see the light until dust returns to dust.
then, i doubt not, they will be translated into all languages, not of course on account of their actual literary merit, but because of the great events of which i was the actual witness, though but a child at the time.
as a child, i was able to penetrate into the secrecy of the great man’s private room.
at nights i have heard the groans and wailings of this ‘giant in distress.’ he could feel no shame in weeping before such a mere child as i was, though i understood even then that the reason for his suffering was the silence of the emperor alexander.”
“yes, of course; he had written letters to the latter with proposals of peace, had he not?” put in the prince.
“we did not know the details of his proposals, but he wrote letter after letter, all day and every day.
he was dreadfully agitated.
sometimes at night i would throw myself upon his breast with tears (oh, how i loved that man!).
‘ask forgiveness, oh, ask forgiveness of the emperor alexander!’ i would cry.
i should have said, of course, ‘make peace with alexander,’ but as a child i expressed my idea in the naive way recorded.
‘oh, my child,’ he would say (he loved to talk to me and seemed to forget my tender years), ‘oh, my child, i am ready to kiss alexander’s feet, but i hate and abominate the king of prussia and the austrian emperor, and and but you know nothing of politics, my child.’
he would pull up, remembering whom he was speaking to, but his eyes would sparkle for a long while after this.
well now, if i were to describe all this, and i have seen greater events than these, all these critical gentlemen of the press and political parties oh, no thanks!
i’m their very humble servant, but no thanks!”
“quite so parties you are very right,” said the prince.
“i was reading a book about napoleon and the waterloo campaign only the other day, by charasse, in which the author does not attempt to conceal his joy at napoleon’s discomfiture at every page.
well now, i don’t like that; it smells of ‘party,’ you know.
you are quite right.
and were you much occupied with your service under napoleon?”
the general was in ecstasies, for the prince’s remarks, made, as they evidently were, in all seriousness and simplicity, quite dissipated the last relics of his suspicion.
“i know charasse’s book!
oh!
i was so angry with his work!
i wrote to him and said i forget what, at this moment.
you ask whether i was very busy under the emperor?
oh no!
i was called ‘page,’ but hardly took my duty seriously.
besides, napoleon very soon lost hope of conciliating the russians, and he would have forgotten all about me had he not loved me for personal reasons i don’t mind saying so now.
my heart was greatly drawn to him, too.
my duties were light.
i merely had to be at the palace occasionally to escort the emperor out riding, and that was about all.
i rode very fairly well.
he used to have a ride before dinner, and his suite on those occasions were generally davoust, myself, and roustan.”
“constant?” said the prince, suddenly, and quite involuntarily.
“no; constant was away then, taking a letter to the empress josephine.
instead of him there were always a couple of orderlies and that was all, excepting, of course, the generals and marshals whom napoleon always took with him for the inspection of various localities, and for the sake of consultation generally.
i remember there was one davoust nearly always with him a big man with spectacles.
they used to argue and quarrel sometimes.
once they were in the emperor’s study together just those two and myself i was unobserved and they argued, and the emperor seemed to be agreeing to something under protest.
suddenly his eye fell on me and an idea seemed to flash across him.
“‘child,’ he said, abruptly.
‘if i were to recognize the russian orthodox religion and emancipate the serfs, do you think russia would come over to me?’”
“‘never!’ i cried, indignantly.”
“the emperor was much struck.”
“‘in the flashing eyes of this patriotic child i read and accept the fiat of the russian people.
enough, davoust, it is mere phantasy on our part.
come, let’s hear your other project.’”
“yes, but that was a great idea,” said the prince, clearly interested.
“you ascribe it to davoust, do you?”
“well, at all events, they were consulting together at the time.
of course it was the idea of an eagle, and must have originated with napoleon; but the other project was good too it was the ‘conseil du lion!’ as napoleon called it.
this project consisted in a proposal to occupy the kremlin with the whole army; to arm and fortify it scientifically, to kill as many horses as could be got, and salt their flesh, and spend the winter there; and in spring to fight their way out.
napoleon liked the idea it attracted him.
we rode round the kremlin walls every day, and napoleon used to give orders where they were to be patched, where built up, where pulled down and so on.
all was decided at last.
they were alone together those two and myself.
“napoleon was walking up and down with folded arms.
i could not take my eyes off his face my heart beat loudly and painfully.
“‘i’m off,’ said davoust.
‘where to?’ asked napoleon.
“‘to salt horse-flesh,’ said davoust.
napoleon shuddered his fate was being decided.
“‘child,’ he addressed me suddenly, ‘what do you think of our plan?’ of course he only applied to me as a sort of toss-up, you know.
i turned to davoust and addressed my reply to him.
i said, as though inspired:
“‘escape, general!
go home!
’
“the project was abandoned; davoust shrugged his shoulders and went out, whispering to himself ‘bah, il devient superstitieux!’ next morning the order to retreat was given.”
“all this is most interesting,” said the prince, very softly, “if it really was so that is, i mean ” he hastened to correct himself.
“oh, my dear prince,” cried the general, who was now so intoxicated with his own narrative that he probably could not have pulled up at the most patent indiscretion.
“you say, ‘if it really was so!’ there was more much more, i assure you!
these are merely a few little political acts.
i tell you i was the eye-witness of the nightly sorrow and groanings of the great man, and of that no one can speak but myself.
towards the end he wept no more, though he continued to emit an occasional groan; but his face grew more overcast day by day, as though eternity were wrapping its gloomy mantle about him.
occasionally we passed whole hours of silence together at night, roustan snoring in the next room that fellow slept like a pig.
‘but he’s loyal to me and my dynasty,’ said napoleon of him.
“sometimes it was very painful to me, and once he caught me with tears in my eyes.
he looked at me kindly.
‘you are sorry for me,’ he said, ‘you, my child, and perhaps one other child my son, the king of rome may grieve for me.
all the rest hate me; and my brothers are the first to betray me in misfortune.’ i sobbed and threw myself into his arms.
he could not resist me he burst into tears, and our tears mingled as we folded each other in a close embrace.
“‘write, oh, write a letter to the empress josephine!’ i cried, sobbing.
napoleon started, reflected, and said, ‘you remind me of a third heart which loves me.
thank you, my friend;’ and then and there he sat down and wrote that letter to josephine, with which constant was sent off next day.”
“you did a good action,” said the prince, “for in the midst of his angry feelings you insinuated a kind thought into his heart.”
“just so, prince, just so.
how well you bring out that fact!
because your own heart is good!” cried the ecstatic old gentleman, and, strangely enough, real tears glistened in his eyes.
“yes, prince, it was a wonderful spectacle.
and, do you know, i all but went off to paris, and should assuredly have shared his solitary exile with him; but, alas, our destinies were otherwise ordered!
we parted, he to his island, where i am sure he thought of the weeping child who had embraced him so affectionately at parting in moscow; and i was sent off to the cadet corps, where i found nothing but roughness and harsh discipline.
alas, my happy days were done!”
“‘i do not wish to deprive your mother of you, and, therefore, i will not ask you to go with me,’ he said, the morning of his departure, ‘but i should like to do something for you.’ he was mounting his horse as he spoke.
‘write something in my sister’s album for me,’ i said rather timidly, for he was in a state of great dejection at the moment.
he turned, called for a pen, took the album.
‘how old is your sister?’
he asked, holding the pen in his hand.
‘three years old,’ i said.
‘ah, petite fille alors!’ and he wrote in the album:
“‘ne mentez jamais!
napoléon (votre ami sincère).’
“such advice, and at such a moment, you must allow, prince, was ”
“yes, quite so; very remarkable.”
“this page of the album, framed in gold, hung on the wall of my sister’s drawing-room all her life, in the most conspicuous place, till the day of her death; where it is now, i really don’t know.
heavens!
it’s two o’clock!
how i have kept you, prince!
it is really most unpardonable of me.”
the general rose.
“oh, not in the least,” said the prince.
“on the contrary, i have been so much interested, i’m really very much obliged to you.”
“prince,” said the general, pressing his hand, and looking at him with flashing eyes, and an expression as though he were under the influence of a sudden thought which had come upon him with stunning force.
“prince, you are so kind, so simple-minded, that sometimes i really feel sorry for you!
i gaze at you with a feeling of real affection.
oh, heaven bless you!
may your life blossom and fructify in love.
mine is over.
forgive me, forgive me!”
he left the room quickly, covering his face with his hands.
the prince could not doubt the sincerity of his agitation.
he understood, too, that the old man had left the room intoxicated with his own success.
the general belonged to that class of liars, who, in spite of their transports of lying, invariably suspect that they are not believed.
on this occasion, when he recovered from his exaltation, he would probably suspect muishkin of pitying him, and feel insulted.
“have i been acting rightly in allowing him to develop such vast resources of imagination?” the prince asked himself.
but his answer was a fit of violent laughter which lasted ten whole minutes.
he tried to reproach himself for the laughing fit, but eventually concluded that he needn’t do so, since in spite of it he was truly sorry for the old man.
the same evening he received a strange letter, short but decided.
the general informed him that they must part for ever; that he was grateful, but that even from him he could not accept “signs of sympathy which were humiliating to the dignity of a man already miserable enough.”
when the prince heard that the old man had gone to nina alexandrovna, though, he felt almost easy on his account.
we have seen, however, that the general paid a visit to lizabetha prokofievna and caused trouble there, the final upshot being that he frightened mrs. epanchin, and angered her by bitter hints as to his son gania.
he had been turned out in disgrace, eventually, and this was the cause of his bad night and quarrelsome day, which ended in his sudden departure into the street in a condition approaching insanity, as recorded before.
colia did not understand the position.
he tried severity with his father, as they stood in the street after the latter had cursed the household, hoping to bring him round that way.
“well, where are we to go to now, father?” he asked.
“you don’t want to go to the prince’s; you have quarrelled with lebedeff; you have no money; i never have any; and here we are in the middle of the road, in a nice sort of mess.”
“better to be of a mess than in a mess!
i remember making a joke something like that at the mess in eighteen hundred and forty forty i forget.
‘where is my youth, where is my golden youth?’ who was it said that, colia?”
“it was gogol, in dead souls, father,” cried colia, glancing at him in some alarm.
“‘dead souls,’ yes, of course, dead.
when i die, colia, you must engrave on my tomb:
“‘here lies a dead soul,     shame pursues me.’
“who said that, colia?”
“i don’t know, father.”
“there was no eropegoff?
eroshka eropegoff?” he cried, suddenly, stopping in the road in a frenzy.
“no eropegoff!
and my own son to say it!
eropegoff was in the place of a brother to me for eleven months.
i fought a duel for him.
he was married afterwards, and then killed on the field of battle.
the bullet struck the cross on my breast and glanced off straight into his temple.
‘i’ll never forget you,’ he cried, and expired.
i served my country well and honestly, colia, but shame, shame has pursued me!
you and nina will come to my grave, colia; poor nina, i always used to call her nina in the old days, and how she loved....
nina, nina, oh, nina.
what have i ever done to deserve your forgiveness and long-suffering?
oh, colia, your mother has an angelic spirit, an angelic spirit, colia!”
“i know that, father.
look here, dear old father, come back home!
let’s go back to mother.
look, she ran after us when we came out.
what have you stopped her for, just as though you didn’t take in what i said?
why are you crying, father?”
poor colia cried himself, and kissed the old man’s hands
“you kiss my hands, mine?”
“yes, yes, yours, yours!
what is there to surprise anyone in that?
come, come, you mustn’t go on like this, crying in the middle of the road; and you a general too, a military man!
come, let’s go back.”
“god bless you, dear boy, for being respectful to a disgraced man.
yes, to a poor disgraced old fellow, your father.
you shall have such a son yourself; le roi de rome.
oh, curses on this house!”
“come, come, what does all this mean?” cried colia beside himself at last.
“what is it?
what has happened to you?
why don’t you wish to come back home?
why have you gone out of your mind, like this?”
“i’ll explain it, i’ll explain all to you.
don’t shout!
you shall hear.
le roi de rome.
oh, i am sad, i am melancholy!
“‘nurse, where is your tomb?’
“who said that, colia?”
“i don’t know, i don’t know who said it.
come home at once; come on!
i’ll punch gania’s head myself, if you like only come.
oh, where are you off to again?” the general was dragging him away towards the door of a house nearby.
he sat down on the step, still holding colia by the hand.
“bend down bend down your ear.
i’ll tell you all disgrace bend down, i’ll tell you in your ear.”
“what are you dreaming of?” said poor, frightened colia, stooping down towards the old man, all the same.
“le roi de rome,” whispered the general, trembling all over.
“what?
what do you mean?
what roi de rome?”
“i i,” the general continued to whisper, clinging more and more tightly to the boy’s shoulder.
“i wish to tell you all maria maria petrovna su su su.......”
colia broke loose, seized his father by the shoulders, and stared into his eyes with frenzied gaze.
the old man had grown livid his lips were shaking, convulsions were passing over his features.
suddenly he leant over and began to sink slowly into colia’s arms.
“he’s got a stroke!” cried colia, loudly, realizing what was the matter at last.
v.
in point of fact, varia had rather exaggerated the certainty of her news as to the prince’s betrothal to aglaya.
very likely, with the perspicacity of her sex, she gave out as an accomplished fact what she felt was pretty sure to become a fact in a few days.
perhaps she could not resist the satisfaction of pouring one last drop of bitterness into her brother gania’s cup, in spite of her love for him.
at all events, she had been unable to obtain any definite news from the epanchin girls the most she could get out of them being hints and surmises, and so on.
perhaps aglaya’s sisters had merely been pumping varia for news while pretending to impart information; or perhaps, again, they had been unable to resist the feminine gratification of teasing a friend for, after all this time, they could scarcely have helped divining the aim of her frequent visits.
on the other hand, the prince, although he had told lebedeff, as we know, that nothing had happened, and that he had nothing to impart, the prince may have been in error.
something strange seemed to have happened, without anything definite having actually happened.
varia had guessed that with her true feminine instinct.
how or why it came about that everyone at the epanchins’ became imbued with one conviction that something very important had happened to aglaya, and that her fate was in process of settlement it would be very difficult to explain.
but no sooner had this idea taken root, than all at once declared that they had seen and observed it long ago; that they had remarked it at the time of the “poor knight” joke, and even before, though they had been unwilling to believe in such nonsense.
so said the sisters.
of course, lizabetha prokofievna had foreseen it long before the rest; her “heart had been sore” for a long while, she declared, and it was now so sore that she appeared to be quite overwhelmed, and the very thought of the prince became distasteful to her.
there was a question to be decided most important, but most difficult; so much so, that mrs. epanchin did not even see how to put it into words.
would the prince do or not?
was all this good or bad?
if good (which might be the case, of course), why good?
if bad (which was hardly doubtful), wherein, especially, bad?
even the general, the paterfamilias, though astonished at first, suddenly declared that, “upon his honour, he really believed he had fancied something of the kind, after all.
at first, it seemed a new idea, and then, somehow, it looked as familiar as possible.” his wife frowned him down there.
this was in the morning; but in the evening, alone with his wife, he had given tongue again.
“well, really, you know” (silence) “of course, you know all this is very strange, if true, which i cannot deny; but” (silence).
“but, on the other hand, if one looks things in the face, you know upon my honour, the prince is a rare good fellow and and and well, his name, you know your family name all this looks well, and perpetuates the name and title and all that which at this moment is not standing so high as it might from one point of view don’t you know?
the world, the world is the world, of course and people will talk and and the prince has property, you know if it is not very large and then he he ” (continued silence, and collapse of the general.)
hearing these words from her husband, lizabetha prokofievna was driven beside herself.
according to her opinion, the whole thing had been one huge, fantastical, absurd, unpardonable mistake.
“first of all, this prince is an idiot, and, secondly, he is a fool knows nothing of the world, and has no place in it.
whom can he be shown to?
where can you take him to?
what will old bielokonski say?
we never thought of such a husband as that for our aglaya!”
of course, the last argument was the chief one.
the maternal heart trembled with indignation to think of such an absurdity, although in that heart there rose another voice, which said: “and why is not the prince such a husband as you would have desired for aglaya?” it was this voice which annoyed lizabetha prokofievna more than anything else.
for some reason or other, the sisters liked the idea of the prince.
they did not even consider it very strange; in a word, they might be expected at any moment to range themselves strongly on his side.
but both of them decided to say nothing either way.
it had always been noticed in the family that the stronger mrs. epanchin’s opposition was to any project, the nearer she was, in reality, to giving in.
alexandra, however, found it difficult to keep absolute silence on the subject.
long since holding, as she did, the post of “confidential adviser to mamma,” she was now perpetually called in council, and asked her opinion, and especially her assistance, in order to recollect “how on earth all this happened?” why did no one see it?
why did no one say anything about it?
what did all that wretched “poor knight” joke mean?
why was she, lizabetha prokofievna, driven to think, and foresee, and worry for everybody, while they all sucked their thumbs, and counted the crows in the garden, and did nothing?
at first, alexandra had been very careful, and had merely replied that perhaps her father’s remark was not so far out: that, in the eyes of the world, probably the choice of the prince as a husband for one of the epanchin girls would be considered a very wise one.
warming up, however, she added that the prince was by no means a fool, and never had been; and that as to “place in the world,”
no one knew what the position of a respectable person in russia would imply in a few years whether it would depend on successes in the government service, on the old system, or what.
to all this her mother replied that alexandra was a freethinker, and that all this was due to that “cursed woman’s rights question.”
half an hour after this conversation, she went off to town, and thence to the kammenny ostrof, [“stone island,” a suburb and park of st.
petersburg] to see princess bielokonski, who had just arrived from moscow on a short visit.
the princess was aglaya’s godmother.
“old bielokonski” listened to all the fevered and despairing lamentations of lizabetha prokofievna without the least emotion; the tears of this sorrowful mother did not evoke answering sighs in fact, she laughed at her.
she was a dreadful old despot, this princess; she could not allow equality in anything, not even in friendship of the oldest standing, and she insisted on treating mrs. epanchin as her protégée, as she had been thirty-five years ago.
she could never put up with the independence and energy of lizabetha’s character.
she observed that, as usual, the whole family had gone much too far ahead, and had converted a fly into an elephant; that, so far as she had heard their story, she was persuaded that nothing of any seriousness had occurred; that it would surely be better to wait until something did happen; that the prince, in her opinion, was a very decent young fellow, though perhaps a little eccentric, through illness, and not quite as weighty in the world as one could wish.
the worst feature was, she said, nastasia philipovna.
lizabetha prokofievna well understood that the old lady was angry at the failure of evgenie pavlovitch her own recommendation.
she returned home to pavlofsk in a worse humour than when she left, and of course everybody in the house suffered.
she pitched into everyone, because, she declared, they had ‘gone mad.’ why were things always mismanaged in her house?
why had everybody been in such a frantic hurry in this matter?
so far as she could see, nothing whatever had happened.
surely they had better wait and see what was to happen, instead of making mountains out of molehills.
and so the conclusion of the matter was that it would be far better to take it quietly, and wait coolly to see what would turn up.
but, alas!
peace did not reign for more than ten minutes.
the first blow dealt to its power was in certain news communicated to lizabetha prokofievna as to events which had happened during her trip to see the princess.
(this trip had taken place the day after that on which the prince had turned up at the epanchins at nearly one o’clock at night, thinking it was nine.)
the sisters replied candidly and fully enough to their mother’s impatient questions on her return.
they said, in the first place, that nothing particular had happened since her departure; that the prince had been, and that aglaya had kept him waiting a long while before she appeared half an hour, at least; that she had then come in, and immediately asked the prince to have a game of chess; that the prince did not know the game, and aglaya had beaten him easily; that she had been in a wonderfully merry mood, and had laughed at the prince, and chaffed him so unmercifully that one was quite sorry to see his wretched expression.
she had then asked him to play cards the game called “little fools.”
at this game the tables were turned completely, for the prince had shown himself a master at it.
aglaya had cheated and changed cards, and stolen others, in the most bare-faced way, but, in spite of everything the prince had beaten her hopelessly five times running, and she had been left “little fool” each time.
aglaya then lost her temper, and began to say such awful things to the prince that he laughed no more, but grew dreadfully pale, especially when she said that she should not remain in the house with him, and that he ought to be ashamed of coming to their house at all, especially at night, “after all that had happened.”
so saying, she had left the room, banging the door after her, and the prince went off, looking as though he were on his way to a funeral, in spite of all their attempts at consolation.
suddenly, a quarter of an hour after the prince’s departure, aglaya had rushed out of her room in such a hurry that she had not even wiped her eyes, which were full of tears.
she came back because colia had brought a hedgehog.
everybody came in to see the hedgehog.
in answer to their questions colia explained that the hedgehog was not his, and that he had left another boy, kostia lebedeff, waiting for him outside.
kostia was too shy to come in, because he was carrying a hatchet; they had bought the hedgehog and the hatchet from a peasant whom they had met on the road.
he had offered to sell them the hedgehog, and they had paid fifty copecks for it; and the hatchet had so taken their fancy that they had made up their minds to buy it of their own accord.
on hearing this, aglaya urged colia to sell her the hedgehog; she even called him “dear colia,” in trying to coax him.
he refused for a long time, but at last he could hold out no more, and went to fetch kostia lebedeff.
the latter appeared, carrying his hatchet, and covered with confusion.
then it came out that the hedgehog was not theirs, but the property of a schoolmate, one petroff, who had given them some money to buy schlosser’s history for him, from another schoolfellow who at that moment was driven to raising money by the sale of his books.
colia and kostia were about to make this purchase for their friend when chance brought the hedgehog to their notice, and they had succumbed to the temptation of buying it.
they were now taking petroff the hedgehog and hatchet which they had bought with his money, instead of schlosser’s history.
but aglaya so entreated them that at last they consented to sell her the hedgehog.
as soon as she had got possession of it, she put it in a wicker basket with colia’s help, and covered it with a napkin.
then she said to colia: “go and take this hedgehog to the prince from me, and ask him to accept it as a token of my profound respect.” colia joyfully promised to do the errand, but he demanded explanations.
“what does the hedgehog mean?
what is the meaning of such a present?” aglaya replied that it was none of his business.
“i am sure that there is some allegory about it,” colia persisted.
aglaya grew angry, and called him “a silly boy.” “if i did not respect all women in your person,” replied colia, “and if my own principles would permit it, i would soon prove to you, that i know how to answer such an insult!” but, in the end, colia went off with the hedgehog in great delight, followed by kostia lebedeff.
aglaya’s annoyance was soon over, and seeing that colia was swinging the hedgehog’s basket violently to and fro, she called out to him from the verandah, as if they had never quarrelled: “colia, dear, please take care not to drop him!” colia appeared to have no grudge against her, either, for he stopped, and answered most cordially: “no, i will not drop him!
don’t be afraid, aglaya ivanovna!” after which he went on his way.
aglaya burst out laughing and ran up to her room, highly delighted.
her good spirits lasted the whole day.
all this filled poor lizabetha’s mind with chaotic confusion.
what on earth did it all mean?
the most disturbing feature was the hedgehog.
what was the symbolic signification of a hedgehog?
what did they understand by it?
what underlay it?
was it a cryptic message?
poor general epanchin “put his foot in it” by answering the above questions in his own way.
he said there was no cryptic message at all.
as for the hedgehog, it was just a hedgehog, which meant nothing unless, indeed, it was a pledge of friendship, the sign of forgetting of offences and so on.
at all events, it was a joke, and, of course, a most pardonable and innocent one.
we may as well remark that the general had guessed perfectly accurately.
the prince, returning home from the interview with aglaya, had sat gloomy and depressed for half an hour.
he was almost in despair when colia arrived with the hedgehog.
then the sky cleared in a moment.
the prince seemed to arise from the dead; he asked colia all about it, made him repeat the story over and over again, and laughed and shook hands with the boys in his delight.
it seemed clear to the prince that aglaya forgave him, and that he might go there again this very evening; and in his eyes that was not only the main thing, but everything in the world.
“what children we are still, colia!” he cried at last, enthusiastically, “and how delightful it is that we can be children still!”
“simply my dear prince, simply she is in love with you, that’s the whole of the secret!” replied colia, with authority.
the prince blushed, but this time he said nothing.
colia burst out laughing and clapped his hands.
a minute later the prince laughed too, and from this moment until the evening he looked at his watch every other minute to see how much time he had to wait before evening came.
but the situation was becoming rapidly critical.
mrs. epanchin could bear her suspense no longer, and in spite of the opposition of husband and daughters, she sent for aglaya, determined to get a straightforward answer out of her, once for all.
“otherwise,” she observed hysterically, “i shall die before evening.”
it was only now that everyone realized to what a ridiculous dead-lock the whole matter had been brought.
excepting feigned surprise, indignation, laughter, and jeering both at the prince and at everyone who asked her questions, nothing could be got out of aglaya.
lizabetha prokofievna went to bed and only rose again in time for tea, when the prince might be expected.
she awaited him in trembling agitation; and when he at last arrived she nearly went off into hysterics.
muishkin himself came in very timidly.
he seemed to feel his way, and looked in each person’s eyes in a questioning way, for aglaya was absent, which fact alarmed him at once.
this evening there were no strangers present no one but the immediate members of the family.
prince s. was still in town, occupied with the affairs of evgenie pavlovitch’s uncle.
“i wish at least he would come and say something!” complained poor lizabetha prokofievna.
the general sat still with a most preoccupied air.
the sisters were looking very serious and did not speak a word, and lizabetha prokofievna did not know how to commence the conversation.
at length she plunged into an energetic and hostile criticism of railways, and glared at the prince defiantly.
alas aglaya still did not come and the prince was quite lost.
he had the greatest difficulty in expressing his opinion that railways were most useful institutions, and in the middle of his speech adelaida laughed, which threw him into a still worse state of confusion.
at this moment in marched aglaya, as calm and collected as could be.
she gave the prince a ceremonious bow and solemnly took up a prominent position near the big round table.
she looked at the prince questioningly.
all present realized that the moment for the settlement of perplexities had arrived.
“did you get my hedgehog?” she inquired, firmly and almost angrily.
“yes, i got it,” said the prince, blushing.
“tell us now, at once, what you made of the present?
i must have you answer this question for mother’s sake; she needs pacifying, and so do all the rest of the family!”
“look here, aglaya ” began the general.
“this this is going beyond all limits!” said lizabetha prokofievna, suddenly alarmed.
“it is not in the least beyond all limits, mamma!” said her daughter, firmly.
“i sent the prince a hedgehog this morning, and i wish to hear his opinion of it.
go on, prince.”
“what what sort of opinion, aglaya ivanovna?”
“about the hedgehog.”
“that is i suppose you wish to know how i received the hedgehog, aglaya ivanovna, or, i should say, how i regarded your sending him to me?
in that case, i may tell you in a word that i in fact ”
he paused, breathless.
“come you haven’t told us much!” said aglaya, after waiting some five seconds.
“very well, i am ready to drop the hedgehog, if you like; but i am anxious to be able to clear up this accumulation of misunderstandings.
allow me to ask you, prince, i wish to hear from you, personally are you making me an offer, or not?”
“gracious heavens!” exclaimed lizabetha prokofievna.
the prince started.
the general stiffened in his chair; the sisters frowned.
“don’t deceive me now, prince tell the truth.
all these people persecute me with astounding questions about you.
is there any ground for all these questions, or not?
come!”
“i have not asked you to marry me yet, aglaya ivanovna,” said the prince, becoming suddenly animated; “but you know yourself how much i love you and trust you.”
“no i asked you this answer this!
do you intend to ask for my hand, or not?”
“yes i do ask for it!” said the prince, more dead than alive now.
there was a general stir in the room.
“no no my dear girl,” began the general.
“you cannot proceed like this, aglaya, if that’s how the matter stands.
it’s impossible.
prince, forgive it, my dear fellow, but lizabetha prokofievna!” he appealed to his spouse for help “you must really ”
“not i not i!
i retire from all responsibility,” said lizabetha prokofievna, with a wave of the hand.
“allow me to speak, please, mamma,” said aglaya.
“i think i ought to have something to say in the matter.
an important moment of my destiny is about to be decided” (this is how aglaya expressed herself) “and i wish to find out how the matter stands, for my own sake, though i am glad you are all here.
allow me to ask you, prince, since you cherish those intentions, how you consider that you will provide for my happiness?”
“i i don’t quite know how to answer your question, aglaya ivanovna.
what is there to say to such a question?
and and must i answer?”
“i think you are rather overwhelmed and out of breath.
have a little rest, and try to recover yourself.
take a glass of water, or but they’ll give you some tea directly.”
“i love you, aglaya ivanovna, i love you very much.
i love only you and please don’t jest about it, for i do love you very much.”
“well, this matter is important.
we are not children we must look into it thoroughly.
now then, kindly tell me what does your fortune consist of?”
“no aglaya come, enough of this, you mustn’t behave like this,” said her father, in dismay.
“it’s disgraceful,” said lizabetha prokofievna in a loud whisper.
“she’s mad quite!” said alexandra.
“fortune money do you mean?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“just so.”
“i have now let’s see i have a hundred and thirty-five thousand roubles,” said the prince, blushing violently.
“is that all, really?” said aglaya, candidly, without the slightest show of confusion.
“however, it’s not so bad, especially if managed with economy.
do you intend to serve?”
“i i intended to try for a certificate as private tutor.”
“very good.
that would increase our income nicely.
have you any intention of being a kammer-junker?”
“a kammer-junker?
i had not thought of it, but ”
but here the two sisters could restrain themselves no longer, and both of them burst into irrepressible laughter.
adelaida had long since detected in aglaya’s features the gathering signs of an approaching storm of laughter, which she restrained with amazing self-control.
aglaya looked menacingly at her laughing sisters, but could not contain herself any longer, and the next minute she too had burst into an irrepressible, and almost hysterical, fit of mirth.
at length she jumped up, and ran out of the room.
“i knew it was all a joke!” cried adelaida.
“i felt it ever since since the hedgehog.”
“no, no!
i cannot allow this, this is a little too much,” cried lizabetha prokofievna, exploding with rage, and she rose from her seat and followed aglaya out of the room as quickly as she could.
the two sisters hurriedly went after her.
the prince and the general were the only two persons left in the room.
“it’s it’s really now could you have imagined anything like it, lef nicolaievitch?” cried the general.
he was evidently so much agitated that he hardly knew what he wished to say.
“seriously now, seriously i mean ”
“i only see that aglaya ivanovna is laughing at me,” said the poor prince, sadly.
“wait a bit, my boy, i’ll just go you stay here, you know.
but do just explain, if you can, lef nicolaievitch, how in the world has all this come about?
and what does it all mean?
you must understand, my dear fellow; i am a father, you see, and i ought to be allowed to understand the matter do explain, i beg you!”
“i love aglaya ivanovna she knows it, and i think she must have long known it.”
the general shrugged his shoulders.
“strange it’s strange,” he said, “and you love her very much?”
“yes, very much.”
“well it’s all most strange to me.
that is my dear fellow, it is such a surprise such a blow that... you see, it is not your financial position (though i should not object if you were a bit richer) i am thinking of my daughter’s happiness, of course, and the thing is are you able to give her the happiness she deserves?
and then is all this a joke on her part, or is she in earnest?
i don’t mean on your side, but on hers.”
at this moment alexandra’s voice was heard outside the door, calling out “papa!”
“wait for me here, my boy will you?
just wait and think it all over, and i’ll come back directly,” he said hurriedly, and made off with what looked like the rapidity of alarm in response to alexandra’s call.
he found the mother and daughter locked in one another’s arms, mingling their tears.
these were the tears of joy and peace and reconciliation.
aglaya was kissing her mother’s lips and cheeks and hands; they were hugging each other in the most ardent way.
“there, look at her now ivan fedorovitch!
here she is all of her!
this is our real aglaya at last!” said lizabetha prokofievna.
aglaya raised her happy, tearful face from her mother’s breast, glanced at her father, and burst out laughing.
she sprang at him and hugged him too, and kissed him over and over again.
she then rushed back to her mother and hid her face in the maternal bosom, and there indulged in more tears.
her mother covered her with a corner of her shawl.
“oh, you cruel little girl!
how will you treat us all next, i wonder?”
she said, but she spoke with a ring of joy in her voice, and as though she breathed at last without the oppression which she had felt so long.
“cruel?” sobbed aglaya.
“yes, i am cruel, and worthless, and spoiled tell father so, oh, here he is i forgot father, listen!” she laughed through her tears.
“my darling, my little idol,” cried the general, kissing and fondling her hands (aglaya did not draw them away); “so you love this young man, do you?”
“no, no, no, can’t bear him, i can’t bear your young man!” cried aglaya, raising her head.
“and if you dare say that once more, papa i’m serious, you know, i’m, do you hear me i’m serious!”
she certainly did seem to be serious enough.
she had flushed up all over and her eyes were blazing.
the general felt troubled and remained silent, while lizabetha prokofievna telegraphed to him from behind aglaya to ask no questions.
“if that’s the case, darling then, of course, you shall do exactly as you like.
he is waiting alone downstairs.
hadn’t i better hint to him gently that he can go?” the general telegraphed to lizabetha prokofievna in his turn.
“no, no, you needn’t do anything of the sort; you mustn’t hint gently at all.
i’ll go down myself directly.
i wish to apologize to this young man, because i hurt his feelings.”
“yes, seriously,” said the general, gravely.
“well, you’d better stay here, all of you, for a little, and i’ll go down to him alone to begin with.
i’ll just go in and then you can follow me almost at once.
that’s the best way.”
she had almost reached the door when she turned round again.
“i shall laugh i know i shall; i shall die of laughing,” she said, lugubriously.
however, she turned and ran down to the prince as fast as her feet could carry her.
“well, what does it all mean?
what do you make of it?” asked the general of his spouse, hurriedly.
“i hardly dare say,” said lizabetha, as hurriedly, “but i think it’s as plain as anything can be.”
“i think so too, as clear as day; she loves him.”
“loves him?
she is head over ears in love, that’s what she is,” put in alexandra.
“well, god bless her, god bless her, if such is her destiny,” said lizabetha, crossing herself devoutly.
“h’m destiny it is,” said the general, “and there’s no getting out of destiny.”
with these words they all moved off towards the drawing-room, where another surprise awaited them.
aglaya had not only not laughed, as she had feared, but had gone to the prince rather timidly, and said to him:
“forgive a silly, horrid, spoilt girl” (she took his hand here) “and be quite assured that we all of us esteem you beyond all words.
and if i dared to turn your beautiful, admirable simplicity to ridicule, forgive me as you would a little child its mischief.
forgive me all my absurdity of just now, which, of course, meant nothing, and could not have the slightest consequence.” she spoke these words with great emphasis.
her father, mother, and sisters came into the room and were much struck with the last words, which they just caught as they entered “absurdity which of course meant nothing” and still more so with the emphasis with which aglaya had spoken.
they exchanged glances questioningly, but the prince did not seem to have understood the meaning of aglaya’s words; he was in the highest heaven of delight.
“why do you speak so?” he murmured.
“why do you ask my forgiveness?”
he wished to add that he was unworthy of being asked for forgiveness by her, but paused.
perhaps he did understand aglaya’s sentence about “absurdity which meant nothing,” and like the strange fellow that he was, rejoiced in the words.
undoubtedly the fact that he might now come and see aglaya as much as he pleased again was quite enough to make him perfectly happy; that he might come and speak to her, and see her, and sit by her, and walk with her who knows, but that all this was quite enough to satisfy him for the whole of his life, and that he would desire no more to the end of time?
(lizabetha prokofievna felt that this might be the case, and she didn’t like it; though very probably she could not have put the idea into words.)
it would be difficult to describe the animation and high spirits which distinguished the prince for the rest of the evening.
he was so happy that “it made one feel happy to look at him,” as aglaya’s sisters expressed it afterwards.
he talked, and told stories just as he had done once before, and never since, namely on the very first morning of his acquaintance with the epanchins, six months ago.
since his return to petersburg from moscow, he had been remarkably silent, and had told prince s. on one occasion, before everyone, that he did not think himself justified in degrading any thought by his unworthy words.
but this evening he did nearly all the talking himself, and told stories by the dozen, while he answered all questions put to him clearly, gladly, and with any amount of detail.
there was nothing, however, of love-making in his talk.
his ideas were all of the most serious kind; some were even mystical and profound.
he aired his own views on various matters, some of his most private opinions and observations, many of which would have seemed rather funny, so his hearers agreed afterwards, had they not been so well expressed.
the general liked serious subjects of conversation; but both he and lizabetha prokofievna felt that they were having a little too much of a good thing tonight, and as the evening advanced, they both grew more or less melancholy; but towards night, the prince fell to telling funny stories, and was always the first to burst out laughing himself, which he invariably did so joyously and simply that the rest laughed just as much at him as at his stories.
as for aglaya, she hardly said a word all the evening; but she listened with all her ears to lef nicolaievitch’s talk, and scarcely took her eyes off him.
“she looked at him, and stared and stared, and hung on every word he said,” said lizabetha afterwards, to her husband, “and yet, tell her that she loves him, and she is furious!”
“what’s to be done?
it’s fate,” said the general, shrugging his shoulders, and, for a long while after, he continued to repeat: “it’s fate, it’s fate!”
we may add that to a business man like general epanchin the present position of affairs was most unsatisfactory.
he hated the uncertainty in which they had been, perforce, left.
however, he decided to say no more about it, and merely to look on, and take his time and tune from lizabetha prokofievna.
the happy state in which the family had spent the evening, as just recorded, was not of very long duration.
next day aglaya quarrelled with the prince again, and so she continued to behave for the next few days.
for whole hours at a time she ridiculed and chaffed the wretched man, and made him almost a laughing-stock.
it is true that they used to sit in the little summer-house together for an hour or two at a time, very often, but it was observed that on these occasions the prince would read the paper, or some book, aloud to aglaya.
“do you know,” aglaya said to him once, interrupting the reading, “i’ve remarked that you are dreadfully badly educated.
you never know anything thoroughly, if one asks you; neither anyone’s name, nor dates, nor about treaties and so on.
it’s a great pity, you know!”
“i told you i had not had much of an education,” replied the prince.
“how am i to respect you, if that’s the case?
read on now.
no don’t!
stop reading!”
and once more, that same evening, aglaya mystified them all.
prince s.
had returned, and aglaya was particularly amiable to him, and asked a great deal after evgenie pavlovitch.
(muishkin had not come in as yet.)
suddenly prince s. hinted something about “a new and approaching change in the family.” he was led to this remark by a communication inadvertently made to him by lizabetha prokofievna, that adelaida’s marriage must be postponed a little longer, in order that the two weddings might come off together.
it is impossible to describe aglaya’s irritation.
she flared up, and said some indignant words about “all these silly insinuations.”
she added that “she had no intentions as yet of replacing anybody’s mistress.”
these words painfully impressed the whole party; but especially her parents.
lizabetha prokofievna summoned a secret council of two, and insisted upon the general’s demanding from the prince a full explanation of his relations with nastasia philipovna.
the general argued that it was only a whim of aglaya’s; and that, had not prince s. unfortunately made that remark, which had confused the child and made her blush, she never would have said what she did; and that he was sure aglaya knew well that anything she might have heard of the prince and nastasia philipovna was merely the fabrication of malicious tongues, and that the woman was going to marry rogojin.
he insisted that the prince had nothing whatever to do with nastasia philipovna, so far as any liaison was concerned; and, if the truth were to be told about it, he added, never had had.
meanwhile nothing put the prince out, and he continued to be in the seventh heaven of bliss.
of course he could not fail to observe some impatience and ill-temper in aglaya now and then; but he believed in something else, and nothing could now shake his conviction.
besides, aglaya’s frowns never lasted long; they disappeared of themselves.
perhaps he was too easy in his mind.
so thought hippolyte, at all events, who met him in the park one day.
“didn’t i tell you the truth now, when i said you were in love?” he said, coming up to muishkin of his own accord, and stopping him.
the prince gave him his hand and congratulated him upon “looking so well.”
hippolyte himself seemed to be hopeful about his state of health, as is often the case with consumptives.
he had approached the prince with the intention of talking sarcastically about his happy expression of face, but very soon forgot his intention and began to talk about himself.
he began complaining about everything, disconnectedly and endlessly, as was his wont.
“you wouldn’t believe,” he concluded, “how irritating they all are there.
they are such wretchedly small, vain, egotistical, commonplace people!
would you believe it, they invited me there under the express condition that i should die quickly, and they are all as wild as possible with me for not having died yet, and for being, on the contrary, a good deal better!
isn’t it a comedy?
i don’t mind betting that you don’t believe me!”
the prince said nothing.
“i sometimes think of coming over to you again,” said hippolyte, carelessly.
“so you don’t think them capable of inviting a man on the condition that he is to look sharp and die?”
“i certainly thought they invited you with quite other views.”
“ho, ho!
you are not nearly so simple as they try to make you out!
this is not the time for it, or i would tell you a thing or two about that beauty, gania, and his hopes.
you are being undermined, pitilessly undermined, and and it is really melancholy to see you so calm about it.
but alas!
it’s your nature you can’t help it!”
“my word!
what a thing to be melancholy about!
why, do you think i should be any happier if i were to feel disturbed about the excavations you tell me of?”
“it is better to be unhappy and know the worst, than to be happy in a fool’s paradise!
i suppose you don’t believe that you have a rival in that quarter?”
“your insinuations as to rivalry are rather cynical, hippolyte.
i’m sorry to say i have no right to answer you!
as for gania, i put it to you, can any man have a happy mind after passing through what he has had to suffer?
i think that is the best way to look at it.
he will change yet, he has lots of time before him, and life is rich; besides besides...” the prince hesitated.
“as to being undermined, i don’t know what in the world you are driving at, hippolyte.
i think we had better drop the subject!”
“very well, we’ll drop it for a while.
you can’t look at anything but in your exalted, generous way.
you must put out your finger and touch a thing before you’ll believe it, eh?
ha!
ha!
ha!
i suppose you despise me dreadfully, prince, eh?
what do you think?”
“why?
because you have suffered more than we have?”
“no; because i am unworthy of my sufferings, if you like!”
“whoever can suffer is worthy to suffer, i should think.
aglaya ivanovna wished to see you, after she had read your confession, but ”
“she postponed the pleasure i see i quite understand!” said hippolyte, hurriedly, as though he wished to banish the subject.
“i hear they tell me that you read her all that nonsense aloud?
stupid bosh it was written in delirium.
and i can’t understand how anyone can be so i won’t say cruel, because the word would be humiliating to myself, but we’ll say childishly vain and revengeful, as to reproach me with this confession, and use it as a weapon against me.
don’t be afraid, i’m not referring to yourself.”
“oh, but i’m sorry you repudiate the confession, hippolyte it is sincere; and, do you know, even the absurd parts of it and these are many” (here hippolyte frowned savagely) “are, as it were, redeemed by suffering for it must have cost you something to admit what you there say great torture, perhaps, for all i know.
your motive must have been a very noble one all through.
whatever may have appeared to the contrary, i give you my word, i see this more plainly every day.
i do not judge you; i merely say this to have it off my mind, and i am only sorry that i did not say it all then ”
hippolyte flushed hotly.
he had thought at first that the prince was “humbugging” him; but on looking at his face he saw that he was absolutely serious, and had no thought of any deception.
hippolyte beamed with gratification.
“and yet i must die,” he said, and almost added: “a man like me!
“and imagine how that gania annoys me!
he has developed the idea or pretends to believe that in all probability three or four others who heard my confession will die before i do.
there’s an idea for you and all this by way of consoling me!
ha!
ha!
ha!
in the first place they haven’t died yet; and in the second, if they did die all of them what would be the satisfaction to me in that?
he judges me by himself.
but he goes further, he actually pitches into me because, as he declares, ‘any decent fellow’ would die quietly, and that ‘all this’ is mere egotism on my part.
he doesn’t see what refinement of egotism it is on his own part and at the same time, what ox-like coarseness!
have you ever read of the death of one stepan gleboff, in the eighteenth century?
i read of it yesterday by chance.”
“who was he?”
“he was impaled on a stake in the time of peter.”
“i know, i know!
he lay there fifteen hours in the hard frost, and died with the most extraordinary fortitude i know what of him?”
“only that god gives that sort of dying to some, and not to others.
perhaps you think, though, that i could not die like gleboff?”
“not at all!” said the prince, blushing.
“i was only going to say that you not that you could not be like gleboff but that you would have been more like ”
“i guess what you mean i should be an osterman, not a gleboff eh?
is that what you meant?”
“what osterman?” asked the prince in some surprise.
“why, osterman the diplomatist.
peter’s osterman,” muttered hippolyte, confused.
there was a moment’s pause of mutual confusion.
“oh, no, no!” said the prince at last, “that was not what i was going to say oh no!
i don’t think you would ever have been like osterman.”
hippolyte frowned gloomily.
“i’ll tell you why i draw the conclusion,” explained the prince, evidently desirous of clearing up the matter a little.
“because, though i often think over the men of those times, i cannot for the life of me imagine them to be like ourselves.
it really appears to me that they were of another race altogether than ourselves of today.
at that time people seemed to stick so to one idea; now, they are more nervous, more sensitive, more enlightened people of two or three ideas at once as it were.
the man of today is a broader man, so to speak and i declare i believe that is what prevents him from being so self-contained and independent a being as his brother of those earlier days.
of course my remark was only made under this impression, and not in the least ”
“i quite understand.
you are trying to comfort me for the naiveness with which you disagreed with me eh?
ha!
ha!
ha!
you are a regular child, prince!
however, i cannot help seeing that you always treat me like like a fragile china cup.
never mind, never mind, i’m not a bit angry!
at all events we have had a very funny talk.
do you know, all things considered, i should like to be something better than osterman!
i wouldn’t take the trouble to rise from the dead to be an osterman.
however, i see i must make arrangements to die soon, or i myself .
well leave me now!
au revoir.
look here before you go, just give me your opinion: how do you think i ought to die, now?
i mean the best, the most virtuous way?
tell me!”
“you should pass us by and forgive us our happiness,” said the prince in a low voice.
“ha!
ha!
ha!
i thought so.
i thought i should hear something like that.
well, you are you really are oh dear me!
eloquence, eloquence!
good-bye!”
vi.
as to the evening party at the epanchins’ at which princess bielokonski was to be present, varia had reported with accuracy; though she had perhaps expressed herself too strongly.
the thing was decided in a hurry and with a certain amount of quite unnecessary excitement, doubtless because “nothing could be done in this house like anywhere else.”
the impatience of lizabetha prokofievna “to get things settled”
explained a good deal, as well as the anxiety of both parents for the happiness of their beloved daughter.
besides, princess bielokonski was going away soon, and they hoped that she would take an interest in the prince.
they were anxious that he should enter society under the auspices of this lady, whose patronage was the best of recommendations for any young man.
even if there seems something strange about the match, the general and his wife said to each other, the “world” will accept aglaya’s fiance without any question if he is under the patronage of the princess.
in any case, the prince would have to be “shown” sooner or later; that is, introduced into society, of which he had, so far, not the least idea.
moreover, it was only a question of a small gathering of a few intimate friends.
besides princess bielokonski, only one other lady was expected, the wife of a high dignitary.
evgenie pavlovitch, who was to escort the princess, was the only young man.
muishkin was told of the princess’s visit three days beforehand, but nothing was said to him about the party until the night before it was to take place.
he could not help observing the excited and agitated condition of all members of the family, and from certain hints dropped in conversation he gathered that they were all anxious as to the impression he should make upon the princess.
but the epanchins, one and all, believed that muishkin, in his simplicity of mind, was quite incapable of realizing that they could be feeling any anxiety on his account, and for this reason they all looked at him with dread and uneasiness.
in point of fact, he did attach marvellously little importance to the approaching event.
he was occupied with altogether different thoughts.
aglaya was growing hourly more capricious and gloomy, and this distressed him.
when they told him that evgenie pavlovitch was expected, he evinced great delight, and said that he had long wished to see him and somehow these words did not please anyone.
aglaya left the room in a fit of irritation, and it was not until late in the evening, past eleven, when the prince was taking his departure, that she said a word or two to him, privately, as she accompanied him as far as the front door.
“i should like you,” she said, “not to come here tomorrow until evening, when the guests are all assembled.
you know there are to be guests, don’t you?”
she spoke impatiently and with severity; this was the first allusion she had made to the party of tomorrow.
she hated the idea of it, everyone saw that; and she would probably have liked to quarrel about it with her parents, but pride and modesty prevented her from broaching the subject.
the prince jumped to the conclusion that aglaya, too, was nervous about him, and the impression he would make, and that she did not like to admit her anxiety; and this thought alarmed him.
“yes, i am invited,” he replied.
she was evidently in difficulties as to how best to go on.
“may i speak of something serious to you, for once in my life?” she asked, angrily.
she was irritated at she knew not what, and could not restrain her wrath.
“of course you may; i am very glad to listen,” replied muishkin.
aglaya was silent a moment and then began again with evident dislike of her subject:
“i do not wish to quarrel with them about this; in some things they won’t be reasonable.
i always did feel a loathing for the laws which seem to guide mamma’s conduct at times.
i don’t speak of father, for he cannot be expected to be anything but what he is.
mother is a noble-minded woman, i know; you try to suggest anything mean to her, and you’ll see!
but she is such a slave to these miserable creatures!
i don’t mean old bielokonski alone.
she is a contemptible old thing, but she is able to twist people round her little finger, and i admire that in her, at all events!
how mean it all is, and how foolish!
we were always middle-class, thoroughly middle-class, people.
why should we attempt to climb into the giddy heights of the fashionable world?
my sisters are all for it.
it’s prince s. they have to thank for poisoning their minds.
why are you so glad that evgenie pavlovitch is coming?”
“listen to me, aglaya,” said the prince, “i do believe you are nervous lest i shall make a fool of myself tomorrow at your party?”
“nervous about you?” aglaya blushed.
“why should i be nervous about you?
what would it matter to me if you were to make ever such a fool of yourself?
how can you say such a thing?
what do you mean by ‘making a fool of yourself’?
what a vulgar expression!
i suppose you intend to talk in that sort of way tomorrow evening?
look up a few more such expressions in your dictionary; do, you’ll make a grand effect!
i’m sorry that you seem to be able to come into a room as gracefully as you do; where did you learn the art?
do you think you can drink a cup of tea decently, when you know everybody is looking at you, on purpose to see how you do it?”
“yes, i think i can.”
“can you?
i’m sorry for it then, for i should have had a good laugh at you otherwise.
do break something at least, in the drawing-room!
upset the chinese vase, won’t you?
it’s a valuable one; do break it.
mamma values it, and she’ll go out of her mind it was a present.
she’ll cry before everyone, you’ll see!
wave your hand about, you know, as you always do, and just smash it.
sit down near it on purpose.”
“on the contrary, i shall sit as far from it as i can.
thanks for the hint.”
“ha, ha!
then you are afraid you will wave your arms about!
i wouldn’t mind betting that you’ll talk about some lofty subject, something serious and learned.
how delightful, how tactful that will be!”
“i should think it would be very foolish indeed, unless it happened to come in appropriately.”
“look here, once for all,” cried aglaya, boiling over, “if i hear you talking about capital punishment, or the economical condition of russia, or about beauty redeeming the world, or anything of that sort, i’ll well, of course i shall laugh and seem very pleased, but i warn you beforehand, don’t look me in the face again!
i’m serious now, mind, this time i am really serious.” she certainly did say this very seriously, so much so, that she looked quite different from what she usually was, and the prince could not help noticing the fact.
she did not seem to be joking in the slightest degree.
“well, you’ve put me into such a fright that i shall certainly make a fool of myself, and very likely break something too.
i wasn’t a bit alarmed before, but now i’m as nervous as can be.”
“then don’t speak at all.
sit still and don’t talk.”
“oh, i can’t do that, you know!
i shall say something foolish out of pure ‘funk,’ and break something for the same excellent reason; i know i shall.
perhaps i shall slip and fall on the slippery floor; i’ve done that before now, you know.
i shall dream of it all night now.
why did you say anything about it?”
aglaya looked blackly at him.
“do you know what, i had better not come at all tomorrow!
i’ll plead sick-list and stay away,” said the prince, with decision.
aglaya stamped her foot, and grew quite pale with anger.
“oh, my goodness!
just listen to that!
‘better not come,’ when the party is on purpose for him!
good lord!
what a delightful thing it is to have to do with such a such a stupid as you are!”
“well, i’ll come, i’ll come,” interrupted the prince, hastily, “and i’ll give you my word of honour that i will sit the whole evening and not say a word.”
“i believe that’s the best thing you can do.
you said you’d ‘plead sick-list’ just now; where in the world do you get hold of such expressions?
why do you talk to me like this?
are you trying to irritate me, or what?”
“forgive me, it’s a schoolboy expression.
i won’t do it again.
i know quite well, i see it, that you are anxious on my account (now, don’t be angry), and it makes me very happy to see it.
you wouldn’t believe how frightened i am of misbehaving somehow, and how glad i am of your instructions.
but all this panic is simply nonsense, you know, aglaya!
i give you my word it is; i am so pleased that you are such a child, such a dear good child.
how charming you can be if you like, aglaya.”
aglaya wanted to be angry, of course, but suddenly some quite unexpected feeling seized upon her heart, all in a moment.
“and you won’t reproach me for all these rude words of mine some day afterwards?” she asked, of a sudden.
“what an idea!
of course not.
and what are you blushing for again?
and there comes that frown once more!
you’ve taken to looking too gloomy sometimes, aglaya, much more than you used to.
i know why it is.”
“be quiet, do be quiet!”
“no, no, i had much better speak out.
i have long wished to say it, and have said it, but that’s not enough, for you didn’t believe me.
between us two there stands a being who ”
“be quiet, be quiet, be quiet, be quiet!” aglaya struck in, suddenly, seizing his hand in hers, and gazing at him almost in terror.
at this moment she was called by someone.
she broke loose from him with an air of relief and ran away.
the prince was in a fever all night.
it was strange, but he had suffered from fever for several nights in succession.
on this particular night, while in semi-delirium, he had an idea: what if on the morrow he were to have a fit before everybody?
the thought seemed to freeze his blood within him.
all night he fancied himself in some extraordinary society of strange persons.
the worst of it was that he was talking nonsense; he knew that he ought not to speak at all, and yet he talked the whole time; he seemed to be trying to persuade them all to something.
evgenie and hippolyte were among the guests, and appeared to be great friends.
he awoke towards nine o’clock with a headache, full of confused ideas and strange impressions.
for some reason or other he felt most anxious to see rogojin, to see and talk to him, but what he wished to say he could not tell.
next, he determined to go and see hippolyte.
his mind was in a confused state, so much so that the incidents of the morning seemed to be imperfectly realized, though acutely felt.
one of these incidents was a visit from lebedeff.
lebedeff came rather early before ten but he was tipsy already.
though the prince was not in an observant condition, yet he could not avoid seeing that for at least three days ever since general ivolgin had left the house lebedeff had been behaving very badly.
he looked untidy and dirty at all times of the day, and it was said that he had begun to rage about in his own house, and that his temper was very bad.
as soon as he arrived this morning, he began to hold forth, beating his breast and apparently blaming himself for something.
“i’ve i’ve had a reward for my meanness i’ve had a slap in the face,”
he concluded, tragically.
“a slap in the face?
from whom?
and so early in the morning?”
“early?” said lebedeff, sarcastically.
“time counts for nothing, even in physical chastisement; but my slap in the face was not physical, it was moral.”
he suddenly took a seat, very unceremoniously, and began his story.
it was very disconnected; the prince frowned, and wished he could get away; but suddenly a few words struck him.
he sat stiff with wonder lebedeff said some extraordinary things.
in the first place he began about some letter; the name of aglaya ivanovna came in.
then suddenly he broke off and began to accuse the prince of something; he was apparently offended with him.
at first he declared that the prince had trusted him with his confidences as to “a certain person” (nastasia philipovna), but that of late his friendship had been thrust back into his bosom, and his innocent question as to “approaching family changes” had been curtly put aside, which lebedeff declared, with tipsy tears, he could not bear; especially as he knew so much already both from rogojin and nastasia philipovna and her friend, and from varvara ardalionovna, and even from aglaya ivanovna, through his daughter vera.
“and who told lizabetha prokofievna something in secret, by letter?
who told her all about the movements of a certain person called nastasia philipovna?
who was the anonymous person, eh?
tell me!”
“surely not you?” cried the prince.
“just so,” said lebedeff, with dignity; “and only this very morning i have sent up a letter to the noble lady, stating that i have a matter of great importance to communicate.
she received the letter; i know she got it; and she received me, too.”
“have you just seen lizabetha prokofievna?” asked the prince, scarcely believing his ears.
“yes, i saw her, and got the said slap in the face as mentioned.
she chucked the letter back to me unopened, and kicked me out of the house, morally, not physically, although not far off it.”
“what letter do you mean she returned unopened?”
“what!
didn’t i tell you?
ha, ha, ha!
i thought i had.
why, i received a letter, you know, to be handed over ”
“from whom?
to whom?”
but it was difficult, if not impossible, to extract anything from lebedeff.
all the prince could gather was, that the letter had been received very early, and had a request written on the outside that it might be sent on to the address given.
“just as before, sir, just as before!
to a certain person, and from a certain hand.
the individual’s name who wrote the letter is to be represented by the letter a.
”
“what?
impossible!
to nastasia philipovna?
nonsense!” cried the prince.
“it was, i assure you, and if not to her then to rogojin, which is the same thing.
mr. hippolyte has had letters, too, and all from the individual whose name begins with an a.,” smirked lebedeff, with a hideous grin.
as he kept jumping from subject to subject, and forgetting what he had begun to talk about, the prince said nothing, but waited, to give him time.
it was all very vague.
who had taken the letters, if letters there were?
probably vera and how could lebedeff have got them?
in all probability, he had managed to steal the present letter from vera, and had himself gone over to lizabetha prokofievna with some idea in his head.
so the prince concluded at last.
“you are mad!” he cried, indignantly.
“not quite, esteemed prince,” replied lebedeff, with some acerbity.
“i confess i thought of doing you the service of handing the letter over to yourself, but i decided that it would pay me better to deliver it up to the noble lady aforesaid, as i had informed her of everything hitherto by anonymous letters; so when i sent her up a note from myself, with the letter, you know, in order to fix a meeting for eight o’clock this morning, i signed it ‘your secret correspondent.’ they let me in at once very quickly by the back door, and the noble lady received me.”
“well?
go on.”
“oh, well, when i saw her she almost punched my head, as i say; in fact so nearly that one might almost say she did punch my head.
she threw the letter in my face; she seemed to reflect first, as if she would have liked to keep it, but thought better of it and threw it in my face instead.
‘if anybody can have been such a fool as to trust a man like you to deliver the letter,’ says she, ‘take it and deliver it!’ hey!
she was grandly indignant.
a fierce, fiery lady that, sir!”
“where’s the letter now?”
“oh, i’ve still got it, here!”
and he handed the prince the very letter from aglaya to gania, which the latter showed with so much triumph to his sister at a later hour.
“this letter cannot be allowed to remain in your hands.”
“it’s for you for you!
i’ve brought it you on purpose!” cried lebedeff, excitedly.
“why, i’m yours again now, heart and hand, your slave; there was but a momentary pause in the flow of my love and esteem for you.
mea culpa, mea culpa!
as the pope of rome says.”
“this letter should be sent on at once,” said the prince, disturbed.
“i’ll hand it over myself.”
“wouldn’t it be better, esteemed prince, wouldn’t it be better to don’t you know ”
lebedeff made a strange and very expressive grimace; he twisted about in his chair, and did something, apparently symbolical, with his hands.
“what do you mean?” said the prince.
“why, open it, for the time being, don’t you know?” he said, most confidentially and mysteriously.
the prince jumped up so furiously that lebedeff ran towards the door; having gained which strategic position, however, he stopped and looked back to see if he might hope for pardon.
“oh, lebedeff, lebedeff!
can a man really sink to such depths of meanness?” said the prince, sadly.
lebedeff’s face brightened.
“oh, i’m a mean wretch a mean wretch!” he said, approaching the prince once more, and beating his breast, with tears in his eyes.
“it’s abominable dishonesty, you know!”
“dishonesty it is, it is!
that’s the very word!”
“what in the world induces you to act so?
you are nothing but a spy.
why did you write anonymously to worry so noble and generous a lady?
why should not aglaya ivanovna write a note to whomever she pleases?
what did you mean to complain of today?
what did you expect to get by it?
what made you go at all?”
“pure amiable curiosity, i assure you desire to do a service.
that’s all.
now i’m entirely yours again, your slave; hang me if you like!”
“did you go before lizabetha prokofievna in your present condition?”
inquired the prince.
“no oh no, fresher more the correct card.
i only became this like after the humiliation i suffered there.”
“well that’ll do; now leave me.”
this injunction had to be repeated several times before the man could be persuaded to move.
even then he turned back at the door, came as far as the middle of the room, and there went through his mysterious motions designed to convey the suggestion that the prince should open the letter.
he did not dare put his suggestion into words again.
after this performance, he smiled sweetly and left the room on tiptoe.
all this had been very painful to listen to.
one fact stood out certain and clear, and that was that poor aglaya must be in a state of great distress and indecision and mental torment (“from jealousy,” the prince whispered to himself).
undoubtedly in this inexperienced, but hot and proud little head, there were all sorts of plans forming, wild and impossible plans, maybe; and the idea of this so frightened the prince that he could not make up his mind what to do.
something must be done, that was clear.
he looked at the address on the letter once more.
oh, he was not in the least degree alarmed about aglaya writing such a letter; he could trust her.
what he did not like about it was that he could not trust gania.
however, he made up his mind that he would himself take the note and deliver it.
indeed, he went so far as to leave the house and walk up the road, but changed his mind when he had nearly reached ptitsin’s door.
however, he there luckily met colia, and commissioned him to deliver the letter to his brother as if direct from aglaya.
colia asked no questions but simply delivered it, and gania consequently had no suspicion that it had passed through so many hands.
arrived home again, the prince sent for vera lebedeff and told her as much as was necessary, in order to relieve her mind, for she had been in a dreadful state of anxiety since she had missed the letter.
she heard with horror that her father had taken it.
muishkin learned from her that she had on several occasions performed secret missions both for aglaya and for rogojin, without, however, having had the slightest idea that in so doing she might injure the prince in any way.
the latter, with one thing and another, was now so disturbed and confused, that when, a couple of hours or so later, a message came from colia that the general was ill, he could hardly take the news in.
however, when he did master the fact, it acted upon him as a tonic by completely distracting his attention.
he went at once to nina alexandrovna’s, whither the general had been carried, and stayed there until the evening.
he could do no good, but there are people whom to have near one is a blessing at such times.
colia was in an almost hysterical state; he cried continuously, but was running about all day, all the same; fetching doctors, of whom he collected three; going to the chemist’s, and so on.
the general was brought round to some extent, but the doctors declared that he could not be said to be out of danger.
varia and nina alexandrovna never left the sick man’s bedside; gania was excited and distressed, but would not go upstairs, and seemed afraid to look at the patient.
he wrung his hands when the prince spoke to him, and said that “such a misfortune at such a moment” was terrible.
the prince thought he knew what gania meant by “such a moment.”
hippolyte was not in the house.
lebedeff turned up late in the afternoon; he had been asleep ever since his interview with the prince in the morning.
he was quite sober now, and cried with real sincerity over the sick general mourning for him as though he were his own brother.
he blamed himself aloud, but did not explain why.
he repeated over and over again to nina alexandrovna that he alone was to blame no one else but that he had acted out of “pure amiable curiosity,” and that “the deceased,” as he insisted upon calling the still living general, had been the greatest of geniuses.
he laid much stress on the genius of the sufferer, as if this idea must be one of immense solace in the present crisis.
nina alexandrovna seeing his sincerity of feeling said at last, and without the faintest suspicion of reproach in her voice: “come, come don’t cry!
god will forgive you!”
lebedeff was so impressed by these words, and the tone in which they were spoken, that he could not leave nina alexandrovna all the evening in fact, for several days.
till the general’s death, indeed, he spent almost all his time at his side.
twice during the day a messenger came to nina alexandrovna from the epanchins to inquire after the invalid.
when late in the evening the prince made his appearance in lizabetha prokofievna’s drawing-room, he found it full of guests.
mrs. epanchin questioned him very fully about the general as soon as he appeared; and when old princess bielokonski wished to know “who this general was, and who was nina alexandrovna,” she proceeded to explain in a manner which pleased the prince very much.
he himself, when relating the circumstances of the general’s illness to lizabetha prokofievna, “spoke beautifully,” as aglaya’s sisters declared afterwards “modestly, quietly, without gestures or too many words, and with great dignity.” he had entered the room with propriety and grace, and he was perfectly dressed; he not only did not “fall down on the slippery floor,” as he had expressed it, but evidently made a very favourable impression upon the assembled guests.
as for his own impression on entering the room and taking his seat, he instantly remarked that the company was not in the least such as aglaya’s words had led him to fear, and as he had dreamed of in nightmare form all night.
this was the first time in his life that he had seen a little corner of what was generally known by the terrible name of “society.” he had long thirsted, for reasons of his own, to penetrate the mysteries of the magic circle, and, therefore, this assemblage was of the greatest possible interest to him.
his first impression was one of fascination.
somehow or other he felt that all these people must have been born on purpose to be together!
it seemed to him that the epanchins were not having a party at all; that these people must have been here always, and that he himself was one of them returned among them after a long absence, but one of them, naturally and indisputably.
it never struck him that all this refined simplicity and nobility and wit and personal dignity might possibly be no more than an exquisite artistic polish.
the majority of the guests who were somewhat empty-headed, after all, in spite of their aristocratic bearing never guessed, in their self-satisfied composure, that much of their superiority was mere veneer, which indeed they had adopted unconsciously and by inheritance.
the prince would never so much as suspect such a thing in the delight of his first impression.
he saw, for instance, that one important dignitary, old enough to be his grandfather, broke off his own conversation in order to listen to him a young and inexperienced man; and not only listened, but seemed to attach value to his opinion, and was kind and amiable, and yet they were strangers and had never seen each other before.
perhaps what most appealed to the prince’s impressionability was the refinement of the old man’s courtesy towards him.
perhaps the soil of his susceptible nature was really predisposed to receive a pleasant impression.
meanwhile all these people though friends of the family and of each other to a certain extent were very far from being such intimate friends of the family and of each other as the prince concluded.
there were some present who never would think of considering the epanchins their equals.
there were even some who hated one another cordially.
for instance, old princess bielokonski had all her life despised the wife of the “dignitary,” while the latter was very far from loving lizabetha prokofievna.
the dignitary himself had been general epanchin’s protector from his youth up; and the general considered him so majestic a personage that he would have felt a hearty contempt for himself if he had even for one moment allowed himself to pose as the great man’s equal, or to think of him in his fear and reverence as anything less than an olympic god!
there were others present who had not met for years, and who had no feeling whatever for each other, unless it were dislike; and yet they met tonight as though they had seen each other but yesterday in some friendly and intimate assembly of kindred spirits.
it was not a large party, however.
besides princess bielokonski and the old dignitary (who was really a great man) and his wife, there was an old military general a count or baron with a german name, a man reputed to possess great knowledge and administrative ability.
he was one of those olympian administrators who know everything except russia, pronounce a word of extraordinary wisdom, admired by all, about once in five years, and, after being an eternity in the service, generally die full of honour and riches, though they have never done anything great, and have even been hostile to all greatness.
this general was ivan fedorovitch’s immediate superior in the service; and it pleased the latter to look upon him also as a patron.
on the other hand, the great man did not at all consider himself epanchin’s patron.
he was always very cool to him, while taking advantage of his ready services, and would instantly have put another in his place if there had been the slightest reason for the change.
another guest was an elderly, important-looking gentleman, a distant relative of lizabetha prokofievna’s.
this gentleman was rich, held a good position, was a great talker, and had the reputation of being “one of the dissatisfied,” though not belonging to the dangerous sections of that class.
he had the manners, to some extent, of the english aristocracy, and some of their tastes (especially in the matter of under-done roast beef, harness, men-servants, etc.).
he was a great friend of the dignitary’s, and lizabetha prokofievna, for some reason or other, had got hold of the idea that this worthy intended at no distant date to offer the advantages of his hand and heart to alexandra.
besides the elevated and more solid individuals enumerated, there were present a few younger though not less elegant guests.
besides prince s.
and evgenie pavlovitch, we must name the eminent and fascinating prince n. once the vanquisher of female hearts all over europe.
this gentleman was no longer in the first bloom of youth he was forty-five, but still very handsome.
he was well off, and lived, as a rule, abroad, and was noted as a good teller of stories.
then came a few guests belonging to a lower stratum of society people who, like the epanchins themselves, moved only occasionally in this exalted sphere.
the epanchins liked to draft among their more elevated guests a few picked representatives of this lower stratum, and lizabetha prokofievna received much praise for this practice, which proved, her friends said, that she was a woman of tact.
the epanchins prided themselves upon the good opinion people held of them.
one of the representatives of the middle-class present today was a colonel of engineers, a very serious man and a great friend of prince s., who had introduced him to the epanchins.
he was extremely silent in society, and displayed on the forefinger of his right hand a large ring, probably bestowed upon him for services of some sort.
there was also a poet, german by name, but a russian poet; very presentable, and even handsome the sort of man one could bring into society with impunity.
this gentleman belonged to a german family of decidedly bourgeois origin, but he had a knack of acquiring the patronage of “big-wigs,” and of retaining their favour.
he had translated some great german poem into russian verse, and claimed to have been a friend of a famous russian poet, since dead.
(it is strange how great a multitude of literary people there are who have had the advantages of friendship with some great man of their own profession who is, unfortunately, dead.)
the dignitary’s wife had introduced this worthy to the epanchins.
this lady posed as the patroness of literary people, and she certainly had succeeded in obtaining pensions for a few of them, thanks to her influence with those in authority on such matters.
she was a lady of weight in her own way.
her age was about forty-five, so that she was a very young wife for such an elderly husband as the dignitary.
she had been a beauty in her day and still loved, as many ladies of forty-five do love, to dress a little too smartly.
her intellect was nothing to boast of, and her literary knowledge very doubtful.
literary patronage was, however, with her as much a mania as was the love of gorgeous clothes.
many books and translations were dedicated to her by her proteges, and a few of these talented individuals had published some of their own letters to her, upon very weighty subjects.
this, then, was the society that the prince accepted at once as true coin, as pure gold without alloy.
it so happened, however, that on this particular evening all these good people were in excellent humour and highly pleased with themselves.
every one of them felt that they were doing the epanchins the greatest possible honour by their presence.
but alas!
the prince never suspected any such subtleties!
for instance, he had no suspicion of the fact that the epanchins, having in their mind so important a step as the marriage of their daughter, would never think of presuming to take it without having previously “shown off” the proposed husband to the dignitary the recognized patron of the family.
the latter, too, though he would probably have received news of a great disaster to the epanchin family with perfect composure, would nevertheless have considered it a personal offence if they had dared to marry their daughter without his advice, or we might almost say, his leave.
the amiable and undoubtedly witty prince n. could not but feel that he was as a sun, risen for one night only to shine upon the epanchin drawing-room.
he accounted them immeasurably his inferiors, and it was this feeling which caused his special amiability and delightful ease and grace towards them.
he knew very well that he must tell some story this evening for the edification of the company, and led up to it with the inspiration of anticipatory triumph.
the prince, when he heard the story afterwards, felt that he had never yet come across so wonderful a humorist, or such remarkable brilliancy as was shown by this man; and yet if he had only known it, this story was the oldest, stalest, and most worn-out yarn, and every drawing-room in town was sick to death of it.
it was only in the innocent epanchin household that it passed for a new and brilliant tale as a sudden and striking reminiscence of a splendid and talented man.
even the german poet, though as amiable as possible, felt that he was doing the house the greatest of honours by his presence in it.
but the prince only looked at the bright side; he did not turn the coat and see the shabby lining.
aglaya had not foreseen that particular calamity.
she herself looked wonderfully beautiful this evening.
all three sisters were dressed very tastefully, and their hair was done with special care.
aglaya sat next to evgenie pavlovitch, and laughed and talked to him with an unusual display of friendliness.
evgenie himself behaved rather more sedately than usual, probably out of respect to the dignitary.
evgenie had been known in society for a long while.
he had appeared at the epanchins’ today with crape on his hat, and princess bielokonski had commended this action on his part.
not every society man would have worn crape for “such an uncle.” lizabetha prokofievna had liked it also, but was too preoccupied to take much notice.
the prince remarked that aglaya looked attentively at him two or three times, and seemed to be satisfied with his behaviour.
little by little he became very happy indeed.
all his late anxieties and apprehensions (after his conversation with lebedeff) now appeared like so many bad dreams impossible, and even laughable.
he did not speak much, only answering such questions as were put to him, and gradually settled down into unbroken silence, listening to what went on, and steeped in perfect satisfaction and contentment.
little by little a sort of inspiration, however, began to stir within him, ready to spring into life at the right moment.
when he did begin to speak, it was accidentally, in response to a question, and apparently without any special object.
vii.
while he feasted his eyes upon aglaya, as she talked merrily with evgenie and prince n., suddenly the old anglomaniac, who was talking to the dignitary in another corner of the room, apparently telling him a story about something or other suddenly this gentleman pronounced the name of “nicolai andreevitch pavlicheff” aloud.
the prince quickly turned towards him, and listened.
the conversation had been on the subject of land, and the present disorders, and there must have been something amusing said, for the old man had begun to laugh at his companion’s heated expressions.
the latter was describing in eloquent words how, in consequence of recent legislation, he was obliged to sell a beautiful estate in the n.
province, not because he wanted ready money in fact, he was obliged to sell it at half its value.
“to avoid another lawsuit about the pavlicheff estate, i ran away,” he said.
“with a few more inheritances of that kind i should soon be ruined!”
at this point general epanchin, noticing how interested muishkin had become in the conversation, said to him, in a low tone:
“that gentleman ivan petrovitch is a relation of your late friend, mr.
pavlicheff.
you wanted to find some of his relations, did you not?”
the general, who had been talking to his chief up to this moment, had observed the prince’s solitude and silence, and was anxious to draw him into the conversation, and so introduce him again to the notice of some of the important personages.
“lef nicolaievitch was a ward of nicolai andreevitch pavlicheff, after the death of his own parents,” he remarked, meeting ivan petrovitch’s eye.
“very happy to meet him, i’m sure,” remarked the latter.
“i remember lef nicolaievitch well.
when general epanchin introduced us just now, i recognized you at once, prince.
you are very little changed, though i saw you last as a child of some ten or eleven years old.
there was something in your features, i suppose, that ”
“you saw me as a child!” exclaimed the prince, with surprise.
“oh!
yes, long ago,” continued ivan petrovitch, “while you were living with my cousin at zlatoverhoff.
you don’t remember me?
no, i dare say you don’t; you had some malady at the time, i remember.
it was so serious that i was surprised ”
“no; i remember nothing!” said the prince.
a few more words of explanation followed, words which were spoken without the smallest excitement by his companion, but which evoked the greatest agitation in the prince; and it was discovered that two old ladies to whose care the prince had been left by pavlicheff, and who lived at zlatoverhoff, were also relations of ivan petrovitch.
the latter had no idea and could give no information as to why pavlicheff had taken so great an interest in the little prince, his ward.
“in point of fact i don’t think i thought much about it,” said the old fellow.
he seemed to have a wonderfully good memory, however, for he told the prince all about the two old ladies, pavlicheff’s cousins, who had taken care of him, and whom, he declared, he had taken to task for being too severe with the prince as a small sickly boy the elder sister, at least; the younger had been kind, he recollected.
they both now lived in another province, on a small estate left to them by pavlicheff.
the prince listened to all this with eyes sparkling with emotion and delight.
he declared with unusual warmth that he would never forgive himself for having travelled about in the central provinces during these last six months without having hunted up his two old friends.
he declared, further, that he had intended to go every day, but had always been prevented by circumstances; but that now he would promise himself the pleasure however far it was, he would find them out.
and so ivan petrovitch really knew natalia nikitishna!
what a saintly nature was hers!
and martha nikitishna!
ivan petrovitch must excuse him, but really he was not quite fair on dear old martha.
she was severe, perhaps; but then what else could she be with such a little idiot as he was then?
(ha, ha.)
he really was an idiot then, ivan petrovitch must know, though he might not believe it.
(ha, ha.)
so he had really seen him there!
good heavens!
and was he really and truly and actually a cousin of pavlicheff’s?
“i assure you of it,” laughed ivan petrovitch, gazing amusedly at the prince.
“oh!
i didn’t say it because i doubt the fact, you know.
(ha, ha.)
how could i doubt such a thing?
(ha, ha, ha.)
i made the remark because because nicolai andreevitch pavlicheff was such a splendid man, don’t you see!
such a high-souled man, he really was, i assure you.”
the prince did not exactly pant for breath, but he “seemed almost to choke out of pure simplicity and goodness of heart,” as adelaida expressed it, on talking the party over with her fiance, the prince s., next morning.
“but, my goodness me,” laughed ivan petrovitch, “why can’t i be cousin to even a splendid man?”
“oh, dear!” cried the prince, confused, trying to hurry his words out, and growing more and more eager every moment: “i’ve gone and said another stupid thing.
i don’t know what to say.
i i didn’t mean that, you know i i he really was such a splendid man, wasn’t he?”
the prince trembled all over.
why was he so agitated?
why had he flown into such transports of delight without any apparent reason?
he had far outshot the measure of joy and emotion consistent with the occasion.
why this was it would be difficult to say.
he seemed to feel warmly and deeply grateful to someone for something or other perhaps to ivan petrovitch; but likely enough to all the guests, individually, and collectively.
he was much too happy.
ivan petrovitch began to stare at him with some surprise; the dignitary, too, looked at him with considerable attention; princess bielokonski glared at him angrily, and compressed her lips.
prince n., evgenie, prince s., and the girls, all broke off their own conversations and listened.
aglaya seemed a little startled; as for lizabetha prokofievna, her heart sank within her.
this was odd of lizabetha prokofievna and her daughters.
they had themselves decided that it would be better if the prince did not talk all the evening.
yet seeing him sitting silent and alone, but perfectly happy, they had been on the point of exerting themselves to draw him into one of the groups of talkers around the room.
now that he was in the midst of a talk they became more than ever anxious and perturbed.
“that he was a splendid man is perfectly true; you are quite right,”
repeated ivan petrovitch, but seriously this time.
“he was a fine and a worthy fellow worthy, one may say, of the highest respect,” he added, more and more seriously at each pause; “and it is agreeable to see, on your part, such ”
“wasn’t it this same pavlicheff about whom there was a strange story in connection with some abbot?
i don’t remember who the abbot was, but i remember at one time everybody was talking about it,” remarked the old dignitary.
“yes abbot gurot, a jesuit,” said ivan petrovitch.
“yes, that’s the sort of thing our best men are apt to do.
a man of rank, too, and rich a man who, if he had continued to serve, might have done anything; and then to throw up the service and everything else in order to go over to roman catholicism and turn jesuit openly, too almost triumphantly.
by jove!
it was positively a mercy that he died when he did it was indeed everyone said so at the time.”
the prince was beside himself.
“pavlicheff?
pavlicheff turned roman catholic?
impossible!” he cried, in horror.
“h’m!
impossible is rather a strong word,” said ivan petrovitch.
“you must allow, my dear prince... however, of course you value the memory of the deceased so very highly; and he certainly was the kindest of men; to which fact, by the way, i ascribe, more than to anything else, the success of the abbot in influencing his religious convictions.
but you may ask me, if you please, how much trouble and worry i, personally, had over that business, and especially with this same gurot!
would you believe it,” he continued, addressing the dignitary, “they actually tried to put in a claim under the deceased’s will, and i had to resort to the very strongest measures in order to bring them to their senses?
i assure you they knew their cue, did these gentlemen wonderful!
thank goodness all this was in moscow, and i got the court, you know, to help me, and we soon brought them to their senses.”
“you wouldn’t believe how you have pained and astonished me,” cried the prince.
“very sorry; but in point of fact, you know, it was all nonsense and would have ended in smoke, as usual i’m sure of that.
last year,” he turned to the old man again, “countess k. joined some roman convent abroad.
our people never seem to be able to offer any resistance so soon as they get into the hands of these intriguers especially abroad.”
“that is all thanks to our lassitude, i think,” replied the old man, with authority.
“and then their way of preaching; they have a skilful manner of doing it!
and they know how to startle one, too.
i got quite a fright myself in ’32, in vienna, i assure you; but i didn’t cave in to them, i ran away instead, ha, ha!”
“come, come, i’ve always heard that you ran away with the beautiful countess levitsky that time throwing up everything in order to do it and not from the jesuits at all,” said princess bielokonski, suddenly.
“well, yes but we call it from the jesuits, you know; it comes to the same thing,” laughed the old fellow, delighted with the pleasant recollection.
“you seem to be very religious,” he continued, kindly, addressing the prince, “which is a thing one meets so seldom nowadays among young people.”
the prince was listening open-mouthed, and still in a condition of excited agitation.
the old man was evidently interested in him, and anxious to study him more closely.
“pavlicheff was a man of bright intellect and a good christian, a sincere christian,” said the prince, suddenly.
“how could he possibly embrace a faith which is unchristian?
roman catholicism is, so to speak, simply the same thing as unchristianity,” he added with flashing eyes, which seemed to take in everybody in the room.
“come, that’s a little too strong, isn’t it?” murmured the old man, glancing at general epanchin in surprise.
“how do you make out that the roman catholic religion is unchristian?
what is it, then?” asked ivan petrovitch, turning to the prince.
“it is not a christian religion, in the first place,” said the latter, in extreme agitation, quite out of proportion to the necessity of the moment.
“and in the second place, roman catholicism is, in my opinion, worse than atheism itself.
yes that is my opinion.
atheism only preaches a negation, but romanism goes further; it preaches a disfigured, distorted christ it preaches anti-christ i assure you, i swear it!
this is my own personal conviction, and it has long distressed me.
the roman catholic believes that the church on earth cannot stand without universal temporal power.
he cries ‘non possumus!’ in my opinion the roman catholic religion is not a faith at all, but simply a continuation of the roman empire, and everything is subordinated to this idea beginning with faith.
the pope has seized territories and an earthly throne, and has held them with the sword.
and so the thing has gone on, only that to the sword they have added lying, intrigue, deceit, fanaticism, superstition, swindling; they have played fast and loose with the most sacred and sincere feelings of men; they have exchanged everything everything for money, for base earthly power!
and is this not the teaching of anti-christ?
how could the upshot of all this be other than atheism?
atheism is the child of roman catholicism it proceeded from these romans themselves, though perhaps they would not believe it.
it grew and fattened on hatred of its parents; it is the progeny of their lies and spiritual feebleness.
atheism!
in our country it is only among the upper classes that you find unbelievers; men who have lost the root or spirit of their faith; but abroad whole masses of the people are beginning to profess unbelief at first because of the darkness and lies by which they were surrounded; but now out of fanaticism, out of loathing for the church and christianity!”
the prince paused to get breath.
he had spoken with extraordinary rapidity, and was very pale.
all present interchanged glances, but at last the old dignitary burst out laughing frankly.
prince n. took out his eye-glass to have a good look at the speaker.
the german poet came out of his corner and crept nearer to the table, with a spiteful smile.
“you exaggerate the matter very much,” said ivan petrovitch, with rather a bored air.
“there are, in the foreign churches, many representatives of their faith who are worthy of respect and esteem.”
“oh, but i did not speak of individual representatives.
i was merely talking about roman catholicism, and its essence of rome itself.
a church can never entirely disappear; i never hinted at that!”
“agreed that all this may be true; but we need not discuss a subject which belongs to the domain of theology.”
“oh, no; oh, no!
not to theology alone, i assure you!
why, socialism is the progeny of romanism and of the romanistic spirit.
it and its brother atheism proceed from despair in opposition to catholicism.
it seeks to replace in itself the moral power of religion, in order to appease the spiritual thirst of parched humanity and save it; not by christ, but by force.
‘don’t dare to believe in god, don’t dare to possess any individuality, any property!
fraternité ou la mort; two million heads.
‘by their works ye shall know them’ we are told.
and we must not suppose that all this is harmless and without danger to ourselves.
oh, no; we must resist, and quickly, quickly!
we must let our christ shine forth upon the western nations, our christ whom we have preserved intact, and whom they have never known.
not as slaves, allowing ourselves to be caught by the hooks of the jesuits, but carrying our russian civilization to them, we must stand before them, not letting it be said among us that their preaching is ‘skilful,’ as someone expressed it just now.”
“but excuse me, excuse me;” cried ivan petrovitch considerably disturbed, and looking around uneasily.
“your ideas are, of course, most praiseworthy, and in the highest degree patriotic; but you exaggerate the matter terribly.
it would be better if we dropped the subject.”
“no, sir, i do not exaggerate, i understate the matter, if anything, undoubtedly understate it; simply because i cannot express myself as i should like, but ”
“allow me!”
the prince was silent.
he sat straight up in his chair and gazed fervently at ivan petrovitch.
“it seems to me that you have been too painfully impressed by the news of what happened to your good benefactor,” said the old dignitary, kindly, and with the utmost calmness of demeanour.
“you are excitable, perhaps as the result of your solitary life.
if you would make up your mind to live more among your fellows in society, i trust, i am sure, that the world would be glad to welcome you, as a remarkable young man; and you would soon find yourself able to look at things more calmly.
you would see that all these things are much simpler than you think; and, besides, these rare cases come about, in my opinion, from ennui and from satiety.”
“exactly, exactly!
that is a true thought!” cried the prince.
“from ennui, from our ennui but not from satiety!
oh, no, you are wrong there!
say from thirst if you like; the thirst of fever!
and please do not suppose that this is so small a matter that we may have a laugh at it and dismiss it; we must be able to foresee our disasters and arm against them.
we russians no sooner arrive at the brink of the water, and realize that we are really at the brink, than we are so delighted with the outlook that in we plunge and swim to the farthest point we can see.
why is this?
you say you are surprised at pavlicheff’s action; you ascribe it to madness, to kindness of heart, and what not, but it is not so.
“our russian intensity not only astonishes ourselves; all europe wonders at our conduct in such cases!
for, if one of us goes over to roman catholicism, he is sure to become a jesuit at once, and a rabid one into the bargain.
if one of us becomes an atheist, he must needs begin to insist on the prohibition of faith in god by force, that is, by the sword.
why is this?
why does he then exceed all bounds at once?
because he has found land at last, the fatherland that he sought in vain before; and, because his soul is rejoiced to find it, he throws himself upon it and kisses it!
oh, it is not from vanity alone, it is not from feelings of vanity that russians become atheists and jesuits!
but from spiritual thirst, from anguish of longing for higher things, for dry firm land, for foothold on a fatherland which they never believed in because they never knew it.
it is easier for a russian to become an atheist, than for any other nationality in the world.
and not only does a russian ‘become an atheist,’ but he actually believes in atheism, just as though he had found a new faith, not perceiving that he has pinned his faith to a negation.
such is our anguish of thirst!
‘whoso has no country has no god.’ that is not my own expression; it is the expression of a merchant, one of the old believers, whom i once met while travelling.
he did not say exactly these words.
i think his expression was:
“‘whoso forsakes his country forsakes his god.’
“but let these thirsty russian souls find, like columbus’ discoverers, a new world; let them find the russian world, let them search and discover all the gold and treasure that lies hid in the bosom of their own land!
show them the restitution of lost humanity, in the future, by russian thought alone, and by means of the god and of the christ of our russian faith, and you will see how mighty and just and wise and good a giant will rise up before the eyes of the astonished and frightened world; astonished because they expect nothing but the sword from us, because they think they will get nothing out of us but barbarism.
this has been the case up to now, and the longer matters go on as they are now proceeding, the more clear will be the truth of what i say; and i ”
but at this moment something happened which put a most unexpected end to the orator’s speech.
all this heated tirade, this outflow of passionate words and ecstatic ideas which seemed to hustle and tumble over each other as they fell from his lips, bore evidence of some unusually disturbed mental condition in the young fellow who had “boiled over” in such a remarkable manner, without any apparent reason.
of those who were present, such as knew the prince listened to his outburst in a state of alarm, some with a feeling of mortification.
it was so unlike his usual timid self-constraint; so inconsistent with his usual taste and tact, and with his instinctive feeling for the higher proprieties.
they could not understand the origin of the outburst; it could not be simply the news of pavlicheff’s perversion.
by the ladies the prince was regarded as little better than a lunatic, and princess bielokonski admitted afterwards that “in another minute she would have bolted.”
the two old gentlemen looked quite alarmed.
the old general (epanchin’s chief) sat and glared at the prince in severe displeasure.
the colonel sat immovable.
even the german poet grew a little pale, though he wore his usual artificial smile as he looked around to see what the others would do.
in point of fact it is quite possible that the matter would have ended in a very commonplace and natural way in a few minutes.
the undoubtedly astonished, but now more collected, general epanchin had several times endeavoured to interrupt the prince, and not having succeeded he was now preparing to take firmer and more vigorous measures to attain his end.
in another minute or two he would probably have made up his mind to lead the prince quietly out of the room, on the plea of his being ill (and it was more than likely that the general was right in his belief that the prince was actually ill), but it so happened that destiny had something different in store.
at the beginning of the evening, when the prince first came into the room, he had sat down as far as possible from the chinese vase which aglaya had spoken of the day before.
will it be believed that, after aglaya’s alarming words, an ineradicable conviction had taken possession of his mind that, however he might try to avoid this vase next day, he must certainly break it?
but so it was.
during the evening other impressions began to awaken in his mind, as we have seen, and he forgot his presentiment.
but when pavlicheff was mentioned and the general introduced him to ivan petrovitch, he had changed his place, and went over nearer to the table; when, it so happened, he took the chair nearest to the beautiful vase, which stood on a pedestal behind him, just about on a level with his elbow.
as he spoke his last words he had risen suddenly from his seat with a wave of his arm, and there was a general cry of horror.
the huge vase swayed backwards and forwards; it seemed to be uncertain whether or no to topple over on to the head of one of the old men, but eventually determined to go the other way, and came crashing over towards the german poet, who darted out of the way in terror.
the crash, the cry, the sight of the fragments of valuable china covering the carpet, the alarm of the company what all this meant to the poor prince it would be difficult to convey to the mind of the reader, or for him to imagine.
but one very curious fact was that all the shame and vexation and mortification which he felt over the accident were less powerful than the deep impression of the almost supernatural truth of his premonition.
he stood still in alarm in almost superstitious alarm, for a moment; then all mists seemed to clear away from his eyes; he was conscious of nothing but light and joy and ecstasy; his breath came and went; but the moment passed.
thank god it was not that!
he drew a long breath and looked around.
for some minutes he did not seem to comprehend the excitement around him; that is, he comprehended it and saw everything, but he stood aside, as it were, like someone invisible in a fairy tale, as though he had nothing to do with what was going on, though it pleased him to take an interest in it.
he saw them gather up the broken bits of china; he heard the loud talking of the guests and observed how pale aglaya looked, and how very strangely she was gazing at him.
there was no hatred in her expression, and no anger whatever.
it was full of alarm for him, and sympathy and affection, while she looked around at the others with flashing, angry eyes.
his heart filled with a sweet pain as he gazed at her.
at length he observed, to his amazement, that all had taken their seats again, and were laughing and talking as though nothing had happened.
another minute and the laughter grew louder they were laughing at him, at his dumb stupor laughing kindly and merrily.
several of them spoke to him, and spoke so kindly and cordially, especially lizabetha prokofievna she was saying the kindest possible things to him.
suddenly he became aware that general epanchin was tapping him on the shoulder; ivan petrovitch was laughing too, but still more kind and sympathizing was the old dignitary.
he took the prince by the hand and pressed it warmly; then he patted it, and quietly urged him to recollect himself speaking to him exactly as he would have spoken to a little frightened child, which pleased the prince wonderfully; and next seated him beside himself.
the prince gazed into his face with pleasure, but still seemed to have no power to speak.
his breath failed him.
the old man’s face pleased him greatly.
“do you really forgive me?” he said at last.
“and and lizabetha prokofievna too?” the laugh increased, tears came into the prince’s eyes, he could not believe in all this kindness he was enchanted.
“the vase certainly was a very beautiful one.
i remember it here for fifteen years yes, quite that!” remarked ivan petrovitch.
“oh, what a dreadful calamity!
a wretched vase smashed, and a man half dead with remorse about it,” said lizabetha prokofievna, loudly.
“what made you so dreadfully startled, lef nicolaievitch?” she added, a little timidly.
“come, my dear boy!
cheer up.
you really alarm me, taking the accident so to heart.”
“do you forgive me all all, besides the vase, i mean?” said the prince, rising from his seat once more, but the old gentleman caught his hand and drew him down again he seemed unwilling to let him go.
“c’est très-curieux et c’est très-sérieux,” he whispered across the table to ivan petrovitch, rather loudly.
probably the prince heard him.
“so that i have not offended any of you?
you will not believe how happy i am to be able to think so.
it is as it should be.
as if i could offend anyone here!
i should offend you again by even suggesting such a thing.”
“calm yourself, my dear fellow.
you are exaggerating again; you really have no occasion to be so grateful to us.
it is a feeling which does you great credit, but an exaggeration, for all that.”
“i am not exactly thanking you, i am only feeling a growing admiration for you it makes me happy to look at you.
i dare say i am speaking very foolishly, but i must speak i must explain, if it be out of nothing better than self-respect.”
all he said and did was abrupt, confused, feverish very likely the words he spoke, as often as not, were not those he wished to say.
he seemed to inquire whether he might speak.
his eyes lighted on princess bielokonski.
“all right, my friend, talk away, talk away!” she remarked.
“only don’t lose your breath; you were in such a hurry when you began, and look what you’ve come to now!
don’t be afraid of speaking all these ladies and gentlemen have seen far stranger people than yourself; you don’t astonish them.
you are nothing out-of-the-way remarkable, you know.
you’ve done nothing but break a vase, and give us all a fright.”
the prince listened, smiling.
“wasn’t it you,” he said, suddenly turning to the old gentleman, “who saved the student porkunoff and a clerk called shoabrin from being sent to siberia, two or three months since?”
the old dignitary blushed a little, and murmured that the prince had better not excite himself further.
“and i have heard of you,” continued the prince, addressing ivan petrovitch, “that when some of your villagers were burned out you gave them wood to build up their houses again, though they were no longer your serfs and had behaved badly towards you.”
“oh, come, come!
you are exaggerating,” said ivan petrovitch, beaming with satisfaction, all the same.
he was right, however, in this instance, for the report had reached the prince’s ears in an incorrect form.
“and you, princess,” he went on, addressing princess bielokonski, “was it not you who received me in moscow, six months since, as kindly as though i had been your own son, in response to a letter from lizabetha prokofievna; and gave me one piece of advice, again as to your own son, which i shall never forget?
do you remember?”
“what are you making such a fuss about?” said the old lady, with annoyance.
“you are a good fellow, but very silly.
one gives you a halfpenny, and you are as grateful as though one had saved your life.
you think this is praiseworthy on your part, but it is not it is not, indeed.”
she seemed to be very angry, but suddenly burst out laughing, quite good-humouredly.
lizabetha prokofievna’s face brightened up, too; so did that of general epanchin.
“i told you lef nicolaievitch was a man a man if only he would not be in such a hurry, as the princess remarked,” said the latter, with delight.
aglaya alone seemed sad and depressed; her face was flushed, perhaps with indignation.
“he really is very charming,” whispered the old dignitary to ivan petrovitch.
“i came into this room with anguish in my heart,” continued the prince, with ever-growing agitation, speaking quicker and quicker, and with increasing strangeness.
“i i was afraid of you all, and afraid of myself.
i was most afraid of myself.
when i returned to petersburg, i promised myself to make a point of seeing our greatest men, and members of our oldest families the old families like my own.
i am now among princes like myself, am i not?
i wished to know you, and it was necessary, very, very necessary.
i had always heard so much that was evil said of you all more evil than good; as to how small and petty were your interests, how absurd your habits, how shallow your education, and so on.
there is so much written and said about you!
i came here today with anxious curiosity; i wished to see for myself and form my own convictions as to whether it were true that the whole of this upper stratum of russian society is worthless, has outlived its time, has existed too long, and is only fit to die and yet is dying with petty, spiteful warring against that which is destined to supersede it and take its place hindering the coming men, and knowing not that itself is in a dying condition.
i did not fully believe in this view even before, for there never was such a class among us excepting perhaps at court, by accident or by uniform; but now there is not even that, is there?
it has vanished, has it not?”
“no, not a bit of it,” said ivan petrovitch, with a sarcastic laugh.
“good lord, he’s off again!” said princess bielokonski, impatiently.
“laissez-le dire!
he is trembling all over,” said the old man, in a warning whisper.
the prince certainly was beside himself.
“well?
what have i seen?” he continued.
“i have seen men of graceful simplicity of intellect; i have seen an old man who is not above speaking kindly and even listening to a boy like myself; i see before me persons who can understand, who can forgive kind, good russian hearts hearts almost as kind and cordial as i met abroad.
imagine how delighted i must have been, and how surprised!
oh, let me express this feeling!
i have so often heard, and i have even believed, that in society there was nothing but empty forms, and that reality had vanished; but i now see for myself that this can never be the case here, among us it may be the order elsewhere, but not in russia.
surely you are not all jesuits and deceivers!
i heard prince n.’s story just now.
was it not simple-minded, spontaneous humour?
could such words come from the lips of a man who is dead?
a man whose heart and talents are dried up?
could dead men and women have treated me so kindly as you have all been treating me to-day?
is there not material for the future in all this for hope?
can such people fail to understand?
can such men fall away from reality?”
“once more let us beg you to be calm, my dear boy.
we’ll talk of all this another time i shall do so with the greatest pleasure, for one,”
said the old dignitary, with a smile.
ivan petrovitch grunted and twisted round in his chair.
general epanchin moved nervously.
the latter’s chief had started a conversation with the wife of the dignitary, and took no notice whatever of the prince, but the old lady very often glanced at him, and listened to what he was saying.
“no, i had better speak,” continued the prince, with a new outburst of feverish emotion, and turning towards the old man with an air of confidential trustfulness.
“yesterday, aglaya ivanovna forbade me to talk, and even specified the particular subjects i must not touch upon she knows well enough that i am odd when i get upon these matters.
i am nearly twenty-seven years old, and yet i know i am little better than a child.
i have no right to express my ideas, and said so long ago.
only in moscow, with rogojin, did i ever speak absolutely freely!
he and i read pushkin together all his works.
rogojin knew nothing of pushkin, had not even heard his name.
i am always afraid of spoiling a great thought or idea by my absurd manner.
i have no eloquence, i know.
i always make the wrong gestures inappropriate gestures and therefore i degrade the thought, and raise a laugh instead of doing my subject justice.
i have no sense of proportion either, and that is the chief thing.
i know it would be much better if i were always to sit still and say nothing.
when i do so, i appear to be quite a sensible sort of a person, and what’s more, i think about things.
but now i must speak; it is better that i should.
i began to speak because you looked so kindly at me; you have such a beautiful face.
i promised aglaya ivanovna yesterday that i would not speak all the evening.”
“really?” said the old man, smiling.
“but, at times, i can’t help thinking that i am wrong in feeling so about it, you know.
sincerity is more important than elocution, isn’t it?”
“sometimes.”
“i want to explain all to you everything everything!
i know you think me utopian, don’t you an idealist?
oh, no!
i’m not, indeed my ideas are all so simple.
you don’t believe me?
you are smiling.
do you know, i am sometimes very wicked for i lose my faith?
this evening as i came here, i thought to myself, ‘what shall i talk about?
how am i to begin, so that they may be able to understand partially, at all events?’ how afraid i was dreadfully afraid!
and yet, how could i be afraid was it not shameful of me?
was i afraid of finding a bottomless abyss of empty selfishness?
ah!
that’s why i am so happy at this moment, because i find there is no bottomless abyss at all but good, healthy material, full of life.
“it is not such a very dreadful circumstance that we are odd people, is it?
for we really are odd, you know careless, reckless, easily wearied of anything.
we don’t look thoroughly into matters don’t care to understand things.
we are all like this you and i, and all of them!
why, here are you, now you are not a bit angry with me for calling you ‘odd,’ are you?
and, if so, surely there is good material in you?
do you know, i sometimes think it is a good thing to be odd.
we can forgive one another more easily, and be more humble.
no one can begin by being perfect there is much one cannot understand in life at first.
in order to attain to perfection, one must begin by failing to understand much.
and if we take in knowledge too quickly, we very likely are not taking it in at all.
i say all this to you you who by this time understand so much and doubtless have failed to understand so much, also.
i am not afraid of you any longer.
you are not angry that a mere boy should say such words to you, are you?
of course not!
you know how to forget and to forgive.
you are laughing, ivan petrovitch?
you think i am a champion of other classes of people that i am their advocate, a democrat, and an orator of equality?” the prince laughed hysterically; he had several times burst into these little, short nervous laughs.
“oh, no it is for you, for myself, and for all of us together, that i am alarmed.
i am a prince of an old family myself, and i am sitting among my peers; and i am talking like this in the hope of saving us all; in the hope that our class will not disappear altogether into the darkness unguessing its danger blaming everything around it, and losing ground every day.
why should we disappear and give place to others, when we may still, if we choose, remain in the front rank and lead the battle?
let us be servants, that we may become lords in due season!”
he tried to get upon his feet again, but the old man still restrained him, gazing at him with increasing perturbation as he went on.
“listen i know it is best not to speak!
it is best simply to give a good example simply to begin the work.
i have done this i have begun, and and oh!
can anyone be unhappy, really?
oh!
what does grief matter what does misfortune matter, if one knows how to be happy?
do you know, i cannot understand how anyone can pass by a green tree, and not feel happy only to look at it!
how anyone can talk to a man and not feel happy in loving him!
oh, it is my own fault that i cannot express myself well enough!
but there are lovely things at every step i take things which even the most miserable man must recognize as beautiful.
look at a little child look at god’s day dawn look at the grass growing look at the eyes that love you, as they gaze back into your eyes!”
he had risen, and was speaking standing up.
the old gentleman was looking at him now in unconcealed alarm.
lizabetha prokofievna wrung her hands.
“oh, my god!” she cried.
she had guessed the state of the case before anyone else.
aglaya rushed quickly up to him, and was just in time to receive him in her arms, and to hear with dread and horror that awful, wild cry as he fell writhing to the ground.
there he lay on the carpet, and someone quickly placed a cushion under his head.
no one had expected this.
in a quarter of an hour or so prince n. and evgenie pavlovitch and the old dignitary were hard at work endeavouring to restore the harmony of the evening, but it was of no avail, and very soon after the guests separated and went their ways.
a great deal of sympathy was expressed; a considerable amount of advice was volunteered; ivan petrovitch expressed his opinion that the young man was “a slavophile, or something of that sort”; but that it was not a dangerous development.
the old dignitary said nothing.
true enough, most of the guests, next day and the day after, were not in very good humour.
ivan petrovitch was a little offended, but not seriously so.
general epanchin’s chief was rather cool towards him for some while after the occurrence.
the old dignitary, as patron of the family, took the opportunity of murmuring some kind of admonition to the general, and added, in flattering terms, that he was most interested in aglaya’s future.
he was a man who really did possess a kind heart, although his interest in the prince, in the earlier part of the evening, was due, among other reasons, to the latter’s connection with nastasia philipovna, according to popular report.
he had heard a good deal of this story here and there, and was greatly interested in it, so much so that he longed to ask further questions about it.
princess bielokonski, as she drove away on this eventful evening, took occasion to say to lizabetha prokofievna:
“well he’s a good match and a bad one; and if you want my opinion, more bad than good.
you can see for yourself the man is an invalid.”
lizabetha therefore decided that the prince was impossible as a husband for aglaya; and during the ensuing night she made a vow that never while she lived should he marry aglaya.
with this resolve firmly impressed upon her mind, she awoke next day; but during the morning, after her early lunch, she fell into a condition of remarkable inconsistency.
in reply to a very guarded question of her sisters’, aglaya had answered coldly, but exceedingly haughtily:
“i have never given him my word at all, nor have i ever counted him as my future husband never in my life.
he is just as little to me as all the rest.”
lizabetha prokofievna suddenly flared up.
“i did not expect that of you, aglaya,” she said.
“he is an impossible husband for you, i know it; and thank god that we agree upon that point; but i did not expect to hear such words from you.
i thought i should hear a very different tone from you.
i would have turned out everyone who was in the room last night and kept him, that’s the sort of man he is, in my opinion!”
here she suddenly paused, afraid of what she had just said.
but she little knew how unfair she was to her daughter at that moment.
it was all settled in aglaya’s mind.
she was only waiting for the hour that would bring the matter to a final climax; and every hint, every careless probing of her wound, did but further lacerate her heart.
viii.
this same morning dawned for the prince pregnant with no less painful presentiments, which fact his physical state was, of course, quite enough to account for; but he was so indefinably melancholy, his sadness could not attach itself to anything in particular, and this tormented him more than anything else.
of course certain facts stood before him, clear and painful, but his sadness went beyond all that he could remember or imagine; he realized that he was powerless to console himself unaided.
little by little he began to develop the expectation that this day something important, something decisive, was to happen to him.
his attack of yesterday had been a slight one.
excepting some little heaviness in the head and pain in the limbs, he did not feel any particular effects.
his brain worked all right, though his soul was heavy within him.
he rose late, and immediately upon waking remembered all about the previous evening; he also remembered, though not quite so clearly, how, half an hour after his fit, he had been carried home.
he soon heard that a messenger from the epanchins’ had already been to inquire after him.
at half-past eleven another arrived; and this pleased him.
vera lebedeff was one of the first to come to see him and offer her services.
no sooner did she catch sight of him than she burst into tears; but when he tried to soothe her she began to laugh.
he was quite struck by the girl’s deep sympathy for him; he seized her hand and kissed it.
vera flushed crimson.
“oh, don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed in alarm, snatching her hand away.
she went hastily out of the room in a state of strange confusion.
lebedeff also came to see the prince, in a great hurry to get away to the “deceased,” as he called general ivolgin, who was alive still, but very ill. colia also turned up, and begged the prince for pity’s sake to tell him all he knew about his father which had been concealed from him till now.
he said he had found out nearly everything since yesterday; the poor boy was in a state of deep affliction.
with all the sympathy which he could bring into play, the prince told colia the whole story without reserve, detailing the facts as clearly as he could.
the tale struck colia like a thunderbolt.
he could not speak.
he listened silently, and cried softly to himself the while.
the prince perceived that this was an impression which would last for the whole of the boy’s life.
he made haste to explain his view of the matter, and pointed out that the old man’s approaching death was probably brought on by horror at the thought of his action; and that it was not everyone who was capable of such a feeling.
colia’s eyes flashed as he listened.
“gania and varia and ptitsin are a worthless lot!
i shall not quarrel with them; but from this moment our feet shall not travel the same road.
oh, prince, i have felt much that is quite new to me since yesterday!
it is a lesson for me.
i shall now consider my mother as entirely my responsibility; though she may be safe enough with varia.
still, meat and drink is not everything.”
he jumped up and hurried off, remembering suddenly that he was wanted at his father’s bedside; but before he went out of the room he inquired hastily after the prince’s health, and receiving the latter’s reply, added:
“isn’t there something else, prince?
i heard yesterday, but i have no right to talk about this... if you ever want a true friend and servant neither you nor i are so very happy, are we?
come to me.
i won’t ask you questions, though.”
he ran off and left the prince more dejected than ever.
everyone seemed to be speaking prophetically, hinting at some misfortune or sorrow to come; they had all looked at him as though they knew something which he did not know.
lebedeff had asked questions, colia had hinted, and vera had shed tears.
what was it?
at last, with a sigh of annoyance, he said to himself that it was nothing but his own cursed sickly suspicion.
his face lighted up with joy when, at about two o’clock, he espied the epanchins coming along to pay him a short visit, “just for a minute.” they really had only come for a minute.
lizabetha prokofievna had announced, directly after lunch, that they would all take a walk together.
the information was given in the form of a command, without explanation, drily and abruptly.
all had issued forth in obedience to the mandate; that is, the girls, mamma, and prince s.
lizabetha prokofievna went off in a direction exactly contrary to the usual one, and all understood very well what she was driving at, but held their peace, fearing to irritate the good lady.
she, as though anxious to avoid any conversation, walked ahead, silent and alone.
at last adelaida remarked that it was no use racing along at such a pace, and that she could not keep up with her mother.
“look here,” said lizabetha prokofievna, turning round suddenly; “we are passing his house.
whatever aglaya may think, and in spite of anything that may happen, he is not a stranger to us; besides which, he is ill and in misfortune.
i, for one, shall call in and see him.
let anyone follow me who cares to.”
of course every one of them followed her.
the prince hastened to apologize, very properly, for yesterday’s mishap with the vase, and for the scene generally.
“oh, that’s nothing,” replied lizabetha; “i’m not sorry for the vase, i’m sorry for you.
h’m!
so you can see that there was a ‘scene,’ can you?
well, it doesn’t matter much, for everyone must realize now that it is impossible to be hard on you.
well, au revoir.
i advise you to have a walk, and then go to sleep again if you can.
come in as usual, if you feel inclined; and be assured, once for all, whatever happens, and whatever may have happened, you shall always remain the friend of the family mine, at all events.
i can answer for myself.”
in response to this challenge all the others chimed in and re-echoed mamma’s sentiments.
and so they took their departure; but in this hasty and kindly designed visit there was hidden a fund of cruelty which lizabetha prokofievna never dreamed of.
in the words “as usual,” and again in her added, “mine, at all events,” there seemed an ominous knell of some evil to come.
the prince began to think of aglaya.
she had certainly given him a wonderful smile, both at coming and again at leave-taking, but had not said a word, not even when the others all professed their friendship for him.
she had looked very intently at him, but that was all.
her face had been paler than usual; she looked as though she had slept badly.
the prince made up his mind that he would make a point of going there “as usual,” tonight, and looked feverishly at his watch.
vera came in three minutes after the epanchins had left.
“lef nicolaievitch,” she said, “aglaya ivanovna has just given me a message for you.”
the prince trembled.
“is it a note?”
“no, a verbal message; she had hardly time even for that.
she begs you earnestly not to go out of the house for a single moment all to-day, until seven o’clock in the evening.
it may have been nine; i didn’t quite hear.”
“but but, why is this?
what does it mean?”
“i don’t know at all; but she said i was to tell you particularly.”
“did she say that?”
“not those very words.
she only just had time to whisper as she went by; but by the way she looked at me i knew it was important.
she looked at me in a way that made my heart stop beating.”
the prince asked a few more questions, and though he learned nothing else, he became more and more agitated.
left alone, he lay down on the sofa, and began to think.
“perhaps,” he thought, “someone is to be with them until nine tonight and she is afraid that i may come and make a fool of myself again, in public.” so he spent his time longing for the evening and looking at his watch.
but the clearing-up of the mystery came long before the evening, and came in the form of a new and agonizing riddle.
half an hour after the epanchins had gone, hippolyte arrived, so tired that, almost unconscious, he sank into a chair, and broke into such a fit of coughing that he could not stop.
he coughed till the blood came.
his eyes glittered, and two red spots on his cheeks grew brighter and brighter.
the prince murmured something to him, but hippolyte only signed that he must be left alone for a while, and sat silent.
at last he came to himself.
“i am off,” he said, hoarsely, and with difficulty.
“shall i see you home?” asked the prince, rising from his seat, but suddenly stopping short as he remembered aglaya’s prohibition against leaving the house.
hippolyte laughed.
“i don’t mean that i am going to leave your house,” he continued, still gasping and coughing.
“on the contrary, i thought it absolutely necessary to come and see you; otherwise i should not have troubled you.
i am off there, you know, and this time i believe, seriously, that i am off!
it’s all over.
i did not come here for sympathy, believe me.
i lay down this morning at ten o’clock with the intention of not rising again before that time; but i thought it over and rose just once more in order to come here; from which you may deduce that i had some reason for wishing to come.”
“it grieves me to see you so, hippolyte.
why didn’t you send me a message?
i would have come up and saved you this trouble.”
“well, well!
enough!
you’ve pitied me, and that’s all that good manners exact.
i forgot, how are you?”
“i’m all right; yesterday i was a little ”
“i know, i heard; the china vase caught it!
i’m sorry i wasn’t there.
i’ve come about something important.
in the first place i had, the pleasure of seeing gavrila ardalionovitch and aglaya ivanovna enjoying a rendezvous on the green bench in the park.
i was astonished to see what a fool a man can look.
i remarked upon the fact to aglaya ivanovna when he had gone.
i don’t think anything ever surprises you, prince!” added hippolyte, gazing incredulously at the prince’s calm demeanour.
“to be astonished by nothing is a sign, they say, of a great intellect.
in my opinion it would serve equally well as a sign of great foolishness.
i am not hinting about you; pardon me!
i am very unfortunate today in my expressions.”
“i knew yesterday that gavrila ardalionovitch ” began the prince, and paused in evident confusion, though hippolyte had shown annoyance at his betraying no surprise.
“you knew it?
come, that’s news!
but no perhaps better not tell me.
and were you a witness of the meeting?”
“if you were there yourself you must have known that i was not there!”
“oh!
but you may have been sitting behind the bushes somewhere.
however, i am very glad, on your account, of course.
i was beginning to be afraid that mr. gania might have the preference!”
“may i ask you, hippolyte, not to talk of this subject?
and not to use such expressions?”
“especially as you know all, eh?”
“you are wrong.
i know scarcely anything, and aglaya ivanovna is aware that i know nothing.
i knew nothing whatever about this meeting.
you say there was a meeting.
very well; let’s leave it so ”
“why, what do you mean?
you said you knew, and now suddenly you know nothing!
you say ‘very well; let’s leave it so.’ but i say, don’t be so confiding, especially as you know nothing.
you are confiding simply because you know nothing.
but do you know what these good people have in their minds’ eye gania and his sister?
perhaps you are suspicious?
well, well, i’ll drop the subject!” he added, hastily, observing the prince’s impatient gesture.
“but i’ve come to you on my own business; i wish to make you a clear explanation.
what a nuisance it is that one cannot die without explanations!
i have made such a quantity of them already.
do you wish to hear what i have to say?”
“speak away, i am listening.”
“very well, but i’ll change my mind, and begin about gania.
just fancy to begin with, if you can, that i, too, was given an appointment at the green bench today!
however, i won’t deceive you; i asked for the appointment.
i said i had a secret to disclose.
i don’t know whether i came there too early, i think i must have; but scarcely had i sat down beside aglaya ivanovna than i saw gavrila ardalionovitch and his sister varia coming along, arm in arm, just as though they were enjoying a morning walk together.
both of them seemed very much astonished, not to say disturbed, at seeing me; they evidently had not expected the pleasure.
aglaya ivanovna blushed up, and was actually a little confused.
i don’t know whether it was merely because i was there, or whether gania’s beauty was too much for her!
but anyway, she turned crimson, and then finished up the business in a very funny manner.
she jumped up from her seat, bowed back to gania, smiled to varia, and suddenly observed: ‘i only came here to express my gratitude for all your kind wishes on my behalf, and to say that if i find i need your services, believe me ’ here she bowed them away, as it were, and they both marched off again, looking very foolish.
gania evidently could not make head nor tail of the matter, and turned as red as a lobster; but varia understood at once that they must get away as quickly as they could, so she dragged gania away; she is a great deal cleverer than he is.
as for myself, i went there to arrange a meeting to be held between aglaya ivanovna and nastasia philipovna.”
“nastasia philipovna!” cried the prince.
“aha!
i think you are growing less cool, my friend, and are beginning to be a trifle surprised, aren’t you?
i’m glad that you are not above ordinary human feelings, for once.
i’ll console you a little now, after your consternation.
see what i get for serving a young and high-souled maiden!
this morning i received a slap in the face from the lady!”
“a a moral one?” asked the prince, involuntarily.
“yes not a physical one!
i don’t suppose anyone even a woman would raise a hand against me now.
even gania would hesitate!
i did think at one time yesterday, that he would fly at me, though.
i bet anything that i know what you are thinking of now!
you are thinking: ‘of course one can’t strike the little wretch, but one could suffocate him with a pillow, or a wet towel, when he is asleep!
one ought to get rid of him somehow.’ i can see in your face that you are thinking that at this very second.”
“i never thought of such a thing for a moment,” said the prince, with disgust.
“i don’t know i dreamed last night that i was being suffocated with a wet cloth by somebody.
i’ll tell you who it was rogojin!
what do you think, can a man be suffocated with a wet cloth?”
“i don’t know.”
“i’ve heard so.
well, we’ll leave that question just now.
why am i a scandal-monger?
why did she call me a scandal-monger?
and mind, after she had heard every word i had to tell her, and had asked all sorts of questions besides but such is the way of women.
for her sake i entered into relations with rogojin an interesting man!
at her request i arranged a personal interview between herself and nastasia philipovna.
could she have been angry because i hinted that she was enjoying nastasia philipovna’s ‘leavings’?
why, i have been impressing it upon her all this while for her own good.
two letters have i written her in that strain, and i began straight off today about its being humiliating for her.
besides, the word ‘leavings’ is not my invention.
at all events, they all used it at gania’s, and she used it herself.
so why am i a scandal-monger?
i see i see you are tremendously amused, at this moment!
probably you are laughing at me and fitting those silly lines to my case
“‘maybe sad love upon his setting smiles, and with vain hopes his farewell hour beguiles.’
“ha, ha, ha!”
hippolyte suddenly burst into a fit of hysterical laughter, which turned into a choking cough.
“observe,” he gasped, through his coughing, “what a fellow gania is!
he talks about nastasia’s ‘leavings,’ but what does he want to take himself?”
the prince sat silent for a long while.
his mind was filled with dread and horror.
“you spoke of a meeting with nastasia philipovna,” he said at last, in a low voice.
“oh come!
surely you must know that there is to be a meeting today between nastasia and aglaya ivanovna, and that nastasia has been sent for on purpose, through rogojin, from st. petersburg?
it has been brought about by invitation of aglaya ivanovna and my own efforts, and nastasia is at this moment with rogojin, not far from here at dana alexeyevna’s that curious friend of hers; and to this questionable house aglaya ivanovna is to proceed for a friendly chat with nastasia philipovna, and for the settlement of several problems.
they are going to play at arithmetic didn’t you know about it?
word of honour?”
“it’s a most improbable story.”
“oh, very well!
if it’s improbable it is that’s all!
and yet where should you have heard it?
though i must say, if a fly crosses the room it’s known all over the place here.
however, i’ve warned you, and you may be grateful to me.
well au revoir probably in the next world!
one more thing don’t think that i am telling you all this for your sake.
oh, dear, no!
do you know that i dedicated my confession to aglaya ivanovna?
i did though, and how she took it, ha, ha!
oh, no!
i am not acting from any high, exalted motives.
but though i may have behaved like a cad to you, i have not done her any harm.
i don’t apologize for my words about ‘leavings’ and all that.
i am atoning for that, you see, by telling you the place and time of the meeting.
goodbye!
you had better take your measures, if you are worthy the name of a man!
the meeting is fixed for this evening that’s certain.”
hippolyte walked towards the door, but the prince called him back and he stopped.
“then you think aglaya ivanovna herself intends to go to nastasia philipovna’s tonight?” he asked, and bright hectic spots came out on his cheeks and forehead.
“i don’t know absolutely for certain; but in all probability it is so,”
replied hippolyte, looking round.
“nastasia would hardly go to her; and they can’t meet at gania’s, with a man nearly dead in the house.”
“it’s impossible, for that very reason,” said the prince.
“how would she get out if she wished to?
you don’t know the habits of that house she could not get away alone to nastasia philipovna’s!
it’s all nonsense!”
“look here, my dear prince, no one jumps out of the window if they can help it; but when there’s a fire, the dandiest gentleman or the finest lady in the world will skip out!
when the moment comes, and there’s nothing else to be done our young lady will go to nastasia philipovna’s!
don’t they let the young ladies out of the house alone, then?”
“i didn’t mean that exactly.”
“if you didn’t mean that, then she has only to go down the steps and walk off, and she need never come back unless she chooses: ships are burned behind one sometimes, and one doesn’t care to return whence one came.
life need not consist only of lunches, and dinners, and prince s’s.
it strikes me you take aglaya ivanovna for some conventional boarding-school girl.
i said so to her, and she quite agreed with me.
wait till seven or eight o’clock.
in your place i would send someone there to keep watch, so as to seize the exact moment when she steps out of the house.
send colia.
he’ll play the spy with pleasure for you at least.
ha, ha, ha!”
hippolyte went out.
there was no reason for the prince to set anyone to watch, even if he had been capable of such a thing.
aglaya’s command that he should stay at home all day seemed almost explained now.
perhaps she meant to call for him, herself, or it might be, of course, that she was anxious to make sure of his not coming there, and therefore bade him remain at home.
his head whirled; the whole room seemed to be turning round.
he lay down on the sofa, and closed his eyes.
one way or the other the question was to be decided at last finally.
oh, no, he did not think of aglaya as a boarding-school miss, or a young lady of the conventional type!
he had long since feared that she might take some such step as this.
but why did she wish to see nastasia?
he shivered all over as he lay; he was in high fever again.
no!
he did not account her a child.
certain of her looks, certain of her words, of late, had filled him with apprehension.
at times it had struck him that she was putting too great a restraint upon herself, and he remembered that he had been alarmed to observe this.
he had tried, all these days, to drive away the heavy thoughts that oppressed him; but what was the hidden mystery of that soul?
the question had long tormented him, although he implicitly trusted that soul.
and now it was all to be cleared up.
it was a dreadful thought.
and “that woman” again!
why did he always feel as though “that woman” were fated to appear at each critical moment of his life, and tear the thread of his destiny like a bit of rotten string?
that he always had felt this he was ready to swear, although he was half delirious at the moment.
if he had tried to forget her, all this time, it was simply because he was afraid of her.
did he love the woman or hate her?
this question he did not once ask himself today; his heart was quite pure.
he knew whom he loved.
he was not so much afraid of this meeting, nor of its strangeness, nor of any reasons there might be for it, unknown to himself; he was afraid of the woman herself, nastasia philipovna.
he remembered, some days afterwards, how during all those fevered hours he had seen but her eyes, her look, had heard her voice, strange words of hers; he remembered that this was so, although he could not recollect the details of his thoughts.
he could remember that vera brought him some dinner, and that he took it; but whether he slept after dinner, or no, he could not recollect.
he only knew that he began to distinguish things clearly from the moment when aglaya suddenly appeared, and he jumped up from the sofa and went to meet her.
it was just a quarter past seven then.
aglaya was quite alone, and dressed, apparently hastily, in a light mantle.
her face was pale, as it had been in the morning, and her eyes were ablaze with bright but subdued fire.
he had never seen that expression in her eyes before.
she gazed attentively at him.
“you are quite ready, i observe,” she said, with absolute composure, “dressed, and your hat in your hand.
i see somebody has thought fit to warn you, and i know who.
hippolyte?”
“yes, he told me,” said the prince, feeling only half alive.
“come then.
you know, i suppose, that you must escort me there?
you are well enough to go out, aren’t you?”
“i am well enough; but is it really possible?
”
he broke off abruptly, and could not add another word.
this was his one attempt to stop the mad child, and, after he had made it, he followed her as though he had no will of his own.
confused as his thoughts were, he was, nevertheless, capable of realizing the fact that if he did not go with her, she would go alone, and so he must go with her at all hazards.
he guessed the strength of her determination; it was beyond him to check it.
they walked silently, and said scarcely a word all the way.
he only noticed that she seemed to know the road very well; and once, when he thought it better to go by a certain lane, and remarked to her that it would be quieter and less public, she only said, “it’s all the same,”
and went on.
when they were almost arrived at daria alexeyevna’s house (it was a large wooden structure of ancient date), a gorgeously-dressed lady and a young girl came out of it.
both these ladies took their seats in a carriage, which was waiting at the door, talking and laughing loudly the while, and drove away without appearing to notice the approaching couple.
no sooner had the carriage driven off than the door opened once more; and rogojin, who had apparently been awaiting them, let them in and closed it after them.
“there is not another soul in the house now excepting our four selves,”
he said aloud, looking at the prince in a strange way.
nastasia philipovna was waiting for them in the first room they went into.
she was dressed very simply, in black.
she rose at their entrance, but did not smile or give her hand, even to the prince.
her anxious eyes were fixed upon aglaya.
both sat down, at a little distance from one another aglaya on the sofa, in the corner of the room, nastasia by the window.
the prince and rogojin remained standing, and were not invited to sit.
muishkin glanced at rogojin in perplexity, but the latter only smiled disagreeably, and said nothing.
the silence continued for some few moments.
an ominous expression passed over nastasia philipovna’s face, of a sudden.
it became obstinate-looking, hard, and full of hatred; but she did not take her eyes off her visitors for a moment.
aglaya was clearly confused, but not frightened.
on entering she had merely glanced momentarily at her rival, and then had sat still, with her eyes on the ground, apparently in thought.
once or twice she glanced casually round the room.
a shade of disgust was visible in her expression; she looked as though she were afraid of contamination in this place.
she mechanically arranged her dress, and fidgeted uncomfortably, eventually changing her seat to the other end of the sofa.
probably she was unconscious of her own movements; but this very unconsciousness added to the offensiveness of their suggested meaning.
at length she looked straight into nastasia’s eyes, and instantly read all there was to read in her rival’s expression.
woman understood woman!
aglaya shuddered.
“you know of course why i requested this meeting?” she said at last, quietly, and pausing twice in the delivery of this very short sentence.
“no i know nothing about it,” said nastasia, drily and abruptly.
aglaya blushed.
perhaps it struck her as very strange and impossible that she should really be sitting here and waiting for “that woman’s”
reply to her question.
at the first sound of nastasia’s voice a shudder ran through her frame.
of course “that woman” observed and took in all this.
“you know quite well, but you are pretending to be ignorant,” said aglaya, very low, with her eyes on the ground.
“why should i?” asked nastasia philipovna, smiling slightly.
“you want to take advantage of my position, now that i am in your house,” continued aglaya, awkwardly.
“for that position you are to blame and not i,” said nastasia, flaring up suddenly.
“i did not invite you, but you me; and to this moment i am quite ignorant as to why i am thus honoured.”
aglaya raised her head haughtily.
“restrain your tongue!” she said.
“i did not come here to fight you with your own weapons.
“oh!
then you did come ‘to fight,’ i may conclude?
dear me!
and i thought you were cleverer ”
they looked at one another with undisguised malice.
one of these women had written to the other, so lately, such letters as we have seen; and it all was dispersed at their first meeting.
yet it appeared that not one of the four persons in the room considered this in any degree strange.
the prince who, up to yesterday, would not have believed that he could even dream of such an impossible scene as this, stood and listened and looked on, and felt as though he had long foreseen it all.
the most fantastic dream seemed suddenly to have been metamorphosed into the most vivid reality.
one of these women so despised the other, and so longed to express her contempt for her (perhaps she had only come for that very purpose, as rogojin said next day), that howsoever fantastical was the other woman, howsoever afflicted her spirit and disturbed her understanding, no preconceived idea of hers could possibly stand up against that deadly feminine contempt of her rival.
the prince felt sure that nastasia would say nothing about the letters herself; but he could judge by her flashing eyes and the expression of her face what the thought of those letters must be costing her at this moment.
he would have given half his life to prevent aglaya from speaking of them.
but aglaya suddenly braced herself up, and seemed to master herself fully, all in an instant.
“you have not quite understood,” she said.
“i did not come to quarrel with you, though i do not like you.
i came to speak to you as... as one human being to another.
i came with my mind made up as to what i had to say to you, and i shall not change my intention, although you may misunderstand me.
so much the worse for you, not for myself!
i wished to reply to all you have written to me and to reply personally, because i think that is the more convenient way.
listen to my reply to all your letters.
i began to be sorry for prince lef nicolaievitch on the very day i made his acquaintance, and when i heard afterwards of all that took place at your house in the evening, i was sorry for him because he was such a simple-minded man, and because he, in the simplicity of his soul, believed that he could be happy with a woman of your character.
what i feared actually took place; you could not love him, you tortured him, and threw him over.
you could not love him because you are too proud no, not proud, that is an error; because you are too vain no, not quite that either; too self-loving; you are self-loving to madness.
your letters to me are a proof of it.
you could not love so simple a soul as his, and perhaps in your heart you despised him and laughed at him.
all you could love was your shame and the perpetual thought that you were disgraced and insulted.
if you were less shameful, or had no cause at all for shame, you would be still more unhappy than you are now.”
aglaya brought out these thronging words with great satisfaction.
they came from her lips hurriedly and impetuously, and had been prepared and thought out long ago, even before she had ever dreamed of the present meeting.
she watched with eagerness the effect of her speech as shown in nastasia’s face, which was distorted with agitation.
“you remember,” she continued, “he wrote me a letter at that time; he says you know all about that letter and that you even read it.
i understand all by means of this letter, and understand it correctly.
he has since confirmed it all to me what i now say to you, word for word.
after receiving his letter i waited; i guessed that you would soon come back here, because you could never do without petersburg; you are still too young and lovely for the provinces.
however, this is not my own idea,” she added, blushing dreadfully; and from this moment the colour never left her cheeks to the end of her speech.
“when i next saw the prince i began to feel terribly pained and hurt on his account.
do not laugh; if you laugh you are unworthy of understanding what i say.”
“surely you see that i am not laughing,” said nastasia, sadly and sternly.
“however, it’s all the same to me; laugh or not, just as you please.
when i asked him about you, he told me that he had long since ceased to love you, that the very recollection of you was a torture to him, but that he was sorry for you; and that when he thought of you his heart was pierced.
i ought to tell you that i never in my life met a man anything like him for noble simplicity of mind and for boundless trustfulness.
i guessed that anyone who liked could deceive him, and that he would immediately forgive anyone who did deceive him; and it was for this that i grew to love him ”
aglaya paused for a moment, as though suddenly brought up in astonishment that she could have said these words, but at the same time a great pride shone in her eyes, like a defiant assertion that it would not matter to her if “this woman” laughed in her face for the admission just made.
“i have told you all now, and of course you understand what i wish of you.”
“perhaps i do; but tell me yourself,” said nastasia philipovna, quietly.
aglaya flushed up angrily.
“i wished to find out from you,” she said, firmly, “by what right you dare to meddle with his feelings for me?
by what right you dared send me those letters?
by what right do you continually remind both me and him that you love him, after you yourself threw him over and ran away from him in so insulting and shameful a way?”
“i never told either him or you that i loved him!” replied nastasia philipovna, with an effort.
“and and i did run away from him you are right there,” she added, scarcely audibly.
“never told either him or me?” cried aglaya.
“how about your letters?
who asked you to try to persuade me to marry him?
was not that a declaration from you?
why do you force yourself upon us in this way?
i confess i thought at first that you were anxious to arouse an aversion for him in my heart by your meddling, in order that i might give him up; and it was only afterwards that i guessed the truth.
you imagined that you were doing an heroic action!
how could you spare any love for him, when you love your own vanity to such an extent?
why could you not simply go away from here, instead of writing me those absurd letters?
why do you not now marry that generous man who loves you, and has done you the honour of offering you his hand?
it is plain enough why; if you marry rogojin you lose your grievance; you will have nothing more to complain of.
you will be receiving too much honour.
evgenie pavlovitch was saying the other day that you had read too many poems and are too well educated for your position; and that you live in idleness.
add to this your vanity, and, there you have reason enough ”
“and do you not live in idleness?”
things had come to this unexpected point too quickly.
unexpected because nastasia philipovna, on her way to pavlofsk, had thought and considered a good deal, and had expected something different, though perhaps not altogether good, from this interview; but aglaya had been carried away by her own outburst, just as a rolling stone gathers impetus as it careers downhill, and could not restrain herself in the satisfaction of revenge.
it was strange, nastasia philipovna felt, to see aglaya like this.
she gazed at her, and could hardly believe her eyes and ears for a moment or two.
whether she were a woman who had read too many poems, as evgenie pavlovitch supposed, or whether she were mad, as the prince had assured aglaya, at all events, this was a woman who, in spite of her occasionally cynical and audacious manner, was far more refined and trustful and sensitive than appeared.
there was a certain amount of romantic dreaminess and caprice in her, but with the fantastic was mingled much that was strong and deep.
the prince realized this, and great suffering expressed itself in his face.
aglaya observed it, and trembled with anger.
“how dare you speak so to me?” she said, with a haughtiness which was quite indescribable, replying to nastasia’s last remark.
“you must have misunderstood what i said,” said nastasia, in some surprise.
“if you wished to preserve your good name, why did you not give up your your ‘guardian,’ totski, without all that theatrical posturing?”
said aglaya, suddenly a propos of nothing.
“what do you know of my position, that you dare to judge me?” cried nastasia, quivering with rage, and growing terribly white.
“i know this much, that you did not go out to honest work, but went away with a rich man, rogojin, in order to pose as a fallen angel.
i don’t wonder that totski was nearly driven to suicide by such a fallen angel.”
“silence!” cried nastasia philipovna.
“you are about as fit to understand me as the housemaid here, who bore witness against her lover in court the other day.
she would understand me better than you do.”
“probably an honest girl living by her own toil.
why do you speak of a housemaid so contemptuously?”
“i do not despise toil; i despise you when you speak of toil.”
“if you had cared to be an honest woman, you would have gone out as a laundress.”
both had risen, and were gazing at one another with pallid faces.
“aglaya, don’t!
this is unfair,” cried the prince, deeply distressed.
rogojin was not smiling now; he sat and listened with folded arms, and lips tight compressed.
“there, look at her,” cried nastasia, trembling with passion.
“look at this young lady!
and i imagined her an angel!
did you come to me without your governess, aglaya ivanovna?
oh, fie, now shall i just tell you why you came here today?
shall i tell you without any embellishments?
you came because you were afraid of me!”
“afraid of you?” asked aglaya, beside herself with naive amazement that the other should dare talk to her like this.
“yes, me, of course!
of course you were afraid of me, or you would not have decided to come.
you cannot despise one you fear.
and to think that i have actually esteemed you up to this very moment!
do you know why you are afraid of me, and what is your object now?
you wished to satisfy yourself with your own eyes as to which he loves best, myself or you, because you are fearfully jealous.”
“he has told me already that he hates you,” murmured aglaya, scarcely audibly.
“perhaps, perhaps!
i am not worthy of him, i know.
but i think you are lying, all the same.
he cannot hate me, and he cannot have said so.
i am ready to forgive you, in consideration of your position; but i confess i thought better of you.
i thought you were wiser, and more beautiful, too; i did, indeed!
well, take your treasure!
see, he is gazing at you, he can’t recollect himself.
take him, but on one condition; go away at once, this instant!”
she fell back into a chair, and burst into tears.
but suddenly some new expression blazed in her eyes.
she stared fixedly at aglaya, and rose from her seat.
“or would you like me to bid him, bid him, do you hear, command him, now, at once, to throw you up, and remain mine for ever?
shall i?
he will stay, and he will marry me too, and you shall trot home all alone.
shall i?
shall i say the word?” she screamed like a madwoman, scarcely believing herself that she could really pronounce such wild words.
aglaya had made for the door in terror, but she stopped at the threshold, and listened.
“shall i turn rogojin off?
ha!
ha!
you thought i would marry him for your benefit, did you?
why, i’ll call out now, if you like, in your presence, ‘rogojin, get out!’ and say to the prince, ‘do you remember what you promised me?’ heavens!
what a fool i have been to humiliate myself before them!
why, prince, you yourself gave me your word that you would marry me whatever happened, and would never abandon me.
you said you loved me and would forgive me all, and and resp yes, you even said that!
i only ran away from you in order to set you free, and now i don’t care to let you go again.
why does she treat me so so shamefully?
i am not a loose woman ask rogojin there!
he’ll tell you.
will you go again now that she has insulted me, before your eyes, too; turn away from me and lead her away, arm-in-arm?
may you be accursed too, for you were the only one i trusted among them all!
go away, rogojin, i don’t want you,” she continued, blind with fury, and forcing the words out with dry lips and distorted features, evidently not believing a single word of her own tirade, but, at the same time, doing her utmost to prolong the moment of self-deception.
the outburst was so terribly violent that the prince thought it would have killed her.
“there he is!” she shrieked again, pointing to the prince and addressing aglaya.
“there he is!
and if he does not approach me at once and take me and throw you over, then have him for your own i give him up to you!
i don’t want him!”
both she and aglaya stood and waited as though in expectation, and both looked at the prince like madwomen.
but he, perhaps, did not understand the full force of this challenge; in fact, it is certain he did not.
all he could see was the poor despairing face which, as he had said to aglaya, “had pierced his heart for ever.”
he could bear it no longer, and with a look of entreaty, mingled with reproach, he addressed aglaya, pointing to nastasia the while:
“how can you?” he murmured; “she is so unhappy.”
but he had no time to say another word before aglaya’s terrible look bereft him of speech.
in that look was embodied so dreadful a suffering and so deadly a hatred, that he gave a cry and flew to her; but it was too late.
she could not hold out long enough even to witness his movement in her direction.
she had hidden her face in her hands, cried once “oh, my god!” and rushed out of the room.
rogojin followed her to undo the bolts of the door and let her out into the street.
the prince made a rush after her, but he was caught and held back.
the distorted, livid face of nastasia gazed at him reproachfully, and her blue lips whispered:
“what?
would you go to her to her?”
she fell senseless into his arms.
he raised her, carried her into the room, placed her in an arm-chair, and stood over her, stupefied.
on the table stood a tumbler of water.
rogojin, who now returned, took this and sprinkled a little in her face.
she opened her eyes, but for a moment she understood nothing.
suddenly she looked around, shuddered, gave a loud cry, and threw herself in the prince’s arms.
“mine, mine!” she cried.
“has the proud young lady gone?
ha, ha, ha!”
she laughed hysterically.
“and i had given him up to her!
why why did i?
mad mad!
get away, rogojin!
ha, ha, ha!”
rogojin stared intently at them; then he took his hat, and without a word, left the room.
a few moments later, the prince was seated by nastasia on the sofa, gazing into her eyes and stroking her face and hair, as he would a little child’s.
he laughed when she laughed, and was ready to cry when she cried.
he did not speak, but listened to her excited, disconnected chatter, hardly understanding a word of it the while.
no sooner did he detect the slightest appearance of complaining, or weeping, or reproaching, than he would smile at her kindly, and begin stroking her hair and her cheeks, soothing and consoling her once more, as if she were a child.
ix.
a fortnight had passed since the events recorded in the last chapter, and the position of the actors in our story had become so changed that it is almost impossible for us to continue the tale without some few explanations.
yet we feel that we ought to limit ourselves to the simple record of facts, without much attempt at explanation, for a very patent reason: because we ourselves have the greatest possible difficulty in accounting for the facts to be recorded.
such a statement on our part may appear strange to the reader.
how is anyone to tell a story which he cannot understand himself?
in order to keep clear of a false position, we had perhaps better give an example of what we mean; and probably the intelligent reader will soon understand the difficulty.
more especially are we inclined to take this course since the example will constitute a distinct march forward of our story, and will not hinder the progress of the events remaining to be recorded.
during the next fortnight that is, through the early part of july the history of our hero was circulated in the form of strange, diverting, most unlikely-sounding stories, which passed from mouth to mouth, through the streets and villas adjoining those inhabited by lebedeff, ptitsin, nastasia philipovna and the epanchins; in fact, pretty well through the whole town and its environs.
all society both the inhabitants of the place and those who came down of an evening for the music had got hold of one and the same story, in a thousand varieties of detail as to how a certain young prince had raised a terrible scandal in a most respectable household, had thrown over a daughter of the family, to whom he was engaged, and had been captured by a woman of shady reputation whom he was determined to marry at once breaking off all old ties for the satisfaction of his insane idea; and, in spite of the public indignation roused by his action, the marriage was to take place in pavlofsk openly and publicly, and the prince had announced his intention of going through with it with head erect and looking the whole world in the face.
the story was so artfully adorned with scandalous details, and persons of so great eminence and importance were apparently mixed up in it, while, at the same time, the evidence was so circumstantial, that it was no wonder the matter gave food for plenty of curiosity and gossip.
according to the reports of the most talented gossip-mongers those who, in every class of society, are always in haste to explain every event to their neighbours the young gentleman concerned was of good family a prince fairly rich weak of intellect, but a democrat and a dabbler in the nihilism of the period, as exposed by mr. turgenieff.
he could hardly talk russian, but had fallen in love with one of the miss epanchins, and his suit met with so much encouragement that he had been received in the house as the recognized bridegroom-to-be of the young lady.
but like the frenchman of whom the story is told that he studied for holy orders, took all the oaths, was ordained priest, and next morning wrote to his bishop informing him that, as he did not believe in god and considered it wrong to deceive the people and live upon their pockets, he begged to surrender the orders conferred upon him the day before, and to inform his lordship that he was sending this letter to the public press, like this frenchman, the prince played a false game.
it was rumoured that he had purposely waited for the solemn occasion of a large evening party at the house of his future bride, at which he was introduced to several eminent persons, in order publicly to make known his ideas and opinions, and thereby insult the “big-wigs,” and to throw over his bride as offensively as possible; and that, resisting the servants who were told off to turn him out of the house, he had seized and thrown down a magnificent china vase.
as a characteristic addition to the above, it was currently reported that the young prince really loved the lady to whom he was engaged, and had thrown her over out of purely nihilistic motives, with the intention of giving himself the satisfaction of marrying a fallen woman in the face of all the world, thereby publishing his opinion that there is no distinction between virtuous and disreputable women, but that all women are alike, free; and a “fallen” woman, indeed, somewhat superior to a virtuous one.
it was declared that he believed in no classes or anything else, excepting “the woman question.”
all this looked likely enough, and was accepted as fact by most of the inhabitants of the place, especially as it was borne out, more or less, by daily occurrences.
of course much was said that could not be determined absolutely.
for instance, it was reported that the poor girl had so loved her future husband that she had followed him to the house of the other woman, the day after she had been thrown over; others said that he had insisted on her coming, himself, in order to shame and insult her by his taunts and nihilistic confessions when she reached the house.
however all these things might be, the public interest in the matter grew daily, especially as it became clear that the scandalous wedding was undoubtedly to take place.
so that if our readers were to ask an explanation, not of the wild reports about the prince’s nihilistic opinions, but simply as to how such a marriage could possibly satisfy his real aspirations, or as to the spiritual condition of our hero at this time, we confess that we should have great difficulty in giving the required information.
all we know is, that the marriage really was arranged, and that the prince had commissioned lebedeff and keller to look after all the necessary business connected with it; that he had requested them to spare no expense; that nastasia herself was hurrying on the wedding; that keller was to be the prince’s best man, at his own earnest request; and that burdovsky was to give nastasia away, to his great delight.
the wedding was to take place before the middle of july.
but, besides the above, we are cognizant of certain other undoubted facts, which puzzle us a good deal because they seem flatly to contradict the foregoing.
we suspect, for instance, that having commissioned lebedeff and the others, as above, the prince immediately forgot all about masters of ceremonies and even the ceremony itself; and we feel quite certain that in making these arrangements he did so in order that he might absolutely escape all thought of the wedding, and even forget its approach if he could, by detailing all business concerning it to others.
what did he think of all this time, then?
what did he wish for?
there is no doubt that he was a perfectly free agent all through, and that as far as nastasia was concerned, there was no force of any kind brought to bear on him.
nastasia wished for a speedy marriage, true!
but the prince agreed at once to her proposals; he agreed, in fact, so casually that anyone might suppose he was but acceding to the most simple and ordinary suggestion.
there are many strange circumstances such as this before us; but in our opinion they do but deepen the mystery, and do not in the smallest degree help us to understand the case.
however, let us take one more example.
thus, we know for a fact that during the whole of this fortnight the prince spent all his days and evenings with nastasia; he walked with her, drove with her; he began to be restless whenever he passed an hour without seeing her in fact, to all appearances, he sincerely loved her.
he would listen to her for hours at a time with a quiet smile on his face, scarcely saying a word himself.
and yet we know, equally certainly, that during this period he several times set off, suddenly, to the epanchins’, not concealing the fact from nastasia philipovna, and driving the latter to absolute despair.
we know also that he was not received at the epanchins’ so long as they remained at pavlofsk, and that he was not allowed an interview with aglaya; but next day he would set off once more on the same errand, apparently quite oblivious of the fact of yesterday’s visit having been a failure, and, of course, meeting with another refusal.
we know, too, that exactly an hour after aglaya had fled from nastasia philipovna’s house on that fateful evening, the prince was at the epanchins’, and that his appearance there had been the cause of the greatest consternation and dismay; for aglaya had not been home, and the family only discovered then, for the first time, that the two of them had been to nastasia’s house together.
it was said that elizabetha prokofievna and her daughters had there and then denounced the prince in the strongest terms, and had refused any further acquaintance and friendship with him; their rage and denunciations being redoubled when varia ardalionovna suddenly arrived and stated that aglaya had been at her house in a terrible state of mind for the last hour, and that she refused to come home.
this last item of news, which disturbed lizabetha prokofievna more than anything else, was perfectly true.
on leaving nastasia’s, aglaya had felt that she would rather die than face her people, and had therefore gone straight to nina alexandrovna’s.
on receiving the news, lizabetha and her daughters and the general all rushed off to aglaya, followed by prince lef nicolaievitch undeterred by his recent dismissal; but through varia he was refused a sight of aglaya here also.
the end of the episode was that when aglaya saw her mother and sisters crying over her and not uttering a word of reproach, she had flung herself into their arms and gone straight home with them.
it was said that gania managed to make a fool of himself even on this occasion; for, finding himself alone with aglaya for a minute or two when varia had gone to the epanchins’, he had thought it a fitting opportunity to make a declaration of his love, and on hearing this aglaya, in spite of her state of mind at the time, had suddenly burst out laughing, and had put a strange question to him.
she asked him whether he would consent to hold his finger to a lighted candle in proof of his devotion!
gania it was said looked so comically bewildered that aglaya had almost laughed herself into hysterics, and had rushed out of the room and upstairs, where her parents had found her.
hippolyte told the prince this last story, sending for him on purpose.
when muishkin heard about the candle and gania’s finger he had laughed so that he had quite astonished hippolyte, and then shuddered and burst into tears.
the prince’s condition during those days was strange and perturbed.
hippolyte plainly declared that he thought he was out of his mind; this, however, was hardly to be relied upon.
offering all these facts to our readers and refusing to explain them, we do not for a moment desire to justify our hero’s conduct.
on the contrary, we are quite prepared to feel our share of the indignation which his behaviour aroused in the hearts of his friends.
even vera lebedeff was angry with him for a while; so was colia; so was keller, until he was selected for best man; so was lebedeff himself, who began to intrigue against him out of pure irritation; but of this anon.
in fact we are in full accord with certain forcible words spoken to the prince by evgenie pavlovitch, quite unceremoniously, during the course of a friendly conversation, six or seven days after the events at nastasia philipovna’s house.
we may remark here that not only the epanchins themselves, but all who had anything to do with them, thought it right to break with the prince in consequence of his conduct.
prince s. even went so far as to turn away and cut him dead in the street.
but evgenie pavlovitch was not afraid to compromise himself by paying the prince a visit, and did so, in spite of the fact that he had recommenced to visit at the epanchins’, where he was received with redoubled hospitality and kindness after the temporary estrangement.
evgenie called upon the prince the day after that on which the epanchins left pavlofsk.
he knew of all the current rumours, in fact, he had probably contributed to them himself.
the prince was delighted to see him, and immediately began to speak of the epanchins; which simple and straightforward opening quite took evgenie’s fancy, so that he melted at once, and plunged in medias res without ceremony.
the prince did not know, up to this, that the epanchins had left the place.
he grew very pale on hearing the news; but a moment later he nodded his head, and said thoughtfully:
“i knew it was bound to be so.” then he added quickly:
“where have they gone to?”
evgenie meanwhile observed him attentively, and the rapidity of the questions, their simplicity, the prince’s candour, and at the same time, his evident perplexity and mental agitation, surprised him considerably.
however, he told muishkin all he could, kindly and in detail.
the prince hardly knew anything, for this was the first informant from the household whom he had met since the estrangement.
evgenie reported that aglaya had been really ill, and that for two nights she had not slept at all, owing to high fever; that now she was better and out of serious danger, but still in a nervous, hysterical state.
“it’s a good thing that there is peace in the house, at all events,” he continued.
“they never utter a hint about the past, not only in aglaya’s presence, but even among themselves.
the old people are talking of a trip abroad in the autumn, immediately after adelaida’s wedding; aglaya received the news in silence.”
evgenie himself was very likely going abroad also; so were prince s.
and his wife, if affairs allowed of it; the general was to stay at home.
they were all at their estate of colmina now, about twenty miles or so from st. petersburg.
princess bielokonski had not returned to moscow yet, and was apparently staying on for reasons of her own.
lizabetha prokofievna had insisted that it was quite impossible to remain in pavlofsk after what had happened.
evgenie had told her of all the rumours current in town about the affair; so that there could be no talk of their going to their house on the yelagin as yet.
“and in point of fact, prince,” added evgenie pavlovitch, “you must allow that they could hardly have stayed here, considering that they knew of all that went on at your place, and in the face of your daily visits to their house, visits which you insisted upon making in spite of their refusal to see you.”
“yes yes, quite so; you are quite right.
i wished to see aglaya ivanovna, you know!” said the prince, nodding his head.
“oh, my dear fellow,” cried evgenie, warmly, with real sorrow in his voice, “how could you permit all that to come about as it has?
of course, of course, i know it was all so unexpected.
i admit that you, only naturally, lost your head, and and could not stop the foolish girl; that was not in your power.
i quite see so much; but you really should have understood how seriously she cared for you.
she could not bear to share you with another; and you could bring yourself to throw away and shatter such a treasure!
oh, prince, prince!”
“yes, yes, you are quite right again,” said the poor prince, in anguish of mind.
“i was wrong, i know.
but it was only aglaya who looked on nastasia philipovna so; no one else did, you know.”
“but that’s just the worst of it all, don’t you see, that there was absolutely nothing serious about the matter in reality!” cried evgenie, beside himself: “excuse me, prince, but i have thought over all this; i have thought a great deal over it; i know all that had happened before; i know all that took place six months since; and i know there was nothing serious about the matter, it was but fancy, smoke, fantasy, distorted by agitation, and only the alarmed jealousy of an absolutely inexperienced girl could possibly have mistaken it for serious reality.”
here evgenie pavlovitch quite let himself go, and gave the reins to his indignation.
clearly and reasonably, and with great psychological insight, he drew a picture of the prince’s past relations with nastasia philipovna.
evgenie pavlovitch always had a ready tongue, but on this occasion his eloquence, surprised himself.
“from the very beginning,” he said, “you began with a lie; what began with a lie was bound to end with a lie; such is the law of nature.
i do not agree, in fact i am angry, when i hear you called an idiot; you are far too intelligent to deserve such an epithet; but you are so far strange as to be unlike others; that you must allow, yourself.
now, i have come to the conclusion that the basis of all that has happened, has been first of all your innate inexperience (remark the expression ‘innate,’ prince).
then follows your unheard-of simplicity of heart; then comes your absolute want of sense of proportion (to this want you have several times confessed); and lastly, a mass, an accumulation, of intellectual convictions which you, in your unexampled honesty of soul, accept unquestionably as also innate and natural and true.
admit, prince, that in your relations with nastasia philipovna there has existed, from the very first, something democratic, and the fascination, so to speak, of the ‘woman question’?
i know all about that scandalous scene at nastasia philipovna’s house when rogojin brought the money, six months ago.
i’ll show you yourself as in a looking-glass, if you like.
i know exactly all that went on, in every detail, and why things have turned out as they have.
you thirsted, while in switzerland, for your home-country, for russia; you read, doubtless, many books about russia, excellent books, i dare say, but hurtful to you; and you arrived here; as it were, on fire with the longing to be of service.
then, on the very day of your arrival, they tell you a sad story of an ill-used woman; they tell you, a knight, pure and without reproach, this tale of a poor woman!
the same day you actually see her; you are attracted by her beauty, her fantastic, almost demoniacal, beauty (i admit her beauty, of course).
“add to all this your nervous nature, your epilepsy, and your sudden arrival in a strange town the day of meetings and of exciting scenes, the day of unexpected acquaintanceships, the day of sudden actions, the day of meeting with the three lovely epanchin girls, and among them aglaya add your fatigue, your excitement; add nastasia’ s evening party, and the tone of that party, and what were you to expect of yourself at such a moment as that?”
“yes, yes, yes!” said the prince, once more, nodding his head, and blushing slightly.
“yes, it was so, or nearly so i know it.
and besides, you see, i had not slept the night before, in the train, or the night before that, either, and i was very tired.”
“of course, of course, quite so; that’s what i am driving at!”
continued evgenie, excitedly.
“it is as clear as possible, and most comprehensible, that you, in your enthusiasm, should plunge headlong into the first chance that came of publicly airing your great idea that you, a prince, and a pure-living man, did not consider a woman disgraced if the sin were not her own, but that of a disgusting social libertine!
oh, heavens!
it’s comprehensible enough, my dear prince, but that is not the question, unfortunately!
the question is, was there any reality and truth in your feelings?
was it nature, or nothing but intellectual enthusiasm?
what do you think yourself?
we are told, of course, that a far worse woman was forgiven, but we don’t find that she was told that she had done well, or that she was worthy of honour and respect!
did not your common-sense show you what was the real state of the case, a few months later?
the question is now, not whether she is an innocent woman (i do not insist one way or the other i do not wish to); but can her whole career justify such intolerable pride, such insolent, rapacious egotism as she has shown?
forgive me, i am too violent, perhaps, but ”
“yes i dare say it is all as you say; i dare say you are quite right,”
muttered the prince once more.
“she is very sensitive and easily put out, of course; but still, she...”
“she is worthy of sympathy?
is that what you wished to say, my good fellow?
but then, for the mere sake of vindicating her worthiness of sympathy, you should not have insulted and offended a noble and generous girl in her presence!
this is a terrible exaggeration of sympathy!
how can you love a girl, and yet so humiliate her as to throw her over for the sake of another woman, before the very eyes of that other woman, when you have already made her a formal proposal of marriage?
and you did propose to her, you know; you did so before her parents and sisters.
can you be an honest man, prince, if you act so?
i ask you!
and did you not deceive that beautiful girl when you assured her of your love?”
“yes, you are quite right.
oh!
i feel that i am very guilty!” said muishkin, in deepest distress.
“but as if that is enough!” cried evgenie, indignantly.
“as if it is enough simply to say: ‘i know i am very guilty!’ you are to blame, and yet you persevere in evil-doing.
where was your heart, i should like to know, your christian heart, all that time?
did she look as though she were suffering less, at that moment?
you saw her face was she suffering less than the other woman?
how could you see her suffering and allow it to continue?
how could you?”
“but i did not allow it,” murmured the wretched prince.
“how what do you mean you didn’t allow?”
“upon my word, i didn’t!
to this moment i don’t know how it all happened.
i i ran after aglaya ivanovna, but nastasia philipovna fell down in a faint; and since that day they won’t let me see aglaya that’s all i know.”
“it’s all the same; you ought to have run after aglaya though the other was fainting.”
“yes, yes, i ought but i couldn’t!
she would have died she would have killed herself.
you don’t know her; and i should have told aglaya everything afterwards but i see, evgenie pavlovitch, you don’t know all.
tell me now, why am i not allowed to see aglaya?
i should have cleared it all up, you know.
neither of them kept to the real point, you see.
i could never explain what i mean to you, but i think i could to aglaya.
oh!
my god, my god!
you spoke just now of aglaya’s face at the moment when she ran away.
oh, my god!
i remember it!
come along, come along quick!” he pulled at evgenie’s coat-sleeve nervously and excitedly, and rose from his chair.
“where to?”
“come to aglaya quick, quick!”
“but i told you she is not at pavlofsk.
and what would be the use if she were?”
“oh, she’ll understand, she’ll understand!” cried the prince, clasping his hands.
“she would understand that all this is not the point not a bit the real point it is quite foreign to the real question.”
“how can it be foreign?
you are going to be married, are you not?
very well, then you are persisting in your course.
are you going to marry her or not?”
“yes, i shall marry her yes.”
“then why is it ‘not the point’?”
“oh, no, it is not the point, not a bit.
it makes no difference, my marrying her it means nothing.”
“how ‘means nothing’?
you are talking nonsense, my friend.
you are marrying the woman you love in order to secure her happiness, and aglaya sees and knows it.
how can you say that it’s ‘not the point’?”
“her happiness?
oh, no!
i am only marrying her well, because she wished it.
it means nothing it’s all the same.
she would certainly have died.
i see now that that marriage with rogojin was an insane idea.
i understand all now that i did not understand before; and, do you know, when those two stood opposite to one another, i could not bear nastasia philipovna’s face!
you must know, evgenie pavlovitch, i have never told anyone before not even aglaya that i cannot bear nastasia philipovna’s face.” (he lowered his voice mysteriously as he said this.)
“you described that evening at nastasia philipovna’s (six months since) very accurately just now; but there is one thing which you did not mention, and of which you took no account, because you do not know.
i mean her face i looked at her face, you see.
even in the morning when i saw her portrait, i felt that i could not bear to look at it.
now, there’s vera lebedeff, for instance, her eyes are quite different, you know.
i’m afraid of her face!” he added, with real alarm.
“you are afraid of it?”
“yes she’s mad!” he whispered, growing pale.
“do you know this for certain?” asked evgenie, with the greatest curiosity.
“yes, for certain quite for certain, now!
i have discovered it absolutely for certain, these last few days.”
“what are you doing, then?” cried evgenie, in horror.
“you must be marrying her solely out of fear, then!
i can’t make head or tail of it, prince.
perhaps you don’t even love her?”
“oh, no; i love her with all my soul.
why, she is a child!
she’s a child now a real child.
oh!
you know nothing about it at all, i see.”
“and are you assured, at the same time, that you love aglaya too?”
“yes yes oh; yes!”
“how so?
do you want to make out that you love them both?”
“yes yes both!
i do!”
“excuse me, prince, but think what you are saying!
recollect yourself!”
“without aglaya i i must see aglaya!
i shall die in my sleep very soon i thought i was dying in my sleep last night.
oh!
if aglaya only knew all i mean really, really all!
because she must know all that’s the first condition towards understanding.
why cannot we ever know all about another, especially when that other has been guilty?
but i don’t know what i’m talking about i’m so confused.
you pained me so dreadfully.
surely surely aglaya has not the same expression now as she had at the moment when she ran away?
oh, yes!
i am guilty and i know it i know it!
probably i am in fault all round i don’t quite know how but i am in fault, no doubt.
there is something else, but i cannot explain it to you, evgenie pavlovitch.
i have no words; but aglaya will understand.
i have always believed aglaya will understand i am assured she will.”
“no, prince, she will not.
aglaya loved like a woman, like a human being, not like an abstract spirit.
do you know what, my poor prince?
the most probable explanation of the matter is that you never loved either the one or the other in reality.”
“i don’t know perhaps you are right in much that you have said, evgenie pavlovitch.
you are very wise, evgenie pavlovitch oh!
how my head is beginning to ache again!
come to her, quick for god’s sake, come!”
“but i tell you she is not in pavlofsk!
she’s in colmina.”
“oh, come to colmina, then!
come let us go at once!”
“no no, impossible!” said evgenie, rising.
“look here i’ll write a letter take a letter for me!”
“no no, prince; you must forgive me, but i can’t undertake any such commissions!
i really can’t.”
and so they parted.
evgenie pavlovitch left the house with strange convictions.
he, too, felt that the prince must be out of his mind.
“and what did he mean by that face a face which he so fears, and yet so loves?
and meanwhile he really may die, as he says, without seeing aglaya, and she will never know how devotedly he loves her!
ha, ha, ha!
how does the fellow manage to love two of them?
two different kinds of love, i suppose!
this is very interesting poor idiot!
what on earth will become of him now?”
x.
the prince did not die before his wedding either by day or night, as he had foretold that he might.
very probably he passed disturbed nights, and was afflicted with bad dreams; but, during the daytime, among his fellow-men, he seemed as kind as ever, and even contented; only a little thoughtful when alone.
the wedding was hurried on.
the day was fixed for exactly a week after evgenie’s visit to the prince.
in the face of such haste as this, even the prince’s best friends (if he had had any) would have felt the hopelessness of any attempt to save “the poor madman.” rumour said that in the visit of evgenie pavlovitch was to be discerned the influence of lizabetha prokofievna and her husband... but if those good souls, in the boundless kindness of their hearts, were desirous of saving the eccentric young fellow from ruin, they were unable to take any stronger measures to attain that end.
neither their position, nor their private inclination, perhaps (and only naturally), would allow them to use any more pronounced means.
we have observed before that even some of the prince’s nearest neighbours had begun to oppose him.
vera lebedeff’s passive disagreement was limited to the shedding of a few solitary tears; to more frequent sitting alone at home, and to a diminished frequency in her visits to the prince’s apartments.
colia was occupied with his father at this time.
the old man died during a second stroke, which took place just eight days after the first.
the prince showed great sympathy in the grief of the family, and during the first days of their mourning he was at the house a great deal with nina alexandrovna.
he went to the funeral, and it was observable that the public assembled in church greeted his arrival and departure with whisperings, and watched him closely.
the same thing happened in the park and in the street, wherever he went.
he was pointed out when he drove by, and he often overheard the name of nastasia philipovna coupled with his own as he passed.
people looked out for her at the funeral, too, but she was not there; and another conspicuous absentee was the captain’s widow, whom lebedeff had prevented from coming.
the funeral service produced a great effect on the prince.
he whispered to lebedeff that this was the first time he had ever heard a russian funeral service since he was a little boy.
observing that he was looking about him uneasily, lebedeff asked him whom he was seeking.
“nothing.
i only thought i ”
“is it rogojin?”
“why is he here?”
“yes, he’s in church.”
“i thought i caught sight of his eyes!” muttered the prince, in confusion.
“but what of it!
why is he here?
was he asked?”
“oh, dear, no!
why, they don’t even know him!
anyone can come in, you know.
why do you look so amazed?
i often meet him; i’ve seen him at least four times, here at pavlofsk, within the last week.”
“i haven’t seen him once since that day!” the prince murmured.
as nastasia philipovna had not said a word about having met rogojin since “that day,” the prince concluded that the latter had his own reasons for wishing to keep out of sight.
all the day of the funeral our hero was in a deeply thoughtful state, while nastasia philipovna was particularly merry, both in the daytime and in the evening.
colia had made it up with the prince before his father’s death, and it was he who urged him to make use of keller and burdovsky, promising to answer himself for the former’s behaviour.
nina alexandrovna and lebedeff tried to persuade him to have the wedding in st. petersburg, instead of in the public fashion contemplated, down here at pavlofsk in the height of the season.
but the prince only said that nastasia philipovna desired to have it so, though he saw well enough what prompted their arguments.
the next day keller came to visit the prince.
he was in a high state of delight with the post of honour assigned to him at the wedding.
before entering he stopped on the threshold, raised his hand as if making a solemn vow, and cried:
“i won’t drink!”
then he went up to the prince, seized both his hands, shook them warmly, and declared that he had at first felt hostile towards the project of this marriage, and had openly said so in the billiard-rooms, but that the reason simply was that, with the impatience of a friend, he had hoped to see the prince marry at least a princess de rohan or de chabot; but that now he saw that the prince’s way of thinking was ten times more noble than that of “all the rest put together.” for he desired neither pomp nor wealth nor honour, but only the truth!
the sympathies of exalted personages were well known, and the prince was too highly placed by his education, and so on, not to be in some sense an exalted personage!
“but all the common herd judge differently; in the town, at the meetings, in the villas, at the band, in the inns and the billiard-rooms, the coming event has only to be mentioned and there are shouts and cries from everybody.
i have even heard talk of getting up a ‘charivari’ under the windows on the wedding-night.
so if ‘you have need of the pistol’ of an honest man, prince, i am ready to fire half a dozen shots even before you rise from your nuptial couch!”
keller also advised, in anticipation of the crowd making a rush after the ceremony, that a fire-hose should be placed at the entrance to the house; but lebedeff was opposed to this measure, which he said might result in the place being pulled down.
“i assure you, prince, that lebedeff is intriguing against you.
he wants to put you under control.
imagine that!
to take ‘from you the use of your free-will and your money’ that is to say, the two things that distinguish us from the animals!
i have heard it said positively.
it is the sober truth.”
the prince recollected that somebody had told him something of the kind before, and he had, of course, scoffed at it.
he only laughed now, and forgot the hint at once.
lebedeff really had been busy for some little while; but, as usual, his plans had become too complex to succeed, through sheer excess of ardour.
when he came to the prince the very day before the wedding to confess (for he always confessed to the persons against whom he intrigued, especially when the plan failed), he informed our hero that he himself was a born talleyrand, but for some unknown reason had become simple lebedeff.
he then proceeded to explain his whole game to the prince, interesting the latter exceedingly.
according to lebedeff’s account, he had first tried what he could do with general epanchin.
the latter informed him that he wished well to the unfortunate young man, and would gladly do what he could to “save him,” but that he did not think it would be seemly for him to interfere in this matter.
lizabetha prokofievna would neither hear nor see him.
prince s. and evgenie pavlovitch only shrugged their shoulders, and implied that it was no business of theirs.
however, lebedeff had not lost heart, and went off to a clever lawyer, a worthy and respectable man, whom he knew well.
this old gentleman informed him that the thing was perfectly feasible if he could get hold of competent witnesses as to muishkin’s mental incapacity.
then, with the assistance of a few influential persons, he would soon see the matter arranged.
lebedeff immediately procured the services of an old doctor, and carried the latter away to pavlofsk to see the prince, by way of viewing the ground, as it were, and to give him (lebedeff) counsel as to whether the thing was to be done or not.
the visit was not to be official, but merely friendly.
muishkin remembered the doctor’s visit quite well.
he remembered that lebedeff had said that he looked ill, and had better see a doctor; and although the prince scouted the idea, lebedeff had turned up almost immediately with his old friend, explaining that they had just met at the bedside of hippolyte, who was very ill, and that the doctor had something to tell the prince about the sick man.
the prince had, of course, at once received him, and had plunged into a conversation about hippolyte.
he had given the doctor an account of hippolyte’s attempted suicide; and had proceeded thereafter to talk of his own malady, of switzerland, of schneider, and so on; and so deeply was the old man interested by the prince’s conversation and his description of schneider’s system, that he sat on for two hours.
muishkin gave him excellent cigars to smoke, and lebedeff, for his part, regaled him with liqueurs, brought in by vera, to whom the doctor a married man and the father of a family addressed such compliments that she was filled with indignation.
they parted friends, and, after leaving the prince, the doctor said to lebedeff: “if all such people were put under restraint, there would be no one left for keepers.” lebedeff then, in tragic tones, told of the approaching marriage, whereupon the other nodded his head and replied that, after all, marriages like that were not so rare; that he had heard that the lady was very fascinating and of extraordinary beauty, which was enough to explain the infatuation of a wealthy man; that, further, thanks to the liberality of totski and of rogojin, she possessed so he had heard not only money, but pearls, diamonds, shawls, and furniture, and consequently she could not be considered a bad match.
in brief, it seemed to the doctor that the prince’s choice, far from being a sign of foolishness, denoted, on the contrary, a shrewd, calculating, and practical mind.
lebedeff had been much struck by this point of view, and he terminated his confession by assuring the prince that he was ready, if need be, to shed his very life’s blood for him.
hippolyte, too, was a source of some distraction to the prince at this time; he would send for him at any and every hour of the day.
they lived, hippolyte and his mother and the children, in a small house not far off, and the little ones were happy, if only because they were able to escape from the invalid into the garden.
the prince had enough to do in keeping the peace between the irritable hippolyte and his mother, and eventually the former became so malicious and sarcastic on the subject of the approaching wedding, that muishkin took offence at last, and refused to continue his visits.
a couple of days later, however, hippolyte’s mother came with tears in her eyes, and begged the prince to come back, “or he would eat her up bodily.” she added that hippolyte had a great secret to disclose.
of course the prince went.
there was no secret, however, unless we reckon certain pantings and agitated glances around (probably all put on) as the invalid begged his visitor to “beware of rogojin.”
“he is the sort of man,” he continued, “who won’t give up his object, you know; he is not like you and me, prince he belongs to quite a different order of beings.
if he sets his heart on a thing he won’t be afraid of anything ” and so on.
hippolyte was very ill, and looked as though he could not long survive.
he was tearful at first, but grew more and more sarcastic and malicious as the interview proceeded.
the prince questioned him in detail as to his hints about rogojin.
he was anxious to seize upon some facts which might confirm hippolyte’s vague warnings; but there were none; only hippolyte’s own private impressions and feelings.
however, the invalid to his immense satisfaction ended by seriously alarming the prince.
at first muishkin had not cared to make any reply to his sundry questions, and only smiled in response to hippolyte’s advice to “run for his life abroad, if necessary.
there are russian priests everywhere, and one can get married all over the world.”
but it was hippolyte’s last idea which upset him.
“what i am really alarmed about, though,” he said, “is aglaya ivanovna.
rogojin knows how you love her.
love for love.
you took nastasia philipovna from him.
he will murder aglaya ivanovna; for though she is not yours, of course, now, still such an act would pain you, wouldn’t it?”
he had attained his end.
the prince left the house beside himself with terror.
these warnings about rogojin were expressed on the day before the wedding.
that evening the prince saw nastasia philipovna for the last time before they were to meet at the altar; but nastasia was not in a position to give him any comfort or consolation.
on the contrary, she only added to his mental perturbation as the evening went on.
up to this time she had invariably done her best to cheer him she was afraid of his looking melancholy; she would try singing to him, and telling him every sort of funny story or reminiscence that she could recall.
the prince nearly always pretended to be amused, whether he were so actually or no; but often enough he laughed sincerely, delighted by the brilliancy of her wit when she was carried away by her narrative, as she very often was.
nastasia would be wild with joy to see the impression she had made, and to hear his laugh of real amusement; and she would remain the whole evening in a state of pride and happiness.
but this evening her melancholy and thoughtfulness grew with every hour.
the prince had told evgenie pavlovitch with perfect sincerity that he loved nastasia philipovna with all his soul.
in his love for her there was the sort of tenderness one feels for a sick, unhappy child which cannot be left alone.
he never spoke of his feelings for nastasia to anyone, not even to herself.
when they were together they never discussed their “feelings,” and there was nothing in their cheerful, animated conversation which an outsider could not have heard.
daria alexeyevna, with whom nastasia was staying, told afterwards how she had been filled with joy and delight only to look at them, all this time.
thanks to the manner in which he regarded nastasia’s mental and moral condition, the prince was to some extent freed from other perplexities.
she was now quite different from the woman he had known three months before.
he was not astonished, for instance, to see her now so impatient to marry him she who formerly had wept with rage and hurled curses and reproaches at him if he mentioned marriage!
“it shows that she no longer fears, as she did then, that she would make me unhappy by marrying me,”
he thought.
and he felt sure that so sudden a change could not be a natural one.
this rapid growth of self-confidence could not be due only to her hatred for aglaya.
to suppose that would be to suspect the depth of her feelings.
nor could it arise from dread of the fate that awaited her if she married rogojin.
these causes, indeed, as well as others, might have played a part in it, but the true reason, muishkin decided, was the one he had long suspected that the poor sick soul had come to the end of its forces.
yet this was an explanation that did not procure him any peace of mind.
at times he seemed to be making violent efforts to think of nothing, and one would have said that he looked on his marriage as an unimportant formality, and on his future happiness as a thing not worth considering.
as to conversations such as the one held with evgenie pavlovitch, he avoided them as far as possible, feeling that there were certain objections to which he could make no answer.
the prince had observed that nastasia knew well enough what aglaya was to him.
he never spoke of it, but he had seen her face when she had caught him starting off for the epanchins’ house on several occasions.
when the epanchins left pavlofsk, she had beamed with radiance and happiness.
unsuspicious and unobservant as he was, he had feared at that time that nastasia might have some scheme in her mind for a scene or scandal which would drive aglaya out of pavlofsk.
she had encouraged the rumours and excitement among the inhabitants of the place as to her marriage with the prince, in order to annoy her rival; and, finding it difficult to meet the epanchins anywhere, she had, on one occasion, taken him for a drive past their house.
he did not observe what was happening until they were almost passing the windows, when it was too late to do anything.
he said nothing, but for two days afterwards he was ill.
nastasia did not try that particular experiment again.
a few days before that fixed for the wedding, she grew grave and thoughtful.
she always ended by getting the better of her melancholy, and becoming merry and cheerful again, but not quite so unaffectedly happy as she had been some days earlier.
the prince redoubled his attentive study of her symptoms.
it was a most curious circumstance, in his opinion, that she never spoke of rogojin.
but once, about five days before the wedding, when the prince was at home, a messenger arrived begging him to come at once, as nastasia philipovna was very ill.
he had found her in a condition approaching to absolute madness.
she screamed, and trembled, and cried out that rogojin was hiding out there in the garden that she had seen him herself and that he would murder her in the night that he would cut her throat.
she was terribly agitated all day.
but it so happened that the prince called at hippolyte’s house later on, and heard from his mother that she had been in town all day, and had there received a visit from rogojin, who had made inquiries about pavlofsk.
on inquiry, it turned out that rogojin visited the old lady in town at almost the same moment when nastasia declared that she had seen him in the garden; so that the whole thing turned out to be an illusion on her part.
nastasia immediately went across to hippolyte’s to inquire more accurately, and returned immensely relieved and comforted.
on the day before the wedding, the prince left nastasia in a state of great animation.
her wedding-dress and all sorts of finery had just arrived from town.
muishkin had not imagined that she would be so excited over it, but he praised everything, and his praise rendered her doubly happy.
but nastasia could not hide the cause of her intense interest in her wedding splendour.
she had heard of the indignation in the town, and knew that some of the populace was getting up a sort of charivari with music, that verses had been composed for the occasion, and that the rest of pavlofsk society more or less encouraged these preparations.
so, since attempts were being made to humiliate her, she wanted to hold her head even higher than usual, and to overwhelm them all with the beauty and taste of her toilette.
“let them shout and whistle, if they dare!”
her eyes flashed at the thought.
but, underneath this, she had another motive, of which she did not speak.
she thought that possibly aglaya, or at any rate someone sent by her, would be present incognito at the ceremony, or in the crowd, and she wished to be prepared for this eventuality.
the prince left her at eleven, full of these thoughts, and went home.
but it was not twelve o’clock when a messenger came to say that nastasia was very bad, and he must come at once.
on hurrying back he found his bride locked up in her own room and could hear her hysterical cries and sobs.
it was some time before she could be made to hear that the prince had come, and then she opened the door only just sufficiently to let him in, and immediately locked it behind him.
she then fell on her knees at his feet.
(so at least dana alexeyevna reported.)
“what am i doing?
what am i doing to you?” she sobbed convulsively, embracing his knees.
the prince was a whole hour soothing and comforting her, and left her, at length, pacified and composed.
he sent another messenger during the night to inquire after her, and two more next morning.
the last brought back a message that nastasia was surrounded by a whole army of dressmakers and maids, and was as happy and as busy as such a beauty should be on her wedding morning, and that there was not a vestige of yesterday’s agitation remaining.
the message concluded with the news that at the moment of the bearer’s departure there was a great confabulation in progress as to which diamonds were to be worn, and how.
this message entirely calmed the prince’s mind.
the following report of the proceedings on the wedding day may be depended upon, as coming from eye-witnesses.
the wedding was fixed for eight o’clock in the evening.
nastasia philipovna was ready at seven.
from six o’clock groups of people began to gather at nastasia’s house, at the prince’s, and at the church door, but more especially at the former place.
the church began to fill at seven.
colia and vera lebedeff were very anxious on the prince’s account, but they were so busy over the arrangements for receiving the guests after the wedding, that they had not much time for the indulgence of personal feelings.
there were to be very few guests besides the best men and so on; only dana alexeyevna, the ptitsins, gania, and the doctor.
when the prince asked lebedeff why he had invited the doctor, who was almost a stranger, lebedeff replied:
“why, he wears an ‘order,’ and it looks so well!”
this idea amused the prince.
keller and burdovsky looked wonderfully correct in their dress-coats and white kid gloves, although keller caused the bridegroom some alarm by his undisguisedly hostile glances at the gathering crowd of sight-seers outside.
at about half-past seven the prince started for the church in his carriage.
we may remark here that he seemed anxious not to omit a single one of the recognized customs and traditions observed at weddings.
he wished all to be done as openly as possible, and “in due order.”
arrived at the church, muishkin, under keller’s guidance, passed through the crowd of spectators, amid continuous whispering and excited exclamations.
the prince stayed near the altar, while keller made off once more to fetch the bride.
on reaching the gate of daria alexeyevna’s house, keller found a far denser crowd than he had encountered at the prince’s.
the remarks and exclamations of the spectators here were of so irritating a nature that keller was very near making them a speech on the impropriety of their conduct, but was luckily caught by burdovsky, in the act of turning to address them, and hurried indoors.
nastasia philipovna was ready.
she rose from her seat, looked into the glass and remarked, as keller told the tale afterwards, that she was “as pale as a corpse.” she then bent her head reverently, before the ikon in the corner, and left the room.
a torrent of voices greeted her appearance at the front door.
the crowd whistled, clapped its hands, and laughed and shouted; but in a moment or two isolated voices were distinguishable.
“what a beauty!” cried one.
“well, she isn’t the first in the world, nor the last,” said another.
“marriage covers everything,” observed a third.
“i defy you to find another beauty like that,” said a fourth.
“she’s a real princess!
i’d sell my soul for such a princess as that!”
nastasia came out of the house looking as white as any handkerchief; but her large dark eyes shone upon the vulgar crowd like blazing coals.
the spectators’ cries were redoubled, and became more exultant and triumphant every moment.
the door of the carriage was open, and keller had given his hand to the bride to help her in, when suddenly with a loud cry she rushed from him, straight into the surging crowd.
her friends about her were stupefied with amazement; the crowd parted as she rushed through it, and suddenly, at a distance of five or six yards from the carriage, appeared rogojin.
it was his look that had caught her eyes.
nastasia rushed to him like a madwoman, and seized both his hands.
“save me!” she cried.
“take me away, anywhere you like, quick!”
rogojin seized her in his arms and almost carried her to the carriage.
then, in a flash, he tore a hundred-rouble note out of his pocket and held it to the coachman.
“to the station, quick!
if you catch the train you shall have another.
quick!”
he leaped into the carriage after nastasia and banged the door.
the coachman did not hesitate a moment; he whipped up the horses, and they were off.
“one more second and i should have stopped him,” said keller, afterwards.
in fact, he and burdovsky jumped into another carriage and set off in pursuit; but it struck them as they drove along that it was not much use trying to bring nastasia back by force.
“besides,” said burdovsky, “the prince would not like it, would he?” so they gave up the pursuit.
rogojin and nastasia philipovna reached the station just in time for the train.
as he jumped out of the carriage and was almost on the point of entering the train, rogojin accosted a young girl standing on the platform and wearing an old-fashioned, but respectable-looking, black cloak and a silk handkerchief over her head.
“take fifty roubles for your cloak?” he shouted, holding the money out to the girl.
before the astonished young woman could collect her scattered senses, he pushed the money into her hand, seized the mantle, and threw it and the handkerchief over nastasia’s head and shoulders.
the latter’s wedding-array would have attracted too much attention, and it was not until some time later that the girl understood why her old cloak and kerchief had been bought at such a price.
the news of what had happened reached the church with extraordinary rapidity.
when keller arrived, a host of people whom he did not know thronged around to ask him questions.
there was much excited talking, and shaking of heads, even some laughter; but no one left the church, all being anxious to observe how the now celebrated bridegroom would take the news.
he grew very pale upon hearing it, but took it quite quietly.
“i was afraid,” he muttered, scarcely audibly, “but i hardly thought it would come to this.” then after a short silence, he added: “however, in her state, it is quite consistent with the natural order of things.”
even keller admitted afterwards that this was “extraordinarily philosophical” on the prince’s part.
he left the church quite calm, to all appearances, as many witnesses were found to declare afterwards.
he seemed anxious to reach home and be left alone as quickly as possible; but this was not to be.
he was accompanied by nearly all the invited guests, and besides this, the house was almost besieged by excited bands of people, who insisted upon being allowed to enter the verandah.
the prince heard keller and lebedeff remonstrating and quarrelling with these unknown individuals, and soon went out himself.
he approached the disturbers of his peace, requested courteously to be told what was desired; then politely putting lebedeff and keller aside, he addressed an old gentleman who was standing on the verandah steps at the head of the band of would-be guests, and courteously requested him to honour him with a visit.
the old fellow was quite taken aback by this, but entered, followed by a few more, who tried to appear at their ease.
the rest remained outside, and presently the whole crowd was censuring those who had accepted the invitation.
the prince offered seats to his strange visitors, tea was served, and a general conversation sprang up.
everything was done most decorously, to the considerable surprise of the intruders.
a few tentative attempts were made to turn the conversation to the events of the day, and a few indiscreet questions were asked; but muishkin replied to everybody with such simplicity and good-humour, and at the same time with so much dignity, and showed such confidence in the good breeding of his guests, that the indiscreet talkers were quickly silenced.
by degrees the conversation became almost serious.
one gentleman suddenly exclaimed, with great vehemence: “whatever happens, i shall not sell my property; i shall wait.
enterprise is better than money, and there, sir, you have my whole system of economy, if you wish!” he addressed the prince, who warmly commended his sentiments, though lebedeff whispered in his ear that this gentleman, who talked so much of his “property,” had never had either house or home.
nearly an hour passed thus, and when tea was over the visitors seemed to think that it was time to go.
as they went out, the doctor and the old gentleman bade muishkin a warm farewell, and all the rest took their leave with hearty protestations of good-will, dropping remarks to the effect that “it was no use worrying,” and that “perhaps all would turn out for the best,” and so on.
some of the younger intruders would have asked for champagne, but they were checked by the older ones.
when all had departed, keller leaned over to lebedeff, and said:
“with you and me there would have been a scene.
we should have shouted and fought, and called in the police.
but he has simply made some new friends and such friends, too!
i know them!”
lebedeff, who was slightly intoxicated, answered with a sigh:
“things are hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed unto babes.
i have applied those words to him before, but now i add that god has preserved the babe himself from the abyss, he and all his saints.”
at last, about half-past ten, the prince was left alone.
his head ached.
colia was the last to go, after having helped him to change his wedding clothes.
they parted on affectionate terms, and, without speaking of what had happened, colia promised to come very early the next day.
he said later that the prince had given no hint of his intentions when they said good-bye, but had hidden them even from him.
soon there was hardly anyone left in the house.
burdovsky had gone to see hippolyte; keller and lebedeff had wandered off together somewhere.
only vera lebedeff remained hurriedly rearranging the furniture in the rooms.
as she left the verandah, she glanced at the prince.
he was seated at the table, with both elbows upon it, and his head resting on his hands.
she approached him, and touched his shoulder gently.
the prince started and looked at her in perplexity; he seemed to be collecting his senses for a minute or so, before he could remember where he was.
as recollection dawned upon him, he became violently agitated.
all he did, however, was to ask vera very earnestly to knock at his door and awake him in time for the first train to petersburg next morning.
vera promised, and the prince entreated her not to tell anyone of his intention.
she promised this, too; and at last, when she had half-closed the door, he called her back a third time, took her hands in his, kissed them, then kissed her forehead, and in a rather peculiar manner said to her, “until tomorrow!”
such was vera’s story afterwards.
she went away in great anxiety about him, but when she saw him in the morning, he seemed to be quite himself again, greeted her with a smile, and told her that he would very likely be back by the evening.
it appears that he did not consider it necessary to inform anyone excepting vera of his departure for town.
xi.
an hour later he was in st. petersburg, and by ten o’clock he had rung the bell at rogojin’s.
he had gone to the front door, and was kept waiting a long while before anyone came.
at last the door of old mrs. rogojin’s flat was opened, and an aged servant appeared.
“parfen semionovitch is not at home,” she announced from the doorway.
“whom do you want?”
“parfen semionovitch.”
“he is not in.”
the old woman examined the prince from head to foot with great curiosity.
“at all events tell me whether he slept at home last night, and whether he came alone?”
the old woman continued to stare at him, but said nothing.
“was not nastasia philipovna here with him, yesterday evening?”
“and, pray, who are you yourself?”
“prince lef nicolaievitch muishkin; he knows me well.”
“he is not at home.”
the woman lowered her eyes.
“and nastasia philipovna?”
“i know nothing about it.”
“stop a minute!
when will he come back?”
“i don’t know that either.”
the door was shut with these words, and the old woman disappeared.
the prince decided to come back within an hour.
passing out of the house, he met the porter.
“is parfen semionovitch at home?” he asked.
“yes.”
“why did they tell me he was not at home, then?”
“where did they tell you so, at his door?”
“no, at his mother’s flat; i rang at parfen semionovitch’s door and nobody came.”
“well, he may have gone out.
i can’t tell.
sometimes he takes the keys with him, and leaves the rooms empty for two or three days.”
“do you know for certain that he was at home last night?”
“yes, he was.”
“was nastasia philipovna with him?”
“i don’t know; she doesn’t come often.
i think i should have known if she had come.”
the prince went out deep in thought, and walked up and down the pavement for some time.
the windows of all the rooms occupied by rogojin were closed, those of his mother’s apartments were open.
it was a hot, bright day.
the prince crossed the road in order to have a good look at the windows again; not only were rogojin’s closed, but the white blinds were all down as well.
he stood there for a minute and then, suddenly and strangely enough, it seemed to him that a little corner of one of the blinds was lifted, and rogojin’s face appeared for an instant and then vanished.
he waited another minute, and decided to go and ring the bell once more; however, he thought better of it again and put it off for an hour.
the chief object in his mind at this moment was to get as quickly as he could to nastasia philipovna’s lodging.
he remembered that, not long since, when she had left pavlofsk at his request, he had begged her to put up in town at the house of a respectable widow, who had well-furnished rooms to let, near the ismailofsky barracks.
probably nastasia had kept the rooms when she came down to pavlofsk this last time; and most likely she would have spent the night in them, rogojin having taken her straight there from the station.
the prince took a droshky.
it struck him as he drove on that he ought to have begun by coming here, since it was most improbable that rogojin should have taken nastasia to his own house last night.
he remembered that the porter said she very rarely came at all, so that it was still less likely that she would have gone there so late at night.
vainly trying to comfort himself with these reflections, the prince reached the ismailofsky barracks more dead than alive.
to his consternation the good people at the lodgings had not only heard nothing of nastasia, but all came out to look at him as if he were a marvel of some sort.
the whole family, of all ages, surrounded him, and he was begged to enter.
he guessed at once that they knew perfectly well who he was, and that yesterday ought to have been his wedding-day; and further that they were dying to ask about the wedding, and especially about why he should be here now, inquiring for the woman who in all reasonable human probability might have been expected to be with him in pavlofsk.
he satisfied their curiosity, in as few words as possible, with regard to the wedding, but their exclamations and sighs were so numerous and sincere that he was obliged to tell the whole story in a short form, of course.
the advice of all these agitated ladies was that the prince should go at once and knock at rogojin’s until he was let in: and when let in insist upon a substantial explanation of everything.
if rogojin was really not at home, the prince was advised to go to a certain house, the address of which was given, where lived a german lady, a friend of nastasia philipovna’s.
it was possible that she might have spent the night there in her anxiety to conceal herself.
the prince rose from his seat in a condition of mental collapse.
the good ladies reported afterwards that “his pallor was terrible to see, and his legs seemed to give way underneath him.” with difficulty he was made to understand that his new friends would be glad of his address, in order to act with him if possible.
after a moment’s thought he gave the address of the small hotel, on the stairs of which he had had a fit some five weeks since.
he then set off once more for rogojin’s.
this time they neither opened the door at rogojin’s flat nor at the one opposite.
the prince found the porter with difficulty, but when found, the man would hardly look at him or answer his questions, pretending to be busy.
eventually, however, he was persuaded to reply so far as to state that rogojin had left the house early in the morning and gone to pavlofsk, and that he would not return today at all.
“i shall wait; he may come back this evening.”
“he may not be home for a week.”
“then, at all events, he did sleep here, did he?”
“well he did sleep here, yes.”
all this was suspicious and unsatisfactory.
very likely the porter had received new instructions during the interval of the prince’s absence; his manner was so different now.
he had been obliging now he was as obstinate and silent as a mule.
however, the prince decided to call again in a couple of hours, and after that to watch the house, in case of need.
his hope was that he might yet find nastasia at the address which he had just received.
to that address he now set off at full speed.
but alas!
at the german lady’s house they did not even appear to understand what he wanted.
after a while, by means of certain hints, he was able to gather that nastasia must have had a quarrel with her friend two or three weeks ago, since which date the latter had neither heard nor seen anything of her.
he was given to understand that the subject of nastasia’s present whereabouts was not of the slightest interest to her; and that nastasia might marry all the princes in the world for all she cared!
so muishkin took his leave hurriedly.
it struck him now that she might have gone away to moscow just as she had done the last time, and that rogojin had perhaps gone after her, or even with her.
if only he could find some trace!
however, he must take his room at the hotel; and he started off in that direction.
having engaged his room, he was asked by the waiter whether he would take dinner; replying mechanically in the affirmative, he sat down and waited; but it was not long before it struck him that dining would delay him.
enraged at this idea, he started up, crossed the dark passage (which filled him with horrible impressions and gloomy forebodings), and set out once more for rogojin’s.
rogojin had not returned, and no one came to the door.
he rang at the old lady’s door opposite, and was informed that parfen semionovitch would not return for three days.
the curiosity with which the old servant stared at him again impressed the prince disagreeably.
he could not find the porter this time at all.
as before, he crossed the street and watched the windows from the other side, walking up and down in anguish of soul for half an hour or so in the stifling heat.
nothing stirred; the blinds were motionless; indeed, the prince began to think that the apparition of rogojin’s face could have been nothing but fancy.
soothed by this thought, he drove off once more to his friends at the ismailofsky barracks.
he was expected there.
the mother had already been to three or four places to look for nastasia, but had not found a trace of any kind.
the prince said nothing, but entered the room, sat down silently, and stared at them, one after the other, with the air of a man who cannot understand what is being said to him.
it was strange one moment he seemed to be so observant, the next so absent; his behaviour struck all the family as most remarkable.
at length he rose from his seat, and begged to be shown nastasia’s rooms.
the ladies reported afterwards how he had examined everything in the apartments.
he observed an open book on the table, madam bovary, and requested the leave of the lady of the house to take it with him.
he had turned down the leaf at the open page, and pocketed it before they could explain that it was a library book.
he had then seated himself by the open window, and seeing a card-table, he asked who played cards.
he was informed that nastasia used to play with rogojin every evening, either at “preference” or “little fool,” or “whist”; that this had been their practice since her last return from pavlofsk; that she had taken to this amusement because she did not like to see rogojin sitting silent and dull for whole evenings at a time; that the day after nastasia had made a remark to this effect, rogojin had whipped a pack of cards out of his pocket.
nastasia had laughed, but soon they began playing.
the prince asked where were the cards, but was told that rogojin used to bring a new pack every day, and always carried it away in his pocket.
the good ladies recommended the prince to try knocking at rogojin’s once more not at once, but in the evening.
meanwhile, the mother would go to pavlofsk to inquire at dana alexeyevna’s whether anything had been heard of nastasia there.
the prince was to come back at ten o’clock and meet her, to hear her news and arrange plans for the morrow.
in spite of the kindly-meant consolations of his new friends, the prince walked to his hotel in inexpressible anguish of spirit, through the hot, dusty streets, aimlessly staring at the faces of those who passed him.
arrived at his destination, he determined to rest awhile in his room before he started for rogojin’s once more.
he sat down, rested his elbows on the table and his head on his hands, and fell to thinking.
heaven knows how long and upon what subjects he thought.
he thought of many things of vera lebedeff, and of her father; of hippolyte; of rogojin himself, first at the funeral, then as he had met him in the park, then, suddenly, as they had met in this very passage, outside, when rogojin had watched in the darkness and awaited him with uplifted knife.
the prince remembered his enemy’s eyes as they had glared at him in the darkness.
he shuddered, as a sudden idea struck him.
this idea was, that if rogojin were in petersburg, though he might hide for a time, yet he was quite sure to come to him the prince before long, with either good or evil intentions, but probably with the same intention as on that other occasion.
at all events, if rogojin were to come at all he would be sure to seek the prince here he had no other town address perhaps in this same corridor; he might well seek him here if he needed him.
and perhaps he did need him.
this idea seemed quite natural to the prince, though he could not have explained why he should so suddenly have become necessary to rogojin.
rogojin would not come if all were well with him, that was part of the thought; he would come if all were not well; and certainly, undoubtedly, all would not be well with him.
the prince could not bear this new idea; he took his hat and rushed out towards the street.
it was almost dark in the passage.
“what if he were to come out of that corner as i go by and and stop me?” thought the prince, as he approached the familiar spot.
but no one came out.
he passed under the gateway and into the street.
the crowds of people walking about as is always the case at sunset in petersburg, during the summer surprised him, but he walked on in the direction of rogojin’s house.
about fifty yards from the hotel, at the first cross-road, as he passed through the crowd of foot-passengers sauntering along, someone touched his shoulder, and said in a whisper into his ear:
“lef nicolaievitch, my friend, come along with me.” it was rogojin.
the prince immediately began to tell him, eagerly and joyfully, how he had but the moment before expected to see him in the dark passage of the hotel.
“i was there,” said rogojin, unexpectedly.
“come along.” the prince was surprised at this answer; but his astonishment increased a couple of minutes afterwards, when he began to consider it.
having thought it over, he glanced at rogojin in alarm.
the latter was striding along a yard or so ahead, looking straight in front of him, and mechanically making way for anyone he met.
“why did you not ask for me at my room if you were in the hotel?” asked the prince, suddenly.
rogojin stopped and looked at him; then reflected, and replied as though he had not heard the question:
“look here, lef nicolaievitch, you go straight on to the house; i shall walk on the other side.
see that we keep together.”
so saying, rogojin crossed the road.
arrived on the opposite pavement, he looked back to see whether the prince were moving, waved his hand in the direction of the gorohovaya, and strode on, looking across every moment to see whether muishkin understood his instructions.
the prince supposed that rogojin desired to look out for someone whom he was afraid to miss; but if so, why had he not told him whom to look out for?
so the two proceeded for half a mile or so.
suddenly the prince began to tremble from some unknown cause.
he could not bear it, and signalled to rogojin across the road.
the latter came at once.
“is nastasia philipovna at your house?”
“yes.”
“and was it you looked out of the window under the blind this morning?”
“yes.”
“then why did ”
but the prince could not finish his question; he did not know what to say.
besides this, his heart was beating so that he found it difficult to speak at all.
rogojin was silent also and looked at him as before, with an expression of deep thoughtfulness.
“well, i’m going,” he said, at last, preparing to recross the road.
“you go along here as before; we will keep to different sides of the road; it’s better so, you’ll see.”
when they reached the gorohovaya, and came near the house, the prince’s legs were trembling so that he could hardly walk.
it was about ten o’clock.
the old lady’s windows were open, as before; rogojin’s were all shut, and in the darkness the white blinds showed whiter than ever.
rogojin and the prince each approached the house on his respective side of the road; rogojin, who was on the near side, beckoned the prince across.
he went over to the doorway.
“even the porter does not know that i have come home now.
i told him, and told them at my mother’s too, that i was off to pavlofsk,” said rogojin, with a cunning and almost satisfied smile.
“we’ll go in quietly and nobody will hear us.”
he had the key in his hand.
mounting the staircase he turned and signalled to the prince to go more softly; he opened the door very quietly, let the prince in, followed him, locked the door behind him, and put the key in his pocket.
“come along,” he whispered.
he had spoken in a whisper all the way.
in spite of his apparent outward composure, he was evidently in a state of great mental agitation.
arrived in a large salon, next to the study, he went to the window and cautiously beckoned the prince up to him.
“when you rang the bell this morning i thought it must be you.
i went to the door on tip-toe and heard you talking to the servant opposite.
i had told her before that if anyone came and rang especially you, and i gave her your name she was not to tell about me.
then i thought, what if he goes and stands opposite and looks up, or waits about to watch the house?
so i came to this very window, looked out, and there you were staring straight at me.
that’s how it came about.”
“where is nastasia philipovna?” asked the prince, breathlessly.
“she’s here,” replied rogojin, slowly, after a slight pause.
“where?”
rogojin raised his eyes and gazed intently at the prince.
“come,” he said.
he continued to speak in a whisper, very deliberately as before, and looked strangely thoughtful and dreamy.
even while he told the story of how he had peeped through the blind, he gave the impression of wishing to say something else.
they entered the study.
in this room some changes had taken place since the prince last saw it.
it was now divided into two equal parts by a heavy green silk curtain stretched across it, separating the alcove beyond, where stood rogojin’s bed, from the rest of the room.
the heavy curtain was drawn now, and it was very dark.
the bright petersburg summer nights were already beginning to close in, and but for the full moon, it would have been difficult to distinguish anything in rogojin’s dismal room, with the drawn blinds.
they could just see one anothers faces, however, though not in detail.
rogojin’s face was white, as usual.
his glittering eyes watched the prince with an intent stare.
“had you not better light a candle?” said muishkin.
“no, i needn’t,” replied rogojin, and taking the other by the hand he drew him down to a chair.
he himself took a chair opposite and drew it up so close that he almost pressed against the prince’s knees.
at their side was a little round table.
“sit down,” said rogojin; “let’s rest a bit.” there was silence for a moment.
“i knew you would be at that hotel,” he continued, just as men sometimes commence a serious conversation by discussing any outside subject before leading up to the main point.
“as i entered the passage it struck me that perhaps you were sitting and waiting for me, just as i was waiting for you.
have you been to the old lady at ismailofsky barracks?”
“yes,” said the prince, squeezing the word out with difficulty owing to the dreadful beating of his heart.
“i thought you would.
‘they’ll talk about it,’ i thought; so i determined to go and fetch you to spend the night here ‘we will be together,’ i thought, ‘for this one night ’”
“rogojin, where is nastasia philipovna?” said the prince, suddenly rising from his seat.
he was quaking in all his limbs, and his words came in a scarcely audible whisper.
rogojin rose also.
“there,” he whispered, nodding his head towards the curtain.
“asleep?” whispered the prince.
rogojin looked intently at him again, as before.
“let’s go in but you mustn’t well let’s go in.”
he lifted the curtain, paused and turned to the prince.
“go in,” he said, motioning him to pass behind the curtain.
muishkin went in.
“it’s so dark,” he said.
“you can see quite enough,” muttered rogojin.
“i can just see there’s a bed ”
“go nearer,” suggested rogojin, softly.
the prince took a step forward then another and paused.
he stood and stared for a minute or two.
neither of the men spoke a word while at the bedside.
the prince’s heart beat so loud that its knocking seemed to be distinctly audible in the deathly silence.
but now his eyes had become so far accustomed to the darkness that he could distinguish the whole of the bed.
someone was asleep upon it in an absolutely motionless sleep.
not the slightest movement was perceptible, not the faintest breathing could be heard.
the sleeper was covered with a white sheet; the outline of the limbs was hardly distinguishable.
he could only just make out that a human being lay outstretched there.
all around, on the bed, on a chair beside it, on the floor, were scattered the different portions of a magnificent white silk dress, bits of lace, ribbons and flowers.
on a small table at the bedside glittered a mass of diamonds, torn off and thrown down anyhow.
from under a heap of lace at the end of the bed peeped a small white foot, which looked as though it had been chiselled out of marble; it was terribly still.
the prince gazed and gazed, and felt that the more he gazed the more death-like became the silence.
suddenly a fly awoke somewhere, buzzed across the room, and settled on the pillow.
the prince shuddered.
“let’s go,” said rogojin, touching his shoulder.
they left the alcove and sat down in the two chairs they had occupied before, opposite to one another.
the prince trembled more and more violently, and never took his questioning eyes off rogojin’s face.
“i see you are shuddering, lef nicolaievitch,” said the latter, at length, “almost as you did once in moscow, before your fit; don’t you remember?
i don’t know what i shall do with you ”
the prince bent forward to listen, putting all the strain he could muster upon his understanding in order to take in what rogojin said, and continuing to gaze at the latter’s face.
“was it you?” he muttered, at last, motioning with his head towards the curtain.
“yes, it was i,” whispered rogojin, looking down.
neither spoke for five minutes.
“because, you know,” rogojin recommenced, as though continuing a former sentence, “if you were ill now, or had a fit, or screamed, or anything, they might hear it in the yard, or even in the street, and guess that someone was passing the night in the house.
they would all come and knock and want to come in, because they know i am not at home.
i didn’t light a candle for the same reason.
when i am not here for two or three days at a time, now and then no one comes in to tidy the house or anything; those are my orders.
so that i want them to not know we are spending the night here ”
“wait,” interrupted the prince.
“i asked both the porter and the woman whether nastasia philipovna had spent last night in the house; so they knew ”
“i know you asked.
i told them that she had called in for ten minutes, and then gone straight back to pavlofsk.
no one knows she slept here.
last night we came in just as carefully as you and i did today.
i thought as i came along with her that she would not like to creep in so secretly, but i was quite wrong.
she whispered, and walked on tip-toe; she carried her skirt over her arm, so that it shouldn’t rustle, and she held up her finger at me on the stairs, so that i shouldn’t make a noise it was you she was afraid of.
she was mad with terror in the train, and she begged me to bring her to this house.
i thought of taking her to her rooms at the ismailofsky barracks first; but she wouldn’t hear of it.
she said, ‘no not there; he’ll find me out at once there.
take me to your own house, where you can hide me, and tomorrow we’ll set off for moscow.’ thence she would go to orel, she said.
when she went to bed, she was still talking about going to orel.”
“wait!
what do you intend to do now, parfen?”
“well, i’m afraid of you.
you shudder and tremble so.
we’ll pass the night here together.
there are no other beds besides that one; but i’ve thought how we’ll manage.
i’ll take the cushions off all the sofas, and lay them down on the floor, up against the curtain here for you and me so that we shall be together.
for if they come in and look about now, you know, they’ll find her, and carry her away, and they’ll be asking me questions, and i shall say i did it, and then they’ll take me away, too, don’t you see?
so let her lie close to us close to you and me.
“yes, yes,” agreed the prince, warmly.
“so we will not say anything about it, or let them take her away?”
“not for anything!” cried the other; “no, no, no!”
“so i had decided, my friend; not to give her up to anyone,” continued rogojin.
“we’ll be very quiet.
i have only been out of the house one hour all day, all the rest of the time i have been with her.
i dare say the air is very bad here.
it is so hot.
do you find it bad?”
“i don’t know perhaps by morning it will be.”
“i’ve covered her with oilcloth best american oilcloth, and put the sheet over that, and four jars of disinfectant, on account of the smell as they did at moscow you remember?
and she’s lying so still; you shall see, in the morning, when it’s light.
what!
can’t you get up?”
asked rogojin, seeing the other was trembling so that he could not rise from his seat.
“my legs won’t move,” said the prince; “it’s fear, i know.
when my fear is over, i’ll get up ”
“wait a bit i’ll make the bed, and you can lie down.
i’ll lie down, too, and we’ll listen and watch, for i don’t know yet what i shall do...
i tell you beforehand, so that you may be ready in case i ”
muttering these disconnected words, rogojin began to make up the beds.
it was clear that he had devised these beds long before; last night he slept on the sofa.
but there was no room for two on the sofa, and he seemed anxious that he and the prince should be close to one another; therefore, he now dragged cushions of all sizes and shapes from the sofas, and made a sort of bed of them close by the curtain.
he then approached the prince, and gently helped him to rise, and led him towards the bed.
but the prince could now walk by himself, so that his fear must have passed; for all that, however, he continued to shudder.
“it’s hot weather, you see,” continued rogojin, as he lay down on the cushions beside muishkin, “and, naturally, there will be a smell.
i daren’t open the window.
my mother has some beautiful flowers in pots; they have a delicious scent; i thought of fetching them in, but that old servant will find out, she’s very inquisitive.”
“yes, she is inquisitive,” assented the prince.
“i thought of buying flowers, and putting them all round her; but i was afraid it would make us sad to see her with flowers round her.”
“look here,” said the prince; he was bewildered, and his brain wandered.
he seemed to be continually groping for the questions he wished to ask, and then losing them.
“listen tell me how did you with a knife?
that same one?”
“yes, that same one.”
“wait a minute, i want to ask you something else, parfen; all sorts of things; but tell me first, did you intend to kill her before my wedding, at the church door, with your knife?”
“i don’t know whether i did or not,” said rogojin, drily, seeming to be a little astonished at the question, and not quite taking it in.
“did you never take your knife to pavlofsk with you?” “no.
as to the knife,” he added, “this is all i can tell you about it.” he was silent for a moment, and then said, “i took it out of the locked drawer this morning about three, for it was in the early morning all this happened.
it has been inside the book ever since and and this is what is such a marvel to me, the knife only went in a couple of inches at most, just under her left breast, and there wasn’t more than half a tablespoonful of blood altogether, not more.”
“yes yes yes ” the prince jumped up in extraordinary agitation.
“i know, i know, i’ve read of that sort of thing it’s internal haemorrhage, you know.
sometimes there isn’t a drop if the blow goes straight to the heart ”
“wait listen!” cried rogojin, suddenly, starting up.
“somebody’s walking about, do you hear?
in the hall.” both sat up to listen.
“i hear,” said the prince in a whisper, his eyes fixed on rogojin.
“footsteps?”
“yes.”
“shall we shut the door, and lock it, or not?”
“yes, lock it.”
they locked the door, and both lay down again.
there was a long silence.
“yes, by-the-by,” whispered the prince, hurriedly and excitedly as before, as though he had just seized hold of an idea and was afraid of losing it again.
“i i wanted those cards!
they say you played cards with her?”
“yes, i played with her,” said rogojin, after a short silence.
“where are the cards?”
“here they are,” said rogojin, after a still longer pause.
he pulled out a pack of cards, wrapped in a bit of paper, from his pocket, and handed them to the prince.
the latter took them, with a sort of perplexity.
a new, sad, helpless feeling weighed on his heart; he had suddenly realized that not only at this moment, but for a long while, he had not been saying what he wanted to say, had not been acting as he wanted to act; and that these cards which he held in his hand, and which he had been so delighted to have at first, were now of no use no use...
he rose, and wrung his hands.
rogojin lay motionless, and seemed neither to hear nor see his movements; but his eyes blazed in the darkness, and were fixed in a wild stare.
the prince sat down on a chair, and watched him in alarm.
half an hour went by.
suddenly rogojin burst into a loud abrupt laugh, as though he had quite forgotten that they must speak in whispers.
“that officer, eh!
that young officer don’t you remember that fellow at the band?
eh?
ha, ha, ha!
didn’t she whip him smartly, eh?”
the prince jumped up from his seat in renewed terror.
when rogojin quieted down (which he did at once) the prince bent over him, sat down beside him, and with painfully beating heart and still more painful breath, watched his face intently.
rogojin never turned his head, and seemed to have forgotten all about him.
the prince watched and waited.
time went on it began to grow light.
rogojin began to wander muttering disconnectedly; then he took to shouting and laughing.
the prince stretched out a trembling hand and gently stroked his hair and his cheeks he could do nothing more.
his legs trembled again and he seemed to have lost the use of them.
a new sensation came over him, filling his heart and soul with infinite anguish.
meanwhile the daylight grew full and strong; and at last the prince lay down, as though overcome by despair, and laid his face against the white, motionless face of rogojin.
his tears flowed on to rogojin’s cheek, though he was perhaps not aware of them himself.
at all events when, after many hours, the door was opened and people thronged in, they found the murderer unconscious and in a raging fever.
the prince was sitting by him, motionless, and each time that the sick man gave a laugh, or a shout, he hastened to pass his own trembling hand over his companion’s hair and cheeks, as though trying to soothe and quiet him.
but alas!
he understood nothing of what was said to him, and recognized none of those who surrounded him.
if schneider himself had arrived then and seen his former pupil and patient, remembering the prince’s condition during the first year in switzerland, he would have flung up his hands, despairingly, and cried, as he did then:
“an idiot!”
xii.
when the widow hurried away to pavlofsk, she went straight to daria alexeyevna’s house, and telling all she knew, threw her into a state of great alarm.
both ladies decided to communicate at once with lebedeff, who, as the friend and landlord of the prince, was also much agitated.
vera lebedeff told all she knew, and by lebedeff’s advice it was decided that all three should go to petersburg as quickly as possible, in order to avert “what might so easily happen.”
this is how it came about that at eleven o’clock next morning rogojin’s flat was opened by the police in the presence of lebedeff, the two ladies, and rogojin’s own brother, who lived in the wing.
the evidence of the porter went further than anything else towards the success of lebedeff in gaining the assistance of the police.
he declared that he had seen rogojin return to the house last night, accompanied by a friend, and that both had gone upstairs very secretly and cautiously.
after this there was no hesitation about breaking open the door, since it could not be got open in any other way.
rogojin suffered from brain fever for two months.
when he recovered from the attack he was at once brought up on trial for murder.
he gave full, satisfactory, and direct evidence on every point; and the prince’s name was, thanks to this, not brought into the proceedings.
rogojin was very quiet during the progress of the trial.
he did not contradict his clever and eloquent counsel, who argued that the brain fever, or inflammation of the brain, was the cause of the crime; clearly proving that this malady had existed long before the murder was perpetrated, and had been brought on by the sufferings of the accused.
but rogojin added no words of his own in confirmation of this view, and as before, he recounted with marvellous exactness the details of his crime.
he was convicted, but with extenuating circumstances, and condemned to hard labour in siberia for fifteen years.
he heard his sentence grimly, silently, and thoughtfully.
his colossal fortune, with the exception of the comparatively small portion wasted in the first wanton period of his inheritance, went to his brother, to the great satisfaction of the latter.
the old lady, rogojin’s mother, is still alive, and remembers her favourite son parfen sometimes, but not clearly.
god spared her the knowledge of this dreadful calamity which had overtaken her house.
lebedeff, keller, gania, ptitsin, and many other friends of ours continue to live as before.
there is scarcely any change in them, so that there is no need to tell of their subsequent doings.
hippolyte died in great agitation, and rather sooner than he expected, about a fortnight after nastasia philipovna’s death.
colia was much affected by these events, and drew nearer to his mother in heart and sympathy.
nina alexandrovna is anxious, because he is “thoughtful beyond his years,” but he will, we think, make a useful and active man.
the prince’s further fate was more or less decided by colia, who selected, out of all the persons he had met during the last six or seven months, evgenie pavlovitch, as friend and confidant.
to him he made over all that he knew as to the events above recorded, and as to the present condition of the prince.
he was not far wrong in his choice.
evgenie pavlovitch took the deepest interest in the fate of the unfortunate “idiot,” and, thanks to his influence, the prince found himself once more with dr. schneider, in switzerland.
evgenie pavlovitch, who went abroad at this time, intending to live a long while on the continent, being, as he often said, quite superfluous in russia, visits his sick friend at schneider’s every few months.
but dr. schneider frowns ever more and more and shakes his head; he hints that the brain is fatally injured; he does not as yet declare that his patient is incurable, but he allows himself to express the gravest fears.
evgenie takes this much to heart, and he has a heart, as is proved by the fact that he receives and even answers letters from colia.
but besides this, another trait in his character has become apparent, and as it is a good trait we will make haste to reveal it.
after each visit to schneider’s establishment, evgenie pavlovitch writes another letter, besides that to colia, giving the most minute particulars concerning the invalid’s condition.
in these letters is to be detected, and in each one more than the last, a growing feeling of friendship and sympathy.
the individual who corresponds thus with evgenie pavlovitch, and who engages so much of his attention and respect, is vera lebedeff.
we have never been able to discover clearly how such relations sprang up.
of course the root of them was in the events which we have already recorded, and which so filled vera with grief on the prince’s account that she fell seriously ill. but exactly how the acquaintance and friendship came about, we cannot say.
we have spoken of these letters chiefly because in them is often to be found some news of the epanchin family, and of aglaya in particular.
evgenie pavlovitch wrote of her from paris, that after a short and sudden attachment to a certain polish count, an exile, she had suddenly married him, quite against the wishes of her parents, though they had eventually given their consent through fear of a terrible scandal.
then, after a six months’ silence, evgenie pavlovitch informed his correspondent, in a long letter, full of detail, that while paying his last visit to dr. schneider’s establishment, he had there come across the whole epanchin family (excepting the general, who had remained in st. petersburg) and prince s. the meeting was a strange one.
they all received evgenie pavlovitch with effusive delight; adelaida and alexandra were deeply grateful to him for his “angelic kindness to the unhappy prince.”
lizabetha prokofievna, when she saw poor muishkin, in his enfeebled and humiliated condition, had wept bitterly.
apparently all was forgiven him.
prince s. had made a few just and sensible remarks.
it seemed to evgenie pavlovitch that there was not yet perfect harmony between adelaida and her fiance, but he thought that in time the impulsive young girl would let herself be guided by his reason and experience.
besides, the recent events that had befallen her family had given adelaida much to think about, especially the sad experiences of her younger sister.
within six months, everything that the family had dreaded from the marriage with the polish count had come to pass.
he turned out to be neither count nor exile at least, in the political sense of the word but had had to leave his native land owing to some rather dubious affair of the past.
it was his noble patriotism, of which he made a great display, that had rendered him so interesting in aglaya’s eyes.
she was so fascinated that, even before marrying him, she joined a committee that had been organized abroad to work for the restoration of poland; and further, she visited the confessional of a celebrated jesuit priest, who made an absolute fanatic of her.
the supposed fortune of the count had dwindled to a mere nothing, although he had given almost irrefutable evidence of its existence to lizabetha prokofievna and prince s.
besides this, before they had been married half a year, the count and his friend the priest managed to bring about a quarrel between aglaya and her family, so that it was now several months since they had seen her.
in a word, there was a great deal to say; but mrs. epanchin, and her daughters, and even prince s., were still so much distressed by aglaya’s latest infatuations and adventures, that they did not care to talk of them, though they must have known that evgenie knew much of the story already.
poor lizabetha prokofievna was most anxious to get home, and, according to evgenie’s account, she criticized everything foreign with much hostility.
“they can’t bake bread anywhere, decently; and they all freeze in their houses, during winter, like a lot of mice in a cellar.
at all events, i’ve had a good russian cry over this poor fellow,” she added, pointing to the prince, who had not recognized her in the slightest degree.
“so enough of this nonsense; it’s time we faced the truth.
all this continental life, all this europe of yours, and all the trash about ‘going abroad’ is simply foolery, and it is mere foolery on our part to come.
remember what i say, my friend; you’ll live to agree with me yourself.”
so spoke the good lady, almost angrily, as she took leave of evgenie pavlovitch.
a tale of two cities
i. the period
it was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to heaven, we were all going direct the other way
in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.
there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a plain face, on the throne of england; there were a king with a large jaw and a queen with a fair face, on the throne of france.
in both countries it was clearer than crystal to the lords of the state preserves of loaves and fishes, that things in general were settled for ever.
it was the year of our lord one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
spiritual revelations were conceded to england at that favoured period, as at this.
mrs. southcott had recently attained her five-and-twentieth blessed birthday, of whom a prophetic private in the life guards had heralded the sublime appearance by announcing that arrangements were made for the swallowing up of london and westminster.
even the cock-lane ghost had been laid only a round dozen of years, after rapping out its messages, as the spirits of this very year last past (supernaturally deficient in originality) rapped out theirs.
mere messages in the earthly order of events had lately come to the english crown and people, from a congress of british subjects in america: which, strange to relate, have proved more important to the human race than any communications yet received through any of the chickens of the cock-lane brood.
france, less favoured on the whole as to matters spiritual than her sister of the shield and trident, rolled with exceeding smoothness down hill, making paper money and spending it.
under the guidance of her christian pastors, she entertained herself, besides, with such humane achievements as sentencing a youth to have his hands cut off, his tongue torn out with pincers, and his body burned alive, because he had not kneeled down in the rain to do honour to a dirty procession of monks which passed within his view, at a distance of some fifty or sixty yards.
it is likely enough that, rooted in the woods of france and norway, there were growing trees, when that sufferer was put to death, already marked by the woodman, fate, to come down and be sawn into boards, to make a certain movable framework with a sack and a knife in it, terrible in history.
it is likely enough that in the rough outhouses of some tillers of the heavy lands adjacent to paris, there were sheltered from the weather that very day, rude carts, bespattered with rustic mire, snuffed about by pigs, and roosted in by poultry, which the farmer, death, had already set apart to be his tumbrils of the revolution.
but that woodman and that farmer, though they work unceasingly, work silently, and no one heard them as they went about with muffled tread: the rather, forasmuch as to entertain any suspicion that they were awake, was to be atheistical and traitorous.
in england, there was scarcely an amount of order and protection to justify much national boasting.
daring burglaries by armed men, and highway robberies, took place in the capital itself every night; families were publicly cautioned not to go out of town without removing their furniture to upholsterers' warehouses for security; the highwayman in the dark was a city tradesman in the light, and, being recognised and challenged by his fellow-tradesman whom he stopped in his character of “the captain,” gallantly shot him through the head and rode away; the mail was waylaid by seven robbers, and the guard shot three dead, and then got shot dead himself by the other four, “in consequence of the failure of his ammunition:” after which the mail was robbed in peace; that magnificent potentate, the lord mayor of london, was made to stand and deliver on turnham green, by one highwayman, who despoiled the illustrious creature in sight of all his retinue; prisoners in london gaols fought battles with their turnkeys, and the majesty of the law fired blunderbusses in among them, loaded with rounds of shot and ball; thieves snipped off diamond crosses from the necks of noble lords at court drawing-rooms; musketeers went into st. giles's, to search for contraband goods, and the mob fired on the musketeers, and the musketeers fired on the mob, and nobody thought any of these occurrences much out of the common way.
in the midst of them, the hangman, ever busy and ever worse than useless, was in constant requisition; now, stringing up long rows of miscellaneous criminals; now, hanging a housebreaker on saturday who had been taken on tuesday; now, burning people in the hand at newgate by the dozen, and now burning pamphlets at the door of westminster hall; to-day, taking the life of an atrocious murderer, and to-morrow of a wretched pilferer who had robbed a farmer's boy of sixpence.
all these things, and a thousand like them, came to pass in and close upon the dear old year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five.
environed by them, while the woodman and the farmer worked unheeded, those two of the large jaws, and those other two of the plain and the fair faces, trod with stir enough, and carried their divine rights with a high hand.
thus did the year one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five conduct their greatnesses, and myriads of small creatures the creatures of this chronicle among the rest along the roads that lay before them.
ii.
the mail
it was the dover road that lay, on a friday night late in november, before the first of the persons with whom this history has business.
the dover road lay, as to him, beyond the dover mail, as it lumbered up shooter's hill.
he walked up hill in the mire by the side of the mail, as the rest of the passengers did; not because they had the least relish for walking exercise, under the circumstances, but because the hill, and the harness, and the mud, and the mail, were all so heavy, that the horses had three times already come to a stop, besides once drawing the coach across the road, with the mutinous intent of taking it back to blackheath.
reins and whip and coachman and guard, however, in combination, had read that article of war which forbade a purpose otherwise strongly in favour of the argument, that some brute animals are endued with reason; and the team had capitulated and returned to their duty.
with drooping heads and tremulous tails, they mashed their way through the thick mud, floundering and stumbling between whiles, as if they were falling to pieces at the larger joints.
as often as the driver rested them and brought them to a stand, with a wary “wo-ho!
so-ho-then!” the near leader violently shook his head and everything upon it like an unusually emphatic horse, denying that the coach could be got up the hill.
whenever the leader made this rattle, the passenger started, as a nervous passenger might, and was disturbed in mind.
there was a steaming mist in all the hollows, and it had roamed in its forlornness up the hill, like an evil spirit, seeking rest and finding none.
a clammy and intensely cold mist, it made its slow way through the air in ripples that visibly followed and overspread one another, as the waves of an unwholesome sea might do.
it was dense enough to shut out everything from the light of the coach-lamps but these its own workings, and a few yards of road; and the reek of the labouring horses steamed into it, as if they had made it all.
two other passengers, besides the one, were plodding up the hill by the side of the mail.
all three were wrapped to the cheekbones and over the ears, and wore jack-boots.
not one of the three could have said, from anything he saw, what either of the other two was like; and each was hidden under almost as many wrappers from the eyes of the mind, as from the eyes of the body, of his two companions.
in those days, travellers were very shy of being confidential on a short notice, for anybody on the road might be a robber or in league with robbers.
as to the latter, when every posting-house and ale-house could produce somebody in “the captain's” pay, ranging from the landlord to the lowest stable non-descript, it was the likeliest thing upon the cards.
so the guard of the dover mail thought to himself, that friday night in november, one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, lumbering up shooter's hill, as he stood on his own particular perch behind the mail, beating his feet, and keeping an eye and a hand on the arm-chest before him, where a loaded blunderbuss lay at the top of six or eight loaded horse-pistols, deposited on a substratum of cutlass.
the dover mail was in its usual genial position that the guard suspected the passengers, the passengers suspected one another and the guard, they all suspected everybody else, and the coachman was sure of nothing but the horses; as to which cattle he could with a clear conscience have taken his oath on the two testaments that they were not fit for the journey.
“wo-ho!” said the coachman.
“so, then!
one more pull and you're at the top and be damned to you, for i have had trouble enough to get you to it!
joe!”
“halloa!” the guard replied.
“what o'clock do you make it, joe?”
“ten minutes, good, past eleven.”
“my blood!” ejaculated the vexed coachman, “and not atop of shooter's yet!
tst!
yah!
get on with you!”
the emphatic horse, cut short by the whip in a most decided negative, made a decided scramble for it, and the three other horses followed suit.
once more, the dover mail struggled on, with the jack-boots of its passengers squashing along by its side.
they had stopped when the coach stopped, and they kept close company with it.
if any one of the three had had the hardihood to propose to another to walk on a little ahead into the mist and darkness, he would have put himself in a fair way of getting shot instantly as a highwayman.
the last burst carried the mail to the summit of the hill.
the horses stopped to breathe again, and the guard got down to skid the wheel for the descent, and open the coach-door to let the passengers in.
“tst!
joe!” cried the coachman in a warning voice, looking down from his box.
“what do you say, tom?”
they both listened.
“i say a horse at a canter coming up, joe.”
“i say a horse at a gallop, tom,” returned the guard, leaving his hold of the door, and mounting nimbly to his place.
“gentlemen!
in the king's name, all of you!”
with this hurried adjuration, he cocked his blunderbuss, and stood on the offensive.
the passenger booked by this history, was on the coach-step, getting in; the two other passengers were close behind him, and about to follow.
he remained on the step, half in the coach and half out of; they remained in the road below him.
they all looked from the coachman to the guard, and from the guard to the coachman, and listened.
the coachman looked back and the guard looked back, and even the emphatic leader pricked up his ears and looked back, without contradicting.
the stillness consequent on the cessation of the rumbling and labouring of the coach, added to the stillness of the night, made it very quiet indeed.
the panting of the horses communicated a tremulous motion to the coach, as if it were in a state of agitation.
the hearts of the passengers beat loud enough perhaps to be heard; but at any rate, the quiet pause was audibly expressive of people out of breath, and holding the breath, and having the pulses quickened by expectation.
the sound of a horse at a gallop came fast and furiously up the hill.
“so-ho!” the guard sang out, as loud as he could roar.
“yo there!
stand!
i shall fire!”
the pace was suddenly checked, and, with much splashing and floundering, a man's voice called from the mist, “is that the dover mail?”
“never you mind what it is!” the guard retorted.
“what are you?”
“is that the dover mail?”
“why do you want to know?”
“i want a passenger, if it is.”
“what passenger?”
“mr.
jarvis lorry.”
our booked passenger showed in a moment that it was his name.
the guard, the coachman, and the two other passengers eyed him distrustfully.
“keep where you are,” the guard called to the voice in the mist, “because, if i should make a mistake, it could never be set right in your lifetime.
gentleman of the name of lorry answer straight.”
“what is the matter?” asked the passenger, then, with mildly quavering speech.
“who wants me?
is it jerry?”
(“i don't like jerry's voice, if it is jerry,” growled the guard to himself.
“he's hoarser than suits me, is jerry.”)
“yes, mr. lorry.”
“what is the matter?”
“a despatch sent after you from over yonder.
t. and co.”
“i know this messenger, guard,” said mr. lorry, getting down into the road assisted from behind more swiftly than politely by the other two passengers, who immediately scrambled into the coach, shut the door, and pulled up the window.
“he may come close; there's nothing wrong.”
“i hope there ain't, but i can't make so 'nation sure of that,” said the guard, in gruff soliloquy.
“hallo you!”
“well!
and hallo you!” said jerry, more hoarsely than before.
“come on at a footpace!
d'ye mind me?
and if you've got holsters to that saddle o' yourn, don't let me see your hand go nigh 'em.
for i'm a devil at a quick mistake, and when i make one it takes the form of lead.
so now let's look at you.”
the figures of a horse and rider came slowly through the eddying mist, and came to the side of the mail, where the passenger stood.
the rider stooped, and, casting up his eyes at the guard, handed the passenger a small folded paper.
the rider's horse was blown, and both horse and rider were covered with mud, from the hoofs of the horse to the hat of the man.
“guard!” said the passenger, in a tone of quiet business confidence.
the watchful guard, with his right hand at the stock of his raised blunderbuss, his left at the barrel, and his eye on the horseman, answered curtly, “sir.”
“there is nothing to apprehend.
i belong to tellson's bank.
you must know tellson's bank in london.
i am going to paris on business.
a crown to drink.
i may read this?”
“if so be as you're quick, sir.”
he opened it in the light of the coach-lamp on that side, and read first to himself and then aloud: “'wait at dover for mam'selle.'
it's not long, you see, guard.
jerry, say that my answer was, recalled to life.”
jerry started in his saddle.
“that's a blazing strange answer, too,”
said he, at his hoarsest.
“take that message back, and they will know that i received this, as well as if i wrote.
make the best of your way.
good night.”
with those words the passenger opened the coach-door and got in; not at all assisted by his fellow-passengers, who had expeditiously secreted their watches and purses in their boots, and were now making a general pretence of being asleep.
with no more definite purpose than to escape the hazard of originating any other kind of action.
the coach lumbered on again, with heavier wreaths of mist closing round it as it began the descent.
the guard soon replaced his blunderbuss in his arm-chest, and, having looked to the rest of its contents, and having looked to the supplementary pistols that he wore in his belt, looked to a smaller chest beneath his seat, in which there were a few smith's tools, a couple of torches, and a tinder-box.
for he was furnished with that completeness that if the coach-lamps had been blown and stormed out, which did occasionally happen, he had only to shut himself up inside, keep the flint and steel sparks well off the straw, and get a light with tolerable safety and ease (if he were lucky) in five minutes.
“tom!” softly over the coach roof.
“hallo, joe.”
“did you hear the message?”
“i did, joe.”
“what did you make of it, tom?”
“nothing at all, joe.”
“that's a coincidence, too,” the guard mused, “for i made the same of it myself.”
jerry, left alone in the mist and darkness, dismounted meanwhile, not only to ease his spent horse, but to wipe the mud from his face, and shake the wet out of his hat-brim, which might be capable of holding about half a gallon.
after standing with the bridle over his heavily-splashed arm, until the wheels of the mail were no longer within hearing and the night was quite still again, he turned to walk down the hill.
“after that there gallop from temple bar, old lady, i won't trust your fore-legs till i get you on the level,” said this hoarse messenger, glancing at his mare.
“'recalled to life.'
that's a blazing strange message.
much of that wouldn't do for you, jerry!
i say, jerry!
you'd be in a blazing bad way, if recalling to life was to come into fashion, jerry!”
iii.
the night shadows
a wonderful fact to reflect upon, that every human creature is constituted to be that profound secret and mystery to every other.
a solemn consideration, when i enter a great city by night, that every one of those darkly clustered houses encloses its own secret; that every room in every one of them encloses its own secret; that every beating heart in the hundreds of thousands of breasts there, is, in some of its imaginings, a secret to the heart nearest it!
something of the awfulness, even of death itself, is referable to this.
no more can i turn the leaves of this dear book that i loved, and vainly hope in time to read it all.
no more can i look into the depths of this unfathomable water, wherein, as momentary lights glanced into it, i have had glimpses of buried treasure and other things submerged.
it was appointed that the book should shut with a spring, for ever and for ever, when i had read but a page.
it was appointed that the water should be locked in an eternal frost, when the light was playing on its surface, and i stood in ignorance on the shore.
my friend is dead, my neighbour is dead, my love, the darling of my soul, is dead; it is the inexorable consolidation and perpetuation of the secret that was always in that individuality, and which i shall carry in mine to my life's end.
in any of the burial-places of this city through which i pass, is there a sleeper more inscrutable than its busy inhabitants are, in their innermost personality, to me, or than i am to them?
as to this, his natural and not to be alienated inheritance, the messenger on horseback had exactly the same possessions as the king, the first minister of state, or the richest merchant in london.
so with the three passengers shut up in the narrow compass of one lumbering old mail coach; they were mysteries to one another, as complete as if each had been in his own coach and six, or his own coach and sixty, with the breadth of a county between him and the next.
the messenger rode back at an easy trot, stopping pretty often at ale-houses by the way to drink, but evincing a tendency to keep his own counsel, and to keep his hat cocked over his eyes.
he had eyes that assorted very well with that decoration, being of a surface black, with no depth in the colour or form, and much too near together as if they were afraid of being found out in something, singly, if they kept too far apart.
they had a sinister expression, under an old cocked-hat like a three-cornered spittoon, and over a great muffler for the chin and throat, which descended nearly to the wearer's knees.
when he stopped for drink, he moved this muffler with his left hand, only while he poured his liquor in with his right; as soon as that was done, he muffled again.
“no, jerry, no!” said the messenger, harping on one theme as he rode.
“it wouldn't do for you, jerry.
jerry, you honest tradesman, it wouldn't suit your line of business!
recalled !
bust me if i don't think he'd been a drinking!”
his message perplexed his mind to that degree that he was fain, several times, to take off his hat to scratch his head.
except on the crown, which was raggedly bald, he had stiff, black hair, standing jaggedly all over it, and growing down hill almost to his broad, blunt nose.
it was so like smith's work, so much more like the top of a strongly spiked wall than a head of hair, that the best of players at leap-frog might have declined him, as the most dangerous man in the world to go over.
while he trotted back with the message he was to deliver to the night watchman in his box at the door of tellson's bank, by temple bar, who was to deliver it to greater authorities within, the shadows of the night took such shapes to him as arose out of the message, and took such shapes to the mare as arose out of her private topics of uneasiness.
they seemed to be numerous, for she shied at every shadow on the road.
what time, the mail-coach lumbered, jolted, rattled, and bumped upon its tedious way, with its three fellow-inscrutables inside.
to whom, likewise, the shadows of the night revealed themselves, in the forms their dozing eyes and wandering thoughts suggested.
tellson's bank had a run upon it in the mail.
as the bank passenger with an arm drawn through the leathern strap, which did what lay in it to keep him from pounding against the next passenger, and driving him into his corner, whenever the coach got a special jolt nodded in his place, with half-shut eyes, the little coach-windows, and the coach-lamp dimly gleaming through them, and the bulky bundle of opposite passenger, became the bank, and did a great stroke of business.
the rattle of the harness was the chink of money, and more drafts were honoured in five minutes than even tellson's, with all its foreign and home connection, ever paid in thrice the time.
then the strong-rooms underground, at tellson's, with such of their valuable stores and secrets as were known to the passenger (and it was not a little that he knew about them), opened before him, and he went in among them with the great keys and the feebly-burning candle, and found them safe, and strong, and sound, and still, just as he had last seen them.
but, though the bank was almost always with him, and though the coach (in a confused way, like the presence of pain under an opiate) was always with him, there was another current of impression that never ceased to run, all through the night.
he was on his way to dig some one out of a grave.
now, which of the multitude of faces that showed themselves before him was the true face of the buried person, the shadows of the night did not indicate; but they were all the faces of a man of five-and-forty by years, and they differed principally in the passions they expressed, and in the ghastliness of their worn and wasted state.
pride, contempt, defiance, stubbornness, submission, lamentation, succeeded one another; so did varieties of sunken cheek, cadaverous colour, emaciated hands and figures.
but the face was in the main one face, and every head was prematurely white.
a hundred times the dozing passenger inquired of this spectre:
“buried how long?”
the answer was always the same: “almost eighteen years.”
“you had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
“long ago.”
“you know that you are recalled to life?”
“they tell me so.”
“i hope you care to live?”
“i can't say.”
“shall i show her to you?
will you come and see her?”
the answers to this question were various and contradictory.
sometimes the broken reply was, “wait!
it would kill me if i saw her too soon.”
sometimes, it was given in a tender rain of tears, and then it was, “take me to her.” sometimes it was staring and bewildered, and then it was, “i don't know her.
i don't understand.”
after such imaginary discourse, the passenger in his fancy would dig, and dig, dig now with a spade, now with a great key, now with his hands to dig this wretched creature out.
got out at last, with earth hanging about his face and hair, he would suddenly fan away to dust.
the passenger would then start to himself, and lower the window, to get the reality of mist and rain on his cheek.
yet even when his eyes were opened on the mist and rain, on the moving patch of light from the lamps, and the hedge at the roadside retreating by jerks, the night shadows outside the coach would fall into the train of the night shadows within.
the real banking-house by temple bar, the real business of the past day, the real strong rooms, the real express sent after him, and the real message returned, would all be there.
out of the midst of them, the ghostly face would rise, and he would accost it again.
“buried how long?”
“almost eighteen years.”
“i hope you care to live?”
“i can't say.”
dig dig dig until an impatient movement from one of the two passengers would admonish him to pull up the window, draw his arm securely through the leathern strap, and speculate upon the two slumbering forms, until his mind lost its hold of them, and they again slid away into the bank and the grave.
“buried how long?”
“almost eighteen years.”
“you had abandoned all hope of being dug out?”
“long ago.”
the words were still in his hearing as just spoken distinctly in his hearing as ever spoken words had been in his life when the weary passenger started to the consciousness of daylight, and found that the shadows of the night were gone.
he lowered the window, and looked out at the rising sun.
there was a ridge of ploughed land, with a plough upon it where it had been left last night when the horses were unyoked; beyond, a quiet coppice-wood, in which many leaves of burning red and golden yellow still remained upon the trees.
though the earth was cold and wet, the sky was clear, and the sun rose bright, placid, and beautiful.
“eighteen years!” said the passenger, looking at the sun.
“gracious creator of day!
to be buried alive for eighteen years!”
iv.
the preparation
when the mail got successfully to dover, in the course of the forenoon, the head drawer at the royal george hotel opened the coach-door as his custom was.
he did it with some flourish of ceremony, for a mail journey from london in winter was an achievement to congratulate an adventurous traveller upon.
by that time, there was only one adventurous traveller left be congratulated: for the two others had been set down at their respective roadside destinations.
the mildewy inside of the coach, with its damp and dirty straw, its disagreeable smell, and its obscurity, was rather like a larger dog-kennel.
mr. lorry, the passenger, shaking himself out of it in chains of straw, a tangle of shaggy wrapper, flapping hat, and muddy legs, was rather like a larger sort of dog.
“there will be a packet to calais, tomorrow, drawer?”
“yes, sir, if the weather holds and the wind sets tolerable fair.
the tide will serve pretty nicely at about two in the afternoon, sir.
bed, sir?”
“i shall not go to bed till night; but i want a bedroom, and a barber.”
“and then breakfast, sir?
yes, sir.
that way, sir, if you please.
show concord!
gentleman's valise and hot water to concord.
pull off gentleman's boots in concord.
(you will find a fine sea-coal fire, sir.)
fetch barber to concord.
stir about there, now, for concord!”
the concord bed-chamber being always assigned to a passenger by the mail, and passengers by the mail being always heavily wrapped up from head to foot, the room had the odd interest for the establishment of the royal george, that although but one kind of man was seen to go into it, all kinds and varieties of men came out of it.
consequently, another drawer, and two porters, and several maids and the landlady, were all loitering by accident at various points of the road between the concord and the coffee-room, when a gentleman of sixty, formally dressed in a brown suit of clothes, pretty well worn, but very well kept, with large square cuffs and large flaps to the pockets, passed along on his way to his breakfast.
the coffee-room had no other occupant, that forenoon, than the gentleman in brown.
his breakfast-table was drawn before the fire, and as he sat, with its light shining on him, waiting for the meal, he sat so still, that he might have been sitting for his portrait.
very orderly and methodical he looked, with a hand on each knee, and a loud watch ticking a sonorous sermon under his flapped waist-coat, as though it pitted its gravity and longevity against the levity and evanescence of the brisk fire.
he had a good leg, and was a little vain of it, for his brown stockings fitted sleek and close, and were of a fine texture; his shoes and buckles, too, though plain, were trim.
he wore an odd little sleek crisp flaxen wig, setting very close to his head: which wig, it is to be presumed, was made of hair, but which looked far more as though it were spun from filaments of silk or glass.
his linen, though not of a fineness in accordance with his stockings, was as white as the tops of the waves that broke upon the neighbouring beach, or the specks of sail that glinted in the sunlight far at sea.
a face habitually suppressed and quieted, was still lighted up under the quaint wig by a pair of moist bright eyes that it must have cost their owner, in years gone by, some pains to drill to the composed and reserved expression of tellson's bank.
he had a healthy colour in his cheeks, and his face, though lined, bore few traces of anxiety.
but, perhaps the confidential bachelor clerks in tellson's bank were principally occupied with the cares of other people; and perhaps second-hand cares, like second-hand clothes, come easily off and on.
completing his resemblance to a man who was sitting for his portrait, mr. lorry dropped off to sleep.
the arrival of his breakfast roused him, and he said to the drawer, as he moved his chair to it:
“i wish accommodation prepared for a young lady who may come here at any time to-day.
she may ask for mr. jarvis lorry, or she may only ask for a gentleman from tellson's bank.
please to let me know.”
“yes, sir.
tellson's bank in london, sir?”
“yes.”
“yes, sir.
we have oftentimes the honour to entertain your gentlemen in their travelling backwards and forwards betwixt london and paris, sir.
a vast deal of travelling, sir, in tellson and company's house.”
“yes.
we are quite a french house, as well as an english one.”
“yes, sir.
not much in the habit of such travelling yourself, i think, sir?”
“not of late years.
it is fifteen years since we since i came last from france.”
“indeed, sir?
that was before my time here, sir.
before our people's time here, sir.
the george was in other hands at that time, sir.”
“i believe so.”
“but i would hold a pretty wager, sir, that a house like tellson and company was flourishing, a matter of fifty, not to speak of fifteen years ago?”
“you might treble that, and say a hundred and fifty, yet not be far from the truth.”
“indeed, sir!”
rounding his mouth and both his eyes, as he stepped backward from the table, the waiter shifted his napkin from his right arm to his left, dropped into a comfortable attitude, and stood surveying the guest while he ate and drank, as from an observatory or watchtower.
according to the immemorial usage of waiters in all ages.
when mr. lorry had finished his breakfast, he went out for a stroll on the beach.
the little narrow, crooked town of dover hid itself away from the beach, and ran its head into the chalk cliffs, like a marine ostrich.
the beach was a desert of heaps of sea and stones tumbling wildly about, and the sea did what it liked, and what it liked was destruction.
it thundered at the town, and thundered at the cliffs, and brought the coast down, madly.
the air among the houses was of so strong a piscatory flavour that one might have supposed sick fish went up to be dipped in it, as sick people went down to be dipped in the sea.
a little fishing was done in the port, and a quantity of strolling about by night, and looking seaward: particularly at those times when the tide made, and was near flood.
small tradesmen, who did no business whatever, sometimes unaccountably realised large fortunes, and it was remarkable that nobody in the neighbourhood could endure a lamplighter.
as the day declined into the afternoon, and the air, which had been at intervals clear enough to allow the french coast to be seen, became again charged with mist and vapour, mr. lorry's thoughts seemed to cloud too.
when it was dark, and he sat before the coffee-room fire, awaiting his dinner as he had awaited his breakfast, his mind was busily digging, digging, digging, in the live red coals.
a bottle of good claret after dinner does a digger in the red coals no harm, otherwise than as it has a tendency to throw him out of work.
mr. lorry had been idle a long time, and had just poured out his last glassful of wine with as complete an appearance of satisfaction as is ever to be found in an elderly gentleman of a fresh complexion who has got to the end of a bottle, when a rattling of wheels came up the narrow street, and rumbled into the inn-yard.
he set down his glass untouched.
“this is mam'selle!” said he.
in a very few minutes the waiter came in to announce that miss manette had arrived from london, and would be happy to see the gentleman from tellson's.
“so soon?”
miss manette had taken some refreshment on the road, and required none then, and was extremely anxious to see the gentleman from tellson's immediately, if it suited his pleasure and convenience.
the gentleman from tellson's had nothing left for it but to empty his glass with an air of stolid desperation, settle his odd little flaxen wig at the ears, and follow the waiter to miss manette's apartment.
it was a large, dark room, furnished in a funereal manner with black horsehair, and loaded with heavy dark tables.
these had been oiled and oiled, until the two tall candles on the table in the middle of the room were gloomily reflected on every leaf; as if they were buried, in deep graves of black mahogany, and no light to speak of could be expected from them until they were dug out.
the obscurity was so difficult to penetrate that mr. lorry, picking his way over the well-worn turkey carpet, supposed miss manette to be, for the moment, in some adjacent room, until, having got past the two tall candles, he saw standing to receive him by the table between them and the fire, a young lady of not more than seventeen, in a riding-cloak, and still holding her straw travelling-hat by its ribbon in her hand.
as his eyes rested on a short, slight, pretty figure, a quantity of golden hair, a pair of blue eyes that met his own with an inquiring look, and a forehead with a singular capacity (remembering how young and smooth it was), of rifting and knitting itself into an expression that was not quite one of perplexity, or wonder, or alarm, or merely of a bright fixed attention, though it included all the four expressions as his eyes rested on these things, a sudden vivid likeness passed before him, of a child whom he had held in his arms on the passage across that very channel, one cold time, when the hail drifted heavily and the sea ran high.
the likeness passed away, like a breath along the surface of the gaunt pier-glass behind her, on the frame of which, a hospital procession of negro cupids, several headless and all cripples, were offering black baskets of dead sea fruit to black divinities of the feminine gender and he made his formal bow to miss manette.
“pray take a seat, sir.” in a very clear and pleasant young voice; a little foreign in its accent, but a very little indeed.
“i kiss your hand, miss,” said mr. lorry, with the manners of an earlier date, as he made his formal bow again, and took his seat.
“i received a letter from the bank, sir, yesterday, informing me that some intelligence or discovery ”
“the word is not material, miss; either word will do.”
“ respecting the small property of my poor father, whom i never saw so long dead ”
mr. lorry moved in his chair, and cast a troubled look towards the hospital procession of negro cupids.
as if they had any help for anybody in their absurd baskets!
“ rendered it necessary that i should go to paris, there to communicate with a gentleman of the bank, so good as to be despatched to paris for the purpose.”
“myself.”
“as i was prepared to hear, sir.”
she curtseyed to him (young ladies made curtseys in those days), with a pretty desire to convey to him that she felt how much older and wiser he was than she.
he made her another bow.
“i replied to the bank, sir, that as it was considered necessary, by those who know, and who are so kind as to advise me, that i should go to france, and that as i am an orphan and have no friend who could go with me, i should esteem it highly if i might be permitted to place myself, during the journey, under that worthy gentleman's protection.
the gentleman had left london, but i think a messenger was sent after him to beg the favour of his waiting for me here.”
“i was happy,” said mr. lorry, “to be entrusted with the charge.
i shall be more happy to execute it.”
“sir, i thank you indeed.
i thank you very gratefully.
it was told me by the bank that the gentleman would explain to me the details of the business, and that i must prepare myself to find them of a surprising nature.
i have done my best to prepare myself, and i naturally have a strong and eager interest to know what they are.”
“naturally,” said mr. lorry.
“yes i ”
after a pause, he added, again settling the crisp flaxen wig at the ears, “it is very difficult to begin.”
he did not begin, but, in his indecision, met her glance.
the young forehead lifted itself into that singular expression but it was pretty and characteristic, besides being singular and she raised her hand, as if with an involuntary action she caught at, or stayed some passing shadow.
“are you quite a stranger to me, sir?”
“am i not?” mr. lorry opened his hands, and extended them outwards with an argumentative smile.
between the eyebrows and just over the little feminine nose, the line of which was as delicate and fine as it was possible to be, the expression deepened itself as she took her seat thoughtfully in the chair by which she had hitherto remained standing.
he watched her as she mused, and the moment she raised her eyes again, went on:
“in your adopted country, i presume, i cannot do better than address you as a young english lady, miss manette?”
“if you please, sir.”
“miss manette, i am a man of business.
i have a business charge to acquit myself of.
in your reception of it, don't heed me any more than if i was a speaking machine truly, i am not much else.
i will, with your leave, relate to you, miss, the story of one of our customers.”
“story!”
he seemed wilfully to mistake the word she had repeated, when he added, in a hurry, “yes, customers; in the banking business we usually call our connection our customers.
he was a french gentleman; a scientific gentleman; a man of great acquirements a doctor.”
“not of beauvais?”
“why, yes, of beauvais.
like monsieur manette, your father, the gentleman was of beauvais.
like monsieur manette, your father, the gentleman was of repute in paris.
i had the honour of knowing him there.
our relations were business relations, but confidential.
i was at that time in our french house, and had been oh!
twenty years.”
“at that time i may ask, at what time, sir?”
“i speak, miss, of twenty years ago.
he married an english lady and i was one of the trustees.
his affairs, like the affairs of many other french gentlemen and french families, were entirely in tellson's hands.
in a similar way i am, or i have been, trustee of one kind or other for scores of our customers.
these are mere business relations, miss; there is no friendship in them, no particular interest, nothing like sentiment.
i have passed from one to another, in the course of my business life, just as i pass from one of our customers to another in the course of my business day; in short, i have no feelings; i am a mere machine.
to go on ”
“but this is my father's story, sir; and i begin to think” the curiously roughened forehead was very intent upon him “that when i was left an orphan through my mother's surviving my father only two years, it was you who brought me to england.
i am almost sure it was you.”
mr. lorry took the hesitating little hand that confidingly advanced to take his, and he put it with some ceremony to his lips.
he then conducted the young lady straightway to her chair again, and, holding the chair-back with his left hand, and using his right by turns to rub his chin, pull his wig at the ears, or point what he said, stood looking down into her face while she sat looking up into his.
“miss manette, it was i. and you will see how truly i spoke of myself just now, in saying i had no feelings, and that all the relations i hold with my fellow-creatures are mere business relations, when you reflect that i have never seen you since.
no; you have been the ward of tellson's house since, and i have been busy with the other business of tellson's house since.
feelings!
i have no time for them, no chance of them.
i pass my whole life, miss, in turning an immense pecuniary mangle.”
after this odd description of his daily routine of employment, mr. lorry flattened his flaxen wig upon his head with both hands (which was most unnecessary, for nothing could be flatter than its shining surface was before), and resumed his former attitude.
“so far, miss (as you have remarked), this is the story of your regretted father.
now comes the difference.
if your father had not died when he did don't be frightened!
how you start!”
she did, indeed, start.
and she caught his wrist with both her hands.
“pray,” said mr. lorry, in a soothing tone, bringing his left hand from the back of the chair to lay it on the supplicatory fingers that clasped him in so violent a tremble: “pray control your agitation a matter of business.
as i was saying ”
her look so discomposed him that he stopped, wandered, and began anew:
“as i was saying; if monsieur manette had not died; if he had suddenly and silently disappeared; if he had been spirited away; if it had not been difficult to guess to what dreadful place, though no art could trace him; if he had an enemy in some compatriot who could exercise a privilege that i in my own time have known the boldest people afraid to speak of in a whisper, across the water there; for instance, the privilege of filling up blank forms for the consignment of any one to the oblivion of a prison for any length of time; if his wife had implored the king, the queen, the court, the clergy, for any tidings of him, and all quite in vain; then the history of your father would have been the history of this unfortunate gentleman, the doctor of beauvais.”
“i entreat you to tell me more, sir.”
“i will.
i am going to.
you can bear it?”
“i can bear anything but the uncertainty you leave me in at this moment.”
“you speak collectedly, and you are collected.
that's good!” (though his manner was less satisfied than his words.)
“a matter of business.
regard it as a matter of business business that must be done.
now if this doctor's wife, though a lady of great courage and spirit, had suffered so intensely from this cause before her little child was born ”
“the little child was a daughter, sir.”
“a daughter.
a-a-matter of business don't be distressed.
miss, if the poor lady had suffered so intensely before her little child was born, that she came to the determination of sparing the poor child the inheritance of any part of the agony she had known the pains of, by rearing her in the belief that her father was dead no, don't kneel!
in heaven's name why should you kneel to me!”
“for the truth.
o dear, good, compassionate sir, for the truth!”
“a a matter of business.
you confuse me, and how can i transact business if i am confused?
let us be clear-headed.
if you could kindly mention now, for instance, what nine times ninepence are, or how many shillings in twenty guineas, it would be so encouraging.
i should be so much more at my ease about your state of mind.”
without directly answering to this appeal, she sat so still when he had very gently raised her, and the hands that had not ceased to clasp his wrists were so much more steady than they had been, that she communicated some reassurance to mr. jarvis lorry.
“that's right, that's right.
courage!
business!
you have business before you; useful business.
miss manette, your mother took this course with you.
and when she died i believe broken-hearted having never slackened her unavailing search for your father, she left you, at two years old, to grow to be blooming, beautiful, and happy, without the dark cloud upon you of living in uncertainty whether your father soon wore his heart out in prison, or wasted there through many lingering years.”
as he said the words he looked down, with an admiring pity, on the flowing golden hair; as if he pictured to himself that it might have been already tinged with grey.
“you know that your parents had no great possession, and that what they had was secured to your mother and to you.
there has been no new discovery, of money, or of any other property; but ”
he felt his wrist held closer, and he stopped.
the expression in the forehead, which had so particularly attracted his notice, and which was now immovable, had deepened into one of pain and horror.
“but he has been been found.
he is alive.
greatly changed, it is too probable; almost a wreck, it is possible; though we will hope the best.
still, alive.
your father has been taken to the house of an old servant in paris, and we are going there: i, to identify him if i can: you, to restore him to life, love, duty, rest, comfort.”
a shiver ran through her frame, and from it through his.
she said, in a low, distinct, awe-stricken voice, as if she were saying it in a dream,
“i am going to see his ghost!
it will be his ghost not him!”
mr. lorry quietly chafed the hands that held his arm.
“there, there, there!
see now, see now!
the best and the worst are known to you, now.
you are well on your way to the poor wronged gentleman, and, with a fair sea voyage, and a fair land journey, you will be soon at his dear side.”
she repeated in the same tone, sunk to a whisper, “i have been free, i have been happy, yet his ghost has never haunted me!”
“only one thing more,” said mr. lorry, laying stress upon it as a wholesome means of enforcing her attention: “he has been found under another name; his own, long forgotten or long concealed.
it would be worse than useless now to inquire which; worse than useless to seek to know whether he has been for years overlooked, or always designedly held prisoner.
it would be worse than useless now to make any inquiries, because it would be dangerous.
better not to mention the subject, anywhere or in any way, and to remove him for a while at all events out of france.
even i, safe as an englishman, and even tellson's, important as they are to french credit, avoid all naming of the matter.
i carry about me, not a scrap of writing openly referring to it.
this is a secret service altogether.
my credentials, entries, and memoranda, are all comprehended in the one line, 'recalled to life;'
which may mean anything.
but what is the matter!
she doesn't notice a word!
miss manette!”
perfectly still and silent, and not even fallen back in her chair, she sat under his hand, utterly insensible; with her eyes open and fixed upon him, and with that last expression looking as if it were carved or branded into her forehead.
so close was her hold upon his arm, that he feared to detach himself lest he should hurt her; therefore he called out loudly for assistance without moving.
a wild-looking woman, whom even in his agitation, mr. lorry observed to be all of a red colour, and to have red hair, and to be dressed in some extraordinary tight-fitting fashion, and to have on her head a most wonderful bonnet like a grenadier wooden measure, and good measure too, or a great stilton cheese, came running into the room in advance of the inn servants, and soon settled the question of his detachment from the poor young lady, by laying a brawny hand upon his chest, and sending him flying back against the nearest wall.
(“i really think this must be a man!” was mr. lorry's breathless reflection, simultaneously with his coming against the wall.)
“why, look at you all!” bawled this figure, addressing the inn servants.
“why don't you go and fetch things, instead of standing there staring at me?
i am not so much to look at, am i?
why don't you go and fetch things?
i'll let you know, if you don't bring smelling-salts, cold water, and vinegar, quick, i will.”
there was an immediate dispersal for these restoratives, and she softly laid the patient on a sofa, and tended her with great skill and gentleness: calling her “my precious!” and “my bird!” and spreading her golden hair aside over her shoulders with great pride and care.
“and you in brown!” she said, indignantly turning to mr. lorry; “couldn't you tell her what you had to tell her, without frightening her to death?
look at her, with her pretty pale face and her cold hands.
do you call that being a banker?”
mr. lorry was so exceedingly disconcerted by a question so hard to answer, that he could only look on, at a distance, with much feebler sympathy and humility, while the strong woman, having banished the inn servants under the mysterious penalty of “letting them know” something not mentioned if they stayed there, staring, recovered her charge by a regular series of gradations, and coaxed her to lay her drooping head upon her shoulder.
“i hope she will do well now,” said mr. lorry.
“no thanks to you in brown, if she does.
my darling pretty!”
“i hope,” said mr. lorry, after another pause of feeble sympathy and humility, “that you accompany miss manette to france?”
“a likely thing, too!” replied the strong woman.
“if it was ever intended that i should go across salt water, do you suppose providence would have cast my lot in an island?”
this being another question hard to answer, mr. jarvis lorry withdrew to consider it.
v. the wine-shop
a large cask of wine had been dropped and broken, in the street.
the accident had happened in getting it out of a cart; the cask had tumbled out with a run, the hoops had burst, and it lay on the stones just outside the door of the wine-shop, shattered like a walnut-shell.
all the people within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine.
the rough, irregular stones of the street, pointing every way, and designed, one might have thought, expressly to lame all living creatures that approached them, had dammed it into little pools; these were surrounded, each by its own jostling group or crowd, according to its size.
some men kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and sipped, or tried to help women, who bent over their shoulders, to sip, before the wine had all run out between their fingers.
others, men and women, dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads, which were squeezed dry into infants'
mouths; others made small mud-embankments, to stem the wine as it ran; others, directed by lookers-on up at high windows, darted here and there, to cut off little streams of wine that started away in new directions; others devoted themselves to the sodden and lee-dyed pieces of the cask, licking, and even champing the moister wine-rotted fragments with eager relish.
there was no drainage to carry off the wine, and not only did it all get taken up, but so much mud got taken up along with it, that there might have been a scavenger in the street, if anybody acquainted with it could have believed in such a miraculous presence.
a shrill sound of laughter and of amused voices voices of men, women, and children resounded in the street while this wine game lasted.
there was little roughness in the sport, and much playfulness.
there was a special companionship in it, an observable inclination on the part of every one to join some other one, which led, especially among the luckier or lighter-hearted, to frolicsome embraces, drinking of healths, shaking of hands, and even joining of hands and dancing, a dozen together.
when the wine was gone, and the places where it had been most abundant were raked into a gridiron-pattern by fingers, these demonstrations ceased, as suddenly as they had broken out.
the man who had left his saw sticking in the firewood he was cutting, set it in motion again; the women who had left on a door-step the little pot of hot ashes, at which she had been trying to soften the pain in her own starved fingers and toes, or in those of her child, returned to it; men with bare arms, matted locks, and cadaverous faces, who had emerged into the winter light from cellars, moved away, to descend again; and a gloom gathered on the scene that appeared more natural to it than sunshine.
the wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of saint antoine, in paris, where it was spilled.
it had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden shoes.
the hands of the man who sawed the wood, left red marks on the billets; and the forehead of the woman who nursed her baby, was stained with the stain of the old rag she wound about her head again.
those who had been greedy with the staves of the cask, had acquired a tigerish smear about the mouth; and one tall joker so besmirched, his head more out of a long squalid bag of a nightcap than in it, scrawled upon a wall with his finger dipped in muddy wine-lees blood.
the time was to come, when that wine too would be spilled on the street-stones, and when the stain of it would be red upon many there.
and now that the cloud settled on saint antoine, which a momentary gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was heavy cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want, were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence nobles of great power all of them; but, most especially the last.
samples of a people that had undergone a terrible grinding and regrinding in the mill, and certainly not in the fabulous mill which ground old people young, shivered at every corner, passed in and out at every doorway, looked from every window, fluttered in every vestige of a garment that the wind shook.
the mill which had worked them down, was the mill that grinds young people old; the children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age and coming up afresh, was the sigh, hunger.
it was prevalent everywhere.
hunger was pushed out of the tall houses, in the wretched clothing that hung upon poles and lines; hunger was patched into them with straw and rag and wood and paper; hunger was repeated in every fragment of the small modicum of firewood that the man sawed off; hunger stared down from the smokeless chimneys, and started up from the filthy street that had no offal, among its refuse, of anything to eat.
hunger was the inscription on the baker's shelves, written in every small loaf of his scanty stock of bad bread; at the sausage-shop, in every dead-dog preparation that was offered for sale.
hunger rattled its dry bones among the roasting chestnuts in the turned cylinder; hunger was shred into atomics in every farthing porringer of husky chips of potato, fried with some reluctant drops of oil.
its abiding place was in all things fitted to it.
a narrow winding street, full of offence and stench, with other narrow winding streets diverging, all peopled by rags and nightcaps, and all smelling of rags and nightcaps, and all visible things with a brooding look upon them that looked ill. in the hunted air of the people there was yet some wild-beast thought of the possibility of turning at bay.
depressed and slinking though they were, eyes of fire were not wanting among them; nor compressed lips, white with what they suppressed; nor foreheads knitted into the likeness of the gallows-rope they mused about enduring, or inflicting.
the trade signs (and they were almost as many as the shops)
were, all, grim illustrations of want.
the butcher and the porkman painted up, only the leanest scrags of meat; the baker, the coarsest of meagre loaves.
the people rudely pictured as drinking in the wine-shops, croaked over their scanty measures of thin wine and beer, and were gloweringly confidential together.
nothing was represented in a flourishing condition, save tools and weapons; but, the cutler's knives and axes were sharp and bright, the smith's hammers were heavy, and the gunmaker's stock was murderous.
the crippling stones of the pavement, with their many little reservoirs of mud and water, had no footways, but broke off abruptly at the doors.
the kennel, to make amends, ran down the middle of the street when it ran at all: which was only after heavy rains, and then it ran, by many eccentric fits, into the houses.
across the streets, at wide intervals, one clumsy lamp was slung by a rope and pulley; at night, when the lamplighter had let these down, and lighted, and hoisted them again, a feeble grove of dim wicks swung in a sickly manner overhead, as if they were at sea.
indeed they were at sea, and the ship and crew were in peril of tempest.
for, the time was to come, when the gaunt scarecrows of that region should have watched the lamplighter, in their idleness and hunger, so long, as to conceive the idea of improving on his method, and hauling up men by those ropes and pulleys, to flare upon the darkness of their condition.
but, the time was not come yet; and every wind that blew over france shook the rags of the scarecrows in vain, for the birds, fine of song and feather, took no warning.
the wine-shop was a corner shop, better than most others in its appearance and degree, and the master of the wine-shop had stood outside it, in a yellow waistcoat and green breeches, looking on at the struggle for the lost wine.
“it's not my affair,” said he, with a final shrug of the shoulders.
“the people from the market did it.
let them bring another.”
there, his eyes happening to catch the tall joker writing up his joke, he called to him across the way:
“say, then, my gaspard, what do you do there?”
the fellow pointed to his joke with immense significance, as is often the way with his tribe.
it missed its mark, and completely failed, as is often the way with his tribe too.
“what now?
are you a subject for the mad hospital?” said the wine-shop keeper, crossing the road, and obliterating the jest with a handful of mud, picked up for the purpose, and smeared over it.
“why do you write in the public streets?
is there tell me thou is there no other place to write such words in?”
in his expostulation he dropped his cleaner hand (perhaps accidentally, perhaps not) upon the joker's heart.
the joker rapped it with his own, took a nimble spring upward, and came down in a fantastic dancing attitude, with one of his stained shoes jerked off his foot into his hand, and held out.
a joker of an extremely, not to say wolfishly practical character, he looked, under those circumstances.
“put it on, put it on,” said the other.
“call wine, wine; and finish there.” with that advice, he wiped his soiled hand upon the joker's dress, such as it was quite deliberately, as having dirtied the hand on his account; and then recrossed the road and entered the wine-shop.
this wine-shop keeper was a bull-necked, martial-looking man of thirty, and he should have been of a hot temperament, for, although it was a bitter day, he wore no coat, but carried one slung over his shoulder.
his shirt-sleeves were rolled up, too, and his brown arms were bare to the elbows.
neither did he wear anything more on his head than his own crisply-curling short dark hair.
he was a dark man altogether, with good eyes and a good bold breadth between them.
good-humoured looking on the whole, but implacable-looking, too; evidently a man of a strong resolution and a set purpose; a man not desirable to be met, rushing down a narrow pass with a gulf on either side, for nothing would turn the man.
madame defarge, his wife, sat in the shop behind the counter as he came in.
madame defarge was a stout woman of about his own age, with a watchful eye that seldom seemed to look at anything, a large hand heavily ringed, a steady face, strong features, and great composure of manner.
there was a character about madame defarge, from which one might have predicated that she did not often make mistakes against herself in any of the reckonings over which she presided.
madame defarge being sensitive to cold, was wrapped in fur, and had a quantity of bright shawl twined about her head, though not to the concealment of her large earrings.
her knitting was before her, but she had laid it down to pick her teeth with a toothpick.
thus engaged, with her right elbow supported by her left hand, madame defarge said nothing when her lord came in, but coughed just one grain of cough.
this, in combination with the lifting of her darkly defined eyebrows over her toothpick by the breadth of a line, suggested to her husband that he would do well to look round the shop among the customers, for any new customer who had dropped in while he stepped over the way.
the wine-shop keeper accordingly rolled his eyes about, until they rested upon an elderly gentleman and a young lady, who were seated in a corner.
other company were there: two playing cards, two playing dominoes, three standing by the counter lengthening out a short supply of wine.
as he passed behind the counter, he took notice that the elderly gentleman said in a look to the young lady, “this is our man.”
“what the devil do you do in that galley there?” said monsieur defarge to himself; “i don't know you.”
but, he feigned not to notice the two strangers, and fell into discourse with the triumvirate of customers who were drinking at the counter.
“how goes it, jacques?” said one of these three to monsieur defarge.
“is all the spilt wine swallowed?”
“every drop, jacques,” answered monsieur defarge.
when this interchange of christian name was effected, madame defarge, picking her teeth with her toothpick, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
“it is not often,” said the second of the three, addressing monsieur defarge, “that many of these miserable beasts know the taste of wine, or of anything but black bread and death.
is it not so, jacques?”
“it is so, jacques,” monsieur defarge returned.
at this second interchange of the christian name, madame defarge, still using her toothpick with profound composure, coughed another grain of cough, and raised her eyebrows by the breadth of another line.
the last of the three now said his say, as he put down his empty drinking vessel and smacked his lips.
“ah!
so much the worse!
a bitter taste it is that such poor cattle always have in their mouths, and hard lives they live, jacques.
am i right, jacques?”
“you are right, jacques,” was the response of monsieur defarge.
this third interchange of the christian name was completed at the moment when madame defarge put her toothpick by, kept her eyebrows up, and slightly rustled in her seat.
“hold then!
true!” muttered her husband.
“gentlemen my wife!”
the three customers pulled off their hats to madame defarge, with three flourishes.
she acknowledged their homage by bending her head, and giving them a quick look.
then she glanced in a casual manner round the wine-shop, took up her knitting with great apparent calmness and repose of spirit, and became absorbed in it.
“gentlemen,” said her husband, who had kept his bright eye observantly upon her, “good day.
the chamber, furnished bachelor-fashion, that you wished to see, and were inquiring for when i stepped out, is on the fifth floor.
the doorway of the staircase gives on the little courtyard close to the left here,” pointing with his hand, “near to the window of my establishment.
but, now that i remember, one of you has already been there, and can show the way.
gentlemen, adieu!”
they paid for their wine, and left the place.
the eyes of monsieur defarge were studying his wife at her knitting when the elderly gentleman advanced from his corner, and begged the favour of a word.
“willingly, sir,” said monsieur defarge, and quietly stepped with him to the door.
their conference was very short, but very decided.
almost at the first word, monsieur defarge started and became deeply attentive.
it had not lasted a minute, when he nodded and went out.
the gentleman then beckoned to the young lady, and they, too, went out.
madame defarge knitted with nimble fingers and steady eyebrows, and saw nothing.
mr. jarvis lorry and miss manette, emerging from the wine-shop thus, joined monsieur defarge in the doorway to which he had directed his own company just before.
it opened from a stinking little black courtyard, and was the general public entrance to a great pile of houses, inhabited by a great number of people.
in the gloomy tile-paved entry to the gloomy tile-paved staircase, monsieur defarge bent down on one knee to the child of his old master, and put her hand to his lips.
it was a gentle action, but not at all gently done; a very remarkable transformation had come over him in a few seconds.
he had no good-humour in his face, nor any openness of aspect left, but had become a secret, angry, dangerous man.
“it is very high; it is a little difficult.
better to begin slowly.”
thus, monsieur defarge, in a stern voice, to mr. lorry, as they began ascending the stairs.
“is he alone?” the latter whispered.
“alone!
god help him, who should be with him!” said the other, in the same low voice.
“is he always alone, then?”
“yes.”
“of his own desire?”
“of his own necessity.
as he was, when i first saw him after they found me and demanded to know if i would take him, and, at my peril be discreet as he was then, so he is now.”
“he is greatly changed?”
“changed!”
the keeper of the wine-shop stopped to strike the wall with his hand, and mutter a tremendous curse.
no direct answer could have been half so forcible.
mr. lorry's spirits grew heavier and heavier, as he and his two companions ascended higher and higher.
such a staircase, with its accessories, in the older and more crowded parts of paris, would be bad enough now; but, at that time, it was vile indeed to unaccustomed and unhardened senses.
every little habitation within the great foul nest of one high building that is to say, the room or rooms within every door that opened on the general staircase left its own heap of refuse on its own landing, besides flinging other refuse from its own windows.
the uncontrollable and hopeless mass of decomposition so engendered, would have polluted the air, even if poverty and deprivation had not loaded it with their intangible impurities; the two bad sources combined made it almost insupportable.
through such an atmosphere, by a steep dark shaft of dirt and poison, the way lay.
yielding to his own disturbance of mind, and to his young companion's agitation, which became greater every instant, mr.
jarvis lorry twice stopped to rest.
each of these stoppages was made at a doleful grating, by which any languishing good airs that were left uncorrupted, seemed to escape, and all spoilt and sickly vapours seemed to crawl in.
through the rusted bars, tastes, rather than glimpses, were caught of the jumbled neighbourhood; and nothing within range, nearer or lower than the summits of the two great towers of notre-dame, had any promise on it of healthy life or wholesome aspirations.
at last, the top of the staircase was gained, and they stopped for the third time.
there was yet an upper staircase, of a steeper inclination and of contracted dimensions, to be ascended, before the garret story was reached.
the keeper of the wine-shop, always going a little in advance, and always going on the side which mr. lorry took, as though he dreaded to be asked any question by the young lady, turned himself about here, and, carefully feeling in the pockets of the coat he carried over his shoulder, took out a key.
“the door is locked then, my friend?” said mr. lorry, surprised.
“ay.
yes,” was the grim reply of monsieur defarge.
“you think it necessary to keep the unfortunate gentleman so retired?”
“i think it necessary to turn the key.” monsieur defarge whispered it closer in his ear, and frowned heavily.
“why?”
“why!
because he has lived so long, locked up, that he would be frightened rave tear himself to pieces die come to i know not what harm if his door was left open.”
“is it possible!” exclaimed mr. lorry.
“is it possible!” repeated defarge, bitterly.
“yes.
and a beautiful world we live in, when it is possible, and when many other such things are possible, and not only possible, but done done, see you!
under that sky there, every day.
long live the devil.
let us go on.”
this dialogue had been held in so very low a whisper, that not a word of it had reached the young lady's ears.
but, by this time she trembled under such strong emotion, and her face expressed such deep anxiety, and, above all, such dread and terror, that mr. lorry felt it incumbent on him to speak a word or two of reassurance.
“courage, dear miss!
courage!
business!
the worst will be over in a moment; it is but passing the room-door, and the worst is over.
then, all the good you bring to him, all the relief, all the happiness you bring to him, begin.
let our good friend here, assist you on that side.
that's well, friend defarge.
come, now.
business, business!”
they went up slowly and softly.
the staircase was short, and they were soon at the top.
there, as it had an abrupt turn in it, they came all at once in sight of three men, whose heads were bent down close together at the side of a door, and who were intently looking into the room to which the door belonged, through some chinks or holes in the wall.
on hearing footsteps close at hand, these three turned, and rose, and showed themselves to be the three of one name who had been drinking in the wine-shop.
“i forgot them in the surprise of your visit,” explained monsieur defarge.
“leave us, good boys; we have business here.”
the three glided by, and went silently down.
there appearing to be no other door on that floor, and the keeper of the wine-shop going straight to this one when they were left alone, mr.
lorry asked him in a whisper, with a little anger:
“do you make a show of monsieur manette?”
“i show him, in the way you have seen, to a chosen few.”
“is that well?”
“i think it is well.”
“who are the few?
how do you choose them?”
“i choose them as real men, of my name jacques is my name to whom the sight is likely to do good.
enough; you are english; that is another thing.
stay there, if you please, a little moment.”
with an admonitory gesture to keep them back, he stooped, and looked in through the crevice in the wall.
soon raising his head again, he struck twice or thrice upon the door evidently with no other object than to make a noise there.
with the same intention, he drew the key across it, three or four times, before he put it clumsily into the lock, and turned it as heavily as he could.
the door slowly opened inward under his hand, and he looked into the room and said something.
a faint voice answered something.
little more than a single syllable could have been spoken on either side.
he looked back over his shoulder, and beckoned them to enter.
mr. lorry got his arm securely round the daughter's waist, and held her; for he felt that she was sinking.
“a-a-a-business, business!” he urged, with a moisture that was not of business shining on his cheek.
“come in, come in!”
“i am afraid of it,” she answered, shuddering.
“of it?
what?”
“i mean of him.
of my father.”
rendered in a manner desperate, by her state and by the beckoning of their conductor, he drew over his neck the arm that shook upon his shoulder, lifted her a little, and hurried her into the room.
he sat her down just within the door, and held her, clinging to him.
defarge drew out the key, closed the door, locked it on the inside, took out the key again, and held it in his hand.
all this he did, methodically, and with as loud and harsh an accompaniment of noise as he could make.
finally, he walked across the room with a measured tread to where the window was.
he stopped there, and faced round.
the garret, built to be a depository for firewood and the like, was dim and dark: for, the window of dormer shape, was in truth a door in the roof, with a little crane over it for the hoisting up of stores from the street: unglazed, and closing up the middle in two pieces, like any other door of french construction.
to exclude the cold, one half of this door was fast closed, and the other was opened but a very little way.
such a scanty portion of light was admitted through these means, that it was difficult, on first coming in, to see anything; and long habit alone could have slowly formed in any one, the ability to do any work requiring nicety in such obscurity.
yet, work of that kind was being done in the garret; for, with his back towards the door, and his face towards the window where the keeper of the wine-shop stood looking at him, a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping forward and very busy, making shoes.
vi.
the shoemaker
“good day!” said monsieur defarge, looking down at the white head that bent low over the shoemaking.
it was raised for a moment, and a very faint voice responded to the salutation, as if it were at a distance:
“good day!”
“you are still hard at work, i see?”
after a long silence, the head was lifted for another moment, and the voice replied, “yes i am working.” this time, a pair of haggard eyes had looked at the questioner, before the face had dropped again.
the faintness of the voice was pitiable and dreadful.
it was not the faintness of physical weakness, though confinement and hard fare no doubt had their part in it.
its deplorable peculiarity was, that it was the faintness of solitude and disuse.
it was like the last feeble echo of a sound made long and long ago.
so entirely had it lost the life and resonance of the human voice, that it affected the senses like a once beautiful colour faded away into a poor weak stain.
so sunken and suppressed it was, that it was like a voice underground.
so expressive it was, of a hopeless and lost creature, that a famished traveller, wearied out by lonely wandering in a wilderness, would have remembered home and friends in such a tone before lying down to die.
some minutes of silent work had passed: and the haggard eyes had looked up again: not with any interest or curiosity, but with a dull mechanical perception, beforehand, that the spot where the only visitor they were aware of had stood, was not yet empty.
“i want,” said defarge, who had not removed his gaze from the shoemaker, “to let in a little more light here.
you can bear a little more?”
the shoemaker stopped his work; looked with a vacant air of listening, at the floor on one side of him; then similarly, at the floor on the other side of him; then, upward at the speaker.
“what did you say?”
“you can bear a little more light?”
“i must bear it, if you let it in.” (laying the palest shadow of a stress upon the second word.)
the opened half-door was opened a little further, and secured at that angle for the time.
a broad ray of light fell into the garret, and showed the workman with an unfinished shoe upon his lap, pausing in his labour.
his few common tools and various scraps of leather were at his feet and on his bench.
he had a white beard, raggedly cut, but not very long, a hollow face, and exceedingly bright eyes.
the hollowness and thinness of his face would have caused them to look large, under his yet dark eyebrows and his confused white hair, though they had been really otherwise; but, they were naturally large, and looked unnaturally so.
his yellow rags of shirt lay open at the throat, and showed his body to be withered and worn.
he, and his old canvas frock, and his loose stockings, and all his poor tatters of clothes, had, in a long seclusion from direct light and air, faded down to such a dull uniformity of parchment-yellow, that it would have been hard to say which was which.
he had put up a hand between his eyes and the light, and the very bones of it seemed transparent.
so he sat, with a steadfastly vacant gaze, pausing in his work.
he never looked at the figure before him, without first looking down on this side of himself, then on that, as if he had lost the habit of associating place with sound; he never spoke, without first wandering in this manner, and forgetting to speak.
“are you going to finish that pair of shoes to-day?” asked defarge, motioning to mr. lorry to come forward.
“what did you say?”
“do you mean to finish that pair of shoes to-day?”
“i can't say that i mean to.
i suppose so.
i don't know.”
but, the question reminded him of his work, and he bent over it again.
mr. lorry came silently forward, leaving the daughter by the door.
when he had stood, for a minute or two, by the side of defarge, the shoemaker looked up.
he showed no surprise at seeing another figure, but the unsteady fingers of one of his hands strayed to his lips as he looked at it (his lips and his nails were of the same pale lead-colour), and then the hand dropped to his work, and he once more bent over the shoe.
the look and the action had occupied but an instant.
“you have a visitor, you see,” said monsieur defarge.
“what did you say?”
“here is a visitor.”
the shoemaker looked up as before, but without removing a hand from his work.
“come!” said defarge.
“here is monsieur, who knows a well-made shoe when he sees one.
show him that shoe you are working at.
take it, monsieur.”
mr. lorry took it in his hand.
“tell monsieur what kind of shoe it is, and the maker's name.”
there was a longer pause than usual, before the shoemaker replied:
“i forget what it was you asked me.
what did you say?”
“i said, couldn't you describe the kind of shoe, for monsieur's information?”
“it is a lady's shoe.
it is a young lady's walking-shoe.
it is in the present mode.
i never saw the mode.
i have had a pattern in my hand.” he glanced at the shoe with some little passing touch of pride.
“and the maker's name?” said defarge.
now that he had no work to hold, he laid the knuckles of the right hand in the hollow of the left, and then the knuckles of the left hand in the hollow of the right, and then passed a hand across his bearded chin, and so on in regular changes, without a moment's intermission.
the task of recalling him from the vagrancy into which he always sank when he had spoken, was like recalling some very weak person from a swoon, or endeavouring, in the hope of some disclosure, to stay the spirit of a fast-dying man.
“did you ask me for my name?”
“assuredly i did.”
“one hundred and five, north tower.”
“is that all?”
“one hundred and five, north tower.”
with a weary sound that was not a sigh, nor a groan, he bent to work again, until the silence was again broken.
“you are not a shoemaker by trade?” said mr. lorry, looking steadfastly at him.
his haggard eyes turned to defarge as if he would have transferred the question to him: but as no help came from that quarter, they turned back on the questioner when they had sought the ground.
“i am not a shoemaker by trade?
no, i was not a shoemaker by trade.
i-i learnt it here.
i taught myself.
i asked leave to ”
he lapsed away, even for minutes, ringing those measured changes on his hands the whole time.
his eyes came slowly back, at last, to the face from which they had wandered; when they rested on it, he started, and resumed, in the manner of a sleeper that moment awake, reverting to a subject of last night.
“i asked leave to teach myself, and i got it with much difficulty after a long while, and i have made shoes ever since.”
as he held out his hand for the shoe that had been taken from him, mr.
lorry said, still looking steadfastly in his face:
“monsieur manette, do you remember nothing of me?”
the shoe dropped to the ground, and he sat looking fixedly at the questioner.
“monsieur manette”; mr. lorry laid his hand upon defarge's arm; “do you remember nothing of this man?
look at him.
look at me.
is there no old banker, no old business, no old servant, no old time, rising in your mind, monsieur manette?”
as the captive of many years sat looking fixedly, by turns, at mr.
lorry and at defarge, some long obliterated marks of an actively intent intelligence in the middle of the forehead, gradually forced themselves through the black mist that had fallen on him.
they were overclouded again, they were fainter, they were gone; but they had been there.
and so exactly was the expression repeated on the fair young face of her who had crept along the wall to a point where she could see him, and where she now stood looking at him, with hands which at first had been only raised in frightened compassion, if not even to keep him off and shut out the sight of him, but which were now extending towards him, trembling with eagerness to lay the spectral face upon her warm young breast, and love it back to life and hope so exactly was the expression repeated (though in stronger characters) on her fair young face, that it looked as though it had passed like a moving light, from him to her.
darkness had fallen on him in its place.
he looked at the two, less and less attentively, and his eyes in gloomy abstraction sought the ground and looked about him in the old way.
finally, with a deep long sigh, he took the shoe up, and resumed his work.
“have you recognised him, monsieur?” asked defarge in a whisper.
“yes; for a moment.
at first i thought it quite hopeless, but i have unquestionably seen, for a single moment, the face that i once knew so well.
hush!
let us draw further back.
hush!”
she had moved from the wall of the garret, very near to the bench on which he sat.
there was something awful in his unconsciousness of the figure that could have put out its hand and touched him as he stooped over his labour.
not a word was spoken, not a sound was made.
she stood, like a spirit, beside him, and he bent over his work.
it happened, at length, that he had occasion to change the instrument in his hand, for his shoemaker's knife.
it lay on that side of him which was not the side on which she stood.
he had taken it up, and was stooping to work again, when his eyes caught the skirt of her dress.
he raised them, and saw her face.
the two spectators started forward, but she stayed them with a motion of her hand.
she had no fear of his striking at her with the knife, though they had.
he stared at her with a fearful look, and after a while his lips began to form some words, though no sound proceeded from them.
by degrees, in the pauses of his quick and laboured breathing, he was heard to say:
“what is this?”
with the tears streaming down her face, she put her two hands to her lips, and kissed them to him; then clasped them on her breast, as if she laid his ruined head there.
“you are not the gaoler's daughter?”
she sighed “no.”
“who are you?”
not yet trusting the tones of her voice, she sat down on the bench beside him.
he recoiled, but she laid her hand upon his arm.
a strange thrill struck him when she did so, and visibly passed over his frame; he laid the knife down softly, as he sat staring at her.
her golden hair, which she wore in long curls, had been hurriedly pushed aside, and fell down over her neck.
advancing his hand by little and little, he took it up and looked at it.
in the midst of the action he went astray, and, with another deep sigh, fell to work at his shoemaking.
but not for long.
releasing his arm, she laid her hand upon his shoulder.
after looking doubtfully at it, two or three times, as if to be sure that it was really there, he laid down his work, put his hand to his neck, and took off a blackened string with a scrap of folded rag attached to it.
he opened this, carefully, on his knee, and it contained a very little quantity of hair: not more than one or two long golden hairs, which he had, in some old day, wound off upon his finger.
he took her hair into his hand again, and looked closely at it.
“it is the same.
how can it be!
when was it!
how was it!”
as the concentrated expression returned to his forehead, he seemed to become conscious that it was in hers too.
he turned her full to the light, and looked at her.
“she had laid her head upon my shoulder, that night when i was summoned out she had a fear of my going, though i had none and when i was brought to the north tower they found these upon my sleeve.
'you will leave me them?
they can never help me to escape in the body, though they may in the spirit.'
those were the words i said.
i remember them very well.”
he formed this speech with his lips many times before he could utter it.
but when he did find spoken words for it, they came to him coherently, though slowly.
“how was this?
was it you?”
once more, the two spectators started, as he turned upon her with a frightful suddenness.
but she sat perfectly still in his grasp, and only said, in a low voice, “i entreat you, good gentlemen, do not come near us, do not speak, do not move!”
“hark!” he exclaimed.
“whose voice was that?”
his hands released her as he uttered this cry, and went up to his white hair, which they tore in a frenzy.
it died out, as everything but his shoemaking did die out of him, and he refolded his little packet and tried to secure it in his breast; but he still looked at her, and gloomily shook his head.
“no, no, no; you are too young, too blooming.
it can't be.
see what the prisoner is.
these are not the hands she knew, this is not the face she knew, this is not a voice she ever heard.
no, no.
she was and he was before the slow years of the north tower ages ago.
what is your name, my gentle angel?”
hailing his softened tone and manner, his daughter fell upon her knees before him, with her appealing hands upon his breast.
“o, sir, at another time you shall know my name, and who my mother was, and who my father, and how i never knew their hard, hard history.
but i cannot tell you at this time, and i cannot tell you here.
all that i may tell you, here and now, is, that i pray to you to touch me and to bless me.
kiss me, kiss me!
o my dear, my dear!”
his cold white head mingled with her radiant hair, which warmed and lighted it as though it were the light of freedom shining on him.
“if you hear in my voice i don't know that it is so, but i hope it is if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that once was sweet music in your ears, weep for it, weep for it!
if you touch, in touching my hair, anything that recalls a beloved head that lay on your breast when you were young and free, weep for it, weep for it!
if, when i hint to you of a home that is before us, where i will be true to you with all my duty and with all my faithful service, i bring back the remembrance of a home long desolate, while your poor heart pined away, weep for it, weep for it!”
she held him closer round the neck, and rocked him on her breast like a child.
“if, when i tell you, dearest dear, that your agony is over, and that i have come here to take you from it, and that we go to england to be at peace and at rest, i cause you to think of your useful life laid waste, and of our native france so wicked to you, weep for it, weep for it!
and if, when i shall tell you of my name, and of my father who is living, and of my mother who is dead, you learn that i have to kneel to my honoured father, and implore his pardon for having never for his sake striven all day and lain awake and wept all night, because the love of my poor mother hid his torture from me, weep for it, weep for it!
weep for her, then, and for me!
good gentlemen, thank god!
i feel his sacred tears upon my face, and his sobs strike against my heart.
o, see!
thank god for us, thank god!”
he had sunk in her arms, and his face dropped on her breast: a sight so touching, yet so terrible in the tremendous wrong and suffering which had gone before it, that the two beholders covered their faces.
when the quiet of the garret had been long undisturbed, and his heaving breast and shaken form had long yielded to the calm that must follow all storms emblem to humanity, of the rest and silence into which the storm called life must hush at last they came forward to raise the father and daughter from the ground.
he had gradually dropped to the floor, and lay there in a lethargy, worn out.
she had nestled down with him, that his head might lie upon her arm; and her hair drooping over him curtained him from the light.
“if, without disturbing him,” she said, raising her hand to mr. lorry as he stooped over them, after repeated blowings of his nose, “all could be arranged for our leaving paris at once, so that, from the very door, he could be taken away ”
“but, consider.
is he fit for the journey?” asked mr. lorry.
“more fit for that, i think, than to remain in this city, so dreadful to him.”
“it is true,” said defarge, who was kneeling to look on and hear.
“more than that; monsieur manette is, for all reasons, best out of france.
say, shall i hire a carriage and post-horses?”
“that's business,” said mr. lorry, resuming on the shortest notice his methodical manners; “and if business is to be done, i had better do it.”
“then be so kind,” urged miss manette, “as to leave us here.
you see how composed he has become, and you cannot be afraid to leave him with me now.
why should you be?
if you will lock the door to secure us from interruption, i do not doubt that you will find him, when you come back, as quiet as you leave him.
in any case, i will take care of him until you return, and then we will remove him straight.”
both mr. lorry and defarge were rather disinclined to this course, and in favour of one of them remaining.
but, as there were not only carriage and horses to be seen to, but travelling papers; and as time pressed, for the day was drawing to an end, it came at last to their hastily dividing the business that was necessary to be done, and hurrying away to do it.
then, as the darkness closed in, the daughter laid her head down on the hard ground close at the father's side, and watched him.
the darkness deepened and deepened, and they both lay quiet, until a light gleamed through the chinks in the wall.
mr. lorry and monsieur defarge had made all ready for the journey, and had brought with them, besides travelling cloaks and wrappers, bread and meat, wine, and hot coffee.
monsieur defarge put this provender, and the lamp he carried, on the shoemaker's bench (there was nothing else in the garret but a pallet bed), and he and mr. lorry roused the captive, and assisted him to his feet.
no human intelligence could have read the mysteries of his mind, in the scared blank wonder of his face.
whether he knew what had happened, whether he recollected what they had said to him, whether he knew that he was free, were questions which no sagacity could have solved.
they tried speaking to him; but, he was so confused, and so very slow to answer, that they took fright at his bewilderment, and agreed for the time to tamper with him no more.
he had a wild, lost manner of occasionally clasping his head in his hands, that had not been seen in him before; yet, he had some pleasure in the mere sound of his daughter's voice, and invariably turned to it when she spoke.
in the submissive way of one long accustomed to obey under coercion, he ate and drank what they gave him to eat and drink, and put on the cloak and other wrappings, that they gave him to wear.
he readily responded to his daughter's drawing her arm through his, and took and kept her hand in both his own.
they began to descend; monsieur defarge going first with the lamp, mr.
lorry closing the little procession.
they had not traversed many steps of the long main staircase when he stopped, and stared at the roof and round at the walls.
“you remember the place, my father?
you remember coming up here?”
“what did you say?”
but, before she could repeat the question, he murmured an answer as if she had repeated it.
“remember?
no, i don't remember.
it was so very long ago.”
that he had no recollection whatever of his having been brought from his prison to that house, was apparent to them.
they heard him mutter, “one hundred and five, north tower;” and when he looked about him, it evidently was for the strong fortress-walls which had long encompassed him.
on their reaching the courtyard he instinctively altered his tread, as being in expectation of a drawbridge; and when there was no drawbridge, and he saw the carriage waiting in the open street, he dropped his daughter's hand and clasped his head again.
no crowd was about the door; no people were discernible at any of the many windows; not even a chance passerby was in the street.
an unnatural silence and desertion reigned there.
only one soul was to be seen, and that was madame defarge who leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
the prisoner had got into a coach, and his daughter had followed him, when mr. lorry's feet were arrested on the step by his asking, miserably, for his shoemaking tools and the unfinished shoes.
madame defarge immediately called to her husband that she would get them, and went, knitting, out of the lamplight, through the courtyard.
she quickly brought them down and handed them in; and immediately afterwards leaned against the door-post, knitting, and saw nothing.
defarge got upon the box, and gave the word “to the barrier!” the postilion cracked his whip, and they clattered away under the feeble over-swinging lamps.
under the over-swinging lamps swinging ever brighter in the better streets, and ever dimmer in the worse and by lighted shops, gay crowds, illuminated coffee-houses, and theatre-doors, to one of the city gates.
soldiers with lanterns, at the guard-house there.
“your papers, travellers!” “see here then, monsieur the officer,” said defarge, getting down, and taking him gravely apart, “these are the papers of monsieur inside, with the white head.
they were consigned to me, with him, at the ” he dropped his voice, there was a flutter among the military lanterns, and one of them being handed into the coach by an arm in uniform, the eyes connected with the arm looked, not an every day or an every night look, at monsieur with the white head.
“it is well.
forward!” from the uniform.
“adieu!” from defarge.
and so, under a short grove of feebler and feebler over-swinging lamps, out under the great grove of stars.
beneath that arch of unmoved and eternal lights; some, so remote from this little earth that the learned tell us it is doubtful whether their rays have even yet discovered it, as a point in space where anything is suffered or done: the shadows of the night were broad and black.
all through the cold and restless interval, until dawn, they once more whispered in the ears of mr. jarvis lorry sitting opposite the buried man who had been dug out, and wondering what subtle powers were for ever lost to him, and what were capable of restoration the old inquiry:
“i hope you care to be recalled to life?”
and the old answer:
“i can't say.”
the end of the first book.
book the second the golden thread
i. five years later
tellson's bank by temple bar was an old-fashioned place, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty.
it was very small, very dark, very ugly, very incommodious.
it was an old-fashioned place, moreover, in the moral attribute that the partners in the house were proud of its smallness, proud of its darkness, proud of its ugliness, proud of its incommodiousness.
they were even boastful of its eminence in those particulars, and were fired by an express conviction that, if it were less objectionable, it would be less respectable.
this was no passive belief, but an active weapon which they flashed at more convenient places of business.
tellson's (they said) wanted no elbow-room, tellson's wanted no light, tellson's wanted no embellishment.
noakes and co.'s might, or snooks brothers' might; but tellson's, thank heaven !
any one of these partners would have disinherited his son on the question of rebuilding tellson's.
in this respect the house was much on a par with the country; which did very often disinherit its sons for suggesting improvements in laws and customs that had long been highly objectionable, but were only the more respectable.
thus it had come to pass, that tellson's was the triumphant perfection of inconvenience.
after bursting open a door of idiotic obstinacy with a weak rattle in its throat, you fell into tellson's down two steps, and came to your senses in a miserable little shop, with two little counters, where the oldest of men made your cheque shake as if the wind rustled it, while they examined the signature by the dingiest of windows, which were always under a shower-bath of mud from fleet-street, and which were made the dingier by their own iron bars proper, and the heavy shadow of temple bar.
if your business necessitated your seeing “the house,” you were put into a species of condemned hold at the back, where you meditated on a misspent life, until the house came with its hands in its pockets, and you could hardly blink at it in the dismal twilight.
your money came out of, or went into, wormy old wooden drawers, particles of which flew up your nose and down your throat when they were opened and shut.
your bank-notes had a musty odour, as if they were fast decomposing into rags again.
your plate was stowed away among the neighbouring cesspools, and evil communications corrupted its good polish in a day or two.
your deeds got into extemporised strong-rooms made of kitchens and sculleries, and fretted all the fat out of their parchments into the banking-house air.
your lighter boxes of family papers went up-stairs into a barmecide room, that always had a great dining-table in it and never had a dinner, and where, even in the year one thousand seven hundred and eighty, the first letters written to you by your old love, or by your little children, were but newly released from the horror of being ogled through the windows, by the heads exposed on temple bar with an insensate brutality and ferocity worthy of abyssinia or ashantee.
but indeed, at that time, putting to death was a recipe much in vogue with all trades and professions, and not least of all with tellson's.
death is nature's remedy for all things, and why not legislation's?
accordingly, the forger was put to death; the utterer of a bad note was put to death; the unlawful opener of a letter was put to death; the purloiner of forty shillings and sixpence was put to death; the holder of a horse at tellson's door, who made off with it, was put to death; the coiner of a bad shilling was put to death; the sounders of three-fourths of the notes in the whole gamut of crime, were put to death.
not that it did the least good in the way of prevention it might almost have been worth remarking that the fact was exactly the reverse but, it cleared off (as to this world) the trouble of each particular case, and left nothing else connected with it to be looked after.
thus, tellson's, in its day, like greater places of business, its contemporaries, had taken so many lives, that, if the heads laid low before it had been ranged on temple bar instead of being privately disposed of, they would probably have excluded what little light the ground floor had, in a rather significant manner.
cramped in all kinds of dim cupboards and hutches at tellson's, the oldest of men carried on the business gravely.
when they took a young man into tellson's london house, they hid him somewhere till he was old.
they kept him in a dark place, like a cheese, until he had the full tellson flavour and blue-mould upon him.
then only was he permitted to be seen, spectacularly poring over large books, and casting his breeches and gaiters into the general weight of the establishment.
outside tellson's never by any means in it, unless called in was an odd-job-man, an occasional porter and messenger, who served as the live sign of the house.
he was never absent during business hours, unless upon an errand, and then he was represented by his son: a grisly urchin of twelve, who was his express image.
people understood that tellson's, in a stately way, tolerated the odd-job-man.
the house had always tolerated some person in that capacity, and time and tide had drifted this person to the post.
his surname was cruncher, and on the youthful occasion of his renouncing by proxy the works of darkness, in the easterly parish church of hounsditch, he had received the added appellation of jerry.
the scene was mr. cruncher's private lodging in hanging-sword-alley, whitefriars: the time, half-past seven of the clock on a windy march morning, anno domini seventeen hundred and eighty.
(mr. cruncher himself always spoke of the year of our lord as anna dominoes: apparently under the impression that the christian era dated from the invention of a popular game, by a lady who had bestowed her name upon it.)
mr. cruncher's apartments were not in a savoury neighbourhood, and were but two in number, even if a closet with a single pane of glass in it might be counted as one.
but they were very decently kept.
early as it was, on the windy march morning, the room in which he lay abed was already scrubbed throughout; and between the cups and saucers arranged for breakfast, and the lumbering deal table, a very clean white cloth was spread.
mr. cruncher reposed under a patchwork counterpane, like a harlequin at home.
at first, he slept heavily, but, by degrees, began to roll and surge in bed, until he rose above the surface, with his spiky hair looking as if it must tear the sheets to ribbons.
at which juncture, he exclaimed, in a voice of dire exasperation:
“bust me, if she ain't at it agin!”
a woman of orderly and industrious appearance rose from her knees in a corner, with sufficient haste and trepidation to show that she was the person referred to.
“what!” said mr. cruncher, looking out of bed for a boot.
“you're at it agin, are you?”
after hailing the morn with this second salutation, he threw a boot at the woman as a third.
it was a very muddy boot, and may introduce the odd circumstance connected with mr. cruncher's domestic economy, that, whereas he often came home after banking hours with clean boots, he often got up next morning to find the same boots covered with clay.
“what,” said mr. cruncher, varying his apostrophe after missing his mark “what are you up to, aggerawayter?”
“i was only saying my prayers.”
“saying your prayers!
you're a nice woman!
what do you mean by flopping yourself down and praying agin me?”
“i was not praying against you; i was praying for you.”
“you weren't.
and if you were, i won't be took the liberty with.
here!
your mother's a nice woman, young jerry, going a praying agin your father's prosperity.
you've got a dutiful mother, you have, my son.
you've got a religious mother, you have, my boy: going and flopping herself down, and praying that the bread-and-butter may be snatched out of the mouth of her only child.”
master cruncher (who was in his shirt) took this very ill, and, turning to his mother, strongly deprecated any praying away of his personal board.
“and what do you suppose, you conceited female,” said mr. cruncher, with unconscious inconsistency, “that the worth of your prayers may be?
name the price that you put your prayers at!”
“they only come from the heart, jerry.
they are worth no more than that.”
“worth no more than that,” repeated mr. cruncher.
“they ain't worth much, then.
whether or no, i won't be prayed agin, i tell you.
i can't afford it.
i'm not a going to be made unlucky by your sneaking.
if you must go flopping yourself down, flop in favour of your husband and child, and not in opposition to 'em.
if i had had any but a unnat'ral wife, and this poor boy had had any but a unnat'ral mother, i might have made some money last week instead of being counter-prayed and countermined and religiously circumwented into the worst of luck.
b-u-u-ust me!” said mr. cruncher, who all this time had been putting on his clothes, “if i ain't, what with piety and one blowed thing and another, been choused this last week into as bad luck as ever a poor devil of a honest tradesman met with!
young jerry, dress yourself, my boy, and while i clean my boots keep a eye upon your mother now and then, and if you see any signs of more flopping, give me a call.
for, i tell you,” here he addressed his wife once more, “i won't be gone agin, in this manner.
i am as rickety as a hackney-coach, i'm as sleepy as laudanum, my lines is strained to that degree that i shouldn't know, if it wasn't for the pain in 'em, which was me and which somebody else, yet i'm none the better for it in pocket; and it's my suspicion that you've been at it from morning to night to prevent me from being the better for it in pocket, and i won't put up with it, aggerawayter, and what do you say now!”
growling, in addition, such phrases as “ah!
yes!
you're religious, too.
you wouldn't put yourself in opposition to the interests of your husband and child, would you?
not you!” and throwing off other sarcastic sparks from the whirling grindstone of his indignation, mr. cruncher betook himself to his boot-cleaning and his general preparation for business.
in the meantime, his son, whose head was garnished with tenderer spikes, and whose young eyes stood close by one another, as his father's did, kept the required watch upon his mother.
he greatly disturbed that poor woman at intervals, by darting out of his sleeping closet, where he made his toilet, with a suppressed cry of “you are going to flop, mother.
halloa, father!” and, after raising this fictitious alarm, darting in again with an undutiful grin.
mr. cruncher's temper was not at all improved when he came to his breakfast.
he resented mrs. cruncher's saying grace with particular animosity.
“now, aggerawayter!
what are you up to?
at it again?”
his wife explained that she had merely “asked a blessing.”
“don't do it!” said mr. crunches looking about, as if he rather expected to see the loaf disappear under the efficacy of his wife's petitions.
“i ain't a going to be blest out of house and home.
i won't have my wittles blest off my table.
keep still!”
exceedingly red-eyed and grim, as if he had been up all night at a party which had taken anything but a convivial turn, jerry cruncher worried his breakfast rather than ate it, growling over it like any four-footed inmate of a menagerie.
towards nine o'clock he smoothed his ruffled aspect, and, presenting as respectable and business-like an exterior as he could overlay his natural self with, issued forth to the occupation of the day.
it could scarcely be called a trade, in spite of his favourite description of himself as “a honest tradesman.” his stock consisted of a wooden stool, made out of a broken-backed chair cut down, which stool, young jerry, walking at his father's side, carried every morning to beneath the banking-house window that was nearest temple bar: where, with the addition of the first handful of straw that could be gleaned from any passing vehicle to keep the cold and wet from the odd-job-man's feet, it formed the encampment for the day.
on this post of his, mr.
cruncher was as well known to fleet-street and the temple, as the bar itself, and was almost as in-looking.
encamped at a quarter before nine, in good time to touch his three-cornered hat to the oldest of men as they passed in to tellson's, jerry took up his station on this windy march morning, with young jerry standing by him, when not engaged in making forays through the bar, to inflict bodily and mental injuries of an acute description on passing boys who were small enough for his amiable purpose.
father and son, extremely like each other, looking silently on at the morning traffic in fleet-street, with their two heads as near to one another as the two eyes of each were, bore a considerable resemblance to a pair of monkeys.
the resemblance was not lessened by the accidental circumstance, that the mature jerry bit and spat out straw, while the twinkling eyes of the youthful jerry were as restlessly watchful of him as of everything else in fleet-street.
the head of one of the regular indoor messengers attached to tellson's establishment was put through the door, and the word was given:
“porter wanted!”
“hooray, father!
here's an early job to begin with!”
having thus given his parent god speed, young jerry seated himself on the stool, entered on his reversionary interest in the straw his father had been chewing, and cogitated.
“al-ways rusty!
his fingers is al-ways rusty!” muttered young jerry.
“where does my father get all that iron rust from?
he don't get no iron rust here!”
ii.
a sight
“you know the old bailey well, no doubt?” said one of the oldest of clerks to jerry the messenger.
“ye-es, sir,” returned jerry, in something of a dogged manner.
“i do know the bailey.”
“just so.
and you know mr. lorry.”
“i know mr. lorry, sir, much better than i know the bailey.
much better,” said jerry, not unlike a reluctant witness at the establishment in question, “than i, as a honest tradesman, wish to know the bailey.”
“very well.
find the door where the witnesses go in, and show the door-keeper this note for mr. lorry.
he will then let you in.”
“into the court, sir?”
“into the court.”
mr. cruncher's eyes seemed to get a little closer to one another, and to interchange the inquiry, “what do you think of this?”
“am i to wait in the court, sir?” he asked, as the result of that conference.
“i am going to tell you.
the door-keeper will pass the note to mr.
lorry, and do you make any gesture that will attract mr. lorry's attention, and show him where you stand.
then what you have to do, is, to remain there until he wants you.”
“is that all, sir?”
“that's all.
he wishes to have a messenger at hand.
this is to tell him you are there.”
as the ancient clerk deliberately folded and superscribed the note, mr. cruncher, after surveying him in silence until he came to the blotting-paper stage, remarked:
“i suppose they'll be trying forgeries this morning?”
“treason!”
“that's quartering,” said jerry.
“barbarous!”
“it is the law,” remarked the ancient clerk, turning his surprised spectacles upon him.
“it is the law.”
“it's hard in the law to spile a man, i think.
it's hard enough to kill him, but it's wery hard to spile him, sir.”
“not at all,” retained the ancient clerk.
“speak well of the law.
take care of your chest and voice, my good friend, and leave the law to take care of itself.
i give you that advice.”
“it's the damp, sir, what settles on my chest and voice,” said jerry.
“i leave you to judge what a damp way of earning a living mine is.”
“well, well,” said the old clerk; “we all have our various ways of gaining a livelihood.
some of us have damp ways, and some of us have dry ways.
here is the letter.
go along.”
jerry took the letter, and, remarking to himself with less internal deference than he made an outward show of, “you are a lean old one, too,” made his bow, informed his son, in passing, of his destination, and went his way.
they hanged at tyburn, in those days, so the street outside newgate had not obtained one infamous notoriety that has since attached to it.
but, the gaol was a vile place, in which most kinds of debauchery and villainy were practised, and where dire diseases were bred, that came into court with the prisoners, and sometimes rushed straight from the dock at my lord chief justice himself, and pulled him off the bench.
it had more than once happened, that the judge in the black cap pronounced his own doom as certainly as the prisoner's, and even died before him.
for the rest, the old bailey was famous as a kind of deadly inn-yard, from which pale travellers set out continually, in carts and coaches, on a violent passage into the other world: traversing some two miles and a half of public street and road, and shaming few good citizens, if any.
so powerful is use, and so desirable to be good use in the beginning.
it was famous, too, for the pillory, a wise old institution, that inflicted a punishment of which no one could foresee the extent; also, for the whipping-post, another dear old institution, very humanising and softening to behold in action; also, for extensive transactions in blood-money, another fragment of ancestral wisdom, systematically leading to the most frightful mercenary crimes that could be committed under heaven.
altogether, the old bailey, at that date, was a choice illustration of the precept, that “whatever is is right;” an aphorism that would be as final as it is lazy, did it not include the troublesome consequence, that nothing that ever was, was wrong.
making his way through the tainted crowd, dispersed up and down this hideous scene of action, with the skill of a man accustomed to make his way quietly, the messenger found out the door he sought, and handed in his letter through a trap in it.
for, people then paid to see the play at the old bailey, just as they paid to see the play in bedlam only the former entertainment was much the dearer.
therefore, all the old bailey doors were well guarded except, indeed, the social doors by which the criminals got there, and those were always left wide open.
after some delay and demur, the door grudgingly turned on its hinges a very little way, and allowed mr. jerry cruncher to squeeze himself into court.
“what's on?” he asked, in a whisper, of the man he found himself next to.
“nothing yet.”
“what's coming on?”
“the treason case.”
“the quartering one, eh?”
“ah!” returned the man, with a relish; “he'll be drawn on a hurdle to be half hanged, and then he'll be taken down and sliced before his own face, and then his inside will be taken out and burnt while he looks on, and then his head will be chopped off, and he'll be cut into quarters.
that's the sentence.”
“if he's found guilty, you mean to say?” jerry added, by way of proviso.
“oh!
they'll find him guilty,” said the other.
“don't you be afraid of that.”
mr. cruncher's attention was here diverted to the door-keeper, whom he saw making his way to mr. lorry, with the note in his hand.
mr. lorry sat at a table, among the gentlemen in wigs: not far from a wigged gentleman, the prisoner's counsel, who had a great bundle of papers before him: and nearly opposite another wigged gentleman with his hands in his pockets, whose whole attention, when mr. cruncher looked at him then or afterwards, seemed to be concentrated on the ceiling of the court.
after some gruff coughing and rubbing of his chin and signing with his hand, jerry attracted the notice of mr. lorry, who had stood up to look for him, and who quietly nodded and sat down again.
“what's he got to do with the case?” asked the man he had spoken with.
“blest if i know,” said jerry.
“what have you got to do with it, then, if a person may inquire?”
“blest if i know that either,” said jerry.
the entrance of the judge, and a consequent great stir and settling down in the court, stopped the dialogue.
presently, the dock became the central point of interest.
two gaolers, who had been standing there, went out, and the prisoner was brought in, and put to the bar.
everybody present, except the one wigged gentleman who looked at the ceiling, stared at him.
all the human breath in the place, rolled at him, like a sea, or a wind, or a fire.
eager faces strained round pillars and corners, to get a sight of him; spectators in back rows stood up, not to miss a hair of him; people on the floor of the court, laid their hands on the shoulders of the people before them, to help themselves, at anybody's cost, to a view of him stood a-tiptoe, got upon ledges, stood upon next to nothing, to see every inch of him.
conspicuous among these latter, like an animated bit of the spiked wall of newgate, jerry stood: aiming at the prisoner the beery breath of a whet he had taken as he came along, and discharging it to mingle with the waves of other beer, and gin, and tea, and coffee, and what not, that flowed at him, and already broke upon the great windows behind him in an impure mist and rain.
the object of all this staring and blaring, was a young man of about five-and-twenty, well-grown and well-looking, with a sunburnt cheek and a dark eye.
his condition was that of a young gentleman.
he was plainly dressed in black, or very dark grey, and his hair, which was long and dark, was gathered in a ribbon at the back of his neck; more to be out of his way than for ornament.
as an emotion of the mind will express itself through any covering of the body, so the paleness which his situation engendered came through the brown upon his cheek, showing the soul to be stronger than the sun.
he was otherwise quite self-possessed, bowed to the judge, and stood quiet.
the sort of interest with which this man was stared and breathed at, was not a sort that elevated humanity.
had he stood in peril of a less horrible sentence had there been a chance of any one of its savage details being spared by just so much would he have lost in his fascination.
the form that was to be doomed to be so shamefully mangled, was the sight; the immortal creature that was to be so butchered and torn asunder, yielded the sensation.
whatever gloss the various spectators put upon the interest, according to their several arts and powers of self-deceit, the interest was, at the root of it, ogreish.
silence in the court!
charles darnay had yesterday pleaded not guilty to an indictment denouncing him (with infinite jingle and jangle) for that he was a false traitor to our serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, prince, our lord the king, by reason of his having, on divers occasions, and by divers means and ways, assisted lewis, the french king, in his wars against our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth; that was to say, by coming and going, between the dominions of our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, and those of the said french lewis, and wickedly, falsely, traitorously, and otherwise evil-adverbiously, revealing to the said french lewis what forces our said serene, illustrious, excellent, and so forth, had in preparation to send to canada and north america.
this much, jerry, with his head becoming more and more spiky as the law terms bristled it, made out with huge satisfaction, and so arrived circuitously at the understanding that the aforesaid, and over and over again aforesaid, charles darnay, stood there before him upon his trial; that the jury were swearing in; and that mr. attorney-general was making ready to speak.
the accused, who was (and who knew he was) being mentally hanged, beheaded, and quartered, by everybody there, neither flinched from the situation, nor assumed any theatrical air in it.
he was quiet and attentive; watched the opening proceedings with a grave interest; and stood with his hands resting on the slab of wood before him, so composedly, that they had not displaced a leaf of the herbs with which it was strewn.
the court was all bestrewn with herbs and sprinkled with vinegar, as a precaution against gaol air and gaol fever.
over the prisoner's head there was a mirror, to throw the light down upon him.
crowds of the wicked and the wretched had been reflected in it, and had passed from its surface and this earth's together.
haunted in a most ghastly manner that abominable place would have been, if the glass could ever have rendered back its reflections, as the ocean is one day to give up its dead.
some passing thought of the infamy and disgrace for which it had been reserved, may have struck the prisoner's mind.
be that as it may, a change in his position making him conscious of a bar of light across his face, he looked up; and when he saw the glass his face flushed, and his right hand pushed the herbs away.
it happened, that the action turned his face to that side of the court which was on his left.
about on a level with his eyes, there sat, in that corner of the judge's bench, two persons upon whom his look immediately rested; so immediately, and so much to the changing of his aspect, that all the eyes that were turned upon him, turned to them.
the spectators saw in the two figures, a young lady of little more than twenty, and a gentleman who was evidently her father; a man of a very remarkable appearance in respect of the absolute whiteness of his hair, and a certain indescribable intensity of face: not of an active kind, but pondering and self-communing.
when this expression was upon him, he looked as if he were old; but when it was stirred and broken up as it was now, in a moment, on his speaking to his daughter he became a handsome man, not past the prime of life.
his daughter had one of her hands drawn through his arm, as she sat by him, and the other pressed upon it.
she had drawn close to him, in her dread of the scene, and in her pity for the prisoner.
her forehead had been strikingly expressive of an engrossing terror and compassion that saw nothing but the peril of the accused.
this had been so very noticeable, so very powerfully and naturally shown, that starers who had had no pity for him were touched by her; and the whisper went about, “who are they?”
jerry, the messenger, who had made his own observations, in his own manner, and who had been sucking the rust off his fingers in his absorption, stretched his neck to hear who they were.
the crowd about him had pressed and passed the inquiry on to the nearest attendant, and from him it had been more slowly pressed and passed back; at last it got to jerry:
“witnesses.”
“for which side?”
“against.”
“against what side?”
“the prisoner's.”
the judge, whose eyes had gone in the general direction, recalled them, leaned back in his seat, and looked steadily at the man whose life was in his hand, as mr. attorney-general rose to spin the rope, grind the axe, and hammer the nails into the scaffold.
iii.
a disappointment
mr. attorney-general had to inform the jury, that the prisoner before them, though young in years, was old in the treasonable practices which claimed the forfeit of his life.
that this correspondence with the public enemy was not a correspondence of to-day, or of yesterday, or even of last year, or of the year before.
that, it was certain the prisoner had, for longer than that, been in the habit of passing and repassing between france and england, on secret business of which he could give no honest account.
that, if it were in the nature of traitorous ways to thrive (which happily it never was), the real wickedness and guilt of his business might have remained undiscovered.
that providence, however, had put it into the heart of a person who was beyond fear and beyond reproach, to ferret out the nature of the prisoner's schemes, and, struck with horror, to disclose them to his majesty's chief secretary of state and most honourable privy council.
that, this patriot would be produced before them.
that, his position and attitude were, on the whole, sublime.
that, he had been the prisoner's friend, but, at once in an auspicious and an evil hour detecting his infamy, had resolved to immolate the traitor he could no longer cherish in his bosom, on the sacred altar of his country.
that, if statues were decreed in britain, as in ancient greece and rome, to public benefactors, this shining citizen would assuredly have had one.
that, as they were not so decreed, he probably would not have one.
that, virtue, as had been observed by the poets (in many passages which he well knew the jury would have, word for word, at the tips of their tongues; whereat the jury's countenances displayed a guilty consciousness that they knew nothing about the passages), was in a manner contagious; more especially the bright virtue known as patriotism, or love of country.
that, the lofty example of this immaculate and unimpeachable witness for the crown, to refer to whom however unworthily was an honour, had communicated itself to the prisoner's servant, and had engendered in him a holy determination to examine his master's table-drawers and pockets, and secrete his papers.
that, he (mr. attorney-general) was prepared to hear some disparagement attempted of this admirable servant; but that, in a general way, he preferred him to his (mr. attorney-general's)
brothers and sisters, and honoured him more than his (mr.
attorney-general's) father and mother.
that, he called with confidence on the jury to come and do likewise.
that, the evidence of these two witnesses, coupled with the documents of their discovering that would be produced, would show the prisoner to have been furnished with lists of his majesty's forces, and of their disposition and preparation, both by sea and land, and would leave no doubt that he had habitually conveyed such information to a hostile power.
that, these lists could not be proved to be in the prisoner's handwriting; but that it was all the same; that, indeed, it was rather the better for the prosecution, as showing the prisoner to be artful in his precautions.
that, the proof would go back five years, and would show the prisoner already engaged in these pernicious missions, within a few weeks before the date of the very first action fought between the british troops and the americans.
that, for these reasons, the jury, being a loyal jury (as he knew they were), and being a responsible jury (as they knew they were), must positively find the prisoner guilty, and make an end of him, whether they liked it or not.
that, they never could lay their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could tolerate the idea of their wives laying their heads upon their pillows; that, they never could endure the notion of their children laying their heads upon their pillows; in short, that there never more could be, for them or theirs, any laying of heads upon pillows at all, unless the prisoner's head was taken off.
that head mr. attorney-general concluded by demanding of them, in the name of everything he could think of with a round turn in it, and on the faith of his solemn asseveration that he already considered the prisoner as good as dead and gone.
when the attorney-general ceased, a buzz arose in the court as if a cloud of great blue-flies were swarming about the prisoner, in anticipation of what he was soon to become.
when toned down again, the unimpeachable patriot appeared in the witness-box.
mr. solicitor-general then, following his leader's lead, examined the patriot: john barsad, gentleman, by name.
the story of his pure soul was exactly what mr. attorney-general had described it to be perhaps, if it had a fault, a little too exactly.
having released his noble bosom of its burden, he would have modestly withdrawn himself, but that the wigged gentleman with the papers before him, sitting not far from mr.
lorry, begged to ask him a few questions.
the wigged gentleman sitting opposite, still looking at the ceiling of the court.
had he ever been a spy himself?
no, he scorned the base insinuation.
what did he live upon?
his property.
where was his property?
he didn't precisely remember where it was.
what was it?
no business of anybody's.
had he inherited it?
yes, he had.
from whom?
distant relation.
very distant?
rather.
ever been in prison?
certainly not.
never in a debtors'
prison?
didn't see what that had to do with it.
never in a debtors'
prison?
come, once again.
never?
yes.
how many times?
two or three times.
not five or six?
perhaps.
of what profession?
gentleman.
ever been kicked?
might have been.
frequently?
no.
ever kicked downstairs?
decidedly not; once received a kick on the top of a staircase, and fell downstairs of his own accord.
kicked on that occasion for cheating at dice?
something to that effect was said by the intoxicated liar who committed the assault, but it was not true.
swear it was not true?
positively.
ever live by cheating at play?
never.
ever live by play?
not more than other gentlemen do.
ever borrow money of the prisoner?
yes.
ever pay him?
no.
was not this intimacy with the prisoner, in reality a very slight one, forced upon the prisoner in coaches, inns, and packets?
no.
sure he saw the prisoner with these lists?
certain.
knew no more about the lists?
no.
had not procured them himself, for instance?
no.
expect to get anything by this evidence?
no.
not in regular government pay and employment, to lay traps?
oh dear no.
or to do anything?
oh dear no.
swear that?
over and over again.
no motives but motives of sheer patriotism?
none whatever.
the virtuous servant, roger cly, swore his way through the case at a great rate.
he had taken service with the prisoner, in good faith and simplicity, four years ago.
he had asked the prisoner, aboard the calais packet, if he wanted a handy fellow, and the prisoner had engaged him.
he had not asked the prisoner to take the handy fellow as an act of charity never thought of such a thing.
he began to have suspicions of the prisoner, and to keep an eye upon him, soon afterwards.
in arranging his clothes, while travelling, he had seen similar lists to these in the prisoner's pockets, over and over again.
he had taken these lists from the drawer of the prisoner's desk.
he had not put them there first.
he had seen the prisoner show these identical lists to french gentlemen at calais, and similar lists to french gentlemen, both at calais and boulogne.
he loved his country, and couldn't bear it, and had given information.
he had never been suspected of stealing a silver tea-pot; he had been maligned respecting a mustard-pot, but it turned out to be only a plated one.
he had known the last witness seven or eight years; that was merely a coincidence.
he didn't call it a particularly curious coincidence; most coincidences were curious.
neither did he call it a curious coincidence that true patriotism was his only motive too.
he was a true briton, and hoped there were many like him.
the blue-flies buzzed again, and mr. attorney-general called mr. jarvis lorry.
“mr.
jarvis lorry, are you a clerk in tellson's bank?”
“i am.”
“on a certain friday night in november one thousand seven hundred and seventy-five, did business occasion you to travel between london and dover by the mail?”
“it did.”
“were there any other passengers in the mail?”
“two.”
“did they alight on the road in the course of the night?”
“they did.”
“mr.
lorry, look upon the prisoner.
was he one of those two passengers?”
“i cannot undertake to say that he was.”
“does he resemble either of these two passengers?”
“both were so wrapped up, and the night was so dark, and we were all so reserved, that i cannot undertake to say even that.”
“mr.
lorry, look again upon the prisoner.
supposing him wrapped up as those two passengers were, is there anything in his bulk and stature to render it unlikely that he was one of them?”
“no.”
“you will not swear, mr. lorry, that he was not one of them?”
“no.”
“so at least you say he may have been one of them?”
“yes.
except that i remember them both to have been like myself timorous of highwaymen, and the prisoner has not a timorous air.”
“did you ever see a counterfeit of timidity, mr. lorry?”
“i certainly have seen that.”
“mr.
lorry, look once more upon the prisoner.
have you seen him, to your certain knowledge, before?”
“i have.”
“when?”
“i was returning from france a few days afterwards, and, at calais, the prisoner came on board the packet-ship in which i returned, and made the voyage with me.”
“at what hour did he come on board?”
“at a little after midnight.”
“in the dead of the night.
was he the only passenger who came on board at that untimely hour?”
“he happened to be the only one.”
“never mind about 'happening,' mr. lorry.
he was the only passenger who came on board in the dead of the night?”
“he was.”
“were you travelling alone, mr. lorry, or with any companion?”
“with two companions.
a gentleman and lady.
they are here.”
“they are here.
had you any conversation with the prisoner?”
“hardly any.
the weather was stormy, and the passage long and rough, and i lay on a sofa, almost from shore to shore.”
“miss manette!”
the young lady, to whom all eyes had been turned before, and were now turned again, stood up where she had sat.
her father rose with her, and kept her hand drawn through his arm.
“miss manette, look upon the prisoner.”
to be confronted with such pity, and such earnest youth and beauty, was far more trying to the accused than to be confronted with all the crowd.
standing, as it were, apart with her on the edge of his grave, not all the staring curiosity that looked on, could, for the moment, nerve him to remain quite still.
his hurried right hand parcelled out the herbs before him into imaginary beds of flowers in a garden; and his efforts to control and steady his breathing shook the lips from which the colour rushed to his heart.
the buzz of the great flies was loud again.
“miss manette, have you seen the prisoner before?”
“yes, sir.”
“where?”
“good day, citizen.”
this mode of address was now prescribed by decree.
it had been established voluntarily some time ago, among the more thorough patriots; but, was now law for everybody.
“walking here again, citizeness?”
“you see me, citizen!”
the wood-sawyer, who was a little man with a redundancy of gesture (he had once been a mender of roads), cast a glance at the prison, pointed at the prison, and putting his ten fingers before his face to represent bars, peeped through them jocosely.
“but it's not my business,” said he.
and went on sawing his wood.
next day he was looking out for her, and accosted her the moment she appeared.
“what?
walking here again, citizeness?”
“yes, citizen.”
“ah!
a child too!
your mother, is it not, my little citizeness?”
“do i say yes, mamma?” whispered little lucie, drawing close to her.
“yes, dearest.”
“yes, citizen.”
“ah!
but it's not my business.
my work is my business.
see my saw!
i call it my little guillotine.
la, la, la; la, la, la!
and off his head comes!”
the billet fell as he spoke, and he threw it into a basket.
“i call myself the samson of the firewood guillotine.
see here again!
loo, loo, loo; loo, loo, loo!
and off her head comes!
now, a child.
tickle, tickle; pickle, pickle!
and off its head comes.
all the family!”
lucie shuddered as he threw two more billets into his basket, but it was impossible to be there while the wood-sawyer was at work, and not be in his sight.
thenceforth, to secure his good will, she always spoke to him first, and often gave him drink-money, which he readily received.
he was an inquisitive fellow, and sometimes when she had quite forgotten him in gazing at the prison roof and grates, and in lifting her heart up to her husband, she would come to herself to find him looking at her, with his knee on his bench and his saw stopped in its work.
“but it's not my business!” he would generally say at those times, and would briskly fall to his sawing again.
in all weathers, in the snow and frost of winter, in the bitter winds of spring, in the hot sunshine of summer, in the rains of autumn, and again in the snow and frost of winter, lucie passed two hours of every day at this place; and every day on leaving it, she kissed the prison wall.
her husband saw her (so she learned from her father) it might be once in five or six times: it might be twice or thrice running: it might be, not for a week or a fortnight together.
it was enough that he could and did see her when the chances served, and on that possibility she would have waited out the day, seven days a week.
these occupations brought her round to the december month, wherein her father walked among the terrors with a steady head.
on a lightly-snowing afternoon she arrived at the usual corner.
it was a day of some wild rejoicing, and a festival.
she had seen the houses, as she came along, decorated with little pikes, and with little red caps stuck upon them; also, with tricoloured ribbons; also, with the standard inscription (tricoloured letters were the favourite), republic one and indivisible.
liberty, equality, fraternity, or death!
the miserable shop of the wood-sawyer was so small, that its whole surface furnished very indifferent space for this legend.
he had got somebody to scrawl it up for him, however, who had squeezed death in with most inappropriate difficulty.
on his house-top, he displayed pike and cap, as a good citizen must, and in a window he had stationed his saw inscribed as his “little sainte guillotine” for the great sharp female was by that time popularly canonised.
his shop was shut and he was not there, which was a relief to lucie, and left her quite alone.
but, he was not far off, for presently she heard a troubled movement and a shouting coming along, which filled her with fear.
a moment afterwards, and a throng of people came pouring round the corner by the prison wall, in the midst of whom was the wood-sawyer hand in hand with the vengeance.
there could not be fewer than five hundred people, and they were dancing like five thousand demons.
there was no other music than their own singing.
they danced to the popular revolution song, keeping a ferocious time that was like a gnashing of teeth in unison.
men and women danced together, women danced together, men danced together, as hazard had brought them together.
at first, they were a mere storm of coarse red caps and coarse woollen rags; but, as they filled the place, and stopped to dance about lucie, some ghastly apparition of a dance-figure gone raving mad arose among them.
they advanced, retreated, struck at one another's hands, clutched at one another's heads, spun round alone, caught one another and spun round in pairs, until many of them dropped.
while those were down, the rest linked hand in hand, and all spun round together: then the ring broke, and in separate rings of two and four they turned and turned until they all stopped at once, began again, struck, clutched, and tore, and then reversed the spin, and all spun round another way.
suddenly they stopped again, paused, struck out the time afresh, formed into lines the width of the public way, and, with their heads low down and their hands high up, swooped screaming off.
no fight could have been half so terrible as this dance.
it was so emphatically a fallen sport a something, once innocent, delivered over to all devilry a healthy pastime changed into a means of angering the blood, bewildering the senses, and steeling the heart.
such grace as was visible in it, made it the uglier, showing how warped and perverted all things good by nature were become.
the maidenly bosom bared to this, the pretty almost-child's head thus distracted, the delicate foot mincing in this slough of blood and dirt, were types of the disjointed time.
this was the carmagnole.
as it passed, leaving lucie frightened and bewildered in the doorway of the wood-sawyer's house, the feathery snow fell as quietly and lay as white and soft, as if it had never been.
“o my father!” for he stood before her when she lifted up the eyes she had momentarily darkened with her hand; “such a cruel, bad sight.”
“i know, my dear, i know.
i have seen it many times.
don't be frightened!
not one of them would harm you.”
“i am not frightened for myself, my father.
but when i think of my husband, and the mercies of these people ”
“we will set him above their mercies very soon.
i left him climbing to the window, and i came to tell you.
there is no one here to see.
you may kiss your hand towards that highest shelving roof.”
“i do so, father, and i send him my soul with it!”
“you cannot see him, my poor dear?”
“no, father,” said lucie, yearning and weeping as she kissed her hand, “no.”
a footstep in the snow.
madame defarge.
“i salute you, citizeness,”
from the doctor.
“i salute you, citizen.” this in passing.
nothing more.
madame defarge gone, like a shadow over the white road.
“give me your arm, my love.
pass from here with an air of cheerfulness and courage, for his sake.
that was well done;” they had left the spot; “it shall not be in vain.
charles is summoned for to-morrow.”
“for to-morrow!”
“there is no time to lose.
i am well prepared, but there are precautions to be taken, that could not be taken until he was actually summoned before the tribunal.
he has not received the notice yet, but i know that he will presently be summoned for to-morrow, and removed to the conciergerie; i have timely information.
you are not afraid?”
she could scarcely answer, “i trust in you.”
“do so, implicitly.
your suspense is nearly ended, my darling; he shall be restored to you within a few hours; i have encompassed him with every protection.
i must see lorry.”
he stopped.
there was a heavy lumbering of wheels within hearing.
they both knew too well what it meant.
one.
two.
three.
three tumbrils faring away with their dread loads over the hushing snow.
“i must see lorry,” the doctor repeated, turning her another way.
the staunch old gentleman was still in his trust; had never left it.
he and his books were in frequent requisition as to property confiscated and made national.
what he could save for the owners, he saved.
no better man living to hold fast by what tellson's had in keeping, and to hold his peace.
a murky red and yellow sky, and a rising mist from the seine, denoted the approach of darkness.
it was almost dark when they arrived at the bank.
the stately residence of monseigneur was altogether blighted and deserted.
above a heap of dust and ashes in the court, ran the letters:
national property.
republic one and indivisible.
liberty, equality, fraternity, or death!
who could that be with mr. lorry the owner of the riding-coat upon the chair who must not be seen?
from whom newly arrived, did he come out, agitated and surprised, to take his favourite in his arms?
to whom did he appear to repeat her faltering words, when, raising his voice and turning his head towards the door of the room from which he had issued, he said: “removed to the conciergerie, and summoned for to-morrow?”
vi.
triumph
the dread tribunal of five judges, public prosecutor, and determined jury, sat every day.
their lists went forth every evening, and were read out by the gaolers of the various prisons to their prisoners.
the standard gaoler-joke was, “come out and listen to the evening paper, you inside there!”
“charles evremonde, called darnay!”
so at last began the evening paper at la force.
when a name was called, its owner stepped apart into a spot reserved for those who were announced as being thus fatally recorded.
charles evremonde, called darnay, had reason to know the usage; he had seen hundreds pass away so.
his bloated gaoler, who wore spectacles to read with, glanced over them to assure himself that he had taken his place, and went through the list, making a similar short pause at each name.
there were twenty-three names, but only twenty were responded to; for one of the prisoners so summoned had died in gaol and been forgotten, and two had already been guillotined and forgotten.
the list was read, in the vaulted chamber where darnay had seen the associated prisoners on the night of his arrival.
every one of those had perished in the massacre; every human creature he had since cared for and parted with, had died on the scaffold.
there were hurried words of farewell and kindness, but the parting was soon over.
it was the incident of every day, and the society of la force were engaged in the preparation of some games of forfeits and a little concert, for that evening.
they crowded to the grates and shed tears there; but, twenty places in the projected entertainments had to be refilled, and the time was, at best, short to the lock-up hour, when the common rooms and corridors would be delivered over to the great dogs who kept watch there through the night.
the prisoners were far from insensible or unfeeling; their ways arose out of the condition of the time.
similarly, though with a subtle difference, a species of fervour or intoxication, known, without doubt, to have led some persons to brave the guillotine unnecessarily, and to die by it, was not mere boastfulness, but a wild infection of the wildly shaken public mind.
in seasons of pestilence, some of us will have a secret attraction to the disease a terrible passing inclination to die of it.
and all of us have like wonders hidden in our breasts, only needing circumstances to evoke them.
the passage to the conciergerie was short and dark; the night in its vermin-haunted cells was long and cold.
next day, fifteen prisoners were put to the bar before charles darnay's name was called.
all the fifteen were condemned, and the trials of the whole occupied an hour and a half.
“charles evremonde, called darnay,” was at length arraigned.
his judges sat upon the bench in feathered hats; but the rough red cap and tricoloured cockade was the head-dress otherwise prevailing.
looking at the jury and the turbulent audience, he might have thought that the usual order of things was reversed, and that the felons were trying the honest men.
the lowest, cruelest, and worst populace of a city, never without its quantity of low, cruel, and bad, were the directing spirits of the scene: noisily commenting, applauding, disapproving, anticipating, and precipitating the result, without a check.
of the men, the greater part were armed in various ways; of the women, some wore knives, some daggers, some ate and drank as they looked on, many knitted.
among these last, was one, with a spare piece of knitting under her arm as she worked.
she was in a front row, by the side of a man whom he had never seen since his arrival at the barrier, but whom he directly remembered as defarge.
he noticed that she once or twice whispered in his ear, and that she seemed to be his wife; but, what he most noticed in the two figures was, that although they were posted as close to himself as they could be, they never looked towards him.
they seemed to be waiting for something with a dogged determination, and they looked at the jury, but at nothing else.
under the president sat doctor manette, in his usual quiet dress.
as well as the prisoner could see, he and mr.
lorry were the only men there, unconnected with the tribunal, who wore their usual clothes, and had not assumed the coarse garb of the carmagnole.
charles evremonde, called darnay, was accused by the public prosecutor as an emigrant, whose life was forfeit to the republic, under the decree which banished all emigrants on pain of death.
it was nothing that the decree bore date since his return to france.
there he was, and there was the decree; he had been taken in france, and his head was demanded.
“take off his head!” cried the audience.
“an enemy to the republic!”
the president rang his bell to silence those cries, and asked the prisoner whether it was not true that he had lived many years in england?
undoubtedly it was.
was he not an emigrant then?
what did he call himself?
not an emigrant, he hoped, within the sense and spirit of the law.
why not?
the president desired to know.
because he had voluntarily relinquished a title that was distasteful to him, and a station that was distasteful to him, and had left his country he submitted before the word emigrant in the present acceptation by the tribunal was in use to live by his own industry in england, rather than on the industry of the overladen people of france.
what proof had he of this?
he handed in the names of two witnesses; theophile gabelle, and alexandre manette.
but he had married in england?
the president reminded him.
true, but not an english woman.
a citizeness of france?
yes.
by birth.
her name and family?
“lucie manette, only daughter of doctor manette, the good physician who sits there.”
this answer had a happy effect upon the audience.
cries in exaltation of the well-known good physician rent the hall.
so capriciously were the people moved, that tears immediately rolled down several ferocious countenances which had been glaring at the prisoner a moment before, as if with impatience to pluck him out into the streets and kill him.
on these few steps of his dangerous way, charles darnay had set his foot according to doctor manette's reiterated instructions.
the same cautious counsel directed every step that lay before him, and had prepared every inch of his road.
the president asked, why had he returned to france when he did, and not sooner?
he had not returned sooner, he replied, simply because he had no means of living in france, save those he had resigned; whereas, in england, he lived by giving instruction in the french language and literature.
he had returned when he did, on the pressing and written entreaty of a french citizen, who represented that his life was endangered by his absence.
he had come back, to save a citizen's life, and to bear his testimony, at whatever personal hazard, to the truth.
was that criminal in the eyes of the republic?
the populace cried enthusiastically, “no!” and the president rang his bell to quiet them.
which it did not, for they continued to cry “no!”
until they left off, of their own will.
the president required the name of that citizen.
the accused explained that the citizen was his first witness.
he also referred with confidence to the citizen's letter, which had been taken from him at the barrier, but which he did not doubt would be found among the papers then before the president.
the doctor had taken care that it should be there had assured him that it would be there and at this stage of the proceedings it was produced and read.
citizen gabelle was called to confirm it, and did so.
citizen gabelle hinted, with infinite delicacy and politeness, that in the pressure of business imposed on the tribunal by the multitude of enemies of the republic with which it had to deal, he had been slightly overlooked in his prison of the abbaye in fact, had rather passed out of the tribunal's patriotic remembrance until three days ago; when he had been summoned before it, and had been set at liberty on the jury's declaring themselves satisfied that the accusation against him was answered, as to himself, by the surrender of the citizen evremonde, called darnay.
doctor manette was next questioned.
his high personal popularity, and the clearness of his answers, made a great impression; but, as he proceeded, as he showed that the accused was his first friend on his release from his long imprisonment; that, the accused had remained in england, always faithful and devoted to his daughter and himself in their exile; that, so far from being in favour with the aristocrat government there, he had actually been tried for his life by it, as the foe of england and friend of the united states as he brought these circumstances into view, with the greatest discretion and with the straightforward force of truth and earnestness, the jury and the populace became one.
at last, when he appealed by name to monsieur lorry, an english gentleman then and there present, who, like himself, had been a witness on that english trial and could corroborate his account of it, the jury declared that they had heard enough, and that they were ready with their votes if the president were content to receive them.
at every vote (the jurymen voted aloud and individually), the populace set up a shout of applause.
all the voices were in the prisoner's favour, and the president declared him free.
then, began one of those extraordinary scenes with which the populace sometimes gratified their fickleness, or their better impulses towards generosity and mercy, or which they regarded as some set-off against their swollen account of cruel rage.
no man can decide now to which of these motives such extraordinary scenes were referable; it is probable, to a blending of all the three, with the second predominating.
no sooner was the acquittal pronounced, than tears were shed as freely as blood at another time, and such fraternal embraces were bestowed upon the prisoner by as many of both sexes as could rush at him, that after his long and unwholesome confinement he was in danger of fainting from exhaustion; none the less because he knew very well, that the very same people, carried by another current, would have rushed at him with the very same intensity, to rend him to pieces and strew him over the streets.
his removal, to make way for other accused persons who were to be tried, rescued him from these caresses for the moment.
five were to be tried together, next, as enemies of the republic, forasmuch as they had not assisted it by word or deed.
so quick was the tribunal to compensate itself and the nation for a chance lost, that these five came down to him before he left the place, condemned to die within twenty-four hours.
the first of them told him so, with the customary prison sign of death a raised finger and they all added in words, “long live the republic!”
the five had had, it is true, no audience to lengthen their proceedings, for when he and doctor manette emerged from the gate, there was a great crowd about it, in which there seemed to be every face he had seen in court except two, for which he looked in vain.
on his coming out, the concourse made at him anew, weeping, embracing, and shouting, all by turns and all together, until the very tide of the river on the bank of which the mad scene was acted, seemed to run mad, like the people on the shore.
they put him into a great chair they had among them, and which they had taken either out of the court itself, or one of its rooms or passages.
over the chair they had thrown a red flag, and to the back of it they had bound a pike with a red cap on its top.
in this car of triumph, not even the doctor's entreaties could prevent his being carried to his home on men's shoulders, with a confused sea of red caps heaving about him, and casting up to sight from the stormy deep such wrecks of faces, that he more than once misdoubted his mind being in confusion, and that he was in the tumbril on his way to the guillotine.
in wild dreamlike procession, embracing whom they met and pointing him out, they carried him on.
reddening the snowy streets with the prevailing republican colour, in winding and tramping through them, as they had reddened them below the snow with a deeper dye, they carried him thus into the courtyard of the building where he lived.
her father had gone on before, to prepare her, and when her husband stood upon his feet, she dropped insensible in his arms.
as he held her to his heart and turned her beautiful head between his face and the brawling crowd, so that his tears and her lips might come together unseen, a few of the people fell to dancing.
instantly, all the rest fell to dancing, and the courtyard overflowed with the carmagnole.
then, they elevated into the vacant chair a young woman from the crowd to be carried as the goddess of liberty, and then swelling and overflowing out into the adjacent streets, and along the river's bank, and over the bridge, the carmagnole absorbed them every one and whirled them away.
after grasping the doctor's hand, as he stood victorious and proud before him; after grasping the hand of mr. lorry, who came panting in breathless from his struggle against the waterspout of the carmagnole; after kissing little lucie, who was lifted up to clasp her arms round his neck; and after embracing the ever zealous and faithful pross who lifted her; he took his wife in his arms, and carried her up to their rooms.
“lucie!
my own!
i am safe.”
“o dearest charles, let me thank god for this on my knees as i have prayed to him.”
they all reverently bowed their heads and hearts.
when she was again in his arms, he said to her:
“and now speak to your father, dearest.
no other man in all this france could have done what he has done for me.”
she laid her head upon her father's breast, as she had laid his poor head on her own breast, long, long ago.
he was happy in the return he had made her, he was recompensed for his suffering, he was proud of his strength.
“you must not be weak, my darling,” he remonstrated; “don't tremble so.
i have saved him.”
vii.
a knock at the door
“i have saved him.” it was not another of the dreams in which he had often come back; he was really here.
and yet his wife trembled, and a vague but heavy fear was upon her.
all the air round was so thick and dark, the people were so passionately revengeful and fitful, the innocent were so constantly put to death on vague suspicion and black malice, it was so impossible to forget that many as blameless as her husband and as dear to others as he was to her, every day shared the fate from which he had been clutched, that her heart could not be as lightened of its load as she felt it ought to be.
the shadows of the wintry afternoon were beginning to fall, and even now the dreadful carts were rolling through the streets.
her mind pursued them, looking for him among the condemned; and then she clung closer to his real presence and trembled more.
her father, cheering her, showed a compassionate superiority to this woman's weakness, which was wonderful to see.
no garret, no shoemaking, no one hundred and five, north tower, now!
he had accomplished the task he had set himself, his promise was redeemed, he had saved charles.
let them all lean upon him.
their housekeeping was of a very frugal kind: not only because that was the safest way of life, involving the least offence to the people, but because they were not rich, and charles, throughout his imprisonment, had had to pay heavily for his bad food, and for his guard, and towards the living of the poorer prisoners.
partly on this account, and partly to avoid a domestic spy, they kept no servant; the citizen and citizeness who acted as porters at the courtyard gate, rendered them occasional service; and jerry (almost wholly transferred to them by mr. lorry) had become their daily retainer, and had his bed there every night.
it was an ordinance of the republic one and indivisible of liberty, equality, fraternity, or death, that on the door or doorpost of every house, the name of every inmate must be legibly inscribed in letters of a certain size, at a certain convenient height from the ground.
mr.
jerry cruncher's name, therefore, duly embellished the doorpost down below; and, as the afternoon shadows deepened, the owner of that name himself appeared, from overlooking a painter whom doctor manette had employed to add to the list the name of charles evremonde, called darnay.
in the universal fear and distrust that darkened the time, all the usual harmless ways of life were changed.
in the doctor's little household, as in very many others, the articles of daily consumption that were wanted were purchased every evening, in small quantities and at various small shops.
to avoid attracting notice, and to give as little occasion as possible for talk and envy, was the general desire.
for some months past, miss pross and mr. cruncher had discharged the office of purveyors; the former carrying the money; the latter, the basket.
every afternoon at about the time when the public lamps were lighted, they fared forth on this duty, and made and brought home such purchases as were needful.
although miss pross, through her long association with a french family, might have known as much of their language as of her own, if she had had a mind, she had no mind in that direction; consequently she knew no more of that “nonsense” (as she was pleased to call it) than mr. cruncher did.
so her manner of marketing was to plump a noun-substantive at the head of a shopkeeper without any introduction in the nature of an article, and, if it happened not to be the name of the thing she wanted, to look round for that thing, lay hold of it, and hold on by it until the bargain was concluded.
she always made a bargain for it, by holding up, as a statement of its just price, one finger less than the merchant held up, whatever his number might be.
“now, mr. cruncher,” said miss pross, whose eyes were red with felicity; “if you are ready, i am.”
jerry hoarsely professed himself at miss pross's service.
he had worn all his rust off long ago, but nothing would file his spiky head down.
“there's all manner of things wanted,” said miss pross, “and we shall have a precious time of it.
we want wine, among the rest.
nice toasts these redheads will be drinking, wherever we buy it.”
“it will be much the same to your knowledge, miss, i should think,”
retorted jerry, “whether they drink your health or the old un's.”
“who's he?” said miss pross.
mr. cruncher, with some diffidence, explained himself as meaning “old nick's.”
“ha!” said miss pross, “it doesn't need an interpreter to explain the meaning of these creatures.
they have but one, and it's midnight murder, and mischief.”
“hush, dear!
pray, pray, be cautious!” cried lucie.
“yes, yes, yes, i'll be cautious,” said miss pross; “but i may say among ourselves, that i do hope there will be no oniony and tobaccoey smotherings in the form of embracings all round, going on in the streets.
now, ladybird, never you stir from that fire till i come back!
take care of the dear husband you have recovered, and don't move your pretty head from his shoulder as you have it now, till you see me again!
may i ask a question, doctor manette, before i go?”
“i think you may take that liberty,” the doctor answered, smiling.
“for gracious sake, don't talk about liberty; we have quite enough of that,” said miss pross.
“hush, dear!
again?” lucie remonstrated.
“well, my sweet,” said miss pross, nodding her head emphatically, “the short and the long of it is, that i am a subject of his most gracious majesty king george the third;” miss pross curtseyed at the name; “and as such, my maxim is, confound their politics, frustrate their knavish tricks, on him our hopes we fix, god save the king!”
mr. cruncher, in an access of loyalty, growlingly repeated the words after miss pross, like somebody at church.
“i am glad you have so much of the englishman in you, though i wish you had never taken that cold in your voice,” said miss pross, approvingly.
“but the question, doctor manette.
is there” it was the good creature's way to affect to make light of anything that was a great anxiety with them all, and to come at it in this chance manner “is there any prospect yet, of our getting out of this place?”
“i fear not yet.
it would be dangerous for charles yet.”
“heigh-ho-hum!” said miss pross, cheerfully repressing a sigh as she glanced at her darling's golden hair in the light of the fire, “then we must have patience and wait: that's all.
we must hold up our heads and fight low, as my brother solomon used to say.
now, mr. cruncher!
don't you move, ladybird!”
they went out, leaving lucie, and her husband, her father, and the child, by a bright fire.
mr. lorry was expected back presently from the banking house.
miss pross had lighted the lamp, but had put it aside in a corner, that they might enjoy the fire-light undisturbed.
little lucie sat by her grandfather with her hands clasped through his arm: and he, in a tone not rising much above a whisper, began to tell her a story of a great and powerful fairy who had opened a prison-wall and let out a captive who had once done the fairy a service.
all was subdued and quiet, and lucie was more at ease than she had been.
“what is that?” she cried, all at once.
“my dear!” said her father, stopping in his story, and laying his hand on hers, “command yourself.
what a disordered state you are in!
the least thing nothing startles you!
you, your father's daughter!”
“i thought, my father,” said lucie, excusing herself, with a pale face and in a faltering voice, “that i heard strange feet upon the stairs.”
“my love, the staircase is as still as death.”
as he said the word, a blow was struck upon the door.
“oh father, father.
what can this be!
hide charles.
save him!”
“my child,” said the doctor, rising, and laying his hand upon her shoulder, “i have saved him.
what weakness is this, my dear!
let me go to the door.”
he took the lamp in his hand, crossed the two intervening outer rooms, and opened it.
a rude clattering of feet over the floor, and four rough men in red caps, armed with sabres and pistols, entered the room.
“the citizen evremonde, called darnay,” said the first.
“who seeks him?” answered darnay.
“i seek him.
we seek him.
i know you, evremonde; i saw you before the tribunal to-day.
you are again the prisoner of the republic.”
the four surrounded him, where he stood with his wife and child clinging to him.
“tell me how and why am i again a prisoner?”
“it is enough that you return straight to the conciergerie, and will know to-morrow.
you are summoned for to-morrow.”
doctor manette, whom this visitation had so turned into stone, that he stood with the lamp in his hand, as if he were a statue made to hold it, moved after these words were spoken, put the lamp down, and confronting the speaker, and taking him, not ungently, by the loose front of his red woollen shirt, said:
“you know him, you have said.
do you know me?”
“yes, i know you, citizen doctor.”
“we all know you, citizen doctor,” said the other three.
he looked abstractedly from one to another, and said, in a lower voice, after a pause:
“will you answer his question to me then?
how does this happen?”
“citizen doctor,” said the first, reluctantly, “he has been denounced to the section of saint antoine.
this citizen,” pointing out the second who had entered, “is from saint antoine.”
the citizen here indicated nodded his head, and added:
“he is accused by saint antoine.”
“of what?” asked the doctor.
“citizen doctor,” said the first, with his former reluctance, “ask no more.
if the republic demands sacrifices from you, without doubt you as a good patriot will be happy to make them.
the republic goes before all.
the people is supreme.
evremonde, we are pressed.”
“one word,” the doctor entreated.
“will you tell me who denounced him?”
“it is against rule,” answered the first; “but you can ask him of saint antoine here.”
the doctor turned his eyes upon that man.
who moved uneasily on his feet, rubbed his beard a little, and at length said:
“well!
truly it is against rule.
but he is denounced and gravely by the citizen and citizeness defarge.
and by one other.”
“what other?”
“do you ask, citizen doctor?”
“yes.”
“then,” said he of saint antoine, with a strange look, “you will be answered to-morrow.
now, i am dumb!”
viii.
a hand at cards
happily unconscious of the new calamity at home, miss pross threaded her way along the narrow streets and crossed the river by the bridge of the pont-neuf, reckoning in her mind the number of indispensable purchases she had to make.
mr. cruncher, with the basket, walked at her side.
they both looked to the right and to the left into most of the shops they passed, had a wary eye for all gregarious assemblages of people, and turned out of their road to avoid any very excited group of talkers.
it was a raw evening, and the misty river, blurred to the eye with blazing lights and to the ear with harsh noises, showed where the barges were stationed in which the smiths worked, making guns for the army of the republic.
woe to the man who played tricks with that army, or got undeserved promotion in it!
better for him that his beard had never grown, for the national razor shaved him close.
having purchased a few small articles of grocery, and a measure of oil for the lamp, miss pross bethought herself of the wine they wanted.
after peeping into several wine-shops, she stopped at the sign of the good republican brutus of antiquity, not far from the national palace, once (and twice) the tuileries, where the aspect of things rather took her fancy.
it had a quieter look than any other place of the same description they had passed, and, though red with patriotic caps, was not so red as the rest.
sounding mr. cruncher, and finding him of her opinion, miss pross resorted to the good republican brutus of antiquity, attended by her cavalier.
slightly observant of the smoky lights; of the people, pipe in mouth, playing with limp cards and yellow dominoes; of the one bare-breasted, bare-armed, soot-begrimed workman reading a journal aloud, and of the others listening to him; of the weapons worn, or laid aside to be resumed; of the two or three customers fallen forward asleep, who in the popular high-shouldered shaggy black spencer looked, in that attitude, like slumbering bears or dogs; the two outlandish customers approached the counter, and showed what they wanted.
as their wine was measuring out, a man parted from another man in a corner, and rose to depart.
in going, he had to face miss pross.
no sooner did he face her, than miss pross uttered a scream, and clapped her hands.
in a moment, the whole company were on their feet.
that somebody was assassinated by somebody vindicating a difference of opinion was the likeliest occurrence.
everybody looked to see somebody fall, but only saw a man and a woman standing staring at each other; the man with all the outward aspect of a frenchman and a thorough republican; the woman, evidently english.
what was said in this disappointing anti-climax, by the disciples of the good republican brutus of antiquity, except that it was something very voluble and loud, would have been as so much hebrew or chaldean to miss pross and her protector, though they had been all ears.
but, they had no ears for anything in their surprise.
for, it must be recorded, that not only was miss pross lost in amazement and agitation, but, mr. cruncher though it seemed on his own separate and individual account was in a state of the greatest wonder.
“what is the matter?” said the man who had caused miss pross to scream; speaking in a vexed, abrupt voice (though in a low tone), and in english.
“oh, solomon, dear solomon!” cried miss pross, clapping her hands again.
“after not setting eyes upon you or hearing of you for so long a time, do i find you here!”
“don't call me solomon.
do you want to be the death of me?” asked the man, in a furtive, frightened way.
“brother, brother!” cried miss pross, bursting into tears.
“have i ever been so hard with you that you ask me such a cruel question?”
“then hold your meddlesome tongue,” said solomon, “and come out, if you want to speak to me.
pay for your wine, and come out.
who's this man?”
miss pross, shaking her loving and dejected head at her by no means affectionate brother, said through her tears, “mr.
cruncher.”
“let him come out too,” said solomon.
“does he think me a ghost?”
apparently, mr. cruncher did, to judge from his looks.
he said not a word, however, and miss pross, exploring the depths of her reticule through her tears with great difficulty paid for her wine.
as she did so, solomon turned to the followers of the good republican brutus of antiquity, and offered a few words of explanation in the french language, which caused them all to relapse into their former places and pursuits.
“now,” said solomon, stopping at the dark street corner, “what do you want?”
“how dreadfully unkind in a brother nothing has ever turned my love away from!” cried miss pross, “to give me such a greeting, and show me no affection.”
“there.
confound it!
there,” said solomon, making a dab at miss pross's lips with his own.
“now are you content?”
miss pross only shook her head and wept in silence.
“if you expect me to be surprised,” said her brother solomon, “i am not surprised; i knew you were here; i know of most people who are here.
if you really don't want to endanger my existence which i half believe you do go your ways as soon as possible, and let me go mine.
i am busy.
i am an official.”
“my english brother solomon,” mourned miss pross, casting up her tear-fraught eyes, “that had the makings in him of one of the best and greatest of men in his native country, an official among foreigners, and such foreigners!
i would almost sooner have seen the dear boy lying in his ”
“i said so!” cried her brother, interrupting.
“i knew it.
you want to be the death of me.
i shall be rendered suspected, by my own sister.
just as i am getting on!”
“the gracious and merciful heavens forbid!” cried miss pross.
“far rather would i never see you again, dear solomon, though i have ever loved you truly, and ever shall.
say but one affectionate word to me, and tell me there is nothing angry or estranged between us, and i will detain you no longer.”
good miss pross!
as if the estrangement between them had come of any culpability of hers.
as if mr. lorry had not known it for a fact, years ago, in the quiet corner in soho, that this precious brother had spent her money and left her!
he was saying the affectionate word, however, with a far more grudging condescension and patronage than he could have shown if their relative merits and positions had been reversed (which is invariably the case, all the world over), when mr. cruncher, touching him on the shoulder, hoarsely and unexpectedly interposed with the following singular question:
“i say!
might i ask the favour?
as to whether your name is john solomon, or solomon john?”
the official turned towards him with sudden distrust.
he had not previously uttered a word.
“come!” said mr. cruncher.
“speak out, you know.” (which, by the way, was more than he could do himself.)
“john solomon, or solomon john?
she calls you solomon, and she must know, being your sister.
and i know you're john, you know.
which of the two goes first?
and regarding that name of pross, likewise.
that warn't your name over the water.”
“what do you mean?”
“well, i don't know all i mean, for i can't call to mind what your name was, over the water.”
“no?”
“no.
but i'll swear it was a name of two syllables.”
“indeed?”
“yes.
t'other one's was one syllable.
i know you.
you was a spy witness at the bailey.
what, in the name of the father of lies, own father to yourself, was you called at that time?”
“barsad,” said another voice, striking in.
“that's the name for a thousand pound!” cried jerry.
the speaker who struck in, was sydney carton.
he had his hands behind him under the skirts of his riding-coat, and he stood at mr. cruncher's elbow as negligently as he might have stood at the old bailey itself.
“don't be alarmed, my dear miss pross.
i arrived at mr. lorry's, to his surprise, yesterday evening; we agreed that i would not present myself elsewhere until all was well, or unless i could be useful; i present myself here, to beg a little talk with your brother.
i wish you had a better employed brother than mr. barsad.
i wish for your sake mr. barsad was not a sheep of the prisons.”
sheep was a cant word of the time for a spy, under the gaolers.
the spy, who was pale, turned paler, and asked him how he dared
“i'll tell you,” said sydney.
“i lighted on you, mr. barsad, coming out of the prison of the conciergerie while i was contemplating the walls, an hour or more ago.
you have a face to be remembered, and i remember faces well.
made curious by seeing you in that connection, and having a reason, to which you are no stranger, for associating you with the misfortunes of a friend now very unfortunate, i walked in your direction.
i walked into the wine-shop here, close after you, and sat near you.
i had no difficulty in deducing from your unreserved conversation, and the rumour openly going about among your admirers, the nature of your calling.
and gradually, what i had done at random, seemed to shape itself into a purpose, mr. barsad.”
“what purpose?” the spy asked.
“it would be troublesome, and might be dangerous, to explain in the street.
could you favour me, in confidence, with some minutes of your company at the office of tellson's bank, for instance?”
“under a threat?”
“oh!
did i say that?”
“then, why should i go there?”
“really, mr. barsad, i can't say, if you can't.”
“do you mean that you won't say, sir?” the spy irresolutely asked.
“you apprehend me very clearly, mr. barsad.
i won't.”
carton's negligent recklessness of manner came powerfully in aid of his quickness and skill, in such a business as he had in his secret mind, and with such a man as he had to do with.
his practised eye saw it, and made the most of it.
“now, i told you so,” said the spy, casting a reproachful look at his sister; “if any trouble comes of this, it's your doing.”
“come, come, mr. barsad!” exclaimed sydney.
“don't be ungrateful.
but for my great respect for your sister, i might not have led up so pleasantly to a little proposal that i wish to make for our mutual satisfaction.
do you go with me to the bank?”
“i'll hear what you have got to say.
yes, i'll go with you.”
“i propose that we first conduct your sister safely to the corner of her own street.
let me take your arm, miss pross.
this is not a good city, at this time, for you to be out in, unprotected; and as your escort knows mr. barsad, i will invite him to mr. lorry's with us.
are we ready?
come then!”
miss pross recalled soon afterwards, and to the end of her life remembered, that as she pressed her hands on sydney's arm and looked up in his face, imploring him to do no hurt to solomon, there was a braced purpose in the arm and a kind of inspiration in the eyes, which not only contradicted his light manner, but changed and raised the man.
she was too much occupied then with fears for the brother who so little deserved her affection, and with sydney's friendly reassurances, adequately to heed what she observed.
they left her at the corner of the street, and carton led the way to mr.
lorry's, which was within a few minutes' walk.
john barsad, or solomon pross, walked at his side.
mr. lorry had just finished his dinner, and was sitting before a cheery little log or two of fire perhaps looking into their blaze for the picture of that younger elderly gentleman from tellson's, who had looked into the red coals at the royal george at dover, now a good many years ago.
he turned his head as they entered, and showed the surprise with which he saw a stranger.
“miss pross's brother, sir,” said sydney.
“mr.
barsad.”
“barsad?” repeated the old gentleman, “barsad?
i have an association with the name and with the face.”
“i told you you had a remarkable face, mr. barsad,” observed carton, coolly.
“pray sit down.”
as he took a chair himself, he supplied the link that mr. lorry wanted, by saying to him with a frown, “witness at that trial.” mr. lorry immediately remembered, and regarded his new visitor with an undisguised look of abhorrence.
“mr.
barsad has been recognised by miss pross as the affectionate brother you have heard of,” said sydney, “and has acknowledged the relationship.
i pass to worse news.
darnay has been arrested again.”
struck with consternation, the old gentleman exclaimed, “what do you tell me!
i left him safe and free within these two hours, and am about to return to him!”
“arrested for all that.
when was it done, mr. barsad?”
“just now, if at all.”
“mr.
barsad is the best authority possible, sir,” said sydney, “and i have it from mr. barsad's communication to a friend and brother sheep over a bottle of wine, that the arrest has taken place.
he left the messengers at the gate, and saw them admitted by the porter.
there is no earthly doubt that he is retaken.”
mr. lorry's business eye read in the speaker's face that it was loss of time to dwell upon the point.
confused, but sensible that something might depend on his presence of mind, he commanded himself, and was silently attentive.
“now, i trust,” said sydney to him, “that the name and influence of doctor manette may stand him in as good stead to-morrow you said he would be before the tribunal again to-morrow, mr. barsad?
”
“yes; i believe so.”
“ in as good stead to-morrow as to-day.
but it may not be so.
i own to you, i am shaken, mr. lorry, by doctor manette's not having had the power to prevent this arrest.”
“he may not have known of it beforehand,” said mr. lorry.
“but that very circumstance would be alarming, when we remember how identified he is with his son-in-law.”
“that's true,” mr. lorry acknowledged, with his troubled hand at his chin, and his troubled eyes on carton.
“in short,” said sydney, “this is a desperate time, when desperate games are played for desperate stakes.
let the doctor play the winning game; i will play the losing one.
no man's life here is worth purchase.
any one carried home by the people to-day, may be condemned tomorrow.
now, the stake i have resolved to play for, in case of the worst, is a friend in the conciergerie.
and the friend i purpose to myself to win, is mr.
barsad.”
“you need have good cards, sir,” said the spy.
“i'll run them over.
i'll see what i hold, mr. lorry, you know what a brute i am; i wish you'd give me a little brandy.”
it was put before him, and he drank off a glassful drank off another glassful pushed the bottle thoughtfully away.
“mr.
barsad,” he went on, in the tone of one who really was looking over a hand at cards: “sheep of the prisons, emissary of republican committees, now turnkey, now prisoner, always spy and secret informer, so much the more valuable here for being english that an englishman is less open to suspicion of subornation in those characters than a frenchman, represents himself to his employers under a false name.
that's a very good card.
mr. barsad, now in the employ of the republican french government, was formerly in the employ of the aristocratic english government, the enemy of france and freedom.
that's an excellent card.
inference clear as day in this region of suspicion, that mr.
barsad, still in the pay of the aristocratic english government, is the spy of pitt, the treacherous foe of the republic crouching in its bosom, the english traitor and agent of all mischief so much spoken of and so difficult to find.
that's a card not to be beaten.
have you followed my hand, mr. barsad?”
“not to understand your play,” returned the spy, somewhat uneasily.
“i play my ace, denunciation of mr. barsad to the nearest section committee.
look over your hand, mr. barsad, and see what you have.
don't hurry.”
he drew the bottle near, poured out another glassful of brandy, and drank it off.
he saw that the spy was fearful of his drinking himself into a fit state for the immediate denunciation of him.
seeing it, he poured out and drank another glassful.
“look over your hand carefully, mr. barsad.
take time.”
it was a poorer hand than he suspected.
mr. barsad saw losing cards in it that sydney carton knew nothing of.
thrown out of his honourable employment in england, through too much unsuccessful hard swearing there not because he was not wanted there; our english reasons for vaunting our superiority to secrecy and spies are of very modern date he knew that he had crossed the channel, and accepted service in france: first, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among his own countrymen there: gradually, as a tempter and an eavesdropper among the natives.
he knew that under the overthrown government he had been a spy upon saint antoine and defarge's wine-shop; had received from the watchful police such heads of information concerning doctor manette's imprisonment, release, and history, as should serve him for an introduction to familiar conversation with the defarges; and tried them on madame defarge, and had broken down with them signally.
he always remembered with fear and trembling, that that terrible woman had knitted when he talked with her, and had looked ominously at him as her fingers moved.
he had since seen her, in the section of saint antoine, over and over again produce her knitted registers, and denounce people whose lives the guillotine then surely swallowed up.
he knew, as every one employed as he was did, that he was never safe; that flight was impossible; that he was tied fast under the shadow of the axe; and that in spite of his utmost tergiversation and treachery in furtherance of the reigning terror, a word might bring it down upon him.
once denounced, and on such grave grounds as had just now been suggested to his mind, he foresaw that the dreadful woman of whose unrelenting character he had seen many proofs, would produce against him that fatal register, and would quash his last chance of life.
besides that all secret men are men soon terrified, here were surely cards enough of one black suit, to justify the holder in growing rather livid as he turned them over.
“you scarcely seem to like your hand,” said sydney, with the greatest composure.
“do you play?”
“i think, sir,” said the spy, in the meanest manner, as he turned to mr.
lorry, “i may appeal to a gentleman of your years and benevolence, to put it to this other gentleman, so much your junior, whether he can under any circumstances reconcile it to his station to play that ace of which he has spoken.
i admit that i am a spy, and that it is considered a discreditable station though it must be filled by somebody; but this gentleman is no spy, and why should he so demean himself as to make himself one?”
“i play my ace, mr. barsad,” said carton, taking the answer on himself, and looking at his watch, “without any scruple, in a very few minutes.”
“i should have hoped, gentlemen both,” said the spy, always striving to hook mr. lorry into the discussion, “that your respect for my sister ”
“i could not better testify my respect for your sister than by finally relieving her of her brother,” said sydney carton.
“you think not, sir?”
“i have thoroughly made up my mind about it.”
the smooth manner of the spy, curiously in dissonance with his ostentatiously rough dress, and probably with his usual demeanour, received such a check from the inscrutability of carton, who was a mystery to wiser and honester men than he, that it faltered here and failed him.
while he was at a loss, carton said, resuming his former air of contemplating cards:
“and indeed, now i think again, i have a strong impression that i have another good card here, not yet enumerated.
that friend and fellow-sheep, who spoke of himself as pasturing in the country prisons; who was he?”
“french.
you don't know him,” said the spy, quickly.
“french, eh?” repeated carton, musing, and not appearing to notice him at all, though he echoed his word.
“well; he may be.”
“is, i assure you,” said the spy; “though it's not important.”
“though it's not important,” repeated carton, in the same mechanical way “though it's not important no, it's not important.
no.
yet i know the face.”
“i think not.
i am sure not.
it can't be,” said the spy.
“it-can't-be,” muttered sydney carton, retrospectively, and idling his glass (which fortunately was a small one) again.
“can't-be.
spoke good french.
yet like a foreigner, i thought?”
“provincial,” said the spy.
“no.
foreign!” cried carton, striking his open hand on the table, as a light broke clearly on his mind.
“cly!
disguised, but the same man.
we had that man before us at the old bailey.”
“now, there you are hasty, sir,” said barsad, with a smile that gave his aquiline nose an extra inclination to one side; “there you really give me an advantage over you.
cly (who i will unreservedly admit, at this distance of time, was a partner of mine) has been dead several years.
i attended him in his last illness.
he was buried in london, at the church of saint pancras-in-the-fields.
his unpopularity with the blackguard multitude at the moment prevented my following his remains, but i helped to lay him in his coffin.”
here, mr. lorry became aware, from where he sat, of a most remarkable goblin shadow on the wall.
tracing it to its source, he discovered it to be caused by a sudden extraordinary rising and stiffening of all the risen and stiff hair on mr. cruncher's head.
“let us be reasonable,” said the spy, “and let us be fair.
to show you how mistaken you are, and what an unfounded assumption yours is, i will lay before you a certificate of cly's burial, which i happened to have carried in my pocket-book,” with a hurried hand he produced and opened it, “ever since.
there it is.
oh, look at it, look at it!
you may take it in your hand; it's no forgery.”
here, mr. lorry perceived the reflection on the wall to elongate, and mr. cruncher rose and stepped forward.
his hair could not have been more violently on end, if it had been that moment dressed by the cow with the crumpled horn in the house that jack built.
unseen by the spy, mr. cruncher stood at his side, and touched him on the shoulder like a ghostly bailiff.
“that there roger cly, master,” said mr. cruncher, with a taciturn and iron-bound visage.
“so you put him in his coffin?”
“i did.”
“who took him out of it?”
barsad leaned back in his chair, and stammered, “what do you mean?”
“i mean,” said mr. cruncher, “that he warn't never in it.
no!
not he!
i'll have my head took off, if he was ever in it.”
the spy looked round at the two gentlemen; they both looked in unspeakable astonishment at jerry.
“i tell you,” said jerry, “that you buried paving-stones and earth in that there coffin.
don't go and tell me that you buried cly.
it was a take in.
me and two more knows it.”
“how do you know it?”
“what's that to you?
ecod!” growled mr. cruncher, “it's you i have got a old grudge again, is it, with your shameful impositions upon tradesmen!
i'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
sydney carton, who, with mr. lorry, had been lost in amazement at this turn of the business, here requested mr. cruncher to moderate and explain himself.
“at another time, sir,” he returned, evasively, “the present time is ill-conwenient for explainin'.
what i stand to, is, that he knows well wot that there cly was never in that there coffin.
let him say he was, in so much as a word of one syllable, and i'll either catch hold of his throat and choke him for half a guinea;” mr. cruncher dwelt upon this as quite a liberal offer; “or i'll out and announce him.”
“humph!
i see one thing,” said carton.
“i hold another card, mr. barsad.
impossible, here in raging paris, with suspicion filling the air, for you to outlive denunciation, when you are in communication with another aristocratic spy of the same antecedents as yourself, who, moreover, has the mystery about him of having feigned death and come to life again!
a plot in the prisons, of the foreigner against the republic.
a strong card a certain guillotine card!
do you play?”
“no!” returned the spy.
“i throw up.
i confess that we were so unpopular with the outrageous mob, that i only got away from england at the risk of being ducked to death, and that cly was so ferreted up and down, that he never would have got away at all but for that sham.
though how this man knows it was a sham, is a wonder of wonders to me.”
“never you trouble your head about this man,” retorted the contentious mr. cruncher; “you'll have trouble enough with giving your attention to that gentleman.
and look here!
once more!” mr. cruncher could not be restrained from making rather an ostentatious parade of his liberality “i'd catch hold of your throat and choke you for half a guinea.”
the sheep of the prisons turned from him to sydney carton, and said, with more decision, “it has come to a point.
i go on duty soon, and can't overstay my time.
you told me you had a proposal; what is it?
now, it is of no use asking too much of me.
ask me to do anything in my office, putting my head in great extra danger, and i had better trust my life to the chances of a refusal than the chances of consent.
in short, i should make that choice.
you talk of desperation.
we are all desperate here.
remember!
i may denounce you if i think proper, and i can swear my way through stone walls, and so can others.
now, what do you want with me?”
“not very much.
you are a turnkey at the conciergerie?”
“i tell you once for all, there is no such thing as an escape possible,”
said the spy, firmly.
“why need you tell me what i have not asked?
you are a turnkey at the conciergerie?”
“i am sometimes.”
“you can be when you choose?”
“i can pass in and out when i choose.”
sydney carton filled another glass with brandy, poured it slowly out upon the hearth, and watched it as it dropped.
it being all spent, he said, rising:
“so far, we have spoken before these two, because it was as well that the merits of the cards should not rest solely between you and me.
come into the dark room here, and let us have one final word alone.”
ix.
the game made
while sydney carton and the sheep of the prisons were in the adjoining dark room, speaking so low that not a sound was heard, mr. lorry looked at jerry in considerable doubt and mistrust.
that honest tradesman's manner of receiving the look, did not inspire confidence; he changed the leg on which he rested, as often as if he had fifty of those limbs, and were trying them all; he examined his finger-nails with a very questionable closeness of attention; and whenever mr. lorry's eye caught his, he was taken with that peculiar kind of short cough requiring the hollow of a hand before it, which is seldom, if ever, known to be an infirmity attendant on perfect openness of character.
“jerry,” said mr. lorry.
“come here.”
mr. cruncher came forward sideways, with one of his shoulders in advance of him.
“what have you been, besides a messenger?”
after some cogitation, accompanied with an intent look at his patron, mr. cruncher conceived the luminous idea of replying, “agicultooral character.”
“my mind misgives me much,” said mr. lorry, angrily shaking a forefinger at him, “that you have used the respectable and great house of tellson's as a blind, and that you have had an unlawful occupation of an infamous description.
if you have, don't expect me to befriend you when you get back to england.
if you have, don't expect me to keep your secret.
tellson's shall not be imposed upon.”
“i hope, sir,” pleaded the abashed mr. cruncher, “that a gentleman like yourself wot i've had the honour of odd jobbing till i'm grey at it, would think twice about harming of me, even if it wos so i don't say it is, but even if it wos.
and which it is to be took into account that if it wos, it wouldn't, even then, be all o' one side.
there'd be two sides to it.
there might be medical doctors at the present hour, a picking up their guineas where a honest tradesman don't pick up his fardens fardens!
no, nor yet his half fardens half fardens!
no, nor yet his quarter a banking away like smoke at tellson's, and a cocking their medical eyes at that tradesman on the sly, a going in and going out to their own carriages ah!
equally like smoke, if not more so.
well, that 'ud be imposing, too, on tellson's.
for you cannot sarse the goose and not the gander.
and here's mrs. cruncher, or leastways wos in the old england times, and would be to-morrow, if cause given, a floppin' again the business to that degree as is ruinating stark ruinating!
whereas them medical doctors' wives don't flop catch 'em at it!
or, if they flop, their floppings goes in favour of more patients, and how can you rightly have one without t'other?
then, wot with undertakers, and wot with parish clerks, and wot with sextons, and wot with private watchmen (all awaricious and all in it), a man wouldn't get much by it, even if it wos so.
and wot little a man did get, would never prosper with him, mr. lorry.
he'd never have no good of it; he'd want all along to be out of the line, if he, could see his way out, being once in even if it wos so.”
“ugh!” cried mr. lorry, rather relenting, nevertheless, “i am shocked at the sight of you.”
“now, what i would humbly offer to you, sir,” pursued mr. cruncher, “even if it wos so, which i don't say it is ”
“don't prevaricate,” said mr. lorry.
“no, i will not, sir,” returned mr. crunches as if nothing were further from his thoughts or practice “which i don't say it is wot i would humbly offer to you, sir, would be this.
upon that there stool, at that there bar, sets that there boy of mine, brought up and growed up to be a man, wot will errand you, message you, general-light-job you, till your heels is where your head is, if such should be your wishes.
if it wos so, which i still don't say it is (for i will not prewaricate to you, sir), let that there boy keep his father's place, and take care of his mother; don't blow upon that boy's father do not do it, sir and let that father go into the line of the reg'lar diggin', and make amends for what he would have undug if it wos so by diggin' of 'em in with a will, and with conwictions respectin' the futur' keepin' of 'em safe.
that, mr. lorry,” said mr. cruncher, wiping his forehead with his arm, as an announcement that he had arrived at the peroration of his discourse, “is wot i would respectfully offer to you, sir.
a man don't see all this here a goin' on dreadful round him, in the way of subjects without heads, dear me, plentiful enough fur to bring the price down to porterage and hardly that, without havin' his serious thoughts of things.
and these here would be mine, if it wos so, entreatin' of you fur to bear in mind that wot i said just now, i up and said in the good cause when i might have kep' it back.”
“that at least is true,” said mr. lorry.
“say no more now.
it may be that i shall yet stand your friend, if you deserve it, and repent in action not in words.
i want no more words.”
mr. cruncher knuckled his forehead, as sydney carton and the spy returned from the dark room.
“adieu, mr. barsad,” said the former; “our arrangement thus made, you have nothing to fear from me.”
he sat down in a chair on the hearth, over against mr. lorry.
when they were alone, mr. lorry asked him what he had done?
“not much.
if it should go ill with the prisoner, i have ensured access to him, once.”
mr. lorry's countenance fell.
“it is all i could do,” said carton.
“to propose too much, would be to put this man's head under the axe, and, as he himself said, nothing worse could happen to him if he were denounced.
it was obviously the weakness of the position.
there is no help for it.”
“but access to him,” said mr. lorry, “if it should go ill before the tribunal, will not save him.”
“i never said it would.”
mr. lorry's eyes gradually sought the fire; his sympathy with his darling, and the heavy disappointment of his second arrest, gradually weakened them; he was an old man now, overborne with anxiety of late, and his tears fell.
“you are a good man and a true friend,” said carton, in an altered voice.
“forgive me if i notice that you are affected.
i could not see my father weep, and sit by, careless.
and i could not respect your sorrow more, if you were my father.
you are free from that misfortune, however.”
though he said the last words, with a slip into his usual manner, there was a true feeling and respect both in his tone and in his touch, that mr. lorry, who had never seen the better side of him, was wholly unprepared for.
he gave him his hand, and carton gently pressed it.
“to return to poor darnay,” said carton.
“don't tell her of this interview, or this arrangement.
it would not enable her to go to see him.
she might think it was contrived, in case of the worse, to convey to him the means of anticipating the sentence.”
mr. lorry had not thought of that, and he looked quickly at carton to see if it were in his mind.
it seemed to be; he returned the look, and evidently understood it.
“she might think a thousand things,” carton said, “and any of them would only add to her trouble.
don't speak of me to her.
as i said to you when i first came, i had better not see her.
i can put my hand out, to do any little helpful work for her that my hand can find to do, without that.
you are going to her, i hope?
she must be very desolate to-night.”
“i am going now, directly.”
“i am glad of that.
she has such a strong attachment to you and reliance on you.
how does she look?”
“anxious and unhappy, but very beautiful.”
“ah!”
it was a long, grieving sound, like a sigh almost like a sob.
it attracted mr. lorry's eyes to carton's face, which was turned to the fire.
a light, or a shade (the old gentleman could not have said which), passed from it as swiftly as a change will sweep over a hill-side on a wild bright day, and he lifted his foot to put back one of the little flaming logs, which was tumbling forward.
he wore the white riding-coat and top-boots, then in vogue, and the light of the fire touching their light surfaces made him look very pale, with his long brown hair, all untrimmed, hanging loose about him.
his indifference to fire was sufficiently remarkable to elicit a word of remonstrance from mr. lorry; his boot was still upon the hot embers of the flaming log, when it had broken under the weight of his foot.
“i forgot it,” he said.
mr. lorry's eyes were again attracted to his face.
taking note of the wasted air which clouded the naturally handsome features, and having the expression of prisoners' faces fresh in his mind, he was strongly reminded of that expression.
“and your duties here have drawn to an end, sir?” said carton, turning to him.
“yes.
as i was telling you last night when lucie came in so unexpectedly, i have at length done all that i can do here.
i hoped to have left them in perfect safety, and then to have quitted paris.
i have my leave to pass.
i was ready to go.”
they were both silent.
“yours is a long life to look back upon, sir?” said carton, wistfully.
“i am in my seventy-eighth year.”
“you have been useful all your life; steadily and constantly occupied; trusted, respected, and looked up to?”
“i have been a man of business, ever since i have been a man.
indeed, i may say that i was a man of business when a boy.”
“see what a place you fill at seventy-eight.
how many people will miss you when you leave it empty!”
“a solitary old bachelor,” answered mr. lorry, shaking his head.
“there is nobody to weep for me.”
“how can you say that?
wouldn't she weep for you?
wouldn't her child?”
“yes, yes, thank god.
i didn't quite mean what i said.”
“it is a thing to thank god for; is it not?”
“surely, surely.”
“if you could say, with truth, to your own solitary heart, to-night, 'i have secured to myself the love and attachment, the gratitude or respect, of no human creature; i have won myself a tender place in no regard; i have done nothing good or serviceable to be remembered by!'
your seventy-eight years would be seventy-eight heavy curses; would they not?”
“you say truly, mr. carton; i think they would be.”
sydney turned his eyes again upon the fire, and, after a silence of a few moments, said:
“i should like to ask you: does your childhood seem far off?
do the days when you sat at your mother's knee, seem days of very long ago?”
responding to his softened manner, mr. lorry answered:
“twenty years back, yes; at this time of my life, no.
for, as i draw closer and closer to the end, i travel in the circle, nearer and nearer to the beginning.
it seems to be one of the kind smoothings and preparings of the way.
my heart is touched now, by many remembrances that had long fallen asleep, of my pretty young mother (and i so old!
), and by many associations of the days when what we call the world was not so real with me, and my faults were not confirmed in me.”
“i understand the feeling!” exclaimed carton, with a bright flush.
“and you are the better for it?”
“i hope so.”
carton terminated the conversation here, by rising to help him on with his outer coat; “but you,” said mr. lorry, reverting to the theme, “you are young.”
“yes,” said carton.
“i am not old, but my young way was never the way to age.
enough of me.”
“and of me, i am sure,” said mr. lorry.
“are you going out?”
“i'll walk with you to her gate.
you know my vagabond and restless habits.
if i should prowl about the streets a long time, don't be uneasy; i shall reappear in the morning.
you go to the court to-morrow?”
“yes, unhappily.”
“i shall be there, but only as one of the crowd.
my spy will find a place for me.
take my arm, sir.”
mr. lorry did so, and they went down-stairs and out in the streets.
a few minutes brought them to mr. lorry's destination.
carton left him there; but lingered at a little distance, and turned back to the gate again when it was shut, and touched it.
he had heard of her going to the prison every day.
“she came out here,” he said, looking about him, “turned this way, must have trod on these stones often.
let me follow in her steps.”
it was ten o'clock at night when he stood before the prison of la force, where she had stood hundreds of times.
a little wood-sawyer, having closed his shop, was smoking his pipe at his shop-door.
“good night, citizen,” said sydney carton, pausing in going by; for, the man eyed him inquisitively.
“good night, citizen.”
“how goes the republic?”
“you mean the guillotine.
not ill. sixty-three to-day.
we shall mount to a hundred soon.
samson and his men complain sometimes, of being exhausted.
ha, ha, ha!
he is so droll, that samson.
such a barber!”
“do you often go to see him ”
“shave?
always.
every day.
what a barber!
you have seen him at work?”
“never.”
“go and see him when he has a good batch.
figure this to yourself, citizen; he shaved the sixty-three to-day, in less than two pipes!
less than two pipes.
word of honour!”
as the grinning little man held out the pipe he was smoking, to explain how he timed the executioner, carton was so sensible of a rising desire to strike the life out of him, that he turned away.
“but you are not english,” said the wood-sawyer, “though you wear english dress?”
“yes,” said carton, pausing again, and answering over his shoulder.
“you speak like a frenchman.”
“i am an old student here.”
“aha, a perfect frenchman!
good night, englishman.”
“good night, citizen.”
“but go and see that droll dog,” the little man persisted, calling after him.
“and take a pipe with you!”
sydney had not gone far out of sight, when he stopped in the middle of the street under a glimmering lamp, and wrote with his pencil on a scrap of paper.
then, traversing with the decided step of one who remembered the way well, several dark and dirty streets much dirtier than usual, for the best public thoroughfares remained uncleansed in those times of terror he stopped at a chemist's shop, which the owner was closing with his own hands.
a small, dim, crooked shop, kept in a tortuous, up-hill thoroughfare, by a small, dim, crooked man.
giving this citizen, too, good night, as he confronted him at his counter, he laid the scrap of paper before him.
“whew!” the chemist whistled softly, as he read it.
“hi!
hi!
hi!”
sydney carton took no heed, and the chemist said:
“for you, citizen?”
“for me.”
“you will be careful to keep them separate, citizen?
you know the consequences of mixing them?”
“perfectly.”
certain small packets were made and given to him.
he put them, one by one, in the breast of his inner coat, counted out the money for them, and deliberately left the shop.
“there is nothing more to do,” said he, glancing upward at the moon, “until to-morrow.
i can't sleep.”
it was not a reckless manner, the manner in which he said these words aloud under the fast-sailing clouds, nor was it more expressive of negligence than defiance.
it was the settled manner of a tired man, who had wandered and struggled and got lost, but who at length struck into his road and saw its end.
long ago, when he had been famous among his earliest competitors as a youth of great promise, he had followed his father to the grave.
his mother had died, years before.
these solemn words, which had been read at his father's grave, arose in his mind as he went down the dark streets, among the heavy shadows, with the moon and the clouds sailing on high above him.
“i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord:
he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
in a city dominated by the axe, alone at night, with natural sorrow rising in him for the sixty-three who had been that day put to death, and for to-morrow's victims then awaiting their doom in the prisons, and still of to-morrow's and to-morrow's, the chain of association that brought the words home, like a rusty old ship's anchor from the deep, might have been easily found.
he did not seek it, but repeated them and went on.
with a solemn interest in the lighted windows where the people were going to rest, forgetful through a few calm hours of the horrors surrounding them; in the towers of the churches, where no prayers were said, for the popular revulsion had even travelled that length of self-destruction from years of priestly impostors, plunderers, and profligates; in the distant burial-places, reserved, as they wrote upon the gates, for eternal sleep; in the abounding gaols; and in the streets along which the sixties rolled to a death which had become so common and material, that no sorrowful story of a haunting spirit ever arose among the people out of all the working of the guillotine; with a solemn interest in the whole life and death of the city settling down to its short nightly pause in fury; sydney carton crossed the seine again for the lighter streets.
few coaches were abroad, for riders in coaches were liable to be suspected, and gentility hid its head in red nightcaps, and put on heavy shoes, and trudged.
but, the theatres were all well filled, and the people poured cheerfully out as he passed, and went chatting home.
at one of the theatre doors, there was a little girl with a mother, looking for a way across the street through the mud.
he carried the child over, and before the timid arm was loosed from his neck asked her for a kiss.
“i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me, shall never die.”
now, that the streets were quiet, and the night wore on, the words were in the echoes of his feet, and were in the air.
perfectly calm and steady, he sometimes repeated them to himself as he walked; but, he heard them always.
the night wore out, and, as he stood upon the bridge listening to the water as it splashed the river-walls of the island of paris, where the picturesque confusion of houses and cathedral shone bright in the light of the moon, the day came coldly, looking like a dead face out of the sky.
then, the night, with the moon and the stars, turned pale and died, and for a little while it seemed as if creation were delivered over to death's dominion.
but, the glorious sun, rising, seemed to strike those words, that burden of the night, straight and warm to his heart in its long bright rays.
and looking along them, with reverently shaded eyes, a bridge of light appeared to span the air between him and the sun, while the river sparkled under it.
the strong tide, so swift, so deep, and certain, was like a congenial friend, in the morning stillness.
he walked by the stream, far from the houses, and in the light and warmth of the sun fell asleep on the bank.
when he awoke and was afoot again, he lingered there yet a little longer, watching an eddy that turned and turned purposeless, until the stream absorbed it, and carried it on to the sea.
“like me.”
a trading-boat, with a sail of the softened colour of a dead leaf, then glided into his view, floated by him, and died away.
as its silent track in the water disappeared, the prayer that had broken up out of his heart for a merciful consideration of all his poor blindnesses and errors, ended in the words, “i am the resurrection and the life.”
mr. lorry was already out when he got back, and it was easy to surmise where the good old man was gone.
sydney carton drank nothing but a little coffee, ate some bread, and, having washed and changed to refresh himself, went out to the place of trial.
the court was all astir and a-buzz, when the black sheep whom many fell away from in dread pressed him into an obscure corner among the crowd.
mr. lorry was there, and doctor manette was there.
she was there, sitting beside her father.
when her husband was brought in, she turned a look upon him, so sustaining, so encouraging, so full of admiring love and pitying tenderness, yet so courageous for his sake, that it called the healthy blood into his face, brightened his glance, and animated his heart.
if there had been any eyes to notice the influence of her look, on sydney carton, it would have been seen to be the same influence exactly.
before that unjust tribunal, there was little or no order of procedure, ensuring to any accused person any reasonable hearing.
there could have been no such revolution, if all laws, forms, and ceremonies, had not first been so monstrously abused, that the suicidal vengeance of the revolution was to scatter them all to the winds.
every eye was turned to the jury.
the same determined patriots and good republicans as yesterday and the day before, and to-morrow and the day after.
eager and prominent among them, one man with a craving face, and his fingers perpetually hovering about his lips, whose appearance gave great satisfaction to the spectators.
a life-thirsting, cannibal-looking, bloody-minded juryman, the jacques three of st.
antoine.
the whole jury, as a jury of dogs empannelled to try the deer.
every eye then turned to the five judges and the public prosecutor.
no favourable leaning in that quarter to-day.
a fell, uncompromising, murderous business-meaning there.
every eye then sought some other eye in the crowd, and gleamed at it approvingly; and heads nodded at one another, before bending forward with a strained attention.
charles evremonde, called darnay.
released yesterday.
reaccused and retaken yesterday.
indictment delivered to him last night.
suspected and denounced enemy of the republic, aristocrat, one of a family of tyrants, one of a race proscribed, for that they had used their abolished privileges to the infamous oppression of the people.
charles evremonde, called darnay, in right of such proscription, absolutely dead in law.
to this effect, in as few or fewer words, the public prosecutor.
the president asked, was the accused openly denounced or secretly?
“openly, president.”
“by whom?”
“three voices.
ernest defarge, wine-vendor of st. antoine.”
“good.”
“therese defarge, his wife.”
“good.”
“alexandre manette, physician.”
a great uproar took place in the court, and in the midst of it, doctor manette was seen, pale and trembling, standing where he had been seated.
“president, i indignantly protest to you that this is a forgery and a fraud.
you know the accused to be the husband of my daughter.
my daughter, and those dear to her, are far dearer to me than my life.
who and where is the false conspirator who says that i denounce the husband of my child!”
“citizen manette, be tranquil.
to fail in submission to the authority of the tribunal would be to put yourself out of law.
as to what is dearer to you than life, nothing can be so dear to a good citizen as the republic.”
loud acclamations hailed this rebuke.
the president rang his bell, and with warmth resumed.
“if the republic should demand of you the sacrifice of your child herself, you would have no duty but to sacrifice her.
listen to what is to follow.
in the meanwhile, be silent!”
frantic acclamations were again raised.
doctor manette sat down, with his eyes looking around, and his lips trembling; his daughter drew closer to him.
the craving man on the jury rubbed his hands together, and restored the usual hand to his mouth.
defarge was produced, when the court was quiet enough to admit of his being heard, and rapidly expounded the story of the imprisonment, and of his having been a mere boy in the doctor's service, and of the release, and of the state of the prisoner when released and delivered to him.
this short examination followed, for the court was quick with its work.
“you did good service at the taking of the bastille, citizen?”
“i believe so.”
here, an excited woman screeched from the crowd: “you were one of the best patriots there.
why not say so?
you were a cannonier that day there, and you were among the first to enter the accursed fortress when it fell.
patriots, i speak the truth!”
it was the vengeance who, amidst the warm commendations of the audience, thus assisted the proceedings.
the president rang his bell; but, the vengeance, warming with encouragement, shrieked, “i defy that bell!”
wherein she was likewise much commended.
“inform the tribunal of what you did that day within the bastille, citizen.”
“i knew,” said defarge, looking down at his wife, who stood at the bottom of the steps on which he was raised, looking steadily up at him; “i knew that this prisoner, of whom i speak, had been confined in a cell known as one hundred and five, north tower.
i knew it from himself.
he knew himself by no other name than one hundred and five, north tower, when he made shoes under my care.
as i serve my gun that day, i resolve, when the place shall fall, to examine that cell.
it falls.
i mount to the cell, with a fellow-citizen who is one of the jury, directed by a gaoler.
i examine it, very closely.
in a hole in the chimney, where a stone has been worked out and replaced, i find a written paper.
this is that written paper.
i have made it my business to examine some specimens of the writing of doctor manette.
this is the writing of doctor manette.
i confide this paper, in the writing of doctor manette, to the hands of the president.”
“let it be read.”
in a dead silence and stillness the prisoner under trial looking lovingly at his wife, his wife only looking from him to look with solicitude at her father, doctor manette keeping his eyes fixed on the reader, madame defarge never taking hers from the prisoner, defarge never taking his from his feasting wife, and all the other eyes there intent upon the doctor, who saw none of them the paper was read, as follows.
x. the substance of the shadow
“i, alexandre manette, unfortunate physician, native of beauvais, and afterwards resident in paris, write this melancholy paper in my doleful cell in the bastille, during the last month of the year, 1767. i write it at stolen intervals, under every difficulty.
i design to secrete it in the wall of the chimney, where i have slowly and laboriously made a place of concealment for it.
some pitying hand may find it there, when i and my sorrows are dust.
“these words are formed by the rusty iron point with which i write with difficulty in scrapings of soot and charcoal from the chimney, mixed with blood, in the last month of the tenth year of my captivity.
hope has quite departed from my breast.
i know from terrible warnings i have noted in myself that my reason will not long remain unimpaired, but i solemnly declare that i am at this time in the possession of my right mind that my memory is exact and circumstantial and that i write the truth as i shall answer for these my last recorded words, whether they be ever read by men or not, at the eternal judgment-seat.
“one cloudy moonlight night, in the third week of december (i think the twenty-second of the month) in the year 1757, i was walking on a retired part of the quay by the seine for the refreshment of the frosty air, at an hour's distance from my place of residence in the street of the school of medicine, when a carriage came along behind me, driven very fast.
as i stood aside to let that carriage pass, apprehensive that it might otherwise run me down, a head was put out at the window, and a voice called to the driver to stop.
“the carriage stopped as soon as the driver could rein in his horses, and the same voice called to me by my name.
i answered.
the carriage was then so far in advance of me that two gentlemen had time to open the door and alight before i came up with it.
“i observed that they were both wrapped in cloaks, and appeared to conceal themselves.
as they stood side by side near the carriage door, i also observed that they both looked of about my own age, or rather younger, and that they were greatly alike, in stature, manner, voice, and (as far as i could see) face too.
“'you are doctor manette?'
said one.
“i am.”
“'doctor manette, formerly of beauvais,' said the other; 'the young physician, originally an expert surgeon, who within the last year or two has made a rising reputation in paris?'
“'gentlemen,' i returned, 'i am that doctor manette of whom you speak so graciously.'
“'we have been to your residence,' said the first, 'and not being so fortunate as to find you there, and being informed that you were probably walking in this direction, we followed, in the hope of overtaking you.
will you please to enter the carriage?'
“the manner of both was imperious, and they both moved, as these words were spoken, so as to place me between themselves and the carriage door.
they were armed.
i was not.
“'gentlemen,' said i, 'pardon me; but i usually inquire who does me the honour to seek my assistance, and what is the nature of the case to which i am summoned.'
“the reply to this was made by him who had spoken second.
'doctor, your clients are people of condition.
as to the nature of the case, our confidence in your skill assures us that you will ascertain it for yourself better than we can describe it.
enough.
will you please to enter the carriage?'
“i could do nothing but comply, and i entered it in silence.
they both entered after me the last springing in, after putting up the steps.
the carriage turned about, and drove on at its former speed.
“i repeat this conversation exactly as it occurred.
i have no doubt that it is, word for word, the same.
i describe everything exactly as it took place, constraining my mind not to wander from the task.
where i make the broken marks that follow here, i leave off for the time, and put my paper in its hiding-place.
*****
“the carriage left the streets behind, passed the north barrier, and emerged upon the country road.
at two-thirds of a league from the barrier i did not estimate the distance at that time, but afterwards when i traversed it it struck out of the main avenue, and presently stopped at a solitary house, we all three alighted, and walked, by a damp soft footpath in a garden where a neglected fountain had overflowed, to the door of the house.
it was not opened immediately, in answer to the ringing of the bell, and one of my two conductors struck the man who opened it, with his heavy riding glove, across the face.
“there was nothing in this action to attract my particular attention, for i had seen common people struck more commonly than dogs.
but, the other of the two, being angry likewise, struck the man in like manner with his arm; the look and bearing of the brothers were then so exactly alike, that i then first perceived them to be twin brothers.
“from the time of our alighting at the outer gate (which we found locked, and which one of the brothers had opened to admit us, and had relocked), i had heard cries proceeding from an upper chamber.
i was conducted to this chamber straight, the cries growing louder as we ascended the stairs, and i found a patient in a high fever of the brain, lying on a bed.
“the patient was a woman of great beauty, and young; assuredly not much past twenty.
her hair was torn and ragged, and her arms were bound to her sides with sashes and handkerchiefs.
i noticed that these bonds were all portions of a gentleman's dress.
on one of them, which was a fringed scarf for a dress of ceremony, i saw the armorial bearings of a noble, and the letter e.
“i saw this, within the first minute of my contemplation of the patient; for, in her restless strivings she had turned over on her face on the edge of the bed, had drawn the end of the scarf into her mouth, and was in danger of suffocation.
my first act was to put out my hand to relieve her breathing; and in moving the scarf aside, the embroidery in the corner caught my sight.
“i turned her gently over, placed my hands upon her breast to calm her and keep her down, and looked into her face.
her eyes were dilated and wild, and she constantly uttered piercing shrieks, and repeated the words, 'my husband, my father, and my brother!'
and then counted up to twelve, and said, 'hush!'
for an instant, and no more, she would pause to listen, and then the piercing shrieks would begin again, and she would repeat the cry, 'my husband, my father, and my brother!'
and would count up to twelve, and say, 'hush!'
there was no variation in the order, or the manner.
there was no cessation, but the regular moment's pause, in the utterance of these sounds.
“'how long,' i asked, 'has this lasted?'
“to distinguish the brothers, i will call them the elder and the younger; by the elder, i mean him who exercised the most authority.
it was the elder who replied, 'since about this hour last night.'
“'she has a husband, a father, and a brother?'
“'a brother.'
“'i do not address her brother?'
“he answered with great contempt, 'no.'
“'she has some recent association with the number twelve?'
“the younger brother impatiently rejoined, 'with twelve o'clock?'
“'see, gentlemen,' said i, still keeping my hands upon her breast, 'how useless i am, as you have brought me!
if i had known what i was coming to see, i could have come provided.
as it is, time must be lost.
there are no medicines to be obtained in this lonely place.'
“the elder brother looked to the younger, who said haughtily, 'there is a case of medicines here;' and brought it from a closet, and put it on the table.
*****
“i opened some of the bottles, smelt them, and put the stoppers to my lips.
if i had wanted to use anything save narcotic medicines that were poisons in themselves, i would not have administered any of those.
“'do you doubt them?'
asked the younger brother.
“'you see, monsieur, i am going to use them,' i replied, and said no more.
“i made the patient swallow, with great difficulty, and after many efforts, the dose that i desired to give.
as i intended to repeat it after a while, and as it was necessary to watch its influence, i then sat down by the side of the bed.
there was a timid and suppressed woman in attendance (wife of the man down-stairs), who had retreated into a corner.
the house was damp and decayed, indifferently furnished evidently, recently occupied and temporarily used.
some thick old hangings had been nailed up before the windows, to deaden the sound of the shrieks.
they continued to be uttered in their regular succession, with the cry, 'my husband, my father, and my brother!'
the counting up to twelve, and 'hush!'
the frenzy was so violent, that i had not unfastened the bandages restraining the arms; but, i had looked to them, to see that they were not painful.
the only spark of encouragement in the case, was, that my hand upon the sufferer's breast had this much soothing influence, that for minutes at a time it tranquillised the figure.
it had no effect upon the cries; no pendulum could be more regular.
“for the reason that my hand had this effect (i assume), i had sat by the side of the bed for half an hour, with the two brothers looking on, before the elder said:
“'there is another patient.'
“i was startled, and asked, 'is it a pressing case?'
“'you had better see,' he carelessly answered; and took up a light.
*****
“the other patient lay in a back room across a second staircase, which was a species of loft over a stable.
there was a low plastered ceiling to a part of it; the rest was open, to the ridge of the tiled roof, and there were beams across.
hay and straw were stored in that portion of the place, fagots for firing, and a heap of apples in sand.
i had to pass through that part, to get at the other.
my memory is circumstantial and unshaken.
i try it with these details, and i see them all, in this my cell in the bastille, near the close of the tenth year of my captivity, as i saw them all that night.
“on some hay on the ground, with a cushion thrown under his head, lay a handsome peasant boy a boy of not more than seventeen at the most.
he lay on his back, with his teeth set, his right hand clenched on his breast, and his glaring eyes looking straight upward.
i could not see where his wound was, as i kneeled on one knee over him; but, i could see that he was dying of a wound from a sharp point.
“'i am a doctor, my poor fellow,' said i.
'let me examine it.'
“'i do not want it examined,' he answered; 'let it be.'
“it was under his hand, and i soothed him to let me move his hand away.
the wound was a sword-thrust, received from twenty to twenty-four hours before, but no skill could have saved him if it had been looked to without delay.
he was then dying fast.
as i turned my eyes to the elder brother, i saw him looking down at this handsome boy whose life was ebbing out, as if he were a wounded bird, or hare, or rabbit; not at all as if he were a fellow-creature.
“'how has this been done, monsieur?'
said i.
“'a crazed young common dog!
a serf!
forced my brother to draw upon him, and has fallen by my brother's sword like a gentleman.'
“there was no touch of pity, sorrow, or kindred humanity, in this answer.
the speaker seemed to acknowledge that it was inconvenient to have that different order of creature dying there, and that it would have been better if he had died in the usual obscure routine of his vermin kind.
he was quite incapable of any compassionate feeling about the boy, or about his fate.
“the boy's eyes had slowly moved to him as he had spoken, and they now slowly moved to me.
“'doctor, they are very proud, these nobles; but we common dogs are proud too, sometimes.
they plunder us, outrage us, beat us, kill us; but we have a little pride left, sometimes.
she have you seen her, doctor?'
“the shrieks and the cries were audible there, though subdued by the distance.
he referred to them, as if she were lying in our presence.
“i said, 'i have seen her.'
“'she is my sister, doctor.
they have had their shameful rights, these nobles, in the modesty and virtue of our sisters, many years, but we have had good girls among us.
i know it, and have heard my father say so.
she was a good girl.
she was betrothed to a good young man, too: a tenant of his.
we were all tenants of his that man's who stands there.
the other is his brother, the worst of a bad race.'
“it was with the greatest difficulty that the boy gathered bodily force to speak; but, his spirit spoke with a dreadful emphasis.
“'we were so robbed by that man who stands there, as all we common dogs are by those superior beings taxed by him without mercy, obliged to work for him without pay, obliged to grind our corn at his mill, obliged to feed scores of his tame birds on our wretched crops, and forbidden for our lives to keep a single tame bird of our own, pillaged and plundered to that degree that when we chanced to have a bit of meat, we ate it in fear, with the door barred and the shutters closed, that his people should not see it and take it from us i say, we were so robbed, and hunted, and were made so poor, that our father told us it was a dreadful thing to bring a child into the world, and that what we should most pray for, was, that our women might be barren and our miserable race die out!'
“i had never before seen the sense of being oppressed, bursting forth like a fire.
i had supposed that it must be latent in the people somewhere; but, i had never seen it break out, until i saw it in the dying boy.
“'nevertheless, doctor, my sister married.
he was ailing at that time, poor fellow, and she married her lover, that she might tend and comfort him in our cottage our dog-hut, as that man would call it.
she had not been married many weeks, when that man's brother saw her and admired her, and asked that man to lend her to him for what are husbands among us!
he was willing enough, but my sister was good and virtuous, and hated his brother with a hatred as strong as mine.
what did the two then, to persuade her husband to use his influence with her, to make her willing?'
“the boy's eyes, which had been fixed on mine, slowly turned to the looker-on, and i saw in the two faces that all he said was true.
the two opposing kinds of pride confronting one another, i can see, even in this bastille; the gentleman's, all negligent indifference; the peasant's, all trodden-down sentiment, and passionate revenge.
“'you know, doctor, that it is among the rights of these nobles to harness us common dogs to carts, and drive us.
they so harnessed him and drove him.
you know that it is among their rights to keep us in their grounds all night, quieting the frogs, in order that their noble sleep may not be disturbed.
they kept him out in the unwholesome mists at night, and ordered him back into his harness in the day.
but he was not persuaded.
no!
taken out of harness one day at noon, to feed if he could find food he sobbed twelve times, once for every stroke of the bell, and died on her bosom.'
“nothing human could have held life in the boy but his determination to tell all his wrong.
he forced back the gathering shadows of death, as he forced his clenched right hand to remain clenched, and to cover his wound.
“'then, with that man's permission and even with his aid, his brother took her away; in spite of what i know she must have told his brother and what that is, will not be long unknown to you, doctor, if it is now his brother took her away for his pleasure and diversion, for a little while.
i saw her pass me on the road.
when i took the tidings home, our father's heart burst; he never spoke one of the words that filled it.
i took my young sister (for i have another) to a place beyond the reach of this man, and where, at least, she will never be his vassal.
then, i tracked the brother here, and last night climbed in a common dog, but sword in hand.
where is the loft window?
it was somewhere here?'
“the room was darkening to his sight; the world was narrowing around him.
i glanced about me, and saw that the hay and straw were trampled over the floor, as if there had been a struggle.
“'she heard me, and ran in.
i told her not to come near us till he was dead.
he came in and first tossed me some pieces of money; then struck at me with a whip.
but i, though a common dog, so struck at him as to make him draw.
let him break into as many pieces as he will, the sword that he stained with my common blood; he drew to defend himself thrust at me with all his skill for his life.'
“my glance had fallen, but a few moments before, on the fragments of a broken sword, lying among the hay.
that weapon was a gentleman's.
in another place, lay an old sword that seemed to have been a soldier's.
“'now, lift me up, doctor; lift me up.
where is he?'
“'he is not here,' i said, supporting the boy, and thinking that he referred to the brother.
“'he!
proud as these nobles are, he is afraid to see me.
where is the man who was here?
turn my face to him.'
“i did so, raising the boy's head against my knee.
but, invested for the moment with extraordinary power, he raised himself completely: obliging me to rise too, or i could not have still supported him.
“'marquis,' said the boy, turned to him with his eyes opened wide, and his right hand raised, 'in the days when all these things are to be answered for, i summon you and yours, to the last of your bad race, to answer for them.
i mark this cross of blood upon you, as a sign that i do it.
in the days when all these things are to be answered for, i summon your brother, the worst of the bad race, to answer for them separately.
i mark this cross of blood upon him, as a sign that i do it.'
“twice, he put his hand to the wound in his breast, and with his forefinger drew a cross in the air.
he stood for an instant with the finger yet raised, and as it dropped, he dropped with it, and i laid him down dead.
*****
“when i returned to the bedside of the young woman, i found her raving in precisely the same order of continuity.
i knew that this might last for many hours, and that it would probably end in the silence of the grave.
“i repeated the medicines i had given her, and i sat at the side of the bed until the night was far advanced.
she never abated the piercing quality of her shrieks, never stumbled in the distinctness or the order of her words.
they were always 'my husband, my father, and my brother!
one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve.
hush!'
“this lasted twenty-six hours from the time when i first saw her.
i had come and gone twice, and was again sitting by her, when she began to falter.
i did what little could be done to assist that opportunity, and by-and-bye she sank into a lethargy, and lay like the dead.
“it was as if the wind and rain had lulled at last, after a long and fearful storm.
i released her arms, and called the woman to assist me to compose her figure and the dress she had torn.
it was then that i knew her condition to be that of one in whom the first expectations of being a mother have arisen; and it was then that i lost the little hope i had had of her.
“'is she dead?'
asked the marquis, whom i will still describe as the elder brother, coming booted into the room from his horse.
“'not dead,' said i; 'but like to die.'
“'what strength there is in these common bodies!'
he said, looking down at her with some curiosity.
“'there is prodigious strength,' i answered him, 'in sorrow and despair.'
“he first laughed at my words, and then frowned at them.
he moved a chair with his foot near to mine, ordered the woman away, and said in a subdued voice,
“'doctor, finding my brother in this difficulty with these hinds, i recommended that your aid should be invited.
your reputation is high, and, as a young man with your fortune to make, you are probably mindful of your interest.
the things that you see here, are things to be seen, and not spoken of.'
“i listened to the patient's breathing, and avoided answering.
“'do you honour me with your attention, doctor?'
“'monsieur,' said i, 'in my profession, the communications of patients are always received in confidence.'
i was guarded in my answer, for i was troubled in my mind with what i had heard and seen.
“her breathing was so difficult to trace, that i carefully tried the pulse and the heart.
there was life, and no more.
looking round as i resumed my seat, i found both the brothers intent upon me.
*****
“i write with so much difficulty, the cold is so severe, i am so fearful of being detected and consigned to an underground cell and total darkness, that i must abridge this narrative.
there is no confusion or failure in my memory; it can recall, and could detail, every word that was ever spoken between me and those brothers.
“she lingered for a week.
towards the last, i could understand some few syllables that she said to me, by placing my ear close to her lips.
she asked me where she was, and i told her; who i was, and i told her.
it was in vain that i asked her for her family name.
she faintly shook her head upon the pillow, and kept her secret, as the boy had done.
“i had no opportunity of asking her any question, until i had told the brothers she was sinking fast, and could not live another day.
until then, though no one was ever presented to her consciousness save the woman and myself, one or other of them had always jealously sat behind the curtain at the head of the bed when i was there.
but when it came to that, they seemed careless what communication i might hold with her; as if the thought passed through my mind i were dying too.
“i always observed that their pride bitterly resented the younger brother's (as i call him) having crossed swords with a peasant, and that peasant a boy.
the only consideration that appeared to affect the mind of either of them was the consideration that this was highly degrading to the family, and was ridiculous.
as often as i caught the younger brother's eyes, their expression reminded me that he disliked me deeply, for knowing what i knew from the boy.
he was smoother and more polite to me than the elder; but i saw this.
i also saw that i was an incumbrance in the mind of the elder, too.
“my patient died, two hours before midnight at a time, by my watch, answering almost to the minute when i had first seen her.
i was alone with her, when her forlorn young head drooped gently on one side, and all her earthly wrongs and sorrows ended.
“the brothers were waiting in a room down-stairs, impatient to ride away.
i had heard them, alone at the bedside, striking their boots with their riding-whips, and loitering up and down.
“'at last she is dead?'
said the elder, when i went in.
“'she is dead,' said i.
“'i congratulate you, my brother,' were his words as he turned round.
“he had before offered me money, which i had postponed taking.
he now gave me a rouleau of gold.
i took it from his hand, but laid it on the table.
i had considered the question, and had resolved to accept nothing.
“'pray excuse me,' said i.
'under the circumstances, no.'
“they exchanged looks, but bent their heads to me as i bent mine to them, and we parted without another word on either side.
*****
“i am weary, weary, weary worn down by misery.
i cannot read what i have written with this gaunt hand.
“early in the morning, the rouleau of gold was left at my door in a little box, with my name on the outside.
from the first, i had anxiously considered what i ought to do.
i decided, that day, to write privately to the minister, stating the nature of the two cases to which i had been summoned, and the place to which i had gone: in effect, stating all the circumstances.
i knew what court influence was, and what the immunities of the nobles were, and i expected that the matter would never be heard of; but, i wished to relieve my own mind.
i had kept the matter a profound secret, even from my wife; and this, too, i resolved to state in my letter.
i had no apprehension whatever of my real danger; but i was conscious that there might be danger for others, if others were compromised by possessing the knowledge that i possessed.
“i was much engaged that day, and could not complete my letter that night.
i rose long before my usual time next morning to finish it.
it was the last day of the year.
the letter was lying before me just completed, when i was told that a lady waited, who wished to see me.
*****
“i am growing more and more unequal to the task i have set myself.
it is so cold, so dark, my senses are so benumbed, and the gloom upon me is so dreadful.
“the lady was young, engaging, and handsome, but not marked for long life.
she was in great agitation.
she presented herself to me as the wife of the marquis st. evremonde.
i connected the title by which the boy had addressed the elder brother, with the initial letter embroidered on the scarf, and had no difficulty in arriving at the conclusion that i had seen that nobleman very lately.
“my memory is still accurate, but i cannot write the words of our conversation.
i suspect that i am watched more closely than i was, and i know not at what times i may be watched.
she had in part suspected, and in part discovered, the main facts of the cruel story, of her husband's share in it, and my being resorted to.
she did not know that the girl was dead.
her hope had been, she said in great distress, to show her, in secret, a woman's sympathy.
her hope had been to avert the wrath of heaven from a house that had long been hateful to the suffering many.
“she had reasons for believing that there was a young sister living, and her greatest desire was, to help that sister.
i could tell her nothing but that there was such a sister; beyond that, i knew nothing.
her inducement to come to me, relying on my confidence, had been the hope that i could tell her the name and place of abode.
whereas, to this wretched hour i am ignorant of both.
*****
“these scraps of paper fail me.
one was taken from me, with a warning, yesterday.
i must finish my record to-day.
“she was a good, compassionate lady, and not happy in her marriage.
how could she be!
the brother distrusted and disliked her, and his influence was all opposed to her; she stood in dread of him, and in dread of her husband too.
when i handed her down to the door, there was a child, a pretty boy from two to three years old, in her carriage.
“'for his sake, doctor,' she said, pointing to him in tears, 'i would do all i can to make what poor amends i can.
he will never prosper in his inheritance otherwise.
i have a presentiment that if no other innocent atonement is made for this, it will one day be required of him.
what i have left to call my own it is little beyond the worth of a few jewels i will make it the first charge of his life to bestow, with the compassion and lamenting of his dead mother, on this injured family, if the sister can be discovered.'
“she kissed the boy, and said, caressing him, 'it is for thine own dear sake.
thou wilt be faithful, little charles?'
the child answered her bravely, 'yes!'
i kissed her hand, and she took him in her arms, and went away caressing him.
i never saw her more.
“as she had mentioned her husband's name in the faith that i knew it, i added no mention of it to my letter.
i sealed my letter, and, not trusting it out of my own hands, delivered it myself that day.
“that night, the last night of the year, towards nine o'clock, a man in a black dress rang at my gate, demanded to see me, and softly followed my servant, ernest defarge, a youth, up-stairs.
when my servant came into the room where i sat with my wife o my wife, beloved of my heart!
my fair young english wife!
we saw the man, who was supposed to be at the gate, standing silent behind him.
“an urgent case in the rue st. honore, he said.
it would not detain me, he had a coach in waiting.
“it brought me here, it brought me to my grave.
when i was clear of the house, a black muffler was drawn tightly over my mouth from behind, and my arms were pinioned.
the two brothers crossed the road from a dark corner, and identified me with a single gesture.
the marquis took from his pocket the letter i had written, showed it me, burnt it in the light of a lantern that was held, and extinguished the ashes with his foot.
not a word was spoken.
i was brought here, i was brought to my living grave.
“if it had pleased god to put it in the hard heart of either of the brothers, in all these frightful years, to grant me any tidings of my dearest wife so much as to let me know by a word whether alive or dead i might have thought that he had not quite abandoned them.
but, now i believe that the mark of the red cross is fatal to them, and that they have no part in his mercies.
and them and their descendants, to the last of their race, i, alexandre manette, unhappy prisoner, do this last night of the year 1767, in my unbearable agony, denounce to the times when all these things shall be answered for.
i denounce them to heaven and to earth.”
a terrible sound arose when the reading of this document was done.
a sound of craving and eagerness that had nothing articulate in it but blood.
the narrative called up the most revengeful passions of the time, and there was not a head in the nation but must have dropped before it.
little need, in presence of that tribunal and that auditory, to show how the defarges had not made the paper public, with the other captured bastille memorials borne in procession, and had kept it, biding their time.
little need to show that this detested family name had long been anathematised by saint antoine, and was wrought into the fatal register.
the man never trod ground whose virtues and services would have sustained him in that place that day, against such denunciation.
and all the worse for the doomed man, that the denouncer was a well-known citizen, his own attached friend, the father of his wife.
one of the frenzied aspirations of the populace was, for imitations of the questionable public virtues of antiquity, and for sacrifices and self-immolations on the people's altar.
therefore when the president said (else had his own head quivered on his shoulders), that the good physician of the republic would deserve better still of the republic by rooting out an obnoxious family of aristocrats, and would doubtless feel a sacred glow and joy in making his daughter a widow and her child an orphan, there was wild excitement, patriotic fervour, not a touch of human sympathy.
“much influence around him, has that doctor?” murmured madame defarge, smiling to the vengeance.
“save him now, my doctor, save him!”
at every juryman's vote, there was a roar.
another and another.
roar and roar.
unanimously voted.
at heart and by descent an aristocrat, an enemy of the republic, a notorious oppressor of the people.
back to the conciergerie, and death within four-and-twenty hours!
xi.
dusk
the wretched wife of the innocent man thus doomed to die, fell under the sentence, as if she had been mortally stricken.
but, she uttered no sound; and so strong was the voice within her, representing that it was she of all the world who must uphold him in his misery and not augment it, that it quickly raised her, even from that shock.
the judges having to take part in a public demonstration out of doors, the tribunal adjourned.
the quick noise and movement of the court's emptying itself by many passages had not ceased, when lucie stood stretching out her arms towards her husband, with nothing in her face but love and consolation.
“if i might touch him!
if i might embrace him once!
o, good citizens, if you would have so much compassion for us!”
there was but a gaoler left, along with two of the four men who had taken him last night, and barsad.
the people had all poured out to the show in the streets.
barsad proposed to the rest, “let her embrace him then; it is but a moment.” it was silently acquiesced in, and they passed her over the seats in the hall to a raised place, where he, by leaning over the dock, could fold her in his arms.
“farewell, dear darling of my soul.
my parting blessing on my love.
we shall meet again, where the weary are at rest!”
they were her husband's words, as he held her to his bosom.
“i can bear it, dear charles.
i am supported from above: don't suffer for me.
a parting blessing for our child.”
“i send it to her by you.
i kiss her by you.
i say farewell to her by you.”
“my husband.
no!
a moment!” he was tearing himself apart from her.
“we shall not be separated long.
i feel that this will break my heart by-and-bye; but i will do my duty while i can, and when i leave her, god will raise up friends for her, as he did for me.”
her father had followed her, and would have fallen on his knees to both of them, but that darnay put out a hand and seized him, crying:
“no, no!
what have you done, what have you done, that you should kneel to us!
we know now, what a struggle you made of old.
we know, now what you underwent when you suspected my descent, and when you knew it.
we know now, the natural antipathy you strove against, and conquered, for her dear sake.
we thank you with all our hearts, and all our love and duty.
heaven be with you!”
her father's only answer was to draw his hands through his white hair, and wring them with a shriek of anguish.
“it could not be otherwise,” said the prisoner.
“all things have worked together as they have fallen out.
it was the always-vain endeavour to discharge my poor mother's trust that first brought my fatal presence near you.
good could never come of such evil, a happier end was not in nature to so unhappy a beginning.
be comforted, and forgive me.
heaven bless you!”
as he was drawn away, his wife released him, and stood looking after him with her hands touching one another in the attitude of prayer, and with a radiant look upon her face, in which there was even a comforting smile.
as he went out at the prisoners' door, she turned, laid her head lovingly on her father's breast, tried to speak to him, and fell at his feet.
then, issuing from the obscure corner from which he had never moved, sydney carton came and took her up.
only her father and mr. lorry were with her.
his arm trembled as it raised her, and supported her head.
yet, there was an air about him that was not all of pity that had a flush of pride in it.
“shall i take her to a coach?
i shall never feel her weight.”
he carried her lightly to the door, and laid her tenderly down in a coach.
her father and their old friend got into it, and he took his seat beside the driver.
when they arrived at the gateway where he had paused in the dark not many hours before, to picture to himself on which of the rough stones of the street her feet had trodden, he lifted her again, and carried her up the staircase to their rooms.
there, he laid her down on a couch, where her child and miss pross wept over her.
“don't recall her to herself,” he said, softly, to the latter, “she is better so.
don't revive her to consciousness, while she only faints.”
“oh, carton, carton, dear carton!” cried little lucie, springing up and throwing her arms passionately round him, in a burst of grief.
“now that you have come, i think you will do something to help mamma, something to save papa!
o, look at her, dear carton!
can you, of all the people who love her, bear to see her so?”
he bent over the child, and laid her blooming cheek against his face.
he put her gently from him, and looked at her unconscious mother.
“before i go,” he said, and paused “i may kiss her?”
it was remembered afterwards that when he bent down and touched her face with his lips, he murmured some words.
the child, who was nearest to him, told them afterwards, and told her grandchildren when she was a handsome old lady, that she heard him say, “a life you love.”
when he had gone out into the next room, he turned suddenly on mr. lorry and her father, who were following, and said to the latter:
“you had great influence but yesterday, doctor manette; let it at least be tried.
these judges, and all the men in power, are very friendly to you, and very recognisant of your services; are they not?”
“nothing connected with charles was concealed from me.
i had the strongest assurances that i should save him; and i did.” he returned the answer in great trouble, and very slowly.
“try them again.
the hours between this and to-morrow afternoon are few and short, but try.”
“i intend to try.
i will not rest a moment.”
“that's well.
i have known such energy as yours do great things before now though never,” he added, with a smile and a sigh together, “such great things as this.
but try!
of little worth as life is when we misuse it, it is worth that effort.
it would cost nothing to lay down if it were not.”
“i will go,” said doctor manette, “to the prosecutor and the president straight, and i will go to others whom it is better not to name.
i will write too, and but stay!
there is a celebration in the streets, and no one will be accessible until dark.”
“that's true.
well!
it is a forlorn hope at the best, and not much the forlorner for being delayed till dark.
i should like to know how you speed; though, mind!
i expect nothing!
when are you likely to have seen these dread powers, doctor manette?”
“immediately after dark, i should hope.
within an hour or two from this.”
“it will be dark soon after four.
let us stretch the hour or two.
if i go to mr. lorry's at nine, shall i hear what you have done, either from our friend or from yourself?”
“yes.”
“may you prosper!”
mr. lorry followed sydney to the outer door, and, touching him on the shoulder as he was going away, caused him to turn.
“i have no hope,” said mr. lorry, in a low and sorrowful whisper.
“nor have i.”
“if any one of these men, or all of these men, were disposed to spare him which is a large supposition; for what is his life, or any man's to them!
i doubt if they durst spare him after the demonstration in the court.”
“and so do i. i heard the fall of the axe in that sound.”
mr. lorry leaned his arm upon the door-post, and bowed his face upon it.
“don't despond,” said carton, very gently; “don't grieve.
i encouraged doctor manette in this idea, because i felt that it might one day be consolatory to her.
otherwise, she might think 'his life was wantonly thrown away or wasted,' and that might trouble her.”
“yes, yes, yes,” returned mr. lorry, drying his eyes, “you are right.
but he will perish; there is no real hope.”
“yes.
he will perish: there is no real hope,” echoed carton.
and walked with a settled step, down-stairs.
xii.
darkness
sydney carton paused in the street, not quite decided where to go.
“at tellson's banking-house at nine,” he said, with a musing face.
“shall i do well, in the mean time, to show myself?
i think so.
it is best that these people should know there is such a man as i here; it is a sound precaution, and may be a necessary preparation.
but care, care, care!
let me think it out!”
checking his steps which had begun to tend towards an object, he took a turn or two in the already darkening street, and traced the thought in his mind to its possible consequences.
his first impression was confirmed.
“it is best,” he said, finally resolved, “that these people should know there is such a man as i here.” and he turned his face towards saint antoine.
defarge had described himself, that day, as the keeper of a wine-shop in the saint antoine suburb.
it was not difficult for one who knew the city well, to find his house without asking any question.
having ascertained its situation, carton came out of those closer streets again, and dined at a place of refreshment and fell sound asleep after dinner.
for the first time in many years, he had no strong drink.
since last night he had taken nothing but a little light thin wine, and last night he had dropped the brandy slowly down on mr. lorry's hearth like a man who had done with it.
it was as late as seven o'clock when he awoke refreshed, and went out into the streets again.
as he passed along towards saint antoine, he stopped at a shop-window where there was a mirror, and slightly altered the disordered arrangement of his loose cravat, and his coat-collar, and his wild hair.
this done, he went on direct to defarge's, and went in.
there happened to be no customer in the shop but jacques three, of the restless fingers and the croaking voice.
this man, whom he had seen upon the jury, stood drinking at the little counter, in conversation with the defarges, man and wife.
the vengeance assisted in the conversation, like a regular member of the establishment.
as carton walked in, took his seat and asked (in very indifferent french) for a small measure of wine, madame defarge cast a careless glance at him, and then a keener, and then a keener, and then advanced to him herself, and asked him what it was he had ordered.
he repeated what he had already said.
“english?” asked madame defarge, inquisitively raising her dark eyebrows.
after looking at her, as if the sound of even a single french word were slow to express itself to him, he answered, in his former strong foreign accent.
“yes, madame, yes.
i am english!”
madame defarge returned to her counter to get the wine, and, as he took up a jacobin journal and feigned to pore over it puzzling out its meaning, he heard her say, “i swear to you, like evremonde!”
defarge brought him the wine, and gave him good evening.
“how?”
“good evening.”
“oh!
good evening, citizen,” filling his glass.
“ah!
and good wine.
i drink to the republic.”
defarge went back to the counter, and said, “certainly, a little like.”
madame sternly retorted, “i tell you a good deal like.” jacques three pacifically remarked, “he is so much in your mind, see you, madame.”
the amiable vengeance added, with a laugh, “yes, my faith!
and you are looking forward with so much pleasure to seeing him once more to-morrow!”
carton followed the lines and words of his paper, with a slow forefinger, and with a studious and absorbed face.
they were all leaning their arms on the counter close together, speaking low.
after a silence of a few moments, during which they all looked towards him without disturbing his outward attention from the jacobin editor, they resumed their conversation.
“it is true what madame says,” observed jacques three.
“why stop?
there is great force in that.
why stop?”
“well, well,” reasoned defarge, “but one must stop somewhere.
after all, the question is still where?”
“at extermination,” said madame.
“magnificent!” croaked jacques three.
the vengeance, also, highly approved.
“extermination is good doctrine, my wife,” said defarge, rather troubled; “in general, i say nothing against it.
but this doctor has suffered much; you have seen him to-day; you have observed his face when the paper was read.”
“i have observed his face!” repeated madame, contemptuously and angrily.
“yes.
i have observed his face.
i have observed his face to be not the face of a true friend of the republic.
let him take care of his face!”
“and you have observed, my wife,” said defarge, in a deprecatory manner, “the anguish of his daughter, which must be a dreadful anguish to him!”
“i have observed his daughter,” repeated madame; “yes, i have observed his daughter, more times than one.
i have observed her to-day, and i have observed her other days.
i have observed her in the court, and i have observed her in the street by the prison.
let me but lift my finger !” she seemed to raise it (the listener's eyes were always on his paper), and to let it fall with a rattle on the ledge before her, as if the axe had dropped.
“the citizeness is superb!” croaked the juryman.
“she is an angel!” said the vengeance, and embraced her.
“as to thee,” pursued madame, implacably, addressing her husband, “if it depended on thee which, happily, it does not thou wouldst rescue this man even now.”
“no!” protested defarge.
“not if to lift this glass would do it!
but i would leave the matter there.
i say, stop there.”
“see you then, jacques,” said madame defarge, wrathfully; “and see you, too, my little vengeance; see you both!
listen!
for other crimes as tyrants and oppressors, i have this race a long time on my register, doomed to destruction and extermination.
ask my husband, is that so.”
“it is so,” assented defarge, without being asked.
“in the beginning of the great days, when the bastille falls, he finds this paper of to-day, and he brings it home, and in the middle of the night when this place is clear and shut, we read it, here on this spot, by the light of this lamp.
ask him, is that so.”
“it is so,” assented defarge.
“that night, i tell him, when the paper is read through, and the lamp is burnt out, and the day is gleaming in above those shutters and between those iron bars, that i have now a secret to communicate.
ask him, is that so.”
“it is so,” assented defarge again.
“i communicate to him that secret.
i smite this bosom with these two hands as i smite it now, and i tell him, 'defarge, i was brought up among the fishermen of the sea-shore, and that peasant family so injured by the two evremonde brothers, as that bastille paper describes, is my family.
defarge, that sister of the mortally wounded boy upon the ground was my sister, that husband was my sister's husband, that unborn child was their child, that brother was my brother, that father was my father, those dead are my dead, and that summons to answer for those things descends to me!'
ask him, is that so.”
“it is so,” assented defarge once more.
“then tell wind and fire where to stop,” returned madame; “but don't tell me.”
both her hearers derived a horrible enjoyment from the deadly nature of her wrath the listener could feel how white she was, without seeing her and both highly commended it.
defarge, a weak minority, interposed a few words for the memory of the compassionate wife of the marquis; but only elicited from his own wife a repetition of her last reply.
“tell the wind and the fire where to stop; not me!”
customers entered, and the group was broken up.
the english customer paid for what he had had, perplexedly counted his change, and asked, as a stranger, to be directed towards the national palace.
madame defarge took him to the door, and put her arm on his, in pointing out the road.
the english customer was not without his reflections then, that it might be a good deed to seize that arm, lift it, and strike under it sharp and deep.
but, he went his way, and was soon swallowed up in the shadow of the prison wall.
at the appointed hour, he emerged from it to present himself in mr. lorry's room again, where he found the old gentleman walking to and fro in restless anxiety.
he said he had been with lucie until just now, and had only left her for a few minutes, to come and keep his appointment.
her father had not been seen, since he quitted the banking-house towards four o'clock.
she had some faint hopes that his mediation might save charles, but they were very slight.
he had been more than five hours gone: where could he be?
mr. lorry waited until ten; but, doctor manette not returning, and he being unwilling to leave lucie any longer, it was arranged that he should go back to her, and come to the banking-house again at midnight.
in the meanwhile, carton would wait alone by the fire for the doctor.
he waited and waited, and the clock struck twelve; but doctor manette did not come back.
mr. lorry returned, and found no tidings of him, and brought none.
where could he be?
they were discussing this question, and were almost building up some weak structure of hope on his prolonged absence, when they heard him on the stairs.
the instant he entered the room, it was plain that all was lost.
whether he had really been to any one, or whether he had been all that time traversing the streets, was never known.
as he stood staring at them, they asked him no question, for his face told them everything.
“i cannot find it,” said he, “and i must have it.
where is it?”
his head and throat were bare, and, as he spoke with a helpless look straying all around, he took his coat off, and let it drop on the floor.
“where is my bench?
i have been looking everywhere for my bench, and i can't find it.
what have they done with my work?
time presses: i must finish those shoes.”
they looked at one another, and their hearts died within them.
“come, come!” said he, in a whimpering miserable way; “let me get to work.
give me my work.”
receiving no answer, he tore his hair, and beat his feet upon the ground, like a distracted child.
“don't torture a poor forlorn wretch,” he implored them, with a dreadful cry; “but give me my work!
what is to become of us, if those shoes are not done to-night?”
lost, utterly lost!
it was so clearly beyond hope to reason with him, or try to restore him, that as if by agreement they each put a hand upon his shoulder, and soothed him to sit down before the fire, with a promise that he should have his work presently.
he sank into the chair, and brooded over the embers, and shed tears.
as if all that had happened since the garret time were a momentary fancy, or a dream, mr. lorry saw him shrink into the exact figure that defarge had had in keeping.
affected, and impressed with terror as they both were, by this spectacle of ruin, it was not a time to yield to such emotions.
his lonely daughter, bereft of her final hope and reliance, appealed to them both too strongly.
again, as if by agreement, they looked at one another with one meaning in their faces.
carton was the first to speak:
“the last chance is gone: it was not much.
yes; he had better be taken to her.
but, before you go, will you, for a moment, steadily attend to me?
don't ask me why i make the stipulations i am going to make, and exact the promise i am going to exact; i have a reason a good one.”
“i do not doubt it,” answered mr. lorry.
“say on.”
the figure in the chair between them, was all the time monotonously rocking itself to and fro, and moaning.
they spoke in such a tone as they would have used if they had been watching by a sick-bed in the night.
carton stooped to pick up the coat, which lay almost entangling his feet.
as he did so, a small case in which the doctor was accustomed to carry the lists of his day's duties, fell lightly on the floor.
carton took it up, and there was a folded paper in it.
“we should look at this!” he said.
mr. lorry nodded his consent.
he opened it, and exclaimed, “thank god!”
“what is it?” asked mr. lorry, eagerly.
“a moment!
let me speak of it in its place.
first,” he put his hand in his coat, and took another paper from it, “that is the certificate which enables me to pass out of this city.
look at it.
you see sydney carton, an englishman?”
mr. lorry held it open in his hand, gazing in his earnest face.
“keep it for me until to-morrow.
i shall see him to-morrow, you remember, and i had better not take it into the prison.”
“why not?”
“i don't know; i prefer not to do so.
now, take this paper that doctor manette has carried about him.
it is a similar certificate, enabling him and his daughter and her child, at any time, to pass the barrier and the frontier!
you see?”
“yes!”
“perhaps he obtained it as his last and utmost precaution against evil, yesterday.
when is it dated?
but no matter; don't stay to look; put it up carefully with mine and your own.
now, observe!
i never doubted until within this hour or two, that he had, or could have such a paper.
it is good, until recalled.
but it may be soon recalled, and, i have reason to think, will be.”
“they are not in danger?”
“they are in great danger.
they are in danger of denunciation by madame defarge.
i know it from her own lips.
i have overheard words of that woman's, to-night, which have presented their danger to me in strong colours.
i have lost no time, and since then, i have seen the spy.
he confirms me.
he knows that a wood-sawyer, living by the prison wall, is under the control of the defarges, and has been rehearsed by madame defarge as to his having seen her” he never mentioned lucie's name “making signs and signals to prisoners.
it is easy to foresee that the pretence will be the common one, a prison plot, and that it will involve her life and perhaps her child's and perhaps her father's for both have been seen with her at that place.
don't look so horrified.
you will save them all.”
“heaven grant i may, carton!
but how?”
“i am going to tell you how.
it will depend on you, and it could depend on no better man.
this new denunciation will certainly not take place until after to-morrow; probably not until two or three days afterwards; more probably a week afterwards.
you know it is a capital crime, to mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the guillotine.
she and her father would unquestionably be guilty of this crime, and this woman (the inveteracy of whose pursuit cannot be described) would wait to add that strength to her case, and make herself doubly sure.
you follow me?”
“so attentively, and with so much confidence in what you say, that for the moment i lose sight,” touching the back of the doctor's chair, “even of this distress.”
“you have money, and can buy the means of travelling to the seacoast as quickly as the journey can be made.
your preparations have been completed for some days, to return to england.
early to-morrow have your horses ready, so that they may be in starting trim at two o'clock in the afternoon.”
“it shall be done!”
his manner was so fervent and inspiring, that mr. lorry caught the flame, and was as quick as youth.
“you are a noble heart.
did i say we could depend upon no better man?
tell her, to-night, what you know of her danger as involving her child and her father.
dwell upon that, for she would lay her own fair head beside her husband's cheerfully.” he faltered for an instant; then went on as before.
“for the sake of her child and her father, press upon her the necessity of leaving paris, with them and you, at that hour.
tell her that it was her husband's last arrangement.
tell her that more depends upon it than she dare believe, or hope.
you think that her father, even in this sad state, will submit himself to her; do you not?”
“i am sure of it.”
“i thought so.
quietly and steadily have all these arrangements made in the courtyard here, even to the taking of your own seat in the carriage.
the moment i come to you, take me in, and drive away.”
“i understand that i wait for you under all circumstances?”
“you have my certificate in your hand with the rest, you know, and will reserve my place.
wait for nothing but to have my place occupied, and then for england!”
“why, then,” said mr. lorry, grasping his eager but so firm and steady hand, “it does not all depend on one old man, but i shall have a young and ardent man at my side.”
“by the help of heaven you shall!
promise me solemnly that nothing will influence you to alter the course on which we now stand pledged to one another.”
“nothing, carton.”
“remember these words to-morrow: change the course, or delay in it for any reason and no life can possibly be saved, and many lives must inevitably be sacrificed.”
“i will remember them.
i hope to do my part faithfully.”
“and i hope to do mine.
now, good bye!”
though he said it with a grave smile of earnestness, and though he even put the old man's hand to his lips, he did not part from him then.
he helped him so far to arouse the rocking figure before the dying embers, as to get a cloak and hat put upon it, and to tempt it forth to find where the bench and work were hidden that it still moaningly besought to have.
he walked on the other side of it and protected it to the courtyard of the house where the afflicted heart so happy in the memorable time when he had revealed his own desolate heart to it outwatched the awful night.
he entered the courtyard and remained there for a few moments alone, looking up at the light in the window of her room.
before he went away, he breathed a blessing towards it, and a farewell.
xiii.
fifty-two
in the black prison of the conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate.
they were in number as the weeks of the year.
fifty-two were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless everlasting sea.
before their cells were quit of them, new occupants were appointed; before their blood ran into the blood spilled yesterday, the blood that was to mingle with theirs to-morrow was already set apart.
two score and twelve were told off.
from the farmer-general of seventy, whose riches could not buy his life, to the seamstress of twenty, whose poverty and obscurity could not save her.
physical diseases, engendered in the vices and neglects of men, will seize on victims of all degrees; and the frightful moral disorder, born of unspeakable suffering, intolerable oppression, and heartless indifference, smote equally without distinction.
charles darnay, alone in a cell, had sustained himself with no flattering delusion since he came to it from the tribunal.
in every line of the narrative he had heard, he had heard his condemnation.
he had fully comprehended that no personal influence could possibly save him, that he was virtually sentenced by the millions, and that units could avail him nothing.
nevertheless, it was not easy, with the face of his beloved wife fresh before him, to compose his mind to what it must bear.
his hold on life was strong, and it was very, very hard, to loosen; by gradual efforts and degrees unclosed a little here, it clenched the tighter there; and when he brought his strength to bear on that hand and it yielded, this was closed again.
there was a hurry, too, in all his thoughts, a turbulent and heated working of his heart, that contended against resignation.
if, for a moment, he did feel resigned, then his wife and child who had to live after him, seemed to protest and to make it a selfish thing.
but, all this was at first.
before long, the consideration that there was no disgrace in the fate he must meet, and that numbers went the same road wrongfully, and trod it firmly every day, sprang up to stimulate him.
next followed the thought that much of the future peace of mind enjoyable by the dear ones, depended on his quiet fortitude.
so, by degrees he calmed into the better state, when he could raise his thoughts much higher, and draw comfort down.
before it had set in dark on the night of his condemnation, he had travelled thus far on his last way.
being allowed to purchase the means of writing, and a light, he sat down to write until such time as the prison lamps should be extinguished.
he wrote a long letter to lucie, showing her that he had known nothing of her father's imprisonment, until he had heard of it from herself, and that he had been as ignorant as she of his father's and uncle's responsibility for that misery, until the paper had been read.
he had already explained to her that his concealment from herself of the name he had relinquished, was the one condition fully intelligible now that her father had attached to their betrothal, and was the one promise he had still exacted on the morning of their marriage.
he entreated her, for her father's sake, never to seek to know whether her father had become oblivious of the existence of the paper, or had had it recalled to him (for the moment, or for good), by the story of the tower, on that old sunday under the dear old plane-tree in the garden.
if he had preserved any definite remembrance of it, there could be no doubt that he had supposed it destroyed with the bastille, when he had found no mention of it among the relics of prisoners which the populace had discovered there, and which had been described to all the world.
he besought her though he added that he knew it was needless to console her father, by impressing him through every tender means she could think of, with the truth that he had done nothing for which he could justly reproach himself, but had uniformly forgotten himself for their joint sakes.
next to her preservation of his own last grateful love and blessing, and her overcoming of her sorrow, to devote herself to their dear child, he adjured her, as they would meet in heaven, to comfort her father.
to her father himself, he wrote in the same strain; but, he told her father that he expressly confided his wife and child to his care.
and he told him this, very strongly, with the hope of rousing him from any despondency or dangerous retrospect towards which he foresaw he might be tending.
to mr. lorry, he commended them all, and explained his worldly affairs.
that done, with many added sentences of grateful friendship and warm attachment, all was done.
he never thought of carton.
his mind was so full of the others, that he never once thought of him.
he had time to finish these letters before the lights were put out.
when he lay down on his straw bed, he thought he had done with this world.
but, it beckoned him back in his sleep, and showed itself in shining forms.
free and happy, back in the old house in soho (though it had nothing in it like the real house), unaccountably released and light of heart, he was with lucie again, and she told him it was all a dream, and he had never gone away.
a pause of forgetfulness, and then he had even suffered, and had come back to her, dead and at peace, and yet there was no difference in him.
another pause of oblivion, and he awoke in the sombre morning, unconscious where he was or what had happened, until it flashed upon his mind, “this is the day of my death!”
thus, had he come through the hours, to the day when the fifty-two heads were to fall.
and now, while he was composed, and hoped that he could meet the end with quiet heroism, a new action began in his waking thoughts, which was very difficult to master.
he had never seen the instrument that was to terminate his life.
how high it was from the ground, how many steps it had, where he would be stood, how he would be touched, whether the touching hands would be dyed red, which way his face would be turned, whether he would be the first, or might be the last: these and many similar questions, in nowise directed by his will, obtruded themselves over and over again, countless times.
neither were they connected with fear: he was conscious of no fear.
rather, they originated in a strange besetting desire to know what to do when the time came; a desire gigantically disproportionate to the few swift moments to which it referred; a wondering that was more like the wondering of some other spirit within his, than his own.
the hours went on as he walked to and fro, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again.
nine gone for ever, ten gone for ever, eleven gone for ever, twelve coming on to pass away.
after a hard contest with that eccentric action of thought which had last perplexed him, he had got the better of it.
he walked up and down, softly repeating their names to himself.
the worst of the strife was over.
he could walk up and down, free from distracting fancies, praying for himself and for them.
twelve gone for ever.
he had been apprised that the final hour was three, and he knew he would be summoned some time earlier, inasmuch as the tumbrils jolted heavily and slowly through the streets.
therefore, he resolved to keep two before his mind, as the hour, and so to strengthen himself in the interval that he might be able, after that time, to strengthen others.
walking regularly to and fro with his arms folded on his breast, a very different man from the prisoner, who had walked to and fro at la force, he heard one struck away from him, without surprise.
the hour had measured like most other hours.
devoutly thankful to heaven for his recovered self-possession, he thought, “there is but another now,” and turned to walk again.
footsteps in the stone passage outside the door.
he stopped.
the key was put in the lock, and turned.
before the door was opened, or as it opened, a man said in a low voice, in english: “he has never seen me here; i have kept out of his way.
go you in alone; i wait near.
lose no time!”
the door was quickly opened and closed, and there stood before him face to face, quiet, intent upon him, with the light of a smile on his features, and a cautionary finger on his lip, sydney carton.
there was something so bright and remarkable in his look, that, for the first moment, the prisoner misdoubted him to be an apparition of his own imagining.
but, he spoke, and it was his voice; he took the prisoner's hand, and it was his real grasp.
“of all the people upon earth, you least expected to see me?” he said.
“i could not believe it to be you.
i can scarcely believe it now.
you are not” the apprehension came suddenly into his mind “a prisoner?”
“no.
i am accidentally possessed of a power over one of the keepers here, and in virtue of it i stand before you.
i come from her your wife, dear darnay.”
the prisoner wrung his hand.
“i bring you a request from her.”
“what is it?”
“a most earnest, pressing, and emphatic entreaty, addressed to you in the most pathetic tones of the voice so dear to you, that you well remember.”
the prisoner turned his face partly aside.
“you have no time to ask me why i bring it, or what it means; i have no time to tell you.
you must comply with it take off those boots you wear, and draw on these of mine.”
there was a chair against the wall of the cell, behind the prisoner.
carton, pressing forward, had already, with the speed of lightning, got him down into it, and stood over him, barefoot.
“draw on these boots of mine.
put your hands to them; put your will to them.
quick!”
“carton, there is no escaping from this place; it never can be done.
you will only die with me.
it is madness.”
“it would be madness if i asked you to escape; but do i?
when i ask you to pass out at that door, tell me it is madness and remain here.
change that cravat for this of mine, that coat for this of mine.
while you do it, let me take this ribbon from your hair, and shake out your hair like this of mine!”
with wonderful quickness, and with a strength both of will and action, that appeared quite supernatural, he forced all these changes upon him.
the prisoner was like a young child in his hands.
“carton!
dear carton!
it is madness.
it cannot be accomplished, it never can be done, it has been attempted, and has always failed.
i implore you not to add your death to the bitterness of mine.”
“do i ask you, my dear darnay, to pass the door?
when i ask that, refuse.
there are pen and ink and paper on this table.
is your hand steady enough to write?”
“it was when you came in.”
“steady it again, and write what i shall dictate.
quick, friend, quick!”
pressing his hand to his bewildered head, darnay sat down at the table.
carton, with his right hand in his breast, stood close beside him.
“write exactly as i speak.”
“to whom do i address it?”
“to no one.” carton still had his hand in his breast.
“do i date it?”
“no.”
the prisoner looked up, at each question.
carton, standing over him with his hand in his breast, looked down.
“'if you remember,'” said carton, dictating, “'the words that passed between us, long ago, you will readily comprehend this when you see it.
you do remember them, i know.
it is not in your nature to forget them.
'”
he was drawing his hand from his breast; the prisoner chancing to look up in his hurried wonder as he wrote, the hand stopped, closing upon something.
“have you written 'forget them'?” carton asked.
“i have.
is that a weapon in your hand?”
“no; i am not armed.”
“what is it in your hand?”
“you shall know directly.
write on; there are but a few words more.” he dictated again.
“'i am thankful that the time has come, when i can prove them.
that i do so is no subject for regret or grief.
'” as he said these words with his eyes fixed on the writer, his hand slowly and softly moved down close to the writer's face.
the pen dropped from darnay's fingers on the table, and he looked about him vacantly.
“what vapour is that?” he asked.
“vapour?”
“something that crossed me?”
“i am conscious of nothing; there can be nothing here.
take up the pen and finish.
hurry, hurry!”
as if his memory were impaired, or his faculties disordered, the prisoner made an effort to rally his attention.
as he looked at carton with clouded eyes and with an altered manner of breathing, carton his hand again in his breast looked steadily at him.
“hurry, hurry!”
the prisoner bent over the paper, once more.
“'if it had been otherwise;'” carton's hand was again watchfully and softly stealing down; “'i never should have used the longer opportunity.
if it had been otherwise;'” the hand was at the prisoner's face; “'i should but have had so much the more to answer for.
if it had been otherwise '” carton looked at the pen and saw it was trailing off into unintelligible signs.
carton's hand moved back to his breast no more.
the prisoner sprang up with a reproachful look, but carton's hand was close and firm at his nostrils, and carton's left arm caught him round the waist.
for a few seconds he faintly struggled with the man who had come to lay down his life for him; but, within a minute or so, he was stretched insensible on the ground.
quickly, but with hands as true to the purpose as his heart was, carton dressed himself in the clothes the prisoner had laid aside, combed back his hair, and tied it with the ribbon the prisoner had worn.
then, he softly called, “enter there!
come in!” and the spy presented himself.
“you see?” said carton, looking up, as he kneeled on one knee beside the insensible figure, putting the paper in the breast: “is your hazard very great?”
“mr.
carton,” the spy answered, with a timid snap of his fingers, “my hazard is not that, in the thick of business here, if you are true to the whole of your bargain.”
“don't fear me.
i will be true to the death.”
“you must be, mr. carton, if the tale of fifty-two is to be right.
being made right by you in that dress, i shall have no fear.”
“have no fear!
i shall soon be out of the way of harming you, and the rest will soon be far from here, please god!
now, get assistance and take me to the coach.”
“you?” said the spy nervously.
“him, man, with whom i have exchanged.
you go out at the gate by which you brought me in?”
“of course.”
“i was weak and faint when you brought me in, and i am fainter now you take me out.
the parting interview has overpowered me.
such a thing has happened here, often, and too often.
your life is in your own hands.
quick!
call assistance!”
“you swear not to betray me?” said the trembling spy, as he paused for a last moment.
“man, man!” returned carton, stamping his foot; “have i sworn by no solemn vow already, to go through with this, that you waste the precious moments now?
take him yourself to the courtyard you know of, place him yourself in the carriage, show him yourself to mr. lorry, tell him yourself to give him no restorative but air, and to remember my words of last night, and his promise of last night, and drive away!”
the spy withdrew, and carton seated himself at the table, resting his forehead on his hands.
the spy returned immediately, with two men.
“how, then?” said one of them, contemplating the fallen figure.
“so afflicted to find that his friend has drawn a prize in the lottery of sainte guillotine?”
“a good patriot,” said the other, “could hardly have been more afflicted if the aristocrat had drawn a blank.”
they raised the unconscious figure, placed it on a litter they had brought to the door, and bent to carry it away.
“the time is short, evremonde,” said the spy, in a warning voice.
“i know it well,” answered carton.
“be careful of my friend, i entreat you, and leave me.”
“come, then, my children,” said barsad.
“lift him, and come away!”
the door closed, and carton was left alone.
straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm.
there was none.
keys turned, doors clashed, footsteps passed along distant passages: no cry was raised, or hurry made, that seemed unusual.
breathing more freely in a little while, he sat down at the table, and listened again until the clock struck two.
sounds that he was not afraid of, for he divined their meaning, then began to be audible.
several doors were opened in succession, and finally his own.
a gaoler, with a list in his hand, looked in, merely saying, “follow me, evremonde!” and he followed into a large dark room, at a distance.
it was a dark winter day, and what with the shadows within, and what with the shadows without, he could but dimly discern the others who were brought there to have their arms bound.
some were standing; some seated.
some were lamenting, and in restless motion; but, these were few.
the great majority were silent and still, looking fixedly at the ground.
as he stood by the wall in a dim corner, while some of the fifty-two were brought in after him, one man stopped in passing, to embrace him, as having a knowledge of him.
it thrilled him with a great dread of discovery; but the man went on.
a very few moments after that, a young woman, with a slight girlish form, a sweet spare face in which there was no vestige of colour, and large widely opened patient eyes, rose from the seat where he had observed her sitting, and came to speak to him.
“citizen evremonde,” she said, touching him with her cold hand.
“i am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in la force.”
he murmured for answer: “true.
i forget what you were accused of?”
“plots.
though the just heaven knows that i am innocent of any.
is it likely?
who would think of plotting with a poor little weak creature like me?”
the forlorn smile with which she said it, so touched him, that tears started from his eyes.
“i am not afraid to die, citizen evremonde, but i have done nothing.
i am not unwilling to die, if the republic which is to do so much good to us poor, will profit by my death; but i do not know how that can be, citizen evremonde.
such a poor weak little creature!”
as the last thing on earth that his heart was to warm and soften to, it warmed and softened to this pitiable girl.
“i heard you were released, citizen evremonde.
i hoped it was true?”
“it was.
but, i was again taken and condemned.”
“if i may ride with you, citizen evremonde, will you let me hold your hand?
i am not afraid, but i am little and weak, and it will give me more courage.”
as the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them, and then astonishment.
he pressed the work-worn, hunger-worn young fingers, and touched his lips.
“are you dying for him?” she whispered.
“and his wife and child.
hush!
yes.”
“o you will let me hold your brave hand, stranger?”
“hush!
yes, my poor sister; to the last.”
*****
the same shadows that are falling on the prison, are falling, in that same hour of the early afternoon, on the barrier with the crowd about it, when a coach going out of paris drives up to be examined.
“who goes here?
whom have we within?
papers!”
the papers are handed out, and read.
“alexandre manette.
physician.
french.
which is he?”
this is he; this helpless, inarticulately murmuring, wandering old man pointed out.
“apparently the citizen-doctor is not in his right mind?
the revolution-fever will have been too much for him?”
greatly too much for him.
“hah!
many suffer with it.
lucie.
his daughter.
french.
which is she?”
this is she.
“apparently it must be.
lucie, the wife of evremonde; is it not?”
it is.
“hah!
evremonde has an assignation elsewhere.
lucie, her child.
english.
this is she?”
she and no other.
“kiss me, child of evremonde.
now, thou hast kissed a good republican; something new in thy family; remember it!
sydney carton.
advocate.
english.
which is he?”
he lies here, in this corner of the carriage.
he, too, is pointed out.
“apparently the english advocate is in a swoon?”
it is hoped he will recover in the fresher air.
it is represented that he is not in strong health, and has separated sadly from a friend who is under the displeasure of the republic.
“is that all?
it is not a great deal, that!
many are under the displeasure of the republic, and must look out at the little window.
jarvis lorry.
banker.
english.
which is he?”
“i am he.
necessarily, being the last.”
it is jarvis lorry who has replied to all the previous questions.
it is jarvis lorry who has alighted and stands with his hand on the coach door, replying to a group of officials.
they leisurely walk round the carriage and leisurely mount the box, to look at what little luggage it carries on the roof; the country-people hanging about, press nearer to the coach doors and greedily stare in; a little child, carried by its mother, has its short arm held out for it, that it may touch the wife of an aristocrat who has gone to the guillotine.
“behold your papers, jarvis lorry, countersigned.”
“one can depart, citizen?”
“one can depart.
forward, my postilions!
a good journey!”
“i salute you, citizens.
and the first danger passed!”
these are again the words of jarvis lorry, as he clasps his hands, and looks upward.
there is terror in the carriage, there is weeping, there is the heavy breathing of the insensible traveller.
“are we not going too slowly?
can they not be induced to go faster?”
asks lucie, clinging to the old man.
“it would seem like flight, my darling.
i must not urge them too much; it would rouse suspicion.”
“look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!”
“the road is clear, my dearest.
so far, we are not pursued.”
houses in twos and threes pass by us, solitary farms, ruinous buildings, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, open country, avenues of leafless trees.
the hard uneven pavement is under us, the soft deep mud is on either side.
sometimes, we strike into the skirting mud, to avoid the stones that clatter us and shake us; sometimes, we stick in ruts and sloughs there.
the agony of our impatience is then so great, that in our wild alarm and hurry we are for getting out and running hiding doing anything but stopping.
out of the open country, in again among ruinous buildings, solitary farms, dye-works, tanneries, and the like, cottages in twos and threes, avenues of leafless trees.
have these men deceived us, and taken us back by another road?
is not this the same place twice over?
thank heaven, no.
a village.
look back, look back, and see if we are pursued!
hush!
the posting-house.
leisurely, our four horses are taken out; leisurely, the coach stands in the little street, bereft of horses, and with no likelihood upon it of ever moving again; leisurely, the new horses come into visible existence, one by one; leisurely, the new postilions follow, sucking and plaiting the lashes of their whips; leisurely, the old postilions count their money, make wrong additions, and arrive at dissatisfied results.
all the time, our overfraught hearts are beating at a rate that would far outstrip the fastest gallop of the fastest horses ever foaled.
at length the new postilions are in their saddles, and the old are left behind.
we are through the village, up the hill, and down the hill, and on the low watery grounds.
suddenly, the postilions exchange speech with animated gesticulation, and the horses are pulled up, almost on their haunches.
we are pursued?
“ho!
within the carriage there.
speak then!”
“what is it?” asks mr. lorry, looking out at window.
“how many did they say?”
“i do not understand you.”
“ at the last post.
how many to the guillotine to-day?”
“fifty-two.”
“i said so!
a brave number!
my fellow-citizen here would have it forty-two; ten more heads are worth having.
the guillotine goes handsomely.
i love it.
hi forward.
whoop!”
the night comes on dark.
he moves more; he is beginning to revive, and to speak intelligibly; he thinks they are still together; he asks him, by his name, what he has in his hand.
o pity us, kind heaven, and help us!
look out, look out, and see if we are pursued.
the wind is rushing after us, and the clouds are flying after us, and the moon is plunging after us, and the whole wild night is in pursuit of us; but, so far, we are pursued by nothing else.
xiv.
the knitting done
in that same juncture of time when the fifty-two awaited their fate madame defarge held darkly ominous council with the vengeance and jacques three of the revolutionary jury.
not in the wine-shop did madame defarge confer with these ministers, but in the shed of the wood-sawyer, erst a mender of roads.
the sawyer himself did not participate in the conference, but abided at a little distance, like an outer satellite who was not to speak until required, or to offer an opinion until invited.
“but our defarge,” said jacques three, “is undoubtedly a good republican?
eh?”
“there is no better,” the voluble vengeance protested in her shrill notes, “in france.”
“peace, little vengeance,” said madame defarge, laying her hand with a slight frown on her lieutenant's lips, “hear me speak.
my husband, fellow-citizen, is a good republican and a bold man; he has deserved well of the republic, and possesses its confidence.
but my husband has his weaknesses, and he is so weak as to relent towards this doctor.”
“it is a great pity,” croaked jacques three, dubiously shaking his head, with his cruel fingers at his hungry mouth; “it is not quite like a good citizen; it is a thing to regret.”
“see you,” said madame, “i care nothing for this doctor, i. he may wear his head or lose it, for any interest i have in him; it is all one to me.
but, the evremonde people are to be exterminated, and the wife and child must follow the husband and father.”
“she has a fine head for it,” croaked jacques three.
“i have seen blue eyes and golden hair there, and they looked charming when samson held them up.” ogre that he was, he spoke like an epicure.
madame defarge cast down her eyes, and reflected a little.
“the child also,” observed jacques three, with a meditative enjoyment of his words, “has golden hair and blue eyes.
and we seldom have a child there.
it is a pretty sight!”
“in a word,” said madame defarge, coming out of her short abstraction, “i cannot trust my husband in this matter.
not only do i feel, since last night, that i dare not confide to him the details of my projects; but also i feel that if i delay, there is danger of his giving warning, and then they might escape.”
“that must never be,” croaked jacques three; “no one must escape.
we have not half enough as it is.
we ought to have six score a day.”
“in a word,” madame defarge went on, “my husband has not my reason for pursuing this family to annihilation, and i have not his reason for regarding this doctor with any sensibility.
i must act for myself, therefore.
come hither, little citizen.”
the wood-sawyer, who held her in the respect, and himself in the submission, of mortal fear, advanced with his hand to his red cap.
“touching those signals, little citizen,” said madame defarge, sternly, “that she made to the prisoners; you are ready to bear witness to them this very day?”
“ay, ay, why not!” cried the sawyer.
“every day, in all weathers, from two to four, always signalling, sometimes with the little one, sometimes without.
i know what i know.
i have seen with my eyes.”
he made all manner of gestures while he spoke, as if in incidental imitation of some few of the great diversity of signals that he had never seen.
“clearly plots,” said jacques three.
“transparently!”
“there is no doubt of the jury?” inquired madame defarge, letting her eyes turn to him with a gloomy smile.
“rely upon the patriotic jury, dear citizeness.
i answer for my fellow-jurymen.”
“now, let me see,” said madame defarge, pondering again.
“yet once more!
can i spare this doctor to my husband?
i have no feeling either way.
can i spare him?”
“he would count as one head,” observed jacques three, in a low voice.
“we really have not heads enough; it would be a pity, i think.”
“he was signalling with her when i saw her,” argued madame defarge; “i cannot speak of one without the other; and i must not be silent, and trust the case wholly to him, this little citizen here.
for, i am not a bad witness.”
the vengeance and jacques three vied with each other in their fervent protestations that she was the most admirable and marvellous of witnesses.
the little citizen, not to be outdone, declared her to be a celestial witness.
“he must take his chance,” said madame defarge.
“no, i cannot spare him!
you are engaged at three o'clock; you are going to see the batch of to-day executed.
you?”
the question was addressed to the wood-sawyer, who hurriedly replied in the affirmative: seizing the occasion to add that he was the most ardent of republicans, and that he would be in effect the most desolate of republicans, if anything prevented him from enjoying the pleasure of smoking his afternoon pipe in the contemplation of the droll national barber.
he was so very demonstrative herein, that he might have been suspected (perhaps was, by the dark eyes that looked contemptuously at him out of madame defarge's head) of having his small individual fears for his own personal safety, every hour in the day.
“i,” said madame, “am equally engaged at the same place.
after it is over say at eight to-night come you to me, in saint antoine, and we will give information against these people at my section.”
the wood-sawyer said he would be proud and flattered to attend the citizeness.
the citizeness looking at him, he became embarrassed, evaded her glance as a small dog would have done, retreated among his wood, and hid his confusion over the handle of his saw.
madame defarge beckoned the juryman and the vengeance a little nearer to the door, and there expounded her further views to them thus:
“she will now be at home, awaiting the moment of his death.
she will be mourning and grieving.
she will be in a state of mind to impeach the justice of the republic.
she will be full of sympathy with its enemies.
i will go to her.”
“what an admirable woman; what an adorable woman!” exclaimed jacques three, rapturously.
“ah, my cherished!” cried the vengeance; and embraced her.
“take you my knitting,” said madame defarge, placing it in her lieutenant's hands, “and have it ready for me in my usual seat.
keep me my usual chair.
go you there, straight, for there will probably be a greater concourse than usual, to-day.”
“i willingly obey the orders of my chief,” said the vengeance with alacrity, and kissing her cheek.
“you will not be late?”
“i shall be there before the commencement.”
“and before the tumbrils arrive.
be sure you are there, my soul,” said the vengeance, calling after her, for she had already turned into the street, “before the tumbrils arrive!”
madame defarge slightly waved her hand, to imply that she heard, and might be relied upon to arrive in good time, and so went through the mud, and round the corner of the prison wall.
the vengeance and the juryman, looking after her as she walked away, were highly appreciative of her fine figure, and her superb moral endowments.
there were many women at that time, upon whom the time laid a dreadfully disfiguring hand; but, there was not one among them more to be dreaded than this ruthless woman, now taking her way along the streets.
of a strong and fearless character, of shrewd sense and readiness, of great determination, of that kind of beauty which not only seems to impart to its possessor firmness and animosity, but to strike into others an instinctive recognition of those qualities; the troubled time would have heaved her up, under any circumstances.
but, imbued from her childhood with a brooding sense of wrong, and an inveterate hatred of a class, opportunity had developed her into a tigress.
she was absolutely without pity.
if she had ever had the virtue in her, it had quite gone out of her.
it was nothing to her, that an innocent man was to die for the sins of his forefathers; she saw, not him, but them.
it was nothing to her, that his wife was to be made a widow and his daughter an orphan; that was insufficient punishment, because they were her natural enemies and her prey, and as such had no right to live.
to appeal to her, was made hopeless by her having no sense of pity, even for herself.
if she had been laid low in the streets, in any of the many encounters in which she had been engaged, she would not have pitied herself; nor, if she had been ordered to the axe to-morrow, would she have gone to it with any softer feeling than a fierce desire to change places with the man who sent her there.
such a heart madame defarge carried under her rough robe.
carelessly worn, it was a becoming robe enough, in a certain weird way, and her dark hair looked rich under her coarse red cap.
lying hidden in her bosom, was a loaded pistol.
lying hidden at her waist, was a sharpened dagger.
thus accoutred, and walking with the confident tread of such a character, and with the supple freedom of a woman who had habitually walked in her girlhood, bare-foot and bare-legged, on the brown sea-sand, madame defarge took her way along the streets.
now, when the journey of the travelling coach, at that very moment waiting for the completion of its load, had been planned out last night, the difficulty of taking miss pross in it had much engaged mr. lorry's attention.
it was not merely desirable to avoid overloading the coach, but it was of the highest importance that the time occupied in examining it and its passengers, should be reduced to the utmost; since their escape might depend on the saving of only a few seconds here and there.
finally, he had proposed, after anxious consideration, that miss pross and jerry, who were at liberty to leave the city, should leave it at three o'clock in the lightest-wheeled conveyance known to that period.
unencumbered with luggage, they would soon overtake the coach, and, passing it and preceding it on the road, would order its horses in advance, and greatly facilitate its progress during the precious hours of the night, when delay was the most to be dreaded.
seeing in this arrangement the hope of rendering real service in that pressing emergency, miss pross hailed it with joy.
she and jerry had beheld the coach start, had known who it was that solomon brought, had passed some ten minutes in tortures of suspense, and were now concluding their arrangements to follow the coach, even as madame defarge, taking her way through the streets, now drew nearer and nearer to the else-deserted lodging in which they held their consultation.
“now what do you think, mr. cruncher,” said miss pross, whose agitation was so great that she could hardly speak, or stand, or move, or live:
“what do you think of our not starting from this courtyard?
another carriage having already gone from here to-day, it might awaken suspicion.”
“my opinion, miss,” returned mr. cruncher, “is as you're right.
likewise wot i'll stand by you, right or wrong.”
“i am so distracted with fear and hope for our precious creatures,” said miss pross, wildly crying, “that i am incapable of forming any plan.
are you capable of forming any plan, my dear good mr. cruncher?”
“respectin' a future spear o' life, miss,” returned mr. cruncher, “i hope so.
respectin' any present use o' this here blessed old head o'
mine, i think not.
would you do me the favour, miss, to take notice o'
two promises and wows wot it is my wishes fur to record in this here crisis?”
“oh, for gracious sake!” cried miss pross, still wildly crying, “record them at once, and get them out of the way, like an excellent man.”
“first,” said mr. cruncher, who was all in a tremble, and who spoke with an ashy and solemn visage, “them poor things well out o' this, never no more will i do it, never no more!”
“i am quite sure, mr. cruncher,” returned miss pross, “that you never will do it again, whatever it is, and i beg you not to think it necessary to mention more particularly what it is.”
“no, miss,” returned jerry, “it shall not be named to you.
second: them poor things well out o' this, and never no more will i interfere with mrs. cruncher's flopping, never no more!”
“whatever housekeeping arrangement that may be,” said miss pross, striving to dry her eyes and compose herself, “i have no doubt it is best that mrs. cruncher should have it entirely under her own superintendence.
o my poor darlings!”
“i go so far as to say, miss, moreover,” proceeded mr. cruncher, with a most alarming tendency to hold forth as from a pulpit “and let my words be took down and took to mrs. cruncher through yourself that wot my opinions respectin' flopping has undergone a change, and that wot i only hope with all my heart as mrs. cruncher may be a flopping at the present time.”
“there, there, there!
i hope she is, my dear man,” cried the distracted miss pross, “and i hope she finds it answering her expectations.”
“forbid it,” proceeded mr. cruncher, with additional solemnity, additional slowness, and additional tendency to hold forth and hold out, “as anything wot i have ever said or done should be wisited on my earnest wishes for them poor creeturs now!
forbid it as we shouldn't all flop (if it was anyways conwenient) to get 'em out o' this here dismal risk!
forbid it, miss!
wot i say, for-bid it!” this was mr. cruncher's conclusion after a protracted but vain endeavour to find a better one.
and still madame defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and nearer.
“if we ever get back to our native land,” said miss pross, “you may rely upon my telling mrs. cruncher as much as i may be able to remember and understand of what you have so impressively said; and at all events you may be sure that i shall bear witness to your being thoroughly in earnest at this dreadful time.
now, pray let us think!
my esteemed mr.
cruncher, let us think!”
still, madame defarge, pursuing her way along the streets, came nearer and nearer.
“if you were to go before,” said miss pross, “and stop the vehicle and horses from coming here, and were to wait somewhere for me; wouldn't that be best?”
mr. cruncher thought it might be best.
“where could you wait for me?” asked miss pross.
mr. cruncher was so bewildered that he could think of no locality but temple bar.
alas!
temple bar was hundreds of miles away, and madame defarge was drawing very near indeed.
“by the cathedral door,” said miss pross.
“would it be much out of the way, to take me in, near the great cathedral door between the two towers?”
“no, miss,” answered mr. cruncher.
“then, like the best of men,” said miss pross, “go to the posting-house straight, and make that change.”
“i am doubtful,” said mr. cruncher, hesitating and shaking his head, “about leaving of you, you see.
we don't know what may happen.”
“heaven knows we don't,” returned miss pross, “but have no fear for me.
take me in at the cathedral, at three o'clock, or as near it as you can, and i am sure it will be better than our going from here.
i feel certain of it.
there!
bless you, mr. cruncher!
think-not of me, but of the lives that may depend on both of us!”
this exordium, and miss pross's two hands in quite agonised entreaty clasping his, decided mr. cruncher.
with an encouraging nod or two, he immediately went out to alter the arrangements, and left her by herself to follow as she had proposed.
the having originated a precaution which was already in course of execution, was a great relief to miss pross.
the necessity of composing her appearance so that it should attract no special notice in the streets, was another relief.
she looked at her watch, and it was twenty minutes past two.
she had no time to lose, but must get ready at once.
afraid, in her extreme perturbation, of the loneliness of the deserted rooms, and of half-imagined faces peeping from behind every open door in them, miss pross got a basin of cold water and began laving her eyes, which were swollen and red.
haunted by her feverish apprehensions, she could not bear to have her sight obscured for a minute at a time by the dripping water, but constantly paused and looked round to see that there was no one watching her.
in one of those pauses she recoiled and cried out, for she saw a figure standing in the room.
the basin fell to the ground broken, and the water flowed to the feet of madame defarge.
by strange stern ways, and through much staining blood, those feet had come to meet that water.
madame defarge looked coldly at her, and said, “the wife of evremonde; where is she?”
it flashed upon miss pross's mind that the doors were all standing open, and would suggest the flight.
her first act was to shut them.
there were four in the room, and she shut them all.
she then placed herself before the door of the chamber which lucie had occupied.
madame defarge's dark eyes followed her through this rapid movement, and rested on her when it was finished.
miss pross had nothing beautiful about her; years had not tamed the wildness, or softened the grimness, of her appearance; but, she too was a determined woman in her different way, and she measured madame defarge with her eyes, every inch.
“you might, from your appearance, be the wife of lucifer,” said miss pross, in her breathing.
“nevertheless, you shall not get the better of me.
i am an englishwoman.”
madame defarge looked at her scornfully, but still with something of miss pross's own perception that they two were at bay.
she saw a tight, hard, wiry woman before her, as mr. lorry had seen in the same figure a woman with a strong hand, in the years gone by.
she knew full well that miss pross was the family's devoted friend; miss pross knew full well that madame defarge was the family's malevolent enemy.
“on my way yonder,” said madame defarge, with a slight movement of her hand towards the fatal spot, “where they reserve my chair and my knitting for me, i am come to make my compliments to her in passing.
i wish to see her.”
“i know that your intentions are evil,” said miss pross, “and you may depend upon it, i'll hold my own against them.”
each spoke in her own language; neither understood the other's words; both were very watchful, and intent to deduce from look and manner, what the unintelligible words meant.
“it will do her no good to keep herself concealed from me at this moment,” said madame defarge.
“good patriots will know what that means.
let me see her.
go tell her that i wish to see her.
do you hear?”
“if those eyes of yours were bed-winches,” returned miss pross, “and i was an english four-poster, they shouldn't loose a splinter of me.
no, you wicked foreign woman; i am your match.”
madame defarge was not likely to follow these idiomatic remarks in detail; but, she so far understood them as to perceive that she was set at naught.
“woman imbecile and pig-like!” said madame defarge, frowning.
“i take no answer from you.
i demand to see her.
either tell her that i demand to see her, or stand out of the way of the door and let me go to her!”
this, with an angry explanatory wave of her right arm.
“i little thought,” said miss pross, “that i should ever want to understand your nonsensical language; but i would give all i have, except the clothes i wear, to know whether you suspect the truth, or any part of it.”
neither of them for a single moment released the other's eyes.
madame defarge had not moved from the spot where she stood when miss pross first became aware of her; but, she now advanced one step.
“i am a briton,” said miss pross, “i am desperate.
i don't care an english twopence for myself.
i know that the longer i keep you here, the greater hope there is for my ladybird.
i'll not leave a handful of that dark hair upon your head, if you lay a finger on me!”
thus miss pross, with a shake of her head and a flash of her eyes between every rapid sentence, and every rapid sentence a whole breath.
thus miss pross, who had never struck a blow in her life.
but, her courage was of that emotional nature that it brought the irrepressible tears into her eyes.
this was a courage that madame defarge so little comprehended as to mistake for weakness.
“ha, ha!” she laughed, “you poor wretch!
what are you worth!
i address myself to that doctor.” then she raised her voice and called out, “citizen doctor!
wife of evremonde!
child of evremonde!
any person but this miserable fool, answer the citizeness defarge!”
perhaps the following silence, perhaps some latent disclosure in the expression of miss pross's face, perhaps a sudden misgiving apart from either suggestion, whispered to madame defarge that they were gone.
three of the doors she opened swiftly, and looked in.
“those rooms are all in disorder, there has been hurried packing, there are odds and ends upon the ground.
there is no one in that room behind you!
let me look.”
“never!” said miss pross, who understood the request as perfectly as madame defarge understood the answer.
“if they are not in that room, they are gone, and can be pursued and brought back,” said madame defarge to herself.
“as long as you don't know whether they are in that room or not, you are uncertain what to do,” said miss pross to herself; “and you shall not know that, if i can prevent your knowing it; and know that, or not know that, you shall not leave here while i can hold you.”
“i have been in the streets from the first, nothing has stopped me, i will tear you to pieces, but i will have you from that door,” said madame defarge.
“we are alone at the top of a high house in a solitary courtyard, we are not likely to be heard, and i pray for bodily strength to keep you here, while every minute you are here is worth a hundred thousand guineas to my darling,” said miss pross.
madame defarge made at the door.
miss pross, on the instinct of the moment, seized her round the waist in both her arms, and held her tight.
it was in vain for madame defarge to struggle and to strike; miss pross, with the vigorous tenacity of love, always so much stronger than hate, clasped her tight, and even lifted her from the floor in the struggle that they had.
the two hands of madame defarge buffeted and tore her face; but, miss pross, with her head down, held her round the waist, and clung to her with more than the hold of a drowning woman.
soon, madame defarge's hands ceased to strike, and felt at her encircled waist.
“it is under my arm,” said miss pross, in smothered tones, “you shall not draw it.
i am stronger than you, i bless heaven for it.
i hold you till one or other of us faints or dies!”
madame defarge's hands were at her bosom.
miss pross looked up, saw what it was, struck at it, struck out a flash and a crash, and stood alone blinded with smoke.
all this was in a second.
as the smoke cleared, leaving an awful stillness, it passed out on the air, like the soul of the furious woman whose body lay lifeless on the ground.
in the first fright and horror of her situation, miss pross passed the body as far from it as she could, and ran down the stairs to call for fruitless help.
happily, she bethought herself of the consequences of what she did, in time to check herself and go back.
it was dreadful to go in at the door again; but, she did go in, and even went near it, to get the bonnet and other things that she must wear.
these she put on, out on the staircase, first shutting and locking the door and taking away the key.
she then sat down on the stairs a few moments to breathe and to cry, and then got up and hurried away.
by good fortune she had a veil on her bonnet, or she could hardly have gone along the streets without being stopped.
by good fortune, too, she was naturally so peculiar in appearance as not to show disfigurement like any other woman.
she needed both advantages, for the marks of gripping fingers were deep in her face, and her hair was torn, and her dress (hastily composed with unsteady hands) was clutched and dragged a hundred ways.
in crossing the bridge, she dropped the door key in the river.
arriving at the cathedral some few minutes before her escort, and waiting there, she thought, what if the key were already taken in a net, what if it were identified, what if the door were opened and the remains discovered, what if she were stopped at the gate, sent to prison, and charged with murder!
in the midst of these fluttering thoughts, the escort appeared, took her in, and took her away.
“is there any noise in the streets?” she asked him.
“the usual noises,” mr. cruncher replied; and looked surprised by the question and by her aspect.
“i don't hear you,” said miss pross.
“what do you say?”
it was in vain for mr. cruncher to repeat what he said; miss pross could not hear him.
“so i'll nod my head,” thought mr. cruncher, amazed, “at all events she'll see that.” and she did.
“is there any noise in the streets now?” asked miss pross again, presently.
again mr. cruncher nodded his head.
“i don't hear it.”
“gone deaf in an hour?” said mr. cruncher, ruminating, with his mind much disturbed; “wot's come to her?”
“i feel,” said miss pross, “as if there had been a flash and a crash, and that crash was the last thing i should ever hear in this life.”
“blest if she ain't in a queer condition!” said mr. cruncher, more and more disturbed.
“wot can she have been a takin', to keep her courage up?
hark!
there's the roll of them dreadful carts!
you can hear that, miss?”
“i can hear,” said miss pross, seeing that he spoke to her, “nothing.
o, my good man, there was first a great crash, and then a great stillness, and that stillness seems to be fixed and unchangeable, never to be broken any more as long as my life lasts.”
“if she don't hear the roll of those dreadful carts, now very nigh their journey's end,” said mr. cruncher, glancing over his shoulder, “it's my opinion that indeed she never will hear anything else in this world.”
and indeed she never did.
xv.
the footsteps die out for ever
along the paris streets, the death-carts rumble, hollow and harsh.
six tumbrils carry the day's wine to la guillotine.
all the devouring and insatiate monsters imagined since imagination could record itself, are fused in the one realisation, guillotine.
and yet there is not in france, with its rich variety of soil and climate, a blade, a leaf, a root, a sprig, a peppercorn, which will grow to maturity under conditions more certain than those that have produced this horror.
crush humanity out of shape once more, under similar hammers, and it will twist itself into the same tortured forms.
sow the same seed of rapacious license and oppression over again, and it will surely yield the same fruit according to its kind.
six tumbrils roll along the streets.
change these back again to what they were, thou powerful enchanter, time, and they shall be seen to be the carriages of absolute monarchs, the equipages of feudal nobles, the toilettes of flaring jezebels, the churches that are not my father's house but dens of thieves, the huts of millions of starving peasants!
no; the great magician who majestically works out the appointed order of the creator, never reverses his transformations.
“if thou be changed into this shape by the will of god,” say the seers to the enchanted, in the wise arabian stories, “then remain so!
but, if thou wear this form through mere passing conjuration, then resume thy former aspect!”
changeless and hopeless, the tumbrils roll along.
as the sombre wheels of the six carts go round, they seem to plough up a long crooked furrow among the populace in the streets.
ridges of faces are thrown to this side and to that, and the ploughs go steadily onward.
so used are the regular inhabitants of the houses to the spectacle, that in many windows there are no people, and in some the occupation of the hands is not so much as suspended, while the eyes survey the faces in the tumbrils.
here and there, the inmate has visitors to see the sight; then he points his finger, with something of the complacency of a curator or authorised exponent, to this cart and to this, and seems to tell who sat here yesterday, and who there the day before.
of the riders in the tumbrils, some observe these things, and all things on their last roadside, with an impassive stare; others, with a lingering interest in the ways of life and men.
some, seated with drooping heads, are sunk in silent despair; again, there are some so heedful of their looks that they cast upon the multitude such glances as they have seen in theatres, and in pictures.
several close their eyes, and think, or try to get their straying thoughts together.
only one, and he a miserable creature, of a crazed aspect, is so shattered and made drunk by horror, that he sings, and tries to dance.
not one of the whole number appeals by look or gesture, to the pity of the people.
there is a guard of sundry horsemen riding abreast of the tumbrils, and faces are often turned up to some of them, and they are asked some question.
it would seem to be always the same question, for, it is always followed by a press of people towards the third cart.
the horsemen abreast of that cart, frequently point out one man in it with their swords.
the leading curiosity is, to know which is he; he stands at the back of the tumbril with his head bent down, to converse with a mere girl who sits on the side of the cart, and holds his hand.
he has no curiosity or care for the scene about him, and always speaks to the girl.
here and there in the long street of st. honore, cries are raised against him.
if they move him at all, it is only to a quiet smile, as he shakes his hair a little more loosely about his face.
he cannot easily touch his face, his arms being bound.
on the steps of a church, awaiting the coming-up of the tumbrils, stands the spy and prison-sheep.
he looks into the first of them: not there.
he looks into the second: not there.
he already asks himself, “has he sacrificed me?” when his face clears, as he looks into the third.
“which is evremonde?” says a man behind him.
“that.
at the back there.”
“with his hand in the girl's?”
“yes.”
the man cries, “down, evremonde!
to the guillotine all aristocrats!
down, evremonde!”
“hush, hush!” the spy entreats him, timidly.
“and why not, citizen?”
“he is going to pay the forfeit: it will be paid in five minutes more.
let him be at peace.”
but the man continuing to exclaim, “down, evremonde!” the face of evremonde is for a moment turned towards him.
evremonde then sees the spy, and looks attentively at him, and goes his way.
the clocks are on the stroke of three, and the furrow ploughed among the populace is turning round, to come on into the place of execution, and end.
the ridges thrown to this side and to that, now crumble in and close behind the last plough as it passes on, for all are following to the guillotine.
in front of it, seated in chairs, as in a garden of public diversion, are a number of women, busily knitting.
on one of the fore-most chairs, stands the vengeance, looking about for her friend.
“therese!” she cries, in her shrill tones.
“who has seen her?
therese defarge!”
“she never missed before,” says a knitting-woman of the sisterhood.
“no; nor will she miss now,” cries the vengeance, petulantly.
“therese.”
“louder,” the woman recommends.
ay!
louder, vengeance, much louder, and still she will scarcely hear thee.
louder yet, vengeance, with a little oath or so added, and yet it will hardly bring her.
send other women up and down to seek her, lingering somewhere; and yet, although the messengers have done dread deeds, it is questionable whether of their own wills they will go far enough to find her!
“bad fortune!” cries the vengeance, stamping her foot in the chair, “and here are the tumbrils!
and evremonde will be despatched in a wink, and she not here!
see her knitting in my hand, and her empty chair ready for her.
i cry with vexation and disappointment!”
as the vengeance descends from her elevation to do it, the tumbrils begin to discharge their loads.
the ministers of sainte guillotine are robed and ready.
crash!
a head is held up, and the knitting-women who scarcely lifted their eyes to look at it a moment ago when it could think and speak, count one.
the second tumbril empties and moves on; the third comes up.
crash!
and the knitting-women, never faltering or pausing in their work, count two.
the supposed evremonde descends, and the seamstress is lifted out next after him.
he has not relinquished her patient hand in getting out, but still holds it as he promised.
he gently places her with her back to the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls, and she looks into his face and thanks him.
“but for you, dear stranger, i should not be so composed, for i am naturally a poor little thing, faint of heart; nor should i have been able to raise my thoughts to him who was put to death, that we might have hope and comfort here to-day.
i think you were sent to me by heaven.”
“or you to me,” says sydney carton.
“keep your eyes upon me, dear child, and mind no other object.”
“i mind nothing while i hold your hand.
i shall mind nothing when i let it go, if they are rapid.”
“they will be rapid.
fear not!”
the two stand in the fast-thinning throng of victims, but they speak as if they were alone.
eye to eye, voice to voice, hand to hand, heart to heart, these two children of the universal mother, else so wide apart and differing, have come together on the dark highway, to repair home together, and to rest in her bosom.
“brave and generous friend, will you let me ask you one last question?
i am very ignorant, and it troubles me just a little.”
“tell me what it is.”
“i have a cousin, an only relative and an orphan, like myself, whom i love very dearly.
she is five years younger than i, and she lives in a farmer's house in the south country.
poverty parted us, and she knows nothing of my fate for i cannot write and if i could, how should i tell her!
it is better as it is.”
“yes, yes: better as it is.”
“what i have been thinking as we came along, and what i am still thinking now, as i look into your kind strong face which gives me so much support, is this: if the republic really does good to the poor, and they come to be less hungry, and in all ways to suffer less, she may live a long time: she may even live to be old.”
“what then, my gentle sister?”
“do you think:” the uncomplaining eyes in which there is so much endurance, fill with tears, and the lips part a little more and tremble:
“that it will seem long to me, while i wait for her in the better land where i trust both you and i will be mercifully sheltered?”
“it cannot be, my child; there is no time there, and no trouble there.”
“you comfort me so much!
i am so ignorant.
am i to kiss you now?
is the moment come?”
“yes.”
she kisses his lips; he kisses hers; they solemnly bless each other.
the spare hand does not tremble as he releases it; nothing worse than a sweet, bright constancy is in the patient face.
she goes next before him is gone; the knitting-women count twenty-two.
“i am the resurrection and the life, saith the lord: he that believeth in me, though he were dead, yet shall he live: and whosoever liveth and believeth in me shall never die.”
the murmuring of many voices, the upturning of many faces, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward in a mass, like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
twenty-three.
*****
they said of him, about the city that night, that it was the peacefullest man's face ever beheld there.
many added that he looked sublime and prophetic.
one of the most remarkable sufferers by the same axe a woman had asked at the foot of the same scaffold, not long before, to be allowed to write down the thoughts that were inspiring her.
if he had given any utterance to his, and they were prophetic, they would have been these:
“i see barsad, and cly, defarge, the vengeance, the juryman, the judge, long ranks of the new oppressors who have risen on the destruction of the old, perishing by this retributive instrument, before it shall cease out of its present use.
i see a beautiful city and a brilliant people rising from this abyss, and, in their struggles to be truly free, in their triumphs and defeats, through long years to come, i see the evil of this time and of the previous time of which this is the natural birth, gradually making expiation for itself and wearing out.
“i see the lives for which i lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous and happy, in that england which i shall see no more.
i see her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name.
i see her father, aged and bent, but otherwise restored, and faithful to all men in his healing office, and at peace.
i see the good old man, so long their friend, in ten years' time enriching them with all he has, and passing tranquilly to his reward.
“i see that i hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.
i see her, an old woman, weeping for me on the anniversary of this day.
i see her and her husband, their course done, lying side by side in their last earthly bed, and i know that each was not more honoured and held sacred in the other's soul, than i was in the souls of both.
“i see that child who lay upon her bosom and who bore my name, a man winning his way up in that path of life which once was mine.
i see him winning it so well, that my name is made illustrious there by the light of his.
i see the blots i threw upon it, faded away.
i see him, fore-most of just judges and honoured men, bringing a boy of my name, with a forehead that i know and golden hair, to this place then fair to look upon, with not a trace of this day's disfigurement and i hear him tell the child my story, with a tender and a faltering voice.
“it is a far, far better thing that i do, than i have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that i go to than i have ever known.”
my man jeeves
leave it to jeeves
jeeves my man, you know is really a most extraordinary chap.
so capable.
honestly, i shouldn't know what to do without him.
on broader lines he's like those chappies who sit peering sadly over the marble battlements at the pennsylvania station in the place marked "inquiries."
you know the johnnies i mean.
you go up to them and say: "when's the next train for melonsquashville, tennessee?"
and they reply, without stopping to think, "two-forty-three, track ten, change at san francisco."
and they're right every time.
well, jeeves gives you just the same impression of omniscience.
as an instance of what i mean, i remember meeting monty byng in bond street one morning, looking the last word in a grey check suit, and i felt i should never be happy till i had one like it.
i dug the address of the tailors out of him, and had them working on the thing inside the hour.
"jeeves," i said that evening.
"i'm getting a check suit like that one of mr.
byng's."
"injudicious, sir," he said firmly.
"it will not become you."
"what absolute rot!
it's the soundest thing i've struck for years."
"unsuitable for you, sir."
well, the long and the short of it was that the confounded thing came home, and i put it on, and when i caught sight of myself in the glass i nearly swooned.
jeeves was perfectly right.
i looked a cross between a music-hall comedian and a cheap bookie.
yet monty had looked fine in absolutely the same stuff.
these things are just life's mysteries, and that's all there is to it.
but it isn't only that jeeves's judgment about clothes is infallible, though, of course, that's really the main thing.
the man knows everything.
there was the matter of that tip on the "lincolnshire."
i forget now how i got it, but it had the aspect of being the real, red-hot tabasco.
"jeeves," i said, for i'm fond of the man, and like to do him a good turn when i can, "if you want to make a bit of money have something on wonderchild for the 'lincolnshire.'"
he shook his head.
"i'd rather not, sir."
"but it's the straight goods.
i'm going to put my shirt on him."
"i do not recommend it, sir.
the animal is not intended to win.
second place is what the stable is after."
perfect piffle, i thought, of course.
how the deuce could jeeves know anything about it?
still, you know what happened.
wonderchild led till he was breathing on the wire, and then banana fritter came along and nosed him out.
i went straight home and rang for jeeves.
"after this," i said, "not another step for me without your advice.
from now on consider yourself the brains of the establishment."
"very good, sir.
i shall endeavour to give satisfaction."
and he has, by jove!
i'm a bit short on brain myself; the old bean would appear to have been constructed more for ornament than for use, don't you know; but give me five minutes to talk the thing over with jeeves, and i'm game to advise any one about anything.
and that's why, when bruce corcoran came to me with his troubles, my first act was to ring the bell and put it up to the lad with the bulging forehead.
"leave it to jeeves," i said.
i first got to know corky when i came to new york.
he was a pal of my cousin gussie, who was in with a lot of people down washington square way.
i don't know if i ever told you about it, but the reason why i left england was because i was sent over by my aunt agatha to try to stop young gussie marrying a girl on the vaudeville stage, and i got the whole thing so mixed up that i decided that it would be a sound scheme for me to stop on in america for a bit instead of going back and having long cosy chats about the thing with aunt.
so i sent jeeves out to find a decent apartment, and settled down for a bit of exile.
i'm bound to say that new york's a topping place to be exiled in.
everybody was awfully good to me, and there seemed to be plenty of things going on, and i'm a wealthy bird, so everything was fine.
chappies introduced me to other chappies, and so on and so forth, and it wasn't long before i knew squads of the right sort, some who rolled in dollars in houses up by the park, and others who lived with the gas turned down mostly around washington square artists and writers and so forth.
brainy coves.
corky was one of the artists.
a portrait-painter, he called himself, but he hadn't painted any portraits.
he was sitting on the side-lines with a blanket over his shoulders, waiting for a chance to get into the game.
you see, the catch about portrait-painting i've looked into the thing a bit is that you can't start painting portraits till people come along and ask you to, and they won't come and ask you to until you've painted a lot first.
this makes it kind of difficult for a chappie.
corky managed to get along by drawing an occasional picture for the comic papers he had rather a gift for funny stuff when he got a good idea and doing bedsteads and chairs and things for the advertisements.
his principal source of income, however, was derived from biting the ear of a rich uncle one alexander worple, who was in the jute business.
i'm a bit foggy as to what jute is, but it's apparently something the populace is pretty keen on, for mr. worple had made quite an indecently large stack out of it.
now, a great many fellows think that having a rich uncle is a pretty soft snap: but, according to corky, such is not the case.
corky's uncle was a robust sort of cove, who looked like living for ever.
he was fifty-one, and it seemed as if he might go to par.
it was not this, however, that distressed poor old corky, for he was not bigoted and had no objection to the man going on living.
what corky kicked at was the way the above worple used to harry him.
corky's uncle, you see, didn't want him to be an artist.
he didn't think he had any talent in that direction.
he was always urging him to chuck art and go into the jute business and start at the bottom and work his way up.
jute had apparently become a sort of obsession with him.
he seemed to attach almost a spiritual importance to it.
and what corky said was that, while he didn't know what they did at the bottom of the jute business, instinct told him that it was something too beastly for words.
corky, moreover, believed in his future as an artist.
some day, he said, he was going to make a hit.
meanwhile, by using the utmost tact and persuasiveness, he was inducing his uncle to cough up very grudgingly a small quarterly allowance.
he wouldn't have got this if his uncle hadn't had a hobby.
mr. worple was peculiar in this respect.
as a rule, from what i've observed, the american captain of industry doesn't do anything out of business hours.
when he has put the cat out and locked up the office for the night, he just relapses into a state of coma from which he emerges only to start being a captain of industry again.
but mr. worple in his spare time was what is known as an ornithologist.
he had written a book called american birds, and was writing another, to be called more american birds.
when he had finished that, the presumption was that he would begin a third, and keep on till the supply of american birds gave out.
corky used to go to him about once every three months and let him talk about american birds.
apparently you could do what you liked with old worple if you gave him his head first on his pet subject, so these little chats used to make corky's allowance all right for the time being.
but it was pretty rotten for the poor chap.
there was the frightful suspense, you see, and, apart from that, birds, except when broiled and in the society of a cold bottle, bored him stiff.
to complete the character-study of mr. worple, he was a man of extremely uncertain temper, and his general tendency was to think that corky was a poor chump and that whatever step he took in any direction on his own account, was just another proof of his innate idiocy.
i should imagine jeeves feels very much the same about me.
so when corky trickled into my apartment one afternoon, shooing a girl in front of him, and said, "bertie, i want you to meet my fiancée, miss singer," the aspect of the matter which hit me first was precisely the one which he had come to consult me about.
the very first words i spoke were, "corky, how about your uncle?"
the poor chap gave one of those mirthless laughs.
he was looking anxious and worried, like a man who has done the murder all right but can't think what the deuce to do with the body.
"we're so scared, mr. wooster," said the girl.
"we were hoping that you might suggest a way of breaking it to him."
muriel singer was one of those very quiet, appealing girls who have a way of looking at you with their big eyes as if they thought you were the greatest thing on earth and wondered that you hadn't got on to it yet yourself.
she sat there in a sort of shrinking way, looking at me as if she were saying to herself, "oh, i do hope this great strong man isn't going to hurt me."
she gave a fellow a protective kind of feeling, made him want to stroke her hand and say, "there, there, little one!"
or words to that effect.
she made me feel that there was nothing i wouldn't do for her.
she was rather like one of those innocent-tasting american drinks which creep imperceptibly into your system so that, before you know what you're doing, you're starting out to reform the world by force if necessary and pausing on your way to tell the large man in the corner that, if he looks at you like that, you will knock his head off.
what i mean is, she made me feel alert and dashing, like a jolly old knight-errant or something of that kind.
i felt that i was with her in this thing to the limit.
"i don't see why your uncle shouldn't be most awfully bucked," i said to corky.
"he will think miss singer the ideal wife for you."
corky declined to cheer up.
"you don't know him.
even if he did like muriel he wouldn't admit it.
that's the sort of pig-headed guy he is.
it would be a matter of principle with him to kick.
all he would consider would be that i had gone and taken an important step without asking his advice, and he would raise cain automatically.
he's always done it."
i strained the old bean to meet this emergency.
"you want to work it so that he makes miss singer's acquaintance without knowing that you know her.
then you come along  "
"but how can i work it that way?"
i saw his point.
that was the catch.
"there's only one thing to do," i said.
"what's that?"
"leave it to jeeves."
and i rang the bell.
"sir?"
said jeeves, kind of manifesting himself.
one of the rummy things about jeeves is that, unless you watch like a hawk, you very seldom see him come into a room.
he's like one of those weird chappies in india who dissolve themselves into thin air and nip through space in a sort of disembodied way and assemble the parts again just where they want them.
i've got a cousin who's what they call a theosophist, and he says he's often nearly worked the thing himself, but couldn't quite bring it off, probably owing to having fed in his boyhood on the flesh of animals slain in anger and pie.
the moment i saw the man standing there, registering respectful attention, a weight seemed to roll off my mind.
i felt like a lost child who spots his father in the offing.
there was something about him that gave me confidence.
jeeves is a tallish man, with one of those dark, shrewd faces.
his eye gleams with the light of pure intelligence.
"jeeves, we want your advice."
"very good, sir."
i boiled down corky's painful case into a few well-chosen words.
"so you see what it amount to, jeeves.
we want you to suggest some way by which mr. worple can make miss singer's acquaintance without getting on to the fact that mr. corcoran already knows her.
understand?"
"perfectly, sir."
"well, try to think of something."
"i have thought of something already, sir."
"you have!"
"the scheme i would suggest cannot fail of success, but it has what may seem to you a drawback, sir, in that it requires a certain financial outlay."
"he means," i translated to corky, "that he has got a pippin of an idea, but it's going to cost a bit."
naturally the poor chap's face dropped, for this seemed to dish the whole thing.
but i was still under the influence of the girl's melting gaze, and i saw that this was where i started in as a knight-errant.
"you can count on me for all that sort of thing, corky," i said.
"only too glad.
carry on, jeeves."
"i would suggest, sir, that mr. corcoran take advantage of mr. worple's attachment to ornithology."
"how on earth did you know that he was fond of birds?"
"it is the way these new york apartments are constructed, sir.
quite unlike our london houses.
the partitions between the rooms are of the flimsiest nature.
with no wish to overhear, i have sometimes heard mr.
corcoran expressing himself with a generous strength on the subject i have mentioned."
"oh!
well?"
"why should not the young lady write a small volume, to be entitled let us say the children's book of american birds, and dedicate it to mr. worple!
a limited edition could be published at your expense, sir, and a great deal of the book would, of course, be given over to eulogistic remarks concerning mr. worple's own larger treatise on the same subject.
i should recommend the dispatching of a presentation copy to mr. worple, immediately on publication, accompanied by a letter in which the young lady asks to be allowed to make the acquaintance of one to whom she owes so much.
this would, i fancy, produce the desired result, but as i say, the expense involved would be considerable."
i felt like the proprietor of a performing dog on the vaudeville stage when the tyke has just pulled off his trick without a hitch.
i had betted on jeeves all along, and i had known that he wouldn't let me down.
it beats me sometimes why a man with his genius is satisfied to hang around pressing my clothes and what-not.
if i had half jeeves's brain, i should have a stab at being prime minister or something.
"jeeves," i said, "that is absolutely ripping!
one of your very best efforts."
"thank you, sir."
the girl made an objection.
"but i'm sure i couldn't write a book about anything.
i can't even write good letters."
"muriel's talents," said corky, with a little cough "lie more in the direction of the drama, bertie.
i didn't mention it before, but one of our reasons for being a trifle nervous as to how uncle alexander will receive the news is that muriel is in the chorus of that show choose your exit at the manhattan.
it's absurdly unreasonable, but we both feel that that fact might increase uncle alexander's natural tendency to kick like a steer."
i saw what he meant.
goodness knows there was fuss enough in our family when i tried to marry into musical comedy a few years ago.
and the recollection of my aunt agatha's attitude in the matter of gussie and the vaudeville girl was still fresh in my mind.
i don't know why it is one of these psychology sharps could explain it, i suppose but uncles and aunts, as a class, are always dead against the drama, legitimate or otherwise.
they don't seem able to stick it at any price.
but jeeves had a solution, of course.
"i fancy it would be a simple matter, sir, to find some impecunious author who would be glad to do the actual composition of the volume for a small fee.
it is only necessary that the young lady's name should appear on the title page."
"that's true," said corky.
"sam patterson would do it for a hundred dollars.
he writes a novelette, three short stories, and ten thousand words of a serial for one of the all-fiction magazines under different names every month.
a little thing like this would be nothing to him.
i'll get after him right away."
"fine!"
"will that be all, sir?"
said jeeves.
"very good, sir.
thank you, sir."
i always used to think that publishers had to be devilish intelligent fellows, loaded down with the grey matter; but i've got their number now.
all a publisher has to do is to write cheques at intervals, while a lot of deserving and industrious chappies rally round and do the real work.
i know, because i've been one myself.
i simply sat tight in the old apartment with a fountain-pen, and in due season a topping, shiny book came along.
i happened to be down at corky's place when the first copies of the children's book of american birds bobbed up.
muriel singer was there, and we were talking of things in general when there was a bang at the door and the parcel was delivered.
it was certainly some book.
it had a red cover with a fowl of some species on it, and underneath the girl's name in gold letters.
i opened a copy at random.
"often of a spring morning," it said at the top of page twenty-one, "as you wander through the fields, you will hear the sweet-toned, carelessly flowing warble of the purple finch linnet.
when you are older you must read all about him in mr. alexander worple's wonderful book american birds."
you see.
a boost for the uncle right away.
and only a few pages later there he was in the limelight again in connection with the yellow-billed cuckoo.
it was great stuff.
the more i read, the more i admired the chap who had written it and jeeves's genius in putting us on to the wheeze.
i didn't see how the uncle could fail to drop.
you can't call a chap the world's greatest authority on the yellow-billed cuckoo without rousing a certain disposition towards chumminess in him.
"it's a cert!"
i said.
"an absolute cinch!"
said corky.
and a day or two later he meandered up the avenue to my apartment to tell me that all was well.
the uncle had written muriel a letter so dripping with the milk of human kindness that if he hadn't known mr.
worple's handwriting corky would have refused to believe him the author of it.
any time it suited miss singer to call, said the uncle, he would be delighted to make her acquaintance.
shortly after this i had to go out of town.
divers sound sportsmen had invited me to pay visits to their country places, and it wasn't for several months that i settled down in the city again.
i had been wondering a lot, of course, about corky, whether it all turned out right, and so forth, and my first evening in new york, happening to pop into a quiet sort of little restaurant which i go to when i don't feel inclined for the bright lights, i found muriel singer there, sitting by herself at a table near the door.
corky, i took it, was out telephoning.
i went up and passed the time of day.
"well, well, well, what?"
i said.
"why, mr. wooster!
how do you do?"
"corky around?"
"i beg your pardon?"
"you're waiting for corky, aren't you?"
"oh, i didn't understand.
no, i'm not waiting for him."
it seemed to me that there was a sort of something in her voice, a kind of thingummy, you know.
"i say, you haven't had a row with corky, have you?"
"a row?"
"a spat, don't you know little misunderstanding faults on both sides er and all that sort of thing."
"why, whatever makes you think that?"
"oh, well, as it were, what?
what i mean is i thought you usually dined with him before you went to the theatre."
"i've left the stage now."
suddenly the whole thing dawned on me.
i had forgotten what a long time i had been away.
"why, of course, i see now!
you're married!"
"yes."
"how perfectly topping!
i wish you all kinds of happiness."
"thank you, so much.
oh alexander," she said, looking past me, "this is a friend of mine mr.
wooster."
i spun round.
a chappie with a lot of stiff grey hair and a red sort of healthy face was standing there.
rather a formidable johnnie, he looked, though quite peaceful at the moment.
"i want you to meet my husband, mr. wooster.
mr. wooster is a friend of bruce's, alexander."
the old boy grasped my hand warmly, and that was all that kept me from hitting the floor in a heap.
the place was rocking.
absolutely.
"so you know my nephew, mr. wooster," i heard him say.
"i wish you would try to knock a little sense into him and make him quit this playing at painting.
but i have an idea that he is steadying down.
i noticed it first that night he came to dinner with us, my dear, to be introduced to you.
he seemed altogether quieter and more serious.
something seemed to have sobered him.
perhaps you will give us the pleasure of your company at dinner to-night, mr. wooster?
or have you dined?"
i said i had.
what i needed then was air, not dinner.
i felt that i wanted to get into the open and think this thing out.
when i reached my apartment i heard jeeves moving about in his lair.
i called him.
"jeeves," i said, "now is the time for all good men to come to the aid of the party.
a stiff b.-and-s. first of all, and then i've a bit of news for you."
he came back with a tray and a long glass.
"better have one yourself, jeeves.
you'll need it."
"later on, perhaps, thank you, sir."
"all right.
please yourself.
but you're going to get a shock.
you remember my friend, mr.
corcoran?"
"yes, sir."
"and the girl who was to slide gracefully into his uncle's esteem by writing the book on birds?"
"perfectly, sir."
"well, she's slid.
she's married the uncle."
he took it without blinking.
you can't rattle jeeves.
"that was always a development to be feared, sir."
"you don't mean to tell me that you were expecting it?"
"it crossed my mind as a possibility."
"did it, by jove!
well, i think, you might have warned us!"
"i hardly liked to take the liberty, sir."
of course, as i saw after i had had a bite to eat and was in a calmer frame of mind, what had happened wasn't my fault, if you come down to it.
i couldn't be expected to foresee that the scheme, in itself a cracker-jack, would skid into the ditch as it had done; but all the same i'm bound to admit that i didn't relish the idea of meeting corky again until time, the great healer, had been able to get in a bit of soothing work.
i cut washington square out absolutely for the next few months.
i gave it the complete miss-in-baulk.
and then, just when i was beginning to think i might safely pop down in that direction and gather up the dropped threads, so to speak, time, instead of working the healing wheeze, went and pulled the most awful bone and put the lid on it.
opening the paper one morning, i read that mrs. alexander worple had presented her husband with a son and heir.
i was so darned sorry for poor old corky that i hadn't the heart to touch my breakfast.
i told jeeves to drink it himself.
i was bowled over.
absolutely.
it was the limit.
i hardly knew what to do.
i wanted, of course, to rush down to washington square and grip the poor blighter silently by the hand; and then, thinking it over, i hadn't the nerve.
absent treatment seemed the touch.
i gave it him in waves.
but after a month or so i began to hesitate again.
it struck me that it was playing it a bit low-down on the poor chap, avoiding him like this just when he probably wanted his pals to surge round him most.
i pictured him sitting in his lonely studio with no company but his bitter thoughts, and the pathos of it got me to such an extent that i bounded straight into a taxi and told the driver to go all out for the studio.
i rushed in, and there was corky, hunched up at the easel, painting away, while on the model throne sat a severe-looking female of middle age, holding a baby.
a fellow has to be ready for that sort of thing.
"oh, ah!"
i said, and started to back out.
corky looked over his shoulder.
"halloa, bertie.
don't go.
we're just finishing for the day.
that will be all this afternoon," he said to the nurse, who got up with the baby and decanted it into a perambulator which was standing in the fairway.
"at the same hour to-morrow, mr.
corcoran?"
"yes, please."
"good afternoon."
"good afternoon."
corky stood there, looking at the door, and then he turned to me and began to get it off his chest.
fortunately, he seemed to take it for granted that i knew all about what had happened, so it wasn't as awkward as it might have been.
"it's my uncle's idea," he said.
"muriel doesn't know about it yet.
the portrait's to be a surprise for her on her birthday.
the nurse takes the kid out ostensibly to get a breather, and they beat it down here.
if you want an instance of the irony of fate, bertie, get acquainted with this.
here's the first commission i have ever had to paint a portrait, and the sitter is that human poached egg that has butted in and bounced me out of my inheritance.
can you beat it!
i call it rubbing the thing in to expect me to spend my afternoons gazing into the ugly face of a little brat who to all intents and purposes has hit me behind the ear with a blackjack and swiped all i possess.
i can't refuse to paint the portrait because if i did my uncle would stop my allowance; yet every time i look up and catch that kid's vacant eye, i suffer agonies.
i tell you, bertie, sometimes when he gives me a patronizing glance and then turns away and is sick, as if it revolted him to look at me, i come within an ace of occupying the entire front page of the evening papers as the latest murder sensation.
there are moments when i can almost see the headlines: 'promising young artist beans baby with axe.'"
i patted his shoulder silently.
my sympathy for the poor old scout was too deep for words.
i kept away from the studio for some time after that, because it didn't seem right to me to intrude on the poor chappie's sorrow.
besides, i'm bound to say that nurse intimidated me.
she reminded me so infernally of aunt agatha.
she was the same gimlet-eyed type.
but one afternoon corky called me on the 'phone.
"bertie."
"halloa?"
"are you doing anything this afternoon?"
"nothing special."
"you couldn't come down here, could you?"
"what's the trouble?
anything up?"
"i've finished the portrait."
"good boy!
stout work!"
"yes."
his voice sounded rather doubtful.
"the fact is, bertie, it doesn't look quite right to me.
there's something about it my uncle's coming in half an hour to inspect it, and i don't know why it is, but i kind of feel i'd like your moral support!"
i began to see that i was letting myself in for something.
the sympathetic co-operation of jeeves seemed to me to be indicated.
"you think he'll cut up rough?"
"he may."
i threw my mind back to the red-faced chappie i had met at the restaurant, and tried to picture him cutting up rough.
it was only too easy.
i spoke to corky firmly on the telephone.
"i'll come," i said.
"good!"
"but only if i may bring jeeves!"
"why jeeves?
what's jeeves got to do with it?
who wants jeeves?
jeeves is the fool who suggested the scheme that has led  "
"listen, corky, old top!
if you think i am going to face that uncle of yours without jeeves's support, you're mistaken.
i'd sooner go into a den of wild beasts and bite a lion on the back of the neck."
"oh, all right," said corky.
not cordially, but he said it; so i rang for jeeves, and explained the situation.
"very good, sir," said jeeves.
that's the sort of chap he is.
you can't rattle him.
we found corky near the door, looking at the picture, with one hand up in a defensive sort of way, as if he thought it might swing on him.
"stand right where you are, bertie," he said, without moving.
"now, tell me honestly, how does it strike you?"
the light from the big window fell right on the picture.
i took a good look at it.
then i shifted a bit nearer and took another look.
then i went back to where i had been at first, because it hadn't seemed quite so bad from there.
"well?"
said corky, anxiously.
i hesitated a bit.
"of course, old man, i only saw the kid once, and then only for a moment, but but it was an ugly sort of kid, wasn't it, if i remember rightly?"
"as ugly as that?"
i looked again, and honesty compelled me to be frank.
"i don't see how it could have been, old chap."
poor old corky ran his fingers through his hair in a temperamental sort of way.
he groaned.
"you're right quite, bertie.
something's gone wrong with the darned thing.
my private impression is that, without knowing it, i've worked that stunt that sargent and those fellows pull painting the soul of the sitter.
i've got through the mere outward appearance, and have put the child's soul on canvas."
"but could a child of that age have a soul like that?
i don't see how he could have managed it in the time.
what do you think, jeeves?"
"i doubt it, sir."
"it it sorts of leers at you, doesn't it?"
"you've noticed that, too?"
said corky.
"i don't see how one could help noticing."
"all i tried to do was to give the little brute a cheerful expression.
but, as it worked out, he looks positively dissipated."
"just what i was going to suggest, old man.
he looks as if he were in the middle of a colossal spree, and enjoying every minute of it.
don't you think so, jeeves?"
"he has a decidedly inebriated air, sir."
corky was starting to say something when the door opened, and the uncle came in.
for about three seconds all was joy, jollity, and goodwill.
the old boy shook hands with me, slapped corky on the back, said that he didn't think he had ever seen such a fine day, and whacked his leg with his stick.
jeeves had projected himself into the background, and he didn't notice him.
"well, bruce, my boy; so the portrait is really finished, is it really finished?
well, bring it out.
let's have a look at it.
this will be a wonderful surprise for your aunt.
where is it?
let's  "
and then he got it suddenly, when he wasn't set for the punch; and he rocked back on his heels.
"oosh!"
he exclaimed.
and for perhaps a minute there was one of the scaliest silences i've ever run up against.
"is this a practical joke?"
he said at last, in a way that set about sixteen draughts cutting through the room at once.
i thought it was up to me to rally round old corky.
"you want to stand a bit farther away from it," i said.
"you're perfectly right!"
he snorted.
"i do!
i want to stand so far away from it that i can't see the thing with a telescope!"
he turned on corky like an untamed tiger of the jungle who has just located a chunk of meat.
"and this this is what you have been wasting your time and my money for all these years!
a painter!
i wouldn't let you paint a house of mine!
i gave you this commission, thinking that you were a competent worker, and this this this extract from a comic coloured supplement is the result!"
he swung towards the door, lashing his tail and growling to himself.
"this ends it!
if you wish to continue this foolery of pretending to be an artist because you want an excuse for idleness, please yourself.
but let me tell you this.
unless you report at my office on monday morning, prepared to abandon all this idiocy and start in at the bottom of the business to work your way up, as you should have done half a dozen years ago, not another cent not another cent not another boosh!"
then the door closed, and he was no longer with us.
and i crawled out of the bombproof shelter.
"corky, old top!"
i whispered faintly.
corky was standing staring at the picture.
his face was set.
there was a hunted look in his eye.
"well, that finishes it!"
he muttered brokenly.
"what are you going to do?"
"do?
what can i do?
i can't stick on here if he cuts off supplies.
you heard what he said.
i shall have to go to the office on monday."
i couldn't think of a thing to say.
i knew exactly how he felt about the office.
i don't know when i've been so infernally uncomfortable.
it was like hanging round trying to make conversation to a pal who's just been sentenced to twenty years in quod.
and then a soothing voice broke the silence.
"if i might make a suggestion, sir!"
it was jeeves.
he had slid from the shadows and was gazing gravely at the picture.
upon my word, i can't give you a better idea of the shattering effect of corky's uncle alexander when in action than by saying that he had absolutely made me forget for the moment that jeeves was there.
"i wonder if i have ever happened to mention to you, sir, a mr. digby thistleton, with whom i was once in service?
perhaps you have met him?
he was a financier.
he is now lord bridgnorth.
it was a favourite saying of his that there is always a way.
the first time i heard him use the expression was after the failure of a patent depilatory which he promoted."
"jeeves," i said, "what on earth are you talking about?"
"i mentioned mr. thistleton, sir, because his was in some respects a parallel case to the present one.
his depilatory failed, but he did not despair.
he put it on the market again under the name of hair-o, guaranteed to produce a full crop of hair in a few months.
it was advertised, if you remember, sir, by a humorous picture of a billiard-ball, before and after taking, and made such a substantial fortune that mr. thistleton was soon afterwards elevated to the peerage for services to his party.
it seems to me that, if mr. corcoran looks into the matter, he will find, like mr. thistleton, that there is always a way.
mr. worple himself suggested the solution of the difficulty.
in the heat of the moment he compared the portrait to an extract from a coloured comic supplement.
i consider the suggestion a very valuable one, sir.
mr. corcoran's portrait may not have pleased mr. worple as a likeness of his only child, but i have no doubt that editors would gladly consider it as a foundation for a series of humorous drawings.
if mr.
corcoran will allow me to make the suggestion, his talent has always been for the humorous.
there is something about this picture something bold and vigorous, which arrests the attention.
i feel sure it would be highly popular."
corky was glaring at the picture, and making a sort of dry, sucking noise with his mouth.
he seemed completely overwrought.
and then suddenly he began to laugh in a wild way.
"corky, old man!"
i said, massaging him tenderly.
i feared the poor blighter was hysterical.
he began to stagger about all over the floor.
"he's right!
the man's absolutely right!
jeeves, you're a life-saver!
you've hit on the greatest idea of the age!
report at the office on monday!
start at the bottom of the business!
i'll buy the business if i feel like it.
i know the man who runs the comic section of the sunday star.
he'll eat this thing.
he was telling me only the other day how hard it was to get a good new series.
he'll give me anything i ask for a real winner like this.
i've got a gold-mine.
where's my hat?
i've got an income for life!
where's that confounded hat?
lend me a fiver, bertie.
i want to take a taxi down to park row!"
jeeves smiled paternally.
or, rather, he had a kind of paternal muscular spasm about the mouth, which is the nearest he ever gets to smiling.
"if i might make the suggestion, mr. corcoran for a title of the series which you have in mind 'the adventures of baby blobbs.'"
corky and i looked at the picture, then at each other in an awed way.
jeeves was right.
there could be no other title.
"jeeves," i said.
it was a few weeks later, and i had just finished looking at the comic section of the sunday star.
"i'm an optimist.
i always have been.
the older i get, the more i agree with shakespeare and those poet johnnies about it always being darkest before the dawn and there's a silver lining and what you lose on the swings you make up on the roundabouts.
look at mr. corcoran, for instance.
there was a fellow, one would have said, clear up to the eyebrows in the soup.
to all appearances he had got it right in the neck.
yet look at him now.
have you seen these pictures?"
"i took the liberty of glancing at them before bringing them to you, sir.
extremely diverting."
"they have made a big hit, you know."
"i anticipated it, sir."
i leaned back against the pillows.
"you know, jeeves, you're a genius.
you ought to be drawing a commission on these things."
"i have nothing to complain of in that respect, sir.
mr. corcoran has been most generous.
i am putting out the brown suit, sir."
"no, i think i'll wear the blue with the faint red stripe."
"not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"but i rather fancy myself in it."
"not the blue with the faint red stripe, sir."
"oh, all right, have it your own way."
"very good, sir.
thank you, sir."
of course, i know it's as bad as being henpecked; but then jeeves is always right.
you've got to consider that, you know.
what?
jeeves and the unbidden guest
i'm not absolutely certain of my facts, but i rather fancy it's shakespeare or, if not, it's some equally brainy lad who says that it's always just when a chappie is feeling particularly top-hole, and more than usually braced with things in general that fate sneaks up behind him with a bit of lead piping.
there's no doubt the man's right.
it's absolutely that way with me.
take, for instance, the fairly rummy matter of lady malvern and her son wilmot.
a moment before they turned up, i was just thinking how thoroughly all right everything was.
it was one of those topping mornings, and i had just climbed out from under the cold shower, feeling like a two-year-old.
as a matter of fact, i was especially bucked just then because the day before i had asserted myself with jeeves absolutely asserted myself, don't you know.
you see, the way things had been going on i was rapidly becoming a dashed serf.
the man had jolly well oppressed me.
i didn't so much mind when he made me give up one of my new suits, because, jeeves's judgment about suits is sound.
but i as near as a toucher rebelled when he wouldn't let me wear a pair of cloth-topped boots which i loved like a couple of brothers.
and when he tried to tread on me like a worm in the matter of a hat, i jolly well put my foot down and showed him who was who.
it's a long story, and i haven't time to tell you now, but the point is that he wanted me to wear the longacre as worn by john drew when i had set my heart on the country gentleman as worn by another famous actor chappie and the end of the matter was that, after a rather painful scene, i bought the country gentleman.
so that's how things stood on this particular morning, and i was feeling kind of manly and independent.
well, i was in the bathroom, wondering what there was going to be for breakfast while i massaged the good old spine with a rough towel and sang slightly, when there was a tap at the door.
i stopped singing and opened the door an inch.
"what ho without there!"
"lady malvern wishes to see you, sir," said jeeves.
"eh?"
"lady malvern, sir.
she is waiting in the sitting-room."
"pull yourself together, jeeves, my man," i said, rather severely, for i bar practical jokes before breakfast.
"you know perfectly well there's no one waiting for me in the sitting-room.
how could there be when it's barely ten o'clock yet?"
"i gathered from her ladyship, sir, that she had landed from an ocean liner at an early hour this morning."
this made the thing a bit more plausible.
i remembered that when i had arrived in america about a year before, the proceedings had begun at some ghastly hour like six, and that i had been shot out on to a foreign shore considerably before eight.
"who the deuce is lady malvern, jeeves?"
"her ladyship did not confide in me, sir."
"is she alone?"
"her ladyship is accompanied by a lord pershore, sir.
i fancy that his lordship would be her ladyship's son."
"oh, well, put out rich raiment of sorts, and i'll be dressing."
"our heather-mixture lounge is in readiness, sir."
"then lead me to it."
while i was dressing i kept trying to think who on earth lady malvern could be.
it wasn't till i had climbed through the top of my shirt and was reaching out for the studs that i remembered.
"i've placed her, jeeves.
she's a pal of my aunt agatha."
"indeed, sir?"
"yes.
i met her at lunch one sunday before i left london.
a very vicious specimen.
writes books.
she wrote a book on social conditions in india when she came back from the durbar."
"yes, sir?
pardon me, sir, but not that tie!"
"eh?"
"not that tie with the heather-mixture lounge, sir!"
it was a shock to me.
i thought i had quelled the fellow.
it was rather a solemn moment.
what i mean is, if i weakened now, all my good work the night before would be thrown away.
i braced myself.
"what's wrong with this tie?
i've seen you give it a nasty look before.
speak out like a man!
what's the matter with it?"
"too ornate, sir."
"nonsense!
a cheerful pink.
nothing more."
"unsuitable, sir."
"jeeves, this is the tie i wear!"
"very good, sir."
dashed unpleasant.
i could see that the man was wounded.
but i was firm.
i tied the tie, got into the coat and waistcoat, and went into the sitting-room.
"halloa!
halloa!
halloa!"
i said.
"what?"
"ah!
how do you do, mr. wooster?
you have never met my son, wilmot, i think?
motty, darling, this is mr.
wooster."
lady malvern was a hearty, happy, healthy, overpowering sort of dashed female, not so very tall but making up for it by measuring about six feet from the o.p.
to the prompt side.
she fitted into my biggest arm-chair as if it had been built round her by someone who knew they were wearing arm-chairs tight about the hips that season.
she had bright, bulging eyes and a lot of yellow hair, and when she spoke she showed about fifty-seven front teeth.
she was one of those women who kind of numb a fellow's faculties.
she made me feel as if i were ten years old and had been brought into the drawing-room in my sunday clothes to say how-d'you-do.
altogether by no means the sort of thing a chappie would wish to find in his sitting-room before breakfast.
motty, the son, was about twenty-three, tall and thin and meek-looking.
he had the same yellow hair as his mother, but he wore it plastered down and parted in the middle.
his eyes bulged, too, but they weren't bright.
they were a dull grey with pink rims.
his chin gave up the struggle about half-way down, and he didn't appear to have any eyelashes.
a mild, furtive, sheepish sort of blighter, in short.
"awfully glad to see you," i said.
"so you've popped over, eh?
making a long stay in america?"
"about a month.
your aunt gave me your address and told me to be sure and call on you."
i was glad to hear this, as it showed that aunt agatha was beginning to come round a bit.
there had been some unpleasantness a year before, when she had sent me over to new york to disentangle my cousin gussie from the clutches of a girl on the music-hall stage.
when i tell you that by the time i had finished my operations, gussie had not only married the girl but had gone on the stage himself, and was doing well, you'll understand that aunt agatha was upset to no small extent.
i simply hadn't dared go back and face her, and it was a relief to find that time had healed the wound and all that sort of thing enough to make her tell her pals to look me up.
what i mean is, much as i liked america, i didn't want to have england barred to me for the rest of my natural; and, believe me, england is a jolly sight too small for anyone to live in with aunt agatha, if she's really on the warpath.
so i braced on hearing these kind words and smiled genially on the assemblage.
"your aunt said that you would do anything that was in your power to be of assistance to us."
"rather?
oh, rather!
absolutely!"
"thank you so much.
i want you to put dear motty up for a little while."
i didn't get this for a moment.
"put him up?
for my clubs?"
"no, no!
darling motty is essentially a home bird.
aren't you, motty darling?"
motty, who was sucking the knob of his stick, uncorked himself.
"yes, mother," he said, and corked himself up again.
"i should not like him to belong to clubs.
i mean put him up here.
have him to live with you while i am away."
these frightful words trickled out of her like honey.
the woman simply didn't seem to understand the ghastly nature of her proposal.
i gave motty the swift east-to-west.
he was sitting with his mouth nuzzling the stick, blinking at the wall.
the thought of having this planted on me for an indefinite period appalled me.
absolutely appalled me, don't you know.
i was just starting to say that the shot wasn't on the board at any price, and that the first sign motty gave of trying to nestle into my little home i would yell for the police, when she went on, rolling placidly over me, as it were.
there was something about this woman that sapped a chappie's will-power.
"i am leaving new york by the midday train, as i have to pay a visit to sing-sing prison.
i am extremely interested in prison conditions in america.
after that i work my way gradually across to the coast, visiting the points of interest on the journey.
you see, mr. wooster, i am in america principally on business.
no doubt you read my book, india and the indians?
my publishers are anxious for me to write a companion volume on the united states.
i shall not be able to spend more than a month in the country, as i have to get back for the season, but a month should be ample.
i was less than a month in india, and my dear friend sir roger cremorne wrote his america from within after a stay of only two weeks.
i should love to take dear motty with me, but the poor boy gets so sick when he travels by train.
i shall have to pick him up on my return."
from where i sat i could see jeeves in the dining-room, laying the breakfast-table.
i wished i could have had a minute with him alone.
i felt certain that he would have been able to think of some way of putting a stop to this woman.
"it will be such a relief to know that motty is safe with you, mr.
wooster.
i know what the temptations of a great city are.
hitherto dear motty has been sheltered from them.
he has lived quietly with me in the country.
i know that you will look after him carefully, mr. wooster.
he will give very little trouble."
she talked about the poor blighter as if he wasn't there.
not that motty seemed to mind.
he had stopped chewing his walking-stick and was sitting there with his mouth open.
"he is a vegetarian and a teetotaller and is devoted to reading.
give him a nice book and he will be quite contented."
she got up.
"thank you so much, mr. wooster!
i don't know what i should have done without your help.
come, motty!
we have just time to see a few of the sights before my train goes.
but i shall have to rely on you for most of my information about new york, darling.
be sure to keep your eyes open and take notes of your impressions!
it will be such a help.
good-bye, mr.
wooster.
i will send motty back early in the afternoon."
they went out, and i howled for jeeves.
"jeeves!
what about it?"
"sir?"
"what's to be done?
you heard it all, didn't you?
you were in the dining-room most of the time.
that pill is coming to stay here."
"pill, sir?"
"the excrescence."
"i beg your pardon, sir?"
i looked at jeeves sharply.
this sort of thing wasn't like him.
it was as if he were deliberately trying to give me the pip.
then i understood.
the man was really upset about that tie.
he was trying to get his own back.
"lord pershore will be staying here from to-night, jeeves," i said coldly.
"very good, sir.
breakfast is ready, sir."
i could have sobbed into the bacon and eggs.
that there wasn't any sympathy to be got out of jeeves was what put the lid on it.
for a moment i almost weakened and told him to destroy the hat and tie if he didn't like them, but i pulled myself together again.
i was dashed if i was going to let jeeves treat me like a bally one-man chain-gang!
but, what with brooding on jeeves and brooding on motty, i was in a pretty reduced sort of state.
the more i examined the situation, the more blighted it became.
there was nothing i could do.
if i slung motty out, he would report to his mother, and she would pass it on to aunt agatha, and i didn't like to think what would happen then.
sooner or later, i should be wanting to go back to england, and i didn't want to get there and find aunt agatha waiting on the quay for me with a stuffed eelskin.
there was absolutely nothing for it but to put the fellow up and make the best of it.
about midday motty's luggage arrived, and soon afterward a large parcel of what i took to be nice books.
i brightened up a little when i saw it.
it was one of those massive parcels and looked as if it had enough in it to keep the chappie busy for a year.
i felt a trifle more cheerful, and i got my country gentleman hat and stuck it on my head, and gave the pink tie a twist, and reeled out to take a bite of lunch with one or two of the lads at a neighbouring hostelry; and what with excellent browsing and sluicing and cheery conversation and what-not, the afternoon passed quite happily.
by dinner-time i had almost forgotten blighted motty's existence.
i dined at the club and looked in at a show afterward, and it wasn't till fairly late that i got back to the flat.
there were no signs of motty, and i took it that he had gone to bed.
it seemed rummy to me, though, that the parcel of nice books was still there with the string and paper on it.
it looked as if motty, after seeing mother off at the station, had decided to call it a day.
jeeves came in with the nightly whisky-and-soda.
i could tell by the chappie's manner that he was still upset.
"lord pershore gone to bed, jeeves?"
i asked, with reserved hauteur and what-not.
"no, sir.
his lordship has not yet returned."
"not returned?
what do you mean?"
"his lordship came in shortly after six-thirty, and, having dressed, went out again."
at this moment there was a noise outside the front door, a sort of scrabbling noise, as if somebody were trying to paw his way through the woodwork.
then a sort of thud.
"better go and see what that is, jeeves."
"very good, sir."
he went out and came back again.
"if you would not mind stepping this way, sir, i think we might be able to carry him in."
"carry him in?"
"his lordship is lying on the mat, sir."
i went to the front door.
the man was right.
there was motty huddled up outside on the floor.
he was moaning a bit.
"he's had some sort of dashed fit," i said.
i took another look.
"jeeves!
someone's been feeding him meat!"
"sir?"
"he's a vegetarian, you know.
he must have been digging into a steak or something.
call up a doctor!"
"i hardly think it will be necessary, sir.
if you would take his lordship's legs, while i  "
"great scot, jeeves!
you don't think he can't be  "
"i am inclined to think so, sir."
and, by jove, he was right!
once on the right track, you couldn't mistake it.
motty was under the surface.
it was the deuce of a shock.
"you never can tell, jeeves!"
"very seldom, sir."
"remove the eye of authority and where are you?"
"precisely, sir."
"where is my wandering boy to-night and all that sort of thing, what?"
"it would seem so, sir."
"well, we had better bring him in, eh?"
"yes, sir."
so we lugged him in, and jeeves put him to bed, and i lit a cigarette and sat down to think the thing over.
i had a kind of foreboding.
it seemed to me that i had let myself in for something pretty rocky.
next morning, after i had sucked down a thoughtful cup of tea, i went into motty's room to investigate.
i expected to find the fellow a wreck, but there he was, sitting up in bed, quite chirpy, reading gingery stories.
"what ho!"
i said.
"what ho!"
said motty.
"what ho!
what ho!"
"what ho!
what ho!
what ho!"
after that it seemed rather difficult to go on with the conversation.
"how are you feeling this morning?"
i asked.
"topping!"
replied motty, blithely and with abandon.
"i say, you know, that fellow of yours jeeves, you know is a corker.
i had a most frightful headache when i woke up, and he brought me a sort of rummy dark drink, and it put me right again at once.
said it was his own invention.
i must see more of that lad.
he seems to me distinctly one of the ones!"
i couldn't believe that this was the same blighter who had sat and sucked his stick the day before.
"you ate something that disagreed with you last night, didn't you?"
i said, by way of giving him a chance to slide out of it if he wanted to.
but he wouldn't have it, at any price.
"no!"
he replied firmly.
"i didn't do anything of the kind.
i drank too much!
much too much.
lots and lots too much!
and, what's more, i'm going to do it again!
i'm going to do it every night.
if ever you see me sober, old top," he said, with a kind of holy exaltation, "tap me on the shoulder and say, 'tut!
tut!'
and i'll apologize and remedy the defect."
"but i say, you know, what about me?"
"what about you?"
"well, i'm so to speak, as it were, kind of responsible for you.
what i mean to say is, if you go doing this sort of thing i'm apt to get in the soup somewhat."
"i can't help your troubles," said motty firmly.
"listen to me, old thing: this is the first time in my life that i've had a real chance to yield to the temptations of a great city.
what's the use of a great city having temptations if fellows don't yield to them?
makes it so bally discouraging for a great city.
besides, mother told me to keep my eyes open and collect impressions."
i sat on the edge of the bed.
i felt dizzy.
"i know just how you feel, old dear," said motty consolingly.
"and, if my principles would permit it, i would simmer down for your sake.
but duty first!
this is the first time i've been let out alone, and i mean to make the most of it.
we're only young once.
why interfere with life's morning?
young man, rejoice in thy youth!
tra-la!
what ho!"
put like that, it did seem reasonable.
"all my bally life, dear boy," motty went on, "i've been cooped up in the ancestral home at much middlefold, in shropshire, and till you've been cooped up in much middlefold you don't know what cooping is!
the only time we get any excitement is when one of the choir-boys is caught sucking chocolate during the sermon.
when that happens, we talk about it for days.
i've got about a month of new york, and i mean to store up a few happy memories for the long winter evenings.
this is my only chance to collect a past, and i'm going to do it.
now tell me, old sport, as man to man, how does one get in touch with that very decent chappie jeeves?
does one ring a bell or shout a bit?
i should like to discuss the subject of a good stiff b.-and-s. with him!"
i had had a sort of vague idea, don't you know, that if i stuck close to motty and went about the place with him, i might act as a bit of a damper on the gaiety.
what i mean is, i thought that if, when he was being the life and soul of the party, he were to catch my reproving eye he might ease up a trifle on the revelry.
so the next night i took him along to supper with me.
it was the last time.
i'm a quiet, peaceful sort of chappie who has lived all his life in london, and i can't stand the pace these swift sportsmen from the rural districts set.
what i mean to say is this, i'm all for rational enjoyment and so forth, but i think a chappie makes himself conspicuous when he throws soft-boiled eggs at the electric fan.
and decent mirth and all that sort of thing are all right, but i do bar dancing on tables and having to dash all over the place dodging waiters, managers, and chuckers-out, just when you want to sit still and digest.
directly i managed to tear myself away that night and get home, i made up my mind that this was jolly well the last time that i went about with motty.
the only time i met him late at night after that was once when i passed the door of a fairly low-down sort of restaurant and had to step aside to dodge him as he sailed through the air en route for the opposite pavement, with a muscular sort of looking chappie peering out after him with a kind of gloomy satisfaction.
in a way, i couldn't help sympathizing with the fellow.
he had about four weeks to have the good time that ought to have been spread over about ten years, and i didn't wonder at his wanting to be pretty busy.
i should have been just the same in his place.
still, there was no denying that it was a bit thick.
if it hadn't been for the thought of lady malvern and aunt agatha in the background, i should have regarded motty's rapid work with an indulgent smile.
but i couldn't get rid of the feeling that, sooner or later, i was the lad who was scheduled to get it behind the ear.
and what with brooding on this prospect, and sitting up in the old flat waiting for the familiar footstep, and putting it to bed when it got there, and stealing into the sick-chamber next morning to contemplate the wreckage, i was beginning to lose weight.
absolutely becoming the good old shadow, i give you my honest word.
starting at sudden noises and what-not.
and no sympathy from jeeves.
that was what cut me to the quick.
the man was still thoroughly pipped about the hat and tie, and simply wouldn't rally round.
one morning i wanted comforting so much that i sank the pride of the woosters and appealed to the fellow direct.
"jeeves," i said, "this is getting a bit thick!"
"sir?"
business and cold respectfulness.
"you know what i mean.
this lad seems to have chucked all the principles of a well-spent boyhood.
he has got it up his nose!"
"yes, sir."
"well, i shall get blamed, don't you know.
you know what my aunt agatha is!"
"yes, sir."
"very well, then."
i waited a moment, but he wouldn't unbend.
"jeeves," i said, "haven't you any scheme up your sleeve for coping with this blighter?"
"no, sir."
and he shimmered off to his lair.
obstinate devil!
so dashed absurd, don't you know.
it wasn't as if there was anything wrong with that country gentleman hat.
it was a remarkably priceless effort, and much admired by the lads.
but, just because he preferred the longacre, he left me flat.
it was shortly after this that young motty got the idea of bringing pals back in the small hours to continue the gay revels in the home.
this was where i began to crack under the strain.
you see, the part of town where i was living wasn't the right place for that sort of thing.
i knew lots of chappies down washington square way who started the evening at about 2 a.m. artists and writers and what-not, who frolicked considerably till checked by the arrival of the morning milk.
that was all right.
they like that sort of thing down there.
the neighbours can't get to sleep unless there's someone dancing hawaiian dances over their heads.
but on fifty-seventh street the atmosphere wasn't right, and when motty turned up at three in the morning with a collection of hearty lads, who only stopped singing their college song when they started singing "the old oaken bucket," there was a marked peevishness among the old settlers in the flats.
the management was extremely terse over the telephone at breakfast-time, and took a lot of soothing.
the next night i came home early, after a lonely dinner at a place which i'd chosen because there didn't seem any chance of meeting motty there.
the sitting-room was quite dark, and i was just moving to switch on the light, when there was a sort of explosion and something collared hold of my trouser-leg.
living with motty had reduced me to such an extent that i was simply unable to cope with this thing.
i jumped backward with a loud yell of anguish, and tumbled out into the hall just as jeeves came out of his den to see what the matter was.
"did you call, sir?"
"jeeves!
there's something in there that grabs you by the leg!"
"that would be rollo, sir."
"eh?"
"i would have warned you of his presence, but i did not hear you come in.
his temper is a little uncertain at present, as he has not yet settled down."
"who the deuce is rollo?"
"his lordship's bull-terrier, sir.
his lordship won him in a raffle, and tied him to the leg of the table.
if you will allow me, sir, i will go in and switch on the light."
there really is nobody like jeeves.
he walked straight into the sitting-room, the biggest feat since daniel and the lions' den, without a quiver.
what's more, his magnetism or whatever they call it was such that the dashed animal, instead of pinning him by the leg, calmed down as if he had had a bromide, and rolled over on his back with all his paws in the air.
if jeeves had been his rich uncle he couldn't have been more chummy.
yet directly he caught sight of me again, he got all worked up and seemed to have only one idea in life to start chewing me where he had left off.
"rollo is not used to you yet, sir," said jeeves, regarding the bally quadruped in an admiring sort of way.
"he is an excellent watchdog."
"i don't want a watchdog to keep me out of my rooms."
"no, sir."
"well, what am i to do?"
"no doubt in time the animal will learn to discriminate, sir.
he will learn to distinguish your peculiar scent."
"what do you mean my peculiar scent?
correct the impression that i intend to hang about in the hall while life slips by, in the hope that one of these days that dashed animal will decide that i smell all right."
i thought for a bit.
"jeeves!"
"sir?"
"i'm going away to-morrow morning by the first train.
i shall go and stop with mr. todd in the country."
"do you wish me to accompany you, sir?"
"no."
"very good, sir."
"i don't know when i shall be back.
forward my letters."
"yes, sir."
as a matter of fact, i was back within the week.
rocky todd, the pal i went to stay with, is a rummy sort of a chap who lives all alone in the wilds of long island, and likes it; but a little of that sort of thing goes a long way with me.
dear old rocky is one of the best, but after a few days in his cottage in the woods, miles away from anywhere, new york, even with motty on the premises, began to look pretty good to me.
the days down on long island have forty-eight hours in them; you can't get to sleep at night because of the bellowing of the crickets; and you have to walk two miles for a drink and six for an evening paper.
i thanked rocky for his kind hospitality, and caught the only train they have down in those parts.
it landed me in new york about dinner-time.
i went straight to the old flat.
jeeves came out of his lair.
i looked round cautiously for rollo.
"where's that dog, jeeves?
have you got him tied up?"
"the animal is no longer here, sir.
his lordship gave him to the porter, who sold him.
his lordship took a prejudice against the animal on account of being bitten by him in the calf of the leg."
i don't think i've ever been so bucked by a bit of news.
i felt i had misjudged rollo.
evidently, when you got to know him better, he had a lot of intelligence in him.
"ripping!"
i said.
"is lord pershore in, jeeves?"
"no, sir."
"do you expect him back to dinner?"
"no, sir."
"where is he?"
"in prison, sir."
have you ever trodden on a rake and had the handle jump up and hit you?
that's how i felt then.
"in prison!"
"yes, sir."
"you don't mean in prison?"
"yes, sir."
i lowered myself into a chair.
"why?"
i said.
"he assaulted a constable, sir."
"lord pershore assaulted a constable!"
"yes, sir."
i digested this.
"but, jeeves, i say!
this is frightful!"
"sir?"
"what will lady malvern say when she finds out?"
"i do not fancy that her ladyship will find out, sir."
"but she'll come back and want to know where he is."
"i rather fancy, sir, that his lordship's bit of time will have run out by then."
"but supposing it hasn't?"
"in that event, sir, it may be judicious to prevaricate a little."
"how?"
"if i might make the suggestion, sir, i should inform her ladyship that his lordship has left for a short visit to boston."
"why boston?"
"very interesting and respectable centre, sir."
"jeeves, i believe you've hit it."
"i fancy so, sir."
"why, this is really the best thing that could have happened.
if this hadn't turned up to prevent him, young motty would have been in a sanatorium by the time lady malvern got back."
"exactly, sir."
the more i looked at it in that way, the sounder this prison wheeze seemed to me.
there was no doubt in the world that prison was just what the doctor ordered for motty.
it was the only thing that could have pulled him up.
i was sorry for the poor blighter, but, after all, i reflected, a chappie who had lived all his life with lady malvern, in a small village in the interior of shropshire, wouldn't have much to kick at in a prison.
altogether, i began to feel absolutely braced again.
life became like what the poet johnnie says one grand, sweet song.
things went on so comfortably and peacefully for a couple of weeks that i give you my word that i'd almost forgotten such a person as motty existed.
the only flaw in the scheme of things was that jeeves was still pained and distant.
it wasn't anything he said or did, mind you, but there was a rummy something about him all the time.
once when i was tying the pink tie i caught sight of him in the looking-glass.
there was a kind of grieved look in his eye.
and then lady malvern came back, a good bit ahead of schedule.
i hadn't been expecting her for days.
i'd forgotten how time had been slipping along.
she turned up one morning while i was still in bed sipping tea and thinking of this and that.
jeeves flowed in with the announcement that he had just loosed her into the sitting-room.
i draped a few garments round me and went in.
there she was, sitting in the same arm-chair, looking as massive as ever.
the only difference was that she didn't uncover the teeth, as she had done the first time.
"good morning," i said.
"so you've got back, what?"
"i have got back."
there was something sort of bleak about her tone, rather as if she had swallowed an east wind.
this i took to be due to the fact that she probably hadn't breakfasted.
it's only after a bit of breakfast that i'm able to regard the world with that sunny cheeriness which makes a fellow the universal favourite.
i'm never much of a lad till i've engulfed an egg or two and a beaker of coffee.
"i suppose you haven't breakfasted?"
"i have not yet breakfasted."
"won't you have an egg or something?
or a sausage or something?
or something?"
"no, thank you."
she spoke as if she belonged to an anti-sausage society or a league for the suppression of eggs.
there was a bit of a silence.
"i called on you last night," she said, "but you were out."
"awfully sorry!
had a pleasant trip?"
"extremely, thank you."
"see everything?
niag'ra falls, yellowstone park, and the jolly old grand canyon, and what-not?"
"i saw a great deal."
there was another slightly frappé silence.
jeeves floated silently into the dining-room and began to lay the breakfast-table.
"i hope wilmot was not in your way, mr.
wooster?"
i had been wondering when she was going to mention motty.
"rather not!
great pals!
hit it off splendidly."
"you were his constant companion, then?"
"absolutely!
we were always together.
saw all the sights, don't you know.
we'd take in the museum of art in the morning, and have a bit of lunch at some good vegetarian place, and then toddle along to a sacred concert in the afternoon, and home to an early dinner.
we usually played dominoes after dinner.
and then the early bed and the refreshing sleep.
we had a great time.
i was awfully sorry when he went away to boston."
"oh!
wilmot is in boston?"
"yes.
i ought to have let you know, but of course we didn't know where you were.
you were dodging all over the place like a snipe i mean, don't you know, dodging all over the place, and we couldn't get at you.
yes, motty went off to boston."
"you're sure he went to boston?"
"oh, absolutely."
i called out to jeeves, who was now messing about in the next room with forks and so forth: "jeeves, lord pershore didn't change his mind about going to boston, did he?"
"no, sir."
"i thought i was right.
yes, motty went to boston."
"then how do you account, mr. wooster, for the fact that when i went yesterday afternoon to blackwell's island prison, to secure material for my book, i saw poor, dear wilmot there, dressed in a striped suit, seated beside a pile of stones with a hammer in his hands?"
i tried to think of something to say, but nothing came.
a chappie has to be a lot broader about the forehead than i am to handle a jolt like this.
i strained the old bean till it creaked, but between the collar and the hair parting nothing stirred.
i was dumb.
which was lucky, because i wouldn't have had a chance to get any persiflage out of my system.
lady malvern collared the conversation.
she had been bottling it up, and now it came out with a rush:
"so this is how you have looked after my poor, dear boy, mr. wooster!
so this is how you have abused my trust!
i left him in your charge, thinking that i could rely on you to shield him from evil.
he came to you innocent, unversed in the ways of the world, confiding, unused to the temptations of a large city, and you led him astray!"
i hadn't any remarks to make.
all i could think of was the picture of aunt agatha drinking all this in and reaching out to sharpen the hatchet against my return.
"you deliberately  "
far away in the misty distance a soft voice spoke:
"if i might explain, your ladyship."
jeeves had projected himself in from the dining-room and materialized on the rug.
lady malvern tried to freeze him with a look, but you can't do that sort of thing to jeeves.
he is look-proof.
"i fancy, your ladyship, that you have misunderstood mr. wooster, and that he may have given you the impression that he was in new york when his lordship was removed.
when mr. wooster informed your ladyship that his lordship had gone to boston, he was relying on the version i had given him of his lordship's movements.
mr. wooster was away, visiting a friend in the country, at the time, and knew nothing of the matter till your ladyship informed him."
lady malvern gave a kind of grunt.
it didn't rattle jeeves.
"i feared mr. wooster might be disturbed if he knew the truth, as he is so attached to his lordship and has taken such pains to look after him, so i took the liberty of telling him that his lordship had gone away for a visit.
it might have been hard for mr. wooster to believe that his lordship had gone to prison voluntarily and from the best motives, but your ladyship, knowing him better, will readily understand."
"what!"
lady malvern goggled at him.
"did you say that lord pershore went to prison voluntarily?"
"if i might explain, your ladyship.
i think that your ladyship's parting words made a deep impression on his lordship.
i have frequently heard him speak to mr. wooster of his desire to do something to follow your ladyship's instructions and collect material for your ladyship's book on america.
mr. wooster will bear me out when i say that his lordship was frequently extremely depressed at the thought that he was doing so little to help."
"absolutely, by jove!
quite pipped about it!"
i said.
"the idea of making a personal examination into the prison system of the country from within occurred to his lordship very suddenly one night.
he embraced it eagerly.
there was no restraining him."
lady malvern looked at jeeves, then at me, then at jeeves again.
i could see her struggling with the thing.
"surely, your ladyship," said jeeves, "it is more reasonable to suppose that a gentleman of his lordship's character went to prison of his own volition than that he committed some breach of the law which necessitated his arrest?"
lady malvern blinked.
then she got up.
"mr. wooster," she said, "i apologize.
i have done you an injustice.
i should have known wilmot better.
i should have had more faith in his pure, fine spirit."
"absolutely!"
i said.
"your breakfast is ready, sir," said jeeves.
i sat down and dallied in a dazed sort of way with a poached egg.
"jeeves," i said, "you are certainly a life-saver!"
"thank you, sir."
"nothing would have convinced my aunt agatha that i hadn't lured that blighter into riotous living."
"i fancy you are right, sir."
i champed my egg for a bit.
i was most awfully moved, don't you know, by the way jeeves had rallied round.
something seemed to tell me that this was an occasion that called for rich rewards.
for a moment i hesitated.
then i made up my mind.
"jeeves!"
"sir?"
"that pink tie!"
"yes, sir?"
"burn it!"
"thank you, sir."
"and, jeeves!"
"yes, sir?"
"take a taxi and get me that longacre hat, as worn by john drew!"
"thank you very much, sir."
i felt most awfully braced.
i felt as if the clouds had rolled away and all was as it used to be.
i felt like one of those chappies in the novels who calls off the fight with his wife in the last chapter and decides to forget and forgive.
i felt i wanted to do all sorts of other things to show jeeves that i appreciated him.
"jeeves," i said, "it isn't enough.
is there anything else you would like?"
"yes, sir.
if i may make the suggestion fifty dollars."
"fifty dollars?"
"it will enable me to pay a debt of honour, sir.
i owe it to his lordship."
"you owe lord pershore fifty dollars?"
"yes, sir.
i happened to meet him in the street the night his lordship was arrested.
i had been thinking a good deal about the most suitable method of inducing him to abandon his mode of living, sir.
his lordship was a little over-excited at the time and i fancy that he mistook me for a friend of his.
at any rate when i took the liberty of wagering him fifty dollars that he would not punch a passing policeman in the eye, he accepted the bet very cordially and won it."
i produced my pocket-book and counted out a hundred.
"take this, jeeves," i said; "fifty isn't enough.
do you know, jeeves, you're well, you absolutely stand alone!"
"i endeavour to give satisfaction, sir," said jeeves.
jeeves and the hard-boiled egg
sometimes of a morning, as i've sat in bed sucking down the early cup of tea and watched my man jeeves flitting about the room and putting out the raiment for the day, i've wondered what the deuce i should do if the fellow ever took it into his head to leave me.
it's not so bad now i'm in new york, but in london the anxiety was frightful.
there used to be all sorts of attempts on the part of low blighters to sneak him away from me.
young reggie foljambe to my certain knowledge offered him double what i was giving him, and alistair bingham-reeves, who's got a valet who had been known to press his trousers sideways, used to look at him, when he came to see me, with a kind of glittering hungry eye which disturbed me deucedly.
bally pirates!
the thing, you see, is that jeeves is so dashed competent.
you can spot it even in the way he shoves studs into a shirt.
i rely on him absolutely in every crisis, and he never lets me down.
and, what's more, he can always be counted on to extend himself on behalf of any pal of mine who happens to be to all appearances knee-deep in the bouillon.
take the rather rummy case, for instance, of dear old bicky and his uncle, the hard-boiled egg.
it happened after i had been in america for a few months.
i got back to the flat latish one night, and when jeeves brought me the final drink he said:
"mr. bickersteth called to see you this evening, sir, while you were out."
"oh?"
i said.
"twice, sir.
he appeared a trifle agitated."
"what, pipped?"
"he gave that impression, sir."
i sipped the whisky.
i was sorry if bicky was in trouble, but, as a matter of fact, i was rather glad to have something i could discuss freely with jeeves just then, because things had been a bit strained between us for some time, and it had been rather difficult to hit on anything to talk about that wasn't apt to take a personal turn.
you see, i had decided rightly or wrongly to grow a moustache and this had cut jeeves to the quick.
he couldn't stick the thing at any price, and i had been living ever since in an atmosphere of bally disapproval till i was getting jolly well fed up with it.
what i mean is, while there's no doubt that in certain matters of dress jeeves's judgment is absolutely sound and should be followed, it seemed to me that it was getting a bit too thick if he was going to edit my face as well as my costume.
no one can call me an unreasonable chappie, and many's the time i've given in like a lamb when jeeves has voted against one of my pet suits or ties; but when it comes to a valet's staking out a claim on your upper lip you've simply got to have a bit of the good old bulldog pluck and defy the blighter.
"he said that he would call again later, sir."
"something must be up, jeeves."
"yes, sir."
i gave the moustache a thoughtful twirl.
it seemed to hurt jeeves a good deal, so i chucked it.
"i see by the paper, sir, that mr. bickersteth's uncle is arriving on the carmantic."
"yes?"
"his grace the duke of chiswick, sir."
this was news to me, that bicky's uncle was a duke.
rum, how little one knows about one's pals!
i had met bicky for the first time at a species of beano or jamboree down in washington square, not long after my arrival in new york.
i suppose i was a bit homesick at the time, and i rather took to bicky when i found that he was an englishman and had, in fact, been up at oxford with me.
besides, he was a frightful chump, so we naturally drifted together; and while we were taking a quiet snort in a corner that wasn't all cluttered up with artists and sculptors and what-not, he furthermore endeared himself to me by a most extraordinarily gifted imitation of a bull-terrier chasing a cat up a tree.
but, though we had subsequently become extremely pally, all i really knew about him was that he was generally hard up, and had an uncle who relieved the strain a bit from time to time by sending him monthly remittances.
"if the duke of chiswick is his uncle," i said, "why hasn't he a title?
why isn't he lord what-not?"
"mr. bickersteth is the son of his grace's late sister, sir, who married captain rollo bickersteth of the coldstream guards."
jeeves knows everything.
"is mr. bickersteth's father dead, too?"
"yes, sir."
"leave any money?"
"no, sir."
i began to understand why poor old bicky was always more or less on the rocks.
to the casual and irreflective observer, if you know what i mean, it may sound a pretty good wheeze having a duke for an uncle, but the trouble about old chiswick was that, though an extremely wealthy old buster, owning half london and about five counties up north, he was notoriously the most prudent spender in england.
he was what american chappies would call a hard-boiled egg.
if bicky's people hadn't left him anything and he depended on what he could prise out of the old duke, he was in a pretty bad way.
not that that explained why he was hunting me like this, because he was a chap who never borrowed money.
he said he wanted to keep his pals, so never bit any one's ear on principle.
at this juncture the door bell rang.
jeeves floated out to answer it.
"yes, sir.
mr. wooster has just returned," i heard him say.
and bicky came trickling in, looking pretty sorry for himself.
"halloa, bicky!"
i said.
"jeeves told me you had been trying to get me.
jeeves, bring another glass, and let the revels commence.
what's the trouble, bicky?"
"i'm in a hole, bertie.
i want your advice."
"say on, old lad!"
"my uncle's turning up to-morrow, bertie."
"so jeeves told me."
"the duke of chiswick, you know."
"so jeeves told me."
bicky seemed a bit surprised.
"jeeves seems to know everything."
"rather rummily, that's exactly what i was thinking just now myself."
"well, i wish," said bicky gloomily, "that he knew a way to get me out of the hole i'm in."
jeeves shimmered in with the glass, and stuck it competently on the table.
"mr. bickersteth is in a bit of a hole, jeeves," i said, "and wants you to rally round."
"very good, sir."
bicky looked a bit doubtful.
"well, of course, you know, bertie, this thing is by way of being a bit private and all that."
"i shouldn't worry about that, old top.
i bet jeeves knows all about it already.
don't you, jeeves?"
"yes, sir."
"eh!"
said bicky, rattled.
"i am open to correction, sir, but is not your dilemma due to the fact that you are at a loss to explain to his grace why you are in new york instead of in colorado?"
bicky rocked like a jelly in a high wind.
"how the deuce do you know anything about it?"
"i chanced to meet his grace's butler before we left england.
he informed me that he happened to overhear his grace speaking to you on the matter, sir, as he passed the library door."
bicky gave a hollow sort of laugh.
"well, as everybody seems to know all about it, there's no need to try to keep it dark.
the old boy turfed me out, bertie, because he said i was a brainless nincompoop.
the idea was that he would give me a remittance on condition that i dashed out to some blighted locality of the name of colorado and learned farming or ranching, or whatever they call it, at some bally ranch or farm or whatever it's called.
i didn't fancy the idea a bit.
i should have had to ride horses and pursue cows, and so forth.
i hate horses.
they bite at you.
i was all against the scheme.
at the same time, don't you know, i had to have that remittance."
"i get you absolutely, dear boy."
"well, when i got to new york it looked a decent sort of place to me, so i thought it would be a pretty sound notion to stop here.
so i cabled to my uncle telling him that i had dropped into a good business wheeze in the city and wanted to chuck the ranch idea.
he wrote back that it was all right, and here i've been ever since.
he thinks i'm doing well at something or other over here.
i never dreamed, don't you know, that he would ever come out here.
what on earth am i to do?"
"jeeves," i said, "what on earth is mr. bickersteth to do?"
"you see," said bicky, "i had a wireless from him to say that he was coming to stay with me to save hotel bills, i suppose.
i've always given him the impression that i was living in pretty good style.
i can't have him to stay at my boarding-house."
"thought of anything, jeeves?"
i said.
"to what extent, sir, if the question is not a delicate one, are you prepared to assist mr.
bickersteth?"
"i'll do anything i can for you, of course, bicky, old man."
"then, if i might make the suggestion, sir, you might lend mr.
bickersteth  "
"no, by jove!"
said bicky firmly.
"i never have touched you, bertie, and i'm not going to start now.
i may be a chump, but it's my boast that i don't owe a penny to a single soul not counting tradesmen, of course."
"i was about to suggest, sir, that you might lend mr. bickersteth this flat.
mr. bickersteth could give his grace the impression that he was the owner of it.
with your permission i could convey the notion that i was in mr. bickersteth's employment, and not in yours.
you would be residing here temporarily as mr. bickersteth's guest.
his grace would occupy the second spare bedroom.
i fancy that you would find this answer satisfactorily, sir."
bicky had stopped rocking himself and was staring at jeeves in an awed sort of way.
"i would advocate the dispatching of a wireless message to his grace on board the vessel, notifying him of the change of address.
mr.
bickersteth could meet his grace at the dock and proceed directly here.
will that meet the situation, sir?"
"absolutely."
"thank you, sir."
bicky followed him with his eye till the door closed.
"how does he do it, bertie?"
he said.
"i'll tell you what i think it is.
i believe it's something to do with the shape of his head.
have you ever noticed his head, bertie, old man?
it sort of sticks out at the back!"
i hopped out of bed early next morning, so as to be among those present when the old boy should arrive.
i knew from experience that these ocean liners fetch up at the dock at a deucedly ungodly hour.
it wasn't much after nine by the time i'd dressed and had my morning tea and was leaning out of the window, watching the street for bicky and his uncle.
it was one of those jolly, peaceful mornings that make a chappie wish he'd got a soul or something, and i was just brooding on life in general when i became aware of the dickens of a spate in progress down below.
a taxi had driven up, and an old boy in a top hat had got out and was kicking up a frightful row about the fare.
as far as i could make out, he was trying to get the cab chappie to switch from new york to london prices, and the cab chappie had apparently never heard of london before, and didn't seem to think a lot of it now.
the old boy said that in london the trip would have set him back eightpence; and the cabby said he should worry.
i called to jeeves.
"the duke has arrived, jeeves."
"yes, sir?"
"that'll be him at the door now."
jeeves made a long arm and opened the front door, and the old boy crawled in, looking licked to a splinter.
"how do you do, sir?"
i said, bustling up and being the ray of sunshine.
"your nephew went down to the dock to meet you, but you must have missed him.
my name's wooster, don't you know.
great pal of bicky's, and all that sort of thing.
i'm staying with him, you know.
would you like a cup of tea?
jeeves, bring a cup of tea."
old chiswick had sunk into an arm-chair and was looking about the room.
"does this luxurious flat belong to my nephew francis?"
"absolutely."
"it must be terribly expensive."
"pretty well, of course.
everything costs a lot over here, you know."
he moaned.
jeeves filtered in with the tea.
old chiswick took a stab at it to restore his tissues, and nodded.
"a terrible country, mr. wooster!
a terrible country!
nearly eight shillings for a short cab-drive!
iniquitous!"
he took another look round the room.
it seemed to fascinate him.
"have you any idea how much my nephew pays for this flat, mr.
wooster?"
"about two hundred dollars a month, i believe."
"what!
forty pounds a month!"
i began to see that, unless i made the thing a bit more plausible, the scheme might turn out a frost.
i could guess what the old boy was thinking.
he was trying to square all this prosperity with what he knew of poor old bicky.
and one had to admit that it took a lot of squaring, for dear old bicky, though a stout fellow and absolutely unrivalled as an imitator of bull-terriers and cats, was in many ways one of the most pronounced fatheads that ever pulled on a suit of gent's underwear.
"i suppose it seems rummy to you," i said, "but the fact is new york often bucks chappies up and makes them show a flash of speed that you wouldn't have imagined them capable of.
it sort of develops them.
something in the air, don't you know.
i imagine that bicky in the past, when you knew him, may have been something of a chump, but it's quite different now.
devilish efficient sort of chappie, and looked on in commercial circles as quite the nib!"
"i am amazed!
what is the nature of my nephew's business, mr.
wooster?"
"oh, just business, don't you know.
the same sort of thing carnegie and rockefeller and all these coves do, you know."
i slid for the door.
"awfully sorry to leave you, but i've got to meet some of the lads elsewhere."
coming out of the lift i met bicky bustling in from the street.
"halloa, bertie!
i missed him.
has he turned up?"
"he's upstairs now, having some tea."
"what does he think of it all?"
"he's absolutely rattled."
"ripping!
i'll be toddling up, then.
toodle-oo, bertie, old man.
see you later."
"pip-pip, bicky, dear boy."
he trotted off, full of merriment and good cheer, and i went off to the club to sit in the window and watch the traffic coming up one way and going down the other.
it was latish in the evening when i looked in at the flat to dress for dinner.
"where's everybody, jeeves?"
i said, finding no little feet pattering about the place.
"gone out?"
"his grace desired to see some of the sights of the city, sir.
mr.
bickersteth is acting as his escort.
i fancy their immediate objective was grant's tomb."
"i suppose mr. bickersteth is a bit braced at the way things are going what?"
"sir?"
"i say, i take it that mr. bickersteth is tolerably full of beans."
"not altogether, sir."
"what's his trouble now?"
"the scheme which i took the liberty of suggesting to mr. bickersteth and yourself has, unfortunately, not answered entirely satisfactorily, sir."
"surely the duke believes that mr. bickersteth is doing well in business, and all that sort of thing?"
"exactly, sir.
with the result that he has decided to cancel mr.
bickersteth's monthly allowance, on the ground that, as mr. bickersteth is doing so well on his own account, he no longer requires pecuniary assistance."
"great scot, jeeves!
this is awful."
"somewhat disturbing, sir."
"i never expected anything like this!"
"i confess i scarcely anticipated the contingency myself, sir."
"i suppose it bowled the poor blighter over absolutely?"
"mr. bickersteth appeared somewhat taken aback, sir."
my heart bled for bicky.
"we must do something, jeeves."
"yes, sir."
"can you think of anything?"
"not at the moment, sir."
"there must be something we can do."
"it was a maxim of one of my former employers, sir as i believe i mentioned to you once before the present lord bridgnorth, that there is always a way.
i remember his lordship using the expression on the occasion he was then a business gentleman and had not yet received his title when a patent hair-restorer which he chanced to be promoting failed to attract the public.
he put it on the market under another name as a depilatory, and amassed a substantial fortune.
i have generally found his lordship's aphorism based on sound foundations.
no doubt we shall be able to discover some solution of mr. bickersteth's difficulty, sir."
"well, have a stab at it, jeeves!"
"i will spare no pains, sir."
i went and dressed sadly.
it will show you pretty well how pipped i was when i tell you that i near as a toucher put on a white tie with a dinner-jacket.
i sallied out for a bit of food more to pass the time than because i wanted it.
it seemed brutal to be wading into the bill of fare with poor old bicky headed for the breadline.
when i got back old chiswick had gone to bed, but bicky was there, hunched up in an arm-chair, brooding pretty tensely, with a cigarette hanging out of the corner of his mouth and a more or less glassy stare in his eyes.
he had the aspect of one who had been soaked with what the newspaper chappies call "some blunt instrument."
"this is a bit thick, old thing what!"
i said.
he picked up his glass and drained it feverishly, overlooking the fact that it hadn't anything in it.
"i'm done, bertie!"
he said.
he had another go at the glass.
it didn't seem to do him any good.
"if only this had happened a week later, bertie!
my next month's money was due to roll in on saturday.
i could have worked a wheeze i've been reading about in the magazine advertisements.
it seems that you can make a dashed amount of money if you can only collect a few dollars and start a chicken-farm.
jolly sound scheme, bertie!
say you buy a hen call it one hen for the sake of argument.
it lays an egg every day of the week.
you sell the eggs seven for twenty-five cents.
keep of hen costs nothing.
profit practically twenty-five cents on every seven eggs.
or look at it another way: suppose you have a dozen eggs.
each of the hens has a dozen chickens.
the chickens grow up and have more chickens.
why, in no time you'd have the place covered knee-deep in hens, all laying eggs, at twenty-five cents for every seven.
you'd make a fortune.
jolly life, too, keeping hens!"
he had begun to get quite worked up at the thought of it, but he slopped back in his chair at this juncture with a good deal of gloom.
"but, of course, it's no good," he said, "because i haven't the cash."
"you've only to say the word, you know, bicky, old top."
"thanks awfully, bertie, but i'm not going to sponge on you."
that's always the way in this world.
the chappies you'd like to lend money to won't let you, whereas the chappies you don't want to lend it to will do everything except actually stand you on your head and lift the specie out of your pockets.
as a lad who has always rolled tolerably free in the right stuff, i've had lots of experience of the second class.
many's the time, back in london, i've hurried along piccadilly and felt the hot breath of the toucher on the back of my neck and heard his sharp, excited yapping as he closed in on me.
i've simply spent my life scattering largesse to blighters i didn't care a hang for; yet here was i now, dripping doubloons and pieces of eight and longing to hand them over, and bicky, poor fish, absolutely on his uppers, not taking any at any price.
"well, there's only one hope, then."
"what's that?"
"jeeves."
"sir?"
there was jeeves, standing behind me, full of zeal.
in this matter of shimmering into rooms the chappie is rummy to a degree.
you're sitting in the old arm-chair, thinking of this and that, and then suddenly you look up, and there he is.
he moves from point to point with as little uproar as a jelly fish.
the thing startled poor old bicky considerably.
he rose from his seat like a rocketing pheasant.
i'm used to jeeves now, but often in the days when he first came to me i've bitten my tongue freely on finding him unexpectedly in my midst.
"did you call, sir?"
"oh, there you are, jeeves!"
"precisely, sir."
"jeeves, mr. bickersteth is still up the pole.
any ideas?"
"why, yes, sir.
since we had our recent conversation i fancy i have found what may prove a solution.
i do not wish to appear to be taking a liberty, sir, but i think that we have overlooked his grace's potentialities as a source of revenue."
bicky laughed, what i have sometimes seen described as a hollow, mocking laugh, a sort of bitter cackle from the back of the throat, rather like a gargle.
"i do not allude, sir," explained jeeves, "to the possibility of inducing his grace to part with money.
i am taking the liberty of regarding his grace in the light of an at present if i may say so useless property, which is capable of being developed."
bicky looked at me in a helpless kind of way.
i'm bound to say i didn't get it myself.
"couldn't you make it a bit easier, jeeves!"
"in a nutshell, sir, what i mean is this: his grace is, in a sense, a prominent personage.
the inhabitants of this country, as no doubt you are aware, sir, are peculiarly addicted to shaking hands with prominent personages.
it occurred to me that mr. bickersteth or yourself might know of persons who would be willing to pay a small fee let us say two dollars or three for the privilege of an introduction, including handshake, to his grace."
bicky didn't seem to think much of it.
"do you mean to say that anyone would be mug enough to part with solid cash just to shake hands with my uncle?"
"i have an aunt, sir, who paid five shillings to a young fellow for bringing a moving-picture actor to tea at her house one sunday.
it gave her social standing among the neighbours."
bicky wavered.
"if you think it could be done  "
"i feel convinced of it, sir."
"what do you think, bertie?"
"i'm for it, old boy, absolutely.
a very brainy wheeze."
"thank you, sir.
will there be anything further?
good night, sir."
and he floated out, leaving us to discuss details.
until we started this business of floating old chiswick as a money-making proposition i had never realized what a perfectly foul time those stock exchange chappies must have when the public isn't biting freely.
nowadays i read that bit they put in the financial reports about "the market opened quietly" with a sympathetic eye, for, by jove, it certainly opened quietly for us!
you'd hardly believe how difficult it was to interest the public and make them take a flutter on the old boy.
by the end of the week the only name we had on our list was a delicatessen-store keeper down in bicky's part of the town, and as he wanted us to take it out in sliced ham instead of cash that didn't help much.
there was a gleam of light when the brother of bicky's pawnbroker offered ten dollars, money down, for an introduction to old chiswick, but the deal fell through, owing to its turning out that the chap was an anarchist and intended to kick the old boy instead of shaking hands with him.
at that, it took me the deuce of a time to persuade bicky not to grab the cash and let things take their course.
he seemed to regard the pawnbroker's brother rather as a sportsman and benefactor of his species than otherwise.
the whole thing, i'm inclined to think, would have been off if it hadn't been for jeeves.
there is no doubt that jeeves is in a class of his own.
in the matter of brain and resource i don't think i have ever met a chappie so supremely like mother made.
he trickled into my room one morning with a good old cup of tea, and intimated that there was something doing.
"might i speak to you with regard to that matter of his grace, sir?"
"it's all off.
we've decided to chuck it."
"sir?"
"it won't work.
we can't get anybody to come."
"i fancy i can arrange that aspect of the matter, sir."
"do you mean to say you've managed to get anybody?"
"yes, sir.
eighty-seven gentlemen from birdsburg, sir."
i sat up in bed and spilt the tea.
"birdsburg?"
"birdsburg, missouri, sir."
"how did you get them?"
"i happened last night, sir, as you had intimated that you would be absent from home, to attend a theatrical performance, and entered into conversation between the acts with the occupant of the adjoining seat.
i had observed that he was wearing a somewhat ornate decoration in his buttonhole, sir a large blue button with the words 'boost for birdsburg' upon it in red letters, scarcely a judicious addition to a gentleman's evening costume.
to my surprise i noticed that the auditorium was full of persons similarly decorated.
i ventured to inquire the explanation, and was informed that these gentlemen, forming a party of eighty-seven, are a convention from a town of the name if birdsburg, in the state of missouri.
their visit, i gathered, was purely of a social and pleasurable nature, and my informant spoke at some length of the entertainments arranged for their stay in the city.
it was when he related with a considerable amount of satisfaction and pride, that a deputation of their number had been introduced to and had shaken hands with a well-known prizefighter, that it occurred to me to broach the subject of his grace.
to make a long story short, sir, i have arranged, subject to your approval, that the entire convention shall be presented to his grace to-morrow afternoon."
i was amazed.
this chappie was a napoleon.
"eighty-seven, jeeves.
at how much a head?"
"i was obliged to agree to a reduction for quantity, sir.
the terms finally arrived at were one hundred and fifty dollars for the party."
i thought a bit.
"payable in advance?"
"no, sir.
i endeavoured to obtain payment in advance, but was not successful."
"well, any way, when we get it i'll make it up to five hundred.
bicky'll never know.
do you suspect mr. bickersteth would suspect anything, jeeves, if i made it up to five hundred?"
"i fancy not, sir.
mr. bickersteth is an agreeable gentleman, but not bright."
"all right, then.
after breakfast run down to the bank and get me some money."
"yes, sir."
"you know, you're a bit of a marvel, jeeves."
"thank you, sir."
"right-o!"
"very good, sir."
when i took dear old bicky aside in the course of the morning and told him what had happened he nearly broke down.
he tottered into the sitting-room and buttonholed old chiswick, who was reading the comic section of the morning paper with a kind of grim resolution.
"uncle," he said, "are you doing anything special to-morrow afternoon?
i mean to say, i've asked a few of my pals in to meet you, don't you know."
the old boy cocked a speculative eye at him.
"there will be no reporters among them?"
"reporters?
rather not!
why?"
"i refuse to be badgered by reporters.
there were a number of adhesive young men who endeavoured to elicit from me my views on america while the boat was approaching the dock.
i will not be subjected to this persecution again."
"that'll be absolutely all right, uncle.
there won't be a newspaper-man in the place."
"in that case i shall be glad to make the acquaintance of your friends."
"you'll shake hands with them and so forth?"
"i shall naturally order my behaviour according to the accepted rules of civilized intercourse."
bicky thanked him heartily and came off to lunch with me at the club, where he babbled freely of hens, incubators, and other rotten things.
after mature consideration we had decided to unleash the birdsburg contingent on the old boy ten at a time.
jeeves brought his theatre pal round to see us, and we arranged the whole thing with him.
a very decent chappie, but rather inclined to collar the conversation and turn it in the direction of his home-town's new water-supply system.
we settled that, as an hour was about all he would be likely to stand, each gang should consider itself entitled to seven minutes of the duke's society by jeeves's stop-watch, and that when their time was up jeeves should slide into the room and cough meaningly.
then we parted with what i believe are called mutual expressions of goodwill, the birdsburg chappie extending a cordial invitation to us all to pop out some day and take a look at the new water-supply system, for which we thanked him.
next day the deputation rolled in.
the first shift consisted of the cove we had met and nine others almost exactly like him in every respect.
they all looked deuced keen and businesslike, as if from youth up they had been working in the office and catching the boss's eye and what-not.
they shook hands with the old boy with a good deal of apparent satisfaction all except one chappie, who seemed to be brooding about something and then they stood off and became chatty.
"what message have you for birdsburg, duke?"
asked our pal.
the old boy seemed a bit rattled.
"i have never been to birdsburg."
the chappie seemed pained.
"you should pay it a visit," he said.
"the most rapidly-growing city in the country.
boost for birdsburg!"
"boost for birdsburg!"
said the other chappies reverently.
the chappie who had been brooding suddenly gave tongue.
"say!"
he was a stout sort of well-fed cove with one of those determined chins and a cold eye.
the assemblage looked at him.
"as a matter of business," said the chappie "mind you, i'm not questioning anybody's good faith, but, as a matter of strict business i think this gentleman here ought to put himself on record before witnesses as stating that he really is a duke."
"what do you mean, sir?"
cried the old boy, getting purple.
"no offence, simply business.
i'm not saying anything, mind you, but there's one thing that seems kind of funny to me.
this gentleman here says his name's mr. bickersteth, as i understand it.
well, if you're the duke of chiswick, why isn't he lord percy something?
i've read english novels, and i know all about it."
"this is monstrous!"
"now don't get hot under the collar.
i'm only asking.
i've a right to know.
you're going to take our money, so it's only fair that we should see that we get our money's worth."
the water-supply cove chipped in:
"you're quite right, simms.
i overlooked that when making the agreement.
you see, gentlemen, as business men we've a right to reasonable guarantees of good faith.
we are paying mr. bickersteth here a hundred and fifty dollars for this reception, and we naturally want to know  "
old chiswick gave bicky a searching look; then he turned to the water-supply chappie.
he was frightfully calm.
"i can assure you that i know nothing of this," he said, quite politely.
"i should be grateful if you would explain."
"well, we arranged with mr. bickersteth that eighty-seven citizens of birdsburg should have the privilege of meeting and shaking hands with you for a financial consideration mutually arranged, and what my friend simms here means and i'm with him is that we have only mr.
bickersteth's word for it and he is a stranger to us that you are the duke of chiswick at all."
old chiswick gulped.
"allow me to assure you, sir," he said, in a rummy kind of voice, "that i am the duke of chiswick."
"then that's all right," said the chappie heartily.
"that was all we wanted to know.
let the thing go on."
"i am sorry to say," said old chiswick, "that it cannot go on.
i am feeling a little tired.
i fear i must ask to be excused."
"but there are seventy-seven of the boys waiting round the corner at this moment, duke, to be introduced to you."
"i fear i must disappoint them."
"but in that case the deal would have to be off."
"that is a matter for you and my nephew to discuss."
the chappie seemed troubled.
"you really won't meet the rest of them?"
"no!"
"well, then, i guess we'll be going."
they went out, and there was a pretty solid silence.
then old chiswick turned to bicky:
"well?"
bicky didn't seem to have anything to say.
"was it true what that man said?"
"yes, uncle."
"what do you mean by playing this trick?"
bicky seemed pretty well knocked out, so i put in a word.
"i think you'd better explain the whole thing, bicky, old top."
bicky's adam's-apple jumped about a bit; then he started:
"you see, you had cut off my allowance, uncle, and i wanted a bit of money to start a chicken farm.
i mean to say it's an absolute cert if you once get a bit of capital.
you buy a hen, and it lays an egg every day of the week, and you sell the eggs, say, seven for twenty-five cents.
"keep of hens cost nothing.
profit practically  "
"what is all this nonsense about hens?
you led me to suppose you were a substantial business man."
"old bicky rather exaggerated, sir," i said, helping the chappie out.
"the fact is, the poor old lad is absolutely dependent on that remittance of yours, and when you cut it off, don't you know, he was pretty solidly in the soup, and had to think of some way of closing in on a bit of the ready pretty quick.
that's why we thought of this handshaking scheme."
old chiswick foamed at the mouth.
"so you have lied to me!
you have deliberately deceived me as to your financial status!"
"poor old bicky didn't want to go to that ranch," i explained.
"he doesn't like cows and horses, but he rather thinks he would be hot stuff among the hens.
all he wants is a bit of capital.
don't you think it would be rather a wheeze if you were to  "
"after what has happened?
after this this deceit and foolery?
not a penny!"
"but  "
"not a penny!"
there was a respectful cough in the background.
"if i might make a suggestion, sir?"
jeeves was standing on the horizon, looking devilish brainy.
"go ahead, jeeves!"
i said.
"i would merely suggest, sir, that if mr. bickersteth is in need of a little ready money, and is at a loss to obtain it elsewhere, he might secure the sum he requires by describing the occurrences of this afternoon for the sunday issue of one of the more spirited and enterprising newspapers."
"by jove!"
i said.
"by george!"
said bicky.
"great heavens!"
said old chiswick.
"very good, sir," said jeeves.
bicky turned to old chiswick with a gleaming eye.
"jeeves is right.
i'll do it!
the chronicle would jump at it.
they eat that sort of stuff."
old chiswick gave a kind of moaning howl.
"i absolutely forbid you, francis, to do this thing!"
"that's all very well," said bicky, wonderfully braced, "but if i can't get the money any other way  "
"wait!
er wait, my boy!
you are so impetuous!
we might arrange something."
"i won't go to that bally ranch."
"no, no!
no, no, my boy!
i would not suggest it.
i would not for a moment suggest it.
i i think  "
he seemed to have a bit of a struggle with himself.
"i i think that, on the whole, it would be best if you returned with me to england.
i i might in fact, i think i see my way to doing to i might be able to utilize your services in some secretarial position."
"i shouldn't mind that."
"i should not be able to offer you a salary, but, as you know, in english political life the unpaid secretary is a recognized figure  "
"the only figure i'll recognize," said bicky firmly, "is five hundred quid a year, paid quarterly."
"my dear boy!"
"absolutely!"
"but your recompense, my dear francis, would consist in the unrivalled opportunities you would have, as my secretary, to gain experience, to accustom yourself to the intricacies of political life, to in fact, you would be in an exceedingly advantageous position."
"five hundred a year!"
said bicky, rolling it round his tongue.
"why, that would be nothing to what i could make if i started a chicken farm.
it stands to reason.
suppose you have a dozen hens.
each of the hens has a dozen chickens.
after a bit the chickens grow up and have a dozen chickens each themselves, and then they all start laying eggs!
there's a fortune in it.
you can get anything you like for eggs in america.
chappies keep them on ice for years and years, and don't sell them till they fetch about a dollar a whirl.
you don't think i'm going to chuck a future like this for anything under five hundred o' goblins a year what?"
a look of anguish passed over old chiswick's face, then he seemed to be resigned to it.
"very well, my boy," he said.
"what-o!"
said bicky.
"all right, then."
"jeeves," i said.
bicky had taken the old boy off to dinner to celebrate, and we were alone.
"jeeves, this has been one of your best efforts."
"thank you, sir."
"it beats me how you do it."
"yes, sir."
"the only trouble is you haven't got much out of it what!"
"i fancy mr. bickersteth intends i judge from his remarks to signify his appreciation of anything i have been fortunate enough to do to assist him, at some later date when he is in a more favourable position to do so."
"it isn't enough, jeeves!"
"sir?"
it was a wrench, but i felt it was the only possible thing to be done.
"bring my shaving things."
a gleam of hope shone in the chappie's eye, mixed with doubt.
"you mean, sir?"
"and shave off my moustache."
there was a moment's silence.
i could see the fellow was deeply moved.
"thank you very much indeed, sir," he said, in a low voice, and popped off.
absent treatment
i want to tell you all about dear old bobbie cardew.
it's a most interesting story.
i can't put in any literary style and all that; but i don't have to, don't you know, because it goes on its moral lesson.
if you're a man you mustn't miss it, because it'll be a warning to you; and if you're a woman you won't want to, because it's all about how a girl made a man feel pretty well fed up with things.
if you're a recent acquaintance of bobbie's, you'll probably be surprised to hear that there was a time when he was more remarkable for the weakness of his memory than anything else.
dozens of fellows, who have only met bobbie since the change took place, have been surprised when i told them that.
yet it's true.
believe me.
in the days when i first knew him bobbie cardew was about the most pronounced young rotter inside the four-mile radius.
people have called me a silly ass, but i was never in the same class with bobbie.
when it came to being a silly ass, he was a plus-four man, while my handicap was about six.
why, if i wanted him to dine with me, i used to post him a letter at the beginning of the week, and then the day before send him a telegram and a phone-call on the day itself, and half an hour before the time we'd fixed a messenger in a taxi, whose business it was to see that he got in and that the chauffeur had the address all correct.
by doing this i generally managed to get him, unless he had left town before my messenger arrived.
the funny thing was that he wasn't altogether a fool in other ways.
deep down in him there was a kind of stratum of sense.
i had known him, once or twice, show an almost human intelligence.
but to reach that stratum, mind you, you needed dynamite.
at least, that's what i thought.
but there was another way which hadn't occurred to me.
marriage, i mean.
marriage, the dynamite of the soul; that was what hit bobbie.
he married.
have you ever seen a bull-pup chasing a bee?
the pup sees the bee.
it looks good to him.
but he still doesn't know what's at the end of it till he gets there.
it was like that with bobbie.
he fell in love, got married with a sort of whoop, as if it were the greatest fun in the world and then began to find out things.
she wasn't the sort of girl you would have expected bobbie to rave about.
and yet, i don't know.
what i mean is, she worked for her living; and to a fellow who has never done a hand's turn in his life there's undoubtedly a sort of fascination, a kind of romance, about a girl who works for her living.
her name was anthony.
mary anthony.
she was about five feet six; she had a ton and a half of red-gold hair, grey eyes, and one of those determined chins.
she was a hospital nurse.
when bobbie smashed himself up at polo, she was told off by the authorities to smooth his brow and rally round with cooling unguents and all that; and the old boy hadn't been up and about again for more than a week before they popped off to the registrar's and fixed it up.
quite the romance.
bobbie broke the news to me at the club one evening, and next day he introduced me to her.
i admired her.
i've never worked myself my name's pepper, by the way.
almost forgot to mention it.
reggie pepper.
my uncle edward was pepper, wells, and co., the colliery people.
he left me a sizable chunk of bullion i say i've never worked myself, but i admire any one who earns a living under difficulties, especially a girl.
and this girl had had a rather unusually tough time of it, being an orphan and all that, and having had to do everything off her own bat for years.
mary and i got along together splendidly.
we don't now, but we'll come to that later.
i'm speaking of the past.
she seemed to think bobbie the greatest thing on earth, judging by the way she looked at him when she thought i wasn't noticing.
and bobbie seemed to think the same about her.
so that i came to the conclusion that, if only dear old bobbie didn't forget to go to the wedding, they had a sporting chance of being quite happy.
well, let's brisk up a bit here, and jump a year.
the story doesn't really start till then.
they took a flat and settled down.
i was in and out of the place quite a good deal.
i kept my eyes open, and everything seemed to me to be running along as smoothly as you could want.
if this was marriage, i thought, i couldn't see why fellows were so frightened of it.
there were a lot of worse things that could happen to a man.
but we now come to the incident of the quiet dinner, and it's just here that love's young dream hits a snag, and things begin to occur.
i happened to meet bobbie in piccadilly, and he asked me to come back to dinner at the flat.
and, like a fool, instead of bolting and putting myself under police protection, i went.
when we got to the flat, there was mrs. bobbie looking well, i tell you, it staggered me.
her gold hair was all piled up in waves and crinkles and things, with a what-d'-you-call-it of diamonds in it.
and she was wearing the most perfectly ripping dress.
i couldn't begin to describe it.
i can only say it was the limit.
it struck me that if this was how she was in the habit of looking every night when they were dining quietly at home together, it was no wonder that bobbie liked domesticity.
"here's old reggie, dear," said bobbie.
"i've brought him home to have a bit of dinner.
i'll phone down to the kitchen and ask them to send it up now what?"
she stared at him as if she had never seen him before.
then she turned scarlet.
then she turned as white as a sheet.
then she gave a little laugh.
it was most interesting to watch.
made me wish i was up a tree about eight hundred miles away.
then she recovered herself.
"i am so glad you were able to come, mr. pepper," she said, smiling at me.
and after that she was all right.
at least, you would have said so.
she talked a lot at dinner, and chaffed bobbie, and played us ragtime on the piano afterwards, as if she hadn't a care in the world.
quite a jolly little party it was not.
i'm no lynx-eyed sleuth, and all that sort of thing, but i had seen her face at the beginning, and i knew that she was working the whole time and working hard, to keep herself in hand, and that she would have given that diamond what's-its-name in her hair and everything else she possessed to have one good scream just one.
i've sat through some pretty thick evenings in my time, but that one had the rest beaten in a canter.
at the very earliest moment i grabbed my hat and got away.
having seen what i did, i wasn't particularly surprised to meet bobbie at the club next day looking about as merry and bright as a lonely gum-drop at an eskimo tea-party.
he started in straightway.
he seemed glad to have someone to talk to about it.
"do you know how long i've been married?"
he said.
i didn't exactly.
"about a year, isn't it?"
"not about a year," he said sadly.
"exactly a year yesterday!"
then i understood.
i saw light a regular flash of light.
"yesterday was  ?"
"the anniversary of the wedding.
i'd arranged to take mary to the savoy, and on to covent garden.
she particularly wanted to hear caruso.
i had the ticket for the box in my pocket.
do you know, all through dinner i had a kind of rummy idea that there was something i'd forgotten, but i couldn't think what?"
"till your wife mentioned it?"
he nodded
"she mentioned it," he said thoughtfully.
i didn't ask for details.
women with hair and chins like mary's may be angels most of the time, but, when they take off their wings for a bit, they aren't half-hearted about it.
"to be absolutely frank, old top," said poor old bobbie, in a broken sort of way, "my stock's pretty low at home."
there didn't seem much to be done.
i just lit a cigarette and sat there.
he didn't want to talk.
presently he went out.
i stood at the window of our upper smoking-room, which looks out on to piccadilly, and watched him.
he walked slowly along for a few yards, stopped, then walked on again, and finally turned into a jeweller's.
which was an instance of what i meant when i said that deep down in him there was a certain stratum of sense.
it was from now on that i began to be really interested in this problem of bobbie's married life.
of course, one's always mildly interested in one's friends' marriages, hoping they'll turn out well and all that; but this was different.
the average man isn't like bobbie, and the average girl isn't like mary.
it was that old business of the immovable mass and the irresistible force.
there was bobbie, ambling gently through life, a dear old chap in a hundred ways, but undoubtedly a chump of the first water.
and there was mary, determined that he shouldn't be a chump.
and nature, mind you, on bobbie's side.
when nature makes a chump like dear old bobbie, she's proud of him, and doesn't want her handiwork disturbed.
she gives him a sort of natural armour to protect him against outside interference.
and that armour is shortness of memory.
shortness of memory keeps a man a chump, when, but for it, he might cease to be one.
take my case, for instance.
i'm a chump.
well, if i had remembered half the things people have tried to teach me during my life, my size in hats would be about number nine.
but i didn't.
i forgot them.
and it was just the same with bobbie.
for about a week, perhaps a bit more, the recollection of that quiet little domestic evening bucked him up like a tonic.
elephants, i read somewhere, are champions at the memory business, but they were fools to bobbie during that week.
but, bless you, the shock wasn't nearly big enough.
it had dinted the armour, but it hadn't made a hole in it.
pretty soon he was back at the old game.
it was pathetic, don't you know.
the poor girl loved him, and she was frightened.
it was the thin edge of the wedge, you see, and she knew it.
a man who forgets what day he was married, when he's been married one year, will forget, at about the end of the fourth, that he's married at all.
if she meant to get him in hand at all, she had got to do it now, before he began to drift away.
i saw that clearly enough, and i tried to make bobbie see it, when he was by way of pouring out his troubles to me one afternoon.
i can't remember what it was that he had forgotten the day before, but it was something she had asked him to bring home for her it may have been a book.
"it's such a little thing to make a fuss about," said bobbie.
"and she knows that it's simply because i've got such an infernal memory about everything.
i can't remember anything.
never could."
he talked on for a while, and, just as he was going, he pulled out a couple of sovereigns.
"oh, by the way," he said.
"what's this for?"
i asked, though i knew.
"i owe it you."
"how's that?"
i said.
"why, that bet on tuesday.
in the billiard-room.
murray and brown were playing a hundred up, and i gave you two to one that brown would win, and murray beat him by twenty odd."
"so you do remember some things?"
i said.
he got quite excited.
said that if i thought he was the sort of rotter who forgot to pay when he lost a bet, it was pretty rotten of me after knowing him all these years, and a lot more like that.
"subside, laddie," i said.
then i spoke to him like a father.
"what you've got to do, my old college chum," i said, "is to pull yourself together, and jolly quick, too.
as things are shaping, you're due for a nasty knock before you know what's hit you.
you've got to make an effort.
don't say you can't.
this two quid business shows that, even if your memory is rocky, you can remember some things.
what you've got to do is to see that wedding anniversaries and so on are included in the list.
it may be a brainstrain, but you can't get out of it."
"i suppose you're right," said bobbie.
"but it beats me why she thinks such a lot of these rotten little dates.
what's it matter if i forgot what day we were married on or what day she was born on or what day the cat had the measles?
she knows i love her just as much as if i were a memorizing freak at the halls."
"that's not enough for a woman," i said.
"they want to be shown.
bear that in mind, and you're all right.
forget it, and there'll be trouble."
he chewed the knob of his stick.
"women are frightfully rummy," he said gloomily.
"you should have thought of that before you married one," i said.
i don't see that i could have done any more.
i had put the whole thing in a nutshell for him.
you would have thought he'd have seen the point, and that it would have made him brace up and get a hold on himself.
but no.
off he went again in the same old way.
i gave up arguing with him.
i had a good deal of time on my hands, but not enough to amount to anything when it was a question of reforming dear old bobbie by argument.
if you see a man asking for trouble, and insisting on getting it, the only thing to do is to stand by and wait till it comes to him.
after that you may get a chance.
but till then there's nothing to be done.
but i thought a lot about him.
bobbie didn't get into the soup all at once.
weeks went by, and months, and still nothing happened.
now and then he'd come into the club with a kind of cloud on his shining morning face, and i'd know that there had been doings in the home; but it wasn't till well on in the spring that he got the thunderbolt just where he had been asking for it in the thorax.
i was smoking a quiet cigarette one morning in the window looking out over piccadilly, and watching the buses and motors going up one way and down the other most interesting it is; i often do it when in rushed bobbie, with his eyes bulging and his face the colour of an oyster, waving a piece of paper in his hand.
"reggie," he said.
"reggie, old top, she's gone!"
"gone!"
i said.
"who?"
"mary, of course!
gone!
left me!
gone!"
"where?"
i said.
silly question?
perhaps you're right.
anyhow, dear old bobbie nearly foamed at the mouth.
"where?
how should i know where?
here, read this."
he pushed the paper into my hand.
it was a letter.
"go on," said bobbie.
"read it."
so i did.
it certainly was quite a letter.
there was not much of it, but it was all to the point.
this is what it said:
"my dear bobbie, i am going away.
when you care enough about me     to remember to wish me many happy returns on my birthday, i will     come back.
my address will be box 341, london morning news."
i read it twice, then i said, "well, why don't you?"
"why don't i what?"
"why don't you wish her many happy returns?
it doesn't seem much to ask."
"but she says on her birthday."
"well, when is her birthday?"
"can't you understand?"
said bobbie.
"i've forgotten."
"forgotten!"
i said.
"yes," said bobbie.
"forgotten."
"how do you mean, forgotten?"
i said.
"forgotten whether it's the twentieth or the twenty-first, or what?
how near do you get to it?"
"i know it came somewhere between the first of january and the thirty-first of december.
that's how near i get to it."
"think."
"think?
what's the use of saying 'think'?
think i haven't thought?
i've been knocking sparks out of my brain ever since i opened that letter."
"and you can't remember?"
"no."
i rang the bell and ordered restoratives.
"well, bobbie," i said, "it's a pretty hard case to spring on an untrained amateur like me.
suppose someone had come to sherlock holmes and said, 'mr.
holmes, here's a case for you.
when is my wife's birthday?'
wouldn't that have given sherlock a jolt?
however, i know enough about the game to understand that a fellow can't shoot off his deductive theories unless you start him with a clue, so rouse yourself out of that pop-eyed trance and come across with two or three.
for instance, can't you remember the last time she had a birthday?
what sort of weather was it?
that might fix the month."
bobbie shook his head.
"it was just ordinary weather, as near as i can recollect."
"warm?"
"warmish."
"or cold?"
"well, fairly cold, perhaps.
i can't remember."
i ordered two more of the same.
they seemed indicated in the young detective's manual.
"you're a great help, bobbie," i said.
"an invaluable assistant.
one of those indispensable adjuncts without which no home is complete."
bobbie seemed to be thinking.
"i've got it," he said suddenly.
"look here.
i gave her a present on her last birthday.
all we have to do is to go to the shop, hunt up the date when it was bought, and the thing's done."
"absolutely.
what did you give her?"
he sagged.
"i can't remember," he said.
getting ideas is like golf.
some days you're right off, others it's as easy as falling off a log.
i don't suppose dear old bobbie had ever had two ideas in the same morning before in his life; but now he did it without an effort.
he just loosed another dry martini into the undergrowth, and before you could turn round it had flushed quite a brain-wave.
do you know those little books called when were you born?
there's one for each month.
they tell you your character, your talents, your strong points, and your weak points at fourpence halfpenny a go.
bobbie's idea was to buy the whole twelve, and go through them till we found out which month hit off mary's character.
that would give us the month, and narrow it down a whole lot.
a pretty hot idea for a non-thinker like dear old bobbie.
we sallied out at once.
he took half and i took half, and we settled down to work.
as i say, it sounded good.
but when we came to go into the thing, we saw that there was a flaw.
there was plenty of information all right, but there wasn't a single month that didn't have something that exactly hit off mary.
for instance, in the december book it said, "december people are apt to keep their own secrets.
they are extensive travellers."
well, mary had certainly kept her secret, and she had travelled quite extensively enough for bobbie's needs.
then, october people were "born with original ideas" and "loved moving."
you couldn't have summed up mary's little jaunt more neatly.
february people had "wonderful memories" mary's speciality.
we took a bit of a rest, then had another go at the thing.
bobbie was all for may, because the book said that women born in that month were "inclined to be capricious, which is always a barrier to a happy married life"; but i plumped for february, because february women "are unusually determined to have their own way, are very earnest, and expect a full return in their companion or mates."
which he owned was about as like mary as anything could be.
in the end he tore the books up, stamped on them, burnt them, and went home.
it was wonderful what a change the next few days made in dear old bobbie.
have you ever seen that picture, "the soul's awakening"?
it represents a flapper of sorts gazing in a startled sort of way into the middle distance with a look in her eyes that seems to say, "surely that is george's step i hear on the mat!
can this be love?"
well, bobbie had a soul's awakening too.
i don't suppose he had ever troubled to think in his life before not really think.
but now he was wearing his brain to the bone.
it was painful in a way, of course, to see a fellow human being so thoroughly in the soup, but i felt strongly that it was all for the best.
i could see as plainly as possible that all these brainstorms were improving bobbie out of knowledge.
when it was all over he might possibly become a rotter again of a sort, but it would only be a pale reflection of the rotter he had been.
it bore out the idea i had always had that what he needed was a real good jolt.
i saw a great deal of him these days.
i was his best friend, and he came to me for sympathy.
i gave it him, too, with both hands, but i never failed to hand him the moral lesson when i had him weak.
one day he came to me as i was sitting in the club, and i could see that he had had an idea.
he looked happier than he had done in weeks.
"reggie," he said, "i'm on the trail.
this time i'm convinced that i shall pull it off.
i've remembered something of vital importance."
"yes?"
i said.
"i remember distinctly," he said, "that on mary's last birthday we went together to the coliseum.
how does that hit you?"
"it's a fine bit of memorizing," i said; "but how does it help?"
"why, they change the programme every week there."
"ah!"
i said.
"now you are talking."
"and the week we went one of the turns was professor some one's terpsichorean cats.
i recollect them distinctly.
now, are we narrowing it down, or aren't we?
reggie, i'm going round to the coliseum this minute, and i'm going to dig the date of those terpsichorean cats out of them, if i have to use a crowbar."
so that got him within six days; for the management treated us like brothers; brought out the archives, and ran agile fingers over the pages till they treed the cats in the middle of may.
"i told you it was may," said bobbie.
"maybe you'll listen to me another time."
"if you've any sense," i said, "there won't be another time."
and bobbie said that there wouldn't.
once you get your memory on the run, it parts as if it enjoyed doing it.
i had just got off to sleep that night when my telephone-bell rang.
it was bobbie, of course.
he didn't apologize.
"reggie," he said, "i've got it now for certain.
it's just come to me.
we saw those terpsichorean cats at a matinee, old man."
"yes?"
i said.
"well, don't you see that that brings it down to two days?
it must have been either wednesday the seventh or saturday the tenth."
"yes," i said, "if they didn't have daily matinees at the coliseum."
i heard him give a sort of howl.
"bobbie," i said.
my feet were freezing, but i was fond of him.
"well?"
"i've remembered something too.
it's this.
the day you went to the coliseum i lunched with you both at the ritz.
you had forgotten to bring any money with you, so you wrote a cheque."
"but i'm always writing cheques."
"you are.
but this was for a tenner, and made out to the hotel.
hunt up your cheque-book and see how many cheques for ten pounds payable to the ritz hotel you wrote out between may the fifth and may the tenth."
he gave a kind of gulp.
"reggie," he said, "you're a genius.
i've always said so.
i believe you've got it.
hold the line."
presently he came back again.
"halloa!"
he said.
"i'm here," i said.
"it was the eighth.
reggie, old man, i  "
"topping," i said.
"good night."
it was working along into the small hours now, but i thought i might as well make a night of it and finish the thing up, so i rang up an hotel near the strand.
"put me through to mrs. cardew," i said.
"it's late," said the man at the other end.
"and getting later every minute," i said.
"buck along, laddie."
i waited patiently.
i had missed my beauty-sleep, and my feet had frozen hard, but i was past regrets.
"what is the matter?"
said mary's voice.
"my feet are cold," i said.
"but i didn't call you up to tell you that particularly.
i've just been chatting with bobbie, mrs.
cardew."
"oh!
is that mr.
pepper?"
"yes.
he's remembered it, mrs.
cardew."
she gave a sort of scream.
i've often thought how interesting it must be to be one of those exchange girls.
the things they must hear, don't you know.
bobbie's howl and gulp and mrs. bobbie's scream and all about my feet and all that.
most interesting it must be.
"he's remembered it!"
she gasped.
"did you tell him?"
"no."
well, i hadn't.
"mr.
pepper."
"yes?"
"was he has he been was he very worried?"
i chuckled.
this was where i was billed to be the life and soul of the party.
"worried!
he was about the most worried man between here and edinburgh.
he has been worrying as if he was paid to do it by the nation.
he has started out to worry after breakfast, and  "
oh, well, you can never tell with women.
my idea was that we should pass the rest of the night slapping each other on the back across the wire, and telling each other what bally brainy conspirators we were, don't you know, and all that.
but i'd got just as far as this, when she bit at me.
absolutely!
i heard the snap.
and then she said "oh!"
in that choked kind of way.
and when a woman says "oh!"
like that, it means all the bad words she'd love to say if she only knew them.
and then she began.
"what brutes men are!
what horrid brutes!
how you could stand by and see poor dear bobbie worrying himself into a fever, when a word from you would have put everything right, i can't  "
"but  "
"and you call yourself his friend!
his friend!"
(metallic laugh, most unpleasant.)
"it shows how one can be deceived.
i used to think you a kind-hearted man."
"but, i say, when i suggested the thing, you thought it perfectly  "
"i thought it hateful, abominable."
"but you said it was absolutely top  "
"i said nothing of the kind.
and if i did, i didn't mean it.
i don't wish to be unjust, mr. pepper, but i must say that to me there seems to be something positively fiendish in a man who can go out of his way to separate a husband from his wife, simply in order to amuse himself by gloating over his agony  "
"but  !"
"when one single word would have  "
"but you made me promise not to  " i bleated.
"and if i did, do you suppose i didn't expect you to have the sense to break your promise?"
i had finished.
i had no further observations to make.
i hung up the receiver, and crawled into bed.
i still see bobbie when he comes to the club, but i do not visit the old homestead.
he is friendly, but he stops short of issuing invitations.
i ran across mary at the academy last week, and her eyes went through me like a couple of bullets through a pat of butter.
and as they came out the other side, and i limped off to piece myself together again, there occurred to me the simple epitaph which, when i am no more, i intend to have inscribed on my tombstone.
it was this:
"he was a man who acted from the best motives.
there is one born every minute."
helping freddie
i don't want to bore you, don't you know, and all that sort of rot, but i must tell you about dear old freddie meadowes.
i'm not a flier at literary style, and all that, but i'll get some writer chappie to give the thing a wash and brush up when i've finished, so that'll be all right.
dear old freddie, don't you know, has been a dear old pal of mine for years and years; so when i went into the club one morning and found him sitting alone in a dark corner, staring glassily at nothing, and generally looking like the last rose of summer, you can understand i was quite disturbed about it.
as a rule, the old rotter is the life and soul of our set.
quite the little lump of fun, and all that sort of thing.
jimmy pinkerton was with me at the time.
jimmy's a fellow who writes plays a deuced brainy sort of fellow and between us we set to work to question the poor pop-eyed chappie, until finally we got at what the matter was.
as we might have guessed, it was a girl.
he had had a quarrel with angela west, the girl he was engaged to, and she had broken off the engagement.
what the row had been about he didn't say, but apparently she was pretty well fed up.
she wouldn't let him come near her, refused to talk on the phone, and sent back his letters unopened.
i was sorry for poor old freddie.
i knew what it felt like.
i was once in love myself with a girl called elizabeth shoolbred, and the fact that she couldn't stand me at any price will be recorded in my autobiography.
i knew the thing for freddie.
"change of scene is what you want, old scout," i said.
"come with me to marvis bay.
i've taken a cottage there.
jimmy's coming down on the twenty-fourth.
we'll be a cosy party."
"he's absolutely right," said jimmy.
"change of scene's the thing.
i knew a man.
girl refused him.
man went abroad.
two months later girl wired him, 'come back.
muriel.'
man started to write out a reply; suddenly found that he couldn't remember girl's surname; so never answered at all."
but freddie wouldn't be comforted.
he just went on looking as if he had swallowed his last sixpence.
however, i got him to promise to come to marvis bay with me.
he said he might as well be there as anywhere.
do you know marvis bay?
it's in dorsetshire.
it isn't what you'd call a fiercely exciting spot, but it has its good points.
you spend the day there bathing and sitting on the sands, and in the evening you stroll out on the shore with the gnats.
at nine o'clock you rub ointment on the wounds and go to bed.
it seemed to suit poor old freddie.
once the moon was up and the breeze sighing in the trees, you couldn't drag him from that beach with a rope.
he became quite a popular pet with the gnats.
they'd hang round waiting for him to come out, and would give perfectly good strollers the miss-in-baulk just so as to be in good condition for him.
yes, it was a peaceful sort of life, but by the end of the first week i began to wish that jimmy pinkerton had arranged to come down earlier:
for as a companion freddie, poor old chap, wasn't anything to write home to mother about.
when he wasn't chewing a pipe and scowling at the carpet, he was sitting at the piano, playing "the rosary" with one finger.
he couldn't play anything except "the rosary," and he couldn't play much of that.
somewhere round about the third bar a fuse would blow out, and he'd have to start all over again.
he was playing it as usual one morning when i came in from bathing.
"reggie," he said, in a hollow voice, looking up, "i've seen her."
"seen her?"
i said.
"what, miss west?"
"i was down at the post office, getting the letters, and we met in the doorway.
she cut me!"
he started "the rosary" again, and side-slipped in the second bar.
"reggie," he said, "you ought never to have brought me here.
i must go away."
"go away?"
i said.
"don't talk such rot.
this is the best thing that could have happened.
this is where you come out strong."
"she cut me."
"never mind.
be a sportsman.
have another dash at her."
"she looked clean through me!"
"of course she did.
but don't mind that.
put this thing in my hands.
i'll see you through.
now, what you want," i said, "is to place her under some obligation to you.
what you want is to get her timidly thanking you.
what you want  "
"but what's she going to thank me timidly for?"
i thought for a moment.
"look out for a chance and save her from drowning," i said.
"i can't swim," said freddie.
that was freddie all over, don't you know.
a dear old chap in a thousand ways, but no help to a fellow, if you know what i mean.
he cranked up the piano once more and i sprinted for the open.
i strolled out on to the sands and began to think this thing over.
there was no doubt that the brain-work had got to be done by me.
dear old freddie had his strong qualities.
he was top-hole at polo, and in happier days i've heard him give an imitation of cats fighting in a backyard that would have surprised you.
but apart from that he wasn't a man of enterprise.
well, don't you know, i was rounding some rocks, with my brain whirring like a dynamo, when i caught sight of a blue dress, and, by jove, it was the girl.
i had never met her, but freddie had sixteen photographs of her sprinkled round his bedroom, and i knew i couldn't be mistaken.
she was sitting on the sand, helping a small, fat child build a castle.
on a chair close by was an elderly lady reading a novel.
i heard the girl call her "aunt."
so, doing the sherlock holmes business, i deduced that the fat child was her cousin.
it struck me that if freddie had been there he would probably have tried to work up some sentiment about the kid on the strength of it.
personally i couldn't manage it.
i don't think i ever saw a child who made me feel less sentimental.
he was one of those round, bulging kids.
after he had finished the castle he seemed to get bored with life, and began to whimper.
the girl took him off to where a fellow was selling sweets at a stall.
and i walked on.
now, fellows, if you ask them, will tell you that i'm a chump.
well, i don't mind.
i admit it.
i am a chump.
all the peppers have been chumps.
but what i do say is that every now and then, when you'd least expect it, i get a pretty hot brain-wave; and that's what happened now.
i doubt if the idea that came to me then would have occurred to a single one of any dozen of the brainiest chappies you care to name.
it came to me on my return journey.
i was walking back along the shore, when i saw the fat kid meditatively smacking a jelly-fish with a spade.
the girl wasn't with him.
in fact, there didn't seem to be any one in sight.
i was just going to pass on when i got the brain-wave.
i thought the whole thing out in a flash, don't you know.
from what i had seen of the two, the girl was evidently fond of this kid, and, anyhow, he was her cousin, so what i said to myself was this: if i kidnap this young heavy-weight for the moment, and if, when the girl has got frightfully anxious about where he can have got to, dear old freddie suddenly appears leading the infant by the hand and telling a story to the effect that he has found him wandering at large about the country and practically saved his life, why, the girl's gratitude is bound to make her chuck hostilities and be friends again.
so i gathered in the kid and made off with him.
all the way home i pictured that scene of reconciliation.
i could see it so vividly, don't you know, that, by george, it gave me quite a choky feeling in my throat.
freddie, dear old chap, was rather slow at getting on to the fine points of the idea.
when i appeared, carrying the kid, and dumped him down in our sitting-room, he didn't absolutely effervesce with joy, if you know what i mean.
the kid had started to bellow by this time, and poor old freddie seemed to find it rather trying.
"stop it!"
he said.
"do you think nobody's got any troubles except you?
what the deuce is all this, reggie?"
the kid came back at him with a yell that made the window rattle.
i raced to the kitchen and fetched a jar of honey.
it was the right stuff.
the kid stopped bellowing and began to smear his face with the stuff.
"well?"
said freddie, when silence had set in.
i explained the idea.
after a while it began to strike him.
"you're not such a fool as you look, sometimes, reggie," he said handsomely.
"i'm bound to say this seems pretty good."
and he disentangled the kid from the honey-jar and took him out, to scour the beach for angela.
i don't know when i've felt so happy.
i was so fond of dear old freddie that to know that he was soon going to be his old bright self again made me feel as if somebody had left me about a million pounds.
i was leaning back in a chair on the veranda, smoking peacefully, when down the road i saw the old boy returning, and, by george, the kid was still with him.
and freddie looked as if he hadn't a friend in the world.
"hello!"
i said.
"couldn't you find her?"
"yes, i found her," he replied, with one of those bitter, hollow laughs.
"well, then  ?"
freddie sank into a chair and groaned.
"this isn't her cousin, you idiot!"
he said.
"he's no relation at all.
he's just a kid she happened to meet on the beach.
she had never seen him before in her life."
"what!
who is he, then?"
"i don't know.
oh, lord, i've had a time!
thank goodness you'll probably spend the next few years of your life in dartmoor for kidnapping.
that's my only consolation.
i'll come and jeer at you through the bars."
"tell me all, old boy," i said.
it took him a good long time to tell the story, for he broke off in the middle of nearly every sentence to call me names, but i gathered gradually what had happened.
she had listened like an iceberg while he told the story he had prepared, and then well, she didn't actually call him a liar, but she gave him to understand in a general sort of way that if he and dr. cook ever happened to meet, and started swapping stories, it would be about the biggest duel on record.
and then he had crawled away with the kid, licked to a splinter.
"and mind, this is your affair," he concluded.
"i'm not mixed up in it at all.
if you want to escape your sentence, you'd better go and find the kid's parents and return him before the police come for you."
by jove, you know, till i started to tramp the place with this infernal kid, i never had a notion it would have been so deuced difficult to restore a child to its anxious parents.
it's a mystery to me how kidnappers ever get caught.
i searched marvis bay like a bloodhound, but nobody came forward to claim the infant.
you'd have thought, from the lack of interest in him, that he was stopping there all by himself in a cottage of his own.
it wasn't till, by an inspiration, i thought to ask the sweet-stall man that i found out that his name was medwin, and that his parents lived at a place called ocean rest, in beach road.
i shot off there like an arrow and knocked at the door.
nobody answered.
i knocked again.
i could hear movements inside, but nobody came.
i was just going to get to work on that knocker in such a way that the idea would filter through into these people's heads that i wasn't standing there just for the fun of the thing, when a voice from somewhere above shouted, "hi!"
i looked up and saw a round, pink face, with grey whiskers east and west of it, staring down from an upper window.
"hi!"
it shouted again.
"what the deuce do you mean by 'hi'?"
i said.
"you can't come in," said the face.
"hello, is that tootles?"
"my name is not tootles, and i don't want to come in," i said.
"are you mr. medwin?
i've brought back your son."
"i see him.
peep-bo, tootles!
dadda can see 'oo!"
the face disappeared with a jerk.
i could hear voices.
the face reappeared.
"hi!"
i churned the gravel madly.
"do you live here?"
said the face.
"i'm staying here for a few weeks."
"what's your name?"
"pepper.
but  "
"pepper?
any relation to edward pepper, the colliery owner?"
"my uncle.
but  "
"i used to know him well.
dear old edward pepper!
i wish i was with him now."
"i wish you were," i said.
he beamed down at me.
"this is most fortunate," he said.
"we were wondering what we were to do with tootles.
you see, we have the mumps here.
my daughter bootles has just developed mumps.
tootles must not be exposed to the risk of infection.
we could not think what we were to do with him.
it was most fortunate your finding him.
he strayed from his nurse.
i would hesitate to trust him to the care of a stranger, but you are different.
any nephew of edward pepper's has my implicit confidence.
you must take tootles to your house.
it will be an ideal arrangement.
i have written to my brother in london to come and fetch him.
he may be here in a few days."
"may!"
"he is a busy man, of course; but he should certainly be here within a week.
till then tootles can stop with you.
it is an excellent plan.
very much obliged to you.
your wife will like tootles."
"i haven't got a wife," i yelled; but the window had closed with a bang, as if the man with the whiskers had found a germ trying to escape, don't you know, and had headed it off just in time.
i breathed a deep breath and wiped my forehead.
the window flew up again.
"hi!"
a package weighing about a ton hit me on the head and burst like a bomb.
"did you catch it?"
said the face, reappearing.
"dear me, you missed it!
never mind.
you can get it at the grocer's.
ask for bailey's granulated breakfast chips.
tootles takes them for breakfast with a little milk.
be certain to get bailey's."
my spirit was broken, if you know what i mean.
i accepted the situation.
taking tootles by the hand, i walked slowly away.
napoleon's retreat from moscow was a picnic by the side of it.
as we turned up the road we met freddie's angela.
the sight of her had a marked effect on the kid tootles.
he pointed at her and said, "wah!"
the girl stopped and smiled.
i loosed the kid, and he ran to her.
"well, baby?"
she said, bending down to him.
"so father found you again, did he?
your little son and i made friends on the beach this morning," she said to me.
this was the limit.
coming on top of that interview with the whiskered lunatic it so utterly unnerved me, don't you know, that she had nodded good-bye and was half-way down the road before i caught up with my breath enough to deny the charge of being the infant's father.
i hadn't expected dear old freddie to sing with joy when he found out what had happened, but i did think he might have shown a little more manly fortitude.
he leaped up, glared at the kid, and clutched his head.
he didn't speak for a long time, but, on the other hand, when he began he did not leave off for a long time.
he was quite emotional, dear old boy.
it beat me where he could have picked up such expressions.
"well," he said, when he had finished, "say something!
heavens!
man, why don't you say something?"
"you don't give me a chance, old top," i said soothingly.
"what are you going to do about it?"
"what can we do about it?"
"we can't spend our time acting as nurses to this this exhibit."
he got up.
"i'm going back to london," he said.
"freddie!"
i cried.
"freddie, old man!"
my voice shook.
"would you desert a pal at a time like this?"
"i would.
this is your business, and you've got to manage it."
"freddie," i said, "you've got to stand by me.
you must.
do you realize that this child has to be undressed, and bathed, and dressed again?
you wouldn't leave me to do all that single-handed?
freddie, old scout, we were at school together.
your mother likes me.
you owe me a tenner."
he sat down again.
"oh, well," he said resignedly.
"besides, old top," i said, "i did it all for your sake, don't you know?"
he looked at me in a curious way.
"reggie," he said, in a strained voice, "one moment.
i'll stand a good deal, but i won't stand for being expected to be grateful."
looking back at it, i see that what saved me from colney hatch in that crisis was my bright idea of buying up most of the contents of the local sweet-shop.
by serving out sweets to the kid practically incessantly we managed to get through the rest of that day pretty satisfactorily.
at eight o'clock he fell asleep in a chair, and, having undressed him by unbuttoning every button in sight and, where there were no buttons, pulling till something gave, we carried him up to bed.
freddie stood looking at the pile of clothes on the floor and i knew what he was thinking.
to get the kid undressed had been simple a mere matter of muscle.
but how were we to get him into his clothes again?
i stirred the pile with my foot.
there was a long linen arrangement which might have been anything.
also a strip of pink flannel which was like nothing on earth.
we looked at each other and smiled wanly.
but in the morning i remembered that there were children at the next bungalow but one.
we went there before breakfast and borrowed their nurse.
women are wonderful, by george they are!
she had that kid dressed and looking fit for anything in about eight minutes.
i showered wealth on her, and she promised to come in morning and evening.
i sat down to breakfast almost cheerful again.
it was the first bit of silver lining there had been to the cloud up to date.
"and after all," i said, "there's lots to be said for having a child about the house, if you know what i mean.
kind of cosy and domestic what!"
just then the kid upset the milk over freddie's trousers, and when he had come back after changing his clothes he began to talk about what a much-maligned man king herod was.
the more he saw of tootles, he said, the less he wondered at those impulsive views of his on infanticide.
two days later jimmy pinkerton came down.
jimmy took one look at the kid, who happened to be howling at the moment, and picked up his portmanteau.
"for me," he said, "the hotel.
i can't write dialogue with that sort of thing going on.
whose work is this?
which of you adopted this little treasure?"
i told him about mr. medwin and the mumps.
jimmy seemed interested.
"i might work this up for the stage," he said.
"it wouldn't make a bad situation for act two of a farce."
"farce!"
snarled poor old freddie.
"rather.
curtain of act one on hero, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of idiot just like that is to say, a well-meaning, half-baked sort of idiot, kidnapping the child.
second act, his adventures with it.
i'll rough it out to-night.
come along and show me the hotel, reggie."
as we went i told him the rest of the story the angela part.
he laid down his portmanteau and looked at me like an owl through his glasses.
"what!"
he said.
"why, hang it, this is a play, ready-made.
it's the old 'tiny hand' business.
always safe stuff.
parted lovers.
lisping child.
reconciliation over the little cradle.
it's big.
child, centre.
girl l.c.
; freddie, up stage, by the piano.
can freddie play the piano?"
"he can play a little of 'the rosary' with one finger."
jimmy shook his head.
"no; we shall have to cut out the soft music.
but the rest's all right.
look here."
he squatted in the sand.
"this stone is the girl.
this bit of seaweed's the child.
this nutshell is freddie.
dialogue leading up to child's line.
child speaks like, 'boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?'
business of outstretched hands.
hold picture for a moment.
freddie crosses l., takes girl's hand.
business of swallowing lump in throat.
then big speech.
'ah, marie,' or whatever her name is jane agnes angela?
very well.
'ah, angela, has not this gone on too long?
a little child rebukes us!
angela!'
and so on.
freddie must work up his own part.
i'm just giving you the general outline.
and we must get a good line for the child.
'boofer lady, does 'oo love dadda?'
isn't definite enough.
we want something more ah!
'kiss freddie,' that's it.
short, crisp, and has the punch."
"but, jimmy, old top," i said, "the only objection is, don't you know, that there's no way of getting the girl to the cottage.
she cuts freddie.
she wouldn't come within a mile of him."
jimmy frowned.
"that's awkward," he said.
"well, we shall have to make it an exterior set instead of an interior.
we can easily corner her on the beach somewhere, when we're ready.
meanwhile, we must get the kid letter-perfect.
first rehearsal for lines and business eleven sharp to-morrow."
poor old freddie was in such a gloomy state of mind that we decided not to tell him the idea till we had finished coaching the kid.
he wasn't in the mood to have a thing like that hanging over him.
so we concentrated on tootles.
and pretty early in the proceedings we saw that the only way to get tootles worked up to the spirit of the thing was to introduce sweets of some sort as a sub-motive, so to speak.
"the chief difficulty," said jimmy pinkerton at the end of the first rehearsal, "is to establish a connection in the kid's mind between his line and the sweets.
once he has grasped the basic fact that those two words, clearly spoken, result automatically in acid-drops, we have got a success."
i've often thought, don't you know, how interesting it must be to be one of those animal-trainer johnnies: to stimulate the dawning intelligence, and that sort of thing.
well, this was every bit as exciting.
some days success seemed to be staring us in the eye, and the kid got the line out as if he'd been an old professional.
and then he'd go all to pieces again.
and time was flying.
"we must hurry up, jimmy," i said.
"the kid's uncle may arrive any day now and take him away."
"and we haven't an understudy," said jimmy.
"there's something in that.
we must work!
my goodness, that kid's a bad study.
i've known deaf-mutes who would have learned the part quicker."
i will say this for the kid, though: he was a trier.
failure didn't discourage him.
whenever there was any kind of sweet near he had a dash at his line, and kept on saying something till he got what he was after.
his only fault was his uncertainty.
personally, i would have been prepared to risk it, and start the performance at the first opportunity, but jimmy said no.
"we're not nearly ready," said jimmy.
"to-day, for instance, he said 'kick freddie.'
that's not going to win any girl's heart.
and she might do it, too.
no; we must postpone production awhile yet."
but, by george, we didn't.
the curtain went up the very next afternoon.
it was nobody's fault certainly not mine.
it was just fate.
freddie had settled down at the piano, and i was leading the kid out of the house to exercise it, when, just as we'd got out to the veranda, along came the girl angela on her way to the beach.
the kid set up his usual yell at the sight of her, and she stopped at the foot of the steps.
"hello, baby!"
she said.
"good morning," she said to me.
"may i come up?"
she didn't wait for an answer.
she just came.
she seemed to be that sort of girl.
she came up on the veranda and started fussing over the kid.
and six feet away, mind you, freddie smiting the piano in the sitting-room.
it was a dash disturbing situation, don't you know.
at any minute freddie might take it into his head to come out on to the veranda, and we hadn't even begun to rehearse him in his part.
i tried to break up the scene.
"we were just going down to the beach," i said.
"yes?"
said the girl.
she listened for a moment.
"so you're having your piano tuned?"
she said.
"my aunt has been trying to find a tuner for ours.
do you mind if i go in and tell this man to come on to us when he's finished here?"
"er not yet!"
i said.
"not yet, if you don't mind.
he can't bear to be disturbed when he's working.
it's the artistic temperament.
i'll tell him later."
"very well," she said, getting up to go.
"ask him to call at pine bungalow.
west is the name.
oh, he seems to have stopped.
i suppose he will be out in a minute now.
i'll wait."
"don't you think shouldn't we be going on to the beach?"
i said.
she had started talking to the kid and didn't hear.
she was feeling in her pocket for something.
"the beach," i babbled.
"see what i've brought for you, baby," she said.
and, by george, don't you know, she held up in front of the kid's bulging eyes a chunk of toffee about the size of the automobile club.
that finished it.
we had just been having a long rehearsal, and the kid was all worked up in his part.
he got it right first time.
"kiss fweddie!"
he shouted.
and the front door opened, and freddie came out on to the veranda, for all the world as if he had been taking a cue.
he looked at the girl, and the girl looked at him.
i looked at the ground, and the kid looked at the toffee.
"kiss fweddie!"
he yelled.
"kiss fweddie!"
the girl was still holding up the toffee, and the kid did what jimmy pinkerton would have called "business of outstretched hands" towards it.
"kiss fweddie!"
he shrieked.
"what does this mean?"
said the girl, turning to me.
"you'd better give it to him, don't you know," i said.
"he'll go on till you do."
she gave the kid his toffee, and he subsided.
poor old freddie still stood there gaping, without a word.
"what does it mean?"
said the girl again.
her face was pink, and her eyes were sparkling in the sort of way, don't you know, that makes a fellow feel as if he hadn't any bones in him, if you know what i mean.
did you ever tread on your partner's dress at a dance and tear it, and see her smile at you like an angel and say: "please don't apologize.
it's nothing," and then suddenly meet her clear blue eyes and feel as if you had stepped on the teeth of a rake and had the handle jump up and hit you in the face?
well, that's how freddie's angela looked.
"well?"
she said, and her teeth gave a little click.
i gulped.
then i said it was nothing.
then i said it was nothing much.
then i said, "oh, well, it was this way."
and, after a few brief remarks about jimmy pinkerton, i told her all about it.
and all the while idiot freddie stood there gaping, without a word.
and the girl didn't speak, either.
she just stood listening.
and then she began to laugh.
i never heard a girl laugh so much.
she leaned against the side of the veranda and shrieked.
and all the while freddie, the world's champion chump, stood there, saying nothing.
well i sidled towards the steps.
i had said all i had to say, and it seemed to me that about here the stage-direction "exit" was written in my part.
i gave poor old freddie up in despair.
if only he had said a word, it might have been all right.
but there he stood, speechless.
what can a fellow do with a fellow like that?
just out of sight of the house i met jimmy pinkerton.
"hello, reggie!"
he said.
"i was just coming to you.
where's the kid?
we must have a big rehearsal to-day."
"no good," i said sadly.
"it's all over.
the thing's finished.
poor dear old freddie has made an ass of himself and killed the whole show."
"tell me," said jimmy.
i told him.
"fluffed in his lines, did he?"
said jimmy, nodding thoughtfully.
"it's always the way with these amateurs.
we must go back at once.
things look bad, but it may not be too late," he said as we started.
"even now a few well-chosen words from a man of the world, and  "
"great scot!"
i cried.
"look!"
in front of the cottage stood six children, a nurse, and the fellow from the grocer's staring.
from the windows of the houses opposite projected about four hundred heads of both sexes, staring.
down the road came galloping five more children, a dog, three men, and a boy, about to stare.
and on our porch, as unconscious of the spectators as if they had been alone in the sahara, stood freddie and angela, clasped in each other's arms.
dear old freddie may have been fluffy in his lines, but, by george, his business had certainly gone with a bang!
rallying round old george
i think one of the rummiest affairs i was ever mixed up with, in the course of a lifetime devoted to butting into other people's business, was that affair of george lattaker at monte carlo.
i wouldn't bore you, don't you know, for the world, but i think you ought to hear about it.
we had come to monte carlo on the yacht circe, belonging to an old sportsman of the name of marshall.
among those present were myself, my man voules, a mrs. vanderley, her daughter stella, mrs. vanderley's maid pilbeam and george.
george was a dear old pal of mine.
in fact, it was i who had worked him into the party.
you see, george was due to meet his uncle augustus, who was scheduled, george having just reached his twenty-fifth birthday, to hand over to him a legacy left by one of george's aunts, for which he had been trustee.
the aunt had died when george was quite a kid.
it was a date that george had been looking forward to; for, though he had a sort of income an income, after-all, is only an income, whereas a chunk of o' goblins is a pile.
george's uncle was in monte carlo, and had written george that he would come to london and unbelt; but it struck me that a far better plan was for george to go to his uncle at monte carlo instead.
kill two birds with one stone, don't you know.
fix up his affairs and have a pleasant holiday simultaneously.
so george had tagged along, and at the time when the trouble started we were anchored in monaco harbour, and uncle augustus was due next day.
looking back, i may say that, so far as i was mixed up in it, the thing began at seven o'clock in the morning, when i was aroused from a dreamless sleep by the dickens of a scrap in progress outside my state-room door.
the chief ingredients were a female voice that sobbed and said: "oh, harold!"
and a male voice "raised in anger," as they say, which after considerable difficulty, i identified as voules's.
i hardly recognized it.
in his official capacity voules talks exactly like you'd expect a statue to talk, if it could.
in private, however, he evidently relaxed to some extent, and to have that sort of thing going on in my midst at that hour was too much for me.
"voules!"
i yelled.
spion kop ceased with a jerk.
there was silence, then sobs diminishing in the distance, and finally a tap at the door.
voules entered with that impressive, my-lord-the-carriage-waits look which is what i pay him for.
you wouldn't have believed he had a drop of any sort of emotion in him.
"voules," i said, "are you under the delusion that i'm going to be queen of the may?
you've called me early all right.
it's only just seven."
"i understood you to summon me, sir."
"i summoned you to find out why you were making that infernal noise outside."
"i owe you an apology, sir.
i am afraid that in the heat of the moment i raised my voice."
"it's a wonder you didn't raise the roof.
who was that with you?"
"miss pilbeam, sir; mrs. vanderley's maid."
"what was all the trouble about?"
"i was breaking our engagement, sir."
i couldn't help gaping.
somehow one didn't associate voules with engagements.
then it struck me that i'd no right to butt in on his secret sorrows, so i switched the conversation.
"i think i'll get up," i said.
"yes, sir."
"i can't wait to breakfast with the rest.
can you get me some right away?"
"yes, sir."
so i had a solitary breakfast and went up on deck to smoke.
it was a lovely morning.
blue sea, gleaming casino, cloudless sky, and all the rest of the hippodrome.
presently the others began to trickle up.
stella vanderley was one of the first.
i thought she looked a bit pale and tired.
she said she hadn't slept well.
that accounted for it.
unless you get your eight hours, where are you?
"seen george?"
i asked.
i couldn't help thinking the name seemed to freeze her a bit.
which was queer, because all the voyage she and george had been particularly close pals.
in fact, at any moment i expected george to come to me and slip his little hand in mine, and whisper: "i've done it, old scout; she loves muh!"
"i have not seen mr. lattaker," she said.
i didn't pursue the subject.
george's stock was apparently low that a.m.
the next item in the day's programme occurred a few minutes later when the morning papers arrived.
mrs. vanderley opened hers and gave a scream.
"the poor, dear prince!"
she said.
"what a shocking thing!"
said old marshall.
"i knew him in vienna," said mrs. vanderley.
"he waltzed divinely."
then i got at mine and saw what they were talking about.
the paper was full of it.
it seemed that late the night before his serene highness the prince of saxburg-leignitz (i always wonder why they call these chaps "serene") had been murderously assaulted in a dark street on his way back from the casino to his yacht.
apparently he had developed the habit of going about without an escort, and some rough-neck, taking advantage of this, had laid for him and slugged him with considerable vim.
the prince had been found lying pretty well beaten up and insensible in the street by a passing pedestrian, and had been taken back to his yacht, where he still lay unconscious.
"this is going to do somebody no good," i said.
"what do you get for slugging a serene highness?
i wonder if they'll catch the fellow?"
"'later,'" read old marshall, "'the pedestrian who discovered his serene highness proves to have been mr. denman sturgis, the eminent private investigator.
mr. sturgis has offered his services to the police, and is understood to be in possession of a most important clue.'
that's the fellow who had charge of that kidnapping case in chicago.
if anyone can catch the man, he can."
about five minutes later, just as the rest of them were going to move off to breakfast, a boat hailed us and came alongside.
a tall, thin man came up the gangway.
he looked round the group, and fixed on old marshall as the probable owner of the yacht.
"good morning," he said.
"i believe you have a mr. lattaker on board mr. george lattaker?"
"yes," said marshall.
"he's down below.
want to see him?
whom shall i say?"
"he would not know my name.
i should like to see him for a moment on somewhat urgent business."
"take a seat.
he'll be up in a moment.
reggie, my boy, go and hurry him up."
i went down to george's state-room.
"george, old man!"
i shouted.
no answer.
i opened the door and went in.
the room was empty.
what's more, the bunk hadn't been slept in.
i don't know when i've been more surprised.
i went on deck.
"he isn't there," i said.
"not there!"
said old marshall.
"where is he, then?
perhaps he's gone for a stroll ashore.
but he'll be back soon for breakfast.
you'd better wait for him.
have you breakfasted?
no?
then will you join us?"
the man said he would, and just then the gong went and they trooped down, leaving me alone on deck.
i sat smoking and thinking, and then smoking a bit more, when i thought i heard somebody call my name in a sort of hoarse whisper.
i looked over my shoulder, and, by jove, there at the top of the gangway in evening dress, dusty to the eyebrows and without a hat, was dear old george.
"great scot!"
i cried.
"'sh!"
he whispered.
"anyone about?"
"they're all down at breakfast."
he gave a sigh of relief, sank into my chair, and closed his eyes.
i regarded him with pity.
the poor old boy looked a wreck.
"i say!"
i said, touching him on the shoulder.
he leaped out of the chair with a smothered yell.
"did you do that?
what did you do it for?
what's the sense of it?
how do you suppose you can ever make yourself popular if you go about touching people on the shoulder?
my nerves are sticking a yard out of my body this morning, reggie!"
"yes, old boy?"
"i did a murder last night."
"what?"
"it's the sort of thing that might happen to anybody.
directly stella vanderley broke off our engagement i  "
"broke off your engagement?
how long were you engaged?"
"about two minutes.
it may have been less.
i hadn't a stop-watch.
i proposed to her at ten last night in the saloon.
she accepted me.
i was just going to kiss her when we heard someone coming.
i went out.
coming along the corridor was that infernal what's-her-name mrs. vanderley's maid pilbeam.
have you ever been accepted by the girl you love, reggie?"
"never.
i've been refused dozens  "
"then you won't understand how i felt.
i was off my head with joy.
i hardly knew what i was doing.
i just felt i had to kiss the nearest thing handy.
i couldn't wait.
it might have been the ship's cat.
it wasn't.
it was pilbeam."
"you kissed her?"
"i kissed her.
and just at that moment the door of the saloon opened and out came stella."
"great scott!"
"exactly what i said.
it flashed across me that to stella, dear girl, not knowing the circumstances, the thing might seem a little odd.
it did.
she broke off the engagement, and i got out the dinghy and rowed off.
i was mad.
i didn't care what became of me.
i simply wanted to forget.
i went ashore.
i it's just on the cards that i may have drowned my sorrows a bit.
anyhow, i don't remember a thing, except that i can recollect having the deuce of a scrap with somebody in a dark street and somebody falling, and myself falling, and myself legging it for all i was worth.
i woke up this morning in the casino gardens.
i've lost my hat."
i dived for the paper.
"read," i said.
"it's all there."
he read.
"good heavens!"
he said.
"you didn't do a thing to his serene nibs, did you?"
"reggie, this is awful."
"cheer up.
they say he'll recover."
"that doesn't matter."
"it does to him."
he read the paper again.
"it says they've a clue."
"they always say that."
"but my hat!"
"eh?"
"my hat.
i must have dropped it during the scrap.
this man, denman sturgis, must have found it.
it had my name in it!"
"george," i said, "you mustn't waste time.
oh!"
he jumped a foot in the air.
"don't do it!"
he said, irritably.
"don't bark like that.
what's the matter?"
"the man!"
"what man?"
"a tall, thin man with an eye like a gimlet.
he arrived just before you did.
he's down in the saloon now, having breakfast.
he said he wanted to see you on business, and wouldn't give his name.
i didn't like the look of him from the first.
it's this fellow sturgis.
it must be."
"no!"
"i feel it.
i'm sure of it."
"had he a hat?"
"of course he had a hat."
"fool!
i mean mine.
was he carrying a hat?"
"by jove, he was carrying a parcel.
george, old scout, you must get a move on.
you must light out if you want to spend the rest of your life out of prison.
slugging a serene highness is lèse-majesté.
it's worse than hitting a policeman.
you haven't got a moment to waste."
"but i haven't any money.
reggie, old man, lend me a tenner or something.
i must get over the frontier into italy at once.
i'll wire my uncle to meet me in  "
"look out," i cried; "there's someone coming!"
he dived out of sight just as voules came up the companion-way, carrying a letter on a tray.
"what's the matter!"
i said.
"what do you want?"
"i beg your pardon, sir.
i thought i heard mr. lattaker's voice.
a letter has arrived for him."
"he isn't here."
"no, sir.
shall i remove the letter?"
"no; give it to me.
i'll give it to him when he comes."
"very good, sir."
"oh, voules!
are they all still at breakfast?
the gentleman who came to see mr. lattaker?
still hard at it?"
"he is at present occupied with a kippered herring, sir."
"ah!
that's all, voules."
"thank you, sir."
he retired.
i called to george, and he came out.
"who was it?"
"only voules.
he brought a letter for you.
they're all at breakfast still.
the sleuth's eating kippers."
"that'll hold him for a bit.
full of bones."
he began to read his letter.
he gave a kind of grunt of surprise at the first paragraph.
"well, i'm hanged!"
he said, as he finished.
"reggie, this is a queer thing."
"what's that?"
he handed me the letter, and directly i started in on it i saw why he had grunted.
this is how it ran:
"my dear george i shall be seeing you to-morrow, i hope; but i     think it is better, before we meet, to prepare you for a curious     situation that has arisen in connection with the legacy which     your father inherited from your aunt emily, and which you are     expecting me, as trustee, to hand over to you, now that you have     reached your twenty-fifth birthday.
you have doubtless heard     your father speak of your twin-brother alfred, who was lost or     kidnapped which, was never ascertained when you were both     babies.
when no news was received of him for so many years, it     was supposed that he was dead.
yesterday, however, i received a     letter purporting that he had been living all this time in buenos     ayres as the adopted son of a wealthy south american, and has     only recently discovered his identity.
he states that he is on     his way to meet me, and will arrive any day now.
of course, like     other claimants, he may prove to be an impostor, but meanwhile     his intervention will, i fear, cause a certain delay before i can     hand over your money to you.
it will be necessary to go into a     thorough examination of credentials, etc., and this will take     some time.
but i will go fully into the matter with you when we     meet.
your affectionate uncle,
"augustus arbutt."
i read it through twice, and the second time i had one of those ideas i do sometimes get, though admittedly a chump of the premier class.
i have seldom had such a thoroughly corking brain-wave.
"why, old top," i said, "this lets you out."
"lets me out of half the darned money, if that's what you mean.
if this chap's not an imposter and there's no earthly reason to suppose he is, though i've never heard my father say a word about him we shall have to split the money.
aunt emily's will left the money to my father, or, failing him, his 'offspring.'
i thought that meant me, but apparently there are a crowd of us.
i call it rotten work, springing unexpected offspring on a fellow at the eleventh hour like this."
"why, you chump," i said, "it's going to save you.
this lets you out of your spectacular dash across the frontier.
all you've got to do is to stay here and be your brother alfred.
it came to me in a flash."
he looked at me in a kind of dazed way.
"you ought to be in some sort of a home, reggie."
"ass!"
i cried.
"don't you understand?
have you ever heard of twin-brothers who weren't exactly alike?
who's to say you aren't alfred if you swear you are?
your uncle will be there to back you up that you have a brother alfred."
"and alfred will be there to call me a liar."
"he won't.
it's not as if you had to keep it up for the rest of your life.
it's only for an hour or two, till we can get this detective off the yacht.
we sail for england to-morrow morning."
at last the thing seemed to sink into him.
his face brightened.
"why, i really do believe it would work," he said.
"of course it would work.
if they want proof, show them your mole.
i'll swear george hadn't one."
"and as alfred i should get a chance of talking to stella and making things all right for george.
reggie, old top, you're a genius."
"no, no."
"you are."
"well, it's only sometimes.
i can't keep it up."
and just then there was a gentle cough behind us.
we spun round.
"what the devil are you doing here, voules," i said.
"i beg your pardon, sir.
i have heard all."
i looked at george.
george looked at me.
"voules is all right," i said.
"decent voules!
voules wouldn't give us away, would you, voules?"
"yes, sir."
"you would?"
"yes, sir."
"but, voules, old man," i said, "be sensible.
what would you gain by it?"
"financially, sir, nothing."
"whereas, by keeping quiet" i tapped him on the chest "by holding your tongue, voules, by saying nothing about it to anybody, voules, old fellow, you might gain a considerable sum."
"am i to understand, sir, that, because you are rich and i am poor, you think that you can buy my self-respect?"
"oh, come!"
i said.
"how much?"
said voules.
so we switched to terms.
you wouldn't believe the way the man haggled.
you'd have thought a decent, faithful servant would have been delighted to oblige one in a little matter like that for a fiver.
but not voules.
by no means.
it was a hundred down, and the promise of another hundred when we had got safely away, before he was satisfied.
but we fixed it up at last, and poor old george got down to his state-room and changed his clothes.
he'd hardly gone when the breakfast-party came on deck.
"did you meet him?"
i asked.
"meet whom?"
said old marshall.
"george's twin-brother alfred."
"i didn't know george had a brother."
"nor did he till yesterday.
it's a long story.
he was kidnapped in infancy, and everyone thought he was dead.
george had a letter from his uncle about him yesterday.
i shouldn't wonder if that's where george has gone, to see his uncle and find out about it.
in the meantime, alfred has arrived.
he's down in george's state-room now, having a brush-up.
it'll amaze you, the likeness between them.
you'll think it is george at first.
look!
here he comes."
and up came george, brushed and clean, in an ordinary yachting suit.
they were rattled.
there was no doubt about that.
they stood looking at him, as if they thought there was a catch somewhere, but weren't quite certain where it was.
i introduced him, and still they looked doubtful.
"mr. pepper tells me my brother is not on board," said george.
"it's an amazing likeness," said old marshall.
"is my brother like me?"
asked george amiably.
"no one could tell you apart," i said.
"i suppose twins always are alike," said george.
"but if it ever came to a question of identification, there would be one way of distinguishing us.
do you know george well, mr.
pepper?"
"he's a dear old pal of mine."
"you've been swimming with him perhaps?"
"every day last august."
"well, then, you would have noticed it if he had had a mole like this on the back of his neck, wouldn't you?"
he turned his back and stooped and showed the mole.
his collar hid it at ordinary times.
i had seen it often when we were bathing together.
"has george a mole like that?"
he asked.
"no," i said.
"oh, no."
"you would have noticed it if he had?"
"yes," i said.
"oh, yes."
"i'm glad of that," said george.
"it would be a nuisance not to be able to prove one's own identity."
that seemed to satisfy them all.
they couldn't get away from it.
it seemed to me that from now on the thing was a walk-over.
and i think george felt the same, for, when old marshall asked him if he had had breakfast, he said he had not, went below, and pitched in as if he hadn't a care in the world.
everything went right till lunch-time.
george sat in the shade on the foredeck talking to stella most of the time.
when the gong went and the rest had started to go below, he drew me back.
he was beaming.
"it's all right," he said.
"what did i tell you?"
"what did you tell me?"
"why, about stella.
didn't i say that alfred would fix things for george?
i told her she looked worried, and got her to tell me what the trouble was.
and then  "
"you must have shown a flash of speed if you got her to confide in you after knowing you for about two hours."
"perhaps i did," said george modestly, "i had no notion, till i became him, what a persuasive sort of chap my brother alfred was.
anyway, she told me all about it, and i started in to show her that george was a pretty good sort of fellow on the whole, who oughtn't to be turned down for what was evidently merely temporary insanity.
she saw my point."
"and it's all right?"
"absolutely, if only we can produce george.
how much longer does that infernal sleuth intend to stay here?
he seems to have taken root."
"i fancy he thinks that you're bound to come back sooner or later, and is waiting for you."
"he's an absolute nuisance," said george.
we were moving towards the companion way, to go below for lunch, when a boat hailed us.
we went to the side and looked over.
"it's my uncle," said george.
a stout man came up the gangway.
"halloa, george!"
he said.
"get my letter?"
"i think you are mistaking me for my brother," said george.
"my name is alfred lattaker."
"what's that?"
"i am george's brother alfred.
are you my uncle augustus?"
the stout man stared at him.
"you're very like george," he said.
"so everyone tells me."
"and you're really alfred?"
"i am."
"i'd like to talk business with you for a moment."
he cocked his eye at me.
i sidled off and went below.
at the foot of the companion-steps i met voules.
"i beg your pardon, sir," said voules.
"if it would be convenient i should be glad to have the afternoon off."
i'm bound to say i rather liked his manner.
absolutely normal.
not a trace of the fellow-conspirator about it.
i gave him the afternoon off.
i had lunch george didn't show up and as i was going out i was waylaid by the girl pilbeam.
she had been crying.
"i beg your pardon, sir, but did mr. voules ask you for the afternoon?"
i didn't see what business if was of hers, but she seemed all worked up about it, so i told her.
"yes, i have given him the afternoon off."
she broke down absolutely collapsed.
devilish unpleasant it was.
i'm hopeless in a situation like this.
after i'd said, "there, there!"
which didn't seem to help much, i hadn't any remarks to make.
"he s-said he was going to the tables to gamble away all his savings and then shoot himself, because he had nothing left to live for."
i suddenly remembered the scrap in the small hours outside my state-room door.
i hate mysteries.
i meant to get to the bottom of this.
i couldn't have a really first-class valet like voules going about the place shooting himself up.
evidently the girl pilbeam was at the bottom of the thing.
i questioned her.
she sobbed.
i questioned her more.
i was firm.
and eventually she yielded up the facts.
voules had seen george kiss her the night before; that was the trouble.
things began to piece themselves together.
i went up to interview george.
there was going to be another job for persuasive alfred.
voules's mind had got to be eased as stella's had been.
i couldn't afford to lose a fellow with his genius for preserving a trouser-crease.
i found george on the foredeck.
what is it shakespeare or somebody says about some fellow's face being sicklied o'er with the pale cast of care?
george's was like that.
he looked green.
"finished with your uncle?"
i said.
he grinned a ghostly grin.
"there isn't any uncle," he said.
"there isn't any alfred.
and there isn't any money."
"explain yourself, old top," i said.
"it won't take long.
the old crook has spent every penny of the trust money.
he's been at it for years, ever since i was a kid.
when the time came to cough up, and i was due to see that he did it, he went to the tables in the hope of a run of luck, and lost the last remnant of the stuff.
he had to find a way of holding me for a while and postponing the squaring of accounts while he got away, and he invented this twin-brother business.
he knew i should find out sooner or later, but meanwhile he would be able to get off to south america, which he has done.
he's on his way now."
"you let him go?"
"what could i do?
i can't afford to make a fuss with that man sturgis around.
i can't prove there's no alfred when my only chance of avoiding prison is to be alfred."
"well, you've made things right for yourself with stella vanderley, anyway," i said, to cheer him up.
"what's the good of that now?
i've hardly any money and no prospects.
how can i marry her?"
i pondered.
"it looks to me, old top," i said at last, "as if things were in a bit of a mess."
"you've guessed it," said poor old george.
i spent the afternoon musing on life.
if you come to think of it, what a queer thing life is!
so unlike anything else, don't you know, if you see what i mean.
at any moment you may be strolling peacefully along, and all the time life's waiting around the corner to fetch you one.
you can't tell when you may be going to get it.
it's all dashed puzzling.
here was poor old george, as well-meaning a fellow as ever stepped, getting swatted all over the ring by the hand of fate.
why?
that's what i asked myself.
just life, don't you know.
that's all there was about it.
it was close on six o'clock when our third visitor of the day arrived.
we were sitting on the afterdeck in the cool of the evening old marshall, denman sturgis, mrs. vanderley, stella, george, and i when he came up.
we had been talking of george, and old marshall was suggesting the advisability of sending out search-parties.
he was worried.
so was stella vanderley.
so, for that matter, were george and i, only not for the same reason.
we were just arguing the thing out when the visitor appeared.
he was a well-built, stiff sort of fellow.
he spoke with a german accent.
"mr.
marshall?"
he said.
"i am count fritz von cöslin, equerry to his serene highness" he clicked his heels together and saluted "the prince of saxburg-leignitz."
mrs. vanderley jumped up.
"why, count," she said, "what ages since we met in vienna!
you remember?"
"could i ever forget?
and the charming miss stella, she is well, i suppose not?"
"stella, you remember count fritz?"
stella shook hands with him.
"and how is the poor, dear prince?"
asked mrs. vanderley.
"what a terrible thing to have happened!"
"i rejoice to say that my high-born master is better.
he has regained consciousness and is sitting up and taking nourishment."
"that's good," said old marshall.
"in a spoon only," sighed the count.
"mr. marshall, with your permission i should like a word with mr.
sturgis."
"mr.
who?"
the gimlet-eyed sportsman came forward.
"i am denman sturgis, at your service."
"the deuce you are!
what are you doing here?"
"mr. sturgis," explained the count, "graciously volunteered his services  "
"i know.
but what's he doing here?"
"i am waiting for mr. george lattaker, mr.
marshall."
"eh?"
"you have not found him?"
asked the count anxiously.
"not yet, count; but i hope to do so shortly.
i know what he looks like now.
this gentleman is his twin-brother.
they are doubles."
"you are sure this gentleman is not mr. george lattaker?"
george put his foot down firmly on the suggestion.
"don't go mixing me up with my brother," he said.
"i am alfred.
you can tell me by my mole."
he exhibited the mole.
he was taking no risks.
the count clicked his tongue regretfully.
"i am sorry," he said.
george didn't offer to console him,
"don't worry," said sturgis.
"he won't escape me.
i shall find him."
"do, mr. sturgis, do.
and quickly.
find swiftly that noble young man."
"what?"
shouted george.
"that noble young man, george lattaker, who, at the risk of his life, saved my high-born master from the assassin."
george sat down suddenly.
"i don't understand," he said feebly.
"we were wrong, mr. sturgis," went on the count.
"we leaped to the conclusion was it not so?
that the owner of the hat you found was also the assailant of my high-born master.
we were wrong.
i have heard the story from his serene highness's own lips.
he was passing down a dark street when a ruffian in a mask sprang out upon him.
doubtless he had been followed from the casino, where he had been winning heavily.
my high-born master was taken by surprise.
he was felled.
but before he lost consciousness he perceived a young man in evening dress, wearing the hat you found, running swiftly towards him.
the hero engaged the assassin in combat, and my high-born master remembers no more.
his serene highness asks repeatedly, 'where is my brave preserver?'
his gratitude is princely.
he seeks for this young man to reward him.
ah, you should be proud of your brother, sir!"
"thanks," said george limply.
"and you, mr. sturgis, you must redouble your efforts.
you must search the land; you must scour the sea to find george lattaker."
"he needn't take all that trouble," said a voice from the gangway.
it was voules.
his face was flushed, his hat was on the back of his head, and he was smoking a fat cigar.
"i'll tell you where to find george lattaker!"
he shouted.
he glared at george, who was staring at him.
"yes, look at me," he yelled.
"look at me.
you won't be the first this afternoon who's stared at the mysterious stranger who won for two hours without a break.
i'll be even with you now, mr. blooming lattaker.
i'll learn you to break a poor man's heart.
mr. marshall and gents, this morning i was on deck, and i over'eard 'im plotting to put up a game on you.
they'd spotted that gent there as a detective, and they arranged that blooming lattaker was to pass himself off as his own twin-brother.
and if you wanted proof, blooming pepper tells him to show them his mole and he'd swear george hadn't one.
those were his very words.
that man there is george lattaker, hesquire, and let him deny it if he can."
george got up.
"i haven't the least desire to deny it, voules."
"mr. voules, if you please."
"it's true," said george, turning to the count.
"the fact is, i had rather a foggy recollection of what happened last night.
i only remembered knocking some one down, and, like you, i jumped to the conclusion that i must have assaulted his serene highness."
"then you are really george lattaker?"
asked the count.
"i am."
"'ere, what does all this mean?"
demanded voules.
"merely that i saved the life of his serene highness the prince of saxburg-leignitz, mr.
voules."
"it's a swindle!"
began voules, when there was a sudden rush and the girl pilbeam cannoned into the crowd, sending me into old marshall's chair, and flung herself into the arms of voules.
"oh, harold!"
she cried.
"i thought you were dead.
i thought you'd shot yourself."
he sort of braced himself together to fling her off, and then he seemed to think better of it and fell into the clinch.
it was all dashed romantic, don't you know, but there are limits.
"voules, you're sacked," i said.
"who cares?"
he said.
"think i was going to stop on now i'm a gentleman of property?
come along, emma, my dear.
give a month's notice and get your 'at, and i'll take you to dinner at ciro's."
"and you, mr. lattaker," said the count, "may i conduct you to the presence of my high-born master?
he wishes to show his gratitude to his preserver."
"you may," said george.
"may i have my hat, mr.
sturgis?"
there's just one bit more.
after dinner that night i came up for a smoke, and, strolling on to the foredeck, almost bumped into george and stella.
they seemed to be having an argument.
"i'm not sure," she was saying, "that i believe that a man can be so happy that he wants to kiss the nearest thing in sight, as you put it."
"don't you?"
said george.
"well, as it happens, i'm feeling just that way now."
i coughed and he turned round.
"halloa, reggie!"
he said.
"halloa, george!"
i said.
"lovely night."
"beautiful," said stella.
"the moon," i said.
"ripping," said george.
"lovely," said stella.
"and look at the reflection of the stars on the  "
george caught my eye.
"pop off," he said.
i popped.
doing clarence a bit of good
have you ever thought about and, when i say thought about, i mean really carefully considered the question of the coolness, the cheek, or, if you prefer it, the gall with which woman, as a sex, fairly bursts?
i have, by jove!
but then i've had it thrust on my notice, by george, in a way i should imagine has happened to pretty few fellows.
and the limit was reached by that business of the yeardsley "venus."
to make you understand the full what-d'you-call-it of the situation, i shall have to explain just how matters stood between mrs. yeardsley and myself.
when i first knew her she was elizabeth shoolbred.
old worcestershire family; pots of money; pretty as a picture.
her brother bill was at oxford with me.
i loved elizabeth shoolbred.
i loved her, don't you know.
and there was a time, for about a week, when we were engaged to be married.
but just as i was beginning to take a serious view of life and study furniture catalogues and feel pretty solemn when the restaurant orchestra played "the wedding glide," i'm hanged if she didn't break it off, and a month later she was married to a fellow of the name of yeardsley clarence yeardsley, an artist.
what with golf, and billiards, and a bit of racing, and fellows at the club rallying round and kind of taking me out of myself, as it were, i got over it, and came to look on the affair as a closed page in the book of my life, if you know what i mean.
it didn't seem likely to me that we should meet again, as she and clarence had settled down in the country somewhere and never came to london, and i'm bound to own that, by the time i got her letter, the wound had pretty well healed, and i was to a certain extent sitting up and taking nourishment.
in fact, to be absolutely honest, i was jolly thankful the thing had ended as it had done.
this letter i'm telling you about arrived one morning out of a blue sky, as it were.
it ran like this:
"my dear old reggie, what ages it seems since i saw anything of     you.
how are you?
we have settled down here in the most perfect old     house, with a lovely garden, in the middle of delightful country.
couldn't you run down here for a few days?
clarence and i would be     so glad to see you.
bill is here, and is most anxious to meet you     again.
he was speaking of you only this morning.
do come.
wire your train, and i will send the car to meet you.
yours most sincerely,
elizabeth yeardsley.
"p.s.
we can give you new milk and fresh eggs.
think of that!
"p.p.s.
bill says our billiard-table is one of the best he has     ever played on.
"p.p.s.s.
we are only half a mile from a golf course.
bill says     it is better than st. andrews.
"p.p.s.s.s.
you must come!"
well, a fellow comes down to breakfast one morning, with a bit of a head on, and finds a letter like that from a girl who might quite easily have blighted his life!
it rattled me rather, i must confess.
however, that bit about the golf settled me.
i knew bill knew what he was talking about, and, if he said the course was so topping, it must be something special.
so i went.
old bill met me at the station with the car.
i hadn't come across him for some months, and i was glad to see him again.
and he apparently was glad to see me.
"thank goodness you've come," he said, as we drove off.
"i was just about at my last grip."
"what's the trouble, old scout?"
i asked.
"if i had the artistic what's-its-name," he went on, "if the mere mention of pictures didn't give me the pip, i dare say it wouldn't be so bad.
as it is, it's rotten!"
"pictures?"
"pictures.
nothing else is mentioned in this household.
clarence is an artist.
so is his father.
and you know yourself what elizabeth is like when one gives her her head?"
i remembered then it hadn't come back to me before that most of my time with elizabeth had been spent in picture-galleries.
during the period when i had let her do just what she wanted to do with me, i had had to follow her like a dog through gallery after gallery, though pictures are poison to me, just as they are to old bill.
somehow it had never struck me that she would still be going on in this way after marrying an artist.
i should have thought that by this time the mere sight of a picture would have fed her up.
not so, however, according to old bill.
"they talk pictures at every meal," he said.
"i tell you, it makes a chap feel out of it.
how long are you down for?"
"a few days."
"take my tip, and let me send you a wire from london.
i go there to-morrow.
i promised to play against the scottish.
the idea was that i was to come back after the match.
but you couldn't get me back with a lasso."
i tried to point out the silver lining.
"but, bill, old scout, your sister says there's a most corking links near here."
he turned and stared at me, and nearly ran us into the bank.
"you don't mean honestly she said that?"
"she said you said it was better than st.
andrews."
"so i did.
was that all she said i said?"
"well, wasn't it enough?"
"she didn't happen to mention that i added the words, 'i don't think'?"
"no, she forgot to tell me that."
"it's the worst course in great britain."
i felt rather stunned, don't you know.
whether it's a bad habit to have got into or not, i can't say, but i simply can't do without my daily allowance of golf when i'm not in london.
i took another whirl at the silver lining.
"we'll have to take it out in billiards," i said.
"i'm glad the table's good."
"it depends what you call good.
it's half-size, and there's a seven-inch cut just out of baulk where clarence's cue slipped.
elizabeth has mended it with pink silk.
very smart and dressy it looks, but it doesn't improve the thing as a billiard-table."
"but she said you said  "
"must have been pulling your leg."
we turned in at the drive gates of a good-sized house standing well back from the road.
it looked black and sinister in the dusk, and i couldn't help feeling, you know, like one of those johnnies you read about in stories who are lured to lonely houses for rummy purposes and hear a shriek just as they get there.
elizabeth knew me well enough to know that a specially good golf course was a safe draw to me.
and she had deliberately played on her knowledge.
what was the game?
that was what i wanted to know.
and then a sudden thought struck me which brought me out in a cold perspiration.
she had some girl down here and was going to have a stab at marrying me off.
i've often heard that young married women are all over that sort of thing.
certainly she had said there was nobody at the house but clarence and herself and bill and clarence's father, but a woman who could take the name of st. andrews in vain as she had done wouldn't be likely to stick at a trifle.
"bill, old scout," i said, "there aren't any frightful girls or any rot of that sort stopping here, are there?"
"wish there were," he said.
"no such luck."
as we pulled up at the front door, it opened, and a woman's figure appeared.
"have you got him, bill?"
she said, which in my present frame of mind struck me as a jolly creepy way of putting it.
the sort of thing lady macbeth might have said to macbeth, don't you know.
"do you mean me?"
i said.
she came down into the light.
it was elizabeth, looking just the same as in the old days.
"is that you, reggie?
i'm so glad you were able to come.
i was afraid you might have forgotten all about it.
you know what you are.
come along in and have some tea."
have you ever been turned down by a girl who afterwards married and then been introduced to her husband?
if so you'll understand how i felt when clarence burst on me.
you know the feeling.
first of all, when you hear about the marriage, you say to yourself, "i wonder what he's like."
then you meet him, and think, "there must be some mistake.
she can't have preferred this to me!"
that's what i thought, when i set eyes on clarence.
he was a little thin, nervous-looking chappie of about thirty-five.
his hair was getting grey at the temples and straggly on top.
he wore pince-nez, and he had a drooping moustache.
i'm no bombardier wells myself, but in front of clarence i felt quite a nut.
and elizabeth, mind you, is one of those tall, splendid girls who look like princesses.
honestly, i believe women do it out of pure cussedness.
"how do you do, mr. pepper?
hark!
can you hear a mewing cat?"
said clarence.
all in one breath, don't you know.
"eh?"
i said.
"a mewing cat.
i feel sure i hear a mewing cat.
listen!"
while we were listening the door opened, and a white-haired old gentleman came in.
he was built on the same lines as clarence, but was an earlier model.
i took him correctly, to be mr. yeardsley, senior.
elizabeth introduced us.
"father," said clarence, "did you meet a mewing cat outside?
i feel positive i heard a cat mewing."
"no," said the father, shaking his head; "no mewing cat."
"i can't bear mewing cats," said clarence.
"a mewing cat gets on my nerves!"
"a mewing cat is so trying," said elizabeth.
"i dislike mewing cats," said old mr. yeardsley.
that was all about mewing cats for the moment.
they seemed to think they had covered the ground satisfactorily, and they went back to pictures.
we talked pictures steadily till it was time to dress for dinner.
at least, they did.
i just sort of sat around.
presently the subject of picture-robberies came up.
somebody mentioned the "monna lisa," and then i happened to remember seeing something in the evening paper, as i was coming down in the train, about some fellow somewhere having had a valuable painting pinched by burglars the night before.
it was the first time i had had a chance of breaking into the conversation with any effect, and i meant to make the most of it.
the paper was in the pocket of my overcoat in the hall.
i went and fetched it.
"here it is," i said.
"a romney belonging to sir bellamy palmer  "
they all shouted "what!"
exactly at the same time, like a chorus.
elizabeth grabbed the paper.
"let me look!
yes.
'late last night burglars entered the residence of sir bellamy palmer, dryden park, midford, hants  '"
"why, that's near here," i said.
"i passed through midford  "
"dryden park is only two miles from this house," said elizabeth.
i noticed her eyes were sparkling.
"only two miles!"
she said.
"it might have been us!
it might have been the 'venus'!"
old mr. yeardsley bounded in his chair.
"the 'venus'!"
he cried.
they all seemed wonderfully excited.
my little contribution to the evening's chat had made quite a hit.
why i didn't notice it before i don't know, but it was not till elizabeth showed it to me after dinner that i had my first look at the yeardsley "venus."
when she led me up to it, and switched on the light, it seemed impossible that i could have sat right through dinner without noticing it.
but then, at meals, my attention is pretty well riveted on the foodstuffs.
anyway, it was not till elizabeth showed it to me that i was aware of its existence.
she and i were alone in the drawing-room after dinner.
old yeardsley was writing letters in the morning-room, while bill and clarence were rollicking on the half-size billiard table with the pink silk tapestry effects.
all, in fact, was joy, jollity, and song, so to speak, when elizabeth, who had been sitting wrapped in thought for a bit, bent towards me and said, "reggie."
and the moment she said it i knew something was going to happen.
you know that pre-what-d'you-call-it you get sometimes?
well, i got it then.
"what-o?"
i said nervously.
"reggie," she said, "i want to ask a great favour of you."
"yes?"
she stooped down and put a log on the fire, and went on, with her back to me:
"do you remember, reggie, once saying you would do anything in the world for me?"
there!
that's what i meant when i said that about the cheek of woman as a sex.
what i mean is, after what had happened, you'd have thought she would have preferred to let the dead past bury its dead, and all that sort of thing, what?
mind you, i had said i would do anything in the world for her.
i admit that.
but it was a distinctly pre-clarence remark.
he hadn't appeared on the scene then, and it stands to reason that a fellow who may have been a perfect knight-errant to a girl when he was engaged to her, doesn't feel nearly so keen on spreading himself in that direction when she has given him the miss-in-baulk, and gone and married a man who reason and instinct both tell him is a decided blighter.
i couldn't think of anything to say but "oh, yes."
"there's something you can do for me now, which will make me everlastingly grateful."
"yes," i said.
"do you know, reggie," she said suddenly, "that only a few months ago clarence was very fond of cats?"
"eh!
well, he still seems er interested in them, what?"
"now they get on his nerves.
everything gets on his nerves."
"some fellows swear by that stuff you see advertised all over the  "
"no, that wouldn't help him.
he doesn't need to take anything.
he wants to get rid of something."
"i don't quite follow.
get rid of something?"
"the 'venus,'" said elizabeth.
she looked up and caught my bulging eye.
"you saw the 'venus,'" she said.
"not that i remember."
"well, come into the dining-room."
we went into the dining-room, and she switched on the lights.
"there," she said.
on the wall close to the door that may have been why i hadn't noticed it before; i had sat with my back to it was a large oil-painting.
it was what you'd call a classical picture, i suppose.
what i mean is well, you know what i mean.
all i can say is that it's funny i hadn't noticed it.
"is that the 'venus'?"
i said.
she nodded.
"how would you like to have to look at that every time you sat down to a meal?"
"well, i don't know.
i don't think it would affect me much.
i'd worry through all right."
she jerked her head impatiently.
"but you're not an artist," she said.
"clarence is."
and then i began to see daylight.
what exactly was the trouble i didn't understand, but it was evidently something to do with the good old artistic temperament, and i could believe anything about that.
it explains everything.
it's like the unwritten law, don't you know, which you plead in america if you've done anything they want to send you to chokey for and you don't want to go.
what i mean is, if you're absolutely off your rocker, but don't find it convenient to be scooped into the luny-bin, you simply explain that, when you said you were a teapot, it was just your artistic temperament, and they apologize and go away.
so i stood by to hear just how the a.t. had affected clarence, the cat's friend, ready for anything.
and, believe me, it had hit clarence badly.
it was this way.
it seemed that old yeardsley was an amateur artist and that this "venus" was his masterpiece.
he said so, and he ought to have known.
well, when clarence married, he had given it to him, as a wedding present, and had hung it where it stood with his own hands.
all right so far, what?
but mark the sequel.
temperamental clarence, being a professional artist and consequently some streets ahead of the dad at the game, saw flaws in the "venus."
he couldn't stand it at any price.
he didn't like the drawing.
he didn't like the expression of the face.
he didn't like the colouring.
in fact, it made him feel quite ill to look at it.
yet, being devoted to his father and wanting to do anything rather than give him pain, he had not been able to bring himself to store the thing in the cellar, and the strain of confronting the picture three times a day had begun to tell on him to such an extent that elizabeth felt something had to be done.
"now you see," she said.
"in a way," i said.
"but don't you think it's making rather heavy weather over a trifle?"
"oh, can't you understand?
look!"
her voice dropped as if she was in church, and she switched on another light.
it shone on the picture next to old yeardsley's.
"there!"
she said.
"clarence painted that!"
she looked at me expectantly, as if she were waiting for me to swoon, or yell, or something.
i took a steady look at clarence's effort.
it was another classical picture.
it seemed to me very much like the other one.
some sort of art criticism was evidently expected of me, so i made a dash at it.
"er 'venus'?"
i said.
mark you, sherlock holmes would have made the same mistake.
on the evidence, i mean.
"no.
'jocund spring,'" she snapped.
she switched off the light.
"i see you don't understand even now.
you never had any taste about pictures.
when we used to go to the galleries together, you would far rather have been at your club."
this was so absolutely true, that i had no remark to make.
she came up to me, and put her hand on my arm.
"i'm sorry, reggie.
i didn't mean to be cross.
only i do want to make you understand that clarence is suffering.
suppose suppose well, let us take the case of a great musician.
suppose a great musician had to sit and listen to a cheap vulgar tune the same tune day after day, day after day, wouldn't you expect his nerves to break!
well, it's just like that with clarence.
now you see?"
"yes, but  "
"but what?
surely i've put it plainly enough?"
"yes.
but what i mean is, where do i come in?
what do you want me to do?"
"i want you to steal the 'venus.'"
i looked at her.
"you want me to  ?"
"steal it.
reggie!"
her eyes were shining with excitement.
"don't you see?
it's providence.
when i asked you to come here, i had just got the idea.
i knew i could rely on you.
and then by a miracle this robbery of the romney takes place at a house not two miles away.
it removes the last chance of the poor old man suspecting anything and having his feelings hurt.
why, it's the most wonderful compliment to him.
think!
one night thieves steal a splendid romney; the next the same gang take his 'venus.'
it will be the proudest moment of his life.
do it to-night, reggie.
i'll give you a sharp knife.
you simply cut the canvas out of the frame, and it's done."
"but one moment," i said.
"i'd be delighted to be of any use to you, but in a purely family affair like this, wouldn't it be better in fact, how about tackling old bill on the subject?"
"i have asked bill already.
yesterday.
he refused."
"but if i'm caught?"
"you can't be.
all you have to do is to take the picture, open one of the windows, leave it open, and go back to your room."
it sounded simple enough.
"and as to the picture itself when i've got it?"
"burn it.
i'll see that you have a good fire in your room."
"but  "
she looked at me.
she always did have the most wonderful eyes.
"reggie," she said; nothing more.
just "reggie."
she looked at me.
"well, after all, if you see what i mean the days that are no more, don't you know.
auld lang syne, and all that sort of thing.
you follow me?"
"all right," i said.
"i'll do it."
i don't know if you happen to be one of those johnnies who are steeped in crime, and so forth, and think nothing of pinching diamond necklaces.
if you're not, you'll understand that i felt a lot less keen on the job i'd taken on when i sat in my room, waiting to get busy, than i had done when i promised to tackle it in the dining-room.
on paper it all seemed easy enough, but i couldn't help feeling there was a catch somewhere, and i've never known time pass slower.
the kick-off was scheduled for one o'clock in the morning, when the household might be expected to be pretty sound asleep, but at a quarter to i couldn't stand it any longer.
i lit the lantern i had taken from bill's bicycle, took a grip of my knife, and slunk downstairs.
the first thing i did on getting to the dining-room was to open the window.
i had half a mind to smash it, so as to give an extra bit of local colour to the affair, but decided not to on account of the noise.
i had put my lantern on the table, and was just reaching out for it, when something happened.
what it was for the moment i couldn't have said.
it might have been an explosion of some sort or an earthquake.
some solid object caught me a frightful whack on the chin.
sparks and things occurred inside my head and the next thing i remember is feeling something wet and cold splash into my face, and hearing a voice that sounded like old bill's say, "feeling better now?"
i sat up.
the lights were on, and i was on the floor, with old bill kneeling beside me with a soda siphon.
"what happened?"
i said.
"i'm awfully sorry, old man," he said.
"i hadn't a notion it was you.
i came in here, and saw a lantern on the table, and the window open and a chap with a knife in his hand, so i didn't stop to make inquiries.
i just let go at his jaw for all i was worth.
what on earth do you think you're doing?
were you walking in your sleep?"
"it was elizabeth," i said.
"why, you know all about it.
she said she had told you."
"you don't mean  "
"the picture.
you refused to take it on, so she asked me."
"reggie, old man," he said.
"i'll never believe what they say about repentance again.
it's a fool's trick and upsets everything.
if i hadn't repented, and thought it was rather rough on elizabeth not to do a little thing like that for her, and come down here to do it after all, you wouldn't have stopped that sleep-producer with your chin.
i'm sorry."
"me, too," i said, giving my head another shake to make certain it was still on.
"are you feeling better now?"
"better than i was.
but that's not saying much."
"would you like some more soda-water?
no?
well, how about getting this job finished and going to bed?
and let's be quick about it too.
you made a noise like a ton of bricks when you went down just now, and it's on the cards some of the servants may have heard.
toss you who carves."
"heads."
"tails it is," he said, uncovering the coin.
"up you get.
i'll hold the light.
don't spike yourself on that sword of yours."
it was as easy a job as elizabeth had said.
just four quick cuts, and the thing came out of its frame like an oyster.
i rolled it up.
old bill had put the lantern on the floor and was at the sideboard, collecting whisky, soda, and glasses.
"we've got a long evening before us," he said.
"you can't burn a picture of that size in one chunk.
you'd set the chimney on fire.
let's do the thing comfortably.
clarence can't grudge us the stuff.
we've done him a bit of good this trip.
to-morrow'll be the maddest, merriest day of clarence's glad new year.
on we go."
we went up to my room, and sat smoking and yarning away and sipping our drinks, and every now and then cutting a slice off the picture and shoving it in the fire till it was all gone.
and what with the cosiness of it and the cheerful blaze, and the comfortable feeling of doing good by stealth, i don't know when i've had a jollier time since the days when we used to brew in my study at school.
we had just put the last slice on when bill sat up suddenly, and gripped my arm.
"i heard something," he said.
i listened, and, by jove, i heard something, too.
my room was just over the dining-room, and the sound came up to us quite distinctly.
stealthy footsteps, by george!
and then a chair falling over.
"there's somebody in the dining-room," i whispered.
there's a certain type of chap who takes a pleasure in positively chivvying trouble.
old bill's like that.
if i had been alone, it would have taken me about three seconds to persuade myself that i hadn't really heard anything after all.
i'm a peaceful sort of cove, and believe in living and letting live, and so forth.
to old bill, however, a visit from burglars was pure jam.
he was out of his chair in one jump.
"come on," he said.
"bring the poker."
i brought the tongs as well.
i felt like it.
old bill collared the knife.
we crept downstairs.
"we'll fling the door open and make a rush," said bill.
"supposing they shoot, old scout?"
"burglars never shoot," said bill.
which was comforting provided the burglars knew it.
old bill took a grip of the handle, turned it quickly, and in he went.
and then we pulled up sharp, staring.
the room was in darkness except for a feeble splash of light at the near end.
standing on a chair in front of clarence's "jocund spring,"
holding a candle in one hand and reaching up with a knife in the other, was old mr. yeardsley, in bedroom slippers and a grey dressing-gown.
he had made a final cut just as we rushed in.
turning at the sound, he stopped, and he and the chair and the candle and the picture came down in a heap together.
the candle went out.
"what on earth?"
said bill.
i felt the same.
i picked up the candle and lit it, and then a most fearful thing happened.
the old man picked himself up, and suddenly collapsed into a chair and began to cry like a child.
of course, i could see it was only the artistic temperament, but still, believe me, it was devilish unpleasant.
i looked at old bill.
old bill looked at me.
we shut the door quick, and after that we didn't know what to do.
i saw bill look at the sideboard, and i knew what he was looking for.
but we had taken the siphon upstairs, and his ideas of first-aid stopped short at squirting soda-water.
we just waited, and presently old yeardsley switched off, sat up, and began talking with a rush.
"clarence, my boy, i was tempted.
it was that burglary at dryden park.
it tempted me.
it made it all so simple.
i knew you would put it down to the same gang, clarence, my boy.
i  "
it seemed to dawn upon him at this point that clarence was not among those present.
"clarence?"
he said hesitatingly.
"he's in bed," i said.
"in bed!
then he doesn't know?
even now young men, i throw myself on your mercy.
don't be hard on me.
listen."
he grabbed at bill, who sidestepped.
"i can explain everything everything."
he gave a gulp.
"you are not artists, you two young men, but i will try to make you understand, make you realise what this picture means to me.
i was two years painting it.
it is my child.
i watched it grow.
i loved it.
it was part of my life.
nothing would have induced me to sell it.
and then clarence married, and in a mad moment i gave my treasure to him.
you cannot understand, you two young men, what agonies i suffered.
the thing was done.
it was irrevocable.
i saw how clarence valued the picture.
i knew that i could never bring myself to ask him for it back.
and yet i was lost without it.
what could i do?
till this evening i could see no hope.
then came this story of the theft of the romney from a house quite close to this, and i saw my way.
clarence would never suspect.
he would put the robbery down to the same band of criminals who stole the romney.
once the idea had come, i could not drive it out.
i fought against it, but to no avail.
at last i yielded, and crept down here to carry out my plan.
you found me."
he grabbed again, at me this time, and got me by the arm.
he had a grip like a lobster.
"young man,"
he said, "you would not betray me?
you would not tell clarence?"
i was feeling most frightfully sorry for the poor old chap by this time, don't you know, but i thought it would be kindest to give it him straight instead of breaking it by degrees.
"i won't say a word to clarence, mr. yeardsley," i said.
"i quite understand your feelings.
the artistic temperament, and all that sort of thing.
i mean what?
i know.
but i'm afraid well, look!"
i went to the door and switched on the electric light, and there, staring him in the face, were the two empty frames.
he stood goggling at them in silence.
then he gave a sort of wheezy grunt.
"the gang!
the burglars!
they have been here, and they have taken clarence's picture!"
he paused.
"it might have been mine!
my venus!"
he whispered it was getting most fearfully painful, you know, but he had to know the truth.
"i'm awfully sorry, you know," i said.
"but it was."
he started, poor old chap.
"eh?
what do you mean?"
"they did take your venus."
"but i have it here."
i shook my head.
"that's clarence's 'jocund spring,'" i said.
he jumped at it and straightened it out.
"what!
what are you talking about?
do you think i don't know my own picture my child my venus.
see!
my own signature in the corner.
can you read, boy?
look: 'matthew yeardsley.'
this is my picture!"
and well, by jove, it was, don't you know!
well, we got him off to bed, him and his infernal venus, and we settled down to take a steady look at the position of affairs.
bill said it was my fault for getting hold of the wrong picture, and i said it was bill's fault for fetching me such a crack on the jaw that i couldn't be expected to see what i was getting hold of, and then there was a pretty massive silence for a bit.
"reggie," said bill at last, "how exactly do you feel about facing clarence and elizabeth at breakfast?"
"old scout," i said.
"i was thinking much the same myself."
"reggie," said bill, "i happen to know there's a milk-train leaving midford at three-fifteen.
it isn't what you'd call a flier.
it gets to london at about half-past nine.
well er in the circumstances, how about it?"
the aunt and the sluggard
now that it's all over, i may as well admit that there was a time during the rather funny affair of rockmetteller todd when i thought that jeeves was going to let me down.
the man had the appearance of being baffled.
jeeves is my man, you know.
officially he pulls in his weekly wages for pressing my clothes and all that sort of thing; but actually he's more like what the poet johnnie called some bird of his acquaintance who was apt to rally round him in times of need a guide, don't you know; philosopher, if i remember rightly, and i rather fancy friend.
i rely on him at every turn.
so naturally, when rocky todd told me about his aunt, i didn't hesitate.
jeeves was in on the thing from the start.
the affair of rocky todd broke loose early one morning of spring.
i was in bed, restoring the good old tissues with about nine hours of the dreamless, when the door flew open and somebody prodded me in the lower ribs and began to shake the bedclothes.
after blinking a bit and generally pulling myself together, i located rocky, and my first impression was that it was some horrid dream.
rocky, you see, lived down on long island somewhere, miles away from new york; and not only that, but he had told me himself more than once that he never got up before twelve, and seldom earlier than one.
constitutionally the laziest young devil in america, he had hit on a walk in life which enabled him to go the limit in that direction.
he was a poet.
at least, he wrote poems when he did anything; but most of his time, as far as i could make out, he spent in a sort of trance.
he told me once that he could sit on a fence, watching a worm and wondering what on earth it was up to, for hours at a stretch.
he had his scheme of life worked out to a fine point.
about once a month he would take three days writing a few poems; the other three hundred and twenty-nine days of the year he rested.
i didn't know there was enough money in poetry to support a chappie, even in the way in which rocky lived; but it seems that, if you stick to exhortations to young men to lead the strenuous life and don't shove in any rhymes, american editors fight for the stuff.
rocky showed me one of his things once.
it began:
be!
be!
the past is dead.
to-morrow is not born.
be to-day!
to-day!
be with every nerve,         with every muscle,         with every drop of your red blood!
be!
it was printed opposite the frontispiece of a magazine with a sort of scroll round it, and a picture in the middle of a fairly-nude chappie, with bulging muscles, giving the rising sun the glad eye.
rocky said they gave him a hundred dollars for it, and he stayed in bed till four in the afternoon for over a month.
as regarded the future he was pretty solid, owing to the fact that he had a moneyed aunt tucked away somewhere in illinois; and, as he had been named rockmetteller after her, and was her only nephew, his position was pretty sound.
he told me that when he did come into the money he meant to do no work at all, except perhaps an occasional poem recommending the young man with life opening out before him, with all its splendid possibilities, to light a pipe and shove his feet upon the mantelpiece.
and this was the man who was prodding me in the ribs in the grey dawn!
"read this, bertie!"
i could just see that he was waving a letter or something equally foul in my face.
"wake up and read this!"
i can't read before i've had my morning tea and a cigarette.
i groped for the bell.
jeeves came in looking as fresh as a dewy violet.
it's a mystery to me how he does it.
"tea, jeeves."
"very good, sir."
he flowed silently out of the room he always gives you the impression of being some liquid substance when he moves; and i found that rocky was surging round with his beastly letter again.
"what is it?"
i said.
"what on earth's the matter?"
"read it!"
"i can't.
i haven't had my tea."
"well, listen then."
"who's it from?"
"my aunt."
at this point i fell asleep again.
i woke to hear him saying:
"so what on earth am i to do?"
jeeves trickled in with the tray, like some silent stream meandering over its mossy bed; and i saw daylight.
"read it again, rocky, old top," i said.
"i want jeeves to hear it.
mr.
todd's aunt has written him a rather rummy letter, jeeves, and we want your advice."
"very good, sir."
he stood in the middle of the room, registering devotion to the cause, and rocky started again:
"my dear rockmetteller.
i have been thinking things over for a     long while, and i have come to the conclusion that i have been     very thoughtless to wait so long before doing what i have made     up my mind to do now."
"what do you make of that, jeeves?"
"it seems a little obscure at present, sir, but no doubt it becomes cleared at a later point in the communication."
"it becomes as clear as mud!"
said rocky.
"proceed, old scout," i said, champing my bread and butter.
"you know how all my life i have longed to visit new york and see     for myself the wonderful gay life of which i have read so much.
i     fear that now it will be impossible for me to fulfil my dream.
i     am old and worn out.
i seem to have no strength left in me."
"sad, jeeves, what?"
"extremely, sir."
"sad nothing!"
said rocky.
"it's sheer laziness.
i went to see her last christmas and she was bursting with health.
her doctor told me himself that there was nothing wrong with her whatever.
but she will insist that she's a hopeless invalid, so he has to agree with her.
she's got a fixed idea that the trip to new york would kill her; so, though it's been her ambition all her life to come here, she stays where she is."
"rather like the chappie whose heart was 'in the highlands a-chasing of the deer,' jeeves?"
"the cases are in some respects parallel, sir."
"carry on, rocky, dear boy."
"so i have decided that, if i cannot enjoy all the marvels of the     city myself, i can at least enjoy them through you.
i suddenly     thought of this yesterday after reading a beautiful poem in the     sunday paper about a young man who had longed all his life for a     certain thing and won it in the end only when he was too old to     enjoy it.
it was very sad, and it touched me."
"a thing," interpolated rocky bitterly, "that i've not been able to do in ten years."
"as you know, you will have my money when i am gone; but until now     i have never been able to see my way to giving you an allowance.
i     have now decided to do so on one condition.
i have written to a     firm of lawyers in new york, giving them instructions to pay you     quite a substantial sum each month.
my one condition is that you     live in new york and enjoy yourself as i have always wished to do.
i want you to be my representative, to spend this money for me as     i should do myself.
i want you to plunge into the gay, prismatic     life of new york.
i want you to be the life and soul of brilliant     supper parties.
"above all, i want you indeed, i insist on this to write me     letters at least once a week giving me a full description of all     you are doing and all that is going on in the city, so that i may     enjoy at second-hand what my wretched health prevents my enjoying     for myself.
remember that i shall expect full details, and that no     detail is too trivial to interest.
your affectionate aunt,
"isabel rockmetteller."
"what about it?"
said rocky.
"what about it?"
i said.
"yes.
what on earth am i going to do?"
it was only then that i really got on to the extremely rummy attitude of the chappie, in view of the fact that a quite unexpected mess of the right stuff had suddenly descended on him from a blue sky.
to my mind it was an occasion for the beaming smile and the joyous whoop; yet here the man was, looking and talking as if fate had swung on his solar plexus.
it amazed me.
"aren't you bucked?"
i said.
"bucked!"
"if i were in your place i should be frightfully braced.
i consider this pretty soft for you."
he gave a kind of yelp, stared at me for a moment, and then began to talk of new york in a way that reminded me of jimmy mundy, the reformer chappie.
jimmy had just come to new york on a hit-the-trail campaign, and i had popped in at the garden a couple of days before, for half an hour or so, to hear him.
he had certainly told new york some pretty straight things about itself, having apparently taken a dislike to the place, but, by jove, you know, dear old rocky made him look like a publicity agent for the old metrop.
!
"pretty soft!"
he cried.
"to have to come and live in new york!
to have to leave my little cottage and take a stuffy, smelly, over-heated hole of an apartment in this heaven-forsaken, festering gehenna.
to have to mix night after night with a mob who think that life is a sort of st.
vitus's dance, and imagine that they're having a good time because they're making enough noise for six and drinking too much for ten.
i loathe new york, bertie.
i wouldn't come near the place if i hadn't got to see editors occasionally.
there's a blight on it.
it's got moral delirium tremens.
it's the limit.
the very thought of staying more than a day in it makes me sick.
and you call this thing pretty soft for me!"
i felt rather like lot's friends must have done when they dropped in for a quiet chat and their genial host began to criticise the cities of the plain.
i had no idea old rocky could be so eloquent.
"it would kill me to have to live in new york," he went on.
"to have to share the air with six million people!
to have to wear stiff collars and decent clothes all the time!
to  " he started.
"good lord!
i suppose i should have to dress for dinner in the evenings.
what a ghastly notion!"
i was shocked, absolutely shocked.
"my dear chap!"
i said reproachfully.
"do you dress for dinner every night, bertie?"
"jeeves," i said coldly.
the man was still standing like a statue by the door.
"how many suits of evening clothes have i?"
"we have three suits full of evening dress, sir; two dinner jackets  "
"three."
"for practical purposes two only, sir.
if you remember we cannot wear the third.
we have also seven white waistcoats."
"and shirts?"
"four dozen, sir."
"and white ties?"
"the first two shallow shelves in the chest of drawers are completely filled with our white ties, sir."
i turned to rocky.
"you see?"
the chappie writhed like an electric fan.
"i won't do it!
i can't do it!
i'll be hanged if i'll do it!
how on earth can i dress up like that?
do you realize that most days i don't get out of my pyjamas till five in the afternoon, and then i just put on an old sweater?"
i saw jeeves wince, poor chap!
this sort of revelation shocked his finest feelings.
"then, what are you going to do about it?"
i said.
"that's what i want to know."
"you might write and explain to your aunt."
"i might if i wanted her to get round to her lawyer's in two rapid leaps and cut me out of her will."
i saw his point.
"what do you suggest, jeeves?"
i said.
jeeves cleared his throat respectfully.
"the crux of the matter would appear to be, sir, that mr. todd is obliged by the conditions under which the money is delivered into his possession to write miss rockmetteller long and detailed letters relating to his movements, and the only method by which this can be accomplished, if mr. todd adheres to his expressed intention of remaining in the country, is for mr. todd to induce some second party to gather the actual experiences which miss rockmetteller wishes reported to her, and to convey these to him in the shape of a careful report, on which it would be possible for him, with the aid of his imagination, to base the suggested correspondence."
having got which off the old diaphragm, jeeves was silent.
rocky looked at me in a helpless sort of way.
he hasn't been brought up on jeeves as i have, and he isn't on to his curves.
"could he put it a little clearer, bertie?"
he said.
"i thought at the start it was going to make sense, but it kind of flickered.
what's the idea?"
"my dear old man, perfectly simple.
i knew we could stand on jeeves.
all you've got to do is to get somebody to go round the town for you and take a few notes, and then you work the notes up into letters.
that's it, isn't it, jeeves?"
"precisely, sir."
the light of hope gleamed in rocky's eyes.
he looked at jeeves in a startled way, dazed by the man's vast intellect.
"but who would do it?"
he said.
"it would have to be a pretty smart sort of man, a man who would notice things."
"jeeves!"
i said.
"let jeeves do it."
"but would he?"
"you would do it, wouldn't you, jeeves?"
for the first time in our long connection i observed jeeves almost smile.
the corner of his mouth curved quite a quarter of an inch, and for a moment his eye ceased to look like a meditative fish's.
"i should be delighted to oblige, sir.
as a matter of fact, i have already visited some of new york's places of interest on my evening out, and it would be most enjoyable to make a practice of the pursuit."
"fine!
i know exactly what your aunt wants to hear about, rocky.
she wants an earful of cabaret stuff.
the place you ought to go to first, jeeves, is reigelheimer's.
it's on forty-second street.
anybody will show you the way."
jeeves shook his head.
"pardon me, sir.
people are no longer going to reigelheimer's.
the place at the moment is frolics on the roof."
"you see?"
i said to rocky.
"leave it to jeeves.
he knows."
it isn't often that you find an entire group of your fellow-humans happy in this world; but our little circle was certainly an example of the fact that it can be done.
we were all full of beans.
everything went absolutely right from the start.
jeeves was happy, partly because he loves to exercise his giant brain, and partly because he was having a corking time among the bright lights.
i saw him one night at the midnight revels.
he was sitting at a table on the edge of the dancing floor, doing himself remarkably well with a fat cigar and a bottle of the best.
i'd never imagined he could look so nearly human.
his face wore an expression of austere benevolence, and he was making notes in a small book.
as for the rest of us, i was feeling pretty good, because i was fond of old rocky and glad to be able to do him a good turn.
rocky was perfectly contented, because he was still able to sit on fences in his pyjamas and watch worms.
and, as for the aunt, she seemed tickled to death.
she was getting broadway at pretty long range, but it seemed to be hitting her just right.
i read one of her letters to rocky, and it was full of life.
but then rocky's letters, based on jeeves's notes, were enough to buck anybody up.
it was rummy when you came to think of it.
there was i, loving the life, while the mere mention of it gave rocky a tired feeling; yet here is a letter i wrote to a pal of mine in london:
"dear freddie, well, here i am in new york.
it's not a bad place.
i'm not having a bad time.
everything's pretty all right.
the     cabarets aren't bad.
don't know when i shall be back.
how's     everybody?
cheer-o!
yours,
"bertie.
"ps.
seen old ted lately?"
not that i cared about ted; but if i hadn't dragged him in i couldn't have got the confounded thing on to the second page.
now here's old rocky on exactly the same subject:
"dearest aunt isabel, how can i ever thank you enough for giving     me the opportunity to live in this astounding city!
new york seems     more wonderful every day.
"fifth avenue is at its best, of course, just now.
the dresses are     magnificent!"
wads of stuff about the dresses.
i didn't know jeeves was such an authority.
"i was out with some of the crowd at the midnight revels the other     night.
we took in a show first, after a little dinner at a new     place on forty-third street.
we were quite a gay party.
georgie     cohan looked in about midnight and got off a good one about willie     collier.
fred stone could only stay a minute, but doug.
fairbanks     did all sorts of stunts and made us roar.
diamond jim brady was     there, as usual, and laurette taylor showed up with a party.
the     show at the revels is quite good.
i am enclosing a programme.
"last night a few of us went round to frolics on the roof  "
and so on and so forth, yards of it.
i suppose it's the artistic temperament or something.
what i mean is, it's easier for a chappie who's used to writing poems and that sort of tosh to put a bit of a punch into a letter than it is for a chappie like me.
anyway, there's no doubt that rocky's correspondence was hot stuff.
i called jeeves in and congratulated him.
"jeeves, you're a wonder!"
"thank you, sir."
"how you notice everything at these places beats me.
i couldn't tell you a thing about them, except that i've had a good time."
"it's just a knack, sir."
"well, mr. todd's letters ought to brace miss rockmetteller all right, what?"
"undoubtedly, sir," agreed jeeves.
and, by jove, they did!
they certainly did, by george!
what i mean to say is, i was sitting in the apartment one afternoon, about a month after the thing had started, smoking a cigarette and resting the old bean, when the door opened and the voice of jeeves burst the silence like a bomb.
it wasn't that he spoke loud.
he has one of those soft, soothing voices that slide through the atmosphere like the note of a far-off sheep.
it was what he said made me leap like a young gazelle.
"miss rockmetteller!"
and in came a large, solid female.
the situation floored me.
i'm not denying it.
hamlet must have felt much as i did when his father's ghost bobbed up in the fairway.
i'd come to look on rocky's aunt as such a permanency at her own home that it didn't seem possible that she could really be here in new york.
i stared at her.
then i looked at jeeves.
he was standing there in an attitude of dignified detachment, the chump, when, if ever he should have been rallying round the young master, it was now.
rocky's aunt looked less like an invalid than any one i've ever seen, except my aunt agatha.
she had a good deal of aunt agatha about her, as a matter of fact.
she looked as if she might be deucedly dangerous if put upon; and something seemed to tell me that she would certainly regard herself as put upon if she ever found out the game which poor old rocky had been pulling on her.
"good afternoon," i managed to say.
"how do you do?"
she said.
"mr.
cohan?"
"er no."
"mr. fred stone?"
"not absolutely.
as a matter of fact, my name's wooster bertie wooster."
she seemed disappointed.
the fine old name of wooster appeared to mean nothing in her life.
"isn't rockmetteller home?"
she said.
"where is he?"
she had me with the first shot.
i couldn't think of anything to say.
i couldn't tell her that rocky was down in the country, watching worms.
there was the faintest flutter of sound in the background.
it was the respectful cough with which jeeves announces that he is about to speak without having been spoken to.
"if you remember, sir, mr. todd went out in the automobile with a party in the afternoon."
"so he did, jeeves; so he did," i said, looking at my watch.
"did he say when he would be back?"
"he gave me to understand, sir, that he would be somewhat late in returning."
he vanished; and the aunt took the chair which i'd forgotten to offer her.
she looked at me in rather a rummy way.
it was a nasty look.
it made me feel as if i were something the dog had brought in and intended to bury later on, when he had time.
my own aunt agatha, back in england, has looked at me in exactly the same way many a time, and it never fails to make my spine curl.
"you seem very much at home here, young man.
are you a great friend of rockmetteller's?"
"oh, yes, rather!"
she frowned as if she had expected better things of old rocky.
"well, you need to be," she said, "the way you treat his flat as your own!"
i give you my word, this quite unforeseen slam simply robbed me of the power of speech.
i'd been looking on myself in the light of the dashing host, and suddenly to be treated as an intruder jarred me.
it wasn't, mark you, as if she had spoken in a way to suggest that she considered my presence in the place as an ordinary social call.
she obviously looked on me as a cross between a burglar and the plumber's man come to fix the leak in the bathroom.
it hurt her my being there.
at this juncture, with the conversation showing every sign of being about to die in awful agonies, an idea came to me.
tea the good old stand-by.
"would you care for a cup of tea?"
i said.
"tea?"
she spoke as if she had never heard of the stuff.
"nothing like a cup after a journey," i said.
"bucks you up!
puts a bit of zip into you.
what i mean is, restores you, and so on, don't you know.
i'll go and tell jeeves."
i tottered down the passage to jeeves's lair.
the man was reading the evening paper as if he hadn't a care in the world.
"jeeves," i said, "we want some tea."
"very good, sir."
"i say, jeeves, this is a bit thick, what?"
i wanted sympathy, don't you know sympathy and kindness.
the old nerve centres had had the deuce of a shock.
"she's got the idea this place belongs to mr. todd.
what on earth put that into her head?"
jeeves filled the kettle with a restrained dignity.
"no doubt because of mr. todd's letters, sir," he said.
"it was my suggestion, sir, if you remember, that they should be addressed from this apartment in order that mr. todd should appear to possess a good central residence in the city."
i remembered.
we had thought it a brainy scheme at the time.
"well, it's bally awkward, you know, jeeves.
she looks on me as an intruder.
by jove!
i suppose she thinks i'm someone who hangs about here, touching mr. todd for free meals and borrowing his shirts."
"yes, sir."
"it's pretty rotten, you know."
"most disturbing, sir."
"and there's another thing: what are we to do about mr. todd?
we've got to get him up here as soon as ever we can.
when you have brought the tea you had better go out and send him a telegram, telling him to come up by the next train."
"i have already done so, sir.
i took the liberty of writing the message and dispatching it by the lift attendant."
"by jove, you think of everything, jeeves!"
"thank you, sir.
a little buttered toast with the tea?
just so, sir.
thank you."
i went back to the sitting-room.
she hadn't moved an inch.
she was still bolt upright on the edge of her chair, gripping her umbrella like a hammer-thrower.
she gave me another of those looks as i came in.
there was no doubt about it; for some reason she had taken a dislike to me.
i suppose because i wasn't george m. cohan.
it was a bit hard on a chap.
"this is a surprise, what?"
i said, after about five minutes' restful silence, trying to crank the conversation up again.
"what is a surprise?"
"your coming here, don't you know, and so on."
she raised her eyebrows and drank me in a bit more through her glasses.
"why is it surprising that i should visit my only nephew?"
she said.
put like that, of course, it did seem reasonable.
"oh, rather," i said.
"of course!
certainly.
what i mean is  "
jeeves projected himself into the room with the tea.
i was jolly glad to see him.
there's nothing like having a bit of business arranged for one when one isn't certain of one's lines.
with the teapot to fool about with i felt happier.
"tea, tea, tea what?
what?"
i said.
it wasn't what i had meant to say.
my idea had been to be a good deal more formal, and so on.
still, it covered the situation.
i poured her out a cup.
she sipped it and put the cup down with a shudder.
"do you mean to say, young man," she said frostily, "that you expect me to drink this stuff?"
"rather!
bucks you up, you know."
"what do you mean by the expression 'bucks you up'?"
"well, makes you full of beans, you know.
makes you fizz."
"i don't understand a word you say.
you're english, aren't you?"
i admitted it.
she didn't say a word.
and somehow she did it in a way that made it worse than if she had spoken for hours.
somehow it was brought home to me that she didn't like englishmen, and that if she had had to meet an englishman, i was the one she'd have chosen last.
conversation languished again after that.
then i tried again.
i was becoming more convinced every moment that you can't make a real lively salon with a couple of people, especially if one of them lets it go a word at a time.
"are you comfortable at your hotel?"
i said.
"at which hotel?"
"the hotel you're staying at."
"i am not staying at an hotel."
"stopping with friends what?"
"i am naturally stopping with my nephew."
i didn't get it for the moment; then it hit me.
"what!
here?"
i gurgled.
"certainly!
where else should i go?"
the full horror of the situation rolled over me like a wave.
i couldn't see what on earth i was to do.
i couldn't explain that this wasn't rocky's flat without giving the poor old chap away hopelessly, because she would then ask me where he did live, and then he would be right in the soup.
i was trying to induce the old bean to recover from the shock and produce some results when she spoke again.
"will you kindly tell my nephew's man-servant to prepare my room?
i wish to lie down."
"your nephew's man-servant?"
"the man you call jeeves.
if rockmetteller has gone for an automobile ride, there is no need for you to wait for him.
he will naturally wish to be alone with me when he returns."
i found myself tottering out of the room.
the thing was too much for me.
i crept into jeeves's den.
"jeeves!"
i whispered.
"sir?"
"mix me a b.-and-s., jeeves.
i feel weak."
"very good, sir."
"this is getting thicker every minute, jeeves."
"sir?"
"she thinks you're mr. todd's man.
she thinks the whole place is his, and everything in it.
i don't see what you're to do, except stay on and keep it up.
we can't say anything or she'll get on to the whole thing, and i don't want to let mr. todd down.
by the way, jeeves, she wants you to prepare her bed."
he looked wounded.
"it is hardly my place, sir  "
"i know i know.
but do it as a personal favour to me.
if you come to that, it's hardly my place to be flung out of the flat like this and have to go to an hotel, what?"
"is it your intention to go to an hotel, sir?
what will you do for clothes?"
"good lord!
i hadn't thought of that.
can you put a few things in a bag when she isn't looking, and sneak them down to me at the st.
aurea?"
"i will endeavour to do so, sir."
"well, i don't think there's anything more, is there?
tell mr. todd where i am when he gets here."
"very good, sir."
i looked round the place.
the moment of parting had come.
i felt sad.
the whole thing reminded me of one of those melodramas where they drive chappies out of the old homestead into the snow.
"good-bye, jeeves," i said.
"good-bye, sir."
and i staggered out.
you know, i rather think i agree with those poet-and-philosopher johnnies who insist that a fellow ought to be devilish pleased if he has a bit of trouble.
all that stuff about being refined by suffering, you know.
suffering does give a chap a sort of broader and more sympathetic outlook.
it helps you to understand other people's misfortunes if you've been through the same thing yourself.
as i stood in my lonely bedroom at the hotel, trying to tie my white tie myself, it struck me for the first time that there must be whole squads of chappies in the world who had to get along without a man to look after them.
i'd always thought of jeeves as a kind of natural phenomenon; but, by jove!
of course, when you come to think of it, there must be quite a lot of fellows who have to press their own clothes themselves and haven't got anybody to bring them tea in the morning, and so on.
it was rather a solemn thought, don't you know.
i mean to say, ever since then i've been able to appreciate the frightful privations the poor have to stick.
i got dressed somehow.
jeeves hadn't forgotten a thing in his packing.
everything was there, down to the final stud.
i'm not sure this didn't make me feel worse.
it kind of deepened the pathos.
it was like what somebody or other wrote about the touch of a vanished hand.
i had a bit of dinner somewhere and went to a show of some kind; but nothing seemed to make any difference.
i simply hadn't the heart to go on to supper anywhere.
i just sucked down a whisky-and-soda in the hotel smoking-room and went straight up to bed.
i don't know when i've felt so rotten.
somehow i found myself moving about the room softly, as if there had been a death in the family.
if i had anybody to talk to i should have talked in a whisper; in fact, when the telephone-bell rang i answered in such a sad, hushed voice that the fellow at the other end of the wire said "halloa!"
five times, thinking he hadn't got me.
it was rocky.
the poor old scout was deeply agitated.
"bertie!
is that you, bertie!
oh, gosh?
i'm having a time!"
"where are you speaking from?"
"the midnight revels.
we've been here an hour, and i think we're a fixture for the night.
i've told aunt isabel i've gone out to call up a friend to join us.
she's glued to a chair, with this-is-the-life written all over her, taking it in through the pores.
she loves it, and i'm nearly crazy."
"tell me all, old top," i said.
"a little more of this," he said, "and i shall sneak quietly off to the river and end it all.
do you mean to say you go through this sort of thing every night, bertie, and enjoy it?
it's simply infernal!
i was just snatching a wink of sleep behind the bill of fare just now when about a million yelling girls swooped down, with toy balloons.
there are two orchestras here, each trying to see if it can't play louder than the other.
i'm a mental and physical wreck.
when your telegram arrived i was just lying down for a quiet pipe, with a sense of absolute peace stealing over me.
i had to get dressed and sprint two miles to catch the train.
it nearly gave me heart-failure; and on top of that i almost got brain fever inventing lies to tell aunt isabel.
and then i had to cram myself into these confounded evening clothes of yours."
i gave a sharp wail of agony.
it hadn't struck me till then that rocky was depending on my wardrobe to see him through.
"you'll ruin them!"
"i hope so," said rocky, in the most unpleasant way.
his troubles seemed to have had the worst effect on his character.
"i should like to get back at them somehow; they've given me a bad enough time.
they're about three sizes too small, and something's apt to give at any moment.
i wish to goodness it would, and give me a chance to breathe.
i haven't breathed since half-past seven.
thank heaven, jeeves managed to get out and buy me a collar that fitted, or i should be a strangled corpse by now!
it was touch and go till the stud broke.
bertie, this is pure hades!
aunt isabel keeps on urging me to dance.
how on earth can i dance when i don't know a soul to dance with?
and how the deuce could i, even if i knew every girl in the place?
it's taking big chances even to move in these trousers.
i had to tell her i've hurt my ankle.
she keeps asking me when cohan and stone are going to turn up; and it's simply a question of time before she discovers that stone is sitting two tables away.
something's got to be done, bertie!
you've got to think up some way of getting me out of this mess.
it was you who got me into it."
"me!
what do you mean?"
"well, jeeves, then.
it's all the same.
it was you who suggested leaving it to jeeves.
it was those letters i wrote from his notes that did the mischief.
i made them too good!
my aunt's just been telling me about it.
she says she had resigned herself to ending her life where she was, and then my letters began to arrive, describing the joys of new york; and they stimulated her to such an extent that she pulled herself together and made the trip.
she seems to think she's had some miraculous kind of faith cure.
i tell you i can't stand it, bertie!
it's got to end!"
"can't jeeves think of anything?"
"no.
he just hangs round saying: 'most disturbing, sir!'
a fat lot of help that is!"
"well, old lad," i said, "after all, it's far worse for me than it is for you.
you've got a comfortable home and jeeves.
and you're saving a lot of money."
"saving money?
what do you mean saving money?"
"why, the allowance your aunt was giving you.
i suppose she's paying all the expenses now, isn't she?"
"certainly she is; but she's stopped the allowance.
she wrote the lawyers to-night.
she says that, now she's in new york, there is no necessity for it to go on, as we shall always be together, and it's simpler for her to look after that end of it.
i tell you, bertie, i've examined the darned cloud with a microscope, and if it's got a silver lining it's some little dissembler!"
"but, rocky, old top, it's too bally awful!
you've no notion of what i'm going through in this beastly hotel, without jeeves.
i must get back to the flat."
"don't come near the flat."
"but it's my own flat."
"i can't help that.
aunt isabel doesn't like you.
she asked me what you did for a living.
and when i told her you didn't do anything she said she thought as much, and that you were a typical specimen of a useless and decaying aristocracy.
so if you think you have made a hit, forget it.
now i must be going back, or she'll be coming out here after me.
good-bye."
next morning jeeves came round.
it was all so home-like when he floated noiselessly into the room that i nearly broke down.
"good morning, sir," he said.
"i have brought a few more of your personal belongings."
he began to unstrap the suit-case he was carrying.
"did you have any trouble sneaking them away?"
"it was not easy, sir.
i had to watch my chance.
miss rockmetteller is a remarkably alert lady."
"you know, jeeves, say what you like this is a bit thick, isn't it?"
"the situation is certainly one that has never before come under my notice, sir.
i have brought the heather-mixture suit, as the climatic conditions are congenial.
to-morrow, if not prevented, i will endeavour to add the brown lounge with the faint green twill."
"it can't go on this sort of thing jeeves."
"we must hope for the best, sir."
"can't you think of anything to do?"
"i have been giving the matter considerable thought, sir, but so far without success.
i am placing three silk shirts the dove-coloured, the light blue, and the mauve in the first long drawer, sir."
"you don't mean to say you can't think of anything, jeeves?"
"for the moment, sir, no.
you will find a dozen handkerchiefs and the tan socks in the upper drawer on the left."
he strapped the suit-case and put it on a chair.
"a curious lady, miss rockmetteller, sir."
"you understate it, jeeves."
he gazed meditatively out of the window.
"in many ways, sir, miss rockmetteller reminds me of an aunt of mine who resides in the south-east portion of london.
their temperaments are much alike.
my aunt has the same taste for the pleasures of the great city.
it is a passion with her to ride in hansom cabs, sir.
whenever the family take their eyes off her she escapes from the house and spends the day riding about in cabs.
on several occasions she has broken into the children's savings bank to secure the means to enable her to gratify this desire."
"i love to have these little chats with you about your female relatives, jeeves," i said coldly, for i felt that the man had let me down, and i was fed up with him.
"but i don't see what all this has got to do with my trouble."
"i beg your pardon, sir.
i am leaving a small assortment of neckties on the mantelpiece, sir, for you to select according to your preference.
i should recommend the blue with the red domino pattern, sir."
then he streamed imperceptibly toward the door and flowed silently out.
i've often heard that chappies, after some great shock or loss, have a habit, after they've been on the floor for a while wondering what hit them, of picking themselves up and piecing themselves together, and sort of taking a whirl at beginning a new life.
time, the great healer, and nature, adjusting itself, and so on and so forth.
there's a lot in it.
i know, because in my own case, after a day or two of what you might call prostration, i began to recover.
the frightful loss of jeeves made any thought of pleasure more or less a mockery, but at least i found that i was able to have a dash at enjoying life again.
what i mean is, i was braced up to the extent of going round the cabarets once more, so as to try to forget, if only for the moment.
new york's a small place when it comes to the part of it that wakes up just as the rest is going to bed, and it wasn't long before my tracks began to cross old rocky's.
i saw him once at peale's, and again at frolics on the roof.
there wasn't anybody with him either time except the aunt, and, though he was trying to look as if he had struck the ideal life, it wasn't difficult for me, knowing the circumstances, to see that beneath the mask the poor chap was suffering.
my heart bled for the fellow.
at least, what there was of it that wasn't bleeding for myself bled for him.
he had the air of one who was about to crack under the strain.
it seemed to me that the aunt was looking slightly upset also.
i took it that she was beginning to wonder when the celebrities were going to surge round, and what had suddenly become of all those wild, careless spirits rocky used to mix with in his letters.
i didn't blame her.
i had only read a couple of his letters, but they certainly gave the impression that poor old rocky was by way of being the hub of new york night life, and that, if by any chance he failed to show up at a cabaret, the management said: "what's the use?"
and put up the shutters.
the next two nights i didn't come across them, but the night after that i was sitting by myself at the maison pierre when somebody tapped me on the shoulder-blade, and i found rocky standing beside me, with a sort of mixed expression of wistfulness and apoplexy on his face.
how the chappie had contrived to wear my evening clothes so many times without disaster was a mystery to me.
he confided later that early in the proceedings he had slit the waistcoat up the back and that that had helped a bit.
for a moment i had the idea that he had managed to get away from his aunt for the evening; but, looking past him, i saw that she was in again.
she was at a table over by the wall, looking at me as if i were something the management ought to be complained to about.
"bertie, old scout," said rocky, in a quiet, sort of crushed voice, "we've always been pals, haven't we?
i mean, you know i'd do you a good turn if you asked me?"
"my dear old lad," i said.
the man had moved me.
"then, for heaven's sake, come over and sit at our table for the rest of the evening."
well, you know, there are limits to the sacred claims of friendship.
"my dear chap," i said, "you know i'd do anything in reason; but  "
"you must come, bertie.
you've got to.
something's got to be done to divert her mind.
she's brooding about something.
she's been like that for the last two days.
i think she's beginning to suspect.
she can't understand why we never seem to meet anyone i know at these joints.
a few nights ago i happened to run into two newspaper men i used to know fairly well.
that kept me going for a while.
i introduced them to aunt isabel as david belasco and jim corbett, and it went well.
but the effect has worn off now, and she's beginning to wonder again.
something's got to be done, or she will find out everything, and if she does i'd take a nickel for my chance of getting a cent from her later on.
so, for the love of mike, come across to our table and help things along."
i went along.
one has to rally round a pal in distress.
aunt isabel was sitting bolt upright, as usual.
it certainly did seem as if she had lost a bit of the zest with which she had started out to explore broadway.
she looked as if she had been thinking a good deal about rather unpleasant things.
"you've met bertie wooster, aunt isabel?"
said rocky.
"i have."
there was something in her eye that seemed to say:
"out of a city of six million people, why did you pick on me?"
"take a seat, bertie.
what'll you have?"
said rocky.
and so the merry party began.
it was one of those jolly, happy, bread-crumbling parties where you cough twice before you speak, and then decide not to say it after all.
after we had had an hour of this wild dissipation, aunt isabel said she wanted to go home.
in the light of what rocky had been telling me, this struck me as sinister.
i had gathered that at the beginning of her visit she had had to be dragged home with ropes.
it must have hit rocky the same way, for he gave me a pleading look.
"you'll come along, won't you, bertie, and have a drink at the flat?"
i had a feeling that this wasn't in the contract, but there wasn't anything to be done.
it seemed brutal to leave the poor chap alone with the woman, so i went along.
right from the start, from the moment we stepped into the taxi, the feeling began to grow that something was about to break loose.
a massive silence prevailed in the corner where the aunt sat, and, though rocky, balancing himself on the little seat in front, did his best to supply dialogue, we weren't a chatty party.
i had a glimpse of jeeves as we went into the flat, sitting in his lair, and i wished i could have called to him to rally round.
something told me that i was about to need him.
the stuff was on the table in the sitting-room.
rocky took up the decanter.
"say when, bertie."
"stop!"
barked the aunt, and he dropped it.
i caught rocky's eye as he stooped to pick up the ruins.
it was the eye of one who sees it coming.
"leave it there, rockmetteller!"
said aunt isabel; and rocky left it there.
"the time has come to speak," she said.
"i cannot stand idly by and see a young man going to perdition!"
poor old rocky gave a sort of gurgle, a kind of sound rather like the whisky had made running out of the decanter on to my carpet.
"eh?"
he said, blinking.
the aunt proceeded.
"the fault," she said, "was mine.
i had not then seen the light.
but now my eyes are open.
i see the hideous mistake i have made.
i shudder at the thought of the wrong i did you, rockmetteller, by urging you into contact with this wicked city."
i saw rocky grope feebly for the table.
his fingers touched it, and a look of relief came into the poor chappie's face.
i understood his feelings.
"but when i wrote you that letter, rockmetteller, instructing you to go to the city and live its life, i had not had the privilege of hearing mr. mundy speak on the subject of new york."
"jimmy mundy!"
i cried.
you know how it is sometimes when everything seems all mixed up and you suddenly get a clue.
when she mentioned jimmy mundy i began to understand more or less what had happened.
i'd seen it happen before.
i remember, back in england, the man i had before jeeves sneaked off to a meeting on his evening out and came back and denounced me in front of a crowd of chappies i was giving a bit of supper to as a moral leper.
the aunt gave me a withering up and down.
"yes; jimmy mundy!"
she said.
"i am surprised at a man of your stamp having heard of him.
there is no music, there are no drunken, dancing men, no shameless, flaunting women at his meetings; so for you they would have no attraction.
but for others, less dead in sin, he has his message.
he has come to save new york from itself; to force it in his picturesque phrase to hit the trail.
it was three days ago, rockmetteller, that i first heard him.
it was an accident that took me to his meeting.
how often in this life a mere accident may shape our whole future!
"you had been called away by that telephone message from mr. belasco; so you could not take me to the hippodrome, as we had arranged.
i asked your man-servant, jeeves, to take me there.
the man has very little intelligence.
he seems to have misunderstood me.
i am thankful that he did.
he took me to what i subsequently learned was madison square garden, where mr. mundy is holding his meetings.
he escorted me to a seat and then left me.
and it was not till the meeting had begun that i discovered the mistake which had been made.
my seat was in the middle of a row.
i could not leave without inconveniencing a great many people, so i remained."
she gulped.
"rockmetteller, i have never been so thankful for anything else.
mr.
mundy was wonderful!
he was like some prophet of old, scourging the sins of the people.
he leaped about in a frenzy of inspiration till i feared he would do himself an injury.
sometimes he expressed himself in a somewhat odd manner, but every word carried conviction.
he showed me new york in its true colours.
he showed me the vanity and wickedness of sitting in gilded haunts of vice, eating lobster when decent people should be in bed.
"he said that the tango and the fox-trot were devices of the devil to drag people down into the bottomless pit.
he said that there was more sin in ten minutes with a negro banjo orchestra than in all the ancient revels of nineveh and babylon.
and when he stood on one leg and pointed right at where i was sitting and shouted, 'this means you!'
i could have sunk through the floor.
i came away a changed woman.
surely you must have noticed the change in me, rockmetteller?
you must have seen that i was no longer the careless, thoughtless person who had urged you to dance in those places of wickedness?"
rocky was holding on to the table as if it was his only friend.
"y-yes," he stammered; "i i thought something was wrong."
"wrong?
something was right!
everything was right!
rockmetteller, it is not too late for you to be saved.
you have only sipped of the evil cup.
you have not drained it.
it will be hard at first, but you will find that you can do it if you fight with a stout heart against the glamour and fascination of this dreadful city.
won't you, for my sake, try, rockmetteller?
won't you go back to the country to-morrow and begin the struggle?
little by little, if you use your will  "
i can't help thinking it must have been that word "will" that roused dear old rocky like a trumpet call.
it must have brought home to him the realisation that a miracle had come off and saved him from being cut out of aunt isabel's.
at any rate, as she said it he perked up, let go of the table, and faced her with gleaming eyes.
"do you want me to go back to the country, aunt isabel?"
"yes."
"not to live in the country?"
"yes, rockmetteller."
"stay in the country all the time, do you mean?
never come to new york?"
"yes, rockmetteller; i mean just that.
it is the only way.
only there can you be safe from temptation.
will you do it, rockmetteller?
will you for my sake?"
rocky grabbed the table again.
he seemed to draw a lot of encouragement from that table.
"i will!"
he said.
"jeeves," i said.
it was next day, and i was back in the old flat, lying in the old arm-chair, with my feet upon the good old table.
i had just come from seeing dear old rocky off to his country cottage, and an hour before he had seen his aunt off to whatever hamlet it was that she was the curse of; so we were alone at last.
"jeeves, there's no place like home what?"
"very true, sir."
"the jolly old roof-tree, and all that sort of thing what?"
"precisely, sir."
i lit another cigarette.
"jeeves."
"sir?"
"do you know, at one point in the business i really thought you were baffled."
"indeed, sir?"
"when did you get the idea of taking miss rockmetteller to the meeting?
it was pure genius!"
"thank you, sir.
it came to me a little suddenly, one morning when i was thinking of my aunt, sir."
"your aunt?
the hansom cab one?"
"yes, sir.
i recollected that, whenever we observed one of her attacks coming on, we used to send for the clergyman of the parish.
we always found that if he talked to her a while of higher things it diverted her mind from hansom cabs.
it occurred to me that the same treatment might prove efficacious in the case of miss rockmetteller."
i was stunned by the man's resource.
"it's brain," i said; "pure brain!
what do you do to get like that, jeeves?
i believe you must eat a lot of fish, or something.
do you eat a lot of fish, jeeves?"
"no, sir."
"oh, well, then, it's just a gift, i take it; and if you aren't born that way there's no use worrying."
"precisely, sir," said jeeves.
"if i might make the suggestion, sir, i should not continue to wear your present tie.
the green shade gives you a slightly bilious air.
i should strongly advocate the blue with the red domino pattern instead, sir."
"all right, jeeves."
i said humbly.
"you know!"
sense and sensibility
chapter 1
the family of dashwood had long been settled in sussex.
their estate was large, and their residence was at norland park, in the centre of their property, where, for many generations, they had lived in so respectable a manner as to engage the general good opinion of their surrounding acquaintance.
the late owner of this estate was a single man, who lived to a very advanced age, and who for many years of his life, had a constant companion and housekeeper in his sister.
but her death, which happened ten years before his own, produced a great alteration in his home; for to supply her loss, he invited and received into his house the family of his nephew mr. henry dashwood, the legal inheritor of the norland estate, and the person to whom he intended to bequeath it.
in the society of his nephew and niece, and their children, the old gentleman's days were comfortably spent.
his attachment to them all increased.
the constant attention of mr. and mrs. henry dashwood to his wishes, which proceeded not merely from interest, but from goodness of heart, gave him every degree of solid comfort which his age could receive; and the cheerfulness of the children added a relish to his existence.
by a former marriage, mr. henry dashwood had one son: by his present lady, three daughters.
the son, a steady respectable young man, was amply provided for by the fortune of his mother, which had been large, and half of which devolved on him on his coming of age.
by his own marriage, likewise, which happened soon afterwards, he added to his wealth.
to him therefore the succession to the norland estate was not so really important as to his sisters; for their fortune, independent of what might arise to them from their father's inheriting that property, could be but small.
their mother had nothing, and their father only seven thousand pounds in his own disposal; for the remaining moiety of his first wife's fortune was also secured to her child, and he had only a life-interest in it.
the old gentleman died: his will was read, and like almost every other will, gave as much disappointment as pleasure.
he was neither so unjust, nor so ungrateful, as to leave his estate from his nephew; but he left it to him on such terms as destroyed half the value of the bequest.
mr. dashwood had wished for it more for the sake of his wife and daughters than for himself or his son; but to his son, and his son's son, a child of four years old, it was secured, in such a way, as to leave to himself no power of providing for those who were most dear to him, and who most needed a provision by any charge on the estate, or by any sale of its valuable woods.
the whole was tied up for the benefit of this child, who, in occasional visits with his father and mother at norland, had so far gained on the affections of his uncle, by such attractions as are by no means unusual in children of two or three years old; an imperfect articulation, an earnest desire of having his own way, many cunning tricks, and a great deal of noise, as to outweigh all the value of all the attention which, for years, he had received from his niece and her daughters.
he meant not to be unkind, however, and, as a mark of his affection for the three girls, he left them a thousand pounds a-piece.
mr. dashwood's disappointment was, at first, severe; but his temper was cheerful and sanguine; and he might reasonably hope to live many years, and by living economically, lay by a considerable sum from the produce of an estate already large, and capable of almost immediate improvement.
but the fortune, which had been so tardy in coming, was his only one twelvemonth.
he survived his uncle no longer; and ten thousand pounds, including the late legacies, was all that remained for his widow and daughters.
his son was sent for as soon as his danger was known, and to him mr.
dashwood recommended, with all the strength and urgency which illness could command, the interest of his mother-in-law and sisters.
mr. john dashwood had not the strong feelings of the rest of the family; but he was affected by a recommendation of such a nature at such a time, and he promised to do every thing in his power to make them comfortable.
his father was rendered easy by such an assurance, and mr. john dashwood had then leisure to consider how much there might prudently be in his power to do for them.
he was not an ill-disposed young man, unless to be rather cold hearted and rather selfish is to be ill-disposed: but he was, in general, well respected; for he conducted himself with propriety in the discharge of his ordinary duties.
had he married a more amiable woman, he might have been made still more respectable than he was: he might even have been made amiable himself; for he was very young when he married, and very fond of his wife.
but mrs. john dashwood was a strong caricature of himself; more narrow-minded and selfish.
when he gave his promise to his father, he meditated within himself to increase the fortunes of his sisters by the present of a thousand pounds a-piece.
he then really thought himself equal to it.
the prospect of four thousand a-year, in addition to his present income, besides the remaining half of his own mother's fortune, warmed his heart, and made him feel capable of generosity.
"yes, he would give them three thousand pounds: it would be liberal and handsome!
it would be enough to make them completely easy.
three thousand pounds!
he could spare so considerable a sum with little inconvenience."
he thought of it all day long, and for many days successively, and he did not repent.
no sooner was his father's funeral over, than mrs. john dashwood, without sending any notice of her intention to her mother-in-law, arrived with her child and their attendants.
no one could dispute her right to come; the house was her husband's from the moment of his father's decease; but the indelicacy of her conduct was so much the greater, and to a woman in mrs. dashwood's situation, with only common feelings, must have been highly unpleasing; but in her mind there was a sense of honor so keen, a generosity so romantic, that any offence of the kind, by whomsoever given or received, was to her a source of immovable disgust.
mrs. john dashwood had never been a favourite with any of her husband's family; but she had had no opportunity, till the present, of shewing them with how little attention to the comfort of other people she could act when occasion required it.
so acutely did mrs. dashwood feel this ungracious behaviour, and so earnestly did she despise her daughter-in-law for it, that, on the arrival of the latter, she would have quitted the house for ever, had not the entreaty of her eldest girl induced her first to reflect on the propriety of going, and her own tender love for all her three children determined her afterwards to stay, and for their sakes avoid a breach with their brother.
elinor, this eldest daughter, whose advice was so effectual, possessed a strength of understanding, and coolness of judgment, which qualified her, though only nineteen, to be the counsellor of her mother, and enabled her frequently to counteract, to the advantage of them all, that eagerness of mind in mrs. dashwood which must generally have led to imprudence.
she had an excellent heart; her disposition was affectionate, and her feelings were strong; but she knew how to govern them: it was a knowledge which her mother had yet to learn; and which one of her sisters had resolved never to be taught.
marianne's abilities were, in many respects, quite equal to elinor's.
she was sensible and clever; but eager in everything: her sorrows, her joys, could have no moderation.
she was generous, amiable, interesting: she was everything but prudent.
the resemblance between her and her mother was strikingly great.
elinor saw, with concern, the excess of her sister's sensibility; but by mrs. dashwood it was valued and cherished.
they encouraged each other now in the violence of their affliction.
the agony of grief which overpowered them at first, was voluntarily renewed, was sought for, was created again and again.
they gave themselves up wholly to their sorrow, seeking increase of wretchedness in every reflection that could afford it, and resolved against ever admitting consolation in future.
elinor, too, was deeply afflicted; but still she could struggle, she could exert herself.
she could consult with her brother, could receive her sister-in-law on her arrival, and treat her with proper attention; and could strive to rouse her mother to similar exertion, and encourage her to similar forbearance.
margaret, the other sister, was a good-humored, well-disposed girl; but as she had already imbibed a good deal of marianne's romance, without having much of her sense, she did not, at thirteen, bid fair to equal her sisters at a more advanced period of life.
chapter 2
mrs. john dashwood now installed herself mistress of norland; and her mother and sisters-in-law were degraded to the condition of visitors.
as such, however, they were treated by her with quiet civility; and by her husband with as much kindness as he could feel towards anybody beyond himself, his wife, and their child.
he really pressed them, with some earnestness, to consider norland as their home; and, as no plan appeared so eligible to mrs. dashwood as remaining there till she could accommodate herself with a house in the neighbourhood, his invitation was accepted.
a continuance in a place where everything reminded her of former delight, was exactly what suited her mind.
in seasons of cheerfulness, no temper could be more cheerful than hers, or possess, in a greater degree, that sanguine expectation of happiness which is happiness itself.
but in sorrow she must be equally carried away by her fancy, and as far beyond consolation as in pleasure she was beyond alloy.
mrs. john dashwood did not at all approve of what her husband intended to do for his sisters.
to take three thousand pounds from the fortune of their dear little boy would be impoverishing him to the most dreadful degree.
she begged him to think again on the subject.
how could he answer it to himself to rob his child, and his only child too, of so large a sum?
and what possible claim could the miss dashwoods, who were related to him only by half blood, which she considered as no relationship at all, have on his generosity to so large an amount.
it was very well known that no affection was ever supposed to exist between the children of any man by different marriages; and why was he to ruin himself, and their poor little harry, by giving away all his money to his half sisters?
"it was my father's last request to me," replied her husband, "that i should assist his widow and daughters."
"he did not know what he was talking of, i dare say; ten to one but he was light-headed at the time.
had he been in his right senses, he could not have thought of such a thing as begging you to give away half your fortune from your own child."
"he did not stipulate for any particular sum, my dear fanny; he only requested me, in general terms, to assist them, and make their situation more comfortable than it was in his power to do.
perhaps it would have been as well if he had left it wholly to myself.
he could hardly suppose i should neglect them.
but as he required the promise, i could not do less than give it; at least i thought so at the time.
the promise, therefore, was given, and must be performed.
something must be done for them whenever they leave norland and settle in a new home."
"well, then, let something be done for them; but that something need not be three thousand pounds.
consider," she added, "that when the money is once parted with, it never can return.
your sisters will marry, and it will be gone for ever.
if, indeed, it could be restored to our poor little boy "
"why, to be sure," said her husband, very gravely, "that would make great difference.
the time may come when harry will regret that so large a sum was parted with.
if he should have a numerous family, for instance, it would be a very convenient addition."
"to be sure it would."
"perhaps, then, it would be better for all parties, if the sum were diminished one half.
five hundred pounds would be a prodigious increase to their fortunes!"
"oh!
beyond anything great!
what brother on earth would do half so much for his sisters, even if really his sisters!
and as it is only half blood!
but you have such a generous spirit!"
"i would not wish to do any thing mean," he replied.
"one had rather, on such occasions, do too much than too little.
no one, at least, can think i have not done enough for them: even themselves, they can hardly expect more."
"there is no knowing what they may expect," said the lady, "but we are not to think of their expectations: the question is, what you can afford to do."
"certainly and i think i may afford to give them five hundred pounds a-piece.
as it is, without any addition of mine, they will each have about three thousand pounds on their mother's death a very comfortable fortune for any young woman."
"to be sure it is; and, indeed, it strikes me that they can want no addition at all.
they will have ten thousand pounds divided amongst them.
if they marry, they will be sure of doing well, and if they do not, they may all live very comfortably together on the interest of ten thousand pounds."
"that is very true, and, therefore, i do not know whether, upon the whole, it would not be more advisable to do something for their mother while she lives, rather than for them something of the annuity kind i mean.
my sisters would feel the good effects of it as well as herself.
a hundred a year would make them all perfectly comfortable."
his wife hesitated a little, however, in giving her consent to this plan.
"to be sure," said she, "it is better than parting with fifteen hundred pounds at once.
but, then, if mrs. dashwood should live fifteen years we shall be completely taken in."
"fifteen years!
my dear fanny; her life cannot be worth half that purchase."
"certainly not; but if you observe, people always live for ever when there is an annuity to be paid them; and she is very stout and healthy, and hardly forty.
an annuity is a very serious business; it comes over and over every year, and there is no getting rid of it.
you are not aware of what you are doing.
i have known a great deal of the trouble of annuities; for my mother was clogged with the payment of three to old superannuated servants by my father's will, and it is amazing how disagreeable she found it.
twice every year these annuities were to be paid; and then there was the trouble of getting it to them; and then one of them was said to have died, and afterwards it turned out to be no such thing.
my mother was quite sick of it.
her income was not her own, she said, with such perpetual claims on it; and it was the more unkind in my father, because, otherwise, the money would have been entirely at my mother's disposal, without any restriction whatever.
it has given me such an abhorrence of annuities, that i am sure i would not pin myself down to the payment of one for all the world."
"it is certainly an unpleasant thing," replied mr. dashwood, "to have those kind of yearly drains on one's income.
one's fortune, as your mother justly says, is not one's own.
to be tied down to the regular payment of such a sum, on every rent day, is by no means desirable: it takes away one's independence."
"undoubtedly; and after all you have no thanks for it.
they think themselves secure, you do no more than what is expected, and it raises no gratitude at all.
if i were you, whatever i did should be done at my own discretion entirely.
i would not bind myself to allow them any thing yearly.
it may be very inconvenient some years to spare a hundred, or even fifty pounds from our own expenses."
"i believe you are right, my love; it will be better that there should be no annuity in the case; whatever i may give them occasionally will be of far greater assistance than a yearly allowance, because they would only enlarge their style of living if they felt sure of a larger income, and would not be sixpence the richer for it at the end of the year.
it will certainly be much the best way.
a present of fifty pounds, now and then, will prevent their ever being distressed for money, and will, i think, be amply discharging my promise to my father."
"to be sure it will.
indeed, to say the truth, i am convinced within myself that your father had no idea of your giving them any money at all.
the assistance he thought of, i dare say, was only such as might be reasonably expected of you; for instance, such as looking out for a comfortable small house for them, helping them to move their things, and sending them presents of fish and game, and so forth, whenever they are in season.
i'll lay my life that he meant nothing farther; indeed, it would be very strange and unreasonable if he did.
do but consider, my dear mr. dashwood, how excessively comfortable your mother-in-law and her daughters may live on the interest of seven thousand pounds, besides the thousand pounds belonging to each of the girls, which brings them in fifty pounds a year a-piece, and, of course, they will pay their mother for their board out of it.
altogether, they will have five hundred a-year amongst them, and what on earth can four women want for more than that?
they will live so cheap!
their housekeeping will be nothing at all.
they will have no carriage, no horses, and hardly any servants; they will keep no company, and can have no expenses of any kind!
only conceive how comfortable they will be!
five hundred a year!
i am sure i cannot imagine how they will spend half of it; and as to your giving them more, it is quite absurd to think of it.
they will be much more able to give you something."
"upon my word," said mr. dashwood, "i believe you are perfectly right.
my father certainly could mean nothing more by his request to me than what you say.
i clearly understand it now, and i will strictly fulfil my engagement by such acts of assistance and kindness to them as you have described.
when my mother removes into another house my services shall be readily given to accommodate her as far as i can.
some little present of furniture too may be acceptable then."
"certainly," returned mrs. john dashwood.
"but, however, one thing must be considered.
when your father and mother moved to norland, though the furniture of stanhill was sold, all the china, plate, and linen was saved, and is now left to your mother.
her house will therefore be almost completely fitted up as soon as she takes it."
"that is a material consideration undoubtedly.
a valuable legacy indeed!
and yet some of the plate would have been a very pleasant addition to our own stock here."
"yes; and the set of breakfast china is twice as handsome as what belongs to this house.
a great deal too handsome, in my opinion, for any place they can ever afford to live in.
but, however, so it is.
your father thought only of them.
and i must say this: that you owe no particular gratitude to him, nor attention to his wishes; for we very well know that if he could, he would have left almost everything in the world to them."
this argument was irresistible.
it gave to his intentions whatever of decision was wanting before; and he finally resolved, that it would be absolutely unnecessary, if not highly indecorous, to do more for the widow and children of his father, than such kind of neighbourly acts as his own wife pointed out.
chapter 3
mrs. dashwood remained at norland several months; not from any disinclination to move when the sight of every well known spot ceased to raise the violent emotion which it produced for a while; for when her spirits began to revive, and her mind became capable of some other exertion than that of heightening its affliction by melancholy remembrances, she was impatient to be gone, and indefatigable in her inquiries for a suitable dwelling in the neighbourhood of norland; for to remove far from that beloved spot was impossible.
but she could hear of no situation that at once answered her notions of comfort and ease, and suited the prudence of her eldest daughter, whose steadier judgment rejected several houses as too large for their income, which her mother would have approved.
mrs. dashwood had been informed by her husband of the solemn promise on the part of his son in their favour, which gave comfort to his last earthly reflections.
she doubted the sincerity of this assurance no more than he had doubted it himself, and she thought of it for her daughters' sake with satisfaction, though as for herself she was persuaded that a much smaller provision than 7000l would support her in affluence.
for their brother's sake, too, for the sake of his own heart, she rejoiced; and she reproached herself for being unjust to his merit before, in believing him incapable of generosity.
his attentive behaviour to herself and his sisters convinced her that their welfare was dear to him, and, for a long time, she firmly relied on the liberality of his intentions.
the contempt which she had, very early in their acquaintance, felt for her daughter-in-law, was very much increased by the farther knowledge of her character, which half a year's residence in her family afforded; and perhaps in spite of every consideration of politeness or maternal affection on the side of the former, the two ladies might have found it impossible to have lived together so long, had not a particular circumstance occurred to give still greater eligibility, according to the opinions of mrs. dashwood, to her daughters' continuance at norland.
this circumstance was a growing attachment between her eldest girl and the brother of mrs. john dashwood, a gentleman-like and pleasing young man, who was introduced to their acquaintance soon after his sister's establishment at norland, and who had since spent the greatest part of his time there.
some mothers might have encouraged the intimacy from motives of interest, for edward ferrars was the eldest son of a man who had died very rich; and some might have repressed it from motives of prudence, for, except a trifling sum, the whole of his fortune depended on the will of his mother.
but mrs. dashwood was alike uninfluenced by either consideration.
it was enough for her that he appeared to be amiable, that he loved her daughter, and that elinor returned the partiality.
it was contrary to every doctrine of hers that difference of fortune should keep any couple asunder who were attracted by resemblance of disposition; and that elinor's merit should not be acknowledged by every one who knew her, was to her comprehension impossible.
edward ferrars was not recommended to their good opinion by any peculiar graces of person or address.
he was not handsome, and his manners required intimacy to make them pleasing.
he was too diffident to do justice to himself; but when his natural shyness was overcome, his behaviour gave every indication of an open, affectionate heart.
his understanding was good, and his education had given it solid improvement.
but he was neither fitted by abilities nor disposition to answer the wishes of his mother and sister, who longed to see him distinguished as they hardly knew what.
they wanted him to make a fine figure in the world in some manner or other.
his mother wished to interest him in political concerns, to get him into parliament, or to see him connected with some of the great men of the day.
mrs. john dashwood wished it likewise; but in the mean while, till one of these superior blessings could be attained, it would have quieted her ambition to see him driving a barouche.
but edward had no turn for great men or barouches.
all his wishes centered in domestic comfort and the quiet of private life.
fortunately he had a younger brother who was more promising.
edward had been staying several weeks in the house before he engaged much of mrs. dashwood's attention; for she was, at that time, in such affliction as rendered her careless of surrounding objects.
she saw only that he was quiet and unobtrusive, and she liked him for it.
he did not disturb the wretchedness of her mind by ill-timed conversation.
she was first called to observe and approve him farther, by a reflection which elinor chanced one day to make on the difference between him and his sister.
it was a contrast which recommended him most forcibly to her mother.
"it is enough," said she; "to say that he is unlike fanny is enough.
it implies everything amiable.
i love him already."
"i think you will like him," said elinor, "when you know more of him."
"like him!"
replied her mother with a smile.
"i feel no sentiment of approbation inferior to love."
"you may esteem him."
"i have never yet known what it was to separate esteem and love."
mrs. dashwood now took pains to get acquainted with him.
her manners were attaching, and soon banished his reserve.
she speedily comprehended all his merits; the persuasion of his regard for elinor perhaps assisted her penetration; but she really felt assured of his worth: and even that quietness of manner, which militated against all her established ideas of what a young man's address ought to be, was no longer uninteresting when she knew his heart to be warm and his temper affectionate.
no sooner did she perceive any symptom of love in his behaviour to elinor, than she considered their serious attachment as certain, and looked forward to their marriage as rapidly approaching.
"in a few months, my dear marianne."
said she, "elinor will, in all probability be settled for life.
we shall miss her; but she will be happy."
"oh!
mama, how shall we do without her?"
"my love, it will be scarcely a separation.
we shall live within a few miles of each other, and shall meet every day of our lives.
you will gain a brother, a real, affectionate brother.
i have the highest opinion in the world of edward's heart.
but you look grave, marianne; do you disapprove your sister's choice?"
"perhaps," said marianne, "i may consider it with some surprise.
edward is very amiable, and i love him tenderly.
but yet he is not the kind of young man there is something wanting his figure is not striking; it has none of that grace which i should expect in the man who could seriously attach my sister.
his eyes want all that spirit, that fire, which at once announce virtue and intelligence.
and besides all this, i am afraid, mama, he has no real taste.
music seems scarcely to attract him, and though he admires elinor's drawings very much, it is not the admiration of a person who can understand their worth.
it is evident, in spite of his frequent attention to her while she draws, that in fact he knows nothing of the matter.
he admires as a lover, not as a connoisseur.
to satisfy me, those characters must be united.
i could not be happy with a man whose taste did not in every point coincide with my own.
he must enter into all my feelings; the same books, the same music must charm us both.
oh!
mama, how spiritless, how tame was edward's manner in reading to us last night!
i felt for my sister most severely.
yet she bore it with so much composure, she seemed scarcely to notice it.
i could hardly keep my seat.
to hear those beautiful lines which have frequently almost driven me wild, pronounced with such impenetrable calmness, such dreadful indifference!"
"he would certainly have done more justice to simple and elegant prose.
i thought so at the time; but you would give him cowper."
"nay, mama, if he is not to be animated by cowper!
but we must allow for difference of taste.
elinor has not my feelings, and therefore she may overlook it, and be happy with him.
but it would have broke my heart, had i loved him, to hear him read with so little sensibility.
mama, the more i know of the world, the more am i convinced that i shall never see a man whom i can really love.
i require so much!
he must have all edward's virtues, and his person and manners must ornament his goodness with every possible charm."
"remember, my love, that you are not seventeen.
it is yet too early in life to despair of such a happiness.
why should you be less fortunate than your mother?
in one circumstance only, my marianne, may your destiny be different from hers!"
chapter 4
"what a pity it is, elinor," said marianne, "that edward should have no taste for drawing."
"no taste for drawing!"
replied elinor, "why should you think so?
he does not draw himself, indeed, but he has great pleasure in seeing the performances of other people, and i assure you he is by no means deficient in natural taste, though he has not had opportunities of improving it.
had he ever been in the way of learning, i think he would have drawn very well.
he distrusts his own judgment in such matters so much, that he is always unwilling to give his opinion on any picture; but he has an innate propriety and simplicity of taste, which in general direct him perfectly right."
marianne was afraid of offending, and said no more on the subject; but the kind of approbation which elinor described as excited in him by the drawings of other people, was very far from that rapturous delight, which, in her opinion, could alone be called taste.
yet, though smiling within herself at the mistake, she honoured her sister for that blind partiality to edward which produced it.
"i hope, marianne," continued elinor, "you do not consider him as deficient in general taste.
indeed, i think i may say that you cannot, for your behaviour to him is perfectly cordial, and if that were your opinion, i am sure you could never be civil to him."
marianne hardly knew what to say.
she would not wound the feelings of her sister on any account, and yet to say what she did not believe was impossible.
at length she replied:
"do not be offended, elinor, if my praise of him is not in every thing equal to your sense of his merits.
i have not had so many opportunities of estimating the minuter propensities of his mind, his inclinations and tastes, as you have; but i have the highest opinion in the world of his goodness and sense.
i think him every thing that is worthy and amiable."
"i am sure," replied elinor, with a smile, "that his dearest friends could not be dissatisfied with such commendation as that.
i do not perceive how you could express yourself more warmly."
marianne was rejoiced to find her sister so easily pleased.
"of his sense and his goodness," continued elinor, "no one can, i think, be in doubt, who has seen him often enough to engage him in unreserved conversation.
the excellence of his understanding and his principles can be concealed only by that shyness which too often keeps him silent.
you know enough of him to do justice to his solid worth.
but of his minuter propensities, as you call them you have from peculiar circumstances been kept more ignorant than myself.
he and i have been at times thrown a good deal together, while you have been wholly engrossed on the most affectionate principle by my mother.
i have seen a great deal of him, have studied his sentiments and heard his opinion on subjects of literature and taste; and, upon the whole, i venture to pronounce that his mind is well-informed, enjoyment of books exceedingly great, his imagination lively, his observation just and correct, and his taste delicate and pure.
his abilities in every respect improve as much upon acquaintance as his manners and person.
at first sight, his address is certainly not striking; and his person can hardly be called handsome, till the expression of his eyes, which are uncommonly good, and the general sweetness of his countenance, is perceived.
at present, i know him so well, that i think him really handsome; or at least, almost so.
what say you, marianne?"
"i shall very soon think him handsome, elinor, if i do not now.
when you tell me to love him as a brother, i shall no more see imperfection in his face, than i now do in his heart."
elinor started at this declaration, and was sorry for the warmth she had been betrayed into, in speaking of him.
she felt that edward stood very high in her opinion.
she believed the regard to be mutual; but she required greater certainty of it to make marianne's conviction of their attachment agreeable to her.
she knew that what marianne and her mother conjectured one moment, they believed the next that with them, to wish was to hope, and to hope was to expect.
she tried to explain the real state of the case to her sister.
"i do not attempt to deny," said she, "that i think very highly of him that i greatly esteem, that i like him."
marianne here burst forth with indignation
"esteem him!
like him!
cold-hearted elinor!
oh!
worse than cold-hearted!
ashamed of being otherwise.
use those words again, and i will leave the room this moment."
elinor could not help laughing.
"excuse me," said she; "and be assured that i meant no offence to you, by speaking, in so quiet a way, of my own feelings.
believe them to be stronger than i have declared; believe them, in short, to be such as his merit, and the suspicion the hope of his affection for me may warrant, without imprudence or folly.
but farther than this you must not believe.
i am by no means assured of his regard for me.
there are moments when the extent of it seems doubtful; and till his sentiments are fully known, you cannot wonder at my wishing to avoid any encouragement of my own partiality, by believing or calling it more than it is.
in my heart i feel little scarcely any doubt of his preference.
but there are other points to be considered besides his inclination.
he is very far from being independent.
what his mother really is we cannot know; but, from fanny's occasional mention of her conduct and opinions, we have never been disposed to think her amiable; and i am very much mistaken if edward is not himself aware that there would be many difficulties in his way, if he were to wish to marry a woman who had not either a great fortune or high rank."
marianne was astonished to find how much the imagination of her mother and herself had outstripped the truth.
"and you really are not engaged to him!"
said she.
"yet it certainly soon will happen.
but two advantages will proceed from this delay.
i shall not lose you so soon, and edward will have greater opportunity of improving that natural taste for your favourite pursuit which must be so indispensably necessary to your future felicity.
oh!
if he should be so far stimulated by your genius as to learn to draw himself, how delightful it would be!"
elinor had given her real opinion to her sister.
she could not consider her partiality for edward in so prosperous a state as marianne had believed it.
there was, at times, a want of spirits about him which, if it did not denote indifference, spoke of something almost as unpromising.
a doubt of her regard, supposing him to feel it, need not give him more than inquietude.
it would not be likely to produce that dejection of mind which frequently attended him.
a more reasonable cause might be found in the dependent situation which forbade the indulgence of his affection.
she knew that his mother neither behaved to him so as to make his home comfortable at present, nor to give him any assurance that he might form a home for himself, without strictly attending to her views for his aggrandizement.
with such a knowledge as this, it was impossible for elinor to feel easy on the subject.
she was far from depending on that result of his preference of her, which her mother and sister still considered as certain.
nay, the longer they were together the more doubtful seemed the nature of his regard; and sometimes, for a few painful minutes, she believed it to be no more than friendship.
but, whatever might really be its limits, it was enough, when perceived by his sister, to make her uneasy, and at the same time, (which was still more common,) to make her uncivil.
she took the first opportunity of affronting her mother-in-law on the occasion, talking to her so expressively of her brother's great expectations, of mrs.
ferrars's resolution that both her sons should marry well, and of the danger attending any young woman who attempted to draw him in; that mrs. dashwood could neither pretend to be unconscious, nor endeavor to be calm.
she gave her an answer which marked her contempt, and instantly left the room, resolving that, whatever might be the inconvenience or expense of so sudden a removal, her beloved elinor should not be exposed another week to such insinuations.
in this state of her spirits, a letter was delivered to her from the post, which contained a proposal particularly well timed.
it was the offer of a small house, on very easy terms, belonging to a relation of her own, a gentleman of consequence and property in devonshire.
the letter was from this gentleman himself, and written in the true spirit of friendly accommodation.
he understood that she was in need of a dwelling; and though the house he now offered her was merely a cottage, he assured her that everything should be done to it which she might think necessary, if the situation pleased her.
he earnestly pressed her, after giving the particulars of the house and garden, to come with her daughters to barton park, the place of his own residence, from whence she might judge, herself, whether barton cottage, for the houses were in the same parish, could, by any alteration, be made comfortable to her.
he seemed really anxious to accommodate them and the whole of his letter was written in so friendly a style as could not fail of giving pleasure to his cousin; more especially at a moment when she was suffering under the cold and unfeeling behaviour of her nearer connections.
she needed no time for deliberation or inquiry.
her resolution was formed as she read.
the situation of barton, in a county so far distant from sussex as devonshire, which, but a few hours before, would have been a sufficient objection to outweigh every possible advantage belonging to the place, was now its first recommendation.
to quit the neighbourhood of norland was no longer an evil; it was an object of desire; it was a blessing, in comparison of the misery of continuing her daughter-in-law's guest; and to remove for ever from that beloved place would be less painful than to inhabit or visit it while such a woman was its mistress.
she instantly wrote sir john middleton her acknowledgment of his kindness, and her acceptance of his proposal; and then hastened to shew both letters to her daughters, that she might be secure of their approbation before her answer were sent.
elinor had always thought it would be more prudent for them to settle at some distance from norland, than immediately amongst their present acquaintance.
on that head, therefore, it was not for her to oppose her mother's intention of removing into devonshire.
the house, too, as described by sir john, was on so simple a scale, and the rent so uncommonly moderate, as to leave her no right of objection on either point; and, therefore, though it was not a plan which brought any charm to her fancy, though it was a removal from the vicinity of norland beyond her wishes, she made no attempt to dissuade her mother from sending a letter of acquiescence.
chapter 5
no sooner was her answer dispatched, than mrs. dashwood indulged herself in the pleasure of announcing to her son-in-law and his wife that she was provided with a house, and should incommode them no longer than till every thing were ready for her inhabiting it.
they heard her with surprise.
mrs. john dashwood said nothing; but her husband civilly hoped that she would not be settled far from norland.
she had great satisfaction in replying that she was going into devonshire.
edward turned hastily towards her, on hearing this, and, in a voice of surprise and concern, which required no explanation to her, repeated, "devonshire!
are you, indeed, going there?
so far from hence!
and to what part of it?"
she explained the situation.
it was within four miles northward of exeter.
"it is but a cottage," she continued, "but i hope to see many of my friends in it.
a room or two can easily be added; and if my friends find no difficulty in travelling so far to see me, i am sure i will find none in accommodating them."
she concluded with a very kind invitation to mr. and mrs. john dashwood to visit her at barton; and to edward she gave one with still greater affection.
though her late conversation with her daughter-in-law had made her resolve on remaining at norland no longer than was unavoidable, it had not produced the smallest effect on her in that point to which it principally tended.
to separate edward and elinor was as far from being her object as ever; and she wished to show mrs.
john dashwood, by this pointed invitation to her brother, how totally she disregarded her disapprobation of the match.
mr. john dashwood told his mother again and again how exceedingly sorry he was that she had taken a house at such a distance from norland as to prevent his being of any service to her in removing her furniture.
he really felt conscientiously vexed on the occasion; for the very exertion to which he had limited the performance of his promise to his father was by this arrangement rendered impracticable.
the furniture was all sent around by water.
it chiefly consisted of household linen, plate, china, and books, with a handsome pianoforte of marianne's.
mrs. john dashwood saw the packages depart with a sigh: she could not help feeling it hard that as mrs. dashwood's income would be so trifling in comparison with their own, she should have any handsome article of furniture.
mrs. dashwood took the house for a twelvemonth; it was ready furnished, and she might have immediate possession.
no difficulty arose on either side in the agreement; and she waited only for the disposal of her effects at norland, and to determine her future household, before she set off for the west; and this, as she was exceedingly rapid in the performance of everything that interested her, was soon done.
the horses which were left her by her husband had been sold soon after his death, and an opportunity now offering of disposing of her carriage, she agreed to sell that likewise at the earnest advice of her eldest daughter.
for the comfort of her children, had she consulted only her own wishes, she would have kept it; but the discretion of elinor prevailed.
her wisdom too limited the number of their servants to three; two maids and a man, with whom they were speedily provided from amongst those who had formed their establishment at norland.
the man and one of the maids were sent off immediately into devonshire, to prepare the house for their mistress's arrival; for as lady middleton was entirely unknown to mrs. dashwood, she preferred going directly to the cottage to being a visitor at barton park; and she relied so undoubtingly on sir john's description of the house, as to feel no curiosity to examine it herself till she entered it as her own.
her eagerness to be gone from norland was preserved from diminution by the evident satisfaction of her daughter-in-law in the prospect of her removal; a satisfaction which was but feebly attempted to be concealed under a cold invitation to her to defer her departure.
now was the time when her son-in-law's promise to his father might with particular propriety be fulfilled.
since he had neglected to do it on first coming to the estate, their quitting his house might be looked on as the most suitable period for its accomplishment.
but mrs. dashwood began shortly to give over every hope of the kind, and to be convinced, from the general drift of his discourse, that his assistance extended no farther than their maintenance for six months at norland.
he so frequently talked of the increasing expenses of housekeeping, and of the perpetual demands upon his purse, which a man of any consequence in the world was beyond calculation exposed to, that he seemed rather to stand in need of more money himself than to have any design of giving money away.
in a very few weeks from the day which brought sir john middleton's first letter to norland, every thing was so far settled in their future abode as to enable mrs. dashwood and her daughters to begin their journey.
many were the tears shed by them in their last adieus to a place so much beloved.
"dear, dear norland!"
said marianne, as she wandered alone before the house, on the last evening of their being there; "when shall i cease to regret you!
when learn to feel a home elsewhere!
oh!
happy house, could you know what i suffer in now viewing you from this spot, from whence perhaps i may view you no more!
and you, ye well-known trees!
but you will continue the same.
no leaf will decay because we are removed, nor any branch become motionless although we can observe you no longer!
no; you will continue the same; unconscious of the pleasure or the regret you occasion, and insensible of any change in those who walk under your shade!
but who will remain to enjoy you?"
chapter 6
the first part of their journey was performed in too melancholy a disposition to be otherwise than tedious and unpleasant.
but as they drew towards the end of it, their interest in the appearance of a country which they were to inhabit overcame their dejection, and a view of barton valley as they entered it gave them cheerfulness.
it was a pleasant fertile spot, well wooded, and rich in pasture.
after winding along it for more than a mile, they reached their own house.
a small green court was the whole of its demesne in front; and a neat wicket gate admitted them into it.
as a house, barton cottage, though small, was comfortable and compact; but as a cottage it was defective, for the building was regular, the roof was tiled, the window shutters were not painted green, nor were the walls covered with honeysuckles.
a narrow passage led directly through the house into the garden behind.
on each side of the entrance was a sitting room, about sixteen feet square; and beyond them were the offices and the stairs.
four bed-rooms and two garrets formed the rest of the house.
it had not been built many years and was in good repair.
in comparison of norland, it was poor and small indeed!
but the tears which recollection called forth as they entered the house were soon dried away.
they were cheered by the joy of the servants on their arrival, and each for the sake of the others resolved to appear happy.
it was very early in september; the season was fine, and from first seeing the place under the advantage of good weather, they received an impression in its favour which was of material service in recommending it to their lasting approbation.
the situation of the house was good.
high hills rose immediately behind, and at no great distance on each side; some of which were open downs, the others cultivated and woody.
the village of barton was chiefly on one of these hills, and formed a pleasant view from the cottage windows.
the prospect in front was more extensive; it commanded the whole of the valley, and reached into the country beyond.
the hills which surrounded the cottage terminated the valley in that direction; under another name, and in another course, it branched out again between two of the steepest of them.
with the size and furniture of the house mrs. dashwood was upon the whole well satisfied; for though her former style of life rendered many additions to the latter indispensable, yet to add and improve was a delight to her; and she had at this time ready money enough to supply all that was wanted of greater elegance to the apartments.
"as for the house itself, to be sure," said she, "it is too small for our family, but we will make ourselves tolerably comfortable for the present, as it is too late in the year for improvements.
perhaps in the spring, if i have plenty of money, as i dare say i shall, we may think about building.
these parlors are both too small for such parties of our friends as i hope to see often collected here; and i have some thoughts of throwing the passage into one of them with perhaps a part of the other, and so leave the remainder of that other for an entrance; this, with a new drawing room which may be easily added, and a bed-chamber and garret above, will make it a very snug little cottage.
i could wish the stairs were handsome.
but one must not expect every thing; though i suppose it would be no difficult matter to widen them.
i shall see how much i am before-hand with the world in the spring, and we will plan our improvements accordingly."
in the mean time, till all these alterations could be made from the savings of an income of five hundred a-year by a woman who never saved in her life, they were wise enough to be contented with the house as it was; and each of them was busy in arranging their particular concerns, and endeavoring, by placing around them books and other possessions, to form themselves a home.
marianne's pianoforte was unpacked and properly disposed of; and elinor's drawings were affixed to the walls of their sitting room.
in such employments as these they were interrupted soon after breakfast the next day by the entrance of their landlord, who called to welcome them to barton, and to offer them every accommodation from his own house and garden in which theirs might at present be deficient.
sir john middleton was a good looking man about forty.
he had formerly visited at stanhill, but it was too long for his young cousins to remember him.
his countenance was thoroughly good-humoured; and his manners were as friendly as the style of his letter.
their arrival seemed to afford him real satisfaction, and their comfort to be an object of real solicitude to him.
he said much of his earnest desire of their living in the most sociable terms with his family, and pressed them so cordially to dine at barton park every day till they were better settled at home, that, though his entreaties were carried to a point of perseverance beyond civility, they could not give offence.
his kindness was not confined to words; for within an hour after he left them, a large basket full of garden stuff and fruit arrived from the park, which was followed before the end of the day by a present of game.
he insisted, moreover, on conveying all their letters to and from the post for them, and would not be denied the satisfaction of sending them his newspaper every day.
lady middleton had sent a very civil message by him, denoting her intention of waiting on mrs. dashwood as soon as she could be assured that her visit would be no inconvenience; and as this message was answered by an invitation equally polite, her ladyship was introduced to them the next day.
they were, of course, very anxious to see a person on whom so much of their comfort at barton must depend; and the elegance of her appearance was favourable to their wishes.
lady middleton was not more than six or seven and twenty; her face was handsome, her figure tall and striking, and her address graceful.
her manners had all the elegance which her husband's wanted.
but they would have been improved by some share of his frankness and warmth; and her visit was long enough to detract something from their first admiration, by shewing that, though perfectly well-bred, she was reserved, cold, and had nothing to say for herself beyond the most common-place inquiry or remark.
conversation however was not wanted, for sir john was very chatty, and lady middleton had taken the wise precaution of bringing with her their eldest child, a fine little boy about six years old, by which means there was one subject always to be recurred to by the ladies in case of extremity, for they had to enquire his name and age, admire his beauty, and ask him questions which his mother answered for him, while he hung about her and held down his head, to the great surprise of her ladyship, who wondered at his being so shy before company, as he could make noise enough at home.
on every formal visit a child ought to be of the party, by way of provision for discourse.
in the present case it took up ten minutes to determine whether the boy were most like his father or mother, and in what particular he resembled either, for of course every body differed, and every body was astonished at the opinion of the others.
an opportunity was soon to be given to the dashwoods of debating on the rest of the children, as sir john would not leave the house without securing their promise of dining at the park the next day.
chapter 7
barton park was about half a mile from the cottage.
the ladies had passed near it in their way along the valley, but it was screened from their view at home by the projection of a hill.
the house was large and handsome; and the middletons lived in a style of equal hospitality and elegance.
the former was for sir john's gratification, the latter for that of his lady.
they were scarcely ever without some friends staying with them in the house, and they kept more company of every kind than any other family in the neighbourhood.
it was necessary to the happiness of both; for however dissimilar in temper and outward behaviour, they strongly resembled each other in that total want of talent and taste which confined their employments, unconnected with such as society produced, within a very narrow compass.
sir john was a sportsman, lady middleton a mother.
he hunted and shot, and she humoured her children; and these were their only resources.
lady middleton had the advantage of being able to spoil her children all the year round, while sir john's independent employments were in existence only half the time.
continual engagements at home and abroad, however, supplied all the deficiencies of nature and education; supported the good spirits of sir john, and gave exercise to the good breeding of his wife.
lady middleton piqued herself upon the elegance of her table, and of all her domestic arrangements; and from this kind of vanity was her greatest enjoyment in any of their parties.
but sir john's satisfaction in society was much more real; he delighted in collecting about him more young people than his house would hold, and the noisier they were the better was he pleased.
he was a blessing to all the juvenile part of the neighbourhood, for in summer he was for ever forming parties to eat cold ham and chicken out of doors, and in winter his private balls were numerous enough for any young lady who was not suffering under the unsatiable appetite of fifteen.
the arrival of a new family in the country was always a matter of joy to him, and in every point of view he was charmed with the inhabitants he had now procured for his cottage at barton.
the miss dashwoods were young, pretty, and unaffected.
it was enough to secure his good opinion; for to be unaffected was all that a pretty girl could want to make her mind as captivating as her person.
the friendliness of his disposition made him happy in accommodating those, whose situation might be considered, in comparison with the past, as unfortunate.
in showing kindness to his cousins therefore he had the real satisfaction of a good heart; and in settling a family of females only in his cottage, he had all the satisfaction of a sportsman; for a sportsman, though he esteems only those of his sex who are sportsmen likewise, is not often desirous of encouraging their taste by admitting them to a residence within his own manor.
mrs. dashwood and her daughters were met at the door of the house by sir john, who welcomed them to barton park with unaffected sincerity; and as he attended them to the drawing room repeated to the young ladies the concern which the same subject had drawn from him the day before, at being unable to get any smart young men to meet them.
they would see, he said, only one gentleman there besides himself; a particular friend who was staying at the park, but who was neither very young nor very gay.
he hoped they would all excuse the smallness of the party, and could assure them it should never happen so again.
he had been to several families that morning in hopes of procuring some addition to their number, but it was moonlight and every body was full of engagements.
luckily lady middleton's mother had arrived at barton within the last hour, and as she was a very cheerful agreeable woman, he hoped the young ladies would not find it so very dull as they might imagine.
the young ladies, as well as their mother, were perfectly satisfied with having two entire strangers of the party, and wished for no more.
mrs. jennings, lady middleton's mother, was a good-humoured, merry, fat, elderly woman, who talked a great deal, seemed very happy, and rather vulgar.
she was full of jokes and laughter, and before dinner was over had said many witty things on the subject of lovers and husbands; hoped they had not left their hearts behind them in sussex, and pretended to see them blush whether they did or not.
marianne was vexed at it for her sister's sake, and turned her eyes towards elinor to see how she bore these attacks, with an earnestness which gave elinor far more pain than could arise from such common-place raillery as mrs. jennings's.
colonel brandon, the friend of sir john, seemed no more adapted by resemblance of manner to be his friend, than lady middleton was to be his wife, or mrs. jennings to be lady middleton's mother.
he was silent and grave.
his appearance however was not unpleasing, in spite of his being in the opinion of marianne and margaret an absolute old bachelor, for he was on the wrong side of five and thirty; but though his face was not handsome, his countenance was sensible, and his address was particularly gentlemanlike.
there was nothing in any of the party which could recommend them as companions to the dashwoods; but the cold insipidity of lady middleton was so particularly repulsive, that in comparison of it the gravity of colonel brandon, and even the boisterous mirth of sir john and his mother-in-law was interesting.
lady middleton seemed to be roused to enjoyment only by the entrance of her four noisy children after dinner, who pulled her about, tore her clothes, and put an end to every kind of discourse except what related to themselves.
in the evening, as marianne was discovered to be musical, she was invited to play.
the instrument was unlocked, every body prepared to be charmed, and marianne, who sang very well, at their request went through the chief of the songs which lady middleton had brought into the family on her marriage, and which perhaps had lain ever since in the same position on the pianoforte, for her ladyship had celebrated that event by giving up music, although by her mother's account, she had played extremely well, and by her own was very fond of it.
marianne's performance was highly applauded.
sir john was loud in his admiration at the end of every song, and as loud in his conversation with the others while every song lasted.
lady middleton frequently called him to order, wondered how any one's attention could be diverted from music for a moment, and asked marianne to sing a particular song which marianne had just finished.
colonel brandon alone, of all the party, heard her without being in raptures.
he paid her only the compliment of attention; and she felt a respect for him on the occasion, which the others had reasonably forfeited by their shameless want of taste.
his pleasure in music, though it amounted not to that ecstatic delight which alone could sympathize with her own, was estimable when contrasted against the horrible insensibility of the others; and she was reasonable enough to allow that a man of five and thirty might well have outlived all acuteness of feeling and every exquisite power of enjoyment.
she was perfectly disposed to make every allowance for the colonel's advanced state of life which humanity required.
chapter 8
mrs. jennings was a widow with an ample jointure.
she had only two daughters, both of whom she had lived to see respectably married, and she had now therefore nothing to do but to marry all the rest of the world.
in the promotion of this object she was zealously active, as far as her ability reached; and missed no opportunity of projecting weddings among all the young people of her acquaintance.
she was remarkably quick in the discovery of attachments, and had enjoyed the advantage of raising the blushes and the vanity of many a young lady by insinuations of her power over such a young man; and this kind of discernment enabled her soon after her arrival at barton decisively to pronounce that colonel brandon was very much in love with marianne dashwood.
she rather suspected it to be so, on the very first evening of their being together, from his listening so attentively while she sang to them; and when the visit was returned by the middletons' dining at the cottage, the fact was ascertained by his listening to her again.
it must be so.
she was perfectly convinced of it.
it would be an excellent match, for he was rich, and she was handsome.
mrs. jennings had been anxious to see colonel brandon well married, ever since her connection with sir john first brought him to her knowledge; and she was always anxious to get a good husband for every pretty girl.
the immediate advantage to herself was by no means inconsiderable, for it supplied her with endless jokes against them both.
at the park she laughed at the colonel, and in the cottage at marianne.
to the former her raillery was probably, as far as it regarded only himself, perfectly indifferent; but to the latter it was at first incomprehensible; and when its object was understood, she hardly knew whether most to laugh at its absurdity, or censure its impertinence, for she considered it as an unfeeling reflection on the colonel's advanced years, and on his forlorn condition as an old bachelor.
mrs. dashwood, who could not think a man five years younger than herself, so exceedingly ancient as he appeared to the youthful fancy of her daughter, ventured to clear mrs. jennings from the probability of wishing to throw ridicule on his age.
"but at least, mama, you cannot deny the absurdity of the accusation, though you may not think it intentionally ill-natured.
colonel brandon is certainly younger than mrs. jennings, but he is old enough to be my father; and if he were ever animated enough to be in love, must have long outlived every sensation of the kind.
it is too ridiculous!
when is a man to be safe from such wit, if age and infirmity will not protect him?"
"infirmity!"
said elinor, "do you call colonel brandon infirm?
i can easily suppose that his age may appear much greater to you than to my mother; but you can hardly deceive yourself as to his having the use of his limbs!"
"did not you hear him complain of the rheumatism?
and is not that the commonest infirmity of declining life?"
"my dearest child," said her mother, laughing, "at this rate you must be in continual terror of my decay; and it must seem to you a miracle that my life has been extended to the advanced age of forty."
"mama, you are not doing me justice.
i know very well that colonel brandon is not old enough to make his friends yet apprehensive of losing him in the course of nature.
he may live twenty years longer.
but thirty-five has nothing to do with matrimony."
"perhaps," said elinor, "thirty-five and seventeen had better not have any thing to do with matrimony together.
but if there should by any chance happen to be a woman who is single at seven and twenty, i should not think colonel brandon's being thirty-five any objection to his marrying her."
"a woman of seven and twenty," said marianne, after pausing a moment, "can never hope to feel or inspire affection again, and if her home be uncomfortable, or her fortune small, i can suppose that she might bring herself to submit to the offices of a nurse, for the sake of the provision and security of a wife.
in his marrying such a woman therefore there would be nothing unsuitable.
it would be a compact of convenience, and the world would be satisfied.
in my eyes it would be no marriage at all, but that would be nothing.
to me it would seem only a commercial exchange, in which each wished to be benefited at the expense of the other."
"it would be impossible, i know," replied elinor, "to convince you that a woman of seven and twenty could feel for a man of thirty-five anything near enough to love, to make him a desirable companion to her.
but i must object to your dooming colonel brandon and his wife to the constant confinement of a sick chamber, merely because he chanced to complain yesterday (a very cold damp day) of a slight rheumatic feel in one of his shoulders."
"but he talked of flannel waistcoats," said marianne; "and with me a flannel waistcoat is invariably connected with aches, cramps, rheumatisms, and every species of ailment that can afflict the old and the feeble."
"had he been only in a violent fever, you would not have despised him half so much.
confess, marianne, is not there something interesting to you in the flushed cheek, hollow eye, and quick pulse of a fever?"
soon after this, upon elinor's leaving the room, "mama," said marianne, "i have an alarm on the subject of illness which i cannot conceal from you.
i am sure edward ferrars is not well.
we have now been here almost a fortnight, and yet he does not come.
nothing but real indisposition could occasion this extraordinary delay.
what else can detain him at norland?"
"had you any idea of his coming so soon?"
said mrs. dashwood.
"i had none.
on the contrary, if i have felt any anxiety at all on the subject, it has been in recollecting that he sometimes showed a want of pleasure and readiness in accepting my invitation, when i talked of his coming to barton.
does elinor expect him already?"
"i have never mentioned it to her, but of course she must."
"i rather think you are mistaken, for when i was talking to her yesterday of getting a new grate for the spare bedchamber, she observed that there was no immediate hurry for it, as it was not likely that the room would be wanted for some time."
"how strange this is!
what can be the meaning of it!
but the whole of their behaviour to each other has been unaccountable!
how cold, how composed were their last adieus!
how languid their conversation the last evening of their being together!
in edward's farewell there was no distinction between elinor and me: it was the good wishes of an affectionate brother to both.
twice did i leave them purposely together in the course of the last morning, and each time did he most unaccountably follow me out of the room.
and elinor, in quitting norland and edward, cried not as i did.
even now her self-command is invariable.
when is she dejected or melancholy?
when does she try to avoid society, or appear restless and dissatisfied in it?"
chapter 9
the dashwoods were now settled at barton with tolerable comfort to themselves.
the house and the garden, with all the objects surrounding them, were now become familiar, and the ordinary pursuits which had given to norland half its charms were engaged in again with far greater enjoyment than norland had been able to afford, since the loss of their father.
sir john middleton, who called on them every day for the first fortnight, and who was not in the habit of seeing much occupation at home, could not conceal his amazement on finding them always employed.
their visitors, except those from barton park, were not many; for, in spite of sir john's urgent entreaties that they would mix more in the neighbourhood, and repeated assurances of his carriage being always at their service, the independence of mrs. dashwood's spirit overcame the wish of society for her children; and she was resolute in declining to visit any family beyond the distance of a walk.
there were but few who could be so classed; and it was not all of them that were attainable.
about a mile and a half from the cottage, along the narrow winding valley of allenham, which issued from that of barton, as formerly described, the girls had, in one of their earliest walks, discovered an ancient respectable looking mansion which, by reminding them a little of norland, interested their imagination and made them wish to be better acquainted with it.
but they learnt, on enquiry, that its possessor, an elderly lady of very good character, was unfortunately too infirm to mix with the world, and never stirred from home.
the whole country about them abounded in beautiful walks.
the high downs which invited them from almost every window of the cottage to seek the exquisite enjoyment of air on their summits, were a happy alternative when the dirt of the valleys beneath shut up their superior beauties; and towards one of these hills did marianne and margaret one memorable morning direct their steps, attracted by the partial sunshine of a showery sky, and unable longer to bear the confinement which the settled rain of the two preceding days had occasioned.
the weather was not tempting enough to draw the two others from their pencil and their book, in spite of marianne's declaration that the day would be lastingly fair, and that every threatening cloud would be drawn off from their hills; and the two girls set off together.
they gaily ascended the downs, rejoicing in their own penetration at every glimpse of blue sky; and when they caught in their faces the animating gales of a high south-westerly wind, they pitied the fears which had prevented their mother and elinor from sharing such delightful sensations.
"is there a felicity in the world," said marianne, "superior to this?
margaret, we will walk here at least two hours."
margaret agreed, and they pursued their way against the wind, resisting it with laughing delight for about twenty minutes longer, when suddenly the clouds united over their heads, and a driving rain set full in their face.
chagrined and surprised, they were obliged, though unwillingly, to turn back, for no shelter was nearer than their own house.
one consolation however remained for them, to which the exigence of the moment gave more than usual propriety; it was that of running with all possible speed down the steep side of the hill which led immediately to their garden gate.
they set off.
marianne had at first the advantage, but a false step brought her suddenly to the ground; and margaret, unable to stop herself to assist her, was involuntarily hurried along, and reached the bottom in safety.
a gentleman carrying a gun, with two pointers playing round him, was passing up the hill and within a few yards of marianne, when her accident happened.
he put down his gun and ran to her assistance.
she had raised herself from the ground, but her foot had been twisted in her fall, and she was scarcely able to stand.
the gentleman offered his services; and perceiving that her modesty declined what her situation rendered necessary, took her up in his arms without farther delay, and carried her down the hill.
then passing through the garden, the gate of which had been left open by margaret, he bore her directly into the house, whither margaret was just arrived, and quitted not his hold till he had seated her in a chair in the parlour.
elinor and her mother rose up in amazement at their entrance, and while the eyes of both were fixed on him with an evident wonder and a secret admiration which equally sprung from his appearance, he apologized for his intrusion by relating its cause, in a manner so frank and so graceful that his person, which was uncommonly handsome, received additional charms from his voice and expression.
had he been even old, ugly, and vulgar, the gratitude and kindness of mrs. dashwood would have been secured by any act of attention to her child; but the influence of youth, beauty, and elegance, gave an interest to the action which came home to her feelings.
she thanked him again and again; and, with a sweetness of address which always attended her, invited him to be seated.
but this he declined, as he was dirty and wet.
mrs. dashwood then begged to know to whom she was obliged.
his name, he replied, was willoughby, and his present home was at allenham, from whence he hoped she would allow him the honour of calling tomorrow to enquire after miss dashwood.
the honour was readily granted, and he then departed, to make himself still more interesting, in the midst of a heavy rain.
his manly beauty and more than common gracefulness were instantly the theme of general admiration, and the laugh which his gallantry raised against marianne received particular spirit from his exterior attractions.
marianne herself had seen less of his mama the rest, for the confusion which crimsoned over her face, on his lifting her up, had robbed her of the power of regarding him after their entering the house.
but she had seen enough of him to join in all the admiration of the others, and with an energy which always adorned her praise.
his person and air were equal to what her fancy had ever drawn for the hero of a favourite story; and in his carrying her into the house with so little previous formality, there was a rapidity of thought which particularly recommended the action to her.
every circumstance belonging to him was interesting.
his name was good, his residence was in their favourite village, and she soon found out that of all manly dresses a shooting-jacket was the most becoming.
her imagination was busy, her reflections were pleasant, and the pain of a sprained ankle was disregarded.
sir john called on them as soon as the next interval of fair weather that morning allowed him to get out of doors; and marianne's accident being related to him, he was eagerly asked whether he knew any gentleman of the name of willoughby at allenham.
"willoughby!"
cried sir john; "what, is he in the country?
that is good news however; i will ride over tomorrow, and ask him to dinner on thursday."
"you know him then," said mrs. dashwood.
"know him!
to be sure i do.
why, he is down here every year."
"and what sort of a young man is he?"
"as good a kind of fellow as ever lived, i assure you.
a very decent shot, and there is not a bolder rider in england."
"and is that all you can say for him?"
cried marianne, indignantly.
"but what are his manners on more intimate acquaintance?
what his pursuits, his talents, and genius?"
sir john was rather puzzled.
"upon my soul," said he, "i do not know much about him as to all that.
but he is a pleasant, good humoured fellow, and has got the nicest little black bitch of a pointer i ever saw.
was she out with him today?"
but marianne could no more satisfy him as to the colour of mr.
willoughby's pointer, than he could describe to her the shades of his mind.
"but who is he?"
said elinor.
"where does he come from?
has he a house at allenham?"
on this point sir john could give more certain intelligence; and he told them that mr. willoughby had no property of his own in the country; that he resided there only while he was visiting the old lady at allenham court, to whom he was related, and whose possessions he was to inherit; adding, "yes, yes, he is very well worth catching i can tell you, miss dashwood; he has a pretty little estate of his own in somersetshire besides; and if i were you, i would not give him up to my younger sister, in spite of all this tumbling down hills.
miss marianne must not expect to have all the men to herself.
brandon will be jealous, if she does not take care."
"i do not believe," said mrs. dashwood, with a good humoured smile, "that mr. willoughby will be incommoded by the attempts of either of my daughters towards what you call catching him.
it is not an employment to which they have been brought up.
men are very safe with us, let them be ever so rich.
i am glad to find, however, from what you say, that he is a respectable young man, and one whose acquaintance will not be ineligible."
"he is as good a sort of fellow, i believe, as ever lived," repeated sir john.
"i remember last christmas at a little hop at the park, he danced from eight o'clock till four, without once sitting down."
"did he indeed?"
cried marianne with sparkling eyes, "and with elegance, with spirit?"
"yes; and he was up again at eight to ride to covert."
"that is what i like; that is what a young man ought to be.
whatever be his pursuits, his eagerness in them should know no moderation, and leave him no sense of fatigue."
"aye, aye, i see how it will be," said sir john, "i see how it will be.
you will be setting your cap at him now, and never think of poor brandon."
"that is an expression, sir john," said marianne, warmly, "which i particularly dislike.
i abhor every common-place phrase by which wit is intended; and 'setting one's cap at a man,' or 'making a conquest,'
are the most odious of all.
their tendency is gross and illiberal; and if their construction could ever be deemed clever, time has long ago destroyed all its ingenuity."
sir john did not much understand this reproof; but he laughed as heartily as if he did, and then replied,
"ay, you will make conquests enough, i dare say, one way or other.
poor brandon!
he is quite smitten already, and he is very well worth setting your cap at, i can tell you, in spite of all this tumbling about and spraining of ankles."
chapter 10
marianne's preserver, as margaret, with more elegance than precision, styled willoughby, called at the cottage early the next morning to make his personal enquiries.
he was received by mrs. dashwood with more than politeness; with a kindness which sir john's account of him and her own gratitude prompted; and every thing that passed during the visit tended to assure him of the sense, elegance, mutual affection, and domestic comfort of the family to whom accident had now introduced him.
of their personal charms he had not required a second interview to be convinced.
miss dashwood had a delicate complexion, regular features, and a remarkably pretty figure.
marianne was still handsomer.
her form, though not so correct as her sister's, in having the advantage of height, was more striking; and her face was so lovely, that when in the common cant of praise, she was called a beautiful girl, truth was less violently outraged than usually happens.
her skin was very brown, but, from its transparency, her complexion was uncommonly brilliant; her features were all good; her smile was sweet and attractive; and in her eyes, which were very dark, there was a life, a spirit, an eagerness, which could hardily be seen without delight.
from willoughby their expression was at first held back, by the embarrassment which the remembrance of his assistance created.
but when this passed away, when her spirits became collected, when she saw that to the perfect good-breeding of the gentleman, he united frankness and vivacity, and above all, when she heard him declare, that of music and dancing he was passionately fond, she gave him such a look of approbation as secured the largest share of his discourse to herself for the rest of his stay.
it was only necessary to mention any favourite amusement to engage her to talk.
she could not be silent when such points were introduced, and she had neither shyness nor reserve in their discussion.
they speedily discovered that their enjoyment of dancing and music was mutual, and that it arose from a general conformity of judgment in all that related to either.
encouraged by this to a further examination of his opinions, she proceeded to question him on the subject of books; her favourite authors were brought forward and dwelt upon with so rapturous a delight, that any young man of five and twenty must have been insensible indeed, not to become an immediate convert to the excellence of such works, however disregarded before.
their taste was strikingly alike.
the same books, the same passages were idolized by each or if any difference appeared, any objection arose, it lasted no longer than till the force of her arguments and the brightness of her eyes could be displayed.
he acquiesced in all her decisions, caught all her enthusiasm; and long before his visit concluded, they conversed with the familiarity of a long-established acquaintance.
"well, marianne," said elinor, as soon as he had left them, "for one morning i think you have done pretty well.
you have already ascertained mr. willoughby's opinion in almost every matter of importance.
you know what he thinks of cowper and scott; you are certain of his estimating their beauties as he ought, and you have received every assurance of his admiring pope no more than is proper.
but how is your acquaintance to be long supported, under such extraordinary despatch of every subject for discourse?
you will soon have exhausted each favourite topic.
another meeting will suffice to explain his sentiments on picturesque beauty, and second marriages, and then you can have nothing farther to ask."
"elinor," cried marianne, "is this fair?
is this just?
are my ideas so scanty?
but i see what you mean.
i have been too much at my ease, too happy, too frank.
i have erred against every common-place notion of decorum; i have been open and sincere where i ought to have been reserved, spiritless, dull, and deceitful had i talked only of the weather and the roads, and had i spoken only once in ten minutes, this reproach would have been spared."
"my love," said her mother, "you must not be offended with elinor she was only in jest.
i should scold her myself, if she were capable of wishing to check the delight of your conversation with our new friend."
marianne was softened in a moment.
willoughby, on his side, gave every proof of his pleasure in their acquaintance, which an evident wish of improving it could offer.
he came to them every day.
to enquire after marianne was at first his excuse; but the encouragement of his reception, to which every day gave greater kindness, made such an excuse unnecessary before it had ceased to be possible, by marianne's perfect recovery.
she was confined for some days to the house; but never had any confinement been less irksome.
willoughby was a young man of good abilities, quick imagination, lively spirits, and open, affectionate manners.
he was exactly formed to engage marianne's heart, for with all this, he joined not only a captivating person, but a natural ardour of mind which was now roused and increased by the example of her own, and which recommended him to her affection beyond every thing else.
his society became gradually her most exquisite enjoyment.
they read, they talked, they sang together; his musical talents were considerable; and he read with all the sensibility and spirit which edward had unfortunately wanted.
in mrs. dashwood's estimation he was as faultless as in marianne's; and elinor saw nothing to censure in him but a propensity, in which he strongly resembled and peculiarly delighted her sister, of saying too much what he thought on every occasion, without attention to persons or circumstances.
in hastily forming and giving his opinion of other people, in sacrificing general politeness to the enjoyment of undivided attention where his heart was engaged, and in slighting too easily the forms of worldly propriety, he displayed a want of caution which elinor could not approve, in spite of all that he and marianne could say in its support.
marianne began now to perceive that the desperation which had seized her at sixteen and a half, of ever seeing a man who could satisfy her ideas of perfection, had been rash and unjustifiable.
willoughby was all that her fancy had delineated in that unhappy hour and in every brighter period, as capable of attaching her; and his behaviour declared his wishes to be in that respect as earnest, as his abilities were strong.
her mother too, in whose mind not one speculative thought of their marriage had been raised, by his prospect of riches, was led before the end of a week to hope and expect it; and secretly to congratulate herself on having gained two such sons-in-law as edward and willoughby.
colonel brandon's partiality for marianne, which had so early been discovered by his friends, now first became perceptible to elinor, when it ceased to be noticed by them.
their attention and wit were drawn off to his more fortunate rival; and the raillery which the other had incurred before any partiality arose, was removed when his feelings began really to call for the ridicule so justly annexed to sensibility.
elinor was obliged, though unwillingly, to believe that the sentiments which mrs. jennings had assigned him for her own satisfaction, were now actually excited by her sister; and that however a general resemblance of disposition between the parties might forward the affection of mr.
willoughby, an equally striking opposition of character was no hindrance to the regard of colonel brandon.
she saw it with concern; for what could a silent man of five and thirty hope, when opposed to a very lively one of five and twenty?
and as she could not even wish him successful, she heartily wished him indifferent.
she liked him in spite of his gravity and reserve, she beheld in him an object of interest.
his manners, though serious, were mild; and his reserve appeared rather the result of some oppression of spirits than of any natural gloominess of temper.
sir john had dropped hints of past injuries and disappointments, which justified her belief of his being an unfortunate man, and she regarded him with respect and compassion.
perhaps she pitied and esteemed him the more because he was slighted by willoughby and marianne, who, prejudiced against him for being neither lively nor young, seemed resolved to undervalue his merits.
"brandon is just the kind of man," said willoughby one day, when they were talking of him together, "whom every body speaks well of, and nobody cares about; whom all are delighted to see, and nobody remembers to talk to."
"that is exactly what i think of him," cried marianne.
"do not boast of it, however," said elinor, "for it is injustice in both of you.
he is highly esteemed by all the family at the park, and i never see him myself without taking pains to converse with him."
"that he is patronised by you," replied willoughby, "is certainly in his favour; but as for the esteem of the others, it is a reproach in itself.
who would submit to the indignity of being approved by such a woman as lady middleton and mrs. jennings, that could command the indifference of any body else?"
"but perhaps the abuse of such people as yourself and marianne will make amends for the regard of lady middleton and her mother.
if their praise is censure, your censure may be praise, for they are not more undiscerning, than you are prejudiced and unjust."
"in defence of your protege you can even be saucy."
"my protege, as you call him, is a sensible man; and sense will always have attractions for me.
yes, marianne, even in a man between thirty and forty.
he has seen a great deal of the world; has been abroad, has read, and has a thinking mind.
i have found him capable of giving me much information on various subjects; and he has always answered my inquiries with readiness of good-breeding and good nature."
"that is to say," cried marianne contemptuously, "he has told you, that in the east indies the climate is hot, and the mosquitoes are troublesome."
"he would have told me so, i doubt not, had i made any such inquiries, but they happened to be points on which i had been previously informed."
"perhaps," said willoughby, "his observations may have extended to the existence of nabobs, gold mohrs, and palanquins."
"i may venture to say that his observations have stretched much further than your candour.
but why should you dislike him?"
"i do not dislike him.
i consider him, on the contrary, as a very respectable man, who has every body's good word, and nobody's notice; who, has more money than he can spend, more time than he knows how to employ, and two new coats every year."
"add to which," cried marianne, "that he has neither genius, taste, nor spirit.
that his understanding has no brilliancy, his feelings no ardour, and his voice no expression."
"you decide on his imperfections so much in the mass," replied elinor, "and so much on the strength of your own imagination, that the commendation i am able to give of him is comparatively cold and insipid.
i can only pronounce him to be a sensible man, well-bred, well-informed, of gentle address, and, i believe, possessing an amiable heart."
"miss dashwood," cried willoughby, "you are now using me unkindly.
you are endeavouring to disarm me by reason, and to convince me against my will.
but it will not do.
you shall find me as stubborn as you can be artful.
i have three unanswerable reasons for disliking colonel brandon; he threatened me with rain when i wanted it to be fine; he has found fault with the hanging of my curricle, and i cannot persuade him to buy my brown mare.
if it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told, that i believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, i am ready to confess it.
and in return for an acknowledgment, which must give me some pain, you cannot deny me the privilege of disliking him as much as ever."
chapter 11
little had mrs. dashwood or her daughters imagined when they first came into devonshire, that so many engagements would arise to occupy their time as shortly presented themselves, or that they should have such frequent invitations and such constant visitors as to leave them little leisure for serious employment.
yet such was the case.
when marianne was recovered, the schemes of amusement at home and abroad, which sir john had been previously forming, were put into execution.
the private balls at the park then began; and parties on the water were made and accomplished as often as a showery october would allow.
in every meeting of the kind willoughby was included; and the ease and familiarity which naturally attended these parties were exactly calculated to give increasing intimacy to his acquaintance with the dashwoods, to afford him opportunity of witnessing the excellencies of marianne, of marking his animated admiration of her, and of receiving, in her behaviour to himself, the most pointed assurance of her affection.
elinor could not be surprised at their attachment.
she only wished that it were less openly shewn; and once or twice did venture to suggest the propriety of some self-command to marianne.
but marianne abhorred all concealment where no real disgrace could attend unreserve; and to aim at the restraint of sentiments which were not in themselves illaudable, appeared to her not merely an unnecessary effort, but a disgraceful subjection of reason to common-place and mistaken notions.
willoughby thought the same; and their behaviour at all times, was an illustration of their opinions.
when he was present she had no eyes for any one else.
every thing he did, was right.
every thing he said, was clever.
if their evenings at the park were concluded with cards, he cheated himself and all the rest of the party to get her a good hand.
if dancing formed the amusement of the night, they were partners for half the time; and when obliged to separate for a couple of dances, were careful to stand together and scarcely spoke a word to any body else.
such conduct made them of course most exceedingly laughed at; but ridicule could not shame, and seemed hardly to provoke them.
mrs. dashwood entered into all their feelings with a warmth which left her no inclination for checking this excessive display of them.
to her it was but the natural consequence of a strong affection in a young and ardent mind.
this was the season of happiness to marianne.
her heart was devoted to willoughby, and the fond attachment to norland, which she brought with her from sussex, was more likely to be softened than she had thought it possible before, by the charms which his society bestowed on her present home.
elinor's happiness was not so great.
her heart was not so much at ease, nor her satisfaction in their amusements so pure.
they afforded her no companion that could make amends for what she had left behind, nor that could teach her to think of norland with less regret than ever.
neither lady middleton nor mrs. jennings could supply to her the conversation she missed; although the latter was an everlasting talker, and from the first had regarded her with a kindness which ensured her a large share of her discourse.
she had already repeated her own history to elinor three or four times; and had elinor's memory been equal to her means of improvement, she might have known very early in their acquaintance all the particulars of mr. jennings's last illness, and what he said to his wife a few minutes before he died.
lady middleton was more agreeable than her mother only in being more silent.
elinor needed little observation to perceive that her reserve was a mere calmness of manner with which sense had nothing to do.
towards her husband and mother she was the same as to them; and intimacy was therefore neither to be looked for nor desired.
she had nothing to say one day that she had not said the day before.
her insipidity was invariable, for even her spirits were always the same; and though she did not oppose the parties arranged by her husband, provided every thing were conducted in style and her two eldest children attended her, she never appeared to receive more enjoyment from them than she might have experienced in sitting at home; and so little did her presence add to the pleasure of the others, by any share in their conversation, that they were sometimes only reminded of her being amongst them by her solicitude about her troublesome boys.
in colonel brandon alone, of all her new acquaintance, did elinor find a person who could in any degree claim the respect of abilities, excite the interest of friendship, or give pleasure as a companion.
willoughby was out of the question.
her admiration and regard, even her sisterly regard, was all his own; but he was a lover; his attentions were wholly marianne's, and a far less agreeable man might have been more generally pleasing.
colonel brandon, unfortunately for himself, had no such encouragement to think only of marianne, and in conversing with elinor he found the greatest consolation for the indifference of her sister.
elinor's compassion for him increased, as she had reason to suspect that the misery of disappointed love had already been known to him.
this suspicion was given by some words which accidentally dropped from him one evening at the park, when they were sitting down together by mutual consent, while the others were dancing.
his eyes were fixed on marianne, and, after a silence of some minutes, he said, with a faint smile, "your sister, i understand, does not approve of second attachments."
"no," replied elinor, "her opinions are all romantic."
"or rather, as i believe, she considers them impossible to exist."
"i believe she does.
but how she contrives it without reflecting on the character of her own father, who had himself two wives, i know not.
a few years however will settle her opinions on the reasonable basis of common sense and observation; and then they may be more easy to define and to justify than they now are, by any body but herself."
"this will probably be the case," he replied; "and yet there is something so amiable in the prejudices of a young mind, that one is sorry to see them give way to the reception of more general opinions."
"i cannot agree with you there," said elinor.
"there are inconveniences attending such feelings as marianne's, which all the charms of enthusiasm and ignorance of the world cannot atone for.
her systems have all the unfortunate tendency of setting propriety at nought; and a better acquaintance with the world is what i look forward to as her greatest possible advantage."
after a short pause he resumed the conversation by saying,
"does your sister make no distinction in her objections against a second attachment?
or is it equally criminal in every body?
are those who have been disappointed in their first choice, whether from the inconstancy of its object, or the perverseness of circumstances, to be equally indifferent during the rest of their lives?"
"upon my word, i am not acquainted with the minutiae of her principles.
i only know that i never yet heard her admit any instance of a second attachment's being pardonable."
"this," said he, "cannot hold; but a change, a total change of sentiments no, no, do not desire it; for when the romantic refinements of a young mind are obliged to give way, how frequently are they succeeded by such opinions as are but too common, and too dangerous!
i speak from experience.
i once knew a lady who in temper and mind greatly resembled your sister, who thought and judged like her, but who from an inforced change from a series of unfortunate circumstances"
here he stopt suddenly; appeared to think that he had said too much, and by his countenance gave rise to conjectures, which might not otherwise have entered elinor's head.
the lady would probably have passed without suspicion, had he not convinced miss dashwood that what concerned her ought not to escape his lips.
as it was, it required but a slight effort of fancy to connect his emotion with the tender recollection of past regard.
elinor attempted no more.
but marianne, in her place, would not have done so little.
the whole story would have been speedily formed under her active imagination; and every thing established in the most melancholy order of disastrous love.
chapter 12
as elinor and marianne were walking together the next morning the latter communicated a piece of news to her sister, which in spite of all that she knew before of marianne's imprudence and want of thought, surprised her by its extravagant testimony of both.
marianne told her, with the greatest delight, that willoughby had given her a horse, one that he had bred himself on his estate in somersetshire, and which was exactly calculated to carry a woman.
without considering that it was not in her mother's plan to keep any horse, that if she were to alter her resolution in favour of this gift, she must buy another for the servant, and keep a servant to ride it, and after all, build a stable to receive them, she had accepted the present without hesitation, and told her sister of it in raptures.
"he intends to send his groom into somersetshire immediately for it,"
she added, "and when it arrives we will ride every day.
you shall share its use with me.
imagine to yourself, my dear elinor, the delight of a gallop on some of these downs."
most unwilling was she to awaken from such a dream of felicity to comprehend all the unhappy truths which attended the affair; and for some time she refused to submit to them.
as to an additional servant, the expense would be a trifle; mama she was sure would never object to it; and any horse would do for him; he might always get one at the park; as to a stable, the merest shed would be sufficient.
elinor then ventured to doubt the propriety of her receiving such a present from a man so little, or at least so lately known to her.
this was too much.
"you are mistaken, elinor," said she warmly, "in supposing i know very little of willoughby.
i have not known him long indeed, but i am much better acquainted with him, than i am with any other creature in the world, except yourself and mama.
it is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone.
seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.
i should hold myself guilty of greater impropriety in accepting a horse from my brother, than from willoughby.
of john i know very little, though we have lived together for years; but of willoughby my judgment has long been formed."
elinor thought it wisest to touch that point no more.
she knew her sister's temper.
opposition on so tender a subject would only attach her the more to her own opinion.
but by an appeal to her affection for her mother, by representing the inconveniences which that indulgent mother must draw on herself, if (as would probably be the case) she consented to this increase of establishment, marianne was shortly subdued; and she promised not to tempt her mother to such imprudent kindness by mentioning the offer, and to tell willoughby when she saw him next, that it must be declined.
she was faithful to her word; and when willoughby called at the cottage, the same day, elinor heard her express her disappointment to him in a low voice, on being obliged to forego the acceptance of his present.
the reasons for this alteration were at the same time related, and they were such as to make further entreaty on his side impossible.
his concern however was very apparent; and after expressing it with earnestness, he added, in the same low voice, "but, marianne, the horse is still yours, though you cannot use it now.
i shall keep it only till you can claim it.
when you leave barton to form your own establishment in a more lasting home, queen mab shall receive you."
this was all overheard by miss dashwood; and in the whole of the sentence, in his manner of pronouncing it, and in his addressing her sister by her christian name alone, she instantly saw an intimacy so decided, a meaning so direct, as marked a perfect agreement between them.
from that moment she doubted not of their being engaged to each other; and the belief of it created no other surprise than that she, or any of their friends, should be left by tempers so frank, to discover it by accident.
margaret related something to her the next day, which placed this matter in a still clearer light.
willoughby had spent the preceding evening with them, and margaret, by being left some time in the parlour with only him and marianne, had had opportunity for observations, which, with a most important face, she communicated to her eldest sister, when they were next by themselves.
"oh, elinor!"
she cried, "i have such a secret to tell you about marianne.
i am sure she will be married to mr. willoughby very soon."
"you have said so," replied elinor, "almost every day since they first met on high-church down; and they had not known each other a week, i believe, before you were certain that marianne wore his picture round her neck; but it turned out to be only the miniature of our great uncle."
"but indeed this is quite another thing.
i am sure they will be married very soon, for he has got a lock of her hair."
"take care, margaret.
it may be only the hair of some great uncle of his."
"but, indeed, elinor, it is marianne's.
i am almost sure it is, for i saw him cut it off.
last night after tea, when you and mama went out of the room, they were whispering and talking together as fast as could be, and he seemed to be begging something of her, and presently he took up her scissors and cut off a long lock of her hair, for it was all tumbled down her back; and he kissed it, and folded it up in a piece of white paper; and put it into his pocket-book."
for such particulars, stated on such authority, elinor could not withhold her credit; nor was she disposed to it, for the circumstance was in perfect unison with what she had heard and seen herself.
margaret's sagacity was not always displayed in a way so satisfactory to her sister.
when mrs. jennings attacked her one evening at the park, to give the name of the young man who was elinor's particular favourite, which had been long a matter of great curiosity to her, margaret answered by looking at her sister, and saying, "i must not tell, may i, elinor?"
this of course made every body laugh; and elinor tried to laugh too.
but the effort was painful.
she was convinced that margaret had fixed on a person whose name she could not bear with composure to become a standing joke with mrs. jennings.
marianne felt for her most sincerely; but she did more harm than good to the cause, by turning very red and saying in an angry manner to margaret,
"remember that whatever your conjectures may be, you have no right to repeat them."
"i never had any conjectures about it," replied margaret; "it was you who told me of it yourself."
this increased the mirth of the company, and margaret was eagerly pressed to say something more.
"oh!
pray, miss margaret, let us know all about it," said mrs.
jennings.
"what is the gentleman's name?"
"i must not tell, ma'am.
but i know very well what it is; and i know where he is too."
"yes, yes, we can guess where he is; at his own house at norland to be sure.
he is the curate of the parish i dare say."
"no, that he is not.
he is of no profession at all."
"margaret," said marianne with great warmth, "you know that all this is an invention of your own, and that there is no such person in existence."
"well, then, he is lately dead, marianne, for i am sure there was such a man once, and his name begins with an f."
most grateful did elinor feel to lady middleton for observing, at this moment, "that it rained very hard," though she believed the interruption to proceed less from any attention to her, than from her ladyship's great dislike of all such inelegant subjects of raillery as delighted her husband and mother.
the idea however started by her, was immediately pursued by colonel brandon, who was on every occasion mindful of the feelings of others; and much was said on the subject of rain by both of them.
willoughby opened the piano-forte, and asked marianne to sit down to it; and thus amidst the various endeavours of different people to quit the topic, it fell to the ground.
but not so easily did elinor recover from the alarm into which it had thrown her.
a party was formed this evening for going on the following day to see a very fine place about twelve miles from barton, belonging to a brother-in-law of colonel brandon, without whose interest it could not be seen, as the proprietor, who was then abroad, had left strict orders on that head.
the grounds were declared to be highly beautiful, and sir john, who was particularly warm in their praise, might be allowed to be a tolerable judge, for he had formed parties to visit them, at least, twice every summer for the last ten years.
they contained a noble piece of water; a sail on which was to a form a great part of the morning's amusement; cold provisions were to be taken, open carriages only to be employed, and every thing conducted in the usual style of a complete party of pleasure.
to some few of the company it appeared rather a bold undertaking, considering the time of year, and that it had rained every day for the last fortnight; and mrs. dashwood, who had already a cold, was persuaded by elinor to stay at home.
chapter 13
their intended excursion to whitwell turned out very different from what elinor had expected.
she was prepared to be wet through, fatigued, and frightened; but the event was still more unfortunate, for they did not go at all.
by ten o'clock the whole party was assembled at the park, where they were to breakfast.
the morning was rather favourable, though it had rained all night, as the clouds were then dispersing across the sky, and the sun frequently appeared.
they were all in high spirits and good humour, eager to be happy, and determined to submit to the greatest inconveniences and hardships rather than be otherwise.
while they were at breakfast the letters were brought in.
among the rest there was one for colonel brandon; he took it, looked at the direction, changed colour, and immediately left the room.
"what is the matter with brandon?"
said sir john.
nobody could tell.
"i hope he has had no bad news," said lady middleton.
"it must be something extraordinary that could make colonel brandon leave my breakfast table so suddenly."
in about five minutes he returned.
"no bad news, colonel, i hope;" said mrs. jennings, as soon as he entered the room.
"none at all, ma'am, i thank you."
"was it from avignon?
i hope it is not to say that your sister is worse."
"no, ma'am.
it came from town, and is merely a letter of business."
"but how came the hand to discompose you so much, if it was only a letter of business?
come, come, this won't do, colonel; so let us hear the truth of it."
"my dear madam," said lady middleton, "recollect what you are saying."
"perhaps it is to tell you that your cousin fanny is married?"
said mrs. jennings, without attending to her daughter's reproof.
"no, indeed, it is not."
"well, then, i know who it is from, colonel.
and i hope she is well."
"whom do you mean, ma'am?"
said he, colouring a little.
"oh!
you know who i mean."
"i am particularly sorry, ma'am," said he, addressing lady middleton, "that i should receive this letter today, for it is on business which requires my immediate attendance in town."
"in town!"
cried mrs. jennings.
"what can you have to do in town at this time of year?"
"my own loss is great," he continued, "in being obliged to leave so agreeable a party; but i am the more concerned, as i fear my presence is necessary to gain your admittance at whitwell."
what a blow upon them all was this!
"but if you write a note to the housekeeper, mr. brandon," said marianne, eagerly, "will it not be sufficient?"
he shook his head.
"we must go," said sir john.
"it shall not be put off when we are so near it.
you cannot go to town till tomorrow, brandon, that is all."
"i wish it could be so easily settled.
but it is not in my power to delay my journey for one day!"
"if you would but let us know what your business is," said mrs.
jennings, "we might see whether it could be put off or not."
"you would not be six hours later," said willoughby, "if you were to defer your journey till our return."
"i cannot afford to lose one hour."
elinor then heard willoughby say, in a low voice to marianne, "there are some people who cannot bear a party of pleasure.
brandon is one of them.
he was afraid of catching cold i dare say, and invented this trick for getting out of it.
i would lay fifty guineas the letter was of his own writing."
"i have no doubt of it," replied marianne.
"there is no persuading you to change your mind, brandon, i know of old," said sir john, "when once you are determined on anything.
but, however, i hope you will think better of it.
consider, here are the two miss careys come over from newton, the three miss dashwoods walked up from the cottage, and mr. willoughby got up two hours before his usual time, on purpose to go to whitwell."
colonel brandon again repeated his sorrow at being the cause of disappointing the party; but at the same time declared it to be unavoidable.
"well, then, when will you come back again?"
"i hope we shall see you at barton," added her ladyship, "as soon as you can conveniently leave town; and we must put off the party to whitwell till you return."
"you are very obliging.
but it is so uncertain, when i may have it in my power to return, that i dare not engage for it at all."
"oh!
he must and shall come back," cried sir john.
"if he is not here by the end of the week, i shall go after him."
"ay, so do, sir john," cried mrs. jennings, "and then perhaps you may find out what his business is."
"i do not want to pry into other men's concerns.
i suppose it is something he is ashamed of."
colonel brandon's horses were announced.
"you do not go to town on horseback, do you?"
added sir john.
"no.
only to honiton.
i shall then go post."
"well, as you are resolved to go, i wish you a good journey.
but you had better change your mind."
"i assure you it is not in my power."
he then took leave of the whole party.
"is there no chance of my seeing you and your sisters in town this winter, miss dashwood?"
"i am afraid, none at all."
"then i must bid you farewell for a longer time than i should wish to do."
to marianne, he merely bowed and said nothing.
"come colonel," said mrs. jennings, "before you go, do let us know what you are going about."
he wished her a good morning, and, attended by sir john, left the room.
the complaints and lamentations which politeness had hitherto restrained, now burst forth universally; and they all agreed again and again how provoking it was to be so disappointed.
"i can guess what his business is, however," said mrs. jennings exultingly.
"can you, ma'am?"
said almost every body.
"yes; it is about miss williams, i am sure."
"and who is miss williams?"
asked marianne.
"what!
do not you know who miss williams is?
i am sure you must have heard of her before.
she is a relation of the colonel's, my dear; a very near relation.
we will not say how near, for fear of shocking the young ladies."
then, lowering her voice a little, she said to elinor, "she is his natural daughter."
"indeed!"
"oh, yes; and as like him as she can stare.
i dare say the colonel will leave her all his fortune."
when sir john returned, he joined most heartily in the general regret on so unfortunate an event; concluding however by observing, that as they were all got together, they must do something by way of being happy; and after some consultation it was agreed, that although happiness could only be enjoyed at whitwell, they might procure a tolerable composure of mind by driving about the country.
the carriages were then ordered; willoughby's was first, and marianne never looked happier than when she got into it.
he drove through the park very fast, and they were soon out of sight; and nothing more of them was seen till their return, which did not happen till after the return of all the rest.
they both seemed delighted with their drive; but said only in general terms that they had kept in the lanes, while the others went on the downs.
it was settled that there should be a dance in the evening, and that every body should be extremely merry all day long.
some more of the careys came to dinner, and they had the pleasure of sitting down nearly twenty to table, which sir john observed with great contentment.
willoughby took his usual place between the two elder miss dashwoods.
mrs. jennings sat on elinor's right hand; and they had not been long seated, before she leant behind her and willoughby, and said to marianne, loud enough for them both to hear, "i have found you out in spite of all your tricks.
i know where you spent the morning."
marianne coloured, and replied very hastily, "where, pray?"
"did not you know," said willoughby, "that we had been out in my curricle?"
"yes, yes, mr. impudence, i know that very well, and i was determined to find out where you had been to.
i hope you like your house, miss marianne.
it is a very large one, i know; and when i come to see you, i hope you will have new-furnished it, for it wanted it very much when i was there six years ago."
marianne turned away in great confusion.
mrs. jennings laughed heartily; and elinor found that in her resolution to know where they had been, she had actually made her own woman enquire of mr.
willoughby's groom; and that she had by that method been informed that they had gone to allenham, and spent a considerable time there in walking about the garden and going all over the house.
elinor could hardly believe this to be true, as it seemed very unlikely that willoughby should propose, or marianne consent, to enter the house while mrs. smith was in it, with whom marianne had not the smallest acquaintance.
as soon as they left the dining-room, elinor enquired of her about it; and great was her surprise when she found that every circumstance related by mrs. jennings was perfectly true.
marianne was quite angry with her for doubting it.
"why should you imagine, elinor, that we did not go there, or that we did not see the house?
is not it what you have often wished to do yourself?"
"yes, marianne, but i would not go while mrs. smith was there, and with no other companion than mr.
willoughby."
"mr. willoughby however is the only person who can have a right to shew that house; and as he went in an open carriage, it was impossible to have any other companion.
i never spent a pleasanter morning in my life."
"i am afraid," replied elinor, "that the pleasantness of an employment does not always evince its propriety."
"on the contrary, nothing can be a stronger proof of it, elinor; for if there had been any real impropriety in what i did, i should have been sensible of it at the time, for we always know when we are acting wrong, and with such a conviction i could have had no pleasure."
"but, my dear marianne, as it has already exposed you to some very impertinent remarks, do you not now begin to doubt the discretion of your own conduct?"
"if the impertinent remarks of mrs. jennings are to be the proof of impropriety in conduct, we are all offending every moment of our lives.
i value not her censure any more than i should do her commendation.
i am not sensible of having done anything wrong in walking over mrs.
smith's grounds, or in seeing her house.
they will one day be mr.
willoughby's, and "
"if they were one day to be your own, marianne, you would not be justified in what you have done."
she blushed at this hint; but it was even visibly gratifying to her; and after a ten minutes' interval of earnest thought, she came to her sister again, and said with great good humour, "perhaps, elinor, it was rather ill-judged in me to go to allenham; but mr. willoughby wanted particularly to shew me the place; and it is a charming house, i assure you.
there is one remarkably pretty sitting room up stairs; of a nice comfortable size for constant use, and with modern furniture it would be delightful.
it is a corner room, and has windows on two sides.
on one side you look across the bowling-green, behind the house, to a beautiful hanging wood, and on the other you have a view of the church and village, and, beyond them, of those fine bold hills that we have so often admired.
i did not see it to advantage, for nothing could be more forlorn than the furniture, but if it were newly fitted up a couple of hundred pounds, willoughby says, would make it one of the pleasantest summer-rooms in england."
could elinor have listened to her without interruption from the others, she would have described every room in the house with equal delight.
chapter 14
the sudden termination of colonel brandon's visit at the park, with his steadiness in concealing its cause, filled the mind, and raised the wonder of mrs. jennings for two or three days; she was a great wonderer, as every one must be who takes a very lively interest in all the comings and goings of all their acquaintance.
she wondered, with little intermission what could be the reason of it; was sure there must be some bad news, and thought over every kind of distress that could have befallen him, with a fixed determination that he should not escape them all.
"something very melancholy must be the matter, i am sure," said she.
"i could see it in his face.
poor man!
i am afraid his circumstances may be bad.
the estate at delaford was never reckoned more than two thousand a year, and his brother left everything sadly involved.
i do think he must have been sent for about money matters, for what else can it be?
i wonder whether it is so.
i would give anything to know the truth of it.
perhaps it is about miss williams and, by the bye, i dare say it is, because he looked so conscious when i mentioned her.
may be she is ill in town; nothing in the world more likely, for i have a notion she is always rather sickly.
i would lay any wager it is about miss williams.
it is not so very likely he should be distressed in his circumstances now, for he is a very prudent man, and to be sure must have cleared the estate by this time.
i wonder what it can be!
may be his sister is worse at avignon, and has sent for him over.
his setting off in such a hurry seems very like it.
well, i wish him out of all his trouble with all my heart, and a good wife into the bargain."
so wondered, so talked mrs. jennings.
her opinion varying with every fresh conjecture, and all seeming equally probable as they arose.
elinor, though she felt really interested in the welfare of colonel brandon, could not bestow all the wonder on his going so suddenly away, which mrs. jennings was desirous of her feeling; for besides that the circumstance did not in her opinion justify such lasting amazement or variety of speculation, her wonder was otherwise disposed of.
it was engrossed by the extraordinary silence of her sister and willoughby on the subject, which they must know to be peculiarly interesting to them all.
as this silence continued, every day made it appear more strange and more incompatible with the disposition of both.
why they should not openly acknowledge to her mother and herself, what their constant behaviour to each other declared to have taken place, elinor could not imagine.
she could easily conceive that marriage might not be immediately in their power; for though willoughby was independent, there was no reason to believe him rich.
his estate had been rated by sir john at about six or seven hundred a year; but he lived at an expense to which that income could hardly be equal, and he had himself often complained of his poverty.
but for this strange kind of secrecy maintained by them relative to their engagement, which in fact concealed nothing at all, she could not account; and it was so wholly contradictory to their general opinions and practice, that a doubt sometimes entered her mind of their being really engaged, and this doubt was enough to prevent her making any inquiry of marianne.
nothing could be more expressive of attachment to them all, than willoughby's behaviour.
to marianne it had all the distinguishing tenderness which a lover's heart could give, and to the rest of the family it was the affectionate attention of a son and a brother.
the cottage seemed to be considered and loved by him as his home; many more of his hours were spent there than at allenham; and if no general engagement collected them at the park, the exercise which called him out in the morning was almost certain of ending there, where the rest of the day was spent by himself at the side of marianne, and by his favourite pointer at her feet.
one evening in particular, about a week after colonel brandon left the country, his heart seemed more than usually open to every feeling of attachment to the objects around him; and on mrs. dashwood's happening to mention her design of improving the cottage in the spring, he warmly opposed every alteration of a place which affection had established as perfect with him.
"what!"
he exclaimed "improve this dear cottage!
no.
that i will never consent to.
not a stone must be added to its walls, not an inch to its size, if my feelings are regarded."
"do not be alarmed," said miss dashwood, "nothing of the kind will be done; for my mother will never have money enough to attempt it."
"i am heartily glad of it," he cried.
"may she always be poor, if she can employ her riches no better."
"thank you, willoughby.
but you may be assured that i would not sacrifice one sentiment of local attachment of yours, or of any one whom i loved, for all the improvements in the world.
depend upon it that whatever unemployed sum may remain, when i make up my accounts in the spring, i would even rather lay it uselessly by than dispose of it in a manner so painful to you.
but are you really so attached to this place as to see no defect in it?"
"i am," said he.
"to me it is faultless.
nay, more, i consider it as the only form of building in which happiness is attainable, and were i rich enough i would instantly pull combe down, and build it up again in the exact plan of this cottage."
"with dark narrow stairs and a kitchen that smokes, i suppose," said elinor.
"yes," cried he in the same eager tone, "with all and every thing belonging to it; in no one convenience or inconvenience about it, should the least variation be perceptible.
then, and then only, under such a roof, i might perhaps be as happy at combe as i have been at barton."
"i flatter myself," replied elinor, "that even under the disadvantage of better rooms and a broader staircase, you will hereafter find your own house as faultless as you now do this."
"there certainly are circumstances," said willoughby, "which might greatly endear it to me; but this place will always have one claim of my affection, which no other can possibly share."
mrs. dashwood looked with pleasure at marianne, whose fine eyes were fixed so expressively on willoughby, as plainly denoted how well she understood him.
"how often did i wish," added he, "when i was at allenham this time twelvemonth, that barton cottage were inhabited!
i never passed within view of it without admiring its situation, and grieving that no one should live in it.
how little did i then think that the very first news i should hear from mrs. smith, when i next came into the country, would be that barton cottage was taken: and i felt an immediate satisfaction and interest in the event, which nothing but a kind of prescience of what happiness i should experience from it, can account for.
must it not have been so, marianne?"
speaking to her in a lowered voice.
then continuing his former tone, he said, "and yet this house you would spoil, mrs. dashwood?
you would rob it of its simplicity by imaginary improvement!
and this dear parlour in which our acquaintance first began, and in which so many happy hours have been since spent by us together, you would degrade to the condition of a common entrance, and every body would be eager to pass through the room which has hitherto contained within itself more real accommodation and comfort than any other apartment of the handsomest dimensions in the world could possibly afford."
mrs. dashwood again assured him that no alteration of the kind should be attempted.
"you are a good woman," he warmly replied.
"your promise makes me easy.
extend it a little farther, and it will make me happy.
tell me that not only your house will remain the same, but that i shall ever find you and yours as unchanged as your dwelling; and that you will always consider me with the kindness which has made everything belonging to you so dear to me."
the promise was readily given, and willoughby's behaviour during the whole of the evening declared at once his affection and happiness.
"shall we see you tomorrow to dinner?"
said mrs. dashwood, when he was leaving them.
"i do not ask you to come in the morning, for we must walk to the park, to call on lady middleton."
he engaged to be with them by four o'clock.
chapter 15
mrs. dashwood's visit to lady middleton took place the next day, and two of her daughters went with her; but marianne excused herself from being of the party, under some trifling pretext of employment; and her mother, who concluded that a promise had been made by willoughby the night before of calling on her while they were absent, was perfectly satisfied with her remaining at home.
on their return from the park they found willoughby's curricle and servant in waiting at the cottage, and mrs. dashwood was convinced that her conjecture had been just.
so far it was all as she had foreseen; but on entering the house she beheld what no foresight had taught her to expect.
they were no sooner in the passage than marianne came hastily out of the parlour apparently in violent affliction, with her handkerchief at her eyes; and without noticing them ran up stairs.
surprised and alarmed they proceeded directly into the room she had just quitted, where they found only willoughby, who was leaning against the mantel-piece with his back towards them.
he turned round on their coming in, and his countenance shewed that he strongly partook of the emotion which over-powered marianne.
"is anything the matter with her?"
cried mrs. dashwood as she entered "is she ill?"
"i hope not," he replied, trying to look cheerful; and with a forced smile presently added, "it is i who may rather expect to be ill for i am now suffering under a very heavy disappointment!"
"disappointment?"
"yes, for i am unable to keep my engagement with you.
mrs. smith has this morning exercised the privilege of riches upon a poor dependent cousin, by sending me on business to london.
i have just received my dispatches, and taken my farewell of allenham; and by way of exhilaration i am now come to take my farewell of you."
"to london!
and are you going this morning?"
"almost this moment."
"this is very unfortunate.
but mrs. smith must be obliged; and her business will not detain you from us long i hope."
he coloured as he replied, "you are very kind, but i have no idea of returning into devonshire immediately.
my visits to mrs. smith are never repeated within the twelvemonth."
"and is mrs. smith your only friend?
is allenham the only house in the neighbourhood to which you will be welcome?
for shame, willoughby, can you wait for an invitation here?"
his colour increased; and with his eyes fixed on the ground he only replied, "you are too good."
mrs. dashwood looked at elinor with surprise.
elinor felt equal amazement.
for a few moments every one was silent.
mrs. dashwood first spoke.
"i have only to add, my dear willoughby, that at barton cottage you will always be welcome; for i will not press you to return here immediately, because you only can judge how far that might be pleasing to mrs. smith; and on this head i shall be no more disposed to question your judgment than to doubt your inclination."
"my engagements at present," replied willoughby, confusedly, "are of such a nature that i dare not flatter myself"
he stopt.
mrs. dashwood was too much astonished to speak, and another pause succeeded.
this was broken by willoughby, who said with a faint smile, "it is folly to linger in this manner.
i will not torment myself any longer by remaining among friends whose society it is impossible for me now to enjoy."
he then hastily took leave of them all and left the room.
they saw him step into his carriage, and in a minute it was out of sight.
mrs. dashwood felt too much for speech, and instantly quitted the parlour to give way in solitude to the concern and alarm which this sudden departure occasioned.
elinor's uneasiness was at least equal to her mother's.
she thought of what had just passed with anxiety and distrust.
willoughby's behaviour in taking leave of them, his embarrassment, and affectation of cheerfulness, and, above all, his unwillingness to accept her mother's invitation, a backwardness so unlike a lover, so unlike himself, greatly disturbed her.
one moment she feared that no serious design had ever been formed on his side; and the next that some unfortunate quarrel had taken place between him and her sister; the distress in which marianne had quitted the room was such as a serious quarrel could most reasonably account for, though when she considered what marianne's love for him was, a quarrel seemed almost impossible.
but whatever might be the particulars of their separation, her sister's affliction was indubitable; and she thought with the tenderest compassion of that violent sorrow which marianne was in all probability not merely giving way to as a relief, but feeding and encouraging as a duty.
in about half an hour her mother returned, and though her eyes were red, her countenance was not uncheerful.
"our dear willoughby is now some miles from barton, elinor," said she, as she sat down to work, "and with how heavy a heart does he travel?"
"it is all very strange.
so suddenly to be gone!
it seems but the work of a moment.
and last night he was with us so happy, so cheerful, so affectionate?
and now, after only ten minutes notice gone too without intending to return!
something more than what he owned to us must have happened.
he did not speak, he did not behave like himself.
you must have seen the difference as well as i.  what can it be?
can they have quarrelled?
why else should he have shewn such unwillingness to accept your invitation here?"
"it was not inclination that he wanted, elinor; i could plainly see that.
he had not the power of accepting it.
i have thought it all over i assure you, and i can perfectly account for every thing that at first seemed strange to me as well as to you."
"can you, indeed!"
"yes.
i have explained it to myself in the most satisfactory way; but you, elinor, who love to doubt where you can it will not satisfy you, i know; but you shall not talk me out of my trust in it.
i am persuaded that mrs. smith suspects his regard for marianne, disapproves of it, (perhaps because she has other views for him,) and on that account is eager to get him away; and that the business which she sends him off to transact is invented as an excuse to dismiss him.
this is what i believe to have happened.
he is, moreover, aware that she does disapprove the connection, he dares not therefore at present confess to her his engagement with marianne, and he feels himself obliged, from his dependent situation, to give into her schemes, and absent himself from devonshire for a while.
you will tell me, i know, that this may or may not have happened; but i will listen to no cavil, unless you can point out any other method of understanding the affair as satisfactory at this.
and now, elinor, what have you to say?"
"nothing, for you have anticipated my answer."
"then you would have told me, that it might or might not have happened.
oh, elinor, how incomprehensible are your feelings!
you had rather take evil upon credit than good.
you had rather look out for misery for marianne, and guilt for poor willoughby, than an apology for the latter.
you are resolved to think him blameable, because he took leave of us with less affection than his usual behaviour has shewn.
and is no allowance to be made for inadvertence, or for spirits depressed by recent disappointment?
are no probabilities to be accepted, merely because they are not certainties?
is nothing due to the man whom we have all such reason to love, and no reason in the world to think ill of?
to the possibility of motives unanswerable in themselves, though unavoidably secret for a while?
and, after all, what is it you suspect him of?"
"i can hardly tell myself.
but suspicion of something unpleasant is the inevitable consequence of such an alteration as we just witnessed in him.
there is great truth, however, in what you have now urged of the allowances which ought to be made for him, and it is my wish to be candid in my judgment of every body.
willoughby may undoubtedly have very sufficient reasons for his conduct, and i will hope that he has.
but it would have been more like willoughby to acknowledge them at once.
secrecy may be advisable; but still i cannot help wondering at its being practiced by him."
"do not blame him, however, for departing from his character, where the deviation is necessary.
but you really do admit the justice of what i have said in his defence?
i am happy and he is acquitted."
"not entirely.
it may be proper to conceal their engagement (if they are engaged) from mrs. smith and if that is the case, it must be highly expedient for willoughby to be but little in devonshire at present.
but this is no excuse for their concealing it from us."
"concealing it from us!
my dear child, do you accuse willoughby and marianne of concealment?
this is strange indeed, when your eyes have been reproaching them every day for incautiousness."
"i want no proof of their affection," said elinor; "but of their engagement i do."
"i am perfectly satisfied of both."
"yet not a syllable has been said to you on the subject, by either of them."
"i have not wanted syllables where actions have spoken so plainly.
has not his behaviour to marianne and to all of us, for at least the last fortnight, declared that he loved and considered her as his future wife, and that he felt for us the attachment of the nearest relation?
have we not perfectly understood each other?
has not my consent been daily asked by his looks, his manner, his attentive and affectionate respect?
my elinor, is it possible to doubt their engagement?
how could such a thought occur to you?
how is it to be supposed that willoughby, persuaded as he must be of your sister's love, should leave her, and leave her perhaps for months, without telling her of his affection; that they should part without a mutual exchange of confidence?"
"i confess," replied elinor, "that every circumstance except one is in favour of their engagement; but that one is the total silence of both on the subject, and with me it almost outweighs every other."
"how strange this is!
you must think wretchedly indeed of willoughby, if, after all that has openly passed between them, you can doubt the nature of the terms on which they are together.
has he been acting a part in his behaviour to your sister all this time?
do you suppose him really indifferent to her?"
"no, i cannot think that.
he must and does love her i am sure."
"but with a strange kind of tenderness, if he can leave her with such indifference, such carelessness of the future, as you attribute to him."
"you must remember, my dear mother, that i have never considered this matter as certain.
i have had my doubts, i confess; but they are fainter than they were, and they may soon be entirely done away.
if we find they correspond, every fear of mine will be removed."
"a mighty concession indeed!
if you were to see them at the altar, you would suppose they were going to be married.
ungracious girl!
but i require no such proof.
nothing in my opinion has ever passed to justify doubt; no secrecy has been attempted; all has been uniformly open and unreserved.
you cannot doubt your sister's wishes.
it must be willoughby therefore whom you suspect.
but why?
is he not a man of honour and feeling?
has there been any inconsistency on his side to create alarm?
can he be deceitful?"
"i hope not, i believe not," cried elinor.
"i love willoughby, sincerely love him; and suspicion of his integrity cannot be more painful to yourself than to me.
it has been involuntary, and i will not encourage it.
i was startled, i confess, by the alteration in his manners this morning; he did not speak like himself, and did not return your kindness with any cordiality.
but all this may be explained by such a situation of his affairs as you have supposed.
he had just parted from my sister, had seen her leave him in the greatest affliction; and if he felt obliged, from a fear of offending mrs.
smith, to resist the temptation of returning here soon, and yet aware that by declining your invitation, by saying that he was going away for some time, he should seem to act an ungenerous, a suspicious part by our family, he might well be embarrassed and disturbed.
in such a case, a plain and open avowal of his difficulties would have been more to his honour i think, as well as more consistent with his general character; but i will not raise objections against any one's conduct on so illiberal a foundation, as a difference in judgment from myself, or a deviation from what i may think right and consistent."
"you speak very properly.
willoughby certainly does not deserve to be suspected.
though we have not known him long, he is no stranger in this part of the world; and who has ever spoken to his disadvantage?
had he been in a situation to act independently and marry immediately, it might have been odd that he should leave us without acknowledging everything to me at once: but this is not the case.
it is an engagement in some respects not prosperously begun, for their marriage must be at a very uncertain distance; and even secrecy, as far as it can be observed, may now be very advisable."
they were interrupted by the entrance of margaret; and elinor was then at liberty to think over the representations of her mother, to acknowledge the probability of many, and hope for the justice of all.
they saw nothing of marianne till dinner time, when she entered the room and took her place at the table without saying a word.
her eyes were red and swollen; and it seemed as if her tears were even then restrained with difficulty.
she avoided the looks of them all, could neither eat nor speak, and after some time, on her mother's silently pressing her hand with tender compassion, her small degree of fortitude was quite overcome, she burst into tears and left the room.
this violent oppression of spirits continued the whole evening.
she was without any power, because she was without any desire of command over herself.
the slightest mention of anything relative to willoughby overpowered her in an instant; and though her family were most anxiously attentive to her comfort, it was impossible for them, if they spoke at all, to keep clear of every subject which her feelings connected with him.
chapter 16
marianne would have thought herself very inexcusable had she been able to sleep at all the first night after parting from willoughby.
she would have been ashamed to look her family in the face the next morning, had she not risen from her bed in more need of repose than when she lay down in it.
but the feelings which made such composure a disgrace, left her in no danger of incurring it.
she was awake the whole night, and she wept the greatest part of it.
she got up with a headache, was unable to talk, and unwilling to take any nourishment; giving pain every moment to her mother and sisters, and forbidding all attempt at consolation from either.
her sensibility was potent enough!
when breakfast was over she walked out by herself, and wandered about the village of allenham, indulging the recollection of past enjoyment and crying over the present reverse for the chief of the morning.
the evening passed off in the equal indulgence of feeling.
she played over every favourite song that she had been used to play to willoughby, every air in which their voices had been oftenest joined, and sat at the instrument gazing on every line of music that he had written out for her, till her heart was so heavy that no farther sadness could be gained; and this nourishment of grief was every day applied.
she spent whole hours at the pianoforte alternately singing and crying; her voice often totally suspended by her tears.
in books too, as well as in music, she courted the misery which a contrast between the past and present was certain of giving.
she read nothing but what they had been used to read together.
such violence of affliction indeed could not be supported for ever; it sunk within a few days into a calmer melancholy; but these employments, to which she daily recurred, her solitary walks and silent meditations, still produced occasional effusions of sorrow as lively as ever.
no letter from willoughby came; and none seemed expected by marianne.
her mother was surprised, and elinor again became uneasy.
but mrs.
dashwood could find explanations whenever she wanted them, which at least satisfied herself.
"remember, elinor," said she, "how very often sir john fetches our letters himself from the post, and carries them to it.
we have already agreed that secrecy may be necessary, and we must acknowledge that it could not be maintained if their correspondence were to pass through sir john's hands."
elinor could not deny the truth of this, and she tried to find in it a motive sufficient for their silence.
but there was one method so direct, so simple, and in her opinion so eligible of knowing the real state of the affair, and of instantly removing all mystery, that she could not help suggesting it to her mother.
"why do you not ask marianne at once," said she, "whether she is or she is not engaged to willoughby?
from you, her mother, and so kind, so indulgent a mother, the question could not give offence.
it would be the natural result of your affection for her.
she used to be all unreserve, and to you more especially."
"i would not ask such a question for the world.
supposing it possible that they are not engaged, what distress would not such an enquiry inflict!
at any rate it would be most ungenerous.
i should never deserve her confidence again, after forcing from her a confession of what is meant at present to be unacknowledged to any one.
i know marianne's heart: i know that she dearly loves me, and that i shall not be the last to whom the affair is made known, when circumstances make the revealment of it eligible.
i would not attempt to force the confidence of any one; of a child much less; because a sense of duty would prevent the denial which her wishes might direct."
elinor thought this generosity overstrained, considering her sister's youth, and urged the matter farther, but in vain; common sense, common care, common prudence, were all sunk in mrs. dashwood's romantic delicacy.
it was several days before willoughby's name was mentioned before marianne by any of her family; sir john and mrs. jennings, indeed, were not so nice; their witticisms added pain to many a painful hour; but one evening, mrs. dashwood, accidentally taking up a volume of shakespeare, exclaimed,
"we have never finished hamlet, marianne; our dear willoughby went away before we could get through it.
we will put it by, that when he comes again...but it may be months, perhaps, before that happens."
"months!"
cried marianne, with strong surprise.
"no nor many weeks."
mrs. dashwood was sorry for what she had said; but it gave elinor pleasure, as it produced a reply from marianne so expressive of confidence in willoughby and knowledge of his intentions.
one morning, about a week after his leaving the country, marianne was prevailed on to join her sisters in their usual walk, instead of wandering away by herself.
hitherto she had carefully avoided every companion in her rambles.
if her sisters intended to walk on the downs, she directly stole away towards the lanes; if they talked of the valley, she was as speedy in climbing the hills, and could never be found when the others set off.
but at length she was secured by the exertions of elinor, who greatly disapproved such continual seclusion.
they walked along the road through the valley, and chiefly in silence, for marianne's mind could not be controlled, and elinor, satisfied with gaining one point, would not then attempt more.
beyond the entrance of the valley, where the country, though still rich, was less wild and more open, a long stretch of the road which they had travelled on first coming to barton, lay before them; and on reaching that point, they stopped to look around them, and examine a prospect which formed the distance of their view from the cottage, from a spot which they had never happened to reach in any of their walks before.
amongst the objects in the scene, they soon discovered an animated one; it was a man on horseback riding towards them.
in a few minutes they could distinguish him to be a gentleman; and in a moment afterwards marianne rapturously exclaimed,
"it is he; it is indeed; i know it is!"
and was hastening to meet him, when elinor cried out,
"indeed, marianne, i think you are mistaken.
it is not willoughby.
the person is not tall enough for him, and has not his air."
"he has, he has," cried marianne, "i am sure he has.
his air, his coat, his horse.
i knew how soon he would come."
she walked eagerly on as she spoke; and elinor, to screen marianne from particularity, as she felt almost certain of its not being willoughby, quickened her pace and kept up with her.
they were soon within thirty yards of the gentleman.
marianne looked again; her heart sunk within her; and abruptly turning round, she was hurrying back, when the voices of both her sisters were raised to detain her; a third, almost as well known as willoughby's, joined them in begging her to stop, and she turned round with surprise to see and welcome edward ferrars.
he was the only person in the world who could at that moment be forgiven for not being willoughby; the only one who could have gained a smile from her; but she dispersed her tears to smile on him, and in her sister's happiness forgot for a time her own disappointment.
he dismounted, and giving his horse to his servant, walked back with them to barton, whither he was purposely coming to visit them.
he was welcomed by them all with great cordiality, but especially by marianne, who showed more warmth of regard in her reception of him than even elinor herself.
to marianne, indeed, the meeting between edward and her sister was but a continuation of that unaccountable coldness which she had often observed at norland in their mutual behaviour.
on edward's side, more particularly, there was a deficiency of all that a lover ought to look and say on such an occasion.
he was confused, seemed scarcely sensible of pleasure in seeing them, looked neither rapturous nor gay, said little but what was forced from him by questions, and distinguished elinor by no mark of affection.
marianne saw and listened with increasing surprise.
she began almost to feel a dislike of edward; and it ended, as every feeling must end with her, by carrying back her thoughts to willoughby, whose manners formed a contrast sufficiently striking to those of his brother elect.
after a short silence which succeeded the first surprise and enquiries of meeting, marianne asked edward if he came directly from london.
no, he had been in devonshire a fortnight.
"a fortnight!"
she repeated, surprised at his being so long in the same county with elinor without seeing her before.
he looked rather distressed as he added, that he had been staying with some friends near plymouth.
"have you been lately in sussex?"
said elinor.
"i was at norland about a month ago."
"and how does dear, dear norland look?"
cried marianne.
"dear, dear norland," said elinor, "probably looks much as it always does at this time of the year.
the woods and walks thickly covered with dead leaves."
"oh," cried marianne, "with what transporting sensation have i formerly seen them fall!
how have i delighted, as i walked, to see them driven in showers about me by the wind!
what feelings have they, the season, the air altogether inspired!
now there is no one to regard them.
they are seen only as a nuisance, swept hastily off, and driven as much as possible from the sight."
"it is not every one," said elinor, "who has your passion for dead leaves."
"no; my feelings are not often shared, not often understood.
but sometimes they are."
as she said this, she sunk into a reverie for a few moments; but rousing herself again, "now, edward," said she, calling his attention to the prospect, "here is barton valley.
look up to it, and be tranquil if you can.
look at those hills!
did you ever see their equals?
to the left is barton park, amongst those woods and plantations.
you may see the end of the house.
and there, beneath that farthest hill, which rises with such grandeur, is our cottage."
"it is a beautiful country," he replied; "but these bottoms must be dirty in winter."
"how can you think of dirt, with such objects before you?"
"because," replied he, smiling, "among the rest of the objects before me, i see a very dirty lane."
"how strange!"
said marianne to herself as she walked on.
"have you an agreeable neighbourhood here?
are the middletons pleasant people?"
"no, not all," answered marianne; "we could not be more unfortunately situated."
"marianne," cried her sister, "how can you say so?
how can you be so unjust?
they are a very respectable family, mr. ferrars; and towards us have behaved in the friendliest manner.
have you forgot, marianne, how many pleasant days we have owed to them?"
"no," said marianne, in a low voice, "nor how many painful moments."
elinor took no notice of this; and directing her attention to their visitor, endeavoured to support something like discourse with him, by talking of their present residence, its conveniences, &c. extorting from him occasional questions and remarks.
his coldness and reserve mortified her severely; she was vexed and half angry; but resolving to regulate her behaviour to him by the past rather than the present, she avoided every appearance of resentment or displeasure, and treated him as she thought he ought to be treated from the family connection.
chapter 17
mrs. dashwood was surprised only for a moment at seeing him; for his coming to barton was, in her opinion, of all things the most natural.
her joy and expression of regard long outlived her wonder.
he received the kindest welcome from her; and shyness, coldness, reserve could not stand against such a reception.
they had begun to fail him before he entered the house, and they were quite overcome by the captivating manners of mrs. dashwood.
indeed a man could not very well be in love with either of her daughters, without extending the passion to her; and elinor had the satisfaction of seeing him soon become more like himself.
his affections seemed to reanimate towards them all, and his interest in their welfare again became perceptible.
he was not in spirits, however; he praised their house, admired its prospect, was attentive, and kind; but still he was not in spirits.
the whole family perceived it, and mrs. dashwood, attributing it to some want of liberality in his mother, sat down to table indignant against all selfish parents.
"what are mrs. ferrars's views for you at present, edward?"
said she, when dinner was over and they had drawn round the fire; "are you still to be a great orator in spite of yourself?"
"no.
i hope my mother is now convinced that i have no more talents than inclination for a public life!"
"but how is your fame to be established?
for famous you must be to satisfy all your family; and with no inclination for expense, no affection for strangers, no profession, and no assurance, you may find it a difficult matter."
"i shall not attempt it.
i have no wish to be distinguished; and have every reason to hope i never shall.
thank heaven!
i cannot be forced into genius and eloquence."
"you have no ambition, i well know.
your wishes are all moderate."
"as moderate as those of the rest of the world, i believe.
i wish as well as every body else to be perfectly happy; but, like every body else it must be in my own way.
greatness will not make me so."
"strange that it would!"
cried marianne.
"what have wealth or grandeur to do with happiness?"
"grandeur has but little," said elinor, "but wealth has much to do with it."
"elinor, for shame!"
said marianne, "money can only give happiness where there is nothing else to give it.
beyond a competence, it can afford no real satisfaction, as far as mere self is concerned."
"perhaps," said elinor, smiling, "we may come to the same point.
your competence and my wealth are very much alike, i dare say; and without them, as the world goes now, we shall both agree that every kind of external comfort must be wanting.
your ideas are only more noble than mine.
come, what is your competence?"
"about eighteen hundred or two thousand a year; not more than that."
elinor laughed.
"two thousand a year!
one is my wealth!
i guessed how it would end."
"and yet two thousand a-year is a very moderate income," said marianne.
"a family cannot well be maintained on a smaller.
i am sure i am not extravagant in my demands.
a proper establishment of servants, a carriage, perhaps two, and hunters, cannot be supported on less."
elinor smiled again, to hear her sister describing so accurately their future expenses at combe magna.
"hunters!"
repeated edward "but why must you have hunters?
every body does not hunt."
marianne coloured as she replied, "but most people do."
"i wish," said margaret, striking out a novel thought, "that somebody would give us all a large fortune apiece!"
"oh that they would!"
cried marianne, her eyes sparkling with animation, and her cheeks glowing with the delight of such imaginary happiness.
"we are all unanimous in that wish, i suppose," said elinor, "in spite of the insufficiency of wealth."
"oh dear!"
cried margaret, "how happy i should be!
i wonder what i should do with it!"
marianne looked as if she had no doubt on that point.
"i should be puzzled to spend so large a fortune myself," said mrs.
dashwood, "if my children were all to be rich without my help."
"you must begin your improvements on this house," observed elinor, "and your difficulties will soon vanish."
"what magnificent orders would travel from this family to london," said edward, "in such an event!
what a happy day for booksellers, music-sellers, and print-shops!
you, miss dashwood, would give a general commission for every new print of merit to be sent you and as for marianne, i know her greatness of soul, there would not be music enough in london to content her.
and books!
thomson, cowper, scott she would buy them all over and over again: she would buy up every copy, i believe, to prevent their falling into unworthy hands; and she would have every book that tells her how to admire an old twisted tree.
should not you, marianne?
forgive me, if i am very saucy.
but i was willing to shew you that i had not forgot our old disputes."
"i love to be reminded of the past, edward whether it be melancholy or gay, i love to recall it and you will never offend me by talking of former times.
you are very right in supposing how my money would be spent some of it, at least my loose cash would certainly be employed in improving my collection of music and books."
"and the bulk of your fortune would be laid out in annuities on the authors or their heirs."
"no, edward, i should have something else to do with it."
"perhaps, then, you would bestow it as a reward on that person who wrote the ablest defence of your favourite maxim, that no one can ever be in love more than once in their life your opinion on that point is unchanged, i presume?"
"undoubtedly.
at my time of life opinions are tolerably fixed.
it is not likely that i should now see or hear any thing to change them."
"marianne is as steadfast as ever, you see," said elinor, "she is not at all altered."
"she is only grown a little more grave than she was."
"nay, edward," said marianne, "you need not reproach me.
you are not very gay yourself."
"why should you think so!"
replied he, with a sigh.
"but gaiety never was a part of my character."
"nor do i think it a part of marianne's," said elinor; "i should hardly call her a lively girl she is very earnest, very eager in all she does sometimes talks a great deal and always with animation but she is not often really merry."
"i believe you are right," he replied, "and yet i have always set her down as a lively girl."
"i have frequently detected myself in such kind of mistakes," said elinor, "in a total misapprehension of character in some point or other: fancying people so much more gay or grave, or ingenious or stupid than they really are, and i can hardly tell why or in what the deception originated.
sometimes one is guided by what they say of themselves, and very frequently by what other people say of them, without giving oneself time to deliberate and judge."
"but i thought it was right, elinor," said marianne, "to be guided wholly by the opinion of other people.
i thought our judgments were given us merely to be subservient to those of neighbours.
this has always been your doctrine, i am sure."
"no, marianne, never.
my doctrine has never aimed at the subjection of the understanding.
all i have ever attempted to influence has been the behaviour.
you must not confound my meaning.
i am guilty, i confess, of having often wished you to treat our acquaintance in general with greater attention; but when have i advised you to adopt their sentiments or to conform to their judgment in serious matters?"
"you have not been able to bring your sister over to your plan of general civility," said edward to elinor.
"do you gain no ground?"
"quite the contrary," replied elinor, looking expressively at marianne.
"my judgment," he returned, "is all on your side of the question; but i am afraid my practice is much more on your sister's.
i never wish to offend, but i am so foolishly shy, that i often seem negligent, when i am only kept back by my natural awkwardness.
i have frequently thought that i must have been intended by nature to be fond of low company, i am so little at my ease among strangers of gentility!"
"marianne has not shyness to excuse any inattention of hers," said elinor.
"she knows her own worth too well for false shame," replied edward.
"shyness is only the effect of a sense of inferiority in some way or other.
if i could persuade myself that my manners were perfectly easy and graceful, i should not be shy."
"but you would still be reserved," said marianne, "and that is worse."
edward started "reserved!
am i reserved, marianne?"
"yes, very."
"i do not understand you," replied he, colouring.
"reserved!
how, in what manner?
what am i to tell you?
what can you suppose?"
elinor looked surprised at his emotion; but trying to laugh off the subject, she said to him, "do not you know my sister well enough to understand what she means?
do not you know she calls every one reserved who does not talk as fast, and admire what she admires as rapturously as herself?"
edward made no answer.
his gravity and thoughtfulness returned on him in their fullest extent and he sat for some time silent and dull.
chapter 18
elinor saw, with great uneasiness the low spirits of her friend.
his visit afforded her but a very partial satisfaction, while his own enjoyment in it appeared so imperfect.
it was evident that he was unhappy; she wished it were equally evident that he still distinguished her by the same affection which once she had felt no doubt of inspiring; but hitherto the continuance of his preference seemed very uncertain; and the reservedness of his manner towards her contradicted one moment what a more animated look had intimated the preceding one.
he joined her and marianne in the breakfast-room the next morning before the others were down; and marianne, who was always eager to promote their happiness as far as she could, soon left them to themselves.
but before she was half way upstairs she heard the parlour door open, and, turning round, was astonished to see edward himself come out.
"i am going into the village to see my horses," said he, "as you are not yet ready for breakfast; i shall be back again presently."
***
edward returned to them with fresh admiration of the surrounding country; in his walk to the village, he had seen many parts of the valley to advantage; and the village itself, in a much higher situation than the cottage, afforded a general view of the whole, which had exceedingly pleased him.
this was a subject which ensured marianne's attention, and she was beginning to describe her own admiration of these scenes, and to question him more minutely on the objects that had particularly struck him, when edward interrupted her by saying, "you must not enquire too far, marianne remember i have no knowledge in the picturesque, and i shall offend you by my ignorance and want of taste if we come to particulars.
i shall call hills steep, which ought to be bold; surfaces strange and uncouth, which ought to be irregular and rugged; and distant objects out of sight, which ought only to be indistinct through the soft medium of a hazy atmosphere.
you must be satisfied with such admiration as i can honestly give.
i call it a very fine country the hills are steep, the woods seem full of fine timber, and the valley looks comfortable and snug with rich meadows and several neat farm houses scattered here and there.
it exactly answers my idea of a fine country, because it unites beauty with utility and i dare say it is a picturesque one too, because you admire it; i can easily believe it to be full of rocks and promontories, grey moss and brush wood, but these are all lost on me.
i know nothing of the picturesque."
"i am afraid it is but too true," said marianne; "but why should you boast of it?"
"i suspect," said elinor, "that to avoid one kind of affectation, edward here falls into another.
because he believes many people pretend to more admiration of the beauties of nature than they really feel, and is disgusted with such pretensions, he affects greater indifference and less discrimination in viewing them himself than he possesses.
he is fastidious and will have an affectation of his own."
"it is very true," said marianne, "that admiration of landscape scenery is become a mere jargon.
every body pretends to feel and tries to describe with the taste and elegance of him who first defined what picturesque beauty was.
i detest jargon of every kind, and sometimes i have kept my feelings to myself, because i could find no language to describe them in but what was worn and hackneyed out of all sense and meaning."
"i am convinced," said edward, "that you really feel all the delight in a fine prospect which you profess to feel.
but, in return, your sister must allow me to feel no more than i profess.
i like a fine prospect, but not on picturesque principles.
i do not like crooked, twisted, blasted trees.
i admire them much more if they are tall, straight, and flourishing.
i do not like ruined, tattered cottages.
i am not fond of nettles or thistles, or heath blossoms.
i have more pleasure in a snug farm-house than a watch-tower and a troop of tidy, happy villages please me better than the finest banditti in the world."
marianne looked with amazement at edward, with compassion at her sister.
elinor only laughed.
the subject was continued no farther; and marianne remained thoughtfully silent, till a new object suddenly engaged her attention.
she was sitting by edward, and in taking his tea from mrs. dashwood, his hand passed so directly before her, as to make a ring, with a plait of hair in the centre, very conspicuous on one of his fingers.
"i never saw you wear a ring before, edward," she cried.
"is that fanny's hair?
i remember her promising to give you some.
but i should have thought her hair had been darker."
marianne spoke inconsiderately what she really felt but when she saw how much she had pained edward, her own vexation at her want of thought could not be surpassed by his.
he coloured very deeply, and giving a momentary glance at elinor, replied, "yes; it is my sister's hair.
the setting always casts a different shade on it, you know."
elinor had met his eye, and looked conscious likewise.
that the hair was her own, she instantaneously felt as well satisfied as marianne; the only difference in their conclusions was, that what marianne considered as a free gift from her sister, elinor was conscious must have been procured by some theft or contrivance unknown to herself.
she was not in a humour, however, to regard it as an affront, and affecting to take no notice of what passed, by instantly talking of something else, she internally resolved henceforward to catch every opportunity of eyeing the hair and of satisfying herself, beyond all doubt, that it was exactly the shade of her own.
edward's embarrassment lasted some time, and it ended in an absence of mind still more settled.
he was particularly grave the whole morning.
marianne severely censured herself for what she had said; but her own forgiveness might have been more speedy, had she known how little offence it had given her sister.
before the middle of the day, they were visited by sir john and mrs.
jennings, who, having heard of the arrival of a gentleman at the cottage, came to take a survey of the guest.
with the assistance of his mother-in-law, sir john was not long in discovering that the name of ferrars began with an f. and this prepared a future mine of raillery against the devoted elinor, which nothing but the newness of their acquaintance with edward could have prevented from being immediately sprung.
but, as it was, she only learned, from some very significant looks, how far their penetration, founded on margaret's instructions, extended.
sir john never came to the dashwoods without either inviting them to dine at the park the next day, or to drink tea with them that evening.
on the present occasion, for the better entertainment of their visitor, towards whose amusement he felt himself bound to contribute, he wished to engage them for both.
"you must drink tea with us to night," said he, "for we shall be quite alone and tomorrow you must absolutely dine with us, for we shall be a large party."
mrs. jennings enforced the necessity.
"and who knows but you may raise a dance," said she.
"and that will tempt you, miss marianne."
"a dance!"
cried marianne.
"impossible!
who is to dance?"
"who!
why yourselves, and the careys, and whitakers to be sure.
what!
you thought nobody could dance because a certain person that shall be nameless is gone!"
"i wish with all my soul," cried sir john, "that willoughby were among us again."
this, and marianne's blushing, gave new suspicions to edward.
"and who is willoughby?"
said he, in a low voice, to miss dashwood, by whom he was sitting.
she gave him a brief reply.
marianne's countenance was more communicative.
edward saw enough to comprehend, not only the meaning of others, but such of marianne's expressions as had puzzled him before; and when their visitors left them, he went immediately round her, and said, in a whisper, "i have been guessing.
shall i tell you my guess?"
"what do you mean?"
"shall i tell you."
"certainly."
"well then; i guess that mr. willoughby hunts."
marianne was surprised and confused, yet she could not help smiling at the quiet archness of his manner, and after a moment's silence, said,
"oh, edward!
how can you?
but the time will come i hope...i am sure you will like him."
"i do not doubt it," replied he, rather astonished at her earnestness and warmth; for had he not imagined it to be a joke for the good of her acquaintance in general, founded only on a something or a nothing between mr. willoughby and herself, he would not have ventured to mention it.
chapter 19
edward remained a week at the cottage; he was earnestly pressed by mrs.
dashwood to stay longer; but, as if he were bent only on self-mortification, he seemed resolved to be gone when his enjoyment among his friends was at the height.
his spirits, during the last two or three days, though still very unequal, were greatly improved he grew more and more partial to the house and environs never spoke of going away without a sigh declared his time to be wholly disengaged even doubted to what place he should go when he left them but still, go he must.
never had any week passed so quickly he could hardly believe it to be gone.
he said so repeatedly; other things he said too, which marked the turn of his feelings and gave the lie to his actions.
he had no pleasure at norland; he detested being in town; but either to norland or london, he must go.
he valued their kindness beyond any thing, and his greatest happiness was in being with them.
yet, he must leave them at the end of a week, in spite of their wishes and his own, and without any restraint on his time.
elinor placed all that was astonishing in this way of acting to his mother's account; and it was happy for her that he had a mother whose character was so imperfectly known to her, as to be the general excuse for every thing strange on the part of her son.
disappointed, however, and vexed as she was, and sometimes displeased with his uncertain behaviour to herself, she was very well disposed on the whole to regard his actions with all the candid allowances and generous qualifications, which had been rather more painfully extorted from her, for willoughby's service, by her mother.
his want of spirits, of openness, and of consistency, were most usually attributed to his want of independence, and his better knowledge of mrs. ferrars's disposition and designs.
the shortness of his visit, the steadiness of his purpose in leaving them, originated in the same fettered inclination, the same inevitable necessity of temporizing with his mother.
the old well-established grievance of duty against will, parent against child, was the cause of all.
she would have been glad to know when these difficulties were to cease, this opposition was to yield, when mrs.
ferrars would be reformed, and her son be at liberty to be happy.
but from such vain wishes she was forced to turn for comfort to the renewal of her confidence in edward's affection, to the remembrance of every mark of regard in look or word which fell from him while at barton, and above all to that flattering proof of it which he constantly wore round his finger.
"i think, edward," said mrs. dashwood, as they were at breakfast the last morning, "you would be a happier man if you had any profession to engage your time and give an interest to your plans and actions.
some inconvenience to your friends, indeed, might result from it you would not be able to give them so much of your time.
but (with a smile) you would be materially benefited in one particular at least you would know where to go when you left them."
"i do assure you," he replied, "that i have long thought on this point, as you think now.
it has been, and is, and probably will always be a heavy misfortune to me, that i have had no necessary business to engage me, no profession to give me employment, or afford me any thing like independence.
but unfortunately my own nicety, and the nicety of my friends, have made me what i am, an idle, helpless being.
we never could agree in our choice of a profession.
i always preferred the church, as i still do.
but that was not smart enough for my family.
they recommended the army.
that was a great deal too smart for me.
the law was allowed to be genteel enough; many young men, who had chambers in the temple, made a very good appearance in the first circles, and drove about town in very knowing gigs.
but i had no inclination for the law, even in this less abstruse study of it, which my family approved.
as for the navy, it had fashion on its side, but i was too old when the subject was first started to enter it and, at length, as there was no necessity for my having any profession at all, as i might be as dashing and expensive without a red coat on my back as with one, idleness was pronounced on the whole to be most advantageous and honourable, and a young man of eighteen is not in general so earnestly bent on being busy as to resist the solicitations of his friends to do nothing.
i was therefore entered at oxford and have been properly idle ever since."
"the consequence of which, i suppose, will be," said mrs. dashwood, "since leisure has not promoted your own happiness, that your sons will be brought up to as many pursuits, employments, professions, and trades as columella's."
"they will be brought up," said he, in a serious accent, "to be as unlike myself as is possible.
in feeling, in action, in condition, in every thing."
"come, come; this is all an effusion of immediate want of spirits, edward.
you are in a melancholy humour, and fancy that any one unlike yourself must be happy.
but remember that the pain of parting from friends will be felt by every body at times, whatever be their education or state.
know your own happiness.
you want nothing but patience or give it a more fascinating name, call it hope.
your mother will secure to you, in time, that independence you are so anxious for; it is her duty, and it will, it must ere long become her happiness to prevent your whole youth from being wasted in discontent.
how much may not a few months do?"
"i think," replied edward, "that i may defy many months to produce any good to me."
this desponding turn of mind, though it could not be communicated to mrs. dashwood, gave additional pain to them all in the parting, which shortly took place, and left an uncomfortable impression on elinor's feelings especially, which required some trouble and time to subdue.
but as it was her determination to subdue it, and to prevent herself from appearing to suffer more than what all her family suffered on his going away, she did not adopt the method so judiciously employed by marianne, on a similar occasion, to augment and fix her sorrow, by seeking silence, solitude and idleness.
their means were as different as their objects, and equally suited to the advancement of each.
elinor sat down to her drawing-table as soon as he was out of the house, busily employed herself the whole day, neither sought nor avoided the mention of his name, appeared to interest herself almost as much as ever in the general concerns of the family, and if, by this conduct, she did not lessen her own grief, it was at least prevented from unnecessary increase, and her mother and sisters were spared much solicitude on her account.
such behaviour as this, so exactly the reverse of her own, appeared no more meritorious to marianne, than her own had seemed faulty to her.
the business of self-command she settled very easily; with strong affections it was impossible, with calm ones it could have no merit.
that her sister's affections were calm, she dared not deny, though she blushed to acknowledge it; and of the strength of her own, she gave a very striking proof, by still loving and respecting that sister, in spite of this mortifying conviction.
without shutting herself up from her family, or leaving the house in determined solitude to avoid them, or lying awake the whole night to indulge meditation, elinor found every day afforded her leisure enough to think of edward, and of edward's behaviour, in every possible variety which the different state of her spirits at different times could produce, with tenderness, pity, approbation, censure, and doubt.
there were moments in abundance, when, if not by the absence of her mother and sisters, at least by the nature of their employments, conversation was forbidden among them, and every effect of solitude was produced.
her mind was inevitably at liberty; her thoughts could not be chained elsewhere; and the past and the future, on a subject so interesting, must be before her, must force her attention, and engross her memory, her reflection, and her fancy.
from a reverie of this kind, as she sat at her drawing-table, she was roused one morning, soon after edward's leaving them, by the arrival of company.
she happened to be quite alone.
the closing of the little gate, at the entrance of the green court in front of the house, drew her eyes to the window, and she saw a large party walking up to the door.
amongst them were sir john and lady middleton and mrs. jennings, but there were two others, a gentleman and lady, who were quite unknown to her.
she was sitting near the window, and as soon as sir john perceived her, he left the rest of the party to the ceremony of knocking at the door, and stepping across the turf, obliged her to open the casement to speak to him, though the space was so short between the door and the window, as to make it hardly possible to speak at one without being heard at the other.
"well," said he, "we have brought you some strangers.
how do you like them?"
"hush!
they will hear you."
"never mind if they do.
it is only the palmers.
charlotte is very pretty, i can tell you.
you may see her if you look this way."
as elinor was certain of seeing her in a couple of minutes, without taking that liberty, she begged to be excused.
"where is marianne?
has she run away because we are come?
i see her instrument is open."
"she is walking, i believe."
they were now joined by mrs. jennings, who had not patience enough to wait till the door was opened before she told her story.
she came hallooing to the window, "how do you do, my dear?
how does mrs.
dashwood do?
and where are your sisters?
what!
all alone!
you will be glad of a little company to sit with you.
i have brought my other son and daughter to see you.
only think of their coming so suddenly!
i thought i heard a carriage last night, while we were drinking our tea, but it never entered my head that it could be them.
i thought of nothing but whether it might not be colonel brandon come back again; so i said to sir john, i do think i hear a carriage; perhaps it is colonel brandon come back again"
elinor was obliged to turn from her, in the middle of her story, to receive the rest of the party; lady middleton introduced the two strangers; mrs. dashwood and margaret came down stairs at the same time, and they all sat down to look at one another, while mrs. jennings continued her story as she walked through the passage into the parlour, attended by sir john.
mrs. palmer was several years younger than lady middleton, and totally unlike her in every respect.
she was short and plump, had a very pretty face, and the finest expression of good humour in it that could possibly be.
her manners were by no means so elegant as her sister's, but they were much more prepossessing.
she came in with a smile, smiled all the time of her visit, except when she laughed, and smiled when she went away.
her husband was a grave looking young man of five or six and twenty, with an air of more fashion and sense than his wife, but of less willingness to please or be pleased.
he entered the room with a look of self-consequence, slightly bowed to the ladies, without speaking a word, and, after briefly surveying them and their apartments, took up a newspaper from the table, and continued to read it as long as he staid.
mrs. palmer, on the contrary, who was strongly endowed by nature with a turn for being uniformly civil and happy, was hardly seated before her admiration of the parlour and every thing in it burst forth.
"well!
what a delightful room this is!
i never saw anything so charming!
only think, mama, how it is improved since i was here last!
i always thought it such a sweet place, ma'am!
(turning to mrs.
dashwood) but you have made it so charming!
only look, sister, how delightful every thing is!
how i should like such a house for myself!
should not you, mr.
palmer?"
mr. palmer made her no answer, and did not even raise his eyes from the newspaper.
"mr. palmer does not hear me," said she, laughing; "he never does sometimes.
it is so ridiculous!"
this was quite a new idea to mrs. dashwood; she had never been used to find wit in the inattention of any one, and could not help looking with surprise at them both.
mrs. jennings, in the meantime, talked on as loud as she could, and continued her account of their surprise, the evening before, on seeing their friends, without ceasing till every thing was told.
mrs. palmer laughed heartily at the recollection of their astonishment, and every body agreed, two or three times over, that it had been quite an agreeable surprise.
"you may believe how glad we all were to see them," added mrs.
jennings, leaning forward towards elinor, and speaking in a low voice as if she meant to be heard by no one else, though they were seated on different sides of the room; "but, however, i can't help wishing they had not travelled quite so fast, nor made such a long journey of it, for they came all round by london upon account of some business, for you know (nodding significantly and pointing to her daughter) it was wrong in her situation.
i wanted her to stay at home and rest this morning, but she would come with us; she longed so much to see you all!"
mrs. palmer laughed, and said it would not do her any harm.
"she expects to be confined in february," continued mrs. jennings.
lady middleton could no longer endure such a conversation, and therefore exerted herself to ask mr. palmer if there was any news in the paper.
"no, none at all," he replied, and read on.
"here comes marianne," cried sir john.
"now, palmer, you shall see a monstrous pretty girl."
he immediately went into the passage, opened the front door, and ushered her in himself.
mrs. jennings asked her, as soon as she appeared, if she had not been to allenham; and mrs. palmer laughed so heartily at the question, as to show she understood it.
mr. palmer looked up on her entering the room, stared at her some minutes, and then returned to his newspaper.
mrs. palmer's eye was now caught by the drawings which hung round the room.
she got up to examine them.
"oh!
dear, how beautiful these are!
well!
how delightful!
do but look, mama, how sweet!
i declare they are quite charming; i could look at them for ever."
and then sitting down again, she very soon forgot that there were any such things in the room.
when lady middleton rose to go away, mr. palmer rose also, laid down the newspaper, stretched himself and looked at them all around.
"my love, have you been asleep?"
said his wife, laughing.
he made her no answer; and only observed, after again examining the room, that it was very low pitched, and that the ceiling was crooked.
he then made his bow, and departed with the rest.
sir john had been very urgent with them all to spend the next day at the park.
mrs. dashwood, who did not chuse to dine with them oftener than they dined at the cottage, absolutely refused on her own account; her daughters might do as they pleased.
but they had no curiosity to see how mr. and mrs. palmer ate their dinner, and no expectation of pleasure from them in any other way.
they attempted, therefore, likewise, to excuse themselves; the weather was uncertain, and not likely to be good.
but sir john would not be satisfied the carriage should be sent for them and they must come.
lady middleton too, though she did not press their mother, pressed them.
mrs. jennings and mrs.
palmer joined their entreaties, all seemed equally anxious to avoid a family party; and the young ladies were obliged to yield.
"why should they ask us?"
said marianne, as soon as they were gone.
"the rent of this cottage is said to be low; but we have it on very hard terms, if we are to dine at the park whenever any one is staying either with them, or with us."
"they mean no less to be civil and kind to us now," said elinor, "by these frequent invitations, than by those which we received from them a few weeks ago.
the alteration is not in them, if their parties are grown tedious and dull.
we must look for the change elsewhere."
chapter 20
as the miss dashwoods entered the drawing-room of the park the next day, at one door, mrs. palmer came running in at the other, looking as good humoured and merry as before.
she took them all most affectionately by the hand, and expressed great delight in seeing them again.
"i am so glad to see you!"
said she, seating herself between elinor and marianne, "for it is so bad a day i was afraid you might not come, which would be a shocking thing, as we go away again tomorrow.
we must go, for the westons come to us next week you know.
it was quite a sudden thing our coming at all, and i knew nothing of it till the carriage was coming to the door, and then mr. palmer asked me if i would go with him to barton.
he is so droll!
he never tells me any thing!
i am so sorry we cannot stay longer; however we shall meet again in town very soon, i hope."
they were obliged to put an end to such an expectation.
"not go to town!"
cried mrs. palmer, with a laugh, "i shall be quite disappointed if you do not.
i could get the nicest house in the world for you, next door to ours, in hanover-square.
you must come, indeed.
i am sure i shall be very happy to chaperon you at any time till i am confined, if mrs. dashwood should not like to go into public."
they thanked her; but were obliged to resist all her entreaties.
"oh, my love," cried mrs. palmer to her husband, who just then entered the room "you must help me to persuade the miss dashwoods to go to town this winter."
her love made no answer; and after slightly bowing to the ladies, began complaining of the weather.
"how horrid all this is!"
said he.
"such weather makes every thing and every body disgusting.
dullness is as much produced within doors as without, by rain.
it makes one detest all one's acquaintance.
what the devil does sir john mean by not having a billiard room in his house?
how few people know what comfort is!
sir john is as stupid as the weather."
the rest of the company soon dropt in.
"i am afraid, miss marianne," said sir john, "you have not been able to take your usual walk to allenham today."
marianne looked very grave and said nothing.
"oh, don't be so sly before us," said mrs. palmer; "for we know all about it, i assure you; and i admire your taste very much, for i think he is extremely handsome.
we do not live a great way from him in the country, you know.
not above ten miles, i dare say."
"much nearer thirty," said her husband.
"ah, well!
there is not much difference.
i never was at his house; but they say it is a sweet pretty place."
"as vile a spot as i ever saw in my life," said mr. palmer.
marianne remained perfectly silent, though her countenance betrayed her interest in what was said.
"is it very ugly?"
continued mrs. palmer "then it must be some other place that is so pretty i suppose."
when they were seated in the dining room, sir john observed with regret that they were only eight all together.
"my dear," said he to his lady, "it is very provoking that we should be so few.
why did not you ask the gilberts to come to us today?"
"did not i tell you, sir john, when you spoke to me about it before, that it could not be done?
they dined with us last."
"you and i, sir john," said mrs. jennings, "should not stand upon such ceremony."
"then you would be very ill-bred," cried mr. palmer.
"my love you contradict every body," said his wife with her usual laugh.
"do you know that you are quite rude?"
"i did not know i contradicted any body in calling your mother ill-bred."
"ay, you may abuse me as you please," said the good-natured old lady, "you have taken charlotte off my hands, and cannot give her back again.
so there i have the whip hand of you."
charlotte laughed heartily to think that her husband could not get rid of her; and exultingly said, she did not care how cross he was to her, as they must live together.
it was impossible for any one to be more thoroughly good-natured, or more determined to be happy than mrs.
palmer.
the studied indifference, insolence, and discontent of her husband gave her no pain; and when he scolded or abused her, she was highly diverted.
"mr. palmer is so droll!"
said she, in a whisper, to elinor.
"he is always out of humour."
elinor was not inclined, after a little observation, to give him credit for being so genuinely and unaffectedly ill-natured or ill-bred as he wished to appear.
his temper might perhaps be a little soured by finding, like many others of his sex, that through some unaccountable bias in favour of beauty, he was the husband of a very silly woman, but she knew that this kind of blunder was too common for any sensible man to be lastingly hurt by it.
it was rather a wish of distinction, she believed, which produced his contemptuous treatment of every body, and his general abuse of every thing before him.
it was the desire of appearing superior to other people.
the motive was too common to be wondered at; but the means, however they might succeed by establishing his superiority in ill-breeding, were not likely to attach any one to him except his wife.
"oh, my dear miss dashwood," said mrs. palmer soon afterwards, "i have got such a favour to ask of you and your sister.
will you come and spend some time at cleveland this christmas?
now, pray do, and come while the westons are with us.
you cannot think how happy i shall be!
it will be quite delightful!
my love," applying to her husband, "don't you long to have the miss dashwoods come to cleveland?"
"certainly," he replied, with a sneer "i came into devonshire with no other view."
"there now," said his lady, "you see mr. palmer expects you; so you cannot refuse to come."
they both eagerly and resolutely declined her invitation.
"but indeed you must and shall come.
i am sure you will like it of all things.
the westons will be with us, and it will be quite delightful.
you cannot think what a sweet place cleveland is; and we are so gay now, for mr. palmer is always going about the country canvassing against the election; and so many people came to dine with us that i never saw before, it is quite charming!
but, poor fellow!
it is very fatiguing to him!
for he is forced to make every body like him."
elinor could hardly keep her countenance as she assented to the hardship of such an obligation.
"how charming it will be," said charlotte, "when he is in parliament!
won't it?
how i shall laugh!
it will be so ridiculous to see all his letters directed to him with an m.p.
but do you know, he says, he will never frank for me?
he declares he won't.
don't you, mr.
palmer?"
mr. palmer took no notice of her.
"he cannot bear writing, you know," she continued "he says it is quite shocking."
"no," said he, "i never said any thing so irrational.
don't palm all your abuses of languages upon me."
"there now; you see how droll he is.
this is always the way with him!
sometimes he won't speak to me for half a day together, and then he comes out with something so droll all about any thing in the world."
she surprised elinor very much as they returned into the drawing-room, by asking her whether she did not like mr. palmer excessively.
"certainly," said elinor; "he seems very agreeable."
"well i am so glad you do.
i thought you would, he is so pleasant; and mr. palmer is excessively pleased with you and your sisters i can tell you, and you can't think how disappointed he will be if you don't come to cleveland.
i can't imagine why you should object to it."
elinor was again obliged to decline her invitation; and by changing the subject, put a stop to her entreaties.
she thought it probable that as they lived in the same county, mrs. palmer might be able to give some more particular account of willoughby's general character, than could be gathered from the middletons' partial acquaintance with him; and she was eager to gain from any one, such a confirmation of his merits as might remove the possibility of fear from marianne.
she began by inquiring if they saw much of mr. willoughby at cleveland, and whether they were intimately acquainted with him.
"oh dear, yes; i know him extremely well," replied mrs. palmer; "not that i ever spoke to him, indeed; but i have seen him for ever in town.
somehow or other i never happened to be staying at barton while he was at allenham.
mama saw him here once before; but i was with my uncle at weymouth.
however, i dare say we should have seen a great deal of him in somersetshire, if it had not happened very unluckily that we should never have been in the country together.
he is very little at combe, i believe; but if he were ever so much there, i do not think mr.
palmer would visit him, for he is in the opposition, you know, and besides it is such a way off.
i know why you inquire about him, very well; your sister is to marry him.
i am monstrous glad of it, for then i shall have her for a neighbour you know."
"upon my word," replied elinor, "you know much more of the matter than i do, if you have any reason to expect such a match."
"don't pretend to deny it, because you know it is what every body talks of.
i assure you i heard of it in my way through town."
"my dear mrs.
palmer!"
"upon my honour i did.
i met colonel brandon monday morning in bond-street, just before we left town, and he told me of it directly."
"you surprise me very much.
colonel brandon tell you of it!
surely you must be mistaken.
to give such intelligence to a person who could not be interested in it, even if it were true, is not what i should expect colonel brandon to do."
"but i do assure you it was so, for all that, and i will tell you how it happened.
when we met him, he turned back and walked with us; and so we began talking of my brother and sister, and one thing and another, and i said to him, 'so, colonel, there is a new family come to barton cottage, i hear, and mama sends me word they are very pretty, and that one of them is going to be married to mr. willoughby of combe magna.
is it true, pray?
for of course you must know, as you have been in devonshire so lately.'"
"and what did the colonel say?"
"oh he did not say much; but he looked as if he knew it to be true, so from that moment i set it down as certain.
it will be quite delightful, i declare!
when is it to take place?"
"mr. brandon was very well i hope?"
"oh!
yes, quite well; and so full of your praises, he did nothing but say fine things of you."
"i am flattered by his commendation.
he seems an excellent man; and i think him uncommonly pleasing."
"so do i. he is such a charming man, that it is quite a pity he should be so grave and so dull.
mama says he was in love with your sister too.
i assure you it was a great compliment if he was, for he hardly ever falls in love with any body."
"is mr. willoughby much known in your part of somersetshire?"
said elinor.
"oh!
yes, extremely well; that is, i do not believe many people are acquainted with him, because combe magna is so far off; but they all think him extremely agreeable i assure you.
nobody is more liked than mr. willoughby wherever he goes, and so you may tell your sister.
she is a monstrous lucky girl to get him, upon my honour; not but that he is much more lucky in getting her, because she is so very handsome and agreeable, that nothing can be good enough for her.
however, i don't think her hardly at all handsomer than you, i assure you; for i think you both excessively pretty, and so does mr. palmer too i am sure, though we could not get him to own it last night."
mrs. palmer's information respecting willoughby was not very material; but any testimony in his favour, however small, was pleasing to her.
"i am so glad we are got acquainted at last," continued charlotte.
"and now i hope we shall always be great friends.
you can't think how much i longed to see you!
it is so delightful that you should live at the cottage!
nothing can be like it, to be sure!
and i am so glad your sister is going to be well married!
i hope you will be a great deal at combe magna.
it is a sweet place, by all accounts."
"you have been long acquainted with colonel brandon, have not you?"
"yes, a great while; ever since my sister married.
he was a particular friend of sir john's.
i believe," she added in a low voice, "he would have been very glad to have had me, if he could.
sir john and lady middleton wished it very much.
but mama did not think the match good enough for me, otherwise sir john would have mentioned it to the colonel, and we should have been married immediately."
"did not colonel brandon know of sir john's proposal to your mother before it was made?
had he never owned his affection to yourself?"
"oh, no; but if mama had not objected to it, i dare say he would have liked it of all things.
he had not seen me then above twice, for it was before i left school.
however, i am much happier as i am.
mr.
palmer is the kind of man i like."
chapter 21
the palmers returned to cleveland the next day, and the two families at barton were again left to entertain each other.
but this did not last long; elinor had hardly got their last visitors out of her head, had hardly done wondering at charlotte's being so happy without a cause, at mr. palmer's acting so simply, with good abilities, and at the strange unsuitableness which often existed between husband and wife, before sir john's and mrs. jennings's active zeal in the cause of society, procured her some other new acquaintance to see and observe.
in a morning's excursion to exeter, they had met with two young ladies, whom mrs. jennings had the satisfaction of discovering to be her relations, and this was enough for sir john to invite them directly to the park, as soon as their present engagements at exeter were over.
their engagements at exeter instantly gave way before such an invitation, and lady middleton was thrown into no little alarm on the return of sir john, by hearing that she was very soon to receive a visit from two girls whom she had never seen in her life, and of whose elegance, whose tolerable gentility even, she could have no proof; for the assurances of her husband and mother on that subject went for nothing at all.
their being her relations too made it so much the worse; and mrs. jennings's attempts at consolation were therefore unfortunately founded, when she advised her daughter not to care about their being so fashionable; because they were all cousins and must put up with one another.
as it was impossible, however, now to prevent their coming, lady middleton resigned herself to the idea of it, with all the philosophy of a well-bred woman, contenting herself with merely giving her husband a gentle reprimand on the subject five or six times every day.
the young ladies arrived: their appearance was by no means ungenteel or unfashionable.
their dress was very smart, their manners very civil, they were delighted with the house, and in raptures with the furniture, and they happened to be so doatingly fond of children that lady middleton's good opinion was engaged in their favour before they had been an hour at the park.
she declared them to be very agreeable girls indeed, which for her ladyship was enthusiastic admiration.
sir john's confidence in his own judgment rose with this animated praise, and he set off directly for the cottage to tell the miss dashwoods of the miss steeles' arrival, and to assure them of their being the sweetest girls in the world.
from such commendation as this, however, there was not much to be learned; elinor well knew that the sweetest girls in the world were to be met with in every part of england, under every possible variation of form, face, temper and understanding.
sir john wanted the whole family to walk to the park directly and look at his guests.
benevolent, philanthropic man!
it was painful to him even to keep a third cousin to himself.
"do come now," said he "pray come you must come i declare you shall come you can't think how you will like them.
lucy is monstrous pretty, and so good humoured and agreeable!
the children are all hanging about her already, as if she was an old acquaintance.
and they both long to see you of all things, for they have heard at exeter that you are the most beautiful creatures in the world; and i have told them it is all very true, and a great deal more.
you will be delighted with them i am sure.
they have brought the whole coach full of playthings for the children.
how can you be so cross as not to come?
why they are your cousins, you know, after a fashion.
you are my cousins, and they are my wife's, so you must be related."
but sir john could not prevail.
he could only obtain a promise of their calling at the park within a day or two, and then left them in amazement at their indifference, to walk home and boast anew of their attractions to the miss steeles, as he had been already boasting of the miss steeles to them.
when their promised visit to the park and consequent introduction to these young ladies took place, they found in the appearance of the eldest, who was nearly thirty, with a very plain and not a sensible face, nothing to admire; but in the other, who was not more than two or three and twenty, they acknowledged considerable beauty; her features were pretty, and she had a sharp quick eye, and a smartness of air, which though it did not give actual elegance or grace, gave distinction to her person.
their manners were particularly civil, and elinor soon allowed them credit for some kind of sense, when she saw with what constant and judicious attention they were making themselves agreeable to lady middleton.
with her children they were in continual raptures, extolling their beauty, courting their notice, and humouring their whims; and such of their time as could be spared from the importunate demands which this politeness made on it, was spent in admiration of whatever her ladyship was doing, if she happened to be doing any thing, or in taking patterns of some elegant new dress, in which her appearance the day before had thrown them into unceasing delight.
fortunately for those who pay their court through such foibles, a fond mother, though, in pursuit of praise for her children, the most rapacious of human beings, is likewise the most credulous; her demands are exorbitant; but she will swallow any thing; and the excessive affection and endurance of the miss steeles towards her offspring were viewed therefore by lady middleton without the smallest surprise or distrust.
she saw with maternal complacency all the impertinent encroachments and mischievous tricks to which her cousins submitted.
she saw their sashes untied, their hair pulled about their ears, their work-bags searched, and their knives and scissors stolen away, and felt no doubt of its being a reciprocal enjoyment.
it suggested no other surprise than that elinor and marianne should sit so composedly by, without claiming a share in what was passing.
"john is in such spirits today!"
said she, on his taking miss steeles's pocket handkerchief, and throwing it out of window "he is full of monkey tricks."
and soon afterwards, on the second boy's violently pinching one of the same lady's fingers, she fondly observed, "how playful william is!"
"and here is my sweet little annamaria," she added, tenderly caressing a little girl of three years old, who had not made a noise for the last two minutes; "and she is always so gentle and quiet never was there such a quiet little thing!"
but unfortunately in bestowing these embraces, a pin in her ladyship's head dress slightly scratching the child's neck, produced from this pattern of gentleness such violent screams, as could hardly be outdone by any creature professedly noisy.
the mother's consternation was excessive; but it could not surpass the alarm of the miss steeles, and every thing was done by all three, in so critical an emergency, which affection could suggest as likely to assuage the agonies of the little sufferer.
she was seated in her mother's lap, covered with kisses, her wound bathed with lavender-water, by one of the miss steeles, who was on her knees to attend her, and her mouth stuffed with sugar plums by the other.
with such a reward for her tears, the child was too wise to cease crying.
she still screamed and sobbed lustily, kicked her two brothers for offering to touch her, and all their united soothings were ineffectual till lady middleton luckily remembering that in a scene of similar distress last week, some apricot marmalade had been successfully applied for a bruised temple, the same remedy was eagerly proposed for this unfortunate scratch, and a slight intermission of screams in the young lady on hearing it, gave them reason to hope that it would not be rejected.
she was carried out of the room therefore in her mother's arms, in quest of this medicine, and as the two boys chose to follow, though earnestly entreated by their mother to stay behind, the four young ladies were left in a quietness which the room had not known for many hours.
"poor little creatures!"
said miss steele, as soon as they were gone.
"it might have been a very sad accident."
"yet i hardly know how," cried marianne, "unless it had been under totally different circumstances.
but this is the usual way of heightening alarm, where there is nothing to be alarmed at in reality."
"what a sweet woman lady middleton is!"
said lucy steele.
marianne was silent; it was impossible for her to say what she did not feel, however trivial the occasion; and upon elinor therefore the whole task of telling lies when politeness required it, always fell.
she did her best when thus called on, by speaking of lady middleton with more warmth than she felt, though with far less than miss lucy.
"and sir john too," cried the elder sister, "what a charming man he is!"
here too, miss dashwood's commendation, being only simple and just, came in without any eclat.
she merely observed that he was perfectly good humoured and friendly.
"and what a charming little family they have!
i never saw such fine children in my life.
i declare i quite doat upon them already, and indeed i am always distractedly fond of children."
"i should guess so," said elinor, with a smile, "from what i have witnessed this morning."
"i have a notion," said lucy, "you think the little middletons rather too much indulged; perhaps they may be the outside of enough; but it is so natural in lady middleton; and for my part, i love to see children full of life and spirits; i cannot bear them if they are tame and quiet."
"i confess," replied elinor, "that while i am at barton park, i never think of tame and quiet children with any abhorrence."
a short pause succeeded this speech, which was first broken by miss steele, who seemed very much disposed for conversation, and who now said rather abruptly, "and how do you like devonshire, miss dashwood?
i suppose you were very sorry to leave sussex."
in some surprise at the familiarity of this question, or at least of the manner in which it was spoken, elinor replied that she was.
"norland is a prodigious beautiful place, is not it?"
added miss steele.
"we have heard sir john admire it excessively," said lucy, who seemed to think some apology necessary for the freedom of her sister.
"i think every one must admire it," replied elinor, "who ever saw the place; though it is not to be supposed that any one can estimate its beauties as we do."
"and had you a great many smart beaux there?
i suppose you have not so many in this part of the world; for my part, i think they are a vast addition always."
"but why should you think," said lucy, looking ashamed of her sister, "that there are not as many genteel young men in devonshire as sussex?"
"nay, my dear, i'm sure i don't pretend to say that there an't.
i'm sure there's a vast many smart beaux in exeter; but you know, how could i tell what smart beaux there might be about norland; and i was only afraid the miss dashwoods might find it dull at barton, if they had not so many as they used to have.
but perhaps you young ladies may not care about the beaux, and had as lief be without them as with them.
for my part, i think they are vastly agreeable, provided they dress smart and behave civil.
but i can't bear to see them dirty and nasty.
now there's mr. rose at exeter, a prodigious smart young man, quite a beau, clerk to mr. simpson, you know, and yet if you do but meet him of a morning, he is not fit to be seen.
i suppose your brother was quite a beau, miss dashwood, before he married, as he was so rich?"
"upon my word," replied elinor, "i cannot tell you, for i do not perfectly comprehend the meaning of the word.
but this i can say, that if he ever was a beau before he married, he is one still for there is not the smallest alteration in him."
"oh!
dear!
one never thinks of married men's being beaux they have something else to do."
"lord!
anne," cried her sister, "you can talk of nothing but beaux; you will make miss dashwood believe you think of nothing else."
and then to turn the discourse, she began admiring the house and the furniture.
this specimen of the miss steeles was enough.
the vulgar freedom and folly of the eldest left her no recommendation, and as elinor was not blinded by the beauty, or the shrewd look of the youngest, to her want of real elegance and artlessness, she left the house without any wish of knowing them better.
not so the miss steeles.
they came from exeter, well provided with admiration for the use of sir john middleton, his family, and all his relations, and no niggardly proportion was now dealt out to his fair cousins, whom they declared to be the most beautiful, elegant, accomplished, and agreeable girls they had ever beheld, and with whom they were particularly anxious to be better acquainted.
and to be better acquainted therefore, elinor soon found was their inevitable lot, for as sir john was entirely on the side of the miss steeles, their party would be too strong for opposition, and that kind of intimacy must be submitted to, which consists of sitting an hour or two together in the same room almost every day.
sir john could do no more; but he did not know that any more was required: to be together was, in his opinion, to be intimate, and while his continual schemes for their meeting were effectual, he had not a doubt of their being established friends.
to do him justice, he did every thing in his power to promote their unreserve, by making the miss steeles acquainted with whatever he knew or supposed of his cousins' situations in the most delicate particulars, and elinor had not seen them more than twice, before the eldest of them wished her joy on her sister's having been so lucky as to make a conquest of a very smart beau since she came to barton.
"'twill be a fine thing to have her married so young to be sure," said she, "and i hear he is quite a beau, and prodigious handsome.
and i hope you may have as good luck yourself soon, but perhaps you may have a friend in the corner already."
elinor could not suppose that sir john would be more nice in proclaiming his suspicions of her regard for edward, than he had been with respect to marianne; indeed it was rather his favourite joke of the two, as being somewhat newer and more conjectural; and since edward's visit, they had never dined together without his drinking to her best affections with so much significancy and so many nods and winks, as to excite general attention.
the letter f had been likewise invariably brought forward, and found productive of such countless jokes, that its character as the wittiest letter in the alphabet had been long established with elinor.
the miss steeles, as she expected, had now all the benefit of these jokes, and in the eldest of them they raised a curiosity to know the name of the gentleman alluded to, which, though often impertinently expressed, was perfectly of a piece with her general inquisitiveness into the concerns of their family.
but sir john did not sport long with the curiosity which he delighted to raise, for he had at least as much pleasure in telling the name, as miss steele had in hearing it.
"his name is ferrars," said he, in a very audible whisper; "but pray do not tell it, for it's a great secret."
"ferrars!"
repeated miss steele; "mr. ferrars is the happy man, is he?
what!
your sister-in-law's brother, miss dashwood?
a very agreeable young man to be sure; i know him very well."
"how can you say so, anne?"
cried lucy, who generally made an amendment to all her sister's assertions.
"though we have seen him once or twice at my uncle's, it is rather too much to pretend to know him very well."
elinor heard all this with attention and surprise.
"and who was this uncle?
where did he live?
how came they acquainted?"
she wished very much to have the subject continued, though she did not chuse to join in it herself; but nothing more of it was said, and for the first time in her life, she thought mrs. jennings deficient either in curiosity after petty information, or in a disposition to communicate it.
the manner in which miss steele had spoken of edward, increased her curiosity; for it struck her as being rather ill-natured, and suggested the suspicion of that lady's knowing, or fancying herself to know something to his disadvantage.
but her curiosity was unavailing, for no farther notice was taken of mr. ferrars's name by miss steele when alluded to, or even openly mentioned by sir john.
chapter 22
marianne, who had never much toleration for any thing like impertinence, vulgarity, inferiority of parts, or even difference of taste from herself, was at this time particularly ill-disposed, from the state of her spirits, to be pleased with the miss steeles, or to encourage their advances; and to the invariable coldness of her behaviour towards them, which checked every endeavour at intimacy on their side, elinor principally attributed that preference of herself which soon became evident in the manners of both, but especially of lucy, who missed no opportunity of engaging her in conversation, or of striving to improve their acquaintance by an easy and frank communication of her sentiments.
lucy was naturally clever; her remarks were often just and amusing; and as a companion for half an hour elinor frequently found her agreeable; but her powers had received no aid from education: she was ignorant and illiterate; and her deficiency of all mental improvement, her want of information in the most common particulars, could not be concealed from miss dashwood, in spite of her constant endeavour to appear to advantage.
elinor saw, and pitied her for, the neglect of abilities which education might have rendered so respectable; but she saw, with less tenderness of feeling, the thorough want of delicacy, of rectitude, and integrity of mind, which her attentions, her assiduities, her flatteries at the park betrayed; and she could have no lasting satisfaction in the company of a person who joined insincerity with ignorance; whose want of instruction prevented their meeting in conversation on terms of equality, and whose conduct toward others made every shew of attention and deference towards herself perfectly valueless.
"you will think my question an odd one, i dare say," said lucy to her one day, as they were walking together from the park to the cottage "but pray, are you personally acquainted with your sister-in-law's mother, mrs.
ferrars?"
elinor did think the question a very odd one, and her countenance expressed it, as she answered that she had never seen mrs. ferrars.
"indeed!"
replied lucy; "i wonder at that, for i thought you must have seen her at norland sometimes.
then, perhaps, you cannot tell me what sort of a woman she is?"
"no," returned elinor, cautious of giving her real opinion of edward's mother, and not very desirous of satisfying what seemed impertinent curiosity  "i know nothing of her."
"i am sure you think me very strange, for enquiring about her in such a way," said lucy, eyeing elinor attentively as she spoke; "but perhaps there may be reasons i wish i might venture; but however i hope you will do me the justice of believing that i do not mean to be impertinent."
elinor made her a civil reply, and they walked on for a few minutes in silence.
it was broken by lucy, who renewed the subject again by saying, with some hesitation,
"i cannot bear to have you think me impertinently curious.
i am sure i would rather do any thing in the world than be thought so by a person whose good opinion is so well worth having as yours.
and i am sure i should not have the smallest fear of trusting you; indeed, i should be very glad of your advice how to manage in such an uncomfortable situation as i am; but, however, there is no occasion to trouble you.
i am sorry you do not happen to know mrs.
ferrars."
"i am sorry i do not," said elinor, in great astonishment, "if it could be of any use to you to know my opinion of her.
but really i never understood that you were at all connected with that family, and therefore i am a little surprised, i confess, at so serious an inquiry into her character."
"i dare say you are, and i am sure i do not at all wonder at it.
but if i dared tell you all, you would not be so much surprised.
mrs.
ferrars is certainly nothing to me at present but the time may come how soon it will come must depend upon herself when we may be very intimately connected."
she looked down as she said this, amiably bashful, with only one side glance at her companion to observe its effect on her.
"good heavens!"
cried elinor, "what do you mean?
are you acquainted with mr. robert ferrars?
can you be?"
and she did not feel much delighted with the idea of such a sister-in-law.
"no," replied lucy, "not to mr. robert ferrars i never saw him in my life; but," fixing her eyes upon elinor, "to his eldest brother."
what felt elinor at that moment?
astonishment, that would have been as painful as it was strong, had not an immediate disbelief of the assertion attended it.
she turned towards lucy in silent amazement, unable to divine the reason or object of such a declaration; and though her complexion varied, she stood firm in incredulity, and felt in no danger of an hysterical fit, or a swoon.
"you may well be surprised," continued lucy; "for to be sure you could have had no idea of it before; for i dare say he never dropped the smallest hint of it to you or any of your family; because it was always meant to be a great secret, and i am sure has been faithfully kept so by me to this hour.
not a soul of all my relations know of it but anne, and i never should have mentioned it to you, if i had not felt the greatest dependence in the world upon your secrecy; and i really thought my behaviour in asking so many questions about mrs. ferrars must seem so odd, that it ought to be explained.
and i do not think mr. ferrars can be displeased, when he knows i have trusted you, because i know he has the highest opinion in the world of all your family, and looks upon yourself and the other miss dashwoods quite as his own sisters."
she paused.
elinor for a few moments remained silent.
her astonishment at what she heard was at first too great for words; but at length forcing herself to speak, and to speak cautiously, she said, with calmness of manner, which tolerably well concealed her surprise and solicitude  "may i ask if your engagement is of long standing?"
"we have been engaged these four years."
"four years!"
"yes."
elinor, though greatly shocked, still felt unable to believe it.
"i did not know," said she, "that you were even acquainted till the other day."
"our acquaintance, however, is of many years date.
he was under my uncle's care, you know, a considerable while."
"your uncle!"
"yes; mr. pratt.
did you never hear him talk of mr.
pratt?"
"i think i have," replied elinor, with an exertion of spirits, which increased with her increase of emotion.
"he was four years with my uncle, who lives at longstaple, near plymouth.
it was there our acquaintance begun, for my sister and me was often staying with my uncle, and it was there our engagement was formed, though not till a year after he had quitted as a pupil; but he was almost always with us afterwards.
i was very unwilling to enter into it, as you may imagine, without the knowledge and approbation of his mother; but i was too young, and loved him too well, to be so prudent as i ought to have been.
though you do not know him so well as me, miss dashwood, you must have seen enough of him to be sensible he is very capable of making a woman sincerely attached to him."
"certainly," answered elinor, without knowing what she said; but after a moment's reflection, she added, with revived security of edward's honour and love, and her companion's falsehood "engaged to mr. edward ferrars!
i confess myself so totally surprised at what you tell me, that really i beg your pardon; but surely there must be some mistake of person or name.
we cannot mean the same mr.
ferrars."
"we can mean no other," cried lucy, smiling.
"mr. edward ferrars, the eldest son of mrs. ferrars, of park street, and brother of your sister-in-law, mrs. john dashwood, is the person i mean; you must allow that i am not likely to be deceived as to the name of the man on who all my happiness depends."
"it is strange," replied elinor, in a most painful perplexity, "that i should never have heard him even mention your name."
"no; considering our situation, it was not strange.
our first care has been to keep the matter secret.
you knew nothing of me, or my family, and, therefore, there could be no occasion for ever mentioning my name to you; and, as he was always particularly afraid of his sister's suspecting any thing, that was reason enough for his not mentioning it."
she was silent.
elinor's security sunk; but her self-command did not sink with it.
"four years you have been engaged," said she with a firm voice.
"yes; and heaven knows how much longer we may have to wait.
poor edward!
it puts him quite out of heart."
then taking a small miniature from her pocket, she added, "to prevent the possibility of mistake, be so good as to look at this face.
it does not do him justice, to be sure, but yet i think you cannot be deceived as to the person it was drew for.
i have had it above these three years."
she put it into her hands as she spoke; and when elinor saw the painting, whatever other doubts her fear of a too hasty decision, or her wish of detecting falsehood might suffer to linger in her mind, she could have none of its being edward's face.
she returned it almost instantly, acknowledging the likeness.
"i have never been able," continued lucy, "to give him my picture in return, which i am very much vexed at, for he has been always so anxious to get it!
but i am determined to set for it the very first opportunity."
"you are quite in the right," replied elinor calmly.
they then proceeded a few paces in silence.
lucy spoke first.
"i am sure," said she, "i have no doubt in the world of your faithfully keeping this secret, because you must know of what importance it is to us, not to have it reach his mother; for she would never approve of it, i dare say.
i shall have no fortune, and i fancy she is an exceeding proud woman."
"i certainly did not seek your confidence," said elinor; "but you do me no more than justice in imagining that i may be depended on.
your secret is safe with me; but pardon me if i express some surprise at so unnecessary a communication.
you must at least have felt that my being acquainted with it could not add to its safety."
as she said this, she looked earnestly at lucy, hoping to discover something in her countenance; perhaps the falsehood of the greatest part of what she had been saying; but lucy's countenance suffered no change.
"i was afraid you would think i was taking a great liberty with you,"
said she, "in telling you all this.
i have not known you long to be sure, personally at least, but i have known you and all your family by description a great while; and as soon as i saw you, i felt almost as if you was an old acquaintance.
besides in the present case, i really thought some explanation was due to you after my making such particular inquiries about edward's mother; and i am so unfortunate, that i have not a creature whose advice i can ask.
anne is the only person that knows of it, and she has no judgment at all; indeed, she does me a great deal more harm than good, for i am in constant fear of her betraying me.
she does not know how to hold her tongue, as you must perceive, and i am sure i was in the greatest fright in the world t'other day, when edward's name was mentioned by sir john, lest she should out with it all.
you can't think how much i go through in my mind from it altogether.
i only wonder that i am alive after what i have suffered for edward's sake these last four years.
every thing in such suspense and uncertainty; and seeing him so seldom we can hardly meet above twice a-year.
i am sure i wonder my heart is not quite broke."
here she took out her handkerchief; but elinor did not feel very compassionate.
"sometimes."
continued lucy, after wiping her eyes, "i think whether it would not be better for us both to break off the matter entirely."
as she said this, she looked directly at her companion.
"but then at other times i have not resolution enough for it.
i cannot bear the thoughts of making him so miserable, as i know the very mention of such a thing would do.
and on my own account too so dear as he is to me i don't think i could be equal to it.
what would you advise me to do in such a case, miss dashwood?
what would you do yourself?"
"pardon me," replied elinor, startled by the question; "but i can give you no advice under such circumstances.
your own judgment must direct you."
"to be sure," continued lucy, after a few minutes silence on both sides, "his mother must provide for him sometime or other; but poor edward is so cast down by it!
did you not think him dreadful low-spirited when he was at barton?
he was so miserable when he left us at longstaple, to go to you, that i was afraid you would think him quite ill."
"did he come from your uncle's, then, when he visited us?"
"oh, yes; he had been staying a fortnight with us.
did you think he came directly from town?"
"no," replied elinor, most feelingly sensible of every fresh circumstance in favour of lucy's veracity; "i remember he told us, that he had been staying a fortnight with some friends near plymouth."
she remembered too, her own surprise at the time, at his mentioning nothing farther of those friends, at his total silence with respect even to their names.
"did not you think him sadly out of spirits?"
repeated lucy.
"we did, indeed, particularly so when he first arrived."
"i begged him to exert himself for fear you should suspect what was the matter; but it made him so melancholy, not being able to stay more than a fortnight with us, and seeing me so much affected.
poor fellow!
i am afraid it is just the same with him now; for he writes in wretched spirits.
i heard from him just before i left exeter;" taking a letter from her pocket and carelessly showing the direction to elinor.
"you know his hand, i dare say, a charming one it is; but that is not written so well as usual.
he was tired, i dare say, for he had just filled the sheet to me as full as possible."
elinor saw that it was his hand, and she could doubt no longer.
this picture, she had allowed herself to believe, might have been accidentally obtained; it might not have been edward's gift; but a correspondence between them by letter, could subsist only under a positive engagement, could be authorised by nothing else; for a few moments, she was almost overcome her heart sunk within her, and she could hardly stand; but exertion was indispensably necessary; and she struggled so resolutely against the oppression of her feelings, that her success was speedy, and for the time complete.
"writing to each other," said lucy, returning the letter into her pocket, "is the only comfort we have in such long separations.
yes, i have one other comfort in his picture, but poor edward has not even that.
if he had but my picture, he says he should be easy.
i gave him a lock of my hair set in a ring when he was at longstaple last, and that was some comfort to him, he said, but not equal to a picture.
perhaps you might notice the ring when you saw him?"
"i did," said elinor, with a composure of voice, under which was concealed an emotion and distress beyond any thing she had ever felt before.
she was mortified, shocked, confounded.
fortunately for her, they had now reached the cottage, and the conversation could be continued no farther.
after sitting with them a few minutes, the miss steeles returned to the park, and elinor was then at liberty to think and be wretched.
[at this point in the first and second editions, volume 1 ends.]
chapter 23
however small elinor's general dependence on lucy's veracity might be, it was impossible for her on serious reflection to suspect it in the present case, where no temptation could be answerable to the folly of inventing a falsehood of such a description.
what lucy had asserted to be true, therefore, elinor could not, dared not longer doubt; supported as it was too on every side by such probabilities and proofs, and contradicted by nothing but her own wishes.
their opportunity of acquaintance in the house of mr. pratt was a foundation for the rest, at once indisputable and alarming; and edward's visit near plymouth, his melancholy state of mind, his dissatisfaction at his own prospects, his uncertain behaviour towards herself, the intimate knowledge of the miss steeles as to norland and their family connections, which had often surprised her, the picture, the letter, the ring, formed altogether such a body of evidence, as overcame every fear of condemning him unfairly, and established as a fact, which no partiality could set aside, his ill-treatment of herself.
her resentment of such behaviour, her indignation at having been its dupe, for a short time made her feel only for herself; but other ideas, other considerations, soon arose.
had edward been intentionally deceiving her?
had he feigned a regard for her which he did not feel?
was his engagement to lucy an engagement of the heart?
no; whatever it might once have been, she could not believe it such at present.
his affection was all her own.
she could not be deceived in that.
her mother, sisters, fanny, all had been conscious of his regard for her at norland; it was not an illusion of her own vanity.
he certainly loved her.
what a softener of the heart was this persuasion!
how much could it not tempt her to forgive!
he had been blamable, highly blamable, in remaining at norland after he first felt her influence over him to be more than it ought to be.
in that, he could not be defended; but if he had injured her, how much more had he injured himself; if her case were pitiable, his was hopeless.
his imprudence had made her miserable for a while; but it seemed to have deprived himself of all chance of ever being otherwise.
she might in time regain tranquillity; but he, what had he to look forward to?
could he ever be tolerably happy with lucy steele; could he, were his affection for herself out of the question, with his integrity, his delicacy, and well-informed mind, be satisfied with a wife like her illiterate, artful, and selfish?
the youthful infatuation of nineteen would naturally blind him to every thing but her beauty and good nature; but the four succeeding years years, which if rationally spent, give such improvement to the understanding, must have opened his eyes to her defects of education, while the same period of time, spent on her side in inferior society and more frivolous pursuits, had perhaps robbed her of that simplicity which might once have given an interesting character to her beauty.
if in the supposition of his seeking to marry herself, his difficulties from his mother had seemed great, how much greater were they now likely to be, when the object of his engagement was undoubtedly inferior in connections, and probably inferior in fortune to herself.
these difficulties, indeed, with a heart so alienated from lucy, might not press very hard upon his patience; but melancholy was the state of the person by whom the expectation of family opposition and unkindness, could be felt as a relief!
as these considerations occurred to her in painful succession, she wept for him, more than for herself.
supported by the conviction of having done nothing to merit her present unhappiness, and consoled by the belief that edward had done nothing to forfeit her esteem, she thought she could even now, under the first smart of the heavy blow, command herself enough to guard every suspicion of the truth from her mother and sisters.
and so well was she able to answer her own expectations, that when she joined them at dinner only two hours after she had first suffered the extinction of all her dearest hopes, no one would have supposed from the appearance of the sisters, that elinor was mourning in secret over obstacles which must divide her for ever from the object of her love, and that marianne was internally dwelling on the perfections of a man, of whose whole heart she felt thoroughly possessed, and whom she expected to see in every carriage which drove near their house.
the necessity of concealing from her mother and marianne, what had been entrusted in confidence to herself, though it obliged her to unceasing exertion, was no aggravation of elinor's distress.
on the contrary it was a relief to her, to be spared the communication of what would give such affliction to them, and to be saved likewise from hearing that condemnation of edward, which would probably flow from the excess of their partial affection for herself, and which was more than she felt equal to support.
from their counsel, or their conversation, she knew she could receive no assistance, their tenderness and sorrow must add to her distress, while her self-command would neither receive encouragement from their example nor from their praise.
she was stronger alone, and her own good sense so well supported her, that her firmness was as unshaken, her appearance of cheerfulness as invariable, as with regrets so poignant and so fresh, it was possible for them to be.
much as she had suffered from her first conversation with lucy on the subject, she soon felt an earnest wish of renewing it; and this for more reasons than one.
she wanted to hear many particulars of their engagement repeated again, she wanted more clearly to understand what lucy really felt for edward, whether there were any sincerity in her declaration of tender regard for him, and she particularly wanted to convince lucy, by her readiness to enter on the matter again, and her calmness in conversing on it, that she was no otherwise interested in it than as a friend, which she very much feared her involuntary agitation, in their morning discourse, must have left at least doubtful.
that lucy was disposed to be jealous of her appeared very probable: it was plain that edward had always spoken highly in her praise, not merely from lucy's assertion, but from her venturing to trust her on so short a personal acquaintance, with a secret so confessedly and evidently important.
and even sir john's joking intelligence must have had some weight.
but indeed, while elinor remained so well assured within herself of being really beloved by edward, it required no other consideration of probabilities to make it natural that lucy should be jealous; and that she was so, her very confidence was a proof.
what other reason for the disclosure of the affair could there be, but that elinor might be informed by it of lucy's superior claims on edward, and be taught to avoid him in future?
she had little difficulty in understanding thus much of her rival's intentions, and while she was firmly resolved to act by her as every principle of honour and honesty directed, to combat her own affection for edward and to see him as little as possible; she could not deny herself the comfort of endeavouring to convince lucy that her heart was unwounded.
and as she could now have nothing more painful to hear on the subject than had already been told, she did not mistrust her own ability of going through a repetition of particulars with composure.
but it was not immediately that an opportunity of doing so could be commanded, though lucy was as well disposed as herself to take advantage of any that occurred; for the weather was not often fine enough to allow of their joining in a walk, where they might most easily separate themselves from the others; and though they met at least every other evening either at the park or cottage, and chiefly at the former, they could not be supposed to meet for the sake of conversation.
such a thought would never enter either sir john or lady middleton's head; and therefore very little leisure was ever given for a general chat, and none at all for particular discourse.
they met for the sake of eating, drinking, and laughing together, playing at cards, or consequences, or any other game that was sufficiently noisy.
one or two meetings of this kind had taken place, without affording elinor any chance of engaging lucy in private, when sir john called at the cottage one morning, to beg, in the name of charity, that they would all dine with lady middleton that day, as he was obliged to attend the club at exeter, and she would otherwise be quite alone, except her mother and the two miss steeles.
elinor, who foresaw a fairer opening for the point she had in view, in such a party as this was likely to be, more at liberty among themselves under the tranquil and well-bred direction of lady middleton than when her husband united them together in one noisy purpose, immediately accepted the invitation; margaret, with her mother's permission, was equally compliant, and marianne, though always unwilling to join any of their parties, was persuaded by her mother, who could not bear to have her seclude herself from any chance of amusement, to go likewise.
the young ladies went, and lady middleton was happily preserved from the frightful solitude which had threatened her.
the insipidity of the meeting was exactly such as elinor had expected; it produced not one novelty of thought or expression, and nothing could be less interesting than the whole of their discourse both in the dining parlour and drawing room: to the latter, the children accompanied them, and while they remained there, she was too well convinced of the impossibility of engaging lucy's attention to attempt it.
they quitted it only with the removal of the tea-things.
the card-table was then placed, and elinor began to wonder at herself for having ever entertained a hope of finding time for conversation at the park.
they all rose up in preparation for a round game.
"i am glad," said lady middleton to lucy, "you are not going to finish poor little annamaria's basket this evening; for i am sure it must hurt your eyes to work filigree by candlelight.
and we will make the dear little love some amends for her disappointment to-morrow, and then i hope she will not much mind it."
this hint was enough, lucy recollected herself instantly and replied, "indeed you are very much mistaken, lady middleton; i am only waiting to know whether you can make your party without me, or i should have been at my filigree already.
i would not disappoint the little angel for all the world: and if you want me at the card-table now, i am resolved to finish the basket after supper."
"you are very good, i hope it won't hurt your eyes will you ring the bell for some working candles?
my poor little girl would be sadly disappointed, i know, if the basket was not finished tomorrow, for though i told her it certainly would not, i am sure she depends upon having it done."
lucy directly drew her work table near her and reseated herself with an alacrity and cheerfulness which seemed to infer that she could taste no greater delight than in making a filigree basket for a spoilt child.
lady middleton proposed a rubber of casino to the others.
no one made any objection but marianne, who with her usual inattention to the forms of general civility, exclaimed, "your ladyship will have the goodness to excuse me you know i detest cards.
i shall go to the piano-forte; i have not touched it since it was tuned."
and without farther ceremony, she turned away and walked to the instrument.
lady middleton looked as if she thanked heaven that she had never made so rude a speech.
"marianne can never keep long from that instrument you know, ma'am,"
said elinor, endeavouring to smooth away the offence; "and i do not much wonder at it; for it is the very best toned piano-forte i ever heard."
the remaining five were now to draw their cards.
"perhaps," continued elinor, "if i should happen to cut out, i may be of some use to miss lucy steele, in rolling her papers for her; and there is so much still to be done to the basket, that it must be impossible i think for her labour singly, to finish it this evening.
i should like the work exceedingly, if she would allow me a share in it."
"indeed i shall be very much obliged to you for your help," cried lucy, "for i find there is more to be done to it than i thought there was; and it would be a shocking thing to disappoint dear annamaria after all."
"oh!
that would be terrible, indeed," said miss steele  "dear little soul, how i do love her!"
"you are very kind," said lady middleton to elinor; "and as you really like the work, perhaps you will be as well pleased not to cut in till another rubber, or will you take your chance now?"
elinor joyfully profited by the first of these proposals, and thus by a little of that address which marianne could never condescend to practise, gained her own end, and pleased lady middleton at the same time.
lucy made room for her with ready attention, and the two fair rivals were thus seated side by side at the same table, and, with the utmost harmony, engaged in forwarding the same work.
the pianoforte at which marianne, wrapped up in her own music and her own thoughts, had by this time forgotten that any body was in the room besides herself, was luckily so near them that miss dashwood now judged she might safely, under the shelter of its noise, introduce the interesting subject, without any risk of being heard at the card-table.
chapter 24
in a firm, though cautious tone, elinor thus began.
"i should be undeserving of the confidence you have honoured me with, if i felt no desire for its continuance, or no farther curiosity on its subject.
i will not apologize therefore for bringing it forward again."
"thank you," cried lucy warmly, "for breaking the ice; you have set my heart at ease by it; for i was somehow or other afraid i had offended you by what i told you that monday."
"offended me!
how could you suppose so?
believe me," and elinor spoke it with the truest sincerity, "nothing could be farther from my intention than to give you such an idea.
could you have a motive for the trust, that was not honourable and flattering to me?"
"and yet i do assure you," replied lucy, her little sharp eyes full of meaning, "there seemed to me to be a coldness and displeasure in your manner that made me quite uncomfortable.
i felt sure that you was angry with me; and have been quarrelling with myself ever since, for having took such a liberty as to trouble you with my affairs.
but i am very glad to find it was only my own fancy, and that you really do not blame me.
if you knew what a consolation it was to me to relieve my heart speaking to you of what i am always thinking of every moment of my life, your compassion would make you overlook every thing else i am sure."
"indeed, i can easily believe that it was a very great relief to you, to acknowledge your situation to me, and be assured that you shall never have reason to repent it.
your case is a very unfortunate one; you seem to me to be surrounded with difficulties, and you will have need of all your mutual affection to support you under them.
mr.
ferrars, i believe, is entirely dependent on his mother."
"he has only two thousand pounds of his own; it would be madness to marry upon that, though for my own part, i could give up every prospect of more without a sigh.
i have been always used to a very small income, and could struggle with any poverty for him; but i love him too well to be the selfish means of robbing him, perhaps, of all that his mother might give him if he married to please her.
we must wait, it may be for many years.
with almost every other man in the world, it would be an alarming prospect; but edward's affection and constancy nothing can deprive me of i know."
"that conviction must be every thing to you; and he is undoubtedly supported by the same trust in your's.
if the strength of your reciprocal attachment had failed, as between many people, and under many circumstances it naturally would during a four years' engagement, your situation would have been pitiable, indeed."
lucy here looked up; but elinor was careful in guarding her countenance from every expression that could give her words a suspicious tendency.
"edward's love for me," said lucy, "has been pretty well put to the test, by our long, very long absence since we were first engaged, and it has stood the trial so well, that i should be unpardonable to doubt it now.
i can safely say that he has never gave me one moment's alarm on that account from the first."
elinor hardly knew whether to smile or sigh at this assertion.
lucy went on.
"i am rather of a jealous temper too by nature, and from our different situations in life, from his being so much more in the world than me, and our continual separation, i was enough inclined for suspicion, to have found out the truth in an instant, if there had been the slightest alteration in his behaviour to me when we met, or any lowness of spirits that i could not account for, or if he had talked more of one lady than another, or seemed in any respect less happy at longstaple than he used to be.
i do not mean to say that i am particularly observant or quick-sighted in general, but in such a case i am sure i could not be deceived."
"all this," thought elinor, "is very pretty; but it can impose upon neither of us."
"but what," said she after a short silence, "are your views?
or have you none but that of waiting for mrs. ferrars's death, which is a melancholy and shocking extremity?
is her son determined to submit to this, and to all the tediousness of the many years of suspense in which it may involve you, rather than run the risk of her displeasure for a while by owning the truth?"
"if we could be certain that it would be only for a while!
but mrs.
ferrars is a very headstrong proud woman, and in her first fit of anger upon hearing it, would very likely secure every thing to robert, and the idea of that, for edward's sake, frightens away all my inclination for hasty measures."
"and for your own sake too, or you are carrying your disinterestedness beyond reason."
lucy looked at elinor again, and was silent.
"do you know mr. robert ferrars?"
asked elinor.
"not at all i never saw him; but i fancy he is very unlike his brother silly and a great coxcomb."
"a great coxcomb!"
repeated miss steele, whose ear had caught those words by a sudden pause in marianne's music.
"oh, they are talking of their favourite beaux, i dare say."
"no sister," cried lucy, "you are mistaken there, our favourite beaux are not great coxcombs."
"i can answer for it that miss dashwood's is not," said mrs. jennings, laughing heartily; "for he is one of the modestest, prettiest behaved young men i ever saw; but as for lucy, she is such a sly little creature, there is no finding out who she likes."
"oh," cried miss steele, looking significantly round at them, "i dare say lucy's beau is quite as modest and pretty behaved as miss dashwood's."
elinor blushed in spite of herself.
lucy bit her lip, and looked angrily at her sister.
a mutual silence took place for some time.
lucy first put an end to it by saying in a lower tone, though marianne was then giving them the powerful protection of a very magnificent concerto
"i will honestly tell you of one scheme which has lately come into my head, for bringing matters to bear; indeed i am bound to let you into the secret, for you are a party concerned.
i dare say you have seen enough of edward to know that he would prefer the church to every other profession; now my plan is that he should take orders as soon as he can, and then through your interest, which i am sure you would be kind enough to use out of friendship for him, and i hope out of some regard to me, your brother might be persuaded to give him norland living; which i understand is a very good one, and the present incumbent not likely to live a great while.
that would be enough for us to marry upon, and we might trust to time and chance for the rest."
"i should always be happy," replied elinor, "to show any mark of my esteem and friendship for mr. ferrars; but do you not perceive that my interest on such an occasion would be perfectly unnecessary?
he is brother to mrs. john dashwood that must be recommendation enough to her husband."
"but mrs. john dashwood would not much approve of edward's going into orders."
"then i rather suspect that my interest would do very little."
they were again silent for many minutes.
at length lucy exclaimed with a deep sigh,
"i believe it would be the wisest way to put an end to the business at once by dissolving the engagement.
we seem so beset with difficulties on every side, that though it would make us miserable for a time, we should be happier perhaps in the end.
but you will not give me your advice, miss dashwood?"
"no," answered elinor, with a smile, which concealed very agitated feelings, "on such a subject i certainly will not.
you know very well that my opinion would have no weight with you, unless it were on the side of your wishes."
"indeed you wrong me," replied lucy, with great solemnity; "i know nobody of whose judgment i think so highly as i do of yours; and i do really believe, that if you was to say to me, 'i advise you by all means to put an end to your engagement with edward ferrars, it will be more for the happiness of both of you,' i should resolve upon doing it immediately."
elinor blushed for the insincerity of edward's future wife, and replied, "this compliment would effectually frighten me from giving any opinion on the subject had i formed one.
it raises my influence much too high; the power of dividing two people so tenderly attached is too much for an indifferent person."
"'tis because you are an indifferent person," said lucy, with some pique, and laying a particular stress on those words, "that your judgment might justly have such weight with me.
if you could be supposed to be biased in any respect by your own feelings, your opinion would not be worth having."
elinor thought it wisest to make no answer to this, lest they might provoke each other to an unsuitable increase of ease and unreserve; and was even partly determined never to mention the subject again.
another pause therefore of many minutes' duration, succeeded this speech, and lucy was still the first to end it.
"shall you be in town this winter, miss dashwood?"
said she with all her accustomary complacency.
"certainly not."
"i am sorry for that," returned the other, while her eyes brightened at the information, "it would have gave me such pleasure to meet you there!
but i dare say you will go for all that.
to be sure, your brother and sister will ask you to come to them."
"it will not be in my power to accept their invitation if they do."
"how unlucky that is!
i had quite depended upon meeting you there.
anne and me are to go the latter end of january to some relations who have been wanting us to visit them these several years!
but i only go for the sake of seeing edward.
he will be there in february, otherwise london would have no charms for me; i have not spirits for it."
elinor was soon called to the card-table by the conclusion of the first rubber, and the confidential discourse of the two ladies was therefore at an end, to which both of them submitted without any reluctance, for nothing had been said on either side to make them dislike each other less than they had done before; and elinor sat down to the card table with the melancholy persuasion that edward was not only without affection for the person who was to be his wife; but that he had not even the chance of being tolerably happy in marriage, which sincere affection on her side would have given, for self-interest alone could induce a woman to keep a man to an engagement, of which she seemed so thoroughly aware that he was weary.
from this time the subject was never revived by elinor, and when entered on by lucy, who seldom missed an opportunity of introducing it, and was particularly careful to inform her confidante, of her happiness whenever she received a letter from edward, it was treated by the former with calmness and caution, and dismissed as soon as civility would allow; for she felt such conversations to be an indulgence which lucy did not deserve, and which were dangerous to herself.
the visit of the miss steeles at barton park was lengthened far beyond what the first invitation implied.
their favour increased; they could not be spared; sir john would not hear of their going; and in spite of their numerous and long arranged engagements in exeter, in spite of the absolute necessity of returning to fulfill them immediately, which was in full force at the end of every week, they were prevailed on to stay nearly two months at the park, and to assist in the due celebration of that festival which requires a more than ordinary share of private balls and large dinners to proclaim its importance.
chapter 25
though mrs. jennings was in the habit of spending a large portion of the year at the houses of her children and friends, she was not without a settled habitation of her own.
since the death of her husband, who had traded with success in a less elegant part of the town, she had resided every winter in a house in one of the streets near portman square.
towards this home, she began on the approach of january to turn her thoughts, and thither she one day abruptly, and very unexpectedly by them, asked the elder misses dashwood to accompany her.
elinor, without observing the varying complexion of her sister, and the animated look which spoke no indifference to the plan, immediately gave a grateful but absolute denial for both, in which she believed herself to be speaking their united inclinations.
the reason alleged was their determined resolution of not leaving their mother at that time of the year.
mrs. jennings received the refusal with some surprise, and repeated her invitation immediately.
"oh, lord!
i am sure your mother can spare you very well, and i do beg you will favour me with your company, for i've quite set my heart upon it.
don't fancy that you will be any inconvenience to me, for i shan't put myself at all out of my way for you.
it will only be sending betty by the coach, and i hope i can afford that.
we three shall be able to go very well in my chaise; and when we are in town, if you do not like to go wherever i do, well and good, you may always go with one of my daughters.
i am sure your mother will not object to it; for i have had such good luck in getting my own children off my hands that she will think me a very fit person to have the charge of you; and if i don't get one of you at least well married before i have done with you, it shall not be my fault.
i shall speak a good word for you to all the young men, you may depend upon it."
"i have a notion," said sir john, "that miss marianne would not object to such a scheme, if her elder sister would come into it.
it is very hard indeed that she should not have a little pleasure, because miss dashwood does not wish it.
so i would advise you two, to set off for town, when you are tired of barton, without saying a word to miss dashwood about it."
"nay," cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure i shall be monstrous glad of miss marianne's company, whether miss dashwood will go or not, only the more the merrier say i, and i thought it would be more comfortable for them to be together; because, if they got tired of me, they might talk to one another, and laugh at my old ways behind my back.
but one or the other, if not both of them, i must have.
lord bless me!
how do you think i can live poking by myself, i who have been always used till this winter to have charlotte with me.
come, miss marianne, let us strike hands upon the bargain, and if miss dashwood will change her mind by and bye, why so much the better."
"i thank you, ma'am, sincerely thank you," said marianne, with warmth:
"your invitation has insured my gratitude for ever, and it would give me such happiness, yes, almost the greatest happiness i am capable of, to be able to accept it.
but my mother, my dearest, kindest mother, i feel the justice of what elinor has urged, and if she were to be made less happy, less comfortable by our absence oh!
no, nothing should tempt me to leave her.
it should not, must not be a struggle."
mrs. jennings repeated her assurance that mrs. dashwood could spare them perfectly well; and elinor, who now understood her sister, and saw to what indifference to almost every thing else she was carried by her eagerness to be with willoughby again, made no farther direct opposition to the plan, and merely referred it to her mother's decision, from whom however she scarcely expected to receive any support in her endeavour to prevent a visit, which she could not approve of for marianne, and which on her own account she had particular reasons to avoid.
whatever marianne was desirous of, her mother would be eager to promote she could not expect to influence the latter to cautiousness of conduct in an affair respecting which she had never been able to inspire her with distrust; and she dared not explain the motive of her own disinclination for going to london.
that marianne, fastidious as she was, thoroughly acquainted with mrs.
jennings' manners, and invariably disgusted by them, should overlook every inconvenience of that kind, should disregard whatever must be most wounding to her irritable feelings, in her pursuit of one object, was such a proof, so strong, so full, of the importance of that object to her, as elinor, in spite of all that had passed, was not prepared to witness.
on being informed of the invitation, mrs. dashwood, persuaded that such an excursion would be productive of much amusement to both her daughters, and perceiving through all her affectionate attention to herself, how much the heart of marianne was in it, would not hear of their declining the offer upon her account; insisted on their both accepting it directly; and then began to foresee, with her usual cheerfulness, a variety of advantages that would accrue to them all, from this separation.
"i am delighted with the plan," she cried, "it is exactly what i could wish.
margaret and i shall be as much benefited by it as yourselves.
when you and the middletons are gone, we shall go on so quietly and happily together with our books and our music!
you will find margaret so improved when you come back again!
i have a little plan of alteration for your bedrooms too, which may now be performed without any inconvenience to any one.
it is very right that you should go to town; i would have every young woman of your condition in life acquainted with the manners and amusements of london.
you will be under the care of a motherly good sort of woman, of whose kindness to you i can have no doubt.
and in all probability you will see your brother, and whatever may be his faults, or the faults of his wife, when i consider whose son he is, i cannot bear to have you so wholly estranged from each other."
"though with your usual anxiety for our happiness," said elinor, "you have been obviating every impediment to the present scheme which occurred to you, there is still one objection which, in my opinion, cannot be so easily removed."
marianne's countenance sunk.
"and what," said mrs. dashwood, "is my dear prudent elinor going to suggest?
what formidable obstacle is she now to bring forward?
do let me hear a word about the expense of it."
"my objection is this; though i think very well of mrs. jennings's heart, she is not a woman whose society can afford us pleasure, or whose protection will give us consequence."
"that is very true," replied her mother, "but of her society, separately from that of other people, you will scarcely have any thing at all, and you will almost always appear in public with lady middleton."
"if elinor is frightened away by her dislike of mrs. jennings," said marianne, "at least it need not prevent my accepting her invitation.
i have no such scruples, and i am sure i could put up with every unpleasantness of that kind with very little effort."
elinor could not help smiling at this display of indifference towards the manners of a person, to whom she had often had difficulty in persuading marianne to behave with tolerable politeness; and resolved within herself, that if her sister persisted in going, she would go likewise, as she did not think it proper that marianne should be left to the sole guidance of her own judgment, or that mrs. jennings should be abandoned to the mercy of marianne for all the comfort of her domestic hours.
to this determination she was the more easily reconciled, by recollecting that edward ferrars, by lucy's account, was not to be in town before february; and that their visit, without any unreasonable abridgement, might be previously finished.
"i will have you both go," said mrs. dashwood; "these objections are nonsensical.
you will have much pleasure in being in london, and especially in being together; and if elinor would ever condescend to anticipate enjoyment, she would foresee it there from a variety of sources; she would, perhaps, expect some from improving her acquaintance with her sister-in-law's family."
elinor had often wished for an opportunity of attempting to weaken her mother's dependence on the attachment of edward and herself, that the shock might be less when the whole truth were revealed, and now on this attack, though almost hopeless of success, she forced herself to begin her design by saying, as calmly as she could, "i like edward ferrars very much, and shall always be glad to see him; but as to the rest of the family, it is a matter of perfect indifference to me, whether i am ever known to them or not."
mrs. dashwood smiled, and said nothing.
marianne lifted up her eyes in astonishment, and elinor conjectured that she might as well have held her tongue.
after very little farther discourse, it was finally settled that the invitation should be fully accepted.
mrs. jennings received the information with a great deal of joy, and many assurances of kindness and care; nor was it a matter of pleasure merely to her.
sir john was delighted; for to a man, whose prevailing anxiety was the dread of being alone, the acquisition of two, to the number of inhabitants in london, was something.
even lady middleton took the trouble of being delighted, which was putting herself rather out of her way; and as for the miss steeles, especially lucy, they had never been so happy in their lives as this intelligence made them.
elinor submitted to the arrangement which counteracted her wishes with less reluctance than she had expected to feel.
with regard to herself, it was now a matter of unconcern whether she went to town or not, and when she saw her mother so thoroughly pleased with the plan, and her sister exhilarated by it in look, voice, and manner, restored to all her usual animation, and elevated to more than her usual gaiety, she could not be dissatisfied with the cause, and would hardly allow herself to distrust the consequence.
marianne's joy was almost a degree beyond happiness, so great was the perturbation of her spirits and her impatience to be gone.
her unwillingness to quit her mother was her only restorative to calmness; and at the moment of parting her grief on that score was excessive.
her mother's affliction was hardly less, and elinor was the only one of the three, who seemed to consider the separation as any thing short of eternal.
their departure took place in the first week in january.
the middletons were to follow in about a week.
the miss steeles kept their station at the park, and were to quit it only with the rest of the family.
chapter 26
elinor could not find herself in the carriage with mrs. jennings, and beginning a journey to london under her protection, and as her guest, without wondering at her own situation, so short had their acquaintance with that lady been, so wholly unsuited were they in age and disposition, and so many had been her objections against such a measure only a few days before!
but these objections had all, with that happy ardour of youth which marianne and her mother equally shared, been overcome or overlooked; and elinor, in spite of every occasional doubt of willoughby's constancy, could not witness the rapture of delightful expectation which filled the whole soul and beamed in the eyes of marianne, without feeling how blank was her own prospect, how cheerless her own state of mind in the comparison, and how gladly she would engage in the solicitude of marianne's situation to have the same animating object in view, the same possibility of hope.
a short, a very short time however must now decide what willoughby's intentions were; in all probability he was already in town.
marianne's eagerness to be gone declared her dependence on finding him there; and elinor was resolved not only upon gaining every new light as to his character which her own observation or the intelligence of others could give her, but likewise upon watching his behaviour to her sister with such zealous attention, as to ascertain what he was and what he meant, before many meetings had taken place.
should the result of her observations be unfavourable, she was determined at all events to open the eyes of her sister; should it be otherwise, her exertions would be of a different nature she must then learn to avoid every selfish comparison, and banish every regret which might lessen her satisfaction in the happiness of marianne.
they were three days on their journey, and marianne's behaviour as they travelled was a happy specimen of what future complaisance and companionableness to mrs. jennings might be expected to be.
she sat in silence almost all the way, wrapt in her own meditations, and scarcely ever voluntarily speaking, except when any object of picturesque beauty within their view drew from her an exclamation of delight exclusively addressed to her sister.
to atone for this conduct therefore, elinor took immediate possession of the post of civility which she had assigned herself, behaved with the greatest attention to mrs. jennings, talked with her, laughed with her, and listened to her whenever she could; and mrs. jennings on her side treated them both with all possible kindness, was solicitous on every occasion for their ease and enjoyment, and only disturbed that she could not make them choose their own dinners at the inn, nor extort a confession of their preferring salmon to cod, or boiled fowls to veal cutlets.
they reached town by three o'clock the third day, glad to be released, after such a journey, from the confinement of a carriage, and ready to enjoy all the luxury of a good fire.
the house was handsome, and handsomely fitted up, and the young ladies were immediately put in possession of a very comfortable apartment.
it had formerly been charlotte's, and over the mantelpiece still hung a landscape in coloured silks of her performance, in proof of her having spent seven years at a great school in town to some effect.
as dinner was not to be ready in less than two hours from their arrival, elinor determined to employ the interval in writing to her mother, and sat down for that purpose.
in a few moments marianne did the same.
"i am writing home, marianne," said elinor; "had not you better defer your letter for a day or two?"
"i am not going to write to my mother," replied marianne, hastily, and as if wishing to avoid any farther inquiry.
elinor said no more; it immediately struck her that she must then be writing to willoughby; and the conclusion which as instantly followed was, that, however mysteriously they might wish to conduct the affair, they must be engaged.
this conviction, though not entirely satisfactory, gave her pleasure, and she continued her letter with greater alacrity.
marianne's was finished in a very few minutes; in length it could be no more than a note; it was then folded up, sealed, and directed with eager rapidity.
elinor thought she could distinguish a large w in the direction; and no sooner was it complete than marianne, ringing the bell, requested the footman who answered it to get that letter conveyed for her to the two-penny post.
this decided the matter at once.
her spirits still continued very high; but there was a flutter in them which prevented their giving much pleasure to her sister, and this agitation increased as the evening drew on.
she could scarcely eat any dinner, and when they afterwards returned to the drawing room, seemed anxiously listening to the sound of every carriage.
it was a great satisfaction to elinor that mrs. jennings, by being much engaged in her own room, could see little of what was passing.
the tea things were brought in, and already had marianne been disappointed more than once by a rap at a neighbouring door, when a loud one was suddenly heard which could not be mistaken for one at any other house, elinor felt secure of its announcing willoughby's approach, and marianne, starting up, moved towards the door.
every thing was silent; this could not be borne many seconds; she opened the door, advanced a few steps towards the stairs, and after listening half a minute, returned into the room in all the agitation which a conviction of having heard him would naturally produce; in the ecstasy of her feelings at that instant she could not help exclaiming, "oh, elinor, it is willoughby, indeed it is!"
and seemed almost ready to throw herself into his arms, when colonel brandon appeared.
it was too great a shock to be borne with calmness, and she immediately left the room.
elinor was disappointed too; but at the same time her regard for colonel brandon ensured his welcome with her; and she felt particularly hurt that a man so partial to her sister should perceive that she experienced nothing but grief and disappointment in seeing him.
she instantly saw that it was not unnoticed by him, that he even observed marianne as she quitted the room, with such astonishment and concern, as hardly left him the recollection of what civility demanded towards herself.
"is your sister ill?"
said he.
elinor answered in some distress that she was, and then talked of head-aches, low spirits, and over fatigues; and of every thing to which she could decently attribute her sister's behaviour.
he heard her with the most earnest attention, but seeming to recollect himself, said no more on the subject, and began directly to speak of his pleasure at seeing them in london, making the usual inquiries about their journey, and the friends they had left behind.
in this calm kind of way, with very little interest on either side, they continued to talk, both of them out of spirits, and the thoughts of both engaged elsewhere.
elinor wished very much to ask whether willoughby were then in town, but she was afraid of giving him pain by any enquiry after his rival; and at length, by way of saying something, she asked if he had been in london ever since she had seen him last.
"yes," he replied, with some embarrassment, "almost ever since; i have been once or twice at delaford for a few days, but it has never been in my power to return to barton."
this, and the manner in which it was said, immediately brought back to her remembrance all the circumstances of his quitting that place, with the uneasiness and suspicions they had caused to mrs. jennings, and she was fearful that her question had implied much more curiosity on the subject than she had ever felt.
mrs. jennings soon came in.
"oh!
colonel," said she, with her usual noisy cheerfulness, "i am monstrous glad to see you sorry i could not come before beg your pardon, but i have been forced to look about me a little, and settle my matters; for it is a long while since i have been at home, and you know one has always a world of little odd things to do after one has been away for any time; and then i have had cartwright to settle with  lord, i have been as busy as a bee ever since dinner!
but pray, colonel, how came you to conjure out that i should be in town today?"
"i had the pleasure of hearing it at mr. palmer's, where i have been dining."
"oh, you did; well, and how do they all do at their house?
how does charlotte do?
i warrant you she is a fine size by this time."
"mrs. palmer appeared quite well, and i am commissioned to tell you, that you will certainly see her to-morrow."
"ay, to be sure, i thought as much.
well, colonel, i have brought two young ladies with me, you see that is, you see but one of them now, but there is another somewhere.
your friend, miss marianne, too which you will not be sorry to hear.
i do not know what you and mr.
willoughby will do between you about her.
ay, it is a fine thing to be young and handsome.
well!
i was young once, but i never was very handsome worse luck for me.
however, i got a very good husband, and i don't know what the greatest beauty can do more.
ah!
poor man!
he has been dead these eight years and better.
but colonel, where have you been to since we parted?
and how does your business go on?
come, come, let's have no secrets among friends."
he replied with his accustomary mildness to all her inquiries, but without satisfying her in any.
elinor now began to make the tea, and marianne was obliged to appear again.
after her entrance, colonel brandon became more thoughtful and silent than he had been before, and mrs. jennings could not prevail on him to stay long.
no other visitor appeared that evening, and the ladies were unanimous in agreeing to go early to bed.
marianne rose the next morning with recovered spirits and happy looks.
the disappointment of the evening before seemed forgotten in the expectation of what was to happen that day.
they had not long finished their breakfast before mrs. palmer's barouche stopped at the door, and in a few minutes she came laughing into the room: so delighted to see them all, that it was hard to say whether she received most pleasure from meeting her mother or the miss dashwoods again.
so surprised at their coming to town, though it was what she had rather expected all along; so angry at their accepting her mother's invitation after having declined her own, though at the same time she would never have forgiven them if they had not come!
"mr. palmer will be so happy to see you," said she; "what do you think he said when he heard of your coming with mama?
i forget what it was now, but it was something so droll!"
after an hour or two spent in what her mother called comfortable chat, or in other words, in every variety of inquiry concerning all their acquaintance on mrs. jennings's side, and in laughter without cause on mrs. palmer's, it was proposed by the latter that they should all accompany her to some shops where she had business that morning, to which mrs. jennings and elinor readily consented, as having likewise some purchases to make themselves; and marianne, though declining it at first was induced to go likewise.
wherever they went, she was evidently always on the watch.
in bond street especially, where much of their business lay, her eyes were in constant inquiry; and in whatever shop the party were engaged, her mind was equally abstracted from every thing actually before them, from all that interested and occupied the others.
restless and dissatisfied every where, her sister could never obtain her opinion of any article of purchase, however it might equally concern them both: she received no pleasure from anything; was only impatient to be at home again, and could with difficulty govern her vexation at the tediousness of mrs.
palmer, whose eye was caught by every thing pretty, expensive, or new; who was wild to buy all, could determine on none, and dawdled away her time in rapture and indecision.
it was late in the morning before they returned home; and no sooner had they entered the house than marianne flew eagerly up stairs, and when elinor followed, she found her turning from the table with a sorrowful countenance, which declared that no willoughby had been there.
"has no letter been left here for me since we went out?"
said she to the footman who then entered with the parcels.
she was answered in the negative.
"are you quite sure of it?"
she replied.
"are you certain that no servant, no porter has left any letter or note?"
the man replied that none had.
"how very odd!"
said she, in a low and disappointed voice, as she turned away to the window.
"how odd, indeed!"
repeated elinor within herself, regarding her sister with uneasiness.
"if she had not known him to be in town she would not have written to him, as she did; she would have written to combe magna; and if he is in town, how odd that he should neither come nor write!
oh!
my dear mother, you must be wrong in permitting an engagement between a daughter so young, a man so little known, to be carried on in so doubtful, so mysterious a manner!
i long to inquire; and how will my interference be borne."
she determined, after some consideration, that if appearances continued many days longer as unpleasant as they now were, she would represent in the strongest manner to her mother the necessity of some serious enquiry into the affair.
mrs. palmer and two elderly ladies of mrs. jennings's intimate acquaintance, whom she had met and invited in the morning, dined with them.
the former left them soon after tea to fulfill her evening engagements; and elinor was obliged to assist in making a whist table for the others.
marianne was of no use on these occasions, as she would never learn the game; but though her time was therefore at her own disposal, the evening was by no means more productive of pleasure to her than to elinor, for it was spent in all the anxiety of expectation and the pain of disappointment.
she sometimes endeavoured for a few minutes to read; but the book was soon thrown aside, and she returned to the more interesting employment of walking backwards and forwards across the room, pausing for a moment whenever she came to the window, in hopes of distinguishing the long-expected rap.
chapter 27
"if this open weather holds much longer," said mrs. jennings, when they met at breakfast the following morning, "sir john will not like leaving barton next week; 'tis a sad thing for sportsmen to lose a day's pleasure.
poor souls!
i always pity them when they do; they seem to take it so much to heart."
"that is true," cried marianne, in a cheerful voice, and walking to the window as she spoke, to examine the day.
"i had not thought of that.
this weather will keep many sportsmen in the country."
it was a lucky recollection, all her good spirits were restored by it.
"it is charming weather for them indeed," she continued, as she sat down to the breakfast table with a happy countenance.
"how much they must enjoy it!
but" (with a little return of anxiety) "it cannot be expected to last long.
at this time of the year, and after such a series of rain, we shall certainly have very little more of it.
frosts will soon set in, and in all probability with severity.
in another day or two perhaps; this extreme mildness can hardly last longer nay, perhaps it may freeze tonight!"
"at any rate," said elinor, wishing to prevent mrs. jennings from seeing her sister's thoughts as clearly as she did, "i dare say we shall have sir john and lady middleton in town by the end of next week."
"ay, my dear, i'll warrant you we do.
mary always has her own way."
"and now," silently conjectured elinor, "she will write to combe by this day's post."
but if she did, the letter was written and sent away with a privacy which eluded all her watchfulness to ascertain the fact.
whatever the truth of it might be, and far as elinor was from feeling thorough contentment about it, yet while she saw marianne in spirits, she could not be very uncomfortable herself.
and marianne was in spirits; happy in the mildness of the weather, and still happier in her expectation of a frost.
the morning was chiefly spent in leaving cards at the houses of mrs.
jennings's acquaintance to inform them of her being in town; and marianne was all the time busy in observing the direction of the wind, watching the variations of the sky and imagining an alteration in the air.
"don't you find it colder than it was in the morning, elinor?
there seems to me a very decided difference.
i can hardly keep my hands warm even in my muff.
it was not so yesterday, i think.
the clouds seem parting too, the sun will be out in a moment, and we shall have a clear afternoon."
elinor was alternately diverted and pained; but marianne persevered, and saw every night in the brightness of the fire, and every morning in the appearance of the atmosphere, the certain symptoms of approaching frost.
the miss dashwoods had no greater reason to be dissatisfied with mrs.
jennings's style of living, and set of acquaintance, than with her behaviour to themselves, which was invariably kind.
every thing in her household arrangements was conducted on the most liberal plan, and excepting a few old city friends, whom, to lady middleton's regret, she had never dropped, she visited no one to whom an introduction could at all discompose the feelings of her young companions.
pleased to find herself more comfortably situated in that particular than she had expected, elinor was very willing to compound for the want of much real enjoyment from any of their evening parties, which, whether at home or abroad, formed only for cards, could have little to amuse her.
colonel brandon, who had a general invitation to the house, was with them almost every day; he came to look at marianne and talk to elinor, who often derived more satisfaction from conversing with him than from any other daily occurrence, but who saw at the same time with much concern his continued regard for her sister.
she feared it was a strengthening regard.
it grieved her to see the earnestness with which he often watched marianne, and his spirits were certainly worse than when at barton.
about a week after their arrival, it became certain that willoughby was also arrived.
his card was on the table when they came in from the morning's drive.
"good god!"
cried marianne, "he has been here while we were out."
elinor, rejoiced to be assured of his being in london, now ventured to say, "depend upon it, he will call again tomorrow."
but marianne seemed hardly to hear her, and on mrs. jennings's entrance, escaped with the precious card.
this event, while it raised the spirits of elinor, restored to those of her sister all, and more than all, their former agitation.
from this moment her mind was never quiet; the expectation of seeing him every hour of the day, made her unfit for any thing.
she insisted on being left behind, the next morning, when the others went out.
elinor's thoughts were full of what might be passing in berkeley street during their absence; but a moment's glance at her sister when they returned was enough to inform her, that willoughby had paid no second visit there.
a note was just then brought in, and laid on the table.
"for me!"
cried marianne, stepping hastily forward.
"no, ma'am, for my mistress."
but marianne, not convinced, took it instantly up.
"it is indeed for mrs. jennings; how provoking!"
"you are expecting a letter, then?"
said elinor, unable to be longer silent.
"yes, a little not much."
after a short pause.
"you have no confidence in me, marianne."
"nay, elinor, this reproach from you you who have confidence in no one!"
"me!"
returned elinor in some confusion; "indeed, marianne, i have nothing to tell."
"nor i," answered marianne with energy, "our situations then are alike.
we have neither of us any thing to tell; you, because you do not communicate, and i, because i conceal nothing."
elinor, distressed by this charge of reserve in herself, which she was not at liberty to do away, knew not how, under such circumstances, to press for greater openness in marianne.
mrs. jennings soon appeared, and the note being given her, she read it aloud.
it was from lady middleton, announcing their arrival in conduit street the night before, and requesting the company of her mother and cousins the following evening.
business on sir john's part, and a violent cold on her own, prevented their calling in berkeley street.
the invitation was accepted; but when the hour of appointment drew near, necessary as it was in common civility to mrs. jennings, that they should both attend her on such a visit, elinor had some difficulty in persuading her sister to go, for still she had seen nothing of willoughby; and therefore was not more indisposed for amusement abroad, than unwilling to run the risk of his calling again in her absence.
elinor found, when the evening was over, that disposition is not materially altered by a change of abode, for although scarcely settled in town, sir john had contrived to collect around him, nearly twenty young people, and to amuse them with a ball.
this was an affair, however, of which lady middleton did not approve.
in the country, an unpremeditated dance was very allowable; but in london, where the reputation of elegance was more important and less easily attained, it was risking too much for the gratification of a few girls, to have it known that lady middleton had given a small dance of eight or nine couple, with two violins, and a mere side-board collation.
mr. and mrs. palmer were of the party; from the former, whom they had not seen before since their arrival in town, as he was careful to avoid the appearance of any attention to his mother-in-law, and therefore never came near her, they received no mark of recognition on their entrance.
he looked at them slightly, without seeming to know who they were, and merely nodded to mrs. jennings from the other side of the room.
marianne gave one glance round the apartment as she entered: it was enough he was not there and she sat down, equally ill-disposed to receive or communicate pleasure.
after they had been assembled about an hour, mr. palmer sauntered towards the miss dashwoods to express his surprise on seeing them in town, though colonel brandon had been first informed of their arrival at his house, and he had himself said something very droll on hearing that they were to come.
"i thought you were both in devonshire," said he.
"did you?"
replied elinor.
"when do you go back again?"
"i do not know."
and thus ended their discourse.
never had marianne been so unwilling to dance in her life, as she was that evening, and never so much fatigued by the exercise.
she complained of it as they returned to berkeley street.
"aye, aye," said mrs. jennings, "we know the reason of all that very well; if a certain person who shall be nameless, had been there, you would not have been a bit tired: and to say the truth it was not very pretty of him not to give you the meeting when he was invited."
"invited!"
cried marianne.
"so my daughter middleton told me, for it seems sir john met him somewhere in the street this morning."
marianne said no more, but looked exceedingly hurt.
impatient in this situation to be doing something that might lead to her sister's relief, elinor resolved to write the next morning to her mother, and hoped by awakening her fears for the health of marianne, to procure those inquiries which had been so long delayed; and she was still more eagerly bent on this measure by perceiving after breakfast on the morrow, that marianne was again writing to willoughby, for she could not suppose it to be to any other person.
about the middle of the day, mrs. jennings went out by herself on business, and elinor began her letter directly, while marianne, too restless for employment, too anxious for conversation, walked from one window to the other, or sat down by the fire in melancholy meditation.
elinor was very earnest in her application to her mother, relating all that had passed, her suspicions of willoughby's inconstancy, urging her by every plea of duty and affection to demand from marianne an account of her real situation with respect to him.
her letter was scarcely finished, when a rap foretold a visitor, and colonel brandon was announced.
marianne, who had seen him from the window, and who hated company of any kind, left the room before he entered it.
he looked more than usually grave, and though expressing satisfaction at finding miss dashwood alone, as if he had somewhat in particular to tell her, sat for some time without saying a word.
elinor, persuaded that he had some communication to make in which her sister was concerned, impatiently expected its opening.
it was not the first time of her feeling the same kind of conviction; for, more than once before, beginning with the observation of "your sister looks unwell to-day," or "your sister seems out of spirits," he had appeared on the point, either of disclosing, or of inquiring, something particular about her.
after a pause of several minutes, their silence was broken, by his asking her in a voice of some agitation, when he was to congratulate her on the acquisition of a brother?
elinor was not prepared for such a question, and having no answer ready, was obliged to adopt the simple and common expedient, of asking what he meant?
he tried to smile as he replied, "your sister's engagement to mr.
willoughby is very generally known."
"it cannot be generally known," returned elinor, "for her own family do not know it."
he looked surprised and said, "i beg your pardon, i am afraid my inquiry has been impertinent; but i had not supposed any secrecy intended, as they openly correspond, and their marriage is universally talked of."
"how can that be?
by whom can you have heard it mentioned?"
"by many by some of whom you know nothing, by others with whom you are most intimate, mrs. jennings, mrs. palmer, and the middletons.
but still i might not have believed it, for where the mind is perhaps rather unwilling to be convinced, it will always find something to support its doubts, if i had not, when the servant let me in today, accidentally seen a letter in his hand, directed to mr. willoughby in your sister's writing.
i came to inquire, but i was convinced before i could ask the question.
is every thing finally settled?
is it impossible to-?
but i have no right, and i could have no chance of succeeding.
excuse me, miss dashwood.
i believe i have been wrong in saying so much, but i hardly know what to do, and on your prudence i have the strongest dependence.
tell me that it is all absolutely resolved on, that any attempt, that in short concealment, if concealment be possible, is all that remains."
these words, which conveyed to elinor a direct avowal of his love for her sister, affected her very much.
she was not immediately able to say anything, and even when her spirits were recovered, she debated for a short time, on the answer it would be most proper to give.
the real state of things between willoughby and her sister was so little known to herself, that in endeavouring to explain it, she might be as liable to say too much as too little.
yet as she was convinced that marianne's affection for willoughby, could leave no hope of colonel brandon's success, whatever the event of that affection might be, and at the same time wished to shield her conduct from censure, she thought it most prudent and kind, after some consideration, to say more than she really knew or believed.
she acknowledged, therefore, that though she had never been informed by themselves of the terms on which they stood with each other, of their mutual affection she had no doubt, and of their correspondence she was not astonished to hear.
he listened to her with silent attention, and on her ceasing to speak, rose directly from his seat, and after saying in a voice of emotion, "to your sister i wish all imaginable happiness; to willoughby that he may endeavour to deserve her," took leave, and went away.
elinor derived no comfortable feelings from this conversation, to lessen the uneasiness of her mind on other points; she was left, on the contrary, with a melancholy impression of colonel brandon's unhappiness, and was prevented even from wishing it removed, by her anxiety for the very event that must confirm it.
chapter 28
nothing occurred during the next three or four days, to make elinor regret what she had done, in applying to her mother; for willoughby neither came nor wrote.
they were engaged about the end of that time to attend lady middleton to a party, from which mrs. jennings was kept away by the indisposition of her youngest daughter; and for this party, marianne, wholly dispirited, careless of her appearance, and seeming equally indifferent whether she went or staid, prepared, without one look of hope or one expression of pleasure.
she sat by the drawing-room fire after tea, till the moment of lady middleton's arrival, without once stirring from her seat, or altering her attitude, lost in her own thoughts, and insensible of her sister's presence; and when at last they were told that lady middleton waited for them at the door, she started as if she had forgotten that any one was expected.
they arrived in due time at the place of destination, and as soon as the string of carriages before them would allow, alighted, ascended the stairs, heard their names announced from one landing-place to another in an audible voice, and entered a room splendidly lit up, quite full of company, and insufferably hot.
when they had paid their tribute of politeness by curtsying to the lady of the house, they were permitted to mingle in the crowd, and take their share of the heat and inconvenience, to which their arrival must necessarily add.
after some time spent in saying little or doing less, lady middleton sat down to cassino, and as marianne was not in spirits for moving about, she and elinor luckily succeeding to chairs, placed themselves at no great distance from the table.
they had not remained in this manner long, before elinor perceived willoughby, standing within a few yards of them, in earnest conversation with a very fashionable looking young woman.
she soon caught his eye, and he immediately bowed, but without attempting to speak to her, or to approach marianne, though he could not but see her; and then continued his discourse with the same lady.
elinor turned involuntarily to marianne, to see whether it could be unobserved by her.
at that moment she first perceived him, and her whole countenance glowing with sudden delight, she would have moved towards him instantly, had not her sister caught hold of her.
"good heavens!"
she exclaimed, "he is there he is there oh!
why does he not look at me?
why cannot i speak to him?"
"pray, pray be composed," cried elinor, "and do not betray what you feel to every body present.
perhaps he has not observed you yet."
this however was more than she could believe herself; and to be composed at such a moment was not only beyond the reach of marianne, it was beyond her wish.
she sat in an agony of impatience which affected every feature.
at last he turned round again, and regarded them both; she started up, and pronouncing his name in a tone of affection, held out her hand to him.
he approached, and addressing himself rather to elinor than marianne, as if wishing to avoid her eye, and determined not to observe her attitude, inquired in a hurried manner after mrs. dashwood, and asked how long they had been in town.
elinor was robbed of all presence of mind by such an address, and was unable to say a word.
but the feelings of her sister were instantly expressed.
her face was crimsoned over, and she exclaimed, in a voice of the greatest emotion, "good god!
willoughby, what is the meaning of this?
have you not received my letters?
will you not shake hands with me?"
he could not then avoid it, but her touch seemed painful to him, and he held her hand only for a moment.
during all this time he was evidently struggling for composure.
elinor watched his countenance and saw its expression becoming more tranquil.
after a moment's pause, he spoke with calmness.
"i did myself the honour of calling in berkeley street last tuesday, and very much regretted that i was not fortunate enough to find yourselves and mrs. jennings at home.
my card was not lost, i hope."
"but have you not received my notes?"
cried marianne in the wildest anxiety.
"here is some mistake i am sure some dreadful mistake.
what can be the meaning of it?
tell me, willoughby; for heaven's sake tell me, what is the matter?"
he made no reply; his complexion changed and all his embarrassment returned; but as if, on catching the eye of the young lady with whom he had been previously talking, he felt the necessity of instant exertion, he recovered himself again, and after saying, "yes, i had the pleasure of receiving the information of your arrival in town, which you were so good as to send me," turned hastily away with a slight bow and joined his friend.
marianne, now looking dreadfully white, and unable to stand, sunk into her chair, and elinor, expecting every moment to see her faint, tried to screen her from the observation of others, while reviving her with lavender water.
"go to him, elinor," she cried, as soon as she could speak, "and force him to come to me.
tell him i must see him again must speak to him instantly.
i cannot rest i shall not have a moment's peace till this is explained some dreadful misapprehension or other.
oh go to him this moment."
"how can that be done?
no, my dearest marianne, you must wait.
this is not the place for explanations.
wait only till tomorrow."
with difficulty however could she prevent her from following him herself; and to persuade her to check her agitation, to wait, at least, with the appearance of composure, till she might speak to him with more privacy and more effect, was impossible; for marianne continued incessantly to give way in a low voice to the misery of her feelings, by exclamations of wretchedness.
in a short time elinor saw willoughby quit the room by the door towards the staircase, and telling marianne that he was gone, urged the impossibility of speaking to him again that evening, as a fresh argument for her to be calm.
she instantly begged her sister would entreat lady middleton to take them home, as she was too miserable to stay a minute longer.
lady middleton, though in the middle of a rubber, on being informed that marianne was unwell, was too polite to object for a moment to her wish of going away, and making over her cards to a friend, they departed as soon the carriage could be found.
scarcely a word was spoken during their return to berkeley street.
marianne was in a silent agony, too much oppressed even for tears; but as mrs. jennings was luckily not come home, they could go directly to their own room, where hartshorn restored her a little to herself.
she was soon undressed and in bed, and as she seemed desirous of being alone, her sister then left her, and while she waited the return of mrs. jennings, had leisure enough for thinking over the past.
that some kind of engagement had subsisted between willoughby and marianne she could not doubt, and that willoughby was weary of it, seemed equally clear; for however marianne might still feed her own wishes, she could not attribute such behaviour to mistake or misapprehension of any kind.
nothing but a thorough change of sentiment could account for it.
her indignation would have been still stronger than it was, had she not witnessed that embarrassment which seemed to speak a consciousness of his own misconduct, and prevented her from believing him so unprincipled as to have been sporting with the affections of her sister from the first, without any design that would bear investigation.
absence might have weakened his regard, and convenience might have determined him to overcome it, but that such a regard had formerly existed she could not bring herself to doubt.
as for marianne, on the pangs which so unhappy a meeting must already have given her, and on those still more severe which might await her in its probable consequence, she could not reflect without the deepest concern.
her own situation gained in the comparison; for while she could esteem edward as much as ever, however they might be divided in future, her mind might be always supported.
but every circumstance that could embitter such an evil seemed uniting to heighten the misery of marianne in a final separation from willoughby in an immediate and irreconcilable rupture with him.
chapter 29
before the house-maid had lit their fire the next day, or the sun gained any power over a cold, gloomy morning in january, marianne, only half dressed, was kneeling against one of the window-seats for the sake of all the little light she could command from it, and writing as fast as a continual flow of tears would permit her.
in this situation, elinor, roused from sleep by her agitation and sobs, first perceived her; and after observing her for a few moments with silent anxiety, said, in a tone of the most considerate gentleness,
"marianne, may i ask-?"
"no, elinor," she replied, "ask nothing; you will soon know all."
the sort of desperate calmness with which this was said, lasted no longer than while she spoke, and was immediately followed by a return of the same excessive affliction.
it was some minutes before she could go on with her letter, and the frequent bursts of grief which still obliged her, at intervals, to withhold her pen, were proofs enough of her feeling how more than probable it was that she was writing for the last time to willoughby.
elinor paid her every quiet and unobtrusive attention in her power; and she would have tried to sooth and tranquilize her still more, had not marianne entreated her, with all the eagerness of the most nervous irritability, not to speak to her for the world.
in such circumstances, it was better for both that they should not be long together; and the restless state of marianne's mind not only prevented her from remaining in the room a moment after she was dressed, but requiring at once solitude and continual change of place, made her wander about the house till breakfast time, avoiding the sight of every body.
at breakfast she neither ate, nor attempted to eat any thing; and elinor's attention was then all employed, not in urging her, not in pitying her, nor in appearing to regard her, but in endeavouring to engage mrs. jennings's notice entirely to herself.
as this was a favourite meal with mrs. jennings, it lasted a considerable time, and they were just setting themselves, after it, round the common working table, when a letter was delivered to marianne, which she eagerly caught from the servant, and, turning of a death-like paleness, instantly ran out of the room.
elinor, who saw as plainly by this, as if she had seen the direction, that it must come from willoughby, felt immediately such a sickness at heart as made her hardly able to hold up her head, and sat in such a general tremour as made her fear it impossible to escape mrs. jennings's notice.
that good lady, however, saw only that marianne had received a letter from willoughby, which appeared to her a very good joke, and which she treated accordingly, by hoping, with a laugh, that she would find it to her liking.
of elinor's distress, she was too busily employed in measuring lengths of worsted for her rug, to see any thing at all; and calmly continuing her talk, as soon as marianne disappeared, she said,
"upon my word, i never saw a young woman so desperately in love in my life!
my girls were nothing to her, and yet they used to be foolish enough; but as for miss marianne, she is quite an altered creature.
i hope, from the bottom of my heart, he won't keep her waiting much longer, for it is quite grievous to see her look so ill and forlorn.
pray, when are they to be married?"
elinor, though never less disposed to speak than at that moment, obliged herself to answer such an attack as this, and, therefore, trying to smile, replied, "and have you really, ma'am, talked yourself into a persuasion of my sister's being engaged to mr. willoughby?
i thought it had been only a joke, but so serious a question seems to imply more; and i must beg, therefore, that you will not deceive yourself any longer.
i do assure you that nothing would surprise me more than to hear of their being going to be married."
"for shame, for shame, miss dashwood!
how can you talk so?
don't we all know that it must be a match, that they were over head and ears in love with each other from the first moment they met?
did not i see them together in devonshire every day, and all day long; and did not i know that your sister came to town with me on purpose to buy wedding clothes?
come, come, this won't do.
because you are so sly about it yourself, you think nobody else has any senses; but it is no such thing, i can tell you, for it has been known all over town this ever so long.
i tell every body of it and so does charlotte."
"indeed, ma'am," said elinor, very seriously, "you are mistaken.
indeed, you are doing a very unkind thing in spreading the report, and you will find that you have though you will not believe me now."
mrs. jennings laughed again, but elinor had not spirits to say more, and eager at all events to know what willoughby had written, hurried away to their room, where, on opening the door, she saw marianne stretched on the bed, almost choked by grief, one letter in her hand, and two or three others laying by her.
elinor drew near, but without saying a word; and seating herself on the bed, took her hand, kissed her affectionately several times, and then gave way to a burst of tears, which at first was scarcely less violent than marianne's.
the latter, though unable to speak, seemed to feel all the tenderness of this behaviour, and after some time thus spent in joint affliction, she put all the letters into elinor's hands; and then covering her face with her handkerchief, almost screamed with agony.
elinor, who knew that such grief, shocking as it was to witness it, must have its course, watched by her till this excess of suffering had somewhat spent itself, and then turning eagerly to willoughby's letter, read as follows:
"bond street, january.
"my dear madam,
"i have just had the honour of receiving your      letter, for which i beg to return my sincere      acknowledgments.
i am much concerned to find there      was anything in my behaviour last night that did      not meet your approbation; and though i am quite at      a loss to discover in what point i could be so      unfortunate as to offend you, i entreat your      forgiveness of what i can assure you to have been      perfectly unintentional.
i shall never reflect on      my former acquaintance with your family in devonshire      without the most grateful pleasure, and flatter      myself it will not be broken by any mistake or      misapprehension of my actions.
my esteem for your      whole family is very sincere; but if i have been so      unfortunate as to give rise to a belief of more than      i felt, or meant to express, i shall reproach myself      for not having been more guarded in my professions      of that esteem.
that i should ever have meant more      you will allow to be impossible, when you understand      that my affections have been long engaged elsewhere,      and it will not be many weeks, i believe, before      this engagement is fulfilled.
it is with great      regret that i obey your commands in returning the      letters with which i have been honoured from you,      and the lock of hair, which you so obligingly bestowed      on me.
"i am, dear madam,                "your most obedient                     "humble servant,                                         "john willoughby."
with what indignation such a letter as this must be read by miss dashwood, may be imagined.
though aware, before she began it, that it must bring a confession of his inconstancy, and confirm their separation for ever, she was not aware that such language could be suffered to announce it; nor could she have supposed willoughby capable of departing so far from the appearance of every honourable and delicate feeling so far from the common decorum of a gentleman, as to send a letter so impudently cruel: a letter which, instead of bringing with his desire of a release any professions of regret, acknowledged no breach of faith, denied all peculiar affection whatever a letter of which every line was an insult, and which proclaimed its writer to be deep in hardened villainy.
she paused over it for some time with indignant astonishment; then read it again and again; but every perusal only served to increase her abhorrence of the man, and so bitter were her feelings against him, that she dared not trust herself to speak, lest she might wound marianne still deeper by treating their disengagement, not as a loss to her of any possible good but as an escape from the worst and most irremediable of all evils, a connection, for life, with an unprincipled man, as a deliverance the most real, a blessing the most important.
in her earnest meditations on the contents of the letter, on the depravity of that mind which could dictate it, and probably, on the very different mind of a very different person, who had no other connection whatever with the affair than what her heart gave him with every thing that passed, elinor forgot the immediate distress of her sister, forgot that she had three letters on her lap yet unread, and so entirely forgot how long she had been in the room, that when on hearing a carriage drive up to the door, she went to the window to see who could be coming so unreasonably early, she was all astonishment to perceive mrs. jennings's chariot, which she knew had not been ordered till one.
determined not to quit marianne, though hopeless of contributing, at present, to her ease, she hurried away to excuse herself from attending mrs. jennings, on account of her sister being indisposed.
mrs. jennings, with a thoroughly good-humoured concern for its cause, admitted the excuse most readily, and elinor, after seeing her safe off, returned to marianne, whom she found attempting to rise from the bed, and whom she reached just in time to prevent her from falling on the floor, faint and giddy from a long want of proper rest and food; for it was many days since she had any appetite, and many nights since she had really slept; and now, when her mind was no longer supported by the fever of suspense, the consequence of all this was felt in an aching head, a weakened stomach, and a general nervous faintness.
a glass of wine, which elinor procured for her directly, made her more comfortable, and she was at last able to express some sense of her kindness, by saying,
"poor elinor!
how unhappy i make you!"
"i only wish," replied her sister, "there were any thing i could do, which might be of comfort to you."
this, as every thing else would have been, was too much for marianne, who could only exclaim, in the anguish of her heart, "oh!
elinor, i am miserable, indeed," before her voice was entirely lost in sobs.
elinor could no longer witness this torrent of unresisted grief in silence.
"exert yourself, dear marianne," she cried, "if you would not kill yourself and all who love you.
think of your mother; think of her misery while you suffer: for her sake you must exert yourself."
"i cannot, i cannot," cried marianne; "leave me, leave me, if i distress you; leave me, hate me, forget me!
but do not torture me so.
oh!
how easy for those, who have no sorrow of their own to talk of exertion!
happy, happy elinor, you cannot have an idea of what i suffer."
"do you call me happy, marianne?
ah!
if you knew!
and can you believe me to be so, while i see you so wretched!"
"forgive me, forgive me," throwing her arms round her sister's neck; "i know you feel for me; i know what a heart you have; but yet you are you must be happy; edward loves you what, oh what, can do away such happiness as that?"
"many, many circumstances," said elinor, solemnly.
"no, no, no," cried marianne wildly, "he loves you, and only you.
you can have no grief."
"i can have no pleasure while i see you in this state."
"and you will never see me otherwise.
mine is a misery which nothing can do away."
"you must not talk so, marianne.
have you no comforts?
no friends?
is your loss such as leaves no opening for consolation?
much as you suffer now, think of what you would have suffered if the discovery of his character had been delayed to a later period if your engagement had been carried on for months and months, as it might have been, before he chose to put an end to it.
every additional day of unhappy confidence, on your side, would have made the blow more dreadful."
"engagement!"
cried marianne, "there has been no engagement."
"no engagement!"
"no, he is not so unworthy as you believe him.
he has broken no faith with me."
"but he told you that he loved you."
"yes no never absolutely.
it was every day implied, but never professedly declared.
sometimes i thought it had been but it never was."
"yet you wrote to him?"
"yes could that be wrong after all that had passed?
but i cannot talk."
elinor said no more, and turning again to the three letters which now raised a much stronger curiosity than before, directly ran over the contents of all.
the first, which was what her sister had sent him on their arrival in town, was to this effect.
berkeley street, january.
"how surprised you will be, willoughby, on      receiving this; and i think you will feel something      more than surprise, when you know that i am in town.
an opportunity of coming hither, though with mrs.
jennings, was a temptation we could not resist.
i wish you may receive this in time to come here      to-night, but i will not depend on it.
at any rate      i shall expect you to-morrow.
for the present, adieu.
"m.d."
her second note, which had been written on the morning after the dance at the middletons', was in these words:
"i cannot express my disappointment in having      missed you the day before yesterday, nor my astonishment      at not having received any answer to a note which      i sent you above a week ago.
i have been expecting      to hear from you, and still more to see you, every      hour of the day.
pray call again as soon as possible,      and explain the reason of my having expected this      in vain.
you had better come earlier another time,      because we are generally out by one.
we were last      night at lady middleton's, where there was a dance.
i have been told that you were asked to be of the      party.
but could it be so?
you must be very much      altered indeed since we parted, if that could be      the case, and you not there.
but i will not suppose      this possible, and i hope very soon to receive your      personal assurance of its being otherwise.
"m.d."
the contents of her last note to him were these:
"what am i to imagine, willoughby, by your      behaviour last night?
again i demand an explanation      of it.
i was prepared to meet you with the pleasure      which our separation naturally produced, with the      familiarity which our intimacy at barton appeared      to me to justify.
i was repulsed indeed!
i have      passed a wretched night in endeavouring to excuse      a conduct which can scarcely be called less than      insulting; but though i have not yet been able to      form any reasonable apology for your behaviour,      i am perfectly ready to hear your justification of      it.
you have perhaps been misinformed, or purposely      deceived, in something concerning me, which may have      lowered me in your opinion.
tell me what it is,      explain the grounds on which you acted, and i shall      be satisfied, in being able to satisfy you.
it      would grieve me indeed to be obliged to think ill      of you; but if i am to do it, if i am to learn that      you are not what we have hitherto believed you, that      your regard for us all was insincere, that your      behaviour to me was intended only to deceive, let      it be told as soon as possible.
my feelings are at      present in a state of dreadful indecision; i wish      to acquit you, but certainty on either side will be      ease to what i now suffer.
if your sentiments are      no longer what they were, you will return my notes,      and the lock of my hair which is in your possession.
"m.d."
that such letters, so full of affection and confidence, could have been so answered, elinor, for willoughby's sake, would have been unwilling to believe.
but her condemnation of him did not blind her to the impropriety of their having been written at all; and she was silently grieving over the imprudence which had hazarded such unsolicited proofs of tenderness, not warranted by anything preceding, and most severely condemned by the event, when marianne, perceiving that she had finished the letters, observed to her that they contained nothing but what any one would have written in the same situation.
"i felt myself," she added, "to be as solemnly engaged to him, as if the strictest legal covenant had bound us to each other."
"i can believe it," said elinor; "but unfortunately he did not feel the same."
"he did feel the same, elinor for weeks and weeks he felt it.
i know he did.
whatever may have changed him now, (and nothing but the blackest art employed against me can have done it), i was once as dear to him as my own soul could wish.
this lock of hair, which now he can so readily give up, was begged of me with the most earnest supplication.
had you seen his look, his manner, had you heard his voice at that moment!
have you forgot the last evening of our being together at barton?
the morning that we parted too!
when he told me that it might be many weeks before we met again his distress can i ever forget his distress?"
for a moment or two she could say no more; but when this emotion had passed away, she added, in a firmer tone,
"elinor, i have been cruelly used; but not by willoughby."
"dearest marianne, who but himself?
by whom can he have been instigated?"
"by all the world, rather than by his own heart.
i could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin me in his opinion, than believe his nature capable of such cruelty.
this woman of whom he writes whoever she be or any one, in short, but your own dear self, mama, and edward, may have been so barbarous to bely me.
beyond you three, is there a creature in the world whom i would not rather suspect of evil than willoughby, whose heart i know so well?"
elinor would not contend, and only replied, "whoever may have been so detestably your enemy, let them be cheated of their malignant triumph, my dear sister, by seeing how nobly the consciousness of your own innocence and good intentions supports your spirits.
it is a reasonable and laudable pride which resists such malevolence."
"no, no," cried marianne, "misery such as mine has no pride.
i care not who knows that i am wretched.
the triumph of seeing me so may be open to all the world.
elinor, elinor, they who suffer little may be proud and independent as they like may resist insult, or return mortification but i cannot.
i must feel i must be wretched and they are welcome to enjoy the consciousness of it that can."
"but for my mother's sake and mine "
"i would do more than for my own.
but to appear happy when i am so miserable oh!
who can require it?"
again they were both silent.
elinor was employed in walking thoughtfully from the fire to the window, from the window to the fire, without knowing that she received warmth from one, or discerning objects through the other; and marianne, seated at the foot of the bed, with her head leaning against one of its posts, again took up willoughby's letter, and, after shuddering over every sentence, exclaimed
"it is too much!
oh, willoughby, willoughby, could this be yours!
cruel, cruel nothing can acquit you.
elinor, nothing can.
whatever he might have heard against me ought he not to have suspended his belief?
ought he not to have told me of it, to have given me the power of clearing myself?
'the lock of hair, (repeating it from the letter,)
which you so obligingly bestowed on me' that is unpardonable.
willoughby, where was your heart when you wrote those words?
oh, barbarously insolent!
elinor, can he be justified?"
"no, marianne, in no possible way."
"and yet this woman who knows what her art may have been?
how long it may have been premeditated, and how deeply contrived by her!
who is she?
who can she be?
whom did i ever hear him talk of as young and attractive among his female acquaintance?
oh!
no one, no one he talked to me only of myself."
another pause ensued; marianne was greatly agitated, and it ended thus.
"elinor, i must go home.
i must go and comfort mama.
can not we be gone to-morrow?"
"to-morrow, marianne!"
"yes, why should i stay here?
i came only for willoughby's sake and now who cares for me?
who regards me?"
"it would be impossible to go to-morrow.
we owe mrs. jennings much more than civility; and civility of the commonest kind must prevent such a hasty removal as that."
"well then, another day or two, perhaps; but i cannot stay here long, i cannot stay to endure the questions and remarks of all these people.
the middletons and palmers how am i to bear their pity?
the pity of such a woman as lady middleton!
oh, what would he say to that!"
elinor advised her to lie down again, and for a moment she did so; but no attitude could give her ease; and in restless pain of mind and body she moved from one posture to another, till growing more and more hysterical, her sister could with difficulty keep her on the bed at all, and for some time was fearful of being constrained to call for assistance.
some lavender drops, however, which she was at length persuaded to take, were of use; and from that time till mrs. jennings returned, she continued on the bed quiet and motionless.
chapter 30
mrs. jennings came immediately to their room on her return, and without waiting to have her request of admittance answered, opened the door and walked in with a look of real concern.
"how do you do my dear?"
said she in a voice of great compassion to marianne, who turned away her face without attempting to answer.
"how is she, miss dashwood?
poor thing!
she looks very bad.
no wonder.
ay, it is but too true.
he is to be married very soon a good-for-nothing fellow!
i have no patience with him.
mrs. taylor told me of it half an hour ago, and she was told it by a particular friend of miss grey herself, else i am sure i should not have believed it; and i was almost ready to sink as it was.
well, said i, all i can say is, that if this be true, he has used a young lady of my acquaintance abominably ill, and i wish with all my soul his wife may plague his heart out.
and so i shall always say, my dear, you may depend on it.
i have no notion of men's going on in this way; and if ever i meet him again, i will give him such a dressing as he has not had this many a day.
but there is one comfort, my dear miss marianne; he is not the only young man in the world worth having; and with your pretty face you will never want admirers.
well, poor thing!
i won't disturb her any longer, for she had better have her cry out at once and have done with.
the parrys and sandersons luckily are coming tonight you know, and that will amuse her."
she then went away, walking on tiptoe out of the room, as if she supposed her young friend's affliction could be increased by noise.
marianne, to the surprise of her sister, determined on dining with them.
elinor even advised her against it.
but "no, she would go down; she could bear it very well, and the bustle about her would be less."
elinor, pleased to have her governed for a moment by such a motive, though believing it hardly possible that she could sit out the dinner, said no more; and adjusting her dress for her as well as she could, while marianne still remained on the bed, was ready to assist her into the dining room as soon as they were summoned to it.
when there, though looking most wretchedly, she ate more and was calmer than her sister had expected.
had she tried to speak, or had she been conscious of half mrs. jennings's well-meant but ill-judged attentions to her, this calmness could not have been maintained; but not a syllable escaped her lips; and the abstraction of her thoughts preserved her in ignorance of every thing that was passing before her.
elinor, who did justice to mrs. jennings's kindness, though its effusions were often distressing, and sometimes almost ridiculous, made her those acknowledgments, and returned her those civilities, which her sister could not make or return for herself.
their good friend saw that marianne was unhappy, and felt that every thing was due to her which might make her at all less so.
she treated her therefore, with all the indulgent fondness of a parent towards a favourite child on the last day of its holidays.
marianne was to have the best place by the fire, was to be tempted to eat by every delicacy in the house, and to be amused by the relation of all the news of the day.
had not elinor, in the sad countenance of her sister, seen a check to all mirth, she could have been entertained by mrs. jennings's endeavours to cure a disappointment in love, by a variety of sweetmeats and olives, and a good fire.
as soon, however, as the consciousness of all this was forced by continual repetition on marianne, she could stay no longer.
with a hasty exclamation of misery, and a sign to her sister not to follow her, she directly got up and hurried out of the room.
"poor soul!"
cried mrs. jennings, as soon as she was gone, "how it grieves me to see her!
and i declare if she is not gone away without finishing her wine!
and the dried cherries too!
lord!
nothing seems to do her any good.
i am sure if i knew of any thing she would like, i would send all over the town for it.
well, it is the oddest thing to me, that a man should use such a pretty girl so ill!
but when there is plenty of money on one side, and next to none on the other, lord bless you!
they care no more about such things! "
"the lady then miss grey i think you called her is very rich?"
"fifty thousand pounds, my dear.
did you ever see her?
a smart, stylish girl they say, but not handsome.
i remember her aunt very well, biddy henshawe; she married a very wealthy man.
but the family are all rich together.
fifty thousand pounds!
and by all accounts, it won't come before it's wanted; for they say he is all to pieces.
no wonder!
dashing about with his curricle and hunters!
well, it don't signify talking; but when a young man, be who he will, comes and makes love to a pretty girl, and promises marriage, he has no business to fly off from his word only because he grows poor, and a richer girl is ready to have him.
why don't he, in such a case, sell his horses, let his house, turn off his servants, and make a thorough reform at once?
i warrant you, miss marianne would have been ready to wait till matters came round.
but that won't do now-a-days; nothing in the way of pleasure can ever be given up by the young men of this age."
"do you know what kind of a girl miss grey is?
is she said to be amiable?"
"i never heard any harm of her; indeed i hardly ever heard her mentioned; except that mrs. taylor did say this morning, that one day miss walker hinted to her, that she believed mr. and mrs. ellison would not be sorry to have miss grey married, for she and mrs. ellison could never agree."
"and who are the ellisons?"
"her guardians, my dear.
but now she is of age and may choose for herself; and a pretty choice she has made!
what now," after pausing a moment "your poor sister is gone to her own room, i suppose, to moan by herself.
is there nothing one can get to comfort her?
poor dear, it seems quite cruel to let her be alone.
well, by-and-by we shall have a few friends, and that will amuse her a little.
what shall we play at?
she hates whist i know; but is there no round game she cares for?"
"dear ma'am, this kindness is quite unnecessary.
marianne, i dare say, will not leave her room again this evening.
i shall persuade her if i can to go early to bed, for i am sure she wants rest."
"aye, i believe that will be best for her.
let her name her own supper, and go to bed.
lord!
no wonder she has been looking so bad and so cast down this last week or two, for this matter i suppose has been hanging over her head as long as that.
and so the letter that came today finished it!
poor soul!
i am sure if i had had a notion of it, i would not have joked her about it for all my money.
but then you know, how should i guess such a thing?
i made sure of its being nothing but a common love letter, and you know young people like to be laughed at about them.
lord!
how concerned sir john and my daughters will be when they hear it!
if i had my senses about me i might have called in conduit street in my way home, and told them of it.
but i shall see them tomorrow."
"it would be unnecessary i am sure, for you to caution mrs. palmer and sir john against ever naming mr. willoughby, or making the slightest allusion to what has passed, before my sister.
their own good-nature must point out to them the real cruelty of appearing to know any thing about it when she is present; and the less that may ever be said to myself on the subject, the more my feelings will be spared, as you my dear madam will easily believe."
"oh!
lord!
yes, that i do indeed.
it must be terrible for you to hear it talked of; and as for your sister, i am sure i would not mention a word about it to her for the world.
you saw i did not all dinner time.
no more would sir john, nor my daughters, for they are all very thoughtful and considerate; especially if i give them a hint, as i certainly will.
for my part, i think the less that is said about such things, the better, the sooner 'tis blown over and forgot.
and what does talking ever do you know?"
"in this affair it can only do harm; more so perhaps than in many cases of a similar kind, for it has been attended by circumstances which, for the sake of every one concerned in it, make it unfit to become the public conversation.
i must do this justice to mr. willoughby he has broken no positive engagement with my sister."
"law, my dear!
don't pretend to defend him.
no positive engagement indeed!
after taking her all over allenham house, and fixing on the very rooms they were to live in hereafter!"
elinor, for her sister's sake, could not press the subject farther, and she hoped it was not required of her for willoughby's; since, though marianne might lose much, he could gain very little by the enforcement of the real truth.
after a short silence on both sides, mrs. jennings, with all her natural hilarity, burst forth again.
"well, my dear, 'tis a true saying about an ill-wind, for it will be all the better for colonel brandon.
he will have her at last; aye, that he will.
mind me, now, if they an't married by mid-summer.
lord!
how he'll chuckle over this news!
i hope he will come tonight.
it will be all to one a better match for your sister.
two thousand a year without debt or drawback except the little love-child, indeed; aye, i had forgot her; but she may be 'prenticed out at a small cost, and then what does it signify?
delaford is a nice place, i can tell you; exactly what i call a nice old fashioned place, full of comforts and conveniences; quite shut in with great garden walls that are covered with the best fruit-trees in the country; and such a mulberry tree in one corner!
lord!
how charlotte and i did stuff the only time we were there!
then, there is a dove-cote, some delightful stew-ponds, and a very pretty canal; and every thing, in short, that one could wish for; and, moreover, it is close to the church, and only a quarter of a mile from the turnpike-road, so 'tis never dull, for if you only go and sit up in an old yew arbour behind the house, you may see all the carriages that pass along.
oh!
'tis a nice place!
a butcher hard by in the village, and the parsonage-house within a stone's throw.
to my fancy, a thousand times prettier than barton park, where they are forced to send three miles for their meat, and have not a neighbour nearer than your mother.
well, i shall spirit up the colonel as soon as i can.
one shoulder of mutton, you know, drives another down.
if we can but put willoughby out of her head!"
"ay, if we can do that, ma'am," said elinor, "we shall do very well with or without colonel brandon."
and then rising, she went away to join marianne, whom she found, as she expected, in her own room, leaning, in silent misery, over the small remains of a fire, which, till elinor's entrance, had been her only light.
"you had better leave me," was all the notice that her sister received from her.
"i will leave you," said elinor, "if you will go to bed."
but this, from the momentary perverseness of impatient suffering, she at first refused to do.
her sister's earnest, though gentle persuasion, however, soon softened her to compliance, and elinor saw her lay her aching head on the pillow, and as she hoped, in a way to get some quiet rest before she left her.
in the drawing-room, whither she then repaired, she was soon joined by mrs. jennings, with a wine-glass, full of something, in her hand.
"my dear," said she, entering, "i have just recollected that i have some of the finest old constantia wine in the house that ever was tasted, so i have brought a glass of it for your sister.
my poor husband!
how fond he was of it!
whenever he had a touch of his old colicky gout, he said it did him more good than any thing else in the world.
do take it to your sister."
"dear ma'am," replied elinor, smiling at the difference of the complaints for which it was recommended, "how good you are!
but i have just left marianne in bed, and, i hope, almost asleep; and as i think nothing will be of so much service to her as rest, if you will give me leave, i will drink the wine myself."
mrs. jennings, though regretting that she had not been five minutes earlier, was satisfied with the compromise; and elinor, as she swallowed the chief of it, reflected, that though its effects on a colicky gout were, at present, of little importance to her, its healing powers, on a disappointed heart might be as reasonably tried on herself as on her sister.
colonel brandon came in while the party were at tea, and by his manner of looking round the room for marianne, elinor immediately fancied that he neither expected nor wished to see her there, and, in short, that he was already aware of what occasioned her absence.
mrs. jennings was not struck by the same thought; for soon after his entrance, she walked across the room to the tea-table where elinor presided, and whispered
"the colonel looks as grave as ever you see.
he knows nothing of it; do tell him, my dear."
he shortly afterwards drew a chair close to hers, and, with a look which perfectly assured her of his good information, inquired after her sister.
"marianne is not well," said she.
"she has been indisposed all day, and we have persuaded her to go to bed."
"perhaps, then," he hesitatingly replied, "what i heard this morning may be there may be more truth in it than i could believe possible at first."
"what did you hear?"
"that a gentleman, whom i had reason to think in short, that a man, whom i knew to be engaged but how shall i tell you?
if you know it already, as surely you must, i may be spared."
"you mean," answered elinor, with forced calmness, "mr. willoughby's marriage with miss grey.
yes, we do know it all.
this seems to have been a day of general elucidation, for this very morning first unfolded it to us.
mr. willoughby is unfathomable!
where did you hear it?"
"in a stationer's shop in pall mall, where i had business.
two ladies were waiting for their carriage, and one of them was giving the other an account of the intended match, in a voice so little attempting concealment, that it was impossible for me not to hear all.
the name of willoughby, john willoughby, frequently repeated, first caught my attention; and what followed was a positive assertion that every thing was now finally settled respecting his marriage with miss grey it was no longer to be a secret it would take place even within a few weeks, with many particulars of preparations and other matters.
one thing, especially, i remember, because it served to identify the man still more: as soon as the ceremony was over, they were to go to combe magna, his seat in somersetshire.
my astonishment!
but it would be impossible to describe what i felt.
the communicative lady i learnt, on inquiry, for i stayed in the shop till they were gone, was a mrs.
ellison, and that, as i have been since informed, is the name of miss grey's guardian."
"it is.
but have you likewise heard that miss grey has fifty thousand pounds?
in that, if in any thing, we may find an explanation."
"it may be so; but willoughby is capable at least i think" he stopped a moment; then added in a voice which seemed to distrust itself, "and your sister how did she "
"her sufferings have been very severe.
i have only to hope that they may be proportionately short.
it has been, it is a most cruel affliction.
till yesterday, i believe, she never doubted his regard; and even now, perhaps but i am almost convinced that he never was really attached to her.
he has been very deceitful!
and, in some points, there seems a hardness of heart about him."
"ah!"
said colonel brandon, "there is, indeed!
but your sister does not i think you said so she does not consider quite as you do?"
"you know her disposition, and may believe how eagerly she would still justify him if she could."
he made no answer; and soon afterwards, by the removal of the tea-things, and the arrangement of the card parties, the subject was necessarily dropped.
mrs. jennings, who had watched them with pleasure while they were talking, and who expected to see the effect of miss dashwood's communication, in such an instantaneous gaiety on colonel brandon's side, as might have become a man in the bloom of youth, of hope and happiness, saw him, with amazement, remain the whole evening more serious and thoughtful than usual.
chapter 31
from a night of more sleep than she had expected, marianne awoke the next morning to the same consciousness of misery in which she had closed her eyes.
elinor encouraged her as much as possible to talk of what she felt; and before breakfast was ready, they had gone through the subject again and again; and with the same steady conviction and affectionate counsel on elinor's side, the same impetuous feelings and varying opinions on marianne's, as before.
sometimes she could believe willoughby to be as unfortunate and as innocent as herself, and at others, lost every consolation in the impossibility of acquitting him.
at one moment she was absolutely indifferent to the observation of all the world, at another she would seclude herself from it for ever, and at a third could resist it with energy.
in one thing, however, she was uniform, when it came to the point, in avoiding, where it was possible, the presence of mrs. jennings, and in a determined silence when obliged to endure it.
her heart was hardened against the belief of mrs.
jennings's entering into her sorrows with any compassion.
"no, no, no, it cannot be," she cried; "she cannot feel.
her kindness is not sympathy; her good-nature is not tenderness.
all that she wants is gossip, and she only likes me now because i supply it."
elinor had not needed this to be assured of the injustice to which her sister was often led in her opinion of others, by the irritable refinement of her own mind, and the too great importance placed by her on the delicacies of a strong sensibility, and the graces of a polished manner.
like half the rest of the world, if more than half there be that are clever and good, marianne, with excellent abilities and an excellent disposition, was neither reasonable nor candid.
she expected from other people the same opinions and feelings as her own, and she judged of their motives by the immediate effect of their actions on herself.
thus a circumstance occurred, while the sisters were together in their own room after breakfast, which sunk the heart of mrs.
jennings still lower in her estimation; because, through her own weakness, it chanced to prove a source of fresh pain to herself, though mrs. jennings was governed in it by an impulse of the utmost goodwill.
with a letter in her outstretched hand, and countenance gaily smiling, from the persuasion of bringing comfort, she entered their room, saying,
"now, my dear, i bring you something that i am sure will do you good."
marianne heard enough.
in one moment her imagination placed before her a letter from willoughby, full of tenderness and contrition, explanatory of all that had passed, satisfactory, convincing; and instantly followed by willoughby himself, rushing eagerly into the room to inforce, at her feet, by the eloquence of his eyes, the assurances of his letter.
the work of one moment was destroyed by the next.
the hand writing of her mother, never till then unwelcome, was before her; and, in the acuteness of the disappointment which followed such an ecstasy of more than hope, she felt as if, till that instant, she had never suffered.
the cruelty of mrs. jennings no language, within her reach in her moments of happiest eloquence, could have expressed; and now she could reproach her only by the tears which streamed from her eyes with passionate violence a reproach, however, so entirely lost on its object, that after many expressions of pity, she withdrew, still referring her to the letter of comfort.
but the letter, when she was calm enough to read it, brought little comfort.
willoughby filled every page.
her mother, still confident of their engagement, and relying as warmly as ever on his constancy, had only been roused by elinor's application, to intreat from marianne greater openness towards them both; and this, with such tenderness towards her, such affection for willoughby, and such a conviction of their future happiness in each other, that she wept with agony through the whole of it.
all her impatience to be at home again now returned; her mother was dearer to her than ever; dearer through the very excess of her mistaken confidence in willoughby, and she was wildly urgent to be gone.
elinor, unable herself to determine whether it were better for marianne to be in london or at barton, offered no counsel of her own except of patience till their mother's wishes could be known; and at length she obtained her sister's consent to wait for that knowledge.
mrs. jennings left them earlier than usual; for she could not be easy till the middletons and palmers were able to grieve as much as herself; and positively refusing elinor's offered attendance, went out alone for the rest of the morning.
elinor, with a very heavy heart, aware of the pain she was going to communicate, and perceiving, by marianne's letter, how ill she had succeeded in laying any foundation for it, then sat down to write her mother an account of what had passed, and entreat her directions for the future; while marianne, who came into the drawing-room on mrs. jennings's going away, remained fixed at the table where elinor wrote, watching the advancement of her pen, grieving over her for the hardship of such a task, and grieving still more fondly over its effect on her mother.
in this manner they had continued about a quarter of an hour, when marianne, whose nerves could not then bear any sudden noise, was startled by a rap at the door.
"who can this be?"
cried elinor.
"so early too!
i thought we had been safe."
marianne moved to the window
"it is colonel brandon!"
said she, with vexation.
"we are never safe from him."
"he will not come in, as mrs. jennings is from home."
"i will not trust to that," retreating to her own room.
"a man who has nothing to do with his own time has no conscience in his intrusion on that of others."
the event proved her conjecture right, though it was founded on injustice and error; for colonel brandon did come in; and elinor, who was convinced that solicitude for marianne brought him thither, and who saw that solicitude in his disturbed and melancholy look, and in his anxious though brief inquiry after her, could not forgive her sister for esteeming him so lightly.
"i met mrs. jennings in bond street," said he, after the first salutation, "and she encouraged me to come on; and i was the more easily encouraged, because i thought it probable that i might find you alone, which i was very desirous of doing.
my object my wish my sole wish in desiring it i hope, i believe it is is to be a means of giving comfort; no, i must not say comfort not present comfort but conviction, lasting conviction to your sister's mind.
my regard for her, for yourself, for your mother will you allow me to prove it, by relating some circumstances which nothing but a very sincere regard nothing but an earnest desire of being useful i think i am justified though where so many hours have been spent in convincing myself that i am right, is there not some reason to fear i may be wrong?"
he stopped.
"i understand you," said elinor.
"you have something to tell me of mr.
willoughby, that will open his character farther.
your telling it will be the greatest act of friendship that can be shewn marianne.
my gratitude will be insured immediately by any information tending to that end, and hers must be gained by it in time.
pray, pray let me hear it."
"you shall; and, to be brief, when i quitted barton last october, but this will give you no idea i must go farther back.
you will find me a very awkward narrator, miss dashwood; i hardly know where to begin.
a short account of myself, i believe, will be necessary, and it shall be a short one.
on such a subject," sighing heavily, "can i have little temptation to be diffuse."
he stopt a moment for recollection, and then, with another sigh, went on.
"you have probably entirely forgotten a conversation (it is not to be supposed that it could make any impression on you) a conversation between us one evening at barton park it was the evening of a dance in which i alluded to a lady i had once known, as resembling, in some measure, your sister marianne."
"indeed," answered elinor, "i have not forgotten it."
he looked pleased by this remembrance, and added,
"if i am not deceived by the uncertainty, the partiality of tender recollection, there is a very strong resemblance between them, as well in mind as person.
the same warmth of heart, the same eagerness of fancy and spirits.
this lady was one of my nearest relations, an orphan from her infancy, and under the guardianship of my father.
our ages were nearly the same, and from our earliest years we were playfellows and friends.
i cannot remember the time when i did not love eliza; and my affection for her, as we grew up, was such, as perhaps, judging from my present forlorn and cheerless gravity, you might think me incapable of having ever felt.
hers, for me, was, i believe, fervent as the attachment of your sister to mr. willoughby and it was, though from a different cause, no less unfortunate.
at seventeen she was lost to me for ever.
she was married married against her inclination to my brother.
her fortune was large, and our family estate much encumbered.
and this, i fear, is all that can be said for the conduct of one, who was at once her uncle and guardian.
my brother did not deserve her; he did not even love her.
i had hoped that her regard for me would support her under any difficulty, and for some time it did; but at last the misery of her situation, for she experienced great unkindness, overcame all her resolution, and though she had promised me that nothing but how blindly i relate!
i have never told you how this was brought on.
we were within a few hours of eloping together for scotland.
the treachery, or the folly, of my cousin's maid betrayed us.
i was banished to the house of a relation far distant, and she was allowed no liberty, no society, no amusement, till my father's point was gained.
i had depended on her fortitude too far, and the blow was a severe one but had her marriage been happy, so young as i then was, a few months must have reconciled me to it, or at least i should not have now to lament it.
this however was not the case.
my brother had no regard for her; his pleasures were not what they ought to have been, and from the first he treated her unkindly.
the consequence of this, upon a mind so young, so lively, so inexperienced as mrs. brandon's, was but too natural.
she resigned herself at first to all the misery of her situation; and happy had it been if she had not lived to overcome those regrets which the remembrance of me occasioned.
but can we wonder that, with such a husband to provoke inconstancy, and without a friend to advise or restrain her (for my father lived only a few months after their marriage, and i was with my regiment in the east indies) she should fall?
had i remained in england, perhaps but i meant to promote the happiness of both by removing from her for years, and for that purpose had procured my exchange.
the shock which her marriage had given me,"
he continued, in a voice of great agitation, "was of trifling weight was nothing to what i felt when i heard, about two years afterwards, of her divorce.
it was that which threw this gloom, even now the recollection of what i suffered "
he could say no more, and rising hastily walked for a few minutes about the room.
elinor, affected by his relation, and still more by his distress, could not speak.
he saw her concern, and coming to her, took her hand, pressed it, and kissed it with grateful respect.
a few minutes more of silent exertion enabled him to proceed with composure.
"it was nearly three years after this unhappy period before i returned to england.
my first care, when i did arrive, was of course to seek for her; but the search was as fruitless as it was melancholy.
i could not trace her beyond her first seducer, and there was every reason to fear that she had removed from him only to sink deeper in a life of sin.
her legal allowance was not adequate to her fortune, nor sufficient for her comfortable maintenance, and i learnt from my brother that the power of receiving it had been made over some months before to another person.
he imagined, and calmly could he imagine it, that her extravagance, and consequent distress, had obliged her to dispose of it for some immediate relief.
at last, however, and after i had been six months in england, i did find her.
regard for a former servant of my own, who had since fallen into misfortune, carried me to visit him in a spunging-house, where he was confined for debt; and there, in the same house, under a similar confinement, was my unfortunate sister.
so altered so faded worn down by acute suffering of every kind!
hardly could i believe the melancholy and sickly figure before me, to be the remains of the lovely, blooming, healthful girl, on whom i had once doted.
what i endured in so beholding her but i have no right to wound your feelings by attempting to describe it i have pained you too much already.
that she was, to all appearance, in the last stage of a consumption, was yes, in such a situation it was my greatest comfort.
life could do nothing for her, beyond giving time for a better preparation for death; and that was given.
i saw her placed in comfortable lodgings, and under proper attendants; i visited her every day during the rest of her short life: i was with her in her last moments."
again he stopped to recover himself; and elinor spoke her feelings in an exclamation of tender concern, at the fate of his unfortunate friend.
"your sister, i hope, cannot be offended," said he, "by the resemblance i have fancied between her and my poor disgraced relation.
their fates, their fortunes, cannot be the same; and had the natural sweet disposition of the one been guarded by a firmer mind, or a happier marriage, she might have been all that you will live to see the other be.
but to what does all this lead?
i seem to have been distressing you for nothing.
ah!
miss dashwood a subject such as this untouched for fourteen years it is dangerous to handle it at all!
i will be more collected more concise.
she left to my care her only child, a little girl, the offspring of her first guilty connection, who was then about three years old.
she loved the child, and had always kept it with her.
it was a valued, a precious trust to me; and gladly would i have discharged it in the strictest sense, by watching over her education myself, had the nature of our situations allowed it; but i had no family, no home; and my little eliza was therefore placed at school.
i saw her there whenever i could, and after the death of my brother, (which happened about five years ago, and which left to me the possession of the family property,) she visited me at delaford.
i called her a distant relation; but i am well aware that i have in general been suspected of a much nearer connection with her.
it is now three years ago (she had just reached her fourteenth year,) that i removed her from school, to place her under the care of a very respectable woman, residing in dorsetshire, who had the charge of four or five other girls of about the same time of life; and for two years i had every reason to be pleased with her situation.
but last february, almost a twelvemonth back, she suddenly disappeared.
i had allowed her, (imprudently, as it has since turned out,) at her earnest desire, to go to bath with one of her young friends, who was attending her father there for his health.
i knew him to be a very good sort of man, and i thought well of his daughter better than she deserved, for, with a most obstinate and ill-judged secrecy, she would tell nothing, would give no clue, though she certainly knew all.
he, her father, a well-meaning, but not a quick-sighted man, could really, i believe, give no information; for he had been generally confined to the house, while the girls were ranging over the town and making what acquaintance they chose; and he tried to convince me, as thoroughly as he was convinced himself, of his daughter's being entirely unconcerned in the business.
in short, i could learn nothing but that she was gone; all the rest, for eight long months, was left to conjecture.
what i thought, what i feared, may be imagined; and what i suffered too."
"good heavens!"
cried elinor, "could it be could willoughby!"
"the first news that reached me of her," he continued, "came in a letter from herself, last october.
it was forwarded to me from delaford, and i received it on the very morning of our intended party to whitwell; and this was the reason of my leaving barton so suddenly, which i am sure must at the time have appeared strange to every body, and which i believe gave offence to some.
little did mr. willoughby imagine, i suppose, when his looks censured me for incivility in breaking up the party, that i was called away to the relief of one whom he had made poor and miserable; but had he known it, what would it have availed?
would he have been less gay or less happy in the smiles of your sister?
no, he had already done that, which no man who can feel for another would do.
he had left the girl whose youth and innocence he had seduced, in a situation of the utmost distress, with no creditable home, no help, no friends, ignorant of his address!
he had left her, promising to return; he neither returned, nor wrote, nor relieved her."
"this is beyond every thing!"
exclaimed elinor.
"his character is now before you; expensive, dissipated, and worse than both.
knowing all this, as i have now known it many weeks, guess what i must have felt on seeing your sister as fond of him as ever, and on being assured that she was to marry him: guess what i must have felt for all your sakes.
when i came to you last week and found you alone, i came determined to know the truth; though irresolute what to do when it was known.
my behaviour must have seemed strange to you then; but now you will comprehend it.
to suffer you all to be so deceived; to see your sister but what could i do?
i had no hope of interfering with success; and sometimes i thought your sister's influence might yet reclaim him.
but now, after such dishonorable usage, who can tell what were his designs on her.
whatever they may have been, however, she may now, and hereafter doubtless will turn with gratitude towards her own condition, when she compares it with that of my poor eliza, when she considers the wretched and hopeless situation of this poor girl, and pictures her to herself, with an affection for him so strong, still as strong as her own, and with a mind tormented by self-reproach, which must attend her through life.
surely this comparison must have its use with her.
she will feel her own sufferings to be nothing.
they proceed from no misconduct, and can bring no disgrace.
on the contrary, every friend must be made still more her friend by them.
concern for her unhappiness, and respect for her fortitude under it, must strengthen every attachment.
use your own discretion, however, in communicating to her what i have told you.
you must know best what will be its effect; but had i not seriously, and from my heart believed it might be of service, might lessen her regrets, i would not have suffered myself to trouble you with this account of my family afflictions, with a recital which may seem to have been intended to raise myself at the expense of others."
elinor's thanks followed this speech with grateful earnestness; attended too with the assurance of her expecting material advantage to marianne, from the communication of what had passed.
"i have been more pained," said she, "by her endeavors to acquit him than by all the rest; for it irritates her mind more than the most perfect conviction of his unworthiness can do.
now, though at first she will suffer much, i am sure she will soon become easier.
have you," she continued, after a short silence, "ever seen mr. willoughby since you left him at barton?"
"yes," he replied gravely, "once i have.
one meeting was unavoidable."
elinor, startled by his manner, looked at him anxiously, saying,
"what?
have you met him to "
"i could meet him no other way.
eliza had confessed to me, though most reluctantly, the name of her lover; and when he returned to town, which was within a fortnight after myself, we met by appointment, he to defend, i to punish his conduct.
we returned unwounded, and the meeting, therefore, never got abroad."
elinor sighed over the fancied necessity of this; but to a man and a soldier she presumed not to censure it.
"such," said colonel brandon, after a pause, "has been the unhappy resemblance between the fate of mother and daughter!
and so imperfectly have i discharged my trust!"
"is she still in town?"
"no; as soon as she recovered from her lying-in, for i found her near her delivery, i removed her and her child into the country, and there she remains."
recollecting, soon afterwards, that he was probably dividing elinor from her sister, he put an end to his visit, receiving from her again the same grateful acknowledgments, and leaving her full of compassion and esteem for him.
chapter 32
when the particulars of this conversation were repeated by miss dashwood to her sister, as they very soon were, the effect on her was not entirely such as the former had hoped to see.
not that marianne appeared to distrust the truth of any part of it, for she listened to it all with the most steady and submissive attention, made neither objection nor remark, attempted no vindication of willoughby, and seemed to shew by her tears that she felt it to be impossible.
but though this behaviour assured elinor that the conviction of this guilt was carried home to her mind, though she saw with satisfaction the effect of it, in her no longer avoiding colonel brandon when he called, in her speaking to him, even voluntarily speaking, with a kind of compassionate respect, and though she saw her spirits less violently irritated than before, she did not see her less wretched.
her mind did become settled, but it was settled in a gloomy dejection.
she felt the loss of willoughby's character yet more heavily than she had felt the loss of his heart; his seduction and desertion of miss williams, the misery of that poor girl, and the doubt of what his designs might once have been on herself, preyed altogether so much on her spirits, that she could not bring herself to speak of what she felt even to elinor; and, brooding over her sorrows in silence, gave more pain to her sister than could have been communicated by the most open and most frequent confession of them.
to give the feelings or the language of mrs. dashwood on receiving and answering elinor's letter would be only to give a repetition of what her daughters had already felt and said; of a disappointment hardly less painful than marianne's, and an indignation even greater than elinor's.
long letters from her, quickly succeeding each other, arrived to tell all that she suffered and thought; to express her anxious solicitude for marianne, and entreat she would bear up with fortitude under this misfortune.
bad indeed must the nature of marianne's affliction be, when her mother could talk of fortitude!
mortifying and humiliating must be the origin of those regrets, which she could wish her not to indulge!
against the interest of her own individual comfort, mrs. dashwood had determined that it would be better for marianne to be any where, at that time, than at barton, where every thing within her view would be bringing back the past in the strongest and most afflicting manner, by constantly placing willoughby before her, such as she had always seen him there.
she recommended it to her daughters, therefore, by all means not to shorten their visit to mrs. jennings; the length of which, though never exactly fixed, had been expected by all to comprise at least five or six weeks.
a variety of occupations, of objects, and of company, which could not be procured at barton, would be inevitable there, and might yet, she hoped, cheat marianne, at times, into some interest beyond herself, and even into some amusement, much as the ideas of both might now be spurned by her.
from all danger of seeing willoughby again, her mother considered her to be at least equally safe in town as in the country, since his acquaintance must now be dropped by all who called themselves her friends.
design could never bring them in each other's way: negligence could never leave them exposed to a surprise; and chance had less in its favour in the crowd of london than even in the retirement of barton, where it might force him before her while paying that visit at allenham on his marriage, which mrs. dashwood, from foreseeing at first as a probable event, had brought herself to expect as a certain one.
she had yet another reason for wishing her children to remain where they were; a letter from her son-in-law had told her that he and his wife were to be in town before the middle of february, and she judged it right that they should sometimes see their brother.
marianne had promised to be guided by her mother's opinion, and she submitted to it therefore without opposition, though it proved perfectly different from what she wished and expected, though she felt it to be entirely wrong, formed on mistaken grounds, and that by requiring her longer continuance in london it deprived her of the only possible alleviation of her wretchedness, the personal sympathy of her mother, and doomed her to such society and such scenes as must prevent her ever knowing a moment's rest.
but it was a matter of great consolation to her, that what brought evil to herself would bring good to her sister; and elinor, on the other hand, suspecting that it would not be in her power to avoid edward entirely, comforted herself by thinking, that though their longer stay would therefore militate against her own happiness, it would be better for marianne than an immediate return into devonshire.
her carefulness in guarding her sister from ever hearing willoughby's name mentioned, was not thrown away.
marianne, though without knowing it herself, reaped all its advantage; for neither mrs. jennings, nor sir john, nor even mrs. palmer herself, ever spoke of him before her.
elinor wished that the same forbearance could have extended towards herself, but that was impossible, and she was obliged to listen day after day to the indignation of them all.
sir john, could not have thought it possible.
"a man of whom he had always had such reason to think well!
such a good-natured fellow!
he did not believe there was a bolder rider in england!
it was an unaccountable business.
he wished him at the devil with all his heart.
he would not speak another word to him, meet him where he might, for all the world!
no, not if it were to be by the side of barton covert, and they were kept watching for two hours together.
such a scoundrel of a fellow!
such a deceitful dog!
it was only the last time they met that he had offered him one of folly's puppies!
and this was the end of it!"
mrs. palmer, in her way, was equally angry.
"she was determined to drop his acquaintance immediately, and she was very thankful that she had never been acquainted with him at all.
she wished with all her heart combe magna was not so near cleveland; but it did not signify, for it was a great deal too far off to visit; she hated him so much that she was resolved never to mention his name again, and she should tell everybody she saw, how good-for-nothing he was."
the rest of mrs. palmer's sympathy was shewn in procuring all the particulars in her power of the approaching marriage, and communicating them to elinor.
she could soon tell at what coachmaker's the new carriage was building, by what painter mr. willoughby's portrait was drawn, and at what warehouse miss grey's clothes might be seen.
the calm and polite unconcern of lady middleton on the occasion was a happy relief to elinor's spirits, oppressed as they often were by the clamorous kindness of the others.
it was a great comfort to her to be sure of exciting no interest in one person at least among their circle of friends: a great comfort to know that there was one who would meet her without feeling any curiosity after particulars, or any anxiety for her sister's health.
every qualification is raised at times, by the circumstances of the moment, to more than its real value; and she was sometimes worried down by officious condolence to rate good-breeding as more indispensable to comfort than good-nature.
lady middleton expressed her sense of the affair about once every day, or twice, if the subject occurred very often, by saying, "it is very shocking, indeed!"
and by the means of this continual though gentle vent, was able not only to see the miss dashwoods from the first without the smallest emotion, but very soon to see them without recollecting a word of the matter; and having thus supported the dignity of her own sex, and spoken her decided censure of what was wrong in the other, she thought herself at liberty to attend to the interest of her own assemblies, and therefore determined (though rather against the opinion of sir john) that as mrs. willoughby would at once be a woman of elegance and fortune, to leave her card with her as soon as she married.
colonel brandon's delicate, unobtrusive enquiries were never unwelcome to miss dashwood.
he had abundantly earned the privilege of intimate discussion of her sister's disappointment, by the friendly zeal with which he had endeavoured to soften it, and they always conversed with confidence.
his chief reward for the painful exertion of disclosing past sorrows and present humiliations, was given in the pitying eye with which marianne sometimes observed him, and the gentleness of her voice whenever (though it did not often happen) she was obliged, or could oblige herself to speak to him.
these assured him that his exertion had produced an increase of good-will towards himself, and these gave elinor hopes of its being farther augmented hereafter; but mrs. jennings, who knew nothing of all this, who knew only that the colonel continued as grave as ever, and that she could neither prevail on him to make the offer himself, nor commission her to make it for him, began, at the end of two days, to think that, instead of midsummer, they would not be married till michaelmas, and by the end of a week that it would not be a match at all.
the good understanding between the colonel and miss dashwood seemed rather to declare that the honours of the mulberry-tree, the canal, and the yew arbour, would all be made over to her; and mrs. jennings had, for some time ceased to think at all of mrs. ferrars.
early in february, within a fortnight from the receipt of willoughby's letter, elinor had the painful office of informing her sister that he was married.
she had taken care to have the intelligence conveyed to herself, as soon as it was known that the ceremony was over, as she was desirous that marianne should not receive the first notice of it from the public papers, which she saw her eagerly examining every morning.
she received the news with resolute composure; made no observation on it, and at first shed no tears; but after a short time they would burst out, and for the rest of the day, she was in a state hardly less pitiable than when she first learnt to expect the event.
the willoughbys left town as soon as they were married; and elinor now hoped, as there could be no danger of her seeing either of them, to prevail on her sister, who had never yet left the house since the blow first fell, to go out again by degrees as she had done before.
about this time the two miss steeles, lately arrived at their cousin's house in bartlett's buildings, holburn, presented themselves again before their more grand relations in conduit and berkeley streets; and were welcomed by them all with great cordiality.
elinor only was sorry to see them.
their presence always gave her pain, and she hardly knew how to make a very gracious return to the overpowering delight of lucy in finding her still in town.
"i should have been quite disappointed if i had not found you here still," said she repeatedly, with a strong emphasis on the word.
"but i always thought i should.
i was almost sure you would not leave london yet awhile; though you told me, you know, at barton, that you should not stay above a month.
but i thought, at the time, that you would most likely change your mind when it came to the point.
it would have been such a great pity to have went away before your brother and sister came.
and now to be sure you will be in no hurry to be gone.
i am amazingly glad you did not keep to your word."
elinor perfectly understood her, and was forced to use all her self-command to make it appear that she did not.
"well, my dear," said mrs. jennings, "and how did you travel?"
"not in the stage, i assure you," replied miss steele, with quick exultation; "we came post all the way, and had a very smart beau to attend us.
dr. davies was coming to town, and so we thought we'd join him in a post-chaise; and he behaved very genteelly, and paid ten or twelve shillings more than we did."
"oh, oh!"
cried mrs. jennings; "very pretty, indeed!
and the doctor is a single man, i warrant you."
"there now," said miss steele, affectedly simpering, "everybody laughs at me so about the doctor, and i cannot think why.
my cousins say they are sure i have made a conquest; but for my part i declare i never think about him from one hour's end to another.
'lord!
here comes your beau, nancy,' my cousin said t'other day, when she saw him crossing the street to the house.
my beau, indeed!
said i i cannot think who you mean.
the doctor is no beau of mine."
"aye, aye, that is very pretty talking but it won't do the doctor is the man, i see."
"no, indeed!"
replied her cousin, with affected earnestness, "and i beg you will contradict it, if you ever hear it talked of."
mrs. jennings directly gave her the gratifying assurance that she certainly would not, and miss steele was made completely happy.
"i suppose you will go and stay with your brother and sister, miss dashwood, when they come to town," said lucy, returning, after a cessation of hostile hints, to the charge.
"no, i do not think we shall."
"oh, yes, i dare say you will."
elinor would not humour her by farther opposition.
"what a charming thing it is that mrs. dashwood can spare you both for so long a time together!"
"long a time, indeed!"
interposed mrs. jennings.
"why, their visit is but just begun!"
lucy was silenced.
"i am sorry we cannot see your sister, miss dashwood," said miss steele.
"i am sorry she is not well " for marianne had left the room on their arrival.
"you are very good.
my sister will be equally sorry to miss the pleasure of seeing you; but she has been very much plagued lately with nervous head-aches, which make her unfit for company or conversation."
"oh, dear, that is a great pity!
but such old friends as lucy and me!
i think she might see us; and i am sure we would not speak a word."
elinor, with great civility, declined the proposal.
her sister was perhaps laid down upon the bed, or in her dressing gown, and therefore not able to come to them.
"oh, if that's all," cried miss steele, "we can just as well go and see her."
elinor began to find this impertinence too much for her temper; but she was saved the trouble of checking it, by lucy's sharp reprimand, which now, as on many occasions, though it did not give much sweetness to the manners of one sister, was of advantage in governing those of the other.
chapter 33
after some opposition, marianne yielded to her sister's entreaties, and consented to go out with her and mrs. jennings one morning for half an hour.
she expressly conditioned, however, for paying no visits, and would do no more than accompany them to gray's in sackville street, where elinor was carrying on a negotiation for the exchange of a few old-fashioned jewels of her mother.
when they stopped at the door, mrs. jennings recollected that there was a lady at the other end of the street on whom she ought to call; and as she had no business at gray's, it was resolved, that while her young friends transacted their's, she should pay her visit and return for them.
on ascending the stairs, the miss dashwoods found so many people before them in the room, that there was not a person at liberty to tend to their orders; and they were obliged to wait.
all that could be done was, to sit down at that end of the counter which seemed to promise the quickest succession; one gentleman only was standing there, and it is probable that elinor was not without hope of exciting his politeness to a quicker despatch.
but the correctness of his eye, and the delicacy of his taste, proved to be beyond his politeness.
he was giving orders for a toothpick-case for himself, and till its size, shape, and ornaments were determined, all of which, after examining and debating for a quarter of an hour over every toothpick-case in the shop, were finally arranged by his own inventive fancy, he had no leisure to bestow any other attention on the two ladies, than what was comprised in three or four very broad stares; a kind of notice which served to imprint on elinor the remembrance of a person and face, of strong, natural, sterling insignificance, though adorned in the first style of fashion.
marianne was spared from the troublesome feelings of contempt and resentment, on this impertinent examination of their features, and on the puppyism of his manner in deciding on all the different horrors of the different toothpick-cases presented to his inspection, by remaining unconscious of it all; for she was as well able to collect her thoughts within herself, and be as ignorant of what was passing around her, in mr. gray's shop, as in her own bedroom.
at last the affair was decided.
the ivory, the gold, and the pearls, all received their appointment, and the gentleman having named the last day on which his existence could be continued without the possession of the toothpick-case, drew on his gloves with leisurely care, and bestowing another glance on the miss dashwoods, but such a one as seemed rather to demand than express admiration, walked off with a happy air of real conceit and affected indifference.
elinor lost no time in bringing her business forward, was on the point of concluding it, when another gentleman presented himself at her side.
she turned her eyes towards his face, and found him with some surprise to be her brother.
their affection and pleasure in meeting was just enough to make a very creditable appearance in mr. gray's shop.
john dashwood was really far from being sorry to see his sisters again; it rather gave them satisfaction; and his inquiries after their mother were respectful and attentive.
elinor found that he and fanny had been in town two days.
"i wished very much to call upon you yesterday," said he, "but it was impossible, for we were obliged to take harry to see the wild beasts at exeter exchange; and we spent the rest of the day with mrs. ferrars.
harry was vastly pleased.
this morning i had fully intended to call on you, if i could possibly find a spare half hour, but one has always so much to do on first coming to town.
i am come here to bespeak fanny a seal.
but tomorrow i think i shall certainly be able to call in berkeley street, and be introduced to your friend mrs. jennings.
i understand she is a woman of very good fortune.
and the middletons too, you must introduce me to them.
as my mother-in-law's relations, i shall be happy to show them every respect.
they are excellent neighbours to you in the country, i understand."
"excellent indeed.
their attention to our comfort, their friendliness in every particular, is more than i can express."
"i am extremely glad to hear it, upon my word; extremely glad indeed.
but so it ought to be; they are people of large fortune, they are related to you, and every civility and accommodation that can serve to make your situation pleasant might be reasonably expected.
and so you are most comfortably settled in your little cottage and want for nothing!
edward brought us a most charming account of the place: the most complete thing of its kind, he said, that ever was, and you all seemed to enjoy it beyond any thing.
it was a great satisfaction to us to hear it, i assure you."
elinor did feel a little ashamed of her brother; and was not sorry to be spared the necessity of answering him, by the arrival of mrs.
jennings's servant, who came to tell her that his mistress waited for them at the door.
mr. dashwood attended them down stairs, was introduced to mrs. jennings at the door of her carriage, and repeating his hope of being able to call on them the next day, took leave.
his visit was duly paid.
he came with a pretence at an apology from their sister-in-law, for not coming too; "but she was so much engaged with her mother, that really she had no leisure for going any where."
mrs. jennings, however, assured him directly, that she should not stand upon ceremony, for they were all cousins, or something like it, and she should certainly wait on mrs. john dashwood very soon, and bring her sisters to see her.
his manners to them, though calm, were perfectly kind; to mrs. jennings, most attentively civil; and on colonel brandon's coming in soon after himself, he eyed him with a curiosity which seemed to say, that he only wanted to know him to be rich, to be equally civil to him.
after staying with them half an hour, he asked elinor to walk with him to conduit street, and introduce him to sir john and lady middleton.
the weather was remarkably fine, and she readily consented.
as soon as they were out of the house, his enquiries began.
"who is colonel brandon?
is he a man of fortune?"
"yes; he has very good property in dorsetshire."
"i am glad of it.
he seems a most gentlemanlike man; and i think, elinor, i may congratulate you on the prospect of a very respectable establishment in life."
"me, brother!
what do you mean?"
"he likes you.
i observed him narrowly, and am convinced of it.
what is the amount of his fortune?"
"i believe about two thousand a year."
"two thousand a-year;" and then working himself up to a pitch of enthusiastic generosity, he added, "elinor, i wish with all my heart it were twice as much, for your sake."
"indeed i believe you," replied elinor; "but i am very sure that colonel brandon has not the smallest wish of marrying me."
"you are mistaken, elinor; you are very much mistaken.
a very little trouble on your side secures him.
perhaps just at present he may be undecided; the smallness of your fortune may make him hang back; his friends may all advise him against it.
but some of those little attentions and encouragements which ladies can so easily give will fix him, in spite of himself.
and there can be no reason why you should not try for him.
it is not to be supposed that any prior attachment on your side in short, you know as to an attachment of that kind, it is quite out of the question, the objections are insurmountable you have too much sense not to see all that.
colonel brandon must be the man; and no civility shall be wanting on my part to make him pleased with you and your family.
it is a match that must give universal satisfaction.
in short, it is a kind of thing that" lowering his voice to an important whisper "will be exceedingly welcome to all parties."
recollecting himself, however, he added, "that is, i mean to say your friends are all truly anxious to see you well settled; fanny particularly, for she has your interest very much at heart, i assure you.
and her mother too, mrs. ferrars, a very good-natured woman, i am sure it would give her great pleasure; she said as much the other day."
elinor would not vouchsafe any answer.
"it would be something remarkable, now," he continued, "something droll, if fanny should have a brother and i a sister settling at the same time.
and yet it is not very unlikely."
"is mr. edward ferrars," said elinor, with resolution, "going to be married?"
"it is not actually settled, but there is such a thing in agitation.
he has a most excellent mother.
mrs. ferrars, with the utmost liberality, will come forward, and settle on him a thousand a year, if the match takes place.
the lady is the hon.
miss morton, only daughter of the late lord morton, with thirty thousand pounds.
a very desirable connection on both sides, and i have not a doubt of its taking place in time.
a thousand a-year is a great deal for a mother to give away, to make over for ever; but mrs. ferrars has a noble spirit.
to give you another instance of her liberality: the other day, as soon as we came to town, aware that money could not be very plenty with us just now, she put bank-notes into fanny's hands to the amount of two hundred pounds.
and extremely acceptable it is, for we must live at a great expense while we are here."
he paused for her assent and compassion; and she forced herself to say,
"your expenses both in town and country must certainly be considerable; but your income is a large one."
"not so large, i dare say, as many people suppose.
i do not mean to complain, however; it is undoubtedly a comfortable one, and i hope will in time be better.
the enclosure of norland common, now carrying on, is a most serious drain.
and then i have made a little purchase within this half year; east kingham farm, you must remember the place, where old gibson used to live.
the land was so very desirable for me in every respect, so immediately adjoining my own property, that i felt it my duty to buy it.
i could not have answered it to my conscience to let it fall into any other hands.
a man must pay for his convenience; and it has cost me a vast deal of money."
"more than you think it really and intrinsically worth."
"why, i hope not that.
i might have sold it again, the next day, for more than i gave: but, with regard to the purchase-money, i might have been very unfortunate indeed; for the stocks were at that time so low, that if i had not happened to have the necessary sum in my banker's hands, i must have sold out to very great loss."
elinor could only smile.
"other great and inevitable expenses too we have had on first coming to norland.
our respected father, as you well know, bequeathed all the stanhill effects that remained at norland (and very valuable they were)
to your mother.
far be it from me to repine at his doing so; he had an undoubted right to dispose of his own property as he chose, but, in consequence of it, we have been obliged to make large purchases of linen, china, &c. to supply the place of what was taken away.
you may guess, after all these expenses, how very far we must be from being rich, and how acceptable mrs. ferrars's kindness is."
"certainly," said elinor; "and assisted by her liberality, i hope you may yet live to be in easy circumstances."
"another year or two may do much towards it," he gravely replied; "but however there is still a great deal to be done.
there is not a stone laid of fanny's green-house, and nothing but the plan of the flower-garden marked out."
"where is the green-house to be?"
"upon the knoll behind the house.
the old walnut trees are all come down to make room for it.
it will be a very fine object from many parts of the park, and the flower-garden will slope down just before it, and be exceedingly pretty.
we have cleared away all the old thorns that grew in patches over the brow."
elinor kept her concern and her censure to herself; and was very thankful that marianne was not present, to share the provocation.
having now said enough to make his poverty clear, and to do away the necessity of buying a pair of ear-rings for each of his sisters, in his next visit at gray's his thoughts took a cheerfuller turn, and he began to congratulate elinor on having such a friend as mrs. jennings.
"she seems a most valuable woman indeed her house, her style of living, all bespeak an exceeding good income; and it is an acquaintance that has not only been of great use to you hitherto, but in the end may prove materially advantageous.
her inviting you to town is certainly a vast thing in your favour; and indeed, it speaks altogether so great a regard for you, that in all probability when she dies you will not be forgotten.
she must have a great deal to leave."
"nothing at all, i should rather suppose; for she has only her jointure, which will descend to her children."
"but it is not to be imagined that she lives up to her income.
few people of common prudence will do that; and whatever she saves, she will be able to dispose of."
"and do you not think it more likely that she should leave it to her daughters, than to us?"
"her daughters are both exceedingly well married, and therefore i cannot perceive the necessity of her remembering them farther.
whereas, in my opinion, by her taking so much notice of you, and treating you in this kind of way, she has given you a sort of claim on her future consideration, which a conscientious woman would not disregard.
nothing can be kinder than her behaviour; and she can hardly do all this, without being aware of the expectation it raises."
"but she raises none in those most concerned.
indeed, brother, your anxiety for our welfare and prosperity carries you too far."
"why, to be sure," said he, seeming to recollect himself, "people have little, have very little in their power.
but, my dear elinor, what is the matter with marianne?
she looks very unwell, has lost her colour, and is grown quite thin.
is she ill?"
"she is not well, she has had a nervous complaint on her for several weeks."
"i am sorry for that.
at her time of life, any thing of an illness destroys the bloom for ever!
hers has been a very short one!
she was as handsome a girl last september, as i ever saw; and as likely to attract the man.
there was something in her style of beauty, to please them particularly.
i remember fanny used to say that she would marry sooner and better than you did; not but what she is exceedingly fond of you, but so it happened to strike her.
she will be mistaken, however.
i question whether marianne now, will marry a man worth more than five or six hundred a-year, at the utmost, and i am very much deceived if you do not do better.
dorsetshire!
i know very little of dorsetshire; but, my dear elinor, i shall be exceedingly glad to know more of it; and i think i can answer for your having fanny and myself among the earliest and best pleased of your visitors."
elinor tried very seriously to convince him that there was no likelihood of her marrying colonel brandon; but it was an expectation of too much pleasure to himself to be relinquished, and he was really resolved on seeking an intimacy with that gentleman, and promoting the marriage by every possible attention.
he had just compunction enough for having done nothing for his sisters himself, to be exceedingly anxious that everybody else should do a great deal; and an offer from colonel brandon, or a legacy from mrs. jennings, was the easiest means of atoning for his own neglect.
they were lucky enough to find lady middleton at home, and sir john came in before their visit ended.
abundance of civilities passed on all sides.
sir john was ready to like anybody, and though mr. dashwood did not seem to know much about horses, he soon set him down as a very good-natured fellow: while lady middleton saw enough of fashion in his appearance to think his acquaintance worth having; and mr. dashwood went away delighted with both.
"i shall have a charming account to carry to fanny," said he, as he walked back with his sister.
"lady middleton is really a most elegant woman!
such a woman as i am sure fanny will be glad to know.
and mrs.
jennings too, an exceedingly well-behaved woman, though not so elegant as her daughter.
your sister need not have any scruple even of visiting her, which, to say the truth, has been a little the case, and very naturally; for we only knew that mrs. jennings was the widow of a man who had got all his money in a low way; and fanny and mrs. ferrars were both strongly prepossessed, that neither she nor her daughters were such kind of women as fanny would like to associate with.
but now i can carry her a most satisfactory account of both."
chapter 34
mrs. john dashwood had so much confidence in her husband's judgment, that she waited the very next day both on mrs. jennings and her daughter; and her confidence was rewarded by finding even the former, even the woman with whom her sisters were staying, by no means unworthy her notice; and as for lady middleton, she found her one of the most charming women in the world!
lady middleton was equally pleased with mrs. dashwood.
there was a kind of cold hearted selfishness on both sides, which mutually attracted them; and they sympathised with each other in an insipid propriety of demeanor, and a general want of understanding.
the same manners, however, which recommended mrs. john dashwood to the good opinion of lady middleton did not suit the fancy of mrs. jennings, and to her she appeared nothing more than a little proud-looking woman of uncordial address, who met her husband's sisters without any affection, and almost without having anything to say to them; for of the quarter of an hour bestowed on berkeley street, she sat at least seven minutes and a half in silence.
elinor wanted very much to know, though she did not chuse to ask, whether edward was then in town; but nothing would have induced fanny voluntarily to mention his name before her, till able to tell her that his marriage with miss morton was resolved on, or till her husband's expectations on colonel brandon were answered; because she believed them still so very much attached to each other, that they could not be too sedulously divided in word and deed on every occasion.
the intelligence however, which she would not give, soon flowed from another quarter.
lucy came very shortly to claim elinor's compassion on being unable to see edward, though he had arrived in town with mr.
and mrs. dashwood.
he dared not come to bartlett's buildings for fear of detection, and though their mutual impatience to meet, was not to be told, they could do nothing at present but write.
edward assured them himself of his being in town, within a very short time, by twice calling in berkeley street.
twice was his card found on the table, when they returned from their morning's engagements.
elinor was pleased that he had called; and still more pleased that she had missed him.
the dashwoods were so prodigiously delighted with the middletons, that, though not much in the habit of giving anything, they determined to give them a dinner; and soon after their acquaintance began, invited them to dine in harley street, where they had taken a very good house for three months.
their sisters and mrs. jennings were invited likewise, and john dashwood was careful to secure colonel brandon, who, always glad to be where the miss dashwoods were, received his eager civilities with some surprise, but much more pleasure.
they were to meet mrs. ferrars; but elinor could not learn whether her sons were to be of the party.
the expectation of seeing her, however, was enough to make her interested in the engagement; for though she could now meet edward's mother without that strong anxiety which had once promised to attend such an introduction, though she could now see her with perfect indifference as to her opinion of herself, her desire of being in company with mrs. ferrars, her curiosity to know what she was like, was as lively as ever.
the interest with which she thus anticipated the party, was soon afterwards increased, more powerfully than pleasantly, by her hearing that the miss steeles were also to be at it.
so well had they recommended themselves to lady middleton, so agreeable had their assiduities made them to her, that though lucy was certainly not so elegant, and her sister not even genteel, she was as ready as sir john to ask them to spend a week or two in conduit street; and it happened to be particularly convenient to the miss steeles, as soon as the dashwoods' invitation was known, that their visit should begin a few days before the party took place.
their claims to the notice of mrs. john dashwood, as the nieces of the gentleman who for many years had had the care of her brother, might not have done much, however, towards procuring them seats at her table; but as lady middleton's guests they must be welcome; and lucy, who had long wanted to be personally known to the family, to have a nearer view of their characters and her own difficulties, and to have an opportunity of endeavouring to please them, had seldom been happier in her life, than she was on receiving mrs. john dashwood's card.
on elinor its effect was very different.
she began immediately to determine, that edward who lived with his mother, must be asked as his mother was, to a party given by his sister; and to see him for the first time, after all that passed, in the company of lucy!
she hardly knew how she could bear it!
these apprehensions, perhaps, were not founded entirely on reason, and certainly not at all on truth.
they were relieved however, not by her own recollection, but by the good will of lucy, who believed herself to be inflicting a severe disappointment when she told her that edward certainly would not be in harley street on tuesday, and even hoped to be carrying the pain still farther by persuading her that he was kept away by the extreme affection for herself, which he could not conceal when they were together.
the important tuesday came that was to introduce the two young ladies to this formidable mother-in-law.
"pity me, dear miss dashwood!"
said lucy, as they walked up the stairs together for the middletons arrived so directly after mrs. jennings, that they all followed the servant at the same time "there is nobody here but you, that can feel for me.
i declare i can hardly stand.
good gracious!
in a moment i shall see the person that all my happiness depends on that is to be my mother!"
elinor could have given her immediate relief by suggesting the possibility of its being miss morton's mother, rather than her own, whom they were about to behold; but instead of doing that, she assured her, and with great sincerity, that she did pity her to the utter amazement of lucy, who, though really uncomfortable herself, hoped at least to be an object of irrepressible envy to elinor.
mrs. ferrars was a little, thin woman, upright, even to formality, in her figure, and serious, even to sourness, in her aspect.
her complexion was sallow; and her features small, without beauty, and naturally without expression; but a lucky contraction of the brow had rescued her countenance from the disgrace of insipidity, by giving it the strong characters of pride and ill nature.
she was not a woman of many words; for, unlike people in general, she proportioned them to the number of her ideas; and of the few syllables that did escape her, not one fell to the share of miss dashwood, whom she eyed with the spirited determination of disliking her at all events.
elinor could not now be made unhappy by this behaviour.
a few months ago it would have hurt her exceedingly; but it was not in mrs. ferrars'
power to distress her by it now; and the difference of her manners to the miss steeles, a difference which seemed purposely made to humble her more, only amused her.
she could not but smile to see the graciousness of both mother and daughter towards the very person  for lucy was particularly distinguished whom of all others, had they known as much as she did, they would have been most anxious to mortify; while she herself, who had comparatively no power to wound them, sat pointedly slighted by both.
but while she smiled at a graciousness so misapplied, she could not reflect on the mean-spirited folly from which it sprung, nor observe the studied attentions with which the miss steeles courted its continuance, without thoroughly despising them all four.
lucy was all exultation on being so honorably distinguished; and miss steele wanted only to be teazed about dr. davies to be perfectly happy.
the dinner was a grand one, the servants were numerous, and every thing bespoke the mistress's inclination for show, and the master's ability to support it.
in spite of the improvements and additions which were making to the norland estate, and in spite of its owner having once been within some thousand pounds of being obliged to sell out at a loss, nothing gave any symptom of that indigence which he had tried to infer from it; no poverty of any kind, except of conversation, appeared but there, the deficiency was considerable.
john dashwood had not much to say for himself that was worth hearing, and his wife had still less.
but there was no peculiar disgrace in this; for it was very much the case with the chief of their visitors, who almost all laboured under one or other of these disqualifications for being agreeable want of sense, either natural or improved want of elegance want of spirits or want of temper.
when the ladies withdrew to the drawing-room after dinner, this poverty was particularly evident, for the gentlemen had supplied the discourse with some variety the variety of politics, inclosing land, and breaking horses but then it was all over; and one subject only engaged the ladies till coffee came in, which was the comparative heights of harry dashwood, and lady middleton's second son william, who were nearly of the same age.
had both the children been there, the affair might have been determined too easily by measuring them at once; but as harry only was present, it was all conjectural assertion on both sides; and every body had a right to be equally positive in their opinion, and to repeat it over and over again as often as they liked.
the parties stood thus:
the two mothers, though each really convinced that her own son was the tallest, politely decided in favour of the other.
the two grandmothers, with not less partiality, but more sincerity, were equally earnest in support of their own descendant.
lucy, who was hardly less anxious to please one parent than the other, thought the boys were both remarkably tall for their age, and could not conceive that there could be the smallest difference in the world between them; and miss steele, with yet greater address gave it, as fast as she could, in favour of each.
elinor, having once delivered her opinion on william's side, by which she offended mrs. ferrars and fanny still more, did not see the necessity of enforcing it by any farther assertion; and marianne, when called on for hers, offended them all, by declaring that she had no opinion to give, as she had never thought about it.
before her removing from norland, elinor had painted a very pretty pair of screens for her sister-in-law, which being now just mounted and brought home, ornamented her present drawing room; and these screens, catching the eye of john dashwood on his following the other gentlemen into the room, were officiously handed by him to colonel brandon for his admiration.
"these are done by my eldest sister," said he; "and you, as a man of taste, will, i dare say, be pleased with them.
i do not know whether you have ever happened to see any of her performances before, but she is in general reckoned to draw extremely well."
the colonel, though disclaiming all pretensions to connoisseurship, warmly admired the screens, as he would have done any thing painted by miss dashwood; and on the curiosity of the others being of course excited, they were handed round for general inspection.
mrs. ferrars, not aware of their being elinor's work, particularly requested to look at them; and after they had received gratifying testimony of lady middletons's approbation, fanny presented them to her mother, considerately informing her, at the same time, that they were done by miss dashwood.
"hum" said mrs. ferrars "very pretty," and without regarding them at all, returned them to her daughter.
perhaps fanny thought for a moment that her mother had been quite rude enough, for, colouring a little, she immediately said,
"they are very pretty, ma'am an't they?"
but then again, the dread of having been too civil, too encouraging herself, probably came over her, for she presently added,
"do you not think they are something in miss morton's style of painting, ma'am?
she does paint most delightfully!
how beautifully her last landscape is done!"
"beautifully indeed!
but she does every thing well."
marianne could not bear this.
she was already greatly displeased with mrs. ferrars; and such ill-timed praise of another, at elinor's expense, though she had not any notion of what was principally meant by it, provoked her immediately to say with warmth,
"this is admiration of a very particular kind!
what is miss morton to us?
who knows, or who cares, for her?
it is elinor of whom we think and speak."
and so saying, she took the screens out of her sister-in-law's hands, to admire them herself as they ought to be admired.
mrs. ferrars looked exceedingly angry, and drawing herself up more stiffly than ever, pronounced in retort this bitter philippic, "miss morton is lord morton's daughter."
fanny looked very angry too, and her husband was all in a fright at his sister's audacity.
elinor was much more hurt by marianne's warmth than she had been by what produced it; but colonel brandon's eyes, as they were fixed on marianne, declared that he noticed only what was amiable in it, the affectionate heart which could not bear to see a sister slighted in the smallest point.
marianne's feelings did not stop here.
the cold insolence of mrs.
ferrars's general behaviour to her sister, seemed, to her, to foretell such difficulties and distresses to elinor, as her own wounded heart taught her to think of with horror; and urged by a strong impulse of affectionate sensibility, she moved after a moment, to her sister's chair, and putting one arm round her neck, and one cheek close to hers, said in a low, but eager, voice,
"dear, dear elinor, don't mind them.
don't let them make you unhappy."
she could say no more; her spirits were quite overcome, and hiding her face on elinor's shoulder, she burst into tears.
every body's attention was called, and almost every body was concerned.
colonel brandon rose up and went to them without knowing what he did.
mrs.
jennings, with a very intelligent "ah!
poor dear," immediately gave her her salts; and sir john felt so desperately enraged against the author of this nervous distress, that he instantly changed his seat to one close by lucy steele, and gave her, in a whisper, a brief account of the whole shocking affair.
in a few minutes, however, marianne was recovered enough to put an end to the bustle, and sit down among the rest; though her spirits retained the impression of what had passed, the whole evening.
"poor marianne!"
said her brother to colonel brandon, in a low voice, as soon as he could secure his attention,  "she has not such good health as her sister, she is very nervous, she has not elinor's constitution; and one must allow that there is something very trying to a young woman who has been a beauty in the loss of her personal attractions.
you would not think it perhaps, but marianne was remarkably handsome a few months ago; quite as handsome as elinor.
now you see it is all gone."
chapter 35
elinor's curiosity to see mrs. ferrars was satisfied.
she had found in her every thing that could tend to make a farther connection between the families undesirable.
she had seen enough of her pride, her meanness, and her determined prejudice against herself, to comprehend all the difficulties that must have perplexed the engagement, and retarded the marriage, of edward and herself, had he been otherwise free; and she had seen almost enough to be thankful for her own sake, that one greater obstacle preserved her from suffering under any other of mrs. ferrars's creation, preserved her from all dependence upon her caprice, or any solicitude for her good opinion.
or at least, if she did not bring herself quite to rejoice in edward's being fettered to lucy, she determined, that had lucy been more amiable, she ought to have rejoiced.
she wondered that lucy's spirits could be so very much elevated by the civility of mrs. ferrars; that her interest and her vanity should so very much blind her as to make the attention which seemed only paid her because she was not elinor, appear a compliment to herself or to allow her to derive encouragement from a preference only given her, because her real situation was unknown.
but that it was so, had not only been declared by lucy's eyes at the time, but was declared over again the next morning more openly, for at her particular desire, lady middleton set her down in berkeley street on the chance of seeing elinor alone, to tell her how happy she was.
the chance proved a lucky one, for a message from mrs. palmer soon after she arrived, carried mrs. jennings away.
"my dear friend," cried lucy, as soon as they were by themselves, "i come to talk to you of my happiness.
could anything be so flattering as mrs. ferrars's way of treating me yesterday?
so exceeding affable as she was!
you know how i dreaded the thoughts of seeing her; but the very moment i was introduced, there was such an affability in her behaviour as really should seem to say, she had quite took a fancy to me.
now was not it so?
you saw it all; and was not you quite struck with it?"
"she was certainly very civil to you."
"civil!
did you see nothing but only civility?
i saw a vast deal more.
such kindness as fell to the share of nobody but me!
no pride, no hauteur, and your sister just the same all sweetness and affability!"
elinor wished to talk of something else, but lucy still pressed her to own that she had reason for her happiness; and elinor was obliged to go on.
"undoubtedly, if they had known your engagement," said she, "nothing could be more flattering than their treatment of you; but as that was not the case"
"i guessed you would say so," replied lucy quickly "but there was no reason in the world why mrs. ferrars should seem to like me, if she did not, and her liking me is every thing.
you shan't talk me out of my satisfaction.
i am sure it will all end well, and there will be no difficulties at all, to what i used to think.
mrs. ferrars is a charming woman, and so is your sister.
they are both delightful women, indeed!
i wonder i should never hear you say how agreeable mrs.
dashwood was!"
to this elinor had no answer to make, and did not attempt any.
"are you ill, miss dashwood?
you seem low you don't speak; sure you an't well."
"i never was in better health."
"i am glad of it with all my heart; but really you did not look it.
i should be sorry to have you ill; you, that have been the greatest comfort to me in the world!
heaven knows what i should have done without your friendship."
elinor tried to make a civil answer, though doubting her own success.
but it seemed to satisfy lucy, for she directly replied,
"indeed i am perfectly convinced of your regard for me, and next to edward's love, it is the greatest comfort i have.
poor edward!
but now there is one good thing, we shall be able to meet, and meet pretty often, for lady middleton's delighted with mrs. dashwood, so we shall be a good deal in harley street, i dare say, and edward spends half his time with his sister besides, lady middleton and mrs. ferrars will visit now; and mrs. ferrars and your sister were both so good to say more than once, they should always be glad to see me.
they are such charming women!
i am sure if ever you tell your sister what i think of her, you cannot speak too high."
but elinor would not give her any encouragement to hope that she should tell her sister.
lucy continued.
"i am sure i should have seen it in a moment, if mrs. ferrars had took a dislike to me.
if she had only made me a formal courtesy, for instance, without saying a word, and never after had took any notice of me, and never looked at me in a pleasant way you know what i mean if i had been treated in that forbidding sort of way, i should have gave it all up in despair.
i could not have stood it.
for where she does dislike, i know it is most violent."
elinor was prevented from making any reply to this civil triumph, by the door's being thrown open, the servant's announcing mr. ferrars, and edward's immediately walking in.
it was a very awkward moment; and the countenance of each shewed that it was so.
they all looked exceedingly foolish; and edward seemed to have as great an inclination to walk out of the room again, as to advance farther into it.
the very circumstance, in its unpleasantest form, which they would each have been most anxious to avoid, had fallen on them.
they were not only all three together, but were together without the relief of any other person.
the ladies recovered themselves first.
it was not lucy's business to put herself forward, and the appearance of secrecy must still be kept up.
she could therefore only look her tenderness, and after slightly addressing him, said no more.
but elinor had more to do; and so anxious was she, for his sake and her own, to do it well, that she forced herself, after a moment's recollection, to welcome him, with a look and manner that were almost easy, and almost open; and another struggle, another effort still improved them.
she would not allow the presence of lucy, nor the consciousness of some injustice towards herself, to deter her from saying that she was happy to see him, and that she had very much regretted being from home, when he called before in berkeley street.
she would not be frightened from paying him those attentions which, as a friend and almost a relation, were his due, by the observant eyes of lucy, though she soon perceived them to be narrowly watching her.
her manners gave some re-assurance to edward, and he had courage enough to sit down; but his embarrassment still exceeded that of the ladies in a proportion, which the case rendered reasonable, though his sex might make it rare; for his heart had not the indifference of lucy's, nor could his conscience have quite the ease of elinor's.
lucy, with a demure and settled air, seemed determined to make no contribution to the comfort of the others, and would not say a word; and almost every thing that was said, proceeded from elinor, who was obliged to volunteer all the information about her mother's health, their coming to town, &c. which edward ought to have inquired about, but never did.
her exertions did not stop here; for she soon afterwards felt herself so heroically disposed as to determine, under pretence of fetching marianne, to leave the others by themselves; and she really did it, and that in the handsomest manner, for she loitered away several minutes on the landing-place, with the most high-minded fortitude, before she went to her sister.
when that was once done, however, it was time for the raptures of edward to cease; for marianne's joy hurried her into the drawing-room immediately.
her pleasure in seeing him was like every other of her feelings, strong in itself, and strongly spoken.
she met him with a hand that would be taken, and a voice that expressed the affection of a sister.
"dear edward!"
she cried, "this is a moment of great happiness!
this would almost make amends for every thing!"
edward tried to return her kindness as it deserved, but before such witnesses he dared not say half what he really felt.
again they all sat down, and for a moment or two all were silent; while marianne was looking with the most speaking tenderness, sometimes at edward and sometimes at elinor, regretting only that their delight in each other should be checked by lucy's unwelcome presence.
edward was the first to speak, and it was to notice marianne's altered looks, and express his fear of her not finding london agree with her.
"oh, don't think of me!"
she replied with spirited earnestness, though her eyes were filled with tears as she spoke, "don't think of my health.
elinor is well, you see.
that must be enough for us both."
this remark was not calculated to make edward or elinor more easy, nor to conciliate the good will of lucy, who looked up at marianne with no very benignant expression.
"do you like london?"
said edward, willing to say any thing that might introduce another subject.
"not at all.
i expected much pleasure in it, but i have found none.
the sight of you, edward, is the only comfort it has afforded; and thank heaven!
you are what you always were!"
she paused no one spoke.
"i think, elinor," she presently added, "we must employ edward to take care of us in our return to barton.
in a week or two, i suppose, we shall be going; and, i trust, edward will not be very unwilling to accept the charge."
poor edward muttered something, but what it was, nobody knew, not even himself.
but marianne, who saw his agitation, and could easily trace it to whatever cause best pleased herself, was perfectly satisfied, and soon talked of something else.
"we spent such a day, edward, in harley street yesterday!
so dull, so wretchedly dull!
but i have much to say to you on that head, which cannot be said now."
and with this admirable discretion did she defer the assurance of her finding their mutual relatives more disagreeable than ever, and of her being particularly disgusted with his mother, till they were more in private.
"but why were you not there, edward?
why did you not come?"
"i was engaged elsewhere."
"engaged!
but what was that, when such friends were to be met?"
"perhaps, miss marianne," cried lucy, eager to take some revenge on her, "you think young men never stand upon engagements, if they have no mind to keep them, little as well as great."
elinor was very angry, but marianne seemed entirely insensible of the sting; for she calmly replied,
"not so, indeed; for, seriously speaking, i am very sure that conscience only kept edward from harley street.
and i really believe he has the most delicate conscience in the world; the most scrupulous in performing every engagement, however minute, and however it may make against his interest or pleasure.
he is the most fearful of giving pain, of wounding expectation, and the most incapable of being selfish, of any body i ever saw.
edward, it is so, and i will say it.
what!
are you never to hear yourself praised!
then you must be no friend of mine; for those who will accept of my love and esteem, must submit to my open commendation."
the nature of her commendation, in the present case, however, happened to be particularly ill-suited to the feelings of two thirds of her auditors, and was so very unexhilarating to edward, that he very soon got up to go away.
"going so soon!"
said marianne; "my dear edward, this must not be."
and drawing him a little aside, she whispered her persuasion that lucy could not stay much longer.
but even this encouragement failed, for he would go; and lucy, who would have outstaid him, had his visit lasted two hours, soon afterwards went away.
"what can bring her here so often?"
said marianne, on her leaving them.
"could not she see that we wanted her gone!
how teazing to edward!"
"why so?
we were all his friends, and lucy has been the longest known to him of any.
it is but natural that he should like to see her as well as ourselves."
marianne looked at her steadily, and said, "you know, elinor, that this is a kind of talking which i cannot bear.
if you only hope to have your assertion contradicted, as i must suppose to be the case, you ought to recollect that i am the last person in the world to do it.
i cannot descend to be tricked out of assurances, that are not really wanted."
she then left the room; and elinor dared not follow her to say more, for bound as she was by her promise of secrecy to lucy, she could give no information that would convince marianne; and painful as the consequences of her still continuing in an error might be, she was obliged to submit to it.
all that she could hope, was that edward would not often expose her or himself to the distress of hearing marianne's mistaken warmth, nor to the repetition of any other part of the pain that had attended their recent meeting and this she had every reason to expect.
chapter 36
within a few days after this meeting, the newspapers announced to the world, that the lady of thomas palmer, esq.
was safely delivered of a son and heir; a very interesting and satisfactory paragraph, at least to all those intimate connections who knew it before.
this event, highly important to mrs. jennings's happiness, produced a temporary alteration in the disposal of her time, and influenced, in a like degree, the engagements of her young friends; for as she wished to be as much as possible with charlotte, she went thither every morning as soon as she was dressed, and did not return till late in the evening; and the miss dashwoods, at the particular request of the middletons, spent the whole of every day in conduit street.
for their own comfort they would much rather have remained, at least all the morning, in mrs.
jennings's house; but it was not a thing to be urged against the wishes of everybody.
their hours were therefore made over to lady middleton and the two miss steeles, by whom their company, in fact was as little valued, as it was professedly sought.
they had too much sense to be desirable companions to the former; and by the latter they were considered with a jealous eye, as intruding on their ground, and sharing the kindness which they wanted to monopolize.
though nothing could be more polite than lady middleton's behaviour to elinor and marianne, she did not really like them at all.
because they neither flattered herself nor her children, she could not believe them good-natured; and because they were fond of reading, she fancied them satirical: perhaps without exactly knowing what it was to be satirical; but that did not signify.
it was censure in common use, and easily given.
their presence was a restraint both on her and on lucy.
it checked the idleness of one, and the business of the other.
lady middleton was ashamed of doing nothing before them, and the flattery which lucy was proud to think of and administer at other times, she feared they would despise her for offering.
miss steele was the least discomposed of the three, by their presence; and it was in their power to reconcile her to it entirely.
would either of them only have given her a full and minute account of the whole affair between marianne and mr. willoughby, she would have thought herself amply rewarded for the sacrifice of the best place by the fire after dinner, which their arrival occasioned.
but this conciliation was not granted; for though she often threw out expressions of pity for her sister to elinor, and more than once dropt a reflection on the inconstancy of beaux before marianne, no effect was produced, but a look of indifference from the former, or of disgust in the latter.
an effort even yet lighter might have made her their friend.
would they only have laughed at her about the doctor!
but so little were they, anymore than the others, inclined to oblige her, that if sir john dined from home, she might spend a whole day without hearing any other raillery on the subject, than what she was kind enough to bestow on herself.
all these jealousies and discontents, however, were so totally unsuspected by mrs. jennings, that she thought it a delightful thing for the girls to be together; and generally congratulated her young friends every night, on having escaped the company of a stupid old woman so long.
she joined them sometimes at sir john's, sometimes at her own house; but wherever it was, she always came in excellent spirits, full of delight and importance, attributing charlotte's well doing to her own care, and ready to give so exact, so minute a detail of her situation, as only miss steele had curiosity enough to desire.
one thing did disturb her; and of that she made her daily complaint.
mr. palmer maintained the common, but unfatherly opinion among his sex, of all infants being alike; and though she could plainly perceive, at different times, the most striking resemblance between this baby and every one of his relations on both sides, there was no convincing his father of it; no persuading him to believe that it was not exactly like every other baby of the same age; nor could he even be brought to acknowledge the simple proposition of its being the finest child in the world.
i come now to the relation of a misfortune, which about this time befell mrs. john dashwood.
it so happened that while her two sisters with mrs. jennings were first calling on her in harley street, another of her acquaintance had dropt in a circumstance in itself not apparently likely to produce evil to her.
but while the imaginations of other people will carry them away to form wrong judgments of our conduct, and to decide on it by slight appearances, one's happiness must in some measure be always at the mercy of chance.
in the present instance, this last-arrived lady allowed her fancy to so far outrun truth and probability, that on merely hearing the name of the miss dashwoods, and understanding them to be mr. dashwood's sisters, she immediately concluded them to be staying in harley street; and this misconstruction produced within a day or two afterwards, cards of invitation for them as well as for their brother and sister, to a small musical party at her house.
the consequence of which was, that mrs.
john dashwood was obliged to submit not only to the exceedingly great inconvenience of sending her carriage for the miss dashwoods, but, what was still worse, must be subject to all the unpleasantness of appearing to treat them with attention: and who could tell that they might not expect to go out with her a second time?
the power of disappointing them, it was true, must always be hers.
but that was not enough; for when people are determined on a mode of conduct which they know to be wrong, they feel injured by the expectation of any thing better from them.
marianne had now been brought by degrees, so much into the habit of going out every day, that it was become a matter of indifference to her, whether she went or not: and she prepared quietly and mechanically for every evening's engagement, though without expecting the smallest amusement from any, and very often without knowing, till the last moment, where it was to take her.
to her dress and appearance she was grown so perfectly indifferent, as not to bestow half the consideration on it, during the whole of her toilet, which it received from miss steele in the first five minutes of their being together, when it was finished.
nothing escaped her minute observation and general curiosity; she saw every thing, and asked every thing; was never easy till she knew the price of every part of marianne's dress; could have guessed the number of her gowns altogether with better judgment than marianne herself, and was not without hopes of finding out before they parted, how much her washing cost per week, and how much she had every year to spend upon herself.
the impertinence of these kind of scrutinies, moreover, was generally concluded with a compliment, which though meant as its douceur, was considered by marianne as the greatest impertinence of all; for after undergoing an examination into the value and make of her gown, the colour of her shoes, and the arrangement of her hair, she was almost sure of being told that upon "her word she looked vastly smart, and she dared to say she would make a great many conquests."
with such encouragement as this, was she dismissed on the present occasion, to her brother's carriage; which they were ready to enter five minutes after it stopped at the door, a punctuality not very agreeable to their sister-in-law, who had preceded them to the house of her acquaintance, and was there hoping for some delay on their part that might inconvenience either herself or her coachman.
the events of this evening were not very remarkable.
the party, like other musical parties, comprehended a great many people who had real taste for the performance, and a great many more who had none at all; and the performers themselves were, as usual, in their own estimation, and that of their immediate friends, the first private performers in england.
as elinor was neither musical, nor affecting to be so, she made no scruple of turning her eyes from the grand pianoforte, whenever it suited her, and unrestrained even by the presence of a harp, and violoncello, would fix them at pleasure on any other object in the room.
in one of these excursive glances she perceived among a group of young men, the very he, who had given them a lecture on toothpick-cases at gray's.
she perceived him soon afterwards looking at herself, and speaking familiarly to her brother; and had just determined to find out his name from the latter, when they both came towards her, and mr.
dashwood introduced him to her as mr. robert ferrars.
he addressed her with easy civility, and twisted his head into a bow which assured her as plainly as words could have done, that he was exactly the coxcomb she had heard him described to be by lucy.
happy had it been for her, if her regard for edward had depended less on his own merit, than on the merit of his nearest relations!
for then his brother's bow must have given the finishing stroke to what the ill-humour of his mother and sister would have begun.
but while she wondered at the difference of the two young men, she did not find that the emptiness of conceit of the one, put her out of all charity with the modesty and worth of the other.
why they were different, robert exclaimed to her himself in the course of a quarter of an hour's conversation; for, talking of his brother, and lamenting the extreme gaucherie which he really believed kept him from mixing in proper society, he candidly and generously attributed it much less to any natural deficiency, than to the misfortune of a private education; while he himself, though probably without any particular, any material superiority by nature, merely from the advantage of a public school, was as well fitted to mix in the world as any other man.
"upon my soul," he added, "i believe it is nothing more; and so i often tell my mother, when she is grieving about it.
'my dear madam,' i always say to her, 'you must make yourself easy.
the evil is now irremediable, and it has been entirely your own doing.
why would you be persuaded by my uncle, sir robert, against your own judgment, to place edward under private tuition, at the most critical time of his life?
if you had only sent him to westminster as well as myself, instead of sending him to mr. pratt's, all this would have been prevented.'
this is the way in which i always consider the matter, and my mother is perfectly convinced of her error."
elinor would not oppose his opinion, because, whatever might be her general estimation of the advantage of a public school, she could not think of edward's abode in mr. pratt's family, with any satisfaction.
"you reside in devonshire, i think," was his next observation, "in a cottage near dawlish."
elinor set him right as to its situation; and it seemed rather surprising to him that anybody could live in devonshire, without living near dawlish.
he bestowed his hearty approbation however on their species of house.
"for my own part," said he, "i am excessively fond of a cottage; there is always so much comfort, so much elegance about them.
and i protest, if i had any money to spare, i should buy a little land and build one myself, within a short distance of london, where i might drive myself down at any time, and collect a few friends about me, and be happy.
i advise every body who is going to build, to build a cottage.
my friend lord courtland came to me the other day on purpose to ask my advice, and laid before me three different plans of bonomi's.
i was to decide on the best of them.
'my dear courtland,' said i, immediately throwing them all into the fire, 'do not adopt either of them, but by all means build a cottage.'
and that i fancy, will be the end of it.
"some people imagine that there can be no accommodations, no space in a cottage; but this is all a mistake.
i was last month at my friend elliott's, near dartford.
lady elliott wished to give a dance.
'but how can it be done?'
said she; 'my dear ferrars, do tell me how it is to be managed.
there is not a room in this cottage that will hold ten couple, and where can the supper be?'
i immediately saw that there could be no difficulty in it, so i said, 'my dear lady elliott, do not be uneasy.
the dining parlour will admit eighteen couple with ease; card-tables may be placed in the drawing-room; the library may be open for tea and other refreshments; and let the supper be set out in the saloon.'
lady elliott was delighted with the thought.
we measured the dining-room, and found it would hold exactly eighteen couple, and the affair was arranged precisely after my plan.
so that, in fact, you see, if people do but know how to set about it, every comfort may be as well enjoyed in a cottage as in the most spacious dwelling."
elinor agreed to it all, for she did not think he deserved the compliment of rational opposition.
as john dashwood had no more pleasure in music than his eldest sister, his mind was equally at liberty to fix on any thing else; and a thought struck him during the evening, which he communicated to his wife, for her approbation, when they got home.
the consideration of mrs.
dennison's mistake, in supposing his sisters their guests, had suggested the propriety of their being really invited to become such, while mrs. jennings's engagements kept her from home.
the expense would be nothing, the inconvenience not more; and it was altogether an attention which the delicacy of his conscience pointed out to be requisite to its complete enfranchisement from his promise to his father.
fanny was startled at the proposal.
"i do not see how it can be done," said she, "without affronting lady middleton, for they spend every day with her; otherwise i should be exceedingly glad to do it.
you know i am always ready to pay them any attention in my power, as my taking them out this evening shews.
but they are lady middleton's visitors.
how can i ask them away from her?"
her husband, but with great humility, did not see the force of her objection.
"they had already spent a week in this manner in conduit street, and lady middleton could not be displeased at their giving the same number of days to such near relations."
fanny paused a moment, and then, with fresh vigor, said,
"my love i would ask them with all my heart, if it was in my power.
but i had just settled within myself to ask the miss steeles to spend a few days with us.
they are very well behaved, good kind of girls; and i think the attention is due to them, as their uncle did so very well by edward.
we can ask your sisters some other year, you know; but the miss steeles may not be in town any more.
i am sure you will like them; indeed, you do like them, you know, very much already, and so does my mother; and they are such favourites with harry!"
mr. dashwood was convinced.
he saw the necessity of inviting the miss steeles immediately, and his conscience was pacified by the resolution of inviting his sisters another year; at the same time, however, slyly suspecting that another year would make the invitation needless, by bringing elinor to town as colonel brandon's wife, and marianne as their visitor.
fanny, rejoicing in her escape, and proud of the ready wit that had procured it, wrote the next morning to lucy, to request her company and her sister's, for some days, in harley street, as soon as lady middleton could spare them.
this was enough to make lucy really and reasonably happy.
mrs. dashwood seemed actually working for her, herself; cherishing all her hopes, and promoting all her views!
such an opportunity of being with edward and his family was, above all things, the most material to her interest, and such an invitation the most gratifying to her feelings!
it was an advantage that could not be too gratefully acknowledged, nor too speedily made use of; and the visit to lady middleton, which had not before had any precise limits, was instantly discovered to have been always meant to end in two days'
time.
when the note was shown to elinor, as it was within ten minutes after its arrival, it gave her, for the first time, some share in the expectations of lucy; for such a mark of uncommon kindness, vouchsafed on so short an acquaintance, seemed to declare that the good-will towards her arose from something more than merely malice against herself; and might be brought, by time and address, to do every thing that lucy wished.
her flattery had already subdued the pride of lady middleton, and made an entry into the close heart of mrs. john dashwood; and these were effects that laid open the probability of greater.
the miss steeles removed to harley street, and all that reached elinor of their influence there, strengthened her expectation of the event.
sir john, who called on them more than once, brought home such accounts of the favour they were in, as must be universally striking.
mrs.
dashwood had never been so much pleased with any young women in her life, as she was with them; had given each of them a needle book made by some emigrant; called lucy by her christian name; and did not know whether she should ever be able to part with them.
[at this point in the first and second editions, volume ii ended.]
chapter 37
mrs. palmer was so well at the end of a fortnight, that her mother felt it no longer necessary to give up the whole of her time to her; and, contenting herself with visiting her once or twice a day, returned from that period to her own home, and her own habits, in which she found the miss dashwoods very ready to resume their former share.
about the third or fourth morning after their being thus resettled in berkeley street, mrs. jennings, on returning from her ordinary visit to mrs. palmer, entered the drawing-room, where elinor was sitting by herself, with an air of such hurrying importance as prepared her to hear something wonderful; and giving her time only to form that idea, began directly to justify it, by saying,
"lord!
my dear miss dashwood!
have you heard the news?"
"no, ma'am.
what is it?"
"something so strange!
but you shall hear it all.
when i got to mr.
palmer's, i found charlotte quite in a fuss about the child.
she was sure it was very ill it cried, and fretted, and was all over pimples.
so i looked at it directly, and, 'lord!
my dear,' says i, 'it is nothing in the world, but the red gum ' and nurse said just the same.
but charlotte, she would not be satisfied, so mr. donavan was sent for; and luckily he happened to just come in from harley street, so he stepped over directly, and as soon as ever mama, he said just as we did, that it was nothing in the world but the red gum, and then charlotte was easy.
and so, just as he was going away again, it came into my head, i am sure i do not know how i happened to think of it, but it came into my head to ask him if there was any news.
so upon that, he smirked, and simpered, and looked grave, and seemed to know something or other, and at last he said in a whisper, 'for fear any unpleasant report should reach the young ladies under your care as to their sister's indisposition, i think it advisable to say, that i believe there is no great reason for alarm; i hope mrs. dashwood will do very well.'"
"what!
is fanny ill?"
"that is exactly what i said, my dear.
'lord!'
says i, 'is mrs.
dashwood ill?'
so then it all came out; and the long and the short of the matter, by all i can learn, seems to be this.
mr. edward ferrars, the very young man i used to joke with you about (but however, as it turns out, i am monstrous glad there was never any thing in it), mr.
edward ferrars, it seems, has been engaged above this twelvemonth to my cousin lucy!
there's for you, my dear!
and not a creature knowing a syllable of the matter, except nancy!
could you have believed such a thing possible?
there is no great wonder in their liking one another; but that matters should be brought so forward between them, and nobody suspect it!
that is strange!
i never happened to see them together, or i am sure i should have found it out directly.
well, and so this was kept a great secret, for fear of mrs. ferrars, and neither she nor your brother or sister suspected a word of the matter; till this very morning, poor nancy, who, you know, is a well-meaning creature, but no conjurer, popt it all out.
'lord!'
thinks she to herself, 'they are all so fond of lucy, to be sure they will make no difficulty about it;'
and so, away she went to your sister, who was sitting all alone at her carpet-work, little suspecting what was to come for she had just been saying to your brother, only five minutes before, that she thought to make a match between edward and some lord's daughter or other, i forget who.
so you may think what a blow it was to all her vanity and pride.
she fell into violent hysterics immediately, with such screams as reached your brother's ears, as he was sitting in his own dressing-room down stairs, thinking about writing a letter to his steward in the country.
so up he flew directly, and a terrible scene took place, for lucy was come to them by that time, little dreaming what was going on.
poor soul!
i pity her.
and i must say, i think she was used very hardly; for your sister scolded like any fury, and soon drove her into a fainting fit.
nancy, she fell upon her knees, and cried bitterly; and your brother, he walked about the room, and said he did not know what to do.
mrs. dashwood declared they should not stay a minute longer in the house, and your brother was forced to go down upon his knees too, to persuade her to let them stay till they had packed up their clothes.
then she fell into hysterics again, and he was so frightened that he would send for mr. donavan, and mr. donavan found the house in all this uproar.
the carriage was at the door ready to take my poor cousins away, and they were just stepping in as he came off; poor lucy in such a condition, he says, she could hardly walk; and nancy, she was almost as bad.
i declare, i have no patience with your sister; and i hope, with all my heart, it will be a match in spite of her.
lord!
what a taking poor mr. edward will be in when he hears of it!
to have his love used so scornfully!
for they say he is monstrous fond of her, as well he may.
i should not wonder, if he was to be in the greatest passion!
and mr. donavan thinks just the same.
he and i had a great deal of talk about it; and the best of all is, that he is gone back again to harley street, that he may be within call when mrs.
ferrars is told of it, for she was sent for as soon as ever my cousins left the house, for your sister was sure she would be in hysterics too; and so she may, for what i care.
i have no pity for either of them.
i have no notion of people's making such a to-do about money and greatness.
there is no reason on earth why mr. edward and lucy should not marry; for i am sure mrs. ferrars may afford to do very well by her son, and though lucy has next to nothing herself, she knows better than any body how to make the most of every thing; i dare say, if mrs.
ferrars would only allow him five hundred a-year, she would make as good an appearance with it as any body else would with eight.
lord!
how snug they might live in such another cottage as yours or a little bigger with two maids, and two men; and i believe i could help them to a housemaid, for my betty has a sister out of place, that would fit them exactly."
here mrs. jennings ceased, and as elinor had had time enough to collect her thoughts, she was able to give such an answer, and make such observations, as the subject might naturally be supposed to produce.
happy to find that she was not suspected of any extraordinary interest in it; that mrs. jennings (as she had of late often hoped might be the case) had ceased to imagine her at all attached to edward; and happy above all the rest, in the absence of marianne, she felt very well able to speak of the affair without embarrassment, and to give her judgment, as she believed, with impartiality on the conduct of every one concerned in it.
she could hardly determine what her own expectation of its event really was; though she earnestly tried to drive away the notion of its being possible to end otherwise at last, than in the marriage of edward and lucy.
what mrs. ferrars would say and do, though there could not be a doubt of its nature, she was anxious to hear; and still more anxious to know how edward would conduct himself.
for him she felt much compassion; for lucy very little and it cost her some pains to procure that little; for the rest of the party none at all.
as mrs. jennings could talk on no other subject, elinor soon saw the necessity of preparing marianne for its discussion.
no time was to be lost in undeceiving her, in making her acquainted with the real truth, and in endeavouring to bring her to hear it talked of by others, without betraying that she felt any uneasiness for her sister, or any resentment against edward.
elinor's office was a painful one.
she was going to remove what she really believed to be her sister's chief consolation, to give such particulars of edward as she feared would ruin him for ever in her good opinion,-and to make marianne, by a resemblance in their situations, which to her fancy would seem strong, feel all her own disappointment over again.
but unwelcome as such a task must be, it was necessary to be done, and elinor therefore hastened to perform it.
she was very far from wishing to dwell on her own feelings, or to represent herself as suffering much, any otherwise than as the self-command she had practised since her first knowledge of edward's engagement, might suggest a hint of what was practicable to marianne.
her narration was clear and simple; and though it could not be given without emotion, it was not accompanied by violent agitation, nor impetuous grief.
that belonged rather to the hearer, for marianne listened with horror, and cried excessively.
elinor was to be the comforter of others in her own distresses, no less than in theirs; and all the comfort that could be given by assurances of her own composure of mind, and a very earnest vindication of edward from every charge but of imprudence, was readily offered.
but marianne for some time would give credit to neither.
edward seemed a second willoughby; and acknowledging as elinor did, that she had loved him most sincerely, could she feel less than herself!
as for lucy steele, she considered her so totally unamiable, so absolutely incapable of attaching a sensible man, that she could not be persuaded at first to believe, and afterwards to pardon, any former affection of edward for her.
she would not even admit it to have been natural; and elinor left her to be convinced that it was so, by that which only could convince her, a better knowledge of mankind.
her first communication had reached no farther than to state the fact of the engagement, and the length of time it had existed.
marianne's feelings had then broken in, and put an end to all regularity of detail; and for some time all that could be done was to soothe her distress, lessen her alarms, and combat her resentment.
the first question on her side, which led to farther particulars, was,
"how long has this been known to you, elinor?
has he written to you?"
"i have known it these four months.
when lucy first came to barton park last november, she told me in confidence of her engagement."
at these words, marianne's eyes expressed the astonishment which her lips could not utter.
after a pause of wonder, she exclaimed
"four months!
have you known of this four months?"
elinor confirmed it.
"what!
while attending me in all my misery, has this been on your heart?
and i have reproached you for being happy!"
"it was not fit that you should then know how much i was the reverse!"
"four months!"
cried marianne again.
"so calm!
so cheerful!
how have you been supported?"
"by feeling that i was doing my duty.
my promise to lucy, obliged me to be secret.
i owed it to her, therefore, to avoid giving any hint of the truth; and i owed it to my family and friends, not to create in them a solicitude about me, which it could not be in my power to satisfy."
marianne seemed much struck.
"i have very often wished to undeceive yourself and my mother," added elinor; "and once or twice i have attempted it; but without betraying my trust, i never could have convinced you."
"four months!
and yet you loved him!"
"yes.
but i did not love only him; and while the comfort of others was dear to me, i was glad to spare them from knowing how much i felt.
now, i can think and speak of it with little emotion.
i would not have you suffer on my account; for i assure you i no longer suffer materially myself.
i have many things to support me.
i am not conscious of having provoked the disappointment by any imprudence of my own, i have borne it as much as possible without spreading it farther.
i acquit edward of essential misconduct.
i wish him very happy; and i am so sure of his always doing his duty, that though now he may harbour some regret, in the end he must become so.
lucy does not want sense, and that is the foundation on which every thing good may be built.
and after all, marianne, after all that is bewitching in the idea of a single and constant attachment, and all that can be said of one's happiness depending entirely on any particular person, it is not meant it is not fit it is not possible that it should be so.
edward will marry lucy; he will marry a woman superior in person and understanding to half her sex; and time and habit will teach him to forget that he ever thought another superior to her."
"if such is your way of thinking," said marianne, "if the loss of what is most valued is so easily to be made up by something else, your resolution, your self-command, are, perhaps, a little less to be wondered at.
they are brought more within my comprehension."
"i understand you.
you do not suppose that i have ever felt much.
for four months, marianne, i have had all this hanging on my mind, without being at liberty to speak of it to a single creature; knowing that it would make you and my mother most unhappy whenever it were explained to you, yet unable to prepare you for it in the least.
it was told me, it was in a manner forced on me by the very person herself, whose prior engagement ruined all my prospects; and told me, as i thought, with triumph.
this person's suspicions, therefore, i have had to oppose, by endeavouring to appear indifferent where i have been most deeply interested; and it has not been only once; i have had her hopes and exultation to listen to again and again.
i have known myself to be divided from edward for ever, without hearing one circumstance that could make me less desire the connection.
nothing has proved him unworthy; nor has anything declared him indifferent to me.
i have had to contend against the unkindness of his sister, and the insolence of his mother; and have suffered the punishment of an attachment, without enjoying its advantages.
and all this has been going on at a time, when, as you know too well, it has not been my only unhappiness.
if you can think me capable of ever feeling surely you may suppose that i have suffered now.
the composure of mind with which i have brought myself at present to consider the matter, the consolation that i have been willing to admit, have been the effect of constant and painful exertion; they did not spring up of themselves; they did not occur to relieve my spirits at first.
no, marianne.
then, if i had not been bound to silence, perhaps nothing could have kept me entirely not even what i owed to my dearest friends from openly shewing that i was very unhappy."
marianne was quite subdued.
"oh!
elinor," she cried, "you have made me hate myself for ever.
how barbarous have i been to you!
you, who have been my only comfort, who have borne with me in all my misery, who have seemed to be only suffering for me!
is this my gratitude?
is this the only return i can make you?
because your merit cries out upon myself, i have been trying to do it away."
the tenderest caresses followed this confession.
in such a frame of mind as she was now in, elinor had no difficulty in obtaining from her whatever promise she required; and at her request, marianne engaged never to speak of the affair to any one with the least appearance of bitterness; to meet lucy without betraying the smallest increase of dislike to her; and even to see edward himself, if chance should bring them together, without any diminution of her usual cordiality.
these were great concessions; but where marianne felt that she had injured, no reparation could be too much for her to make.
she performed her promise of being discreet, to admiration.
she attended to all that mrs. jennings had to say upon the subject, with an unchanging complexion, dissented from her in nothing, and was heard three times to say, "yes, ma'am."
she listened to her praise of lucy with only moving from one chair to another, and when mrs. jennings talked of edward's affection, it cost her only a spasm in her throat.
such advances towards heroism in her sister, made elinor feel equal to any thing herself.
the next morning brought a farther trial of it, in a visit from their brother, who came with a most serious aspect to talk over the dreadful affair, and bring them news of his wife.
"you have heard, i suppose," said he with great solemnity, as soon as he was seated, "of the very shocking discovery that took place under our roof yesterday."
they all looked their assent; it seemed too awful a moment for speech.
"your sister," he continued, "has suffered dreadfully.
mrs. ferrars too in short it has been a scene of such complicated distress but i will hope that the storm may be weathered without our being any of us quite overcome.
poor fanny!
she was in hysterics all yesterday.
but i would not alarm you too much.
donavan says there is nothing materially to be apprehended; her constitution is a good one, and her resolution equal to any thing.
she has borne it all, with the fortitude of an angel!
she says she never shall think well of anybody again; and one cannot wonder at it, after being so deceived!
meeting with such ingratitude, where so much kindness had been shewn, so much confidence had been placed!
it was quite out of the benevolence of her heart, that she had asked these young women to her house; merely because she thought they deserved some attention, were harmless, well-behaved girls, and would be pleasant companions; for otherwise we both wished very much to have invited you and marianne to be with us, while your kind friend there, was attending her daughter.
and now to be so rewarded!
'i wish, with all my heart,' says poor fanny in her affectionate way, 'that we had asked your sisters instead of them.'"
here he stopped to be thanked; which being done, he went on.
"what poor mrs. ferrars suffered, when first fanny broke it to her, is not to be described.
while she with the truest affection had been planning a most eligible connection for him, was it to be supposed that he could be all the time secretly engaged to another person!
such a suspicion could never have entered her head!
if she suspected any prepossession elsewhere, it could not be in that quarter.
'there, to be sure,' said she, 'i might have thought myself safe.'
she was quite in an agony.
we consulted together, however, as to what should be done, and at last she determined to send for edward.
he came.
but i am sorry to relate what ensued.
all that mrs. ferrars could say to make him put an end to the engagement, assisted too as you may well suppose by my arguments, and fanny's entreaties, was of no avail.
duty, affection, every thing was disregarded.
i never thought edward so stubborn, so unfeeling before.
his mother explained to him her liberal designs, in case of his marrying miss morton; told him she would settle on him the norfolk estate, which, clear of land-tax, brings in a good thousand a-year; offered even, when matters grew desperate, to make it twelve hundred; and in opposition to this, if he still persisted in this low connection, represented to him the certain penury that must attend the match.
his own two thousand pounds she protested should be his all; she would never see him again; and so far would she be from affording him the smallest assistance, that if he were to enter into any profession with a view of better support, she would do all in her power to prevent him advancing in it."
here marianne, in an ecstasy of indignation, clapped her hands together, and cried, "gracious god!
can this be possible!"
"well may you wonder, marianne," replied her brother, "at the obstinacy which could resist such arguments as these.
your exclamation is very natural."
marianne was going to retort, but she remembered her promises, and forbore.
"all this, however," he continued, "was urged in vain.
edward said very little; but what he did say, was in the most determined manner.
nothing should prevail on him to give up his engagement.
he would stand to it, cost him what it might."
"then," cried mrs. jennings with blunt sincerity, no longer able to be silent, "he has acted like an honest man!
i beg your pardon, mr.
dashwood, but if he had done otherwise, i should have thought him a rascal.
i have some little concern in the business, as well as yourself, for lucy steele is my cousin, and i believe there is not a better kind of girl in the world, nor one who more deserves a good husband."
john dashwood was greatly astonished; but his nature was calm, not open to provocation, and he never wished to offend anybody, especially anybody of good fortune.
he therefore replied, without any resentment,
"i would by no means speak disrespectfully of any relation of yours, madam.
miss lucy steele is, i dare say, a very deserving young woman, but in the present case you know, the connection must be impossible.
and to have entered into a secret engagement with a young man under her uncle's care, the son of a woman especially of such very large fortune as mrs. ferrars, is perhaps, altogether a little extraordinary.
in short, i do not mean to reflect upon the behaviour of any person whom you have a regard for, mrs. jennings.
we all wish her extremely happy; and mrs. ferrars's conduct throughout the whole, has been such as every conscientious, good mother, in like circumstances, would adopt.
it has been dignified and liberal.
edward has drawn his own lot, and i fear it will be a bad one."
marianne sighed out her similar apprehension; and elinor's heart wrung for the feelings of edward, while braving his mother's threats, for a woman who could not reward him.
"well, sir," said mrs. jennings, "and how did it end?"
"i am sorry to say, ma'am, in a most unhappy rupture:  edward is dismissed for ever from his mother's notice.
he left her house yesterday, but where he is gone, or whether he is still in town, i do not know; for we of course can make no inquiry."
"poor young man!
and what is to become of him?"
"what, indeed, ma'am!
it is a melancholy consideration.
born to the prospect of such affluence!
i cannot conceive a situation more deplorable.
the interest of two thousand pounds how can a man live on it?
and when to that is added the recollection, that he might, but for his own folly, within three months have been in the receipt of two thousand, five hundred a-year (for miss morton has thirty thousand pounds,) i cannot picture to myself a more wretched condition.
we must all feel for him; and the more so, because it is totally out of our power to assist him."
"poor young man!"
cried mrs. jennings, "i am sure he should be very welcome to bed and board at my house; and so i would tell him if i could see him.
it is not fit that he should be living about at his own charge now, at lodgings and taverns."
elinor's heart thanked her for such kindness towards edward, though she could not forbear smiling at the form of it.
"if he would only have done as well by himself," said john dashwood, "as all his friends were disposed to do by him, he might now have been in his proper situation, and would have wanted for nothing.
but as it is, it must be out of anybody's power to assist him.
and there is one thing more preparing against him, which must be worse than all his mother has determined, with a very natural kind of spirit, to settle that estate upon robert immediately, which might have been edward's, on proper conditions.
i left her this morning with her lawyer, talking over the business."
"well!"
said mrs. jennings, "that is her revenge.
everybody has a way of their own.
but i don't think mine would be, to make one son independent, because another had plagued me."
marianne got up and walked about the room.
"can anything be more galling to the spirit of a man," continued john, "than to see his younger brother in possession of an estate which might have been his own?
poor edward!
i feel for him sincerely."
a few minutes more spent in the same kind of effusion, concluded his visit; and with repeated assurances to his sisters that he really believed there was no material danger in fanny's indisposition, and that they need not therefore be very uneasy about it, he went away; leaving the three ladies unanimous in their sentiments on the present occasion, as far at least as it regarded mrs. ferrars's conduct, the dashwoods', and edward's.
marianne's indignation burst forth as soon as he quitted the room; and as her vehemence made reserve impossible in elinor, and unnecessary in mrs. jennings, they all joined in a very spirited critique upon the party.
chapter 38
mrs. jennings was very warm in her praise of edward's conduct, but only elinor and marianne understood its true merit.
they only knew how little he had had to tempt him to be disobedient, and how small was the consolation, beyond the consciousness of doing right, that could remain to him in the loss of friends and fortune.
elinor gloried in his integrity; and marianne forgave all his offences in compassion for his punishment.
but though confidence between them was, by this public discovery, restored to its proper state, it was not a subject on which either of them were fond of dwelling when alone.
elinor avoided it upon principle, as tending to fix still more upon her thoughts, by the too warm, too positive assurances of marianne, that belief of edward's continued affection for herself which she rather wished to do away; and marianne's courage soon failed her, in trying to converse upon a topic which always left her more dissatisfied with herself than ever, by the comparison it necessarily produced between elinor's conduct and her own.
she felt all the force of that comparison; but not as her sister had hoped, to urge her to exertion now; she felt it with all the pain of continual self-reproach, regretted most bitterly that she had never exerted herself before; but it brought only the torture of penitence, without the hope of amendment.
her mind was so much weakened that she still fancied present exertion impossible, and therefore it only dispirited her more.
nothing new was heard by them, for a day or two afterwards, of affairs in harley street, or bartlett's buildings.
but though so much of the matter was known to them already, that mrs. jennings might have had enough to do in spreading that knowledge farther, without seeking after more, she had resolved from the first to pay a visit of comfort and inquiry to her cousins as soon as she could; and nothing but the hindrance of more visitors than usual, had prevented her going to them within that time.
the third day succeeding their knowledge of the particulars, was so fine, so beautiful a sunday as to draw many to kensington gardens, though it was only the second week in march.
mrs. jennings and elinor were of the number; but marianne, who knew that the willoughbys were again in town, and had a constant dread of meeting them, chose rather to stay at home, than venture into so public a place.
an intimate acquaintance of mrs. jennings joined them soon after they entered the gardens, and elinor was not sorry that by her continuing with them, and engaging all mrs. jennings's conversation, she was herself left to quiet reflection.
she saw nothing of the willoughbys, nothing of edward, and for some time nothing of anybody who could by any chance whether grave or gay, be interesting to her.
but at last she found herself with some surprise, accosted by miss steele, who, though looking rather shy, expressed great satisfaction in meeting them, and on receiving encouragement from the particular kindness of mrs. jennings, left her own party for a short time, to join their's.
mrs. jennings immediately whispered to elinor,
"get it all out of her, my dear.
she will tell you any thing if you ask.
you see i cannot leave mrs.
clarke."
it was lucky, however, for mrs. jennings's curiosity and elinor's too, that she would tell any thing without being asked; for nothing would otherwise have been learnt.
"i am so glad to meet you;" said miss steele, taking her familiarly by the arm "for i wanted to see you of all things in the world."
and then lowering her voice, "i suppose mrs. jennings has heard all about it.
is she angry?"
"not at all, i believe, with you."
"that is a good thing.
and lady middleton, is she angry?"
"i cannot suppose it possible that she should be."
"i am monstrous glad of it.
good gracious!
i have had such a time of it!
i never saw lucy in such a rage in my life.
she vowed at first she would never trim me up a new bonnet, nor do any thing else for me again, so long as she lived; but now she is quite come to, and we are as good friends as ever.
look, she made me this bow to my hat, and put in the feather last night.
there now, you are going to laugh at me too.
but why should not i wear pink ribbons?
i do not care if it is the doctor's favourite colour.
i am sure, for my part, i should never have known he did like it better than any other colour, if he had not happened to say so.
my cousins have been so plaguing me!
i declare sometimes i do not know which way to look before them."
she had wandered away to a subject on which elinor had nothing to say, and therefore soon judged it expedient to find her way back again to the first.
"well, but miss dashwood," speaking triumphantly, "people may say what they chuse about mr. ferrars's declaring he would not have lucy, for it is no such thing i can tell you; and it is quite a shame for such ill-natured reports to be spread abroad.
whatever lucy might think about it herself, you know, it was no business of other people to set it down for certain."
"i never heard any thing of the kind hinted at before, i assure you,"
said elinor.
"oh, did not you?
but it was said, i know, very well, and by more than one; for miss godby told miss sparks, that nobody in their senses could expect mr. ferrars to give up a woman like miss morton, with thirty thousand pounds to her fortune, for lucy steele that had nothing at all; and i had it from miss sparks myself.
and besides that, my cousin richard said himself, that when it came to the point he was afraid mr.
ferrars would be off; and when edward did not come near us for three days, i could not tell what to think myself; and i believe in my heart lucy gave it up all for lost; for we came away from your brother's wednesday, and we saw nothing of him not all thursday, friday, and saturday, and did not know what was become of him.
once lucy thought to write to him, but then her spirits rose against that.
however this morning he came just as we came home from church; and then it all came out, how he had been sent for wednesday to harley street, and been talked to by his mother and all of them, and how he had declared before them all that he loved nobody but lucy, and nobody but lucy would he have.
and how he had been so worried by what passed, that as soon as he had went away from his mother's house, he had got upon his horse, and rid into the country, some where or other; and how he had stayed about at an inn all thursday and friday, on purpose to get the better of it.
and after thinking it all over and over again, he said, it seemed to him as if, now he had no fortune, and no nothing at all, it would be quite unkind to keep her on to the engagement, because it must be for her loss, for he had nothing but two thousand pounds, and no hope of any thing else; and if he was to go into orders, as he had some thoughts, he could get nothing but a curacy, and how was they to live upon that?
he could not bear to think of her doing no better, and so he begged, if she had the least mind for it, to put an end to the matter directly, and leave him shift for himself.
i heard him say all this as plain as could possibly be.
and it was entirely for her sake, and upon her account, that he said a word about being off, and not upon his own.
i will take my oath he never dropt a syllable of being tired of her, or of wishing to marry miss morton, or any thing like it.
but, to be sure, lucy would not give ear to such kind of talking; so she told him directly (with a great deal about sweet and love, you know, and all that oh, la!
one can't repeat such kind of things you know) she told him directly, she had not the least mind in the world to be off, for she could live with him upon a trifle, and how little so ever he might have, she should be very glad to have it all, you know, or something of the kind.
so then he was monstrous happy, and talked on some time about what they should do, and they agreed he should take orders directly, and they must wait to be married till he got a living.
and just then i could not hear any more, for my cousin called from below to tell me mrs. richardson was come in her coach, and would take one of us to kensington gardens; so i was forced to go into the room and interrupt them, to ask lucy if she would like to go, but she did not care to leave edward; so i just run up stairs and put on a pair of silk stockings and came off with the richardsons."
"i do not understand what you mean by interrupting them," said elinor; "you were all in the same room together, were not you?"
"no, indeed, not us.
la!
miss dashwood, do you think people make love when any body else is by?
oh, for shame!
to be sure you must know better than that.
(laughing affectedly.)
no, no; they were shut up in the drawing-room together, and all i heard was only by listening at the door."
"how!"
cried elinor; "have you been repeating to me what you only learnt yourself by listening at the door?
i am sorry i did not know it before; for i certainly would not have suffered you to give me particulars of a conversation which you ought not to have known yourself.
how could you behave so unfairly by your sister?"
"oh, la!
there is nothing in that.
i only stood at the door, and heard what i could.
and i am sure lucy would have done just the same by me; for a year or two back, when martha sharpe and i had so many secrets together, she never made any bones of hiding in a closet, or behind a chimney-board, on purpose to hear what we said."
elinor tried to talk of something else; but miss steele could not be kept beyond a couple of minutes, from what was uppermost in her mind.
"edward talks of going to oxford soon," said she; "but now he is lodging at no.
, pall mall.
what an ill-natured woman his mother is, an't she?
and your brother and sister were not very kind!
however, i shan't say anything against them to you; and to be sure they did send us home in their own chariot, which was more than i looked for.
and for my part, i was all in a fright for fear your sister should ask us for the huswifes she had gave us a day or two before; but, however, nothing was said about them, and i took care to keep mine out of sight.
edward have got some business at oxford, he says; so he must go there for a time; and after that, as soon as he can light upon a bishop, he will be ordained.
i wonder what curacy he will get!
good gracious!
(giggling as she spoke) i'd lay my life i know what my cousins will say, when they hear of it.
they will tell me i should write to the doctor, to get edward the curacy of his new living.
i know they will; but i am sure i would not do such a thing for all the world.
'la!'
i shall say directly, 'i wonder how you could think of such a thing?
i write to the doctor, indeed!'"
"well," said elinor, "it is a comfort to be prepared against the worst.
you have got your answer ready."
miss steele was going to reply on the same subject, but the approach of her own party made another more necessary.
"oh, la!
here come the richardsons.
i had a vast deal more to say to you, but i must not stay away from them not any longer.
i assure you they are very genteel people.
he makes a monstrous deal of money, and they keep their own coach.
i have not time to speak to mrs. jennings about it myself, but pray tell her i am quite happy to hear she is not in anger against us, and lady middleton the same; and if anything should happen to take you and your sister away, and mrs. jennings should want company, i am sure we should be very glad to come and stay with her for as long a time as she likes.
i suppose lady middleton won't ask us any more this bout.
good-by; i am sorry miss marianne was not here.
remember me kindly to her.
la!
if you have not got your spotted muslin on!
i wonder you was not afraid of its being torn."
such was her parting concern; for after this, she had time only to pay her farewell compliments to mrs. jennings, before her company was claimed by mrs. richardson; and elinor was left in possession of knowledge which might feed her powers of reflection some time, though she had learnt very little more than what had been already foreseen and foreplanned in her own mind.
edward's marriage with lucy was as firmly determined on, and the time of its taking place remained as absolutely uncertain, as she had concluded it would be; every thing depended, exactly after her expectation, on his getting that preferment, of which, at present, there seemed not the smallest chance.
as soon as they returned to the carriage, mrs. jennings was eager for information; but as elinor wished to spread as little as possible intelligence that had in the first place been so unfairly obtained, she confined herself to the brief repetition of such simple particulars, as she felt assured that lucy, for the sake of her own consequence, would choose to have known.
the continuance of their engagement, and the means that were able to be taken for promoting its end, was all her communication; and this produced from mrs. jennings the following natural remark.
"wait for his having a living!
ay, we all know how that will end: they will wait a twelvemonth, and finding no good comes of it, will set down upon a curacy of fifty pounds a-year, with the interest of his two thousand pounds, and what little matter mr. steele and mr.
pratt can give her.
then they will have a child every year!
and lord help 'em!
how poor they will be!
i must see what i can give them towards furnishing their house.
two maids and two men, indeed!
as i talked of t'other day.
no, no, they must get a stout girl of all works.
betty's sister would never do for them now."
the next morning brought elinor a letter by the two-penny post from lucy herself.
it was as follows:
"bartlett's building, march.
"i hope my dear miss dashwood will excuse the      liberty i take of writing to her; but i know your      friendship for me will make you pleased to hear such      a good account of myself and my dear edward, after      all the troubles we have went through lately,      therefore will make no more apologies, but proceed      to say that, thank god!
though we have suffered      dreadfully, we are both quite well now, and as happy      as we must always be in one another's love.
we have      had great trials, and great persecutions, but      however, at the same time, gratefully acknowledge      many friends, yourself not the least among them,      whose great kindness i shall always thankfully      remember, as will edward too, who i have told of      it.
i am sure you will be glad to hear, as likewise      dear mrs. jennings, i spent two happy hours with      him yesterday afternoon, he would not hear of our      parting, though earnestly did i, as i thought my      duty required, urge him to it for prudence sake,      and would have parted for ever on the spot, would      he consent to it; but he said it should never be,      he did not regard his mother's anger, while he could      have my affections; our prospects are not very      bright, to be sure, but we must wait, and hope for      the best; he will be ordained shortly; and should      it ever be in your power to recommend him to any      body that has a living to bestow, am very sure you      will not forget us, and dear mrs. jennings too,      trust she will speak a good word for us to sir john,      or mr. palmer, or any friend that may be able to      assist us.
poor anne was much to blame for what      she did, but she did it for the best, so i say      nothing; hope mrs. jennings won't think it too much      trouble to give us a call, should she come this way      any morning, 'twould be a great kindness, and my      cousins would be proud to know her.
my paper reminds      me to conclude; and begging to be most gratefully      and respectfully remembered to her, and to sir john,      and lady middleton, and the dear children, when you      chance to see them, and love to miss marianne,
"i am, &c."
as soon as elinor had finished it, she performed what she concluded to be its writer's real design, by placing it in the hands of mrs.
jennings, who read it aloud with many comments of satisfaction and praise.
"very well indeed!
how prettily she writes!
aye, that was quite proper to let him be off if he would.
that was just like lucy.
poor soul!
i wish i could get him a living, with all my heart.
she calls me dear mrs. jennings, you see.
she is a good-hearted girl as ever lived.
very well upon my word.
that sentence is very prettily turned.
yes, yes, i will go and see her, sure enough.
how attentive she is, to think of every body!
thank you, my dear, for shewing it me.
it is as pretty a letter as ever i saw, and does lucy's head and heart great credit."
chapter 39
the miss dashwoods had now been rather more than two months in town, and marianne's impatience to be gone increased every day.
she sighed for the air, the liberty, the quiet of the country; and fancied that if any place could give her ease, barton must do it.
elinor was hardly less anxious than herself for their removal, and only so much less bent on its being effected immediately, as that she was conscious of the difficulties of so long a journey, which marianne could not be brought to acknowledge.
she began, however, seriously to turn her thoughts towards its accomplishment, and had already mentioned their wishes to their kind hostess, who resisted them with all the eloquence of her good-will, when a plan was suggested, which, though detaining them from home yet a few weeks longer, appeared to elinor altogether much more eligible than any other.
the palmers were to remove to cleveland about the end of march, for the easter holidays; and mrs. jennings, with both her friends, received a very warm invitation from charlotte to go with them.
this would not, in itself, have been sufficient for the delicacy of miss dashwood; but it was inforced with so much real politeness by mr. palmer himself, as, joined to the very great amendment of his manners towards them since her sister had been known to be unhappy, induced her to accept it with pleasure.
when she told marianne what she had done, however, her first reply was not very auspicious.
"cleveland!"
she cried, with great agitation.
"no, i cannot go to cleveland."
"you forget," said elinor gently, "that its situation is not...that it is not in the neighbourhood of..."
"but it is in somersetshire.
i cannot go into somersetshire.
there, where i looked forward to going...no, elinor, you cannot expect me to go there."
elinor would not argue upon the propriety of overcoming such feelings; she only endeavoured to counteract them by working on others; represented it, therefore, as a measure which would fix the time of her returning to that dear mother, whom she so much wished to see, in a more eligible, more comfortable manner, than any other plan could do, and perhaps without any greater delay.
from cleveland, which was within a few miles of bristol, the distance to barton was not beyond one day, though a long day's journey; and their mother's servant might easily come there to attend them down; and as there could be no occasion of their staying above a week at cleveland, they might now be at home in little more than three weeks' time.
as marianne's affection for her mother was sincere, it must triumph with little difficulty, over the imaginary evils she had started.
mrs. jennings was so far from being weary of her guests, that she pressed them very earnestly to return with her again from cleveland.
elinor was grateful for the attention, but it could not alter her design; and their mother's concurrence being readily gained, every thing relative to their return was arranged as far as it could be; and marianne found some relief in drawing up a statement of the hours that were yet to divide her from barton.
"ah!
colonel, i do not know what you and i shall do without the miss dashwoods;" was mrs. jennings's address to him when he first called on her, after their leaving her was settled "for they are quite resolved upon going home from the palmers; and how forlorn we shall be, when i come back!
lord!
we shall sit and gape at one another as dull as two cats."
perhaps mrs. jennings was in hopes, by this vigorous sketch of their future ennui, to provoke him to make that offer, which might give himself an escape from it; and if so, she had soon afterwards good reason to think her object gained; for, on elinor's moving to the window to take more expeditiously the dimensions of a print, which she was going to copy for her friend, he followed her to it with a look of particular meaning, and conversed with her there for several minutes.
the effect of his discourse on the lady too, could not escape her observation, for though she was too honorable to listen, and had even changed her seat, on purpose that she might not hear, to one close by the piano forte on which marianne was playing, she could not keep herself from seeing that elinor changed colour, attended with agitation, and was too intent on what he said to pursue her employment.
still farther in confirmation of her hopes, in the interval of marianne's turning from one lesson to another, some words of the colonel's inevitably reached her ear, in which he seemed to be apologising for the badness of his house.
this set the matter beyond a doubt.
she wondered, indeed, at his thinking it necessary to do so; but supposed it to be the proper etiquette.
what elinor said in reply she could not distinguish, but judged from the motion of her lips, that she did not think that any material objection; and mrs. jennings commended her in her heart for being so honest.
they then talked on for a few minutes longer without her catching a syllable, when another lucky stop in marianne's performance brought her these words in the colonel's calm voice,
"i am afraid it cannot take place very soon."
astonished and shocked at so unlover-like a speech, she was almost ready to cry out, "lord!
what should hinder it?"
but checking her desire, confined herself to this silent ejaculation.
"this is very strange!
sure he need not wait to be older."
this delay on the colonel's side, however, did not seem to offend or mortify his fair companion in the least, for on their breaking up the conference soon afterwards, and moving different ways, mrs. jennings very plainly heard elinor say, and with a voice which shewed her to feel what she said,
"i shall always think myself very much obliged to you."
mrs. jennings was delighted with her gratitude, and only wondered that after hearing such a sentence, the colonel should be able to take leave of them, as he immediately did, with the utmost sang-froid, and go away without making her any reply!
she had not thought her old friend could have made so indifferent a suitor.
what had really passed between them was to this effect.
"i have heard," said he, with great compassion, "of the injustice your friend mr. ferrars has suffered from his family; for if i understand the matter right, he has been entirely cast off by them for persevering in his engagement with a very deserving young woman.
have i been rightly informed?
is it so? "
elinor told him that it was.
"the cruelty, the impolitic cruelty," he replied, with great feeling, "of dividing, or attempting to divide, two young people long attached to each other, is terrible.
mrs. ferrars does not know what she may be doing what she may drive her son to.
i have seen mr.
ferrars two or three times in harley street, and am much pleased with him.
he is not a young man with whom one can be intimately acquainted in a short time, but i have seen enough of him to wish him well for his own sake, and as a friend of yours, i wish it still more.
i understand that he intends to take orders.
will you be so good as to tell him that the living of delaford, now just vacant, as i am informed by this day's post, is his, if he think it worth his acceptance but that, perhaps, so unfortunately circumstanced as he is now, it may be nonsense to appear to doubt; i only wish it were more  valuable.
it is a rectory, but a small one; the late incumbent, i believe, did not make more than 200 l per annum, and though it is certainly capable of improvement, i fear, not to such an amount as to afford him a very comfortable income.
such as it is, however, my pleasure in presenting it to him, will be very great.
pray assure him of it."
elinor's astonishment at this commission could hardly have been greater, had the colonel been really making her an offer of his hand.
the preferment, which only two days before she had considered as hopeless for edward, was already provided to enable him to marry; and she, of all people in the world, was fixed on to bestow it!
her emotion was such as mrs. jennings had attributed to a very different cause; but whatever minor feelings less pure, less pleasing, might have a share in that emotion, her esteem for the general benevolence, and her gratitude for the particular friendship, which together prompted colonel brandon to this act, were strongly felt, and warmly expressed.
she thanked him for it with all her heart, spoke of edward's principles and disposition with that praise which she knew them to deserve; and promised to undertake the commission with pleasure, if it were really his wish to put off so agreeable an office to another.
but at the same time, she could not help thinking that no one could so well perform it as himself.
it was an office in short, from which, unwilling to give edward the pain of receiving an obligation from her, she would have been very glad to be spared herself;  but colonel brandon, on motives of equal delicacy, declining it likewise, still seemed so desirous of its being given through her means, that she would not on any account make farther opposition.
edward, she believed, was still in town, and fortunately she had heard his address from miss steele.
she could undertake therefore to inform him of it, in the course of the day.
after this had been settled, colonel brandon began to talk of his own advantage in securing so respectable and agreeable a neighbour, and then it was that he mentioned with regret, that the house was small and indifferent; an evil which elinor, as mrs. jennings had supposed her to do, made very light of, at least as far as regarded its size.
"the smallness of the house," said she, "i cannot imagine any inconvenience to them, for it will be in proportion to their family and income."
by which the colonel was surprised to find that she was considering mr.
ferrars's marriage as the certain consequence of the presentation; for he did not suppose it possible that delaford living could supply such an income, as anybody in his style of life would venture to settle on and he said so.
"this little rectory can do no more than make mr. ferrars comfortable as a bachelor; it cannot enable him to marry.
i am sorry to say that my patronage ends with this; and my interest is hardly more extensive.
if, however, by an unforeseen chance it should be in my power to serve him farther, i must think very differently of him from what i now do, if i am not as ready to be useful to him then as i sincerely wish i could be at present.
what i am now doing indeed, seems nothing at all, since it can advance him so little towards what must be his principal, his only object of happiness.
his marriage must still be a distant good; at least, i am afraid it cannot take place very soon. "
such was the sentence which, when misunderstood, so justly offended the delicate feelings of mrs. jennings; but after this narration of what really passed between colonel brandon and elinor, while they stood at the window, the gratitude expressed by the latter on their parting, may perhaps appear in general, not less reasonably excited, nor less properly worded than if it had arisen from an offer of marriage.
chapter 40
"well, miss dashwood," said mrs. jennings, sagaciously smiling, as soon as the gentleman had withdrawn, "i do not ask you what the colonel has been saying to you; for though, upon my honour, i tried to keep out of hearing, i could not help catching enough to understand his business.
and i assure you i never was better pleased in my life, and i wish you joy of it with all my heart."
"thank you, ma'am," said elinor.
"it is a matter of great joy to me; and i feel the goodness of colonel brandon most sensibly.
there are not many men who would act as he has done.
few people who have so compassionate a heart!
i never was more astonished in my life."
"lord!
my dear, you are very modest.
i an't the least astonished at it in the world, for i have often thought of late, there was nothing more likely to happen."
"you judged from your knowledge of the colonel's general benevolence; but at least you could not foresee that the opportunity would so very soon occur."
"opportunity!"
repeated mrs. jennings "oh!
as to that, when a man has once made up his mind to such a thing, somehow or other he will soon find an opportunity.
well, my dear, i wish you joy of it again and again; and if ever there was a happy couple in the world, i think i shall soon know where to look for them."
"you mean to go to delaford after them i suppose," said elinor, with a faint smile.
"aye, my dear, that i do, indeed.
and as to the house being a bad one, i do not know what the colonel would be at, for it is as good a one as ever i saw."
"he spoke of its being out of repair."
"well, and whose fault is that?
why don't he repair it?
who should do it but himself?"
they were interrupted by the servant's coming in to announce the carriage being at the door; and mrs. jennings immediately preparing to go, said,
"well, my dear, i must be gone before i have had half my talk out.
but, however, we may have it all over in the evening; for we shall be quite alone.
i do not ask you to go with me, for i dare say your mind is too full of the matter to care for company; and besides, you must long to tell your sister all about it."
marianne had left the room before the conversation began.
"certainly, ma'am, i shall tell marianne of it; but i shall not mention it at present to any body else."
"oh!
very well," said mrs. jennings rather disappointed.
"then you would not have me tell it to lucy, for i think of going as far as holborn to-day."
"no, ma'am, not even lucy if you please.
one day's delay will not be very material; and till i have written to mr. ferrars, i think it ought not to be mentioned to any body else.
i shall do that directly.
it is of importance that no time should be lost with him, for he will of course have much to do relative to his ordination."
this speech at first puzzled mrs. jennings exceedingly.
why mr.
ferrars was to have been written to about it in such a hurry, she could not immediately comprehend.
a few moments' reflection, however, produced a very happy idea, and she exclaimed;
"oh, ho!
i understand you.
mr. ferrars is to be the man.
well, so much the better for him.
ay, to be sure, he must be ordained in readiness; and i am very glad to find things are so forward between you.
but, my dear, is not this rather out of character?
should not the colonel write himself?
sure, he is the proper person."
elinor did not quite understand the beginning of mrs. jennings's speech, neither did she think it worth inquiring into; and therefore only replied to its conclusion.
"colonel brandon is so delicate a man, that he rather wished any one to announce his intentions to mr. ferrars than himself."
"and so you are forced to do it.
well that is an odd kind of delicacy!
however, i will not disturb you (seeing her preparing to write.)
you know your own concerns best.
so goodby, my dear.
i have not heard of any thing to please me so well since charlotte was brought to bed."
and away she went; but returning again in a moment,
"i have just been thinking of betty's sister, my dear.
i should be very glad to get her so good a mistress.
but whether she would do for a lady's maid, i am sure i can't tell.
she is an excellent housemaid, and works very well at her needle.
however, you will think of all that at your leisure."
"certainly, ma'am," replied elinor, not hearing much of what she said, and more anxious to be alone, than to be mistress of the subject.
how she should begin how she should express herself in her note to edward, was now all her concern.
the particular circumstances between them made a difficulty of that which to any other person would have been the easiest thing in the world; but she equally feared to say too much or too little, and sat deliberating over her paper, with the pen in her hand, till broken in on by the entrance of edward himself.
he had met mrs. jennings at the door in her way to the carriage, as he came to leave his farewell card; and she, after apologising for not returning herself, had obliged him to enter, by saying that miss dashwood was above, and wanted to speak with him on very particular business.
elinor had just been congratulating herself, in the midst of her perplexity, that however difficult it might be to express herself properly by letter, it was at least preferable to giving the information by word of mouth, when her visitor entered, to force her upon this greatest exertion of all.
her astonishment and confusion were very great on his so sudden appearance.
she had not seen him before since his engagement became public, and therefore not since his knowing her to be acquainted with it; which, with the consciousness of what she had been thinking of, and what she had to tell him, made her feel particularly uncomfortable for some minutes.
he too was much distressed; and they sat down together in a most promising state of embarrassment.
whether he had asked her pardon for his intrusion on first coming into the room, he could not recollect; but determining to be on the safe side, he made his apology in form as soon as he could say any thing, after taking a chair.
"mrs. jennings told me," said he, "that you wished to speak with me, at least i understood her so or i certainly should not have intruded on you in such a manner; though at the same time, i should have been extremely sorry to leave london without seeing you and your sister; especially as it will most likely be some time it is not probable that i should soon have the pleasure of meeting you again.
i go to oxford tomorrow."
"you would not have gone, however," said elinor, recovering herself, and determined to get over what she so much dreaded as soon as possible, "without receiving our good wishes, even if we had not been able to give them in person.
mrs. jennings was quite right in what she said.
i have something of consequence to inform you of, which i was on the point of communicating by paper.
i am charged with a most agreeable office (breathing rather faster than usual as she spoke.)
colonel brandon, who was here only ten minutes ago, has desired me to say, that understanding you mean to take orders, he has great pleasure in offering you the living of delaford now just vacant, and only wishes it were more valuable.
allow me to congratulate you on having so respectable and well-judging a friend, and to join in his wish that the living it is about two hundred a-year were much more considerable, and such as might better enable you to as might be more than a temporary accommodation to yourself such, in short, as might establish all your views of happiness."
what edward felt, as he could not say it himself, it cannot be expected that any one else should say for him.
he looked all the astonishment which such unexpected, such unthought-of information could not fail of exciting; but he said only these two words,
"colonel brandon!"
"yes," continued elinor, gathering more resolution, as some of the worst was over, "colonel brandon means it as a testimony of his concern for what has lately passed for the cruel situation in which the unjustifiable conduct of your family has placed you a concern which i am sure marianne, myself, and all your friends, must share; and likewise as a proof of his high esteem for your general character, and his particular approbation of your behaviour on the present occasion."
"colonel brandon give me a living!
can it be possible?"
"the unkindness of your own relations has made you astonished to find friendship any where."
"no," replied he, with sudden consciousness, "not to find it in you; for i cannot be ignorant that to you, to your goodness, i owe it all.
i feel it i would express it if i could but, as you well know, i am no orator."
"you are very much mistaken.
i do assure you that you owe it entirely, at least almost entirely, to your own merit, and colonel brandon's discernment of it.
i have had no hand in it.
i did not even know, till i understood his design, that the living was vacant; nor had it ever occurred to me that he might have had such a living in his gift.
as a friend of mine, of my family, he may, perhaps indeed i know he has, still greater pleasure in bestowing it; but, upon my word, you owe nothing to my solicitation."
truth obliged her to acknowledge some small share in the action, but she was at the same time so unwilling to appear as the benefactress of edward, that she acknowledged it with hesitation; which probably contributed to fix that suspicion in his mind which had recently entered it.
for a short time he sat deep in thought, after elinor had ceased to speak; at last, and as if it were rather an effort, he said,
"colonel brandon seems a man of great worth and respectability.
i have always heard him spoken of as such, and your brother i know esteems him highly.
he is undoubtedly a sensible man, and in his manners perfectly the gentleman."
"indeed," replied elinor, "i believe that you will find him, on farther acquaintance, all that you have heard him to be, and as you will be such very near neighbours (for i understand the parsonage is almost close to the mansion-house,) it is particularly important that he should be all this."
edward made no answer; but when she had turned away her head, gave her a look so serious, so earnest, so uncheerful, as seemed to say, that he might hereafter wish the distance between the parsonage and the mansion-house much greater.
"colonel brandon, i think, lodges in st. james street," said he, soon afterwards, rising from his chair.
elinor told him the number of the house.
"i must hurry away then, to give him those thanks which you will not allow me to give you; to assure him that he has made me a very an exceedingly happy man."
elinor did not offer to detain him; and they parted, with a very earnest assurance on her side of her unceasing good wishes for his happiness in every change of situation that might befall him; on his, with rather an attempt to return the same good will, than the power of expressing it.
"when i see him again," said elinor to herself, as the door shut him out, "i shall see him the husband of lucy."
and with this pleasing anticipation, she sat down to reconsider the past, recall the words and endeavour to comprehend all the feelings of edward; and, of course, to reflect on her own with discontent.
when mrs. jennings came home, though she returned from seeing people whom she had never seen before, and of whom therefore she must have a great deal to say, her mind was so much more occupied by the important secret in her possession, than by anything else, that she reverted to it again as soon as elinor appeared.
"well, my dear," she cried, "i sent you up the young man.
did not i do right?
and i suppose you had no great difficulty you did not find him very unwilling to accept your proposal?"
"no, ma'am; that was not very likely."
"well, and how soon will he be ready?
for it seems all to depend upon that."
"really," said elinor, "i know so little of these kind of forms, that i can hardly even conjecture as to the time, or the preparation necessary; but i suppose two or three months will complete his ordination."
"two or three months!"
cried mrs. jennings; "lord!
my dear, how calmly you talk of it; and can the colonel wait two or three months!
lord bless me!
i am sure it would put me quite out of patience!
and though one would be very glad to do a kindness by poor mr. ferrars, i do think it is not worth while to wait two or three months for him.
sure somebody else might be found that would do as well; somebody that is in orders already."
"my dear ma'am," said elinor, "what can you be thinking of?
why, colonel brandon's only object is to be of use to mr.
ferrars."
"lord bless you, my dear!
sure you do not mean to persuade me that the colonel only marries you for the sake of giving ten guineas to mr.
ferrars!"
the deception could not continue after this; and an explanation immediately took place, by which both gained considerable amusement for the moment, without any material loss of happiness to either, for mrs.
jennings only exchanged one form of delight for another, and still without forfeiting her expectation of the first.
"aye, aye, the parsonage is but a small one," said she, after the first ebullition of surprise and satisfaction was over, "and very likely may be out of repair; but to hear a man apologising, as i thought, for a house that to my knowledge has five sitting rooms on the ground-floor, and i think the housekeeper told me could make up fifteen beds!
and to you too, that had been used to live in barton cottage!
it seems quite ridiculous.
but, my dear, we must touch up the colonel to do some thing to the parsonage, and make it comfortable for them, before lucy goes to it."
"but colonel brandon does not seem to have any idea of the living's being enough to allow them to marry."
"the colonel is a ninny, my dear; because he has two thousand a-year himself, he thinks that nobody else can marry on less.
take my word for it, that, if i am alive, i shall be paying a visit at delaford parsonage before michaelmas; and i am sure i shan't go if lucy an't there."
elinor was quite of her opinion, as to the probability of their not waiting for any thing more.
chapter 41
edward, having carried his thanks to colonel brandon, proceeded with his happiness to lucy; and such was the excess of it by the time he reached bartlett's buildings, that she was able to assure mrs.
jennings, who called on her again the next day with her congratulations, that she had never seen him in such spirits before in her life.
her own happiness, and her own spirits, were at least very certain; and she joined mrs. jennings most heartily in her expectation of their being all comfortably together in delaford parsonage before michaelmas.
so far was she, at the same time, from any backwardness to give elinor that credit which edward would give her, that she spoke of her friendship for them both with the most grateful warmth, was ready to own all their obligation to her, and openly declared that no exertion for their good on miss dashwood's part, either present or future, would ever surprise her, for she believed her capable of doing any thing in the world for those she really valued.
as for colonel brandon, she was not only ready to worship him as a saint, but was moreover truly anxious that he should be treated as one in all worldly concerns; anxious that his tithes should be raised to the utmost; and scarcely resolved to avail herself, at delaford, as far as she possibly could, of his servants, his carriage, his cows, and his poultry.
it was now above a week since john dashwood had called in berkeley street, and as since that time no notice had been taken by them of his wife's indisposition, beyond one verbal enquiry, elinor began to feel it necessary to pay her a visit.
this was an obligation, however, which not only opposed her own inclination, but which had not the assistance of any encouragement from her companions.
marianne, not contented with absolutely refusing to go herself, was very urgent to prevent her sister's going at all; and mrs. jennings, though her carriage was always at elinor's service, so very much disliked mrs.
john dashwood, that not even her curiosity to see how she looked after the late discovery, nor her strong desire to affront her by taking edward's part, could overcome her unwillingness to be in her company again.
the consequence was, that elinor set out by herself to pay a visit, for which no one could really have less inclination, and to run the risk of a tete-a-tete with a woman, whom neither of the others had so much reason to dislike.
mrs. dashwood was denied; but before the carriage could turn from the house, her husband accidentally came out.
he expressed great pleasure in meeting elinor, told her that he had been just going to call in berkeley street, and, assuring her that fanny would be very glad to see her, invited her to come in.
they walked up stairs in to the drawing-room.
nobody was there.
"fanny is in her own room, i suppose," said he: "i will go to her presently, for i am sure she will not have the least objection in the world to seeing you.
very far from it, indeed.
now especially there cannot be but however, you and marianne were always great favourites.
why would not marianne come?"
elinor made what excuse she could for her.
"i am not sorry to see you alone," he replied, "for i have a good deal to say to you.
this living of colonel brandon's can it be true?
has he really given it to edward?
i heard it yesterday by chance, and was coming to you on purpose to enquire farther about it."
"it is perfectly true.
colonel brandon has given the living of delaford to edward."
"really!
well, this is very astonishing!
no relationship!
no connection between them!
and now that livings fetch such a price!
what was the value of this?"
"about two hundred a year."
"very well and for the next presentation to a living of that value supposing the late incumbent to have been old and sickly, and likely to vacate it soon he might have got i dare say fourteen hundred pounds.
and how came he not to have settled that matter before this person's death?
now indeed it would be too late to sell it, but a man of colonel brandon's sense!
i wonder he should be so improvident in a point of such common, such natural, concern!
well, i am convinced that there is a vast deal of inconsistency in almost every human character.
i suppose, however on recollection that the case may probably be this.
edward is only to hold the living till the person to whom the colonel has really sold the presentation, is old enough to take it.
aye, aye, that is the fact, depend upon it."
elinor contradicted it, however, very positively; and by relating that she had herself been employed in conveying the offer from colonel brandon to edward, and, therefore, must understand the terms on which it was given, obliged him to submit to her authority.
"it is truly astonishing!"
he cried, after hearing what she said "what could be the colonel's motive?"
"a very simple one to be of use to mr.
ferrars."
"well, well; whatever colonel brandon may be, edward is a very lucky man.
you will not mention the matter to fanny, however, for though i have broke it to her, and she bears it vastly well, she will not like to hear it much talked of."
elinor had some difficulty here to refrain from observing, that she thought fanny might have borne with composure, an acquisition of wealth to her brother, by which neither she nor her child could be possibly impoverished.
"mrs. ferrars," added he, lowering his voice to the tone becoming so important a subject, "knows nothing about it at present, and i believe it will be best to keep it entirely concealed from her as long as may be.
when the marriage takes place, i fear she must hear of it all."
"but why should such precaution be used?
though it is not to be supposed that mrs. ferrars can have the smallest satisfaction in knowing that her son has money enough to live upon, for that must be quite out of the question; yet why, upon her late behaviour, is she supposed to feel at all?
she has done with her son, she cast him off for ever, and has made all those over whom she had any influence, cast him off likewise.
surely, after doing so, she cannot be imagined liable to any impression of sorrow or of joy on his account she cannot be interested in any thing that befalls him.
she would not be so weak as to throw away the comfort of a child, and yet retain the anxiety of a parent!"
"ah!
elinor," said john, "your reasoning is very good, but it is founded on ignorance of human nature.
when edward's unhappy match takes place, depend upon it his mother will feel as much as if she had never discarded him; and, therefore every circumstance that may accelerate that dreadful event, must be concealed from her as much as possible.
mrs. ferrars can never forget that edward is her son."
"you surprise me; i should think it must nearly have escaped her memory by this time."
"you wrong her exceedingly.
mrs. ferrars is one of the most affectionate mothers in the world."
elinor was silent.
"we think now," said mr. dashwood, after a short pause, "of robert's marrying miss morton."
elinor, smiling at the grave and decisive importance of her brother's tone, calmly replied,
"the lady, i suppose, has no choice in the affair."
"choice!
how do you mean?"
"i only mean that i suppose, from your manner of speaking, it must be the same to miss morton whether she marry edward or robert."
"certainly, there can be no difference; for robert will now to all intents and purposes be considered as the eldest son; and as to any thing else, they are both very agreeable young men: i do not know that one is superior to the other."
elinor said no more, and john was also for a short time silent.
his reflections ended thus.
"of one thing, my dear sister," kindly taking her hand, and speaking in an awful whisper, "i may assure you; and i will do it, because i know it must gratify you.
i have good reason to think indeed i have it from the best authority, or i should not repeat it, for otherwise it would be very wrong to say any thing about it but i have it from the very best authority not that i ever precisely heard mrs. ferrars say it herself but her daughter did, and i have it from her that in short, whatever objections there might be against a certain a certain connection you understand me it would have been far preferable to her, it would not have given her half the vexation that this does.
i was exceedingly pleased to hear that mrs. ferrars considered it in that light a very gratifying circumstance you know to us all.
'it would have been beyond comparison,' she said, 'the least evil of the two, and she would be glad to compound now for nothing worse.'
but however, all that is quite out of the question not to be thought of or mentioned as to any attachment you know it never could be all that is gone by.
but i thought i would just tell you of this, because i knew how much it must please you.
not that you have any reason to regret, my dear elinor.
there is no doubt of your doing exceedingly well quite as well, or better, perhaps, all things considered.
has colonel brandon been with you lately?"
elinor had heard enough, if not to gratify her vanity, and raise her self-importance, to agitate her nerves and fill her mind; and she was therefore glad to be spared from the necessity of saying much in reply herself, and from the danger of hearing any thing more from her brother, by the entrance of mr. robert ferrars.
after a few moments'
chat, john dashwood, recollecting that fanny was yet uninformed of her sister's being there, quitted the room in quest of her; and elinor was left to improve her acquaintance with robert, who, by the gay unconcern, the happy self-complacency of his manner while enjoying so unfair a division of his mother's love and liberality, to the prejudice of his banished brother, earned only by his own dissipated course of life, and that brother's integrity, was confirming her most unfavourable opinion of his head and heart.
they had scarcely been two minutes by themselves, before he began to speak of edward; for he, too, had heard of the living, and was very inquisitive on the subject.
elinor repeated the particulars of it, as she had given them to john; and their effect on robert, though very different, was not less striking than it had been on him.
he laughed most immoderately.
the idea of edward's being a clergyman, and living in a small parsonage-house, diverted him beyond measure; and when to that was added the fanciful imagery of edward reading prayers in a white surplice, and publishing the banns of marriage between john smith and mary brown, he could conceive nothing more ridiculous.
elinor, while she waited in silence and immovable gravity, the conclusion of such folly, could not restrain her eyes from being fixed on him with a look that spoke all the contempt it excited.
it was a look, however, very well bestowed, for it relieved her own feelings, and gave no intelligence to him.
he was recalled from wit to wisdom, not by any reproof of hers, but by his own sensibility.
"we may treat it as a joke," said he, at last, recovering from the affected laugh which had considerably lengthened out the genuine gaiety of the moment "but, upon my soul, it is a most serious business.
poor edward!
he is ruined for ever.
i am extremely sorry for it for i know him to be a very good-hearted creature; as well-meaning a fellow perhaps, as any in the world.
you must not judge of him, miss dashwood, from your slight acquaintance.
poor edward!
his manners are certainly not the happiest in nature.
but we are not all born, you know, with the same powers, the same address.
poor fellow!
to see him in a circle of strangers!
to be sure it was pitiable enough!
but upon my soul, i believe he has as good a heart as any in the kingdom; and i declare and protest to you i never was so shocked in my life, as when it all burst forth.
i could not believe it.
my mother was the first person who told me of it; and i, feeling myself called on to act with resolution, immediately said to her, 'my dear madam, i do not know what you may intend to do on the occasion, but as for myself, i must say, that if edward does marry this young woman, i never will see him again.'
that was what i said immediately.
i was most uncommonly shocked, indeed!
poor edward!
he has done for himself completely shut himself out for ever from all decent society!
but, as i directly said to my mother, i am not in the least surprised at it; from his style of education, it was always to be expected.
my poor mother was half frantic."
"have you ever seen the lady?"
"yes; once, while she was staying in this house, i happened to drop in for ten minutes; and i saw quite enough of her.
the merest awkward country girl, without style, or elegance, and almost without beauty.
i remember her perfectly.
just the kind of girl i should suppose likely to captivate poor edward.
i offered immediately, as soon as my mother related the affair to me, to talk to him myself, and dissuade him from the match; but it was too late then, i found, to do any thing, for unluckily, i was not in the way at first, and knew nothing of it till after the breach had taken place, when it was not for me, you know, to interfere.
but had i been informed of it a few hours earlier i think it is most probable that something might have been hit on.
i certainly should have represented it to edward in a very strong light.
'my dear fellow,' i should have said, 'consider what you are doing.
you are making a most disgraceful connection, and such a one as your family are unanimous in disapproving.'
i cannot help thinking, in short, that means might have been found.
but now it is all too late.
he must be starved, you know; that is certain; absolutely starved."
he had just settled this point with great composure, when the entrance of mrs. john dashwood put an end to the subject.
but though she never spoke of it out of her own family, elinor could see its influence on her mind, in the something like confusion of countenance with which she entered, and an attempt at cordiality in her behaviour to herself.
she even proceeded so far as to be concerned to find that elinor and her sister were so soon to leave town, as she had hoped to see more of them; an exertion in which her husband, who attended her into the room, and hung enamoured over her accents, seemed to distinguish every thing that was most affectionate and graceful.
chapter 42
one other short call in harley street, in which elinor received her brother's congratulations on their travelling so far towards barton without any expense, and on colonel brandon's being to follow them to cleveland in a day or two, completed the intercourse of the brother and sisters in town; and a faint invitation from fanny, to come to norland whenever it should happen to be in their way, which of all things was the most unlikely to occur, with a more warm, though less public, assurance, from john to elinor, of the promptitude with which he should come to see her at delaford, was all that foretold any meeting in the country.
it amused her to observe that all her friends seemed determined to send her to delaford; a place, in which, of all others, she would now least chuse to visit, or wish to reside; for not only was it considered as her future home by her brother and mrs. jennings, but even lucy, when they parted, gave her a pressing invitation to visit her there.
very early in april, and tolerably early in the day, the two parties from hanover square and berkeley street set out from their respective homes, to meet, by appointment, on the road.
for the convenience of charlotte and her child, they were to be more than two days on their journey, and mr. palmer, travelling more expeditiously with colonel brandon, was to join them at cleveland soon after their arrival.
marianne, few as had been her hours of comfort in london, and eager as she had long been to quit it, could not, when it came to the point, bid adieu to the house in which she had for the last time enjoyed those hopes, and that confidence, in willoughby, which were now extinguished for ever, without great pain.
nor could she leave the place in which willoughby remained, busy in new engagements, and new schemes, in which she could have no share, without shedding many tears.
elinor's satisfaction, at the moment of removal, was more positive.
she had no such object for her lingering thoughts to fix on, she left no creature behind, from whom it would give her a moment's regret to be divided for ever, she was pleased to be free herself from the persecution of lucy's friendship, she was grateful for bringing her sister away unseen by willoughby since his marriage, and she looked forward with hope to what a few months of tranquility at barton might do towards restoring marianne's peace of mind, and confirming her own.
their journey was safely performed.
the second day brought them into the cherished, or the prohibited, county of somerset, for as such was it dwelt on by turns in marianne's imagination; and in the forenoon of the third they drove up to cleveland.
cleveland was a spacious, modern-built house, situated on a sloping lawn.
it had no park, but the pleasure-grounds were tolerably extensive; and like every other place of the same degree of importance, it had its open shrubbery, and closer wood walk, a road of smooth gravel winding round a plantation, led to the front, the lawn was dotted over with timber, the house itself was under the guardianship of the fir, the mountain-ash, and the acacia, and a thick screen of them altogether, interspersed with tall lombardy poplars, shut out the offices.
marianne entered the house with a heart swelling with emotion from the consciousness of being only eighty miles from barton, and not thirty from combe magna; and before she had been five minutes within its walls, while the others were busily helping charlotte to show her child to the housekeeper, she quitted it again, stealing away through the winding shrubberies, now just beginning to be in beauty, to gain a distant eminence; where, from its grecian temple, her eye, wandering over a wide tract of country to the south-east, could fondly rest on the farthest ridge of hills in the horizon, and fancy that from their summits combe magna might be seen.
in such moments of precious, invaluable misery, she rejoiced in tears of agony to be at cleveland; and as she returned by a different circuit to the house, feeling all the happy privilege of country liberty, of wandering from place to place in free and luxurious solitude, she resolved to spend almost every hour of every day while she remained with the palmers, in the indulgence of such solitary rambles.
she returned just in time to join the others as they quitted the house, on an excursion through its more immediate premises; and the rest of the morning was easily whiled away, in lounging round the kitchen garden, examining the bloom upon its walls, and listening to the gardener's lamentations upon blights, in dawdling through the green-house, where the loss of her favourite plants, unwarily exposed, and nipped by the lingering frost, raised the laughter of charlotte, and in visiting her poultry-yard, where, in the disappointed hopes of her dairy-maid, by hens forsaking their nests, or being stolen by a fox, or in the rapid decrease of a promising young brood, she found fresh sources of merriment.
the morning was fine and dry, and marianne, in her plan of employment abroad, had not calculated for any change of weather during their stay at cleveland.
with great surprise therefore, did she find herself prevented by a settled rain from going out again after dinner.
she had depended on a twilight walk to the grecian temple, and perhaps all over the grounds, and an evening merely cold or damp would not have deterred her from it; but a heavy and settled rain even she could not fancy dry or pleasant weather for walking.
their party was small, and the hours passed quietly away.
mrs. palmer had her child, and mrs. jennings her carpet-work; they talked of the friends they had left behind, arranged lady middleton's engagements, and wondered whether mr. palmer and colonel brandon would get farther than reading that night.
elinor, however little concerned in it, joined in their discourse; and marianne, who had the knack of finding her way in every house to the library, however it might be avoided by the family in general, soon procured herself a book.
nothing was wanting on mrs. palmer's side that constant and friendly good humour could do, to make them feel themselves welcome.
the openness and heartiness of her manner more than atoned for that want of recollection and elegance which made her often deficient in the forms of politeness; her kindness, recommended by so pretty a face, was engaging; her folly, though evident was not disgusting, because it was not conceited; and elinor could have forgiven every thing but her laugh.
the two gentlemen arrived the next day to a very late dinner, affording a pleasant enlargement of the party, and a very welcome variety to their conversation, which a long morning of the same continued rain had reduced very low.
elinor had seen so little of mr. palmer, and in that little had seen so much variety in his address to her sister and herself, that she knew not what to expect to find him in his own family.
she found him, however, perfectly the gentleman in his behaviour to all his visitors, and only occasionally rude to his wife and her mother; she found him very capable of being a pleasant companion, and only prevented from being so always, by too great an aptitude to fancy himself as much superior to people in general, as he must feel himself to be to mrs.
jennings and charlotte.
for the rest of his character and habits, they were marked, as far as elinor could perceive, with no traits at all unusual in his sex and time of life.
he was nice in his eating, uncertain in his hours; fond of his child, though affecting to slight it; and idled away the mornings at billiards, which ought to have been devoted to business.
she liked him, however, upon the whole, much better than she had expected, and in her heart was not sorry that she could like him no more; not sorry to be driven by the observation of his epicurism, his selfishness, and his conceit, to rest with complacency on the remembrance of edward's generous temper, simple taste, and diffident feelings.
of edward, or at least of some of his concerns, she now received intelligence from colonel brandon, who had been into dorsetshire lately; and who, treating her at once as the disinterested friend of mr. ferrars, and the kind confidante of himself, talked to her a great deal of the parsonage at delaford, described its deficiencies, and told her what he meant to do himself towards removing them.
his behaviour to her in this, as well as in every other particular, his open pleasure in meeting her after an absence of only ten days, his readiness to converse with her, and his deference for her opinion, might very well justify mrs. jennings's persuasion of his attachment, and would have been enough, perhaps, had not elinor still, as from the first, believed marianne his real favourite, to make her suspect it herself.
but as it was, such a notion had scarcely ever entered her head, except by mrs. jennings's suggestion; and she could not help believing herself the nicest observer of the two; she watched his eyes, while mrs. jennings thought only of his behaviour; and while his looks of anxious solicitude on marianne's feeling, in her head and throat, the beginning of a heavy cold, because unexpressed by words, entirely escaped the latter lady's observation; she could discover in them the quick feelings, and needless alarm of a lover.
two delightful twilight walks on the third and fourth evenings of her being there, not merely on the dry gravel of the shrubbery, but all over the grounds, and especially in the most distant parts of them, where there was something more of wildness than in the rest, where the trees were the oldest, and the grass was the longest and wettest, had assisted by the still greater imprudence of sitting in her wet shoes and stockings given marianne a cold so violent as, though for a day or two trifled with or denied, would force itself by increasing ailments on the concern of every body, and the notice of herself.
prescriptions poured in from all quarters, and as usual, were all declined.
though heavy and feverish, with a pain in her limbs, and a cough, and a sore throat, a good night's rest was to cure her entirely; and it was with difficulty that elinor prevailed on her, when she went to bed, to try one or two of the simplest of the remedies.
chapter 43
marianne got up the next morning at her usual time; to every inquiry replied that she was better, and tried to prove herself so, by engaging in her accustomary employments.
but a day spent in sitting shivering over the fire with a book in her hand, which she was unable to read, or in lying, weary and languid, on a sofa, did not speak much in favour of her amendment; and when, at last, she went early to bed, more and more indisposed, colonel brandon was only astonished at her sister's composure, who, though attending and nursing her the whole day, against marianne's inclination, and forcing proper medicines on her at night, trusted, like marianne, to the certainty and efficacy of sleep, and felt no real alarm.
a very restless and feverish night, however, disappointed the expectation of both; and when marianne, after persisting in rising, confessed herself unable to sit up, and returned voluntarily to her bed, elinor was very ready to adopt mrs. jennings's advice, of sending for the palmers' apothecary.
he came, examined his patient, and though encouraging miss dashwood to expect that a very few days would restore her sister to health, yet, by pronouncing her disorder to have a putrid tendency, and allowing the word "infection" to pass his lips, gave instant alarm to mrs. palmer, on her baby's account.
mrs. jennings, who had been inclined from the first to think marianne's complaint more serious than elinor, now looked very grave on mr. harris's report, and confirming charlotte's fears and caution, urged the necessity of her immediate removal with her infant; and mr. palmer, though treating their apprehensions as idle, found the anxiety and importunity of his wife too great to be withstood.
her departure, therefore, was fixed on; and within an hour after mr. harris's arrival, she set off, with her little boy and his nurse, for the house of a near relation of mr. palmer's, who lived a few miles on the other side of bath; whither her husband promised, at her earnest entreaty, to join her in a day or two; and whither she was almost equally urgent with her mother to accompany her.
mrs. jennings, however, with a kindness of heart which made elinor really love her, declared her resolution of not stirring from cleveland as long as marianne remained ill, and of endeavouring, by her own attentive care, to supply to her the place of the mother she had taken her from; and elinor found her on every occasion a most willing and active helpmate, desirous to share in all her fatigues, and often by her better experience in nursing, of material use.
poor marianne, languid and low from the nature of her malady, and feeling herself universally ill, could no longer hope that tomorrow would find her recovered; and the idea of what tomorrow would have produced, but for this unlucky illness, made every ailment severe; for on that day they were to have begun their journey home; and, attended the whole way by a servant of mrs. jennings, were to have taken their mother by surprise on the following forenoon.
the little she said was all in lamentation of this inevitable delay; though elinor tried to raise her spirits, and make her believe, as she then really believed herself, that it would be a very short one.
the next day produced little or no alteration in the state of the patient; she certainly was not better, and, except that there was no amendment, did not appear worse.
their party was now farther reduced; for mr. palmer, though very unwilling to go as well from real humanity and good-nature, as from a dislike of appearing to be frightened away by his wife, was persuaded at last by colonel brandon to perform his promise of following her; and while he was preparing to go, colonel brandon himself, with a much greater exertion, began to talk of going likewise.
here, however, the kindness of mrs. jennings interposed most acceptably; for to send the colonel away while his love was in so much uneasiness on her sister's account, would be to deprive them both, she thought, of every comfort; and therefore telling him at once that his stay at cleveland was necessary to herself, that she should want him to play at piquet of an evening, while miss dashwood was above with her sister, &c. she urged him so strongly to remain, that he, who was gratifying the first wish of his own heart by a compliance, could not long even affect to demur; especially as mrs. jennings's entreaty was warmly seconded by mr. palmer, who seemed to feel a relief to himself, in leaving behind him a person so well able to assist or advise miss dashwood in any emergence.
marianne was, of course, kept in ignorance of all these arrangements.
she knew not that she had been the means of sending the owners of cleveland away, in about seven days from the time of their arrival.
it gave her no surprise that she saw nothing of mrs. palmer; and as it gave her likewise no concern, she never mentioned her name.
two days passed away from the time of mr. palmer's departure, and her situation continued, with little variation, the same.
mr. harris, who attended her every day, still talked boldly of a speedy recovery, and miss dashwood was equally sanguine; but the expectation of the others was by no means so cheerful.
mrs. jennings had determined very early in the seizure that marianne would never get over it, and colonel brandon, who was chiefly of use in listening to mrs. jennings's forebodings, was not in a state of mind to resist their influence.
he tried to reason himself out of fears, which the different judgment of the apothecary seemed to render absurd; but the many hours of each day in which he was left entirely alone, were but too favourable for the admission of every melancholy idea, and he could not expel from his mind the persuasion that he should see marianne no more.
on the morning of the third day however, the gloomy anticipations of both were almost done away; for when mr. harris arrived, he declared his patient materially better.
her pulse was much stronger, and every symptom more favourable than on the preceding visit.
elinor, confirmed in every pleasant hope, was all cheerfulness; rejoicing that in her letters to her mother, she had pursued her own judgment rather than her friend's, in making very light of the indisposition which delayed them at cleveland; and almost fixing on the time when marianne would be able to travel.
but the day did not close so auspiciously as it began.
towards the evening marianne became ill again, growing more heavy, restless, and uncomfortable than before.
her sister, however, still sanguine, was willing to attribute the change to nothing more than the fatigue of having sat up to have her bed made; and carefully administering the cordials prescribed, saw her, with satisfaction, sink at last into a slumber, from which she expected the most beneficial effects.
her sleep, though not so quiet as elinor wished to see it, lasted a considerable time; and anxious to observe the result of it herself, she resolved to sit with her during the whole of it.
mrs. jennings, knowing nothing of any change in the patient, went unusually early to bed; her maid, who was one of the principal nurses, was recreating herself in the housekeeper's room, and elinor remained alone with marianne.
the repose of the latter became more and more disturbed; and her sister, who watched, with unremitting attention her continual change of posture, and heard the frequent but inarticulate sounds of complaint which passed her lips, was almost wishing to rouse her from so painful a slumber, when marianne, suddenly awakened by some accidental noise in the house, started hastily up, and, with feverish wildness, cried out,
"is mama coming? "
"not yet," cried the other, concealing her terror, and assisting marianne to lie down again, "but she will be here, i hope, before it is long.
it is a great way, you know, from hence to barton."
"but she must not go round by london," cried marianne, in the same hurried manner.
"i shall never see her, if she goes by london."
elinor perceived with alarm that she was not quite herself, and, while attempting to soothe her, eagerly felt her pulse.
it was lower and quicker than ever!
and marianne, still talking wildly of mama, her alarm increased so rapidly, as to determine her on sending instantly for mr. harris, and despatching a messenger to barton for her mother.
to consult with colonel brandon on the best means of effecting the latter, was a thought which immediately followed the resolution of its performance; and as soon she had rung up the maid to take her place by her sister, she hastened down to the drawing-room, where she knew he was generally to be found at a much later hour than the present.
it was no time for hesitation.
her fears and her difficulties were immediately before him.
her fears, he had no courage, no confidence to attempt the removal of: he listened to them in silent despondence; but her difficulties were instantly obviated, for with a readiness that seemed to speak the occasion, and the service pre-arranged in his mind, he offered himself as the messenger who should fetch mrs. dashwood.
elinor made no resistance that was not easily overcome.
she thanked him with brief, though fervent gratitude, and while he went to hurry off his servant with a message to mr. harris, and an order for post-horses directly, she wrote a few lines to her mother.
the comfort of such a friend at that moment as colonel brandon or such a companion for her mother, how gratefully was it felt!
a companion whose judgment would guide, whose attendance must relieve, and whose friendship might soothe her!
as far as the shock of such a summons could be lessened to her, his presence, his manners, his assistance, would lessen it.
he, meanwhile, whatever he might feel, acted with all the firmness of a collected mind, made every necessary arrangement with the utmost despatch, and calculated with exactness the time in which she might look for his return.
not a moment was lost in delay of any kind.
the horses arrived, even before they were expected, and colonel brandon only pressing her hand with a look of solemnity, and a few words spoken too low to reach her ear, hurried into the carriage.
it was then about twelve o'clock, and she returned to her sister's apartment to wait for the arrival of the apothecary, and to watch by her the rest of the night.
it was a night of almost equal suffering to both.
hour after hour passed away in sleepless pain and delirium on marianne's side, and in the most cruel anxiety on elinor's, before mr. harris appeared.
her apprehensions once raised, paid by their excess for all her former security; and the servant who sat up with her, for she would not allow mrs. jennings to be called, only tortured her more, by hints of what her mistress had always thought.
marianne's ideas were still, at intervals, fixed incoherently on her mother, and whenever she mentioned her name, it gave a pang to the heart of poor elinor, who, reproaching herself for having trifled with so many days of illness, and wretched for some immediate relief, fancied that all relief might soon be in vain, that every thing had been delayed too long, and pictured to herself her suffering mother arriving too late to see this darling child, or to see her rational.
she was on the point of sending again for mr. harris, or if he could not come, for some other advice, when the former but not till after five o'clock arrived.
his opinion, however, made some little amends for his delay, for though acknowledging a very unexpected and unpleasant alteration in his patient, he would not allow the danger to be material, and talked of the relief which a fresh mode of treatment must procure, with a confidence which, in a lesser degree, was communicated to elinor.
he promised to call again in the course of three or four hours, and left both the patient and her anxious attendant more composed than he had found them.
with strong concern, and with many reproaches for not being called to their aid, did mrs. jennings hear in the morning of what had passed.
her former apprehensions, now with greater reason restored, left her no doubt of the event; and though trying to speak comfort to elinor, her conviction of her sister's danger would not allow her to offer the comfort of hope.
her heart was really grieved.
the rapid decay, the early death of a girl so young, so lovely as marianne, must have struck a less interested person with concern.
on mrs. jennings's compassion she had other claims.
she had been for three months her companion, was still under her care, and she was known to have been greatly injured, and long unhappy.
the distress of her sister too, particularly a favourite, was before her; and as for their mother, when mrs. jennings considered that marianne might probably be to her what charlotte was to herself, her sympathy in her sufferings was very sincere.
mr. harris was punctual in his second visit; but he came to be disappointed in his hopes of what the last would produce.
his medicines had failed; the fever was unabated; and marianne only more quiet not more herself remained in a heavy stupor.
elinor, catching all, and more than all, his fears in a moment, proposed to call in further advice.
but he judged it unnecessary: he had still something more to try, some more fresh application, of whose success he was as confident as the last, and his visit concluded with encouraging assurances which reached the ear, but could not enter the heart of miss dashwood.
she was calm, except when she thought of her mother; but she was almost hopeless; and in this state she continued till noon, scarcely stirring from her sister's bed, her thoughts wandering from one image of grief, one suffering friend to another, and her spirits oppressed to the utmost by the conversation of mrs. jennings, who scrupled not to attribute the severity and danger of this attack to the many weeks of previous indisposition which marianne's disappointment had brought on.
elinor felt all the reasonableness of the idea, and it gave fresh misery to her reflections.
about noon, however, she began but with a caution a dread of disappointment which for some time kept her silent, even to her friend to fancy, to hope she could perceive a slight amendment in her sister's pulse; she waited, watched, and examined it again and again; and at last, with an agitation more difficult to bury under exterior calmness, than all her foregoing distress, ventured to communicate her hopes.
mrs. jennings, though forced, on examination, to acknowledge a temporary revival, tried to keep her young friend from indulging a thought of its continuance; and elinor, conning over every injunction of distrust, told herself likewise not to hope.
but it was too late.
hope had already entered; and feeling all its anxious flutter, she bent over her sister to watch she hardly knew for what.
half an hour passed away, and the favourable symptom yet blessed her.
others even arose to confirm it.
her breath, her skin, her lips, all flattered elinor with signs of amendment; and marianne fixed her eyes on her with a rational, though languid, gaze.
anxiety and hope now oppressed her in equal degrees, and left her no moment of tranquillity till the arrival of mr. harris at four o'clock; when his assurances, his felicitations on a recovery in her sister even surpassing his expectation, gave her confidence, comfort, and tears of joy.
marianne was in every respect materially better, and he declared her entirely out of danger.
mrs. jennings, perhaps satisfied with the partial justification of her forebodings which had been found in their late alarm, allowed herself to trust in his judgment, and admitted, with unfeigned joy, and soon with unequivocal cheerfulness, the probability of an entire recovery.
elinor could not be cheerful.
her joy was of a different kind, and led to any thing rather than to gaiety.
marianne restored to life, health, friends, and to her doting mother, was an idea to fill her heart with sensations of exquisite comfort, and expand it in fervent gratitude; but it led to no outward demonstrations of joy, no words, no smiles.
all within elinor's breast was satisfaction, silent and strong.
she continued by the side of her sister, with little intermission the whole afternoon, calming every fear, satisfying every inquiry of her enfeebled spirits, supplying every succour, and watching almost every look and every breath.
the possibility of a relapse would of course, in some moments, occur to remind her of what anxiety was but when she saw, on her frequent and minute examination, that every symptom of recovery continued, and saw marianne at six o'clock sink into a quiet, steady, and to all appearance comfortable, sleep, she silenced every doubt.
the time was now drawing on, when colonel brandon might be expected back.
at ten o'clock, she trusted, or at least not much later her mother would be relieved from the dreadful suspense in which she must now be travelling towards them.
the colonel, too!
perhaps scarcely less an object of pity!
oh!
how slow was the progress of time which yet kept them in ignorance!
at seven o'clock, leaving marianne still sweetly asleep, she joined mrs. jennings in the drawing-room to tea.
of breakfast she had been kept by her fears, and of dinner by their sudden reverse, from eating much; and the present refreshment, therefore, with such feelings of content as she brought to it, was particularly welcome.
mrs. jennings would have persuaded her, at its conclusion, to take some rest before her mother's arrival, and allow her to take her place by marianne; but elinor had no sense of fatigue, no capability of sleep at that moment about her, and she was not to be kept away from her sister an unnecessary instant.
mrs. jennings therefore attending her up stairs into the sick chamber, to satisfy herself that all continued right, left her there again to her charge and her thoughts, and retired to her own room to write letters and sleep.
the night was cold and stormy.
the wind roared round the house, and the rain beat against the windows; but elinor, all happiness within, regarded it not.
marianne slept through every blast; and the travellers they had a rich reward in store, for every present inconvenience.
the clock struck eight.
had it been ten, elinor would have been convinced that at that moment she heard a carriage driving up to the house; and so strong was the persuasion that she did, in spite of the almost impossibility of their being already come, that she moved into the adjoining dressing-closet and opened a window shutter, to be satisfied of the truth.
she instantly saw that her ears had not deceived her.
the flaring lamps of a carriage were immediately in view.
by their uncertain light she thought she could discern it to be drawn by four horses; and this, while it told the excess of her poor mother's alarm, gave some explanation to such unexpected rapidity.
never in her life had elinor found it so difficult to be calm, as at that moment.
the knowledge of what her mother must be feeling as the carriage stopt at the door of her doubt her dread perhaps her despair!
and of what she had to tell!
with such knowledge it was impossible to be calm.
all that remained to be done was to be speedy; and, therefore staying only till she could leave mrs. jennings's maid with her sister, she hurried down stairs.
the bustle in the vestibule, as she passed along an inner lobby, assured her that they were already in the house.
she rushed to the drawing-room, she entered it, and saw only willoughby.
chapter 44
elinor, starting back with a look of horror at the sight of him, obeyed the first impulse of her heart in turning instantly to quit the room, and her hand was already on the lock, when its action was suspended by his hastily advancing, and saying, in a voice rather of command than supplication,
"miss dashwood, for half an hour for ten minutes i entreat you to stay."
"no, sir," she replied with firmness, "i shall not stay.
your business cannot be with me.
the servants, i suppose, forgot to tell you that mr. palmer was not in the house."
"had they told me," he cried with vehemence, "that mr. palmer and all his relations were at the devil, it would not have turned me from the door.
my business is with you, and only you."
"with me!"
in the utmost amazement "well, sir, be quick and if you can less violent."
"sit down, and i will be both."
she hesitated; she knew not what to do.
the possibility of colonel brandon's arriving and finding her there, came across her.
but she had promised to hear him, and her curiosity no less than her honor was engaged.
after a moment's recollection, therefore, concluding that prudence required dispatch, and that her acquiescence would best promote it, she walked silently towards the table, and sat down.
he took the opposite chair, and for half a minute not a word was said by either.
"pray be quick, sir," said elinor, impatiently; "i have no time to spare."
he was sitting in an attitude of deep meditation, and seemed not to hear her.
"your sister," said he, with abruptness, a moment afterwards "is out of danger.
i heard it from the servant.
god be praised!
but is it true?
is it really true?"
elinor would not speak.
he repeated the inquiry with yet greater eagerness.
"for god's sake tell me, is she out of danger, or is she not?"
"we hope she is."
he rose up, and walked across the room.
"had i known as much half an hour ago but since i am here," speaking with a forced vivacity as he returned to his seat "what does it signify?
for once, miss dashwood it will be the last time, perhaps let us be cheerful together.
i am in a fine mood for gaiety.
tell me honestly" a deeper glow overspreading his cheeks "do you think me most a knave or a fool?"
elinor looked at him with greater astonishment than ever.
she began to think that he must be in liquor; the strangeness of such a visit, and of such manners, seemed no otherwise intelligible; and with this impression she immediately rose, saying,
"mr. willoughby, i advise you at present to return to combe i am not at leisure to remain with you longer.
whatever your business may be with me, it will be better recollected and explained to-morrow."
"i understand you," he replied, with an expressive smile, and a voice perfectly calm; "yes, i am very drunk.
a pint of porter with my cold beef at marlborough was enough to over-set me."
"at marlborough!"
cried elinor, more and more at a loss to understand what he would be at.
"yes, i left london this morning at eight o'clock, and the only ten minutes i have spent out of my chaise since that time procured me a nuncheon at marlborough."
the steadiness of his manner, and the intelligence of his eye as he spoke, convincing elinor, that whatever other unpardonable folly might bring him to cleveland, he was not brought there by intoxication, she said, after a moment's recollection,
"mr. willoughby, you ought to feel, and i certainly do that after what has passed your coming here in this manner, and forcing yourself upon my notice, requires a very particular excuse.
what is it, that you mean by it?"
"i mean," said he, with serious energy "if i can, to make you hate me one degree less than you do now.
i mean to offer some kind of explanation, some kind of apology, for the past; to open my whole heart to you, and by convincing you, that though i have been always a blockhead, i have not been always a rascal, to obtain something like forgiveness from ma from your sister."
"is this the real reason of your coming?"
"upon my soul it is," was his answer, with a warmth which brought all the former willoughby to her remembrance, and in spite of herself made her think him sincere.
"if that is all, you may be satisfied already, for marianne does she has long forgiven you."
"has she?"
he cried, in the same eager tone.
"then she has forgiven me before she ought to have done it.
but she shall forgive me again, and on more reasonable grounds.
now will you listen to me?"
elinor bowed her assent.
"i do not know," said he, after a pause of expectation on her side, and thoughtfulness on his own, "how you may have accounted for my behaviour to your sister, or what diabolical motive you may have imputed to me.
perhaps you will hardly think the better of me, it is worth the trial however, and you shall hear every thing.
when i first became intimate in your family, i had no other intention, no other view in the acquaintance than to pass my time pleasantly while i was obliged to remain in devonshire, more pleasantly than i had ever done before.
your sister's lovely person and interesting manners could not but please me; and her behaviour to me almost from the first, was of a kind it is astonishing, when i reflect on what it was, and what she was, that my heart should have been so insensible!
but at first i must confess, my vanity only was elevated by it.
careless of her happiness, thinking only of my own amusement, giving way to feelings which i had always been too much in the habit of indulging, i endeavoured, by every means in my power, to make myself pleasing to her, without any design of returning her affection."
miss dashwood, at this point, turning her eyes on him with the most angry contempt, stopped him, by saying,
"it is hardly worth while, mr. willoughby, for you to relate, or for me to listen any longer.
such a beginning as this cannot be followed by any thing.
do not let me be pained by hearing any thing more on the subject."
"i insist on you hearing the whole of it," he replied, "my fortune was never large, and i had always been expensive, always in the habit of associating with people of better income than myself.
every year since my coming of age, or even before, i believe, had added to my debts; and though the death of my old cousin, mrs. smith, was to set me free; yet that event being uncertain, and possibly far distant, it had been for some time my intention to re-establish my circumstances by marrying a woman of fortune.
to attach myself to your sister, therefore, was not a thing to be thought of; and with a meanness, selfishness, cruelty which no indignant, no contemptuous look, even of yours, miss dashwood, can ever reprobate too much i was acting in this manner, trying to engage her regard, without a thought of returning it.
but one thing may be said for me: even in that horrid state of selfish vanity, i did not know the extent of the injury i meditated, because i did not then know what it was to love.
but have i ever known it?
well may it be doubted; for, had i really loved, could i have sacrificed my feelings to vanity, to avarice?
or, what is more, could i have sacrificed hers?
but i have done it.
to avoid a comparative poverty, which her affection and her society would have deprived of all its horrors, i have, by raising myself to affluence, lost every thing that could make it a blessing."
"you did then," said elinor, a little softened, "believe yourself at one time attached to her?"
"to have resisted such attractions, to have withstood such tenderness!
is there a man on earth who could have done it?
yes, i found myself, by insensible degrees, sincerely fond of her; and the happiest hours of my life were what i spent with her when i felt my intentions were strictly honourable, and my feelings blameless.
even then, however, when fully determined on paying my addresses to her, i allowed myself most improperly to put off, from day to day, the moment of doing it, from an unwillingness to enter into an engagement while my circumstances were so greatly embarrassed.
i will not reason here nor will i stop for you to expatiate on the absurdity, and the worse than absurdity, of scrupling to engage my faith where my honour was already bound.
the event has proved, that i was a cunning fool, providing with great circumspection for a possible opportunity of making myself contemptible and wretched for ever.
at last, however, my resolution was taken, and i had determined, as soon as i could engage her alone, to justify the attentions i had so invariably paid her, and openly assure her of an affection which i had already taken such pains to display.
but in the interim in the interim of the very few hours that were to pass, before i could have an opportunity of speaking with her in private a circumstance occurred an unlucky circumstance, to ruin all my resolution, and with it all my comfort.
a discovery took place," here he hesitated and looked down.
"mrs. smith had somehow or other been informed, i imagine by some distant relation, whose interest it was to deprive me of her favour, of an affair, a connection but i need not explain myself farther," he added, looking at her with an heightened colour and an enquiring eye "your particular intimacy you have probably heard the whole story long ago."
"i have," returned elinor, colouring likewise, and hardening her heart anew against any compassion for him, "i have heard it all.
and how you will explain away any part of your guilt in that dreadful business, i confess is beyond my comprehension."
"remember," cried willoughby, "from whom you received the account.
could it be an impartial one?
i acknowledge that her situation and her character ought to have been respected by me.
i do not mean to justify myself, but at the same time cannot leave you to suppose that i have nothing to urge that because she was injured she was irreproachable, and because i was a libertine, she must be a saint.
if the violence of her passions, the weakness of her understanding i do not mean, however, to defend myself.
her affection for me deserved better treatment, and i often, with great self-reproach, recall the tenderness which, for a very short time, had the power of creating any return.
i wish i heartily wish it had never been.
but i have injured more than herself; and i have injured one, whose affection for me (may i say it?)
was scarcely less warm than hers; and whose mind oh!
how infinitely superior!"
"your indifference, however, towards that unfortunate girl i must say it, unpleasant to me as the discussion of such a subject may well be your indifference is no apology for your cruel neglect of her.
do not think yourself excused by any weakness, any natural defect of understanding on her side, in the wanton cruelty so evident on yours.
you must have known, that while you were enjoying yourself in devonshire pursuing fresh schemes, always gay, always happy, she was reduced to the extremest indigence."
"but, upon my soul, i did not know it," he warmly replied; "i did not recollect that i had omitted to give her my direction; and common sense might have told her how to find it out."
"well, sir, and what said mrs.
smith?"
"she taxed me with the offence at once, and my confusion may be guessed.
the purity of her life, the formality of her notions, her ignorance of the world every thing was against me.
the matter itself i could not deny, and vain was every endeavour to soften it.
she was previously disposed, i believe, to doubt the morality of my conduct in general, and was moreover discontented with the very little attention, the very little portion of my time that i had bestowed on her, in my present visit.
in short, it ended in a total breach.
by one measure i might have saved myself.
in the height of her morality, good woman!
she offered to forgive the past, if i would marry eliza.
that could not be and i was formally dismissed from her favour and her house.
the night following this affair i was to go the next morning was spent by me in deliberating on what my future conduct should be.
the struggle was great but it ended too soon.
my affection for marianne, my thorough conviction of her attachment to me it was all insufficient to outweigh that dread of poverty, or get the better of those false ideas of the necessity of riches, which i was naturally inclined to feel, and expensive society had increased.
i had reason to believe myself secure of my present wife, if i chose to address her, and i persuaded myself to think that nothing else in common prudence remained for me to do.
a heavy scene however awaited me, before i could leave devonshire; i was engaged to dine with you on that very day; some apology was therefore necessary for my breaking this engagement.
but whether i should write this apology, or deliver it in person, was a point of long debate.
to see marianne, i felt, would be dreadful, and i even doubted whether i could see her again, and keep to my resolution.
in that point, however, i undervalued my own magnanimity, as the event declared; for i went, i saw her, and saw her miserable, and left her miserable and left her hoping never to see her again."
"why did you call, mr.
willoughby?"
said elinor, reproachfully; "a note would have answered every purpose.
why was it necessary to call?"
"it was necessary to my own pride.
i could not bear to leave the country in a manner that might lead you, or the rest of the neighbourhood, to suspect any part of what had really passed between mrs. smith and myself and i resolved therefore on calling at the cottage, in my way to honiton.
the sight of your dear sister, however, was really dreadful; and, to heighten the matter, i found her alone.
you were all gone i do not know where.
i had left her only the evening before, so fully, so firmly resolved within my self on doing right!
a few hours were to have engaged her to me for ever; and i remember how happy, how gay were my spirits, as i walked from the cottage to allenham, satisfied with myself, delighted with every body!
but in this, our last interview of friendship, i approached her with a sense of guilt that almost took from me the power of dissembling.
her sorrow, her disappointment, her deep regret, when i told her that i was obliged to leave devonshire so immediately i never shall forget it united too with such reliance, such confidence in me!
oh, god!
what a hard-hearted rascal i was!"
they were both silent for a few moments.
elinor first spoke.
"did you tell her that you should soon return?"
"i do not know what i told her," he replied, impatiently; "less than was due to the past, beyond a doubt, and in all likelihood much more than was justified by the future.
i cannot think of it.
it won't do.
then came your dear mother to torture me farther, with all her kindness and confidence.
thank heaven!
it did torture me.
i was miserable.
miss dashwood, you cannot have an idea of the comfort it gives me to look back on my own misery.
i owe such a grudge to myself for the stupid, rascally folly of my own heart, that all my past sufferings under it are only triumph and exultation to me now.
well, i went, left all that i loved, and went to those to whom, at best, i was only indifferent.
my journey to town travelling with my own horses, and therefore so tediously no creature to speak to my own reflections so cheerful when i looked forward every thing so inviting!
when i looked back at barton, the picture so soothing!
oh, it was a blessed journey!"
he stopped.
"well, sir," said elinor, who, though pitying him, grew impatient for his departure, "and this is all?"
"ah!
no, have you forgot what passed in town?
that infamous letter did she shew it you?"
"yes, i saw every note that passed."
"when the first of hers reached me (as it immediately did, for i was in town the whole time,) what i felt is in the common phrase, not to be expressed; in a more simple one perhaps too simple to raise any emotion my feelings were very, very painful.
every line, every word was in the hackneyed metaphor which their dear writer, were she here, would forbid a dagger to my heart.
to know that marianne was in town was in the same language a thunderbolt.
thunderbolts and daggers!
what a reproof would she have given me!
her taste, her opinions i believe they are better known to me than my own, and i am sure they are dearer."
elinor's heart, which had undergone many changes in the course of this extraordinary conversation, was now softened again; yet she felt it her duty to check such ideas in her companion as the last.
"this is not right, mr. willoughby.
remember that you are married.
relate only what in your conscience you think necessary for me to hear."
"marianne's note, by assuring me that i was still as dear to her as in former days, that in spite of the many, many weeks we had been separated, she was as constant in her own feelings, and as full of faith in the constancy of mine as ever, awakened all my remorse.
i say awakened, because time and london, business and dissipation, had in some measure quieted it, and i had been growing a fine hardened villain, fancying myself indifferent to her, and chusing to fancy that she too must have become indifferent to me; talking to myself of our past attachment as a mere idle, trifling business, shrugging up my shoulders in proof of its being so, and silencing every reproach, overcoming every scruple, by secretly saying now and then, 'i shall be heartily glad to hear she is well married.'
but this note made me know myself better.
i felt that she was infinitely dearer to me than any other woman in the world, and that i was using her infamously.
but every thing was then just settled between miss grey and me.
to retreat was impossible.
all that i had to do, was to avoid you both.
i sent no answer to marianne, intending by that to preserve myself from her farther notice; and for some time i was even determined not to call in berkeley street; but at last, judging it wiser to affect the air of a cool, common acquaintance than anything else, i watched you all safely out of the house one morning, and left my name."
"watched us out of the house!"
"even so.
you would be surprised to hear how often i watched you, how often i was on the point of falling in with you.
i have entered many a shop to avoid your sight, as the carriage drove by.
lodging as i did in bond street, there was hardly a day in which i did not catch a glimpse of one or other of you; and nothing but the most constant watchfulness on my side, a most invariably prevailing desire to keep out of your sight, could have separated us so long.
i avoided the middletons as much as possible, as well as everybody else who was likely to prove an acquaintance in common.
not aware of their being in town, however, i blundered on sir john, i believe, the first day of his coming, and the day after i had called at mrs. jennings's.
he asked me to a party, a dance at his house in the evening.
had he not told me as an inducement that you and your sister were to be there, i should have felt it too certain a thing, to trust myself near him.
the next morning brought another short note from marianne still affectionate, open, artless, confiding everything that could make my conduct most hateful.
i could not answer it.
i tried but could not frame a sentence.
but i thought of her, i believe, every moment of the day.
if you can pity me, miss dashwood, pity my situation as it was then.
with my head and heart full of your sister, i was forced to play the happy lover to another woman!
those three or four weeks were worse than all.
well, at last, as i need not tell you, you were forced on me; and what a sweet figure i cut!
what an evening of agony it was!
marianne, beautiful as an angel on one side, calling me willoughby in such a tone!
oh, god!
holding out her hand to me, asking me for an explanation, with those bewitching eyes fixed in such speaking solicitude on my face!
and sophia, jealous as the devil on the other hand, looking all that was well, it does not signify; it is over now.
such an evening!
i ran away from you all as soon as i could; but not before i had seen marianne's sweet face as white as death.
that was the last, last look i ever had of her; the last manner in which she appeared to me.
it was a horrid sight!
yet when i thought of her to-day as really dying, it was a kind of comfort to me to imagine that i knew exactly how she would appear to those, who saw her last in this world.
she was before me, constantly before me, as i travelled, in the same look and hue."
a short pause of mutual thoughtfulness succeeded.
willoughby first rousing himself, broke it thus:
"well, let me make haste and be gone.
your sister is certainly better, certainly out of danger?"
"we are assured of it."
"your poor mother, too!
doting on marianne."
"but the letter, mr. willoughby, your own letter; have you any thing to say about that?"
"yes, yes, that in particular.
your sister wrote to me again, you know, the very next morning.
you saw what she said.
i was breakfasting at the ellisons, and her letter, with some others, was brought to me there from my lodgings.
it happened to catch sophia's eye before it caught mine and its size, the elegance of the paper, the hand-writing altogether, immediately gave her a suspicion.
some vague report had reached her before of my attachment to some young lady in devonshire, and what had passed within her observation the preceding evening had marked who the young lady was, and made her more jealous than ever.
affecting that air of playfulness, therefore, which is delightful in a woman one loves, she opened the letter directly, and read its contents.
she was well paid for her impudence.
she read what made her wretched.
her wretchedness i could have borne, but her passion her malice at all events it must be appeased.
and, in short what do you think of my wife's style of letter-writing?
delicate tender truly feminine was it not?"
"your wife!
the letter was in your own hand-writing."
"yes, but i had only the credit of servilely copying such sentences as i was ashamed to put my name to.
the original was all her own her own happy thoughts and gentle diction.
but what could i do!
we were engaged, every thing in preparation, the day almost fixed but i am talking like a fool.
preparation!
day!
in honest words, her money was necessary to me, and in a situation like mine, any thing was to be done to prevent a rupture.
and after all, what did it signify to my character in the opinion of marianne and her friends, in what language my answer was couched?
it must have been only to one end.
my business was to declare myself a scoundrel, and whether i did it with a bow or a bluster was of little importance.
'i am ruined for ever in their opinion ' said i to myself 'i am shut out for ever from their society, they already think me an unprincipled fellow, this letter will only make them think me a blackguard one.'
such were my reasonings, as, in a sort of desperate carelessness, i copied my wife's words, and parted with the last relics of marianne.
her three notes unluckily they were all in my pocketbook, or i should have denied their existence, and hoarded them for ever i was forced to put them up, and could not even kiss them.
and the lock of hair that too i had always carried about me in the same pocket-book, which was now searched by madam with the most ingratiating virulence, the dear lock all, every memento was torn from me."
"you are very wrong, mr. willoughby, very blamable," said elinor, while her voice, in spite of herself, betrayed her compassionate emotion; "you ought not to speak in this way, either of mrs. willoughby or my sister.
you had made your own choice.
it was not forced on you.
your wife has a claim to your politeness, to your respect, at least.
she must be attached to you, or she would not have married you.
to treat her with unkindness, to speak of her slightingly is no atonement to marianne nor can i suppose it a relief to your own conscience."
"do not talk to me of my wife," said he with a heavy sigh.
"she does not deserve your compassion.
she knew i had no regard for her when we married.
well, married we were, and came down to combe magna to be happy, and afterwards returned to town to be gay.
and now do you pity me, miss dashwood?
or have i said all this to no purpose?
am i be it only one degree am i less guilty in your opinion than i was before?
my intentions were not always wrong.
have i explained away any part of my guilt?"
"yes, you have certainly removed something a little.
you have proved yourself, on the whole, less faulty than i had believed you.
you have proved your heart less wicked, much less wicked.
but i hardly know the misery that you have inflicted i hardly know what could have made it worse."
"will you repeat to your sister when she is recovered, what i have been telling you?
let me be a little lightened too in her opinion as well as in yours.
you tell me that she has forgiven me already.
let me be able to fancy that a better knowledge of my heart, and of my present feelings, will draw from her a more spontaneous, more natural, more gentle, less dignified, forgiveness.
tell her of my misery and my penitence tell her that my heart was never inconstant to her, and if you will, that at this moment she is dearer to me than ever."
"i will tell her all that is necessary to what may comparatively be called, your justification.
but you have not explained to me the particular reason of your coming now, nor how you heard of her illness."
"last night, in drury lane lobby, i ran against sir john middleton, and when he saw who i was for the first time these two months he spoke to me.
that he had cut me ever since my marriage, i had seen without surprise or resentment.
now, however, his good-natured, honest, stupid soul, full of indignation against me, and concern for your sister, could not resist the temptation of telling me what he knew ought to though probably he did not think it would vex me horridly.
as bluntly as he could speak it, therefore, he told me that marianne dashwood was dying of a putrid fever at cleveland a letter that morning received from mrs. jennings declared her danger most imminent the palmers are all gone off in a fright, &c. i was too much shocked to be able to pass myself off as insensible even to the undiscerning sir john.
his heart was softened in seeing mine suffer; and so much of his ill-will was done away, that when we parted, he almost shook me by the hand while he reminded me of an old promise about a pointer puppy.
what i felt on hearing that your sister was dying and dying too, believing me the greatest villain upon earth, scorning, hating me in her latest moments for how could i tell what horrid projects might not have been imputed?
one person i was sure would represent me as capable of any thing  what i felt was dreadful!
my resolution was soon made, and at eight o'clock this morning i was in my carriage.
now you know all."
elinor made no answer.
her thoughts were silently fixed on the irreparable injury which too early an independence and its consequent habits of idleness, dissipation, and luxury, had made in the mind, the character, the happiness, of a man who, to every advantage of person and talents, united a disposition naturally open and honest, and a feeling, affectionate temper.
the world had made him extravagant and vain extravagance and vanity had made him cold-hearted and selfish.
vanity, while seeking its own guilty triumph at the expense of another, had involved him in a real attachment, which extravagance, or at least its offspring, necessity, had required to be sacrificed.
each faulty propensity in leading him to evil, had led him likewise to punishment.
the attachment, from which against honour, against feeling, against every better interest he had outwardly torn himself, now, when no longer allowable, governed every thought; and the connection, for the sake of which he had, with little scruple, left her sister to misery, was likely to prove a source of unhappiness to himself of a far more incurable nature.
from a reverie of this kind she was recalled at the end of some minutes by willoughby, who, rousing himself from a reverie at least equally painful, started up in preparation for going, and said
"there is no use in staying here; i must be off."
"are you going back to town?"
"no to combe magna.
i have business there; from thence to town in a day or two.
good bye."
he held out his hand.
she could not refuse to give him hers; he pressed it with affection.
"and you do think something better of me than you did?"
said he, letting it fall, and leaning against the mantel-piece as if forgetting he was to go.
elinor assured him that she did; that she forgave, pitied, wished him well was even interested in his happiness and added some gentle counsel as to the behaviour most likely to promote it.
his answer was not very encouraging.
"as to that," said he, "i must rub through the world as well as i can.
domestic happiness is out of the question.
if, however, i am allowed to think that you and yours feel an interest in my fate and actions, it may be the means it may put me on my guard at least, it may be something to live for.
marianne to be sure is lost to me for ever.
were i even by any blessed chance at liberty again "
elinor stopped him with a reproof.
"well," he replied "once more good bye.
i shall now go away and live in dread of one event."
"what do you mean?"
"your sister's marriage."
"you are very wrong.
she can never be more lost to you than she is now."
"but she will be gained by some one else.
and if that some one should be the very he whom, of all others, i could least bear but i will not stay to rob myself of all your compassionate goodwill, by shewing that where i have most injured i can least forgive.
good bye, god bless you!"
and with these words, he almost ran out of the room.
chapter 45
elinor, for some time after he left her, for some time even after the sound of his carriage had died away, remained too much oppressed by a crowd of ideas, widely differing in themselves, but of which sadness was the general result, to think even of her sister.
willoughby, he, whom only half an hour ago she had abhorred as the most worthless of men, willoughby, in spite of all his faults, excited a degree of commiseration for the sufferings produced by them, which made her think of him as now separated for ever from her family, with a tenderness, a regret, rather in proportion, as she soon acknowledged within herself to his wishes than to his merits.
she felt that his influence over her mind was heightened by circumstances which ought not in reason to have weight; by that person of uncommon attraction, that open, affectionate, and lively manner which it was no merit to possess; and by that still ardent love for marianne, which it was not even innocent to indulge.
but she felt that it was so, long, long before she could feel his influence less.
when at last she returned to the unconscious marianne, she found her just awaking, refreshed by so long and sweet a sleep to the extent of her hopes.
elinor's heart was full.
the past, the present, the future, willoughby's visit, marianne's safety, and her mother's expected arrival, threw her altogether into an agitation of spirits which kept off every indication of fatigue, and made her only fearful of betraying herself to her sister.
short was the time, however, in which that fear could affect her, for within half an hour after willoughby's leaving the house, she was again called down stairs by the sound of another carriage.
eager to save her mother from every unnecessary moment's horrible suspense, she ran immediately into the hall, and reached the outward door just in time to receive and support her as she entered it.
mrs. dashwood, whose terror as they drew near the house had produced almost the conviction of marianne's being no more, had no voice to inquire after her, no voice even for elinor; but she, waiting neither for salutation nor inquiry, instantly gave the joyful relief; and her mother, catching it with all her usual warmth, was in a moment as much overcome by her happiness, as she had been before by her fears.
she was supported into the drawing-room between her daughter and her friend; and there, shedding tears of joy, though still unable to speak, embraced elinor again and again, turning from her at intervals to press colonel brandon's hand, with a look which spoke at once her gratitude, and her conviction of his sharing with herself in the bliss of the moment.
he shared it, however, in a silence even greater than her own.
as soon as mrs. dashwood had recovered herself, to see marianne was her first desire; and in two minutes she was with her beloved child, rendered dearer to her than ever by absence, unhappiness, and danger.
elinor's delight, as she saw what each felt in the meeting, was only checked by an apprehension of its robbing marianne of farther sleep; but mrs. dashwood could be calm, could be even prudent, when the life of a child was at stake, and marianne, satisfied in knowing her mother was near her, and conscious of being too weak for conversation, submitted readily to the silence and quiet prescribed by every nurse around her.
mrs. dashwood would sit up with her all night; and elinor, in compliance with her mother's entreaty, went to bed.
but the rest, which one night entirely sleepless, and many hours of the most wearing anxiety seemed to make requisite, was kept off by irritation of spirits.
willoughby, "poor willoughby," as she now allowed herself to call him, was constantly in her thoughts; she would not but have heard his vindication for the world, and now blamed, now acquitted herself for having judged him so harshly before.
but her promise of relating it to her sister was invariably painful.
she dreaded the performance of it, dreaded what its effect on marianne might be; doubted whether after such an explanation she could ever be happy with another; and for a moment wished willoughby a widower.
then, remembering colonel brandon, reproved herself, felt that to his sufferings and his constancy far more than to his rival's, the reward of her sister was due, and wished any thing rather than mrs.
willoughby's death.
the shock of colonel brandon's errand at barton had been much softened to mrs. dashwood by her own previous alarm; for so great was her uneasiness about marianne, that she had already determined to set out for cleveland on that very day, without waiting for any further intelligence, and had so far settled her journey before his arrival, that the careys were then expected every moment to fetch margaret away, as her mother was unwilling to take her where there might be infection.
marianne continued to mend every day, and the brilliant cheerfulness of mrs. dashwood's looks and spirits proved her to be, as she repeatedly declared herself, one of the happiest women in the world.
elinor could not hear the declaration, nor witness its proofs without sometimes wondering whether her mother ever recollected edward.
but mrs.
dashwood, trusting to the temperate account of her own disappointment which elinor had sent her, was led away by the exuberance of her joy to think only of what would increase it.
marianne was restored to her from a danger in which, as she now began to feel, her own mistaken judgment in encouraging the unfortunate attachment to willoughby, had contributed to place her; and in her recovery she had yet another source of joy unthought of by elinor.
it was thus imparted to her, as soon as any opportunity of private conference between them occurred.
"at last we are alone.
my elinor, you do not yet know all my happiness.
colonel brandon loves marianne.
he has told me so himself."
her daughter, feeling by turns both pleased and pained, surprised and not surprised, was all silent attention.
"you are never like me, dear elinor, or i should wonder at your composure now.
had i sat down to wish for any possible good to my family, i should have fixed on colonel brandon's marrying one of you as the object most desirable.
and i believe marianne will be the most happy with him of the two."
elinor was half inclined to ask her reason for thinking so, because satisfied that none founded on an impartial consideration of their age, characters, or feelings, could be given; but her mother must always be carried away by her imagination on any interesting subject, and therefore instead of an inquiry, she passed it off with a smile.
"he opened his whole heart to me yesterday as we travelled.
it came out quite unawares, quite undesignedly.
i, you may well believe, could talk of nothing but my child; he could not conceal his distress; i saw that it equalled my own, and he perhaps, thinking that mere friendship, as the world now goes, would not justify so warm a sympathy or rather, not thinking at all, i suppose giving way to irresistible feelings, made me acquainted with his earnest, tender, constant, affection for marianne.
he has loved her, my elinor, ever since the first moment of seeing her."
here, however, elinor perceived, not the language, not the professions of colonel brandon, but the natural embellishments of her mother's active fancy, which fashioned every thing delightful to her as it chose.
"his regard for her, infinitely surpassing anything that willoughby ever felt or feigned, as much more warm, as more sincere or constant which ever we are to call it has subsisted through all the knowledge of dear marianne's unhappy prepossession for that worthless young man!
and without selfishness without encouraging a hope!
could he have seen her happy with another such a noble mind!
such openness, such sincerity!
no one can be deceived in him."
"colonel brandon's character," said elinor, "as an excellent man, is well established."
"i know it is," replied her mother seriously, "or after such a warning, i should be the last to encourage such affection, or even to be pleased by it.
but his coming for me as he did, with such active, such ready friendship, is enough to prove him one of the worthiest of men."
"his character, however," answered elinor, "does not rest on one act of kindness, to which his affection for marianne, were humanity out of the case, would have prompted him.
to mrs. jennings, to the middletons, he has been long and intimately known; they equally love and respect him; and even my own knowledge of him, though lately acquired, is very considerable; and so highly do i value and esteem him, that if marianne can be happy with him, i shall be as ready as yourself to think our connection the greatest blessing to us in the world.
what answer did you give him?
did you allow him to hope?"
"oh!
my love, i could not then talk of hope to him or to myself.
marianne might at that moment be dying.
but he did not ask for hope or encouragement.
his was an involuntary confidence, an irrepressible effusion to a soothing friend not an application to a parent.
yet after a time i did say, for at first i was quite overcome that if she lived, as i trusted she might, my greatest happiness would lie in promoting their marriage; and since our arrival, since our delightful security, i have repeated it to him more fully, have given him every encouragement in my power.
time, a very little time, i tell him, will do everything; marianne's heart is not to be wasted for ever on such a man as willoughby.
his own merits must soon secure it."
"to judge from the colonel's spirits, however, you have not yet made him equally sanguine."
"no.
he thinks marianne's affection too deeply rooted for any change in it under a great length of time, and even supposing her heart again free, is too diffident of himself to believe, that with such a difference of age and disposition he could ever attach her.
there, however, he is quite mistaken.
his age is only so much beyond hers as to be an advantage, as to make his character and principles fixed; and his disposition, i am well convinced, is exactly the very one to make your sister happy.
and his person, his manners too, are all in his favour.
my partiality does not blind me; he certainly is not so handsome as willoughby but at the same time, there is something much more pleasing in his countenance.
there was always a something, if you remember, in willoughby's eyes at times, which i did not like."
elinor could not remember it; but her mother, without waiting for her assent, continued,
"and his manners, the colonel's manners are not only more pleasing to me than willoughby's ever were, but they are of a kind i well know to be more solidly attaching to marianne.
their gentleness, their genuine attention to other people, and their manly unstudied simplicity is much more accordant with her real disposition, than the liveliness often artificial, and often ill-timed of the other.
i am very sure myself, that had willoughby turned out as really amiable, as he has proved himself the contrary, marianne would yet never have been so happy with him, as she will be with colonel brandon."
she paused.
her daughter could not quite agree with her, but her dissent was not heard, and therefore gave no offence.
"at delaford, she will be within an easy distance of me," added mrs.
dashwood, "even if i remain at barton; and in all probability, for i hear it is a large village, indeed there certainly must be some small house or cottage close by, that would suit us quite as well as our present situation."
poor elinor!
here was a new scheme for getting her to delaford!
but her spirit was stubborn.
"his fortune too!
for at my time of life you know, everybody cares about that; and though i neither know nor desire to know, what it really is, i am sure it must be a good one."
here they were interrupted by the entrance of a third person, and elinor withdrew to think it all over in private, to wish success to her friend, and yet in wishing it, to feel a pang for willoughby.
chapter 46
marianne's illness, though weakening in its kind, had not been long enough to make her recovery slow; and with youth, natural strength, and her mother's presence in aid, it proceeded so smoothly as to enable her to remove, within four days after the arrival of the latter, into mrs.
palmer's dressing-room.
when there, at her own particular request, for she was impatient to pour forth her thanks to him for fetching her mother, colonel brandon was invited to visit her.
his emotion on entering the room, in seeing her altered looks, and in receiving the pale hand which she immediately held out to him, was such, as, in elinor's conjecture, must arise from something more than his affection for marianne, or the consciousness of its being known to others; and she soon discovered in his melancholy eye and varying complexion as he looked at her sister, the probable recurrence of many past scenes of misery to his mind, brought back by that resemblance between marianne and eliza already acknowledged, and now strengthened by the hollow eye, the sickly skin, the posture of reclining weakness, and the warm acknowledgment of peculiar obligation.
mrs. dashwood, not less watchful of what passed than her daughter, but with a mind very differently influenced, and therefore watching to very different effect, saw nothing in the colonel's behaviour but what arose from the most simple and self-evident sensations, while in the actions and words of marianne she persuaded herself to think that something more than gratitude already dawned.
at the end of another day or two, marianne growing visibly stronger every twelve hours, mrs. dashwood, urged equally by her own and her daughter's wishes, began to talk of removing to barton.
on her measures depended those of her two friends; mrs. jennings could not quit cleveland during the dashwoods' stay; and colonel brandon was soon brought, by their united request, to consider his own abode there as equally determinate, if not equally indispensable.
at his and mrs.
jennings's united request in return, mrs. dashwood was prevailed on to accept the use of his carriage on her journey back, for the better accommodation of her sick child; and the colonel, at the joint invitation of mrs. dashwood and mrs. jennings, whose active good-nature made her friendly and hospitable for other people as well as herself, engaged with pleasure to redeem it by a visit at the cottage, in the course of a few weeks.
the day of separation and departure arrived; and marianne, after taking so particular and lengthened a leave of mrs. jennings, one so earnestly grateful, so full of respect and kind wishes as seemed due to her own heart from a secret acknowledgment of past inattention, and bidding colonel brandon farewell with a cordiality of a friend, was carefully assisted by him into the carriage, of which he seemed anxious that she should engross at least half.
mrs. dashwood and elinor then followed, and the others were left by themselves, to talk of the travellers, and feel their own dullness, till mrs. jennings was summoned to her chaise to take comfort in the gossip of her maid for the loss of her two young companions; and colonel brandon immediately afterwards took his solitary way to delaford.
the dashwoods were two days on the road, and marianne bore her journey on both, without essential fatigue.
every thing that the most zealous affection, the most solicitous care could do to render her comfortable, was the office of each watchful companion, and each found their reward in her bodily ease, and her calmness of spirits.
to elinor, the observation of the latter was particularly grateful.
she, who had seen her week after week so constantly suffering, oppressed by anguish of heart which she had neither courage to speak of, nor fortitude to conceal, now saw with a joy, which no other could equally share, an apparent composure of mind, which, in being the result as she trusted of serious reflection, must eventually lead her to contentment and cheerfulness.
as they approached barton, indeed, and entered on scenes of which every field and every tree brought some peculiar, some painful recollection, she grew silent and thoughtful, and turning away her face from their notice, sat earnestly gazing through the window.
but here, elinor could neither wonder nor blame; and when she saw, as she assisted marianne from the carriage, that she had been crying, she saw only an emotion too natural in itself to raise any thing less tender than pity, and in its unobtrusiveness entitled to praise.
in the whole of her subsequent manner, she traced the direction of a mind awakened to reasonable exertion; for no sooner had they entered their common sitting-room, than marianne turned her eyes around it with a look of resolute firmness, as if determined at once to accustom herself to the sight of every object with which the remembrance of willoughby could be connected.
she said little, but every sentence aimed at cheerfulness, and though a sigh sometimes escaped her, it never passed away without the atonement of a smile.
after dinner she would try her piano-forte.
she went to it; but the music on which her eye first rested was an opera, procured for her by willoughby, containing some of their favourite duets, and bearing on its outward leaf her own name in his hand-writing.
that would not do.
she shook her head, put the music aside, and after running over the keys for a minute, complained of feebleness in her fingers, and closed the instrument again; declaring however with firmness as she did so, that she should in future practice much.
the next morning produced no abatement in these happy symptoms.
on the contrary, with a mind and body alike strengthened by rest, she looked and spoke with more genuine spirit, anticipating the pleasure of margaret's return, and talking of the dear family party which would then be restored, of their mutual pursuits and cheerful society, as the only happiness worth a wish.
"when the weather is settled, and i have recovered my strength," said she, "we will take long walks together every day.
we will walk to the farm at the edge of the down, and see how the children go on; we will walk to sir john's new plantations at barton cross, and the abbeyland; and we will often go to the old ruins of the priory, and try to trace its foundations as far as we are told they once reached.
i know we shall be happy.
i know the summer will pass happily away.
i mean never to be later in rising than six, and from that time till dinner i shall divide every moment between music and reading.
i have formed my plan, and am determined to enter on a course of serious study.
our own library is too well known to me, to be resorted to for any thing beyond mere amusement.
but there are many works well worth reading at the park; and there are others of more modern production which i know i can borrow of colonel brandon.
by reading only six hours a-day, i shall gain in the course of a twelve-month a great deal of instruction which i now feel myself to want."
elinor honoured her for a plan which originated so nobly as this; though smiling to see the same eager fancy which had been leading her to the extreme of languid indolence and selfish repining, now at work in introducing excess into a scheme of such rational employment and virtuous self-control.
her smile however changed to a sigh when she remembered that promise to willoughby was yet unfulfilled, and feared she had that to communicate which might again unsettle the mind of marianne, and ruin at least for a time this fair prospect of busy tranquillity.
willing therefore to delay the evil hour, she resolved to wait till her sister's health were more secure, before she appointed it.
but the resolution was made only to be broken.
marianne had been two or three days at home, before the weather was fine enough for an invalid like herself to venture out.
but at last a soft, genial morning appeared; such as might tempt the daughter's wishes and the mother's confidence; and marianne, leaning on elinor's arm, was authorised to walk as long as she could without fatigue, in the lane before the house.
the sisters set out at a pace, slow as the feebleness of marianne in an exercise hitherto untried since her illness required; and they had advanced only so far beyond the house as to admit a full view of the hill, the important hill behind, when pausing with her eyes turned towards it, marianne calmly said,
"there, exactly there," pointing with one hand, "on that projecting mound, there i fell; and there i first saw willoughby."
her voice sunk with the word, but presently reviving she added,
"i am thankful to find that i can look with so little pain on the spot!
shall we ever talk on that subject, elinor?"
hesitatingly it was said.
"or will it be wrong?
i can talk of it now, i hope, as i ought to do."
elinor tenderly invited her to be open.
"as for regret," said marianne, "i have done with that, as far as he is concerned.
i do not mean to talk to you of what my feelings have been for him, but what they are now.
at present, if i could be satisfied on one point, if i could be allowed to think that he was not always acting a part, not always deceiving me; but above all, if i could be assured that he never was so very wicked as my fears have sometimes fancied him, since the story of that unfortunate girl"
she stopt.
elinor joyfully treasured her words as she answered,
"if you could be assured of that, you think you should be easy."
"yes.
my peace of mind is doubly involved in it; for not only is it horrible to suspect a person, who has been what he has been to me, of such designs, but what must it make me appear to myself?
what in a situation like mine, but a most shamefully unguarded affection could expose me to"
"how then," asked her sister, "would you account for his behaviour?"
"i would suppose him, oh, how gladly would i suppose him, only fickle, very, very fickle."
elinor said no more.
she was debating within herself on the eligibility of beginning her story directly, or postponing it till marianne were in stronger health; and they crept on for a few minutes in silence.
"i am not wishing him too much good," said marianne at last with a sigh, "when i wish his secret reflections may be no more unpleasant than my own.
he will suffer enough in them."
"do you compare your conduct with his?"
"no.
i compare it with what it ought to have been; i compare it with yours."
"our situations have borne little resemblance."
"they have borne more than our conduct.
do not, my dearest elinor, let your kindness defend what i know your judgment must censure.
my illness has made me think  it has given me leisure and calmness for serious recollection.
long before i was enough recovered to talk, i was perfectly able to reflect.
i considered the past: i saw in my own behaviour, since the beginning of our acquaintance with him last autumn, nothing but a series of imprudence towards myself, and want of kindness to others.
i saw that my own feelings had prepared my sufferings, and that my want of fortitude under them had almost led me to the grave.
my illness, i well knew, had been entirely brought on by myself by such negligence of my own health, as i had felt even at the time to be wrong.
had i died, it would have been self-destruction.
i did not know my danger till the danger was removed; but with such feelings as these reflections gave me, i wonder at my recovery, wonder that the very eagerness of my desire to live, to have time for atonement to my god, and to you all, did not kill me at once.
had i died, in what peculiar misery should i have left you, my nurse, my friend, my sister!
you, who had seen all the fretful selfishness of my latter days; who had known all the murmurings of my heart!
how should i have lived in your remembrance!
my mother too!
how could you have consoled her!
i cannot express my own abhorrence of myself.
whenever i looked towards the past, i saw some duty neglected, or some failing indulged.
every body seemed injured by me.
the kindness, the unceasing kindness of mrs. jennings, i had repaid with ungrateful contempt.
to the middletons, to the palmers, the steeles, to every common acquaintance even, i had been insolent and unjust; with a heart hardened against their merits, and a temper irritated by their very attention.
to john, to fanny, yes, even to them, little as they deserve, i had given less than their due.
but you, you above all, above my mother, had been wronged by me.
i, and only i, knew your heart and its sorrows; yet to what did it influence me?
not to any compassion that could benefit you or myself.
your example was before me; but to what avail?
was i more considerate of you and your comfort?
did i imitate your forbearance, or lessen your restraints, by taking any part in those offices of general complaisance or particular gratitude which you had hitherto been left to discharge alone?
no; not less when i knew you to be unhappy, than when i had believed you at ease, did i turn away from every exertion of duty or friendship; scarcely allowing sorrow to exist but with me, regretting only that heart which had deserted and wronged me, and leaving you, for whom i professed an unbounded affection, to be miserable for my sake."
here ceased the rapid flow of her self-reproving spirit; and elinor, impatient to soothe, though too honest to flatter, gave her instantly that praise and support which her frankness and her contrition so well deserved.
marianne pressed her hand and replied,
"you are very good.
the future must be my proof.
i have laid down my plan, and if i am capable of adhering to it my feelings shall be governed and my temper improved.
they shall no longer worry others, nor torture myself.
i shall now live solely for my family.
you, my mother, and margaret, must henceforth be all the world to me; you will share my affections entirely between you.
from you, from my home, i shall never again have the smallest incitement to move; and if i do mix in other society, it will be only to shew that my spirit is humbled, my heart amended, and that i can practise the civilities, the lesser duties of life, with gentleness and forbearance.
as for willoughby to say that i shall soon or that i shall ever forget him, would be idle.
his remembrance can be overcome by no change of circumstances or opinions.
but it shall be regulated, it shall be checked by religion, by reason, by constant employment."
she paused and added in a low voice, "if i could but know his heart, everything would become easy."
elinor, who had now been for some time reflecting on the propriety or impropriety of speedily hazarding her narration, without feeling at all nearer decision than at first, heard this; and perceiving that as reflection did nothing, resolution must do all, soon found herself leading to the fact.
she managed the recital, as she hoped, with address; prepared her anxious listener with caution; related simply and honestly the chief points on which willoughby grounded his apology; did justice to his repentance, and softened only his protestations of present regard.
marianne said not a word.
she trembled, her eyes were fixed on the ground, and her lips became whiter than even sickness had left them.
a thousand inquiries sprung up from her heart, but she dared not urge one.
she caught every syllable with panting eagerness; her hand, unknowingly to herself, closely pressed her sister's, and tears covered her cheeks.
elinor, dreading her being tired, led her towards home; and till they reached the door of the cottage, easily conjecturing what her curiosity must be though no question was suffered to speak it, talked of nothing but willoughby, and their conversation together; and was carefully minute in every particular of speech and look, where minuteness could be safely indulged.
as soon as they entered the house, marianne with a kiss of gratitude and these two words just articulate through her tears, "tell mama," withdrew from her sister and walked slowly up stairs.
elinor would not attempt to disturb a solitude so reasonable as what she now sought; and with a mind anxiously pre-arranging its result, and a resolution of reviving the subject again, should marianne fail to do it, she turned into the parlour to fulfill her parting injunction.
chapter 47
mrs. dashwood did not hear unmoved the vindication of her former favourite.
she rejoiced in his being cleared from some part of his imputed guilt; she was sorry for him; she wished him happy.
but the feelings of the past could not be recalled.
nothing could restore him with a faith unbroken a character unblemished, to marianne.
nothing could do away the knowledge of what the latter had suffered through his means, nor remove the guilt of his conduct towards eliza.
nothing could replace him, therefore, in her former esteem, nor injure the interests of colonel brandon.
had mrs. dashwood, like her daughter, heard willoughby's story from himself had she witnessed his distress, and been under the influence of his countenance and his manner, it is probable that her compassion would have been greater.
but it was neither in elinor's power, nor in her wish, to rouse such feelings in another, by her retailed explanation, as had at first been called forth in herself.
reflection had given calmness to her judgment, and sobered her own opinion of willoughby's deserts; she wished, therefore, to declare only the simple truth, and lay open such facts as were really due to his character, without any embellishment of tenderness to lead the fancy astray.
in the evening, when they were all three together, marianne began voluntarily to speak of him again; but that it was not without an effort, the restless, unquiet thoughtfulness in which she had been for some time previously sitting her rising colour, as she spoke, and her unsteady voice, plainly shewed.
"i wish to assure you both," said she, "that i see every thing as you can desire me to do."
mrs. dashwood would have interrupted her instantly with soothing tenderness, had not elinor, who really wished to hear her sister's unbiased opinion, by an eager sign, engaged her silence.
marianne slowly continued
"it is a great relief to me what elinor told me this morning i have now heard exactly what i wished to hear."
for some moments her voice was lost; but recovering herself, she added, and with greater calmness than before "i am now perfectly satisfied, i wish for no change.
i never could have been happy with him, after knowing, as sooner or later i must have known, all this.
i should have had no confidence, no esteem.
nothing could have done it away to my feelings."
"i know it i know it," cried her mother.
"happy with a man of libertine practices!
with one who so injured the peace of the dearest of our friends, and the best of men!
no my marianne has not a heart to be made happy with such a man!
her conscience, her sensitive conscience, would have felt all that the conscience of her husband ought to have felt."
marianne sighed, and repeated, "i wish for no change."
"you consider the matter," said elinor, "exactly as a good mind and a sound understanding must consider it; and i dare say you perceive, as well as myself, not only in this, but in many other circumstances, reason enough to be convinced that your marriage must have involved you in many certain troubles and disappointments, in which you would have been poorly supported by an affection, on his side, much less certain.
had you married, you must have been always poor.
his expensiveness is acknowledged even by himself, and his whole conduct declares that self-denial is a word hardly understood by him.
his demands and your inexperience together, on a small, very small income, must have brought on distresses which would not be the less grievous to you, from having been entirely unknown and unthought of before.
your sense of honour and honesty would have led you, i know, when aware of your situation, to attempt all the economy that would appear to you possible: and, perhaps, as long as your frugality retrenched only on your own comfort, you might have been suffered to practice it, but beyond that and how little could the utmost of your single management do to stop the ruin which had begun before your marriage?
beyond that, had you endeavoured, however reasonably, to abridge his enjoyments, is it not to be feared, that instead of prevailing on feelings so selfish to consent to it, you would have lessened your own influence on his heart, and made him regret the connection which had involved him in such difficulties?"
marianne's lips quivered, and she repeated the word "selfish?"
in a tone that implied "do you really think him selfish?"
"the whole of his behaviour," replied elinor, "from the beginning to the end of the affair, has been grounded on selfishness.
it was selfishness which first made him sport with your affections; which afterwards, when his own were engaged, made him delay the confession of it, and which finally carried him from barton.
his own enjoyment, or his own ease, was, in every particular, his ruling principle."
"it is very true.
my happiness never was his object."
"at present," continued elinor, "he regrets what he has done.
and why does he regret it?
because he finds it has not answered towards himself.
it has not made him happy.
his circumstances are now unembarrassed he suffers from no evil of that kind; and he thinks only that he has married a woman of a less amiable temper than yourself.
but does it follow that had he married you, he would have been happy?
the inconveniences would have been different.
he would then have suffered under the pecuniary distresses which, because they are removed, he now reckons as nothing.
he would have had a wife of whose temper he could make no complaint, but he would have been always necessitous always poor; and probably would soon have learned to rank the innumerable comforts of a clear estate and good income as of far more importance, even to domestic happiness, than the mere temper of a wife."
"i have not a doubt of it," said marianne; "and i have nothing to regret nothing but my own folly."
"rather say your mother's imprudence, my child," said mrs. dashwood; "she must be answerable."
marianne would not let her proceed; and elinor, satisfied that each felt their own error, wished to avoid any survey of the past that might weaken her sister's spirits; she, therefore, pursuing the first subject, immediately continued,
"one observation may, i think, be fairly drawn from the whole of the story that all willoughby's difficulties have arisen from the first offence against virtue, in his behaviour to eliza williams.
that crime has been the origin of every lesser one, and of all his present discontents."
marianne assented most feelingly to the remark; and her mother was led by it to an enumeration of colonel brandon's injuries and merits, warm as friendship and design could unitedly dictate.
her daughter did not look, however, as if much of it were heard by her.
elinor, according to her expectation, saw on the two or three following days, that marianne did not continue to gain strength as she had done; but while her resolution was unsubdued, and she still tried to appear cheerful and easy, her sister could safely trust to the effect of time upon her health.
margaret returned, and the family were again all restored to each other, again quietly settled at the cottage; and if not pursuing their usual studies with quite so much vigour as when they first came to barton, at least planning a vigorous prosecution of them in future.
elinor grew impatient for some tidings of edward.
she had heard nothing of him since her leaving london, nothing new of his plans, nothing certain even of his present abode.
some letters had passed between her and her brother, in consequence of marianne's illness; and in the first of john's, there had been this sentence:  "we know nothing of our unfortunate edward, and can make no enquiries on so prohibited a subject, but conclude him to be still at oxford;" which was all the intelligence of edward afforded her by the correspondence, for his name was not even mentioned in any of the succeeding letters.
she was not doomed, however, to be long in ignorance of his measures.
their man-servant had been sent one morning to exeter on business; and when, as he waited at table, he had satisfied the inquiries of his mistress as to the event of his errand, this was his voluntary communication
"i suppose you know, ma'am, that mr. ferrars is married."
marianne gave a violent start, fixed her eyes upon elinor, saw her turning pale, and fell back in her chair in hysterics.
mrs. dashwood, whose eyes, as she answered the servant's inquiry, had intuitively taken the same direction, was shocked to perceive by elinor's countenance how much she really suffered, and a moment afterwards, alike distressed by marianne's situation, knew not on which child to bestow her principal attention.
the servant, who saw only that miss marianne was taken ill, had sense enough to call one of the maids, who, with mrs. dashwood's assistance, supported her into the other room.
by that time, marianne was rather better, and her mother leaving her to the care of margaret and the maid, returned to elinor, who, though still much disordered, had so far recovered the use of her reason and voice as to be just beginning an inquiry of thomas, as to the source of his intelligence.
mrs. dashwood immediately took all that trouble on herself; and elinor had the benefit of the information without the exertion of seeking it.
"who told you that mr. ferrars was married, thomas?"
"i see mr. ferrars myself, ma'am, this morning in exeter, and his lady too, miss steele as was.
they was stopping in a chaise at the door of the new london inn, as i went there with a message from sally at the park to her brother, who is one of the post-boys.
i happened to look up as i went by the chaise, and so i see directly it was the youngest miss steele; so i took off my hat, and she knew me and called to me, and inquired after you, ma'am, and the young ladies, especially miss marianne, and bid me i should give her compliments and mr. ferrars's, their best compliments and service, and how sorry they was they had not time to come on and see you, but they was in a great hurry to go forwards, for they was going further down for a little while, but howsever, when they come back, they'd make sure to come and see you."
"but did she tell you she was married, thomas?"
"yes, ma'am.
she smiled, and said how she had changed her name since she was in these parts.
she was always a very affable and free-spoken young lady, and very civil behaved.
so, i made free to wish her joy."
"was mr. ferrars in the carriage with her?"
"yes, ma'am, i just see him leaning back in it, but he did not look up; he never was a gentleman much for talking."
elinor's heart could easily account for his not putting himself forward; and mrs. dashwood probably found the same explanation.
"was there no one else in the carriage?"
"no, ma'am, only they two."
"do you know where they came from?"
"they come straight from town, as miss lucy mrs. ferrars told me."
"and are they going farther westward?"
"yes, ma'am but not to bide long.
they will soon be back again, and then they'd be sure and call here."
mrs. dashwood now looked at her daughter; but elinor knew better than to expect them.
she recognised the whole of lucy in the message, and was very confident that edward would never come near them.
she observed in a low voice, to her mother, that they were probably going down to mr. pratt's, near plymouth.
thomas's intelligence seemed over.
elinor looked as if she wished to hear more.
"did you see them off, before you came away?"
"no, ma'am the horses were just coming out, but i could not bide any longer; i was afraid of being late."
"did mrs. ferrars look well?"
"yes, ma'am, she said how she was very well; and to my mind she was always a very handsome young lady and she seemed vastly contented."
mrs. dashwood could think of no other question, and thomas and the tablecloth, now alike needless, were soon afterwards dismissed.
marianne had already sent to say, that she should eat nothing more.
mrs. dashwood's and elinor's appetites were equally lost, and margaret might think herself very well off, that with so much uneasiness as both her sisters had lately experienced, so much reason as they had often had to be careless of their meals, she had never been obliged to go without her dinner before.
when the dessert and the wine were arranged, and mrs. dashwood and elinor were left by themselves, they remained long together in a similarity of thoughtfulness and silence.
mrs. dashwood feared to hazard any remark, and ventured not to offer consolation.
she now found that she had erred in relying on elinor's representation of herself; and justly concluded that every thing had been expressly softened at the time, to spare her from an increase of unhappiness, suffering as she then had suffered for marianne.
she found that she had been misled by the careful, the considerate attention of her daughter, to think the attachment, which once she had so well understood, much slighter in reality, than she had been wont to believe, or than it was now proved to be.
she feared that under this persuasion she had been unjust, inattentive, nay, almost unkind, to her elinor; that marianne's affliction, because more acknowledged, more immediately before her, had too much engrossed her tenderness, and led her away to forget that in elinor she might have a daughter suffering almost as much, certainly with less self-provocation, and greater fortitude.
chapter 48
elinor now found the difference between the expectation of an unpleasant event, however certain the mind may be told to consider it, and certainty itself.
she now found, that in spite of herself, she had always admitted a hope, while edward remained single, that something would occur to prevent his marrying lucy; that some resolution of his own, some mediation of friends, or some more eligible opportunity of establishment for the lady, would arise to assist the happiness of all.
but he was now married; and she condemned her heart for the lurking flattery, which so much heightened the pain of the intelligence.
that he should be married soon, before (as she imagined) he could be in orders, and consequently before he could be in possession of the living, surprised her a little at first.
but she soon saw how likely it was that lucy, in her self-provident care, in her haste to secure him, should overlook every thing but the risk of delay.
they were married, married in town, and now hastening down to her uncle's.
what had edward felt on being within four miles from barton, on seeing her mother's servant, on hearing lucy's message!
they would soon, she supposed, be settled at delaford.
delaford, that place in which so much conspired to give her an interest; which she wished to be acquainted with, and yet desired to avoid.
she saw them in an instant in their parsonage-house; saw in lucy, the active, contriving manager, uniting at once a desire of smart appearance with the utmost frugality, and ashamed to be suspected of half her economical practices; pursuing her own interest in every thought, courting the favour of colonel brandon, of mrs. jennings, and of every wealthy friend.
in edward she knew not what she saw, nor what she wished to see; happy or unhappy, nothing pleased her; she turned away her head from every sketch of him.
elinor flattered herself that some one of their connections in london would write to them to announce the event, and give farther particulars, but day after day passed off, and brought no letter, no tidings.
though uncertain that any one were to blame, she found fault with every absent friend.
they were all thoughtless or indolent.
"when do you write to colonel brandon, ma'am?"
was an inquiry which sprung from the impatience of her mind to have something going on.
"i wrote to him, my love, last week, and rather expect to see, than to hear from him again.
i earnestly pressed his coming to us, and should not be surprised to see him walk in today or tomorrow, or any day."
this was gaining something, something to look forward to.
colonel brandon must have some information to give.
scarcely had she so determined it, when the figure of a man on horseback drew her eyes to the window.
he stopt at their gate.
it was a gentleman, it was colonel brandon himself.
now she could hear more; and she trembled in expectation of it.
but it was not colonel brandon neither his air nor his height.
were it possible, she must say it must be edward.
she looked again.
he had just dismounted; she could not be mistaken, it was edward.
she moved away and sat down.
"he comes from mr. pratt's purposely to see us.
i will be calm; i will be mistress of myself."
in a moment she perceived that the others were likewise aware of the mistake.
she saw her mother and marianne change colour; saw them look at herself, and whisper a few sentences to each other.
she would have given the world to be able to speak and to make them understand that she hoped no coolness, no slight, would appear in their behaviour to him; but she had no utterance, and was obliged to leave all to their own discretion.
not a syllable passed aloud.
they all waited in silence for the appearance of their visitor.
his footsteps were heard along the gravel path; in a moment he was in the passage, and in another he was before them.
his countenance, as he entered the room, was not too happy, even for elinor.
his complexion was white with agitation, and he looked as if fearful of his reception, and conscious that he merited no kind one.
mrs. dashwood, however, conforming, as she trusted, to the wishes of that daughter, by whom she then meant in the warmth of her heart to be guided in every thing, met with a look of forced complacency, gave him her hand, and wished him joy.
he coloured, and stammered out an unintelligible reply.
elinor's lips had moved with her mother's, and, when the moment of action was over, she wished that she had shaken hands with him too.
but it was then too late, and with a countenance meaning to be open, she sat down again and talked of the weather.
marianne had retreated as much as possible out of sight, to conceal her distress; and margaret, understanding some part, but not the whole of the case, thought it incumbent on her to be dignified, and therefore took a seat as far from him as she could, and maintained a strict silence.
when elinor had ceased to rejoice in the dryness of the season, a very awful pause took place.
it was put an end to by mrs. dashwood, who felt obliged to hope that he had left mrs. ferrars very well.
in a hurried manner, he replied in the affirmative.
another pause.
elinor resolving to exert herself, though fearing the sound of her own voice, now said,
"is mrs. ferrars at longstaple?"
"at longstaple!"
he replied, with an air of surprise.
"no, my mother is in town."
"i meant," said elinor, taking up some work from the table, "to inquire for mrs. edward ferrars."
she dared not look up; but her mother and marianne both turned their eyes on him.
he coloured, seemed perplexed, looked doubtingly, and, after some hesitation, said,
"perhaps you mean my brother you mean mrs. mrs. robert ferrars."
"mrs. robert ferrars!"
was repeated by marianne and her mother in an accent of the utmost amazement; and though elinor could not speak, even her eyes were fixed on him with the same impatient wonder.
he rose from his seat, and walked to the window, apparently from not knowing what to do; took up a pair of scissors that lay there, and while spoiling both them and their sheath by cutting the latter to pieces as he spoke, said, in a hurried voice,
"perhaps you do not know you may not have heard that my brother is lately married to to the youngest to miss lucy steele."
his words were echoed with unspeakable astonishment by all but elinor, who sat with her head leaning over her work, in a state of such agitation as made her hardly know where she was.
"yes," said he, "they were married last week, and are now at dawlish."
elinor could sit it no longer.
she almost ran out of the room, and as soon as the door was closed, burst into tears of joy, which at first she thought would never cease.
edward, who had till then looked any where, rather than at her, saw her hurry away, and perhaps saw or even heard, her emotion; for immediately afterwards he fell into a reverie, which no remarks, no inquiries, no affectionate address of mrs.
dashwood could penetrate, and at last, without saying a word, quitted the room, and walked out towards the village leaving the others in the greatest astonishment and perplexity on a change in his situation, so wonderful and so sudden; a perplexity which they had no means of lessening but by their own conjectures.
chapter 49
unaccountable, however, as the circumstances of his release might appear to the whole family, it was certain that edward was free; and to what purpose that freedom would be employed was easily pre-determined by all; for after experiencing the blessings of one imprudent engagement, contracted without his mother's consent, as he had already done for more than four years, nothing less could be expected of him in the failure of that, than the immediate contraction of another.
his errand at barton, in fact, was a simple one.
it was only to ask elinor to marry him; and considering that he was not altogether inexperienced in such a question, it might be strange that he should feel so uncomfortable in the present case as he really did, so much in need of encouragement and fresh air.
how soon he had walked himself into the proper resolution, however, how soon an opportunity of exercising it occurred, in what manner he expressed himself, and how he was received, need not be particularly told.
this only need be said; that when they all sat down to table at four o'clock, about three hours after his arrival, he had secured his lady, engaged her mother's consent, and was not only in the rapturous profession of the lover, but, in the reality of reason and truth, one of the happiest of men.
his situation indeed was more than commonly joyful.
he had more than the ordinary triumph of accepted love to swell his heart, and raise his spirits.
he was released without any reproach to himself, from an entanglement which had long formed his misery, from a woman whom he had long ceased to love; and elevated at once to that security with another, which he must have thought of almost with despair, as soon as he had learnt to consider it with desire.
he was brought, not from doubt or suspense, but from misery to happiness; and the change was openly spoken in such a genuine, flowing, grateful cheerfulness, as his friends had never witnessed in him before.
his heart was now open to elinor, all its weaknesses, all its errors confessed, and his first boyish attachment to lucy treated with all the philosophic dignity of twenty-four.
"it was a foolish, idle inclination on my side," said he, "the consequence of ignorance of the world and want of employment.
had my mother given me some active profession when i was removed at eighteen from the care of mr. pratt, i think nay, i am sure, it would never have happened; for though i left longstaple with what i thought, at the time, a most unconquerable preference for his niece, yet had i then had any pursuit, any object to engage my time and keep me at a distance from her for a few months, i should very soon have outgrown the fancied attachment, especially by mixing more with the world, as in such case i must have done.
but instead of having any thing to do, instead of having any profession chosen for me, or being allowed to chuse any myself, i returned home to be completely idle; and for the first twelvemonth afterwards i had not even the nominal employment, which belonging to the university would have given me; for i was not entered at oxford till i was nineteen.
i had therefore nothing in the world to do, but to fancy myself in love; and as my mother did not make my home in every respect comfortable, as i had no friend, no companion in my brother, and disliked new acquaintance, it was not unnatural for me to be very often at longstaple, where i always felt myself at home, and was always sure of a welcome; and accordingly i spent the greatest part of my time there from eighteen to nineteen: lucy appeared everything that was amiable and obliging.
she was pretty too at least i thought so then; and i had seen so little of other women, that i could make no comparisons, and see no defects.
considering everything, therefore, i hope, foolish as our engagement was, foolish as it has since in every way been proved, it was not at the time an unnatural or an inexcusable piece of folly."
the change which a few hours had wrought in the minds and the happiness of the dashwoods, was such so great as promised them all, the satisfaction of a sleepless night.
mrs. dashwood, too happy to be comfortable, knew not how to love edward, nor praise elinor enough, how to be enough thankful for his release without wounding his delicacy, nor how at once to give them leisure for unrestrained conversation together, and yet enjoy, as she wished, the sight and society of both.
marianne could speak her happiness only by tears.
comparisons would occur regrets would arise; and her joy, though sincere as her love for her sister, was of a kind to give her neither spirits nor language.
but elinor how are her feelings to be described?
from the moment of learning that lucy was married to another, that edward was free, to the moment of his justifying the hopes which had so instantly followed, she was every thing by turns but tranquil.
but when the second moment had passed, when she found every doubt, every solicitude removed, compared her situation with what so lately it had been, saw him honourably released from his former engagement, saw him instantly profiting by the release, to address herself and declare an affection as tender, as constant as she had ever supposed it to be, she was oppressed, she was overcome by her own felicity; and happily disposed as is the human mind to be easily familiarized with any change for the better, it required several hours to give sedateness to her spirits, or any degree of tranquillity to her heart.
edward was now fixed at the cottage at least for a week; for whatever other claims might be made on him, it was impossible that less than a week should be given up to the enjoyment of elinor's company, or suffice to say half that was to be said of the past, the present, and the future; for though a very few hours spent in the hard labor of incessant talking will despatch more subjects than can really be in common between any two rational creatures, yet with lovers it is different.
between them no subject is finished, no communication is even made, till it has been made at least twenty times over.
lucy's marriage, the unceasing and reasonable wonder among them all, formed of course one of the earliest discussions of the lovers; and elinor's particular knowledge of each party made it appear to her in every view, as one of the most extraordinary and unaccountable circumstances she had ever heard.
how they could be thrown together, and by what attraction robert could be drawn on to marry a girl, of whose beauty she had herself heard him speak without any admiration, a girl too already engaged to his brother, and on whose account that brother had been thrown off by his family it was beyond her comprehension to make out.
to her own heart it was a delightful affair, to her imagination it was even a ridiculous one, but to her reason, her judgment, it was completely a puzzle.
edward could only attempt an explanation by supposing, that, perhaps, at first accidentally meeting, the vanity of the one had been so worked on by the flattery of the other, as to lead by degrees to all the rest.
elinor remembered what robert had told her in harley street, of his opinion of what his own mediation in his brother's affairs might have done, if applied to in time.
she repeated it to edward.
"that was exactly like robert," was his immediate observation.
"and that," he presently added, "might perhaps be in his head when the acquaintance between them first began.
and lucy perhaps at first might think only of procuring his good offices in my favour.
other designs might afterward arise."
how long it had been carrying on between them, however, he was equally at a loss with herself to make out; for at oxford, where he had remained for choice ever since his quitting london, he had had no means of hearing of her but from herself, and her letters to the very last were neither less frequent, nor less affectionate than usual.
not the smallest suspicion, therefore, had ever occurred to prepare him for what followed; and when at last it burst on him in a letter from lucy herself, he had been for some time, he believed, half stupified between the wonder, the horror, and the joy of such a deliverance.
he put the letter into elinor's hands.
"dear sir,
"being very sure i have long lost your affections,      i have thought myself at liberty to bestow my own      on another, and have no doubt of being as happy with      him as i once used to think i might be with you;      but i scorn to accept a hand while the heart was      another's.
sincerely wish you happy in your choice,      and it shall not be my fault if we are not always      good friends, as our near relationship now makes      proper.
i can safely say i owe you no ill-will,      and am sure you will be too generous to do us any      ill offices.
your brother has gained my affections      entirely, and as we could not live without one      another, we are just returned from the altar, and      are now on our way to dawlish for a few weeks, which      place your dear brother has great curiosity to see,      but thought i would first trouble you with these      few lines, and shall always remain,
"your sincere well-wisher, friend, and sister,                                         "lucy ferrars.
"i have burnt all your letters, and will return      your picture the first opportunity.
please to destroy      my scrawls but the ring with my hair you are very      welcome to keep."
elinor read and returned it without any comment.
"i will not ask your opinion of it as a composition," said edward.
"for worlds would not i have had a letter of hers seen by you in former days.
in a sister it is bad enough, but in a wife!
how i have blushed over the pages of her writing!
and i believe i may say that since the first half year of our foolish business this is the only letter i ever received from her, of which the substance made me any amends for the defect of the style."
"however it may have come about," said elinor, after a pause, "they are certainly married.
and your mother has brought on herself a most appropriate punishment.
the independence she settled on robert, through resentment against you, has put it in his power to make his own choice; and she has actually been bribing one son with a thousand a-year, to do the very deed which she disinherited the other for intending to do.
she will hardly be less hurt, i suppose, by robert's marrying lucy, than she would have been by your marrying her."
"she will be more hurt by it, for robert always was her favourite.
she will be more hurt by it, and on the same principle will forgive him much sooner."
in what state the affair stood at present between them, edward knew not, for no communication with any of his family had yet been attempted by him.
he had quitted oxford within four and twenty hours after lucy's letter arrived, and with only one object before him, the nearest road to barton, had had no leisure to form any scheme of conduct, with which that road did not hold the most intimate connection.
he could do nothing till he were assured of his fate with miss dashwood; and by his rapidity in seeking that fate, it is to be supposed, in spite of the jealousy with which he had once thought of colonel brandon, in spite of the modesty with which he rated his own deserts, and the politeness with which he talked of his doubts, he did not, upon the whole, expect a very cruel reception.
it was his business, however, to say that he did, and he said it very prettily.
what he might say on the subject a twelvemonth after, must be referred to the imagination of husbands and wives.
that lucy had certainly meant to deceive, to go off with a flourish of malice against him in her message by thomas, was perfectly clear to elinor; and edward himself, now thoroughly enlightened on her character, had no scruple in believing her capable of the utmost meanness of wanton ill-nature.
though his eyes had been long opened, even before his acquaintance with elinor began, to her ignorance and a want of liberality in some of her opinions they had been equally imputed, by him, to her want of education; and till her last letter reached him, he had always believed her to be a well-disposed, good-hearted girl, and thoroughly attached to himself.
nothing but such a persuasion could have prevented his putting an end to an engagement, which, long before the discovery of it laid him open to his mother's anger, had been a continual source of disquiet and regret to him.
"i thought it my duty," said he, "independent of my feelings, to give her the option of continuing the engagement or not, when i was renounced by my mother, and stood to all appearance without a friend in the world to assist me.
in such a situation as that, where there seemed nothing to tempt the avarice or the vanity of any living creature, how could i suppose, when she so earnestly, so warmly insisted on sharing my fate, whatever it might be, that any thing but the most disinterested affection was her inducement?
and even now, i cannot comprehend on what motive she acted, or what fancied advantage it could be to her, to be fettered to a man for whom she had not the smallest regard, and who had only two thousand pounds in the world.
she could not foresee that colonel brandon would give me a living."
"no; but she might suppose that something would occur in your favour; that your own family might in time relent.
and at any rate, she lost nothing by continuing the engagement, for she has proved that it fettered neither her inclination nor her actions.
the connection was certainly a respectable one, and probably gained her consideration among her friends; and, if nothing more advantageous occurred, it would be better for her to marry you than be single."
edward was, of course, immediately convinced that nothing could have been more natural than lucy's conduct, nor more self-evident than the motive of it.
elinor scolded him, harshly as ladies always scold the imprudence which compliments themselves, for having spent so much time with them at norland, when he must have felt his own inconstancy.
"your behaviour was certainly very wrong," said she; "because to say nothing of my own conviction, our relations were all led away by it to fancy and expect what, as you were then situated, could never be."
he could only plead an ignorance of his own heart, and a mistaken confidence in the force of his engagement.
"i was simple enough to think, that because my faith was plighted to another, there could be no danger in my being with you; and that the consciousness of my engagement was to keep my heart as safe and sacred as my honour.
i felt that i admired you, but i told myself it was only friendship; and till i began to make comparisons between yourself and lucy, i did not know how far i was got.
after that, i suppose, i was wrong in remaining so much in sussex, and the arguments with which i reconciled myself to the expediency of it, were no better than these: the danger is my own; i am doing no injury to anybody but myself."
elinor smiled, and shook her head.
edward heard with pleasure of colonel brandon's being expected at the cottage, as he really wished not only to be better acquainted with him, but to have an opportunity of convincing him that he no longer resented his giving him the living of delaford "which, at present," said he, "after thanks so ungraciously delivered as mine were on the occasion, he must think i have never forgiven him for offering."
now he felt astonished himself that he had never yet been to the place.
but so little interest had he taken in the matter, that he owed all his knowledge of the house, garden, and glebe, extent of the parish, condition of the land, and rate of the tithes, to elinor herself, who had heard so much of it from colonel brandon, and heard it with so much attention, as to be entirely mistress of the subject.
one question after this only remained undecided, between them, one difficulty only was to be overcome.
they were brought together by mutual affection, with the warmest approbation of their real friends; their intimate knowledge of each other seemed to make their happiness certain and they only wanted something to live upon.
edward had two thousand pounds, and elinor one, which, with delaford living, was all that they could call their own; for it was impossible that mrs.
dashwood should advance anything; and they were neither of them quite enough in love to think that three hundred and fifty pounds a-year would supply them with the comforts of life.
edward was not entirely without hopes of some favourable change in his mother towards him; and on that he rested for the residue of their income.
but elinor had no such dependence; for since edward would still be unable to marry miss morton, and his chusing herself had been spoken of in mrs. ferrars's flattering language as only a lesser evil than his chusing lucy steele, she feared that robert's offence would serve no other purpose than to enrich fanny.
about four days after edward's arrival colonel brandon appeared, to complete mrs. dashwood's satisfaction, and to give her the dignity of having, for the first time since her living at barton, more company with her than her house would hold.
edward was allowed to retain the privilege of first comer, and colonel brandon therefore walked every night to his old quarters at the park; from whence he usually returned in the morning, early enough to interrupt the lovers' first tete-a-tete before breakfast.
a three weeks' residence at delaford, where, in his evening hours at least, he had little to do but to calculate the disproportion between thirty-six and seventeen, brought him to barton in a temper of mind which needed all the improvement in marianne's looks, all the kindness of her welcome, and all the encouragement of her mother's language, to make it cheerful.
among such friends, however, and such flattery, he did revive.
no rumour of lucy's marriage had yet reached him: he knew nothing of what had passed; and the first hours of his visit were consequently spent in hearing and in wondering.
every thing was explained to him by mrs. dashwood, and he found fresh reason to rejoice in what he had done for mr. ferrars, since eventually it promoted the interest of elinor.
it would be needless to say, that the gentlemen advanced in the good opinion of each other, as they advanced in each other's acquaintance, for it could not be otherwise.
their resemblance in good principles and good sense, in disposition and manner of thinking, would probably have been sufficient to unite them in friendship, without any other attraction; but their being in love with two sisters, and two sisters fond of each other, made that mutual regard inevitable and immediate, which might otherwise have waited the effect of time and judgment.
the letters from town, which a few days before would have made every nerve in elinor's body thrill with transport, now arrived to be read with less emotion than mirth.
mrs. jennings wrote to tell the wonderful tale, to vent her honest indignation against the jilting girl, and pour forth her compassion towards poor mr. edward, who, she was sure, had quite doted upon the worthless hussy, and was now, by all accounts, almost broken-hearted, at oxford.
"i do think," she continued, "nothing was ever carried on so sly; for it was but two days before lucy called and sat a couple of hours with me.
not a soul suspected anything of the matter, not even nancy, who, poor soul!
came crying to me the day after, in a great fright for fear of mrs. ferrars, as well as not knowing how to get to plymouth; for lucy it seems borrowed all her money before she went off to be married, on purpose we suppose to make a show with, and poor nancy had not seven shillings in the world; so i was very glad to give her five guineas to take her down to exeter, where she thinks of staying three or four weeks with mrs. burgess, in hopes, as i tell her, to fall in with the doctor again.
and i must say that lucy's crossness not to take them along with them in the chaise is worse than all.
poor mr. edward!
i cannot get him out of my head, but you must send for him to barton, and miss marianne must try to comfort him."
mr. dashwood's strains were more solemn.
mrs. ferrars was the most unfortunate of women poor fanny had suffered agonies of sensibility and he considered the existence of each, under such a blow, with grateful wonder.
robert's offence was unpardonable, but lucy's was infinitely worse.
neither of them were ever again to be mentioned to mrs. ferrars; and even, if she might hereafter be induced to forgive her son, his wife should never be acknowledged as her daughter, nor be permitted to appear in her presence.
the secrecy with which everything had been carried on between them, was rationally treated as enormously heightening the crime, because, had any suspicion of it occurred to the others, proper measures would have been taken to prevent the marriage; and he called on elinor to join with him in regretting that lucy's engagement with edward had not rather been fulfilled, than that she should thus be the means of spreading misery farther in the family.
he thus continued:
"mrs. ferrars has never yet mentioned edward's name, which does not surprise us; but, to our great astonishment, not a line has been received from him on the occasion.
perhaps, however, he is kept silent by his fear of offending, and i shall, therefore, give him a hint, by a line to oxford, that his sister and i both think a letter of proper submission from him, addressed perhaps to fanny, and by her shewn to her mother, might not be taken amiss; for we all know the tenderness of mrs. ferrars's heart, and that she wishes for nothing so much as to be on good terms with her children."
this paragraph was of some importance to the prospects and conduct of edward.
it determined him to attempt a reconciliation, though not exactly in the manner pointed out by their brother and sister.
"a letter of proper submission!"
repeated he; "would they have me beg my mother's pardon for robert's ingratitude to her, and breach of honour to me?
i can make no submission i am grown neither humble nor penitent by what has passed.
i am grown very happy; but that would not interest.
i know of no submission that is proper for me to make."
"you may certainly ask to be forgiven," said elinor, "because you have offended; and i should think you might now venture so far as to profess some concern for having ever formed the engagement which drew on you your mother's anger."
he agreed that he might.
"and when she has forgiven you, perhaps a little humility may be convenient while acknowledging a second engagement, almost as imprudent in her eyes as the first."
he had nothing to urge against it, but still resisted the idea of a letter of proper submission; and therefore, to make it easier to him, as he declared a much greater willingness to make mean concessions by word of mouth than on paper, it was resolved that, instead of writing to fanny, he should go to london, and personally intreat her good offices in his favour.
"and if they really do interest themselves,"
said marianne, in her new character of candour, "in bringing about a reconciliation, i shall think that even john and fanny are not entirely without merit."
after a visit on colonel brandon's side of only three or four days, the two gentlemen quitted barton together.
they were to go immediately to delaford, that edward might have some personal knowledge of his future home, and assist his patron and friend in deciding on what improvements were needed to it; and from thence, after staying there a couple of nights, he was to proceed on his journey to town.
chapter 50
after a proper resistance on the part of mrs. ferrars, just so violent and so steady as to preserve her from that reproach which she always seemed fearful of incurring, the reproach of being too amiable, edward was admitted to her presence, and pronounced to be again her son.
her family had of late been exceedingly fluctuating.
for many years of her life she had had two sons; but the crime and annihilation of edward a few weeks ago, had robbed her of one; the similar annihilation of robert had left her for a fortnight without any; and now, by the resuscitation of edward, she had one again.
in spite of his being allowed once more to live, however, he did not feel the continuance of his existence secure, till he had revealed his present engagement; for the publication of that circumstance, he feared, might give a sudden turn to his constitution, and carry him off as rapidly as before.
with apprehensive caution therefore it was revealed, and he was listened to with unexpected calmness.
mrs.
ferrars at first reasonably endeavoured to dissuade him from marrying miss dashwood, by every argument in her power; told him, that in miss morton he would have a woman of higher rank and larger fortune; and enforced the assertion, by observing that miss morton was the daughter of a nobleman with thirty thousand pounds, while miss dashwood was only the daughter of a private gentleman with no more than three; but when she found that, though perfectly admitting the truth of her representation, he was by no means inclined to be guided by it, she judged it wisest, from the experience of the past, to submit and therefore, after such an ungracious delay as she owed to her own dignity, and as served to prevent every suspicion of good-will, she issued her decree of consent to the marriage of edward and elinor.
what she would engage to do towards augmenting their income was next to be considered; and here it plainly appeared, that though edward was now her only son, he was by no means her eldest; for while robert was inevitably endowed with a thousand pounds a-year, not the smallest objection was made against edward's taking orders for the sake of two hundred and fifty at the utmost; nor was anything promised either for the present or in future, beyond the ten thousand pounds, which had been given with fanny.
it was as much, however, as was desired, and more than was expected, by edward and elinor; and mrs. ferrars herself, by her shuffling excuses, seemed the only person surprised at her not giving more.
with an income quite sufficient to their wants thus secured to them, they had nothing to wait for after edward was in possession of the living, but the readiness of the house, to which colonel brandon, with an eager desire for the accommodation of elinor, was making considerable improvements; and after waiting some time for their completion, after experiencing, as usual, a thousand disappointments and delays from the unaccountable dilatoriness of the workmen, elinor, as usual, broke through the first positive resolution of not marrying till every thing was ready, and the ceremony took place in barton church early in the autumn.
the first month after their marriage was spent with their friend at the mansion-house; from whence they could superintend the progress of the parsonage, and direct every thing as they liked on the spot; could chuse papers, project shrubberies, and invent a sweep.
mrs. jennings's prophecies, though rather jumbled together, were chiefly fulfilled; for she was able to visit edward and his wife in their parsonage by michaelmas, and she found in elinor and her husband, as she really believed, one of the happiest couples in the world.
they had in fact nothing to wish for, but the marriage of colonel brandon and marianne, and rather better pasturage for their cows.
they were visited on their first settling by almost all their relations and friends.
mrs. ferrars came to inspect the happiness which she was almost ashamed of having authorised; and even the dashwoods were at the expense of a journey from sussex to do them honour.
"i will not say that i am disappointed, my dear sister," said john, as they were walking together one morning before the gates of delaford house, "that would be saying too much, for certainly you have been one of the most fortunate young women in the world, as it is.
but, i confess, it would give me great pleasure to call colonel brandon brother.
his property here, his place, his house, every thing is in such respectable and excellent condition!
and his woods!
i have not seen such timber any where in dorsetshire, as there is now standing in delaford hanger!
and though, perhaps, marianne may not seem exactly the person to attract him yet i think it would altogether be advisable for you to have them now frequently staying with you, for as colonel brandon seems a great deal at home, nobody can tell what may happen for, when people are much thrown together, and see little of anybody else and it will always be in your power to set her off to advantage, and so forth; in short, you may as well give her a chance you understand me."
but though mrs. ferrars did come to see them, and always treated them with the make-believe of decent affection, they were never insulted by her real favour and preference.
that was due to the folly of robert, and the cunning of his wife; and it was earned by them before many months had passed away.
the selfish sagacity of the latter, which had at first drawn robert into the scrape, was the principal instrument of his deliverance from it; for her respectful humility, assiduous attentions, and endless flatteries, as soon as the smallest opening was given for their exercise, reconciled mrs. ferrars to his choice, and re-established him completely in her favour.
the whole of lucy's behaviour in the affair, and the prosperity which crowned it, therefore, may be held forth as a most encouraging instance of what an earnest, an unceasing attention to self-interest, however its progress may be apparently obstructed, will do in securing every advantage of fortune, with no other sacrifice than that of time and conscience.
when robert first sought her acquaintance, and privately visited her in bartlett's buildings, it was only with the view imputed to him by his brother.
he merely meant to persuade her to give up the engagement; and as there could be nothing to overcome but the affection of both, he naturally expected that one or two interviews would settle the matter.
in that point, however, and that only, he erred; for though lucy soon gave him hopes that his eloquence would convince her in time, another visit, another conversation, was always wanted to produce this conviction.
some doubts always lingered in her mind when they parted, which could only be removed by another half hour's discourse with himself.
his attendance was by this means secured, and the rest followed in course.
instead of talking of edward, they came gradually to talk only of robert, a subject on which he had always more to say than on any other, and in which she soon betrayed an interest even equal to his own; and in short, it became speedily evident to both, that he had entirely supplanted his brother.
he was proud of his conquest, proud of tricking edward, and very proud of marrying privately without his mother's consent.
what immediately followed is known.
they passed some months in great happiness at dawlish; for she had many relations and old acquaintances to cut and he drew several plans for magnificent cottages; and from thence returning to town, procured the forgiveness of mrs. ferrars, by the simple expedient of asking it, which, at lucy's instigation, was adopted.
the forgiveness, at first, indeed, as was reasonable, comprehended only robert; and lucy, who had owed his mother no duty and therefore could have transgressed none, still remained some weeks longer unpardoned.
but perseverance in humility of conduct and messages, in self-condemnation for robert's offence, and gratitude for the unkindness she was treated with, procured her in time the haughty notice which overcame her by its graciousness, and led soon afterwards, by rapid degrees, to the highest state of affection and influence.
lucy became as necessary to mrs. ferrars, as either robert or fanny; and while edward was never cordially forgiven for having once intended to marry her, and elinor, though superior to her in fortune and birth, was spoken of as an intruder, she was in every thing considered, and always openly acknowledged, to be a favourite child.
they settled in town, received very liberal assistance from mrs. ferrars, were on the best terms imaginable with the dashwoods; and setting aside the jealousies and ill-will continually subsisting between fanny and lucy, in which their husbands of course took a part, as well as the frequent domestic disagreements between robert and lucy themselves, nothing could exceed the harmony in which they all lived together.
what edward had done to forfeit the right of eldest son, might have puzzled many people to find out; and what robert had done to succeed to it, might have puzzled them still more.
it was an arrangement, however, justified in its effects, if not in its cause; for nothing ever appeared in robert's style of living or of talking to give a suspicion of his regretting the extent of his income, as either leaving his brother too little, or bringing himself too much; and if edward might be judged from the ready discharge of his duties in every particular, from an increasing attachment to his wife and his home, and from the regular cheerfulness of his spirits, he might be supposed no less contented with his lot, no less free from every wish of an exchange.
elinor's marriage divided her as little from her family as could well be contrived, without rendering the cottage at barton entirely useless, for her mother and sisters spent much more than half their time with her.
mrs. dashwood was acting on motives of policy as well as pleasure in the frequency of her visits at delaford; for her wish of bringing marianne and colonel brandon together was hardly less earnest, though rather more liberal than what john had expressed.
it was now her darling object.
precious as was the company of her daughter to her, she desired nothing so much as to give up its constant enjoyment to her valued friend; and to see marianne settled at the mansion-house was equally the wish of edward and elinor.
they each felt his sorrows, and their own obligations, and marianne, by general consent, was to be the reward of all.
with such a confederacy against her with a knowledge so intimate of his goodness with a conviction of his fond attachment to herself, which at last, though long after it was observable to everybody else burst on her what could she do?
marianne dashwood was born to an extraordinary fate.
she was born to discover the falsehood of her own opinions, and to counteract, by her conduct, her most favourite maxims.
she was born to overcome an affection formed so late in life as at seventeen, and with no sentiment superior to strong esteem and lively friendship, voluntarily to give her hand to another!
and that other, a man who had suffered no less than herself under the event of a former attachment, whom, two years before, she had considered too old to be married, and who still sought the constitutional safeguard of a flannel waistcoat!
but so it was.
instead of falling a sacrifice to an irresistible passion, as once she had fondly flattered herself with expecting, instead of remaining even for ever with her mother, and finding her only pleasures in retirement and study, as afterwards in her more calm and sober judgment she had determined on, she found herself at nineteen, submitting to new attachments, entering on new duties, placed in a new home, a wife, the mistress of a family, and the patroness of a village.
colonel brandon was now as happy, as all those who best loved him, believed he deserved to be; in marianne he was consoled for every past affliction; her regard and her society restored his mind to animation, and his spirits to cheerfulness; and that marianne found her own happiness in forming his, was equally the persuasion and delight of each observing friend.
marianne could never love by halves; and her whole heart became, in time, as much devoted to her husband, as it had once been to willoughby.
willoughby could not hear of her marriage without a pang; and his punishment was soon afterwards complete in the voluntary forgiveness of mrs. smith, who, by stating his marriage with a woman of character, as the source of her clemency, gave him reason for believing that had he behaved with honour towards marianne, he might at once have been happy and rich.
that his repentance of misconduct, which thus brought its own punishment, was sincere, need not be doubted; nor that he long thought of colonel brandon with envy, and of marianne with regret.
but that he was for ever inconsolable, that he fled from society, or contracted an habitual gloom of temper, or died of a broken heart, must not be depended on for he did neither.
he lived to exert, and frequently to enjoy himself.
his wife was not always out of humour, nor his home always uncomfortable; and in his breed of horses and dogs, and in sporting of every kind, he found no inconsiderable degree of domestic felicity.
for marianne, however in spite of his incivility in surviving her loss he always retained that decided regard which interested him in every thing that befell her, and made her his secret standard of perfection in woman; and many a rising beauty would be slighted by him in after-days as bearing no comparison with mrs. brandon.
mrs. dashwood was prudent enough to remain at the cottage, without attempting a removal to delaford; and fortunately for sir john and mrs.
jennings, when marianne was taken from them, margaret had reached an age highly suitable for dancing, and not very ineligible for being supposed to have a lover.
between barton and delaford, there was that constant communication which strong family affection would naturally dictate; and among the merits and the happiness of elinor and marianne, let it not be ranked as the least considerable, that though sisters, and living almost within sight of each other, they could live without disagreement between themselves, or producing coolness between their husbands.
the time machine
the time traveller (for so it will be convenient to speak of him) was expounding a recondite matter to us.
his pale grey eyes shone and twinkled, and his usually pale face was flushed and animated.
the fire burnt brightly, and the soft radiance of the incandescent lights in the lilies of silver caught the bubbles that flashed and passed in our glasses.
our chairs, being his patents, embraced and caressed us rather than submitted to be sat upon, and there was that luxurious after-dinner atmosphere, when thought runs gracefully free of the trammels of precision.
and he put it to us in this way—marking the points with a lean forefinger—as we sat and lazily admired his earnestness over this new paradox (as we thought it) and his fecundity.
“you must follow me carefully.
i shall have to controvert one or two ideas that are almost universally accepted.
the geometry, for instance, they taught you at school is founded on a misconception.”
“is not that rather a large thing to expect us to begin upon?” said filby, an argumentative person with red hair.
“i do not mean to ask you to accept anything without reasonable ground for it.
you will soon admit as much as i need from you.
you know of course that a mathematical line, a line of thickness nil, has no real existence.
they taught you that?
neither has a mathematical plane.
these things are mere abstractions.”
“that is all right,” said the psychologist.
“nor, having only length, breadth, and thickness, can a cube have a real existence.”
“there i object,” said filby.
“of course a solid body may exist.
all real things—”
“so most people think.
but wait a moment.
can an instantaneous cube exist?”
“don’t follow you,” said filby.
“can a cube that does not last for any time at all, have a real existence?”
filby became pensive.
“clearly,” the time traveller proceeded, “any real body must have extension in four directions: it must have length, breadth, thickness, and—duration.
but through a natural infirmity of the flesh, which i will explain to you in a moment, we incline to overlook this fact.
there are really four dimensions, three which we call the three planes of space, and a fourth, time.
there is, however, a tendency to draw an unreal distinction between the former three dimensions and the latter, because it happens that our consciousness moves intermittently in one direction along the latter from the beginning to the end of our lives.”
“that,” said a very young man, making spasmodic efforts to relight his cigar over the lamp; “that .
.
.
very clear indeed.”
“now, it is very remarkable that this is so extensively overlooked,”
continued the time traveller, with a slight accession of cheerfulness.
“really this is what is meant by the fourth dimension, though some people who talk about the fourth dimension do not know they mean it.
it is only another way of looking at time.
there is no difference between time and any of the three dimensions of space except that our consciousness moves along it.
but some foolish people have got hold of the wrong side of that idea.
you have all heard what they have to say about this fourth dimension?”
“i have not,” said the provincial mayor.
“it is simply this.
that space, as our mathematicians have it, is spoken of as having three dimensions, which one may call length, breadth, and thickness, and is always definable by reference to three planes, each at right angles to the others.
but some philosophical people have been asking why three dimensions particularly—why not another direction at right angles to the other three?—and have even tried to construct a four-dimensional geometry.
professor simon newcomb was expounding this to the new york mathematical society only a month or so ago.
you know how on a flat surface, which has only two dimensions, we can represent a figure of a three-dimensional solid, and similarly they think that by models of three dimensions they could represent one of four—if they could master the perspective of the thing.
see?”
“i think so,” murmured the provincial mayor; and, knitting his brows, he lapsed into an introspective state, his lips moving as one who repeats mystic words.
“yes, i think i see it now,” he said after some time, brightening in a quite transitory manner.
“well, i do not mind telling you i have been at work upon this geometry of four dimensions for some time.
some of my results are curious.
for instance, here is a portrait of a man at eight years old, another at fifteen, another at seventeen, another at twenty-three, and so on.
all these are evidently sections, as it were, three-dimensional representations of his four-dimensioned being, which is a fixed and unalterable thing.
“scientific people,” proceeded the time traveller, after the pause required for the proper assimilation of this, “know very well that time is only a kind of space.
here is a popular scientific diagram, a weather record.
this line i trace with my finger shows the movement of the barometer.
yesterday it was so high, yesterday night it fell, then this morning it rose again, and so gently upward to here.
surely the mercury did not trace this line in any of the dimensions of space generally recognised?
but certainly it traced such a line, and that line, therefore, we must conclude, was along the time-dimension.”
“but,” said the medical man, staring hard at a coal in the fire, “if time is really only a fourth dimension of space, why is it, and why has it always been, regarded as something different?
and why cannot we move in time as we move about in the other dimensions of space?”
the time traveller smiled.
“are you so sure we can move freely in space?
right and left we can go, backward and forward freely enough, and men always have done so.
i admit we move freely in two dimensions.
but how about up and down?
gravitation limits us there.”
“not exactly,” said the medical man.
“there are balloons.”
“but before the balloons, save for spasmodic jumping and the inequalities of the surface, man had no freedom of vertical movement.”
“still they could move a little up and down,” said the medical man.
“easier, far easier down than up.”
“and you cannot move at all in time, you cannot get away from the present moment.”
“my dear sir, that is just where you are wrong.
that is just where the whole world has gone wrong.
we are always getting away from the present moment.
our mental existences, which are immaterial and have no dimensions, are passing along the time-dimension with a uniform velocity from the cradle to the grave.
just as we should travel down if we began our existence fifty miles above the earth’s surface.”
“but the great difficulty is this,” interrupted the psychologist.
’you can move about in all directions of space, but you cannot move about in time.”
“that is the germ of my great discovery.
but you are wrong to say that we cannot move about in time.
for instance, if i am recalling an incident very vividly i go back to the instant of its occurrence: i become absent-minded, as you say.
i jump back for a moment.
of course we have no means of staying back for any length of time, any more than a savage or an animal has of staying six feet above the ground.
but a civilised man is better off than the savage in this respect.
he can go up against gravitation in a balloon, and why should he not hope that ultimately he may be able to stop or accelerate his drift along the time-dimension, or even turn about and travel the other way?”
“oh, this,” began filby, “is all—”
“why not?” said the time traveller.
“it’s against reason,” said filby.
“what reason?” said the time traveller.
“you can show black is white by argument,” said filby, “but you will never convince me.”
“possibly not,” said the time traveller.
“but now you begin to see the object of my investigations into the geometry of four dimensions.
long ago i had a vague inkling of a machine—”
“to travel through time!” exclaimed the very young man.
“that shall travel indifferently in any direction of space and time, as the driver determines.”
filby contented himself with laughter.
“but i have experimental verification,” said the time traveller.
“it would be remarkably convenient for the historian,” the psychologist suggested.
“one might travel back and verify the accepted account of the battle of hastings, for instance!”
“don’t you think you would attract attention?” said the medical man.
“our ancestors had no great tolerance for anachronisms.”
“one might get one’s greek from the very lips of homer and plato,” the very young man thought.
“in which case they would certainly plough you for the little-go.
the german scholars have improved greek so much.”
“then there is the future,” said the very young man.
“just think!
one might invest all one’s money, leave it to accumulate at interest, and hurry on ahead!”
“to discover a society,” said i, “erected on a strictly communistic basis.”
“of all the wild extravagant theories!” began the psychologist.
“yes, so it seemed to me, and so i never talked of it until—”
“experimental verification!” cried i.
“you are going to verify that?”
“the experiment!” cried filby, who was getting brain-weary.
“let’s see your experiment anyhow,” said the psychologist, “though it’s all humbug, you know.”
the time traveller smiled round at us.
then, still smiling faintly, and with his hands deep in his trousers pockets, he walked slowly out of the room, and we heard his slippers shuffling down the long passage to his laboratory.
the psychologist looked at us.
“i wonder what he’s got?”
“some sleight-of-hand trick or other,” said the medical man, and filby tried to tell us about a conjuror he had seen at burslem, but before he had finished his preface the time traveller came back, and filby’s anecdote collapsed.
ii
the machine
the thing the time traveller held in his hand was a glittering metallic framework, scarcely larger than a small clock, and very delicately made.
there was ivory in it, and some transparent crystalline substance.
and now i must be explicit, for this that follows—unless his explanation is to be accepted—is an absolutely unaccountable thing.
he took one of the small octagonal tables that were scattered about the room, and set it in front of the fire, with two legs on the hearthrug.
on this table he placed the mechanism.
then he drew up a chair, and sat down.
the only other object on the table was a small shaded lamp, the bright light of which fell upon the model.
there were also perhaps a dozen candles about, two in brass candlesticks upon the mantel and several in sconces, so that the room was brilliantly illuminated.
i sat in a low arm-chair nearest the fire, and i drew this forward so as to be almost between the time traveller and the fireplace.
filby sat behind him, looking over his shoulder.
the medical man and the provincial mayor watched him in profile from the right, the psychologist from the left.
the very young man stood behind the psychologist.
we were all on the alert.
it appears incredible to me that any kind of trick, however subtly conceived and however adroitly done, could have been played upon us under these conditions.
the time traveller looked at us, and then at the mechanism.
“well?”
said the psychologist.
“this little affair,” said the time traveller, resting his elbows upon the table and pressing his hands together above the apparatus, “is only a model.
it is my plan for a machine to travel through time.
you will notice that it looks singularly askew, and that there is an odd twinkling appearance about this bar, as though it was in some way unreal.” he pointed to the part with his finger.
“also, here is one little white lever, and here is another.”
the medical man got up out of his chair and peered into the thing.
“it’s beautifully made,” he said.
“it took two years to make,” retorted the time traveller.
then, when we had all imitated the action of the medical man, he said: “now i want you clearly to understand that this lever, being pressed over, sends the machine gliding into the future, and this other reverses the motion.
this saddle represents the seat of a time traveller.
presently i am going to press the lever, and off the machine will go.
it will vanish, pass into future time, and disappear.
have a good look at the thing.
look at the table too, and satisfy yourselves there is no trickery.
i don’t want to waste this model, and then be told i’m a quack.”
there was a minute’s pause perhaps.
the psychologist seemed about to speak to me, but changed his mind.
then the time traveller put forth his finger towards the lever.
“no,” he said suddenly.
“lend me your hand.” and turning to the psychologist, he took that individual’s hand in his own and told him to put out his forefinger.
so that it was the psychologist himself who sent forth the model time machine on its interminable voyage.
we all saw the lever turn.
i am absolutely certain there was no trickery.
there was a breath of wind, and the lamp flame jumped.
one of the candles on the mantel was blown out, and the little machine suddenly swung round, became indistinct, was seen as a ghost for a second perhaps, as an eddy of faintly glittering brass and ivory; and it was gone—vanished!
save for the lamp the table was bare.
everyone was silent for a minute.
then filby said he was damned.
the psychologist recovered from his stupor, and suddenly looked under the table.
at that the time traveller laughed cheerfully.
“well?” he said, with a reminiscence of the psychologist.
then, getting up, he went to the tobacco jar on the mantel, and with his back to us began to fill his pipe.
we stared at each other.
“look here,” said the medical man, “are you in earnest about this?
do you seriously believe that that machine has travelled into time?”
“certainly,” said the time traveller, stooping to light a spill at the fire.
then he turned, lighting his pipe, to look at the psychologist’s face.
(the psychologist, to show that he was not unhinged, helped himself to a cigar and tried to light it uncut.)
“what is more, i have a big machine nearly finished in there”—he indicated the laboratory—“and when that is put together i mean to have a journey on my own account.”
“you mean to say that that machine has travelled into the future?” said filby.
“into the future or the past—i don’t, for certain, know which.”
after an interval the psychologist had an inspiration.
“it must have gone into the past if it has gone anywhere,” he said.
“why?” said the time traveller.
“because i presume that it has not moved in space, and if it travelled into the future it would still be here all this time, since it must have travelled through this time.”
“but,” said i, “if it travelled into the past it would have been visible when we came first into this room; and last thursday when we were here; and the thursday before that; and so forth!”
“serious objections,” remarked the provincial mayor, with an air of impartiality, turning towards the time traveller.
“not a bit,” said the time traveller, and, to the psychologist: “you think.
you can explain that.
it’s presentation below the threshold, you know, diluted presentation.”
“of course,” said the psychologist, and reassured us.
“that’s a simple point of psychology.
i should have thought of it.
it’s plain enough, and helps the paradox delightfully.
we cannot see it, nor can we appreciate this machine, any more than we can the spoke of a wheel spinning, or a bullet flying through the air.
if it is travelling through time fifty times or a hundred times faster than we are, if it gets through a minute while we get through a second, the impression it creates will of course be only one-fiftieth or one-hundredth of what it would make if it were not travelling in time.
that’s plain enough.” he passed his hand through the space in which the machine had been.
“you see?” he said, laughing.
we sat and stared at the vacant table for a minute or so.
then the time traveller asked us what we thought of it all.
“it sounds plausible enough tonight,” said the medical man; “but wait until tomorrow.
wait for the common sense of the morning.”
“would you like to see the time machine itself?” asked the time traveller.
and therewith, taking the lamp in his hand, he led the way down the long, draughty corridor to his laboratory.
i remember vividly the flickering light, his queer, broad head in silhouette, the dance of the shadows, how we all followed him, puzzled but incredulous, and how there in the laboratory we beheld a larger edition of the little mechanism which we had seen vanish from before our eyes.
parts were of nickel, parts of ivory, parts had certainly been filed or sawn out of rock crystal.
the thing was generally complete, but the twisted crystalline bars lay unfinished upon the bench beside some sheets of drawings, and i took one up for a better look at it.
quartz it seemed to be.
“look here,” said the medical man, “are you perfectly serious?
or is this a trick—like that ghost you showed us last christmas?”
“upon that machine,” said the time traveller, holding the lamp aloft, “i intend to explore time.
is that plain?
i was never more serious in my life.”
none of us quite knew how to take it.
i caught filby’s eye over the shoulder of the medical man, and he winked at me solemnly.
iii
the time traveller returns
i think that at that time none of us quite believed in the time machine.
the fact is, the time traveller was one of those men who are too clever to be believed: you never felt that you saw all round him; you always suspected some subtle reserve, some ingenuity in ambush, behind his lucid frankness.
had filby shown the model and explained the matter in the time traveller’s words, we should have shown him far less scepticism.
for we should have perceived his motives: a pork-butcher could understand filby.
but the time traveller had more than a touch of whim among his elements, and we distrusted him.
things that would have made the fame of a less clever man seemed tricks in his hands.
it is a mistake to do things too easily.
the serious people who took him seriously never felt quite sure of his deportment; they were somehow aware that trusting their reputations for judgment with him was like furnishing a nursery with eggshell china.
so i don’t think any of us said very much about time travelling in the interval between that thursday and the next, though its odd potentialities ran, no doubt, in most of our minds: its plausibility, that is, its practical incredibleness, the curious possibilities of anachronism and of utter confusion it suggested.
for my own part, i was particularly preoccupied with the trick of the model.
that i remember discussing with the medical man, whom i met on friday at the linnæan.
he said he had seen a similar thing at tübingen, and laid considerable stress on the blowing-out of the candle.
but how the trick was done he could not explain.
the next thursday i went again to richmond—i suppose i was one of the time traveller’s most constant guests—and, arriving late, found four or five men already assembled in his drawing-room.
the medical man was standing before the fire with a sheet of paper in one hand and his watch in the other.
i looked round for the time traveller, and—“it’s half-past seven now,” said the medical man.
“i suppose we’d better have dinner?”
“where’s——?” said i, naming our host.
“you’ve just come?
it’s rather odd.
he’s unavoidably detained.
he asks me in this note to lead off with dinner at seven if he’s not back.
says he’ll explain when he comes.”
“it seems a pity to let the dinner spoil,” said the editor of a well-known daily paper; and thereupon the doctor rang the bell.
the psychologist was the only person besides the doctor and myself who had attended the previous dinner.
the other men were blank, the editor aforementioned, a certain journalist, and another—a quiet, shy man with a beard—whom i didn’t know, and who, as far as my observation went, never opened his mouth all the evening.
there was some speculation at the dinner-table about the time traveller’s absence, and i suggested time travelling, in a half-jocular spirit.
the editor wanted that explained to him, and the psychologist volunteered a wooden account of the “ingenious paradox and trick” we had witnessed that day week.
he was in the midst of his exposition when the door from the corridor opened slowly and without noise.
i was facing the door, and saw it first.
“hallo!” i said.
“at last!” and the door opened wider, and the time traveller stood before us.
i gave a cry of surprise.
“good heavens!
man, what’s the matter?” cried the medical man, who saw him next.
and the whole tableful turned towards the door.
he was in an amazing plight.
his coat was dusty and dirty, and smeared with green down the sleeves; his hair disordered, and as it seemed to me greyer—either with dust and dirt or because its colour had actually faded.
his face was ghastly pale; his chin had a brown cut on it—a cut half-healed; his expression was haggard and drawn, as by intense suffering.
for a moment he hesitated in the doorway, as if he had been dazzled by the light.
then he came into the room.
he walked with just such a limp as i have seen in footsore tramps.
we stared at him in silence, expecting him to speak.
he said not a word, but came painfully to the table, and made a motion towards the wine.
the editor filled a glass of champagne, and pushed it towards him.
he drained it, and it seemed to do him good: for he looked round the table, and the ghost of his old smile flickered across his face.
“what on earth have you been up to, man?” said the doctor.
the time traveller did not seem to hear.
“don’t let me disturb you,” he said, with a certain faltering articulation.
“i’m all right.” he stopped, held out his glass for more, and took it off at a draught.
“that’s good,” he said.
his eyes grew brighter, and a faint colour came into his cheeks.
his glance flickered over our faces with a certain dull approval, and then went round the warm and comfortable room.
then he spoke again, still as it were feeling his way among his words.
“i’m going to wash and dress, and then i’ll come down and explain things....
save me some of that mutton.
i’m starving for a bit of meat.”
he looked across at the editor, who was a rare visitor, and hoped he was all right.
the editor began a question.
“tell you presently,” said the time traveller.
“i’m—funny!
be all right in a minute.”
he put down his glass, and walked towards the staircase door.
again i remarked his lameness and the soft padding sound of his footfall, and standing up in my place, i saw his feet as he went out.
he had nothing on them but a pair of tattered, blood-stained socks.
then the door closed upon him.
i had half a mind to follow, till i remembered how he detested any fuss about himself.
for a minute, perhaps, my mind was wool-gathering.
then, “remarkable behaviour of an eminent scientist,” i heard the editor say, thinking (after his wont) in headlines.
and this brought my attention back to the bright dinner-table.
“what’s the game?” said the journalist.
“has he been doing the amateur cadger?
i don’t follow.” i met the eye of the psychologist, and read my own interpretation in his face.
i thought of the time traveller limping painfully upstairs.
i don’t think anyone else had noticed his lameness.
the first to recover completely from this surprise was the medical man, who rang the bell—the time traveller hated to have servants waiting at dinner—for a hot plate.
at that the editor turned to his knife and fork with a grunt, and the silent man followed suit.
the dinner was resumed.
conversation was exclamatory for a little while with gaps of wonderment; and then the editor got fervent in his curiosity.
“does our friend eke out his modest income with a crossing?
or has he his nebuchadnezzar phases?” he inquired.
“i feel assured it’s this business of the time machine,” i said, and took up the psychologist’s account of our previous meeting.
the new guests were frankly incredulous.
the editor raised objections.
“what was this time travelling?
a man couldn’t cover himself with dust by rolling in a paradox, could he?”
and then, as the idea came home to him, he resorted to caricature.
hadn’t they any clothes-brushes in the future?
the journalist too, would not believe at any price, and joined the editor in the easy work of heaping ridicule on the whole thing.
they were both the new kind of journalist—very joyous, irreverent young men.
“our special correspondent in the day after tomorrow reports,” the journalist was saying—or rather shouting—when the time traveller came back.
he was dressed in ordinary evening clothes, and nothing save his haggard look remained of the change that had startled me.
“i say,” said the editor hilariously, “these chaps here say you have been travelling into the middle of next week!
tell us all about little rosebery, will you?
what will you take for the lot?”
the time traveller came to the place reserved for him without a word.
he smiled quietly, in his old way.
“where’s my mutton?” he said.
“what a treat it is to stick a fork into meat again!”
“story!” cried the editor.
“story be damned!” said the time traveller.
“i want something to eat.
i won’t say a word until i get some peptone into my arteries.
thanks.
and the salt.”
“one word,” said i.
“have you been time travelling?”
“yes,” said the time traveller, with his mouth full, nodding his head.
“i’d give a shilling a line for a verbatim note,” said the editor.
the time traveller pushed his glass towards the silent man and rang it with his fingernail; at which the silent man, who had been staring at his face, started convulsively, and poured him wine.
the rest of the dinner was uncomfortable.
for my own part, sudden questions kept on rising to my lips, and i dare say it was the same with the others.
the journalist tried to relieve the tension by telling anecdotes of hettie potter.
the time traveller devoted his attention to his dinner, and displayed the appetite of a tramp.
the medical man smoked a cigarette, and watched the time traveller through his eyelashes.
the silent man seemed even more clumsy than usual, and drank champagne with regularity and determination out of sheer nervousness.
at last the time traveller pushed his plate away, and looked round us.
“i suppose i must apologise,” he said.
“i was simply starving.
i’ve had a most amazing time.” he reached out his hand for a cigar, and cut the end.
“but come into the smoking-room.
it’s too long a story to tell over greasy plates.” and ringing the bell in passing, he led the way into the adjoining room.
“you have told blank, and dash, and chose about the machine?” he said to me, leaning back in his easy-chair and naming the three new guests.
“but the thing’s a mere paradox,” said the editor.
“i can’t argue tonight.
i don’t mind telling you the story, but i can’t argue.
i will,” he went on, “tell you the story of what has happened to me, if you like, but you must refrain from interruptions.
i want to tell it.
badly.
most of it will sound like lying.
so be it!
it’s true—every word of it, all the same.
i was in my laboratory at four o’clock, and since then … i’ve lived eight days … such days as no human being ever lived before!
i’m nearly worn out, but i shan’t sleep till i’ve told this thing over to you.
then i shall go to bed.
but no interruptions!
is it agreed?”
“agreed,” said the editor, and the rest of us echoed “agreed.” and with that the time traveller began his story as i have set it forth.
he sat back in his chair at first, and spoke like a weary man.
afterwards he got more animated.
in writing it down i feel with only too much keenness the inadequacy of pen and ink—and, above all, my own inadequacy—to express its quality.
you read, i will suppose, attentively enough; but you cannot see the speaker’s white, sincere face in the bright circle of the little lamp, nor hear the intonation of his voice.
you cannot know how his expression followed the turns of his story!
most of us hearers were in shadow, for the candles in the smoking-room had not been lighted, and only the face of the journalist and the legs of the silent man from the knees downward were illuminated.
at first we glanced now and again at each other.
after a time we ceased to do that, and looked only at the time traveller’s face.
iv
time travelling
“i told some of you last thursday of the principles of the time machine, and showed you the actual thing itself, incomplete in the workshop.
there it is now, a little travel-worn, truly; and one of the ivory bars is cracked, and a brass rail bent; but the rest of it’s sound enough.
i expected to finish it on friday; but on friday, when the putting together was nearly done, i found that one of the nickel bars was exactly one inch too short, and this i had to get remade; so that the thing was not complete until this morning.
it was at ten o’clock today that the first of all time machines began its career.
i gave it a last tap, tried all the screws again, put one more drop of oil on the quartz rod, and sat myself in the saddle.
i suppose a suicide who holds a pistol to his skull feels much the same wonder at what will come next as i felt then.
i took the starting lever in one hand and the stopping one in the other, pressed the first, and almost immediately the second.
i seemed to reel; i felt a nightmare sensation of falling; and, looking round, i saw the laboratory exactly as before.
had anything happened?
for a moment i suspected that my intellect had tricked me.
then i noted the clock.
a moment before, as it seemed, it had stood at a minute or so past ten; now it was nearly half-past three!
“i drew a breath, set my teeth, gripped the starting lever with both hands, and went off with a thud.
the laboratory got hazy and went dark.
mrs. watchett came in and walked, apparently without seeing me, towards the garden door.
i suppose it took her a minute or so to traverse the place, but to me she seemed to shoot across the room like a rocket.
i pressed the lever over to its extreme position.
the night came like the turning out of a lamp, and in another moment came tomorrow.
the laboratory grew faint and hazy, then fainter and ever fainter.
tomorrow night came black, then day again, night again, day again, faster and faster still.
an eddying murmur filled my ears, and a strange, dumb confusedness descended on my mind.
“i am afraid i cannot convey the peculiar sensations of time travelling.
they are excessively unpleasant.
there is a feeling exactly like that one has upon a switchback—of a helpless headlong motion!
i felt the same horrible anticipation, too, of an imminent smash.
as i put on pace, night followed day like the flapping of a black wing.
the dim suggestion of the laboratory seemed presently to fall away from me, and i saw the sun hopping swiftly across the sky, leaping it every minute, and every minute marking a day.
i supposed the laboratory had been destroyed and i had come into the open air.
i had a dim impression of scaffolding, but i was already going too fast to be conscious of any moving things.
the slowest snail that ever crawled dashed by too fast for me.
the twinkling succession of darkness and light was excessively painful to the eye.
then, in the intermittent darknesses, i saw the moon spinning swiftly through her quarters from new to full, and had a faint glimpse of the circling stars.
presently, as i went on, still gaining velocity, the palpitation of night and day merged into one continuous greyness; the sky took on a wonderful deepness of blue, a splendid luminous colour like that of early twilight; the jerking sun became a streak of fire, a brilliant arch, in space; the moon a fainter fluctuating band; and i could see nothing of the stars, save now and then a brighter circle flickering in the blue.
“the landscape was misty and vague.
i was still on the hillside upon which this house now stands, and the shoulder rose above me grey and dim.
i saw trees growing and changing like puffs of vapour, now brown, now green; they grew, spread, shivered, and passed away.
i saw huge buildings rise up faint and fair, and pass like dreams.
the whole surface of the earth seemed changed—melting and flowing under my eyes.
the little hands upon the dials that registered my speed raced round faster and faster.
presently i noted that the sun belt swayed up and down, from solstice to solstice, in a minute or less, and that consequently my pace was over a year a minute; and minute by minute the white snow flashed across the world, and vanished, and was followed by the bright, brief green of spring.
“the unpleasant sensations of the start were less poignant now.
they merged at last into a kind of hysterical exhilaration.
i remarked, indeed, a clumsy swaying of the machine, for which i was unable to account.
but my mind was too confused to attend to it, so with a kind of madness growing upon me, i flung myself into futurity.
at first i scarce thought of stopping, scarce thought of anything but these new sensations.
but presently a fresh series of impressions grew up in my mind—a certain curiosity and therewith a certain dread—until at last they took complete possession of me.
what strange developments of humanity, what wonderful advances upon our rudimentary civilisation, i thought, might not appear when i came to look nearly into the dim elusive world that raced and fluctuated before my eyes!
i saw great and splendid architecture rising about me, more massive than any buildings of our own time, and yet, as it seemed, built of glimmer and mist.
i saw a richer green flow up the hillside, and remain there, without any wintry intermission.
even through the veil of my confusion the earth seemed very fair.
and so my mind came round to the business of stopping.
“the peculiar risk lay in the possibility of my finding some substance in the space which i, or the machine, occupied.
so long as i travelled at a high velocity through time, this scarcely mattered: i was, so to speak, attenuated—was slipping like a vapour through the interstices of intervening substances!
but to come to a stop involved the jamming of myself, molecule by molecule, into whatever lay in my way; meant bringing my atoms into such intimate contact with those of the obstacle that a profound chemical reaction—possibly a far-reaching explosion—would result, and blow myself and my apparatus out of all possible dimensions—into the unknown.
this possibility had occurred to me again and again while i was making the machine; but then i had cheerfully accepted it as an unavoidable risk—one of the risks a man has got to take!
now the risk was inevitable, i no longer saw it in the same cheerful light.
the fact is that, insensibly, the absolute strangeness of everything, the sickly jarring and swaying of the machine, above all, the feeling of prolonged falling, had absolutely upset my nerves.
i told myself that i could never stop, and with a gust of petulance i resolved to stop forthwith.
like an impatient fool, i lugged over the lever, and incontinently the thing went reeling over, and i was flung headlong through the air.
“there was the sound of a clap of thunder in my ears.
i may have been stunned for a moment.
a pitiless hail was hissing round me, and i was sitting on soft turf in front of the overset machine.
everything still seemed grey, but presently i remarked that the confusion in my ears was gone.
i looked round me.
i was on what seemed to be a little lawn in a garden, surrounded by rhododendron bushes, and i noticed that their mauve and purple blossoms were dropping in a shower under the beating of the hailstones.
the rebounding, dancing hail hung in a little cloud over the machine, and drove along the ground like smoke.
in a moment i was wet to the skin.
‘fine hospitality,’ said i, ‘to a man who has travelled innumerable years to see you.’
“presently i thought what a fool i was to get wet.
i stood up and looked round me.
a colossal figure, carved apparently in some white stone, loomed indistinctly beyond the rhododendrons through the hazy downpour.
but all else of the world was invisible.
“my sensations would be hard to describe.
as the columns of hail grew thinner, i saw the white figure more distinctly.
it was very large, for a silver birch-tree touched its shoulder.
it was of white marble, in shape something like a winged sphinx, but the wings, instead of being carried vertically at the sides, were spread so that it seemed to hover.
the pedestal, it appeared to me, was of bronze, and was thick with verdigris.
it chanced that the face was towards me; the sightless eyes seemed to watch me; there was the faint shadow of a smile on the lips.
it was greatly weather-worn, and that imparted an unpleasant suggestion of disease.
i stood looking at it for a little space—half a minute, perhaps, or half an hour.
it seemed to advance and to recede as the hail drove before it denser or thinner.
at last i tore my eyes from it for a moment, and saw that the hail curtain had worn threadbare, and that the sky was lightening with the promise of the sun.
“i looked up again at the crouching white shape, and the full temerity of my voyage came suddenly upon me.
what might appear when that hazy curtain was altogether withdrawn?
what might not have happened to men?
what if cruelty had grown into a common passion?
what if in this interval the race had lost its manliness, and had developed into something inhuman, unsympathetic, and overwhelmingly powerful?
i might seem some old-world savage animal, only the more dreadful and disgusting for our common likeness—a foul creature to be incontinently slain.
“already i saw other vast shapes—huge buildings with intricate parapets and tall columns, with a wooded hillside dimly creeping in upon me through the lessening storm.
i was seized with a panic fear.
i turned frantically to the time machine, and strove hard to readjust it.
as i did so the shafts of the sun smote through the thunderstorm.
the grey downpour was swept aside and vanished like the trailing garments of a ghost.
above me, in the intense blue of the summer sky, some faint brown shreds of cloud whirled into nothingness.
the great buildings about me stood out clear and distinct, shining with the wet of the thunderstorm, and picked out in white by the unmelted hailstones piled along their courses.
i felt naked in a strange world.
i felt as perhaps a bird may feel in the clear air, knowing the hawk wings above and will swoop.
my fear grew to frenzy.
i took a breathing space, set my teeth, and again grappled fiercely, wrist and knee, with the machine.
it gave under my desperate onset and turned over.
it struck my chin violently.
one hand on the saddle, the other on the lever, i stood panting heavily in attitude to mount again.
“but with this recovery of a prompt retreat my courage recovered.
i looked more curiously and less fearfully at this world of the remote future.
in a circular opening, high up in the wall of the nearer house, i saw a group of figures clad in rich soft robes.
they had seen me, and their faces were directed towards me.
“then i heard voices approaching me.
coming through the bushes by the white sphinx were the heads and shoulders of men running.
one of these emerged in a pathway leading straight to the little lawn upon which i stood with my machine.
he was a slight creature—perhaps four feet high—clad in a purple tunic, girdled at the waist with a leather belt.
sandals or buskins—i could not clearly distinguish which—were on his feet; his legs were bare to the knees, and his head was bare.
noticing that, i noticed for the first time how warm the air was.
“he struck me as being a very beautiful and graceful creature, but indescribably frail.
his flushed face reminded me of the more beautiful kind of consumptive—that hectic beauty of which we used to hear so much.
at the sight of him i suddenly regained confidence.
i took my hands from the machine.
v
in the golden age
“in another moment we were standing face to face, i and this fragile thing out of futurity.
he came straight up to me and laughed into my eyes.
the absence from his bearing of any sign of fear struck me at once.
then he turned to the two others who were following him and spoke to them in a strange and very sweet and liquid tongue.
“there were others coming, and presently a little group of perhaps eight or ten of these exquisite creatures were about me.
one of them addressed me.
it came into my head, oddly enough, that my voice was too harsh and deep for them.
so i shook my head, and, pointing to my ears, shook it again.
he came a step forward, hesitated, and then touched my hand.
then i felt other soft little tentacles upon my back and shoulders.
they wanted to make sure i was real.
there was nothing in this at all alarming.
indeed, there was something in these pretty little people that inspired confidence—a graceful gentleness, a certain childlike ease.
and besides, they looked so frail that i could fancy myself flinging the whole dozen of them about like ninepins.
but i made a sudden motion to warn them when i saw their little pink hands feeling at the time machine.
happily then, when it was not too late, i thought of a danger i had hitherto forgotten, and reaching over the bars of the machine i unscrewed the little levers that would set it in motion, and put these in my pocket.
then i turned again to see what i could do in the way of communication.
“and then, looking more nearly into their features, i saw some further peculiarities in their dresden china type of prettiness.
their hair, which was uniformly curly, came to a sharp end at the neck and cheek; there was not the faintest suggestion of it on the face, and their ears were singularly minute.
the mouths were small, with bright red, rather thin lips, and the little chins ran to a point.
the eyes were large and mild; and—this may seem egotism on my part—i fancied even that there was a certain lack of the interest i might have expected in them.
“as they made no effort to communicate with me, but simply stood round me smiling and speaking in soft cooing notes to each other, i began the conversation.
i pointed to the time machine and to myself.
then, hesitating for a moment how to express time, i pointed to the sun.
at once a quaintly pretty little figure in chequered purple and white followed my gesture, and then astonished me by imitating the sound of thunder.
“for a moment i was staggered, though the import of his gesture was plain enough.
the question had come into my mind abruptly: were these creatures fools?
you may hardly understand how it took me.
you see, i had always anticipated that the people of the year eight hundred and two thousand odd would be incredibly in front of us in knowledge, art, everything.
then one of them suddenly asked me a question that showed him to be on the intellectual level of one of our five-year-old children—asked me, in fact, if i had come from the sun in a thunderstorm!
it let loose the judgment i had suspended upon their clothes, their frail light limbs, and fragile features.
a flow of disappointment rushed across my mind.
for a moment i felt that i had built the time machine in vain.
“i nodded, pointed to the sun, and gave them such a vivid rendering of a thunderclap as startled them.
they all withdrew a pace or so and bowed.
then came one laughing towards me, carrying a chain of beautiful flowers altogether new to me, and put it about my neck.
the idea was received with melodious applause; and presently they were all running to and fro for flowers, and laughingly flinging them upon me until i was almost smothered with blossom.
you who have never seen the like can scarcely imagine what delicate and wonderful flowers countless years of culture had created.
then someone suggested that their plaything should be exhibited in the nearest building, and so i was led past the sphinx of white marble, which had seemed to watch me all the while with a smile at my astonishment, towards a vast grey edifice of fretted stone.
as i went with them the memory of my confident anticipations of a profoundly grave and intellectual posterity came, with irresistible merriment, to my mind.
“the building had a huge entry, and was altogether of colossal dimensions.
i was naturally most occupied with the growing crowd of little people, and with the big open portals that yawned before me shadowy and mysterious.
my general impression of the world i saw over their heads was a tangled waste of beautiful bushes and flowers, a long neglected and yet weedless garden.
i saw a number of tall spikes of strange white flowers, measuring a foot perhaps across the spread of the waxen petals.
they grew scattered, as if wild, among the variegated shrubs, but, as i say, i did not examine them closely at this time.
the time machine was left deserted on the turf among the rhododendrons.
“the arch of the doorway was richly carved, but naturally i did not observe the carving very narrowly, though i fancied i saw suggestions of old phœnician decorations as i passed through, and it struck me that they were very badly broken and weather-worn.
several more brightly clad people met me in the doorway, and so we entered, i, dressed in dingy nineteenth-century garments, looking grotesque enough, garlanded with flowers, and surrounded by an eddying mass of bright, soft-coloured robes and shining white limbs, in a melodious whirl of laughter and laughing speech.
“the big doorway opened into a proportionately great hall hung with brown.
the roof was in shadow, and the windows, partially glazed with coloured glass and partially unglazed, admitted a tempered light.
the floor was made up of huge blocks of some very hard white metal, not plates nor slabs—blocks, and it was so much worn, as i judged by the going to and fro of past generations, as to be deeply channelled along the more frequented ways.
transverse to the length were innumerable tables made of slabs of polished stone, raised, perhaps, a foot from the floor, and upon these were heaps of fruits.
some i recognised as a kind of hypertrophied raspberry and orange, but for the most part they were strange.
“between the tables was scattered a great number of cushions.
upon these my conductors seated themselves, signing for me to do likewise.
with a pretty absence of ceremony they began to eat the fruit with their hands, flinging peel and stalks, and so forth, into the round openings in the sides of the tables.
i was not loath to follow their example, for i felt thirsty and hungry.
as i did so i surveyed the hall at my leisure.
“and perhaps the thing that struck me most was its dilapidated look.
the stained-glass windows, which displayed only a geometrical pattern, were broken in many places, and the curtains that hung across the lower end were thick with dust.
and it caught my eye that the corner of the marble table near me was fractured.
nevertheless, the general effect was extremely rich and picturesque.
there were, perhaps, a couple of hundred people dining in the hall, and most of them, seated as near to me as they could come, were watching me with interest, their little eyes shining over the fruit they were eating.
all were clad in the same soft, and yet strong, silky material.
“fruit, by the bye, was all their diet.
these people of the remote future were strict vegetarians, and while i was with them, in spite of some carnal cravings, i had to be frugivorous also.
indeed, i found afterwards that horses, cattle, sheep, dogs, had followed the ichthyosaurus into extinction.
but the fruits were very delightful; one, in particular, that seemed to be in season all the time i was there—a floury thing in a three-sided husk—was especially good, and i made it my staple.
at first i was puzzled by all these strange fruits, and by the strange flowers i saw, but later i began to perceive their import.
“however, i am telling you of my fruit dinner in the distant future now.
so soon as my appetite was a little checked, i determined to make a resolute attempt to learn the speech of these new men of mine.
clearly that was the next thing to do.
the fruits seemed a convenient thing to begin upon, and holding one of these up i began a series of interrogative sounds and gestures.
i had some considerable difficulty in conveying my meaning.
at first my efforts met with a stare of surprise or inextinguishable laughter, but presently a fair-haired little creature seemed to grasp my intention and repeated a name.
they had to chatter and explain the business at great length to each other, and my first attempts to make the exquisite little sounds of their language caused an immense amount of genuine, if uncivil, amusement.
however, i felt like a schoolmaster amidst children, and persisted, and presently i had a score of noun substantives at least at my command; and then i got to demonstrative pronouns, and even the verb ‘to eat.’
but it was slow work, and the little people soon tired and wanted to get away from my interrogations, so i determined, rather of necessity, to let them give their lessons in little doses when they felt inclined.
and very little doses i found they were before long, for i never met people more indolent or more easily fatigued.
vi
the sunset of mankind
“a queer thing i soon discovered about my little hosts, and that was their lack of interest.
they would come to me with eager cries of astonishment, like children, but, like children they would soon stop examining me, and wander away after some other toy.
the dinner and my conversational beginnings ended, i noted for the first time that almost all those who had surrounded me at first were gone.
it is odd, too, how speedily i came to disregard these little people.
i went out through the portal into the sunlit world again as soon as my hunger was satisfied.
i was continually meeting more of these men of the future, who would follow me a little distance, chatter and laugh about me, and, having smiled and gesticulated in a friendly way, leave me again to my own devices.
“the calm of evening was upon the world as i emerged from the great hall, and the scene was lit by the warm glow of the setting sun.
at first things were very confusing.
everything was so entirely different from the world i had known—even the flowers.
the big building i had left was situated on the slope of a broad river valley, but the thames had shifted, perhaps, a mile from its present position.
i resolved to mount to the summit of a crest, perhaps a mile and a half away, from which i could get a wider view of this our planet in the year eight hundred and two thousand seven hundred and one, a.d. for that, i should explain, was the date the little dials of my machine recorded.
“as i walked i was watching for every impression that could possibly help to explain the condition of ruinous splendour in which i found the world—for ruinous it was.
a little way up the hill, for instance, was a great heap of granite, bound together by masses of aluminium, a vast labyrinth of precipitous walls and crumpled heaps, amidst which were thick heaps of very beautiful pagoda-like plants—nettles possibly—but wonderfully tinted with brown about the leaves, and incapable of stinging.
it was evidently the derelict remains of some vast structure, to what end built i could not determine.
it was here that i was destined, at a later date, to have a very strange experience—the first intimation of a still stranger discovery—but of that i will speak in its proper place.
“looking round, with a sudden thought, from a terrace on which i rested for a while, i realised that there were no small houses to be seen.
apparently the single house, and possibly even the household, had vanished.
here and there among the greenery were palace-like buildings, but the house and the cottage, which form such characteristic features of our own english landscape, had disappeared.
“‘communism,’ said i to myself.
“and on the heels of that came another thought.
i looked at the half-dozen little figures that were following me.
then, in a flash, i perceived that all had the same form of costume, the same soft hairless visage, and the same girlish rotundity of limb.
it may seem strange, perhaps, that i had not noticed this before.
but everything was so strange.
now, i saw the fact plainly enough.
in costume, and in all the differences of texture and bearing that now mark off the sexes from each other, these people of the future were alike.
and the children seemed to my eyes to be but the miniatures of their parents.
i judged then that the children of that time were extremely precocious, physically at least, and i found afterwards abundant verification of my opinion.
“seeing the ease and security in which these people were living, i felt that this close resemblance of the sexes was after all what one would expect; for the strength of a man and the softness of a woman, the institution of the family, and the differentiation of occupations are mere militant necessities of an age of physical force.
where population is balanced and abundant, much childbearing becomes an evil rather than a blessing to the state; where violence comes but rarely and offspring are secure, there is less necessity—indeed there is no necessity—for an efficient family, and the specialisation of the sexes with reference to their children’s needs disappears.
we see some beginnings of this even in our own time, and in this future age it was complete.
this, i must remind you, was my speculation at the time.
later, i was to appreciate how far it fell short of the reality.
“while i was musing upon these things, my attention was attracted by a pretty little structure, like a well under a cupola.
i thought in a transitory way of the oddness of wells still existing, and then resumed the thread of my speculations.
there were no large buildings towards the top of the hill, and as my walking powers were evidently miraculous, i was presently left alone for the first time.
with a strange sense of freedom and adventure i pushed on up to the crest.
“there i found a seat of some yellow metal that i did not recognise, corroded in places with a kind of pinkish rust and half smothered in soft moss, the arm-rests cast and filed into the resemblance of griffins’ heads.
i sat down on it, and i surveyed the broad view of our old world under the sunset of that long day.
it was as sweet and fair a view as i have ever seen.
the sun had already gone below the horizon and the west was flaming gold, touched with some horizontal bars of purple and crimson.
below was the valley of the thames, in which the river lay like a band of burnished steel.
i have already spoken of the great palaces dotted about among the variegated greenery, some in ruins and some still occupied.
here and there rose a white or silvery figure in the waste garden of the earth, here and there came the sharp vertical line of some cupola or obelisk.
there were no hedges, no signs of proprietary rights, no evidences of agriculture; the whole earth had become a garden.
“so watching, i began to put my interpretation upon the things i had seen, and as it shaped itself to me that evening, my interpretation was something in this way.
(afterwards i found i had got only a half truth—or only a glimpse of one facet of the truth.)
“it seemed to me that i had happened upon humanity upon the wane.
the ruddy sunset set me thinking of the sunset of mankind.
for the first time i began to realise an odd consequence of the social effort in which we are at present engaged.
and yet, come to think, it is a logical consequence enough.
strength is the outcome of need; security sets a premium on feebleness.
the work of ameliorating the conditions of life—the true civilising process that makes life more and more secure—had gone steadily on to a climax.
one triumph of a united humanity over nature had followed another.
things that are now mere dreams had become projects deliberately put in hand and carried forward.
and the harvest was what i saw!
“after all, the sanitation and the agriculture of today are still in the rudimentary stage.
the science of our time has attacked but a little department of the field of human disease, but, even so, it spreads its operations very steadily and persistently.
our agriculture and horticulture destroy a weed just here and there and cultivate perhaps a score or so of wholesome plants, leaving the greater number to fight out a balance as they can.
we improve our favourite plants and animals—and how few they are—gradually by selective breeding; now a new and better peach, now a seedless grape, now a sweeter and larger flower, now a more convenient breed of cattle.
we improve them gradually, because our ideals are vague and tentative, and our knowledge is very limited; because nature, too, is shy and slow in our clumsy hands.
some day all this will be better organised, and still better.
that is the drift of the current in spite of the eddies.
the whole world will be intelligent, educated, and co-operating; things will move faster and faster towards the subjugation of nature.
in the end, wisely and carefully we shall readjust the balance of animal and vegetable life to suit our human needs.
“this adjustment, i say, must have been done, and done well; done indeed for all time, in the space of time across which my machine had leapt.
the air was free from gnats, the earth from weeds or fungi; everywhere were fruits and sweet and delightful flowers; brilliant butterflies flew hither and thither.
the ideal of preventive medicine was attained.
diseases had been stamped out.
i saw no evidence of any contagious diseases during all my stay.
and i shall have to tell you later that even the processes of putrefaction and decay had been profoundly affected by these changes.
“social triumphs, too, had been effected.
i saw mankind housed in splendid shelters, gloriously clothed, and as yet i had found them engaged in no toil.
there were no signs of struggle, neither social nor economical struggle.
the shop, the advertisement, traffic, all that commerce which constitutes the body of our world, was gone.
it was natural on that golden evening that i should jump at the idea of a social paradise.
the difficulty of increasing population had been met, i guessed, and population had ceased to increase.
“but with this change in condition comes inevitably adaptations to the change.
what, unless biological science is a mass of errors, is the cause of human intelligence and vigour?
hardship and freedom:
conditions under which the active, strong, and subtle survive and the weaker go to the wall; conditions that put a premium upon the loyal alliance of capable men, upon self-restraint, patience, and decision.
and the institution of the family, and the emotions that arise therein, the fierce jealousy, the tenderness for offspring, parental self-devotion, all found their justification and support in the imminent dangers of the young.
now, where are these imminent dangers?
there is a sentiment arising, and it will grow, against connubial jealousy, against fierce maternity, against passion of all sorts; unnecessary things now, and things that make us uncomfortable, savage survivals, discords in a refined and pleasant life.
“i thought of the physical slightness of the people, their lack of intelligence, and those big abundant ruins, and it strengthened my belief in a perfect conquest of nature.
for after the battle comes quiet.
humanity had been strong, energetic, and intelligent, and had used all its abundant vitality to alter the conditions under which it lived.
and now came the reaction of the altered conditions.
“under the new conditions of perfect comfort and security, that restless energy, that with us is strength, would become weakness.
even in our own time certain tendencies and desires, once necessary to survival, are a constant source of failure.
physical courage and the love of battle, for instance, are no great help—may even be hindrances—to a civilised man.
and in a state of physical balance and security, power, intellectual as well as physical, would be out of place.
for countless years i judged there had been no danger of war or solitary violence, no danger from wild beasts, no wasting disease to require strength of constitution, no need of toil.
for such a life, what we should call the weak are as well equipped as the strong, are indeed no longer weak.
better equipped indeed they are, for the strong would be fretted by an energy for which there was no outlet.
no doubt the exquisite beauty of the buildings i saw was the outcome of the last surgings of the now purposeless energy of mankind before it settled down into perfect harmony with the conditions under which it lived—the flourish of that triumph which began the last great peace.
this has ever been the fate of energy in security; it takes to art and to eroticism, and then come languor and decay.
“even this artistic impetus would at last die away—had almost died in the time i saw.
to adorn themselves with flowers, to dance, to sing in the sunlight: so much was left of the artistic spirit, and no more.
even that would fade in the end into a contented inactivity.
we are kept keen on the grindstone of pain and necessity, and it seemed to me that here was that hateful grindstone broken at last!
“as i stood there in the gathering dark i thought that in this simple explanation i had mastered the problem of the world—mastered the whole secret of these delicious people.
possibly the checks they had devised for the increase of population had succeeded too well, and their numbers had rather diminished than kept stationary.
that would account for the abandoned ruins.
very simple was my explanation, and plausible enough—as most wrong theories are!
vii
a sudden shock
“as i stood there musing over this too perfect triumph of man, the full moon, yellow and gibbous, came up out of an overflow of silver light in the north-east.
the bright little figures ceased to move about below, a noiseless owl flitted by, and i shivered with the chill of the night.
i determined to descend and find where i could sleep.
“i looked for the building i knew.
then my eye travelled along to the figure of the white sphinx upon the pedestal of bronze, growing distinct as the light of the rising moon grew brighter.
i could see the silver birch against it.
there was the tangle of rhododendron bushes, black in the pale light, and there was the little lawn.
i looked at the lawn again.
a queer doubt chilled my complacency.
‘no,’ said i stoutly to myself, ‘that was not the lawn.’
“but it was the lawn.
for the white leprous face of the sphinx was towards it.
can you imagine what i felt as this conviction came home to me?
but you cannot.
the time machine was gone!
“at once, like a lash across the face, came the possibility of losing my own age, of being left helpless in this strange new world.
the bare thought of it was an actual physical sensation.
i could feel it grip me at the throat and stop my breathing.
in another moment i was in a passion of fear and running with great leaping strides down the slope.
once i fell headlong and cut my face; i lost no time in stanching the blood, but jumped up and ran on, with a warm trickle down my cheek and chin.
all the time i ran i was saying to myself: ‘they have moved it a little, pushed it under the bushes out of the way.’ nevertheless, i ran with all my might.
all the time, with the certainty that sometimes comes with excessive dread, i knew that such assurance was folly, knew instinctively that the machine was removed out of my reach.
my breath came with pain.
i suppose i covered the whole distance from the hill crest to the little lawn, two miles perhaps, in ten minutes.
and i am not a young man.
i cursed aloud, as i ran, at my confident folly in leaving the machine, wasting good breath thereby.
i cried aloud, and none answered.
not a creature seemed to be stirring in that moonlit world.
“when i reached the lawn my worst fears were realised.
not a trace of the thing was to be seen.
i felt faint and cold when i faced the empty space among the black tangle of bushes.
i ran round it furiously, as if the thing might be hidden in a corner, and then stopped abruptly, with my hands clutching my hair.
above me towered the sphinx, upon the bronze pedestal, white, shining, leprous, in the light of the rising moon.
it seemed to smile in mockery of my dismay.
“i might have consoled myself by imagining the little people had put the mechanism in some shelter for me, had i not felt assured of their physical and intellectual inadequacy.
that is what dismayed me: the sense of some hitherto unsuspected power, through whose intervention my invention had vanished.
yet, for one thing i felt assured: unless some other age had produced its exact duplicate, the machine could not have moved in time.
the attachment of the levers—i will show you the method later—prevented anyone from tampering with it in that way when they were removed.
it had moved, and was hid, only in space.
but then, where could it be?
“i think i must have had a kind of frenzy.
i remember running violently in and out among the moonlit bushes all round the sphinx, and startling some white animal that, in the dim light, i took for a small deer.
i remember, too, late that night, beating the bushes with my clenched fist until my knuckles were gashed and bleeding from the broken twigs.
then, sobbing and raving in my anguish of mind, i went down to the great building of stone.
the big hall was dark, silent, and deserted.
i slipped on the uneven floor, and fell over one of the malachite tables, almost breaking my shin.
i lit a match and went on past the dusty curtains, of which i have told you.
“there i found a second great hall covered with cushions, upon which, perhaps, a score or so of the little people were sleeping.
i have no doubt they found my second appearance strange enough, coming suddenly out of the quiet darkness with inarticulate noises and the splutter and flare of a match.
for they had forgotten about matches.
‘where is my time machine?’ i began, bawling like an angry child, laying hands upon them and shaking them up together.
it must have been very queer to them.
some laughed, most of them looked sorely frightened.
when i saw them standing round me, it came into my head that i was doing as foolish a thing as it was possible for me to do under the circumstances, in trying to revive the sensation of fear.
for, reasoning from their daylight behaviour, i thought that fear must be forgotten.
“abruptly, i dashed down the match, and knocking one of the people over in my course, went blundering across the big dining-hall again, out under the moonlight.
i heard cries of terror and their little feet running and stumbling this way and that.
i do not remember all i did as the moon crept up the sky.
i suppose it was the unexpected nature of my loss that maddened me.
i felt hopelessly cut off from my own kind—a strange animal in an unknown world.
i must have raved to and fro, screaming and crying upon god and fate.
i have a memory of horrible fatigue, as the long night of despair wore away; of looking in this impossible place and that; of groping among moonlit ruins and touching strange creatures in the black shadows; at last, of lying on the ground near the sphinx and weeping with absolute wretchedness, even anger at the folly of leaving the machine having leaked away with my strength.
i had nothing left but misery.
then i slept, and when i woke again it was full day, and a couple of sparrows were hopping round me on the turf within reach of my arm.
“i sat up in the freshness of the morning, trying to remember how i had got there, and why i had such a profound sense of desertion and despair.
then things came clear in my mind.
with the plain, reasonable daylight, i could look my circumstances fairly in the face.
i saw the wild folly of my frenzy overnight, and i could reason with myself.
‘suppose the worst?’ i said.
‘suppose the machine altogether lost—perhaps destroyed?
it behoves me to be calm and patient, to learn the way of the people, to get a clear idea of the method of my loss, and the means of getting materials and tools; so that in the end, perhaps, i may make another.’ that would be my only hope, a poor hope, perhaps, but better than despair.
and, after all, it was a beautiful and curious world.
“but probably the machine had only been taken away.
still, i must be calm and patient, find its hiding-place, and recover it by force or cunning.
and with that i scrambled to my feet and looked about me, wondering where i could bathe.
i felt weary, stiff, and travel-soiled.
the freshness of the morning made me desire an equal freshness.
i had exhausted my emotion.
indeed, as i went about my business, i found myself wondering at my intense excitement overnight.
i made a careful examination of the ground about the little lawn.
i wasted some time in futile questionings, conveyed, as well as i was able, to such of the little people as came by.
they all failed to understand my gestures; some were simply stolid, some thought it was a jest and laughed at me.
i had the hardest task in the world to keep my hands off their pretty laughing faces.
it was a foolish impulse, but the devil begotten of fear and blind anger was ill curbed and still eager to take advantage of my perplexity.
the turf gave better counsel.
i found a groove ripped in it, about midway between the pedestal of the sphinx and the marks of my feet where, on arrival, i had struggled with the overturned machine.
there were other signs of removal about, with queer narrow footprints like those i could imagine made by a sloth.
this directed my closer attention to the pedestal.
it was, as i think i have said, of bronze.
it was not a mere block, but highly decorated with deep framed panels on either side.
i went and rapped at these.
the pedestal was hollow.
examining the panels with care i found them discontinuous with the frames.
there were no handles or keyholes, but possibly the panels, if they were doors, as i supposed, opened from within.
one thing was clear enough to my mind.
it took no very great mental effort to infer that my time machine was inside that pedestal.
but how it got there was a different problem.
“i saw the heads of two orange-clad people coming through the bushes and under some blossom-covered apple-trees towards me.
i turned smiling to them, and beckoned them to me.
they came, and then, pointing to the bronze pedestal, i tried to intimate my wish to open it.
but at my first gesture towards this they behaved very oddly.
i don’t know how to convey their expression to you.
suppose you were to use a grossly improper gesture to a delicate-minded woman—it is how she would look.
they went off as if they had received the last possible insult.
i tried a sweet-looking little chap in white next, with exactly the same result.
somehow, his manner made me feel ashamed of myself.
but, as you know, i wanted the time machine, and i tried him once more.
as he turned off, like the others, my temper got the better of me.
in three strides i was after him, had him by the loose part of his robe round the neck, and began dragging him towards the sphinx.
then i saw the horror and repugnance of his face, and all of a sudden i let him go.
“but i was not beaten yet.
i banged with my fist at the bronze panels.
i thought i heard something stir inside—to be explicit, i thought i heard a sound like a chuckle—but i must have been mistaken.
then i got a big pebble from the river, and came and hammered till i had flattened a coil in the decorations, and the verdigris came off in powdery flakes.
the delicate little people must have heard me hammering in gusty outbreaks a mile away on either hand, but nothing came of it.
i saw a crowd of them upon the slopes, looking furtively at me.
at last, hot and tired, i sat down to watch the place.
but i was too restless to watch long; i am too occidental for a long vigil.
i could work at a problem for years, but to wait inactive for twenty-four hours—that is another matter.
“i got up after a time, and began walking aimlessly through the bushes towards the hill again.
‘patience,’ said i to myself.
‘if you want your machine again you must leave that sphinx alone.
if they mean to take your machine away, it’s little good your wrecking their bronze panels, and if they don’t, you will get it back as soon as you can ask for it.
to sit among all those unknown things before a puzzle like that is hopeless.
that way lies monomania.
face this world.
learn its ways, watch it, be careful of too hasty guesses at its meaning.
in the end you will find clues to it all.’ then suddenly the humour of the situation came into my mind: the thought of the years i had spent in study and toil to get into the future age, and now my passion of anxiety to get out of it.
i had made myself the most complicated and the most hopeless trap that ever a man devised.
although it was at my own expense, i could not help myself.
i laughed aloud.
“going through the big palace, it seemed to me that the little people avoided me.
it may have been my fancy, or it may have had something to do with my hammering at the gates of bronze.
yet i felt tolerably sure of the avoidance.
i was careful, however, to show no concern and to abstain from any pursuit of them, and in the course of a day or two things got back to the old footing.
i made what progress i could in the language, and in addition i pushed my explorations here and there.
either i missed some subtle point or their language was excessively simple—almost exclusively composed of concrete substantives and verbs.
there seemed to be few, if any, abstract terms, or little use of figurative language.
their sentences were usually simple and of two words, and i failed to convey or understand any but the simplest propositions.
i determined to put the thought of my time machine and the mystery of the bronze doors under the sphinx, as much as possible in a corner of memory, until my growing knowledge would lead me back to them in a natural way.
yet a certain feeling, you may understand, tethered me in a circle of a few miles round the point of my arrival.
viii
explanation
“so far as i could see, all the world displayed the same exuberant richness as the thames valley.
from every hill i climbed i saw the same abundance of splendid buildings, endlessly varied in material and style, the same clustering thickets of evergreens, the same blossom-laden trees and tree ferns.
here and there water shone like silver, and beyond, the land rose into blue undulating hills, and so faded into the serenity of the sky.
a peculiar feature, which presently attracted my attention, was the presence of certain circular wells, several, as it seemed to me, of a very great depth.
one lay by the path up the hill which i had followed during my first walk.
like the others, it was rimmed with bronze, curiously wrought, and protected by a little cupola from the rain.
sitting by the side of these wells, and peering down into the shafted darkness, i could see no gleam of water, nor could i start any reflection with a lighted match.
but in all of them i heard a certain sound: a thud—thud—thud, like the beating of some big engine; and i discovered, from the flaring of my matches, that a steady current of air set down the shafts.
further, i threw a scrap of paper into the throat of one, and, instead of fluttering slowly down, it was at once sucked swiftly out of sight.
“after a time, too, i came to connect these wells with tall towers standing here and there upon the slopes; for above them there was often just such a flicker in the air as one sees on a hot day above a sun-scorched beach.
putting things together, i reached a strong suggestion of an extensive system of subterranean ventilation, whose true import it was difficult to imagine.
i was at first inclined to associate it with the sanitary apparatus of these people.
it was an obvious conclusion, but it was absolutely wrong.
“and here i must admit that i learnt very little of drains and bells and modes of conveyance, and the like conveniences, during my time in this real future.
in some of these visions of utopias and coming times which i have read, there is a vast amount of detail about building, and social arrangements, and so forth.
but while such details are easy enough to obtain when the whole world is contained in one’s imagination, they are altogether inaccessible to a real traveller amid such realities as i found here.
conceive the tale of london which a negro, fresh from central africa, would take back to his tribe!
what would he know of railway companies, of social movements, of telephone and telegraph wires, of the parcels delivery company, and postal orders and the like?
yet we, at least, should be willing enough to explain these things to him!
and even of what he knew, how much could he make his untravelled friend either apprehend or believe?
then, think how narrow the gap between a negro and a white man of our own times, and how wide the interval between myself and these of the golden age!
i was sensible of much which was unseen, and which contributed to my comfort; but save for a general impression of automatic organisation, i fear i can convey very little of the difference to your mind.
“in the matter of sepulture, for instance, i could see no signs of crematoria nor anything suggestive of tombs.
but it occurred to me that, possibly, there might be cemeteries (or crematoria) somewhere beyond the range of my explorings.
this, again, was a question i deliberately put to myself, and my curiosity was at first entirely defeated upon the point.
the thing puzzled me, and i was led to make a further remark, which puzzled me still more: that aged and infirm among this people there were none.
“i must confess that my satisfaction with my first theories of an automatic civilisation and a decadent humanity did not long endure.
yet i could think of no other.
let me put my difficulties.
the several big palaces i had explored were mere living places, great dining-halls and sleeping apartments.
i could find no machinery, no appliances of any kind.
yet these people were clothed in pleasant fabrics that must at times need renewal, and their sandals, though undecorated, were fairly complex specimens of metalwork.
somehow such things must be made.
and the little people displayed no vestige of a creative tendency.
there were no shops, no workshops, no sign of importations among them.
they spent all their time in playing gently, in bathing in the river, in making love in a half-playful fashion, in eating fruit and sleeping.
i could not see how things were kept going.
“then, again, about the time machine: something, i knew not what, had taken it into the hollow pedestal of the white sphinx.
why?
for the life of me i could not imagine.
those waterless wells, too, those flickering pillars.
i felt i lacked a clue.
i felt—how shall i put it?
suppose you found an inscription, with sentences here and there in excellent plain english, and interpolated therewith, others made up of words, of letters even, absolutely unknown to you?
well, on the third day of my visit, that was how the world of eight hundred and two thousand seven hundred and one presented itself to me!
“that day, too, i made a friend—of a sort.
it happened that, as i was watching some of the little people bathing in a shallow, one of them was seized with cramp and began drifting downstream.
the main current ran rather swiftly, but not too strongly for even a moderate swimmer.
it will give you an idea, therefore, of the strange deficiency in these creatures, when i tell you that none made the slightest attempt to rescue the weakly crying little thing which was drowning before their eyes.
when i realised this, i hurriedly slipped off my clothes, and, wading in at a point lower down, i caught the poor mite and drew her safe to land.
a little rubbing of the limbs soon brought her round, and i had the satisfaction of seeing she was all right before i left her.
i had got to such a low estimate of her kind that i did not expect any gratitude from her.
in that, however, i was wrong.
“this happened in the morning.
in the afternoon i met my little woman, as i believe it was, as i was returning towards my centre from an exploration, and she received me with cries of delight and presented me with a big garland of flowers—evidently made for me and me alone.
the thing took my imagination.
very possibly i had been feeling desolate.
at any rate i did my best to display my appreciation of the gift.
we were soon seated together in a little stone arbour, engaged in conversation, chiefly of smiles.
the creature’s friendliness affected me exactly as a child’s might have done.
we passed each other flowers, and she kissed my hands.
i did the same to hers.
then i tried talk, and found that her name was weena, which, though i don’t know what it meant, somehow seemed appropriate enough.
that was the beginning of a queer friendship which lasted a week, and ended—as i will tell you!
“she was exactly like a child.
she wanted to be with me always.
she tried to follow me everywhere, and on my next journey out and about it went to my heart to tire her down, and leave her at last, exhausted and calling after me rather plaintively.
but the problems of the world had to be mastered.
i had not, i said to myself, come into the future to carry on a miniature flirtation.
yet her distress when i left her was very great, her expostulations at the parting were sometimes frantic, and i think, altogether, i had as much trouble as comfort from her devotion.
nevertheless she was, somehow, a very great comfort.
i thought it was mere childish affection that made her cling to me.
until it was too late, i did not clearly know what i had inflicted upon her when i left her.
nor until it was too late did i clearly understand what she was to me.
for, by merely seeming fond of me, and showing in her weak, futile way that she cared for me, the little doll of a creature presently gave my return to the neighbourhood of the white sphinx almost the feeling of coming home; and i would watch for her tiny figure of white and gold so soon as i came over the hill.
“it was from her, too, that i learnt that fear had not yet left the world.
she was fearless enough in the daylight, and she had the oddest confidence in me; for once, in a foolish moment, i made threatening grimaces at her, and she simply laughed at them.
but she dreaded the dark, dreaded shadows, dreaded black things.
darkness to her was the one thing dreadful.
it was a singularly passionate emotion, and it set me thinking and observing.
i discovered then, among other things, that these little people gathered into the great houses after dark, and slept in droves.
to enter upon them without a light was to put them into a tumult of apprehension.
i never found one out of doors, or one sleeping alone within doors, after dark.
yet i was still such a blockhead that i missed the lesson of that fear, and in spite of weena’s distress, i insisted upon sleeping away from these slumbering multitudes.
“it troubled her greatly, but in the end her odd affection for me triumphed, and for five of the nights of our acquaintance, including the last night of all, she slept with her head pillowed on my arm.
but my story slips away from me as i speak of her.
it must have been the night before her rescue that i was awakened about dawn.
i had been restless, dreaming most disagreeably that i was drowned, and that sea anemones were feeling over my face with their soft palps.
i woke with a start, and with an odd fancy that some greyish animal had just rushed out of the chamber.
i tried to get to sleep again, but i felt restless and uncomfortable.
it was that dim grey hour when things are just creeping out of darkness, when everything is colourless and clear cut, and yet unreal.
i got up, and went down into the great hall, and so out upon the flagstones in front of the palace.
i thought i would make a virtue of necessity, and see the sunrise.
“the moon was setting, and the dying moonlight and the first pallor of dawn were mingled in a ghastly half-light.
the bushes were inky black, the ground a sombre grey, the sky colourless and cheerless.
and up the hill i thought i could see ghosts.
three several times, as i scanned the slope, i saw white figures.
twice i fancied i saw a solitary white, ape-like creature running rather quickly up the hill, and once near the ruins i saw a leash of them carrying some dark body.
they moved hastily.
i did not see what became of them.
it seemed that they vanished among the bushes.
the dawn was still indistinct, you must understand.
i was feeling that chill, uncertain, early-morning feeling you may have known.
i doubted my eyes.
“as the eastern sky grew brighter, and the light of the day came on and its vivid colouring returned upon the world once more, i scanned the view keenly.
but i saw no vestige of my white figures.
they were mere creatures of the half-light.
‘they must have been ghosts,’ i said; ‘i wonder whence they dated.’ for a queer notion of grant allen’s came into my head, and amused me.
if each generation die and leave ghosts, he argued, the world at last will get overcrowded with them.
on that theory they would have grown innumerable some eight hundred thousand years hence, and it was no great wonder to see four at once.
but the jest was unsatisfying, and i was thinking of these figures all the morning, until weena’s rescue drove them out of my head.
i associated them in some indefinite way with the white animal i had startled in my first passionate search for the time machine.
but weena was a pleasant substitute.
yet all the same, they were soon destined to take far deadlier possession of my mind.
“i think i have said how much hotter than our own was the weather of this golden age.
i cannot account for it.
it may be that the sun was hotter, or the earth nearer the sun.
it is usual to assume that the sun will go on cooling steadily in the future.
but people, unfamiliar with such speculations as those of the younger darwin, forget that the planets must ultimately fall back one by one into the parent body.
as these catastrophes occur, the sun will blaze with renewed energy; and it may be that some inner planet had suffered this fate.
whatever the reason, the fact remains that the sun was very much hotter than we know it.
“well, one very hot morning—my fourth, i think—as i was seeking shelter from the heat and glare in a colossal ruin near the great house where i slept and fed, there happened this strange thing.
clambering among these heaps of masonry, i found a narrow gallery, whose end and side windows were blocked by fallen masses of stone.
by contrast with the brilliancy outside, it seemed at first impenetrably dark to me.
i entered it groping, for the change from light to blackness made spots of colour swim before me.
suddenly i halted spellbound.
a pair of eyes, luminous by reflection against the daylight without, was watching me out of the darkness.
“the old instinctive dread of wild beasts came upon me.
i clenched my hands and steadfastly looked into the glaring eyeballs.
i was afraid to turn.
then the thought of the absolute security in which humanity appeared to be living came to my mind.
and then i remembered that strange terror of the dark.
overcoming my fear to some extent, i advanced a step and spoke.
i will admit that my voice was harsh and ill-controlled.
i put out my hand and touched something soft.
at once the eyes darted sideways, and something white ran past me.
i turned with my heart in my mouth, and saw a queer little ape-like figure, its head held down in a peculiar manner, running across the sunlit space behind me.
it blundered against a block of granite, staggered aside, and in a moment was hidden in a black shadow beneath another pile of ruined masonry.
“my impression of it is, of course, imperfect; but i know it was a dull white, and had strange large greyish-red eyes; also that there was flaxen hair on its head and down its back.
but, as i say, it went too fast for me to see distinctly.
i cannot even say whether it ran on all fours, or only with its forearms held very low.
after an instant’s pause i followed it into the second heap of ruins.
i could not find it at first; but, after a time in the profound obscurity, i came upon one of those round well-like openings of which i have told you, half closed by a fallen pillar.
a sudden thought came to me.
could this thing have vanished down the shaft?
i lit a match, and, looking down, i saw a small, white, moving creature, with large bright eyes which regarded me steadfastly as it retreated.
it made me shudder.
it was so like a human spider!
it was clambering down the wall, and now i saw for the first time a number of metal foot and hand rests forming a kind of ladder down the shaft.
then the light burned my fingers and fell out of my hand, going out as it dropped, and when i had lit another the little monster had disappeared.
“i do not know how long i sat peering down that well.
it was not for some time that i could succeed in persuading myself that the thing i had seen was human.
but, gradually, the truth dawned on me: that man had not remained one species, but had differentiated into two distinct animals: that my graceful children of the upper world were not the sole descendants of our generation, but that this bleached, obscene, nocturnal thing, which had flashed before me, was also heir to all the ages.
“i thought of the flickering pillars and of my theory of an underground ventilation.
i began to suspect their true import.
and what, i wondered, was this lemur doing in my scheme of a perfectly balanced organisation?
how was it related to the indolent serenity of the beautiful overworlders?
and what was hidden down there, at the foot of that shaft?
i sat upon the edge of the well telling myself that, at any rate, there was nothing to fear, and that there i must descend for the solution of my difficulties.
and withal i was absolutely afraid to go!
as i hesitated, two of the beautiful upperworld people came running in their amorous sport across the daylight in the shadow.
the male pursued the female, flinging flowers at her as he ran.
“they seemed distressed to find me, my arm against the overturned pillar, peering down the well.
apparently it was considered bad form to remark these apertures; for when i pointed to this one, and tried to frame a question about it in their tongue, they were still more visibly distressed and turned away.
but they were interested by my matches, and i struck some to amuse them.
i tried them again about the well, and again i failed.
so presently i left them, meaning to go back to weena, and see what i could get from her.
but my mind was already in revolution; my guesses and impressions were slipping and sliding to a new adjustment.
i had now a clue to the import of these wells, to the ventilating towers, to the mystery of the ghosts; to say nothing of a hint at the meaning of the bronze gates and the fate of the time machine!
and very vaguely there came a suggestion towards the solution of the economic problem that had puzzled me.
“here was the new view.
plainly, this second species of man was subterranean.
there were three circumstances in particular which made me think that its rare emergence above ground was the outcome of a long-continued underground habit.
in the first place, there was the bleached look common in most animals that live largely in the dark—the white fish of the kentucky caves, for instance.
then, those large eyes, with that capacity for reflecting light, are common features of nocturnal things—witness the owl and the cat.
and last of all, that evident confusion in the sunshine, that hasty yet fumbling awkward flight towards dark shadow, and that peculiar carriage of the head while in the light—all reinforced the theory of an extreme sensitiveness of the retina.
“beneath my feet, then, the earth must be tunnelled enormously, and these tunnellings were the habitat of the new race.
the presence of ventilating shafts and wells along the hill slopes—everywhere, in fact, except along the river valley—showed how universal were its ramifications.
what so natural, then, as to assume that it was in this artificial underworld that such work as was necessary to the comfort of the daylight race was done?
the notion was so plausible that i at once accepted it, and went on to assume the how of this splitting of the human species.
i dare say you will anticipate the shape of my theory; though, for myself, i very soon felt that it fell far short of the truth.
“at first, proceeding from the problems of our own age, it seemed clear as daylight to me that the gradual widening of the present merely temporary and social difference between the capitalist and the labourer was the key to the whole position.
no doubt it will seem grotesque enough to you—and wildly incredible!—and yet even now there are existing circumstances to point that way.
there is a tendency to utilise underground space for the less ornamental purposes of civilisation; there is the metropolitan railway in london, for instance, there are new electric railways, there are subways, there are underground workrooms and restaurants, and they increase and multiply.
evidently, i thought, this tendency had increased till industry had gradually lost its birthright in the sky.
i mean that it had gone deeper and deeper into larger and ever larger underground factories, spending a still-increasing amount of its time therein, till, in the end—!
even now, does not an east-end worker live in such artificial conditions as practically to be cut off from the natural surface of the earth?
“again, the exclusive tendency of richer people—due, no doubt, to the increasing refinement of their education, and the widening gulf between them and the rude violence of the poor—is already leading to the closing, in their interest, of considerable portions of the surface of the land.
about london, for instance, perhaps half the prettier country is shut in against intrusion.
and this same widening gulf—which is due to the length and expense of the higher educational process and the increased facilities for and temptations towards refined habits on the part of the rich—will make that exchange between class and class, that promotion by intermarriage which at present retards the splitting of our species along lines of social stratification, less and less frequent.
so, in the end, above ground you must have the haves, pursuing pleasure and comfort and beauty, and below ground the have-nots, the workers getting continually adapted to the conditions of their labour.
once they were there, they would no doubt have to pay rent, and not a little of it, for the ventilation of their caverns; and if they refused, they would starve or be suffocated for arrears.
such of them as were so constituted as to be miserable and rebellious would die; and, in the end, the balance being permanent, the survivors would become as well adapted to the conditions of underground life, and as happy in their way, as the overworld people were to theirs.
as it seemed to me, the refined beauty and the etiolated pallor followed naturally enough.
“the great triumph of humanity i had dreamed of took a different shape in my mind.
it had been no such triumph of moral education and general co-operation as i had imagined.
instead, i saw a real aristocracy, armed with a perfected science and working to a logical conclusion the industrial system of today.
its triumph had not been simply a triumph over nature, but a triumph over nature and the fellow-man.
this, i must warn you, was my theory at the time.
i had no convenient cicerone in the pattern of the utopian books.
my explanation may be absolutely wrong.
i still think it is the most plausible one.
but even on this supposition the balanced civilisation that was at last attained must have long since passed its zenith, and was now far fallen into decay.
the too-perfect security of the overworlders had led them to a slow movement of degeneration, to a general dwindling in size, strength, and intelligence.
that i could see clearly enough already.
what had happened to the undergrounders i did not yet suspect; but, from what i had seen of the morlocks—that, by the bye, was the name by which these creatures were called—i could imagine that the modification of the human type was even far more profound than among the ‘eloi,’ the beautiful race that i already knew.
“then came troublesome doubts.
why had the morlocks taken my time machine?
for i felt sure it was they who had taken it.
why, too, if the eloi were masters, could they not restore the machine to me?
and why were they so terribly afraid of the dark?
i proceeded, as i have said, to question weena about this underworld, but here again i was disappointed.
at first she would not understand my questions, and presently she refused to answer them.
she shivered as though the topic was unendurable.
and when i pressed her, perhaps a little harshly, she burst into tears.
they were the only tears, except my own, i ever saw in that golden age.
when i saw them i ceased abruptly to trouble about the morlocks, and was only concerned in banishing these signs of her human inheritance from weena’s eyes.
and very soon she was smiling and clapping her hands, while i solemnly burnt a match.
ix
the morlocks
“it may seem odd to you, but it was two days before i could follow up the new-found clue in what was manifestly the proper way.
i felt a peculiar shrinking from those pallid bodies.
they were just the half-bleached colour of the worms and things one sees preserved in spirit in a zoological museum.
and they were filthily cold to the touch.
probably my shrinking was largely due to the sympathetic influence of the eloi, whose disgust of the morlocks i now began to appreciate.
“the next night i did not sleep well.
probably my health was a little disordered.
i was oppressed with perplexity and doubt.
once or twice i had a feeling of intense fear for which i could perceive no definite reason.
i remember creeping noiselessly into the great hall where the little people were sleeping in the moonlight—that night weena was among them—and feeling reassured by their presence.
it occurred to me even then, that in the course of a few days the moon must pass through its last quarter, and the nights grow dark, when the appearances of these unpleasant creatures from below, these whitened lemurs, this new vermin that had replaced the old, might be more abundant.
and on both these days i had the restless feeling of one who shirks an inevitable duty.
i felt assured that the time machine was only to be recovered by boldly penetrating these mysteries of underground.
yet i could not face the mystery.
if only i had had a companion it would have been different.
but i was so horribly alone, and even to clamber down into the darkness of the well appalled me.
i don’t know if you will understand my feeling, but i never felt quite safe at my back.
“it was this restlessness, this insecurity, perhaps, that drove me farther and farther afield in my exploring expeditions.
going to the south-westward towards the rising country that is now called combe wood, i observed far-off, in the direction of nineteenth-century banstead, a vast green structure, different in character from any i had hitherto seen.
it was larger than the largest of the palaces or ruins i knew, and the façade had an oriental look: the face of it having the lustre, as well as the pale-green tint, a kind of bluish-green, of a certain type of chinese porcelain.
this difference in aspect suggested a difference in use, and i was minded to push on and explore.
but the day was growing late, and i had come upon the sight of the place after a long and tiring circuit; so i resolved to hold over the adventure for the following day, and i returned to the welcome and the caresses of little weena.
but next morning i perceived clearly enough that my curiosity regarding the palace of green porcelain was a piece of self-deception, to enable me to shirk, by another day, an experience i dreaded.
i resolved i would make the descent without further waste of time, and started out in the early morning towards a well near the ruins of granite and aluminium.
“little weena ran with me.
she danced beside me to the well, but when she saw me lean over the mouth and look downward, she seemed strangely disconcerted.
‘good-bye, little weena,’ i said, kissing her; and then putting her down, i began to feel over the parapet for the climbing hooks.
rather hastily, i may as well confess, for i feared my courage might leak away!
at first she watched me in amazement.
then she gave a most piteous cry, and running to me, she began to pull at me with her little hands.
i think her opposition nerved me rather to proceed.
i shook her off, perhaps a little roughly, and in another moment i was in the throat of the well.
i saw her agonised face over the parapet, and smiled to reassure her.
then i had to look down at the unstable hooks to which i clung.
“i had to clamber down a shaft of perhaps two hundred yards.
the descent was effected by means of metallic bars projecting from the sides of the well, and these being adapted to the needs of a creature much smaller and lighter than myself, i was speedily cramped and fatigued by the descent.
and not simply fatigued!
one of the bars bent suddenly under my weight, and almost swung me off into the blackness beneath.
for a moment i hung by one hand, and after that experience i did not dare to rest again.
though my arms and back were presently acutely painful, i went on clambering down the sheer descent with as quick a motion as possible.
glancing upward, i saw the aperture, a small blue disc, in which a star was visible, while little weena’s head showed as a round black projection.
the thudding sound of a machine below grew louder and more oppressive.
everything save that little disc above was profoundly dark, and when i looked up again weena had disappeared.
“i was in an agony of discomfort.
i had some thought of trying to go up the shaft again, and leave the underworld alone.
but even while i turned this over in my mind i continued to descend.
at last, with intense relief, i saw dimly coming up, a foot to the right of me, a slender loophole in the wall.
swinging myself in, i found it was the aperture of a narrow horizontal tunnel in which i could lie down and rest.
it was not too soon.
my arms ached, my back was cramped, and i was trembling with the prolonged terror of a fall.
besides this, the unbroken darkness had had a distressing effect upon my eyes.
the air was full of the throb and hum of machinery pumping air down the shaft.
“i do not know how long i lay.
i was arroused by a soft hand touching my face.
starting up in the darkness i snatched at my matches and, hastily striking one, i saw three stooping white creatures similar to the one i had seen above ground in the ruin, hastily retreating before the light.
living, as they did, in what appeared to me impenetrable darkness, their eyes were abnormally large and sensitive, just as are the pupils of the abysmal fishes, and they reflected the light in the same way.
i have no doubt they could see me in that rayless obscurity, and they did not seem to have any fear of me apart from the light.
but, so soon as i struck a match in order to see them, they fled incontinently, vanishing into dark gutters and tunnels, from which their eyes glared at me in the strangest fashion.
“i tried to call to them, but the language they had was apparently different from that of the overworld people; so that i was needs left to my own unaided efforts, and the thought of flight before exploration was even then in my mind.
but i said to myself, ‘you are in for it now,’ and, feeling my way along the tunnel, i found the noise of machinery grow louder.
presently the walls fell away from me, and i came to a large open space, and striking another match, saw that i had entered a vast arched cavern, which stretched into utter darkness beyond the range of my light.
the view i had of it was as much as one could see in the burning of a match.
“necessarily my memory is vague.
great shapes like big machines rose out of the dimness, and cast grotesque black shadows, in which dim spectral morlocks sheltered from the glare.
the place, by the bye, was very stuffy and oppressive, and the faint halitus of freshly-shed blood was in the air.
some way down the central vista was a little table of white metal, laid with what seemed a meal.
the morlocks at any rate were carnivorous!
even at the time, i remember wondering what large animal could have survived to furnish the red joint i saw.
it was all very indistinct: the heavy smell, the big unmeaning shapes, the obscene figures lurking in the shadows, and only waiting for the darkness to come at me again!
then the match burnt down, and stung my fingers, and fell, a wriggling red spot in the blackness.
“i have thought since how particularly ill-equipped i was for such an experience.
when i had started with the time machine, i had started with the absurd assumption that the men of the future would certainly be infinitely ahead of ourselves in all their appliances.
i had come without arms, without medicine, without anything to smoke—at times i missed tobacco frightfully!—even without enough matches.
if only i had thought of a kodak!
i could have flashed that glimpse of the underworld in a second, and examined it at leisure.
but, as it was, i stood there with only the weapons and the powers that nature had endowed me with—hands, feet, and teeth; these, and four safety-matches that still remained to me.
“i was afraid to push my way in among all this machinery in the dark, and it was only with my last glimpse of light i discovered that my store of matches had run low.
it had never occurred to me until that moment that there was any need to economise them, and i had wasted almost half the box in astonishing the overworlders, to whom fire was a novelty.
now, as i say, i had four left, and while i stood in the dark, a hand touched mine, lank fingers came feeling over my face, and i was sensible of a peculiar unpleasant odour.
i fancied i heard the breathing of a crowd of those dreadful little beings about me.
i felt the box of matches in my hand being gently disengaged, and other hands behind me plucking at my clothing.
the sense of these unseen creatures examining me was indescribably unpleasant.
the sudden realisation of my ignorance of their ways of thinking and doing came home to me very vividly in the darkness.
i shouted at them as loudly as i could.
they started away, and then i could feel them approaching me again.
they clutched at me more boldly, whispering odd sounds to each other.
i shivered violently, and shouted again—rather discordantly.
this time they were not so seriously alarmed, and they made a queer laughing noise as they came back at me.
i will confess i was horribly frightened.
i determined to strike another match and escape under the protection of its glare.
i did so, and eking out the flicker with a scrap of paper from my pocket, i made good my retreat to the narrow tunnel.
but i had scarce entered this when my light was blown out and in the blackness i could hear the morlocks rustling like wind among leaves, and pattering like the rain, as they hurried after me.
“in a moment i was clutched by several hands, and there was no mistaking that they were trying to haul me back.
i struck another light, and waved it in their dazzled faces.
you can scarce imagine how nauseatingly inhuman they looked—those pale, chinless faces and great, lidless, pinkish-grey eyes!—as they stared in their blindness and bewilderment.
but i did not stay to look, i promise you: i retreated again, and when my second match had ended, i struck my third.
it had almost burnt through when i reached the opening into the shaft.
i lay down on the edge, for the throb of the great pump below made me giddy.
then i felt sideways for the projecting hooks, and, as i did so, my feet were grasped from behind, and i was violently tugged backward.
i lit my last match … and it incontinently went out.
but i had my hand on the climbing bars now, and, kicking violently, i disengaged myself from the clutches of the morlocks, and was speedily clambering up the shaft, while they stayed peering and blinking up at me: all but one little wretch who followed me for some way, and well-nigh secured my boot as a trophy.
“that climb seemed interminable to me.
with the last twenty or thirty feet of it a deadly nausea came upon me.
i had the greatest difficulty in keeping my hold.
the last few yards was a frightful struggle against this faintness.
several times my head swam, and i felt all the sensations of falling.
at last, however, i got over the well-mouth somehow, and staggered out of the ruin into the blinding sunlight.
i fell upon my face.
even the soil smelt sweet and clean.
then i remember weena kissing my hands and ears, and the voices of others among the eloi.
then, for a time, i was insensible.
x
when night came
“now, indeed, i seemed in a worse case than before.
hitherto, except during my night’s anguish at the loss of the time machine, i had felt a sustaining hope of ultimate escape, but that hope was staggered by these new discoveries.
hitherto i had merely thought myself impeded by the childish simplicity of the little people, and by some unknown forces which i had only to understand to overcome; but there was an altogether new element in the sickening quality of the morlocks—a something inhuman and malign.
instinctively i loathed them.
before, i had felt as a man might feel who had fallen into a pit: my concern was with the pit and how to get out of it.
now i felt like a beast in a trap, whose enemy would come upon him soon.
“the enemy i dreaded may surprise you.
it was the darkness of the new moon.
weena had put this into my head by some at first incomprehensible remarks about the dark nights.
it was not now such a very difficult problem to guess what the coming dark nights might mean.
the moon was on the wane: each night there was a longer interval of darkness.
and i now understood to some slight degree at least the reason of the fear of the little upperworld people for the dark.
i wondered vaguely what foul villainy it might be that the morlocks did under the new moon.
i felt pretty sure now that my second hypothesis was all wrong.
the upperworld people might once have been the favoured aristocracy, and the morlocks their mechanical servants: but that had long since passed away.
the two species that had resulted from the evolution of man were sliding down towards, or had already arrived at, an altogether new relationship.
the eloi, like the carlovignan kings, had decayed to a mere beautiful futility.
they still possessed the earth on sufferance: since the morlocks, subterranean for innumerable generations, had come at last to find the daylit surface intolerable.
and the morlocks made their garments, i inferred, and maintained them in their habitual needs, perhaps through the survival of an old habit of service.
they did it as a standing horse paws with his foot, or as a man enjoys killing animals in sport: because ancient and departed necessities had impressed it on the organism.
but, clearly, the old order was already in part reversed.
the nemesis of the delicate ones was creeping on apace.
ages ago, thousands of generations ago, man had thrust his brother man out of the ease and the sunshine.
and now that brother was coming back—changed!
already the eloi had begun to learn one old lesson anew.
they were becoming reacquainted with fear.
and suddenly there came into my head the memory of the meat i had seen in the underworld.
it seemed odd how it floated into my mind: not stirred up as it were by the current of my meditations, but coming in almost like a question from outside.
i tried to recall the form of it.
i had a vague sense of something familiar, but i could not tell what it was at the time.
“still, however helpless the little people in the presence of their mysterious fear, i was differently constituted.
i came out of this age of ours, this ripe prime of the human race, when fear does not paralyse and mystery has lost its terrors.
i at least would defend myself.
without further delay i determined to make myself arms and a fastness where i might sleep.
with that refuge as a base, i could face this strange world with some of that confidence i had lost in realising to what creatures night by night i lay exposed.
i felt i could never sleep again until my bed was secure from them.
i shuddered with horror to think how they must already have examined me.
“i wandered during the afternoon along the valley of the thames, but found nothing that commended itself to my mind as inaccessible.
all the buildings and trees seemed easily practicable to such dexterous climbers as the morlocks, to judge by their wells, must be.
then the tall pinnacles of the palace of green porcelain and the polished gleam of its walls came back to my memory; and in the evening, taking weena like a child upon my shoulder, i went up the hills towards the south-west.
the distance, i had reckoned, was seven or eight miles, but it must have been nearer eighteen.
i had first seen the place on a moist afternoon when distances are deceptively diminished.
in addition, the heel of one of my shoes was loose, and a nail was working through the sole—they were comfortable old shoes i wore about indoors—so that i was lame.
and it was already long past sunset when i came in sight of the palace, silhouetted black against the pale yellow of the sky.
“weena had been hugely delighted when i began to carry her, but after a while she desired me to let her down, and ran along by the side of me, occasionally darting off on either hand to pick flowers to stick in my pockets.
my pockets had always puzzled weena, but at the last she had concluded that they were an eccentric kind of vases for floral decoration.
at least she utilised them for that purpose.
and that reminds me!
in changing my jacket i found…”
the time traveller paused, put his hand into his pocket, and silently placed two withered flowers, not unlike very large white mallows, upon the little table.
then he resumed his narrative.
“as the hush of evening crept over the world and we proceeded over the hill crest towards wimbledon, weena grew tired and wanted to return to the house of grey stone.
but i pointed out the distant pinnacles of the palace of green porcelain to her, and contrived to make her understand that we were seeking a refuge there from her fear.
you know that great pause that comes upon things before the dusk?
even the breeze stops in the trees.
to me there is always an air of expectation about that evening stillness.
the sky was clear, remote, and empty save for a few horizontal bars far down in the sunset.
well, that night the expectation took the colour of my fears.
in that darkling calm my senses seemed preternaturally sharpened.
i fancied i could even feel the hollowness of the ground beneath my feet: could, indeed, almost see through it the morlocks on their ant-hill going hither and thither and waiting for the dark.
in my excitement i fancied that they would receive my invasion of their burrows as a declaration of war.
and why had they taken my time machine?
“so we went on in the quiet, and the twilight deepened into night.
the clear blue of the distance faded, and one star after another came out.
the ground grew dim and the trees black.
weena’s fears and her fatigue grew upon her.
i took her in my arms and talked to her and caressed her.
then, as the darkness grew deeper, she put her arms round my neck, and, closing her eyes, tightly pressed her face against my shoulder.
so we went down a long slope into a valley, and there in the dimness i almost walked into a little river.
this i waded, and went up the opposite side of the valley, past a number of sleeping houses, and by a statue—a faun, or some such figure, minus the head.
here too were acacias.
so far i had seen nothing of the morlocks, but it was yet early in the night, and the darker hours before the old moon rose were still to come.
“from the brow of the next hill i saw a thick wood spreading wide and black before me.
i hesitated at this.
i could see no end to it, either to the right or the left.
feeling tired—my feet, in particular, were very sore—i carefully lowered weena from my shoulder as i halted, and sat down upon the turf.
i could no longer see the palace of green porcelain, and i was in doubt of my direction.
i looked into the thickness of the wood and thought of what it might hide.
under that dense tangle of branches one would be out of sight of the stars.
even were there no other lurking danger—a danger i did not care to let my imagination loose upon—there would still be all the roots to stumble over and the tree-boles to strike against.
i was very tired, too, after the excitements of the day; so i decided that i would not face it, but would pass the night upon the open hill.
“weena, i was glad to find, was fast asleep.
i carefully wrapped her in my jacket, and sat down beside her to wait for the moonrise.
the hillside was quiet and deserted, but from the black of the wood there came now and then a stir of living things.
above me shone the stars, for the night was very clear.
i felt a certain sense of friendly comfort in their twinkling.
all the old constellations had gone from the sky, however: that slow movement which is imperceptible in a hundred human lifetimes, had long since rearranged them in unfamiliar groupings.
but the milky way, it seemed to me, was still the same tattered streamer of star-dust as of yore.
southward (as i judged it)
was a very bright red star that was new to me; it was even more splendid than our own green sirius.
and amid all these scintillating points of light one bright planet shone kindly and steadily like the face of an old friend.
“looking at these stars suddenly dwarfed my own troubles and all the gravities of terrestrial life.
i thought of their unfathomable distance, and the slow inevitable drift of their movements out of the unknown past into the unknown future.
i thought of the great precessional cycle that the pole of the earth describes.
only forty times had that silent revolution occurred during all the years that i had traversed.
and during these few revolutions all the activity, all the traditions, the complex organisations, the nations, languages, literatures, aspirations, even the mere memory of man as i knew him, had been swept out of existence.
instead were these frail creatures who had forgotten their high ancestry, and the white things of which i went in terror.
then i thought of the great fear that was between the two species, and for the first time, with a sudden shiver, came the clear knowledge of what the meat i had seen might be.
yet it was too horrible!
i looked at little weena sleeping beside me, her face white and starlike under the stars, and forthwith dismissed the thought.
“through that long night i held my mind off the morlocks as well as i could, and whiled away the time by trying to fancy i could find signs of the old constellations in the new confusion.
the sky kept very clear, except for a hazy cloud or so.
no doubt i dozed at times.
then, as my vigil wore on, came a faintness in the eastward sky, like the reflection of some colourless fire, and the old moon rose, thin and peaked and white.
and close behind, and overtaking it, and overflowing it, the dawn came, pale at first, and then growing pink and warm.
no morlocks had approached us.
indeed, i had seen none upon the hill that night.
and in the confidence of renewed day it almost seemed to me that my fear had been unreasonable.
i stood up and found my foot with the loose heel swollen at the ankle and painful under the heel; so i sat down again, took off my shoes, and flung them away.
“i awakened weena, and we went down into the wood, now green and pleasant instead of black and forbidding.
we found some fruit wherewith to break our fast.
we soon met others of the dainty ones, laughing and dancing in the sunlight as though there was no such thing in nature as the night.
and then i thought once more of the meat that i had seen.
i felt assured now of what it was, and from the bottom of my heart i pitied this last feeble rill from the great flood of humanity.
clearly, at some time in the long-ago of human decay the morlocks’ food had run short.
possibly they had lived on rats and such-like vermin.
even now man is far less discriminating and exclusive in his food than he was—far less than any monkey.
his prejudice against human flesh is no deep-seated instinct.
and so these inhuman sons of men——!
i tried to look at the thing in a scientific spirit.
after all, they were less human and more remote than our cannibal ancestors of three or four thousand years ago.
and the intelligence that would have made this state of things a torment had gone.
why should i trouble myself?
these eloi were mere fatted cattle, which the ant-like morlocks preserved and preyed upon—probably saw to the breeding of.
and there was weena dancing at my side!
“then i tried to preserve myself from the horror that was coming upon me, by regarding it as a rigorous punishment of human selfishness.
man had been content to live in ease and delight upon the labours of his fellow-man, had taken necessity as his watchword and excuse, and in the fullness of time necessity had come home to him.
i even tried a carlyle-like scorn of this wretched aristocracy in decay.
but this attitude of mind was impossible.
however great their intellectual degradation, the eloi had kept too much of the human form not to claim my sympathy, and to make me perforce a sharer in their degradation and their fear.
“i had at that time very vague ideas as to the course i should pursue.
my first was to secure some safe place of refuge, and to make myself such arms of metal or stone as i could contrive.
that necessity was immediate.
in the next place, i hoped to procure some means of fire, so that i should have the weapon of a torch at hand, for nothing, i knew, would be more efficient against these morlocks.
then i wanted to arrange some contrivance to break open the doors of bronze under the white sphinx.
i had in mind a battering ram.
i had a persuasion that if i could enter those doors and carry a blaze of light before me i should discover the time machine and escape.
i could not imagine the morlocks were strong enough to move it far away.
weena i had resolved to bring with me to our own time.
and turning such schemes over in my mind i pursued our way towards the building which my fancy had chosen as our dwelling.
xi
the palace of green porcelain
“i found the palace of green porcelain, when we approached it about noon, deserted and falling into ruin.
only ragged vestiges of glass remained in its windows, and great sheets of the green facing had fallen away from the corroded metallic framework.
it lay very high upon a turfy down, and looking north-eastward before i entered it, i was surprised to see a large estuary, or even creek, where i judged wandsworth and battersea must once have been.
i thought then—though i never followed up the thought—of what might have happened, or might be happening, to the living things in the sea.
“the material of the palace proved on examination to be indeed porcelain, and along the face of it i saw an inscription in some unknown character.
i thought, rather foolishly, that weena might help me to interpret this, but i only learnt that the bare idea of writing had never entered her head.
she always seemed to me, i fancy, more human than she was, perhaps because her affection was so human.
“within the big valves of the door—which were open and broken—we found, instead of the customary hall, a long gallery lit by many side windows.
at the first glance i was reminded of a museum.
the tiled floor was thick with dust, and a remarkable array of miscellaneous objects was shrouded in the same grey covering.
then i perceived, standing strange and gaunt in the centre of the hall, what was clearly the lower part of a huge skeleton.
i recognised by the oblique feet that it was some extinct creature after the fashion of the megatherium.
the skull and the upper bones lay beside it in the thick dust, and in one place, where rain-water had dropped through a leak in the roof, the thing itself had been worn away.
further in the gallery was the huge skeleton barrel of a brontosaurus.
my museum hypothesis was confirmed.
going towards the side i found what appeared to be sloping shelves, and clearing away the thick dust, i found the old familiar glass cases of our own time.
but they must have been air-tight to judge from the fair preservation of some of their contents.
“clearly we stood among the ruins of some latter-day south kensington!
here, apparently, was the palæontological section, and a very splendid array of fossils it must have been, though the inevitable process of decay that had been staved off for a time, and had, through the extinction of bacteria and fungi, lost ninety-nine hundredths of its force, was nevertheless, with extreme sureness if with extreme slowness at work again upon all its treasures.
here and there i found traces of the little people in the shape of rare fossils broken to pieces or threaded in strings upon reeds.
and the cases had in some instances been bodily removed—by the morlocks, as i judged.
the place was very silent.
the thick dust deadened our footsteps.
weena, who had been rolling a sea urchin down the sloping glass of a case, presently came, as i stared about me, and very quietly took my hand and stood beside me.
“and at first i was so much surprised by this ancient monument of an intellectual age that i gave no thought to the possibilities it presented.
even my preoccupation about the time machine receded a little from my mind.
“to judge from the size of the place, this palace of green porcelain had a great deal more in it than a gallery of palæontology; possibly historical galleries; it might be, even a library!
to me, at least in my present circumstances, these would be vastly more interesting than this spectacle of old-time geology in decay.
exploring, i found another short gallery running transversely to the first.
this appeared to be devoted to minerals, and the sight of a block of sulphur set my mind running on gunpowder.
but i could find no saltpetre; indeed, no nitrates of any kind.
doubtless they had deliquesced ages ago.
yet the sulphur hung in my mind, and set up a train of thinking.
as for the rest of the contents of that gallery, though on the whole they were the best preserved of all i saw, i had little interest.
i am no specialist in mineralogy, and i went on down a very ruinous aisle running parallel to the first hall i had entered.
apparently this section had been devoted to natural history, but everything had long since passed out of recognition.
a few shrivelled and blackened vestiges of what had once been stuffed animals, desiccated mummies in jars that had once held spirit, a brown dust of departed plants: that was all!
i was sorry for that, because i should have been glad to trace the patient readjustments by which the conquest of animated nature had been attained.
then we came to a gallery of simply colossal proportions, but singularly ill-lit, the floor of it running downward at a slight angle from the end at which i entered.
at intervals white globes hung from the ceiling—many of them cracked and smashed—which suggested that originally the place had been artificially lit.
here i was more in my element, for rising on either side of me were the huge bulks of big machines, all greatly corroded and many broken down, but some still fairly complete.
you know i have a certain weakness for mechanism, and i was inclined to linger among these; the more so as for the most part they had the interest of puzzles, and i could make only the vaguest guesses at what they were for.
i fancied that if i could solve their puzzles i should find myself in possession of powers that might be of use against the morlocks.
“suddenly weena came very close to my side.
so suddenly that she startled me.
had it not been for her i do not think i should have noticed that the floor of the gallery sloped at all.
[footnote: it may be, of course, that the floor did not slope, but that the museum was built into the side of a hill.—ed.]
the end i had come in at was quite above ground, and was lit by rare slit-like windows.
as you went down the length, the ground came up against these windows, until at last there was a pit like the ‘area‘ of a london house before each, and only a narrow line of daylight at the top.
i went slowly along, puzzling about the machines, and had been too intent upon them to notice the gradual diminution of the light, until weena’s increasing apprehensions drew my attention.
then i saw that the gallery ran down at last into a thick darkness.
i hesitated, and then, as i looked round me, i saw that the dust was less abundant and its surface less even.
further away towards the dimness, it appeared to be broken by a number of small narrow footprints.
my sense of the immediate presence of the morlocks revived at that.
i felt that i was wasting my time in the academic examination of machinery.
i called to mind that it was already far advanced in the afternoon, and that i had still no weapon, no refuge, and no means of making a fire.
and then down in the remote blackness of the gallery i heard a peculiar pattering, and the same odd noises i had heard down the well.
“i took weena’s hand.
then, struck with a sudden idea, i left her and turned to a machine from which projected a lever not unlike those in a signal-box.
clambering upon the stand, and grasping this lever in my hands, i put all my weight upon it sideways.
suddenly weena, deserted in the central aisle, began to whimper.
i had judged the strength of the lever pretty correctly, for it snapped after a minute’s strain, and i rejoined her with a mace in my hand more than sufficient, i judged, for any morlock skull i might encounter.
and i longed very much to kill a morlock or so.
very inhuman, you may think, to want to go killing one’s own descendants!
but it was impossible, somehow, to feel any humanity in the things.
only my disinclination to leave weena, and a persuasion that if i began to slake my thirst for murder my time machine might suffer, restrained me from going straight down the gallery and killing the brutes i heard.
“well, mace in one hand and weena in the other, i went out of that gallery and into another and still larger one, which at the first glance reminded me of a military chapel hung with tattered flags.
the brown and charred rags that hung from the sides of it, i presently recognised as the decaying vestiges of books.
they had long since dropped to pieces, and every semblance of print had left them.
but here and there were warped boards and cracked metallic clasps that told the tale well enough.
had i been a literary man i might, perhaps, have moralised upon the futility of all ambition.
but as it was, the thing that struck me with keenest force was the enormous waste of labour to which this sombre wilderness of rotting paper testified.
at the time i will confess that i thought chiefly of the philosophical transactions and my own seventeen papers upon physical optics.
“then, going up a broad staircase, we came to what may once have been a gallery of technical chemistry.
and here i had not a little hope of useful discoveries.
except at one end where the roof had collapsed, this gallery was well preserved.
i went eagerly to every unbroken case.
and at last, in one of the really air-tight cases, i found a box of matches.
very eagerly i tried them.
they were perfectly good.
they were not even damp.
i turned to weena.
‘dance,’ i cried to her in her own tongue.
for now i had a weapon indeed against the horrible creatures we feared.
and so, in that derelict museum, upon the thick soft carpeting of dust, to weena’s huge delight, i solemnly performed a kind of composite dance, whistling the land of the leal as cheerfully as i could.
in part it was a modest cancan, in part a step dance, in part a skirt dance (so far as my tail-coat permitted), and in part original.
for i am naturally inventive, as you know.
“now, i still think that for this box of matches to have escaped the wear of time for immemorial years was a most strange, as for me it was a most fortunate, thing.
yet, oddly enough, i found a far unlikelier substance, and that was camphor.
i found it in a sealed jar, that by chance, i suppose, had been really hermetically sealed.
i fancied at first that it was paraffin wax, and smashed the glass accordingly.
but the odour of camphor was unmistakable.
in the universal decay this volatile substance had chanced to survive, perhaps through many thousands of centuries.
it reminded me of a sepia painting i had once seen done from the ink of a fossil belemnite that must have perished and become fossilised millions of years ago.
i was about to throw it away, but i remembered that it was inflammable and burnt with a good bright flame—was, in fact, an excellent candle—and i put it in my pocket.
i found no explosives, however, nor any means of breaking down the bronze doors.
as yet my iron crowbar was the most helpful thing i had chanced upon.
nevertheless i left that gallery greatly elated.
“i cannot tell you all the story of that long afternoon.
it would require a great effort of memory to recall my explorations in at all the proper order.
i remember a long gallery of rusting stands of arms, and how i hesitated between my crowbar and a hatchet or a sword.
i could not carry both, however, and my bar of iron promised best against the bronze gates.
there were numbers of guns, pistols, and rifles.
the most were masses of rust, but many were of some new metal, and still fairly sound.
but any cartridges or powder there may once have been had rotted into dust.
one corner i saw was charred and shattered; perhaps, i thought, by an explosion among the specimens.
in another place was a vast array of idols—polynesian, mexican, grecian, phœnician, every country on earth, i should think.
and here, yielding to an irresistible impulse, i wrote my name upon the nose of a steatite monster from south america that particularly took my fancy.
“as the evening drew on, my interest waned.
i went through gallery after gallery, dusty, silent, often ruinous, the exhibits sometimes mere heaps of rust and lignite, sometimes fresher.
in one place i suddenly found myself near the model of a tin mine, and then by the merest accident i discovered, in an air-tight case, two dynamite cartridges!
i shouted ‘eureka!’ and smashed the case with joy.
then came a doubt.
i hesitated.
then, selecting a little side gallery, i made my essay.
i never felt such a disappointment as i did in waiting five, ten, fifteen minutes for an explosion that never came.
of course the things were dummies, as i might have guessed from their presence.
i really believe that had they not been so, i should have rushed off incontinently and blown sphinx, bronze doors, and (as it proved) my chances of finding the time machine, all together into non-existence.
“it was after that, i think, that we came to a little open court within the palace.
it was turfed, and had three fruit-trees.
so we rested and refreshed ourselves.
towards sunset i began to consider our position.
night was creeping upon us, and my inaccessible hiding-place had still to be found.
but that troubled me very little now.
i had in my possession a thing that was, perhaps, the best of all defences against the morlocks—i had matches!
i had the camphor in my pocket, too, if a blaze were needed.
it seemed to me that the best thing we could do would be to pass the night in the open, protected by a fire.
in the morning there was the getting of the time machine.
towards that, as yet, i had only my iron mace.
but now, with my growing knowledge, i felt very differently towards those bronze doors.
up to this, i had refrained from forcing them, largely because of the mystery on the other side.
they had never impressed me as being very strong, and i hoped to find my bar of iron not altogether inadequate for the work.
xii
in the darkness
“we emerged from the palace while the sun was still in part above the horizon.
i was determined to reach the white sphinx early the next morning, and ere the dusk i purposed pushing through the woods that had stopped me on the previous journey.
my plan was to go as far as possible that night, and then, building a fire, to sleep in the protection of its glare.
accordingly, as we went along i gathered any sticks or dried grass i saw, and presently had my arms full of such litter.
thus loaded, our progress was slower than i had anticipated, and besides weena was tired.
and i, also, began to suffer from sleepiness too; so that it was full night before we reached the wood.
upon the shrubby hill of its edge weena would have stopped, fearing the darkness before us; but a singular sense of impending calamity, that should indeed have served me as a warning, drove me onward.
i had been without sleep for a night and two days, and i was feverish and irritable.
i felt sleep coming upon me, and the morlocks with it.
“while we hesitated, among the black bushes behind us, and dim against their blackness, i saw three crouching figures.
there was scrub and long grass all about us, and i did not feel safe from their insidious approach.
the forest, i calculated, was rather less than a mile across.
if we could get through it to the bare hillside, there, as it seemed to me, was an altogether safer resting-place; i thought that with my matches and my camphor i could contrive to keep my path illuminated through the woods.
yet it was evident that if i was to flourish matches with my hands i should have to abandon my firewood; so, rather reluctantly, i put it down.
and then it came into my head that i would amaze our friends behind by lighting it.
i was to discover the atrocious folly of this proceeding, but it came to my mind as an ingenious move for covering our retreat.
“i don’t know if you have ever thought what a rare thing flame must be in the absence of man and in a temperate climate.
the sun’s heat is rarely strong enough to burn, even when it is focused by dewdrops, as is sometimes the case in more tropical districts.
lightning may blast and blacken, but it rarely gives rise to widespread fire.
decaying vegetation may occasionally smoulder with the heat of its fermentation, but this rarely results in flame.
in this decadence, too, the art of fire-making had been forgotten on the earth.
the red tongues that went licking up my heap of wood were an altogether new and strange thing to weena.
“she wanted to run to it and play with it.
i believe she would have cast herself into it had i not restrained her.
but i caught her up, and in spite of her struggles, plunged boldly before me into the wood.
for a little way the glare of my fire lit the path.
looking back presently, i could see, through the crowded stems, that from my heap of sticks the blaze had spread to some bushes adjacent, and a curved line of fire was creeping up the grass of the hill.
i laughed at that, and turned again to the dark trees before me.
it was very black, and weena clung to me convulsively, but there was still, as my eyes grew accustomed to the darkness, sufficient light for me to avoid the stems.
overhead it was simply black, except where a gap of remote blue sky shone down upon us here and there.
i lit none of my matches because i had no hand free.
upon my left arm i carried my little one, in my right hand i had my iron bar.
“for some way i heard nothing but the crackling twigs under my feet, the faint rustle of the breeze above, and my own breathing and the throb of the blood-vessels in my ears.
then i seemed to know of a pattering behind me.
i pushed on grimly.
the pattering grew more distinct, and then i caught the same queer sound and voices i had heard in the underworld.
there were evidently several of the morlocks, and they were closing in upon me.
indeed, in another minute i felt a tug at my coat, then something at my arm.
and weena shivered violently, and became quite still.
“it was time for a match.
but to get one i must put her down.
i did so, and, as i fumbled with my pocket, a struggle began in the darkness about my knees, perfectly silent on her part and with the same peculiar cooing sounds from the morlocks.
soft little hands, too, were creeping over my coat and back, touching even my neck.
then the match scratched and fizzed.
i held it flaring, and saw the white backs of the morlocks in flight amid the trees.
i hastily took a lump of camphor from my pocket, and prepared to light it as soon as the match should wane.
then i looked at weena.
she was lying clutching my feet and quite motionless, with her face to the ground.
with a sudden fright i stooped to her.
she seemed scarcely to breathe.
i lit the block of camphor and flung it to the ground, and as it split and flared up and drove back the morlocks and the shadows, i knelt down and lifted her.
the wood behind seemed full of the stir and murmur of a great company!
“she seemed to have fainted.
i put her carefully upon my shoulder and rose to push on, and then there came a horrible realisation.
in manœuvring with my matches and weena, i had turned myself about several times, and now i had not the faintest idea in what direction lay my path.
for all i knew, i might be facing back towards the palace of green porcelain.
i found myself in a cold sweat.
i had to think rapidly what to do.
i determined to build a fire and encamp where we were.
i put weena, still motionless, down upon a turfy bole, and very hastily, as my first lump of camphor waned, i began collecting sticks and leaves.
here and there out of the darkness round me the morlocks’ eyes shone like carbuncles.
“the camphor flickered and went out.
i lit a match, and as i did so, two white forms that had been approaching weena dashed hastily away.
one was so blinded by the light that he came straight for me, and i felt his bones grind under the blow of my fist.
he gave a whoop of dismay, staggered a little way, and fell down.
i lit another piece of camphor, and went on gathering my bonfire.
presently i noticed how dry was some of the foliage above me, for since my arrival on the time machine, a matter of a week, no rain had fallen.
so, instead of casting about among the trees for fallen twigs, i began leaping up and dragging down branches.
very soon i had a choking smoky fire of green wood and dry sticks, and could economise my camphor.
then i turned to where weena lay beside my iron mace.
i tried what i could to revive her, but she lay like one dead.
i could not even satisfy myself whether or not she breathed.
“now, the smoke of the fire beat over towards me, and it must have made me heavy of a sudden.
moreover, the vapour of camphor was in the air.
my fire would not need replenishing for an hour or so.
i felt very weary after my exertion, and sat down.
the wood, too, was full of a slumbrous murmur that i did not understand.
i seemed just to nod and open my eyes.
but all was dark, and the morlocks had their hands upon me.
flinging off their clinging fingers i hastily felt in my pocket for the match-box, and—it had gone!
then they gripped and closed with me again.
in a moment i knew what had happened.
i had slept, and my fire had gone out, and the bitterness of death came over my soul.
the forest seemed full of the smell of burning wood.
i was caught by the neck, by the hair, by the arms, and pulled down.
it was indescribably horrible in the darkness to feel all these soft creatures heaped upon me.
i felt as if i was in a monstrous spider’s web.
i was overpowered, and went down.
i felt little teeth nipping at my neck.
i rolled over, and as i did so my hand came against my iron lever.
it gave me strength.
i struggled up, shaking the human rats from me, and, holding the bar short, i thrust where i judged their faces might be.
i could feel the succulent giving of flesh and bone under my blows, and for a moment i was free.
“the strange exultation that so often seems to accompany hard fighting came upon me.
i knew that both i and weena were lost, but i determined to make the morlocks pay for their meat.
i stood with my back to a tree, swinging the iron bar before me.
the whole wood was full of the stir and cries of them.
a minute passed.
their voices seemed to rise to a higher pitch of excitement, and their movements grew faster.
yet none came within reach.
i stood glaring at the blackness.
then suddenly came hope.
what if the morlocks were afraid?
and close on the heels of that came a strange thing.
the darkness seemed to grow luminous.
very dimly i began to see the morlocks about me—three battered at my feet—and then i recognised, with incredulous surprise, that the others were running, in an incessant stream, as it seemed, from behind me, and away through the wood in front.
and their backs seemed no longer white, but reddish.
as i stood agape, i saw a little red spark go drifting across a gap of starlight between the branches, and vanish.
and at that i understood the smell of burning wood, the slumbrous murmur that was growing now into a gusty roar, the red glow, and the morlocks’ flight.
“stepping out from behind my tree and looking back, i saw, through the black pillars of the nearer trees, the flames of the burning forest.
it was my first fire coming after me.
with that i looked for weena, but she was gone.
the hissing and crackling behind me, the explosive thud as each fresh tree burst into flame, left little time for reflection.
my iron bar still gripped, i followed in the morlocks’ path.
it was a close race.
once the flames crept forward so swiftly on my right as i ran that i was outflanked and had to strike off to the left.
but at last i emerged upon a small open space, and as i did so, a morlock came blundering towards me, and past me, and went on straight into the fire!
“and now i was to see the most weird and horrible thing, i think, of all that i beheld in that future age.
this whole space was as bright as day with the reflection of the fire.
in the centre was a hillock or tumulus, surmounted by a scorched hawthorn.
beyond this was another arm of the burning forest, with yellow tongues already writhing from it, completely encircling the space with a fence of fire.
upon the hillside were some thirty or forty morlocks, dazzled by the light and heat, and blundering hither and thither against each other in their bewilderment.
at first i did not realise their blindness, and struck furiously at them with my bar, in a frenzy of fear, as they approached me, killing one and crippling several more.
but when i had watched the gestures of one of them groping under the hawthorn against the red sky, and heard their moans, i was assured of their absolute helplessness and misery in the glare, and i struck no more of them.
“yet every now and then one would come straight towards me, setting loose a quivering horror that made me quick to elude him.
at one time the flames died down somewhat, and i feared the foul creatures would presently be able to see me.
i was thinking of beginning the fight by killing some of them before this should happen; but the fire burst out again brightly, and i stayed my hand.
i walked about the hill among them and avoided them, looking for some trace of weena.
but weena was gone.
“at last i sat down on the summit of the hillock, and watched this strange incredible company of blind things groping to and fro, and making uncanny noises to each other, as the glare of the fire beat on them.
the coiling uprush of smoke streamed across the sky, and through the rare tatters of that red canopy, remote as though they belonged to another universe, shone the little stars.
two or three morlocks came blundering into me, and i drove them off with blows of my fists, trembling as i did so.
“for the most part of that night i was persuaded it was a nightmare.
i bit myself and screamed in a passionate desire to awake.
i beat the ground with my hands, and got up and sat down again, and wandered here and there, and again sat down.
then i would fall to rubbing my eyes and calling upon god to let me awake.
thrice i saw morlocks put their heads down in a kind of agony and rush into the flames.
but, at last, above the subsiding red of the fire, above the streaming masses of black smoke and the whitening and blackening tree stumps, and the diminishing numbers of these dim creatures, came the white light of the day.
“i searched again for traces of weena, but there were none.
it was plain that they had left her poor little body in the forest.
i cannot describe how it relieved me to think that it had escaped the awful fate to which it seemed destined.
as i thought of that, i was almost moved to begin a massacre of the helpless abominations about me, but i contained myself.
the hillock, as i have said, was a kind of island in the forest.
from its summit i could now make out through a haze of smoke the palace of green porcelain, and from that i could get my bearings for the white sphinx.
and so, leaving the remnant of these damned souls still going hither and thither and moaning, as the day grew clearer, i tied some grass about my feet and limped on across smoking ashes and among black stems that still pulsated internally with fire, towards the hiding-place of the time machine.
i walked slowly, for i was almost exhausted, as well as lame, and i felt the intensest wretchedness for the horrible death of little weena.
it seemed an overwhelming calamity.
now, in this old familiar room, it is more like the sorrow of a dream than an actual loss.
but that morning it left me absolutely lonely again—terribly alone.
i began to think of this house of mine, of this fireside, of some of you, and with such thoughts came a longing that was pain.
“but, as i walked over the smoking ashes under the bright morning sky, i made a discovery.
in my trouser pocket were still some loose matches.
the box must have leaked before it was lost.
xiii
the trap of the white sphinx
“about eight or nine in the morning i came to the same seat of yellow metal from which i had viewed the world upon the evening of my arrival.
i thought of my hasty conclusions upon that evening and could not refrain from laughing bitterly at my confidence.
here was the same beautiful scene, the same abundant foliage, the same splendid palaces and magnificent ruins, the same silver river running between its fertile banks.
the gay robes of the beautiful people moved hither and thither among the trees.
some were bathing in exactly the place where i had saved weena, and that suddenly gave me a keen stab of pain.
and like blots upon the landscape rose the cupolas above the ways to the underworld.
i understood now what all the beauty of the overworld people covered.
very pleasant was their day, as pleasant as the day of the cattle in the field.
like the cattle, they knew of no enemies and provided against no needs.
and their end was the same.
“i grieved to think how brief the dream of the human intellect had been.
it had committed suicide.
it had set itself steadfastly towards comfort and ease, a balanced society with security and permanency as its watchword, it had attained its hopes—to come to this at last.
once, life and property must have reached almost absolute safety.
the rich had been assured of his wealth and comfort, the toiler assured of his life and work.
no doubt in that perfect world there had been no unemployed problem, no social question left unsolved.
and a great quiet had followed.
“it is a law of nature we overlook, that intellectual versatility is the compensation for change, danger, and trouble.
an animal perfectly in harmony with its environment is a perfect mechanism.
nature never appeals to intelligence until habit and instinct are useless.
there is no intelligence where there is no change and no need of change.
only those animals partake of intelligence that have to meet a huge variety of needs and dangers.
“so, as i see it, the upperworld man had drifted towards his feeble prettiness, and the underworld to mere mechanical industry.
but that perfect state had lacked one thing even for mechanical perfection—absolute permanency.
apparently as time went on, the feeding of an underworld, however it was effected, had become disjointed.
mother necessity, who had been staved off for a few thousand years, came back again, and she began below.
the underworld being in contact with machinery, which, however perfect, still needs some little thought outside habit, had probably retained perforce rather more initiative, if less of every other human character, than the upper.
and when other meat failed them, they turned to what old habit had hitherto forbidden.
so i say i saw it in my last view of the world of eight hundred and two thousand seven hundred and one.
it may be as wrong an explanation as mortal wit could invent.
it is how the thing shaped itself to me, and as that i give it to you.
“after the fatigues, excitements, and terrors of the past days, and in spite of my grief, this seat and the tranquil view and the warm sunlight were very pleasant.
i was very tired and sleepy, and soon my theorising passed into dozing.
catching myself at that, i took my own hint, and spreading myself out upon the turf i had a long and refreshing sleep.
“i awoke a little before sunsetting.
i now felt safe against being caught napping by the morlocks, and, stretching myself, i came on down the hill towards the white sphinx.
i had my crowbar in one hand, and the other hand played with the matches in my pocket.
“and now came a most unexpected thing.
as i approached the pedestal of the sphinx i found the bronze valves were open.
they had slid down into grooves.
“at that i stopped short before them, hesitating to enter.
“within was a small apartment, and on a raised place in the corner of this was the time machine.
i had the small levers in my pocket.
so here, after all my elaborate preparations for the siege of the white sphinx, was a meek surrender.
i threw my iron bar away, almost sorry not to use it.
“a sudden thought came into my head as i stooped towards the portal.
for once, at least, i grasped the mental operations of the morlocks.
suppressing a strong inclination to laugh, i stepped through the bronze frame and up to the time machine.
i was surprised to find it had been carefully oiled and cleaned.
i have suspected since that the morlocks had even partially taken it to pieces while trying in their dim way to grasp its purpose.
“now as i stood and examined it, finding a pleasure in the mere touch of the contrivance, the thing i had expected happened.
the bronze panels suddenly slid up and struck the frame with a clang.
i was in the dark—trapped.
so the morlocks thought.
at that i chuckled gleefully.
“i could already hear their murmuring laughter as they came towards me.
very calmly i tried to strike the match.
i had only to fix on the levers and depart then like a ghost.
but i had overlooked one little thing.
the matches were of that abominable kind that light only on the box.
“you may imagine how all my calm vanished.
the little brutes were close upon me.
one touched me.
i made a sweeping blow in the dark at them with the levers, and began to scramble into the saddle of the machine.
then came one hand upon me and then another.
then i had simply to fight against their persistent fingers for my levers, and at the same time feel for the studs over which these fitted.
one, indeed, they almost got away from me.
as it slipped from my hand, i had to butt in the dark with my head—i could hear the morlock’s skull ring—to recover it.
it was a nearer thing than the fight in the forest, i think, this last scramble.
“but at last the lever was fixed and pulled over.
the clinging hands slipped from me.
the darkness presently fell from my eyes.
i found myself in the same grey light and tumult i have already described.
xiv
the further vision
“i have already told you of the sickness and confusion that comes with time travelling.
and this time i was not seated properly in the saddle, but sideways and in an unstable fashion.
for an indefinite time i clung to the machine as it swayed and vibrated, quite unheeding how i went, and when i brought myself to look at the dials again i was amazed to find where i had arrived.
one dial records days, and another thousands of days, another millions of days, and another thousands of millions.
now, instead of reversing the levers, i had pulled them over so as to go forward with them, and when i came to look at these indicators i found that the thousands hand was sweeping round as fast as the seconds hand of a watch—into futurity.
“as i drove on, a peculiar change crept over the appearance of things.
the palpitating greyness grew darker; then—though i was still travelling with prodigious velocity—the blinking succession of day and night, which was usually indicative of a slower pace, returned, and grew more and more marked.
this puzzled me very much at first.
the alternations of night and day grew slower and slower, and so did the passage of the sun across the sky, until they seemed to stretch through centuries.
at last a steady twilight brooded over the earth, a twilight only broken now and then when a comet glared across the darkling sky.
the band of light that had indicated the sun had long since disappeared; for the sun had ceased to set—it simply rose and fell in the west, and grew ever broader and more red.
all trace of the moon had vanished.
the circling of the stars, growing slower and slower, had given place to creeping points of light.
at last, some time before i stopped, the sun, red and very large, halted motionless upon the horizon, a vast dome glowing with a dull heat, and now and then suffering a momentary extinction.
at one time it had for a little while glowed more brilliantly again, but it speedily reverted to its sullen red heat.
i perceived by this slowing down of its rising and setting that the work of the tidal drag was done.
the earth had come to rest with one face to the sun, even as in our own time the moon faces the earth.
very cautiously, for i remembered my former headlong fall, i began to reverse my motion.
slower and slower went the circling hands until the thousands one seemed motionless and the daily one was no longer a mere mist upon its scale.
still slower, until the dim outlines of a desolate beach grew visible.
“i stopped very gently and sat upon the time machine, looking round.
the sky was no longer blue.
north-eastward it was inky black, and out of the blackness shone brightly and steadily the pale white stars.
overhead it was a deep indian red and starless, and south-eastward it grew brighter to a glowing scarlet where, cut by the horizon, lay the huge hull of the sun, red and motionless.
the rocks about me were of a harsh reddish colour, and all the trace of life that i could see at first was the intensely green vegetation that covered every projecting point on their south-eastern face.
it was the same rich green that one sees on forest moss or on the lichen in caves: plants which like these grow in a perpetual twilight.
“the machine was standing on a sloping beach.
the sea stretched away to the south-west, to rise into a sharp bright horizon against the wan sky.
there were no breakers and no waves, for not a breath of wind was stirring.
only a slight oily swell rose and fell like a gentle breathing, and showed that the eternal sea was still moving and living.
and along the margin where the water sometimes broke was a thick incrustation of salt—pink under the lurid sky.
there was a sense of oppression in my head, and i noticed that i was breathing very fast.
the sensation reminded me of my only experience of mountaineering, and from that i judged the air to be more rarefied than it is now.
“far away up the desolate slope i heard a harsh scream, and saw a thing like a huge white butterfly go slanting and fluttering up into the sky and, circling, disappear over some low hillocks beyond.
the sound of its voice was so dismal that i shivered and seated myself more firmly upon the machine.
looking round me again, i saw that, quite near, what i had taken to be a reddish mass of rock was moving slowly towards me.
then i saw the thing was really a monstrous crab-like creature.
can you imagine a crab as large as yonder table, with its many legs moving slowly and uncertainly, its big claws swaying, its long antennæ, like carters’ whips, waving and feeling, and its stalked eyes gleaming at you on either side of its metallic front?
its back was corrugated and ornamented with ungainly bosses, and a greenish incrustation blotched it here and there.
i could see the many palps of its complicated mouth flickering and feeling as it moved.
“as i stared at this sinister apparition crawling towards me, i felt a tickling on my cheek as though a fly had lighted there.
i tried to brush it away with my hand, but in a moment it returned, and almost immediately came another by my ear.
i struck at this, and caught something threadlike.
it was drawn swiftly out of my hand.
with a frightful qualm, i turned, and i saw that i had grasped the antenna of another monster crab that stood just behind me.
its evil eyes were wriggling on their stalks, its mouth was all alive with appetite, and its vast ungainly claws, smeared with an algal slime, were descending upon me.
in a moment my hand was on the lever, and i had placed a month between myself and these monsters.
but i was still on the same beach, and i saw them distinctly now as soon as i stopped.
dozens of them seemed to be crawling here and there, in the sombre light, among the foliated sheets of intense green.
“i cannot convey the sense of abominable desolation that hung over the world.
the red eastern sky, the northward blackness, the salt dead sea, the stony beach crawling with these foul, slow-stirring monsters, the uniform poisonous-looking green of the lichenous plants, the thin air that hurts one’s lungs: all contributed to an appalling effect.
i moved on a hundred years, and there was the same red sun—a little larger, a little duller—the same dying sea, the same chill air, and the same crowd of earthy crustacea creeping in and out among the green weed and the red rocks.
and in the westward sky, i saw a curved pale line like a vast new moon.
“so i travelled, stopping ever and again, in great strides of a thousand years or more, drawn on by the mystery of the earth’s fate, watching with a strange fascination the sun grow larger and duller in the westward sky, and the life of the old earth ebb away.
at last, more than thirty million years hence, the huge red-hot dome of the sun had come to obscure nearly a tenth part of the darkling heavens.
then i stopped once more, for the crawling multitude of crabs had disappeared, and the red beach, save for its livid green liverworts and lichens, seemed lifeless.
and now it was flecked with white.
a bitter cold assailed me.
rare white flakes ever and again came eddying down.
to the north-eastward, the glare of snow lay under the starlight of the sable sky, and i could see an undulating crest of hillocks pinkish white.
there were fringes of ice along the sea margin, with drifting masses farther out; but the main expanse of that salt ocean, all bloody under the eternal sunset, was still unfrozen.
“i looked about me to see if any traces of animal life remained.
a certain indefinable apprehension still kept me in the saddle of the machine.
but i saw nothing moving, in earth or sky or sea.
the green slime on the rocks alone testified that life was not extinct.
a shallow sandbank had appeared in the sea and the water had receded from the beach.
i fancied i saw some black object flopping about upon this bank, but it became motionless as i looked at it, and i judged that my eye had been deceived, and that the black object was merely a rock.
the stars in the sky were intensely bright and seemed to me to twinkle very little.
“suddenly i noticed that the circular westward outline of the sun had changed; that a concavity, a bay, had appeared in the curve.
i saw this grow larger.
for a minute perhaps i stared aghast at this blackness that was creeping over the day, and then i realised that an eclipse was beginning.
either the moon or the planet mercury was passing across the sun’s disk.
naturally, at first i took it to be the moon, but there is much to incline me to believe that what i really saw was the transit of an inner planet passing very near to the earth.
“the darkness grew apace; a cold wind began to blow in freshening gusts from the east, and the showering white flakes in the air increased in number.
from the edge of the sea came a ripple and whisper.
beyond these lifeless sounds the world was silent.
silent?
it would be hard to convey the stillness of it.
all the sounds of man, the bleating of sheep, the cries of birds, the hum of insects, the stir that makes the background of our lives—all that was over.
as the darkness thickened, the eddying flakes grew more abundant, dancing before my eyes; and the cold of the air more intense.
at last, one by one, swiftly, one after the other, the white peaks of the distant hills vanished into blackness.
the breeze rose to a moaning wind.
i saw the black central shadow of the eclipse sweeping towards me.
in another moment the pale stars alone were visible.
all else was rayless obscurity.
the sky was absolutely black.
“a horror of this great darkness came on me.
the cold, that smote to my marrow, and the pain i felt in breathing, overcame me.
i shivered, and a deadly nausea seized me.
then like a red-hot bow in the sky appeared the edge of the sun.
i got off the machine to recover myself.
i felt giddy and incapable of facing the return journey.
as i stood sick and confused i saw again the moving thing upon the shoal—there was no mistake now that it was a moving thing—against the red water of the sea.
it was a round thing, the size of a football perhaps, or, it may be, bigger, and tentacles trailed down from it; it seemed black against the weltering blood-red water, and it was hopping fitfully about.
then i felt i was fainting.
but a terrible dread of lying helpless in that remote and awful twilight sustained me while i clambered upon the saddle.
xv
the time traveller’s return
“so i came back.
for a long time i must have been insensible upon the machine.
the blinking succession of the days and nights was resumed, the sun got golden again, the sky blue.
i breathed with greater freedom.
the fluctuating contours of the land ebbed and flowed.
the hands spun backward upon the dials.
at last i saw again the dim shadows of houses, the evidences of decadent humanity.
these, too, changed and passed, and others came.
presently, when the million dial was at zero, i slackened speed.
i began to recognise our own pretty and familiar architecture, the thousands hand ran back to the starting-point, the night and day flapped slower and slower.
then the old walls of the laboratory came round me.
very gently, now, i slowed the mechanism down.
“i saw one little thing that seemed odd to me.
i think i have told you that when i set out, before my velocity became very high, mrs. watchett had walked across the room, travelling, as it seemed to me, like a rocket.
as i returned, i passed again across that minute when she traversed the laboratory.
but now her every motion appeared to be the exact inversion of her previous ones.
the door at the lower end opened, and she glided quietly up the laboratory, back foremost, and disappeared behind the door by which she had previously entered.
just before that i seemed to see hillyer for a moment; but he passed like a flash.
“then i stopped the machine, and saw about me again the old familiar laboratory, my tools, my appliances just as i had left them.
i got off the thing very shakily, and sat down upon my bench.
for several minutes i trembled violently.
then i became calmer.
around me was my old workshop again, exactly as it had been.
i might have slept there, and the whole thing have been a dream.
“and yet, not exactly!
the thing had started from the south-east corner of the laboratory.
it had come to rest again in the north-west, against the wall where you saw it.
that gives you the exact distance from my little lawn to the pedestal of the white sphinx, into which the morlocks had carried my machine.
“for a time my brain went stagnant.
presently i got up and came through the passage here, limping, because my heel was still painful, and feeling sorely begrimed.
i saw the pall mall gazette on the table by the door.
i found the date was indeed today, and looking at the timepiece, saw the hour was almost eight o’clock.
i heard your voices and the clatter of plates.
i hesitated—i felt so sick and weak.
then i sniffed good wholesome meat, and opened the door on you.
you know the rest.
i washed, and dined, and now i am telling you the story.
xvi
after the story
“i know,” he said, after a pause, “that all this will be absolutely incredible to you, but to me the one incredible thing is that i am here tonight in this old familiar room looking into your friendly faces and telling you these strange adventures.” he looked at the medical man.
“no.
i cannot expect you to believe it.
take it as a lie—or a prophecy.
say i dreamed it in the workshop.
consider i have been speculating upon the destinies of our race, until i have hatched this fiction.
treat my assertion of its truth as a mere stroke of art to enhance its interest.
and taking it as a story, what do you think of it?”
he took up his pipe, and began, in his old accustomed manner, to tap with it nervously upon the bars of the grate.
there was a momentary stillness.
then chairs began to creak and shoes to scrape upon the carpet.
i took my eyes off the time traveller’s face, and looked round at his audience.
they were in the dark, and little spots of colour swam before them.
the medical man seemed absorbed in the contemplation of our host.
the editor was looking hard at the end of his cigar—the sixth.
the journalist fumbled for his watch.
the others, as far as i remember, were motionless.
the editor stood up with a sigh.
“what a pity it is you’re not a writer of stories!” he said, putting his hand on the time traveller’s shoulder.
“you don’t believe it?”
“well——”
“i thought not.”
the time traveller turned to us.
“where are the matches?” he said.
he lit one and spoke over his pipe, puffing.
“to tell you the truth... i hardly believe it myself..... and yet...”
his eye fell with a mute inquiry upon the withered white flowers upon the little table.
then he turned over the hand holding his pipe, and i saw he was looking at some half-healed scars on his knuckles.
the medical man rose, came to the lamp, and examined the flowers.
“the gynæceum’s odd,” he said.
the psychologist leant forward to see, holding out his hand for a specimen.
“i’m hanged if it isn’t a quarter to one,” said the journalist.
“how shall we get home?”
“plenty of cabs at the station,” said the psychologist.
“it’s a curious thing,” said the medical man; “but i certainly don’t know the natural order of these flowers.
may i have them?”
the time traveller hesitated.
then suddenly: “certainly not.”
“where did you really get them?” said the medical man.
the time traveller put his hand to his head.
he spoke like one who was trying to keep hold of an idea that eluded him.
“they were put into my pocket by weena, when i travelled into time.” he stared round the room.
“i’m damned if it isn’t all going.
this room and you and the atmosphere of every day is too much for my memory.
did i ever make a time machine, or a model of a time machine?
or is it all only a dream?
they say life is a dream, a precious poor dream at times—but i can’t stand another that won’t fit.
it’s madness.
and where did the dream come from?
… i must look at that machine.
if there is one!”
he caught up the lamp swiftly, and carried it, flaring red, through the door into the corridor.
we followed him.
there in the flickering light of the lamp was the machine sure enough, squat, ugly, and askew, a thing of brass, ebony, ivory, and translucent glimmering quartz.
solid to the touch—for i put out my hand and felt the rail of it—and with brown spots and smears upon the ivory, and bits of grass and moss upon the lower parts, and one rail bent awry.
the time traveller put the lamp down on the bench, and ran his hand along the damaged rail.
“it’s all right now,” he said.
“the story i told you was true.
i’m sorry to have brought you out here in the cold.”
he took up the lamp, and, in an absolute silence, we returned to the smoking-room.
he came into the hall with us and helped the editor on with his coat.
the medical man looked into his face and, with a certain hesitation, told him he was suffering from overwork, at which he laughed hugely.
i remember him standing in the open doorway, bawling good-night.
i shared a cab with the editor.
he thought the tale a “gaudy lie.” for my own part i was unable to come to a conclusion.
the story was so fantastic and incredible, the telling so credible and sober.
i lay awake most of the night thinking about it.
i determined to go next day and see the time traveller again.
i was told he was in the laboratory, and being on easy terms in the house, i went up to him.
the laboratory, however, was empty.
i stared for a minute at the time machine and put out my hand and touched the lever.
at that the squat substantial-looking mass swayed like a bough shaken by the wind.
its instability startled me extremely, and i had a queer reminiscence of the childish days when i used to be forbidden to meddle.
i came back through the corridor.
the time traveller met me in the smoking-room.
he was coming from the house.
he had a small camera under one arm and a knapsack under the other.
he laughed when he saw me, and gave me an elbow to shake.
“i’m frightfully busy,” said he, “with that thing in there.”
“but is it not some hoax?” i said.
“do you really travel through time?”
“really and truly i do.” and he looked frankly into my eyes.
he hesitated.
his eye wandered about the room.
“i only want half an hour,”
he said.
“i know why you came, and it’s awfully good of you.
there’s some magazines here.
if you’ll stop to lunch i’ll prove you this time travelling up to the hilt, specimens and all.
if you’ll forgive my leaving you now?”
i consented, hardly comprehending then the full import of his words, and he nodded and went on down the corridor.
i heard the door of the laboratory slam, seated myself in a chair, and took up a daily paper.
what was he going to do before lunch-time?
then suddenly i was reminded by an advertisement that i had promised to meet richardson, the publisher, at two.
i looked at my watch, and saw that i could barely save that engagement.
i got up and went down the passage to tell the time traveller.
as i took hold of the handle of the door i heard an exclamation, oddly truncated at the end, and a click and a thud.
a gust of air whirled round me as i opened the door, and from within came the sound of broken glass falling on the floor.
the time traveller was not there.
i seemed to see a ghostly, indistinct figure sitting in a whirling mass of black and brass for a moment—a figure so transparent that the bench behind with its sheets of drawings was absolutely distinct; but this phantasm vanished as i rubbed my eyes.
the time machine had gone.
save for a subsiding stir of dust, the further end of the laboratory was empty.
a pane of the skylight had, apparently, just been blown in.
i felt an unreasonable amazement.
i knew that something strange had happened, and for the moment could not distinguish what the strange thing might be.
as i stood staring, the door into the garden opened, and the man-servant appeared.
we looked at each other.
then ideas began to come.
“has mr. —— gone out that way?” said i.
“no, sir.
no one has come out this way.
i was expecting to find him here.”
at that i understood.
at the risk of disappointing richardson i stayed on, waiting for the time traveller; waiting for the second, perhaps still stranger story, and the specimens and photographs he would bring with him.
but i am beginning now to fear that i must wait a lifetime.
the time traveller vanished three years ago.
and, as everybody knows now, he has never returned.
epilogue
one cannot choose but wonder.
will he ever return?
it may be that he swept back into the past, and fell among the blood-drinking, hairy savages of the age of unpolished stone; into the abysses of the cretaceous sea; or among the grotesque saurians, the huge reptilian brutes of the jurassic times.
he may even now—if i may use the phrase—be wandering on some plesiosaurus-haunted oolitic coral reef, or beside the lonely saline seas of the triassic age.
or did he go forward, into one of the nearer ages, in which men are still men, but with the riddles of our own time answered and its wearisome problems solved?
into the manhood of the race: for i, for my own part, cannot think that these latter days of weak experiment, fragmentary theory, and mutual discord are indeed man’s culminating time!
i say, for my own part.
he, i know—for the question had been discussed among us long before the time machine was made—thought but cheerlessly of the advancement of mankind, and saw in the growing pile of civilisation only a foolish heaping that must inevitably fall back upon and destroy its makers in the end.
if that is so, it remains for us to live as though it were not so.
but to me the future is still black and blank—is a vast ignorance, lit at a few casual places by the memory of his story.
and i have by me, for my comfort, two strange white flowers—shrivelled now, and brown and flat and brittle—to witness that even when mind and strength had gone, gratitude and a mutual tenderness still lived on in the heart of man.
chapter i.
the discovery of america.
it was a beautiful evening at the close of a warm, luscious day in old spain.
it was such an evening as one would select for trysting purposes.
the honeysuckle gave out the sweet announcement of its arrival on the summer breeze, and the bulbul sang in the dark vistas of olive-trees, sang of his love and his hope, and of the victory he anticipated in the morrow's bulbul-fight, and the plaudits of the royal couple who would be there.
the pink west paled away to the touch of twilight, and the soft zenith was sown with stars coming like celestial fire-flies on the breast of a mighty meadow.
across the dusk, with bowed head, came a woman.
her air was one of proud humility.
it was the air of royalty in the presence of an overruling power.
it was isabella.
she was on her way to confession.
she carried a large, beautifully-bound volume containing a memorandum of her sins for the day.
ever and anon she would refer to it, but the twilight had come on so fast that she could not read it.
reaching the confessional, she kneeled, and, by the aid of her notes, she told off to the good father and receptacle of the queen's trifling sins, fernando de talavera, how wicked she had been.
when it was over and the queen had risen to go, fernando came forth, and with a solemn obeisance said,
"may it please your majesty, i have to-day received a letter from my good friend the prior of the franciscan convent of st. mary's of rabida in andalusia.
with your majesty's permission, i will read it to you."
"proceed," exclaimed isabella, gravely, taking a piece of crochet-work from her apron and seating herself comfortably near the dim light.
"it is dated the sixth month and tenth day of the month, and reads as follows:
"dear brother:
"this letter will be conveyed unto your hands by the bearer hereof.
his name is christopher columbus, a native of genoa, who has been      living on me for two years.
but he is a good man, devout and      honest.
he is willing to work, but i have nothing to do in his      line.
times, as you know, are dull, and in his own profession      nothing seems to be doing.
"he is by profession a discoverer.
he has been successful in the      work where he has had opportunities, and there has been no      complaint so far on the part of those who have employed him.
everything he has ever discovered has remained that way, so he is      willing to let his work show for itself.
"should you be able to bring this to the notice of her majesty, who      is tender of heart, i would be most glad; and should her most      gracious majesty have any discovering to be done, or should she      contemplate a change or desire to substitute another in the place      of the present discoverer, she will do well to consider the      qualifications of my friend.
"very sincerely and fraternally thine,
"etc., etc."
the queen inquired still further regarding columbus, and, taking the letter, asked talavera to send him to the royal sitting-room at ten o'clock the following day.
when columbus arose the next morning he found a note from the royal confessor, and, without waiting for breakfast, for he had almost overcome the habit of eating, he reversed his cuffs, and, taking a fresh handkerchief from his valise and putting it in his pocket so that the corners would coyly stick out a little, he was soon on his way to the palace.
he carried also a small globe wrapped up in a newspaper.
the interview was encouraging until the matter of money necessary for the trip was touched upon.
his majesty was called in, and spoke sadly of the public surplus.
he said that there were one hundred dollars still due on his own salary, and the palace had not been painted for eight years.
he had taken orders on the store till he was tired of it.
"our meat bill," said he, taking off his crown and mashing a hornet on the wall, "is sixty days overdue.
we owe the hired girl for three weeks; and how are we going to get funds enough to do any discovering, when you remember that we have got to pay for an extra session this fall for the purpose of making money plenty?"
but isabella came and sat by him in her winning way, and with the moistened corner of her handkerchief removed a spot of maple syrup from the ermine trimming of his reigning gown.
she patted his hand, and, with her gentle voice, cheered him and told him that if he would economize and go without cigars or wine, in less than two hundred years he would have saved enough to fit columbus out.
a few weeks later he had saved one hundred and fifty dollars in this way.
the queen then went at twilight and pawned a large breastpin, and, although her chest was very sensitive to cold, she went without it all the following winter, in order that columbus might discover america before immigration set in here.
too much cannot be said of the heroism of queen isabella and the courage of her convictions.
a man would have said, under such circumstances, that there would be no sense in discovering a place that was not popular.
why discover a place when it is so far out of the way?
why discover a country with no improvements?
why discover a country that is so far from the railroad?
why discover, at great expense, an entirely new country?
but isabella did not stop to listen to these croaks.
in the language of the honorable jeremiah m. rusk, "she seen her duty and she done it."
that was isabella's style.
columbus now began to select steamer-chairs and rugs.
he had already secured the niña, pinta, and santa maria, and on the 3d of august, 1492, he sailed from palos.
isabella brought him a large bunch of beautiful flowers as he was about to sail, and ferdinand gave him a nice yachting-cap and a spicy french novel to read on the road.
he was given a commission as viceroy or governor of all the lands he might discover, with hunting and shooting privileges on same.
he stopped several weeks at the canary islands, where he and his one hundred and twenty men rested and got fresh water.
he then set out sailing due west over an unknown sea to blaze the way for liberty.
soon, however, his men began to murmur.
they began also to pick on columbus and occupy his steamer-chair when he wanted to use it himself.
they got to making chalk-marks on the deck and compelling him to pay a shilling before he could cross them.
some claimed that they were lost and that they had been sailing around for over a week in a circle, one man stating that he recognized a spot in the sea that they had passed eight times already.
finally they mutinied, and started to throw the great navigator overboard, but he told them that if they would wait until the next morning he would tell them a highly amusing story that he heard just before he left palos.
thus his life was saved, for early in the morning the cry of "land ho!"
was heard, and america was discovered.
a saloon was at once started, and the first step thus taken towards the foundation of a republic.
from that one little timid saloon, with its family entrance, has sprung the magnificent and majestic machine which, lubricated with spoils and driven by wind, gives to every american to-day the right to live under a government selected for him by men who make that their business.
columbus discovered america several times after the 12th of october, 1492, and finally, while prowling about looking for more islands, discovered south america near the mouth of the orinoco.
he was succeeded as governor by francisco de bobadilla, who sent him back finally in chains.
thus we see that the great are not always happy.
there is no doubt that millions of people every year avoid many discomforts by remaining in obscurity.
the life of columbus has been written by hundreds of men, both in this country and abroad, but the foregoing facts are distilled from this great biographical mass by skilful hands, and, like the succeeding pages, will stand for centuries unshaken by the bombardment of the critic, while succeeding years shall try them with frost and thaw, and the tide of time dash high against their massive front, only to recede, quelled and defeated.
[1]
[footnote 1: the author acknowledges especially the courtesy of san diego colon columbus, a son of the great navigator, whose book "historiadores primitivos" was so generously loaned the author by relatives of young columbus.
i have refrained from announcing in the foregoing chapter the death of columbus, which occurred may 20, 1506, at valladolid, the funeral taking place from his late residence, because i dislike to give needless pain.
b. n.]
chapter ii.
other discoveries wet and dry.
america had many other discoverers besides columbus, but he seems to have made more satisfactory arrangements with the historians than any of the others.
he had genius, and was also a married man.
he was a good after-dinner speaker, and was first to use the egg trick, which so many after-dinner speakers have since wished they had thought of before chris did.
in falsifying the log-book in order to make his sailors believe that they had not sailed so far as they had, columbus did a wrong act, unworthy of his high notions regarding the pious discovery of this land.
the artist has shown here not only one of the most faithful portraits of columbus and his crooked log-book, but the punishment which he should have received.
the man on the left is columbus; history is concealed just around the corner in a loose wrapper.
spain at this time regarded the new land as a vast jewelry store in charge of simple children of the forest who did not know the value of their rich agricultural lands or gold-ribbed farms.
spain, therefore, expected to exchange bone collar-buttons with the children of the forest for opals as large as lima beans, and to trade fiery liquids to them for large gold bricks.
the montezumas were compelled every little while to pay a freight-bill for the spanish confidence man.
ponce de leon had started out in search of the hot springs of arkansas, and in 1512 came in sight of florida.
he was not successful in his attempt to find the fountain of youth, and returned an old man so deaf that in the language of the hoosier poet referring to his grandfather,
"so remarkably deaf was my grandfather squeers   that he had to wear lightning-rods over his ears   to even hear thunder, and oftentimes then   he was forced to request it to thunder again."
balboa crossed the isthmus of darien, and, rolling up his pantalettes, waded into the pacific ocean and discovered it in the name of spain.
it was one of the largest and wettest discoveries ever made, and, though this occurred over three centuries ago, spain is still poor.
balboa, in discovering the pacific, did so according to the spanish custom of discovery, viz., by wading into it with his naked sword in one hand and the banner of castile, sometimes called castile's hope (see appendix), in the other.
he and his followers waded out so as to discover all they could, and were surprised to discover what is now called the undertow.
the artist has shown the great discoverer most truthfully as he appeared after he had discovered and filed on the ocean.
no one can look upon this picture for a moment and confuse balboa, the discoverer of the pacific, with kope elias, who first discovered in the mountains of north carolina what is now known as moonshine whiskey.
de narvaez in 1528 undertook to conquer florida with three hundred hands.
he also pulled considerable grass in his search for gold.
finally he got to the gulf and was wrecked.
they were all related mostly to narvaez, and for two weeks they lived on their relatives, but later struck shore four of them and lived more on a vegetable diet after that till they struck the pacific ocean, which now belonged to spain.
de soto also undertook the conquest of florida after this, and took six hundred men with him for the purpose.
they wandered through the gulf states to the mississippi, enduring much, and often forced to occupy the same room at night.
de soto in 1541 discovered the mississippi river, thus adding to the moisture collection of spain.
after trying to mortgage his discovery to eastern capitalists, he died, and was buried in the quiet bosom of the great father of waters.
thus once more the list of fatalities was added to and the hunger for gold was made to contribute a discovery.
menendez later on founded in 1565 the colony of st. augustine, the oldest town in the united states.
there are other towns that look older, but it is on account of dissipation.
new york looks older, but it is because she always sat up later of nights than st. augustine did.
cortez was one of the coarsest men who visited this country.
he did not marry any wealthy american girls, for there were none, but he did everything else that was wrong, and his unpaid laundry-bills are still found all over the spanish-speaking countries.
he was especially lawless and cruel to the peruvians: "recognizing the peruvian at once by his bark," he would treat him with great indignity, instead of using other things which he had with him.
cortez had a way of capturing the most popular man in a city, and then he would call on the tax-payers to redeem him on the instalment plan.
most everybody hated cortez, and when he held religious services the neighbors did not attend.
the religious efforts made by cortez were not successful.
he killed a great many people, but converted but few.
the historian desires at this time to speak briefly of the methods of cortez from a commercial stand-point.
will the reader be good enough to cast his eye on the cortez securities as shown in the picture drawn from memory by an artist yet a perfect gentleman?
notice the bonds nos.
18 and 27. do you notice the listening attitude of no.
18?
he is listening to the accumulating interest.
note the aged and haggard look of no.
27. he has just begun to notice that he is maturing.
cast your eye on the prone form of no.
31. he has just fallen due, and in doing so has hurt his crazy-bone (see appendix).
be good enough to study the gold-bearing bond behind the screen.
see the look of anguish.
some one has cut off a coupon probably.
cortez was that kind of a man.
he would clip the ear of an inca and make him scream with pain, so that his friends would come in and redeem him.
once the bank examiner came to examine the cortez bank.
he imparted a pleasing flavor on the following day to the soup.
spain owned at the close of the sixteenth century the west indies, yucatan, mexico, and florida, besides unlimited water facilities and the peruvian preserves.
north carolina was discovered by the french navigator verrazani, thirty years later than cabot did, but as cabot did not record his claim at the court-house in wilmington the frenchman jumped the claim in 1524, and the property remained about the same till again discovered by george w.
vanderbilt in the latter part of the present century.
montreal was discovered in 1535 by cartier, also a frenchman.
ribaut discovered south carolina, and left thirty men to hold it.
they were at that time the only white men from-mexico to the north pole, and a keen business man could have bought the whole thing, indians and all, for a good team and a jug of nepenthe.
but why repine?
the jesuit missionaries about the middle of the seventeenth century pushed their way to the north mississippi and sought to convert the indians.
the jesuits deserve great credit for their patience, endurance, and industry, but they were shocked to find the indian averse to work.
they also advanced slowly in church work, and would often avoid early mass that they might catch a mess of trout or violate the game law by killing a dakotah in may.
father marquette discovered the upper mississippi not far from a large piece of suburban property owned by the author, north of minneapolis.
the ground has not been disturbed since discovered by father marquette.
the english also discovered america from time to time, the cabots finding labrador while endeavoring to go to asia via the north, and frobisher discovered baffin bay in 1576 while on a like mission.
the spanish discovered the water mostly, and england the ice belonging to north america.
sir francis drake also discovered the pacific ocean, and afterward sailed an english ship on its waters, discovering oregon.
sir walter raleigh, with the endorsement of his half-brother, sir humphrey gilbert, regarding the idea of colonization of america, and being a great friend of queen elizabeth, got out a patent on virginia.
he planted a colony and a patch of tobacco on roanoke island, but the colonists did not care for agriculture, preferring to hunt for gold and pearls.
in this way they soon ran out of food, and were constantly harassed by indians.
it was an odd sight to witness a colonist coming home after a long hard day hunting for pearls as he asked his wife if she would be good enough to pull an arrow out of some place which he could not reach himself.
raleigh spent two hundred thousand dollars in his efforts to colonize virginia, and then, disgusted, divided up his patent and sold county rights to it at a pound apiece.
this was in 1589. raleigh learned the use of smoking tobacco at this time.
he was astonished when he tried it first, and threatened to change his boarding-place or take his meals out, but soon enjoyed it, and before he had been home a week queen elizabeth thought it to be an excellent thing for her house plants.
it is now extensively used in the best narcotic circles.
several other efforts were made by the english to establish colonies in this country, but the indians thought that these english people bathed too much, and invited perspiration between baths.
one can see readily that the englishman with his portable bath-tub has been a flag of defiance from the earliest discoveries till this day.
this chapter brings us to the time when settlements were made as follows:
the french at port royal, n.s.,  1605.
the english at jamestown         1607.
the french at quebec             1608.
the dutch at new york            1613.
the english at plymouth          1620.
the author's thanks are due to the following books of reference,      which, added to his retentive memory, have made the foregoing      statements accurate yet pleasing:
a summer in england with h. w. beecher.
by j. b. reed.
russell's digest of the laws of minnesota, with price-list of      members.
out-door and bug life in america.
by chilblainy, chief of the      umatilla.
why i am an indian.
by s. bull.
with notes by ole bull and      introduction by john bull.
chapter iii.
the thirteen original colonies.
this chapter is given up almost wholly to facts.
it deals largely with the beginning of the thirteen original colonies from which sprang the republic, the operation of which now gives so many thousands of men in-door employment four years at a time, thus relieving the penitentiaries and throwing more kindergarten statesmen to the front.
it was during this epoch that the cavaliers landed in virginia and the puritans in massachusetts; the latter lived on maple sugar and armed prayer, while the former saluted his cow, and, with bared head, milked her with his hat in one hand and his life in the other.
immigration now began to increase along the coast.
the mayflower began to bring over vast quantities of antique furniture, mostly hall-clocks for future sales.
hanging them on spars and masts during rough weather easily accounts for the fact that none of them have ever been known to go.
the puritans now began to barter with the indians, swapping square black bottles of liquid hell for farms in massachusetts and additions to log towns.
dried apples and schools began to make their appearance.
the low retreating forehead of the codfish began to be seen at the stores, and virtue began to break out among the indians after death.
virginia, however, deserves mention here on the start.
this colony was poorly prepared to tote wood and sleep out-of-doors, as the people were all gents by birth.
they had no families, but came to virginia to obtain fortunes and return to the city of new york in september.
the climate was unhealthy, and before the first autumn, says sir william kronk, from whom i quote, "ye greater numberr of them hade perished of a great miserrie in the side and for lacke of food, for at thatte time the crosse betweene the wilde hyena and the common hogge of the holy lande, and since called the razor backe hogge, had not been made, and so many of the courtiers dyede."
john smith saved the colony.
he was one of the best smiths that ever came to this country, which is as large an encomium as a man cares to travel with.
he would have saved the life of pocahontas, an indian girl who also belonged to the gentry of their tribe, but she saw at once that it would be a point for her to save him, so after a month's rehearsal with her father as villain, with smith's part taken by a chunk of blue-gum wood, they succeeded in getting this little curtain-raiser to perfection.
pocahontas was afterwards married, if the author's memory does not fail him, to john rolfe.
pocahontas was not beautiful, but many good people sprang from her.
she never touched them.
her husband sprang from her also just in time.
the way she jumped from a clay-eating crowd into the bosom of the english aristocracy by this dramatic ruse was worthy of a greater recognition than merely to figure among the makers of smoking-tobacco with fancy wrappers, when she never had a fancy wrapper in her life.
smith was captured once by the indians, and, instead of telling them that he was by birth a gent, he gave them a course of lectures on the use of the compass and how to learn where one is at.
thus one after another the indians went away.
i often wonder why the lecture is not used more as a means of escape from hostile people.
by writing a letter and getting a reply to it, he made another hit.
he now became a great man among the indians; and to kill a dog and fail to invite smith to the symposium was considered as vulgar as it is now to rest the arctic overshoe on the corner of the dining-table while buckling or unbuckling it.
afterward smith fell into the hands of powhatan, the croker of his time, and narrowly saved his life, as we have seen, through the intervention of pocahontas.
smith was now required in england to preside at a dinner given by the savage club, and to tell a few stories of life in the far west.
while he was gone the settlement became a prey to disease and famine.
some were killed by the indians while returning from their club at evening; some became pirates.
the colony decreased from four hundred and ninety to sixty people, and at last it was moved and seconded that they do now adjourn.
they started away from jamestown without a tear, or hardly anything else, having experienced a very dull time there, funerals being the only relaxation whatever.
but moving down the bay they met lord delaware, the new governor, with a lot of christmas-presents and groceries.
jamestown was once more saved, though property still continued low.
the company, by the terms of its new charter, became a self-governing institution, and london was only too tickled to get out of the responsibility.
it is said that the only genuine humor up to that time heard in london was spent on the jays of jamestown and the virginia colony.
where is that laughter now?
where are the gibes and bon-mots made at that sad time?
they are gone.
all over that little republic, so begun in sorrow and travail, there came in after-years the dimples and the smiles of the prosperous child who would one day rise in the lap of the mother-country, and, asserting its rights by means of patrick o'fallen henry and others, place a large and disagreeable fire-cracker under the nose of royalty, that, busting the awful stillness, should jar the empires of earth, and blow the unblown noses of future kings and princes.
(this is taken bodily from a speech made by me july 4, 1777, when i was young.
the author.)
pocahontas was married in 1613. she was baptized the day before.
whoever thought of that was a bright and thoughtful thinker.
she stood the wear and tear of civilization for three years, and then died, leaving an infant son, who has since grown up.
the colony now prospered.
all freemen had the right to vote.
religious toleration was enjoyed first-rate, and, there being no negro slavery, virginia bade fair to be the republic of the continent.
but in 1619 the captain of a dutch trading-vessel sold to the colonists twenty negroes.
the negroes were mostly married people, and in some instances children were born to them.
this peculiarity still shows itself among the negroes, and now all over the south one hardly crosses a county without seeing a negro or a person with negro blood in his or her veins.
after the death of powhatan, the friend of the english, an organized attempt was made by the indians to exterminate the white people and charge more for water frontage the next time any colonists came.
march 22, 1622, was the day set, and many of the indians were eating at the tables of those they had sworn to kill.
it was a solemn moment.
the surprise was to take place between the cold beans and the chili sauce.
but a converted indian told quite a number, and as the cold beans were passed, the effect of some arsenic that had been eaten with the slim-neck clams began to be seen, and before the beans had gone half-way round the board the children of the forest were seen to excuse themselves, and thus avoid dying in the house.
yet there were over three hundred and fifty white people massacred, and there followed another, reducing the colonists from four thousand to two thousand five hundred, then a massacre of five hundred, and so on, a sickening record of death and horror, even worse, before a great nation could get a foothold in this wild and savage land; even a toe-hold, as i may say, in the sands of time.
july 30, 1619, the first sprout of freedom poked its head from the soil of jamestown when governor yeardley stated that the colony "should have a handle in governing itself."
he then called at jamestown the first legislative body ever assembled in america; most of the members whereof boarded at the planters' house during the session.
(for sample of legislator see picture.)
this body could pass laws, but they must be ratified by the company in england.
the orders from london were not binding unless ratified by this colonial assembly.
this was a mutual arrangement reminding one of the fearful yet mutual apprehension spoken of by the poet when he says,
"jim darling didn't know but his father was dead,   and his father didn't know but jim darling was dead."
the colony now began to prosper; men held their lands in severalty, and taxes were low.
the railroad had not then brought in new styles in clothing and made people unhappy by creating jealousy.
settlements joined each other along the james for one hundred and forty miles, and the colonists first demonstrated how easily they could get along without the new york papers.
tobacco began to be a very valuable crop, and at one time even the streets were used for its cultivation.
tobacco now proceeded to become a curse to the civilized world.
in 1624, king james, fearing that the infant colony would go democratic, appointed a rump governor.
the oppression of the english parliament now began to be felt.
the colonists were obliged to ship their products to england and to use only english vessels.
the assembly, largely royalists, refused to go out when their terms of office expired, paid themselves at the rate of about thirty-six dollars per day as money is now, and, in fact, acted like members of the legislature generally.
in 1676, one hundred years before the colonies declared themselves free and independent, a rebellion, under the management of a bright young attorney named bacon, visited jamestown and burned the american metropolis, after which governor berkeley was driven out.
bacon died just as his rebellion was beginning to pay, and the people dispersed.
berkeley then took control, and killed so many rebels that mrs. berkeley had to do her own work, and berkeley, who had no one left to help him but his friends, had to stack his own grain that fall and do the chores at the barn.
jamestown is now no more.
it was succeeded in 1885 by jamestown, north dakota, now called jimtown, a prosperous place in the rich farming-lands of that state.
jamestown the first, the scene of so many sorrows and little jealousies, so many midnight indian attacks and bilious attacks by day, became a solemn ruin, and a few shattered tombstones, over which the jimson-weed and the wild vines clamber, show to the curious traveller the place where civilization first sought to establish itself on the james river, u.s.a.
the author wishes to refer with great gratitude to information      contained in the foregoing chapter and obtained from the following      works:
the indian and other animalcula.
by n. k. boswell, laramie city,      wyoming.
how to jolly the red man out of his lands.
by ernest smith.
the female red man and her pure life.
by johnson sides, reno,      nevada (p.m. please forward if out on war-path).
the crow indian and his caws.
by me.
massacre etiquette.
by wad.
mcswalloper, 82 mcdougall st., new      york.
where is my indian to night?
by a half-bred lady of winnipeg.
chapter iv.
the plymouth colony.
in the fall of 1620 the pilgrims landed at plymouth during a disagreeable storm, and, noting the excellent opportunity for future misery, began to erect a number of rude cabins.
this party consisted of one hundred and two people of a resolute character who wished to worship god in a more extemporaneous manner than had been the custom in the church of england.
they found that the indians of cape cod were not ritualistic, and that they were willing to dispose of inside lots at plymouth on reasonable terms, retaining, however, the right to use the lands for massacre purposes from time to time.
the pilgrims were honest, and gave the indians something for their land in almost every instance, but they put a price upon it which has made the indian ever since a comparatively poor man.
half of this devoted band died before spring, and yet the idea of returning to england did not occur to them.
"no," they exclaimed, "we will not go back to london until we can go first-class, if we have to stay here two hundred years."
during the winter they discovered why the lands had been sold to them so low.
the indians of one tribe had died there of a pestilence the year before, and so when the pilgrims began to talk trade they did not haggle over prices.
in the early spring, however, they were surprised to hear the word "welcome" proceeding from the door-mat of samoset, an indian whose chief was named massasoit.
a treaty was then made for fifty years, massasoit taking "the same."
canonicus once sent to governor bradford a bundle of arrows tied up in a rattlesnake's skin.
the governor put them away in the pantry with his other curios, and sent canonicus a few bright new bullets and a little dose of powder.
that closed the correspondence.
in those days there were no newspapers, and most of the fighting was done without a guarantee or side bets.
money-matters; however, were rather panicky at the time, and the people were kept busy digging clams to sustain life in order to raise indian corn enough to give them sufficient strength to pull clams enough the following winter to get them through till the next corn crop should give them strength to dig for clams again.
thus a trip to london and the isle of wight looked farther and farther away.
after four years they numbered only one hundred and eighty-four, counting immigration and all.
the colony only needed, however, more people and eastern capital.
it would be well to pause here and remember the annoyances connected with life as a forefather.
possibly the reader has considered the matter already.
imagine how nervous one may be waiting in the hall and watching with a keen glance for the approach of the physician who is to announce that one is a forefather.
the amateur forefather of 1620 must have felt proud yet anxious about the clam-yield also, as each new mouth opened on the prospect.
speaking of clams, it is said by some of the forefathers that the cape cod menu did not go beyond codfish croquettes until the beginning of the seventeenth century, when pie was added by act of legislature.
clams are not so restless if eaten without the brisket, which is said to lie hard on the stomach.
[2]
salem and charlestown were started by governor endicott, and boston was founded in 1630. to these various towns the puritans flocked, and even now one may be seen in ghostly garments on thanksgiving eve flitting here and there turning off the gas in the parlor while the family are at tea, in order to cut down expenses.
plymouth and massachusetts bay colonies were united in 1692.
roger williams, a bright young divine, was the first to interfere with the belief that magistrates had the right to punish sabbath-breakers, blasphemers, etc.
he also was the first to utter the idea that a man's own conscience must be his own guide and not that of another.
among the puritans there were several who had enlarged consciences, and who desired to take in extra work for others who had no consciences and were busy in the fields.
they were always ready to give sixteen ounces to the pound, and were honest, but they got very little rest on sunday, because they had to watch the sabbath-breaker all the time.
the method of punishment for some offences is given here.
does the man look cheerful?
no.
no one looks cheerful.
even the little boys look sad.
it is said that the puritans knocked what fun there was out of the indian.
did any one ever see an indian smile since the landing of the pilgrims?
roger williams was too liberal to be kindly received by the clergy, and so he was driven out of the settlement.
finding that the indians were less rigid and kept open on sundays, he took refuge among them (1636), and before spring had gained eighteen pounds and converted canonicus, one of the hardest cases in new england and the first man to sit up till after ten o'clock at night.
canonicus gave roger the tract of land on which providence now stands.
mrs. anne hutchinson gave the pilgrims trouble also.
having claimed some special revelations and attempted to make a few remarks regarding them, she was banished.
banishment, which meant a homeless life in a wild land, with no one but the indians to associate with, in those days, was especially annoying to a good christian woman, and yet it had its good points.
it offered a little religious freedom, which could not be had among those who wanted it so much that they braved the billow and the wild beast, the savage, the drouth, the flood, and the potato-bug, to obtain it before anybody else got a chance at it.
freedom is a good thing.
twenty years later the quakers shocked every one by thinking a few religious thoughts on their own hooks.
the colonists executed four of them, and before that tortured them at a great rate.
during dull times and on rainy days it was a question among the puritans whether they would banish an old lady, bore holes with a red-hot iron through a quaker's tongue, or pitch horse-shoes.
in 1643 the "united colonies of new england" was the name of a league formed by the people for protection against the indians.
king philip's war followed.
massasoit was during his lifetime a friend to the poor whites of plymouth, as powhatan had been of those at jamestown, but these two great chiefs were succeeded by a low set of indians, who showed as little refinement as one could well imagine.
some of the sufferings of the pilgrims at the time are depicted on the preceding pages by the artist, also a few they escaped.
looking over the lives of our forefathers who came from england, i am not surprised that, with all the english people who have recently come to this country, i have never seen a forefather.
[footnote 2: see dr. dunn's family physician and horse doctor.]
chapter v.
drawbacks of being a colonist.
it was at this period in the history of our country that the colonists found themselves not only banished from all civilization, but compelled to fight an armed foe whose trade was war and whose music was the dying wail of a tortured enemy.
unhampered by the exhausting efforts of industry, the indian, trained by centuries of war upon adjoining tribes, felt himself foot-loose and free to shoot the unprotected forefather from behind the very stump fence his victim had worked so hard to erect.
king philip, a demonetized sovereign, organized his red troops, and, carrying no haversacks, knapsacks, or artillery, fell upon the colonists and killed them, only to reappear at some remote point while the dead and wounded who fell at the first point were being buried or cared for by rude physicians.
what an era in the history of a country!
gentlewomen whose homes had been in the peaceful hamlets of england lived and died in the face of a cruel foe, yet prepared the cloth and clothing for their families, fed them, and taught them to look to god in all times of trouble, to be prayerful in their daily lives, yet vigilant and ready to deal death to the general enemy.
they were the mothers whose sons and grandsons laid the huge foundations of a great nation and cemented them with their blood.
at this time there was a line of battle three hundred miles in length.
on one side the white man went armed to the field or the prayer-meeting, shooting an indian on sight as he would a panther; on the other, a foe whose wife did the chores and hoed the scattering crops while he made war and extermination his joy by night and his prayer and life-long purpose by day.
finally, however, the victory came sluggishly to the brave and deserving.
one thousand indians were killed at one pop, and their wigwams were burned.
all their furniture and curios were burned in their wigwams, and some of their valuable dogs were holocausted.
king philip was shot by a follower as he was looking under the throne for something, and peace was for the time declared.
about 1684 the colony of massachusetts, which had dared to open up a trade with the west indies, using its own vessels for that purpose, was hauled over the coals by the mother-country for violation of the navigation act, and an officer sent over to enforce the latter.
the colonists defied him, and when he was speaking to them publicly in a tone of reprimand, he got an ovation in the way of eggs and codfish, both of which had been set aside for that purpose when the country was new, and therefore had an air of antiquity which cannot be successfully imitated.
as a result, the colony was made a royal appendage, and sir edmund andros, a political hack under james ii., was made governor of new england.
he reigned under great difficulties for three years, and then suddenly found himself in jail.
the jail was so arranged that he could not get out, and so the puritans now quietly resumed their old form of government.
this continued also for three years, when sir william phipps became governor under the crown, with one hundred and twenty pounds per annum and house-rent.
from this on to the revolution, massachusetts, maine, and nova scotia became a royal province.
nova scotia is that way yet, and has to go to boston for her groceries.
the year 1692 is noted mostly for the salem excitement regarding witchcraft.
the children of rev.
mr. parris were attacked with some peculiar disease which would not yield to the soothing blisters and bleedings administered by the physicians of the old school, and so, not knowing exactly what to do about it, the doctors concluded that they were bewitched.
then it was, of course, the duty of the courts and selectmen to hunt up the witches.
this was naturally difficult.
fifty-five persons were tortured and twenty were hanged for being witches; which proves that the people of salem were fully abreast of the indians in intelligence, and that their gospel privileges had not given their charity and christian love such a boom as they should have done.
one can hardly be found now, even in salem, who believes in witchcraft; though the cape cod people, it is said, still spit on their bait.
the belief in witchcraft in those days was not confined by any means to the colonists.
sir matthew hale of england, one of the most enlightened judges of the mother-country, condemned a number of people for the offence, and is now engaged in doing road-work on the streets of the new jerusalem as a punishment for these acts done while on the woolsack.
blackstone himself, one of the dullest authors ever read by the writer of these lines, yet a skilled jurist, with a marvellous memory regarding justinian, said that, to deny witchcraft was to deny revelation.
"be you a witch?"
asked one of the judges of massachusetts, according to the records now on file in the state-house at boston.
"no, your honor," was the reply.
"officer," said the court, taking a pinch of snuff, "take her out on the tennis-grounds and pull out her toe-nails with a pair of hot pincers, and then see what she says."
it was quite common to examine lady witches in the regular court and then adjourn to the tennis-court.
a great many were ducked by order of the court and hanged up by the thumbs, in obedience to the customs of these people who came to america because they were persecuted.
human nature is the same even to this day.
the writer grew up with an irishman who believed that when a man got wealthy enough to keep a carriage and coachman he ought to be assassinated and all his goods given to the poor.
he now hires a coachman himself, having succeeded in new york city as a policeman; but the man who comes to assassinate him will find it almost impossible to obtain an audience with him.
if you wish to educate a man to be a successful oppressor, with a genius for introducing new horrors and novelties in pain, oppress him early in life and don't give him any reason for doing so.
the idea that "god is love" was not popular in those days.
the early settlers were so stern even with their own children that if the indian had not given the forefather something to attract his attention, the boy crop would have been very light.
even now the philosopher is led to ask, regarding the boasted freedom of america, why some measures are not taken to put large fly-screens over it.
chapter vi.
the episode of the charter oak.
the colonies of maine and new hampshire were so closely associated with that of massachusetts that their history up to 1820 was practically the same.
shortly after the landing of the pilgrims, say two years or thereabouts, gorges and mason obtained from england the grant of a large tract lying between the merrimac and kennebec rivers.
this patent was afterwards dissolved, mason taking what is now new hampshire, and gorges taking maine.
he afterwards sold the state to massachusetts for six thousand dollars.
the growth of the state may be noticed since that time, for one county cost more than that last november.
in 1820 maine was separated from massachusetts.
maine is noted for being the easternmost state in the union, and has been utilized by a number of eminent men as a birthplace.
white-birch spools for thread, christmas-trees, and tamarack and spruce-gum are found in great abundance.
it is the home of an industrious and peace-loving people.
bar harbor is a cool place to go to in summer-time and violate the liquor law of the state.
the dutch were first to claim connecticut.
they built a trading-post at hartford, where they swapped bone collar-buttons with the indians for beaver-and otter-skins.
traders from plymouth who went up the river were threatened by the dutch, but they pressed on and established a post at windsor.
in 1635, john steele led a company "out west" to hartford, and thomas hooker, a clergyman, followed with his congregation, driving their stock before them.
hartford thus had quite a boom quite early in the seventeenth century.
the dutch were driven out of the connecticut valley, and began to look towards new york.
soon after this the pequod war broke out.
these indians had hoped to form an alliance with the narragansetts, but roger williams prevented this by seeing the narragansett chief personally.
thus the puritans had coals of fire heaped on their heads by their gentle pastor, until the odor of burning hair could be detected as far away as new haven.
the pequods were thus compelled to fight alone, and captain mason by a coup d'état surrounded their camp before daylight and entered the palisades with the indian picket, who cried out "owanux!
owanux!"
meaning "englishmen.
englishmen."
mason and his men killed these pequods and burned their lodges to the ground.
there has never been a prosperous pequod lodge since.
those who escaped to the forest were shot down like jack-rabbits as they fled, and there has been no pequoding done since that time.
the new haven colony was founded in 1638 by wealthy church members from abroad.
they took the bible as their standard and statute.
they had no other law.
only church members could vote, which was different from the arrangements in new york city in after-years.
the connecticut colony had a regular constitution, said to have been the first written constitution ever adopted by the people, framed for the people by the people.
it was at once prosperous, and soon bought out the saybrook colony.
in 1662 a royal charter was obtained which united the two above colonies and guaranteed to the people the rights agreed upon by them.
it amounted to a duly-authenticated independence.
a quarter of a century afterwards governor andros, in his other clothes and a reigning coat of red and gold trimmings, marched into the assembly and demanded this precious charter.
a long debate ensued, and, according to tradition, while the members of the assembly stood around the table taking a farewell look at the charter, one of the largest members of the house fell on the governor's breast and wept so copiously on his shirt-frill that harsh words were used by his excellency; a general quarrel ensued, the lights went out, and when they were relighted the charter was gone.
captain wadsworth had taken it and concealed it in a hollow tree, since called the charter oak.
after andros was ejected from the boston office, the charter was brought out again, and business under it was resumed.
important documents, however, should not be, as a general thing, secreted in trees.
the author once tried this while young, and when engaged to, or hoping to become engaged to, a dear one whose pa was a singularly coarse man and who hated a young man who came as a lover at his daughter's feet with nothing but a good education and his great big manly heart.
he wanted a son-in-law with a brewery; and so he bribed the boys of the neighborhood to break up a secret correspondence between the two young people and bring the mail to him.
this was the cause of many a heart-ache, and finally the marriage of the sweet young lady to a brewer who was mortgaged so deeply that he wandered off somewhere and never returned.
years afterwards the brewery needed repairs, and one of the large vats was found to contain all of the missing man that would not assimilate with the beer, viz., his watch.
quite a number of people at that time quit the use of beer, and the author gave his hand in marriage to a wealthy young lady who was attracted by his gallantry and fresh young beauty.
roger williams now settled at providence plantation, where he was joined by mrs. hutchinson, who also believed that the church and state should not be united, but that the state should protect the church and that neither should undertake to boss the other.
it was also held that religious qualifications should not be required of political aspirants, also that no man should be required to whittle his soul into a shape to fit the religious auger-hole of another.
this was the beginning of rhode island.
she desired at once to join the new england colony, but was refused, as she had no charter.
plymouth claimed also to have jurisdiction over rhode island.
this was very much like plymouth.
having banished roger williams and mrs. hutchinson to be skinned by the pequods and narragansetts over at narragansett pier, they went on about their business, flogging quakers, also ducking old women who had lumbago, and burning other women who would not answer affirmatively when asked, "be you a witch?"
then when roger began to make improvements and draw the attention of eastern capital to rhode island and to organize a state or colony with a charter, plymouth said, "hold on, roger: religiously we have cast you out, to live on wild strawberries, clams, and indians, but from a mercantile and political point of view you will please notice that we have a string which you will notice is attached to your wages and discoveries."
afterwards, however, roger williams obtained the necessary funds from admiring friends with which to go to england and obtain a charter which united the colonies yet gave to all the first official right to liberty of conscience ever granted in europe or america.
prior to that a man's conscience had a brass collar on it with the royal arms engraved thereon, and was kept picketed out in the king's grounds.
the owner could go and look at it on sundays, but he never had the use of it.
with the advent of freedom of political opinion, the individual use of the conscience has become popularized, and the time is coming when it will grow to a great size under our wise institutions and fostering skies.
instead of turning over our consciences to the safety deposit company of a great political party or religious organization and taking the key in our pocket, let us have individual charge of this useful little instrument and be able finally to answer for its growth or decay.
chapter vii.
the discovery of new york.
the author will now refer to the discovery of the hudson river and the town of new york via fort lee and the 125th street ferry.
new york was afterwards sold for twenty-four dollars, the whole island.
when i think of this i go into my family gallery, which i also use as a swear room, and tell those ancestors of mine what i think of them.
where were they when new york was sold for twenty-four dollars?
were they having their portraits painted by landseer, or their deposition taken by jeffreys, or having their little lord fauntleroy clothes made?
do not encourage them to believe that they will escape me in future years.
some of them died unregenerate, and are now, i am told, in a country where they may possibly be damned; and i will attend to the others personally.
twenty-four dollars for new york!
why, my croton-water tax on one house and lot with fifty feet four and one-fourth inches front is fifty-nine dollars and no questions asked.
why, you can't get a voter for that now.
henry or hendrik hudson was an english navigator, of whose birth and early history nothing is known definitely, hence his name is never mentioned in many of the best homes in new york.
in 1607 he made a voyage in search of the northwest passage.
in one of his voyages he discovered cape cod, and later on the hudson river.
this was one hundred and seventeen years after columbus discovered america; which shows that the discovering business was not pushed as it should have been by those who had it in charge.
hudson went up the river as far as albany, but, finding no one there whom he knew, he hastened back as far as 209th street west, and anchored.
he discovered hudson bay and hudson strait, and made other journeys by water, though aquatting was then in its infancy.
afterwards his sailors became mutinous, and set hendrik and his son, with seven infirm sailors, afloat.
ah!
whom have we here?
it is hendrik hudson, who discovered the hudson river.
here he has just landed at the foot of 209th street, new york, where he offered the indians liquor, but they refused.
how 209th street has changed!
the artist has been fortunate in getting the expression of the indians in the act of refusing.
mr. hudson's great reputation lies in the fact that he discovered the river which bears his name; but the thinking mind will at once regard the discovery of an indian who does not drink as far more wonderful.
some historians say that this especial delegation was swept away afterward by a pestilence, whilst others commenting on the incident maintain that hudson lied.
it is the only historical question regarding america not fully settled by this book.
nothing more was heard of him till he turned up in a thinking part in "rip van winkle."
many claims regarding the discovery of various parts of the united states had been previously made.
the cabots had discovered labrador, the spaniards the southern part of the united states; the norsemen had discovered minneapolis, and columbus had discovered san salvador and gone home to meet a ninety-day note due in palos for the use of the pinta, which he had hired by the hour.
but we are speaking of the discovery of new york.
about this time a solitary horseman might have been seen at west 209th street, clothed in a little brief authority, and looking out to the west as he petulantly spoke in the tammany dialect, then in the language of the blank-verse indian.
he began, "another day of anxiety has passed, and yet we have not been discovered!
the great spirit tells me in the thunder of the surf and the roaring cataract of the harlem that within a week we will be discovered for the first time."
as he stands there aboard of his horse, one sees that he is a chief in every respect and in life's great drama would naturally occupy the middle of the stage.
it was at this moment that hudson slipped down the river from albany past fort lee, and, dropping a nickel in the slot at 125th street, weighed his anchor at that place.
as soon as he had landed and discovered the city, he was approached by the chief, who said, "we gates.
i am one of the committee to show you our little town.
i suppose you have a power of attorney, of course, for discovering us?"
"yes," said hudson.
"as columbus used to say when he discovered san salvador, 'i do it by the right vested in me by my sovereigns.'
'that oversizes my pile by a sovereign and a half,' says one of the natives; and so, if you have not heard it, there is a good thing for one of your dinner-speeches here."
"very good," said the chief, as they jogged down-town on a swift sixth avenue elevated train towards the wigwams on 14th street, and going at the rate of four miles an hour.
"we do not care especially who discovers us, so long as we hold control of the city organization.
how about that, hank?"
"that will be satisfactory," said mr. hudson, taking a package of imported cheese and eating it, so that they could have the car to themselves.
"we will take the departments, such as police, street-cleaning, etc., etc., etc., while you and columbus get your pictures on the currency and have your graves mussed up on anniversaries.
we get the two-moment horses and the country châteaux on the bronx.
sabe?"
"that is, you do not care whose portrait is on the currency," said hudson, "so you get the currency."
said the man, "that is the sense of the meeting."
thus was new york discovered via albany and fort lee, and five minutes after the two touched glasses, the brim of the schoppin and the manhattan cocktail tinkled together, and new york was inaugurated.
obtaining a gentle and philanthropical gentleman who knew too well the city by gas-light, they saw the town so thoroughly that nearly every building in the morning wore a bright red sign which read
+           +
|   beware of paint.
|
+           +
regarding the question as to who has the right to claim the priority of discovery of new york, i unite with one of the ablest historians now living in stating that i do not know.
here and there throughout the work of all great historians who are frank and honest, chapter after chapter of information like this will burst forth upon the eye of the surprised and delighted reader.
society at the time of the discovery of the blank-verse indian of america was crude.
hudson's arrival, of course, among older citizens soon called out those who desired his acquaintance, but he noticed that club life was not what it has since become, especially indian club life.
he found a nation whose regular job was war and whose religion was the ever-present prayer that they might eat the heart of their enemy plain.
the indian high school and young ladies' seminary captured by columbus, as shown in the pictures of his arrival at home and his presentation to the royal pair one hundred and seventeen years before this, it is said, brought a royal flush to the face of king ferdie, who had been well brought up.
this can be readily understood when we remember that the indian wore at court a court plaster, a parlor-lamp-shade in stormy weather, made of lawn grass, or a surcingle of front teeth.
they were shown also in all these paintings as graceful and beautiful in figure; but in those days when the pocahontas girls went barefooted till the age of eighty-nine years, chewed tobacco, kept lent all winter and then ate a brace of middle-aged men for easter, the figure must have been affected by this irregularity of meals.
unless the pocahontas of the present day has fallen off sadly in her carriage and beauty, to be saved from death by her, as smith was, and feel that she therefore had a claim on him, must have given one nervous prostration, paresis, and insomnia.
the indian and the white race never really united or amalgamated outside of canada.
the indian has always held aloof from us, and even as late as sitting bull's time that noted cavalry officer said to the author that the white people who simply came over in the mayflower could not marry into his family on that ground.
he wanted to know why they had to come over in the mayflower.
"we were here," said the aged warrior, as he stole a bacon-rind which i used for lubricating my saw, and ate it thoughtfully, "we were here and helped adam 'round up' and brand his animals.
we are an old family, and never did manual labor.
we are just as poor and proud and indolent as those who are of noble blood.
we know we are of noble blood because we have to take sarsaparilla all the time.
we claim to come by direct descent from job, of whom the inspired writer says,
"old job he was a fine young lad,       sing glory hallelujah.
his heart was good, but his blood was bad,       sing glory hallelujah.
"[3]
[footnote 3: this is a stanza from the works of dempster winterbottom woodworth, m.d., of ellsworth, pierce county, wisconsin, author of the "diary of judge pierce," and "life and times of melancthon klingensmith."
the thanks of the author are also due to baldy sowers for a loaned copy of "how to keep up a pleasing correspondence without conveying information," 8vo, bevelled boards, published by public printer.]
chapter viii.
the dutch at new amsterdam.
soon after the discovery of the hudson, dutch ships began to visit that region, to traffic in furs with the indians.
some huts were erected by these traders on manhattan island in 1613, and a trading-post was established in 1615. relics of these times are frequently turned up yet on broadway while putting in new pipes, or taking out old pipes, or repairing other pipes, or laying plans for yet other pipes, or looking in the earth to see that the original pipes have not been taken away.
afterwards the west india company obtained a grant of new netherland, and new amsterdam was fairly started.
in 1626, minuit, the first governor, arrived, and, as we have stated, purchased the entire city of new york of the indians for twenty-four dollars.
then trouble sprang up between the dutch and the swedes on the delaware over the possession of manhattan, and when the two tribes got to conversing with each other over their rights, using the mother-tongue on both sides, it reminded one of the chicago wheat market when business is good.
the english on the connecticut also saw that manhattan was going to boom as soon as the indians could be got farther west, and that property would be high there.
peter stuyvesant was the last dutch governor of new york.
he was a relative of mine.
he disliked the english very much.
they annoyed him with their democratic ideas and made his life a perfect hell to him.
he would be sorry to see the way our folks have since begun to imitate the english.
i can almost see him rising in his grave to note how the stuyvesants in full cry pursue the affrighted anise-seed bag, or with their coaching outfits go tooling along 'cross country, stopping at the inns on the way and unlimbering their portable bath-tubs to check them with the "clark."
pete, you did well to die early.
you would not have been happy here now.
while governor stuyvesant was in hot water with the english, the swedes, and the indians, a fleet anchored in the harbor and demanded the surrender of the place in the name of the duke of york, who wished to use it for a game preserve.
after a hot fight with his council, some of whom were willing even then to submit to english rule and hoped that the fleet might have two or three suits of tweed which by mistake were a fit and therefore useless to the owners, and that they might succeed in swapping furs for these, the governor yielded, and in 1664 new york became a british possession, named as above.
the english governors, however, were not popular.
they were mostly political hacks who were pests at home and banished to new york, where the noise of the streets soon drove them to drink.
for nine years this sort of thing went on, until one day a dutch fleet anchored near the staten island brewery and in the evening took the town.
however, in the year following, peace was restored between england and holland, and new amsterdam became new york again, also subject to the tammany rule.
andros was governor for a time, but was a sort of pompous tomtit, with a short breath and a large aquiline opinion of himself.
he was one of the arrogant old pie-plants whose growth was fostered by the beetle-bellied administration at home.
he went back on board the city of rome one day, and did not return.
new york had a gleam of hope for civil freedom under the rule of the duke of york and the county democracy, but when the duke became james ii.
he was just like other people who get a raise of salary, and refused to be privately entertained by the self-made ancestry of the american.
he was proud and arrogant to a degree.
he forbade legislation, and stopped his paper.
new york was at this time annexed to the new england colony, and began keeping the sabbath so vigorously that the angels had great difficulty in getting at it.
nicholson, who was the lieutenant tool of iniquity for andros, fled with him when democracy got too hot for them.
captain leisler, supported by steve brodie and everything south of the harlem, but bitterly opposed by the aristocracy, who were distinguished by their ability to use new goods in making their children's clothes, whereas the democracy had to make vests for the boys from the cast-off trousers of their fathers, governed the province until governor sloughter arrived.
sloughter was another imported smearkase in official life, and arrested leisler at the request of an aristocrat who drove a pair of bang-tail horses up and down nassau street on pleasant afternoons and was afterwards collector of the port.
having arrested leisler for treason, the governor was a little timid about executing him, for he had never really killed a man in his life, and he hated the sight of blood; so leisler's enemies got the governor to take dinner with them, and mixed his rum, so that when he got ready to speak, his remarks were somewhat heterogeneous, and before he went home he had signed a warrant for leisler's immediate execution.
when he awoke in the morning at his beautiful home on whitehall street, the sun was gayly glinting the choppy waves of buttermilk channel, and by his watch, which had run down, he saw that it was one o'clock, but whether it was one o'clock a.m. or p.m. he did not know, nor whether it was next saturday or tuesday before last.
oh, how he must have felt!
his room was dark, the gas having gone out to get better air.
he attempted to rise, but a chill, a throb, a groan, and back he lay hastily on the bed just as it was on the point of escaping him.
suddenly a thought came to him.
it was not a great thought, but it was such a thought as comes to those who have been thoughtless.
he called for a blackamoor slave from abroad who did chores for him, and ordered a bottle of cooking brandy, then some club soda he had brought from london with him.
next he drank a celery-glass of it, and after that he felt better.
he then drank another.
"keep out of the way of this bed, julius," he said.
"it is coming around that way again.
step to one side, julius, please, and let the bed walk around and stretch its legs.
i never saw a bed spread itself so," he continued, seeming to enjoy his own lancashire humor.
"all night i seemed to feel a great pain creeping over me, julius," he said, hesitatingly, again filling his celery-glass, "but i see now that it was a counterpane."
eighty years after that, sloughter was a corpse.
we should learn from this not to be too hasty in selecting our birthplaces.
had he been born in america, he might have been alive yet.
from this on the struggles of the people up to the time of the revolution were enough to mortify the reader almost to death.
i will not go over them again.
it was the history of all the other colonies; poor, proud, with large masses of children clustering about, and indians lurking in the out-buildings.
the mother-country was negligent, and even cruel.
her political offscourings were sent to rule the people.
the cranberry-crops soured on the vines, and times were very scarce.
it was during this period that captain william kidd, a new york ship-master and anti-snapper from mulberry street, was sent out to overtake and punish a few of the innumerable pirates who then infested the high seas.
studying first the character, life, and public services of the immoral pirate, and being perfectly foot-loose, his wife having eloped with her family physician, he determined to take a little whirl at the business himself, hoping thereby to escape the noise and heat of new york and obtain a livelihood while life lasted which would maintain him the remainder of his days unless death overtook him.
dropping off at boston one day to secure a supply of tobacco, he was captured while watching the vast number of street-cars on washington street.
he was taken to england, where he was tried and ultimately hanged.
his sudden and sickening death did much to discourage an american youth of great brilliancy who had up to 1868 intended to be a pirate, but who, stumbling across the "life and times of captain kidd, and his awful death," changed his whole course and became one of the ablest historians of the age in which he lived.
this should teach us to read the papers instead of loaning them to people who do not subscribe.
since the above was written, the account of the death of governor      andros is flashed across the wires to us.
verbum sap.
also in      hoc signo vinces.
the author wishes to express by this means his grateful      acknowledgments to his friends and the public generally for the      great turn-out and general sympathy bestowed upon his relative, the      late peter b. stuyvesant, on the sad occasion of his funeral, which      was said to be one of the best attended and most successful      funerals before the war.
should any of his friends be caught in the      same fix, the author will not only cheerfully turn out himself, but      send all hands from his place that can be spared, also a six-seated      wagon and a side-bar buggy.
chapter ix.
settlement of the middle states.
the present state of new jersey was a part of new netherland, and the dutch had a trading-post at bergen as early as 1618. after new netherland passed into the hands of the dutch, the duke of york gave the land lying between the hudson and the delaware to lord berkeley and sir george carteret for christmas.
the first permanent english settlement made in the state was at elizabethtown, named so in honor of sir george's first wife.
berkeley sold his part to some english quakers.
this part was called west jersey.
he claimed that it was too far from town.
it was very hard for a lord to clear up land, and berkeley missed his evenings at the savage club, and his nose yearned for a good whiff of real old rotten row fog.
so many disputes arose regarding the title to jersey that the whole thing finally reverted to the crown in 1702. when there was any trouble over titles in those days it was always settled by letting it revert to the crown.
it has been some years now, however, since that has happened in this country.
thirty-six years later new jersey was set apart as a separate royal province, and became a railroad terminus and bathing-place.
delaware was settled by the swedes at wilmington first, and called new sweden.
i am surprised that the norsemen, who it is claimed made the first and least expensive summer at newport, r. i., should not have clung to it.
they could have made a good investment, and in a few years would have been strong enough to wipe out the brooklyn police.
the swedes, too, had a good foothold in new york, jersey, and delaware, also a start in pennsylvania.
but the two nations seemed to yearn for home, and as soon as boats began to run regularly to stockholm and christiania, they returned.
in later years they discovered minneapolis and stillwater.
william penn now loomed up on the horizon.
he was an english quaker who had been expelled from oxford and jugged in cork also for his religious belief.
he was the son of admiral sir william penn, and had a good record.
he believed that elocutionary prayer was unnecessary, and that the acoustics of heaven were such that the vilest sinner with no voice-culture could be heard in the remotest portion of the gallery.
the only thing that has been said against penn with any sort of semblance of truth was that he had some influence with james ii.
the duke of york also stood in with penn, and used to go about in england bailing william out whenever he was jailed on account of his religious belief.
penn was quite a writer (see appendix).
he was the author of "no cross, no crown," "innocency with her open face," and "the great cause of liberty of conscience."
from his father he had inherited a claim against the government for sixteen thousand pounds, probably arrears of pension.
he finally received the state of pennsylvania as payment of the claim.
the western boundary took in the cliff house and seal rocks of san francisco.
penn came to america in 1682 and bought his land over again from the indians.
it is not strange that he got the best terms he could out of the indians, but still it is claimed that they were satisfied, therefore he did not cheat them.
the indian, as will be noticed by reading these pages thoughtfully, was never a napoleon of finance.
he is that way down to the present day.
if you watch him carefully and notice his ways, you can dicker with him to better advantage than you can with russell sage.
take the indian just before breakfast after two or three nights of debauchery, and offer him a jug of absinthe with a horned toad in it for his pony and saddle, and you will get them.
even in his more sober and thoughtful moments you can swap a suit of red medicated flannels with him for a farm.
penn gathered about him many different kinds of people, with various sorts and shades of belief.
some were free-will and some were hard-shell, some were high-church and reminded one of a masonic lodge working at 32°, while others were low-church and omitted crossing themselves frequently while putting down a new carpet in the chancel.
but he was too well known at court, and suspected of knowledge of and participation in some of the questionable acts of king james, so that after the latter's dethronement, and an intimation that penn had communicated with the exiled monarch, penn was deprived of his title to pennsylvania, for which he had twice paid.
penn was a constant sufferer at the hands of his associates, who sought to injure him in every way.
he rounded out a life of suffering by marrying the second time in 1695.
in 1708 he was on the verge of bankruptcy, owing to the villany and mismanagement of his agent, and was thrown into fleet street prison, a jail in which he had never before been confined.
his health gave way afterwards, and this remarkable man died july 30, 1718.
philadelphia was founded in 1683 and work begun on a beautiful building known as the city hall.
work has steadily progressed on this building from time to time since then, and at this writing it is so near completion as to give promise of being one of the most perfect architectural jobs ever done by the hand of man.
in two years philadelphia had sprung from a wilderness, where the rank thistle nodded in the wind, to a town of over two thousand people, exclusive of indians not taxed.
in three years it had gained more than new york had in fifty years.
this was due to the fact that the people who came to philadelphia had nothing to fear but the indians, while settlers in new york had not only the indians to defend themselves against, but the police also.
penn and his followers established the great law that no one who believed in almighty god should be molested in his religious belief.
even the indians liked penn, and when the nights were cold they would come and crawl into his bed and sleep with him all night and not kill him at all.
the great chief of the tribes, even, did not feel above this, and the two used frequently to lie and talk for hours, penn doing the talking and the chief doing the lying.
it is said that, with all the indian massacres and long wars between the red men and the white, no drop of quaker blood was ever shed.
i quote this from an historian who is much older than i, and with whom i do not wish to have any controversy.
after penn's death his heirs ran the colony up to 1779, when they disposed of it for five hundred thousand dollars or thereabouts, and the state became the proprietor.
the seventeenth century must have been a very disagreeable period for people who professed religion, for america from newfoundland to florida was dotted with little settlements almost entirely made up of people who had escaped from england to secure religious freedom at the risk of their lives.
in 1634 the first settlement was made by young lord baltimore, whose people, the catholics, were fleeing from england to obtain freedom to worship god as they believed to be right.
thus the catholics were added to the list of religious refugees, viz., the huguenots, the puritans, the walloons, the quakers, the presbyterians, the whigs, and the menthol healers.
terra mariæ, or maryland, was granted to lord baltimore, as the successor of his father, who had begun before his death the movement for settling his people in america.
the charter gave to all freemen a voice in making the laws.
among the first laws passed was one giving to every human being upon payment of poll-tax the right to worship freely according to the dictates of his own conscience.
america thus became the refuge for those who had any peculiarity of religious belief, until to-day no doubt more varieties of religion may be found here than almost anywhere else in the world.
in 1635 the virginia colony and lord baltimore had some words over the boundaries between the jamestown and maryland colonies.
clayborne was the jamestown man who made the most trouble.
he had started a couple of town sites on the maryland tract, plotted them, and sold lots to yorkshire tenderfeet, and so when lord baltimore claimed the lands clayborne attacked him, and there was a running skirmish for several years, till at last the rebellion collapsed in 1645 and clayborne fled.
the protestants now held the best hand, and outvoted the catholics, so up to 1691 there was a never-dying fight between the two, which must have been entertaining to the unregenerate outsider who was taxed to pay for a double set of legislators.
this fight between the catholics and protestants shows that intolerance is not confined to a monarchy.
in 1715 the fourth lord baltimore recovered the government by the aid of the police, and religious toleration was restored.
maryland remained under this system of government until the revolution, which will be referred to later on in the most thrilling set of original pictures and word-paintings that the reader has ever met with.
chapter x.
the early aristocracy.
lord clarendon and several other noblemen in 1663 obtained from charles ii.
a grant of lands lying south of virginia which they called carolina in honor of the king, whose name was not really carolina.
possibly that was his middle name, however, or his name in latin.
the albemarle colony was first on the ground.
then there was a carteret colony in 1670. they "removed the ancient groves covered with yellow jessamine" on the ashley, and began to build on the present site of charleston.
the historian remarks that the growth of this colony was rapid from the first.
the dutch, dissatisfied with the way matters were conducted in new york, and worn out when shopping by the ennui and impudence of the salesladies, came to charleston in large numbers, and the huguenots in charleston found a hearty southern welcome, and did their trading there altogether.
we now pass on to speak of the grand model which was set up as a five-cent aristocracy by lord shaftesbury and the great philosopher john locke.
the canebrakes and swamps of the wild and snake-infested jungles of the wilderness were to be divided into vast estates, over which were proprietors with hereditary titles and outing flannels.
this scheme recognized no rights of self-government whatever, and denied the very freedom which the people came there in search of.
so there were murmurings among those people who had not brought their finger-bowls and equerries with them.
in short, aristocracy did not do well on this soil.
baronial castles, with hot and cold water in them, were often neglected, because the colonists would not forsake their own lands to the thistle and blue-nosed brier in order to come and cook victuals for the baronial castles or sweep out the baronial halls and wax the baronial floors for a journeyman juke who ate custard pie with a knife and drank tea from his saucer through a king charles moustache.
thus the aristocracy was forced to close its doors, and the arms of lord shaftesbury were so humiliated that he could no longer put up his dukes (see appendix).
there had also been a great deal of friction between the albemarle or carteret and the charleston set, the former being from virginia, while the latter was, as we have seen, a little given to kindergarten aristocracy and ofttimes tripped up on their parade swords while at the plough.
of course outside of this were the plebeian people, or copperas-culottes, who did the work; but lord shaftesbury for some time, as we have seen, lived in a baronial shed and had his arms worked on the left breast of his nighty.
so these two colonies finally became separate states in the union, though there is yet something of the same feeling between the people.
wealthy people come to the mountains of north carolina from south carolina for the cool summer breezes of the old north state, and have to pay two dollars per breeze even up to the past summer.
thus there was constant irritation and disgust up to 1729 at least, regarding taxes, rents, and rights, until, as the historian says, "the discouraged proprietors ceded their rights to the crown."
it will be noticed that the crown was well ceded by this time, and the poet's remark seems at this time far grander and more apropos than any language of the writer could be: so it is given here, viz., "uneasy lies the head that wears a seedy crown."
(see appendix.)
the year of washington's birth, viz., 1732, witnessed the birth of the baby colony of georgia.
james oglethorpe, a kind-hearted man, with a wig that fooled more than one poor child of the forest, conceived the idea of founding a refuge for englishmen who could not pay up.
the laws were very arbitrary then, and harsh to a degree.
many were imprisoned then in england for debt, but those who visit london now will notice that they are at liberty.
oglethorpe was an officer and a gentleman, and this scheme showed his generous nature and philanthropic disposition.
george ii.
granted him in trust for the poor a tract of land called, in honor of the king, georgie, which has recently been changed to georgia.
the enterprise prospered remarkably, and generous and charitable people aided it in every possible way.
people who had not been able for years to pay their debts came to georgia and bought large tracts of land or began merchandising with the indians.
thousands of acres of rich cotton-lands were exchanged by the indians for orders on the store, they giving warranty deeds to same, reserving only the rights of piscary and massacre.
oglethorpe got along with the indians first-rate, and won their friendship.
one great chief, having received a present from oglethorpe consisting of a manicure set, on the following christmas gave oglethorpe a beautiful buffalo robe, on the inside of which were painted an eagle and a portable bath-tub, signifying, as the chief stated, that the buffalo was the emblem of strength, the eagle of swiftness, and the bath-tub the advertisement of cleanliness.
"thus," said the chief, "the english are strong as the buffalo, swift as the eagle, and love to convey the idea that they are just about to take a bath when you came and interrupted them."
the moravians also came to georgia, and the scotch highlanders.
on the arrival of the latter, the georgia mosquitoes held a mass meeting, at which speeches were made, and songs sung, and resolutions adopted making the highland uniform the approved costume for the entire coast during summer.
george whitefield the eloquent, who often addressed audiences (even in those days, when advertising was still in its infancy and the advance agent was unheard of) of from five thousand to forty thousand people, founded an orphan asylum.
one audience consisted of sixty thousand people.
the money from this work all went to help and sustain the orphan asylum.
while reading of him we are reminded of our own dr. talmage, who is said to be the wealthiest apostle on the road.
the trustees of georgia limited the size of a man's farm, did not allow women to inherit land, and forbade the importation of rum or of slaves.
several of these rules were afterwards altered, so that as late as 1893 at least a gentleman from washington, d.c., well known for his truth and honesty, saw rum inside the state twice, though bourbon whiskey was preferred.
slaves also were found inside the state, and the negro is seen there even now; but the popularity of a negro baby is nothing now to what it was at the time when this class of goods went up to the top notch.
need i add that after a while the people became dissatisfied with these rules and finally the whole matter was ceded to the crown?
from this time on georgia remained a royal province up to the revolution.
since that very little has been said about ceding it to the crown.
north carolina also remained an english colony up to the same period, and, though one of the original thirteen colonies, is still far more sparsely settled than some of the western states.
virginia dare was the first white child born in america.
she selected roanoke, now in north carolina, in august, 1587, as her birthplace.
she was a grand-daughter of the governor, john white.
her fate, like that of the rest of the colony, is unknown to this day.
the author begs leave to express his thanks here for the valuable      aid furnished him by the following works, viz.
: "the horse and his      diseases," by mr. astor; "life and times of john oglethorpe," by      elias g. merritt; "how to make the garden pay," by peter henderson;      "over the purple hills," by mrs. churchill, of denver, colorado,      and "he played on the harp of a thousand strings, and the spirits      of just men made perfect," by s. p. avery.
chapter xi.
intercolonial and indian wars.
intercolonial and indian wars furnished excitement now from 1689 into the early part of the eighteenth century.
war broke out in europe between the french and english, and the colonies had to take sides, as did also the indians.
canadians and indians would come down into york state or new england, burn a town, tomahawk quite a number of people, then go back on snow-shoes, having entered the town on rubbers, like a decayed show with no printing.
there was an attack on haverhill in march, 1697, and a mr. dustin was at work in the field.
he ran to his house and got his seven children ahead of him, while with his gun he protected their rear till he got them away safely.
mrs. dustin, however, who ran back into the house to remove a pie from the oven as she feared it was burning, was captured, and, with a boy of the neighborhood, taken to an island in the merrimac, where the indians camped.
at night she woke the boy, told him how to hit an indian with a tomahawk so that "the subsequent proceedings would interest him no more," and that evening the two stole forth while the ten indians slept, knocked in their thinks, scalped them to prove their story, and passed on to safety.
mrs. dustin kept those scalps for many years, showing them to her friends to amuse them.
king william's war lasted eight years.
queen anne's war lasted from 1702 to 1713. the brunt of this war fell on new england.
our forefathers had to live in block-houses, with barbed-wire fences around them, and carry their guns with them all the time.
from planting the indian with a shotgun, they soon got to planting their corn with the same agricultural instrument in the stony soil.
the french and spanish tried to take charleston in 1706, but were repulsed with great loss, consisting principally of time which they might have employed in raising frogs' legs and tantalizing a bull at so much per tant.
this war lasted eleven years, including stops, and was ended by the treaty of utrecht (pronounced you-trecked).
after this, what was called the spanish war continued between england and spain for some time.
an attempt to capture georgia was made, and a garrison established itself there, with good prospects of taking in the state under spanish rule, but our able friend oglethorpe, the henry w.
grady of his time, managed to accidentally mislay a letter which fell into the enemy's hands, the contents of which showed that enormous reinforcements were expected at any moment.
this was swallowed comfortably by the commander, who blew up his impregnable works, changed the address of his atlanta constitution, and sailed for home.
oglethorpe wore a wig, but was otherwise one of our greatest minds.
it is said that anybody at a distance of two miles on a clear day could readily distinguish that it was a wig, and yet he died believing that no one had ever probed his great mystery and that his wig would rise with him at the playing of the last trump.
king george's war, which extended over four years, succeeded, but did not amount to anything except the capture of cape breton by english and colonial troops.
cape breton was called the gibraltar of america; but a yankee farmer who has raised flax on an upright farm for twenty years does not mind scaling a couple of gibraltars before breakfast; so, without any west point knowledge regarding engineering, they walked up the hill, and those who were alive when they got to the top took it.
it was no balaklava business and no dumb animal show, but simply revealed the fact that brave men fighting for their eight-dollar homes and a mass of children are disagreeable people to meet on the battle-field.
the french and indian war lasted nine years, viz., from 1754 to 1763.
from quebec to new orleans the french owned the land, and mixed up a good deal socially with the indians, so that the slender settlement along the coast had arrayed against it this vast line of northern and western forts, and the indians, who were mostly friendly with the french, united with them in several instances and showed them some new styles of barbarism which up to that time they had never known about.
the half-breed is always half french and half indian.
the english owned all lands lying on one side of the ohio, the french on the other, which led a great chief to make a p. p. c. call on governor dinwiddie, and during the conversation to inquire with some naïveté where the indian came in.
no answer was ever received.
we pause here to ask the question, why did the pale-face usurp the lands of the indians without remuneration?
it was because the indian was not orthodox.
he may have been lazy from a puritanical stand-point, and he may also have hunted on the twenty-seventh sunday after easter; but still was it not right that he should have received a dollar or two per county for the united states?
no one would have felt it, and possibly it might have saved the lives of innocent people.
verbum sap., however, comes in here with peculiar appropriateness, and the massive-browed historian passes on.
the french had three forts along in the middle states, as they are now called, and western pennsylvania; and george washington, of whom more will be said in the twelfth chapter, was sent to ask the french to remove these forts.
he started at once.
the commanders were some of them arrogant, but the general, st. pierre, treated him with great respect, refusing, however, to yield the ground discovered by la salle and marquette.
the author had the pleasure of being arrested in paris in 1889, and he feels of a truth, as he often does, that there can be no more polite people in the world than the french.
arrested under all circumstances and in many lands, the author can place his hand on his heart and say that he would go hundreds of miles to be arrested by a john darm.
washington returned four hundred miles through every kind of danger, including a lunch at altoona, where he stopped twenty minutes.
the following spring washington was sent under general fry to drive out the french, who had started farming at pittsburg.
fry died, and washington took command.
he liked it very much.
after that washington took command whenever he could, and soon rose to be a great man.
the first expedition against fort duquesne (pronounced du-kane) was commanded by general braddock, whose portrait we are able to give, showing him at the time he did not take washington's advice in the duquesne matter.
later we show him as he appeared after he had abandoned his original plans and immediately after not taking washington's advice.
"the indians," said braddock, "may frighten colonial troops, but they can make no impression on the king's regulars.
we are alike impervious to fun or fear."
braddock thought of fighting the indians by man[oe]uvring in large bodies, but the first body to be man[oe]uvred was that of general braddock, who perished in about a minute.
we give the reader, above, an idea of braddock's soldierly bearing after he had been man[oe]uvring a few times.
it was then that washington took command, as was his custom, and began to fight the indians and french as one would hunt varmints in virginia.
braddock's men fired by platoons into the trees and tore a few holes in the state line, but when most of the colonial troops were dead the regulars presented their tournures to the foe and fled as far as philadelphia, where they each took a bath and had some laundry-work done.
general forbes took command of the second expedition.
he spent most of his time building roads.
time passed on, and forbes built viaducts, conduits, culverts, and rustic bridges, till it was november, and they were yet fifty miles from the fort.
he then decided to abandon the expedition, on account of the cold, and also fearing that he had not made all of his bridges wide enough so that he could take the captured fort home with him.
washington, however, though only an aidy kong of general forbes, decided to take command.
his mother had said to him over and over, "george, in an emergency always take command."
he done so, as general rusk would say.
as he approached, the french set fire to the fort, and retreated, together with the indians and molly maguires.
pittsburg now stands on this historic ground, and is one of the most delightful cities of america.
many other changes were going on at this time.
the english got possession of acadia and the french forts at the head of the bay of fundy.
in 1757 general loudon collected an army for an attack on louisburg.
he drilled his troops all summer, and then gave up the attack because he learned that the french had one more skiff than he had.
the loudons of america at the time of this writing are more quiet and sensible regarding their ancestry than any of the doodle-bug aristocracy of our promoted peasantry and the crested yahoos of our cowboy republic.
the loudons or lowdowns of america had a very large family.
some of them changed their names and moved.
the next year after the fox pass of general loudon, amherst and wolfe took possession of the entire island.
about the time of braddock's justly celebrated expedition another started out for crown point.
the french, under dieskau (pronounced dees-kow), met the army composed of colonial troops in plain clothes, together with the regular troops led by officers with drawn swords and overdrawn salaries.
the regular general, seeing that the battle was lost, excused himself and retired to his tent, owing to an ingrowing nail which had annoyed him all day.
lyman, the colonial officer now took command, and wrung victory from the reluctant jaws of defeat.
for this johnson, the english general, received twenty-five thousand dollars and a baronetcy, while lyman received a plated butter-dish and a bass-wood what-not.
but lyman was a married man, and had learned to take things as they came.
four months prior to the capture of duquesne, one thousand boats loaded with soldiers, each with a neat little lunch-basket and a little flag to wave when they hurrahed for the good kind man at the head of the picnic, viz., general abercrombie, sailed down lake george to get a whiff of fresh air and take ticonderoga.
when they arrived, general abercrombie took out a small book regarding tactics which he had bought on the boat, and, after refreshing his memory, ordered an assault.
he then went back to see how his rear was, and, finding it all right, he went back still farther, to see if no one had been left behind.
abercrombie never forgot or overlooked any one.
he wanted all of his pleasure-party to be where they could see the fight.
in that way he missed it himself.
i would hate to miss a fight that way.
the abercrombies of america mostly trace their ancestry back by a cut-off avoiding the general's line.
niagara had an expedition sent against it at the time of braddock's trip.
the commander was general shirley, but he ran out of money while at the falls and decided to return.
this post did not finally surrender till 1759.
this gave the then west to the english.
they had tried for one hundred and forty years to civilize it, but, alas, with only moderate success.
prosperous and happy even while sniping in their fox-hunting or canvas-back-duck clothes, these people feel somewhat soothed for their lack of culture because they are well-to-do.
in 1759 general wolfe anchored off quebec with his fleet and sent a boy up town to ask if there were any letters for him at the post-office, also asking at what time it would be convenient to evacuate the place.
the reply came back from general montcalm, an able french general, that there was no mail for the general, but if wolfe was dissatisfied with the report he might run up personally and look over the w's.
wolfe did so, taking his troops up by an unknown cow-path on the off side of the mountain during the night, and at daylight stood in battle-array on the plains of abraham.
an attack was made by montcalm as soon as he got over his wonder and surprise.
at the third fire wolfe was fatally wounded, and as he was carried back to the rear he heard some one exclaim,
"they run!
they run!"
"who run?"
inquired wolfe.
"the french!
the french!"
came the reply.
"now god be praised," said wolfe, "i die happy."
montcalm had a similar experience.
he was fatally wounded.
"they run!
they run!"
he heard some one say.
"who run?"
exclaimed montcalm, wetting his lips with a lemonade-glass of cognac.
"we do," replied the man.
"then so much the better," said montcalm, as his eye lighted up, "for i shall not live to see quebec surrendered."
this shows what can be done without a rehearsal; also how the historian has to control himself in order to avoid lying.
the death of these two brave men is a beautiful and dramatic incident in the history of our country, and should be remembered by every school-boy, because neither lived to write articles criticising the other.
five days later the city capitulated.
an attempt was made to recapture it, but it was not successful.
canada fell into the hands of the english, and from the open polar sea to the mississippi the english flag floated.
what an empire!
what a game-preserve!
florida was now ceded to the already cedy crown of england by spain, and brandy-and-soda for the wealthy and bitter beer became the drink of the poor.
pontiac's war was brought on by the indians, who preferred the french occupation to that of the english.
pontiac organized a large number of tribes on the spoils plan, and captured eight forts.
he killed a great many people, burned their dwellings, and drove out many more, but at last his tribes made trouble, as there were not spoils enough to go around, and his army was conquered.
he was killed in 1769 by an indian who received for his trouble a barrel of liquor, with which he began to make merry.
he remained by the liquor till death came to his relief.
the heroism of an indian who meets his enemy single-handed in that way, and, though greatly outnumbered, dies with his face to the foe, is deserving of more than a passing notice.
the french and indian war cost the colonists sixteen million dollars, of which the english repaid only five million.
the americans lost thirty thousand men, none of whom were replaced.
they suffered every kind of horror and barbarity, written and unwritten, and for years their taxes were two-thirds of their income; and yet they did not murmur.
these were the fathers and mothers of whom we justly brag.
these were the people whose children we are.
what are inherited titles and ancient names many times since dishonored, compared with the heritage of uncomplaining suffering and heroism which we boast of to-day because those modest martyrs were working people, proud that by the sweat of their brows they wrung from a niggardly soil the food they ate, proud also that they could leave the plough to govern or to legislate, able also to survey a county or rule a nation.
chapter xii.
personality of washington.
it would seem that a few personal remarks about george washington at this point might not be out of place.
later on his part in this history will more fully appear.
the author points with some pride to a study of washington's great act in crossing the delaware, from a wax-work of great accuracy.
the reader will avoid confusing washington with the author, who is dressed in a plaid suit and on the shore, while washington may be seen in this end of the boat with the air of one who has just discovered the location of a glue-factory on the side of the river.
a directory of washington's head-quarters has been arranged by the author of this book, and at a reunion of the general's body-servants to be held in the future the work will be on sale.
the name of george washington has always had about it a glamour that made him appear more in the light of a god than a tall man with large feet and a mouth made to fit an old-fashioned full-dress pumpkin pie.
george washington's face has beamed out upon us for many years now, on postage-stamps and currency, in marble and plaster and in bronze, in photographs of original portraits, paintings, and stereoscopic views.
we have seen him on horseback and on foot, on the war-path and on skates, playing the flute, cussing his troops for their shiftlessness, and then, in the solitude of the forest, with his snorting war-horse tied to a tree, engaged in prayer.
we have seen all these pictures of george, till we are led to believe that he did not breathe our air or eat american groceries.
but george washington was not perfect.
i say this after a long and careful study of his life, and i do not say it to detract the very smallest iota from the proud history of the father of his country.
i say it simply that the boys of america who want to become george washingtons will not feel so timid about trying it.
when i say that george washington, who now lies so calmly in the lime-kiln at mount vernon, could reprimand and reproach his subordinates, at times, in a way to make the ground crack open and break up the ice in the delaware a week earlier than usual, i do not mention it in order to show the boys of our day that profanity will make them resemble george washington.
that was one of his weak points, and no doubt he was ashamed of it, as he ought to have been.
some poets think that if they get drunk and stay drunk they will resemble edgar a. poe and george d. prentice.
there are lawyers who play poker year after year and get regularly skinned because they have heard that some of the able lawyers of the past century used to come home at night with poker-chips in their pockets.
whiskey will not make a poet, nor poker a great pleader.
and yet i have seen poets who relied on the potency of their breath, and lawyers who knew more of the habits of a bobtail flush than they ever did of the statutes in such case made and provided.
george washington was always ready.
if you wanted a man to be first in war, you could call on george.
if you desired an adult who would be first baseman in time of peace, mr. washington could be telephoned at any hour of the day or night.
if you needed a man to be first in the hearts of his countrymen, george's post-office address was at once secured.
though he was a great man, he was once a poor boy.
how often you hear that in america!
here it is a positive disadvantage to be born wealthy.
and yet sometimes i wish they had experimented a little that way on me.
i do not ask now to be born rich, of course, because it is too late; but it seems to me that, with my natural good sense and keen insight into human nature, i could have struggled along under the burdens and cares of wealth with great success.
i do not care to die wealthy, but if i could have been born wealthy it seems to me i would have been tickled almost to death.
i love to believe that true greatness is not accidental.
to think and to say that greatness is a lottery, is pernicious.
man may be wrong sometimes in his judgment of others, both individually and in the aggregate, but he who gets ready to be a great man will surely find the opportunity.
you will wonder whom i got to write this sentiment for me, but you will never find out.
in conclusion, let me say that george washington was successful for three reasons.
one was that he never shook the confidence of his friends.
another was that he had a strong will without being a mule.
some people cannot distinguish between being firm and being a big blue donkey.
another reason why washington is loved and honored to-day is that he died before we had a chance to get tired of him.
this is greatly superior to the method adopted by many modern statesmen, who wait till their constituency weary of them, and then reluctantly pass away.
chapter xiii.
contrasts with the present day.
here it may be well to speak briefly of the contrast between the usages and customs of the period preceding the revolution, and the present day.
some of these customs and regulations have improved with the lapse of time, others undoubtedly have not.
two millions of people constituted the entire number of whites, while away to the westward the red brother extended indefinitely.
religiously they were protestants, and essentially they were "a god-fearing people."
taught to obey a power they were afraid of, they naturally turned with delight to the service of a god whose genius in the erection of a boundless and successful hell challenged their admiration and esteem.
so, too, their own executions of divine laws were successful as they gave pain, and the most beautiful features of christianity, namely, love and charity, according to history, were not cultivated very much.
there were in new england at one time twelve offences punishable with death, and in virginia seventeen.
this would indicate that the death-penalty is getting unpopular very fast, and that in the contiguous future humane people will wonder why murder should have called for murder, in this brainy, charitable, and occult age, in which man seems almost able to pry open the future and catch a glimpse of destiny underneath the great tent that has heretofore held him off by means of death's prohibitory rates.
in hartford people had to get up when the town watchman rang his bell.
the affairs of the family, and private matters too numerous to mention, were regulated by the selectmen.
the catalogues of harvard and yale were regulated according to the standing of the family as per record in the old country, and not as per bust measurement and merit, as it is to-day.
scolding women, however, were gagged and tied to their front doors, so that the populace could bite its thumb at them, and hired girls received fifty dollars a year, with the understanding that they were not to have over two days out each week, except sunday and the days they had to go and see their "sick sisters."
some cloth-weaving was indulged in, and homespun was the principal material used for clothing.
mrs. washington had sixteen spinning-wheels in her house.
her husband often wore homespun while at home, and on rainy days sometimes placed a pair of home-made trousers of the barn-door variety in the presidential chair.
money was very scarce, and ammunition very valuable.
in 1635 musket-balls passed for farthings, and to see a new england peasant making change with the red brother at thirty yards was a common and delightful scene.
the first press was set up in cambridge in 1639, with the statement that it "had come to stay."
books printed in those days were mostly sermons filled with the most comfortable assurance that the man who let loose his intellect and allowed it to disbelieve some very difficult things would be essentially  well, i hate to say right here in a book what would happen to him.
the first daily paper, called the federal orrery, was issued three hundred years after columbus discovered america.
it was not popular, and killed off the news-boys who tried to call it on the streets: so it perished.
there was a public library in new york, from which books were loaned at fourpence ha'penny per week.
new york thus became very early the seat of learning, and soon afterwards began to abuse the site where chicago now stands.
travel was slow, the people went on horseback or afoot, and when they could go by boat it was regarded as a success.
wagons finally made the trip from new york to philadelphia in the wild time of forty-eight hours, and the line was called the flying dutchman, or some other euphonious name.
benjamin franklin, whose biography occurs in chapter xv., was then postmaster-general.
he was the first bald-headed man of any prominence in the history of america.
he and his daughter sally took a trip in a chaise, looking over the entire system, and going to all offices.
nothing pleased the postmaster-general like quietly slipping into a place like sandy bottom and catching the postmaster reading over the postal cards and committing them to memory.
calfskin shoes up to the revolution were the exclusive property of the gentry, and the rest wore cowhide and were extremely glad to mend them themselves.
these were greased every week with tallow, and could be worn on either foot with impunity.
rights and lefts were never thought of until after the revolutionary war, but to-day the american shoe is the most symmetrical, comfortable, and satisfactory shoe made in the world.
the british shoe is said to be more comfortable.
possibly for a british foot it is so, but for a foot containing no breathing-apparatus or viscera it is somewhat roomy and clumsy.
farmers and laborers of those days wore green or red baize in the shape of jackets, and their breeches were made of leather or bed-ticking.
our ancestors dressed plainly, and a man who could not make over two hundred pounds per year was prohibited from dressing up or wearing lace worth over two shillings per yard.
it was a pretty sad time for literary men, as they were thus compelled to wear clothing like the common laborers.
lord cornwallis once asked his aidy kong why the american poet always had such an air of listening as if for some expected sound.
"i give it up," retorted the aidy kong.
"it is," said lord cornwallis, as he took a large drink from a jug which he had tied to his saddle, "because he is trying to see if he cannot hear his bed-ticking."
on the following day he surrendered his army, and went home to spring his bon-mot on george iii.
yet the laws were very stringent in other respects besides apparel.
a man was publicly whipped for killing a fowl on the sabbath in new england.
in order to keep a tavern and sell rum, one had to be of good moral character and possess property, which was a good thing.
the names of drunkards were posted up in the alehouses, and the keepers forbidden to sell them liquor.
no person under twenty years of age could use tobacco in connecticut without a physician's order, and no one was allowed to use it more than once a day, and then not within ten miles of any house.
it was a common thing to see large picnic-parties going out into the backwoods of connecticut to smoke.
(will the reader excuse me a moment while i light up a peculiarly black and redolent pipe?)
only the gentry were called mr. and mrs. this included the preacher and his wife.
a friend of mine who is one of the gentry of this century got on the trail of his ancestry last spring, and traced them back to where they were not allowed to be called mr. and mrs., and, fearing he would fetch up in scotland yard if he kept on, he slowly unrolled the bottoms of his trousers, got a job on the railroad, and since then his friends are gradually returning to him.
he is well pleased now, and looks humbly gratified even if you call him a gent.
the scriptures were literally interpreted, and the old testament was read every morning, even if the ladies fainted.
the custom yet noticed sometimes in country churches and festive gatherings of placing the males and females on opposite sides of the room was originated not so much as a punishment to both, as to give the men an opportunity to act together when the red brother felt ill at ease.
i am glad the red brother does not molest us nowadays, and make us sit apart that way.
keep away, red brother; remain on your reservation, please, so that the pale-face may sit by the loved one and hold her little soft hand during the sermon.
church services meant business in those days.
people brought their dinners and had a general penitential gorge.
instrumental music was proscribed, as per amos fifth chapter and twenty-third verse, and the length of prayer was measured by the physical endurance of the performer.
the preacher often boiled his sermon down to four hours, and the sexton up-ended the hourglass each hour.
boys who went to sleep in church were sand-bagged, and grew up to be border murderers.
new york people were essentially dutch.
new york gets her santa claus, her doughnuts, crullers, cookies, and many of her odors, from the dutch.
the new york matron ran to fine linen and a polished door-knocker, while the new england housewife spun linsey-woolsey and knit "yarn mittens"
for those she loved.
philadelphia was the largest city in the united states, and was noted for its cleanliness and generally sterling qualities of mind and heart, its sabbath trance and clean white door-steps.
the southern colonies were quite different from those of the north.
in place of thickly-settled towns there were large plantations with african villages near the house of the owner.
the proprietor was a sort of country squire, living in considerable comfort for those days.
he fed and clothed everybody, black or white, who lived on the estate, and waited patiently for the colored people to do his work and keep well, so that they would be more valuable.
the colored people were blessed with children at a great rate, so that at this writing, though voteless, they send a large number of members to congress.
this cheers the southern heart and partially recoups him for his chickens.
(see appendix.)
the south then, as now, cured immense quantities of tobacco, while the north tried to cure those who used it.
washington was a virginian.
he packed his own flour with his own hands, and it was never inspected.
people who knew him said that the only man who ever tried to inspect washington's flour was buried under a hill of choice watermelons at mount vernon.
along the james and rappahannock the vast estates often passed from father to son according to the law of entail, and such a thing as a poor man "prior to the war" must have been unknown.
education, however, flourished more at the north, owing partly to the fact that the people lived more in communities.
governor berkeley of virginia was opposed to free schools from the start, and said, "i thank god there are no free schools nor printing-presses here, and i hope we shall not have them these hundred years."
his prayer has been answered.
chapter xiv.
the revolutionary war.
william pitt was partly to blame for the revolutionary war.
he claimed that the colonists ought not to manufacture so much as a horseshoe nail except by permission of parliament.
it was already hard enough to be a colonist, without the privilege of expressing one's self even to an indian without being fined.
but when we pause to think that england seemed to demand that the colonist should take the long wet walk to liverpool during a busy season of the year to get his horse shod, we say at once that p. henry was right when he exclaimed that the war was inevitable and moved that permission be granted for it to come.
then came the stamp act, making almost everything illegal that was not written on stamp paper furnished by the maternal country.
john adams, patrick henry, and john otis made speeches regarding the situation.
bells were tolled, and fasting and prayer marked the first of november, the day for the law to go into effect.
these things alarmed england for the time, and the stamp act was repealed; but the king, who had been pretty free with his money and had entertained a good deal, began to look out for a chance to tax the colonists, and ordered his exchequer board to attend to it.
patrick henry got excited, and said in an early speech, "cæsar had his brutus, charles the first his cromwell, and george the third  " here he paused and took a long swig of pure water, and added, looking at the newspaper reporters, "if this be treason, make the most of it."
he also said that george the third might profit by their example.
a good many would like to know what he started out to say, but it is too hard to determine.
boston ladies gave up tea and used the dried leaves of the raspberry, and the girls of 1777 graduated in homespun.
could the iron heel of despotism crunch such a spirit of liberty as that?
scarcely.
in one family at newport four hundred and eighty-seven yards of cloth and thirty-six pairs of stockings were spun and made in eighteen months.
when the war broke out it is estimated that each colonial soldier had twenty-seven pairs of blue woollen socks with white double heels and toes.
does the intelligent reader believe that "tommy atkins," with two pairs of socks "and hit a-rainin'," could whip men with twenty-seven pairs each?
not without restoratives.
troops were now sent to restore order.
they were clothed by the british government, but boarded around with the colonists.
this was irritating to the people, because they had never met or called on the british troops.
again, they did not know the troops were coming, and had made no provision for them.
boston was considered the hot-bed of the rebellion, and general gage was ordered to send two regiments of troops there.
he did so, and a fight ensued, in which three citizens were killed.
in looking over this incident, we must not forget that in those days three citizens went a good deal farther than they do now.
the fight, however, was brief.
general gage, getting into a side street, separated from his command, and, coming out on the common abruptly, he tried eight or nine more streets, but he came out each time on the common, until, torn with conflicting emotions, he hired a herdic, which took him around the corner to his quarters.
on december 16, 1773, occurred the tea-party at boston, which must have been a good deal livelier than those of to-day.
the historian regrets that he was not there; he would have tried to be the life of the party.
england had finally so arranged the price of tea that, including the tax, it was cheaper in america than in the old country.
this exasperated the patriots, who claimed that they were confronted by a theory and not a condition.
at charleston this tea was stored in damp cellars, where it spoiled.
new york and philadelphia returned their ships, but the british would not allow any shenanegin', as george iii.
so tersely termed it, in boston.
therefore a large party met in faneuil hall and decided that the tea should not be landed.
a party made up as indians, and, going on board, threw the tea overboard.
boston harbor, as far out as the bug light, even to-day, is said to be carpeted with tea-grounds.
george iii.
now closed boston harbor and made general gage governor of massachusetts.
the virginia assembly murmured at this, and was dissolved and sent home without its mileage.
those opposed to royalty were termed whigs, those in favor were called tories.
now they are called chappies or authors.
on the 5th of september, 1774, the first continental congress assembled at philadelphia and was entertained by the clover club.
congress acted slowly even then, and after considerable delay resolved that the conduct of great britain was, under the circumstances, uncalled for.
it also voted to hold no intercourse with great britain, and decided not to visit shakespeare's grave unless the mother-country should apologize.
in 1775, on the 19th of april, general gage sent out troops to see about some military stores at concord, but at lexington he met with a company of minute-men gathering on the village green.
major pitcairn, who was in command of the tommies, rode up to the minute-men, and, drawing his bright new sheffield sword, exclaimed, "disperse, you rebels!
throw down your arms and disperse!"
or some such remark as that.
the americans hated to do that, so they did not.
in the skirmish that ensued, seven of their number were killed.
thus opened the revolutionary war, a contest which but for the earnestness and irritability of the americans would have been extremely brief.
it showed the relative difference between the fighting qualities of soldiers who fight for two pounds ten shillings per month and those who fight because they have lost their temper.
the regulars destroyed the stores, but on the way home they found every rock-pile hid an old-fashioned gun and minute-man.
this shows that there must have been an enormous number of minute-men then.
all the english who got back to boston were those who went out to reinforce the original command.
the news went over the country like wildfire.
these are the words of the historian.
really, that is a poor comparison, for wildfire doesn't jump rivers and bays, or get up and eat breakfast by candle-light in order to be on the road and spread the news.
general putnam left a pair of tired steers standing in the furrow, and rode one hundred miles without feed or water to boston.
twenty thousand men were soon at work building intrenchments around boston, so that the english troops could not get out to the suburbs where many of them resided.
i will now speak of the battle of bunker hill.
this battle occurred june 17. the americans heard that their enemy intended to fortify bunker hill, and so they determined to do it themselves, in order to have it done in a way that would be a credit to the town.
a body of men under colonel prescott, after prayer by the president of harvard university, marched to charlestown neck.
they decided to fortify breed's hill, as it was more commanding, and all night long they kept on fortifying.
the surprise of the english at daylight was well worth going from lowell to witness.
howe sent three thousand men across and formed them on the landing.
he marched them up the hill to within ten rods of the earth-works, when it occurred to prescott that it would now be the appropriate thing to fire.
he made a statement of that kind to his troops, and those of the enemy who were alive went back to charlestown.
but that was no place for them, as they had previously set it afire, so they came back up the hill, where they were once more well received and tendered the freedom of a future state.
three times the english did this, when the ammunition in the fortifications gave out, and they charged with fixed bayonets and reinforcements.
the americans were driven from the field, but it was a victory after all.
it united the colonies and made them so vexed at the english that it took some time to bring on an era of good feeling.
lord howe, referring afterwards to this battle, said that the americans did not stand up and fight like the regulars, suggesting that thereafter the colonial army should arrange itself in the following manner before a battle!
however, the suggestion was not acted on.
the colonial soldiers declined to put on a bright red coat and a pill-box cap, that kept falling off in battle, thus delaying the carnage, but preferred to wear homespun which was of a neutral shade, and shoot their enemy from behind stumps.
they said it was all right to dress up for a muster, but they preferred their working-clothes for fighting.
after the war a statistician made the estimate that nine per cent.
of the british troops were shot while ascertaining if their caps were on straight.
[4]
general israel putnam was known as the champion rough rider of his day, and once when hotly pursued rode down three flights of steps, which, added to the flight he made from the english soldiers, made four flights.
putnam knew not fear or cowardice, and his name even to-day is the synonyme for valor and heroism.
chapter xv.
benjamin franklin, ll.d., ph.g., f.r.s., etc.
it is considered advisable by the historian at this time to say a word regarding dr. franklin, our fellow-townsman, and a journalist who was the charles a. dana of his time.
franklin's memory will remain green when the names of the millionaires of to-day are forgotten.
coextensive with the name of e. rosewater of the omaha bee we will find that of benjamin franklin, whose bust sits above the fireplace of the writer at this moment, while a large etruscan hornet is making a phrenological examination of same.
but let us proceed to more fully mark out the life and labors of this remarkable man.
benjamin franklin, formerly of boston, came very near being an only child.
if seventeen children had not come to bless the home of benjamin's parents they would have been childless.
think of getting up in the morning and picking out your shoes and stockings from among seventeen pairs of them!
imagine yourself a child, gentle reader, in a family where you would be called upon every morning to select your own cud of spruce gum from a collection of seventeen similar cuds stuck on a window-sill!
and yet benjamin franklin never murmured or repined.
he desired to go to sea, and to avoid this he was apprenticed to his brother james, who was a printer.
it is said that franklin at once took hold of the great archimedean lever, and jerked it early and late in the interests of freedom.
it is claimed that franklin, at this time, invented the deadly weapon known as the printer's towel.
he found that a common crash towel could be saturated with glue, molasses, antimony, concentrated lye, and roller-composition, and that after a few years of time and perspiration it would harden so that "a constant reader" or "veritas" could be stabbed with it and die soon.
many believe that franklin's other scientific experiments were productive of more lasting benefit to mankind than this, but i do not agree with them.
his paper was called the new england courant.
it was edited jointly by james and benjamin franklin, and was started to supply a long-felt want.
benjamin edited it a part of the time, and james a part of the time.
the idea of having two editors was not for the purpose of giving volume to the editorial page, but it was necessary for one to run the paper while the other was in jail.
in those days you could not sass the king, and then, when the king came in the office the next day and stopped his paper and took out his ad., put it off on "our informant" and go right along with the paper.
you had to go to jail, while your subscribers wondered why their paper did not come, and the paste soured in the tin dippers in the sanctum, and the circus passed by on the other side.
how many of us to-day, fellow-journalists, would be willing to stay in jail while the lawn festival and the kangaroo came and went?
who of all our company would go to a prison-cell for the cause of freedom while a double-column ad.
of sixteen aggregated circuses, and eleven congresses of ferocious beasts, fierce and fragrant from their native lair, went by us?
at the age of seventeen ben got disgusted with his brother, and went to philadelphia and new york, where he got a chance to "sub" for a few weeks and then got a regular "sit."
franklin was a good printer, and finally got to be a foreman.
he made an excellent foreman, sitting by the hour in the composing-room and spitting on the stove, while he cussed the make-up and press-work of the other papers.
then he would go into the editorial rooms and scare the editors to death with a wild shriek for more copy.
he knew just how to conduct himself as a foreman so that strangers would think he owned the paper.
in 1730, at the age of twenty-four, franklin married, and established the pennsylvania gazette.
he was then regarded as a great man, and almost every one took his paper.
franklin grew to be a great journalist, and spelled hard words with great fluency.
he never tried to be a humorist in any of his newspaper work, and everybody respected him.
along about 1746 he began to study the habits and construction of lightning, and inserted a local in his paper in which he said that he would be obliged to any of his readers who might notice any new or odd specimens of lightning, if they would send them in to the gazette office for examination.
every time there was a thunderstorm franklin would tell the foreman to edit the paper, and, armed with a string and an old door-key, he would go out on the hills and get enough lightning for a mess.
in 1753 franklin was made postmaster of the colonies.
he made a good postmaster-general, and people say there were fewer mistakes in distributing their mail then than there have ever been since.
if a man mailed a letter in those days, old ben franklin saw that it went to where it was addressed.
franklin frequently went over to england in those days, partly on business and partly to shock the king.
he liked to go to the castle with his breeches tucked in his boots, figuratively speaking, and attract a great deal of attention.
it looked odd to the english, of course, to see him come into the royal presence, and, leaning his wet umbrella up against the throne, ask the king, "how's trade?"
franklin never put on any frills, but he was not afraid of a crowned head.
he used to say, frequently, that a king to him was no more than a seven-spot.
he did his best to prevent the revolutionary war, but he couldn't do it.
patrick henry had said that the war was inevitable, and had given it permission to come, and it came.
he also went to paris, and got acquainted with a few crowned heads there.
they thought a good deal of him in paris, and offered him a corner lot if he would build there and start a paper.
they also promised him the county printing; but he said, no, he would have to go back to america or his wife might get uneasy about him.
franklin wrote "poor richard's almanac" in 1732 to 1757, and it was republished in england.
franklin little thought, when he went to the throne-room in his leather riding-clothes and hung his hat on the throne, that he was inaugurating a custom of wearing groom clothes which would in these days be so popular among the english.
dr. franklin entered philadelphia eating a loaf of bread and carrying a loaf under each arm, passing beneath the window of the girl to whom he afterwards gave his hand in marriage.
nearly everybody in america, except dr. mary walker, was once a poor boy.
chapter xvi.
the critical period.
ethan allen and benedict arnold on the 10th of may led two small companies to ticonderoga, a strong fortress tremendously fortified, and with its name also across the front door.
ethan allen, a brave vermonter born in connecticut, entered the sally-port, and was shot at by a guard whose musket failed to report.
allen entered and demanded the surrender of the fortress.
"by whose authority?"
asked the commandant.
"by the authority of the great jehovah and the continental congress,"
said allen, brandishing his naked sword at a great rate.
"very well," said the officer: "if you put it on those grounds, all right, if you will excuse the appearance of things.
we were just cleaning up, and everything is by the heels here."
"never mind," said allen, who was the soul of politeness.
"we put on no frills at home, and so we are ready to take things as we find them."
the americans therefore got a large amount of munitions of war, both here and at crown point.
general washington was now appointed commander-in-chief of all the troops at the second session of the continental congress.
on his arrival at boston there were only fourteen thousand men.
he took command under the historic elm at cambridge.
he was dressed in a blue broadcloth coat with flaps and revers of same, trimmed with large beautiful buttons.
he also wore buff small-clothes, with openings at the sides where pockets are now put in, but at that time given up to space.
they were made in such a way as to prevent the naked eye from discovering at once whether he was in advance or retreat.
he also wore silk stockings and a cocked hat.
the lines of dryden starting off "mark his majestic fabric" were suggested by his appearance and general style.
he always dressed well and rode a good horse, but at valley forge frosted his feet severely, and could have drawn a pension, "but no," said he, "i can still work at light employment, like being president, and so i will not ask for a pension."
each soldier had less than nine cartridges, but washington managed to keep general gage penned up in boston, and, as gage knew very few people there, it was a dull winter for him.
the boys of boston had built snow hills on the common, and used to slide down them to the ice below, but the british soldiers tore down their coasting-places and broke up the ice on the pond.
they stood it a long time, rebuilding their playground as often as it was torn down, until the spirit of american freedom could endure it no longer.
they then organized a committee consisting of eight boys who were noted for their great philosophical research, and with charles sumner muzzy, the eloquent savant from milk street, as chairman, the committee started for general gage's head-quarters, to confer with him regarding the matter.
in the picture mr. muzzy is seen addressing general gage.
the boy in the centre with the colored glasses is marco bozzaris cobb, who discovered and first brought into use the idea of putting new orleans molasses into boston brown bread.
to the left of mr. cobb is mr. jehoab nye, who afterwards became the rev.
jehoab nye and worked with heart and voice for over eight of the best years of his life against the immorality of the codfish-ball, before he learned of its true relations towards society.
above and between these two stands whomsoever j. opper, who wrote "how to make the garden pay" and "what responsible person will see that my grave is kept green?"
in the background we see the tall form of wherewithal g. lumpy, who introduced the pompadour hair-cut into massachusetts and grew up to be a great man with enlarged joints but restricted ideas.
charles sumner muzzy addressed general gage at some length, somewhat to the surprise of gage, who admitted in a few well-chosen words that the committee was right, and that if he had his way about it there should be no more trouble.
charles was followed by marco bozzaris cobb, who spoke briefly of the boon of liberty, closing as follows: "we point with pride, sir, to the love of freedom, which is about the only excitement we have.
we love our country, sir, whether we love anything else much or not.
the distant wanderer of american birth, sir, pines for his country.
'oh, give me back,' he goes on to say, 'my own fair land across the bright blue sea, the land of beauty and of worth, the bright land of the free, where tyrant foot hath never trod, nor bigot forged a chain.
oh, would that i were safely back in that bright land again!'"
mr. wherewithal g. lumpy said he had hardly expected to be called upon, and so had not prepared himself, but this occasion forcibly brought to his mind the words also of the poet, "our country stands," said he, "with outstretched hands appealing to her boys; from them must flow her weal or woe, her anguish or her joys.
a ship she rides on human tides which rise and sink anon: each giant wave may prove her grave, or bear her nobly on.
the friends of right, with armor bright, a valiant christian band, through god her aid may yet be made, a blessing to our land."
general gage was completely overcome, and asked for a moment to go apart and think it over, which he did, returning with an air which reminded one of "ten nights in a bar-room."
"you may go, my brave boys; and be assured that if my troops molest you in the future, or anywhere else, i will overpower them and strew the common with their corses.
"of corse he will," said the hairy boy to the right of whomsoever j.
opper, who afterwards became the father of a lad who grew up to be editor of the persiflage column of the atlantic monthly.
thus the boys of america impressed general gage with their courage and patriotism and grew up to be good men.
an expedition to canada was fitted out the same winter, and an attack made on quebec, in which general montgomery was killed and benedict arnold showed that he was a brave soldier, no matter how the historian may have hopped on him afterwards.
the americans should not have tried to take canada.
canada was, as henry clay once said, a persimmon a trifle too high for the american pole, and it is the belief of the historian, whose tears have often wet the pages of this record, that in the future canada will be what america is now, a free country with a national debt of her own, a flag of her own, an executive of her own, and a regular annual crisis of her own, like other nations.
in 1776 boston was evacuated.
washington, in order to ascertain whether lord howe had a call to fish, cut bait, or go ashore, began to fortify dorchester heights, march 17, and on the following morning he was not a little surprised to note the change.
as the weather was raw, and he had been in-doors a good deal during the winter, lord howe felt the cold very keenly.
he went to the window and looked at the americans, but he would come back chilly and ill-tempered to the fire each time.
finally he hitched up and went away to halifax, where he had acquaintances.
on june 28 an attack was made by the english on fort moultrie.
it was built of palmetto logs, which are said to be the best thing in the world to shoot into if one wishes to recover the balls and use them again.
palmetto logs accept and retain balls for many years, and are therefore good for forts.
when the fleet got close enough to the fort so that the brave charlestonians could see the expression on the admiral's face, they turned loose with everything they had, grape, canister, solid shot, chain-shot, bar-shot, stove-lids, muffin-irons, newspaper cuts, etc., etc., so that the decks were swept of every living thing except the admiral.
general clinton by land tried to draw the attention of the rear gunners of the fort, but he was a poor draughtsman, and so retired, and both the land and naval forces quit charleston and went to new york, where board was not so high.
july 4 was deemed a good time to write a declaration of independence and have it read in the grove.
richard henry lee, of virginia, moved that "the united colonies are, and of right ought to be, free and independent states."
john adams, of massachusetts, seconded the resolution.
this was passed july 2, and the report of the committee appointed to draw up a declaration of independence was adopted july 4.
the declaration was dictated by thomas jefferson, who wrote the most melodious english of any american of his time.
jefferson had a vocabulary next to noah webster, with all the dramatic power of dan.
he composed the piece one evening after his other work.
we give a facsimile of the opening lines.
philadelphia was a scene of great excitement.
the streets were thronged, and people sat down on the nice clean door-steps with perfect recklessness, although the steps had just been cleaned with ammonia and wiped off with a chamois-skin.
it was a day long to be remembered, and one that made george iii.
wish that he had reconsidered his birth.
in the steeple of the old state-house was a bell which had fortunately upon it the line "proclaim liberty throughout all the land unto all the inhabitants thereof."
it was rung by the old man in charge, though he had lacked faith up to that moment in congress.
he believed that congress would not pass the resolution and adopt the declaration till after election.
thus was the era of good feeling inaugurated both north and south.
there was no north then, no south, no east, no west; just one common country, with washington acting as father of same.
oh, how nice it must have been!
washington was one of the sweetest men in the united states.
he gave his hand in marriage to a widow woman who had two children and a dark red farm in virginia.
chapter xvii.
the beginning of the end.
the british army now numbered thirty thousand troops, while washington's entire command was not over seven thousand strong.
the howes, one a general and the other an admiral, now turned their attention to new york.
washington, however, was on the ground beforehand.
howe's idea was to first capture brooklyn, so that he could have a place in which to sleep at nights while engaged in taking new york.
the battle was brief.
howe attacked the little army in front, while general clinton got around by a circuitous route to the rear of the colonial troops and cut them off.
the americans lost one thousand men by death or capture.
the prisoners were confined in the old sugar-house on liberty street, where they suffered the most miserable and indescribable deaths.
the army of the americans fortunately escaped by fulton ferry in a fog, otherwise it would have been obliterated.
washington now fortified harlem heights, and later withdrew to white plains.
afterwards he retired to a fortified camp called north castle.
howe feared to attack him there, and so sent the hessians, who captured fort washington, november 16.
it looked scaly for the americans, as motley says, and philadelphia bade fair to join new york and other cities held by the british.
the english van could be seen from the colonial rear column.
the american troops were almost barefooted, and left their blood-stained tracks on the frozen road.
it was at this time that washington crossed the delaware and thereby found himself on the other side; while howe decided to remain, as the river was freezing, and when the ice got strong enough, cross over and kill the americans at his leisure.
had he followed the colonial army, it is quite sure now that the english would have conquered, and the author would have been the duke of sandy bottom, instead of a plain american citizen, unknown, unhonored, and unsung.
washington decided that he must strike a daring blow while his troops had any hope or vitality left; and so on christmas night, after crossing the delaware as shown elsewhere, he fell on the hessians at trenton in the midst of their festivities, captured one thousand prisoners, and slew the leader.
the hessians were having a symposium at the time, and though the commander received an important note of warning during the christmas dinner, he thrust it into his pocket and bade joy be unconfined.
when daylight came, the hessians were mostly moving in alcoholic circles trying to find their guns.
washington lost only four men, and two of those were frozen to death.
the result of this fight gave the colonists courage and taught them at the same time that it would be best to avoid new jersey symposiums till after the war was over.
having made such a hit in crossing the delaware, washington decided to repeat the performance on the 3d of january.
he was attacked at trenton by cornwallis, who is known in history for his justly celebrated surrender.
he waited till morning, having been repulsed at sundown.
washington left his camp-fires burning, surrounded the british, captured two hundred prisoners, and got away to morristown heights in safety.
if the ground had not frozen, general washington could not have moved his forty cannon; but, fortunately, the thermometer was again on his side, and he never lost a gun.
september 11 the english got into the chesapeake, and washington announced in the papers that he would now fight the battle of the brandywine, which he did.
marie jean paul roch yves gilbert motier, marquis de la fayette, fought bravely with the americans in this battle, twice having his name shot from under him.
the patriots were routed, scoring a goose-egg and losing philadelphia.
october 4, washington attacked the enemy at germantown, and was beaten back just as victory was arranging to perch on his banner.
poor washington now retired to valley forge, where he put in about the dullest winter of his life.
the english had not been so successful in the north.
at first the americans could only delay burgoyne by felling trees in the path of his eight thousand men, which is a very unsatisfactory sort of warfare, but at last schuyler, who had borne the burden and heat of the day, was succeeded by gates, and good luck seemed to come slowly his way.
a foolish boy with bullet-holes cut in his clothes ran into st. leger's troops, and out of breath told them to turn back or they would fill a drunkard's grave.
officers asked him about the numbers of the enemy, and he pointed to the leaves of the trees, shrieked, and ran for his life.
he ran several days, and was barely able to keep ahead of st. leger's troops by a neck.
burgoyne at another time sent a detachment under colonel baum to take the stores at bennington, vermont.
he was met by general stark and the militia.
stark said, "here come the redcoats, and we must beat them to-day, or molly stark is a widow."
this neat little remark made an instantaneous hit, and when they counted up their string of prisoners at night they found they had six hundred souls and a hessian.
burgoyne now felt blue and unhappy.
besides, his troops were covered with wood-ticks and had had no washing done for three weeks.
he moved southward and attacked gates at bemis heights, or, as a british wit had it, "gave gates ajar," near saratoga.
a wavering fight occupied the day, and then both armies turned in and fortified for two weeks.
burgoyne saw that he was running out of food, and so was first to open fire.
arnold, who had been deprived of his command since the last battle, probably to prevent his wiping out the entire enemy and getting promoted, was so maddened by the conflict that he dashed in before gates could put him in the guard-house, and at the head of his old command, and without authority or hat, led the attack.
gates did not dare to come where arnold was, to order him back, for it was a very warm place where arnold was at the time.
the enemy was thus driven to camp.
arnold was shot in the same leg that was wounded at quebec; so he was borne back to the extreme rear, where he found gates eating a doughnut and speaking disrespectfully of arnold.
a council was now held in burgoyne's tent, and on the question of renewing the fight stood six to six, when an eighteen-pound hot shot went through the tent, knocking a stylographic pen out of general burgoyne's hand.
almost at once he decided to surrender, and the entire army of six thousand men was surrendered, together with arms, portable bath-tubs, and leather hat-boxes.
the americans marched into their camp to the tune of yankee doodle, which is one of the most impudent compositions ever composed.
during the valley forge winter (1777-78) continental currency depreciated in value so that an officer's pay would not buy his clothes.
many, having also spent their private funds for the prosecution of the war, were obliged to resign and hire out in the lumber woods in order to get food for their families.
troops had no blankets, and straw was not to be had.
it was extremely sad; but there was no wavering.
officers were approached by the enemy with from one hundred to one thousand pounds if they would accept and use their influence to effect a reconciliation; but, with blazing eye and unfaltering attitude, each stated that he was not for sale, and returned to his frozen mud-hole to rest and dream of food and freedom.
those were the untitled nobility from whom we sprung.
let us look over our personal record and see if we are living lives that are worthy of such heroic sires.
five minutes will now be given the reader to make a careful examination of his personal record.
in the spring the joyful news came across the sea that, through the efforts of benjamin franklin, france had acknowledged the independence of the united states, and a fleet was on the way to assist the struggling troops.
the battle of monmouth occurred june 28. clinton succeeded howe, and, alarmed by the news of the french fleet, the government ordered clinton to concentrate his troops near new york, where there were better facilities for getting home.
washington followed the enemy across new jersey, overtaking them at monmouth.
lee was in command, and got his men tangled in a swamp where the mosquitoes were quite plenty, and, losing courage, ordered a retreat.
washington arrived at that moment, and bitterly upbraided lee.
he used the flanders method of upbraiding, it is said, and lee could not stand it.
he started towards the enemy in preference to being there with washington, who was still rebuking him.
the fight was renewed, and all day long they fought.
when night came, clinton took his troops with him and went away where they could be by themselves.
an effort was made to get up a fight between the french fleet and the english at newport for the championship, but a severe storm came up and prevented it.
in july the wyoming massacre, under the management of the tories and indians, commanded by butler, took place in that beautiful valley near wilkes barre, pennsylvania.
this massacre did more to make the indians and tories unpopular in this country than any other act of the war.
the men were away in the army, and the women, children, and old men alone were left to the vengeance of the two varieties of savage.
the indians had never had gospel privileges, but the tories had.
otherwise they resembled each other.
in 1779 the english seemed to have georgia and the south pretty well to themselves.
prevost, the english general, made an attack on charleston, but, learning that lincoln was after him, decided that, as he had a telegram to meet a personal friend at savannah, he would go there.
in september, lincoln, assisted by the french under d'estaing, attacked savannah.
one thousand lives were lost, and d'estaing showed the white feather to advantage.
count pulaski lost his life in this fight.
he was a brave polish patriot, and his body was buried in the savannah river.
the capture of stony point about this time by "mad anthony wayne" was one of the most brilliant battles of the war.
learning the countersign from a negro who sold strawberries to the british, the troops passed the guard over the bridge that covered the marsh, and, gagging the worthy inside guard, they marched up the hill with fixed bayonets and fixed the enemy to the number of six hundred.
the countersign was, "the fort is won," and so it was, in less time than it takes to ejaculate the word "scat!"
wayne was wounded at the outset, but was carried up the hill in command, with a bandage tied about his head.
he was a brave man, and never knew in battle what fear was.
yet, strange to say, a bat in his bed would make him start up and turn pale.
chapter xviii.
the close of the revolution.
the atrocities introduced into this country by the tories and indians caused general sullivan to go out against the measly enemy, whip him near elmira, and destroy the fields of corn and villages in the genesee country, where the indian women were engaged in farming while their men-folks attended to the massacre industry.
the weak point with the americans seemed to be lack of a suitable navy.
a navy costs money, and the colonists were poor.
in 1775 they fitted out several swift sailing-vessels, which did good service.
inside of five years they captured over five hundred ships, cruised among the british isles, and it is reported that they captured war-vessels that were tied to the english wharves.
paul jones had a method of running his vessel alongside the enemy's, lashing the two together, and then having it out with the crew, generally winning in a canter.
his idea in lashing the two ships together was to have one good ship to ride home on.
generally it was the one he captured, while his own, which was rotten, was allowed to go down.
this was especially the case in the fight between the richard and the serapis, september 23, 1779.
in 1780 the war was renewed in south carolina.
charleston, after a forty days' siege, was forced to surrender.
gates now took charge of the south, and also gave a sprinting exhibition at camden, where he was almost wiped off the face of the earth.
he had only two troops left at the close of the battle, and they could not keep up with gates in the retreat.
this battle and the retreat overheated gates and sowed the seeds of heart-disease, from which he never recovered.
he should have chosen a more peaceful life, such as the hen-traffic, or the growth of asparagus for the market.
benedict arnold has been severely reproached in history, but he was a brave soldier, and possibly serving under gates, who jealously kept him in the background, had a good deal to do with the little european dicker which so darkened his brilliant career as a soldier.
unhappy man!
he was not well received in england, and, though a brilliant man, was forced to sit in a corner evening after evening and hear the english tell his humorous stories as their own.
the carolinas were full of tories, and opposition to english rule was practically abandoned in the south for the time, with the exception of that made in a desultory swamp-warfare by the partisan bands with such leaders as marion, sumter, and pickens.
two hundred thousand dollars of continental money was the sum now out.
forty dollars of it would buy one dollar's worth of groceries; but the grocer had to know the customer pretty well, and even then it was more to accommodate than anything else that he sold at that price.
the british flooded the country with a counterfeit that was rather better-looking than the genuine: so that by the time a man had paid six hundred dollars for a pair of boots, and the crooked bills had been picked out and others substituted, it made him feel that starting a republic was a mighty unpopular job.
general arnold had married a tory lady, and lived in philadelphia while recovering from his wounds received at quebec and saratoga.
he was rather a high roller, and ran behind, so that it is estimated that his bills there per month required a peach-basket-full of currency with which to pay them, as the currency was then quoted.
besides, gates had worried him, and made him think that patriotism was mostly politics.
he was also overbearing, and the people of philadelphia mobbed him once.
he was reprimanded gently by washington, but arnold was haughty and yet humiliated.
he got command of west point, a very important place indeed, and then arranged with clinton to swap it for six thousand three hundred and fifteen pounds and a colonelcy in the english army.
major andré was appointed to confer with arnold, and got off the ship vulture to make his way to the appointed place, but it was daylight by that time, and the vulture, having been fired on, dropped down the river.
andré now saw no way for him but to get back to new york; but at tarrytown he was met by three patriots, who caught his horse by the reins, and, though andré tried to tip them, he did not succeed.
they found papers on his person, among them a copy of punch, which made them suspicious that he was not an american, and so he was tried and hanged as a spy.
this was one of the saddest features of the american revolution, and should teach us to be careful how we go about in an enemy's country, also to use great care in selecting and subscribing for papers.
in 1781, greene, who succeeded gates, took charge of the two thousand ragged and bony troops.
january 17 he was attacked at cowpens by tarleton.
the militia fell back, and the english made a grand charge, supposing victory to be within reach.
but the wily and foxy troops turned at thirty yards and gave the undertaking business a boom that will never be forgotten.
morgan was in command of the colonial forces.
he went on looking for more regulars to kill, but soon ran up against cornwallis the surrenderer.
general greene now joined morgan, and took charge of the retreat.
at the yadkin river they crossed over ahead of cornwallis, when it began for to rain.
when cornwallis came to the river he found it so swollen and restless that he decided not to cross.
later he crossed higher up, and made for the fords of the dan at thirty miles a day, to head off the americans.
greene beat him, however, by a length, and saved his troops.
the writer has seen the place on the yadkin where cornwallis decided not to cross.
it was one of the pivotal points of the war, and is of about medium height.
a fight followed at guilford court-house, where the americans were driven back, but the enemy got thinned out so noticeably that cornwallis decided to retreat.
he went back to washington on a bull run schedule, without pausing even for feed or water.
cornwallis was greatly agitated, and the coat he wore at the time, and now shown in the smithsonian institution, shows distinctly the marks made where the colonists played checkers on the tail.
the battle of eutaw springs, september 8, also greatly reduced the british forces at that point.
arnold conducted a campaign into virginia, and was very brutal about it, killing a great many people who were strangers to him, and who had never harmed him, not knowing him, as the historian says, from "adam's off ox."
cornwallis in this virginia and southern trip destroyed ten million dollars' worth of property, and then fortified himself at yorktown.
washington decided to besiege yorktown, and, making a feint to fool clinton, set out for that place, visiting mount vernon en route after an absence of six and a half years, though only stopping two days.
washington was a soldier in the true sense, and, when a lad, was given a little hatchet by his father.
george cut down some cherry-trees with this, in order to get the cherries without climbing the trees.
one day his father discovered that the trees had been cut down, and spoke of it to the lad.
"yes," said george, "i did it with my little hatchet; but i would rather cut down a thousand cherry-trees and tell the truth about it than be punished for it."
"well said, my brave boy!"
exclaimed the happy father as he emptied george's toy bank into his pocket in payment for the trees.
"you took the words right out of my mouth."
in speaking of the siege of yorktown, the historian says, "the most hearty good will prevailed."
what more could you expect of a siege than that?
cornwallis capitulated october 19. it was the most artistic capitulation he had ever given.
the troops were arranged in two lines facing each other, british and american with their allies the french under rochambeau.
people came from all over the country who had heard of cornwallis and his wonderful genius as a capitulator.
they came for miles, and brought their lunches with them; but the general, who felt an unnecessary pique towards washington, refused to take part in the exercises himself, claiming that by the advice of his physicians he would have to remain in his tent, as they feared that he had over-capitulated himself already.
he therefore sent his sword by general o'hara, and washington turned it over to lincoln, who had been obliged to surrender to the english at charleston.
the news reached philadelphia in the night, and when the watchman cried, "past two o'clock, and cornwallis is taken!"
the people arose and went and prayed and laughed like lunatics, for they regarded the war as virtually ended.
the old door-keeper of congress died of delight.
thanks were returned to almighty god, and george washington's nomination was a sure thing.
england decided that whoever counselled war any further was a public enemy, and lord north, then prime minister, when he heard of the surrender of cornwallis through a new york paper, exclaimed, "oh, god!
it is all over!"
washington now showed his sagacity in quelling the fears of the soldiers regarding their back pay.
he was invited to become king, but, having had no practice, and fearing that he might run against a coup d'état or faux pas, he declined, and spoke kindly against taking violent measures.
in 1783, september 3, a treaty of peace was signed in paris, and washington, delivering the most successful farewell address ever penned, retired to mount vernon, where he began at once to enrich his farm with the suggestions he had received during his absence, and to calmly take up the life that had been interrupted by the tedious and disagreeable war.
the country was free and independent, but, oh, how ignorant it was about the science of government!
the author does not wish to be personal when he states that the country at that time did not know enough about affairs to carry water for a circus elephant.
it was heavily in debt, with no power to raise money.
new england refused to pay her poll-tax, and a party named shays directed his hired man to overturn the government; but a felon broke out on his thumb, and before he could put it down the crisis was averted and the country saved.
chapter xix.
the first president.
it now became the duty of the new republic to seek out the man to preside over it, and george washington seems to have had no rivals.
he rather reluctantly left his home at mount vernon, where he was engaged in trying the rotation of crops, and solemnly took the oath to support the constitution of the united states, which had been adopted september 17, 1787. his trip in april, 1789, from mount vernon to the seat of government in new york was a simple but beautiful ovation.
everybody tried to make it pleasant for him.
he was asked at all the towns to build there, and 'most everybody wanted him "to come and make their house his home."
when he got to the ferry he was not pushed off into the water by commuters, but lived to reach the old federal hall, where he was sworn in.
in 1791 the seat of government was removed to philadelphia, where it remained for ten years, after which the united states took advantage of the homestead act and located on a tract of land ten miles square, known as the district of columbia.
in 1846 that part of the district lying on the virginia side of the potomac was ceded back to the state.
president washington did not have to escape from the capital to avoid office-seekers.
he could get on a horse at his door and in five minutes be out of sight.
he could remain in the forest back of his house until martha blew the horn signifying that the man who wanted the post-office at pigback had gone, and then he could return.
how times have changed with the growth of the republic!
now pigback has grown so that the name has been changed to hogback, and the president avails himself of every funeral that he can possibly feel an interest in, to leave the swarm of jobless applicants who come to pester him to death for appointments.
the historian begs leave to say here that the usefulness of the president for the good of his country and the consideration of greater questions will some day be reduced to very little unless he may be able to avoid this effort to please voters who overestimate their greatness.
it is said that washington had no library, which accounted for his originality.
he was a vestryman in the episcopal church; and to see his tall and graceful form as he moved about from pew to pew collecting pence for home missions, was a lovely sight.
as a boy he was well behaved and a careful student.
at one time he was given a hatchet by his father, which
but what has the historian to do with this morbid wandering in search of truth?
things were very much unsettled.
england had not sent a minister to this country, and had arranged no commercial treaty with us.
washington's cabinet consisted of three portfolios and a rack in which he kept his flute-music.
the three ministers were the secretary of state, the secretary of war, and the secretary of the treasury.
there was no attorney-general, or postmaster-general, or secretary of the interior, or of the navy, or seed catalogue secretary.
hamilton, the secretary of the treasury, advised that congress at the earliest moment provide itself with a national debt, which was done, the war debt being assumed by the congressional representatives of the thirteen colonies.
a tax was levied on spirits, and a mint started, combining the two, and making the mint encourage the consumption of spirits, and thus the increase of the tax, very likely.
a whiskey rebellion broke out in 1794. pennsylvania especially rebelled at the tax on this grocery, but it was put down.
(those wishing to know which was put down will find out by consulting the appendix, which will be issued a year from this winter.)
a few indian wars now kept the people interested, and a large number of the red brothers, under little turtle, soon found themselves in the soup, as washington put it so tersely in his message the following year.
twenty-five thousand square miles north of the ohio were obtained by treaty from the indians.
england claimed that traffic with america was not desirable, as the americans did not pay their debts.
possibly that was true, for muskrat pelts were low at that time, and england refused to take cord-wood and saw-logs piled on the new york landing as cash.
chief-justice jay was sent to london to confer with the king, which he did.
he was not invited, however, to come to the house during his stay, and the queen did not call on mrs. jay.
the jays have never recovered from this snub, and are still gently guyed by the comic papers.
but the treaty was negotiated, and now the americans are said to pay their debts as well as the nobility who marry our american girls instead of going into bankruptcy, as some would do.
the mississippi and the mediterranean sea were opened for navigation to american vessels now, and things looked better, for we could by this means exchange our cranberries for sugar and barter our indian relics for camel's-hair shawls, of which the pioneers were very much in need during the rigorous winters in the north.
the french now had a difficulty with england, and washington, who still remembered la fayette and the generous aid of the french, wished that he was back at mount vernon, working out his poll-tax on the virginia roads, for he was in a tight place.
it was now thought best to have two political parties, in order to enliven editorial thought and expression.
so the republican party, headed by jefferson, madison, and randolph, and the federalist party, led by hamilton and adams, were organized, and public speakers were engaged from a distance.
the latter party supported the administration, which was not so much of a job as it has been several times since.
washington declined to accept a third term, and wrote a first-rate farewell address.
a lady, whose name is withheld, writing of those times, closes by saying that president washington was one of the sweetest men she ever knew.
john adams succeeded washington as president, and did not change his politics to amount to much.
he made a good record as congressman, but lost it as president largely because of his egotism.
he seemed to think that if he neglected to oil the gearing of the solar system about so often, it would stop running.
we should learn from this to be humble even when we are in authority.
adams and jefferson were good friends during the revolution, but afterwards political differences estranged them till they returned to private life.
adams was a poor judge of men, and offended several members of the press who called on him to get his message in advance.
our country was on the eve of a war with france, when napoleon i. was made consul, and peace followed.
adams's administration made the federalists unpopular, owing to the alien and sedition laws, and jefferson was elected the successor of adams, burr running as vice-president with him.
the election was so close that it went to the house, however.
jefferson, or the sage of monticello, was a good president, noted for his simplicity.
he married and brought his bride home to monticello prior to this.
she had to come on horseback about one hundred miles, and, as the house was unfinished and no servants there, they had to sleep on the work-bench and eat what was left of the carpenter's lunch.
jeffersonian simplicity was his strong point, and people who called at the white house often found him sprinkling the floor of his office, or trying to start a fire with kerosene.
burr was vice-president, and, noticing at once that the office did not attract any attention to speak of, decided to challenge mr. alexander hamilton to fight a duel with him.
the affair took place at weehawken, july 11, 1804. hamilton fell at the first fire, on the same spot where his eldest son had been killed in the same way.
the artist has shown us how burr and hamilton should have fought, but, alas!
they were not progressive men and did not realize this till too late.
another method would have been to use the bloodless method of the french duel, or the newspaper customs adopted by the pugilists of 1893.
the time is approaching when mortal combat in america will be confined to belligerent people under the influence of liquor.
a newspaper assault instead of a duel might have made burr president and hamilton vice-president.
burr went west, and was afterwards accused of treason on the ground that he was trying to organize mexico against the united states government.
he was put in a common jail to await trial.
afterwards he was discharged, but was never again on good terms with the government, and never rose again.
when he came into town and registered at the hotel the papers did not say anything about it; and so he stopped taking them, thus falling into ignorance and oblivion at the same moment, although at one time he had lacked but a single vote to make him president of the united states.
england and france still continued at war, and american vessels were in hot water a good deal, as they were liable to be overhauled by both parties.
england especially, with the excuse that she was looking for deserters, stopped american vessels and searched them, going through the sleeping-apartments before the work was done up, one of the rudest things known in international affairs.
an embargo act was passed forbidding american vessels to leave port, an act which showed that the bray of the ass had begun to echo through the halls of legislation even at that early day.
in the mean time, jefferson had completed his second term, and james madison, the republican candidate, had succeeded him at the helm of state, as it was then called.
his party favored a war with england, especially as the british had begun again to stir up the red brother.
madison was a virginian.
he was a man of unblemished character, and was not too haughty to have fun sometimes.
this endeared him to the whole nation.
unlike adams, he never swelled up so that his dignity hurt him under the arms.
he died in 1836, genial and sunny to the last.
it was now thought best to bring on the war of 1812, which began by an indian attack at tippecanoe on general harrison's troops in 1811, when the indians were defeated.
june 19, 1812, war was finally declared.
the first battle was between the forces under general hull on our side and the english and indians on the british side, near detroit.
the troops faced each other, tecumseh being the indian leader, and both armies stood ready to have one of the best battles ever given in public or private, when general hull was suddenly overcome with remorse at the thought of shedding blood, especially among people who were so common, and, shaking a large table-cloth out the window in token of peace, amid the tears of his men, surrendered his entire command in a way that reminded old settlers very much of cornwallis.
chapter xx.
the war with canada.
october 13, general van rensselaer crossed the niagara river and attacked the british at queenstown heights.
the latter retreated, and general brock was killed.
general van rensselaer went back after the rest of his troops, but they refused to cross, on the ground that the general had no right to take them out of the united states, and thus the troops left in charge at the heights were compelled to surrender.
these troops who refused to go over and accept a victory already won for them, because they didn't want to cross the canadian line, would not have shied so at the boundary if they had been boodlers, very likely, in later years.
august 19 occurred the naval fight between the constitution and guerriere, off the massachusetts coast.
the constitution, called "old ironsides," was commanded by captain isaac hull.
the guerriere was first to attack, but got no reply until both vessels were very close together, when into her starboard captain hull poured such a load of hardware that the guerriere was soon down by the head and lop-sided on the off side.
she surrendered, but was of no value, being so full of holes that she would not hold a cargo of railroad-trestles.
the economy used by the early american warriors by land and sea regarding their ammunition, holding their fire until the enemy was at arm's length, was the cause of more than one victory.
they were obliged, indeed, to make every bullet count in the days when even lead was not produced here, and powder was imported.
october 13, the naval fight between the frolic and wasp took place, off the north carolina coast.
the frolic was an english brig, and she wound up as most frolics do, with a severe pain and a five-dollar fine.
after the wasp had called and left her r. s. v. p. cards, the decks of the frolic were a sight to behold.
there were not enough able-bodied men to surrender the ship.
she was captured by the boarding-crew, but there was not a man left of her own crew to haul down the colors.
other victories followed on the sea, and american privateers had more fun than anybody.
madison was re-elected, thus showing that his style of administration suited one and all, and the war was prosecuted at a great rate.
it became a sort of fight with canada, the latter being supported by english arms by land and sea.
of course the americans would have preferred to fight england direct, and many were in favor of attacking london: but when the commanding officer asked those of the army who had the means to go abroad to please raise their right hands, it was found that the trip must be abandoned.
those who had the means to go did not have suitable clothes for making a respectable appearance, and so it was given up.
three divisions were made of the army, all having an attack on canada as the object in view, viz., the army of the centre, the army of the north, and the army of the west.
the armies of the centre and north did not do much, aside from the trifling victory at york, and president madison said afterwards in a letter to the writer's family that the two armies did not accomplish enough to pay the duty on them.
the army of the west managed to stand off the british, though the latter still held michigan and threatened ohio.
september 10, perry's victory on lake erie occurred, and was well received.
perry was twenty-seven years old, and was given command of a flotilla on lake erie, provided he would cut the timber and build it, meantime boarding himself.
the british had long been in possession of lake erie, and when perry got his scows afloat they issued invitations for a general display of carnage.
they bore down on perry and killed all the men on his flag-ship but eight.
then he helped them fire the last gun, and with the flag they jumped into a boat which they paddled for the niagara under a galling fire.
this was the first time that a galling fire had ever been used at sea.
perry passed within pistol-shot of the british, and in less than a quarter of an hour after he trod the poop of the niagara he was able to write to general harrison, "we have met the enemy, and they are ours."
proctor and tecumseh were at malden, with english and indians, preparing to plunder the frontier and kill some more women and children as soon as they felt rested up.
at the news of perry's victory, harrison decided to go over and stir them up.
arriving at malden, he found it deserted, and followed the foe to the river thames, where he charged with his kentucky horsemen right through the british lines and so on down the valley, where they reformed and started back to charge on their rear, when the whole outfit surrendered except the indians.
proctor, however, was mounted on a tall fox-hunter which ran away with him.
he afterwards wrote back to general harrison that he made every effort to surrender personally, but that circumstances prevented.
he was greatly pained by this.
the americans now charged on the indians, and johnson, the commander of the blue grass dragoons, fired a shot which took tecumseh just west of the watch-pocket.
he died, he said, tickled to death to know that he had been shot by an american.
captain lawrence, of the hornet, having taken the british brig peacock, was given command of the chesapeake, which he took to boston to have repaired.
while there, he got a challenge from the shannon.
he put to sea with half a crew, and a shot in his chest that is, the arm-chest of the ship burst the whole thing open and annoyed every one on board.
the enemy boarded the chesapeake and captured her, so captain lawrence, her brave commander, breathed his last, after begging his men not to give up the ship.
however, the victories on the canadian border settled the war once more for the time, and cheered the americans very much.
the indians in 1813 fell upon fort mimms and massacred the entire garrison, men, women, and children, not because they felt a personal antipathy towards them, but because they the red brothers had sold their lands too low and their hearts were sad in their bosoms.
there is really no fun in trading with an indian, for he is devoid of business instincts, and reciprocity with the red brother has never been a success.
general jackson took some troops and attacked the red brother, killing six hundred of him and capturing the rest of the herd.
jackson did not want to hear the indians speak pieces and see them smoke the pipe of peace, but buried the dead and went home.
he had very little of the romantic complaint which now and then breaks out regarding the indian, but knew full well that all the indians ever born on the face of the earth could not compensate for the cruel and violent death of one good, gentle, patient american mother.
admiral cockburn now began to pillage the coast of the southern states and borrow communion services from the churches of virginia and the carolinas.
he also murdered the sick in their beds.
perhaps a word of apology is due the indians after all.
possibly they got their ideas from cockburn.
the battle of lundy's lane had been arranged for july 25, 1814, and so the americans crossed niagara under general brown to invade canada.
general winfield scott led the advance, and gained a brilliant victory, july 5, at chippewa.
the second engagement was at lundy's lane, within the sound of the mighty cataract.
old man lundy, whose lane was used for the purpose, said that it was one of the bloodiest fights, by a good many gallons, that he ever attended.
the battle was, however, barren of results, the historian says, though really an american victory from the stand-point of the tactician and professional gore-spiller.
in september, sir george prevost took twelve thousand veteran troops who had served under wellington, and started for plattsburg.
the ships of the british at the same time opened fire on the nine-dollar american navy, and were almost annihilated.
the troops under prevost started in to fight, but, learning of the destruction of the british fleet on lake champlain, prevost fled like a frightened fawn, leaving his sick and wounded and large stores of lime-juice, porridge, and plum-pudding.
the americans, who had been living on chopped horse-feed and ginseng-root, took a week off and gave themselves up to the false joys of lime-juice and general good feeling.
along the coast the british destroyed everything they could lay their hands on; but perhaps the rudest thing they did was to enter washington and burn the capitol, the congressional library, and the smoke-house in which president madison kept his hams.
even now, when the writer is a guest of some great english dignitary, and perhaps at table picking the "merry-thought" of a canvas-back duck, the memory of this thing comes over him, and, burying his face in the costly napery, he gives himself up to grief until kind words and a celery-glass-full of turpentine, or something, bring back his buoyancy and rainbow smile.
the hospitality and generous treatment of our english brother to americans now is something beautiful, unaffected, and well worth a voyage across the qualmy sea to see, but when cockburn burned down the capitol and took the president's sugar-cured hams he did a rude act.
chapter xxi.
the advance of the republic.
the administration now began to suffer at the hands of the people, many of whom criticised the conduct of the war and that of the president also.
people met at hartford and spoke so harshly that the hartford federalist obtained a reputation which clung to him for many years.
there being no cable in those days, the peace by treaty of ghent was not heard of in time to prevent the battle of new orleans, january 8, 1815, there having been two weeks of peace as a matter of fact when this hot and fatal battle was fought.
general pakenham, with a force of twelve thousand men by sea and land, attacked the city.
the land forces found general jackson intrenched several miles below the city.
he had used cotton for fortifications at first, but a hot shot had set a big bunch of it on fire and rolled it over towards the powder-supplies, so that he did not use cotton any more.
general pakenham was met by the solid phalanx of tennessee and kentucky riflemen, who reserved their fire, as usual, until the loud uniform of the english could be distinctly heard, when they poured into their ranks a galling fire, as it was so tersely designated at the time.
general pakenham fell mortally wounded, and his troops were repulsed, but again rallied, only to be again repulsed.
this went on until night, when general lambert, who succeeded general pakenham, withdrew, hopelessly beaten, and with a loss of over two thousand men.
the united states now found that an honorable peace had been obtained, and with a debt of $127,000,000 started in to pay it up by instalments, which was done inside of twenty years from the ordinary revenue.
in the six years following, one state per year was added to the union, and all kinds of manufactures were built up to supply the goods that had been cut off by the blockade during the war.
even the deluge of cheap goods from abroad after the war did not succeed in breaking these down.
james monroe was almost unanimously elected.
he was generally beloved, and his administration was, in fact, known as the original "era of good feeling," since so successfully reproduced especially by the governors of north and south carolina.
(see appendix.)
through the efforts of henry clay, missouri was admitted as a slave state in 1821, under the compromise that slavery should not be admitted into any of the territories west of the mississippi and north of parallel 36° 30' n.
clay was one of the greatest men of his time, and was especially eminent as an eloquent and magnetic speaker in the days when the record for eloquence was disputed by the giants of american oratory, and before the senate of the united states had become a wealthy club of men whose speeches are rarely printed except at so much per column, paid in advance.
clay was the original patentee of the slogan for campaign use.
lafayette revisited this country in 1819, and was greeted with the greatest hospitality.
he visited the grave of washington, and tenderly spoke of the grandeur of character shown by his chief.
he was given the use of the brandywine, a government ship, for his return.
as he stood on the deck of the vessel at pier 1, north river, his mind again recurred to washington, and to those on shore he said that "to show washington's love of truth, even as a child, he could tell an interesting incident of him relating to a little new hatchet given him at the time by his father."
as he reached this point in his remarks, lafayette noted with surprise that some one had slipped his cable from shore and his ship was gently shoved off by people on the pier, while his voice was drowned in the notes of the new york oompah oompah band as it struck up "johnny, git yer gun."
florida was ceded to the united states in the same year by spain, and was sprinkled over with a light coating of sand for the waves to monkey with.
the everglades of florida are not yet under cultivation.
mr. monroe became the author of what is now called the "monroe doctrine," viz., that the effort of any foreign country to obtain dominion in america would thereafter and forever afterwards be regarded as an unfriendly act.
rather than be regarded as unfriendly, foreign countries now refrain from doing their dominion or dynasty work here.
the whigs now appeared, and the old republican party became known as the democratic party.
john quincy adams and henry clay were whigs, and john c. calhoun and andrew jackson were democrats.
the whigs favored a high protective tariff and internal improvement.
the democrats did not favor anything especially, but bitterly opposed the whig measures, whatever they were.
in 1825, john quincy adams, son of john adams, was elected president, and served one term.
he was a bald-headed man, and the country was given four years of unexampled prosperity.
yet this experience has not been regarded by the people as it should have been.
other kinds of men have repeatedly been elected to that office, only to bring sorrow, war, debt, and bank-failures upon us.
sometimes it would seem to the thinking mind that, as a people, we need a few car-loads of sense in each school-district, where it can be used at a moment's notice.
adams was not re-elected, on account of his tariff ideas, which were not popular at the south.
he was called "the old man eloquent," and it is said that during his more impassioned passages his head, which was round and extremely smooth, became flushed, so that, from resembling the cue-ball on the start, as he rose to more lofty heights his dome of thought looked more like the spot ball on a billiard-table.
no one else in congress at that time had succeeded in doing this.
john quincy adams was succeeded in 1829 by andrew jackson, the hero of new orleans.
jackson was the first to introduce what he called "rotation in office."
during the forty years previous there had been but seventy-four removals; jackson made seven hundred.
this custom has been pretty generally adopted since, giving immense satisfaction to those who thrive upon the excitement of offensive partisanship and their wives'
relations, while those who have legitimate employment and pay taxes support and educate a new official kindergarten with every change of administration.
the prophet sees in the distance an eight-year term for the president, and employment thereafter as "charge-d'affaires" of the united states, with permission to go beyond the seas.
thus the vast sums of money and rivers of rum used in the intervening campaigns at present will be used for the relief of the widow and orphan.
the ex-president then, with the portfolio of international press agent for the united states, could go abroad and be fêted by foreign governments, leaving dyspepsia everywhere in his wake and crowned heads with large damp towels on them.
every ex-president should have some place where he could go and hide his shame.
a trip around the world would require a year, and by that time the voters would be so disgusted with the new president that the old one would come like a healing balm, and he would be permitted to die without publishing a bulletin of his temperature and showing his tongue to the press for each edition of the paper.
south carolina in 1832 passed a nullification act declaring the tariff act "null and void" and announcing that the state would secede from the union if force were used to collect any revenue at charleston.
south carolina has always been rather "advanced" regarding the matter of seceding from the american union.
president jackson, however, ordered general scott and a number of troops to go and see that the laws were enforced; but no trouble resulted, and soon more satisfactory measures were enacted, through the large influence of mr. clay.
jackson was unfriendly to the bank of the united states, and the bank retaliated by contracting its loans, thus making money-matters hard to get hold of by the masses.
"when the public money," says the historian, "which had been withdrawn from the bank of the united states was deposited in local banks, money was easy and speculation extended to every branch of trade.
new cities were laid out; fabulous prices were charged for building-lots which existed only on paper" etc.
and in van buren's time the people paid the violinist, as they have in 1893, with ruin and remorse.
speculation which is unprofitable should never be encouraged.
unprofitable speculation is only another term for idiocy.
but, on the other hand, profitable speculation leads to prosperity, public esteem, and the ability to keep a team.
we may distinguish the one from the other by means of ascertaining the difference between them.
if one finds on waking up in the morning that he experiences a sensation of being in the poor-house, he may almost at once jump to the conclusion that the kind of speculation he selected was the wrong one.
the black hawk war occurred in the northwest territory in 1832. it grew out of the fact that the sacs and foxes sold their lands to the united states and afterwards regretted that they had not asked more for them:
so they refused to vacate, until several of them had been used up on the asparagus-beds of the husbandman.
the florida war (1835) grew out of the fact that the seminoles regretted having made a dicker with the government at too low a price for land.
osceola, the chief, regretted the matter so much that he scalped general thompson while the latter was at dinner, which shows that the indian is not susceptible to cultivation or the acquisition of any knowledge of table etiquette whatever.
what could be in poorer taste than scalping a man between the soup and the remove?
the same day major dade with one hundred men was waylaid, and all but four of the party killed.
seven years later the indians were subdued.
phrenologically the indian allows his alimentiveness to overbalance his group of organs which show veneration, benevolence, fondness for society, fêtes champêtres, etc., hope, love of study, fondness for agriculture, an unbridled passion for toil, etc.
france owed five million dollars for damages to our commerce in napoleon's wars, and, napoleon himself being entirely worthless, having said every time that the bill was presented that he would settle it as soon as he got back from st. helena, jackson ordered reprisals to be made, but england acted as a peacemaker, and the bill was paid.
on receiving the money a trunk attached by our government and belonging to napoleon was released.
space here, and the nature of this work, forbid an extended opinion regarding the course pursued by napoleon in this matter.
his tomb is in the basement of the hôtel des invalides in paris, and you are requested not to fumer while you are there.
chapter xxii.
more difficulties straightened out.
van buren, the eighth president, was unfortunate in taking the helm as the financial cyclone struck the country.
this was brought about by scarcity of funds more than anything else.
business-men would not pay their debts, and, though new york was not then so large as at present, one hundred million dollars were lost in sixty days in this way.
the government had required the payments for public lands to be made in coin, and so the treasury had plenty of gold and silver, while business had nothing to work with.
speculation also had made a good many snobs who had sent their gold and silver abroad for foreign luxuries, also some paupers who could not do so.
when a man made some money from the sale of rural lots he had his hats made abroad, and his wife had her dresses fitted in paris at great expense.
confidence was destroyed, and the air was heavy with failures and apprehension of more failures to come.
the canadians rebelled against england, and many of our people wanted to unite with canada against the mother-country, but the police would not permit them to do so.
general scott was sent to the frontier to keep our people from aiding the canadians.
there was trouble in the northeast over the boundary between maine and new brunswick, but it was settled by the commissioners, daniel webster and lord ashburton.
webster was a smart man and a good extemporaneous speaker.
van buren failed of a re-election, as the people did not fully endorse his administration.
administrations are not generally endorsed where the people are unable to get over six pounds of sugar for a dollar.
general harrison, who followed in 1841, died soon after choosing his cabinet, and his vice-president, john tyler, elected as a whig, proceeded to act as president, but not as a whig president should.
his party passed a bill establishing the united states bank, but tyler vetoed it, and the men who elected him wished they had been as dead as rameses was at the time.
dorr's justly celebrated rebellion in rhode island was an outbreak resulting from restricting the right of suffrage to those who owned property.
a new constitution was adopted, and dorr chosen as governor.
he was not recognized, and so tried to capture the seat while the regular governor was at tea.
he got into jail for life, but was afterwards pardoned out and embraced the christian religion.
in 1844 the anti-rent war in the state of new york broke out among those who were tenants of the old "patroon estates."
these men, disguised as indians, tarred and feathered those who paid rent, and killed the collectors who were sent to them.
in 1846 the matter was settled by the military.
in 1840 the mormons had settled at nauvoo, illinois.
they were led by joseph smith, and not only proposed to run a new kind of religion, but introduced polygamy into it.
the people who lived near them attacked them, killed smith, and drove the mormons to iowa, opposite omaha.
in 1844 occurred the building of the magnetic telegraph, invented by samuel f. b. morse.
the line was from baltimore to washington, or vice versa, authorities failing to agree on this matter.
it cost thirty thousand dollars, and the boys who delivered the messages made more out of it then than the stockholders did.
fulton having invented and perfected the steamboat in 1805 and started the clermont on the north river at the dizzy rate of five miles per hour, and george stephenson having in 1814 made the first locomotive to run on a track, the people began to feel that theosophy was about all they needed to place them on a level with the seraphim and other astral bodies.
texas had, under the guidance of sam houston, obtained her independence from mexico, and asked for admission to the union.
congress at first rejected her, fearing that the texas people lacked cultivation, being so far away from the thought-ganglia of the east, also fearing a war with mexico; but she was at last admitted, and now every one is glad of it.
the whigs were not in favor of the admission of texas, and made that the issue of the following campaign, henry clay leading his party to a hospitable grave in the fall.
james k. polk, a democrat, was elected.
his rallying cry was, "i am a democrat."
the mexican war now came on.
general taylor's army met the enemy first at palo alto, where he ran across the mexicans six thousand strong, and, though he had but two thousand men, drove them back, only losing nine men.
this was the most economical battle of the war.
the next afternoon he met the enemy at resaca de la palma, and whipped him in the time usually required to ejaculate the word "scat!"
next general taylor proceeded against monterey, september 24, and with six thousand men attacked the strongly-fortified city, which held ten thousand troops.
the americans avoided the heavy fire as well as possible by entering the city and securing rooms at the best hotel, leaving word at the office that they did not wish to be disturbed by the enemy.
in fact, the soldiers did dig their way through from house to house to avoid the volleys from the windows, and thus fought to within a square of the grand plaza, when the city surrendered.
the grand plaza is generally a sandy vacant lot, where mexicans sell tamales made of the highly-peppered but tempting cutlets of the mexican hairless dog.
the battle of buena vista took place february 23, 1847, general santa anna commanding the mexicans.
he had twenty thousand men, and general taylor's troops were reduced in numbers.
the fight was a hot one, lasting all day, and the americans were saved by bragg's artillery.
bragg used the old colonial method of rolling his guns up to the nose of the enemy and then discharging an iron-foundry into his midst.
this disgusted the enemy so that general santa anna that evening took the shreds of his army and went away.
general kearney was sent to take new mexico and california.
his work consisted mainly in marching for general frémont, who had been surveying a new route to oregon, and had with sixty men been so successful that on the arrival of kearney, with the aid of commodores sloat and stockton, california was captured, and has given general satisfaction to every one.
in march, 1847, general scott, with twelve thousand men, bombarded vera cruz four days, and at the end of that time the city was surrendered.
at cerro gordo, a week later, scott overtook the enemy under general santa anna, and made such a fierce attack that the mexicans were completely routed.
santa anna left his leg on the field of battle and rode away on a pet mule named charlotte corday.
the leg was preserved and taken to the smithsonian institute.
it is made of second-growth hickory, and has a brass ferrule and a rubber eraser on the end.
general taylor afterwards taunted him with this incident, and, though greatly irritated, santa anna said there was no use trying to kick.
puebla resisted not, and the army marched into the city of mexico august 7. the road was rendered disagreeable by strong fortifications and thirty thousand men who were not on good terms with scott.
the environments and suburbs one after another were taken, and a parley for peace ensued, during which the mexicans were busy fortifying some more on the quiet.
september 8 the americans made their assault, and carried the outworks one by one.
then the castle of chapultepec was stormed.
first the outer works were scaled, which made them much more desirable, and the moat was removed by means of a stomach-pump and blotting-pad, and then the escarpment was up-ended, the don john tower was knocked silly by a solid shot, and the castle capitulated.
thus on the 14th of september the old flag floated over the court-house of mexico, and general scott ate his tea in the palace of the montezumas.
peace was declared february 2, 1848, and the united states owned the vast country southward to the gila (pronounced heeler) and west to the pacific ocean.
the wilmot proviso was invented by david wilmot, a poor, struggling member of congress, who moved that in any territory acquired by the united states slavery should be prohibited except upon the advice of a physician.
the motion was lost.
gold was discovered in the sacramento valley in august, 1848, by a workman who was building a mill-race.
a struggle ensued over this ground as to who should own the race.
it threatened to terminate in a race war, but was settled amicably.
in eighteen months one hundred thousand people went to the scene.
thousands left their skeletons with the red brother, and other thousands left theirs on the isthmus of panama or on the cruel desert.
many married men went who had been looking a long time for some good place to go to.
leaving their wives with ill-concealed relief, they started away through a country filled with death, to reach a country they knew not of.
some died en route, others were hanged, and still others became the heads of new families.
some came back and carried water for their wives to wash clothing for their neighbors.
it was a long hard trip then across the plains.
one of the author's friends at the age of thirteen years drove a little band of cows from the state of indiana to sacramento.
he says he would not do it again for anything.
he is now a man, and owns a large prune-orchard in california, and people tell him he is getting too stout, and that he ought to exercise more, and that he ought to walk every day several miles; but he shakes his head, and says, "no, i will not walk any to-day, and possibly not to-morrow or the day following.
do not come to me and refer to taking a walk: i have tried that.
possibly you take me for a dromedary; but you are wrong.
i am a fat man, and may die suddenly some day while lacing up my shoes, but when i go anywhere i ride."
when he got to sacramento, where gold was said to be so plentiful, he was glad to wash dishes for his board, and he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, and he sent him into the fields for to feed swine, and he would fain have filled his system with the california peaches which the swine did eat, and he began to be in want, and no man gave unto him, and if he had spent his substance in riotous living, he said, it would have been different.
about thirty years after that he arose and went unto his father, and carried his dinner with him, also a government bond and a new suit of raiment for the old gentleman.
i do not know what we should learn from this.
chapter xxiii.
the websters.
daniel webster, together with mr. clay, had much to do with the compromise measures of 1850. these consisted in the admission of california as a free state, the organizing of the territories of utah and new mexico without any provision regarding slavery pro or con, the payment to texas of one hundred million dollars for new mexico, which was a good trade for texas, the prohibition of the slave-trade in the district of columbia, and the enactment of a fugitive slave law permitting owners of slaves to follow them into the free states and take them back in irons, if necessary.
the officials and farmers of the free states were also expected to turn out, call the dog, leave their work, and help catch these chattels and carry them to the south-bound train.
daniel webster was born in 1782, and noah in 1758. daniel was educated at dartmouth college, where he was admitted in 1797. he taught school winters and studied summers, as many other great men have done since, until he knew about everything that anybody could.
what dan did not know, noah did.
strange to say, daniel was frightened to death when first called upon to speak a piece.
he says he committed dozens of pieces to memory and recited them to the woods and crags and cows and stone abutments of the new england farms, but could not stand up before a school and utter a word.
in 1801 he studied law with thomas w. thompson, afterwards united states senator.
he read then for the first time that "law is a rule of action prescribing what is right and prohibiting what is wrong."
in 1812 he was elected to congress, and in 1813 made his maiden speech.
one of his most masterly speeches was made on economical and financial subjects; and yet in order to get his blue broadcloth coat with brass buttons from the tailor-shop to wear while making the speech, he had to borrow twenty-five dollars.
when the country has wanted a man to talk well on these subjects it has generally been compelled to advance money to him before he could make a speech.
sometimes he has to be taken from the pawn-shop.
webster, it is said, was the most successful lawyer, after he returned to boston, that the state of massachusetts has ever known; and yet his mail was full of notices from banks down east, announcing that he had overdrawn his account.
once he was hard pressed for means, as he was trying to run a farm, and running a farm costs money: so he went to a bank to borrow.
he hated to do it, because he had no special inducements to offer a bank or to make it hilariously loan him money.
"how much did you think you would need, mr.
webster?"
asked the president, cutting off some coupons as he spoke and making paper dolls of them.
"well, i could get along very well," said webster, in that deep, resinous voice of his, "if i could have two thousand dollars."
"well, you remember," said the banker, "do you not, that you have two thousand dollars here, that you deposited five years ago, after you had dined with the governor of north carolina?"
"no, i had forgotten about that," said webster.
"give me a blank check without unnecessary delay."
we may learn from this that mr. webster was not a careful man in the matter of detail.
his speech on the two-hundredth anniversary of the landing of the pilgrims was a good thing, and found its way into the press of the time.
his speech at the laying of the corner-stone of the bunker hill monument, and his eulogy of adams and jefferson, were beautiful and thrilling.
daniel webster had a very large brain, and used to loan his hat to brother senators now and then when their heads were paining them, provided he did not want it himself.
his reply to robert y. hayne, of south carolina, in 1830, was regarded as one of his ablest parliamentary efforts.
hayne attacked new england, and first advanced the doctrine of nullification, which was even more dangerous than secession, jefferson davis in 1860 denying that he had ever advocated or favored such a doctrine.
webster spoke extempore, and people sent out for their lunch rather than go away in the midst of his remarks.
webster married twice, but did not let that make any difference with his duty to his country.
he tried to farm it some, but did not amass a large sum, owing to his heavy losses in trying year after year to grow saratoga potatoes for the boston market.
no american, foreign or domestic, ever made a greater name for himself than daniel webster, but he was not so good a penman as noah; noah was the better pen-writer.
noah webster also had the better command of language of the two.
those who have read his great work entitled "webster's elementary spelling-book, or, how one word led to another," will agree with me that he was smart.
noah never lacked for a word by which to express himself.
he was a brainy man and a good speller.
one by one our eminent men are passing away.
mr. webster has passed away; napoleon bonaparte is no more; and dr. mary walker is fading away.
this has been a severe winter on red shirt; and i have to guard against the night air a good deal myself.
it would ill become me, at this late date, to criticise mr. webster's work, a work that is now, i may say, in nearly every home and school-room in the land.
it is a great book.
i only hope that had mr.
webster lived he would have been equally fair in his criticism of my books.
i hate to compare my books with mr. webster's, because it looks egotistical in me; but, although noah's book is larger than mine, and has more literary attractions as a book to set a child on at the table, it does not hold the interest of the reader all the way through.
he has introduced too many characters into his book at the expense of the plot.
it is a good book to pick up and while away a leisure hour, perhaps, but it is not a work that could rivet your interest till midnight, while the fire went out and the thermometer stepped down to 47° below zero.
you do not hurry through the pages to see whether reginald married the girl or not.
mr. webster did not seem to care how the affair turned out.
therein consists the great difference between noah and myself.
he doesn't keep up the interest.
a friend of mine at sing sing, who secured one of my books, said he never left his room till he had devoured it.
he said he seemed chained to the spot; and if you can't believe a convict who is entirely out of politics, whom, in the name of george washington, can you trust?
mr. webster was certainly a most brilliant writer, though a little inclined, perhaps, to be wordy.
i have discovered in some of his later books one hundred and eighteen thousand words no two of which are alike.
this shows great fluency and versatility, it is true, but we need something else.
the reader waits in vain to be thrilled by the author's wonderful word-painting.
there is not a thrill in the whole tome.
i had heard so much of mr. webster that when i read his book i confess i was disappointed.
it is cold, methodical, dry, and dispassionate in the extreme, and one cannot help comparing it with the works of james fenimore cooper and horace.
as i said, however, it is a good book to pick up for the purpose of whiling away an idle hour.
no one should travel without mr. webster's tale.
those who examine this tale will readily see why there were no flies on the author.
he kept them off with this tale.
it is a good book, as i say, to take up for a moment, or to read on the train, or to hold the door open on a hot day.
i would never take a long railroad ride without it, eyether.
i would as soon forget my bottle of cough-medicine.
mr. webster's speller had an immense sale.
ten years ago he had sold forty million copies.
and yet it had this same defect.
it was cold, dull, disconnected, and verbose.
there was only one good thing in the book, and that was a little literary gem regarding a boy who broke in and stole the apples of a total stranger.
the story was so good that i have often wondered whom mr. webster got to write it for him.
the old man, it seems, at first told the boy that he had better come down, as there was a draught in the tree; but the young sass-box apple-sass-box, i presume told him to avaunt.
at last the old man said, "come down, honey.
i am afraid the limb will break if you don't."
then, as the boy still remained, he told him that those were not eating-apples, that they were just common cooking-apples, and that there were worms in them.
but the boy said he didn't mind a little thing like that.
so then the old gentleman got irritated, and called the dog, and threw turf at the boy, and at last saluted him with pieces of turf and decayed cabbages; and after the lad had gone away the old man pried the bull-dog's jaws open and found a mouthful of pantaloons and a freckle.
i do not tell this, of course, in mr. webster's language, but i give the main points as they recur now to my mind.
though i have been a close student of mr. webster for years and have carefully examined his style, i am free to say that his ideas about writing a book are not the same as mine.
of course it is a great temptation for a young author to write a book that will have a large sale; but that should not be all.
we should have a higher object than that, and strive to interest those who read the book.
it should not be jerky and scattering in its statements.
i do not wish to do an injustice to a great man who is now no more, a man who did so much for the world and who could spell the longest word without hesitation, but i speak of these things just as i would expect others to criticise my work.
if one aspire to be a member of the literati of his day, he must expect to be criticised.
i have been criticised myself.
when i was in public life, as a justice of the peace in the rocky mountains, a man came in one day and criticised me so that i did not get over it for two weeks.
i might add, though i dislike to speak of it now, that mr. webster was at one time a member of the legislature of massachusetts.
i believe that was the only time he ever stepped aside from the strait and narrow way.
a good many people do not know this, but it is true.
mr. webster was also a married man, yet he never murmured or repined.
chapter xxiv.
befo' the wah causes which led to it masterly grasp of the subject shown by the author.
a man named lopez in 1851 attempted to annex cuba, thus furnishing for our republican wrapper a genuine havana filler; but he failed, and was executed, while his plans were not.
franklin pierce was elected president on the democratic ticket, running against general scott, the whig candidate.
slavery began to be discussed again, when stephen a. douglas, in congress, advocated squatter sovereignty, or the right for each territory to decide whether it would be a free or a slave state.
the measure became a law in 1854.
that was what made trouble in kansas.
the two elements, free and slave, were arrayed against each other, and for several years friends from other states had to come over and help kansas bury its dead.
the condition of things for some time was exceedingly mortifying to the citizen who went out to milk after dark without his gun.
trouble with mexico arose, owing to the fact that the government had used a poor and unreliable map in establishing the line: so general gadsden made a settlement for the disputed ground, and we paid mexico ten millions of dollars.
it is needless to say that we have since seen the day when we wished that we had it back.
two ports of entry were now opened to us in japan by commodore perry's expedition, and cups and saucers began to be more plentiful in this country, many of the wealthier deciding at that time not to cool tea in the saucer or drink it vociferously from that vessel.
this custom and the whig party passed away at the same time.
the republican or anti-slavery party nominated for president john c.
frémont, who received the vote of eleven states, but james buchanan was elected, and proved to the satisfaction of the world that there is nothing to prevent any unemployed man's applying for the presidency of the united states; also that if his life has been free from ideas and opinions he may be elected sometimes where one who has been caught in the very act of thinking, and had it proved on him, might be defeated.
chief justice taney now stated that slaves could be taken into any state of the union by their owners without forfeiting the rights of ownership.
this was called the dred scott decision, and did much to irritate abolitionists like john brown, whose soul as this book goes to press is said to be marching on.
brown was a kansas man with a mission and massive whiskers.
he would be called now a crank; but his action in seizing a united states arsenal at harper's ferry and declaring the slaves free was regarded by the south as thoroughly representative of the northern feeling.
the country now began to be in a state of restlessness.
brown had been captured and hanged as a traitor.
northern men were obliged to leave their work every little while to catch a negro, crate him, and return him to his master or give him a lift towards canada; and, as the negro was replenishing the earth at an astonishing rate, general alarm broke out.
douglas was the champion of squatter sovereignty, john c. breckinridge of the doctrine that slaves could be checked through as personal baggage into any state of the union, and lincoln of the anti-slavery principle which afterwards constituted the spinal column of the federal government as opposed to the confederacy of the seceded states.
lincoln was elected, which reminded him of an anecdote.
douglas and several other candidates were defeated, which did not remind them of anything.
south carolina seceded in december, 1860, and soon after mississippi, florida, alabama, georgia, louisiana, and texas followed suit.
the following february the confederacy was organized at montgomery, alabama, and jefferson davis was elected president.
long and patient effort on the part of the historian to ascertain how he liked it has been entirely barren of results.
alexander h. stephens was made vice-president.
everything belonging to the united states and not thoroughly fastened down was carried away by the confederacy, while president buchanan looked the other way or wrote airy persiflage to tottering dynasties which slyly among themselves characterized him as a neat and cleanly old lady.
had buchanan been a married man it is generally believed now that his wife would have prevented the war.
then she would have called james out from under the bed and allowed him to come to the table for his meals with the family.
but he was not married, and the war came on.
major anderson was afraid to remain at fort moultrie in charleston harbor, so crossed over to fort sumter.
the south regarded this as hostility, and the fort was watched to see if any one should attempt to divide his lunch with the garrison, which it was declared would be regarded as an act of defiance.
the reader will see by this that a deaf and dumb asylum in northern michigan was about the only safe place for a peaceable man at that time.
president lincoln found himself placed at the head of a looted government on the sharp edge of a crisis that had not been properly upholstered.
the buchanan cabinet had left little except a burglar's tool or two here and there to mark its operations, and, with the aged and infirm general scott at the head of a little army, and no encouragement except from the abolitionists, many of whom had never seen a colored man outside of a minstrel performance, the president stole incog.
into washington, like a man who had agreed to lecture there.
southern officers resigned daily from the army and navy to go home and join the fortunes of their several states.
meantime, the federal government moved about like a baby elephant loaded with shot, while the new confederacy got men, money, arms, and munitions of war from every conceivable point.
finding that supplies were to be sent to major anderson, general peter g. t. beauregard summoned major anderson to surrender.
general beauregard, after the war, became one of the good, kind gentlemen who annually stated over their signatures that they had examined the louisiana state lottery and that there was no deception about it.
the lottery felt grateful for this, and said that the general should never want while it had a roof of its own.
major anderson had seventy men, while general beauregard had seven thousand.
after a bombardment and a general fight of thirty-four hours, the starved and suffocated garrison yielded to overwhelming numbers.
president lincoln was not admired by a class of people in the north and south who heard with horror that he had at one time worked for ten dollars a month.
they thought the president's salary too much for him, and feared that he would buy watermelons with it.
they also feared that some day he might tell a funny story in the presence of queen victoria.
the snobocracy could hardly sleep nights for fear that lincoln at a state dinner might put sugar and cream in his cold consommé.
jefferson davis, it was said, knew more of etiquette in a minute than lincoln knew all his life.
the capture of sumter united the north and unified the south.
it made "war democrats" i.e., democrats who had voted against lincoln join him in the prosecution of the war.
more united states property was cheerfully appropriated by the confederacy, which showed that it was alive and kicking from the very first minute it was born.
confederate troops were sent into virginia and threatened the capitol at washington, and would have taken it if the city had not, in summer, been regarded as unhealthful.
the sixth massachusetts regiment, hurrying to the capital, was attacked in baltimore and several men were killed.
this was the first actual bloodshed in the civil war which caused rivers and lakes and torrents of the best blood of north and south to cover the fair, sweet clover fields and blue-grass meadows made alone for peace.
the general opinion of the author, thirty-five years afterwards, is that the war was as unavoidable as the deluge, and as idiotic in its incipiency as adam's justly celebrated defence in the great "apple sass case."
men will fight until it is educated out of them, just as they will no doubt retain rudimentary tails and live in trees till they know better.
it's all owing to how a man was brought up.
of course after we have been drawn into the fight and been fined and sent home, we like to maintain that we were fighting for our home, or liberty, or the flag, or something of the kind.
we hate to admit that, as a nation, we fought and paid for it afterwards with our family's bread-money just because we were irritated.
that's natural; but most great wars are arranged by people who stay at home and sell groceries to the widow and orphan and old maids at one hundred per cent.
advance.
arlington heights and alexandria were now seized and occupied by the union troops for the protection of washington, and mosquito-wires were put up in the capitol windows to keep the largest of the rebels from coming in and biting congress.
fort monroe was garrisoned by a force under general benjamin f. butler, and an expedition was sent out against big bethel.
on the way the federal troops fired into each other, which pleased the confederates very much indeed.
the union troops were repulsed with loss, and went back to the fort, where they stated that they were disappointed in the war.
west virginia was strongly for the union in sentiment, and was set off from the original state of virginia, and, after some fighting the first year of the war over its territory, came into line with the northern states.
the fighting here was not severe.
generals mcclellan and rosecrans (union) and lee (confederate) were the principal commanders.
the first year of the war was largely spent in sparring for wind, as one very able authority has it.
in the next chapter reference will be made to the battle of bull run, and the odium will be placed where it belongs.
the author reluctantly closes this chapter in order to go out and get some odium for that purpose.
chapter xxv.
bull run and other battles.
on the 21st of july, 1861, occurred the battle of bull run, under the joint management of general irwin mcdowell and general p. g. t.
beauregard.
after a sharp conflict, the confederates were repulsed, but rallied again under general t. j. jackson, called thereafter stonewall jackson.
while the federals were striving to beat jackson back, troops under generals early and kirby smith from manassas junction were hurled against their flank.
[5] mcdowell's men retreated, and as they reached the bridge a shell burst among their crowded and chaotic numbers.
a caisson was upset, and a panic ensued, many of the troops continuing at a swift canter till they reached the capitol, where they could call on the sergeant-at-arms to preserve order.
as a result of this run on the banks of the potomac, the north suddenly decided that the war might last a week or two longer than at first stated, that the foe could not be killed with cornstalks, and that a mistake had been made in judging that the rebellion wasn't loaded.
[6]
half a million men were called for and five hundred million dollars voted.
general george b. mcclellan took command of the army of the potomac.
the battle of ball's bluff resulted disastrously to the union forces, and two thousand men were mostly driven into the potomac, some drowned and others shot.
colonel baker, united states senator from oregon, was killed.
the war in missouri now opened.
captain lyon reserved the united states arsenal at st. louis, and defeated colonel marmaduke at booneville.
general sigel was defeated at carthage, july 5, by the confederates: so lyon, with five thousand men, decided to attack more than twice that number of the enemy under price and mcculloch, which he did, august 10, at wilson's creek.
he was killed while making a charge, and his men were defeated.
general frémont then took command, and drove price to springfield, but he was in a short time replaced by general hunter, because his war policy was offensive to the enemy.
hunter was soon afterwards removed, and major-general halleck took his place.
halleck gave general satisfaction to the enemy, and even his red messages from washington, where he boarded during the war, were filled with nothing but kindness for the misguided foe.
davis early in the war commissioned privateers, and lincoln blockaded the southern ports.
the north had but one good vessel at the time, and those who have tried to blockade four or five thousand miles of hostile coast with one vessel know full well what it is to be busy.
the entire navy consisted of forty-two ships, and some of these were not seaworthy.
some of them were so pervious that their guns had to be tied on to keep them from leaking through the cracks of the vessel.
hatteras inlet was captured, and commodore dupont, aided by general thomas w. sherman, captured port royal entrance and tybee island.
port royal became the dépôt for the fleet.
it was now decided at the south to send messrs. mason and slidell to england, partly for change of scene and rest, and partly to make a friendly call on queen victoria and invite her to come and spend the season at asheville, north carolina.
it was also hoped that she would give a few readings from her own works at the south, while her retinue could go to the front and have fun with the yankees, if so disposed.
these gentlemen, wearing their nice new broadcloth clothes, and with a court suit and suitable night-wear to use in case they should be pressed to stop a week or two at the castle, got to havana safely, and took passage on the british ship trent; but captain wilkes, of the united states steamer san jacinto, took them off the trent, just as mr. mason had drawn and fortunately filled a hand with which he hoped to pay a part of the war-debt of the south and get a new overcoat in london.
later, however, the united states disavowed this act of captain wilkes, and said it was only a bit of pleasantry on his part.
the first year of the war had taught both sides a few truths, and especially that the war did not in any essential features resemble a straw-ride to camp-meeting and return.
the south had also discovered that the yankee peddlers could not be captured with fly-paper, and that although war was not their regular job they were willing to learn how it was done.
in 1862 the national army numbered five hundred thousand men, and the confederate army three hundred and fifty thousand.
three objects were decided upon by the federal government for the union army and navy to accomplish, viz., 1, the opening of the mississippi; 2, the blockade of southern ports; and 3, the capture of richmond, the capital of the southern confederacy.
the capture of forts henry and donelson was undertaken by general grant, aided by commodore foote, and on february 6 a bombardment was opened with great success, reducing fort henry in one hour.
the garrison got away because the land-forces had no idea the fort would yield so soon, and therefore could not get up there in time to cut off the retreat.
fort donelson was next attacked, the garrison having been reinforced by the men from fort henry.
the fight lasted four days, and on february 16 the fort, with fifteen thousand men, surrendered.
nashville was now easily occupied by buell, and columbus and bowling green were taken.
the confederates fell back to corinth, where general beauregard (peter g. t.) and albert sidney johnston massed their forces.
general grant now captured the memphis and charleston railroad; but the confederates decided to capture him before buell, who had been ordered to reinforce him, should effect a junction with him.
april 6 and 7, therefore, the battle of shiloh occurred.
whether the union troops were surprised or not at this battle, we cannot here pause to discuss.
suffice it to say that one of the federal officers admitted to the author in 1879, while under the influence of koumys, that, though not strictly surprised, he believed he violated no confidence in saying that they were somewhat astonished.
it was sunday morning, and the northern hordes were just considering whether they would take a bite of beans and go to church or remain in camp and get their laundry-work counted for monday, when the confederacy and some other men burst upon them with a fierce, rude yell.
in a few moments the federal troops had decided that there had sprung up a strong personal enmity on the part of the south, and that ill feeling had been engendered in some way.
all that beautiful sabbath-day they fought, the federals yielding ground slowly and reluctantly till the bank of the river was reached and grant's artillery commanded the position.
here a stand was made until buell came up, and shortly afterwards the confederates fell back; but they had captured the yankee camp entire, and many a boy in blue lost the nice warm woollen pulse-warmers crocheted for him by his soul's idol.
it is said that over thirty-five hundred needle-books and three thousand men were captured by the confederates, also thirty flags and immense quantities of stores; but the confederate commander, general a.
s. johnston, was killed.
the following morning the tide had turned, and general p. g. t. beauregard retreated unmolested to corinth.
general halleck now took command, and, as the confederates went away from there, he occupied corinth, though still retaining his rooms at the arlington hotel in washington.
the confederates who retreated from columbus fell back to island no.
10 in the mississippi river, where commodore foote bombarded them for three weeks, thus purifying the air and making the enemy feel much better than at any previous time during the campaign.
general pope crossed the mississippi, capturing the batteries in the rear of the island, and turning them on the enemy, who surrendered april 7, the day of the battle of shiloh.
may 10, the union gun-boats moved down the river.
fort pillow was abandoned by the southern forces, and the confederate flotilla was destroyed in front of memphis.
kentucky and tennessee were at last the property of the fierce hordes from the great coarse north.
general bragg was now at chattanooga, price at iuka, and van dorn at holly springs.
all these generals had guns, and were at enmity with the united states of america.
they very much desired to break the union line of investment extending from memphis almost to chattanooga.
bragg started out for the ohio river, intending to cross it and capture the middle states; but buell heard of it and got there twenty-four hours ahead, wherefore bragg abandoned his plans, as it flashed over him like a clap of thunder from a clear sky that he had no place to put the middle states if he had them.
he therefore escaped in the darkness, his wagon-trains sort of drawling over forty miles of road and "hit a-rainin'."
september 19, general price, who, with van dorn, had considered it a good time to attack grant, who had sent many troops north to prevent bragg's capture of north america, decided to retreat, and, general rosecrans failing to cut him off, escaped, and was thus enabled to fight on other occasions.
the two confederate generals now decided to attack the union forces at corinth, which they did.
they fought beautifully, especially the texan and missouri troops, who did some heroic work, but they were defeated and driven forty miles with heavy loss.
october 30, general buell was succeeded by general rosecrans.
the battle of murfreesboro occurred december 31 and january 2. it was one of the bloodiest battles of the whole conflict, and must have made the men who brought on the war by act of congress feel first-rate.
about one-fourth of those engaged were killed.
an attack on vicksburg, in which grant and sherman were to co-operate, the former moving along the mississippi central railroad and sherman descending the river from memphis, was disastrous, and the capture of arkansas post, january 11, 1863, closed the campaign of 1862 on the father of waters.
general price was driven out of missouri by general curtis, and had to stay in arkansas quite a while, though he preferred a dryer climate.
general van dorn now took command of these forces, numbering twenty thousand men, and at pea ridge, march 7 and 8, 1863, he was defeated to a remarkable degree.
during his retreat he could hardly restrain his impatience.
some four or five thousand indians joined the confederates in this battle, but were so astonished at the cannon, and so shocked by the large decayed balls, as they called the shells, which came hurtling through the air, now and then hurting an indian severely, that they went home before the exercises were more than half through.
they were down on the programme for some fantastic and interesting tortures of union prisoners, but when they got home to the reservation and had picked the briers out of themselves they said that war was about as barbarous a thing as they were ever to, and they went to bed early, leaving a call for 9.30 a.m. on the following day.
the red brother's style of warfare has an air about it that is unpopular now.
a common stone stab-knife is a feeble thing to use against people who shoot a distance of eight miles with a gun that carries a forty-gallon caldron full of red-hot iron.
chapter xxvi.
some more fratricidal strife.
the effort to open the mississippi from the north was seconded by an expedition from the south, in which captain david g. farragut, commanding a fleet of forty vessels, co-operated with general benjamin f. butler, with the capture of new orleans as the object.
mortar-boats covered with green branches for the purpose of fooling the enemy, as no one could tell at any distance at all whether these were or were not olive-branches, steamed up the river and bombarded forts jackson and st. philip till the stunned catfish rose to the surface of the water to inquire, "why all this?"
and turned their pallid stomachs toward the soft southern zenith.
sixteen thousand eight hundred shells were thrown into the two forts, but that did not capture new orleans.
farragut now decided to run his fleet past the defences, and, desperate as the chances were, he started on april 24. a big cable stretched across the river suggested the idea that there was a hostile feeling among the new orleans people.
five rafts and armed steamers met him, and the iron-plated ram manassas extended to him a cordial welcome to a wide wet grave with a southern exposure.
farragut cut through the cable about three o'clock in the morning, practically destroyed the confederate fleet, and steamed up to the city, which was at his mercy.
the forts, now threatened in the rear by butler's army, surrendered, and farragut went up to baton rouge and took possession of it.
general butler's occupation at new orleans has been variously commented upon by both friend and foe, but we are only able to learn from this and the entire record of the war, in fact, that it is better to avoid hostilities unless one is ready to accept the unpleasant features of combat.
the author, when a boy, learned this after he had acquired the unpleasant features resulting from combat which the artist has cleverly shown on opposite page.
general butler said he found it almost impossible to avoid giving offence to the foe, and finally he gave it up in despair.
the french are said to be the politest people on the face of the earth, but no german will admit it; and though the germans are known to have big, warm, hospitable hearts, since the franco-prussian war you couldn't get a frenchman to admit this.
in february burnside captured roanoke island, and the coast of north carolina fell into the hands of the union army.
port royal became the base of operations against florida, and at the close of the year 1862 every city on the atlantic coast except charleston, wilmington, and savannah was held by the union army.
the merrimac iron-clad, which had made much trouble for the union shipping for some time, steamed into hampton roads on the 8th of march.
hampton roads is not the champs-elysées of the south, but a long wet stretch of track east of virginia, the midway plaisance of the salted sea.
the merrimac steered for the cumberland, rammed her, and the cumberland sunk like a stove-lid, with all on board.
the captain of the congress, warned by the fate of the cumberland, ran his vessel on shore and tried to conceal her behind the tall grass, but the merrimac followed and shelled her till she surrendered.
the merrimac then went back to norfolk, where she boarded, night having come on apace.
in the morning she aimed to clear out the balance of the union fleet.
that night, however, the monitor, a flat little craft with a revolving tower, invented by captain ericsson, arrived, and in the morning when the merrimac started in on her day's work of devastation, beginning with the minnesota, the insignificant-looking monitor slid up to the iron monster and gave her two one-hundred-and-sixty-six-and-three-quarter-pound solid shot.
the merrimac replied with a style of broadside that generally sunk her adversary, but the balls rolled off the low flat deck and fell with a solemn plunk in the moaning sea, or broke in fragments and lay on the forward deck like the shells of antique eggs on the floor of the house of parliament after a home rule argument.
five times the merrimac tried to ram the little spitz-pup of the navy, but her huge iron beak rode up over the slippery deck of the enemy, and when the big vessel looked over her sides to see its wreck, she discovered that the monitor was right side up and ready for more.
the confederate vessel gave it up at last, and went back to norfolk defeated, her career suddenly closed by the timely genius of the able scandinavian.
the peninsular campaign was principally addressed toward the capture of richmond.
one hundred thousand men were massed at fort monroe april 4, and marched slowly toward yorktown, where five thousand confederates under general magruder stopped the great army under mcclellan.
after a month's siege, and just as mcclellan was about to shoot at the town, the garrison took its valise and went away.
on the 5th of may occurred the battle of williamsburg, between the forces under "fighting joe" hooker and general johnston.
it lasted nine hours, and ended in the routing of the confederates and their pursuit by hooker to within seven miles of richmond.
this caused the adjournment of the confederate congress.
but johnston prevented the junction of mcdowell and mcclellan after the capture of hanover court-house, and stonewall jackson, reinforced by ewell, scared the union forces almost to death.
they crossed the potomac, having marched thirty-five miles per day.
washington was getting too hot now to hold people who could get away.
it was hard to say which capital had been scared the worst.
the governors of the northern states were asked to send militia to defend the capital, and the front door of the white house was locked every night after ten o'clock.
but finally the union generals, instead of calling for more troops, got after general jackson, and he fled from the shenandoah valley, burning the bridges behind him.
it is said that as he and his staff were about to cross their last bridge they saw a mounted gun on the opposite side, manned by a union artilleryman.
jackson rode up and in clarion tones called out, "who told you to put that gun there, sir?
bring it over here, sir, and mount it, and report at head-quarters this evening, sir!"
the artilleryman unlimbered the gun, and while he was placing it general jackson and staff crossed over and joined the army.
one cannot be too careful, during a war, in the matter of obedience to orders.
we should always know as nearly as possible whether our orders come from the proper authority or not.
no one can help admiring this dashing officer's tour in the shenandoah valley, where he kept three major-generals and sixty thousand troops awake nights with fifteen thousand men, saved richmond, scared washington into fits, and prevented the union of mcclellan's and mcdowell's forces.
had there been more such men, and a little more confidence in the great volume of typographical errors called confederate money, the lovely character who pens these lines might have had a different tale to tell.
may 31 and june 1 occurred the battle of fair oaks, where mcclellan's men floundering in the mud of the chickahominy swamps were pounced upon by general johnston, who was wounded the first day.
on the following day, as a result of this accident, johnston's men were repulsed in disorder.
general robert e. lee, who was now in command of the confederate forces, desired to make his army even more offensive than it had been, and on june 12 general stuart led off with his cavalry, made the entire circuit of the union army, saw how it looked from behind, and returned to richmond, much improved in health, having had several meals of victuals while absent.
hooker now marched to where he could see the dome of the court-house at richmond, but just then mcclellan heard that jackson had been seen in the neighborhood of hanover court-house, and so decided to change his base.
general mcclellan was a man of great refinement, and would never use the same base over a week at a time.
he had hardly got the base changed when lee fell upon his flank at mechanicsville, june 26, and the seven days' battle followed.
the union troops fought and fell back, fought and fell back, until malvern hill was reached, where, worn with marching, choked with dust, and broken down by the heat, to which they were unaccustomed, they made their last stand, july 1. here lee got such a reception that he did not insist on going any farther.
but the union army was cooped up on the james river.
the siege of richmond had been abandoned, and the north felt blue and discouraged.
three hundred thousand more men were called for, and it seemed that, as in the south, "the cradle and the grave were to be robbed" for more troops.
lee now decided to take washington and butcher congress to make a roman holiday.
general pope met the confederates august 26, and while lee and jackson were separated could have whipped the latter had the army of the potomac reinforced him as it should, but, full of malaria and foot-sore with marching, it did not reach him in time, and pope had to fight the entire confederate army on that historic ground covered with so many unpleasant memories and other things, called bull run.
for the second time the worn and wilted union army was glad to get back to washington, where the president was, and where beer was only five cents per glass.
oh, how sad everything seemed at that time to the north, and how high cotton cloth was!
the bride who hastily married her dear one and bade him good-by as the bugle called him to the war, pointed with pride to her cotton clothes as a mark of wealth; and the middle classes were only too glad to have a little cotton mixed with their woollen clothes.
lee invaded maryland, and mcclellan, restored to command of the army of the potomac, followed him, and found a copy of his order of march, which revealed the fact that only a portion of the army was before him.
so, overtaking the confederates at south mountain, he was ready for a victory, but waited one day; and in the mountains lee got his troops united again, while jackson also returned.
the union troops had over eighty thousand in their ranks, and nothing could have been more thoughtful or genteel than to wait for the confederates to get as many together as possible, otherwise the battle might have been brief and unsatisfactory to the tax-payer or newspaper subscriber, who of course wants his money's worth when he pays for a battle.
the battle of antietam was a very fierce one, and undecisive, yet it saved washington from an invasion by the confederates, who would have done a good deal of trading there, no doubt, entirely on credit, thus injuring business very much and loading down washington merchants with book accounts, which, added to what they had charged already to members of congress, would have made times in washington extremely dull.
general mcclellan, having impressed the country with the idea that he was a good bridge-builder, but a little too dilatory in the matter of carnage, was succeeded by general burnside.
president lincoln had written the proclamation of emancipation to the slaves in july, but waited for a victory before publishing it.
bull run as a victory was not up to his standard; so when lee was driven from maryland the document was issued by which all slaves in the united states became free; and, although thirty-one years have passed at this writing, they are still dropping in occasionally from the back districts to inquire about the truth of the report.
chapter xxvii.
still more fraternal bloodshed, on principle.
outing features disappear, and give place to strained relations between combatants, who begin to mix things.
on december 13 the year's business closed with the battle of fredericksburg, under the management of general burnside.
twelve thousand union troops were killed before night mercifully shut down upon the slaughter.
the confederates were protected by stone walls and situated upon a commanding height, from which they were able to shoot down the yankees with perfect sang-froid and deliberation.
in the midst of all these discouragements, the red brother fetched loose in minnesota, iowa, and dakota, and massacred seven hundred men, women, and children.
the outbreak was under the management of little crow, and was confined to the sioux nation.
thirty-nine of these indians were hanged on the same scaffold at mankato, minnesota, as a result of this wholesale murder.
this execution constitutes one of the green spots in the author's memory.
in all lives now and then an oasis is liable to fall.
this was oasis enough to last the writer for years.
in 1863 the federal army numbered about seven hundred thousand men, and the confederates about three hundred and fifty thousand.
still it took two more years to close the war.
it is held now by good judges that the war was prolonged by the jealousy existing between union commanders who wanted to be president or something else, and that it took so much time for the generals to keep their eyes on caucuses and county papers at home that they fought best when surprised and attacked by the foe.
general grant moved again on vicksburg, and on may 1, defeated pemberton at fort gibson.
he also prevented a junction between joseph e. johnston and pemberton, and drove the latter into vicksburg, securing the stopper so tightly that after forty-seven days the garrison surrendered, july 4.
this fight cost the confederates thirty-seven thousand prisoners, ten thousand killed and wounded, and immense quantities of stores.
it was a warm time in vicksburg; a curious man who stuck his hat out for twenty seconds above the ramparts found fifteen bullet-holes in it when he took it down, and when he wore it to church he attracted more attention than the collection.
the north now began to sit up and take notice.
morning papers began to sell once more, and grant was the name on every tongue.
the mississippi was open to the gulf, and the confederacy was practically surrounded.
rosecrans would have moved on the enemy, but learned that the foe had several head of cavalry more than he did, also a team of artillery.
at this time john morgan made a raid into ohio.
he surrounded cincinnati, but did not take it, as he was not keeping house at the time and hated to pay storage on it.
he got to parkersburg, west virginia, and was captured there with almost his entire force.
on september 19 and 20 occurred the battle of chickamauga.
longstreet rushed into a breach in the union line and swept it with a great big besom of wrath with which he had wisely provided himself on starting out.
rosecrans felt mortified when he came to himself and found that his horse had been so unmanageable that he had carried him ten miles from the carnage.
but the left, under thomas, held fast its position, and no doubt saved the little band of sixty thousand men which rosecrans commanded at the time.
his army now found itself shut up in intrenchments, with bragg on the hills threatening the union forces with starvation.
on november 24-25 a battle near chattanooga took place, with grant at the head of the federal forces.
hooker came to join him from the army of the potomac, and sherman hurried to his standard from iuka.
thomas made a dash and captured orchard knob, and hooker, on the following day, charged lookout mountain.
this was the most brilliant, perhaps, of grant's victories.
it is known as the "battle of missionary ridge."
hooker had exceeded his prerogative and kept on after capturing the crest of lookout mountain, while sherman was giving the foe several varieties of fits, from the north, when grant discovered that before him the line was being weakened in order to help the confederate flanks.
so with thomas he crossed through the first line and over the rifle-pits, forgot that he had intended to halt and reform, and concluded to wait and reform after the war was over, when he should have more time, and that night along the entire line of heights the camp-fires of the union army winked at one another in ghoulish glee.
the army under bragg was routed, and bragg resigned his command.
burnside, who had been relieved of the command of the army of the potomac, was sent to east tennessee, where the brave but frost-bitten troops of longstreet shut him up at knoxville and compelled him to board at the railroad eating-house there.
sherman's worn and weary boys were now ordered at once to the relief of burnside, and longstreet, getting word of it, made a furious assault on the former, who repulsed him with loss, and he went away from there as sherman approached from the west.
hooker had succeeded burnside in the command of the army of the potomac, and he judged that, as lee was now left with but sixty thousand men, while the army of the potomac contained one hundred thousand who craved out-of-door exercise, he might do well to go and get lee, returning in the cool of the evening.
lee, however, accomplished the division of his army while concealed in the woods and sent jackson to fall on hooker's rear.
the close of the fight found hooker on his old camping-ground opposite fredericksburg, murmuring to himself, in a dazed sort of way, "where am i?"
lee felt so good over this that he decided to go north and get something to eat.
he also decided to get catalogues and price-lists of philadelphia and new york while there.
threatening baltimore in order to mislead general meade, who was now in command of the federals, lee struck into pennsylvania and met with the union cavalry a little west of gettysburg on the chambersburg road.
it is said that gettysburg was not intended by either army as the site for the battle, lee hoping to avoid a fight, depending as he did on the well-known hospitality of the pennsylvanians, and meade intending to have the fight at pipe creek, where he had some property.
july 1-2-3 were the dates of this memorable battle.
the first day was rather favorable to lee, quite a number of yankee prisoners being taken while they were lost in the crowded streets of gettysburg.
the second day was opened by longstreet, who charged the union left, and ran across sickles, who had by mistake formed in the way of meade's intended line of battle.
they outflanked him, but, as they swung around him, warren met them with a diabolical welcome, which stayed them.
sickles found himself on cemetery ridge, while the confederates under ewell were on culp's hill.
on the third day, at one p.m., lee opened with one hundred and fifty guns on cemetery ridge.
the air was a hornet's nest of screaming shells with fiery tails.
as it lulled a little, out of the woods came eighteen thousand men in battle-array extending over a mile in length.
the yankees knew a good thing when they saw it, and they paused to admire this beautiful gathering of foemen in whose veins there flowed the same blood as in their own, and whose ancestors had stood shoulder to shoulder with their own in a hundred battles for freedom.
their sentiment gave place to shouts of battle, and into the silent phalanx a hundred guns poured their red-hot messages of death.
the golden grain was drenched with the blood of men no less brave because they were not victorious, and the rich fields of pennsylvania drank with thirsty eagerness the warm blood of many a southern son.
yet they moved onward.
volley after volley of musketry mowed them down, and the puny reaper in the neglected grain gave place to the grim reaper death, all down that unwavering line of gray and brown.
they marched up to the union breastworks, bayoneted the gunners at their work, planted their flags on the parapets, and, while the federals converged from every point to this, exploding powder burned the faces of these contending hosts, who, hand to hand, fought each other to death, while far-away widows and orphans multiplied to mourn through the coming years over this ghastly folly of civil war.
whole companies of the confederates rushed as prisoners into the arms of their enemies, and the shattered remnant of the battered foe retreated from the field.
while all this was going on in pennsylvania, pemberton was arranging terms of surrender at vicksburg, and from this date onward the confederacy began to wobble in its orbit, and the president of this ill-advised but bitterly punished scheme began to wish that he had been in canada when the war broke out.
in april of the same year admiral dupont, an able seaman with massive whiskers, decided to run the fortifications at charleston with iron-clads, but the charleston people thought they could run them themselves.
so they drove him back after the sinking of the kennebec and the serious injury of all the other vessels.
general gillmore then landed with troops.
fort wagner was captured.
the 54th regiment of colored troops, the finest organized in the free states, took a prominent part and fought with great coolness and bravery.
by december there were fifty thousand colored troops enlisted, and before the war closed over two hundred thousand.
it is needless to say that this made the yankee unpopular at the time in the best society of the south.
general gillmore attempted to capture sumter, and did reduce it to a pulp, but when he went to gather it he was met by a garrison still concealed in the basement, and peppered with volleys of hot shingle-nails and other bric-à-brac, which forced him to retire with loss.
he said afterward that fort sumter was not desirable anyhow.
this closed the most memorable year of the war, with the price of living at the south running up to eight hundred and nine hundred dollars per day, and currency depreciating so rapidly that one's salary had to be advanced every morning in order to keep pace with the price of mule-steaks.
chapter xxviii.
last year of the disagreeable war.
general grant was now in command of all the union troops, and in 1864-5 the plan of operation was to prevent the junction of the confederates, general grant seeking to interest the army in virginia under general lee, and general sherman the army of general joseph e.
johnston in georgia.
sherman started at once, and came upon johnston located on almost impregnable hills all the way to atlanta.
the battles of dalton, resaca, dallas, lost mountain, and kenesaw mountain preceded johnston's retreat to the intrenchments of atlanta, july 10, sherman having been on the move since early in may, 1864.
jefferson davis, disgusted with johnston, placed hood in command, who made three heroic attacks upon the union troops, but was repulsed.
sherman now gathered fifteen days' rations from the neighbors, and, throwing his forces across hood's line of supplies, compelled him to evacuate the city.
the historian says that sherman was entirely supplied from nashville via railroad during this trip, but the author knows of his own personal knowledge that there were times when he got his fresh provisions along the road.
this expedition cost the union army thirty thousand men and the confederates thirty-five thousand.
besides, georgia was the confederacy, so far as arms, grain, etc., were concerned.
sherman attributed much of his success to the fact that he could repair and operate the railroad so rapidly.
among his men were yankee machinists and engineers, who were as necessary as courageous fighters.
"we are held here during many priceless hours," said the general, "because the enemy has spoiled this passenger engine.
who knows any thing about repairing an engine?"
"i do," said a dusty tramp in blue.
"i can repair this one in an hour."
"what makes you think so?"
"well, i made it."
this was one of the strong features of sherman's army.
among the hundred thousand who composed it there were so many active brains and skilled hands that the toot of the engine caught the heels of the last echoing shout of the battle.
learning that hood proposed to invade tennessee, sherman prepared to march across georgia to the sea, and if necessary to tramp through the atlantic states.
hood was sorry afterwards that he invaded tennessee.
he shut thomas up in nashville after a battle with schofield, and kept the former in-doors for two weeks, when all of a sudden thomas exclaimed, "air!
air!
give me air!"
and came out, throwing hood into headlong flight, when the union cavalry fell on his rear, followed by the infantry, and the forty thousand confederates became a scattered and discouraged mob spread out over several counties.
the burning of atlanta preceded sherman's march, and, though one of the saddest features of the war, was believed to be a military necessity.
those who declare war hoping to have a summer's outing thereby may live to regret it for many bitter years.
on november 16, sherman started, his army moving in four columns, constituting altogether a column of fire by night, and a pillar of cloud and dust by day.
kilpatrick's cavalry scoured the country like a mass meeting of ubiquitous little black tennessee hornets.
in five weeks sherman had marched three hundred miles, had destroyed two railroads, had stormed fort mcallister, and had captured savannah.
on the 5th and 6th of may, 1864, occurred the battle of the wilderness, near the old battleground of chancellorsville.
no one could describe it, for it was fought in the dense woods, and the two days of useless butchery with not the slightest signs of civilized warfare sickened both armies, and, with no victory for either, they retired to their intrenchments.
grant, instead of retreating, however, quietly passed the flank of the confederates and started for spottsylvania court-house, where a battle occurred may 8-12.
here the two armies fought five days without any advantage to either.
it was at this time that grant sent his celebrated despatch stating that he "proposed to fight it out on this line if it took all summer."
finally he sought to turn lee's right flank.
june 8, the battle of cold harbor followed this movement.
the union forces were shot down in the mire and brush by lee's troops, now snugly in out of the wet, behind the cold harbor defences.
one historian says that in twenty minutes ten thousand yankee troops were killed; though badeau, whose accuracy in counting dead has always been perfectly marvellous, admits only seven thousand in all.
grant now turned his attention towards petersburg, but lee was there before him and intrenched, so the union army had to intrench.
this only postponed the evil day, however.
things now shaped themselves into a siege of richmond, with petersburg as the first outpost of the besieged capital.
on the 30th of july, eight thousand pounds of powder were carefully inserted under a confederate fort and the entire thing hoisted in the air, leaving a huge hole, in which, a few hours afterwards, many a boy in blue met his death, for in the assault which followed the explosion the union soldiers were mowed down by the concentrated fire of the confederates.
the federals threw away four thousand lives here.
on the 18th of august the weldon railroad was captured, which was a great advantage to grant, and, though several efforts were made to recapture it, they were unsuccessful.
general early was delegated to threaten washington and scare the able officers of the army who were stopping there at that time talking politics and abusing grant.
he defeated general wallace at monocacy river, and appeared before fort stevens, one of the defences of washington, july 11. had he whooped right along instead of pausing a day somewhere to get laundry-work done before entering washington, he would easily have captured the city.
reinforcements, however, got there ahead of him, and he had to go back.
he sent a force of cavalry into pennsylvania, where they captured chambersburg and burned it on failure of the town trustees to pay five hundred thousand dollars ransom.
general sheridan was placed in charge of the troops here, and defeated early at winchester, riding twenty miles in twenty minutes, as per poem.
at fisher's hill he was also victorious.
he devastated the valley of the shenandoah to such a degree that a crow passing the entire length of the valley had to carry his dinner with him.
it was, however, at the battle of cedar creek that sheridan was twenty miles away, according to historical prose.
why he was twenty miles away, various and conflicting reasons are given, but on his good horse rienzi he arrived in time to turn defeat and rout into victory and hilarity.
rienzi, after the war, died in eleven states.
he was a black horse, with a saddle-gall and a flashing eye.
he passed away at his home in chicago at last in poverty while waiting for a pension applied for on the grounds of founder and lampers brought on by eating too heartily after the battle and while warm, but in the line of duty.
the red river campaign under general banks was a joint naval and land expedition, resulting in the capture of fort de russy, march 14, after which, april 8, the troops marching towards shreveport in very open order, single file or holding one another's hands and singing "john brown's body," were attacked by general dick taylor, and if washington had not been so far away and through a hostile country, bull run would have had another rival.
but the boys rallied, and next day repulsed the confederates, after which they returned to new orleans, where board was more reasonable.
general banks obtained quite a relief at this time: he was relieved of his command.
august 5, commodore farragut captured mobile, after a neat and attractive naval fight, and on the 24th and 25th of december commodore porter and general butler started out to take fort fisher.
after two days' bombardment, butler decided that there were other forts to be had on better terms, and returned.
afterwards general terry commanded the second expedition, porter having remained on hand with his vessels to assist.
january 15, 1865, the most heroic fighting on both sides resulted, and at last, completely hemmed in, the brave and battered garrison surrendered; but no one who was there need blush to say so, even to-day.
at the south at this time coffee was fifty dollars a pound and gloves were one hundred and fifty dollars a pair.
flour was forty dollars a barrel; but you could get a barrel of currency for less than that.
money was plenty, but what was needed seemed to be confidence.
running the blockade was not profitable at that time, since over fifteen hundred head of confederate vessels were captured during the war.
the capture of fort fisher closed the last port of the south, and left the confederacy no show with foreign powers or markets.
the alabama was an armed steam-ship, and the most unpleasant feature of the war to the federal government, especially as she had more sympathy and aid in england than was asked for or expected by the unionists.
however, england has since repaid all this loss in various ways.
she has put from five to eight million dollars into cattle on the plains of the northwest, where the skeletons of same may be found bleaching in the summer sun; and i am personally acquainted with six americans now visiting england who can borrow enough in a year to make up all the losses sustained through the alabama and other neutral vessels.
captain semmes commanded the alabama, and off cherbourg he sent a challenge to the kearsarge, commanded by captain winslow, who accepted it, and so worked his vessel that the alabama had to move round him in a circle, while he filled her up with iron, lead, copper, tin, german silver, glass, nails, putty, paint, varnishes, and dye-stuff.
at the seventh rotation the alabama ran up the white flag and sunk with a low mellow plunk.
the crew was rescued by captain winslow and the english yacht deerhound, the latter taking semmes and starting for england.
this matter, however, was settled in after-years.
the care of the sick, the dying, and the dead in the union armies was almost entirely under the eye of the merciful and charitable, loyal and loving members of the sanitary and christian commissions, whose work and its memory kept green in the hearts of the survivors and their children will be monument enough for the coming centuries.
in july, 1864, the debt of the country was two billion dollars and twenty cents.
two dollars and ninety cents in greenbacks would buy a reluctant gold dollar.
still, abraham lincoln was re-elected against george b. mcclellan, the democratic candidate, who carried only three states.
this was endorsement enough for the policy of president lincoln.
sherman's army of sixty thousand, after a month's rest at savannah, started north to unite with grant in the final blow.
"before it was terror, behind it ashes."
columbia was captured february 17, and burned, without sherman's authority, the night following.
charleston was evacuated the next day.
johnston was recalled to take command, and opposed the march of sherman, but was driven back after fierce engagements at bentonville and averysboro.
on march 25 lee decided to attack grant, and, while the latter was busy, get out of richmond and join johnston, but when this battle, known as the attack on fort steadman, was over, grant's hold was tighter than ever.
sheridan attacked lee's rear with a heavy force, and at five forks, april 1, the surprised garrison was defeated with five thousand captured.
the next day the entire union army advanced, and the line of confederate intrenchments was broken.
on the following day petersburg and richmond were evacuated, but mr. davis was not there.
he had gone away.
rather than meet general grant and entertain him when there was no pie in the house, he and the treasury had escaped from the haunts of man, wishing to commune with nature for a while.
he was captured at irwinsville, georgia, under peculiar and rather amusing circumstances.
he was never punished, with the exception perhaps that he published a book and did not realize anything from it.
lee fled to the westward, but was pursued by the triumphant federals, especially by sheridan, whose cavalry hung on his flanks day and night.
food failed the fleeing foe, and the young shoots of trees for food and the larger shoots of the artillery between meals were too much for that proud army, once so strong and confident.
let us not dwell on the particulars.
as sheridan planted his cavalry squarely across lee's path of retreat, the worn but heroic tatters of a proud army prepared to sell themselves for a bloody ransom and go down fighting, but grant had demanded their surrender, and, seeing back of the galling, skirmishing cavalry solid walls of confident infantry, the terms of surrender were accepted by general lee, and april 9 the confederate army stacked its arms near appomattox court-house.
the confederate war debt was never paid, for some reason or other, but the federal debt when it was feeling the best amounted to two billion eight hundred and forty-four million dollars.
one million men lost their lives.
was it worth while?
in the midst of the general rejoicing, president lincoln was assassinated by john wilkes booth at ford's theatre, april 14. the assassin was captured in a dying condition in a burning barn, through a crack in the boarding of which he had been shot by a soldier named boston corbett.
he died with no sympathetic applause to soothe the dull, cold ear of death.
west virginia was admitted to the union in 1863, and nevada in 1864.
the following chapters will be devoted to more peaceful details, while we cheerfully close the sorrowful pages in which we have confessed that, with all our greatness as a nation, we could not stay the tide of war.
chapter xxix.
too much liberty in places and not enough elsewhere.
thoughts on the late war who is the bigger ass, the man who will not forgive and forget, or the mawkish and moist-eyed sniveller who wants to do that all the time?
when patrick henry put his old cast-iron spectacles on the top of his head and whooped for liberty, he did not know that some day we should have more of it than we knew what to do with.
he little dreamed that the time would come when we should have more liberty than we could pay for.
when mr. henry sawed the air and shouted for liberty or death, i do not believe that he knew the time would come when liberty would stand on bedloe's island and yearn for rest and change of scene.
it seems to me that we have too much liberty in this country in some ways.
we have more liberty than we have money.
we guarantee that every man in america shall fill himself up full of liberty at our expense, and the less of an american he is the more liberty he can have.
should he desire to enjoy himself, all he needs is a slight foreign accent and a willingness to mix up with politics as soon as he can get his baggage off the steamer.
the more i study american institutions the more i regret that i was not born a foreigner, so that i could have something to say about the management of our great land.
if i could not be a foreigner, i believe i should prefer to be a policeman or an indian not taxed.
i am often led to ask, in the language of the poet, "is civilization a failure, and is the caucasian played out?"
almost every one can have a good deal of fun in america except the american.
he seems to be so busy paying his taxes that he has very little time to vote, or to mingle in society's giddy whirl, or to mix up with the nobility.
that is the reason why the alien who rides across the united states in the "limited mail" and writes a book about us before breakfast wonders why we are always in a hurry.
that also is the reason why we have to throw our meals into ourselves with such despatch, and hardly have time to maintain a warm personal friendship with our families.
we do not care much for wealth, but we must have freedom, and freedom costs money.
we have advertised to furnish a bunch of freedom to every man, woman, and child who comes to our shores, and we are going to deliver the goods whether we have any left for ourselves or not.
what would the great world beyond the seas say to us if some day the blue-eyed oriental, with his heart full of love for our female seminaries and our old women's homes, should land upon our coasts and crave freedom in car-load lots but find that we were using all the liberty ourselves?
but what do we want of liberty, anyhow?
what could we do with it if we had it?
it takes a man of leisure to enjoy liberty, and we have no leisure whatever.
it is a good thing to keep in the house for the use of guests, but we don't need it for ourselves.
therefore we have a statue of liberty enlightening the world, because it shows that we keep liberty on tap winter and summer.
we want the whole broad world to remember that when it gets tired of oppression it can come here to america and oppress us.
we are used to it, and we rather like it.
if we don't like it, we can get on the steamer and go abroad, where we may visit the effete monarchies and have a high old time.
the sight of the goddess of liberty standing there in new york harbor night and day, bathing her feet in the rippling sea, is a good thing.
it is first-rate.
it may also be productive of good in a direction that many have not thought of.
as she stands there day after day, bathing her feet in the broad atlantic, perhaps some moss-grown alien landing on our shore and moving toward the far west may fix the bright picture in his so-called mind, and, remembering how, on his arrival in new york, he saw liberty bathing her feet with impunity, he may be led in after-years to try it on himself.
more citizens and less voters will some day be adopted as the motto of the republic.
one reference to the late war, and i will close.
i want to refer especially to the chronic reconciler who when war was declared was not involved in it, but who now improves every opportunity, especially near election-time, to get out a tired olive-branch and make a tableau of himself.
he is worse than the man who cannot forgive or forget.
the growth of reconciliation between the north and the south is the slow growth of years, and the work of generations.
when any man, north or south, in a public place takes occasion to talk in a mellow and mawkish way of the great love he now has for his old enemy, watch him.
he is getting ready to ask a favor.
there is a beautiful, poetic idea in the reunion of two contending and shattered elements of a great nation.
there is something beautifully pathetic in the picture of the north and the south clasped in each other's arms and shedding a torrent of hot tears down each other's backs as it is done in a play, but do you believe that the aged mothers on either side have learned to love the foe with much violence yet?
do you believe that the crippled veteran, north or south, now passionately loves the adversary who robbed him of his glorious youth, made him a feeble ruin, and mowed down his comrades with swift death?
do you believe that either warrior is so fickle that he has entirely deserted the cause for which he fought?
even the victor cannot ask that.
"let the gentle finger of time undo, so far as may be, the devastation wrought by the war, and let succeeding generations seek through natural methods to reunite the business and the traffic that were interrupted by the war.
let the south guarantee to the northern investor security to himself and his investment, and he will not ask for the love which we read of in speeches but do not expect and do not find in the south.
"two warring parents on the verge of divorce have been saved the disgrace of separation and agreed to maintain their household for the sake of their children.
their love has been questioned by the world, and their relations strained.
is it not bad taste for them to pose in public and make a cheap romeo and juliet tableau of themselves?
"let time and merciful silence obliterate the scars of war, and succeeding generations, fostered by the smiles of national prosperity, soften the bitterness of the past and mellow the memory of a mighty struggle in which each contending host called upon almighty god to sustain the cause which it honestly believed to be just."
let us be contented during this generation with the assurance that geographically the union has been preserved, and that each contending warrior has once more taken up the peaceful struggle for bettering and beautifying the home so bravely fought for.
chapter xxx.
reconstruction without pain administrations of johnson and grant.
it was feared that the return of a million federal soldiers to their homes after the four years of war would make serious trouble in the north, but they were very shortly adjusted to their new lives and attending to the duties which peace imposed upon them.
the war of the rebellion was disastrous to nearly every branch of trade, but those who remained at home to write the war-songs of the north did well.
some of these efforts were worthy, and, buoyed up by a general feeling of robust patriotism, they floated on to success; but few have stood the test of years and monotonous peace.
the author of "mother, i am hollow to the ground" is just depositing his profits from its sale in the picture given on next page.
the second one, wearing the cape-overcoat tragedy air, wrote "who will be my laundress now?"
andrew johnson succeeded to mr. lincoln's seat, having acted before as his vice.
a great review of the army, lasting twelve hours, was arranged to take place in washington, consisting of the armies of grant and sherman.
it was reviewed by the president and cabinet; it extended over thirty miles twenty men deep, and constituted about one-fifth of the northern army at the time peace was declared.
president johnson recognized the state governments existing in virginia, tennessee, arkansas, and louisiana, but instituted provisional governments for the other states of the defeated confederacy, as it seemed impossible otherwise to bring order out of the chaos which war and financial distress had brought about.
he authorized the assembly also of loyal conventions to elect state and other officers, and pardoned by proclamation everybody, with the exception of a certain class of the late insurgents whom he pardoned personally.
on christmas day, 1868, a universal amnesty was declared.
the thirteenth amendment, abolishing slavery, became a part of the constitution, december 18, 1865, and the former masters found themselves still morally responsible for these colored people, without the right to control them or even the money with which to employ them.
the annual interest on the national debt at this time amounted to one hundred and fifty million dollars.
yet the treasury paid this, together with the expenses of government, and reduced the debt seventy-one million dollars before the volunteer army had been fully discharged in 1866.
comment on such recuperative power as that is unnecessary; for the generation that fights a four-years war costing over two billions of dollars generally leaves the debt for another generation or another century to pay.
congress met finally, ignored the president's rollicking welcome to the seceded states, and over his veto proceeded to pass various laws regarding their admission, such as the civil rights and freedman's bureau bills.
tennessee returned promptly to the union under the constitutional amendments, but the others did not till the nightmare of reconstruction had been added to the horrors of war.
in 1868, after much time worse than wasted in carpet-bag government and a mob reign in the south which imperilled her welfare for many years after it was over, by frightening investors and settlers long after peace had been restored, representatives began to come into congress under the laws.
during this same year the hostilities between congress and the president culminated in an effort to impeach the latter.
he escaped by one vote.
it is very likely that the assassination of lincoln was the most unfortunate thing that happened to the southern states.
while he was not a warrior, he was a statesman, and no gentler hand or more willing brain could have entered with enthusiasm into the adjustment of chaotic conditions, than his.
the fourteenth amendment, a bright little bon mot, became a law june 28, 1868, and was written in the minutes of congress, so that people could go there and refresh their memories regarding it.
it guaranteed civil rights to all, regardless of race, color, odor, wildness or wooliness whatsoever, and allows all noses to be counted in congressional representations, no matter what angle they may be at or what the color may be.
some american citizens murmur at taxation without representation, but the negro murmurs at representation without remuneration.
the fenian excitement of 1866 died out without much loss of life.
in october, 1867, alaska was purchased from russia for seven million two hundred thousand dollars.
the ice-crop since then would more than pay for the place, and it has also a water-power and cranberry marsh on it.
the rule of the imperialists in france prompted the appointment of maximilian, archduke of austria, as emperor of mexico, supported by the french army.
the americans, still sore and in debt at the heels of their own war, pitied the helpless mexicans, and, acting on the principles enunciated in the monroe doctrine, demanded the recall of maximilian, who, deserted finally by his foreign abettors, was defeated and as a prisoner shot by the mexicans, june 19, 1867.
the atlantic cable was laid from valentia bay in ireland to heart's content, newfoundland, one thousand eight hundred and sixty-four miles, and the line from new york to the latter place built in 1856, a distance of one thousand miles, making in all, as keen mathematicians will see, two thousand eight hundred and sixty-four miles.
a very agreeable commercial treaty with china was arranged in 1868.
grant and colfax, republicans, succeeded andrew johnson in the next election, horatio seymour, of new york, and frank p. blair, of missouri, being the democratic nominees.
virginia and mississippi had not been fully reconstructed, and so were not yet permitted to vote.
they have squared the matter up since, however, by voting with great enthusiasm.
in 1869 the pacific railroad was completed, whereby the trip from the atlantic to the pacific three thousand and three hundred miles might be made in a week.
it also attracted the asiatic trade, and tea, silk, spices, and leprosy found a new market in the land of the free and the home of the brave.
still flushed with its success in humorous legislation, congress, on the 30th of march, 1870, passed the fifteenth amendment, giving to the colored men the right to vote.
it then became a part of the constitution, and people who have seen it there speak very highly of it.
prosperity now attracted no attention whatever.
gold, worth nearly three dollars at the close of the war, fell to a dollar and ten cents, and the debt during the first two years of this administration was reduced two hundred million dollars.
genuine peace reigned in the entire republic, and o'er the scarred and shell-torn fields of the south there waved, in place of hostile banners, once more the cotton and the corn.
the red foliage of the gum-tree with the white in the snowy white cotton-fields and the blue-grass of kentucky (blue-grass is not, strictly speaking, blue enough to figure in the national colors, but the author has taken out a poetic license which does not expire for over a year yet, and he therefore under its permission is allowed a certain amount of idiocy) showed that the fields had never forgotten their loyalty to the national colors.
peace under greatly changed conditions resumed her vocations, and, in the language of the poet,
"there were domes of white blossoms where swelled the white tent;   there were ploughs in the track where the war-wagons went;   there were songs where they lifted up rachel's lament."
october 8, 1871, occurred the great fire in chicago, raging for forty-eight hours and devastating three thousand acres of the city.
twenty-five thousand buildings were burned, and two hundred million dollars' worth of property.
one hundred thousand people lost their houses, and over seven and one-half millions of dollars were raised for those who needed it, all parts of the world uniting to improve the joyful opportunity to do good, without a doubt of its hearty appreciation.
boston also had a seventy-million dollar fire in the heart of the wholesale trade, covering sixty acres; and in the prairie and woods fires of wisconsin, minnesota, and michigan, many people lost not only their homes but their lives.
fifteen hundred people perished in wisconsin alone.
in 1871 the damage done by the alabama, a british-built ship, and several other cruisers sent out partly to facilitate the cotton trade and partly to do a little fighting when a federal vessel came that way, was assessed at fifteen million five hundred thousand dollars against great britain by the arbitrators who met at geneva, switzerland, and the northwestern boundary line between the united states and british america was settled by arbitration, the emperor of germany acting as arbitrator and deciding in favor of america.
this showed that people who have just wound up a big war have often learned some valuable sense; not two billion dollars' worth, perhaps, but some.
san domingo was reported for sale, and a committee looked at it, priced it, etc., but congress decided not to buy it.
the liberal republican party, or that element of the original party which was opposed to the administration, nominated horace greeley, of new york, while the old party renominated general grant for the term to succeed himself.
the latter was elected, and mr. greeley did not long survive his defeat.
the modoc indians broke loose in the early part of grant's second term, and, leaping from their lava-beds early in the morning, shacknasty jim and other unlaundried children of the forest raised merry future punishment, and the government, always kind, always loving and sweet toward the red brother, sent a peace commission with popcorn balls and a gentle-voiced parson to tell shacknasty james and old stand-up-and-sit-down that the white father at washington loved them and wanted them all to come and spend the summer at his house, and also that by sin death came into the world, and that we were all primordial germs at first, and that we should look up, not down, look out, not in, look forward, not backward, and lend a hand.
it was at this moment that early-to-bed-and early-to-rise-black hawk and shacknasty james, thinking that this thing had gone far enough, killed general canby and wounded both mr. meacham and rev.
dr. thomas, who had never had an unkind thought toward the modocs in their lives.
the troops then allowed their ill temper to get the best of them, and asked the modocs if they meant anything personal by their action, and, learning that they did, the soldiers did what with the proper authority they would have done at first, bombarded the children of the forest and mussed up their lava-beds so that they were glad to surrender.
in 1873 a panic occurred after the failure of jay cooke & co., of philadelphia, and a money stringency followed, the democrats attributing it a good deal to the party in power, just as cheap republicans twenty years later charged the democratic administration with this same thing.
inconsistency of this kind keeps good men, like the writer, out of politics, and turns their attention toward the contemplation of a better land.
in 1875 centennial anniversaries began to ripen and continued to fall off the different branches of government, according to the history of events so graphically set forth in the preceding pages.
they were duly celebrated by a happy and self-made people.
the centennial exposition at philadelphia in 1876 was a marked success in every way, nearly ten millions of people having visited it, who claimed that it was well worth the price of admission.
aside from the fact that these ten millions of people had talked about it to millions of folks at home, or thought they had, the exposition was a boon to every one, and thousands of americans went home with a knowledge of their country that they had never had before, and pointers on blowing out gas which saved many lives in after-years.
chapter xxxi.
closing chronicles.
in 1876 the peaceful sioux took an outing, having refused to go to their reservation in accordance with the treaty made with the great father at washington, d. c., and regular troops were sent against them.
general custer, with the 7th regiment, led the advance, and general terry aimed for the rear of the children of the forest up the big horn.
here, on the 25th of june, without assistance, and with characteristic courage, general custer attacked the enemy, sending colonel reno to fall on the rear of the village.
scarcely enough of custer's own command with him at the time lived long enough to tell the story of the battle.
general custer, his two brothers, and his nephew were among the dead.
reno held his ground until reinforced, but custer's troops were exterminated.
it is said that the sioux rose from the ground like bunch-grass and swarmed up the little hill like a pest of grasshoppers, mowing down the soldiers with the very newest and best weapons of warfare, and leaving nothing at last but the robbed and mutilated bodies lying naked in the desolate land of the dakotah.
the fenimore cooper indian is no doubt a brave and highly intellectual person, educated abroad, refined and cultivated by foreign travel, graceful in the grub dance or scalp walk-around, yet tender-hearted as a girl, walking by night fifty-seven miles in a single evening to warn his white friends of danger.
the indian introduced into literature was a bronze apollo who bathed almost constantly and only killed white people who were unpleasant and coarse.
he dressed in new and fresh buckskins, with trimming of same, and his sable hair hung glossy and beautiful down the coppery billows of muscles on his back.
the real indian has the dead and unkempt hair of a busted buggy-cushion filled with hen feathers.
he lies, he steals, he assassinates, he mutilates, he tortures.
he needs persian powder long before he needs the theology which abler men cannot agree upon.
we can, in fact, only retain him as we do the buffalo, so long as he complies with the statutes.
but the red brother is on his way to join the cave-bear, the three-toed horse, and the ichthyosaurus in the great fossil realm of the historic past.
move on, maroon brother, move on!
rutherford b. hayes and william a. wheeler were nominated in the summer of 1876, and so close was the fight against samuel j. tilden and thomas a. hendricks that friends of the latter to this day refer to the selection of hayes and wheeler by a joint electoral commission to whom the contested election was referred, as a fraud and larceny on the part of the republican party.
it is not the part of an historian, who is absolutely destitute of political principles, to pass judgment.
facts have crept into this history, it is true, but no one could regret it more than the author; yet there has been no bias or political prejudice shown, other than that reflected from the historical sources whence information was necessarily obtained.
hayes was chosen, and gave the country an unruffled, unbiased administration, devoid of frills, and absolutely free from the appearance of hostility to any one.
he was one of the most conciliatory presidents ever elected by republican votes or counted in by a joint electoral commission.
he withdrew all troops from the south, and in several southern states things wore a democratic air at once.
in 1873 congress demonetized silver, and quite a number of business-men were demonetized at the same time; so in 1878 silver was made a legal tender for all debts.
as a result, in 1879 gold for the first time in seventeen years sold at par.
troubles arose in 1878 over the right to fish in the northeast waters, and the treaty at washington resulted in an award to great britain of five million five hundred thousand dollars, with the understanding that wasteful fishing should cease, and that as soon as either party got enough for a mess he should go home, no matter how well the fish seemed to be biting.
the right to regulate chinese immigration was given by treaty at pekin, and ever since the chinaman has entered our enclosures in some mysterious way, made enough in a few years to live like a potentate in china, and returned, leaving behind a pleasant memory and a chiffonnier here and there throughout the country filled with scorched shirt-bosoms, acid-eaten collars, and white vests with burglar-proof, ingrowing pockets in them.
the next nominations for president and vice-president were james a.
garfield, of ohio, and chester a. arthur, of new york, on the republican ticket, and winfield s. hancock, of pennsylvania, and william h.
english, of indiana, on the democratic ticket.
james b. weaver was connected with this campaign also.
who will tell us what he had to do with it?
can no one tell us what james b. weaver had to do with the campaign of 1881?
very well; i will tell you what he had to do with the campaign of 1881.
he was the presidential candidate on the greenback ticket, but it was kept so quiet that i am not surprised to know that you did not hear about it.
after the inauguration of garfield the investigation and annulling of star-route contracts fraudulently obtained were carried out, whereby two million dollars' worth of these corrupt agreements were rendered null and void.
on the morning of july 2, president garfield was shot by a poor, miserable, unbalanced, and abnormal growth whose name will not be discovered even in the appendix of this work.
he was tried, convicted, and sent squealing into eternity.
the president lingered patiently for two months and a half, when he died.
after the accession of president arthur, there occurred floods on the lower mississippi, whereby one hundred thousand people lost their homes.
the administration was not in any way to blame for this.
in 1883 the brooklyn bridge across east river was completed and ready for jumping purposes.
it was regarded as a great engineering success at the time, but it is now admitted that it is not high enough.
a person jumping from it is not always killed.
the same year the civil service bill became a law.
it provides that competitive examinations shall be made of certain applicants for office, whereby mail-carriers must prove that they know how to teach school, and guards in united states penitentiaries are required to describe how to navigate a ship.
possibly recent improvements have been made by which the curriculum is more fitted to the crime, but in the early operations of the law the janitor of a jail had to know what length shadow would be cast by a pole 18 feet 6-1/4 inches high on the third day of july at 11 o'clock 30 min.
and 20 sec.
standing on a knoll 35 feet 8-1/8 inches high, provided 8 men in 9 days can erect such a pole working 8 hours per day.
in 1883 letter postage was reduced from three cents to two cents per half-ounce, and in 1885 to two cents per ounce.
in 1884 alaska was organized as a territory, and after digging the snow out of sitka, so that the governor should not take cold in his system, it was made the seat of government.
chinese immigration in 1882 was forbidden for ten years, and in 1884 a treaty with mexico was made, a copy of which is on file in the state department, but not allowed to be loaned to the author for use in this work.
grover cleveland and thomas a. hendricks were nominated and elected at the end of president arthur's term, running against james g. blaine and john a. logan, the republican candidates, also benjamin f. butler and a.
m. west, of mississippi, on the people's ticket, and john p. st. john and william daniel on the prohibition ticket.
st. john went home and kept bees, so that he could have honey to eat on his kansas locusts, and daniel swore he would never enter the performing cage of immoral political wild beasts again while reason remained on her throne.
in 1886 a presidential succession law was passed, whereby on the death of the president and the vice-president the order of succession shall be the secretary of state, the secretary of the treasury, the secretary of war, the attorney-general, the postmaster-general, and the secretaries of the navy and of the interior.
this gives the secretary of agriculture an extremely remote and rarefied chance at the presidency.
still, he should be just as faithful to his trust as he would be if he were nearer the throne.
may 4, 1886, occurred a terrible outbreak of chicago anarchists, whereby seven policemen sent to preserve order were killed by the bursting of an anarchist's bomb.
the anarchists were tried and executed, with the exception of ling, who ate a dynamite capsule and passed into rest having had his features, and especially his nose, blown in a swift and earnest manner.
death resulted, and whiskers and beer-blossoms are still found embedded in the stone walls of his cell.
those who attended the funeral say that ling from a scenic point of view was not a success.
governor altgeld, of illinois, an amateur american, in the summer of 1893 pardoned two of the anarchists who had escaped death by imprisonment.
august 31, 1886, in charleston, occurred several terrible earthquake shocks, which seriously damaged the city and shocked and impaired the nerves and health of hundreds of people.
the noted heroism and pluck of the people of charleston were never shown to greater advantage than on this occasion.
mr. cleveland was again nominated, but was defeated by general benjamin harrison.
hon.
james g. blaine, of maine, was made secretary of state, and wm.
windom, a veteran financier, secretary of the treasury.
secretary windom's tragic death just as he had finished a most brilliant address to the great capitalists of new york after their annual dinner and discussion at delmonico's is, and will ever remain, while life lasts, a most dramatic picture in the author's memory.
personally, the administration of president harrison will be long remembered for the number of deaths among the families of the executive and those of his cabinet and friends.
nebraska, the thirty-seventh state, was admitted march 1, 1867. the name signifies "water valley."
colorado, the centennial state, was the thirty-eighth.
she was admitted july 1, 1876. six other states have been since admitted when the political sign was right.
still, they have not always stuck by the party admitting them to the union.
this is the kind of ingratitude which sometimes leads to the reformation of politicians supposed to have been dead in sin.
president harrison's administration was a thoroughly upright and honest one, so far as it was possible for it to be after his party had drifted into the musty catacombs of security in office and the ship of state had become covered with large and expensive barnacles.
as we go to press, his successor, grover cleveland, in the first year of his second administration, is paying a high price for fleeting fame, with the serious question of what to do with the relative coinage of gold and silver, and the democrats in congress, for the first time in the history of the world, are referring each other with hot breath and flashing eye to the platform they adopted at the national convention.
heretofore among the politicians a platform, like that on the railway cars, "is made for the purpose of helping the party to get aboard, but not to ride on."
the columbian exposition and world's fair at chicago in the summer of 1893 eclipsed all former exhibitions, costing more and showing greater artistic taste, especially in its buildings, than anything preceding it.
some gentle warfare resulted from a struggle over the question of opening the "white city" on sunday, and a great deal of bitterness was shown by those who opposed the opening and who had for years favored the sunday closing of niagara.
a doubtful victory was obtained by the sunday openers, for so many of the exhibitors closed their departments that visitors did not attend on sunday in paying quantities.
against a thousand odds and over a thousand obstacles, especially the apprehension of asiatic cholera and the actual sudden appearance of a gigantic money panic, chicago, heroic and victorious, carried out her mighty plans and gave to the world an exhibition that won golden opinions from her friends and stilled in dumb wonder the jealousy of her enemies.
in the mean time, the author begs leave to thank his readers for the rapt attention shown in perusing these earnest pages, and to apologize for the tears of sympathy thoughtlessly wrung from eyes unused to weep, by the graphic word-painting and fine education shown by the author.
it was not the intention of the writer to touch the fountain of tears and create wash-outs everywhere, but sometimes tears do one good.
in closing, would it be out of place to say that the stringency of the money market is most noticeable and most painful, and for that reason would it be too much trouble for the owner of this book to refuse to loan it, thereby encouraging its sale and contributing to the comfort of a deserving young man?
the end.
the velveteen rabbit
here was once a velveteen rabbit, and in the beginning he was really splendid.
he was fat and bunchy, as a rabbit should be; his coat was spotted brown and white, he had real thread whiskers, and his ears were lined with pink sateen.
on christmas morning, when he sat wedged in the top of the boy's stocking, with a sprig of holly between his paws, the effect was charming.
there were other things in the stocking, nuts and oranges and a toy engine, and chocolate almonds and a clockwork mouse, but the rabbit was quite the best of all.
for at least two hours the boy loved him, and then aunts and uncles came to dinner, and there was a great rustling of tissue paper and unwrapping of parcels, and in the excitement of looking at all the new presents the velveteen rabbit was forgotten.
christmas morning
for a long time he lived in the toy cupboard or on the nursery floor, and no one thought very much about him.
he was naturally shy, and being only made of velveteen, some of the more expensive toys quite snubbed him.
the mechanical toys were very superior, and looked down upon every one else; they were full of modern ideas, and pretended they were real.
the model boat, who had lived through two seasons and lost most of his paint, caught the tone from them and never missed an opportunity of referring to his rigging in technical terms.
the rabbit could not claim to be a model of anything, for he didn't know that real rabbits existed; he thought they were all stuffed with sawdust like himself, and he understood that sawdust was quite out-of-date and should never be mentioned in modern circles.
even timothy, the jointed wooden lion, who was made by the disabled soldiers, and should have had broader views, put on airs and pretended he was connected with government.
between them all the poor little rabbit was made to feel himself very insignificant and commonplace, and the only person who was kind to him at all was the skin horse.
the skin horse had lived longer in the nursery than any of the others.
he was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out to string bead necklaces.
he was wise, for he had seen a long succession of mechanical toys arrive to boast and swagger, and by-and-by break their mainsprings and pass away, and he knew that they were only toys, and would never turn into anything else.
for nursery magic is very strange and wonderful, and only those playthings that are old and wise and experienced like the skin horse understand all about it.
"what is real?"
asked the rabbit one day, when they were lying side by side near the nursery fender, before nana came to tidy the room.
"does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?"
"real isn't how you are made," said the skin horse.
"it's a thing that happens to you.
when a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but really loves you, then you become real."
"does it hurt?"
asked the rabbit.
"sometimes," said the skin horse, for he was always truthful.
"when you are real you don't mind being hurt."
"does it happen all at once, like being wound up," he asked, "or bit by bit?"
"it doesn't happen all at once," said the skin horse.
"you become.
it takes a long time.
that's why it doesn't happen often to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.
generally, by the time you are real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby.
but these things don't matter at all, because once you are real you can't be ugly, except to people who don't understand."
"i suppose you are real?"
said the rabbit.
and then he wished he had not said it, for he thought the skin horse might be sensitive.
but the skin horse only smiled.
the skin horse tells his story
"the boy's uncle made me real," he said.
"that was a great many years ago; but once you are real you can't become unreal again.
it lasts for always."
the rabbit sighed.
he thought it would be a long time before this magic called real happened to him.
he longed to become real, to know what it felt like; and yet the idea of growing shabby and losing his eyes and whiskers was rather sad.
he wished that he could become it without these uncomfortable things happening to him.
there was a person called nana who ruled the nursery.
sometimes she took no notice of the playthings lying about, and sometimes, for no reason whatever, she went swooping about like a great wind and hustled them away in cupboards.
she called this "tidying up," and the playthings all hated it, especially the tin ones.
the rabbit didn't mind it so much, for wherever he was thrown he came down soft.
one evening, when the boy was going to bed, he couldn't find the china dog that always slept with him.
nana was in a hurry, and it was too much trouble to hunt for china dogs at bedtime, so she simply looked about her, and seeing that the toy cupboard door stood open, she made a swoop.
"here," she said, "take your old bunny!
he'll do to sleep with you!"
and she dragged the rabbit out by one ear, and put him into the boy's arms.
that night, and for many nights after, the velveteen rabbit slept in the boy's bed.
at first he found it rather uncomfortable, for the boy hugged him very tight, and sometimes he rolled over on him, and sometimes he pushed him so far under the pillow that the rabbit could scarcely breathe.
and he missed, too, those long moonlight hours in the nursery, when all the house was silent, and his talks with the skin horse.
but very soon he grew to like it, for the boy used to talk to him, and made nice tunnels for him under the bedclothes that he said were like the burrows the real rabbits lived in.
and they had splendid games together, in whispers, when nana had gone away to her supper and left the night-light burning on the mantelpiece.
and when the boy dropped off to sleep, the rabbit would snuggle down close under his little warm chin and dream, with the boy's hands clasped close round him all night long.
and so time went on, and the little rabbit was very happy-so happy that he never noticed how his beautiful velveteen fur was getting shabbier and shabbier, and his tail becoming unsewn, and all the pink rubbed off his nose where the boy had kissed him.
spring came, and they had long days in the garden, for wherever the boy went the rabbit went too.
he had rides in the wheelbarrow, and picnics on the grass, and lovely fairy huts built for him under the raspberry canes behind the flower border.
and once, when the boy was called away suddenly to go out to tea, the rabbit was left out on the lawn until long after dusk, and nana had to come and look for him with the candle because the boy couldn't go to sleep unless he was there.
he was wet through with the dew and quite earthy from diving into the burrows the boy had made for him in the flower bed, and nana grumbled as she rubbed him off with a corner of her apron.
spring time
"you must have your old bunny!"
she said.
"fancy all that fuss for a toy!"
the boy sat up in bed and stretched out his hands.
"give me my bunny!"
he said.
"you mustn't say that.
he isn't a toy.
he's real!"
when the little rabbit heard that he was happy, for he knew that what the skin horse had said was true at last.
the nursery magic had happened to him, and he was a toy no longer.
he was real.
the boy himself had said it.
that night he was almost too happy to sleep, and so much love stirred in his little sawdust heart that it almost burst.
and into his boot-button eyes, that had long ago lost their polish, there came a look of wisdom and beauty, so that even nana noticed it next morning when she picked him up, and said, "i declare if that old bunny hasn't got quite a knowing expression!"
that was a wonderful summer!
near the house where they lived there was a wood, and in the long june evenings the boy liked to go there after tea to play.
he took the velveteen rabbit with him, and before he wandered off to pick flowers, or play at brigands among the trees, he always made the rabbit a little nest somewhere among the bracken, where he would be quite cosy, for he was a kind-hearted little boy and he liked bunny to be comfortable.
one evening, while the rabbit was lying there alone, watching the ants that ran to and fro between his velvet paws in the grass, he saw two strange beings creep out of the tall bracken near him.
they were rabbits like himself, but quite furry and brand-new.
they must have been very well made, for their seams didn't show at all, and they changed shape in a queer way when they moved; one minute they were long and thin and the next minute fat and bunchy, instead of always staying the same like he did.
their feet padded softly on the ground, and they crept quite close to him, twitching their noses, while the rabbit stared hard to see which side the clockwork stuck out, for he knew that people who jump generally have something to wind them up.
but he couldn't see it.
they were evidently a new kind of rabbit altogether.
summer days
they stared at him, and the little rabbit stared back.
and all the time their noses twitched.
"why don't you get up and play with us?"
one of them asked.
"i don't feel like it," said the rabbit, for he didn't want to explain that he had no clockwork.
"ho!"
said the furry rabbit.
"it's as easy as anything," and he gave a big hop sideways and stood on his hind legs.
"i don't believe you can!"
he said.
"i can!"
said the little rabbit.
"i can jump higher than anything!"
he meant when the boy threw him, but of course he didn't want to say so.
"can you hop on your hind legs?"
asked the furry rabbit.
that was a dreadful question, for the velveteen rabbit had no hind legs at all!
the back of him was made all in one piece, like a pincushion.
he sat still in the bracken, and hoped that the other rabbits wouldn't notice.
"i don't want to!"
he said again.
but the wild rabbits have very sharp eyes.
and this one stretched out his neck and looked.
"he hasn't got any hind legs!"
he called out.
"fancy a rabbit without any hind legs!"
and he began to laugh.
"i have!"
cried the little rabbit.
"i have got hind legs!
i am sitting on them!"
"then stretch them out and show me, like this!"
said the wild rabbit.
and he began to whirl round and dance, till the little rabbit got quite dizzy.
"i don't like dancing," he said.
"i'd rather sit still!"
but all the while he was longing to dance, for a funny new tickly feeling ran through him, and he felt he would give anything in the world to be able to jump about like these rabbits did.
the strange rabbit stopped dancing, and came quite close.
he came so close this time that his long whiskers brushed the velveteen rabbit's ear, and then he wrinkled his nose suddenly and flattened his ears and jumped backwards.
"he doesn't smell right!"
he exclaimed.
"he isn't a rabbit at all!
he isn't real!"
"i am real!"
said the little rabbit.
"i am real!
the boy said so!"
and he nearly began to cry.
just then there was a sound of footsteps, and the boy ran past near them, and with a stamp of feet and a flash of white tails the two strange rabbits disappeared.
"come back and play with me!"
called the little rabbit.
"oh, do come back!
i know i am real!"
but there was no answer, only the little ants ran to and fro, and the bracken swayed gently where the two strangers had passed.
the velveteen rabbit was all alone.
"oh, dear!"
he thought.
"why did they run away like that?
why couldn't they stop and talk to me?"
for a long time he lay very still, watching the bracken, and hoping that they would come back.
but they never returned, and presently the sun sank lower and the little white moths fluttered out, and the boy came and carried him home.
weeks passed, and the little rabbit grew very old and shabby, but the boy loved him just as much.
he loved him so hard that he loved all his whiskers off, and the pink lining to his ears turned grey, and his brown spots faded.
he even began to lose his shape, and he scarcely looked like a rabbit any more, except to the boy.
to him he was always beautiful, and that was all that the little rabbit cared about.
he didn't mind how he looked to other people, because the nursery magic had made him real, and when you are real shabbiness doesn't matter.
and then, one day, the boy was ill.
his face grew very flushed, and he talked in his sleep, and his little body was so hot that it burned the rabbit when he held him close.
strange people came and went in the nursery, and a light burned all night and through it all the little velveteen rabbit lay there, hidden from sight under the bedclothes, and he never stirred, for he was afraid that if they found him some one might take him away, and he knew that the boy needed him.
it was a long weary time, for the boy was too ill to play, and the little rabbit found it rather dull with nothing to do all day long.
but he snuggled down patiently, and looked forward to the time when the boy should be well again, and they would go out in the garden amongst the flowers and the butterflies and play splendid games in the raspberry thicket like they used to.
all sorts of delightful things he planned, and while the boy lay half asleep he crept up close to the pillow and whispered them in his ear.
and presently the fever turned, and the boy got better.
he was able to sit up in bed and look at picture-books, while the little rabbit cuddled close at his side.
and one day, they let him get up and dress.
it was a bright, sunny morning, and the windows stood wide open.
they had carried the boy out on to the balcony, wrapped in a shawl, and the little rabbit lay tangled up among the bedclothes, thinking.
the boy was going to the seaside to-morrow.
everything was arranged, and now it only remained to carry out the doctor's orders.
they talked about it all, while the little rabbit lay under the bedclothes, with just his head peeping out, and listened.
the room was to be disinfected, and all the books and toys that the boy had played with in bed must be burnt.
"hurrah!"
thought the little rabbit.
"to-morrow we shall go to the seaside!"
for the boy had often talked of the seaside, and he wanted very much to see the big waves coming in, and the tiny crabs, and the sand castles.
just then nana caught sight of him.
"how about his old bunny?"
she asked.
"that?"
said the doctor.
"why, it's a mass of scarlet fever germs!-burn it at once.
what?
nonsense!
get him a new one.
he mustn't have that any more!"
anxious times
and so the little rabbit was put into a sack with the old picture-books and a lot of rubbish, and carried out to the end of the garden behind the fowl-house.
that was a fine place to make a bonfire, only the gardener was too busy just then to attend to it.
he had the potatoes to dig and the green peas to gather, but next morning he promised to come quite early and burn the whole lot.
that night the boy slept in a different bedroom, and he had a new bunny to sleep with him.
it was a splendid bunny, all white plush with real glass eyes, but the boy was too excited to care very much about it.
for to-morrow he was going to the seaside, and that in itself was such a wonderful thing that he could think of nothing else.
and while the boy was asleep, dreaming of the seaside, the little rabbit lay among the old picture-books in the corner behind the fowl-house, and he felt very lonely.
the sack had been left untied, and so by wriggling a bit he was able to get his head through the opening and look out.
he was shivering a little, for he had always been used to sleeping in a proper bed, and by this time his coat had worn so thin and threadbare from hugging that it was no longer any protection to him.
near by he could see the thicket of raspberry canes, growing tall and close like a tropical jungle, in whose shadow he had played with the boy on bygone mornings.
he thought of those long sunlit hours in the garden-how happy they were-and a great sadness came over him.
he seemed to see them all pass before him, each more beautiful than the other, the fairy huts in the flower-bed, the quiet evenings in the wood when he lay in the bracken and the little ants ran over his paws; the wonderful day when he first knew that he was real.
he thought of the skin horse, so wise and gentle, and all that he had told him.
of what use was it to be loved and lose one's beauty and become real if it all ended like this?
and a tear, a real tear, trickled down his little shabby velvet nose and fell to the ground.
and then a strange thing happened.
for where the tear had fallen a flower grew out of the ground, a mysterious flower, not at all like any that grew in the garden.
it had slender green leaves the colour of emeralds, and in the centre of the leaves a blossom like a golden cup.
it was so beautiful that the little rabbit forgot to cry, and just lay there watching it.
and presently the blossom opened, and out of it there stepped a fairy.
she was quite the loveliest fairy in the whole world.
her dress was of pearl and dew-drops, and there were flowers round her neck and in her hair, and her face was like the most perfect flower of all.
and she came close to the little rabbit and gathered him up in her arms and kissed him on his velveteen nose that was all damp from crying.
"little rabbit," she said, "don't you know who i am?"
the rabbit looked up at her, and it seemed to him that he had seen her face before, but he couldn't think where.
"i am the nursery magic fairy," she said.
"i take care of all the playthings that the children have loved.
when they are old and worn out and the children don't need them any more, then i come and take them away with me and turn them into real."
"wasn't i real before?"
asked the little rabbit.
"you were real to the boy," the fairy said, "because he loved you.
now you shall be real to every one."
the fairy flower
and she held the little rabbit close in her arms and flew with him into the wood.
it was light now, for the moon had risen.
all the forest was beautiful, and the fronds of the bracken shone like frosted silver.
in the open glade between the tree-trunks the wild rabbits danced with their shadows on the velvet grass, but when they saw the fairy they all stopped dancing and stood round in a ring to stare at her.
"i've brought you a new playfellow," the fairy said.
"you must be very kind to him and teach him all he needs to know in rabbit-land, for he is going to live with you for ever and ever!"
and she kissed the little rabbit again and put him down on the grass.
"run and play, little rabbit!"
she said.
but the little rabbit sat quite still for a moment and never moved.
for when he saw all the wild rabbits dancing around him he suddenly remembered about his hind legs, and he didn't want them to see that he was made all in one piece.
he did not know that when the fairy kissed him that last time she had changed him altogether.
and he might have sat there a long time, too shy to move, if just then something hadn't tickled his nose, and before he thought what he was doing he lifted his hind toe to scratch it.
and he found that he actually had hind legs!
instead of dingy velveteen he had brown fur, soft and shiny, his ears twitched by themselves, and his whiskers were so long that they brushed the grass.
he gave one leap and the joy of using those hind legs was so great that he went springing about the turf on them, jumping sideways and whirling round as the others did, and he grew so excited that when at last he did stop to look for the fairy she had gone.
he was a real rabbit at last, at home with the other rabbits.
at last!
at last!
autumn passed and winter, and in the spring, when the days grew warm and sunny, the boy went out to play in the wood behind the house.
and while he was playing, two rabbits crept out from the bracken and peeped at him.
one of them was brown all over, but the other had strange markings under his fur, as though long ago he had been spotted, and the spots still showed through.
and about his little soft nose and his round black eyes there was something familiar, so that the boy thought to himself:
"why, he looks just like my old bunny that was lost when i had scarlet fever!"
but he never knew that it really was his own bunny, come back to look at the child who had first helped him to be real.
the book of dragons
i. the book of beasts
he happened to be building a palace when the news came, and he left all the bricks kicking about the floor for nurse to clear up but then the news was rather remarkable news.
you see, there was a knock at the front door and voices talking downstairs, and lionel thought it was the man come to see about the gas, which had not been allowed to be lighted since the day when lionel made a swing by tying his skipping rope to the gas bracket.
and then, quite suddenly, nurse came in and said, "master lionel, dear, they've come to fetch you to go and be king."
then she made haste to change his smock and to wash his face and hands and brush his hair, and all the time she was doing it lionel kept wriggling and fidgeting and saying, "oh, don't, nurse," and, "i'm sure my ears are quite clean," or, "never mind my hair, it's all right," and, "that'll do."
"you're going on as if you was going to be an eel instead of a king,"
said nurse.
the minute nurse let go for a moment lionel bolted off without waiting for his clean handkerchief, and in the drawing room there were two very grave-looking gentlemen in red robes with fur, and gold coronets with velvet sticking up out of the middle like the cream in the very expensive jam tarts.
they bowed low to lionel, and the gravest one said: "sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather, the king of this country, is dead, and now you have got to come and be king."
"yes, please, sir," said lionel, "when does it begin?"
"you will be crowned this afternoon," said the grave gentleman who was not quite so grave-looking as the other.
"would you like me to bring nurse, or what time would you like me to be fetched, and hadn't i better put on my velvet suit with the lace collar?"
said lionel, who had often been out to tea.
"your nurse will be removed to the palace later.
no, never mind about changing your suit; the royal robes will cover all that up."
the grave gentlemen led the way to a coach with eight white horses, which was drawn up in front of the house where lionel lived.
it was no.
7, on the left-hand side of the street as you go up.
lionel ran upstairs at the last minute, and he kissed nurse and said:
"thank you for washing me.
i wish i'd let you do the other ear.
no there's no time now.
give me the hanky.
good-bye, nurse."
"good-bye, ducky," said nurse.
"be a good little king now, and say 'please' and 'thank you,' and remember to pass the cake to the little girls, and don't have more than two helps of anything."
so off went lionel to be made a king.
he had never expected to be a king any more than you have, so it was all quite new to him so new that he had never even thought of it.
and as the coach went through the town he had to bite his tongue to be quite sure it was real, because if his tongue was real it showed he wasn't dreaming.
half an hour before he had been building with bricks in the nursery; and now the streets were all fluttering with flags; every window was crowded with people waving handkerchiefs and scattering flowers; there were scarlet soldiers everywhere along the pavements, and all the bells of all the churches were ringing like mad, and like a great song to the music of their ringing he heard thousands of people shouting, "long live lionel!
long live our little king!"
he was a little sorry at first that he had not put on his best clothes, but he soon forgot to think about that.
if he had been a girl he would very likely have bothered about it the whole time.
as they went along, the grave gentlemen, who were the chancellor and the prime minister, explained the things which lionel did not understand.
"i thought we were a republic," said lionel.
"i'm sure there hasn't been a king for some time."
"sire, your great-great-great-great-great-grandfather's death happened when my grandfather was a little boy," said the prime minister, "and since then your loyal people have been saving up to buy you a crown so much a week, you know, according to people's means sixpence a week from those who have first-rate pocket money, down to a halfpenny a week from those who haven't so much.
you know it's the rule that the crown must be paid for by the people."
"but hadn't my great-great-however-much-it-is-grandfather a crown?"
"yes, but he sent it to be tinned over, for fear of vanity, and he had had all the jewels taken out, and sold them to buy books.
he was a strange man; a very good king he was, but he had his faults he was fond of books.
almost with his last breath he sent the crown to be tinned and he never lived to pay the tinsmith's bill."
here the prime minister wiped away a tear, and just then the carriage stopped and lionel was taken out of the carriage to be crowned.
being crowned is much more tiring work than you would suppose, and by the time it was over, and lionel had worn the royal robes for an hour or two and had had his hand kissed by everybody whose business it was to do it, he was quite worn out, and was very glad to get into the palace nursery.
nurse was there, and tea was ready: seedy cake and plummy cake, and jam and hot buttered toast, and the prettiest china with red and gold and blue flowers on it, and real tea, and as many cups of it as you liked.
after tea lionel said: "i think i should like a book.
will you get me one, nurse?"
"bless the child," said nurse.
"you don't suppose you've lost the use of your legs with just being a king?
run along, do, and get your books yourself."
so lionel went down into the library.
the prime minister and the chancellor were there, and when lionel came in they bowed very low, and were beginning to ask lionel most politely what on earth he was coming bothering for now when lionel cried out: "oh, what a worldful of books!
are they yours?"
"they are yours, your majesty," answered the chancellor.
"they were the property of the late king, your great-great "
"yes, i know," lionel interrupted.
"well, i shall read them all.
i love to read.
i am so glad i learned to read."
"if i might venture to advise your majesty," said the prime minister, "i should not read these books.
your great "
"yes?"
said lionel, quickly.
"he was a very good king oh, yes, really a very superior king in his way, but he was a little well, strange."
"mad?"
asked lionel, cheerfully.
"no, no" both the gentlemen were sincerely shocked.
"not mad; but if i may express it so, he was er too clever by half.
and i should not like a little king of mine to have anything to do with his books."
lionel looked puzzled.
"the fact is," the chancellor went on, twisting his red beard in an agitated way, "your great "
"go on," said lionel.
" was called a wizard."
"but he wasn't?"
"of course not a most worthy king was your great "
"i see."
"but i wouldn't touch his books."
"just this one," cried lionel, laying his hands on the cover of a great brown book that lay on the study table.
it had gold patterns on the brown leather, and gold clasps with turquoises and rubies in the twists of them, and gold corners, so that the leather should not wear out too quickly.
"i must look at this one," lionel said, for on the back in big letters he read: the book of beasts.
the chancellor said, "don't be a silly little king."
but lionel had got the gold clasps undone, and he opened the first page, and there was a beautiful butterfly all red, and brown, and yellow, and blue, so beautifully painted that it looked as if it were alive.
"there," said lionel, "isn't that lovely?
why "
but as he spoke the beautiful butterfly fluttered its many-colored wings on the yellow old page of the book, and flew up and out of the window.
"well!"
said the prime minister, as soon as he could speak for the lump of wonder that had got into his throat and tried to choke him, "that's magic, that is."
but before he had spoken, the king had turned the next page, and there was a shining bird complete and beautiful in every blue feather of him.
under him was written, "blue bird of paradise," and while the king gazed enchanted at the charming picture the blue bird fluttered his wings on the yellow page and spread them and flew out of the book.
then the prime minister snatched the book away from the king and shut it up on the blank page where the bird had been, and put it on a very high shelf.
and the chancellor gave the king a good shaking, and said:
"you're a naughty, disobedient little king!"
and was very angry indeed.
"i don't see that i've done any harm," said lionel.
he hated being shaken, as all boys do; he would much rather have been slapped.
"no harm?"
said the chancellor.
"ah but what do you know about it?
that's the question.
how do you know what might have been on the next page a snake or a worm, or a centipede or a revolutionist, or something like that."
"well, i'm sorry if i've vexed you," said lionel.
"come, let's kiss and be friends."
so he kissed the prime minister, and they settled down for a nice quiet game of noughts and crosses while the chancellor went to add up his accounts.
but when lionel was in bed he could not sleep for thinking of the book, and when the full moon was shining with all her might and light he got up and crept down to the library and climbed up and got the book of beasts.
he took it outside to the terrace, where the moonlight was as bright as day, and he opened the book, and saw the empty pages with "butterfly"
and "blue bird of paradise" underneath, and then he turned the next page.
there was some sort of red thing sitting under a palm tree, and under it was written "dragon."
the dragon did not move, and the king shut up the book rather quickly and went back to bed.
but the next day he wanted another look, so he took the book out into the garden, and when he undid the clasps with the rubies and turquoises, the book opened all by itself at the picture with "dragon" underneath, and the sun shone full on the page.
and then, quite suddenly, a great red dragon came out of the book and spread vast scarlet wings and flew away across the garden to the far hills, and lionel was left with the empty page before him, for the page was quite empty except for the green palm tree and the yellow desert, and the little streaks of red where the paintbrush had gone outside the pencil outline of the red dragon.
and then lionel felt that he had indeed done it.
he had not been king twenty-four hours, and already he had let loose a red dragon to worry his faithful subjects' lives out.
and they had been saving up so long to buy him a crown, and everything!
lionel began to cry.
the chancellor and the prime minister and the nurse all came running to see what was the matter.
and when they saw the book they understood, and the chancellor said: "you naughty little king!
put him to bed, nurse, and let him think over what he's done."
"perhaps, my lord," said the prime minister, "we'd better first find out just exactly what he has done."
then lionel, in floods of tears, said: "it's a red dragon, and it's gone flying away to the hills, and i am so sorry, and, oh, do forgive me!"
but the prime minister and the chancellor had other things to think of than forgiving lionel.
they hurried off to consult the police and see what could be done.
everyone did what they could.
they sat on committees and stood on guard, and lay in wait for the dragon, but he stayed up in the hills, and there was nothing more to be done.
the faithful nurse, meanwhile, did not neglect her duty.
perhaps she did more than anyone else, for she slapped the king and put him to bed without his tea, and when it got dark she would not give him a candle to read by.
"you are a naughty little king," she said, "and nobody will love you."
next day the dragon was still quiet, though the more poetic of lionel's subjects could see the redness of the dragon shining through the green trees quite plainly.
so lionel put on his crown and sat on his throne and said he wanted to make some laws.
and i need hardly say that though the prime minister and the chancellor and the nurse might have the very poorest opinion of lionel's private judgement, and might even slap him and send him to bed, the minute he got on his throne and set his crown on his head, he became infallible which means that everything he said was right, and that he couldn't possibly make a mistake.
so when he said: "there is to be a law forbidding people to open books in schools or elsewhere" he had the support of at least half of his subjects, and the other half the grown-up half pretended to think he was quite right.
then he made a law that everyone should always have enough to eat.
and this pleased everyone except the ones who had always had too much.
and when several other nice new laws were made and written down he went home and made mud-houses and was very happy.
and he said to his nurse:
"people will love me now i've made such a lot of pretty new laws for them."
but nurse said: "don't count your chickens, my dear.
you haven't seen the last of that dragon yet."
now, the next day was saturday.
and in the afternoon the dragon suddenly swooped down upon the common in all his hideous redness, and carried off the soccer players, umpires, goal-posts, ball, and all.
then the people were very angry indeed, and they said: "we might as well be a republic.
after saving up all these years to get his crown, and everything!"
and wise people shook their heads and foretold a decline in the national love of sport.
and, indeed, soccer was not at all popular for some time afterward.
lionel did his best to be a good king during the week, and the people were beginning to forgive him for letting the dragon out of the book.
"after all," they said, "soccer is a dangerous game, and perhaps it is wise to discourage it."
popular opinion held that the soccer players, being tough and hard, had disagreed with the dragon so much that he had gone away to some place where they only play cats' cradle and games that do not make you hard and tough.
all the same, parliament met on the saturday afternoon, a convenient time, for most of the members would be free to attend, to consider the dragon.
but unfortunately the dragon, who had only been asleep, woke up because it was saturday, and he considered the parliament, and afterwards there were not any members left, so they tried to make a new parliament, but being a member of parliament had somehow grown as unpopular as soccer playing, and no one would consent to be elected, so they had to do without a parliament.
when the next saturday came around everyone was a little nervous, but the red dragon was pretty quiet that day and only ate an orphanage.
lionel was very, very unhappy.
he felt that it was his disobedience that had brought this trouble on the parliament and the orphanage and the soccer players, and he felt that it was his duty to try and do something.
the question was, what?
the blue bird that had come out of the book used to sing very nicely in the palace rose garden, and the butterfly was very tame, and would perch on his shoulder when he walked among the tall lilies: so lionel saw that all the creatures in the book of beasts could not be wicked, like the dragon, and he thought: "suppose i could get another beast out who would fight the dragon?"
so he took the book of beasts out into the rose garden and opened the page next to the one where the dragon had been just a tiny bit to see what the name was.
he could only see "cora," but he felt the middle of the page swelling up thick with the creature that was trying to come out, and it was only by putting the book down and sitting on it suddenly, very hard, that he managed to get it shut.
then he fastened the clasps with the rubies and turquoises in them and sent for the chancellor, who had been ill since saturday, and so had not been eaten with the rest of the parliament, and he said: "what animal ends in 'cora'?"
the chancellor answered: "the manticora, of course."
"what is he like?"
asked the king.
"he is the sworn foe of dragons," said the chancellor.
"he drinks their blood.
he is yellow, with the body of a lion and the face of a man.
i wish we had a few manticoras here now.
but the last died hundreds of years ago worse luck!"
then the king ran and opened the book at the page that had "cora" on it, and there was the picture manticora, all yellow, with a lion's body and a man's face, just as the chancellor had said.
and under the picture was written, "manticora."
in a few minutes the manticora came sleepily out of the book, rubbing its eyes with its hands and mewing piteously.
it seemed very stupid, and when lionel gave it a push and said, "go along and fight the dragon, do," it put its tail between its legs and fairly ran away.
it went and hid behind the town hall, and at night when the people were asleep it went around and ate all the pussy-cats in the town.
and then it mewed more than ever.
and on the saturday morning, when people were a little timid about going out, because the dragon had no regular hour for calling, the manticora went up and down the streets and drank all the milk that was left in the cans at the doors for people's teas, and it ate the cans as well.
and just when it had finished the very last little halfpenny worth, which was short measure, because the milkman's nerves were quite upset, the red dragon came down the street looking for the manticora.
it edged off when it saw him coming, for it was not at all the dragon-fighting kind; and, seeing no other door open, the poor, hunted creature took refuge in the general post office, and there the dragon found it, trying to conceal itself among the ten o'clock mail.
the dragon fell on the manticora at once, and the mail was no defense.
the mewings were heard all over the town.
all the kitties and the milk the manticora had had seemed to have strengthened its mew wonderfully.
then there was a sad silence, and presently the people whose windows looked that way saw the dragon come walking down the steps of the general post office spitting fire and smoke, together with tufts of manticora fur, and the fragments of the registered letters.
things were growing very serious.
however popular the king might become during the week, the dragon was sure to do something on saturday to upset the people's loyalty.
the dragon was a perfect nuisance for the whole of saturday, except during the hour of noon, and then he had to rest under a tree or he would have caught fire from the heat of the sun.
you see, he was very hot to begin with.
at last came a saturday when the dragon actually walked into the royal nursery and carried off the king's own pet rocking horse.
then the king cried for six days, and on the seventh he was so tired that he had to stop.
he heard the blue bird singing among the roses and saw the butterfly fluttering among the lilies, and he said: "nurse, wipe my face, please.
i am not going to cry any more."
nurse washed his face, and told him not to be a silly little king.
"crying," said she, "never did anyone any good yet."
"i don't know," said the little king, "i seem to see better, and to hear better now that i've cried for a week.
now, nurse, dear, i know i'm right, so kiss me in case i never come back.
i must try to see if i can't save the people."
"well, if you must, you must," said nurse, "but don't tear your clothes or get your feet wet."
so off he went.
the blue bird sang more sweetly than ever, and the butterfly shone more brightly, as lionel once more carried the book of beasts out into the rose garden, and opened it very quickly, so that he might not be afraid and change his mind.
the book fell open wide, almost in the middle, and there was written at the bottom of the page, "hippogriff," and before lionel had time to see what the picture was, there was a fluttering of great wings and a stamping of hoofs, and a sweet, soft, friendly neighing; and there came out of the book a beautiful white horse with a long, long, white mane and a long, long, white tail, and he had great wings like swan's wings, and the softest, kindest eyes in the world, and he stood there among the roses.
the hippogriff rubbed its silky-soft, milky white nose against the little king's shoulder, and the little king thought: "but for the wings you are very like my poor, dear lost rocking horse."
and the blue bird's song was very loud and sweet.
then suddenly the king saw coming through the sky the great straggling, sprawling, wicked shape of the red dragon.
and he knew at once what he must do.
he caught up the book of beasts and jumped on the back of the gentle, beautiful hippogriff, and leaning down he whispered in the sharp, white ear: "fly, dear hippogriff, fly your very fastest to the pebbly waste."
and when the dragon saw them start, he turned and flew after them, with his great wings flapping like clouds at sunset, and the hippogriff's wide wings were snowy as clouds at moonrise.
when the people in the town saw the dragon fly off after the hippogriff and the king they all came out of their houses to look, and when they saw the two disappear they made up their minds to the worst, and began to think what they would wear for court mourning.
but the dragon could not catch the hippogriff.
the red wings were bigger than the white ones, but they were not so strong, and so the white-winged horse flew away and away and away, with the dragon pursuing, till he reached the very middle of the pebbly waste.
now, the pebbly waste is just like the parts of the seaside where there is no sand all round, loose, shifting stones, and there is no grass there and no tree within a hundred miles of it.
lionel jumped off the white horse's back in the very middle of the pebbly waste, and he hurriedly unclasped the book of beasts and laid it open on the pebbles.
then he clattered among the pebbles in his haste to get back on to his white horse, and had just jumped on when up came the dragon.
he was flying very feebly, and looking around everywhere for a tree, for it was just on the stroke of twelve, the sun was shining like a gold guinea in the blue sky, and there was not a tree for a hundred miles.
the white-winged horse flew around and around the dragon as he writhed on the dry pebbles.
he was getting very hot: indeed, parts of him even had begun to smoke.
he knew that he must certainly catch fire in another minute unless he could get under a tree.
he made a snatch with his red claws at the king and hippogriff, but he was too feeble to reach them, and besides, he did not dare to overexert himself for fear he should get any hotter.
it was then that he saw the book of beasts lying on the pebbles, open at the page with "dragon" written at the bottom.
he looked and he hesitated, and he looked again, and then, with one last squirm of rage, the dragon wriggled himself back into the picture and sat down under the palm tree, and the page was a little singed as he went in.
as soon as lionel saw that the dragon had really been obliged to go and sit under his own palm tree because it was the only tree there, he jumped off his horse and shut the book with a bang.
"oh, hurrah!"
he cried.
"now we really have done it."
and he clasped the book very tightly with the turquoise and ruby clasps.
"oh, my precious hippogriff," he cried.
"you are the bravest, dearest, most beautiful "
"hush," whispered the hippogriff modestly.
"don't you see that we are not alone?"
and indeed there was quite a crowd round them on the pebbly waste: the prime minister and the parliament and the soccer players and the orphanage and the manticora and the rocking horse, and indeed everyone who had been eaten by the dragon.
you see, it was impossible for the dragon to take them into the book with him it was a tight fit even for one dragon so, of course, he had to leave them outside.
they all got home somehow, and all lived happy ever after.
when the king asked the manticora where he would like to live he begged to be allowed to go back into the book.
"i do not care for public life,"
he said.
of course he knew his way onto his own page, so there was no danger of his opening the book at the wrong page and letting out a dragon or anything.
so he got back into his picture and has never come out since:
that is why you will never see a manticora as long as you live, except in a picture-book.
and of course he left the kitties outside, because there was no room for them in the book and the milk cans too.
then the rocking horse begged to be allowed to go and live on the hippogriff's page of the book.
"i should like," he said, "to live somewhere where dragons can't get at me."
so the beautiful, white-winged hippogriff showed him the way in, and there he stayed till the king had him taken out for his great-great-great-great-grandchildren to play with.
as for the hippogriff, he accepted the position of the king's own rocking horse a situation left vacant by the retirement of the wooden one.
and the blue bird and the butterfly sing and flutter among the lilies and roses of the palace garden to this very day.
ii.
uncle james, or the purple stranger
the princess and the gardener's boy were playing in the backyard.
"what will you do when you grow up, princess?"
asked the gardener's boy.
"i should like to marry you, tom," said the princess.
"would you mind?"
"no," said the gardener's boy.
"i shouldn't mind much.
i'll marry you if you like if i have time."
for the gardener's boy meant, as soon as he was grown up, to be a general and a poet and a prime minister and an admiral and a civil engineer.
meanwhile, he was top of all his classes at school, and tip-top of the geography class.
as for the princess mary ann, she was a very good little girl, and everyone loved her.
she was always kind and polite, even to her uncle james and to other people whom she did not like very much; and though she was not very clever, for a princess, she always tried to do her lessons.
even if you know perfectly well that you can't do your lessons, you may as well try, and sometimes you find that by some fortunate accident they really are done.
then the princess had a truly good heart: she was always kind to her pets.
she never slapped her hippopotamus when it broke her dolls in its playful gambols, and she never forgot to feed her rhinoceroses in their little hutch in the backyard.
her elephant was devoted to her, and sometimes mary ann made her nurse quite cross by smuggling the dear little thing up to bed with her and letting it go to sleep with its long trunk laid lovingly across her throat, and its pretty head cuddled under the royal right ear.
when the princess had been good all through the week for, like all real, live, nice children, she was sometimes naughty, but never bad nurse would allow her to ask her little friends to come on wednesday morning early and spend the day, because wednesday is the end of the week in that country.
then, in the afternoon, when all the little dukes and duchesses and marquises and countesses had finished their rice pudding and had had their hands and faces washed after it, nurse would say: "now, my dears, what would you like to do this afternoon?"
just as if she didn't know.
and the answer would be always the same:
"oh, do let's go to the zoological gardens and ride on the big guinea pig and feed the rabbits and hear the dormouse asleep."
so their pinafores were taken off and they all went to the zoological gardens, where twenty of them could ride at a time on the guinea pig, and where even the little ones could feed the great rabbits if some grown-up person were kind enough to lift them up for the purpose.
there always was some such person, because in rotundia everybody was kind except one.
now that you have read as far as this you know, of course, that the kingdom of rotundia was a very remarkable place; and if you are a thoughtful child as of course you are you will not need me to tell you what was the most remarkable thing about it.
but in case you are not a thoughtful child and it is just possible of course that you are not i will tell you at once what that most remarkable thing was.
all the animals were the wrong sizes!
and this was how it happened.
in old, old, olden times, when all our world was just loose earth and air and fire and water mixed up anyhow like a pudding, and spinning around like mad trying to get the different things to settle into their proper places, a round piece of earth got loose and went spinning away by itself across the water, which was just beginning to try to get spread out smooth into a real sea.
and as the great round piece of earth flew away, going around and around as hard as it could, it met a long piece of hard rock that had got loose from another part of the puddingy mixture, and the rock was so hard, and was going so fast, that it ran its point through the round piece of earth and stuck out on the other side of it, so that the two together were like a very-very-much-too-big spinning top.
i am afraid all this is very dull, but you know geography is never quite lively, and after all, i must give you a little information even in a fairy tale like the powder in jam.
well, when the pointed rock smashed into the round bit of earth the shock was so great that it set them spinning together through the air which was just getting into its proper place, like all the rest of the things only, as luck would have it, they forgot which way around they had been going, and began to spin around the wrong way.
presently center of gravity a great giant who was managing the whole business woke up in the middle of the earth and began to grumble.
"hurry up," he said.
"come down and lie still, can't you?"
so the rock with the round piece of earth fell into the sea, and the point of the rock went into a hole that just fitted it in the stony sea bottom, and there it spun around the wrong way seven times and then lay still.
and that round piece of land became, after millions of years, the kingdom of rotundia.
this is the end of the geography lesson.
and now for just a little natural history, so that we may not feel that we are quite wasting our time.
of course, the consequence of the island having spun around the wrong way was that when the animals began to grow on the island they all grew the wrong sizes.
the guinea pig, as you know, was as big as our elephants, and the elephant dear little pet was the size of the silly, tiny, black-and-tan dogs that ladies carry sometimes in their muffs.
the rabbits were about the size of our rhinoceroses, and all about the wild parts of the island they had made their burrows as big as railway tunnels.
the dormouse, of course, was the biggest of all the creatures.
i can't tell you how big he was.
even if you think of elephants it will not help you at all.
luckily there was only one of him, and he was always asleep.
otherwise i don't think the rotundians could have borne with him.
as it was, they made him a house, and it saved the expense of a brass band, because no band could possibly have been heard when the dormouse was talking in his sleep.
the men and women and children in this wonderful island were quite the right size, because their ancestors had come over with the conqueror long after the island had settled down and the animals grown on it.
now the natural history lesson is over, and if you have been attending, you know more about rotundia than anyone there did, except three people:
the lord chief schoolmaster, the princess's uncle who was a magician, and knew everything without learning it and tom, the gardener's son.
tom had learned more at school than anyone else, because he wished to take a prize.
the prize offered by the lord chief schoolmaster was a history of rotundia, beautifully bound, with the royal arms on the back.
but after that day when the princess said she meant to marry tom, the gardener's boy thought it over, and he decided that the best prize in the world would be the princess, and this was the prize tom meant to take; and when you are a gardener's son and have decided to marry a princess, you will find that the more you learn at school the better.
the princess always played with tom on the days when the little dukes and marquises did not come to tea and when he told her he was almost sure of the first prize, she clapped her hands and said: "dear tom, dear good, clever tom, you deserve all the prizes.
and i will give you my pet elephant and you can keep him till we're married."
the pet elephant was called fido, and the gardener's son took him away in his coat pocket.
he was the dearest little elephant you ever saw about six inches long.
but he was very, very wise he could not have been wiser if he had been a mile high.
he lay down comfortably in tom's pocket, and when tom put in his hand, fido curled his little trunk around tom's fingers with an affectionate confidence that made the boy's heart warm to his new little pet.
what with the elephant, and the princess's affection, and the knowledge that the very next day he would receive the history of rotundia, beautifully bound, with the royal arms on the cover, tom could hardly sleep a wink.
and, besides, the dog did bark so terribly.
there was only one dog in rotundia the kingdom could not afford to keep more than one: he was a mexican lapdog of the kind that in most parts of the world only measures seven inches from the end of his dear nose to the tip of his darling tail but in rotundia he was bigger than i can possibly expect you to believe.
and when he barked, his bark was so large that it filled up all the night and left no room for sleep or dreams or polite conversation, or anything else at all.
he never barked at things that went on in the island he was too large-minded for that; but when ships went blundering by in the dark, tumbling over the rocks at the end of the island, he would bark once or twice, just to let the ships know that they couldn't come playing about there just as they liked.
but on this particular night he barked and barked and barked and the princess said, "oh dear, oh dear, i wish he wouldn't, i am so sleepy."
and tom said to himself, "i wonder whatever is the matter.
as soon as it's light i'll go and see."
so when it began to be pretty pink-and-yellow daylight, tom got up and went out.
and all the time the mexican lapdog barked so that the houses shook, and the tiles on the roof of the palace rattled like milk cans in a cart whose horse is frisky.
"i'll go to the pillar," thought tom, as he went through the town.
the pillar, of course, was the top of the piece of rock that had stuck itself through rotundia millions of years before, and made it spin around the wrong way.
it was quite in the middle of the island, and stuck up ever so far, and when you were at the top you could see a great deal farther than when you were not.
as tom went out from the town and across the downs, he thought what a pretty sight it was to see the rabbits in the bright, dewy morning, frisking with their young ones by the mouths of their burrows.
he did not go very near the rabbits, of course, because when a rabbit of that size is at play it does not always look where it is going, and it might easily have crushed tom with its foot, and then it would have been very sorry afterward.
and tom was a kind boy, and would not have liked to make even a rabbit unhappy.
earwigs in our country often get out of the way when they think you are going to walk on them.
they too have kind hearts, and they would not like you to be sorry afterward.
so tom went on, looking at the rabbits and watching the morning grow more and more red and golden.
and the mexican lapdog barked all the time, till the church bells tinkled, and the chimney of the apple factory rocked again.
but when tom got to the pillar, he saw that he would not need to climb to the top to find out what the dog was barking at.
for there, by the pillar, lay a very large purple dragon.
his wings were like old purple umbrellas that have been very much rained on, and his head was large and bald, like the top of a purple toadstool, and his tail, which was purple too, was very, very, very long and thin and tight, like the lash of a carriage whip.
it was licking one of its purple umbrella-y wings, and every now and then it moaned and leaned its head back against the rocky pillar as though it felt faint.
tom saw at once what had happened.
a flight of purple dragons must have crossed the island in the night, and this poor one must have knocked its wing and broken it against the pillar.
everyone is kind to everyone in rotundia, and tom was not afraid of the dragon, although he had never spoken to one before.
he had often watched them flying across the sea, but he had never expected to get to know one personally.
so now he said: "i am afraid you don't feel quite well."
the dragon shook his large purple head.
he could not speak, but like all other animals, he could understand well enough when he liked.
"can i get you anything?"
asked tom, politely.
the dragon opened his purple eyes with an inquiring smile.
"a bun or two, now," said tom, coaxingly.
"there's a beautiful bun tree quite close."
the dragon opened a great purple mouth and licked his purple lips, so tom ran and shook the bun tree, and soon came back with an armful of fresh currant buns, and as he came he picked a few of the bath kind, which grow on the low bushes near the pillar.
because, of course, another consequence of the island's having spun the wrong way is that all the things we have to make buns and cakes and shortbread grow on trees and bushes, but in rotundia they have to make their cauliflowers and cabbages and carrots and apples and onions, just as our cooks make puddings and turnovers.
tom gave all the buns to the dragon, saying: "here, try to eat a little.
you'll soon feel better then."
the dragon ate up the buns, nodded rather ungraciously, and began to lick his wing again.
so tom left him and went back to the town with the news, and everyone was so excited at a real live dragon's being on the island a thing that had never happened before that they all went out to look at it, instead of going to the prize-giving, and the lord chief schoolmaster went with the rest.
now, he had tom's prize, the history of rotundia, in his pocket the one bound in calf, with the royal arms on the cover and it happened to drop out, and the dragon ate it, so tom never got the prize after all.
but the dragon, when he had gotten it, did not like it.
"perhaps it's all for the best," said tom.
"i might not have liked that prize either, if i had gotten it."
it happened to be a wednesday, so when the princess's friends were asked what they would like to do, all the little dukes and marquises and earls said, "let's go and see the dragon."
but the little duchesses and marchionesses and countesses said they were afraid.
then princess mary ann spoke up royally, and said, "don't be silly, because it's only in fairy stories and histories of england and things like that, that people are unkind and want to hurt each other.
in rotundia everyone is kind, and no one has anything to be afraid of, unless they're naughty; and then we know it's for our own good.
let's all go and see the dragon.
we might take him some acid drops."
so they went.
and all the titled children took it in turns to feed the dragon with acid drops, and he seemed pleased and flattered, and wagged as much of his purple tail as he could get at conveniently; for it was a very, very long tail indeed.
but when it came to the princess's turn to give an acid drop to the dragon, he smiled a very wide smile, and wagged his tail to the very last long inch of it, as much as to say, "oh, you nice, kind, pretty little princess."
but deep down in his wicked purple heart he was saying, "oh, you nice, fat, pretty little princess, i should like to eat you instead of these silly acid drops."
but of course nobody heard him except the princess's uncle, and he was a magician, and accustomed to listening at doors.
it was part of his trade.
now, you will remember that i told you there was one wicked person in rotundia, and i cannot conceal from you any longer that this complete bad was the princess's uncle james.
magicians are always bad, as you know from your fairy books, and some uncles are bad, as you see by the babes in the wood, or the norfolk tragedy, and one james at least was bad, as you have learned from your english history.
and when anyone is a magician, and is also an uncle, and is named james as well, you need not expect anything nice from him.
he is a threefold complete bad and he will come to no good.
uncle james had long wanted to get rid of the princess and have the kingdom to himself.
he did not like many things a nice kingdom was almost the only thing he cared for but he had never seen his way quite clearly, because everyone is so kind in rotundia that wicked spells will not work there, but run off those blameless islanders like water off a duck's back.
now, however, uncle james thought there might be a chance for him because he knew that now there were two wicked people on the island who could stand by each other himself and the dragon.
he said nothing, but he exchanged a meaningful glance with the dragon, and everyone went home to tea.
and no one had seen the meaningful glance except tom.
tom went home, and told his elephant all about it.
the intelligent little creature listened carefully, and then climbed from tom's knee to the table, on which stood an ornamental calendar that the princess had given tom for a christmas present.
with its tiny trunk the elephant pointed out a date the fifteenth of august, the princess's birthday, and looked anxiously at its master.
"what is it, fido good little elephant then?"
said tom, and the sagacious animal repeated its former gesture.
then tom understood.
"oh, something is to happen on her birthday?
all right.
i'll be on the lookout."
and he was.
at first the people of rotundia were quite pleased with the dragon, who lived by the pillar and fed himself from the bun trees, but by-and-by he began to wander.
he would creep into the burrows made by the great rabbits; and excursionists, sporting on the downs, would see his long, tight, whiplike tail wriggling down a burrow and out of sight, and before they had time to say, "there he goes," his ugly purple head would come poking out from another rabbit-hole perhaps just behind them or laugh softly to itself just in their ears.
and the dragon's laugh was not a merry one.
this sort of hide-and-seek amused people at first, but by-and-by it began to get on their nerves: and if you don't know what that means, ask mother to tell you next time you are playing blind man's buff when she has a headache.
then the dragon got into the habit of cracking his tail, as people crack whips, and this also got on people's nerves.
then, too, little things began to be missed.
and you know how unpleasant that is, even in a private school, and in a public kingdom it is, of course, much worse.
the things that were missed were nothing much at first a few little elephants, a hippopotamus or two, and some giraffes, and things like that.
it was nothing much, as i say, but it made people feel uncomfortable.
then one day a favorite rabbit of the princess's, called frederick, mysteriously disappeared, and then came a terrible morning when the mexican lapdog was missing.
he had barked ever since the dragon came to the island, and people had grown quite used to the noise.
so when his barking suddenly ceased it woke everybody up and they all went out to see what was the matter.
and the lapdog was gone!
a boy was sent to wake the army, so that it might look for him.
but the army was gone too!
and now the people began to be frightened.
then uncle james came out onto the terrace of the palace, and he made the people a speech.
he said: "friends fellow citizens i cannot disguise from myself or from you that this purple dragon is a poor penniless exile, a helpless alien in our midst, and, besides, he is a is no end of a dragon."
the people thought of the dragon's tail and said, "hear, hear."
uncle james went on: "something has happened to a gentle and defenseless member of our community.
we don't know what has happened."
everyone thought of the rabbit named frederick, and groaned.
"the defenses of our country have been swallowed up," said uncle james.
everyone thought of the poor army.
"there is only one thing to be done."
uncle james was warming to his subject.
"could we ever forgive ourselves if by neglecting a simple precaution we lost more rabbits or even, perhaps, our navy, our police, and our fire brigade?
for i warn you that the purple dragon will respect nothing, however sacred."
everyone thought of themselves and they said, "what is the simple precaution?"
then uncle james said: "tomorrow is the dragon's birthday.
he is accustomed to have a present on his birthday.
if he gets a nice present he will be in a hurry to take it away and show it to his friends, and he will fly off and never come back."
the crowd cheered wildly and the princess from her balcony clapped her hands.
"the present the dragon expects," said uncle james, cheerfully, "is rather an expensive one.
but, when we give, it should not be in a grudging spirit, especially to visitors.
what the dragon wants is a princess.
we have only one princess, it is true; but far be it from us to display a miserly temper at such a moment.
and the gift is worthless that costs the giver nothing.
your readiness to give up your princess will only show how generous you are."
the crowd began to cry, for they loved their princess, though they quite saw that their first duty was to be generous and give the poor dragon what it wanted.
the princess began to cry, for she did not want to be anybody's birthday present especially a purple dragon's.
and tom began to cry because he was so angry.
he went straight home and told his little elephant; and the elephant cheered him up so much that presently the two grew quite absorbed in a top that the elephant was spinning with his little trunk.
early in the morning tom went to the palace.
he looked out across the downs there were hardly any rabbits playing there now and then he gathered white roses and threw them at the princess's window till she woke up and looked out.
"come up and kiss me," she said.
so tom climbed up the white rosebush and kissed the princess through the window, and said: "many happy returns of the day."
then mary ann began to cry, and said: "oh, tom how can you?
when you know quite well "
"oh, don't," said tom.
"why, mary ann, my precious, my princess what do you think i should be doing while the dragon was getting his birthday present?
don't cry, my own little mary ann!
fido and i have arranged everything.
you've only got to do as you are told."
"is that all?"
said the princess.
"oh that's easy i've often done that!"
then tom told her what she was to do.
and she kissed him again and again.
"oh, you dear, good, clever tom," she said.
"how glad i am that i gave you fido.
you two have saved me.
you dears!"
the next morning uncle james put on his best coat and hat and the vest with the gold snakes on it he was a magician, and he had a bright taste in vests and he called with a cab to take the princess out.
"come, little birthday present," he said tenderly.
"the dragon will be so pleased.
and i'm glad to see you're not crying.
you know, my child, we cannot begin too young to learn to think of the happiness of others rather than our own.
i should not like my dear little niece to be selfish, or to wish to deny a trivial pleasure to a poor, sick dragon, far from his home and friends."
the princess said she would try not to be selfish.
presently the cab drew up near the pillar, and there was the dragon, his ugly purple head shining in the sun, and his ugly purple mouth half open.
uncle james said: "good morning, sir.
we have brought you a small present for your birthday.
we do not like to let such an anniversary go by without some suitable testimonial, especially to one who is a stranger in our midst.
our means are small, but our hearts are large.
we have but one princess, but we give her freely do we not, my child?"
the princess said she supposed so, and the dragon came a little nearer.
suddenly a voice cried: "run!"
and there was tom, and he had brought the zoological guinea pig and a pair of belgian hares with him.
"just to see fair," said tom.
uncle james was furious.
"what do you mean, sir," he cried, "by intruding on a state function with your common rabbits and things?
go away, naughty little boy, and play with them somewhere else."
but while he was speaking the rabbits had come up one on each side of him, their great sides towering ever so high, and now they pressed him between them so that he was buried in their thick fur and almost choked.
the princess, meantime, had run to the other side of the pillar and was peeping around it to see what was going on.
a crowd had followed the cab out of the town; now they reached the scene of the "state function" and they all cried out: "fair play play fair!
we can't go back on our word like this.
give a thing and take a thing?
why, it's never done.
let the poor exiled stranger dragon have his birthday present."
and they tried to get at tom but the guinea pig stood in the way.
"yes," tom cried.
"fair play is a jewel.
and your helpless exile shall have the princess if he can catch her.
now then, mary ann."
mary ann looked around the big pillar and called to the dragon: "bo!
you can't catch me," and began to run as fast as ever she could, and the dragon ran after her.
when the princess had run a half mile she stopped, dodged around a tree, and ran back to the pillar and around it, and the dragon after her.
you see, he was so long he could not turn as quickly as she could.
around and around the pillar ran the princess.
the first time she ran around a long way from the pillar, and then nearer and nearer with the dragon after her all the time; and he was so busy trying to catch her that he never noticed that tom had tied the very end of his long, tight, whipcordy tail to the rock, so that the more the dragon ran around, the more times he twisted his tail around the pillar.
it was exactly like winding a top only the peg was the pillar, and the dragon's tail was the string.
and the magician was safe between the belgian hares, and couldn't see anything but darkness, or do anything but choke.
when the dragon was wound onto the pillar as much as he possibly could be, and as tight like cotton on a reel the princess stopped running, and though she had very little breath left, she managed to say, "yah who's won now?"
this annoyed the dragon so much that he put out all his strength spread his great purple wings, and tried to fly at her.
of course this pulled his tail, and pulled it very hard, so hard that as he pulled the tail had to come, and the pillar had to come around with the tail, and the island had to come around with the pillar, and in another minute the tail was loose, and the island was spinning around exactly like a top.
it spun so fast that everyone fell flat on their faces and held on tight to themselves, because they felt something was going to happen.
all but the magician, who was choking between the belgian hares, and felt nothing but fur and fury.
and something did happen.
the dragon had sent the kingdom of rotundia spinning the way it ought to have gone at the beginning of the world, and as it spun around, all the animals began to change sizes.
the guinea pigs got small, and the elephants got big, and the men and women and children would have changed sizes too, if they had not had the sense to hold on to themselves, very tight indeed, with both hands; which, of course, the animals could not be expected to know how to do.
and the best of it was that when the small beasts got big and the big beasts got small the dragon got small too, and fell at the princess's feet a little, crawling, purple newt with wings.
"funny little thing," said the princess, when she saw it.
"i will take it for a birthday present."
but while all the people were still on their faces, holding on tight to themselves, uncle james, the magician, never thought of holding tight he only thought of how to punish belgian hares and the sons of gardeners; so when the big beasts grew small, he grew small with the other beasts, and the little purple dragon, when he fell at the princess's feet, saw there a very small magician named uncle james.
and the dragon took him because it wanted a birthday present.
so now all the animals were new sizes and at first it seemed very strange to everyone to have great lumbering elephants and a tiny little dormouse, but they have gotten used to it now, and think no more of it than we do.
all this happened several years ago, and the other day i saw in the rotundia times an account of the wedding of the princess with lord thomas gardener, k.c.d., and i knew she could not have married anyone but tom, so i suppose they made him a lord on purpose for the wedding and k.c.d., of course, means clever conqueror of the dragon.
if you think that is wrong it is only because you don't know how they spell in rotundia.
the paper said that among the beautiful presents of the bridegroom to the bride was an enormous elephant, on which the bridal pair made their wedding tour.
this must have been fido.
you remember tom promised to give him back to the princess when they were married.
the rotundia times called the married couple "the happy pair."
it was clever of the paper to think of calling them that it is such a pretty and novel expression, and i think it is truer than many of the things you see in papers.
because, you see, the princess and the gardener's son were so fond of each other they could not help being happy and besides, they had an elephant of their very own to ride on.
if that is not enough to make people happy, i should like to know what is.
though, of course, i know there are some people who could not be happy unless they had a whale to sail on, and perhaps not even then.
but they are greedy, grasping people, the kind who would take four helps of pudding, as likely as not, which neither tom nor mary ann ever did.
iii.
the deliverers of their country
it all began with effie's getting something in her eye.
it hurt very much indeed, and it felt something like a red-hot spark only it seemed to have legs as well, and wings like a fly.
effie rubbed and cried not real crying, but the kind your eye does all by itself without your being miserable inside your mind and then she went to her father to have the thing in her eye taken out.
effie's father was a doctor, so of course he knew how to take things out of eyes he did it very cleverly with a soft paintbrush dipped in castor oil.
when he had gotten the thing out, he said: "this is very curious."
effie had often got things in her eye before, and her father had always seemed to think it was natural rather tiresome and naughty perhaps, but still natural.
he had never before thought it curious.
effie stood holding her handkerchief to her eye, and said: "i don't believe it's out."
people always say this when they have had something in their eyes.
"oh, yes it's out," said the doctor.
"here it is, on the brush.
this is very interesting."
effie had never heard her father say that about anything that she had any share in.
she said: "what?"
the doctor carried the brush very carefully across the room, and held the point of it under his microscope then he twisted the brass screws of the microscope, and looked through the top with one eye.
"dear me," he said.
"dear, dear me!
four well-developed limbs; a long caudal appendage; five toes, unequal in lengths, almost like one of the lacertidae, yet there are traces of wings."
the creature under his eye wriggled a little in the castor oil, and he went on: "yes; a batlike wing.
a new specimen, undoubtedly.
effie, run round to the professor and ask him to be kind enough to step in for a few minutes."
"you might give me sixpence, daddy," said effie, "because i did bring you the new specimen.
i took great care of it inside my eye, and my eye does hurt."
the doctor was so pleased with the new specimen that he gave effie a shilling, and presently the professor stepped round.
he stayed to lunch, and he and the doctor quarreled very happily all the afternoon about the name and the family of the thing that had come out of effie's eye.
but at teatime another thing happened.
effie's brother harry fished something out of his tea, which he thought at first was an earwig.
he was just getting ready to drop it on the floor, and end its life in the usual way, when it shook itself in the spoon spread two wet wings, and flopped onto the tablecloth.
there it sat, stroking itself with its feet and stretching its wings, and harry said: "why, it's a tiny newt!"
the professor leaned forward before the doctor could say a word.
"i'll give you half a crown for it, harry, my lad," he said, speaking very fast; and then he picked it up carefully on his handkerchief.
"it is a new specimen," he said, "and finer than yours, doctor."
it was a tiny lizard, about half an inch long with scales and wings.
so now the doctor and the professor each had a specimen, and they were both very pleased.
but before long these specimens began to seem less valuable.
for the next morning, when the knife-boy was cleaning the doctor's boots, he suddenly dropped the brushes and the boot and the blacking, and screamed out that he was burnt.
and from inside the boot came crawling a lizard as big as a kitten, with large, shiny wings.
"why," said effie, "i know what it is.
it is a dragon like the one st.
george killed."
and effie was right.
that afternoon towser was bitten in the garden by a dragon about the size of a rabbit, which he had tried to chase, and the next morning all the papers were full of the wonderful "winged lizards"
that were appearing all over the country.
the papers would not call them dragons, because, of course, no one believes in dragons nowadays and at any rate the papers were not going to be so silly as to believe in fairy stories.
at first there were only a few, but in a week or two the country was simply running alive with dragons of all sizes, and in the air you could sometimes see them as thick as a swarm of bees.
they all looked alike except as to size.
they were green with scales, and they had four legs and a long tail and great wings like bats' wings, only the wings were a pale, half-transparent yellow, like the gear-boxes on bicycles.
they breathed fire and smoke, as all proper dragons must, but still the newspapers went on pretending they were lizards, until the editor of the standard was picked up and carried away by a very large one, and then the other newspaper people had not anyone left to tell them what they ought not to believe.
so when the largest elephant in the zoo was carried off by a dragon, the papers gave up pretending and put alarming plague of dragons at the top of the paper.
you have no idea how alarming it was, and at the same time how aggravating.
the large-size dragons were terrible certainly, but when once you had found out that the dragons always went to bed early because they were afraid of the chill night air, you had only to stay indoors all day, and you were pretty safe from the big ones.
but the smaller sizes were a perfect nuisance.
the ones as big as earwigs got in the soap, and they got in the butter.
the ones as big as dogs got in the bath, and the fire and smoke inside them made them steam like anything when the cold water tap was turned on, so that careless people were often scalded quite severely.
the ones that were as large as pigeons would get into workbaskets or corner drawers and bite you when you were in a hurry to get a needle or a handkerchief.
the ones as big as sheep were easier to avoid, because you could see them coming; but when they flew in at the windows and curled up under your eiderdown, and you did not find them till you went to bed, it was always a shock.
the ones this size did not eat people, only lettuce, but they always scorched the sheets and pillowcases dreadfully.
of course, the county council and the police did everything that could be done: it was no use offering the hand of the princess to anyone who killed a dragon.
this way was all very well in olden times when there was only one dragon and one princess; but now there were far more dragons than princesses although the royal family was a large one.
and besides, it would have been a mere waste of princesses to offer rewards for killing dragons, because everybody killed as many dragons as they could quite out of their own heads and without rewards at all, just to get the nasty things out of the way.
the county council undertook to cremate all dragons delivered at their offices between the hours of ten and two, and whole wagonloads and cartloads and truckloads of dead dragons could be seen any day of the week standing in a long line in the street where the county council had their offices.
boys brought barrowloads of dead dragons, and children on their way home from morning school would call in to leave the handful or two of little dragons they had brought in their satchels, or carried in their knotted pocket handkerchiefs.
and yet there seemed to be as many dragons as ever.
then the police stuck up great wood and canvas towers covered with patent glue.
when the dragons flew against these towers, they stuck fast, as flies and wasps do on the sticky papers in the kitchen; and when the towers were covered all over with dragons, the police inspector used to set fire to the towers, and burnt them and dragons and all.
and yet there seemed to be more dragons than ever.
the shops were full of patent dragon poison and anti-dragon soap, and dragonproof curtains for the windows; and indeed, everything that could be done was done.
and yet there seemed to be more dragons than ever.
it was not very easy to know what would poison a dragon, because, you see, they ate such different things.
the largest kind ate elephants as long as there were any, and then went on with horses and cows.
another size ate nothing but lilies of the valley, and a third size ate only prime ministers if they were to be had, and, if not, would feed freely on servants in livery.
another size lived on bricks, and three of them ate two thirds of the south lambeth infirmary in one afternoon.
but the size effie was most afraid of was about as big as your dining room, and that size ate little girls and boys.
at first effie and her brother were quite pleased with the change in their lives.
it was so amusing to sit up all night instead of going to sleep, and to play in the garden lighted by electric lamps.
and it sounded so funny to hear mother say, when they were going to bed: "good night, my darlings, sleep sound all day, and don't get up too soon.
you must not get up before it's quite dark.
you wouldn't like the nasty dragons to catch you."
but after a time they got very tired of it all: they wanted to see the flowers and trees growing in the fields, and to see the pretty sunshine out of doors, and not just through glass windows and patent dragonproof curtains.
and they wanted to play on the grass, which they were not allowed to do in the electric lamp-lighted garden because of the night-dew.
and they wanted so much to get out, just for once, in the beautiful, bright, dangerous daylight, that they began to try and think of some reason why they ought to go out.
only they did not like to disobey their mother.
but one morning their mother was busy preparing some new dragon poison to lay down in the cellars, and their father was bandaging the hand of the boot boy, which had been scratched by one of the dragons who liked to eat prime ministers when they were to be had, so nobody remembered to say to the children: "don't get up till it is quite dark!"
"go now," said harry.
"it would not be disobedient to go.
and i know exactly what we ought to do, but i don't know how we ought to do it."
"what ought we to do?"
said effie.
"we ought to wake st. george, of course," said harry.
"he was the only person in his town who knew how to manage dragons; the people in the fairy tales don't count.
but st. george is a real person, and he is only asleep, and he is waiting to be waked up.
only nobody believes in st.
george now.
i heard father say so."
"we do," said effie.
"of course we do.
and don't you see, ef, that's the very reason why we could wake him?
you can't wake people if you don't believe in them, can you?"
effie said no, but where could they find st. george?
"we must go and look," said harry boldly.
"you shall wear a dragonproof frock, made of stuff like the curtains.
and i will smear myself all over with the best dragon poison, and "
effie clasped her hands and skipped with joy and cried: "oh, harry!
i know where we can find st. george!
in st. george's church, of course."
"um," said harry, wishing he had thought of it for himself, "you have a little sense sometimes, for a girl."
so the next afternoon, quite early, long before the beams of sunset announced the coming night, when everybody would be up and working, the two children got out of bed.
effie wrapped herself in a shawl of dragonproof muslin there was no time to make the frock and harry made a horrid mess of himself with the patent dragon poison.
it was warranted harmless to infants and invalids, so he felt quite safe.
then they joined hands and set out to walk to st. george's church.
as you know, there are many st. george's churches, but fortunately they took the turning that leads to the right one, and went along in the bright sunlight, feeling very brave and adventurous.
there was no one about in the streets except dragons, and the place was simply swarming with them.
fortunately none of the dragons were just the right size for eating little boys and girls, or perhaps this story might have had to end here.
there were dragons on the pavement, and dragons on the roadway, dragons basking on the front doorsteps of public buildings, and dragons preening their wings on the roofs in the hot afternoon sun.
the town was quite green with them.
even when the children had gotten out of the town and were walking in the lanes, they noticed that the fields on each side were greener than usual with the scaly legs and tails; and some of the smaller sizes had made themselves asbestos nests in the flowering hawthorn hedges.
effie held her brother's hand very tight, and once when a fat dragon flopped against her ear she screamed out, and a whole flight of green dragons rose from the field at the sound, and sprawled away across the sky.
the children could hear the rattle of their wings as they flew.
"oh, i want to go home," said effie.
"don't be silly," said harry.
"surely you haven't forgotten about the seven champions and all the princes.
people who are going to be their country's deliverers never scream and say they want to go home."
"and are we," asked effie "deliverers, i mean?"
"you'll see," said her brother, and on they went.
when they came to st. george's church they found the door open, and they walked right in but st. george was not there, so they walked around the churchyard outside, and presently they found the great stone tomb of st.
george, with the figure of him carved in marble outside, in his armor and helmet, and with his hands folded on his breast.
"how ever can we wake him?"
they said.
then harry spoke to st.
george but he would not answer; and he called, but st. george did not seem to hear; and then he actually tried to waken the great dragon-slayer by shaking his marble shoulders.
but st. george took no notice.
then effie began to cry, and she put her arms around st. george's neck as well as she could for the marble, which was very much in the way at the back, and she kissed the marble face, and she said: "oh, dear, good, kind st. george, please wake up and help us."
and at that st. george opened his eyes sleepily, and stretched himself and said: "what's the matter, little girl?"
so the children told him all about it; he turned over in his marble and leaned on one elbow to listen.
but when he heard that there were so many dragons he shook his head.
"it's no good," he said, "they would be one too many for poor old george.
you should have waked me before.
i was always for a fair fight one man one dragon, was my motto."
just then a flight of dragons passed overhead, and st. george half drew his sword.
but he shook his head again and pushed the sword back as the flight of dragons grew small in the distance.
"i can't do anything," he said.
"things have changed since my time.
st.
andrew told me about it.
they woke him up over the engineers' strike, and he came to talk to me.
he says everything is done by machinery now; there must be some way of settling these dragons.
by the way, what sort of weather have you been having lately?"
this seemed so careless and unkind that harry would not answer, but effie said patiently, "it has been very fine.
father says it is the hottest weather there has ever been in this country."
"ah, i guessed as much," said the champion, thoughtfully.
"well, the only thing would be ... dragons can't stand wet and cold, that's the only thing.
if you could find the taps."
st. george was beginning to settle down again on his stone slab.
"good night, very sorry i can't help you," he said, yawning behind his marble hand.
"oh, but you can," cried effie.
"tell us what taps?"
"oh, like in the bathroom," said st. george, still more sleepily.
"and there's a looking glass, too; shows you all the world and what's going on.
st. denis told me about it; said it was a very pretty thing.
i'm sorry i can't good night."
and he fell back into his marble and was fast asleep again in a moment.
"we shall never find the taps," said harry.
"i say, wouldn't it be awful if st. george woke up when there was a dragon near, the size that eats champions?"
effie pulled off her dragonproof veil.
"we didn't meet any the size of the dining room as we came along," she said.
"i daresay we shall be quite safe."
so she covered st. george with the veil, and harry rubbed off as much as he could of the dragon poison onto st. george's armor, so as to make everything quite safe for him.
"we might hide in the church till it is dark," he said, "and then "
but at that moment a dark shadow fell on them, and they saw that it was a dragon exactly the size of the dining room at home.
so then they knew that all was lost.
the dragon swooped down and caught the two children in his claws; he caught effie by her green silk sash, and harry by the little point at the back of his eton jacket and then, spreading his great yellow wings, he rose into the air, rattling like a third-class carriage when the brake is hard on.
"oh, harry," said effie, "i wonder when he will eat us!"
the dragon was flying across woods and fields with great flaps of his wings that carried him a quarter of a mile at each flap.
harry and effie could see the country below, hedges and rivers and churches and farmhouses flowing away from under them, much faster than you see them running away from the sides of the fastest express train.
and still the dragon flew on.
the children saw other dragons in the air as they went, but the dragon who was as big as the dining room never stopped to speak to any of them, but just flew on quite steadily.
"he knows where he wants to go," said harry.
"oh, if he would only drop us before he gets there!"
but the dragon held on tight, and he flew and flew and flew until at last, when the children were quite giddy, he settled down, with a rattling of all his scales, on the top of a mountain.
and he lay there on his great green scaly side, panting, and very much out of breath, because he had come such a long way.
but his claws were fast in effie's sash and the little point at the back of harry's eton jacket.
then effie took out the knife harry had given her on her birthday.
it had cost only sixpence to begin with, and she had had it a month, and it never could sharpen anything but slate-pencils; but somehow she managed to make that knife cut her sash in front, and crept out of it, leaving the dragon with only a green silk bow in one of his claws.
that knife would never have cut harry's jacket-tail off, though, and when effie had tried for some time she saw that this was so and gave it up.
but with her help harry managed to wriggle quietly out of his sleeves, so that the dragon had only an eton jacket in his other claw.
then the children crept on tiptoe to a crack in the rocks and got in.
it was much too narrow for the dragon to get in also, so they stayed in there and waited to make faces at the dragon when he felt rested enough to sit up and begin to think about eating them.
he was very angry, indeed, when they made faces at him, and blew out fire and smoke at them, but they ran farther into the cave so that he could not reach them, and when he was tired of blowing he went away.
but they were afraid to come out of the cave, so they went farther in, and presently the cave opened out and grew bigger, and the floor was soft sand, and when they had come to the very end of the cave there was a door, and on it was written: universal taproom.
private.
no one allowed inside.
so they opened the door at once just to peep in, and then they remembered what st. george had said.
"we can't be worse off than we are," said harry, "with a dragon waiting for us outside.
let's go in."
they went boldly into the taproom, and shut the door behind them.
and now they were in a sort of room cut out of the solid rock, and all along one side of the room were taps, and all the taps were labeled with china labels like you see in baths.
and as they could both read words of two syllables or even three sometimes, they understood at once that they had gotten to the place where the weather is turned on from.
there were six big taps labeled "sunshine," "wind," "rain," "snow," "hail," "ice,"
and a lot of little ones, labeled "fair to moderate," "showery," "south breeze," "nice growing weather for the crops," "skating," "good open weather," "south wind," "east wind," and so on.
and the big tap labeled "sunshine" was turned full on.
they could not see any sunshine the cave was lighted by a skylight of blue glass so they supposed the sunlight was pouring out by some other way, as it does with the tap that washes out the underneath parts of patent sinks in kitchens.
then they saw that one side of the room was just a big looking glass, and when you looked in it you could see everything that was going on in the world and all at once, too, which is not like most looking glasses.
they saw the carts delivering the dead dragons at the county council offices, and they saw st. george asleep under the dragonproof veil.
and they saw their mother at home crying because her children had gone out in the dreadful, dangerous daylight, and she was afraid a dragon had eaten them.
and they saw the whole of england, like a great puzzle map green in the field parts and brown in the towns, and black in the places where they make coal and crockery and cutlery and chemicals.
all over it, on the black parts, and on the brown, and on the green, there was a network of green dragons.
and they could see that it was still broad daylight, and no dragons had gone to bed yet.
effie said, "dragons do not like cold."
and she tried to turn off the sunshine, but the tap was out of order, and that was why there had been so much hot weather, and why the dragons had been able to be hatched.
so they left the sunshine tap alone, and they turned on the snow and left the tap full on while they went to look in the glass.
there they saw the dragons running all sorts of ways like ants if you are cruel enough to pour water into an ant-heap, which, of course, you never are.
and the snow fell more and more.
then effie turned the rain tap quite full on, and presently the dragons began to wriggle less, and by-and-by some of them lay quite still, so the children knew the water had put out the fires inside them, and they were dead.
so then they turned on the hail only half on, for fear of breaking people's windows and after a while there were no more dragons to be seen moving.
then the children knew that they were indeed the deliverers of their country.
"they will put up a monument to us," said harry, "as high as nelson's!
all the dragons are dead."
"i hope the one that was waiting outside for us is dead!"
said effie.
"and about the monument, harry, i'm not so sure.
what can they do with such a lot of dead dragons?
it would take years and years to bury them, and they could never be burnt now they are so soaking wet.
i wish the rain would wash them off into the sea."
but this did not happen, and the children began to feel that they had not been so frightfully clever after all.
"i wonder what this old thing's for," said harry.
he had found a rusty old tap, which seemed as though it had not been used for ages.
its china label was quite coated over with dirt and cobwebs.
when effie had cleaned it with a bit of her skirt for curiously enough both the children had come out without pocket handkerchiefs she found that the label said "waste."
"let's turn it on," she said.
"it might carry off the dragons."
the tap was very stiff from not having been used for such a long time, but together they managed to turn it on, and then ran to the mirror to see what happened.
already a great, round black hole had opened in the very middle of the map of england, and the sides of the map were tilting themselves up, so that the rain ran down toward the hole.
"oh, hurrah, hurrah, hurrah!"
cried effie, and she hurried back to the taps and turned on everything that seemed wet.
"showery," "good open weather," "nice growing weather for the crops," and even "south" and "south-west," because she had heard her father say that those winds brought rain.
and now the floods of rain were pouring down on the country, and great sheets of water flowed toward the center of the map, and cataracts of water poured into the great round hole in the middle of the map, and the dragons were being washed away and disappearing down the waste pipe in great green masses and scattered green shoals single dragons and dragons by the dozen; of all sizes, from the ones that carry off elephants down to the ones that get in your tea.
presently there was not a dragon left.
so then they turned off the tap named "waste," and they half-turned off the one labeled "sunshine" it was broken, so that they could not turn it off altogether and they turned on "fair to moderate" and "showery" and both taps stuck, so that they could not be turned off, which accounts for our climate.
how did they get home again?
by the snowdon railway of course.
and was the nation grateful?
well the nation was very wet.
and by the time the nation had gotten dry again it was interested in the new invention for toasting muffins by electricity, and all the dragons were almost forgotten.
dragons do not seem so important when they are dead and gone, and, you know, there never was a reward offered.
and what did father and mother say when effie and harry got home?
my dear, that is the sort of silly question you children always will ask.
however, just for this once i don't mind telling you.
mother said: "oh, my darlings, my darlings, you're safe you're safe!
you naughty children how could you be so disobedient?
go to bed at once!"
and their father the doctor said: "i wish i had known what you were going to do!
i should have liked to preserve a specimen.
i threw away the one i got out of effie's eye.
i intended to get a more perfect specimen.
i did not anticipate this immediate extinction of the species."
the professor said nothing, but he rubbed his hands.
he had kept his specimen the one the size of an earwig that he gave harry half a crown for and he has it to this day.
you must get him to show it to you!
iv.
the ice dragon, or do as you are told
this is the tale of the wonders that befell on the evening of the eleventh of december, when they did what they were told not to do.
you may think that you know all the unpleasant things that could possibly happen to you if you are disobedient, but there are some things which even you do not know, and they did not know them either.
their names were george and jane.
there were no fireworks that year on guy fawkes' day, because the heir to the throne was not well.
he was cutting his first tooth, and that is a very anxious time for any person even for a royal one.
he was really very poorly, so that fireworks would have been in the worst possible taste, even at land's end or in the isle of man, whilst in forest hill, which was the home of jane and george, anything of the kind was quite out of the question.
even the crystal palace, empty-headed as it is, felt that this was no time for catherine-wheels.
but when the prince had cut his tooth, rejoicings were not only admissible but correct, and the eleventh of december was proclaimed firework day.
all the people were most anxious to show their loyalty, and to enjoy themselves at the same time.
so there were fireworks and torchlight processions, and set pieces at the crystal palace, with "blessings on our prince" and "long live our royal darling" in different-colored fires; and the most private of boarding schools had a half holiday; and even the children of plumbers and authors had tuppence each given them to spend as they liked.
george and jane had sixpence each and they spent the whole amount on a golden rain, which would not light for ever so long, and when it did light went out almost at once, so they had to look at the fireworks in the gardens next door, and at the ones at the crystal palace, which were very glorious indeed.
all their relations had colds in their heads, so jane and george were allowed to go out into the garden alone to let off their firework.
jane had put on her fur cape and her thick gloves, and her hood with the silver fox fur on it that was made out of mother's old muff; and george had his overcoat with the three capes, and his comforter, and father's sealskin traveling cap with the pieces that come down over your ears.
it was dark in the garden, but the fireworks all about made it seem very gay, and though the children were cold they were quite sure that they were enjoying themselves.
they got up on the fence at the end of the garden to see better; and then they saw, very far away, where the edge of the dark world is, a shining line of straight, beautiful lights arranged in a row, as if they were the spears carried by a fairy army.
"oh, how pretty," said jane.
"i wonder what they are.
it looks as if the fairies were planting little shining baby poplar trees and watering them with liquid light."
"liquid fiddlestick!"
said george.
he had been to school, so he knew that these were only the aurora borealis, or northern lights.
and he said so.
"but what is the rory bory what's-its-name?"
asked jane.
"who lights it, and what's it there for?"
george had to own that he had not learned that.
"but i know," said he, "that it has something to do with the great bear, and the dipper, and the plough, and charles's wain."
"and what are they?"
asked jane.
"oh, they're the surnames of some of the star families.
there goes a jolly rocket," answered george, and jane felt as if she almost understood about the star families.
the fairy spears of light twinkled and gleamed: they were much prettier than the big, blaring, blazing bonfire that was smoking and flaming and spluttering in the next-door-but-one garden prettier even than the colored fires at the crystal palace.
"i wish we could see them nearer," jane said.
"i wonder if the star families are nice families the kind that mother would like us to go to tea with, if we were little stars?"
"they aren't that sort of families at all, silly," said her brother, kindly trying to explain.
"i only said 'families' because a kid like you wouldn't have understood if i'd said constel ... and, besides, i've forgotten the end of the word.
anyway, the stars are all up in the sky, so you can't go to tea with them."
"no," said jane.
"i said if we were little stars."
"but we aren't," said george.
"no," said jane, with a sigh.
"i know that.
i'm not so stupid as you think, george.
but the tory bories are somewhere at the edge.
couldn't we go and see them?"
"considering you're eight, you haven't much sense."
george kicked his boots against the fencing to warm his toes.
"it's half the world away."
"it looks very near," said jane, hunching up her shoulders to keep her neck warm.
"they're close to the north pole," said george.
"look here i don't care a straw about the aurora borealis, but i shouldn't mind discovering the north pole: it's awfully difficult and dangerous, and then you come home and write a book about it with a lot of pictures, and everybody says how brave you are."
jane got off the fence.
"oh, george, let's," she said.
"we shall never have such a chance again all alone by ourselves and quite late, too."
"i'd go right enough if it wasn't for you," george answered gloomily, "but you know they always say i lead you into mischief and if we went to the north pole we should get our boots wet, as likely as not, and you remember what they said about not going on the grass."
"they said the lawn," said jane.
"we're not going on the lawn.
oh, george, do, do let's.
it doesn't look so very far we could be back before they had time to get dreadfully angry."
"all right," said george, "but mind, i don't want to go."
so off they went.
they got over the fence, which was very cold and white and shiny because it was beginning to freeze, and on the other side of the fence was somebody else's garden, so they got out of that as quickly as they could, and beyond that was a field where there was another big bonfire, with people standing around it who looked quite dark-skinned.
"it's like indians," said george, and wanted to stop and look, but jane pulled him on, and they passed by the bonfire and got through a gap in the hedge into another field a dark one; and far away, beyond quite a number of other dark fields, the northern lights shone and sparkled and twinkled.
now, during the winter the arctic regions come much farther south than they are marked on the map.
very few people know this, though you would think they could tell it by the ice in the jugs of a morning.
and just when george and jane were starting for the north pole, the arctic regions had come down very nearly as far as forest hill, so that, as the children walked on, it grew colder and colder, and presently they saw that the fields were covered with snow, and there were great icicles hanging from all the hedges and gates.
and the northern lights still seemed some way off.
they were crossing a very rough, snowy field when jane first noticed the animals.
there were white rabbits and white hares and all sorts and sizes of white birds, and some larger creatures in the shadows of the hedges that jane was sure were wolves and bears.
"polar bears and arctic wolves, of course i mean," she said, for she did not want george to think her stupid again.
there was a great hedge at the end of this field, all covered with snow and icicles; but the children found a place where there was a hole, and as no bears or wolves seemed to be just in that part of the hedge, they crept through and scrambled out of the frozen ditch on the other side.
and then they stood still and held their breath with wonder.
for in front of them, running straight and smooth right away to the northern lights, lay a great wide road of pure dark ice, and on each side were tall trees all sparkling with white frost, and from the boughs of the trees hung strings of stars threaded on fine moonbeams, and shining so brightly that it was like a beautiful fairy daylight.
jane said so; but george said it was like the electric lights at the earl's court exhibition.
the rows of trees went as straight as ruled lines away away and away and at the other end of them shone the aurora borealis.
there was a signpost of silvery snow, and on it in letters of pure ice the children read: this way to the north pole.
then george said: "way or no way, i know a slide when i see one so here goes."
and he took a run on the frozen snow, and jane took a run when she saw him do it, and the next moment they were sliding away, each with feet half a yard apart, along the great slide that leads to the north pole.
this great slide is made for the convenience of the polar bears, who, during the winter months, get their food from the army and navy stores and it is the most perfect slide in the world.
if you have never come across it, it is because you have never let off fireworks on the eleventh of december, and have never been thoroughly naughty and disobedient.
but do not be these things in the hope of finding the great slide because you might find something quite different, and then you will be sorry.
the great slide is like common slides in that when once you have started you have to go on to the end unless you fall down and then it hurts just as much as the smaller kind on ponds.
the great slide runs downhill all the way, so that you keep on going faster and faster and faster.
george and jane went so fast that they had not time to notice the scenery.
they only saw the long lines of frosted trees and the starry lamps, and on each side, rushing back as they slid on, a very broad, white world and a very large, black night; and overhead as well as in the trees the stars were bright like silver lamps, and far ahead shone and trembled and sparkled the line of fairy spears.
jane said that, and george said: "i can see the northern lights quite plain."
it is very pleasant to slide and slide and slide on clear, dark ice especially if you feel you are really going somewhere, and more especially if that somewhere is the north pole.
the children's feet made no noise on the ice, and they went on and on in a beautiful white silence.
but suddenly the silence was shattered and a cry rang out over the snow.
"hey!
you there!
stop!"
"tumble for your life!"
cried george, and he fell down at once, because it is the only way to stop.
jane fell on top of him and then they crawled on hands and knees to the snow at the edge of the slide and there was a sportsman, dressed in a peaked cap and a frozen moustache, like the one you see in the pictures about ice-peter, and he had a gun in his hand.
"you don't happen to have any bullets about you?"
said he.
"no," george said, truthfully.
"i had five of father's revolver cartridges, but they were taken away the day nurse turned out my pockets to see if i had taken the knob of the bathroom door by mistake."
"quite so," said the sportsman, "these accidents will occur.
you don't carry firearms, then, i presume?"
"i haven't any firearms," said george, "but i have a firework.
it's only a squib one of the boys gave me, if that's any good."
and he began to feel among the string and peppermints, and buttons and tops and nibs and chalk and foreign postage stamps in his knickerbocker pockets.
"one could but try," the sportsman replied, and he held out his hand.
but jane pulled at her brother's jacket-tail and whispered, "ask him what he wants it for."
so then the sportsman had to confess that he wanted the firework to kill the white grouse with; and, when they came to look, there was the white grouse himself, sitting in the snow, looking quite pale and careworn, and waiting anxiously for the matter to be decided one way or the other.
george put all the things back in his pockets, and said, "no, i shan't.
the reason for shooting him stopped yesterday i heard father say so so it wouldn't be fair, anyhow.
i'm very sorry; but i can't so there!"
the sportsman said nothing, only he shook his fist at jane, and then he got on the slide and tried to go toward the crystal palace which was not easy, because that way is uphill.
so they left him trying, and went on.
before they started, the white grouse thanked them in a few pleasant, well-chosen words, and then they took a sideways slanting run and started off again on the great slide, and so away toward the north pole and the twinkling, beautiful lights.
the great slide went on and on, and the lights did not seem to come much nearer, and the white silence wrapped around them as they slid along the wide, icy path.
then once again the silence was broken to bits by someone calling: "hey!
you there!
stop!"
"tumble for your life!"
cried george, and tumbled as before, stopping in the only possible way, and jane stopped on top of him, and they crawled to the edge and came suddenly on a butterfly collector, who was looking for specimens with a pair of blue glasses and a blue net and a blue book with colored plates.
"excuse me," said the collector, "but have you such a thing as a needle about you a very long needle?"
"i have a needle book," replied jane, politely, "but there aren't any needles in it now.
george took them all to do the things with pieces of cork in the 'boy's own scientific experimenter' and 'the young mechanic.'
he did not do the things, but he did for the needles."
"curiously enough," said the collector, "i too wish to use the needle in connection with cork."
"i have a hatpin in my hood," said jane.
"i fastened the fur with it when it caught in the nail on the greenhouse door.
it is very long and sharp would that do?"
"one could but try," said the collector, and jane began to feel for the pin.
but george pinched her arm and whispered, "ask what he wants it for."
then the collector had to own that he wanted the pin to stick through the great arctic moth, "a magnificent specimen," he added, "which i am most anxious to preserve."
and there, sure enough, in the collector's butterfly net sat the great arctic moth, listening attentively to the conversation.
"oh, i couldn't!"
cried jane.
and while george was explaining to the collector that they would really rather not, jane opened the blue folds of the butterfly net, and asked the moth quietly if it would please step outside for a moment.
and it did.
when the collector saw that the moth was free, he seemed less angry than grieved.
"well, well," said he, "here's a whole arctic expedition thrown away!
i shall have to go home and fit out another.
and that means a lot of writing to the papers and things.
you seem to be a singularly thoughtless little girl."
so they went on, leaving him too, trying to go uphill towards the crystal palace.
when the great white arctic moth had returned thanks in a suitable speech, george and jane took a sideways slanting run and started sliding again, between the star-lamps along the great slide toward the north pole.
they went faster and faster, and the lights ahead grew brighter and brighter so that they could not keep their eyes open, but had to blink and wink as they went and then suddenly the great slide ended in an immense heap of snow, and george and jane shot right into it because they could not stop themselves, and the snow was soft, so that they went in up to their very ears.
when they had picked themselves out and thumped each other on the back to get rid of the snow, they shaded their eyes and looked, and there, right in front of them, was the wonder of wonders the north pole towering high and white and glistening, like an ice-lighthouse, and it was quite, quite close, so that you had to put your head as far back as it would go, and farther, before you could see the high top of it.
it was made entirely of ice.
you will hear grown-up people talk a great deal of nonsense about the north pole, and when you are grown up, it is even possible that you may talk nonsense about it yourself (the most unlikely things do happen) but deep down in your heart you must always remember that the north pole is made of clear ice, and could not possibly, if you come to think of it, be made of anything else.
all around the pole, making a bright ring about it, were hundreds of little fires, and the flames of them did not flicker and twist, but went up blue and green and rosy and straight like the stalks of dream lilies.
jane said so, but george said they were as straight as ramrods.
and these flames were the aurora borealis, which the children had seen as far away as forest hill.
the ground was quite flat, and covered with smooth, hard snow, which shone and sparkled like the top of a birthday cake that has been iced at home.
the ones done at the shops do not shine and sparkle, because they mix flour with the icing sugar.
"it is like a dream," said jane.
and george said, "it is the north pole.
just think of the fuss people always make about getting here and it was no trouble at all, really."
"i daresay lots of people have gotten here," said jane, dismally.
"it's not the getting here i see that it's the getting back again.
perhaps no one will ever know that we have been here, and the robins will cover us with leaves and "
"nonsense," said george.
"there aren't any robins, and there aren't any leaves.
it's just the north pole, that's all, and i've found it; and now i shall try to climb up and plant the british flag on the top my handkerchief will do; and if it really is the north pole, my pocket compass uncle james gave me will spin around and around, and then i shall know.
come on."
so jane came on; and when they got close to the clear, tall, beautiful flames they saw that there was a great, queer-shaped lump of ice all around the bottom of the pole clear, smooth, shining ice, that was deep, beautiful prussian blue, like icebergs, in the thick parts, and all sorts of wonderful, glimmery, shimmery, changing colors in the thin parts, like the cut-glass chandelier in grandmamma's house in london.
"it is a very curious shape," said jane.
"it's almost like" she moved back a step to get a better view of it "it's almost like a dragon."
"it's much more like the lampposts on the thames embankment," said george, who had noticed a curly thing like a tail that went twisting up the north pole.
"oh, george," cried jane, "it is a dragon; i can see its wings.
whatever shall we do?"
and, sure enough, it was a dragon a great, shining, winged, scaly, clawy, big-mouthed dragon made of pure ice.
it must have gone to sleep curled around the hole where the warm steam used to come up from the middle of the earth, and then when the earth got colder, and the column of steam froze and was turned into the north pole, the dragon must have got frozen in his sleep frozen too hard to move and there he stayed.
and though he was very terrible he was very beautiful too.
jane said so, but george said, "oh, don't bother; i'm thinking how to get onto the pole and try the compass without waking the brute."
the dragon certainly was beautiful, with his deep, clear prussian blueness, and his rainbow-colored glitter.
and rising from within the cold coil of the frozen dragon the north pole shot up like a pillar made of one great diamond, and every now and then it cracked a little, from sheer cold.
the sound of the cracking was the only thing that broke the great white silence in the midst of which the dragon lay like an enormous jewel, and the straight flames went up all around him like the stalks of tall lilies.
and as the children stood there looking at the most wonderful sight their eyes had ever seen, there was a soft padding of feet and a hurry-scurry behind them, and from the outside darkness beyond the flame-stalks came a crowd of little brown creatures running, jumping, scrambling, tumbling head over heels and on all fours, and some even walking on their heads.
they joined hands as they came near the fires and danced around in a ring.
"it's bears," said jane.
"i know it is.
oh, how i wish we hadn't come; and my boots are so wet."
the dancing-ring broke up suddenly, and the next moment hundreds of furry arms clutched at george and jane, and they found themselves in the middle of a great, soft, heaving crowd of little fat people in brown fur dresses, and the white silence was quite gone.
"bears, indeed," cried a shrill voice.
"you'll wish we were bears before you've done with us."
this sounded so dreadful that jane began to cry.
up to now the children had only seen the most beautiful and wondrous things, but now they began to be sorry they had done what they were told not to, and the difference between "lawn" and "grass" did not seem so great as it had at forest hill.
directly jane began to cry, all the brown people started back.
no one cries in the arctic regions for fear of being struck by the frost.
so that these people had never seen anyone cry before.
"don't cry for real," whispered george, "or you'll get chilblains in your eyes.
but pretend to howl it frightens them."
so jane went on pretending to howl, and the real crying stopped: it always does when you begin to pretend.
you try it.
then, speaking very loud so as to be heard over the howls of jane, george said: "yah who's afraid?
we are george and jane who are you?"
"we are the sealskin dwarfs," said the brown people, twisting their furry bodies in and out of the crowd like the changing glass in kaleidoscopes.
"we are very precious and expensive, for we are made, throughout, of the very best sealskin."
"and what are those fires for?"
bellowed george for jane was crying louder and louder.
"those," shouted the dwarfs, coming a step nearer, "are the fires we make to thaw the dragon.
he is frozen now so he sleeps curled up around the pole but when we have thawed him with our fires he will wake up and go and eat everybody in the world except us."
"whatever do you want him to do that for?"
yelled george.
"oh just for spite," bawled the dwarfs carelessly as if they were saying, "just for fun."
jane stopped crying to say: "you are heartless."
"no, we aren't," they said.
"our hearts are made of the finest sealskin, just like little fat sealskin purses "
and they all came a step nearer.
they were very fat and round.
their bodies were like sealskin jackets on a very stout person; their heads were like sealskin muffs; their legs were like sealskin boas; and their hands and feet were like sealskin tobacco pouches.
and their faces were like seals' faces, inasmuch as they, too, were covered with sealskin.
"thank you so much for telling us," said george.
"good evening.
(keep on howling, jane!)"
but the dwarfs came a step nearer, muttering and whispering.
then the muttering stopped and there was a silence so deep that jane was afraid to howl in it.
but it was a brown silence, and she had liked the white silence better.
then the chief dwarf came quite close and said: "what's that on your head?"
and george felt it was all up for he knew it was his father's sealskin cap.
the dwarf did not wait for an answer.
"it's made of one of us," he screamed, "or else one of the seals, our poor relations.
boy, now your fate is sealed!"
looking at the wicked seal-faces all around them, george and jane felt that their fate was sealed indeed.
the dwarfs seized the children in their furry arms.
george kicked, but it is no use kicking sealskin, and jane howled, but the dwarfs were getting used to that.
they climbed up the dragon's side and dumped the children down on his icy spine, with their backs against the north pole.
you have no idea how cold it was the kind of cold that makes you feel small and prickly inside your clothes, and makes you wish you had twenty times as many clothes to feel small and prickly inside of.
the sealskin dwarfs tied george and jane to the north pole, and, as they had no ropes, they bound them with snow-wreaths, which are very strong when they are made in the proper way, and they heaped up the fires very close and said: "now the dragon will get warm, and when he gets warm he will wake, and when he wakes he will be hungry, and when he is hungry he will begin to eat, and the first thing he will eat will be you."
the little, sharp, many-colored flames sprang up like the stalks of dream lilies, but no heat came to the children, and they grew colder and colder.
"we shan't be very nice when the dragon does eat us, that's one comfort," said george.
"we shall be turned into ice long before that."
suddenly there was a flapping of wings, and the white grouse perched on the dragon's head and said: "can i be of any assistance?"
now, by this time the children were so cold, so cold, so very, very cold, that they had forgotten everything but that, and they could say nothing else.
so the white grouse said: "one moment.
i am only too grateful for this opportunity of showing my sense of your manly conduct about the firework!"
and the next moment there was a soft whispering rustle of wings overhead, and then, fluttering slowly, softly down, came hundreds and thousands of little white fluffy feathers.
they fell on george and jane like snowflakes, and, like flakes of fallen snow lying one above another, they grew into a thicker and thicker covering, so that presently the children were buried under a heap of white feathers, and only their faces peeped out.
"oh, you dear, good, kind white grouse," said jane, "but you'll be cold yourself, won't you, now you have given us all your pretty dear feathers?"
the white grouse laughed, and his laugh was echoed by thousands of kind, soft bird voices.
"did you think all those feathers came out of one breast?
there are hundreds and hundreds of us here, and every one of us can spare a little tuft of soft breast feathers to help to keep two kind little hearts warm!"
thus spoke the grouse, who certainly had very pretty manners.
so now the children snuggled under the feathers and were warm, and when the sealskin dwarfs tried to take the feathers away, the grouse and his friends flew in their faces with flappings and screams, and drove the dwarfs back.
they are a cowardly folk.
the dragon had not moved yet but then he might at any moment get warm enough to move, and though george and jane were now warm they were not comfortable nor easy in their minds.
they tried to explain to the grouse; but though he is polite, he is not clever, and he only said:
"you've got a warm nest, and we'll see that no one takes it from you.
what more can you possibly want?"
just then came a new, strange, jerky fluttering of wings far softer than the grouse's, and george and jane cried out together: "oh, do mind your wings in the fires!"
for they saw at once that it was the great white arctic moth.
"what's the matter?"
he asked, settling on the dragon's tail.
so they told him.
"sealskin, are they?"
said the moth.
"just you wait a minute!"
he flew off very crookedly, dodging the flames, and presently he came back, and there were so many moths with him that it was as if a live sheet of white wingedness were suddenly drawn between the children and the stars.
and then the doom of the bad sealskin dwarfs fell suddenly on them.
for the great sheet of winged whiteness broke up and fell as snow falls, and it fell upon the sealskin dwarfs; and every snowflake of it was a live, fluttering, hungry moth that buried its greedy nose deep in the sealskin fur.
grown-up people will tell you that it is not moths but moths' children who eat fur but this is only when they are trying to deceive you.
when they are not thinking about you they say, "i fear the moths have got at my ermine tippet," or, "your poor aunt emma had a lovely sable cloak, but it was eaten by moths."
and now there were more moths than have ever been together in this world before, all settling on the sealskin dwarfs.
the dwarfs did not see their danger till it was too late.
then they called for camphor and bitter apple and oil of lavender and yellow soap and borax; and some of the dwarfs even started to get these things, but long before any of them could get to the chemist's, all was over.
the moths ate and ate and ate till the sealskin dwarfs, being sealskin throughout, even to the empty hearts of them, were eaten down to the very life and they fell one by one on the snow and so came to their end.
and all around the north pole the snow was brown with their flat bare pelts.
"oh, thank you thank you, darling arctic moth," cried jane.
"you are good i do hope you haven't eaten enough to disagree with you afterward!"
millions of moth voices answered, with laughter as soft as moth wings, "we should be a poor set of fellows if we couldn't over eat ourselves once in a while to oblige a friend."
and off they all fluttered, and the white grouse flew off, and the sealskin dwarfs were all dead, and the fires went out, and george and jane were left alone in the dark with the dragon!
"oh, dear," said jane, "this is the worst of all!"
"we've no friends left to help us," said george.
he never thought that the dragon himself might help them but then that was an idea that would never have occurred to any boy.
it grew colder and colder and colder, and even under the grouse feathers the children shivered.
then, when it was so cold that it could not manage to be any colder without breaking the thermometer, it stopped.
and then the dragon uncurled himself from around the north pole, and stretched his long, icy length over the snow, and said: "this is something like!
how faint those fires did make me feel!"
the fact was, the sealskin dwarfs had gone the wrong way to work: the dragon had been frozen so long that now he was nothing but solid ice all through, and the fires only made him feel as if he were going to die.
but when the fires were out he felt quite well, and very hungry.
he looked around for something to eat.
but he never noticed george and jane, because they were frozen to his back.
he moved slowly off, and the snow-wreaths that bound the children to the pole gave way with a snap, and there was the dragon, crawling south with jane and george on his great, scaly, icy shining back.
of course the dragon had to go south if he went anywhere, because when you get to the north pole there is no other way to go.
the dragon rattled and tinkled as he went, exactly like the cut-glass chandelier when you touch it, as you are strictly forbidden to do.
of course there are a million ways of going south from the north pole so you will own that it was lucky for george and jane when the dragon took the right way and suddenly got his heavy feet on the great slide.
off he went, full speed, between the starry lamps, toward forest hill and the crystal palace.
"he's going to take us home," said jane.
"oh, he is a good dragon.
i am glad!"
george was rather glad too, though neither of the children felt at all sure of their welcome, especially as their feet were wet, and they were bringing a strange dragon home with them.
they went very fast, because dragons can go uphill as easily as down.
you would not understand why if i told you because you are only in long division at present; yet if you want me to tell you, so that you can show off to other children, i will.
it is because dragons can get their tails into the fourth dimension and hold on there, and when you can do that everything else is easy.
the dragon went very fast, only stopping to eat the collector and the sportsman, who were still struggling to go up the slide vainly, because they had no tails, and had never even heard of the fourth dimension.
when the dragon got to the end of the slide he crawled very slowly across the dark field beyond the field where there was a bonfire, next to the next-door garden at forest hill.
he went slower and slower, and in the bonfire field he stopped altogether, and because the arctic regions had not got down so far as that, and because the bonfire was very hot, the dragon began to melt and melt and melt and before the children knew what he was doing they found themselves sitting in a large pool of water, and their boots were as wet as wet, and there was not a bit of dragon left!
so they went indoors.
of course some grown-up or other noticed at once that the boots of george and jane were wet and muddy, and that they had both been sitting down in a very damp place, so they were sent to bed immediately.
it was long past their time, anyhow.
now, if you are of an inquiring mind not at all a nice thing in a little child who reads fairy tales you will want to know how it is that since the sealskin dwarfs have all been killed, and the fires all been let out, the aurora borealis shines, on cold nights, as brightly as ever.
my dear, i do not know!
i am not too proud to own that there are some things i know nothing about and this is one of them.
but i do know that whoever has lighted those fires again, it is certainly not the sealskin dwarfs.
they were all eaten by moths and motheaten things are of no use, even to light fires!
v. the island of the nine whirlpools
the dark arch that led to the witch's cave was hung with a black-and-yellow fringe of live snakes.
as the queen went in, keeping carefully in the middle of the arch, all the snakes lifted their wicked, flat heads and stared at her with their wicked, yellow eyes.
you know it is not good manners to stare, even at royalty, except of course for cats.
and the snakes had been so badly brought up that they even put their tongues out at the poor lady.
nasty, thin, sharp tongues they were too.
now, the queen's husband was, of course, the king.
and besides being a king he was an enchanter, and considered to be quite at the top of his profession, so he was very wise, and he knew that when kings and queens want children, the queen always goes to see a witch.
so he gave the queen the witch's address, and the queen called on her, though she was very frightened and did not like it at all.
the witch was sitting by a fire of sticks, stirring something bubbly in a shiny copper cauldron.
"what do you want, my dear?"
she said to the queen.
"oh, if you please," said the queen, "i want a baby a very nice one.
we don't want any expense spared.
my husband said "
"oh, yes," said the witch.
"i know all about him.
and so you want a child?
do you know it will bring you sorrow?"
"it will bring me joy first," said the queen.
"great sorrow," said the witch.
"greater joy," said the queen.
then the witch said, "well, have your own way.
i suppose it's as much as your place is worth to go back without it?"
"the king would be very much annoyed," said the poor queen.
"well, well," said the witch.
"what will you give me for the child?"
"anything you ask for, and all i have," said the queen.
"then give me your gold crown."
the queen took it off quickly.
"and your necklace of blue sapphires."
the queen unfastened it.
"and your pearl bracelets."
the queen unclasped them.
"and your ruby clasps."
and the queen undid the clasps.
"now the lilies from your breast."
the queen gathered together the lilies.
"and the diamonds of your little bright shoe buckles."
the queen pulled off her shoes.
then the witch stirred the stuff that was in the cauldron, and, one by one, she threw in the gold crown and the sapphire necklace and the pearl bracelets and the ruby clasps and the diamonds of the little bright shoe buckles, and last of all she threw in the lilies.
the stuff in the cauldron boiled up in foaming flashes of yellow and blue and red and white and silver, and sent out a sweet scent, and presently the witch poured it out into a pot and set it to cool in the doorway among the snakes.
then she said to the queen: "your child will have hair as golden as your crown, eyes as blue as your sapphires.
the red of your rubies will lie on its lips, and its skin will be clear and pale as your pearls.
its soul will be white and sweet as your lilies, and your diamonds will be no clearer than its wits."
"oh, thank you, thank you," said the queen, "and when will it come?"
"you will find it when you get home."
"and won't you have something for yourself?"
asked the queen.
"any little thing you fancy would you like a country, or a sack of jewels?"
"nothing, thank you," said the witch.
"i could make more diamonds in a day than i should wear in a year."
"well, but do let me do some little thing for you," the queen went on.
"aren't you tired of being a witch?
wouldn't you like to be a duchess or a princess, or something like that?"
"there is one thing i should rather like," said the witch, "but it's hard to get in my trade."
"oh, tell me what," said the queen.
"i should like some one to love me," said the witch.
then the queen threw her arms around the witch's neck and kissed her half a hundred times.
"why," she said, "i love you better than my life!
you've given me the baby and the baby shall love you too."
"perhaps it will," said the witch, "and when the sorrow comes, send for me.
each of your fifty kisses will be a spell to bring me to you.
now, drink up your medicine, there's a dear, and run along home."
so the queen drank the stuff in the pot, which was quite cool by this time, and she went out under the fringe of snakes, and they all behaved like good sunday-school children.
some of them even tried to drop a curtsy to her as she went by, though that is not easy when you are hanging wrong way up by your tail.
but the snakes knew the queen was friends with their mistress; so, of course, they had to do their best to be civil.
when the queen got home, sure enough there was the baby lying in the cradle with the royal arms blazoned on it, crying as naturally as possible.
it had pink ribbons to tie up its sleeves, so the queen saw at once it was a girl.
when the king knew this he tore his black hair with fury.
"oh, you silly, silly queen!"
he said.
"why didn't i marry a clever lady?
did you think i went to all the trouble and expense of sending you to a witch to get a girl?
you knew well enough it was a boy i wanted a boy, an heir, a prince to learn all my magic and my enchantments, and to rule the kingdom after me.
i'll bet a crown my crown," he said, "you never even thought to tell the witch what kind you wanted!
did you now?"
and the queen hung her head and had to confess that she had only asked for a child.
"very well, madam," said the king, "very well have your own way.
and make the most of your daughter, while she is a child."
the queen did.
all the years of her life had never held half so much happiness as now lived in each of the moments when she held her little baby in her arms.
and the years went on, and the king grew more and more clever at magic, and more and more disagreeable at home, and the princess grew more beautiful and more dear every day she lived.
the queen and the princess were feeding the goldfish in the courtyard fountains with crumbs of the princess's eighteenth birthday cake, when the king came into the courtyard, looking as black as thunder, with his black raven hopping after him.
he shook his fist at his family, as indeed he generally did whenever he met them, for he was not a king with pretty home manners.
the raven sat down on the edge of the marble basin and tried to peck the goldfish.
it was all he could do to show that he was in the same temper as his master.
"a girl indeed!"
said the king angrily.
"i wonder you can dare to look me in the face, when you remember how your silliness has spoiled everything."
"you oughtn't to speak to my mother like that," said the princess.
she was eighteen, and it came to her suddenly and all in a moment that she was a grown-up, so she spoke out.
the king could not utter a word for several minutes.
he was too angry.
but the queen said, "my dear child, don't interfere," quite crossly, for she was frightened.
and to her husband she said, "my dear, why do you go on worrying about it?
our daughter is not a boy, it is true but she may marry a clever man who could rule your kingdom after you, and learn as much magic as ever you cared to teach him."
then the king found his tongue.
"if she does marry," he said, slowly, "her husband will have to be a very clever man oh, yes, very clever indeed!
and he will have to know a very great deal more magic than i shall ever care to teach him."
the queen knew at once by the king's tone that he was going to be disagreeable.
"ah," she said, "don't punish the child because she loves her mother."
"i'm not going to punish her for that," said he.
"i'm only going to teach her to respect her father."
and without another word he went off to his laboratory and worked all night, boiling different-colored things in crucibles, and copying charms in curious twisted letters from old brown books with mold stains on their yellowy pages.
the next day his plan was all arranged.
he took the poor princess to the lone tower, which stands on an island in the sea, a thousand miles from everywhere.
he gave her a dowry, and settled a handsome income on her.
he engaged a competent dragon to look after her, and also a respectable griffin whose birth and upbringing he knew all about.
and he said: "here you shall stay, my dear, respectful daughter, till the clever man comes to marry you.
he'll have to be clever enough to sail a ship through the nine whirlpools that spin around the island, and to kill the dragon and the griffin.
till he comes you'll never get any older or any wiser.
no doubt he will soon come.
you can employ yourself in embroidering your wedding gown.
i wish you joy, my dutiful child."
and his carriage, drawn by live thunderbolts (thunder travels very fast), rose in the air and disappeared, and the poor princess was left, with the dragon and the griffin, on the island of the nine whirlpools.
the queen, left at home, cried for a day and a night, and then she remembered the witch and called to her.
and the witch came, and the queen told her all.
"for the sake of the twice twenty-five kisses you gave me," said the witch, "i will help you.
but it is the last thing i can do, and it is not much.
your daughter is under a spell, and i can take you to her.
but, if i do, you will have to be turned to stone, and to stay so till the spell is taken off the child."
"i would be a stone for a thousand years," said the poor queen, "if at the end of them i could see my dear again."
so the witch took the queen in a carriage drawn by live sunbeams (which travel more quickly than anything else in the world, and much quicker than thunder), and so away and away to the lone tower on the island of the nine whirlpools.
and there was the princess sitting on the floor in the best room of the lone tower, crying as if her heart would break, and the dragon and the griffin were sitting primly on each side of her.
"oh, mother, mother, mother," she cried, and hung around the queen's neck as if she would never let go.
"now," said the witch, when they had all cried as much as was good for them, "i can do one or two other little things for you.
time shall not make the princess sad.
all days will be like one day till her deliverer comes.
and you and i, dear queen, will sit in stone at the gate of the tower.
in doing this for you i lose all my witch's powers, and when i say the spell that changes you to stone, i shall change with you, and if ever we come out of the stone, i shall be a witch no more, but only a happy old woman."
then the three kissed one another again and again, and the witch said the spell, and on each side of the door there was now a stone lady.
one of them had a stone crown on its head and a stone scepter in its hand; but the other held a stone tablet with words on it, which the griffin and the dragon could not read, though they had both had a very good education.
and now all days seemed like one day to the princess, and the next day always seemed the day when her mother would come out of the stone and kiss her again.
and the years went slowly by.
the wicked king died, and some one else took his kingdom, and many things were changed in the world; but the island did not change, nor the nine whirlpools, nor the griffin, nor the dragon, nor the two stone ladies.
and all the time, from the very first, the day of the princess's deliverance was coming, creeping nearer, and nearer, and nearer.
but no one saw it coming except the princess, and she only in dreams.
and the years went by in tens and in hundreds, and still the nine whirlpools spun around, roaring in triumph the story of many a good ship that had gone down in their swirl, bearing with it some prince who had tried to win the princess and her dowry.
and the great sea knew all the other stories of the princes who had come from very far, and had seen the whirlpools, and had shaken their wise young heads and said: "'bout ship!"
and gone discreetly home to their nice, safe, comfortable kingdoms.
but no one told the story of the deliverer who was to come.
and the years went by.
now, after more scores of years than you would like to add up on your slate, a certain sailor-boy sailed on the high seas with his uncle, who was a skilled skipper.
and the boy could reef a sail and coil a rope and keep the ship's nose steady before the wind.
and he was as good a boy as you would find in a month of sundays, and worthy to be a prince.
now there is something which is wiser than all the world and it knows when people are worthy to be princes.
and this something came from the farther side of the seventh world, and whispered in the boy's ear.
and the boy heard, though he did not know he heard, and he looked out over the black sea with the white foam-horses galloping over it, and far away he saw a light.
and he said to the skipper, his uncle: "what light is that?"
then the skipper said: "all good things defend you, nigel, from sailing near that light.
it is not mentioned in all charts; but it is marked in the old chart i steer by, which was my father's father's before me, and his father's father's before him.
it is the light that shines from the lone tower that stands above the nine whirlpools.
and when my father's father was young he heard from the very old man, his great-great-grandfather, that in that tower an enchanted princess, fairer than the day, waits to be delivered.
but there is no deliverance, so never steer that way; and think no more of the princess, for that is only an idle tale.
but the whirlpools are quite real."
so, of course, from that day nigel thought of nothing else.
and as he sailed hither and thither upon the high seas he saw from time to time the light that shone out to sea across the wild swirl of the nine whirlpools.
and one night, when the ship was at anchor and the skipper asleep in his bunk, nigel launched the ship's boat and steered alone over the dark sea towards the light.
he dared not go very near till daylight should show him what, indeed, were the whirlpools he had to dread.
but when the dawn came he saw the lone tower standing dark against the pink and primrose of the east, and about its base the sullen swirl of black water, and he heard the wonderful roar of it.
so he hung off and on, all that day and for six days besides.
and when he had watched seven days he knew something.
for you are certain to know something if you give for seven days your whole thought to it, even though it be only the first declension, or the nine-times table, or the dates of the norman kings.
what he knew was this: that for five minutes out of the 1,440 minutes that make up a day the whirlpools slipped into silence, while the tide went down and left the yellow sand bare.
and every day this happened, but every day it was five minutes earlier than it had been the day before.
he made sure of this by the ship's chronometer, which he had thoughtfully brought with him.
see page 88.]
so on the eighth day, at five minutes before noon, nigel got ready.
and when the whirlpools suddenly stopped whirling and the tide sank, like water in a basin that has a hole in it, he stuck to his oars and put his back into his stroke, and presently beached the boat on the yellow sand.
then he dragged it into a cave, and sat down to wait.
by five minutes and one second past noon, the whirlpools were black and busy again, and nigel peeped out of his cave.
and on the rocky ledge overhanging the sea he saw a princess as beautiful as the day, with golden hair and a green gown and he went out to meet her.
"i've come to save you," he said.
"how darling and beautiful you are!"
"you are very good, and very clever, and very dear," said the princess, smiling and giving him both her hands.
he shut a little kiss in each hand before he let them go.
"so now, when the tide is low again, i will take you away in my boat,"
he said.
"but what about the dragon and the griffin?"
asked the princess.
"dear me," said nigel.
"i didn't know about them.
i suppose i can kill them?"
"don't be a silly boy," said the princess, pretending to be very grown up, for, though she had been on the island time only knows how many years, she was just eighteen, and she still liked pretending.
"you haven't a sword, or a shield, or anything!"
"well, don't the beasts ever go to sleep?"
"why, yes," said the princess, "but only once in twenty-four hours, and then the dragon is turned to stone.
but the griffin has dreams.
the griffin sleeps at teatime every day, but the dragon sleeps every day for five minutes, and every day it is three minutes later than it was the day before."
"what time does he sleep today?"
asked nigel.
"at eleven," said the princess.
"ah," said nigel, "can you do sums?"
"no," said the princess sadly.
"i was never good at them."
"then i must," said nigel.
"i can, but it's slow work, and it makes me very unhappy.
it'll take me days and days."
"don't begin yet," said the princess.
"you'll have plenty of time to be unhappy when i'm not with you.
tell me all about yourself."
so he did.
and then she told him all about herself.
"i know i've been here a long time," she said, "but i don't know what time is.
and i am very busy sewing silk flowers on a golden gown for my wedding day.
and the griffin does the housework his wings are so convenient and feathery for sweeping and dusting.
and the dragon does the cooking he's hot inside, so, of course, it's no trouble to him; and though i don't know what time is i'm sure it's time for my wedding day, because my golden gown only wants one more white daisy on the sleeve, and a lily on the bosom of it, and then it will be ready."
just then they heard a dry, rustling clatter on the rocks above them and a snorting sound.
"it's the dragon," said the princess hurriedly.
"good-bye.
be a good boy, and get your sum done."
and she ran away and left him to his arithmetic.
now, the sum was this: "if the whirlpools stop and the tide goes down once in every twenty-four hours, and they do it five minutes earlier every twenty-four hours, and if the dragon sleeps every day, and he does it three minutes later every day, in how many days and at what time in the day will the tide go down three minutes before the dragon falls asleep?"
it is quite a simple sum, as you see: you could do it in a minute because you have been to a good school and have taken pains with your lessons; but it was quite otherwise with poor nigel.
he sat down to work out his sum with a piece of chalk on a smooth stone.
he tried it by practice and the unitary method, by multiplication, and by rule-of-three-and-three-quarters.
he tried it by decimals and by compound interest.
he tried it by square root and by cube root.
he tried it by addition, simple and otherwise, and he tried it by mixed examples in vulgar fractions.
but it was all of no use.
then he tried to do the sum by algebra, by simple and by quadratic equations, by trigonometry, by logarithms, and by conic sections.
but it would not do.
he got an answer every time, it is true, but it was always a different one, and he could not feel sure which answer was right.
and just as he was feeling how much more important than anything else it is to be able to do your sums, the princess came back.
and now it was getting dark.
"why, you've been seven hours over that sum," she said, "and you haven't done it yet.
look here, this is what is written on the tablet of the statue by the lower gate.
it has figures in it.
perhaps it is the answer to the sum."
she held out to him a big white magnolia leaf.
and she had scratched on it with the pin of her pearl brooch, and it had turned brown where she had scratched it, as magnolia leaves will do.
nigel read:
after nine days         t ii.
24.
d ii.
27 ans.
p.s.
and the griffin is artificial.
r.
he clapped his hands softly.
"dear princess," he said, "i know that's the right answer.
it says r too, you see.
but i'll just prove it."
so he hastily worked the sum backward in decimals and equations and conic sections, and all the rules he could think of.
and it came right every time.
"so now we must wait," said he.
and they waited.
and every day the princess came to see nigel and brought him food cooked by the dragon, and he lived in his cave, and talked to her when she was there, and thought about her when she was not, and they were both as happy as the longest day in summer.
then at last came the day.
nigel and the princess laid their plans.
"you're sure he won't hurt you, my only treasure?"
said nigel.
"quite," said the princess.
"i only wish i were half as sure that he wouldn't hurt you."
"my princess," he said tenderly, "two great powers are on our side: the power of love and the power of arithmetic.
those two are stronger than anything else in the world."
so when the tide began to go down, nigel and the princess ran out on to the sands, and there, in full sight of the terrace where the dragon kept watch, nigel took his princess in his arms and kissed her.
the griffin was busy sweeping the stairs of the lone tower, but the dragon saw, and he gave a cry of rage and it was like twenty engines all letting off steam at the top of their voices inside cannon street station.
and the two lovers stood looking up at the dragon.
he was dreadful to look at.
his head was white with age and his beard had grown so long that he caught his claws in it as he walked.
his wings were white with the salt that had settled on them from the spray of the sea.
his tail was long and thick and jointed and white, and had little legs to it, any number of them far too many so that it looked like a very large fat silkworm; and his claws were as long as lessons and as sharp as bayonets.
"good-bye, love!"
cried nigel, and ran out across the yellow sand toward the sea.
he had one end of a cord tied to his arm.
the dragon was clambering down the face of the cliff, and next moment he was crawling and writhing and sprawling and wriggling across the beach after nigel, making great holes in the sand with his heavy feet and the very end of his tail, where there were no legs, made, as it dragged, a mark in the sand such as you make when you launch a boat; and he breathed fire till the wet sand hissed again, and the water of the little rock pools got quite frightened, and all went off in steam.
still nigel held on and the dragon after him.
the princess could see nothing for the steam, and she stood crying bitterly, but still holding on tight with her right hand to the other end of the cord that nigel had told her to hold; while with her left she held the ship's chronometer, and looked at it through her tears as he had bidden her look, so as to know when to pull the rope.
on went nigel over the sand, and on went the dragon after him.
and the tide was low, and sleepy little waves lapped the sand's edge.
now at the lip of the water, nigel paused and looked back, and the dragon made a bound, beginning a scream of rage that was like all the engines of all the railways in england.
but it never uttered the second half of that scream, for now it knew suddenly that it was sleepy it turned to hurry back to dry land, because sleeping near whirlpools is so unsafe.
but before it reached the shore sleep caught it and turned it to stone.
nigel, seeing this, ran shoreward for his life and the tide began to flow in, and the time of the whirlpools' sleep was nearly over, and he stumbled and he waded and he swam, and the princess pulled for dear life at the cord in her hand, and pulled him up on to the dry shelf of rock just as the great sea dashed in and made itself once more into the girdle of nine whirlpools all around the island.
but the dragon was asleep under the whirlpools, and when he woke up from being asleep he found he was drowned, so there was an end of him.
"now, there's only the griffin," said nigel.
and the princess said:
"yes only " and she kissed nigel and went back to sew the last leaf of the last lily on the bosom of her wedding gown.
she thought and thought of what was written on the stone about the griffin being artificial and next day she said to nigel: "you know a griffin is half a lion and half an eagle, and the other two halves when they've joined make the leo-griff.
but i've never seen him.
yet i have an idea."
so they talked it over and arranged everything.
when the griffin fell asleep that afternoon at teatime, nigel went softly behind him and trod on his tail, and at the same time the princess cried: "look out!
there's a lion behind you."
and the griffin, waking suddenly from his dreams, twisted his large neck around to look for the lion, saw a lion's flank, and fastened its eagle beak in it.
for the griffin had been artificially made by the king-enchanter, and the two halves had never really got used to each other.
so now the eagle half of the griffin, who was still rather sleepy, believed that it was fighting a lion, and the lion part, being half asleep, thought it was fighting an eagle, and the whole griffin in its deep drowsiness hadn't the sense to pull itself together and remember what it was made of.
so the griffin rolled over and over, one end of it fighting with the other, till the eagle end pecked the lion end to death, and the lion end tore the eagle end with its claws till it died.
and so the griffin that was made of a lion and an eagle perished, exactly as if it had been made of kilkenny cats.
"poor griffin," said the princess, "it was very good at the housework.
i always liked it better than the dragon: it wasn't so hot-tempered."
at that moment there was a soft, silky rush behind the princess, and there was her mother, the queen, who had slipped out of the stone statue at the moment the griffin was dead, and now came hurrying to take her dear daughter in her arms.
the witch was clambering slowly off her pedestal.
she was a little stiff from standing still so long.
when they had all explained everything over and over to each other as many times as was good for them, the witch said: "well, but what about the whirlpools?"
and nigel said he didn't know.
then the witch said: "i'm not a witch anymore.
i'm only a happy old woman, but i know some things still.
those whirlpools were made by the enchanter-king's dropping nine drops of his blood into the sea.
and his blood was so wicked that the sea has been trying ever since to get rid of it, and that made the whirlpools.
now you've only got to go out at low tide."
so nigel understood and went out at low tide, and found in the sandy hollow left by the first whirlpool a great red ruby.
that was the first drop of the wicked king's blood.
the next day nigel found another, and next day another, and so on till the ninth day, and then the sea was as smooth as glass.
the nine rubies were used afterwards in agriculture.
you had only to throw them out into a field if you wanted it plowed.
then the whole surface of the land turned itself over in its anxiety to get rid of something so wicked, and in the morning the field was found to be plowed as thoroughly as any young man at oxford.
so the wicked king did some good after all.
when the sea was smooth, ships came from far and wide, bringing people to hear the wonderful story.
and a beautiful palace was built, and the princess was married to nigel in her gold dress, and they all lived happily as long as was good for them.
the dragon still lies, a stone dragon on the sand, and at low tide the little children play around him and over him.
but the pieces that were left of the griffin were buried under the herb-bed in the palace garden, because it had been so good at housework, and it wasn't its fault that it had been made so badly and put to such poor work as guarding a lady from her lover.
i have no doubt that you will wish to know what the princess lived on during the long years when the dragon did the cooking.
my dear, she lived on her income and that is a thing that a great many people would like to be able to do.
the dragon tamers]
vi.
the dragon tamers
there was once an old, old castle it was so old that its walls and towers and turrets and gateways and arches had crumbled to ruins, and of all its old splendor there were only two little rooms left; and it was here that john the blacksmith had set up his forge.
he was too poor to live in a proper house, and no one asked any rent for the rooms in the ruin, because all the lords of the castle were dead and gone this many a year.
so there john blew his bellows and hammered his iron and did all the work which came his way.
this was not much, because most of the trade went to the mayor of the town, who was also a blacksmith in quite a large way of business, and had his huge forge facing the square of the town, and had twelve apprentices, all hammering like a nest of woodpeckers, and twelve journeymen to order the apprentices about, and a patent forge and a self-acting hammer and electric bellows, and all things handsome about him.
so of course the townspeople, whenever they wanted a horse shod or a shaft mended, went to the mayor.
john the blacksmith struggled on as best he could, with a few odd jobs from travelers and strangers who did not know what a superior forge the mayor's was.
the two rooms were warm and weather-tight, but not very large; so the blacksmith got into the way of keeping his old iron, his odds and ends, his fagots, and his twopence worth of coal in the great dungeon down under the castle.
it was a very fine dungeon indeed, with a handsome vaulted roof and big iron rings whose staples were built into the wall, very strong and convenient for tying captives to, and at one end was a broken flight of wide steps leading down no one knew where.
even the lords of the castle in the good old times had never known where those steps led to, but every now and then they would kick a prisoner down the steps in their lighthearted, hopeful way, and sure enough, the prisoners never came back.
the blacksmith had never dared to go beyond the seventh step, and no more have i so i know no more than he did what was at the bottom of those stairs.
john the blacksmith had a wife and a little baby.
when his wife was not doing the housework she used to nurse the baby and cry, remembering the happy days when she lived with her father, who kept seventeen cows and lived quite in the country, and when john used to come courting her in the summer evenings, as smart as smart, with a posy in his buttonhole.
and now john's hair was getting gray, and there was hardly ever enough to eat.
as for the baby, it cried a good deal at odd times; but at night, when its mother had settled down to sleep, it would always begin to cry, quite as a matter of course, so that she hardly got any rest at all.
this made her very tired.
the baby could make up for its bad nights during the day if it liked, but the poor mother couldn't.
so whenever she had nothing to do she used to sit and cry, because she was tired out with work and worry.
one evening the blacksmith was busy with his forge.
he was making a goat-shoe for the goat of a very rich lady, who wished to see how the goat liked being shod, and also whether the shoe would come to fivepence or sevenpence before she ordered the whole set.
this was the only order john had had that week.
and as he worked his wife sat and nursed the baby, who, for a wonder, was not crying.
presently, over the noise of the bellows and over the clank of the iron, there came another sound.
the blacksmith and his wife looked at each other.
"i heard nothing," said he.
"neither did i," said she.
but the noise grew louder and the two were so anxious not to hear it that he hammered away at the goat-shoe harder than he had ever hammered in his life, and she began to sing to the baby a thing she had not had the heart to do for weeks.
but through the blowing and hammering and singing the noise came louder and louder, and the more they tried not to hear it, the more they had to.
it was like the noise of some great creature purring, purring, purring and the reason they did not want to believe they really heard it was that it came from the great dungeon down below, where the old iron was, and the firewood and the twopence worth of coal, and the broken steps that went down into the dark and ended no one knew where.
"it can't be anything in the dungeon," said the blacksmith, wiping his face.
"why, i shall have to go down there after more coals in a minute."
"there isn't anything there, of course.
how could there be?"
said his wife.
and they tried so hard to believe that there could be nothing there that presently they very nearly did believe it.
then the blacksmith took his shovel in one hand and his riveting hammer in the other, and hung the old stable lantern on his little finger, and went down to get the coals.
"i am not taking the hammer because i think there is something there,"
said he, "but it is handy for breaking the large lumps of coal."
"i quite understand," said his wife, who had brought the coal home in her apron that very afternoon, and knew that it was all coal dust.
so he went down the winding stairs to the dungeon and stood at the bottom of the steps, holding the lantern above his head just to see that the dungeon really was empty, as usual.
half of it was empty as usual, except for the old iron and odds and ends, and the firewood and the coals.
but the other side was not empty.
it was quite full, and what it was full of was dragon.
"it must have come up those nasty broken steps from goodness knows where," said the blacksmith to himself, trembling all over, as he tried to creep back up the winding stairs.
but the dragon was too quick for him it put out a great claw and caught him by the leg, and as it moved it rattled like a great bunch of keys, or like the sheet iron they make thunder out of in pantomimes.
"no you don't," said the dragon in a spluttering voice, like a damp squib.
"deary, deary me," said poor john, trembling more than ever in the claw of the dragon.
"here's a nice end for a respectable blacksmith!"
the dragon seemed very much struck by this remark.
"do you mind saying that again?"
said he, quite politely.
so john said again, very distinctly:
"here is a nice end for a respectable blacksmith."
"i didn't know," said the dragon.
"fancy now!
you're the very man i wanted."
"so i understood you to say before," said john, his teeth chattering.
"oh, i don't mean what you mean," said the dragon, "but i should like you to do a job for me.
one of my wings has got some of the rivets out of it just above the joint.
could you put that to rights?"
"i might, sir," said john, politely, for you must always be polite to a possible customer, even if he be a dragon.
"a master craftsman you are a master, of course?
can see in a minute what's wrong," the dragon went on.
"just come around here and feel my plates, will you?"
john timidly went around when the dragon took his claw away; and sure enough, the dragon's wing was hanging loose, and several of the plates near the joint certainly wanted riveting.
the dragon seemed to be made almost entirely of iron armor a sort of tawny, red-rust color it was; from damp, no doubt and under it he seemed to be covered with something furry.
all the blacksmith welled up in john's heart, and he felt more at ease.
"you could certainly do with a rivet or two, sir," said he.
"in fact, you want a good many."
"well, get to work, then," said the dragon.
"you mend my wing, and then i'll go out and eat up all the town, and if you make a really smart job of it i'll eat you last.
there!"
"i don't want to be eaten last, sir," said john.
"well then, i'll eat you first," said the dragon.
"i don't want that, sir, either," said john.
"go on with you, you silly man," said the dragon, "you don't know your own silly mind.
come, set to work."
"i don't like the job, sir," said john, "and that's the truth.
i know how easily accidents happen.
it's all fair and smooth, and 'please rivet me, and i'll eat you last' and then you get to work and you give a gentleman a bit of a nip or a dig under his rivets and then it's fire and smoke, and no apologies will meet the case."
"upon my word of honor as a dragon," said the other.
"i know you wouldn't do it on purpose, sir," said john, "but any gentleman will give a jump and a sniff if he's nipped, and one of your sniffs would be enough for me.
now, if you'd just let me fasten you up?"
"it would be so undignified," objected the dragon.
"we always fasten a horse up," said john, "and he's the 'noble animal.'"
"it's all very well," said the dragon, "but how do i know you'd untie me again when you'd riveted me?
give me something in pledge.
what do you value most?"
"my hammer," said john.
"a blacksmith is nothing without a hammer."
"but you'd want that for riveting me.
you must think of something else, and at once, or i'll eat you first."
at this moment the baby in the room above began to scream.
its mother had been so quiet that it thought she had settled down for the night, and that it was time to begin.
"whatever's that?"
said the dragon, starting so that every plate on his body rattled.
"it's only the baby," said john.
"what's that?"
asked the dragon.
"something you value?"
"well, yes, sir, rather," said the blacksmith.
"then bring it here," said the dragon, "and i'll take care of it till you've done riveting me, and you shall tie me up."
"all right, sir," said john, "but i ought to warn you.
babies are poison to dragons, so i don't deceive you.
it's all right to touch but don't you go putting it into your mouth.
i shouldn't like to see any harm come to a nice-looking gentleman like you."
the dragon purred at this compliment and said: "all right, i'll be careful.
now go and fetch the thing, whatever it is."
so john ran up the steps as quickly as he could, for he knew that if the dragon got impatient before it was fastened, it could heave up the roof of the dungeon with one heave of its back, and kill them all in the ruins.
his wife was asleep, in spite of the baby's cries; and john picked up the baby and took it down and put it between the dragon's front paws.
"you just purr to it, sir," he said, "and it'll be as good as gold."
so the dragon purred, and his purring pleased the baby so much that it stopped crying.
then john rummaged among the heap of old iron and found there some heavy chains and a great collar that had been made in the days when men sang over their work and put their hearts into it, so that the things they made were strong enough to bear the weight of a thousand years, let alone a dragon.
john fastened the dragon up with the collar and the chains, and when he had padlocked them all on safely he set to work to find out how many rivets would be needed.
"six, eight, ten twenty, forty," said he.
"i haven't half enough rivets in the shop.
if you'll excuse me, sir, i'll step around to another forge and get a few dozen.
i won't be a minute."
and off he went, leaving the baby between the dragon's fore-paws, laughing and crowing with pleasure at the very large purr of it.
john ran as hard as he could into the town, and found the mayor and corporation.
"there's a dragon in my dungeon," he said; "i've chained him up.
now come and help to get my baby away."
and he told them all about it.
but they all happened to have engagements for that evening; so they praised john's cleverness, and said they were quite content to leave the matter in his hands.
"but what about my baby?"
said john.
"oh, well," said the mayor, "if anything should happen, you will always be able to remember that your baby perished in a good cause."
so john went home again, and told his wife some of the tale.
"you've given the baby to the dragon!"
she cried.
"oh, you unnatural parent!"
"hush," said john, and he told her some more.
"now," he said, "i'm going down.
after i've been down you can go, and if you keep your head the boy will be all right."
so down went the blacksmith, and there was the dragon purring away with all his might to keep the baby quiet.
"hurry up, can't you?"
he said.
"i can't keep up this noise all night."
"i'm very sorry, sir," said the blacksmith, "but all the shops are shut.
the job must wait till the morning.
and don't forget you've promised to take care of that baby.
you'll find it a little wearing, i'm afraid.
good night, sir."
the dragon had purred till he was quite out of breath so now he stopped, and as soon as everything was quiet the baby thought everyone must have settled for the night, and that it was time to begin to scream.
so it began.
"oh, dear," said the dragon, "this is awful."
he patted the baby with his claw, but it screamed more than ever.
"and i am so tired too," said the dragon.
"i did so hope i should have a good night."
the baby went on screaming.
"there'll be no peace for me after this," said the dragon.
"it's enough to ruin one's nerves.
hush, then did 'ums, then."
and he tried to quiet the baby as if it had been a young dragon.
but when he began to sing "hush-a-by, dragon," the baby screamed more and more and more.
"i can't keep it quiet," said the dragon; and then suddenly he saw a woman sitting on the steps.
"here, i say," said he, "do you know anything about babies?"
"i do, a little," said the mother.
"then i wish you'd take this one, and let me get some sleep," said the dragon, yawning.
"you can bring it back in the morning before the blacksmith comes."
so the mother picked up the baby and took it upstairs and told her husband, and they went to bed happy, for they had caught the dragon and saved the baby.
and next day john went down and explained carefully to the dragon exactly how matters stood, and he got an iron gate with a grating to it and set it up at the foot of the steps, and the dragon mewed furiously for days and days, but when he found it was no good he was quiet.
so now john went to the mayor, and said: "i've got the dragon and i've saved the town."
"noble preserver," cried the mayor, "we will get up a subscription for you, and crown you in public with a laurel wreath."
so the mayor put his name down for five pounds, and the corporation each gave three, and other people gave their guineas and half guineas and half crowns and crowns, and while the subscription was being made the mayor ordered three poems at his own expense from the town poet to celebrate the occasion.
the poems were very much more admired, especially by the mayor and corporation.
the first poem dealt with the noble conduct of the mayor in arranging to have the dragon tied up.
the second described the splendid assistance rendered by the corporation.
and the third expressed the pride and joy of the poet in being permitted to sing such deeds, beside which the actions of st. george must appear quite commonplace to all with a feeling heart or a well-balanced brain.
when the subscription was finished there was a thousand pounds, and a committee was formed to settle what should be done with it.
a third of it went to pay for a banquet to the mayor and corporation; another third was spent in buying a gold collar with a dragon on it for the mayor and gold medals with dragons on them for the corporation; and what was left went in committee expenses.
so there was nothing for the blacksmith except the laurel wreath and the knowledge that it really was he who had saved the town.
but after this things went a little better with the blacksmith.
to begin with, the baby did not cry so much as it had before.
then the rich lady who owned the goat was so touched by john's noble action that she ordered a complete set of shoes at 2 shillings, 4 pence, and even made it up to 2 shillings, 6 pence, in grateful recognition of his public-spirited conduct.
then tourists used to come in breaks from quite a long way off, and pay twopence each to go down the steps and peep through the iron grating at the rusty dragon in the dungeon and it was threepence extra for each party if the blacksmith let off colored fire to see it by, which, as the fire was extremely short, was twopence-halfpenny clear profit every time.
and the blacksmith's wife used to provide teas at ninepence a head, and altogether things grew brighter week by week.
the baby named john, after his father, and called johnnie for short began presently to grow up.
he was great friends with tina, the daughter of the whitesmith, who lived nearly opposite.
she was a dear little girl with yellow pigtails and blue eyes, and she was tired of hearing the story of how johnnie, when he was a baby, had been minded by a real dragon.
the two children used to go together to peep through the iron grating at the dragon, and sometimes they would hear him mew piteously.
and they would light a halfpenny's worth of colored fire to look at him by.
and they grew older and wiser.
at last one day the mayor and corporation, hunting the hare in their gold gowns, came screaming back to the town gates with the news that a lame, humpy giant, as big as a tin church, was coming over the marshes toward the town.
"we're lost," said the mayor.
"i'd give a thousand pounds to anyone who could keep that giant out of the town.
i know what he eats by his teeth."
no one seemed to know what to do.
but johnnie and tina were listening, and they looked at each other, and ran off as fast as their boots would carry them.
on the third night the brothers said to ivan the simpleton:
"it is thy turn to go to the grave of our father.
the father's will should be done."
"all right," answered ivanoushka.
he took some cookies, put on his sheepskin, and arrived at the grave.
at midnight his father came out.
"who is there?"
he asked.
"i," answered ivanoushka.
"well," said the old father, "my obedient son, thou shalt be rewarded;" and the old man shouted with a mighty voice:
"arise, bay horse thou wind-swift steed,   appear before me in my need;   stand up as in the storm the weed!"
and lo!
ivanoushka the simpleton beheld a horse running, the earth trembling under his hoofs, his eyes like stars, and out of his mouth and ears smoke coming in a cloud.
the horse approached and stood before the old man.
"what is thy wish?"
he asked with a man's voice.
the old man crawled into his left ear, washed and adorned himself, and jumped out of his right ear as a young, brave fellow never seen before.
"now listen attentively," he said.
"to thee, my son, i give this horse.
and thou, my faithful horse and friend, serve my son as thou hast served me."
hardly had the old man pronounced these words when the first cock crew and the sorcerer dropped into his grave.
our simpleton went quietly back home, stretched himself under the icons, and his snoring was heard far around.
"what happened?"
the brothers again asked.
but the simpleton did not even answer; he only waved his hand.
the three brothers continued to live their usual life, the two with cleverness and the younger with foolishness.
they lived a day in and an equal day out.
but one morning there came quite a different day from all others.
they learned that big men were going all over the country with trumpets and players; that those men announced everywhere the will of the tsar, and the tsar's will was this: the tsar pea and the tsaritza carrot had an only daughter, the tsarevna baktriana, heiress to the throne.
she was such a beautiful maiden that the sun blushed when she looked at it, and the moon, altogether too bashful, covered itself from her eyes.
tsar and tsaritza had a hard time to decide to whom they should give their daughter for a wife.
it must be a man who could be a proper ruler over the country, a brave warrior on the battlefield, a wise judge in the council, an adviser to the tsar, and a suitable heir after his death.
they also wanted a bridegroom who was young, brave, and handsome, and they wanted him to be in love with their tsarevna.
that would have been easy enough, but the trouble was that the beautiful tsarevna loved no one.
sometimes the tsar mentioned to her this or that one.
always the same answer, "i do not love him."
the tsaritza tried, too, with no better result; "i do not like him."
a day came when the tsar pea and his tsaritza carrot seriously addressed their daughter on the subject of marriage and said:
"our beloved child, our very beautiful tsarevna baktriana, it is time for thee to choose a bridegroom.
envoys of all descriptions, from kings and tzars and princes, have worn our threshold, drunk dry all the cellars, and thou hast not yet found any one according to thy heart's wish."
the tsarevna answered: "sovereign, and thou, tsaritza, my dear mother, i feel sorry for you, and my wish is to obey your desire.
so let fate decide who is destined to become my husband.
i ask you to build a hall, a high hall with thirty-two circles, and above those circles a window.
i will sit at that window and do you order all kinds of people, tsars, kings, tsarovitchi, korolevitchi, brave warriors, and handsome fellows, to come.
the one who will jump through the thirty-two circles, reach my window and exchange with me golden rings, he it will be who is destined to become my husband, son and heir to you."
the tsar and tsaritza listened attentively to the words of their bright tsarevna, and finally they said: "according to thy wish shall it be done."
in no time the hall was ready, a very high hall adorned with venetian velvets, with pearls for tassels, with golden designs, and thirty-two circles on both sides of the window high above.
envoys went to the different kings and sovereigns, pigeons flew with orders to the subjects to gather the proud and the humble into the town of the tsar pea and his tsaritza carrot.
it was announced everywhere that the one who could jump through the circles, reach the window and exchange golden rings with the tsarevna baktriana, that man would be the lucky one, notwithstanding his rank tsar or free kosack, king or warrior, tsarevitch, korolevitch, or fellow without any kinfolk or country.
the great day arrived.
crowds pressed to the field where stood the newly built hall, brilliant as a star.
up high at the window the tsarevna was sitting, adorned with precious stones, clad in velvet and pearls.
the people below were roaring like an ocean.
the tzar with his tzaritza was sitting upon a throne.
around them were boyars, warriors, and counselors.
the suitors on horseback, proud, handsome, and brave, whistle and ride round about, but looking at the high window their hearts drop.
there were already several fellows who had tried.
each would take a long start, balance himself, spring, and fall back like a stone, a laughing stock for the witnesses.
the brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton were preparing themselves to go to the field also.
the simpleton said to them: "take me along with you."
"thou fool," laughed the brothers; "stay at home and watch the chickens."
"all right," he answered, went to the chicken yard and lay down.
but as soon as the brothers were away, our ivanoushka the simpleton walked to the wide fields and shouted with a mighty voice:
"arise, bay horse thou wind-swift steed,   appear before me in my need;   stand up as in the storm the weed!"
the glorious horse came running.
flames shone out of his eyes; out of his nostrils smoke came in clouds, and the horse asked with a man's voice:
"what is thy wish?"
ivanoushka the simpleton crawled into the horse's left ear, transformed himself and reappeared at the right ear, such a handsome fellow that in no book is there written any description of him; no one has ever seen such a fellow.
he jumped onto the horse and touched his iron sides with a silk whip.
the horse became impatient, lifted himself above the ground, higher and higher above the dark woods below the traveling clouds.
he swam over the large rivers, jumped over the small ones, as well as over hills and mountains.
ivanoushka the simpleton arrived at the hall of the tsarevna baktriana, flew up like a hawk, passed through thirty circles, could not reach the last two, and went away like a whirlwind.
the people were shouting: "take hold of him!
take hold of him!"
the tsar jumped to his feet, the tsaritza screamed.
every one was roaring in amazement.
the brothers of ivanoushka came home and there was but one subject of conversation what a splendid fellow they had seen!
what a wonderful start to pass through the thirty circles!
"brothers, that fellow was i," said ivanoushka the simpleton, who had long since arrived.
"keep still and do not fool us," answered the brothers.
the next day the two brothers were going again to the tsarski show and ivanoushka the simpleton said again: "take me along with you."
"for thee, fool, this is thy place.
be quiet at home and scare sparrows from the pea field instead of the scarecrow."
"all right," answered the simpleton, and he went to the field and began to scare the sparrows.
but as soon as the brothers left home, ivanoushka started to the wide field and shouted out loud with a mighty voice:
"arise, bay horse thou wind-swift steed,   appear before me in my need;   stand up as in the storm the weed!"
and here came the horse, the earth trembling under his hoofs, the sparks flying around, his eyes like flames, and out of his nostrils smoke curling up.
"for what dost thou wish me?"
ivanoushka the simpleton crawled into the left ear of the horse, and when he appeared out of the right ear, oh, my!
what a fellow he was!
even in fairy tales there are never such handsome fellows, to say nothing of everyday life.
ivanoushka lifted himself on the iron back of his horse and touched him with a strong whip.
the noble horse grew angry, made a jump, and went higher than the dark woods, a little below the traveling clouds.
one jump, one mile is behind; a second jump, a river is behind; and a third jump and they were at the hall.
then the horse, with ivanoushka on his back, flew like an eagle, high up into the air, passed the thirty-first circle, failed to reach the last one, and swept away like the wind.
the people shouted: "take hold of him!
take hold of him!"
the tsar jumped to his feet, the tsaritza screamed, the princes and boyars opened their mouths.
the brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton came home.
they were wondering at the fellow.
yes, an amazing fellow indeed!
one circle only was unreached.
"brothers, that fellow over there was i," said ivanoushka to them.
"keep still in thy own place, thou fool," was their sneering answer.
the third day the brothers were going again to the strange entertainment of the tsar, and again ivanoushka the simpleton said to them: "take me along with you."
"fool," they laughed, "there is food to be given to the hogs; better go to them."
"all right," the younger brother answered, and quietly went to the back yard and gave food to the hogs.
but as soon as his brothers had left home our ivanoushka the simpleton hurried to the wide field and shouted out loud:
"arise, bay horse them wind-swift steed,   appear before me in my need;   stand up as in the storm the weed!"
at once the horse came running, the earth trembled; where he stepped there appeared ponds, where his hoofs touched there were lakes, out of his eyes shone flames, out of his ears smoke came like a cloud.
"for what dost thou wish me?"
the horse asked with a man's voice.
ivanoushka the simpleton crawled into his right ear and jumped out of his left one, and a handsome fellow he was.
a young girl could not even imagine such a one.
ivanoushka struck his horse, pulled the bridle tight, and lo!
he flew high up in the air.
the wind was left behind and even the swallow, the sweet, winged passenger, must not aspire to do the same.
our hero flew like a cloud high up into the sky, his silver-chained mail rattling, his fair curls floating in the wind.
he arrived at the tsarevna's high hall, struck his horse once more, and oh!
how the wild horse did jump!
look there!
the fellow reaches all the circles; he is near the window; he presses the beautiful tsarevna with his strong arms, kisses her on the sugar lips, exchanges golden rings, and like a storm sweeps through the fields.
there, there, he is crushing every one on his way!
and the tsarevna?
well, she did not object.
she even adorned his forehead with a diamond star.
the people roared: "take hold of him!"
but the fellow had already disappeared and no traces were left behind.
the tsar pea lost his royal dignity.
the tsaritza carrot screamed louder than ever and the wise counselors only shook their wise heads and remained silent.
the brothers came home talking and discussing the wonderful matter.
"indeed," they shook their heads; "only think of it!
the fellow succeeded and our tsarevna has a bridegroom.
but who is he?
where is he?"
"brothers, the fellow is i," said ivanoushka the simpleton, smiling.
"keep still, i and i ," and the brothers almost slapped him.
the matter proved to be quite serious this time, and the tsar and tsaritza issued an order to surround the town with armed men whose duty it was to let every one enter, but not a soul go out.
every one had to appear at the royal palace and show his forehead.
from early in the morning the crowds were gathering around the palace.
each forehead was inspected, but there was no star on any.
dinner time was approaching and in the palace they even forgot to cover the oak tables with white spreads.
the brothers of ivanoushka had also to show their foreheads and the simpleton said to them:
"take me along with you."
"thy place is right here," they answered, jokingly.
"but say, what is the matter with thy head that thou hast covered it with cloths?
did somebody strike thee?"
"no, nobody struck me.
i, myself, struck the door with my forehead.
the door remained all right, but on my forehead there is a knob."
the brothers laughed and went.
soon after them ivanoushka left home and went straight to the window of the tsarevna, where she sat leaning on the window sill and looking for her betrothed.
"there is our man," shouted the guards, when the simpleton appeared among them.
"show thy forehead.
hast thou the star?"
and they laughed.
ivanoushka the simpleton gave no heed to their bidding, but refused.
the guards were shouting at him and the tsarevna heard the noise and ordered the fellow to her presence.
there was nothing to be done but to take off the cloths.
behold!
the star was shining in the middle of his forehead.
the tsarevna took ivanoushka by the hand, brought him before tsar pea, and said:
"he it is, my tsar and father, who is destined to become my groom, thy son-in-law and heir."
it was too late to object.
the tsar ordered preparations for the bridal festivities, and our ivanoushka the simpleton was wedded to the tsarevna baktriana.
the tsar, the tsaritza, the young bride and groom, and their guests, feasted three days.
there was fine eating and generous drinking.
there were all kinds of amusements also.
the brothers of ivanoushka were created governors and each one received a village and a house.
the story is told in no time, but to live a life requires time and patience.
the brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton were clever men, we know, and as soon as they became rich every one understood it at once, and they themselves became quite sure about it and began to pride themselves, to boast, and to brag.
the humble ones did not dare look toward their homes, and even the boyars had to take off their fur caps on their porches.
once several boyars came to tsar pea and said: "great tsar, the brothers of thy son-in-law are bragging around that they know the place where grows an apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples, and they want to bring this apple tree to thee."
the tsar immediately called the brothers before him and bade them bring at once the wonderful tree, the apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples.
the brothers had ever so many excuses, but the tsar would have his way.
they were given fine horses out of the royal stables and went on their errand.
our friend, ivanoushka the simpleton, found somewhere a lame old horse, jumped on his back facing the tail, and also went.
he went to the wide field, grasped the lame horse by the tail, threw him off roughly, and shouted:
"you crows and magpies, come, come!
there is lunch prepared for you."
this done he ordered his horse, his spirited courser, to appear, and as usual he crawled into one ear, jumped out the other ear and they went where?
toward the east where grew the wonderful apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples.
it grew near silver waters upon golden sand.
when ivanoushka reached the place he uprooted the tree and turned toward home.
his ride was long and he felt tired.
before he arrived at his town ivanoushka pitched his tent and lay down for a rest.
along the same road came his brothers.
the two were proud no more, but rather depressed, not knowing what answer to give the tsar.
they perceived the tent with silver top and near by the wonderful apple tree.
they came nearer and "there is our simpleton!"
exclaimed the brothers.
then they awakened ivanoushka and wanted to buy the apple tree.
they were rich and offered three carts filled with silver.
"well, brothers, this tree, this wonderful apple tree, is not for sale," answered ivanoushka, "but if you wish to obtain it you may.
the price will not be too high, a toe from each right foot."
the brothers thought the matter over and finally decided to give the desired price.
ivanoushka cut the toes off, gave them the apple tree, and the happy brothers brought it to the tsar and there was no end to their bragging.
"here, all-powerful tsar," they said.
"we went far, and had many a trouble on our way, but thy wish is fulfilled."
the tsar pea seemed pleased, ordered a feast, commanded tunes to be played and drums beaten, rewarded the two brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton, each one with a town, and praised them.
the boyars and warriors became furious.
"why," they said to the tsar, "there is nothing wonderful in such an apple tree with golden apples and silver leaves.
the brothers of thy son-in-law are bragging around that they will get thee a pig with golden bristles and silver tusks, and not alone the pig, but also her twelve little ones!"
the tsar called the brothers before him and ordered them to bring the very pig with her golden bristles and silver tusks and her twelve little ones.
the brothers' excuses were not listened to and so they went.
once more the brothers were traveling on a difficult errand, looking for a golden-bristled pig with silver tusks and twelve little pigs.
at that time ivanoushka the simpleton made up his mind to take a trip somewhere.
he put a saddle on a cow, jumped up on her back facing the tail, and left the town.
he came to a field, grasped the cow by the horns, threw her far on the prairie and shouted:
"come, come, you gray wolves and red foxes!
there is a dinner for you!"
then he ordered his faithful horse, crawled into one ear, and jumped out of the other.
master and courser went on an errand, this time toward the south.
one, two, three, and they were in dark woods.
in these woods the wished-for pig was walking around, a golden-bristled pig with silver tusks.
she was eating roots, and after her followed twelve little pigs.
ivanoushka the simpleton threw over the pig a silk rope with a running noose, gathered the little pigs into a basket and went home, but before he reached the town of the tsar pea he pitched a tent with a golden top and lay down for a rest.
on the same road the brothers came along with gloomy faces, not knowing what to say to the tsar.
they saw the tent, and near by the very pig they were searching for, with golden bristles and silver tusks, was fastened with a silk rope; and in a basket were the twelve little pigs.
the brothers looked into the tent.
ivanoushka again!
they awakened him and wanted to trade for the pig; they were ready to give in exchange three carts loaded with precious stones.
"brothers, my pig is not for trade," said ivanoushka, "but if you want her so much, well, one finger from each right hand will pay for her."
the brothers thought over the case for a long while; they reasoned thus: "people live happily without brains, why not without fingers?"
so they allowed ivanoushka to cut off their fingers, then took the pig to the tsar, and their bragging had no end.
"tsar sovereign," they said, "we went everywhere, beyond the blue sea, beyond the dark woods; we passed through deep sands, we suffered hunger and thirst; but thy wish is accomplished."
the tsar was glad to have such faithful servants.
he gave a feast great among feasts, rewarded the brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton, created them big boyars and praised them.
the other boyars and different court people said to the tsar:
"there is nothing wonderful in such a pig.
golden bristles, silver tusks, yes, it is fine.
but a pig remains a pig forever.
the brothers of thy son-in-law are bragging now that they will steal for thee out of the stables of the fiery dragon a mare with golden mane and diamond hoofs."
the tsar at once called the brothers of ivanoushka the simpleton, and ordered the golden-maned mare with the diamond hoofs.
the brothers swore that they never said such words, but the tsar did not listen to their protests.
"take as much gold as you want, take warriors as many as you wish, but bring me the beautiful mare with golden mane and diamond hoofs.
if you do it my reward will be great; if not, your fate is to become peasants as before."
the brothers went, two sad heroes.
their march was slow; where to go they did not know.
ivanoushka also jumped upon a stick and went leaping toward the field.
once in the wide, open field, he ordered his horse, crawled into one ear, came out of the other, and both started for a far-away country, for an island, a big island.
on that island in an iron stable the fiery dragon was watchfully guarding his glory the golden-maned mare with diamond hoofs, which was locked under seven locks behind seven heavy doors.
our ivanoushka journeyed and journeyed, how long we do not know, until at last he arrived at that island, struggled three days with the dragon and killed him on the fourth day.
then he began to tear down the locks.
that took three days more.
when he had done this he brought out the wonderful mare by the golden mane and turned homeward.
the road was long, and before he reached his town ivanoushka, according to his habit, pitched his tent with a diamond top, and laid him down for rest.
the brothers came along gloomy they were, fearing the tsar's anger.
lo!
they heard neighing; the earth trembled it was the golden-maned mare!
though in the dusk of evening the brothers saw her golden mane shining like fire.
they stopped, awakened ivanoushka the simpleton, and wanted to trade for the wonderful mare.
they were willing to give him a bushel of precious stones each and promised even more.
ivanoushka said: "though my mare is not for trade, yet if you want her i'll give her to you.
and you, do you each give me your right ears."
the brothers did not even argue, but let ivanoushka cut off their ears, took hold of the bridle and went directly to the tsar.
they presented to him the golden-maned mare with diamond hoofs, and there was no end of bragging.
"we went beyond seas, beyond mountains," the brothers said to the tsar; "we fought the fiery dragon who bit off our ears and fingers; we had no fear, but one desire to serve thee faithfully; we shed our blood and lost our wealth."
the tsar pea poured gold over them, created them the very highest men after himself, and planned such a feast that the royal cooks were tired out with cooking to feed all the people, and the cellars were fairly emptied.
the tsar pea was sitting on his throne, one brother on his right hand, the other brother on his left hand.
the feast was going on; all seemed jolly, all were drinking, all were noisy as bees in a beehive.
in the midst of it a young, brave fellow, ivanoushka the simpleton, entered the hall the very fellow who had passed the thirty-two circles and reached the window of the beautiful tsarevna baktriana.
when the brothers noticed him, one almost choked himself with wine, the other was suffocating over a piece of swan.
they looked at him, opened wide their eyes, and remained silent.
ivanoushka the simpleton bowed to his father-in-law and told the story as the story was.
he told about the apple tree, the wonderful apple tree with silver leaves and golden apples; he told about the pig, the golden-bristled pig with silver tusks and her twelve little ones; and finally he told about the marvelous mare with a golden mane and diamond hoofs.
he finished and laid out ears, fingers, and toes.
"it is the exchange i got," said ivanoushka.
tsar pea became furious, stamped his feet, ordered the two brothers to be driven away with brooms.
one was sent to feed the pigs, another to watch the turkeys.
the tsar seated ivanoushka beside himself, creating him the highest among the very high.
the feast lasted a very long time until all were tired of feasting.
ivanoushka took control of the tsarstvo, ruling wisely and severely.
after his father-in-law's death he occupied his place.
his subjects liked him; he had many children, and his beautiful tsaritza baktriana remained beautiful forever.
woe bogotir
in a small village do not ask me where; in russia, anyway there lived two brothers; one of them was rich, the other poor.
the rich brother had good luck in everything he undertook, was always successful, and had profit out of every venture.
the poor brother, in spite of all his trouble and all his work, had none whatever.
the rich brother became still richer, moved into a large town, bought a big house, and was a merchant among merchants.
the poor brother became very poor, so poor that very often there was no crust even in the "izba," the peasant's log cabin, and the children all forlorn, miserable little things cried for food.
the poor man lost patience and complained bitterly of his ill luck.
he had no more courage and his head dropped heavily on his breast.
one day he decided to call upon his wealthy brother for aid.
he went and said to him:
"be good, help me, for i am almost without strength."
"why not?"
answered the rich man.
"we can do such things as that.
there is wealth enough; but look here, there is also plenty of work to be done.
stay around the house for a while and work for me."
"all right," consented the poor fellow, and at once began to work.
now he was cleaning the big yard, now grooming horses, now bringing water from the well or splitting wood.
one week passed, two weeks passed.
the rich brother gave him twenty and five copecks, which means only thirteen cents.
he also gave him a loaf of black rye bread.
"many thanks," said the poor brother, humbly, and was ready to leave for his miserable home.
evidently the conscience of the rich brother smote him, so he called his brother back.
"why so prompt?"
he said; "to-morrow is my birthday; stay to the banquet with us."
the poor fellow remained.
but even on such a pleasant occasion the unlucky one had no luck.
his rich brother was too busy receiving his numerous friends and admirers, all of whom came to tell him how they loved him and what a good man he was.
the rich merchant thanked his guests for their love, and bowing low begged his dear guests to eat, drink, and enjoy themselves.
there was no time left for the poor brother, and he was overlooked entirely while he sat timidly in a corner, quite forgotten and unnoticed.
he had nothing to eat, nothing to drink.
but when the crowd was ready to say good-by, before going away, the bright, light-hearted guests bowed to their host and told him many lovely things, and the poor brother did exactly like them.
he bowed even lower than they did and expressed more thanks than they.
the guests went home singing in their new "telegi," the peasants'
carts.
the poor brother, hungry and very sad, walked along in silence, and the idea came to his mind:
"what if i also tried to sing a cheerful song?
the people would believe that i, too, have had a pleasant time at my brother's house and that i am going home happy like them."
the good fellow began his song, began and almost fainted away, for he heard quite distinctly some one behind his back, keeping tune with him in a shrill voice.
he stopped.
the voice stopped, too.
he sang, and the voice continued again.
"who is there?
come out at once!"
shouted the poor man, beside himself.
ha!
the monster appeared, lank and yellow, almost a skeleton, covered with rags.
the poor fellow was afraid, but had the courage to make the sign of the cross and ask: "who art thou?"
"i?
i am bitter woe.
i am one of the russian heroes, woe bogotir.
i pity all weak people.
i pity thee, too, and want to help thee along."
"all right, bitter woe; let us walk together arm in arm.
i presume there are no other friends for me in this world."
"let us ride, good man," laughed the monster.
"i will be thy faithful companion."
"thanks, but on what shall we ride?"
"i do not know on what thou shalt ride, but i, i shall ride on thee,"
and woe jumped on the shoulders of the unlucky man.
the poor fellow had no strength to throw him off, so he crawled along his way, the long, hard way, with woe on his shoulders.
he could hardly walk, yet woe was singing, whistling, and switching him all the time.
"why so sad, master?"
woe would ask, when the poor man sighed.
"listen to me, i want to teach thee a song, my beloved little song:
"i am woe, the brave,   i am woe, the bold;   he who lives with me   has his griefs controlled,   and when money is lacking   i'll find him gold.
attention, master, thou hast twenty-five copecks; let us go and buy some wine; let us have a jolly good time."
the poor man obeyed.
they went and spent all in drink.
after this the unlucky fellow, with the faithful woe on his shoulders, came home.
his wife was sad, his little children were hungry and in tears, but he, under the influence of woe and wine, danced and sang.
on the next day woe began to sigh and said:
"i have a drunken headache.
let us drink more."
"i have no money," answered the poor man.
"hast thou forgotten my little song?
let us trade the harrow, the plow, the sledge, the telega for money, and let us have a good time."
"all right."
the poor, weak man had no courage to refuse, and woe bogotir became his master and ruler.
they went to a kabak and spent everything; drank, sang, and had a good time.
on the next day woe sighed again and said to the peasant:
"let us drink; let us have a jolly time; let us sell or trade everything left, even ourselves."
then the fellow understood that his ruin was near and decided to deceive the sorrowful woe, so he said:
"i once heard the old people say that behind the village, near the dark forest, there is buried a treasure, yes, a great treasure, but it is buried under a large, heavy stone, too heavy a stone for one man to move.
if we could only remove that stone, thou and i, woe bogotir, could have a good time and plenty to drink."
"let us hasten!"
screamed woe; "the bitter woe is strong enough to do harder things than to move stones."
they went a roundabout way behind the village and saw the great big stone, such a heavy stone that five or six strong peasants could never begin to move it.
but our poor fellow with his faithful woe bogotir removed it at once.
they looked inside.
under the stone there was a pit, a dark, deep pit.
at the bottom of that pit something was twinkling.
the peasant said to woe:
"thou bold woe, jump in, throw the gold out to me and i will hold the stone."
woe jumped in and laughed out loud.
"i declare, master," he screamed, "there is no end of gold!
there are twenty and more pots filled with it," and woe handed one pot to the poor man, who took the pot, hastily hid it under his blouse, and slipped the heavy stone into its place.
so bitter woe remained in the deep pit and the peasant thought to himself, "now there is the right place for my comrade, for with such a friend, even gold would taste bitter."
the crafty fellow made the sign of the cross and hurried home.
he became quite a new man, courageous, sober, and industrious; bought a grove and some cattle; remodeled the izba, and even started a trade.
and very successful he was, too.
within a year he earned much money, and in place of the old hut built a fine, new log cabin.
one bright day he went into town to ask his rich brother, with his wife and children, to do him the favor of coming to a feast which was to be given in the new home.
"that's a joke!"
exclaimed the rich brother.
"without a ruble in thy pockets, stupid fellow!
thou evidently desirest to imitate rich people," and then the rich brother laughed and laughed at him.
but at the same time he got very anxious to know how it was with his poor brother, so he went without delay to the new place.
when he arrived there he could not believe his eyes.
his poor brother seemed to be quite rich, perhaps richer than himself.
everything bespoke wealth and care.
the host treated his brother and the brother's family most kindly and was very hospitable.
they had good things to eat and plenty of honey to drink, and all became talkative.
the brother who had been poor related everything about woe, how he decided to deceive him and how, free from such a burden, he was getting to be a very happy man.
the rich man grew eager and thought:
"is he a fool?
out of so many pots, to take only one!
fool and nothing but fool!
if one has money, even the bitter woe is not too bad."
so at once he decided to go in search of the stone, to remove it, to take the treasure, the whole treasure, and to send woe bogotir back to his brother.
no sooner thought than done.
the rich brother said good-by and went away, but did not go to his wealthy home.
no, he hurried to the stone.
he had to toil hard with the heavy stone, but finally moved it just a little, and had not time to look inside when the hidden bogotir had jumped out and onto his shoulders.
the rich man felt a burden, oh, what a heavy burden!
looked around and perceived the hideous monster.
he heard this monster whisper in his ear:
"thou art bright!
thou didst want to let me perish in that pit?
now, dearest, thou wilt not get rid of me; now we shall always be together."
"stupid woe," began the rich man; "it was not i who hid thee under the stone; it was my brother; go to him."
but no, woe would not go.
the monster laughed and laughed.
"all the same, all the same," he answered to the rich man.
"let us remain dear companions."
the rich man went home under the heavy burden of the misery-giving woe.
his wealth was soon lost, but his brother, who knew how to get rid of woe, was prosperous and is prosperous to this day.
baba yaga
somewhere, i cannot tell you exactly where, but certainly in vast russia, there lived a peasant with his wife and they had twins son and daughter.
one day the wife died and the husband mourned over her very sincerely for a long time.
one year passed, and two years, and even longer.
but there is no order in a house without a woman, and a day came when the man thought, "if i marry again possibly it would turn out all right."
and so he did, and had children by his second wife.
the stepmother was envious of the stepson and daughter and began to use them hardly.
she scolded them without any reason, sent them away from home as often as she wished, and gave them scarcely enough to eat.
finally she wanted to get rid of them altogether.
do you know what it means to allow a wicked thought to enter one's heart?
the wicked thought grows all the time like a poisonous plant and slowly kills the good thoughts.
a wicked feeling was growing in the stepmother's heart, and she determined to send the children to the witch, thinking sure enough that they would never return.
"dear children," she said to the orphans, "go to my grandmother who lives in the forest in a hut on hen's feet.
you will do everything she wants you to, and she will give you sweet things to eat and you will be happy."
the orphans started out.
but instead of going to the witch, the sister, a bright little girl, took her brother by the hand and ran to their own old, old grandmother and told her all about their going to the forest.
"oh, my poor darlings!"
said the good old grandmother, pitying the children, "my heart aches for you, but it is not in my power to help you.
you have to go not to a loving grandmother, but to a wicked witch.
now listen to me, my darlings," she continued; "i will give you a hint: be kind and good to everyone; do not speak ill words to any one; do not despise helping the weakest, and always hope that for you, too, there will be the needed help."
the good old grandmother gave the children some delicious fresh milk to drink and to each a big slice of ham.
she also gave them some cookies there are cookies everywhere and when the children departed she stood looking after them a long, long time.
the obedient children arrived at the forest and, oh, wonder!
there stood a hut, and what a curious one!
it stood on tiny hen's feet, and at the top was a rooster's head.
with their shrill, childish voices they called out loud:
"izboushka, izboushka!
turn thy back to the forest and thy front to us!"
the hut did as they commanded.
the two orphans looked inside and saw the witch resting there, her head near the threshold, one foot in one corner, the other foot in another corner, and her knees quite close to the ridge pole.
"fou, fou, fou!"
exclaimed the witch; "i feel the russian spirit."
the children were afraid, and stood close, very close together, but in spite of their fear they said very politely:
"ho, grandmother, our stepmother sent us to thee to serve thee."
"all right; i am not opposed to keeping you, children.
if you satisfy all my wishes i shall reward you; if not, i shall eat you up."
without any delay the witch ordered the girl to spin the thread, and the boy, her brother, to carry water in a sieve to fill a big tub.
the poor orphan girl wept at her spinning-wheel and wiped away her bitter tears.
at once all around her appeared small mice squeaking and saying:
"sweet girl, do not cry.
give us cookies and we will help thee."
the little girl willingly did so.
"now," gratefully squeaked the mice, "go and find the black cat.
he is very hungry; give him a slice of ham and he will help thee."
the girl speedily went in search of the cat and saw her brother in great distress about the tub, so many times he had filled the sieve, yet the tub was still dry.
the little birds passed, flying near by, and chirped to the children:
"kind-hearted little children, give us some crumbs and we will advise you."
the orphans gave the birds some crumbs and the grateful birds chirped again:
"some clay and water, children dear!"
then away they flew through the air.
the children understood the hint, spat in the sieve, plastered it up with clay and filled the tub in a very short time.
then they both returned to the hut and on the threshold met the black cat.
they generously gave him some of the good ham which their good grandmother had given them, petted him and asked:
"dear kitty-cat, black and pretty, tell us what to do in order to get away from thy mistress, the witch?"
"well," very seriously answered the cat, "i will give you a towel and a comb and then you must run away.
when you hear the witch running after you, drop the towel behind your back and a large river will appear in place of the towel.
if you hear her once more, throw down the comb and in place of the comb there will appear a dark wood.
this wood will protect you from the wicked witch, my mistress."
baba yaga came home just then.
"is it not wonderful?"
she thought; "everything is exactly right."
"well," she said to the children, "today you were brave and smart; let us see to-morrow.
your work will be more difficult and i hope i shall eat you up."
the poor orphans went to bed, not to a warm bed prepared by loving hands, but on the straw in a cold corner.
nearly scared to death from fear, they lay there, afraid to talk, afraid even to breathe.
the next morning the witch ordered all the linen to be woven and a large supply of firewood to be brought from the forest.
the children took the towel and comb and ran away as fast as their feet could possibly carry them.
the dogs were after them, but they threw them the cookies that were left; the gates did not open themselves, but the children smoothed them with oil; the birch tree near the path almost scratched their eyes out, but the gentle girl fastened a pretty ribbon to it.
so they went farther and farther and ran out of the dark forest into the wide, sunny fields.
the cat sat down by the loom and tore the thread to pieces, doing it with delight.
baba yaga returned.
"where are the children?"
she shouted, and began to beat the cat.
"why hast thou let them go, thou treacherous cat?
why hast thou not scratched their faces?"
the cat answered: "well, it was because i have served thee so many years and thou hast never given me a bite, while the dear children gave me some good ham."
the witch scolded the dogs, the gates, and the birch tree near the path.
"well," barked the dogs, "thou certainly art our mistress, but thou hast never done us a favor, and the orphans were kind to us."
the gates replied:
"we were always ready to obey thee, but thou didst neglect us, and the dear children smoothed us with oil."
the birch tree lisped with its leaves, "thou hast never put a simple thread over my branches and the little darlings adorned them with a pretty ribbon."
baba yaga understood that there was no help and started to follow the children herself.
in her great hurry she forgot to look for the towel and the comb, but jumped astride a broom and was off.
the children heard her coming and threw the towel behind them.
at once a river, wide and blue, appeared and watered the field.
baba yaga hopped along the shore until she finally found a shallow place and crossed it.
again the children heard her hurry after them and so they threw down the comb.
this time a forest appeared, a dark and dusky forest in which the roots were interwoven, the branches matted together, and the tree-tops touching each other.
the witch tried very hard to pass through, but in vain, and so, very, very angry, she returned home.
the orphans rushed to their father, told him all about their great distress, and thus concluded their pitiful story:
"ah, father dear, why dost thou love us less than our brothers and sisters?"
the father was touched and became angry.
he sent the wicked stepmother away and lived a new life with his good children.
from that time he watched over their happiness and never neglected them any more.
how do i know this story is true?
why, one was there who told me about it.
dimian the peasant
not long ago, or perchance very long ago, i do not know for sure, there lived in a village, some place in russia, a peasant a moujik.
and this peasant was a stubborn and a quick-tempered fellow, and his name was dimian.
he was harsh by nature, this dimian, and wanted everything to go his own way.
if any one talked or acted against him, dimian's fists were soon prepared for answer.
sometimes, for instance, he would invite one of his neighbors and treat his guest with fine things to eat and to drink.
and the neighbor in order to maintain the old custom would pretend to refuse.
dimian would at once begin the dispute:
"thou must obey thy host!"
once it happened that a shrewd fellow called on him.
our moujik dimian covered the table with the very best he had and rejoiced over the good time he foresaw.
the fellow guest speedily ate everything up.
dimian was rather amazed, but brought out his kaftan.
"take off thy sheepskin," said he to the guest; "put on my new kaftan."
in proposing it he thought within himself:
"i will bet that this time he will not dare accept; then i will teach him a lesson."
but the fellow quickly put on the new kaftan, tightened it with the belt, shook his curly head and answered:
"have my thanks, uncle, for thy gift.
how could i dare not take it?
why, one must obey his host's bidding."
dimian's temper was rising, and he wanted at any rate to have his own way.
but what to do?
he hastened to the stable, brought out his best horse, and said to his guest:
"thou art welcome to all my belongings," and within himself he thought, "he certainly will refuse this time, and then my turn will come."
but the fellow did not refuse, and smilingly answered:
"in thy house thou art the ruler," and quickly he jumped on the horse's back and shouted to dimian, the peasant:
"farewell, master!
no one pushed thee into the trap but thyself," and with these words the fellow was off.
dimian looked after him and shook his head.
"well, i struck a snag," said he.
the golden mountain
once upon a time a merchant's son had too much fun spending money, and the day came when he saw himself ruined; he had nothing to eat, nothing to drink.
he took a shovel and went to the market place to see if perchance somebody would hire him as a worker.
a rich, proud merchant, worth many, many thousands, came along in a gilded carriage.
all the fellows at the market place, as soon as they perceived him, rushed away and hid themselves in the corners.
only one remained, and this one was our merchant's son.
"dost thou look for work, good fellow?
let me hire thee," the very rich merchant said to him.
"so be it; that's what i came here for."
"and thy price?"
"a hundred rubles a day will be sufficient for me."
"why so much?"
"if too much, go and look for some one else; plenty of people were around and when they saw thee coming, all of them rushed away."
"all right.
to-morrow come to the landing place."
the next day, early in the morning, our merchant's son arrived at the landing; the very rich merchant was already there waiting.
they boarded a ship and went to sea.
for quite a long time they journeyed, and finally they perceived an island.
upon that island there were high mountains, and near the shore something seemed to be in flames.
"yonder is something like fire," said the merchant's son.
"no, it is my golden palace."
they landed, came ashore, and look there!
the rich merchant's wife is hastening to meet him, and along with her their young daughter, a lovely girl, prettier than you could think or even dream of.
the family met; they greeted one another and went to the palace.
and along with them went their new workman.
they sat around the oak table and ate and drank and were cheerful.
"one day does not count," the rich merchant said; "let us have a good time and leave work for to-morrow."
the young workman was a fine, brave fellow, handsome and stately, and the merchant's lovely daughter liked him well.
she left the room and made him a sign to follow her.
then she gave him a touchstone and a flint.
"take it," she said; "when thou art in need, it will be useful."
the next day the very rich merchant with his hired workman went to the high golden mountain.
the young fellow saw at once that there was no use trying to climb or even to crawl up.
"well," said the merchant, "let us have a drink for courage."
and he gave the fellow some drowsy drink.
the fellow drank and fell asleep.
the rich merchant took out a sharp knife, killed a wretched horse, cut it open, put the fellow inside, pushed in the shovel, and sewed the horse's skin together, and himself sat down in the bushes.
all at once crows came flying, black crows with iron beaks.
they took hold of the carcass, lifted it up to the top of the high mountain, and began to pick at it.
the crows soon ate up the horse and were about to begin on the merchant's son, when he awoke, pushed away the crows, looked around and asked out loud:
"where am i?"
the rich merchant below answered:
"on a golden mountain; take the shovel and dig for gold."
and the young man dug and dug, and all the gold he dug he threw down, and the rich merchant loaded it upon the carts.
"enough!"
finally shouted the master.
"thanks for thy help.
farewell!"
"and i how shall i get down?"
"as thou pleasest; there have already perished nine and ninety of such fellows as thou.
with thee the count will be rounded and thou wilt be the hundredth."
the proud, rich merchant was off.
"what shall i do?"
thought the poor merchant's son.
"impossible to go down!
but to stay here means death, a cruel death from hunger."
and our fellow stood upon the mountain, while above the black crows were circling, the black crows with iron beaks, as if feeling already the prey.
the fellow tried to think how it all happened, and he remembered the lovely girl and what she said to him in giving him the touchstone and the flint.
he remembered how she said:
"take it.
when thou art in need it will prove useful."
"i fancy she had something in mind; let us try."
the poor merchant's son took out stone and flint, struck it once and lo!
two brave fellows were standing before him.
"what is thy wish?
what are thy commands?"
said they.
"take me from this mountain down to the seashore."
and at once the two took hold of him and carefully brought him down.
our hero walks along the shore.
see there!
a vessel comes sailing near the island.
"ahoy!
good people!
take me along!"
"no time to stop!"
and they went sailing by.
but the winds arose and the tempest was heavy.
"it seems as if this fellow over there is not an ordinary man; we had better go back and take him along," decided the sailors.
they turned the prow toward the island, landed, took the merchant's son along with them and brought him to his native town.
it was a long time, or perhaps only a short time after who could tell?
that one day the merchant's son took again his shovel and went to the market place in search of work.
the same very rich merchant came along in his gilded carriage; and, as of old, all the fellows who saw him coming rushed away.
the merchant's son remained alone.
"will you be my workman?"
"i will at two hundred rubles a day.
if so, let us to work."
"a rather expensive fellow."
"if too expensive go to others; get a cheap man.
there were plenty of people, but when thou didst appear thou seest thyself not one is left."
"well, all right.
come to-morrow to the landing place."
they met at the landing place, boarded a ship and sailed toward the island.
the first day they spent rather gayly, and on the second, master and workman went to work.
when they reached the golden mountain the rich, proud merchant treated his hired man to a tumbler.
"before all, have a drink."
"wait, master!
thou art the head; thou must drink the first.
let me treat thee this time."
the young man had already prepared some of the drowsy stuff and he quickly mixed it with the wine and presented it to the master.
the proud merchant drank and fell sound asleep.
our merchant's son killed a miserable old horse, cut it open, pushed his master and the shovel inside, sewed it all up and hid himself in the bushes.
all at once black crows came flying, black crows with iron beaks; they promptly lifted up the horse with the sleeping merchant inside, bore it to the top of the mountain, and began to pick the bones of their prey.
when the merchant awoke he looked here and looked there and looked everywhere.
"where am i?"
"upon the golden mountain.
now if thou art strong after thy rest, do not lose time; take the shovel and dig.
dig quickly and i'll teach thee how to come down."
the proud, rich merchant had to obey and dug and dug.
twelve big carts were loaded.
"enough!"
shouted the merchant's son.
"thank thee, and farewell!"
"and i?"
"and thou mayst do as thou wishest!
there are already ninety and nine fellows perished before thee; with thyself there will be a hundred."
the merchant's son took along with him the twelve heavy carts with gold, arrived at the golden palace and married the lovely girl; the rich merchant's daughter became mistress of all her father's wealth, and the merchant's son with his family moved to a large town to live.
and the rich merchant, the proud, rich merchant?
he himself, like his many victims, became the prey of the black crows, black crows with iron beaks.
well, sometimes it happens just so.
father frost
in a far-away country, somewhere in russia, there lived a stepmother who had a stepdaughter and also a daughter of her own.
her own daughter was dear to her, and always whatever she did the mother was the first to praise her, to pet her; but there was but little praise for the stepdaughter; although good and kind, she had no other reward than reproach.
what on earth could have been done?
the wind blows, but stops blowing at times; the wicked woman never knows how to stop her wickedness.
one bright cold day the stepmother said to her husband:
"now, old man, i want thee to take thy daughter away from my eyes, away from my ears.
thou shalt not take her to thy people into a warm izba.
thou shalt take her into the wide, wide fields to the crackling frost."
the old father grew sad, began even to weep, but nevertheless helped the young girl into the sleigh.
he wished to cover her with a sheepskin in order to protect her from the cold; however, he did not do it.
he was afraid; his wife was watching them out of the window.
and so he went with his lovely daughter into the wide, wide fields; drove her nearly to the woods, left her there alone, and speedily drove away he was a good man and did not care to see his daughter's death.
alone, quite alone, remained the sweet girl.
broken-hearted and terror-stricken she repeated fervently all the prayers she knew.
father frost, the almighty sovereign at that place, clad in furs, with a long, long, white beard and a shining crown on his white head, approached nearer and nearer, looked at this beautiful guest of his and asked:
"dost thou know me?
me, the red-nosed frost?"
"be welcome, father frost," answered gently the young girl.
"i hope our heavenly lord sent thee for my sinful soul."
"art thou comfortable, sweet child?"
again asked the frost.
he was exceedingly pleased with her looks and mild manners.
"indeed i am," answered the girl, almost out of breath from cold.
and the frost, cheerful and bright, kept crackling in the branches until the air became icy, but the good-natured girl kept repeating:
"i am very comfortable, dear father frost."
but the frost, however, knew all about the weakness of human beings; he knew very well that few of them are really good and kind; but he knew no one of them even could struggle too long against the power of frost, the king of winter.
the kindness of the gentle girl charmed old frost so much that he made the decision to treat her differently from others, and gave her a large heavy trunk filled with many beautiful, beautiful things.
he gave her a rich "schouba" lined with precious furs; he gave her silk quilts light like feathers and warm as a mother's lap.
what a rich girl she became and how many magnificent garments she received!
and besides all, old frost gave her a blue "sarafan" ornamented with silver and pearls.
when the young girl put it on she became such a beautiful maiden that even the sun smiled at her.
the stepmother was in the kitchen busy baking pancakes for the meal which it is the custom to give to the priests and friends after the usual service for the dead.
"now, old man," said the wife to the husband, "go down to the wide fields and bring the body of thy daughter; we will bury her."
the old man went off.
and the little dog in the corner wagged his tail and said:
"bow-wow!
bow-wow!
the old man's daughter is on her way home, beautiful and happy as never before, and the old woman's daughter is wicked as ever before."
"keep still, stupid beast!"
shouted the stepmother, and struck the little dog.
"here, take this pancake, eat it and say, 'the old woman's daughter will be married soon and the old man's daughter shall be buried soon.'"
the dog ate the pancake and began anew:
"bow-wow!
bow-wow!
the old man's daughter is coming home wealthy and happy as never before, and the old woman's daughter is somewhere around as homely and wicked as ever before."
the old woman was furious at the dog, but in spite of pancakes and whipping, the dog repeated the same words over and over again.
somebody opened the gate, voices were heard laughing and talking outside.
the old woman looked out and sat down in amazement.
the stepdaughter was there like a princess, bright and happy in the most beautiful garments, and behind her the old father had hardly strength enough to carry the heavy, heavy trunk with the rich outfit.
"old man!"
called the stepmother, impatiently; "hitch our best horses to our best sleigh, and drive my daughter to the very same place in the wide, wide fields."
the old man obeyed as usual and took his stepdaughter to the same place and left her alone.
old frost was there; he looked at his new guest.
"art thou comfortable, fair maiden?"
asked the red-nosed sovereign.
"let me alone," harshly answered the girl; "canst thou not see that my feet and my hands are about stiff from the cold?"
the frost kept crackling and asking questions for quite a while, but obtaining no polite answer became angry and froze the girl to death.
"old man, go for my daughter; take the best horses; be careful; do not upset the sleigh; do not lose the trunk."
and the little dog in the corner said:
"bow-wow!
bow-wow!
the old man's daughter will marry soon; the old woman's daughter shall be buried soon."
"do not lie.
here is a cake; eat it and say, 'the old woman's daughter is clad in silver and gold.'"
the gate opened, the old woman ran out and kissed the stiff frozen lips of her daughter.
she wept and wept, but there was no help, and she understood at last that through her own wickedness and envy her child had perished.
snow-white
the house.
the house was so well hidden, one might almost stumble against it before one became aware of it.
all round the woods stood tall and dense, old woods of pine and hemlock, with here and there great smooth, squat beeches, and ragged, glistening yellow birches.
for the most part they jostled one another so close that one almost fancied they must be uncomfortable; but in one spot they fell away from a steep, rocky bank or ledge, drawing back and standing in a circle at some little distance, leaving an open space of sunny green, at the foot of the rock.
it was on this open space that the house looked; and as the house was built of stone, and leaned up against the ledge behind it, one could hardly tell where man's hand had begun, or where left off.
the stones might almost have been flung together by a boy at play; yet, rough as they were, they fitted close, and kept the weather out.
the roof was of bark; the whole thing was half-covered with creepers that made their way down in a leisurely fashion from the ledge above, not too inquisitive, but still liking to know what was going on.
to this end they looked in at the windows, which stood open all summer long, and saw many things which must have surprised them.
the squirrels went in boldly, several times a day; so did the birds, the braver of them; and all came out looking pleased with themselves and with things in general.
so there was necessarily something or somebody pleasant inside the house.
i said that the trees stood well back from the house in the wood.
i ought to have excepted three, a stately pine, and two glorious yellow birches, which stood close to it, as close as might be.
in fact, part of the hut seemed to be built round the bole of the pine, which disappeared for several feet, as if the stones had clasped it in a rough embrace, and refused to let go their hold.
the birches were a few feet from the door, but near enough for one to lean out of window and pull off the satin fringes.
their roots swelled out above the ground, and twisted themselves into curves that might make a delightful seat, under the green bending canopy, through whose waving folds the trunk glistened like a giant prince of rags and tatters.
in the centre of the tiny glade stood a buttonwood-tree, whose vast girth seemed curiously out of proportion to its surroundings.
the pine and the birches were noble trees; all the forest round was full of towering stems and knotted, powerful branches; but beside the great buttonwood, they seemed like sturdy dwarfs.
if there had been any one to measure the trunk, he would have found a girth of twenty-five feet or more, near the base; while above the surrounding forest, it towered a hundred feet and more in air.
at a height of twelve or fifteen feet appeared an opening, two or three feet in diameter.
a hollow?
surely!
not so large as that in the lycian plane-tree, where licinius mucianus dined with nineteen companions, yes, and slept too, and enjoyed himself immensely, but large enough to hold two or three persons with all comfort, if not convenience.
as for the number of squirrels it might hold, that was past counting; they were running in and out all day long, and made such a noise that they disturbed the woodpeckers, and made them irritable on a hot day.
there never was such a wood for birds!
partly from its great age, partly from favourable accidents of soil and aspect, it had accumulated an unusual variety of trees; and any bird, looking about for a good building site, was sure of finding just the particular tree he liked best, with building materials, food, and every other requisite to heart's desire.
so the trees rustled and quivered with wings, and rang with song, all day long, except in the hot sleepy noons, when most respectable birds keep within nests, and only the woodthrush from time to time sends out his few perfect notes, to show that all times are alike to the true singer.
not content with the forest itself, some families i think they were ruby-crowned wrens and bluebirds had made their nests in the creepers that matted the roof of the hut with green; and the great buttonwood was a positive metropolis, densely populated with titmice, warblers, and flycatchers of every description.
if anybody lived in the stone hut, he would not want for company, what with the birds and the squirrels, and the woodchucks that came and went across the little green as unconcernedly as if it were their own front dooryard.
decidedly, the inhabitant, if there were one, must be of kin to the wildwood creatures, for his dwelling and its surroundings evidently belonged as much to the forest people as to him.
on the day when my story begins, the house in the wood was the only lifeless thing, or so it seemed, in the whole joyous little scene.
it was a day in early may, and the world was so delighted with itself that it laughed and twinkled all over.
the trees were hardly yet in full leaf, but had the gray-green misty look of spring, that makes one see erl-könig's daughters shimmering in every willow, and rustling out of sight behind the white birch-trunks.
the great buttonwood had put out its leaves, covered with thick white down; the air was full of sweet smells, for it had rained in the night, and wet leaves, pine needles, new ferns, and a hundred other lovely awakening things, made the air a life-giving ether.
the little green was starred with anemones and eyebrights; under the cool of the trees one might see other things glimmering, exquisite shadowy forms, hepaticas, were they, or fairies in purple and gray fur?
one felt the presence of mayflowers, though one could not see them unless one went close and pulled away the brown dry leaves; then the lovely rosy creatures would peep out and laugh, as only mayflowers can when they play at hide and seek.
there seemed to be a robin party going on under the buttonwood-tree.
a dozen of them or more were running and hopping and strutting about, with their breasts well forward, doing amazing things in the matter of worms.
yes, it must surely have rained in the night, or there could not have been such a worm-harvest.
there seemed almost to be enough for the robins, and any one who knows robins is aware that this is an extravagant statement.
the titmice had apparently not been invited; they sat in the branches and looked on, or hopped and ran about their green leafy city.
there was no need for them to travel all that distance to the ground; besides, they considered worms vulgar and coarse food.
a self-respecting titmouse, who provides over two hundred grubs a day for himself and his family, may well be content to live in his own city, the murmuring, rustling place where grubs lie close on the bough and under the bark, and where flies are ready for the bill; he has no need to pierce the friendly earth, and drag up her unsightly creeping things, to swallow piecemeal.
a titmouse has his opinion of robins, though he is on intimate terms with most birds in the forest.
now and then some sudden wave of instinct or purpose would run through all the great army of birds, those in the buttonwood city, the robins struggling on the green, and far in the dim forest depths thrush and song-sparrow and warbler.
first a stray note here and there, setting the pitch, it might be; then, fuller and fuller, a chorus, rising high and higher, fluting, trilling, whistling, singing away like mad, every little ruffled throat of them all.
praise, was it, or profession of belief, or simply of joy of being alive and able to sing under green leaves and summer sun?
but even these outbursts of rapture did not rouse the house in the wood.
it lay there in the morning glory, gray, silent, senseless, crouched against the wall of rock behind it.
the child.
the child had grown tired of the road.
at first it had been delightful to patter along in the soft white dust, leaving the print of her feet so clear behind her.
she might be a hundred little girls, she thought, instead of one.
the prints reached away back, as far as she could see, hundreds and hundreds of little trotty feet, each with its toes marked as plain as if you drew them with a pencil.
and the dust felt soft and smooth, and when you put your foot down it went up puff in the air, and made little clouds; only when it got in your throat it made you cough and sneeze, and it was gritty in your eyes, too.
by and by, as i said, she grew tired of this, and it was a new joy to see the little river that came running along just then.
"running and running, without any feet;     running and running, and isn't it sweet!"
that was what the child sang, for she had a way of singing when she was alone.
without hesitating, she plumped into the river, and the water was cool and delicious to her hot little toes.
she walked along, holding her petticoats high, though there was no need of that, as they were short enough before; splashing just enough to make silver sparkles at every step.
the river did not seem to grow deeper; it was just precisely made to wade in, the child thought.
for some way the banks were fringed with meadow-rue, and she had to stop every little while to admire the fluffy white blossoms, and the slender, graceful stems.
then came alders, stubby and thick, with last year's berries still clinging here and there to the black twigs.
then, somehow, all at once there began to be trees along by the river side.
the child had been so absorbed in making sparkles and shouting at them, she had forgotten the banks for awhile; now, when she looked up, there was no more meadow-rue.
trees came crowding down to the water's edge; trees were all about her, ranks upon ranks of them; wherever she looked, she saw only green rustling tents and waving curtains.
"i am in a woods!"
said the child.
she laughed aloud at the idea, and looked round again, full of joy and wonder.
it was pretty enough, surely.
the woods were not so thick but that sunbeams could find their way down through the branches, dappling the green gloom with fairy gold.
here and there the gold lay on the river, too, and that was a wonderful thing, handfuls of gold and diamonds flung down from the sky, shimmering and sparkling on a crystal floor; but in other places the water slept still and black in the shadow, only broken where a stone humped itself out, shining and mossy, with the silver breaking over it and running down with cheerful babblings into the soft blackness below.
by and by there was a stone so big that its top stood out dry and brown above the water.
it was a flat top, and the child sat down on it, and gathered her petticoats about her, and let her feet rest in the cool flowing.
that was a great pleasure, to be really part of the brook, or of the rock.
she laughed aloud, suddenly, and kicked a little; till the bright drops flew over her head; then she began to sing and talk, both together.
"and i comed away,     and i runned away,     and i said i thought i did not     want to stay!
"well, and if miss tyler won't be surprised!
she will say 'oh, dear me!
where is that child?'
and then she will look everywhere, and everywhere, and everywhere, and i won't be nowhere!"
she broke out into a funny little bubbling laugh, and the brook laughed in almost exactly the same way, so that the child nodded at it, and kicked up the sparkles again, to show her appreciation.
"and then they will send out all over the village, and everybody will say, 'oh, yes, we seed that child.
we seed her going into the store, and we seed her going into the house, and we seed her running about all over the place.'
yes!
but, nobody seed me run, and nobody seed me go, and nobody don't know nothing, and nothing don't nobody know!"
and she bubbled again.
this time a green frog came up out of the water and looked at her, and said "croak," in an inquisitive tone.
"why did i?"
said the child, looking at him sidewise.
"well, if i tell, won't you tell anybody, never no more?
honest injun?
well, then, i won't tell you!
i don't tell things to frogs!"
she splashed a great splash, and the frog departed in anger.
"huh!"
said the child.
"he was noffin but an old frog.
he wasn't a fairy; though there was the frog prince, you know."
she frowned thoughtfully, but soon shook her head.
"no, that wasn't him, i'm sure it wasn't.
he'd have had gold spots on his green, and this frog hadn't a single one, he hadn't.
he wasn't a prince; i'd know a frog that was a prince, minute i seed him, i 'spect.
and he'd say:
"'king's daughter youngest, open the door!'
"and then i would, and he would come in, and and i'd put him in miss tyler's plate, and wouldn't she yellup and jump?
and mamma "
here the child suddenly looked grave.
"mamma!"
she repeated, "mamma.
well, she went away and left me first, and that was how it was.
when you leave this kinds of child alone, it runs away, that's what it does; and miss tylers isn't any kind of persons to leave this kinds of child wiz, anyhow, and so i told them at first.
"and i comed away,     and i runned away,     and i said i thought i did not     want to stay!
and they teared their hair,     and they made despair,     and and
and i said i thought perhaps i did not care!
"that's a long one.
when i come to some fairies i'll make more.
when i am big, i'll talk that way all the time, wiz poetry in it."
she was silent for a few minutes, watching the bubbles that came sailing down the stream.
most of the way they were clear like glass, with a little rim of foam where they joined on, she thought; but when they came to a certain place, where a shaft of yellow light came down and made sparkles on the water, every bubble turned rainbow colour, most beautiful.
only, some of them would go the wrong way, over into the shadow.
"hi!"
she shouted to them.
"come over here and be rainbows!
you are a stupid, you are!
if i was a bubble, i would know enough to come to the right place, and be a rainbow, yes, i would.
i'll kick you, old bubble, if you go there!"
stretching out her foot, she stretched it a little too far, and sat down in the stream with a souse.
she scrambled out hastily, but this time on the bank.
she had had enough of the brook, and was red with anger.
"you needn't have your old stones so slippery!"
she said.
"i needn't have sat on your old stone, anyhow, but i thought it might be pleased.
and my feet was cold, and i won't stay there any more, not a single minute, so you can make all the noise you want to, and noffin but frogs will stay in you, and not prince frogs one bit, only just common ones, so now!"
she shook her head at the brook, and turned away.
then she turned back again, and her baby forehead clouded.
"see here!"
said the child.
"i 'spect i'm lost."
there seemed no doubt about that.
there was no sign of a path anywhere.
the still trees came crowding down to the water's edge, sometimes leaning far over, so that their drooping branches met across the still pools.
on every side were green arcades, long reaches of shimmering leaves, cool deeps of fern; nothing else.
the child had never known fear, and it did not come to her now.
she reflected for a moment; then her brow cleared.
"i must find a house in the wood!"
she announced to the brook.
she spoke with decision, and cheerfulness reigned in her mind.
of course there was a house somewhere; there always was, in every wood.
sometimes two children lived in it, and the brother was a white fawn all day, and turned into a boy at night; that would be fun!
and sometimes it was an old woman oh, dear, yes, but sometimes that old woman was a witch, and put you in a chicken-coop, and ate you up when you were fat.
yes; but you would know that house, because it was all made of candy and pancakes and things, and you could just run round behind it, and pull off some pancakes from the shed, p'r'aps, and then run away as fast as ever you could, and old womans couldn't run half so fast as children, and so!
but the best house, on the whole, would be the dwarf house.
yes, that was the one to look for.
the house where seven dwarfs lived, and they had the table all ready set when you came, and you took a little out of one bowl, and a little out of another cup; and then they came in and found you asleep, and said, "who is this sweet maiden?"
and then you stayed and cooked for them, just like snow-white, and and it was just lovely!
"well, i wish it would be pretty soon!"
said the child.
"i'm pretty hungry, i 'spect p'raps."
she was a brave child; she was hungry, and her legs and feet ached; but she pushed on cheerfully, sometimes talking and singing, sometimes silent, making her way through the tangle of ferns and hanging branches; following the brook, because there was a little boy in the newspaper that her papa read, and he got lost, and just he followed the brook, and it brought him right along to where there were people, and he had blackberries all the way.
she looked for blackberries, but they are hard to find in early may, except in the fairy books.
there, as the child knew very well, you had only to go to the right place and take a broom and brush away the snow, and there you found strawberries, the finest that ever were seen, to take home to your sick sister.
it was true that you had to be very good and polite to the proper old woman, or else you would never find the strawberries; but the child would be polite, she truly would.
she would sweep the old woman's house, and give her half her own bread only she had no bread!
here a great pang of emptiness smote the child; she felt that there was a sob about somewhere, waiting to get into her throat.
it should not come in; she shook her head, and pressed on.
it was all right; god was close by, anyhow, and he had to take care of children, because he said he would.
so it was all right, only
suddenly the child stopped; for it was all right.
she had found the house in the wood.
standing breast-high in ferns, she looked away from the brook; and there was a break in the trees, and beyond the break a space of sunny green, with a huge tree in the middle; and on the farther side the house itself.
gray and silent; leaning against a great rock-face behind it; the door shut, but the windows standing wide open; the roof all green and blossoming, like a queer little garden place, there it was, exactly the way it was in the fairy books.
the child saw at once that there was no danger of cannibal old women here.
this house was not made of pancakes, and the windows were not barley sugar at all, but plain glass.
no, this was the house of the seven dwarfs; and she was really in a fairy story, and she was going to have the best time she had ever had in her life.
the child stood quiet for a few minutes, looking in pure delight.
perhaps one of the dwarfs would come out.
she thought she might feel a little shy if one were to come out just this very minute.
then she remembered that they must all be out at work in the forest, for they always were, and they did not come back till night.
"well, i can't wait!"
she said, decidedly.
"first place, snow-white didn't, not a minute she didn't wait.
and besides, i'm too hungry, and i s'pose everything is ready and waiting inside, and so i'll go."
she advanced boldly across the green, but paused again at the door.
no sound came from the house.
the creepers waved on the roof, the birds made an amazed and amazing chatter in the great buttonwood-tree; but that was all.
the child pushed the door, the latch yielded, and the door swung slowly open.
two steps, and she stood inside.
even the very bravest child may be excused for feeling a little strange in such a house as this.
she felt her heart beating in her ears, and her throat was dry; but as she looked about her, everything was so perfectly right that her sense of fitness asserted itself once more, and she was content and glad.
the room in which she stood was not large, except for dwarfs; for them it would be a great hall.
it was floored and walled with clean, shining wood, and there were two doors, one at either end.
there was an open fire-place, in which two black iron dogs with curly tails held up some logs of wood that were smouldering and purring in a comfortable way, as if they had been lighted more for pleasure than for warmth.
near the fire stood an easy-chair, and another chair was drawn up by a table that stood in the window.
it was on seeing this table that the child began to fear all was not quite right.
it was a neat little table, just about high enough for dwarfs, if they were not very short dwarfs; it was laid with a snowy cloth, as they always are; but where were the seven places?
there was only one at this table.
there was a plate, a knife and fork, a cup and saucer, a little loaf of bread and a little pat of butter, a pitcher of milk, and a comb of golden honey.
what did this mean?
"well, i can't help it," said the child, suddenly.
"if they is gone away all but one of them, i can't help it; they shouldn't play that way, and i'm hungry.
just i'll take a little bit, as snow-white did.
just that's what i'll do!"
she seated herself at the table, and poured some milk into the cup.
oh, how good it was!
she broke off a bit of bread, and nibbled it; her spirits rose, and she began to feel again that she was having the most splendid time that ever was.
she broke out into her song
"and i comed away,     and i runned away,     and i said i thought i did not "
then she stopped, for the door of the further room opened quietly, and the dwarf came in.
the man.
the child's song broke off in a little scream, for things are sometimes startling even when you have been expecting them; but the scream bubbled into a laugh.
"ah!
i i mean i'm laughing because you look so funny.
i took some bread and milk because i was hungry."
she stopped abruptly, feeling that sob somewhere about her again.
the dwarf advanced toward her, and she held on to the back of the chair; but he held out his hand and smiled.
"how do you do?"
he said.
"i am very glad to see you; pray sit down again and finish your supper."
"it's your supper," said the child, who was honest.
"i didn't mean to steal it; i don't know p'r'aps there isn't enough for both of us."
she had a way of leaving out words in her sentences that sometimes confused people, but the dwarf seemed to understand.
"there's plenty for both!"
he said.
"come!
i'll sit down here, and you shall give me some milk.
i am hungry, too.
have some honey!"
he nodded at her, and smiled again; he had the most delightful smile the child had ever seen.
somebody once said you could warm yourself at it as at a fire.
the child took a piece of bread, and looked at him over it as she nibbled.
he was not a tiny dwarf, not one of the kind that get into flowers, and fight with grass-blades, and that sort of thing.
no, indeed!
he was just a little man; why, he was taller than she was, though not so very much taller.
he had brown hair and a soft brown beard; his eyes were brown, too, and full of light.
all brown and gray, for his dress was gray and soft, "kind of humplety velvet," the child said to herself, though it was really only corduroy.
he seemed all of a piece with the house, and the gray rock behind it.
now he looked at her, and smiled again.
"you look as if you were wondering something very much," he said.
"have some more milk!
what are you wondering?"
"partly i was wondering where the rest of you was!"
said the child.
"the rest of me?"
said the man.
"there isn't any more of me.
this is all there is.
don't you think it's enough?"
he smiled still, but this time it was only his mouth, and his eyes looked dark, as if something hurt him.
"i mean the others," the child explained.
"the rest of the seven.
i guess it's six, p'r'aps.
there was seven of 'em where snow-white came to, you know."
"seven what?"
asked the man.
"dwarfs!"
said the child.
"oh!"
said the man.
he was silent for a moment, as if he were thinking; then he laughed, and the child laughed, too.
"isn't it funny?"
she said.
"what are you laughing at?"
"yes, it is funny!"
said the man.
"why, you are just like snow-white, aren't you?
but there aren't any more dwarfs.
i'm the only one there is here."
the child thought that was a pity.
"you could have much more fun if there were seven of you," she said.
"why don't you get some more?"
then suddenly recollecting herself, she added, hastily, "i never did cook, but i can stir porridge, and dust i can, too, and i 'spect i could make your bed, 'cause it wouldn't be so big, you see.
i tried to make beds, but i get all mixed up in the sheets, and the blankets are horrid, and i never know which is the wrong side of the spread.
so you see!"
"i see!"
said the man.
"but i 'spect i could make yours, don't you?
should you mind if once i didn't get the spread right, you know?"
"not a bit.
besides, i don't like spreads.
we'll throw it away."
"oh, let's!"
said the child.
"hurrah!
do you say hurrah?"
"hurrah!"
said the man.
"do you mind if i smoke a pipe?"
no, the child did not mind at all.
so he brought a most beautiful pipe, and filled and lighted it; then he sat down, and looked at the child thoughtfully.
"i suppose you ought to tell me where you came from," he said.
"it isn't half so much fun, but i suppose they will be missing you at home, don't you?
your mamma "
the child hastened to explain.
her mamma was away, had gone quite away with her papa, and left her, the child, alone with miss tyler and the nurse.
now miss tyler was no kinds of a person to leave a child wiz; she poked and she fussed, and she said it was shocking whenever you did anything, but just anything at all except sit still and learn hymns.
"i hate hymns!"
said the child.
"so do i!"
said the man, fervently.
"it's a pity about miss tyler.
where is it you came from, snow-white?"
"oh!
it's somewhere else; a long way off.
i can't go back there.
dwarfs never send people back there; they let them stay and do the work.
and i'm almost as big as you are!"
the child ended, with a little quaver.
"so you are," said the man.
"now we'll wash the dishes, and forget all about it for to-night, anyhow."
it was glorious fun washing the dishes, such pretty dishes, blue and white, with houses and birds on them.
they went into the kitchen through one of the doors, and there all the things were bright and shining, as if they were made of silver.
the child asked the dwarf if they were really silver, but he said oh, dear, no, only britannia.
that sounded like nonsense, because the child knew that britannia ruled the waves, her papa sang a song about it; but she thought perhaps dwarfs didn't understand about that, so she said nothing.
the dwarf brought a little cricket, and she stood on that and wiped the dishes while he washed them; and he said he never liked washing them so much before, and she said she never liked wiping them so much.
everything was as handy as possible.
the dish-pan was as bright as the rest of the things, and there were plenty of clean towels, and when you shook the soap-shaker about, it made the most charming bubbles in the clean hot water.
"do you ever make bubbles in your pipe?"
said the child.
"not in this one," said the dwarf.
"i used to have a pipe for them; perhaps i can find one for you by and by."
"i made bubbles in the river," she announced, polishing a glass vigorously.
"there was a stone, and i sat on it, and bubbles i made wiz kicks, you know, in the water; and songs i made, too, and the river went bubble, too, all the time.
there was a frog, too, and he came and said things to me, but i kicked at him.
he wasn't the frog prince, 'cause he had no gold spots on him.
do you know the frog prince?
does he live here in this river?
do you have gold balls when you play ball?"
"i'll get one," said the dwarf, recklessly.
"it's no fun playing ball alone, but now we'll have one, i shouldn't wonder.
how far did you come along the river, snow-white?"
"miles!"
said snow-white.
"and didn't you have shoes and stockings when you started?"
yes, the child had had shoes and stockings, but she took them off to see her toes make dust-toes in the dust.
did ever the dwarf do that?
it was fun!
she left them away back there, miles away, before she came to the river and the woods.
and her hat
she laughed suddenly.
"did ever you put flowers in your hat and send it sailing for a boat?"
"is that what you did, snow-white?"
"yes!
and it was fun.
it went bob, bob, right along wiz the water and bubbles; and then it tipped against a stone, and then it went round the corner, and and that's all i know," she ended, suddenly.
"you are sleepy, snow-white," said the dwarf.
"see!
the dishes are all done; now we will put them away in the cupboard, and then we will see about putting you away to bed."
the child objected that it was still daylight; she tried to look wide awake, and succeeded for a few minutes, while they were putting away the dishes in the most charming little hanging cupboard with glass doors; but after that her head grew heavy, and her eyelids, as she expressed it, kept flopping into her eyes.
"where am i going to sleep?"
she asked.
"there ought to be little white beds, you know, and one would be too big, and the next would be too small, and no, that's the three bears, isn't it?
i don't see any beds at all in this place."
she began to rub her eyes, and it was clear that there must be no further delay.
"come in here," said the man.
"here is your bed, all ready for you."
he led her through the other door, and there was a tiny bedroom, all shining and clean, like the other rooms.
the bed stood in one corner, white and smooth, with a plumpy pillow that seemed to be waiting for the child.
she sighed, a long sigh of contented weariness, and put up her arms in a fashion which the man seemed to understand.
he sat down in a low chair and took her in his arms, where she nestled like a sleepy kitten.
he rocked her gently, patting her in an absent fashion; but presently she raised her eyes with an indignant gleam.
"you aren't singing anything!"
she said.
"sing!"
"hush!"
said the man.
"how can i sing unless you are quiet?"
he hummed under his breath, as if trying to recall something; then he laughed, in a helpless sort of way, and said to the door, "look at this, will you?"
but there was really nothing to look at; and after awhile he began to sing, in a soft, crooning voice, about birds, and flowers, and children, all going to sleep: such a drowsy song, the words seemed to nod along the music till they nodded themselves sound asleep.
when he finished, the child seemed to be asleep too; but she roused herself once more.
she sat up on his knee and rubbed her eyes.
"does dwarfs know about prayers?"
she said, drowsily.
"do you know about them?"
the man's eyes looked dark again.
"not much," he said; "but i know enough to hear yours, snow-white.
will you say it on my knee here?"
but the child slipped down to the floor, and dropped her head on his knee in a business-like way.
"'now i lay me down to sleep,     i pray the lord my soul to keep.'
"i don't say the rest, 'cause i don't like it.
and god bless papa and mamma, and make me a goo' l' girl amen.
and god bless this dwarf,"
she added.
"that's all."
then she lifted her head, and looked at the dwarf; and something in her look, flushed as she was with sleep, the light in her eyes half veiled, made the man start and flinch, and turn very pale.
"no!"
he said, putting out his hands as if to push the child away.
"no; leave me alone!"
the child opened her eyes a little wider, and looked at him.
"what is the matter of you, dwarf?"
she said.
"i wasn't touching you.
are you cross?"
"no," said the man; and he smiled again.
"snow-white, if i don't put you to bed, you'll be going to sleep on my best floor, and i can't have that."
he laid her in the little bed, and tucked the bed-clothes round her smoothly; she was asleep almost before her head touched the pillow.
the man stood looking at her a long time.
presently he took up one of her curls and examined it, holding it up to the fading light.
it was a pretty curl, fine and soft, and of a peculiar shade of reddish brown.
he went to a box and took out a folded paper.
unfolding this, took out another curl of hair, and laid it beside the child's; they might have grown on the same head.
"though i take the wings of the morning " said the man.
then he laid the curl back in the box, and went out and shut the door softly behind him.
asking questions.
"how many birds have you got, dwarf?"
asked the child.
they were sitting at breakfast the next morning.
to look at the child, no one would have thought she had ever been sleepy in her life; she was twinkling all over with eagerness and curiosity.
"how many?"
repeated the man, absently.
he hardly seemed to hear what the child said; he looked searchingly at her, and seemed to be trying to make out something that was puzzling him.
"yes, how many?"
repeated the child, with some asperity.
"seems to me you are rather stupid this morning, dwarf; but perhaps you are like bats, and sleep in the daytime.
are you like bats?
are dwarfs like bats?
can you hang up by your heels in trees?
have you got claws on them?"
her eyes dilated with awful joy; but the man shook his head and laughed.
"no, no, snow-white.
i wasn't sleepy at all; i was only thinking."
"did you sleep last night?"
asked the child, slightly disappointed.
"i was in your bed, so you couldn't sleep.
if you did sleep, where did you?
please give me some more bread.
i don't see where you get bread; and i don't see where you slept; and you didn't tell me how many birds you had.
i shall be angry pretty soon, i don't wonder."
"snow-white," said the dwarf, "if you talk so fast, your tongue will be worn out before you are seventy."
"what is seventy?"
said the child.
"i hate it, anyway, and i won't be it."
"hurrah!"
said the man, "i hate it, too, and i won't be it, either.
but as to the birds; how many should you think there were?
have you seen any of them?"
"i've seen lots and lots!"
said the child, "and i've heard all the rest.
when i woke up, they were singing and singing, as if they were seeing who could most.
one of them came in the window, and he sat on my toe, and he was yellow.
then i said, 'boo!'
and then he flew away just as hard as he could fly.
do you have that bird?"
"yes," said the man.
"that is my cousin goldfinch.
i'm sorry you frightened him away, snow-white.
if you had kept quiet, he would have sung you a pretty song.
he isn't used to having people say 'boo!'
to him.
he comes in every morning to see me, and sing me his best song."
"are they all your birds?"
queried the child.
"aren't you ever going to tell me how many you have?
i don't think you are very polite.
miss tyler says it's horrid rude not to answer questions."
"miss tyler is not here!"
said the man, gravely.
"i thought you said we were not to talk about her."
"so i did!"
cried the child.
"i say hurrah she isn't here, dwarf.
do you say it, too?"
"hurrah!"
said the man, fervently.
"now come, snow-white, and i'll show you how many birds i have."
"before we wash the dishes?
isn't that horrid?"
"no, not at all horrid.
wait, and you'll see."
the man crumbled a piece of bread in his hand, and went out on the green before the house, bidding the child stay where she was and watch from the window.
watching, the child saw him scatter the crumbs on the shining sward, and heard him cry in a curious kind of soft whistle:
"coo!
coo!
coo!"
immediately there was a great rustling all about; in the living green of the roof, in the yellow birches, but most of all in the vast depths of the buttonwood tree.
in another moment the birds appeared, clouds and clouds of them, flying so close that their wings brushed each other; circling round and round the man, as he stood motionless under the great tree; then settling softly down, on his head, on his shoulders, on his outstretched arms, on the ground at his feet.
he broke another piece from the loaf, and crumbled it, scattering the crumbs lavishly.
the little creatures took their morning feast eagerly, gratefully; they threw back their tiny heads and chirped their thanks; they hopped and ran and fluttered about the sunny green space, till the whole seemed alive with swift, happy motion.
standing still among them, the man talked to them gently, and they seemed to understand.
now and then he took one in his hand and caressed it, with fingers as light as their own fluffy wings; and when he did that, the bird would throw back its head and sing; and the others would chime in, till the whole place rang with the music of them.
it was a very wonderful thing, if any one had been there who understood about wonderful things; but to the child it seemed wholly natural, being like many other matters in the fairy books; only she wished she could do it, too, and determined she would, as soon as she learned a little more about the ways of dwarfs.
by and by, when he had fed and caressed and talked to them, the man raised his arm; and the gray fluttering cloud rose in the air with merry cries, and vanished in the leafy gloom.
the child was at the door in a moment.
"how do you do that?"
she asked, eagerly.
"who telled you that?
why can't i do it, too?
what is their names of all those birds?
why don't you answer things when i say them at you?"
"snow-white," said the man, "i haven't yet answered the questions you asked me last night, and i haven't even begun on this morning's batch."
"but you will answer them all?"
cried the child.
"yes, i will answer them all, if you give me time."
"'cause i have to know, you know!"
said the child, with a sigh of relief.
"yes, you have to know.
but first i must ask you some questions, snow-white.
come and sit down here on the roots of the birch; see, it makes an arm-chair just big enough for you."
the child came slowly, and seated herself as she was bid.
but, though the seat was easy as a cradle, her brow was clouded.
"i don't like to answer things," she announced.
"only i like to ask them."
"but we must play fair," said the man.
"it wouldn't be fair for you to have all the fun."
"no more it would.
well, i'll answer a fewly, dwarf; not many i won't, 'cause when you're little you don't have to know things first; only you have to find out about them."
"snow-white, why did you run away from home?"
"last night i told you that, dwarf.
i made a song, too.
i'll sing it for you."
she sat up, folded her hands, shut her eyes tight, and sang at the top of her voice:
"and i comed away,     and i runned away,     and i said i thought i did not     want to stay;     and they tore their hair,     and they made despair.
and i said i thought perhaps     i did not care."
"do you like that song?"
she said, opening her eyes wide at the man.
yes, the man liked it very much, but she was not answering his question.
"i sang it that way because that way miss tyler sings.
she shuts her eyes and opens her mouth, and screeches horrid; but i don't screech, i truly sing.
don't i truly sing?
don't you think i was a bird if you didn't see me?
don't you, dwarf?"
the dwarf said he was not going to answer any more questions.
the child fidgetted on her seat, sighed, said he was stupid, and finally resigned herself.
"i told you that last night!"
she said again.
"my mamma went to new york, and my papa, too.
they leaved me alone after i told them not to.
and i told them; i said if they did, then i would; and they would, and so i did.
and so you see!"
she looked up suddenly at the man, and once more he winced and drew in his breath.
"what's the matter?"
asked the child, with quick sympathy.
"have you got a pain?
is it here?
is it in your front?
often i have them in my front.
you take a tablet, and then you curl up wiz the hot-water bottle, and perhaps it goes away pretty soon.
green apples makes it!"
she nodded wisely.
"dwarfs didn't ought to eat them, any more than children.
where is the tree?"
the man did not answer this time.
he seemed to be trying to pull up a weight that lay on him, or in him and sat moodily looking on the ground.
at last
"what is your mother's name?"
he said; and then one saw that he had got the weight up.
"evelyn!"
said the child.
"yes, of course!"
said the man.
"what makes you say that?"
asked the child.
"did ever you see her?"
"did ever you see a toad with three tails?"
said the man.
"aren't you funny?
say, is all dwarfs funny?
aren't there really any more of you?
didn't there ever was?
where did the rest of them go?
why do you stay in this place alone?
i want to know all those things."
she settled herself comfortably, and looked at the man confidently.
but he seemed still to be labouring with something.
"would your mother would she be very unhappy, if she should come home and find you gone, snow-white?"
the child opened her eyes at him.
"oh, i s'pose she'd go crazy distracted; but she isn't coming home, not a long time isn't she coming home; that's why i comed away, and i runned away, and i said what makes you look like that, dwarf?"
"i suppose i ought to send you home, snow-white.
i suppose you ought to go this very day, don't you?"
he stopped abruptly, for the signs were ominous; the child's lower lip was going up in the middle and coming down at the corners; her eyes were growing wider and wider, rounder and rounder; now they began to glitter.
"don't cry!"
said the man, hastily.
"don't cry, snow-white.
the other snow-white never cried, you know."
the child sniffed tearfully.
"the other snow-white never was treated so!"
she said.
"never those dwarfs tried to send her away, never.
she cooked their dinner, and she swept, and they liked her, and they never said noffin, and i haven't any hanky!"
she concluded suddenly, after a vain search in her pink calico pocket.
the man handed her a great square of white cobweb linen, and she dried her eyes.
"never i heard of dwarfs sending children away!"
she said, in conclusion.
"i don't believe p'r'aps you aren't the right kind.
is you got any name?
not ever dwarfs has names."
"i'm afraid i have a kind of name!"
the man admitted.
"but it isn't much of one.
you might call me mark, though, if you like."
"that isn't no name at all.
it's just you do it wiz a pencil.
aren't you funny?
truly is it your name?
what made you have such a name?"
but the man declared he had lost his way in the questions.
"i haven't begun on this morning's yet," he protested, "and now you are asking me to-morrow's, snow-white.
but we must do the dishes now, and then i'll show you where i slept last night.
you asked me that the very first thing this morning, and you have not been still long enough yet for me to tell you."
that would be great!
the child thought.
on the whole, she thought perhaps he was the right kind of dwarf, after all.
why did he have a hump on his back, though?
not in the snow-white picture they did.
wasn't it funny, when she stood on the cricket she was just as tall as he?
wasn't that nice?
wasn't he glad he wasn't any taller?
didn't he think he was made that way just for little girls?
did ever he see any little girls before?
did he think she looked like snow-white?
why didn't he talk when she spoke to him?
it was a merry time, the dish-washing.
the man had put away whatever it was that kept his eyes dark, and was smiling again, and chatting cheerfully.
it appeared that he was an extraordinary person, after all, and quite like the books.
he lived here all alone.
yes, always alone.
no; he never had wanted any one else till now, but then he didn't know there were any snow-whites; that made a great difference, you see.
did she broke off to laugh did he like snow-whites, honest and true, black and blue?
did he think she was beautiful, more beautiful than wicked stepmothers if she had one, only she hadn't, only mamma was awfully beautiful; did he know that?
how did he know that?
did ever he see mamma?
what made him look so queer in his eyes?
did he get soap in them?
poor dwarf!
well, why weren't there any more dwarfs, anyhow?
why didn't he get six more when he comed here the first time?
it appeared that he did not want any more.
it appeared that when he came away he never wished to see anybody again as long as he lived.
the child thought this so funny that she bubbled quite over, and dropped the cup she was wiping back into the hot water.
why didn't he want to see people?
had they been horrid to him?
yes, they had been very horrid.
he came away into the woods to stay till he was tired, and then he was going farther away.
where?
oh, he did not know; to wherever he belonged; he was not sure where it was, but he knew the way to get there.
no, not by the brook, that was too slow, he knew a quick way.
show it to her?
well, no, he thought not.
how long had he been here?
oh, a good while.
at first, after they had been horrid to him no, he could not stop to tell her now; sometime, perhaps, when they had nothing else to do; at first he had gone across the sea, oh, a long way across; yes, he would tell her all about that by and by.
then, when he came back
"why do you keep stopping like that?"
asked the child.
"do you forget what you was going to say?
often i do!
you said when you came back; did you go and tell them they was mean old things to be horrid to you, and never you wouldn't play wiz them no more?"
"no," said the man, slowly.
"no, snow-white, i didn't do that; it wouldn't have done any good, you see.
i came here instead."
"didn't you tell them at all that they was mean?"
"no; where was the use?"
"don't they know you are here, dwarf?"
"no."
the child grew red in the face.
"well, i think you was dreadfully silly!"
she said.
"i would told 'em all about it, and stamped my foot at 'em, so!
and "
but the stamp was too much for the composure of the cricket, which turned over at this point, bringing the child down suddenly, with her chin against the hot dish-pan.
this was a grievous matter, and consolation was the only possible thing to be thought of.
the man took her in his arms, and carried her out-of-doors; she was sobbing a little, but the sobs died away as he stood with her under the great buttonwood, and bade her look up into the rustling dome.
"you asked where i slept last night, snow-white," he said.
"i slept up there, in my tree-room.
look!
a good way up, just above that great branch, do you see a hole?
well, in there is a hollow, big enough to sit in or lie down and sleep in.
i often go up there and sit with the brother birds; and last night i slept there, and very well i slept, too."
"did you" the child hesitated between a sob and a chuckle "did you have any bed?"
"the finest bed in the world, moss and dry leaves.
would you like to come up and see, snow-white?
i think i can manage to get you up."
"oh, what a nice dwarf you are!"
cried the child, slipping down from his arms and dancing around him.
"aren't you glad i came?
i'm glad you were here.
how i shall get up?
stand on your hump?
isn't it nice you have a hump, dwarf?
was it made for little girls to stand up on?
did you have them make it?
did you think about little girls when you had it made?
do you like to have it for me to stand on?
can i jump up and down on it?"
standing on the hump, which certainly made an excellent thing to stand on, she could grasp the lowest branch of the tree.
could she put her arms round that and hang for just a moment?
yes, she could, and did; and in an instant the active dwarf was beside her, and had her up on the branch beside him.
from there it was easy to ascend, branch by branch, till they reached the black hole.
the child caught her breath a moment as the man swung her in; then her laughter broke and bubbled up so loud and clear that the birds rose in a cloud from the murmuring depths of the tree, and then sank down again with chirp and twitter and gurgle of welcome, as if recognising one of their own kind.
phillips; and a story.
"well, mr. ellery, here i am!"
the dwarf had come down from the tree, leaving the child asleep in the tree-hollow, with cousin goldfinch to keep watch over her; now he was sitting in the root-seat of the yellow birch, looking up at a man who stood before him.
"yes," said the dwarf; "here you are.
anything new?
it isn't a month since you came."
the man said it was more than a month.
"i've brought the papers," he said.
"there are deeds to sign, and a lot of things to look over.
hadn't we better come into the house, sir?"
"presently!"
said the dwarf, looking up at the tree.
he was not absolutely sure that the child was sound asleep, and if she waked suddenly she might be frightened to find herself alone.
"you are not looking well, phillips!"
he remarked, easily.
"i'm not well, mr. ellery," said the man, with some heat.
"i'm worn out, sir, with all this business.
how you can persist in such foolishness passes my comprehension.
here are leases running out, petitions coming in, bills and letters and the office looks like the dead letter office," he broke out, "and the clerks are over their heads in work, and i am almost broke down, as i tell you, and you are "
"by the way!"
said the dwarf, settling himself comfortably, "where am i, phillips?"
"in thibet!"
replied the other, sulkily.
"hunting the wild ass."
"and a fine sport!"
said the dwarf, musingly.
"that shows invention, phillips.
that really shows ingenuity, do you know?
you grumble, my good fellow, but you don't seem to realise what this is doing for you.
you have lived forty odd years without imagination; now you are developing one; against your will, it is true, but the effect is no less admirable.
i admire you, phillips; i do indeed."
he smiled up at the man, who regarded him gloomily, yet with a look of affection.
"i wish you would give it up," he said, simply.
"i wish to goodness you would give it up, mr. ellery, and come home.
a man like you living this life the life of an animal, sir it's monstrous.
think of your interests, think of your estate, of all the people who looked to you; of "
"by the way," said the dwarf again, "have you paid those legacies?"
"i know nothing about any legacies," replied the man, peevishly.
"i'll have nothing to do with any such talk as that.
when i see you dead and in your coffin, mark ellery, it'll be time enough to talk about legacies."
"i don't like coffins!"
murmured the dwarf, looking up at the black hole in the great buttonwood tree.
"i never intend go on, phillips.
you paid the money, did you say?"
"yes, sir, i did; but i did not tell the old ladies you were dead, because you were not, and i am not engaged to tell lies of that description.
professional fiction i must use, since you drive me to it; but lie to those old women i could not and did not!"
"no," said the dwarf, soothingly, "surely not; i could not expect that, phillips.
and you told them that i was "
"in thibet," said the man.
"hunting the wild ass.
i told you that before."
"precisely," said the dwarf.
"don't limit yourself too strictly, phillips.
you might vary the place a little oftener than you do, and find it more amusing.
it would have impressed the old ladies more, for instance, if you had said that i was in mashonaland, converting the wild ass i mean the black man.
the old ladies are well, i trust?"
"pretty feeble, mr. ellery.
they cried a good deal, and said you were the best and "
"et cetera!"
said the dwarf.
"suppose we skip that part, phillips.
a before i forget it, i want you to get me some things in town.
let me see," he considered, and began to check off items on his fingers.
"a doll, the handsomest doll that can be found, with a trunk full of clothes, or you might say two trunks, phillips.
and some picture-books, please, and a go-cart no, i can make that myself.
well, then, a toy dinner-set.
you might get it in silver, if you find one; and some bonbons, a lot of bonbons, say ten pounds or so.
and get me a couple of new rugs, thick, soft ones, the best you can find; and oh!
cushions; get a dozen or so cushions, satin and velvet; down pillows, you understand.
what's the matter?"
the man whom he called phillips was looking at him in a kind of terror that sent the dwarf into a sudden fit of laughter.
he gave way to it for a few minutes, then restrained himself, and wiped his eyes with a fine handkerchief, like the one he had given the child.
"phillips, you certainly have the gift of amusing," he murmured.
"i am not mad, my dear man; never was saner in my life, i assure you.
observe my eye; feel my pulse; do.
you see i am calm, if only you wouldn't make me laugh too much.
far calmer than you are, phillips.
now we'll come in and go over the papers.
first, though," he glanced up at the tree again, and seemed to listen, but all was silent, save for the piping and trilling that was seldom still, "first, is there any news?
i don't mean politics.
i won't hear a word of politics, you know.
i mean any any news among people i used to know?"
the man brightened visibly; then seemed to search his mind.
"mr. tenby is dead, sir; left half a million.
you can have that place now for a song, if you want to invest.
old mrs. vivian had a stroke the other day, and isn't expected to live.
she'll be worth "
the dwarf made a movement of impatience.
"old people!"
he said.
"why shouldn't they die?
who cares whether they die or live, except themselves and their heirs?
are there no young people left in the place?"
phillips pondered.
"no one that you'd be interested in, sir," he said.
"there's been a great to-do about a lost child, yesterday.
mr.
valentine's little girl ran away from home, and can't be found.
wild little thing, they say; given her governess no end of trouble.
parents away from home.
they're afraid the child has been kidnapped, but i think it's likely she'll turn up; she has run away before, they say.
pretty little girl, six years old; image of her mother.
mother was a miss "
here he stopped, for the dwarf turned upon him in a kind of fury and bade him be still.
"what do i care about people's children?"
he said.
"you are an idle chatterer.
come and let me see this business, whatever it is.
curse the whole of it, deed and house, land and letter!
come on, i tell you, and when you have done, begone, and leave me in peace!"
when the child woke, she was at first too much surprised to speak.
she had forgotten things, for she had been sleeping hard, as children do in their noonday naps; and she would naturally have opened her eyes upon a pink nursery with gold trimmings.
instead, here she was in what kind of place?
around her, on all sides save one, were brown walls; walls that felt soft and crumbly, and smelt queer; yet it was a pleasant queerness.
on the one side where they were not, she looked out into a green sky; or perhaps no, it wasn't a sky, it was woods, very thick woods, and there was no ground at all.
she was lying on something soft, and partly it rustled, and partly it felt like thick cold velvet.
now some of the rustling came alive, and two or three birds hopped down from somewhere and sat on her foot and sang.
at that the child laughed aloud, instead of screaming, as she had just been beginning to think she might; and then in a moment there was the dwarf, looking in at the green entrance, smiling and nodding at her.
"oh, you dear dwarf!"
said the child.
"i am glad to see you.
i forgotted where i was in this funny place.
isn't it a funny place, dwarf?
how did you get here?
what made you know about it?
why don't you always live here all the time?
what's that that's bright up there?"
indeed, the hollow in the tree made a good-sized room enough, if a person were not too big.
the walls were pleasant to sight, touch, and smell; their colours ran from deepest black-brown up to an orange so rich and warm that it glowed like coals.
when you touched the surface, it crumbled a little, soft and sympathetic, as if it came away to please you.
the cushion of moss was thicker than any mattress ever made by man; altogether, a delightful place always supposing one to be the right size.
now the dwarf and the child were exactly the right size, and there seemed no reason why they should not live here all their lives.
this was evident to the child.
in one place, a natural shelf ran part way round the tree-wall; and on this shelf lay something that glittered.
"what is that that's bright?"
the child repeated.
"give it to me, please, dwarf!"
she stretched out her hand with an imperious gesture.
the man took the object down, but did not give it to her.
"this," he said "is a key, snow-white."
"huh!"
said the child.
"it looks like a pistol.
what for a key is it to?
where did you get it?
is there doors like bluebeard?
why don't you tell me, dwarf?"
"yes, it does look like a pistol," the man assented, weighing the object in his hand.
"but it is a key, snow-white, to oh!
all kinds of places.
i don't know about the bluebeard chamber; you see, i haven't used it yet.
but it is the key of the fields, you understand."
he was speaking slowly, and for the time seemed to forget the child, and to be speaking to himself.
"freedom and forgetfulness; the sting left behind, instead of carried about with one, world without end.
the weary at rest at rest!"
"no wives?"
asked the child.
the man looked at her with startled eyes.
"wives?"
he repeated.
"dead ones," said the child.
"hanging up by their hairs, you know, dwarf, just heads of 'em, all the rest gone dead.
isn't that awful?
would you go in just the same?
i would!"
"no, no wives!"
said the dwarf; and he laughed, not his pleasant laugh, but one that sounded more like a bark, the child told him.
"no wives!"
he repeated; "my own or other people's, snow-white.
what should i have to do with wives, dead or alive?"
the child considered him attentively.
"i don't suppose you could get one, anyhow, do you?"
she said.
"always, you know, the dwarfs try to get the princesses, but never they do.
you never was yellow, was you?"
she asked, with a sudden note of apprehension in her voice.
"no, snow-white, never yellow; only green."
the child bubbled over.
"was you truly green?"
she cried.
"isn't that funny, dwarf?
and then you turned brown, didn't you?
you don't suppose i'll turn brown, do you?
because i ain't green, am i?
but i was just thinking, suppose you should be the yellow dwarf, wouldn't it be awful?"
"probably it would.
he was a pretty bad sort of fellow, was he, snow-white?
i it's a good while since i heard anything about him, you see."
"oh, he was just puffickly frightful!
he do you want me to tell you the story, dwarf?"
yes, the dwarf wanted that very much indeed.
"well, then, if i tell you that, you must tell me one about some dwarfs what you knew.
i suppose you knew lots and lots of them, didn't you?
was they different colours?
was they blue and green and red?
what made you turn brown when you was green?
well!
"once they was a queen, and she had twenty children, and they was all dead except the princess all-fair, and she wouldn't marry any of the kings what wanted to marry her, and so her mother went to ask the desert fairy what she should do wiz her.
so she took a cake for the lions, and it was made of millet and sugar-candy and crocodiles' eggs, but she went to sleep and lost it.
did ever you eat a cake like that?
should you think it would be nasty?
i should!
well, and so there was the yellow dwarf sitting in the tree why, just the way you are, dwarf.
we might play i was the queen, and you was the yellow dwarf.
let's play it."
"but i don't want to be a horrid one," the man objected, "and i want to hear the story, besides."
"oh, well, so i will.
well, he said he would save her from the lion, if she would let him marry the princess, and she didn't want to one bit, but she said she supposed she'd have to, so he saved her, and she found herself right back there in the palace.
well, and so then she was very unhappy all the time, and the princess didn't know what upon earth was the matter wiz her, so she thought she would go and ask the desert fairy.
so she went just the same way what her mother went, but she ate so many oranges off the tree that she lost her cake, too.
that was greedy, don't you think so?"
"very greedy!
she was old enough to know better."
"why, yes!
why, i'm only six, and i don't eat so many as all that, only till i feel queer in front, and then i always stop.
do always you stop when you feel queer in front?
well!
so then the yellow dwarf comed along, and he said her mother said she had to marry him, anyway.
and the princess said, 'how!
my mother promised me to you in marriage!
you, such a fright as you!'
"and he was puffickly horrid.
he said, 'well, if you don't, the lions will get you, and eat you up every scrap, and i sha'n't care a bit.'
wasn't he mean?
so she said she s'posed she'd have to; and right off then she went to sleep, and there she was in her own bed, and all trimmed up wiz ribbons, and on her finger was a ring, and it was just one red hair, and she couldn't get it off.
wasn't that puffickly awful, dwarf?"
"it chills my marrow, snow-white.
go on!"
"what is your marrow?
what does it look like?
why do you have it, if it gets cold so easy as that?
i wouldn't!
well!
so at last the princess said she guessed she would marry the king of the golden mines, 'cause he was puffickly beautiful, and most prob'ly the old dwarf wouldn't dare to say a word when he found how beautiful he was, and strong and big and rich and everything."
"no!"
said the dwarf, bitterly.
"the poor dwarf would have no chance, certainly, against that kind of king.
he might as well have given up in the beginning."
"but, mark, this dwarf wasn't poor, or anything else but just as horrid as he could be.
why, when the princess and the king was going to be married, all in gold and silver, wiz roses and candy and everything lovely, they saw a box coming along, and an old woman was on it and she said she was the desert fairy, and the yellow dwarf was her friend, and they shouldn't get married.
so they said they didn't care, they would oh, and she said if they did she would burn her crutch; and they said they didn't care one bit if she did.
they were just as brave!
and the king of the golden mines told her get out, or he would kill her; and then the top of the box comed off, and there was the yellow dwarf, and he was riding on a cat, did ever you ride on a cat, mark?"
"no, never."
"well, he was; and he said the princess promised to marry him, and the king said he didn't care, she shouldn't do noffing of the kind.
so they had a fight, and while they were fighting that horrid old fairy hit the princess, and then the yellow dwarf took her up on the cat, and flewed away wiz her.
that's all about the first part.
don't you think it's time for luncheon?"
"oh, but you are never going to stop there, snow-white!
i want to know what became of them.
even if the dwarf did carry off the princess, and even if she had promised to marry him, for she did promise, you say, still, of course he did not get her.
dwarfs have no rights that anybody is bound to respect, have they, snow-white?"
"well, i don't like the last part, because it doesn't end right.
the desert fairy falled in love wiz the king, and she hoped he would marry her, but he said no indeed, he wouldn't have her in the same place wiz him at all; so he wouldn't stay in the house, but he went out to walk by the wall that was made of emeralds, and a mermaid came up and said she was sorry, and if he hit everything wiz this sword it would kill them, but he must never let go of it.
so he thanked her very much, and he went along, and he killed lots of things, spinxes and nymps and things, and at last he came to the princess, but then he was so glad to see her that he let go of the sword just a minute, and what do you think that horrid dwarf did?
why, he comed right along and took it, and said he shouldn't have it back unless he would give up the princess.
'no,' said the king, 'i scorn thy favour on such terms.'
and then that mean old thing stabbed him to the heart, and so he was dead; and the princess said, 'you puffickly hideous old horrid thing, i won't marry you, anyway!'
and then she fell down and perspired wizout a sigh.
and that's all.
and the mermaid turned them into palm-trees, because that was all she knew how to do, don't you know?
and that's all.
aren't you going to get me something to eat?
can't we have it up here in this place?
aren't you glad i'm here to keep you company and tell you stories?
don't you say hurrah for us, dwarf?
i do; hurrah!"
milking the cow.
"what let's do now?"
said the child.
they had had dinner; a most exciting dinner, all coming out of tin boxes and delightful china pots.
it was almost as good as little two-eyes' feasts in "little kid milk, table appear," as the child preferred to call the story.
the child shut her eyes and said what she wanted, and when she opened them, there it mostly was, standing on the table before her.
at least, that was the way it happened when she said chicken, and jam, and albert biscuits; but when she said sponge cake, there was none, and the dwarf was mortified, and said he would tell the people they ought to be ashamed of themselves.
"where all do you get them?"
asked the child.
"do you stamp your foot on the floor, and say, 'jam!'
like that, hard, just as loud as you can?
do you?
does it come up pop through holes?
will you do it now, this minute?"
no, the dwarf could not do it now, he had not the right kind of shoes on.
besides, there were other reasons.
"well, then, what let's do?"
asked the child again.
"let us go and milk the cow," said the dwarf.
oh, that was exciting!
was it a truly cow?
did it turn into things all day, and be a cow at night, or the other way?
what did it turn into?
sometimes they were fawns and sometimes they were ducks, and sometimes what would he like to be if he didn't have to be a dwarf?
could he be things if he wanted to?
was he only just playing dwarf, and by and by he would turn into a beautiful prince all gold and silver, wiz diamond clothes and a palace all made of candy?
would he?
"and then you could marry me, you know!"
said the child.
"i shall be grown up by that time "
"yes, i think you will!"
said the dwarf.
"and we will be married, and i will wear a dress like the sun, and we will go in a gold coach, wiz six black horses or do you say white, mark?"
"i say white."
"so do i say!
and fezzers on their heads; and and so well, anyhow, you will show me all your treasures, you know, dwarf.
you haven't showed me any yet, not any at all.
where are they?"
"i haven't but one," said the dwarf.
"and that i stole."
"really stole it?
but stealing is wicked, don't you know that?
can dwarfs do it?
mans can't, unless they are bad.
are dwarfs like mans at all much, mark?"
"not much, snow-white.
but, after all, i did not steal my treasure, i only found it."
the child was greatly relieved.
that made it all right, she assured him.
always everybody could keep the things they found, though of course the wicked fairies and dragons tried to get the treasure away.
she cited many cases from the fairy books, and the dwarf said he felt a great deal better.
"tell me all about it," she urged.
"tell me that story what you said you knew.
you haven't told me any story at all yet, mark!"
she looked at him with marked disapproval.
"it isn't the way they do!"
she explained.
"why, when the bear came to snow-white and rosy red's house, he told them stories all the time till he turned into a prince."
"yes, but i am not a bear," said the dwarf, "and i am not going to turn into a prince, you see.
however, i will tell you a story, snow-white, i truly will; only, you see, that poor cow has to be milked."
"all i forgot her!"
cried the child.
"now we will hurry, mark, and run.
we will run all the way.
you can't run much faster than me, 'cause your legs is short, too.
are you glad?
i am!
'most i wish i was a dwarf, to stay little like you."
"come!"
said the man.
his voice sounded rough and harsh; but when the child looked up, startled, he took her in his arms, and kissed her very tenderly, and set her on his back.
he would be her horse now, he said, and give her a good ride.
and wasn't the hump comfortable to sit on?
now she must hold on tight, and he would trot.
he trotted gently through the green wood, and the child shouted with joy, and jumped up and down on the hump.
it was a round, smooth hump, and made a good seat.
they did not get on very fast, in spite of the trotting, there was so much to see by the way.
little paths wound here and there through the forest, as if some one walked in it a great deal.
the trees in this part were mostly pine and hemlock, and the ground was covered with a thick carpet of brown needles.
the hermit thrush called them from deeper depths of woodland; close by, squirrels frisked and chattered among the branches, and dropped bits of pine-cone on the child's head.
were they tame?
she asked; the dwarf said she should judge for herself.
they sat down, and he bade her keep still, and then gave a queer whistle.
presently a squirrel came, then another, and another, till there were half a dozen of them, gray and red, with one little striped beauty.
they sat up on the brown needles, and looked at the dwarf with bright, asking eyes.
he took some nuts from his pocket, and then there was a scramble for his knee and his shoulder, and he fed them, talking to them the while, they whisking their tails and cocking their heads, and taking the nuts in their paws as politely as possible.
one big gray fellow made a little bow, and that was charming to see.
"good boy!"
said the dwarf.
"good old simeon!
i taught him to do that, snow-white.
you need not be afraid, sim.
this is only snow-white.
she has come to do my cooking and all my work, and she will not touch you.
his name is simeon stylites, and he lives on a pillar i mean a dead tree, with all the branches gone.
simeon, if you are greedy, you'll get no more.
consider the example you have to set!"
"why is he named that?"
asked the child.
"because when he sits up straight on top of his tree, and folds his paws, he looks like an old gentleman of that name, who used to live on top of a pillar, a long time ago."
"why did he?
but why couldn't he get down?
but how did he get up?
what did he have to eat?
why don't you tell me?"
"i never thought much about his getting up," said the dwarf.
"i suppose he must have shinned, don't you?
and as for getting down, he just didn't.
he stayed there.
he used to let down a basket every day, or whenever he was hungry, and people put food in it, and then he pulled it up.
what did they put?
oh, figs, i suppose, and black bread, and honey.
rather fun, don't you think, to see what would come up?"
the child sprang up and clapped her hands.
"mark," she cried, "i will be him!"
"on a pillar?"
said the dwarf.
"see, you have frightened simeon away, and he hadn't had half enough; and you couldn't possibly climb his tree, snow-white."
"in your tree!
in the hole!
it will be just as good as little kid milk.
not in any of the stories a little girl did that; all mineself i will do it.
i love you, mark!"
she flung her arms around his neck and hugged him till he choked.
when the soft arms loosened their hold, his eyes were dark.
"you love me because i have a tree?"
he said, "and because you like the things in the china pots?"
"yes!"
said the child, "and because you are a dwarf, and because you are nice.
most because you are nice, mark, when those other dwarfs is yellow and horrid and all kinds of things."
"all right!"
said the dwarf.
"i love you, too.
now soon we are coming to the cow.
we must hurry, snow-white."
but it was not easy to hurry.
he had to look and see how the ferns were unrolling, and to say what they looked like.
the child thought they were like the little brown cakes, only green, what you bought them at the cake-shop.
didn't he know the cake-shop?
but could he buy things?
did they let dwarfs buy things just as if they were mans?
could he have money, or did he have to dig up pearls and diamonds and rubies, out of the ground?
was there a place here where he dug them up?
when would he show it to her?
then there were the anemones just out; and at sight of them the child jumped up and down, and had to be told what they were.
the name was very funny, she thought.
"i can make a song wiz that!"
she said, and then she sang:
"any money, ain't it funny?
ain't it funny, any money?
"it hasn't any money, this frower hasn't.
all it's white, just like milk.
do you like money, mark?"
"no, i hate it!"
"me, too!"
cried the child, bubbling into a laugh.
"in my bank, i had lots and lots of money; and the man with the black shirt said about the poor children, and so i took it out and gave it to him, and then they said i couldn't have it back!"
"who said so?"
asked the dwarf.
"miss tyler!
well, but so i said i would, and so she punished me, and so i beat her, and she said to stay in my room, and i runned away.
are you glad i runned away, mark?"
"very glad, to-day, snow-white; i don't know how it will be to-morrow.
but tell me what you wanted to do with your money!"
it appeared that the child wanted to buy candy, and a pony, and a watch, and a doll with wink-eyes and hair down to her feet, and a real stove, and a popgun, and what was this place?
the wood broke open suddenly, and there was a bit of pasture-land, with rocks scattered about, and a little round blue pond, and by the pond a brown cow grazing.
at the sound of voices the cow raised her head, and seeing the dwarf, lowed gently and began to move leisurely toward him.
the child clapped her hands and danced.
"is she saying 'hurrah'?"
she cried.
"does she love you?
do you love her?
is she" her voice dropped suddenly "is she real, mark?"
"real, snow-white?
why, see her walk!
did you think i wound her up?
she's too big; and besides, i haven't been near her."
the child brushed these remarks aside with a wave.
"does she stay all the time a cow?"
she whispered, putting her mouth close to the dwarf's ear.
"or does she turn at night into a princess?"
she drew back and pointed a stern finger at him.
"tell me the troof, mark!"
the dwarf was very humble.
so far as he knew, he said, she was a real cow.
she mooed like one, and she acted like one; moreover, he had bought her for one.
"but you see," he added, "i don't stay here at night, so how can i tell?"
they both looked at the cow, who returned the stare with unaffected interest, but with no appearance of any hidden meaning in her calm brown gaze.
"i think," said the child, after a long, searching inspection, "i think she's only just a cow!"
"i think so, too," said the dwarf, in a tone of relief.
"i'm glad, aren't you, snow-white?
i think it would be awkward to have a princess.
now i'll milk her, and you can frisk about and pick flowers."
the child frisked merrily for a time.
she found a place where there were some brownish common-looking leaves; and stepping on them just to hear them crackle, there was a pink flush along the ground, and lo!
a wonder of mayflowers.
they lay with their rosy cheeks close against the moss, and seemed to laugh out at the child; and she laughed, too, and danced for joy, and put some of them in her hair.
then she picked more, and made a posy, and ran to stick it in the dwarf's coat.
he looked lovely, she told him, with the pink flowers in his gray coat; she said she didn't care much if he never turned into anything; he was nice enough the way he was; and the dwarf said it was just as well, and he was glad to hear it.
"and you look so nice when you smile in your eyes like that, mark!
i think i'll kiss you now."
"i never kiss ladies when i am milking," said the dwarf.
and then the child said he was a horrid old thing, and she wouldn't now, anyhow, and perhaps she wouldn't at all ever in her life, and anyhow not till she went to bed.
by and by she found a place where the ground was wet, near the edge of the pond, and she could go pat, pat with her feet, and make smooth, deep prints.
this grew more and more pleasant the farther she went, till presently the water came lapping cool and clear over her feet.
yes, but just then a butterfly came, a bright yellow one, and she tried to catch it, and in trying tripped and fell her length in the pond.
that was sad, indeed; and it was fortunate the milking was ended just at that time, for at first she meant to cry hard, and the only thing that stopped her was riding home on the dwarf's hump, dripping water all over his gray velvet clothes.
he didn't care, he said, so long as she did not drip into the milk.
the story.
"i aspect, mark," said the child, "do you like better i call you mark all the time than dwarf?
then i will.
i do really aspect you'll have to get me a clean dress to put on."
she held up her frock, and the dwarf looked at it anxiously.
it was certainly very dirty.
the front was entirely covered with mud, and matters had not been improved by her scrubbing it with leaves that she pulled off the trees as they came along.
"dear me, snow-white!"
said the dwarf.
"that is pretty bad, isn't it?"
"yes," said the child; "it is too bad!
you'll have to get me another.
what kind will you get?"
"well," said the dwarf, slowly; "you see i hardly wait a minute, snow-white."
he went into the house, and the child waited cheerfully, sitting in the root-seat.
of course he would find a dress; he had all the other things, and most prob'ly likely there was a box that had dresses and things in it.
she hoped it would be blue, because she was tired of this pink one.
there might be a hat, too; when you had that kind of box, it was just as easy to have everything as only something; a pink velvet hat with white feathers, like the lady in the circus.
the child sighed comfortably, and folded her hands, and watched the robins pulling up worms on the green.
but the dwarf went into the bedroom, and began pulling out drawers and opening chests with a perplexed air.
piles of handkerchiefs, socks, underwear, all of the finest and best; gray suits like the one he had on but never a sign of a blue dress.
he took down a dressing-gown from a peg, and looked it over anxiously; it was of brown velvet, soft and comfortable-looking, but it had evidently been lived in a good deal, and it smelt of smoke; no, that would never do.
he hung it up again, and looked about him helplessly.
suddenly his brow cleared, and his eyes darkened.
he laughed; not his usual melodious chuckle, but the short harsh note that the child compared to a bark.
"why not?"
he said.
"it's all in the family!"
he opened a deep carved chest that stood in a corner; the smell that came from it was sweet and old, and seemed to belong to far countries.
he hunted in the corners, and presently brought out a folded paper, soft and foreign looking.
this he opened, and took out, and shook out, a shawl or scarf of eastern silk, pale blue, covered with butterflies and birds in bright embroidery.
he looked at it grimly for a moment; then he shut the chest, for the child was calling, "mark!
where are you?"
and hastened out.
"never i thought you were coming," said the child.
"see at that robin, mark.
he ate all a worm five times as longer as him, and now he's trying to get away that other one's.
i told him he mustn't, and he will.
isn't he a greedy?"
"he's the greediest robin on the place," said the dwarf.
"i mean to put him on allowance some day.
see here, snow-white, i'm awfully sorry, but i can't find a dress for you."
the child opened great eyes at him.
"can't find one, mark?
has you looked?"
"yes, i have looked everywhere, but there really doesn't seem to be one, you know; so i thought, perhaps "
"but not in all the boxes you've looked, mark!"
cried the child.
"why, you got everything, don't you 'member you did, for dinner?"
yes; but that was different, the dwarf said.
dresses didn't come in china pots, nor in tin cans either.
no, he didn't think it would be of any use to stamp his foot and say to bring a blue dress this minute.
but, look here, wouldn't this do?
couldn't she wrap herself up in this, while he washed her dress?
he held up the gay thing, and at sight of it the child clasped her hands together and then flung them out, with a gesture that made him wince.
but it was the most beautiful thing in the world, the child said.
but it was better than dresses, ever and ever so much better, because there were no buttons.
and she might dress up in it?
that would be fun!
like the pictures she would be, in the japanesy book at home.
did ever he see the japanesy book?
but it was on the big table in the long parlour, and he could see it any time he went in, but any time, if his hands were clean.
always he had to show his hands, to make sure they were clean.
and she would be like the pictures, and he was a very nice dwarf, and she loved him.
in a wonderfully short time the child was enveloped in the blue silk shawl, and sitting on the kitchen-table cross-legged like a small idol, watching the dwarf while he washed the dress.
he was handy enough at the washing, and before long the pink frock was moderately clean (some of the stains would not come out, and could hardly be blamed for it), and was flapping in the wind on a low-hanging branch.
now, the child said to the dwarf, was the time for him to tell her a story.
what story?
oh, a story about a dwarf, any of the dwarfs he used to know, only except the yellow dwarf, or the seven ones in the wood, or the one in "snow-white and rosy red," because she knowed those herself.
the dwarf smiled, and then frowned; then he lighted his pipe and smoked for a time in silence, while the child waited with expectant eyes; then, after about a week, she thought, he began.
"once upon a time "
the child nodded, and drew a long breath of relief.
she had not been sure that he would know the right way to tell a story, but he did, and it was all right.
"once upon a time, snow-white, there was a man "
"not a man!
a dwarf!"
cried the child.
"you are right!"
said mark ellery.
"i made a mistake, snow-white.
not a man, a dwarf!
i'll begin again, if you like.
once upon a time there was a dwarf."
"that's right!"
said the child.
she drew the blue shawl around her, and sighed with pleasure.
"go on, mark."
"the trouble is," he went on, "he this dwarf was born a man-thing, a man-child; it was not till his nurse dropped him that it was settled that he was to be a dwarf-thing, and never a man.
that was unfortunate, you see, for he had some things born with him that a dwarf has no business with.
what things?
oh, nothing much; a heart, and brains, and feelings; that kind of thing."
"feelings?
if you pinched him did it hurt, just like a man?"
"just; you would have thought he was a man sometimes, if you had not seen him.
the trouble was, his mother let him grow up thinking he was a man.
she loved him very much, you see, and she was a foolish woman.
she taught him to think that the inside of a man was what mattered; and that if that were all right, if he were clean and kind and right-minded, and perhaps neither a fool nor a coward, people would not mind about the outside.
he grew up thinking that."
"was he quite stupid?"
the child asked.
"he must have been, i think, mark."
"yes, he was very stupid, snow-white."
"because he might have looked in the glass, you know."
"of course he might; he did now and then.
but he thought that other women, other people, were like his mother, you see; and they weren't, that was all.
"he was very rich, this dwarf "
the child's eyes brightened.
the story had been rather stupid so far, but now things were going to begin.
did he live in a gold house?
she asked.
did he have chariots and crowns and treasure, bags and bags of treasure?
was there a princess in it?
when was he going to tell her about her?
why didn't he go on?
"i can't go on if you talk, snow-white.
he was rich, i say, and for that reason everybody made believe that he was a man, and treated him like one.
silly?
yes, very silly.
but he was stupid, as you say, and he thought it was all right; and everybody was kind, and his mother loved him; and so he grew up."
"but he still stayed a dwarf?"
"yes, still a dwarf."
"what like did he look?
was he puffickly frightful, wiz great goggle eyes and a long twisty nose?
was he green?
you said once you was green, mark, before you turned brown."
"yes, he was rather green; not a bright green, you understand; just a dull, blind sort of green."
"wiz goggle eyes?"
"n-no!
i don't know that they goggled particularly, snow-white.
i hope not.
"well, when he was grown up, only he never grew up!
his mother died."
the child was trying hard to be good, but her patience gave out at last, the man was silent so long.
"what is the matter wiz you, mark?
i think this is a stupid story.
didn't anything happen to him at all?
why do you bark?"
"yes, things happened to him.
this is a slow story, snow-white, and you must have patience.
you see, i never told it before, and the words don't come just as i want to have them."
the child nodded sympathetically, and promised to be patient; she knew how it was herself sometimes, when she tried to tell a story what she didn't know it very well.
didn't he know this one very well, perhaps?
was there another he knowed better?
"no, no other i know half so well, little girl.
his mother died, i say and then then he met the princess."
the child beamed again.
"was she beautiful as the day?
did she live in a nivory tower, and let her hair down out of the window?
was there dragons?
did the dwarf fall in love wiz her right off that minute he seed her?"
"the tower was brown," said the dwarf, "brown stone.
no, she didn't let her hair down, and there were no dragons; quite the contrary, the door was always open always open, and the way seemed clear.
but she was beautiful, and he fell in love with her.
oh, yes!
she had soft clear eyes, and soft pale cheeks, and soft dark hair; everything about her was soft and sweet and
"well, this dwarf fell in love with her, and wanted to marry her.
yes, as you say, they always do.
for a long time, a very long time, he did not dare to think of its being possible that she could love him.
he would have been content content and thankful just to be her friend, just to be allowed to see her now and then, and take her hand, and feel her smile through and through him like wine.
but her eyes were so soft and she looked at him so that he asked her "
"mark, what for do you keep stopping like that?
never you must, when you are telling a story; always they go right on."
"what was i saying?"
the dwarf looked at the child, with eyes that seemed not to see her, but something beyond her.
"what was i saying, snow-white?"
"he asked her would she marry him!"
said the child, promptly.
"and she said no indeed, she wouldn't do noffin of the kind, she was going to marry a beautiful prince, wiz "
"i beg your pardon, snow-white; you are wrong this time.
she said she would marry him.
she looked at him with her soft eyes, and said she loved him.
she said the kind of things his mother had said; and the dwarf, being stupid, believed her."
the child bubbled over with laughter.
"wasn't he silly?
but of course she didn't, mark!"
"of course not.
but he thought she was going to; so he built a house, well, we'll call it a palace if you like, snow-white; perhaps it was as good as some palaces.
at any rate, it was the best he could build.
and he filled it full of things, what kind of things?
oh, pictures and statues and draperies, and, yes, silver and gold and jewels, any quantity of jewels; and he sent abroad for silks and satins and shawls, "
"like this what i've got on?"
"very like it.
he meant to have in the house everything that her heart could desire, so that when she wished for anything, he could say, 'here it is, ready for you, my beloved!'
"well, and so the dwarf worked away, and heaped up treasures, the regular dwarf way, and saw the princess every day, and was happy; and she looked at him with her soft eyes, and told him she loved him; and so it came near the time of the wedding.
then one day "
"the prince came!"
cried the child, jumping up and down and clapping her hands.
"i know!
let me tell a little bit now, mark.
may i?
well, the prince came, and he was tall and handsome, wiz golden hair and blue eyes, and he was ever and ever so much richer than the dwarf; and so the princess falled in love wiz him the minute she seed him, and he falled in love wiz her, too; and he said, 'this is my princess!'
and she said, 'this is my prince!'
isn't that the way, mark?"
"precisely!"
said the dwarf.
"i couldn't have told it better myself, snow-white; perhaps not so well.
the prince was richer, and handsomer, and younger, and that settled it.
it always does, doesn't it?"
"and then what became of the dwarf, mark?"
"oh!
it doesn't matter what became of the dwarf, does it?
he was only a dwarf, you know.
the story always ends when the prince and princess are married.
'they lived happily ever after.'
that's the end, don't you remember?"
the child reflected, with a puzzled look.
"yes," she said, presently.
"but you see, mark, this is a different kind of story.
that other kind is when you begin wiz the princess, and tell all about her; and then the dwarf just comes in, and is puffickly horrid, and then the prince comes, and so but this story began wiz the dwarf, don't you see?"
"what difference does that make, snow-white?
nobody cares what becomes of a dwarf."
"but yes, but when it is his own story, mark.
but aren't you stupid?
and besides, them all was horrid, and this was a nice dwarf.
was he like you, mark?"
"a little perhaps."
"then he was very nice, and i love him.
like this."
the child threw her arms around the dwarf, and gave him a strangling hug; then she drew back and looked at him.
"it seems," she said, "as if most likely p'r'aps i loved you better than princes.
do you s'pose could i?"
the dwarf's eyes were very kind as he looked at her, but he shook his head, and loosed the little arms gently.
"no, snow-white," he said, "i don't believe you could.
but as to this other dwarf, there isn't very much to tell.
he gave her back her freedom, as they call it in the books, and then he shut up the fine house and went away."
"where did he go?"
"oh, he went everywhere, or pretty near it.
he travelled, and saw strange places and people.
but nothing mattered much to him, and at last he found that there was only one country he really cared to see, and that was the country that has never been discovered."
"then how did he know it was there, mark?
but where was it?
was it like 'east o' the sun and west o' the moon,' and old womans told him about it?"
"yes, perhaps; at least, his mother used to tell him about it.
but he never thought then he didn't think much about it.
but now he was tired, and nothing mattered, and so he thought he would go and see that country if it were really there and possibly he might find his mother, if the things she said were true.
so did i say his mother was dead?
so i did!
oh, well, never mind that now.
so he bought a key that would open the door of that country yes, something like that thing i called a key and then he came to a place well, it was something like this place, snow-white.
he wanted to be quiet, you see, for some time, before he went away.
he wanted to be alone, and think think gather up the threads and thoughts of his life and try to straighten them into something like an even skein.
then, if he were allowed, if there should be any possibility that he might take them with him, he could say to his mother he could excuse himself he could tell her "
"mark," said the child, "do you know what i think?"
the man started, and looked at her.
"what you think, snow-white?"
"yes!
i think you are talking puffick foolishness.
i don't know one word what you are saying, and i don't believe do you either."
"no more i do, snow-white.
i think this is enough story, don't you?
you see i was right, it didn't matter what became of the dwarf.
let us come out and feed the birds."
"let's," said the child.
the key of the fields.
"the question before the court is, what next?"
it was mark ellery who spoke.
he was sitting on the green at the foot of the buttonwood-tree.
it was noon, and the birds were all quiet, save one confidential titmouse, who had come to make a call, and was perched on the tip of the dwarf's shoe, cocking his bright eye at him expressively.
"tweet-tweet," said the titmouse.
"precisely," said the dwarf.
"what next?"
was he speaking to the bird, or was it merely that the sound of his own voice had grown friendly to him during these silent years?
he went on.
"how if i waited still a little longer, and took a little pleasure before i go?
"but as in wailing     there's naught availing,     and death unfailing     will strike the blow,     then for that reason,     and for a season,     let us be merry     before we go!"
"do you agree, brother titmouse?
see now.
she they went away and left their treasure.
i did not send them away, did i?
no fault of mine in that, at least.
fate or something call it god, if you like brought the treasure to my door; have i no right to keep it, for a little, at least?
the joy i might have!
and i have not had too much, perhaps.
they have each other.
this is a solitary little creature, living in her fairy stories, left pretty much to nurse and governess; no mother touches to tell another kind of story.
the prince and princess" again his laugh sounded like a bark, the child would have said "don't need her very much, if they can go off for two months and leave her, the little pearl, the little flower, the little piece of delight, alone with strangers.
i could make her happy; i could fill her little hands full, full.
she should have all the things that are waiting there shut up; those, and as many more, ten times over.
we might have our play for a few weeks or a few months; and then, when she was tired no, before she was tired, oh, surely before that!
i would give her back.
give her back!
and how should i do that?
there are several ways."
he moved his foot, tossing the bird up in the air.
it fluttered, hovered a moment over his head, then settled on his wrist, and smoothed its feathers in absolute content.
"well, brother, well," said mark ellery.
"you like me pretty well, do you?
you find me pleasant to live with?
you think i could make a child happy?"
the titmouse flirted its tail and looked at him; it seemed a pity it could not smile; but it rubbed its bill against his hand, and he understood all it wanted to say.
"several ways," the dwarf repeated.
"i could simply take the child in my hand and go to them; hobble up the steps, i hear their house is twice as fine as the one i built, and stand at the door humbly, asking admission.
'here is your child, madam; you left her to wander about uncared for, and she came to me.
you took all else i had, take now this also, as a gift from the dwarf.'
i think i could bring the trouble into her eyes, and the colour into her soft pale cheeks.
if only she would not speak!
if i should hear her speak
"or i might send for her to come to me.
that would be the dramatic thing to do!
wait for her here, under the tree.
it might be a time like this, the little one asleep up there.
"'i sent for you, madam, to ask if you had lost anything.
oh, i don't know how greatly you value it, a child, a little girl, who wandered here some time ago.
she was lost in the wood; it is a wonder she did not starve.
she came to me barefoot and hungry, and i took her in.
she is asleep now, up in her favourite chamber in yonder tree.
it seems a pity to wake her; she sleeps very sweetly.
oh, i would gladly keep her, and i think it might not be difficult; at least, she has never tried to run away; but we are old neighbours, and i thought it right to let you know that she was here.'
"then to wake the child, and bring her down, flushed with her lovely sleep, clinging with both arms round my neck no horror of the hateful dwarf, no shrinking; the little velvet cheek pressed against my brown, rough face, the sweet eyes looking at me me, mark ellery with love in them.
yes, by heaven, love; no lying here!
ah, yes, that would be the dramatic thing.
the trouble is, i am not a dramatic figure; am i, brother titmouse?
"well, then, there remains the third way, the easy, clear, blessed way, and i swear i believe i'll do it.
just let things take their own course; let fate or god, if you like have right of way, do the work without me.
why should i meddle?
he is capable, surely?
the child is here; very well, let them find her, since they lost her.
keep my jewel, treasure it, make much of it, till they search far enough afield.
they are sure to do that.
they will send out search-parties very likely they are afoot now.
it would be a pity, if they could not find this bit of forest, only a few miles from the town.
private property, belonging to the eccentric dwarf millionaire who threw over his life, and went abroad seven years ago?
that will not hinder them from searching it.
when i hear them coming, call my lamb, fill her hands with trinkets, phillips can get me trinkets, kiss her good-bye, push her into their arms.
'lost child?
surely!
here she is.
how should i know whose child it was, living so retired?
take her!
make my apologies to the parents for saving her life, and feeding and caring for her these days, or weeks.'
"then, when she is gone, and the house empty again, and dark how dark it will be!
why, then, the key of the fields!"
he whistled softly to the titmouse, which ruffled and cheeped in answer; then glanced upward at the tree, and repeated, "the key of the fields!"
it was days since he had held it in his hands, his favourite toy, the smooth shining thing he had played with so long.
he had been afraid the child might get hold of it, so had left it untouched on its shelf.
he missed the habit that had grown upon him of taking it out every day, holding it in his hand, polishing it, pressing the cold circle of the barrel against his temple, and fancying how it would be.
how often he could not tell how often!
he had said, "it shall be to-day!"
and had set things in decent order and looked forward to his journey.
but always he had decided to wait a little, and again a little; till the young birds were fledged, till they were flown, till the autumn trees brightened, till the snow was gone and he could find the first mayflowers once more.
the world was so fair, he still put off leaving it, since at any time he could go, since the key was in his hand, and rest under the crook of his finger.
but when the child was gone, he would not stay behind alone.
it would be different now; he must make haste to be gone on his journey that is, if there were a journey!
some flight of the spirit from the crumpled, unsightly chrysalis, some waking in new, unthinkable conditions; unthinkable, not unimaginable.
he had no knowledge that he might not see his mother's face, and feel her hand on his head.
there was no proof against it.
then, if it might be, he would tell her all, as he had so often told her, alone here in the wood.
how he had come near to what we call heaven, here on earth; how he had drunk the waters of hell, six streams, were there?
styx, acheron, phlegethon, lethe only one never could get a taste of that!
scraps of school latin ran together in his head; sleepy, was he?
but as he was saying, he would tell his mother all if she existed, if he should still exist; if
or on the other hand, if it should be rest simple, rest absolute, no sound or sight for ever, why, then, all the more should the key be turned, since then could be no question of right or wrong, sin or virtue, heaven or hell.
sleep!
meantime, he was alive, on a day like this!
no one could think of shutting his eyes for ever, or of starting on a pilgrimage, or a wild-goose chase, on a day like this.
the sunlight of early may, softly brilliant, came sifting down through the branches of the great tree.
the leaves rustled, and the sound was hardly rougher than if all the flocks that nestled in its deep, airy bowers should plume themselves at once.
the birds slept their noonday sleep with the child; even the titmouse was gone now to his siesta; but other wildwood creatures came and went at their ease across the green, hardly even glancing at the familiar gray figure curled up at the foot of the tree.
that was where he often sat.
it seemed stupid, when there were branches to swing on, pleasant burrows under the forest-mould; since he even had his own nest, bigger than any fish-hawk's, up there in the tree itself; but it was his way.
brother chipmunk, passing by on an errand, regarded him benignantly.
he was a harmless monster, and often useful in the way of victual.
if smoke came out of his mouth now and then, what did brother chipmunk care?
that was the way the creature was made; the question of importance was, had he any nuts in his side-pouches?
the pretty creature ran up the man's leg, and sat on his knee, looking at him with bright, expectant eyes; but he met no friendly answering glance; the brown eyes were closed, the man was asleep.
yet, that was his kind of note, surely!
was he speaking?
no; the sound came from above.
oh!
listen, brother chipmunk; kind little forest brother, listen!
and let the sound speak to you, and warn you to wake the slumbering figure here, ere it be too late, ere horror seize him, and despair take his heart for her own.
what is that voice above?
wake, wake, mark ellery, if there be life in you!
a sleepy babble at first, the waking murmur of a happy child; then a call, "mark!
mark, where are you?"
silence, and then a livelier prattle.
"i guess most prob'ly p'r'aps he's getting dinner; that's what he is.
well, then, i'll play a little till he comes; only there's noffin' here to play wiz.
oh!
yes, there is mark's silver key, what looks like a pistol.
i believe it is a pistol, and he doesn't know, 'cause he's a dwarf.
dwarfs has swords and daggers and things; never a dwarf had a pistol, not even the yellow one.
well, mark said i mustn't; well, of course, i won't, only just i'll take it down and see what it is.
you see, that can't possumbly do any harm, just to look and see what it is; and if it is a pistol, then he ought not to have it there, 'cause they go off and kill people dead.
and when they aren't loaded, in the newspapers all the same they kill people; and just i can reach it if i stand on my tippy-toe-toes my tippy-toe-toes and "
mark ellery woke.
woke, staggering to his feet, with a crack shattering his ears, with a cry ringing through his soul.
"mark!
mark!
it killed me!"
then silence; and the man fell on his knees, and the pistol-smoke drifted down, and floated across his face like a passing soul.
was it a heart-beat, was it a lifetime, before that silence was broken?
the forest held its breath; its myriad leaves hung motionless; there was no movement save the drifting of that blue cloud, that was now almost gone, only the ragged edges of its veil melting away among the tree-trunks.
surely neither sound nor motion would come from that gray image kneeling under the tree, its hands locked together till the nails pierced the flesh, its eyes set and staring.
is it death they are staring at?
lo!
this man has been playing with death; toying, coquetting, dallying with him, month after month, sure of his own power, confident that his own hand held both scythe and hour-glass.
now death has laughed, and reached behind him and taken his own.
o god!
can this thing be?
god of terror and majesty, working thine awful will in steadfastness while we play and fret and strut under thy silent heavens has he sinned enough for this, this terrible damnation?
is there no hope for him, now or hereafter through the ages?
but hark!
oh, hark!
o god, once more!
god of mercy and tenderness; god who givest sight to the blind, and bringest the dead heart into life again is this thy will, and has he won heaven so soon?
what sound now from above?
a bird, is it, waked from its sleep in fear?
no!
no bird ever sobbed in its throat; no bird ever cried through tears like this.
"mark!
i want you, mark!
not killed i is, but i's frightened, and i want you, mark, my mark!"
when the child was going to bed that night the dwarf took her in his arms, and held her a long, long time, silent.
then he said:
"snow-white, i want you to say your prayer with me to-night."
"wiz you, mark?
i thought never dwarfs said prayers."
"kneel down with me here, snow-white, little darling child.
hold hands with me so!
now say after me the words i say."
and wondering, the child repeated after him:
"'whither shall i go from thy spirit?
or whither shall i flee from thy presence?
if i ascend up into heaven, thou art there; if i make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
if i take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea: even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.
amen.'"
"amen," said the child.
"that's kind of a funny prayer, isn't it, mark?
i like that prayer.
i think i'll have that for mine, 'stead of 'now i lay me.'
mark!"
"yes, snow-white."
"is you terrible glad i wasn't killed wiz that pistol key?"
"yes, snow-white; terrible glad!"
"is you glad enough not to be cross wiz me 'cause i took it?
'cause i was naughty, 'cause you told me not."
"yes, snow-white."
"not one single bit cross?"
"not one single bit, my little darling child."
the child drew a long sigh of content, and put up her arms.
"here i want to go to sleep," she said.
"your lap is so nice, mark; and your shoulder comes just right for my head.
is you comfy so, mark?"
"very comfy, snow-white."
"do you love me?"
"very much, little one; very, very much."
"me too you.
good-night, mark.
i'm glad you was a dwarf, and just right for me!"
through the long night those tender arms held her.
her sweet head rested on his shoulder; he never moved; he timed his breathing so that it might come and go with hers, softly rising, softly falling, hour after hour.
only toward morning, when the dawn chill came on, he laid the lax limbs and heavy head on the bed, and covered them tenderly, and sat and watched beside the bed till day.
it was more than the child's mother had ever done, but why should she do it, when the nurses were always there?
restored to life.
so it came to pass that james phillips, driving in painful state toward the forest, met the third great surprise of his life.
the first had been when, as a child, he was snatched from the hands of the brutal father whose lash still, whenever he thought of it, whistled its way down on his cringing body.
he often recalled that moment; the centring of agony in one nerve and another of his tortured frame as the blows fell, the setting of his teeth to keep the screams back because that other should not have the pleasure of hearing him scream; then the sudden flash, the cry, the little figure, no bigger than his own, standing over him, ablaze with wrath, the hulking bully cowering abject, the lash dropped and never raised again.
following this, the years of kindness without intermission; the watching, befriending, educating.
phillips was not a man of expression, or he would have said that, if god almighty created him, mark ellery made him.
and always so wise, so kind, with the light in his eyes, and the smile that people would turn in the street to look after.
and on all this had come the second surprise.
suddenly, with no reason given or asked the light gone out of his master's kind eyes, the smile coming no more, though he would still laugh sometimes, a harsh, unlovely laugh, in place of the mellow sound that used to warm the heart like wine.
then the life changed with the nature; the grave cares, the beneficent responsibilities cast aside, the ceaseless flow of cordial kindness checked, all business thrown into his own willing but timid hands.
the wandering life abroad, of which a few random lines dropped now and then had told him; then the return, unguessed by any save himself alone; the seclusion in the bit of lonely forest that bordered the wide ellery domain, the life or death-in-life for to phillips it seemed that his master might as well be nailed in his coffin as living like this.
so it had seemed, at least; but now, it appeared that yet worse might be.
at least the man, mark ellery, had been there, alive and sane, however cruelly changed.
but now, if his mind were indeed failing, if some obscure and terrible disease were depriving him of his faculties, what would happen?
what must happen?
so far he, phillips, had simply obeyed every dictate, however whimsical and fantastic.
here he was, for instance, the carriage filled with things which for very shame and grief he had hidden in boxes and baskets, toys, cushions, frippery of every description.
he had bought them with a sinking heart; he could have wept over every foolish prettiness, but he had bought sternly and faithfully, and every article was the best of its kind.
what did it mean?
his best hope was that some farmer's child, straying near the wood, had struck and pleased his master's wandering fancy; his worst but when he thought of that, james phillips straightened his shoulders, and a dark flush crept over his sallow cheek.
to him, thus riding in state and misery, came, i say, the third great surprise of his life.
suddenly the coachman uttered an exclamation, and checked his horses.
now the coachman, like all mark ellery's servants, was as near deaf and dumb as was possible for a man possessed of all his faculties.
phillips raised his eyes, and beheld two figures advancing along the road toward him.
his master, mark ellery, walking erect and joyful, as he used to walk, his eyes alight, his mouth smiling the old glad way; and holding his hand, dancing and leaping beside him, a child.
no farmer's child, though its feet were bare, and bare its curly head, and though the pink frock fluttered in torn folds about it.
the child who was now mourned as dead in the splendid house where till now careless pleasure had reigned prodigal and supreme.
the child whose dainty hat, dripping and broken, but still half-filled with flowers, had this very day been brought to the distracted woman who now lay prone on her velvet couch, waking from one swoon only to shriek and moan and shudder away into another, for in most women the mother nature wakes sooner or later, only sometimes it is too late.
the child for whose drowned body the search-parties were fathoming every black pool and hidden depth in the stream that, flowing far through woodland and meadow, had brought the flower-laden hat to the very gates of the town, to the very feet of her father, as he rode out on his last frantic search.
the same child, not dead, not stolen or lost or mazed, tripping and dancing and swinging by mark ellery's hand, talking and chattering like any squirrel, while her curls blew in the may wind.
"they is white!
mark, the horses is white, just the way you said.
oh, i do love you!
who is that?
is it a man?
is he real?
why like a doll does he look wiz his eyes?
does he wind up behind?
what for is his mouth open?
can he speak?"
"no, he can't speak!"
said the dwarf, laughing.
"at least, he'd better not.
it isn't good for his health, is it, phillips?
see, snow-white, the carriage has stopped now, and we will get in and go home to mamma.
oh!
yes, you do want to go, very much indeed; and she'll have brought you something pretty from new york, i shouldn't wonder."
"always she mostly sometimes does!"
said the child.
"but i am coming back here; very soon i am coming, mark?
both together we are coming back to live parts of the times?
because you know, mark!"
"yes, i know, snow-white!
yes, if mamma and papa are willing, we will come back now and then."
"because the squirrels, you know, mark!"
"yes, i know."
"and the birds!
do you think all day those crumbs will last them, do you?
do you think cousin goldfinch understood when you asplained to him?
do you think simeon is lonely?
poor simeon!
why don't you speak and tell me, mark?
mark!"
"well, snow-white?"
"the cow!"
"what of her, my child?"
"mark, who will milk her?
you know whisper!"
she put her mouth to his ear.
"you know real cows has to be milked; and we said she was real, both we did, mark!"
"this man will milk her," said mark, smiling at the speechless image opposite him.
"did you ever milk a cow, phillips?"
but phillips did not speak, and the child said, openly, that he needed winding up.
so they drove back to the town and through the streets, where people started at sight of them, and stared after them, and whispered to one another; to the splendid house where, above the marble steps, the white ribbons waved on the door, with white roses above them to show that a child was mourned as dead.
the child wanted to know why the ribbons were there, and whether it was a party, and a party for her; but for once no one answered her.
the carriage stopped, and she flung her arms around mark ellery's neck, and clung tight.
"you will take me in, mark?"
"yes, snow-white!"
"you will carry me up the steps, and into the house?"
"yes, snow-white."
"because i love you!
because i love you better as "
"hush, my child!
hush, my little darling child!"
the white-faced butler tore down the ribbons and flung them behind him as he opened the door.
he could not speak, but he looked imploringly at the stately gentleman who stood before him with the child in his arms.
"yes," said mark ellery, "i am coming in, barton.
take me to your mistress."
james phillips sat in the carriage outside, and faced the gathering crowd.
the rumour spread like wildfire; men and women came running with eager questions, with wide incredulous eyes.
was it true?
could it be true?
who had seen her?
here was james phillips; what did phillips say?
was the child found?
was she alive?
had mark ellery brought her back?
they surged and babbled about the carriage.
phillips, who had received his instructions in a few quiet words, turned an impassive face to the crowd.
yes, he said, it was true.
mr. ellery had found the little girl.
yes, she was alive and well, had no hurt of any kind.
yes, mr.
ellery had taken her into the house; he was in the house now.
he had come back; his own house was to be opened; he would be at the office to-morrow.
"where has he been?"
cried several eager voices.
for here was a fresh wonder, almost as great as that of the dead restored to life.
"where has mark ellery been, james phillips?"
james phillips searched his mind for a painful instant; groped for some new light of imagination, but found none; could only make the old answer that he had made so many times before:
"he has been in thibet hunting the wild ass!"
good-bye.
the birds did not know what to make of it.
at first for several days they flew at the windows, as they were in the habit of doing when they felt that a little change from worms would be pleasant.
it had come to be an understood thing that when they came to the places where the air was hard, they should flap and beat against it with wings and beak.
then their friend would push up the hard air, or open his tree and come out, and would scatter food for them, food which they could not name, but which was easy and pleasant to eat, and did not wriggle.
then they would flutter about him, and perch on head and hand and shoulder, and tell him all the news.
he was always interested to hear how the nest was getting on, and how many eggs there were; and later, of the extraordinary beauty and virtue of the nestlings.
he listened to all the forest gossip with evident pleasure, and often made noises as if he were trying to reply; though, having no bill, of course he only produced uncouth sounds.
he meant so well, though, and was so liberal with his food, that all loved him, and not the youngest titmouse ever thought of making fun of him.
now he was gone, and the birds did not know what to make of it.
they flew and beat against the hard air spaces, but there was no movement within.
they consulted the squirrels, and the squirrels went and told simeon stylites, who came down from his pillar in distress, and climbed down the hard red hollow tree that stood on top of the house.
he was gone some time, and when he reappeared the squirrels and birds screamed and chattered in affright, for he had gone down a gray squirrel, and he came up black as a crow.
but he soothed them, and explained that the inside of the tree was covered with black fur which came off on him.
moreover, all was as usual in the place below where their friend lived; only, he was not there.
he had found some nuts, but intended to keep them for his trouble; and so he departed.
for a long time the birds called and sang and swooped about the house; but no friendly face appeared, no voice answered their call, no hand scattered the daily dole.
the creepers rustled and swung their green tendrils down over the house, but it remained senseless, silent, crouched against the wall of gray rock behind it.
so it stands, and the forest blooms and fades and shrivels round it, year after year.
only, once in every year, when the mayflowers are blossoming warm and rosy under the brown leaves, the owner of the house comes back to it.
comes with weary step and careworn brow, life being so full, and the rush of it bringing more work and thought and anxiety than the days can hold, yet with serene countenance, and eves full of quiet peace, ready to break on the instant into light and laughter.
in his hand he brings the child, growing every year into new beauty, new grace, and brightness.
and there for a happy week they live and play, and wash the pretty dishes, and feed the birds, and milk the brown cow which is always mysteriously there in the pasture, ready to be milked.
"do you know, mark?"
said the child once, when they had patted the cow, and were turning away with their shining pail full the child was a big girl now, but she had the same inconsequent way of talking
"know what, snow-white?"
"i really did think perhaps she was a princess, that first time.
wasn't that funny?"
she bubbled over with laughter, just the old way.
"but we can play just as well now, can't we, mark?"
"just as well, snow-white."
"and i am not so horribly big, mark, am i?"
"not yet, snow-white.
not yet, my big little girl."
"but you will love me just the same if i do get horribly big, mark?"
"just the same, snow-white!
a little more every year, to allow for growth."
"because i can't help it, you know, mark."
"surely not, my dear.
surely mark would not have you help it."
"but always i shall be the right size for you, mark, and always you will be my own dwarf?"
"always and always, snow-white!"
"because i love you!"
says the child.
so the two saunter back through the wood, and the ferns unroll beside their path, and the mayflowers peep out at them from under the leaves, and overhead the birds flit and the squirrels frisk, and all is as it has always been in the good green wood.
only, when the milk is carefully set away, mark ellery comes out of the house, and stands under the great buttonwood-tree, silent, with bent head.
and seeing him so, the girl comes out after him, and puts her arms around his neck, and leans her head on his breast, and is silent too; for she knows he is saying his prayer, the prayer that is now this long time his life, that she means shall guide and raise her own life, and bring it a little nearer his.
"even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me!"
the end.
a dramatic reader
little red riding-hood
persons in the play little red riding-hood, mother, bird, wolf, miller, grandmother
scene i. at red riding-hood's home
mother.
would you like to go to grandmother's to-day, my child?
the sun is bright and the air is warm and pleasant.
little red riding-hood.
yes, mother, you know i always like to visit dear grandmamma.
mother.
then you may go.
you may carry your little basket, and i'll put some honey and a jar of butter in it for grandma.
little red riding-hood.
oh, that will be a nice present for her!
and may i take her some flowers?
mother.
yes, dear child.
gather some of those you like best.
little red riding-hood.
here they are, mother roses and pansies!
aren't they pretty?
mother.
very pretty and sweet.
now put on your little red cloak and take the basket.
be very careful as you pass through the wood, and go directly to grandma's house.
little red riding-hood.
yes, dear mother.
nothing will harm me.
all the birds and animals love me and i love them.
mother.
good-by, little daughter.
give me a kiss and take my love to dear grandmother.
little red riding-hood.
good-by, mamma: good-by!
scene ii.
in the wood
little red riding-hood (singing).
good morning, merry sunshine,    how did you come so soon?
you chase the little stars away    and shine away the moon.
i saw you go to sleep last night    before i ceased my playing.
how did you get 'way over there,    and where have you been staying?
how pretty it is here in the wood!
oh, what a lovely bed of moss!
you must come with me, pretty green moss, to grandma's house.
good morning, pretty bird: will you sing to me this morning?
bird.
yes, little red riding-hood.
i will sing to you because you love all the birds and can understand my song.
soon i'll show you my little birds who are just big enough to fly.
little red riding-hood.
thank you, dear bird, i shall be glad to see the cunning little things.
but now i must hurry to grandmother's with the butter and the honey.
good-by!
bird.
good-by, little friend!
chirp, chirp; chirp, chirp!
little red riding-hood.
now the little bird has flown away.
i must put this moss in my basket and then hurry along
wolf.
ugh, ugh!
little red riding-hood.
oh!
how you frightened me, mister wolf!
where did you come from?
wolf.
from my pretty cave, far, far in the dark wood, little girl.
what is your name?
little red riding-hood.
why, don't you know me?
i'm little red riding-hood.
wolf.
i'm a stranger in this place, little girl; but i shall know you the next time i see you ugh, ugh!
what have you in your pretty basket, little red riding-hood?
it smells like honey.
little red riding-hood.
it is honey, mr. wolf.
i am taking it to my dear grandmother.
wolf.
are you all alone in the wood, my child?
isn't your mother with you?
aren't you afraid?
little red riding-hood.
afraid?
no, indeed!
why should i be afraid?
all the animals are my friends.
wolf.
oh, yes, of course they are all your friends!
but is it far to your grandmother's house?
little red riding-hood.
no, mr. wolf, only about half a mile.
you go down this path to the mill and then turn to the right, and the first house you come to is my grandmother's.
it's a little red house.
wolf.
oh, that is very easy to find!
but i know a shorter way through the wood.
let us run a race and see who will get there first.
little red riding-hood.
all right, mr. wolf.
good-by!
wolf.
ugh, ugh; good-by!
little red riding-hood.
how fast he runs!
i know he will win the race.
how surprised dear grandma will be when mr. wolf knocks at the door!
now i see the mill.
i will sing the pretty mill song we learned in school the other day.
[begins to sing, then stops suddenly.]
oh, there is the miller.
good morning, mr. miller!
have you seen mr.
wolf go by?
miller.
no, little red riding-hood.
have you seen a wolf in the wood?
little red riding-hood.
yes, mr. miller, and he said he would race with me to my grandmother's house.
miller.
my dear child, i will call the men who are chopping trees in the forest and they will catch mr. wolf.
he is no friend of ours, and you must not talk with him, for he is cruel and will do you harm.
little red riding-hood.
will he?
then i will never say another word to him.
but i must hurry on to dear grandmother's.
scene iii.
grandmother's house
little red riding-hood.
here i am at the door; i will knock.
may i come in, dear grandmother?
wolf (in the house).
open the latch and walk in.
little red riding-hood.
here i am, dear grandmother!
i am so glad the bad wolf did not get here first.
are you so sick you must stay in bed?
see the nice butter and honey that mother sent you.
and see the pretty flowers i've brought you.
wolf.
thank you, my child.
little red riding-hood.
how rough your voice is, grandmother!
wolf.
that's because i've such a bad cold.
little red riding-hood.
but how bright your eyes are, grandmother!
wolf.
the better to see you, my child.
little red riding-hood.
how long your arms are, grandmother!
wolf.
the better to hold you, my child.
little red riding-hood.
and how big your teeth are, grandmother!
wolf.
the better to eat you ugh!
ugh!
[the miller and the wood choppers rush in.]
mr. miller.
here's an end to you, mr. wolf!
these men with their axes will stop your cruel deeds.
[the wolf runs out, followed by the men.]
come, little red riding-hood, don't be afraid.
the wolf can't harm you now.
here is your grandmother, who has just come home from the village.
she will take care of you.
little red riding-hood.
dear grandmother!
i thought that the wolf was you.
grandmother.
darling little red riding-hood!
how glad i am that you are safe.
now you must stay with me till your mother comes, and we will tell her how the brave men saved you and me from the hungry wolf.
won't she be glad to see her little red riding-hood again?
goldilocks, or the three bears
persons in the play goldilocks, the dollie, father bear, mother bear, baby bear
scene i. goldilocks in the garden with her doll
goldilocks.
o dear!
i do wish mother would come home.
i am going to meet her.
she told me not to go out of the garden lest i should get lost; but if i keep in the road, i can't get lost!
come, dollie, you and i will go just a little way to meet mamma.
how warm it is in the sunshine!
i think we shall go into the shady wood a little while.
let us pick some of these pretty flowers to make a wreath won't mother be surprised when i show her all these flowers.
here is a lovely red one; and here's another like a daisy.
how dark it is here!
i cannot see the road.
i wonder if i'm lost!
o mamma, mamma!
i'm afraid.
dear dollie, i'm glad you are with me.
dollie.
but i'm afraid, too!
goldilocks.
please, dear dollie, don't be afraid.
why, there's nothing to be afraid of oh!
dollie.
what is the matter, goldilocks?
goldilocks.
look, what is that?
dollie.
i don't see anything.
goldilocks.
i thought i saw a bear.
dollie.
well, i hope not.
i don't like bears.
goldilocks.
but there is a little house.
isn't it a funny little house?
i wonder who lives there!
dollie.
dear goldilocks, please, don't you think we'd better go home?
i don't like strange little houses in the wood.
goldilocks.
perhaps a kind fairy lives there who will show us the way home.
dollie.
yes, or perhaps she is the gingerbread witch who will turn us into gingerbread for her supper!
goldilocks.
don't say such uncomfortable things, dollie.
she couldn't turn you into gingerbread, anyway.
dollie.
well, i know i'm made of sawdust, but she might make mush of me for breakfast!
goldilocks.
i know you're fooling now, dear dollie.
let's look in the window.
i don't see anyone.
i'll knock at the door.
no one answers.
come, dollie, we'll open the door and walk in.
how nice and warm it is.
there is a good fire in the kitchen stove.
dollie.
yes, and i smell something good to eat.
goldilocks.
here it is on the table what pretty bowls one, two, three!
i'll taste the porridge in the big bowl first.
o dollie, it is too hot!
i burned my mouth.
dollie.
try the next bowl.
perhaps the porridge in the middle-sized bowl is not so hot.
goldilocks.
no, indeed, it isn't; but it is too cold.
dollie.
aren't you hard to please?
i'm so hungry i could eat anything.
goldilocks.
now this in the little bowl is just right.
sit down, dollie, and we'll eat it all up.
dollie.
do you think it is very polite for us to eat it all?
goldilocks.
you should have spoken of that before.
it is too late now when it is all gone.
come, let us go into the parlor.
dollie.
don't you think we'd better go home?
goldilocks.
how can we when i don't know the way?
i'm tired, and i think i'll rest awhile in this nice big rocking-chair.
but it's too high; i can't get into it.
dollie.
don't move it out of its place.
goldilocks.
never mind!
i'll try the middle-sized chair.
i don't like this, it is too low.
dollie.
well, goldilocks, you must not put chairs out of their places!
goldilocks.
oh, it won't hurt them.
now let us try this pretty little chair.
come, dollie, i'll sing you a song:
rock-a-bye, dollie, in the treetop,    when the wind blows, the cradle will rock;    when the bough breaks, the cradle will fall    and down will come dollie, cradle and all!
[chair breaks.]
dollie.
well, something broke then!
goldilocks.
yes, the cradle and all came down that time.
dear, o dear!
i wish i hadn't rocked you so hard.
i wish i hadn't run away!
[crying.]
dollie.
don't cry, dear goldilocks.
let us see what we can find in the next room.
perhaps some one is in there who will take us to your dear mother.
goldilocks.
o dollie!
i'm a naughty girl not to mind my mother.
if i'd only stayed at home in the garden!
dollie.
oh, see the big bed!
goldilocks.
i'm so tired i believe i'll climb in and go to sleep.
but i don't like it.
this big bed is too hard.
dollie.
and this middle-sized one is too soft.
goldilocks.
but this little one is just right.
go to sleep dollie
scene ii.
the bear family in the wood
father bear.
well, little son, aren't you about ready to go home?
sonny bear.
oh, no, father!
let me play just a little longer.
here are such good places to hide in the shady wood.
mother bear.
no, dear little sonny, we must go home now.
it is getting late.
it's time for you to have your supper and go to bed.
sonny bear.
all right, mother dear.
i believe i am hungry, and your porridge is always so good.
mother bear.
most children like porridge.
perhaps you can have a nice red apple, too.
sonny bear.
oh, goody!
little sonny bears always like apples, don't they, papa?
father bear.
yes, my dear.
mother, let me take your knitting basket.
what are you making now?
mother bear.
a warm cap for sonny.
isn't it pretty?
father bear.
very pretty, and he should be very glad he has such a good mother.
sonny bear.
she is a good mother, and you are a very good father, too.
father bear.
well, here we are at home again.
but the door is open.
i'm certain i closed it when we went away.
who has been here?
mother bear.
let us take off our wraps and have our tea.
father bear.
why, somebody has been tasting my porridge.
mother bear.
what?
let me see!
some one has left a spoon in my porridge, too.
sonny bear.
oh, mamma!
look at my bowl!
some one has eaten my porridge all up.
mother bear.
never mind, sonny boy, you may have some of mine.
but i wonder who has been here.
let us go into the parlor and see if anyone is there.
father bear.
who's been moving my chair?
mother bear.
some one has been sitting in my chair!
sonny bear.
look, mother!
some one has been rocking in my chair and broken it all to pieces!
o dear!
my nice little chair!
father bear.
never mind, sonny bear; don't cry.
i'll buy you another chair at mr. wolf's store to-morrow.
mother bear.
and now it is time for us to go to bed.
our little son is tired and sleepy.
father bear.
i'll carry him up stairs.
come, sonny, there you are up on my shoulder.
ride a cock horse to banbury cross    to see an old woman ride on a white horse.
with rings on her fingers and bells on her toes,    she shall have music wherever she goes!
well, who's been in my bed, i'd like to know?
mother bear.
why, look at my bed.
some one has been lying on my bed!
sonny bear.
come quick, mother!
father, come!
some one is in my bed.
goldilocks (waking and frightened).
oh, see the three bears.
come, dollie, let us jump out of the window.
[runs away.]
mother bear.
the little girl has gone, dear.
now you must go to sleep.
the bird with the broken wing
persons in the play the bird, the oak tree, the maple, the willow, the spruce, the pine, the juniper, the forest fairy, jack frost
scene i. in the woods
the oak.
see that flock of birds coming!
the winter is near and they are flying south.
the maple.
i hope they will not light on my branches; i like to keep my leaves in order.
the willow.
so many birds will break my tender twigs.
i am sure i do not want them either.
here they come!
[the birds fly over the trees.]
little bird.
oh, i can fly no farther!
my wing is broken and i cannot hold it up.
i am so tired and cold and hungry!
i must rest to-night in this forest.
i am sure some big strong tree will give me a resting place.
i will ask this tall oak, he looks so strong and his leaves are so thick and warm!
may i rest in your branches to-night, great oak tree?
i am a poor little bird with a broken wing and i am cold and tired and hungry.
the oak.
i am sorry; but my branches are all engaged by the squirrels, who are getting their acorns in for the winter.
i have no room for strange birds.
little bird.
oh!
i am so lonely, so tired!
surely the handsome maple tree will take me in.
she has no acorns and so the squirrels will not be in her branches.
kind, lovely maple tree, may i rest to-night in your branches?
i am a poor little bird with a broken wing.
i will not harm your pretty leaves.
the maple.
my leaves tremble to think of taking in strange birds!
my house is in perfect order and i cannot think of disturbing it.
please go away!
little bird.
oh, what shall i do?
the oak and the maple are so unkind and i am shivering with cold and weak with hunger.
surely some tree must be kind.
dear willow, you are kind, are you not?
will you take me upon your graceful branches just for to-night?
the willow.
really, mr. bird with the broken wing, i think you should have gone on with the other birds.
i cannot take you in.
i do not know your name or anything about you.
besides, i am very sleepy, and so, good night!
little bird.
oh, my dear bird friends, how i wish some of you were here!
i shall perish with the cold if i must stay on the ground.
where can i go?
the oak, the maple, and the willow have all turned me away and the night is coming on.
the spruce.
dear little bird with the broken wing, come to me!
can you hop up into my branches if i hold them down to you?
see, here i am!
i am not so handsome as the maple tree, but my leaves grow thick and i'll try to keep you warm through the night.
come!
little bird.
dear spruce tree, how kind you are!
i did not see you at first.
yes, here i am, on your lowest branch.
how cosy and warm i feel.
oh, you are so good, and i was so tired and cold.
here i'll rest.
i wish i could ever thank you enough for your goodness.
the spruce.
do not speak of that, dear little bird; i am ashamed of the proud, selfish trees that would not shelter you.
should we not all be kind and helpful to one another?
the pine.
well said, sister spruce.
and i will do my best to help you.
i am not so strong as the oak tree, little bird, but i will stand between you and the cold north wind.
rest warm and safe in the branches of the kind spruce tree.
little bird.
i thank you, tall pine tree, for your kindness.
you are a good brother of the spruce and i shall rest well while you are both taking care of me.
the juniper.
i cannot keep the strong north wind from you, little bird with the broken wing, but if you are hungry, you may eat of my berries.
perhaps then you will rest better.
little bird.
thank you, dear juniper tree.
why are you all so kind to me?
your berries are good, and now i am cold and hungry no longer.
i'll go to sleep.
good night, dear trees!
trees.
good night, little bird, and may you have sweet dreams!
scene ii.
midnight in the forest
jack frost.
here i am in the great forest.
how i dislike to touch all these beautiful leaves; yet i must obey the orders of king winter.
here comes the forest fairy.
do you know why i have come, dear fairy of the forest?
forest fairy.
yes, mr. frost.
i know that you must touch all the leaves, turning them into brilliant hues of gold and crimson and brown.
i dislike to have them go, and yet you and i must obey the commands of king winter.
but,
jack frost.
but what, dear fairy?
you speak as if you had some wish to make what is it?
forest fairy.
i must tell you.
such a dear little bird came to the forest this evening.
he had a broken wing, and he was cold and very tired.
he asked shelter from the great oak, the proud maple, and the graceful willow, and all refused.
i was so ashamed of my trees!
jack frost.
what!
did all the trees refuse to help a poor, tired little bird?
forest fairy.
listen!
just as i was intending to speak to the trees, i heard the spruce tell him to come to her branches and she would give him shelter.
then the pine tree offered to keep the north wind from him, and the juniper gave him her berries to eat.
could you, dear jack frost
jack frost.
yes, yes, i know what you would ask.
such kindness as this should meet with some reward.
the leaves of the proud oak, the maple, and the willow shall fall to the ground when the cold of winter comes; but the spruce, the pine, the juniper, and all their family shall keep their leaves and they shall be green all through the year.
they shall be called the evergreen trees.
cornelia and her jewels
persons in the play cornelia, nydia the maid, julia, elder son, younger son
scene.
home of cornelia
nydia.
madam, the lady julia waits to salute you.
cornelia.
bid her enter, i pray.
it is not fitting to have her wait.
nydia.
she is at the door, gracious madam.
cornelia.
welcome, thrice welcome, fair julia.
[nydia carries julia's casket.]
julia.
thanks, dear cornelia, for your kind greeting.
may you and all your household have peace and joy.
cornelia.
and may those blessings be yours also, dear julia.
but tell me, what treasures have you in that charming casket?
julia.
a few poor jewels, fair friend.
bring me the casket, nydia.
these are some presents my parents and husband have given me.
cornelia.
i am so glad you have brought them to show me.
you are very kind, for you know i greatly admire beautiful jewels.
julia.
see, here is a pearl necklace.
cornelia.
how lovely!
let me clasp it about your neck.
it is very becoming.
and what other gems have you?
julia.
here is a girdle my mother gave me for a wedding present.
isn't it pretty?
cornelia.
pretty!
my dear, it is exquisite!
your mother showed much good taste when she chose this for you.
julia.
and here are some rings from the far east.
see these emeralds and rubies; how they flash in the sunlight!
cornelia.
how well they look on your white hands!
but i see something else.
julia.
yes, this is my handsomest jewel, a diamond bracelet.
this i like best of all.
cornelia.
they are all lovely, my dear friend, and i am glad you have such beautiful things.
julia.
but, dear cornelia, where are your jewels?
all rome knows how rich your famous father, scipio, was, and surely he gave you many handsome ornaments.
please show them to me.
cornelia.
oh, no, dear friend.
but hark!
i think i hear my sons.
nydia, tell them i wish to see them.
nydia.
here are the children, madam.
the boys (running in).
dear mother!
darling mother!
cornelia.
tell me, my caius, what did the pedagogue teach you to-day?
caius.
o mother!
it was wonderful!
he told us how horatius kept the bridge in the brave days of old.
wasn't that a great and noble deed, mother mine?
cornelia.
yes, my darling.
and you, my tiberius, have you been pleased with your lessons?
tiberius.
mother, how you must honor our grandfather, the noble scipio!
our teacher told the boys of his great campaigns in africa and how the senate called him africanus after the war was over.
cornelia.
yes, my son, such work and such lives are lessons worthy of study.
they teach the young how they too may live and die for their beloved country.
caius.
i shall try to be a brave man some day, too, dear mother.
tiberius.
and i, mother, shall try to be worthy of our noble family.
cornelia.
my dear, noble boys!
julia, these are my jewels.
julia.
how you shame my vanity, noble cornelia!
what are all the precious stones in the world compared with these noble boys!
daughter of the famous scipio, the world will remember you through the great deeds of your sons, and all mankind will honor you as cornelia, mother of the gracchi.
cinderella
persons in the play cinderella, mother, father, katherine, elizabeth, fairy godmother, prince, herald
scene i. cinderella's home
mother.
i am so glad we are all invited to the ball at the prince's palace.
you know, my dear, that it will be a great pleasure for our girls.
father.
yes; and i suppose you will all have to buy new ball dresses.
katherine.
o mamma!
isn't it lovely!
may i have a blue silk dress?
elizabeth.
and may i have pink, dear mother?
and shall we get them to-day?
mother.
yes, my child; and you may both go with me to buy your dresses and slippers.
cinderella.
dear papa, may i go to the ball at the prince's palace?
father.
you, my child!
aren't you too young for parties?
ask your mother.
cinderella.
may i go to the ball, mother?
mother.
nonsense, child!
what are you thinking of?
a ball is no place for a child like you.
you are better off at home by the kitchen fire.
cinderella.
but i'm fourteen.
sister katherine, won't you coax mamma to let me go?
katherine.
no, indeed, i'll not!
what would you do at a ball?
a silly thing like you!
elizabeth.
don't be a goose.
wait till you're older and better looking.
there's no room in the carriage for you, and you are too young, anyway.
mother.
come, girls, it is time for us to go down town to buy our new gowns.
cinderella, go to your lessons.
don't think any more about the ball.
you can't go, and so that's the end of it.
scene ii.
cinderella's home
father.
come, girls!
aren't you ready yet?
is your mother coming?
katherine.
yes, father, in just a minute.
mother.
here we are, dear.
don't the girls look sweet?
father.
yes, yes!
but, come on, for we are late now.
mother.
good night, cinderella.
be a good girl and go to bed at nine o'clock.
[all go out, leaving cinderella alone.]
cinderella.
good-by!
now they have gone and i am all alone.
oh, why couldn't i go, too!
how pretty they all looked!
i would not take up much room, and i don't like to be left here by myself when they are having such a good time.
oh, dear!
i believe i'm going to cry, but i can't help it.
[cries.]
[enter fairy godmother.]
fairy godmother.
why are you crying, cinderella?
cinderella.
who is that?
i thought i heard some one speaking to me, but i can't see anybody.
fairy godmother.
what is the matter, cinderella?
cinderella.
oh, lovely lady!
who are you?
fairy godmother.
i am your fairy godmother, my child, and i wish to know why you are crying.
cinderella.
oh, dear!
i'm crying because they have all gone to the ball; and i wanted to go, too, and they wouldn't take me!
fairy godmother.
never mind, my dear.
stop crying, and i will let you go.
cinderella.
oh, dear fairy godmamma!
will you, really?
but how can i go in this old dress?
fairy godmother.
you'll see.
tell me, cinderella, have you a big yellow pumpkin in the kitchen garden?
cinderella.
yes, i think so.
i saw one there yesterday.
fairy godmother.
go, get it for me.
cinderella (runs out, and returns with the pumpkin).
i've found it!
here it is!
fairy godmother.
yes, that is a fine pumpkin.
i'll touch it with my wand.
what is it now?
[the pumpkin is changed to a carriage.]
cinderella.
oh!
oh!
how lovely!
such a beautiful, big, yellow coach!
why, it is much finer than papa's black carriage.
fairy godmother.
i am glad you like your coach.
now do you think there are any rats in your rat trap?
cinderella.
i'll go see.
yes, here is the trap with two big rats in it.
what long tails they have!
fairy godmother.
wait till i touch them with my fairy wand.
now what do you see?
cinderella.
oh, dear godmother!
what a wonderful wand to change rats into great handsome horses with long manes and tails!
you dear horses!
i'll get you some sugar to eat.
fairy godmother.
don't stop to pet them now, but fetch me the mousetrap.
cinderella.
here it is with two cunning little mice in it.
what will you do with them?
fairy godmother.
touch them with my fairy wand and turn them into a coachman and a footman.
see, the coachman is on the box with the reins in his hand, and the footman holds the door open for you.
will you step in, cinderella?
cinderella.
in these clothes, dear godmother?
fairy godmother (laughing).
that wouldn't be nice, would it?
well, let us see what my wand can do for you.
now look in the glass and tell me what you see there.
cinderella.
oh, what a pretty lady!
why, i do believe she is myself!
what a beautiful dress!
and look, dear godmother!
see my pretty glass slippers!
fairy godmother.
yes, my dear, you are all ready for the prince's ball.
i want you to have a happy time, but remember this.
you must start for home when the clock strikes twelve or your pretty clothes will change, your coach will turn into a pumpkin, your horses to rats, and you will have to walk home.
cinderella.
i'll remember, dear godmother, and run away on the first stroke.
thank you so much!
good-by!
[enters the coach and is driven away.]
scene iii.
the prince's palace
cinderella.
here i am at the palace.
please announce me as the lady from far away.
herald.
the lady from far away!
prince.
what a lovely lady!
she must be a princess.
tell me, fair lady, are you a princess from the land of flowers?
cinderella.
i am not a princess, sir, but only a girl from the land of happy thoughts.
prince.
you say well, fair lady, for no one can look upon you without thoughts of love and joy.
cinderella.
and you, great prince, have thoughts of great and noble deeds, have you not?
prince.
yes, i have thoughts of great deeds, of brave men and fair ladies, of games and victories, but now i have forgotten all but you.
cinderella.
will you remember me to-morrow or shall i fade away like the dreams of night?
prince.
no dreams could be fairer, but i hope you will not vanish as they do.
if you do, i am quite sure that i shall find you!
cinderella.
don't be too sure, for i am not what i seem.
i am a princess only in your thoughts; really i am
prince.
what?
a flower, a star, a goddess?
cinderella.
no, only a woman
prince.
the best of all, a woman!
and now will the dream-woman dance with me?
cinderella.
with pleasure; what lovely music!
and so many pretty women.
what beautiful rooms!
[cinderella, the prince, her father, mother, sisters, and two gentlemen dance the minuet.]
prince.
will you not tell me your name and where you live?
cinderella.
both are a secret.
prince.
it makes no difference to me, for i know you, and that is enough.
cinderella.
i hear the clock!
what hour is it striking?
prince.
twelve but that is early.
you need not go?
cinderella.
yes, i must, and quietly.
do not try to keep me, prince good night!
prince.
she is gone!
and i do not know where she lives.
how can i find her?
i'll give another ball and hope she will come again.
[all go out.]
scene iv.
cinderella's home
father.
well, girlies, did you have a pleasant time at the ball?
katherine.
oh, yes, papa, splendid!
but did you see the lovely princess that came so late?
elizabeth.
she was the prettiest girl there.
i wonder who she is!
mother.
so do i. it seems to me i've seen her somewhere.
perhaps i've met her in my travels; but i can't remember where it was.
father.
what is her name?
katherine.
i heard some one say she was lady far away.
but that's not a real name.
elizabeth.
perhaps she is a princess in disguise.
cinderella.
tell me, sister, how this princess looked.
elizabeth.
oh!
she is lovely!
golden curls and blue eyes and such a sweet smile!
katherine.
she wore a beautiful dress that shone like the moonlight.
elizabeth.
did you notice her pretty slippers?
they looked like crystal.
mother.
the prince danced with her all the time.
father.
why, here comes the prince's herald.
i'll see what he wants.
here is a note.
it is an invitation to go to the prince's palace again to-night.
do you all want to go?
all.
yes, yes, father, please!
father.
all right, we'll go!
cinderella.
can't i go this time, mamma?
mother.
no, my dear.
when you are a little older you can go, but not now.
scene v. at the palace
prince.
i wonder if my fairy princess will come to-night.
i've been looking for her for more than an hour.
oh, here she is!
dear lady, i've been hoping you would come.
cinderella.
so you have not forgotten me?
prince.
no, and never shall.
will you go with me to see the flowers?
cinderella.
what lovely flowers!
this is certainly the home of the flower fairies.
see the roses nodding at us.
they almost ask us to love them.
prince.
may i give you this dainty pink one?
it is the color of your cheeks.
cinderella.
remember i am from the land of far away and i must vanish at midnight.
prince.
tell me where your father lives that i may call upon him.
cinderella.
not now; but sometime i may tell you about my fairy godmother.
prince.
there!
i knew you must be a sister of the fairies.
does your fairy godmother have a fairy wand?
cinderella.
yes, and she does wonderful things with it but my father and mother do not know about her.
prince.
of course not.
only very young people know about fairy godmothers.
but we know, don't we?
cinderella.
hark!
i hear the chimes ringing.
it must be twelve o'clock, and i must go.
prince.
do not go, dear princess.
stay here in my palace, always.
cinderella.
the fairies are calling me and i am late.
i must go.
perhaps i can come again sometime.
oh, i am afraid
prince.
afraid of what?
cinderella.
good-by, good-by!
prince.
she's gone!
what was she afraid of?
i cannot see her!
who is that child running down the stairway?
she must be one of the servants who has been watching the dancers.
i wish i could see my princess.
what is that shining thing on the stairs?
she has lost one of her crystal slippers.
now i know how i shall find her.
to-morrow i shall send a herald through the city to find the owner of this pretty little slipper.
scene vi.
cinderella's home
cinderella.
mamma, mamma, here is a man on horseback who wants to see you.
mother.
what is your errand, sir?
herald.
i am sent by the great prince of our country to find the owner of this slipper.
he says he will marry no one but the lady who can wear this little crystal slipper.
mother.
i'll call my daughters.
katherine!
elizabeth!
we were all at the ball at the prince's palace.
katherine, is this your glass slipper?
try it on.
katherine.
yes, mother.
my, how small it is!
i cannot get my foot in it!
elizabeth.
perhaps it will fit me.
my feet are smaller than yours.
no, i cannot push my foot in, no matter how long i try.
it must be a magic slipper.
cinderella.
may i try on the slipper?
mother.
my dear child, why should you try on the slipper?
it belongs to the princess who went to the ball.
katherine.
and you were not at the ball, cinderella!
elizabeth.
your foot is too big for it, my dear little sister.
herald.
pardon me, ladies, but the orders of the prince are that every lady, young or old, must try on the slipper, and when the owner is found she must go with me to the palace.
cinderella.
give it to me, please.
see how easily it slips on my foot and here is the mate to the glass slipper in my pocket.
dear mother, i am the fairy princess you saw at the ball.
mother.
you, my dear!
and i did not know you!
herald.
now, lady, please come with me to the prince's palace.
you shall be a princess.
cinderella.
good-by, dear sisters!
good-by, dear mother!
i am going to the prince's palace.
the pied piper
persons in the play mayor, first councilman, second councilman, third councilman, ten citizens, piper
scene i. the mayor's office
mayor and councilmen, sitting around a table.
citizens come in.
first citizen.
our mayor is a noddy!
second citizen.
look at our corporation sitting in the gowns we pay for, and doing nothing!
third citizen.
see here, how the rats made a nest in my sunday hat!
fourth citizen.
when i was cooking dinner the bold rats licked the soup from my ladle!
fifth citizen.
they are so bold they are always fighting with the dogs and cats!
sixth citizen.
yes, and they kill them, too!
seventh citizen.
my baby cried in his sleep, and when i went to him there was a big rat in his cradle.
eighth citizen.
what are you going to do about it, mr. mayor?
ninth citizen.
you'd better wake up, sirs!
don't go to sleep over this!
tenth citizen.
i tell you, you'll have to do something to save us from this army of rats!
first councilman.
what can we do?
second councilman.
i'm sure we've tried everything, but every day the rats grow worse and worse.
third councilman.
i'm sure it isn't very pleasant for us to have the city overrun with the creatures!
mayor.
i'd sell my ermine gown for a guilder!
it is no easy thing to be mayor and i wish i was a plowboy in the country!
try to think of something to do.
first councilman.
it is easy to bid us rack our own brains!
second councilman.
i'm sure my head aches trying to think.
third councilman.
i've wondered and thought, till i've no thoughts left.
mayor.
oh!
if i only had a great big trap!
yes, a thousand big traps!
bless us, what noise is that?
is it a rat?
come in!
[enter piper.]
first councilman.
who is this who dares to come into the mayor's office without an introduction?
second councilman.
hasn't he a funny coat?
third councilman.
but what a pleasant face!
he smiles all the time.
mayor.
he looks like the picture of my grandsire.
what is your name, and your business, my man?
pied piper.
please your honors, my name is pied piper.
my business is to play upon my pipe.
i can charm with the magic of my notes all things to do my will.
but i use my charm on creatures that do people harm, the toad, the mole, and the viper, and rats rats!
mayor.
rats!
well, then, you're the man we want.
we'll pay you a thousand guilders if you'll free our town of rats.
piper.
a thousand guilders!
done!
it's a bargain!
scene ii.
same as scene i. the mayor and councilmen looking out of window
mayor.
there he goes down the street.
first councilman.
what a strange looking pipe he plays!
second councilman.
i believe it must be a magic one.
third councilman.
do you hear the music?
what is that other noise?
mayor.
look, look at the rats!
did you ever see such a sight!
first councilman.
the streets are crowded with them!
big and little, brown, black, and gray, they are tumbling over each other in their hurry!
second councilman.
sir!
he is going toward the bridge.
third councilman.
they must think he is playing a tune of apples and cheese!
mayor.
there they are at the river.
they are plunging in!
they will be drowned!
first councilman.
good for the piper!
mayor.
ring the bells for the people.
tell them to get long poles, poke out the nests and block up the holes!
second councilman.
here comes the piper.
third councilman.
that was well done, mr. piper.
pied piper.
yes, all the rats are drowned and now i've come for my pay.
mayor.
pay!
why what have you done?
just played a tune on your pipe.
you must be joking.
piper.
you promised
first councilman.
you impudent fellow!
you certainly don't think a tune on your pipe is worth one thousand guilders?
there is no work in that.
second councilman.
the rats are dead and can't come to life again, i think!
mayor.
my friend, we are much obliged, of course.
we are much obliged and will gladly give you fifty guilders.
you know your time is not worth more.
piper.
no trifling, pray.
i'll have what you promised, or you may find that i'll play a tune you do not like!
mayor.
what!
do you threaten us, fellow?
do what you please.
do you think we care?
play on your old pipe whatever tune you wish.
piper.
listen, then, and look from your window when i play again in the street below.
[goes out.]
mayor.
what does the lazy fellow mean by his threats?
first councilman.
hear his wonderful music!
listen.
second councilman.
oh!
what is he doing!
see the children!
third councilman.
they are following him.
there is my son.
where are you going, my boy?
come back!
mayor.
let me see!
o woe!
there are my own three lovely children.
run, some one, and stop them!
third councilman.
i'll go; i'll go.
[runs out.]
mayor.
it is useless.
every child in our city is following the magic sound.
second councilman.
the music seems to say: "come, children, to the wonderful land of play.
there flowers and fruits will welcome you.
the birds and beasts will play with you, and you will never be sad or sorry in the wonderful land of play."
no wonder the children follow the piper.
third councilman (enters).
the children and the piper have all disappeared!
a mountain opened and let them in!
first councilman.
the children, the blessed children, have gone!
what shall we do without the children?
mayor.
oh, wicked man that i am!
why did i break my promise?
why did i not give him the thousand guilders?
second councilman.
yes, we are all wicked men, and we are punished for not keeping our word.
mayor.
let us write this sad story on a column so that all may read; and let us paint the picture of the piper with our little ones following him, on a church window, so that all men may know how our children have been stolen away.
first councilman.
and may this sad story teach us all to keep our word with every one.
mother goose's party
persons in the play mother goose, jack goose, mother hubbard, dog, a-dillar-a-dollar, mary (and her lamb), old mrs. shoeman, her sons (tommy tucker, jacky horner), miss muffet, boy blue, bo-peep, nancy etticoat, little boy who lives in the lane, old king cole, man in the moon, tom the piper's son, mistress mary
scene i. home of mother goose
mother goose.
i really think i must give a party.
all my friends have been so good to me and i have been entertained in so many homes!
wherever i go i am sure to see one of my mother goose books, and the children all seem to love it so much.
let me see!
whom shall i invite?
i think i'll ask old mother hubbard to take tea with me and we'll talk about the party together.
jack, jack!
jack (enters).
yes, mother dear, what is it?
mother goose.
jack goose, i wish you to run over to mother hubbard's house and ask her to take tea with me this afternoon.
now be nimble, jack, be quick!
jack.
yes, mother dear.
see me jump over the candlestick!
isn't that fine jumping?
mother goose.
very fine indeed, jack.
now do your errand, and hurry home.
jack.
yes, mother, i will.
good-by.
mother goose.
good-by.
scene ii.
house of mother hubbard
jack (knocking).
i wonder if old mother hubbard is at home.
hark!
i hear her dog barking.
yes, and i hear her step.
here she is!
mother hubbard (opening the door).
who is this knocking so loud?
oh, it's you, little nimble jack!
will you come in?
jack.
no, thank you, mrs. hubbard.
my mother wishes you to come over to our house for tea this afternoon.
will you come?
mother hubbard.
yes, thank you, jack, i will.
tell your mother that i'm just going to market to buy my poor doggie a bone.
jack.
o mother hubbard!
please let me play with your dog.
he's such a dear old doggie!
do you remember how he danced a jig the other day?
mother hubbard.
yes, jack, i do; and i think you danced with him.
you are both nimble young things and both like to dance.
well, good-by, now.
have a good time together and i'll bring you something little boys like.
jack.
thank you!
good-by, good-by!
now, doggie, let's dance.
old mother hubbard, she went to the cupboard,      to get the poor doggie a bone;    but when she got there, the cupboard was bare,      and so the poor doggie had none.
dog (sadly).
bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow!
jack.
oh!
you don't like that song!
never mind, old fellow!
mother hubbard has gone to the butcher's and she'll get you a bone, i'm sure.
wait till she comes back.
dog (gayly).
bow-wow, bow-wow, bow-wow!
jack.
i thought you would like that.
here she comes now.
we've had a lovely dance, mother hubbard, and now i must hurry home.
mother hubbard.
thank you for staying and taking good care of my dog.
here are some fresh banbury buns for you.
jack.
oh, thank you, mother hubbard.
i'm very fond of banbury buns.
good-by!
mother hubbard.
good-by, jack.
tell your mother i'll be over soon.
jack.
bring your dog with you, and we'll have another dance.
good-by.
dog.
bow-wow!
bow-wow!
bow-wow!
scene iii.
mother goose and mother hubbard at the tea table
mother goose.
i am pleased to see you, mother hubbard.
i hear that your cupboard is no longer bare and empty, and i am very glad you are able to give your poor dog all the bones a good dog should have.
now for our tea.
shall i put two or three lumps in your cup?
mother hubbard.
three, please.
i like my tea very sweet.
and now tell me, mother goose, what is the reason you sent for me to-day?
mother goose.
well, i am going to give a party and i wish to ask your advice.
mother hubbard.
indeed!
whom do you think of inviting?
mother goose.
first, the dear old woman who lives in the shoe
mother hubbard.
what!
and all her children?
mother goose.
no, only the two eldest.
you know the party is for my son jack, too, and we must have the young people as well as their parents.
old king cole will come and bring his fiddlers three to play for the young folks who dance.
mother hubbard.
i hope you won't invite tom the piper's son, or my son john as his mother calls him, or humpty-dumpty.
they are not good boys for your son jack to play with!
mother goose.
i suppose not; but i like them all, and i dislike to leave out anyone.
i don't wish to hurt their feelings.
mother hubbard.
there are little bo-peep and boy blue, who are good children, although rather silly; and there are little miss muffet and nancy etticoat, both very pretty little girls; and there are jacky horner and tommy tucker and the man-in-the-moon and taffey and daffey-down-dilly and
mother goose.
i'll have to give a garden party if i invite all those!
i can't leave any out, and i think i'll have the party out-of-doors.
mother hubbard.
that will be fine!
i only hope it will be a pleasant day.
when will you give it?
mother goose.
two weeks from to-day, the first of may.
mother hubbard.
that's may day and a very good day for a party out-of-doors.
well i must go home now.
good-by!
if i can help you, please call upon me.
mother goose.
thank you, mother hubbard!
good-by, and thank you again for coming over.
scene iv.
at the party
mother hubbard.
what a lovely day you have for your party, mother goose!
the sun shines so bright and warm, and the flowers are lovely.
is there anything i can do?
mother goose.
no, thank you.
i'm glad you came early.
have you seen the tables?
mother hubbard.
they are lovely!
where did you get such pretty flowers?
mother goose.
from mistress mary, quite contrary.
you know she has a garden
with cockle shells, and silver bells,    and pretty maids all in a row.
mother hubbard.
i see some one coming.
mother goose.
why, how do you do, a-dillar-a-dollar!
are you always in such good time?
a-dillar-a-dollar.
i'm afraid not, mrs. goose.
they call me
a ten o'clock scholar,    why did you come so soon?
you used to come at ten o'clock,    and now you come at noon!
mother goose.
and here comes mary with her little lamb.
do you like the lamb better than a teddy bear, mary?
mary.
yes, indeed, i do.
because the lamb loves me, you know.
it followed me to school one day,      which was against the rule;    it made the children laugh and play,      to see the lamb at school.
mother goose.
here comes the old woman who lives in a shoe, and her two oldest boys.
dear mrs. shoe-woman, i am very glad to see you!
how did you leave all of your children?
mrs. shoe-woman.
oh, dear, mother goose!
i have so many children i don't know what to do: when they are naughty i give them some broth without any bread, and whip them all soundly and put them to bed.
mother goose.
here are all the children coming to the party!
come, children, let us have a dance.
all stand around the maypole as i call your names:
little miss muffet and boy blue;
little bo-peep and jacky horner;
nancy etticoat and jack-be-nimble;
mary and the little boy who lives in the lane.
all take ribbons and stand around the maypole.
are you all ready?
children.
yes, mother goose, we are all ready when the music begins.
mother goose.
old king cole, will you have your three fiddlers play for the dance?
king cole.
with pleasure, dear mother goose and i'll sing:
hey diddle, diddle!
the cat and the fiddle;      the cow jumped over the moon;    the little dog laughed to see such craft,      and the dish ran away with the spoon.
children (sing).
old king cole was a merry old soul;      and a merry old soul was he;    he called for his pipe and he called for his bowl,      and he called for his fiddlers three.
mother goose.
these are very good songs, but they will not do for a maypole dance.
here, little tommy tucker, sing for your supper.
tommy tucker.
all right, mother goose.
handy spandy, jack-a-dandy,    loved plum cake and sugar candy;    he bought some at a grocer's shop,    and out he came, hop, hop, hop.
children.
little tommy tucker, sings for his supper;    what shall he eat?
white bread and butter;    how shall he eat it without any knife?
how shall he marry without any wife?
[dance about the maypole.]
mother goose.
why, who can that man be?
he is tumbling down in a very queer way!
who are you?
man.
i'm the man in the moon,    come down too soon    to ask the way to norwich.
i went by the south,    and burnt my mouth,    eating cold pease-porridge.
are jack and jill here?
jack.
here i am, mr. moon-man.
jill.
oh, dear mr. moon-man, where is your dog and your bundle of sticks?
jack.
tell us what the children play in your country, the moon!
children.
please do, mr. moon-man!
moon-man.
well, children, i can tell you how they learn to count.
they all say
one, two; buckle my shoe;    three, four; shut the door;    five, six; pick up sticks;
and then they all pick up sticks and put them on the fire.
tom.
i don't think that is much fun!
children.
of course you don't.
you don't like sticks.
tom, tom, the piper's son,    stole a pig and away he run!
the pig was eat,      and tom was beat,    and tom ran roaring down the street!
mistress mary.
now, children, let us sit in a circle and play games and sing songs.
little bo-peep, you may sing your little song first.
little bo-peep.
little bo-peep, she lost her sheep,      and doesn't know where to find them;
children.
leave them alone and they will come home      bringing their tails behind them.
mistress mary.
now jack and jill
jack and jill.
shall we go up the hill to get a pail of water?
children.
jack and jill went up the hill      to get a pail of water.
jack fell down and broke his crown,      and jill came tumbling after.
boys.
up jack got and home did trot      as fast as he could caper;    he went to bed to mend his head,      with vinegar and brown paper.
girls.
jill came in and she did grin,      to see his paper plaster;    her mother, vexed, did spank her next      for laughing at jack's disaster.
mistress mary.
now, i'll sing a song and then help mother goose with the supper.
[sings.]
sing a song a sixpence,      pocket full of rye;    four-and-twenty blackbirds      baked in a pie.
when the pie was opened      the birds began to sing,    wasn't that a dainty dish      to set before the king?
mother goose.
now i must have some children to help me.
jack goose.
i'll take the bean porridge hot and bean porridge cold, mother, and tommy tucker can go with me and pass the white bread and butter.
mother goose.
that's my good jack.
now tom the piper's son may take the roast pig and mary may pass the banbury cross buns.
miss muffet.
dear mother goose, may i pass the curds and whey?
mother goose.
yes, my dear child, but be careful not to spill any.
then for the last course jack horner will pass the christmas pie and give every child a big fat plum.
children (sing).
little jacky horner    sitting in a corner    eating a christmas pie    he put in his thumb    and pulled out a plum    and said what a great boy am i?
old king cole.
mother goose, you have given us a beautiful party and we have had a lovely time.
we hope you will live to give many more to your friends and the children.
children.
yes, mother goose, your party was just lovely!
mother goose.
thank you, dear children.
king cole.
now, little folks, let us sing a good-by song to mother goose.
the girls (bowing to king cole).
the king was in the counting room,      counting out his money.
the boys (bowing to mother goose).
the queen was in the parlor,      eating bread and honey.
all.
the maid was in the garden
(to mistress mary)
hanging out the clothes,    along came a blackbird      and nipped off her nose!
mother goose.
and that story means that night is coming and putting the day to sleep.
king cole.
so it does, and you see the sun is fast going down behind the western hills.
say good-by, children, for it is time to go home.
children.
good night, mother goose.
mother goose.
good night, dear children, and don't forget your old mother goose.
children.
forget dear mother goose?
never!
good-by, good-by!
mother goose.
good-by.
little two-eyes
persons in the play mother, little one-eye, little two-eyes, little three-eyes, little old woman, tree, prince, goat
scene i. dining room at little two-eyes' home
mother.
come to dinner, little one-eye and little three-eyes.
here is some good soup and white bread for you.
little two-eyes, you can have what your sisters do not want.
little three-eyes.
here's a crust for you.
that is enough for a girl with only two eyes.
little one-eye.
what a shame to have a sister with two eyes!
you look just like other people!
little three-eyes and i are very different.
little three-eyes.
here little two-eyes, take this bowl.
i don't want any more and you can have what is left.
mother.
now, children, run away and play.
little two-eyes, take the goat and go out to the hillside.
you must stay till it begins to get dark, and then you may come home.
you must work, because you have two eyes like other people, but my little one-eye and three-eyes may stay at home and play.
scene ii.
on the hillside
little two-eyes.
come, little goat, here is some green grass for you to eat.
i wish that my sisters loved me and that my mother was not ashamed of me.
oh, why do i have two eyes just like all other people?
i am so hungry, oh, dear!
oh, dear!
(cries.)
wood fairy.
my child, why do you cry?
little two-eyes.
because i have only two eyes, and my mother and my sisters treat me badly.
i don't have enough to eat and i am so hungry.
my dress is old, and my sisters have nice dresses and pretty ribbons.
but who are you?
wood fairy.
i am the little old woman who lives on this hill.
i have come to help you.
listen, little two-eyes!
you need never be hungry again.
say to your little goat:
little goat, bleat!
little table, rise!
then a table will rise before you with all the food you can eat.
when you have finished eating, you must say:
little goat, bleat!
little table, away!
and it will disappear before your eyes.
good-by, dear little two-eyes.
i must go now, but remember what i have told you.
little two-eyes.
why, where has that queer looking little woman gone?
i am so hungry i'll try now if what she said can be true.
little goat, bleat!
little table, rise!
goat.
bla-a!
bla-a!
bla-a!
little two-eyes.
oh, look, little goat!
what a pretty table!
and how good the food looks.
now we shall have all we want to eat.
here is something for you, and here are oranges and meat and pudding for me!
dear little woman!
how can i thank her?
now i can eat no more.
little goat, bleat!
little table, away!
goat.
bla-a!
bla-a!
bla-a!
little two-eyes.
there, it is gone.
aren't we happy, little goat?
but see, it is time to go home.
come, little goat.
scene iii.
at home
mother.
here, little two-eyes, here are the crusts your sisters saved for you.
two-eyes.
thank you, mother, but i don't care for any crusts.
i'm not hungry.
mother.
not care for them?
you are not hungry?
you have always eaten them before now and asked for more!
you didn't eat any supper last night, either.
what does this mean?
what did you have to eat to-day?
two-eyes.
i cannot tell you, mother.
mother.
you cannot?
then, little one-eye, you shall go to the hillside with little two-eyes and find out why she is no longer hungry.
little one-eye.
i don't want to go!
the walk is too long, and i shall get tired!
mother.
just this once, my dear!
you will not have to go again.
but we must learn the secret.
little two-eyes.
come, sister.
come, little goat.
scene iv.
the hillside
little two-eyes.
now we are almost there.
are you tired, little one-eye?
little one-eye.
oh!
i am so tired, and my feet hurt so i can hardly walk.
little two-eyes.
i have to walk this far every day.
little one-eye.
yes, but you have two eyes like other people and you must expect to work.
i cannot go any farther.
i'll lie down here and rest.
little two-eyes.
i'll sing you a pretty song:
are you awake, little one-eye?
are you asleep, little one-eye?
yes, you are asleep, little one-eye, and now i can have my dinner.
little goat, bleat!
little table, rise!
goat.
bla-a!
bla-a!
bla-a!
little two-eyes.
here is the little table again!
oh, how thankful i am for the good food.
dear little old woman, you are very good to send me such nice things to eat.
here is some for you, little goat.
now i have had enough.
little goat, bleat!
little table, away!
there, it is gone.
little one-eye, wake up!
it is time to go home.
little one-eye.
did i go to sleep?
little two-eyes.
indeed, you did, and now we must hurry home.
come, little goat!
scene v. at home
mother.
well, little one-eye, tell us what you have seen.
why doesn't little two-eyes eat the food we have for her?
little one-eye.
i don't know, mother.
the way was so long and i was so tired; i fell asleep; and when i woke up it was time to come home.
mother.
it was a hard walk for you, my dear; but we must find out who is giving little two-eyes something to eat.
to-morrow you must go, little three-eyes.
little three-eyes.
i'll find out, mother.
if anyone dares to give food to little two-eyes, i'll tell you all about it.
mother.
yes, my dear, i know you won't go to sleep.
i can trust you to find out everything.
scene vi.
on the hillside
little two-eyes.
come, sister, we must go on, for it is a long way to the top of the hill.
little three-eyes.
i'm not going any farther, i'm too tired!
i'll rest a little here.
little two-eyes.
all right, little three-eyes.
i'll sing you a song.
are you awake, little three-eyes?
are you asleep, little two-eyes?
yes, you are asleep, and now i'll have my dinner.
little goat, bleat!
little table, rise!
goat.
bla-a!
bla-a!
bla-a!
little two-eyes.
here is our dinner again, little goat.
see this fresh lettuce and cabbage and good bread and butter.
here is some honey, too, and cake.
isn't this a good dinner?
little goat, bleat!
little table, away!
goat.
bla-a, bla-a, bla-a!
little two-eyes.
now it is gone.
three-eyes, wake up!
it is time home.
little three-eyes.
how long i have slept!
what will my mother say?
but i think i have a surprise for you, little two-eyes!
scene vii.
at home
mother.
well, little three-eyes, did you go to sleep, too?
little three-eyes.
yes, mother, but only with two eyes.
little two-eyes sang to me,
"are you awake, little three-eyes?
are you asleep, little two-eyes?"
and so two of my eyes went to sleep, but one stayed awake and watched.
mother.
what did you see?
tell me quickly, dear little three-eyes.
little three-eyes.
first she said,
"little goat, bleat!
little table, rise!"
and the goat said, "bla-a, bla-a, bla-a!"
then a table came up out of the ground.
oh!
it was such a pretty little table with a white cloth over it and all kinds of good things on it.
no wonder little two-eyes doesn't eat any of our common food.
it isn't good enough for her!
she has food fit for a queen, nuts and cake, and candy, too!
mother.
so that is why little two-eyes doesn't eat the crusts we save for her!
well, i'll see if she is going to have better food, than we have.
bring me the long sharp knife.
[goes out and soon returns.]
there, now the goat is dead.
little two-eyes, perhaps you'll eat the food we give you now!
little two-eyes.
oh, my poor little goat!
what shall i do without it!
mother.
go to bed, and to-morrow morning you shall go to the hillside alone.
and you must stay there all day, too.
scene viii.
on the hillside
little two-eyes.
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
my poor goat is dead!
now i shall be hungry and lonely too!
where shall i go, and what can i do?
little wood fairy.
little two-eyes, why are you weeping?
little two-eyes.
because my mother has killed my poor goat, and she has sent me here to stay all alone, and i am so hungry and thirsty again.
little wood fairy.
little two-eyes, let me tell you what to do.
ask your sisters to give you the heart of your goat.
bury it in the ground before the house door.
watch, and to-morrow a wonderful tree will come up out of the ground.
little two-eyes.
thank you, dear little woman!
i'll go home and do as you have told me.
scene ix.
at home
little two-eyes.
little one-eye and little three-eyes, please let me have the heart of my goat!
one-eye.
certainly, if that is all you want.
three-eyes.
here it is, but i don't see what you want it for!
little two-eyes (goes to door).
now i'll plant it as the little woman told me.
i wonder what kind of a tree will appear to-morrow?
poor little goat, i'm so sorry you have gone!
now i must go into the house and try to sleep.
scene x. in the garden
little one-eye.
mamma, mamma, look here!
come quickly!
isn't this a wonderful tree!
mother.
why, how strange!
this tree was not here yesterday.
i wonder how it came!
i never saw such a beautiful tree before!
little one-eye.
do you see the golden apples on it?
o mamma!
may we have some?
please, mother!
mother.
yes, dear little one-eye.
you are the oldest, climb up into the tree and pick some golden apples for us.
one-eye.
that will be fun.
here i go!
mother.
why don't you get the apples, little one-eye?
little one-eye.
they all get away from me.
when i try to pick one it springs back!
mother.
come down, little one-eye.
now little three-eyes, you can see better with your three eyes, than your sister with her one eye.
you may climb up and get some apples for us.
little three-eyes.
i'll pick a lot of them and throw them down for you to catch.
why, how funny they act!
i almost get one and it always springs away!
mother.
come down and let me try.
i never heard of fruit that would not be picked.
now children, i'll get some of the lovely apples for you.
there!
why, what is the matter?
i can't reach a single apple.
little two-eyes.
let me try; perhaps i can pick some.
mother.
you, with your two eyes!
how can you expect to get them if we can't?
little two-eyes.
please let me try, mother.
mother.
well, i suppose you can try, but i know you can't get them.
two-eyes.
here they are.
catch them, mother; catch them, little one-eye!
oh, mother!
i see a young man on horseback coming along the road.
he looks like a prince.
mother.
hurry down, little two-eyes!
he must not see you, a girl with two eyes!
i'm ashamed of you.
hide under this barrel!
[the prince rides up.]
prince.
good morning, ladies, what a lovely tree you have here!
she who gives me a branch shall have whatever she wishes.
little one-eye.
the tree is ours, great prince; but when we try to get its fruit, it slips away from us.
prince.
it is strange, if the tree belongs to you, that you cannot get the fruit!
but where do these apples come from?
little three-eyes.
we have another sister, but she has only two eyes and we are ashamed of her; so we hid her under this barrel, and she has rolled the apples out to you.
prince.
little two-eyes, come out.
can you get me a branch from this wonderful tree?
little two-eyes.
yes, prince; here is a branch with many golden apples on it.
prince.
and what is your wish, little two-eyes?
little two-eyes.
o prince!
my mother and my sisters are ashamed of me and do not treat me well.
they do not give me enough to eat and they do not like to have me near them.
please take me away where i can be happy and free!
prince.
come with me, little two-eyes; you shall go to my father's palace and be a little princess.
there you will be happy and free and never be hungry or lonely again.
the days of the week
the week monday, tuesday, wednesday, thursday, friday, saturday, sunday
monday.
well, i am glad to be here at last.
certainly my work is very important.
as the first working day of the week, i begin all business; and i have always heard that if a thing is well begun, it is half done.
people call me moon-day isn't that a pretty name, the day of the moon?
how beautiful the moon is, riding in her silver chariot across the dark blue sky!
i am proud of my name.
the moon is constantly changing and i like change.
i like brightness and cleanliness too, and good housewives wash their clothes on monday.
how white and clean they look hanging on the line!
the sun and wind play hide and seek and help to cleanse the clothes.
school begins on monday and the little children run and laugh on their way to school.
every one seems happy that another week has begun.
tuesday.
i am named for tui, the god of war.
in the countries of the north i am greatly honored by all the people.
soldiers when going to war call on tui for help, and they like to begin a battle on tuesday.
monday likes to begin work, but i like to make some progress.
the children always know their lessons better on tuesday, and are happier than on monday.
the white clothes are sprinkled and rolled, and now the maids iron the pretty baby dresses and the house linen.
they sing and laugh over their work.
the world is all running smoothly on tuesday, and i think i like my work the best.
wednesday.
i should be the best of days, for i am named for woden, or odin, the king of the gods.
the hardest work of the week is finished when i come, and there is time for a rest.
perhaps mother will bake a special cake for dinner.
to-day the children take their music lessons, and the boys go for a lesson in swimming or gymnastic exercise.
this is the day young people choose for their wedding day, and you don't know how glad i am to be a part of their happiness.
i believe i have more sunshine than the other days, for woden likes to have clear skies and health-giving breezes.
i would not change with any of my sister days.
thursday.
i bring the thunder and the lightning, and i cleave the dark clouds with my rapid flashes.
i glory in a storm, for thor, the god of thunder, has chosen me for his day, and i bear his name.
a life of ease and quiet has no charms for me.
i like the din and crash of war, the noise and hurry of business.
the fury of the heavens, the crash of falling trees, the roaring of waters, what can give greater pleasure?
business thrives on thursday.
men rush to and fro, buying and selling, building great houses, digging in the mines, and sailing the seas.
life and action are my delight.
hurrah for thor's day!
friday.
after the bustle and work of the week i come to clean and settle all disturbances.
now dirt and dust must disappear under the broom and brush.
how the windows shine and how spotless is the hearth!
children rake up the leaves and burn them; all rubbish must be cleared away.
order and neatness i love; and so does freya, for whom i am named.
she is the goddess of beauty, and there is no beauty where neatness and order are absent.
some say that i am an unlucky day, but that is a mistake.
see what wonderful things have happened on my day, what great men have been born on friday!
i am the last school day of the week, and to-day the children may forget lessons and play outdoors a little longer.
to-day the family gather for a story at the twilight hour, and all is rest and happiness.
saturday.
i am the jolly day of the week.
"school is out!"
the children cry, and all day long they sing and call to each other in their games.
to-day i smell the cakes and pies cooking in the range, for saturday is baking day.
how the little children love to watch mother stirring the cake and frosting, and how they beg to clean the sweet stuff out of the bowl.
father comes home earlier to-day, and all go for a walk in the woods or park.
all men need a holiday, for "all work and no play makes jack a dull boy."
the boys play ball and run and shout in their joy.
the girls have little parties, and cook gives them some fresh cakes.
i am named for saetere, god of the harvest, and he is always merry.
so i wish all people to be happy on saturday, the play day of the week.
sunday.
you have all spoken well, my sisters, and each one has some claim to be the best day of the week.
how fine it is that every day holds some special joy in work or play!
but you all know the highest joy is mine.
i am named for the golden sun that gives light to the world.
on sunday men think of the inner light that makes them love the good and the true and persuades them to do right.
to-day the family is united, and in the morning with fresh garments and happy faces they seek the knowledge of a higher life.
around the dinner table they talk happily together of their work and play, and they plan how they may do better work during the next week.
love and peace are in all hearts.
a desire to help the weak and poor and sad is in every soul.
i am happy and blest to be sunday.
hänsel and gretel
persons in the play hänsel, gretel, mother, father, the gingerbread witch, sandman, children
scene i. in the cottage
hänsel.
i wish mother would come home!
i'm cold and hungry.
i'm tired of bread.
i want some milk and sugar.
gretel.
hush, hänsel; don't be cross!
hänsel.
if we only had something good to eat: eggs, and butter and meat.
oh, dear!
gretel.
dear hänsel, if you will stop crying, i'll tell you a secret.
hänsel.
oh, what is it?
something nice?
gretel.
yes, indeed.
look in this jug!
it is full of milk.
mother will make us a pudding for supper.
hänsel.
goody, goody!
how thick the cream is!
let me taste it.
gretel.
aren't you ashamed, you naughty boy!
take your finger out of the cream.
we must go back to work.
when mother comes she will be cross if you have not finished the broom.
hänsel.
i'll not work any more.
i want to dance.
gretel.
so do i. i like to dance better than to work.
come, let us dance and sing.
brother, come and dance with me,    both my hands i offer thee;        right foot first,        left foot then,    round about and back again.
hänsel.
i can't dance.
show me what i ought to do.
gretel.
look at me.
do this.
with your foot you tap, tap, tap!
with your hands you clap, clap, clap!
right foot first,        left foot then,    round about and back again.
hänsel (dancing).
with your hands you clap, clap, clap!
with your foot you tap, tap, tap!
right foot first,        left foot then,    round about and back again.
gretel.
that is fine, brotherkin!
soon you will dance as well as i.
come, try again.
with your head you nick, nick, nick!
with your fingers click, click, click!
right foot first,        left foot then,    round about and back again.
hänsel.
o gretel dear, o sister dear,      come dance and sing with me.
gretel.
o hänsel dear, o brother dear,      come dance and sing with me.
tra, la, la, tra, la, la,        la, la, la, la, tra, la, la.
[knocks down the milk.]
mother (enters).
what is all this noise?
gretel.
'twas hänsel.
he wanted
hänsel.
'twas gretel.
she said i
mother.
hush, you noisy children!
what work have you done?
gretel, your stocking is not done yet; and where are your brooms, you lazy hans?
you have knocked over the milk too!
what shall we have for supper?
lazy folks can't stay in my house.
take the basket and go to the woods for strawberries.
and don't dare to come back without them!
off with you!
and be quick too!
[the children go out.
mother sits weeping.]
oh!
i am so tired and hungry.
nothing in the house to eat.
what shall i do for the poor hungry children oh, dear, what can i do!
[goes to sleep, crying.]
father (enters, singing).
hillo, hilloo, hillo, hilloo,    little mother, where are you?
mother (looking up).
who is singing and making so much noise?
father.
i called you, for i am hungry and want my supper.
mother.
your supper!
with nothing in the house to eat and nothing to drink.
father.
let us see.
open your eyes and look in my basket.
cheer up, mother!
mother.
what do i see?
ham and butter and flour and sausage!
where did you get all these good things, father?
father.
hurrah, won't we have a merry time, won't we have a happy time?
i sold so many brooms at the fair that i could buy you all these good things and some tea besides.
mother.
tea!
how good it smells and how glad i am!
now i will cook the supper.
father.
but where are the children?
hänsel!
gretel!
where are they?
mother.
oh, the bad children!
they did no work and they were singing and dancing and spilled the milk, so i sent them to the woods to pick some strawberries for supper.
father.
laughing and dancing!
why should you be angry?
where have they gone?
mother.
to the mountain.
father.
to the mountain!
the home of the witch!
mother.
what do you mean?
the witch?
father.
yes, the old witch of the mountain turns all children to gingerbread and then she eats them.
mother.
eats them!
oh, my children, my pretty little children!
come, we must find them!
hänsel, gretel, where are you?
[runs out.]
father.
i will go with you, mother.
don't cry!
we will surely find them.
[goes out.]
scene ii.
in the forest
hänsel, gretel
gretel.
see, my wreath is nearly done.
hänsel.
and the basket is filled with strawberries.
won't mother be pleased?
we will have them for supper.
gretel.
let me put the wreath on you!
hänsel.
no, no!
boys don't wear wreaths.
put it on your own head.
you shall be queen of the woods.
gretel.
then i must have a nosegay, too.
hänsel.
now you have a scepter and a crown.
you shall have some strawberries, too.
don't they taste good?
gretel.
let me feed you.
hänsel.
and i'll feed you.
don't be greedy!
gretel.
oh, hänsel, the berries are all gone.
what naughty children we are!
we must pick some more now for mother.
hänsel.
i don't care, i was so hungry.
but it is too late to pick strawberries now.
let us go home.
gretel.
let us hurry; it is dark and i'm afraid.
hänsel.
pooh, i'm not afraid.
but i can't see the way.
gretel, we're lost!
gretel.
what was that?
hänsel.
what?
gretel.
that shining there in the dark!
hänsel.
pshaw, don't be afraid!
that is a birch tree in its silver dress.
gretel.
there, see!
a lantern is coming this way.
hänsel.
that is a will-of-the-wisp with its little candle.
gretel.
i'm frightened, i'm frightened!
i wish i were home!
hänsel.
gretelkin, stick close to me!
i'll take care of you.
gretel.
see!
what is that little man in gray?
hänsel.
i see him, too.
i wonder who he is!
sandman (comes).
with my little bag of sand    by every child's bedside i stand.
then little tired eyelids close,    and little limbs have sweet repose.
then from the starry sphere above    the angels come with peace and love.
then slumber, children, slumber,    for happy dreams are sent you    through the hours you sleep.
[goes away.]
hänsel.
i'm sleepy.
let us go to sleep.
gretel.
let us say our prayers first.
both.
when at night i go to sleep    fourteen angels watch do keep:
two my head are guarding,    two my feet are guiding,    two are on my right hand,    two are on my left hand,    two who warmly cover,    two who o'er me hover,    two to whom 'tis given    to guide my steps to heaven.
gretel.
good night, dear brother.
hänsel.
good night, dear sister.
don't be afraid.
i'll take care of you.
[they sleep.]
scene iii.
in the wood morning
hänsel.
wake up, dear little sister!
the birds are singing and it is time to get up!
gretel.
i'm awake, dear brother.
come, let us hurry home.
hänsel.
here is a path!
oh, gretel, look at the pretty house!
gretel.
a cottage all made of chocolate creams!
hänsel.
the house seems to smile!
gretel.
it looks good enough to eat.
hänsel.
let's nibble it!
[a voice within the house.]
nibble, nibble, manikin!
who's nibbling at my housekin?
hänsel.
oh, did you hear?
gretel.
it's the wind!
hänsel.
never mind, let us eat the cake.
i'm hungry.
take a bite!
isn't it good?
gretel.
yes, and look at the candy!
what a funny fence this is!
it looks like little boys and girls made of gingerbread with sugar trimmings.
i wonder who lives in this house?
[the gingerbread woman comes out of the house and speaks.]
you've come to visit me, that is sweet,    you charming children, so good to eat!
hänsel.
who are you, ugly one?
let me go!
gretel.
take your arms away from me!
the gingerbread witch.
come into my house, little children!
you may have sugarplums and peaches and cherries and candies and everything nice that little folks like!
hänsel.
no, i won't!
i don't want to go into your house.
i want to go home!
gretel.
i don't like you, mrs. gingerbread!
you aren't nice like my mother.
i want to go home to my own mother!
the gingerbread witch.
come, dear little gretel.
you must go in with me.
we'll leave hänsel in this little house outside.
he must get fatter, so we will give him many good things to eat.
get in, hänsel.
i must lock you in!
hänsel.
what are you going to do with me?
the gingerbread witch.
i'll fatten you up nicely and then you will see!
now i'll go inside for some sugarplums.
you wait here, gretel, until i come back.
hocus, pocus, malus locus!
now you can't move!
[goes in.]
hänsel.
listen, gretel!
watch the old witch and see everything she does to me.
hush, she's coming back!
the gingerbread witch.
now, hans, eat this raisin.
it will make you fat!
now, gretel, you have stood still long enough.
hocus, pocus, elder bush!
rigid body loosen, hush!
then, gretel, you must come with me, but hans cannot move until he gets nice and fat like you.
run in, little daughter, and get some more nuts and raisins for him.
i like plump little bodies like yours!
[gretel goes in.]
hänsel.
please let me out, mrs. gingerbread.
the gingerbread witch.
when you are fatter.
now i must look to my fire.
it is burning well, and the oven will soon be hot enough to bake my dinner.
when i change my gingerbread i'll pop little gretel in and shut the door.
[gretel comes in very quietly and goes to hans.]
gretel.
hocus, pocus, elder bush!
rigid body loosen, hush!
the gingerbread witch.
what are you saying?
gretel.
oh, nothing, only,
the gingerbread witch.
only what?
gretel.
only, much good may it do to hans!
the gingerbread witch.
poor hans is too thin, but i hope the raisins and nuts will be good for him.
but, you, my plump little gretel, are just fat enough come, peep in the oven and see if the gingerbread is ready!
hänsel (softly).
sister dear, have a care;    she means to hurt you, so beware!
gretel (shyly).
i don't understand what i am to do!
the gingerbread witch.
do?
why, open the oven door!
hänsel.
sister dear, now take care!
gretel.
i'm such a goose, i don't understand.
the gingerbread witch.
do as i say, it's only play!
this is the way.
[opens the door and looks in oven.
hans and gretel run and push her in.]
children sing.
one little push, bang goes the door, clang!
now, let us be happy, dancing so merrily.
hurrah!
hurrah!
hänsel.
why, see the children, gretel.
the fence is moving!
the gingerbread children are real children, but their eyes are shut!
the children.
we are saved!
we are saved!
gretel.
who are you?
why do you keep your eyes shut?
you're sleeping and yet you are talking!
the children.
o touch us, we pray, that we may awake!
hänsel.
the witch has changed them into gingerbread children.
i know what to do.
let us say what the witch said to you, and what you said to me!
hänsel and gretel.
hocus, pocus, elder bush!
rigid body loosen, hush!
the children.
(opening their eyes and running toward hänsel and gretel.)
we thank you, we thank you both!
gretel.
oh, i am so glad!
the children.
the spell is broken and we are free.
the witch can do us no more harm.
come, let us shout for glee!
hänsel.
come, children all, and form a ring,    join hands together, while we sing.
gretel.
oh, hänsel dear, i wish father and mother were here!
hänsel.
look, gretel!
there they are!
[father and mother enter.]
father.
why, mother, the children are here!
come, my dear hänsel and gretel!
how glad i am we have found you safe and well!
hänsel.
oh, father, we must tell you all about the gingerbread witch!
mother.
my dear children, were you frightened?
gretel.
yes, mother, i was.
but, mother, hänsel comforted me, and we said our prayers and went to sleep.
mother.
the good angels watched over you and brought you back!
come, let us go to the village and take all these dear children to their mothers.
won't they be surprised and happy to see their dear children again?
father.
come, children!
king alfred
persons in the play queen judith, ethelbald, ethelbert, ethelred, alfred, peasants, king's officers
scene i. in the castle
ethelbald.
tell us a story, lady mother.
ethelbert.
yes, tell us a story.
ethelred.
i wish it would stop raining, so that we might take our hawks for a hunt!
queen.
i have something to show you, my princes.
is not this a beautiful book?
alfred.
how lovely the red velvet, and see, the clasp is of gold!
ethelred.
and there are jewels in the clasp!
queen.
it is well bound, as so precious a volume should be; but the binding is the least valuable part of the book.
shall we look within?
ethelbald.
pray show us, lady mother!
queen.
observe the forms of mighty warriors, fair ladies, and royal chiefs of the olden times in bright and glowing colors.
ethelbert.
how brave they look!
who are they?
tell us of them, dear mother.
queen.
these pictures are beautiful and appeal to the eye, but neither they nor the velvet and gold of the binding give the joy which is greatest.
alfred.
what do you mean, dear lady mother?
queen.
this is a book i greatly enjoy, for it is full of the tales of the mighty king arthur and his knights of the round table.
you will like to hear me read these brave stories when you are tired with your day's work, or on rainy days when you can neither hunt nor ride.
then you know not how to amuse yourselves and time is heavy on your hands, since you can neither read nor play upon the musical instruments that give us so much pleasure.
ethelred.
the book is so lovely.
let me take it, lady mother!
queen.
i would that the children of my royal husband could read the book.
ethelbald.
our father does not think much of books and music.
he likes to hunt and fight, and so do i.
ethelred.
and i love to hunt, but i love to hear the stories of great kings and warriors, too.
alfred.
to which of us wilt thou give the book, lady mother?
queen.
i will bestow it on him who shall first learn how to read it.
alfred.
will you really, dear mother?
queen.
yes, upon the faith of a queen, i will.
i will not give it to one who cannot read it.
books are meant for the learned and not for the ignorant.
the sons of a king should cease to play with toys.
alfred.
may i take the book a little while?
queen.
yes, you may take the precious volume, alfred, for i know you will not injure it, and i hope you will soon learn how to make its wisdom your own.
alfred.
thank you, lady mother.
i shall study the book and learn to read, for i wish to know all about the brave knights of arthur's court.
scene ii.
years later, when alfred is king
king alfred, oscar the earl, odulph, the earl's son
alfred.
all the others have gone back to their homes.
in no other way can ye serve me.
wherefore do ye go about to weep and break my heart?
oscar.
we weep, royal alfred, because thou hast forbidden us to share thy fortunes; as if we were the swarm of summer flies, who follow only while the sun shineth.
alfred.
my valiant oscar, and you my faithful odulph, listen to me.
i do not despair.
the time is not ripe now for further war.
our foes the danes have conquered us for a time.
i trust that the time will come when we shall drive them from our land.
but we must do that which seems best for the present and seek to be more successful in the future.
we must not sit down and weep; no, this rather shall you do.
go back to your own people and keep me in their memory.
when the dane rules most cruelly, then rise up and cry aloud in the ears of the people, "alfred the king yet liveth!"
then gather the soldiers and i shall come to lead them to victory.
oscar.
thou shalt be obeyed, my royal lord.
i will return to my men and do as thou hast said.
but let my son odulph stay with thee, if only as thy servant.
odulph.
well will i serve thee, my royal lord.
it is not well for the king to fare alone.
alfred.
i am well content to serve myself, or even to be servant to others, until a happier time shall come.
if odulph desires to serve me, it shall be by bringing good tidings of your success with my people.
when the time comes that we may again fight for our country, let him bring me the welcome message.
then we will free our country from the danish yoke.
oscar.
farewell, my royal master, since thou wilt have it so.
odulph.
and may the time soon come when i shall bring the message to thee!
alfred.
farewell, my loyal friends.
all will be well.
scene iii.
in the peasant's home
king alfred, peasant cudred, wife switha
alfred.
save you, good father!
may a saxon stranger, whom the danish robbers have made homeless, share a lodging with thy master's cattle for the night?
cudred.
wilt thou swear to me that thou art not a dane in disguise?
alfred.
i say to thee, my friend, i am no dane, but a true saxon.
cudred.
then thou shalt share the calf's crib to-night.
perchance thou art hungry, too?
alfred.
to say truth, father, i have not broken my fast to-day; neither have i had aught to drink save from these marshy streams.
i shall be right thankful for some food, even a crust of coarsest rye bread.
cudred.
rye bread, forsooth!
thou talkest of dainties indeed!
thou wilt get nothing better than flat oaten cakes here.
alfred.
i have always wished to taste an oaten cake.
cudred.
follow me, then, and thou shalt have thy desire.
switha, switha!
switha.
well, i hear thee!
cudred.
switha, i have brought thee home a guest who will be glad to partake of our supper.
switha.
a guest!
and thinkest thou i've naught better to do than broil fish and bake cakes for all the vagabonds who roam the land?
cudred.
patience, good switha.
i have not asked thee to cook for a vagabond.
this is an honest saxon whom it will be charity to feed and shelter for the night.
switha.
let me hold the torch and see this saxon guest.
thou lookest like a guest of fashion, sorry fellow!
cudred.
cease thy scolding talk, woman!
i see by this light that our guest hath not been used to beg for charity from such as thou.
why be so hard of heart and by thy rude taunts make bitter the food he must receive from our hands?
switha.
i have heard that charity begins at home, and i am sure we are poor enough.
cudred.
not poor enough to refuse food to the hungry, such as it is.
here is fish, and here an oaten cake which you wish to taste.
alfred.
thanks for your goodness, kind host.
indeed, i am hungry.
switha.
you eat like a hungry wolf.
alfred.
and now i am hungry no longer.
i thank you both for a good supper, and i hope you will never be sorry you have given charity to a stranger.
now, cudred, i shall be glad to sleep.
cudred.
this way, then, to the bed of straw.
now, tell me truly, art thou not some mighty earl in disguise?
alfred.
i am alfred, thy king i know from thy goodness to me when thou thoughtest me a beggar that thou art a good man, therefore i confide in thee.
i know thou wilt not betray thy king.
cudred.
not all the gold of denmark should tempt me to commit so base a crime, but we must not let switha know who thou art, my royal master.
alfred.
i shall be careful.
soon, i hope, my friends will bring me word that my army awaits me, when i shall again try to set my country free.
scene iv.
in the peasant's hut
king alfred, switha
king alfred.
it rains so hard to-day that i cannot hunt, so will mend my bow and make some new arrows.
may i sit by your fire, good dame switha?
switha.
yes, and as i have made a good batch of cakes you might watch them bake.
alfred.
gladly will i watch them.
show me what i must do.
switha.
turn them often before the fire, thus, so that they will not burn.
now i will go for more wood for the fire.
alfred.
how long, i wonder, must i remain in hiding.
it is very hard to wait.
if only i knew how my people were faring.
will the time never come when i can rule over england and unite my people?
so many plans have i for their happiness and progress.
schools we must have.
the bible must be translated for the people to read.
roads must be built and the country made safe for all.
how long must i sit in cudred's cottage mending arrows when my heart wishes to help my suffering people!
switha (running in).
i thought i smelled them burning!
oh, thou lazy, useless fellow!
thou art ready enough to eat the cakes, but too lazy to keep them from burning.
no wonder thou hast no home, idle as thou art.
alfred.
i pray thee, good dame, forgive me.
i was lost in thought of happier days and forgot my duty.
really i am sorry.
switha.
ay, ay, that is always the way with thee.
that smooth tongue of thine is better to thee than silver or gold; for it obtains for thee food, lodging, and friends, and softens all the wrath thy faults provoke.
however, i shall set by all the burnt cakes for thy portion of the week's bread, i promise thee; and thou shalt have no other till they are all eaten.
alfred.
my good mistress, here comes a pilgrim boy to ask thy charity.
may i bestow one of these cakes on him?
switha.
thou mayest do what thou wilt with thine own, man!
but do not presume to give away my property to idle fellows like thyself.
alfred.
but, mistress, may i not give him that which was to have been my portion for dinner?
switha.
no, indeed!
i have enough to do with feeding one vagrant without adding all the lazy pilgrims who pass by.
alfred.
see, mistress, my amulet!
i will give thee this jewel, switha, if thou wilt permit me to feed this poor pilgrim.
switha.
very well, then.
give him thy portion while i go and hide the jewel.
[goes out as odulph enters.]
alfred.
welcome, odulph!
tell me thy tidings.
i hunger for good news.
odulph.
my tidings, royal alfred, are these: hubba, the dane, the terror of england, is slain, and his banner of the raven waves in my father's hall!
alfred.
what?
is thy father's castle in the possession of the danes?
odulph.
not so, my royal master; but the banner of the danes, captured by your victorious saxons, hangs in his hall.
we were pent up in the castle by the danes till our provisions failed.
when the last loaf was eaten, and our archers had launched their last arrows, my valiant father led the garrison in an attack upon the foe.
alfred.
brave oscar!
and you defeated them!
odulph.
yes, because of the carelessness of the danes.
they believed they had us in their power, and they never dreamed we would leave the castle walls.
few as we were, we fell upon them and slew their chiefs.
the soldiers fled, and left our men victorious.
then my father raised the cry, "alfred the king!"
all the country is calling, "alfred the king!"
alfred.
the time is ripe.
i thank you, odulph.
your father is a noble man, and i shall know how to show a king's gratitude to you both.
shall we go?
odulph.
lead on, king alfred, england is ready.
soon you shall head your army shouting, "long live king alfred!"
robin hood and the sad knight
persons in the play robin hood, little john, midge, will scarlet, the abbot, the knight, the prior, the lord chief justice, the lady
scene i. in the greenwood.
[robin hood and his men making arrows.]
robin hood.
this feather is too short.
give me another, little john.
this is a better one.
midge.
making arrows is not a simple thing, is it, my master?
robin hood.
indeed, no; if the feathers be too short, the arrows will not keep true to their course; and if the feathers be too long, the arrows will not fly swiftly.
little john.
if all men knew how to make arrows, their skill in shooting would seem greater.
look to your arrows, say i, before you shoot.
will scarlet.
we should thank the gray goose for the even growth of her feathers, which carries our arrows straight to the mark.
robin hood.
first the strong bow that bends to our hand, then the straight arrow, tough and trim, and the feathers that wing it to its mark.
but best of all the steady hand and keen eye that direct our winged shaft.
but you have worked well this morning, my men, and now we may rest awhile.
sing us a song, will scarlet, while we lie beneath the friendly oak.
will scarlet (sings).
the hunt is up!
the hunt is up!
and it is well-nigh day;    and harry our king has gone hunting      to bring his deer to bay.
the east is bright with morning light,      and darkness, it is fled;    and the merry horn wakes up the morn      to leave his idle bed.
awake, all men!
i say again      be merry as you may!
for harry our king is gone hunting      to bring the deer to bay.
little john.
this song is well enough in its way, but for me, i should much prefer a good dinner.
the morning's work has given me a fine appetite and i long for food.
robin hood.
it is good to eat, but not before we find some rich traveler to pay the bill.
ride out, my man, and find us a host.
willing or unwilling, bid him come.
little john.
with right good will, my master; and may i soon meet with him!
robin hood.
remember well, no farmer shall you bring.
he works for what he gets and shall live in peace.
and the laborer who toils for wife and child you must not harm.
only those who oppress the poor and weak, those who are selfish and unkind, who play while others weep, these shall you bring to me.
will scarlet.
but look, my master, what sorrowing knight rides there?
his garments are rich and his horse gayly decked, but his countenance is sad and he rides slowly, careless of the way.
little john.
hail, gentle knight; my master awaits you and fain would have your company at dinner.
the knight.
at dinner, in the wood!
who is your master?
little john.
robin hood is he: and here he is to bid you welcome.
robin hood.
welcome, sir knight, thrice welcome art thou, for i have fasted beyond the dinner hour.
pray you, dismount.
the knight.
god save you and all your company!
midge.
the dinner is served, my master.
robin hood.
will you join us, sir knight?
here are pheasants and swans and meat of the deer.
the knight.
such a good dinner, with so many brave men, i have not eaten for many a day.
if i come again to this country, i will make thee as good a dinner.
but heaven knows when that will be!
robin hood.
thanks for your kind offer.
but in the greenwood our guests must pay for their food.
a yeoman does not pay for a rich knight!
the knight.
sorry am i that you must call me poor.
i would that i could pay you, but in my saddlebags are no more than ten shillings.
robin hood.
is that indeed the truth, sir knight?
look carefully, little john; if the knight speaks truly, he shall keep the ten shillings, but if not
little john.
indeed, my master, the knight speaks truly, for this is all the money i can find.
robin hood.
how comes it, noble knight, that thou art so poor?
come, tell me the story.
mayhap i can help thee.
the knight.
i am sir richard of lea, and my ancestors have been knights for a hundred years.
a year ago i had plenty of money to spend as i would.
but now i have nothing for my wife and my children, who weep for my absence from them.
robin hood.
but how did you lose all your money?
the knight.
perhaps you will think i lost it in a foolish way.
my son, whom i dearly love, is a manly youth.
well can he shoot and joust fairly in the field.
but once, in a quarrel, he slew a youth, and to save him, i pledged all my lands.
unless i redeem them by all saints day i shall lose them all.
robin hood.
what is the sum you are bound to pay?
the knight.
four hundred pounds.
the day is near and i have nothing.
robin hood.
but what canst thou do if thou losest thy land?
what wilt thou do?
the knight.
i will sail far away over the seas.
i cannot remain in england.
robin hood.
it is a small sum.
hast thou no friends to help thee in thy need?
the knight.
many friends had i when i had money and lands.
now when i need their help they turn away and know me not.
robin hood.
by my faith, gentle knight, thou shalt not want for a friend.
little john, go to the chest and count out four hundred pounds.
will scarlet.
shall he not have cloth for a coat, gentle master?
he is thinly clad.
robin hood.
well said, will scarlet; go, get three measures of every kind, that he may be warmly and gayly clad.
little john.
here is the money, robin hood, and good measure.
robin hood.
and what will you give, little john, who are so generous with my money?
little john.
a pair of golden spurs, that he may ride fast to his castle and redeem his lands.
the knight.
many thanks, little john, and to you, my good friend.
tell me, robin hood, when shall i come to return the money you so kindly lend me?
robin hood.
this day twelvemonth; and a happy year may it be!
we will meet under this trysting tree.
till then, be merry!
the knight.
i shall be with you a year from to-day.
farewell.
scene ii.
in the abbot's hall
the abbot, the prior
the abbot.
this day a year ago sir richard lea borrowed four hundred pounds from me.
he promised to pay in a year or lose his land.
if he does not return to-day, the land will be mine.
the prior.
the day is now far spent.
perhaps he will come yet.
the abbot.
i am sure i hope he will not.
i trust he has left england.
the prior.
the land is worth much more than four hundred pounds.
it were a pity if he did not redeem it.
the abbot.
thou art ever crossing me!
speak no more about it!
where is the lord justice?
lord justice (enters).
here i am.
i have just come from london to do justice on that knight.
where is he?
the abbot.
the knight has failed to come with the money and this is the day when the land falls to me.
lord justice.
i dare swear he will not come and thou shalt have his lands.
i now declare that the knight, sir richard lea, has failed to keep his promise and his lands are
the knight (entering and kneeling before the abbot).
rejoice with me, sir abbot.
i am come to keep my day.
the abbot.
what dost thou say?
hast brought the money?
the knight (to try the abbot).
not a penny, but
the abbot.
what dost thou here without the money?
the knight.
to ask your kindness and patience, sir abbot, for a longer time.
lord justice.
the day has come.
thou losest thy land, sir knight, since thou canst not pay.
the knight.
good lord justice, help me against my foes!
i will surely pay, but must have more time.
lord justice.
i am sorry for thee, sir richard, but the law is plain.
either pay your debt or lose your land.
the knight.
sir abbot, i pray thee, have pity.
the abbot.
get the land when thou canst, thou gettest no pity from me.
the knight.
by my faith, then, if i get not my land again, thou shalt pay dearly for it.
the abbot.
get thee gone, false knight!
darest thou threaten me?
the knight.
false knight i am not, for i have fought well for my king.
lord justice.
sir abbot, the day is not yet gone.
what wilt thou give the knight to hold his peace?
the abbot.
a hundred pounds.
lord justice.
make it two hundred.
the knight.
no, nor nine hundred.
ye shall not have my land!
here, sir abbot, are the four hundred pounds.
had you been less covetous, i would have given interest.
now, get you gone, all of you; and learn to deal more justly and kindly with those in need.
[they go out.]
lady lea (entering).
oh, my dear husband!
how glad i am to hear your voice again.
the knight.
happy am i to see you and to be at home again.
i must tell you how kind robin hood has been to me.
lady lea.
robin hood your friend?
is he not the outlaw of the forest?
the knight.
yes; but he is kind to all who are unhappy or oppressed.
he saved me from leaving england and gave me money to redeem my land.
lady lea.
how i long to thank him for his goodness to you.
the knight.
in a year we will go to him and repay the four hundred pounds.
lady lea.
i shall be glad to see him and his merry men, and try to thank them all.
william tell
a story of switzerland.
a.d. 1307
persons in the play william tell; lewis, his son; albert, his son; annette, his wife; lalotte, his niece, gessler, soldiers
scene i. at tell's home
albert.
lewis, doesn't the quail smell good?
lewis.
yes, i wish i could have some of it!
lalotte.
hush!
the quail is for your father.
albert.
i know that, lalotte; but i am hungry, and i like quail.
lalotte.
your father will be cold and hungry, for he has been on a long journey.
albert.
but perhaps he will not come.
mother, mother!
may we have the quail if father is late?
it is done now, and it will not be good if it is cooked any more.
lalotte.
hush, you greedy boy!
if i were your mother, i would send you to bed for thinking of such a thing.
albert.
you are not the mistress.
you are not the mistress, and i shall not go to bed because you say so!
william tell (at door).
but you shall go to bed, young man, if your cousin lalotte tells you to do so.
take them to bed, lalotte.
albert.
oh, father!
we were only joking.
lewis.
please, father, don't send us to bed.
william tell.
i must, my boy, because it is late, and i have news for your mother.
good night, my sons.
boys.
good night, dear father.
[they go out with lalotte.]
william tell.
thy father's news is not for young ears.
annette.
there is a sadness in thy voice, and trouble in thy face!
tell me what has happened to thee!
wilt thou not trust me?
william tell.
yes, my annette!
thou hast ever been a good wife and faithful friend.
why should i conceal my deeds from thee?
annette.
what hast thou done, my husband?
william tell.
perhaps thou wilt blame me.
annette.
nay, for thou art a good man, and whatever thou doest is right in my eyes.
william tell.
thou knowest how our foreign rulers oppress the good people of switzerland?
annette.
i do, but why should we poor peasants worry over the affairs of the nobles?
william tell.
but they are our troubles, too.
so to-night i have met with three and thirty men, brave and loyal hearts, who have sworn to resist our oppressors and free our land from tyranny.
annette.
but how can three-and-thirty men think to conquer the armies of foreign tyrants?
william tell.
sometimes great events are brought about by small means.
all the people in their hearts hate the false ruler of our poor country, and many of these will willingly die for her sake.
annette.
thou art brave, my husband, but what can so few do?
william tell.
think of it!
the father of one of our band has just been put to a cruel death.
no man knows where the tyrant will strike next.
perhaps gessler will pick me out for the next victim.
annette.
thee!
what charge could he bring against thee?
william tell.
he could say that i am the friend of my country, which in the tyrant gessler's mind is a crime.
annette.
but gessler will never hear of us, humble peasants.
he is too far above us to care what we think.
william tell.
not so, my dear wife.
gessler will not permit us to hold our thoughts in secret.
he has a plan to discover our inmost thoughts.
annette.
what plan can he make to read our minds?
william tell.
a clever plan to tell a freeman from a slave.
in altdorf, our capital city, he has set up a pole.
upon the top of this pole he has put the cap of the austrian king and has ordered every man to take off his hat as he passes by, to show that he yields to the austrian rule.
is not this a brave plan?
he who obeys the tyrant is a slave.
wouldst thou have thy husband doff his cap to his country's tyrant?
annette.
never!
i should despise thee, couldst thou do it!
william tell.
that is my own brave wife!
thou speakest as a free woman, the mother of free children, should speak.
and our children shall be free!
when i go to altdorf i shall refuse to obey the order of gessler and all switzerland shall know that william tell will not bow to a foreign tyrant.
annette.
but why go to altdorf, my husband?
thou knowest the power of gessler and his cruelty!
william tell.
wouldst have me a coward?
no, dear wife.
when my business calls me to altdorf i shall go and in all ways act as a free man, loyal to my country and afraid of no one.
annette.
thou art a brave man, my husband, and i honor thee.
scene ii.
altdorf: the market place
william tell, albert, soldiers, gessler
william tell.
come, my son, i have sold the chamois skins, and now i must buy the things your mother wished me to get for her.
albert.
and, father, please buy some toys for little lewis.
william tell.
you are a good boy, albert, to remember your little brother.
we will go to the shop across the square and look there for toys.
soldier.
halt, man!
salute yonder cap!
william tell.
why should i salute a cap of cloth?
soldier.
it is the cap of our emperor.
if you do not honor the cap, you are a traitor.
william tell.
i am no traitor, and yet i will not bow down to an empty cap.
i am a true swiss and love my country.
gessler.
ha, ha!
then we have a traitor here who will not yield to our emperor!
arrest him, my men; and we will teach him his manners.
who is this man?
soldier.
his name is william tell, my lord.
gessler.
insolent traitor!
bind him well.
albert.
oh, father, i am afraid.
do not let the soldiers take me.
william tell.
be calm, my son.
no harm will come to thee.
gessler.
indeed, and is this your son?
has he come to mock the cap of our royal master, too?
seize the boy and bind him to yonder tree.
william tell.
what will you do with the boy?
does a captain war with a child?
gessler.
we shall see.
i hear you are a famous shot, william tell, and handle well the bow and arrow.
we shall soon know your skill.
have you a good arrow in your quiver?
perhaps you can shoot an apple from the head of your child.
soldier.
where shall i bind the boy, my captain?
gessler.
to yonder tree.
if his father shoots the apple from his child's head, he shall go free.
if he fails he must die.
are you ready?
william tell.
rather would i die than risk killing my eldest son.
let him go, and take my life.
gessler.
that i shall not do.
you must both die unless you save your lives as i have said.
will you try the shot or are you afraid?
william tell.
bind the boy's eyes, i beg.
he might move if he saw the arrow coming, and my skill would be in vain.
gessler.
i am willing, for well i know you cannot cleave the apple at that distance.
william tell.
tyrant!
i cannot fail now, when my son's life depends upon me.
stand perfectly still, my brave boy, and father will not hurt you.
now i pray for strength my trusty arrow must not fail me!
there!
[he shoots.]
soldier.
see, my captain!
the apple is split!
that was a fine shot!
gessler.
yes, it was a good shot, and i did not believe anyone could make it.
i suppose i must set you free.
but why have you that other arrow in your hand?
william tell.
to shoot you with it had i killed my darling boy.
gessler.
seize him, my men!
william tell.
never!
come, albert!
this arrow for him who stops me!
soldiers.
he has escaped!
time and the seasons
father time.
i must call my children together and give them orders for the new year.
open the door, my servants, and let the seasons appear.
spring (entering).
here i am, father time.
what are your commands for your youngest daughter?
father time.
welcome, my dainty spring!
it is your duty to call the gentle rains to fall upon the thirsting ground.
yours is the pleasant task to paint the blades of young grass a delicate green.
you call the birds back from the south and rouse all nature from her winter sleep.
the winds blow freshly over the earth; the clouds move here and there, bringing the rain; and the bulbs, hidden under the soil, slowly push their leaves into the sunlight.
what flowers will you bring to deck the earth?
spring.
o father time!
look here upon my pretty flowers!
here is the snowdrop, so white and brave.
it pushes its head up through the snow, which is no whiter than its own petals.
and here i have a bunch of crocuses, blue, yellow, white, and of many colors.
aren't they pretty amid the grass?
then the gorgeous tulips, holding their heads so high, making the earth brilliant with their gay, bright colors.
i think the golden daffodils and sweet narcissus are my favorite flowers, though i am very fond of what the children call spring beauty.
father time.
i see, my daughter, that you love all your flower children, and that is right.
all are beautiful, each in its own way.
and now tell me what joys do you bring to the little children of the earth?
spring.
all the children love me.
they hunt for the first flowers, they welcome the first birds returning from the south, and they prepare the garden for the seeds of flowers and vegetables.
the boys play marbles everywhere, and run and laugh, filling their lungs with my life-giving air.
the organ grinder plays for the children and they dance on the sidewalks, singing and calling out in delight.
the trees put forth their tender leaves.
the sun fills the air with golden warmth, and the world seems full of promise.
father time.
well done, my daughter.
and now, my daughter summer, tell me your plans for the year.
summer.
dear father, i delay my coming until spring has prepared the way.
the air must be soft and warm to please me, and the earth must be prepared by the rains and the warm rays of the sun.
the colors of my flowers are deeper and richer than those of sister spring.
i bring the lilies, the peonies, and the poppies.
best of all, the glowing roses open at my call, and fill the air with perfume.
father time.
and the children, my fair daughter, what do you bring to them?
summer.
the dear children!
i think they all like my sunny days and the long time for play.
for july and august in many countries are given to the school children for their play time.
then they go to the seashore and play in the water and the sand; or to the country, where the green grass, the farmyard animals, and all the country games delight them.
father time.
children are so fond of play and the long summer days out-of-doors that i wonder what they think of you, my older daughter, autumn?
autumn.
children do like to play and i am glad they get so well and strong with the vacation my sister, summer, gives them.
yet all children like to learn, too.
we must not forget that.
what joy it is to read the beautiful stories that great men and women have written for them.
what delight they have in learning to write, to sing, to draw, and to make pretty objects of paper, clay, and wood.
father time.
yes, that is true, but have you no pleasures out-of-doors for them?
autumn.
some people say my days are the most pleasant of the year.
the gardens have many beautiful flowers, and the fruits are ripening in the orchards and vineyards.
the apples hang red on the boughs, and children like to pick them and eat them, too!
i have the harvest moon, the time when the farmers bring home the crops ripened by august suns, and the earth seems to gather the results of the year's work, the riches of field, orchard, and meadow.
the squirrels gather their hoard of nuts and hide them away for their winter's food.
gay voices of nutting parties are heard in the woods, and all the air is filled with songs of praise and thanksgiving for the bounty of the year.
father time.
your work is surely one of worth and i rejoice with you, my daughter, in your happiness.
you are a true friend of men, showing them that honest effort and its work will always bring proper reward.
now, my merry laughing child, what have you to tell us?
winter.
some people think i am your oldest daughter, father time, but they forget that two of my months are always in the new year.
although my hair and garments are white, the cold is only outside; my heart is warm.
have i not jolly st. nicholas who never grows old?
i cover the earth with my warmest blanket of softest snow, softer and whiter than ermine, and all the tender flowers sleep cozily and warm until sweet spring awakes them.
the children get out their sleds and skates, and the merry sleigh bells ring.
what fun it is to build the snow man, and even if the hands get cold, the eyes shine brighter than in warm days and the cheeks are rosy as the reddest flower.
"hurrah for winter!"
shout the boys.
the merriest holidays i have when all hearts are gay and filled with loving care for others.
i would not change, dear father time, with any of my sisters.
i say good-by to the passing year and welcome the new year.
if the old year has had troubles and sorrows, all the people turn with hope to the new, and call to one another the wish, "a happy new year to all!"
father time.
i am glad you are contented with the work you have to do.
and now, my daughters, i must send you out upon your travels all over the world.
may your coming bring peace; joy, and prosperity to all mankind!
the gingerbread man
persons in the play the little old woman, the gingerbread man, the boy, the fox, children, men, the farmer
scene.
home of little old woman
little old woman.
now all my housework is done i think i will make some gingerbread.
there is nothing quite so good for lunch as warm gingerbread and a glass of milk, or a cup of hot tea.
i can make pretty good gingerbread, too, all of my friends say.
here is the flour and butter and molasses and milk.
now it is all ready to put into the pan.
but i made too much this time.
what shall i do with it?
nothing must be wasted in a good cook's kitchen.
oh, i know!
i'll make a cunning gingerbread man for the little boy who lives next door.
where is my knife?
now roll the dough very thin, cut out the round little head, then the neck, now the two arms, now the little fat body, and last the legs with high heels on the shoes.
well, this certainly is a fine little gingerbread man.
i think i'll make a little hat with a wide brim.
now i'll put two currants for his eyes, two for his nose, three for his cute little mouth, and six for the buttons on his coat.
then i'll sprinkle sugar and cinnamon over him and put him in the oven to bake.
let me look at the clock.
it is half past eleven.
at twelve the gingerbread man will be baked, ready for the little boy when he comes home from school.
well, i've washed the dishes, and set the table for my lunch, and it is now just twelve o'clock.
i'll open the oven door and see if my gingerbread man is ready.
oh!
what was that!
why, it is the gingerbread man!
gingerbread man.
yes, it is the gingerbread man, and now i'll go and see the world.
little old woman.
go!
you mustn't go!
you belong to me.
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
little old woman.
there he goes, out of the door, just as if he were really a little boy, and not made of something good to eat!
come back; come back!
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
little old woman.
i know i can't run as fast as he can.
there he goes out of the gate.
there are some men who are working in the street.
i'll ask them to catch him.
help!
help me catch the gingerbread man!
men.
yes, ma'am.
where is he?
oh, there he is, the little rascal!
we'll catch him.
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
men.
well, there he goes and he does run fast!
come, let us run after him!
little old woman.
oh, i know the men can't run as fast as he can, and they will never catch my gingerbread man!
here are the children coming from school.
i'll call them.
children, children!
children.
yes, little old woman, here we are.
what did you call us for?
little old woman.
oh, my dear children, see the gingerbread man i made for the little boy next door!
there he goes running as fast as he can, and i can't catch him!
boy.
and the men are running after him, and they can't catch him either.
just watch me, little woman, i'll catch him for you.
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man.
girl.
i have my roller skates on.
perhaps i can catch him!
little old woman.
i'm sure you can, my child.
girl.
i'll try.
look out, mr. gingerbread man!
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
little old woman.
there he goes, and none of them can catch him.
now he is near some farmers.
i'll call on them to help me.
farmer, farmer, will you please help me catch the gingerbread man?
there he goes over your wheat field.
farmer.
yes, indeed, we'll help you.
here, you gingerbread man, keep out of my wheat field!
come, men; run after him and catch him.
men.
we'll catch him before he gets to the fence.
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ah!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
little old woman.
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
there he goes into the wood, and no one can run fast enough to catch him.
farmer.
i'm sorry, madam, but we must go back to our work on the farm.
boy.
hark!
listen!
don't you hear the little gingerbread man calling?
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm the gingerbread man!
little old woman.
yes, he is calling to us from the wood.
i thank you, children, and now we will go home.
gingerbread man (in the wood).
ah, ha!
and they didn't catch me!
and now i am free to play in the wood.
what a pleasant place!
mr. fox.
well, what sort of a funny little man is this?
gingerbread man.
ah, ha!
ah, ha!
catch me, if you can!
you can't catch me, i'm a gingerbread man!
mr. fox.
can't i?
well, i have caught you; and now let me see if you are good to eat.
first, i'll try one of your arms.
that tastes good!
gingerbread man.
i'm going!
mr. fox.
and now the other arm!
gingerbread man.
i'm going!
mr. fox.
now for the leg.
gingerbread man.
i'm going!
mr. fox.
really, mr. gingerbread man, i think you are very good eating for a hungry fox.
now i'll taste the other leg.
gingerbread man.
i'm going!
mr. fox.
now for your round little body.
gingerbread man.
i'm going!
mr. fox.
there is not very much left.
just your head for the last mouthful.
gingerbread man.
i'm gone!
mr. fox.
yes, you're gone; and a very nice meal, mr. gingerbread man.
the good fairy
scene i. in the wood
the good fairy.
at last i am in this wood where i must save the lady alice from danger.
how dark it seems here after the bright light of my skyey home.
surely i shall be glad to return to the courts of fairyland.
yet it is pleasant to be of service to the young and innocent, to those who are good and true.
some there are on earth who do not love the truth, who do not do the things that are honest and kind, and they must be punished.
kind and gentle deeds must be rewarded with our help.
here in this dark grove dwells comus, an evil spirit, who loves not the good.
here he finds the unlucky traveler and takes him to his court.
there he offers him food and a pleasant drink.
but in the glass is a potion which drives memory from the mind and makes one forget home and friends.
then the unhappy traveler loses his human head and must have the head of some animal or bird.
comus enjoys seeing his victims act like wild and foolish animals or the forest.
in this dangerous wood the lady alice and her brothers are wandering, and my duty it is to protect them from the evil comus.
hark!
i think i hear the noisy band.
here will i hide and listen.
[comus and his crew enter; men and women with animal heads.]
comus.
now the sun has gone from the western heavens and the star of night shines over us.
this is the hour we love the best.
all the serious, wise old people who love the day and its work are weary now and have gone to bed.
we who love fun and a merry dance, we wake when the sky is flecked with golden stars.
now the moon calls the fairies from brook and fountain to play their merry games and sing.
these are the joys of night in our dark and secret grove.
come, make a merry ring and dance.
no care have we nor fear.
we will dance and sing until the first ray of light is seen in the east.
[they dance until comus speaks.]
comus.
break off!
break off!
i hear a footstep not our own approaching this place.
run to your places lest you frighten the traveler whoever it may be.
[they disappear.]
i believe some maiden approaches.
i will weave my spells and appear to her in the dress of a shepherd and she will not be afraid.
here she comes.
i will step aside and learn how she happens to be alone in my grove.
[comus hides.]
lady alice (entering).
i thought i heard the sound of noisy merrymaking, with music as if many were dancing.
here was the sound, but here i see no one.
alas!
i should be sorry to meet rude youths, but where can i go, what can i do, left alone in this dark and gloomy wood?
o my brothers, where are you?
when they saw me wearied, unable to go farther, they left to find me nourishment and shelter, promising soon to return.
truly they must be lost in this vast forest.
o dark night, why have you stolen the way from them and left me alone and helpless?
helpless?
no, not helpless, for the good mind has helpers ever present in pure-eyed faith and white-handed hope.
i will pray to god, who will send me a guardian to guide me to my home.
what is that light i see?
my brothers seek me and i will sing to them.
perhaps they are not far away and will hear my voice.
sweet echo, sweetest nymph, that liv'st unseen      within thy airy shell,    canst thou not tell me of a gentle pair      that likest thy narcissus are?
o if thou have      hid them in some flowery cave,    tell me but where,    sweet queen of parley, daughter of the sphere!
comus (to himself).
what sweet song is this?
can any mortal sing with such charm and beauty?
such sacred and home-felt delight i never heard till now.
i'll speak to her, and she shall be my queen.
comus (dressed as a shepherd).
hail, fair goddess!
for you must be more than mortal, to sing such sweet and wondrous strain.
lady alice.
nay, gentle shepherd.
i sang not as loving my own voice, and praise is lost that falls on unattending ears.
stern necessity compelled my song.
comus.
how comes it, lady, that you are thus alone?
lady alice.
my brothers left me upon a grassy turf.
darkness came upon the grove, and i fear they are lost.
comus.
were they men full grown or still young?
lady alice.
young and fair my brothers are.
comus.
two such i saw, so lovely in their youthful grace i thought i looked upon some fairy scene.
if these are the lads you seek, we can easily find them.
lady alice.
gentle villager, quickly tell me the shortest way to them!
comus.
due west it lies.
lady alice.
to find it out, good shepherd, would be too difficult in this darkness to a stranger.
comus.
i know every step, fair lady, for i live close by and daily tread the path in caring for my sheep.
gladly will i conduct you and find your brothers if they are still in this grove.
till daybreak you can rest in a cottage near by, where you will be safe until you wish to travel on.
lady alice.
kind shepherd, i take your word, and gladly go to the shelter you mention.
kindness is often found in lowly homes.
lead on, and i will follow.
comus.
this way, fair lady!
scene ii.
another place in the forest
elder brother.
how our steps are stayed by the darkness of the night and of the forest.
would that the moon and stars would pierce the clouds!
if only we could see some faint glimmer of a candle in some lowly hut that would guide us on our way.
second brother.
or hear the folded flocks, or sound of village flute or song, or if the cock would crow the watches of the night!
where can our dear sister be now?
does she wander in the deep grove, or against the rugged bark of some broad elm lean her head in fear?
perhaps even while we speak she is the prey of some savage beast!
elder brother.
cease, brother, to dream of evils that may not be.
no good can come from false alarms.
i do not believe my good sister has lost herself in fear.
her faith will keep her calm.
second brother.
i do not fear the darkness and the fact that she is alone.
but i do fear some harm may come to her from rude wanderers in the wood.
elder brother.
yet i believe she is so good and true that evil has no power to harm her.
all powers of good surround her and drive evil away.
but list!
some faint call sounds on my ear.
second brother.
yes, i hear it now.
what should it be?
elder brother.
either some one lost in this wood, like ourselves, or else some roving woodman, or perhaps some robber calling to his fellows!
second brother.
god save my sister!
elder brother.
who comes here?
speak!
advance no further!
spirit (as a shepherd).
what voice is that?
speak once again.
second brother.
o brother!
'tis my father's shepherd, sure.
elder brother.
are you thyrsis?
how could you find this dark, secluded spot?
why did you come?
spirit.
to find out you.
but where is your lovely sister?
why is she not with you?
elder brother.
without our fault we lost her as we came.
spirit.
alas, then my fears are true!
elder brother.
what fears, good thyrsis?
spirit.
i have long known that this wood was held in the power of an evil spirit, and this evening as i sat me down upon a bank i heard most lovely strains as if an angel sang.
listening, i knew it was your sister's voice.
i hastened to her and heard her tell comus of you whom she had lost.
to you i came that we may save her from the evil spirit of the wood.
elder brother.
let us hasten to attack him with our swords.
spirit.
alas!
your bravery i praise, but it is vain.
the evil charm of comus can be broken only by a wondrous plant.
see, i have it here.
with this will we overcome his fairy spells.
elder brother.
thyrsis, lead on!
and some good angel bear a shield before us!
scene iii.
the palace of comus
comus.
drink, lady, of the wine.
you are faint and weary, and this will refresh you.
do not refuse!
lady alice.
never will i drink the potion in that glass.
you may control the body, but my free mind you can never bind.
comus.
why are you angry, lady?
here is a place filled with all delight.
lady alice.
is this the cottage you told me of, the place of safety where i could rest.
none but good men can offer good things.
i will never drink what you offer.
what monsters are these?
i pray heaven guard me!
comus.
dear lady, stay with me and be my queen.
here may you reign over all my kingdom.
see what royal robes are mine, what jewels, what costly tables and shining gold and silver.
no sorrow shall you know, but only joy and pleasure.
lady alice.
cease your words.
you cannot move the mind guided by honesty and truth.
you cannot frighten me, for well i know goodness is stronger than evil, truth is more powerful than falsehood.
the pure heart cannot be harmed.
comus.
cease, cease!
all this is foolishness.
be wise and taste.
all trouble will be forgotten.
come, i insist!
[the brothers rush in and drive comus and his crew away.
but lady alice is entranced and cannot move.]
spirit.
have you let him escape?
you should have seized his wand.
without that he has no power, but now we must have help to release your sister from his wicked power.
the goddess of our river severn, the lovely sabrina, has power over all the enchantments of comus.
her will i call.
sabrina fair,    listen, where thou art sitting,    goddess of the silver lake,    listen and save.
come from your home in the coral caves of the sea and help this lovely maiden in distress.
sabrina (entering).
from off the waters fleet,    thus i set my printless feet    o'er the cowslip's velvet head    that bends not as i tread;    gentle swain, at thy request    i am here!
spirit.
dear goddess, we implore your powerful aid to undo the charm wrought by the enchanter on this maiden.
sabrina.
'tis my greatest joy to help the pure and good.
gentle lady, look on me.
thrice upon thy finger tips, thrice upon thy lips, i sprinkle drops from my pure fountain.
then i touch this marble seat and break the spell.
all is well.
farewell.
spirit.
fair sabrina, for this aid i pray that all the pretty rills will never cease to flow into your broad river.
may your banks ever be fair with groves and meadows sweet, while all men shall praise you for your gentle deeds.
farewell.
now, lady, let us hasten from this grove.
your parents await their dear children, and we must hasten ere they become alarmed over your delay.
thanks to your pure heart and the aid of the fair sabrina, you have come safely through the enchanter's wood.
a christmas hamper
he seemed a funny old gentleman, the children thought, but still rather nice, especially when he brought those sweets out of his pocket and let them dip into the bag and take what they liked.
they had seen him walking through the wood, and then when they left off playing, he had come to sit down beside them, and asked them their names.
“mine’s hugh, like father,” said the eldest; “and this is lily, and this is tom.”
the old gentleman looked a little quickly at tom.
“who is he named after?” he said.
the children’s faces grew grave.
“he is named after poor uncle tom,” said lily in a low voice, “who went to sea and was drowned.”
there was silence for a minute.
then the old gentleman spoke again,—
“so poor uncle tom was drowned, was he?”
“yes,” said hugh.
“his ship was lost, and everybody was drowned, ’cept two or three that got in the boat, and uncle tom wasn’t among them.
father waited and waited, but it wasn’t any good.
so then he put up a monument in the church just where we can see it from our pew.”
“and we always sings about the saints of god on his burfday,” said lily, “and father cries a little.”
“no, he don’t!” said hugh indignantly.
“father’s a man, and men don’t cry!”
“but he does,” said lily.
“i saw a weeny little tear on his cheek this morning, for to-day is uncle tom’s burfday, and his voice goes all shaky like, ’cause he was so fond of poor uncle tom, and says he was so good.”
the old gentleman sat silent, staring hard at the ground.
“is it long since uncle tom went away?” he said at last.
“it is ten years,” replied hugh.
“it was the year i was born.”
“ten years—so it is,” murmured the old gentleman—“only ten years, and it has seemed like a hundred.”
the children looked at one another surprised.
“did you ever know uncle tom?” asked hugh curiously.
“yes, i knew him well.
i was on his ship.”
“but you aren’t drowned!” cried lily.
the old gentleman smiled.
“no,” he said, “i wasn’t drowned; i got off safe.
uncle tom used to talk to me, though, about his old home, and one day he said that he had carved his name on a tree in the park, and i was to go and see it if i ever got home.”
“oh, i’ll show you,” said little tom.
“it is on a beech tree close by here.
i’ll show you.
there it is.”
he pointed to a tree on which some initials and a date were cut deep into the bark.
“it has kept very fresh,” said the old gentleman.
“i thought it would have been grown over by now.”
“father always comes and tidies it up on uncle’s birthday,” said the boy.
“see, he is coming now!
i’ll go and tell him you are here.—father!” he shouted, running off—“father, here’s a gentleman who knew uncle tom!”
but when father came near and saw the old gentleman, he stared at him for a moment as if he had seen a ghost, and then he gave a great cry.
“tom, tom, it is you yourself!”
and it was uncle tom, who had not been drowned after all, but when the ship was wrecked had managed to get ashore to an island, and there had lived on the fish he caught, and birds’ eggs, and cocoa-nuts, watching for a sail, like robinson crusoe.
at last the sail came after ten long years.
and when he reached england he did not write, but came down to his old home to see who was there, for of course he had heard no tidings all the time.
nobody recognized him at the village, for the tropical sun had burned his skin brown, and the long waiting and the sorrow and the hardships had turned his hair white.
only his brother knew him by his eyes, for they two had loved each other very much.
“but what will father do with your tombstone?” said lily gravely, as she sat on her uncle’s knee that night.
“it is such a pretty one, with a beautiful angel on it!”
a snow man.
oh, the beautiful snow!
we’re all in a glow—
nell, dolly, and willie, and dan;         for the primest of fun,         when all’s said and done,     is just making a big snow man.
two stones for his eyes         look quite owlishly wise,     a hard pinch of snow for his nose;         then a mouth that’s as big         as the snout of a pig,     and he’ll want an old pipe, i suppose.
then the snow man is done,         and to-morrow what fun     to make piles of snow cannon all day,         and to pelt him with balls         till he totters and falls,     and a thaw comes and melts him away.
not such fun as it seemed.
“isn’t it fun, dolly?” asked eric, as he and his little sister ran along the sea front as fast as their sturdy legs could carry them.
eric was the jolliest little boy imaginable, but, unfortunately, a little bit too fond of mischief, and dolly was generally only too eager to join in her brother’s pranks.
just now they were running away from nurse, who was down on the sands with baby.
they waited until her head was turned away, then off they ran.
“we’ll go out to the rocks and play at being shipwrecked sailors,” eric went on.
“i’ve got some biscuits in my pocket, and i’ll dole them out, piece by piece, and pretend we shan’t have any more food unless a boat takes us off.”
poor eric!
his play very soon became earnest, for he and dolly waded out to a big rock in a very lonely part of the coast, and so interested were they in their game that they never noticed the tide coming in until it had surrounded them, and there was no getting back.
they waited on and on, hoping some one would come for them, and fearing every moment that the sea would cover the rock, and that they would be drowned.
it was long past dinner-time, and they were wet through and hungry and wretched when at last a fisherman, who had been sent out to search for them, spied the two forlorn little figures, and rescued them.
they went home hand in hand, very solemn and silent, expecting to get a good scolding; but instead of that, mother burst into tears of relief, and both eric and dolly felt so thoroughly ashamed of themselves for having frightened their darling mother so terribly that it was a very long, long time before they got into mischief again.
on the sands.
the sun is shining brightly,     the seagulls floating lightly,       and the sea is calling, “children,       won’t you come and play with me?”
so ask for breakfast early,     while the waves are crisp and curly,       and come with us to paddle,       paddle gaily in the sea.
old clothes.
the sunniest of days, the clearest and loveliest of blue seas, and i, a little lobster, young, proud, and as lively as a cricket—that is what people say; but i can’t help thinking “as lively as a shrimp” would sound better.
i always wear a lovely suit of armour, like those old warriors you read about.
it is strong and firm and well jointed, so that i can move ever so fast—of course not so fast as that silly little fish.
he has armour too, he says, but wears it inside.
that seems queer to me; i can’t quite believe it.
but i want to tell you what a queer thing happened to mine not long ago.
it grew small and shabby, like your last year’s dress; that is why i have called this story “old clothes.”
listen.
i lived a very happy life out at sea for some time, till one day i fell into a strange basket-box thing.
there were several other lobsters and one or two crabs sitting there, looking anxious and disturbed.
and i soon found out that they had need to feel so, for there was no exit.
that means “way out” in plain words.
our basket was joined to a strong rope, and that was attached to a cork floating on the top of the water.
not long after i had fallen into this basket, which i now know was a lobster-trap, a boat rowed out from the shore, stopped just above us, and then we were lifted up, up, right out of the water, and placed in the boat.
the next thing was a good deal of pushing and knocking about, and then some one tossed me carelessly out on the beach, saying roughly, “too small for any use.”
but some one else thought differently.
another hand touched me, and another voice said, “just the thing for my aquarium.”
what that meant i could not even guess; but it turned out to be the tiniest sea in the world.
steady old limpets, red anemones, hermit crabs, and shrimps were all there.
it was a very nice home, with plenty of good food, the only drawback being want of space.
and now the event happened that i promised to tell you about.
my armour took to hurting me.
you will hardly believe me.
we all know that new clothes hurt sometimes, but old ones!
it grew tighter and tighter.
i wriggled about, feeling miserable.
oh, if only i could get out of this!
at last i grew desperate.
this choked, tight feeling was too much.
i gave a tremendous struggle, and shook myself; crickle, crackle went my old armour, off it came, and out i stepped.
but, oh, so tender, and so nervous!
the shrimps pranced round and knocked up against me, pricking and tormenting till i could have screamed.
i crept behind a stone and looked at my old armour half sadly.
it looked just like old me, only so still, and rather as if i had been out in the rain all night and had shrunk.
then i glanced at the new me.
well, i was a pretty fellow—not blue-black any longer, but a reddish pink of lovely hue.
some one else took pride in my appearance, for i heard again a voice say, “look at my lobster; he has cast his shell.”
i hadn’t, you know—it was the shell that had cast me; but these men can’t know everything.
the man touched me, but he hurt me almost as much as the shrimps, and i shrank farther still behind the stone out of his way.
there i quietly lay for some days, till one morning, feeling braver and ever so much bigger, i stepped out for an early saunter.
that moment came a voice, “oh, here is my lobster!
how he has grown, more than half as big again!” down came the hand as before; and just to show him i was also half as strong again, i gave him a nip.
he keeps his hands above water now, and me at arm’s length.
the little tiny thing.
out in the garden mary sat hemming a pocket-handkerchief, and there came a little insect running—oh, in such a hurry!—across the small stone table by her side.
the sewing was not done, for mary liked doing nothing best, and she thought it would be fun to drop her thimble over the little ant.
“now he is in the dark,” said she.
“can he mind?
he is only such a little tiny thing.”
mary ran away, for her mother called her, and she forgot all about the ant under the thimble.
there he was, running round and round and round the dark prison, with little horns on his head quivering, little perfect legs bending as beautifully as those of a race-horse, and he was in quite as big a fright as if he were an elephant.
“oh,” you would have heard him say, if you had been clever enough, “i can’t get out, i can’t get out!
i shall lie down and die.” ” mary went to bed, and in the night the rain poured.
the handkerchief was soaked as if somebody had been crying very much, when she went out to fetch it as soon as the sun shone.
she remembered who was under the thimble.
“i wonder what he is doing,” said mary.
but when she lifted up the thimble the little tiny thing lay stiff and still.
“oh, did he die of being under the thimble?” she said aloud.
“i am afraid he did mind.”
“why did you do that, mary?” said her father, who was close by, and who had guessed the truth.
“see!
he moves one of his legs.
run to the house and fetch a wee taste of honey from the breakfast-table for the little thing you starved.”
“i didn’t mean to,” said mary.
she touched the honey in the spoon with a blade of grass, and tenderly put a drop of it before the little ant.
he put out a fairy tongue to lick up the sweet stuff.
he grew well, and stood upon his pretty little jointed feet.
he tried to run.
“where is he in such a hurry to go, do you think?” said father.
“i don’t know,” said mary softly.
she felt ashamed.
“he wants to run home,” said father.
“i know where he lives.
in a little round world of ants, under the apple tree.”
“oh!
has such a little tiny thing a real home of his own?
i should have thought he lived just anywhere about.”
“why, he would not like that at all.
at home he has a fine palace, with passages and rooms more than you could count; he and the others dug them out, that they might all live together like little people in a little town.”
“and has he got a wife and children—a lot of little ants at home?”
“the baby ants are born as eggs; they are little helpless things, and must be carried about by their big relations.
there are father ants and mother ants, and lots of other ants who are nurses to the little ones.
nobody knows his own children, but all the grown-up ones are kind to all the babies.
this is a little nurse ant.
see how she hurries off!
her babies at home must have their faces washed.”
“o father!” cried mary; “now that is a fairy story.”
“not a bit of it,” said father.
“ants really do clean their young ones by licking them.
on sunny days they carry their babies out, and let them lie in the sun.
on cold days they take them downstairs, away from the cold wind and the rain.
the worker ants are the nurses.
though the little ones are not theirs, they love them and care for them as dearly as if they were.”
“why, that’s just like aunt jenny who lives with us, and mends our things, and puts baby to bed, and goes out for walks with us.”
“just the same,” said father, laughing.
“is that the reason we say ant jenny?”
“you little dunce!
who taught you to spell?
but it is not a bad idea, all the same.
it would be a good thing if there were as many ‘ant’
jennys in this big round world of ours as there are in the ants’ little round world—folk who care for all, no matter whose children they are.”
while they were talking, the little ant crept to the edge of the table, and down the side, and was soon lost among the blades of grass.
“he will never find his way,” said mary.
“let him alone for that,” said father.
“the ants have paths leading from their hill.
they never lose their way.
but they meet with sad accidents sometimes.
what do you think i saw the other day?
one of these small chaps—it may have been this very one—was carrying home a scrap of something in his jaws for the youngsters at home.
as he ran along, a bird dropped an ivy berry on him.
poor mite of a thing!
this was worse than if a cannon ball were to fall from the sky on one of us.
he lay under it, not able to move.
by-and-by one of his brother ants, who was taking a stroll, caught sight of him under the berry.
“what did he do?” said mary.
“first he tried to push the berry off his friend’s body, but it was too heavy.
next he caught hold of one of his friend’s legs with his jaws, and tugged till i thought it would come off.
then he rushed about in a frantic state, as if he were saying to himself, ‘what shall i do?
what shall i do?’ and then he ran off up the path.
in another minute he came hurrying back with three other ants.”
“is it quite true, father?”
“quite.
the four ants talked together by gentle touches of their horns.
they looked as if they were telling one another what a dreadful accident it was, and how nobody knew whose turn would come next.
after this they set to work with a will.
two of them pushed the berry as hard as they could, while the other two pulled their friend out by the hind legs.
when at last he was free, they crowded round as if petting and kissing him.
you see these little ant folk have found out that ‘’tis love, love, love, that makes the world go round.’ i shouldn’t wonder if that ant you teased so thoughtlessly is gone off to tell the news at home that there is a drop of honey to be had here.”
“oh, he couldn’t, father!”
“wait and see,” said father.
in a little while back came the ant with a troop of friends.
“he has been home and told them the good news about the honey,” said father.
“do you think that all children are as kind as that?”
mary said, “no, they’re not.
i don’t run to call all the others when i find a good place for blackberries.”
“then,” said father, “don’t be unkind to the ant, who is kinder than you, though he is only a little tiny thing.”
the prize boat.
“don’t do it, dick!” pleaded dolly.
“girls always spoil sport!” growled mark, as he saw dick ready to give in.
“we shan’t hurt the boat!
don’t be silly, dolly.
even if the sails do get wet, tom can get fresh ones.
and it will be better for him to know whether it will sail or not.” and the twins departed for the seashore with the boat in their hands.
how they wished they had taken dolly’s advice, when they saw the ship, which had sailed so gallantly at first in the little cove, break from its moorings and drift out to sea!
tom had worked very hard for the prize of £2 offered in a weekly paper for the best-made boat, not only for the sake of the money, but because the toys were to go to the home for orphans.
and now all his work was gone.
“oh!
well, it can’t be helped,” he said good-naturedly, when his first feeling of anger had passed; “but i wish you chaps would leave my things alone.”
“but it can be helped,” said dolly, rushing in.
“see!
a fisherman brought it to shore, and it isn’t a bit broken.”
so the orphans got the boat after all, and had great fun sailing it in the river near the home; and what was perhaps more wonderful, tom won the prize.
the little thief in the pantry.
“mother dear,” said a little mouse one day, “i think the people in our house must be very kind; don’t you?
they leave such nice things for us in the larder.”
there was a twinkle in the mother’s eye as she replied,—
“well, my child, no doubt they are very well in their way, but i don’t think they are quite as fond of us as you seem to think.
now remember, greywhiskers, i have absolutely forbidden you to put your nose above the ground unless i am with you, for kind as the people are, i shouldn’t be at all surprised if they tried to catch you.”
greywhiskers twitched his tail with scorn; he was quite sure he knew how to take care of himself, and he didn’t mean to trot meekly after his mother’s tail all his life.
so as soon as she had curled herself up for an afternoon nap he stole away, and scampered across the pantry shelves.
ah!
here was something particularly good to-day.
a large iced cake stood far back upon the shelf, and greywhiskers licked his lips as he sniffed it.
across the top of the cake there were words written in pink sugar; but as greywhiskers could not read, he did not know that he was nibbling at little miss ethel’s birthday cake.
but he did feel a little guilty when he heard his mother calling.
off he ran, and was back in the nest again by the time his mother had finished rubbing her eyes after her nap.
she took greywhiskers up to the pantry then, and when she saw the hole in the cake she seemed a little annoyed.
“some mouse has evidently been here before us,” she said, but of course she never guessed that it was her own little son.
the next day the naughty little mouse again popped up to the pantry when his mother was asleep; but at first he could find nothing at all to eat, though there was a most delicious smell of toasted cheese.
presently he found a dear little wooden house, and there hung the cheese, just inside it.
in ran greywhiskers, but, oh!
“click” went the little wooden house, and mousie was caught fast in a trap.
when the morning came, the cook, who had set the trap, lifted it from the shelf, and then called a pretty little girl to come and see the thief who had eaten her cake.
“what are you going to do with him?” asked ethel.
“why, drown him, my dear, to be sure.”
the tears came into the little girl’s pretty blue eyes.
“you didn’t know it was stealing, did you, mousie dear?” she said.
“no,” squeaked greywhiskers sadly; “indeed i didn’t.”
cook’s back was turned for a moment, and in that moment tender-hearted little ethel lifted the lid of the trap, and out popped mousie.
oh!
how quickly he ran home to his mother, and how she comforted and petted him until he began to forget his fright; and then she made him promise never to disobey her again, and you may be sure he never did.
great-grandmother’s wish.
“did you ever see a fairy, grannie?” said trots.
“no,” she said, “but my great-grandmother did.”
“oh, do tell me!” cried trots.
“well, once upon a time, as she was carrying her butter to market, she picked up a crooked sixpence.
and with it, and what she sold her butter for, she bought a little black pig.
now, coming home, she had to cross the brook; so she picked piggy up in her arms and carried her over the brook.
and, lo, instead of a pig, there was a little fairy in her arms!”
“oh!” cried trots, “what was it like?”
“well, it had a red cap on its head, and a green frock, and it had gauzy wings, and it wanted to fly away, but great-grandmother held it tight.
“‘please let me go,’ said the fairy.
“‘what will you give me?’ said great-grandmother.
“‘i will give you one wish,’” answered the fairy.
so great-grandmother thought and thought what was the best thing to wish for, and at last she said,—
“‘give to me and to my daughters to the eleventh generation the lucky finger and the loving heart.’
“‘you have wished a big wish,’ said the fairy, ‘but you shall have it.’” so she kissed great-grandmother’s eyes and mouth, and then she flew away.
“and did the wish come true?” asked trots.
“always—always,” answered grannie.
“we have been since then the best spinners and knitters in all the countryside, and the best wives and daughters.”
“but,” said trots, “what will the eleventh generation do when the wish stops and the good-luck?”
“i don’t know,” said grannie, shaking her head.
“i suppose they’ll have to catch a fairy of their own.”
aesop’s fables
the wolf and the lamb
wolf, meeting with a lamb astray from the fold, resolved not to lay violent hands on him, but to find some plea to justify to the lamb the wolf’s right to eat him.
he thus addressed him: “sirrah, last year you grossly insulted me.” “indeed,” bleated the lamb in a mournful tone of voice, “i was not then born.” then said the wolf, “you feed in my pasture.” “no, good sir,” replied the lamb, “i have not yet tasted grass.” again said the wolf, “you drink of my well.” “no,” exclaimed the lamb, “i never yet drank water, for as yet my mother’s milk is both food and drink to me.” upon which the wolf seized him and ate him up, saying, “well!
i won’t remain supperless, even though you refute every one of my imputations.” the tyrant will always find a pretext for his tyranny.
the bat and the weasels
a bat who fell upon the ground and was caught by a weasel pleaded to be spared his life.
the weasel refused, saying that he was by nature the enemy of all birds.
the bat assured him that he was not a bird, but a mouse, and thus was set free.
shortly afterwards the bat again fell to the ground and was caught by another weasel, whom he likewise entreated not to eat him.
the weasel said that he had a special hostility to mice.
the bat assured him that he was not a mouse, but a bat, and thus a second time escaped.
it is wise to turn circumstances to good account.
the ass and the grasshopper
an ass having heard some grasshoppers chirping, was highly enchanted; and, desiring to possess the same charms of melody, demanded what sort of food they lived on to give them such beautiful voices.
they replied, “the dew.” the ass resolved that he would live only upon dew, and in a short time died of hunger.
the lion and the mouse
a lion was awakened from sleep by a mouse running over his face.
rising up angrily, he caught him and was about to kill him, when the mouse piteously entreated, saying: “if you would only spare my life, i would be sure to repay your kindness.” the lion laughed and let him go.
it happened shortly after this that the lion was caught by some hunters, who bound him by strong ropes to the ground.
the mouse, recognizing his roar, came and gnawed the rope with his teeth, and set him free, exclaiming:
“you ridiculed the idea of my ever being able to help you, not expecting to receive from me any repayment of your favor; now you know that it is possible for even a mouse to confer benefits on a lion.”
the charcoal-burner and the fuller
a charcoal-burner carried on his trade in his own house.
one day he met a friend, a fuller, and entreated him to come and live with him, saying that they should be far better neighbors and that their housekeeping expenses would be lessened.
the fuller replied, “the arrangement is impossible as far as i am concerned, for whatever i should whiten, you would immediately blacken again with your charcoal.”
like will draw like.
the father and his sons
a father had a family of sons who were perpetually quarreling among themselves.
when he failed to heal their disputes by his exhortations, he determined to give them a practical illustration of the evils of disunion; and for this purpose he one day told them to bring him a bundle of sticks.
when they had done so, he placed the faggot into the hands of each of them in succession, and ordered them to break it in pieces.
they tried with all their strength, and were not able to do it.
he next opened the faggot, took the sticks separately, one by one, and again put them into his sons’ hands, upon which they broke them easily.
he then addressed them in these words: “my sons, if you are of one mind, and unite to assist each other, you will be as this faggot, uninjured by all the attempts of your enemies; but if you are divided among yourselves, you will be broken as easily as these sticks.”
the boy hunting locusts
a boy was hunting for locusts.
he had caught a goodly number, when he saw a scorpion, and mistaking him for a locust, reached out his hand to take him.
the scorpion, showing his sting, said: “if you had but touched me, my friend, you would have lost me, and all your locusts too!”
the cock and the jewel
a cock, scratching for food for himself and his hens, found a precious stone and exclaimed: “if your owner had found thee, and not i, he would have taken thee up, and have set thee in thy first estate; but i have found thee for no purpose.
i would rather have one barleycorn than all the jewels in the world.”
the kingdom of the lion
the beasts of the field and forest had a lion as their king.
he was neither wrathful, cruel, nor tyrannical, but just and gentle as a king could be.
during his reign he made a royal proclamation for a general assembly of all the birds and beasts, and drew up conditions for a universal league, in which the wolf and the lamb, the panther and the kid, the tiger and the stag, the dog and the hare, should live together in perfect peace and amity.
the hare said, “oh, how i have longed to see this day, in which the weak shall take their place with impunity by the side of the strong.” and after the hare said this, he ran for his life.
the wolf and the crane
a wolf who had a bone stuck in his throat hired a crane, for a large sum, to put her head into his mouth and draw out the bone.
when the crane had extracted the bone and demanded the promised payment, the wolf, grinning and grinding his teeth, exclaimed: “why, you have surely already had a sufficient recompense, in having been permitted to draw out your head in safety from the mouth and jaws of a wolf.”
in serving the wicked, expect no reward, and be thankful if you escape injury for your pains.
the fisherman piping
a fisherman skilled in music took his flute and his nets to the seashore.
standing on a projecting rock, he played several tunes in the hope that the fish, attracted by his melody, would of their own accord dance into his net, which he had placed below.
at last, having long waited in vain, he laid aside his flute, and casting his net into the sea, made an excellent haul of fish.
when he saw them leaping about in the net upon the rock he said: “o you most perverse creatures, when i piped you would not dance, but now that i have ceased you do so merrily.”
hercules and the wagoner
a carter was driving a wagon along a country lane, when the wheels sank down deep into a rut.
the rustic driver, stupefied and aghast, stood looking at the wagon, and did nothing but utter loud cries to hercules to come and help him.
hercules, it is said, appeared and thus addressed him: “put your shoulders to the wheels, my man.
goad on your bullocks, and never more pray to me for help, until you have done your best to help yourself, or depend upon it you will henceforth pray in vain.”
self-help is the best help.
the ants and the grasshopper
the ants were spending a fine winter’s day drying grain collected in the summertime.
a grasshopper, perishing with famine, passed by and earnestly begged for a little food.
the ants inquired of him, “why did you not treasure up food during the summer?” he replied, “i had not leisure enough.
i passed the days in singing.” they then said in derision: “if you were foolish enough to sing all the summer, you must dance supperless to bed in the winter.”
the traveler and his dog
a traveler about to set out on a journey saw his dog stand at the door stretching himself.
he asked him sharply: “why do you stand there gaping?
everything is ready but you, so come with me instantly.” the dog, wagging his tail, replied: “o, master!
i am quite ready; it is you for whom i am waiting.”
the loiterer often blames delay on his more active friend.
the dog and the shadow
a dog, crossing a bridge over a stream with a piece of flesh in his mouth, saw his own shadow in the water and took it for that of another dog, with a piece of meat double his own in size.
he immediately let go of his own, and fiercely attacked the other dog to get his larger piece from him.
he thus lost both: that which he grasped at in the water, because it was a shadow; and his own, because the stream swept it away.
the mole and his mother
a mole, a creature blind from birth, once said to his mother: “i am sure than i can see, mother!” in the desire to prove to him his mistake, his mother placed before him a few grains of frankincense, and asked, “what is it?” the young mole said, “it is a pebble.” his mother exclaimed:
“my son, i am afraid that you are not only blind, but that you have lost your sense of smell.”
the herdsman and the lost bull
a herdsman tending his flock in a forest lost a bull-calf from the fold.
after a long and fruitless search, he made a vow that, if he could only discover the thief who had stolen the calf, he would offer a lamb in sacrifice to hermes, pan, and the guardian deities of the forest.
not long afterwards, as he ascended a small hillock, he saw at its foot a lion feeding on the calf.
terrified at the sight, he lifted his eyes and his hands to heaven, and said: “just now i vowed to offer a lamb to the guardian deities of the forest if i could only find out who had robbed me; but now that i have discovered the thief, i would willingly add a full-grown bull to the calf i have lost, if i may only secure my own escape from him in safety.”
the hare and the tortoise
a hare one day ridiculed the short feet and slow pace of the tortoise, who replied, laughing: “though you be swift as the wind, i will beat you in a race.” the hare, believing her assertion to be simply impossible, assented to the proposal; and they agreed that the fox should choose the course and fix the goal.
on the day appointed for the race the two started together.
the tortoise never for a moment stopped, but went on with a slow but steady pace straight to the end of the course.
the hare, lying down by the wayside, fell fast asleep.
at last waking up, and moving as fast as he could, he saw the tortoise had reached the goal, and was comfortably dozing after her fatigue.
slow but steady wins the race.
the pomegranate, apple-tree, and bramble
the pomegranate and apple-tree disputed as to which was the most beautiful.
when their strife was at its height, a bramble from the neighboring hedge lifted up its voice, and said in a boastful tone:
“pray, my dear friends, in my presence at least cease from such vain disputings.”
the farmer and the stork
a farmer placed nets on his newly-sown plowlands and caught a number of cranes, which came to pick up his seed.
with them he trapped a stork that had fractured his leg in the net and was earnestly beseeching the farmer to spare his life.
“pray save me, master,” he said, “and let me go free this once.
my broken limb should excite your pity.
besides, i am no crane, i am a stork, a bird of excellent character; and see how i love and slave for my father and mother.
look too, at my feathers they are not the least like those of a crane.” the farmer laughed aloud and said, “it may be all as you say, i only know this: i have taken you with these robbers, the cranes, and you must die in their company.”
birds of a feather flock together.
the farmer and the snake
one winter a farmer found a snake stiff and frozen with cold.
he had compassion on it, and taking it up, placed it in his bosom.
the snake was quickly revived by the warmth, and resuming its natural instincts, bit its benefactor, inflicting on him a mortal wound.
“oh,” cried the farmer with his last breath, “i am rightly served for pitying a scoundrel.”
the greatest kindness will not bind the ungrateful.
the fawn and his mother
a young fawn once said to his mother, “you are larger than a dog, and swifter, and more used to running, and you have your horns as a defense; why, then, o mother!
do the hounds frighten you so?” she smiled, and said: “i know full well, my son, that all you say is true.
i have the advantages you mention, but when i hear even the bark of a single dog i feel ready to faint, and fly away as fast as i can.”
no arguments will give courage to the coward.
the bear and the fox
a bear boasted very much of his philanthropy, saying that of all animals he was the most tender in his regard for man, for he had such respect for him that he would not even touch his dead body.
a fox hearing these words said with a smile to the bear, “oh!
that you would eat the dead and not the living.”
the swallow and the crow
the swallow and the crow had a contention about their plumage.
the crow put an end to the dispute by saying, “your feathers are all very well in the spring, but mine protect me against the winter.”
fair weather friends are not worth much.
the mountain in labor
a mountain was once greatly agitated.
loud groans and noises were heard, and crowds of people came from all parts to see what was the matter.
while they were assembled in anxious expectation of some terrible calamity, out came a mouse.
don’t make much ado about nothing.
the ass, the fox, and the lion
the ass and the fox, having entered into partnership together for their mutual protection, went out into the forest to hunt.
they had not proceeded far when they met a lion.
the fox, seeing imminent danger, approached the lion and promised to contrive for him the capture of the ass if the lion would pledge his word not to harm the fox.
then, upon assuring the ass that he would not be injured, the fox led him to a deep pit and arranged that he should fall into it.
the lion, seeing that the ass was secured, immediately clutched the fox, and attacked the ass at his leisure.
the tortoise and the eagle
a tortoise, lazily basking in the sun, complained to the sea-birds of her hard fate, that no one would teach her to fly.
an eagle, hovering near, heard her lamentation and demanded what reward she would give him if he would take her aloft and float her in the air.
“i will give you,”
she said, “all the riches of the red sea.” “i will teach you to fly then,” said the eagle; and taking her up in his talons he carried her almost to the clouds suddenly he let her go, and she fell on a lofty mountain, dashing her shell to pieces.
the tortoise exclaimed in the moment of death: “i have deserved my present fate; for what had i to do with wings and clouds, who can with difficulty move about on the earth?”
if men had all they wished, they would be often ruined.
the flies and the honey-pot
a number of flies were attracted to a jar of honey which had been overturned in a housekeeper’s room, and placing their feet in it, ate greedily.
their feet, however, became so smeared with the honey that they could not use their wings, nor release themselves, and were suffocated.
just as they were expiring, they exclaimed, “o foolish creatures that we are, for the sake of a little pleasure we have destroyed ourselves.”
pleasure bought with pains, hurts.
the man and the lion
a man and a lion traveled together through the forest.
they soon began to boast of their respective superiority to each other in strength and prowess.
as they were disputing, they passed a statue carved in stone, which represented “a lion strangled by a man.” the traveler pointed to it and said: “see there!
how strong we are, and how we prevail over even the king of beasts.” the lion replied: “this statue was made by one of you men.
if we lions knew how to erect statues, you would see the man placed under the paw of the lion.”
one story is good, till another is told.
the farmer and the cranes
some cranes made their feeding grounds on some plowlands newly sown with wheat.
for a long time the farmer, brandishing an empty sling, chased them away by the terror he inspired; but when the birds found that the sling was only swung in the air, they ceased to take any notice of it and would not move.
the farmer, on seeing this, charged his sling with stones, and killed a great number.
the remaining birds at once forsook his fields, crying to each other, “it is time for us to be off to liliput: for this man is no longer content to scare us, but begins to show us in earnest what he can do.”
if words suffice not, blows must follow.
the dog in the manger
a dog lay in a manger, and by his growling and snapping prevented the oxen from eating the hay which had been placed for them.
“what a selfish dog!” said one of them to his companions; “he cannot eat the hay himself, and yet refuses to allow those to eat who can.”
the fox and the goat
a fox one day fell into a deep well and could find no means of escape.
a goat, overcome with thirst, came to the same well, and seeing the fox, inquired if the water was good.
concealing his sad plight under a merry guise, the fox indulged in a lavish praise of the water, saying it was excellent beyond measure, and encouraging him to descend.
the goat, mindful only of his thirst, thoughtlessly jumped down, but just as he drank, the fox informed him of the difficulty they were both in and suggested a scheme for their common escape.
“if,” said he, “you will place your forefeet upon the wall and bend your head, i will run up your back and escape, and will help you out afterwards.” the goat readily assented and the fox leaped upon his back.
steadying himself with the goat’s horns, he safely reached the mouth of the well and made off as fast as he could.
when the goat upbraided him for breaking his promise, he turned around and cried out, “you foolish old fellow!
if you had as many brains in your head as you have hairs in your beard, you would never have gone down before you had inspected the way up, nor have exposed yourself to dangers from which you had no means of escape.”
look before you leap.
the bear and the two travelers
two men were traveling together, when a bear suddenly met them on their path.
one of them climbed up quickly into a tree and concealed himself in the branches.
the other, seeing that he must be attacked, fell flat on the ground, and when the bear came up and felt him with his snout, and smelt him all over, he held his breath, and feigned the appearance of death as much as he could.
the bear soon left him, for it is said he will not touch a dead body.
when he was quite gone, the other traveler descended from the tree, and jocularly inquired of his friend what it was the bear had whispered in his ear.
“he gave me this advice,” his companion replied.
“never travel with a friend who deserts you at the approach of danger.”
misfortune tests the sincerity of friends.
the oxen and the axle-trees
a heavy wagon was being dragged along a country lane by a team of oxen.
the axle-trees groaned and creaked terribly; whereupon the oxen, turning round, thus addressed the wheels: “hullo there!
why do you make so much noise?
we bear all the labor, and we, not you, ought to cry out.”
those who suffer most cry out the least.
the thirsty pigeon
a pigeon, oppressed by excessive thirst, saw a goblet of water painted on a signboard.
not supposing it to be only a picture, she flew towards it with a loud whir and unwittingly dashed against the signboard, jarring herself terribly.
having broken her wings by the blow, she fell to the ground, and was caught by one of the bystanders.
zeal should not outrun discretion.
the raven and the swan
a raven saw a swan and desired to secure for himself the same beautiful plumage.
supposing that the swan’s splendid white color arose from his washing in the water in which he swam, the raven left the altars in the neighborhood where he picked up his living, and took up residence in the lakes and pools.
but cleansing his feathers as often as he would, he could not change their color, while through want of food he perished.
change of habit cannot alter nature.
the goat and the goatherd
a goatherd had sought to bring back a stray goat to his flock.
he whistled and sounded his horn in vain; the straggler paid no attention to the summons.
at last the goatherd threw a stone, and breaking its horn, begged the goat not to tell his master.
the goat replied, “why, you silly fellow, the horn will speak though i be silent.”
do not attempt to hide things which cannot be hid.
the miser
a miser sold all that he had and bought a lump of gold, which he buried in a hole in the ground by the side of an old wall and went to look at daily.
one of his workmen observed his frequent visits to the spot and decided to watch his movements.
he soon discovered the secret of the hidden treasure, and digging down, came to the lump of gold, and stole it.
the miser, on his next visit, found the hole empty and began to tear his hair and to make loud lamentations.
a neighbor, seeing him overcome with grief and learning the cause, said, “pray do not grieve so; but go and take a stone, and place it in the hole, and fancy that the gold is still lying there.
it will do you quite the same service; for when the gold was there, you had it not, as you did not make the slightest use of it.”
the sick lion
a lion, unable from old age and infirmities to provide himself with food by force, resolved to do so by artifice.
he returned to his den, and lying down there, pretended to be sick, taking care that his sickness should be publicly known.
the beasts expressed their sorrow, and came one by one to his den, where the lion devoured them.
after many of the beasts had thus disappeared, the fox discovered the trick and presenting himself to the lion, stood on the outside of the cave, at a respectful distance, and asked him how he was.
“i am very middling,” replied the lion, “but why do you stand without?
pray enter within to talk with me.”
“no, thank you,” said the fox.
“i notice that there are many prints of feet entering your cave, but i see no trace of any returning.”
he is wise who is warned by the misfortunes of others.
the horse and groom
a groom used to spend whole days in currycombing and rubbing down his horse, but at the same time stole his oats and sold them for his own profit.
“alas!” said the horse, “if you really wish me to be in good condition, you should groom me less, and feed me more.”
the ass and the lapdog
a man had an ass, and a maltese lapdog, a very great beauty.
the ass was left in a stable and had plenty of oats and hay to eat, just as any other ass would.
the lapdog knew many tricks and was a great favorite with his master, who often fondled him and seldom went out to dine without bringing him home some tidbit to eat.
the ass, on the contrary, had much work to do in grinding the corn-mill and in carrying wood from the forest or burdens from the farm.
he often lamented his own hard fate and contrasted it with the luxury and idleness of the lapdog, till at last one day he broke his cords and halter, and galloped into his master’s house, kicking up his heels without measure, and frisking and fawning as well as he could.
he next tried to jump about his master as he had seen the lapdog do, but he broke the table and smashed all the dishes upon it to atoms.
he then attempted to lick his master, and jumped upon his back.
the servants, hearing the strange hubbub and perceiving the danger of their master, quickly relieved him, and drove out the ass to his stable with kicks and clubs and cuffs.
the ass, as he returned to his stall beaten nearly to death, thus lamented: “i have brought it all on myself!
why could i not have been contented to labor with my companions, and not wish to be idle all the day like that useless little lapdog!”
the lioness
a controversy prevailed among the beasts of the field as to which of the animals deserved the most credit for producing the greatest number of whelps at a birth.
they rushed clamorously into the presence of the lioness and demanded of her the settlement of the dispute.
“and you,”
they said, “how many sons have you at a birth?” the lioness laughed at them, and said: “why!
i have only one; but that one is altogether a thoroughbred lion.”
the value is in the worth, not in the number.
the boasting traveler
a man who had traveled in foreign lands boasted very much, on returning to his own country, of the many wonderful and heroic feats he had performed in the different places he had visited.
among other things, he said that when he was at rhodes he had leaped to such a distance that no man of his day could leap anywhere near him as to that, there were in rhodes many persons who saw him do it and whom he could call as witnesses.
one of the bystanders interrupted him, saying: “now, my good man, if this be all true there is no need of witnesses.
suppose this to be rhodes, and leap for us.”
the cat and the cock
a cat caught a cock, and pondered how he might find a reasonable excuse for eating him.
he accused him of being a nuisance to men by crowing in the nighttime and not permitting them to sleep.
the cock defended himself by saying that he did this for the benefit of men, that they might rise in time for their labors.
the cat replied, “although you abound in specious apologies, i shall not remain supperless;” and he made a meal of him.
the piglet, the sheep, and the goat
a young pig was shut up in a fold-yard with a goat and a sheep.
on one occasion when the shepherd laid hold of him, he grunted and squeaked and resisted violently.
the sheep and the goat complained of his distressing cries, saying, “he often handles us, and we do not cry out.” to this the pig replied, “your handling and mine are very different things.
he catches you only for your wool, or your milk, but he lays hold on me for my very life.”
the boy and the filberts
a boy put his hand into a pitcher full of filberts.
he grasped as many as he could possibly hold, but when he tried to pull out his hand, he was prevented from doing so by the neck of the pitcher.
unwilling to lose his filberts, and yet unable to withdraw his hand, he burst into tears and bitterly lamented his disappointment.
a bystander said to him, “be satisfied with half the quantity, and you will readily draw out your hand.”
do not attempt too much at once.
the lion in love
a lion demanded the daughter of a woodcutter in marriage.
the father, unwilling to grant, and yet afraid to refuse his request, hit upon this expedient to rid himself of his importunities.
he expressed his willingness to accept the lion as the suitor of his daughter on one condition: that he should allow him to extract his teeth, and cut off his claws, as his daughter was fearfully afraid of both.
the lion cheerfully assented to the proposal.
but when the toothless, clawless lion returned to repeat his request, the woodman, no longer afraid, set upon him with his club, and drove him away into the forest.
the laborer and the snake
a snake, having made his hole close to the porch of a cottage, inflicted a mortal bite on the cottager’s infant son.
grieving over his loss, the father resolved to kill the snake.
the next day, when it came out of its hole for food, he took up his axe, but by swinging too hastily, missed its head and cut off only the end of its tail.
after some time the cottager, afraid that the snake would bite him also, endeavored to make peace, and placed some bread and salt in the hole.
the snake, slightly hissing, said: “there can henceforth be no peace between us; for whenever i see you i shall remember the loss of my tail, and whenever you see me you will be thinking of the death of your son.”
no one truly forgets injuries in the presence of him who caused the injury.
the wolf in sheep’s clothing
once upon a time a wolf resolved to disguise his appearance in order to secure food more easily.
encased in the skin of a sheep, he pastured with the flock deceiving the shepherd by his costume.
in the evening he was shut up by the shepherd in the fold; the gate was closed, and the entrance made thoroughly secure.
but the shepherd, returning to the fold during the night to obtain meat for the next day, mistakenly caught up the wolf instead of a sheep, and killed him instantly.
harm seek, harm find.
the ass and the mule
a muleteer set forth on a journey, driving before him an ass and a mule, both well laden.
the ass, as long as he traveled along the plain, carried his load with ease, but when he began to ascend the steep path of the mountain, felt his load to be more than he could bear.
he entreated his companion to relieve him of a small portion, that he might carry home the rest; but the mule paid no attention to the request.
the ass shortly afterwards fell down dead under his burden.
not knowing what else to do in so wild a region, the muleteer placed upon the mule the load carried by the ass in addition to his own, and at the top of all placed the hide of the ass, after he had skinned him.
the mule, groaning beneath his heavy burden, said to himself: “i am treated according to my deserts.
if i had only been willing to assist the ass a little in his need, i should not now be bearing, together with his burden, himself as well.”
the frogs asking for a king
the frogs, grieved at having no established ruler, sent ambassadors to jupiter entreating for a king.
perceiving their simplicity, he cast down a huge log into the lake.
the frogs were terrified at the splash occasioned by its fall and hid themselves in the depths of the pool.
but as soon as they realized that the huge log was motionless, they swam again to the top of the water, dismissed their fears, climbed up, and began squatting on it in contempt.
after some time they began to think themselves ill-treated in the appointment of so inert a ruler, and sent a second deputation to jupiter to pray that he would set over them another sovereign.
he then gave them an eel to govern them.
when the frogs discovered his easy good nature, they sent yet a third time to jupiter to beg him to choose for them still another king.
jupiter, displeased with all their complaints, sent a heron, who preyed upon the frogs day by day till there were none left to croak upon the lake.
the boys and the frogs
some boys, playing near a pond, saw a number of frogs in the water and began to pelt them with stones.
they killed several of them, when one of the frogs, lifting his head out of the water, cried out: “pray stop, my boys: what is sport to you, is death to us.”
the sick stag
a sick stag lay down in a quiet corner of its pasture-ground.
his companions came in great numbers to inquire after his health, and each one helped himself to a share of the food which had been placed for his use; so that he died, not from his sickness, but from the failure of the means of living.
evil companions bring more hurt than profit.
the salt merchant and his ass
a peddler drove his ass to the seashore to buy salt.
his road home lay across a stream into which his ass, making a false step, fell by accident and rose up again with his load considerably lighter, as the water melted the sack.
the peddler retraced his steps and refilled his panniers with a larger quantity of salt than before.
when he came again to the stream, the ass fell down on purpose in the same spot, and, regaining his feet with the weight of his load much diminished, brayed triumphantly as if he had obtained what he desired.
the peddler saw through his trick and drove him for the third time to the coast, where he bought a cargo of sponges instead of salt.
the ass, again playing the fool, fell down on purpose when he reached the stream, but the sponges became swollen with water, greatly increasing his load.
and thus his trick recoiled on him, for he now carried on his back a double burden.
the oxen and the butchers
the oxen once upon a time sought to destroy the butchers, who practiced a trade destructive to their race.
they assembled on a certain day to carry out their purpose, and sharpened their horns for the contest.
but one of them who was exceedingly old (for many a field had he plowed)
thus spoke: “these butchers, it is true, slaughter us, but they do so with skillful hands, and with no unnecessary pain.
if we get rid of them, we shall fall into the hands of unskillful operators, and thus suffer a double death: for you may be assured, that though all the butchers should perish, yet will men never want beef.”
do not be in a hurry to change one evil for another.
the lion, the mouse, and the fox
a lion, fatigued by the heat of a summer’s day, fell fast asleep in his den.
a mouse ran over his mane and ears and woke him from his slumbers.
he rose up and shook himself in great wrath, and searched every corner of his den to find the mouse.
a fox seeing him said: “a fine lion you are, to be frightened of a mouse.” “‘tis not the mouse i fear,” said the lion; “i resent his familiarity and ill-breeding.”
little liberties are great offenses.
the vain jackdaw
jupiter determined, it is said, to create a sovereign over the birds, and made proclamation that on a certain day they should all present themselves before him, when he would himself choose the most beautiful among them to be king.
the jackdaw, knowing his own ugliness, searched through the woods and fields, and collected the feathers which had fallen from the wings of his companions, and stuck them in all parts of his body, hoping thereby to make himself the most beautiful of all.
when the appointed day arrived, and the birds had assembled before jupiter, the jackdaw also made his appearance in his many feathered finery.
but when jupiter proposed to make him king because of the beauty of his plumage, the birds indignantly protested, and each plucked from him his own feathers, leaving the jackdaw nothing but a jackdaw.
the goatherd and the wild goats
a goatherd, driving his flock from their pasture at eventide, found some wild goats mingled among them, and shut them up together with his own for the night.
the next day it snowed very hard, so that he could not take the herd to their usual feeding places, but was obliged to keep them in the fold.
he gave his own goats just sufficient food to keep them alive, but fed the strangers more abundantly in the hope of enticing them to stay with him and of making them his own.
when the thaw set in, he led them all out to feed, and the wild goats scampered away as fast as they could to the mountains.
the goatherd scolded them for their ingratitude in leaving him, when during the storm he had taken more care of them than of his own herd.
one of them, turning about, said to him: “that is the very reason why we are so cautious; for if you yesterday treated us better than the goats you have had so long, it is plain also that if others came after us, you would in the same manner prefer them to ourselves.”
old friends cannot with impunity be sacrificed for new ones.
the mischievous dog
a dog used to run up quietly to the heels of everyone he met, and to bite them without notice.
his master suspended a bell about his neck so that the dog might give notice of his presence wherever he went.
thinking it a mark of distinction, the dog grew proud of his bell and went tinkling it all over the marketplace.
one day an old hound said to him: “why do you make such an exhibition of yourself?
that bell that you carry is not, believe me, any order of merit, but on the contrary a mark of disgrace, a public notice to all men to avoid you as an ill mannered dog.”
notoriety is often mistaken for fame.
the fox who had lost his tail
a fox caught in a trap escaped, but in so doing lost his tail.
thereafter, feeling his life a burden from the shame and ridicule to which he was exposed, he schemed to convince all the other foxes that being tailless was much more attractive, thus making up for his own deprivation.
he assembled a good many foxes and publicly advised them to cut off their tails, saying that they would not only look much better without them, but that they would get rid of the weight of the brush, which was a very great inconvenience.
one of them interrupting him said, “if you had not yourself lost your tail, my friend, you would not thus counsel us.”
the boy and the nettles
a boy was stung by a nettle.
he ran home and told his mother, saying, “although it hurts me very much, i only touched it gently.” “that was just why it stung you,” said his mother.
“the next time you touch a nettle, grasp it boldly, and it will be soft as silk to your hand, and not in the least hurt you.”
whatever you do, do with all your might.
the man and his two sweethearts
a middle-aged man, whose hair had begun to turn gray, courted two women at the same time.
one of them was young, and the other well advanced in years.
the elder woman, ashamed to be courted by a man younger than herself, made a point, whenever her admirer visited her, to pull out some portion of his black hairs.
the younger, on the contrary, not wishing to become the wife of an old man, was equally zealous in removing every gray hair she could find.
thus it came to pass that between them both he very soon found that he had not a hair left on his head.
those who seek to please everybody please nobody.
the astronomer
an astronomer used to go out at night to observe the stars.
one evening, as he wandered through the suburbs with his whole attention fixed on the sky, he fell accidentally into a deep well.
while he lamented and bewailed his sores and bruises, and cried loudly for help, a neighbor ran to the well, and learning what had happened said: “hark ye, old fellow, why, in striving to pry into what is in heaven, do you not manage to see what is on earth?”
the wolves and the sheep
“why should there always be this fear and slaughter between us?” said the wolves to the sheep.
“those evil-disposed dogs have much to answer for.
they always bark whenever we approach you and attack us before we have done any harm.
if you would only dismiss them from your heels, there might soon be treaties of peace and reconciliation between us.”
the sheep, poor silly creatures, were easily beguiled and dismissed the dogs, whereupon the wolves destroyed the unguarded flock at their own pleasure.
the old woman and the physician
an old woman having lost the use of her eyes, called in a physician to heal them, and made this bargain with him in the presence of witnesses:
that if he should cure her blindness, he should receive from her a sum of money; but if her infirmity remained, she should give him nothing.
this agreement being made, the physician, time after time, applied his salve to her eyes, and on every visit took something away, stealing all her property little by little.
and when he had got all she had, he healed her and demanded the promised payment.
the old woman, when she recovered her sight and saw none of her goods in her house, would give him nothing.
the physician insisted on his claim, and, as she still refused, summoned her before the judge.
the old woman, standing up in the court, argued: “this man here speaks the truth in what he says; for i did promise to give him a sum of money if i should recover my sight:
but if i continued blind, i was to give him nothing.
now he declares that i am healed.
i on the contrary affirm that i am still blind; for when i lost the use of my eyes, i saw in my house various chattels and valuable goods: but now, though he swears i am cured of my blindness, i am not able to see a single thing in it.”
the fighting cocks and the eagle
two game cocks were fiercely fighting for the mastery of the farmyard.
one at last put the other to flight.
the vanquished cock skulked away and hid himself in a quiet corner, while the conqueror, flying up to a high wall, flapped his wings and crowed exultingly with all his might.
an eagle sailing through the air pounced upon him and carried him off in his talons.
the vanquished cock immediately came out of his corner, and ruled henceforth with undisputed mastery.
pride goes before destruction.
the charger and the miller
a charger, feeling the infirmities of age, was sent to work in a mill instead of going out to battle.
but when he was compelled to grind instead of serving in the wars, he bewailed his change of fortune and called to mind his former state, saying, “ah!
miller, i had indeed to go campaigning before, but i was barbed from counter to tail, and a man went along to groom me; and now i cannot understand what ailed me to prefer the mill before the battle.” “forbear,” said the miller to him, “harping on what was of yore, for it is the common lot of mortals to sustain the ups and downs of fortune.”
the fox and the monkey
a monkey once danced in an assembly of the beasts, and so pleased them all by his performance that they elected him their king.
a fox, envying him the honor, discovered a piece of meat lying in a trap, and leading the monkey to the place where it was, said that she had found a store, but had not used it, she had kept it for him as treasure trove of his kingdom, and counseled him to lay hold of it.
the monkey approached carelessly and was caught in the trap; and on his accusing the fox of purposely leading him into the snare, she replied, “o monkey, and are you, with such a mind as yours, going to be king over the beasts?”
the horse and his rider
a horse soldier took the utmost pains with his charger.
as long as the war lasted, he looked upon him as his fellow-helper in all emergencies and fed him carefully with hay and corn.
but when the war was over, he only allowed him chaff to eat and made him carry heavy loads of wood, subjecting him to much slavish drudgery and ill-treatment.
war was again proclaimed, however, and when the trumpet summoned him to his standard, the soldier put on his charger its military trappings, and mounted, being clad in his heavy coat of mail.
the horse fell down straightway under the weight, no longer equal to the burden, and said to his master, “you must now go to the war on foot, for you have transformed me from a horse into an ass; and how can you expect that i can again turn in a moment from an ass to a horse?”
the belly and the members
the members of the body rebelled against the belly, and said, “why should we be perpetually engaged in administering to your wants, while you do nothing but take your rest, and enjoy yourself in luxury and self-indulgence?” the members carried out their resolve and refused their assistance to the belly.
the whole body quickly became debilitated, and the hands, feet, mouth, and eyes, when too late, repented of their folly.
the vine and the goat
a vine was luxuriant in the time of vintage with leaves and grapes.
a goat, passing by, nibbled its young tendrils and its leaves.
the vine addressed him and said: “why do you thus injure me without a cause, and crop my leaves?
is there no young grass left?
but i shall not have to wait long for my just revenge; for if you now should crop my leaves, and cut me down to my root, i shall provide the wine to pour over you when you are led as a victim to the sacrifice.”
jupiter and the monkey
jupiter issued a proclamation to all the beasts of the forest and promised a royal reward to the one whose offspring should be deemed the handsomest.
the monkey came with the rest and presented, with all a mother’s tenderness, a flat-nosed, hairless, ill-featured young monkey as a candidate for the promised reward.
a general laugh saluted her on the presentation of her son.
she resolutely said, “i know not whether jupiter will allot the prize to my son, but this i do know, that he is at least in the eyes of me his mother, the dearest, handsomest, and most beautiful of all.”
the widow and her little maidens
a widow who was fond of cleaning had two little maidens to wait on her.
she was in the habit of waking them early in the morning, at cockcrow.
the maidens, aggravated by such excessive labor, resolved to kill the cock who roused their mistress so early.
when they had done this, they found that they had only prepared for themselves greater troubles, for their mistress, no longer hearing the hour from the cock, woke them up to their work in the middle of the night.
the shepherd’s boy and the wolf
a shepherd-boy, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brought out the villagers three or four times by crying out, “wolf!
wolf!” and when his neighbors came to help him, laughed at them for their pains.
the wolf, however, did truly come at last.
the shepherd-boy, now really alarmed, shouted in an agony of terror: “pray, do come and help me; the wolf is killing the sheep;” but no one paid any heed to his cries, nor rendered any assistance.
the wolf, having no cause of fear, at his leisure lacerated or destroyed the whole flock.
there is no believing a liar, even when he speaks the truth.
the cat and the birds
a cat, hearing that the birds in a certain aviary were ailing dressed himself up as a physician, and, taking his cane and a bag of instruments becoming his profession, went to call on them.
he knocked at the door and inquired of the inmates how they all did, saying that if they were ill, he would be happy to prescribe for them and cure them.
they replied, “we are all very well, and shall continue so, if you will only be good enough to go away, and leave us as we are.”
the kid and the wolf
a kid standing on the roof of a house, out of harm’s way, saw a wolf passing by and immediately began to taunt and revile him.
the wolf, looking up, said, “sirrah!
i hear thee: yet it is not thou who mockest me, but the roof on which thou art standing.”
time and place often give the advantage to the weak over the strong.
the ox and the frog
an ox drinking at a pool trod on a brood of young frogs and crushed one of them to death.
the mother coming up, and missing one of her sons, inquired of his brothers what had become of him.
“he is dead, dear mother; for just now a very huge beast with four great feet came to the pool and crushed him to death with his cloven heel.” the frog, puffing herself out, inquired, “if the beast was as big as that in size.”
“cease, mother, to puff yourself out,” said her son, “and do not be angry; for you would, i assure you, sooner burst than successfully imitate the hugeness of that monster.”
the shepherd and the wolf
a shepherd once found the whelp of a wolf and brought it up, and after a while taught it to steal lambs from the neighboring flocks.
the wolf, having shown himself an apt pupil, said to the shepherd, “since you have taught me to steal, you must keep a sharp lookout, or you will lose some of your own flock.”
the father and his two daughters
a man had two daughters, the one married to a gardener, and the other to a tile-maker.
after a time he went to the daughter who had married the gardener, and inquired how she was and how all things went with her.
she said, “all things are prospering with me, and i have only one wish, that there may be a heavy fall of rain, in order that the plants may be well watered.” not long after, he went to the daughter who had married the tilemaker, and likewise inquired of her how she fared; she replied, “i want for nothing, and have only one wish, that the dry weather may continue, and the sun shine hot and bright, so that the bricks might be dried.” he said to her, “if your sister wishes for rain, and you for dry weather, with which of the two am i to join my wishes?”
the farmer and his sons
a father, being on the point of death, wished to be sure that his sons would give the same attention to his farm as he himself had given it.
he called them to his bedside and said, “my sons, there is a great treasure hid in one of my vineyards.” the sons, after his death, took their spades and mattocks and carefully dug over every portion of their land.
they found no treasure, but the vines repaid their labor by an extraordinary and superabundant crop.
the crab and its mother
a crab said to her son, “why do you walk so one-sided, my child?
it is far more becoming to go straight forward.” the young crab replied:
“quite true, dear mother; and if you will show me the straight way, i will promise to walk in it.” the mother tried in vain, and submitted without remonstrance to the reproof of her child.
example is more powerful than precept.
the heifer and the ox
a heifer saw an ox hard at work harnessed to a plow, and tormented him with reflections on his unhappy fate in being compelled to labor.
shortly afterwards, at the harvest festival, the owner released the ox from his yoke, but bound the heifer with cords and led him away to the altar to be slain in honor of the occasion.
the ox saw what was being done, and said with a smile to the heifer: “for this you were allowed to live in idleness, because you were presently to be sacrificed.”
the swallow, the serpent, and the court of justice
a swallow, returning from abroad and especially fond of dwelling with men, built herself a nest in the wall of a court of justice and there hatched seven young birds.
a serpent gliding past the nest from its hole in the wall ate up the young unfledged nestlings.
the swallow, finding her nest empty, lamented greatly and exclaimed: “woe to me a stranger!
that in this place where all others’ rights are protected, i alone should suffer wrong.”
the thief and his mother
a boy stole a lesson-book from one of his schoolfellows and took it home to his mother.
she not only abstained from beating him, but encouraged him.
he next time stole a cloak and brought it to her, and she again commended him.
the youth, advanced to adulthood, proceeded to steal things of still greater value.
at last he was caught in the very act, and having his hands bound behind him, was led away to the place of public execution.
his mother followed in the crowd and violently beat her breast in sorrow, whereupon the young man said, “i wish to say something to my mother in her ear.” she came close to him, and he quickly seized her ear with his teeth and bit it off.
the mother upbraided him as an unnatural child, whereon he replied, “ah!
if you had beaten me when i first stole and brought to you that lesson-book, i should not have come to this, nor have been thus led to a disgraceful death.”
the old man and death
an old man was employed in cutting wood in the forest, and, in carrying the faggots to the city for sale one day, became very wearied with his long journey.
he sat down by the wayside, and throwing down his load, besought “death” to come.
“death” immediately appeared in answer to his summons and asked for what reason he had called him.
the old man hurriedly replied, “that, lifting up the load, you may place it again upon my shoulders.”
the fir-tree and the bramble
a fir-tree said boastingly to the bramble, “you are useful for nothing at all; while i am everywhere used for roofs and houses.” the bramble answered: “you poor creature, if you would only call to mind the axes and saws which are about to hew you down, you would have reason to wish that you had grown up a bramble, not a fir-tree.”
better poverty without care, than riches with.
the mouse, the frog, and the hawk
a mouse who always lived on the land, by an unlucky chance formed an intimate acquaintance with a frog, who lived for the most part in the water.
the frog, one day intent on mischief, bound the foot of the mouse tightly to his own.
thus joined together, the frog first of all led his friend the mouse to the meadow where they were accustomed to find their food.
after this, he gradually led him towards the pool in which he lived, until reaching the very brink, he suddenly jumped in, dragging the mouse with him.
the frog enjoyed the water amazingly, and swam croaking about, as if he had done a good deed.
the unhappy mouse was soon suffocated by the water, and his dead body floated about on the surface, tied to the foot of the frog.
a hawk observed it, and, pouncing upon it with his talons, carried it aloft.
the frog, being still fastened to the leg of the mouse, was also carried off a prisoner, and was eaten by the hawk.
harm hatch, harm catch.
the man bitten by a dog
a man who had been bitten by a dog went about in quest of someone who might heal him.
a friend, meeting him and learning what he wanted, said, “if you would be cured, take a piece of bread, and dip it in the blood from your wound, and go and give it to the dog that bit you.” the man who had been bitten laughed at this advice and said, “why?
if i should do so, it would be as if i should beg every dog in the town to bite me.”
benefits bestowed upon the evil-disposed increase their means of injuring you.
the two pots
a river carried down in its stream two pots, one made of earthenware and the other of brass.
the earthen pot said to the brass pot, “pray keep at a distance and do not come near me, for if you touch me ever so slightly, i shall be broken in pieces, and besides, i by no means wish to come near you.”
equals make the best friends.
the wolf and the sheep
a wolf, sorely wounded and bitten by dogs, lay sick and maimed in his lair.
being in want of food, he called to a sheep who was passing, and asked him to fetch some water from a stream flowing close beside him.
“for,” he said, “if you will bring me drink, i will find means to provide myself with meat.” “yes,” said the sheep, “if i should bring you the draught, you would doubtless make me provide the meat also.”
hypocritical speeches are easily seen through.
the aethiop
the purchaser of a black servant was persuaded that the color of his skin arose from dirt contracted through the neglect of his former masters.
on bringing him home he resorted to every means of cleaning, and subjected the man to incessant scrubbings.
the servant caught a severe cold, but he never changed his color or complexion.
what’s bred in the bone will stick to the flesh.
the fisherman and his nets
a fisherman, engaged in his calling, made a very successful cast and captured a great haul of fish.
he managed by a skillful handling of his net to retain all the large fish and to draw them to the shore; but he could not prevent the smaller fish from falling back through the meshes of the net into the sea.
the huntsman and the fisherman
a huntsman, returning with his dogs from the field, fell in by chance with a fisherman who was bringing home a basket well laden with fish.
the huntsman wished to have the fish, and their owner experienced an equal longing for the contents of the game-bag.
they quickly agreed to exchange the produce of their day’s sport.
each was so well pleased with his bargain that they made for some time the same exchange day after day.
finally a neighbor said to them, “if you go on in this way, you will soon destroy by frequent use the pleasure of your exchange, and each will again wish to retain the fruits of his own sport.”
abstain and enjoy.
the old woman and the wine-jar
an old woman found an empty jar which had lately been full of prime old wine and which still retained the fragrant smell of its former contents.
she greedily placed it several times to her nose, and drawing it backwards and forwards said, “o most delicious!
how nice must the wine itself have been, when it leaves behind in the very vessel which contained it so sweet a perfume!”
the memory of a good deed lives.
the fox and the crow
a crow having stolen a bit of meat, perched in a tree and held it in her beak.
a fox, seeing this, longed to possess the meat himself, and by a wily stratagem succeeded.
“how handsome is the crow,” he exclaimed, “in the beauty of her shape and in the fairness of her complexion!
oh, if her voice were only equal to her beauty, she would deservedly be considered the queen of birds!” this he said deceitfully; but the crow, anxious to refute the reflection cast upon her voice, set up a loud caw and dropped the flesh.
the fox quickly picked it up, and thus addressed the crow: “my good crow, your voice is right enough, but your wit is wanting.”
the two dogs
a man had two dogs: a hound, trained to assist him in his sports, and a housedog, taught to watch the house.
when he returned home after a good day’s sport, he always gave the housedog a large share of his spoil.
the hound, feeling much aggrieved at this, reproached his companion, saying, “it is very hard to have all this labor, while you, who do not assist in the chase, luxuriate on the fruits of my exertions.” the housedog replied, “do not blame me, my friend, but find fault with the master, who has not taught me to labor, but to depend for subsistence on the labor of others.”
children are not to be blamed for the faults of their parents.
the stag in the ox-stall
a stag, roundly chased by the hounds and blinded by fear to the danger he was running into, took shelter in a farmyard and hid himself in a shed among the oxen.
an ox gave him this kindly warning: “o unhappy creature!
why should you thus, of your own accord, incur destruction and trust yourself in the house of your enemy?” the stag replied: “only allow me, friend, to stay where i am, and i will undertake to find some favorable opportunity of effecting my escape.” at the approach of the evening the herdsman came to feed his cattle, but did not see the stag; and even the farm-bailiff with several laborers passed through the shed and failed to notice him.
the stag, congratulating himself on his safety, began to express his sincere thanks to the oxen who had kindly helped him in the hour of need.
one of them again answered him: “we indeed wish you well, but the danger is not over.
there is one other yet to pass through the shed, who has as it were a hundred eyes, and until he has come and gone, your life is still in peril.” at that moment the master himself entered, and having had to complain that his oxen had not been properly fed, he went up to their racks and cried out: “why is there such a scarcity of fodder?
there is not half enough straw for them to lie on.
those lazy fellows have not even swept the cobwebs away.”
while he thus examined everything in turn, he spied the tips of the antlers of the stag peeping out of the straw.
then summoning his laborers, he ordered that the stag should be seized and killed.
the hawk, the kite, and the pigeons
the pigeons, terrified by the appearance of a kite, called upon the hawk to defend them.
he at once consented.
when they had admitted him into the cote, they found that he made more havoc and slew a larger number of them in one day than the kite could pounce upon in a whole year.
avoid a remedy that is worse than the disease.
the widow and the sheep
a certain poor widow had one solitary sheep.
at shearing time, wishing to take his fleece and to avoid expense, she sheared him herself, but used the shears so unskillfully that with the fleece she sheared the flesh.
the sheep, writhing with pain, said, “why do you hurt me so, mistress?
what weight can my blood add to the wool?
if you want my flesh, there is the butcher, who will kill me in an instant; but if you want my fleece and wool, there is the shearer, who will shear and not hurt me.”
the least outlay is not always the greatest gain.
the wild ass and the lion
a wild ass and a lion entered into an alliance so that they might capture the beasts of the forest with greater ease.
the lion agreed to assist the wild ass with his strength, while the wild ass gave the lion the benefit of his greater speed.
when they had taken as many beasts as their necessities required, the lion undertook to distribute the prey, and for this purpose divided it into three shares.
“i will take the first share,” he said, “because i am king: and the second share, as a partner with you in the chase: and the third share (believe me) will be a source of great evil to you, unless you willingly resign it to me, and set off as fast as you can.”
might makes right.
the eagle and the arrow
an eagle sat on a lofty rock, watching the movements of a hare whom he sought to make his prey.
an archer, who saw the eagle from a place of concealment, took an accurate aim and wounded him mortally.
the eagle gave one look at the arrow that had entered his heart and saw in that single glance that its feathers had been furnished by himself.
“it is a double grief to me,” he exclaimed, “that i should perish by an arrow feathered from my own wings.”
the sick kite
a kite, sick unto death, said to his mother: “o mother!
do not mourn, but at once invoke the gods that my life may be prolonged.” she replied, “alas!
my son, which of the gods do you think will pity you?
is there one whom you have not outraged by filching from their very altars a part of the sacrifice offered up to them?”
we must make friends in prosperity if we would have their help in adversity.
the lion and the dolphin
a lion roaming by the seashore saw a dolphin lift up its head out of the waves, and suggested that they contract an alliance, saying that of all the animals they ought to be the best friends, since the one was the king of beasts on the earth, and the other was the sovereign ruler of all the inhabitants of the ocean.
the dolphin gladly consented to this request.
not long afterwards the lion had a combat with a wild bull, and called on the dolphin to help him.
the dolphin, though quite willing to give him assistance, was unable to do so, as he could not by any means reach the land.
the lion abused him as a traitor.
the dolphin replied, “nay, my friend, blame not me, but nature, which, while giving me the sovereignty of the sea, has quite denied me the power of living upon the land.”
the lion and the boar
on a summer day, when the great heat induced a general thirst among the beasts, a lion and a boar came at the same moment to a small well to drink.
they fiercely disputed which of them should drink first, and were soon engaged in the agonies of a mortal combat.
when they stopped suddenly to catch their breath for a fiercer renewal of the fight, they saw some vultures waiting in the distance to feast on the one that should fall first.
they at once made up their quarrel, saying, “it is better for us to make friends, than to become the food of crows or vultures.”
the one-eyed doe
a doe blind in one eye was accustomed to graze as near to the edge of the cliff as she possibly could, in the hope of securing her greater safety.
she turned her sound eye towards the land that she might get the earliest tidings of the approach of hunter or hound, and her injured eye towards the sea, from whence she entertained no anticipation of danger.
some boatmen sailing by saw her, and taking a successful aim, mortally wounded her.
yielding up her last breath, she gasped forth this lament:
“o wretched creature that i am!
to take such precaution against the land, and after all to find this seashore, to which i had come for safety, so much more perilous.”
the shepherd and the sea
a shepherd, keeping watch over his sheep near the shore, saw the sea very calm and smooth, and longed to make a voyage with a view to commerce.
he sold all his flock, invested it in a cargo of dates, and set sail.
but a very great tempest came on, and the ship being in danger of sinking, he threw all his merchandise overboard, and barely escaped with his life in the empty ship.
not long afterwards when someone passed by and observed the unruffled calm of the sea, he interrupted him and said, “it is again in want of dates, and therefore looks quiet.”
the ass, the cock, and the lion
an ass and a cock were in a straw-yard together when a lion, desperate from hunger, approached the spot.
he was about to spring upon the ass, when the cock (to the sound of whose voice the lion, it is said, has a singular aversion) crowed loudly, and the lion fled away as fast as he could.
the ass, observing his trepidation at the mere crowing of a cock summoned courage to attack him, and galloped after him for that purpose.
he had run no long distance, when the lion, turning about, seized him and tore him to pieces.
false confidence often leads into danger.
the mice and the weasels
the weasels and the mice waged a perpetual war with each other, in which much blood was shed.
the weasels were always the victors.
the mice thought that the cause of their frequent defeats was that they had no leaders set apart from the general army to command them, and that they were exposed to dangers from lack of discipline.
they therefore chose as leaders mice that were most renowned for their family descent, strength, and counsel, as well as those most noted for their courage in the fight, so that they might be better marshaled in battle array and formed into troops, regiments, and battalions.
when all this was done, and the army disciplined, and the herald mouse had duly proclaimed war by challenging the weasels, the newly chosen generals bound their heads with straws, that they might be more conspicuous to all their troops.
scarcely had the battle begun, when a great rout overwhelmed the mice, who scampered off as fast as they could to their holes.
the generals, not being able to get in on account of the ornaments on their heads, were all captured and eaten by the weasels.
the more honor the more danger.
the mice in council
the mice summoned a council to decide how they might best devise means of warning themselves of the approach of their great enemy the cat.
among the many plans suggested, the one that found most favor was the proposal to tie a bell to the neck of the cat, so that the mice, being warned by the sound of the tinkling, might run away and hide themselves in their holes at his approach.
but when the mice further debated who among them should thus “bell the cat,” there was no one found to do it.
the wolf and the housedog
a wolf, meeting a big well-fed mastiff with a wooden collar about his neck asked him who it was that fed him so well and yet compelled him to drag that heavy log about wherever he went.
“the master,” he replied.
then said the wolf: “may no friend of mine ever be in such a plight; for the weight of this chain is enough to spoil the appetite.”
the rivers and the sea
the rivers joined together to complain to the sea, saying, “why is it that when we flow into your tides so potable and sweet, you work in us such a change, and make us salty and unfit to drink?” the sea, perceiving that they intended to throw the blame on him, said, “pray cease to flow into me, and then you will not be made briny.”
the playful ass
an ass climbed up to the roof of a building, and frisking about there, broke in the tiling.
the owner went up after him and quickly drove him down, beating him severely with a thick wooden cudgel.
the ass said, “why, i saw the monkey do this very thing yesterday, and you all laughed heartily, as if it afforded you very great amusement.”
the three tradesmen
a great city was besieged, and its inhabitants were called together to consider the best means of protecting it from the enemy.
a bricklayer earnestly recommended bricks as affording the best material for an effective resistance.
a carpenter, with equal enthusiasm, proposed timber as a preferable method of defense.
upon which a currier stood up and said, “sirs, i differ from you altogether: there is no material for resistance equal to a covering of hides; and nothing so good as leather.”
every man for himself.
the master and his dogs
a certain man, detained by a storm in his country house, first of all killed his sheep, and then his goats, for the maintenance of his household.
the storm still continuing, he was obliged to slaughter his yoke oxen for food.
on seeing this, his dogs took counsel together, and said, “it is time for us to be off, for if the master spare not his oxen, who work for his gain, how can we expect him to spare us?”
he is not to be trusted as a friend who mistreats his own family.
the wolf and the shepherds
a wolf, passing by, saw some shepherds in a hut eating a haunch of mutton for their dinner.
approaching them, he said, “what a clamor you would raise if i were to do as you are doing!”
the dolphins, the whales, and the sprat
the dolphins and whales waged a fierce war with each other.
when the battle was at its height, a sprat lifted its head out of the waves and said that he would reconcile their differences if they would accept him as an umpire.
one of the dolphins replied, “we would far rather be destroyed in our battle with each other than admit any interference from you in our affairs.”
the ass carrying the image
an ass once carried through the streets of a city a famous wooden image, to be placed in one of its temples.
as he passed along, the crowd made lowly prostration before the image.
the ass, thinking that they bowed their heads in token of respect for himself, bristled up with pride, gave himself airs, and refused to move another step.
the driver, seeing him thus stop, laid his whip lustily about his shoulders and said, “o you perverse dull-head!
it is not yet come to this, that men pay worship to an ass.”
they are not wise who give to themselves the credit due to others.
the two travelers and the axe
two men were journeying together.
one of them picked up an axe that lay upon the path, and said, “i have found an axe.” “nay, my friend,”
replied the other, “do not say ‘i,’ but ‘we’ have found an axe.” they had not gone far before they saw the owner of the axe pursuing them, and he who had picked up the axe said, “we are undone.” “nay,” replied the other, “keep to your first mode of speech, my friend; what you thought right then, think right now.
say ‘i,’ not ‘we’ are undone.”
he who shares the danger ought to share the prize.
the old lion
a lion, worn out with years and powerless from disease, lay on the ground at the point of death.
a boar rushed upon him, and avenged with a stroke of his tusks a long-remembered injury.
shortly afterwards the bull with his horns gored him as if he were an enemy.
when the ass saw that the huge beast could be assailed with impunity, he let drive at his forehead with his heels.
the expiring lion said, “i have reluctantly brooked the insults of the brave, but to be compelled to endure such treatment from thee, a disgrace to nature, is indeed to die a double death.”
the old hound
a hound, who in the days of his youth and strength had never yielded to any beast of the forest, encountered in his old age a boar in the chase.
he seized him boldly by the ear, but could not retain his hold because of the decay of his teeth, so that the boar escaped.
his master, quickly coming up, was very much disappointed, and fiercely abused the dog.
the hound looked up and said, “it was not my fault master: my spirit was as good as ever, but i could not help my infirmities.
i rather deserve to be praised for what i have been, than to be blamed for what i am.”
the bee and jupiter
a bee from mount hymettus, the queen of the hive, ascended to olympus to present jupiter some honey fresh from her combs.
jupiter, delighted with the offering of honey, promised to give whatever she should ask.
she therefore besought him, saying, “give me, i pray thee, a sting, that if any mortal shall approach to take my honey, i may kill him.” jupiter was much displeased, for he loved the race of man, but could not refuse the request because of his promise.
he thus answered the bee: “you shall have your request, but it will be at the peril of your own life.
for if you use your sting, it shall remain in the wound you make, and then you will die from the loss of it.”
evil wishes, like chickens, come home to roost.
the milk-woman and her pail
a farmer’s daughter was carrying her pail of milk from the field to the farmhouse, when she fell a-musing.
“the money for which this milk will be sold, will buy at least three hundred eggs.
the eggs, allowing for all mishaps, will produce two hundred and fifty chickens.
the chickens will become ready for the market when poultry will fetch the highest price, so that by the end of the year i shall have money enough from my share to buy a new gown.
in this dress i will go to the christmas parties, where all the young fellows will propose to me, but i will toss my head and refuse them every one.” at this moment she tossed her head in unison with her thoughts, when down fell the milk pail to the ground, and all her imaginary schemes perished in a moment.
the seaside travelers
some travelers, journeying along the seashore, climbed to the summit of a tall cliff, and looking over the sea, saw in the distance what they thought was a large ship.
they waited in the hope of seeing it enter the harbor, but as the object on which they looked was driven nearer to shore by the wind, they found that it could at the most be a small boat, and not a ship.
when however it reached the beach, they discovered that it was only a large faggot of sticks, and one of them said to his companions, “we have waited for no purpose, for after all there is nothing to see but a load of wood.”
our mere anticipations of life outrun its realities.
the brazier and his dog
a brazier had a little dog, which was a great favorite with his master, and his constant companion.
while he hammered away at his metals the dog slept; but when, on the other hand, he went to dinner and began to eat, the dog woke up and wagged his tail, as if he would ask for a share of his meal.
his master one day, pretending to be angry and shaking his stick at him, said, “you wretched little sluggard!
what shall i do to you?
while i am hammering on the anvil, you sleep on the mat; and when i begin to eat after my toil, you wake up and wag your tail for food.
do you not know that labor is the source of every blessing, and that none but those who work are entitled to eat?”
the ass and his shadow
a traveler hired an ass to convey him to a distant place.
the day being intensely hot, and the sun shining in its strength, the traveler stopped to rest, and sought shelter from the heat under the shadow of the ass.
as this afforded only protection for one, and as the traveler and the owner of the ass both claimed it, a violent dispute arose between them as to which of them had the right to the shadow.
the owner maintained that he had let the ass only, and not his shadow.
the traveler asserted that he had, with the hire of the ass, hired his shadow also.
the quarrel proceeded from words to blows, and while the men fought, the ass galloped off.
in quarreling about the shadow we often lose the substance.
the ass and his masters
an ass, belonging to an herb-seller who gave him too little food and too much work made a petition to jupiter to be released from his present service and provided with another master.
jupiter, after warning him that he would repent his request, caused him to be sold to a tile-maker.
shortly afterwards, finding that he had heavier loads to carry and harder work in the brick-field, he petitioned for another change of master.
jupiter, telling him that it would be the last time that he could grant his request, ordained that he be sold to a tanner.
the ass found that he had fallen into worse hands, and noting his master’s occupation, said, groaning: “it would have been better for me to have been either starved by the one, or to have been overworked by the other of my former masters, than to have been bought by my present owner, who will even after i am dead tan my hide, and make me useful to him.”
the oak and the reeds
a very large oak was uprooted by the wind and thrown across a stream.
it fell among some reeds, which it thus addressed: “i wonder how you, who are so light and weak, are not entirely crushed by these strong winds.”
they replied, “you fight and contend with the wind, and consequently you are destroyed; while we on the contrary bend before the least breath of air, and therefore remain unbroken, and escape.”
stoop to conquer.
the fisherman and the little fish
a fisherman who lived on the produce of his nets, one day caught a single small fish as the result of his day’s labor.
the fish, panting convulsively, thus entreated for his life: “o sir, what good can i be to you, and how little am i worth?
i am not yet come to my full size.
pray spare my life, and put me back into the sea.
i shall soon become a large fish fit for the tables of the rich, and then you can catch me again, and make a handsome profit of me.” the fisherman replied, “i should indeed be a very simple fellow if, for the chance of a greater uncertain profit, i were to forego my present certain gain.”
the hunter and the woodman
a hunter, not very bold, was searching for the tracks of a lion.
he asked a man felling oaks in the forest if he had seen any marks of his footsteps or knew where his lair was.
“i will,” said the man, “at once show you the lion himself.” the hunter, turning very pale and chattering with his teeth from fear, replied, “no, thank you.
i did not ask that; it is his track only i am in search of, not the lion himself.”
the hero is brave in deeds as well as words.
the wild boar and the fox
a wild boar stood under a tree and rubbed his tusks against the trunk.
a fox passing by asked him why he thus sharpened his teeth when there was no danger threatening from either huntsman or hound.
he replied, “i do it advisedly; for it would never do to have to sharpen my weapons just at the time i ought to be using them.”
the lion in a farmyard
a lion entered a farmyard.
the farmer, wishing to catch him, shut the gate.
when the lion found that he could not escape, he flew upon the sheep and killed them, and then attacked the oxen.
the farmer, beginning to be alarmed for his own safety, opened the gate and released the lion.
on his departure the farmer grievously lamented the destruction of his sheep and oxen, but his wife, who had been a spectator to all that took place, said, “on my word, you are rightly served, for how could you for a moment think of shutting up a lion along with you in your farmyard when you know that you shake in your shoes if you only hear his roar at a distance?”
mercury and the sculptor
mercury once determined to learn in what esteem he was held among mortals.
for this purpose he assumed the character of a man and visited in this disguise a sculptor’s studio having looked at various statues, he demanded the price of two figures of jupiter and juno.
when the sum at which they were valued was named, he pointed to a figure of himself, saying to the sculptor, “you will certainly want much more for this, as it is the statue of the messenger of the gods, and author of all your gain.” the sculptor replied, “well, if you will buy these, i’ll fling you that into the bargain.”
the swan and the goose
a certain rich man bought in the market a goose and a swan.
he fed the one for his table and kept the other for the sake of its song.
when the time came for killing the goose, the cook went to get him at night, when it was dark, and he was not able to distinguish one bird from the other.
by mistake he caught the swan instead of the goose.
the swan, threatened with death, burst forth into song and thus made himself known by his voice, and preserved his life by his melody.
the swollen fox
a very hungry fox, seeing some bread and meat left by shepherds in the hollow of an oak, crept into the hole and made a hearty meal.
when he finished, he was so full that he was not able to get out, and began to groan and lament his fate.
another fox passing by heard his cries, and coming up, inquired the cause of his complaining.
on learning what had happened, he said to him, “ah, you will have to remain there, my friend, until you become such as you were when you crept in, and then you will easily get out.”
the fox and the woodcutter
a fox, running before the hounds, came across a woodcutter felling an oak and begged him to show him a safe hiding-place.
the woodcutter advised him to take shelter in his own hut, so the fox crept in and hid himself in a corner.
the huntsman soon came up with his hounds and inquired of the woodcutter if he had seen the fox.
he declared that he had not seen him, and yet pointed, all the time he was speaking, to the hut where the fox lay hidden.
the huntsman took no notice of the signs, but believing his word, hastened forward in the chase.
as soon as they were well away, the fox departed without taking any notice of the woodcutter: whereon he called to him and reproached him, saying, “you ungrateful fellow, you owe your life to me, and yet you leave me without a word of thanks.” the fox replied, “indeed, i should have thanked you fervently if your deeds had been as good as your words, and if your hands had not been traitors to your speech.”
the birdcatcher, the partridge, and the cock
a birdcatcher was about to sit down to a dinner of herbs when a friend unexpectedly came in.
the bird-trap was quite empty, as he had caught nothing, and he had to kill a pied partridge, which he had tamed for a decoy.
the bird entreated earnestly for his life: “what would you do without me when next you spread your nets?
who would chirp you to sleep, or call for you the covey of answering birds?” the birdcatcher spared his life, and determined to pick out a fine young cock just attaining to his comb.
but the cock expostulated in piteous tones from his perch: “if you kill me, who will announce to you the appearance of the dawn?
who will wake you to your daily tasks or tell you when it is time to visit the bird-trap in the morning?” he replied, “what you say is true.
you are a capital bird at telling the time of day.
but my friend and i must have our dinners.”
necessity knows no law.
the monkey and the fishermen
a monkey perched upon a lofty tree saw some fishermen casting their nets into a river, and narrowly watched their proceedings.
the fishermen after a while gave up fishing, and on going home to dinner left their nets upon the bank.
the monkey, who is the most imitative of animals, descended from the treetop and endeavored to do as they had done.
having handled the net, he threw it into the river, but became tangled in the meshes and drowned.
with his last breath he said to himself, “i am rightly served; for what business had i who had never handled a net to try and catch fish?”
the flea and the wrestler
a flea settled upon the bare foot of a wrestler and bit him, causing the man to call loudly upon hercules for help.
when the flea a second time hopped upon his foot, he groaned and said, “o hercules!
if you will not help me against a flea, how can i hope for your assistance against greater antagonists?”
the two frogs
two frogs dwelt in the same pool.
when the pool dried up under the summer’s heat, they left it and set out together for another home.
as they went along they chanced to pass a deep well, amply supplied with water, and when they saw it, one of the frogs said to the other, “let us descend and make our abode in this well: it will furnish us with shelter and food.” the other replied with greater caution, “but suppose the water should fail us.
how can we get out again from so great a depth?”
do nothing without a regard to the consequences.
the cat and the mice
a certain house was overrun with mice.
a cat, discovering this, made her way into it and began to catch and eat them one by one.
fearing for their lives, the mice kept themselves close in their holes.
the cat was no longer able to get at them and perceived that she must tempt them forth by some device.
for this purpose she jumped upon a peg, and suspending herself from it, pretended to be dead.
one of the mice, peeping stealthily out, saw her and said, “ah, my good madam, even though you should turn into a meal-bag, we will not come near you.”
the lion, the bear, and the fox
a lion and a bear seized a kid at the same moment, and fought fiercely for its possession.
when they had fearfully lacerated each other and were faint from the long combat, they lay down exhausted with fatigue.
a fox, who had gone round them at a distance several times, saw them both stretched on the ground with the kid lying untouched in the middle.
he ran in between them, and seizing the kid scampered off as fast as he could.
the lion and the bear saw him, but not being able to get up, said, “woe be to us, that we should have fought and belabored ourselves only to serve the turn of a fox.”
it sometimes happens that one man has all the toil, and another all the profit.
the doe and the lion
a doe hard pressed by hunters sought refuge in a cave belonging to a lion.
the lion concealed himself on seeing her approach, but when she was safe within the cave, sprang upon her and tore her to pieces.
“woe is me,” exclaimed the doe, “who have escaped from man, only to throw myself into the mouth of a wild beast?”
in avoiding one evil, care must be taken not to fall into another.
the farmer and the fox
a farmer, who bore a grudge against a fox for robbing his poultry yard, caught him at last, and being determined to take an ample revenge, tied some rope well soaked in oil to his tail, and set it on fire.
the fox by a strange fatality rushed to the fields of the farmer who had captured him.
it was the time of the wheat harvest; but the farmer reaped nothing that year and returned home grieving sorely.
the seagull and the kite
a seagull having bolted down too large a fish, burst its deep gullet-bag and lay down on the shore to die.
a kite saw him and exclaimed: “you richly deserve your fate; for a bird of the air has no business to seek its food from the sea.”
every man should be content to mind his own business.
the philosopher, the ants, and mercury
a philosopher witnessed from the shore the shipwreck of a vessel, of which the crew and passengers were all drowned.
he inveighed against the injustice of providence, which would for the sake of one criminal perchance sailing in the ship allow so many innocent persons to perish.
as he was indulging in these reflections, he found himself surrounded by a whole army of ants, near whose nest he was standing.
one of them climbed up and stung him, and he immediately trampled them all to death with his foot.
mercury presented himself, and striking the philosopher with his wand, said, “and are you indeed to make yourself a judge of the dealings of providence, who hast thyself in a similar manner treated these poor ants?”
the mouse and the bull
a bull was bitten by a mouse and, angered by the wound, tried to capture him.
but the mouse reached his hole in safety.
though the bull dug into the walls with his horns, he tired before he could rout out the mouse, and crouching down, went to sleep outside the hole.
the mouse peeped out, crept furtively up his flank, and again biting him, retreated to his hole.
the bull rising up, and not knowing what to do, was sadly perplexed.
at which the mouse said, “the great do not always prevail.
there are times when the small and lowly are the strongest to do mischief.”
the lion and the hare
a lion came across a hare, who was fast asleep.
he was just in the act of seizing her, when a fine young hart trotted by, and he left the hare to follow him.
the hare, scared by the noise, awoke and scudded away.
the lion was unable after a long chase to catch the hart, and returned to feed upon the hare.
on finding that the hare also had run off, he said, “i am rightly served, for having let go of the food that i had in my hand for the chance of obtaining more.”
the peasant and the eagle
a peasant found an eagle captured in a trap, and much admiring the bird, set him free.
the eagle did not prove ungrateful to his deliverer, for seeing the peasant sitting under a wall which was not safe, he flew toward him and with his talons snatched a bundle from his head.
when the peasant rose in pursuit, the eagle let the bundle fall again.
taking it up, the man returned to the same place, to find that the wall under which he had been sitting had fallen to pieces; and he marveled at the service rendered him by the eagle.
the image of mercury and the carpenter
a very poor man, a carpenter by trade, had a wooden image of mercury, before which he made offerings day by day, and begged the idol to make him rich, but in spite of his entreaties he became poorer and poorer.
at last, being very angry, he took his image down from its pedestal and dashed it against the wall.
when its head was knocked off, out came a stream of gold, which the carpenter quickly picked up and said, “well, i think thou art altogether contradictory and unreasonable; for when i paid you honor, i reaped no benefits: but now that i maltreat you i am loaded with an abundance of riches.”
the bull and the goat
a bull, escaping from a lion, hid in a cave which some shepherds had recently occupied.
as soon as he entered, a he-goat left in the cave sharply attacked him with his horns.
the bull quietly addressed him:
“butt away as much as you will.
i have no fear of you, but of the lion.
let that monster go away and i will soon let you know what is the respective strength of a goat and a bull.”
it shows an evil disposition to take advantage of a friend in distress.
the dancing monkeys
a prince had some monkeys trained to dance.
being naturally great mimics of men’s actions, they showed themselves most apt pupils, and when arrayed in their rich clothes and masks, they danced as well as any of the courtiers.
the spectacle was often repeated with great applause, till on one occasion a courtier, bent on mischief, took from his pocket a handful of nuts and threw them upon the stage.
the monkeys at the sight of the nuts forgot their dancing and became (as indeed they were)
monkeys instead of actors.
pulling off their masks and tearing their robes, they fought with one another for the nuts.
the dancing spectacle thus came to an end amidst the laughter and ridicule of the audience.
the fox and the leopard
the fox and the leopard disputed which was the more beautiful of the two.
the leopard exhibited one by one the various spots which decorated his skin.
but the fox, interrupting him, said, “and how much more beautiful than you am i, who am decorated, not in body, but in mind.”
the monkeys and their mother
the monkey, it is said, has two young ones at each birth.
the mother fondles one and nurtures it with the greatest affection and care, but hates and neglects the other.
it happened once that the young one which was caressed and loved was smothered by the too great affection of the mother, while the despised one was nurtured and reared in spite of the neglect to which it was exposed.
the best intentions will not always ensure success.
the oaks and jupiter
the oaks presented a complaint to jupiter, saying, “we bear for no purpose the burden of life, as of all the trees that grow we are the most continually in peril of the axe.” jupiter made answer: “you have only to thank yourselves for the misfortunes to which you are exposed:
for if you did not make such excellent pillars and posts, and prove yourselves so serviceable to the carpenters and the farmers, the axe would not so frequently be laid to your roots.”
the hare and the hound
a hound started a hare from his lair, but after a long run, gave up the chase.
a goat-herd seeing him stop, mocked him, saying “the little one is the best runner of the two.” the hound replied, “you do not see the difference between us: i was only running for a dinner, but he for his life.”
the traveler and fortune
a traveler wearied from a long journey lay down, overcome with fatigue, on the very brink of a deep well.
just as he was about to fall into the water, dame fortune, it is said, appeared to him and waking him from his slumber thus addressed him: “good sir, pray wake up: for if you fall into the well, the blame will be thrown on me, and i shall get an ill name among mortals; for i find that men are sure to impute their calamities to me, however much by their own folly they have really brought them on themselves.”
everyone is more or less master of his own fate.
the bald knight
a bald knight, who wore a wig, went out to hunt.
a sudden puff of wind blew off his hat and wig, at which a loud laugh rang forth from his companions.
he pulled up his horse, and with great glee joined in the joke by saying, “what a marvel it is that hairs which are not mine should fly from me, when they have forsaken even the man on whose head they grew.”
the shepherd and the dog
a shepherd penning his sheep in the fold for the night was about to shut up a wolf with them, when his dog perceiving the wolf said, “master, how can you expect the sheep to be safe if you admit a wolf into the fold?”
the lamp
a lamp, soaked with too much oil and flaring brightly, boasted that it gave more light than the sun.
then a sudden puff of wind arose, and the lamp was immediately extinguished.
its owner lit it again, and said:
“boast no more, but henceforth be content to give thy light in silence.
know that not even the stars need to be relit.”
the lion, the fox, and the ass
the lion, the fox and the ass entered into an agreement to assist each other in the chase.
having secured a large booty, the lion on their return from the forest asked the ass to allot his due portion to each of the three partners in the treaty.
the ass carefully divided the spoil into three equal shares and modestly requested the two others to make the first choice.
the lion, bursting out into a great rage, devoured the ass.
then he requested the fox to do him the favor to make a division.
the fox accumulated all that they had killed into one large heap and left to himself the smallest possible morsel.
the lion said, “who has taught you, my very excellent fellow, the art of division?
you are perfect to a fraction.” he replied, “i learned it from the ass, by witnessing his fate.”
happy is the man who learns from the misfortunes of others.
the bull, the lioness, and the wild-boar hunter
a bull finding a lion’s cub asleep gored him to death with his horns.
the lioness came up, and bitterly lamented the death of her whelp.
a wild-boar hunter, seeing her distress, stood at a distance and said to her, “think how many men there are who have reason to lament the loss of their children, whose deaths have been caused by you.”
the oak and the woodcutters
the woodcutter cut down a mountain oak and split it in pieces, making wedges of its own branches for dividing the trunk.
the oak said with a sigh, “i do not care about the blows of the axe aimed at my roots, but i do grieve at being torn in pieces by these wedges made from my own branches.”
misfortunes springing from ourselves are the hardest to bear.
the hen and the golden eggs
a cottager and his wife had a hen that laid a golden egg every day.
they supposed that the hen must contain a great lump of gold in its inside, and in order to get the gold they killed it.
having done so, they found to their surprise that the hen differed in no respect from their other hens.
the foolish pair, thus hoping to become rich all at once, deprived themselves of the gain of which they were assured day by day.
the ass and the frogs
an ass, carrying a load of wood, passed through a pond.
as he was crossing through the water he lost his footing, stumbled and fell, and not being able to rise on account of his load, groaned heavily.
some frogs frequenting the pool heard his lamentation, and said, “what would you do if you had to live here always as we do, when you make such a fuss about a mere fall into the water?”
men often bear little grievances with less courage than they do large misfortunes.
the crow and the raven
a crow was jealous of the raven, because he was considered a bird of good omen and always attracted the attention of men, who noted by his flight the good or evil course of future events.
seeing some travelers approaching, the crow flew up into a tree, and perching herself on one of the branches, cawed as loudly as she could.
the travelers turned towards the sound and wondered what it foreboded, when one of them said to his companion, “let us proceed on our journey, my friend, for it is only the caw of a crow, and her cry, you know, is no omen.”
those who assume a character which does not belong to them, only make themselves ridiculous.
the trees and the axe
a man came into a forest and asked the trees to provide him a handle for his axe.
the trees consented to his request and gave him a young ash-tree.
no sooner had the man fitted a new handle to his axe from it, than he began to use it and quickly felled with his strokes the noblest giants of the forest.
an old oak, lamenting when too late the destruction of his companions, said to a neighboring cedar, “the first step has lost us all.
if we had not given up the rights of the ash, we might yet have retained our own privileges and have stood for ages.”
the crab and the fox
a crab, forsaking the seashore, chose a neighboring green meadow as its feeding ground.
a fox came across him, and being very hungry ate him up.
just as he was on the point of being eaten, the crab said, “i well deserve my fate, for what business had i on the land, when by my nature and habits i am only adapted for the sea?”
contentment with our lot is an element of happiness.
the woman and her hen
a woman possessed a hen that gave her an egg every day.
she often pondered how she might obtain two eggs daily instead of one, and at last, to gain her purpose, determined to give the hen a double allowance of barley.
from that day the hen became fat and sleek, and never once laid another egg.
the ass and the old shepherd
a shepherd, watching his ass feeding in a meadow, was alarmed all of a sudden by the cries of the enemy.
he appealed to the ass to fly with him, lest they should both be captured, but the animal lazily replied, “why should i, pray?
do you think it likely the conqueror will place on me two sets of panniers?” “no,” rejoined the shepherd.
“then,” said the ass, “as long as i carry the panniers, what matters it to me whom i serve?”
in a change of government the poor change nothing beyond the name of their master.
the kites and the swans
tee kites of olden times, as well as the swans, had the privilege of song.
but having heard the neigh of the horse, they were so enchanted with the sound, that they tried to imitate it; and, in trying to neigh, they forgot how to sing.
the desire for imaginary benefits often involves the loss of present blessings.
the wolves and the sheepdogs
the wolves thus addressed the sheepdogs: “why should you, who are like us in so many things, not be entirely of one mind with us, and live with us as brothers should?
we differ from you in one point only.
we live in freedom, but you bow down to and slave for men, who in return for your services flog you with whips and put collars on your necks.
they make you also guard their sheep, and while they eat the mutton throw only the bones to you.
if you will be persuaded by us, you will give us the sheep, and we will enjoy them in common, till we all are surfeited.” the dogs listened favorably to these proposals, and, entering the den of the wolves, they were set upon and torn to pieces.
the hares and the foxes
the hares waged war with the eagles, and called upon the foxes to help them.
they replied, “we would willingly have helped you, if we had not known who you were, and with whom you were fighting.”
count the cost before you commit yourselves.
the bowman and lion
a very skillful bowman went to the mountains in search of game, but all the beasts of the forest fled at his approach.
the lion alone challenged him to combat.
the bowman immediately shot out an arrow and said to the lion: “i send thee my messenger, that from him thou mayest learn what i myself shall be when i assail thee.” the wounded lion rushed away in great fear, and when a fox who had seen it all happen told him to be of good courage and not to back off at the first attack he replied: “you counsel me in vain; for if he sends so fearful a messenger, how shall i abide the attack of the man himself?”
be on guard against men who can strike from a distance.
the camel
when man first saw the camel, he was so frightened at his vast size that he ran away.
after a time, perceiving the meekness and gentleness of the beast’s temper, he summoned courage enough to approach him.
soon afterwards, observing that he was an animal altogether deficient in spirit, he assumed such boldness as to put a bridle in his mouth, and to let a child drive him.
use serves to overcome dread.
the wasp and the snake
a wasp seated himself upon the head of a snake and, striking him unceasingly with his stings, wounded him to death.
the snake, being in great torment and not knowing how to rid himself of his enemy, saw a wagon heavily laden with wood, and went and purposely placed his head under the wheels, saying, “at least my enemy and i shall perish together.”
the dog and the hare
a hound having started a hare on the hillside pursued her for some distance, at one time biting her with his teeth as if he would take her life, and at another fawning upon her, as if in play with another dog.
the hare said to him, “i wish you would act sincerely by me, and show yourself in your true colors.
if you are a friend, why do you bite me so hard?
if an enemy, why do you fawn on me?”
no one can be a friend if you know not whether to trust or distrust him.
the bull and the calf
a bull was striving with all his might to squeeze himself through a narrow passage which led to his stall.
a young calf came up, and offered to go before and show him the way by which he could manage to pass.
“save yourself the trouble,” said the bull; “i knew that way long before you were born.”
the stag, the wolf, and the sheep
a stag asked a sheep to lend him a measure of wheat, and said that the wolf would be his surety.
the sheep, fearing some fraud was intended, excused herself, saying, “the wolf is accustomed to seize what he wants and to run off; and you, too, can quickly outstrip me in your rapid flight.
how then shall i be able to find you, when the day of payment comes?”
two blacks do not make one white.
the peacock and the crane
a peacock spreading its gorgeous tail mocked a crane that passed by, ridiculing the ashen hue of its plumage and saying, “i am robed, like a king, in gold and purple and all the colors of the rainbow; while you have not a bit of color on your wings.” “true,” replied the crane; “but i soar to the heights of heaven and lift up my voice to the stars, while you walk below, like a cock, among the birds of the dunghill.”
fine feathers don’t make fine birds.
the fox and the hedgehog
a fox swimming across a rapid river was carried by the force of the current into a very deep ravine, where he lay for a long time very much bruised, sick, and unable to move.
a swarm of hungry blood-sucking flies settled upon him.
a hedgehog, passing by, saw his anguish and inquired if he should drive away the flies that were tormenting him.
“by no means,” replied the fox; “pray do not molest them.” “how is this?” said the hedgehog; “do you not want to be rid of them?” “no,” returned the fox, “for these flies which you see are full of blood, and sting me but little, and if you rid me of these which are already satiated, others more hungry will come in their place, and will drink up all the blood i have left.”
the eagle, the cat, and the wild sow
an eagle made her nest at the top of a lofty oak; a cat, having found a convenient hole, moved into the middle of the trunk; and a wild sow, with her young, took shelter in a hollow at its foot.
the cat cunningly resolved to destroy this chance-made colony.
to carry out her design, she climbed to the nest of the eagle, and said, “destruction is preparing for you, and for me too, unfortunately.
the wild sow, whom you see daily digging up the earth, wishes to uproot the oak, so she may on its fall seize our families as food for her young.” having thus frightened the eagle out of her senses, she crept down to the cave of the sow, and said, “your children are in great danger; for as soon as you go out with your litter to find food, the eagle is prepared to pounce upon one of your little pigs.” having instilled these fears into the sow, she went and pretended to hide herself in the hollow of the tree.
when night came she went forth with silent foot and obtained food for herself and her kittens, but feigning to be afraid, she kept a lookout all through the day.
meanwhile, the eagle, full of fear of the sow, sat still on the branches, and the sow, terrified by the eagle, did not dare to go out from her cave.
and thus they both, along with their families, perished from hunger, and afforded ample provision for the cat and her kittens.
the thief and the innkeeper
a thief hired a room in a tavern and stayed a while in the hope of stealing something which should enable him to pay his reckoning.
when he had waited some days in vain, he saw the innkeeper dressed in a new and handsome coat and sitting before his door.
the thief sat down beside him and talked with him.
as the conversation began to flag, the thief yawned terribly and at the same time howled like a wolf.
the innkeeper said, “why do you howl so fearfully?” “i will tell you,” said the thief, “but first let me ask you to hold my clothes, or i shall tear them to pieces.
i know not, sir, when i got this habit of yawning, nor whether these attacks of howling were inflicted on me as a judgment for my crimes, or for any other cause; but this i do know, that when i yawn for the third time, i actually turn into a wolf and attack men.” with this speech he commenced a second fit of yawning and again howled like a wolf, as he had at first.
the innkeeper, hearing his tale and believing what he said, became greatly alarmed and, rising from his seat, attempted to run away.
the thief laid hold of his coat and entreated him to stop, saying, “pray wait, sir, and hold my clothes, or i shall tear them to pieces in my fury, when i turn into a wolf.” at the same moment he yawned the third time and set up a terrible howl.
the innkeeper, frightened lest he should be attacked, left his new coat in the thief’s hand and ran as fast as he could into the inn for safety.
the thief made off with the coat and did not return again to the inn.
every tale is not to be believed.
the mule
a mule, frolicsome from lack of work and from too much corn, galloped about in a very extravagant manner, and said to himself: “my father surely was a high-mettled racer, and i am his own child in speed and spirit.” on the next day, being driven a long journey, and feeling very wearied, he exclaimed in a disconsolate tone: “i must have made a mistake; my father, after all, could have been only an ass.”
the hart and the vine
a hart, hard pressed in the chase, hid himself beneath the large leaves of a vine.
the huntsmen, in their haste, overshot the place of his concealment.
supposing all danger to have passed, the hart began to nibble the tendrils of the vine.
one of the huntsmen, attracted by the rustling of the leaves, looked back, and seeing the hart, shot an arrow from his bow and struck it.
the hart, at the point of death, groaned: “i am rightly served, for i should not have maltreated the vine that saved me.”
the serpent and the eagle
a serpent and an eagle were struggling with each other in deadly conflict.
the serpent had the advantage, and was about to strangle the bird.
a countryman saw them, and running up, loosed the coil of the serpent and let the eagle go free.
the serpent, irritated at the escape of his prey, injected his poison into the drinking horn of the countryman.
the rustic, ignorant of his danger, was about to drink, when the eagle struck his hand with his wing, and, seizing the drinking horn in his talons, carried it aloft.
the crow and the pitcher
a crow perishing with thirst saw a pitcher, and hoping to find water, flew to it with delight.
when he reached it, he discovered to his grief that it contained so little water that he could not possibly get at it.
he tried everything he could think of to reach the water, but all his efforts were in vain.
at last he collected as many stones as he could carry and dropped them one by one with his beak into the pitcher, until he brought the water within his reach and thus saved his life.
necessity is the mother of invention.
the two frogs
two frogs were neighbors.
one inhabited a deep pond, far removed from public view; the other lived in a gully containing little water, and traversed by a country road.
the frog that lived in the pond warned his friend to change his residence and entreated him to come and live with him, saying that he would enjoy greater safety from danger and more abundant food.
the other refused, saying that he felt it so very hard to leave a place to which he had become accustomed.
a few days afterwards a heavy wagon passed through the gully and crushed him to death under its wheels.
a willful man will have his way to his own hurt.
the wolf and the fox
at one time a very large and strong wolf was born among the wolves, who exceeded all his fellow-wolves in strength, size, and swiftness, so that they unanimously decided to call him “lion.” the wolf, with a lack of sense proportioned to his enormous size, thought that they gave him this name in earnest, and, leaving his own race, consorted exclusively with the lions.
an old sly fox, seeing this, said, “may i never make myself so ridiculous as you do in your pride and self-conceit; for even though you have the size of a lion among wolves, in a herd of lions you are definitely a wolf.”
the walnut-tree
a walnut tree standing by the roadside bore an abundant crop of fruit.
for the sake of the nuts, the passers-by broke its branches with stones and sticks.
the walnut-tree piteously exclaimed, “o wretched me!
that those whom i cheer with my fruit should repay me with these painful requitals!”
the gnat and the lion
a gnat came and said to a lion, “i do not in the least fear you, nor are you stronger than i am.
for in what does your strength consist?
you can scratch with your claws and bite with your teeth an a woman in her quarrels.
i repeat that i am altogether more powerful than you; and if you doubt it, let us fight and see who will conquer.” the gnat, having sounded his horn, fastened himself upon the lion and stung him on the nostrils and the parts of the face devoid of hair.
while trying to crush him, the lion tore himself with his claws, until he punished himself severely.
the gnat thus prevailed over the lion, and, buzzing about in a song of triumph, flew away.
but shortly afterwards he became entangled in the meshes of a cobweb and was eaten by a spider.
he greatly lamented his fate, saying, “woe is me!
that i, who can wage war successfully with the hugest beasts, should perish myself from this spider, the most inconsiderable of insects!”
the monkey and the dolphin
a sailor, bound on a long voyage, took with him a monkey to amuse him while on shipboard.
as he sailed off the coast of greece, a violent tempest arose in which the ship was wrecked and he, his monkey, and all the crew were obliged to swim for their lives.
a dolphin saw the monkey contending with the waves, and supposing him to be a man (whom he is always said to befriend), came and placed himself under him, to convey him on his back in safety to the shore.
when the dolphin arrived with his burden in sight of land not far from athens, he asked the monkey if he were an athenian.
the latter replied that he was, and that he was descended from one of the most noble families in that city.
the dolphin then inquired if he knew the piraeus (the famous harbor of athens).
supposing that a man was meant, the monkey answered that he knew him very well and that he was an intimate friend.
the dolphin, indignant at these falsehoods, dipped the monkey under the water and drowned him.
the jackdaw and the doves
a jackdaw, seeing some doves in a cote abundantly provided with food, painted himself white and joined them in order to share their plentiful maintenance.
the doves, as long as he was silent, supposed him to be one of themselves and admitted him to their cote.
but when one day he forgot himself and began to chatter, they discovered his true character and drove him forth, pecking him with their beaks.
failing to obtain food among the doves, he returned to the jackdaws.
they too, not recognizing him on account of his color, expelled him from living with them.
so desiring two ends, he obtained neither.
the horse and the stag
at one time the horse had the plain entirely to himself.
then a stag intruded into his domain and shared his pasture.
the horse, desiring to revenge himself on the stranger, asked a man if he were willing to help him in punishing the stag.
the man replied that if the horse would receive a bit in his mouth and agree to carry him, he would contrive effective weapons against the stag.
the horse consented and allowed the man to mount him.
from that hour he found that instead of obtaining revenge on the stag, he had enslaved himself to the service of man.
the kid and the wolf
a kid, returning without protection from the pasture, was pursued by a wolf.
seeing he could not escape, he turned round, and said: “i know, friend wolf, that i must be your prey, but before i die i would ask of you one favor you will play me a tune to which i may dance.” the wolf complied, and while he was piping and the kid was dancing, some hounds hearing the sound ran up and began chasing the wolf.
turning to the kid, he said, “it is just what i deserve; for i, who am only a butcher, should not have turned piper to please you.”
the prophet
a wizard, sitting in the marketplace, was telling the fortunes of the passers-by when a person ran up in great haste, and announced to him that the doors of his house had been broken open and that all his goods were being stolen.
he sighed heavily and hastened away as fast as he could run.
a neighbor saw him running and said, “oh!
you fellow there!
you say you can foretell the fortunes of others; how is it you did not foresee your own?”
the fox and the monkey
a fox and a monkey were traveling together on the same road.
as they journeyed, they passed through a cemetery full of monuments.
“all these monuments which you see,” said the monkey, “are erected in honor of my ancestors, who were in their day freedmen and citizens of great renown.”
the fox replied, “you have chosen a most appropriate subject for your falsehoods, as i am sure none of your ancestors will be able to contradict you.”
a false tale often betrays itself.
the thief and the housedog
a thief came in the night to break into a house.
he brought with him several slices of meat in order to pacify the housedog, so that he would not alarm his master by barking.
as the thief threw him the pieces of meat, the dog said, “if you think to stop my mouth, you will be greatly mistaken.
this sudden kindness at your hands will only make me more watchful, lest under these unexpected favors to myself, you have some private ends to accomplish for your own benefit, and for my master’s injury.”
the man, the horse, the ox, and the dog
a horse, ox, and dog, driven to great straits by the cold, sought shelter and protection from man.
he received them kindly, lighted a fire, and warmed them.
he let the horse make free with his oats, gave the ox an abundance of hay, and fed the dog with meat from his own table.
grateful for these favors, the animals determined to repay him to the best of their ability.
for this purpose, they divided the term of his life between them, and each endowed one portion of it with the qualities which chiefly characterized himself.
the horse chose his earliest years and gave them his own attributes: hence every man is in his youth impetuous, headstrong, and obstinate in maintaining his own opinion.
the ox took under his patronage the next term of life, and therefore man in his middle age is fond of work, devoted to labor, and resolute to amass wealth and to husband his resources.
the end of life was reserved for the dog, wherefore the old man is often snappish, irritable, hard to please, and selfish, tolerant only of his own household, but averse to strangers and to all who do not administer to his comfort or to his necessities.
the apes and the two travelers
two men, one who always spoke the truth and the other who told nothing but lies, were traveling together and by chance came to the land of apes.
one of the apes, who had raised himself to be king, commanded them to be seized and brought before him, that he might know what was said of him among men.
he ordered at the same time that all the apes be arranged in a long row on his right hand and on his left, and that a throne be placed for him, as was the custom among men.
after these preparations he signified that the two men should be brought before him, and greeted them with this salutation: “what sort of a king do i seem to you to be, o strangers?” the lying traveler replied, “you seem to me a most mighty king.” “and what is your estimate of those you see around me?” “these,”
he made answer, “are worthy companions of yourself, fit at least to be ambassadors and leaders of armies.” the ape and all his court, gratified with the lie, commanded that a handsome present be given to the flatterer.
on this the truthful traveler thought to himself, “if so great a reward be given for a lie, with what gift may not i be rewarded, if, according to my custom, i tell the truth?” the ape quickly turned to him.
“and pray how do i and these my friends around me seem to you?”
“thou art,” he said, “a most excellent ape, and all these thy companions after thy example are excellent apes too.” the king of the apes, enraged at hearing these truths, gave him over to the teeth and claws of his companions.
the wolf and the shepherd
a wolf followed a flock of sheep for a long time and did not attempt to injure one of them.
the shepherd at first stood on his guard against him, as against an enemy, and kept a strict watch over his movements.
but when the wolf, day after day, kept in the company of the sheep and did not make the slightest effort to seize them, the shepherd began to look upon him as a guardian of his flock rather than as a plotter of evil against it; and when occasion called him one day into the city, he left the sheep entirely in his charge.
the wolf, now that he had the opportunity, fell upon the sheep, and destroyed the greater part of the flock.
when the shepherd returned to find his flock destroyed, he exclaimed: “i have been rightly served; why did i trust my sheep to a wolf?”
the hares and the lions
the hares harangued the assembly, and argued that all should be equal.
the lions made this reply: “your words, o hares!
are good; but they lack both claws and teeth such as we have.”
the lark and her young ones
a lark had made her nest in the early spring on the young green wheat.
the brood had almost grown to their full strength and attained the use of their wings and the full plumage of their feathers, when the owner of the field, looking over his ripe crop, said, “the time has come when i must ask all my neighbors to help me with my harvest.” one of the young larks heard his speech and related it to his mother, inquiring of her to what place they should move for safety.
“there is no occasion to move yet, my son,” she replied; “the man who only sends to his friends to help him with his harvest is not really in earnest.” the owner of the field came again a few days later and saw the wheat shedding the grain from excess of ripeness.
he said, “i will come myself tomorrow with my laborers, and with as many reapers as i can hire, and will get in the harvest.” the lark on hearing these words said to her brood, “it is time now to be off, my little ones, for the man is in earnest this time; he no longer trusts his friends, but will reap the field himself.”
self-help is the best help.
the fox and the lion
when a fox who had never yet seen a lion, fell in with him by chance for the first time in the forest, he was so frightened that he nearly died with fear.
on meeting him for the second time, he was still much alarmed, but not to the same extent as at first.
on seeing him the third time, he so increased in boldness that he went up to him and commenced a familiar conversation with him.
acquaintance softens prejudices.
the weasel and the mice
a weasel, inactive from age and infirmities, was not able to catch mice as he once did.
he therefore rolled himself in flour and lay down in a dark corner.
a mouse, supposing him to be food, leaped upon him, and was instantly caught and squeezed to death.
another perished in a similar manner, and then a third, and still others after them.
a very old mouse, who had escaped many a trap and snare, observed from a safe distance the trick of his crafty foe and said, “ah!
you that lie there, may you prosper just in the same proportion as you are what you pretend to be!”
the boy bathing
a boy bathing in a river was in danger of being drowned.
he called out to a passing traveler for help, but instead of holding out a helping hand, the man stood by unconcernedly, and scolded the boy for his imprudence.
“oh, sir!” cried the youth, “pray help me now and scold me afterwards.”
counsel without help is useless.
the ass and the wolf
an ass feeding in a meadow saw a wolf approaching to seize him, and immediately pretended to be lame.
the wolf, coming up, inquired the cause of his lameness.
the ass replied that passing through a hedge he had trod with his foot upon a sharp thorn.
he requested that the wolf pull it out, lest when he ate him it should injure his throat.
the wolf consented and lifted up the foot, and was giving his whole mind to the discovery of the thorn, when the ass, with his heels, kicked his teeth into his mouth and galloped away.
the wolf, being thus fearfully mauled, said, “i am rightly served, for why did i attempt the art of healing, when my father only taught me the trade of a butcher?”
the seller of images
a certain man made a wooden image of mercury and offered it for sale.
when no one appeared willing to buy it, in order to attract purchasers, he cried out that he had the statue to sell of a benefactor who bestowed wealth and helped to heap up riches.
one of the bystanders said to him, “my good fellow, why do you sell him, being such a one as you describe, when you may yourself enjoy the good things he has to give?” “why,” he replied, “i am in need of immediate help, and he is wont to give his good gifts very slowly.”
the fox and the grapes
a famished fox saw some clusters of ripe black grapes hanging from a trellised vine.
she resorted to all her tricks to get at them, but wearied herself in vain, for she could not reach them.
at last she turned away, hiding her disappointment and saying: “the grapes are sour, and not ripe as i thought.”
the man and his wife
a man had a wife who made herself hated by all the members of his household.
wishing to find out if she had the same effect on the persons in her father’s house, he made some excuse to send her home on a visit to her father.
after a short time she returned, and when he inquired how she had got on and how the servants had treated her, she replied, “the herdsmen and shepherds cast on me looks of aversion.” he said, “o wife, if you were disliked by those who go out early in the morning with their flocks and return late in the evening, what must have been felt towards you by those with whom you passed the whole day!”
straws show how the wind blows.
the peacock and juno
the peacock made complaint to juno that, while the nightingale pleased every ear with his song, he himself no sooner opened his mouth than he became a laughingstock to all who heard him.
the goddess, to console him, said, “but you far excel in beauty and in size.
the splendor of the emerald shines in your neck and you unfold a tail gorgeous with painted plumage.” “but for what purpose have i,” said the bird, “this dumb beauty so long as i am surpassed in song?” “the lot of each,” replied juno, “has been assigned by the will of the fates to thee, beauty; to the eagle, strength; to the nightingale, song; to the raven, favorable, and to the crow, unfavorable auguries.
these are all contented with the endowments allotted to them.”
the hawk and the nightingale
a nightingale, sitting aloft upon an oak and singing according to his wont, was seen by a hawk who, being in need of food, swooped down and seized him.
the nightingale, about to lose his life, earnestly begged the hawk to let him go, saying that he was not big enough to satisfy the hunger of a hawk who, if he wanted food, ought to pursue the larger birds.
the hawk, interrupting him, said: “i should indeed have lost my senses if i should let go food ready in my hand, for the sake of pursuing birds which are not yet even within sight.”
the dog, the cock, and the fox
a dog and a cock being great friends, agreed to travel together.
at nightfall they took shelter in a thick wood.
the cock flying up, perched himself on the branches of a tree, while the dog found a bed beneath in the hollow trunk.
when the morning dawned, the cock, as usual, crowed very loudly several times.
a fox heard the sound, and wishing to make a breakfast on him, came and stood under the branches, saying how earnestly he desired to make the acquaintance of the owner of so magnificent a voice.
the cock, suspecting his civilities, said: “sir, i wish you would do me the favor of going around to the hollow trunk below me, and waking my porter, so that he may open the door and let you in.”
when the fox approached the tree, the dog sprang out and caught him, and tore him to pieces.
the wolf and the goat
a wolf saw a goat feeding at the summit of a steep precipice, where he had no chance of reaching her.
he called to her and earnestly begged her to come lower down, lest she fall by some mishap; and he added that the meadows lay where he was standing, and that the herbage was most tender.
she replied, “no, my friend, it is not for the pasture that you invite me, but for yourself, who are in want of food.”
the lion and the bull
a lion, greatly desiring to capture a bull, and yet afraid to attack him on account of his great size, resorted to a trick to ensure his destruction.
he approached the bull and said, “i have slain a fine sheep, my friend; and if you will come home and partake of him with me, i shall be delighted to have your company.” the lion said this in the hope that, as the bull was in the act of reclining to eat, he might attack him to advantage, and make his meal on him.
the bull, on approaching the lion’s den, saw the huge spits and giant caldrons, and no sign whatever of the sheep, and, without saying a word, quietly took his departure.
the lion inquired why he went off so abruptly without a word of salutation to his host, who had not given him any cause for offense.
“i have reasons enough,” said the bull.
“i see no indication whatever of your having slaughtered a sheep, while i do see very plainly every preparation for your dining on a bull.”
the goat and the ass
a man once kept a goat and an ass.
the goat, envying the ass on account of his greater abundance of food, said, “how shamefully you are treated: at one time grinding in the mill, and at another carrying heavy burdens;” and he further advised him to pretend to be epileptic and fall into a ditch and so obtain rest.
the ass listened to his words, and falling into a ditch, was very much bruised.
his master, sending for a leech, asked his advice.
he bade him pour upon the wounds the lungs of a goat.
they at once killed the goat, and so healed the ass.
the town mouse and the country mouse
a country mouse invited a town mouse, an intimate friend, to pay him a visit and partake of his country fare.
as they were on the bare plowlands, eating there wheat-stocks and roots pulled up from the hedgerow, the town mouse said to his friend, “you live here the life of the ants, while in my house is the horn of plenty.
i am surrounded by every luxury, and if you will come with me, as i wish you would, you shall have an ample share of my dainties.” the country mouse was easily persuaded, and returned to town with his friend.
on his arrival, the town mouse placed before him bread, barley, beans, dried figs, honey, raisins, and, last of all, brought a dainty piece of cheese from a basket.
the country mouse, being much delighted at the sight of such good cheer, expressed his satisfaction in warm terms and lamented his own hard fate.
just as they were beginning to eat, someone opened the door, and they both ran off squeaking, as fast as they could, to a hole so narrow that two could only find room in it by squeezing.
they had scarcely begun their repast again when someone else entered to take something out of a cupboard, whereupon the two mice, more frightened than before, ran away and hid themselves.
at last the country mouse, almost famished, said to his friend: “although you have prepared for me so dainty a feast, i must leave you to enjoy it by yourself.
it is surrounded by too many dangers to please me.
i prefer my bare plowlands and roots from the hedgerow, where i can live in safety, and without fear.”
the wolf, the fox, and the ape
a wolf accused a fox of theft, but the fox entirely denied the charge.
an ape undertook to adjudge the matter between them.
when each had fully stated his case the ape announced this sentence: “i do not think you, wolf, ever lost what you claim; and i do believe you, fox, to have stolen what you so stoutly deny.”
the dishonest, if they act honestly, get no credit.
the fly and the draught-mule
a fly sat on the axle-tree of a chariot, and addressing the draught-mule said, “how slow you are!
why do you not go faster?
see if i do not prick your neck with my sting.” the draught-mule replied, “i do not heed your threats; i only care for him who sits above you, and who quickens my pace with his whip, or holds me back with the reins.
away, therefore, with your insolence, for i know well when to go fast, and when to go slow.”
the fishermen
some fishermen were out trawling their nets.
perceiving them to be very heavy, they danced about for joy and supposed that they had taken a large catch.
when they had dragged the nets to the shore they found but few fish: the nets were full of sand and stones, and the men were beyond measure cast down so much at the disappointment which had befallen them, but because they had formed such very different expectations.
one of their company, an old man, said, “let us cease lamenting, my mates, for, as it seems to me, sorrow is always the twin sister of joy; and it was only to be looked for that we, who just now were over-rejoiced, should next have something to make us sad.”
the lion and the three bulls
three bulls for a long time pastured together.
a lion lay in ambush in the hope of making them his prey, but was afraid to attack them while they kept together.
having at last by guileful speeches succeeded in separating them, he attacked them without fear as they fed alone, and feasted on them one by one at his own leisure.
union is strength.
the fowler and the viper
a fowler, taking his bird-lime and his twigs, went out to catch birds.
seeing a thrush sitting upon a tree, he wished to take it, and fitting his twigs to a proper length, watched intently, having his whole thoughts directed towards the sky.
while thus looking upwards, he unknowingly trod upon a viper asleep just before his feet.
the viper, turning about, stung him, and falling into a swoon, the man said to himself, “woe is me!
that while i purposed to hunt another, i am myself fallen unawares into the snares of death.”
the horse and the ass
a horse, proud of his fine trappings, met an ass on the highway.
the ass, being heavily laden, moved slowly out of the way.
“hardly,” said the horse, “can i resist kicking you with my heels.” the ass held his peace, and made only a silent appeal to the justice of the gods.
not long afterwards the horse, having become broken-winded, was sent by his owner to the farm.
the ass, seeing him drawing a dungcart, thus derided him: “where, o boaster, are now all thy gay trappings, thou who are thyself reduced to the condition you so lately treated with contempt?”
the fox and the mask
a fox entered the house of an actor and, rummaging through all his properties, came upon a mask, an admirable imitation of a human head.
he placed his paws on it and said, “what a beautiful head!
yet it is of no value, as it entirely lacks brains.”
the geese and the cranes
the geese and the cranes were feeding in the same meadow, when a birdcatcher came to ensnare them in his nets.
the cranes, being light of wing, fled away at his approach; while the geese, being slower of flight and heavier in their bodies, were captured.
the blind man and the whelp
a blind man was accustomed to distinguishing different animals by touching them with his hands.
the whelp of a wolf was brought him, with a request that he would feel it, and say what it was.
he felt it, and being in doubt, said: “i do not quite know whether it is the cub of a fox, or the whelp of a wolf, but this i know full well.
it would not be safe to admit him to the sheepfold.”
evil tendencies are shown in early life.
the dogs and the fox
some dogs, finding the skin of a lion, began to tear it in pieces with their teeth.
a fox, seeing them, said, “if this lion were alive, you would soon find out that his claws were stronger than your teeth.”
it is easy to kick a man that is down.
the cobbler turned doctor
a cobbler unable to make a living by his trade and made desperate by poverty, began to practice medicine in a town in which he was not known.
he sold a drug, pretending that it was an antidote to all poisons, and obtained a great name for himself by long-winded puffs and advertisements.
when the cobbler happened to fall sick himself of a serious illness, the governor of the town determined to test his skill.
for this purpose he called for a cup, and while filling it with water, pretended to mix poison with the cobbler’s antidote, commanding him to drink it on the promise of a reward.
the cobbler, under the fear of death, confessed that he had no knowledge of medicine, and was only made famous by the stupid clamors of the crowd.
the governor then called a public assembly and addressed the citizens: “of what folly have you been guilty?
you have not hesitated to entrust your heads to a man, whom no one could employ to make even the shoes for their feet.”
the wolf and the horse
a wolf coming out of a field of oats met a horse and thus addressed him: “i would advise you to go into that field.
it is full of fine oats, which i have left untouched for you, as you are a friend whom i would love to hear enjoying good eating.” the horse replied, “if oats had been the food of wolves, you would never have indulged your ears at the cost of your belly.”
men of evil reputation, when they perform a good deed, fail to get credit for it.
the brother and the sister
a father had one son and one daughter, the former remarkable for his good looks, the latter for her extraordinary ugliness.
while they were playing one day as children, they happened by chance to look together into a mirror that was placed on their mother’s chair.
the boy congratulated himself on his good looks; the girl grew angry, and could not bear the self-praises of her brother, interpreting all he said (and how could she do otherwise?)
into reflection on herself.
she ran off to her father, to be avenged on her brother, and spitefully accused him of having, as a boy, made use of that which belonged only to girls.
the father embraced them both, and bestowing his kisses and affection impartially on each, said, “i wish you both would look into the mirror every day: you, my son, that you may not spoil your beauty by evil conduct; and you, my daughter, that you may make up for your lack of beauty by your virtues.”
the wasps, the partridges, and the farmer
the wasps and the partridges, overcome with thirst, came to a farmer and besought him to give them some water to drink.
they promised amply to repay him the favor which they asked.
the partridges declared that they would dig around his vines and make them produce finer grapes.
the wasps said that they would keep guard and drive off thieves with their stings.
but the farmer interrupted them, saying: “i have already two oxen, who, without making any promises, do all these things.
it is surely better for me to give the water to them than to you.”
the crow and mercury
a crow caught in a snare prayed to apollo to release him, making a vow to offer some frankincense at his shrine.
but when rescued from his danger, he forgot his promise.
shortly afterwards, again caught in a snare, he passed by apollo and made the same promise to offer frankincense to mercury.
mercury soon appeared and said to him, “o thou most base fellow?
how can i believe thee, who hast disowned and wronged thy former patron?”
the north wind and the sun
the north wind and the sun disputed as to which was the most powerful, and agreed that he should be declared the victor who could first strip a wayfaring man of his clothes.
the north wind first tried his power and blew with all his might, but the keener his blasts, the closer the traveler wrapped his cloak around him, until at last, resigning all hope of victory, the wind called upon the sun to see what he could do.
the sun suddenly shone out with all his warmth.
the traveler no sooner felt his genial rays than he took off one garment after another, and at last, fairly overcome with heat, undressed and bathed in a stream that lay in his path.
persuasion is better than force.
the two men who were enemies
two men, deadly enemies to each other, were sailing in the same vessel.
determined to keep as far apart as possible, the one seated himself in the stem, and the other in the prow of the ship.
a violent storm arose, and with the vessel in great danger of sinking, the one in the stern inquired of the pilot which of the two ends of the ship would go down first.
on his replying that he supposed it would be the prow, the man said, “death would not be grievous to me, if i could only see my enemy die before me.”
the gamecocks and the partridge
a man had two gamecocks in his poultry-yard.
one day by chance he found a tame partridge for sale.
he purchased it and brought it home to be reared with his gamecocks.
when the partridge was put into the poultry-yard, they struck at it and followed it about, so that the partridge became grievously troubled and supposed that he was thus evilly treated because he was a stranger.
not long afterwards he saw the cocks fighting together and not separating before one had well beaten the other.
he then said to himself, “i shall no longer distress myself at being struck at by these gamecocks, when i see that they cannot even refrain from quarreling with each other.”
the quack frog
a frog once upon a time came forth from his home in the marsh and proclaimed to all the beasts that he was a learned physician, skilled in the use of drugs and able to heal all diseases.
a fox asked him, “how can you pretend to prescribe for others, when you are unable to heal your own lame gait and wrinkled skin?”
the lion, the wolf, and the fox
a lion, growing old, lay sick in his cave.
all the beasts came to visit their king, except the fox.
the wolf therefore, thinking that he had a capital opportunity, accused the fox to the lion of not paying any respect to him who had the rule over them all and of not coming to visit him.
at that very moment the fox came in and heard these last words of the wolf.
the lion roaring out in a rage against him, the fox sought an opportunity to defend himself and said, “and who of all those who have come to you have benefited you so much as i, who have traveled from place to place in every direction, and have sought and learnt from the physicians the means of healing you?” the lion commanded him immediately to tell him the cure, when he replied, “you must flay a wolf alive and wrap his skin yet warm around you.” the wolf was at once taken and flayed; whereon the fox, turning to him, said with a smile, “you should have moved your master not to ill, but to good, will.”
the dog’s house
in the wintertime, a dog curled up in as small a space as possible on account of the cold, determined to make himself a house.
however when the summer returned again, he lay asleep stretched at his full length and appeared to himself to be of a great size.
now he considered that it would be neither an easy nor a necessary work to make himself such a house as would accommodate him.
the wolf and the lion
roaming by the mountainside at sundown, a wolf saw his own shadow become greatly extended and magnified, and he said to himself, “why should i, being of such an immense size and extending nearly an acre in length, be afraid of the lion?
ought i not to be acknowledged as king of all the collected beasts?” while he was indulging in these proud thoughts, a lion fell upon him and killed him.
he exclaimed with a too late repentance, “wretched me!
this overestimation of myself is the cause of my destruction.”
the birds, the beasts, and the bat
the birds waged war with the beasts, and each were by turns the conquerors.
a bat, fearing the uncertain issues of the fight, always fought on the side which he felt was the strongest.
when peace was proclaimed, his deceitful conduct was apparent to both combatants.
therefore being condemned by each for his treachery, he was driven forth from the light of day, and henceforth concealed himself in dark hiding-places, flying always alone and at night.
the spendthrift and the swallow
a young man, a great spendthrift, had run through all his patrimony and had but one good cloak left.
one day he happened to see a swallow, which had appeared before its season, skimming along a pool and twittering gaily.
he supposed that summer had come, and went and sold his cloak.
not many days later, winter set in again with renewed frost and cold.
when he found the unfortunate swallow lifeless on the ground, he said, “unhappy bird!
what have you done?
by thus appearing before the springtime you have not only killed yourself, but you have wrought my destruction also.”
the fox and the lion
a fox saw a lion confined in a cage, and standing near him, bitterly reviled him.
the lion said to the fox, “it is not thou who revilest me; but this mischance which has befallen me.”
the owl and the birds
an owl, in her wisdom, counseled the birds that when the acorn first began to sprout, to pull it all up out of the ground and not allow it to grow.
she said acorns would produce mistletoe, from which an irremediable poison, the bird-lime, would be extracted and by which they would be captured.
the owl next advised them to pluck up the seed of the flax, which men had sown, as it was a plant which boded no good to them.
and, lastly, the owl, seeing an archer approach, predicted that this man, being on foot, would contrive darts armed with feathers which would fly faster than the wings of the birds themselves.
the birds gave no credence to these warning words, but considered the owl to be beside herself and said that she was mad.
but afterwards, finding her words were true, they wondered at her knowledge and deemed her to be the wisest of birds.
hence it is that when she appears they look to her as knowing all things, while she no longer gives them advice, but in solitude laments their past folly.
the trumpeter taken prisoner
a trumpeter, bravely leading on the soldiers, was captured by the enemy.
he cried out to his captors, “pray spare me, and do not take my life without cause or without inquiry.
i have not slain a single man of your troop.
i have no arms, and carry nothing but this one brass trumpet.”
“that is the very reason for which you should be put to death,” they said; “for, while you do not fight yourself, your trumpet stirs all the others to battle.”
the ass in the lion’s skin
an ass, having put on the lion’s skin, roamed about in the forest and amused himself by frightening all the foolish animals he met in his wanderings.
at last coming upon a fox, he tried to frighten him also, but the fox no sooner heard the sound of his voice than he exclaimed, “i might possibly have been frightened myself, if i had not heard your bray.”
the sparrow and the hare
a hare pounced upon by an eagle sobbed very much and uttered cries like a child.
a sparrow upbraided her and said, “where now is thy remarkable swiftness of foot?
why were your feet so slow?” while the sparrow was thus speaking, a hawk suddenly seized him and killed him.
the hare was comforted in her death, and expiring said, “ah!
you who so lately, when you supposed yourself safe, exulted over my calamity, have now reason to deplore a similar misfortune.”
the flea and the ox
a flea thus questioned an ox: “what ails you, that being so huge and strong, you submit to the wrongs you receive from men and slave for them day by day, while i, being so small a creature, mercilessly feed on their flesh and drink their blood without stint?” the ox replied: “i do not wish to be ungrateful, for i am loved and well cared for by men, and they often pat my head and shoulders.” “woe’s me!” said the flea; “this very patting which you like, whenever it happens to me, brings with it my inevitable destruction.”
the goods and the ills
all the goods were once driven out by the ills from that common share which they each had in the affairs of mankind; for the ills by reason of their numbers had prevailed to possess the earth.
the goods wafted themselves to heaven and asked for a righteous vengeance on their persecutors.
they entreated jupiter that they might no longer be associated with the ills, as they had nothing in common and could not live together, but were engaged in unceasing warfare; and that an indissoluble law might be laid down for their future protection.
jupiter granted their request and decreed that henceforth the ills should visit the earth in company with each other, but that the goods should one by one enter the habitations of men.
hence it arises that ills abound, for they come not one by one, but in troops, and by no means singly: while the goods proceed from jupiter, and are given, not alike to all, but singly, and separately; and one by one to those who are able to discern them.
the dove and the crow
a dove shut up in a cage was boasting of the large number of young ones which she had hatched.
a crow hearing her, said: “my good friend, cease from this unseasonable boasting.
the larger the number of your family, the greater your cause of sorrow, in seeing them shut up in this prison-house.”
mercury and the workmen
a workman, felling wood by the side of a river, let his axe drop by accident into a deep pool.
being thus deprived of the means of his livelihood, he sat down on the bank and lamented his hard fate.
mercury appeared and demanded the cause of his tears.
after he told him his misfortune, mercury plunged into the stream, and, bringing up a golden axe, inquired if that were the one he had lost.
on his saying that it was not his, mercury disappeared beneath the water a second time, returned with a silver axe in his hand, and again asked the workman if it were his.
when the workman said it was not, he dived into the pool for the third time and brought up the axe that had been lost.
the workman claimed it and expressed his joy at its recovery.
mercury, pleased with his honesty, gave him the golden and silver axes in addition to his own.
the workman, on his return to his house, related to his companions all that had happened.
one of them at once resolved to try and secure the same good fortune for himself.
he ran to the river and threw his axe on purpose into the pool at the same place, and sat down on the bank to weep.
mercury appeared to him just as he hoped he would; and having learned the cause of his grief, plunged into the stream and brought up a golden axe, inquiring if he had lost it.
the workman seized it greedily, and declared that truly it was the very same axe that he had lost.
mercury, displeased at his knavery, not only took away the golden axe, but refused to recover for him the axe he had thrown into the pool.
the eagle and the jackdaw
an eagle, flying down from his perch on a lofty rock, seized upon a lamb and carried him aloft in his talons.
a jackdaw, who witnessed the capture of the lamb, was stirred with envy and determined to emulate the strength and flight of the eagle.
he flew around with a great whir of his wings and settled upon a large ram, with the intention of carrying him off, but his claws became entangled in the ram’s fleece and he was not able to release himself, although he fluttered with his feathers as much as he could.
the shepherd, seeing what had happened, ran up and caught him.
he at once clipped the jackdaw’s wings, and taking him home at night, gave him to his children.
on their saying, “father, what kind of bird is it?” he replied, “to my certain knowledge he is a daw; but he would like you to think an eagle.”
the fox and the crane
a fox invited a crane to supper and provided nothing for his entertainment but some soup made of pulse, which was poured out into a broad flat stone dish.
the soup fell out of the long bill of the crane at every mouthful, and his vexation at not being able to eat afforded the fox much amusement.
the crane, in his turn, asked the fox to sup with him, and set before her a flagon with a long narrow mouth, so that he could easily insert his neck and enjoy its contents at his leisure.
the fox, unable even to taste it, met with a fitting requital, after the fashion of her own hospitality.
jupiter, neptune, minerva, and momus
according to an ancient legend, the first man was made by jupiter, the first bull by neptune, and the first house by minerva.
on the completion of their labors, a dispute arose as to which had made the most perfect work.
they agreed to appoint momus as judge, and to abide by his decision.
momus, however, being very envious of the handicraft of each, found fault with all.
he first blamed the work of neptune because he had not made the horns of the bull below his eyes, so he might better see where to strike.
he then condemned the work of jupiter, because he had not placed the heart of man on the outside, that everyone might read the thoughts of the evil disposed and take precautions against the intended mischief.
and, lastly, he inveighed against minerva because she had not contrived iron wheels in the foundation of her house, so its inhabitants might more easily remove if a neighbor proved unpleasant.
jupiter, indignant at such inveterate faultfinding, drove him from his office of judge, and expelled him from the mansions of olympus.
the eagle and the fox
an eagle and a fox formed an intimate friendship and decided to live near each other.
the eagle built her nest in the branches of a tall tree, while the fox crept into the underwood and there produced her young.
not long after they had agreed upon this plan, the eagle, being in want of provision for her young ones, swooped down while the fox was out, seized upon one of the little cubs, and feasted herself and her brood.
the fox on her return, discovered what had happened, but was less grieved for the death of her young than for her inability to avenge them.
a just retribution, however, quickly fell upon the eagle.
while hovering near an altar, on which some villagers were sacrificing a goat, she suddenly seized a piece of the flesh, and carried it, along with a burning cinder, to her nest.
a strong breeze soon fanned the spark into a flame, and the eaglets, as yet unfledged and helpless, were roasted in their nest and dropped down dead at the bottom of the tree.
there, in the sight of the eagle, the fox gobbled them up.
the man and the satyr
a man and a satyr once drank together in token of a bond of alliance being formed between them.
one very cold wintry day, as they talked, the man put his fingers to his mouth and blew on them.
when the satyr asked the reason for this, he told him that he did it to warm his hands because they were so cold.
later on in the day they sat down to eat, and the food prepared was quite scalding.
the man raised one of the dishes a little towards his mouth and blew in it.
when the satyr again inquired the reason, he said that he did it to cool the meat, which was too hot.
“i can no longer consider you as a friend,” said the satyr, “a fellow who with the same breath blows hot and cold.”
the ass and his purchaser
a man wished to purchase an ass, and agreed with its owner that he should try out the animal before he bought him.
he took the ass home and put him in the straw-yard with his other asses, upon which the new animal left all the others and at once joined the one that was most idle and the greatest eater of them all.
seeing this, the man put a halter on him and led him back to his owner.
on being asked how, in so short a time, he could have made a trial of him, he answered, “i do not need a trial; i know that he will be just the same as the one he chose for his companion.”
a man is known by the company he keeps.
the two bags
every man, according to an ancient legend, is born into the world with two bags suspended from his neck all bag in front full of his neighbors’
faults, and a large bag behind filled with his own faults.
hence it is that men are quick to see the faults of others, and yet are often blind to their own failings.
the stag at the pool
a stag overpowered by heat came to a spring to drink.
seeing his own shadow reflected in the water, he greatly admired the size and variety of his horns, but felt angry with himself for having such slender and weak feet.
while he was thus contemplating himself, a lion appeared at the pool and crouched to spring upon him.
the stag immediately took to flight, and exerting his utmost speed, as long as the plain was smooth and open kept himself easily at a safe distance from the lion.
but entering a wood he became entangled by his horns, and the lion quickly came up to him and caught him.
when too late, he thus reproached himself: “woe is me!
how i have deceived myself!
these feet which would have saved me i despised, and i gloried in these antlers which have proved my destruction.”
what is most truly valuable is often underrated.
the jackdaw and the fox
a half-famished jackdaw seated himself on a fig-tree, which had produced some fruit entirely out of season, and waited in the hope that the figs would ripen.
a fox seeing him sitting so long and learning the reason of his doing so, said to him, “you are indeed, sir, sadly deceiving yourself; you are indulging a hope strong enough to cheat you, but which will never reward you with enjoyment.”
the lark burying her father
the lark (according to an ancient legend) was created before the earth itself, and when her father died, as there was no earth, she could find no place of burial for him.
she let him lie uninterred for five days, and on the sixth day, not knowing what else to do, she buried him in her own head.
hence she obtained her crest, which is popularly said to be her father’s grave-hillock.
youth’s first duty is reverence to parents.
the gnat and the bull
a gnat settled on the horn of a bull, and sat there a long time.
just as he was about to fly off, he made a buzzing noise, and inquired of the bull if he would like him to go.
the bull replied, “i did not know you had come, and i shall not miss you when you go away.”
some men are of more consequence in their own eyes than in the eyes of their neighbors.
the bitch and her whelps
a bitch, ready to whelp, earnestly begged a shepherd for a place where she might litter.
when her request was granted, she besought permission to rear her puppies in the same spot.
the shepherd again consented.
but at last the bitch, protected by the bodyguard of her whelps, who had now grown up and were able to defend themselves, asserted her exclusive right to the place and would not permit the shepherd to approach.
the dogs and the hides
some dogs famished with hunger saw a number of cowhides steeping in a river.
not being able to reach them, they agreed to drink up the river, but it happened that they burst themselves with drinking long before they reached the hides.
attempt not impossibilities.
the shepherd and the sheep
a shepherd driving his sheep to a wood, saw an oak of unusual size full of acorns, and spreading his cloak under the branches, he climbed up into the tree and shook them down.
the sheep eating the acorns inadvertently frayed and tore the cloak.
when the shepherd came down and saw what was done, he said, “o you most ungrateful creatures!
you provide wool to make garments for all other men, but you destroy the clothes of him who feeds you.”
the grasshopper and the owl
an owl, accustomed to feed at night and to sleep during the day, was greatly disturbed by the noise of a grasshopper and earnestly besought her to stop chirping.
the grasshopper refused to desist, and chirped louder and louder the more the owl entreated.
when she saw that she could get no redress and that her words were despised, the owl attacked the chatterer by a stratagem.
“since i cannot sleep,” she said, “on account of your song which, believe me, is sweet as the lyre of apollo, i shall indulge myself in drinking some nectar which pallas lately gave me.
if you do not dislike it, come to me and we will drink it together.”
the grasshopper, who was thirsty, and pleased with the praise of her voice, eagerly flew up.
the owl came forth from her hollow, seized her, and put her to death.
the monkey and the camel
the beasts of the forest gave a splendid entertainment at which the monkey stood up and danced.
having vastly delighted the assembly, he sat down amidst universal applause.
the camel, envious of the praises bestowed on the monkey and desiring to divert to himself the favor of the guests, proposed to stand up in his turn and dance for their amusement.
he moved about in so utterly ridiculous a manner that the beasts, in a fit of indignation, set upon him with clubs and drove him out of the assembly.
it is absurd to ape our betters.
the peasant and the apple-tree
a peasant had in his garden an apple-tree which bore no fruit but only served as a harbor for the sparrows and grasshoppers.
he resolved to cut it down, and taking his axe in his hand, made a bold stroke at its roots.
the grasshoppers and sparrows entreated him not to cut down the tree that sheltered them, but to spare it, and they would sing to him and lighten his labors.
he paid no attention to their request, but gave the tree a second and a third blow with his axe.
when he reached the hollow of the tree, he found a hive full of honey.
having tasted the honeycomb, he threw down his axe, and looking on the tree as sacred, took great care of it.
self-interest alone moves some men.
the two soldiers and the robber
two soldiers traveling together were set upon by a robber.
the one fled away; the other stood his ground and defended himself with his stout right hand.
the robber being slain, the timid companion ran up and drew his sword, and then, throwing back his traveling cloak said, “i’ll at him, and i’ll take care he shall learn whom he has attacked.” on this, he who had fought with the robber made answer, “i only wish that you had helped me just now, even if it had been only with those words, for i should have been the more encouraged, believing them to be true; but now put up your sword in its sheath and hold your equally useless tongue, till you can deceive others who do not know you.
i, indeed, who have experienced with what speed you run away, know right well that no dependence can be placed on your valor.”
the trees under the protection of the gods
the gods, according to an ancient legend, made choice of certain trees to be under their special protection.
jupiter chose the oak, venus the myrtle, apollo the laurel, cybele the pine, and hercules the poplar.
minerva, wondering why they had preferred trees not yielding fruit, inquired the reason for their choice.
jupiter replied, “it is lest we should seem to covet the honor for the fruit.” but said minerva, “let anyone say what he will the olive is more dear to me on account of its fruit.” then said jupiter, “my daughter, you are rightly called wise; for unless what we do is useful, the glory of it is vain.”
the mother and the wolf
a famished wolf was prowling about in the morning in search of food.
as he passed the door of a cottage built in the forest, he heard a mother say to her child, “be quiet, or i will throw you out of the window, and the wolf shall eat you.” the wolf sat all day waiting at the door.
in the evening he heard the same woman fondling her child and saying: “you are quiet now, and if the wolf should come, we will kill him.” the wolf, hearing these words, went home, gasping with cold and hunger.
when he reached his den, mistress wolf inquired of him why he returned wearied and supperless, so contrary to his wont.
he replied: “why, forsooth!
use i gave credence to the words of a woman!”
the ass and the horse
an ass besought a horse to spare him a small portion of his feed.
“yes,”
said the horse; “if any remains out of what i am now eating i will give it you for the sake of my own superior dignity, and if you will come when i reach my own stall in the evening, i will give you a little sack full of barley.” the ass replied, “thank you.
but i can’t think that you, who refuse me a little matter now, will by and by confer on me a greater benefit.”
truth and the traveler
a wayfaring man, traveling in the desert, met a woman standing alone and terribly dejected.
he inquired of her, “who art thou?” “my name is truth,” she replied.
“and for what cause,” he asked, “have you left the city to dwell alone here in the wilderness?” she made answer, “because in former times, falsehood was with few, but is now with all men.”
the manslayer
a man committed a murder, and was pursued by the relations of the man whom he murdered.
on his reaching the river nile he saw a lion on its bank and being fearfully afraid, climbed up a tree.
he found a serpent in the upper branches of the tree, and again being greatly alarmed, he threw himself into the river, where a crocodile caught him and ate him.
thus the earth, the air, and the water alike refused shelter to a murderer.
the lion and the fox
a fox entered into partnership with a lion on the pretense of becoming his servant.
each undertook his proper duty in accordance with his own nature and powers.
the fox discovered and pointed out the prey; the lion sprang on it and seized it.
the fox soon became jealous of the lion carrying off the lion’s share, and said that he would no longer find out the prey, but would capture it on his own account.
the next day he attempted to snatch a lamb from the fold, but he himself fell prey to the huntsmen and hounds.
the lion and the eagle
an eagle stayed his flight and entreated a lion to make an alliance with him to their mutual advantage.
the lion replied, “i have no objection, but you must excuse me for requiring you to find surety for your good faith, for how can i trust anyone as a friend who is able to fly away from his bargain whenever he pleases?”
try before you trust.
the hen and the swallow
a hen finding the eggs of a viper and carefully keeping them warm, nourished them into life.
a swallow, observing what she had done, said, “you silly creature!
why have you hatched these vipers which, when they shall have grown, will inflict injury on all, beginning with yourself?”
the buffoon and the countryman
a rich nobleman once opened the theaters without charge to the people, and gave a public notice that he would handsomely reward any person who invented a new amusement for the occasion.
various public performers contended for the prize.
among them came a buffoon well known among the populace for his jokes, and said that he had a kind of entertainment which had never been brought out on any stage before.
this report being spread about made a great stir, and the theater was crowded in every part.
the buffoon appeared alone upon the platform, without any apparatus or confederates, and the very sense of expectation caused an intense silence.
he suddenly bent his head towards his bosom and imitated the squeaking of a little pig so admirably with his voice that the audience declared he had a porker under his cloak, and demanded that it should be shaken out.
when that was done and nothing was found, they cheered the actor, and loaded him with the loudest applause.
a countryman in the crowd, observing all that has passed, said, “so help me, hercules, he shall not beat me at that trick!” and at once proclaimed that he would do the same thing on the next day, though in a much more natural way.
on the morrow a still larger crowd assembled in the theater, but now partiality for their favorite actor very generally prevailed, and the audience came rather to ridicule the countryman than to see the spectacle.
both of the performers appeared on the stage.
the buffoon grunted and squeaked away first, and obtained, as on the preceding day, the applause and cheers of the spectators.
next the countryman commenced, and pretending that he concealed a little pig beneath his clothes (which in truth he did, but not suspected by the audience ) contrived to take hold of and to pull his ear causing the pig to squeak.
the crowd, however, cried out with one consent that the buffoon had given a far more exact imitation, and clamored for the countryman to be kicked out of the theater.
on this the rustic produced the little pig from his cloak and showed by the most positive proof the greatness of their mistake.
“look here,” he said, “this shows what sort of judges you are.”
the crow and the serpent
a crow in great want of food saw a serpent asleep in a sunny nook, and flying down, greedily seized him.
the serpent, turning about, bit the crow with a mortal wound.
in the agony of death, the bird exclaimed: “o unhappy me!
who have found in that which i deemed a happy windfall the source of my destruction.”
the hunter and the horseman
a certain hunter, having snared a hare, placed it upon his shoulders and set out homewards.
on his way he met a man on horseback who begged the hare of him, under the pretense of purchasing it.
however, when the horseman got the hare, he rode off as fast as he could.
the hunter ran after him, as if he was sure of overtaking him, but the horseman increased more and more the distance between them.
the hunter, sorely against his will, called out to him and said, “get along with you!
for i will now make you a present of the hare.”
the king’s son and the painted lion
a king, whose only son was fond of martial exercises, had a dream in which he was warned that his son would be killed by a lion.
afraid the dream should prove true, he built for his son a pleasant palace and adorned its walls for his amusement with all kinds of life-sized animals, among which was the picture of a lion.
when the young prince saw this, his grief at being thus confined burst out afresh, and, standing near the lion, he said: “o you most detestable of animals!
through a lying dream of my father’s, which he saw in his sleep, i am shut up on your account in this palace as if i had been a girl: what shall i now do to you?” with these words he stretched out his hands toward a thorn-tree, meaning to cut a stick from its branches so that he might beat the lion.
but one of the tree’s prickles pierced his finger and caused great pain and inflammation, so that the young prince fell down in a fainting fit.
a violent fever suddenly set in, from which he died not many days later.
we had better bear our troubles bravely than try to escape them.
the cat and venus
a cat fell in love with a handsome young man, and entreated venus to change her into the form of a woman.
venus consented to her request and transformed her into a beautiful damsel, so that the youth saw her and loved her, and took her home as his bride.
while the two were reclining in their chamber, venus wishing to discover if the cat in her change of shape had also altered her habits of life, let down a mouse in the middle of the room.
the cat, quite forgetting her present condition, started up from the couch and pursued the mouse, wishing to eat it.
venus was much disappointed and again caused her to return to her former shape.
nature exceeds nurture.
the she-goats and their beards
the she-goats having obtained a beard by request to jupiter, the he-goats were sorely displeased and made complaint that the females equaled them in dignity.
“allow them,” said jupiter, “to enjoy an empty honor and to assume the badge of your nobler sex, so long as they are not your equals in strength or courage.”
it matters little if those who are inferior to us in merit should be like us in outside appearances.
the camel and the arab
an arab camel-driver, after completing the loading of his camel, asked him which he would like best, to go up hill or down.
the poor beast replied, not without a touch of reason: “why do you ask me?
is it that the level way through the desert is closed?”
the miller, his son, and their ass
a miller and his son were driving their ass to a neighboring fair to sell him.
they had not gone far when they met with a troop of women collected round a well, talking and laughing.
“look there,” cried one of them, “did you ever see such fellows, to be trudging along the road on foot when they might ride?” the old man hearing this, quickly made his son mount the ass, and continued to walk along merrily by his side.
presently they came up to a group of old men in earnest debate.
“there,”
said one of them, “it proves what i was a-saying.
what respect is shown to old age in these days?
do you see that idle lad riding while his old father has to walk?
get down, you young scapegrace, and let the old man rest his weary limbs.” upon this the old man made his son dismount, and got up himself.
in this manner they had not proceeded far when they met a company of women and children: “why, you lazy old fellow,” cried several tongues at once, “how can you ride upon the beast, while that poor little lad there can hardly keep pace by the side of you?” the good-natured miller immediately took up his son behind him.
they had now almost reached the town.
“pray, honest friend,” said a citizen, “is that ass your own?” “yes,” replied the old man.
“o, one would not have thought so,” said the other, “by the way you load him.
why, you two fellows are better able to carry the poor beast than he you.” “anything to please you,” said the old man; “we can but try.” so, alighting with his son, they tied the legs of the ass together and with the help of a pole endeavored to carry him on their shoulders over a bridge near the entrance to the town.
this entertaining sight brought the people in crowds to laugh at it, till the ass, not liking the noise nor the strange handling that he was subject to, broke the cords that bound him and, tumbling off the pole, fell into the river.
upon this, the old man, vexed and ashamed, made the best of his way home again, convinced that by endeavoring to please everybody he had pleased nobody, and lost his ass in the bargain.
the crow and the sheep
a troublesome crow seated herself on the back of a sheep.
the sheep, much against his will, carried her backward and forward for a long time, and at last said, “if you had treated a dog in this way, you would have had your deserts from his sharp teeth.” to this the crow replied, “i despise the weak and yield to the strong.
i know whom i may bully and whom i must flatter; and i thus prolong my life to a good old age.”
the fox and the bramble
a fox was mounting a hedge when he lost his footing and caught hold of a bramble to save himself.
having pricked and grievously torn the soles of his feet, he accused the bramble because, when he had fled to her for assistance, she had used him worse than the hedge itself.
the bramble, interrupting him, said, “but you really must have been out of your senses to fasten yourself on me, who am myself always accustomed to fasten upon others.”
the wolf and the lion
a wolf, having stolen a lamb from a fold, was carrying him off to his lair.
a lion met him in the path, and seizing the lamb, took it from him.
standing at a safe distance, the wolf exclaimed, “you have unrighteously taken that which was mine from me!” to which the lion jeeringly replied, “it was righteously yours, eh?
the gift of a friend?”
the dog and the oyster
a dog, used to eating eggs, saw an oyster and, opening his mouth to its widest extent, swallowed it down with the utmost relish, supposing it to be an egg.
soon afterwards suffering great pain in his stomach, he said, “i deserve all this torment, for my folly in thinking that everything round must be an egg.”
they who act without sufficient thought, will often fall into unsuspected danger.
the ant and the dove
an ant went to the bank of a river to quench its thirst, and being carried away by the rush of the stream, was on the point of drowning.
a dove sitting on a tree overhanging the water plucked a leaf and let it fall into the stream close to her.
the ant climbed onto it and floated in safety to the bank.
shortly afterwards a birdcatcher came and stood under the tree, and laid his lime-twigs for the dove, which sat in the branches.
the ant, perceiving his design, stung him in the foot.
in pain the birdcatcher threw down the twigs, and the noise made the dove take wing.
the partridge and the fowler
a fowler caught a partridge and was about to kill it.
the partridge earnestly begged him to spare his life, saying, “pray, master, permit me to live and i will entice many partridges to you in recompense for your mercy to me.” the fowler replied, “i shall now with less scruple take your life, because you are willing to save it at the cost of betraying your friends and relations.”
the flea and the man
a man, very much annoyed with a flea, caught him at last, and said, “who are you who dare to feed on my limbs, and to cost me so much trouble in catching you?” the flea replied, “o my dear sir, pray spare my life, and destroy me not, for i cannot possibly do you much harm.” the man, laughing, replied, “now you shall certainly die by mine own hands, for no evil, whether it be small or large, ought to be tolerated.”
the thieves and the cock
some thieves broke into a house and found nothing but a cock, whom they stole, and got off as fast as they could.
upon arriving at home they prepared to kill the cock, who thus pleaded for his life: “pray spare me; i am very serviceable to men.
i wake them up in the night to their work.” “that is the very reason why we must the more kill you,” they replied; “for when you wake your neighbors, you entirely put an end to our business.”
the safeguards of virtue are hateful to those with evil intentions.
the dog and the cook
a rich man gave a great feast, to which he invited many friends and acquaintances.
his dog availed himself of the occasion to invite a stranger dog, a friend of his, saying, “my master gives a feast, and there is always much food remaining; come and sup with me tonight.” the dog thus invited went at the hour appointed, and seeing the preparations for so grand an entertainment, said in the joy of his heart, “how glad i am that i came!
i do not often get such a chance as this.
i will take care and eat enough to last me both today and tomorrow.” while he was congratulating himself and wagging his tail to convey his pleasure to his friend, the cook saw him moving about among his dishes and, seizing him by his fore and hind paws, bundled him without ceremony out of the window.
he fell with force upon the ground and limped away, howling dreadfully.
his yelling soon attracted other street dogs, who came up to him and inquired how he had enjoyed his supper.
he replied, “why, to tell you the truth, i drank so much wine that i remember nothing.
i do not know how i got out of the house.”
the travelers and the plane-tree
two travelers, worn out by the heat of the summer’s sun, laid themselves down at noon under the widespreading branches of a plane-tree.
as they rested under its shade, one of the travelers said to the other, “what a singularly useless tree is the plane!
it bears no fruit, and is not of the least service to man.” the plane-tree, interrupting him, said, “you ungrateful fellows!
do you, while receiving benefits from me and resting under my shade, dare to describe me as useless, and unprofitable?”
some men underrate their best blessings.
the hares and the frogs
the hares, oppressed by their own exceeding timidity and weary of the perpetual alarm to which they were exposed, with one accord determined to put an end to themselves and their troubles by jumping from a lofty precipice into a deep lake below.
as they scampered off in large numbers to carry out their resolve, the frogs lying on the banks of the lake heard the noise of their feet and rushed helter-skelter to the deep water for safety.
on seeing the rapid disappearance of the frogs, one of the hares cried out to his companions: “stay, my friends, do not do as you intended; for you now see that there are creatures who are still more timid than ourselves.”
the lion, jupiter, and the elephant
the lion wearied jupiter with his frequent complaints.
“it is true, o jupiter!” he said, “that i am gigantic in strength, handsome in shape, and powerful in attack.
i have jaws well provided with teeth, and feet furnished with claws, and i lord it over all the beasts of the forest, and what a disgrace it is, that being such as i am, i should be frightened by the crowing of a cock.” jupiter replied, “why do you blame me without a cause?
i have given you all the attributes which i possess myself, and your courage never fails you except in this one instance.”
on hearing this the lion groaned and lamented very much and, reproaching himself with his cowardice, wished that he might die.
as these thoughts passed through his mind, he met an elephant and came close to hold a conversation with him.
after a time he observed that the elephant shook his ears very often, and he inquired what was the matter and why his ears moved with such a tremor every now and then.
just at that moment a gnat settled on the head of the elephant, and he replied, “do you see that little buzzing insect?
if it enters my ear, my fate is sealed.
i should die presently.” the lion said, “well, since so huge a beast is afraid of a tiny gnat, i will no more complain, nor wish myself dead.
i find myself, even as i am, better off than the elephant.”
the lamb and the wolf
a wolf pursued a lamb, which fled for refuge to a certain temple.
the wolf called out to him and said, “the priest will slay you in sacrifice, if he should catch you.” on which the lamb replied, “it would be better for me to be sacrificed in the temple than to be eaten by you.”
the rich man and the tanner
a rich man lived near a tanner, and not being able to bear the unpleasant smell of the tan-yard, he pressed his neighbor to go away.
the tanner put off his departure from time to time, saying that he would leave soon.
but as he still continued to stay, as time went on, the rich man became accustomed to the smell, and feeling no manner of inconvenience, made no further complaints.
the shipwrecked man and the sea
a shipwrecked man, having been cast upon a certain shore, slept after his buffetings with the deep.
after a while he awoke, and looking upon the sea, loaded it with reproaches.
he argued that it enticed men with the calmness of its looks, but when it had induced them to plow its waters, it grew rough and destroyed them.
the sea, assuming the form of a woman, replied to him: “blame not me, my good sir, but the winds, for i am by my own nature as calm and firm even as this earth; but the winds suddenly falling on me create these waves, and lash me into fury.”
the mules and the robbers
two mules well-laden with packs were trudging along.
one carried panniers filled with money, the other sacks weighted with grain.
the mule carrying the treasure walked with head erect, as if conscious of the value of his burden, and tossed up and down the clear-toned bells fastened to his neck.
his companion followed with quiet and easy step.
all of a sudden robbers rushed upon them from their hiding-places, and in the scuffle with their owners, wounded with a sword the mule carrying the treasure, which they greedily seized while taking no notice of the grain.
the mule which had been robbed and wounded bewailed his misfortunes.
the other replied, “i am indeed glad that i was thought so little of, for i have lost nothing, nor am i hurt with any wound.”
the viper and the file
a lion, entering the workshop of a smith, sought from the tools the means of satisfying his hunger.
he more particularly addressed himself to a file, and asked of him the favor of a meal.
the file replied, “you must indeed be a simple-minded fellow if you expect to get anything from me, who am accustomed to take from everyone, and never to give anything in return.”
the lion and the shepherd
a lion, roaming through a forest, trod upon a thorn.
soon afterward he came up to a shepherd and fawned upon him, wagging his tail as if to say, “i am a suppliant, and seek your aid.” the shepherd boldly examined the beast, discovered the thorn, and placing his paw upon his lap, pulled it out; thus relieved of his pain, the lion returned into the forest.
some time after, the shepherd, being imprisoned on a false accusation, was condemned “to be cast to the lions” as the punishment for his imputed crime.
but when the lion was released from his cage, he recognized the shepherd as the man who healed him, and instead of attacking him, approached and placed his foot upon his lap.
the king, as soon as he heard the tale, ordered the lion to be set free again in the forest, and the shepherd to be pardoned and restored to his friends.
the camel and jupiter
the camel, when he saw the bull adorned with horns, envied him and wished that he himself could obtain the same honors.
he went to jupiter, and besought him to give him horns.
jupiter, vexed at his request because he was not satisfied with his size and strength of body, and desired yet more, not only refused to give him horns, but even deprived him of a portion of his ears.
the panther and the shepherds
a panther, by some mischance, fell into a pit.
the shepherds discovered him, and some threw sticks at him and pelted him with stones, while others, moved with compassion towards one about to die even though no one should hurt him, threw in some food to prolong his life.
at night they returned home, not dreaming of any danger, but supposing that on the morrow they would find him dead.
the panther, however, when he had recruited his feeble strength, freed himself with a sudden bound from the pit, and hastened to his den with rapid steps.
after a few days he came forth and slaughtered the cattle, and, killing the shepherds who had attacked him, raged with angry fury.
then they who had spared his life, fearing for their safety, surrendered to him their flocks and begged only for their lives.
to them the panther made this reply: “i remember alike those who sought my life with stones, and those who gave me food aside, therefore, your fears.
i return as an enemy only to those who injured me.”
the ass and the charger
an ass congratulated a horse on being so ungrudgingly and carefully provided for, while he himself had scarcely enough to eat and not even that without hard work.
but when war broke out, a heavily armed soldier mounted the horse, and riding him to the charge, rushed into the very midst of the enemy.
the horse was wounded and fell dead on the battlefield.
then the ass, seeing all these things, changed his mind, and commiserated the horse.
the eagle and his captor
an eagle was once captured by a man, who immediately clipped his wings and put him into his poultry-yard with the other birds, at which treatment the eagle was weighed down with grief.
later, another neighbor purchased him and allowed his feathers to grow again.
the eagle took flight, and pouncing upon a hare, brought it at once as an offering to his benefactor.
a fox, seeing this, exclaimed, “do not cultivate the favor of this man, but of your former owner, lest he should again hunt for you and deprive you a second time of your wings.”
the bald man and the fly
a fly bit the bare head of a bald man who, endeavoring to destroy it, gave himself a heavy slap.
escaping, the fly said mockingly, “you who have wished to revenge, even with death, the prick of a tiny insect, see what you have done to yourself to add insult to injury?” the bald man replied, “i can easily make peace with myself, because i know there was no intention to hurt.
but you, an ill-favored and contemptible insect who delights in sucking human blood, i wish that i could have killed you even if i had incurred a heavier penalty.”
the olive-tree and the fig-tree
the olive-tree ridiculed the fig-tree because, while she was green all the year round, the fig-tree changed its leaves with the seasons.
a shower of snow fell upon them, and, finding the olive full of foliage, it settled upon its branches and broke them down with its weight, at once despoiling it of its beauty and killing the tree.
but finding the fig-tree denuded of leaves, the snow fell through to the ground, and did not injure it at all.
the eagle and the kite
an eagle, overwhelmed with sorrow, sat upon the branches of a tree in company with a kite.
“why,” said the kite, “do i see you with such a rueful look?” “i seek,” she replied, “a mate suitable for me, and am not able to find one.” “take me,” returned the kite, “i am much stronger than you are.” “why, are you able to secure the means of living by your plunder?” “well, i have often caught and carried away an ostrich in my talons.” the eagle, persuaded by these words, accepted him as her mate.
shortly after the nuptials, the eagle said, “fly off and bring me back the ostrich you promised me.” the kite, soaring aloft into the air, brought back the shabbiest possible mouse, stinking from the length of time it had lain about the fields.
“is this,” said the eagle, “the faithful fulfillment of your promise to me?” the kite replied, “that i might attain your royal hand, there is nothing that i would not have promised, however much i knew that i must fail in the performance.”
the ass and his driver
an ass, being driven along a high road, suddenly started off and bolted to the brink of a deep precipice.
while he was in the act of throwing himself over, his owner seized him by the tail, endeavoring to pull him back.
when the ass persisted in his effort, the man let him go and said, “conquer, but conquer to your cost.”
the thrush and the fowler
a thrush was feeding on a myrtle-tree and did not move from it because its berries were so delicious.
a fowler observed her staying so long in one spot, and having well bird-limed his reeds, caught her.
the thrush, being at the point of death, exclaimed, “o foolish creature that i am!
for the sake of a little pleasant food i have deprived myself of my life.”
the rose and the amaranth
an amaranth planted in a garden near a rose-tree, thus addressed it:
“what a lovely flower is the rose, a favorite alike with gods and with men.
i envy you your beauty and your perfume.” the rose replied, “i indeed, dear amaranth, flourish but for a brief season!
if no cruel hand pluck me from my stem, yet i must perish by an early doom.
but thou art immortal and dost never fade, but bloomest for ever in renewed youth.”
the frogs’ complaint against the sun
once upon a time, when the sun announced his intention to take a wife, the frogs lifted up their voices in clamor to the sky.
jupiter, disturbed by the noise of their croaking, inquired the cause of their complaint.
one of them said, “the sun, now while he is single, parches up the marsh, and compels us to die miserably in our arid homes.
what will be our future condition if he should beget other suns?”
life of aesop
the life and history of aesop is involved, like that of homer, the most famous of greek poets, in much obscurity.
sardis, the capital of lydia; samos, a greek island; mesembria, an ancient colony in thrace; and cotiaeum, the chief city of a province of phrygia, contend for the distinction of being the birthplace of aesop.
although the honor thus claimed cannot be definitely assigned to any one of these places, yet there are a few incidents now generally accepted by scholars as established facts, relating to the birth, life, and death of aesop.
he is, by an almost universal consent, allowed to have been born about the year 620 b.c., and to have been by birth a slave.
he was owned by two masters in succession, both inhabitants of samos, xanthus and jadmon, the latter of whom gave him his liberty as a reward for his learning and wit.
one of the privileges of a freedman in the ancient republics of greece, was the permission to take an active interest in public affairs; and aesop, like the philosophers phaedo, menippus, and epictetus, in later times, raised himself from the indignity of a servile condition to a position of high renown.
in his desire alike to instruct and to be instructed, he travelled through many countries, and among others came to sardis, the capital of the famous king of lydia, the great patron, in that day, of learning and of learned men.
he met at the court of croesus with solon, thales, and other sages, and is related so to have pleased his royal master, by the part he took in the conversations held with these philosophers, that he applied to him an expression which has since passed into a proverb, “the phrygian has spoken better than all.”
on the invitation of croesus he fixed his residence at sardis, and was employed by that monarch in various difficult and delicate affairs of state.
in his discharge of these commissions he visited the different petty republics of greece.
at one time he is found in corinth, and at another in athens, endeavouring, by the narration of some of his wise fables, to reconcile the inhabitants of those cities to the administration of their respective rulers periander and pisistratus.
one of these ambassadorial missions, undertaken at the command of croesus, was the occasion of his death.
having been sent to delphi with a large sum of gold for distribution among the citizens, he was so provoked at their covetousness that he refused to divide the money, and sent it back to his master.
the delphians, enraged at this treatment, accused him of impiety, and, in spite of his sacred character as ambassador, executed him as a public criminal.
this cruel death of aesop was not unavenged.
the citizens of delphi were visited with a series of calamities, until they made a public reparation of their crime; and, “the blood of aesop”
became a well-known adage, bearing witness to the truth that deeds of wrong would not pass unpunished.
neither did the great fabulist lack posthumous honors; for a statue was erected to his memory at athens, the work of lysippus, one of the most famous of greek sculptors.
phaedrus thus immortalizes the event:
aesopo ingentem statuam posuere attici,      servumque collocarunt aeterna in basi:
patere honoris scirent ut cuncti viam;      nec generi tribui sed virtuti gloriam.
these few facts are all that can be relied on with any degree of certainty, in reference to the birth, life, and death of aesop.
they were first brought to light, after a patient search and diligent perusal of ancient authors, by a frenchman, m. claude gaspard bachet de mezeriac, who declined the honor of being tutor to louis xiii of france, from his desire to devote himself exclusively to literature.
he published his life of aesop, anno domini 1632. the later investigations of a host of english and german scholars have added very little to the facts given by m. mezeriac.
the substantial truth of his statements has been confirmed by later criticism and inquiry.
it remains to state, that prior to this publication of m. mezeriac, the life of aesop was from the pen of maximus planudes, a monk of constantinople, who was sent on an embassy to venice by the byzantine emperor andronicus the elder, and who wrote in the early part of the fourteenth century.
his life was prefixed to all the early editions of these fables, and was republished as late as 1727 by archdeacon croxall as the introduction to his edition of aesop.
this life by planudes contains, however, so small an amount of truth, and is so full of absurd pictures of the grotesque deformity of aesop, of wondrous apocryphal stories, of lying legends, and gross anachronisms, that it is now universally condemned as false, puerile, and unauthentic.
[101] it is given up in the present day, by general consent, as unworthy of the slightest credit.
g.f.t.
my father's dragon
my father meets the cat
one cold rainy day when my father was a little boy, he met an old alley cat on his street.
the cat was very drippy and uncomfortable so my father said, "wouldn't you like to come home with me?"
this surprised the cat she had never before met anyone who cared about old alley cats but she said, "i'd be very much obliged if i could sit by a warm furnace, and perhaps have a saucer of milk."
"we have a very nice furnace to sit by," said my father, "and i'm sure my mother has an extra saucer of milk."
my father and the cat became good friends but my father's mother was very upset about the cat.
she hated cats, particularly ugly old alley cats.
"elmer elevator," she said to my father, "if you think i'm going to give that cat a saucer of milk, you're very wrong.
once you start feeding stray alley cats you might as well expect to feed every stray in town, and i am not going to do it!"
this made my father very sad, and he apologized to the cat because his mother had been so rude.
he told the cat to stay anyway, and that somehow he would bring her a saucer of milk each day.
my father fed the cat for three weeks, but one day his mother found the cat's saucer in the cellar and she was extremely angry.
she whipped my father and threw the cat out the door, but later on my father sneaked out and found the cat.
together they went for a walk in the park and tried to think of nice things to talk about.
my father said, "when i grow up i'm going to have an airplane.
wouldn't it be wonderful to fly just anywhere you might think of!"
"would you like to fly very, very much?"
asked the cat.
"i certainly would.
i'd do anything if i could fly."
"well," said the cat, "if you'd really like to fly that much, i think i know of a sort of a way you might get to fly while you're still a little boy."
"you mean you know where i could get an airplane?"
"well, not exactly an airplane, but something even better.
as you can see, i'm an old cat now, but in my younger days i was quite a traveler.
my traveling days are over but last spring i took just one more trip and sailed to the island of tangerina, stopping at the port of cranberry.
well, it just so happened that i missed the boat, and while waiting for the next i thought i'd look around a bit.
i was particularly interested in a place called wild island, which we had passed on our way to tangerina.
wild island and tangerina are joined together by a long string of rocks, but people never go to wild island because it's mostly jungle and inhabited by very wild animals.
so, i decided to go across the rocks and explore it for myself.
it certainly is an interesting place, but i saw something there that made me want to weep."
my father runs away
"wild island is practically cut in two by a very wide and muddy river," continued the cat.
"this river begins near one end of the island and flows into the ocean at the other.
now the animals there are very lazy, and they used to hate having to go all the way around the beginning of this river to get to the other side of the island.
it made visiting inconvenient and mail deliveries slow, particularly during the christmas rush.
crocodiles could have carried passengers and mail across the river, but crocodiles are very moody, and not the least bit dependable, and are always looking for something to eat.
they don't care if the animals have to walk around the river, so that's just what the animals did for many years."
"but what does all this have to do with airplanes?"
asked my father, who thought the cat was taking an awfully long time to explain.
"be patient, elmer," said the cat, and she went on with the story.
"one day about four months before i arrived on wild island a baby dragon fell from a low-flying cloud onto the bank of the river.
he was too young to fly very well, and besides, he had bruised one wing quite badly, so he couldn't get back to his cloud.
the animals found him soon afterwards and everybody said, 'why, this is just exactly what we've needed all these years!'
they tied a big rope around his neck and waited for the wing to get well.
this was going to end all their crossing-the-river troubles."
"i've never seen a dragon," said my father.
"did you see him?
how big is he?"
"oh, yes, indeed i saw the dragon.
in fact, we became great friends,"
said the cat.
"i used to hide in the bushes and talk to him when nobody was around.
he's not a very big dragon, about the size of a large black bear, although i imagine he's grown quite a bit since i left.
he's got a long tail and yellow and blue stripes.
his horn and eyes and the bottoms of his feet are bright red, and he has gold-colored wings."
"oh, how wonderful!"
said my father.
"what did the animals do with him when his wing got well?"
"they started training him to carry passengers, and even though he is just a baby dragon, they work him all day and all night too sometimes.
they make him carry loads that are much too heavy, and if he complains, they twist his wings and beat him.
he's always tied to a stake on a rope just long enough to go across the river.
his only friends are the crocodiles, who say 'hello' to him once a week if they don't forget.
really, he's the most miserable animal i've ever come across.
when i left i promised i'd try to help him someday, although i couldn't see how.
the rope around his neck is about the biggest, toughest rope you can imagine, with so many knots it would take days to untie them all.
"anyway, when you were talking about airplanes, you gave me a good idea.
now, i'm quite sure that if you were able to rescue the dragon, which wouldn't be the least bit easy, he'd let you ride him most anywhere, provided you were nice to him, of course.
how about trying it?"
"oh, i'd love to," said my father, and he was so angry at his mother for being rude to the cat that he didn't feel the least bit sad about running away from home for a while.
that very afternoon my father and the cat went down to the docks to see about ships going to the island of tangerina.
they found out that a ship would be sailing the next week, so right away they started planning for the rescue of the dragon.
the cat was a great help in suggesting things for my father to take with him, and she told him everything she knew about wild island.
of course, she was too old to go along.
everything had to be kept very secret, so when they found or bought anything to take on the trip they hid it behind a rock in the park.
the night before my father sailed he borrowed his father's knapsack and he and the cat packed everything very carefully.
he took chewing gum, two dozen pink lollipops, a package of rubber bands, black rubber boots, a compass, a tooth brush and a tube of tooth paste, six magnifying glasses, a very sharp jackknife, a comb and a hairbrush, seven hair ribbons of different colors, an empty grain bag with a label saying "cranberry," some clean clothes, and enough food to last my father while he was on the ship.
he couldn't live on mice, so he took twenty-five peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and six apples, because that's all the apples he could find in the pantry.
when everything was packed my father and the cat went down to the docks to the ship.
a night watchman was on duty, so while the cat made loud queer noises to distract his attention, my father ran over the gang-plank onto the ship.
he went down into the hold and hid among some bags of wheat.
the ship sailed early the next morning.
my father finds the island
my father hid in the hold for six days and nights.
twice he was nearly caught when the ship stopped to take on more cargo.
but at last he heard a sailor say that the next port would be cranberry and that they'd be unloading the wheat there.
my father knew that the sailors would send him home if they caught him, so he looked in his knapsack and took out a rubber band and the empty grain bag with the label saying "cranberry."
at the last moment my father got inside the bag, knapsack and all, folded the top of the bag inside, and put the rubber band around the top.
he didn't look just exactly like the other bags but it was the best he could do.
soon the sailors came to unload.
they lowered a big net into the hold and began moving the bags of wheat.
suddenly one sailor yelled, "great scott!
this is the queerest bag of wheat i've ever seen!
it's all lumpy-like, but the label says it's to go to cranberry."
the other sailors looked at the bag too, and my father, who was in the bag, of course, tried even harder to look like a bag of wheat.
then another sailor felt the bag and he just happened to get hold of my father's elbow.
"i know what this is," he said.
"this is a bag of dried corn on the cob," and he dumped my father into the big net along with the bags of wheat.
this all happened in the late afternoon, so late that the merchant in cranberry who had ordered the wheat didn't count his bags until the next morning.
(he was a very punctual man, and never late for dinner.)
the sailors told the captain, and the captain wrote down on a piece of paper, that they had delivered one hundred and sixty bags of wheat and one bag of dried corn on the cob.
they left the piece of paper for the merchant and sailed away that evening.
my father heard later that the merchant spent the whole next day counting and recounting the bags and feeling each one trying to find the bag of dried corn on the cob.
he never found it because as soon as it was dark my father climbed out of the bag, folded it up and put it back in his knapsack.
he walked along the shore to a nice sandy place and lay down to sleep.
my father was very hungry when he woke up the next morning.
just as he was looking to see if he had anything left to eat, something hit him on the head.
it was a tangerine.
he had been sleeping right under a tree full of big, fat tangerines.
and then he remembered that this was the island of tangerina.
tangerine trees grew wild everywhere.
my father picked as many as he had room for, which was thirty-one, and started off to find wild island.
he walked and walked and walked along the shore, looking for the rocks that joined the two islands.
he walked all day, and once when he met a fisherman and asked him about wild island, the fisherman began to shake and couldn't talk for a long while.
it scared him that much, just thinking about it.
finally he said, "many people have tried to explore wild island, but not one has come back alive.
we think they were eaten by the wild animals."
this didn't bother my father.
he kept walking and slept on the beach again that night.
it was beautifully clear the next day, and way down the shore my father could see a long line of rocks leading out into the ocean, and way, way out at the end he could just see a tiny patch of green.
he quickly ate seven tangerines and started down the beach.
it was almost dark when he came to the rocks, but there, way out in the ocean, was the patch of green.
he sat down and rested a while, remembering that the cat had said, "if you can, go out to the island at night, because then the wild animals won't see you coming along the rocks and you can hide when you get there."
so my father picked seven more tangerines, put on his black rubber boots, and waited for dark.
it was a very black night and my father could hardly see the rocks ahead of him.
sometimes they were quite high and sometimes the waves almost covered them, and they were slippery and hard to walk on.
sometimes the rocks were far apart and my father had to get a running start and leap from one to the next.
after a while he began to hear a rumbling noise.
it grew louder and louder as he got nearer to the island.
at last it seemed as if he was right on top of the noise, and he was.
he had jumped from a rock onto the back of a small whale who was fast asleep and cuddled up between two rocks.
the whale was snoring and making more noise than a steam shovel, so it never heard my father say, "oh, i didn't know that was you!"
and it never knew my father had jumped on its back by mistake.
for seven hours my father climbed and slipped and leapt from rock to rock, but while it was still dark he finally reached the very last rock and stepped off onto wild island.
my father finds the river
the jungle began just beyond a narrow strip of beach; thick, dark, damp, scary jungle.
my father hardly knew where to go, so he crawled under a wahoo bush to think, and ate eight tangerines.
the first thing to do, he decided, was to find the river, because the dragon was tied somewhere along its bank.
then he thought, "if the river flows into the ocean, i ought to be able to find it quite easily if i just walk along the beach far enough."
so my father walked until the sun rose and he was quite far from the ocean rocks.
it was dangerous to stay near them because they might be guarded in the daytime.
he found a clump of tall grass and sat down.
then he took off his rubber boots and ate three more tangerines.
he could have eaten twelve but he hadn't seen any tangerines on this island and he could not risk running out of something to eat.
my father slept all that day and only woke up late in the afternoon when he heard a funny little voice saying, "queer, queer, what a dear little dock!
i mean, dear, dear, what a queer little rock!"
my father saw a tiny paw rubbing itself on his knapsack.
he lay very still and the mouse, for it was a mouse, hurried away muttering to itself, "i must smell tumduddy.
i mean, i must tell somebody."
my father waited a few minutes and then started down the beach because it was almost dark now, and he was afraid the mouse really would tell somebody.
he walked all night and two scary things happened.
first, he just had to sneeze, so he did, and somebody close by said, "is that you, monkey?"
my father said, "yes."
then the voice said, "you must have something on your back, monkey," and my father said "yes,"
because he did.
he had his knapsack on his back.
"what do you have on your back, monkey?"
asked the voice.
my father didn't know what to say because what would a monkey have on its back, and how would it sound telling someone about it if it did have something?
just then another voice said, "i bet you're taking your sick grandmother to the doctor's."
my father said "yes" and hurried on.
quite by accident he found out later that he had been talking to a pair of tortoises.
the second thing that happened was that he nearly walked right between two wild boars who were talking in low solemn whispers.
when he first saw the dark shapes he thought they were boulders.
just in time he heard one of them say, "there are three signs of a recent invasion.
first, fresh tangerine peels were found under the wahoo bush near the ocean rocks.
second, a mouse reported an extraordinary rock some distance from the ocean rocks which upon further investigation simply wasn't there.
however, more fresh tangerine peels were found in the same spot, which is the third sign of invasion.
since tangerines do not grow on our island, somebody must have brought them across the ocean rocks from the other island, which may, or may not, have something to do with the appearance and/or disappearance of the extraordinary rock reported by the mouse."
after a long silence the other boar said, "you know, i think we're taking all this too seriously.
those peels probably floated over here all by themselves, and you know how unreliable mice are.
besides, if there had been an invasion, i would have seen it!"
"perhaps you're right," said the first boar.
"shall we retire?"
whereupon they both trundled back into the jungle.
well, that taught my father a lesson, and after that he saved all his tangerine peels.
he walked all night and toward morning came to the river.
then his troubles really began.
my father meets some tigers
the river was very wide and muddy, and the jungle was very gloomy and dense.
the trees grew close to each other, and what room there was between them was taken up by great high ferns with sticky leaves.
my father hated to leave the beach, but he decided to start along the river bank where at least the jungle wasn't quite so thick.
he ate three tangerines, making sure to keep all the peels this time, and put on his rubber boots.
my father tried to follow the river bank but it was very swampy, and as he went farther the swamp became deeper.
when it was almost as deep as his boot tops he got stuck in the oozy, mucky mud.
my father tugged and tugged, and nearly pulled his boots right off, but at last he managed to wade to a drier place.
here the jungle was so thick that he could hardly see where the river was.
he unpacked his compass and figured out the direction he should walk in order to stay near the river.
but he didn't know that the river made a very sharp curve away from him just a little way beyond, and so as he walked straight ahead he was getting farther and farther away from the river.
it was very hard to walk in the jungle.
the sticky leaves of the ferns caught at my father's hair, and he kept tripping over roots and rotten logs.
sometimes the trees were clumped so closely together that he couldn't squeeze between them and had to walk a long way around.
he began to hear whispery noises, but he couldn't see any animals anywhere.
the deeper into the jungle he went the surer he was that something was following him, and then he thought he heard whispery noises on both sides of him as well as behind.
he tried to run, but he tripped over more roots, and the noises only came nearer.
once or twice he thought he heard something laughing at him.
at last he came out into a clearing and ran right into the middle of it so that he could see anything that might try to attack him.
was he surprised when he looked and saw fourteen green eyes coming out of the jungle all around the clearing, and when the green eyes turned into seven tigers!
the tigers walked around him in a big circle, looking hungrier all the time, and then they sat down and began to talk.
"i suppose you thought we didn't know you were trespassing in our jungle!"
then the next tiger spoke.
"i suppose you're going to say you didn't know it was our jungle!"
"did you know that not one explorer has ever left this island alive?"
said the third tiger.
my father thought of the cat and knew this wasn't true.
but of course he had too much sense to say so.
one doesn't contradict a hungry tiger.
the tigers went on talking in turn.
"you're our first little boy, you know.
i'm curious to know if you're especially tender."
"maybe you think we have regular meal-times, but we don't.
we just eat whenever we're feeling hungry," said the fifth tiger.
"and we're very hungry right now.
in fact, i can hardly wait," said the sixth.
"i can't wait!"
said the seventh tiger.
and then all the tigers said together in a loud roar, "let's begin right now!"
and they moved in closer.
my father looked at those seven hungry tigers, and then he had an idea.
he quickly opened his knapsack and took out the chewing gum.
the cat had told him that tigers were especially fond of chewing gum, which was very scarce on the island.
so he threw them each a piece but they only growled, "as fond as we are of chewing gum, we're sure we'd like you even better!"
and they moved so close that he could feel them breathing on his face.
"but this is very special chewing gum," said my father.
"if you keep on chewing it long enough it will turn green, and then if you plant it, it will grow more chewing gum, and the sooner you start chewing the sooner you'll have more."
the tigers said, "why, you don't say!
isn't that fine!"
and as each one wanted to be the first to plant the chewing gum, they all unwrapped their pieces and began chewing as hard as they could.
every once in a while one tiger would look into another's mouth and say, "nope, it's not done yet," until finally they were all so busy looking into each other's mouths to make sure that no one was getting ahead that they forgot all about my father.
my father meets a rhinoceros
my father soon found a trail leading away from the clearing.
all sorts of animals might be using it too, but he decided to follow the trail no matter what he met because it might lead to the dragon.
he kept a sharp lookout in front and behind and went on.
just as he was feeling quite safe, he came around a curve right behind the two wild boars.
one of them was saying to the other, "did you know that the tortoises thought they saw monkey carrying his sick grandmother to the doctor's last night?
but monkey's grandmother died a week ago, so they must have seen something else.
i wonder what it was."
"i told you that there was an invasion afoot," said the other boar, "and i intend to find out what it is.
i simply can't stand invasions."
"nee meither," said a tiny little voice.
"i mean, me neither," and my father knew that the mouse was there, too.
"well," said the first boar, "you search the trail up this way to the dragon.
i'll go back down the other way through the big clearing, and we'll send mouse to watch the ocean rocks in case the invasion should decide to go away before we find it."
my father hid behind a mahogany tree just in time, and the first boar walked right past him.
my father waited for the other boar to get a head start on him, but he didn't wait very long because he knew that when the first boar saw the tigers chewing gum in the clearing, he'd be even more suspicious.
soon the trail crossed a little brook and my father, who by this time was very thirsty, stopped to get a drink of water.
he still had on his rubber boots, so he waded into a little pool of water and was stooping down when something quite sharp picked him up by the seat of the pants and shook him very hard.
"don't you know that's my private weeping pool?"
said a deep angry voice.
my father couldn't see who was talking because he was hanging in the air right over the pool, but he said, "oh, no, i'm so sorry.
i didn't know that everybody had a private weeping pool."
"everybody doesn't!"
said the angry voice, "but i do because i have such a big thing to weep about, and i drown everybody i find using my weeping pool."
with that the animal tossed my father up and down over the water.
"what is it that you weep about so much?"
asked my father, trying to get his breath, and he thought over all the things he had in his pack.
"oh, i have many things to weep about, but the biggest thing is the color of my tusk."
my father squirmed every which way trying to see the tusk, but it was through the seat of his pants where he couldn't possibly see it.
"when i was a young rhinoceros, my tusk was pearly white," said the animal (and then my father knew that he was hanging by the seat of his pants from a rhinoceros' tusk!
), "but it has turned a nasty yellow-gray in my old age, and i find it very ugly.
you see, everything else about me is ugly, but when i had a beautiful tusk i didn't worry so much about the rest.
now that my tusk is ugly too, i can't sleep nights just thinking about how completely ugly i am, and i weep all the time.
but why should i be telling you these things?
i caught you using my pool and now i'm going to drown you."
"oh, wait a minute, rhinoceros," said my father.
"i have some things that will make your tusk all white and beautiful again.
just let me down and i'll give them to you."
the rhinoceros said, "you do?
i can hardly believe it!
why, i'm so excited!"
he put my father down and danced around in a circle while my father got out the tube of tooth paste and the toothbrush.
"now," said my father, "just move your tusk a little nearer, please, and i'll show you how to begin."
my father wet the brush in the pool, squeezed on a dab of tooth paste, and scrubbed very hard in one tiny spot.
then he told the rhinoceros to wash it off, and when the pool was calm again, he told the rhinoceros to look in the water and see how white the little spot was.
it was hard to see in the dim light of the jungle, but sure enough, the spot shone pearly white, just like new.
the rhinoceros was so pleased that he grabbed the toothbrush and began scrubbing violently, forgetting all about my father.
just then my father heard hoofsteps and he jumped behind the rhinoceros.
it was the boar coming back from the big clearing where the tigers were chewing gum.
the boar looked at the rhinoceros, and at the toothbrush, and at the tube of tooth paste, and then he scratched his ear on a tree.
"tell me, rhinoceros," he said, "where did you get that fine tube of tooth paste and that toothbrush?"
"too busy!"
said the rhinoceros, and he went on brushing as hard as he could.
the boar sniffed angrily and trotted down the trail toward the dragon, muttering to himself, "very suspicious tigers too busy chewing gum, rhinoceros too busy brushing his tusk must get hold of that invasion.
don't like it one bit, not one bit!
it's upsetting everybody terribly wonder what it's doing here, anyway."
my father meets a lion
my father waved goodbye to the rhinoceros, who was much too busy to notice, got a drink farther down the brook, and waded back to the trail.
he hadn't gone very far when he heard an angry animal roaring, "ding blast it!
i told you not to go blackberrying yesterday.
won't you ever learn?
what will your mother say!"
my father crept along and peered into a small clearing just ahead.
a lion was prancing about clawing at his mane, which was all snarled and full of blackberry twigs.
the more he clawed the worse it became and the madder he grew and the more he yelled at himself, because it was himself he was yelling at all the time.
my father could see that the trail went through the clearing, so he decided to crawl around the edge in the underbrush and not disturb the lion.
he crawled and crawled, and the yelling grew louder and louder.
just as he was about to reach the trail on the other side the yelling suddenly stopped.
my father looked around and saw the lion glaring at him.
the lion charged and skidded to a stop a few inches away.
"who are you?"
the lion yelled at my father.
"my name is elmer elevator."
"where do you think you're going?"
"i'm going home," said my father.
"that's what you think!"
said the lion.
"ordinarily i'd save you for afternoon tea, but i happen to be upset enough and hungry enough to eat you right now."
and he picked up my father in his front paws to feel how fat he was.
my father said, "oh, please, lion, before you eat me, tell me why you are so particularly upset today."
"it's my mane," said the lion, as he was figuring how many bites a little boy would make.
"you see what a dreadful mess it is, and i don't seem to be able to do anything about it.
my mother is coming over on the dragon this afternoon, and if she sees me this way i'm afraid she'll stop my allowance.
she can't stand messy manes!
but i'm going to eat you now, so it won't make any difference to you."
"oh, wait a minute," said my father, "and i'll give you just the things you need to make your mane all tidy and beautiful.
i have them here in my pack."
"you do?"
said the lion.
"well, give them to me, and perhaps i'll save you for afternoon tea after all," and he put my father down on the ground.
my father opened the pack and took out the comb and the brush and the seven hair ribbons of different colors.
"look," he said, "i'll show you what to do on your forelock, where you can watch me.
first you brush a while, and then you comb, and then you brush again until all the twigs and snarls are gone.
then you divide it up in three and braid it like this and tie a ribbon around the end."
as my father was doing this, the lion watched very carefully and began to look much happier.
when my father tied on the ribbon he was all smiles.
"oh, that's wonderful, really wonderful!"
said the lion.
"let me have the comb and brush and see if i can do it."
so my father gave him the comb and brush and the lion began busily grooming his mane.
as a matter of fact, he was so busy that he didn't even know when my father left.
my father meets a gorilla
my father was very hungry so he sat down under a baby banyan tree on the side of the trail and ate four tangerines.
he wanted to eat eight or ten, but he had only thirteen left and it might be a long time before he could get more.
he packed away all the peels and was about to get up when he heard the familiar voices of the boars.
"i wouldn't have believed it if i hadn't seen them with my own eyes, but wait and see for yourself.
all the tigers are sitting around chewing gum to beat the band.
old rhinoceros is so busy brushing his tusk that he doesn't even look around to see who's going by, and they're all so busy they won't even talk to me!"
"horsefeathers!"
said the other boar, now very close to my father.
"they'll talk to me!
i'm going to get to the bottom of this if it's the last thing i do!"
the voices passed my father and went around a curve, and he hurried on because he knew how much more upset the boars would be when they saw the lion's mane tied up in hair ribbons.
before long my father came to a crossroads and he stopped to read the signs.
straight ahead an arrow pointed to the beginning of the river; to the left, the ocean rocks; and to the right, to the dragon ferry.
my father was reading all these signs when he heard pawsteps and ducked behind the signpost.
a beautiful lioness paraded past and turned down toward the clearings.
although she could have seen my father if she had bothered to glance at the post, she was much too occupied looking dignified to see anything but the tip of her own nose.
it was the lion's mother, of course, and that, thought my father, must mean that the dragon was on this side of the river.
he hurried on but it was farther away than he had judged.
he finally came to the river bank in the late afternoon and looked all around, but there was no dragon anywhere in sight.
he must have gone back to the other side.
my father sat down under a palm tree and was trying to have a good idea when something big and black and hairy jumped out of the tree and landed with a loud crash at his feet.
"well?"
said a huge voice.
"well what?"
said my father, for which he was very sorry when he looked up and discovered he was talking to an enormous and very fierce gorilla.
"well, explain yourself," said the gorilla.
"i'll give you till ten to tell me your name, business, your age and what's in that pack," and he began counting to ten as fast as he could.
my father didn't even have time to say "elmer elevator, explorer"
before the gorilla interrupted, "too slow!
i'll twist your arms the way i twist that dragon's wings, and then we'll see if you can't hurry up a bit."
he grabbed my father's arms, one in each fist, and was just about to twist them when he suddenly let go and began scratching his chest with both hands.
"blast those fleas!"
he raged.
"they won't give you a moment's peace, and the worst of it is that you can't even get a good look at them.
rosie!
rhoda!
rachel!
ruthie!
ruby!
roberta!
come here and get rid of this flea on my chest.
it's driving me crazy!"
six little monkeys tumbled out of the palm tree, dashed to the gorilla, and began combing the hair on his chest.
"well," said the gorilla, "it's still there!"
"we're looking, we're looking," said the six little monkeys, "but they're awfully hard to see, you know."
"i know," said the gorilla, "but hurry.
i've got work to do," and he winked at my father.
"oh, gorilla," said my father, "in my knapsack i have six magnifying glasses.
they'd be just the thing for hunting fleas."
my father unpacked them and gave one to rosie, one to rhoda, one to rachel, one to ruthie, one to ruby, and one to roberta.
"why, they're miraculous!"
said the six little monkeys.
"it's easy to see the fleas now, only there are hundreds of them!"
and they went on hunting frantically.
a moment later many more monkeys appeared out of a near-by clump of mangroves and began crowding around to get a look at the fleas through the magnifying glasses.
they completely surrounded the gorilla, and he could not see my father nor did he remember to twist his arms.
my father makes a bridge
my father walked back and forth along the bank trying to think of some way to cross the river.
he found a high flagpole with a rope going over to the other side.
the rope went through a loop at the top of the pole and then down the pole and around a large crank.
a sign on the crank said:
to summon dragon, yank the crank report disorderly conduct to gorilla
from what the cat had told my father, he knew that the other end of the rope was tied around the dragon's neck, and he felt sorrier than ever for the poor dragon.
if he were on this side, the gorilla would twist his wings until it hurt so much that he'd have to fly to the other side.
if he were on the other side, the gorilla would crank the rope until the dragon would either choke to death or fly back to this side.
what a life for a baby dragon!
my father knew that if he called to the dragon to come across the river, the gorilla would surely hear him, so he thought about climbing the pole and going across on the rope.
the pole was very high, and even if he could get to the top without being seen he'd have to go all the way across hand over hand.
the river was very muddy, and all sorts of unfriendly things might live in it, but my father could think of no other way to get across.
he was about to start up the pole when, despite all the noise the monkeys were making, he heard a loud splash behind him.
he looked all around in the water but it was dusk now, and he couldn't see anything there.
"it's me, crocodile," said a voice to the left.
"the water's lovely, and i have such a craving for something sweet.
won't you come in for a swim?"
a pale moon came out from behind the clouds and my father could see where the voice was coming from.
the crocodile's head was just peeping out of the water.
"oh, no thank you," said my father.
"i never swim after sundown, but i do have something sweet to offer you.
perhaps you'd like a lollipop, and perhaps you have friends who would like lollipops, too?"
"lollipops!"
said the crocodile.
"why, that is a treat!
how about it, boys?"
a whole chorus of voices shouted, "hurrah!
lollipops!"
and my father counted as many as seventeen crocodiles with their heads just peeping out of the water.
"that's fine," said my father as he got out the two dozen pink lollipops and the rubber bands.
"i'll stick one here in the bank.
lollipops last longer if you keep them out of the water, you know.
now, one of you can have this one."
the crocodile who had first spoken swam up and tasted it.
"delicious, mighty delicious!"
he said.
"now if you don't mind," said my father, "i'll just walk along your back and fasten another lollipop to the tip of your tail with a rubber band.
you don't mind, do you?"
"oh no, not in the least," said the crocodile.
"can you get your tail out of the water just a bit?"
asked my father.
"yes, of course," said the crocodile, and he lifted up his tail.
then my father ran along his back and fastened another lollipop with a rubber band.
"who's next?"
said my father, and a second crocodile swam up and began sucking on that lollipop.
"now, you gentlemen can save a lot of time if you just line up across the river," said my father, "and i'll be along to give you each a lollipop."
so the crocodiles lined up right across the river with their tails in the air, waiting for my father to fasten on the rest of the lollipops.
the tail of the seventeenth crocodile just reached the other bank.
my father finds the dragon
when my father was crossing the back of the fifteenth crocodile with two more lollipops to go, the noise of the monkeys suddenly stopped, and he could hear a much bigger noise getting louder every second.
then he could hear seven furious tigers and one raging rhinoceros and two seething lions and one ranting gorilla along with countless screeching monkeys, led by two extremely irate wild boars, all yelling, "it's a trick!
it's a trick!
there's an invasion and it must be after our dragon.
kill it!
kill it!"
the whole crowd stampeded down to the bank.
as my father was fixing the seventeenth lollipop for the last crocodile he heard a wild boar scream, "look, it came this way!
it's over there now, see!
the crocodiles made a bridge for it," and just as my father leapt onto the other bank one of the wild boars jumped onto the back of the first crocodile.
my father didn't have a moment to spare.
by now the dragon realized that my father was coming to rescue him.
he ran out of the bushes and jumped up and down yelling.
"here i am!
i'm right here!
can you see me?
hurry, the boar is coming over on the crocodiles, too.
they're all coming over!
oh, please hurry, hurry!"
the noise was simply terrific.
my father ran up to the dragon, and took out his very sharp jackknife.
"steady, old boy, steady.
we'll make it.
just stand still," he told the dragon as he began to saw through the big rope.
by this time both boars, all seven tigers, the two lions, the rhinoceros, and the gorilla, along with the countless screeching monkeys, were all on their way across the crocodiles and there was still a lot of rope to cut through.
"oh, hurry," the dragon kept saying, and my father again told him to stand still.
"if i don't think i can make it," said my father, "we'll fly over to the other side of the river and i can finish cutting the rope there."
suddenly the screaming grew louder and madder and my father thought the animals must have crossed the river.
he looked around, and saw something which surprised and delighted him.
partly because he had finished his lollipop, and partly because, as i told you before, crocodiles are very moody and not the least bit dependable and are always looking for something to eat, the first crocodile had turned away from the bank and started swimming down the river.
the second crocodile hadn't finished yet, so he followed right after the first, still sucking his lollipop.
all the rest did the same thing, one right after the other, until they were all swimming away in a line.
the two wild boars, the seven tigers, the rhinoceros, the two lions, the gorilla, along with the countless screeching monkeys, were all riding down the middle of the river on the train of crocodiles sucking pink lollipops, and all yelling and screaming and getting their feet wet.
my father and the dragon laughed themselves weak because it was such a silly sight.
as soon as they had recovered, my father finished cutting the rope and the dragon raced around in circles and tried to turn a somersault.
he was the most excited baby dragon that ever lived.
my father was in a hurry to fly away, and when the dragon finally calmed down a bit my father climbed up onto his back.
"all aboard!"
said the dragon.
"where shall we go?"
"we'll spend the night on the beach, and tomorrow we'll start on the long journey home.
so, it's off to the shores of tangerina!"
shouted my father as the dragon soared above the dark jungle and the muddy river and all the animals bellowing at them and all the crocodiles licking pink lollipops and grinning wide grins.
after all, what did the crocodiles care about a way to cross the river, and what a fine feast they were carrying on their backs!
as my father and the dragon passed over the ocean rocks they heard a tiny excited voice scream, "bum cack!
bum cack!
we dreed our nagon!
i mean, we need our dragon!"
but my father and the dragon knew that nothing in the world would ever make them go back to wild island.
the end
the peace egg and other tales.
a christmas tale.
every one ought to be happy at christmas.
but there are many things which ought to be, and yet are not; and people are sometimes sad even in the christmas holidays.
the captain and his wife were sad, though it was christmas eve.
sad, though they were in the prime of life, blessed with good health, devoted to each other and to their children, with competent means, a comfortable house on a little freehold property of their own, and, one might say, everything that heart could desire.
sad, though they were good people, whose peace of mind had a firmer foundation than their earthly goods alone; contented people, too, with plenty of occupation for mind and body.
sad and in the nursery this was held to be past all reason though the children were performing that ancient and most entertaining play or christmas mystery of good st. george of england, known as the peace egg, for their benefit and behoof alone.
the play was none the worse that most of the actors were too young to learn parts, so that there was very little of the rather tedious dialogue, only plenty of dress and ribbons, and of fighting with the wooden swords.
but though st. george looked bonny enough to warm any father's heart, as he marched up and down with an air learned by watching many a parade in barrack-square and drill-ground, and though the valiant slasher did not cry in spite of falling hard and the doctor treading accidentally on his little finger in picking him up, still the captain and his wife sighed nearly as often as they smiled, and the mother dropped tears as well as pennies into the cap which the king of egypt brought round after the performance.
the captain's wife.
many many years back the captain's wife had been a child herself, and had laughed to see the village mummers act the peace egg, and had been quite happy on christmas eve.
happy, though she had no mother.
happy, though her father was a stern man, very fond of his only child, but with an obstinate will that not even she dared thwart.
she had lived to thwart it, and he had never forgiven her.
it was when she married the captain.
the old man had a prejudice against soldiers, which was quite reason enough, in his opinion, for his daughter to sacrifice the happiness of her future life by giving up the soldier she loved.
at last he gave her her choice between the captain and his own favour and money.
she chose the captain, and was disowned and disinherited.
the captain bore a high character, and was a good and clever officer, but that went for nothing against the old man's whim.
he made a very good husband too; but even this did not move his father-in-law, who had never held any intercourse with him or his wife since the day of their marriage, and who had never seen his own grandchildren.
though not so bitterly prejudiced as the old father, the captain's wife's friends had their doubts about the marriage.
the place was not a military station, and they were quiet country folk who knew very little about soldiers, whilst what they imagined was not altogether favourable to "red-coats" as they called them.
soldiers are well-looking generally, it is true (and the captain was more than well-looking he was handsome); brave, of course it is their business (and the captain had v.c.
after his name and several bits of ribbon on his patrol jacket).
but then, thought the good people, they are here to-day and gone to-morrow, you "never know where you have them"; they are probably in debt, possibly married to several women in several foreign countries, and, though they are very courteous in society, who knows how they treat their wives when they drag them off from their natural friends and protectors to distant lands where no one can call them to account?
"ah, poor thing!"
said mrs. john bull, junior, as she took off her husband's coat on his return from business, a week after the captain's wedding, "i wonder how she feels?
there's no doubt the old man behaved disgracefully; but it's a great risk marrying a soldier.
it stands to reason, military men aren't domestic; and i wish lucy jane, fetch your papa's slippers, quick!
she'd had the sense to settle down comfortably amongst her friends with a man who would have taken care of her."
"officers are a wild set, i expect," said mr. bull, complacently, as he stretched his limbs in his own particular arm-chair, into which no member of his family ever intruded.
"but the red-coats carry the day with plenty of girls who ought to know better.
you women are always caught by a bit of finery.
however, there's no use our bothering our heads about it.
as she has brewed she must bake."
the captain's wife's baking was lighter and more palatable than her friends believed.
the captain (who took off his own coat when he came home, and never wore slippers but in his dressing-room) was domestic enough.
a selfish companion must, doubtless, be a great trial amid the hardships of military life, but when a soldier is kind-hearted, he is often a much more helpful and thoughtful and handy husband than any equally well-meaning civilian.
amid the ups and downs of their wanderings, the discomforts of shipboard and of stations in the colonies, bad servants, and unwonted sicknesses, the captain's tenderness never failed.
if the life was rough the captain was ready.
he had been, by turns, in one strait or another, sick-nurse, doctor, carpenter, nursemaid, and cook to his family, and had, moreover, an idea that nobody filled these offices quite so well as himself.
withal, his very profession kept him neat, well-dressed, and active.
in the roughest of their ever-changing quarters he was a smarter man, more like the lover of his wife's young days, than mr. bull amid his stationary comforts.
then if the captain's wife was as her friends said "never settled," she was also for ever entertained by new scenes; and domestic mischances do not weigh very heavily on people whose possessions are few and their intellectual interests many.
it is true that there were ladies in the captain's regiment who passed by sea and land from one quarter of the globe to another, amid strange climates and customs, strange trees and flowers, beasts and birds, from the glittering snows of north america to the orchids of the cape, from beautiful pera to the lily-covered hills of japan, and who in no place rose above the fret of domestic worries, and had little to tell on their return but of the universal misconduct of servants, from irish "helps" in the colonies, to compradors and china-boys at shanghai.
but it was not so with the captain's wife.
moreover, one becomes accustomed to one's fate, and she moved her whole establishment from the curragh to corfu with less anxiety than that felt by mrs. bull over a port-wine stain on the best table-cloth.
and yet, as years went and children came, the captain and his wife grew tired of travelling.
new scenes were small comfort when they heard of the death of old friends.
one foot of murky english sky was dearer, after all, than miles of the unclouded heavens of the south.
the grey hills and overgrown lanes of her old home haunted the captain's wife by night and day, and home-sickness (that weariest of all sicknesses) began to take the light out of her eyes before their time.
it preyed upon the captain too.
now and then he would say, fretfully, "i should like an english resting-place, however small, before every-body is dead!
but the children's prospects have to be considered."
the continued estrangement from the old man was an abiding sorrow also, and they had hopes that, if only they could get to england, he might be persuaded to peace and charity this time.
at last they were sent home.
but the hard old father still would not relent.
he returned their letters unopened.
this bitter disappointment made the captain's wife so ill that she almost died, and in one month the captain's hair became iron-grey.
he reproached himself for having ever taken the daughter from her father, "to kill her at last," as he said.
and (thinking of his own children) he even reproached himself for having robbed the old widower of his only child.
after two years at home his regiment was ordered to india.
he failed to effect an exchange, and they prepared to move once more from chatham to calcutta.
never before had the packing, to which she was so well accustomed, been so bitter a task to the captain's wife.
it was at the darkest hour of this gloomy time that the captain came in, waving above his head a letter which changed all their plans.
now close by the old home of the captain's wife there had lived a man, much older than herself, who yet had loved her with a devotion as great as that of the young captain.
she never knew it, for when he saw that she had given her heart to his younger rival, he kept silence, and he never asked for what he knew he might have had the old man's authority in his favour.
so generous was the affection which he could never conquer, that he constantly tried to reconcile the father to his children whilst he lived, and, when he died, he bequeathed his house and small estate to the woman he had loved.
"it will be a legacy of peace," he thought, on his death-bed.
"the old man cannot hold out when she and her children are constantly in sight.
and it may please god that i shall know of the reunion i have not been permitted to see with my eyes."
and thus it came about that the captain's regiment went to india without him, and that the captain's wife and her father lived on opposite sides of the same road.
master robert.
the eldest of the captain's children was a boy.
he was named robert, after his grandfather, and seemed to have inherited a good deal of the old gentleman's character, mixed with gentler traits.
he was a fair, fine boy, tall and stout for his age, with the captain's regular features, and (he flattered himself) the captain's firm step and martial bearing.
he was apt like his grandfather to hold his own will to be other people's law, and (happily for the peace of the nursery) this opinion was devoutly shared by his brother nicholas.
though the captain had sold his commission, robin continued to command an irregular force of volunteers in the nursery, and never was colonel more despotic.
his brothers and sister were by turn infantry, cavalry, engineers, and artillery, according to his whim, and when his affections finally settled upon the highlanders of "the black watch,"
no female power could compel him to keep his stockings above his knees, or his knickerbockers below them.
the captain alone was a match for his strong-willed son.
"if you please, sir," said sarah, one morning, flouncing in upon the captain, just as he was about to start for the neighbouring town, "if you please, sir, i wish you'd speak to master robert.
he's past my powers."
"i've no doubt of it," thought the captain, but he only said, "well, what's the matter?"
"night after night do i put him to bed," said sarah, "and night after night does he get up as soon as i'm out of the room, and says he's orderly officer for the evening, and goes about in his night-shirt, and his feet as bare as boards."
the captain fingered his heavy moustache to hide a smile, but he listened patiently to sarah's complaints.
"it ain't so much him i should mind, sir," she continued, "but he goes round the beds and wakes up the other young gentlemen and miss dora, one after another, and when i speak to him, he gives me all the sauce he can lay his tongue to, and says he's going round the guards.
the other night i tried to put him back in his bed, but he got away and ran all over the house, me hunting him everywhere, and not a sign of him, till he jumps out on me from the garret-stairs and nearly knocks me down.
'i've visited the outposts, sarah,' says he; 'all's well,' and off he goes to bed as bold as brass."
"have you spoken to your mistress?"
asked the captain.
"yes, sir," said sarah.
"and missis spoke to him, and he promised not to go round the guards again."
"has he broken his promise?"
asked the captain, with a look of anger, and also of surprise.
"when i opened the door last night, sir," continued sarah, in her shrill treble, "what should i see in the dark but master robert a-walking up and down with the carpet-brush stuck in his arm.
'who goes there?'
says he.
'you owdacious boy!'
says i.
'didn't you promise your ma you'd leave off them tricks?'
'i'm not going round the guards,' says he; 'i promised not.
but i'm for sentry-duty to-night.'
and say what i would to him, all he had for me was, 'you mustn't speak to a sentry on duty.'
so i says, 'as sure as i live till morning, i'll go to your pa,' for he pays no more attention to his ma than to me, nor to any one else."
"please to see that the chair-bed in my dressing-room is moved into your mistress's bedroom," said the captain.
"i will attend to master robert."
with this sarah had to content herself, and she went back to the nursery.
robert was nowhere to be seen, and made no reply to her summons.
on this the unwary nursemaid flounced into the bedroom to look for him, when robert, who was hidden beneath a table, darted forth, and promptly locked her in.
"you're under arrest," he shouted, through the keyhole.
"let me out!"
shrieked sarah.
"i'll send a file of the guard to fetch you to the orderly room, by and by," said robert, "for 'preferring frivolous complaints.'"
and he departed to the farmyard to look at the ducks.
that night, when robert went up to bed, the captain quietly locked him into his dressing-room, from which the bed had been removed.
"you're for sentry-duty to-night," said the captain.
"the carpet-brush is in the corner.
good-evening."
as his father anticipated, robert was soon tired of the sentry game in these new circumstances, and long before the night had half worn away he wished himself safely undressed and in his own comfortable bed.
at half-past twelve o'clock he felt as if he could bear it no longer, and knocked at the captain's door.
"who goes there?"
said the captain.
"mayn't i go to bed, please?"
whined poor robert.
"certainly not," said the captain.
"you're on duty."
and on duty poor robert had to remain, for the captain had a will as well as his son.
so he rolled himself up in his father's railway-rug, and slept on the floor.
the next night he was very glad to go quietly to bed, and remain there.
in the nursery.
the captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery.
it was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now her children made it merry.
this was just what he would have wished.
they all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time.
there were five of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.
sarah (a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could be found) was waiting on them, and by the table sat darkie, the black retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on each and all of the breakfast bowls.
he was as silent and sagacious as sarah was talkative and empty-headed.
the expression of his face was that of king charles i. as painted by vandyke.
though large, he was unassuming.
pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first joint of darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity (and his short stumps).
he always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a point of hustling him in doorways and of going first down-stairs.
he strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a bishop's crook.
he looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would have looked, had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size of the ox.
this was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to an obesity favoured by habits of lying inside the fender, and of eating meals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger.
they were both favourites of two years' standing, and had very nearly been given away, when the good news came of an english home for the family, dogs and all.
robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals.
"are you a yorkshirewoman, sarah?"
he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his hand.
"no, master robert," said sarah.
"but you understand yorkshire, don't you?
i can't, very often; but mamma can, and can speak it, too.
papa says mamma always talks yorkshire to servants and poor people.
she used to talk yorkshire to themistocles, papa said, and he said it was no good; for though themistocles knew a lot of languages, he didn't know that.
and mamma laughed, and said she didn't know she did."
"themistocles was our man-servant in corfu," robin added, in explanation.
"he stole lots of things, themistocles did; but papa found him out."
robin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he broke out again.
"sarah, who is that tall old gentleman at church, in the seat near the pulpit?
he wears a cloak like what the blues wear, only all blue, and is tall enough for a lifeguardsman.
he stood when we were kneeling down, and said almighty and most merciful father louder than anybody."
sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as yet.
but she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all.
"never you mind, master robin," she said, nodding sagaciously.
"little boys aren't to know everything."
"ah, then, i know you don't know," replied robert; "if you did, you'd tell.
nicholas, give some of your bread to darkie and pax.
i've done mine.
for what we have received, the lord make us truly thankful.
say your grace and put your chair away, and come along.
i want to hold a court-martial!"
and seizing his own chair by the seat, robin carried it swiftly to its corner.
as he passed sarah, he observed tauntingly, "you pretend to know, but you don't."
"i do," said sarah.
"you don't," said robin.
"your ma's forbid you to contradict, master robin," said sarah; "and if you do i shall tell her.
i know well enough who the old gentleman is, and perhaps i might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell again."
"no, no, i wouldn't!"
shouted robin.
"i can keep a secret, indeed i can!
pinch my little finger, and try.
do, do tell me, sarah, there's a dear sarah, and then i shall know you know."
and he danced round her, catching at her skirts.
to keep a secret was beyond sarah's powers.
"do let my dress be, master robin," she said, "you're ripping out all the gathers, and listen while i whisper.
as sure as you're a living boy, that gentleman's your own grandpapa."
robin lost his hold on sarah's dress; his arms fell by his side, and he stood with his brows knit for some minutes, thinking.
then he said, emphatically, "what lies you do tell, sarah!"
"oh, robin!"
cried nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls standing stark with curiosity, "mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word, and you promised not to say it again."
"i forgot," said robin.
"i didn't mean to break my promise.
but she does tell ahem!
you know what."
"you wicked boy!"
cried the enraged sarah; "how dare you to say such a thing!
and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa."
"i'll go and ask her," said robin, and he was at the door in a moment; but sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself, caught him by the arm.
"don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry.
there; it was all my nonsense."
"then it's not true?"
said robin, indignantly.
"what did you tell me so for?"
"it was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous sarah.
"but your ma wouldn't like to know i've said such a thing.
and master robert wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?"
"i'm not mean," said robin, stoutly; "and i don't tell tales; but you do, and you tell you know what, besides.
however, i won't go this time; but i'll tell you what if you tell tales of me to papa any more, i'll tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak."
with which parting threat robin strode, off to join his brothers and sister.
sarah's tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned against the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly nursing a well-worn doll.
robin sighed.
"what a long time that doll takes to wear out, dora!"
said he.
"when will it be done?"
"oh, not yet, not yet!"
cried dora, clasping the doll to her, and turning away.
"she's quite good, yet."
"how miserly you are," said her brother; "and selfish, too; for you know i can't have a military funeral till you'll let me bury that old thing."
dora began to cry.
"there you go, crying!"
said robin, impatiently.
"look here: i won't take it till you get the new one on your birthday.
you can't be so mean as not to let me have it then!"
but dora's tears still fell.
"i love this one so much," she sobbed.
"i love her better than the new one."
"you want both; that's it," said robin, angrily.
"dora, you're the meanest girl i ever knew!"
at which unjust and painful accusation dora threw herself and the doll upon their faces, and wept bitterly.
the eyes of the soft-hearted nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her, looking most dismal.
he had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an old toy, and yet robin's will was law to him.
"couldn't we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?"
he suggested.
"no, we couldn't," said robin.
"i wouldn't play the dead march after an empty candle-box.
it's a great shame and i promised she should be chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too."
"perhaps you'll get just as fond of the new one," said nicholas, turning to dora.
but dora only cried, "no, no!
he shall have the new one to bury, and i'll keep my poor, dear, darling betsy."
and she clasped betsy tighter than before.
"that's the meanest thing you've said yet," retorted robin; "for you know mamma wouldn't let me bury the new one."
and, with an air of great disgust, he quitted the nursery.
"a mumming we will go."
nicholas had sore work to console his little sister, and betsy's prospects were in a very unfavourable state, when a diversion was caused in her favour by a new whim which put the military funeral out of robin's head.
after he left the nursery he strolled out of doors, and, peeping through the gate at the end of the drive, he saw a party of boys going through what looked like a military exercise with sticks and a good deal of stamping; but, instead of mere words of command, they all spoke by turns, as in a play.
in spite of their strong yorkshire accent, robin overheard a good deal, and it sounded very fine.
not being at all shy, he joined them, and asked so many questions that he soon got to know all about it.
they were practising a christmas mumming-play, called "the peace egg."
why it was called thus they could not tell, as there was nothing whatever about eggs in it, and so far from being a play of peace, it was made up of a series of battles between certain valiant knights and princes, of whom st. george of england was the chief and conqueror.
the rehearsal being over, robin went with the boys to the sexton's house (he was father to the "king of egypt"), where they showed him the dresses they were to wear.
these were made of gay-coloured materials, and covered with ribbons, except that of the "black prince of paradine," which was black, as became his title.
the boys also showed him the book from which they learned their parts, and which was to be bought for one penny at the post-office shop.
"then are you the mummers who come round at christmas, and act in people's kitchens, and people give them money, that mamma used to tell us about?"
said robin.
st. george of england looked at his companions as if for counsel as to how far they might commit themselves, and then replied, with yorkshire caution, "well, i suppose we are."
"and do you go out in the snow from one house to another at night?
and oh, don't you enjoy it?"
cried robin.
"we like it well enough," st. george admitted.
robin bought a copy of "the peace egg."
he was resolved to have a nursery performance, and to act the part of st. george himself.
the others were willing for what he wished, but there were difficulties.
in the first place, there are eight characters in the play, and there were only five children.
they decided among themselves to leave out the "fool," and mamma said that another character was not to be acted by any of them, or indeed mentioned; "the little one who comes in at the end," robin explained.
mamma had her reasons, and these were always good.
she had not been altogether pleased that robin had bought the play.
it was a very old thing, she said, and very queer; not adapted for a child's play.
if mamma thought the parts not quite fit for the children to learn, they found them much too long; so in the end she picked out some bits for each, which they learned easily, and which, with a good deal of fighting, made quite as good a story of it as if they had done the whole.
what may have been wanting otherwise was made up for by the dresses, which were charming.
robin was st. george, nicholas the valiant slasher, dora the doctor, and the other two hector and the king of egypt.
"and now we've no black prince!"
cried robin in dismay.
"let darkie be the black prince," said nicholas.
"when you wave your stick he'll jump for it, and then you can pretend to fight with him."
"it's not a stick, it's a sword," said robin.
"however, darkie may be the black prince."
"and what's pax to be?"
asked dora; "for you know he will come if darkie does, and he'll run in before everybody else too."
"then he must be the fool," said robin, "and it will do very well, for the fool comes in before the rest, and pax can have his red coat on, and the collar with the little bells."
christmas eve.
robin thought that christmas would never come.
to the captain and his wife it seemed to come too fast.
they had hoped it might bring reconciliation with the old man, but it seemed they had hoped in vain.
there were times now when the captain almost regretted the old bachelor's bequest.
the familiar scenes of her old home sharpened his wife's grief.
to see her father every sunday in church, with marks of age and infirmity upon him, but with not a look of tenderness for his only child, this tried her sorely.
"she felt it less abroad," thought the captain.
"an english home in which she frets herself to death is, after all, no great boon."
christmas eve came.
"i'm sure it's quite christmas enough now," said robin.
"we'll have 'the peace egg' to-night."
so as the captain and his wife sat sadly over their fire, the door opened, and pax ran in shaking his bells, and followed by the nursery mummers.
the performance was most successful.
it was by no means pathetic, and yet, as has been said, the captain's wife shed tears.
"what is the matter, mamma?"
said st. george, abruptly dropping his sword and running up to her.
"don't tease mamma with questions," said the captain; "she is not very well, and rather sad.
we must all be very kind and good to poor dear mamma;" and the captain raised his wife's hand to his lips as he spoke.
robin seized the other hand and kissed it tenderly.
he was very fond of his mother.
at this moment pax took a little run, and jumped on to mamma's lap, where, sitting facing the company, he opened his black mouth and yawned, with a ludicrous inappropriateness worthy of any clown.
it made everybody laugh.
"and now we'll go and act in the kitchen," said nicholas.
"supper at nine o'clock, remember," shouted the captain.
"and we are going to have real frumenty and yule cakes, such as mamma used to tell us of when we were abroad."
"hurray!"
shouted the mummers, and they ran off, pax leaping from his seat just in time to hustle the black prince in the doorway.
when the dining-room door was shut, st. george raised his hand, and said "hush!"
the mummers pricked their ears, but there was only a distant harsh and scraping sound, as of stones rubbed together.
"they're cleaning the passages," st. george went on, "and sarah told me they meant to finish the mistletoe, and have everything cleaned up by supper-time.
they don't want us, i know.
look here, we'll go real mumming instead.
that will be fun!"
the valiant slasher grinned with delight.
"but will mamma let us?"
he inquired.
"oh, it will be all right if we're back by supper-time," said st.
george, hastily.
"only of course we must take care not to catch cold.
come and help me to get some wraps."
the old oak chest in which spare shawls, rugs, and coats were kept was soon ransacked, and the mummers' gay dresses hidden by motley wrappers.
but no sooner did darkie and pax behold the coats, &c., than they at once began to leap and bark, as it was their custom to do when they saw any one dressing to go out.
robin was sorely afraid that this would betray them; but though the captain and his wife heard the barking they did not guess the cause.
so the front door being very gently opened and closed, the nursery mummers stole away.
the nursery mummers and the old man.
it was a very fine night.
the snow was well trodden on the drive, so that it did not wet their feet, but on the trees and shrubs it hung soft and white.
"it's much jollier being out at night than in the daytime," said robin.
"much," responded nicholas, with intense feeling.
"we'll go a wassailing next week," said robin.
"i know all about it, and perhaps we shall get a good lot of money, and then we'll buy tin swords with scabbards for next year.
i don't like these sticks.
oh, dear, i wish it wasn't so long between one christmas and another."
"where shall we go first?"
asked nicholas, as they turned into the high-road.
but before robin could reply, dora clung to nicholas, crying, "oh, look at those men!"
the boys looked up the road, down which three men were coming in a very unsteady fashion, and shouting as they rolled from side to side.
"they're drunk," said nicholas; "and they're shouting at us."
"oh, run, run!"
cried dora; and down the road they ran, the men shouting and following them.
they had not run far, when hector caught his foot in the captain's great-coat, which he was wearing, and came down headlong in the road.
they were close by a gate, and when nicholas had set hector upon his legs, st. george hastily opened it.
"this is the first house," he said.
"we'll act here;" and all, even the valiant slasher, pressed in as quickly as possible.
once safe within the grounds, they shouldered their sticks, and resumed their composure.
"you're going to the front door," said nicholas, "mummers ought to go to the back."
"we don't know where it is," said robin, and he rang the front-door bell.
there was a pause.
then lights shone, steps were heard, and at last a sound of much unbarring, unbolting, and unlocking.
it might have been a prison.
then the door was opened by an elderly, timid-looking woman, who held a tallow candle above her head.
"who's there," she said, "at this time of night?"
"we're christmas mummers," said robin, stoutly; "we don't know the way to the back door, but "
"and don't you know better than to come here?"
said the woman.
"be off with you, as fast as you can."
"you're only the servant," said robin.
"go and ask your master and mistress if they wouldn't like to see us act.
we do it very well."
"you impudent boy, be off with you!"
repeated the woman.
"master'd no more let you nor any other such rubbish set foot in this house "
"woman!"
shouted a voice close behind her, which made her start as if she had been shot, "who authorizes you to say what your master will or will not do, before you've asked him?
the boy is right.
you are the servant, and it is not your business to choose for me whom i shall or shall not see."
"i meant no harm, sir, i'm sure," said the housekeeper; "but i thought you'd never "
"my good woman," said her master, "if i had wanted somebody to think for me, you're the last person i should have employed.
i hire you to obey orders, not to think."
"i'm sure, sir," said the housekeeper, whose only form of argument was reiteration, "i never thought you would have seen them "
"then you were wrong," shouted her master.
"i will see them.
bring them in."
he was a tall, gaunt old man, and robin stared at him for some minutes, wondering where he could have seen somebody very like him.
at last he remembered.
it was the old gentleman of the blue cloak.
the children threw off their wraps, the housekeeper helping them, and chattering ceaselessly, from sheer nervousness.
"well, to be sure," said she, "their dresses are pretty too.
and they seem quite a better sort of children, they talk quite genteel.
i might ha' knowed they weren't like common mummers, but i was so flusterated hearing the bell go so late, and "
"are they ready?"
said the old man, who had stood like a ghost in the dim light of the flaring tallow candle, grimly watching the proceedings.
"yes, sir.
shall i take them to the kitchen, sir?"
" for you and the other idle hussies to gape and grin at?
no.
bring them to the library," he snapped, and then stalked off, leading the way.
the housekeeper accordingly led them to the library, and then withdrew, nearly falling on her face as she left the room by stumbling over darkie, who slipped in last like a black shadow.
the old man was seated in a carved oak chair by the fire.
"i never said the dogs were to come in," he said.
"but we can't do without them, please," said robin, boldly.
"you see there are eight people in 'the peace egg,' and there are only five of us; and so darkie has to be the black prince, and pax has to be the fool, and so we have to have them."
"five and two make seven," said the old man, with a grim smile; "what do you do for the eighth?"
"oh, that's the little one at the end," said robin, confidentially.
"mamma said we weren't to mention him, but i think that's because we're children.
you're grown up, you know, so i'll show you the book, and you can see for yourself," he went on, drawing "the peace egg"
from his pocket: "there, that's the picture of him, on the last page; black, with horns and a tail."
the old man's stern face relaxed into a broad smile as he examined the grotesque woodcut; but when he turned to the first page the smile vanished in a deep frown, and his eyes shone like hot coals with anger.
he had seen robin's name.
"who sent you here?"
he asked, in a hoarse voice.
"speak, and speak the truth!
did your mother send you here?"
robin thought the old man was angry with them for playing truant.
he said, slowly, "n no.
she didn't exactly send us; but i don't think she'll mind our having come if we get back in time for supper.
mamma never forbid our going mumming, you know."
"i don't suppose she ever thought of it," nicholas said, candidly, wagging his curly head from side to side.
"she knows we're mummers," said robin, "for she helped us.
when we were abroad, you know, she used to tell us about the mummers acting at christmas, when she was a little girl; and so we thought we'd be mummers, and so we acted to papa and mamma, and so we thought we'd act to the maids, but they were cleaning the passages, and so we thought we'd really go mumming; and we've got several other houses to go to before supper-time; we'd better begin, i think," said robin; and without more ado he began to march round and round, raising his sword and shouting
"i am st. george, who from old england sprung,     my famous name throughout the world hath rung."
and the performance went off quite as creditably as before.
as the children acted the old man's anger wore off.
he watched them with an interest he could not repress.
when nicholas took some hard thwacks from st. george without flinching, the old man clapped his hands; and, after the encounter between st. george and the black prince, he said he would not have had the dogs excluded on any consideration.
it was just at the end, when they were all marching round and round, holding on by each other's swords "over the shoulder," and singing "a mumming we will go," &c., that nicholas suddenly brought the circle to a standstill by stopping dead short, and staring up at the wall before him.
"what are you stopping for?"
said st. george, turning indignantly round.
"look there!"
cried nicholas, pointing to a little painting which hung above the old man's head.
robin looked, and said, abruptly, "it's dora."
"which is dora?"
asked the old man, in a strange, sharp tone.
"here she is," said robin and nicholas in one breath, as they dragged her forward.
"she's the doctor," said robin; "and you can't see her face for her things.
dor, take off your cap and pull back that hood.
there!
oh, it is like her!"
it was a portrait of her mother as a child; but of this the nursery mummers knew nothing.
the old man looked as the peaked cap and hood fell away from dora's face and fair curls, and then he uttered a sharp cry, and buried his head upon his hands.
the boys stood stupefied, but dora ran up to him, and putting her little hands on his arms, said, in childish pitying tones, "oh, i am so sorry!
have you got a headache?
may robin put the shovel in the fire for you?
mamma has hot shovels for her headaches."
and, though the old man did not speak or move, she went on coaxing him, and stroking his head, on which the hair was white.
at this moment pax took one of his unexpected runs, and jumped on to the old man's knee, in his own particular fashion, and then yawned at the company.
the old man was startled, and lifted his face suddenly.
it was wet with tears.
"why, you're crying!"
exclaimed the children, with one breath.
"it's very odd," said robin, fretfully.
"i can't think what's the matter to-night.
mamma was crying too when we were acting, and papa said we weren't to tease her with questions, and he kissed her hand, and i kissed her hand too.
and papa said we must all be very good and kind to poor dear mamma, and so i mean to be, she's so good.
and i think we'd better go home, or perhaps she'll be frightened," robin added.
"she's so good, is she?"
asked the old man.
he had put pax off his knee, and taken dora on to it.
"oh, isn't she!"
said nicholas, swaying his curly head from side to side as usual.
"she's always good," said robin, emphatically; "and so's papa.
but i'm always doing something i oughtn't to," he added, slowly.
"but then, you know, i don't pretend to obey sarah.
i don't care a fig for sarah; and i won't obey any woman but mamma."
"who's sarah?"
asked the grandfather.
"she's our nurse," said robin, "and she tells i mustn't say what she tells but it's not the truth.
she told one about you the other day," he added.
"about me?"
said the old man.
"she said you were our grandpapa.
so then i knew she was telling you know what."
"how did you know it wasn't true?"
the old man asked.
"why, of course," said robin, "if you were our mamma's father, you'd know her, and be very fond of her, and come and see her.
and then you'd be our grandfather, too, and you'd have us to see you, and perhaps give us christmas-boxes.
i wish you were," robin added with a sigh.
"it would be very nice."
"would you like it?"
asked the old man of dora.
and dora, who was half asleep and very comfortable, put her little arms about his neck as she was wont to put them round the captain's, and said, "very much."
he put her down at last, very tenderly, almost unwillingly, and left the children alone.
by and by he returned, dressed in the blue cloak, and took dora up again.
"i will see you home," he said.
the children had not been missed.
the clock had only just struck nine when there came a knock on the door of the dining-room, where the captain and his wife still sat by the yule log.
she said "come in,"
wearily, thinking it was the frumenty and the christmas cakes.
but it was her father, with her child in his arms!
peace and goodwill.
lucy jane bull and her sisters were quite old enough to understand a good deal of grown-up conversation when they overheard it.
thus, when a friend of mrs. bull's observed during an afternoon call that she believed that "officers' wives were very dressy," the young ladies were at once resolved to keep a sharp look-out for the captain's wife's bonnet in church on christmas day.
the bulls had just taken their seats when the captain's wife came in.
they really would have hid their faces, and looked at the bonnet afterwards, but for the startling sight that met the gaze of the congregation.
the old grandfather walked into church abreast of the captain.
"they've met in the porch," whispered mr. bull, under the shelter of his hat.
"they can't quarrel publicly in a place of worship," said mrs. bull, turning pale.
"she's gone into his seat," cried lucy jane in a shrill whisper.
"and the children after her," added the other sister, incautiously aloud.
there was now no doubt about the matter.
the old man in his blue cloak stood for a few moments politely disputing the question of precedence with his handsome son-in-law.
then the captain bowed and passed in, and the old man followed him.
by the time that the service was ended everybody knew of the happy peacemaking, and was glad.
one old friend after another came up with blessings and good wishes.
this was a proper christmas, indeed, they said.
there was a general rejoicing.
but only the grandfather and his children knew that it was hatched from "the peace egg."
a christmas mumming play.
introduction.
since a little story of mine called "the peace egg" appeared in aunt judy's magazine, i have again and again been asked where the mumming play could be found which gave its name to my tale, and if real children could act it, as did the fancy children of my story.
as it stands, this old christmas mumming play (which seems to have borrowed the name of an easter entertainment or pasque egg) is not fit for domestic performance; and though probably there are few nurseries in those parts of england where "mumming" and the sword-dance still linger, in which the children do not play some version of st. george's exploits, a little of the dialogue goes a long way, and the mummery (which must almost be seen to be imitated) is the chief matter.
in fact, the mummery is the chief matter which is what makes the play so attractive to children, and, it may be added, so suitable for their performance.
in its rudeness, its simplicity, its fancy dressing, the rapid action of the plot, and last, but not least, its bludginess that quality which made the history of goliath so dear to the youngest of helen's babies!
it is adapted for nursery amusement, as the drama of punch and judy is, and for similar reasons.
for some little time past i have purposed to try and blend the various versions of "peace egg" into one mummery for the nursery, with as little change of the old rhymes as might be.
i have been again urged to do so this christmas, and though i have not been able to give so much time or research to it as i should have liked, i have thought it better to do it without further delay, even if somewhat imperfectly.
to shuffle the characters and vary the text is nothing new in the history of these "mock plays," as they were sometimes called.
they are probably of very ancient origin "pagan, i regret to say," as mr. pecksniff observed in reference to the sirens and go back to "the heathen custom of going about on the kalends of january in disguises, as wild beasts and cattle, the sexes changing apparel," (there is a relic of this last unseemly custom still in "the old tup" and "the old horse"; when these are performed by both girls and boys, the latter wear skirts and bonnets, the former hats and great-coats; this is also the case in scotland where the boys and girls go round at hogmanay.)
in the 12th century the clergy introduced miracle plays and scripture histories to rival the performances of the strolling players, which had become very gross.
they became as popular as beneficial, and london was famous for them.
different places, and even trade-guilds and schools, had their differing "mysteries."
secular plays continued, and the two seem occasionally to have got mixed.
into one of the oldest of old plays, "st. george and the dragon," the crusaders and pilgrims introduced the eastern characters who still remain there.
this is the foundation of "the peace egg."
about the middle of the 15th century, plays, which, not quite religious, still witnessed to the effect of the religious plays in raising the standard of public taste, appeared under the name of "morals," or "moralities."
christmas plays, masques, pageants, and the like were largely patronized by the tudor sovereigns, and the fashion set by the court was followed in the country.
queen elizabeth was not only devoted to the drama, and herself performed, but she was very critical and exacting; and the high demand which she did so much to stimulate, was followed by such supply as was given by the surpassing dramatic genius of the elizabethan age of literature.
later, ben jonson and inigo jones combined to produce the court masks, one of which, the well-known "mask of christmas," had for chief characters, christmas and his children, misrule, carol, mince pie, gambol, post and pair, new year's gift, mumming, wassel, offering, and baby's cake.
in the 17th century the christmas mummeries of the inns of court were conducted with great magnificence and at large cost.
all such entertainments were severely suppressed during the commonwealth, at which time the words "welcome, or not welcome, i am come," were introduced into father christmas's part.
at one time the jester of the piece (he is sometimes called the jester, and sometimes the fool, or the old fool) used to wear a calf's hide.
robin goodfellow says, "i'll go put on my devilish robes i mean my christmas calf's-skin suit and then walk to the woods."
"i'll put me on my great carnation nose, and wrap me in a rousing calf-skin suit, and come like some hobgoblin."
and a character of the 18th century "clears the way" with
"my name is captain calftail, calftail
and on my back it is plain to be seen,     although i am simple and wear a fool's cap,       i am dearly beloved of a queen "
which looks as if titania had found her way into that mummery!
"the hobby horse's" costume was a horse's hide, real or imitated.
i have no copy of a christmas play in which the hobby horse appears.
in the north of england, "the old horse" and "the old tup" are the respective heroes of their own peculiar mummeries, generally performed by a younger, or perhaps a rougher, set of lads than those who play the more elegant mysteries of st. george.
the boy who acts "old tup"
has a ram's head impaled upon a short pole, which he grasps and uses as a sort of wooden leg in front of him.
he needs some extra support, his back being bent as if for leap-frog, and covered with an old rug (in days when "meat" was cheaper it was probably a hide).
the hollow sound of his peg-leg upon the "flags" of the stone passages and kitchen floor, and the yearly test of courage supplied by the rude familiarities of his gruesome head as he charged and dispersed maids and children, amid shrieks and laughter, are probably familiar memories of all yorkshire, lancashire, and derbyshire childhoods.
i do not know if the old horse and the old tup belong to other parts of the british isles.
it is a rude and somewhat vulgar performance, especially if undertaken by older revellers, when the men wear skirts and bonnets, and the women don great-coats and hats the fool, the doctor, and a darker character with a besom, are often of the party, but the knights of christendom and the eastern potentates take no share in these proceedings, which are oftenest and most inoffensively performed by little boys not yet promoted to be "mummers."
it is, however, essential that one of them should have a good voice, true and tuneful enough to sing a long ballad, and lead the chorus.
in the scale of contributions to the numerous itinerant christmas boxes of christmas week such as the ringers, the waits, the brass band, the hand-bells, the mummers (peace egg), the superior mummers, who do more intricate sword-play (and in the north riding are called morris dancers), &c. &c., the old tup stands low down on the list.
i never heard the rhymes of the old horse; they cannot be the same.
these diversions are very strictly localized and handed on by word of mouth.
of the best version of "peace egg" which i have seen performed, i have as yet quite vainly endeavoured to get any part transcribed.
it is oral tradition.
it is practised for some weeks beforehand, and the costumes, including wonderful head-dresses about the size of the plumed bonnet of a highlander in full-dress, are carefully preserved from year to year.
these paste-board erections are covered with flowers, feathers, bugles, and coloured streamers.
the dresses are of coloured calico, with ribbons everywhere; "points" to the breeches and hose, shoulder-knots and sashes.
but, as a rough rule, it is one of the conveniences of mumming play, that the finery may be according to the taste and the resources of the company.
the swords are of steel, and those i have seen are short.
in some places i believe rapiers are used.
i am very sorry to be unable to give proper directions for the sword-play, which is so pretty.
i have only one version in which such directions are given.
i have copied the "grand sword dance" in its proper place for the benefit of those who can interpret it.
it is not easy to explain in writing even so much of it as i know.
each combat consists of the same number of cuts, to the best of my remembrance, and the "shoulder cuts" (which look very like two persons sharpening two knives as close as possible to each other's nose!)
are in double time, twice as quick as the others.
the stage directions are as follows:
but i do not think the version from which this is an extract is at all an elaborate one.
there ought to be a "triumph," with an archway of swords, in the style of sir roger de coverley.
after the passing and repassing strokes, there is usually much more hand-to-hand fighting, then four shoulder cuts, and some are aimed high and some down among their ankles, in a way which would probably be quite clear to any one trained in broadsword exercise.
the following christmas mumming play is compiled from five versions the "peace egg," the "wassail cup," "alexander the great,"
"a mock play," and the "silverton mummer's play" (devon), which has been lent to me in manuscript.
the mumming chorus, "and a mumming we will go," &c., is not in any one of these versions, but i never saw mumming without it.
the silverton version is an extreme example of the continuous development of these unwritten dramas.
generation after generation, the most incongruous characters have been added.
in some cases this is a very striking testimony to the strength of rural sympathy with the great deeds and heroes of the time, as well as to native talent for dramatic composition.
wellington and wolfe almost eclipsed st. george in some parts of england, and the sea heroes are naturally popular in devonshire.
the death of nelson in the silverton play has fine dramatic touches.
though he "has but one arm and a good one too," he essays to fight whether tippo saib or st. george is not made clear.
he falls, and st. george calls for the doctor in the usual words.
the doctor ends his peculiar harangue with: "britons!
our nelson is dead."
to which a voice, which seems to play the part of greek chorus, responds "but he is not with the dead, but in the arms of the living god!"
then, enter collingwood
"collingwood here comes i, bold collingwood,                     who fought the french and boldly stood;                     and now the life of that bold briton's gone,                     i'll put the crown of victory on"
with which "he takes the crown off nelson's head and puts it on his own."
i have, however, confined myself in "the peace egg" to those characters which have the warrant of considerable antiquity, and their number is not small.
they can easily be reduced by cutting out one or two; or some of the minor characters could play more than one part, by making real exits and changing the dress, instead of the conventional exit into the background of the group.
some of these minor characters are not the least charming.
the fair sabra (who is often a mute) should be the youngest and prettiest little maid that can toddle through her part, and no old family brocade can be too gorgeous for her.
the pretty page is another part for a "very little one," and his velvets and laces should become him.
they contrast delightfully with dame dolly and little man jack, and might, if needful, be played by the same performers.
i have cut out everything that could possibly offend, except the line "take him and give him to the flies."
it betrays an experience of asiatic battlefields so terribly real, that i was unwilling to abolish this unconscious witness to the influence of pilgrims and crusaders on the peace egg.
it is easily omitted.
i have dismissed the lord of flies, beelzebub, and (with some reluctance) "little devil doubt" and his besom.
i had a mind to have retained him as "the demon of doubt," for he plays in far higher dramas.
his besom also seems to come from the east, where a figure "sweeping everything out" with a broom is the first vision produced in the crystal or liquid in the palm of a medium by the magicians of egypt.
those who wish to do so can admit him at the very end, after the sword dance, very black, and with a besom, a money-box, and the following doggrel:
in come i, the demon of doubt,     if you don't give me money i'll sweep you all out;     money i want and money i crave,     money i want and money i'll have.
he is not a taking character unless to the antiquary!
i have substituted the last line for the less decorous original, "if you don't give me money, i'll sweep you all to the grave."
it is perhaps only the antiquary who will detect the connection between the milk pail and the wassail cup in the fool's song.
but it seems at one time to have been made of milk.
in a play of the 16th century it is described as
"wassayle, wassayle, out of the mylke payle;     wassayle, wassayle, as white as my nayle,"
and selden calls it "a slabby stuff," which sounds as if it had got mixed up with frumenty.
since the above went to press, i have received some extracts from the unwritten version of "peace egg" in the west riding of yorkshire to which i have alluded.
they recall to me that the piece properly opens with a "mumming round," different to the one i have given, that one belonging to the end.
the first mumming song rehearses each character and his exploits.
the hero of the verse which describes him singing (autobiographically!)
his own doughty deeds in the third person.
thus st. george begins; i give it in the vernacular.
"the first to coom in is the champion bould,     the champion bould is he,     he never fought battle i' all his loife toim,     but he made his bould enemy flee, flee, flee,     he made his bould enemy flee."
the beauty of this song is the precision with which each character enters and joins the slowly increasing circle.
but that is its only merit.
it is wretched doggrel, and would make the play far too tedious.
i was, however, interested by this verse:
the next to come in is the cat and calftail,     the cat and calftail is he;     he'll beg and he'll borrow, and he'll steal all he can,     but he'll never pay back one penny, penny,     he'll never pay back one penny.
whether "cat and calftail" is a corruption of captain calftail or (more likely) captain calftail was evolved from a fool in calf's hide and cat's skins, it is hard to say.
they are evidently one and the same shabby personage!
the song which i have placed at the head of the peace egg play has other verses which also recite "the argument" of the piece, but not one is worth recording.
a third song does not, i feel sure, belong to the classic versions, but to another "rude and vulgar" one, which i have not seen for some years, and which was played in a dialect dark, even to those who flattered themselves that they were to the manner born.
in it st. george and the old fool wrangle, the o.f.
accusing the patron saint of england of stealing clothes hung out to dry on the hedges.
st. george, who has previously boasted
i've travelled this world all round,     and hope to do it again,     i was once put out of my way     by a hundred and forty men
indignantly denies the theft, and adds that, on the contrary, he has always sent home money to his old mother.
to which the old fool contemptuously responds
all the relations thou had were few,     thou had an old granny i knew,     she went a red-cabbage selling,     as a many old people do.
in either this, or another, rough version, the hero (presumably st.
george) takes counsel with man jack on his love affairs.
man jack is played by a small boy in a very tall beaver hat, and with his face blacked.
"my man jack, what can the matter be?
that i should luv this lady, and she will not luv me."
a christmas mumming play.
enter fool.
fool.
good morrow, friends and neighbours dear,     we are right glad to meet you here,     christmas comes but once a year,     but when it comes it brings good cheer,     and when it's gone it's no longer near.
may luck attend the milking-pail,     yule logs and cakes in plenty be,     may each blow of the thrashing-flail     produce good frumenty.
and let the wassail cup abound,     whene'er the mummers' time comes round.
air, "le petit tambour."
sings.
now all ye jolly mummers     who mum in christmas time,     come join with me in chorus,     come join with me in rhyme.
[he has laid his bauble, over his shoulder, and it is taken by st.
george, who is followed by all the other actors, each laying his sword over his right shoulder and his left hand on the sword-point in front of him, and all marking time with their feet till the circle is complete, when they march round singing the chorus over and over again.]
chorus.
and a mumming we will go, will go,     and a mumming we will go,     with a bright cockade in all our hats, we'll go with a gallant show.
[disperse, and stand aside.]
[enter father christmas.]
father christmas here comes i, old father christmas; welcome, or welcome not, i hope poor old father christmas will never be forgot!
my head is white, my back is bent, my knees are weak, my strength is spent.
eighteen hundred and eighty-three is a very great age for me.
and if i'd been growing all these years what a monster i should be!
now i have but a short time to stay, and if you don't believe what i say
come in, dame dolly, and clear the way.
[enter dame dolly.]
dame dolly.
here comes i, little dame dolly, wearing smart caps in all my folly.
if any gentleman takes my whim, i'll set my holiday cap at him.
to laugh at my cap would be very rude; i wish you well, and i won't intrude.
gentlemen now at the door do stand, they will walk in with drawn swords in hand, and if you don't believe what i say
let one fool and four knights from the british isles come in and clear     the way!
[enter fool and four christian knights.]
fool[shaking his bells at intervals].
room, room, brave gallants, give us room to sport, for to this room we wish now to resort:
resort, and to repeat to you our merry rhyme, for remember, good sirs, that this is christmas time.
the time to make mince-pies doth now appear, so we are come to act our merriment in here.
at the sounding of the trumpet, and beating of the drum, make room, brave gentlemen, and let our actors come.
we are the merry actors that traverse the street, we are the merry actors that fight for our meat, we are the merry actors that show pleasant play.
stand forth, st. george, thou champion, and clear the way.
[trumpet sounds for st.
george.]
[st. george stands forth and walks up and down with sword on shoulder.]
st. george.
i am st. george, from good old england sprung, my famous name throughout the world hath rung, many bloody deeds and wonders have i shown, and made false tyrants tremble on their throne.
i followed a fair lady to a giant's gate, confined in dungeon deep to meet her fate.
then i resolved with true knight-errantry to burst the door, and set the captive free.
far have i roamed, oft have i fought, and little do i rest; all my delight is to defend the right, and succour the opprest.
and now i'll slay the dragon bold, my wonders to begin; a fell and fiery dragon he, but i will clip his wing.
i'll clip his wings, he shall not fly, i'll rid the land of him, or else i'll die.
[enter the dragon, with a sword over his shoulder.]
dragon.
who is it seeks the dragon's blood, and calls so angry and so loud?
that english dog who looks so proud
if i could catch him in my claw
with my long teeth and horrid jaw, of such i'd break up half a score, to stay my appetite for more.
marrow from his bones i'd squeeze, and suck his blood up by degrees.
[st. george and the dragon fight.
the dragon is killed.
exit dragon.]
st. george.
i am st. george, that worthy champion bold, and with my sword and spear i won three crowns of gold.
i fought the fiery dragon and brought him to the slaughter, by which behaviour i won the favour of the king of egypt's daughter.
thus i have gained fair sabra's hand, who long had won her heart.
stand forth, egyptian princess, and boldly act thy part!
[enter the princess sabra.]
sabra.
i am the princess sabra, and it is my delight, my chiefest pride, to be the bride of this gallant christian knight.
[st. george kneels and kisses her hand.
fool advances and holds up his hands over them.]
fool.
why here's a sight will do any honest man's heart good, to see the dragon-slayer thus subdued!
[st. george rises.
exit sabra.]
st. george.
keep thy jests in thy pocket if thou would'st keep thy head on thy shoulders.
i love a woman, and a woman loves me, and when i want a fool i'll send for thee.
if there is any man but me who noxious beasts can tame, let him stand forth in this gracious company, and boldly tell his name.
[st. george stands aside.
trumpet sounds for st.
patrick.]
[st. patrick stands forth.]
st. patrick.
i am st. patrick from the bogs, this truth i fain would learn ye, i banished serpents, toads, and frogs, from beautiful hibernia.
i flourished my shillelah and the reptiles all ran races, and they took their way into the sea, and they've never since shown their faces.
[enter the prince of paradine.]
prince.
i am black prince of paradine, born of high renown, soon will i fetch thy lofty courage down.
cry grace, thou irish conqueror of toads and frogs, give me thy sword, or else i'll give thy carcase to the dogs.
st. patrick.
now, prince of paradine, where have you been?
and what fine sights pray have you seen?
dost think that no man of thy age dares such a black as thee engage?
stand off, thou black morocco dog, or by my sword thou'lt die, i'll pierce thy body full of holes, and make thy buttons fly.
[they fight.
the prince of paradine is slain.]
st. patrick.
now prince of paradine is dead, and all his joys entirely fled, take him and give him to the flies.
that he may never more come near my eyes.
[enter king of egypt.]
king.
i am the king of egypt, as plainly doth appear; i am come to seek my son, my only son and heir.
st. patrick.
he's slain!
that's the worst of it.
king.
who did him slay, who did him kill, and on the ground his precious blood did spill?
st. patrick.
i did him slay, i did him kill, and on the ground his precious blood did spill.
please you, my liege, my honour to maintain, as i have done, so would i do again.
king.
cursed christian!
what is this thou hast done?
thou hast ruined me, slaying my only son.
st. patrick.
he gave me the challenge.
why should i him deny?
how low he lies who held himself so high!
king.
oh!
hector!
hector!
help me with speed, for in my life i ne'er stood more in need.
[enter hector.]
king.
stand not there, hector, with sword in hand, but fight and kill at my command.
hector.
yes, yes, my liege, i will obey, and by my sword i hope to win the day.
if that be he who doth stand there that slew my master's son and heir, though he be sprung from royal blood i'll make it run like ocean flood.
[they fight.
hector is wounded.]
i am a valiant hero, and hector is my name, many bloody battles have i fought, and always won the same, but from st. patrick i received this deadly wound.
[trumpet sounds for st.
andrew.]
hark, hark, i hear the silver trumpet sound, it summons me from off this bloody ground.
down yonder is the way (pointing); farewell, farewell, i can no longer stay.
[exit hector.]
[enter st.
andrew.]
king.
is there never a doctor to be found can cure my son of his deep and deadly wound?
[enter doctor.]
doctor.
yes, yes, there is a doctor to be found can cure your son of his deep and deadly wound.
king.
what's your fee?
doctor.
five pounds and a yule cake to thee.
i have a little bottle of elacampane, it goes by the name of virtue and fame, that will make this worthy champion to rise and fight again.
[to prince.]
here, sir, take a little of my flip-flop,
pour it on thy tip-top.
[to audience, bowing.]
ladies and gentlemen can have my advice gratis.
[exeunt king of egypt, prince of paradine, and doctor.]
[st. andrew stands forth.]
st. andrew.
i am st. andrew from the north, men from that part are men of worth; to travel south we're nothing loth, and treat you fairly, by my troth.
here comes a man looks ready for a fray.
come in, come in, bold soldier, and bravely clear the way.
[enter slasher.]
slasher.
i am a valiant soldier, and slasher is my name, with sword and buckler by my side, i hope to win more fame; and for to fight with me i see thou art not able, so with my trusty broadsword i soon will thee disable.
st. andrew.
disable, disable?
it lies not in thy power, for with a broader sword than thine i soon will thee devour.
stand off, slasher, let no more be said, for if i draw my broadsword, i'm sure to break thy head.
slasher.
how canst thou break my head?
since my head is made of iron; my body made of steel; my hands and feet of knuckle-bone.
i challenge thee to feel.
[they fight, and slasher is wounded.]
[fool advances to slasher.]
fool.
alas, alas, my chiefest son is slain!
what must i do to raise him up again?
here he lies before you all, i'll presently for a doctor call.
a doctor!
a doctor!
i'll go and fetch a doctor.
doctor.
here am i.
fool.
are you the doctor?
doctor.
that thou may plainly see, by my art and activity.
fool.
what's your fee to cure this poor man?
doctor.
five pounds is my fee; but, jack, as thou art a fool, i'll     only take ten from thee.
fool.
you'll be a clever doctor if you get any.
[aside.]
well, how far have you travelled in doctorship?
doctor.
from the front door to the cupboard, cupboard to fireplace, fireplace up-stairs and into bed.
fool.
so far, and no farther?
doctor.
yes, yes, much farther.
fool.
how far?
doctor.
through england, ireland, scotland, flanders, france, and spain, and now am returned to cure the diseases of old england again.
fool.
what can you cure?
doctor.
all complaints within and without, from a cold in your head to a touch of the gout.
if any lady's figure is awry i'll make her very fitting to pass by.
i'll give a coward a heart if he be willing, will make him stand without fear of killing.
ribs, legs, or arms, whate'er you break, be sure of one or all i'll make a perfect cure.
nay, more than this by far, i will maintain, if you should lose your head or heart, i'll give it you again.
then here's a doctor rare, who travels much at home, so take my pills, i'll cure all ills, past, present, or to come.
i in my time many thousands have directed, and likewise have as many more dissected, and i never met a gravedigger who to me objected.
if a man gets nineteen bees in his bonnet, i'll cast     twenty of 'em out.
i've got in my pocket     crutches for lame ducks, spectacles for blind     bumble-bees, pack-saddles and panniers for     grasshoppers, and many other needful things.
surely i can cure this poor man.
here, slasher, take a little out of my bottle, and let     it run down thy throttle; and if thou beest not     quite slain, rise, man, and fight again.
[slasher rises.]
slasher.
oh, my back!
fool.
what's amiss with thy back?
slasher.
my back is wounded, and my heart is confounded; to be struck out of seven senses into fourscore, the like was never seen in old england before.
[trumpet sounds for st.
david.]
oh, hark!
i hear the silver trumpet sound!
it summons me from off this bloody ground.
down yonder is the way (points); farewell, farewell, i can no longer stay.
[exit slasher.]
fool.
yes, slasher, thou hadst better go, else the next time he'll pierce thee through.
[st. david stands forth.]
st. david.
of taffy's land i'm patron saint.
oh yes, indeed, i'll you acquaint, of ancient britons i've a race dare meet a foeman face to face.
for welshmen (hear it once again;)
were born before all other men.
i'll fear no man in fight or freaks, whilst wales produces cheese and leeks.
[enter turkish knight.]
turkish knight.
here comes i, the turkish knight, come from the turkish land to fight.
i'll take st. david for my foe, and make him yield before i go; he brags to such a high degree, he thinks there was never a knight but he.
so draw thy sword, st. david, thou man of courage bold, if thy welsh blood is hot, soon will i fetch it cold.
st. david.
where is the turk that will before me stand?
i'll cut him down with my courageous hand.
turkish knight.
draw out thy sword and slay, pull out thy purse and pay, for satisfaction i will have, before i go away.
[they fight.
the turkish knight is wounded, and falls on one knee.]
quarter!
quarter!
good christian, grace of thee i crave, oh, pardon me this night, and i will be thy slave.
st. david.
i keep no slaves, thou turkish knight.
so rise thee up again, and try thy might.
[they fight again.
the turkish knight is slain.]
[exit turkish knight.]
[enter st.
george.]
st. george.
i am the chief of all these valiant knights, we'll spill our heart's blood for old england's rights.
old england's honour we will still maintain, we'll fight for old england once and again.
[flourishes his sword above his head and then lays it over his right shoulder.]
i challenge all my country's foes.
st. patrick [dealing with his sword in like manner, and then taking the point of st. george's sword with his left hand].
and i'll assist with mighty blows.
st. andrew [acting like the other].
and you shall find me ready too.
st. david [the same].
and who but i so well as you.
fool [imitates the knights, and they close the circle and go round].
while we are joined in heart and hand, a gallant and courageous band, if e'er a foe dares look awry, we'll one and all poke out his eye.
[enter saladin.]
saladin.
don't vaunt thus, my courageous knights, for i, as you, have seen some sights in palestine, in days of yore.
'gainst prowess strong i bravely bore the sway, when all the world in arms shook holy land with war's alarms.
i for the crescent, you the cross, each mighty host oft won and lost.
i many a thousand men did slay, and ate two hundred twice a day, and now i come, a giant great, just waiting for another meat.
st. george.
oh!
saladin!
art thou come with sword in hand, against st. george and christendom so rashly to withstand?
saladin.
yes, yes, st. george, with thee i mean to fight, and with one blow, i'll let thee know i am not the turkish knight.
st. george.
ah, saladin, st. george is in this very room, thou'rt come this unlucky hour to seek thy fatal doom.
[enter little page.]
little page.
hold, hold, st. george, i pray thee stand by, i'll conquer him, or else i'll die; long with that pagan champion will i engage, although i am but the little page.
st. george.
fight on, my little page, and conquer!
and don't thee be perplext, for if thou discourage in the field,   fight him will i next.
[they fight.
the little page falls.]
saladin.
though but a little man, they were great words he said.
st. george.
ah!
cruel monster.
what havoc hast thou made?
see where the lovely stripling all on the floor is laid.
a doctor!
a doctor!
ten pounds for a doctor!
[dame dolly dances forward, bobbing as before.]
dame dolly.
here comes i, little dame dorothy, flap front, and good-morrow to ye; my head is big, my body is small, i'm the prettiest little jade of you all.
call not the doctor for to make him worse, but give the boy into my hand to nurse.
[to little page.]
rise up, my pretty page, and come with me, and by kindness and kitchen physic, i'll cure thee without fee.
[page rises.
exeunt page and dame dolly.]
[st. george and saladin fight.
saladin is slain.]
[enter father christmas.]
st. george.
carry away the dead, father.
father christmas.
let's see whether he's dead or no, first, georgy.
yes; i think he's dead enough, georgy.
st. george.
carry him away then, father.
father christmas [vainly tries to move the giant's body].
thou killed him; thou carry him away.
st. george.
if you can't carry him, call for help.
father christmas [to audience].
three or four of you great logger-headed fellows, come and carry him away.
[doctor and fool raise the giant by his arms.
exit giant.]
[enter little man jack.]
little man jack.
here comes i, little man jack, the master of giants; if i could but conquer thee, st. george, i'd bid the world defiance.
st. george.
and if thou beest little man jack, the master of all giants, i'll take thee up on my back, and carry thee without violence.
[lifts him over his shoulder.]
fool.
now brave st. george, he rules the roast; britons triumphant be the toast; let cheerful song and dance abound, whene'er the mummers' time comes round.
[all sing.]
rule, britannia; britannia rules the waves, britons never, never, never will be slaves.
grand sword dance.
cut 1 and cross.
cut 2 and cross partner (which is r. and l.).
same back again.
the two knights at opposite corners r. h. cut 1 and cross, and cut 2 with opposite knights.
same back (which is ladies' chain).
four sword-points up in the centre.
all go round all cut 6 and come to bridle-arm protect, and round to places.
repeat the first figure.
[all go round, and then out, singing.]
allegro,
and a mumming we will go, will go, and a mumming we will go, with a
bright cock-ade  in  all our hats, we'll go with a  gal-lant show.
[exeunt omnes.]
god save the queen.
hints for private theatricals.
hints for private theatricals.
i.
in a letter from burnt cork to rouge pot.
my dear rouge pot, you say that you all want to have "theatricals"
these holidays, and beg me to give you some useful rules and hints to study before the christmas play comes out in the december number of aunt judy.
i will do my best.
but to begin with do you "all" want them?
at least, do you all want them enough to keep in the same mind for ten days or a fortnight, to take a good deal of trouble, whether it is pleasant or not, and to give up some time and some of your own way, in order that the theatricals may be successful?
if you say yes, we will proceed at once to the first and perhaps the most important point, on which you will have to display two of an actor's greatest virtues self-denial and good temper:
the stage-manager.
if your numbers are limited, you may have to choose the one who knows most about theatricals, and he or she may have to act a leading part as well.
but by rights the stage-manager ought not to act; especially as in juvenile theatricals he will probably be prompter, property-man, and scene-shifter into the bargain.
if your "company" consists of very young performers, an elder sister is probably the best stage-manager you could have.
but when once your stage-manager is chosen, all the actors must make up their minds to obey him implicitly.
they must take the parts he gives them, and about any point in dispute the stage-manager's decision must be final.
it is quite likely that now and then he may be wrong.
the leading gentleman may be more in the right, the leading lady may have another plan quite as good, or better; but as there would be "no end to it" if everybody's ideas had to be listened to and discussed, it is absolutely necessary that there should be one head, and one plan loyally supported by the rest.
truism as it is, my dear rouge pot, i am bound to beg you never to forget that everybody can't have everything in this world, and that everybody can't be everything on the stage.
what you (and i, and every other actor!)
would really like, would be to choose the play, to act the best part, to wear the nicest dress, to pick the people you want to act with, to have the rehearsal on those days, and that part of the day, when you do not happen to want to go out, or do something else, to have the power of making all the others do as you tell them, without the bother of hearing any grumbles, and to be well clapped and complimented at the conclusion of the performance.
but as this very leading part could only be played by one person at the expense of all the rest, private theatricals like so many other affairs of this life must for everybody concerned be a compromise of pains and pleasures, of making strict rules and large allowances, of giving and taking, bearing and forbearing, learning to find one's own happiness in seeing other people happy, aiming at perfection with all one's might, and making the best of imperfection in the end.
at this point, i foresee that you will very naturally exclaim that you asked me for stage-directions, and that i am sending you a sermon.
i am very sorry; but the truth really is, that as the best of plays and the cleverest of actors will not ensure success, if the actors quarrel about the parts, and are unwilling to suppress themselves for the common good, one is obliged to set out with a good stock of philosophy as well as of "properties."
now, in case it should strike you as "unfair" that any one of your party should have so much of his own way as i have given to the stage-manager, you must let me say that no one has more need of philosophy than that all-powerful person.
the stage-manager will have his own way, but he will have nothing else.
he will certainly have "no peace" from the first cry of "let us have some private theatricals" till the day when the performance ceases to be discussed.
if there are ten actors, it is quite possible that ten different plays will be warmly recommended to him, and that, whichever he selects, he will choose it against the gloomy forebodings of nine members of his company.
nine actors will feel a natural disappointment at not having the best part, and as it is obviously impossible to fix rehearsals so as to be equally convenient for everybody, the stage-manager, whose duty it is to fix them, will be very fortunate if he suits the convenience of the majority.
you will easily believe that it is his painful duty to insist upon regular attendance, and even to enforce it by fines or by expulsion from the part, if such stringent laws have been agreed to by the company beforehand.
but at the end he will have to bear in mind that private theatricals are an amusement, not a business; that it is said to be a pity to "make a toil of a pleasure"; that "boys will be boys"; that "christmas comes but once a year," and holidays not much oftener and in a general way to console himself for the absence of defaulters, with the proverbial philosophy of everyday life, and the more reliable panacea of resolute good temper.
he must (without a thought of self) do his best to give the right parts to the right people, and he must try to combine a proper "cast"
with pleasing everybody so far as that impossible task is possible!
he must not only be ready to meet his own difficulties with each separate actor, but he must be prepared to be confidant, if not umpire, in all the squabbles which the actors and actresses may have among themselves.
if the performance is a great success, the actors will have the credit of it, and will probably be receiving compliments amongst the audience whilst the stage-manager is blowing out the guttering footlights, or showing the youngest performer how to get the paint off his cheeks, without taking the skin off into the bargain.
and if the performance is a failure, nine of the performers will have nine separate sets of proofs that it was due to the stage-manager's unfortunate selection of the piece, or mistaken judgment as to the characters.
he will, however, have the satisfaction (and when one has a head to plan and a heart in one's work, it is a satisfaction) of carrying through the thing in his own way, and sooner or later, and here and there, he will find some people who know the difficulties of his position, and will give him ample credit and kudos if he keeps his company in good humour, and carries out his plans without a breakdown.
by this time, my dear rouge pot, you will see that the stage-manager, like all rulers, pays dearly for his power; but it is to be hoped that the difficulties inseparable from his office will not be wilfully increased by
the actors.
they are a touchy race at any time.
amateur actors are said to have one and all a belief that each and every one can play any part of any kind.
shakespeare found that some of them thought they could play every part also!
but besides this general error, each actor has his own peculiarities, which the stage-manager ought to acquaint himself with as soon as possible.
it is a painful fact that there are some people who "come forward"
readily, do not seem at all nervous, are willing to play anything, and are either well provided with anecdotes of previous successes, or quite amazingly ready for leading parts, though they "never tried acting," and are only "quite sure they shall like it" but who, when the time comes, fail completely.
i fear that there is absolutely nothing to be done with such actors, but to avoid them for the future.
on the other hand, there are many people who are nervous and awkward at first, and even more or less so through every rehearsal, but who do not fail at the pinch.
once fairly in their clothes, and pledged to their parts, they forget themselves in the sense of what they have undertaken, and their courage is stimulated by the crisis.
their knees may shake, but their minds see no alternative but to do their best, and the best, with characters of this conscientious type, is seldom bad.
it is quite true, also, that some actors are never at their best till they are dressed, and that some others can put off learning their parts till the last moment, and then "study" them at a push, and acquit themselves creditably in the play.
but these peculiarities are no excuse for neglecting rehearsals, or for not learning parts, or for rehearsing in a slovenly manner.
actors should never forget that rehearsals are not only for the benefit of each actor individually, but also of all the characters of the piece as a whole.
a. and b. may be able to learn their parts in a day, and to act fairly under the inspiration of the moment, but if they neglect rehearsals on this account, they deal very selfishly by c. and d., who have not the same facility, and who rehearse at great disadvantage if the other parts are not properly represented too.
and now a word or two to the actors of the small parts.
it is a disappointment to find yourself "cast" for a footman, with no more to do than to announce and usher in the principal personages of the piece, when you feel a strong (and perhaps well-grounded) conviction that you would have "made a hit" as the prince in blank verse and blue velvet.
well!
one must fall back on one's principles.
be loyal to the stage-manager.
help the piece through, whether it is or is not a pleasure and a triumph for you yourself.
set an example of willingness and good-humour.
if to these first principles you add the amiable quality of finding pleasure in the happiness of others, you will be partly consoled for not playing the prince yourself by sympathizing with jack's unfeigned pride in his part and his finery, and if jack has a heart under his velvet doublet, he will not forget your generosity.
it may also be laid down as an axiom that a good actor will take a pride in making the most of a small part.
there are many plays in which small parts have been raised to the rank of principal ones by the spirit put into them by a good actor, who "made" his part instead of grumbling at it.
and the credit gained by a triumph of this kind is very often even beyond the actor's deserts.
from those who play the principal parts much is expected, and it is difficult to satisfy ones audience, but if any secondary character is made pathetic or amusing, the audience (having expected nothing) are willing to believe that if the actor can surprise them with a small part, he would take the house by storm with a big one.
i will conclude my letter with a few general rules for young actors.
say nothing whatever on the stage but your part.
this is a rule for rehearsals, and if it could be attended to, every rehearsal would have more than double its usual effect.
people chatter from nervousness, explain or apologize for their mistakes, and waste quite three-fourths of the time in words which are not in the piece.
speak very slowly and very clearly.
all young actors speak too fast, and do not allow the audience time to digest each sentence.
speak louder than usual, but clearness of enunciation is even more important.
do not be slovenly with the muscles of the lips, or talk from behind shut teeth.
keep your face to the audience as a rule.
if two people talking together have to cross each other so as to change their places on the stage, the one who has just spoken should cross before the one who is going to speak.
learn to stand still.
as a rule, do not speak when you are crossing the stage, but cross first and then speak.
let the last speaker get his sentence well out before you begin yours.
if you are a comic actor, don't run away with the piece by over-doing your fun.
never spoil another actor's points by trying to make the audience laugh whilst he is speaking.
it is inexcusably bad stage-manners.
if the audience applauds, wait till the noise of the clapping is over to finish your speech.
rehearse without your book in the last rehearsals, so as to get into the way of hearing the prompter, and catching the word from him when your memory fails you.
practise your part before a looking-glass, and say it out aloud.
a part may be pat in your head, and very stiff on your tongue.
the green-room is generally a scene of great confusion in private theatricals.
besides getting everything belonging to your dress together yourself and in good time, i advise you to have a little hand-basket, such as you may have used at the seaside or in the garden, and into this to put pins, hair-pins, a burnt cork, needles and thread, a pair of scissors, a pencil, your part, and any small things you may require.
it is easy to drop them into the basket again.
small things get mislaid under bigger ones when one is dressing in a hurry; and a hero who is flustered by his moustache having fallen under the washstand well out of sight is apt to forget his part when he has found the moustache.
remember that right and left in stage directions mean the right and left hand of the actor as he faces the audience.
i will not burden you with any further advice for yourself, and i will reserve a few hints as to rough and ready scenery, properties, &c., for another letter.
meanwhile whatever else you omit get your parts well by rote; and if you cannot find or spare a stage-manager, you must find good-humour and common agreement in proportion; prompt by turns, and each look strictly after his own "properties."
yours, &c.,
burnt cork.
burnt cork.
hints for private theatricals.
iii.
my dear rouge pot, i promised to say something about scenery screens.
if the house happens to boast a modern pseudo-japanese screen of a large size (say six feet high), it will make a very pretty background for a drawing-room scene, and admit of entrances as i suggested.
but screens with light grounds are also very valuable as reflectors, carrying the light into the back of the stage.
there is generally a want of light on the amateur stage, and all means to remedy this defect and brighten up matters are worth considering.
folding screens may be covered on both sides with strips of lining wall-paper of delicate tints, pinned on with drawing-pins.
the paper can be left plain, or it may serve as the background on which to affix "shakespeare scenery."
or again, your amateur painter will find an easier and more effective reward for such labour as he will not grudge to bestow in the holidays, if, instead of attempting the ambitious task of scene-painting on canvas, he adorns these scenery screens with japanese designs in water-colours.
bold and not too crowded combinations of butterflies and flamingoes, tortoises, dragons, water-reeds, flowers and ferns.
he need not hesitate to employ bessemer's gold and silver paints, with discretion, and the two sides of the screen can be done in different ways.
the japanesque side would make a good drawing-room background, and some other scene (such as a wood) might be indicated on the other with a nearer approach to real scene-painting.
these screens light up beautifully, and are well adapted for drawing-room theatricals.
in the common event of your requiring a bit of a cottage with a practicable door to be visible, it will be seen that two folds of a screen, painted with bricks and windows, may be made to do duty in no ill fashion as the two sides of a house, and with a movable porch (a valuable stage property) the entrance can be contrived just out of sight.
the stage will be brightened up by laying down a "crumb cloth," or covering it with holland.
a drawing-room scene is made very pretty by hanging up pairs of the summer white muslin curtains, looped with gay ribbons, as if there were windows in the sides of the stage.
if a fireplace is wanted and will do at the side, a mantelpiece is easily represented, and a banner screen will help to conceal the absence of a grate.
a showy specimen of that dreadful thing, a paper grate-ornament, flowing well down into the fender, may sometimes hide deficiencies.
the appearance of hot coals in a practicable grate is given by irregularly-shaped pieces of red glass, through which light is thrown from a candle behind.
a very important part of your preparations will be the dresses.
now of dresses it may be said as we have said of scenery that if the actors are clever, very slight (if suggestive) accessories in the way of costume will suffice.
at the same time, whilst the scenery can never be good enough in amateur theatricals to cover deficiencies in the performance, good costumes may be a most material help to the success of a piece.
very little wit is demanded from the young gentleman who plays the part of a monkey, if his felt coat is well made, and his monkey-mask comical, and if he has acquired some dexterity in the management of his tail.
i think, my dear rouge pot, that you were taken to see that splendid exhibition of stage properties, babil and bijou?
do you remember the delightful effect of the tribe of oysters?
the little boys who played the oysters had nothing to do but to hop and run, and keep their shells nicely in front of them, and yet how we laughed at them!
now, in a large family, such parts as these afford an opportunity for allowing "the little ones" to "act," and so to become accustomed to the stage, before they can be trusted to learn written parts.
nor are comical costumes beyond the powers of home manufacturers.
you know those men sandwich-men as they are often called!
who go about the london streets with one board in front and one behind.
these boards are of simple shape and only reach from the shoulder, to a little below the knee; they are only wanted to paste advertisements on.
but if you think about it, you will see that to have the boards high enough to hide the head, and low enough to hide the legs, rounded at the top like a scallop shell, with the ribs of the shell nicely painted, eyeholes to peep through, and the hinge of the shell arranged to conceal the feet, would be no very great effort of skill.
sandwich costumes for the little ones might be of many effective shapes.
thick paste-board would probably be strong enough for very little people, and in many cases a covered framework would be better still, and if you have a kite-maker in your troupe, you had better commit these costumes to his skill and ingenuity.
a very simple device would be that of flower-pots painted red.
they need come no higher than the chin, if a good thick bush is firmly held by the little hands behind, so as to conceal the face.
but no doubt, my dear rouge pot, you will say, "if we have no plays with such characters in, we cannot have them, however desirable it may be to bring in the little ones."
but i think you will find some of the elders ingenious enough to "tack them on" to your pieces if required, especially to those founded on fairy tales.
glazed calico is the amateur costume-maker's best friend.
it is cheap, it is shiny, and it can be had in all the most effective colours.
i have never seen a very good green; but the turquoise blue, the pink, and the yellow, are of those pretty dresden china shades which mr. marcus ward and other christmas-card makers use to such good purpose against gold backgrounds.
many of these christmas cards, by the bye, with children dressed in ancient costumes painted by good artists, will give you and your sisters help in a tasteful combination of colours; and besides the gold and silver powder paints, which answer admirably, gold and silver paper can be had to cut stars and trimmings of various sorts from, to stitch or gum on to fairies'
dresses, &c.
tarlatan can now be had in hues that almost rival the colours of flowers, but i fear that only the white can be had "fire-proof."
gauze wings, flowing hair, and tarlatan skirts, combined with the "flurry" of the performances, the confined space behind the scenes, and lights everywhere, form a dangerous combination which it makes one shudder to think of.
the truth is, my dear rouge pot, it cannot be too often or too emphatically repeated that naked lights on the stage or behind the scenes in amateur theatricals are as wrong as in a coal-mine.
glass shades for the bedroom candles with which boy-brothers, seeing imperfectly through masks, will rush past little sisters whose newly-crimped hair and tarlatan skirts are sticking out, they can't feel how far behind them cost a few shillings, and the mental effort of resolving to have and use them.
depend upon it, rouge pot, the latter is the greater difficulty!
and yet our petty economies in matters which affect our health, our daily comfort, or our lives, are wonderful, when the dangers or discomforts we have to avert may, by chance, be averted by good luck at no cost at all.
so perhaps the few shillings have something to do with it.
i hope they will always be expended on safety glasses for all lights in use on or about your stage.
well, glazed calico and tarlatan are very effective, and so is cotton velvet or velveteen; but in every family there will probably be found a few articles of finery originally made of expensive materials, but which are now yielded to the juvenile property-box, and from experience i can assure you that these are valuable treasures.
i have a tender remembrance of a few which were our pièces de résistance when we "dressed up" either for charades or one of miss corner's plays "in my young days."
a black satin dress ancient, but of such lustre and softness as satins are not made now; a real camel's-hair burnous, dyed crimson; a green satin driving cloak, lined with fur these things did not crush and tumble during their long periods of repose in the property-box, as tarlatan skirts and calico doublets were apt to do.
most valuable of all, a grey wig, worn right side foremost by our elderly gentlemen, and wrong side foremost (so as to bring the pig-tail curls over the forehead) by our elderly ladies.
fur gloves, which, with a black rabbit-skin mask over her rosy cheeks, gave ferocity in the part of "the beast" to our jolliest little actress.
a pair of claret-coloured stockings, silk throughout, and a pair of yellow leather slippers, embroidered with gold, doubtless bought long years back in some eastern bazaar, &c., &c. there came a date in our theatrical history when only one pair of feet could get right into these much-desired shoes, heels and all; and as the individual who owned them was also supposed to display the claret-coloured stockings to the best advantage, both these important properties, with the part of prince to which our custom assigned them, fell to an actor who could lay no other claim to pre-eminence.
surely your home will provide one or two of these "stand-bys" of the green-room, and you will not fail to value them, i assure you.
i hope you will not fight for them!
wigs are very important.
unbleached calico is a very fair imitation of the skin of one's head.
a skull-cap made of it will do for a bald pate, or, with a black pig-tail and judicious face-painting, will turn any smooth-faced actor into a very passable chinaman.
flowing locks of tow, stitched on round the lower part, will convert it into a patriarchal wig.
nigger wigs are made of curly black horsehair fastened on to a black skull-cap.
moustaches and whiskers can be bought at small expense, but if well painted the effect is nearly as good.
as to face-painting.
rouge is indispensable, but care must be taken not to overdo it.
the eyebrows must be darkened with sepia or indian ink, and a camel's-hair brush especially for fair people.
with the same materials you must deepen all the lines of the face, if you want to make a young person look like an old one.
the cheek lines on each side of the nose, furrows across the forehead, and crow's-foot marks by the eyes, are required for an old face; but if the audience are to be very close to the stage, you must be careful not to overdo your painting.
violet powder is the simplest and least irritating white for the skin.
rouge should be laid on with a hare's foot.
if your "old man" is wearing a bald wig, be careful to colour his forehead to match as well as possible with his bald pate.
all these applications are more or less irritating to one's skin.
it is said to be a mistake to wash them off.
cold cream should be rubbed over the face, and then wiped off with a soft towel.
as a parting hint, my dear rouge pot, when you have passed the stage of child-plays in rhyme but do not be in a hurry to discard such universal favourites as dick whittington, beauty and the beast, and cinderella don't be too ambitious in your selection from "grown-up" plays.
as a matter of experience, when we got beyond miss corner we took to farces, and found them very successful.
there are many which play well in young hands, and only require the omission of a few coarse expressions, which, being intended to raise a laugh among "roughs" in the gallery of a public theatre, need hardly be hurled at the ears of one's private friends.
i am bound to say that competent critics have told me that farces were about the most difficult things we could have attempted.
i can only say that we found them answer.
partly, perhaps, because it requires a less high skill to raise a laugh than to move by passion or pathos.
partly, too, because farces are short, and amateurs can make no greater mistake than to weary their audience.
if you prefer "dress pieces" and dramas to farces or burlesque, let some competent person curtail the one you choose to a suitable length.
the manager of juvenile theatricals should never forget the wisdom embodied in sam weller's definition of the art of letter-writing, that the writer should stop short at such a point as that the reader should "wish there wos more of it."
yours, &c.,
burnt cork.
snap-dragons.
a tale of christmas eve.
mr. and mrs. skratdj.
once upon a time there lived a certain family of the name of skratdj.
(it has a russian or polish look, and yet they most certainly lived in england.)
they were remarkable for the following peculiarity.
they seldom seriously quarrelled, but they never agreed about anything.
it is hard to say whether it were more painful for their friends to hear them constantly contradicting each other, or gratifying to discover that it "meant nothing," and was "only their way."
it began with the father and mother.
they were a worthy couple, and really attached to each other.
but they had a habit of contradicting each other's statements, and opposing each other's opinions, which, though mutually understood and allowed for in private, was most trying to the bystanders in public.
if one related an anecdote, the other would break in with half-a-dozen corrections of trivial details of no interest or importance to any one, the speakers included.
for instance: suppose the two dining in a strange house, and mrs. skratdj seated by the host, and contributing to the small-talk of the dinner-table.
thus:
"oh yes.
very changeable weather indeed.
it looked quite promising yesterday morning in the town, but it began to rain at noon."
"a quarter-past eleven, my dear," mr. skratdj's voice would be heard to say from several chairs down, in the corrective tones of a husband and a father; "and really, my dear, so far from being a promising morning, i must say it looked about as threatening as it well could.
your memory is not always accurate in small matters, my love."
but mrs. skratdj had not been a wife and a mother for fifteen years, to be snuffed out at one snap of the marital snuffers.
as mr. skratdj leaned forward in his chair, she leaned forward in hers, and defended herself across the intervening couples.
"why, my dear mr. skratdj, you said yourself the weather had not been so promising for a week."
"what i said, my dear, pardon me, was that the barometer was higher than it had been for a week.
but, as you might have observed if these details were in your line, my love, which they are not, the rise was extraordinarily rapid, and there is no surer sign of unsettled weather.
but mrs. skratdj is apt to forget these unimportant trifles," he added, with a comprehensive smile round the dinner-table; "her thoughts are very properly absorbed by the more important domestic questions of the nursery."
"now i think that's rather unfair on mr. skratdj's part," mrs. skratdj would chirp, with a smile quite as affable and as general as her husband's.
"i'm sure he's quite as forgetful and inaccurate as i am.
and i don't think my memory is at all a bad one."
"you forgot the dinner hour when we were going out to dine last week, nevertheless," said mr. skratdj.
"and you couldn't help me when i asked you," was the sprightly retort.
"and i'm sure it's not like you to forget anything about dinner, my dear."
"the letter was addressed to you," said mr. skratdj.
"i sent it to you by jemima," said mrs. skratdj.
"i didn't read it," said mr. skratdj.
"well, you burnt it," said mrs. skratdj; "and, as i always say, there's nothing more foolish than burning a letter of invitation before the day, for one is certain to forget."
"i've no doubt you always do say it," mr. skratdj remarked, with a smile, "but i certainly never remember to have heard the observation from your lips, my love."
"whose memory's in fault there?"
asked mrs. skratdj triumphantly; and as at this point the ladies rose, mrs. skratdj had the last word.
indeed, as may be gathered from this conversation, mrs. skratdj was quite able to defend herself.
when she was yet a bride, and young and timid, she used to collapse when mr. skratdj contradicted her statements and set her stories straight in public.
then she hardly ever opened her lips without disappearing under the domestic extinguisher.
but in the course of fifteen years she had learned that mr. skratdj's bark was a great deal worse than his bite.
(if, indeed, he had a bite at all.)
thus snubs that made other people's ears tingle, had no effect whatever on the lady to whom they were addressed, for she knew exactly what they were worth, and had by this time become fairly adept at snapping in return.
in the days when she succumbed she was occasionally unhappy, but now she and her husband understood each other, and having agreed to differ, they unfortunately agreed also to differ in public.
indeed, it was the bystanders who had the worst of it on these occasions.
to the worthy couple themselves the habit had become second nature, and in no way affected the friendly tenour of their domestic relations.
they would interfere with each other's conversation, contradicting assertions, and disputing conclusions for a whole evening; and then, when all the world and his wife thought that these ceaseless sparks of bickering must blaze up into a flaming quarrel as soon as they were alone, they would bowl amicably home in a cab, criticizing the friends who were commenting upon them, and as little agreed about the events of the evening as about the details of any other events whatever.
yes, the bystanders certainly had the worst of it.
those who were near wished themselves anywhere else, especially when appealed to.
those who were at a distance did not mind so much.
a domestic squabble at a certain distance is interesting, like an engagement viewed from a point beyond the range of guns.
in such a position one may some day be placed oneself!
moreover, it gives a touch of excitement to a dull evening to be able to say sotto voce to one's neighbour, "do listen!
the skratdjs are at it again!"
their unmarried friends thought a terrible abyss of tyranny and aggravation must lie beneath it all, and blessed their stars that they were still single, and able to tell a tale their own way.
the married ones had more idea of how it really was, and wished in the name of common sense and good taste that skratdj and his wife would not make fools of themselves.
so it went on, however; and so, i suppose, it goes on still, for not many bad habits are cured in middle age.
on certain questions of comparative speaking their views were never identical.
such as the temperature being hot or cold, things being light or dark, the apple-tarts being sweet or sour.
so one day mr.
skratdj came into the room, rubbing his hands, and planting himself at the fire with "bitterly cold it is to-day, to be sure."
"why, my dear william," said mrs. skratdj, "i'm sure you must have got a cold; i feel a fire quite oppressive myself."
"you were wishing you'd a seal-skin jacket yesterday, when it wasn't half as cold as it is to-day," said mr. skratdj.
"my dear william!
why, the children were shivering the whole day, and the wind was in the north."
"due east, mrs.
skratdj."
"i know by the smoke," said mrs. skratdj, softly but decidedly.
"i fancy i can tell an east wind when i feel it," said mr. skratdj, jocosely, to the company.
"i told jemima to look at the weathercock," murmured mrs. skratdj.
"i don't care a fig for jemima," said her husband.
on another occasion mrs. skratdj and a lady friend were conversing.
... "we met him at the smiths' a gentleman-like agreeable man, about forty," said mrs. skratdj, in reference to some matter interesting to both ladies.
"not a day over thirty-five," said mr. skratdj, from behind his newspaper.
"why, my dear william, his hair's grey," said mrs. skratdj.
"plenty of men are grey at thirty," said mr. skratdj.
"i knew a man who was grey at twenty-five."
"well, forty or thirty-five, it doesn't much matter," said mrs.
skratdj, about to resume her narration.
"five years matter a good deal to most people at thirty-five," said mr. skratdj, as he walked towards the door.
"they would make a remarkable difference to me, i know;" and with a jocular air mr.
skratdj departed, and mrs. skratdj had the rest of the anecdote her own way.
the little skratdjs.
the spirit of contradiction finds a place in most nurseries, though to a varying degree in different ones.
children snap and snarl by nature, like young puppies; and most of us can remember taking part in some such spirited dialogues as the following:
{"i will."
{"you daren't."
{"you can't."
{"i dare."
{"you shall."
{"i'll tell mamma."
{"i won't."
{"i don't care if you do."
it is the part of wise parents to repress these squibs and crackers of juvenile contention, and to enforce that slowly-learned lesson, that in this world one must often "pass over" and "put up with" things in other people, being oneself by no means perfect.
also that it is a kindness, and almost a duty, to let people think and say and do things in their own way occasionally.
but even if mr. and mrs. skratdj had ever thought of teaching all this to their children, it must be confessed that the lesson would not have come with a good grace from either of them, since they snapped and snarled between themselves as much or more than their children in the nursery.
the two eldest were the leaders in the nursery squabbles.
between these, a boy and a girl, a ceaseless war of words was waged from morning to night.
and as neither of them lacked ready wit, and both were in constant practice, the art of snapping was cultivated by them to the highest pitch.
it began at breakfast, if not sooner.
"you've taken my chair."
"it's not your chair."
"you know it's the one i like, and it was in my place."
"how do you know it was in your place?"
"never mind.
i do know."
"no, you don't."
"yes, i do."
"suppose i say it was in my place."
"you can't, for it wasn't."
"i can, if i like."
"well, was it?"
"i sha'n't tell you."
"ah!
that shows it wasn't."
"no, it doesn't."
"yes, it does."
etc., etc., etc.
the direction of their daily walks was a fruitful subject of difference of opinion.
"let's go on the common to-day, nurse."
"oh, don't let's go there; we're always going on the common."
"i'm sure we're not.
we've not been there for ever so long."
"oh, what a story!
we were there on wednesday.
let's go down gipsey lane.
we never go down gipsey lane."
"why, we're always going down gipsey lane.
and there's nothing to see there."
"i don't care, i won't go on the common, and i shall go and get papa to say we're to go down gipsey lane.
i can run faster than you."
"that's very sneaking; but i don't care."
"papa!
papa!
polly's called me a sneak."
"no, i didn't, papa."
"you did."
"no, i didn't.
i only said it was sneaking of you to say you'd run faster than me, and get papa to say we were to go down gipsey lane."
"then you did call him sneaking," said mr. skratdj.
"and you're a very naughty ill-mannered little girl.
you're getting very troublesome, polly, and i shall have to send you to school, where you'll be kept in order.
go where your brother wishes at once."
for polly and her brother had reached an age when it was convenient, if possible, to throw the blame of all nursery differences on polly.
in families where domestic discipline is rather fractious than firm, there comes a stage when the girls almost invariably go to the wall, because they will stand snubbing, and the boys will not.
domestic authority, like some other powers, is apt to be magnified on the weaker class.
but mr. skratdj would not always listen even to harry.
"if you don't give it me back directly, i'll tell about your eating the two magnum-bonums in the kitchen garden on sunday," said master harry on one occasion.
"tell-tale tit!
your tongue shall be slit,     and every dog in the town shall have a little bit,"
quoted his sister.
"ah!
you've called me a tell-tale.
now i'll go and tell papa.
you got into a fine scrape for calling me names the other day."
"go, then!
i don't care."
"you wouldn't like me to go, i know."
"you daren't.
that's what it is."
"i dare."
"then why don't you?"
"oh, i am going; but you'll see what will be the end of it."
polly, however, had her own reasons for remaining stolid, and harry started.
but when he reached the landing he paused.
mr. skratdj had especially announced that morning that he did not wish to be disturbed, and though he was a favourite, harry had no desire to invade the dining-room at this crisis.
so he returned to the nursery, and said with a magnanimous air, "i don't want to get you into a scrape, polly.
if you'll beg my pardon i won't go."
"i'm sure i sha'n't," said polly, who was equally well informed as to the position of affairs at head-quarters.
"go, if you dare."
"i won't if you want me not," said harry, discreetly waiving the question of apologies.
"but i'd rather you went," said the obdurate polly.
"you're always telling tales.
go and tell now, if you're not afraid."
so harry went.
but at the bottom of the stairs he lingered again, and was meditating how to return with most credit to his dignity, when polly's face appeared through the banisters, and polly's sharp tongue goaded him on.
"ah!
i see you.
you're stopping.
you daren't go."
"i dare," said harry; and at last he went.
as he turned the handle of the door, mr. skratdj turned round.
"please, papa " harry began.
"get away with you!"
cried mr. skratdj, "didn't i tell you i was not to be disturbed this morning?
what an extraor  "
but harry had shut the door, and withdrawn precipitately.
once outside, he returned to the nursery with dignified steps, and an air of apparent satisfaction, saying,
"you're to give me the bricks, please."
"who says so?"
"why, who should say so?
where have i been, pray?"
"i don't know, and i don't care."
"i've been to papa.
there!"
"did he say i was to give up the bricks?"
"i've told you."
"no, you've not."
"i sha'n't tell you any more."
"then i'll go to papa and ask."
"go by all means."
"i won't if you'll tell me truly."
"i sha'n't tell you anything.
go and ask, if you dare," said harry, only too glad to have the tables turned.
polly's expedition met with the same fate, and she attempted to cover her retreat in a similar manner.
"ah!
you didn't tell."
"i don't believe you asked papa."
"don't you?
very well!"
"well, did you?"
"never mind."
etc., etc., etc.
meanwhile mr. skratdj scolded mrs. skratdj for not keeping the children in better order.
and mrs. skratdj said it was quite impossible to do so, when mr. skratdj spoilt harry as he did, and weakened her (mrs. skratdj's) authority by constant interference.
difference of sex gave point to many of these nursery squabbles, as it so often does to domestic broils.
"boys never will do what they're asked," polly would complain.
"girls ask such unreasonable things," was harry's retort.
"not half so unreasonable as the things you ask."
"ah!
that's a different thing!
women have got to do what men tell them, whether it's reasonable or not."
"no, they've not!"
said polly.
"at least, that's only husbands and wives."
"all women are inferior animals," said harry.
"try ordering mamma to do what you want, and see!"
said polly.
"men have got to give orders, and women have to obey," said harry, falling back on the general principle.
"and when i get a wife, i'll take care i make her do what i tell her.
but you'll have to obey your husband when you get one."
"i won't have a husband, and then i can do as i like."
"oh, won't you?
you'll try to get one, i know.
girls always want to be married."
"i'm sure i don't know why," said polly; "they must have had enough of men if they have brothers."
and so they went on, ad infinitum, with ceaseless arguments that proved nothing and convinced nobody, and a continual stream of contradiction that just fell short of downright quarrelling.
indeed, there was a kind of snapping even less near to a dispute than in the cases just mentioned.
the little skratdjs, like some other children, were under the unfortunate delusion that it sounds clever to hear little boys and girls snap each other up with smart sayings, and old and rather vulgar play upon words, such as:
"i'll give you a christmas-box.
which ear will you have it on?"
"i won't stand it."
"pray take a chair."
"you shall have it to-morrow."
"to-morrow never comes."
and so if a visitor kindly began to talk to one of the children, another was sure to draw near and "take up" all the first child's answers, with smart comments, and catches that sounded as silly as they were tiresome and impertinent.
and ill-mannered as this was, mr. and mrs. skratdj never put a stop to it.
indeed, it was only a caricature of what they did themselves.
but they often said, "we can't think how it is the children are always squabbling!"
the skratdjs' dog and the hot-tempered gentleman.
it is wonderful how the state of mind of a whole household is influenced by the heads of it.
mr. skratdj was a very kind master, and mrs. skratdj was a very kind mistress, and yet their servants lived in a perpetual fever of irritability that just fell short of discontent.
they jostled each other on the back stairs, said sharp things in the pantry, and kept up a perennial warfare on the subject of the duty of the sexes with the general man-servant.
they gave warning on the slightest provocation.
the very dog was infected by the snapping mania.
he was not a brave dog, he was not a vicious dog, and no high-breeding sanctioned his pretensions to arrogance.
but like his owners, he had contracted a bad habit, a trick, which made him the pest of all timid visitors, and indeed of all visitors whatsoever.
the moment any one approached the house, on certain occasions when he was spoken to, and often in no traceable connection with any cause at all, snap the mongrel would rush out, and bark in his little sharp voice "yap!
yap!
yap!"
if the visitor made a stand, he would bound away sideways on his four little legs; but the moment the visitor went on his way again, snap was at his heels "yap!
yap!
yap!"
he barked at the milkman, the butcher's boy, and the baker, though he saw them every day.
he never got used to the washerwoman, and she never got used to him.
she said he "put her in mind of that there black dog in the pilgrim's progress."
he sat at the gate in summer, and yapped at every vehicle and every pedestrian who ventured to pass on the high-road.
he never but once had the chance of barking at burglars; and then, though he barked long and loud, nobody got up, for they said, "it's only snap's way."
the skratdjs lost a silver teapot, a stilton cheese, and two electro christening mugs, on this occasion; and mr. and mrs. skratdj dispute who it was who discouraged reliance on snap's warning to the present day.
one christmas time, a certain hot-tempered gentleman came to visit the skratdjs.
a tall, sandy, energetic young man, who carried his own bag from the railway.
the bag had been crammed rather than packed, after the wont of bachelors; and you could see where the heel of a boot distended the leather, and where the bottle of shaving-cream lay.
as he came up to the house, out came snap as usual "yap!
yap!
yap!"
now the gentleman was very fond of dogs, and had borne this greeting some dozen of times from snap, who for his part knew the visitor quite as well as the washerwoman, and rather better than the butcher's boy.
the gentleman had good, sensible, well-behaved dogs of his own, and was greatly disgusted with snap's conduct.
nevertheless he spoke friendly to him; and snap, who had had many a bit from his plate, could not help stopping for a minute to lick his hand.
but no sooner did the gentleman proceed on his way, than snap flew at his heels in the usual fashion
"yap!
yap!
yap!"
on which the gentleman being hot-tempered, and one of those people with whom it is (as they say) a word and a blow, and the blow first made a dash at snap, and snap taking to his heels, the gentleman flung his carpet-bag after him.
the bottle of shaving-cream hit upon a stone and was smashed.
the heel of the boot caught snap on the back, and sent him squealing to the kitchen.
and he never barked at that gentleman again.
if the gentleman disapproved of snap's conduct, he still less liked the continual snapping of the skratdj family themselves.
he was an old friend of mr. and mrs. skratdj, however, and knew that they were really happy together, and that it was only a bad habit which made them constantly contradict each other.
it was in allusion to their real affection for each other, and their perpetual disputing, that he called them the "snapping turtles."
when the war of words waxed hottest at the dinner-table between his host and hostess, he would drive his hands through his shock of sandy hair, and say, with a comical glance out of his umber eyes, "don't flirt, my friends.
it makes a bachelor feel awkward."
and neither mr. nor mrs. skratdj could help laughing.
with the little skratdjs his measures were more vigorous.
he was very fond of children, and a good friend to them.
he grudged no time or trouble to help them in their games and projects, but he would not tolerate their snapping up each other's words in his presence.
he was much more truly kind than many visitors, who think it polite to smile at the sauciness and forwardness which ignorant vanity leads children so often to "show off" before strangers.
these civil acquaintances only abuse both children and parents behind their backs, for the very bad habits which they help to encourage.
the hot-tempered gentleman's treatment of his young friends was very different.
one day he was talking to polly, and making some kind inquiries about her lessons, to which she was replying in a quiet and sensible fashion, when up came master harry, and began to display his wit by comments on the conversation, and by snapping at and contradicting his sister's remarks, to which she retorted; and the usual snap-dialogue went on as before.
"then you like music," said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"yes, i like it very much," said polly.
"oh, do you?"
harry broke in.
"then what are you always crying over it for?"
"i'm not always crying over it."
"yes, you are."
"no, i'm not.
i only cry sometimes, when i stick fast."
"your music must be very sticky, for you're always stuck fast."
"hold your tongue!"
said the hot-tempered gentleman.
with what he imagined to be a very waggish air, harry put out his tongue, and held it with his finger and thumb.
it was unfortunate that he had not time to draw it in again before the hot-tempered gentleman gave him a stinging box on the ear, which brought his teeth rather sharply together on the tip of his tongue, which was bitten in consequence.
"it's no use speaking," said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair.
children are like dogs, they are very good judges of their real friends.
harry did not like the hot-tempered gentleman a bit the less because he was obliged to respect and obey him; and all the children welcomed him boisterously when he arrived that christmas which we have spoken of in connection with his attack on snap.
it was on the morning of christmas eve that the china punch-bowl was broken.
mr. skratdj had a warm dispute with mrs. skratdj as to whether it had been kept in a safe place; after which both had a brisk encounter with the housemaid, who did not know how it happened; and she, flouncing down the back passage, kicked snap; who forthwith flew at the gardener as he was bringing in the horse-radish for the beef; who stepping backwards trode upon the cat; who spit and swore, and went up the pump with her tail as big as a fox's brush.
to avoid this domestic scene, the hot-tempered gentleman withdrew to the breakfast-room and took up a newspaper.
by and by, harry and polly came in, and they were soon snapping comfortably over their own affairs in a corner.
the hot-tempered gentleman's umber eyes had been looking over the top of his newspaper at them for some time, before he called, "harry, my boy!"
and harry came up to him.
"show me your tongue, harry," said he.
"what for?"
said harry; "you're not a doctor."
"do as i tell you," said the hot-tempered gentleman; and as harry saw his hand moving, he put his tongue out with all possible haste.
the hot-tempered gentleman sighed.
"ah!"
he said, in depressed tones; "i thought so!
polly, come and let me look at yours."
polly, who had crept up during this process, now put out hers.
but the hot-tempered gentleman looked gloomier still, and shook his head.
"what is it?"
cried both the children.
"what do you mean?"
and they seized the tips of their tongues with their fingers, to feel for themselves.
but the hot-tempered gentleman went slowly out of the room without answering; passing his hands through his hair, and saying, "ah!
hum!"
and nodding with an air of grave foreboding.
just as he crossed the threshold, he turned back, and put his head into the room.
"have you ever noticed that your tongues are growing pointed?"
he asked.
"no!"
cried the children with alarm.
"are they?"
"if ever you find them becoming forked," said the gentleman in solemn tones, "let me know."
with which he departed, gravely shaking his head.
in the afternoon the children attacked him again.
"do tell us what's the matter with our tongues."
"you were snapping and squabbling just as usual this morning," said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"well, we forgot," said polly.
"we don't mean anything, you know.
but never mind that now, please.
tell us about our tongues.
what is going to happen to them?"
"i'm very much afraid," said the hot-tempered gentleman, in solemn measured tones, "that you are both of you fast going to the "
"dogs?"
suggested harry, who was learned in cant expressions.
"dogs!"
said the hot-tempered gentleman, driving his hands through his hair.
"bless your life, no!
nothing half so pleasant!
(that is, unless all dogs were like snap, which mercifully they are not.)
no, my sad fear is, that you are both of you rapidly going to the snap-dragons!"
and not another word would the hot-tempered gentleman say on the subject.
christmas eve.
in the course of a few hours mr. and mrs. skratdj recovered their equanimity.
the punch was brewed in a jug, and tasted quite as good as usual.
the evening was very lively.
there were a christmas tree, yule cakes, log, and candles, furmety, and snap-dragon after supper.
when the company was tired of the tree, and had gained an appetite by the hard exercise of stretching to high branches, blowing out "dangerous"
tapers, and cutting ribbon and pack-thread in all directions, supper came, with its welcome cakes and furmety and punch.
and when furmety somewhat palled upon the taste (and it must be admitted to boast more sentiment than flavour as a christmas dish), the yule candles were blown out, and both the spirits and the palates of the party were stimulated by the mysterious and pungent pleasures of snap-dragon.
then, as the hot-tempered gentleman warmed his coat-tails at the yule log, a grim smile stole over his features as he listened to the sounds in the room.
in the darkness the blue flames leaped and danced, the raisins were snapped and snatched from hand to hand, scattering fragments of flame hither and thither.
the children shouted as the fiery sweetmeats burnt away the mawkish taste of the furmety.
mr.
skratdj cried that they were spoiling the carpet; mrs. skratdj complained that he had spilled some brandy on her dress.
mr. skratdj retorted that she should not wear dresses so susceptible of damage in the family circle.
mrs. skratdj recalled an old speech of mr.
skratdj's on the subject of wearing one's nice things for the benefit of one's family, and not reserving them for visitors.
mr. skratdj remembered that mrs. skratdj's excuse for buying that particular dress when she did not need it, was her intention of keeping it for the next year.
the children disputed as to the credit for courage and the amount of raisins due to each.
snap barked furiously at the flames; and the maids hustled each other for good places in the doorway, and would not have allowed the man-servant to see at all, but he looked over their heads.
"st!
st!
at it!
at it!"
chuckled the hot-tempered gentleman in undertones.
and when he said this, it seemed as if the voices of mr.
and mrs. skratdj rose higher in matrimonial repartee, and the children's squabbles became louder, and the dog yelped as if he were mad, and the maids' contest was sharper; whilst the snap-dragon flames leaped up and up, and blue fire flew about the room like foam.
at last the raisins were finished, the flames were all but out, and the company withdrew to the drawing-room.
only harry lingered.
"come along, harry," said the hot-tempered gentleman.
"wait a minute," said harry.
"you had better come," said the gentleman.
"why?"
said harry.
"there's nothing to stop for.
the raisins are eaten, the brandy is burnt out "
"no, it's not," said harry.
"well, almost.
it would be better if it were quite out.
now come.
it's dangerous for a boy like you to be alone with the snap-dragons to-night."
"fiddle-sticks!"
said harry.
"go your own way, then!"
said the hot-tempered gentleman; and he bounced out of the room, and harry was left alone.
dancing with the dragons.
he crept up to the table, where one little pale blue flame flickered in the snap-dragon dish.
"what a pity it should go out!"
said harry.
at this moment the brandy-bottle on the sideboard caught his eye.
"just a little more," muttered harry to himself; and he uncorked the bottle, and poured a little brandy on to the flame.
now of course, as soon as the brandy touched the fire, all the brandy in the bottle blazed up at once, and the bottle split to pieces; and it was very fortunate for harry that he did not get seriously hurt.
a little of the hot brandy did get into his eyes, and made them smart, so that he had to shut them for a few seconds.
but when he opened them again, what a sight he saw!
all over the room the blue flames leaped and danced as they had leaped and danced in the soup-plate with the raisins.
and harry saw that each successive flame was the fold in the long body of a bright blue dragon, which moved like the body of a snake.
and the room was full of these dragons.
in the face they were like the dragons one sees made of very old blue and white china; and they had forked tongues, like the tongues of serpents.
they were most beautiful in colour, being sky-blue.
lobsters who have just changed their coats are very handsome, but the violet and indigo of a lobster's coat is nothing to the brilliant sky-blue of a snap-dragon.
how they leaped about!
they were for ever leaping over each other like seals at play.
but if it was "play" at all with them, it was of a very rough kind; for as they jumped, they snapped and barked at each other, and their barking was like that of the barking gnu in the zoological gardens; and from time to time they tore the hair out of each other's heads with their claws, and scattered it about the floor.
and as it dropped it was like the flecks of flame people shake from their fingers when they are eating snap-dragon raisins.
harry stood aghast.
"what fun!"
cried a voice close behind him; and he saw that one of the dragons was lying near, and not joining in the game.
he had lost one of the forks of his tongue by accident, and could not bark for awhile.
"i'm glad you think it funny," said harry; "i don't."
"that's right.
snap away!"
sneered the dragon.
"you're a perfect treasure.
they'll take you in with them the third round."
"not those creatures?"
cried harry.
"yes, those creatures.
and if i hadn't lost my bark, i'd be the first to lead you off," said the dragon.
"oh, the game will exactly suit you."
"what is it, please?"
harry asked.
"you'd better not say 'please' to the others," said the dragon, "if you don't want to have all your hair pulled out.
the game is this.
you have always to be jumping over somebody else, and you must either talk or bark.
if anybody speaks to you, you must snap in return.
i need not explain what snapping is.
you know.
if any one by accident gives a civil answer, a claw-full of hair is torn out of his head to stimulate his brain.
nothing can be funnier."
"i dare say it suits you capitally," said harry; "but i'm sure we shouldn't like it.
i mean men and women and children.
it wouldn't do for us at all."
"wouldn't it?"
said the dragon.
"you don't know how many human beings dance with dragons on christmas eve.
if we are kept going in a house till after midnight, we can pull people out of their beds, and take them to dance in vesuvius."
"vesuvius!"
cried harry.
"yes, vesuvius.
we come from italy originally, you know.
our skins are the colour of the bay of naples.
we live on dried grapes and ardent spirits.
we have glorious fun in the mountain sometimes.
oh!
what snapping, and scratching, and tearing!
delicious!
there are times when the squabbling becomes too great, and mother mountain won't stand it, and spits us all out, and throws cinders after us.
but this is only at times.
we had a charming meeting last year.
so many human beings, and how they can snap!
it was a choice party.
so very select.
we always have plenty of saucy children, and servants.
husbands and wives too, and quite as many of the former as the latter, if not more.
but besides these, we had two vestry-men; a country postman, who devoted his talents to insulting the public instead of to learning the postal regulations; three cabmen and two "fares"; two young shop-girls from a berlin wool shop in a town where there was no competition; four commercial travellers; six landladies; six old bailey lawyers; several widows from almshouses; seven single gentlemen and nine cats, who swore at everything; a dozen sulphur-coloured screaming cockatoos; a lot of street children from a town; a pack of mongrel curs from the colonies, who snapped at the human beings' heels; and five elderly ladies in their sunday bonnets with prayer-books, who had been fighting for good seats in church."
"dear me!"
said harry.
"if you can find nothing sharper to say than 'dear me,'" said the dragon, "you will fare badly, i can tell you.
why, i thought you'd a sharp tongue, but it's not forked yet, i see.
here they are, however.
off with you!
and if you value your curls snap!"
and before harry could reply, the snap-dragons came in on their third round, and as they passed they swept harry along with them.
he shuddered as he looked at his companions.
they were as transparent as shrimps, but of a lovely cerulæan blue.
and as they leaped they barked "howf!
howf!"
like barking gnus; and when they leaped harry had to leap with them.
besides barking, they snapped and wrangled with each other; and in this harry must join also.
"pleasant, isn't it?"
said one of the blue dragons.
"not at all," snapped harry.
"that's your bad taste," snapped the blue dragon.
"no, it's not!"
snapped harry.
"then it's pride and perverseness.
you want your hair combing."
"oh, please don't!"
shrieked harry, forgetting himself.
on which the dragon clawed a handful of hair out of his head, and harry screamed, and the blue dragons barked and danced.
"that made your hair curl, didn't it?"
asked another dragon, leaping over harry.
"that's no business of yours," harry snapped, as well as he could for crying.
"it's more my pleasure than business," retorted the dragon.
"keep it to yourself, then," snapped harry.
"i mean to share it with you, when i get hold of your hair," snapped the dragon.
"wait till you get the chance," harry snapped, with desperate presence of mind.
"do you know whom you're talking to?"
roared the dragon; and he opened his mouth from ear to ear, and shot out his forked tongue in harry's face; and the boy was so frightened that he forgot to snap, and cried piteously,
"oh, i beg your pardon, please don't!"
on which the blue dragon clawed another handful of hair out of his head, and all the dragons barked as before.
how long the dreadful game went on harry never exactly knew.
well practised as he was in snapping in the nursery, he often failed to think of a retort, and paid for his unreadiness by the loss of his hair.
oh, how foolish and wearisome all this rudeness and snapping now seemed to him!
but on he had to go, wondering all the time how near it was to twelve o'clock, and whether the snap-dragons would stay till midnight and take him with them to vesuvius.
at last, to his joy, it became evident that the brandy was coming to an end.
the dragons moved slower, they could not leap so high, and at last one after another they began to go out.
"oh, if they only all of them get away before twelve!"
thought poor harry.
at last there was only one.
he and harry jumped about and snapped and barked, and harry was thinking with joy that he was the last, when the clock in the hall gave that whirring sound which some clocks do before they strike, as if it were clearing its throat.
"oh, please go!"
screamed harry in despair.
the blue dragon leaped up, and took such a claw-full of hair out of the boy's head, that it seemed as if part of the skin went too.
but that leap was his last.
he went out at once, vanishing before the first stroke of twelve.
and harry was left on his face on the floor in the darkness.
conclusion.
when his friends found him there was blood on his forehead.
harry thought it was where the dragon had clawed him, but they said it was a cut from a fragment of the broken brandy-bottle.
the dragons had disappeared as completely as the brandy.
harry was cured of snapping.
he had had quite enough of it for a lifetime, and the catch-contradictions of the household now made him shudder.
polly had not had the benefit of his experiences, and yet she improved also.
in the first place, snapping, like other kinds of quarrelling, requires two parties to it, and harry would never be a party to snapping any more.
and when he gave civil and kind answers to polly's smart speeches, she felt ashamed of herself, and did not repeat them.
in the second place, she heard about the snap-dragons.
harry told all about it to her and to the hot-tempered gentleman.
"now do you think it's true?"
polly asked the hot-tempered man.
"hum!
ha!"
said he, driving his hands through his hair.
"you know i warned you, you were going to the snap-dragons."
harry and polly snubbed "the little ones" when they snapped, and utterly discountenanced snapping in the nursery.
the example and admonitions of elder children are a powerful instrument of nursery discipline, and before long there was not a "sharp tongue" amongst all the little skratdjs.
but i doubt if the parents ever were cured.
i don't know if they heard the story.
besides, bad habits are not easily cured when one is old.
i fear mr. and mrs. skratdj have yet got to dance with the dragons.
old father christmas.
old father christmas.
an old-fashioned tale of the young days of a grumpy old godfather.
"can you fancy, young people," said godfather garbel, winking with his prominent eyes, and moving his feet backwards and forwards in his square shoes, so that you could hear the squeak-leather half a room off "can you fancy my having been a very little boy, and having a godmother?
but i had, and she sent me presents on my birthdays too.
and young people did not get presents when i was a child as they get them now.
grumph!
we had not half so many toys as you have, but we kept them twice as long.
i think we were fonder of them too, though they were neither so handsome nor so expensive as these new-fangled affairs you are always breaking about the house.
grumph!
"you see, middle-class folk were more saving then.
my mother turned and dyed her dresses, and when she had done with them, the servant was very glad to have them; but, bless me!
your mother's maids dress so much finer than their mistress, i do not think they would say 'thank you' for her best sunday silk.
the bustle's the wrong shape.
grumph!
"what's that you are laughing at, little miss?
it's pannier, is it?
well, well, bustle or pannier, call it what you like; but only donkeys wore panniers in my young days, and many's the ride i've had in them.
"now, as i say, my relations and friends thought twice before they pulled out five shillings in a toy-shop, but they didn't forget me, all the same.
"on my eighth birthday my mother gave me a bright blue comforter of her own knitting.
"my little sister gave me a ball.
my mother had cut out the divisions from various bits in the rag-bag, and my sister had done some of the seaming.
it was stuffed with bran, and had a cork inside which had broken from old age, and would no longer fit the pickle-jar it belonged to.
this made the ball bound when we played 'prisoner's base.'
"my father gave me the broken driving-whip that had lost the lash, and an old pair of his gloves, to play coachman with; these i had long wished for, since next to sailing in a ship, in my ideas, came the honour and glory of driving a coach.
"my whole soul, i must tell you, was set upon being a sailor.
in those days i had rather put to sea once on farmer fodder's duck-pond than ride twice atop of his hay-waggon; and between the smell of hay and the softness of it, and the height you are up above other folk, and the danger of tumbling off if you don't look out for hay is elastic as well as soft you don't easily beat a ride on a hay-waggon for pleasure.
but as i say, i'd rather put to sea on the duck-pond, though the best craft i could borrow was the pigstye-door, and a pole to punt with, and the village boys jeering when i got aground, which was most of the time besides the duck-pond never having a wave on it worth the name, punt as you would, and so shallow you could not have got drowned in it to save your life.
"you're laughing now, little master, are you?
but let me tell you that drowning's the death for a sailor, whatever you may think.
so i've always maintained, and have given every navigable sea in the known world a chance, though here i am after all, laid up in arm-chairs and feather-beds, to wait for bronchitis or some other slow poison.
grumph!
"well, we must all go as we're called, sailors or landsmen, and as i was saying, if i was never to sail a ship, i would have liked to drive a coach.
a mail coach, serving his majesty (her majesty now, god bless her!
), carrying the royal arms, and bound to go, rough weather and fair.
many's the time i've done it (in play you understand) with that whip and those gloves.
dear!
dear!
the pains i took to teach my sister patty to be a highwayman, and jump out on me from the drying-ground hedge in the dusk with a 'stand and deliver!'
which she couldn't get out of her throat for fright, and wouldn't jump hard enough for fear of hurting me.
"the whip and the gloves gave me joy, i can tell you; but there was more to come.
"kitty the servant gave me a shell that she had had by her for years.
how i had coveted that shell!
it had this remarkable property: when you put it to your ear, you could hear the roaring of the sea.
i had never seen the sea, but kitty was born in a fisherman's cottage, and many an hour have i sat by the kitchen fire whilst she told me strange stories of the mighty ocean, and ever and anon she would snatch the shell from the mantelpiece and clap it to my ear, crying, 'there, child, you couldn't hear it plainer than that.
it's the very moral!'
"when kitty gave me that shell for my very own, i felt that life had little more to offer.
i held it to every ear in the house, including the cat's; and, seeing dick the sexton's son go by with an armful of straw to stuff guy fawkes, i ran out, and in my anxiety to make him share the treat, and learn what the sea is like, i clapped the shell to his ear so smartly and unexpectedly, that he, thinking me to have struck him, knocked me down then and there with his bundle of straw.
when he understood the rights of the case, he begged my pardon handsomely, and gave me two whole treacle-sticks and part of a third out of his breeches-pocket, in return for which i forgave him freely, and promised to let him hear the sea roar on every saturday half-holiday till farther notice.
"and speaking of dick and the straw reminds me that my birthday falls on the fifth of november.
from this it came about that i always had to bear a good many jokes about being burnt as a guy fawkes; but, on the other hand, i was allowed to make a small bonfire of my own, and to have eight potatoes to roast therein, and eight-pennyworth of crackers to let off in the evening.
a potato and a pennyworth of crackers for every year of my life.
"on this eighth birthday, having got all the above-named gifts, i cried, in the fulness of my heart, 'there never was such a day!'
and yet there was more to come, for the evening coach brought me a parcel, and the parcel was my godmother's picture-book.
"my godmother was a gentlewoman of small means; but she was accomplished.
she could make very spirited sketches, and knew how to colour them after they were outlined and shaded in indian ink.
she had a pleasant talent for versifying.
she was very industrious.
i have it from her own lips that she copied the figures in my picture-book from prints in several different houses at which she visited.
they were fancy portraits of characters, most of which were familiar to my mind.
there were guy fawkes, punch, his then majesty the king, bogy, the man in the moon, the clerk of the weather office, a dunce, and old father christmas.
beneath each sketch was a stanza of my godmother's own composing.
"my godmother was very ingenious.
she had been mainly guided in her choice of these characters by the prints she happened to meet with, as she did not trust herself to design a figure.
but if she could not get exactly what she wanted, she had a clever knack of tracing the outline of an attitude from some engraving, and altering the figure to suit her purpose in the finished sketch.
she was the soul of truthfulness, and the notes she added to the index of contents in my picture-book spoke at once for her honesty in avowing obligations, and her ingenuity in availing herself of opportunities.
"they ran thus:
no.
1. guy fawkes.
outlined from a figure of a warehouseman      rolling a sherry flask into mr. rudd's wine-vaults.
i added      the hat, cloak, and boots in the finished drawing.
no.
2. punch.
i sketched him from the life.
no.
3. his most gracious majesty the king.
on a quart jug      bought in cheapside.
no.
4. bogy, with bad boys in the bag on his back.
outlined from christian bending under his burden, in my      mother's old copy of the pilgrim's progress.
the face from      giant despair.
no.
5 and no.
6. the man in the moon, and the clerk of the      weather office.
from a book of caricatures belonging to dr.
james.
no.
7. a dunce.
from a steel engraving framed in rosewood      that hangs in my uncle wilkinson's parlour.
no.
8. old father christmas.
from a german book at lady      littleham's.
"my sister patty was six years old.
we loved each other dearly.
the picture-book was almost as much hers as mine.
we sat so long together on one big footstool by the fire, with our arms round each other, and the book resting on our knees, that kitty called down blessings on my godmother's head for having sent a volume that kept us both so long out of mischief.
"'if books was allus as useful as that, they'd do for me,' said she; and though this speech did not mean much, it was a great deal for kitty to say; since, not being herself an educated person, she naturally thought that 'little enough good comes of larning.'
"patty and i had our favourites amongst the pictures.
bogy, now, was a character one did not care to think about too near bed-time.
i was tired of guy fawkes, and thought he looked more natural made of straw, as dick did him.
the dunce was a little too personal; but old father christmas took our hearts by storm; we had never seen anything like him, though now-a-days you may get a plaster figure of him in any toy-shop at christmas-time, with hair and beard like cotton-wool, and a christmas-tree in his hand.
"the custom of christmas-trees came from germany.
i can remember when they were first introduced into england, and what wonderful things we thought them.
now, every village school has its tree, and the scholars openly discuss whether the presents have been 'good' or 'mean,' as compared with other trees of former years.
"the first one that i ever saw i believed to have come from good father christmas himself; but little boys have grown too wise now to be taken in for their own amusement.
they are not excited by secret and mysterious preparations in the back drawing-room; they hardly confess to the thrill which i feel to this day when the folding-doors are thrown open, and amid the blaze of tapers, mamma, like a fate, advances with her scissors to give every one what falls to his lot.
"well, young people, when i was eight years old i had not seen a christmas-tree, and the first picture of one i ever saw was the picture of that held by old father christmas in my godmother's picture-book.
"'what are those things on the tree?'
i asked.
"'candles,' said my father.
"'no, father, not the candles; the other things?'
"'those are toys, my son.'
"'are they ever taken off?'
"'yes, they are taken off, and given to the children who stand round the tree.'
"patty and i grasped each other by the hand, and with one voice murmured, 'how kind of old father christmas!'
"by and by i asked, 'how old is father christmas?'
"my father laughed, and said, 'one thousand eight hundred and thirty years, child,' which was then the year of our lord, and thus one thousand eight hundred and thirty years since the first great christmas day.
"'he looks very old,' whispered patty.
"and i, who was, for my age, what kitty called 'bible-learned,' said thoughtfully, and with some puzzledness of mind, 'then he's older than methuselah.'
"but my father had left the room, and did not hear my difficulty.
"november and december went by, and still the picture-book kept all its charm for patty and me; and we pondered on and loved old father christmas as children can love and realize a fancy friend.
to those who remember the fancies of their childhood i need say no more.
"christmas week came, christmas eve came.
my father and mother were mysteriously and unaccountably busy in the parlour (we had only one parlour), and patty and i were not allowed to go in.
we went into the kitchen, but even here was no place of rest for us.
kitty was 'all over the place,' as she phrased it, and cakes, mince-pies, and puddings were with her.
as she justly observed, 'there was no place there for children and book; to sit with their toes in the fire, when a body wanted to be at the oven all along.
the cat was enough for her temper,' she added.
"as to puss, who obstinately refused to take a hint which drove her out into the christmas frost, she returned again and again with soft steps, and a stupidity that was, i think, affected, to the warm hearth, only to fly at intervals, like a football, before kitty's hasty slipper.
"we had more sense, or less courage.
we bowed to kitty's behests, and went to the back door.
"patty and i were hardy children, and accustomed to 'run out' in all weathers, without much extra wrapping up.
we put kitty's shawl over our two heads, and went outside.
i rather hoped to see something of dick, for it was holiday time; but no dick passed.
he was busy helping his father to bore holes in the carved seats of the church, which were to hold sprigs of holly for the morrow that was the idea of church decoration in my young days.
you have improved on your elders there, young people, and i am candid enough to allow it.
still, the sprigs of red and green were better than nothing, and, like your lovely wreaths and pious devices, they made one feel as if the old black wood were bursting into life and leaf again for very christmas joy!
"and, if one only knelt carefully, they did not scratch his nose,"
added godfather garbel, chuckling and rubbing his own, which was large and rather red.
"well," he continued, "dick was busy, and not to be seen.
we ran across the little yard and looked over the wall at the end to see if we could see anything or anybody.
from this point there was a pleasant meadow field sloping prettily away to a little hill about three-quarters of a mile distant; which, catching some fine breezes from the moors beyond, was held to be a place of cure for whooping-cough, or 'kinkcough,' as it was vulgarly called.
up to the top of this kitty had dragged me, and carried patty, when we were recovering from the complaint, as i well remember.
it was the only 'change of air' we could afford, and i dare say it did as well as if we had gone into badly-drained lodgings at the seaside.
"this hill was now covered with snow, and stood off against the grey sky.
the white fields looked vast and dreary in the dusk.
the only gay things to be seen were the red berries on the holly hedge, in the little lane which, running by the end of our back-yard, led up to the hall and a fat robin redbreast who was staring at me.
i was watching the robin, when patty, who had been peering out of her corner of kitty's shawl, gave a great jump that dragged the shawl from our heads, and cried,
"'look!'
"i looked.
an old man was coming along the lane.
his hair and beard were as white as cotton-wool.
he had a face like the sort of apple that keeps well in winter; his coat was old and brown.
there was snow about him in patches, and he carried a small fir-tree.
"the same conviction seized upon us both.
with one breath we exclaimed, 'it's old father christmas!'
"i know now that it was only an old man of the place, with whom we did not happen to be acquainted, and that he was taking a little fir-tree up to the hall, to be made into a christmas-tree.
he was a very good-humoured old fellow, and rather deaf, for which he made up by smiling and nodding his head a good deal, and saying, 'aye, aye, to be sure!'
at likely intervals.
"as he passed us and met our earnest gaze, he smiled and nodded so affably, that i was bold enough to cry, 'good-evening, father christmas!'
"'same to you!'
said he, in a high-pitched voice.
"'then you are father christmas?'
said patty.
"'and a happy new year,' was father christmas's reply, which rather put me out.
but he smiled in such a satisfactory manner, that patty went on, 'you're very old, aren't you?'
"'so i be, miss, so i be,' said father christmas, nodding.
"'father says you're eighteen hundred and thirty years old,' i muttered.
"'aye, aye, to be sure,' said father christmas, 'i'm a long age.'
"a very long age, thought i, and i added, 'you're nearly twice as old as methuselah, you know,' thinking that this might not have struck him.
"'aye, aye,' said father christmas; but he did not seem to think anything of it.
after a pause he held up the tree, and cried, 'd'ye know what this is, little miss?'
"'a christmas-tree,' said patty.
"and the old man smiled and nodded.
"i leant over the wall, and shouted, 'but there are no candles.'
"'by and by,' said father christmas, nodding as before.
'when it's dark they'll all be lighted up.
that'll be a fine sight!'
"'toys too, there'll be, won't there?'
screamed patty.
"father christmas nodded his head.
'and sweeties,' he added, expressively.
"i could feel patty trembling, and my own heart beat fast.
the thought which agitated us both, was this 'was father christmas bringing the tree to us?'
but very anxiety, and some modesty also, kept us from asking outright.
"only when the old man shouldered his tree, and prepared to move on, i cried in despair, 'oh, are you going?'
"'i'm coming back by and by,' said he.
"'how soon?'
cried patty.
"'about four o'clock,' said the old man, smiling.
'i'm only going up yonder.'
"and, nodding, and smiling as he went, he passed away down the lane.
"'up yonder.'
this puzzled us.
father christmas had pointed, but so indefinitely, that he might have been pointing to the sky, or the fields, or the little wood at the end of the squire's grounds.
i thought the latter, and suggested to patty that perhaps he had some place underground, like aladdin's cave, where he got the candles, and all the pretty things for the tree.
this idea pleased us both, and we amused ourselves by wondering what old father christmas would choose for us from his stores in that wonderful hole where he dressed his christmas-trees.
"'i wonder, patty,' said i, 'why there's no picture of father christmas's dog in the book.'
for at the old man's heels in the lane there crept a little brown and white spaniel, looking very dirty in the snow.
"'perhaps it's a new dog that he's got to take care of his cave,' said patty.
"when we went indoors we examined the picture afresh by the dim light from the passage window, but found no dog there.
"my father passed us at this moment, and patted my head.
'father,'
said i, 'i don't know, but i do think old father christmas is going to bring us a christmas-tree to-night.'
"'who's been telling you that?'
said my father.
but he passed on before i could explain that we had seen father christmas himself, and had had his word for it that he would return at four o'clock, and that the candles on his tree would be lighted as soon as it was dark.
"we hovered on the outskirts of the rooms till four o'clock came.
we sat on the stairs and watched the big clock, which i was just learning to read; and patty made herself giddy with constantly looking up and counting the four strokes, towards which the hour hand slowly moved.
we put our noses into the kitchen now and then, to smell the cakes and get warm, and anon we hung about the parlour door, and were most unjustly accused of trying to peep.
what did we care what our mother was doing in the parlour?
we who had seen old father christmas himself, and were expecting him back again every moment!
"at last the church clock struck.
the sounds boomed heavily through the frost, and patty thought there were four of them.
then, after due choking and whirring, our own clock struck, and we counted the strokes quite clearly one!
two!
three!
four!
then we got kitty's shawl once more, and stole out into the back-yard.
we ran to our old place, and peeped, but could see nothing.
"'we'd better get up on to the wall,' i said; and with some difficulty and distress from rubbing her bare knees against the cold stones, and getting the snow up her sleeves, patty got on the coping of the little wall.
i was just struggling after her, when something warm and something cold coming suddenly against the bare calves of my legs, made me shriek with fright.
i came down 'with a run,' and bruised my knees, my elbows, and my chin; and the snow that hadn't gone up patty's sleeves, went down my neck.
then i found that the cold thing was a dog's nose, and the warm thing was his tongue; and patty cried from her post of observation, 'it's father christmas's dog, and he's licking your legs.'
"it really was the dirty little brown and white spaniel; and he persisted in licking me, and jumping on me, and making curious little noises, that must have meant something if one had known his language.
i was rather harassed at the moment.
my legs were sore, i was a little afraid of the dog, and patty was very much afraid of sitting on the wall without me.
"'you won't fall,' i said to her.
'get down, will you!'
i said to the dog.
"'humpty dumpty fell off a wall,' said patty.
"'bow!
wow!'
said the dog.
"i pulled patty down, and the dog tried to pull me down; but when my little sister was on her feet, to my relief, he transferred his attentions to her.
when he had jumped at her, and licked her several times, he turned round and ran away.
"'he's gone,' said i; 'i'm so glad.'
"but even as i spoke he was back again, crouching at patty's feet, and glaring at her with eyes the colour of his ears.
"now patty was very fond of animals, and when the dog looked at her she looked at the dog, and then she said to me, 'he wants us to go with him.'
"on which (as if he understood our language, though we were ignorant of his) the spaniel sprang away, and went off as hard as he could; and patty and i went after him, a dim hope crossing my mind 'perhaps father christmas has sent him for us.'
"this idea was rather favoured by the fact that the dog led us up the lane.
only a little way; then he stopped by something lying in the ditch and once more we cried in the same breath, 'it's old father christmas!'"
"returning from the hall, the old man had slipped upon a bit of ice, and lay stunned in the snow.
"patty began to cry.
'i think he's dead,' she sobbed.
"'he is so very old, i don't wonder,' i murmured; 'but perhaps he's not.
i'll fetch father.'
"my father and kitty were soon on the spot.
kitty was as strong as a man; and they carried father christmas between them into the kitchen.
there he quickly revived.
"i must do kitty the justice to say that she did not utter a word of complaint at this disturbance of her labours; and that she drew the old man's chair close up to the oven with her own hand.
she was so much affected by the behaviour of his dog, that she admitted him even to the hearth; on which puss, being acute enough to see how matters stood, lay down with her back so close to the spaniel's that kitty could not expel one without kicking both.
"for our parts, we felt sadly anxious about the tree; otherwise we could have wished for no better treat than to sit at kitty's round table taking tea with father christmas.
our usual fare of thick bread and treacle was to-night exchanged for a delicious variety of cakes, which were none the worse to us for being 'tasters and wasters' that is, little bits of dough, or shortbread, put in to try the state of the oven, and certain cakes that had got broken or burnt in the baking.
"well, there we sat, helping old father christmas to tea and cake, and wondering in our hearts what could have become of the tree.
but you see, young people, when i was a child, parents were stricter than they are now.
even before kitty died (and she has been dead many a long year) there was a change, and she said that 'children got to think anything became them.'
i think we were taught more honest shame about certain things than i often see in little boys and girls now.
we were ashamed of boasting, or being greedy, or selfish; we were ashamed of asking for anything that was not offered to us, and of interrupting grown-up people, or talking about ourselves.
why, papas and mammas now-a-days seem quite proud to let their friends see how bold and greedy and talkative their children can be!
a lady said to me the other day, 'you wouldn't believe, mr. garbel, how forward dear little harry is for his age.
he has his word in everything, and is not a bit shy!
and his papa never comes home from town but harry runs to ask him if he's brought him a present.
papa says he'll be the ruin of him!'
"'madam,' said i, 'even without your word for it, i am quite aware that your child is forward.
he is forward and greedy and intrusive, as you justly point out, and i wish you joy of him when those qualities are fully developed.
i think his father's fears are well founded.'
"but, bless me!
now-a-days it's 'come and tell mr. smith what a fine boy you are, and how many houses you can build with your bricks,' or, 'the dear child wants everything he sees,' or 'little pet never lets mamma alone for a minute; does she, love?'
but in my young days it was, 'self-praise is no recommendation' (as kitty used to tell me), or, 'you're knocking too hard at no.
one' (as my father said when we talked about ourselves), or, 'little boys should be seen but not heard' (as a rule of conduct 'in company'), or, 'don't ask for what you want, but take what's given you and be thankful.'
"and so you see, young people, patty and i felt a delicacy in asking old father christmas about the tree.
it was not till we had had tea three times round, with tasters and wasters to match, that patty said very gently, 'it's quite dark now.'
and then she heaved a deep sigh.
"burning anxiety overcame me.
i leant towards father christmas, and shouted i had found out that it was needful to shout
"'i suppose the candles are on the tree now?'
"'just about putting of 'em on,' said father christmas.
"'and the presents, too?'
said patty.
"'aye, aye, to be sure,' said father christmas, and he smiled delightfully.
"i was thinking what farther questions i might venture upon, when he pushed his cup towards patty, saying, 'since you are so pressing, miss, i'll take another dish.'
"and kitty, swooping on us from the oven, cried, 'make yourself at home, sir; there's more where these came from.
make a long arm, miss patty, and hand them cakes.'
"so we had to devote ourselves to the duties of the table; and patty, holding the lid with one hand and pouring out with the other, supplied father christmas's wants with a heavy heart.
"at last he was satisfied.
i said grace, during which he stood, and indeed he stood for some time afterwards with his eyes shut i fancy under the impression that i was still speaking.
he had just said a fervent 'amen,' and reseated himself, when my father put his head into the kitchen, and made this remarkable statement
"'old father christmas has sent a tree to the young people.'
"patty and i uttered a cry of delight, and we forthwith danced round the old man, saying, 'oh, how nice!
oh, how kind of you!'
which i think must have bewildered him, but he only smiled and nodded.
"'come along,' said my father.
'come, children.
come, reuben.
come, kitty.'
"and he went into the parlour, and we all followed him.
"my godmother's picture of a christmas-tree was very pretty; and the flames of the candles were so naturally done in red and yellow, that i always wondered that they did not shine at night.
but the picture was nothing to the reality.
we had been sitting almost in the dark, for, as kitty said, 'firelight was quite enough to burn at meal-times.'
and when the parlour door was thrown open, and the tree, with lighted tapers on all the branches, burst upon our view, the blaze was dazzling, and threw such a glory round the little gifts, and the bags of coloured muslin with acid drops, and pink rose drops, and comfits inside, as i shall never forget.
we all got something; and patty and i, at any rate, believed that the things came from the stores of old father christmas.
we were not undeceived even by his gratefully accepting a bundle of old clothes which had been hastily put together to form his present.
"we were all very happy; even kitty, i think, though she kept her sleeves rolled up, and seemed rather to grudge enjoying herself (a weak point in some energetic characters).
she went back to her oven before the lights were out, and the angel on the top of the tree taken down.
she locked up her present (a little work-box) at once.
she often showed it off afterwards, but it was kept in the same bit of tissue-paper till she died.
our presents certainly did not last so long!
"the old man died about a week afterwards, so we never made his acquaintance as a common personage.
when he was buried, his little dog came to us.
i suppose he remembered the hospitality he had received.
patty adopted him, and he was very faithful.
puss always looked on him with favour.
i hoped during our rambles together in the following summer that he would lead us at last to the cave where christmas-trees are dressed.
but he never did.
"our parents often spoke of his late master as 'old reuben,' but children are not easily disabused of a favourite fancy, and in patty's thoughts and in mine the old man was long gratefully remembered as old father christmas."
the end.
indian why stories
introduction
it was the moon when leaves were falling, for napa had finished painting them for their dance with the north wind.
just over the ragged mountain range the big moon hung in an almost starless sky, and in shadowy outline every peak lay upon the plain like a giant pattern.
slowly the light spread and as slowly the shadows stole away until the october moon looked down on the great indian camp a hundred lodges, each as perfect in design as the tusks of a young silver-tip, and all looking ghostly white in the still of the autumn night.
back from the camp, keeping within the ever-moving shadows, a buffalo-wolf skulked to a hill overlooking the scene, where he stopped to look and listen, his body silhouetted against the sky.
a dog howled occasionally, and the weird sound of a tom-tom accompanying the voice of a singer in the indian village reached the wolf's ears, but caused him no alarm; for not until a great herd of ponies, under the eyes of the night-herder, drifted too close, did he steal away.
near the centre of the camp was the big painted lodge of war eagle, the medicine-man, and inside had gathered his grandchildren, to whom he was telling the stories of the creation and of the strange doings of napa, the creator.
being a friend of the old historian, i entered unhindered, and with the children listened until the hour grew late, and on the lodge-wall the dying fire made warning shadows dance.
why the chipmunk's back is striped
what a splendid lodge it was, and how grand war eagle looked leaning against his back-rest in the firelight!
from the tripod that supported the back-rest were suspended his weapons and his medicine-bundle, each showing the wonderful skill of the maker.
the quiver that held the arrows was combined with a case for the bow, and colored quills of the porcupine had been deftly used to make it a thing of beauty.
all about the lodge hung the strangely painted linings, and the firelight added richness to both color and design.
war eagle's hair was white, for he had known many snows; but his eyes were keen and bright as a boy's, as he gazed in pride at his grandchildren across the lodge-fire.
he was wise, and had been in many battles, for his was a warlike tribe.
he knew all about the world and the people in it.
he was deeply religious, and every indian child loved him for his goodness and brave deeds.
about the fire were little buffalo calf, a boy of eleven years; eyes-in-the-water, his sister, a girl of nine; fine bow, a cousin of these, aged ten, and bluebird, his sister, who was but eight years old.
not a sound did the children make while the old warrior filled his great pipe, and only the snapping of the lodge-fire broke the stillness.
solemnly war eagle lit the tobacco that had been mixed with the dried inner bark of the red willow, and for several minutes smoked in silence, while the children's eyes grew large with expectancy.
finally he spoke:
"napa, old-man, is very old indeed.
he made this world, and all that is on it.
he came out of the south, and travelled toward the north, making the birds and animals as he passed.
he made the perfumes for the winds to carry about, and he even made the war-paint for the people to use.
he was a busy worker, but a great liar and thief, as i shall show you after i have told you more about him.
it was old-man who taught the beaver all his cunning.
it was old-man who told the bear to go to sleep when the snow grew deep in winter, and it was he who made the curlew's bill so long and crooked, although it was not that way at first.
old-man used to live on this world with the animals and birds.
there was no other man or woman then, and he was chief over all the animal-people and the bird-people.
he could speak the language of the robin, knew the words of the bear, and understood the sign-talk of the beaver, too.
he lived with the wolves, for they are the great hunters.
even to-day we make the same sign for a smart man as we make for the wolf; so you see he taught them much while he lived with them.
old-man made a great many mistakes in making things, as i shall show you after a while; yet he worked until he had everything good.
but he often made great mischief and taught many wicked things.
these i shall tell you about some day.
everybody was afraid of old-man and his tricks and lies even the animal-people, before he made men and women.
he used to visit the lodges of our people and make trouble long ago, but he got so wicked that manitou grew angry at him, and one day in the month of roses, he built a lodge for old-man and told him that he must stay in it forever.
of course he had to do that, and nobody knows where the lodge was built, nor in what country, but that is why we never see him as our grandfathers did, long, long ago.
"what i shall tell you now happened when the world was young.
it was a fine summer day, and old-man was travelling in the forest.
he was going north and straight as an arrow looking at nothing, hearing nothing.
no one knows what he was after, to this day.
the birds and forest-people spoke politely to him as he passed but he answered none of them.
the pine-squirrel, who is always trying to find out other people's business, asked him where he was going, but old-man wouldn't tell him.
the woodpecker hammered on a dead tree to make him look that way, but he wouldn't.
the elk-people and the deer-people saw him pass, and all said that he must be up to some mischief or he would stop and talk a while.
the pine-trees murmured, and the bushes whispered their greeting, but he kept his eyes straight ahead and went on travelling.
"the sun was low when old-man heard a groan" (here war eagle groaned to show the children how it sounded), "and turning about he saw a warrior lying bruised and bleeding near a spring of cold water.
old-man knelt beside the man and asked: 'is there war in this country?'
"'yes,' answered the man.
'this whole day long we have fought to kill a person, but we have all been killed, i am afraid.'
"'that is strange,' said old-man; 'how can one person kill so many men?
who is this person, tell me his name!'
but the man didn't answer he was dead.
when old-man saw that life had left the wounded man, he drank from the spring, and went on toward the north, but before long he heard a noise as of men fighting, and he stopped to look and listen.
finally he saw the bushes bend and sway near a creek that flowed through the forest.
he crawled toward the spot, and peering through the brush saw a great person near a pile of dead men, with his back against a pine-tree.
the person was full of arrows, and he was pulling them from his ugly body.
calmly the person broke the shafts of the arrows, tossed them aside, and stopped the blood flow with a brush of his hairy hand.
his head was large and fierce-looking, and his eyes were small and wicked.
his great body was larger than that of a buffalo-bull and covered with scars of many battles.
"old-man went to the creek, and with his buffalo-horn cup brought some water to the person, asking as he approached:
"'who are you, person?
tell me, so i can make you a fine present, for you are great in war.'
"'i am bad sickness,' replied the person.
'tribes i have met remember me and always will, for their bravest warriors are afraid when i make war upon them.
i come in the night or i visit their camps in daylight.
it is always the same; they are frightened and i kill them easily.'
"'ho!'
said old-man, 'tell me how to make bad sickness, for i often go to war myself.'
he lied; for he was never in a battle in his life.
the person shook his ugly head and then old-man said:
"'if you will tell me how to make bad sickness i will make you small and handsome.
when you are big, as you now are, it is very hard to make a living; but when you are small, little food will make you fat.
your living will be easy because i will make your food grow everywhere.'
"'good,' said the person, 'i will do it; you must kill the fawns of the deer and the calves of the elk when they first begin to live.
when you have killed enough of them you must make a robe of their skins.
whenever you wear that robe and sing "now you sicken, now you sicken,"
the sickness will come that is all there is to it.'
"'good,' said old-man, 'now lie down to sleep and i will do as i promised.'
"the person went to sleep and old-man breathed upon him until he grew so tiny that he laughed to see how small he had made him.
then he took out his paint sack and striped the person's back with black and yellow.
it looked bright and handsome and he waked the person, who was now a tiny animal with a bushy tail to make him pretty.
"'now,' said old-man, 'you are the chipmunk, and must always wear those striped clothes.
all of your children and their children, must wear them, too.'
"after the chipmunk had looked at himself, and thanked old-man for his new clothes, he wanted to know how he could make his living, and old-man told him what to eat, and said he must cache the pine-nuts when the leaves turned yellow, so he would not have to work in the winter time.
"'you are a cousin to the pine-squirrel,' said old-man, 'and you will hunt and hide as he does.
you will be spry and your living will be easy to make if you do as i have told you.'
"he taught the chipmunk his language and his signs, showed him where to live, and then left him, going on toward the north again.
he kept looking for the cow-elk and doe-deer, and it was not long before he had killed enough of their young to make the robe as the person told him, for they were plentiful before the white man came to live on the world.
he found a shady place near a creek, and there made the robe that would make bad sickness whenever he sang the queer song, but the robe was plain, and brown in color.
he didn't like the looks of it.
suddenly he thought how nice the back of the chipmunk looked after he had striped it with his paints.
he got out his old paint sack and with the same colors made the robe look very much like the clothes of the chipmunk.
he was proud of the work, and liked the new robe better; but being lazy, he wanted to save himself work, so he sent the south-wind to tell all the doe-deer and the cow-elk to come to him.
they came as soon as they received the message, for they were afraid of old-man and always tried to please him.
when they had all reached the place where old-man was he said to them:
"'do you see this robe?'
"'yes, we see it,' they replied.
"'well, i have made it from the skins of your children, and then painted it to look like the chipmunk's back, for i like the looks of that person's clothes.
i shall need many more of these robes during my life; and every time i make one, i don't want to have to spend my time painting it; so from now on and forever your children shall be born in spotted clothes.
i want it to be that way to save me work.
on all the fawns there must be spots of white like this (here he pointed to the spots on bad sickness's robe) and on all of the elk-calves the spots shall not be so white and shall be in rows and look rather yellow.'
again he showed them his robe, that they might see just what he wanted.
"'remember,' he said, 'after this i don't want to see any of your children running about wearing plain clothing, because that would mean more painting for me.
now go away, and remember what i have said, lest i make you sick.'
"the cow-elk and the doe-deer were glad to know that their children's clothes would be beautiful, and they went away to their little ones who were hidden in the tall grass, where the wolves and mountain-lions would have a hard time finding them; for you know that in the tracks of the fawn there is no scent, and the wolf cannot trail him when he is alone.
that is the way manitou takes care of the weak, and all of the forest-people know about it, too.
"now you know why the chipmunk's back is striped, and why the fawn and elk-calf wear their pretty clothes.
"i hear the owls, and it is time for all young men who will some day be great warriors to go to bed, and for all young women to seek rest, lest beauty go away forever.
ho!"
how the ducks got their fine feathers
another night had come, and i made my way toward war eagle's lodge.
in the bright moonlight the dead leaves of the quaking-aspen fluttered down whenever the wind shook the trees; and over the village great flocks of ducks and geese and swan passed in a never-ending procession, calling to each other in strange tones as they sped away toward the waters that never freeze.
in the lodge war eagle waited for his grandchildren, and when they had entered, happily, he laid aside his pipe and said:
"the duck-people are travelling to-night just as they have done since the world was young.
they are going away from winter because they cannot make a living when ice covers the rivers.
"you have seen the duck-people often.
you have noticed that they wear fine clothes but you do not know how they got them; so i will tell you to-night.
"it was in the fall when leaves are yellow that it happened, and long, long ago.
the duck-people had gathered to go away, just as they are doing now.
the buck-deer was coming down from the high ridges to visit friends in the lowlands along the streams as they have always done.
on a lake old-man saw the duck-people getting ready to go away, and at that time they all looked alike; that is, they all wore the same colored clothes.
the loons and the geese and the ducks were there and playing in the sunlight.
the loons were laughing loudly and the diving was fast and merry to see.
on the hill where old-man stood there was a great deal of moss, and he began to tear it from the ground and roll it into a great ball.
when he had gathered all he needed he shouldered the load and started for the shore of the lake, staggering under the weight of the great burden.
finally the duck-people saw him coming with his load of moss and began to swim away from the shore.
"'wait, my brothers!'
he called, 'i have a big load here, and i am going to give you people a dance.
come and help me get things ready.'
"'don't you do it,' said the gray goose to the others; 'that's old-man and he is up to something bad, i am sure.'
"so the loon called to old-man and said they wouldn't help him at all.
"right near the water old-man dropped his ball of moss and then cut twenty long poles.
with the poles he built a lodge which he covered with the moss, leaving a doorway facing the lake.
inside the lodge he built a fire and when it grew bright he cried:
"'say, brothers, why should you treat me this way when i am here to give you a big dance?
come into the lodge,' but they wouldn't do that.
finally old-man began to sing a song in the duck-talk, and keep time with his drum.
the duck-people liked the music, and swam a little nearer to the shore, watching for trouble all the time, but old-man sang so sweetly that pretty soon they waddled up to the lodge and went inside.
the loon stopped near the door, for he believed that what the gray goose had said was true, and that old-man was up to some mischief.
the gray goose, too, was careful to stay close to the door but the ducks reached all about the fire.
politely, old-man passed the pipe, and they all smoked with him because it is wrong not to smoke in a person's lodge if the pipe is offered, and the duck-people knew that.
"'well,' said old-man, 'this is going to be the blind-dance, but you will have to be painted first.
"'brother mallard, name the colors tell how you want me to paint you.'
"'well,' replied the mallard drake, 'paint my head green, and put a white circle around my throat, like a necklace.
besides that, i want a brown breast and yellow legs: but i don't want my wife painted that way.'
"old-man painted him just as he asked, and his wife, too.
then the teal and the wood-duck (it took a long time to paint the wood-duck) and the spoonbill and the blue-bill and the canvasback and the goose and the brant and the loon all chose their paint.
old-man painted them all just as they wanted him to, and kept singing all the time.
they looked very pretty in the firelight, for it was night before the painting was done.
"'now,' said old-man, 'as this is the blind-dance, when i beat upon my drum you must all shut your eyes tight and circle around the fire as i sing.
every one that peeks will have sore eyes forever.'
"then the duck-people shut their eyes and old-man began to sing: 'now you come, ducks, now you come tum-tum, tum; tum-tum, tum.'
"around the fire they came with their eyes still shut, and as fast as they reached old-man, the rascal would seize them, and wring their necks.
ho!
things were going fine for old-man, but the loon peeked a little, and saw what was going on; several others heard the fluttering and opened their eyes, too.
the loon cried out, 'he's killing us let us fly,' and they did that.
there was a great squawking and quacking and fluttering as the duck-people escaped from the lodge.
ho!
but old-man was angry, and he kicked the back of the loon-duck, and that is why his feet turn from his body when he walks or tries to stand.
yes, that is why he is a cripple to-day.
"and all of the duck-people that peeked that night at the dance still have sore eyes just as old-man told them they would have.
of course they hurt and smart no more but they stay red to pay for peeking, and always will.
you have seen the mallard and the rest of the duck-people.
you can see that the colors old-man painted so long ago are still bright and handsome, and they will stay that way forever and forever.
ho!"
why the kingfisher always wears a war-bonnet
autumn nights on the upper missouri river in montana are indescribably beautiful, and under their spell imagination is a constant companion to him who lives in wilderness, lending strange, weird echoes to the voice of man or wolf, and unnatural shapes in shadow to commonplace forms.
the moon had not yet climbed the distant mountain range to look down on the humbler lands when i started for war eagle's lodge; and dimming the stars in its course, the milky-way stretched across the jewelled sky.
"the wolf's trail," the indians call this filmy streak that foretells fair weather, and to-night it promised much, for it seemed plainer and brighter than ever before.
"how how!"
greeted war eagle, making the sign for me to be seated near him, as i entered his lodge.
then he passed me his pipe and together we smoked until the children came.
entering quietly, they seated themselves in exactly the same positions they had occupied on the previous evenings, and patiently waited in silence.
finally war eagle laid the pipe away and said: "ho!
little buffalo calf, throw a big stick on the fire and i will tell you why the kingfisher wears a war-bonnet."
the boy did as he was bidden.
the sparks jumped toward the smoke-hole and the blaze lighted up the lodge until it was bright as daytime, when war eagle continued:
"you have often seen kingfisher at his fishing along the rivers, i know; and you have heard him laugh in his queer way, for he laughs a good deal when he flies.
that same laugh nearly cost him his life once, as you will see.
i am sure none could see the kingfisher without noticing his great head-dress, but not many know how he came by it because it happened so long ago that most men have forgotten.
"it was one day in the winter-time when old-man and the wolf were hunting.
the snow covered the land and ice was on all of the rivers.
it was so cold that old-man wrapped his robe close about himself and his breath showed white in the air.
of course the wolf was not cold; wolves never get cold as men do.
both old-man and the wolf were hungry for they had travelled far and had killed no meat.
old-man was complaining and grumbling, for his heart is not very good.
it is never well to grumble when we are doing our best, because it will do no good and makes us weak in our hearts.
when our hearts are weak our heads sicken and our strength goes away.
yes, it is bad to grumble.
"when the sun was getting low old-man and the wolf came to a great river.
on the ice that covered the water, they saw four fat otters playing.
"'there is meat,' said the wolf; 'wait here and i will try to catch one of those fellows.'
"'no!
no!'
cried old-man, 'do not run after the otter on the ice, because there are air-holes in all ice that covers rivers, and you may fall in the water and die.'
old-man didn't care much if the wolf did drown.
he was afraid to be left alone and hungry in the snow that was all.
"'ho!'
said the wolf, 'i am swift of foot and my teeth are white and sharp.
what chance has an otter against me?
yes, i will go,' and he did.
"away ran the otters with the wolf after them, while old-man stood on the bank and shivered with fright and cold.
of course the wolf was faster than the otter, but he was running on the ice, remember, and slipping a good deal.
nearer and nearer ran the wolf.
in fact he was just about to seize an otter, when splash!
into an air-hole all the otters went.
ho!
the wolf was going so fast he couldn't stop, and swow!
into the air-hole he went like a badger after mice, and the current carried him under the ice.
the otters knew that hole was there.
that was their country and they were running to reach that same hole all the time, but the wolf didn't know that.
"old-man saw it all and began to cry and wail as women do.
ho!
but he made a great fuss.
he ran along the bank of the river, stumbling in the snowdrifts, and crying like a woman whose child is dead; but it was because he didn't want to be left in that country alone that he cried not because he loved his brother, the wolf.
on and on he ran until he came to a place where the water was too swift to freeze, and there he waited and watched for the wolf to come out from under the ice, crying and wailing and making an awful noise, for a man.
"well right there is where the thing happened.
you see, kingfisher can't fish through the ice and he knows it, too; so he always finds places like the one old-man found.
he was there that day, sitting on the limb of a birch-tree, watching for fishes, and when old-man came near to kingfisher's tree, crying like an old woman, it tickled the fisher so much that he laughed that queer, chattering laugh.
"old-man heard him and ho!
but he was angry.
he looked about to see who was laughing at him and that made kingfisher laugh again, longer and louder than before.
this time old-man saw him and swow!
he threw his war-club at kingfisher; tried to kill the bird for laughing.
kingfisher ducked so quickly that old-man's club just grazed the feathers on his head, making them stand up straight.
"'there,' said old-man, 'i'll teach you to laugh at me when i'm sad.
your feathers are standing up on the top of your head now and they will stay that way, too.
as long as you live you must wear a head-dress, to pay for your laughing, and all your children must do the same.
"this was long, long ago, but the kingfishers have not forgotten, and they all wear war-bonnets, and always will as long as there are kingfishers.
"now i will say good night, and when the sun sleeps again i will tell you why the curlew's bill is so long and crooked.
ho!"
why the curlew's bill is long and crooked
when we reached war eagle's lodge we stopped near the door, for the old fellow was singing singing some old, sad song of younger days and keeping time with his tom-tom.
somehow the music made me sad and not until it had ceased, did we enter.
"how!
how!"
he greeted us, with no trace of the sadness in his voice that i detected in his song.
"you have come here to-night to learn why the curlew's bill is so long and crooked.
i will tell you, as i promised, but first i must smoke."
in silence we waited until the pipe was laid aside, then war eagle began:
"by this time you know that old-man was not always wise, even if he did make the world, and all that is on it.
he often got into trouble but something always happened to get him out of it.
what i shall tell you now will show you that it is not well to try to do things just because others do them.
they may be right for others, and wrong for us, but old-man didn't understand that, you see.
"one day he saw some mice playing and went near to watch them.
it was spring-time, and the frost was just coming out of the ground.
a big flat rock was sticking out of a bank near a creek, and the sun had melted the frost from the earth about it, loosening it, so that it was about to fall.
the chief-mouse would sing a song, while all the other mice danced, and then the chief would cry 'now!'
and all the mice would run past the big rock.
on the other side, the chief-mouse would sing again, and then say 'now!'
back they would come right under the dangerous rock.
sometimes little bits of dirt would crumble and fall near the rock, as though warning the mice that the rock was going to fall, but they paid no attention to the warning, and kept at their playing.
finally old-man said:
"'say, chief-mouse, i want to try that.
i want to play that game.
i am a good runner.'
"he wasn't, you know, but he thought he could run.
that is often where we make great mistakes when we try to do things we were not intended to do.
"'no no!'
cried the chief-mouse, as old-man prepared to make the race past the rock.
'no!
no!
you will shake the ground.
you are too heavy, and the rock may fall and kill you.
my people are light of foot and fast.
we are having a good time, but if you should try to do as we are doing you might get hurt, and that would spoil our fun.'
"'ho!'
said old-man, 'stand back!
i'll show you what a runner i am.'
"he ran like a grizzly bear, and shook the ground with his weight.
swow!
came the great rock on top of old-man and held him fast in the mud.
my!
how he screamed and called for aid.
all the mice-people ran away to find help.
it was a long time before the mice-people found anybody, but they finally found the coyote, and told him what had happened.
coyote didn't like old-man very much, but he said he would go and see what he could do, and he did.
the mice-people showed him the way, and when they all reached the spot there was old-man deep in the mud, with the big rock on his back.
he was angry and was saying things people should not say, for they do no good and make the mind wicked.
"coyote said: 'keep still, you big baby.
quit kicking about so.
you are splashing mud in my eyes.
how can i see with my eyes full of mud?
tell me that.
i am going to try to help you out of your trouble.'
he tried but old-man insulted coyote, and called him a name that is not good, so the coyote said, 'well, stay there,' and went away.
"again old-man began to call for helpers, and the curlew, who was flying over, saw the trouble, and came down to the ground to help.
in those days curlew had a short, stubby bill, and he thought that he could break the rock by pecking it.
he pecked and pecked away without making any headway, till old-man grew angry at him, as he did at the coyote.
the harder the curlew worked, the worse old-man scolded him.
old-man lost his temper altogether, you see, which is a bad thing to do, for we lose our friends with it, often.
temper is like a bad dog about a lodge no friends will come to see us when he is about.
"curlew did his best but finally said: 'i'll go and try to find somebody else to help you.
i guess i am too small and weak.
i shall come back to you.'
he was standing close to old-man when he spoke, and old-man reached out and grabbed the curlew by the bill.
curlew began to scream oh, my oh, my oh, my as you still hear them in the air when it is morning.
old-man hung onto the bill and finally pulled it out long and slim, and bent it downward, as it is to-day.
then he let go and laughed at the curlew.
"'you are a queer-looking bird now.
that is a homely bill, but you shall always wear it and so shall all of your children, as long as there are curlews in the world.'
"i have forgotten who it was that got old-man out of his trouble, but it seems to me it was the bear.
anyhow he did get out somehow, and lived to make trouble, until manitou grew tired of him.
"there are good things that old-man did and to-morrow night, if you will come early, i will tell you how old-man made the world over after the water made its war on the land, scaring all the animal-people and the bird-people.
i will also tell you how he made the first man and the first woman and who they were.
but now the grouse is fast asleep; nobody is stirring but those who were made to see in the dark, like the owl and the wolf.
ho!"
old-man remakes the world
the sun was just sinking behind the hills when we started for war eagle's lodge.
"to-morrow will be a fine day," said other-person, "for grandfather says that a red sky is always the sun's promise of fine weather, and the sun cannot lie."
"yes," said bluebird, "and he said that when this moon was new it travelled well south for this time of year and its points were up.
that means fine, warm weather."
"i wish i knew as much as grandfather," said fine-bow with pride.
the pipe was laid aside at once upon our entering the lodge and the old warrior said:
"i have told you that old-man taught the animals and the birds all they know.
he made them and therefore knew just what each would have to understand in order to make his living.
they have never forgotten anything he told them even to this day.
their grandfathers told the young ones what they had been told, just as i am telling you the things you should know.
be like the birds and animals tell your children and grandchildren what i have told you, that our people may always know how things were made, and why strange things are true.
"yes old-man taught the beaver how to build his dams to make the water deeper; taught the squirrel to plant the pine-nut so that another tree might grow and have nuts for his children; told the bear to go to sleep in the winter, when the snow made hard travelling for his short legs told him to sleep, and promised him that he would need no meat while he slept.
all winter long the bear sleeps and eats nothing, because old-man told him that he could.
he sleeps so much in the winter that he spends most of his time in summer hunting.
"it was old-man who showed the owl how to hunt at night and it was old-man that taught the weasel all his wonderful ways his bloodthirsty ways for the weasel is the bravest of the animal-people, considering his size.
he taught the beaver one strange thing that you have noticed, and that is to lay sticks on the creek-bottoms, so that they will stay there as long as he wants them to.
"whenever the animal-people got into trouble they always sought old-man and told him about it.
all were busy working and making a living, when one day it commenced to rain.
that was nothing, of course, but it didn't stop as it had always done before.
no, it kept right on raining until the rivers overran their banks, and the water chased the weasel out of his hole in the ground.
yes, and it found the rabbit's hiding-place and made him leave it.
it crept into the lodge of the wolf at night and frightened his wife and children.
it poured into the den of the bear among the rocks and he had to move.
it crawled under the logs in the forest and found the mice-people.
out it went to the plains and chased them out of their homes in the buffalo skulls.
at last the beavers' dams broke under the strain and that made everything worse.
it was bad very bad, indeed.
everybody except the fish-people were frightened and all went to find old-man that they might tell him what had happened.
finally they found his fire, far up on a timbered bench, and they said that they wanted a council right away.
"it was a strange sight to see the eagle sitting next to the grouse; the rabbit sitting close to the lynx; the mouse right under the very nose of the bobcat, and the tiny humming-bird talking to the hawk in a whisper, as though they had always been great friends.
all about old-man's fire they sat and whispered or talked in signs.
even the deer spoke to the mountain-lion, and the antelope told the wolf that he was glad to see him, because fear had made them all friends.
"the whispering and the sign-making stopped when old-man raised his hand-like that" (here war eagle raised his hand with the palm outward) "and asked them what was troubling them.
"the bear spoke first, of course, and told how the water had made him move his camp.
he said all the animal-people were moving their homes, and he was afraid they would be unable to find good camping-places, because of the water.
then the beaver spoke, because he is wise and all the forest-people know it.
he said his dams would not hold back the water that came against them; that the whole world was a lake, and that he thought they were on an island.
he said he could live in the water longer than most people, but that as far as he could see they would all die except, perhaps, the fish-people, who stayed in the water all the time, anyhow.
he said he couldn't think of a thing to do then he sat down and the sign-talking and whispering commenced again.
"old-man smoked a long time smoked and thought hard.
finally he grabbed his magic stone axe, and began to sing his war-song.
then the rest knew he had made up his mind and knew what he would do.
swow!
he struck a mighty pine-tree a blow, and it fell down.
swow!
down went another and another, until he had ten times ten of the longest, straightest, and largest trees in all the world lying side by side before him.
then old-man chopped off the limbs, and with the aid of magic rolled the great logs tight together.
with withes of willow that he told the beaver to cut for him, he bound the logs fast together until they were all as one.
it was a monstrous raft that old-man had built, as he sang his song in the darkness.
at last he cried, 'ho!
everybody hurry and sit on this raft i have made'; and they did hurry.
"it was not long till the water had reached the logs; then it crept in between them, and finally it went on past the raft and off into the forest, looking for more trouble.
"by and by the raft began to groan, and the willow withes squeaked and cried out as though ghost-people were crying in the night.
that was when the great logs began to tremble as the water lifted them from the ground.
rain was falling night was there, and fear made cowards of the bravest on the raft.
all through the forest there were bad noises noises that make the heart cold as the raft bumped against great trees rising from the earth that they were leaving forever.
"higher and higher went the raft; higher than the bushes; higher than the limbs on the trees; higher than the woodpecker's nest; higher than the tree tops, and even higher than the mountains.
then the world was no more, for the water had whipped the land in the war it made against it.
"day came, and still the rain was falling.
night returned, and yet the rain came down.
for many days and nights they drifted in the falling rain; whirling and twisting about while the water played with the great raft, as a bear would play with a mouse.
it was bad, and they were all afraid even old-man himself was scared.
"at last the sun came but there was no land.
all was water.
the water was the world.
it reached even to the sky and touched it all about the edges.
all were hungry, and some of them were grumbling, too.
there are always grumblers when there is great trouble, but they are not the ones who become great chiefs ever.
"old-man sat in the middle of the raft and thought.
he knew that something must be done, but he didn't know what.
finally he said: 'ho!
chipmunk, bring me the spotted loon.
tell him i want him.'
"the chipmunk found the spotted loon and told him that old-man wanted him, so the loon went to where old-man sat.
when he got there, old-man said:
"'spotted loon you are a great diver.
nobody can dive as you can.
i made you that way and i know.
if you will dive and swim down to the world i think you might bring me some of the dirt that it is made of then i am sure i can make another world.'
"'it is too deep, this water,' replied the loon, 'i am afraid i shall drown.'
"'well, what if you do?'
said old-man.
'i gave you life, and if you lose it this way i will return it to you.
you shall live again!'
"'all right, old-man,' he answered, 'i am willing to try'; so he waddled to the edge of the raft.
he is a poor walker the loon, and you know i told you why.
it was all because old-man kicked him in the back the night he painted all the duck-people.
"down went the spotted loon, and long he stayed beneath the water.
all waited and watched, and longed for good luck, but when he came to the top he was dead.
everybody groaned all felt badly, i can tell you, as old-man laid the dead loon on the logs.
the loon's wife was crying, but old-man told her to shut up and she did.
"then old-man blew his own breath into the loon's bill, and he came back to life.
"'what did you see, brother loon?'
asked old-man, while everybody crowded as close as he could.
"'nothing but water,' answered the loon, 'we shall all die here, i cannot reach the world by swimming.
my heart stops working.'
"there were many brave ones on the raft, and the otter tried to reach the world by diving; and the beaver, and the gray goose, and the gray goose's wife; but all died in trying, and all were given a new life by old-man.
things were bad and getting worse.
everybody was cross, and all wondered what old-man would do next, when somebody laughed.
"all turned to see what there could be to laugh at, at such a time, and old-man turned about just in time to see the muskrat bid good-by to his wife that was what they were laughing at.
but he paid no attention to old-man or the rest, and slipped from the raft to the water.
flip!
his tail cut the water like a knife, and he was gone.
some laughed again, but all wondered at his daring, and waited with little hope in their hearts; for the muskrat wasn't very great, they thought.
"he was gone longer than the loon, longer than the beaver, longer than the otter or the gray goose or his wife, but when he came to the surface of the water he was dead.
"old-man brought muskrat back to life, and asked him what he had seen on his journey.
muskrat said: 'i saw trees, old-man, but i died before i got to them.'
"old-man told him he was brave.
he said his people should forever be great if he succeeded in bringing some dirt to the raft; so just as soon as the muskrat was rested he dove again.
"when he came up he was dead, but clinched in his tiny hand old-man found some dirt not much, but a little.
a second time old-man gave the muskrat his breath, and told him that he must go once more, and bring dirt.
he said there was not quite enough in the first lot, so after resting a while the muskrat tried a third time and a third time he died, but brought up a little more dirt.
"everybody on the raft was anxious now, and they were all crowding about old-man; but he told them to stand back, and they did.
then he blew his breath in muskrat's mouth a third time, and a third time he lived and joined his wife.
"old-man then dried the dirt in his hands, rubbing it slowly and singing a queer song.
finally it was dry; then he settled the hand that held the dirt in the water slowly, until the water touched the dirt.
the dry dirt began to whirl about and then old-man blew upon it.
hard he blew and waved his hands, and the dirt began to grow in size right before their eyes.
old-man kept blowing and waving his hands until the dirt became real land, and the trees began to grow.
so large it grew that none could see across it.
then he stopped his blowing and sang some more.
everybody wanted to get off the raft, but old-man said 'no.'
"'come here, wolf,' he said, and the wolf came to him.
"'you are swift of foot and brave.
run around this land i have made, that i may know how large it is.'
"the wolf started, and it took him half a year to get back to the raft.
he was very poor from much running, too, but old-man said the world wasn't big enough yet so he blew some more, and again sent the wolf out to run around the land.
he never came back no, the old-man had made it so big that the wolf died of old age before he got back to the raft.
then all the people went out upon the land to make their living, and they were happy, there, too.
"after they had been on the land for a long time old-man said: 'now i shall make a man and a woman, for i am lonesome living with you people.
he took two or three handfuls of mud from the world he had made, and moulded both a man and a woman.
then he set them side by side and breathed upon them.
they lived!
and he made them very strong and healthy very beautiful to look upon.
chippewas, he called these people, and they lived happily on that world until a white man saw an eagle sailing over the land and came to look about.
he stole the woman that white man did; and that is where all the tribes came from that we know to-day.
none are pure of blood but the two humans he made of clay, and their own children.
and they are the chippewas!
"that is a long story and now you must hurry to bed.
to-morrow night i will tell you another story ho!"
why blackfeet never kill mice
muskrat and his grandmother were gathering wood for the camp the next morning, when they came to an old buffalo skull.
the plains were dotted with these relics of the chase, for already the hide-hunting white man had played havoc with the great herds of buffalo.
this skull was in a grove of cottonwood-trees near the river, and as they approached two mice scampered into it to hide.
muskrat, in great glee, secured a stick and was about to turn the skull over and kill the mice, when his grandmother said: "no, our people never kill mice.
your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him.
the mice-people are our friends and we treat them as such.
even small people can be good friends, you know remember that."
all the day the boy wondered why the mice-people should not be harmed; and just at dark he came for me to accompany him to war eagle's lodge.
on the way he told me what his grandmother had said, and that he intended to ask for the reason, as soon as we arrived.
we found the other children already there, and almost before we had seated ourselves, muskrat asked:
"grandfather, why must we never kill the mice-people?
grandmother said that you knew."
"yes," replied war eagle, "i do know and you must know.
therefore i shall tell you all to-night why the mice-people must be let alone and allowed to do as they please, for we owe them much; much more than we can ever pay.
yes they are great people, as you will see.
"it happened long, long ago, when there were few men and women on the world.
old-man was chief of all then, and the animal-people and the bird-people were greater than our people, because we had not been on earth long and were not wise.
"there was much quarrelling among the animals and the birds.
you see the bear wanted to be chief, under old-man, and so did the beaver.
almost every night they would have a council and quarrel over it.
beside the bear and beaver, there were other animals, and also birds, that thought they had the right to be chief.
they couldn't agree and the quarrelling grew worse as time went on.
some said the greatest thief should be chosen.
others thought the wisest one should be the leader; while some said the swiftest traveller was the one they wanted.
so it went on and on until they were most all enemies instead of friends, and you could hear them quarrelling almost every night, until old-man came along that way.
"he heard about the trouble.
i forget who told him, but i think it was the rabbit.
anyhow he visited the council where the quarrelling was going on and listened to what each one had to say.
it took until almost daylight, too.
he listened to it all every bit.
when they had finished talking and the quarrelling commenced as usual, he said, 'stop!'
and they did stop.
"then he said to them: 'i will settle this thing right here and right now, so that there will be no more rows over it, forever.'
"he opened his paint sack and took from it a small, polished bone.
this he held up in the firelight, so that they might all see it, and he said:
"'this will settle the quarrel.
you all see this bone in my right hand, don't you?'
"'yes,' they replied.
"'well, now you watch the bone and my hands, too, for they are quick and cunning.'
"old-man began to sing the gambling song and to slip the bone from one hand to the other so rapidly and smoothly that they were all puzzled.
finally he stopped singing and held out his hands both shut tight, and both with their backs up.
"'which of my hands holds the bone now?'
he asked them.
"some said it was in the right hand and others claimed that it was the left hand that held it.
old-man asked the bear to name the hand that held the bone, and the bear did; but when old-man opened that hand it was empty the bone was not there.
then everybody laughed at the bear.
old-man smiled a little and began to sing and again pass the bone.
"'beaver, you are smart; name the hand that holds the bone this time.'
"the beaver said: 'it's in your right hand.
i saw you put it there.'
"old-man opened that hand right before the beaver's eyes, but the bone wasn't there, and again everybody laughed especially the bear.
"'now, you see,' said old-man, 'that this is not so easy as it looks, but i am going to teach you all to play the game; and when you have all learned it, you must play it until you find out who is the cleverest at the playing.
whoever that is, he shall be chief under me, forever.'
"some were awkward and said they didn't care much who was chief, but most all of them learned to play pretty well.
first the bear and the beaver tried it, but the beaver beat the bear easily and held the bone for ever so long.
finally the buffalo beat the beaver and started to play with the mouse.
of course the mouse had small hands and was quicker than the buffalo quicker to see the bone.
the buffalo tried hard for he didn't want the mouse to be chief but it didn't do him any good; for the mouse won in the end.
"it was a fair game and the mouse was chief under the agreement.
he looked quite small among the rest but he walked right out to the centre of the council and said:
"'listen, brothers what is mine to keep is mine to give away.
i am too small to be your chief and i know it.
i am not warlike.
i want to live in peace with my wife and family.
i know nothing of war.
i get my living easily.
i don't like to have enemies.
i am going to give my right to be chief to the man that old-man has made like himself.'
"that settled it.
that made the man chief forever, and that is why he is greater than the animals and the birds.
that is why we never kill the mice-people.
"you saw the mice run into the buffalo skull, of course.
there is where they have lived and brought up their families ever since the night the mouse beat the buffalo playing the bone game.
yes the mice-people always make their nests in the heads of the dead buffalo-people, ever since that night.
"our people play the same game, even today.
see," and war eagle took from his paint sack a small, polished bone.
then he sang just as old-man did so long ago.
he let the children try to guess the hand that held the bone, as the animal-people did that fateful night; but, like the animals, they always guessed wrong.
laughingly war eagle said:
"now go to your beds and come to see me to-morrow night.
ho!"
how the otter skin became great "medicine"
it was rather late when we left war eagle's lodge after having learned why the indians never kill the mice-people; and the milky way was white and plain, dimming the stars with its mist.
the children all stopped to say good night to little sees-in-the-dark, a brand-new baby sister of bluebird's; then they all went to bed.
the next day the boys played at war, just as white boys do; and the girls played with dolls dressed in buckskin clothes, until it grew tiresome, when they visited relatives until it came time for us all to go to their grandfather's lodge.
he was smoking when we entered, but soon laid aside the pipe and said:
"you know that the otter skin is big medicine, no doubt.
you have noticed that our warriors wear it sometimes and you know that we all think it very lucky to wear the skin of the otter.
but you don't know how it came to be great; so i shall tell you.
"one time, long before my grandfather was born, a young-man of our tribe was unlucky in everything.
no woman wanted to marry him, because he couldn't kill enough meat to keep her in food and clothes.
whenever he went hunting, his bow always broke or he would lose his lance.
if these things didn't happen, his horse would fall and hurt him.
everybody talked about him and his bad luck, and although he was fine-looking, he had no close friends, because of his ill fortune.
he tried to dream and get his medicine but no dream would come.
he grew sour and people were sorry for him all the time.
finally his name was changed to 'the unlucky-one,' which sounds bad to the ear.
he used to wander about alone a good deal, and one morning he saw an old woman gathering wood by the side of a river.
the unlucky-one was about to pass the old woman when she stopped him and asked:
"'why are you so sad in your handsome face?
why is that sorry look in your fine eyes?'
"'because,' replied the young-man, 'i am the unlucky-one.
everything goes wrong with me, always.
i don't want to live any longer, for my heart is growing wicked.'
"'come with me,' said the old woman, and he followed her until she told him to sit down.
then she said: 'listen to me.
first you must learn a song to sing, and this is it.'
then she sang a queer song over and over again until the young-man had learned it well.
"'now do what i tell you, and your heart shall be glad some day.'
she drew from her robe a pair of moccasins and a small sack of dried meat.
'here,' she said, 'put these moccasins on your feet and take this sack of meat for food, for you must travel far.
go on down this river until you come to a great beaver village.
their lodges will be large and fine-looking and you will know the village by the great size of the lodges.
when you get to the place, you must stand still for a long time, and then sing the song i taught you.
when you have finished the singing, a great white beaver, chief of all the beavers in the world, will come to you.
he is wise and can tell you what to do to change your luck.
after that i cannot help you; but do what the white beaver tells you, without asking why.
now go, and be brave!'
"the young-man started at once.
long his steps were, for he was young and strong.
far he travelled down the river saw many beaver villages, too, but he did not stop, because the lodges were not big, as the old woman told him they would be in the right village.
his feet grew tired for he travelled day and night without resting, but his heart was brave and he believed what the old woman had told him.
"it was late on the third day when he came to a mighty beaver village and here the lodges were greater than any he had ever seen before.
in the centre of the camp was a monstrous lodge built of great sticks and towering above the rest.
all about, the ground was neat and clean and bare as your hand.
the unlucky-one knew this was the white beaver's lodge knew that at last he had found the chief of all the beavers in the world; so he stood still for a long time, and then sang that song.
"soon a great white beaver white as the snows of winter came to him and asked: 'why do you sing that song, my brother?
what do you want of me?
i have never heard a man sing that song before.
you must be in trouble.'
"'i am the unlucky-one,' the young-man replied.
'i can do nothing well.
i can find no woman who will marry me.
in the hunt my bow will often break or my lance is poor.
my medicine is bad and i cannot dream.
the people do not love me, and they pity me as they do a sick child.'
"'i am sorry for you,' said the white beaver chief of all the beavers in the world 'but you must find my brother the coyote, who knows where old-man's lodge is.
the coyote will do your bidding if you sing that song when you see him.
take this stick with you, because you will have a long journey, and with the stick you may cross any river and not drown, if you keep it always in your hand.
that is all i can do for you, myself.'
"on down the river the unlucky-one travelled and the sun was low in the west on the fourth day, when he saw the coyote on a hillside near by.
after looking at coyote for a long time, the young-man commenced to sing the song the old woman had taught him.
when he had finished the singing, the coyote came up close and asked:
"'what is the matter?
why do you sing that song?
i never heard a man sing it before.
what is it you want of me?'
"then the unlucky-one told the coyote what he had told the white beaver, and showed the stick the beaver-chief had given him, to prove it.
"'i am hungry, too,' said the unlucky-one, 'for i have eaten all the dried meat the old woman gave me.'
"'wait here,' said the coyote, 'my brother the wolf has just killed a fat doe, and perhaps he will give me a little of the meat when i tell him about you and your troubles.'
"away went the coyote to beg for meat, and while he was gone the young-man bathed his tired feet in a cool creek.
soon the coyote came back with meat, and young-man built a fire and ate some of it, even before it was warm, for he was starving.
when he had finished the coyote said:
"'now i shall take you to old-man's lodge, come.'
"they started, even though it was getting dark.
long they travelled without stopping over plains and mountains through great forests and across rivers, until they came to a cave in the rough rocks on the side of a mighty mountain.
"'in there,' said the coyote, 'you will find old-man and he can tell you what you want to know.'
"the unlucky-one stood before the black hole in the rocks for a long time, because he was afraid; but when he turned to speak to the coyote he found himself to be alone.
the coyote had gone about his own business had silently slipped away in the night.
"slowly and carefully the young-man began to creep into the cave, feeling his way in the darkness.
his heart was beating like a tom-tom at a dance.
finally he saw a fire away back in the cave.
"the shadows danced about the stone sides of the cave as men say the ghosts do; and they frightened him.
but looking, he saw a man sitting on the far side of the fire.
the man's hair was like the snow and very long.
his face was wrinkled with the seams left by many years of life and he was naked in the firelight that played about him.
"slowly the young-man stood upon his feet and began to walk toward the fire with great fear in his heart.
when he had reached the place where the firelight fell upon him, the old-man looked up and said:
"'how, young-man, i am old-man.
why did you come here?
what is it you want?'
"then the unlucky-one told old-man just what he had told the old woman and the white beaver and the coyote, and showed the stick the beaver had given him, to prove it.
"'smoke,' said old-man, and passed the pipe to his visitor.
after they had smoked old-man said:
"'i will tell you what to do.
on the top of this great mountain there live many ghost-people and their chief is a great owl.
this owl is the only one who knows how you can change your luck, and he will tell you if you are not afraid.
take this arrow and go among those people, without fear.
show them you are unarmed as soon as they see you.
now go!'
"out into the night went the unlucky-one and on up the mountain.
the way was rough and the wind blew from the north, chilling his limbs and stinging his face, but on he went toward the mountain-top, where the storm-clouds sleep and the winter always stays.
drifts of snow were piled all about, and the wind gathered it up and hurled it at the young man as though it were angry at him.
the clouds waked and gathered around him, making the night darker and the world lonelier than before, but on the very top of the mountain he stopped and tried to look through the clouds.
then he heard strange singing all about him; but for a long time there was no singer in sight.
finally the clouds parted and he saw a great circle of ghost-people with large and ugly heads.
they were seated on the icy ground and on the drifts of snow and on the rocks, singing a warlike song that made the heart of the young-man stand still, in dread.
in the centre of the circle there sat a mighty owl their chief.
ho!
when the ghost-people saw the unlucky-one they rushed at him with many lances and would have killed him but the owl-chief cried, 'stop!'
"the young-man folded his arms and said: 'i am unarmed come and see how a blackfoot dies.
i am not afraid of you.'
"'ho!'
said the owl-chief, 'we kill no unarmed man.
sit down, my son, and tell me what you want.
why do you come here?
you must be in trouble.
you must smoke with me.'
"the unlucky-one told the owl-chief just what he had told the old woman and the beaver and the coyote and old-man, and showed the stick that the white beaver had given him and the arrow that old-man had given to him to prove it.
"'good,' said the owl-chief, 'i can help you, but first you must help yourself.
take this bow.
it is a medicine-bow; then you will have a bow that will not break and an arrow that is good and straight.
now go down this mountain until you come to a river.
it will be dark when you reach this river, but you will know the way.
there will be a great cottonwood-tree on the bank of the stream where you first come to the water.
at this tree, you must turn down the stream and keep on travelling without rest, until you hear a splashing in the water near you.
when you hear the splashing, you must shoot this arrow at the sound.
shoot quickly, for if you do not you can never have any good luck.
if you do as i have told you the splasher will be killed and you must then take his hide and wear it always.
the skin that the splasher wears will make you a lucky man.
it will make anybody lucky and you may tell your people that it is so.
"'now go, for it is nearly day and we must sleep.'
"the young-man took his bow and arrow and the stick the white beaver had given him and started on his journey.
all the day he travelled, and far into the night.
at last he came to a river and on the bank he saw the great cottonwood-tree, just as the ghost owl had told him.
at the tree the young-man turned down the stream and in the dark easily found his way along the bank.
very soon he heard a great splashing in the water near him, and zipp he let the arrow go at the sound then all was still again.
he stood and looked and listened, but for a long time could see nothing hear nothing.
"then the moon came out from under a cloud and just where her light struck the river, he saw some animal floating dead.
with the magic stick the young-man walked out on the water, seized the animal by the legs and drew it ashore.
it was an otter, and the young-man took his hide, right there.
"a wolf waited in the brush for the body of the otter, and the young-man gave it to him willingly, because he remembered the meat the wolf had given the coyote.
as soon as the young-man had skinned the otter he threw the hide over his shoulder and started for his own country with a light heart, but at the first good place he made a camp, and slept.
that night he dreamed and all was well with him.
"after days of travel he found his tribe again, and told what had happened.
he became a great hunter and a great chief among us.
he married the most beautiful woman in the tribe and was good to her always.
they had many children, and we remember his name as one that was great in war.
that is all ho!"
old-man steals the sun's leggings
firelight what a charm it adds to story-telling.
how its moods seem to keep pace with situations pictured by the oracle, offering shadows when dread is abroad, and light when a pleasing climax is reached; for interest undoubtedly tends the blaze, while sympathy contributes or withholds fuel, according to its dictates.
the lodge was alight when i approached and i could hear the children singing in a happy mood, but upon entering, the singing ceased and embarrassed smiles on the young faces greeted me; nor could i coax a continuation of the song.
seated beside war eagle was a very old indian whose name was red robe, and as soon as i was seated, the host explained that he was an honored guest; that he was a sioux and a friend of long standing.
then war eagle lighted the pipe, passing it to the distinguished friend, who in turn passed it to me, after first offering it to the sun, the father, and the earth, the mother of all that is.
in a lodge of the blackfeet the pipe must never be passed across the doorway.
to do so would insult the host and bring bad luck to all who assembled.
therefore if there be a large number of guests ranged about the lodge, the pipe is passed first to the left from guest to guest until it reaches the door, when it goes back, unsmoked, to the host, to be refilled ere it is passed to those on his right hand.
briefly war eagle explained my presence to red robe and said:
"once the moon made the sun a pair of leggings.
such beautiful work had never been seen before.
they were worked with the colored quills of the porcupine and were covered with strange signs, which none but the sun and the moon could read.
no man ever saw such leggings as they were, and it took the moon many snows to make them.
yes, they were wonderful leggings and the sun always wore them on fine days, for they were bright to look upon.
"every night when the sun went to sleep in his lodge away in the west, he used the leggings for a pillow, because there was a thief in the world, even then.
that thief and rascal was old-man, and of course the sun knew all about him.
that is why he always put his fine leggings under his head when he slept.
when he worked he almost always wore them, as i have told you, so that there was no danger of losing them in the daytime; but the sun was careful of his leggings when night came and he slept.
"you wouldn't think that a person would be so foolish as to steal from the sun, but one night old-man who is the only person who ever knew just where the sun's lodge was crept near enough to look in, and saw the leggings under the sun's head.
"we have all travelled a great deal but no man ever found the sun's lodge.
no man knows in what country it is.
of course we know it is located somewhere west of here, for we see him going that way every afternoon, but old-man knew everything except that he could not fool the sun.
"yes old-man looked into the lodge of the sun and saw the leggings there saw the sun, too, and the sun was asleep.
he made up his mind that he would steal the leggings so he crept through the door of the lodge.
there was no one at home but the sun, for the moon has work to do at night just as the children, the stars, do, so he thought he could slip the leggings from under the sleeper's head and get away.
"he got down on his hands and knees to walk like the bear-people and crept into the lodge, but in the black darkness he put his knee upon a dry stick near the sun's bed.
the stick snapped under his weight with so great a noise that the sun turned over and snorted, scaring old-man so badly that he couldn't move for a minute.
his heart was not strong wickedness makes every heart weaker and after making sure that the sun had not seen him, he crept silently out of the lodge and ran away.
"on the top of a hill old-man stopped to look and listen, but all was still; so he sat down and thought.
"'i'll get them to-morrow night when he sleeps again'; he said to himself.
'i need those leggings myself, and i'm going to get them, because they will make me handsome as the sun.'
"he watched the moon come home to camp and saw the sun go to work, but he did not go very far away because he wanted to be near the lodge when night came again.
"it was not long to wait, for all the old-man had to do was to make mischief, and only those who have work to do measure time.
he was close to the lodge when the moon came out, and there he waited until the sun went inside.
from the bushes old-man saw the sun take off his leggings and his eyes glittered with greed as he saw their owner fold them and put them under his head as he had always done.
then he waited a while before creeping closer.
little by little the old rascal crawled toward the lodge, till finally his head was inside the door.
then he waited a long, long time, even after the sun was snoring.
"the strange noises of the night bothered him, for he knew he was doing wrong, and when a loon cried on a lake near by, he shivered as with cold, but finally crept to the sleeper's side.
cautiously his fingers felt about the precious leggings until he knew just how they could best be removed without waking the sun.
his breath was short and his heart was beating as a war-drum beats, in the black dark of the lodge.
sweat cold sweat, that great fear always brings to the weak-hearted was dripping from his body, and once he thought that he would wait for another night, but greed whispered again, and listening to its voice, he stole the leggings from under the sun's head.
"carefully he crept out of the lodge, looking over his shoulder as he went through the door.
then he ran away as fast as he could go.
over hills and valleys, across rivers and creeks, toward the east.
he wasted much breath laughing at his smartness as he ran, and soon he grew tired.
"'ho!'
he said to himself, 'i am far enough now and i shall sleep.
it's easy to steal from the sun just as easy as stealing from the bear or the beaver.'
"he folded the leggings and put them under his head as the sun had done, and went to sleep.
he had a dream and it waked him with a start.
bad deeds bring bad dreams to us all.
old-man sat up and there was the sun looking right in his face and laughing.
he was frightened and ran away, leaving the leggings behind him.
"laughingly the sun put on the leggings and went on toward the west, for he is always busy.
he thought he would see old-man no more, but it takes more than one lesson to teach a fool to be wise, and old-man hid in the timber until the sun had travelled out of sight.
then he ran westward and hid himself near the sun's lodge again, intending to wait for the night and steal the leggings a second time.
"he was much afraid this time, but as soon as the sun was asleep he crept to the lodge and peeked inside.
here he stopped and looked about, for he was afraid the sun would hear his heart beating.
finally he started toward the sun's bed and just then a great white owl flew from off the lodge poles, and this scared him more, for that is very bad luck and he knew it; but he kept on creeping until he could almost touch the sun.
"all about the lodge were beautiful linings, tanned and painted by the moon, and the queer signs on them made the old coward tremble.
he heard a night-bird call outside and he thought it would surely wake the sun; so he hastened to the bed and with cunning fingers stole the leggings, as he had done the night before, without waking the great sleeper.
then he crept out of the lodge, talking bravely to himself as cowards do when they are afraid.
"'now,' he said to himself, 'i shall run faster and farther than before.
i shall not stop running while the night lasts, and i shall stay in the mountains all the time when the sun is at work in the daytime!'
"away he went running as the buffalo runs straight ahead, looking at nothing, hearing nothing, stopping at nothing.
when day began to break old-man was far from the sun's lodge and he hid himself in a deep gulch among some bushes that grew there.
he listened a long time before he dared to go to sleep, but finally he did.
he was tired from his great run and slept soundly and for a long time, but when he opened his eyes there was the sun looking straight at him, and this time he was scowling.
old-man started to run away but the sun grabbed him and threw him down upon his back.
my!
but the sun was angry, and he said:
"'old-man, you are a clever thief but a mighty fool as well, for you steal from me and expect to hide away.
twice you have stolen the leggings my wife made for me, and twice i have found you easily.
don't you know that the whole world is my lodge and that you can never get outside of it, if you run your foolish legs off?
don't you know that i light all of my lodge every day and search it carefully?
don't you know that nothing can hide from me and live?
i shall not harm you this time, but i warn you now, that if you ever steal from me again, i will hurt you badly.
now go, and don't let me catch you stealing again!'
"away went old-man, and on toward the west went the busy sun.
that is all.
"now go to bed; for i would talk of other things with my friend, who knows of war as i do.
ho!"
old-man and his conscience
not so many miles away from the village, the great mountain range so divides the streams that are born there, that their waters are offered as tribute to the atlantic, pacific, and arctic oceans.
in this wonderful range the indians believe the winds are made, and that they battle for supremacy over gunsight pass.
i have heard an old story, too, that is said to have been generally believed by the blackfeet, in which a monster bull-elk that lives in gunsight pass lords it over the winds.
this elk creates the north wind by "flapping" one of his ears, and the south wind by the same use of his other.
i am inclined to believe that the winds are made in that pass, myself, for there they are seldom at rest, especially at this season of the year.
to-night the wind was blowing from the north, and filmy white clouds were driven across the face of the nearly full moon, momentarily veiling her light.
lodge poles creaked and strained at every heavy gust, and sparks from the fires inside the lodges sped down the wind, to fade and die.
in his lodge war eagle waited for us, and when we entered he greeted us warmly, but failed to mention the gale.
"i have been waiting," he said.
"you are late and the story i shall tell you is longer than many of the others."
without further delay the story-telling commenced.
"once old-man came upon a lodge in the forest.
it was a fine one, and painted with strange signs.
smoke was curling from the top, and thus he knew that the person who lived there was at home.
without calling or speaking, he entered the lodge and saw a man sitting by the fire smoking his pipe.
the man didn't speak, nor did he offer his pipe to old-man, as our people do when they are glad to see visitors.
he didn't even look at his guest, but old-man has no good manners at all.
he couldn't see that he wasn't wanted, as he looked about the man's lodge and made himself at home.
the linings were beautiful and were painted with fine skill.
the lodge was clean and the fire was bright, but there was no woman about.
"leaning against a fine back-rest, old-man filled his own pipe and lighted it with a coal from the man's fire.
then he began to smoke and look around, wondering why the man acted so queerly.
he saw a star that shone down through the smoke-hole, and the tops of several trees that were near the lodge.
then he saw a woman way up in a tree top and right over the lodge.
she looked young and beautiful and tall.
"'whose woman is that up there in the tree top?'
asked old-man.
"'she's your woman if you can catch her and will marry her,' growled the man; 'but you will have to live here and help me make a living.'
"'i'll try to catch her, and if i do i will marry her and stay here, for i am a great hunter and can easily kill what meat we want,' said old-man.
"he went out of the lodge and climbed the tree after the woman.
she screamed, but he caught her and held her, although she scratched him badly.
he carried her into the lodge and there renewed his promise to stay there always.
the man married them, and they were happy for four days, but on the fifth morning old-man was gone gone with all the dried meat in the lodge the thief.
"when they were sure that the rascal had run away the woman began to cry, but not so the man.
he got his bow and arrows and left the lodge in anger.
there was snow on the ground and the man took the track of old-man, intending to catch and kill him.
"the track was fresh and the man started on a run, for he was a good hunter and as fast as a deer.
of course he gained on old-man, who was a much slower traveller; and the sun was not very high when the old thief stopped on a hilltop to look back.
he saw the man coming fast.
"'this will never do,' he said to himself.
'that queer person will catch me.
i know what i shall do; i shall turn myself into a dead bull-elk and lie down.
then he will pass me and i can go where i please.'
"he took off his moccasins and said to them: 'moccasins, go on toward the west.
keep going and making plain tracks in the snow toward the big-water where the sun sleeps.
the queer-one will follow you, and when you pass out of the snowy country, you can lose him.
go quickly for he is close upon us.'
"the moccasins ran away as old-man wanted them to, and they made plain tracks in the snow leading away toward the big-water.
old-man turned into a dead bull-elk and stretched himself near the tracks the moccasins had made.
"up the hill came the man, his breath short from running.
he saw the dead elk, and thought it might be old-man playing a trick.
he was about to shoot an arrow into the dead elk to make sure; but just as he was about to let the arrow go, he saw the tracks the moccasins had made.
of course he thought the moccasins were on old-man's feet, and that the carcass was really that of a dead elk.
he was badly fooled and took the tracks again.
on and on he went, following the moccasins over hills and rivers.
faster than before went the man, and still faster travelled the empty moccasins, the trail growing dimmer and dimmer as the daylight faded.
all day long, and all of the night the man followed the tracks without rest or food, and just at daybreak he came to the shore of the big-water.
there, right by the water's edge, stood the empty moccasins, side by side.
"the man turned and looked back.
his eyes were red and his legs were trembling.
'caw caw, caw,' he heard a crow say.
right over his head he saw the black bird and knew him, too.
"'ho!
old-man, you were in that dead bull-elk.
you fooled me, and now you are a crow.
you think you will escape me, do you?
well, you will not; for i, too, know magic, and am wise.'
"with a stick the man drew a circle in the sand.
then he stood within the ring and sang a song.
old-man was worried and watched the strange doings from the air overhead.
inside the circle the man began to whirl about so rapidly that he faded from sight, and from the centre of the circle there came an eagle.
straight at the crow flew the eagle, and away toward the mountains sped the crow, in fright.
"the crow knew that the eagle would catch him, so that as soon as he reached the trees on the mountains he turned himself into a wren and sought the small bushes under the tall trees.
the eagle saw the change, and at once began turning over and over in the air.
when he had reached the ground, instead of an eagle a sparrow-hawk chased the wren.
now the chase was fast indeed, for no place could the wren find in which to hide from the sparrow-hawk.
through the brush, into trees, among the weeds and grass, flew the wren with the hawk close behind.
once the sparrow-hawk picked a feather from the wren's tail so close was he to his victim.
it was nearly over with the wren, when he suddenly came to a park along a river's side.
in this park were a hundred lodges of our people, and before a fine lodge there sat the daughter of the chief.
it was growing dark and chilly, but still she sat there looking at the river.
the sparrow-hawk was striking at the wren with his beak and talons, when the wren saw the young-woman and flew straight to her.
so swift he flew that the young-woman didn't see him at all, but she felt something strike her hand, and when she looked she saw a bone ring on her finger.
this frightened her, and she ran inside the lodge, where the fire kept the shadows from coming.
old-man had changed into the ring, of course, and the sparrow-hawk didn't dare to go into the lodge; so he stopped outside and listened.
this is what he heard old-man say:
"'don't be frightened, young-woman, i am neither a wren nor a ring.
i am old-man and that sparrow-hawk has chased me all the day and for nothing.
i have never done him harm, and he bothers me without reason.'
"'liar forked-tongue,' cried the sparrow-hawk.
'believe him not, young-woman.
he has done wrong.
he is wicked and i am not a sparrow-hawk, but conscience.
like an arrow i travel, straight and fast.
when he lies or steals from his friends i follow him.
i talk all the time and he hears me, but lies to himself, and says he does not hear.
you know who i am, young-woman, i am what talks inside a person.'
"old-man heard what the sparrow-hawk said, and he was ashamed for once in his life.
he crawled out of the lodge.
into the shadows he ran away away into the night, and the darkness away from himself!
"you see," said war eagle, as he reached for his pipe, "old-man knew that he had done wrong, and his heart troubled him, just as yours will bother you if you do not listen to the voice that speaks within yourselves.
whenever that voice says a thing is wicked, it is wicked no matter who says it is not.
yes it is very hard for a man to hide from himself.
ho!"
old-man's treachery
the next afternoon muskrat and fine bow went hunting.
they hid themselves in some brush which grew beside an old game trail that followed the river, and there waited for a chance deer.
chickadees hopped and called, "chick-a-de-de-de" in the willows and wild-rose bushes that grew near their hiding-place; and the gentle little birds with their pretty coats were often within a few inches of the hands of the young hunters.
in perfect silence they watched and admired these little friends, while glance or smile conveyed their appreciation of the bird-visits to each other.
the wind was coming down the stream, and therefore the eyes of the boys seldom left the trail in that direction; for from that quarter an approaching deer would be unwarned by the ever-busy breeze.
a rabbit came hopping down the game trail in believed perfect security, passing so close to fine bow that he could not resist the desire to strike at him with an arrow.
both boys were obliged to cover their mouths with their open hands to keep from laughing aloud at the surprise and speed shown by the frightened bunny, as he scurried around a bend in the trail, with his white, pudgy tail bobbing rapidly.
they had scarcely regained their composure and silence when, "snap!"
went a dry stick.
the sharp sound sent a thrill through the hearts of the boys, and instantly they became rigidly watchful.
not a leaf could move on the ground now not a bush might bend or a bird pass and escape being seen by the four sharp eyes that peered from the brush in the direction indicated by the sound of the breaking stick.
two hearts beat loudly as fine bow fitted his arrow to the bowstring.
tense and expectant they waited yes, it was a deer a buck, too, and he was coming down the trail, alert and watchful down the trail that he had often travelled and knew so well.
yes, he had followed his mother along that trail when he was but a spotted fawn now he wore antlers, and was master of his own ways.
on he came nearly to the brush that hid the hunters, when, throwing his beautiful head high in the air, he stopped, turning his side a trifle.
zipp went the arrow and, kicking out behind, away went the buck, crashing through willows and alders that grew in his way, until he was out of sight.
then all was still, save the chick-a-de-de-de, chick-a-de-de-de, that came constantly from the bushes about them.
out from the cover came the hunters, and with ready bow they followed along the trail.
yes there was blood on a log, and more on the dead leaves.
the arrow had found its mark and they must go slowly in their trailing, lest they lose the meat.
for two hours they followed the wounded animal, and at last came upon him in a willow thicket sick unto death, for the arrow was deep in his paunch.
his sufferings were ended by another arrow, and the chase was done.
with their knives the boys dressed the buck, and then went back to the camp to tell the women where the meat could be found just as the men do.
it was their first deer; and pride shone in their faces as they told their grandfather that night in the lodge.
"that is good," war eagle replied, as the boys finished telling of their success.
"that is good, if your mother needed the meat, but it is wrong to kill when you have plenty, lest manitou be angry.
there is always enough, but none to waste, and the hunter who kills more than he needs is wicked.
to-night i shall tell you what happened to old-man when he did that.
yes, and he got into trouble over it.
"one day in the fall when the leaves were yellow, and the deer-people were dressed in their blue robes when the geese and duck-people were travelling to the country where water does not freeze, and where flowers never die, old-man was travelling on the plains.
"near sundown he saw two buffalo-bulls feeding on a steep hillside; but he had no bow and arrow with him.
he was hungry, and began to think of some way to kill one of the bulls for meat.
very soon he thought out a plan, for he is cunning always.
"he ran around the hill out of sight of the bulls, and there made two men out of grass and sage-brush.
they were dummies, of course, but he made them to look just like real men, and then armed each with a wooden knife of great length.
then he set them in the position of fighting; made them look as though they were about to fight each other with the knives.
when he had them both fixed to suit, he ran back to the place where the buffalo were calling:
"'ho!
brothers, wait for me do not run away.
there are two fine men on the other side of this hill, and they are quarrelling.
they will surely fight unless we stop them.
it all started over you two bulls, too.
one of the men says you are fat and fine, and the other claims you are poor and skinny.
don't let our brothers fight over such a foolish thing as that.
it would be wicked.
now i can decide it, if you will let me feel all over you to see if you are fat or poor.
then i will go back to the men and settle the trouble by telling them the truth.
stand still and let me feel your sides quick, lest the fight begin while i am away.'
"'all right,' said the bulls, 'but don't you tickle us.'
then old-man walked up close and commenced to feel about the bulls' sides; but his heart was bad.
from his robe he slipped his great knife, and slyly felt about till he found the spot where the heart beats, and then stabbed the knife into the place, clear up to the hilt.
"both of the bulls died right away, and old-man laughed at the trick he had played upon them.
then he gave a knife to both of his hands, and said:
"'get to work, both of you!
skin these bulls while i sit here and boss you.'
"both hands commenced to skin the buffalo, but the right hand was much the swifter worker.
it gained upon the left hand rapidly, and this made the left hand angry.
finally the left hand called the right hand 'dog-face.'
that is the very worst thing you can call a person in our language, you know, and of course it made the right hand angry.
so crazy and angry was the right hand that it stabbed the left hand, and then they began to fight in earnest.
"both cut and slashed till blood covered the animals they were skinning.
all this fighting hurt old-man badly, of course, and he commenced to cry, as women do sometimes.
this stopped the fight; but still old-man cried, till, drying his tears, he saw a red fox sitting near the bulls, watching him.
'hi, there, you go away from there!
if you want meat you go and kill it, as i did.'
"red fox laughed 'ha!
ha!
ha!
foolish old-man ha!
ha!'
then he ran away and told the other foxes and the wolves and the coyotes about old-man's meat.
told them that his own hands couldn't get along with themselves and that it would be easy to steal it from him.
"they all followed the red fox back to the place where old-man was, and there they ate all of the meat every bit, and polished the bones.
"old-man couldn't stop them, because he was hurt, you see; but it all came about through lying and killing more meat than he needed.
yes he lied and that is bad, but his hands got to quarrelling between themselves, and family quarrels are always bad.
do not lie; do not quarrel.
it is bad.
ho!"
why the night-hawk's wings are beautiful
i was awakened by the voice of the camp-crier, and although it was yet dark i listened to his message.
the camp was to move.
all were to go to the mouth of the maria's "the river that scolds at the other" the indians call this stream, that disturbs the waters of the missouri with its swifter flood.
on through the camp the crier rode, and behind him the lodge-fires glowed in answer to his call.
the village was awake, and soon the thunder of hundreds of hoofs told me that the pony-bands were being driven into camp, where the faithful were being roped for the journey.
fires flickered in the now fading darkness, and down came the lodges as though wizard hands had touched them.
before the sun had come to light the world, we were on our way to "the river that scolds at the other."
not a cloud was in the sky, and the wind was still.
the sun came and touched the plains and hilltops with the light that makes all wild things glad.
here and there a jack-rabbit scurried away, often followed by a pack of dogs, and sometimes, though not often, they were overtaken and devoured on the spot.
bands of graceful antelope bounded out of our way, stopping on a knoll to watch the strange procession with wondering eyes, and once we saw a dust-cloud raised by a moving herd of buffalo, in the distance.
so the day wore on, the scene constantly changing as we travelled.
wolves and coyotes looked at us from almost every knoll and hilltop; and sage-hens sneaked to cover among the patches of sage-brush, scarcely ten feet away from our ponies.
toward sundown we reached a grove of cottonwoods near the mouth of the maria's, and in an incredibly short space of time the lodges took form.
soon, from out the tops of a hundred camps, smoke was curling just as though the lodges had been there always, and would forever remain.
as soon as supper was over i found the children, and together we sought war eagle's lodge.
he was in a happy mood and insisted upon smoking two pipes before commencing his story-telling.
at last he said:
"to-night i shall tell you why the nighthawk wears fine clothes.
my grandfather told me about it when i was young.
i am sure you have seen the night-hawk sailing over you, dipping and making that strange noise.
of course there is a reason for it.
"old-man was travelling one day in the springtime; but the weather was fine for that time of year.
he stopped often and spoke to the bird-people and to the animal-people, for he was in good humor that day.
he talked pleasantly with the trees, and his heart grew tender.
that is, he had good thoughts; and of course they made him happy.
finally he felt tired and sat down to rest on a big, round stone the kind of stone our white friend there calls a bowlder.
here he rested for a while, but the stone was cold, and he felt it through his robe; so he said:
"'stone, you seem cold to-day.
you may have my robe.
i have hundreds of robes in my camp, and i don't need this one at all.'
that was a lie he told about having so many robes.
all he had was the one he wore.
"he spread his robe over the stone, and then started down the hill, naked, for it was really a fine day.
but storms hide in the mountains, and are never far away when it is springtime.
soon it began to snow then the wind blew from the north with a good strength behind it.
old-man said:
"'well, i guess i do need that robe myself, after all.
that stone never did anything for me anyhow.
nobody is ever good to a stone.
i'll just go back and get my robe.'
"back he went and found the stone.
then he pulled the robe away, and wrapped it about himself.
ho!
but that made the stone angry ho!
old-man started to run down the hill, and the stone ran after him.
ho!
it was a funny race they made, over the grass, over smaller stones, and over logs that lay in the way, but old-man managed to keep ahead until he stubbed his toe on a big sage-brush, and fell swow!
"'now i have you!'
cried the stone 'now i'll kill you, too!
now i will teach you to give presents and then take them away,' and the stone rolled right on top of old-man, and sat on his back.
"it was a big stone, you see, and old-man couldn't move it at all.
he tried to throw off the stone but failed.
he squirmed and twisted no use the stone held him fast.
he called the stone some names that are not good; but that never helps any.
at last he began to call:
"'help!
help!
help!'
but nobody heard him except the night-hawk, and he told the old-man that he would help him all he could; so he flew away up in the air so far that he looked like a black speck.
then he came down straight and struck that rock an awful blow 'swow!'
and broke it in two pieces.
indeed he did.
the blow was so great that it spoiled the night-hawk's bill, forever made it queer in shape, and jammed his head, so that it is queer, too.
but he broke the rock, and old-man stood upon his feet.
"'thank you, brother night-hawk,' said old-man, 'now i will do something for you.
i am going to make you different from other birds make you so people will always notice you.'
"you know that when you break a rock the powdered stone is white, like snow; and there is always some of the white powder whenever you break a rock, by pounding it.
well, old-man took some of the fine powdered stone and shook it on the night-hawk's wings in spots and stripes made the great white stripes you have seen on his wings, and told him that no other bird could have such marks on his clothes.
"all the night-hawk's children dress the same way now; and they always will as long as there are night-hawks.
of course their clothes make them proud; and that is why they keep at flying over people's heads soaring and dipping and turning all the time, to show off their pretty wings.
"that is all for to-night.
muskrat, tell your father i would run buffalo with him tomorrow ho!"
why the mountain-lion is long and lean
have you ever seen the plains in the morning a june morning, when the spurred lark soars and sings when the plover calls, and the curlew pipes his shriller notes to the rising sun?
then is there music, indeed, for no bird outsings the spurred lark; and thanks to old-man he is not wanting in numbers, either.
the plains are wonderful then more wonderful than they are at this season of the year; but at all times they beckon and hold one as in a spell, especially when they are backed or bordered by a snow-capped mountain range.
looking toward the east they are boundless, but on their western edge superb mountains rear themselves.
all over this vast country the indians roamed, following the great buffalo herds as did the wolves, and making their living with the bow and lance, since the horse came to them.
in the very old days the "piskun" was used, and buffalo were enticed to follow a fantastically dressed man toward a cliff, far enough to get the herd moving in that direction, when the "buffalo-man" gained cover, and hidden indians raised from their hiding places behind the animals, and drove them over the cliff, where they were killed in large numbers.
not until cortez came with his cavalry from spain, were there horses on this continent, and then generations passed ere the plains tribes possessed this valuable animal, that so materially changed their lives.
dogs dragged the indian's travois or packed his household goods in the days before the horse came, and for hundreds perhaps thousands of years, these people had no other means of transporting their goods and chattels.
as the indian is slow to forget or change the ways of his father, we should pause before we brand him as wholly improvident, i think.
he has always been a family-man, has the indian, and small children had to be carried, as well as his camp equipage.
wolf-dogs had to be fed, too, in some way, thus adding to his burden; for it took a great many to make it possible for him to travel at all.
when the night came and we visited war eagle, we found he had other company so we waited until their visit was ended before settling ourselves to hear the story that he might tell us.
"the crows have stolen some of our best horses," said war eagle, as soon as the other guests had gone.
"that is all right we shall get them back, and more, too.
the crows have only borrowed those horses and will pay for their use with others of their own.
to-night i shall tell you why the mountain lion is so long and thin and why he wears hair that looks singed.
i shall also tell you why that person's nose is black, because it is part of the story.
"a long time ago the mountain-lion was a short, thick-set person.
i am sure you didn't guess that.
he was always a great thief like old-man, but once he went too far, as you shall see.
"one day old-man was on a hilltop, and saw smoke curling up through the trees, away off on the far side of a gulch.
'ho!'
he said, 'i wonder who builds fires except me.
i guess i will go and find out.'
"he crossed the gulch and crept carefully toward the smoke.
when he got quite near where the fire was, he stopped and listened.
he heard some loud laughing but could not see who it was that felt so glad and gay.
finally he crawled closer and peeked through the brush toward the fire.
then he saw some squirrel-people, and they were playing some sort of game.
they were running and laughing, and having a big time, too.
what do you think they were doing?
they were running about the fire all chasing one squirrel.
as soon as the squirrel was caught, they would bury him in the ashes near the fire until he cried; then they would dig him out in a hurry.
then another squirrel would take the lead and run until he was caught, as the other had been.
in turn the captive would submit to being buried, and so on while the racing and laughing continued.
they never left the buried one in the ashes after he cried, but always kept their promise and dug him out, right away.
"'say, let me play, won't you?'
asked old-man.
but the squirrel-people all ran away, and he had a hard time getting them to return to the fire.
"'you can't play this game,' replied the chief-squirrel, after they had returned to the fire.
"'yes, i can,' declared old-man, 'and you may bury me first, but be sure to dig me out when i cry, and not let me burn, for those ashes are hot near the fire.'
"'all right,' said the chief-squirrel, 'we will let you play.
lie down,' and old-man did lie down near the fire.
then the squirrels began to laugh and bury old-man in the ashes, as they did their own kind.
in no time at all old-man cried: 'ouch!
you are burning me quick!
dig me out.'
"true to their promise, the squirrel-people dug old-man out of the ashes, and laughed at him because he cried so quickly.
"'now, it is my turn to cover the captive,' said old-man, 'and as there are so many of you, i have a scheme that will make the game funnier and shorter.
all of you lie down at once in a row.
then i will cover you all at one time.
when you cry i will dig you out right away and the game will be over.'
"they didn't know old-man very well; so they said, 'all right,' and then they all laid down in a row about the fire.
"old-man buried them all in the ashes then he threw some more wood on the fire and went away and left them.
every squirrel there was in the world was buried in the ashes except one woman squirrel, and she told old-man she couldn't play and had to go home.
if she hadn't gone, there might not be any squirrels in this world right now.
yes, it is lucky that she went home.
"for a minute or so old-man watched the fire as it grew hotter, and then went down to a creek where willows grew and made himself a great plate by weaving them together.
when he had finished making the plate, he returned to the fire, and it had burned low again.
he laughed at his wicked work, and a raven, flying over just then, called him 'forked-tongue,' or liar, but he didn't mind that at all.
old-man cut a long stick and began to dig out the squirrel-people.
one by one he fished them out of the hot ashes; and they were roasted fine and were ready to eat.
as he fished them out he counted them, and laid them on the willow plate he had made.
when he had dug out the last one, he took the plate to the creek and there sat down to eat the squirrels, for he was hungry, as usual.
old-man is a big eater, but he couldn't eat all of the squirrels at once, and while eating he fell asleep with the great plate in his lap.
"nobody knows how long it was that he slept, but when he waked his plate of squirrels was gone gone completely.
he looked behind him; he looked about him; but the plate was surely gone.
ho!
but he was angry.
he stamped about in the brush and called aloud to those who might hear him; but nobody answered, and then he started to look for the thief.
old-man has sharp eyes, and he found the trail in the grass where somebody had passed while he slept.
'ho!'
he said, 'the mountain-lion has stolen my squirrels.
i see his footprints; see where he has mashed the grass as he walked with those soft feet of his; but i shall find him, for i made him and know all his ways.'
"old-man got down on his hands and knees to walk as the bear-people do, just as he did that night in the sun's lodge, and followed the trail of the mountain-lion over the hills and through the swamps.
at last he came to a place where the grass was all bent down, and there he found his willow plate, but it was empty.
that was the place where the mountain-lion had stopped to eat the rest of the squirrels, you know; but he didn't stay there long because he expected that old-man would try to follow him.
"the mountain-lion had eaten so much that he was sleepy and, after travelling a while after he had eaten the squirrels, he thought he would rest.
he hadn't intended to go to sleep; but he crawled upon a big stone near the foot of a hill and sat down where he could see a long way.
here his eyes began to wink, and his head began to nod, and finally he slept.
"without stopping once, old-man kept on the trail.
that is what counts sticking right to the thing you are doing and just before sundown old-man saw the sleeping lion.
carefully, lest he wake the sleeper, old-man crept close, being particular not to move a stone or break a twig; for the mountain-lion is much faster than men are, you see; and if old-man had wakened the lion, he would never have caught him again, perhaps.
little by little he crept to the stone where the mountain-lion was dreaming, and at last grabbed him by the tail.
it wasn't much of a tail then, but enough for old-man to hold to.
ho!
the lion was scared and begged hard, saying:
"'spare me, old-man.
you were full and i was hungry.
i had to have something to eat; had to get my living.
please let me go and do not hurt me.'
ho!
old-man was angry more angry than he was when he waked and found that he had been robbed, because he had travelled so far on his hands and knees.
"'i'll show you.
i'll teach you.
i'll fix you, right now.
steal from me, will you?
steal from the man that made you, you night-prowling rascal!'
"old-man put his foot behind the mountain-lion's head, and, still holding the tail, pulled hard and long, stretching the lion out to great length.
he squalled and cried, but old-man kept pulling until he nearly broke the mountain-lion in two pieces until he couldn't stretch him any more.
then old-man put his foot on the mountain-lion's back, and, still holding the tail, stretched that out until the tail was nearly as long as the body.
"'there, you thief now you are too long and lean to get fat, and you shall always look just like that.
your children shall all grow to look the same way, just to pay you for your stealing from the man that made you.
come on with me'; and he dragged the poor lion back to the place where the fire was, and there rolled him in the hot ashes, singeing his robe till it looked a great deal like burnt hair.
then old-man stuck the lion's nose against the burnt logs and blackened it some that is why his face looks as it does to-day.
"the mountain-lion was lame and sore, but old-man scolded him some more and told him that it would take lots more food to keep him after that, and that he would have to work harder to get his living, to pay for what he had done.
then he said, 'go now, and remember all the mountain-lions that ever live shall look just as you do.'
and they do, too!
"that is the story that is why the mountain-lion is so long and lean, but he is no bigger thief than old-man, nor does he tell any more lies.
ho!"
the fire-leggings
there had been a sudden change in the weather.
a cold rain was falling, and the night comes early when the clouds hang low.
the children loved a bright fire, and to-night war eagle's lodge was light as day.
away off on the plains a wolf was howling, and the rain pattered upon the lodge as though it never intended to quit.
it was a splendid night for story-telling, and war eagle filled and lighted the great stone pipe, while the children made themselves comfortable about the fire.
a spark sprang from the burning sticks, and fell upon fine bow's bare leg.
they all laughed heartily at the boy's antics to rid himself of the burning coal; and as soon as the laughing ceased war eagle laid aside the pipe.
an indian's pipe is large to look at, but holds little tobacco.
"see your shadows on the lodge wall?"
asked the old warrior.
the children said they saw them, and he continued:
"some day i will tell you a story about them, and how they drew the arrows of our enemies, but to-night i am going to tell you of the great fire-leggings.
"it was long before there were men and women on the world, but my grandfather told me what i shall now tell you.
"the gray light that hides the night-stars was creeping through the forests, and the wind the sun sends to warn the people of his coming was among the fir tops.
flowers, on slender stems, bent their heads out of respect for the herald-wind's master, and from the dead top of a pine-tree the yellowhammer beat upon his drum and called 'the sun is awake all hail the sun!'
"then the bush-birds began to sing the song of the morning, and from alders the robins joined, until all live things were awakened by the great music.
where the tall ferns grew, the doe waked her fawns, and taught them to do homage to the great light.
in the creeks, where the water was still and clear, and where throughout the day, like a delicate damaskeen, the shadows of leaves that overhang would lie, the speckled trout broke the surface of the pool in his gladness of the coming day.
pine-squirrels chattered gayly, and loudly proclaimed what the wind had told; and all the shadows were preparing for a great journey to the sand hills, where the ghost-people dwell.
"under a great spruce-tree where the ground was soft and dry, old-man slept.
the joy that thrilled creation disturbed him not, although the sun was near.
the bird-people looked at the sleeper in wonder, but the pine squirrel climbed the great spruce-tree with a pine-cone in his mouth.
quickly he ran out on the limb that spread over old-man, and dropped the cone on the sleeper's face.
then he scolded old-man, saying: 'get up get up lazy one lazy one get up get up.'
"rubbing his eyes in anger, old-man sat up and saw the sun coming his hunting leggings slipping through the thickets setting them afire, till all the deer and elk ran out and sought new places to hide.
"'ho, sun!'
called old-man, 'those are mighty leggings you wear.
no wonder you are a great hunter.
your leggings set fire to all the thickets, and by the light you can easily see the deer and elk; they cannot hide.
ho!
give them to me and i shall then be the great hunter and never be hungry.'
"'good,' said the sun, 'take them, and let me see you wear my leggings.'
"old-man was glad in his heart, for he was lazy, and now he thought he could kill the game without much work, and that he could be a great hunter as great as the sun.
he put on the leggings and at once began to hunt the thickets, for he was hungry.
very soon the leggings began to burn his legs.
the faster he travelled the hotter they grew, until in pain he cried out to the sun to come and take back his leggings; but the sun would not hear him.
on and on old-man ran.
faster and faster he flew through the country, setting fire to the brush and grass as he passed.
finally he came to a great river, and jumped in.
sizzzzzzz the water said, when old-man's legs touched it.
it cried out, as it does when it is sprinkled upon hot stones in the sweat-lodge, for the leggings were very hot.
but standing in the cool water old-man took off the leggings and threw them out upon the shore, where the sun found them later in the day.
"the sun's clothes were too big for old-man, and his work too great.
"we should never ask to do the things which manitou did not intend us to do.
if we keep this always in mind we shall never get into trouble.
"be yourselves always.
that is what manitou intended.
never blame the wolf for what he does.
he was made to do such things.
now i want you to go to your fathers' lodges and sleep.
to-morrow night i will tell you why there are so many snakes in the world.
ho!"
the moon and the great snake
the rain had passed; the moon looked down from a clear sky, and the bushes and dead grass smelled wet, after the heavy storm.
a cottontail ran into a clump of wild-rose bushes near war eagle's lodge, and some dogs were close behind the frightened animal, as he gained cover.
little buffalo calf threw a stone into the bushes, scaring the rabbit from his hiding-place, and away went bunny, followed by the yelping pack.
we stood and listened until the noise of the chase died away, and then went into the lodge, where we were greeted, as usual, by war eagle.
to-night he smoked; but with greater ceremony, and i suspected that it had something to do with the forthcoming story.
finally he said:
"you have seen many snakes, i suppose?"
"yes," replied the children, "we have seen a great many.
in the summer we see them every day."
"well," continued the story-teller, "once there was only one snake on the whole world, and he was a big one, i tell you.
he was pretty to look at, and was painted with all the colors we know.
this snake was proud of his clothes and had a wicked heart.
most snakes are wicked, because they are his relations.
"now, i have not told you all about it yet, nor will i tell you to-night, but the moon is the sun's wife, and some day i shall tell you that story, but to-night i am telling you about the snakes.
"you know that the sun goes early to bed, and that the moon most always leaves before he gets to the lodge.
sometimes this is not so, but that is part of another story.
"this big snake used to crawl up a high hill and watch the moon in the sky.
he was in love with her, and she knew it; but she paid no attention to him.
she liked his looks, for his clothes were fine, and he was always slick and smooth.
this went on for a long time, but she never talked to him at all.
the snake thought maybe the hill wasn't high enough, so he found a higher one, and watched the moon pass, from the top.
every night he climbed this high hill and motioned to her.
she began to pay more attention to the big snake, and one morning early, she loafed at her work a little, and spoke to him.
he was flattered, and so was she, because he said many nice things to her, but she went on to the sun's lodge, and left the snake.
"the next morning very early she saw the snake again, and this time she stopped a long time so long that the sun had started out from the lodge before she reached home.
he wondered what kept her so long, and became suspicious of the snake.
he made up his mind to watch, and try to catch them together.
so every morning the sun left the lodge a little earlier than before; and one morning, just as he climbed a mountain, he saw the big snake talking to the moon.
that made him angry, and you can't blame him, because his wife was spending her time loafing with a snake.
"she ran away; ran to the sun's lodge and left the snake on the hill.
in no time the sun had grabbed him.
my, the sun was angry!
the big snake begged, and promised never to speak to the moon again, but the sun had him; and he smashed him into thousands of little pieces, all of different colors from the different parts of his painted body.
the little pieces each turned into a little snake, just as you see them now, but they were all too small for the moon to notice after that.
that is how so many snakes came into the world; and that is why they are all small, nowadays.
"our people do not like the snake-people very well, but we know that they were made to do something on this world, and that they do it, or they wouldn't live here.
"that was a short story, but to-morrow night i will tell you why the deer-people have no gall on their livers; and why the antelope-people do not wear dew-claws, for you should know that there are no other animals with cloven hoofs that are like them in this.
"i am tired to-night, and i will ask that you go to your lodges, that i may sleep, for i am getting old.
ho!"
why the deer has no gall
bright and early the next morning the children were playing on the bank of "the river that scolds the other," when fine bow said:
"let us find a deer's foot, and the foot of an antelope and look at them, for to-night grandfather will tell us why the deer has the dew-claws, and why the antelope has none."
"yes, and let us ask mother if the deer has no gall on its liver.
maybe she can show both the liver of a deer and that of an antelope; then we can see for ourselves," said bluebird.
so they began to look about where the hides had been grained for tanning; and sure enough, there were the feet of both the antelope and the deer.
on the deer's feet, or legs, they found the dew-claws, but on the antelope there were none.
this made them all anxious to know why these animals, so nearly alike, should differ in this way.
bluebird's mother passed the children on her way to the river for water, and the little girl asked: "say, mother, does the deer have gall on his liver?"
"no, my child, but the antelope does; and your grandfather will tell you why if you ask him."
that night in the lodge war eagle placed before his grandchildren the leg of a deer and the leg of an antelope, as well as the liver of a deer and the liver of an antelope.
"see for yourselves that this thing is true, before i tell you why it is so, and how it happened."
"we see," they replied, "and to-day we found that these strange things are true, but we don't know why, grandfather."
"of course you don't know why.
nobody knows that until he is told, and now i shall tell you, so you will always know, and tell your children, that they, too, may know.
"it was long, long ago, of course.
all these things happened long ago when the world was young, as you are now.
it was on a summer morning, and the deer was travelling across the plains country to reach the mountains on the far-off side, where he had relatives.
he grew thirsty, for it was very warm, and stopped to drink from a water-hole on the plains.
when he had finished drinking he looked up, and there was his own cousin, the antelope, drinking near him.
"'good morning, cousin,' said the deer.
'it is a warm morning and water tastes good, doesn't it?'
"'yes,' replied the antelope, 'it is warm to-day, but i can beat you running, just the same.'
"'ha-ha!'
laughed the deer 'you beat me running?
why, you can't run half as fast as i can, but if you want to run a race let us bet something.
what shall it be?'
"'i will bet you my gall-sack,' replied the antelope.
"'good,' said the deer, 'but let us run toward that range of mountains, for i am going that way, anyhow, to see my relations.'
"'all right,' said the antelope.
'all ready, and here we go.'
"away they ran toward the far-off range.
all the way the antelope was far ahead of the deer; and just at the foot of the mountains he stopped to wait for him to catch up.
"both were out of breath from running, but both declared they had done their best, and the deer, being beaten, gave the antelope his sack of gall.
"'this ground is too flat for me,' said the deer.
'come up the hillside where the gulches cut the country, and rocks are in our way, and i will show you how to run.
i can't run on flat ground.
it's too easy for me.'
another race with you on your own ground, and i think i can beat you there, too.'
"together they climbed the hill until they reached a rough country, when the deer said:
"'this is my kind of country.
let us run a race here.
whoever gets ahead and stays there, must keep on running until the other calls on him to stop.'
"'that suits me,' replied the antelope, 'but what shall we bet this time?
i don't want to waste my breath for nothing.
i'll tell you let us bet our dew-claws.'
"'good.
i'll bet you my dew-claws against your own, that i can beat you again.
are you all ready?
go!'
"away they went over logs, over stones and across great gulches that cut the hills in two.
on and on they ran, with the deer far ahead of the antelope.
both were getting tired, when the antelope called:
"'hi, there you!
stop, you can beat me.
i give up.'
"so the deer stopped and waited until the antelope came up to him, and they both laughed over the fun, but the antelope had to give the deer his dew-claws, and now he goes without himself.
the deer wears dew-claws and always will, because of that race, but on his liver there is no gall, while the antelope carries a gall-sack like the other animals with cloven hoofs.
"that is all of that story, but it is too late to tell you another to-night.
if you will come to-morrow evening, i will tell you of some trouble that old-man got into once.
he deserved it, for he was wicked, as you shall see.
ho!"
why the indians whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes
the indian believes that all things live again; that all were created by one and the same power; that nothing was created in vain; and that in the life beyond the grave he will know all things that he knew here.
in that other world he expects to make his living easier, and not suffer from hunger or cold; therefore, all things that die must go to his heaven, in order that he may be supplied with the necessities of life.
the sun is not the indian's god, but a personification of the deity; his greatest manifestation; his light.
the indian believes that to each of his creations god gave some peculiar power, and that the possessors of these special favors are his lieutenants and keepers of the several special attributes; such as wisdom, cunning, speed, and the knowledge of healing wounds.
these wonderful gifts, he knew, were bestowed as favors by a common god, and therefore he revered these powers, and, without jealousy, paid tribute thereto.
the bear was great in war, because before the horse came, he would sometimes charge the camps and kill or wound many people.
although many arrows were sent into his huge carcass, he seldom died.
hence the indian was sure that the bear could heal his wounds.
that the bear possessed a great knowledge of roots and berries, the indian knew, for he often saw him digging the one and stripping the others from the bushes.
the buffalo, the beaver, the wolf, and the eagle each possessed strange powers that commanded the indian's admiration and respect, as did many other things in creation.
if about to go to war, the indian did not ask his god for aid oh, no.
he realized that god made his enemy, too; and that if he desired that enemy's destruction, it would be accomplished without man's aid.
so the indian sang his song to the bear, prayed to the bear, and thus invoked aid from a brute, and not his god, when he sought to destroy his fellows.
whenever the indian addressed the great god, his prayer was for life, and life alone.
he is the most religious man i have ever known, as well as the most superstitious; and there are stories dealing with his religious faith that are startling, indeed.
"it is the wrong time of year to talk about berries," said war eagle, that night in the lodge, "but i shall tell you why your mothers whip the buffalo-berries from the bushes.
old-man was the one who started it, and our people have followed his example ever since.
ho!
old-man made a fool of himself that day.
"it was the time when buffalo-berries are red and ripe.
all of the bushes along the rivers were loaded with them, and our people were about to gather what they needed, when old-man changed things, as far as the gathering was concerned.
"he was travelling along a river, and hungry, as he always was.
standing on the bank of that river, he saw great clusters of red, ripe buffalo-berries in the water.
they were larger than any berries he had ever seen, and he said:
"'i guess i will get those berries.
they look fine, and i need them.
besides, some of the people will see them and get them, if i don't.'
"he jumped into the water; looked for the berries; but they were not there.
for a time old-man stood in the river and looked for the berries, but they were gone.
"after a while he climbed out on the bank again, and when the water got smooth once more there were the berries the same berries, in the same spot in the water.
"'ho!
that is a funny thing.
i wonder where they hid that time.
i must have those berries!'
he said to himself.
"in he went again splashing the water like a grizzly bear.
he looked about him and the berries were gone again.
the water was rippling about him, but there were no berries at all.
he felt on the bottom of the river but they were not there.
"'well,' he said, 'i will climb out and watch to see where they come from; then i shall grab them when i hit the water next time.'
"he did that; but he couldn't tell where the berries came from.
as soon as the water settled and became smooth there were the berries the same as before.
ho!
old-man was wild; he was angry, i tell you.
and in he went flat on his stomach!
he made an awful splash and mussed the water greatly; but there were no berries.
"'i know what i shall do.
i will stay right here and wait for those berries; that is what i shall do'; and he did.
"he thought maybe somebody was looking at him and would laugh, so he glanced along the bank.
and there, right over the water, he saw the same bunch of berries on some tall bushes.
don't you see?
old-man saw the shadow of the berry-bunch; not the berries.
he saw the red shadow-berries on the water; that was all, and he was such a fool he didn't know they were not real.
"well, now he was angry in truth.
now he was ready for war.
he climbed out on the bank again and cut a club.
then he went at the buffalo-berry bushes and pounded them till all of the red berries fell upon the ground till the branches were bare of berries.
"'there,' he said, 'that's what you get for making a fool of the man who made you.
you shall be beaten every year as long as you live, to pay for what you have done; you and your children, too.'
"that is how it all came about, and that is why your mothers whip the buffalo-berry bushes and then pick the berries from the ground.
ho!"
old-man and the fox
i am sure that the plains indian never made nor used the stone arrow-head.
i have heard white men say that they had seen indians use them; but i have never found an indian that ever used them himself, or knew of their having been used by his people.
thirty years ago i knew indians, intimately, who were nearly a hundred years old, who told me that the stone arrow-head had never been in use in their day, nor had their fathers used them in their own time.
indians find these arrow-points just as they find the stone mauls and hammers, which i have seen them use thousands of times, but they do not make them any more than they make the stone mauls and hammers.
in the old days, both the head of the lance and the point of the arrow were of bone; even knives were of bone, but some other people surely made the arrow-points that are scattered throughout the united states and europe, i am told.
one night i asked war eagle if he had ever known the use, by indians, of the stone arrow-head, and he said he had not.
he told me that just across the canadian line there was a small lake, surrounded by trees, wherein there was an island covered with long reeds and grass.
all about the edge of this island were willows that grew nearly to the water, but intervening there was a narrow beach of stones.
here, he said, the stone arrow-heads had been made by little ghost-people who lived there, and he assured me that he had often seen these strange little beings when he was a small boy.
whenever his people were camped by this lake the old folks waked the children at daybreak to see the inhabitants of this strange island; and always when a noise was made, or the sun came up, the little people hid away.
often he had seen their heads above the grass and tiny willows, and his grandfather had told him that all the stone arrow-heads had been made on that island, and in war had been shot all over the world, by magic bows.
"no," he said, "i shall not lie to you, my friend.
i never saw those little people shoot an arrow, but there are so many arrows there, and so many pieces of broken ones, that it proves that my grandfather was right in what he told me.
besides, nobody could ever sleep on that island."
i have heard a legend wherein old-man, in the beginning, killed an animal for the people to eat, and then instructed them to use the ribs of the dead brute to make knives and arrow-points.
i have seen lance-heads, made from shank bones, that were so highly polished that they resembled pearl, and i have in my possession bone arrow-points such as were used long ago.
indians do not readily forget their tribal history, and i have photographed a war-bonnet, made of twisted buffalo hair, that was manufactured before the present owner's people had, or ever saw, the horse.
the owner of this bonnet has told me that the stone arrow-head was never used by indians, and that he knew that ghost-people made and used them when the world was young.
the bow of the plains indian was from thirty-six to forty-four inches long, and made from the wood of the choke-cherry tree.
sometimes bows were made from the service (or sarvice) berry bush, and this bush furnished the best material for arrows.
i have seen hickory bows among the plains indians, too, and these were longer and always straight, instead of being fashioned like cupid's weapon.
these hickory bows came from the east, of course, and through trading, reached the plains country.
i have also seen bows covered with the skins of the bull-snake, or wound with sinew, and bows have been made from the horns of the elk, in the early days, after a long course of preparation.
before lewis and clark crossed this vast country, the blackfeet had traded with the hudson bay company, and steel knives and lance-heads, bearing the names of english makers, still remain to testify to the relations existing, in those days, between those famous traders and men of the piegan, blood, and blackfoot tribes, although it took many years for traders on our own side of the line to gain their friendship.
indeed, trappers and traders blamed the hudson bay company for the feeling of hatred held by the three tribes of blackfeet for the "americans"; and there is no doubt that they were right to some extent, although the killing of the blackfoot warrior by captain lewis in 1805 may have been largely to blame for the trouble.
certain it is that for many years after the killing, the blackfeet kept traders and trappers on the dodge unless they were hudson bay men, and in 1810 drove the "american" trappers and traders from their fort at three-forks.
it was early when we gathered in war eagle's lodge, the children and i, but the story-telling began at once.
"now i shall tell you a story that will show you how little old-man cared for the welfare of others," said war eagle.
"it happened in the fall, this thing i shall tell you, and the day was warm and bright.
old-man and his brother the red fox were travelling together for company.
they were on a hillside when old-man said: 'i am hungry.
can you not kill a rabbit or something for us to eat?
the way is long, and i am getting old, you know.
you are swift of foot and cunning, and there are rabbits among these rocks.'
"'ever since morning came i have watched for food, but the moon must be wrong or something, for i see nothing that is good to eat,' replied the fox.
'besides that, my medicine is bad and my heart is weak.
you are great, and i have heard you can do most anything.
many snows have known your footprints, and the snows make us all wise.
i think you are the one to help, not i.'
"'listen, brother,' said old-man, 'i have neither bow nor lance nothing to use in hunting.
your weapons are ever with you your great nose and your sharp teeth.
just as we came up this hill i saw two great buffalo-bulls.
you were not looking, but i saw them, and if you will do as i want you to we shall have plenty of meat.
this is my scheme; i shall pull out all of your hair, leaving your body white and smooth, like that of the fish.
i shall leave only the white hair that grows on the tip of your tail, and that will make you funny to look at.
then you are to go before the bulls and commence to dance and act foolish.
of course the bulls will laugh at you, and as soon as they get to laughing you must act sillier than ever.
that will make them laugh so hard that they will fall down and laugh on the ground.
when they fall, i shall come upon them with my knife and kill them.
will you do as i suggest, brother, or will you starve?'
"'what!
pull out my hair?
i shall freeze with no hair on my body, old-man.
no i will not suffer you to pull my hair out when the winter is so near,' cried the fox.
"'ho!
it is vanity, my brother, not fear of freezing.
if you will do this we shall have meat for the winter, and a fire to keep us warm.
see, the wind is in the south and warm.
there is no danger of freezing.
come, let me do it,' replied old-man.
"'well if you are sure that i won't freeze, all right,' said the fox, 'but i'll bet i'll be sorry.'
"so old-man pulled out all of the fox's hair, leaving only the white tip that grew near the end of his tail.
poor little red fox shivered in the warm breeze that old-man told about, and kept telling old-man that the hair-pulling hurt badly.
finally old-man finished the job and laughed at the fox, saying: 'why, you make me laugh, too.
now go and dance before the bulls, and i shall watch and be ready for my part of the scheme.'
"around the hill went the poor red fox and found the bulls.
then he began to dance before them as old-man had told him.
the bulls took one look at the hairless fox and began to laugh.
my!
how they did laugh, and then the red fox stood upon his hind legs and danced some more; acted sillier, as old-man had told him.
louder and louder laughed the bulls, until they fell to the ground with their breath short from the laughing.
the red fox kept at his antics lest the bulls get up before old-man reached them; but soon he saw him coming, with a knife in his hand.
"running up to the bulls, old-man plunged his knife into their hearts, and they died.
into the ground ran their blood, and then old-man laughed and said: 'ho, i am the smart one.
i am the real hunter.
i depend on my head for meat ha!
ha!-ha!'
"then old-man began to dress and skin the bulls, and he worked hard and long.
in fact it was nearly night when he got the work all done.
"poor little red fox had stood there all the time, and old-man never noticed that the wind had changed and was coming from the north.
yes, poor red fox stood there and spoke no word; said nothing at all, even when old-man had finished.
"'hi, there, you!
what's the matter with you?
are you sorry that we have meat?
say, answer me!'
"but the red fox was frozen stiff was dead.
yes, the north wind had killed him while old-man worked at the skinning.
the fox had been caught by the north wind naked, and was dead.
old-man built a fire and warmed his hands; that was all he cared for the red fox, and that is all he cared for anybody.
he might have known that no person could stand the north wind without a robe; but as long as he was warm himself that was all he wanted.
"that is all of that story.
to-morrow night i shall tell you why the birch-tree wears those slashes in its bark.
that was some of old-man's work, too.
ho!"
why the birch-tree wears the slashes in its bark
the white man has never understood the indian, and the example set the western tribes of the plains by our white brethren has not been such as to inspire the red man with either confidence or respect for our laws or our religion.
the fighting trapper, the border bandit, the horse-thief and rustler, in whose stomach legitimately acquired beef would cause colic were the indians' first acquaintances who wore a white skin, and he did not know that they were not of the best type.
being outlaws in every sense, these men sought shelter from the indian in the wilderness; and he learned of their ways about his lodge-fire, or in battle, often provoked by the white ruffian in the hope of gain.
they lied to the indian these first white acquaintances, and in after-years, the great government of the united states lied and lied again, until he has come to believe that there is no truth in the white man's heart.
and i don't blame him.
the indian is a charitable man.
i don't believe he ever refused food and shelter or abused a visitor.
he has never been a bigot, and concedes to every other man the right to his own beliefs.
further than that, the indian believes that every man's religion and belief is right and proper for that man's self.
it was blowing a gale and snow was being driven in fine flakes across the plains when we went to the lodge for a story.
every minute the weather was growing colder, and an early fall storm of severity was upon us.
the wind seemed to add to the good nature of our host as he filled and passed me the pipe.
"this is the night i was to tell you about the birch-tree, and the wind will help to make you understand," said war eagle after we had finished smoking.
"of course," he continued, "this all happened in the summer-time when the weather was warm, very warm.
sometimes, you know, there are great winds in the summer, too.
"it was a hot day, and old-man was trying to sleep, but the heat made him sick.
he wandered to a hilltop for air; but there was no air.
then he went down to the river and found no relief.
he travelled to the timberlands, and there the heat was great, although he found plenty of shade.
the travelling made him warmer, of course, but he wouldn't stay still.
"by and by he called to the winds to blow, and they commenced.
first they didn't blow very hard, because they were afraid they might make old-man angry, but he kept crying:
"'blow harder harder harder!
blow worse than ever you blew before, and send this heat away from the world.'
"so, of course, the winds did blow harder harder than they ever had blown before.
"'bend and break, fir-tree!'
cried old-man, and the fir-tree did bend and break.
'bend and break, pine-tree!'
and the pine-tree did bend and break.
'bend and break, spruce-tree!'
and the spruce-tree did bend and break.
'bend and break, o birch-tree!'
and the birch-tree did bend, but it wouldn't break no, sir!
it wouldn't break!
"'ho!
birch-tree, won't you mind me?
bend and break!
i tell you,'
but all the birch-tree would do was to bend.
"it bent to the ground; it bent double to please old-man, but it would not break.
"'blow harder, wind!'
cried old-man, 'blow harder and break the birch-tree.'
the wind tried to blow harder, but it couldn't, and that made the thing worse, because old-man was so angry he went crazy.
'break!
i tell you break!'
screamed old-man to the birch-tree.
"'i won't break,' replied the birch; 'i shall never break for any wind.
i will bend, but i shall never, never break.'
"'you won't, hey?'
cried old-man, and he rushed at the birch-tree with his hunting-knife.
he grabbed the top of the birch because it was touching the ground, and began slashing the bark of the birch-tree with the knife.
all up and down the trunk of the tree old-man slashed, until the birch was covered with the knife slashes.
"'there!
that is for not minding me.
that will do you good!
as long as time lasts you shall always look like that, birch-tree; always be marked as one who will not mind its maker.
yes, and all the birch-trees in the world shall have the same marks forever.'
they do, too.
you have seen them and have wondered why the birch-tree is so queerly marked.
now you know.
"that is all ho!"
mistakes of old-man
all night the storm raged, and in the morning the plains were white with snow.
the sun came and the light was blinding, but the hunters were abroad early, as usual.
that day the children came to my camp, and i told them several stories that appeal to white children.
they were deeply interested, and asked many questions.
not until the hunters returned did my visitors leave.
that night war eagle told us of the mistakes of old-man.
he said:
"old-man made a great many mistakes in making things in the world, but he worked until he had everything good.
i told you at the beginning that old-man made mistakes, but i didn't tell you what they were, so now i shall tell you.
"one of the things he did that was wrong, was to make the big-horn to live on the plains.
yes, he made him on the plains and turned him loose, to make his living there.
of course the big-horn couldn't run on the plains, and old-man wondered what was wrong.
finally, he said:
'come here, big-horn!'
and the big-horn came to him.
old-man stuck his arm through the circle his horns made, and dragged the big-horn far up into the mountains.
there he set him free again, and sat down to watch him.
ho!
it made old-man dizzy to watch the big-horn run about on the ragged cliffs.
he saw at once that this was the country the big-horn liked, and he left him there.
yes, he left him there forever, and there he stays, seldom coming down to the lower country.
"while old-man was waiting to see what the big-horn would do in the high mountains, he made an antelope and set him free with the big-horn.
ho!
but the antelope stumbled and fell down among the rocks.
he couldn't man called to the antelope to come back to him, and the antelope did come to him.
then he called to the big-horn, and said:
"'you are all right, i guess, but this one isn't, and i'll have to take him somewhere else.'
"he dragged the antelope down to the prairie country, and set him free there.
then he watched him a minute; that was as long as the antelope was in sight, for he was afraid old-man might take him back to the mountains.
"he said: 'i guess that fellow was made for the plains, all right, so i'll leave him there'; and he did.
that is why the antelope always stays on the plains, even to-day.
he likes it better.
"that wasn't a very long story; sometime when you get older i will tell you some different stories, but that will be all for this time, i guess.
ho!"
how the man found his mate
each tribe has its own stories.
most of them deal with the same subjects, differing only in immaterial particulars.
instead of squirrels in the timber, the blackfeet are sure they were prairie-dogs that old-man roasted that time when he made the mountain-lion long and lean.
the chippewas and crees insist that they were squirrels that were cooked and eaten, but one tribe is essentially a forest-people and the other lives on the plains hence the difference.
some tribes will not wear the feathers of the owl, nor will they have anything to do with that bird, while others use his feathers freely.
the forest indian wears the soft-soled moccasin, while his brother of the plains covers the bottoms of his footwear with rawhide, because of the cactus and prickly-pear, most likely.
the door of the lodge of the forest indian reaches to the ground, but the plains indian makes his lodge skin to reach all about the circle at the bottom, because of the wind.
one night in war eagle's lodge, other-person asked: "why don't the bear have a tail, grandfather?"
war eagle laughed and said: "our people do not know why, but we believe he was made that way at the beginning, although i have heard men of other tribes say that the bear lost his tail while fishing.
"i don't know how true it is, but i have been told that a long time ago the bear was fishing in the winter, and the fox asked him if he had any luck.
"'no,' replied the bear, 'i can't catch a fish.'
"'well,' said the fox, 'if you will stick your long tail down through this hole in the ice, and sit very still, i am sure you will catch a fish.'
"so the bear stuck his tail through the hole in the ice, and the fox told him to sit still, till he called him; then the fox went off, pretending to hunt along the bank.
it was mighty cold weather, and the water froze all about the bear's tail, yet he sat still, waiting for the fox to call him.
yes, the bear sat so still and so long that his tail was frozen in the ice, but he didn't know it.
when the fox thought it was time, he called:
"'hey, bear, come here quick quick!
i have a rabbit in this hole, and i want you to help me dig him out.'
ho!
the bear tried to get up, but he couldn't.
"'hey, bear, come here there are two rabbits in this hole,' called the fox.
"the bear pulled so hard to get away from the ice, that he broke his tail off short to his body.
then the fox ran away laughing at the bear.
"i hardly believe that story, but once i heard an old man who visited my father from the country far east of here, tell it.
i remembered it.
but i can't say that i know it is true, as i can the others.
"when i told you the story of how old-man made the world over, after the water had made its war upon it, i told you how the first man and woman were made.
there is another story of how the first man found his wife, and i will tell you that.
"after old-man had made a man to look like himself, he left him to live with the wolves, and went away.
the man had a hard time of it, with no clothes to keep him warm, and no wife to help him, so he went out looking for old-man.
"it took the man a long time to find old-man's lodge, but as soon as he got there he went right in and said:
"'old-man, you have made me and left me to live with the wolf-people.
i don't like them at all.
they give me scraps of meat to eat and won't build a fire.
they have wives, but i don't want a wolf-woman.
i think you should take better care of me.'
"'well,' replied old-man, 'i was just waiting for you to come to see me.
i have things fixed for you.
you go down this river until you come to a steep hillside.
there you will see a lodge.
then i will leave you to do the rest.
go!'
"the man started and travelled all that day.
when night came he camped and ate some berries that grew near the river.
the next morning he started down the river again, looking for the steep hillside and the lodge.
just before sundown, the man saw a fine lodge near a steep hillside, and he knew that was the lodge he was looking for; so he crossed the river and went into the lodge.
"sitting by the fire inside, was a woman.
she was dressed in buckskin clothes, and was cooking some meat that smelled good to the man, but when she saw him without any clothes, she pushed him out of the lodge, and dropped the door.
"things didn't look very good to that man, i tell you, but to get even with the woman, he went up on the steep hillside and commenced to roll big rocks down upon her lodge.
he kept this up until one of the largest rocks knocked down the lodge, and the woman ran out, crying.
"when the man heard the woman crying, it made him sorry and he ran down the hill to her.
she sat down on the ground, and the man ran to where she was and said:
"'i am sorry i made you cry, woman.
i will help you fix your lodge.
i will stay with you, if you will only let me.'
"that pleased the woman, and she showed the man how to fix up the lodge and gather some wood for the fire.
then she let him come inside and eat.
finally, she made him some clothes, and they got along very well, after that.
"that is how the man found his wife ho!"
dreams
as soon as manhood is attained, the young indian must secure his "charm," or "medicine."
after a sweat-bath, he retires to some lonely spot, and there, for four days and nights, if necessary, he remains in solitude.
during this time he eats nothing; drinks nothing; but spends his time invoking the great mystery for the boon of a long life.
in this state of mind, he at last sleeps, perhaps dreams.
if a dream does not come to him, he abandons the task for a time, and later on will take another sweat-bath and try again.
sometimes dangerous cliffs, or other equally uncomfortable places, are selected for dreaming, because the surrounding terrors impress themselves upon the mind, and even in slumber add to the vividness of dreams.
at last the dream comes, and in it some bird or animal appears as a helper to the dreamer, in trouble.
then he seeks that bird or animal; kills a specimen; and if a bird, he stuffs its skin with moss and forever keeps it near him.
if an animal, instead of a bird, appears in the dream, the indian takes his hide, claws, or teeth; and throughout his life never leaves it behind him, unless in another dream a greater charm is offered.
if this happens, he discards the old "medicine" for the new; but such cases are rare.
sometimes the indian will deck his "medicine-bundle" with fanciful trinkets and quill-work at other times the "bundle" is kept forever out of the sight of all uninterested persons, and is altogether unadorned.
but "medicine" is necessary; without it, the indian is afraid of his shadow.
an old chief, who had been in many battles, once told me his great dream, withholding the name of the animal or bird that appeared therein and became his "medicine."
he said that when he was a boy of twelve years, his father, who was chief of his tribe, told him that it was time that he tried to dream.
after his sweat-bath, the boy followed his father without speaking, because the postulant must not converse or associate with other humans between the taking of the bath and the finished attempt to dream.
on and on into the dark forest the father led, followed by the naked boy, till at last the father stopped on a high hill, at the foot of a giant pine-tree.
by signs the father told the boy to climb the tree and to get into an eagle's nest that was on the topmost boughs.
then the old man went away, in order that the boy might reach the nest without coming too close to his human conductor.
obediently the boy climbed the tree and sat upon the eagle's nest on the top.
"i could see very far from that nest," he told me.
"the day was warm and i hoped to dream that night, but the wind rocked the tree top, and the darkness made me so much afraid that i did not sleep.
"on the fourth night there came a terrible thunder-storm, with lightning and much wind.
the great pine groaned and shook until i was sure it must fall.
all about it, equally strong trees went down with loud crashings, and in the dark there were many awful sounds sounds that i sometimes hear yet.
rain came, and i grew cold and more afraid.
i had eaten nothing, of course, and i was weak so weak and tired, that at last i slept, in the nest.
i dreamed; yes, it was a wonderful dream that came to me, and it has most all come to pass.
part is yet to come.
but come it surely will.
"first i saw my own people in three wars.
then i saw the buffalo disappear in a hole in the ground, followed by many of my people.
then i saw the whole world at war, and many flags of white men were in this land of ours.
it was a terrible war, and the fighting and the blood made me sick in my dream.
then, last of all, i saw a 'person'
coming coming across what seemed the plains.
there were deep shadows all about him as he approached.
this 'person' kept beckoning me to come to him, and at last i did go to him.
"'do you know who i am,' he asked me.
"'no, "person," i do not know you.
who are you, and where is your country?'
"'if you will listen to me, boy, you shall be a great chief and your people shall love you.
if you do not listen, then i shall turn against you.
my name is "reason."'
"as the 'person' spoke this last, he struck the ground with a stick he carried, and the blow set the grass afire.
i have always tried to know that 'person.'
i think i know him wherever he may be, and in any camp.
he has helped me all my life, and i shall never turn against him never."
that was the old chief's dream and now a word about the sweat-bath.
a small lodge is made of willows, by bending them and sticking the ends in the ground.
a completed sweat-lodge is shaped like an inverted bowl, and in the centre is a small hole in the ground.
the lodge is covered with robes, bark, and dirt, or anything that will make it reasonably tight.
then a fire is built outside and near the sweat-lodge in which stones are heated.
when the stones are ready, the bather crawls inside the sweat-lodge, and an assistant rolls the hot stones from the fire, and into the lodge.
they are then rolled into the hole in the lodge and sprinkled with water.
one cannot imagine a hotter vapor bath than this system produces, and when the bather has satisfied himself inside, he darts from the sweat-lodge into the river, winter or summer.
this treatment killed thousands of indians when the smallpox was brought to them from saint louis, in the early days.
that night in the lodge war eagle told a queer yarn.
i shall modify it somewhat, but in our own sacred history there is a similar tale, well known to all.
he said:
"once, a long time ago, two 'thunders' were travelling in the air.
they came over a village of our people, and there stopped to look about.
"in this village there was one fine, painted lodge, and in it there was an old man, an aged woman, and a beautiful young woman with wonderful hair.
of course the 'thunders' could look through the lodge skin and see all that was inside.
one of them said to the other: 'let us marry that young woman, and never tell her about it.'
"'all right,' replied the other 'thunder.'
'i am willing, for she is the finest young woman in all the village.
she is good in her heart, and she is honest.'
"so they married her, without telling her about it, and she became the mother of twin boys.
when these boys were born, they sat up and told their mother and the other people that they were not people, but were 'thunders,' and that they would grow up quickly.
"'when we shall have been on earth a while, we shall marry, and stay until we each have four sons of our own, then we shall go away and again become "thunders,"' they said.
"it all came to pass, just as they said it would.
when they had married good women and each had four sons, they told the people one day that it was time for them to go away forever.
"there was much sorrow among the people, for the twins were good men and taught many good things which we have never forgotten, but everybody knew it had to be as they said.
while they lived with us, these twins could heal the sick and tell just what was going to happen on earth.
"one day at noon the twins dressed themselves in their finest clothes and went out to a park in the forest.
all the people followed them and saw them lie down on the ground in the park.
the people stayed in the timber that grew about the edge of the park, and watched them until clouds and mists gathered about and hid them from view.
"it thundered loudly and the winds blew; trees fell down; and when the mists and clouds cleared away, they were gone gone forever.
but the people have never forgotten them, and my grandfather, who is in the ground near rocker, was a descendant from one of the sons of the 'thunders.'
ho!"
folk-tales of the khasis
what makes the eclipse
very early in the history of the world a beautiful female child, whom the parents called ka nam, was born to a humble family who lived in a village on the borders of one of the great khasi forests.
she was such a beautiful child that her mother constantly expressed her fears lest some stranger passing that way might kidnap her or cast an "evil eye"
upon her, so she desired to bring her up in as much seclusion as their poor circumstances would permit.
to this the father would not agree; he told his wife not to harbour foolish notions, but to bring up the child naturally like other people's children, and teach her to work and to make herself useful.
so ka nam was brought up like other children, and taught to work and to make herself useful.
one day, as she was taking her pitcher to the well, a big tiger came out of the forest and carried her to his lair.
she was terrified almost to death, for she knew that the tigers were the most cruel of all beasts.
the name of this tiger was u khla, and his purpose in carrying off the maiden was to eat her, but when he saw how young and small she was, and that she would not suffice for one full meal for him, he decided to keep her in his lair until she grew bigger.
he took great care of her and brought home to her many delicacies which her parents had never been able to afford, and as she never suspected the cruel designs of the tiger, she soon grew to feel quite at home and contented in the wild beast's den, and she grew up to be a maiden of unparalleled loveliness.
the tiger was only waiting his opportunity, and when he saw that she had grown up he determined to kill her, for he was longing to eat the beautiful damsel whom he had fed with such care.
one day, as he busied himself about his lair, he began to mutter to himself:
"now the time has come when i can repay myself for all my trouble in feeding this human child; to-morrow i will invite all my fellow-tigers here and we will feast upon the maiden."
it happened that a little mouse was foraging near the den at that time and she overheard the tiger muttering to himself.
she was very sorry for the maiden, for she knew that she was alone and friendless and entirely at the mercy of the tiger; so the little mouse went and told the maiden that the tigers were going to kill her and eat her on the following day.
ka nam was in great distress and wept very bitterly.
she begged of the mouse to help her to escape, and the mouse, having a tender heart, gave her what aid was in her power.
in the first place she told the maiden to go out of the den and to seek the cave of the magician, u hynroh, the giant toad, to whom the realm was under tribute.
he was a peevish and exacting monster from whom every one recoiled, and ka nam would have been terrified to approach him under ordinary conditions, but the peril which faced her gave her courage, and under the guidance of the mouse she went to the toad's cave.
when he saw her and beheld how fair she was, and learned how she had been the captive of his old rival the tiger, he readily consented to give her his protection; so he clothed her in a toadskin, warning her not to divest herself of it in the presence of others on pain of death.
this he did in order to keep the maiden in his own custody and to make her his slave.
when the mouse saw that her beautiful friend had been transformed into the likeness of a hideous toad she was very sorrowful, and regretted having sent her to seek the protection of u hynroh, for she knew that as long as she remained in the jungle ka nam would be henceforth forced to live with the toads and to be their slave.
so she led her away secretly and brought her to the magic tree which was in that jungle, and told the maiden to climb into the tree that she might be transported to the sky, where she would be safe from harm for ever.
so the maid climbed into the magic tree and spoke the magic words taught her by the mouse: "grow tall, dear tree, the sky is near, expand and grow."
upon which the tree began to expand upwards till its branches touched the sky, and then the maiden alighted in the blue realm and the tree immediately dwindled to its former size.
by and by the tiger and his friends arrived at the den, ravenous for their feast, and when he found that his prey had disappeared his disappointment and anger knew no bounds and were terrible to witness.
he uttered loud threats for vengeance on whoever had connived at the escape of his captive, and his roars were so loud that the animals in the jungle trembled with fear.
his fellow-tigers also became enraged when they understood that they had been deprived of their feast, and they turned on u khla and in their fury tore him to death.
meanwhile ka nam wandered homeless in the blue realm, clothed in the toadskin.
every one there lived in palaces and splendour, and they refused to admit the loathsome, venomous-looking toad within their portals, while she, mindful of the warning of u hynroh, the magician, feared to uncover herself.
at last she appeared before the palace of ka sngi, the sun, who, ever gracious and tender, took pity on her and permitted her to live in a small outhouse near the palace.
one day, thinking herself to be unobserved, the maid put aside her covering of toadskin and sat to rest awhile in her small room, but before going abroad she carefully wrapped herself in the skin as before.
she was accidentally seen by the son of ka sngi, who was a very noble youth.
he was astonished beyond words to find a maiden of such rare beauty hiding herself beneath a hideous toadskin and living in his mother's outhouse, and he marvelled what evil spell had caused her to assume such a loathsome covering.
her beauty enthralled him and he fell deeply in love with her.
he hastened to make his strange discovery known to his mother, and entreated her to lodge the maiden without delay in the palace and to let her become his wife.
ka sngi, having the experience and foresight of age, determined to wait before acceding to the request of her young and impetuous son until she herself had ascertained whether a maid such as her son described really existed beneath the toadskin, or he had been deluded by some evil enchantment into imagining that he had seen a maiden in the outhouse.
so ka sngi set herself to watch the movements of the toad in the outhouse, and one day, to her surprise and satisfaction, she beheld the maiden uncovered, and was astonished at her marvellous beauty and pleasing appearance.
but she did not want her son to rush into an alliance with an enchanted maiden, so she gave him a command that he should not go near or speak to the maid until the toadskin had been destroyed and the evil spell upon her broken.
once again ka sngi set herself to watch the movements of the toad, and one day her vigilance was rewarded by discovering ka nam asleep with the toadskin cast aside.
ka sngi crept stealthily and seized the toadskin and burned it to ashes.
henceforth the maiden appeared in her own natural form, and lived very happily as the wife of ka sngi's son, released for ever from the spell of the giant toad.
there was an old feud between u hynroh and ka sngi because she refused to pay him tribute, and when he learned that she had wilfully destroyed the magic skin in which he had wrapped the maiden, his anger was kindled against ka sngi, and he climbed up to the blue realm to devour her.
she bravely withstood him, and a fierce struggle ensued which was witnessed by the whole universe.
when mankind saw the conflict they became silent, subdued with apprehension lest the cruel monster should conquer their benefactress.
they uttered loud cries and began to beat mournfully on their drums till the world was full of sound and clamour.
like all bullies, u hynroh was a real coward at heart, and when he heard the noise of drums and shouting on the earth, his heart melted within him with fear, for he thought it was the tramp of an advancing army coming to give him battle.
he quickly released his hold upon ka sngi and retreated with all speed from the blue realm.
thus mankind were the unconscious deliverers of their noble benefactress from the hand of her cruel oppressor.
u hynroh continues to make periodical attacks on the sun to this day, and in many countries people call the attacks "eclipses," but the ancient khasis, who saw the great conflict, knew it to be the giant toad, the great cannibal, trying to devour ka sngi.
he endeavours to launch his attacks when the death of some great personage in the world is impending, hoping to catch mankind too preoccupied to come to the rescue.
throughout the whole of khasi-land to this day it is the custom to beat drums and to raise a loud din whenever there is an eclipse.
ii
the legend of mount sophet bneng
sophet bneng is a bare dome-like hill, about thirteen miles to the north of shillong, and not far from the shillong-gauhati highroad to the east, from which it is plainly visible.
its name signifies the centre of heaven.
from the time of the creation of the world a tall tree, reaching to the sky, grew on the top of this hill, and was used by the heavenly beings as a ladder to ascend and descend between heaven and earth.
at that time the earth was uninhabited, but all manner of trees and flowers grew in abundance, so that it was a very beautiful and desirable place, and they of heaven frequently came down to roam and to take their pleasure upon it.
when they found that the land in the neighbourhood of sophet bneng was fertile and goodly, they began to cultivate it for profit, but they never stayed overnight on the earth; they ascended to heaven, according to the decree.
altogether sixteen families followed the pastime of cultivating the land upon the earth.
among the heavenly beings there was one who greatly coveted power, and was unwilling to remain the subject of his creator, and aspired to rule over his brethren.
he was constantly seeking for opportunities whereby to realise his ambitions.
one day it happened that seven families only of the cultivators chose to descend to the earth, the other nine remaining in heaven that day.
when they were busy at work in their fields, the ambitious one covertly left his brethren, and, taking his axe secretly, he cut down the tree of communication, so that the seven families could not return to their heavenly home.
thus it was that mankind came to live on the earth, and it is from these seven families called by the khasis "ki hinniew skum" (the seven nests, or the seven roots) who descended from heaven on that fatal day that all the nations of the earth have sprung.
iii
how the peacock got his beautiful feathers
when the world was young and when all the animals spoke the language of mankind, the peacock, u klew, was but an ordinary grey-feathered bird without any pretensions to beauty.
but, even in those days, he was much given to pride and vanity, and strutted about with all the majesty of royalty, just because his tuft was more erect than the tuft of other birds and because his tail was longer and was carried with more grace than the tails of any of his companions.
he was a very unaccommodating neighbour.
his tail was so big and unwieldy that he could not enter the houses of the more lowly birds, so he always attended the courts of the great, and was entertained by one or other of the wealthy birds at times of festivals in the jungle.
this increased his high opinion of himself and added to his self-importance.
he became so haughty and overbearing that he was cordially disliked by his neighbours, who endeavoured to repay him by playing many a jest at his expense.
they used to flatter him, pretending that they held him in very high esteem, simply for the amusement of seeing him swelling his chest and hearing him boast.
one day they pretended that a great durbar of the birds had been held to select an ambassador to carry the greetings of the jungle birds to the beautiful maiden ka sngi, who ruled in the blue realm and poured her bright light so generously on their world, and that u klew had been chosen for this great honour.
the peacock was very elated and became more swaggering than ever, and talked of his coming visit with great boastings, saying that not only was he going as the ambassador from the birds, but he was going in his own interests as well, and that he would woo and win the royal maiden for his wife and live with her in the blue realm.
the birds enjoyed much secret fun at his expense, none of them dreaming that he would be foolish enough to make the attempt to fly so far, for he was such a heavy-bodied bird and had never flown higher than a tree-top.
but much to the surprise of every one, the peacock expressed his intention of starting to the blue realm and bade his friends good-bye, they laughing among themselves, thinking how ridiculous he was making himself, and how angry he would be when he found how he had been duped.
contrary to their expectations, however, u klew continued his flight upwards till they lost sight of him, and they marvelled and became afraid, not knowing to what danger their jest might drive him.
strong on the wing, u klew soared higher and higher, never halting till he reached the sky and alighted at the palace of ka sngi, the most beautiful of all maidens and the most good.
now ka sngi was destined to live alone in her grand palace, and her heart often yearned for companionship.
when she saw that a stranger had alighted at her gates she rejoiced greatly, and hastened to receive him with courtesy and welcome.
when she learned the errand upon which he had come, she was still happier, for she thought, "i shall never pine for companionship again, for this noble bird will always live with me"; and she smiled upon the world and was glad.
when u klew left the earth and entered the realm of light and sunshine, he did not cast from him his selfish and conceited nature, but rather his selfishness and conceit grew more pronounced as his comforts and luxuries increased.
seeing the eager welcome extended to him by the beautiful maiden, he became more uplifted and exacting than ever and demanded all sorts of services at her hands; he grew surly and cross unless she was always in attendance upon him.
ka sngi, on the other hand, was noble and generous and delighted to render kindnesses to others.
she loved to shine upon the world and to see it responding to her warmth and her smiles.
to her mate, u klew, she gave unstinted attention and waited upon him with unparalleled love and devotion, which he received with cold indifference, considering that all this attention was due to his own personal greatness, rather than to the gracious and unselfish devotion of his consort.
in former times ka sngi had found one of the chief outlets for her munificence in shedding her warm rays upon the earth; but after the coming of u klew her time became so absorbed by him that she was no longer able to leave her palace, so the earth became cold and dreary, and the birds in the jungle became cheerless, their feathers drooped, and their songs ceased.
u slap, the rain, came and pelted their cosy nests without mercy, causing their young ones to die; u lyoh, the mist, brought his dark clouds and hung them over the rice fields so that no grain ripened; and ka eriong, the storm, shook the trees, destroying all the fruit, so that the birds wandered about homeless and without food.
in their great misery they sought counsel of mankind, whom they knew to be wiser than any of the animals.
by means of divinations mankind ascertained that all these misfortunes were due to the presence of u klew in the blue realm, for his selfish disposition prevented ka sngi from bestowing her light and her smiles upon the world as in former times; and there was no hope for prosperity until u klew could be lured back to jungle-land.
in those days there lived in the jungle a cunning woman whose name was ka sabuit.
acting on the advice of mankind, the birds invoked her aid to encompass the return of the peacock from the blue realm.
at that time ka sabuit was very destitute, owing to the great famine; she had nothing to eat except some wild roots and no seed to sow in her garden except one gourdful of mustard seeds the cheapest and most common of all seeds and even this she was afraid to sow lest the hungry birds should come and devour it and leave her without a grain.
when the birds came to seek counsel of her she was very pleased, hoping that she could by some design force them to promise not to rob her garden.
after they had explained to her their trouble, she undertook to bring u klew back to the jungle within thirteen moons on two conditions: one, that the birds should refrain from picking the seeds from her garden; the other, that they should torment the animals if they came to eat her crops or to trample on her land.
these appeared such easy terms that the birds readily agreed to them.
the garden of the cunning woman was in an open part of the jungle and could be seen from many of the hill-tops around, and in past days the sun used to shine upon it from morning till night.
thither ka sabuit wended her way after the interview with the birds, and she began to dig the ground with great care and patience, bestowing much more time upon it than she had ever been known to do.
her neighbours laughed and playfully asked her if she expected a crop of precious stones to grow from her mustard seed that year that she spent so much labour upon the garden, but the elderly dame took no heed.
she worked on patiently and kept her own counsel while the birds waited and watched.
she shaped her mustard bed like unto the form of a woman; this provoked the mirth of her neighbours still more and incited many questions from them, but ka sabuit took no heed.
she worked patiently on and kept her own counsel while the birds waited and watched.
by and by the seeds sprouted and the plot of land shaped like a woman became covered with glistening green leaves, while the birds continued to watch and to keep the animals at bay, and the cunning woman watered and tended her garden, keeping her own counsel.
in time small yellow flowers appeared on all the mustard plants, so that the plot of land shaped like a woman looked in the distance like a beautiful maiden wearing a mantle of gold that dazzled the eyes.
when the neighbours saw it they wondered at the beauty of it and admired the skill of the cunning woman; but no one could understand or guess at her reason for the strange freak and ka sabuit threw no light on the matter.
she still patiently worked on and kept her own counsel.
up in the blue realm u klew continued his despotic and arrogant sway, while his gentle and noble wife spared no pains to gratify his every wish.
like all pampered people who are given all their desires, the peacock became fretful and more and more difficult to please, tiring of every diversion, and ever seeking some new source of indulgence, till at last nothing seemed to satisfy him; even the splendours and magnificence of the palace of ka sngi began to pall.
now and then memories of his old home and old associates came to disturb his mind, and he often wondered to himself what had been the fate of his old playmates in jungle-land.
one day he wandered forth from the precincts of the palace to view his old haunts, and as he recognised one familiar landmark after another his eye was suddenly arrested by the sight of (as it seemed to him) a lovely maiden dressed all in gold lying asleep in a garden in the middle of the forest where he himself had once lived.
at sight of her his heart melted like water within him for the love of her.
he forgot the allegiance due to his beautiful and high-born wife, ka sngi; he could only think of the maiden dressed all in gold, lying asleep in a jungle garden, guarded by all the birds.
after this u klew was reluctant to remain in the blue realm.
his whole being yearned for the maiden he had seen lying asleep on the earth, and one day, to his wife's sorrow, he communicated his determination to return to his native land to seek the object of his new love.
ka sngi became a sorrowful wife, for there is no pang so piercing to the heart of a constant woman as the pang inflicted by being forsaken by her husband.
with all manner of inducements and persuasions and charms she tried to prevail upon him to keep faithful to his marriage vows, but he was heartless and obdurate; and, unmindful of all ties, he took his departure.
as he went away ka sngi followed him, weeping, and as she wept her tears bedewed his feathers, transforming them into all the colours of the rainbow.
some large drops falling on his long tail as he flew away were turned into brilliant-hued spots, which are called "ummat ka sngi" (the sun's tears) by the khasis to this day.
ka sngi told him that they were given for a sign that wherever he might be and on whomsoever his affections might be bestowed, he would never be able to forget her, ka sngi, the most beautiful and the most devoted of wives.
thus u klew, the peacock, came back to the jungle.
the birds, when they saw his beautiful feathers, greeted him with wonder and admiration.
when he informed them that he had come in quest of a lovely maiden dressed all in gold, they began to laugh, and it now became clear to them what had been the object of the cunning woman when she shaped her mustard bed like unto the shape of a woman.
they invited u klew to come and be introduced to the object of his love, and they led him forth with great ceremony to the garden of ka sabuit, where he beheld, not a beautiful maiden as he had imagined, but a bed of common mustard cunningly shaped.
his shame and humiliation were pitiful to behold; he tried to fly back to the blue realm, but he was no longer able to take a long flight; so, uttering the most sad and plaintive cries, he had to resign himself to the life of the jungle for ever.
every morning, it is said, the peacock can be seen stretching forth his neck towards the sky and flapping his wings to greet the coming of ka sngi; and the only happiness left to him is to spread his lovely feathers to catch the beams which she once more sheds upon the earth.
iv
the goddess who came to live with mankind
(a legend of the shillong peak)
shillong peak is the highest mountain in the khasi hills, and although it bears such a prosaic name in our days, the mountain was a place of renown in the days of the ancient khasis, full of romance and mystery, sacred to the spirits and to the gods.
in those days the mountain itself, and the whole country to the north of it, was one vast forest, where dwelt demons and dragons, who cast evil spells and caused dire sickness to fall upon any unfortunate person who happened to spend a night in that wild forest.
in the mountain there lived a god.
at first the ancients had no clear revelation about this deity; they were vaguely aware of his existence, but there was no decree that sacrifices should be offered to him.
after a time there arose among the khasis a very wise man of the name of u shillong who was endowed with great insight to understand the mysteries, and he discovered that the god of the mountain was great and powerful, and sacrifice and reverence should be offered to him, and he taught his neighbours how to perform the rites acceptably.
the name of the deity was not revealed, so the people began to call him "u 'lei shillong" (the god of u shillong) after the name of the man who first paid him homage.
then gradually he came to be called "the god shillong," and in time the mountain itself was called the mountain of shillong, and from this is derived the name of the present town of shillong.
possibly the god shillong was, and remains, one of the best-known and most generally reverenced of all the khasi gods, for even on the far hill-tops of jaintia altars have been raised to his service and honour.
although sacrifices are being offered to him at distant shrines, the abode of the god is in the shillong mountain, more especially in the sacred grove on the summit of the peak itself, which is such a familiar landmark in the country.
judging from tradition, this deity was regarded as a benign and benevolent being, forbearing in his attitude towards mankind, who were privileged to hunt in his forests unhindered by dangers and sicknesses, and the dances of mankind were acceptable in his sight.
he frequently assisted them in their misfortunes and helped them to overcome the oppression of demons.
it was he who endowed u suidnoh with wisdom to fight and to conquer u thlen, the great snake-god and vampire from cherrapoonjee, and it was by his intervention that ka thei and her sister were delivered from the grasp of the merciless demon, u ksuid tynjang.
tradition also points out that this famous deity had a wife and family, and three at least of his daughters are renowned in khasi folk-lore.
one of them transformed herself into the likeness of a khasi maiden and came to live with mankind, where she became the ancestress of a race of chiefs.
two other daughters, out of playfulness, transformed themselves into two rivers, and are with us in that form to this day.
this is the story of the goddess who came to live with mankind:
many hundreds of years ago, near the place now known as pomlakrai, there was a cave called the cave of marai, near to which stood a high perpendicular rock around which the youthful cow-herds of the time used to play.
they gathered there from different directions, and passed the time merrily, practising archery and playing on their flutes, while keeping an eye on their herds.
the rock was too high for them to attempt to climb it, and it was always spoken of as "the rock on which the foot of man never trod."
on a certain day, when the lads came as usual to the familiar rendezvous, they were surprised to see, sitting on the top of the rock, a fair young girl watching them silently and wistfully.
the children, being superstitious, took fright at sight of her and ran in terror to mylliem, their village, leaving the cattle to shift for themselves.
when they told their news, the whole village was roused and men quickly gathered to the public meeting-place to hold a consultation.
they decided to go and see for themselves if the apparition seen by the children was a real live child, or if they had been deluded by some spell or enchantment.
under the guidance of the lads, they hurried to the place on the hill where the rock stood, and there, as the boys had stated, sat a fair and beautiful child.
the clothes worn by the little girl were far richer than any worn by their own women-folk, so they judged that she belonged to some rich family, and she was altogether so lovely that the men gazed open-mouthed at her, dazzled by her beauty.
their sense of chivalry soon asserted itself, however, and they began to devise plans to rescue the maiden from her perilous position.
to climb up the face of that steep rock was an impossible feat; so they called to her, but she would not answer; they made signs for her to descend, but she did not stir, and the men felt baffled and perplexed.
chief among the rescuers was a man called u mylliem ngap, who was remarkable for his sagacity and courage.
when he saw that the child refused to be coaxed, he attributed it to her fear to venture unaided down that steep and slippery rock.
so he sent some of his comrades to the jungle to cut down some bamboos, which he joined together and made into a pole long enough to reach the top of the rock.
then he beckoned to the child to take hold of it, but she sat on unmoved.
by this time the day was beginning to wane, yet the child did not stir and the rescuers were growing desperate.
to leave her to her fate on that impregnable rock would be little less than cold-blooded murder, for nothing but death awaited her.
they began to lament loudly, as people lament when mourning for their dead, but the child sat on in the same indifferent attitude.
just then u mylliem ngap noticed a tuft of wild flowers growing near the cave, and he quickly gathered a bunch and fastened it to the end of the long pole and held it up to the maiden's view.
the moment she saw the flowers, she gave a cry of delight and held out her hand to take them.
u mylliem ngap promptly lowered the pole and the child moved towards it, but before she could grasp the flowers the pole was again lowered; so, little by little, step by step, as the men watched with bated breath, the little maid reached the ground in safety.
u mylliem ngap, with general consent, constituted himself her champion.
he called her "pah syntiew," which means "lured by flowers,"
for her name and her origin were unknown.
he took her to his own home and adopted her as his own daughter, cherishing her with fondness and affection, which the child fully requited.
ka pah syntiew, as she grew up, fulfilled all the promises of her childhood and developed into a woman of incomparable beauty and her fame went abroad throughout the country.
she was also gifted and wise beyond all the maidens of the neighbourhood, and was the chosen leader at all the khasi dances and festivals.
she taught the khasi girls to dance and to sing, and it was she who instituted the virgins' dance, which remains popular to this day among the khasis.
her foster-father, seeing she possessed so much discretion and wisdom, used to consult her in all his perplexities and seek her advice in all matters pertaining to the ruling of the village.
she displayed such tact and judgement that people from other villages brought their disputes to her to be settled, and she was acknowledged to be wiser and more just than any ruler in the country, and they began to call her "ka siem"
(the chiefess, or the queen).
when she came of age, u mylliem ngap gave her in marriage to a man of prowess and worth, who is mentioned in khasi lore as "u kongor nongjri."
she became the mother of many sons and daughters, who were all noble and comely.
after her children had grown up, ka pah syntiew called them all to her one day and revealed to them the secret of her birth.
she was the daughter of u 'lei shillong, the mountain god, permitted by her father to dwell for a period among mankind, and at last the time was at hand for her to return to her native element.
not long after this ka pah syntiew walked away in the direction of the cave of marai, and no one dared to accompany her, for it was realised that her hour of departure had come.
from that day she disappeared from mortal ken.
her descendants are known to this day as two of the leading families of khasi chiefs, or siems, and in common parlance these two families, those of khairim and mylliem, are still called "the siems (the chiefs) of shillong," or "the siems of the god."
v
the formation of the earth
when the earth was created, it was one great plain, full of vast forests and smooth rivers.
then it happened that the mother of the three goddesses, ka ding, ka um, and ka sngi, died while wandering abroad one day on the earth.
these goddesses are fire, water, and the sun.
it became necessary for the daughters to discover some means whereby their mother's body could be put away out of their sight and not be left exposed on the face of the earth.
according to the decree, it was decided that ka sngi, being the youngest, should perform the rites of destroying the body; so ka sngi went out in all her strength, and put forth great heat till the rivers were dried up and all the leaves of the forest and the grass withered, but the body of the mother was not consumed.
so ka sngi returned to her sisters and said, "i have exhausted all my powers, but our mother's body still lies on the face of the earth in our sight."
after this the next sister, ka um, undertook to perform the rites, and she went forth with a great company of clouds, and poured incessant rain upon the earth till the rivers and pools were all flooded, but her mother's body was not destroyed.
so ka um also returned to her sisters and said, "i have exhausted all my powers, but the body of our mother still lies on the face of the earth in our sight."
thus it remained for the elder sister, ka ding, to undertake to do the necessary rites, and she spread forth great flames which swept over the forests and caused the earth to burn and to crumble till the vast plain lost its contour and the body of the mother was consumed.
ever since then the earth has remained as the fire left it, full of mountains and valleys and gorges.
it became a much more beautiful place, and in time mankind came here from heaven to dwell.
vi
the legend of u raitong, the khasi orpheus
a few miles to the north of shillong, the chief town of the province of assam, there is a fertile and pleasant hill known as the hill of raitong, which is one of the most famous spots in ancient folk-lore, and for which is claimed the distinction of being the place where the custom of suttee wife-sacrifice of the hindus originated.
the legend runs as follows:
many ages ago there lived a great siem (chief) who ruled over large territories and whose sceptre swayed many tribes and clans of people.
as befitted such a great siem, his consort, the mahadei, was a woman of great beauty: her figure was erect and lissom and all her movements easy and graceful as the motion of the palms in the summer breeze; her hair was long and flowing, enfolding her like a wreathing cloud; her teeth were even as the rims of a cowrie; her lips were red as the precious coral and fragrant as the flower of lasubon; and her face was fair like unto the face of a goddess.
strange to relate, the names of this famous royal couple have not been transmitted to posterity.
it came to pass that affairs of the state necessitated the absence of the siem from home for a protracted period.
he appointed deputies to govern the village and to control his household during the interval, while the mahadei, who was unto him as the apple of his eye, was placed under the joint guardianship of her own and his own family.
when he had made all satisfactory arrangements he took his departure and went on his long journey accompanied by the good wishes of his people.
among the subjects of the siem was a poor beggar lad, who was looked upon as being half-witted, for he spent his days roaming about the village clothed in filthy rags, his head and face covered with ashes like a wandering fakir.
he never conversed with any of the villagers, but kept muttering to himself incessantly, lamenting his own forlorn and friendless condition.
his name was u raitong.
formerly he had been a happy and well-cared-for lad, surrounded and loved by many relatives and kindred, until a terrible epidemic swept through the village and carried away all his family and left him orphaned and alone, without sustenance and without a relative to stand by his bedside in time of sickness or to perform the funeral rites over his body when he died.
overwhelmed by grief and sorrow, u raitong vowed a rash vow that all the days of his life should be spent in mourning the death of his kindred; thus it was that he walked about the village lamenting to himself and wearing ragged clothes.
his neighbours, not knowing about the vow, thought that sorrow had turned his head, so they treated him as an idiot and pitied him and gave him alms.
his condition was so wretched and his clothes so tattered that he became a proverb in the country, and to this day, when the khasis wish to describe one fallen into extreme poverty and wretchedness, they say, "as poor as u raitong."
at night time, however, u raitong considered himself free from the obligations of his rash vow, and when he retired to his rickety cabin on the outskirts of the village he divested himself of his rags and arrayed himself in fine garments, and would play for hours on his sharati (flute), a bamboo instrument much in vogue among the khasis to this day.
he was a born musician, and constant practice had made him an accomplished player, and never did flute give forth sweeter and richer music than did the sharati of u raitong as he played by stealth in the hours of the night when all the village was asleep.
the melodies he composed were so enthralling that he often became oblivious to all his surroundings and abandoned himself to the charms of his own subtle music.
his body swayed and trembled with pure joy and delight as he gave forth strain after strain from his sharati; yet so cautious was he that none of his neighbours suspected that he possessed any gifts, for he feared to let it be known lest it should interfere with the performance of his vow.
it happened one night that the mahadei was restless and unable to sleep, and as she lay awake she heard the faint strains of the most sweet music wafted on the air.
she imagined that it was coming from the fairies who were said to inhabit certain parts of the forest, and she listened enraptured until the sounds ceased.
when it stopped, a feeling of great loneliness came over her, so overawing that she could not summon enough courage to speak about the strange music she had heard.
she went about her household duties with her thoughts far away and longing for the night to come in the hope that the music would be wafted to her again.
the following night, and for many successive nights, the mahadei lay awake to listen, and was always rewarded by hearing the soft sweet strains of some musical instrument floating on the air till she imagined the room to be full of some beautiful beings singing the sweetest melodies that human ears ever heard.
when it ceased, as it always did before daybreak, the feeling of desolation was intense, till her whole mind became absorbed with thoughts of the mysterious music.
the fascination grew until at last it became overpowering and she could no longer resist the desire to know whence the sounds proceeded.
she crept stealthily from her room one night, and following the direction of the strains, she walked through the village and was surprised to find that the music emerged from the dilapidated hut of u raitong.
the heart of the mahadei was touched, for she thought that the fairies in tenderness and pity came to cheer and to comfort the poor idiot with their music, and she stood there to listen.
the strains which she could hear but faintly in her own room now broke upon her in all their fulness and richness till her whole being was ravished by them.
before dawn the sounds suddenly ceased, and the mahadei retraced her steps stealthily and crept back to her room without being observed by any one.
after this she stole out of her house every night and went to listen to what she believed to be fairy-music outside the hut of u raitong.
one night, when the power of the music was stronger than usual, the mahadei drew near and peeped through a crevice in the door, and to her astonishment, instead of the fairies she had pictured, she saw that it was u raitong, the supposed idiot, who was playing on his sharati, but a raitong so changed from the one she had been accustomed to see about the village that she could scarcely believe her own eyes.
he was well and tastefully dressed and his face was alight with joy, while his body moved with graceful motions as he swayed with rapture in harmony with the rhythm of his wild music.
she stood spellbound, as much moved by the sight that met her eyes as she had been by the charm of the music, and, forgetful of her marriage vows and her duty to her absent husband, she fell deeply and irrevocably in love with u raitong.
time passed, and the mahadei continued to visit the hut of u raitong by stealth, drawn by her passionate love for him even more than by the fascination of his sharati.
at first u raitong was unaware that he was being spied upon, but when he discovered the mahadei in his hut, he was greatly troubled, and tried to reason with her against coming with as much sternness as was becoming in one of his class to show to one so much above him in rank.
but she overruled all his scruples, and before long the intensity of her love for him and the beauty of her person awoke similar feelings in him and he fell a victim to her wicked and unbridled passion.
the months rolled on and the time for the return of the siem was advancing apace.
people began to discuss the preparations for celebrating his return, and every one evinced the most lively interest except the mahadei.
it was noticed that she, the most interested person of all, appeared the most unconcerned, and people marvelled to see her so cold and indifferent; but one day the reason became clear when it was announced that a son had been born to the mahadei and that her guardians had locked her up in one of the rooms of the court, pending the arrival of the siem.
she offered no resistance and put forward no justification, but when questioned as to the identity of her child's father she remained resolutely silent.
when the siem arrived and heard of his wife's infidelity he was bowed down with shame and grief, and vowed that he would enforce the extreme penalty of the law on the man who had sullied her honour, but neither persuasion nor coercion could extract from the mahadei his name.
it was necessary for the well-being of the state, as well as for the satisfaction of the siem, that the culprit should be found; so the siem sent a mandate throughout his territory calling upon all the male population, on penalty of death, to attend a great state durbar, when the siem and his ministers would sit in judgement to discover the father of the child of the faithless mahadei.
never in the history of durbars was seen such a multitude gathered together as was seen on that day when all the men, both young and old, appeared before the siem to pass through the test laid down by him.
when all had assembled, the siem ordered a mat to be brought and placed in the centre and the babe laid upon it; after which he commanded every man to walk round the mat in procession and, as he passed, to offer a plantain to the child, inasmuch as it was believed that the instincts of the babe would lead him to accept a plantain from the hand of his own father and from no other.
the long procession filed past one by one, but the babe gave no sign, and the siem and his ministers were baffled and perplexed.
they demanded to know what man had absented himself, but when the roll was called the number was complete.
some one in the throng shouted the name of u raitong, at which many laughed, for no one deemed him to be sane; other voices said mockingly, "send for him"; others said "why trouble about such a witless creature?
he is but as a dog or a rat."
thus the durbar was divided, but the ministers, unwilling to pass over even the most hapless, decided to send for him and to put him through the test like the other men.
when the siem's messengers arrived at the hut they found u raitong just as usual, dressed in filthy rags and muttering to himself, his face covered with ashes.
he arose immediately and followed the men to the place of durbar, and as he came people pitied him, for he looked so sad and forlorn and defenceless that it seemed a shame to put such an one through the test.
a plantain was put into his hand and he was told to walk past the mat.
as soon as the babe saw him he began to crow with delight and held out his hands for the plantain, but he took no notice of the well-dressed people who crowded round.
there was a loud commotion when the secret was discovered, and the siem looked ashamed and humiliated to find that one so unseemly and poor was proved to be the lover of his beautiful wife.
the assembly were awed at the spectacle, and many of them raised their voices in thanksgiving to the deity whom they considered to have directed the course of events and brought the guilty to judgement.
the siem commanded his ministers to pronounce judgement, and they with one accord proclaimed that he should be burned to death, without the performance of any rites and that no hand should gather his bones for burial.
in this decision all the throng acquiesced, for such was the law and the decree.
u raitong received the verdict with indifference as one who had long known and become reconciled to his fate, but he asked one boon, and that was permission to build his own pyre and play a dirge for himself.
the siem and the people were astonished to hear him speak in clear tones instead of the blubbering manner in which he had always been known to speak.
nobody raised an objection to his request, so he received permission to build his own pyre and to play his own dirge.
accordingly on the morrow u raitong arose early and gathered a great pile of dry firewood and laid it carefully till the pyre was larger than the pyres built for the cremation of siems and the great ones of the land.
after finishing the pyre he returned to his lonely hut and divested himself of his filthy rags and arrayed himself in the fine garments which he used to wear in the hours of the night when he abandoned himself to music; he then took his sharati in his hand and sallied forth to his terrible doom.
as he marched towards the pyre he played on his sharati, and the sound of his dirge was carried by the air to every dwelling in the village, and so beautiful was it and so enchanting, so full of wild pathos and woe, that it stirred every heart.
people flocked after him, wondering at the changed appearance of u raitong and fascinated by the marvellous and mysterious music such as they had never before heard, which arrested and charmed every ear.
when the procession reached the pyre, u raitong stooped and lighted the dry logs without a shudder or a delay.
then once more he began to play on his sharati and marched three times around the pyre, and as he marched he played such doleful and mournful melodies that his hearers raised their voices in a loud wail in sympathy, so that the wailing and the mourning at the pyre of the unfortunate u raitong was more sincere and impressive than the mourning made for the greatest men in the country.
at the end of his third round u raitong suddenly stopped his music, planted his sharati point downward in the earth, and leaped upon the burning pyre and perished.
while these events were taking place outside, the mahadei remained a close prisoner in her room, and no whisper of what was transpiring was allowed to reach her.
but her heart was heavy with apprehension for her lover, and when she heard the notes of a sharati she knew it could be none other than u raitong, and that the secret had been discovered and that he was being sent to his doom.
as before, the notes of the sharati seemed to call her irresistibly, and with almost superhuman strength she burst open the door of her prison.
great as was her excitement and her desire to get away, she took precautions to cover her escape.
seeing a string of cowries with which her child had been playing, she hastily fastened them to the feet of a kitten that was in the room, so that whenever the kitten moved the noise of the cowries jingling on the floor of the room would lead those outside to think that it was the mahadei herself still moving about; then she sped forth to the hill in the direction of the sound of the sharati and the wailing.
when she arrived at the pyre, u raitong had just taken his fatal leap.
she pushed her way resolutely through the dense and wailing crowd, and before any one could anticipate her action she too had leaped into the flaming furnace to die by the side of her lover.
the siem alone of all the people in the village had withstood the fascination of the dirge.
he sat in his chamber morose and outraged, brooding on his calamity.
just when the mahadei was leaping into the flames a strange thing happened in the siem's chamber the head-cloth (tapmoh) of his wife was blown in a mysterious manner so that it fell at his feet although there was not enough breeze to cause a leaf to rustle.
when the siem saw it he said, "by this token my wife must be dead."
still hearing sounds coming from her room, he tried to take no heed of the omen.
the foreboding, however, grew so strong that he got up to investigate, and when he opened the door of the room where the mahadei had been imprisoned he found it empty, save for a kitten with a string of cowries fastened to its feet.
he knew instinctively whither she had gone, and in the hope of averting further scandal he hurried in her wake towards the pyre on the hill, but he was too late.
when he arrived on the scene he found only her charred remains.
the news of the unparalleled devotion of the mahadei to her lover spread abroad throughout the land and stirred the minds of men and women in all countries.
the chaste wives of india, when they heard of it, said one to another, "we must not allow the unholy passion of an unchaste woman to become more famous than the sacred love of holy matrimony.
henceforth we will offer our bodies on the altar of death, on the pyre of our husbands, to prove our devotion and fidelity."
thus originated the custom of suttee (wife-sacrifice)
in many parts of india.
the khasis were so impressed by the suitability of the sharati to express sorrow and grief that they have adopted that instrument ever since to play their dirges at times of cremation.
the sharati of u raitong, which he planted in the earth as he was about to leap to his doom, took root, and a clump of bamboos grew from it, distinguishable from all other bamboos by having their branches forking downwards.
it is commonly maintained to this day that there are clumps of bamboos forking downwards to be found in plenty on the hill of raitong.
vii
the tiger and the monkeys
at the beginning of time the animals were free and living wild and unruly lives, but there were so many disputes and quarrels that they convened a council to choose a king to reign over them.
with one accord they nominated the tiger to be king, not for any special wisdom or merit which he possessed, but because of his great strength, by which he would be able to subdue the turbulent beasts.
although he possessed greater strength than any of his kindred, the tiger was more ignorant of the ways and habits of his subjects than any of the animals.
he was so self-absorbed that he never troubled himself to study the ways of others, and this caused him to act very foolishly at times and to make himself ridiculous, for the animals were tempted to take advantage of his great ignorance and to play tricks upon him whenever they thought they could do so undetected.
this tale relates how the monkeys played a cunning trick on their king which caused mortal enmity to spring up between him and them for ever.
one hot day the tiger walked abroad to take an airing, but, the sun being so hot, he turned aside to shelter under some leafy trees and there he fell asleep.
presently he awoke, and on awaking he heard coming from overhead very melodious singing to which he listened enraptured.
it was the little insect, shalymmen, chirping on a leaf, but she was so small the tiger could not see her, and, being so ignorant, he had no idea whose voice it was.
he peered to the branches right and left trying to discover the singer, but he only saw a company of monkeys at play in the trees, so he began to question them who it was that was singing above him.
now the monkeys and all the jungle animals were perfectly familiar with the singing of shalymmen and recognised the voice from afar.
they thought it very contemptible in the king to be more ignorant than themselves, and one audacious young monkey, in a spirit of mischief, answered that the singer was their youngest sister.
the other monkeys were perturbed when they heard their brother giving such an impudent answer, thinking that the tiger would be offended and would punish them with his great strength.
they were preparing to run away when, to their amazement, they heard the tiger replying to their rash young brother in a gentle voice and with most affable manners and saying to him, "you are my brother-in-law.
your sister has the most beautiful voice in the jungle; i will make her my wife."
if the predicament of the monkeys was bad at the beginning, it was doubly so now, for they felt that, things having taken such an unexpected turn, it would be impossible to conceal from the knowledge of the tiger their brother's offence.
they determined, however, not to desert the young culprit, and if possible to try and rescue him, so they approached the tiger, and with much seeming courtesy and honour they put forward the excuse that their sister was very young and not yet of marriageable age.
this excuse made no impression on the king, for he said:
"so much the better.
as she is young, i can mould her to my own ways, and bring her up according to my own views, which would not be so easy if she were fully matured."
to which the monkeys replied, "our sister is not amenable to instruction.
she is indolent and fond of her own will."
the tiger, however, was so lovesick that no argument had weight with him.
he thought the brothers were severe in their judgement, and expressed his conviction that she could not be as slothful as they said, for she was forgoing her midday repose for the sake of making music to cheer the animals.
he ordered them to come down from the trees and to lead their sister to him.
after this the monkeys feared to argue further, so they pretended to agree to his commands; but they craved a boon from him, and asked for a little time to make preparations, as it would not be becoming for one of such a high degree to join himself with a poor family like theirs without their showing him adequate honour such as was due to his rank.
this request the tiger granted, and it was arranged between them that he was to come and claim his bride at the time of the full moon, a week from that day, and so the tiger departed with evident goodwill.
as soon as they found themselves alone the monkeys began to think out some plans by which they could meet the situation and escape exposure.
they decided to call together a council of the whole tribe of monkeys, for they well foresaw that the whole tribe would be in peril if the tiger found out what they had done.
so the monkeys came to hold a council, and in that council it was decided that they must continue to keep up the duplicity begun, and in order to hoodwink the tiger still further they planned to make a clay image after the fashion of a woman and to present her to the tiger as his bride.
so they made preparations for a great feast, but they did not invite anybody except their own tribe to attend.
during the succeeding days the monkeys busied themselves collecting clay and moulding it into an image, which they propped against a tree.
they were unable to make the head of one piece with the body, so they moulded the head separately, and when it was finished they placed it loosely on the body of the image.
they then proceeded to dress the image in all the finery they could procure, and they carefully covered the head and face with a veil so as to hide it from the eyes of the bridegroom.
the night of the full moon arrived, and all the monkey family were assembled at the appointed place, where with much clatter and seeming joy they awaited the arrival of the tiger, though they were really very anxious about the consequences.
everything was in readiness, and the place laid out with many kinds of food, so as to lead the tiger to think that they were sincere in their welcome.
he came early, very gorgeously arrayed, and carrying over his shoulder a net full of betel nut and pan leaves, and was received with loud acclamation by his prospective relatives.
but the tiger hardly deigned to give them a greeting, so impatient was he to meet his bride, and he demanded to be taken to her immediately.
the monkeys led him with great ceremony to the clay image, but their hearts were beating fast with fear lest he should discover their fraud.
when they reached the image they said, "this is our sister.
take her and may she be worthy of the great honour you have conferred upon her."
thereupon they retired to a safe distance.
when the tiger saw how finely dressed she was and how modestly she had veiled herself, he felt a little timid, for she was so much finer than the little grey monkey he had been picturing to himself.
he came up to her and said deferentially, as he slung the net of betel nut round her neck:
"you are the chief person at this feast, take the pan and the betel nut and divide them among the company according to custom."
the bride, however, remained motionless and mute, seeing which, the tiger asked the monkeys in a displeased voice, "why doth not your sister answer me nor obey my commands?"
"she is very young," they replied, "perhaps she has fallen asleep while waiting for you; pull the string of the net and she will awaken."
upon this the tiger gave the string a sharp tug, and the loose head of the image rolled on to the floor, whereupon the monkeys, uttering the most piercing shrieks, pounced upon the tiger in a mob, declaring that he had killed their sister, and that he had only made a pretence of marrying her in order to get hold of her to kill her.
a fierce and bloody fight ensued in which the tiger was nearly killed, and ever since then the tiger has feared the monkeys, and they are the only animals in the jungle that dare challenge him to fight.
he never discovered their duplicity, but he learned one very effective lesson, for he has never committed the indiscretion of proposing marriage with an unknown bride since that unfortunate affair with the monkeys; while the monkeys are rejoicing in the cunning by which they saved their brother and their tribe from punishment.
viii
the legend of the iei tree
some eight or ten miles to the west of the town of shillong is seen a prominent hill range, a place much renowned in khasi folk-lore.
it is known as the mountain of the iei tree, and is a very romantic spot even in the present day, although divested of its former reputed glory.
its slopes are studded with thriving villages and cultivated fields, which appear from a distance like a bit of british landscape.
at its foot the river umiam (the wailing river) curves its dolorous way to the plains, at times leaping wildly over rugged precipices, scattering its spray in the sunshine, at other times lying almost motionless in the bosom of a valley, reflecting the beauty of myriad trees in its clear depths.
according to tradition, this hill, and the land around it, was the most fertile land in the world; broad acres lay under cultivation and its forests yielded the largest and most valuable timber.
it was also famous for the grandeur of its scenery; fairies and nymphs were said to have their haunts in its green glades, birds of lovely hues lived there and made their nests amid flowers of sweetest scent; there happy maidens loved to roam, and there young lovers met and plighted their troth.
such was the mountain of the iei tree in the days of the ancients.
on the summit of the mountain there grew a tree of fabulous dimensions the iei tree which dwarfed even the largest trees in forests.
it was of a species unique, such as mankind had never known; its thick outspreading branches were so clustered with leaves that the light of the sun could not penetrate through and the earth beneath its shadow became barren and unfruitful.
the fame of the tree spread abroad and people from many lands came to see it, but there were none who dared to cut a twig or to scratch its bark, as it was commonly believed that the tree was the abode of some unknown and powerful god, to offend whom would bring destruction.
the iei tree continued to grow through many ages, and year by year its malevolent shadow spread further and further, and the area of the barren land increased season by season until at last it became a serious menace to the world, and the very existence of mankind was at stake.
people could no longer live on the slopes of the mountain, cultivation became impossible for many miles around, and the one-time prosperous families had to wander abroad as homeless fugitives, fleeing from the ever-pursuing, ever-threatening shadow.
the pathways and pleasant nooks whence of old had echoed the merry voices and laughter of children were now become the lurking-places of dragons and the prowling-grounds of savage beasts whither no man ventured to roam.
a durbar of all mankind was summoned to consider the situation and to devise some plan to save the world from its impending doom.
after long and solemn deliberations, it was resolved to mobilise a party of the bravest and most skilled wood-cutters to go into the mountain to hew down the iei tree so as to admit the sunlight once more to the earth.
in the course of time the wood-cutters came and entered the mountain, defying all danger and risking the possible wrath of the unknown god whom they believed to haunt the tree.
when they reached the iei tree, they plied their axes with skill and toiled vigorously till night came on, but the wood was so hard and so tough they only succeeded in cutting a little below the bark that day.
they consoled themselves, however, by reflecting that so far there had appeared no signs of anger from the unknown god forasmuch as no misfortunes had befallen them; so they retired to rest, sanguine that by perseverance their gigantic task would in time be accomplished.
next morning they returned early to their work, but, to their consternation, they saw that the incisions made by them the day before at the cost of so much labour were obliterated, leaving the trunk of the tree as solid and unscathed as before.
many of the wood-cutters were so superstitious that they feared to approach the tree again, for they were now confirmed in their fear that the place was enchanted; but when their more stoical comrades reminded them of the great peril in which mankind stood, they plucked up courage, and for another day they toiled laboriously, only to find their work obliterated next morning.
as no personal harm had befallen any of them, the wood-cutters determined to continue their attack, but no matter how patiently they worked during the day, the tree would be healed up in the night.
they grew more and more mystified and discouraged, and the strain of living in that weird region was becoming intolerable.
at last they decided to return to their fellow-men, preferring to endure the foreseen doom of the shadowed world rather than face the unknown and mysterious terrors of the land of the iei tree.
as they sat, gloomy and disconsolate, brooding on their defeat, a little grey bird ka phreit, the khasi wren came, chirruping and twittering, close to the wood-cutters, and she began to talk to them, urging them to keep up their courage, as she had come to help them.
now, in spite of their spiritless condition, the woodsmen could not help laughing to hear ka phreit the smallest of all the birds so impudently offering to help them the picked wood-cutters of the world to cut down a tree.
but when the wren saw them laughing, she chirruped and twittered still louder, and drew still nearer, and with great excitement she said, "no doubt you are great and wise, for you have been chosen for a great task.
you are unable to perform it, yet when i come to offer assistance, you laugh at me.
it is true that i am the smallest of all the birds, but that has not hindered me from learning the secrets of this forest, which you must also learn before you can cut down the iei tree."
on hearing the sage words of the wren, the woodmen felt ashamed for having laughed at her, seeing that she meant nothing but goodwill towards them; so they got up and saluted her, and begged her pardon, and asked her to teach them the secret of the forest.
thus mollified, ka phreit informed them that the tree was not healed by any supernatural agency as they had supposed, but that it was u khla, the big tiger, who came every night to lick the tree and to heal it, for he did not want it to be cut down, as its shadow made it possible for him to prowl for prey in safety.
this news cheered the wood-cutters' hearts and they lost no time in beginning another attack on the iei tree, and when night fell, instead of carrying their axes home as before, they planted them in the tree edge outward.
when the tiger came to lick the tree that night (all unconscious that the wren had disclosed the secret to the men), the sharp blades cut his tongue, and he fled in terror, bleeding and howling, and never more returned to hinder the work of the wood-cutters, who, now that they were able to carry on their task undisturbed, succeeded in time in cutting down the iei tree.
thus ka phreit, the smallest of all the birds, helped mankind to bring back sunshine and prosperity to the world.
ix
hunting the stag lapalang
once upon a time there lived with its dam on the plains of sylhet a young deer whose fame has come down through the ages in khasi folk-lore.
the story of the stag lapalang, as he was called, continues to fascinate generation after generation of khasi youths, and the merry cowboys, as they sit in groups on the wild hill-sides watching their flocks, love to relate the oft-told tale and to describe what they consider the most famous hunt in history.
the stag lapalang was the noblest young animal of his race that had ever been seen in the forest and was the pride of his mother's heart.
she watched over him with a love not surpassed by the love of a human mother, keeping him jealously at her side, guarding him from all harm.
as he grew older the young stag, conscious of his own matchless grace and splendid strength, began to feel dissatisfied with the narrow confines and limited scope of the forest where they lived and to weary of his mother's constant warnings and counsels.
he longed to explore the world and to put his mettle to the test.
his mother had been very indulgent to him all his life and had allowed him to have much of his own way, so there was no restraining him when he expressed his determination to go up to the khasi hills to seek begonia leaves to eat.
his mother entreated and warned him, but all in vain.
he insisted on going, and she watched him sorrowfully as with stately strides and lifted head he went away from his forest home.
matters went well with the stag lapalang at first; he found on the hills plenty of begonia leaves and delicious grass to eat, and he revelled in the freedom of the cool heights.
but one day he was seen by some village boys, who immediately gave the alarm, and men soon hurried to the chase: the hunting-cry rang from village to village and echoed from crag to crag.
the hunting instincts of the khasis were roused and men poured forth from every village and hamlet.
oxen were forgotten at the plough; loads were thrown down and scattered; nothing mattered for the moment but the wild exciting chase over hill and valley.
louder sounded the hunting cry, farther it echoed from crag to crag, still wilder grew the chase.
from hill to hill and from glen to glen came the hunters, with arrows and spears and staves and swords, hot in pursuit of the stag lapalang.
he was swift, he was young, he was strong for days he eluded his pursuers and kept them at bay; but he was only one unarmed creature against a thousand armed men.
his fall was inevitable, and one day on the slopes of the shillong mountain he was surrounded, and after a brave and desperate struggle for his life, the noble young animal died with a thousand arrows quivering in his body.
the lonely mother on the plains of sylhet became uneasy at the delay of the return of the stag lapalang, and when she heard the echoes of the hunting-cry from the hills her anxiety became more than she could endure.
full of dread misgivings, she set out in quest of her wanderer, but when she reached the khasi hills, she was told that he had been hunted to death on the slopes of shillong, and the news broke her heart.
staggering under the weight of her sorrow, she traversed the rugged paths through the wildwoods, seeking her dead offspring, and as she went her loud heartrending cries were heard throughout the country, arresting every ear.
women, sitting on their hearths, heard it and swooned from the pain of it, and the children hid their faces in dismay; men at work in the fields heard it and bowed their heads and writhed with the anguish of it.
not a shout was raised for a signal at sight of that stricken mother, not a hand was lifted to molest her, and when the huntsmen on the slopes of shillong heard that bitter cry their shouts of triumph froze upon their lips, and they broke their arrows in shivers.
never before was heard a lamentation so mournful, so plaintive, so full of sorrow and anguish and misery, as the lament of the mother of the stag lapalang as she sought him in death on the slopes of shillong.
the ancient khasis were so impressed by this demonstration of deep love and devotion that they felt their own manner of mourning for their dead to be very inferior and orderless, and without meaning.
henceforth they resolved that they also would mourn their departed ones in this devotional way, and many of the formulas used in khasi lamentations in the present day are those attributed to the mother of the stag lapalang when she found him hunted to death on the slopes of shillong hundreds and hundreds of years ago.
x
the goddesses ka ngot and ka iam
(a legend of shillong peak)
ka iam and ka ngot, the twin daughters of the god of shillong, were two very beautiful beings; they were lively and frolicsome, and were indulged and given much freedom by the family.
like all twins they were never happy if long separated.
one day the two climbed to the top of the shillong mountain to survey the country.
in the distance they saw the woody plains of sylhet, and they playfully challenged one another to run a race to see who would reach the plains first.
ka ngot was more retiring and timid than her sister, and was half afraid to begin the race; ka iam, on the other hand, was venturesome and fearless, and had been called ka iam because of her noisy and turbulent disposition.
before the race she spoke very confidently of her own victory, and teased her sister on account of her timidity.
after a little preparation for the journey the twins transformed themselves into two rivers and started to run their race.
ka ngot, searching for smooth and easy places, meandered slowly, taking long circuits, and came in time to sylhet; but not finding her sister there, she went forward to chhatak, and on slowly towards dewara.
seeing no sign yet of her sister, she became very anxious and turned back to seek her; and, in turning, she took a long curve which looked in the brilliant sunshine like a curved silver chain, and the khasis living on the hill-tops, when they saw it, exclaimed with wonder:
"rupatylli, rupatylli!"
(a silver necklace, a silver necklace!)
and to this day that part of the river is known as "rupatylli."
ka iam, full of vigour and ambition, did not linger to look for easy passages, but with a noisy rush she plunged straight in the direction of shella, the shortest cut she could find.
she soon found, however, that the road she had chosen was far more difficult to travel than she had anticipated.
large rocks impeded her path at many points, and she was obliged to spend much time in boring her way through; but she pitted her young strength against all obstacles, and in time she reached shella and came in view of the plains, where, to her chagrin, she saw that her sister had reached the goal before her, and was coming back leisurely to meet her.
it was a great humiliation, for she had boasted of her victory before the race began, but, hoping to conceal her defeat from the world, she divided herself into five streams, and in that way entered the plains, and joined her sister.
the rivers are called after the two goddesses to this day, and are known as "ka um ngot" and "ka um iam" (the river ngot and the river iam).
ever since ka ngot won the great race she has been recognised as the greater of the two twins, and more reverence has been paid to her as a goddess.
even in the present day there are many khasis and syntengs who will not venture to cross the "um ngot" without first sacrificing to the goddess; and when, on their journeys, they happen to catch a glimpse of its waters, they salute and give a greeting of "khublei"
to the goddess ka ngot who won the great race.
xi
u biskurom
in the beginning of time mankind were very ignorant and did their work with great trouble and labour, for they had no tools and did not understand the way to make them.
the great god saw their difficulty from heaven, and he sent one of the heavenly beings down to the earth, in the likeness of a young man, to teach them.
the name of this young man was u biskurom.
he was very noble to look at, and none of the sons of mankind could compare with him; he was also very gentle and good.
he taught mankind many useful crafts.
from him they learned to know the value of metals and the way to smelt iron and to make tools, but mankind were very slow to learn, and liked better to muddle in their own old way than to follow the directions given them by u biskurom, so he had to stay such a long time on the earth that he forgot the way back to heaven.
he was, however, so patient and painstaking that at last they learned to make good tools and to use them.
seeing that u biskurom excelled them in finishing his instruments, and that he could do double their work in a day, mankind took advantage of his gentleness.
they used him to save trouble to themselves, and often demanded work from him that it was impossible for him to do, and when he failed to satisfy them they grew angry and abusive.
one day they made a clay image and called upon u biskurom to make it alive; when he told them that he had not learnt how to produce life, they abused him and threatened to imprison him until he complied with their request.
when u biskurom saw that they would not listen to reason, he told them that if they wanted him to impart life to their images they must let him go back to heaven to gain the necessary knowledge.
upon this mankind took counsel together what to do.
some feared that if they let him go away he would never return.
others (the majority, however) thought that as the knowledge of how to impart life would be so valuable, it was worth risking a good deal to obtain it; so mankind decided to release u biskurom.
as he had forgotten the road along which he came to the earth, it was necessary for u biskurom to invent some means whereby he could go up to heaven; so he told mankind to twine a long piece of string and to make a strong kite on which he could ascend to the sky.
so mankind twined a long string and made a strong kite, and u biskurom rode upon it to the sky.
when they said, "perhaps if we let you go you will not come back," he told them not to let go of the string, so that if he was not allowed to come back, he could write the knowledge on the kite and send it down to them.
this satisfied them and they let him go.
when u biskurom reached heaven the great god told him that he could not go back to the earth because he had seen how mankind had ill-treated him, and because of their ingratitude and their unholy ambition to impart life.
so u biskurom wrote upon the kite and sent it down to the earth.
when mankind saw the kite descending a great throng came together to read the directions for imparting life, but to their chagrin there was not one among them able to decipher the writing.
they consulted together what to do, for they were very angry with u biskurom, and they decided to send a great shout to heaven, which would cause such a volley that the concussion would kill u biskurom.
u biskurom laughed when he saw their folly, and in order to make them still more foolish, he caused some drops of blood to fall down from heaven, and when mankind saw these drops of blood they concluded that he had been killed by the force of their great shout.
because of their ingratitude and their uplifted pride mankind have remained in great ignorance, and all the knowledge they possess is very imperfect and gained at great labour and expense.
xii
u thlen, the snake-vampire
u thlen is one of the legendary khasi gods, whose worship is limited to a few clans and families.
from participation in it all right-thinking khasis recoil with loathing and horror, inasmuch as it involves the perpetration of crimes, for this god can only be propitiated by offerings of human sacrifices, with many revolting and barbaric rites.
the clans who are reputed to be the devotees and worshippers of the thlen are regarded with aversion and fear throughout the country, and to them are attributed many kinds of atrocities, such as the kidnapping of children, murders and attempted murders, and many are the tales of hair-breadth escapes from the clutches of these miscreants, who are known as nongshohnohs.
within quite recent times murders have been committed which are still shrouded in mystery, but which are said to have indications that the victims were killed for the purpose of thlen sacrifice.
the following folk-tale purports to give an account of the origin and propagation of u thlen, the most remorseless and cruel of all the khasi deities.
according to tradition the hima (state) of cherra was, in olden times, the haunt of many famous bleis (gods) who dominated the lives of men.
these deities were said to dwell in certain localities, which in consequence came to be recognised as sacred places, and frequently to be called after the names of the bleis.
foremost among these gods was u mawlong siem, and the hill where he was supposed to dwell is called after his name to the present day, and the inhabitants of certain villages still offer sacrifices to him.
in common with mankind, u mawlong siem is described as having a family, who, also in common with mankind, took pleasure in dancing and festivity.
it is said that people sometimes hear the sound of revelry and the beating of drums within the mountain, supposed to be the drums of u mawlong siem beaten to the accompaniment of the dancing of his children, the sound of which invariably portends the death of a siem or some great personage.
the only one of his family whose name and history have been transmitted was a daughter called ka kma kharai, which signifies one that roams about in trenches or hidden nooks.
she was well known in the blei-world, and she possessed the power of assuming whatever form she pleased.
she often assumed the form of a woman and mingled with mankind without anybody suspecting her identity.
many of the bleis sought her in marriage, but u mawlong siem, her father, would never give his consent, lest his prestige be lowered among the bleis.
there was one suitor whom ka kma kharai specially favoured.
he was the god of umwai, but her father forbade the union so sternly as to dispel all the hopes of the lovers.
this so angered the young goddess that henceforth she rebelled openly against her father, and by way of retaliation she encouraged the attentions of strange and undesirable lovers.
when it was discovered that she was with child, she fled from her home, fearing the wrath of her father, and put herself under the protection of her maternal uncle, who lived in the pomdoloi cave, and was one of the famous dragons, or yak jakors of the country.
in this cave a son was born to her, who proved to be a monster of hideous aspect, having the form of a snake and the characteristics of a vampire, who could be appeased only when fed with human blood.
this monster they called u thlen.
unlike his mother, u thlen could not transform himself into any likeness but that of a snake, but he had power to diminish or to enlarge his size at will.
sometimes he appeared so small as to be no bigger than a string of fine thread, at other times he expanded himself to such dimensions that he could swallow a man bodily.
in those days there was much intercourse between the bleis and mankind.
the latter were privileged to attend the iew-blei the fair of the bleis at lynghingkhongkhen, the way to which passed the pomdoloi cave, and many unwary and unprotected travellers fell a prey to the greed of u thlen and his associates.
the commonest mode by which these poor unfortunates were lured to their doom was through the blandishments of ka kma kharai, who approached them in the form of a woman merchant, and dazzled them with the brilliancy of the jewelry she offered for sale.
she refrained from killing her captives on occasions, but induced them by promises of riches and immunity to pledge themselves to the services of u thlen, her son.
to such as these she gave a magic ring, known in ancient lore as the yngkuid ring (sati yngkuid) which was believed to possess magic that enabled the owners of the ring to obtain all the desires of their hearts, but this magic was dormant until the owners fulfilled their obligations to u thlen and brought him human victims to feed upon.
the method by which u yak jakor captured his victims was to waylay lonely travellers and to club them to death.
u thlen himself, when he grew old enough, also hunted men to death, so that between the three murderers the ravages made upon mankind were becoming grievous and intolerable.
mankind sought divinations and offered sacrifices to the gods for the cessation of these atrocities, upon which a durbar of the bleis was called.
u mawlong siem, who was a powerful blei and a blood-relation of the murderers, overruled the durbar, declaring that no authority could deprive the bleis, or the demons, of any power they possessed, be it for good or for evil; but to mitigate the distress of mankind a decree was issued, restricting the number of people to be devoured to half the number of captives.
if u thlen captured two victims, one was to be released, if he captured ten, five were to be released.
it transpired, however, that this decree helped but little to allay the sufferings of mankind, for murders continued at an appalling rate.
mankind again sought divination and took counsel together, and it was made evident that the only one who could successfully help them was u suidnoh (the fleeting demon), an erratic and insignificant being who haunted the forest of lait-rngew to the north of cherra.
the khasis hitherto had never recognised him as worthy of homage, but they went to offer him sacrifices then, according to the divinations.
u suidnoh volunteered to rescue them, but affirmed that the snake could never be overcome without the sanction of a blei, and inasmuch as the bleis of the cherra hima had already refused their aid, he urged them to go and sacrifice to u 'lei shillong the god of the shillong mountain and to invoke his aid and win his favour.
so mankind offered sacrifices to u 'lei shillong, and received his sanction to wage war against u thlen.
u suidnoh, equipped in all his strength, went forth to pomdoloi and ordered the khasis to bring to him many fat pigs and goats.
these he killed and carried regularly to feed the thlen in the cave, and this was the manner in which he made his offering.
he bored a large hole in a rock roofing the cave, so that the carcases might be passed down without being seen by u thlen, and so he would not discover that they were not human bodies.
he assumed the voice and manner of a thlen worshipper and called out: "my uncle, i have brought my tribute, open your mouth that i may feed you."
u thlen is described as being slothful and sleepy, never rousing himself except to seek food.
when he heard the call from above he would shake himself and expand to a great size, and open wide his jaws, into which the meat offering was thrust.
in this way mankind had respite for a time, and the hunting of men ceased.
it was evident, however, that they must resort to some other measures, for it was impossible to continue to keep up the supply of fat animals.
the khasis began to grumble at the extravagant proceedings of u suidnoh, but he always replied to their complaints with the words, "koit, koit," signifying that all was well.
after a time he told them to hire the services of u ramhah, the giant, to assist him in his final struggle against the vampire.
when u ramhah came he bade him build a smelting-house near the cave, and to make a pair of giant tongs, and such was the strength of u ramhah that it only took him one day to build the smelting-house and to make the giant tongs.
next day u suidnoh told him to heat a large piece of iron, and to bring it when it was red-hot in the big tongs to the rock on the top of the cave.
when this was done u suidnoh called out according to his custom:
"my uncle, i have brought my tribute, open your mouth that i may feed you"; so the thlen shook himself and expanded his body to a gigantic size, and opened his jaws for the offering, whereupon the red-hot iron was thrust in.
upon this there followed the most terrible contortions of the thlen's body, as he tossed about, writhing in his death agony, till the earth shook so violently that u suidnoh and u ramhah swooned from the concussion.
when the disturbance subsided, and they had revived, they looked into the cave and found u thlen lying dead.
u suidnoh sounded a big drum to summon the people together, and great jubilation and dancing took place when it was announced that their enemy was dead.
from that time the khasis have offered sacrifices to u suidnoh, and he is held in great honour.
the people held a council to consider how to dispose of the body of the thlen, and it was decided that to make their triumph complete it was better to prepare a feast and to eat the body of u thlen, so the carcase was dragged out of the cave and was divided on a flat rock into two portions.
one portion was given to the people of the plains from the east, to be cooked after their manner, the other was given to the khasis from the hills and the west to be cooked after their manner.
the marks of the axe are said to be seen on the rock to this day, and the place is called dain thlen (the cutting of the thlen).
the hole which was bored by u suidnoh in the top of the cave is also said to be visible to this day.
it happened that more people came to the feast from the plains than from the hills; moreover, they were accustomed to eat eels and snakes, so they considered the thlen meat very palatable and savoury.
they ate the whole of their portion and departed to their villages happily, and they were never afterwards troubled by thlens.
on the other hand the khasis were unused to the flesh of reptiles, and they found the thlen meat very unsavoury and strange-flavoured, so that when their feasting was done, a great portion of the meat remained uneaten.
this caused no little perplexity, for it was deemed possible for the thlen to come and reanimate the unconsumed portions of his body, so they kindled a big fire to burn all the fragments of meat to ashes, after which they gave a glad shout, believing themselves for ever safe from the ravages of u thlen.
a certain woman, whose son had neglected his duties and stayed away from the feast, was sorely troubled in her mind, fearing that some ill luck might befall him, and a curse come on the family, because her son had wilfully disregarded the feast of conquest.
while helping to gather the fragments of meat for burning, she surreptitiously hid a piece in the fold of her dress to take home to her son.
when she reached her house she put the meat away in a covered vessel pending her son's arrival.
when the son returned he brought news of many misfortunes which he had met that day, and particularly of the loss of much money, which loss he attributed to his neglect of the important feast; but when his mother told him how she had contrived to bring him a little of the thlen meat, he was somewhat cheered, hoping that by this participation he might be helped to retrieve his fallen fortunes.
to their dismay, when they uncovered the vessel, there was no meat left, only a tiny live snake wriggling about.
they were preparing to destroy it when the little snake began to speak to them in their own tongue, beseeching them not to kill him.
he said he was u thlen come back to life, and that he was there by the decrees of the bleis to bring them good fortune for as long as they gave him harbour and tribute.
it was a great temptation, coming as it did, when they had met with great losses, so, without thinking much of the consequences, they allowed the thlen to live, harbouring it in secret without the knowledge of outsiders.
when u thlen had fully regained his vitality, he demanded human sacrifices from them, which made them shudder with horror.
but u thlen was relentless, and threatened to devour them as a family, if they did not comply with his request, and when they saw one member of the family after another beginning to languish, fear for their lives drove them to hunt their fellow-men and to murder them, to propitiate u thlen and to keep his good favour.
gradually u thlen cast his sway over other families also, and won them to give him tribute.
as his devotees increased he reproduced himself mysteriously, so that in place of one thlen living in a cave where everybody knew him to be, there arose many thlens, living concealed in the houses of the nongshohnohs who, to preserve their own safety and the goodwill of u thlen, have become men-hunters and murderers, of whom the khasis live in deadly fear to this day.
xiii
how the dog came to live with man
in the happy olden days, when the animals lived together at peace in the forest, they used to hold fairs and markets after the manner of mankind.
the most important fair of all was called "ka iew luri lura"
(the fair of luri lura), which was held at stated intervals in the bhoi (forest) country.
thither gathered all the animals, each one bringing some article of merchandise, according to the decree which demanded that every animal that came to the fair should bring something to sell.
no matter whether he was young or old, rich or poor, no one was to come empty-handed, for they wanted to enhance the popularity of the market.
u khla, the tiger, was appointed governor of the fair.
man was excluded from these fairs as he was looked upon as an enemy.
he used to hunt the animals with his bow and arrows, so they had ceased to fraternise with him and kept out of his way.
but one day the dog left his own kindred in the jungle, and became the attendant of man.
the following story tells how that came to pass.
one day u ksew, the dog, walked abroad in search of goods to sell at the fair.
the other animals were thrifty and industrious, they worked to produce their merchandise, but the dog, being of an indolent nature, did not like to work, though he was very desirous to go to the fair.
so, to avoid the censure of his neighbours and the punishment of the governor of the fair, he set out in search of something he could get without much labour to himself.
he trudged about the country all day, inquiring at many villages, but when evening-time came he had not succeeded in purchasing any suitable goods, and he began to fear that he would have to forgo the pleasure of attending the fair after all.
just as the sun was setting he found himself on the outskirts of saddew village, on the slopes of the shillong mountain, and as he sniffed the air he became aware of a strong and peculiar odour, which he guessed came from some cooked food.
being hungry after his long tramp, he pushed his way forward, following the scent till he came to a house right in the middle of the village, where he saw the family at dinner, which he noticed they were eating with evident relish.
the dinner consisted of fermented khasi beans, known as ktung rymbai, from which the strong smell emanated.
the khasis are naturally a very cordial and hospitable people, and when the good wife of the house saw the dog standing outside looking wistfully at them she invited him to partake of what food there was left in the pot.
u ksew thankfully accepted, and by reason of his great hunger he ate heartily, regardless of the strange flavour and smell of the food, and he considered the ktung rymbai very palatable.
it dawned on him that here, quite by accident, he had found a novel and marketable produce to take to the fair; and it happened that the kindly family who had entertained him had a quantity of the stuff for sale which they kept in earthen jars, sealed with clay to retain its flavour.
after a little palaver according to custom, a bargain was struck, and u ksew became the owner of one good-sized jar of ktung rymbai, which he cheerfully took on his back.
he made his way across the hills to luri lura fair, chuckling to himself as he anticipated the sensation he would create and the profits he would gain, and the praise he would win for being so enterprising.
on the way he encountered many of the animals who like himself were all going to luri lura, and carrying merchandise on their backs to sell at the fair: to them u ksew boasted of the wonderful food he had discovered and was bringing with him to the market in the earthen jar under the clay seal.
he talked so much about it that the contents of the earthen jar became the general topic of conversation between the animals, for never had such an article been known at luri lura.
when he arrived at the fair the dog walked in with great consequence, and installed himself and his earthen jar in the most central place with much clatter and ostentation.
then he began to shout at the top of his voice, "come and buy my good food," and what with his boastings on the road and the noise he made at the fair, a very large company gathered round him, stretching their necks to have a glimpse at the strange-looking jar, and burning with curiosity to see the much-advertised contents.
u ksew, with great importance, proceeded to uncover the jar; but as soon as he broke the clay seal a puff of the most unsavoury and foetid odour issued forth and drove all the animals scrambling to a safe distance, much to the dog's discomfiture and the merriment of the crowd.
they hooted and jeered, and made all sorts of disparaging remarks till u ksew felt himself covered with shame.
the stag pushed forward, and to show his disdain he contemptuously kicked the earthen jar till it broke.
this increased the laughter and the jeering, and more of the animals came forward, and they began to trample the ktung rymbai in the mud, taking no notice of the protestations of u ksew, who felt himself very unjustly treated.
he went to u khla, the governor of the fair, to ask for redress, but here again he was met with ridicule and scorn, and told that he deserved all the treatment he had received for filling the market-place with such a stench.
at last u ksew's patience wore out, he grew snappish and angry, and with loud barks and snarls he began to curse the animals with many curses, threatening to be avenged upon them all some day.
at the time no one heeded his curses and threats, for the dog was but a contemptible animal in their estimation, and it was not thought possible for him to work much harm.
yet even on that day a part of his curse came true, for the animals found to their dismay that the smell of the ktung rymbai clung to their paws and their hoofs, and could not be obliterated; so the laughter was not all on their side.
humiliated and angry, the dog determined to leave the fair and the forest and his own tribe, and to seek more congenial surroundings; so he went away from luri lura, never to return, and came once more to saddew village, to the house of the family from whom he had bought the offending food.
when the master of the house heard the story of the ill-treatment he had suffered from the animals, he pitied u ksew, and he also considered that the insults touched himself as well as the dog, inasmuch as it was he who had prepared and sold the ktung rymbai.
so he spoke consolingly to u ksew and patted his head and told him to remain in the village with him, and that he would protect him and help him to avenge his wrongs upon the animals.
after the coming of the dog, man became a very successful hunter, for the dog, who always accompanied him when he went out to hunt, was able to follow the trail of the animals by the smell of the ktung rymbai, which adhered to their feet.
thus the animals lived to rue the day when they played their foolish pranks on u ksew and his earthen jar at the fair of luri lura.
man, having other occupations, could not always go abroad to the jungle to hunt; so in order to secure a supply of meat for himself during the non-hunting seasons he tamed pigs and kept them at hand in the village.
when the dog came he shared the dwelling and the meals of the pig, u sniang; they spent their days in idleness, living on the bounty of man.
one evening, as man was returning from his field, tired with the day's toil, he noticed the two idle animals and he said to himself "it is very foolish of me to do all the hard work myself while these two well-fed creatures are lying idle.
they ought to take a turn at doing some work for their food."
the following morning man commanded the two animals to go to the field to plough in his stead.
when they arrived there u sniang, in obedience to his master's orders, began to dig with his snout, and by nightfall had managed to furrow quite a large patch of the field; but u ksew, according to his indolent habits, did no work at all.
he lay in the shade all day, or amused himself by snapping at the flies.
in the evening, when it was time to go home, he would start running backwards and forwards over the furrows, much to the annoyance of the pig.
the same thing happened for many days in succession, till the patience of the pig was exhausted, and on their return from the field one evening he went and informed their master of the conduct of the dog, how he was idling the whole day and leaving all the work for him to do.
the master was loth to believe these charges against u ksew, whom he had found such an active and willing helper in the chase: he therefore determined to go and examine the field.
when he came there he found only a few of the footprints of the pig, while those of the dog were all over the furrows.
he at once concluded that u sniang had falsely charged his friend, and he was exceedingly wroth with him.
when he came home, man called the two animals to him, and he spoke very angrily to u sniang, and told him that henceforth he would have to live in a little sty by himself, and to eat only the refuse from man's table and other common food, as a punishment for making false charges against his friend; but the dog would be privileged to live in the house with his master, and to share the food of his master's family.
thus it was that the dog came to live with man.
xiv
the origin of betel and tobacco
long, long ago two boys lived in a village on the slopes of the hills, who were very fond of one another and were inseparable companions.
the name of one was u riwbha; he was the son of one of the wealthiest men in the country.
the other was called u baduk, who belonged to one of the lowly families; but the difference in station was no barrier to the affection of the children for one another.
every day they sought one another out, and together they roamed abroad in the fields and the forests, learning to know the birds and the flowers; together they learned to swim in the rivers, together they learned to use the bow and arrow, and to play on the flute.
they loved the same pastimes and knew the same friends.
as they grew up they were not able to spend so much time together.
u riwbha had to overlook his father's property, which involved many days'
absence from the village; while u baduk went every day to labour in the fields to earn his own rice and to help his parents, who were poor.
but the old friendship remained as firm as ever between the two young men, they trusted one another fully, and the one kept no secrets from the other.
in the course of time they took to themselves wives and became the heads of families.
u riwbha's wife, like himself, belonged to one of the wealthy families, so that by his marriage his influence in the village increased, and he became very rich and prosperous.
u baduk also married into his own class and went to live in a distant village, but he never gathered riches like his friend; nevertheless he was very happy.
he had a good and thrifty wife, and side by side they daily toiled in the fields to supply their simple wants as a family.
thus circumstances kept the two friends apart, for they seldom met.
the old regard was not in the least abated by absence, rather the bond seemed to be drawn closer and closer as the years went by.
occasionally u baduk journeyed to his native village to see his people and friends, and on these occasions nowhere was he made more welcome than in the house of his friend u riwbha, who insisted upon his spending the greater part of his time with him, and partaking of many sumptuous meals at his house.
thus the two old comrades renewed their intimacy and affection.
on his return home from one such visit u baduk's wife told him that their neighbours had been talking a great deal and making disparaging remarks about the intimacy between them and their wealthy friend, hinting that no such friendship existed, that it was only u baduk's boast that he had rich friends in his own village.
if there were such an intimacy as he pretended, why had his rich friend never come to see them when u baduk was constantly going to visit him?
he was vexed to hear this, not so much because they condemned him, but because they were casting aspersions on his best friend, so he determined to invite his friend to pay them a visit.
when u baduk paid his next visit to his village, and had as usual accepted the hospitality of his friend, he ventured to say, "i am always coming to see you and partaking of your hospitality, but you have not been to see me once since i got married."
to this u riwbha replied, "very true, my dear friend, very true, but do not take it amiss that i never thought of this before.
you know that i have much business on my hands, and have no leisure like many people to take my pleasures; but i have been too remiss towards you, and i must make haste to remedy my fault.
give my greeting to your wife, and tell her that i will start from here to-morrow to come to pay you both a visit, and to give myself the pleasure of tasting a dish of her curry and rice."
highly gratified and pleased, u baduk hastened home to tell his wife of his friend's projected visit, and urged her to rouse herself and to cook the most savoury meal she was capable of.
she too was very pleased to hear that the man they respected and loved so much was coming to see them; but she said, "it has come very suddenly, when i am not prepared; we have neither fish nor rice in the house."
"that is indeed unfortunate," said the husband, "but we have kind neighbours from whom we have never asked a favour before.
you must go out and borrow what is wanted from them, for it would be too great a disgrace not to have food to place before our friend when he comes."
the wife went out as requested by her husband, but although she walked the whole length of the village there was no one who could spare her any rice or fish, and she returned home gloomy and disheartened and told her husband of her ill-success.
when u baduk heard this bad news he was extremely troubled and said, "what sort of a world is this to live in, where a morsel of food cannot be obtained to offer hospitality to a friend?
it is better to die than to live."
whereupon he seized a knife and stabbed himself to death.
when the wife saw that her good husband was dead, she was smitten with inconsolable grief, and she cried out, "what is there for me to live for now?
it is better that i also should die."
thereupon she in her turn seized the knife and stabbed herself to death.
it happened that a notorious robber called u nongtuh was wandering through the village that night, and, as it was cold, he bethought himself of sneaking into one of the houses where the family had gone to sleep, to warm himself.
he saw that a fire was burning in u baduk's house, and that it was very silent within.
he determined to enter.
"they are hard-working people," said he to himself, "and will sleep soundly; i can safely sit and warm myself without their knowing anything about me."
so he squatted down comfortably on the hearth, not knowing that the two dead bodies lay on the floor close to him.
before long the warmth made him drowsy, and without thinking u nongtuh fell asleep, and did not awake until the day was dawning; he jumped up hastily, hoping to escape before the village was astir, but he saw the two dead bodies and was greatly terrified.
a great trembling took him, and he began to mutter wildly, "what an unfortunate man i am to have entered this house!
the neighbours will say that i killed these people; it will be useless for me to deny it, for i have such an evil reputation nobody will believe me.
it is better for me to die by my own hand here than to be caught by the villagers, and be put to death like a murderer."
whereupon he seized the knife and stabbed himself to death; so there were three victims on the floor, lying dead side by side, all because there was no food in the house to offer hospitality to a friend.
the morning advanced, and when the neighbours noticed that no one stirred abroad from u baduk's house they flocked there to find out what was the matter.
when they saw the three dead bodies they were filled with sadness and compunction, for they remembered how they had refused to lend them food the night before, to prepare entertainment for their friend.
in the course of the day u riwbha arrived according to the promise made to his friend, and when he was told of the terrible tragedy his sorrow knew no bounds; he sat wailing and mourning by the body of the friend that he loved best, and would not be comforted.
"alas!"
he wailed, "that a man should lose such a true friend because the world is become so hard for the poor that to entertain a friend is a greater burden than they can bear."
for many hours he wept and sorrowed, praying to the great god to show a way of keeping up the customs of hospitality without the poor having to suffer and be crushed, as his own good friend had been crushed.
just about that time the great god walked abroad to look on the universe, and he saw the sorrow of u riwbha, and took pity on his tears, and made known that from henceforth he would cause to grow three valuable plants, which were to be used by mankind in future as the means of entertainment, whereby the poor as well as the rich could indulge in the entertainment of friends without being burdened.
immediately three trees which had never been known to mankind before were seen springing up from the ground where the dead bodies lay.
they were the betel, the pan, and the tobacco.
from that time it became a point of etiquette in khasi households, rich and poor alike, to offer betel nut and pan or a whiff of tobacco from the hookah to friends when they make calls.
xv
the stag and the snail
on the day of the animals' fair at luri lura, the stag and the snail met.
it was a very hot day, and the animals as they travelled to the fair eagerly sought the shelter of the trees.
there was a large rubber grove in the forest, and thither many of the animals hasted, panting from the great heat, and there laid down their burdens for a while and rested in the cool shades.
it was a familiar rendezvous, and many of the animals turned there, as much from habit as from fatigue, glad to meet old acquaintances.
on the day which concerns this story there was an unusually large throng, and they chatted together sociably about the different events of their lives and the circumstances of their neighbours.
in one corner a group were noisily comparing notes with one another about the length of time it had taken them to travel certain distances.
in this group was the stag, who monopolised the conversation, and boasted of his own speed, and the buffalo, trying to be affable, said that they were bound to admit that the stag was now the swiftest animal in the jungle, since the dog had run away to man, and the entire company nodded in agreement.
there was, however, a little grey snail in the grass with her shell on her back, who was very disgusted with the boastings of the animals, especially of the stag, as if swiftness was the only virtue to which an animal ought to aspire.
in order to put a stop to their talk, she called out mockingly for them to look at the lather that covered their bodies from over-exertion, and to compare her own cool skin, which had not perspired at all in spite of the journey; consequently, she claimed the honours for good travelling for herself.
this was received with much displeasure by the animals, who felt that their dignity had been flouted, for the snail was an insect in their estimation, not fit to be admitted to their august company.
the stag began to canter gracefully round the grove to prove his superiority, his fellow animals applauding admiringly; but the little snail was not to be silenced, and to show her contempt she challenged the stag to run a long race with her, declaring that she would beat him.
many of the animals urged the stag not to heed the challenge of the snail, as it was only given to affront him, but he said that unless he would run she would always insult him and call him a coward who had shown fear of a snail.
so it was settled that the stag and the snail should run a long race, from the rubber grove to the top of mount shillong, on the animals' return from luri lura.
the name of this little grey snail was ka mattah.
as soon as the animals left the grove she summoned together all her tribe to consider how to proceed so as to beat the stag in the long race.
many of the snail family found fault with her for her foolish challenge, but they were all prepared to help her out of her difficulty, and to save her from the disgrace of defeat.
it was decided in the family council that the snails should form themselves into a long line edging the path all the way from the rubber grove to mount shillong, and hide themselves in the grass, so as not to be discovered by the stag.
so the snails dispersed and formed themselves into a long line on the edge of the path.
as soon as they had sold their wares, the animals hastened to the grove, laughing among themselves as they walked at the foolishness of ka mattah in setting herself up against the swiftest of the animals, and they planned how to make her the general laughing-stock of the jungle for her audacity.
when they reached the rubber grove they found ka mattah ready for the race, having discarded her cumbersome shell and put herself into a racing attitude on the path, which caused them no little amusement.
as soon as the signal was given she dived into the grass and was lost to sight, while the stag cantered towards the mountains.
after going some distance, he stopped, thinking that there would be no need to run further, as he imagined that the snail was far behind and likely to have given up the race; so he called out, "heigh, mattah, art thou coming?"
to his surprise, the voice of the snail answered close beside him saying, "i am here, i am here."
thereupon he ran on more swiftly, but after running several miles he stopped again and called out as before, "heigh, mattah, art thou coming?"
and again the voice answered close to his heels, "i am here, i am here"; upon which the stag tore off at a terrific pace through the forest, only stopping at intervals to call out to the snail.
as often as he called, the voice answered close to his feet, "i am here, i am here," which set him racing with ever-increasing speed.
when he reached the iei tree mountain, he was panting and quivering from his great exertions and longed to lie down to rest, but he saw before him the goal to which he was bound, and spurred himself to a last effort.
he was so exhausted as he climbed up the slopes of shillong that he was giddy and faint, and could scarcely move his wearied limbs, and, to his dismay, before he reached the summit, he heard the tormenting voice of the snail calling out from the goal, "i have won, i have won."
exhausted and defeated, the stag threw himself full length on the ground, and his disappointment and the sickness due to the terrible strain he had put on himself caused him to spit out his gall-bladder.
to this day no gall-bladder is to be found in the anatomy of the stag; so he carries in his body the token of the great defeat he sustained through the wiles of ka mattah, the little grey snail, and the pathetic look has never gone out of his eyes.
xvi
the leap of ka likai
"the leap of ka likai" is the name given to a beautiful waterfall on the khasi hills, a few miles to the west of cherrapoonjee, which, at certain points, is visible from great distances, while the roar and the echoes of its waters are to be heard for miles.
the view is one of exceptional beauty, and many visitors are attracted to see it.
the clear chattering stream is seen emerging from its wild mountain home, dashing over the high precipice into the shadows of a deep gorge, flinging upwards, as it falls, clouds of tremulous spray, which wreathe and coil around majestic rocks, creating countless small rainbows which dance and quiver in a maze of palms and ferns and blossoming shrubs.
the place is so remote and so still, as if every sound had been awed into a hush, except the thunderous boom of the torrent with its distant echoes moaning and shrieking like a spirit in anguish, that the whole locality seems weird and uncanny, suggestive of terrible possibilities.
this, probably, accounts for the gruesome tradition amongst the khasis which has been associated with this waterfall from time immemorial.
it runs as follows:
once upon a time there lived a young married woman called ka likai, in the village of rangjirteh, on the hill above the falls.
she and her husband lived very happily together and rejoiced in the possession of a baby girl of great beauty.
the young husband died when the child was still a babe, and from that time ka likai's whole heart became wrapped up in the child.
she found it very hard to earn enough money to maintain them both, so she was persuaded to marry again, thinking to have her own burden lightened, and to obtain more comforts for her child.
the new husband was a selfish and a somewhat brutal man; he was exceedingly jealous of his little step-daughter, because his wife paid her so much attention, and when he found that he had been accepted as a husband by ka likai merely for the benefit of the child, he was so mortified that he grew to hate her and determined to do her some mischief.
he became sulky in the home and refused to go out to work, but he forced his wife to go every day, and during her absence he bullied and ill-treated the child.
one day ka likai had to go on a long journey to carry iron ore, and this gave the cruel stepfather the opportunity he sought to carry out his evil purpose, and he killed the child.
so depraved had he become and so demoniacal was his hatred, that he determined to inflict even a worse horror upon his wife; he took portions of the body and cooked them against the mother's return, and waited in silence for her coming.
when ka likai reached her home in the evening, she was surprised to find her husband in a seemingly kinder mood than he had shown for a long time, having cooked her supper and set it ready for her, with unusual consideration.
she noticed the absence of the child, and immediately asked where she was, but the man's plausible answer that she had just gone out to play dispelled every misgiving, and she sat down to eat without a suspicion of evil.
after finishing her supper, she drew forward the betel-nut basket to prepare betel and pan to chew, according to custom after a meal.
it happened that one of the hands of the murdered girl had been left by the stepfather in this basket, and the mother at once saw and recognised it.
she wildly demanded the meaning of the awful discovery, whereupon the man confessed his crime, and also told her how she herself had eaten of the flesh of her own child.
the terrible and overwhelming revelation took away the mother's reason.
she rose distractedly, and, running to the edge of the precipice, threw herself into the abyss.
ever since then the falls have been called "the leap of ka likai," and the doleful moans of their echoes are said to be the echoes of ka likai's anguished cries.
to this day, when widows with children are contemplating second marriages, they are cautioned to be careful and to use judgement, with the warning, "remember ka likai."
xvii
what caused the shadows on the moon
in the early ages there lived a family of deities, consisting of a mother and four children three daughters and one son.
they lived very happily for many long years, the children showing great respect to their mother and to one another.
their names were ka um (water), ka ding (fire), and ka sngi (the sun), and the boy was called u bnai (the moon).
they were all very noble and beautiful to look upon, as became their high destiny, but it was universally agreed that ka sngi and u bnai, the two youngest, possessed greater beauty and loveliness than the two elder sisters.
in those days the moon was equal to the sun in brightness and splendour.
when u bnai grew up he began to show somewhat wayward tendencies; he came and went at his own will, without consulting his mother or his sisters, and consorted with companions far beneath him in rank.
sometimes he would absent himself from home for many days, and none of his family knew whither he wandered.
his mother often remonstrated with him, as is right for every mother to do, and she and his sisters endeavoured to guide him into more decorous habits, but he was wilful and self-indulgent, thinking that he had a right to more liberty than his women-folk allowed him.
by degrees he abandoned himself to a life of pleasure and wild pursuits, paying no heed to the advice and warnings of his elders.
once he followed some of his low associates into the nether regions and spent a long time in that land of goblins and vice.
after a while his thoughts came back to his family and his erstwhile radiant home, and a longing to see them came over him, so he quitted the nether regions, and left his evil companions, and returned to his home and his kindred.
he had gazed so long on the hideous faces of the inhabitants of the dark world, that he was dazzled by the beauty of his sister ka sngi, who came to meet him with smiles and joy for his return.
he had also lost the right perception of duty and honour, and, instead of greeting her as his sister, he went to his mother and with unbrotherly wantonness demanded the hand of ka sngi in marriage, saying that he had travelled throughout many worlds, and had seen the sons of all nations, but there was no suitor to be found in the whole universe whose beauty could match that of ka sngi, except himself.
consequently he said that it behoved his mother to give countenance to his suit and to arrange the marriage.
this caused the mother much grief, and she dismissed her son from her presence in dishonour.
ka sngi, when she heard of his design, was enraged because of his unchaste proposal, and in anger she went forth to seek her brother.
when she found him she forgot her usual dignity and decorum, and, lifting a handful of hot ashes, she threw it into u bnai's face.
the ashes scorched his flesh so deeply that the marks have remained on his face to this day.
ever since then the light of the moon has been pale, marred by dark shadows, and that is the reason he does not show his face in the day-time.
xviii
u ksuid tynjang
the ancient khasis were wont to people all their beautiful hills and forests with innumerable supernatural beings, who were supposed to be working in the world either for good or for evil, and dominating all the events of men's lives.
there were bleis (gods) of all grades, and ksuids (demons or goblins) without number, and puris (sprites or fairies), visible and invisible, to be encountered everywhere.
the religious observances of the khasis are mainly intended to fulfil obligations supposed to be imposed upon them by these imaginary beings, who are described as quick to take offence and difficult to appease; hence the many and complicated ceremonies which the khasi religion demands.
one of the most familiar names in ancient lore is that of u ksuid tynjang, a deformed and lame demon who haunted the forests and tormented mankind, and for his misdeeds had been doomed to suffer from an incurable and loathsome itching disease, which could only be allayed by the touch of a human hand.
all the stories related of this repulsive demon are concerned with his forbidding personality and the tortures he inflicted on the victims he captured purposely to force them to rub his body and relieve the terrible itching to which he had been doomed.
he used to tickle them to death with his deformed and claw-like hands if they tried to desist from their sickening task.
to lure people into his grasp, he used to imitate the human voice and to shout "kaw-hoit, kaw-hoit!"
the common signal-cry of people who lose their companions or their way a cry to which all humane travellers quickly respond, for it is considered equivalent to murder to ignore the signal-cry without going to the rescue.
in this way u ksuid tynjang was able to locate the whereabouts of lonely wanderers, and thither he would direct his unsteady steps, skipping and hobbling through the jungle, until he came up to them and made them his captives.
in those days a great fair was periodically held at the foot of the hills, and to this the khasis from all over the country were wont to resort, especially the younger folk, who were fond of pleasure and liked to see the show of fine cloths brought there for sale.
it happened that two young sisters from the hills, ka thei and ka duh, with their brother, attended one of these fairs in the company of some of their neighbours.
it was their first visit to a fair, and they were so taken up with the wonders of it that they forgot all about the time, and walked to and fro, gazing at the strange people and wares, until unconsciously they drifted away from their friends.
it was now growing late, and ka thei, the eldest sister, anxiously bade the others cling to her that they might retrace their steps and if possible find their companions; but although they walked from one end of the fair to the other, they met nobody they knew.
by this they were in great dismay, and they determined to start for home as fast as they could, hoping to overtake their friends on the way.
evidently every one was far ahead, for though they walked very fast and called out at intervals, they saw no signs of a friend and heard no response, and by the time they reached the shillong forests, when they were yet some miles from home, night closed upon them, and they lost their way in the dense dark jungle.
it was hopeless to try and proceed further, for the path could not be traced in the darkness, so the three timid young travellers sat down, footsore and forlorn, crushed down with foreboding and fear.
just then they heard a loud cry in the distance, kaw-hoit!
and they all thought it was the cry of one of their friends signalling to them, and the three shouted back in chorus kaw-hoit!
and waited expectantly for some one to appear.
to their horror they saw approaching, not a friend as they had expected, but the deformed and diseased figure of a hideous ksuid, upon which they realised that they had responded to the mimic-cry of u ksuid tynjang, whom they had often heard described, and against answering whose call they had often been warned.
in a few moments he was with them, and peremptorily he ordered them to rub his itching body with their hands.
although they sickened at the contact, they knew better than to disobey, for u ksuid tynjang was known to be very cruel, tickling to death those who dared to disobey him.
it happened that the young brother escaped being seen by the demon, a fact which ka thei hoped might turn to their advantage, for she had an alert and a resourceful mind.
she motioned to him to squat down on the ground, and she hastily took off the knup (leaf umbrella)
hanging from her shoulders, and covered him with it.
soothed by the touch of the young maidens' hands, the ksuid began to dose.
with a little contrivance, ka thei succeeded in approaching her brother, quickly stuck some shrubs in the knup, to make it look like the surrounding jungle, and whispered to him to crawl away as soon as the dawn broke, and seek the path to their village to carry the news of their fate to their parents, and bid them offer sacrifices to the god of shillong, in whose territory they had been captured, for their deliverance.
with the help of the shrub-covered knup the boy got away at dawn unobserved, and reached his home, whereupon his parents offered sacrifices to u 'lei shillong for the deliverance of their daughters.
whenever the ksuid fell asleep the sisters were able to take turns at their unpleasant task.
in order to lighten their lot somewhat, they planned to kindle a fire for the following night, and they collected dry sticks and made ready; when night fell they kindled the fire and felt less afraid.
during the night, ka duh, in putting some fresh wood on the fire, found a large, heavy dao an axe-knife of iron which she showed to her sister, who at once took it as an augury that deliverance was forthcoming, and that the god of shillong was working for them.
she at once began to think of a plan whereby the dao might be useful to break the spell of the demon and to free her sister and herself from his power.
she heated the thick blade red-hot while the ksuid slumbered, and, taking it by the handle, she seared his body with the hot iron, so that he died.
such, however, is the tenacity of all ksuids that, even when they are killed and die, they do not go out of existence.
u ksuid tynjang could no longer resume the form of a demon as he had formerly done, but he could assume some other form and remain in his old haunts.
the form he chose was that of a jirmi a creeper of a tough and tenacious nature which entangles the feet of hunters when they run in the chase, and saps the life out of the forest trees, and destroys the plants cultivated by mankind.
this plant is known to this day as the tynjang creeper.
xix
what makes the lightning
in the early days of the world, when the animals fraternised with mankind, they tried to emulate the manners and customs of men, and they spoke their language.
mankind held a great festival every thirteen moons, where the strongest men and the handsomest youths danced "sword dances" and contested in archery and other noble games, such as befitted their race and their tribe as men of the hills and the forests the oldest and the noblest of all the tribes.
the animals used to attend these festivals and enjoyed watching the games and the dances.
some of the younger and more enterprising among them even clamoured for a similar carnival for the animals, to which, after a time, the elders agreed; so it was decided that the animals should appoint a day to hold a great feast.
after a period of practising dances and learning games, u pyrthat, the thunder giant, was sent out with his big drum to summon all the world to the festival.
the drum of u pyrthat was the biggest and the loudest of all drums, and could be heard from the most remote corner of the forest; consequently a very large multitude came together, such as had never before been seen at any festival.
the animals were all very smartly arrayed, each one after his or her own taste and fashion, and each one carrying some weapon of warfare or a musical instrument, according to the part he intended to play in the festival.
there was much amusement when the squirrel came up, beating on a little drum as he marched; in his wake came the little bird shakyllia, playing on a flute, followed by the porcupine marching to the rhythm of a pair of small cymbals.
every one was exceedingly merry they joked and poked fun at one another, in great glee: some of the animals laughed so much on that feast day that they have never been able to laugh since.
the mole was there, and on looking up he saw the owl trying to dance, swaying as if she were drunk, and tumbling against all sorts of obstacles, as she could not see where she was going, at which he laughed so heartily that his eyes became narrow slits and have remained so to this day.
when the merriment was at its height u kui, the lynx, arrived on the scene, displaying a very handsome silver sword which he had procured at great expense to make a show at the festival.
when he began to dance and to brandish the silver sword, everybody applauded.
he really danced very gracefully, but so much approbation turned his head, and he became very uplifted, and began to think himself better than all his neighbours.
just then u pyrthat, the thunder giant, happened to look round, and he saw the performance of the lynx and admired the beauty of the silver sword, and he asked to have the handling of it for a short time, as a favour, saying that he would like to dance a little, but had brought no instrument except his big drum.
this was not at all to u kui's liking, for he did not want any one but himself to handle his fine weapon; but all the animals began to shout as if with one voice, saying "shame!"
for showing such discourtesy to a guest, and especially to the guest by whose kindly offices the assembly had been summoned together; so u kui was driven to yield up his silver sword.
as soon as u pyrthat got possession of the sword he began to wield it with such rapidity and force that it flashed like leaping flame, till all eyes were dazzled almost to blindness, and at the same time he started to beat on his big drum with such violence that the earth shook and trembled and the animals fled in terror to hide in the jungle.
during the confusion u pyrthat leaped to the sky, taking the lynx's silver sword with him, and he is frequently seen brandishing it wildly there and beating loudly on his drum.
in many countries people call these manifestations "thunder" and "lightning," but the ancient khasis who were present at the festival knew them to be the stolen sword of the lynx.
u kui was very disconsolate, and has never grown reconciled to his loss.
it is said of him that he has never wandered far from home since then, in order to live near a mound he is trying to raise, which he hopes will one day reach the sky.
he hopes to climb to the top of it, to overtake the giant u pyrthat, and to seize once more his silver sword.
xx
the prohibited food
when mankind first came to live upon the earth, the great god saw fit to walk abroad in their midst frequently, and permitted them to hold converse with him on matters pertaining to their duties and their welfare.
at one time the discourse turned on the terrible consequences of disobedience, which caused punishment to fall, not only on the transgressor himself, but upon the entire human race also.
the man could not comprehend the mystery and sought for enlightenment from god, and in order to help him to understand, the great god said unto him, "do thou retire for seven days to meditate upon this matter; at the end of the seven days i will again visit the earth; seek me then and we will discourse further.
in the meantime go into the forest and hew down the giant tree which i point out to thee, and on thy peril beware of cutting down any other trees."
and he pointed out a large tree in the middle of the forest.
thereupon the great god ascended into heaven, and the man went forth to meditate and to cut down the giant tree, as he had been commanded.
at the expiration of seven days the man came to the appointed place and the great god came to him.
he questioned him minutely about his work and his meditations during the week of retirement, but the man had gained no further knowledge nor received any new light.
so the great god, to help him, began to question him.
their discourse was after this manner:
"hast thou cut down the tree as thou wert commanded?"
"behold, its place is empty, i have cut it down."
"didst thou observe the command in all things?
didst thou abstain from cutting down any of the other trees?"
"i abstained from cutting down any other trees; only the one that was pointed out to me have i cut down."
"what are all these trees and shrubs that i see scattered about?"
"these were broken and uprooted by the weight of the great tree as it fell."
"behold, here are some trees that have been cut down with an axe; how did this happen?"
"the jungle was so thick i could not reach the giant tree without first cutting a path for myself."
"that is true; therefore learn from this parable, man is so great that, if he falls into transgression, others must suffer with him."
but the man still marvelled, and his mind remained dark.
the great god, in his long-sufferance, told him to ponder further upon the parable of the giant tree.
so the great god walked abroad for a time and man was left alone to ponder.
when he returned he found the man still puzzled and unable to comprehend; and once again he questioned him.
"what took place in my absence?"
"nothing of importance that i can think of."
"why didst thou cry out as if in pain?"
"it was for a very trivial cause; an ant bit me in my heel."
"and what didst thou do?"
"i took a stone and killed the ant and the whole nest of ants."
"this also is a parable; because one ant bit thee the whole nest was destroyed.
man is the ant; if man transgresseth he and all his race must suffer."
yet the man comprehended not: whereupon the great god granted him another seven days to retire and to meditate upon the parables of the giant tree and the ant.
again the man came to the appointed place at the end of seven days'
seeking to receive fuller knowledge and understanding.
the great god had not yet appeared, so the man took a walk in the forest to await his coming.
as he wandered aimlessly about, he met a stranger carrying a small net in his hand out of which he was eating some food.
now this stranger was a demon, but the man did not know it.
"where art thou going?"
asked the stranger affably after the manner of the country.
"just to walk for my pleasure," replied the man; "what food art thou eating?"
"only some cakes of bread which i find very tasty; take some and eat."
and he passed the net to him.
"thy offer is kindly made, but do not take it amiss that i refuse to accept thy bread, for it is decreed that we shall live on rice alone."
"even so, but surely to take a morsel to taste would not be wrong."
this time the man did not resist, but accepted a cake of bread and ate it with enjoyment, after which the stranger departed, taking his bag of cakes with him.
the man had scarcely swallowed the strange food when he heard the voice of the great god calling unto him from the skies, saying:
"what hast thou done, oh man?
thou knowest the decree that rice was provided to be thy food, yet thou hast unmindfully transgressed and partaken of the strange food of the tempter.
henceforth thou and thy race shall be tormented by the strange being whose food thou hast eaten.
by eating his food thou hast given him dominion over thee and over thy race, and to escape from his torments thou and thy race must give of thy substance to appease him and to avert his wrath."
thus, too late, the man began to understand, and ever since then the days of men have been full of sorrow because man yielded to the tempter's voice instead of submitting to the decrees of the great god.
xxi
the cooing of the doves
of all the birds there are none that keep themselves more separate than the doves.
they do not peck at other birds as the crows and the vultures do, but, on restless foot and wing, they quickly withdraw themselves from every presuming neighbour.
the ancient khasis say that at one time the doves sang like other birds, and the following story tells how they ceased their singing and came to express their feelings in the plaintive "coo-oo" for which they are noted throughout the world.
once a family of doves lived very happily in the forest, and its youngest member was a beautiful female called ka paro.
her parents and all the family were very indulgent to her, and never permitted her to risk the danger of the grain-fields until they had ascertained that there were no hunters or wild beasts likely to attack her; so ka paro used to stay in the shelter of her home until they gave a signal that the land was safe and clear.
one day, while waiting for the signal, she happened to go up into a tall tree on which there were clusters of luscious red berries growing.
as the doves usually subsisted on grain, ka paro did not pay much attention to the berries; she sat on a branch, preening her feathers and watching other birds who came to pick them.
by and by there came a smart young jylleit (a jungle bird with gorgeous green and gold feathers) who perched to pick berries upon the very branch on which ka paro sat.
she had never seen such a beautiful bird, and to please him she sang to him one of her sweetest songs.
u jylleit was quickly attracted by the sweet voice and the gentle manners of the dove, and a pleasant intimacy grew between the two.
ka paro came to that tree to preen her feathers and to sing every day, while the jylleit admired her and picked the berries.
after a time u jylleit sent to the dove's parents to ask her in marriage.
although their young daughter pressed them hard to give their consent, the parents were wise, and did not want to trust the happiness of their pet child to a stranger until they had time to test his worth; they knew too that marriages between alien tribes were scarcely ever a success.
so, to test the constancy of the young suitor, they postponed the marriage till the winter, and with that the lovers had to be content.
the parents remembered that the berries would be over by the winter, and it remained to be seen whether the jylleit would be willing to forgo his luxuries and to share the frugal food of the doves, or whether he would fly away to some other forests where berries were to be found.
ka paro was so much in love that she was very confident of the fidelity of her suitor, but to her sorrow, as soon as the berries were finished, u jylleit flitted away without even a word of farewell, and she never saw him again.
from that time ka paro ceased to sing.
she could only utter the longing and sorrow that was in her heart in sad and plaintive notes, so the doves are cooing sadly even in their happiest moments.
xxii
how the monkey's colour became grey
in olden times the monkeys had long hair of different colours covering their bodies, and they were much more handsome than they are in the present day.
they were very inquisitive animals and liked to meddle in the affairs of other people, and they caused a lot of trouble in the world.
one day a monkey wandering on the plains met ram, the god of the hindus, searching for the goddess sita.
ram, thinking that the monkey by his inquisitiveness and audacity might help to find her, bribed him to come to his service.
after making enquiries far and near, the monkey heard at last that ka sita was confined in a fort in the island of ceylon, so he went and told the god ram.
thereupon ram gathered together a great host to go and fight the king of the island of ceylon, but they found the place infested with dragons and goblins of the most hostile disposition, so that they dared not venture to land.
the hosts of ram then held a consultation, and they decided that, as the monkey had been the cause of their coming there, he must find out a way for them to land without being destroyed by the dragons.
the monkey, not knowing what to say, suggested that they should burn down the forests of ceylon so that the dragons could have no place to hide.
upon this the hosts of ram declared that the monkey himself must go over to put his plan into execution.
so they dipped a long piece of cloth in oil and tied one end of it to the monkey's tail and set fire to the other end of it, and the monkey went over to the island and ran hither and thither dragging the flaming cloth behind him and setting the forests on fire everywhere he went, until all the forests of ceylon were in flames.
before he could get back to his companions he saw with dismay that the cloth was nearly burnt out, and the heat from the fire behind him began to singe his long hair; whereupon, fearing to be burnt alive, he plunged into the sea and the flames were extinguished.
from that time the monkey's hair has been grey and short as a sign that he once set the forests of ceylon on fire.
xxiii
the legend of ka panshandi, the lazy tortoise
once upon a time there lived a young tortoise near a large pool.
she was very ill-favoured and ugly in appearance and very foolish, as well as being of a lazy disposition, and, like all lazy people, she was slovenly and dirty in her habits.
her name was ka panshandi.
the pool near which she lived being very clear, the stars and other heavenly bodies often gazed into it to behold their own images.
at times the reflection of countless shining, blinking stars would be visible in the placid waters till the pool looked like a little part of the sky.
at such times ka panshandi took immense delight in plunging into the pool, darting backwards and forwards and twirling round the bright silvery spots with great glee and contentment.
among those who came frequently to gaze at themselves in the pool was u lurmangkhara, the brightest of all the stars; he began to notice the playful gambols of ka panshandi in the water and to admire her twirling motions.
he lived so far away that he could not see her ugliness, nor could he know that she was lazy and foolish.
all he knew was that she exposed herself nightly to the chilly waters of the pool in order (as he thought) to have the pleasure of being near the images of the stars, which was very flattering to his vanity.
if she was so strongly attracted by their images, he thought to himself, how much more would she adore the real live stars if she were brought into contact with them.
u lurmangkhara fell deeply in love with her, and determined to go down to the earth to marry her and to endow her with all his wealth, for he was very rich and had always lived in great splendour.
when his relations and friends heard of his purpose, they were much disturbed, and they came to remonstrate with him against what they considered to be a very rash and risky step to go to a foreign land to make his home and to mate with an unknown consort whose habits and outlook on life might be altogether alien to him.
but u lurmangkhara would listen to no counsel.
persons in love never take heed of other people's advice.
down to the earth he came, and there married ka panshandi and endowed her with all his wealth.
when ka panshandi found herself a rich wife, having unexpectedly won one of the noblest husbands in the world, her vanity knew no bounds, and she grew more indolent and idle than ever.
her house was squalid, and she minded not when even her own body was daubed with mud, and she felt no shame to see her husband's meals served off unscoured platters.
u lurmangkhara was very disappointed; being patient and gentle, he tried by kind words to teach his wife to amend her ways, but it was of no avail.
gradually he grew discontented and spoke angrily to her, but she remained as callous and as indifferent as ever, for it is easier to turn even a thief from stealing than to induce a sluggard to renounce his sloth.
he threatened to leave her, her neighbours also repeatedly warned her that she would lose her good husband unless she altered her ways, but she remained as unconcerned as ever.
at last, driven to despair, u lurmangkhara gathered together all his wealth and went back to his home in the sky.
ka panshandi was filled with remorse and grief when she found that her husband had departed.
she called piteously after him, promising to reform if he would only return, but it was too late.
he never came back, and she was left to her squalor and her shame.
to this day ka panshandi is still hoping to see u lurmangkhara coming back to the earth, and she is seen crawling about mournfully, with her neck outstretched towards the sky in expectation of his coming, but there is no sign of his return, and her life is dull and joyless.
after these events ka panshandi's name became a mockery and a proverb in the land; ballads were sung setting forth her fate as a warning to lazy and thriftless wives.
to the present day a forsaken wife who entertains hope of her husband's return is likened by the khasis to ka panshandi in her expectant attitude with her head lifted above her shell: "ka panshandi dem-lor-khah."
xxiv
the idiot and the hyndet bread
long, long ago there lived on the khasi hills a certain widow with her only son, a lad possessed of great personal beauty, who was mentally deficient, and was known in the village as "u bieit" (the idiot).
the mother, being very poor and having neither kith nor kin to help her, was obliged to go out to work every day to support herself and her hapless child, so he was left to his own devices, roaming at large in the village.
in this way he grew up to be very troublesome to his neighbours, for he often broke into their houses to forage for something to eat and caused much damage and loss.
like most people of weak intellect, u bieit showed wonderful cunning in some directions, especially in the matter of procuring some good thing to eat, and the way he succeeded in duping some of his more sagacious comrades in order to obtain some dainty tit-bits of food was a matter of much amusement and merriment.
but there were so many unpleasant incidents that people could not safely leave their houses, and matters at last became so serious that the widow was ordered to leave the village on his account.
she sought admission into many of the surrounding villages, but the fame of u bieit had travelled before him and no one was willing to let them dwell in their midst.
so in great distress she took him down to the plains, where there was a big river along which many boats used to sail.
here she mournfully determined to abandon him, hoping that some of the wealthy merchants who often passed that way might be attracted by his good looks and take him into their company.
she gave him some rice cakes to eat when he should be hungry, and told him to be a good boy and stay by the river-side, and she would bring him more cakes next day.
the boy thoroughly appreciated the promise of more cakes, so was quite willing to be left by the river, but he felt lonely and uncomfortable in his strange surroundings after his mother had gone, and whenever a boat came in sight he ran into the thickets to hide.
by and by a large boat was seen approaching with great white sails, which frightened him greatly and sent him running into a thicket with all his might.
it happened that a wealthy merchant was returning from a journey, and landed to take food close to the hiding-place of u bieit.
the servants were going backward and forward into the boat while preparing their master's food, and, fearing lest some of them might tamper with his chest of gold nuggets, he ordered them to carry it ashore, and buried it in the sands close to where he sat.
just as he finished his repast a heavy shower came on, and the merchant hurried to the shelter of his boat; in his haste he forgot all about the chest of gold buried in the sands, and the boat sailed away without it.
all this time the idiot boy was watching the proceedings with great curiosity and a longing to share the tempting meal, but fear of the boat with white sails kept him from showing himself.
however, as soon as the boat was out of sight, he came out of the thicket and began to unearth the buried chest.
when he saw the gold nuggets he thought they were some kind of cakes, and, putting one in his mouth, he tried to eat it.
finding it so hard, he decided that it must have been unbaked, and his poor marred mind flew at once to his mother, who always baked food for him at home, and, taking the heavy chest on his back, he started through the forest to seek her, and his instinct, like that of a homing pigeon, brought him safely to his mother's door.
it was quite dark when he reached the village, so that nobody saw him, but his mother was awake crying and lamenting her own hard fate which had driven her to desert her unfortunate child.
as she cried she kept saying to herself that if only she possessed money she could have obtained the goodwill of her neighbours and been permitted to live with her boy in the village.
she was surprised to hear sounds of shuffling at her door resembling the shuffling of her forsaken boy; she got up hurriedly to see who it was, and was relieved and joyful to find him come back to her alive.
she marvelled when she saw him carrying a heavy chest on his shoulders, and she could get but little light from his incoherent speech as to how he had obtained possession of it, but her eyes glittered with delight when she saw that it was full of gold nuggets.
she allowed the lad to keep his delusion that they were cakes, and to pacify him she took some rice and made some savoury cakes for him, pretending that she was baking the strange cakes from the chest.
after eating these, he went to sleep satisfied and happy.
now the widow had been longing for gold all her life long, saying that she wanted it to provide better comforts for the son who could not look after himself, but the moment the gold came into her possession her heart was filled with greed.
not only was she not willing to part with any of the nuggets to obtain the favour of the villagers for her son, but she was planning to send him abroad again to search for more gold, regardless of the perils to which he would be exposed.
she called him up before daybreak, and, giving him some rice cakes in a bag, she told him to go again to the river-side and to bring home more boxes of cakes for her to bake.
so the boy started out on his fruitless errand, but soon lost his way in the jungle; he could find the path neither to the river nor to his mother's house, so he wandered about disconsolate and hungry in the dense woods, searching for hidden chests and unbaked cakes.
in that forest many fairies had their haunts, but they were invisible to mankind.
they knew all about the idiot boy and his sad history, and a great pity welled up in their hearts when they saw how the lust for gold had so corrupted his mother's feelings that she sent him alone and unprotected into the dangers of that great forest.
they determined to try and induce him to accompany them to the land of the fairies, where he would be guarded from all harm and where willing hands would minister to all his wants.
so seven of the fairies transformed themselves into the likeness of mankind and put on strong wings like the wings of great eagles, and came to meet u bieit in the jungle.
by this time he had become exhausted with want of food, and as soon as he saw the fairies he called out eagerly to ask if they had any food, to which they replied that they had only some hyndet bread (kpu hyndet) which had been baked by the fairies in heaven; and when they gave him some of it, he ate it ravenously and held out his hand for more.
this was just what the fairies wanted, for no human being can be taken to fairyland except of his own free will.
so they said that they had no more to give in that place, but if he liked to come with them to the land of the fairies beyond the blue realm, he could have abundance of choice food and hyndet cakes.
he expressed his readiness to go at once, and asked them how he should get there.
they told him to take hold of their wings, to cling firmly, and not to talk on the way; so he took hold of the wings of the fairies and the ascent to fairyland began.
now as they flew upwards there were many beautiful sights which gave the fairies great delight as they passed.
they saw the glories of the highest mountains, and the endless expanse of forest and waters, and the fleeting shadows of the clouds, and the brilliant colours of the rainbow, dazzling in their transient beauty.
but the idiot boy saw nothing of these things; his simple mind was absorbed in the one thought food.
when they had ascended to a great height and the borders of fairyland came into view, u bieit could no longer repress his curiosity, and, forgetting all about the caution not to speak, he asked the fairies eagerly, "will the hyndet cakes be big?"
as soon as he uttered the words he lost his hold on the fairies' wings and, falling to the earth with great velocity, he died.
the khasis relate this story mainly as a warning not to impose responsible duties on persons incapable of performing them, and not to raise people into high positions which they are not fitted to fill.
xxv
u ramhah
where is the country without its giant-story?
all through the ages the world has revelled in tales of the incomparable prowess and the unrivalled strength and stature of great and distinguished men whom we have learned to call giants.
we trace them from the days of samson and goliath, past the knights of arthur in the "island of the mighty" and the great warriors of ancient greece, down to the mythland of our nursery days, where the exploits of the famous "jack" and his confederates filled us with wonder and awe.
our world has been a world full of mighty men to whom all the nations pay tribute, and the khasis in their small corner are not behind the rest of the world in this respect, for they also have on record the exploits of a giant whose fate was as strange as that of any famous giant in history.
the name of the khasi giant was u ramhah.
he lived in a dark age, and his vision was limited, but according to his lights and the requirements of his country and his generation, he performed great and wonderful feats, such as are performed by all orthodox giants all the world over.
he lifted great boulders, he erected huge pillars, he uprooted large trees, he fought wild beasts, he trampled on dragons, he overcame armed hosts single-handed, he championed the cause of the defenceless, and won for himself praise and renown.
when his fame was at its height he smirched his reputation by his bad actions.
after the great victory over u thlen in the cave of pomdoloi, he became very uplifted and proud, and considered himself entitled to the possessions of the khasis.
so instead of helping and defending his neighbours as of yore, he began to oppress and to plunder them, and came to be regarded as a notorious highwayman, to be avoided and dreaded, who committed thefts and crimes wherever he went.
at this period he is described as a very tall and powerful man whose stature reached "half way to the sky," and he always carried a soop (a large basket of plaited bamboo) on his back, into which he put all his spoils, which were generally some articles of food or clothing.
he broke into houses, looted the markets and waylaid travellers.
the plundered people used to run after him, clinging to his big soop, but he used to beat them and sometimes kill them, and by reason of his great strength and long strides he always got away with his booty, leaving havoc and devastation behind him.
he was so strong and so terrible that no one could check his crimes or impose any punishments.
there lived in the village of cherra in those days a wealthy woman called ka bthuh, who had suffered much and often at the hands of u ramhah, and whose anger against him burnt red-hot.
she had pleaded urgently with the men of her village to rise in a body to avenge her wrongs, but they always said that it was useless.
whenever she met u ramhah she insulted him by pointing and shaking her finger at him, saying, "you may conquer the strength of a man, but beware of the cunning of a woman."
for this saying u ramhah hated her, for it showed that he had not been able to overawe her as everybody else had been overawed by him, and he raided her godowns more frequently than ever, not dreaming that she was scheming to defeat him.
one day ka bthuh made a great feast; she sent invitations to many villages far and near, for she wanted it to be as publicly known as possible in order to lure u ramhah to attend.
it was one of his rude habits to go uninvited to feasts and to gobble up all the eatables before the invited guests had been helped.
the day of ka bthuh's feast came and many guests arrived, but before the rice had been distributed there was a loud cry that u ramhah was marching towards the village.
everybody considered this very annoying, but ka bthuh, the hostess, pretended not to be disturbed, and told the people to let the giant eat as much as he liked first, and she would see that they were all helped later on.
at this u ramhah laughed, thinking that she was beginning to be afraid of him, and he helped himself freely to the cooked rice and curry that was at hand.
he always ate large mouthfuls, but at feast times he used to put an even greater quantity of rice into his mouth, just to make an impression and a show.
ka bthuh had anticipated all this, and she stealthily put into the rice some sharp steel blades which the giant swallowed unsuspectingly.
when he had eaten to his full content u ramhah took his departure, and when he had gone out of earshot ka bthuh told the people what she had done.
they marvelled much at her cunning, and they all said it was a just deed to punish one whose crimes were so numerous and so flagrant, but who escaped penalty by reason of his great strength.
from that time ka bthuh won great praise and became famous.
u ramhah never reached his home from that feast.
the sharp blades he had swallowed cut his intestines and he died on the hill-side alone and unattended, as the wild animals die, and there was no one to regret his death.
when the members of his clan heard of his death they came in a great company to perform rites and to cremate his body, but the body was so big that it could not be cremated, and so they decided to leave it till the flesh rotted, and to come again to gather together his bones.
after a long time they came to gather the bones, but it was found that there was no urn large enough to contain them, so they piled them together on the hill-side until a large urn could be made.
while the making of the large urn was in progress there arose a great storm, and a wild hurricane blew from the north, which carried away the bleached bones of u ramhah, and scattered them all over the south borders of the khasi hills, where they remain to this day in the form of lime-rocks, the many winding caves and crevices of which are said to be the cavities in the marrowless bones of the giant.
thus u ramhah, who injured and plundered the khasis in his life-time, became the source of inestimable wealth to them after his death.
his name is heard on every hearth, used as a proverb to describe objects of abnormal size or people of abnormal strength.
xxvi
how the cat came to live with man
in olden times ka miaw, the cat, lived in the jungle with her brother the tiger, who was king of the jungle.
she was very proud of her high pedigree and anxious to display the family greatness, and to live luxuriously according to the manner of families of high degree; but the tiger, although he was very famous abroad, was not at all mindful of the well-being and condition of his family, and allowed them to be often in want.
he himself, by his skill and great prowess, obtained the most delicate morsels for his own consumption, but as it involved trouble to bring booty home for his household, he preferred to leave what he did not want himself to rot on the roadside, or to be eaten by any chance scavenger.
therefore, the royal larder was often very bare and empty.
thus the cat was reduced to great privations, but so jealous was she for the honour and good name of her house that, to hide her poverty from her friends and neighbours, she used to sneak out at night-time, when nobody could see her, in order to catch mice and frogs and other common vermin for food.
once she ventured to speak to her brother on the matter, asking him what glory there was in being king if his family were obliged to work and to fare like common folks.
the tiger was so angered that she never dared to approach the subject again, and she continued to live her hard life and to shield the family honour.
one day the tiger was unwell, and a number of his neighbours came to enquire after his health.
desiring to entertain them with tobacco, according to custom, he shouted to his sister to light the hookah and to serve it round to the company.
now, even in the most ordinary household, it is very contrary to good breeding to order the daughter of the house to serve the hookah, and ka miaw felt the disgrace keenly, and, hoping to excuse herself, she answered that there was no fire left by which to light the hookah.
this answer displeased the tiger greatly, for he felt that his authority was being flouted before his friends.
he ordered his sister angrily to go to the dwelling of mankind to fetch a firebrand with which to light the hookah, and, fearing to be punished if she disobeyed, the cat ran off as she was bidden and came to the dwelling of mankind.
some little children were playing in the village, and when they saw ka miaw they began to speak gently to her and to stroke her fur.
this was so pleasant to her feelings after the harsh treatment from her brother that she forgot all about the firebrand and stayed to play with the children, purring to show her pleasure.
meanwhile the tiger and his friends sat waiting impatiently for the hookah that never came.
it was considered a great privilege to draw a whiff from the royal hookah; but seeing that the cat delayed her return, the visitors took their departure, and showed a little sullenness at not receiving any mark of hospitality in their king's house.
the tiger's anger against his sister was very violent, and, regardless of his ill-health, he went out in search of her.
ka miaw heard him coming, and knew from his growl that he was angry; she suddenly remembered her forgotten errand, and, hastily snatching a firebrand from the hearth, she started for home.
her brother met her on the way and began to abuse her, threatening to beat her, upon which she threw down the firebrand at his feet in her fright and ran back to the abode of mankind, where she has remained ever since, supporting herself as of old by catching frogs and mice, and purring to the touch of little children.
xxvii
how the fox got his white breast
once a fox, whose name was u myrsiang, lived in a cave near the residence of a siem (chief).
this fox was a very shameless marauder, and had the impudence to conduct his raids right into the siem's private barn-yard, and to devour the best of his flocks, causing him much annoyance and loss.
the siem gave his servants orders to catch u myrsiang, but though they laid many traps and snares in his way he was so wily and so full of cunning that he managed to evade every pitfall, and to continue his raids on the siem's flocks.
one of the servants, more ingenious than his fellows, suggested that they should bring out the iron cage in which the siem was wont to lock up state criminals, and try and wheedle the fox into entering it.
so they brought out the iron cage and set it open near the entrance to the barn-yard, with a man on guard to watch.
by and by, u myrsiang came walking by very cautiously, sniffing the air guardedly to try and discover if any hidden dangers lay in his path.
he soon reached the cage, but it aroused no suspicion in him, for it was so large and so unlike every trap he was familiar with that he entered it without a thought of peril, and ere he was aware of his error, the man on guard had bolted the door behind him and made him a prisoner.
there was great jubilation in the siem's household when the capture of the fox was made known.
the siem himself was so pleased that he commanded his servants to prepare a feast on the following day as a reward for their vigilance and ingenuity.
he also gave orders not to kill the fox till the next day, and that he should be brought out of the cage after the feast and executed in a public place as a warning to other thieves and robbers.
so u myrsiang was left to pine in his prison for that night.
the fox was very unhappy, as all people in confinement must be.
he explored the cage from end to end but found no passage of egress.
he thought out many plans of escape, but not one of them could be put into execution, and he was driven to face the doom of certain death.
he whined in his misery and despair, and roamed about the cage all night.
some time towards morning he was disturbed by the sounds of footsteps outside his cage, and, thinking that the siem's men had come to kill him, he lay very still, hardly venturing to breathe.
to his relief the new-comer turned out to be a belated traveller, who, upon seeing a cage, sat down, leaning his weary body against the bars, while u myrsiang kept very still, not wishing to disclose his presence until he found out something more about his unexpected companion, and hoping also to turn his coming to some good account.
the traveller was an outlaw driven away from a neighbouring state for some offence, and was in great perplexity how to procure the permission of the siem (into whose state he had now wandered) to dwell there and be allowed to cultivate the land.
thinking that he was quite alone, he began to talk to himself, not knowing that a wily fox was listening attentively to all that he was saying.
"i am a most unfortunate individual," said the stranger.
"i have been driven away from my home and people, i have no money and no friends, and no belongings except this little polished mirror which no one is likely to buy.
i am so exhausted that if they drive me out of this state again i shall die of starvation on the roadside.
if i could only find a friend who could help me to win the favour of the siem, so that i may be permitted to live here unmolested for a time, till my trouble blows over!"
u myrsiang's heart was beating very fast with renewed hope when he heard these words, and he tried to think of some way to delude the stranger to imagine that he was some one who had influence with the siem, and to get the man to open the cage and let him out.
so with all the cunning he was capable of, he accosted the man in his most affable and courteous manner:
"friend and brother," he said, "do not despair.
i think i can put you in the way, not only to win the siem's favour, but to become a member of his family."
the outlaw was greatly embarrassed when he discovered that some one had overheard him talking.
it was such a dark night he could not see the fox, but thought that it was a fellow-man who had accosted him.
fearing to commit himself further if he talked about himself, he tried to divert the conversation away from himself, and asked his companion who he was and what he was doing alone in the cage at night.
the fox, nothing loth to monopolise the conversation, gave a most plausible account of his misfortunes, and his tale seemed so sincere and apparently true that it convinced the man on the instant.
"there is great trouble in this state," said u myrsiang.
"the only daughter of the siem is sick, and according to the divinations she is likely to die unless she can be wedded before sunset to-morrow, and her bridegroom must be a native of some other state.
the time was too short to send envoys to any of the neighbouring states to arrange for the marriage, and as i happened to pass this way on a journey, the siem's men forcibly detained me, on finding that i was a foreigner, and to-morrow they will compel me to marry the siem's daughter, which is much against my will.
if you open the door of this cage and let me out, you may become the siem's son-in-law by taking my place in the cage."
"what manner of man are you," asked the outlaw, "that you should disdain the honour of marrying the daughter of a siem?"
"you are mistaken to think that i disdain the honour," said the fox.
"if i had been single i should have rejoiced in the privilege, but i am married already, and have a wife and family in my own village far from here, and my desire is to be released so that i may return to them."
"in that case," replied the man, "i think you are right to refuse, but as for me it will be a most desirable union, and i shall be only too glad to exchange places with you."
thereupon he opened the door of the cage and went in, while u myrsiang slipped out, and bolted the door behind him.
the man was so pleased with his seeming good fortune that at parting he took off his polished mirror which was suspended round his neck by a silver chain, and begged his companion to accept it in remembrance of their short but strange encounter.
as he was handing it to u myrsiang, his hand came into contact with the fox's thick fur, and he realised then that he had been duped, and had, owing to his credulity, released the most thieving rogue in the forest.
regrets were vain.
he was firmly imprisoned within the cage, while he heard the laughter of u myrsiang echoing in the distance as he hurried away to safety, taking the polished mirror with him.
the fox was well aware that it was unsafe for him to remain any longer in that locality, so, after fastening the mirror firmly round his neck, he hastened away with all speed, and did not halt till he came to a remote and secluded part of the jungle, where he stopped to take his breath and to rest.
unknown to u myrsiang, a big tiger was lying in wait for prey in that part of the jungle, and, upon seeing the fox, made ready to spring upon him.
but the fox, hearing some noise, turned round suddenly, and by that movement the polished mirror came right in front of the tiger's face.
the tiger saw in it the reflection of his own big jaws and flaming eyes, from which he slunk away in terror, thinking that u myrsiang was some great tiger-demon haunting the jungle in the shape of a fox, and from that time the tiger has never been known to attack the fox.
one day, when hotly pursued by hunters, the fox plunged into a deep river.
as he swam across, the flood carried away his polished mirror, but the stamp of it remains to this day on his breast in the form of a patch of white fur.
xxviii
how the tiger got his strength
after the animals were created they were sent to live in the jungle, but they were so foolish that they got into one another's way and interfered one with another and caused much inconvenience in the world.
in order to produce better order, the bleis (gods) called together a durbar to decide on the different qualities with which it would be well to endow the animals, so as to make them intelligent and able to live in harmony with one another.
after this, mankind and all the animals were summoned to the presence of the bleis, and each one was given such intelligence and sense as seemed best to suit his might and disposition: the man received beauty and wisdom, and to the tiger were given craftiness and the power to walk silently.
when the man returned to his kindred, and his mother beheld him, her heart was lifted with pride, for she knew that the bleis had given to him the best of their gifts, and that henceforth all the animals would be inferior to him in beauty and intelligence.
realising with regret that he had not received physical strength equal to the beauty of his person, and that consequently his life would be always in danger, she told her son to go back to the bleis to ask for the gift of strength.
the man went back to the bleis according to the command of his mother, but it was so late when he arrived that the bleis were about to retire.
seeing that he was comelier than any of the animals and possessed more wisdom, which made him worthy of the gift of strength, they told him to come on the morrow and they would bestow upon him the desired gift.
the man was dismissed till the following day, but he went away happy in his mind, knowing that the bleis would not go back on their word.
now it happened that the tiger was roaming about in that vicinity, and by reason of his silent tread he managed to come unobserved near enough to hear the bleis and the man talking about the gift of strength.
he determined to forestall the man on the morrow, and to obtain the gift of strength for himself; soon he slunk away lest it should be discovered that he had been listening.
early on the following morning, before the bleis had come forth from their retirement, the tiger went to their abode and sent in a messenger to say that he had come according to their command to obtain the gift of strength, upon which the bleis endowed him with strength twelve times greater than what he had before possessed, thinking that they were bestowing it upon the man.
the tiger felt himself growing strong, and as soon as he left the abode of the bleis, he leaped forward twelve strides, and twelve strides upward, and so strong was he that it was unto him but as one short stride.
then he knew that he had truly forestalled the man, and had obtained the gift of strength, and could overcome men in battle.
later in the day, in accordance with the command he had received, the man set out for the abode of the bleis, but on the way the tiger met him and challenged him to fight, and began to leap and bound upwards and forwards to show how strong he was, and said that he had received the "twelve strengths" and no one would be able to withstand him.
he was just about to spring when the man evaded him, and ran away towards the abode of the bleis.
when he came there and presented himself before them, they asked him angrily, "why dost thou come again to trouble us?
we have already given thee the gift of strength."
then the man knew that the tiger's boast was true, and he told the bleis of his encounter with the tiger on the way, and of his boast that he had obtained the gift of strength.
they were greatly annoyed that deception had been practised on them, but there is no decree by which to recall a gift when once it has been bestowed by the bleis.
they looked upon the man with pity, and said that one so beautiful and full of wisdom should not be left defenceless at the mercy of the inferior animals.
so they gave unto him a bow and an arrow, and told him, "when the tiger attacks thee with his strength, shoot, and the arrow will pierce his body and kill him.
behold, we have given to thee the gift of skill to make and to use weapons of warfare whereby thou wilt be able to combat the lower animals."
thus the tiger received strength, and man received the gift of skill.
the mother of mankind, when she saw it, told her sons to abstain from using their weapons against one another, but to turn them against the animals only, according to the decree of the bleis.
xxix
why the goat lives with mankind
in early times the goat lived in the jungle, leading a free and independent life, like all the other animals.
the following story gives an account of her flight from the animals to make her dwelling with man.
one fine spring day, when the young leaves were sprouting on the forest trees, ka blang, the goat, went out in search of food.
her appetite was sharpened by the delicious smell of the spring, which filled the air and the forest, so, not being satisfied with grass, she began to pluck the green leaves from a bush.
while she was busy plucking and eating, she was startled to hear the deep growl of the tiger close beside her.
the tiger asked her angrily, "what art thou doing there?"
ka blang was so upset by this sudden interruption, and in such fear of the big and ferocious beast, that she began to tremble from head to foot, so that even her beard shook violently, and she hardly knew what she was doing or saying.
in her fright she quavered:
"i am eating khla" (a tiger), instead of saying, "i am eating sla"
(leaves).
the tiger took this answer for insolence and became very angry.
he was preparing to spring upon her when he caught sight of her shaking beard, which appeared to him like the tuft of hair on a warrior's lance when it is lifted against an enemy.
he thought that ka blang must be some powerful and savage beast able to attack him, and he ran away from her in terror.
now ka blang, having an ungrateful heart, instead of being thankful for her deliverance, grew discontented with her lot, and began to grumble because she had not been endowed with the strength attributed to her by the tiger, and she went about bewailing her inferiority.
one day, in her wanderings, she climbed to the top of an overhanging cliff, and there she lay down to chew the cud, and, as usual, to dwell on her grievances.
it happened that the tiger was again prowling in the same vicinity, but when he saw the goat approaching he fled in fear, and hid himself under the very cliff on to which she had climbed.
there he lay very still, for fear of betraying his presence to the goat, for he was still under the delusion that she was a formidable and mighty animal.
ka blang, all unconscious of his presence, began to grumble aloud, saying:
"i am the poorest and the weakest of all the beasts, without any means of defence or strength to withstand an attack.
i have neither tusks nor claws to make an enemy fear me.
it is true that the tiger once ran away from me because he mistook my beard for a sign of strength; but if he had only known the truth he would have killed me on the instant, for even a small dog could kill me if he clutched me by the throat."
the tiger, beneath the rock, was listening to every word, and, as he listened, his wrath was greatly kindled to find that he had disgraced himself by running away from such a contemptible creature, and he determined now to avenge himself for that humiliation.
he crept stealthily from his hiding-place, and, ere she was aware of his approach, ka blang was clutched by the throat and killed.
in order to restore his prestige, the tiger proclaimed far and wide how he had captured and killed the goat, and after that other tigers and savage beasts began to hunt the goats, and there followed such a general slaughter of goats that they were nearly exterminated.
driven to great extremity, the few remaining goats held a tribal council to consider how to save themselves from the onslaughts of the tigers, but, finding themselves powerless to offer any resistance, they determined to apply to mankind for protection.
when they came to him, man said that he could not come to the jungle to defend them, but they must come and live in his village if they wished to be protected by him.
so the goats ran away from the jungle for ever, and came to live with mankind.
xxx
how the ox came to be the servant of man
when mankind first came to live upon the earth, they committed many blunders, for they were ignorant and wasteful, not knowing how to shift for themselves, and having no one to teach them.
the deity who was watching their destinies saw their misfortunes and pitied them, for he saw that unless their wastefulness ceased they would perish of want when they multiplied and became numerous in the world.
so the deity called to him the ox, who was a strong and patient animal, and sent him as a messenger to mankind, to bless them, and to show them how to prosper.
the ox had to travel a long way in the heat, and was much worried by the flies that swarmed round his path and the small insects that clung to his body and sucked his blood.
then a crow alighted on his back and began to peck at the insects, upon which it loved to feed; this eased the ox greatly, and he was very pleased to see the crow, and he told her where he was going, as a messenger from the deity to mankind.
the crow was very interested when she heard this, and questioned him minutely about the message he had been sent to deliver, and the ox told her all that he had been commanded to say to mankind how he was to give them the blessing of the deity and to warn them not to waste the products of the earth lest they died of want.
they must learn to be thrifty and careful so that they might live to be old and wise, and they were to boil only sufficient rice for each meal, so as not to waste their food.
when the crow heard this she was much disturbed, for she saw that there would be no leavings for the crows if mankind followed these injunctions.
so she said to the ox, "will you repay my kindness to you in destroying the insects that worry you by giving a message like that to mankind to deprive me of my accustomed spoil?"
she begged of him to teach mankind to cook much rice always, and to ordain many ceremonies to honour their dead ancestors by offering rice to the gods, so that the crows and the other birds might have abundance to eat.
thus, because she had eased his torments, the ox listened to her words, and when he came to mankind he delivered only part of the message of the deity, and part of the message of the crow.
when the time came for the ox to return, a great fear overcame him as he approached the abode of the deity, for he saw that he had greatly trespassed and that the deity would be wrathful.
in the hope of obtaining forgiveness, he at once confessed his wrong-doing, how he had been tempted by the crow, and had delivered the wrong message.
this confession did not mitigate the anger of the deity, for he arose, and, with great fury, he struck the ox such a blow on the mouth that all his upper teeth fell out, and another blow behind the ribs which made a great hollow there, and he drove the disobedient animal from his presence, to seek pasture and shelter wherever he could find them.
after this the ox came back sorrowfully to mankind, and for food and for shelter he offered to become their servant; and, because he was strong and patient, mankind allowed him to become their servant.
ever since he was struck by the deity the ox has had no teeth in the upper jaw, and the hollow behind his ribs remains to this day; it can never be filled up, however much grass and grain he eats, for it is the mark of the fist of the deity.
xxxi
the lost book
after mankind began to multiply on the earth and had become numerous, and scattered into many regions, they lost much of their knowledge of the laws of god, and in their ignorance they committed many mistakes in their mode of worship, each one worshipping in his own way after his own fancy, without regard to what was proper and acceptable in the sight of god.
in order to restore their knowledge and to reform their mode of worship, the great god commanded a khasi man and a foreigner to appear before him on a certain day, upon a certain mountain, the name of which is not known, that they might learn his laws and statutes.
so the khasi and the foreigner went into the mountain and appeared before god.
they remained with him three days and three nights, and he revealed unto them the mode of worship.
the great god wrote his laws in books, and at the end of the third day he gave unto each man a book of the holy law, and said unto them:
"this is sufficient unto you; return unto your own people; behold, i have written all that is needful for you to know in this book.
take it, and read it, and teach it to your kindred that they may learn how to be wise and holy and happy for ever."
the two men took their books and departed as they were commanded.
between the mountain and their homeland there lay a wide river.
on their way thither they had waded through it without any difficulty, for the water was low, but on their return journey they found the river in flood and the water so deep that they had to swim across.
they were sorely perplexed how to keep their sacred books safe and dry; being devoid of clothing, the men found it difficult to protect them or to cover them safely.
the foreigner had long hair, and he took his book and wrapped it in his long hair, which he twisted firmly on the top of his head; but the hair of the khasi was short, so he could not follow the example of the foreigner, and, not able to think of a better plan, he took the book between his teeth.
the foreigner swam across safely, with his book undamaged, and he went home to his kindred joyfully and taught them wisdom and the mode of worship.
the khasi, after swimming part of the way, began to flounder, for the current was strong, and his breathing was impeded by the book in his mouth.
his head went under water, and the book was reduced to a worthless pulp.
he was in great trouble when he saw that the book was destroyed.
he determined to return to the mountain to ask the great god for a new book, so he swam back across the wide river and climbed again to the mountain; but when he reached the place where he had before met god, he found that he had ascended into heaven, and he had to return empty-handed.
when he reached his own country, he summoned together all his kindred and told them all that had happened.
they were very sad when they heard that the book was lost, and bewildered because they had no means of enlightenment.
they resolved to call a durbar of all the khasis to consider how they could carry on their worship in a becoming way and with some uniformity, so as to secure for themselves the three great blessings of humanity health, wealth, and families.
since that day the khasis have depended for their knowledge of sacred worship on the traditions that have come down from one generation to the other from their ancestors who sat in the great durbar after the sacred book was lost, while the foreigners learn how to worship from books.
xxxii
the blessing of the mendicant
part i
once there lived a very poor family, consisting of a father, mother, an only son, and his wife.
they were poorer than any of their neighbours, and were never free from want; they seldom got a full meal, and sometimes they had to go without food for a whole day, while their clothes but barely covered their bodies.
no matter how hard they worked, or where they went to cultivate, their crops never succeeded like the crops of their fellow-cultivators in the same locality.
but they were good people, and never grumbled or blamed the gods, neither did they ask alms of any one, but continued to work season after season, contented with their poor fare and their half-empty cooking-pots.
one day an aged mendicant belonging to a foreign tribe wandered into their village, begging for food at every house and for a night's shelter.
but nobody pitied him or gave him food.
last of all, he came to the dwelling of the poor family, where, as usual, they had not enough food to satisfy their own need, yet when they saw the aged beggar standing outside in the cold, their hearts were filled with pity.
they invited him to enter, and they shared their scanty meal with him.
"come," they said, "we have but little to give you, it is true, but it is not right to leave a fellow-man outside to starve to death."
so he lodged with them that night.
it happened that the daughter-in-law was absent that night, so that the stranger saw only the parents and their son.
next morning, when he was preparing to depart, the mendicant spoke many words of peace and goodwill to the family, and blessed them solemnly, expressing his sympathy with them in their poverty and privation.
"you have good hearts," he said, "and have not hesitated to entertain a stranger, and have shared with the poor what you yourselves stood in need of.
if you wish, i will show you a way by which you may grow rich and prosperous."
they were very glad to hear this, for their long struggle with poverty was becoming harder and harder to bear, and they responded eagerly, saying, "show us the way."
upon this the mendicant opened a small sack which he carried, and took from it a small live coney, which he handed tenderly to the housewife, saying, "this little animal was given to me years ago by a holy man, who told me that if i killed it and cooked its meat for my food i should grow rich.
but by keeping the animal alive for many days i became so fond of it that i could not kill it.
now i am old and weak, the day of my death cannot be far off; at my death perhaps the coney may fall into the hands of unscrupulous persons, so i give it to you who are worthy.
do not keep it alive as i did, otherwise you will not be able to kill it and so will never reap the fruits of the virtue it possesses.
when wealth comes to you, beware of its many temptations and continue to live virtuously as at present."
he also warned them not to divulge the secret to any one outside the family, or to let any outsiders taste of the magic meat.
when they were alone, the family began to discuss with wonder the words spoken by the mysterious stranger about the strange animal that had been left in their possession.
they determined to act on the advice of their late guest, and to kill the coney on that very day, and that the mother should stay at home from her work in the fields to cook the meat against the return of the men in the evening.
left to herself, the housewife began to paint glowing pictures of the future, when the family would cease to be in want, and would have no need to labour for their food, but would possess abundance of luxuries, and be the envy of all their neighbours.
as she abandoned herself to these idle dreams, the evil spirit of avarice entered her heart unknown to her, and changed her into a hard and pitiless woman, destroying all the generous impulses which had sustained her in all their years of poverty and made her a contented and amiable neighbour.
some time in the afternoon the daughter-in-law returned home, and, noticing a very savoury smell coming from the cooking-pot, she asked her mother-in-law pleasantly what good luck had befallen them, that she had such a good dinner in preparation.
to her surprise, instead of a kind and gentle answer such as she had always received from her mother-in-law, she was answered by a torrent of abuse and told that she was not to consider herself a member of the family, or to expect a share of the dinner, which a holy man had provided for them.
this unmerited unkindness hurt and vexed the younger woman, but, as it is not right to contradict a mother-in-law, she refrained from making any reply, and sat meekly by the fire, and in silence watched the process of cooking going on.
she was very hungry, having come from a long journey, and, knowing that there was no other food in the house except that which her mother-in-law was cooking, she determined to try and obtain a little of it unobserved.
when the elder woman left the house for a moment she snatched a handful of meat from the pan and ate it quickly, but her mother-in-law caught her chewing, and charged her with having eaten the meat.
as she did not deny it, her mother-in-law began to beat her unmercifully, and turned her out of doors in anger.
the ill-treated woman crawled along the path by which her husband was expected to arrive, and sat on the ground, weeping, to await his coming.
when he arrived he marvelled to see his wife crying on the roadside, and asked her the reason for it.
she was too upset to answer him for a long time, but when at last she was able to make herself articulate, she told him all that his mother had done to her.
he became very wroth, and said, "if my mother thinks more of gaining wealth than of respecting my wife, i will leave my mother's house for ever," and he strode away, taking only a brass lota (water vessel) for his journey.
part ii
the husband and wife wandered about in the jungle for many days, living on any wild herbs or roots that they could pick up on their way, but all those days they did not see a village or a sign of a human habitation.
one day they happened to come to a very dry and barren hill, where they could get no water, and they began to suffer from thirst.
in this arid place a son was born to them, and the young mother seemed likely to die for want of water.
the husband roamed in every direction, but saw no water anywhere, until he climbed to the top of a tall tree in order to survey the country, and to his joy saw in the distance a pool of clear water.
he hastened down and fetched his lota, and proceeded in the direction of the pool.
the jungle was so dense that he was afraid of losing his way, so in order to improvise some sort of landmark, he tore his dottie (loin-cloth) into narrow strips which he hung on the bushes as he went.
after a long time he reached the pool, where he quenched his thirst and was refreshed.
then he filled his lota to return to his languishing wife, but was tempted to take a plunge in the cool water of the pool, for he was hot and dusty from his toilsome walk.
putting his lota on the ground and laying his clothes beside it, he plunged into the water, intending to stay only a few minutes.
now it happened that a great dragon, called u yak jakor, lived in the pool, and he rose to the surface upon seeing the man, dragged him down to the bottom, and devoured him.
the anxious wife, parched with thirst, waited expectantly for the return of her husband, but, seeing no sign of him, she determined to go in search of him.
so, folding her babe in a cloth, which she tied on her back, she began to trace the path along which she had seen her husband going, and by the help of the strips of cloth on the bushes, she came at last to the spot where her husband's lota and his clothes had been left.
at sight of these she was filled with misgivings, and, failing to see her husband anywhere, she began to call out his name, searching for him in all directions.
there were no more strips of cloth, so she knew that he had not gone farther.
when u yak jakor heard the woman calling, he came up to the surface of the pool, and seeing she was a woman, and alone, he drew near, intending to force her into the water, for the dragon who was the most powerful of all the dragons inside the pool lost his strength whenever he stood on dry land, and could then do no harm to any one.
in her confusion and fear on account of her husband, the woman did not take much notice of u yak jakor when he came, but shouted to him to ask if he had not seen a man passing that way; to which he replied that a man had come, who had been taken to the palace of the king beneath the pool.
when she heard this she knew that they had come to the pool of u yak jakor, and, looking more closely at the being that had approached her, she saw that he was a dragon.
she knew also that u yak jakor had no strength on dry land, and she lifted her arm with a threatening gesture, upon which he dived into the pool.
by these tokens the woman understood that her husband had been killed by the dragon.
taking up the lota and his clothes, she hurried from the fatal spot and beyond the precincts of the dragon's pool, and, after coming to a safe and distant part of the jungle, she threw herself down on the ground in an abandonment of grief.
she cried so loud and so bitterly that her babe awoke and cried in sympathy; to her astonishment she saw that his tears turned into lumps of gold as they fell.
she knew this to be a token that the blessing of the mendicant, of which her husband had spoken, had rested upon her boy by virtue of the meat she had eaten.
this knowledge cheered and comforted her greatly, for she felt less defenceless and lonely in the dreary forest.
after refreshing herself with water from the lota, she set out in search of some human habitation, and after a weary search she came at last to a large village, where the siem (chief) of that region lived, who, seeing that she possessed much gold, permitted her to dwell there.
part iii
the boy was named u babam doh, because of the meat which his mother had eaten.
the two lived very happily in this village, the mother leading an industrious life, for she did not wish to depend for their living on the gold gained at the expense of her son's tears.
neither did she desire it to become known that he possessed the magic power to convert his tears into gold, so she instructed her boy never to weep in public, and on every occasion when he might be driven to cry, she told him to go into some secret place where nobody could witness the golden tears.
and so anxious was she not to give him any avoidable cause of grief that she concealed from him the story of her past sufferings and his father's tragic fate, and hid from sight the brass lota and the clothes she had found by the dragon's pool.
u babam doh grew up a fine and comely boy, in whom his mother's heart delighted; he was strong of body and quick of intellect, so that none of the village lads could compete with him, either at work or at play.
among his companions was the heir-apparent of the state, a young lad about his own age, who, by reason of the many accomplishments of u babam doh, showed him great friendliness and favour, so that the widow's son was frequently invited to the siem's house, and was privileged to attend many of the great state functions and durbars.
thus he unconsciously became familiar with state questions, and gleaned much knowledge and wisdom, so that he grew up enlightened and discreet beyond many of his comrades.
one day, during the duali (hindu gambling festival), his friend the heir-apparent teased him to join in the game.
he had no desire to indulge in any games of luck, and he was ignorant of the rules of all such games, but he did not like to offend his friend by refusing, so he went with him to the gambling field and joined in the play.
at first the heir-apparent, who was initiating him into the game, played for very small stakes, but, to their mutual surprise, u babam doh the novice won at every turn.
the heir-apparent was annoyed at the continual success of his friend, for he himself had been looked upon as the champion player at previous festivals, so, thinking to daunt the spirit of u babam doh, he challenged him to risk higher stakes, which, contrary to his expectation, were accepted, and again u babam doh won.
they played on until at last the heir-apparent had staked and lost all his possessions; he grew so reckless that in the end he staked his own right of succession to the throne, and lost.
there was great excitement and commotion when it became known that the heir-apparent had gambled away his birthright; people left their own games, and from all parts of the field they flocked to where the two young men stood.
when the heir-apparent saw that the people were unanimous in blaming him for so recklessly throwing away what they considered his divine endowment, he tried to retrieve his character by abusing his opponent, taunting him with being ignorant of his father's name, and calling him the unlawful son of u yak jakor, saying that it was by the dragon's aid he had won all the bets on that day.
this was a cruel and terrible charge from which u babam doh recoiled, but as his mother had never revealed to him her history, he was helpless in face of the taunt, to which he had no answer to give.
he stood mute and stunned before the crowd, who, when they saw his dismay, at once concluded that the heir-apparent's charges were well founded.
they dragged u babam doh before the durbar, and accused him of witchcraft before the siem and his ministers.
u babam doh, being naturally courageous and resourceful, soon recovered himself, and having absolute confidence in the justice of his cause, he appealed to the durbar for time to procure proofs, saying that he would give himself up to die at their hands if he failed to substantiate his claim to honour and respectability, and stating that this charge was fabricated by his opponent, who hoped to recover by perfidy what he had lost in fair game.
the durbar were perplexed by these conflicting charges, but they were impressed by the temperate and respectful demeanour of the young stranger, in comparison with the flustered and rash conduct of the descendant of their own royal house, so they granted a number of days during which u babam doh must procure proofs of his innocence or die.
u babam doh left the place of durbar, burning with shame and humiliation for the stigma that had been cast upon him and upon his mother, and came sadly to his house.
when his mother saw his livid face she knew that some great calamity had befallen him, and pressed him to tell her about it, but the only reply he would give to all her questions was, "give me a mat, oh my mother, give me a mat to lie upon"; whereupon she spread a mat for him on the floor, on which he threw himself down in an abandonment of grief.
he wept like one that could never be consoled, and as he wept his tears turned into gold, till the mat on which he lay was covered with lumps of gold, such as could not be counted for their number.
although the mother saw this inexhaustible wealth at her feet she could feel no pleasure in it, owing to her anxiety for her son, who seemed likely to die of grief.
after a time she succeeded in calming him, and gradually she drew forth from him the tale of the attack made upon their honour by the heir-apparent.
she began to upbraid herself bitterly for withholding from him their history, and hastily she went to fetch her husband's clothes and the brass lota which she had concealed for so many years, and, bringing them to her son, she told him all that had happened to her and to his father, from the day on which the foreign mendicant visited their hut to the time of their coming to their present abode.
u babam doh listened with wonder and pity for the mother who had so bravely borne so many sorrows, concealing all her woes in order to spare him all unnecessary pangs.
when the mother finished her tale u babam doh stood up and shook himself, and, taking his bow and his quiver, he said, "i must go and kill u yak jakor, and so avenge my father's death, and vindicate my mother's honour."
the mother's heart was heavy when she saw him depart, but she knew that the day had arrived for him to fulfil his duty to his father's memory, so she made no attempt to detain him, but gave him minute directions about the locality, and the path leading to the dragon's haunts.
part iv
after a long journey u babam doh arrived at the pool, on the shores of which he found a large wooden chest, which he rightly guessed had belonged to some unfortunate traveller who had fallen a victim to the dragon.
upon opening the chest he found it full of fine clothes and precious stones, such as are worn only by great princes; these he took and made into a bundle to bring home.
remembering his mother's instructions not to venture into the pool, he did not leave the dry land, although he was hot and tired and longed to bathe in order to refresh himself.
he began to call out with a loud voice as if hallooing to some lost companions, and this immediately attracted to the surface u yak jakor, who, after waiting a while to see if the man would not come to bathe in the pool, came ashore, thinking to lure his prey into the water.
but u babam doh was on his guard, and did not stir from his place, and when the dragon came within reach he attacked him suddenly and captured him alive.
he then bound him with rattan and confined him in the wooden chest.
fortified by his success, and rejoicing in his victory, u babam doh took the chest on his shoulders and brought the dragon home alive.
being wishful to enhance the sensation, when the day came for him to make his revelations public in the durbar, he did not inform his mother that he had u yak jakor confined in the wooden chest, and when she questioned him about the contents of the chest he was silent, promising to let her see it some day.
in the meantime he forbade her to open it, on pain of offending him, but he showed her the bundle of silken clothes.
the news soon spread through the village that u babam doh had come back, and when the people saw him walking with lifted head and steadfast look, the rumour got abroad that he had been successful in his quest for proofs.
this rumour caused the heir-apparent to tremble for his own safety, and hoping to baulk u babam doh once more, he persuaded the siem to postpone the date of the durbar time after time.
thus u yak jakor remained for many days undiscovered, confined in the chest.
now u babam don's mother, being a woman, was burning with curiosity to know the secret of that wooden chest which her son had brought home and around which there appeared so much mystery.
one day, when her son was absent, she determined to peep into it to see what was hidden there.
u yak jakor had overheard all that the mother and son had said to one another, and he knew that the woman was not aware of his identity.
as soon as he heard her approaching the chest he quickly transformed himself into the likeness of her dead husband, though he was powerless to break the rattan.
the woman was startled beyond speech when she saw (as she thought)
her husband alive and almost unchanged, whom she had mourned as dead for so many long years.
when she could control her joy she requested him to come out, to partake of food and betel nut, but he replied that although he had by the help of their son escaped from the dragon's stronghold, he was under certain vows which would have to be fulfilled before he could come out, for if he left the chest before the fulfilment of his vow he would fall again into the power of the dragon.
the mother began to find fault with her son for having concealed the fact of her husband's rescue from her, but the dragon said that if the son had disclosed the fact to anybody before the fulfilment of the vows it would have committed him into u yak jakor's hands.
she must beware of letting u babam doh know that she had discovered the secret, or both her son and her husband would be lost to her for ever, while by judicious help she might bring about his release.
upon hearing this the woman implored him to show her in what way she could assist, and so quicken his release.
the wily dragon hoped in this way to bring about the death of u babam doh, so he replied that his vow involved drinking a seer of tigress' milk, and that he who obtained the milk must not know for whom or for what purpose it was obtained.
this was sad news for the woman, for it seemed to her quite impossible to procure tigress' milk on any condition.
she was even less likely to find any one willing to risk his life to get it, without knowing for whom and for what purpose, and she wept bitterly.
after a time she called to mind the many exploits of her son as a hunter, and she conceived a sudden plan by which she hoped to obtain tigress' milk.
by and by she heard the footsteps of her son outside, and she hurriedly closed the lid of the chest, and lay on the ground, and feigned sickness, writhing as if in great agony.
u babam doh was much concerned when he saw his mother, and bent over her with great solicitude.
he tried many remedies, but she seemed to grow worse and worse, and he cried out in sorrow, saying, "tell me, my mother, what remedy will cure you, and i will get it or die."
"it is written in my nusip (book of fate) that i shall die of this sickness, unless i drink a seer of tigress' milk," said the mother.
"i will obtain for you some tigress' milk," said the youth, "or die"; and, taking his bow and quiver and his father's lota, he went into the forest, asking some neighbours to come and sit with his mother during his absence.
when he had been gone some time his mother said she felt better, and requested the neighbours to return to their homes, as she wished to sleep; but as soon as they were out of earshot she got up and prepared a savoury meal for him whom she thought her husband.
part v
u babam doh, eager to see his mother healed, walked without halting till he came to a dense and uninhabited part of the forest which he thought might be the haunt of wild beasts, but he could see no trail of tigers.
he was about to return home after a fruitless hunt, as he feared to be absent too long from his mother, when he heard loud moans from behind a near thicket.
he immediately directed his steps towards the sound, prepared to render what assistance he could to whoever was suffering.
to his surprise he found some young tiger cubs, one of whom had swallowed a bone, which had stuck in his throat, and was choking him.
u babam doh quickly made a pair of pincers from a piece of bamboo, and soon had the bone removed.
the cubs were very thankful for the recovery of their brother, and showed their gratitude by purring and licking u babam doh's hand, while the cub from whose throat the bone was extracted crouched at his feet, declaring that he would be his attendant for ever.
u babam doh took up his lota and his bow and prepared to depart, but the cubs entreated him to stay until their mother returned, so as to get her permission for the young tiger to follow him.
so u babam doh stayed with the cubs to await the return of the tigress.
before long the muffled sound of her tread was heard approaching.
as she drew near, she sniffed the air suspiciously, and soon detected the presence of a man in her lair.
putting herself in a fighting attitude, she began to growl loudly, saying, "human flesh, human flesh"; but the cubs ran to meet her, and told her how a kind man had saved their brother from death.
whereupon she stopped her growling, and, like her cubs, she showed her gratitude to u babam doh by purring and licking his hands.
the tigress asked him many questions, for it was a rare occurrence for a man to wander so far into the jungle alone.
on being told that he had come in search of tigress' milk to save his mother's life, she exclaimed eagerly that she knew of a way to give him what he wanted, by which she could in some measure repay him for saving her cub, and she bade him bring his lota and fill it with milk from her dugs.
u babam doh did as she told him, and obtained abundance of tigress'
milk, with which he hastened home to his mother, accompanied by the tiger cub.
part vi
u babam doh found his mother, on his return, in just the same condition as when he left her; so as soon as he arrived he put the lota of milk into her hand, and said, "drink, oh my mother.
i have obtained for you some tigress' milk, drink and live."
she made a pretence of drinking, but as soon as her son left the house she hurried to the wooden chest, and, handing in the lota, she said, "drink, oh my husband.
our son hath obtained the tigress' milk, drink and be free from the dragon's power."
u yak jakor was vexed to find that u babam doh had returned unharmed, and began to think how he could send him on another perilous venture, and he answered the woman plaintively, "to drink tigress' milk is only a part of my vow; before i can be released from the dragon's power i must anoint my body with fresh bear's grease, and he who obtains it for me must not know for whom or for what purpose it is obtained."
the woman was very troubled to hear this, for she feared to send her son into yet another danger, but, believing that there was no other way to secure her husband's release, she again feigned sickness, and when her son asked her why the tigress' milk had not effected a cure, she replied:
"it is written in my nusip that i must die of this sickness unless i anoint my body with fresh bear's grease."
"i will obtain the fresh bear's grease for you, oh my mother, or die,"
answered the youth impetuously; and once more he started to the forest, taking his bow and quiver, and his father's lota, which he had filled with honey.
as he was starting off, the tiger cub began to follow him, but u babam doh commanded him to stop at home to guard the house, and went alone to the forest.
after travelling far he saw the footprints of bears, whereupon he cut some green plaintain leaves and spread them on the ground and poured the honey upon them, and went to hide in the thicket.
soon a big bear came and began to eat the honey greedily, and while it was busy feasting, u babam doh, from behind the thicket, threw a thong round its throat and captured it alive.
upon this a fierce struggle began; but the bear, finding that the more he struggled the tighter the grip on his throat became, was soon subdued, and was led a safe, though unwilling captive by u babam doh out of the jungle.
thus once again the son brought to his mother the remedy which was supposed to be written in her nusip.
when he came in sight of his home, leading the bear by the thong, the tiger cub, on seeing his master, ran to meet him, with the good news that his mother had recovered and had been cooking savoury meals for a guest who was staying in the house.
this news cheered u babam doh greatly, and, fastening the bear to a tree, he hastened to the house to greet his mother, but to his disappointment he found her ill and seemingly in as much pain as ever.
without delay he took a knife and went out to kill the bear, and, filling the lota with grease, he brought it to his mother, saying:
"anoint yourself, oh my mother, i have obtained for you the bear's grease; anoint yourself and live."
he then went out to seek the tiger cub and punish him for deceiving him about his mother's condition, but the cub declared on oath that he had spoken only the truth, and that his mother had really been entertaining a guest during her son's absence, and seemed to have been in good health, going about her work, and cooking savoury meals.
u babam doh was greatly mystified; he was loth to believe his mother could be capable of any duplicity, and yet the tiger cub seemed to speak the truth.
he determined not to say anything to his mother about the matter, but to keep a watch on her movements for a few days.
when her son left the house after giving her the bear's grease, the woman rose quickly, and lifting the lid of the chest, she said:
"anoint yourself, oh my husband.
our son hath obtained the bear's grease; anoint yourself and be free from the dragon's power."
as before, the dragon was again very chagrined to find that u babam doh had come back alive and uninjured, so he thought of yet another plan by which he could send him into a still greater danger, and he answered the woman: "anointing my body with bear's grease is only a part of my vow; before i can be released from the dragon's power i must be covered for one whole night with the undried skin of a python, and he who obtains the skin for me must not know for what purpose or for whom it is obtained."
the woman wept bitterly when she heard of this vow, for she feared to send her son among the reptiles.
u yak jakor, seeing her hesitation, began to coax her, and to persuade her to feign sickness once again, and she, longing to see her husband released, yielded to his coaxing.
when her son came in he found her seemingly worse than he had seen her before, and once more he knelt by her side and begged of her to tell him what he could do for her that would ease her pain.
she replied, "it is written in my nusip that i must die of this sickness unless i am covered for a whole night with the undried skin of a python"; and as before u babam doh answered and said that he would obtain for her whatever was written in her nusip; but he did not say that he would bring a python skin.
taking his bow and quiver, he left the house, as on former occasions, and walked in the direction of the jungle, but this time he did not proceed far.
he returned home unobserved, and, climbing to the roof of the house, he quietly removed some of the thatch, which enabled him to see all that was going on inside the house, while he himself was unseen.
very soon he saw his mother getting up, as if in her usual health, and preparing to cook a savoury meal, which, to his amazement, when it had been cooked, she took to the wooden chest where he knew the dragon to be confined.
as he looked, he saw the figure of a man lying in the chest, and he knew then that u yak jakor had transformed himself into another likeness in order to dupe his mother.
he listened, and soon he understood from their conversation that the dragon had taken the form of his own dead father, and by that means had succeeded in making his mother a tool against her own son.
he now blamed himself for not having confided to his mother the secret of the chest, and determined to undeceive her without further delay.
he entered the house quickly, before his mother had time to close the lid of the chest.
she stood before him flustered and confused, thinking that by her indiscretion she had irrevocably committed her husband to the power of the dragon; but when u babam doh informed her of the deception played upon her by u yak jakor she was overwhelmed with terror, to think how she had been duped into sending her brave son into such grave perils, and abetting the dragon in his evil designs on his life.
when u yak jakor saw that there was no further advantage to be gained by keeping the man's form he assumed his own shape, and, thinking to prevent them from approaching near enough to harm him, he emitted the most foul stench from his scaly body.
but u babam doh, who had borne so much, was not to be thwarted, and without any more lingering he took the chest on his shoulders and carried it to the place of durbar.
there, before the siem and his ministers and the whole populace, he recounted the strange story of his own adventures and his parents' history.
at the end of the tale he opened the wooden chest and exhibited the great monster, who had been such a terror to travellers for many generations, and in the presence of the durbar, amid loud cheers, he slew u yak jakor, and so avenged his father's death and vindicated his mother's honour.
the siem and the durbar unanimously appointed him the heir-apparent, and when in the course of time he succeeded to the throne he proved himself a wise and much-loved ruler, who befriended the poor and the down-trodden and gave shelter to the stranger and the homeless.
he always maintained that his own high estate was bestowed upon him in consequence of his family's generosity to a lonely and unknown mendicant, whose blessing descended upon them and raised them from a state of want and poverty to the highest position in the land.
a wonder-book for girls and boys
the golden days of october passed away, as so many other octobers have, and brown november likewise, and the greater part of chill december, too.
at last came merry christmas, and eustace bright along with it, making it all the merrier by his presence.
and, the day after his arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm.
up to this time, the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage.
the grass had kept itself green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes, and along the lee of the stone fences.
it was but a week or two ago, and since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a dandelion in bloom, on the margin of shadow brook, where it glides out of the dell.
but no more green grass and dandelions now.
this was such a snow-storm!
twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows of tanglewood and the dome of taconic, had it been possible to see so far, among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere.
it seemed as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls of snow at one another, in their enormous sport.
so thick were the fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley, were hidden by them the greater part of the time.
sometimes, it is true, the little prisoners of tanglewood could discern a dim outline of monument mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape.
but these were merely peeps through the tempest.
nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snowstorm.
they had already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just fancied the berkshire mountains to be doing.
and now they had come back to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room, and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small.
the biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides rag-babies; and blocks enough to build bunker hill monument, and nine-pins, and balls, and humming-tops, and battledores, and grace-sticks, and skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property than i could tell of in a printed page.
but the children liked the snow-storm better than them all.
it suggested so many brisk enjoyments for to-morrow, and all the remainder of the winter.
the sleigh-ride; the slides down hill into the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped out; the snow-fortresses that were to be built; and the snow-balling to be carried on!
so the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their heads.
“why, we shall be blocked up till spring!” cried they, with the hugest delight.
“what a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered up!
the little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves.”
“you silly children, what do you want of more snow?” asked eustace, who, tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into the play-room.
“it has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the only skating that i could hope for through the winter.
we shall see nothing more of the lake till april; and this was to have been my first day upon it!
don’t you pity me, primrose?”
“o, to be sure!” answered primrose, laughing.
“but, for your comfort, we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us under the porch, and down in the hollow, by shadow brook.
perhaps i shall like them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while there were nuts to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy.”
hereupon, periwinkle, clover, sweet fern, and as many others of the little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at tanglewood, gathered about eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story.
the student yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the small people, skipped three times hack and forth over the top of a chair, in order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion.
“well, well, children,” said he, after these preliminaries, “since you insist, and primrose has set her heart upon it, i will see what can be done for you.
and, that you may know what happy days there were before snowstorms came into fashion, i will tell you a story of the oldest of all old times, when the world was as new as sweet fern’s bran-new humming-top.
there was then but one season in the year, and that was the delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was childhood.”
“i never heard of that before,” said primrose.
“of course, you never did,” answered eustace.
“it shall be a story of what nobody but myself ever dreamed of, a paradise of children, and how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as primrose here, it all came to nothing.”
so eustace bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping over, took cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was pandora, and about her playfellow epimetheus.
you may read it, word for word, in the pages that come next.
the paradise of children.
long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child, named epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and, that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his playfellow and helpmate.
her name was pandora.
the first thing that pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where epimetheus dwelt, was a great box.
and almost the first question which she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,
“epimetheus, what have you in that box?”
“my dear little pandora,” answered epimetheus, “that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it.
the box was left here to be kept safely, and i do not myself know what it contains.”
“but, who gave it to you?”  asked pandora.
“and where did it come from?”
“that is a secret, too,” replied epimetheus.
“how provoking!” exclaimed pandora, pouting her lip.
“i wish the great ugly box were out of the way!”
“o come, don’t think of it, any more,” cried epimetheus.
“let us run out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children.”
it is thousands of years since epimetheus and pandora were alive; and the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was in their time.
then, everybody was a child.
there needed no fathers and mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always plenty to eat and drink.
whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night’s supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow’s breakfast.
it was a very pleasant life indeed.
no labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong day.
what was most wonderful of all, the children never quarrelled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked.
o, what a good time was that to be alive in!
the truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth.
it is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had ever experienced was pandora’s vexation at not being able to discover the secret of the mysterious box.
this was at first only the faint shadow of a trouble; but, every day, it grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage of epimetheus and pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other children.
“whence can the box have come?” pandora continually kept saying to herself and to epimetheus.
“and what in the world can be inside of it?”
“always talking about this box!” said epimetheus, at last; for he had grown extremely tired of the subject.
“i wish, dear pandora, you would try to talk of something else.
come, let us go and gather some ripe figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper.
and i know a vine that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted.”
“always talking about grapes and figs!” cried pandora, pettishly.
“well, then,” said epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, “let us run out and have a merry time with our playmates.”
“i am tired of merry times, and don’t care if i never have any more!”
answered our pettish little pandora.
“and, besides, i never do have any.
this ugly box!
i am so taken up with thinking about it all the time.
i insist upon your telling me what is inside of it.”
“as i have already said, fifty times over, i do not know!” replied epimetheus, getting a little vexed.
“how, then, can i tell you what is inside?”
“you might open it,” said pandora, looking sideways at epimetheus, “and then we could see for ourselves.”
“pandora, what are you thinking of?” exclaimed epimetheus.
and his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box, which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it, that pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.
still, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
“at least,” said she, “you can tell me how it came here.”
“it was left at the door,” replied epimetheus, “just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly forbear laughing as he put it down.
he was dressed in an-odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings.”
“what sort of a staff had he?” asked pandora.
“o, the most curious staff you ever saw!”  cried epimetheus.
“it was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that i, at first, bought the serpents were alive.”
“i know him,” said pandora, thoughtfully.
“nobody else has such a staff.
it was quicksilver; and he brought one hither, as well as the box.
no doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or something very nice for us both to eat!”
“perhaps so,” answered epimetheus, turning away.
“but until quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid of the box.”
“what a dull boy he is!”  muttered pandora, as epimetheus left the cottage.
“i do wish he had a little more enterprise!”
for the first time since her arrival, epimetheus had gone out without asking pandora to accompany him.
he went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society than his little playfellow’s.
he was tired to death of hearing about the box, and heartily wished that quicksilver, or whatever was the messenger’s name, had left it at some other child’s door, where pandora would never have set eyes on it.
so perseveringly as she did babble about this one thing!
the box, the box, and nothing but the box!
it seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big enough to hold it, without pandora’s continually stumbling over it, and making epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of their shins.
well, it was really hard that poor epimetheus should have a box in his ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they knew not how to deal with them.
thus, a small vexation made as much disturbance, then, as a far bigger one would, in our own times.
after epimetheus was gone, pandora stood gazing at the box.
she had called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be placed.
it was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little pandora could see her face in it.
as the child had no other looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this account.
the edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.
around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled beauty.
but here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage, pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the beauty out of all the rest.
nevertheless, on looking more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the kind.
some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.
the most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief, in the centre of the lid.
there was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, with a garland of flowers about its brow.
pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth.
the features, indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and utter itself in words.
had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
“do not be afraid, pandora!
what harm can there be in opening the box?
never mind that poor, simple epimetheus!
you are wiser than he, and have ten times as much spirit.
open the box, and see if you do not find something very pretty!”
the box, i had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord.
there appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning.
never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly defied the skilfullest fingers to disentangle them.
and yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, pandora was the more tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made.
two or three times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
“i really believe,” said she to herself, “that i begin to see how it was done.
nay, perhaps i could tie it up again, after undoing it.
there would be no harm in that, surely.
even epimetheus would not blame me for that.
i need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the foolish boy’s consent, even if the knot were untied.”
it might have been better for pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject.
but children led so easy a life, before any troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure.
they could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man’s-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while mother earth was in her babyhood.
when life is all sport, toil is the real play.
there was absolutely nothing to do.
a little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, i suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases, and poor little pandora’s day’s work was over.
and then, for the rest of the day, there was the box!
after all, i am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in its way.
it supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen!
when she was in good humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it.
or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little foot.
and many a kick did the box (but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got) many a kick did it receive.
but, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our active-minded little pandora would not have known half so well how to spend her time as she now did.
for it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside.
what could it be, indeed?
just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your christmas or new-year’s gifts.
do you think that you should be less curious than pandora?
if you were left alone with the box, might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid?
but you would not do it.
o, fie!
no, no!
only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep!
i know not whether pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it.
but pandora was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little girls, here around me, would have felt.
and, possibly, a little more so; but of that i am not quite so certain.
on this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at last, she approached the box.
she was more than half determined to open it, if she could.
ah, naughty pandora!
first, however, she tried to lift it.
it was heavy; quite too heavy for the slender strength of a child, like pandora.
she raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty loud thump.
a moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard something stir, inside of the box.
she applied her ear as closely as possible, and listened.
positively, there did seem to be a kind of stifled murmur, within!
or was it merely the singing in pandora’s ears?
or could it be the beating of her heart?
the child could not quite satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no.
but, at all events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
as she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
“it must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot,” said pandora to herself.
“but i think i could untie it, nevertheless.
i am resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord.”
so she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its intricacies as sharply as she could.
almost without intending it, or quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in attempting to undo it.
meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing at a distance, and perhaps the voice of epimetheus among then.
pandora stopped to listen.
what a beautiful day it was!
would it not be wiser, if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?
all this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.
“that face looks very mischievous,” thought pandora.
“i wonder whether it smiles because i am doing wrong!
i have the greatest mind in the world to run away!”
but just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a twist, which produced a wonderful result.
the gold cord untwined itself, as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
“this is the strangest thing i ever knew!” said pandora.
“what will epimetheus say?
and how can i possibly tie it up again?”
she made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it quite beyond her skill.
it had disentangled itself so suddenly that she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind.
nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was, until epimetheus should come in.
“but,” said pandora, “when he finds the knot untied, he will know that i have done it.
how shall i make him believe that i have not looked into the box?”
and then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well do so, at once.
o, very naughty and very foolish pandora!
you should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow epimetheus would have said or believed.
and so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small voices within.
she could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear, or else it was her curiosity that whispered,
“let us out, dear pandora, pray let us out!
we will be such nice pretty playfellows for you!
only let us out!”
“what can it be?” thought pandora.
“is there something alive in the box?
well!
yes!
i am resolved to take just one peep!
only one peep; and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever!
there cannot possibly be any harm in just one little peep!”
but it is now time for us to see what epimetheus was doing.
this was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake.
but nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on other days.
he could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying.
there was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions.
in short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what was the matter with epimetheus.
neither did he himself know what ailed him, any better than they did.
for you must recollect, that at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody’s nature, and constant habit, to be happy.
the world had not yet learned to be otherwise.
not a single soul or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick, or out of sorts.
at length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the play, epimetheus judged it best to go back to pandora, who was in a humor better suited to his own.
but, with a hope of giving her pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to put upon her head.
the flowers were very lovely, roses, and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance behind, as epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.
the fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days, rather better than they can now.
and here i must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
but, just as epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
he entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind pandora, and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be aware of his approach.
but, as it happened, there was no need of his treading so very lightly.
he might have trod as heavily as he pleased, as heavily as a grown man, as heavily, i was going to say, as an elephant, without much probability of pandora’s hearing his footsteps.
she was too intent upon her purpose.
at the moment of his entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the point of opening the mysterious box.
epimetheus beheld her.
if he had cried out, pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.
but epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his own share of curiosity to know what was inside.
perceiving that pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage.
and if there were anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to himself.
thus, after all his sage speeches to pandora about restraining her curiosity, epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly as much in fault, as she.
so, whenever we blame pandora for what happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at epimetheus likewise.
as pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have buried it alive.
there had, for a little while past, been a low growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder.
but pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and looked inside.
it seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same instant, she heard the voice of epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as if he were in pain.
“o, i am stung!” cried he.
“i am stung!
naughty pandora!
why have you opened this wicked box?”
pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see what had befallen epimetheus.
the thundercloud had so darkened the room that she could not very clearly discern what was in it.
but she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dorbugs and pinching-dogs, were darting about.
and, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats’
wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings in their tails.
it was one of these that had stung epimetheus.
nor was it a great while before pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub about it.
an odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her i know not how deeply, if epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.
now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made their escape out of the box, i must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly troubles.
there were evil passions; there were a great many species of cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty sorrows; there were diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes; there were more kinds of naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk about.
in short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to epimetheus and pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them.
had they been faithful to their trust, all would have gone well.
no grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment.
but and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a calamity to the whole world by pandora’s lifting the lid of that miserable box, and by the fault of epimetheus, too, in not preventing her, these troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem very likely to be driven away in a hurry.
for it was impossible, as you will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage.
on the contrary, the first thing that they did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged troubles all abroad, and so pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards.
and, what was very singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a day or two.
the children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they dreamed of such a thing.
meanwhile, the naughty pandora, and hardly less naughty epimetheus, remained in their cottage.
both of them had been grievously stung, and were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them, because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the world began.
of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea what it meant.
besides all this, they were in exceedingly bad humor, both with themselves and with one another.
in order to indulge it to the utmost, epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back towards pandora; while pandora flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal and abominable box.
she was crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
suddenly there was a gentle little tap, on the inside of the lid.
“what can that be?” cried pandora, lifting her head.
but either epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of humor to notice it.
at any rate, he made no answer.
“you are very unkind,” said pandora, sobbing anew, “not to speak to me!”
again the tap!
it sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy’s hand, knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
“who are you?”  asked pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
“who are you, inside of this naughty box?”
a sweet little voice spoke from within,
“only lift the lid, and you shall see.”
“no, no,” answered pandora, again beginning to sob, “i have had enough of lifting the lid!
you are inside of the box, naughty creature, and there you shall stay!
there are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters already flying about the world.
you need never think that i shall be so foolish as to let you out!”
she looked towards epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he would commend her for her wisdom.
but the sullen boy only muttered that she was wise a little too late.
“ah,” said the sweet little voice again, “you had much better let me out.
i am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails.
they are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me.
come, come, my pretty pandora!
i am sure you will let me out!”
and, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked.
pandora’s heart had insensibly grown lighter, at every word that came from within the box.
epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than before.
“my dear epimetheus,” cried pandora, “have you heard this little voice?”
“yes, to be sure i have,” answered he, but in no very good-humor as yet.
“and what of it?”
“shall i lift the lid again?” asked pandora.
“just as you please,” said epimetheus.
“you have done so much mischief already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more.
one other trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can make no very great difference.”
“you might speak a little more kindly!” murmured pandora, wiping her eyes.
“ah, naughty boy!” cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and laughing tone.
“he knows he is longing to see me.
come, my dear pandora, lift up the lid.
i am in a great hurry to comfort you.
only let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so dismal as you think them!”
“epimetheus,” exclaimed pandora, “come what may, i am resolved to open the box!”
“and, as the lid seems very heavy,” cried epimetheus, running across the room, “i will help you!”
so, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid.
out flew a sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing a light wherever she went.
have you never made the sunshine dance into dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass?
well, so looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairylike stranger, amid the gloom of the cottage.
she flew to epimetheus, and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the trouble had stung him, and immediately the anguish of it was gone.
then she kissed pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
after performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered sportively over the children’s heads, and looked so sweetly at them, that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
“pray, who are you, beautiful creature?” inquired pandora.
“i am to be called hope!” answered the sunshiny figure.
“and because i am such a cheery little body, i was packed into the box, to make amends to the human race for that swarm of ugly troubles, which was destined to be let loose among them.
never fear!
we shall do pretty well, in spite of them all.”
“your wings are colored like the rainbow!”  exclaimed pandora.
“how very beautiful!”
“yes, they are like the rainbow,” said hope, “because glad as my nature is, i am partly made of tears as well as smiles.”
“and will you stay with us,” asked epimetheus, “for ever and ever?”
“as long as you need me,” said hope, with her pleasant smile, “and that will be as long as you live in the world, i promise never to desert you.
there may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think that i have utterly vanished.
but again, and again, and again, when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on the ceiling of your cottage.
yes, my dear children, and i know something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!”
“o tell us,” they exclaimed, “tell us what it is!”
“do not ask me,” replied hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
“but do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on this earth.
trust in my promise, for it is true.”
“we do trust you!” cried epimetheus and pandora, both in one breath.
and so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted hope, that has since been alive.
and, to tell you the truth, i cannot help being glad (though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for her to do)-but i cannot help being glad that our foolish pandora peeped into the box.
no doubt no doubt the troubles are still flying about the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their tails.
i have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as i grow older.
but then that lovely and lightsome little figure of hope!
what in the world could we do without her?
hope spiritualizes the earth; hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth’s best and brightest aspect, hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter!
tanglewood play-room.
after the story.
“primrose,” asked eustace, pinching her ear, “how do you like my little pandora?
don’t you think her the exact picture of yourself?
but you would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box.”
“then i should have been well punished for my naughtiness,” retorted primrose, smartly; “for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was lifted, would have been mr. eustace bright, in the shape of a trouble.”
“cousin eustace,” said sweet fern, “did the box hold all the trouble that has ever come into the world?”
“every mite of it!”  answered eustace.
“this very snow-storm, which has spoiled my skating, was packed up there.”
“and how big was the box?” asked sweet fern.
“why, perhaps three feet long,” said eustace, “two feet wide, and two feet and a half high.”
“ah,” said the child, “you are making fun of me, cousin eustace!
i know there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as that.
as for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so it could not have been in the box.”
“hear the child!” cried primrose, with an air of superiority.
“how little he knows about the troubles of this world!
poor fellow!
he will be wiser when he has seen as much of life as i have.”
so saying, she began to skip the rope.
meantime, the day was drawing towards its close.
out of doors the scene certainly looked dreary.
there was a gray drift, far and wide, through the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered or gone out for a good many hours past.
had there been only one child at the window of tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would perhaps have made him sad.
but half a dozen children together, though they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old winter and all his storms to put them out of spirits.
eustace bright, moreover, on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the next stormy day besides.
wonder stories
how the myths began
long ago, when our earth was more than two thousand years younger, there was a wonderful place called mount olympus at the top of the world that the ancients could see quite clearly with the eyes of hope and faith.
it did not matter that the greek and roman people had never set foot on this mountain in the clouds.
they knew it in story and reverenced the gods and goddesses who inhabited it.
in the days when the myths were told, greece was a more beautiful country than any that is the result of civilization to-day, because the national ideal of the greeks was beauty and they expressed it in whatever they thought, or wrote, or made with their hands.
no matter how far away from home the greeks journeyed they remembered with pride and love their blue bays and seacoast, the fertile valleys and sheep pastures of arcadia, the sacred grove of delphi, those great days when their athletes met for games and races at athens, and the wide plains of olympia covered and rich with the most perfect temples and statues that the world has ever known.
when the greeks returned the most beloved sight that met their eyes was the flag of their nation flying at corinth, or the towers of the old citadel that cadmus had founded at thebes.
it was the youth time of men, and there were no geographies or histories or books of science to explain to the ancients those things about life that everyone wants to know sooner or later.
there was this same longing for truth among the roman people as well as among the greeks.
the romans, also, loved their country, and built temples as the greeks did, every stone of which they carved and fitted as a stepping stone on the way to the abode of the gods.
but who were these gods, and what did a belief in their existence mean to the greek and roman people?
there have been certain changes in two thousand years on our earth.
we have automobiles instead of chariots, our ships are propelled by steam instead of by a favorable wind, and we have books that attempt to tell us why spring always follows winter and that courage is a better part than cowardice.
but we still have hard winters and times when it is most difficult to be brave.
we still experience war and famine and crime, and peace and plenty and love in just about the same measure that they were to be found in greece and rome.
the only difference is that we are a little closer to understanding life than the ancients were.
they tried to find a means of knowing life facts and of explaining the miracles of outdoors and of ruling their conduct by their daily intercourse with this higher race of beings, the gods, on mount olympus.
there was a gate of clouds on the top of mount olympus that the goddesses, who were known as the seasons, opened to allow the inhabitants of the mount to descend to the earth and return.
jupiter, the ruler of the gods, sat on the olympian throne holding thunderbolts and darts of lightning in his mighty hands.
the same arts and labors as those of men were practised by these celestial beings.
minerva and her handmaidens, the graces, wove garments for the goddesses of more exquisite colors and textures than any that could be made by human hands.
vulcan built the houses of the gods of glittering brass.
he shaped golden shoes that made it possible for them to travel with great speed, and he shod their steeds so that their chariots could ride upon the water.
hebe fed the gods with nectar and ambrosia, prepared and served by her own fair hands.
mars loosed the dogs of war, and the music of apollo's lute was the song of victory and peace when war was ended.
ceres tended and blessed the fields of grain, and venus, clad in beautiful garments by the seasons, expressed the desire of the nations, of dumb beasts and of all nature for love.
there were many more than these, making the great immortal family of the gods, like men, but different in their higher understanding of life and its meaning.
they lived apart on their mount, but they descended often to mingle with the people.
they stood beside the forge and helped with the harvest, their voices were heard in the rustling leaves in the forest and above the tumult and crash of war.
they guarded the flocks and crowned the victors in games and carried brave warriors to elysian fields after their last battles.
they loved adventure and outdoors; they felt joy and knew pain.
these gods were the daily companions of the ancients who have given them to us in our priceless inheritance of the classics and art.
when you read the poems of the blind roman, homer, and those of ovid and virgil; when you see a picture of a columned greek temple or the statue of the apollo belvedere or the guido reni painting of aurora lighting the sky with the torches of day, you, too, are following the age-old stepping stones that led to mount olympus.
the myths were the inspiration for the greatest writing and architecture and sculpture and painting that the world has ever known.
they were more than this.
among the ruins of the ancient cities there was found one temple with a strange inscription on the altar: "to the unknown god."
the temple was placed on mars hill as if, out of the horrors of war, this new hope had come to the people.
the word mythology means an account of tales.
the myths were just that, tales, but most beautiful and worth while stories.
so that people who made them and retold them and lived as the gods would have had them live came, finally, to feel that there was need for them to build this other, last altar.
what prometheus did with a bit of clay
every boy and girl has the same wonder at one time or another.
"how was the world made?"
they ask.
so did the boys and girls of that long ago time when the myths were new, and the greek teachers told them that the earth and sky were all a huge chaos at first until the gods from their thrones, with the help of nature, straightened out all things and gave order to the world.
they separated the earth from the sea, first, and then the sky from both of these.
the universe was all a flaming mass in the beginning but the fiery part was light and ascended, forming the skies.
the air hung just below the skies.
the waters were very heavy and took the lowest place where the earth held them safely in its hollows.
just as one takes a ball of clay and moulds it into shape, some one of the gods, it was said, moulded the earth.
he gave places to the rivers and the bays, raised mountains, planted the forests and laid out fertile fields.
and, next, the fishes swam in the waters, birds flew through the woods and built nests, and four-footed beasts began to be seen everywhere.
but the earth was not finished then by any means.
there were two giants of the race of the titans who inhabited the earth at that time, and both of these brothers, prometheus and epimetheus, could do marvellous things with their hands.
prometheus took a little of the new earth in his hands and as he looked it over he saw, hidden in it, some heavenly seeds, very tiny of course but they gave him an idea about something wonderful that he might be able to do.
so prometheus mixed some water with this handful of earth and seed; he kneaded it well, and then he skilfully moulded it into a form as nearly like the gods as he could make it.
this figure of clay stood upright.
instead of turning its eyes down to the ground as the four-footed creatures did, this form that prometheus had made looked up toward the sky where the sun and the stars shone now that the air had cleared.
prometheus had made man.
while the giant was accomplishing this, his brother, epimetheus, had been busy with the task of equipping the other creatures of the earth so that they could take care of themselves.
to some he gave the gift of courage, to others wisdom, great strength, or swiftness.
each creature was given that which he most needed.
it was then that the slow moving tortoise found his shell and the eagle his talons.
the deer was given his slender limbs and the dove his wings.
the sheep put on his woolly covering that was to be renewed as often as man sheared it, and the horse, the camel and the elephant were provided with such great strength in their backs that they were able to draw and carry heavy loads.
epimetheus was greatly interested in the man that his brother had made and he felt that he might be in danger from the wild beasts that were now so numerous and haunted the forests.
so he suggested something to the giant and prometheus took a torch, cut in the first forest, up to heaven and lighted it at the chariot of the sun.
in this way he brought down fire to the earth.
that was the most useful gift he could possibly have given man.
this first man had begun to dig caves and make leafy covers in the woods and huts woven of twigs to be his shelters.
now that fire had come to the earth he was able to light a forge and shape metals into weapons and tools.
he could defend himself from wild beasts with the spear he made, and cut down trees with his axe for building a stronger home.
he made a ploughshare and harnessed epimetheus' oxen to it as he planted his fields with food grains.
it seemed as if the earth was going to be a very good place indeed for man and his children, but after awhile all kinds of unexpected things began to happen.
the strange part about it was that man, prometheus'
mixture of clay and heavenly seed, seemed to be at the bottom of most of the trouble.
men used the axe to rob the forests of timber for building war ships and fortifications around the towns, and they forged swords and helmets and shields.
seamen spread their sails to the wind to vex the face of the ocean.
men were not satisfied with what the surface of the earth could give them, but dug deep down underneath it and brought up gold and precious stones about which they fought among themselves, each wanting to possess more than his neighbor.
the land was divided into shares and this was another cause of war, for each landowner wanted to take away his brother's grant and add it to his own.
even the gods began to augment the troubles of the earth.
in the beginning, before the forge fires were lighted, there had been a golden age.
then the fields had given all the food that man needed.
flowers came up without the planting of seeds, the rivers flowed with milk, and thick, yellow honey was distilled by the honey bees.
but the gods sent the silver age, not so pleasant as the one of gold.
jupiter, the king of the gods, shortened the spring and divided the year into seasons.
man learned then what it was to be too cold in the winter and too warm in the summer.
then came the bronze and the iron ages.
that was when war and greed broke out.
jupiter decided that the people of the earth should be further punished.
he imprisoned the north wind which scatters the clouds and sent out the south wind to cover the face of the sky with pitchy darkness.
the clouds were driven together with a crash and torrents of rain fell.
the crops were laid low so that all the year's labor of the husbandman was destroyed.
jupiter even called upon his brother, neptune, who was the god of the sea, to let loose the rivers and pour them over the land.
he tore the land with an earthquake so that even the sea overflowed its shores.
such a flood as followed; the earth was nearly all sea without shore!
the hills were the only land, and people were obliged to ride from one to another of them in boats while the fish swam among the tree tops.
if an anchor was dropped, it found a place in a garden.
awkward sea-calves gamboled about where there had once been lambs playing in green pastures; wolves struggled in the water among sheep, and yellow lions and tigers were submerged by the rush of the sea.
it really seemed as if the earth was about to be lost in a second chaos, but at last a green mountain peak appeared above the waste that the waters had made and on it a man and woman of the race the giant prometheus had made took refuge.
remembering the heavenly seed that was part of their birthright, they looked up toward the sky and asked jupiter to take pity on them.
jupiter ordered the north wind to drive away the clouds, and neptune sounded his horn to order the waters to retreat.
the waters obeyed, and the sea returned to its basins.
it was a very bare and desolate earth upon which the people looked down from the mount of parnassus.
they had not forgotten how to build and mine and plant and harvest and keep a home.
they would have to begin things all over again, they knew, and there were two ways of going about it.
one way would be to leave the earth the desert place which it now was and try to wreak vengeance on the gods for the destruction they had brought upon the earth.
prometheus, the titan, still lived and he was possessed of a secret by means of which he could take jupiter's throne away from him.
he would probably never have used this secret, but the fact that he had it came to the ears of the mighty jupiter and caused much consternation among the gods.
jupiter ordered vulcan, the smith of the gods, to forge some great links for a heavy chain.
with these he chained prometheus to a rock and sent a vulture to eat his flesh which grew again continually so that prometheus suffered most terrible pain as the vulture returned each day.
his torture would come to an end the moment he told his secret, jupiter assured prometheus, but the giant would not speak because of the harm his words might cause the men and women of earth.
he suffered there without any rest, and the earth began to take on its former guise of fertility and prosperity as man tried to bring again the golden age through his own efforts.
and whenever a man felt like giving up the task, which was indeed a mighty one, he would think of prometheus chained to the rock.
his flesh that came from the earth was the prey of the vulture, but the seed of the gods which was hidden in every mortal, gave him strength to resist what he believed to be wrong and bear suffering.
a strange old story, is it not?
but it is also a story of to-day.
ours is the same earth with its fertile fields and wide forests, its rich mines and its wealth of flocks and herds.
they are all given to us, just as the gods gave them to the first men, for the development of peace and plenty.
and man, himself, is still a mixture of earth stuff and something else, too, that prometheus called heavenly seed and we call soul.
when selfishness and greed guide our uses of land and food and the metals there is apt to be pretty nearly as bad a time on the earth as when jupiter and neptune flooded it.
but there is always a chance to be a prometheus who can forget about everything except the right, and so help in bringing again the golden age of the gods to the world.
[1]the paradise of children
long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child named epimetheus who never had either father or mother; and that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent by the gods to be his playfellow and helpmate.
her name was pandora.
the first thing that pandora saw when she entered the cottage where epimetheus lived was a great box.
and almost the first question that she put to him was this,
"epimetheus, what have you in that box?"
"my dear little pandora," answered epimetheus, "that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it.
the box was left here to be kept safely, and i do not myself know what it contains."
it is thousands of years since the myths tell us that epimetheus and pandora lived; and the world now-a-days is a very different sort of place from what it was then.
there were no fathers or mothers to take care of the children, because there was no danger or trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was plenty to eat and drink.
whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree.
it was a very pleasant life indeed.
no labor had to be done, no tasks studied, all was sport and dancing and the sweet voices of children talking, or caroling like birds, or laughing merrily all day long.
but pandora was not altogether happy on account of epimetheus'
explanation about the box.
"where can it have come from?"
she continually asked herself, "and what on earth can be inside it?"
at last she spoke to epimetheus.
"you might open the box," pandora said, "and then we could see its contents for ourselves."
"pandora, what are you thinking of?"
epimetheus exclaimed.
and his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box, which had been given him on condition that he never open it, that pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.
still she could not help thinking and talking about it.
"at least," she said, "you can tell me how it came here."
"it was left at the door," epimetheus replied, "just before you came and by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly keep from smiling as he set it down.
he was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers so that it looked as if it had wings."
"what sort of a staff had he?"
asked pandora.
"oh, the most curious staff that you ever saw!"
cried epimetheus.
"it was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that i, at first, thought the serpents were alive."
"i know him," said pandora thoughtfully.
"nobody else has such a staff.
it was mercury, and he brought me here as well as the box.
no doubt he intended it for me, and most probably it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for us both, or something nice for us to eat."
"perhaps so," answered epimetheus, turning away, "but until mercury comes back and gives his permission, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid."
one day not long after that epimetheus went to gather figs and grapes by himself without asking pandora.
ever since she had come he had heard about that box, nothing but the box, and he was tired of it.
and as soon as he was gone, pandora kneeled down on the floor and looked intently at it.
it was made of a beautiful kind of wood, and was so highly polished that pandora could see her face in it.
the edges and corners were carved with most wonderful skill.
around the edge there were figures of graceful men and women and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or playing in gardens and forests.
the most beautiful face of all was done in high relief in the centre of the box.
there was nothing else save the dark, rich smoothness of the wood and this one face with a garland of flowers about its brow.
the features had a kind of mischievous expression with all their loveliness and if the mouth had spoken it would probably have said,
"do not be afraid pandora!
what harm can there be in opening a box.
never mind that poor, simple epimetheus.
you are wiser than he and have ten times as much courage.
open the box and see if you do not find something very pretty."
and on this particular day, when pandora was alone, her curiosity grew so great that at last she touched the box.
she was more than half determined to open it if she could.
first, however, she tried to lift it.
it was heavy, much too heavy for the slender strength of a child like pandora.
she raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and then let it fall with a pretty loud thump.
a moment afterward she almost thought that she heard something stir inside the box.
she was not quite sure whether she heard it or not, but her curiosity grew stronger than ever.
suddenly her eyes fell on a curious knot of gold that tied it.
she took it in her fingers and, almost without intending it, she was soon busily engaged in trying to undo it.
it was a very intricate knot indeed, but at last, by the merest accident, pandora gave the cord a kind of twist and it unwound itself, as if by magic.
the box was without a fastening.
"this is the strangest thing i ever knew," pandora said.
"what will epimetheus say?
and how can i possibly tie it again?"
and then the thought came into her naughty little heart that, since she would be suspected of looking into the box, she might as well do so at once.
as pandora raised the lid of the box the cottage was suddenly darkened, for a black cloud had swept quite over the sun and seemed to have buried it alive.
there had, for a little while past, been a low growling and grumbling which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder.
but pandora heeded nothing of all this.
she lifted the lid nearly upright and looked inside.
it seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box while, at the same time, she heard the voice of epimetheus in the doorway exclaiming as if he was in pain,
"oh, i am stung!
i am stung!
naughty pandora, why have you opened this wicked box?"
pandora let fall the lid and looked up to see what had befallen epimetheus.
the thundercloud had so darkened the room that she could not clearly see what was in it.
but she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies or giant bees were darting about.
and as her eyes grew accustomed to the dimness she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, looking very spiteful, and having bats' wings and terribly long stings in their tails.
it was one of these that had strung epimetheus.
nor was it a great while after before pandora herself began to cry.
an odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her very deeply if epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.
now, if you wish to know what these ugly things were that made their escape out of the box, i must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly troubles.
there were evil passions.
there were a great many species of cares.
there were more than a hundred and fifty sorrows.
there were diseases in a vast number of strange and painful shapes.
there were more kinds of naughtiness than it would be of any kind of use to talk about.
in short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box given to epimetheus and pandora to be kept safely in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them.
had they been faithful to their trust all would have gone well with them.
no grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment.
but it was impossible that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage.
pandora flung open the windows and doors to try and get rid of them and, sure enough, away flew the winged troubles and so pestered and tormented the people everywhere about that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterward.
and the children of the earth, who before had seemed ageless, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women, and then old folks, before they dreamed of such a thing.
meanwhile, the naughty pandora and epimetheus remained in their cottage.
both of them had been painfully stung.
epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back to pandora.
as for poor little pandora, she flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal box.
she was crying as if her heart would break.
suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.
"what can that be?"
cried pandora, lifting her head.
but epimetheus was too much out of humor to answer her.
again the tap!
it sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand.
"who are you?"
asked pandora, "who are you inside of this dreadful box?"
a sweet little voice came from within saying,
"only lift the lid and you shall see."
"no, no," answered pandora, "i have had enough of lifting the lid.
you need never think that i shall be so foolish as to let you out."
"ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me out.
i am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails.
they have no relation to me as you would soon find out if you would only lift the lid."
indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked.
pandora's heart had grown lighter at every word that came from the box.
epimetheus, too, had left his corner and seemed to be in better spirits.
"epimetheus!"
exclaimed pandora, "come what may, i am resolved to lift the lid."
"and as the lid seems very heavy," said epimetheus, running across the room, "i will help you."
so, with one consent, the two children lifted the lid.
out flew a sunny and smiling little personage and hovered about the room, throwing light wherever she went.
have you ever made the sunshine dance into dark corners by reflecting it from a bit of looking glass?
well, so appeared the winged cheerfulness of this fairylike stranger amid the gloom of the cottage.
she flew to epimetheus and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the trouble had stung him and immediately the pain of it was gone.
then she kissed pandora on the forehead and her hurt was cured likewise.
"who are you, beautiful creature?"
asked pandora.
"i am to be called hope," explained the sunshiny figure, "and because i am such a cheerful person, i was packed by the gods into the box to make amends for the swarm of ugly troubles.
never fear!
we shall do pretty well in spite of them."
"your wings are colored like the rainbow," exclaimed pandora, "how beautiful!"
"and will you stay with us," asked epimetheus, "forever and ever?"
"as long as you need me," said hope, "and that will be as long as you live in the world.
i promise never to desert you."
so pandora and epimetheus found hope, and so has everybody else who has trusted her since that day.
the troubles are still flying around the world, but we have that lovely and lightsome fairy, hope, to cure their stings and make the world new for us.
what became of the giants
the giants had decided to invade mount olympus.
they thought they could easily do this, for there were none of the gods who could hurt them; the giants were proof against all their weapons.
they believed that this wonderful place among the clouds was theirs by right just because they were larger and stronger than the heroes.
if the gods refused to give up their abode with its palaces, the gilded car of day, its stores of food such as had never been tasted by mortals and its weapons, the thunder and lightning, the giants were going to destroy the mount.
that would have been a pity, for with mount olympus would go some of the most beautiful foundations the world has ever known.
there was one of the gods, apollo, who held the light of the whole universe in his right hand.
it was not only that of the sun, but the light that shone in the hearts of the greeks and made life brighter when they had wisdom, and knew truth, and could appreciate beauty.
there was no question at all about this light being apollo's and coming as a gift to men from mount olympus, because of his great deeds.
there was a deep cavern on the green hillside of parnassus in greece where a goat herd, passing by its mouth in ancient times, had inhaled a strange fragrance that had made him able to speak with the knowledge of a seer.
apollo decided to preserve this cave.
the city of delphi grew around it and apollo sent a priestess crowned with laurel to be its oracle and welcome those mortals who wanted to breathe its magic air.
but a monster of darkness, the python, placed itself in front of the oracle and allowed no man to approach delphi.
apollo, with his shaft of light, drove away the python and made it possible for any one who wanted better eyesight or keener hearing or more truthful speech to come to the oracle.
that was not all, either, that apollo had accomplished for the good of men.
he protected the muses, who were the daughters of jupiter and memory and could do all sorts of things to make happiness.
they could sing, and draw music from the strings of the lire, write stories and poems, and paint pictures.
it was said, also, that the laurel tree belonged to apollo for making wreaths with which to crown those who had done great deeds or made dark paths bright.
but the giants could see little value in apollo's light.
they thought mainly of how to wrest riches and nectar and ambrosia from the gods, and they decided to try and kill apollo and the muses first of all.
thessaly had the wildest forests and the most rocky coasts of any part of greece.
it was a fitting place for the giants to meet, and it must have been a terrible sight when they landed and formed their ranks for battle.
they say that tityus, one of their leaders, covered nine acres when he lay down for a nap on a plain.
certain others had a hundred arms, limbs made of huge serpents and could breathe fire.
the worst part about this race of giants was the fact that their hearts were different from those of the celestials and the mortals.
they had hearts made of solid stone which could never beat and feel warm.
that was why the giants made preparations to climb up the steep sides of mount olympus.
no one in all greece dared to try and stop this war of the giants.
they pulled up the mountain ossa and balanced it on top of pelion to bridge the way from the earth to the sky.
they armed themselves by tearing up great oak and cypress trees for clubs and carrying rocks as large as small hills with them.
then the giants climbed up and attacked the habitation of the gods.
it seemed as if the giants were going to win, for even the gods were frightened and made haste to change their forms.
the mighty jupiter took upon himself the figure of a ram.
apollo became a crow, diana a cat, juno a cow, venus a fish and mercury a bird.
but mars, the god of war, got out his chariot and went to meet the giants, and the others returned at last, for there was really no courage like theirs.
the battle was still with the giants, though, for no weapons could kill them.
mars threw his spears and they rebounded from the stone hearts of the giants.
no one knew what would happen, for certain of the giants went down to the earth again and brought up hills with which to crush the habitations of the gods, but just then a great idea came to apollo.
he believed that there were unseen forces which were quite as powerful as the giants' trees and rocks and hills in deciding this battle.
so apollo sent mercury, the messenger with winged shoes, post haste with a secret message to helios who lived in the palace of the sun commanding him to close and lock the doors.
there was no light for the giants to fight by and they were well known to be hulking, awkward creatures, very clumsy about using their hands and feet.
they needed the light.
they had even made attempts to steal the summer from mortals that they might have more sunshine themselves and they had succeeded in a way, for winter came upon the earth every year with its cold and shorter days.
but the giants had neglected to bring any sunshine with them and it was suddenly as dark as night on mount olympus.
the giants fumbled about and stumbled and fell upon their own weapons.
taking advantage of this temporary rout, jupiter sent a sky full of thunderbolts into their midst and they tumbled back to earth again.
it was odd, but apollo, whom the giants had thought so unessential because he protected knowledge and the oracle of delphi and the tender muses, had conquered with his own special weapon, light.
the giants were not particularly hurt by their fall; they were only driven out of the habitation of the gods and they began taking counsel together at once as to how they might begin their war all over again.
but they suddenly discovered that they had nothing to eat.
in their absence, ceres had cut down and uprooted from the earth the herbs that they needed to keep them alive and preserve their strength.
then, to make sure that their destruction would be complete, jupiter covered each giant with a volcano.
each was imprisoned fast underneath a mountain, and all he could do was to breathe through the top once in a while in a fiery way.
that was the end of the giants.
for a while they did some damage, particularly the giant enceladus whom it took the whole of the volcano aetna to cover and keep down.
but gradually even the volcanoes became quiet and there was more peace upon the earth.
mortals, for all time, though, have followed the example of the giants and have tried to use their strength in battle for pillage.
they have destroyed beautiful buildings and put out home fires and interfered with teaching and music and painting and writing, because they could not see the light shining in these.
but what usually happens to them in the end is just what happened to the giants who started out to destroy mount olympus.
they find that they have pulled a volcano down over their shoulders.
how vulcan made the best of things
no one wanted vulcan at olympus because he was a cripple.
his mother, juno, was ashamed of him, and his father, the great jupiter, had the same kind of feeling, that it was a disgrace to have a son who was misshapen and must always limp as he took his way among the other straight limbed gods.
but vulcan had a desire to be of service to his fellows.
there was once an assemblage of the gods at which they were to discuss important matters of heaven and earth, and vulcan offered his help as cup bearer for the company.
he made a droll figure hobbling from seat to seat with the great golden cup, and some of the gods laughed at him.
at last they threw vulcan out of the skies and he fell for an entire day, so far was it from olympus to the earth.
near sunset he found himself lying on the ground beside a smoking mountain, bruised and more handicapped than he had ever been before.
he had fallen to the island of lemnos in the aegean sea.
it was a bare, unbeautiful place, for the coast was set thick with volcanoes that poured forth burning metal at intervals from one year's end to another.
the sintians, who were the only inhabitants of the island of lemnos, had scant means of subsistence because the land was unfertile and few ships dared anchor at their shores under the rain of fire from the volcano that might destroy them.
these people of lemnos were a kind, simple folk, though, and they had a great pity for vulcan.
they gathered about him and bound up his wounds with healing herbs.
they shared their scanty store of fruit with him, and they hastened to prepare him a tent.
but when the sintians returned to the foot of the mountain mosychlos where they had left vulcan he was gone.
"we dreamed of this visitor from the gods," they decided.
"it was only a falling star that we watched, dropped from the zenith."
seasons passed and at last it was noticed that the fiery mosychlos was only smoking.
it no longer threatened the lives of the inhabitants of lemnos with its red hot torrents.
the same fact was to be noted about the other volcanoes; they seemed more like the smoking, sooty chimneys of our factories of to-day than the towers of death they had been before.
and above the sound of the surf and the wailing of the wind there could be heard a new sound, the steady beating of a hammer on metal as a smith strikes his ringing blows from morning until night.
the bolder of the people of lemnos went to the foot of the mountain and discovered, to their amazement, that the rock opened like a door.
they went inside, following the sound of the hammer.
in the very depths of the mountain they saw a sight that had never been seen on earth before.
there was a dark smithy in the heart of the burning mountain with a forge fire in which the power of the volcano burned, a great forge upon which vulcan was shaping metal into things of dazzling beauty, and all about the smithy were the materials for making more; white steel, glowing copper, shining silver, and burnished brass and gold.
a strange company of apprentices, the cyclopes, served vulcan here.
they had once been shepherds, but their peaceful occupation had been taken away from them because they had neglected to pay tribute to apollo.
each had but a single eye, placed in the middle of the forehead, but they were using their great strength in the smithy of vulcan to forge thunderbolts for jupiter, to make a trident for neptune and a quiver of arrows for apollo.
beside vulcan stood two wonderful hand-maidens of gold, who, like living creatures, moved about and helped the lame smith as he worked.
vulcan, the despised of the gods, had chained fire and conquered the metals of the earth that he might make gifts for the gods and for the heroes.
wonderful objects appeared at the doorway of vulcan's shop and were carried to mount olympus.
he shaped golden shoes, wearing which, the celestials were able to walk upon land or sea, and travel faster than thought flies.
he made gold chairs and tables which could move without hands in and out of the halls of the gods.
the celestial steeds were brought to vulcan at lemnos and he shod them so cleverly with brass that they were able to whirl the chariots of the gods through the air or on the waters with all the speed of the wind.
he was even shaping brass columns for the houses of the gods.
vulcan had become the architect, smith, armorer, chariot-builder and the artist of all the work in mount olympus.
he was accomplishing more than this.
because he had captured fire and made the metals of the earth serve the ends of peace, the island of lemnos became a safe, fertile land.
vineyards were planted and yielded rich harvests, flocks fed in green meadows, and vulcan forged tools with which agriculture could be carried on.
ships from the other islands of greece sailed to lemnos and commerce, the strength of a nation, began.
in those days there was a great war being waged between the trojans and the greeks, and many hearts beat with hope at the prowess of a young greek hero, achilles.
hector, at the head of the trojans, had stormed the greek camp and set fire to many of their ships.
a captain of the greeks begged achilles to lend him his armor that he might lead the soldiers against the forces of troy.
"they may think me, in your mail, the brave achilles," he said, "and pause from fighting, and the warlike sons of greece, tired as they are, may breathe once more and gain a respite from the conflict."
so achilles loaned this captain, patroclus, his radiant armor and his chariot, and marshalled his men to follow into the field.
at first the assault was successful, but there came a change of fortune.
patroclus'
chariot driver was killed; then he met hector in single combat, at the same time receiving a spear thrust at the back.
so patroclus fell, mortally wounded, and it was a great sorrow as well as a tragedy for greece, for patroclus had been achilles' beloved friend, and hector stole the armor of achilles from his body.
news of the defeat went even to mount olympus and jupiter covered all the heavens with a black cloud.
but thetis, the mother of achilles, hastened to the smithy of vulcan and told him that her son was in sore straits, having no suit of mail.
she found the lame artisan of the gods at his forge, sweating and toiling, and with busy hands plying the bellows.
but vulcan laid by his work at once to weld a splendid suit of armor for achilles.
there was, first of all, a shield decorated with the insignia of war; then a helmet crested with gold and a corselet and greaves of metal so tempered that no dart could penetrate them.
the task was done in a night and thetis carried the armor to her son and laid it at his feet at dawn of the next day.
no man before had ever worn such sumptuous armor.
arrayed in vulcan's mail achilles went forth to battle, and the bravest of the trojan warriors fled before him or fell under his spear.
achilles, his armor flashing lightning, and he, himself, as terrible as mars, pursued the entire army as far as the gates of troy.
his triumph would have been complete, but he had an enemy among the company of the gods on mount olympus.
no arrow shot by the hand of man could have hurt achilles, but apollo's shaft wounded him mortally.
apollo and mars were then, and will be for all time, enemies; light and music and song have no sympathy with war.
and achilles, having been taken from the battle-fields of earth by a dart which apollo directed, was carried to olympus along a bright pathway through the skies.
on his way he stopped at the palace of the sun.
it was reared on stately columns that glittered with gold and precious stones.
the ceilings were of ivory, polished and carved, and all the doors were of silver.
there were pictures on the walls that surpassed in their lines and colors the work of artists upon the earth.
the whole world, the sea and the skies with their inhabitants were pictured.
nymphs played in the sea, rode on the backs of fishes or sat on the rocks and dried their long hair.
the earth was lovely with its forests and rivers and valleys.
there was a picture of spring crowned with flowers.
summer wore a garland made of the heads of ripe, golden grain.
autumn carried his arms full of grapes, and winter wore a mantle of bright ice and snow.
seeing this beauty, the hero forgot his wound.
achilles had been obliged to leave his armor on the earth, an inheritance for other brave heroes who were to take his place in the siege of troy, but apollo had shown him the greatest work of vulcan.
it was the crippled one of the gods who had built this palace of the sun.
how orion found his sight
neptune, the burly old god of the sea, had a son named orion who was almost as fond of the woods as he was of the ocean.
from the time when orion was old enough to catch a sea horse and ride on its back to shore he was gone from his home in the depths of the sea for days at a time.
when neptune blew his conch-shell to call the runaway home, orion would return regretfully with the tales of the bear he had seen in the forest or the comb of wild honey he had found in an old oak tree.
neptune wanted orion to be happy, so he bestowed upon him at last the power of wading as far and in as deep water as he liked.
no one had ever been able to wade right through the fathomless ocean before, but orion could be seen any day, his dark head showing above the surface of the waters, and his feet paddling beneath without touching the bottom.
he was not obliged to depend any more upon his father's chariot or the dolphins or the sea horses to carry him to shore.
so orion began to spend a good deal of his time on land, and as he grew up to be a youth he became a mighty hunter.
his arrows seemed to have been charmed by diana, so swift and sure they were.
and every day orion bagged great spoils of game and deer.
he was making his way through the forest one day with a mighty bear that he had just slain over his shoulder when he came suddenly upon a clearing and in its midst there stood a fair white castle, its towers reaching above the pine trees toward the sky.
it was surrounded by a great wall, and when orion approached and asked the gatekeeper why it was so fortified, he was told that the king of that country who lived in it was in constant terror, day and night, of wild beasts.
"he would give half of his kingdom to whoever could rid the forest of its ravening beasts," the gatekeeper told orion.
as orion listened, he glanced up at a window of one of the castle towers and there he saw the face of the king's daughter, merope, looking down at him.
hers was a bright face, the blue eyes and smiling lips framed in her hair which fell in a golden shower and wrapped her about like a cloak.
orion delighted in the thought that merope was smiling at him, although her eyes were really looking beyond this uncouth son of the sea and as far as the shores of corinth where the heroes set sail for their adventures.
"would the king, by any chance, do you think, give his daughter, merope, to that hunter who rids the forest of wild beasts?"
orion asked.
the gatekeeper looked at orion's shaggy hair, his bare feet and his mantle, made of a lion's skin.
he turned away to conceal a smile as he answered.
"one could ask the king," he said.
orion returned to the deep places where the night was made terrible by the crying of those beasts of prey that hunted for men, and neptune did not see his son for many moons.
orion shot lions and wrestled single-handed with bears.
he strangled great snakes with his own brawny hands and he hunted the wolf and the tiger with his spear.
when the forest was rid of the pest of these man-eating creatures, orion returned to the castle in the clearing, not waiting even to wash the gore of his mighty hunting from his hands and garments, and he presented himself to the king.
"the forest is free of wild beasts that kill, o king," orion said.
"you may tear down your ramparts and walk in safety among the trees.
as my reward for the great deed i have done, i ask the hand of your daughter, merope.
i would take her home with me to my palace of coral and shell in neptune's kingdom.
and if you refuse her to me, i will take her by force."
the king was speechless at first.
then, when he realized the boon that this son of the sea was asking, he seemed to have no words with which to express his scorn.
he raised his sceptre in anger and struck orion's eyes.
"begone from my court, boaster," he commanded.
orion rose from his place where he had been kneeling at the foot of the king's throne and he put his hands to his eyes, for the room seemed suddenly as dark as night.
he tried to find the door but he stumbled, groping for it, until the attendants of the court had to take his hands and lead him outside.
they mocked at him as they pushed him through the palace gate and watched this mighty hunter, who had the strength of the sea in his limbs, stagger down the road like a blind beggar.
orion was now sightless.
the king, for his presumption in asking for merope, had struck him blind.
without sun by day or moon by night, orion wandered up and down the earth, asking of whoever he met the way he must take to find the light again.
once he came to a spot in the woods where he heard the sound of many soft footsteps dancing on the moss to the sound of merry piping.
orion stretched out his arms as he felt his way nearer to the hamadryads, those gay creatures of the forest who played all day long with pan and his tunes for company.
"can you, by any chance, direct me to apollo who drives the chariot of the sun?"
orion asked.
"oh, no," the hamadryads answered, scattering at the sight of the blind wayfarer.
"we seldom see apollo, for he doesn't like the music pan plays on his pipes."
so orion stumbled on, and he heard in the course of his wanderings the clash and din of battle as two armies met in mortal combat on the edge of a city.
war chariots crashed by him, and he heard the din of shield striking shield, and the groans of those heroes who fell wounded to death.
"these fighters must know the way to take to the light," orion thought and, sheltering himself from the combat beside a column that still stood, he cried out to one of the warriors,
"have you seen apollo, driving the chariot of the sun, pass this way lately?"
"no," the man replied.
"apollo avoids the battle field.
we cannot direct you to the god of light."
so orion wandered on in his darkness until he came at last to the island of lemnos and as he stumbled along a rocky road the sharp ringing of hammers beating on metal came to his ears.
"there must be a smithy close by," orion thought, "a place as black and ugly as the world my blindness makes for me.
i have heard tales of the cyclopes, with only one eye apiece, who spend all their lives under the mountains shaping thunderbolts at their forges.
their master is the ill-shaped vulcan, the despised of the gods.
there is little use in my following the sound of a hammer."
but, against his will, orion kept on.
there was a call in the ringing of the hammer that drew him on faster than the merrymaking of pan had, or the sound of battle.
before long the heat of the forge fire touching his face told orion that he had reached the doorway of vulcan's smithy at the foot of the mountain, and he asked again,
"can you tell me the way to apollo, who drives the chariot of the sun?"
how surprised he was to hear vulcan reply,
"apollo is here.
we are sending some forgings of gold to his palace and he will take you with him to the sun, blind orion."
that was a thrilling ride for orion, away from the darkness he had walked in so long on the earth, and up along the road of stars that led to the sun.
apollo drove the chariot himself, and when they came to the stately gold columns that guarded the entrance to his palace, he told orion to look straight at the blazing light of the sun.
as he looked, orion's blindness passed.
he opened his eyes and could see again.
the myths say that orion never left the sky after that.
the gods changed him into a giant, with a wide hunting belt, a sword, a lion's-skin mantle and a club made all of stars.
and they even brought sirius, his faithful hunting dog, to follow his master forever through the heavens.
the wonders venus wrought
of all the many strange things that happened in the days of the old gods and goddesses, the most wonderful of all came to pass one spring morning near the island of cyprus.
one expects all kinds of surprises in spring, new leaves and flowers on bare branches, the nesting and singing of the wild birds and brighter sunshine than in months before, but this wonder of greece was quite unexplainable.
to this day no one seems to have been able to account for it or understand it.
there was hardly a breeze to stir the blue sea and the waters lay like a turquoise mirror, smooth and still.
suddenly the fishermen who were casting their nets on the shore saw a bright, rose colored cloud that trembled and then began to drop lower toward the sea until it floated lightly on the surface of the water.
it was so soft and ethereal that it seemed as if a breath would blow it away, but it rose and fell like mist and seemed to almost breathe.
no one spoke, watching the wonder, and suddenly the cloud began to take form and shape.
it really breathed, and it blossomed into the most beautiful woman who had ever been seen on earth or on mount olympus either.
her hair was as bright as sunlight and her face glowed with warm color like that of the rosy cloud from which she had come.
her flowing garments were as soft and lovely as the tinted sky at sunrise, and she stretched out her slender white arms toward the shore.
at once the four zephyrs of the west who had not been anywhere about before came and surrounded this beauteous being, and with their help she glided toward the island of cyprus.
the four seasons descended from mount olympus to meet her there, as the people of cyprus watched and wondered at the marvel.
"can it be possible that this heavenly being has come to remain with us?"
they asked each other.
and even as they wondered the second strange thing happened.
vulcan, the smith of mount olympus, had a shop on cyprus.
here his anvil could be heard ringing every day from sunrise until sunset, for vulcan was shaping and fitting together the parts of a gold throne for jupiter.
he was making other things with his skilful hands, weapons and armor for the gods and the heroes, and thunderbolts for jupiter.
he was a lonely smith, very much handicapped by his lameness, and seldom went about much unless it was to take his finished work home to mount olympus.
but this is what happened that long ago morning in spring.
with amazing grace this lovely person who had been born in the foam of the sea made her way to the abode of vulcan.
she was the goddess of love, venus, who is sometimes called aphrodite.
she had come to be the wife of vulcan who was, in spite of his lameness, the god of fire.
things were very different on the earth after the coming of venus.
the whole world had been looking for her and hoping for her coming although they had not really known this desire of their hearts.
and one of the first matters that the goddess of love attended to was that of the wilful atalanta who had caused so much sorrow among the heroes of greece.
atalanta was a princess, too boyish for a girl and too girlish for a boy.
many of the heroes had claimed her hand in marriage but she liked her own free, wild ways too much to give them up for spinning and the household arts.
to any prince or hero who asked for her hand atalanta made the same reply,
"i will be the prize of him who shall conquer me in a race; but death shall be the penalty of all who try and fail!"
it was a cruel decree.
how atalanta could run!
there had never been a boy even who was able to beat her in a race.
the breezes seemed to give her wings, her bright hair blew over her shoulders, and the gay fringe of her dress fluttered behind her.
but as atalanta raced, the ruddy hue of her skin seemed to fade and she became as white as marble, for her heart grew cold.
all her suitors were outdistanced and they were put to death without mercy.
then hippomenes came and decided to risk his life in a race with atalanta.
he was a brave, bold youth and although he had been obliged to act as judge and condemn many of his friends whom atalanta had defeated to death, he wanted to run.
and he asked venus to help him in the race.
in venus' garden in her own island of cyprus there was a tree with yellow leaves and yellow branches and golden fruit.
aphrodite gathered three golden apples from the tree and gave them, unseen, to hippomenes, telling him how to use them.
the signal was given and atalanta darted forward along the sand of the shore near venus' temple with hippomenes at her side.
hippomenes was a swift runner, with a tread so light that it seemed as if he might skim the water or a field of waving grain without leaving a foot print.
at first he gained.
then he felt the beat of atalanta's breath on his shoulder, and the goal was not yet in sight.
at that moment hippomenes threw down one of the golden apples.
atalanta was so surprised that she stopped a second.
she stooped and picked up the apple and as she did so hippomenes shot on ahead.
but atalanta redoubled her speed and soon overtook him.
again he threw down a golden apple.
atalanta could not bear to leave it, and she again stopped and picked it up.
then she ran on again.
hippomenes was almost to the goal but atalanta reached and passed him.
in a minute she would have won, but hippomenes dropped the third golden apple.
it glittered and shone so that atalanta could not resist it.
a third time she hesitated and as she did so hippomenes won the race.
the two were very happy, hippomenes in his success and atalanta in her precious fruit.
she at once wanted a house in which to keep it, and when hippomenes built her one atalanta began to spin and weave and take great pride in making her home beautiful and comfortable.
venus had been quite sure that this would happen.
she had known that it would be better for atalanta to forget her cruel races, so she gave her these golden apples to show her the prizes love brings.
the goddess of love had other work to do on earth.
she was particularly fond of her garden in cyprus and she busied herself for a long time tending and coaxing a new bush to live and blossom.
it was different from any shoot that had been seen there before, tough, and dry, and covered with sharp thorns that pricked whoever touched them and drew blood like spear points.
but venus handled and trimmed the stalks without fear until the bush spread and sent out branches that stretched up and covered the wall of her temple like a vine.
it was noticed that the new shoots and leaves pushed their way up from underneath some of the thorns, which dried up at once and dropped off.
then flower buds appeared where there had been sharp thorns which opened, when summer decked cyprus, into the loveliest blossoms the earth had ever seen.
their fragrance filled the island and their color was like that of the cloud from which aphrodite had come.
it was the rose, venus' own flower, and destined to be always the most loved flower of earth.
venus watched over everything that was beautiful on earth.
that is why she was sorry that pygmalion, the king of greece, was so hardhearted.
pygmalion was a sculptor as well as a king, and so skilled with clay and marble that he was able to mould likenesses of the beings of mount olympus, even.
but he closed his heart to men and he felt that there was no woman living who was worthy to share his kingdom.
one spring pygmalion decided to make a statue of ivory, and when it was finished it was so exquisite that there had never before been seen such beauty save that of venus.
pygmalion was proud of his work and as he admired it venus put a better feeling into his heart.
pygmalion laid his hand upon his statue to see if it were living or not.
he began to wish that it was not ivory, and he named it galatea.
pygmalion gave galatea the presents that a young girl of greece loved, bright shells and polished stones, birds in golden cages, flowers of many colors, beads, and amber.
he dressed her in silk and put jewels on her fingers and a necklace about her neck.
she wore ear rings and many strings of pearls.
when he had done all this venus rewarded him.
pygmalion, returning to his home one day, touched his statue and the ivory felt soft and yielded to his fingers as if it had been wax.
its pallor changed to the color of life, and galatea opened her eyes and smiled at pygmalion.
after that all cyprus was changed for this king who had been selfish and hardhearted.
he was able to hear the silvery song of his fountain that he had never noticed before.
he began to love the forests, and flowers, and people, for venus had given him galatea to share his kingdom.
venus and vulcan began to spend about as much time with the gods as they did on the earth, for mount olympus was their real home.
venus carried her roses there to deck her hand-maidens, the graces, who presided over the banquets, the dances, and the arts of the gods.
she was watchful of mortals, though, for she knew that they would always have need of her.
where the labyrinth led
daedalous stood in the shadows at the entrance of the labyrinth and watched one of the heroes enter the dark passageway.
it was a strange, secret edifice that daedalous, an artist of the gods, had built with his mighty skill.
numberless winding passageways and turnings opened one into the other in a confusing maze that seemed to have no beginning or end.
there was a river in greece, the maeander, that had never been traced to its source, for it flowed forward and backward, always returning and daedalous had planned the labyrinth like the course of the river maeander.
there was hardly anything that daedalous was not able to do with his hands, for he had been given great gifts by the gods.
but he liked trickery more than honesty and had spent years and used his clever brain in inventing this maze.
as he peered into the dark alleys of the labyrinth he saw the hero disappear.
he would never return, daedalous knew, for no one yet had ever been able to retrace his steps through its turnings.
like many secret things, the labyrinth caught and destroyed even the brave.
it was a pity that anything so dreadful should have happened on such a day as that.
the olive trees of crete were in full leaf, and daedalous could hear a nightingale singing in the forest nearby.
he was deaf to the music of birds, though, for he was listening for another sound.
it was may of the year, and the day when athens sent a tribute of seven of the strongest lads and seven of the fairest daughters of greece to be driven into the the labyrinth, a tribute to king minos of crete.
the minotaur, a raging beast half man and half bull, waited in its secret passageways to devour them.
daedalous had built the labyrinth and confined the minotaur in it to commend himself to king minos.
the sound he listened for was the crying of these youths and maidens on their way to the sacrifice.
the road was strangely quiet, although daedalous could see the white garments of the children as they made their way toward him through the aisles of flowering trees.
their eyes were bright with courage, and a youth who was taller and older than the others led them.
daedalous trembled and hid behind a bank of moss as he saw him.
all greece was beginning to talk of this youth, theseus, the son of the king of athens.
he had but lately come to athens, having lived with his grandfather at troezen, and had astounded the populace with his prowess.
the boys in the streets had ridiculed him a bit at first because of the long ionian garment that he wore and his long hair.
they called him a girl and told him that he should not be out alone in public.
hearing this ridicule, theseus had unyoked a loaded wagon that stood near by and had thrown it lightly up into the air to the marvel of all who saw him.
next, theseus had overpowered some fifty giants who hoped to overthrow the government of athens and set up their own rule of pillage and terror in the city.
then theseus had, by his extraordinary strength, captured a furious bull that was destroying the fields of grain outside the city, and had brought it captive into athens.
daedalous did not know, however, of this last adventure which theseus had taken upon himself.
the athenians were in deep affliction when he had come to the court of athens, for it was the time of the year when its sons and daughters must be sent for the annual offering to king minos.
theseus resolved to try and save his countrymen from this too great sacrifice and had offered himself as one of the victims to leave for crete.
his father, king aegeus, was loath to have him go.
he was growing old, and theseus was his hope for the throne of athens.
but the day of the tribute came, seven girls and six boys were drawn by lot, and they set sail with theseus in a ship that departed under black sails.
when they arrived at crete, the victims were exhibited before king minos, and theseus saw ariadne, his daughter, seated at the foot of his throne.
ariadne was so beautiful that we may still see her crown of gems in the sky, a starry circle above the constellation of hercules who kneels at her feet.
she was also as good as she was beautiful, and a great pity filled her heart when she saw theseus and these young people of athens so soon to perish in the labyrinth.
she wanted to save them all to be the glory of athens when they grew up, so she gave theseus a sword for his encounter with the minotaur and a coil of slender white thread.
daedalous, from his hiding place, saw these and wondered as theseus approached the labyrinth and fearlessly entered.
as he followed the crooked, twisting passages, theseus unwound his white skein and left the thread behind him.
he went on boldly until he reached the devouring beast in the center of the labyrinth and slew it easily with ariadne's keen blade.
then theseus retraced his steps, following the thread, as he found his way out of the labyrinth and into the light again.
daedalous was seized with an overpowering fear, for the artifice of his work had been discovered.
there would be no more sacrifices of the heroes and the children of greece to the minotaur.
the crooked ways of the labyrinth had been made plain by theseus' white thread of truth.
king minos was most angry of all with daedalous at this failure of the maze.
he imprisoned daedalous and his son, icarus, whom daedalous loved more than anything else in the world, in a high tower in crete.
when they escaped, he set guards along the entire shores of the island and had all ships searched so that the two might not leave by sea.
icarus had great faith in his father and entreated him to find some way by which they might elude the guards and begin their life anew on some other island.
so daedalous forgot his lesson of the labyrinth and set about making wings for himself and icarus.
the wings were as false as the maze had been crooked.
daedalous set the boy to gathering all the feathers he could find that the sea birds and the birds of the forest had dropped.
icarus brought his hands full of these; he was very proud of his father and had always longed to be old enough to help him in his work.
he sat beside his father in the shelter of a cedar grove, sorting the larger from the smaller feathers, and bringing wax that the bees had left in the hollow trees.
daedalous wrought the feathers together with his skilful fingers, beginning with the smallest ones and adding the longer to imitate the sweep of a bird's wings.
he sewed the large feathers with thread and fastened the others with wax until he had completed two pairs of wings.
he fastened them to his own shoulders and to those of icarus, and they ran to the shore, buoyed upwards and feeling the power of birds as they made ready for their flight.
icarus was as joyous as the nightingale that spreads his wings to carry his song as far as the sky.
but daedalous was again terrified at the work of his hands.
he warned the boy:
"fly along the middle track, my icarus," he said, "not high or low.
if you fly low, the ocean spray will weight your wings, and the sun may hurt you with his fiery dart if you fly too far.
keep near me."
then daedalous kissed his boy, rose on his wings and flew off beckoning for icarus to follow.
as they soared away from crete, the ploughmen stopped their work and the shepherds forgot their flocks as they watched the strange sight.
daedalous and his son seemed like two gods chasing the air above the blue sea.
together they flew by samos and delos, on the way to sicily, a long distance.
then icarus, exulting in his wings, began to rise and leave the lower course along which his father had been guiding him.
he had wanted, all his life, to see the city of the gods on mount olympus and now his chance had come to reach it.
icarus was sure that his wings were strong enough to carry him as far as he had a desire to fly, because his father whom he had trusted had made them for him.
up, up toward the heavens icarus mounted, but the coolness of the waters changed to blazing heat, for icarus was near the sun.
the heat softened the wax that held the feathers together and icarus' wings came off.
he stretched his arms wide, but there was nothing to hold him in mid air.
"icarus, my icarus, where are you?"
daedalous cried, but all he could see was a ripple in the ocean where his son had fallen and the bright, scattered plumage floating on the surface.
that was the real end of the labyrinth, where the daughters of the sea, the nereids, took icarus in their arms and carried him tenderly down among their gardens of pearly sea flowers.
for daedalous had to fly on alone to sicily, and although he built a temple to apollo there and hung his wings in it as an offering to the god he never saw his son again.
how perseus conquered the sea
a heavy storm raged at sea.
the billows, as tall and stronger than ships, rolled from the cave on the coast of greece where medusa, the gorgon, ruled and directed them.
she drove them out in an endless line of destruction to crush any frail craft that braved the waters, send the sailors to the bottom and leave only broken oars and spars to be washed up on the rocks outside her stony dwelling place.
as the sea arose and the winds shrieked, a ship far out from the land could be seen, riding on the crest of the waves and coming closer to the shore.
then its form changed and the fishermen who had dared the weather saw that it was a chest made of carved cedar wood and having hinges of chased gold.
it would be almost submerged one minute and then it would appear again, floating bravely on the surf.
at last it was tossed upon the rocks, and the fishermen ran to salvage the treasure that some ruthless destroyer had cast out for medusa to capture if she could.
when they reached the chest the fishermen saw a young mother inside it clasping her baby son closely in her arms.
it had held a human treasure abandoned to the gorgon's cruel powers of the sea.
they conducted her to their king, polydectes, of seriphus, and she told him her story.
"i am danae, the princess of argos," she said, "but my father, king acrisius, is afraid of the powers that this little son of mine may develop in manhood.
he caused us to be shut up in a frail chest and set adrift among the waves.
i pray your protection, o king, for my son, who is strong and of noble birth, until he is able to dare great deeds and reward you for your kindness."
no one could have resisted the pleading of danae, so lovely and holding her baby in her arms.
she remained in seriphus and her son, perseus, grew to a boy and then to a fearless, daring young hero.
all this time medusa was working sorrow on land and sea.
she had once been a beautiful maiden of the coast of greece, but she had quarreled with minerva, the goddess of wisdom, and for this act the gods had changed her into a gorgon.
her long, curling hair was now a mass of clustering, venomous serpents that twined about her white shoulders and crawled down to her feet where they twisted themselves around her ankles.
no one could describe the terrible features of medusa, but whoever looked in her face was turned from a living thing to a creature of stone.
all around the cave where she lived could be seen the stony figures of animals and men who had chanced to catch a glimpse of her and had been petrified in an instant.
above all, medusa held the ruthlessness of the sea in her power.
those captains who had cruel hearts abandoned their enemies to the waters and she crushed them with her billows.
so it seemed to perseus that his first adventure on coming to manhood must be the conquest of medusa, the snaky haired gorgon, and the gods approved of his decision and met in counsel on mount olympus to decide how they should help the young hero.
"i will lend perseus my shield for his adventure," minerva, the wisest goddess of them all, said.
"and i will lend perseus my winged shoes," mercury, the god of speed, decided, "to help him hasten on his brave errand."
even pluto, the king of the dark regions beneath the earth, heard of perseus' determination and sent him his magic helmet by means of which any one was able to become invisible.
perseus was well equipped when he started out.
he wore pluto's helmet and mercury's shoes, and travelled to the lonely cave of the gorgon without being seen and as fast as a dart of fire sent by jupiter.
medusa paced the halls of her cave endlessly, moaning and crying in her despair, for she was never able to escape those crawling, slimy snakes which covered her head and body.
perseus waited until she was so weary that she sank down on the stones of the cave and slept.
then, taking care not to look at her hideous face but only following her image that was reflected in his shield, perseus cut off medusa's head and carried it away in triumph.
then the people who travelled the sea in ships were saved from her cruelty, and her power for evil was changed in perseus' hands to a power for good.
carrying the head of medusa high, the hero flew in the winged shoes far and wide over land and sea until he came at last to the western limit of the earth where the sun goes down.
that was the realm of atlas, one of the giants who was rich in herds and flocks and allowed no one to share his wealth or even enter his estates.
atlas' chief pride was his orchard whose fruits were all of gold, hung on golden branches and folded from sight by golden leaves.
perseus had no ambition to take this golden harvest.
"i stop in your domain only as a guest," he explained to the giant, "i am of noble birth, having sprung from the gods, and i have just accomplished the brave deed of destroying the terror medusa wrought on the sea.
i ask only rest and food of you."
but atlas could think of nothing but his greed for his gold apples.
"be gone, boaster!"
he cried, "or i will crush you like a worm beneath my heel.
neither your parentage or your valor shall avail you anything."
perseus did not attempt to meet the force of the giant's greater strength, but he held up the head of the gorgon full in his face.
then the massive bulk of atlas was slowly but surely turned to stone.
his iron muscles, his brawny limbs, his huge body and head increased in size and petrified until he towered above perseus, a mighty mountain.
his beard and hair became forests, his arm and shoulders cliffs, his head a summit, and his bones rocks.
for all the rest of the centuries atlas was to stand there holding the sky with its weight of stars on his shoulders.
perseus continued his flight and he came to the country of the ethiopians.
the sea was as ruthless here as it had been when medusa ruled the billows in her cave on the coast of greece.
as perseus approached the coast he saw a terrible sight.
a sea monster was lashing the waves to fury and coming closer and closer to the shore.
and a beautiful girl was chained to the rocks, waiting to be devoured by this dragon.
she hung there, so pale and motionless that if it had not been for her tears that flowed in a long stream down the rocks, and her bright hair that the breezes from the sea blew about her like a cloud, perseus would have thought her a marble statue carved and placed there on the rocks.
perseus alighted beside her, startled at her horrible plight, and entranced with her beauty.
"why are you fastened here in such danger?"
he asked.
the girl did not speak at first, trying to cover her face, but her hands were also chained.
at last she explained to perseus.
"i am andromeda, the princess of ethiopia," she said, "and i must be a sacrifice to the sea because my mother, queen cassiopeia, has enraged the sea by comparing her beauty to that of the nymphs.
i am offered here to appease the deities.
look, the monster comes!"
she ended in a shriek.
almost before she had finished speaking, a hissing sound could be heard on the surface of the water and the sea monster appeared with his head above the surf and cleaving the waves with his broad breast.
the shore filled with people who loved andromeda and shrieked their lamentations at the tragedy which was about to take place.
the sea monster was in range of a cliff at last and perseus, with a sudden bound of his winged feet, rose in the air.
he soared above the waters like an eagle and darted down upon this dragon of the sea.
he plunged his sword into its shoulder, but the creature was only pricked by the thrust and lashed the sea into such a fury that perseus could scarcely see to attack him.
but as he caught sight of the dragon through the mist of spray, perseus pierced it between its scales, now in the side, then in the flank, and then in the head.
at last the monster spurted blood from its nostrils.
perseus alighted on a rock beside andromeda and gave it a death stroke.
and the people who had gathered on the shore shouted with joy until the hills re-echoed their glad cries.
like the prince of a fairy tale, perseus asked for the fair andromeda as his bride to reward him for this last victory over the sea, and his wish was granted.
it seemed as if his tempestuous adventures were going to reach a peaceful ending as he took his bride.
there was a banquet spread for the wedding feast in the palace of andromeda's father and all was joy and festivity when there came a sound of warlike clamor from outside the gates.
phineas, a warrior of ethiopia, who had loved andromeda, but had not had the courage to rescue her from the terror of the sea, had arrived with his train to take her away from perseus.
"you should have claimed her when she was chained to the rock," perseus said.
"you are a coward to attack us here with so overpowering an army."
phineas made no reply but raised his javelin to hurl it at perseus.
the hero had a sudden thought to save him from destruction.
"let my friends all depart, or turn away their eyes," he said, and he held aloft the hideous snaky head of the gorgon.
his enemy's arm that held the javelin stiffened so that he could neither thrust it forward nor pull it back.
his limbs became rigid, his mouth opened but no sound came from it.
he and all his followers were turned to stone.
so perseus was able to claim andromeda as his bride after all, and they both had a great desire after a while to go to argos and visit perseus'
old grandfather, the king of that country who had been so afraid of a baby that he had sent his grandson drifting across the sea in a chest.
"i want to show him that he has nothing to fear from me," perseus said.
it happened that they found the old king in a sad plight.
he had been driven from the throne and was a prisoner of state.
but perseus slew the usurper and restored his grandfather to his rightful place.
in time, perseus took the throne and his reign in argos was so wise and kind that the gods at last made a place for him and beautiful andromeda among the stars.
you may see them on any clear night in the constellation of cassiopeia.
pegasus, the horse who could fly
a very strange thing happened when perseus so heroically cut off the head of medusa, the gorgon.
on the spot where the blood dripped into the earth from perseus' sword there arose a slender limbed, wonderful horse with wings on his shoulders.
this horse was known as pegasus, and there was never, before or since, so marvellous a creature.
at that time, a young hero, bellerophon by name, made a journey from his own country to the court of king iobates of lycia.
he brought two sealed messages in a kind of letter of introduction from the husband of this king's daughter, one of bellerophon's own countrymen.
the first message read,
"the bearer, bellerophon, is an unconquerable hero.
i pray you welcome him with all hospitality."
the second was this,
"i would advise you to put bellerophon to death."
the truth of the matter was that the son-in-law of king iobates was jealous of bellerophon and really desired to have him put out of the way in order to satisfy his own ambitions.
the king of lycia was at heart a friendly person and he was very much puzzled to know how to act upon the advice in the letter introducing bellerophon.
he was still puzzling over the matter when a dreadful monster, known as the chimaera, descended upon the kingdom.
it was a beast far beyond any of mortal kind in terror.
it had a goat's rough body and the tail of a dragon.
the head was that of a lion with wide spreading nostrils which breathed flames and a gaping throat that emitted poisonous breath whose touch was death.
as the subjects of king iobates appealed to him for protection from the chimaera a sudden thought came to him.
he decided to send the heroic stranger, bellerophon, to meet and conquer the beast.
the hero had expected a period of rest at the court of lycia.
he had looked forward to a feast that might possibly be given in his honor and a chance to show his skill in throwing the discus and driving a chariot at the court games.
but the day after bellerophon arrived at the palace of king iobates, he was sent out to hunt down and kill the chimaera.
he had not the slightest idea where he was to go, and neither had he any plan for destroying the creature, but he decided that it would be a good plan to spend the night in the temple of minerva before he met the danger face to face.
minerva was the goddess of wisdom and might give him help in his hopeless adventure.
so bellerophon journeyed to athens, the chosen city of minerva, and tarried for a night in her temple there, so weary that he fell asleep in the midst of his supplications to the goddess.
but when he awoke in the morning, he found a golden bridle in his hands, and he heard a voice directing him to hasten with it to a well outside of the city.
pegasus, the winged horse, had been pasturing meanwhile in the meadows of the muses.
there were nine of these muses, all sisters and all presiding over the arts of song and of memory.
one took care of poets and another of those who wrote history.
there was a muse of the dance, of comedy, of astronomy, and in fact of whatever made life more worth while in the sight of the gods.
they needed a kind of dream horse like pegasus with wings to carry them on his back to mount olympus whenever they wanted to return from the earth.
bellerophon had never known of the existence even of pegasus, but when he reached the well to which the oracle had directed him, there stood pegasus, or, rather, this horse of the muses poised there, for his wings buoyed him so that his hoofs could scarcely remain upon the earth.
when pegasus saw the golden bridle that the goddess of wisdom had given bellerophon, he came directly up to the hero and stood quietly to be harnessed.
a dark shadow crossed the sky just then; the dreaded chimaera hovered over bellerophon's head, its fiery jaws raining sparks down upon him.
bellerophon mounted upon pegasus and took the golden reins firmly in one hand as he brandished his sword in the other.
he rose swiftly in the air and met the ravening creature in a fierce battle in the clouds.
not for an instant did the winged horse falter, and bellerophon killed the chimaera easily.
it was a great relief to the people of lycia, and indeed to people of all time.
you may have heard of a chimaera.
it means nowadays any kind of terror that is not nearly so hard to conquer as it seemed in the beginning when people were afraid of it.
this story ought to end with the hero returning his winged steed to the muses and entering the kingdom of lycia in great triumph, but something very different happened.
bellerophon decided to keep pegasus, and he rode him so long and so hard that he grew very full of pride and presumption in his success.
one day bellerophon made up his mind to drive pegasus to the gates of the gods in the sky which was too great an ambition for a mortal who had received no invitation as yet from the dwellers on mount olympus.
jupiter saw this rider of the skies mounting higher and higher and he became very angry with him.
he sent a gadfly which stung pegasus and made him throw bellerophon to the earth.
he was always lame and blind after that.
it really had not been the fault of pegasus at all.
he was only the steed of those who followed dreams, even if he did have wings.
when his rider fell, pegasus fell too, and he landed unhurt but a long distance from his old pastures.
he did not know in which direction they lay or how to find the road that led back to his friends, the muses.
pegasus'
wings seemed to be of no use to him.
he roamed from one end of the country to the other, driven from one field to the next by the rustics who mistook him for some sort of a dragon because of his wings.
he grew old and lost his fleetness.
it even seemed to him that his wings were nothing but a dragging weight and that he would never be able to use them again.
finally the same thing happened to pegasus that happens to old horses to-day that have enjoyed a wonderful youth as racers.
he was sold to a farmer and fastened to a plough.
pegasus was not used to this heavy work of the soil; his strength was better suited to climbing through the air than plodding along the surface of the earth.
he used all the strength he could put forth in pulling the plough, but his wings dragged and were in the way and his master beat his aching back with an ox whip.
that might have been the end of this winged horse, but one day good fortune came to him.
there was a youth passing by who was beloved of the muses.
he was so poor that he had often no other shelter than the woods and hedges afforded, or any food save wild fruits and the herbs of the field.
but this youth could put the beauties of the earth, its hills and valleys, its temples, flowers, and the desires and loves of its people into words that sang together as the notes of a lute sang.
he was a young poet.
the poet felt a great compassion for the horse he saw in the field, bent low under the blows of his clownish master, and with wings dragging and tattered.
"let me try to drive your horse," he begged, crossing the field and mounting upon pegasus' back.
it was suddenly as if one of the gods were riding pegasus.
he lifted his head high, and his heavy feet left the clods of earth.
his wings straightened and spread wide.
carrying the youth, pegasus arose through the air as the country people gathered from all the neighboring farms to watch the wonder, a winged horse with a flowing golden mane rising and then hidden within the clouds that opened upon mount olympus.
how mars lost a battle
terminus was the god of boundaries, and a kind of picnic was being held in his honor one day in the long-ago myth time on the edge of a little roman town.
no one had ever really seen terminus but every farmer who owned a few acres of land, and the men who governed the cities were quite sure as to how he looked.
it was likely that he wore such garb as did pan, they had decided, and carried instruments for measuring similar to those that a surveyor uses to-day.
his chariot was loaded with large stones and finely chiselled posts for marking the limits of a man's farm, or that of a town.
there were no fences in those days, but the gods had appointed terminus to protect land holders and to safeguard citizens by keeping all boundaries sacred from invasion by an enemy.
no wonder the terminalia, as they called this holiday, was a joyous time.
all through the neighboring vineyards and fields and on the edge of the village stones had been placed to mark the boundaries, and there were stone pillars, also, having carved heads to make them beautiful.
everyone who came to the picnic brought an offering for the god terminus, a wreath of bright roses, a garland of green laurel, or a basket of grapes and pomegranates which they placed on one of these boundary stones or posts.
the law of the gods that prevented invasion was the greatest blessing these people had, for it made them free to till the earth and build homes and keep their hearth fires burning.
suddenly the merrymaking was interrupted.
the children who had been gathering wild flowers ran, crying, to their fathers and mothers, for the sky was darkened in an instant as if a hurricane was approaching.
the young men who had been playing games and the maidens who had been dancing huddled together in frightened groups, for they saw between rifts in the clouds the tracks of dark chariot wheels making their swift way down to earth from the sky.
and the older folk, who knew the meaning of the rumblings and dull roar and occasional darts of fire that parted the clouds, shuddered.
"see who stands in our midst in his black cloak, scattering hoar frost that blights the fields and freezes us!"
they exclaimed.
"it is dread, the courier of mars, the god of war, who is approaching in his chariot."
there came dreadful sounds soon that almost drowned the voices of the people, the crashing of swords and shields, and the cries of women and little children as a chariot plunged through their midst, its wheels dripping with blood.
it was driven by two other attendants of war, alarm and terror, the face of one as dark as a thunder cloud, and the other with a countenance as pale as death.
"what shall we do; we are unarmed and will perish?"
one man cried.
and another answered him.
"look to yourself and your own safety.
why did you leave your sword at home, and what care is it of mine that you have no means of protecting yourself?"
strange words for a noble people to speak to one another in a time of such need, were they not?
but it was not the heart or the soul speech of these romans.
the two other attendants of war, fear and discord in tarnished armor, had appeared in their midst and had put these thoughts into the minds of the men.
"mars comes!"
they said then, and the air grew dense and suffocating with smoke, only pierced at intervals by fiery arrows.
thunderbolts forged by the black, one-eyed cyclopes in their workshops under the volcanoes fell all about, tearing up the earth and bursting in thousands of burning pieces.
through this slaughter and carnage rode the mailed mars, one of the gods of war.
his steeds were hot and bleeding, and his own eyes shone like fire in his dark, cruel face, for mars had no pity and took pleasure in war for the sake of itself.
it was never the purpose but always the battle that gave him pleasure.
with his attendants he sat on a throne that was stained with blood, and the worship that delighted his ears like music was the crash of strife and the cries of those who were sorely wounded.
mars' palace on mount olympus was a most terrible place.
fancy a grim old stronghold built for strength only, without a chink or a crack for letting in apollo's cheerful sunlight, and never visited by the happy muses or by orpheus with his sweet toned lute, or by jolly old momus, the god of laughter.
the palace was guarded, night and day, by a huge hound and a vulture, both of them the constant visitants of battle fields.
mars sat on his throne, waited upon by a company of sad prisoners of war, and holding forever the insignia of his office, a spear and a flaming torch.
why had he left his abode and descended upon the peaceful merrymaking of the terminalia?
mars was a very ruthless kind of god.
in fact he was so cruel and thoughtless that the family of the gods was rather sorry that jupiter had appointed him to so important a position, and they decided at last to have two war-gods.
but who the other one was and what happened when this second chariot of war crashed down through the clouds is another story that you shall hear presently.
the reason for mars riding out with those frightful friends of his, dread, alarm, fear, and discord, was that he had not the slightest respect for terminus, the god of boundaries.
he had decided to knock down his stones and shatter his pillars.
everyone, from the days of the myths down to the present time, has believed in a fair fight.
it is about the greatest adventure a man can have, that of using all his strength and giving up his life perhaps in a battle to right a wrong or protect a defenseless people.
but fancy this old fight of mars when he rode down in the chariot that the gods had given him upon a people who were without arms and with the purpose of violating their boundaries.
with a rumble like that of all the thunder storms in the world rolled into one and a crashing like the sound of a thousand spears, mars touched the earth and rode across terminus' carefully laid out boundary lines and destroyed them.
the wheels of his chariot ground the stones terminus had so honestly placed to powder, and the beautifully carved pillars were shattered, and the pieces buried in the dust.
the shouts of mars and his followers drowned all the peaceful melody of earth, the singing of birds, the laughter of the children, and the pleasant sounds of spinning and mowing and grinding.
it was indeed a most dreadful invasion and for a while it seemed as if it was going to end in nothing but destruction of the people and the industry on the earth which the gods loved and had helped.
but in an instant something happened.
there was a roar as if wild beasts of the forests for miles around had been captured, and the earth trembled as it did when the giants were thrown out of the home of the gods, for mars had fallen and was crying about it.
he had thought himself invulnerable, but whether an arrow from some unseen hero had hit him or whether his steeds had stumbled over one of terminus' boundary posts, the invincible mars lay prostrate on the field he had himself invaded, and before he could pick himself up, something else happened.
it was really rather amusing, for mars was not hurt.
he was only taught a much needed lesson.
just beyond the lines of terminus which mars had violated there lived two giant planters, otus and ephialtes, whose father had been a planter also and his father before him.
they had been much too busy to attend the terminalia picnic.
in fact they almost never took a holiday, but toiled from sunrise to sunset on their farm which supplied the nearby market with fruits and bread stuffs.
otus and ephialtes were very much surprised to hear the thundering crash that mars made when he tumbled down; and they dropped their tools and ran to see what was the matter.
it is said that the fallen mars covered seven acres of ground, but the two giants started at once picking him up and he began to shrink then like a rubber balloon when the air leaks out of it.
"what shall we do with this troublemaker?"
otus asked his brother.
"we must put him where he will not interfere with our work or the other work of the earth for a while at least," ephialtes said as they tugged mars, still roaring, home.
"that's a good idea," otus agreed.
"we will shut him up."
and so they crammed the troublesome mars into a great bronze vase and took turns sitting on the cover so that he was not able, by any chance, to get out for thirteen months.
that gave everyone an opportunity to plant and gather another harvest, and to place terminus' boundary stones again.
these giant planters would have liked to keep this god of war bottled up in the vase for all the rest of time, but he was one of the family of the olympians and so this was not possible.
in time he was allowed to drive home and both the greek and the roman people tried to make the best of him, not as a protecting deity, but as the god of strength and brawn.
the greeks named a hill for him near athens, and here was held a court of justice for the right decision of cases involving life and death.
that put mars to work in a very different way.
and the romans gave him a great field for military manoeuvres and martial games.
we would call it a training camp to-day.
there, in mars field, chariot races were held twice a year and there were competitions in riding, in discus and spear throwing, and in shooting arrows at a mark.
once in five years the able-bodied young men of rome came to mars field to enlist for the army, and no roman general started out to war without first swinging a sacred shield and spear which hung there and saying,
"watch over me, o mars."
for mars could put muscle into a man's arm, and the heroes themselves were learning to choose the good fight.
how minerva built a city
the sea that broke in surf on the shore of attica became suddenly as smooth as a floor of crystal.
over it, as if he had leaped from the caverns of rock in its depths, dashed neptune, the god of the sea, his trident held high, his horses' golden manes flowing in the wind, and their bronze hoofs scarcely touching the water as they galloped toward the shore.
at the same moment a war-like goddess appeared on the edge of the land.
she was as tall and straight and strong as mars, but her armor shone like gold while his was often tarnished.
she held the storm shield of her father, jupiter and carried a dart of lightning for her spear.
minerva, the other god of war, she was, as fearful and powerful as a storm, but also as gentle and peaceful as the warmth of the sky when it shines down on the fields when the storm is over.
"why have neptune and minerva met?"
the fishermen and sailors who crowded the beach asked.
"they have come together for a contest to see which shall have the honor of building a city," some of the wise men told them, and then these greeks drew aside and waited to see what would happen, for with them was to rest the judgment in the matter.
neptune drove his chariot up onto the land, dismounted, and blew a mighty blast on his trumpet to call the nymphs of the waters and the spirits of the winds to his aid.
then he ascended to a barren rock that lifted its head above the surrounding hills, bleak and without a single blade of grass to soften it.
the greeks watched neptune breathlessly as he stood on its top, a mighty figure in his cloak of dripping seaweed and the white of sea salt in his flowing, dark green hair.
he raised his trident, struck the rocks with it, and the age-old stone cracked in a deep fissure.
out of the crack in the rock burst a spring of water where there had been not a drop through all the centuries before.
"neptune wins!
none of the gods can excel this feat of bringing water out of bare rock," the cry went up from the people.
but minerva ascended now to this rock of the acropolis and took her place beside neptune.
she, also, touched the barren stone with her spear that was forged and tempered by the gods.
and as she did so, a marvel resulted to her honor as well.
the green shoot of a tree suddenly appeared, pushing its way up through the hard stone.
the shoot grew tall and broadened to form a trunk and branches, and then covered itself with gray-green leaves that made a pleasant shade from the brilliancy of the sun.
last, this wonder tree was hung on every branch with a strange new fruit, green balls of delicious flavor and full of oil that was healthful and healing and needed by the whole world.
the greeks broke their ranks and gathered about the tree to taste and enjoy the fruit.
"minerva wins!"
they shouted.
"neptune's spring here in the acropolis is like the sea, brackish in flavor, but minerva has given greece the olive tree."
that is just what had happened.
minerva had given the people something that they really needed, and the fair city of athens was raised and awarded to this goddess of war as the prize of her kindness to the people.
but neptune proved himself a very poor loser.
he was a blustering, boastful old god, used from the days of his father oceanus, when the waters were first separated from the land, to having his own way.
he had wanted to own athens himself, to be able to go and come in it whenever he liked, and it was particularly humiliating that he must give it up to a goddess.
neptune stormed down to the shore, blew another blast on his trumpet, and called all the deities of the sea and of tempests to come to his aid and destroy the city.
what an army they made as they obeyed his summons!
triton, a son of neptune, led the hosts and sounded the horn of battle as they approached the land, and all around him flew the harpies, those birds as large as men with crooked claws and a hunger for human flesh.
there were sea serpents that could crush a man with a single coil, and boreas, the north wind, drove the regiment of the high tides up on the coast.
with these powers of the sea came a mighty rushing of water, and it seemed as if neither athens or its people would be able to survive this arising of the sea.
but minerva, the goddess of righteous, defensive war was there and on the side of the greeks.
she presided over battles, but only to lead on to victory and through victory to peace and prosperity.
few could withstand the straight glance of minerva's eyes, valiant, conquering and terrifying, or the sight of her gloriously emblazoned shield.
as the powers of neptune advanced, minerva raised her shield, and the tides rested and the waters receded.
then she drove the forces of neptune back at the point of her spear, and athens was saved.
you will remember that the gods were very much like men in wanting particular kinds of gifts which would be their very own, and which they could treasure.
jupiter had a special fondness for thunderbolts and kept piles of them behind his throne.
apollo treasured his lyre, and mercury his shoes and his cap.
venus never travelled without a jewelled girdle which she thought added to her beauty, but minerva had always wanted a city.
now her wish had come true, for she had a very large and beautiful one, the fair athens.
people began coming to athens from all parts of greece and from neighboring countries as well, because minerva spent so much time there tending and spreading the olive orchards, and keeping the city free from invasion.
neptune had left a horse near the hill of the acropolis when he had to retreat, and minerva invented a harness for it and broke it to the bit and bridle with her own hands in the market square of athens.
having horses for ploughing and carrying loads of lumber and stone and grain helped the prosperity of athens and brought it wealth.
and when the people were at peace, minerva laid aside her armor and crossed the thresholds of the houses, teaching the women to spin, and weave, and extract the precious oil from her olives.
everyone was growing very prosperous and very rich.
it seemed that the olive tree had brought all this wealth, for it had spread throughout attica and plenty followed wherever it bore fruit.
not far from athens lay the kingdom of the persians who were invincible in battle, having devoted themselves for many years to the arts of warfare.
through their interest in their own affairs the athenians forgot about their warlike neighbors, until one fateful day when a runner breathlessly told them that the hosts of the persian army waited at the boundaries of their cities.
such confusion and terror as ensued!
the athenians were not ready for war.
they consulted an oracle as to how to meet the persian host and the oracle replied,
"trust to your citadel of wood!"
the wise men of athens quite misunderstood this advice and went busily to work erecting wooden fortifications around the hill of the acropolis where minerva's first olive tree stood as if it were guarding their prosperity.
the oracle had meant for the athenians to trust to their fleet and try to prevent the persian army from entering along the coast, and by the time the wooden wall was built, the persians had begun to fire athens.
minerva, with her flaming spear raised and her eyes filled with tears, went to her father, jupiter, to beg for the safety of her city.
she kneeled at the foot of his throne to make her plea, and it must have been hard indeed for jupiter to refuse his favorite daughter as he looked down at minerva, prostrate before him in her shining suit of mail.
but the king of the gods told minerva something about her city which even he was powerless to change.
"athens, in her prosperity, has forgotten the gods," jupiter said.
"she lives and works for herself and not for others.
she must perish in order that a better and nobler city may rise from her ruins."
so minerva was obliged to watch from the clouds as fire and sword consumed athens and the smoke of the flaming city rose like incense to the seats of the gods.
when there seemed to be nothing left except the stones which had been the foundation of athens' beauty, and those of her heroes who had not perished had been obliged to take to the sea, minerva descended to her hill, the acropolis.
she wanted to see if the roots, at least, of her olive tree had been spared, and she found a wonder.
as a sign that she had not forsaken athens, even in ruins, jupiter had allowed the roots of her tree to remain, and from them there sprang a new green shoot.
with wonderful quickness it grew to a height of three yards in the barren waste that was all the persians had left, a sign that athens was not dead, but would live and arise a new, fairer city.
minerva held her bright shield above her golden helmet and hastened to the sea coast, calling together the heroes to man the ships and set sail against the fleet of the enemy.
the persian fleet greatly outnumbered that of the greeks, but at last it was driven off with terrible rout and those of the persians who were left on land were destroyed.
the war was won for the greeks through minerva's help, but jupiter's prophecy had been fulfilled.
the old athens was gone, and it was necessary to build a new city.
that was just the kind of undertaking that minerva liked, to win a defensive war and then build so as to destroy all traces of it.
she and the greeks, with the help of all the other gods, went to work to make athens such a city as had not been dreamed of before.
ceres, the goddess of agriculture, restored the waste fields and orchards so that the olive grew again and plenty came once more.
minerva busied herself encouraging the women to do more beautiful handwork than before the war, and she taught them how to feed and tend little children so that they might grow up strong and well and be the glory of greece.
large numbers of horses were trained and harnessed to war chariots.
apollo sent sunshine and music to the city, and the builders erected beautiful marble temples and statues and pillars and fountains.
the athenians began doing things together, which always helps to make a city great and strong.
there were parades of the soldiers and the athletes on the holidays, and public games and banquets and drills were held.
the best holiday of all was minerva's own.
first, there was a procession in which a new robe for the goddess, woven and embroidered by the most skilful women and girls of athens, was carried through the city on a wagon built in the form of a ship, the robe spread like a sail on the front.
it was like a great float in a parade.
all athens followed the wagon, the young of the nobility on horseback or in chariots, the soldiers fully armed, and the trades people and farmers with their wives and daughters in their best clothes.
the new robe was intended for the statue of minerva that stood in the parthenon in athens.
they named her pallas athene at last, the guardian of their beloved city.
then came games in which the athletes took part, and the most sought for prize was a large earthenware vase on one side of which there was painted a figure of minerva striding forward as if she was hurling her spear, and having a column on each side of her to indicate a race-course.
on the other side of the vase was a picture of the game in which it was won, and it was filled to brimming with pure olive oil from minerva's tree.
for the greeks had learned that war is sometimes necessary, but minerva would heal their wounds with the oil of her sacred tree and the new athens was to be known always as one of the most perfect cities of the ages.
cadmus, the alphabet king
there are many ways of building a city, and this is how cadmus, in the days of the myths, built thebes, the beautiful.
cadmus was but a youth when he began his wanderings which took him from shore to shore of the earth, for he was descended from neptune, the god of the sea, and had been born with the spirit of the restless tides in his heart.
but cadmus had a longing to search out and make for himself a home on land where he could gather the heroes about him and make temples and a market place and set up fair statues.
so he consulted the oracle of apollo to know what country he should settle in, and a voice issued from that strange, deep cleft in the rock at delphi saying that he would find a cow in a field, and should pursue her wherever she wandered.
where she stopped cadmus also should stop and build a city which he was to call thebes.
as soon as cadmus left the cave of the oracle, he was surprised to see a white cow wearing a garland of flowers about her neck and cropping in the grass nearby.
she raised her head when cadmus appeared, and walked slowly before him.
so he followed her, and she went on until she came to a wide plain in the fertile land of egypt.
here she stood still and lifted her broad forehead to the sky, filling the air with her lowings.
cadmus stooped down and lifted a handful of the foreign soil to his lips, kissing it, and looking with delight at the beauties of the blue hills which surrounded this spot to which apollo had guided him.
he felt that he ought to offer his thanks to jupiter, and so he went to a nearby fountain to draw some pure water to bathe his hands before he lifted them up to the sky.
the fountain spouted, as clear as crystal, from a cave covered with a thick growth of bushes and situated in an ancient grove that had never been profaned by an axe.
cadmus pushed his way into it, and when he was inside the cave it seemed as if he had left the world behind, so dark was it, with the shadows of the boughs and thick leaves.
cadmus dipped a vase which his servants had brought him in the waters of the fountain, and was about to raise it, brimming full, when it suddenly dropped from his hands, the blood left his cheeks, and his limbs trembled.
a venomous serpent whose eyes shone like fire and who showed triple fangs and triple teeth raised its head from the waters with a terrible hiss.
its crested head and scales glittered like burnished bronze; it twisted its body in a huge coil and then raised itself, ready to strike, to a height that over-topped the trees of the grove.
and while cadmus' servants stood still, unable to move for their fright, the serpent killed them all, some with its poisonous fangs, some with its foaming breath, and others in its choking folds.
there was only cadmus left, and at last he crept out of the cave, screening his body behind the bushes, and made ready to take his stand against the serpent.
he covered himself from head to foot with a lion's skin.
in one hand he carried a javelin and in the other a lance, but in his heart cadmus carried courage which was a stronger weapon than either of these.
then he faced the serpent, standing in the midst of his fallen men and looking into its bloody jaws as he lifted a huge stone and threw it straight.
it struck the serpent's scales and penetrated to its heart.
the creature's neck swelled with rage, the panting breath that issued from its nostrils poisoned the air.
then it twisted itself in a circle and fell to the ground where it lay like the shattered trunk of a tree.
cadmus, watching for his chance, went boldly up to the monster and thrust his spear into its head, fastening it to the tree beneath which it had fallen.
the serpent's weight bent and twisted the tree as it struggled to free itself, but at last cadmus saw it give up the fight and hang there, quiet in death.
then a marvellous thing happened.
as cadmus stood, looking at his fallen foe, a voice came to him which he could hear distinctly, although he was not able to know from whence it came, and it said,
"it is decreed, o cadmus, that you shall take out the teeth of this dragon and plant them in the plain upon which you are to found the city of thebes."
so cadmus obeyed the command.
he pulled out the serpent's triple row of sharply pointed teeth.
he made a furrow and planted them in it, and scarcely had he covered them with earth than the clods raised themselves.
as happened in the days when jason had traveled all the long way in search of the fleece of gold, the ground where the dragon's teeth had taken root was pierced by the metal points of helmets and spears.
after these sprouting signs of war came the heads and breasts of an army of warriors until the entire plain was bright with their shields and the air smoked and resounded with the din of fearful fighting.
cadmus was only one against the terrible ranks of all these earth-born brothers of his, but he made ready to do his best and encounter this new enemy.
as he advanced, however, he heard the unknown voice again,
"meddle not with civil war, cadmus," it said.
but cadmus' spirit was fired with his high desire to build a city which would be a place of peace and industry, and he knew that civil strife was the destruction of such a city.
so he entered the battle, single handed, and smote one of these, his fighting brothers, with a sword, but fell, pierced in his side by an arrow.
he was up and advancing again as soon as he staunched the flow of blood, killing four of the warriors.
in the meantime the warriors seemed to become mad with the spirit of warfare and killed each other until the whole crowd was pitted against one another.
at last all of the warriors fell, mortally wounded, except five.
these five survivors threw aside their weapons and cried, as with one voice,
"brothers, let us live in peace."
and they joined with cadmus in laying the foundations of a great city which they called thebes.
they measured and laid out roads, making them hard and strong for the wheels of heavy chariots which would bear kings to and from the city.
they built houses whose decorations of carvings and precious metals were not to be equalled in all greece, and they filled them with rare furnishings, and they painted pictures of the contests of the gods on the walls, and shaped golden plates and cups for the tables.
they set up a strong citadel at the boundary line of the city to protect it from invasion, and cadmus built factories for making tools and furniture and household utensils so as to draw traders to the city and increase its prosperity through commerce.
and there were seven gates to thebes, in honor of the seven strings of apollo's lyre from which he drew the sweet strains that brought harmony to the earth.
when thebes was finished, it seemed as if it had no rival among the cities of the earth, it was so good to look upon, so full of industry, and peace, and plenty.
but cadmus had yet one gift more to make to thebes.
for a long time he worked secretly, carving with a sharp pointed tool upon a stone tablet.
one day he brought forth the result of his work.
cadmus had invented the alphabet; he had given the power of learning through reading and writing to his people.
that made his city complete, for a people who are through with civil strife, and able to work and be educated can be as great as the gods if they will it so.
they became great and they made cadmus the king of thebes for a rule that was long and just and good.
the picture minerva wove
arachne, the wonderful girl weaver of greece, took a roll of white wool in her skilled hands and separated it into long white strands.
then she carded it until it was as soft and light as a cloud.
she was at work out of doors in a green forest and her loom was set up under an old oak tree with the sunlight shining down between the leaves to brighten the pattern that she set up on it.
in and out her shuttle flew without stopping until she had woven at last a fair piece of fabric.
then arachne threaded a needle with wool dyed in rainbow colors.
she had all the colors of this long arch, that the sunbeams shining through raindrops make, to use in her work.
"what design will the clever arachne embroider on her tapestry to-day?"
one of the nymphs of the forest who had clustered about her to watch her work asked.
then all the nymphs, looking like a part of the forest in their soft green garments, crowded close as arachne began to embroider a picture.
the grass seemed to grow in it beneath her needle, and the flowers bloomed just as they always bloom in the spring.
"you weave and sew as if the great minerva herself had taught you her arts," a nymph said timidly to arachne.
the girl's face flushed with anger.
it was true that the goddess minerva who presided over the arts that women need to know, spinning, weaving and needlework, had taught arachne her skill, but the girl was vain and always denied it.
"my skill is my own," she replied.
"let minerva try to compete with me and if she is able to finish a rarer piece of work than mine, i am willing to pay any penalty."
it was a thoughtless, daring boast which arachne had made.
as she spoke the leaves of the trees fluttered, for the nymphs, frightened at a mortal's presumption, were moving away from arachne.
she looked up and in their place saw an old dame standing beside her.
"challenge your fellow mortals, my child," she said, "but do not try to compete with a goddess.
you ought to ask minerva's forgiveness for your rash words."
arachne tossed her head in disdain.
"keep your counsel," she replied, "for your hand-maidens.
i know what i say and i mean it.
i am not afraid of the goddess.
i repeat it; let minerva try her skill with mine if she dare venture."
"she comes!"
said the old dame, dropping her disguise and appearing before arachne in the shining silver mail of the goddess minerva.
arachne grew pale with fear at first, but her presumption overcame her fear.
her heart was full of her foolish conceit and she set a new piece of work on her loom as minerva produced a second loom, and the contest began.
they attached the web to the beam and began tossing their slender shuttles in and out of the threads.
they pushed the woof up into place with their fine reeds until the fabric was compact.
then the needlework was begun.
arachne, though, had decided to work something that was forbidden by the gods.
she was going to use her skill of hand and all her art for evil instead of good.
she began embroidering a picture that would be displeasing to the gods, and she was able to make it seem as if it were alive, because of the figures and scenes she could outline with her needle and fill in with her colored wools.
the picture arachne embroidered was that of the fair princess europa tending her father's herds of cattle beside the sea.
one of the bulls seemed so tame that europa mounted his back, and he plunged into the sea with her and carried her far away from her native shores to greece.
arachne pictured this bull as the great god jupiter.
minerva's embroidery was of a very different pattern from this.
she was the goddess of wisdom and her gift from mount olympus to the earth had been the beautiful olive tree that gave mortals shade, and fruit, and oil, and wood for their building.
minerva stitched the pattern of a green olive tree on the tapestry she was embroidering.
among the leaves of the olive tree minerva embroidered a butterfly.
it seemed to live and flutter in and out among the olives.
one could almost touch the velvet nap that lay on its wings and the silk down which covered its back; there were its broad, outstretched horns, its gleaming eyes, its glorious colors.
minerva's workmanship was more wonderful than arachne could ever hope to learn.
as they finished she knew that she was outdone.
minerva looked at arachne's tapestry, woven of pride and a desire for vain conquest.
it could not be allowed to stand beside hers that showed the gift of life to man in the olives and such beauty as that of the butterfly.
the goddess struck arachne's tapestry with her shuttle and tore it in pieces.
arachne was suddenly filled with an understanding of how she had wasted her skill, and she longed to get away from all sight and sound of her weaving.
a vine trailed down to the ground from a near by tree.
arachne twisted it about her body and tried to pull herself up by it to the tree, but minerva would not allow this.
she touched arachne's form with the juices of aconite and at once her hair came off, and her nose and her ears as well.
her body shrank and shrivelled and her head grew smaller.
her fingers fastened themselves to her side and served for legs.
she hung from the vine which changed to a long gray thread.
arachne, the skilful weaver of greece, was changed to arachne, the spider of the forest.
through all the centuries since then she has been spinning her fragile threads and weaving her frail webs that a breath of wind, even, can destroy.
the hero with a fairy godmother
the prince who was the hero of one of your favorite once-upon-a-time stories was quite sure to have had a fairy godmother to watch over his ways and help in bringing his adventures to success.
but hercules, the great, of old greece than whom we have never known a greater hero, had two fairy godmothers.
they were not known by exactly that name in the days when the myths were made, but there were two very powerful goddesses who presided over hercules' destiny, and the odd thing about it was that no one knew which of these was the more important.
hercules began life just like any other baby except that his father was the mighty jupiter, a fact which made everyone expect a great deal of him.
and just as used to happen in your old fairy tales, he had enemies because of his noble birth.
one of these was the goddess, juno.
hercules lay in his cradle one day before he was able to walk even, and he suddenly saw something that would have frightened anyone much older than he.
on each side of his cradle there appeared the green, hissing head of a huge serpent, their poisonous fangs thrust out to sting this child of the gods to death.
hercules' attendants ran away in terror not daring to give fight to the vipers, but he reached out his tiny hands, gripped a serpent in each by its throat and strangled them.
people began to look at hercules in wonder after that.
they watched him grow up, just like any other boy except that his limbs were stronger and his muscles harder than those of the average boy of greece.
there were still those who admired him and those who hated him, knowing that he was, really, the son of a god.
so his enemies put hercules in charge of a kind of tutor named eurystheus who was under orders to give him the most impossible tasks to try and perform.
"the lad will fail and then we shall be well rid of him," the goddess juno, who particularly disliked hercules, said.
hercules began life in a part of greece that was known as the valley of nemea.
it was a place of olive orchards and fruit trees and fields of grain, but the terror of the place was the nemean lion who lived close by in the fastness of the hills.
there had never been known so huge a lion, with such wide, blood thirsty jaws.
eurystheus ordered hercules to bring him the tawny hide of this monster.
"how shall i slay the nemean lion?"
hercules asked.
"with your arrows and your club," eurystheus replied carelessly, but he knew that no arrows in all greece could pierce the lion's skin and that hercules' club, made of a stout young tree, would also be powerless against the beast.
"hercules will never return," the people of the valley said to each other as they watched the young hero start out boldly toward the hills.
but he returned the next day, as fresh and untroubled as when he had started, with the hide of the nemean lion slung over his shoulder.
"are yours magic arrows, and is your club charmed as well?"
the youths who were hercules' friends asked, crowding around him.
"i killed the lion with my hands alone, grasping him about his throat,"
hercules explained to them.
eurystheus, listening on the edge of the crowd, frowned at these words.
"i must plan a greater labor for him," he thought.
there was a rich and beautiful city of greece named argos, but a fearful monster called the hydra infested a swamp just outside it and one never knew when it would descend upon the well that supplied the people with pure water.
it had nine heads and one of these was immortal, so the rumor went.
"go to argos and kill the hydra," eurystheus commanded hercules.
hercules was ready to dare this adventure.
he started out again with no other arms than he had carried before and when he came to the well of argos which kept the country from drought, he found the hydra stationed there.
going up to it, hercules struck off one of its heads with his club.
what was his surprise to see two heads grow in the place of this one!
it was going to be a task to destroy this creature, hercules understood, as he laid on with his club against the menacing and increasing heads, hitting right and left and with no time between his telling blows.
he struck off all of the hydra's heads at last except the undying one.
finally hercules thought of a plan for destroying this.
he wrenched it off with his mighty hands and buried it deeply underneath a rock.
"hercules shall be put to a task he will not like so well as encountering wild beasts," eurystheus decided then.
"he shall clean the augean stables.
we will see if a son of the gods has the will to accomplish that labor."
this was indeed a labor with very little of the spirit of adventure in it.
old king augeus, of elis in greece had a herd of three thousand cattle and their stalls in his many stables had not been cleaned for thirty years.
the cattle, all of them of blooded stock, were dying off because they were not properly cared for, and there was no hero of the king's train but felt the work of cleaning the stables to be too menial for him.
hercules had no such thought as this, however.
he was ready to attempt the labor; his only idea was how to accomplish it, and thoroughly.
at last he had a very novel idea.
there were scarcely any of the lesser gods of outdoors who had not, by this time, felt the strength of hercules.
there had been the river god who took delight in leading the waters of the streams over their banks and inundating the farms in the spring when the fields had just been planted.
hercules had wrestled with this river god and had broken off one of his horns, on account of which he had to keep the streams between their banks.
hercules made up his mind that he would take advantage of his power over the river god in his present need.
so what did hercules do but lead the courses of two streams, the alpheus and the peneus, right through the augean stables cleansing them thoroughly.
when he finished this labor, the result was so fine that he had quite as much reason to be proud of it as he had over his other prowess.
it was as splendid to use one's strength in cleaning as in any other way, hercules discovered.
he went on from one adventure to another with the years, always successful although everyone prophesied that some day his strength would fail and he would have to give up.
eurystheus wanted a new yoke of oxen, and none would do except those who lived in the land of the setting sun, in the western part of greece and were guarded by a giant who had three bodies.
hercules set out for the place and when he reached it he discovered that not only the giant, but a huge dog that had two heads guarded the oxen.
hercules killed the giant and his dog and drove the oxen home to eurystheus.
victor over wild beasts and giants, and able to accomplish any work which he attempted!
what labor was there left for this son of mount olympus?
eurystheus knew.
he sent hercules on what seemed indeed a wild goose search.
he commanded him to bring back to greece the golden apples of the hesperides without telling him where they were to be found.
they were very plump and beautiful apples made altogether of solid gold.
it is said that they were the first oranges the world had ever known.
however that may be the greeks wanted them very much.
juno had received them for a wedding present from the goddess of earth, and had hung some on a golden tree in the fair garden of the daughters of hesperis who kept a dragon to guard them.
it would have been a task to pick them even if one had known where to go for them.
hercules started out, though, without route or chart and it was the most difficult of all his adventures.
he met antaeus, a son of the earth, who was a mighty giant and wrestler.
hercules encountered this son of the earth and threw him countless times, but each time the giant rose from the ground with renewed strength.
it was like magic, but hercules found out at last the secret of antaeus' strength, as you, also, will in the next story, and did battle with him.
then, on went hercules, for the earth could no longer stop him, and after awhile he found himself at mount atlas in africa.
the bent old giant, atlas, stood on the top of this, holding up the sky on his shoulders.
he was as ancient as the mountain itself and doomed by the gods to stand there through the seasons and never go home to the garden of the hesperides where his daughters lived.
"if you will but bring me the golden apples of the hesperides, old atlas, i will take your place on the mountain top for a space,"
hercules said to the giant.
"the sky is heavier than you imagine, my son," atlas replied.
"i doubt if you can bear it."
"let me but try," hercules urged him.
so atlas shifted the burden of the heavens from his shoulders to those of hercules and the hero held them securely.
when atlas returned, his arms full of the precious golden balls, hercules still held the sky as if he scarcely felt its weight.
atlas wanted to have him hold it always, but hercules was of no mind to do that.
he gave back his load to atlas and took the apples of the hesperides home to greece.
hercules had conquered the earth even in this last adventure, and it seemed as if there was no great deed left for this hero.
but he continued using his mighty strength, even to descending to pluto's realm of darkness and bringing back the heroic theseus who was a prisoner there.
at last even his enemies on mount olympus were forced to grant him a place of honor in their midst and jupiter wrapped him in a cloud and sent a four horse chariot to bring him home along the road of the stars.
when hercules reached the olympian heights it is said that old atlas bent still lower with the weight on his shoulders, for this hero had added new strength to the heavens.
but how about those two goddesses, you ask, who presided like fairy godmothers over the destiny of hercules?
the ancients asked that same question, and hercules answered it just before jupiter called him away from greece.
one of these goddesses was named virtue, and the other pleasure, but it was the first whom hercules followed all his life.
[2]the pygmies.
a great while ago, in the days of the myths, there lived an earth-born giant named antaeus, and a race of little earth-born people who were called pygmies.
this giant and these pygmies, being children of the same mother earth, lived together in a very friendly way far off in the middle of hot africa.
it must have been very curious to behold the pygmies' little cities with streets two or three feet wide paved with the smallest pebbles and bordered by habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage.
if one of the pygmies grew to the height of six or eight inches he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man and there were so many sandy deserts and high mountains between them and the rest of mankind that nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years.
the king's palace was about as tall as a dolls' house and this and the rest of their houses were built neither of stone or wood.
they were neatly plastered together by the pygmy workmen, pretty much like birds'
nests, out of straw, feathers, egg shells, and other bits of small stuff with stiff clay instead of mortar.
and when the sun had dried them they were just as snug and comfortable as a pygmy could desire.
their giant friend, antaeus, was so very tall that he carried a pine tree for a walking stick.
it took a far-sighted pygmy to see the top of his head on a cloudy day.
but at noonday, when the sun shone brightly over him, antaeus presented a very grand spectacle.
there he used to stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling down on his little brothers and his one eye, which was as big as a cart wheel and placed right in the centre of his forehead, giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once.
in spite of the difference in their size, it seemed as if antaeus needed the pygmies for his friend as much as they did him for the protection he was to them.
no creature of his own size had ever talked with him.
when he stood with his head among the clouds, he was quite alone and had been so for hundreds of years and would be forever.
even if he had met one of the other giants, antaeus would have fancied the earth not large enough for them both and would have fought with him.
but with the pygmies he was the most merry and sweet tempered old giant who ever washed his face in a cloud.
the pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world.
they were constantly at war with the cranes.
from time to time very terrible battles had been fought in which sometimes the little men were victorious and sometimes the cranes.
when the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward, flapping their wings, and would perhaps snatch up some of the pygmies crosswise in their beaks.
it was truly an awful spectacle to see the little men kicking and sprawling in the air and then disappearing down the crane's crooked throat, swallowed alive.
if antaeus observed that the battle was going hard with his little allies, he ran with mile-long strides to their rescue, flourishing his club and shouting at the cranes who quacked and croaked and retreated as fast as they could.
one day the mighty antaeus was lolling at full length among his friends.
his head was in one part of the kingdom and his feet in another and he was taking what comfort he could while the pygmies scrambled over him and played in his hair.
sometimes, for a minute or two, the giant dropped to sleep and snored like the rush of a whirlwind.
during one of these naps a pygmy climbed upon his shoulder and took a view around the horizon as from the summit of a hill.
suddenly he saw something, a long way off, that made him rub his eyes and looked sharper than before.
at first he mistook it for a mountain and then he saw the mountain move.
as it came nearer, what should it turn out to be but a human shape, not so large as antaeus, but an enormous figure when compared with the pygmies.
the pygmy scampered as fast as his legs would carry him to the giant's ear and, stooping over, shouted in it,
"brother antaeus, get up this minute!
take your walking stick in your hand for here comes another giant to do battle with you!"
"pooh, pooh!"
grumbled antaeus, only half awake.
"none of your nonsense, my little fellow.
don't you see that i am sleepy?
there is not another giant on earth for whom i would take the trouble to get up."
but the pygmy looked again and now perceived that the stranger was coming directly toward the prostrate form of antaeus.
there he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet and flashing from his polished breastplate.
he had a sword by his side, and a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a club which looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick of antaeus.
by this time the whole nation of pygmies had seen the new wonder and a million of them set up a shout all together,
"get up, antaeus!
bestir yourself, you lazy old giant.
here comes another giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you."
"nonsense," growled the sleepy giant.
"i'll have my nap out, come who may."
still the stranger drew nearer, and now the pygmies could plainly discern that, if his stature were less lofty than the giant's, yet his shoulders were even broader.
what a pair of shoulders they must have been, for they were, later, to uphold the sky!
so the pygmies kept shouting at antaeus, and even went so far as to prick him with their swords.
antaeus sat up, gave a yawn that was several yards wide, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction in which the little people pointed.
no sooner did he set eye on the stranger than, leaping to his feet and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him, all the while brandishing the sturdy pine-tree so that it whistled through the air.
"who are you?"
thundered the giant, "and what do you want in my domain?
speak, you vagabond, or i'll try the thickness of your skull with my walking-stick."
"you are a very discourteous giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and i shall probably have to teach you a little civility before we part.
as for my name, it is hercules.
i have come hither because this is my most convenient road to the garden of the hesperides, where i am going to get some of the golden apples for king eurystheus."
"then you shall go no farther!"
bellowed antaeus, for he had heard of the mighty hercules and hated him because he was said to be so strong.
"i will hit you a slight rap with this pine-tree, for i would be ashamed to kill such a puny dwarf as you appear.
i will make a slave of you, and you shall likewise be the slave of my brothers here, the pygmies.
so throw down your club.
as for that lion's skin you wear, i intend to have a pair of gloves made of it."
"come and take it off my shoulders then," answered hercules, lifting his club.
at that antaeus, scowling with rage, strode, towerlike, toward the stranger and gave a mighty blow at him with his pine-tree, which hercules caught upon his club; and, being more skilful than the giant, he paid him back such a rap that down tumbled the poor man-mountain flat upon the ground.
but no sooner was the giant down than up he bounded, aiming another blow at hercules.
but he was blinded with his wrath and only hit his poor, innocent mother earth, who groaned and trembled at the stroke.
his pine tree went so deep into the ground that before antaeus could get it out, hercules brought his club down over his shoulders with a mighty whack which made the giant let out a terrible roar.
away it echoed, over mountains and valleys.
as for the pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the vibration it made in the air.
but antaeus scrambled to his feet again and succeeded in pulling his pine-tree out of the earth.
he ran at hercules, and brought down another blow.
"this time, rascal!"
he shouted, "you shall not escape me."
but once more hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the giant's pine-tree was shattered to a thousand splinters.
before antaeus could get out of the way, hercules let drive again, and gave him another knock-down blow.
then, watching his opportunity as the giant rose again, hercules caught him round the middle with both hands, lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft.
but the most wonderful thing was that, as soon as antaeus was off the earth, he began to lose the vigor that it now appeared he had gained by touching it.
hercules soon discovered that his enemy was growing weaker, both because he kicked and struggled with less violence, and because the thunder of his big voice subsided to a grumble.
the truth was that, unless the giant touched mother earth as often as once in five minutes, not only his overgrown strength, but the very breath of his life would depart from him.
hercules had guessed this secret; it may be well for us all to remember it in case we should ever have to fight with a fellow like antaeus.
for these earth-born giants are not only difficult to conquer on their own ground but may easily be managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and purer region.
when antaeus' strength and breath were gone, hercules gave his huge body a toss and flung it a mile off where it lay heavily with no more motion than a sand hill.
his ponderous form may be lying in the same spot to-day, and might be mistaken for those of an uncommonly large elephant.
what a wailing the poor little pygmies set up when they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible way!
as soon as they saw hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded their little heads at one another and winked their little eyes.
and when he had closed his eyes the whole pygmy nation set out to destroy the hero.
a body of twenty thousand archers marched in front with their little bows all ready and their arrows on the string.
the same number were ordered to clamber on hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles of hay to plug up his mouth and nostrils.
these last could not harm him at all, for as soon as he snored he blew out the hay and sent the pygmies flying before the hurricane of his breath.
it was found necessary to hit upon some other way of carrying on the war.
after holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect sticks, straws and dry weeds and heap them around the head of hercules.
the archers, meanwhile, were stationed within bow shot with orders to let fly at hercules the instant that he stirred.
everything being in readiness, a torch was applied to the pile which immediately burst into flames and soon waxed hot enough to roast hercules.
a pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire just as easily as a giant could.
but no sooner did hercules begin to be scorched than up he started.
"what's all this?"
he cried, and staring about him as if he expected another giant.
at that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bow strings and the arrows came whizzing like so many mosquitoes.
hercules gazed around, for he hardly felt the arrows.
at last, looking narrowly at the ground, he espied the pygmies at his feet.
he stooped down and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set him on the palm of his left hand and looked at him.
"who in the world, my little fellow, are you?"
hercules asked.
"i am your enemy," answered the pygmy.
"you have slain the giant, antaeus, our brother by our mother's side, and we are determined to put you to death."
hercules was so amused by the pygmy's big words and warlike gestures that he burst into laughter and almost dropped the poor little mite of a creature off his hand.
"upon my word," he said, "i thought i had seen wonders before to-day, hydras with many heads, three headed dogs, and giants with furnaces in their stomachs, but you outdo them all.
your body, my little friend, is about the size of an ordinary man's finger.
pray, how big may your soul be?"
"as big as your own," said the pygmy.
hercules was amazed at the little man's courage, and so he left the pygmies, one and all, in their own country, building their little houses, waging their little warfare with the cranes, and doing their little business whatever it might have been.
the horn of plenty.
dejanira was one of the most beautiful of princesses who lived in the long ago days of the greek gods and goddesses.
it seemed as if all the charm of the world in this, its myth time, was hers.
her hair was bright with the yellow of the first spring sunshine, and her eyes were as blue as the skies of spring.
summer had touched dejanira's cheeks with the pink of rose petals, and the colors of the autumn fruits shone in her jewels, crimson and purple and gold.
her robes were as white and soft as the snows of winter, and all the music of soft winds and bird songs and rippling brooks was in this princess' voice.
because of her beauty and her goodness, which even surpassed it, princes came from all over the world to ask dejanira's father, aeneus, if she might go home to their kingdoms to be their queen.
but to all these aeneus replied that to none but the strongest would he give the princess.
so there were many tests of these strangers' skill and strength in games and wrestling, but one by one they failed.
at last there were only two left, hercules who was strong enough to hold the sky on his broad shoulders, and achelous, the river-god, who twisted and twined through the fields making them fertile with the brooks and the streams.
each thought himself the greater of the two, and it lay between them which by his prowess should gain the princess to be his wife.
hercules was massive of limb and of powerful strength.
beneath his shaggy eyebrows, his eyes gleamed like balls of fire.
his garment was of lions' skins and his staff was a young tree.
but the clever achelous was able to slip between the huge fingers of hercules.
he was as slender and graceful as a willow tree and his garment was of the green of foliage.
he wore a crown of water lilies on his fair hair, and carried a staff made of twined reeds.
when achelous spoke, his voice was like the rippling of a stream.
"the princess dejanira shall be mine!"
said achelous.
"i will make her the queen of the river lands.
the music of the waters shall be always in her ears, and the plenty that follows wherever i go shall make her rich."
"no!"
shouted hercules.
"i am the strength of the earth.
dejanira is mine.
you shall not have her."
then the river-god grew very angry.
his green robe changed its color to that of the black of the sea in a storm, and his voice was as loud as that of a mountain cataract.
achelous could be almost as powerful as hercules when he was angered.
"how do you dare claim this royal maiden?"
he roared, "you, who have mortal blood in your veins!
i am a god and the king of the waters.
wherever i take my way over the earth grains and fruits ripen and flowers bud and bloom.
the princess dejanira is mine by right."
hercules frowned as he advanced toward the river-god.
"your strength is only in words," he said scornfully.
"my strength is in my arm.
if you would win dejanira, it must be by hand-to-hand combat."
so the river-god threw off his garments and hercules his lion's skin, and the two fought for the hand of the princess.
it was a brave and valorous battle.
neither yielded; both stood their ground.
achelous slipped in and out of hercules' mighty grasp a dozen times, but at last the hero's powerful strength was too much for this god who had to depend upon adroitness only.
hercules gripped the river-god fast by his neck and held him, panting for breath.
then achelous resorted to the trickery that he knew.
he suddenly changed his form through the magic arts he could practise to that of a long, slimy serpent.
he twisted out of hercules' grasp and darted a forked tongue out at him, showing his fangs.
hercules was not yet undone.
he only laughed scornfully at the serpent and grasped the creature by the back of its neck, ready to strangle it.
achelous struggled in vain to escape and at last resorted once more to sorcery.
in a second the serpent had changed its form to that of a ferocious, roaring bull.
it charged upon hercules with lowered horns.
but the hero was still unvanquished.
he seized hold of the bull's horns, bent its head, gripped its brawny neck and threw it, burying its horns in the ground.
then he broke off one of the horns with his iron strong hand and held it up in the air shouting,
"victory!
dejanira is mine!"
achelous returned to his own shape and, crying with pain, ran from the castle grounds where the combat had taken place and did not stop until he had plunged into a cooling stream.
it had been right that hercules should triumph, for his was the strength of arm, not of trickery.
the princess dejanira came to him and with her the goddess of plenty, ceres, to give the conqueror his reward.
ceres took the great horn which hercules had torn from achelous' head and heaped it full to overflowing with the treasures of the year's harvest.
ripe grain, purple grapes, rosy apples, plums, nuts, pomegranates, olives and figs filled the horn and spilled over the edge.
the wood-nymphs and the water-nymphs came and twined the horn with vines and crimson leaves and the last bright flowers of the year.
then they carried this first horn of plenty high above their heads and gave it to hercules and the beautiful dejanira as a wedding present.
it was the richest gift the gods could make, that of the year's harvest.
and ever since that long-ago story time of the greeks, the horn of plenty has stood for the year's blessing of us.
the wonder the frogs missed
latona had very wonderful twin babies and the queen of the gods, juno, was jealous of her on account of these little ones.
perhaps juno had the power to look ahead through the years to the time when latona's children should be grown up and take their places with the family of the gods on mount olympus.
who were these twins?
oh, that is the end of the story.
so juno, who could work almost any good or evil which she desired, decreed that this mother should never have any fixed home in which to bring up her babies.
if latona found a shelter and a cradle for the twins in the cottage of some hospitable farmer, a drought would descend at once upon his fields and dry up the harvest, or a hailstorm would destroy his fruit crop so that there would be no food for the family.
if latona stopped with the vine dressers, laying her babies in the cool shade of an arbor while she helped to pick the grapes, a gale might arise and sweep down upon the vineyard and all would have to flee for their lives.
she was obliged to wander up and down the land with her little ones, wrapping her cloak about them to shield them from the weather, and she grew very weary and despaired of ever raising her little boy and girl to be the fine man and woman she longed to have them.
one day in the heat of the summer latona came to the country of lycia in greece and it really seemed as if she could not walk a single step farther.
the babies were heavy and she had found no water for refreshing herself for a long time.
by chance, though, she saw a pool of clear water just beyond in the hollow of a valley.
some of the country people of lycia were there on the edge of the water gathering reeds and fine willows with which they were weaving baskets for holding fruits.
latona summoned all her strength and dragged herself to the pool, kneeling down on the bank to drink and dip up water for cooling the babies' heads.
"stop!"
the rustic people commanded her.
"you have no right to touch our waters!"
"i only wish to drink, kind friends," latona explained to them.
"i thought that water was free to all, and my mouth is so dry that i can hardly speak.
a drink of water would be nectar to me.
the gods give us as common property the sunshine, the air, and the streams and i would only share your pool to revive me, not to bathe in it.
see how my babies, too, stretch out their arms to you in pleading!"
it was quite true; latona's little ones were holding out their arms in supplication, but the rustics turned their heads away.
they did more than this.
they waded into the pool and stirred up the water with their feet so as to make it muddy and unfit to drink.
as they did this they laughed at latona's discomfiture and jeered at her sorry plight.
she was a long suffering mother, but she felt as if this unkindness was more than she could bear.
she lifted her hands toward the habitation of the gods and called to them for help.
"may these rustics who refuse to succor two children of your family be punished!"
latona begged.
"may they never be able to leave this pool whose clear waters they have defiled!"
the company of the gods, and perhaps juno also, heard latona's entreaty and one of the strangest things of all mythology happened.
the rustics tried to leave the pool and return to their basket-making, but they discovered that their feet had suddenly grown flat and shapeless and were stuck fast in the mud.
they called for help, but their voices were harsh, their throats bloated, and their mouths had stretched so that they were unable to form words.
their necks had disappeared and their heads, with great bulging eyes, were joined to their backs.
their flesh was turned to thick green skin and they could not stand erect.
it was as latona had asked.
these boorish, unseeing country clowns would never leave the slimy water into which they had stepped, for the gods had changed them into the first frogs.
"this is indeed a terrible punishment for so slight an offence as ridiculing a stranger," the people of lycia said to each other as they visited the pools and rivers during the seasons that followed and listened to the continual, hoarse croaking of the frogs.
the river god, peneus, knew them also and so did the lovely nymph, daphne, his daughter, who was never happier than when she was flying on her fairy like feet, her soft green garments fluttering about her, along the edge of some stream.
daphne was more like a spirit of the woods than a girl.
she would rather live within the shadow of leaves than under a palace roof, and she liked better to follow the deer and gather wild flowers than to have any intercourse with the boys and girls of the villages.
but she was unmatched by the most beautiful daughter of all greece, her long hair flung loose like a veil over her shoulders, her eyes as soft and shining as stars, and her body as graceful and well moulded as some rare vase.
at that time a strange youth was seen to haunt the forests and banks of the river god.
he was as fair and well shaped as daphne, and there was also something unusual about him.
whenever he was seen, there seemed to be more light along the paths where he walked.
he made the daytime brighter and the gold rays of the sun shine more gloriously.
when this youth stopped for a while with a shepherd, no wolves attacked the flock, and he kept herds safe from the mountain lions.
he had made a lyre for himself, a musical instrument of many tuneful strings that had not been heard in greece before.
he was touching the strings into a song about the pastures and the woods in the spring one day when he suddenly saw the nymph, daphne.
he had seen her before moving like a green bough blown by the wind along the shores of many waters.
he thought that he had never seen so beautiful a creature or one so much to be desired, but whenever daphne caught a glimpse of this strange, strong youth, she was frightened and was at once off and away.
now, though, he was determined to pursue daphne and catch her.
he dropped his lyre and ran after her, but she eluded him, running more swiftly than the wind.
"stay, daughter of peneus," he called.
"do not fly from me as a dove flies from a hawk.
i am no rude peasant, but one of the gods and i know all things, present or future.
it is for love that i pursue you, and i am miserable in the fear that you may fall and hurt yourself on these stones and i shall have been the cause of your hurt.
pray run slower and i will follow more slowly!"
but daphne was deaf to the youth's entreating words.
on she sped, the wind blowing her green garments, and her hair streaming loosely behind her.
it was, at last, like the fleet running hound pursuing the hare; the youth was swifter and gained on her.
his panting breath touched her neck.
in her terror she did not stop to understand that he pursued her only because he loved her so much and that he would not do her any harm.
at last she came to the edge of a stream.
on one side of daphne were the croaking frogs and the water reeds and the deeper waters beyond.
on the other side was her pursuer.
daphne called to her father, the river god,
"help me, peneus!
open the earth to take me into it out of sight and sound!"
but the god of light and music knew what was better far for daphne than this.
he touched her fair form and it stiffened and her feet stood firmly upon the bank of the stream.
her body was suddenly enclosed in tender bark and her hair became leaves.
her arms were long, drooping branches and her face changed to the form of a tree top.
there had never been a tree like the one into which daphne was transformed, the green laurel tree.
the young god looked at her and saw how fair a work of his hands was this changing of a nymph.
the tree would never fade, but would stretch its green top up toward the sky to feel the light that he would pour down on it.
when the wind touched the laurel's leaves they would sing as his lyre sang.
"come and see what beauty i have given to the nymph, daphne, whom i loved," he called, and out of the forest came a brave young huntress, a deer walking quite unafraid at her side.
it was diana, his sister, and she hung her quiver of arrows on the laurel tree and led the deer to a shelter underneath its branches.
"this shall be my tree," he said putting his hands on the laurel.
"i will wear it for my crown, and when the great roman conquerors lead their troops to the capitol in triumphal pomp it shall be woven into wreaths for their brows.
as eternal youth is mine, the laurel shall always be green and its leaves shall never wither."
the sun began to sink behind the hills and the youth saw the light fade in terror.
he could give the laurel the brightness of day but he had no power to keep it safe through the darkness of night.
just then a silver ball appeared in the purple sky rising higher and higher and sending down long white beams to brighten the dusk.
"diana, see, there is a light in the evening sky!"
the youth exclaimed, but his sister had disappeared.
diana, the huntress, was now diana, the moon, the queen of the darkness and shedding her light on the laurel tree that her brother, apollo, the god of the sun, loved so much.
the frogs along the river bank croaked harshly and could not understand any of these wonders that had come to pass right beside them.
they had missed a wonder when they were rustics, too.
there are some people like that.
they, too, would see only a ragged, weary stranger with her tired babies, not worth the trouble of helping, when those little ones might be an apollo and a diana, the gods of the day and the night.
when phaeton's chariot ran away.
"you are only boasting, phaeton.
i don't believe for a moment that your father is apollo, the god of light," cycnus, one of his schoolmates, said to the lad who had just made this proud statement.
"it is true," phaeton replied.
"you won't believe me because i am alone here in greece, cared for by one of the nymphs and learning the lessons that all greek boys do.
i shall show you, though.
i will take my way to the home of the gods and present myself to my father."
that was indeed a bold plan on the part of this youth who had not been beyond the shores of his native land in all his life.
but phaeton set out at once for india, since that was the place where the sun which lighted greece seemed to rise.
he felt sure that he would find apollo at the palace of the sun, so he did not stop until he had climbed mountains and then beyond and higher through the steeps of the clouds.
suddenly he was obliged to stop, covering his eyes with his hands to shut out the brilliant light that dazzled him.
there, in front of phaeton, reared aloft on shining columns, stood the palace of the sun.
it glittered with gold and precious stones, and phaeton made his way inside through heavy doors of solid silver.
he had heard of the beautiful workmanship of vulcan who had designed apollo's palace, but when he stood beneath the polished ivory ceilings of the throne room it was more wonderful than anything he had ever imagined.
apollo, in a royal purple robe, sat on the throne that was as bright as if it had been cut from a solid diamond, and about him stood his attendants who helped him in making the earth a pleasant, fruitful habitation for men.
on apollo's right hand and on his left stood the days, the months, and the years, and at regular intervals the hours.
spring was there, her head crowned with flowers, and summer who wore a garland formed of spears of ripened grain.
autumn stood beside apollo, his feet stained with the juice of the grape, and there was icy winter, his hair stiffened with hoar frost.
there was nothing hidden from apollo in the whole world and he saw phaeton the instant he entered the hall.
"what is your errand here, rash lad?"
he asked sternly.
phaeton went closer and knelt at the foot of the throne.
"oh, my father, light of the boundless world!"
he said.
"i want to be known as your son.
give me some proof by which i can show mortals and the gods as well that i am not of the earth but have a place with you on mount olympus!"
apollo was pleased with the pleading of the youth and, laying aside the crown of bright beams that he wore on his head, stretched out his arms and embraced phaeton.
"my son, you do not deserve to be disowned," he said.
"to put an end to your doubts ask whatever favor you like of me and the gift shall be yours."
it was wonderful; phaeton had never, in his dreams even, expected so great a boon as this.
but he was as reckless and ambitious as many a boy of to-day who fancies himself able to carry on his father's work without all the skill and experience which earned his success.
he knew at once the desire that was closest to his heart.
"for one day only, father, let me drive your chariot?"
phaeton begged.
apollo drew back in dismay.
"i spoke rashly," he said.
"that is the one request i ought to refuse you.
it is not a safe adventure or suited to your youth and strength, phaeton.
your arms are mortal and you ask what is beyond mortal's power.
you aspire to do that which even the gods can not accomplish.
no one but myself, not even jupiter whose terrible right arm hurls the thunderbolts and the lightning, may drive the flaming chariot of day."
"why is it so difficult a task?"
phaeton asked, determined not to give up.
apollo explained to him with great patience.
"it is a difficult track to keep through the skies," he said.
"the beginning of the way is so steep that the horses, even when they are fresh in the morning, can hardly be urged to climb it.
then comes the middle of the course, so high up in the heavens and so narrow that i myself can scarcely look below without giddiness at the earth and its waters.
the last part of the course descends rapidly and calls for most expert driving.
add to all this the constant, dizzy turning of the sky with its sea of stars.
i must be always on my guard lest their movement, which sweeps everything along with it, should hurry me or throw me out of my course.
if i lend you my chariot, what can you, a boy, do?
can you keep the road with all the spheres in the universe revolving around you?"
"i am sure that i can, father," phaeton replied boldly.
"what you say, of course, does not deter me from starting along it.
i have a strong arm and a steady eye for driving.
there is no danger other than this on the way, is there?"
he asked.
"there are greater dangers," apollo said.
"do you expect to pass cool forests and white cities, the abodes of the gods, and palaces, and temples on the way?
the road goes through the domain of frightful monsters.
you must run the gauntlet of the archer's arrows and pass by the horns of the bull.
the lion's jaws will be open to devour you, the scorpion will stretch out its tentacles for you, and the great crab its claws.
and you will find it no easy feat to manage the horses, their breasts so full of fire that they breathe it out in flame through their nostrils.
i can scarcely hold them myself when they are unruly and resist the reins."
"i have driven a chariot at the games of athens," phaeton boasted, "when wild beasts were close to the arena, and my steeds were most unmanageable."
apollo made one last plea.
"look the universe over, my son," he entreated, "and choose whatever is most precious in the earth or on the sea.
this will i give you in proof that you are my son, but take back your other, rash request."
"i have only one wish, to drive the chariot of the sun," phaeton answered stubbornly.
there was but one course left then for apollo, because a god could never break his promise.
without a word he led phaeton to the great stable where he kept his lofty chariot.
the chariot was a gift of vulcan to apollo, and made of gold.
the axle was of gold, the pole and wheels also of gold, and the spokes of the brightest silver.
there were rows of chrysolites and diamonds along the seat that reflected the rays of the sun.
apollo ordered the hours to harness the horses and they led the steeds, full fed with ambrosia, from the stalls, and attached the reins.
as phaeton, full of pride, watched he saw that dawn had thrown open the purple gates of the east and his pathway, strewn with roses, stretched before him.
he seated himself in the chariot and took the reins.
apollo anointed his son's face with a powerful unguent that would make it possible for him to endure the flaming heat of the sun.
he set the rays of light on his head and said sorrowfully,
"if you will be so rash, i beg of you to hold the reins more tightly than you ever did before and spare the whip.
the horses go fast enough of their own accord, and the difficulty is to hold them in.
you are not to take the direct road, but turn to the left.
you will see the marks of my wheels and these will guide you.
go not too high, or you will set the heavenly dwellings on fire, or so low as to burn the earth, but keep to the middle course which is best.
night is just passing out of the western gates so you can delay no longer.
start the chariot, and may your chance work better for you than you have planned."
phaeton stood up in the gilded chariot, lifted the reins, and was off like a dart.
in an instant the snorting, fiery horses discovered that they were carrying a lighter load than usual and they dashed through the clouds as if the chariot had been empty.
it reeled and was tossed about like a ship at sea without ballast.
the bars of the sky were let down and the limitless plain of the universe lay before the horses.
they left apollo's travelled course and phaeton was powerless to guide them.
he looked down at the earth so far below him, and he grew pale and his knees shook with terror.
he turned his eyes on the trackless heavens in front of him and was even more terrified to see the huge forms among which he rode as if he was driven by a tempest; the archer, the great bear, the lion and the crab.
all those monsters of whom apollo had warned him were there, and others too.
phaeton wished he had never left the earth, never made so bold a request of his father.
he lost his self command and could not tell whether to draw the reins tightly or let them loose.
he forgot the names of the steeds.
at last, as he saw the scorpion directly in his path, its two great arms extended and its fangs reeking with poison, he lost all his courage and the reins dropped from his hands.
as the horses felt their loosened harness, they dashed away headlong into unknown regions of the sky, now up in high heaven among the stars and then hurling the chariot down almost to the earth.
the mountain tops took fire and the clouds began to smoke.
plants withered, the leafy branches of the trees burned, the harvests blazed and the fields were parched with heat.
the whole world was on fire.
great cities perished with their beautiful towers and high walls, and entire nations with all their people were reduced to ashes.
it is said that the river nile fled away and hid its head in the desert where it still lies concealed.
the earth cracked and the sea shrank.
dry plains lay where there had been oceans before and the mountains that had been covered by the sea lifted up their heads and became islands.
even neptune, the god of the sea, was driven back by the heat when he tried to lift his head above the surface of the waters, and the earth looked up to mount olympus and called to jupiter for help.
it was indeed time for the gods to act.
jupiter mounted to the tall tower where he kept his forked lightnings and from which he spread the rain clouds over the earth.
he tossed his thunderbolts right and left and, brandishing a dart of lightning in his right hand, he aimed it at phaeton and threw it, tossing him from his chariot down, down through space.
the charioteer fell in a trail of fire like a shooting star.
one of the great rivers of the earth received him and tried to cool his burning frame, but he was never again to see the palace of the sun.
his recklessness had brought him, not honor, but destruction.
phaeton's friend, cycnus, stood beside the bank of the river mourning for him and even plunged beneath the surface of the water to see if he could bring him back to the earth.
but this angered the gods and they changed cycnus to the swan who floats always on the water, continually thrusting its head down as if it were still looking for the fated charioteer of the skies.
even the sea shell tells the story of phaeton.
hold it to your ear and listen to its plaintive singing of the lad who lost a place in the palace of the sun because he drove the chariot of light for his own pride and without thought of others.
when apollo was herdsman.
apollo had incurred the anger of his father, jupiter, and for the very good reason that this god of light had interfered with jupiter's will.
it was jupiter's privilege to throw thunderbolts about whenever he wished and to strike down anyone he chose.
he kept the cyclopes busy night and day forging his bolts down under the mountains so that he might have a never-failing supply.
one day a thunderbolt directed by jove hit aesculapius, a man of the greeks who could heal almost any sickness among mortals by means of his herbs.
apollo looked upon this physician as an adopted son, because his art of healing brought so much joy and light to men.
he resented the injury done him by jupiter's hand and he did what even mortals do when they are angry; apollo vented his wrath on whoever was handiest.
he aimed his arrows at those innocent workmen, the cyclopes, and wounded several.
jupiter could not have his authority put aside in this way and he knew that he must punish apollo.
so he commanded him to descend to the earth and offer his services as herdsman to admetus, the king of thessaly.
it was very humble work for a god to wear a shepherd's dark cloak and pasture his flocks in the meadows outside of thessaly, particularly a god who was used to living in the sumptuous palace of the sun.
apollo's slender hands were little suited to the work of ploughing, sowing and reaping, but he took excellent care of his ewes and lambs and grew to enjoy his task.
in his leisure time he found an empty tortoise-shell and stretched some cords tightly across it.
then he ran his slender finger tips across the cords and drew from them most beautiful music.
that was the first lute, and apollo played on it every day.
king admetus heard his music and came out to listen to the tunes his herdsman played, sitting beside apollo on a mossy bank, but he looked very sorrowful.
the sweet strains seemed to have no power to cheer him, or even rouse him from his sadness.
"why do you mourn, o king?"
apollo asked admetus at last.
"i long for the hand of the fair alcestis, the princess of a neighboring kingdom, that i may make her my queen," king admetus explained, "but she has expressed a strange desire.
she demands that her suitor appear before her in a chariot drawn by lions and bears in which she will ride home with him.
in no other way will alcestis come to my court and it is impossible for me to harness wild beasts to any one of my chariots."
apollo could not help but be amused at the foolish whim of this wayward princess, but he had a desire to bring happiness wherever he went so he decided to humor her.
he went with his lute to the edge of the forest that lay just next to his pasture and he played a tune upon it so sweet as to tame any wild beasts.
then out of the forest came two lions and two bears, as quietly as if they had been sheep.
the king fastened them to a gilded chariot and drove off for alcestis with great rejoicing.
and apollo had the pleasure of seeing the two return and alcestis crowned as the queen of thessaly.
it seemed as if admetus were destined to enjoy a long and prosperous reign, but shortly after he brought his queen home he fell ill of a very deadly plague.
aesculapius, the physician, was no longer able to come to the king's aid and it seemed as if there was no hope for him.
but his celestial herdsman, apollo, again befriended him.
apollo was not able to entirely remove the plague but he decreed that the king should live if someone, who cared enough for him, would die in his stead.
admetus was full of joy at this hope.
he remembered the vows of faith and attachment that bound all his courtiers to him and he expected that a score would at once offer themselves, willing to sacrifice their lives for their king.
but not one was to be found.
the bravest warrior, who would willingly have given his life for his king on the battlefield, had not the courage to die for him on a sick-bed.
old servants, who had known the king's bounty and that of his father from the days of their childhood, were not willing to give up the rest of their few days for their sovereign.
each subject wished someone else to make the sacrifice.
"why do not the parents of admetus give their lives for their son?"
was asked, but these aged people felt that they could not bear to be parted from him for even a short time, and looked to others.
what was to be done about it.
it was an irrevocable decree on the part of apollo that he had wrested only by means of much persuasion from the fates.
there was no remedy for admetus except this sacrifice.
then a very strange and wonderful thing happened.
queen alcestis, the fair princess who had wanted to ride behind lions and bears when she was a girl in her own kingdom, had grown very wise and gracious since she had attained to the throne of thessaly.
it had never for an instant entered the minds of anyone that she could be offered to the gods in the place of the king.
but queen alcestis offered herself to save admetus, and as she sickened the king revived and was restored to his old health and vigor.
apollo was, of all the mourners of thessaly, the saddest to see alcestis so ill. she had often found her way to the pastures where he led his flock and had sat on a bank twining wreaths of wild flowers that she liked better to wear than a crown, while he entertained her with the music of his lute.
and, for once, apollo did not know what to do, banished as he was from the council of the gods for a while, and unable to summon the physician, aesculapius, to his aid.
he knew that only great strength could bring alcestis back from the stupor in which she now lay, neither moving or speaking, and with her rosy cheeks pale and her eyes closed.
he knew, too, that of all the heroes hercules was the strongest.
hercules had performed feats that no one had believed possible.
would he attempt to keep alcestis safe from death, apollo wondered, particularly when he was entreated by a lowly herdsman?
hercules assented, however.
he took his station at the gates of the palace and wrestled with death, throwing him, just as he was about to enter and claim alcestis.
she lost her weakness, opened her eyes, the color came again to her cheeks and she was restored to admetus by this last labor of hercules.
so the matter which had bade fair to be so disastrous for a good many people turned out very well after all.
apollo returned to mount olympus when the period of his exile on the earth was up and he delighted the muses much with the sweet tones of his lyre.
he even pleaded with his father, jupiter, to take pity on aesculapius and the god at last made a place for the physician on the road of stars that leads across the sky.
how jupiter granted a wish.
each of the villagers in a town of phrygia heard a knock at the door of his cottage one summer day in the long-ago time of the myths.
each, on opening it, saw two strangers, weary travellers, who sought food and a shelter for the night.
it was a part of the temple teachings that a man should succor a stranger, no matter how humble, but these phrygians were a pleasure-loving, careless people, neglectful of hospitality and of their temple, even, which had fallen into decay.
so it happened that the same retort met the strangers at whatever door they stopped.
"be off!
we have only sufficient food for ourselves and no room for any but members of our own family."
there was not a single door but was shut in the faces of these travellers.
the afternoon was passing and it would soon be dusk.
the strangers, tired and half famished, climbed a hill on the edge of the village and came at last upon a little cottage set there among the trees.
it was a very poor and humble cottage, thatched with straw, and barely large enough for the two old peasants, philemon and his wife, baucis, who lived there.
but it opened at once when the strangers knocked to let in the two strangers.
"we have come to-day from a far country," the one who seemed to be the older of the two explained.
"and we have not touched food since yesterday," added the younger one who might have been his son.
"then you are welcome to whatever we have to offer you," said philemon.
"we are as poor as the birds that nest in the straw of our eaves, but my old wife, baucis, can prepare a meal from very little which may perhaps serve you if you are hungry.
come in, and share with us whatever we have."
the two guests crossed the humble threshold, bowing their heads in order to pass beneath the low lintel, and baucis offered them a seat and begged them to try and feel at home.
the day had grown chilly and the old woman raked out the coals from the ashes, covered them with leaves and dry bark, and blew the fire into flame with her scanty breath.
then she brought some split sticks and dry branches from a corner where she had kept them like a treasure and put them under the kettle that hung over the fire.
afterward, she spread a white cloth on the table.
as baucis made these preparations, philemon went out to their small garden and gathered the last of the pot-herbs.
baucis put these to boil in the kettle and philemon cut a piece from their last flitch of bacon and put it in to flavor the herbs.
a bowl carved from beech wood was filled with warm water that the strangers might be refreshed by bathing their faces, and then baucis tremblingly made the preparations for serving the meal.
the guests were to sit on the only bench which the cottage afforded and baucis laid a cushion stuffed with seaweed on it and over the cushion she spread a piece of embroidered cloth, ancient and coarse, but one that she used only on great occasions.
one of the legs of the table was shorter than the other, but philemon placed a flat stone under it to make it level, and baucis rubbed sweet smelling herbs over the entire top of the table.
then she placed the food before the strangers, the steaming, savory herbs, olives from the wild trees of minerva, some sweet berries preserved in vinegar, cheese, radishes, and eggs cooked lightly in the ashes.
it was served in earthen dishes and beside the guests stood an earthenware pitcher and two wooden cups.
there could hardly have been a more appetizing supper, and the kindly cheer of the two old peasants made it seem even more delectable.
the guests ate hungrily and when they had emptied the dishes baucis brought a bowl of rosy apples and a comb of wild honey for dessert.
she noticed that the two seemed to be enjoying their milk hugely and it made her anxious, for the pitcher had not been more than half full.
they filled their cups again and again and drained them.
"they will finish the milk and ask for more," baucis thought, "and i have not another drop."
then a great fear and awe possessed the old woman.
she peered over the shoulder of the older of the strangers into the pitcher and saw that it was brimming full!
he poured from it for his companion and it was again full to overflowing as he set it down.
here was a miracle, baucis knew.
suddenly the strangers rose and their disguise of age and travel stained garments fell from them.
they were jupiter, the king of the gods, and his winged son, mercury!
baucis and philemon were struck with terror as they recognized their heavenly guests, and they fell on their knees at the gods' feet.
with their shaking hands clasped they implored the gods to pardon them for their poor entertainment.
they had an old goose which they tended and cherished as the guardian of their cottage, and now they felt that they must kill it as a sacrifice and offering to jupiter and mercury.
but the goose ran nimbly away from them and took refuge between the gods themselves.
"do not slay the bird," jupiter commanded.
"your hospitality has been perfect.
but this inhospitable village shall pay the penalty for its lack of reverence.
you alone shall remain unpunished.
come and look at the valley below."
baucis and philemon left the cottage and hobbled a little way down the hill with the gods.
in the last light of the setting sun they saw the destruction which the people below had brought upon themselves.
there was nothing left of the village.
all the valley was sunk in a blue lake, the borders of it being wild marsh land indented with pools in which the fen-birds waded and called shrilly.
"there is no house left save ours," philemon gasped.
then, as they turned, they saw that their cottage, also, had disappeared.
it had not been destroyed, though.
it was transformed.
stately marble columns had taken the place of the wooden corner posts.
the thatch had grown yellow and was now a golden roof.
there were colored mosaic floors and wide silver doors with ornaments and carvings of gold.
their little hut, that had been scarcely large enough for two, had grown to the height and bulk of a temple whose gilded spires reached up toward the sky.
baucis and philemon were too awed for words, but jupiter spoke to them.
"what further gift of the gods would you like, good people?
ask whatever you wish and it shall be granted you."
the two old folks consulted for a moment and then philemon made their request of jupiter.
"we would like to be the guardians of your temple, great jupiter.
and since we have passed so much of our lives here in harmony and love, we wish that we might always remain here and never be parted for a moment."
as philemon finished speaking, he heard jupiter say, "your wish is granted."
and with these words the gods disappeared from earth.
there was a long trail of purple light in the sky like jupiter's robe, and beside it lay two wing-shaped clouds which marked the road mercury had taken, but that was all.
baucis and philemon went into the temple and were its keepers as long as they were able.
one day in the spring when the old couple had become very ancient indeed they stood on the temple steps side by side, looking at the new green the earth was putting forth.
in that moment another miracle happened to them.
each grew straight instead of bent with age, and their garments were covered with green leaves.
a leafy crown grew upon the head of each and as they tried to speak, a covering of bark prevented them.
two stately trees, the linden and the oak, stood beside the temple door to guard it in the place of the two good old people who, for their reverence, had been thus transformed by the gods.
how hyacinthus became a flower.
kings and athletes, country folk and the musicians, sages and merchants from the towns were all on their way toward the green hill of parnassus, one of the long-ago days of the myths, where the city of delphi stood.
the kings rode in their gaily adorned chariots which were drawn by the fleetest steeds from the royal stables.
the youths were dressed for running, or they carried flat, circular discs of stone for throwing at a mark, javelins and bows and quivers of arrows.
the road that led to the white temple of apollo at delphi was choked with people on foot, people on horseback, and people riding in farm wagons, all going in the same direction.
it was a very great occasion indeed, one that came but once in five years, the day when the pythian games in honor of apollo were held at delphi.
they climbed the hill of parnassus which was a very famous mount, because of all that had happened there.
when the gods saw fit to destroy the earth, parnassus, alone, had raised its head above the waters and sheltered man.
there, too, apollo had transformed his beloved, daphne, into a laurel tree and ever since then the slopes of the hill had been green and pink with the branches and blossoms of the laurel.
now, parnassus sheltered one of the most famed cities of greece, delphi, and on a wide plain, near a deep cleft in the rock where the oracle was supposed to speak, the games of the greeks were held in honor of apollo, who was the god of sports.
the ground about the game field and the tiers of stone seats surrounding it were soon filled with a crowd of onlookers in their holiday garments of white and purple and gold.
upon a carved marble pillar at the entrance of the field was hung a great wreath of laurel, the prize of the winner, and everyone was talking about who this would be.
"the greatest test of all is the discus throwing," a lad on the edge of the crowd said to another.
"the stone that is hurled from a javelin, or a spear thrown by a trained soldier has a chance to go straight to the mark, but who can aim the thin discus with the wind waiting to turn it from its course and carry it wide of the mark?"
the other lad thought for a moment.
then he spoke.
"the youth, hyacinthus, could," he said.
"oh, hyacinthus!"
the first lad replied as if the name was a kind of spell to work magic.
"hyacinthus, of course, would win the prize, for is he not the friend of apollo?
it is said that the great god of sports has visited and played games with hyacinthus ever since the lad was able to swing a javelin.
he comes to him in the form of a youth like himself because he loves him so, and they run races and have contests of skill here on parnassus, and roam the groves together.
how great an honor to have a god for one's friend!"
the boy said wistfully.
but both boys stepped back then and watched breathlessly as four war chariots, driven abreast, approached.
the horses sweated and foamed, the drivers stood up perilously, shouting and gripping the reins as the chariots tipped and crashed along the course.
two chariots locked wheels and the drivers fell beneath the terrified, stamping steeds, but no one heeded them as the other two rolled and swayed past them, and one reached the goal heralded by a shout the crowd sent up as if from one giant throat.
"now, the discus combat!"
the boy who had spoken before said, as a slender youth in a robe of tyrian dyes stepped proudly into the centre of the field holding the flat, round discus in his hand.
"hyacinthus, by my word!"
the second lad exclaimed, "but who is that beside him?"
he asked, as another youth, dark eyed, straight limbed, and with a countenance that shone like fire appeared, as if he had dropped from the clouds, and took his place beside hyacinthus.
"it is apollo himself in the guise of a youth!"
the awed whisper ran through the crowd.
"he has come to guide the discus that his friend hyacinthus carries straight to the mark."
that was the wonder that had happened.
those who had far-seeing eyes could discern in the strange youth on the game field the god apollo, his crown of light showing in bright rays about his head.
no one spoke.
all faces were turned toward the two as apollo grasped the discus, raised it far above his head, and with a strange power mingled with skill sent it high and far.
hyacinthus watched the discus cut through the air as straight as an arrow shot from a bow.
he was perfectly sure that it would skim, without turning, as far as the goal at the opposite end of the field and perhaps farther, for he had great faith in this heavenly youth who had been his companion in so many good times.
as swiftly as the discus traveled, did hyacinthus' thoughts wing their memories of apollo's friendship.
he had accompanied hyacinthus in his tramps through the forest, carried the nets when he went fishing, led his dogs to the chase and even neglected his lyre for their excursions up to the top of parnassus.
"i will run ahead and bring back the discus," hyacinthus thought, and excited by the sport and the crowds, he leaped forward to follow the flight of the swift stone.
at that instant the discus, turned from its course by zephyrous, the wind-god, who also loved hyacinthus and was jealous of apollo's affection for him, struck the earth and bounded back, hitting hyacinthus' forehead.
apollo, as pale as the fallen hyacinthus, ran to his side, raised him, and tried with all his art to stop the bleeding of his wound and save his life.
but the youth's hurt was beyond the power of all healing.
as a white lily, when one has broken it, hangs its head in the garden and turns toward the earth, so the head of the dying hyacinthus, too heavy for his neck, lay upon his shoulders.
"i have killed you, my dearest friend," apollo cried, as the people pushed closer to see the tragedy and then turned their faces away from this grief of a god which was greater than a mortal could feel.
"i have robbed you of your youth.
yours was the suffering and mine the crime.
i would that i were able to mingle my blood with yours which is spilled here for me."
then apollo was silent, looking at the ground where hyacinthus' blood had stained the grass, for a wonder was happening.
the crimson stain on the leaves changed to royal purple, and the stem and foliage and petals of a new flower appeared, so sweetly fragrant that it filled the whole field with its perfume.
there had never been so beautiful a blossom as this.
touching its wax-like flowers, apollo knew that the gods had comforted him in his sorrow.
his friend would live always in the flower that had sprung where he fell on parnassus, our hyacinth, the promise of the spring.
how king midas lost his ears.
they needed a new king in the country of phrygia in asia and there was an old saying at the court that some day they would have a ruler who arrived at the palace in a farm wagon.
no one had thought very much about this prophecy but, to the surprise of all, a peasant and his wife drove into the public square one day in an ox cart, bringing their son, midas, on the seat between them.
the peasant's name was gordius, and he dismounted, tying his wagon in such a hard knot that it looked as if he intended that the team should stay there.
in fact it was called the gordian knot and it was so hard a knot that it was reported that he who was able to untie it would be the ruler of all asia.
the wagon remained there, just outside the palace gates, securely fastened, and gordius and his wife walked home leaving midas.
it was so exactly an interpretation of the prophecy that midas was made king and put upon the throne of phrygia.
he had every opportunity of being a ruler of parts, for his humble birth would not have interfered at all, but midas, from the very beginning of his reign, used his power to satisfy his own wishes instead of carrying out the will of the people.
bacchus, with vine leaves twisted about his curling locks and a goblet of the purple juice of the grape always in his hand, was the god of the vineyards.
king midas made the acquaintance of bacchus, who was a friendly, peaceful god and fond of human companionship.
and bacchus unexpectedly offered midas his choice of any wish that he cherished.
what did king midas ask but that whatever he touched might be turned to gold!
he hardly believed that bacchus would be able to grant the gift of such greedy power as this, and bacchus wished that midas had made a better choice.
the god consented, though, and king midas hurried off to test his gift alone so that he need not share it with anyone.
he could not believe his eyes when he discovered that the twig of an oak, which he pulled from a branch, turned in his fingers to a bar of solid gold.
he picked up a stone; it turned to a gold nugget.
he touched a piece of sod; it became a mass of gold dust, thick and heavy.
he snatched an apple from an orchard tree; it was as if he had robbed the gardens of hesperides of one of their apples of gold.
king midas' joy knew no bounds.
he hurried home and ordered his servants to prepare and serve a most costly and elaborate feast for him in celebration of his new found gift of gold.
he was hungry and could scarcely wait to eat; he almost snatched a piece of white bread to begin his meal.
what was king midas' surprise to see the bread harden into a slab of yellow metal in his hands.
he lifted a goblet of creamy milk to his lips and it congealed into a thick, molten liquid of gold.
it was so with whatever king midas tried to eat; fowls, fruit, cakes, all were changed to gold before he had a chance to even touch the food with his lips.
he was faced in the midst of all his wealth with death by starvation.
raising his arms, shining with gold, in supplication to bacchus, midas begged that he might be saved from his own power of glittering destruction.
although the gods were able to grant gifts, it was not possible for bacchus to relieve a man from the dangers of his own use of a godly gift unless he, himself, helped.
bacchus was too kind hearted, however, to leave the foolish king to his fate so he consented to show him a way out of his dilemma.
"go," he told midas, "to the river pactolus.
follow its winding course to the fountain head and then plunge your body and head in its waters to wash away your greed and its punishment."
it was a long and difficult journey for king midas whose joints, even, creaked and were stiff with the golden metal into which they had changed, and who could find no food or any bed on the way that was not at once transformed to gold the instant he touched it.
he was obliged to flee and hide from robbers who pursued this fugitive form of gold.
at last, however, he came to the river, immersed himself in it, and had the relief of feeling his stiff, glittering body soften to its natural flesh again.
"i have had enough of the power of gold," midas said when he returned to his court.
"from this time i shall avoid all riches and live in the country."
so king midas acquired a farm and took his court there, becoming a worshipper of pan, the goat-footed god of the fields.
the god pan was the merriest and almost the best beloved of all the gods, for his domain was the whole of the beautiful, wide outdoors.
he was a wanderer of the mountains and valleys through all the seasons, peering into the grottos where the shepherds lived, amusing himself by chasing the nymphs, and bringing laughter and merriment wherever he went.
the stump of a tree with its shaggy roots was pan's pillow and the dusky leaves his only shelter.
no one on the earth was safe from the wiles of pan.
one summer day diana, the huntress, was roaming through a forest when she heard a rustle of leaves in the path behind her.
turning, she saw the dark, mocking face of pan and his horned head and hairy body.
diana fled and pan followed.
pan must have known it was a goddess whom he pursued, for diana's hunting horn and her bow were of silver like the moon whose deity she was, but this did not stop him.
on he went as diana ran in terror from him until they came to the bank of a river.
here pan overtook her and diana had only time to call to her friends, the water-nymphs, for aid when the god clasped her in his arms.
but it was not diana he had caught.
he held a tuft of dripping water reeds in his hands through which the nymphs had allowed the goddess to escape.
pan held up the reeds and breathed a sigh through them because of the failure of his prank.
the reeds gave out a lovely melody.
pan was charmed with the novelty and the sweetness of the music.
he took some of the reeds of unequal lengths and, placing them side by side, he bound them together.
so he made his pipes on which he learned to play tunes like the singing of birds and the babbling of brooks.
king midas enjoyed his life in the country, and he made the acquaintance of the god pan as he had that of bacchus.
he encouraged pan in his tricks and flattered him by telling him how well he played his pipes.
"if you think me skilful, king midas, it is possible that i may challenge apollo in a contest of musical skill," pan boasted.
"it would be an excellent idea," king midas replied.
midas should have known better and so should the frolicsome, reckless pan.
apollo's lute was the musical instrument of the heavens and pan's pipes could play only the tunes of earth, but pan sent for apollo and the god of light and song descended to a green field where the contest was to be held.
tmolus, the mountain god, was chosen to be the judge and at a signal pan played the rustic melody on his pipes which was all he knew, and which greatly pleased king midas who sat near to listen.
then apollo rose, crowned with laurel and wearing a robe of tyrian purple that swept the ground.
he struck the strings of his lyre and earth was filled with the music of the gods.
the mountain-god swept away the trees that surrounded him so that he could listen better, and the trees themselves leaned toward apollo in wonder and homage.
when the music stopped, the strings still vibrated making the hills carry and echo the harmony to the skies.
the mountain-god awarded the victory in the unequal contest to apollo, but king midas objected.
"i like better the music of pan's pipes," he said.
"i question the judgment of tmolus."
poor old midas, still self centered and earthly!
apollo could not suffer such a depraved pair of ears to wear human form any longer.
he touched midas' ears and they began to lengthen, to move where they joined his head, and they grew heavy inside and outside.
midas had the ears of an ass!
such a mortification for a king to have to bear!
indeed king midas could not stand it alone, and he told the secret of his odd ears to the court hair-dresser in order to get his help in disguising them.
"but on pain of death do not tell anyone about my ears!"
midas commanded.
the hairdresser cut the king's hair so as to cover up the flopping ass's ears and he even fashioned a large turban to further conceal them, but he couldn't keep such a good secret.
he went out into a meadow, dug a hole in the ground, and stooping down, whispered the secret into it.
then he carefully covered it up.
in a very short time a thick bed of reeds sprang up in the meadow in the exact spot where the hairdresser had buried the secret of king midas'
disgrace.
as soon as the reeds had grown high enough to be played upon by the breezes they began to whisper the story of the king who had to finish his reign with a pair of asses' ears instead of his own, because of his self will.
and it is said that the meadow reeds, blown by the wind, tell the story of king midas to-day.
how mercury gave up his tricks.
apollo was in great trouble, for he had lost one of the herds of cattle he owned upon the earth.
he knew the exact spot where he had left them the night before in a pasture of arcadia, but when he rode out the next morning in his chariot of light with the first dawning of the day, the herd had disappeared.
he searched the country for leagues about, but was unable to find a single trace of the cows.
there was not even one hoof print to tell where they had gone.
as apollo searched, he met a farmer of that country named battus, whose eyes were fairly popping out of his head with wonder.
"have you seen a straying herd of cattle in these parts, rustic?"
apollo asked him.
"i have lost my best herd, and can find trace of neither hoof or hide of one of them."
"i saw strange doings last evening with a herd," battus replied.
"the night was dark and cloudy, and i went out to see if my flock of sheep was safely fastened in the fold.
what i saw was like one of the tricks that pan and his family of satyrs plays, but i doubt if even they have such witching powers.
i do believe that i must have dreamed it."
"tell me what you saw with no further words," apollo commanded the farmer impatiently.
"it was in the middle of the night," battus explained.
"as i passed a field where a fine herd of cattle was at rest i saw a child coming as swiftly and as surely over the grass as if he had wings.
once in a while he stopped and gathered a handful of broom straw, sorting it into bunches and tying it with dried grass.
presently the child came to the herd, and he tied a bunch of straw to the hoof of each cow.
then he drove the entire herd backward toward the cave of pylos that you know is but a short distance from here.
i followed him for part of the way, but i lost them, for the child went with the speed of the wind.
i could not find their trail again, because they left not a single foot print.
the brooms on their hoofs swept their track clean."
"a trick played on me, of the circle of the gods!"
apollo exclaimed, his eyes dark with anger and the rays of light he wore about his head sending off sparks of fire.
and without so much as thanking battus for his information, apollo drove with the swiftness of lightning to the cave of pylos.
there was his herd feeding peacefully outside, and as apollo forced his way into the cave, he saw the mischievous little boy who had been the cause of all the trouble.
he was still fast asleep and he was quite alone, for he had been born in that cave and knew no other home.
apollo shook him, and he opened a pair of the brightest, most roguish eyes that ever were seen in the earth or on mount olympus either.
but when he spied apollo, he closed them again, pretending that he was asleep, for, like most people who use their clever wits to make trouble for others, he didn't want to be found out.
it was mercury, and he had begun as early as this to play tricks on even the gods.
"what do you mean by driving away the herds of arcadia to this lonely spot?"
apollo asked mercury angrily.
"do you not know that the inhabitants of the country depend on them for food and that the gods, descending to earth, have need of cream and curds?"
but mercury said not a word.
he only shrugged his small shoulders and squeezed his eyes more tightly shut.
"well, you shall be punished as you deserve," apollo said, quite losing his patience, and he picked up mercury, not very gently, and dropped him into his chariot.
then he drove off with him as fast as he could straight up to the throne of jupiter, the king of the gods, on mount olympus.
it must have been quite an ordeal, particularly for a little boy like mercury.
jupiter's throne was very high and quite blinded his eyes with its flashing gold and precious stones, and there were piles of thunderbolts close by all ready to throw if the need arose.
and jupiter himself wore a very dark frown when apollo told him of the trick that mercury had played.
"he shall be thrown " jupiter began, having in mind the punishment of denying mercury the fellowship of the gods, but just then mercury looked the king of the gods straight in the eyes, and jupiter looked back.
then jupiter started, for he saw that mercury was, himself, a god.
he might be, just then, a very naughty and young god, but it seemed as if he could do great deeds if only he were to make up his mind to.
jupiter called mercury close to his throne and spoke to him.
"i, myself, have lost a cow," he told mercury.
"in fact she is not really a cow at all, but a beautiful maiden named io, in disguise, and i understand that she lives upon the earth guarded by a watchman named argus who has a hundred eyes.
i should like to rescue the lovely io and restore her to her proper form, but argus never closes all of his eyes at once.
he sleeps with as many as fifty of them open.
could you help me in this matter, do you suppose?"
mercury stood up very straight as he said,
"i will try."
"you may need help, lad," apollo said, forgetting his anger in his interest at this great adventure mercury was going to attempt.
"take these," and he gave the young god some very useful presents, a golden divining rod made in a design of two twined serpents, and a pair of wings for his feet and a pair also for his cap.
as mercury took the golden rod in his hand and fastened on his wings, he suddenly grew very tall and of almost the stature and pattern of the gods.
he was their messenger now, and he knew that he had quicker wits and more shrewdness than any of them.
he set out at once for the green fields of arcadia where io was pastured.
and there was old argus guarding her with all his hundred eyes.
he let the little heifer feed during the day, but when night came he tied a rough rope around her neck.
she longed to stretch out her arms and implore freedom of argus, but she had no arms to stretch and her voice was only a loud bellow that frightened even herself.
her father and her brothers fed her tufts of grass but did not know who she was.
no wonder mercury made haste to come to io's help, laying aside his wings when he reached argus and keeping only his wand.
on the way he borrowed the pipes of pan and brought a flock of sheep so that he appeared before argus as only a wandering shepherd.
argus listened to the music of the pipes with the greatest delight, for he had never heard them before.
he called to mercury as he strolled along.
"come and take a seat by me on this stone," he begged.
"there is no better grazing ground in all arcadia than this."
so mercury sat down beside argus and played to him as long as he wished, and then he told him stories all the rest of the day until the sun had set and it was starlight and io still grazed nearby without being tied.
as the night wore on and mercury still soothed argus with his music and his tales, one by one his hundred eyes closed.
at the first streak of dawn, the last eye was shut, and mercury led io away to jupiter to be restored to her proper shape.
he did something else too.
he gave juno all of argus' eyes as a present, which pleased her so much that she put them for ornaments in the tail of her peacock.
you may see them there to-day.
so mercury was safe in the good graces of the gods.
they began giving him unusual things to do, such as taking pandora and her enchanted box down to the earth, carrying new suits of armor to the heroes, and taking off the chains which mars, the clumsy god of war, had made for his own uses but had become bound with himself.
these commissions were little more than fun for mercury, and they made him feel so important that he began playing tricks again.
almost all the gods had their own particular treasures which were, in a way, the marks of their authority and power.
they grew to depend on these and to feel that they could not carry on their good works without them.
and what did that rascal, mercury, do but take venus' jewelled girdle, jupiter's sceptre, mars' best sword, vulcan's tongs, and neptune's trident, and either hide them or try to make use of them himself for a while.
then he would manage to make up in some way for his mischief and smooth the whole matter over.
it caused a great deal of anxiety and inconvenience among the gods and at last they sent mercury down to earth once more to act as a guide to the heroes when they undertook dangerous adventures.
so mercury took his winged way from one end of the world to the other.
whenever there was a hazard where skill and dexterity were needed as greatly as courage, mercury was there.
his journeys took him to the islands of greece and to many foreign lands, and in these travels he never lost a chance to direct travellers and strangers who had lost their way.
mercury was so busy that he forgot to play tricks on either the gods or men, and after a while he was accepted as a member in good standing of the family of the gods.
the people of greece had reason to worship mercury because of something very helpful that he did for them.
there was a place in greece where several roads met.
it was really such a place as is known as the cross-roads now, and dangerous.
a traveller on foot was not able to see the approach of a swiftly driven chariot, and a stranger might easily lose his his way, for the roads were not marked.
mercury set up the first sign post here at the cross-roads with plain directions telling where each one of the roads led.
the greeks placed sign posts in honor of mercury at every crossing of the roads after that, much more beautiful than ours because they were made in the form of marble pillars with a head of mercury in his winged cap at the top.
every man who came to one of these first sign posts was asked to place a stone beside it as an offering to mercury.
the stones were greatly appreciated by this god of speed, for they helped in clearing the fields and making the roads easier to travel.
commerce and business were beginning.
loads of timber and grain and wool and fruits were carried in huge ox carts to the sea to be loaded in ships, and mercury wanted good roads as a help to commerce.
mercury turned out very well indeed, in spite of his bad beginning.
it had depended upon how he used his wits, whether or not he helped the world or hindered it.
a little errand girl's new dress
once upon a time there was a child of the gods named iris who had many very interesting relatives.
on her mother's side was the pleiades family, daughters of old atlas who held the earth on his shoulders and nymphs in the train of diana, the huntress.
diana was to be seen in the silvery moon of the night sky, and the pleiades surrounded her there, seven shining stars.
iris had a most distinguished grandfather, oceanus, the sea god.
so she spent part of her time in the sky with the pleiades and part in the ocean with her grandfather.
it was very interesting to be in either place, for she loved the bright lights of the heavens, and the coral palaces of the sea made delightful places to explore.
all of her family loved iris, and it is surprising that she was not spoiled with the amount of freedom she had, going here and there between earth and sky without any one saying no to her.
but iris had been well brought up, and she began when she was still quite small making herself just as useful as she possibly could.
at that time another child of the gods, proserpine, had made a great deal of trouble by straying away from home and being kidnapped by pluto.
her mother ceres, the goddess of the fields, had to neglect her work for a long time as she searched for proserpine, and the earth grew dry and barren in her absence.
as iris took her way from the sky to the sea and then back again, she felt sorry for the grain, the fruits and the flowers that were withering, and she did wish that she might help them.
one summer day iris was paying a visit to oceanus, her grandfather, and having a most beautiful time riding the crest of the waves on a frolicsome dolphin.
the sea was covered with soft, light vapor and when it was time for iris to go home to the sky in order to be there in time to help light the lamps of the pleiades, she wrapped herself all about with this fleecy vapor.
still wearing it like a cloak, iris reached the sky when a most unusual thing happened.
it was so cool up there among the clouds that the sea foam turned to raindrops.
iris had to hurry away or she would have been wet through.
leaning over the edge of a cloud bank to see what was happening, she discovered that a shower of rain was falling to cool the earth and comfort it a little in its condition of drought.
iris could travel with the speed of the wind from one end of the world to the other, and after that she busied herself searching for thirsty plants and trying to help them.
she would descend to the ocean, a lake or a river, wherever she might be, and carry vapor that was full of water to the sky from which it dropped to earth to nourish all growing things.
the farmers looked upon iris as their most important help, and at last the news of her good works came to the ears of the gods on olympus.
the gods had one messenger, mercury, who wore wings on his heels and also on his cap.
he was so swift that he was detailed to carry out the most difficult and delicate errands of the gods such as taking new suits of armor to the warriors of greece, guiding the heroes, and even rescuing mars, the god of war, when he once found himself bound by the chains he had designed for others.
but one never knew exactly how mercury would carry out a commission.
he liked to linger with pan in the woods and forests, giving as an excuse the care of young bacchus, god of the vine, whom he must guard.
so the gods decided that they would have an errand girl who would live on olympus and leave the habitation of the gods only when it was necessary to go to man as a guide and adviser.
that was the high trust which was given iris by the gods.
she had to use her own judgment to quite an extent as to when and where she was most needed by the dwellers of the earth, and how she could best help them.
one day she noticed something happening in the kingdom of her grandfather.
a ship glided out of a harbor, the breeze playing among the ropes, and the seamen drew in their oars and hoisted their sails.
the night drew on, the sea began to whiten with swelling waves, and the east wind blew a gale.
the captain gave orders to strengthen the ship and reef the sail but none of the sailors could hear his voice above the roar of the wind and the sea.
the cries of the men, the rattling of the shrouds, and the breaking surf mingled with the thunder.
then the swelling sea seemed to be lifted up to the heavens, to scatter its foam among the clouds, and then sink away to the bottom.
the ship could not stand the storm; it seemed like a wild beast charged upon by the spears of the hunter.
there came a flash of lightning, tearing the darkness asunder, and illuminating all with its glare.
it shattered the mast and broke the rudder, and the triumphant surge, rising over the ship, looked down on the wreck, then fell and crushed it to fragments.
as the ship went down, the captain cried out in longing,
"halcyone!"
then iris, who could see beyond and through the darkness, had a vision of the beautiful queen halcyone, of sicily, who mourned her shipwrecked husband, the captain of this ship.
without a moment's hesitation, iris set out for the palace of somnus, the king of sleep.
it was a long and dangerous journey.
even apollo did not dare to approach it at dawn, noon, or evening.
it was set in a country where the light glimmered but faintly, and clouds and shadows rose out of the ground.
no wild beast, or cattle, or tree moved by the wind, or any sound of voices broke the stillness, but the river lethe flowed through it, rippling with a low kind of lullaby.
iris approached the home of somnus very timidly.
all the way there were fields of poppies and the herbs from which night distilled sleep to scatter over the darkened earth.
there was no gate to the palace to creak as it opened, or any watchman.
so this little errand girl of the gods went inside and made her way to the room where there was a throne of black ebony draped with dusky plumes and curtains.
on the throne reclined somnus, scarcely opening his eyes, and with his hair and beard covering him like a mantle.
iris knelt before him,
"somnus, gentlest of the gods, and soother of careworn hearts," she said, "will you not allow me to despatch a dream to halcyone about her husband whom she mourns.
see these dreams that lie around you, as many as the harvest bears stalks, or the forest leaves, or the seashore grains of sand!
can you not spare one beautiful dream for halcyone?"
somnus called his servant, morpheus, who selected a dream and flew, making no noise with his wings, until he came to the city of trachine where halcyone could not sleep, but lay and tossed and wept in terror at the thought of what might have happened to her husband's ship.
and at that moment halcyone fell into a deep and happy dream in which she saw her husband.
he stood beside her couch and spoke to her.
"the stormy winds have sunk my ship in the aegean sea," he told halcyone, "let me not be alone.
arise and come with me!"
it was the most enlightening dream that somnus could have sent.
halcyone left off her lamentations and implored the gods that she be allowed to join her husband, and the pitying gods turned them both into birds.
they became the halcyone gulls of the sea, riding the surf together, guarding their nest that floated upon the sea, and never again separated.
as soon as she felt sure that her errand was safely accomplished, iris made haste to leave the domain of somnus, for she felt its drowsiness creeping over her.
she tried not to crush any of the sleep producing herbs as she went, and she was careful not to pick a single poppy.
at last she was safely outside the boundaries, and then she could hardly believe what she saw, for a wonder had happened to her.
the gods had built her a long bridge that arched from the earth to the sky and over which she could go home to olympus.
it was made of colored stones, the ruby, the topaz, the emerald, the sapphire, and the amethyst.
row upon row the glistening stones of the arch made a bright path for iris' feet.
she passed along it, the light of the brilliant gems scintillating about her, and when she came to the abode of the gods, iris found another surprise.
there was a beautiful new dress waiting for her there.
it had the same colors as those of the precious stones that made the bridge, crimson, orange and yellow, green, blue, and violet and so marvellously blended that they seemed to be one pattern and one piece of brightness.
there were wings that went with the dress, and when iris put it on not even juno had so beautiful a garment.
iris wore her dress of colors as she took her way along her arched bridge from olympus to earth and then back again.
and her errands were those of help and courage and bright hope.
have you guessed who she was?
why, of course you have, for you see her bridge of colors in the sky after a shower when the sun is shining through the clouds.
iris was the child of the gods who gave us the rainbow.
when proserpine was lost
there were lilies and great blue violets growing wild on the banks of the lake in the vale of enna.
how could a little girl resist them, and particularly proserpine whose mother was ceres, the goddess of agriculture, and who had played and lived outdoors all her life?
proserpine had been racing through the forest with some of her boy and girls friends, farther than was wise.
"don't go out of sight of our own home fields," ceres had said that morning.
but here was proserpine out of sight and sound of her playmates even.
violets like to grow in damp, dark places, and proserpine had followed their blue trail until she was shut in the vale of enna by the trees.
she was quite alone and, suddenly, in danger.
there was the sound of racing chariot steeds and the crash of heavy wheels breaking the low branches and the bushes.
a dark shadow made the vale darker than it had been before.
a black chariot burst into sight, drawn by black horses and driven by a man who was dressed in black from head to foot.
he was pluto, the king of darkness, who had been waiting for a long time for this chance to kidnap fair little proserpine.
her flowers fell from her apron in which she had been holding them; she screamed, but there was no one to hear her.
pluto dragged her into his grasp and threw her in the chariot.
the horses dashed away, and proserpine left the land of springtime for pluto's dark kingdom beneath the earth.
pluto shouted to his steeds, calling each by name, and giving them the length of the iron colored reins over their heads and necks.
he reached the river cyane which had no bridge, but he struck the waters with his trident and they rolled back, giving him a passage down through the earth to tartarus where his throne was.
it was a prison place that they reached by way of a deep gulf, and its recesses were as far beneath the level of the earth as mount olympus was high above their heads.
a strange sound of singing came to proserpine from the depths of the cave where pluto led her:
"twist ye, twine ye!
even so,      mingle shades of joy and woe,      hope, and fear, and peace, and strife      in the thread of human life."
and when proserpine's eyes were a little more used to the dimness of the cave she saw three gray women, the fates, with threads and shears, seated beside the throne and singing those words.
one of them spun the thread of life, and another twisted its bright and dark lines together.
but the third fate cut the threads apart whenever she liked.
other grim and terrible creatures met proserpine's frightened gaze.
the furies had spread their couches there as had also fear and hunger.
the hydra hissed with each one of its nine heads and the chimaeras breathed fire.
there was a giant with a hundred arms, and discord whose hair was bound with a fillet made of vipers.
"take me back to the light.
i want to go home.
oh, i beg of you, take me home!"
proserpine cried, but her words only echoed through the vaults of the kingdom of darkness.
and when she tried to make her escape, her frail little hands were bruised from beating against the thick iron door that shut her in.
the next morning aurora rode through the sky to put away the stars and touch the clouds with the pink color of the dawn.
looking down to the earth, she saw a goddess who had arisen long before the dawn and was hurrying up and down the earth, wringing her hands and with tears in her eyes.
she wore a chaplet woven of the golden heads of the grain, and she was straight and strong and beautiful in her flowing robes of green, but she did not lift her eyes from the earth, so deep was her sorrow.
that evening hesperus, who followed in aurora's course each sunset to lead out the stars, saw the same goddess.
her robes were torn and stained from her travels and bedraggled with the dew.
she was still weeping, and still searching.
she was going to search, without rest, all night.
many others saw this goddess in the days that followed.
she was always roaming from daylight until dark, in the open, in sunlight and moonlight, and in falling showers.
she was weary and sad.
in such a plight a peasant, named celeus, found her one day.
he had been out in a field gathering acorns and blackberries, and binding bundles of sticks for his fire.
the goddess sat there on a stone, too tired to go on.
"why do you sit here alone on the rocks?"
celeus asked her.
he carried a heavy load, but he stopped to try and succor her.
"come to my cottage and rest," he entreated her.
"my little son is very ill, and we have only a most humble roof, but such as it is we will be glad to share it with you."
the goddess rose and gathered her arms full of crimson poppies.
then she followed celeus home.
they found deep distress in the cottage, for the little boy was so ill as to be almost past hope.
his mother could scarcely speak for her sorrow, but she welcomed the wandering goddess and spread the table for her with curds and cream, apples, and golden honey dripping from the comb.
the goddess ate, but her eyes were on the sick child and when his mother poured milk into a goblet for him she mingled the juice of her poppies with it.
at last night came, and the peasants slept.
then the goddess arose and took the little boy in her arms.
she touched his weak limbs with her strong, skilful hands, said a charm over him three times, and then laid him in the warm ashes of the fire.
"would you kill my son?
wicked woman that you are to so abuse my hospitality!"
the child's mother cried, awaking and seeing what the goddess had done.
but just then a strange thing happened.
the cottage was filled with a splendor like white lightning, and a light seemed to shine from the skin of the goddess.
a lovely perfume was scattered from her fragrant garments, and her hair was as bright as gold.
"your son will not die, but live," she told the wife of celeus.
"he shall grow up and be great and useful.
he shall teach men the use of the plough, and the rewards which labor can win from the cultivation of the soil."
"who are you?"
the woman asked in amazement as she saw the boy's white cheeks grow rosy with new life.
"i am ceres," the goddess answered, "whose grief is greater than yours, for my child is lost.
i search the earth for her, and never find her."
with these words she was gone, as if she had wrapped herself in a cloud and floated away to meet the dawning of another day of her journey.
that was who this wanderer of the earth was, the immortal ceres, who still did not care to live without her loved little daughter, proserpine.
she was obliged to neglect her work of caring for the earth in her search for proserpine, and disaster came to the land for many seasons.
the cattle died and no plough broke the furrows.
the seed failed to come up.
there was too much sun and too much rain.
the birds stole the harvest, little as there was, and seeds and brambles were the main growth.
even arethusa, the nymph of the fountain, was about to die as ceres, in her search, came to the banks of the river cyane, where pluto had passed with proserpine to his own domain.
ceres had almost given up hope.
"ungrateful soil that i have clothed with herbs and fruits and grains,"
she said.
"you have taken my child and shall enjoy my favors no longer."
but arethusa spoke:
"do not blame the earth, mother ceres," she said.
"it opened unwillingly to take your daughter.
i come from the waters.
i know them so well that i can count the pebbles in the bottom of this river, the willows that shade it and the violets on the bank.
i was at play not long since in the river and alpheus, the god of the stream, pursued me.
i ran and he followed in an attempt to keep me from going back to my home in the fountain.
as i tried to escape him, i plunged through the depths of the earth and into a cavern.
while i passed through the bowels of the earth i saw your proserpine.
she was sad, but had no look of terror.
pluto had made her his queen in the realm of the dead.
i have made my way back to tell you."
ceres knew then that proserpine was lost to her unless jupiter helped in taking her away from the king of darkness.
she summoned her chariot and rode to mount olympus, but even jupiter had not complete power over pluto.
"if proserpine has taken food in pluto's realm, the fates will not allow her to return to earth," he told ceres.
"but i will send my swift messenger, mercury, with spring to try and bring her home."
in all that time proserpine had eaten none of the rich food that pluto had set before her, only six seeds of a red pomegranate as she had pressed the fruit to her lips to quench her thirst.
but spring, with all her strength that can bring new leaves and blooms from dead branches, with the help of mercury, the god of the winged shoes, brought proserpine the long way back to her mother for six months.
the remaining six months of the year, one month for each pomegranate seed that she had eaten, proserpine was doomed to spend as queen of pluto's kingdom of darkness.
no one, and particularly not her mother, worried very much, though, about those months of darkness because of the wonders that proserpine brought when she returned to earth.
every tree that she touched with her garments burst into green, and wherever her feet pressed the earth the grass and wild flowers appeared and spread.
ploughing and planting were begun again, and the new shoots of the corn pushed up through the ground.
indeed, it seemed to ceres that her other child, the corn, was telling the story of lost proserpine.
the seed of the corn that is thrust into the earth and lies there, concealed in the dark, is like proserpine carried off by the god of the underworld.
then spring gives the seed a new form and it appears to bless the earth, just as proserpine was led forth to her mother and to the light of day.
the ploughman who brought famine.
erisichthon had made up his mind to kill the dryad who lived in the oak tree.
he was one of the strongest ploughmen in all greece, and he knew ceres who presided over the fields and her favorite dryad of the oak tree very well.
the oak tree had stood for centuries in a grove in which ceres loved to rest, and it was almost a forest in itself.
it overtopped the other trees as far as they stretched above the shrubs.
its trunk measured fifteen cubits around, and it was supported upon roots that were almost as strong as iron cables.
it was supposed in those old days of greece to be a tree of wonders.
it was this oak that guarded the wide agricultural domain of ceres, and the dryad who lived inside was one of the messengers of this goddess through the farms and orchards.
she was a slender, fair young creature who would never grow old and carried sunbeams in her hands that brought new growth wherever she spilled them.
when the grove was empty and still, all the other dryads would step softly from their dwelling places in the cypress, the olive and the pine trees and join hands as they danced lightly about the oak tree, singing their praises of the great ceres who fed with her bounty the whole of greece.
the country people, and even those from the cities, came to pay their homage to ceres' oak, bringing garlands of roses and laurel that they hung on its boughs, and carving messages of thanks and love for the dryad on its bark.
erisichthon knew all this, but he wanted a quantity of wood for his farm without the trouble of earning it.
he decided the property of ceres was his, by right, because he had ploughed her fields at the time of the planting.
so erisichthon saw no reason why he should spare the wonderful oak tree, even if it did shelter a dryad.
he called his servants together, armed them with freshly sharpened axes, and they set out for the forest.
when they reached the oak tree, erisichthon's men hesitated.
the tree looked like a temple, its wide spreading branches sheltering the other trees, and its great trunk towering toward the sky like a bronze pillar.
each man remembered ceres' bounty toward him, her gifts of apples and corn, grapes and wheat, and best of all her offering of land that would bring plenty for the ploughing and planting.
"we cannot cut it.
this is a tree well beloved of ceres," the men said to their master.
"i care not whether it be a tree beloved of the goddess or not,"
erisichthon shouted angrily to them.
"if i cut it down i shall have no more need of ceres, for its wood will make me rich beyond the need of planting.
she owes me a living on account of the past seasons in which i have worked for her.
if ceres herself were in my way i would cut her down also!"
he exclaimed.
with this terrible threat on his lips, the lawless ploughman seized an axe from one of his trembling servants and began chopping the trunk of the mighty tree.
he had great strength, and each blow cut a deep gash.
as erisichthon cut in toward the heart of the oak tree, that held the dryad, the oak began to shiver and groan, but he showed it no mercy.
he ordered his men to tie ropes to the branches and pull, and he continued to cut it until the tree fell with a crash that was like the sound of a thunderbolt, and brought down with it a great part of the forest that surrounded it.
as the giant trunk lay on the ground at the feet of erisichthon, there was a sighing of the branches like that of a summer breeze passing through, and the leaves fluttered as if they had been stirred by the flight of a bird.
it was the spirit of the dryad whom erisichthon had so hurt, taking her way to her family of the gods on mount olympus.
those dryads who were left in the grove hastened to ceres with news of what had happened.
"this man must be punished!"
they cried.
ceres bowed her head in assent, and the fields of grain bowed also, and the branches of the fruit trees drooped.
it was the ripe time of the harvest, but there were no crops on the farm of erisichthon, and ceres decreed that no neighbor should share with him.
in the northern part of greece lay the ice topped mountains of scythia, a bleak, unfertile region without fruit or grain.
cold, and fear, and shuddering lived there and one other, who was more to be dreaded than all three.
this was famine with unkempt hair and sunken eyes, blanched lips, and her skin tightly drawn over her sharp bones.
she made her home in a hard, stony field where she pulled up the scanty herbage with her claw-like fingers and tried to subsist on it.
after erisichthon had cut down the old oak tree ceres sent to scythia for famine.
erisichthon found that it was going to be a month's task to cut up his wood and carry it to his farm, so he went home to rest over night, planning to start the work in the morning.
he felt hungry after his hard work of chopping down the tree, but he had not even a pomegranate for his supper.
all his food had strangely disappeared.
he decided to go to bed and try to forget his hunger in sleep.
"i will sell a load of wood in the morning for many gold coins," he thought, "and buy food in plenty."
so erisichthon lay down on his couch and was soon fast asleep.
then famine sped in through the window and hovered over where he lay.
she folded her wings around him and breathed her poison into his veins.
then she hastened back to scythia, for she had no other errand in a land of plenty.
erisichthon did not wake but he stirred in his sleep and moved his jaws as if he were eating, for he was very hungry in his dreams.
in the morning he woke with a raging hunger that was a hundred times worse than that of the day before.
he sold his load of wood and spent all the money for whatever food the earth, the air, and the sea produced.
he consumed vast quantities of fish, fowl, the flesh of lambs, fruit and vegetables; but the more erisichthon ate, the greater was his hunger.
the amount of food that would have been enough for the whole of athens was not sufficient for this man.
he continually craved more.
erisichthon sold the wood of the entire oak tree, and began selling pieces of the land that made his farm in order to get food for appeasing his terrible hunger.
at last his fields were gone and he had to sell his furniture, his tools, his books, and all his vases.
still he could not get food enough to appease his gnawing appetite, so he sold his house and lived in a tent that he set up beside the road.
but his hunger was still unsatisfied and in his madness erisichthon sold his only daughter to be the slave of a fisherman who cast his nets beside the aegean sea.
the girl loved her father very dearly and her grief, as she gathered sea weed along the shore for her master, touched the heart of neptune, the god of the sea.
he changed her to the form of a horse, and she went home to erisichthon, hoping that he would look upon so fine an animal with favor, and give it a home.
but her father sold the horse to a chariot racer.
she escaped and went again to the shore where neptune changed her, in turn, to a stag, an ox, and a rare bird.
each time she made her way home, and each time her father sold her to buy food.
so the bird flew away to mount olympus and was never seen again.
at last there came a day when erisichthon could feed himself no longer.
there was nothing left to him in the world that he could sell, and his hunger was so great that he went, like a raving beast, up and down the bountiful fields of ceres demanding that food be given him.
but those whom famine touches because they break ceres' laws, and destroy life and property find no help unless they try to restore the order that they have hurt.
erisichthon was too weak to work, and he could never raise another oak tree like that one which had been growing for centuries.
so he went, at last, to live with famine in scythia which was a long way from the mount of the gods.
the bee man of arcadia.
strange things were happening in a field of the beautiful country called arcadia.
a youth who wore a wreath of green laurel leaves on his dark hair sat on a rock and held a lyre in his hands from whose strings he drew sweet music.
and as he played a wolf, who had been the terror of the shepherds for many leagues around, came out of the woods and lay down like a great dog at the feet of the youth.
next, the nearby olive trees bent their heads to listen and then moved toward him until they stood in a circle at his feet.
then the hard rock on which the musician rested covered itself with soft green verdure and bluebells and violets began to lift their heads, growing out of its age-old stones.
this was what always happened when orpheus, the son of apollo, played the lyre that his father had given him and had taught him to use.
nothing could withstand the charm of his music.
not only the farmers and shepherds, the nymphs and fauns of arcadian woods and fields were softened and drawn by his tunes, but the wild beasts as well laid by their fierceness and stood, entranced, at his strains.
orpheus touched his lyre again and played an even lovelier song.
and out of the forest glided the nymph, eurydice, taking her place near orpheus.
his music had won her devotion and hymen, the god of marriage, had made the two very happy.
their deepest wish was that they might never be separated.
the whole of arcadia was charmed by orpheus' lute.
no, there was just one person in that beautiful country who positively disliked music, and that was the bee-man, aristaeus.
in fact, aristaeus could not see the value of anything beautiful, the statues and vases in the temple of apollo, the tapestries the weavers decorated with so many soft colors, the tints of the wild flowers, or the arch of the rainbow in the sky after a shower.
this bee-man could find no interest in anything except his combs of yellow honey, their number, and how many gold coins he would be paid for them.
not only did aristaeus dislike beautiful things, but he did not want others to enjoy them.
a cross old arcadian, was he not?
he was feeling particularly disagreeable on the morning when orpheus began playing his lute near his farm.
and when eurydice, whom orpheus so loved, approached him to ask for a comb of his delicious honey for dinner for the two, aristaeus entirely lost his temper.
he not only refused the nymph, which no one but a very stingy person could have done, for she smiled at him so winningly and asked for it so politely; but he chased eurydice off his farm.
no one had treated eurydice so rudely in all her life before.
even pan had gathered flowers for her to twine into garlands and had refrained from teasing her as he did almost all the other nymphs.
and here she was, a long distance from orpheus and pursued by an ugly tempered country man!
eurydice ran like the wind, the bee-man coming fast behind her.
she was much fleeter than he and would have reached the woods safely, but she stepped suddenly on a snake that she had not seen as it lay coiled up in the grass.
the snake stung eurydice's bare feet and she dropped down on the ground.
"it serves her right!"
the bee-man said, not going to see how badly she was hurt.
and with that he went back to his bees.
aristaeus was the very first bee-man, the myths tell us.
when the gods made the little creatures of the earth they made also the honey bees and taught them how to build themselves homes in hollow trees or holes in the rocks, to find the nectar in the flowers, and make from it their thick, golden honey.
aristaeus was the son of the water-nymph cyrene, and he came to arcadia with the remembrance of the music of the waters and the brightness of the sun in his heart, but when he discovered how to attract the bees to his farm and take their honey away from them and sell it, he forgot everything except his business.
that was when he began to dislike orpheus and to become blind to the fair country in which he lived.
"three hives are swarming to-day," the bee-man thought as he came home.
"i ought to be able to get a good sum for the honey."
then, as he reached the orchard where his hives were placed on the wall, he looked about him in amazement.
hives, bees, all were gone.
not a buzz, a sting, or a single drop of honey was left!
aristaeus looked throughout the entire countryside for his bees for days, but he could not find a single one.
at last he gave up the search and did what a good many boys and girls would be apt to do in the same emergency.
he went to ask the advice of his mother, the sea-nymph cyrene.
he went to the edge of the river where he knew she lived and called her.
"o mother, the pride of my life is taken away from me.
i have lost my precious bees.
my care and skill have availed me nothing.
can you turn from me this blow of misfortune?"
his mother heard these complaints as she sat in her palace at the bottom of the river with her attendant nymphs around her.
they were busy spinning and weaving beautiful designs in water weeds and painting pebbles while another told stories to amuse the rest.
but the sad voice of the bee-man interrupted them and one put her head above the water.
seeing aristaeus, she returned and told his mother, who ordered that he be brought down to her.
at the command of cyrene, the river opened itself and let him pass through, as it stood curled like a mountain on either side.
the bee-man descended to the place where the fountains of the great rivers lie.
he saw the enormous rock beds of the waters and was almost deafened by their roar as he saw them hurrying off in all their different directions to water the face of the earth.
then aristaeus came to his mother's palace of shells and stone and he was taken to her apartment where he told her his troubles.
cyrene, being a dweller of the waters which are the fountain of life, was very wise.
she understood at once that her son had made a mistake in not seeing that it was possible to combine beauty and usefulness.
arcadia needed bees, but it needed orpheus and his lute also, and the gods had punished the bee-man for his sordidness.
still, he was her son and cyrene decided to try and help aristaeus out of his difficulty.
"you must go to old proteus, who is the herdsman of neptune's sea-calves," cyrene said.
"he can tell you, my son, how to get back your bees, for he is a great prophet.
you will have to force him to help you, however.
if you are able to seize him, chain him at once; he will answer your questions in order to be released.
i will conduct you to the cave where he comes at noon to take his nap.
then you can easily secure him, but when he finds himself in chains he will cause you a great deal of trouble.
he will make a noise like the crackling of flames so as to frighten you into loosing your hold on the chain.
or he may become a wild boar, a fierce tiger, a lion with ravenous jaws or a devouring dragon.
but you have only to keep proteus fast bound and when he finds all his arts to be of no avail he will return to his natural shape and obey your commands."
so cyrene led aristaeus to the cave by the sea and showed him where to hide behind a rock while she, herself, arose and took her place behind the clouds.
promptly at noon old proteus, covered with dripping green weeds, issued from the water followed by a herd of sea calves who spread themselves out on the shore.
the herdsman of the sea counted them, sat down on the floor of the cave, and then in a very short time had stretched himself out, fast asleep.
aristaeus waited until he was snoring and then he bound him with a heavy chain he had brought for the purpose.
when proteus awoke and found himself captured, he struggled like a wild animal at bay.
next, he turned to flame and then, in succession to many terrible beasts, but aristaeus never once let go of the chain that secured him.
at last he returned to his true form and spoke angrily to aristaeus.
"who are you, who boldly invades my domain and what do you want?"
proteus demanded.
"you know already," the bee-man replied, "for you have the powers of a prophet and nothing is hidden from you.
i have lost my bees, and i want to have them returned to me."
at these words, the prophet fixed his eyes on aristaeus with a piercing look.
"your trouble is the just reward sent you by the gods because you killed eurydice," he said.
"to avenge her death, her companion nymphs sent this destruction to your bees."
"i killed eurydice?"
aristaeus asked in amazement.
"does she no longer listen to the music of orpheus?"
"yes, but not in arcadia," proteus explained.
"when she was stung by the viper, she was obliged to make her way alone to the dark realm of pluto.
orpheus sang his grief to all who breathed the upper air, both gods and men, and then he started out to search for eurydice.
he passed through the crowd of ghosts and entered the realm beyond the dark river styx.
there, in front of the throne of pluto, he sang of his longing that eurydice might be restored to him, until the cheeks of even the fates were wet with tears.
"pluto himself gave way to orpheus' music and called eurydice.
she came to orpheus, limping on her wounded foot.
they roam the happy fields of the gods together now, he leading sometimes and sometimes she.
and jupiter has placed orpheus' lyre among the stars."
as proteus finished telling his story, the penitent aristaeus fell on the ground at his feet.
"what can i do to appease the anger of the gods for my wickedness?"
he asked.
"you may use your skill to build temples to the two in the country of arcadia which they so loved," proteus said.
"take your way home.
forget your own gains for a while and gather stones to fit together for the altars."
so the bee-man did this, and he discovered that he came to enjoy the work very much.
he took pleasure in cutting and polishing the stones until they were as beautiful as those of any temple in greece.
as he worked in the grove that he had selected for his building he often thought that he detected the music of orpheus' lyre as the birds sang, and the streams rippled, and the wind blew through the leaves.
he found it very sweet indeed.
one day, shortly after his beautiful altars were built, aristaeus found a wonder.
it was spring, when the nearby orchards were white and sweet with blossoms, and there were all his honey bees returned, and busily starting their hives under the shadow of the temple of eurydice.
when pomona shared her apples.
pomona was a dryad, and venus had given her a wild apple tree to be her home.
as pomona grew up under the shadow of its branches, protecting the buds from winter storms, dressing herself in its pink blossoms in the spring time, and holding up her hands to catch its apples in the fall, she found that her love for this fruit tree was greater than anything else in her life.
at last pomona planted the first orchard and lived in it and tended it.
the dryads were those favored children of the gods who lived in the ancient woods and groves, each in her special tree.
dressed in fluttering green garments, they danced through the woodland ways with steps as light as the wind, sang to the tune of pan's pipe, or fled, laughing, from the fauns.
they missed pomona in the woods, and tales came to these forest dwellers of the wonders she was working in the raising of fruits fit for the table of the gods.
she had trees on which golden oranges and yellow lemons hung among deep green leaves.
she raised citrons and limes, and even cultivated the wide spreading tamarind tree whose fruit was of such value to epictetus, the physician of greece, in cooling the fires of fever.
the wood folk left their mossy hiding places to peer over the wall of pomona's orchard and watch her working so busily there.
they were a strange company.
pan came from arcadia where he was the god of flocks and shepherds.
he had fastened some reeds from the stream together to make his pipes, and on them he could play the merriest music.
it sounded like birds and the singing of brooks and summer breezes all in one.
with pan came his family of fauns, the deities of the woods and fields.
their bodies were covered with bristling hair, there were short, sprouting horns on their heads, and their feet were shaped like those of a goat.
pan was of the same strange guise as the fauns were, but to distinguish his rank, he wore a garland of pine about his head.
these and pomona's sisters, the dryads, watched her longingly from the budding time of the year until the harvest.
it was a pleasant sight to see pomona taking care of her apples.
she was never without a pruning knife which she carried as proudly as jupiter did his sceptre.
with it she trimmed away the foliage of her fruit trees wherever it had grown too thick, cut the branches that had straggled out of shape, and sometimes deftly split a twig to graft in a new one so that the tree might bear different, better apples.
pomona even led streams of water close to the roots of the trees so that they need not suffer from drought.
she looked, herself, a part of the orchard, for she wore a wreath of bright fruits and her arms were often full of apples almost as huge and golden as the famous apples of hesperides.
the dryads and the fauns begged one, at least, of the apples, but pomona refused them all.
she had grown selfish through the seasons in which she had brought her orchard to a state of such bounteous perfection.
she would not give away a single apple, and she kept her gate always locked.
so the wood creatures were obliged to go home empty handed to their forest places.
in those days vertumnus was one of the lesser gods who watched over the seasons.
the fame of pomona's fruits came to the ear of vertumnus and he was suddenly possessed of a great desire to share the orchard and its care with her.
he sent messengers in the form of the birds to plead his cause with pomona, but she was just as cruel to him as she had been to the family of pan and to her own sisters.
she had made up her mind that she would never share her orchard with any one in the world.
vertumnus would not give up, though.
he had the power to change his form as he willed, and he decided to go to pomona in disguise to see if he could not win her by appealing to her pity.
she was obliged to buy her grain, and one day in october when the apple boughs bent low with their great red and yellow balls a reaper came to the orchard gate with a basket of ears of corn for pomona.
"i ask no gold for my grain," he said to the goddess, "i want only a basket full of fruit in return for it."
"my fruit is not to be given away or bartered for.
it is mine and mine alone until it spoils," pomona replied, driving the reaper away.
but the following day a farmer stopped at the orchard, an ox goad in his hand as if he had just unyoked a pair of weary oxen from his hay cart, left them resting beside some stream, and had gone on to ask refreshment for himself.
pomona invited him into her orchard, but she did not offer him a single apple.
as soon as the sun began to lower she bade him be on his way.
in the days that followed vertumnus came to pomona in many guises.
he appeared with a pruning hook and a ladder as if he were a vine dresser ready and willing to climb up into her trees and help her gather the harvest.
but pomona scorned his services.
then vertumnus trudged along as a discharged soldier in need of alms, and again with a fishing rod and a string of fish to exchange for only one apple.
each time that vertumnus came disguised to pomona he found her more beautiful and her orchard a place of greater plenty than ever; but the richer her harvest the deeper was her greed.
she refused to share even a half of one of her apples.
at last, when the vines were dripping with purple juice of the grape and the boughs of the fruit trees hung so heavily that they touched the ground, a strange woman hobbled down the road and stopped at pomona's gate.
her hair was white and she was obliged to lean on a staff.
pomona opened the gate and the crone entered and sat down on a bank, admiring the trees.
"your orchard does you great credit, my daughter," she said to pomona.
then she pointed to a grape vine that twined itself about the trunk and branches of an old oak.
the oak was massive and strong, and the vine clung to it in safety and had covered itself with bunches of beautiful purple grapes.
"if that tree stood alone," the old woman explained to pomona, "with no vine to cling to it, it would have nothing to offer but its useless leaves.
and if the vine did not have the tree to cling to, it would have to lie prostrate on the ground.
"you should take a lesson from the vine.
might not your orchard be still more fruitful if you were to open the gate to vertumnus who has charge of the seasons and can help you as the oak helps the vine?
the gods believe in sharing the gifts they give the earth.
no one who is selfish can prosper for long."
"tell me about this vertumnus, good mother," pomona asked curiously.
"i know vertumnus as well as i know myself," the crone replied.
"he is not a wandering god, but belongs among these hills and pastures of our fair land.
he is young and handsome and has the power to take upon himself any form that he may wish.
he likes the same things that you do, gardening, and caring for the ruddy fruits.
venus, who gave you an apple tree to be your first home, hates a hard heart and if you will persist in living alone in your orchard, refusing to share your apples, she is likely to punish you by sending frosts to blight your young fruits and terrible winds to break the boughs."
pomona clasped her hands in fear.
she suddenly understood how true was everything that this old woman said.
she had known a spring-time when a storm of wind and hail had shaken off the apple blossoms, and frosts had touched the fruits one fall before she had been able to pick them.
"i will open my gate to the country people and to strangers," she said.
"i will open it also to vertumnus if he is still willing to share my orchard and my work."
as pomona spoke, the old woman rose and her gray hair turned to the dark locks of vertumnus.
her wrinkles faded in the glow of his sunburned cheeks.
her travel stained garments were replaced by vertumnus' russet gardening smock and her staff to his pruning fork.
he seemed to pomona like the sun bursting through a cloud.
she had never really seen him before, having never looked at anyone except with the eyes of selfishness.
vertumnus and pomona began the harvesting together, and they opened the gate wide to let in those who had need of sharing their plenty.
then the fauns danced in and made merry to the tunes that pan played.
the dryads found new homes for themselves in the trunks of the trees, and the seasons gave rain and sunshine in greater abundance than ever before as these two pruned, and trimmed, and grafted the trees and vines together.
achelous, the river god, took his way past the orchard kingdom of pomona and vertumnus and brought with him plenty who was able to fill her horn with gifts of fruit for all, apples, pears, grapes, oranges, plums, and citrons until it overflowed.
ever since the october when pomona opened her gate and shared her apples, an orchard has been a place of beauty, bounty, and play.
how psyche reached mount olympus.
once upon a time there was a king of greece who had three beautiful daughters, but the youngest, who was named psyche, was the most beautiful of all.
the fame of her lovely face and the charm of her whole being were so great that strangers from the neighboring countries came in crowds to enjoy the sight and they paid psyche the homage of love that was due to venus herself.
venus' temple was deserted, and as psyche passed by the people sang her praises, and strewed her way with flowers and wreaths.
venus had a son, cupid, who was dearer to her than any other being on mount olympus or in the earth.
like every mother, venus had great ambitions for the future of her son, but she was not always able to follow him, for cupid had wings and a golden bow and arrows with which he was fond of playing among mortals.
what was venus' wrath to discover at last that cupid had lost his heart to psyche, the lovely maiden of earth!
it was like a fairy story in which a prince marries a peasant girl and may not bring her home to the palace because of her mean birth.
venus quite refused to recognize psyche or award her a place in the honored family of the gods.
cupid and psyche had a very wonderful earthly palace in which to live.
golden pillars supported the vaulted roof, and the walls of the apartments of state were richly carved and hung with embroidered tapestries of many colors.
when psyche wished food, all she had to do was to seat herself in an alcove when a table immediately appeared without the aid of servants and covered itself with rare fruits and rich cakes and honey.
when she longed for music, she had a feast of it played by invisible lutes, and with a chorus of harmonious voices.
but psyche was not happy in this life of luxury, for she had to be alone so much of the time.
venus could not take cupid away from her altogether, but she allowed him to be with psyche only in the hours of darkness.
he fled before the dawn.
there had been a direful prophecy in psyche's family of which her sisters had continually reminded her.
"your youngest daughter is destined for a monster whom neither gods nor men can resist," was the oracle given to the king, and the memory of it began to fill psyche's heart with fear.
her sisters came to visit her and increased her fear.
they asked all manner of questions about cupid, and psyche was obliged to confess that she could not exactly describe him because she had never seen him in the light of day.
her jealous sisters began at once to fill psyche's mind with dark suspicions.
"how do you know," they asked, "that your husband is not a terrible and venomous serpent, who feeds you for a while with all these dainties that he may devour you in the end?
take our advice.
provide yourself with a lamp well filled with oil and tonight, when this villain returns and sleeps, go into his apartment and see whether or not our prophecy is true."
psyche tried to resist her sisters, but at last their urging and her own curiosity were too much for her.
she filled her lamp, and when her husband had fallen into his first sleep, she went silently to his couch and held the light above him.
there lay cupid, the most beautiful and full of grace of all the gods!
his golden ringlets were a crown above his snowy forehead and crimson cheeks, and two wings whose feathers were like the soft white blossoms of the orchard sprang from his shoulders.
in her joy at finding no cause for her fears, psyche leaned over, tipping her lamp, that she might look more closely at cupid's face.
as she bent down, a drop of the burning oil fell on the god's shoulder.
he opened his eyes, startled, and looked up at psyche.
then, without saying a word, he spread his wide wings and flew out of the window.
psyche tried to follow him, but she had no wings and fell to the ground.
for one brief moment cupid stayed his flight and turned to see her lying there below him in the dust.
"foolish psyche," he said, "why did you repay my love in this way?
after having disobeyed my mother's commands and made you my wife, could you not trust me?
i will inflict no further punishment upon you than this, that i leave you forever, for love cannot live with suspicion."
and with these words cupid flew out of psyche's sight.
that was the beginning of the long road of trouble psyche had to follow.
she wandered day and night, without food or rest, in search of cupid.
one day she saw a magnificent temple set upon the brow of a lofty hill and she toiled the long way up to it, saying to herself,
"perhaps my love inhabits here."
when psyche reached the top of the hill and entered the temple, she saw heaps of corn, some in sheaves and others in loose ears, and there was barley mingled with it.
there were sickles and rakes and all the other instruments of the harvest scattered about in great confusion as if the reapers, at the end of the sultry day, had left them in this disorder.
in spite of her sorrow, psyche could not bear to see this disarray and she began trying to set the place in order.
she worked so busily that she did not see ceres, whose temple it was, enter.
turning at last, psyche saw the goddess of the harvest, wearing her fruit trimmed garments and standing at her side.
"poor psyche!"
she said pityingly.
"but it is possible for you to find a way to the abode of the gods where cupid has his home.
go and surrender yourself to venus and try by your own works to win her forgiveness and, perhaps, her favor."
so psyche obeyed this command of ceres, although it took a great deal of courage, and she travelled to the temple of venus in thebes where the goddess received her in anger.
"the only way by which you can merit the favor of the gods, unfortunate psyche," she said, "is by your own efforts.
i, myself, am going to make a trial of your housewifely skill to see if you are industrious and dilligent."
with these words venus conducted psyche to a storehouse connected with her temple where there was an enormous quantity of grain laid up; beans, lentils, barley, wheat and the tiny seeds of the millet which venus had stored to feed her pigeons.
"separate all these grains," the goddess said to psyche, "putting those of the same kind in a pile, and see that you finish before evening."
then she left psyche who was in consternation at the impossible task spread before her.
psyche dipped her fingers into the golden heap gathering up a handful to sort the grains, but it took her a long time and the grain lay about her on every side like a yellow river.
the grains she held were less than a drop taken from its surface.
"i shall not be able to finish.
i shall never see my husband again!"
psyche moaned.
still she worked on steadily and at last a little ant, a native of the fields, crawled across the floor and took compassion on the toiling psyche.
it was a king in its own domain and was followed by a host of its little red subjects.
grain by grain, they separated the seeds, helping to put them in their own piles, and when the work was accomplished they vanished as quickly as they had appeared.
when evening came venus returned, breathing odors of nectar and crowned with roses, from a banquet of the gods.
when she saw that psyche's task was done, she scarcely believed her eyes.
"you must have had assistance," she said.
"to-morrow you shall try a more difficult undertaking.
beyond my temple you will see a grassy meadow which stretches along the borders of the water.
there you will find a flock of sheep with golden shining fleeces on their backs and grazing without a shepherd.
bring me a sample of their precious wool that you gather from each of the fleeces."
psyche once more obeyed, but this was a test of her life as well as of her endurance.
as she reached the meadow, the river god, whispering to her through the rushes, warned her.
"do not venture among the flock while the sun shines on them," he told her.
"in the heat of the rising sun, the rams burn with a cruel rage to destroy mortals with their sharp teeth.
wait until twilight, when you will find their woolly gold sticking to the bushes and the trunks of the trees."
the compassion of the river god helped psyche to do as venus had commanded her and she returned to the temple in the evening with her arms full of golden fleece.
still venus was not satisfied.
"i have a third task for you," she told the weary psyche.
"take this box to the realm of pluto and give it to proserpine saying to her, 'my mistress, venus, desires you to send her a little of your beauty, for in tending her son whom psyche burned she has lost some of her own.'
and make all possible haste, for i must use it before i appear next in the circle of the gods on mount olympus."
psyche felt that now her destruction was surely at hand.
it was a dangerous road that led to the dark, underground kingdom of pluto and there were deadly dangers on the way.
but psyche was finding a new courage with each of the difficulties that she had to encounter, and she set out with the box.
she passed safely by cerberus, pluto's three headed watch dog.
she prevailed upon charon, the ferryman, to take her across the black river and wait for her while she begged proserpine to fill the box.
then she started back to the light again.
all would have gone well with psyche if she had not grown curious.
that was why her road to the dwelling place of the gods was so long and difficult.
psyche was always mixing up a little bit of earth with her good intentions.
having come so far successfully with her dangerous task, she wanted to open the box.
"i would take only the least bit of this beauty from venus," psyche thought, "to make myself more fair for cupid if i ever behold him again."
so she carefully opened the box, but there was nothing in it of beauty at all.
it was a potion that caused psyche to fall beside the road in a sleep which seemed to have no waking.
she did not stir, or breathe, or remember.
it was there that love, in the form of cupid found psyche.
he was healed of his wound, and he could not bear her absence any longer.
he flew through a crack in the window of the palace of venus and made his way to earth and straight to the spot where psyche lay.
he gathered the deadly sleep from her body and put it fast inside the box again.
then he touched her lightly with one of his arrows and she woke.
"again you have almost perished because of your curiosity," he said as psyche reached up her arms to him "but perform exactly this task which my mother asked of you and i will attend to the rest."
then cupid, as swift as a bird flies, returned to mount olympus and pleaded with jupiter for a welcome for psyche.
jupiter consented at last to have this daughter of earth admitted to the family of the gods and mercury was sent to bring her and offer her the cup of ambrosial nectar that would make her one of the immortals.
it is said that at the moment when psyche completed her tasks and took her departure for mount olympus a winged creature, the butterfly, that had never been seen before on earth, arose from a garden and flew on golden wings up toward the sun.
so it was thought that the story of psyche was the story of the butterfly who bursts its gray house of the cocoon and rises, with a new beauty and the power of wings, toward the sky.
and the greeks had still another name for psyche whom neither her troubles or the sleep of pluto could keep from the abode of the gods when love pleaded for her.
they spoke of her as the soul.
how melampos fed the serpent.
there was a hollow oak tree in front of the house of melampos in greece and inside it was a nest of serpents.
melampos was a farmer, skilful in raising fruits and grains and full of love for everything that lived out of doors.
he would not so much as crush an ant hurrying home to its hill with a grain of sand, and although he did not particularly like snakes he saw no harm in these that had made themselves a home in a tree that no one wanted.
"they will do us no hurt unless we disturb them," melampos told his servants.
"let them alone and perhaps, when the weather is warmer, they will take their way off to the neighboring marsh."
but melampos' servants were not so sure as he of the harmlessness of the serpents.
"our master is growing old and child like," they said to each other.
"the next time he drives to the city with a load of grain we will get rid of the nest of vipers."
so that was what they did.
in melampos' absence they fired the nest of the serpents with a torch and burned it up completely, as they thought.
but when melampos returned that afternoon and sat down under his arbor to rest and eat his supper of bread and grapes, he saw a pair of bright black eyes peering up at him from the grass.
then he spied a round green head raised above a long green body.
it was one of the young serpents that had not been hurt when the nest was burned and had come to the master of the place for protection.
melampos looked cautiously around to see that no one was watching him.
"if any of the servants see me, they will think me out of my senses," he said to himself, "but i am sorry for this little creature and would befriend it."
then, seeing that he was quite unobserved, melampos broke off a piece of his bread and threw the crumbs to the young serpent.
it devoured them to the last one and then glided off so silently that it left no trail except a long line of gently moving grasses.
the next day the serpent came and the next, always hungry and always lifting its little head and looking at melampos in its odd, bright way.
one day as melampos broke his bread as usual to share it with the serpent, he heard a voice speaking to him.
"the gods have been watching your kindness, melampos," it said, "and have rewarded you in the way you will like best.
they have given you the power of understanding the tongues of the wild."
melampos looked all about him, but there was not another mortal within sight.
then his eyes caught those of the serpent and he suddenly realized that it had been its voice which he had heard.
that was the beginning of strange experiences for melampos upon whom the gods had conferred so wonderful a gift.
the serpent never returned after that day, but that very same evening a tree toad spoke to melampos.
"water your olive trees well around the roots, melampos," it said, "for there is a season of drought approaching."
that was an excellent warning, because the farmer had a grove of young trees that needed very tender care.
melampos sprayed the trees and soaked the roots and felt very thankful to the tree toad for its advice.
after a few days of dry weather melampos was on his way to the city when a grasshopper spoke to him from the side of the road.
"turn back, melampos, and gather your sheaves of wheat into your storehouse," the grasshopper said, "for jupiter is about to send a thunderbolt down to the earth."
that was exactly what happened.
melampos had just time to reach his grain field and order his men to put the ripe sheaves safely under cover when the sky grew black and the thunder rolled along the mountain tops.
a high wind blew and the rain was heavy, but melampos had saved his harvest.
all outdoors talked to melampos after that, and it was very pleasant indeed, for he had no boys and girls of his own to keep him company.
if he sat down to rest on a bank of moss in the forest, he was at once surrounded by friends.
a little wild bee would light on a branch in front of him and tell him where he might find its sweet comb dripping with honey nearby.
a butterfly would poise on his rough, soil stained hand and tell him where he would be able to see a bed of yellow daffodils beside a brook.
or a bird in a nearby bush would sing to him of the gay doings of pan and the dryads and tell him the road to take to their haunts farther and deeper in the woods.
melampos had never had such a good time in his life.
he was an excellent husbandman and managed to make his farm pay well every year, but he cared very much more for this friendship of outdoors than he did for the hoards of food each harvest gave him.
and, more and more, he came to stay in the woods and fields, holding conversation with the insects and the wild animals.
one harvest season melampos was returning from the market with a large purse of gold pieces that had just been paid him for the sale of his summer wheat.
he was taking his way through a deserted path of the forest where he hoped he might hear the echo, at least, of the merry pipes of pan.
he had not a thought or care in the world when, in an instant, he was laid low on the ground from a blow on his head, his gold was snatched away from him, and he was bound so tightly that he could not move.
melampos had been set upon by a band of robbers who threw him over the back of a horse and made off with him into the recesses of the forest.
it was not that peaceful, sylvan grove of the forest that pan and his friends inhabited, but a dark, gloomy part where it was so still that even the sound of a twig falling to the ground seemed as loud as the splintering of an arrow, and no one ever passed by.
the robbers put melampos in an underground passage of a prison-like fortress which they had built for themselves.
from beam to floor the fortress was built all of oak planks so old and thick and so completely covered with ivy on the outside that it looked like part of the forest itself.
melampos had only a slit in the wall for a window, and he never saw his captors save when they tossed him some dried crusts once a day.
he could hear them, though, counting their stolen coin and rattling it about.
then he heard the sound of clinking armor and the occasional clashing of swords.
"they are planning to kill me," he thought.
he looked longingly at the narrow chink in his prison wall, hardly large enough to let a sunbeam through.
"if i could but beckon to a wood pigeon and tell it my plight, i should be able to send a message to my friends by it," he sighed, "or i could ask the woodpecker who can bore through wood to try and widen my window so that i might escape."
just then melampos heard a rustling sound in the heavy beam of the ceiling of the room where he was imprisoned and then a small voice spoke to him.
"we could teach you better than any other creatures how to escape," it said.
"for years this forest has belonged to us, small as we are, and in a very short time now it will return to the earth from which the trees that built it came."
melampos was amazed.
he looked in all the corners of the room but could see no one.
then the voice went on.
"no wood, or men who live in shelters made of wood are safe from us.
we have bored the beams and timbers of this fortress in a thousand places until they are hollow and ready to fall."
suddenly melampos discovered the source of the voice.
through a knothole in a beam above his head a wood worm peered down at him.
with its companions it had eaten the planks that made the fortress until it was no safer than a house of paper.
"we are all doomed," melampos told one of the robbers who brought him his food that night.
"doomed; what do you mean by that?"
the robber asked in terror, for like most of his kind he was nothing but a coward at heart.
melampos showed him the decayed wood, hollow, and riddled with holes, and the man called his companions to see their danger.
they decided that they must flee from the fortress at once, and they decided to give melampos his freedom.
it would not have been safe to stay in the fortress another season, for almost as soon as the winter storms came it crumbled like a house of sand, and the ants and the crickets used it to make themselves winter shelters.
melampos went back to his farm and the pleasant conversation of the insects, the birds, and his four-footed friends.
he was the first mortal to have such friends, but there were others who followed him and found happiness, also, through being kind to little wild creatures.
how a huntress became a bear.
although juno was the queen of the gods she had a failing that is common to mortals.
she was very jealous, and particularly of any maiden of earth whom she fancied might sometime be given a place by jupiter among the great family of the gods on mount olympus.
as soon as juno saw callisto, a beautiful huntress of the forests of arcadia, she disliked her.
perhaps juno would have liked to be free to roam through the woods where pan played his music for dancing and the dryads sported from one season to another as callisto did.
the goddess may have envied the huntress her happy, free life with no royal duties to interfere with her daily chase of the deer or any heavy crown to keep the breezes from tossing her long dark hair.
callisto reverenced jupiter and juno alike, with no thought that she might be arousing the displeasure of the goddess, but one day a strange and fearful thing happened to her.
she had just raised her bow to her shoulder ready to shoot an arrow as straight as a dart through the green path of the forest when it suddenly struck her hand and she fell to the moss upon her hands and knees.
she tried to reach out her arms in supplication but they had become thick and heavy and were covered with long black hair.
her hands grew rounded, were armed with crooked claws and served her for feet.
her voice, which had been so sweet that it charmed the birds when she called to them, changed to a terrifying growl.
callisto raised herself as well as she could, lifting up her paws to beg mercy of the gods and uttering frightful roars as she bemoaned her fate.
she had always been obliged to defend herself from the lions and wolves that haunted the forest and she felt that she would be at their mercy now.
all at once, though, she understood what had happened to her.
she, herself, was now no longer a mortal but a wild beast.
juno had persuaded jupiter to change callisto to the first bear.
she had never liked to be out in the wood at night, but now she had no shelter and had to roam through the darkness, pursued often by the same wild beasts whom it had been her custom to hunt before.
she fled from her own dogs in terror and was in hourly terror of the same arrows which she had formerly aimed so straight.
in the winter callisto crawled into some hollow log or dug a cave for herself that she might keep alive during the season of the north wind's reign, and when spring came she crawled out, lean and weak, to search for the wild bee's comb and the first juicy berries of the juniper.
one day a boy saw the bear as he was out hunting.
callisto saw him at the same time and realized that he was her own son, arcas, now grown to be a tall youth and taking his part in the chase as his mother had so many seasons before.
callisto forgot her changed form in her great joy at seeing her son, and she arose to her hind feet and hastened toward him holding out her paws to embrace him.
the boy, alarmed, raised his hunting spear and ran to meet the bear and thrust its point through her heart.
callisto's son would have killed her if jupiter had not, just then, looked down on the forest from his throne and felt a sudden pity for the tragedy he had brought about.
the gods had made a long road in the sky that led to the palace of the sun.
any one may see this road on a clear night, for it stretches across the face of the sky and is known as the milky way.
the palaces of the illustrious gods stood on either side of the road and a little farther back were placed the homes of the lesser deities.
at the very moment that arcas, his spear raised, rushed upon callisto, two new comers appeared in the sky near the road of the gods.
they had the form of a great bear and a little bear, but their bodies were made of brightly shining stars.
the mighty jupiter had transformed callisto and her son into these two constellations.
how enraged juno was when she found it out!
she descended to the sea and told her troubles to oceanus, a giant of the race of titans who ruled the waters at that time.
"do you wonder, oceanus," juno cried, "why i, the queen of the gods, have left the heavenly plains and seek your depths?
it is because my authority has been set aside.
i shall be supplanted among my fellow gods, for callisto, the bear, has been taken up to the skies and given a place among the stars.
who can deny but that she may not occupy my throne next!"
"what would you have me do about it?"
old oceanus asked, a little puzzled as to why juno had consulted him.
"i forbade callisto to keep her human form and my will has been unjustly set aside," juno replied.
"now that she has an abode on the road to heaven she will be able to take any form she desires and may come to you for help in her attempt to steal my throne.
i command you to never allow the stars of her constellation to touch the waters."
oceanus called a council of the other powers of the waters and they assented to juno's decree.
one after another the stars rose and set, touching the sea in their courses, but the great bear and the little bear moved ceaselessly round and round in the sky, never sinking to rest as the other stars did beneath the ocean.
juno had thought that this would be a punishment for them but as it turned out it was a kind of reward.
because the great bear and the little bear were always to be seen in their changeless, shining course, people who were obliged to travel at night, and particularly those who were at sea, grew to depend upon them as a means of finding their way in the darkness.
the last star in the tail of the little bear indicated the north and was known after a while as the pole star.
the ancients called it also the star of arcadia, for it helped so many mariners to find their way home across the perilous waters.
it had happened to juno, as it often happens to jealous people to-day, that she had not hurt callisto in the least but had brought her a great deal of honor.
the adventure of glaucus.
glaucus, the fisherman, rubbed his eyes to find out if he was not dreaming.
he had just drawn in his net to land and had emptied it, ready to sort the fish that lay, a large haul, all over the grass.
but a strange thing was happening to them.
of a sudden, the fishes began to revive and move their fins exactly as if they were in the water.
then, as glaucus looked at them in astonishment, the fishes one and all moved off to the water, plunged in, and swam away.
the spot where glaucus fished was a beautiful island in the river, but a solitary place, for it was inhabited only by him.
it was not used to pasture cattle even, or visited by anyone.
no one was there to work sorcery with his haul.
glaucus did not know what to make of the happening.
"can it be that the river-god is working this marvel?"
he wondered to himself.
then it occurred to him that there might be some secret power in the thick green leaves that covered the island among the grasses.
"what may not be the power of this herb?"
he asked himself, pulling up a handful of the leaves and tasting one.
scarcely had the juices of the plant touched glaucus' tongue than a strange feeling of restlessness filled him, and he was overcome by an unconquerable thirst.
he could not keep away from the water but ran to the edge of the river where he had fished for so many years, plunged in and swam away toward the sea.
it was a wonderful, free kind of experience for glaucus who had never known any life but that of hauling in his nets and then casting them again.
as he followed the swiftly flowing currents, the waters of a hundred rivers flowed over him, washing away all that was mortal of the fisherman, and he came at last to the sea.
a marvellous sight met him there.
the surf that beat against a rocky shore became suddenly smooth, as a chariot drawn by horses shod with brass and having long floating manes of gold rolled toward glaucus over the surface of the sea.
a giant who held a three-pointed spear for crushing rocks and blew loud trumpet blasts from a great curved shell, drove the chariot toward glaucus and then stopped, inviting him to ride down to the depths of the ocean.
it was neptune, the god of the sea, and glaucus discovered that he felt quite at home in the chariot.
he was no longer a dweller of the earth, but had become a citizen of that boundless country that lay beneath the waves.
the fisherman was completely changed in form.
his hair was sea green and trailed behind him through the water.
his shoulders broadened, and his limbs took the shape and use of a fish's tail.
he had never known such freedom and joy as now when he spent whole days doing nothing but following the ebb and flow of the tides and learning the use of his newly found fins as a bird tries its wings on first leaving the nest.
but glaucus still retained powers of thinking and of action which are denied the inhabitants of the sea.
one day he saw the beautiful maiden, scylla, one of the water nymphs, come out from a sheltered nook on the shore and seat herself on a rock, dipping her hands in the water and bringing up sea-shells for twining in the water weeds to make a necklace.
glaucus had never seen so fair a creature as scylla and he moved toward her through the waves, rising at last and stopping at the place where she sat as he murmured his affection for her above the singing of the sea.
but scylla was very much terrified at the sight of this strange personage, half youth and half fish.
she turned to run as soon as she saw him and did not stop until she had gained a cliff that overlooked the sea.
here she waited for a moment and turned around to look in wonder as glaucus raised himself upon a rock and the sun touched his green hair and scaly covering until he shone in its light.
he called to scylla.
"do not flee from me, maiden!
i am no monster or even a sea-animal, but have been transformed from a poor fisherman to a god of the sea."
then glaucus told scylla the whole story of his amazing adventures and tried to describe to her the kingdom of neptune with its playing dolphins, the castles of rose colored and white coral, and the never ending music of the waters.
"come with me, and descend to neptune's realm," he begged, but scylla would not remain to even listen.
she fled and left nothing to console glaucus but her scattered sea shells lying in bright heaps on the rocks.
glaucus did not pursue scylla but he felt that he could not give her up.
he remembered the strange charm of the sea that there had been in the herbs on his native island, and he wondered if he might, by chance, find some such power for giving the nymph, scylla, the desire for the sea that had drawn him to neptune's kingdom.
but glaucus could not explore his little fishing island, for it was a long way off and he had forgotten its direction even.
so he made what proved to be an almost disastrous decision.
he set out for the island of circe, the enchantress, to ask her help in winning scylla.
circe was, in the beginning, a daughter of the sun but she had put her light of learning to wicked uses and had made herself into a powerful sorceress.
she lived in a palace embowered with trees and those were the only signs of vegetation on her island.
but if a shipwrecked crew came up the shores, hoping to find a welcome and timber for building a new bark, they were immediately surrounded by lions, tigers and wolves who had formerly been men but had been changed by circe's magic to the form of beasts.
the brave hero of greece, ulysses, came in his travels to circe's isle once, and his crew heard the sounds of lovely music coming from the castle in the trees and the tones of a maiden's sweet singing.
they had endured the raging of the sea and all its perils for many days and they hastened to the palace where circe, who had the appearance of a princess, greeted them and ordered a feast for them.
as they ate, she touched them one by one with her wand and the men were all changed to swine.
they kept the thoughts of men, but they had the head, body, voice and bristles of these despised creatures, and circe shut them up in sties and fed them with acorns.
ulysses persuaded the sorceress to release his men, but he, the hero, was not able to resist her charms and remained in her palace a year, his work and country forgotten.
surely glaucus was setting out on a mad errand when he decided to go to circe.
but he persisted and landed on her island.
he told her how scylla had looked upon him with terror, and he begged to have a charm by means of which he might make scylla love the sea as the herb had made him a subject of neptune.
"sooner shall trees grow at the bottom of the ocean and sea weed on the mountain peaks than i will cease to love scylla and her alone," glaucus told circe.
the enchantress looked on glaucus and she began to admire him as much as scylla had been frightened by him.
he was really quite a distinguished looking personage, for he had the power to take on human form when he wished, and his trailing robes of green seaweed looked almost kingly.
"i will brew a potion as you wish with my own hands and carry it to scylla," circe told glaucus, but she had decided to work harm on the innocent nymph in order to keep glaucus forever on her island.
circe's potion was mixed of the most poisonous plants which grew on her island.
she blended them with deadly skill and then took her way to the coast of sicily where scylla lived.
there was a little bay on the coast where scylla loved to come in the middle of the day when the sun was high to bathe in the cool waters.
circe poured her poison into the clear blue bay and muttered incantations of mighty power over it.
then she returned to her island.
scylla came that day as usual when the sun was high and plunged into the waters up to her waist.
what was her horror to discover that she was sinking to her shoulders and then to her head.
the waters covered her before anyone heard her frightened calls for help and where she had stepped so happily into the waters which she loved, there were only a few ripples on the surface of the bay and soon even they were gone.
circe's charm had taken effect and the lovable scylla had been carried down to neptune's kingdom, but not as glaucus had desired, for she was without motion or sight or speech.
glaucus, meanwhile, forgot scylla in the enchantment of circe's island and remained in the waters near there, taking human form when he wished and enjoying the luxuries of her palace.
perhaps he might never have remembered that he was a subject of neptune if his attention had not been attracted one day to the wild beasts which prowled about the island.
they were speaking to each other with the voices of men and bewailing the fate by which they had been led there from their ships and brought into circe's power.
glaucus, hearing them, understood what might be in store for him.
he began to hate the powers of the wicked enchantress and the memory came to him of scylla as she had appeared to him on the rock, her hands full of bright shells.
he plunged into the water and was soon a long distance from the fatal island.
glaucus began then to search for scylla through the many leagues of the ocean but he could not find her.
that was because scylla, through the design of circe, had gone down as mortals do and been drowned.
the sea was full of such, and as glaucus wandered about among the gardens of sea anemones and along the shell strewn roads of neptune's kingdom, he felt a new desire in his heart.
he knew how those mortals felt whose loved ones had been taken away from them by the sea, and he began using his power to restore the drowned to life again.
for a thousand years glaucus went up and down through the sea restoring mortals who had loved to each other again.
and in all his following of the tides he was searching for scylla.
after a thousand years had passed and it seemed to the gods that glaucus had expiated the wrong he had done in appealing to circe, he found scylla in the green depths.
and the nymphs say that the two lived always happily together in a coral palace with a sea garden of anemones and green water plants all about it.
the winning of the golden fleece.
jason was having a boat built in which he planned to set sail on a kind of pirate expedition.
he was going as far as the eastern shore of the black sea to try and capture and bring home the golden fleece.
this golden fleece was a prize indeed, for it was a good deal like the magic carpet in a fairy tale.
in very ancient times mercury, the god with the winged shoes, had given the queen of thessaly a ram whose fleece was of pure gold.
there came a time when the queen found it necessary to send her son away from the kingdom for safety as quickly and secretly as possible.
so she sent him on the back of this ram, who leaped into the air, crossed the strait that divides europe and asia, and landed the boy without accident in colchis in the black sea.
ever since then its fleece of gold had hung in a sacred grove of colchis guarded by a dragon who never slept.
it was said that the fleece could carry one through the air as far as he wished to go, and its gold was the finest and purest in the world.
a great many adventurers had equipped expeditions for getting the golden fleece, but so far none of them had been successful.
jason had a different idea about it, however, than any youth of greece who had set out for the fleece before.
he felt that it was his right, in a way, because he was going to be a king if he could bring it home.
jason's uncle, pelias, was the king of a part of thessaly.
because the golden fleece had belonged in thessaly in the first place, pelias had an idea that any king in thessaly who could get it might keep it, and enjoy its magic powers.
but pelias did not want the trouble of going for it.
he was willing to give up his throne to the lad, jason, if he could bring the golden fleece home.
and jason was quite willing to be the head of such a pirate expedition with the promise of this advantage at the end.
jason did not even build his ship, but paid a vast sum of money to have it done for him.
it was a stupendous task in those days to make a boat that would weather a sea voyage.
about the only boats that the greeks had were small ones shaped like canoes and hollowed out from the trunks of trees.
jason had decided to take fifty of his friends with him, and that meant the building of a larger boat than had ever been launched before from thessaly.
a gigantic tree had to be cut down and gouged and shaped by hand.
new looms had to be set working to weave wide enough cloth for the sails.
for months the sound of axes and chisels echoed along the beach, until at last this great boat, the argo, was finished and launched, and jason brought his friends, whom he called the argonauts, to board her.
jason chose his crew well.
they were all fine, well born youths of greece, and everyone of them made a name for himself later on.
hercules was of the argonauts, and there has never been any such strength as his.
there was theseus, who could move rocks and capture robbers single-handed.
there was also orpheus, the son of apollo, who could tame, wild beasts with the beautiful music of his lyre.
nestor, who grew up to be a famous warrior of greece, went with them.
they seated themselves with their leader, jason, in the ship, a whistling breeze filled her sails, and they shot swiftly before the wind toward colchis.
it was a long voyage, but they reached this foreign shore with no serious mishap, leaped onto the bank, and went at once to the king of colchis, demanding from him the golden fleece.
the argonauts thought in the pride of their youth that no one could resist them or refuse them anything, but the king looked serious over the matter.
"you must earn the fleece, jason," he said.
"nothing so valuable can be had for only the asking.
are you brave enough to yoke my bulls to a plough and plant a field full of dragon's teeth?"
jason gasped.
he knew these bulls of colchis by reputation, although it had never occurred to him that he might be called upon to harness and drive them.
they had brazen teeth and breathed fire from their nostrils that consumed whatever it touched.
the sound of their breathing was like the roar of a furnace, and the smoke of their breath was suffocating.
in spite of his fear, though, jason had another thought.
the king had said that the fleece must be earned, that nothing so golden could be had for the asking.
that was really true, jason thought, and he began to feel a great courage.
he was growing into the hero that he always had been at heart, being a youth of greece.
"send out your bulls," he said to the king of colchis.
something happened then that is very apt to happen when anyone makes up his mind to dare a seemingly impossible deed.
help came to jason.
medea, the daughter of the king of colchis, gave jason a charm that protected him from fire.
the bulls rushed into the field toward jason, sending forth their burning breath like dragons, but jason advanced boldly to meet them.
his friends, the argonauts, watched him in terror, but he went straight up to the bulls and his voice seemed to soothe their rage.
he stroked their necks fearlessly, slipped on the yoke and harnessed them to the plough.
dragons' teeth were a strange kind of seed to plant.
as jason ploughed straight furrows and dropped in the teeth, the people of the kingdom and the argonauts gathered at the edge of the field to watch, and it came to his mind that perhaps the king was making a joke of him.
there would have been some sense in having that pair of fiery bulls use their great strength to plough in corn and wheat, jason thought, as he plodded up and down the field.
but suddenly a cry from the crowd startled jason and he looked back.
a strange sight met his eyes.
the clods of earth that covered the teeth of the dragon began to stir, and the bright points of spears thrust their way up through to the surface.
helmets with nodding plumes appeared next, and after them came the shoulders and arms and limbs of men.
in a moment the field was alive with armed warriors advancing upon jason.
he was only one hero against all of this foe, but the sight put the same courage that had come to him into the heart of each one of the argonauts and they rushed to help their leader.
jason led valiantly against the warriors, but there would have been no hope for him and the greeks if his courage had not been rewarded a second time.
medea sent a charmed sword to the hero.
he threw it into the ranks of the warriors and they suddenly ceased attacking the greeks, fell to fighting among themselves, and were destroyed.
there was still another danger for jason to face, the dragon who guarded the fleece with eyes that never closed.
his new courage was equal to it.
he entered the grove that sheltered the golden fleece, took the glittering blanket from the oak tree where it hung, escaped the dragon and embarked with the argonauts for the return trip to greece.
the people proclaimed jason king when he and the rest of these young heroes of greece landed in thessaly.
they chose him for his valor, not for his spoils, and it seemed to add to his new glory that he had started out an adventurer and returned a victor in a great fight.
the strangest part of the story is that no one knows what became of the golden fleece after jason and the argonauts brought it home with them.
no one seems to have ever heard of it again.
perhaps even such a treasure as that was grew dull and lost its value in comparison with the golden prize of courage in achievement that the argonauts found and kept all the rest of their lives.
medea's caldron.
if a boy of to-day could have lived in the days of the ancient greeks, learning by means of self restraint and all the arts of soldiery to be a hero in warfare, it is possible that his captain would have told him a strange story as part of his training.
the boy would have wondered why he had to hear such a grim tale, and what it all meant, for it was one of the myths which rivalled almost all the rest in its hidden meaning.
it was the story of medea, the dark sorceress, and how she worked her art on aeson, the father of jason.
jason brought medea home to thessaly with him at the same time that he brought the fleece of gold whose capture had been his great adventure.
she was the princess who had helped him with her sorcery to brave a fire breathing dragon, but she was ill suited to the court of greece, never having taken any pleasure in the arts that most maidens delighted in, needlework, weaving and the other crafts needful in making a home.
instead medea was wont to flee from the feasts and the games of the court and sit by herself on a cliff beside the sea, her long black hair blowing about her pale face and her lips muttering incantations to the wild accompaniment that the waves sang.
she had a fondness for the hero, jason, though, in her own strange way, and pride in the mighty deeds he had dared.
she heard him speak one day of his greatest wish.
"there is only one thing lacking in my triumph and the homage that the nation is paying me," jason told medea, "i would that my father were able to take part in the rejoicing but he is growing daily more feeble and helpless.
i would willingly give enough years from my life to make him young and strong again."
medea replied nothing in answer to this wish, but to herself she said,
"my power has been mighty in the aid of this hero and i will try it still farther.
if my sorcery avails me anything, the life of jason's father shall be lengthened without the cost of the sacrifice of any of the youth's own years."
so, when the moon was next in the full, medea made her way silently and alone out of the palace when it was the dead of night and all creatures slept.
she moved swiftly along the fields and groves murmuring strange words as she went, and addressing an incantation to the moon and to the stars.
there was a goddess, named hecate, who was supposed to represent the darkness and terror of the night as diana represented its beauties.
at dusk she began her wandering over the earth, seen only by dogs who howled at her approach.
medea followed hecate, imploring her help, and she also called to tellus, that goddess of the earth by whose power those herbs that could be brewed for enchantment were grown.
and medea invoked the aid also of the gods of the woods and caverns, of valleys and mountains, of rivers and lakes, and of the winds and vapors.
as medea took her enchanted way through the night, the stars shone with an unusual brilliancy and presently a chariot, drawn by flying serpents descended to meet her through the air.
medea ascended in it and made her way to distant regions where the most powerful plants grew and brought them back before the day's first light for her uses.
nine nights medea rode away in the chariot of the flying serpents, and in all that time she did not go within the doors of her palace or shelter herself under any roof, or speak to a human being.
hebe was the goddess of youth and one of the cup bearers of the gods.
when medea had gathered the herbs which she needed for her potion, she built a fire in front of a nearby temple to hebe and over the fire she hung a very wide and deep caldron.
in this caldron she mixed the herbs with seeds and flowers that gave out a bitter juice, stones from the far distant east, and sands from the encircling shore of the ocean.
there were other ingredients, also, in this brew; a screech owl's head and wings, hoar frost gathered by moonlight, fragments of the shells of tortoises who of all creatures are the most long lived, and the head and beak of a crow, the birds that outlives nine generations of men.
medea boiled all these ingredients together to get them ready for the deed she proposed to do, stirring them with a dried branch from an olive tree.
and, strange to say, the branch did not burn, but when the sorceress lifted it out it instantly turned as green as it had been in the spring, and in a short time it was covered with leaves and a luxuriant growth of olives.
the potion in the caldron bubbled and simmered and sometimes rose so high as it boiled that it spilled over the edge and down on the ground.
but wherever the drops touched the earth, new green grass shot up and there were flowers as bright and fragrant as the most prized blossoms of the may.
the sorceress wished to further test her brew, though, and she put an old sheep, one of the most ancient of the flock, in the seething potion.
instead of being cooked, the creature was quite unhurt and when medea removed the cover, a little new lamb, soft and white, jumped out and ran frisking away to the meadow.
so medea knew that her spell was ready and she commanded that jason bring his aged father, aeson, to her.
"i would like to know him," she explained, "and hear from his lips of the deeds you did in your youth."
then jason, all unsuspecting, sent for his father and conducted him to the spot near the temple of hebe where medea waited.
and as soon as she saw aeson, medea threw him into a deep sleep by means of a charm and placed him on a bed of herbs where he lay with no apparent breath or life in him.
"wicked sorceress, you have killed my father whom i so greatly loved,"
jason cried.
then, even as he spoke, medea advanced toward the old man and wounded him deeply, so that all his blood poured out.
after this she dipped into her caldron and poured the charmed brew into aeson's mouth and bathed his wound with it.
as soon as he had imbibed it and felt its wonderful power, aeson's hair and beard lost their whiteness and became as black as they had been in his youth.
his paleness and emaciation disappeared, for his veins were full of new blood and his limbs were vigorous and robust.
aeson was amazed at himself as he ran toward jason, for he was as he remembered himself to have been two score years before.
the sorceress medea had made his years drop away from him.
it would be very pleasant to end this story by saying that medea always used her art for a good purpose as she did in this case, but that was not what happened.
she did all manner of things that were wrong, such as riding her serpent-drawn chariot in the pursuit of revenge, sending a poisoned dress to a bride, and setting fire to a palace.
what a strange, unusual kind of a story is this one of medea!
what did it mean to the young greeks who heard it?
it meant for them just what it means for us to-day.
medea and her caldron signified those times of cruel war and change that come to every nation.
they may result in evil.
but sometimes, when the world has become old and feeble, it may be made young and strong again through bitter pains, as aeson was made young through medea's caldron of such bitter brewing.
how a golden apple caused a war.
no one, as far as could be found out, had invited eris to the party.
indeed everyone would have desired to keep her away, for it was a very great wedding feast attended by both the immortals and men, and eris was the goddess of discontent.
there was a beautiful nymph of the sea named thetis whom even jupiter had looked upon with favor, and she was given in marriage to a mortal, peleus.
the gathering was being held on mount olympus and just when the merrymaking was at its height and ganymede, that comely trojan youth whom jupiter in the guise of an eagle had borne away to be the cupbearer of the gods, was offering his nectar to all, a golden apple fell in their midst.
it was very large and shone and glittered as if it had been made from skin to core of precious gold.
even the gods scrambled to grasp it, and for a moment they did not see who had thrown it.
as jupiter held the apple, though, and read an inscription on its cheek, "for the fairest,"
the guests had a flying vision of discord, riding away in her dark chariot from the feast she had chosen to make bitter.
for that apple was to be the beginning of a war so long and so terrible that there had never been any other to equal it through all the centuries.
at once the goddesses began to quarrel among themselves as to which was fair enough to merit the gilded fruit.
juno, being the queen of the gods, demanded the golden apple as only her just due, and minerva wanted it in addition to her treasure of wisdom.
they appealed to the mighty jupiter, but neither he or any of the other gods dared to decide this question and so a judge had to be found among the mortals upon earth.
near the city of troy, on a high mountain named ida, there lived a young shepherd, paris.
no one but the gods knew the secret of paris' royal birth.
he had been left on mount ida when he was only a child because it had been told to his parents in prophecy that he would be the destruction of the kingdom and the ruin of his family.
so paris, all unknowing that he was a prince, had grown up among his flocks, as good to look upon as a young god and greatly beloved by all the hamadryads and nymphs of the woods and streams.
it was at last decided that the shepherd paris should be the judge as to which of the three goddesses, juno, minerva or venus merited the apple of gold, and they descended in clouds of glory to mount ida and stood before him for his judgment.
they seemed to have forgotten their heavenly birth in their jealousy, for each offered the young shepherd a bribe if he would declare her the most fair.
juno offered paris great wealth and one of the kingdoms of the earth.
minerva said that she would grant paris as her boon a share of her wisdom and invincible power in war.
but venus, her unmatched beauty dazzling the youth as the bright rays of the noontide sun, and wearing her enchanted girdle, a spell that no one had ever been able to resist, laid her hand that was as light as sea-foam on paris' fast beating heart.
"i will give you the loveliest woman in the world to be your wife," she said.
at venus' words, paris pronounced his judgment, which has never been forgotten through all the ages, ringing from singer to singer and from nation to nation in the great strife which it started.
he put the apple of gold into the outstretched hands of venus, not noticing that the cloud which carried the angry juno and minerva back to the sky was as black as when jupiter was preparing to throw his thunderbolts.
paris saw little after that except his own desires and ambitions, and venus began at once feeding his vanity.
she told him of his royal birth.
he was the son of king priam of troy.
so paris set out for his father's kingdom to find his fortune, and his flocks never saw him again.
just at that time king priam declared a contest of wrestling among the princes of his court and those of the neighboring kingdoms.
on his way to troy, paris heard of this, and he also saw the prize being led toward troy by one of the king's herdsmen.
it was the finest bull to be found on all the grazing plains of mount ida, and paris decided to enter the contest and see if he could not win it for himself.
so paris presented himself to the court at troy and wrestled in the sight of the king and his brothers and his sister, cassandra, who did not know him.
and he threw all his opponents, and was proclaimed the victor.
he was greeted with joy, as king priam recognized him, and was crowned with laurel.
only cassandra, that sorrowful princess to whom the gods had given the fatal power of seeing coming events, wept as paris was welcomed at the throne of his father.
for cassandra saw paris as the destruction of troy, and her gift of prophecy was her sadness, because she was doomed never to be believed.
then venus told paris to demand a ship of king priam and set sail for sparta, in greece, that her promise to him might be fulfilled.
paris set out, a wondrous appearing youth and a glorious victor, and he was well received by king menelaus and his fair wife, helen.
if venus' beauty cast a spell among the gods, so did the loveliness of helen blind the eyes of men to everything save her lovely face.
there was a story told that helen was the child of an enchanted swan and that this was the reason for the enchantment which she wrought in the hearts of the heroes.
all the great princes of greece had sued for helen's hand, and when she left her home to be the wife of menelaus, her father made the heroes bind themselves by oath to go to the aid of menelaus if it should chance that she was ever stolen away from him.
helen's father was fearful for her peace, because of the perilous gift of charm which was hers.
in all of greece, and indeed in the entire world there was nothing so beautiful as helen's fair face.
for a long time paris remained at the court of sparta treated with a courtesy and respect which he did not deserve, because during all that time venus was enchanting helen until she was able to think of no one save the comely youth, paris.
after awhile king menelaus was obliged to take a long journey and in his absence paris persuaded helen to forsake sparta and set sail with him for troy.
when these two were discovered in their treachery, the heroes were fired with anger and remembered their pledge to go to king menelaus' aid if any deep wrong was done to him.
their wrath was not so much directed against helen, whom they believed to be under the dread spell which venus had cast upon her, as against paris who had so violated their hospitality.
it was decided that preparations for war must be immediately begun and men were pressed into service everywhere gathering supplies and building ships.
agamemnon, who was a brother of king menelaus and mighty in battle, was appointed to be the leader of the greek army, and then began the work of finding the best men to help him in carrying on the great enterprise that was to be directed against troy.
the heroes were as true and of as high courage then as they are to-day, but the adventure of the war was to be directed against a foreign shore and certain of the greeks found that it tore their hearts to leave their own country, and in the cause of a wilful youth and a fair woman.
one among these was ulysses, the king of ithaca.
ulysses was content and happy in his peaceful kingdom and the love of his industrious queen, penelope, and his baby son, telemachus.
we must not commit ulysses to the sin of cowardice because he did not want to enlist for the trojan war.
there have been heroes like him in all time, destined to be the greatest warriors of all, when they overcame their fears and took swords in their hands in the cause of right.
but at first ulysses pretended that he had lost his reason.
he borrowed a plough from a farmer and drove it up and down the seashore, sowing salt in the furrows that he made.
ulysses was pursuing this mad occupation when a messenger of agamemnon came to demand his services in the army of the greeks.
the messenger could not believe his eyes, and to test ulysses he grasped the king's little son and laid him on the sand in the direct path of the plough-share.
ulysses dropped the plough handles and lifted the baby telemachus to his heart, so his game of madness was over.
he bade his kingdom and penelope farewell, and set out to join the heroes.
he was to be one of the bravest of them all, and doomed not to see his own land again for twenty years.
there was also a hero, a wonder of strength, who was detained from the war because of the very great love that his mother had for him.
this was achilles, who was destined to be the noblest hero of greece in the contest with the trojans.
when he was a baby, achilles' mother had taken him to the river styx and, holding him by one little heel, had plunged him in its sacred waters.
this made him safe from any harm that might come to him in battle, although she forgot the heel which she had covered with her hand.
then the mother of achilles sent him to friends in a far kingdom in the dress of a girl and he was brought up there among women so that he could not be called to arms.
at this time, when the greeks were polishing their shields and fastening on their swords for the advance upon troy, news of achilles' cowardly hiding came to ulysses.
he who had overcome his own fear could not bear to have any other hero fall a victim of cowardice.
so ulysses disguised himself as a vendor of fine wares, scents and embroidered silks, carved ivory ornaments and jewels, and he went to the kingdom where achilles, now a youth, sojourned in the disguise of a maiden.
the women of the court seized with the greatest delight the fine fabrics and necklaces from ulysses' store, but achilles delved in the packet of goods until his eyes lighted upon some strange and beautifully wrought weapons which ulysses had brought also.
these alone pleased him.
so the destiny of achilles was disclosed and he put on armor and went with ulysses to join the army.
in the meantime king priam had welcomed the erring paris and helen, so great was the charm that her fair face wrought everywhere, and had given them the shelter of his court.
it was a sore trial to the heroes of troy that this should have happened, for they were as bold and upright men in their way as the greeks were, and had not deserved this shame that had come upon them.
but they, too, were banded together to protect their king and so they made all the needful preparations to meet the forces of the enemy when the greeks should cross the sea.
since this great war had begun in the jealousy of the gods, the gods themselves took part in the struggle.
neptune carried the ships of the greeks safely over to the plains of troy where ulysses accompanied king menelaus into the city to demand the return of helen.
when king priam refused, venus endeavored to keep helen in her power and she enlisted mars on the side of the trojans.
juno favored the greeks, as did also minerva, the goddess of just warfare, and apollo and jupiter watched over the fate of those of the heroes whom they loved, no matter on which side they fought.
so the trojan war began, but how it ended is a story of a strange horse made all of wood.
how a wooden horse won a city.
ten years the siege of troy lasted, that mighty struggle that had been kindled by the flame of jealousy of gods and men, and ten years the trojans resisted the greeks.
on both sides the brave fell in battle and the plain outside of the city of troy became a waste place, full of dread and death.
the hero achilles, while offering up a sacrifice in the temple of apollo, was treacherously slain by a poisoned arrow from paris' bow that pierced his heel.
the greeks made use of the arrows of hercules in their struggle, but even these proved useless against the strong fortifications of the trojans.
there was a statue of minerva in the city of troy called the palladium.
it was said to have fallen from heaven and that as long as it remained in the city troy could not be taken.
so the hero, ulysses, with a few men, entered troy in disguise and captured this statute at the risk of their lives, carrying it back to the camp of the greeks, but troy still held out and the tenth year of the war drew near a close full of wretchedness and famine.
it seemed as if the spell of helen's beauty, as she leaned from one of the towers of king priam's castle to cheer the trojans or descended to pass among their ranks, was their safety.
no one, looking on her fair face, remembered hardship or felt fear, although the fated cassandra wept alone, and was deemed mad because she saw, in her prophetic vision, the fall of the strong battlements of troy.
at last the greeks despaired of ever subduing troy by force and they asked ulysses if any plan occurred to him by which they could subdue the trojans through strategy.
ulysses unfolded a plan to the generals, and what it was and how it succeeded is one of the strangest stories of all warfare.
acting upon his advice, the greeks made preparation to abandon the war.
their ships that had waited with folded sails in the harbor, now drew anchor and sailed swiftly away, taking refuge behind a neighboring island.
and the trojans, seeing the encampment before their walls broken for the first time in so many years, and the plain that the enemy's tents had whitened clear, broke into joy and merrymaking such as they had not known for so long.
they forgot caution and opened the gates through which the men and women and children flocked out to the plain to make merry and exult over the defeat of the greeks.
there they saw an astounding thing.
in the centre of the plain stood a great wooden image of a horse, like an idol, more prodigious than any which the trojans had ever seen.
it was so closely fitted and carved from its mammoth hoofs to its head that no one could detect the joining.
a hundred men could have ridden the horse with room for more, but they would never have been able to climb up to its back.
at first the people of troy, gathering around the wooden horse, were afraid of it.
then they made up their minds about it.
"this is a trophy of war!"
they exclaimed, and they were for moving it into the city to exhibit in the public square as a sign of their victory over the greeks.
there was among them, though, a man named laocoon, a priest of neptune, who objected to this plan.
"beware, men of troy!"
laocoon warned them.
"you have fought for ten years with the greeks and know that they do not give up a fight as easily as this.
how do you know but that this is a piece of trickery on the part of their dauntless leader, ulysses?
i fear the greeks, even when they bring us gifts."
as laocoon uttered these prophetic words, he threw his lance at the side of the wooden horse and it rebounded with a hollow sound.
at that, perhaps the trojans might have taken his advice and destroyed the horse there where it stood, but suddenly a man, who appeared to be a prisoner and a greek, was dragged out from the crowd.
he said that he was a greek, sinon by name, who had brought upon himself the malice of ulysses and so had been left behind by the greeks.
he feigned terror, and the trojans, falling into the trap, reassured sinon, the spy, and told him that his life would be spared if he would disclose to the chiefs of troy the secret of the wooden horse.
"it is an offering to minerva," sinon explained.
"the greeks made it so huge in order that you would never be able to carry it inside the gates of troy."
sinon's words turned the tides of the people's feelings.
they were just planning how they might best start the work of moving the giant horse when something happened which completely reassured them.
two immense serpents appeared advancing directly toward them over the sea.
side by side they moved toward the shore, their great heads erect, their burning eyes full of blood and fire and licking their hissing mouths with their quivering tongues.
and these serpents came directly to the spot where laocoon stood with his two sons.
they attacked the boys first, winding round their bodies and breathing their poisonous breath into their faces.
laocoon, trying to rescue his sons, was drawn into the serpent's coils and all three were strangled.
then the creatures moved on, threatening to glide into the city of troy.
"it is an omen of the displeasure of the gods with us for having even doubted the sacred character of the wooden horse," the trojans said.
"laocoon has been punished for his lack of reverence in despising it."
so they gave themselves up again to wild joy and reckless merrymaking.
they wreathed the horse with garlands of flowers and dragged it, all lending a hand, across the plain and close to the gates of the city so that they could widen them in the morning and push it through; and they went home with great shouts like those of a victoriously returning army.
that night a door, cunningly set and concealed in the side of the wooden horse, was opened by sinon, the spy.
out of the door came the hero ulysses, king menelaus, and a band of picked greek generals, for the greeks had made the wooden horse hollow so that a hundred men might be hidden inside for a long time with their arms and provisions and come to no harm.
these men opened the gates of troy, a city sunk in darkness and sleep, and through the gates went the grecian army which had returned in the ships and crossed the plain silently in the cover of the night.
so the prophecy of laocoon and of the sad cassandra was proved true, for there was not a trojan on guard.
king priam and his noblest warriors were killed, cassandra was taken captive, and the city was set on fire with torches and burned to the ground.
then the greeks set sail for their own country which they had not seen for so many years, and they took the beautiful helen with them, awakened at last from the spell which venus had cast upon her, and sorrowing for all the suffering she had caused.
but the glory of the old trojan days was gone forever.
men search to-day the ruins of ancient troy that lie hidden like bright jewels in the depths of the ancient mountains.
there is little left but the memory of the apple of discord that caused the destruction of the city and the heroes and the citadel of troy's old power.
the cyclops.
the hero ulysses was about to sail home to greece, after the great city of troy had been taken, having wandered farthest and suffered most of all in the long trojan war.
he was well-nigh the last to sail, for he had tarried many days to do homage to agamemnon, lord of all the greeks.
twelve ships he had with him, twelve that he had brought to troy, and in each there were some fifty men, being scarce half of those that had sailed with them in the old days, so many valiant heroes slept the last sleep on the plain and on the seashore, slain in battle or by the shafts of apollo.
so first ulysses sailed to the thracian coast where he and his men filled their ships with foodstuffs and oxen and jars of fragrant juices of the grape.
scarcely had he set out again when the wind began to blow fiercely, and seeing a smooth sandy beach, they drove the ships to shore, dragged them out of reach of the waves, and waited there until the storm should abate.
and the third morning, being fair, they sailed again, and journeyed prosperously.
on the tenth day they came to the land where the lotus grows, a wonderful fruit which whoever eats cares not to see country, home, or children again.
now the lotus eaters, for so they call the people of the land, were a kindly folk and gave of the fruit to some of the sailors, not meaning any harm, but thinking it to be the best that they had to give.
these men, when they had eaten, said that they would not sail any more over the sea.
which when the wise ulysses heard, he bade their comrades bind them and carry them, sadly complaining, to the ships.
then, the wind having abated, they took to their oars and rowed for many days until they came to the country where the cyclops lived.
a mile or so from the shore there was an island, very fair and fertile, but no man dwelled there or tilled the soil, and in the island there was a harbor where a ship might be safe from all winds and at the head of the harbor was a stream falling from the rock with whispering alders all about it.
into this the ships passed safely and were hauled upon the beach and the crews slept by them, waiting for morning.
but in the morning ulysses, who was always fond of adventure and would know of every land to which he came what manner of men it sheltered, took one of his twelve ships and bade the sailors row to land.
there was a great hill sloping to the shore, and there rose up, here and there, a smoke from the caves where the cyclopes lived apart, holding no converse with men.
they were a rude and savage folk, each ruling his own household without taking thought of his neighbor.
very close to the shore was one of these caves, very huge and deep, with a hedge of laurel hiding the opening and a wall of rough stone shaded by tall oaks and pines.
ulysses selected the twelve bravest men from his crew and bade the rest remain behind to guard the ship while he went to see what manner of dwelling it was and who abode there.
he had his sword by his side and on his shoulder a mighty skin of the juice of grapes, sweet smelling and strong, with which he might win the heart of some fierce savage, should he chance to meet such.
so they entered the cave, and judged that it was the dwelling of some rich and skilful shepherd, for within there were pens for young sheep and goats, divided according to their age, and there were baskets full of cheeses, and full milk pails ranged along the wall.
but the cyclops, himself, was away in the pastures.
then the companions of ulysses besought him to depart, but he would not, for he wished to see what manner of host this strange shepherd might be.
and truly he saw to his cost!
it was evening when the cyclops came home, a mighty giant, twenty feet or more tall.
he carried a vast bundle of pine logs on his back for his fire, and threw them down outside the cave with a great crash.
he drove the flocks inside and closed the entrance with a huge rock which twenty wagons and more could not have borne.
then he milked the ewes and goats, and half of the milk he curdled for cheese and half he set ready for himself when he should be hungry.
last, he kindled a fire with the pine logs and the flame lighted up all the cave, showing him ulysses and his comrades.
"who are you?"
cried the cyclops.
"are you traders, or pirates?"
"we are no pirates, mighty sir, but greeks, sailing back from troy.
and we beg hospitality of you in the name of jupiter who rewards or punishes the host according as he is hospitable or not."
"then," said the giant, "it is idle to talk to me of jupiter and the gods.
we cyclops take no account of gods, holding ourselves to be much better and stronger than they."
without more ado, he caught up two of the men, and devoured them with huge draughts of milk between, leaving not even a morsel or one of their bones.
and when the giant had ended his meal, he lay down among his sheep and fell asleep.
ulysses would have liked to slay the cyclops where he lay, but he remembered that, were he to do this, his comrades would perish miserably.
how could he move away the great rock that lay against the door of the cave?
so they waited until morning.
and the monster rose, seized two more men and devoured them for his meal.
then he went to the pastures, but put a great rock on the mouth of the cave just as a man puts down the lid on his quiver of arrows.
all that day the wise ulysses was thinking what he might best do to save himself and his companions, and the end of his thinking was this.
there was a mighty pole in the cave, green wood of an olive tree as big as a ship's mast, which the giant proposed to use as a walking staff.
ulysses broke off a fathom's length of this and his companions pointed it and hardened it in the fire.
then they hid it away.
at evening the giant came back, drove his flocks into the cave, fastened the door and made his cruel feast as before.
then ulysses came forward with the skin of crushed grapes in his hand and said:
"drink, cyclops, now that you have feasted.
drink and see what a strange draught we had in our ship."
so the cyclops drank, and was greatly pleased.
"give me more," he demanded.
"in good truth this is a strange draught.
we, too, have vines but they do not yield any juices like this, which indeed must be such as the gods drink."
then ulysses gave him the skin again and he drank from it.
three times he gave it to him and three times the giant drank, not knowing how it would work on his brain.
at last he fell into a deep slumber.
ulysses told his men to be of good courage for the time of their deliverance was come.
they thrust the olive stick into the fire until, green as it was, it was ready to burst into flame and they thrust it into the monster's eye, for he had but one eye set in the middle of his great forehead, and made him sightless.
then the cyclops leaped up and bore away the stake and cried aloud so that all the cyclopes who lived on the mountain side heard him and came down, crowding about the entrance to his cave.
the cyclops rolled away the great stone from the door of the cave and came out in the midst of the other giants stretching out his hands to try and gather his sheep together.
and ulysses wondered how he and his men would be able to escape.
at last he lighted on a good device.
the cyclops had driven the rams with the other ship into the cave and they were huge and strong.
ulysses fastened his comrades underneath the rams, tying them with osier twigs of which the giant made his bed.
there was one mighty ram, far larger than all the others, and to this ulysses clung, grasping the fleece tight with both hands.
so they waited in the recesses of the cave for morning.
and when the morning came, the rams rushed out to pasture as the giant sat in the door, feeling the back of each as it went by, but never touching the man who was bound underneath each.
with them ulysses escaped.
when they were out of reach of the giant, ulysses loosed his hold of the rams and then unbound his comrades.
they hastened to their ship, climbed in, and smote the sea with their oars, laying to right lustily that they might the sooner escape from this accursed land.
but when they had rowed a hundred yards or so, the cyclops heard them.
he broke off the top of a great hill, a mighty rock, and hurled it where he heard the sound of the oars.
it fell right in front of the ship's bow and washed the ship back to the shore again.
but ulysses seized a long pole with both hands and pushed the ship from the land and bade his comrades ply their oars softly, nodding with his head, for he was too wise to speak, lest the cyclops should know where they were.
then they rowed with all their might and main.
they had gone twice as far as before, when ulysses' pride became so great that he could no longer contain himself.
he stood up in the boat and called out.
"hear, cyclops.
if any man asks who destroyed your power for evil, say it was the warrior ulysses, dwelling in ithaca."
the giant heard and he lifted up his hands and spoke to neptune, the god of the sea, who was the father of the cyclopes.
"hear me, neptune, if i am indeed your son and you are my father.
may this ulysses never reach his home; or, if the fates have ordered that he shall reach it, may he come alone, with all his comrades lost."
and as the cyclops ended this wicked prayer, he hurled another mighty rock which almost lighted on the rudder's end, yet missed it as if by a hair's breadth.
so ulysses escaped and all his comrades with him, and they came to the island of the wild goats where they found the rest of their men who had waited long for them in sore fear lest they had perished.
and they went home in triumph to greece.
the best american humorous short stories
the little frenchman and his water lots
look into those they call unfortunate,   and, closer view'd, you'll find they are unwise.
young.
let wealth come in by comely thrift,   and not by any foolish shift:
‘tis haste         makes waste:
who gripes too hard the dry and slippery sand   holds none at all, or little, in his hand.
herrick.
let well alone.
proverb.
how much real comfort every one might enjoy if he would be contented with the lot in which heaven has cast him, and how much trouble would be avoided if people would only "let well alone."
a moderate independence, quietly and honestly procured, is certainly every way preferable even to immense possessions achieved by the wear and tear of mind and body so necessary to procure them.
yet there are very few individuals, let them be doing ever so well in the world, who are not always straining every nerve to do better; and this is one of the many causes why failures in business so frequently occur among us.
the present generation seem unwilling to "realize" by slow and sure degrees; but choose rather to set their whole hopes upon a single cast, which either makes or mars them forever!
gentle reader, do you remember monsieur poopoo?
he used to keep a small toy-store in chatham, near the corner of pearl street.
you must recollect him, of course.
he lived there for many years, and was one of the most polite and accommodating of shopkeepers.
when a juvenile, you have bought tops and marbles of him a thousand times.
to be sure you have; and seen his vinegar-visage lighted up with a smile as you flung him the coppers; and you have laughed at his little straight queue and his dimity breeches, and all the other oddities that made up the every-day apparel of my little frenchman.
ah, i perceive you recollect him now.
well, then, there lived monsieur poopoo ever since he came from "dear, delightful paris," as he was wont to call the city of his nativity there he took in the pennies for his kickshaws there he laid aside five thousand dollars against a rainy day there he was as happy as a lark and there, in all human probability, he would have been to this very day, a respected and substantial citizen, had he been willing to "let well alone."
but monsieur poopoo had heard strange stories about the prodigious rise in real estate; and, having understood that most of his neighbors had become suddenly rich by speculating in lots, he instantly grew dissatisfied with his own lot, forthwith determined to shut up shop, turn everything into cash, and set about making money in right-down earnest.
no sooner said than done; and our quondam storekeeper a few days afterward attended an extensive sale of real estate, at the merchants' exchange.
there was the auctioneer, with his beautiful and inviting lithographic maps all the lots as smooth and square and enticingly laid out as possible and there were the speculators and there, in the midst of them, stood monsieur poopoo.
"here they are, gentlemen," said he of the hammer, "the most valuable lots ever offered for sale.
give me a bid for them!"
"one hundred each," said a bystander.
"one hundred!"
said the auctioneer, "scarcely enough to pay for the maps.
one hundred going and fifty gone!
mr. h., they are yours.
a noble purchase.
you'll sell those same lots in less than a fortnight for fifty thousand dollars profit!"
monsieur poopoo pricked up his ears at this, and was lost in astonishment.
this was a much easier way certainly of accumulating riches than selling toys in chatham street, and he determined to buy and mend his fortune without delay.
the auctioneer proceeded in his sale.
other parcels were offered and disposed of, and all the purchasers were promised immense advantages for their enterprise.
at last came a more valuable parcel than all the rest.
the company pressed around the stand, and monsieur poopoo did the same.
"i now offer you, gentlemen, these magnificent lots, delightfully situated on long island, with valuable water privileges.
property in fee title indisputable terms of sale, cash deeds ready for delivery immediately after the sale.
how much for them?
give them a start at something.
how much?"
the auctioneer looked around; there were no bidders.
at last he caught the eye of monsieur poopoo.
"did you say one hundred, sir?
beautiful lots valuable water privileges shall i say one hundred for you?"
"oui, monsieur; i will give you von hundred dollar apiece, for de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege; c'est ça."
"only one hundred apiece for these sixty valuable lots only one hundred going going going gone!"
monsieur poopoo was the fortunate possessor.
the auctioneer congratulated him the sale closed and the company dispersed.
"pardonnez-moi, monsieur," said poopoo, as the auctioneer descended his pedestal, "you shall excusez-moi, if i shall go to votre bureau, your counting-house, ver quick to make every ting sure wid respec to de lot vid de valuarble vatare privalege.
von leetle bird in de hand he vorth two in de tree, c'est vrai eh?"
"certainly, sir."
"vell den, allons."
and the gentlemen repaired to the counting-house, where the six thousand dollars were paid, and the deeds of the property delivered.
monsieur poopoo put these carefully in his pocket, and as he was about taking his leave, the auctioneer made him a present of the lithographic outline of the lots, which was a very liberal thing on his part, considering the map was a beautiful specimen of that glorious art.
poopoo could not admire it sufficiently.
there were his sixty lots, as uniform as possible, and his little gray eyes sparkled like diamonds as they wandered from one end of the spacious sheet to the other.
poopoo's heart was as light as a feather, and he snapped his fingers in the very wantonness of joy as he repaired to delmonico's, and ordered the first good french dinner that had gladdened his palate since his arrival in america.
after having discussed his repast, and washed it down with a bottle of choice old claret, he resolved upon a visit to long island to view his purchase.
he consequently immediately hired a horse and gig, crossed the brooklyn ferry, and drove along the margin of the river to the wallabout, the location in question.
our friend, however, was not a little perplexed to find his property.
everything on the map was as fair and even as possible, while all the grounds about him were as undulated as they could well be imagined, and there was an elbow of the east river thrusting itself quite into the ribs of the land, which seemed to have no business there.
this puzzled the frenchman exceedingly; and, being a stranger in those parts, he called to a farmer in an adjacent field.
"mon ami, are you acquaint vid dis part of de country eh?"
"yes, i was born here, and know every inch of it."
"ah, c'est bien, dat vill do," and the frenchman got out of the gig, tied the horse, and produced his lithographic map.
"den maybe you vill have de kindness to show me de sixty lot vich i have bought, vid de valuarble vatare privalege?"
the farmer glanced his eye over the paper.
"yes, sir, with pleasure; if you will be good enough to get into my boat, i will row you out to them!"
"vat dat you say, sure?"
"my friend," said the farmer, "this section of long island has recently been bought up by the speculators of new york, and laid out for a great city; but the principal street is only visible at low tide.
when this part of the east river is filled up, it will be just there.
your lots, as you will perceive, are beyond it; and are now all under water."
at first the frenchman was incredulous.
he could not believe his senses.
as the facts, however, gradually broke upon him, he shut one eye, squinted obliquely at the heavens -the river the farmer and then he turned away and squinted at them all over again!
there was his purchase sure enough; but then it could not be perceived for there was a river flowing over it!
he drew a box from his waistcoat pocket, opened it, with an emphatic knock upon the lid, took a pinch of snuff and restored it to his waistcoat pocket as before.
poopoo was evidently in trouble, having "thoughts which often lie too deep for tears"; and, as his grief was also too big for words, he untied his horse, jumped into his gig, and returned to the auctioneer in hot haste.
it was near night when he arrived at the auction-room his horse in a foam and himself in a fury.
the auctioneer was leaning back in his chair, with his legs stuck out of a low window, quietly smoking a cigar after the labors of the day, and humming the music from the last new opera.
"monsieur, i have much plaisir to fin' you, chez vous, at home."
"ah, poopoo!
glad to see you.
take a seat, old boy."
"but i shall not take de seat, sare."
"no why, what's the matter?"
"oh, beaucoup de matter.
i have been to see de gran lot vot you sell me to-day."
"well, sir, i hope you like your purchase?"
"no, monsieur, i no like him."
"i'm sorry for it; but there is no ground for your complaint."
"no, sare; dare is no ground at all de ground is all vatare!"
"you joke!"
"i no joke.
i nevare joke; je n'entends pas la raillerie, sare, voulez-vous have de kindness to give me back de money vot i pay!"
"certainly not."
"den vill you be so good as to take de east river off de top of my lot?"
"that's your business, sir, not mine."
"den i make von mauvaise affaire von gran mistake!"
"i hope not.
i don't think you have thrown your money away in the land."
"no, sare; but i tro it avay in de vatare!"
"that's not my fault."
"yes, sare, but it is your fault.
you're von ver gran rascal to swindle me out of de l'argent."
"hello, old poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can't keep a civil tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room."
"vare shall i go to, eh?"
"to the devil, for aught i care, you foolish old frenchman!"
said the auctioneer, waxing warm.
"but, sare, i vill not go to de devil to oblige you!"
replied the frenchman, waxing warmer.
"you sheat me out of all de dollar vot i make in shatham street; but i vill not go to de devil for all dat.
i vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and i vill go and drown myself, tout de suite, right avay."
"you couldn't make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!"
"ah, miséricorde!
ah, mon dieu, je suis abîmé.
i am ruin!
i am done up!
i am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces!
i am von lame duck, and i shall vaddle across de gran ocean for paris, vish is de only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me à present!"
poor poopoo was as good as his word.
he sailed in the next packet, and arrived in paris almost as penniless as the day he left it.
should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances here recorded, let him cross the east river to the wallabout, and farmer j   will row him out to the very place where the poor frenchman's lots still remain under water.
the angel of the odd
[from the columbian magazine, october, 1844.]
by edgar allan poe (1809-1849)
it was a chilly november afternoon.
i had just consummated an unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic truffe formed not the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room with my feet upon the fender and at my elbow a small table which i had rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies for dessert, with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and liqueur.
in the morning i had been reading glover's leonidas, wilkie's epigoniad, lamartine's pilgrimage, barlow's columbiad, tuckerman's sicily, and griswold's curiosities, i am willing to confess, therefore, that i now felt a little stupid.
i made effort to arouse myself by frequent aid of lafitte, and all failing, i betook myself to a stray newspaper in despair.
having carefully perused the column of "houses to let,"
and the column of "dogs lost," and then the columns of "wives and apprentices runaway," i attacked with great resolution the editorial matter, and reading it from beginning to end without understanding a syllable, conceived the possibility of its being chinese, and so re-read it from the end to the beginning, but with no more satisfactory result.
i was about throwing away in disgust
this folio of four pages, happy work   which not even critics criticise,
when i felt my attention somewhat aroused by the paragraph which follows:
"the avenues to death are numerous and strange.
a london paper mentions the decease of a person from a singular cause.
he was playing at 'puff the dart,' which is played with a long needle inserted in some worsted, and blown at a target through a tin tube.
he placed the needle at the wrong end of the tube, and drawing his breath strongly to puff the dart forward with force, drew the needle into his throat.
it entered the lungs, and in a few days killed him."
upon seeing this i fell into a great rage, without exactly knowing why.
"this thing," i exclaimed, "is a contemptible falsehood a poor hoax the lees of the invention of some pitiable penny-a-liner, of some wretched concocter of accidents in cocaigne.
these fellows knowing the extravagant gullibility of the age set their wits to work in the imagination of improbable possibilities, of odd accidents as they term them, but to a reflecting intellect (like mine, i added, in parenthesis, putting my forefinger unconsciously to the side of my nose), to a contemplative understanding such as i myself possess, it seems evident at once that the marvelous increase of late in these 'odd accidents' is by far the oddest accident of all.
for my own part, i intend to believe nothing henceforward that has anything of the 'singular' about it."
"mein gott, den, vat a vool you bees for dat!"
replied one of the most remarkable voices i ever heard.
at first i took it for a rumbling in my ears such as a man sometimes experiences when getting very drunk but upon second thought, i considered the sound as more nearly resembling that which proceeds from an empty barrel beaten with a big stick; and, in fact, this i should have concluded it to be, but for the articulation of the syllables and words.
i am by no means naturally nervous, and the very few glasses of lafitte which i had sipped served to embolden me a little, so that i felt nothing of trepidation, but merely uplifted my eyes with a leisurely movement and looked carefully around the room for the intruder.
i could not, however, perceive any one at all.
"humph!"
resumed the voice as i continued my survey, "you mus pe so dronk as de pig den for not zee me as i zit here at your zide."
hereupon i bethought me of looking immediately before my nose, and there, sure enough, confronting me at the table sat a personage nondescript, although not altogether indescribable.
his body was a wine-pipe or a rum puncheon, or something of that character, and had a truly falstaffian air.
in its nether extremity were inserted two kegs, which seemed to answer all the purposes of legs.
for arms there dangled from the upper portion of the carcass two tolerably long bottles with the necks outward for hands.
all the head that i saw the monster possessed of was one of those hessian canteens which resemble a large snuff-box with a hole in the middle of the lid.
this canteen (with a funnel on its top like a cavalier cap slouched over the eyes)
was set on edge upon the puncheon, with the hole toward myself; and through this hole, which seemed puckered up like the mouth of a very precise old maid, the creature was emitting certain rumbling and grumbling noises which he evidently intended for intelligible talk.
"i zay," said he, "you mos pe dronk as de pig, vor zit dare and not zee me zit ere; and i zay, doo, you mos pe pigger vool as de goose, vor to dispelief vat iz print in de print.
'tiz de troof dat it iz ebery vord ob it."
"who are you, pray?"
said i with much dignity, although somewhat puzzled; "how did you get here?
and what is it you are talking about?"
"as vor ow i com'd ere," replied the figure, "dat iz none of your pizziness; and as vor vat i be talking apout, i be talk apout vat i tink proper; and as vor who i be, vy dat is de very ting i com'd here for to let you zee for yourself."
"you are a drunken vagabond," said i, "and i shall ring the bell and order my footman to kick you into the street."
"he!
he!
he!"
said the fellow, "hu!
hu!
hu!
dat you can't do."
"can't do!"
said i, "what do you mean?
i can't do what?"
"ring de pell," he replied, attempting a grin with his little villainous mouth.
upon this i made an effort to get up in order to put my threat into execution, but the ruffian just reached across the table very deliberately, and hitting me a tap on the forehead with the neck of one of the long bottles, knocked me back into the armchair from which i had half arisen.
i was utterly astounded, and for a moment was quite at a loss what to do.
in the meantime he continued his talk.
"you zee," said he, "it iz te bess vor zit still; and now you shall know who i pe.
look at me!
zee!
i am te angel ov te odd."
"and odd enough, too," i ventured to reply; "but i was always under the impression that an angel had wings."
"te wing!"
he cried, highly incensed, "vat i pe do mit te wing?
mein gott!
do you take me for a shicken?"
"no oh, no!"
i replied, much alarmed; "you are no chicken certainly not."
"well, den, zit still and pehabe yourself, or i'll rap you again mid me vist.
it iz te shicken ab te wing, und te owl ab te wing, und te imp ab te wing, und te head-teuffel ab te wing.
te angel ab not te wing, and i am te angel ov te odd."
"and your business with me at present is is  "
"my pizziness!"
ejaculated the thing, "vy vat a low-bred puppy you mos pe vor to ask a gentleman und an angel apout his pizziness!"
this language was rather more than i could bear, even from an angel; so, plucking up courage, i seized a salt-cellar which lay within reach, and hurled it at the head of the intruder.
either he dodged, however, or my aim was inaccurate; for all i accomplished was the demolition of the crystal which protected the dial of the clock upon the mantelpiece.
as for the angel, he evinced his sense of my assault by giving me two or three hard, consecutive raps upon the forehead as before.
these reduced me at once to submission, and i am almost ashamed to confess that, either through pain or vexation, there came a few tears into my eyes.
"mein gott!"
said the angel of the odd, apparently much softened at my distress; "mein gott, te man is eder ferry dronk or ferry zorry.
you mos not trink it so strong you mos put te water in te wine.
here, trink dis, like a good veller, and don't gry now don't!"
hereupon the angel of the odd replenished my goblet (which was about a third full of port) with a colorless fluid that he poured from one of his hand-bottles.
i observed that these bottles had labels about their necks, and that these labels were inscribed "kirschenwässer."
the considerate kindness of the angel mollified me in no little measure; and, aided by the water with which he diluted my port more than once, i at length regained sufficient temper to listen to his very extraordinary discourse.
i cannot pretend to recount all that he told me, but i gleaned from what he said that he was a genius who presided over the contretemps of mankind, and whose business it was to bring about the odd accidents which are continually astonishing the skeptic.
once or twice, upon my venturing to express my total incredulity in respect to his pretensions, he grew very angry indeed, so that at length i considered it the wiser policy to say nothing at all, and let him have his own way.
he talked on, therefore, at great length, while i merely leaned back in my chair with my eyes shut, and amused myself with munching raisins and filiping the stems about the room.
but, by and by, the angel suddenly construed this behavior of mine into contempt.
he arose in a terrible passion, slouched his funnel down over his eyes, swore a vast oath, uttered a threat of some character, which i did not precisely comprehend, and finally made me a low bow and departed, wishing me, in the language of the archbishop in "gil bias," beaucoup de bonheur et un peu plus de bon sens.
his departure afforded me relief.
the very few glasses of lafitte that i had sipped had the effect of rendering me drowsy, and i felt inclined to take a nap of some fifteen or twenty minutes, as is my custom after dinner.
at six i had an appointment of consequence, which it was quite indispensable that i should keep.
the policy of insurance for my dwelling-house had expired the day before; and some dispute having arisen it was agreed that, at six, i should meet the board of directors of the company and settle the terms of a renewal.
glancing upward at the clock on the mantelpiece (for i felt too drowsy to take out my watch), i had the pleasure to find that i had still twenty-five minutes to spare.
it was half-past five; i could easily walk to the insurance office in five minutes; and my usual siestas had never been known to exceed five-and-twenty.
i felt sufficiently safe, therefore, and composed myself to my slumbers forthwith.
having completed them to my satisfaction, i again looked toward the timepiece, and was half inclined to believe in the possibility of odd accidents when i found that, instead of my ordinary fifteen or twenty minutes, i had been dozing only three; for it still wanted seven-and-twenty of the appointed hour.
i betook myself again to my nap, and at length a second time awoke, when, to my utter amazement, it still wanted twenty-seven minutes of six.
i jumped up to examine the clock, and found that it had ceased running.
my watch informed me that it was half-past seven; and, of course, having slept two hours, i was too late for my appointment.
"it will make no difference," i said:
"i can call at the office in the morning and apologize; in the meantime what can be the matter with the clock?"
upon examining it i discovered that one of the raisin stems which i had been filiping about the room during the discourse of the angel of the odd had flown through the fractured crystal, and lodging, singularly enough, in the keyhole, with an end projecting outward, had thus arrested the revolution of the minute hand.
"ah!"
said i, "i see how it is.
this thing speaks for itself.
a natural accident, such as will happen now and then!"
i gave the matter no further consideration, and at my usual hour retired to bed.
here, having placed a candle upon a reading stand at the bed head, and having made an attempt to peruse some pages of the omnipresence of the deity, i unfortunately fell asleep in less than twenty seconds, leaving the light burning as it was.
my dreams were terrifically disturbed by visions of the angel of the odd.
methought he stood at the foot of the couch, drew aside the curtains, and in the hollow, detestable tones of a rum puncheon, menaced me with the bitterest vengeance for the contempt with which i had treated him.
he concluded a long harangue by taking off his funnel-cap, inserting the tube into my gullet, and thus deluging me with an ocean of kirschenwässer, which he poured in a continuous flood, from one of the long-necked bottles that stood him instead of an arm.
my agony was at length insufferable, and i awoke just in time to perceive that a rat had run off with the lighted candle from the stand, but not in season to prevent his making his escape with it through the hole, very soon a strong, suffocating odor assailed my nostrils; the house, i clearly perceived, was on fire.
in a few minutes the blaze broke forth with violence, and in an incredibly brief period the entire building was wrapped in flames.
all egress from my chamber, except through a window, was cut off.
the crowd, however, quickly procured and raised a long ladder.
by means of this i was descending rapidly, and in apparent safety, when a huge hog, about whose rotund stomach, and indeed about whose whole air and physiognomy, there was something which reminded me of the angel of the odd when this hog, i say, which hitherto had been quietly slumbering in the mud, took it suddenly into his head that his left shoulder needed scratching, and could find no more convenient rubbing-post than that afforded by the foot of the ladder.
in an instant i was precipitated, and had the misfortune to fracture my arm.
this accident, with the loss of my insurance, and with the more serious loss of my hair, the whole of which had been singed off by the fire, predisposed me to serious impressions, so that finally i made up my mind to take a wife.
there was a rich widow disconsolate for the loss of her seventh husband, and to her wounded spirit i offered the balm of my vows.
she yielded a reluctant consent to my prayers.
i knelt at her feet in gratitude and adoration.
she blushed and bowed her luxuriant tresses into close contact with those supplied me temporarily by grandjean.
i know not how the entanglement took place but so it was.
i arose with a shining pate, wigless; she in disdain and wrath, half-buried in alien hair.
thus ended my hopes of the widow by an accident which could not have been anticipated, to be sure, but which the natural sequence of events had brought about.
without despairing, however, i undertook the siege of a less implacable heart.
the fates were again propitious for a brief period, but again a trivial incident interfered.
meeting my betrothed in an avenue thronged with the elite of the city, i was hastening to greet her with one of my best considered bows, when a small particle of some foreign matter lodging in the corner of my eye rendered me for the moment completely blind.
before i could recover my sight, the lady of my love had disappeared irreparably affronted at what she chose to consider my premeditated rudeness in passing her by ungreeted.
while i stood bewildered at the suddenness of this accident (which might have happened, nevertheless, to any one under the sun), and while i still continued incapable of sight, i was accosted by the angel of the odd, who proffered me his aid with a civility which i had no reason to expect.
he examined my disordered eye with much gentleness and skill, informed me that i had a drop in it, and (whatever a "drop" was) took it out, and afforded me relief.
i now considered it high time to die (since fortune had so determined to persecute me), and accordingly made my way to the nearest river.
here, divesting myself of my clothes (for there is no reason why we cannot die as we were born), i threw myself headlong into the current; the sole witness of my fate being a solitary crow that had been seduced into the eating of brandy-saturated corn, and so had staggered away from his fellows.
no sooner had i entered the water than this bird took it into his head to fly away with the most indispensable portion of my apparel.
postponing, therefore, for the present, my suicidal design, i just slipped my nether extremities into the sleeves of my coat, and betook myself to a pursuit of the felon with all the nimbleness which the case required and its circumstances would admit.
but my evil destiny attended me still.
as i ran at full speed, with my nose up in the atmosphere, and intent only upon the purloiner of my property, i suddenly perceived that my feet rested no longer upon terra firma; the fact is, i had thrown myself over a precipice, and should inevitably have been dashed to pieces but for my good fortune in grasping the end of a long guide-rope, which depended from a passing balloon.
as soon as i sufficiently recovered my senses to comprehend the terrific predicament in which i stood, or rather hung, i exerted all the power of my lungs to make that predicament known to the aeronaut overhead.
but for a long time i exerted myself in vain.
either the fool could not, or the villain would not perceive me.
meanwhile the machine rapidly soared, while my strength even more rapidly failed.
i was soon upon the point of resigning myself to my fate, and dropping quietly into the sea, when my spirits were suddenly revived by hearing a hollow voice from above, which seemed to be lazily humming an opera air.
looking up, i perceived the angel of the odd.
he was leaning, with his arms folded, over the rim of the car; and with a pipe in his mouth, at which he puffed leisurely, seemed to be upon excellent terms with himself and the universe.
i was too much exhausted to speak, so i merely regarded him with an imploring air.
for several minutes, although he looked me full in the face, he said nothing.
at length, removing carefully his meerschaum from the right to the left corner of his mouth, he condescended to speak.
"who pe you," he asked, "und what der teuffel you pe do dare?"
to this piece of impudence, cruelty, and affectation, i could reply only by ejaculating the monosyllable "help!"
"elp!"
echoed the ruffian, "not i. dare iz te pottle elp yourself, und pe tam'd!"
with these words he let fall a heavy bottle of kirschenwässer, which, dropping precisely upon the crown of my head, caused me to imagine that my brains were entirely knocked out.
impressed with this idea i was about to relinquish my hold and give up the ghost with a good grace, when i was arrested by the cry of the angel, who bade me hold on.
"'old on!"
he said: "don't pe in te 'urry don't.
will you pe take de odder pottle, or 'ave you pe got zober yet, and come to your zenzes?"
i made haste, hereupon, to nod my head twice once in the negative, meaning thereby that i would prefer not taking the other bottle at present; and once in the affirmative, intending thus to imply that i was sober and had positively come to my senses.
by these means i somewhat softened the angel.
"und you pelief, ten," he inquired, "at te last?
you pelief, ten, in te possibility of te odd?"
i again nodded my head in assent.
"und you ave pelief in me, te angel of te odd?"
i nodded again.
"und you acknowledge tat you pe te blind dronk und te vool?"
i nodded once more.
"put your right hand into your left preeches pocket, ten, in token ov your vull zubmizzion unto te angel ov te odd."
this thing, for very obvious reasons, i found it quite impossible to do.
in the first place, my left arm had been broken in my fall from the ladder, and therefore, had i let go my hold with the right hand i must have let go altogether.
in the second place, i could have no breeches until i came across the crow.
i was therefore obliged, much to my regret, to shake my head in the negative, intending thus to give the angel to understand that i found it inconvenient, just at that moment, to comply with his very reasonable demand!
no sooner, however, had i ceased shaking my head than
"go to der teuffel, ten!"
roared the angel of the odd.
in pronouncing these words he drew a sharp knife across the guide-rope by which i was suspended, and as we then happened to be precisely over my own house (which, during my peregrinations, had been handsomely rebuilt), it so occurred that i tumbled headlong down the ample chimney and alit upon the dining-room hearth.
upon coming to my senses (for the fall had very thoroughly stunned me)
i found it about four o'clock in the morning.
i lay outstretched where i had fallen from the balloon.
my head groveled in the ashes of an extinguished fire, while my feet reposed upon the wreck of a small table, overthrown, and amid the fragments of a miscellaneous dessert, intermingled with a newspaper, some broken glasses and shattered bottles, and an empty jug of the schiedam kirschenwässer.
thus revenged himself the angel of the odd.
the schoolmaster's progress
by caroline m.s.
kirkland (1801-1864)
[from the gift for 1845, published late in 1844. republished in the volume, western clearings (1845), by caroline m.s.
kirkland.]
master william horner came to our village to school when he was about eighteen years old: tall, lank, straight-sided, and straight-haired, with a mouth of the most puckered and solemn kind.
his figure and movements were those of a puppet cut out of shingle and jerked by a string; and his address corresponded very well with his appearance.
never did that prim mouth give way before a laugh.
a faint and misty smile was the widest departure from its propriety, and this unaccustomed disturbance made wrinkles in the flat, skinny cheeks like those in the surface of a lake, after the intrusion of a stone.
master horner knew well what belonged to the pedagogical character, and that facial solemnity stood high on the list of indispensable qualifications.
he had made up his mind before he left his father's house how he would look during the term.
he had not planned any smiles (knowing that he must "board round"), and it was not for ordinary occurrences to alter his arrangements; so that when he was betrayed into a relaxation of the muscles, it was "in such a sort" as if he was putting his bread and butter in jeopardy.
truly he had a grave time that first winter.
the rod of power was new to him, and he felt it his "duty" to use it more frequently than might have been thought necessary by those upon whose sense the privilege had palled.
tears and sulky faces, and impotent fists doubled fiercely when his back was turned, were the rewards of his conscientiousness; and the boys and girls too were glad when working time came round again, and the master went home to help his father on the farm.
but with the autumn came master horner again, dropping among us as quietly as the faded leaves, and awakening at least as much serious reflection.
would he be as self-sacrificing as before, postponing his own ease and comfort to the public good, or would he have become more sedentary, and less fond of circumambulating the school-room with a switch over his shoulder?
many were fain to hope he might have learned to smoke during the summer, an accomplishment which would probably have moderated his energy not a little, and disposed him rather to reverie than to action.
but here he was, and all the broader-chested and stouter-armed for his labors in the harvest-field.
let it not be supposed that master horner was of a cruel and ogrish nature a babe-eater a herod one who delighted in torturing the helpless.
such souls there may be, among those endowed with the awful control of the ferule, but they are rare in the fresh and natural regions we describe.
it is, we believe, where young gentlemen are to be crammed for college, that the process of hardening heart and skin together goes on most vigorously.
yet among the uneducated there is so high a respect for bodily strength, that it is necessary for the schoolmaster to show, first of all, that he possesses this inadmissible requisite for his place.
the rest is more readily taken for granted.
brains he may have a strong arm he must have: so he proves the more important claim first.
we must therefore make all due allowance for master horner, who could not be expected to overtop his position so far as to discern at once the philosophy of teaching.
he was sadly brow-beaten during his first term of service by a great broad-shouldered lout of some eighteen years or so, who thought he needed a little more "schooling," but at the same time felt quite competent to direct the manner and measure of his attempts.
"you'd ought to begin with large-hand, joshuay," said master horner to this youth.
"what should i want coarse-hand for?"
said the disciple, with great contempt; "coarse-hand won't never do me no good.
i want a fine-hand copy."
the master looked at the infant giant, and did as he wished, but we say not with what secret resolutions.
at another time, master horner, having had a hint from some one more knowing than himself, proposed to his elder scholars to write after dictation, expatiating at the same time quite floridly (the ideas having been supplied by the knowing friend), upon the advantages likely to arise from this practice, and saying, among other things,
"it will help you, when you write letters, to spell the words good."
"pooh!"
said joshua, "spellin' ain't nothin'; let them that finds the mistakes correct 'em.
i'm for every one's havin' a way of their own."
"how dared you be so saucy to the master?"
asked one of the little boys, after school.
"because i could lick him, easy," said the hopeful joshua, who knew very well why the master did not undertake him on the spot.
can we wonder that master horner determined to make his empire good as far as it went?
a new examination was required on the entrance into a second term, and, with whatever secret trepidation, the master was obliged to submit.
our law prescribes examinations, but forgets to provide for the competency of the examiners; so that few better farces offer than the course of question and answer on these occasions.
we know not precisely what were master horner's trials; but we have heard of a sharp dispute between the inspectors whether a-n-g-e-l spelt angle or angel.
angle had it, and the school maintained that pronunciation ever after.
master horner passed, and he was requested to draw up the certificate for the inspectors to sign, as one had left his spectacles at home, and the other had a bad cold, so that it was not convenient for either to write more than his name.
master homer's exhibition of learning on this occasion did not reach us, but we know that it must have been considerable, since he stood the ordeal.
"what is orthography?"
said an inspector once, in our presence.
the candidate writhed a good deal, studied the beams overhead and the chickens out of the window, and then replied,
"it is so long since i learnt the first part of the spelling-book, that i can't justly answer that question.
but if i could just look it over, i guess i could."
our schoolmaster entered upon his second term with new courage and invigorated authority.
twice certified, who should dare doubt his competency?
even joshua was civil, and lesser louts of course obsequious; though the girls took more liberties, for they feel even at that early age, that influence is stronger than strength.
could a young schoolmaster think of feruling a girl with her hair in ringlets and a gold ring on her finger?
impossible and the immunity extended to all the little sisters and cousins; and there were enough large girls to protect all the feminine part of the school.
with the boys master horner still had many a battle, and whether with a view to this, or as an economical ruse, he never wore his coat in school, saying it was too warm.
perhaps it was an astute attention to the prejudices of his employers, who love no man that does not earn his living by the sweat of his brow.
the shirt-sleeves gave the idea of a manual-labor school in one sense at least.
it was evident that the master worked, and that afforded a probability that the scholars worked too.
master horner's success was most triumphant that winter.
a year's growth had improved his outward man exceedingly, filling out the limbs so that they did not remind you so forcibly of a young colt's, and supplying the cheeks with the flesh and blood so necessary where mustaches were not worn.
experience had given him a degree of confidence, and confidence gave him power.
in short, people said the master had waked up; and so he had.
he actually set about reading for improvement; and although at the end of the term he could not quite make out from his historical studies which side hannibal was on, yet this is readily explained by the fact that he boarded round, and was obliged to read generally by firelight, surrounded by ungoverned children.
after this, master horner made his own bargain.
when schooltime came round with the following autumn, and the teacher presented himself for a third examination, such a test was pronounced no longer necessary; and the district consented to engage him at the astounding rate of sixteen dollars a month, with the understanding that he was to have a fixed home, provided he was willing to allow a dollar a week for it.
master horner bethought him of the successive "killing-times," and consequent doughnuts of the twenty families in which he had sojourned the years before, and consented to the exaction.
behold our friend now as high as district teacher can ever hope to be his scholarship established, his home stationary and not revolving, and the good behavior of the community insured by the fact that he, being of age, had now a farm to retire upon in case of any disgust.
master horner was at once the preëminent beau of the neighborhood, spite of the prejudice against learning.
he brushed his hair straight up in front, and wore a sky-blue ribbon for a guard to his silver watch, and walked as if the tall heels of his blunt boots were egg-shells and not leather.
yet he was far from neglecting the duties of his place.
he was beau only on sundays and holidays; very schoolmaster the rest of the time.
it was at a "spelling-school" that master horner first met the educated eyes of miss harriet bangle, a young lady visiting the engleharts in our neighborhood.
she was from one of the towns in western new york, and had brought with her a variety of city airs and graces somewhat caricatured, set off with year-old french fashions much travestied.
whether she had been sent out to the new country to try, somewhat late, a rustic chance for an establishment, or whether her company had been found rather trying at home, we cannot say.
the view which she was at some pains to make understood was, that her friends had contrived this method of keeping her out of the way of a desperate lover whose addresses were not acceptable to them.
if it should seem surprising that so high-bred a visitor should be sojourning in the wild woods, it must be remembered that more than one celebrated englishman and not a few distinguished americans have farmer brothers in the western country, no whit less rustic in their exterior and manner of life than the plainest of their neighbors.
when these are visited by their refined kinsfolk, we of the woods catch glimpses of the gay world, or think we do.
that great medicine hath   with its tinct gilded
many a vulgarism to the satisfaction of wiser heads than ours.
miss bangle's manner bespoke for her that high consideration which she felt to be her due.
yet she condescended to be amused by the rustics and their awkward attempts at gaiety and elegance; and, to say truth, few of the village merry-makings escaped her, though she wore always the air of great superiority.
the spelling-school is one of the ordinary winter amusements in the country.
it occurs once in a fortnight, or so, and has power to draw out all the young people for miles round, arrayed in their best clothes and their holiday behavior.
when all is ready, umpires are elected, and after these have taken the distinguished place usually occupied by the teacher, the young people of the school choose the two best scholars to head the opposing classes.
these leaders choose their followers from the mass, each calling a name in turn, until all the spellers are ranked on one side or the other, lining the sides of the room, and all standing.
the schoolmaster, standing too, takes his spelling-book, and gives a placid yet awe-inspiring look along the ranks, remarking that he intends to be very impartial, and that he shall give out nothing that is not in the spelling-book.
for the first half hour or so he chooses common and easy words, that the spirit of the evening may not be damped by the too early thinning of the classes.
when a word is missed, the blunderer has to sit down, and be a spectator only for the rest of the evening.
at certain intervals, some of the best speakers mount the platform, and "speak a piece,"
which is generally as declamatory as possible.
the excitement of this scene is equal to that afforded by any city spectacle whatever; and towards the close of the evening, when difficult and unusual words are chosen to confound the small number who still keep the floor, it becomes scarcely less than painful.
when perhaps only one or two remain to be puzzled, the master, weary at last of his task, though a favorite one, tries by tricks to put down those whom he cannot overcome in fair fight.
if among all the curious, useless, unheard-of words which may be picked out of the spelling-book, he cannot find one which the scholars have not noticed, he gets the last head down by some quip or catch.
"bay" will perhaps be the sound; one scholar spells it "bey," another, "bay," while the master all the time means "ba," which comes within the rule, being in the spelling-book.
it was on one of these occasions, as we have said, that miss bangle, having come to the spelling-school to get materials for a letter to a female friend, first shone upon mr. horner.
she was excessively amused by his solemn air and puckered mouth, and set him down at once as fair game.
yet she could not help becoming somewhat interested in the spelling-school, and after it was over found she had not stored up half as many of the schoolmaster's points as she intended, for the benefit of her correspondent.
in the evening's contest a young girl from some few miles' distance, ellen kingsbury, the only child of a substantial farmer, had been the very last to sit down, after a prolonged effort on the part of mr.
horner to puzzle her, for the credit of his own school.
she blushed, and smiled, and blushed again, but spelt on, until mr. horner's cheeks were crimson with excitement and some touch of shame that he should be baffled at his own weapons.
at length, either by accident or design, ellen missed a word, and sinking into her seat was numbered with the slain.
in the laugh and talk which followed (for with the conclusion of the spelling, all form of a public assembly vanishes), our schoolmaster said so many gallant things to his fair enemy, and appeared so much animated by the excitement of the contest, that miss bangle began to look upon him with rather more respect, and to feel somewhat indignant that a little rustic like ellen should absorb the entire attention of the only beau.
she put on, therefore, her most gracious aspect, and mingled in the circle; caused the schoolmaster to be presented to her, and did her best to fascinate him by certain airs and graces which she had found successful elsewhere.
what game is too small for the close-woven net of a coquette?
mr. horner quitted not the fair ellen until he had handed her into her father's sleigh; and he then wended his way homewards, never thinking that he ought to have escorted miss bangle to her uncle's, though she certainly waited a little while for his return.
we must not follow into particulars the subsequent intercourse of our schoolmaster with the civilized young lady.
all that concerns us is the result of miss bangle's benevolent designs upon his heart.
she tried most sincerely to find its vulnerable spot, meaning no doubt to put mr. homer on his guard for the future; and she was unfeignedly surprised to discover that her best efforts were of no avail.
she concluded he must have taken a counter-poison, and she was not slow in guessing its source.
she had observed the peculiar fire which lighted up his eyes in the presence of ellen kingsbury, and she bethought her of a plan which would ensure her some amusement at the expense of these impertinent rustics, though in a manner different somewhat from her original more natural idea of simple coquetry.
a letter was written to master horner, purporting to come from ellen kingsbury, worded so artfully that the schoolmaster understood at once that it was intended to be a secret communication, though its ostensible object was an inquiry about some ordinary affair.
this was laid in mr. horner's desk before he came to school, with an intimation that he might leave an answer in a certain spot on the following morning.
the bait took at once, for mr. horner, honest and true himself, and much smitten with the fair ellen, was too happy to be circumspect.
the answer was duly placed, and as duly carried to miss bangle by her accomplice, joe englehart, an unlucky pickle who "was always for ill, never for good," and who found no difficulty in obtaining the letter unwatched, since the master was obliged to be in school at nine, and joe could always linger a few minutes later.
this answer being opened and laughed at, miss bangle had only to contrive a rejoinder, which being rather more particular in its tone than the original communication, led on yet again the happy schoolmaster, who branched out into sentiment, "taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,"
talked of hills and dales and rivulets, and the pleasures of friendship, and concluded by entreating a continuance of the correspondence.
another letter and another, every one more flattering and encouraging than the last, almost turned the sober head of our poor master, and warmed up his heart so effectually that he could scarcely attend to his business.
the spelling-schools were remembered, however, and ellen kingsbury made one of the merry company; but the latest letter had not forgotten to caution mr. horner not to betray the intimacy; so that he was in honor bound to restrict himself to the language of the eyes hard as it was to forbear the single whisper for which he would have given his very dictionary.
so, their meeting passed off without the explanation which miss bangle began to fear would cut short her benevolent amusement.
the correspondence was resumed with renewed spirit, and carried on until miss bangle, though not overburdened with sensitiveness, began to be a little alarmed for the consequences of her malicious pleasantry.
she perceived that she herself had turned schoolmistress, and that master horner, instead of being merely her dupe, had become her pupil too; for the style of his replies had been constantly improving and the earnest and manly tone which he assumed promised any thing but the quiet, sheepish pocketing of injury and insult, upon which she had counted.
in truth, there was something deeper than vanity in the feelings with which he regarded ellen kingsbury.
the encouragement which he supposed himself to have received, threw down the barrier which his extreme bashfulness would have interposed between himself and any one who possessed charms enough to attract him; and we must excuse him if, in such a case, he did not criticise the mode of encouragement, but rather grasped eagerly the proffered good without a scruple, or one which he would own to himself, as to the propriety with which it was tendered.
he was as much in love as a man can be, and the seriousness of real attachment gave both grace and dignity to his once awkward diction.
the evident determination of mr. horner to come to the point of asking papa brought miss bangle to a very awkward pass.
she had expected to return home before matters had proceeded so far, but being obliged to remain some time longer, she was equally afraid to go on and to leave off, a dénouement being almost certain to ensue in either case.
things stood thus when it was time to prepare for the grand exhibition which was to close the winter's term.
this is an affair of too much magnitude to be fully described in the small space yet remaining in which to bring out our veracious history.
it must be "slubber'd o'er in haste" its important preliminaries left to the cold imagination of the reader its fine spirit perhaps evaporating for want of being embodied in words.
we can only say that our master, whose school-life was to close with the term, labored as man never before labored in such a cause, resolute to trail a cloud of glory after him when he left us.
not a candlestick nor a curtain that was attainable, either by coaxing or bribery, was left in the village; even the only piano, that frail treasure, was wiled away and placed in one corner of the rickety stage.
the most splendid of all the pieces in the columbian orator, the american speaker, the  but we must not enumerate in a word, the most astounding and pathetic specimens of eloquence within ken of either teacher or scholars, had been selected for the occasion; and several young ladies and gentlemen, whose academical course had been happily concluded at an earlier period, either at our own institution or at some other, had consented to lend themselves to the parts, and their choicest decorations for the properties, of the dramatic portion of the entertainment.
among these last was pretty ellen kingsbury, who had agreed to personate the queen of scots, in the garden scene from schiller's tragedy of mary stuart; and this circumstance accidentally afforded master horner the opportunity he had so long desired, of seeing his fascinating correspondent without the presence of peering eyes.
a dress-rehearsal occupied the afternoon before the day of days, and the pathetic expostulations of the lovely mary
mine all doth hang my life my destiny
upon my words upon the force of tears!
aided by the long veil, and the emotion which sympathy brought into ellen's countenance, proved too much for the enforced prudence of master horner.
when the rehearsal was over, and the heroes and heroines were to return home, it was found that, by a stroke of witty invention not new in the country, the harness of mr. kingsbury's horses had been cut in several places, his whip hidden, his buffalo-skins spread on the ground, and the sleigh turned bottom upwards on them.
this afforded an excuse for the master's borrowing a horse and sleigh of somebody, and claiming the privilege of taking miss ellen home, while her father returned with only aunt sally and a great bag of bran from the mill companions about equally interesting.
here, then, was the golden opportunity so long wished for!
here was the power of ascertaining at once what is never quite certain until we have heard it from warm, living lips, whose testimony is strengthened by glances in which the whole soul speaks or seems to speak.
the time was short, for the sleighing was but too fine; and father kingsbury, having tied up his harness, and collected his scattered equipment, was driving so close behind that there was no possibility of lingering for a moment.
yet many moments were lost before mr. horner, very much in earnest, and all unhackneyed in matters of this sort, could find a word in which to clothe his new-found feelings.
the horse seemed to fly the distance was half past and at length, in absolute despair of anything better, he blurted out at once what he had determined to avoid a direct reference to the correspondence.
a game at cross-purposes ensued; exclamations and explanations, and denials and apologies filled up the time which was to have made master horner so blest.
the light from mr. kingsbury's windows shone upon the path, and the whole result of this conference so longed for, was a burst of tears from the perplexed and mortified ellen, who sprang from mr. horner's attempts to detain her, rushed into the house without vouchsafing him a word of adieu, and left him standing, no bad personification of orpheus, after the last hopeless flitting of his eurydice.
"won't you 'light, master?"
said mr. kingsbury.
"yes no thank you good evening," stammered poor master horner, so stupefied that even aunt sally called him "a dummy."
the horse took the sleigh against the fence, going home, and threw out the master, who scarcely recollected the accident; while to ellen the issue of this unfortunate drive was a sleepless night and so high a fever in the morning that our village doctor was called to mr.
kingsbury's before breakfast.
poor master horner's distress may hardly be imagined.
disappointed, bewildered, cut to the quick, yet as much in love as ever, he could only in bitter silence turn over in his thoughts the issue of his cherished dream; now persuading himself that ellen's denial was the effect of a sudden bashfulness, now inveighing against the fickleness of the sex, as all men do when they are angry with any one woman in particular.
but his exhibition must go on in spite of wretchedness; and he went about mechanically, talking of curtains and candles, and music, and attitudes, and pauses, and emphasis, looking like a somnambulist whose "eyes are open but their sense is shut," and often surprising those concerned by the utter unfitness of his answers.
it was almost evening when mr. kingsbury, having discovered, through the intervention of the doctor and aunt sally the cause of ellen's distress, made his appearance before the unhappy eyes of master horner, angry, solemn and determined; taking the schoolmaster apart, and requiring, an explanation of his treatment of his daughter.
in vain did the perplexed lover ask for time to clear himself, declare his respect for miss ellen and his willingness to give every explanation which she might require; the father was not to be put off; and though excessively reluctant, mr. horner had no resource but to show the letters which alone could account for his strange discourse to ellen.
he unlocked his desk, slowly and unwillingly, while the old man's impatience was such that he could scarcely forbear thrusting in his own hand to snatch at the papers which were to explain this vexatious mystery.
what could equal the utter confusion of master horner and the contemptuous anger of the father, when no letters were to be found!
mr. kingsbury was too passionate to listen to reason, or to reflect for one moment upon the irreproachable good name of the schoolmaster.
he went away in inexorable wrath; threatening every practicable visitation of public and private justice upon the head of the offender, whom he accused of having attempted to trick his daughter into an entanglement which should result in his favor.
a doleful exhibition was this last one of our thrice approved and most worthy teacher!
stern necessity and the power of habit enabled him to go through with most of his part, but where was the proud fire which had lighted up his eye on similar occasions before?
he sat as one of three judges before whom the unfortunate robert emmet was dragged in his shirt-sleeves, by two fierce-looking officials; but the chief judge looked far more like a criminal than did the proper representative.
he ought to have personated othello, but was obliged to excuse himself from raving for "the handkerchief!
the handkerchief!"
on the rather anomalous plea of a bad cold.
mary stuart being "i' the bond," was anxiously expected by the impatient crowd, and it was with distress amounting to agony that the master was obliged to announce, in person, the necessity of omitting that part of the representation, on account of the illness of one of the young ladies.
scarcely had the words been uttered, and the speaker hidden his burning face behind the curtain, when mr. kingsbury started up in his place amid the throng, to give a public recital of his grievance no uncommon resort in the new country.
he dashed at once to the point; and before some friends who saw the utter impropriety of his proceeding could persuade him to defer his vengeance, he had laid before the assembly some three hundred people, perhaps his own statement of the case.
he was got out at last, half coaxed, half hustled; and the gentle public only half understanding what had been set forth thus unexpectedly, made quite a pretty row of it.
some clamored loudly for the conclusion of the exercises; others gave utterances in no particularly choice terms to a variety of opinions as to the schoolmaster's proceedings, varying the note occasionally by shouting, "the letters!
the letters!
why don't you bring out the letters?"
at length, by means of much rapping on the desk by the president of the evening, who was fortunately a "popular" character, order was partially restored; and the favorite scene from miss more's dialogue of david and goliath was announced as the closing piece.
the sight of little david in a white tunic edged with red tape, with a calico scrip and a very primitive-looking sling; and a huge goliath decorated with a militia belt and sword, and a spear like a weaver's beam indeed, enchained everybody's attention.
even the peccant schoolmaster and his pretended letters were forgotten, while the sapient goliath, every time that he raised the spear, in the energy of his declamation, to thump upon the stage, picked away fragments of the low ceiling, which fell conspicuously on his great shock of black hair.
at last, with the crowning threat, up went the spear for an astounding thump, and down came a large piece of the ceiling, and with it a shower of letters.
the confusion that ensued beggars all description.
a general scramble took place, and in another moment twenty pairs of eyes, at least, were feasting on the choice phrases lavished upon mr. horner.
miss bangle had sat through the whole previous scene, trembling for herself, although she had, as she supposed, guarded cunningly against exposure.
she had needed no prophet to tell her what must be the result of a tête-à-tête between mr. horner and ellen; and the moment she saw them drive off together, she induced her imp to seize the opportunity of abstracting the whole parcel of letters from mr. horner's desk; which he did by means of a sort of skill which comes by nature to such goblins; picking the lock by the aid of a crooked nail, as neatly as if he had been born within the shadow of the tombs.
but magicians sometimes suffer severely from the malice with which they have themselves inspired their familiars.
joe englehart having been a convenient tool thus far thought it quite time to torment miss bangle a little; so, having stolen the letters at her bidding, he hid them on his own account, and no persuasions of hers could induce him to reveal this important secret, which he chose to reserve as a rod in case she refused him some intercession with his father, or some other accommodation, rendered necessary by his mischievous habits.
he had concealed the precious parcels in the unfloored loft above the school-room, a place accessible only by means of a small trap-door without staircase or ladder; and here he meant to have kept them while it suited his purposes, but for the untimely intrusion of the weaver's beam.
miss bangle had sat through all, as we have said, thinking the letters safe, yet vowing vengeance against her confederate for not allowing her to secure them by a satisfactory conflagration; and it was not until she heard her own name whispered through the crowd, that she was awakened to her true situation.
the sagacity of the low creatures whom she had despised showed them at once that the letters must be hers, since her character had been pretty shrewdly guessed, and the handwriting wore a more practised air than is usual among females in the country.
this was first taken for granted, and then spoken of as an acknowledged fact.
the assembly moved like the heavings of a troubled sea.
everybody felt that this was everybody's business.
"put her out!"
was heard from more than one rough voice near the door, and this was responded to by loud and angry murmurs from within.
mr. englehart, not waiting to inquire into the merits of the case in this scene of confusion, hastened to get his family out as quietly and as quickly as possible, but groans and hisses followed his niece as she hung half-fainting on his arm, quailing completely beneath the instinctive indignation of the rustic public.
as she passed out, a yell resounded among the rude boys about the door, and she was lifted into a sleigh, insensible from terror.
she disappeared from that evening, and no one knew the time of her final departure for "the east."
mr. kingsbury, who is a just man when he is not in a passion, made all the reparation in his power for his harsh and ill-considered attack upon the master; and we believe that functionary did not show any traits of implacability of character.
at least he was seen, not many days after, sitting peaceably at tea with mr. kingsbury, aunt sally, and miss ellen; and he has since gone home to build a house upon his farm.
and people do say, that after a few months more, ellen will not need miss bangle's intervention if she should see fit to correspond with the schoolmaster.
the watkinson evening
[from godey's lady's book, december, 1846.]
by eliza leslie (1787-1858)
mrs. morland, a polished and accomplished woman, was the widow of a distinguished senator from one of the western states, of which, also, her husband had twice filled the office of governor.
her daughter having completed her education at the best boarding-school in philadelphia, and her son being about to graduate at princeton, the mother had planned with her children a tour to niagara and the lakes, returning by way of boston.
on leaving philadelphia, mrs. morland and the delighted caroline stopped at princeton to be present at the annual commencement, and had the happiness of seeing their beloved edward receive his diploma as bachelor of arts; after hearing him deliver, with great applause, an oration on the beauties of the american character.
college youths are very prone to treat on subjects that imply great experience of the world.
but edward morland was full of kind feeling for everything and everybody; and his views of life had hitherto been tinted with a perpetual rose-color.
mrs. morland, not depending altogether upon the celebrity of her late husband, and wishing that her children should see specimens of the best society in the northern cities, had left home with numerous letters of introduction.
but when they arrived at new york, she found to her great regret, that having unpacked and taken out her small traveling desk, during her short stay in philadelphia, she had strangely left it behind in the closet of her room at the hotel.
in this desk were deposited all her letters, except two which had been offered to her by friends in philadelphia.
the young people, impatient to see the wonders of niagara, had entreated her to stay but a day or two in the city of new york, and thought these two letters would be quite sufficient for the present.
in the meantime she wrote back to the hotel, requesting that the missing desk should be forwarded to new york as soon as possible.
on the morning after their arrival at the great commercial metropolis of america, the morland family took a carriage to ride round through the principal parts of the city, and to deliver their two letters at the houses to which they were addressed, and which were both situated in the region that lies between the upper part of broadway and the north river.
in one of the most fashionable streets they found the elegant mansion of mrs. st. leonard; but on stopping at the door, were informed that its mistress was not at home.
they then left the introductory letter (which they had prepared for this mischance, by enclosing it in an envelope with a card), and proceeding to another street considerably farther up, they arrived at the dwelling of the watkinson family, to the mistress of which the other philadelphia letter was directed.
it was one of a large block of houses all exactly alike, and all shut up from top to bottom, according to a custom more prevalent in new york than in any other city.
here they were also unsuccessful; the servant who came to the door telling them that the ladies were particularly engaged and could see no company.
so they left their second letter and card and drove off, continuing their ride till they reached the croton water works, which they quitted the carriage to see and admire.
on returning to the hotel, with the intention after an hour or two of rest to go out again, and walk till near dinner-time, they found waiting them a note from mrs. watkinson, expressing her regret that she had not been able to see them when they called; and explaining that her family duties always obliged her to deny herself the pleasure of receiving morning visitors, and that her servants had general orders to that effect.
but she requested their company for that evening (naming nine o'clock as the hour), and particularly desired an immediate answer.
"i suppose," said mrs. morland, "she intends asking some of her friends to meet us, in case we accept the invitation; and therefore is naturally desirous of a reply as soon as possible.
of course we will not keep her in suspense.
mrs. denham, who volunteered the letter, assured me that mrs. watkinson was one of the most estimable women in new york, and a pattern to the circle in which she moved.
it seems that mr. denham and mr. watkinson are connected in business.
shall we go?"
the young people assented, saying they had no doubt of passing a pleasant evening.
the billet of acceptance having been written, it was sent off immediately, entrusted to one of the errand-goers belonging to the hotel, that it might be received in advance of the next hour for the dispatch-post and edward morland desired the man to get into an omnibus with the note that no time might be lost in delivering it.
"it is but right" said he to his mother "that we should give mrs.
watkinson an ample opportunity of making her preparations, and sending round to invite her friends."
"how considerate you are, dear edward" said caroline "always so thoughtful of every one's convenience.
your college friends must have idolized you."
"no" said edward "they called me a prig."
just then a remarkably handsome carriage drove up to the private door of the hotel.
from it alighted a very elegant woman, who in a few moments was ushered into the drawing-room by the head waiter, and on his designating mrs.
morland's family, she advanced and gracefully announced herself as mrs. st. leonard.
this was the lady at whose house they had left the first letter of introduction.
she expressed regret at not having been at home when they called; but said that on finding their letter, she had immediately come down to see them, and to engage them for the evening.
"tonight" said mrs. st. leonard "i expect as many friends as i can collect for a summer party.
the occasion is the recent marriage of my niece, who with her husband has just returned from their bridal excursion, and they will be soon on their way to their residence in baltimore.
i think i can promise you an agreeable evening, as i expect some very delightful people, with whom i shall be most happy to make you acquainted."
edward and caroline exchanged glances, and could not refrain from looking wistfully at their mother, on whose countenance a shade of regret was very apparent.
after a short pause she replied to mrs. st.
leonard "i am truly sorry to say that we have just answered in the affirmative a previous invitation for this very evening."
"i am indeed disappointed" said mrs. st. leonard, who had been looking approvingly at the prepossessing appearance of the two young people.
"is there no way in which you can revoke your compliance with this unfortunate first invitation at least, i am sure, it is unfortunate for me.
what a vexatious contretemps that i should have chanced to be out when you called; thus missing the pleasure of seeing you at once, and securing that of your society for this evening?
the truth is, i was disappointed in some of the preparations that had been sent home this morning, and i had to go myself and have the things rectified, and was detained away longer than i expected.
may i ask to whom you are engaged this evening?
perhaps i know the lady if so, i should be very much tempted to go and beg you from her."
"the lady is mrs. john watkinson" replied mrs. morland "most probably she will invite some of her friends to meet us."
"that of course" answered mrs. st. leonard "i am really very sorry and i regret to say that i do not know her at all."
"we shall have to abide by our first decision," said mrs. morland.
"by mrs. watkinson, mentioning in her note the hour of nine, it is to be presumed she intends asking some other company.
i cannot possibly disappoint her.
i can speak feelingly as to the annoyance (for i have known it by my own experience) when after inviting a number of my friends to meet some strangers, the strangers have sent an excuse almost at the eleventh hour.
i think no inducements, however strong, could tempt me to do so myself."
"i confess that you are perfectly right," said mrs. st. leonard.
"i see you must go to mrs. watkinson.
but can you not divide the evening, by passing a part of it with her and then finishing with me?"
at this suggestion the eyes of the young people sparkled, for they had become delighted with mrs. st. leonard, and imagined that a party at her house must be every way charming.
also, parties were novelties to both of them.
"if possible we will do so," answered mrs. morland, "and with what pleasure i need not assure you.
we leave new york to-morrow, but we shall return this way in september, and will then be exceedingly happy to see more of mrs. st.
leonard."
after a little more conversation mrs. st. leonard took her leave, repeating her hope of still seeing her new friends at her house that night; and enjoining them to let her know as soon as they returned to new york on their way home.
edward morland handed her to her carriage, and then joined his mother and sister in their commendations of mrs. st. leonard, with whose exceeding beauty were united a countenance beaming with intelligence, and a manner that put every one at their ease immediately.
"she is an evidence," said edward, "how superior our women of fashion are to those of europe."
"wait, my dear son," said mrs. morland, "till you have been in europe, and had an opportunity of forming an opinion on that point (as on many others) from actual observation.
for my part, i believe that in all civilized countries the upper classes of people are very much alike, at least in their leading characteristics."
"ah!
here comes the man that was sent to mrs. watkinson," said caroline morland.
"i hope he could not find the house and has brought the note back with him.
we shall then be able to go at first to mrs.
st. leonard's, and pass the whole evening there."
the man reported that he had found the house, and had delivered the note into mrs. watkinson's own hands, as she chanced to be crossing the entry when the door was opened; and that she read it immediately, and said "very well."
"are you certain that you made no mistake in the house," said edward, "and that you really did give it to mrs.
watkinson?"
"and it's quite sure i am, sir," replied the man, "when i first came over from the ould country i lived with them awhile, and though when she saw me to-day, she did not let on that she remembered my doing that same, she could not help calling me james.
yes, the rale words she said when i handed her the billy-dux was, 'very well, james.'"
"come, come," said edward, when they found themselves alone, "let us look on the bright side.
if we do not find a large party at mrs.
watkinson's, we may in all probability meet some very agreeable people there, and enjoy the feast of reason and the flow of soul.
we may find the watkinson house so pleasant as to leave it with regret even for mrs. st.
leonard's."
"i do not believe mrs. watkinson is in fashionable society," said caroline, "or mrs. st. leonard would have known her.
i heard some of the ladies here talking last evening of mrs. st. leonard, and i found from what they said that she is among the élite of the lite."
"even if she is," observed mrs. morland, "are polish of manners and cultivation of mind confined exclusively to persons of that class?"
"certainly not," said edward, "the most talented and refined youth at our college, and he in whose society i found the greatest pleasure, was the son of a bricklayer."
in the ladies' drawing-room, after dinner, the morlands heard a conversation between several of the female guests, who all seemed to know mrs. st. leonard very well by reputation, and they talked of her party that was to "come off" on this evening.
"i hear," said one lady, "that mrs. st. leonard is to have an unusual number of lions."
she then proceeded to name a gallant general, with his elegant wife and accomplished daughter; a celebrated commander in the navy; two highly distinguished members of congress, and even an ex-president.
also several of the most eminent among the american literati, and two first-rate artists.
edward morland felt as if he could say, "had i three ears i'd hear thee."
"such a woman as mrs. st. leonard can always command the best lions that are to be found," observed another lady.
"and then," said a third, "i have been told that she has such exquisite taste in lighting and embellishing her always elegant rooms.
and her supper table, whether for summer or winter parties, is so beautifully arranged; all the viands are so delicious, and the attendance of the servants so perfect and mrs. st. leonard does the honors with so much ease and tact."
"some friends of mine that visit her," said a fourth lady, "describe her parties as absolute perfection.
she always manages to bring together those persons that are best fitted to enjoy each other's conversation.
still no one is overlooked or neglected.
then everything at her reunions is so well proportioned she has just enough of music, and just enough of whatever amusement may add to the pleasure of her guests; and still there is no appearance of design or management on her part."
"and better than all," said the lady who had spoken firsts "mrs. st.
leonard is one of the kindest, most generous, and most benevolent of women she does good in every possible way."
"i can listen no longer," said caroline to edward, rising to change her seat.
"if i hear any more i shall absolutely hate the watkinsons.
how provoking that they should have sent us the first invitation.
if we had only thought of waiting till we could hear from mrs. st.
leonard!"
"for shame, caroline," said her brother, "how can you talk so of persons you have never seen, and to whom you ought to feel grateful for the kindness of their invitation; even if it has interfered with another party, that i must confess seems to offer unusual attractions.
now i have a presentiment that we shall find the watkinson part of the evening very enjoyable."
as soon as tea was over, mrs. morland and her daughter repaired to their toilettes.
fortunately, fashion as well as good taste, has decided that, at a summer party, the costume of the ladies should never go beyond an elegant simplicity.
therefore our two ladies in preparing for their intended appearance at mrs. st. leonard's, were enabled to attire themselves in a manner that would not seem out of place in the smaller company they expected to meet at the watkinsons.
over an under-dress of lawn, caroline morland put on a white organdy trimmed with lace, and decorated with bows of pink ribbon.
at the back of her head was a wreath of fresh and beautiful pink flowers, tied with a similar ribbon.
mrs. morland wore a black grenadine over a satin, and a lace cap trimmed with white.
it was but a quarter past nine o'clock when their carriage stopped at the watkinson door.
the front of the house looked very dark.
not a ray gleamed through the venetian shutters, and the glimmer beyond the fan-light over the door was almost imperceptible.
after the coachman had rung several times, an irish girl opened the door, cautiously (as irish girls always do), and admitted them into the entry, where one light only was burning in a branch lamp.
"shall we go upstairs?"
said mrs. morland.
"and what for would ye go upstairs?"
said the girl in a pert tone.
"it's all dark there, and there's no preparations.
ye can lave your things here a-hanging on the rack.
it is a party ye're expecting?
blessed are them what expects nothing."
the sanguine edward morland looked rather blank at this intelligence, and his sister whispered to him, "we'll get off to mrs. st. leonard's as soon as we possibly can.
when did you tell the coachman to come for us?"
"at half past ten," was the brother's reply.
"oh!
edward, edward!"
she exclaimed, "and i dare say he will not be punctual.
he may keep us here till eleven."
"courage, mes enfants," said their mother, "et parlez plus doucement."
the girl then ushered them into the back parlor, saying, "here's the company."
the room was large and gloomy.
a checquered mat covered the floor, and all the furniture was encased in striped calico covers, and the lamps, mirrors, etc.
concealed under green gauze.
the front parlor was entirely dark, and in the back apartment was no other light than a shaded lamp on a large centre table, round which was assembled a circle of children of all sizes and ages.
on a backless, cushionless sofa sat mrs. watkinson, and a young lady, whom she introduced as her daughter jane.
and mrs. morland in return presented edward and caroline.
"will you take the rocking-chair, ma'am?"
inquired mrs. watkinson.
mrs. morland declining the offer, the hostess took it herself, and see-sawed on it nearly the whole time.
it was a very awkward, high-legged, crouch-backed rocking-chair, and shamefully unprovided with anything in the form of a footstool.
"my husband is away, at boston, on business," said mrs. watkinson.
"i thought at first, ma'am, i should not be able to ask you here this evening, for it is not our way to have company in his absence; but my daughter jane over-persuaded me to send for you."
"what a pity," thought caroline.
"you must take us as you find us, ma'am," continued mrs. watkinson.
"we use no ceremony with anybody; and our rule is never to put ourselves out of the way.
we do not give parties [looking at the dresses of the ladies].
our first duty is to our children, and we cannot waste our substance on fashion and folly.
they'll have cause to thank us for it when we die."
something like a sob was heard from the centre table, at which the children were sitting, and a boy was seen to hold his handkerchief to his face.
"joseph, my child," said his mother, "do not cry.
you have no idea, ma'am, what an extraordinary boy that is.
you see how the bare mention of such a thing as our deaths has overcome him."
there was another sob behind the handkerchief, and the morlands thought it now sounded very much like a smothered laugh.
"as i was saying, ma'am," continued mrs. watkinson, "we never give parties.
we leave all sinful things to the vain and foolish.
my daughter jane has been telling me, that she heard this morning of a party that is going on tonight at the widow st. leonard's.
it is only fifteen years since her husband died.
he was carried off with a three days' illness, but two months after they were married.
i have had a domestic that lived with them at the time, so i know all about it.
and there she is now, living in an elegant house, and riding in her carriage, and dressing and dashing, and giving parties, and enjoying life, as she calls it.
poor creature, how i pity her!
thank heaven, nobody that i know goes to her parties.
if they did i would never wish to see them again in my house.
it is an encouragement to folly and nonsense and folly and nonsense are sinful.
do not you think so, ma'am?"
"if carried too far they may certainly become so," replied mrs.
morland.
"we have heard," said edward, "that mrs. st. leonard, though one of the ornaments of the gay world, has a kind heart, a beneficent spirit and a liberal hand."
"i know very little about her," replied mrs. watkinson, drawing up her head, "and i have not the least desire to know any more.
it is well she has no children; they'd be lost sheep if brought up in her fold.
for my part, ma'am," she continued, turning to mrs. morland, "i am quite satisfied with the quiet joys of a happy home.
and no mother has the least business with any other pleasures.
my innocent babes know nothing about plays, and balls, and parties; and they never shall.
do they look as if they had been accustomed to a life of pleasure?"
they certainly did not!
for when the morlands took a glance at them, they thought they had never seen youthful faces that were less gay, and indeed less prepossessing.
there was not a good feature or a pleasant expression among them all.
edward morland recollected his having often read "that childhood is always lovely."
but he saw that the juvenile watkinsons were an exception to the rule.
"the first duty of a mother is to her children," repeated mrs.
watkinson.
"till nine o'clock, my daughter jane and myself are occupied every evening in hearing the lessons that they have learned for to-morrow's school.
before that hour we can receive no visitors, and we never have company to tea, as that would interfere too much with our duties.
we had just finished hearing these lessons when you arrived.
afterwards the children are permitted to indulge themselves in rational play, for i permit no amusement that is not also instructive.
my children are so well trained, that even when alone their sports are always serious."
two of the boys glanced slyly at each other, with what edward morland comprehended as an expression of pitch-penny and marbles.
"they are now engaged at their game of astronomy," continued mrs.
watkinson.
"they have also a sort of geography cards, and a set of mathematical cards.
it is a blessed discovery, the invention of these educationary games; so that even the play-time of children can be turned to account.
and you have no idea, ma'am, how they enjoy them."
just then the boy joseph rose from the table, and stalking up to mrs.
watkinson, said to her, "mamma, please to whip me."
at this unusual request the visitors looked much amazed, and mrs.
watkinson replied to him, "whip you, my best joseph for what cause?
i have not seen you do anything wrong this evening, and you know my anxiety induces me to watch my children all the time."
"you could not see me," answered joseph, "for i have not done anything very wrong.
but i have had a bad thought, and you know mr.
ironrule says that a fault imagined is just as wicked as a fault committed."
"you see, ma'am, what a good memory he has," said mrs. watkinson aside to mrs. morland.
"but my best joseph, you make your mother tremble.
what fault have you imagined?
what was your bad thought?"
"ay," said another boy, "what's your thought like?"
"my thought," said joseph, "was 'confound all astronomy, and i could see the man hanged that made this game.'"
"oh!
my child," exclaimed the mother, stopping her ears, "i am indeed shocked.
i am glad you repented so immediately."
"yes," returned joseph, "but i am afraid my repentance won't last.
if i am not whipped, i may have these bad thoughts whenever i play at astronomy, and worse still at the geography game.
whip me, ma, and punish me as i deserve.
there's the rattan in the corner: i'll bring it to you myself."
"excellent boy!"
said his mother.
"you know i always pardon my children when they are so candid as to confess their faults."
"so you do," said joseph, "but a whipping will cure me better."
"i cannot resolve to punish so conscientious a child," said mrs.
watkinson.
"shall i take the trouble off your hands?"
inquired edward, losing all patience in his disgust at the sanctimonious hypocrisy of this young blifil.
"it is such a rarity for a boy to request a whipping, that so remarkable a desire ought by all means to be gratified."
joseph turned round and made a face at him.
"give me the rattan," said edward, half laughing, and offering to take it out of his hand.
"i'll use it to your full satisfaction."
the boy thought it most prudent to stride off and return to the table, and ensconce himself among his brothers and sisters; some of whom were staring with stupid surprise; others were whispering and giggling in the hope of seeing joseph get a real flogging.
mrs. watkinson having bestowed a bitter look on edward, hastened to turn the attention of his mother to something else.
"mrs. morland,"
said she, "allow me to introduce you to my youngest hope."
she pointed to a sleepy boy about five years old, who with head thrown back and mouth wide open, was slumbering in his chair.
mrs. watkinson's children were of that uncomfortable species who never go to bed; at least never without all manner of resistance.
all her boasted authority was inadequate to compel them; they never would confess themselves sleepy; always wanted to "sit up," and there was a nightly scene of scolding, coaxing, threatening and manoeuvring to get them off.
"i declare," said mrs. watkinson, "dear benny is almost asleep.
shake him up, christopher.
i want him to speak a speech.
his school-mistress takes great pains in teaching her little pupils to speak, and stands up herself and shows them how."
the child having been shaken up hard (two or three others helping christopher), rubbed his eyes and began to whine.
his mother went to him, took him on her lap, hushed him up, and began to coax him.
this done, she stood him on his feet before mrs. morland, and desired him to speak a speech for the company.
the child put his thumb into his mouth, and remained silent.
"ma," said jane watkinson, "you had better tell him what speech to speak."
"speak cato or plato," said his mother.
"which do you call it?
come now, benny how does it begin?
'you are quite right and reasonable, plato.'
that's it."
"speak lucius," said his sister jane.
"come now, benny say 'your thoughts are turned on peace.'"
the little boy looked very much as if they were not, and as if meditating an outbreak.
"no, no!"
exclaimed christopher, "let him say hamlet.
come now, benny 'to be or not to be.'"
"it ain't to be at all," cried benny, "and i won't speak the least bit of it for any of you.
i hate that speech!"
"only see his obstinacy," said the solemn joseph.
"and is he to be given up to?"
"speak anything, benny," said mrs. watkinson, "anything so that it is only a speech."
all the watkinson voices now began to clamor violently at the obstinate child "speak a speech!
speak a speech!
speak a speech!"
but they had no more effect than the reiterated exhortations with which nurses confuse the poor heads of babies, when they require them to "shake a day-day shake a day-day!"
mrs. morland now interfered, and begged that the sleepy little boy might be excused; on which he screamed out that "he wasn't sleepy at all, and would not go to bed ever."
"i never knew any of my children behave so before," said mrs.
watkinson.
"they are always models of obedience, ma'am.
a look is sufficient for them.
and i must say that they have in every way profited by the education we are giving them.
it is not our way, ma'am, to waste our money in parties and fooleries, and fine furniture and fine clothes, and rich food, and all such abominations.
our first duty is to our children, and to make them learn everything that is taught in the schools.
if they go wrong, it will not be for want of education.
hester, my dear, come and talk to miss morland in french."
hester (unlike her little brother that would not speak a speech)
stepped boldly forward, and addressed caroline morland with:
"parlez-vous français, mademoiselle?
comment se va madame votre mère?
aimez-vous la musique?
aimez-vous la danse?
bon jour bon soir bon repos.
comprenez-vous?"
to this tirade, uttered with great volubility, miss morland made no other reply than, "oui je comprens."
"very well, hester very well indeed," said mrs. watkinson.
"you see, ma'am," turning to mrs. morland, "how very fluent she is in french; and she has only been learning eleven quarters."
after considerable whispering between jane and her mother, the former withdrew, and sent in by the irish girl a waiter with a basket of soda biscuit, a pitcher of water, and some glasses.
mrs. watkinson invited her guests to consider themselves at home and help themselves freely, saying: "we never let cakes, sweetmeats, confectionery, or any such things enter the house, as they would be very unwholesome for the children, and it would be sinful to put temptation in their way.
i am sure, ma'am, you will agree with me that the plainest food is the best for everybody.
people that want nice things may go to parties for them; but they will never get any with me."
when the collation was over, and every child provided with a biscuit, mrs. watkinson said to mrs. morland: "now, ma'am, you shall have some music from my daughter jane, who is one of mr. bangwhanger's best scholars."
jane watkinson sat down to the piano and commenced a powerful piece of six mortal pages, which she played out of time and out of tune; but with tremendous force of hands; notwithstanding which, it had, however, the good effect of putting most of the children to sleep.
to the morlands the evening had seemed already five hours long.
still it was only half past ten when jane was in the midst of her piece.
the guests had all tacitly determined that it would be best not to let mrs. watkinson know their intention to go directly from her house to mrs. st. leonard's party; and the arrival of their carriage would have been the signal of departure, even if jane's piece had not reached its termination.
they stole glances at the clock on the mantel.
it wanted but a quarter of eleven, when jane rose from the piano, and was congratulated by her mother on the excellence of her music.
still no carriage was heard to stop; no doorbell was heard to ring.
mrs.
morland expressed her fears that the coachman had forgotten to come for them.
"has he been paid for bringing you here?"
asked mrs. watkinson.
"i paid him when we came to the door," said edward.
"i thought perhaps he might want the money for some purpose before he came for us."
"that was very kind in you, sir," said mrs. watkinson, "but not very wise.
there's no dependence on any coachman; and perhaps as he may be sure of business enough this rainy night he may never come at all being already paid for bringing you here."
now, the truth was that the coachman had come at the appointed time, but the noise of jane's piano had prevented his arrival being heard in the back parlor.
the irish girl had gone to the door when he rang the bell, and recognized in him what she called "an ould friend."
just then a lady and gentleman who had been caught in the rain came running along, and seeing a carriage drawing up at a door, the gentleman inquired of the driver if he could not take them to rutgers place.
the driver replied that he had just come for two ladies and a gentleman whom he had brought from the astor house.
"indeed and patrick," said the girl who stood at the door, "if i was you i'd be after making another penny to-night.
miss jane is pounding away at one of her long music pieces, and it won't be over before you have time to get to rutgers and back again.
and if you do make them wait awhile, where's the harm?
they've a dry roof over their heads, and i warrant it's not the first waiting they've ever had in their lives; and it won't be the last neither."
"exactly so," said the gentleman; and regardless of the propriety of first sending to consult the persons who had engaged the carriage, he told his wife to step in, and following her instantly himself, they drove away to rutgers place.
reader, if you were ever detained in a strange house by the non-arrival of your carriage, you will easily understand the excessive annoyance of finding that you are keeping a family out of their beds beyond their usual hour.
and in this case, there was a double grievance; the guests being all impatience to get off to a better place.
the children, all crying when wakened from their sleep, were finally taken to bed by two servant maids, and jane watkinson, who never came back again.
none were left but hester, the great french scholar, who, being one of those young imps that seem to have the faculty of living without sleep, sat bolt upright with her eyes wide open, watching the uncomfortable visitors.
the morlands felt as if they could bear it no longer, and edward proposed sending for another carriage to the nearest livery stable.
"we don't keep a man now," said mrs. watkinson, who sat nodding in the rocking-chair, attempting now and then a snatch of conversation, and saying "ma'am" still more frequently than usual.
"men servants are dreadful trials, ma'am, and we gave them up three years ago.
and i don't know how mary or katy are to go out this stormy night in search of a livery stable."
"on no consideration could i allow the women to do so," replied edward.
"if you will oblige me by the loan of an umbrella, i will go myself."
accordingly he set out on this business, but was unsuccessful at two livery stables, the carriages being all out.
at last he found one, and was driven in it to mr. watkinson's house, where his mother and sister were awaiting him, all quite ready, with their calashes and shawls on.
they gladly took their leave; mrs. watkinson rousing herself to hope they had spent a pleasant evening, and that they would come and pass another with her on their return to new york.
in such cases how difficult it is to reply even with what are called "words of course."
a kitchen lamp was brought to light them to the door, the entry lamp having long since been extinguished.
fortunately the rain had ceased; the stars began to reappear, and the morlands, when they found themselves in the carriage and on their way to mrs. st. leonard's, felt as if they could breathe again.
as may be supposed, they freely discussed the annoyances of the evening; but now those troubles were over they felt rather inclined to be merry about them.
"dear mother," said edward, "how i pitied you for having to endure mrs. watkinson's perpetual 'ma'aming' and 'ma'aming'; for i know you dislike the word."
"i wish," said caroline, "i was not so prone to be taken with ridiculous recollections.
but really to-night i could not get that old foolish child's play out of my head
here come three knights out of spain   a-courting of your daughter jane."
"i shall certainly never be one of those spanish knights," said edward.
"her daughter jane is in no danger of being ruled by any 'flattering tongue' of mine.
but what a shame for us to be talking of them in this manner."
they drove to mrs. st. leonard's, hoping to be yet in time to pass half an hour there; though it was now near twelve o'clock and summer parties never continue to a very late hour.
but as they came into the street in which she lived they were met by a number of coaches on their way home, and on reaching the door of her brilliantly lighted mansion, they saw the last of the guests driving off in the last of the carriages, and several musicians coming down the steps with their instruments in their hands.
"so there has been a dance, then!"
sighed caroline.
"oh, what we have missed!
it is really too provoking."
"so it is," said edward; "but remember that to-morrow morning we set off for niagara."
"i will leave a note for mrs. st. leonard," said his mother, "explaining that we were detained at mrs. watkinson's by our coachman disappointing us.
let us console ourselves with the hope of seeing more of this lady on our return.
and now, dear caroline, you must draw a moral from the untoward events of to-day.
when you are mistress of a house, and wish to show civility to strangers, let the invitation be always accompanied with a frank disclosure of what they are to expect.
and if you cannot conveniently invite company to meet them, tell them at once that you will not insist on their keeping their engagement with you if anything offers afterwards that they think they would prefer; provided only that they apprize you in time of the change in their plan."
"oh, mamma," replied caroline, "you may be sure i shall always take care not to betray my visitors into an engagement which they may have cause to regret, particularly if they are strangers whose time is limited.
i shall certainly, as you say, tell them not to consider themselves bound to me if they afterwards receive an invitation which promises them more enjoyment.
it will be a long while before i forget, the watkinson evening."
titbottom's spectacles
by george william curtis (1824-1892)
[from putnam's monthly, december, 1854. republished in the volume, prue and i (1856), by george william curtis (harper & brothers).]
in my mind's eye, horatio.
prue and i do not entertain much; our means forbid it.
in truth, other people entertain for us.
we enjoy that hospitality of which no account is made.
we see the show, and hear the music, and smell the flowers of great festivities, tasting as it were the drippings from rich dishes.
our own dinner service is remarkably plain, our dinners, even on state occasions, are strictly in keeping, and almost our only guest is titbottom.
i buy a handful of roses as i come up from the office, perhaps, and prue arranges them so prettily in a glass dish for the centre of the table that even when i have hurried out to see aurelia step into her carriage to go out to dine, i have thought that the bouquet she carried was not more beautiful because it was more costly.
i grant that it was more harmonious with her superb beauty and her rich attire.
and i have no doubt that if aurelia knew the old man, whom she must have seen so often watching her, and his wife, who ornaments her sex with as much sweetness, although with less splendor, than aurelia herself, she would also acknowledge that the nosegay of roses was as fine and fit upon their table as her own sumptuous bouquet is for herself.
i have that faith in the perception of that lovely lady.
it is at least my habit i hope i may say, my nature, to believe the best of people, rather than the worst.
if i thought that all this sparkling setting of beauty this fine fashion these blazing jewels and lustrous silks and airy gauzes, embellished with gold-threaded embroidery and wrought in a thousand exquisite elaborations, so that i cannot see one of those lovely girls pass me by without thanking god for the vision if i thought that this was all, and that underneath her lace flounces and diamond bracelets aurelia was a sullen, selfish woman, then i should turn sadly homewards, for i should see that her jewels were flashing scorn upon the object they adorned, and that her laces were of a more exquisite loveliness than the woman whom they merely touched with a superficial grace.
it would be like a gaily decorated mausoleum bright to see, but silent and dark within.
"great excellences, my dear prue," i sometimes allow myself to say, "lie concealed in the depths of character, like pearls at the bottom of the sea.
under the laughing, glancing surface, how little they are suspected!
perhaps love is nothing else than the sight of them by one person.
hence every man's mistress is apt to be an enigma to everybody else.
i have no doubt that when aurelia is engaged, people will say that she is a most admirable girl, certainly; but they cannot understand why any man should be in love with her.
as if it were at all necessary that they should!
and her lover, like a boy who finds a pearl in the public street, and wonders as much that others did not see it as that he did, will tremble until he knows his passion is returned; feeling, of course, that the whole world must be in love with this paragon who cannot possibly smile upon anything so unworthy as he."
"i hope, therefore, my dear mrs. prue," i continue to say to my wife, who looks up from her work regarding me with pleased pride, as if i were such an irresistible humorist, "you will allow me to believe that the depth may be calm although the surface is dancing.
if you tell me that aurelia is but a giddy girl, i shall believe that you think so.
but i shall know, all the while, what profound dignity, and sweetness, and peace lie at the foundation of her character."
i say such things to titbottom during the dull season at the office.
and i have known him sometimes to reply with a kind of dry, sad humor, not as if he enjoyed the joke, but as if the joke must be made, that he saw no reason why i should be dull because the season was so.
"and what do i know of aurelia or any other girl?"
he says to me with that abstracted air.
"i, whose aurelias were of another century and another zone."
then he falls into a silence which it seems quite profane to interrupt.
but as we sit upon our high stools at the desk opposite each other, i leaning upon my elbows and looking at him; he, with sidelong face, glancing out of the window, as if it commanded a boundless landscape, instead of a dim, dingy office court, i cannot refrain from saying:
"well!"
he turns slowly, and i go chatting on a little too loquacious, perhaps, about those young girls.
but i know that titbottom regards such an excess as venial, for his sadness is so sweet that you could believe it the reflection of a smile from long, long years ago.
one day, after i had been talking for a long time, and we had put up our books, and were preparing to leave, he stood for some time by the window, gazing with a drooping intentness, as if he really saw something more than the dark court, and said slowly:
"perhaps you would have different impressions of things if you saw them through my spectacles."
there was no change in his expression.
he still looked from the window, and i said:
"titbottom, i did not know that you used glasses.
i have never seen you wearing spectacles."
"no, i don't often wear them.
i am not very fond of looking through them.
but sometimes an irresistible necessity compels me to put them on, and i cannot help seeing."
titbottom sighed.
"is it so grievous a fate, to see?"
inquired i.
"yes; through my spectacles," he said, turning slowly and looking at me with wan solemnity.
it grew dark as we stood in the office talking, and taking our hats we went out together.
the narrow street of business was deserted.
the heavy iron shutters were gloomily closed over the windows.
from one or two offices struggled the dim gleam of an early candle, by whose light some perplexed accountant sat belated, and hunting for his error.
a careless clerk passed, whistling.
but the great tide of life had ebbed.
we heard its roar far away, and the sound stole into that silent street like the murmur of the ocean into an inland dell.
"you will come and dine with us, titbottom?"
he assented by continuing to walk with me, and i think we were both glad when we reached the house, and prue came to meet us, saying:
"do you know i hoped you would bring mr. titbottom to dine?"
titbottom smiled gently, and answered:
"he might have brought his spectacles with him, and i have been a happier man for it."
prue looked a little puzzled.
"my dear," i said, "you must know that our friend, mr. titbottom, is the happy possessor of a pair of wonderful spectacles.
i have never seen them, indeed; and, from what he says, i should be rather afraid of being seen by them.
most short-sighted persons are very glad to have the help of glasses; but mr. titbottom seems to find very little pleasure in his."
"it is because they make him too far-sighted, perhaps," interrupted prue quietly, as she took the silver soup-ladle from the sideboard.
we sipped our wine after dinner, and prue took her work.
can a man be too far-sighted?
i did not ask the question aloud.
the very tone in which prue had spoken convinced me that he might.
"at least," i said, "mr. titbottom will not refuse to tell us the history of his mysterious spectacles.
i have known plenty of magic in eyes" and i glanced at the tender blue eyes of prue "but i have not heard of any enchanted glasses."
"yet you must have seen the glass in which your wife looks every morning, and i take it that glass must be daily enchanted."
said titbottom, with a bow of quaint respect to my wife.
i do not think i have seen such a blush upon prue's cheek since well, since a great many years ago.
"i will gladly tell you the history of my spectacles," began titbottom.
"it is very simple; and i am not at all sure that a great many other people have not a pair of the same kind.
i have never, indeed, heard of them by the gross, like those of our young friend, moses, the son of the vicar of wakefield.
in fact, i think a gross would be quite enough to supply the world.
it is a kind of article for which the demand does not increase with use.
if we should all wear spectacles like mine, we should never smile any more.
oh i am not quite sure we should all be very happy."
"a very important difference," said prue, counting her stitches.
"you know my grandfather titbottom was a west indian.
a large proprietor, and an easy man, he basked in the tropical sun, leading his quiet, luxurious life.
he lived much alone, and was what people call eccentric, by which i understand that he was very much himself, and, refusing the influence of other people, they had their little revenges, and called him names.
it is a habit not exclusively tropical.
i think i have seen the same thing even in this city.
but he was greatly beloved my bland and bountiful grandfather.
he was so large-hearted and open-handed.
he was so friendly, and thoughtful, and genial, that even his jokes had the air of graceful benedictions.
he did not seem to grow old, and he was one of those who never appear to have been very young.
he flourished in a perennial maturity, an immortal middle-age.
"my grandfather lived upon one of the small islands, st. kit's, perhaps, and his domain extended to the sea.
his house, a rambling west indian mansion, was surrounded with deep, spacious piazzas, covered with luxurious lounges, among which one capacious chair was his peculiar seat.
they tell me he used sometimes to sit there for the whole day, his great, soft, brown eyes fastened upon the sea, watching the specks of sails that flashed upon the horizon, while the evanescent expressions chased each other over his placid face, as if it reflected the calm and changing sea before him.
his morning costume was an ample dressing-gown of gorgeously flowered silk, and his morning was very apt to last all day.
"he rarely read, but he would pace the great piazza for hours, with his hands sunken in the pockets of his dressing-gown, and an air of sweet reverie, which any author might be very happy to produce.
"society, of course, he saw little.
there was some slight apprehension that if he were bidden to social entertainments he might forget his coat, or arrive without some other essential part of his dress; and there is a sly tradition in the titbottom family that, having been invited to a ball in honor of the new governor of the island, my grandfather titbottom sauntered into the hall towards midnight, wrapped in the gorgeous flowers of his dressing-gown, and with his hands buried in the pockets, as usual.
there was great excitement, and immense deprecation of gubernatorial ire.
but it happened that the governor and my grandfather were old friends, and there was no offense.
but as they were conversing together, one of the distressed managers cast indignant glances at the brilliant costume of my grandfather, who summoned him, and asked courteously:
"'did you invite me or my coat?'
"'you, in a proper coat,' replied the manager.
"the governor smiled approvingly, and looked at my grandfather.
"'my friend," said he to the manager, 'i beg your pardon, i forgot.'
"the next day my grandfather was seen promenading in full ball dress along the streets of the little town.
"'they ought to know,' said he, 'that i have a proper coat, and that not contempt nor poverty, but forgetfulness, sent me to a ball in my dressing-gown.'
"he did not much frequent social festivals after this failure, but he always told the story with satisfaction and a quiet smile.
"to a stranger, life upon those little islands is uniform even to weariness.
but the old native dons like my grandfather ripen in the prolonged sunshine, like the turtle upon the bahama banks, nor know of existence more desirable.
life in the tropics i take to be a placid torpidity.
during the long, warm mornings of nearly half a century, my grandfather titbottom had sat in his dressing-gown and gazed at the sea.
but one calm june day, as he slowly paced the piazza after breakfast, his dreamy glance was arrested by a little vessel, evidently nearing the shore.
he called for his spyglass, and surveying the craft, saw that she came from the neighboring island.
she glided smoothly, slowly, over the summer sea.
the warm morning air was sweet with perfumes, and silent with heat.
the sea sparkled languidly, and the brilliant blue hung cloudlessly over.
scores of little island vessels had my grandfather seen come over the horizon, and cast anchor in the port.
hundreds of summer mornings had the white sails flashed and faded, like vague faces through forgotten dreams.
but this time he laid down the spyglass, and leaned against a column of the piazza, and watched the vessel with an intentness that he could not explain.
she came nearer and nearer, a graceful spectre in the dazzling morning.
"'decidedly i must step down and see about that vessel,' said my grandfather titbottom.
"he gathered his ample dressing-gown about him, and stepped from the piazza with no other protection from the sun than the little smoking cap upon his head.
his face wore a calm, beaming smile, as if he approved of all the world.
he was not an old man, but there was almost a patriarchal pathos in his expression as he sauntered along in the sunshine towards the shore.
a group of idle gazers was collected to watch the arrival.
the little vessel furled her sails and drifted slowly landward, and as she was of very light draft, she came close to the shelving shore.
a long plank was put out from her side, and the debarkation commenced.
my grandfather titbottom stood looking on to see the passengers descend.
there were but a few of them, and mostly traders from the neighboring island.
but suddenly the face of a young girl appeared over the side of the vessel, and she stepped upon the plank to descend.
my grandfather titbottom instantly advanced, and moving briskly reached the top of the plank at the same moment, and with the old tassel of his cap flashing in the sun, and one hand in the pocket of his dressing gown, with the other he handed the young lady carefully down the plank.
that young lady was afterwards my grandmother titbottom.
"and so, over the gleaming sea which he had watched so long, and which seemed thus to reward his patient gaze, came his bride that sunny morning.
"'of course we are happy,' he used to say: 'for you are the gift of the sun i have loved so long and so well.'
and my grandfather titbottom would lay his hand so tenderly upon the golden hair of his young bride, that you could fancy him a devout parsee caressing sunbeams.
"there were endless festivities upon occasion of the marriage; and my grandfather did not go to one of them in his dressing-gown.
the gentle sweetness of his wife melted every heart into love and sympathy.
he was much older than she, without doubt.
but age, as he used to say with a smile of immortal youth, is a matter of feeling, not of years.
and if, sometimes, as she sat by his side upon the piazza, her fancy looked through her eyes upon that summer sea and saw a younger lover, perhaps some one of those graceful and glowing heroes who occupy the foreground of all young maidens' visions by the sea, yet she could not find one more generous and gracious, nor fancy one more worthy and loving than my grandfather titbottom.
and if in the moonlit midnight, while he lay calmly sleeping, she leaned out of the window and sank into vague reveries of sweet possibility, and watched the gleaming path of the moonlight upon the water, until the dawn glided over it it was only that mood of nameless regret and longing, which underlies all human happiness, or it was the vision of that life of society, which she had never seen, but of which she had often read, and which looked very fair and alluring across the sea to a girlish imagination which knew that it should never know that reality.
"these west indian years were the great days of the family," said titbottom, with an air of majestic and regal regret, pausing and musing in our little parlor, like a late stuart in exile, remembering england.
prue raised her eyes from her work, and looked at him with a subdued admiration; for i have observed that, like the rest of her sex, she has a singular sympathy with the representative of a reduced family.
perhaps it is their finer perception which leads these tender-hearted women to recognize the divine right of social superiority so much more readily than we; and yet, much as titbottom was enhanced in my wife's admiration by the discovery that his dusky sadness of nature and expression was, as it were, the expiring gleam and late twilight of ancestral splendors, i doubt if mr. bourne would have preferred him for bookkeeper a moment sooner upon that account.
in truth, i have observed, down town, that the fact of your ancestors doing nothing is not considered good proof that you can do anything.
but prue and her sex regard sentiment more than action, and i understand easily enough why she is never tired of hearing me read of prince charlie.
if titbottom had been only a little younger, a little handsomer, a little more gallantly dressed in fact, a little more of the prince charlie, i am sure her eyes would not have fallen again upon her work so tranquilly, as he resumed his story.
"i can remember my grandfather titbottom, although i was a very young child, and he was a very old man.
my young mother and my young grandmother are very distinct figures in my memory, ministering to the old gentleman, wrapped in his dressing-gown, and seated upon the piazza.
i remember his white hair and his calm smile, and how, not long before he died, he called me to him, and laying his hand upon my head, said to me:
"my child, the world is not this great sunny piazza, nor life the fairy stories which the women tell you here as you sit in their laps.
i shall soon be gone, but i want to leave with you some memento of my love for you, and i know nothing more valuable than these spectacles, which your grandmother brought from her native island, when she arrived here one fine summer morning, long ago.
i cannot quite tell whether, when you grow older, you will regard it as a gift of the greatest value or as something that you had been happier never to have possessed.'
"'but grandpapa, i am not short-sighted.'
"'my son, are you not human?'
said the old gentleman; and how shall i ever forget the thoughtful sadness with which, at the same time he handed me the spectacles.
"instinctively i put them on, and looked at my grandfather.
but i saw no grandfather, no piazza, no flowered dressing-gown: i saw only a luxuriant palm-tree, waving broadly over a tranquil landscape.
pleasant homes clustered around it.
gardens teeming with fruit and flowers; flocks quietly feeding; birds wheeling and chirping.
i heard children's voices, and the low lullaby of happy mothers.
the sound of cheerful singing came wafted from distant fields upon the light breeze.
golden harvests glistened out of sight, and i caught their rustling whisper of prosperity.
a warm, mellow atmosphere bathed the whole.
i have seen copies of the landscapes of the italian painter claude which seemed to me faint reminiscences of that calm and happy vision.
but all this peace and prosperity seemed to flow from the spreading palm as from a fountain.
"i do not know how long i looked, but i had, apparently, no power, as i had no will, to remove the spectacles.
what a wonderful island must nevis be, thought i, if people carry such pictures in their pockets, only by buying a pair of spectacles!
what wonder that my dear grandmother titbottom has lived such a placid life, and has blessed us all with her sunny temper, when she has lived surrounded by such images of peace.
"my grandfather died.
but still, in the warm morning sunshine upon the piazza, i felt his placid presence, and as i crawled into his great chair, and drifted on in reverie through the still, tropical day, it was as if his soft, dreamy eye had passed into my soul.
my grandmother cherished his memory with tender regret.
a violent passion of grief for his loss was no more possible than for the pensive decay of the year.
we have no portrait of him, but i see always, when i remember him, that peaceful and luxuriant palm.
and i think that to have known one good old man one man who, through the chances and rubs of a long life, has carried his heart in his hand, like a palm branch, waving all discords into peace, helps our faith in god, in ourselves, and in each other, more than many sermons.
i hardly know whether to be grateful to my grandfather for the spectacles; and yet when i remember that it is to them i owe the pleasant image of him which i cherish, i seem to myself sadly ungrateful.
"madam," said titbottom to prue, solemnly, "my memory is a long and gloomy gallery, and only remotely, at its further end, do i see the glimmer of soft sunshine, and only there are the pleasant pictures hung.
they seem to me very happy along whose gallery the sunlight streams to their very feet, striking all the pictured walls into unfading splendor."
prue had laid her work in her lap, and as titbottom paused a moment, and i turned towards her, i found her mild eyes fastened upon my face, and glistening with happy tears.
"misfortunes of many kinds came heavily upon the family after the head was gone.
the great house was relinquished.
my parents were both dead, and my grandmother had entire charge of me.
but from the moment that i received the gift of the spectacles, i could not resist their fascination, and i withdrew into myself, and became a solitary boy.
there were not many companions for me of my own age, and they gradually left me, or, at least, had not a hearty sympathy with me; for if they teased me i pulled out my spectacles and surveyed them so seriously that they acquired a kind of awe of me, and evidently regarded my grandfather's gift as a concealed magical weapon which might be dangerously drawn upon them at any moment.
whenever, in our games, there were quarrels and high words, and i began to feel about my dress and to wear a grave look, they all took the alarm, and shouted, 'look out for titbottom's spectacles,' and scattered like a flock of scared sheep.
"nor could i wonder at it.
for, at first, before they took the alarm, i saw strange sights when i looked at them through the glasses.
if two were quarrelling about a marble or a ball, i had only to go behind a tree where i was concealed and look at them leisurely.
then the scene changed, and no longer a green meadow with boys playing, but a spot which i did not recognize, and forms that made me shudder or smile.
it was not a big boy bullying a little one, but a young wolf with glistening teeth and a lamb cowering before him; or, it was a dog faithful and famishing or a star going slowly into eclipse or a rainbow fading or a flower blooming or a sun rising or a waning moon.
the revelations of the spectacles determined my feeling for the boys, and for all whom i saw through them.
no shyness, nor awkwardness, nor silence, could separate me from those who looked lovely as lilies to my illuminated eyes.
if i felt myself warmly drawn to any one i struggled with the fierce desire of seeing him through the spectacles.
i longed to enjoy the luxury of ignorant feeling, to love without knowing, to float like a leaf upon the eddies of life, drifted now to a sunny point, now to a solemn shade now over glittering ripples, now over gleaming calms, and not to determined ports, a trim vessel with an inexorable rudder.
"but, sometimes, mastered after long struggles, i seized my spectacles and sauntered into the little town.
putting them to my eyes i peered into the houses and at the people who passed me.
here sat a family at breakfast, and i stood at the window looking in.
o motley meal!
fantastic vision!
the good mother saw her lord sitting opposite, a grave, respectable being, eating muffins.
but i saw only a bank-bill, more or less crumpled and tattered, marked with a larger or lesser figure.
if a sharp wind blew suddenly, i saw it tremble and flutter; it was thin, flat, impalpable.
i removed my glasses, and looked with my eyes at the wife.
i could have smiled to see the humid tenderness with which she regarded her strange vis-à-vis.
is life only a game of blind-man's-buff?
of droll cross-purposes?
"or i put them on again, and looked at the wife.
how many stout trees i saw, how many tender flowers, how many placid pools; yes, and how many little streams winding out of sight, shrinking before the large, hard, round eyes opposite, and slipping off into solitude and shade, with a low, inner song for their own solace.
and in many houses i thought to see angels, nymphs, or at least, women, and could only find broomsticks, mops, or kettles, hurrying about, rattling, tinkling, in a state of shrill activity.
i made calls upon elegant ladies, and after i had enjoyed the gloss of silk and the delicacy of lace, and the flash of jewels, i slipped on my spectacles, and saw a peacock's feather, flounced and furbelowed and fluttering; or an iron rod, thin, sharp, and hard; nor could i possibly mistake the movement of the drapery for any flexibility of the thing draped, or, mysteriously chilled, i saw a statue of perfect form, or flowing movement, it might be alabaster, or bronze, or marble, but sadly often it was ice; and i knew that after it had shone a little, and frozen a few eyes with its despairing perfection, it could not be put away in the niches of palaces for ornament and proud family tradition, like the alabaster, or bronze, or marble statues, but would melt, and shrink, and fall coldly away in colorless and useless water, be absorbed in the earth and utterly forgotten.
"but the true sadness was rather in seeing those who, not having the spectacles, thought that the iron rod was flexible, and the ice statue warm.
i saw many a gallant heart, which seemed to me brave and loyal as the crusaders sent by genuine and noble faith to syria and the sepulchre, pursuing, through days and nights, and a long life of devotion, the hope of lighting at least a smile in the cold eyes, if not a fire in the icy heart.
i watched the earnest, enthusiastic sacrifice.
i saw the pure resolve, the generous faith, the fine scorn of doubt, the impatience of suspicion.
i watched the grace, the ardor, the glory of devotion.
through those strange spectacles how often i saw the noblest heart renouncing all other hope, all other ambition, all other life, than the possible love of some one of those statues.
ah!
me, it was terrible, but they had not the love to give.
the parian face was so polished and smooth, because there was no sorrow upon the heart, and, drearily often, no heart to be touched.
i could not wonder that the noble heart of devotion was broken, for it had dashed itself against a stone.
i wept, until my spectacles were dimmed for that hopeless sorrow; but there was a pang beyond tears for those icy statues.
"still a boy, i was thus too much a man in knowledge, i did not comprehend the sights i was compelled to see.
i used to tear my glasses away from my eyes, and, frightened at myself, run to escape my own consciousness.
reaching the small house where we then lived, i plunged into my grandmother's room and, throwing myself upon the floor, buried my face in her lap; and sobbed myself to sleep with premature grief.
but when i awakened, and felt her cool hand upon my hot forehead, and heard the low, sweet song, or the gentle story, or the tenderly told parable from the bible, with which she tried to soothe me, i could not resist the mystic fascination that lured me, as i lay in her lap, to steal a glance at her through the spectacles.
"pictures of the madonna have not her rare and pensive beauty.
upon the tranquil little islands her life had been eventless, and all the fine possibilities of her nature were like flowers that never bloomed.
placid were all her years; yet i have read of no heroine, of no woman great in sudden crises, that it did not seem to me she might have been.
the wife and widow of a man who loved his own home better than the homes of others, i have yet heard of no queen, no belle, no imperial beauty, whom in grace, and brilliancy, and persuasive courtesy, she might not have surpassed.
"madam," said titbottom to my wife, whose heart hung upon his story; "your husband's young friend, aurelia, wears sometimes a camelia in her hair, and no diamond in the ball-room seems so costly as that perfect flower, which women envy, and for whose least and withered petal men sigh; yet, in the tropical solitudes of brazil, how many a camelia bud drops from a bush that no eye has ever seen, which, had it flowered and been noticed, would have gilded all hearts with its memory.
"when i stole these furtive glances at my grandmother, half fearing that they were wrong, i saw only a calm lake, whose shores were low, and over which the sky hung unbroken, so that the least star was clearly reflected.
it had an atmosphere of solemn twilight tranquillity, and so completely did its unruffled surface blend with the cloudless, star-studded sky, that, when i looked through my spectacles at my grandmother, the vision seemed to me all heaven and stars.
yet, as i gazed and gazed, i felt what stately cities might well have been built upon those shores, and have flashed prosperity over the calm, like coruscations of pearls.
"i dreamed of gorgeous fleets, silken sailed and blown by perfumed winds, drifting over those depthless waters and through those spacious skies.
i gazed upon the twilight, the inscrutable silence, like a god-fearing discoverer upon a new, and vast, and dim sea, bursting upon him through forest glooms, and in the fervor of whose impassioned gaze, a millennial and poetic world arises, and man need no longer die to be happy.
"my companions naturally deserted me, for i had grown wearily grave and abstracted: and, unable to resist the allurement of my spectacles, i was constantly lost in a world, of which those companions were part, yet of which they knew nothing.
i grew cold and hard, almost morose; people seemed to me blind and unreasonable.
they did the wrong thing.
they called green, yellow; and black, white.
young men said of a girl, 'what a lovely, simple creature!'
i looked, and there was only a glistening wisp of straw, dry and hollow.
or they said, 'what a cold, proud beauty!'
i looked, and lo!
a madonna, whose heart held the world.
or they said, 'what a wild, giddy girl!'
and i saw a glancing, dancing mountain stream, pure as the virgin snows whence it flowed, singing through sun and shade, over pearls and gold dust, slipping along unstained by weed, or rain, or heavy foot of cattle, touching the flowers with a dewy kiss, a beam of grace, a happy song, a line of light, in the dim and troubled landscape.
"my grandmother sent me to school, but i looked at the master, and saw that he was a smooth, round ferule or an improper noun or a vulgar fraction, and refused to obey him.
or he was a piece of string, a rag, a willow-wand, and i had a contemptuous pity.
but one was a well of cool, deep water, and looking suddenly in, one day, i saw the stars.
he gave me all my schooling.
with him i used to walk by the sea, and, as we strolled and the waves plunged in long legions before us, i looked at him through the spectacles, and as his eye dilated with the boundless view, and his chest heaved with an impossible desire, i saw xerxes and his army tossing and glittering, rank upon rank, multitude upon multitude, out of sight, but ever regularly advancing and with the confused roar of ceaseless music, prostrating themselves in abject homage.
or, as with arms outstretched and hair streaming on the wind, he chanted full lines of the resounding iliad, i saw homer pacing the aegean sands in the greek sunsets of forgotten times.
"my grandmother died, and i was thrown into the world without resources, and with no capital but my spectacles.
i tried to find employment, but men were shy of me.
there was a vague suspicion that i was either a little crazed, or a good deal in league with the prince of darkness.
my companions who would persist in calling a piece of painted muslin a fair and fragrant flower had no difficulty; success waited for them around every corner, and arrived in every ship.
i tried to teach, for i loved children.
but if anything excited my suspicion, and, putting on my spectacles, i saw that i was fondling a snake, or smelling at a bud with a worm in it, i sprang up in horror and ran away; or, if it seemed to me through the glasses that a cherub smiled upon me, or a rose was blooming in my buttonhole, then i felt myself imperfect and impure, not fit to be leading and training what was so essentially superior in quality to myself, and i kissed the children and left them weeping and wondering.
"in despair i went to a great merchant on the island, and asked him to employ me.
"'my young friend,' said he, 'i understand that you have some singular secret, some charm, or spell, or gift, or something, i don't know what, of which people are afraid.
now, you know, my dear,' said the merchant, swelling up, and apparently prouder of his great stomach than of his large fortune, 'i am not of that kind.
i am not easily frightened.
you may spare yourself the pain of trying to impose upon me.
people who propose to come to time before i arrive, are accustomed to arise very early in the morning,' said he, thrusting his thumbs in the armholes of his waistcoat, and spreading the fingers, like two fans, upon his bosom.
'i think i have heard something of your secret.
you have a pair of spectacles, i believe, that you value very much, because your grandmother brought them as a marriage portion to your grandfather.
now, if you think fit to sell me those spectacles, i will pay you the largest market price for glasses.
what do you say?'
"i told him that i had not the slightest idea of selling my spectacles.
"'my young friend means to eat them, i suppose,' said he with a contemptuous smile.
"i made no reply, but was turning to leave the office, when the merchant called after me
"'my young friend, poor people should never suffer themselves to get into pets.
anger is an expensive luxury, in which only men of a certain income can indulge.
a pair of spectacles and a hot temper are not the most promising capital for success in life, master titbottom.'
"i said nothing, but put my hand upon the door to go out, when the merchant said more respectfully,
"'well, you foolish boy, if you will not sell your spectacles, perhaps you will agree to sell the use of them to me.
that is, you shall only put them on when i direct you, and for my purposes.
hallo!
you little fool!'
cried he impatiently, as he saw that i intended to make no reply.
"but i had pulled out my spectacles, and put them on for my own purpose, and against his direction and desire.
i looked at him, and saw a huge bald-headed wild boar, with gross chops and a leering eye only the more ridiculous for the high-arched, gold-bowed spectacles, that straddled his nose.
one of his fore hoofs was thrust into the safe, where his bills payable were hived, and the other into his pocket, among the loose change and bills there.
his ears were pricked forward with a brisk, sensitive smartness.
in a world where prize pork was the best excellence, he would have carried off all the premiums.
"i stepped into the next office in the street, and a mild-faced, genial man, also a large and opulent merchant, asked me my business in such a tone, that i instantly looked through my spectacles, and saw a land flowing with milk and honey.
there i pitched my tent, and stayed till the good man died, and his business was discontinued.
"but while there," said titbottom, and his voice trembled away into a sigh, "i first saw preciosa.
spite of the spectacles, i saw preciosa.
for days, for weeks, for months, i did not take my spectacles with me.
i ran away from them, i threw them up on high shelves, i tried to make up my mind to throw them into the sea, or down the well.
i could not, i would not, i dared not look at preciosa through the spectacles.
it was not possible for me deliberately to destroy them; but i awoke in the night, and could almost have cursed my dear old grandfather for his gift.
i escaped from the office, and sat for whole days with preciosa.
i told her the strange things i had seen with my mystic glasses.
the hours were not enough for the wild romances which i raved in her ear.
she listened, astonished and appalled.
her blue eyes turned upon me with a sweet deprecation.
she clung to me, and then withdrew, and fled fearfully from the room.
but she could not stay away.
she could not resist my voice, in whose tones burned all the love that filled my heart and brain.
the very effort to resist the desire of seeing her as i saw everybody else, gave a frenzy and an unnatural tension to my feeling and my manner.
i sat by her side, looking into her eyes, smoothing her hair, folding her to my heart, which was sunken and deep why not forever?
in that dream of peace.
i ran from her presence, and shouted, and leaped with joy, and sat the whole night through, thrilled into happiness by the thought of her love and loveliness, like a wind-harp, tightly strung, and answering the airiest sigh of the breeze with music.
then came calmer days the conviction of deep love settled upon our lives as after the hurrying, heaving days of spring, comes the bland and benignant summer.
"'it is no dream, then, after all, and we are happy,' i said to her, one day; and there came no answer, for happiness is speechless.
"we are happy then," i said to myself, "there is no excitement now.
how glad i am that i can now look at her through my spectacles."
"i feared lest some instinct should warn me to beware.
i escaped from her arms, and ran home and seized the glasses and bounded back again to preciosa.
as i entered the room i was heated, my head was swimming with confused apprehension, my eyes must have glared.
preciosa was frightened, and rising from her seat, stood with an inquiring glance of surprise in her eyes.
but i was bent with frenzy upon my purpose.
i was merely aware that she was in the room.
i saw nothing else.
i heard nothing.
i cared for nothing, but to see her through that magic glass, and feel at once, all the fulness of blissful perfection which that would reveal.
preciosa stood before the mirror, but alarmed at my wild and eager movements, unable to distinguish what i had in my hands, and seeing me raise them suddenly to my face, she shrieked with terror, and fell fainting upon the floor, at the very moment that i placed the glasses before my eyes, and beheld myself, reflected in the mirror, before which she had been standing.
"dear madam," cried titbottom, to my wife, springing up and falling back again in his chair, pale and trembling, while prue ran to him and took his hand, and i poured out a glass of water "i saw myself."
there was silence for many minutes.
prue laid her hand gently upon the head of our guest, whose eyes were closed, and who breathed softly, like an infant in sleeping.
perhaps, in all the long years of anguish since that hour, no tender hand had touched his brow, nor wiped away the damps of a bitter sorrow.
perhaps the tender, maternal fingers of my wife soothed his weary head with the conviction that he felt the hand of his mother playing with the long hair of her boy in the soft west indian morning.
perhaps it was only the natural relief of expressing a pent-up sorrow.
when he spoke again, it was with the old, subdued tone, and the air of quaint solemnity.
"these things were matters of long, long ago, and i came to this country soon after.
i brought with me, premature age, a past of melancholy memories, and the magic spectacles.
i had become their slave.
i had nothing more to fear.
having seen myself, i was compelled to see others, properly to understand my relations to them.
the lights that cheer the future of other men had gone out for me.
my eyes were those of an exile turned backwards upon the receding shore, and not forwards with hope upon the ocean.
i mingled with men, but with little pleasure.
there are but many varieties of a few types.
i did not find those i came to clearer sighted than those i had left behind.
i heard men called shrewd and wise, and report said they were highly intelligent and successful.
but when i looked at them through my glasses, i found no halo of real manliness.
my finest sense detected no aroma of purity and principle; but i saw only a fungus that had fattened and spread in a night.
they all went to the theater to see actors upon the stage.
i went to see actors in the boxes, so consummately cunning, that the others did not know they were acting, and they did not suspect it themselves.
"perhaps you wonder it did not make me misanthropical.
my dear friends, do not forget that i had seen myself.
it made me compassionate, not cynical.
of course i could not value highly the ordinary standards of success and excellence.
when i went to church and saw a thin, blue, artificial flower, or a great sleepy cushion expounding the beauty of holiness to pews full of eagles, half-eagles, and threepences, however adroitly concealed in broadcloth and boots:
or saw an onion in an easter bonnet weeping over the sins of magdalen, i did not feel as they felt who saw in all this, not only propriety, but piety.
or when at public meetings an eel stood up on end, and wriggled and squirmed lithely in every direction, and declared that, for his part, he went in for rainbows and hot water how could i help seeing that he was still black and loved a slimy pool?
"i could not grow misanthropical when i saw in the eyes of so many who were called old, the gushing fountains of eternal youth, and the light of an immortal dawn, or when i saw those who were esteemed unsuccessful and aimless, ruling a fair realm of peace and plenty, either in themselves, or more perfectly in another a realm and princely possession for which they had well renounced a hopeless search and a belated triumph.
i knew one man who had been for years a by-word for having sought the philosopher's stone.
but i looked at him through the spectacles and saw a satisfaction in concentrated energies, and a tenacity arising from devotion to a noble dream, which was not apparent in the youths who pitied him in the aimless effeminacy of clubs, nor in the clever gentlemen who cracked their thin jokes upon him over a gossiping dinner.
"and there was your neighbor over the way, who passes for a woman who has failed in her career, because she is an old maid.
people wag solemn heads of pity, and say that she made so great a mistake in not marrying the brilliant and famous man who was for long years her suitor.
it is clear that no orange flower will ever bloom for her.
the young people make tender romances about her as they watch her, and think of her solitary hours of bitter regret, and wasting longing, never to be satisfied.
when i first came to town i shared this sympathy, and pleased my imagination with fancying her hard struggle with the conviction that she had lost all that made life beautiful.
i supposed that if i looked at her through my spectacles, i should see that it was only her radiant temper which so illuminated her dress, that we did not see it to be heavy sables.
but when, one day, i did raise my glasses and glanced at her, i did not see the old maid whom we all pitied for a secret sorrow, but a woman whose nature was a tropic, in which the sun shone, and birds sang, and flowers bloomed forever.
there were no regrets, no doubts and half wishes, but a calm sweetness, a transparent peace.
i saw her blush when that old lover passed by, or paused to speak to her, but it was only the sign of delicate feminine consciousness.
she knew his love, and honored it, although she could not understand it nor return it.
i looked closely at her, and i saw that although all the world had exclaimed at her indifference to such homage, and had declared it was astonishing she should lose so fine a match, she would only say simply and quietly
"'if shakespeare loved me and i did not love him, how could i marry him?'
"could i be misanthropical when i saw such fidelity, and dignity, and simplicity?
"you may believe that i was especially curious to look at that old lover of hers, through my glasses.
he was no longer young, you know, when i came, and his fame and fortune were secure.
certainly i have heard of few men more beloved, and of none more worthy to be loved.
he had the easy manner of a man of the world, the sensitive grace of a poet, and the charitable judgment of a wide traveller.
he was accounted the most successful and most unspoiled of men.
handsome, brilliant, wise, tender, graceful, accomplished, rich, and famous, i looked at him, without the spectacles, in surprise, and admiration, and wondered how your neighbor over the way had been so entirely untouched by his homage.
i watched their intercourse in society, i saw her gay smile, her cordial greeting; i marked his frank address, his lofty courtesy.
their manner told no tales.
the eager world was balked, and i pulled out my spectacles.
"i had seen her, already, and now i saw him.
he lived only in memory, and his memory was a spacious and stately palace.
but he did not oftenest frequent the banqueting hall, where were endless hospitality and feasting nor did he loiter much in reception rooms, where a throng of new visitors was forever swarming nor did he feed his vanity by haunting the apartment in which were stored the trophies of his varied triumphs nor dream much in the great gallery hung with pictures of his travels.
but from all these lofty halls of memory he constantly escaped to a remote and solitary chamber, into which no one had ever penetrated.
but my fatal eyes, behind the glasses, followed and entered with him, and saw that the chamber was a chapel.
it was dim, and silent, and sweet with perpetual incense that burned upon an altar before a picture forever veiled.
there, whenever i chanced to look, i saw him kneel and pray; and there, by day and by night, a funeral hymn was chanted.
"i do not believe you will be surprised that i have been content to remain deputy bookkeeper.
my spectacles regulated my ambition, and i early learned that there were better gods than plutus.
the glasses have lost much of their fascination now, and i do not often use them.
sometimes the desire is irresistible.
whenever i am greatly interested, i am compelled to take them out and see what it is that i admire.
"and yet and yet," said titbottom, after a pause, "i am not sure that i thank my grandfather."
prue had long since laid away her work, and had heard every word of the story.
i saw that the dear woman had yet one question to ask, and had been earnestly hoping to hear something that would spare her the necessity of asking.
but titbottom had resumed his usual tone, after the momentary excitement, and made no further allusion to himself.
we all sat silently; titbottom's eyes fastened musingly upon the carpet:
prue looking wistfully at him, and i regarding both.
it was past midnight, and our guest arose to go.
he shook hands quietly, made his grave spanish bow to prue, and taking his hat, went towards the front door.
prue and i accompanied him.
i saw in her eyes that she would ask her question.
and as titbottom opened the door, i heard the low words:
"and preciosa?"
titbottom paused.
he had just opened the door and the moonlight streamed over him as he stood, turning back to us.
"i have seen her but once since.
it was in church, and she was kneeling with her eyes closed, so that she did not see me.
but i rubbed the glasses well, and looked at her, and saw a white lily, whose stem was broken, but which was fresh; and luminous, and fragrant, still."
"that was a miracle," interrupted prue.
"madam, it was a miracle," replied titbottom, "and for that one sight i am devoutly grateful for my grandfather's gift.
i saw, that although a flower may have lost its hold upon earthly moisture, it may still bloom as sweetly, fed by the dews of heaven."
the door closed, and he was gone.
but as prue put her arm in mine and we went upstairs together, she whispered in my ear:
"how glad i am that you don't wear spectacles."
my double; and how he undid me
by edward everett hale (1822-1909)
[from the atlantic monthly, september, 1859. republished in the volume, the man without a country, and other tales (1868), by edward everett hale (little, brown & co.).]
it is not often that i trouble the readers of the atlantic monthly.
i should not trouble them now, but for the importunities of my wife, who "feels to insist" that a duty to society is unfulfilled, till i have told why i had to have a double, and how he undid me.
she is sure, she says, that intelligent persons cannot understand that pressure upon public servants which alone drives any man into the employment of a double.
and while i fear she thinks, at the bottom of her heart, that my fortunes will never be re-made, she has a faint hope, that, as another rasselas, i may teach a lesson to future publics, from which they may profit, though we die.
owing to the behavior of my double, or, if you please, to that public pressure which compelled me to employ him, i have plenty of leisure to write this communication.
i am, or rather was, a minister, of the sandemanian connection.
i was settled in the active, wide-awake town of naguadavick, on one of the finest water-powers in maine.
we used to call it a western town in the heart of the civilization of new england.
a charming place it was and is.
a spirited, brave young parish had i; and it seemed as if we might have all "the joy of eventful living" to our hearts' content.
alas!
how little we knew on the day of my ordination, and in those halcyon moments of our first housekeeping!
to be the confidential friend in a hundred families in the town cutting the social trifle, as my friend haliburton says, "from the top of the whipped-syllabub to the bottom of the sponge-cake, which is the foundation" to keep abreast of the thought of the age in one's study, and to do one's best on sunday to interweave that thought with the active life of an active town, and to inspirit both and make both infinite by glimpses of the eternal glory, seemed such an exquisite forelook into one's life!
enough to do, and all so real and so grand!
if this vision could only have lasted.
the truth is, that this vision was not in itself a delusion, nor, indeed, half bright enough.
if one could only have been left to do his own business, the vision would have accomplished itself and brought out new paraheliacal visions, each as bright as the original.
the misery was and is, as we found out, i and polly, before long, that, besides the vision, and besides the usual human and finite failures in life (such as breaking the old pitcher that came over in the mayflower, and putting into the fire the alpenstock with which her father climbed mont blanc) besides, these, i say (imitating the style of robinson crusoe), there were pitchforked in on us a great rowen-heap of humbugs, handed down from some unknown seed-time, in which we were expected, and i chiefly, to fulfil certain public functions before the community, of the character of those fulfilled by the third row of supernumeraries who stand behind the sepoys in the spectacle of the cataract of the ganges.
they were the duties, in a word, which one performs as member of one or another social class or subdivision, wholly distinct from what one does as a. by himself a.
what invisible power put these functions on me, it would be very hard to tell.
but such power there was and is.
and i had not been at work a year before i found i was living two lives, one real and one merely functional for two sets of people, one my parish, whom i loved, and the other a vague public, for whom i did not care two straws.
all this was in a vague notion, which everybody had and has, that this second life would eventually bring out some great results, unknown at present, to somebody somewhere.
crazed by this duality of life, i first read dr. wigan on the duality of the brain, hoping that i could train one side of my head to do these outside jobs, and the other to do my intimate and real duties.
for richard greenough once told me that, in studying for the statue of franklin, he found that the left side of the great man's face was philosophic and reflective, and the right side funny and smiling.
if you will go and look at the bronze statue, you will find he has repeated this observation there for posterity.
the eastern profile is the portrait of the statesman franklin, the western of poor richard.
but dr. wigan does not go into these niceties of this subject, and i failed.
it was then that, on my wife's suggestion, i resolved to look out for a double.
i was, at first, singularly successful.
we happened to be recreating at stafford springs that summer.
we rode out one day, for one of the relaxations of that watering-place, to the great monsonpon house.
we were passing through one of the large halls, when my destiny was fulfilled!
i saw my man!
he was not shaven.
he had on no spectacles.
he was dressed in a green baize roundabout and faded blue overalls, worn sadly at the knee.
but i saw at once that he was of my height, five feet four and a half.
he had black hair, worn off by his hat.
so have and have not i. he stooped in walking.
so do i. his hands were large, and mine.
and choicest gift of fate in all he had, not "a strawberry-mark on his left arm," but a cut from a juvenile brickbat over his right eye, slightly affecting the play of that eyebrow.
reader, so have i!
my fate was sealed!
a word with mr. holley, one of the inspectors, settled the whole thing.
it proved that this dennis shea was a harmless, amiable fellow, of the class known as shiftless, who had sealed his fate by marrying a dumb wife, who was at that moment ironing in the laundry.
before i left stafford, i had hired both for five years.
we had applied to judge pynchon, then the probate judge at springfield, to change the name of dennis shea to frederic ingham.
we had explained to the judge, what was the precise truth, that an eccentric gentleman wished to adopt dennis under this new name into his family.
it never occurred to him that dennis might be more than fourteen years old.
and thus, to shorten this preface, when we returned at night to my parsonage at naguadavick, there entered mrs. ingham, her new dumb laundress, myself, who am mr. frederic ingham, and my double, who was mr.
frederic ingham by as good right as i.
oh, the fun we had the next morning in shaving his beard to my pattern, cutting his hair to match mine, and teaching him how to wear and how to take off gold-bowed spectacles!
really, they were electroplate, and the glass was plain (for the poor fellow's eyes were excellent).
then in four successive afternoons i taught him four speeches.
i had found these would be quite enough for the supernumerary-sepoy line of life, and it was well for me they were.
for though he was good-natured, he was very shiftless, and it was, as our national proverb says, "like pulling teeth" to teach him.
but at the end of the next week he could say, with quite my easy and frisky air:
1.
"very well, thank you.
and you?"
this for an answer to casual salutations.
2.
"i am very glad you liked it."
3.
"there has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that i will not occupy the time."
4.
"i agree, in general, with my friend on the other side of the room."
at first i had a feeling that i was going to be at great cost for clothing him.
but it proved, of course, at once, that, whenever he was out, i should be at home.
and i went, during the bright period of his success, to so few of those awful pageants which require a black dress-coat and what the ungodly call, after mr. dickens, a white choker, that in the happy retreat of my own dressing-gowns and jackets my days went by as happily and cheaply as those of another thalaba.
and polly declares there was never a year when the tailoring cost so little.
he lived (dennis, not thalaba) in his wife's room over the kitchen.
he had orders never to show himself at that window.
when he appeared in the front of the house, i retired to my sanctissimum and my dressing-gown.
in short, the dutchman and, his wife, in the old weather-box, had not less to do with, each other than he and i. he made the furnace-fire and split the wood before daylight; then he went to sleep again, and slept late; then came for orders, with a red silk bandanna tied round his head, with his overalls on, and his dress-coat and spectacles off.
if we happened to be interrupted, no one guessed that he was frederic ingham as well as i; and, in the neighborhood, there grew up an impression that the minister's irishman worked day-times in the factory village at new coventry.
after i had given him his orders, i never saw him till the next day.
i launched him by sending him to a meeting of the enlightenment board.
the enlightenment board consists of seventy-four members, of whom sixty-seven are necessary to form a quorum.
one becomes a member under the regulations laid down in old judge dudley's will.
i became one by being ordained pastor of a church in naguadavick.
you see you cannot help yourself, if you would.
at this particular time we had had four successive meetings, averaging four hours each wholly occupied in whipping in a quorum.
at the first only eleven men were present; at the next, by force of three circulars, twenty-seven; at the third, thanks to two days' canvassing by auchmuty and myself, begging men to come, we had sixty.
half the others were in europe.
but without a quorum we could do nothing.
all the rest of us waited grimly for our four hours, and adjourned without any action.
at the fourth meeting we had flagged, and only got fifty-nine together.
but on the first appearance of my double whom i sent on this fatal monday to the fifth meeting he was the sixty-seventh man who entered the room.
he was greeted with a storm of applause!
the poor fellow had missed his way read the street signs ill through his spectacles (very ill, in fact, without them) and had not dared to inquire.
he entered the room finding the president and secretary holding to their chairs two judges of the supreme court, who were also members ex officio, and were begging leave to go away.
on his entrance all was changed.
presto, the by-laws were amended, and the western property was given away.
nobody stopped to converse with him.
he voted, as i had charged him to do, in every instance, with the minority.
i won new laurels as a man of sense, though a little unpunctual and dennis, alias ingham, returned to the parsonage, astonished to see with how little wisdom the world is governed.
he cut a few of my parishioners in the street; but he had his glasses off, and i am known to be nearsighted.
eventually he recognized them more readily than i.
i "set him again" at the exhibition of the new coventry academy; and here he undertook a "speaking part" as, in my boyish, worldly days, i remember the bills used to say of mlle.
celeste.
we are all trustees of the new coventry academy; and there has lately been "a good deal of feeling" because the sandemanian trustees did not regularly attend the exhibitions.
it has been intimated, indeed, that the sandemanians are leaning towards free-will, and that we have, therefore, neglected these semi-annual exhibitions, while there is no doubt that auchmuty last year went to commencement at waterville.
now the head master at new coventry is a real good fellow, who knows a sanskrit root when he sees it, and often cracks etymologies with me so that, in strictness, i ought to go to their exhibitions.
but think, reader, of sitting through three long july days in that academy chapel, following the program from
tuesday morning.
english composition.
sunshine.
miss jones,
round to
trio on three pianos.
duel from opera of midshipman easy.
marryatt.
coming in at nine, thursday evening!
think of this, reader, for men who know the world is trying to go backward, and who would give their lives if they could help it on!
well!
the double had succeeded so well at the board, that i sent him to the academy.
(shade of plato, pardon!)
he arrived early on tuesday, when, indeed, few but mothers and clergymen are generally expected, and returned in the evening to us, covered with honors.
he had dined at the right hand of the chairman, and he spoke in high terms of the repast.
the chairman had expressed his interest in the french conversation.
"i am very glad you liked it," said dennis; and the poor chairman, abashed, supposed the accent had been wrong.
at the end of the day, the gentlemen present had been called upon for speeches the rev.
frederic ingham first, as it happened; upon which dennis had risen, and had said, "there has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that i will not occupy the time."
the girls were delighted, because dr. dabney, the year before, had given them at this occasion a scolding on impropriety of behavior at lyceum lectures.
they all declared mr. ingham was a love and so handsome!
(dennis is good-looking.)
three of them, with arms behind the others' waists, followed him up to the wagon he rode home in; and a little girl with a blue sash had been sent to give him a rosebud.
after this debut in speaking, he went to the exhibition for two days more, to the mutual satisfaction of all concerned.
indeed, polly reported that he had pronounced the trustees' dinners of a higher grade than those of the parsonage.
when the next term began, i found six of the academy girls had obtained permission to come across the river and attend our church.
but this arrangement did not long continue.
after this he went to several commencements for me, and ate the dinners provided; he sat through three of our quarterly conventions for me always voting judiciously, by the simple rule mentioned above, of siding with the minority.
and i, meanwhile, who had before been losing caste among my friends, as holding myself aloof from the associations of the body, began to rise in everybody's favor.
"ingham's a good fellow always on hand"; "never talks much but does the right thing at the right time"; "is not as unpunctual as he used to be he comes early, and sits through to the end."
"he has got over his old talkative habit, too.
i spoke to a friend of his about it once; and i think ingham took it kindly," etc., etc.
this voting power of dennis was particularly valuable at the quarterly meetings of the proprietors of the naguadavick ferry.
my wife inherited from her father some shares in that enterprise, which is not yet fully developed, though it doubtless will become a very valuable property.
the law of maine then forbade stockholders to appear by proxy at such meetings.
polly disliked to go, not being, in fact, a "hens'-rights hen," and transferred her stock to me.
i, after going once, disliked it more than she.
but dennis went to the next meeting, and liked it very much.
he said the armchairs were good, the collation good, and the free rides to stockholders pleasant.
he was a little frightened when they first took him upon one of the ferry-boats, but after two or three quarterly meetings he became quite brave.
thus far i never had any difficulty with him.
indeed, being of that type which is called shiftless, he was only too happy to be told daily what to do, and to be charged not to be forthputting or in any way original in his discharge of that duty.
he learned, however, to discriminate between the lines of his life, and very much preferred these stockholders' meetings and trustees' dinners and commencement collations to another set of occasions, from which he used to beg off most piteously.
our excellent brother, dr. fillmore, had taken a notion at this time that our sandemanian churches needed more expression of mutual sympathy.
he insisted upon it that we were remiss.
he said, that, if the bishop came to preach at naguadavick, all the episcopal clergy of the neighborhood were present; if dr. pond came, all the congregational clergymen turned out to hear him; if dr.
nichols, all the unitarians; and he thought we owed it to each other that, whenever there was an occasional service at a sandemanian church, the other brethren should all, if possible, attend.
"it looked well," if nothing more.
now this really meant that i had not been to hear one of dr. fillmore's lectures on the ethnology of religion.
he forgot that he did not hear one of my course on the sandemanianism of anselm.
but i felt badly when he said it; and afterwards i always made dennis go to hear all the brethren preach, when i was not preaching myself.
this was what he took exceptions to the only thing, as i said, which he ever did except to.
now came the advantage of his long morning-nap, and of the green tea with which polly supplied the kitchen.
but he would plead, so humbly, to be let off, only from one or two!
i never excepted him, however.
i knew the lectures were of value, and i thought it best he should be able to keep the connection.
polly is more rash than i am, as the reader has observed in the outset of this memoir.
she risked dennis one night under the eyes of her own sex.
governor gorges had always been very kind to us; and when he gave his great annual party to the town, asked us.
i confess i hated to go.
i was deep in the new volume of pfeiffer's mystics, which haliburton had just sent me from boston.
"but how rude," said polly, "not to return the governor's civility and mrs. gorges's, when they will be sure to ask why you are away!"
still i demurred, and at last she, with the wit of eve and of semiramis conjoined, let me off by saying that, if i would go in with her, and sustain the initial conversations with the governor and the ladies staying there, she would risk dennis for the rest of the evening.
and that was just what we did.
she took dennis in training all that afternoon, instructed him in fashionable conversation, cautioned him against the temptations of the supper-table and at nine in the evening he drove us all down in the carryall.
i made the grand star-entrée with polly and the pretty walton girls, who were staying with us.
we had put dennis into a great rough top-coat, without his glasses and the girls never dreamed, in the darkness, of looking at him.
he sat in the carriage, at the door, while we entered.
i did the agreeable to mrs. gorges, was introduced to her niece.
miss fernanda i complimented judge jeffries on his decision in the great case of d'aulnay vs. laconia mining co. i stepped into the dressing-room for a moment stepped out for another walked home, after a nod with dennis, and tying the horse to a pump and while i walked home, mr. frederic ingham, my double, stepped in through the library into the gorges's grand saloon.
oh!
polly died of laughing as she told me of it at midnight!
and even here, where i have to teach my hands to hew the beech for stakes to fence our cave, she dies of laughing as she recalls it and says that single occasion was worth all we have paid for it.
gallant eve that she is!
she joined dennis at the library door, and in an instant presented him to dr. ochterlong, from baltimore, who was on a visit in town, and was talking with her, as dennis came in.
"mr. ingham would like to hear what you were telling us about your success among the german population."
and dennis bowed and said, in spite of a scowl from polly, "i'm very glad you liked it."
but dr. ochterlong did not observe, and plunged into the tide of explanation, dennis listening like a prime-minister, and bowing like a mandarin which is, i suppose, the same thing.
polly declared it was just like haliburton's latin conversation with the hungarian minister, of which he is very fond of telling.
"quoene sit historia reformationis in ungariâ?"
quoth haliburton, after some thought.
and his confrère replied gallantly, "in seculo decimo tertio," etc., etc., etc.
; and from decimo tertio [which means, "in the thirteenth century," my dear little bell-and-coral reader.
you have rightly guessed that the question means, "what is the history of the reformation in hungary?"]
to the nineteenth century and a half lasted till the oysters came.
so was it that before dr. ochterlong came to the "success," or near it, governor gorges came to dennis and asked him to hand mrs. jeffries down to supper, a request which he heard with great joy.
polly was skipping round the room, i guess, gay as a lark.
auchmuty came to her "in pity for poor ingham," who was so bored by the stupid pundit and auchmuty could not understand why i stood it so long.
but when dennis took mrs. jeffries down, polly could not resist standing near them.
he was a little flustered, till the sight of the eatables and drinkables gave him the same mercian courage which it gave diggory.
a little excited then, he attempted one or two of his speeches to the judge's lady.
but little he knew how hard it was to get in even a promptu there edgewise.
"very well, i thank you," said he, after the eating elements were adjusted; "and you?"
and then did not he have to hear about the mumps, and the measles, and arnica, and belladonna, and chamomile-flower, and dodecathem, till she changed oysters for salad and then about the old practice and the new, and what her sister said, and what her sister's friend said, and what the physician to her sister's friend said, and then what was said by the brother of the sister of the physician of the friend of her sister, exactly as if it had been in ollendorff?
there was a moment's pause, as she declined champagne.
"i am very glad you liked it," said dennis again, which he never should have said, but to one who complimented a sermon.
"oh!
you are so sharp, mr. ingham!
no!
i never drink any wine at all except sometimes in summer a little currant spirits from our own currants, you know.
my own mother that is, i call her my own mother, because, you know, i do not remember," etc., etc., etc.
; till they came to the candied orange at the end of the feast when dennis, rather confused, thought he must say something, and tried no.
4 "i agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room" which he never should have said but at a public meeting.
but mrs. jeffries, who never listens expecting to understand, caught him up instantly with, "well, i'm sure my husband returns the compliment; he always agrees with you though we do worship with the methodists but you know, mr. ingham," etc., etc., etc., till the move was made upstairs; and as dennis led her through the hall, he was scarcely understood by any but polly, as he said, "there has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that i will not occupy the time."
his great resource the rest of the evening was standing in the library, carrying on animated conversations with one and another in much the same way.
polly had initiated him in the mysteries of a discovery of mine, that it is not necessary to finish your sentence in a crowd, but by a sort of mumble, omitting sibilants and dentals.
this, indeed, if your words fail you, answers even in public extempore speech but better where other talking is going on.
thus: "we missed you at the natural history society, ingham."
ingham replies: "i am very gligloglum, that is, that you were m-m-m-m-m." by gradually dropping the voice, the interlocutor is compelled to supply the answer.
"mrs. ingham, i hope your friend augusta is better."
augusta has not been ill. polly cannot think of explaining, however, and answers: "thank you, ma'am; she is very rearason wewahwewob," in lower and lower tones.
and mrs. throckmorton, who forgot the subject of which she spoke, as soon as she asked the question, is quite satisfied.
dennis could see into the card-room, and came to polly to ask if he might not go and play all-fours.
but, of course, she sternly refused.
at midnight they came home delightedly: polly, as i said, wild to tell me the story of victory; only both the pretty walton girls said: "cousin frederic, you did not come near me all the evening."
we always called him dennis at home, for convenience, though his real name was frederic ingham, as i have explained.
when the election day came round, however, i found that by some accident there was only one frederic ingham's name on the voting-list; and, as i was quite busy that day in writing some foreign letters to halle, i thought i would forego my privilege of suffrage, and stay quietly at home, telling dennis that he might use the record on the voting-list and vote.
i gave him a ticket, which i told him he might use, if he liked to.
that was that very sharp election in maine which the readers of the atlantic so well remember, and it had been intimated in public that the ministers would do well not to appear at the polls.
of course, after that, we had to appear by self or proxy.
still, naguadavick was not then a city, and this standing in a double queue at townmeeting several hours to vote was a bore of the first water; and so, when i found that there was but one frederic ingham on the list, and that one of us must give up, i stayed at home and finished the letters (which, indeed, procured for fothergill his coveted appointment of professor of astronomy at leavenworth), and i gave dennis, as we called him, the chance.
something in the matter gave a good deal of popularity to the frederic ingham name; and at the adjourned election, next week, frederic ingham was chosen to the legislature.
whether this was i or dennis, i never really knew.
my friends seemed to think it was i; but i felt, that, as dennis had done the popular thing, he was entitled to the honor; so i sent him to augusta when the time came, and he took the oaths.
and a very valuable member he made.
they appointed him on the committee on parishes; but i wrote a letter for him, resigning, on the ground that he took an interest in our claim to the stumpage in the minister's sixteenths of gore a, next no.
7, in the 10th range.
he never made any speeches, and always voted with the minority, which was what he was sent to do.
he made me and himself a great many good friends, some of whom i did not afterwards recognize as quickly as dennis did my parishioners.
on one or two occasions, when there was wood to saw at home, i kept him at home; but i took those occasions to go to augusta myself.
finding myself often in his vacant seat at these times, i watched the proceedings with a good deal of care; and once was so much excited that i delivered my somewhat celebrated speech on the central school district question, a speech of which the state of maine printed some extra copies.
i believe there is no formal rule permitting strangers to speak; but no one objected.
dennis himself, as i said, never spoke at all.
but our experience this session led me to think, that if, by some such "general understanding"
as the reports speak of in legislation daily, every member of congress might leave a double to sit through those deadly sessions and answer to roll-calls and do the legitimate party-voting, which appears stereotyped in the regular list of ashe, bocock, black, etc., we should gain decidedly in working power.
as things stand, the saddest state prison i ever visit is that representatives' chamber in washington.
if a man leaves for an hour, twenty "correspondents" may be howling, "where was mr. prendergast when the oregon bill passed?"
and if poor prendergast stays there!
certainly, the worst use you can make of a man is to put him in prison!
i know, indeed, that public men of the highest rank have resorted to this expedient long ago.
dumas's novel of the iron mask turns on the brutal imprisonment of louis the fourteenth's double.
there seems little doubt, in our own history, that it was the real general pierce who shed tears when the delegate from lawrence explained to him the sufferings of the people there and only general pierce's double who had given the orders for the assault on that town, which was invaded the next day.
my charming friend, george withers, has, i am almost sure, a double, who preaches his afternoon sermons for him.
this is the reason that the theology often varies so from that of the forenoon.
but that double is almost as charming as the original.
some of the most well-defined men, who stand out most prominently on the background of history, are in this way stereoscopic men; who owe their distinct relief to the slight differences between the doubles.
all this i know.
my present suggestion is simply the great extension of the system, so that all public machine-work may be done by it.
but i see i loiter on my story, which is rushing to the plunge.
let me stop an instant more, however, to recall, were it only to myself, that charming year while all was yet well.
after the double had become a matter of course, for nearly twelve months before he undid me, what a year it was!
full of active life, full of happy love, of the hardest work, of the sweetest sleep, and the fulfilment of so many of the fresh aspirations and dreams of boyhood!
dennis went to every school-committee meeting, and sat through all those late wranglings which used to keep me up till midnight and awake till morning.
he attended all the lectures to which foreign exiles sent me tickets begging me to come for the love of heaven and of bohemia.
he accepted and used all the tickets for charity concerts which were sent to me.
he appeared everywhere where it was specially desirable that "our denomination," or "our party," or "our class," or "our family," or "our street," or "our town," or "our country," or "our state," should be fully represented.
and i fell back to that charming life which in boyhood one dreams of, when he supposes he shall do his own duty and make his own sacrifices, without being tied up with those of other people.
my rusty sanskrit, arabic, hebrew, greek, latin, french, italian, spanish, german and english began to take polish.
heavens!
how little i had done with them while i attended to my public duties!
my calls on my parishioners became the friendly, frequent, homelike sociabilities they were meant to be, instead of the hard work of a man goaded to desperation by the sight of his lists of arrears.
and preaching!
what a luxury preaching was when i had on sunday the whole result of an individual, personal week, from which to speak to a people whom all that week i had been meeting as hand-to-hand friend!
i never tired on sunday, and was in condition to leave the sermon at home, if i chose, and preach it extempore, as all men should do always.
indeed, i wonder, when i think that a sensible people like ours really more attached to their clergy than they were in the lost days, when the mathers and nortons were noblemen should choose to neutralize so much of their ministers' lives, and destroy so much of their early training, by this undefined passion for seeing them in public.
it springs from our balancing of sects.
if a spirited episcopalian takes an interest in the almshouse, and is put on the poor board, every other denomination must have a minister there, lest the poorhouse be changed into st. paul's cathedral.
if a sandemanian is chosen president of the young men's library, there must be a methodist vice-president and a baptist secretary.
and if a universalist sunday-school convention collects five hundred delegates, the next congregationalist sabbath-school conference must be as large, "lest 'they' whoever they may be should think 'we' whoever we may be are going down."
freed from these necessities, that happy year, i began to know my wife by sight.
we saw each other sometimes.
in those long mornings, when dennis was in the study explaining to map-peddlers that i had eleven maps of jerusalem already, and to school-book agents that i would see them hanged before i would be bribed to introduce their textbooks into the schools she and i were at work together, as in those old dreamy days and in these of our log-cabin again.
but all this could not last and at length poor dennis, my double, overtasked in turn, undid me.
it was thus it happened.
there is an excellent fellow once a minister i will call him isaacs who deserves well of the world till he dies, and after because he once, in a real exigency, did the right thing, in the right way, at the right time, as no other man could do it.
in the world's great football match, the ball by chance found him loitering on the outside of the field; he closed with it, "camped" it, charged, it home yes, right through the other side not disturbed, not frightened by his own success and breathless found himself a great man as the great delta rang applause.
but he did not find himself a rich man; and the football has never come in his way again.
from that moment to this moment he has been of no use, that one can see, at all.
still, for that great act we speak of isaacs gratefully and remember him kindly; and he forges on, hoping to meet the football somewhere again.
in that vague hope, he had arranged a "movement" for a general organization of the human family into debating clubs, county societies, state unions, etc., etc., with a view of inducing all children to take hold of the handles of their knives and forks, instead of the metal.
children have bad habits in that way.
the movement, of course, was absurd; but we all did our best to forward, not it, but him.
it came time for the annual county-meeting on this subject to be held at naguadavick.
isaacs came round, good fellow!
to arrange for it got the townhall, got the governor to preside (the saint!
he ought to have triplet doubles provided him by law), and then came to get me to speak.
"no," i said, "i would not speak, if ten governors presided.
i do not believe in the enterprise.
if i spoke, it should be to say children should take hold of the prongs of the forks and the blades of the knives.
i would subscribe ten dollars, but i would not speak a mill."
so poor isaacs went his way, sadly, to coax auchmuty to speak, and delafield.
i went out.
not long after, he came back, and told polly that they had promised to speak the governor would speak and he himself would close with the quarterly report, and some interesting anecdotes regarding.
miss biffin's way of handling her knife and mr. nellis's way of footing his fork.
"now if mr. ingham will only come and sit on the platform, he need not say one word; but it will show well in the paper it will show that the sandemanians take as much interest in the movement as the armenians or the mesopotamians, and will be a great favor to me."
polly, good soul!
was tempted, and she promised.
she knew mrs. isaacs was starving, and the babies she knew dennis was at home and she promised!
night came, and i returned.
i heard her story.
i was sorry.
i doubted.
but polly had promised to beg me, and i dared all!
i told dennis to hold his peace, under all circumstances, and sent him down.
it was not half an hour more before he returned, wild with excitement in a perfect irish fury which it was long before i understood.
but i knew at once that he had undone me!
what happened was this: the audience got together, attracted by governor gorges's name.
there were a thousand people.
poor gorges was late from augusta.
they became impatient.
he came in direct from the train at last, really ignorant of the object of the meeting.
he opened it in the fewest possible words, and said other gentlemen were present who would entertain them better than he.
the audience were disappointed, but waited.
the governor, prompted by isaacs, said, "the honorable mr. delafield will address you."
delafield had forgotten the knives and forks, and was playing the ruy lopez opening at the chess club.
"the rev.
mr. auchmuty will address you."
auchmuty had promised to speak late, and was at the school committee.
"i see dr. stearns in the hall; perhaps he will say a word."
dr. stearns said he had come to listen and not to speak.
the governor and isaacs whispered.
the governor looked at dennis, who was resplendent on the platform; but isaacs, to give him his due, shook his head.
but the look was enough.
a miserable lad, ill-bred, who had once been in boston, thought it would sound well to call for me, and peeped out, "ingham!"
a few more wretches cried, "ingham!
ingham!"
still isaacs was firm; but the governor, anxious, indeed, to prevent a row, knew i would say something, and said, "our friend mr. ingham is always prepared and though we had not relied upon him, he will say a word, perhaps."
applause followed, which turned dennis's head.
he rose, flattered, and tried no.
3: "there has been so much said, and, on the whole, so well said, that i will not longer occupy the time!"
and sat down, looking for his hat; for things seemed squally.
but the people cried, "go on!
go on!"
and some applauded.
dennis, still confused, but flattered by the applause, to which neither he nor i are used, rose again, and this time tried no.
2: "i am very glad you liked it!"
in a sonorous, clear delivery.
my best friends stared.
all the people who did not know me personally yelled with delight at the aspect of the evening; the governor was beside himself, and poor isaacs thought he was undone!
alas, it was i!
a boy in the gallery cried in a loud tone, "it's all an infernal humbug," just as dennis, waving his hand, commanded silence, and tried no.
4: "i agree, in general, with my friend the other side of the room."
the poor governor doubted his senses, and crossed to stop him not in time, however.
the same gallery-boy shouted, "how's your mother?"
and dennis, now completely lost, tried, as his last shot, no.
1, vainly: "very well, thank you; and you?"
i think i must have been undone already.
but dennis, like another lockhard chose "to make sicker."
the audience rose in a whirl of amazement, rage, and sorrow.
some other impertinence, aimed at dennis, broke all restraint, and, in pure irish, he delivered himself of an address to the gallery, inviting any person who wished to fight to come down and do so stating, that they were all dogs and cowards that he would take any five of them single-handed, "shure, i have said all his riverence and the misthress bade me say," cried he, in defiance; and, seizing the governor's cane from his hand, brandished it, quarter-staff fashion, above his head.
he was, indeed, got from the hall only with the greatest difficulty by the governor, the city marshal, who had been called in, and the superintendent of my sunday school.
the universal impression, of course, was, that the rev.
frederic ingham had lost all command of himself in some of those haunts of intoxication which for fifteen years i have been laboring to destroy.
till this moment, indeed, that is the impression in naguadavick.
this number of the atlantic will relieve from it a hundred friends of mine who have been sadly wounded by that notion now for years but i shall not be likely ever to show my head there again.
no!
my double has undone me.
we left town at seven the next morning.
i came to no.
9, in the third range, and settled on the minister's lot, in the new towns in maine, the first settled minister has a gift of a hundred acres of land.
i am the first settled minister in no.
9. my wife and little paulina are my parish.
we raise corn enough to live on in summer.
we kill bear's meat enough to carbonize it in winter.
i work on steadily on my traces of sandemanianism in the sixth and seventh centuries, which i hope to persuade phillips, sampson & co. to publish next year.
we are very happy, but the world thinks we are undone.
a visit to the asylum for aged and decayed punsters
by oliver wendell holmes (1809-1894)
[from the atlantic monthly, january, 1861. republished in soundings from the atlantic (1864), by oliver wendell holmes, whose authorized publishers are the houghton mifflin company.]
having just returned from a visit to this admirable institution in company with a friend who is one of the directors, we propose giving a short account of what we saw and heard.
the great success of the asylum for idiots and feeble-minded youth, several of the scholars from which have reached considerable distinction, one of them being connected with a leading daily paper in this city, and others having served in the state and national legislatures, was the motive which led to the foundation of this excellent charity.
our late distinguished townsman, noah dow, esquire, as is well known, bequeathed a large portion of his fortune to this establishment
"being thereto moved," as his will expressed it, "by the desire of n. dowing some public institution for the benefit of mankind."
being consulted as to the rules of the institution and the selection of a superintendent, he replied, that "all boards must construct their own platforms of operation.
let them select anyhow and he should be pleased."
n.e.
howe, esq., was chosen in compliance with this delicate suggestion.
the charter provides for the support of "one hundred aged and decayed gentlemen-punsters."
on inquiry if there way no provision for females, my friend called my attention to this remarkable psychological fact, namely:
there is no such thing as a female punster.
this remark struck me forcibly, and on reflection i found that i never knew nor heard of one, though i have once or twice heard a woman make a single detached pun, as i have known a hen to crow.
on arriving at the south gate of the asylum grounds, i was about to ring, but my friend held my arm and begged me to rap with my stick, which i did.
an old man with a very comical face presently opened the gate and put out his head.
"so you prefer cane to a bell, do you?"
he said and began chuckling and coughing at a great rate.
my friend winked at me.
"you're here still, old joe, i see," he said to the old man.
"yes, yes and it's very odd, considering how often i've bolted, nights."
he then threw open the double gates for us to ride through.
"now," said the old man, as he pulled the gates after us, "you've had a long journey."
"why, how is that, old joe?"
said my friend.
"don't you see?"
he answered; "there's the east hinges on the one side of the gate, and there's the west hinges on t'other side haw!
haw!
haw!"
we had no sooner got into the yard than a feeble little gentleman, with a remarkably bright eye, came up to us, looking very serious, as if something had happened.
"the town has entered a complaint against the asylum as a gambling establishment," he said to my friend, the director.
"what do you mean?"
said my friend.
"why, they complain that there's a lot o' rye on the premises," he answered, pointing to a field of that grain and hobbled away, his shoulders shaking with laughter, as he went.
on entering the main building, we saw the rules and regulations for the asylum conspicuously posted up.
i made a few extracts which may be interesting:
sect.
i. of verbal exercises.
5. each inmate shall be permitted to make puns freely from eight in the morning until ten at night, except during service in the chapel and grace before meals.
6. at ten o'clock the gas will be turned off, and no further puns, conundrums, or other play on words will be allowed to be uttered, or to be uttered aloud.
9. inmates who have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make puns shall be permitted to repeat such as may be selected for them by the chaplain out of the work of mr. joseph miller.
10. violent and unmanageable punsters, who interrupt others when engaged in conversation, with puns or attempts at the same, shall be deprived of their joseph millers, and, if necessary, placed in solitary confinement.
sect.
iii.
of deportment at meals.
4. no inmate shall make any pun, or attempt at the same, until the blessing has been asked and the company are decently seated.
7. certain puns having been placed on the index expurgatorius of the institution, no inmate shall be allowed to utter them, on pain of being debarred the perusal of punch and vanity fair, and, if repeated, deprived of his joseph miller.
among these are the following:
allusions to attic salt, when asked to pass the salt-cellar.
remarks on the inmates being mustered, etc., etc.
associating baked beans with the bene-factors of the institution.
saying that beef-eating is befitting, etc., etc.
the following are also prohibited, excepting to such inmates as may have lost their faculties and cannot any longer make puns of their own:
"  your own hair or a wig"; "it will be long enough," etc., etc.
; "little of its age," etc., etc.
; also, playing upon the following words: hospital; mayor; pun; pitied; bread; sauce, etc., etc., etc.
see index expurgatorius, printed for use of inmates.
the subjoined conundrum is not allowed: why is hasty pudding like the prince?
because it comes attended by its sweet; nor this variation to it, to wit: because the 'lasses runs after it.
the superintendent, who went round with us, had been a noted punster in his time, and well known in the business world, but lost his customers by making too free with their names as in the famous story he set afloat in '29 of four jerries attaching to the names of a noted judge, an eminent lawyer, the secretary of the board of foreign missions, and the well-known landlord at springfield.
one of the four jerries, he added, was of gigantic magnitude.
the play on words was brought out by an accidental remark of solomons, the well-known banker.
"capital punishment!"
the jew was overheard saying, with reference to the guilty parties.
he was understood, as saying, a capital pun is meant, which led to an investigation and the relief of the greatly excited public mind.
the superintendent showed some of his old tendencies, as he went round with us.
"do you know" he broke out all at once "why they don't take steppes in tartary for establishing insane hospitals?"
we both confessed ignorance.
"because there are nomad people to be found there," he said, with a dignified smile.
he proceeded to introduce us to different inmates.
the first was a middle-aged, scholarly man, who was seated at a table with a webster's dictionary and a sheet of paper before him.
"well, what luck to-day, mr.
mowzer?"
said the superintendent.
"three or four only," said mr. mowzer.
"will you hear 'em now now i'm here?"
we all nodded.
"don't you see webster ers in the words center and theater?
"if he spells leather lether, and feather fether, isn't there danger that he'll give us a bad spell of weather?
"besides, webster is a resurrectionist; he does not allow u to rest quietly in the mould.
"and again, because mr. worcester inserts an illustration in his text, is that any reason why mr. webster's publishers should hitch one on in their appendix?
it's what i call a connect-a-cut trick.
"why is his way of spelling like the floor of an oven?
because it is under bread."
"mowzer!"
said the superintendent, "that word is on the index!"
"i forgot," said mr. mowzer; "please don't deprive me of vanity fair this one time, sir."
"these are all, this morning.
good day, gentlemen."
then to the superintendent: "add you, sir!"
the next inmate was a semi-idiotic-looking old man.
he had a heap of block-letters before him, and, as we came up, he pointed, without saying a word, to the arrangements he had made with them on the table.
they were evidently anagrams, and had the merit of transposing the letters of the words employed without addition or subtraction.
here are a few of them:
times.
smite!
post.
stop!
tribune.
true nib.
world.
dr. owl.
advertiser.
{  res veri dat.
{  is true.
read!
allopathy.
all o' th' pay.
homoeopathy.
o, the   !
o!
o, my!
pah!
the mention of several new york papers led to two or three questions.
thus: whether the editor of the tribune was h.g.
really?
if the complexion of his politics were not accounted for by his being an eager person himself?
whether wendell fillips were not a reduced copy of john knocks?
whether a new york feuilletoniste is not the same thing as a fellow down east?
at this time a plausible-looking, bald-headed man joined us, evidently waiting to take a part in the conversation.
"good morning, mr. riggles," said the superintendent, "anything fresh this morning?
any conundrum?"
"i haven't looked at the cattle," he answered, dryly.
"cattle?
why cattle?"
"why, to see if there's any corn under 'em!"
he said; and immediately asked, "why is douglas like the earth?"
we tried, but couldn't guess.
"because he was flattened out at the polls!"
said mr. riggles.
"a famous politician, formerly," said the superintendent.
"his grandfather was a seize-hessian-ist in the revolutionary war.
by the way, i hear the freeze-oil doctrines don't go down at new bedford."
the next inmate looked as if he might have been a sailor formerly.
"ask him what his calling was," said the superintendent.
"followed the sea," he replied to the question put by one of us.
"went as mate in a fishing-schooner."
"why did you give it up?"
"because i didn't like working for two mast-ers," he replied.
presently we came upon a group of elderly persons, gathered about a venerable gentleman with flowing locks, who was propounding questions to a row of inmates.
"can any inmate give me a motto for m.
berger?"
he said.
nobody responded for two or three minutes.
at last one old man, whom i at once recognized as a graduate of our university (anno 1800) held up his hand.
"rem a cue tetigit."
"go to the head of the class, josselyn," said the venerable patriarch.
the successful inmate did as he was told, but in a very rough way, pushing against two or three of the class.
"how is this?"
said the patriarch.
"you told me to go up jostlin'," he replied.
the old gentlemen who had been shoved about enjoyed the pun too much to be angry.
presently the patriarch asked again:
"why was m. berger authorized to go to the dances given to the prince?"
the class had to give up this, and he answered it himself:
"because every one of his carroms was a tick-it to the ball."
"who collects the money to defray the expenses of the last campaign in italy?"
asked the patriarch.
here again the class failed.
"the war-cloud's rolling dun," he answered.
"and what is mulled wine made with?"
three or four voices exclaimed at once:
"sizzle-y madeira!"
here a servant entered, and said, "luncheon-time."
the old gentlemen, who have excellent appetites, dispersed at once, one of them politely asking us if we would not stop and have a bit of bread and a little mite of cheese.
"there is one thing i have forgotten to show you," said the superintendent, "the cell for the confinement of violent and unmanageable punsters."
we were very curious to see it, particularly with reference to the alleged absence of every object upon which a play of words could possibly be made.
the superintendent led us up some dark stairs to a corridor, then along a narrow passage, then down a broad flight of steps into another passageway, and opened a large door which looked out on the main entrance.
"we have not seen the cell for the confinement of 'violent and unmanageable' punsters," we both exclaimed.
"this is the sell!"
he exclaimed, pointing to the outside prospect.
my friend, the director, looked me in the face so good-naturedly that i had to laugh.
"we like to humor the inmates," he said.
"it has a bad effect, we find, on their health and spirits to disappoint them of their little pleasantries.
some of the jests to which we have listened are not new to me, though i dare say you may not have heard them often before.
the same thing happens in general society, with this additional disadvantage, that there is no punishment provided for 'violent and unmanageable' punsters, as in our institution."
we made our bow to the superintendent and walked to the place where our carriage was waiting for us.
on our way, an exceedingly decrepit old man moved slowly toward us, with a perfectly blank look on his face, but still appearing as if he wished to speak.
"look!"
said the director "that is our centenarian."
the ancient man crawled toward us, cocked one eye, with which he seemed to see a little, up at us, and said:
"sarvant, young gentlemen.
why is a a a like a a a ?
give it up?
because it's a a a a ."
he smiled a pleasant smile, as if it were all plain enough.
"one hundred and seven last christmas," said the director.
"of late years he puts his whole conundrums in blank but they please him just as well."
we took our departure, much gratified and instructed by our visit, hoping to have some future opportunity of inspecting the records of this excellent charity and making extracts for the benefit of our readers.
the celebrated jumping frog of calaveras county
by mark twain (1835-1910)
[from the saturday press, nov. 18, 1865. republished in the celebrated jumping frog of calaveras county, and other sketches (1867), by mark twain, all of whose works are published by harper &
brothers.]
in compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from the east, i called on good-natured, garrulous old simon wheeler, and inquired after my friend's friend, leonidas w. smiley, as requested to do, and i hereunto append the result.
i have a lurking suspicion that leonidas w. smiley is a myth; and that my friend never knew such a personage; and that he only conjectured that if i asked old wheeler about him, it would remind him of his infamous jim smiley, and he would go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence of him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me.
if that was the design, it succeeded.
i found simon wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of angel's, and i noticed that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance.
he roused up, and gave me good-day.
i told him a friend had commissioned me to make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named leonidas w. smiley rev.
leonidas w. smiley, a young minister of the gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of angel's camp.
i added that if mr. wheeler could tell me anything about this rev.
leonidas w. smiley, i would feel under many obligations to him.
simon wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which follows this paragraph.
he never smiled, he never frowned, he never changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of enthusiasm; but all through the interminable narrative there ran a vein of impressive earnestness and sincerity, which showed me plainly that, so far from his imagining that there was anything ridiculous or funny about his story, he regarded it as a really important matter, and admired its two heroes as men of transcendent genius in finesse.
i let him go on in his own way, and never interrupted him once.
"rev.
leonidas w. h'm, reverend le well, there was a feller here once by the name of jim smiley, in the winter of '49 or may be it was the spring of '50 i don't recollect exactly, somehow, though what makes me think it was one or the other is because i remember the big flume warn't finished when he first came to the camp; but any way, he was the curiousest man about always betting on anything that turned up you ever see, if he could get anybody to bet on the other side; and if he couldn't he'd change sides.
any way that suited the other man would suit him any way just so's he got a bet, he was satisfied.
but still he was lucky, uncommon lucky; he most always come out winner.
he was always ready and laying for a chance; there couldn't be no solit'ry thing mentioned but that feller'd offer to bet on it, and take any side you please, as i was just telling you.
if there was a horse-race, you'd find him flush or you'd find him busted at the end of it; if there was a dog-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a cat-fight, he'd bet on it; if there was a chicken-fight, he'd bet on it; why, if there was two birds setting on a fence, he would bet you which one would fly first; or if there was a camp-meeting, he would be there reg'lar to bet on parson walker, which he judged to be the best exhorter about here, and he was, too, and a good man.
if he even see a straddle-bug start to go anywheres, he would bet you how long it would take him to get to to wherever he was going to, and if you took him up, he would foller that straddle-bug to mexico but what he would find out where he was bound for and how long he was on the road.
lots of the boys here has seen that smiley and can tell you about him.
why, it never made no difference to him he'd bet on any thing the dangest feller.
parson walker's wife laid very sick once, for a good while, and it seemed as if they warn't going to save her; but one morning he come in, and smiley up and asked him how she was, and he said she was considerable better thank the lord for his inf'nit'
mercy and coming on so smart that with the blessing of prov'dence she'd get well yet; and smiley, before he thought, says, ‘well, i'll risk two-and-a-half she don't anyway.'"
thish-yer smiley had a mare the boys called her the fifteen-minute nag, but that was only in fun, you know, because, of course, she was faster than that and he used to win money on that horse, for all she was so slow and always had the asthma, or the distemper, or the consumption, or something of that kind.
they used to give her two or three hundred yards start, and then pass her under way; but always at the fag-end of the race she'd get excited and desperate-like, and come cavorting and straddling up, and scattering her legs around limber, sometimes in the air, and sometimes out to one side amongst the fences, and kicking up m-o-r-e dust and raising m-o-r-e racket with her coughing and sneezing and blowing her nose and always fetch up at the stand just about a neck ahead, as near as you could cipher it down.
and he had a little small bull-pup, that to look at him you'd think he warn't worth a cent but to set around and look ornery and lay for a chance to steal something.
but as soon as money was up on him he was a different dog; his under-jaw'd begin to stick out like the fo'-castle of a steamboat, and his teeth would uncover and shine like the furnaces.
and a dog might tackle him and bully-rag him, and bite him, and throw him over his shoulder two or three times, and andrew jackson which was the name of the pup andrew jackson would never let on but what he was satisfied, and hadn't expected nothing else and the bets being doubled and doubled on the other side all the time, till the money was all up; and then all of a sudden he would grab that other dog jest by the j'int of his hind leg and freeze to it not chaw, you understand, but only just grip and hang on till they throwed up the sponge, if it was a year.
smiley always come out winner on that pup, till he harnessed a dog once that didn't have no hind legs, because they'd been sawed off in a circular saw, and when the thing had gone along far enough, and the money was all up, and he come to make a snatch for his pet holt, he see in a minute how he'd been imposed on, and how the other dog had him in the door, so to speak, and he 'peared surprised, and then he looked sorter discouraged-like, and didn't try no more to win the fight, and so he got shucked out bad.
he gave smiley a look, as much as to say his heart was broke, and it was his fault, for putting up a dog that hadn't no hind legs for him to take holt of, which was his main dependence in a fight, and then he limped off a piece and laid down and died.
it was a good pup, was that andrew jackson, and would have made a name for hisself if he'd lived, for the stuff was in him and he had genius i know it, because he hadn't no opportunities to speak of, and it don't stand to reason that a dog could make such a fight as he could under them circumstances if he hadn't no talent.
it always makes me feel sorry when i think of that last fight of his'n, and the way it turned out.
well, thish-yer smiley had rat-tarriers, and chicken cocks, and tom-cats and all of them kind of things, till you couldn't rest, and you couldn't fetch nothing for him to bet on but he'd match you.
he ketched a frog one day, and took him home, and said he cal'lated to educate him; and so he never done nothing for three months but set in his back yard and learn that frog to jump.
and you bet you he did learn him, too.
he'd give him a little punch behind, and the next minute you'd see that frog whirling in the air like a doughnut see him turn one summerset, or may be a couple, if he got a good start, and come down flat-footed and all right, like a cat.
he got him up so in the matter of ketching flies, and kep' him in practice so constant, that he'd nail a fly every time as fur as he could see him.
smiley said all a frog wanted was education, and he could do 'most anything and i believe him.
why, i've seen him set dan'l webster down here on this floor dan'l webster was the name of the frog and sing out, "flies, dan'l, flies!"
and quicker'n you could wink he'd spring straight up and snake a fly off'n the counter there, and flop down on the floor ag'in as solid as a gob of mud, and fall to scratching the side of his head with his hind foot as indifferent as if he hadn't no idea he'd been doin' any more'n any frog might do.
you never see a frog so modest and straightfor'ard as he was, for all he was so gifted.
and when it come to fair and square jumping on a dead level, he could get over more ground at one straddle than any animal of his breed you ever see.
jumping on a dead level was his strong suit, you understand; and when it come to that, smiley would ante up money on him as long as he had a red.
smiley was monstrous proud of his frog, and well he might be, for fellers that had traveled and been everywheres, all said he laid over any frog that ever they see.
well, smiley kep' the beast in a little lattice box, and he used to fetch him downtown sometimes and lay for a bet.
one day a feller a stranger in the camp, he was come acrost him with his box, and says:
"what might be that you've got in the box?"
and smiley says, sorter indifferent-like, "it might be a parrot, or it might be a canary, maybe, but it ain't it's only just a frog."
and the feller took it, and looked at it careful, and turned it round this way and that, and says, "h'm so 'tis.
well, what's he good for?"
"well," smiley says, easy and careless, "he's good enough for one thing, i should judge he can outjump any frog in calaveras county."
the feller took the box again, and took another long, particular look, and give it back to smiley, and says, very deliberate, "well," he says, "i don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."
"maybe you don't," smiley says.
"maybe you understand frogs and maybe you don't understand 'em; maybe you've had experience, and maybe you ain't only a amature, as it were.
anyways, i've got my opinion and i'll risk forty dollars that he can outjump any frog in calaveras county."
and the feller studied a minute, and then says, kinder sad like, "well, i'm only a stranger here, and i ain't got no frog; but if i had a frog, i'd bet you."
and then smiley says, "that's all right that's all right if you'll hold my box a minute, i'll go and get you a frog."
and so the feller took the box, and put up his forty dollars along with smiley's, and set down to wait.
so he set there a good while thinking and thinking to his-self, and then he got the frog out and prized his mouth open and took a teaspoon and filled him full of quail shot filled!
him pretty near up to his chin and set him on the floor.
smiley he went to the swamp and slopped around in the mud for a long time, and finally he ketched a frog, and fetched him in, and give him to this feller, and says:
"now, if you're ready, set him alongside of dan'l, with his forepaws just even with dan'l's, and i'll give the word."
then he says, "one two three git!"
and him and the feller touched up the frogs from behind, and the new frog hopped off lively, but dan'l give a heave, and hysted up his shoulders so like a frenchman, but it warn't no use he couldn't budge; he was planted as solid as a church, and he couldn't no more stir than if he was anchored out.
smiley was a good deal surprised, and he was disgusted too, but he didn't have no idea what the matter was, of course.
the feller took the money and started away; and when he was going out at the door, he sorter jerked his thumb over his shoulder so at dan'l, and says again, very deliberate, "well," he says, "i don't see no p'ints about that frog that's any better'n any other frog."
smiley he stood scratching his head and looking down at dan'l a long time, and at last says, "i do wonder what in the nation that frog throwed off for i wonder if there ain't something the matter with him he 'pears to look mighty baggy, somehow."
and he ketched dan'l up by the nap of the neck, and hefted him, and says, "why blame my cats if he don't weigh five pounds!"
and turned him upside down and he belched out a double handful of shot.
and then he see how it was, and he was the maddest man he set the frog down and took out after that feller, but he never ketched him.
and
(here simon wheeler heard his name called from the front yard, and got up to see what was wanted.)
and turning to me as he moved away, he said: "just set where you are, stranger, and rest easy i ain't going to be gone a second."
but, by your leave, i did not think that a continuation of the history of the enterprising vagabond jim smiley would be likely to afford me much information concerning the rev.
leonidas w. smiley, and so i started away.
at the door i met the sociable wheeler returning, and he buttonholed me and recommenced:
"well, thish-yer smiley had a yaller, one-eyed cow that didn't have no tail, only jest a short stump like a bannanner, and  "
however, lacking both time and inclination, i did not wait to hear about the afflicted cow, but took my leave.
elder brown's backslide
by harry stillwell edwards (1855- )
[from harper's magazine, august, 1885; copyright, 1885, by harper &
bros.; republished in the volume, two runaways, and other stories (1889), by harry stillwell edwards (the century co.).]
elder brown told his wife good-by at the farmhouse door as mechanically as though his proposed trip to macon, ten miles away, was an everyday affair, while, as a matter of fact, many years had elapsed since unaccompanied he set foot in the city.
he did not kiss her.
many very good men never kiss their wives.
but small blame attaches to the elder for his omission on this occasion, since his wife had long ago discouraged all amorous demonstrations on the part of her liege lord, and at this particular moment was filling the parting moments with a rattling list of directions concerning thread, buttons, hooks, needles, and all the many etceteras of an industrious housewife's basket.
the elder was laboriously assorting these postscript commissions in his memory, well knowing that to return with any one of them neglected would cause trouble in the family circle.
elder brown mounted his patient steed that stood sleepily motionless in the warm sunlight, with his great pointed ears displayed to the right and left, as though their owner had grown tired of the life burden their weight inflicted upon him, and was, old soldier fashion, ready to forego the once rigid alertness of early training for the pleasures of frequent rest on arms.
"and, elder, don't you forgit them caliker scraps, or you'll be wantin' kiver soon an' no kiver will be a-comin'."
elder brown did not turn his head, but merely let the whip hand, which had been checked in its backward motion, fall as he answered mechanically.
the beast he bestrode responded with a rapid whisking of its tail and a great show of effort, as it ambled off down the sandy road, the rider's long legs seeming now and then to touch the ground.
but as the zigzag panels of the rail fence crept behind him, and he felt the freedom of the morning beginning to act upon his well-trained blood, the mechanical manner of the old man's mind gave place to a mild exuberance.
a weight seemed to be lifting from it ounce by ounce as the fence panels, the weedy corners, the persimmon sprouts and sassafras bushes crept away behind him, so that by the time a mile lay between him and the life partner of his joys and sorrows he was in a reasonably contented frame of mind, and still improving.
it was a queer figure that crept along the road that cheery may morning.
it was tall and gaunt, and had been for thirty years or more.
the long head, bald on top, covered behind with iron-gray hair, and in front with a short tangled growth that curled and kinked in every direction, was surmounted by an old-fashioned stove-pipe hat, worn and stained, but eminently impressive.
an old-fashioned henry clay cloth coat, stained and threadbare, divided itself impartially over the donkey's back and dangled on his sides.
this was all that remained of the elder's wedding suit of forty years ago.
only constant care, and use of late years limited to extra occasions, had preserved it so long.
the trousers had soon parted company with their friends.
the substitutes were red jeans, which, while they did not well match his court costume, were better able to withstand the old man's abuse, for if, in addition to his frequent religious excursions astride his beast, there ever was a man who was fond of sitting down with his feet higher than his head, it was this selfsame elder brown.
the morning expanded, and the old man expanded with it; for while a vigorous leader in his church, the elder at home was, it must be admitted, an uncomplaining slave.
to the intense astonishment of the beast he rode, there came new vigor into the whacks which fell upon his flanks; and the beast allowed astonishment to surprise him into real life and decided motion.
somewhere in the elder's expanding soul a tune had begun to ring.
possibly he took up the far, faint tune that came from the straggling gang of negroes away off in the field, as they slowly chopped amid the threadlike rows of cotton plants which lined the level ground, for the melody he hummed softly and then sang strongly, in the quavering, catchy tones of a good old country churchman, was "i'm glad salvation's free."
it was during the singing of this hymn that elder brown's regular motion-inspiring strokes were for the first time varied.
he began to hold his hickory up at certain pauses in the melody, and beat the changes upon the sides of his astonished steed.
the chorus under this arrangement was:
i'm glad salvation's free,   i'm glad salvation's free,   i'm glad salvation's free for all,   i'm glad salvation's free.
wherever there is an italic, the hickory descended.
it fell about as regularly and after the fashion of the stick beating upon the bass drum during a funeral march.
but the beast, although convinced that something serious was impending, did not consider a funeral march appropriate for the occasion.
he protested, at first, with vigorous whiskings of his tail and a rapid shifting of his ears.
finding these demonstrations unavailing, and convinced that some urgent cause for hurry had suddenly invaded the elder's serenity, as it had his own, he began to cover the ground with frantic leaps that would have surprised his owner could he have realized what was going on.
but elder brown's eyes were half closed, and he was singing at the top of his voice.
lost in a trance of divine exaltation, for he felt the effects of the invigorating motion, bent only on making the air ring with the lines which he dimly imagined were drawing upon him the eyes of the whole female congregation, he was supremely unconscious that his beast was hurrying.
and thus the excursion proceeded, until suddenly a shote, surprised in his calm search for roots in a fence corner, darted into the road, and stood for an instant gazing upon the newcomers with that idiotic stare which only a pig can imitate.
the sudden appearance of this unlooked-for apparition acted strongly upon the donkey.
with one supreme effort he collected himself into a motionless mass of matter, bracing his front legs wide apart; that is to say, he stopped short.
there he stood, returning the pig's idiotic stare with an interest which must have led to the presumption that never before in all his varied life had he seen such a singular little creature.
end over end went the man of prayer, finally bringing up full length in the sand, striking just as he should have shouted "free" for the fourth time in his glorious chorus.
fully convinced that his alarm had been well founded, the shote sped out from under the gigantic missile hurled at him by the donkey, and scampered down the road, turning first one ear and then the other to detect any sounds of pursuit.
the donkey, also convinced that the object before which he had halted was supernatural, started back violently upon seeing it apparently turn to a man.
but seeing that it had turned to nothing but a man, he wandered up into the deserted fence corner, and began to nibble refreshment from a scrub oak.
for a moment the elder gazed up into the sky, half impressed with the idea that the camp-meeting platform had given way.
but the truth forced its way to the front in his disordered understanding at last, and with painful dignity he staggered into an upright position, and regained his beaver.
he was shocked again.
never before in all the long years it had served him had he seen it in such shape.
the truth is, elder brown had never before tried to stand on his head in it.
as calmly as possible he began to straighten it out, caring but little for the dust upon his garments.
the beaver was his special crown of dignity.
to lose it was to be reduced to a level with the common woolhat herd.
he did his best, pulling, pressing, and pushing, but the hat did not look natural when he had finished.
it seemed to have been laid off into counties, sections, and town lots.
like a well-cut jewel, it had a face for him, view it from whatever point he chose, a quality which so impressed him that a lump gathered in his throat, and his eyes winked vigorously.
elder brown was not, however, a man for tears.
he was a man of action.
the sudden vision which met his wandering gaze, the donkey calmly chewing scrub buds, with the green juice already oozing from the corners of his frothy mouth, acted upon him like magic.
he was, after all, only human, and when he got hands upon a piece of brush he thrashed the poor beast until it seemed as though even its already half-tanned hide would be eternally ruined.
thoroughly exhausted at last, he wearily straddled his saddle, and with his chin upon his breast resumed the early morning tenor of his way.
ii
"good-mornin', sir."
elder brown leaned over the little pine picket which divided the bookkeepers' department of a macon warehouse from the room in general, and surveyed the well-dressed back of a gentleman who was busily figuring at a desk within.
the apartment was carpetless, and the dust of a decade lay deep on the old books, shelves, and the familiar advertisements of guano and fertilizers which decorated the room.
an old stove, rusty with the nicotine contributed by farmers during the previous season while waiting by its glowing sides for their cotton to be sold, stood straight up in a bed of sand, and festoons of cobwebs clung to the upper sashes of the murky windows.
the lower sash of one window had been raised, and in the yard without, nearly an acre in extent, lay a few bales of cotton, with jagged holes in their ends, just as the sampler had left them.
elder brown had time to notice all these familiar points, for the figure at the desk kept serenely at its task, and deigned no reply.
"good-mornin', sir," said elder brown again, in his most dignified tones.
"is mr. thomas in?"
"good-morning, sir," said the figure.
"i'll wait on you in a minute."
the minute passed, and four more joined it.
then the desk man turned.
"well, sir, what can i do for you?"
the elder was not in the best of humor when he arrived, and his state of mind had not improved.
he waited full a minute as he surveyed the man of business.
"i thought i mout be able to make some arrangements with you to git some money, but i reckon i was mistaken."
the warehouse man came nearer.
"this is mr. brown, i believe.
i did not recognize you at once.
you are not in often to see us."
"no; my wife usually 'tends to the town bizness, while i run the church and farm.
got a fall from my donkey this morning," he said, noticing a quizzical, interrogating look upon the face before him, "and fell squar' on the hat."
he made a pretense of smoothing it.
the man of business had already lost interest.
"how much money will you want, mr.
brown?"
"well, about seven hundred dollars," said the elder, replacing his hat, and turning a furtive look upon the warehouse man.
the other was tapping with his pencil upon the little shelf lying across the rail.
"i can get you five hundred."
"but i oughter have seven."
"can't arrange for that amount.
wait till later in the season, and come again.
money is very tight now.
how much cotton will you raise?"
"well, i count on a hundr'd bales.
an' you can't git the sev'n hundr'd dollars?"
"like to oblige you, but can't right now; will fix it for you later on."
"well," said the elder, slowly, "fix up the papers for five, an' i'll make it go as far as possible."
the papers were drawn.
a note was made out for $552.50, for the interest was at one and a half per cent.
for seven months, and a mortgage on ten mules belonging to the elder was drawn and signed.
the elder then promised to send his cotton to the warehouse to be sold in the fall, and with a curt "anything else?"
and a "thankee, that's all," the two parted.
elder brown now made an effort to recall the supplemental commissions shouted to him upon his departure, intending to execute them first, and then take his written list item by item.
his mental resolves had just reached this point when a new thought made itself known.
passersby were puzzled to see the old man suddenly snatch his headpiece off and peer with an intent and awestruck air into its irregular caverns.
some of them were shocked when he suddenly and vigorously ejaculated:
"hannah-maria-jemimy!
goldarn an' blue blazes!"
he had suddenly remembered having placed his memoranda in that hat, and as he studied its empty depths his mind pictured the important scrap fluttering along the sandy scene of his early-morning tumble.
it was this that caused him to graze an oath with less margin that he had allowed himself in twenty years.
what would the old lady say?
alas!
elder brown knew too well.
what she would not say was what puzzled him.
but as he stood bareheaded in the sunlight a sense of utter desolation came and dwelt with him.
his eye rested upon sleeping balaam anchored to a post in the street, and so as he recalled the treachery that lay at the base of all his affliction, gloom was added to the desolation.
to turn back and search for the lost paper would have been worse than useless.
only one course was open to him, and at it went the leader of his people.
he called at the grocery; he invaded the recesses of the dry-goods establishments; he ransacked the hardware stores; and wherever he went he made life a burden for the clerks, overhauling show-cases and pulling down whole shelves of stock.
occasionally an item of his memoranda would come to light, and thrusting his hand into his capacious pocket, where lay the proceeds of his check, he would pay for it upon the spot, and insist upon having it rolled up.
to the suggestion of the slave whom he had in charge for the time being that the articles be laid aside until he had finished, he would not listen.
"now you look here, sonny," he said, in the dry-goods store, "i'm conducting this revival, an' i don't need no help in my line.
just you tie them stockin's up an' lemme have 'em.
then i know i've got 'em."
as each purchase was promptly paid for, and change had to be secured, the clerk earned his salary for that day at least.
so it was when, near the heat of the day, the good man arrived at the drugstore, the last and only unvisited division of trade, he made his appearance equipped with half a hundred packages, which nestled in his arms and bulged out about the sections of his clothing that boasted of pockets.
as he deposited his deck-load upon the counter, great drops of perspiration rolled down his face and over his waterlogged collar to the floor.
there was something exquisitely refreshing in the great glasses of foaming soda that a spruce young man was drawing from a marble fountain, above which half a dozen polar bears in an ambitious print were disporting themselves.
there came a break in the run of customers, and the spruce young man, having swept the foam from the marble, dexterously lifted a glass from the revolving rack which had rinsed it with a fierce little stream of water, and asked mechanically, as he caught the intense look of the perspiring elder, "what syrup, sir?"
now it had not occurred to the elder to drink soda, but the suggestion, coming as it did in his exhausted state, was overpowering.
he drew near awkwardly, put on his glasses, and examined the list of syrups with great care.
the young man, being for the moment at leisure, surveyed critically the gaunt figure, the faded bandanna, the antique clawhammer coat, and the battered stove-pipe hat, with a gradually relaxing countenance.
he even called the prescription clerk's attention by a cough and a quick jerk of the thumb.
the prescription clerk smiled freely, and continued his assaults upon a piece of blue mass.
"i reckon," said the elder, resting his hands upon his knees and bending down to the list, "you may gimme sassprilla an' a little strawberry.
sassprilla's good for the blood this time er year, an'
strawberry's good any time."
the spruce young man let the syrup stream into the glass as he smiled affably.
thinking, perhaps, to draw out the odd character, he ventured upon a jest himself, repeating a pun invented by the man who made the first soda fountain.
with a sweep of his arm he cleared away the swarm of insects as he remarked, "people who like a fly in theirs are easily accommodated."
it was from sheer good-nature only that elder brown replied, with his usual broad, social smile, "well, a fly now an' then don't hurt nobody."
now if there is anybody in the world who prides himself on knowing a thing or two, it is the spruce young man who presides over a soda fountain.
this particular young gentleman did not even deem a reply necessary.
he vanished an instant, and when he returned a close observer might have seen that the mixture in the glass he bore had slightly changed color and increased in quantity.
but the elder saw only the whizzing stream of water dart into its center, and the rosy foam rise and tremble on the glass's rim.
the next instant he was holding his breath and sipping the cooling drink.
as elder brown paid his small score he was at peace with the world.
i firmly believe that when he had finished his trading, and the little blue-stringed packages had been stored away, could the poor donkey have made his appearance at the door, and gazed with his meek, fawnlike eyes into his master's, he would have obtained full and free forgiveness.
elder brown paused at the door as he was about to leave.
a rosy-cheeked school-girl was just lifting a creamy mixture to her lips before the fountain.
it was a pretty picture, and he turned back, resolved to indulge in one more glass of the delightful beverage before beginning his long ride homeward.
"fix it up again, sonny," he said, renewing his broad, confiding smile, as the spruce young man poised a glass inquiringly.
the living automaton went through the same motions as before, and again elder brown quaffed the fatal mixture.
what a singular power is habit!
up to this time elder brown had been entirely innocent of transgression, but with the old alcoholic fire in his veins, twenty years dropped from his shoulders, and a feeling came over him familiar to every man who has been "in his cups."
as a matter of fact, the elder would have been a confirmed drunkard twenty years before had his wife been less strong-minded.
she took the reins into her own hands when she found that his business and strong drink did not mix well, worked him into the church, sustained his resolutions by making it difficult and dangerous for him to get to his toddy.
she became the business head of the family, and he the spiritual.
only at rare intervals did he ever "backslide" during the twenty years of the new era, and mrs. brown herself used to say that the "sugar in his'n turned to gall before the backslide ended."
people who knew her never doubted it.
but elder brown's sin during the remainder of the day contained an element of responsibility.
as he moved majestically down toward where balaam slept in the sunlight, he felt no fatigue.
there was a glow upon his cheek-bones, and a faint tinge upon his prominent nose.
he nodded familiarly to people as he met them, and saw not the look of amusement which succeeded astonishment upon the various faces.
when he reached the neighborhood of balaam it suddenly occurred to him that he might have forgotten some one of his numerous commissions, and he paused to think.
then a brilliant idea rose in his mind.
he would forestall blame and disarm anger with kindness he would purchase hannah a bonnet.
what woman's heart ever failed to soften at sight of a new bonnet?
as i have stated, the elder was a man of action.
he entered a store near at hand.
"good-morning," said an affable gentleman with a hebrew countenance, approaching.
"good-mornin', good-mornin'," said the elder, piling his bundles on the counter.
"i hope you are well?"
elder brown extended his hand fervidly.
"quite well, i thank you.
what "
"and the little wife?"
said elder brown, affectionately retaining the jew's hand.
"quite well, sir."
"and the little ones quite well, i hope, too?"
"yes, sir; all well, thank you.
something i can do for you?"
the affable merchant was trying to recall his customer's name.
"not now, not now, thankee.
if you please to let my bundles stay untell i come back "
"can't i show you something?
hat, coat "
"not now.
be back bimeby."
was it chance or fate that brought elder brown in front of a bar?
the glasses shone bright upon the shelves as the swinging door flapped back to let out a coatless clerk, who passed him with a rush, chewing upon a farewell mouthful of brown bread and bologna.
elder brown beheld for an instant the familiar scene within.
the screws of his resolution had been loosened.
at sight of the glistening bar the whole moral structure of twenty years came tumbling down.
mechanically he entered the saloon, and laid a silver quarter upon the bar as he said:
"a little whiskey an' sugar."
the arms of the bartender worked like a faker's in a side show as he set out the glass with its little quota of "short sweetening" and a cut-glass decanter, and sent a half-tumbler of water spinning along from the upper end of the bar with a dime in change.
"whiskey is higher'n used to be," said elder brown; but the bartender was taking another order, and did not hear him.
elder brown stirred away the sugar, and let a steady stream of red liquid flow into the glass.
he swallowed the drink as unconcernedly as though his morning tod had never been suspended, and pocketed the change.
"but it ain't any better than it was," he concluded, as he passed out.
he did not even seem to realize that he had done anything extraordinary.
there was a millinery store up the street, and thither with uncertain step he wended his way, feeling a little more elate, and altogether sociable.
a pretty, black-eyed girl, struggling to keep down her mirth, came forward and faced him behind the counter.
elder brown lifted his faded hat with the politeness, if not the grace, of a castilian, and made a sweeping bow.
again he was in his element.
but he did not speak.
a shower of odds and ends, small packages, thread, needles, and buttons, released from their prison, rattled down about him.
the girl laughed.
she could not help it.
and the elder, leaning his hand on the counter, laughed, too, until several other girls came half-way to the front.
then they, hiding behind counters and suspended cloaks, laughed and snickered until they reconvulsed the elder's vis-à-vis, who had been making desperate efforts to resume her demure appearance.
"let me help you, sir," she said, coming from behind the counter, upon seeing elder brown beginning to adjust his spectacles for a search.
he waved her back majestically.
"no, my dear, no; can't allow it.
you mout sile them purty fingers.
no, ma'am.
no gen'l'man'll 'low er lady to do such a thing."
the elder was gently forcing the girl back to her place.
"leave it to me.
i've picked up bigger things 'n them.
picked myself up this mornin'.
balaam you don't know balaam; he's my donkey he tumbled me over his head in the sand this mornin'."
and elder brown had to resume an upright position until his paroxysm of laughter had passed.
"you see this old hat?"
extending it, half full of packages; "i fell clear inter it; jes' as clean inter it as them things thar fell out'n it."
he laughed again, and so did the girls.
"but, my dear, i whaled half the hide off'n him for it."
"oh, sir!
how could you?
indeed, sir.
i think you did wrong.
the poor brute did not know what he was doing, i dare say, and probably he has been a faithful friend."
the girl cast her mischievous eyes towards her companions, who snickered again.
the old man was not conscious of the sarcasm.
he only saw reproach.
his face straightened, and he regarded the girl soberly.
"mebbe you're right, my dear; mebbe i oughtn't."
"i am sure of it," said the girl.
"but now don't you want to buy a bonnet or a cloak to carry home to your wife?"
"well, you're whistlin' now, birdie; that's my intention; set 'em all out."
again the elder's face shone with delight.
"an' i don't want no one-hoss bonnet neither."
"of course not.
now here is one; pink silk, with delicate pale blue feathers.
just the thing for the season.
we have nothing more elegant in stock."
elder brown held it out, upside down, at arm's-length.
"well, now, that's suthin' like.
will it soot a sorter redheaded 'ooman?"
a perfectly sober man would have said the girl's corsets must have undergone a terrible strain, but the elder did not notice her dumb convulsion.
she answered, heroically:
"perfectly, sir.
it is an exquisite match."
"i think you're whistlin' again.
nancy's head's red, red as a woodpeck's.
sorrel's only half-way to the color of her top-knot, an'
it do seem like red oughter to soot red.
nancy's red an' the hat's red; like goes with like, an' birds of a feather flock together."
the old man laughed until his cheeks were wet.
the girl, beginning to feel a little uneasy, and seeing a customer entering, rapidly fixed up the bonnet, took fifteen dollars out of a twenty-dollar bill, and calmly asked the elder if he wanted anything else.
he thrust his change somewhere into his clothes, and beat a retreat.
it had occurred to him that he was nearly drunk.
elder brown's step began to lose its buoyancy.
he found himself utterly unable to walk straight.
there was an uncertain straddle in his gait that carried him from one side of the walk to the other, and caused people whom he met to cheerfully yield him plenty of room.
balaam saw him coming.
poor balaam.
he had made an early start that day, and for hours he stood in the sun awaiting relief.
when he opened his sleepy eyes and raised his expressive ears to a position of attention, the old familiar coat and battered hat of the elder were before him.
he lifted up his honest voice and cried aloud for joy.
the effect was electrical for one instant.
elder brown surveyed the beast with horror, but again in his understanding there rang out the trumpet words.
"drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, -er-unc, -unc, -unc."
he stooped instinctively for a missile with which to smite his accuser, but brought up suddenly with a jerk and a handful of sand.
straightening himself up with a majestic dignity, he extended his right hand impressively.
"you're a goldarn liar, balaam, and, blast your old buttons, you kin walk home by yourself, for i'm danged if you sh'll ride me er step."
surely coriolanus never turned his back upon rome with a grander dignity than sat upon the old man's form as he faced about and left the brute to survey with anxious eyes the new departure of his master.
he saw the elder zigzag along the street, and beheld him about to turn a friendly corner.
once more he lifted up his mighty voice:
"drunk, drunk, drunk, drer-unc, drer-unc, -erunc, -unc, -unc."
once more the elder turned with lifted hand and shouted back:
"you're a liar, balaam, goldarn you!
you're er iffamous liar."
then he passed from view.
iii
mrs. brown stood upon the steps anxiously awaiting the return of her liege lord.
she knew he had with him a large sum of money, or should have, and she knew also that he was a man without business methods.
she had long since repented of the decision which sent him to town.
when the old battered hat and flour-covered coat loomed up in the gloaming and confronted her, she stared with terror.
the next instant she had seized him.
"for the lord sakes, elder brown, what ails you?
as i live, if the man ain't drunk!
elder brown!
elder brown!
for the life of me can't i make you hear?
you crazy old hypocrite!
you desavin' old sinner!
you black-hearted wretch!
where have you ben?"
the elder made an effort to wave her off.
"woman," he said, with grand dignity, "you forgit yus-sef; shu know ware i've ben 'swell's i do.
ben to town, wife, an' see yer wat i've brought the fines' hat, ole woman, i could git.
look't the color.
like goes 'ith like; it's red an' you're red, an' it's a dead match.
what yer mean?
hey!
hole on!
ole woman!
you!
hannah!
you."
she literally shook him into silence.
"you miserable wretch!
you low-down drunken sot!
what do you mean by coming home and insulting your wife?"
hannah ceased shaking him from pure exhaustion.
"where is it, i say?
where is it?"
by this time she was turning his pockets wrong side out.
from one she got pills, from another change, from another packages.
"the lord be praised, and this is better luck than i hoped!
oh, elder!
elder!
elder!
what did you do it for?
why, man, where is balaam?"
thought of the beast choked off the threatened hysterics.
"balaam?
balaam?"
said the elder, groggily.
"he's in town.
the infernal ole fool 'sulted me, an' i lef' him to walk home."
his wife surveyed him.
really at that moment she did think his mind was gone; but the leer upon the old man's face enraged her beyond endurance.
"you did, did you?
well, now, i reckon you'll laugh for some cause, you will.
back you go, sir straight back; an' don't you come home 'thout that donkey, or you'll rue it, sure as my name is hannah brown.
aleck!
you aleck-k-k!"
a black boy darted round the corner, from behind which, with several others, he had beheld the brief but stirring scene.
"put a saddle on er mule.
the elder's gwine back to town.
and don't you be long about it neither."
"yessum."
aleck's ivories gleamed in the darkness as he disappeared.
elder brown was soberer at that moment than he had been for hours.
"hannah, you don't mean it?"
"yes, sir, i do.
back you go to town as sure as my name is hannah brown."
the elder was silent.
he had never known his wife to relent on any occasion after she had affirmed her intention, supplemented with "as sure as my name is hannah brown."
it was her way of swearing.
no affidavit would have had half the claim upon her as that simple enunciation.
so back to town went elder brown, not in the order of the early morn, but silently, moodily, despairingly, surrounded by mental and actual gloom.
the old man had turned a last appealing glance upon the angry woman, as he mounted with aleck's assistance, and sat in the light that streamed from out the kitchen window.
she met the glance without a waver.
"she means it, as sure as my name is elder brown," he said, thickly.
then he rode on.
iv
to say that elder brown suffered on this long journey back to macon would only mildly outline his experience.
his early morning's fall had begun to make itself felt.
he was sore and uncomfortable.
besides, his stomach was empty, and called for two meals it had missed for the first time in years.
when, sore and weary, the elder entered the city, the electric lights shone above it like jewels in a crown.
the city slept; that is, the better portion of it did.
here and there, however, the lower lights flashed out into the night.
moodily the elder pursued his journey, and as he rode, far off in the night there rose and quivered a plaintive cry.
elder brown smiled wearily: it was balaam's appeal, and he recognized it.
the animal he rode also recognized it, and replied, until the silence of the city was destroyed.
the odd clamor and confusion drew from a saloon near by a group of noisy youngsters, who had been making a night of it.
they surrounded elder brown as he began to transfer himself to the hungry beast to whose motion he was more accustomed, and in the "hail fellow well met" style of the day began to bandy jests upon his appearance.
now elder brown was not in a jesting humor.
positively he was in the worst humor possible.
the result was that before many minutes passed the old man was swinging several of the crowd by their collars, and breaking the peace of the city.
a policeman approached, and but for the good-humored party, upon whom the elder's pluck had made a favorable impression, would have run the old man into the barracks.
the crowd, however, drew him laughingly into the saloon and to the bar.
the reaction was too much for his half-rallied senses.
he yielded again.
the reviving liquor passed his lips.
gloom vanished.
he became one of the boys.
the company into which elder brown had fallen was what is known as "first-class."
to such nothing is so captivating as an adventure out of the common run of accidents.
the gaunt countryman, with his battered hat and claw-hammer coat, was a prize of an extraordinary nature.
they drew him into a rear room, whose gilded frames and polished tables betrayed the character and purpose of the place, and plied him with wine until ten thousand lights danced about him.
the fun increased.
one youngster made a political speech from the top of the table; another impersonated hamlet; and finally elder brown was lifted into a chair, and sang a camp-meeting song.
this was rendered by him with startling effect.
he stood upright, with his hat jauntily knocked to one side, and his coat tails ornamented with a couple of show-bills, kindly pinned on by his admirers.
in his left hand he waved the stub of a cigar, and on his back was an admirable representation of balaam's head, executed by some artist with billiard chalk.
as the elder sang his favorite hymn, "i'm glad salvation's free," his stentorian voice awoke the echoes.
most of the company rolled upon the floor in convulsions of laughter.
the exhibition came to a close by the chair overturning.
again elder brown fell into his beloved hat.
he arose and shouted: "whoa, balaam!"
again he seized the nearest weapon, and sought satisfaction.
the young gentleman with political sentiments was knocked under the table, and hamlet only escaped injury by beating the infuriated elder into the street.
what next?
well, i hardly know.
how the elder found balaam is a mystery yet: not that balaam was hard to find, but that the old man was in no condition to find anything.
still he did, and climbing laboriously into the saddle, he held on stupidly while the hungry beast struck out for home.
v
hannah brown did not sleep that night.
sleep would not come.
hour after hour passed, and her wrath refused to be quelled.
she tried every conceivable method, but time hung heavily.
it was not quite peep of day, however, when she laid her well-worn family bible aside.
it had been her mother's, and amid all the anxieties and tribulations incident to the life of a woman who had free negroes and a miserable husband to manage, it had been her mainstay and comfort.
she had frequently read it in anger, page after page, without knowing what was contained in the lines.
but eventually the words became intelligible and took meaning.
she wrested consolation from it by mere force of will.
and so on this occasion when she closed the book the fierce anger was gone.
she was not a hard woman naturally.
fate had brought her conditions which covered up the woman heart within her, but though it lay deep, it was there still.
as she sat with folded hands her eyes fell upon what?
the pink bonnet with the blue plume!
it may appear strange to those who do not understand such natures, but to me her next action was perfectly natural.
she burst into a convulsive laugh; then, seizing the queer object, bent her face upon it and sobbed hysterically.
when the storm was over, very tenderly she laid the gift aside, and bare-headed passed out into the night.
for a half-hour she stood at the end of the lane, and then hungry balaam and his master hove in sight.
reaching out her hand, she checked the beast.
"william," said she, very gently, "where is the mule?"
the elder had been asleep.
he woke and gazed upon her blankly.
"what mule, hannah?"
"the mule you rode to town."
for one full minute the elder studied her face.
then it burst from his lips:
"well, bless me!
if i didn't bring balaam and forgit the mule!"
the woman laughed till her eyes ran water.
"william," said she, "you're drunk."
"hannah," said he, meekly, "i know it.
the truth is, hannah, i "
"never mind, now, william," she said, gently.
"you are tired and hungry.
come into the house, husband."
leading balaam, she disappeared down the lane; and when, a few minutes later, hannah brown and her husband entered through the light that streamed out of the open door her arms were around him, and her face upturned to his.
the hotel experience of mr. pink fluker
by richard malcolm johnston (1822-1898)
[from the century magazine, june, 1886; copyright, 1886, by the century co.; republished in the volume, mr. absalom billingslea, and other georgia folk (1888), by richard malcolm johnston (harper &
brothers).]
i
mr. peterson fluker, generally called pink, for his fondness for as stylish dressing as he could afford, was one of that sort of men who habitually seem busy and efficient when they are not.
he had the bustling activity often noticeable in men of his size, and in one way and another had made up, as he believed, for being so much smaller than most of his adult acquaintance of the male sex.
prominent among his achievements on that line was getting married to a woman who, among other excellent gifts, had that of being twice as big as her husband.
"fool who?"
on the day after his marriage he had asked, with a look at those who had often said that he was too little to have a wife.
they had a little property to begin with, a couple of hundreds of acres, and two or three negroes apiece.
yet, except in the natural increase of the latter, the accretions of worldly estate had been inconsiderable till now, when their oldest child, marann, was some fifteen years old.
these accretions had been saved and taken care of by mrs. fluker, who was as staid and silent as he was mobile and voluble.
mr. fluker often said that it puzzled him how it was that he made smaller crops than most of his neighbors, when, if not always convincing, he could generally put every one of them to silence in discussions upon agricultural topics.
this puzzle had led him to not unfrequent ruminations in his mind as to whether or not his vocation might lie in something higher than the mere tilling of the ground.
these ruminations had lately taken a definite direction, and it was after several conversations which he had held with his friend matt pike.
mr. matt pike was a bachelor of some thirty summers, a foretime clerk consecutively in each of the two stores of the village, but latterly a trader on a limited scale in horses, wagons, cows, and similar objects of commerce, and at all times a politician.
his hopes of holding office had been continually disappointed until mr. john sanks became sheriff, and rewarded with a deputyship some important special service rendered by him in the late very close canvass.
now was a chance to rise, mr. pike thought.
all he wanted, he had often said, was a start.
politics, i would remark, however, had been regarded by mr. pike as a means rather than an end.
it is doubtful if he hoped to become governor of the state, at least before an advanced period in his career.
his main object now was to get money, and he believed that official position would promote him in the line of his ambition faster than was possible to any private station, by leading him into more extensive acquaintance with mankind, their needs, their desires, and their caprices.
a deputy sheriff, provided that lawyers were not too indulgent in allowing acknowledgment of service of court processes, in postponing levies and sales, and in settlement of litigated cases, might pick up three hundred dollars, a good sum for those times, a fact which mr. pike had known and pondered long.
it happened just about then that the arrears of rent for the village hotel had so accumulated on mr. spouter, the last occupant, that the owner, an indulgent man, finally had said, what he had been expected for years and years to say, that he could not wait on mr. spouter forever and eternally.
it was at this very nick, so to speak, that mr.
pike made to mr. fluker the suggestion to quit a business so far beneath his powers, sell out, or rent out, or tenant out, or do something else with his farm, march into town, plant himself upon the ruins of jacob spouter, and begin his upward soar.
now mr. fluker had many and many a time acknowledged that he had ambition; so one night he said to his wife:
"you see how it is here, nervy.
farmin' somehow don't suit my talons.
i need to be flung more 'mong people to fetch out what's in me.
then thar's marann, which is gittin' to be nigh on to a growd-up woman; an'
the child need the s'iety which you 'bleeged to acknowledge is sca'ce about here, six mile from town.
your brer sam can stay here an' raise butter, chickens, eggs, pigs, an' an' an' so forth.
matt pike say he jes' know they's money in it, an' special with a housekeeper keerful an' equinomical like you."
it is always curious the extent of influence that some men have upon wives who are their superiors.
mrs. fluker, in spite of accidents, had ever set upon her husband a value that was not recognized outside of his family.
in this respect there seems a surprising compensation in human life.
but this remark i make only in passing.
mrs. fluker, admitting in her heart that farming was not her husband's forte, hoped, like a true wife, that it might be found in the new field to which he aspired.
besides, she did not forget that her brother sam had said to her several times privately that if his brer pink wouldn't have so many notions and would let him alone in his management, they would all do better.
she reflected for a day or two, and then said:
"maybe it's best, mr. fluker.
i'm willin' to try it for a year, anyhow.
we can't lose much by that.
as for matt pike, i hain't the confidence in him you has.
still, he bein' a boarder and deputy sheriff, he might accidentally do us some good.
i'll try it for a year providin' you'll fetch me the money as it's paid in, for you know i know how to manage that better'n you do, and you know i'll try to manage it and all the rest of the business for the best."
to this provision mr. fluker gave consent, qualified by the claim that he was to retain a small margin for indispensable personal exigencies.
for he contended, perhaps with justice, that no man in the responsible position he was about to take ought to be expected to go about, or sit about, or even lounge about, without even a continental red in his pocket.
the new house i say new because tongue could not tell the amount of scouring, scalding, and whitewashing that that excellent housekeeper had done before a single stick of her furniture went into it the new house, i repeat, opened with six eating boarders at ten dollars a month apiece, and two eating and sleeping at eleven, besides mr. pike, who made a special contract.
transient custom was hoped to hold its own, and that of the county people under the deputy's patronage and influence to be considerably enlarged.
in words and other encouragement mr. pike was pronounced.
he could commend honestly, and he did so cordially.
"the thing to do, pink, is to have your prices reg'lar, and make people pay up reg'lar.
ten dollars for eatin', jes' so; eleb'n for eatin' an' sleepin'; half a dollar for dinner, jes' so; quarter apiece for breakfast, supper, and bed, is what i call reason'ble bo'd.
as for me, i sca'cely know how to rig'late, because, you know, i'm a'
officer now, an' in course i natchel has to be away sometimes an' on expenses at 'tother places, an' it seem like some 'lowance ought by good rights to be made for that; don't you think so?"
"why, matter o' course, matt; what you think?
i ain't so powerful good at figgers.
nervy is.
s'posen you speak to her 'bout it."
"oh, that's perfec' unuseless, pink.
i'm a' officer o' the law, pink, an' the law consider women well, i may say the law, she deal 'ith men, not women, an' she expect her officers to understan' figgers, an' if i hadn't o' understood figgers mr. sanks wouldn't or darsnt' to 'p'int me his dep'ty.
me 'n' you can fix them terms.
now see here, reg'lar bo'd eatin' bo'd, i mean is ten dollars, an' sleepin' and singuil meals is 'cordin' to the figgers you've sot for 'em.
ain't that so?
jes' so.
now, pink, you an' me'll keep a runnin' account, you a-chargin' for reg'lar bo'd, an' i a'lowin' to myself credics for my absentees, accordin' to transion customers an' singuil mealers an'
sleepers.
is that fa'r, er is it not fa'r?"
mr. fluker turned his head, and after making or thinking he had made a calculation, answered:
"that's that seem fa'r, matt."
"cert'nly 'tis, pink; i knowed you'd say so, an' you know i'd never wish to be nothin' but fa'r 'ith people i like, like i do you an' your wife.
let that be the understandin', then, betwix' us.
an' pink, let the understandin' be jes' betwix' us, for i've saw enough o' this world to find out that a man never makes nothin' by makin' a blowin'
horn o' his business.
you make the t'others pay up spuntial, monthly.
you 'n' me can settle whensomever it's convenant, say three months from to-day.
in course i shall talk up for the house whensomever and wharsomever i go or stay.
you know that.
an' as for my bed," said mr.
pike finally, "whensomever i ain't here by bed-time, you welcome to put any transion person in it, an' also an' likewise, when transion custom is pressin', and you cramped for beddin', i'm willin' to give it up for the time bein'; an' rather'n you should be cramped too bad, i'll take my chances somewhars else, even if i has to take a pallet at the head o' the sta'r-steps."
"nervy," said mr. fluker to his wife afterwards, "matt pike's a sensibler an' a friendlier an' a 'commodatiner feller'n i thought."
then, without giving details of the contract, he mentioned merely the willingness of their boarder to resign his bed on occasions of pressing emergency.
"he's talked mighty fine to me and marann," answered mrs. fluker.
"we'll see how he holds out.
one thing i do not like of his doin', an'
that's the talkin' 'bout sim marchman to marann, an' makin' game o'
his country ways, as he call 'em.
sech as that ain't right."
it may be as well to explain just here that simeon marchman, the person just named by mrs. fluker, a stout, industrious young farmer, residing with his parents in the country near by where the flukers had dwelt before removing to town, had been eying marann for a year or two, and waiting upon her fast-ripening womanhood with intentions that, he believed to be hidden in his own breast, though he had taken less pains to conceal them from marann than from the rest of his acquaintance.
not that he had ever told her of them in so many words, but oh, i need not stop here in the midst of this narration to explain how such intentions become known, or at least strongly suspected by girls, even those less bright than marann fluker.
simeon had not cordially indorsed the movement into town, though, of course, knowing it was none of his business, he had never so much as hinted opposition.
i would not be surprised, also, if he reflected that there might be some selfishness in his hostility, or at least that it was heightened by apprehensions personal to himself.
considering the want of experience in the new tenants, matters went on remarkably well.
mrs. fluker, accustomed to rise from her couch long before the lark, managed to the satisfaction of all, regular boarders, single-meal takers, and transient people.
marann went to the village school, her mother dressing her, though with prudent economy, as neatly and almost as tastefully as any of her schoolmates; while, as to study, deportment, and general progress, there was not a girl in the whole school to beat her, i don't care who she was.
ii
during a not inconsiderable period mr. fluker indulged the honorable conviction that at last he had found the vein in which his best talents lay, and he was happy in foresight of the prosperity and felicity which that discovery promised to himself and his family.
his native activity found many more objects for its exertion than before.
he rode out to the farm, not often, but sometimes, as a matter of duty, and was forced to acknowledge that sam was managing better than could have been expected in the absence of his own continuous guidance.
in town he walked about the hotel, entertained the guests, carved at the meals, hovered about the stores, the doctors' offices, the wagon and blacksmith shops, discussed mercantile, medical, mechanical questions with specialists in all these departments, throwing into them all more and more of politics as the intimacy between him and his patron and chief boarder increased.
now as to that patron and chief boarder.
the need of extending his acquaintance seemed to press upon mr. pike with ever-increasing weight.
he was here and there, all over the county; at the county-seat, at the county villages, at justices' courts, at executors' and administrators' sales, at quarterly and protracted religious meetings, at barbecues of every dimension, on hunting excursions and fishing frolics, at social parties in all neighborhoods.
it got to be said of mr. pike that a freer acceptor of hospitable invitations, or a better appreciator of hospitable intentions, was not and needed not to be found possibly in the whole state.
nor was this admirable deportment confined to the county in which he held so high official position.
he attended, among other occasions less public, the spring sessions of the supreme and county courts in the four adjoining counties: the guest of acquaintance old and new over there.
when starting upon such travels, he would sometimes breakfast with his traveling companion in the village, and, if somewhat belated in the return, sup with him also.
yet, when at flukers', no man could have been a more cheerful and otherwise satisfactory boarder than mr. matt pike.
he praised every dish set before him, bragged to their very faces of his host and hostess, and in spite of his absences was the oftenest to sit and chat with marann when her mother would let her go into the parlor.
here and everywhere about the house, in the dining-room, in the passage, at the foot of the stairs, he would joke with marann about her country beau, as he styled poor sim marchman, and he would talk as though he was rather ashamed of sim, and wanted marann to string her bow for higher game.
brer sam did manage well, not only the fields, but the yard.
every saturday of the world he sent in something or other to his sister.
i don't know whether i ought to tell it or not, but for the sake of what is due to pure veracity i will.
on as many as three different occasions sim marchman, as if he had lost all self-respect, or had not a particle of tact, brought in himself, instead of sending by a negro, a bucket of butter and a coop of spring chickens as a free gift to mrs. fluker.
i do think, on my soul, that mr. matt pike was much amused by such degradation however, he must say that they were all first-rate.
as for marann, she was very sorry for sim, and wished he had not brought these good things at all.
nobody knew how it came about; but when the flukers had been in town somewhere between two and three months, sim marchman, who (to use his own words) had never bothered her a great deal with his visits, began to suspect that what few he made were received by marann lately with less cordiality than before; and so one day, knowing no better, in his awkward, straightforward country manners, he wanted to know the reason why.
then marann grew distant, and asked sim the following question:
"you know where mr. pike's gone, mr.
marchman?"
now the fact was, and she knew it, that marann fluker had never before, not since she was born, addressed that boy as mister.
the visitor's face reddened and reddened.
"no," he faltered in answer; "no no ma'am, i should say.
i i don't know where mr. pike's gone."
then he looked around for his hat, discovered it in time, took it into his hands, turned it around two or three times, then, bidding good-bye without shaking hands, took himself off.
mrs. fluker liked all the marchmans, and she was troubled somewhat when she heard of the quickness and manner of sim's departure; for he had been fully expected by her to stay to dinner.
"say he didn't even shake hands, marann?
what for?
what you do to him?"
"not one blessed thing, ma; only he wanted to know why i wasn't gladder to see him."
then marann looked indignant.
"say them words, marann?"
"no, but he hinted 'em."
"what did you say then?"
"i just asked, a-meaning nothing in the wide world, ma i asked him if he knew where mr. pike had gone."
"and that were answer enough to hurt his feelin's.
what you want to know where matt pike's gone for, marann?"
"i didn't care about knowing, ma, but i didn't like the way sim talked."
"look here, marann.
look straight at me.
you'll be mighty fur off your feet if you let matt pike put things in your head that hain't no business a-bein' there, and special if you find yourself a-wantin' to know where he's a-perambulatin' in his everlastin' meanderin's.
not a cent has he paid for his board, and which your pa say he have a'
understandin' with him about allowin' for his absentees, which is all right enough, but which it's now goin' on to three mont's, and what is comin' to us i need and i want.
he ought, your pa ought to let me bargain with matt pike, because he know he don't understan' figgers like matt pike.
he don't know exactly what the bargain were; for i've asked him, and he always begins with a multiplyin' of words and never answers me."
on his next return from his travels mr. pike noticed a coldness in mrs. fluker's manner, and this enhanced his praise of the house.
the last week of the third month came.
mr. pike was often noticed, before and after meals, standing at the desk in the hotel office (called in those times the bar-room) engaged in making calculations.
the day before the contract expired mrs. fluker, who had not indulged herself with a single holiday since they had been in town, left marann in charge of the house, and rode forth, spending part of the day with mrs. marchman, sim's mother.
all were glad to see her, of course, and she returned smartly, freshened by the visit.
that night she had a talk with marann, and oh, how marann did cry!
the very last day came.
like insurance policies, the contract was to expire at a certain hour.
sim marchman came just before dinner, to which he was sent for by mrs. fluker, who had seen him as he rode into town.
"hello, sim," said mr. pike as he took his seat opposite him.
"you here?
what's the news in the country?
how's your health?
how's crops?"
"jest mod'rate, mr. pike.
got little business with you after dinner, ef you can spare time."
"all right.
got a little matter with pink here first.
'twon't take long.
see you arfter amejiant, sim."
never had the deputy been more gracious and witty.
he talked and talked, outtalking even mr. fluker; he was the only man in town who could do that.
he winked at marann as he put questions to sim, some of the words employed in which sim had never heard before.
yet sim held up as well as he could, and after dinner followed marann with some little dignity into the parlor.
they had not been there more than ten minutes when mrs. fluker was heard to walk rapidly along the passage leading from the dining-room, to enter her own chamber for only a moment, then to come out and rush to the parlor door with the gig-whip in her hand.
such uncommon conduct in a woman like mrs. pink fluker of course needs explanation.
when all the other boarders had left the house, the deputy and mr.
fluker having repaired to the bar-room, the former said:
"now, pink, for our settlement, as you say your wife think we better have one.
i'd 'a' been willin' to let accounts keep on a-runnin', knowin' what a straightforrards sort o' man you was.
your count, ef i ain't mistakened, is jes' thirty-three dollars, even money.
is that so, or is it not?"
"that's it, to a dollar, matt.
three times eleben make thirty-three, don't it?"
"it do, pink, or eleben times three, jes' which you please.
now here's my count, on which you'll see, pink, that not nary cent have i charged for infloonce.
i has infloonced a consider'ble custom to this house, as you know, bo'din' and transion.
but i done that out o' my respects of you an' missis fluker, an' your keepin' of a fa'r i'll say, as i've said freckwent, a very fa'r house.
i let them infloonces go to friendship, ef you'll take it so.
will you, pink fluker?"
"cert'nly, matt, an' i'm a thousand times obleeged to you, an' "
"say no more, pink, on that p'int o' view.
ef i like a man, i know how to treat him.
now as to the p'ints o' absentees, my business as dep'ty sheriff has took me away from this inconsider'ble town freckwent, hain't it?"
"it have, matt, er somethin' else, more'n i were a expectin', an' "
"jes' so.
but a public officer, pink, when jooty call on him to go, he got to go; in fack he got to goth, as the scripture say, ain't that so?"
"i s'pose so, matt, by good rights, a a official speakin'."
mr. fluker felt that he was becoming a little confused.
"jes' so.
now, pink, i were to have credics for my absentees 'cordin'
to transion an' single-meal bo'ders an' sleepers; ain't that so?"
"i i somethin' o' that sort, matt," he answered vaguely.
"jes' so.
now look here," drawing from his pocket a paper.
"itom one.
twenty-eight dinners at half a dollar makes fourteen dollars, don't it?
jes' so.
twenty-five breakfasts at a quarter makes six an' a quarter, which make dinners an' breakfasts twenty an' a quarter.
foller me up, as i go up, pink.
twenty-five suppers at a quarter makes six an' a quarter, an' which them added to the twenty an' a quarter makes them twenty-six an' a half.
foller, pink, an' if you ketch me in any mistakes in the kyarin' an' addin', p'int it out.
twenty-two an' a half beds an' i say half, pink, because you 'member one night when them a'gusty lawyers got here 'bout midnight on their way to co't, rather'n have you too bad cramped, i ris to make way for two of 'em; yit as i had one good nap, i didn't think i ought to put that down but for half.
them makes five dollars half an' seb'n pence, an' which kyar'd on to the t'other twenty-six an' a half, fetches the whole cabool to jes' thirty-two dollars an' seb'n pence.
but i made up my mind i'd fling out that seb'n pence, an' jes' call it a dollar even money, an' which here's the solid silver."
in spite of the rapidity with which this enumeration of counter-charges was made, mr. fluker commenced perspiring at the first item, and when the balance was announced his face was covered with huge drops.
it was at this juncture that mrs. fluker, who, well knowing her husband's unfamiliarity with complicated accounts, had felt her duty to be listening near the bar-room door, left, and quickly afterwards appeared before marann and sim as i have represented.
"you think matt pike ain't tryin' to settle with your pa with a dollar?
i'm goin' to make him keep his dollar, an' i'm goin' to give him somethin' to go 'long with it."
"the good lord have mercy upon us!"
exclaimed marann, springing up and catching hold of her mother's skirts, as she began her advance towards the bar-room.
"oh, ma!
for the lord's sake!
sim, sim, sim, if you care anything for me in this wide world, don't let ma go into that room!"
"missis fluker," said sim, rising instantly, "wait jest two minutes till i see mr. pike on some pressin' business; i won't keep you over two minutes a-waitin'."
he took her, set her down in a chair trembling, looked at her a moment as she began to weep, then, going out and closing the door, strode rapidly to the bar-room.
"let me help you settle your board-bill, mr. pike, by payin' you a little one i owe you."
doubling his fist, he struck out with a blow that felled the deputy to the floor.
then catching him by his heels, he dragged him out of the house into the street.
lifting his foot above his face, he said:
"you stir till i tell you, an' i'll stomp your nose down even with the balance of your mean face.
'tain't exactly my business how you cheated mr. fluker, though, 'pon my soul, i never knowed a trifliner, lowdowner trick.
but i owed you myself for your talkin' 'bout and your lyin' 'bout me, and now i've paid you; an' ef you only knowed it, i've saved you from a gig-whippin'.
now you may git up."
"here's his dollar, sim," said mr. fluker, throwing it out of the window.
"nervy say make him take it."
the vanquished, not daring to refuse, pocketed the coin, and slunk away amid the jeers of a score of villagers who had been drawn to the scene.
in all human probability the late omission of the shaking of sim's and marann's hands was compensated at their parting that afternoon.
i am more confident on this point because at the end of the year those hands were joined inseparably by the preacher.
but this was when they had all gone back to their old home; for if mr. fluker did not become fully convinced that his mathematical education was not advanced quite enough for all the exigencies of hotel-keeping, his wife declared that she had had enough of it, and that she and marann were going home.
mr.
fluker may be said, therefore, to have followed, rather than led, his family on the return.
as for the deputy, finding that if he did not leave it voluntarily he would be drummed out of the village, he departed, whither i do not remember if anybody ever knew.
the nice people
by henry cuyler bunner (1855-1896)
[from puck, july 30, 1890. republished in the volume, short sixes:
stories to be read while the candle burns (1891), by henry cuyler bunner; copyright, 1890, by alice larned bunner; reprinted by permission of the publishers, charles scribner'a sons.]
"they certainly are nice people," i assented to my wife's observation, using the colloquial phrase with a consciousness that it was anything but "nice" english, "and i'll bet that their three children are better brought up than most of  "
"two children," corrected my wife.
"three, he told me."
"my dear, she said there were two."
"he said three."
"you've simply forgotten.
i'm sure she told me they had only two a boy and a girl."
"well, i didn't enter into particulars."
"no, dear, and you couldn't have understood him.
two children."
"all right," i said; but i did not think it was all right.
as a near-sighted man learns by enforced observation to recognize persons at a distance when the face is not visible to the normal eye, so the man with a bad memory learns, almost unconsciously, to listen carefully and report accurately.
my memory is bad; but i had not had time to forget that mr. brewster brede had told me that afternoon that he had three children, at present left in the care of his mother-in-law, while he and mrs. brede took their summer vacation.
"two children," repeated my wife; "and they are staying with his aunt jenny."
"he told me with his mother-in-law," i put in.
my wife looked at me with a serious expression.
men may not remember much of what they are told about children; but any man knows the difference between an aunt and a mother-in-law.
"but don't you think they're nice people?"
asked my wife.
"oh, certainly," i replied.
"only they seem to be a little mixed up about their children."
"that isn't a nice thing to say," returned my wife.
i could not deny it.
and yet, the next morning, when the bredes came down and seated themselves opposite us at table, beaming and smiling in their natural, pleasant, well-bred fashion, i knew, to a social certainty, that they were "nice" people.
he was a fine-looking fellow in his neat tennis-flannels, slim, graceful, twenty-eight or thirty years old, with a frenchy pointed beard.
she was "nice" in all her pretty clothes, and she herself was pretty with that type of prettiness which outwears most other types the prettiness that lies in a rounded figure, a dusky skin, plump, rosy cheeks, white teeth and black eyes.
she might have been twenty-five; you guessed that she was prettier than she was at twenty, and that she would be prettier still at forty.
and nice people were all we wanted to make us happy in mr. jacobus's summer boarding-house on top of orange mountain.
for a week we had come down to breakfast each morning, wondering why we wasted the precious days of idleness with the company gathered around the jacobus board.
what joy of human companionship was to be had out of mrs. tabb and miss hoogencamp, the two middle-aged gossips from scranton, pa. out of mr. and mrs. biggle, an indurated head-bookkeeper and his prim and censorious wife out of old major halkit, a retired business man, who, having once sold a few shares on commission, wrote for circulars of every stock company that was started, and tried to induce every one to invest who would listen to him?
we looked around at those dull faces, the truthful indices of mean and barren minds, and decided that we would leave that morning.
then we ate mrs. jacobus's biscuit, light as aurora's cloudlets, drank her honest coffee, inhaled the perfume of the late azaleas with which she decked her table, and decided to postpone our departure one more day.
and then we wandered out to take our morning glance at what we called "our view"; and it seemed to us as if tabb and hoogencamp and halkit and the biggleses could not drive us away in a year.
i was not surprised when, after breakfast, my wife invited the bredes to walk with us to "our view."
the hoogencamp-biggle-tabb-halkit contingent never stirred off jacobus's veranda; but we both felt that the bredes would not profane that sacred scene.
we strolled slowly across the fields, passed through the little belt of woods and, as i heard mrs. brede's little cry of startled rapture, i motioned to brede to look up.
"by jove!"
he cried, "heavenly!"
we looked off from the brow of the mountain over fifteen miles of billowing green, to where, far across a far stretch of pale blue lay a dim purple line that we knew was staten island.
towns and villages lay before us and under us; there were ridges and hills, uplands and lowlands, woods and plains, all massed and mingled in that great silent sea of sunlit green.
for silent it was to us, standing in the silence of a high place silent with a sunday stillness that made us listen, without taking thought, for the sound of bells coming up from the spires that rose above the tree-tops the tree-tops that lay as far beneath us as the light clouds were above us that dropped great shadows upon our heads and faint specks of shade upon the broad sweep of land at the mountain's foot.
"and so that is your view?"
asked mrs. brede, after a moment; "you are very generous to make it ours, too."
then we lay down on the grass, and brede began to talk, in a gentle voice, as if he felt the influence of the place.
he had paddled a canoe, in his earlier days, he said, and he knew every river and creek in that vast stretch of landscape.
he found his landmarks, and pointed out to us where the passaic and the hackensack flowed, invisible to us, hidden behind great ridges that in our sight were but combings of the green waves upon which we looked down.
and yet, on the further side of those broad ridges and rises were scores of villages a little world of country life, lying unseen under our eyes.
"a good deal like looking at humanity," he said; "there is such a thing as getting so far above our fellow men that we see only one side of them."
ah, how much better was this sort of talk than the chatter and gossip of the tabb and the hoogencamp than the major's dissertations upon his everlasting circulars!
my wife and i exchanged glances.
"now, when i went up the matterhorn" mr. brede began.
"why, dear," interrupted his wife, "i didn't know you ever went up the matterhorn."
"it it was five years ago," said mr. brede, hurriedly.
"i i didn't tell you when i was on the other side, you know it was rather dangerous well, as i was saying it looked oh, it didn't look at all like this."
a cloud floated overhead, throwing its great shadow over the field where we lay.
the shadow passed over the mountain's brow and reappeared far below, a rapidly decreasing blot, flying eastward over the golden green.
my wife and i exchanged glances once more.
somehow, the shadow lingered over us all.
as we went home, the bredes went side by side along the narrow path, and my wife and i walked together.
"should you think," she asked me, "that a man would climb the matterhorn the very first year he was married?"
"i don't know, my dear," i answered, evasively; "this isn't the first year i have been married, not by a good many, and i wouldn't climb it for a farm."
"you know what i mean," she said.
i did.
*        *        *        *        *
when we reached the boarding-house, mr. jacobus took me aside.
"you know," he began his discourse, "my wife she uset to live in n'
york!"
i didn't know, but i said "yes."
"she says the numbers on the streets runs criss-cross-like.
thirty-four's on one side o' the street an' thirty-five on t'other.
how's that?"
"that is the invariable rule, i believe."
"then i say these here new folk that you 'n' your wife seem so mighty taken up with d'ye know anything about 'em?"
"i know nothing about the character of your boarders, mr. jacobus," i replied, conscious of some irritability.
"if i choose to associate with any of them  "
"jess so jess so!"
broke in jacobus.
"i hain't nothin' to say ag'inst yer sosherbil'ty.
but do ye know them?"
"why, certainly not," i replied.
"well that was all i wuz askin' ye.
ye see, when he come here to take the rooms you wasn't here then he told my wife that he lived at number thirty-four in his street.
an' yistiddy she told her that they lived at number thirty-five.
he said he lived in an apartment-house.
now there can't be no apartment-house on two sides of the same street, kin they?"
"what street was it?"
i inquired, wearily.
"hundred 'n' twenty-first street."
"may be," i replied, still more wearily.
"that's harlem.
nobody knows what people will do in harlem."
i went up to my wife's room.
"don't you think it's queer?"
she asked me.
"i think i'll have a talk with that young man to-night," i said, "and see if he can give some account of himself."
"but, my dear," my wife said, gravely, "she doesn't know whether they've had the measles or not."
"why, great scott!"
i exclaimed, "they must have had them when they were children."
"please don't be stupid," said my wife.
"i meant their children."
after dinner that night or rather, after supper, for we had dinner in the middle of the day at jacobus's i walked down the long verandah to ask brede, who was placidly smoking at the other end, to accompany me on a twilight stroll.
half way down i met major halkit.
"that friend of yours," he said, indicating the unconscious figure at the further end of the house, "seems to be a queer sort of a dick.
he told me that he was out of business, and just looking round for a chance to invest his capital.
and i've been telling him what an everlasting big show he had to take stock in the capitoline trust company starts next month four million capital i told you all about it.
'oh, well,' he says, 'let's wait and think about it.'
'wait!'
says i, 'the capitoline trust company won't wait for you, my boy.
this is letting you in on the ground floor,' says i, 'and it's now or never.'
'oh, let it wait,' says he.
i don't know what's in-to the man."
"i don't know how well he knows his own business, major," i said as i started again for brede's end of the veranda.
but i was troubled none the less.
the major could not have influenced the sale of one share of stock in the capitoline company.
but that stock was a great investment; a rare chance for a purchaser with a few thousand dollars.
perhaps it was no more remarkable that brede should not invest than that i should not and yet, it seemed to add one circumstance more to the other suspicious circumstances.
when i went upstairs that evening, i found my wife putting her hair to bed i don't know how i can better describe an operation familiar to every married man.
i waited until the last tress was coiled up, and then i spoke:
"i've talked with brede," i said, "and i didn't have to catechize him.
he seemed to feel that some sort of explanation was looked for, and he was very outspoken.
you were right about the children that is, i must have misunderstood him.
there are only two.
but the matterhorn episode was simple enough.
he didn't realize how dangerous it was until he had got so far into it that he couldn't back out; and he didn't tell her, because he'd left her here, you see, and under the circumstances  "
"left her here!"
cried my wife.
"i've been sitting with her the whole afternoon, sewing, and she told me that he left her at geneva, and came back and took her to basle, and the baby was born there now i'm sure, dear, because i asked her."
"perhaps i was mistaken when i thought he said she was on this side of the water," i suggested, with bitter, biting irony.
"you poor dear, did i abuse you?"
said my wife.
"but, do you know, mrs. tabb said that she didn't know how many lumps of sugar he took in his coffee.
now that seems queer, doesn't it?"
it did.
it was a small thing.
but it looked queer, very queer.
the next morning, it was clear that war was declared against the bredes.
they came down to breakfast somewhat late, and, as soon as they arrived, the biggleses swooped up the last fragments that remained on their plates, and made a stately march out of the dining-room, then miss hoogencamp arose and departed, leaving a whole fish-ball on her plate.
even as atalanta might have dropped an apple behind her to tempt her pursuer to check his speed, so miss hoogencamp left that fish-ball behind her, and between her maiden self and contamination.
we had finished our breakfast, my wife and i, before the bredes appeared.
we talked it over, and agreed that we were glad that we had not been obliged to take sides upon such insufficient testimony.
after breakfast, it was the custom of the male half of the jacobus household to go around the corner of the building and smoke their pipes and cigars where they would not annoy the ladies.
we sat under a trellis covered with a grapevine that had borne no grapes in the memory of man.
this vine, however, bore leaves, and these, on that pleasant summer morning, shielded from us two persons who were in earnest conversation in the straggling, half-dead flower-garden at the side of the house.
"i don't want," we heard mr. jacobus say, "to enter in no man's pry-vacy; but i do want to know who it may be, like, that i hev in my house.
now what i ask of you, and i don't want you to take it as in no ways personal, is hev you your merridge-license with you?"
"no," we heard the voice of mr. brede reply.
"have you yours?"
i think it was a chance shot; but it told all the same.
the major (he was a widower) and mr. biggle and i looked at each other; and mr.
jacobus, on the other side of the grape-trellis, looked at i don't know what and was as silent as we were.
where is your marriage-license, married reader?
do you know?
four men, not including mr. brede, stood or sat on one side or the other of that grape-trellis, and not one of them knew where his marriage-license was.
each of us had had one the major had had three.
but where were they?
where is yours?
tucked in your best-man's pocket; deposited in his desk or washed to a pulp in his white waistcoat (if white waistcoats be the fashion of the hour), washed out of existence can you tell where it is?
can you unless you are one of those people who frame that interesting document and hang it upon their drawing-room walls?
mr. brede's voice arose, after an awful stillness of what seemed like five minutes, and was, probably, thirty seconds:
"mr. jacobus, will you make out your bill at once, and let me pay it?
i shall leave by the six o'clock train.
and will you also send the wagon for my trunks?"
"i hain't said i wanted to hev ye leave  " began mr. jacobus; but brede cut him short.
"bring me your bill."
"but," remonstrated jacobus, "ef ye ain't  "
"bring me your bill!"
said mr. brede.
my wife and i went out for our morning's walk.
but it seemed to us, when we looked at "our view," as if we could only see those invisible villages of which brede had told us that other side of the ridges and rises of which we catch no glimpse from lofty hills or from the heights of human self-esteem.
we meant to stay out until the bredes had taken their departure; but we returned just in time to see pete, the jacobus darkey, the blacker of boots, the brasher of coats, the general handy-man of the house, loading the brede trunks on the jacobus wagon.
and, as we stepped upon the verandah, down came mrs. brede, leaning on mr. brede's arm, as though she were ill; and it was clear that she had been crying.
there were heavy rings about her pretty black eyes.
my wife took a step toward her.
"look at that dress, dear," she whispered; "she never thought anything like this was going to happen when she put that on."
it was a pretty, delicate, dainty dress, a graceful, narrow-striped affair.
her hat was trimmed with a narrow-striped silk of the same colors maroon and white and in her hand she held a parasol that matched her dress.
"she's had a new dress on twice a day," said my wife, "but that's the prettiest yet.
oh, somehow i'm awfully sorry they're going!"
but going they were.
they moved toward the steps.
mrs. brede looked toward my wife, and my wife moved toward mrs. brede.
but the ostracized woman, as though she felt the deep humiliation of her position, turned sharply away, and opened her parasol to shield her eyes from the sun.
a shower of rice a half-pound shower of rice fell down over her pretty hat and her pretty dress, and fell in a spattering circle on the floor, outlining her skirts and there it lay in a broad, uneven band, bright in the morning sun.
mrs. brede was in my wife's arms, sobbing as if her young heart would break.
"oh, you poor, dear, silly children!"
my wife cried, as mrs. brede sobbed on her shoulder, "why didn't you tell us?"
"w-w-w-we didn't want to be t-t-taken for a b-b-b-b-bridal couple,"
sobbed mrs. brede; "and we d-d-didn't dream what awful lies we'd have to tell, and all the aw-awful mixed-up-ness of it.
oh, dear, dear, dear!"
"pete!"
commanded mr. jacobus, "put back them trunks.
these folks stays here's long's they wants ter.
mr. brede" he held out a large, hard hand "i'd orter've known better," he said.
and my last doubt of mr. brede vanished as he shook that grimy hand in manly fashion.
the two women were walking off toward "our view," each with an arm about the other's waist touched by a sudden sisterhood of sympathy.
"gentlemen," said mr. brede, addressing jacobus, biggle, the major and me, "there is a hostelry down the street where they sell honest new jersey beer.
i recognize the obligations of the situation."
we five men filed down the street.
the two women went toward the pleasant slope where the sunlight gilded the forehead of the great hill.
on mr. jacobus's veranda lay a spattered circle of shining grains of rice.
two of mr. jacobus's pigeons flew down and picked up the shining grains, making grateful noises far down in their throats.
the buller-podington compact
by frank richard stockton (1834-1902)
[from scribner's magazine, august, 1897. republished in afield and afloat, by frank richard stockton; copyright, 1900, by charles scribner's sons.
reprinted by permission of the publishers.]
"i tell you, william," said thomas buller to his friend mr. podington, "i am truly sorry about it, but i cannot arrange for it this year.
now, as to my invitation that is very different."
"of course it is different," was the reply, "but i am obliged to say, as i said before, that i really cannot accept it."
remarks similar to these had been made by thomas buller and william podington at least once a year for some five years.
they were old friends; they had been schoolboys together and had been associated in business since they were young men.
they had now reached a vigorous middle age; they were each married, and each had a house in the country in which he resided for a part of the year.
they were warmly attached to each other, and each was the best friend which the other had in this world.
but during all these years neither of them had visited the other in his country home.
the reason for this avoidance of each other at their respective rural residences may be briefly stated.
mr. buller's country house was situated by the sea, and he was very fond of the water.
he had a good cat-boat, which he sailed himself with much judgment and skill, and it was his greatest pleasure to take his friends and visitors upon little excursions on the bay.
but mr. podington was desperately afraid of the water, and he was particularly afraid of any craft sailed by an amateur.
if his friend buller would have employed a professional mariner, of years and experience, to steer and manage his boat, podington might have been willing to take an occasional sail; but as buller always insisted upon sailing his own boat, and took it ill if any of his visitors doubted his ability to do so properly, podington did not wish to wound the self-love of his friend, and he did not wish to be drowned.
consequently he could not bring himself to consent to go to buller's house by the sea.
to receive his good friend buller at his own house in the beautiful upland region in which he lived would have been a great joy to mr.
podington; but buller could not be induced to visit him.
podington was very fond of horses and always drove himself, while buller was more afraid of horses than he was of elephants or lions.
to one or more horses driven by a coachman of years and experience he did not always object, but to a horse driven by podington, who had much experience and knowledge regarding mercantile affairs, but was merely an amateur horseman, he most decidedly and strongly objected.
he did not wish to hurt his friend's feelings by refusing to go out to drive with him, but he would not rack his own nervous system by accompanying him.
therefore it was that he had not yet visited the beautiful upland country residence of mr. podington.
at last this state of things grew awkward.
mrs. buller and mrs.
podington, often with their families, visited each other at their country houses, but the fact that on these occasions they were never accompanied by their husbands caused more and more gossip among their neighbors both in the upland country and by the sea.
one day in spring as the two sat in their city office, where mr.
podington had just repeated his annual invitation, his friend replied to him thus:
"william, if i come to see you this summer, will you visit me?
the thing is beginning to look a little ridiculous, and people are talking about it."
mr. podington put his hand to his brow and for a few moments closed his eyes.
in his mind he saw a cat-boat upon its side, the sails spread out over the water, and two men, almost entirely immersed in the waves, making efforts to reach the side of the boat.
one of these was getting on very well that was buller.
the other seemed about to sink, his arms were uselessly waving in the air that was himself.
but he opened his eyes and looked bravely out of the window; it was time to conquer all this; it was indeed growing ridiculous.
buller had been sailing many years and had never been upset.
"yes," said he; "i will do it; i am ready any time you name."
mr. buller rose and stretched out his hand.
"good!"
said he; "it is a compact!"
buller was the first to make the promised country visit.
he had not mentioned the subject of horses to his friend, but he knew through mrs. buller that podington still continued to be his own driver.
she had informed him, however, that at present he was accustomed to drive a big black horse which, in her opinion, was as gentle and reliable as these animals ever became, and she could not imagine how anybody could be afraid of him.
so when, the next morning after his arrival, mr.
buller was asked by his host if he would like to take a drive, he suppressed a certain rising emotion and said that it would please him very much.
when the good black horse had jogged along a pleasant road for half an hour mr. buller began to feel that, perhaps, for all these years he had been laboring under a misconception.
it seemed to be possible that there were some horses to which surrounding circumstances in the shape of sights and sounds were so irrelevant that they were to a certain degree entirely safe, even when guided and controlled by an amateur hand.
as they passed some meadow-land, somebody behind a hedge fired a gun; mr. buller was frightened, but the horse was not.
"william," said buller, looking cheerfully around him,
"i had no idea that you lived in such a pretty country.
in fact, i might almost call it beautiful.
you have not any wide stretch of water, such as i like so much, but here is a pretty river, those rolling hills are very charming, and, beyond, you have the blue of the mountains."
"it is lovely," said his friend; "i never get tired of driving through this country.
of course the seaside is very fine, but here we have such a variety of scenery."
mr. buller could not help thinking that sometimes the seaside was a little monotonous, and that he had lost a great deal of pleasure by not varying his summers by going up to spend a week or two with podington.
"william," said he, "how long have you had this horse?"
"about two years," said mr. podington; "before i got him, i used to drive a pair."
"heavens!"
thought buller, "how lucky i was not to come two years ago!"
and his regrets for not sooner visiting his friend greatly decreased.
now they came to a place where the stream, by which the road ran, had been dammed for a mill and had widened into a beautiful pond.
"there now!"
cried mr. buller.
"that's what i like.
william, you seem to have everything!
this is really a very pretty sheet of water, and the reflections of the trees over there make a charming picture; you can't get that at the seaside, you know."
mr. podington was delighted; his face glowed; he was rejoiced at the pleasure of his friend.
"i tell you, thomas," said he, "that  "
"william!"
exclaimed buller, with a sudden squirm in his seat, "what is that i hear?
is that a train?"
"yes," said mr. podington, "that is the ten-forty, up."
"does it come near here?"
asked mr. buller, nervously.
"does it go over that bridge?"
"yes," said podington, "but it can't hurt us, for our road goes under the bridge; we are perfectly safe; there is no risk of accident."
"but your horse!
your horse!"
exclaimed buller, as the train came nearer and nearer.
"what will he do?"
"do?"
said podington; "he'll do what he is doing now; he doesn't mind trains."
"but look here, william," exclaimed buller, "it will get there just as we do; no horse could stand a roaring up in the air like that!"
podington laughed.
"he would not mind it in the least," said he.
"come, come now," cried buller.
"really, i can't stand this!
just stop a minute, william, and let me get out.
it sets all my nerves quivering."
mr. podington smiled with a superior smile.
"oh, you needn't get out,"
said he; "there's not the least danger in the world.
but i don't want to make you nervous, and i will turn around and drive the other way."
"but you can't!"
screamed buller.
"this road is not wide enough, and that train is nearly here.
please stop!"
the imputation that the road was not wide enough for him to turn was too much for mr. podington to bear.
he was very proud of his ability to turn a vehicle in a narrow place.
"turn!"
said he; "that's the easiest thing in the world.
see; a little to the right, then a back, then a sweep to the left and we will be going the other way."
and instantly he began the maneuver in which he was such an adept.
"oh, thomas!"
cried buller, half rising in his seat, "that train is almost here!"
"and we are almost  " mr. podington was about to say "turned around," but he stopped.
mr. buller's exclamations had made him a little nervous, and, in his anxiety to turn quickly, he had pulled upon his horse's bit with more energy than was actually necessary, and his nervousness being communicated to the horse, that animal backed with such extraordinary vigor that the hind wheels of the wagon went over a bit of grass by the road and into the water.
the sudden jolt gave a new impetus to mr. buller's fears.
"you'll upset!"
he cried, and not thinking of what he was about, he laid hold of his friend's arm.
the horse, startled by this sudden jerk upon his bit, which, combined with the thundering of the train, which was now on the bridge, made him think that something extraordinary was about to happen, gave a sudden and forcible start backward, so that not only the hind wheels of the light wagon, but the fore wheels and his own hind legs went into the water.
as the bank at this spot sloped steeply, the wagon continued to go backward, despite the efforts of the agitated horse to find a footing on the crumbling edge of the bank.
"whoa!"
cried mr. buller.
"get up!"
exclaimed mr. podington, applying his whip upon the plunging beast.
but exclamations and castigations had no effect upon the horse.
the original bed of the stream ran close to the road, and the bank was so steep and the earth so soft that it was impossible for the horse to advance or even maintain his footing.
back, back he went, until the whole equipage was in the water and the wagon was afloat.
this vehicle was a road wagon, without a top, and the joints of its box-body were tight enough to prevent the water from immediately entering it; so, somewhat deeply sunken, it rested upon the water.
there was a current in this part of the pond and it turned the wagon downstream.
the horse was now entirely immersed in the water, with the exception of his head and the upper part of his neck, and, unable to reach the bottom with his feet, he made vigorous efforts to swim.
mr. podington, the reins and whip in his hands, sat horrified and pale; the accident was so sudden, he was so startled and so frightened that, for a moment, he could not speak a word.
mr. buller, on the other hand, was now lively and alert.
the wagon had no sooner floated away from the shore than he felt himself at home.
he was upon his favorite element; water had no fears for him.
he saw that his friend was nearly frightened out of his wits, and that, figuratively speaking, he must step to the helm and take charge of the vessel.
he stood up and gazed about him.
"put her across stream!"
he shouted; "she can't make headway against this current.
head her to that clump of trees on the other side; the bank is lower there, and we can beach her.
move a little the other way, we must trim boat.
now then, pull on your starboard rein."
podington obeyed, and the horse slightly changed his direction.
"you see," said buller, "it won't do to sail straight across, because the current would carry us down and land us below that spot."
mr. podington said not a word; he expected every moment to see the horse sink into a watery grave.
"it isn't so bad after all, is it, podington?
if we had a rudder and a bit of a sail it would be a great help to the horse.
this wagon is not a bad boat."
the despairing podington looked at his feet.
"it's coming in," he said in a husky voice.
"thomas, the water is over my shoes!"
"that is so," said buller.
"i am so used to water i didn't notice it.
she leaks.
do you carry anything to bail her out with?"
"bail!"
cried podington, now finding his voice.
"oh, thomas, we are sinking!"
"that's so," said buller; "she leaks like a sieve."
the weight of the running-gear and of the two men was entirely too much for the buoyancy of the wagon body.
the water rapidly rose toward the top of its sides.
"we are going to drown!"
cried podington, suddenly rising.
"lick him!
lick him!"
exclaimed buller.
"make him swim faster!"
"there's nothing to lick," cried podington, vainly lashing at the water, for he could not reach the horse's head.
the poor man was dreadfully frightened; he had never even imagined it possible that he should be drowned in his own wagon.
"whoop!"
cried buller, as the water rose over the sides.
"steady yourself, old boy, or you'll go overboard!"
and the next moment the wagon body sunk out of sight.
but it did not go down very far.
the deepest part of the channel of the stream had been passed, and with a bump the wheels struck the bottom.
"heavens!"
exclaimed buller, "we are aground."
"aground!"
exclaimed podington, "heaven be praised!"
as the two men stood up in the submerged wagon the water was above their knees, and when podington looked out over the surface of the pond, now so near his face, it seemed like a sheet of water he had never seen before.
it was something horrible, threatening to rise and envelop him.
he trembled so that he could scarcely keep his footing.
"william," said his companion, "you must sit down; if you don't, you'll tumble overboard and be drowned.
there is nothing for you to hold to."
"sit down," said podington, gazing blankly at the water around him, "i can't do that!"
at this moment the horse made a slight movement.
having touched bottom after his efforts in swimming across the main bed of the stream, with a floating wagon in tow, he had stood for a few moments, his head and neck well above water, and his back barely visible beneath the surface.
having recovered his breath, he now thought it was time to move on.
at the first step of the horse mr. podington began to totter.
instinctively he clutched buller.
"sit down!"
cried the latter, "or you'll have us both overboard."
there was no help for it; down sat mr. podington; and, as with a great splash he came heavily upon the seat, the water rose to his waist.
"ough!"
said he.
"thomas, shout for help."
"no use doing that," replied buller, still standing on his nautical legs; "i don't see anybody, and i don't see any boat.
we'll get out all right.
just you stick tight to the thwart."
"the what?"
feebly asked the other.
"oh, the seat, i mean.
we can get to the shore all right if you steer the horse straight.
head him more across the pond."
"i can't head him," cried podington.
"i have dropped the reins!"
"good gracious!"
cried mr. buller, "that's bad.
can't you steer him by shouting 'gee' and 'haw'?"
"no," said podington, "he isn't an ox; but perhaps i can stop him."
and with as much voice as he could summon, he called out: "whoa!"
and the horse stopped.
"if you can't steer him any other way," said buller, "we must get the reins.
lend me your whip."
"i have dropped that too," said podington; "there it floats."
"oh, dear," said buller, "i guess i'll have to dive for them; if he were to run away, we should be in an awful fix."
"don't get out!
don't get out!"
exclaimed podington.
"you can reach over the dashboard."
"as that's under water," said buller, "it will be the same thing as diving; but it's got to be done, and i'll try it.
don't you move now; i am more used to water than you are."
mr. buller took off his hat and asked his friend to hold it.
he thought of his watch and other contents of his pockets, but there was no place to put them, so he gave them no more consideration.
then bravely getting on his knees in the water, he leaned over the dashboard, almost disappearing from sight.
with his disengaged hand mr. podington grasped the submerged coat-tails of his friend.
in a few seconds the upper part of mr. buller rose from the water.
he was dripping and puffing, and mr. podington could not but think what a difference it made in the appearance of his friend to have his hair plastered close to his head.
"i got hold of one of them," said the sputtering buller, "but it was fast to something and i couldn't get it loose."
"was it thick and wide?"
asked podington.
"yes," was the answer; "it did seem so."
"oh, that was a trace," said podington; "i don't want that; the reins are thinner and lighter."
"now i remember they are," said buller.
"i'll go down again."
again mr. buller leaned over the dashboard, and this time he remained down longer, and when he came up he puffed and sputtered more than before.
"is this it?"
said he, holding up a strip of wet leather.
"yes," said podington, "you've got the reins."
"well, take them, and steer.
i would have found them sooner if his tail had not got into my eyes.
that long tail's floating down there and spreading itself out like a fan; it tangled itself all around my head.
it would have been much easier if he had been a bob-tailed horse."
"now then," said podington, "take your hat, thomas, and i'll try to drive."
mr. buller put on his hat, which was the only dry thing about him, and the nervous podington started the horse so suddenly that even the sea-legs of buller were surprised, and he came very near going backward into the water; but recovering himself, he sat down.
"i don't wonder you did not like to do this, william," said he.
"wet as i am, it's ghastly!"
encouraged by his master's voice, and by the feeling of the familiar hand upon his bit, the horse moved bravely on.
but the bottom was very rough and uneven.
sometimes the wheels struck a large stone, terrifying mr. buller, who thought they were going to upset; and sometimes they sank into soft mud, horrifying mr.
podington, who thought they were going to drown.
thus proceeding, they presented a strange sight.
at first mr.
podington held his hands above the water as he drove, but he soon found this awkward, and dropped them to their usual position, so that nothing was visible above the water but the head and neck of a horse and the heads and shoulders of two men.
now the submarine equipage came to a low place in the bottom, and even mr. buller shuddered as the water rose to his chin.
podington gave a howl of horror, and the horse, with high, uplifted head, was obliged to swim.
at this moment a boy with a gun came strolling along the road, and hearing mr. podington's cry, he cast his eyes over the water.
instinctively he raised his weapon to his shoulder, and then, in an instant, perceiving that the objects he beheld were not aquatic birds, he dropped his gun and ran yelling down the road toward the mill.
but the hollow in the bottom was a narrow one, and when it was passed the depth of the water gradually decreased.
the back of the horse came into view, the dashboard became visible, and the bodies and the spirits of the two men rapidly rose.
now there was vigorous splashing and tugging, and then a jet black horse, shining as if he had been newly varnished, pulled a dripping wagon containing two well-soaked men upon a shelving shore.
"oh, i am chilled to the bones!"
said podington.
"i should think so," replied his friend; "if you have got to be wet, it is a great deal pleasanter under the water."
there was a field-road on this side of the pond which podington well knew, and proceeding along this they came to the bridge and got into the main road.
"now we must get home as fast as we can," cried podington, "or we shall both take cold.
i wish i hadn't lost my whip.
hi now!
get along!"
podington was now full of life and energy, his wheels were on the hard road, and he was himself again.
when he found his head was turned toward his home, the horse set off at a great rate.
"hi there!"
cried podington.
"i am so sorry i lost my whip."
"whip!"
said buller, holding fast to the side of the seat; "surely you don't want him to go any faster than this.
and look here, william," he added, "it seems to me we are much more likely to take cold in our wet clothes if we rush through the air in this way.
really, it seems to me that horse is running away."
"not a bit of it," cried podington.
"he wants to get home, and he wants his dinner.
isn't he a fine horse?
look how he steps out!"
"steps out!"
said buller, "i think i'd like to step out myself.
don't you think it would be wiser for me to walk home, william?
that will warm me up."
"it will take you an hour," said his friend.
"stay where you are, and i'll have you in a dry suit of clothes in less than fifteen minutes."
"i tell you, william," said mr. buller, as the two sat smoking after dinner, "what you ought to do; you should never go out driving without a life-preserver and a pair of oars; i always take them.
it would make you feel safer."
mr. buller went home the next day, because mr. podington's clothes did not fit him, and his own outdoor suit was so shrunken as to be uncomfortable.
besides, there was another reason, connected with the desire of horses to reach their homes, which prompted his return.
but he had not forgotten his compact with his friend, and in the course of a week he wrote to podington, inviting him to spend some days with him.
mr. podington was a man of honor, and in spite of his recent unfortunate water experience he would not break his word.
he went to mr. buller's seaside home at the time appointed.
early on the morning after his arrival, before the family were up, mr.
podington went out and strolled down to the edge of the bay.
he went to look at buller's boat.
he was well aware that he would be asked to take a sail, and as buller had driven with him, it would be impossible for him to decline sailing with buller; but he must see the boat.
there was a train for his home at a quarter past seven; if he were not on the premises he could not be asked to sail.
if buller's boat were a little, flimsy thing, he would take that train but he would wait and see.
there was only one small boat anchored near the beach, and a man apparently a fisherman informed mr. podington that it belonged to mr. buller.
podington looked at it eagerly; it was not very small and not flimsy.
"do you consider that a safe boat?"
he asked the fisherman.
"safe?"
replied the man.
"you could not upset her if you tried.
look at her breadth of beam!
you could go anywhere in that boat!
are you thinking of buying her?"
the idea that he would think of buying a boat made mr. podington laugh.
the information that it would be impossible to upset the little vessel had greatly cheered him, and he could laugh.
shortly after breakfast mr. buller, like a nurse with a dose of medicine, came to mr. podington with the expected invitation to take a sail.
"now, william," said his host, "i understand perfectly your feeling about boats, and what i wish to prove to you is that it is a feeling without any foundation.
i don't want to shock you or make you nervous, so i am not going to take you out today on the bay in my boat.
you are as safe on the bay as you would be on land a little safer, perhaps, under certain circumstances, to which we will not allude but still it is sometimes a little rough, and this, at first, might cause you some uneasiness, and so i am going to let you begin your education in the sailing line on perfectly smooth water.
about three miles back of us there is a very pretty lake several miles long.
it is part of the canal system which connects the town with the railroad.
i have sent my boat to the town, and we can walk up there and go by the canal to the lake; it is only about three miles."
if he had to sail at all, this kind of sailing suited mr. podington.
a canal, a quiet lake, and a boat which could not be upset.
when they reached the town the boat was in the canal, ready for them.
"now," said mr. buller, "you get in and make yourself comfortable.
my idea is to hitch on to a canal-boat and be towed to the lake.
the boats generally start about this time in the morning, and i will go and see about it."
mr. podington, under the direction of his friend, took a seat in the stern of the sailboat, and then he remarked:
"thomas, have you a life-preserver on board?
you know i am not used to any kind of vessel, and i am clumsy.
nothing might happen to the boat, but i might trip and fall overboard, and i can't swim."
"all right," said buller; "here's a life-preserver, and you can put it on.
i want you to feel perfectly safe.
now i will go and see about the tow."
but mr. buller found that the canal-boats would not start at their usual time; the loading of one of them was not finished, and he was informed that he might have to wait for an hour or more.
this did not suit mr. buller at all, and he did not hesitate to show his annoyance.
"i tell you, sir, what you can do," said one of the men in charge of the boats; "if you don't want to wait till we are ready to start, we'll let you have a boy and a horse to tow you up to the lake.
that won't cost you much, and they'll be back before we want 'em."
the bargain was made, and mr. buller joyfully returned to his boat with the intelligence that they were not to wait for the canal-boats.
a long rope, with a horse attached to the other end of it, was speedily made fast to the boat, and with a boy at the head of the horse, they started up the canal.
"now this is the kind of sailing i like," said mr. podington.
"if i lived near a canal i believe i would buy a boat and train my horse to tow.
i could have a long pair of rope-lines and drive him myself; then when the roads were rough and bad the canal would always be smooth."
"this is all very nice," replied mr. buller, who sat by the tiller to keep the boat away from the bank, "and i am glad to see you in a boat under any circumstances.
do you know, william, that although i did not plan it, there could not have been a better way to begin your sailing education.
here we glide along, slowly and gently, with no possible thought of danger, for if the boat should suddenly spring a leak, as if it were the body of a wagon, all we would have to do would be to step on shore, and by the time you get to the end of the canal you will like this gentle motion so much that you will be perfectly ready to begin the second stage of your nautical education."
"yes," said mr. podington.
"how long did you say this canal is?"
"about three miles," answered his friend.
"then we will go into the lock and in a few minutes we shall be on the lake."
"so far as i am concerned," said mr. podington, "i wish the canal were twelve miles long.
i cannot imagine anything pleasanter than this.
if i lived anywhere near a canal a long canal, i mean, this one is too short i'd "
"come, come now," interrupted buller.
"don't be content to stay in the primary school just because it is easy.
when we get on the lake i will show you that in a boat, with a gentle breeze, such as we are likely to have today, you will find the motion quite as pleasing, and ever so much more inspiriting.
i should not be a bit surprised, william, if after you have been two or three times on the lake you will ask me yes, positively ask me to take you out on the bay!"
mr. podington smiled, and leaning backward, he looked up at the beautiful blue sky.
"you can't give me anything better than this, thomas," said he; "but you needn't think i am weakening; you drove with me, and i will sail with you."
the thought came into buller's mind that he had done both of these things with podington, but he did not wish to call up unpleasant memories, and said nothing.
about half a mile from the town there stood a small cottage where house-cleaning was going on, and on a fence, not far from the canal, there hung a carpet gaily adorned with stripes and spots of red and yellow.
when the drowsy tow-horse came abreast of the house, and the carpet caught his eye, he suddenly stopped and gave a start toward the canal.
then, impressed with a horror of the glaring apparition, he gathered himself up, and with a bound dashed along the tow-path.
the astounded boy gave a shout, but was speedily left behind.
the boat of mr. buller shot forward as if she had been struck by a squall.
the terrified horse sped on as if a red and yellow demon were after him.
the boat bounded, and plunged, and frequently struck the grassy bank of the canal, as if it would break itself to pieces.
mr.
podington clutched the boom to keep himself from being thrown out, while mr. buller, both hands upon the tiller, frantically endeavored to keep the boat from the bank.
"william!"
he screamed, "he is running away with us; we shall be dashed to pieces!
can't you get forward and cast off that line?"
"what do you mean?"
cried podington, as the boom gave a great jerk as if it would break its fastenings and drag him overboard.
"i mean untie the tow-line.
we'll be smashed if you don't!
i can't leave this tiller.
don't try to stand up; hold on to the boom and creep forward.
steady now, or you'll be overboard!"
mr. podington stumbled to the bow of the boat, his efforts greatly impeded by the big cork life-preserver tied under his arms, and the motion of the boat was so violent and erratic that he was obliged to hold on to the mast with one arm and to try to loosen the knot with the other; but there was a great strain on the rope, and he could do nothing with one hand.
"cut it!
cut it!"
cried mr. buller.
"i haven't a knife," replied podington.
mr. buller was terribly frightened; his boat was cutting through the water as never vessel of her class had sped since sail-boats were invented, and bumping against the bank as if she were a billiard-ball rebounding from the edge of a table.
he forgot he was in a boat; he only knew that for the first time in his life he was in a runaway.
he let go the tiller.
it was of no use to him.
"william," he cried, "let us jump out the next time we are near enough to shore!"
"don't do that!
don't do that!"
replied podington.
"don't jump out in a runaway; that is the way to get hurt.
stick to your seat, my boy; he can't keep this up much longer.
he'll lose his wind!"
mr. podington was greatly excited, but he was not frightened, as buller was.
he had been in a runaway before, and he could not help thinking how much better a wagon was than a boat in such a case.
"if he were hitched up shorter and i had a snaffle-bit and a stout pair of reins," thought he, "i could soon bring him up."
but mr. buller was rapidly losing his wits.
the horse seemed to be going faster than ever.
the boat bumped harder against the bank, and at one time buller thought they could turn over.
suddenly a thought struck him.
"william," he shouted, "tip that anchor over the side!
throw it in, any way!"
mr. podington looked about him, and, almost under his feet, saw the anchor.
he did not instantly comprehend why buller wanted it thrown overboard, but this was not a time to ask questions.
the difficulties imposed by the life-preserver, and the necessity of holding on with one hand, interfered very much with his getting at the anchor and throwing it over the side, but at last he succeeded, and just as the boat threw up her bow as if she were about to jump on shore, the anchor went out and its line shot after it.
there was an irregular trembling of the boat as the anchor struggled along the bottom of the canal; then there was a great shock; the boat ran into the bank and stopped; the tow-line was tightened like a guitar-string, and the horse, jerked back with great violence, came tumbling in a heap upon the ground.
instantly mr. podington was on the shore and running at the top of his speed toward the horse.
the astounded animal had scarcely begun to struggle to his feet when podington rushed upon him, pressed his head back to the ground, and sat upon it.
"hurrah!"
he cried, waving his hat above his head.
"get out, buller; he is all right now!"
presently mr. buller approached, very much shaken up.
"all right?"
he said.
"i don't call a horse flat in a road with a man on his head all right; but hold him down till we get him loose from my boat.
that is the thing to do.
william, cast him loose from the boat before you let him up!
what will he do when he gets up?"
"oh.
he'll be quiet enough when he gets up," said podington.
"but if you've got a knife you can cut his traces -i mean that rope but no, you needn't.
here comes the boy.
we'll settle this business in very short order now."
when the horse was on his feet, and all connection between the animal and the boat had been severed, mr. podington looked at his friend.
"thomas," said he, "you seem to have had a hard time of it.
you have lost your hat and you look as if you had been in a wrestling-match."
"i have," replied the other; "i wrestled with that tiller and i wonder it didn't throw me out."
now approached the boy.
"shall i hitch him on again, sir?"
said he.
"he's quiet enough now."
"no," cried mr. buller; "i want no more sailing after a horse, and, besides, we can't go on the lake with that boat; she has been battered about so much that she must have opened a dozen seams.
the best thing we can do is to walk home."
mr. podington agreed with his friend that walking home was the best thing they could do.
the boat was examined and found to be leaking, but not very badly, and when her mast had been unshipped and everything had been made tight and right on board, she was pulled out of the way of tow-lines and boats, and made fast until she could be sent for from the town.
mr. buller and mr. podington walked back toward the town.
they had not gone very far when they met a party of boys, who, upon seeing them, burst into unseemly laughter.
"mister," cried one of them, "you needn't be afraid of tumbling into the canal.
why don't you take off your life-preserver and let that other man put it on his head?"
the two friends looked at each other and could not help joining in the laughter of the boys.
"by george!
i forgot all about this," said podington, as he unfastened the cork jacket.
"it does look a little super-timid to wear a life-preserver just because one happens to be walking by the side of a canal."
mr. buller tied a handkerchief on his head, and mr. podington rolled up his life-preserver and carried it under his arm.
thus they reached the town, where buller bought a hat, podington dispensed with his bundle, and arrangements were made to bring back the boat.
"runaway in a sailboat!"
exclaimed one of the canal boatmen when he had heard about the accident.
"upon my word!
that beats anything that could happen to a man!"
"no, it doesn't," replied mr. buller, quietly.
"i have gone to the bottom in a foundered road-wagon."
the man looked at him fixedly.
"was you ever struck in the mud in a balloon?"
he asked.
"not yet," replied mr. buller.
it required ten days to put mr. buller's sailboat into proper condition, and for ten days mr. podington stayed with his friend, and enjoyed his visit very much.
they strolled on the beach, they took long walks in the back country, they fished from the end of a pier, they smoked, they talked, and were happy and content.
"thomas," said mr. podington, on the last evening of his stay, "i have enjoyed myself very much since i have been down here, and now, thomas, if i were to come down again next summer, would you mind would you mind, not  "
"i would not mind it a bit," replied buller, promptly.
"i'll never so much as mention it; so you can come along without a thought of it.
and since you have alluded to the subject, william," he continued, "i'd like very much to come and see you again; you know my visit was a very short one this year.
that is a beautiful country you live in.
such a variety of scenery, such an opportunity for walks and rambles!
but, william, if you could only make up your mind not to  "
"oh, that is all right!"
exclaimed podington.
"i do not need to make up my mind.
you come to my house and you will never so much as hear of it.
here's my hand upon it!"
"and here's mine!"
said mr. buller.
and they shook hands over a new compact.
colonel starbottle for the plaintiff
by bret harte (1839-1902)
[from harper's magazine, march, 1901. republished in the volume, openings in the old trail (1902), by bret harte; copyright, 1902, by houghton mifflin company, the authorized publishers of bret harte's complete works; reprinted by their permission.]
it had been a day of triumph for colonel starbottle.
first, for his personality, as it would have been difficult to separate the colonel's achievements from his individuality; second, for his oratorical abilities as a sympathetic pleader; and third, for his functions as the leading counsel for the eureka ditch company versus the state of california.
on his strictly legal performances in this issue i prefer not to speak; there were those who denied them, although the jury had accepted them in the face of the ruling of the half-amused, half-cynical judge himself.
for an hour they had laughed with the colonel, wept with him, been stirred to personal indignation or patriotic exaltation by his passionate and lofty periods what else could they do than give him their verdict?
if it was alleged by some that the american eagle, thomas jefferson, and the resolutions of '98 had nothing whatever to do with the contest of a ditch company over a doubtfully worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the state attorney and his political motives had not the slightest connection with the legal question raised it was, nevertheless, generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad to have the colonel on their side.
and colonel starbottle knew this, as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it as he strutted from the court-room amidst the hand-shakings and acclamations of his friends.
and here an unprecedented thing occurred.
the colonel absolutely declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring palmetto saloon, and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the adjoining square.
nevertheless the colonel quitted the building alone, and apparently unarmed except for his faithful gold-headed stick, which hung as usual from his forearm.
the crowd gazed after him with undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck.
it was remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the conclusion of his speech evidently a challenge from the state attorney.
it was quite plain that the colonel a practised duellist was hastening home to answer it.
but herein they were wrong.
the note was in a female hand, and simply requested the colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the colonel's office as soon as he left the court.
but it was an engagement that the colonel as devoted to the fair sex as he was to the "code" was no less prompt in accepting.
he flicked away the dust from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his byron collar as he neared his office.
he was surprised, however, on opening the door of his private office to find his visitor already there; he was still more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly attired.
but the colonel was brought up in a school of southern politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers.
no one could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his sentences were short and incomplete.
but the colonel's colloquial speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger oratorical utterances.
"a thousand pardons for er having kept a lady waiting er!
but er congratulations of friends and er courtesy due to them er interfered with though perhaps only heightened by procrastination pleasure of ha!"
and the colonel completed his sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.
"yes!
i came to see you along o' that speech of yours.
i was in court.
when i heard you gettin' it off on that jury, i says to myself that's the kind o' lawyer i want.
a man that's flowery and convincin'!
just the man to take up our case."
"ah!
it's a matter of business, i see," said the colonel, inwardly relieved, but externally careless.
"and er may i ask the nature of the case?"
"well!
it's a breach-o'-promise suit," said the visitor, calmly.
if the colonel had been surprised before, he was now really startled, and with an added horror that required all his politeness to conceal.
breach-of-promise cases were his peculiar aversion.
he had always held them to be a kind of litigation which could have been obviated by the prompt killing of the masculine offender in which case he would have gladly defended the killer.
but a suit for damages!
damages!
with the reading of love-letters before a hilarious jury and court, was against all his instincts.
his chivalry was outraged; his sense of humor was small and in the course of his career he had lost one or two important cases through an unexpected development of this quality in a jury.
the woman had evidently noticed his hesitation, but mistook its cause.
"it ain't me but my darter."
the colonel recovered his politeness.
"ah!
i am relieved, my dear madam!
i could hardly conceive a man ignorant enough to er er throw away such evident good fortune or base enough to deceive the trustfulness of womanhood matured and experienced only in the chivalry of our sex, ha!"
the woman smiled grimly.
"yes!
it's my darter, zaidee hooker so ye might spare some of them pretty speeches for her before the jury."
the colonel winced slightly before this doubtful prospect, but smiled.
"ha!
yes!
certainly the jury.
but er my dear lady, need we go as far as that?
cannot this affair be settled er out of court?
could not this er individual be admonished told that he must give satisfaction personal satisfaction for his dastardly conduct to  er near relative or even valued personal friend?
the er arrangements necessary for that purpose i myself would undertake."
he was quite sincere; indeed, his small black eyes shone with that fire which a pretty woman or an "affair of honor" could alone kindle.
the visitor stared vacantly at him, and said, slowly:
"and what good is that goin' to do us?"
"compel him to er perform his promise," said the colonel, leaning back in his chair.
"ketch him doin' it!"
said the woman, scornfully.
"no that ain't wot we're after.
we must make him pay!
damages and nothin' short o'
that."
the colonel bit his lip.
"i suppose," he said, gloomily, "you have documentary evidence written promises and protestations er er
love-letters, in fact?"
"no nary a letter!
ye see, that's jest it and that's where you come in.
you've got to convince that jury yourself.
you've got to show what it is tell the whole story your own way.
lord!
to a man like you that's nothin'."
startling as this admission might have been to any other lawyer, starbottle was absolutely relieved by it.
the absence of any mirth-provoking correspondence, and the appeal solely to his own powers of persuasion, actually struck his fancy.
he lightly put aside the compliment with a wave of his white hand.
"of course," said the colonel, confidently, "there is strongly presumptive and corroborative evidence?
perhaps you can give me er a brief outline of the affair?"
"zaidee kin do that straight enough, i reckon," said the woman; "what i want to know first is, kin you take the case?"
the colonel did not hesitate; his curiosity was piqued.
"i certainly can.
i have no doubt your daughter will put me in possession of sufficient facts and details to constitute what we call er a brief."
"she kin be brief enough or long enough for the matter of that,"
said the woman, rising.
the colonel accepted this implied witticism with a smile.
"and when may i have the pleasure of seeing her?"
he asked, politely.
"well, i reckon as soon as i can trot out and call her.
she's just outside, meanderin' in the road kinder shy, ye know, at first."
she walked to the door.
the astounded colonel nevertheless gallantly accompanied her as she stepped out into the street and called, shrilly, "you zaidee!"
a young girl here apparently detached herself from a tree and the ostentatious perusal of an old election poster, and sauntered down towards the office door.
like her mother, she was plainly dressed; unlike her, she had a pale, rather refined face, with a demure mouth and downcast eyes.
this was all the colonel saw as he bowed profoundly and led the way into his office, for she accepted his salutations without lifting her head.
he helped her gallantly to a chair, on which she seated herself sideways, somewhat ceremoniously, with her eyes following the point of her parasol as she traced a pattern on the carpet.
a second chair offered to the mother that lady, however, declined.
"i reckon to leave you and zaidee together to talk it out,"
she said; turning to her daughter, she added, "jest you tell him all, zaidee," and before the colonel could rise again, disappeared from the room.
in spite of his professional experience, starbottle was for a moment embarrassed.
the young girl, however, broke the silence without looking up.
"adoniram k. hotchkiss," she began, in a monotonous voice, as if it were a recitation addressed to the public, "first began to take notice of me a year ago.
arter that off and on  "
"one moment," interrupted the astounded colonel; "do you mean hotchkiss the president of the ditch company?"
he had recognized the name of a prominent citizen a rigid ascetic, taciturn, middle-aged man a deacon and more than that, the head of the company he had just defended.
it seemed inconceivable.
"that's him," she continued, with eyes still fixed on the parasol and without changing her monotonous tone "off and on ever since.
most of the time at the free-will baptist church at morning service, prayer-meetings, and such.
and at home outside er in the road."
"is it this gentleman mr. adoniram k. hotchkiss who er promised marriage?"
stammered the colonel.
"yes."
the colonel shifted uneasily in his chair.
"most extraordinary!
for you see my dear young lady this becomes a er most delicate affair."
"that's what maw said," returned the young woman, simply, yet with the faintest smile playing around her demure lips and downcast cheek.
"i mean," said the colonel, with a pained yet courteous smile, "that this er gentleman is in fact er one of my clients."
"that's what maw said, too, and of course your knowing him will make it all the easier for you," said the young woman.
a slight flush crossed the colonel's cheek as he returned quickly and a little stiffly, "on the contrary er it may make it impossible for me to er act in this matter."
the girl lifted her eyes.
the colonel held his breath as the long lashes were raised to his level.
even to an ordinary observer that sudden revelation of her eyes seemed to transform her face with subtle witchery.
they were large, brown, and soft, yet filled with an extraordinary penetration and prescience.
they were the eyes of an experienced woman of thirty fixed in the face of a child.
what else the colonel saw there heaven only knows!
he felt his inmost secrets plucked from him his whole soul laid bare his vanity, belligerency, gallantry even his medieval chivalry, penetrated, and yet illuminated, in that single glance.
and when the eyelids fell again, he felt that a greater part of himself had been swallowed up in them.
"i beg your pardon," he said, hurriedly.
"i mean this matter may be arranged er amicably.
my interest with and as you wisely say my er knowledge of my client er mr. hotchkiss may affect a compromise."
"and damages," said the young girl, readdressing her parasol, as if she had never looked up.
the colonel winced.
"and er undoubtedly compensation if you do not press a fulfilment of the promise.
unless," he said, with an attempted return to his former easy gallantry, which, however, the recollection of her eyes made difficult, "it is a question of er the affections?"
"which?"
said his fair client, softly.
"if you still love him?"
explained the colonel, actually blushing.
zaidee again looked up; again taking the colonel's breath away with eyes that expressed not only the fullest perception of what he had said, but of what he thought and had not said, and with an added subtle suggestion of what he might have thought.
"that's tellin'," she said, dropping her long lashes again.
the colonel laughed vacantly.
then feeling himself growing imbecile, he forced an equally weak gravity.
"pardon me i understand there are no letters; may i know the way in which he formulated his declaration and promises?"
"hymn-books," said the girl, briefly.
"i beg your pardon," said the mystified lawyer.
"hymn-books marked words in them with pencil and passed 'em on to me," repeated zaidee.
"like 'love,' 'dear,' 'precious,' 'sweet,' and 'blessed,'" she added, accenting each word with a push of her parasol on the carpet.
"sometimes a whole line outer tate and brady and solomon's song, you know, and sich."
"i believe," said the colonel, loftily, "that the er phrases of sacred psalmody lend themselves to the language of the affections.
but in regard to the distinct promise of marriage was there er no other expression?"
"marriage service in the prayer-book lines and words outer that all marked," said zaidee.
the colonel nodded naturally and approvingly.
"very good.
were others cognizant of this?
were there any witnesses?"
"of course not," said the girl.
"only me and him.
it was generally at church-time or prayer-meeting.
once, in passing the plate, he slipped one o' them peppermint lozenges with the letters stamped on it 'i love you' for me to take."
the colonel coughed slightly.
"and you have the lozenge?"
"i ate it," said the girl, simply.
"ah," said the colonel.
after a pause he added, delicately:
"but were these attentions er confined to er -sacred precincts?
did he meet you elsewhere?"
"useter pass our house on the road," returned the girl, dropping into her monotonous recital, "and useter signal."
"ah, signal?"
repeated the colonel, approvingly.
"yes!
he'd say 'kerrow,' and i'd say 'kerree.'
suthing like a bird, you know."
indeed, as she lifted her voice in imitation of the call the colonel thought it certainly very sweet and birdlike.
at least as she gave it.
with his remembrance of the grim deacon he had doubts as to the melodiousness of his utterance.
he gravely made her repeat it.
"and after that signal?"
he added, suggestively.
"he'd pass on," said the girl.
the colonel coughed slightly, and tapped his desk with his pen-holder.
"were there any endearments er caresses er such as taking your hand er clasping your waist?"
he suggested, with a gallant yet respectful sweep of his white hand and bowing of his head; "er
slight pressure of your fingers in the changes of a dance i mean,"
he corrected himself, with an apologetic cough "in the passing of the plate?"
"no; he was not what you'd call 'fond,'" returned the girl.
"ah!
adoniram k. hotchkiss was not 'fond' in the ordinary acceptance of the word," said the colonel, with professional gravity.
she lifted her disturbing eyes, and again absorbed his in her own.
she also said "yes," although her eyes in their mysterious prescience of all he was thinking disclaimed the necessity of any answer at all.
he smiled vacantly.
there was a long pause.
on which she slowly disengaged her parasol from the carpet pattern and stood up.
"i reckon that's about all," she said.
"er yes but one moment," said the colonel, vaguely.
he would have liked to keep her longer, but with her strange premonition of him he felt powerless to detain her, or explain his reason for doing so.
he instinctively knew she had told him all; his professional judgment told him that a more hopeless case had never come to his knowledge.
yet he was not daunted, only embarrassed.
"no matter," he said, vaguely.
"of course i shall have to consult with you again."
her eyes again answered that she expected he would, but she added, simply, "when?"
"in the course of a day or two," said the colonel, quickly.
"i will send you word."
she turned to go.
in his eagerness to open the door for her he upset his chair, and with some confusion, that was actually youthful, he almost impeded her movements in the hall, and knocked his broad-brimmed panama hat from his bowing hand in a final gallant sweep.
yet as her small, trim, youthful figure, with its simple leghorn straw hat confined by a blue bow under her round chin, passed away before him, she looked more like a child than ever.
the colonel spent that afternoon in making diplomatic inquiries.
he found his youthful client was the daughter of a widow who had a small ranch on the cross-roads, near the new free-will baptist church the evident theatre of this pastoral.
they led a secluded life; the girl being little known in the town, and her beauty and fascination apparently not yet being a recognized fact.
the colonel felt a pleasurable relief at this, and a general satisfaction he could not account for.
his few inquiries concerning mr. hotchkiss only confirmed his own impressions of the alleged lover a serious-minded, practically abstracted man abstentive of youthful society, and the last man apparently capable of levity of the affections or serious flirtation.
the colonel was mystified but determined of purpose whatever that purpose might have been.
the next day he was at his office at the same hour.
he was alone as usual the colonel's office really being his private lodgings, disposed in connecting rooms, a single apartment reserved for consultation.
he had no clerk; his papers and briefs being taken by his faithful body-servant and ex-slave "jim" to another firm who did his office-work since the death of major stryker the colonel's only law partner, who fell in a duel some years previous.
with a fine constancy the colonel still retained his partner's name on his door-plate and, it was alleged by the superstitious, kept a certain invincibility also through the manes of that lamented and somewhat feared man.
the colonel consulted his watch, whose heavy gold case still showed the marks of a providential interference with a bullet destined for its owner, and replaced it with some difficulty and shortness of breath in his fob.
at the same moment he heard a step in the passage, and the door opened to adoniram k. hotchkiss.
the colonel was impressed; he had a duellist's respect for punctuality.
the man entered with a nod and the expectant, inquiring look of a busy man.
as his feet crossed that sacred threshold the colonel became all courtesy; he placed a chair for his visitor, and took his hat from his half-reluctant hand.
he then opened a cupboard and brought out a bottle of whiskey and two glasses.
"a er slight refreshment, mr. hotchkiss," he suggested, politely.
"i never drink," replied hotchkiss, with the severe attitude of a total abstainer.
"ah er not the finest bourbon whiskey, selected by a kentucky friend?
no?
pardon me!
a cigar, then the mildest havana."
"i do not use tobacco nor alcohol in any form," repeated hotchkiss, ascetically.
"i have no foolish weaknesses."
the colonel's moist, beady eyes swept silently over his client's sallow face.
he leaned back comfortably in his chair, and half closing his eyes as in dreamy reminiscence, said, slowly: "your reply, mr. hotchkiss, reminds me of er sing'lar circumstances that  er occurred, in point of fact at the st. charles hotel, new orleans.
pinkey hornblower personal friend invited senator doolittle to join him in social glass.
received, sing'larly enough, reply similar to yours.
'don't drink nor smoke?'
said pinkey.
'gad, sir, you must be mighty sweet on the ladies.'
ha!"
the colonel paused long enough to allow the faint flush to pass from hotchkiss's cheek, and went on, half closing his eyes: "'i allow no man, sir, to discuss my personal habits,' said doolittle, over his shirt collar.
'then i reckon shootin' must be one of those habits,' said pinkey, coolly.
both men drove out on the shell road back of cemetery next morning.
pinkey put bullet at twelve paces through doolittle's temple.
poor doo never spoke again.
left three wives and seven children, they say  two of 'em black."
"i got a note from you this morning," said hotchkiss, with badly concealed impatience.
"i suppose in reference to our case.
you have taken judgment, i believe."
the colonel, without replying, slowly filled a glass of whiskey and water.
for a moment he held it dreamily before him, as if still engaged in gentle reminiscences called up by the act.
then tossing it off, he wiped his lips with a large white handkerchief, and leaning back comfortably in his chair, said, with a wave of his hand, "the interview i requested, mr. hotchkiss, concerns a subject which i may say is er er at present not of a public or business nature although later it might become er er both.
it is an affair of some er delicacy."
the colonel paused, and mr. hotchkiss regarded him with increased impatience.
the colonel, however, continued, with unchanged deliberation: "it concerns er a young lady a beautiful, high-souled creature, sir, who, apart from her personal loveliness
er er i may say is of one of the first families of missouri, and
er not remotely connected by marriage with one of er er my boyhood's dearest friends.
the latter, i grieve to say, was a pure invention of the colonel's an oratorical addition to the scanty information he had obtained the previous day.
the young lady," he continued, blandly, "enjoys the further distinction of being the object of such attention from you as would make this interview
really a confidential matter er er among friends and er er
relations in present and future.
i need not say that the lady i refer to is miss zaidee juno hooker, only daughter of almira ann hooker, relict of jefferson brown hooker, formerly of boone county, kentucky, and latterly of er pike county, missouri."
the sallow, ascetic hue of mr. hotchkiss's face had passed through a livid and then a greenish shade, and finally settled into a sullen red.
"what's all this about?"
he demanded, roughly.
the least touch of belligerent fire came into starbottle's eye, but his bland courtesy did not change.
"i believe," he said, politely, "i have made myself clear as between er gentlemen, though perhaps not as clear as i should to er er jury."
mr. hotchkiss was apparently struck with some significance in the lawyer's reply.
"i don't know," he said, in a lower and more cautious voice, "what you mean by what you call 'my attentions' to any one or how it concerns you.
i have not exhausted half a dozen words with the person you name have never written her a line nor even called at her house."
he rose with an assumption of ease, pulled down his waistcoat, buttoned his coat, and took up his hat.
the colonel did not move.
"i believe i have already indicated my meaning in what i have called 'your attentions,'" said the colonel, blandly, "and given you my 'concern' for speaking as er er mutual friend.
as to your statement of your relations with miss hooker, i may state that it is fully corroborated by the statement of the young lady herself in this very office yesterday."
"then what does this impertinent nonsense mean?
why am i summoned here?"
said hotchkiss, furiously.
"because," said the colonel, deliberately, "that statement is infamously yes, damnably to your discredit, sir!"
mr. hotchkiss was here seized by one of those important and inconsistent rages which occasionally betray the habitually cautious and timid man.
he caught up the colonel's stick, which was lying on the table.
at the same moment the colonel, without any apparent effort, grasped it by the handle.
to mr. hotchkiss's astonishment, the stick separated in two pieces, leaving the handle and about two feet of narrow glittering steel in the colonel's hand.
the man recoiled, dropping the useless fragment.
the colonel picked it up, fitting the shining blade in it, clicked the spring, and then rising, with a face of courtesy yet of unmistakably genuine pain, and with even a slight tremor in his voice, said, gravely:
"mr. hotchkiss, i owe you a thousand apologies, sir, that er
a weapon should be drawn by me even through your own inadvertence
under the sacred protection of my roof, and upon an unarmed man.
i beg your pardon, sir, and i even withdraw the expressions which provoked that inadvertence.
nor does this apology prevent you from holding me responsible personally responsible elsewhere for an indiscretion committed in behalf of a lady my er client."
"your client?
do you mean you have taken her case?
you, the counsel for the ditch company?"
said mr. hotchkiss, in trembling indignation.
"having won your case, sir," said the colonel, coolly, "the er usages of advocacy do not prevent me from espousing the cause of the weak and unprotected."
"we shall see, sir," said hotchkiss, grasping the handle of the door and backing into the passage.
"there are other lawyers who "
"permit me to see you out," interrupted the colonel, rising politely.
" will be ready to resist the attacks of blackmail," continued hotchkiss, retreating along the passage.
"and then you will be able to repeat your remarks to me in the street," continued the colonel, bowing, as he persisted in following his visitor to the door.
but here mr. hotchkiss quickly slammed it behind him, and hurried away.
the colonel returned to his office, and sitting down, took a sheet of letter paper bearing the inscription "starbottle and stryker, attorneys and counsellors," and wrote the following lines:
hooker versus hotchkiss.
dear madam, having had a visit from the defendant in   above, we should be pleased to have an interview with you at   2 p.m. to-morrow.
your obedient servants,                                             starbottle and stryker.
this he sealed and despatched by his trusted servant jim, and then devoted a few moments to reflection.
it was the custom of the colonel to act first, and justify the action by reason afterwards.
he knew that hotchkiss would at once lay the matter before rival counsel.
he knew that they would advise him that miss hooker had "no case" that she would be non-suited on her own evidence, and he ought not to compromise, but be ready to stand trial.
he believed, however, that hotchkiss feared that exposure, and although his own instincts had been at first against that remedy, he was now instinctively in favor of it.
he remembered his own power with a jury; his vanity and his chivalry alike approved of this heroic method; he was bound by the prosaic facts he had his own theory of the case, which no mere evidence could gainsay.
in fact, mrs. hooker's own words that "he was to tell the story in his own way" actually appeared to him an inspiration and a prophecy.
perhaps there was something else, due possibly to the lady's wonderful eyes, of which he had thought much.
yet it was not her simplicity that affected him solely; on the contrary, it was her apparent intelligent reading of the character of her recreant lover and of his own!
of all the colonel's previous "light" or "serious" loves none had ever before flattered him in that way.
and it was this, combined with the respect which he had held for their professional relations, that precluded his having a more familiar knowledge of his client, through serious questioning, or playful gallantry.
i am not sure it was not part of the charm to have a rustic femme incomprise as a client.
nothing could exceed the respect with which he greeted her as she entered his office the next day.
he even affected not to notice that she had put on her best clothes, and he made no doubt appeared as when she had first attracted the mature yet faithless attentions of deacon hotchkiss at church.
a white virginal muslin was belted around her slim figure by a blue ribbon, and her leghorn hat was drawn around her oval cheek by a bow of the same color.
she had a southern girl's narrow feet, encased in white stockings and kid slippers, which were crossed primly before her as she sat in a chair, supporting her arm by her faithful parasol planted firmly on the floor.
a faint odor of southernwood exhaled from her, and, oddly enough, stirred the colonel with a far-off recollection of a pine-shaded sunday school on a georgia hillside and of his first love, aged ten, in a short, starched frock.
possibly it was the same recollection that revived something of the awkwardness he had felt then.
he, however, smiled vaguely and, sitting down, coughed slightly, and placed his fingertips together.
"i have had an er interview with mr.
hotchkiss, but i er regret to say there seems to be no prospect of er compromise."
he paused, and to his surprise her listless "company" face lit up with an adorable smile.
"of course!
ketch him!"
she said.
"was he mad when you told him?"
she put her knees comfortably together and leaned forward for a reply.
for all that, wild horses could not have torn from the colonel a word about hotchkiss's anger.
"he expressed his intention of employing counsel and defending a suit," returned the colonel, affably basking in her smile.
she dragged her chair nearer his desk.
"then you'll fight him tooth and nail?"
she said eagerly; "you'll show him up?
you'll tell the whole story your own way?
you'll give him fits?
and you'll make him pay?
sure?"
she went on, breathlessly.
"i er will," said the colonel, almost as breathlessly.
she caught his fat white hand, which was lying on the table, between her own and lifted it to her lips.
he felt her soft young fingers even through the lisle-thread gloves that encased them and the warm moisture of her lips upon his skin.
he felt himself flushing but was unable to break the silence or change his position.
the next moment she had scuttled back with her chair to her old position.
"i er certainly shall do my best," stammered the colonel, in an attempt to recover his dignity and composure.
"that's enough!
you'll do it," said the girl, enthusiastically.
"lordy!
just you talk for me as ye did for his old ditch company, and you'll fetch it every time!
why, when you made that jury sit up the other day when you got that off about the merrikan flag waving equally over the rights of honest citizens banded together in peaceful commercial pursuits, as well as over the fortress of official proflig "
"oligarchy," murmured the colonel, courteously.
"oligarchy," repeated the girl, quickly, "my breath was just took away.
i said to maw, 'ain't he too sweet for anything!'
i did, honest injin!
and when you rolled it all off at the end never missing a word (you didn't need to mark 'em in a lesson-book, but had 'em all ready on your tongue), and walked out well!
i didn't know you nor the ditch company from adam, but i could have just run over and kissed you there before the whole court!"
she laughed, with her face glowing, although her strange eyes were cast down.
alack!
the colonel's face was equally flushed, and his own beady eyes were on his desk.
to any other woman he would have voiced the banal gallantry that he should now, himself, look forward to that reward, but the words never reached his lips.
he laughed, coughed slightly, and when he looked up again she had fallen into the same attitude as on her first visit, with her parasol point on the floor.
"i must ask you to er direct your memory to er another point; the breaking off of the er er er engagement.
did he er give any reason for it?
or show any cause?"
"no; he never said anything," returned the girl.
"not in his usual way?
er no reproaches out of the hymn-book?
or the sacred writings?"
"no; he just quit."
"er ceased his attentions," said the colonel, gravely.
"and naturally you er were not conscious of any cause for his doing so."
the girl raised her wonderful eyes so suddenly and so penetratingly without reply in any other way that the colonel could only hurriedly say: "i see!
none, of course!"
at which she rose, the colonel rising also.
"we shall begin proceedings at once.
i must, however, caution you to answer no questions nor say anything about this case to any one until you are in court."
she answered his request with another intelligent look and a nod.
he accompanied her to the door.
as he took her proffered hand he raised the lisle-thread fingers to his lips with old-fashioned gallantry.
as if that act had condoned for his first omissions and awkwardness, he became his old-fashioned self again, buttoned his coat, pulled out his shirt frill, and strutted back to his desk.
a day or two later it was known throughout the town that zaidee hooker had sued adoniram hotchkiss for breach of promise, and that the damages were laid at five thousand dollars.
as in those bucolic days the western press was under the secure censorship of a revolver, a cautious tone of criticism prevailed, and any gossip was confined to personal expression, and even then at the risk of the gossiper.
nevertheless, the situation provoked the intensest curiosity.
the colonel was approached until his statement that he should consider any attempt to overcome his professional secrecy a personal reflection withheld further advances.
the community were left to the more ostentatious information of the defendant's counsel, messrs. kitcham and bilser, that the case was "ridiculous" and "rotten," that the plaintiff would be nonsuited, and the fire-eating starbottle would be taught a lesson that he could not "bully" the law and there were some dark hints of a conspiracy.
it was even hinted that the "case" was the revengeful and preposterous outcome of the refusal of hotchkiss to pay starbottle an extravagant fee for his late services to the ditch company.
it is unnecessary to say that these words were not reported to the colonel.
it was, however, an unfortunate circumstance for the calmer, ethical consideration of the subject that the church sided with hotchkiss, as this provoked an equal adherence to the plaintiff and starbottle on the part of the larger body of non-church-goers, who were delighted at a possible exposure of the weakness of religious rectitude.
"i've allus had my suspicions o' them early candle-light meetings down at that gospel shop," said one critic, "and i reckon deacon hotchkiss didn't rope in the gals to attend jest for psalm-singing."
"then for him to get up and leave the board afore the game's finished and try to sneak out of it," said another.
"i suppose that's what they call religious."
it was therefore not remarkable that the courthouse three weeks later was crowded with an excited multitude of the curious and sympathizing.
the fair plaintiff, with her mother, was early in attendance, and under the colonel's advice appeared in the same modest garb in which she had first visited his office.
this and her downcast modest demeanor were perhaps at first disappointing to the crowd, who had evidently expected a paragon of loveliness as the circe of the grim ascetic defendant, who sat beside his counsel.
but presently all eyes were fixed on the colonel, who certainly made up in his appearance any deficiency of his fair client.
his portly figure was clothed in a blue dress-coat with brass buttons, a buff waistcoat which permitted his frilled shirt front to become erectile above it, a black satin stock which confined a boyish turned-down collar around his full neck, and immaculate drill trousers, strapped over varnished boots.
a murmur ran round the court.
"old 'personally responsible' had got his war-paint on," "the old war-horse is smelling powder," were whispered comments.
yet for all that the most irreverent among them recognized vaguely, in this bizarre figure, something of an honored past in their country's history, and possibly felt the spell of old deeds and old names that had once thrilled their boyish pulses.
the new district judge returned colonel starbottle's profoundly punctilious bow.
the colonel was followed by his negro servant, carrying a parcel of hymn-books and bibles, who, with a courtesy evidently imitated from his master, placed one before the opposite counsel.
this, after a first curious glance, the lawyer somewhat superciliously tossed aside.
but when jim, proceeding to the jury-box, placed with equal politeness the remaining copies before the jury, the opposite counsel sprang to his feet.
"i want to direct the attention of the court to this unprecedented tampering with the jury, by this gratuitous exhibition of matter impertinent and irrelevant to the issue."
the judge cast an inquiring look at colonel starbottle.
"may it please the court," returned colonel starbottle with dignity, ignoring the counsel, "the defendant's counsel will observe that he is already furnished with the matter which i regret to say he has treated in the presence of the court and of his client, a deacon of the church with er -great superciliousness.
when i state to your honor that the books in question are hymn-books and copies of the holy scriptures, and that they are for the instruction of the jury, to whom i shall have to refer them in the course of my opening, i believe i am within my rights."
"the act is certainly unprecedented," said the judge, dryly, "but unless the counsel for the plaintiff expects the jury to sing from these hymn-books, their introduction is not improper, and i cannot admit the objection.
as defendant's counsel are furnished with copies also, they cannot plead 'surprise,' as in the introduction of new matter, and as plaintiff's counsel relies evidently upon the jury's attention to his opening, he would not be the first person to distract it."
after a pause he added, addressing the colonel, who remained standing, "the court is with you, sir; proceed."
but the colonel remained motionless and statuesque, with folded arms.
"i have overruled the objection," repeated the judge; "you may go on."
"i am waiting, your honor, for the er withdrawal by the defendant's counsel of the word 'tampering,' as refers to myself, and of 'impertinent,' as refers to the sacred volumes."
"the request is a proper one, and i have no doubt will be acceded to,"
returned the judge, quietly.
the defendant's counsel rose and mumbled a few words of apology, and the incident closed.
there was, however, a general feeling that the colonel had in some way "scored," and if his object had been to excite the greatest curiosity about the books, he had made his point.
but impassive of his victory, he inflated his chest, with his right hand in the breast of his buttoned coat, and began.
his usual high color had paled slightly, but the small pupils of his prominent eyes glittered like steel.
the young girl leaned forward in her chair with an attention so breathless, a sympathy so quick, and an admiration so artless and unconscious that in an instant she divided with the speaker the attention of the whole assemblage.
it was very hot; the court was crowded to suffocation; even the open windows revealed a crowd of faces outside the building, eagerly following the colonel's words.
he would remind the jury that only a few weeks ago he stood there as the advocate of a powerful company, then represented by the present defendant.
he spoke then as the champion of strict justice against legal oppression; no less should he to-day champion the cause of the unprotected and the comparatively defenseless save for that paramount power which surrounds beauty and innocence even though the plaintiff of yesterday was the defendant of to-day.
as he approached the court a moment ago he had raised his eyes and beheld the starry flag flying from its dome and he knew that glorious banner was a symbol of the perfect equality, under the constitution, of the rich and the poor, the strong and the weak an equality which made the simple citizen taken from the plough in the veld, the pick in the gulch, or from behind the counter in the mining town, who served on that jury, the equal arbiters of justice with that highest legal luminary whom they were proud to welcome on the bench to-day.
the colonel paused, with a stately bow to the impassive judge.
it was this, he continued, which lifted his heart as he approached the building.
and yet he had entered it with an uncertain he might almost say a timid step.
and why?
he knew, gentlemen, he was about to confront a profound aye!
a sacred responsibility!
those hymn-books and holy writings handed to the jury were not, as his honor surmised, for the purpose of enabling the jury to indulge in er preliminary choral exercise!
he might, indeed, say "alas not!"
they were the damning, incontrovertible proofs of the perfidy of the defendant.
and they would prove as terrible a warning to him as the fatal characters upon belshazzar's wall.
there was a strong sensation.
hotchkiss turned a sallow green.
his lawyers assumed a careless smile.
it was his duty to tell them that this was not one of those ordinary "breach-of-promise" cases which were too often the occasion of ruthless mirth and indecent levity in the courtroom.
the jury would find nothing of that here, there were no love-letters with the epithets of endearment, nor those mystic crosses and ciphers which, he had been credibly informed, chastely hid the exchange of those mutual caresses known as "kisses."
there was no cruel tearing of the veil from those sacred privacies of the human affection there was no forensic shouting out of those fond confidences meant only for one.
but there was, he was shocked to say, a new sacrilegious intrusion.
the weak pipings of cupid were mingled with the chorus of the saints the sanctity of the temple known as the "meeting-house" was desecrated by proceedings more in keeping with the shrine of venus and the inspired writings themselves were used as the medium of amatory and wanton flirtation by the defendant in his sacred capacity as deacon.
the colonel artistically paused after this thunderous denunciation.
the jury turned eagerly to the leaves of the hymn-books, but the larger gaze of the audience remained fixed upon the speaker and the girl, who sat in rapt admiration of his periods.
after the hush, the colonel continued in a lower and sadder voice: "there are, perhaps, few of us here, gentlemen with the exception of the defendant who can arrogate to themselves the title of regular churchgoers, or to whom these humbler functions of the prayer-meeting, the sunday-school, and the bible class are habitually familiar.
yet" more solemnly "down in your hearts is the deep conviction of our short-comings and failings, and a laudable desire that others at least should profit by the teachings we neglect.
perhaps," he continued, closing his eyes dreamily, "there is not a man here who does not recall the happy days of his boyhood, the rustic village spire, the lessons shared with some artless village maiden, with whom he later sauntered, hand in hand, through the woods, as the simple rhyme rose upon their lips,
always make it a point to have it a rule   never to be late at the sabbath-school."
he would recall the strawberry feasts, the welcome annual picnic, redolent with hunks of gingerbread and sarsaparilla.
how would they feel to know that these sacred recollections were now forever profaned in their memory by the knowledge that the defendant was capable of using such occasions to make love to the larger girls and teachers, whilst his artless companions were innocently the court will pardon me for introducing what i am credibly informed is the local expression 'doing gooseberry'?"
the tremulous flicker of a smile passed over the faces of the listening crowd, and the colonel slightly winced.
but he recovered himself instantly, and continued:
"my client, the only daughter of a widowed mother who has for years stemmed the varying tides of adversity in the western precincts of this town stands before you today invested only in her own innocence.
she wears no er rich gifts of her faithless admirer is panoplied in no jewels, rings, nor mementoes of affection such as lovers delight to hang upon the shrine of their affections; hers is not the glory with which solomon decorated the queen of sheba, though the defendant, as i shall show later, clothed her in the less expensive flowers of the king's poetry.
no!
gentlemen!
the defendant exhibited in this affair a certain frugality of er pecuniary investment, which i am willing to admit may be commendable in his class.
his only gift was characteristic alike of his methods and his economy.
there is, i understand, a certain not unimportant feature of religious exercise known as 'taking a collection.'
the defendant, on this occasion, by the mute presentation of a tip plate covered with baize, solicited the pecuniary contributions of the faithful.
on approaching the plaintiff, however, he himself slipped a love-token upon the plate and pushed it towards her.
that love-token was a lozenge a small disk, i have reason to believe, concocted of peppermint and sugar, bearing upon its reverse surface the simple words, 'i love you!'
i have since ascertained that these disks may be bought for five cents a dozen or at considerably less than one half-cent for the single lozenge.
yes, gentlemen, the words 'i love you!'
the oldest legend of all; the refrain, 'when the morning stars sang together' were presented to the plaintiff by a medium so insignificant that there is, happily, no coin in the republic low enough to represent its value.
"i shall prove to you, gentlemen of the jury," said the colonel, solemnly, drawing a bible from his coat-tail pocket, "that the defendant, for the last twelve months, conducted an amatory correspondence with the plaintiff by means of underlined words of sacred writ and church psalmody, such as 'beloved,' 'precious,' and 'dearest,' occasionally appropriating whole passages which seemed apposite to his tender passion.
i shall call your attention to one of them.
the defendant, while professing to be a total abstainer a man who, in my own knowledge, has refused spirituous refreshment as an inordinate weakness of the flesh, with shameless hypocrisy underscores with his pencil the following passage and presents it to the plaintiff.
the gentlemen of the jury will find it in the song of solomon, page 548,
the smile of the audience had become a laugh.
the judge looked up warningly, when his eye caught the fact that the colonel had again winced at this mirth.
he regarded him seriously.
mr. hotchkiss's counsel had joined in the laugh affectedly, but hotchkiss himself was ashy pale.
there was also a commotion in the jury-box, a hurried turning over of leaves, and an excited discussion.
"the gentlemen of the jury," said the judge, with official gravity, "will please keep order and attend only to the speeches of counsel.
any discussion here is irregular and premature and must be reserved for the jury-room after they have retired."
the foreman of the jury struggled to his feet.
he was a powerful man, with a good-humored face, and, in spite of his unfelicitous nickname of "the bone-breaker," had a kindly, simple, but somewhat emotional nature.
nevertheless, it appeared as if he were laboring under some powerful indignation.
"can we ask a question, judge?"
he said, respectfully, although his voice had the unmistakable western-american ring in it, as of one who was unconscious that he could be addressing any but his peers.
"yes," said the judge, good-humoredly.
"we're finding in this yere piece, out of which the kernel hes just bin a-quotin', some language that me and my pardners allow hadn't orter to be read out afore a young lady in court and we want to know of you ez a fair-minded and impartial man ef this is the reg'lar kind o' book given to gals and babies down at the meetin'-house."
"the jury will please follow the counsel's speech, without comment,"
said the judge, briefly, fully aware that the defendant's counsel would spring to his feet, as he did promptly.
"the court will allow us to explain to the gentlemen that the language they seem to object to has been accepted by the best theologians for the last thousand years as being purely mystic.
as i will explain later, those are merely symbols of the church "
"of wot?"
interrupted the foreman, in deep scorn.
"of the church!"
"we ain't askin' any questions o' you and we ain't takin' any answers," said the foreman, sitting down promptly.
"i must insist," said the judge, sternly, "that the plaintiff's counsel be allowed to continue his opening without interruption.
you"
(to defendant's counsel) "will have your opportunity to reply later."
the counsel sank down in his seat with the bitter conviction that the jury was manifestly against him, and the case as good as lost.
but his face was scarcely as disturbed as his client's, who, in great agitation, had begun to argue with him wildly, and was apparently pressing some point against the lawyer's vehement opposal.
the colonel's murky eyes brightened as he still stood erect with his hand thrust in his breast.
"it will be put to you, gentlemen, when the counsel on the other side refrains from mere interruption and confines himself to reply, that my unfortunate client has no action no remedy at law because there were no spoken words of endearment.
but, gentlemen, it will depend upon you to say what are and what are not articulate expressions of love.
we all know that among the lower animals, with whom you may possibly be called upon to classify the defendant, there are certain signals more or less harmonious, as the case may be.
the ass brays, the horse neighs, the sheep bleats the feathered denizens of the grove call to their mates in more musical roundelays.
these are recognized facts, gentlemen, which you yourselves, as dwellers among nature in this beautiful land, are all cognizant of.
they are facts that no one would deny and we should have a poor opinion of the ass who, at er such a supreme moment, would attempt to suggest that his call was unthinking and without significance.
but, gentlemen, i shall prove to you that such was the foolish, self-convicting custom of the defendant.
with the greatest reluctance, and the er greatest pain, i succeeded in wresting from the maidenly modesty of my fair client the innocent confession that the defendant had induced her to correspond with him in these methods.
picture to yourself, gentlemen, the lonely moonlight road beside the widow's humble cottage.
it is a beautiful night, sanctified to the affections, and the innocent girl is leaning from her casement.
presently there appears upon the road a slinking, stealthy figure the defendant, on his way to church.
true to the instruction she has received from him, her lips part in the musical utterance" (the colonel lowered his voice in a faint falsetto, presumably in fond imitation of his fair client),"'kerree!'
instantly the night became resonant with the impassioned reply" (the colonel here lifted his voice in stentorian tones), "'kerrow.'
again, as he passes, rises the soft 'kerree'; again, as his form is lost in the distance, comes back the deep 'kerrow.'"
a burst of laughter, long, loud, and irrepressible, struck the whole courtroom, and before the judge could lift his half-composed face and take his handkerchief from his mouth, a faint "kerree" from some unrecognized obscurity of the courtroom was followed by a loud "kerrow" from some opposite locality.
"the sheriff will clear the court," said the judge, sternly; but alas, as the embarrassed and choking officials rushed hither and thither, a soft "kerree" from the spectators at the window, outside the courthouse, was answered by a loud chorus of "kerrows" from the opposite windows, filled with onlookers.
again the laughter arose everywhere even the fair plaintiff herself sat convulsed behind her handkerchief.
the figure of colonel starbottle alone remained erect white and rigid.
and then the judge, looking up, saw what no one else in the court had seen that the colonel was sincere and in earnest; that what he had conceived to be the pleader's most perfect acting, and most elaborate irony, were the deep, serious, mirthless convictions of a man without the least sense of humor.
there was a touch of this respect in the judge's voice as he said to him, gently, "you may proceed, colonel starbottle."
"i thank your honor," said the colonel, slowly, "for recognizing and doing all in your power to prevent an interruption that, during my thirty years' experience at the bar, i have never yet been subjected to without the privilege of holding the instigators thereof responsible personally responsible.
it is possibly my fault that i have failed, oratorically, to convey to the gentlemen of the jury the full force and significance of the defendant's signals.
i am aware that my voice is singularly deficient in producing either the dulcet tones of my fair client or the impassioned vehemence of the defendant's repose.
i will," continued the colonel, with a fatigued but blind fatuity that ignored the hurriedly knit brows and warning eyes of the judge, "try again.
the note uttered by my client"
(lowering his voice to the faintest of falsettos) "was 'kerree'; the response was 'kerrow'" and the colonel's voice fairly shook the dome above him.
another uproar of laughter followed this apparently audacious repetition, but was interrupted by an unlooked-for incident.
the defendant rose abruptly, and tearing himself away from the withholding hand and pleading protestations of his counsel, absolutely fled from the courtroom, his appearance outside being recognized by a prolonged "kerrow" from the bystanders, which again and again followed him in the distance.
in the momentary silence which followed, the colonel's voice was heard saying, "we rest here, your honor," and he sat down.
no less white, but more agitated, was the face of the defendant's counsel, who instantly rose.
"for some unexplained reason, your honor, my client desires to suspend further proceedings, with a view to effect a peaceable compromise with the plaintiff.
as he is a man of wealth and position, he is able and willing to pay liberally for that privilege.
while i, as his counsel, am still convinced of his legal irresponsibility, as he has chosen, however, to publicly abandon his rights here, i can only ask your honor's permission to suspend further proceedings until i can confer with colonel starbottle."
"as far as i can follow the pleadings," said the judge, gravely, "the case seems to be hardly one for litigation, and i approve of the defendant's course, while i strongly urge the plaintiff to accept it."
colonel starbottle bent over his fair client.
presently he rose, unchanged in look or demeanor.
"i yield, your honor, to the wishes of my client, and er lady.
we accept."
before the court adjourned that day it was known throughout the town that adoniram k. hotchkiss had compromised the suit for four thousand dollars and costs.
colonel starbottle had so far recovered his equanimity as to strut jauntily towards his office, where he was to meet his fair client.
he was surprised, however, to find her already there, and in company with a somewhat sheepish-looking young man a stranger.
if the colonel had any disappointment in meeting a third party to the interview, his old-fashioned courtesy did not permit him to show it.
he bowed graciously, and politely motioned them each to a seat.
"i reckoned i'd bring hiram round with me," said the young lady, lifting her searching eyes, after a pause, to the colonel's, "though he was awful shy, and allowed that you didn't know him from adam or even suspected his existence.
but i said, 'that's just where you slip up, hiram; a pow'ful man like the colonel knows everything and i've seen it in his eye.'
lordy!"
she continued, with a laugh, leaning forward over her parasol, as her eyes again sought the colonel's, "don't you remember when you asked me if i loved that old hotchkiss, and i told you 'that's tellin',' and you looked at me, lordy!
i knew then you suspected there was a hiram somewhere as good as if i'd told you.
now, you, jest get up, hiram, and give the colonel a good handshake.
for if it wasn't for him and his searchin' ways, and his awful power of language, i wouldn't hev got that four thousand dollars out o' that flirty fool hotchkiss enough to buy a farm, so as you and me could get married!
that's what you owe to him.
don't stand there like a stuck fool starin' at him.
he won't eat you though he's killed many a better man.
come, have i got to do all the kissin'!"
it is of record that the colonel bowed so courteously and so profoundly that he managed not merely to evade the proffered hand of the shy hiram, but to only lightly touch the franker and more impulsive fingertips of the gentle zaidee.
"i er offer my sincerest congratulations though i think you er overestimate my er powers of penetration.
unfortunately, a pressing engagement, which may oblige me also to leave town to-night, forbids my saying more.
i have er left the er business settlement of this er case in the hands of the lawyers who do my office-work, and who will show you every attention.
and now let me wish you a very good afternoon."
nevertheless, the colonel returned to his private room, and it was nearly twilight when the faithful jim entered, to find him sitting meditatively before his desk.
"'fo' god!
kernel i hope dey ain't nuffin de matter, but you's lookin' mightly solemn!
i ain't seen you look dat way, kernel, since de day pooh marse stryker was fetched home shot froo de head."
"hand me down the whiskey, jim," said the colonel, rising slowly.
the negro flew to the closet joyfully, and brought out the bottle.
the colonel poured out a glass of the spirit and drank it with his old deliberation.
"you're quite right, jim," he said, putting down his glass, "but i'm er getting old and somehow i am missing poor stryker damnably!"
the duplicity of hargraves
by o. henry (1862-1910)
[from the junior munsey, february, 1902. republished in the volume, sixes and sevens (1911), by o. henry; copyright, 1911, by doubleday, page & co.; reprinted by their permission.]
when major pendleton talbot, of mobile, sir, and his daughter, miss lydia talbot, came to washington to reside, they selected for a boarding place a house that stood fifty yards back from one of the quietest avenues.
it was an old-fashioned brick building, with a portico upheld by tall white pillars.
the yard was shaded by stately locusts and elms, and a catalpa tree in season rained its pink and white blossoms upon the grass.
rows of high box bushes lined the fence and walks.
it was the southern style and aspect of the place that pleased the eyes of the talbots.
in this pleasant private boarding house they engaged rooms, including a study for major talbot, who was adding the finishing
major talbot was of the old, old south.
the present day had little interest or excellence in his eyes.
his mind lived in that period before the civil war when the talbots owned thousands of acres of fine cotton land and the slaves to till them; when the family mansion was the scene of princely hospitality, and drew its guests from the aristocracy of the south.
out of that period he had brought all its old pride and scruples of honor, an antiquated and punctilious politeness, and (you would think) its wardrobe.
such clothes were surely never made within fifty years.
the major was tall, but whenever he made that wonderful, archaic genuflexion he called a bow, the corners of his frock coat swept the floor.
that garment was a surprise even to washington, which has long ago ceased to shy at the frocks and broad-brimmed hats of southern congressmen.
one of the boarders christened it a "father hubbard," and it certainly was high in the waist and full in the skirt.
but the major, with all his queer clothes, his immense area of plaited, raveling shirt bosom, and the little black string tie with the bow always slipping on one side, both was smiled at and liked in mrs. vardeman's select boarding house.
some of the young department clerks would often "string him," as they called it, getting him started upon the subject dearest to him the traditions and history of his beloved southland.
during his talks he would quote freely from the anecdotes and reminiscences.
but they were very careful not to let him see their designs, for in spite of his sixty-eight years he could make the boldest of them uncomfortable under the steady regard of his piercing gray eyes.
miss lydia was a plump, little old maid of thirty-five, with smoothly drawn, tightly twisted hair that made her look still older.
old-fashioned, too, she was; but antebellum glory did not radiate from her as it did from the major.
she possessed a thrifty common sense, and it was she who handled the finances of the family, and met all comers when there were bills to pay.
the major regarded board bills and wash bills as contemptible nuisances.
they kept coming in so persistently and so often.
why, the major wanted to know, could they not be filed and paid in a lump sum at some convenient period say when the anecdotes and reminiscences had been published and paid for?
miss lydia would calmly go on with her sewing and say, "we'll pay as we go as long as the money lasts, and then perhaps they'll have to lump it."
most of mrs. vardeman's boarders were away during the day, being nearly all department clerks and business men; but there was one of them who was about the house a great deal from morning to night.
this was a young man named henry hopkins hargraves every one in the house addressed him by his full name who was engaged at one of the popular vaudeville theaters.
vaudeville has risen to such a respectable plane in the last few years, and mr. hargraves was such a modest and well-mannered person, that mrs. vardeman could find no objection to enrolling him upon her list of boarders.
at the theater hargraves was known as an all-round dialect comedian, having a large repertoire of german, irish, swede, and black-face specialties.
but mr. hargraves was ambitious, and often spoke of his great desire to succeed in legitimate comedy.
this young man appeared to conceive a strong fancy for major talbot.
whenever that gentleman would begin his southern reminiscences, or repeat some of the liveliest of the anecdotes, hargraves could always be found, the most attentive among his listeners.
for a time the major showed an inclination to discourage the advances of the "play actor," as he privately termed him; but soon the young man's agreeable manner and indubitable appreciation of the old gentleman's stories completely won him over.
it was not long before the two were like old chums.
the major set apart each afternoon to read to him the manuscript of his book.
during the anecdotes hargraves never failed to laugh at exactly the right point.
the major was moved to declare to miss lydia one day that young hargraves possessed remarkable perception and a gratifying respect for the old régime.
and when it came to talking of those old days if major talbot liked to talk, mr. hargraves was entranced to listen.
like almost all old people who talk of the past, the major loved to linger over details.
in describing the splendid, almost royal, days of the old planters, he would hesitate until he had recalled the name of the negro who held his horse, or the exact date of certain minor happenings, or the number of bales of cotton raised in such a year; but hargraves never grew impatient or lost interest.
on the contrary, he would advance questions on a variety of subjects connected with the life of that time, and he never failed to extract ready replies.
the fox hunts, the 'possum suppers, the hoe-downs and jubilees in the negro quarters, the banquets in the plantation-house hall, when invitations went for fifty miles around; the occasional feuds with the neighboring gentry; the major's duel with rathbone culbertson about kitty chalmers, who afterward married a thwaite of south carolina; and private yacht races for fabulous sums on mobile bay; the quaint beliefs, improvident habits, and loyal virtues of the old slaves all these were subjects that held both the major and hargraves absorbed for hours at a time.
sometimes, at night, when the young man would be coming upstairs to his room after his turn at the theater was over, the major would appear at the door of his study and beckon archly to him.
going in, hargraves would find a little table set with a decanter, sugar bowl, fruit, and a big bunch of fresh green mint.
"it occurred to me," the major would begin he was always ceremonious "that perhaps you might have found your duties at the at your place of occupation sufficiently arduous to enable you, mr.
hargraves, to appreciate what the poet might well have had in his mind when he wrote, 'tired nature's sweet restorer' one of our southern juleps."
it was a fascination to hargraves to watch him make it.
he took rank among artists when he began, and he never varied the process.
with what delicacy he bruised the mint; with what exquisite nicety he estimated the ingredients; with what solicitous care he capped the compound with the scarlet fruit glowing against the dark green fringe!
and then the hospitality and grace with which he offered it, after the selected oat straws had been plunged into its tinkling depths!
after about four months in washington, miss lydia discovered one morning that they were almost without money.
the anecdotes and reminiscences was completed, but publishers had not jumped at the collected gems of alabama sense and wit.
the rental of a small house which they still owned in mobile was two months in arrears.
their board money for the month would be due in three days.
miss lydia called her father to a consultation.
"no money?"
said he with a surprised look.
"it is quite annoying to be called on so frequently for these petty sums, really, i "
the major searched his pockets.
he found only a two-dollar bill, which he returned to his vest pocket.
"i must attend to this at once, lydia," he said.
"kindly get me my umbrella and i will go downtown immediately.
the congressman from our district, general fulghum, assured me some days ago that he would use his influence to get my book published at an early date.
i will go to his hotel at once and see what arrangement has been made."
with a sad little smile miss lydia watched him button his "father hubbard" and depart, pausing at the door, as he always did, to bow profoundly.
that evening, at dark, he returned.
it seemed that congressman fulghum had seen the publisher who had the major's manuscript for reading.
that person had said that if the anecdotes, etc., were carefully pruned down about one-half, in order to eliminate the sectional and class prejudice with which the book was dyed from end to end, he might consider its publication.
the major was in a white heat of anger, but regained his equanimity, according to his code of manners, as soon as he was in miss lydia's presence.
"we must have money," said miss lydia, with a little wrinkle above her nose.
"give me the two dollars, and i will telegraph to uncle ralph for some to-night."
the major drew a small envelope from his upper vest pocket and tossed it on the table.
"perhaps it was injudicious," he said mildly, "but the sum was so merely nominal that i bought tickets to the theater to-night.
it's a new war drama, lydia.
i thought you would be pleased to witness its first production in washington.
i am told that the south has very fair treatment in the play.
i confess i should like to see the performance myself."
miss lydia threw up her hands in silent despair.
still, as the tickets were bought, they might as well be used.
so that evening, as they sat in the theater listening to the lively overture, even miss lydia was minded to relegate their troubles, for the hour, to second place.
the major, in spotless linen, with his extraordinary coat showing only where it was closely buttoned, and his white hair smoothly roached, looked really fine and distinguished.
the curtain went up on the first act of a magnolia flower, revealing a typical southern plantation scene.
major talbot betrayed some interest.
"oh, see!"
exclaimed miss lydia, nudging his arm, and pointing to her program.
the major put on his glasses and read the line in the cast of characters that her fingers indicated.
col. webster calhoun .... mr. hopkins hargraves.
"it's our mr. hargraves," said miss lydia.
"it must be his first appearance in what he calls 'the legitimate.'
i'm so glad for him."
not until the second act did col. webster calhoun appear upon the stage.
when he made his entry major talbot gave an audible sniff, glared at him, and seemed to freeze solid.
miss lydia uttered a little, ambiguous squeak and crumpled her program in her hand.
for colonel calhoun was made up as nearly resembling major talbot as one pea does another.
the long, thin white hair, curly at the ends, the aristocratic beak of a nose, the crumpled, wide, raveling shirt front, the string tie, with the bow nearly under one ear, were almost exactly duplicated.
and then, to clinch the imitation, he wore the twin to the major's supposed to be unparalleled coat.
high-collared, baggy, empire-waisted, ample-skirted, hanging a foot lower in front than behind, the garment could have been designed from no other pattern.
from then on, the major and miss lydia sat bewitched, and saw the counterfeit presentment of a haughty talbot "dragged," as the major afterward expressed it, "through the slanderous mire of a corrupt stage."
mr. hargraves had used his opportunities well.
he had caught the major's little idiosyncrasies of speech, accent, and intonation and his pompous courtliness to perfection exaggerating all to the purpose of the stage.
when he performed that marvelous bow that the major fondly imagined to be the pink of all salutations, the audience sent forth a sudden round of hearty applause.
miss lydia sat immovable, not daring to glance toward her father.
sometimes her hand next to him would be laid against her cheek, as if to conceal the smile which, in spite of her disapproval, she could not entirely suppress.
the culmination of hargraves audacious imitation took place in the third act.
the scene is where colonel calhoun entertains a few of the neighboring planters in his "den."
standing at a table in the center of the stage, with his friends grouped about him, he delivers that inimitable, rambling character monologue so famous in a magnolia flower, at the same time that he deftly makes juleps for the party.
major talbot, sitting quietly, but white with indignation, heard his best stories retold, his pet theories and hobbies advanced and expanded, and the dream of the anecdotes and reminiscences served, exaggerated and garbled.
his favorite narrative that of his duel with rathbone culbertson was not omitted, and it was delivered with more fire, egotism, and gusto than the major himself put into it.
the monologue concluded with a quaint, delicious, witty little lecture on the art of concocting a julep, illustrated by the act.
here major talbot's delicate but showy science was reproduced to a hair's breadth from his dainty handling of the fragrant weed "the one-thousandth part of a grain too much pressure, gentlemen, and you extract the bitterness, instead of the aroma, of this heaven-bestowed plant" to his solicitous selection of the oaten straws.
at the close of the scene the audience raised a tumultuous roar of appreciation.
the portrayal of the type was so exact, so sure and thorough, that the leading characters in the play were forgotten.
after repeated calls, hargraves came before the curtain and bowed, his rather boyish face bright and flushed with the knowledge of success.
at last miss lydia turned and looked at the major.
his thin nostrils were working like the gills of a fish.
he laid both shaking hands upon the arms of his chair to rise.
"we will go, lydia," he said chokingly.
"this is an abominable desecration."
before he could rise, she pulled him back into his seat.
"we will stay it out," she declared.
"do you want to advertise the copy by exhibiting the original coat?"
so they remained to the end.
hargraves's success must have kept him up late that night, for neither at the breakfast nor at the dinner table did he appear.
about three in the afternoon he tapped at the door of major talbot's study.
the major opened it, and hargraves walked in with his hands full of the morning papers too full of his triumph to notice anything unusual in the major's demeanor.
"i put it all over 'em last night, major," he began exultantly.
"i had my inning, and, i think, scored.
here's what the post says:
"'his conception and portrayal of the old-time southern colonel, with his absurd grandiloquence, his eccentric garb, his quaint idioms and phrases, his motheaten pride of family, and his really kind heart, fastidious sense of honor, and lovable simplicity, is the best delineation of a character role on the boards to-day.
the coat worn by colonel calhoun is itself nothing less than an evolution of genius.
mr. hargraves has captured his public.'
"how does that sound, major, for a first-nighter?"
"i had the honor" the major's voice sounded ominously frigid "of witnessing your very remarkable performance, sir, last night."
hargraves looked disconcerted.
"you were there?
i didn't know you ever i didn't know you cared for the theater.
oh, i say, major talbot," he exclaimed frankly, "don't you be offended.
i admit i did get a lot of pointers from you that helped out wonderfully in the part.
but it's a type, you know not individual.
the way the audience caught on shows that.
half the patrons of that theater are southerners.
they recognized it."
"mr. hargraves," said the major, who had remained standing, "you have put upon me an unpardonable insult.
you have burlesqued my person, grossly betrayed my confidence, and misused my hospitality.
if i thought you possessed the faintest conception of what is the sign manual of a gentleman, or what is due one, i would call you out, sir, old as i am.
i will ask you to leave the room, sir."
the actor appeared to be slightly bewildered, and seemed hardly to take in the full meaning of the old gentleman's words.
"i am truly sorry you took offense," he said regretfully.
"up here we don't look at things just as you people do.
i know men who would buy out half the house to have their personality put on the stage so the public would recognize it."
"they are not from alabama, sir," said the major haughtily.
"perhaps not.
i have a pretty good memory, major; let me quote a few lines from your book.
in response to a toast at a banquet given in milledgeville, i believe you uttered, and intend to have printed, these words:
"'the northern man is utterly without sentiment or warmth except in so far as the feelings may be turned to his own commercial profit.
he will suffer without resentment any imputation cast upon the honor of himself or his loved ones that does not bear with it the consequence of pecuniary loss.
in his charity, he gives with a liberal hand; but it must be heralded with the trumpet and chronicled in brass.'
"do you think that picture is fairer than the one you saw of colonel calhoun last night?"
"the description," said the major, frowning, "is not without grounds.
some exag latitude must be allowed in public speaking."
"and in public acting," replied hargraves.
"that is not the point," persisted the major, unrelenting.
"it was a personal caricature.
i positively decline to overlook it, sir."
"major talbot," said hargraves, with a winning smile, "i wish you would understand me.
i want you to know that i never dreamed of insulting you.
in my profession, all life belongs to me.
i take what i want, and what i can, and return it over the footlights.
now, if you will, let's let it go at that.
i came in to see you about something else.
we've been pretty good friends for some months, and i'm going to take the risk of offending you again.
i know you are hard up for money never mind how i found out, a boarding house is no place to keep such matters secret and i want you to let me help you out of the pinch.
i've been there often enough myself.
i've been getting a fair salary all the season, and i've saved some money.
you're welcome to a couple hundred or even more until you get  "
"stop!"
commanded the major, with his arm outstretched.
"it seems that my book didn't lie, after all.
you think your money salve will heal all the hurts of honor.
under no circumstances would i accept a loan from a casual acquaintance; and as to you, sir, i would starve before i would consider your insulting offer of a financial adjustment of the circumstances we have discussed.
i beg to repeat my request relative to your quitting the apartment."
hargraves took his departure without another word.
he also left the house the same day, moving, as mrs. vardeman explained at the supper table, nearer the vicinity of the downtown theater, where a magnolia flower was booked for a week's run.
critical was the situation with major talbot and miss lydia.
there was no one in washington to whom the major's scruples allowed him to apply for a loan.
miss lydia wrote a letter to uncle ralph, but it was doubtful whether that relative's constricted affairs would permit him to furnish help.
the major was forced to make an apologetic address to mrs. vardeman regarding the delayed payment for board, referring to "delinquent rentals" and "delayed remittances" in a rather confused strain.
deliverance came from an entirely unexpected source.
late one afternoon the door maid came up and announced an old colored man who wanted to see major talbot.
the major asked that he be sent up to his study.
soon an old darkey appeared in the doorway, with his hat in hand, bowing, and scraping with one clumsy foot.
he was quite decently dressed in a baggy suit of black.
his big, coarse shoes shone with a metallic luster suggestive of stove polish.
his bushy wool was gray almost white.
after middle life, it is difficult to estimate the age of a negro.
this one might have seen as many years as had major talbot.
"i be bound you don't know me, mars' pendleton," were his first words.
the major rose and came forward at the old, familiar style of address.
it was one of the old plantation darkeys without a doubt; but they had been widely scattered, and he could not recall the voice or face.
"i don't believe i do," he said kindly "unless you will assist my memory."
"don't you 'member cindy's mose, mars' pendleton, what 'migrated 'mediately after de war?"
"wait a moment," said the major, rubbing his forehead with the tips of his fingers.
he loved to recall everything connected with those beloved days.
"cindy's mose," he reflected.
"you worked among the horses breaking the colts.
yes, i remember now.
after the surrender, you took the name of don't prompt me mitchell, and went to the west to nebraska."
"yassir, yassir," the old man's face stretched with a delighted grin "dat's him, dat's it.
newbraska.
dat's me mose mitchell.
old uncle mose mitchell, dey calls me now.
old mars', your pa, gimme a pah of dem mule colts when i lef' fur to staht me goin' with.
you 'member dem colts, mars' pendleton?"
"i don't seem to recall the colts," said the major.
"you know.
i was married the first year of the war and living at the old follinsbee place.
but sit down, sit down, uncle mose.
i'm glad to see you.
i hope you have prospered."
uncle mose took a chair and laid his hat carefully on the floor beside it.
"yessir; of late i done mouty famous.
when i first got to newbraska, dey folks come all roun' me to see dem mule colts.
dey ain't see no mules like dem in newbraska.
i sold dem mules for three hundred dollars.
yessir three hundred.
"den i open a blacksmith shop, suh, and made some money and bought some lan'.
me and my old 'oman done raised up seb'm chillun, and all doin' well 'cept two of 'em what died.
fo' year ago a railroad come along and staht a town slam ag'inst my lan', and, suh, mars'
pendleton, uncle mose am worth leb'm thousand dollars in money, property, and lan'."
"i'm glad to hear it," said the major heartily.
"glad to hear it."
"and dat little baby of yo'n, mars' pendleton one what you name miss lyddy i be bound dat little tad done growed up tell nobody wouldn't know her."
the major stepped to the door and called: "lydie, dear, will you come?"
miss lydia, looking quite grown up and a little worried, came in from her room.
"dar, now!
what'd i tell you?
i knowed dat baby done be plum growed up.
you don't 'member uncle mose, child?"
"this is aunt cindy's mose, lydia," explained the major.
"he left sunnymead for the west when you were two years old."
"well," said miss lydia, "i can hardly be expected to remember you, uncle mose, at that age.
and, as you say, i'm 'plum growed up,' and was a blessed long time ago.
but i'm glad to see you, even if i can't remember you."
and she was.
and so was the major.
something alive and tangible had come to link them with the happy past.
the three sat and talked over the olden times, the major and uncle mose correcting or prompting each other as they reviewed the plantation scenes and days.
the major inquired what the old man was doing so far from his home.
"uncle mose am a delicate," he explained, "to de grand baptis'
convention in dis city.
i never preached none, but bein' a residin'
elder in de church, and able fur to pay my own expenses, dey sent me along."
"and how did you know we were in washington?"
inquired miss lydia.
"dey's a cullud man works in de hotel whar i stops, what comes from mobile.
he told me he seen mars' pendleton comin' outen dish here house one mawnin'.
"what i come fur," continued uncle mose, reaching into his pocket "besides de sight of home folks was to pay mars' pendleton what i owes him.
"yessir three hundred dollars."
he handed the major a roll of bills.
"when i lef' old mars' says: 'take dem mule colts, mose, and, if it be so you gits able, pay fur 'em.'
yessir dem was his words.
de war had done lef' old mars' po' hisself.
old mars' bein' long ago dead, de debt descends to mars' pendleton.
three hundred dollars.
uncle mose is plenty able to pay now.
when dat railroad buy my lan' i laid off to pay fur dem mules.
count de money, mars' pendleton.
dat's what i sold dem mules fur.
yessir."
tears were in major talbot's eyes.
he took uncle mose's hand and laid his other upon his shoulder.
"dear, faithful, old servitor," he said in an unsteady voice, "i don't mind saying to you that 'mars' pendleton spent his last dollar in the world a week ago.
we will accept this money, uncle mose, since, in a way, it is a sort of payment, as well as a token of the loyalty and devotion of the old régime.
lydia, my dear, take the money.
you are better fitted than i to manage its expenditure."
"take it, honey," said uncle mose.
"hit belongs to you.
hit's talbot money."
after uncle mose had gone, miss lydia had a good cry -for joy; and the major turned his face to a corner, and smoked his clay pipe volcanically.
the succeeding days saw the talbots restored to peace and ease.
miss lydia's face lost its worried look.
the major appeared in a new frock coat, in which he looked like a wax figure personifying the memory of his golden age.
another publisher who read the manuscript of the anecdotes and reminiscences thought that, with a little retouching and toning down of the high lights, he could make a really bright and salable volume of it.
altogether, the situation was comfortable, and not without the touch of hope that is often sweeter than arrived blessings.
one day, about a week after their piece of good luck, a maid brought a letter for miss lydia to her room.
the postmark showed that it was from new york.
not knowing any one there, miss lydia, in a mild flutter of wonder, sat down by her table and opened the letter with her scissors.
this was what she read:
dear miss talbot:
i thought you might be glad to learn of my good fortune.
i have received and accepted an offer of two hundred dollars per week by a new york stock company to play colonel calhoun in a magnolia flower.
there is something else i wanted you to know.
i guess you'd better not tell major talbot.
i was anxious to make him some amends for the great help he was to me in studying the part, and for the bad humor he was in about it.
he refused to let me, so i did it anyhow.
i could easily spare the three hundred.
sincerely yours, h. hopkins hargraves.
p.s.
how did i play uncle mose?
major talbot, passing through the hall, saw miss lydia's door open and stopped.
"any mail for us this morning, lydia, dear?"
he asked.
miss lydia slid the letter beneath a fold of her dress.
"the mobile chronicle came," she said promptly.
"it's on the table in your study."
bargain day at tutt house
by george randolph chester (1869- )
[from mcclure's magazine, june, 1905; copyright, 1905, by the s.s.
mcclure co.; republished by the author's permission.]
i
just as the stage rumbled over the rickety old bridge, creaking and groaning, the sun came from behind the clouds that had frowned all the way, and the passengers cheered up a bit.
the two richly dressed matrons who had been so utterly and unnecessarily oblivious to the presence of each other now suspended hostilities for the moment by mutual and unspoken consent, and viewed with relief the little, golden-tinted valley and the tree-clad road just beyond.
the respective husbands of these two ladies exchanged a mere glance, no more, of comfort.
they, too, were relieved, though more by the momentary truce than by anything else.
they regretted very much to be compelled to hate each other, for each had reckoned up his vis-à-vis as a rather proper sort of fellow, probably a man of some achievement, used to good living and good company.
extreme iciness was unavoidable between them, however.
when one stranger has a splendidly preserved blonde wife and the other a splendidly preserved brunette wife, both of whom have won social prominence by years of hard fighting and aloofness, there remains nothing for the two men but to follow the lead, especially when directly under the eyes of the leaders.
the son of the blonde matron smiled cheerfully as the welcome light flooded the coach.
he was a nice-looking young man, of about twenty-two, one might judge, and he did his smiling, though in a perfectly impersonal and correct sort of manner, at the pretty daughter of the brunette matron.
the pretty daughter also smiled, but her smile was demurely directed at the trees outside, clad as they were in all the flaming glory of their autumn tints, glistening with the recent rain and dripping with gems that sparkled and flashed in the noonday sun as they fell.
it is marvelous how much one can see out of the corner of the eye, while seeming to view mere scenery.
the driver looked down, as he drove safely off the bridge, and shook his head at the swirl of water that rushed and eddied, dark and muddy, close up under the rotten planking; then he cracked his whip, and the horses sturdily attacked the little hill.
thick, overhanging trees on either side now dimmed the light again, and the two plump matrons once more glared past the opposite shoulders, profoundly unaware of each other.
the husbands took on the politely surly look required of them.
the blonde son's eyes still sought the brunette daughter, but it was furtively done and quite unsuccessfully, for the daughter was now doing a little glaring on her own account.
the blonde matron had just swept her eyes across the daughter's skirt, estimating the fit and material of it with contempt so artistically veiled that it could almost be understood in the dark.
ii
the big bays swung to the brow of the hill with ease, and dashed into a small circular clearing, where a quaint little two-story building, with a mossy watering-trough out in front, nestled under the shade of majestic old trees that reared their brown and scarlet crowns proudly into the sky.
a long, low porch ran across the front of the structure, and a complaining sign hung out announcing, in dim, weather-flecked letters on a cracked board, that this was the "tutt house."
a gray-headed man, in brown overalls and faded blue jumper, stood on the porch and shook his fist at the stage as it whirled by.
"what a delightfully old-fashioned inn!"
exclaimed the pretty daughter.
"how i should like to stop there over night!"
"you would probably wish yourself away before morning, evelyn,"
replied her mother indifferently.
"no doubt it would be a mere siege of discomfort."
the blonde matron turned to her husband.
the pretty daughter had been looking at the picturesque "inn" between the heads of this lady and her son.
"edward, please pull down the shade behind me," she directed.
"there is quite a draught from that broken window."
the pretty daughter bit her lip.
the brunette matron continued to stare at the shade in the exact spot upon which her gaze had been before directed, and she never quivered an eyelash.
the young man seemed very uncomfortable, and he tried to look his apologies to the pretty daughter, but she could not see him now, not even if her eyes had been all corners.
they were bowling along through another avenue of trees when the driver suddenly shouted, "whoa there!"
the horses were brought up with a jerk that was well nigh fatal to the assortment of dignity inside the coach.
a loud roaring could be heard, both ahead and in the rear, a sharp splitting like a fusillade of pistol shots, then a creaking and tearing of timbers.
the driver bent suddenly forward.
"gid ap!"
he cried, and the horses sprang forward with a lurch.
he swung them around a sharp bend with a skillful hand and poised his weight above the brake as they plunged at terrific speed down a steep grade.
the roaring was louder than ever now, and it became deafening as they suddenly emerged from the thick underbrush at the bottom of the declivity.
"caught, by gravy!"
ejaculated the driver, and, for the second time, he brought the coach to an abrupt stop.
"do see what is the matter, ralph," said the blonde matron impatiently.
thus commanded, the young man swung out and asked the driver about it.
"paintsville dam's busted," he was informed.
"i been a-lookin' fer it this many a year, an' this here freshet done it.
you see the holler there?
well, they's ten foot o' water in it, an' it had ort to be stone dry.
the bridge is tore out behind us, an' we're stuck here till that water runs out.
we can't git away till to-morry, anyways."
he pointed out the peculiar topography of the place, and ralph got back in the coach.
"we're practically on a flood-made island," he exclaimed, with one eye on the pretty daughter, "and we shall have to stop over night at that quaint, old-fashioned inn we passed a few moments ago."
the pretty daughter's eyes twinkled, and he thought he caught a swift, direct gleam from under the long lashes but he was not sure.
"dear me, how annoying," said the blonde matron, but the brunette matron still stared, without the slightest trace of interest in anything else, at the infinitesimal spot she had selected on the affronting window-shade.
the two men gave sighs of resignation, and cast carefully concealed glances at each other, speculating on the possibility of a cigar and a glass, and maybe a good story or two, or possibly even a game of poker after the evening meal.
who could tell what might or might not happen?
iii
when the stage drew up in front of the little hotel, it found uncle billy tutt prepared for his revenge.
in former days the stage had always stopped at the tutt house for the noonday meal.
since the new railway was built through the adjoining county, however, the stage trip became a mere twelve-mile, cross-country transfer from one railroad to another, and the stage made a later trip, allowing the passengers plenty of time for "dinner" before they started.
day after day, as the coach flashed by with its money-laden passengers, uncle billy had hoped that it would break down.
but this was better, much better.
the coach might be quickly mended, but not the flood.
"i'm a-goin' t' charge 'em till they squeal," he declared to the timidly protesting aunt margaret, "an' then i'm goin' t' charge 'em a least mite more, drat 'em!"
he retreated behind the rough wooden counter that did duty as a desk, slammed open the flimsy, paper-bound "cash book" that served as a register, and planted his elbows uncompromisingly on either side of it.
"let 'em bring in their own traps," he commented, and aunt margaret fled, ashamed and conscience-smitten, to the kitchen.
it seemed awful.
the first one out of the coach was the husband of the brunette matron, and, proceeding under instructions, he waited neither for luggage nor women folk, but hurried straight into the tutt house.
the other man would have been neck and neck with him in the race, if it had not been that he paused to seize two suitcases and had the misfortune to drop one, which burst open and scattered a choice assortment of lingerie from one end of the dingy coach to the other.
in the confusion of rescuing the fluffery, the owner of the suitcase had to sacrifice her hauteur and help her husband and son block up the aisle, while the other matron had the ineffable satisfaction of being kept waiting, at last being enabled to say, sweetly and with the most polite consideration:
"will you kindly allow me to pass?"
the blonde matron raised up and swept her skirts back perfectly flat.
she was pale but collected.
her husband was pink but collected.
her son was crimson and uncollected.
the brunette daughter could not have found an eye anywhere in his countenance as she rustled out after her mother.
"i do hope that belmont has been able to secure choice quarters," the triumphing matron remarked as her daughter joined her on the ground.
"this place looked so very small that there can scarcely be more than one comfortable suite in it."
it was a vital thrust.
only a splendidly cultivated self-control prevented the blonde matron from retaliating upon the unfortunate who had muddled things.
even so, her eyes spoke whole shelves of volumes.
the man who first reached the register wrote, in a straight black scrawl, "j. belmont van kamp, wife, and daughter."
there being no space left for his address, he put none down.
"i want three adjoining rooms, en suite if possible," he demanded.
"three!"
exclaimed uncle billy, scratching his head.
"won't two do ye?
i ain't got but six bedrooms in th' house.
me an' marg't sleeps in one, an' we're a-gittin' too old fer a shake-down on th' floor.
i'll have t' save one room fer th' driver, an' that leaves four.
you take two now -"
mr. van kamp cast a hasty glance out of the window, the other man was getting out of the coach.
his own wife was stepping on the porch.
"what do you ask for meals and lodging until this time to-morrow?"
he interrupted.
the decisive moment had arrived.
uncle billy drew a deep breath.
"two dollars a head!"
he defiantly announced.
there!
it was out!
he wished margaret had stayed to hear him say it.
the guest did not seem to be seriously shocked, and uncle billy was beginning to be sorry he had not said three dollars, when mr. van kamp stopped the landlord's own breath.
"i'll give you fifteen dollars for the three best rooms in the house,"
he calmly said, and landlord tutt gasped as the money fluttered down under his nose.
"jis' take yore folks right on up, mr. kamp," said uncle billy, pouncing on the money.
"th' rooms is th' three right along th' hull front o' th' house.
i'll be up and make on a fire in a minute.
jis'
take th' jonesville banner an' th' uticky clarion along with ye."
as the swish of skirts marked the passage of the van kamps up the wide hall stairway, the other party swept into the room.
the man wrote, in a round flourish, "edward eastman ellsworth, wife, and son."
"i'd like three choice rooms, en suite," he said.
"gosh!"
said uncle billy, regretfully.
"that's what mr. kamp wanted, fust off, an' he got it.
they hain't but th' little room over th'
kitchen left.
i'll have to put you an' your wife in that, an' let your boy sleep with th' driver."
the consternation in the ellsworth party was past calculating by any known standards of measurement.
the thing was an outrage!
it was not to be borne!
they would not submit to it!
uncle billy, however, secure in his mastery of the situation, calmly quartered them as he had said.
"an' let 'em splutter all they want to," he commented comfortably to himself.
iv
the ellsworths were holding a family indignation meeting on the broad porch when the van ramps came contentedly down for a walk, and brushed by them with unseeing eyes.
"it makes a perfectly fascinating suite," observed mrs. van kamp, in a pleasantly conversational tone that could be easily overheard by anyone impolite enough to listen.
"that delightful old-fashioned fireplace in the middle apartment makes it an ideal sitting-room, and the beds are so roomy and comfortable."
"i just knew it would be like this!"
chirruped miss evelyn.
"i remarked as we passed the place, if you will remember, how charming it would be to stop in this dear, quaint old inn over night.
all my wishes seem to come true this year."
these simple and, of course, entirely unpremeditated remarks were as vinegar and wormwood to mrs. ellsworth, and she gazed after the retreating van kamps with a glint in her eye that would make one understand lucretia borgia at last.
her son also gazed after the retreating van kamp.
she had an exquisite figure, and she carried herself with a most delectable grace.
as the party drew away from the inn she dropped behind the elders and wandered off into a side path to gather autumn leaves.
ralph, too, started off for a walk, but naturally not in the same direction.
"edward!"
suddenly said mrs. ellsworth.
"i want you to turn those people out of that suite before night!"
"very well," he replied with a sigh, and got up to do it.
he had wrecked a railroad and made one, and had operated successful corners in nutmegs and chicory.
no task seemed impossible.
he walked in to see the landlord.
"what are the van kamps paying you for those three rooms?"
he asked.
"fifteen dollars," uncle billy informed him, smoking one of mr. van kamp's good cigars and twiddling his thumbs in huge content.
"i'll give you thirty for them.
just set their baggage outside and tell them the rooms are occupied."
"no sir-ree!"
rejoined uncle billy.
"a bargain's a bargain, an' i allus stick to one i make."
mr. ellsworth withdrew, but not defeated.
he had never supposed that such an absurd proposition would be accepted.
it was only a feeler, and he had noticed a wince of regret in his landlord.
he sat down on the porch and lit a strong cigar.
his wife did not bother him.
she gazed complacently at the flaming foliage opposite, and allowed him to think.
getting impossible things was his business in life, and she had confidence in him.
"i want to rent your entire house for a week," he announced to uncle billy a few minutes later.
it had occurred to him that the flood might last longer than they anticipated.
uncle billy's eyes twinkled.
"i reckon it kin be did," he allowed.
"i reckon a ho-tel man's got a right to rent his hull house ary minute."
"of course he has.
how much do you want?"
uncle billy had made one mistake in not asking this sort of folks enough, and he reflected in perplexity.
"make me a offer," he proposed.
"ef it hain't enough i'll tell ye.
you want to rent th' hull place, back lot an' all?"
"no, just the mere house.
that will be enough," answered the other with a smile.
he was on the point of offering a hundred dollars, when he saw the little wrinkles about mr. tutt's eyes, and he said seventy-five.
"sho, ye're jokin'!"
retorted uncle billy.
he had been considered a fine horse-trader in that part of the country.
"make it a hundred and twenty-five, an' i'll go ye."
mr. ellsworth counted out some bills.
"here's a hundred," he said.
"that ought to be about right."
"fifteen more," insisted uncle billy.
with a little frown of impatience the other counted off the extra money and handed it over.
uncle billy gravely handed it back.
"them's the fifteen dollars mr. kamp give me," he explained.
"you've got the hull house fer a week, an' o' course all th' money that's tooken in is your'n.
you kin do as ye please about rentin' out rooms to other folks, i reckon.
a bargain's a bargain, an' i allus stick to one i make."
v
ralph ellsworth stalked among the trees, feverishly searching for squirrels, scarlet leaves, and the glint of a brown walking-dress, this last not being so easy to locate in sunlit autumn woods.
time after time he quickened his pace, only to find that he had been fooled by a patch of dogwood, a clump of haw bushes or even a leaf-strewn knoll, but at last he unmistakably saw the dress, and then he slowed down to a careless saunter.
she was reaching up for some brilliantly colored maple leaves, and was entirely unconscious of his presence, especially after she had seen him.
her pose showed her pretty figure to advantage, but, of course, she did not know that.
how should she?
ralph admired the picture very much.
the hat, the hair, the gown, the dainty shoes, even the narrow strip of silken hose that was revealed as she stood a-uptoe, were all of a deep, rich brown that proved an exquisite foil for the pink and cream of her cheeks.
he remembered that her eyes were almost the same shade, and wondered how it was that women-folk happened on combinations in dress that so well set off their natural charms.
the fool!
he was about three trees away, now, and a panic akin to that which hunters describe as "buck ague" seized him.
he decided that he really had no excuse for coming any nearer.
it would not do, either, to be seen staring at her if she should happen to turn her head, so he veered off, intending to regain the road.
it would be impossible to do this without passing directly in her range of vision, and he did not intend to try to avoid it.
he had a fine, manly figure of his own.
he had just passed the nearest radius to her circle and was proceeding along the tangent that he had laid out for himself, when the unwitting maid looked carefully down and saw a tangle of roots at her very feet.
she was so unfortunate, a second later, as to slip her foot in this very tangle and give her ankle ever so slight a twist.
"oh!"
cried miss van kamp, and ralph ellsworth flew to the rescue.
he had not been noticing her at all, and yet he had started to her side before she had even cried out, which was strange.
she had a very attractive voice.
"may i be of assistance?"
he anxiously inquired.
"i think not, thank you," she replied, compressing her lips to keep back the intolerable pain, and half-closing her eyes to show the fine lashes.
declining the proffered help, she extricated her foot, picked up her autumn branches, and turned away.
she was intensely averse to anything that could be construed as a flirtation, even of the mildest, he could certainly see that.
she took a step, swayed slightly, dropped the leaves, and clutched out her hand to him.
"it is nothing," she assured him in a moment, withdrawing the hand after he had held it quite long enough.
"nothing whatever.
i gave my foot a slight wrench, and turned the least bit faint for a moment."
"you must permit me to walk back, at least to the road, with you," he insisted, gathering up her armload of branches.
"i couldn't think of leaving you here alone."
as he stooped to raise the gay woodland treasures he smiled to himself, ever so slightly.
this was not his first season out, either.
"delightful spot, isn't it?"
he observed as they regained the road and sauntered in the direction of the tutt house.
"quite so," she reservedly answered.
she had noticed that smile as he stooped.
he must be snubbed a little.
it would be so good for him.
"you don't happen to know billy evans, of boston, do you?"
he asked.
"i think not.
i am but very little acquainted in boston."
"too bad," he went on.
"i was rather in hopes you knew billy.
all sorts of a splendid fellow, and knows everybody."
"not quite, it seems," she reminded him, and he winced at the error.
in spite of the sly smile that he had permitted to himself, he was unusually interested.
he tried the weather, the flood, the accident, golf, books and three good, substantial, warranted jokes, but the conversation lagged in spite of him.
miss van kamp would not for the world have it understood that this unconventional meeting, made allowable by her wrenched ankle, could possibly fulfill the functions of a formal introduction.
"what a ripping, queer old building that is!"
he exclaimed, making one more brave effort as they came in sight of the hotel.
"it is, rather," she assented.
"the rooms in it are as quaint and delightful as the exterior, too."
she looked as harmless and innocent as a basket of peaches as she said it, and never the suspicion of a smile deepened the dimple in the cheek toward him.
the smile was glowing cheerfully away inside, though.
he could feel it, if he could not see it, and he laughed aloud.
"your crowd rather got the better of us there," he admitted with the keen appreciation of one still quite close to college days.
"of course, the mater is furious, but i rather look on it as a lark."
she thawed like an april icicle.
"it's perfectly jolly," she laughed with him.
"awfully selfish of us, too, i know, but such loads of fun."
they were close to the tutt house now, and her limp, that had entirely disappeared as they emerged from the woods, now became quite perceptible.
there might be people looking out of the windows, though it is hard to see why that should affect a limp.
ralph was delighted to find that a thaw had set in, and he made one more attempt to establish at least a proxy acquaintance.
"you don't happen to know peyson kingsley, of philadelphia, do you?"
"i'm afraid i don't," she replied.
"i know so few philadelphia people, you see."
she was rather regretful about it this time.
he really was a clever sort of a fellow, in spite of that smile.
the center window in the second floor of the tutt house swung open, its little squares of glass flashing jubilantly in the sunlight.
mrs.
ellsworth leaned out over the sill, from the quaint old sitting-room of the van kamp apartments!
"oh, ralph!"
she called in her most dulcet tones.
"kindly excuse yourself and come right on up to our suite for a few moments!"
vi
it is not nearly so easy to take a practical joke as to perpetrate one.
evelyn was sitting thoughtfully on the porch when her father and mother returned.
mrs. ellsworth was sitting at the center window above, placidly looking out.
her eyes swept carelessly over the van kamps, and unconcernedly passed on to the rest of the landscape.
mrs. van kamp gasped and clutched the arm of her husband.
there was no need.
he, too, had seen the apparition.
evelyn now, for the first time, saw the real humor of the situation.
she smiled as she thought of ralph.
she owed him one, but she never worried about her debts.
she always managed to get them paid, principal and interest.
mr. van kamp suddenly glowered and strode into the tutt house.
uncle billy met him at the door, reflectively chewing a straw, and handed him an envelope.
mr. van kamp tore it open and drew out a note.
three five-dollar bills came out with it and fluttered to the porch floor.
this missive confronted him:
mr. j. belmont van kamp,
dear sir: this is to notify you that i have rented the entire tutt house for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume possession of the three second-floor front rooms.
herewith i am enclosing the fifteen dollars you paid to secure the suite.
you are quite welcome to make use, as my guest, of the small room over the kitchen.
you will find your luggage in that room.
regretting any inconvenience that this transaction may cause you, i am,
yours respectfully, edward eastman ellsworth.
mr. van kamp passed the note to his wife and sat down or a large chair.
he was glad that the chair was comfortable and roomy.
evelyn picked up the bills and tucked them into her waist.
she never overlooked any of her perquisites.
mrs. van kamp read the note, and the tip of her nose became white.
she also sat down, but she was the first to find her voice.
"atrocious!"
she exclaimed.
"atrocious!
simply atrocious, belmont.
this is a house of public entertainment.
they can't turn us out in this high-minded manner!
isn't there a law or something to that effect?"
"it wouldn't matter if there was," he thoughtfully replied.
"this fellow ellsworth would be too clever to be caught by it.
he would say that the house was not a hotel but a private residence during the period for which he has rented it."
personally, he rather admired ellsworth.
seemed to be a resourceful sort of chap who knew how to make money behave itself, and do its little tricks without balking in the harness.
"then you can make him take down the sign!"
his wife declared.
he shook his head decidedly.
"it wouldn't do, belle," he replied.
"it would be spite, not retaliation, and not at all sportsmanlike.
the course you suggest would belittle us more than it would annoy them.
there must be some other way."
he went in to talk with uncle billy.
"i want to buy this place," he stated.
"is it for sale?"
"it sartin is!"
replied uncle billy.
he did not merely twinkle this time.
he grinned.
"how much?"
"three thousand dollars."
mr. tutt was used to charging by this time, and he betrayed no hesitation.
"i'll write you out a check at once," and mr. van kamp reached in his pocket with the reflection that the spot, after all, was an ideal one for a quiet summer retreat.
"air you a-goin' t' scribble that there three thou-san' on a piece o'
paper?"
inquired uncle billy, sitting bolt upright.
"ef you air a-figgerin' on that, mr. kamp, jis' you save yore time.
i give a man four dollars fer one o' them check things oncet, an' i owe myself them four dollars yit."
mr. van kamp retired in disorder, but the thought of his wife and daughter waiting confidently on the porch stopped him.
moreover, the thing had resolved itself rather into a contest between ellsworth and himself, and he had done a little making and breaking of men and things in his own time.
he did some gatling-gun thinking out by the newel-post, and presently rejoined uncle billy.
"mr. tutt, tell me just exactly what mr. ellsworth rented, please," he requested.
"th' hull house," replied billy, and then he somewhat sternly added:
"paid me spot cash fer it, too."
mr. van kamp took a wad of loose bills from his trousers pocket, straightened them out leisurely, and placed them in his bill book, along with some smooth yellowbacks of eye-bulging denominations.
uncle billy sat up and stopped twiddling his thumbs.
"nothing was said about the furniture, was there?"
suavely inquired van kamp.
uncle billy leaned blankly back in his chair.
little by little the light dawned on the ex-horse-trader.
the crow's feet reappeared about his eyes, his mouth twitched, he smiled, he grinned, then he slapped his thigh and haw-hawed.
"no!"
roared uncle billy.
"no, there wasn't, by gum!"
"nothing but the house?"
"his very own words!"
chuckled uncle billy.
"'jis' th' mere house,'
says he, an' he gits it.
a bargain's a bargain, an' i allus stick to one i make."
"how much for the furniture for the week?"
"fifty dollars!"
mr. tutt knew how to do business with this kind of people now, you bet.
mr. van kamp promptly counted out the money.
"drat it!"
commented uncle billy to himself.
"i could 'a' got more!"
"now where can we make ourselves comfortable with this furniture?"
uncle billy chirked up.
all was not yet lost.
"waal," he reflectively drawled, "there's th' new barn.
it hain't been used for nothin' yit, senct i built it two years ago.
i jis' hadn't th' heart t' put th' critters in it as long as th' ole one stood up."
the other smiled at this flashlight on uncle billy's character, and they went out to look at the barn.
vii
uncle billy came back from the "tutt house annex," as mr. van kamp dubbed the barn, with enough more money to make him love all the world until he got used to having it.
uncle billy belongs to a large family.
mr. van kamp joined the women on the porch, and explained the attractively novel situation to them.
they were chatting gaily when the ellsworths came down the stairs.
mr. ellsworth paused for a moment to exchange a word with uncle billy.
"mr. tutt," said he, laughing, "if we go for a bit of exercise will you guarantee us the possession of our rooms when we come back?"
"yes sir-ree!"
uncle billy assured him.
"they shan't nobody take them rooms away from you fer money, marbles, ner chalk.
a bargain's a bargain, an' i allus stick to one i make," and he virtuously took a chew of tobacco while he inspected the afternoon sky with a clear conscience.
"i want to get some of those splendid autumn leaves to decorate our cozy apartments," mrs. ellsworth told her husband as they passed in hearing of the van kamps.
"do you know those oldtime rag rugs are the most oddly decorative effects that i have ever seen.
they are so rich in color and so exquisitely blended."
there were reasons why this poisoned arrow failed to rankle, but the van kamps did not trouble to explain.
they were waiting for ralph to come out and join his parents.
ralph, it seemed, however, had decided not to take a walk.
he had already fatigued himself, he had explained, and his mother had favored him with a significant look.
she could readily believe him, she had assured him, and had then left him in scorn.
the van kamps went out to consider the arrangement of the barn.
evelyn returned first and came out on the porch to find a handkerchief.
it was not there, but ralph was.
she was very much surprised to see him, and she intimated as much.
"it's dreadfully damp in the woods," he explained.
"by the way, you don't happen to know the whitleys, of washington, do you?
most excellent people."
"i'm quite sorry that i do not," she replied.
"but you will have to excuse me.
we shall be kept very busy with arranging our apartments."
ralph sprang to his feet with a ludicrous expression.
"not the second floor front suite!"
he exclaimed.
"oh, no!
not at all," she reassured him.
he laughed lightly.
"honors are about even in that game," he said.
"evelyn," called her mother from the hall.
"please come and take those front suite curtains down to the barn."
"pardon me while we take the next trick," remarked evelyn with a laugh quite as light and gleeful as his own, and disappeared into the hall.
he followed her slowly, and was met at the door by her father.
"you are the younger mr. ellsworth, i believe," politely said mr. van kamp.
"ralph ellsworth.
yes, sir."
"here is a note for your father.
it is unsealed.
you are quite at liberty to read it."
mr. van kamp bowed himself away, and ralph opened the note, which read:
edward eastman ellsworth, esq.,
dear sir: this is to notify you that i have rented the entire furniture of the tutt house for the ensuing week, and am compelled to assume possession of that in the three second floor front rooms, as well as all the balance not in actual use by mr. and mrs. tutt and the driver of the stage.
you are quite welcome, however, to make use of the furnishings in the small room over the kitchen.
your luggage you will find undisturbed.
regretting any inconvenience that this transaction may cause you, i remain,
yours respectfully,
j. belmont van kamp.
ralph scratched his head in amused perplexity.
it devolved upon him to even up the affair a little before his mother came back.
he must support the family reputation for resourcefulness, but it took quite a bit of scalp irritation before he aggravated the right idea into being.
as soon as the idea came, he went in and made a hide-bound bargain with uncle billy, then he went out into the hall and waited until evelyn came down with a huge armload of window curtains.
"honors are still even," he remarked.
"i have just bought all the edibles about the place, whether in the cellar, the house or any of the surrounding structures, in the ground, above the ground, dead or alive, and a bargain's a bargain as between man and man."
"clever of you, i'm sure," commented miss van kamp, reflectively.
suddenly her lips parted with a smile that revealed a double row of most beautiful teeth.
he meditatively watched the curve of her lips.
"isn't that rather a heavy load?"
he suggested.
"i'd be delighted to help you move the things, don't you know."
"it is quite kind of you, and what the men would call 'game,' i believe, under the circumstances," she answered, "but really it will not be necessary.
we have hired mr. tutt and the driver to do the heavier part of the work, and the rest of it will be really a pleasant diversion."
"no doubt," agreed ralph, with an appreciative grin.
"by the way, you don't happen to know maud and dorothy partridge, of baltimore, do you?
stunning pretty girls, both of them, and no end of swells."
"i know so very few people in baltimore," she murmured, and tripped on down to the barn.
ralph went out on the porch and smoked.
there was nothing else that he could do.
viii
it was growing dusk when the elder ellsworths returned, almost hidden by great masses of autumn boughs.
"you should have been with us, ralph," enthusiastically said his mother.
"i never saw such gorgeous tints in all my life.
we have brought nearly the entire woods with us."
"it was a good idea," said ralph.
"a stunning good idea.
they may come in handy to sleep on."
mrs. ellsworth turned cold.
"what do you mean?"
she gasped.
"ralph," sternly demanded his father, "you don't mean to tell us that you let the van kamps jockey us out of those rooms after all?"
"indeed, no," he airily responded.
"just come right on up and see."
he led the way into the suite and struck a match.
one solitary candle had been left upon the mantel shelf.
ralph thought that this had been overlooked, but his mother afterwards set him right about that.
mrs.
van kamp had cleverly left it so that the ellsworths could see how dreadfully bare the place was.
one candle in three rooms is drearier than darkness anyhow.
mrs. ellsworth took in all the desolation, the dismal expanse of the now enormous apartments, the shabby walls, the hideous bright spots where pictures had hung, the splintered flooring, the great, gaunt windows and she gave in.
she had met with snub after snub, and cut after cut, in her social climb, she had had the cook quit in the middle of an important dinner, she had had every disconcerting thing possible happen to her, but this this was the last bale of straw.
she sat down on a suitcase, in the middle of the biggest room, and cried!
ralph, having waited for this, now told about the food transaction, and she hastily pushed the last-coming tear back into her eye.
"good!"
she cried.
"they will be up here soon.
they will be compelled to compromise, and they must not find me with red eyes."
she cast a hasty glance around the room, then, in a sudden panic, seized the candle and explored the other two.
she went wildly out into the hall, back into the little room over the kitchen, downstairs, everywhere, and returned in consternation.
"there's not a single mirror left in the house!"
she moaned.
ralph heartlessly grinned.
he could appreciate that this was a characteristic woman trick, and wondered admiringly whether evelyn or her mother had thought of it.
however, this was a time for action.
"i'll get you some water to bathe your eyes," he offered, and ran into the little room over the kitchen to get a pitcher.
a cracked shaving-mug was the only vessel that had been left, but he hurried down into the yard with it.
this was no time for fastidiousness.
he had barely creaked the pump handle when mr. van kamp hurried up from the barn.
"i beg your pardon, sir," said mr. van kamp, "but this water belongs to us.
my daughter bought it, all that is in the ground, above the ground, or that may fall from the sky upon these premises."
ix
the mutual siege lasted until after seven o'clock, but it was rather one-sided.
the van kamps could drink all the water they liked, it made them no hungrier.
if the ellsworths ate anything, however, they grew thirstier, and, moreover, water was necessary if anything worth while was to be cooked.
they knew all this, and resisted until mrs.
ellsworth was tempted and fell.
she ate a sandwich and choked.
it was heartbreaking, but ralph had to be sent down with a plate of sandwiches and an offer to trade them for water.
halfway between the pump and the house he met evelyn coming with a small pail of the precious fluid.
they both stopped stock still; then, seeing that it was too late to retreat, both laughed and advanced.
"who wins now?"
bantered ralph as they made the exchange.
"it looks to me like a misdeal," she gaily replied, and was moving away when he called her back.
"you don't happen to know the gately's, of new york, do you?"
he was quite anxious to know.
"i am truly sorry, but i am acquainted with so few people in new york.
we are from chicago, you know."
"oh," said he blankly, and took the water up to the ellsworth suite.
mrs. ellsworth cheered up considerably when she heard that ralph had been met halfway, but her eyes snapped when he confessed that it was miss van kamp who had met him.
"i hope you are not going to carry on a flirtation with that overdressed creature," she blazed.
"why mother," exclaimed ralph, shocked beyond measure.
"what right have you to accuse either this young lady or myself of flirting?
flirting!"
mrs. ellsworth suddenly attacked the fire with quite unnecessary energy.
x
down at the barn, the wide threshing floor had been covered with gay rag-rugs, and strewn with tables, couches, and chairs in picturesque profusion.
roomy box-stalls had been carpeted deep with clean straw, curtained off with gaudy bed-quilts, and converted into cozy sleeping apartments.
the mow and the stalls had been screened off with lace curtains and blazing counterpanes, and the whole effect was one of oriental luxury and splendor.
alas, it was only an "effect"!
the red-hot parlor stove smoked abominably, the pipe carried other smoke out through the hawmow window, only to let it blow back again.
chill cross-draughts whistled in from cracks too numerous to be stopped up, and the miserable van kamps could only cough and shiver, and envy the tutts and the driver, non-combatants who had been fed two hours before.
up in the second floor suite there was a roaring fire in the big fireplace, but there was a chill in the room that no mere fire could drive away the chill of absolute emptiness.
a man can outlive hardships that would kill a woman, but a woman can endure discomforts that would drive a man crazy.
mr. ellsworth went out to hunt up uncle billy, with an especial solace in mind.
the landlord was not in the house, but the yellow gleam of a lantern revealed his presence in the woodshed, and mr. ellsworth stepped in upon him just as he was pouring something yellow and clear into a tumbler from a big jug that he had just taken from under the flooring.
"how much do you want for that jug and its contents?"
he asked, with a sigh of gratitude that this supply had been overlooked.
before mr. tutt could answer, mr. van kamp hurried in at the door.
"wait a moment!"
he cried.
"i want to bid on that!"
"this here jug hain't fer sale at no price," uncle billy emphatically announced, nipping all negotiations right in the bud.
"it's too pesky hard to sneak this here licker in past marge't, but i reckon it's my treat, gents.
ye kin have all ye want."
one minute later mr. van kamp and mr. ellsworth were seated, one on a sawbuck and the other on a nail-keg, comfortably eyeing each other across the work bench, and each was holding up a tumbler one-third filled with the golden yellow liquid.
"your health, sir," courteously proposed mr. ellsworth.
"and to you, sir," gravely replied mr. van kamp.
xi
ralph and evelyn happened to meet at the pump, quite accidentally, after the former had made half a dozen five-minute-apart trips for a drink.
it was miss van kamp, this time, who had been studying on the mutual acquaintance problem.
"you don't happen to know the tylers, of parkersburg, do you?"
she asked.
"the tylers!
i should say i do!"
was the unexpected and enthusiastic reply.
"why, we are on our way now to miss georgiana tyler's wedding to my friend jimmy carston.
i'm to be best man."
"how delightful!"
she exclaimed.
"we are on the way there, too.
georgiana was my dearest chum at school, and i am to be her 'best girl.'"
"let's go around on the porch and sit down," said ralph.
xii
mr. van kamp, back in the woodshed, looked about him with an eye of content.
"rather cozy for a woodshed," he observed.
"i wonder if we couldn't scare up a little session of dollar limit?"
both uncle billy and mr. ellsworth were willing.
death and poker level all americans.
a fourth hand was needed, however.
the stage driver was in bed and asleep, and mr. ellsworth volunteered to find the extra player.
"i'll get ralph," he said.
"he plays a fairly stiff game."
he finally found his son on the porch, apparently alone, and stated his errand.
"thank you, but i don't believe i care to play this evening," was the astounding reply, and mr. ellsworth looked closer.
he made out, then, a dim figure on the other side of ralph.
"oh!
of course not!"
he blundered, and went back to the woodshed.
three-handed poker is a miserable game, and it seldom lasts long.
it did not in this case.
after uncle billy had won the only jack-pot deserving of the name, he was allowed to go blissfully to sleep with his hand on the handle of the big jug.
after poker there is only one other always available amusement for men, and that is business.
the two travelers were quite well acquainted when ralph put his head in at the door.
"thought i'd find you here," he explained.
"it just occurred to me to wonder whether you gentlemen had discovered, as yet, that we are all to be house guests at the carston-tyler wedding."
"why, no!"
exclaimed his father in pleased surprise.
"it is a most agreeable coincidence.
mr. van kamp, allow me to introduce my son, ralph.
mr. van kamp and myself, ralph, have found out that we shall be considerably thrown together in a business way from now on.
he has just purchased control of the metropolitan and western string of interurbans."
"delighted, i'm sure," murmured ralph, shaking hands, and then he slipped out as quickly as possible.
some one seemed to be waiting for him.
perhaps another twenty minutes had passed, when one of the men had an illuminating idea that resulted, later on, in pleasant relations for all of them.
it was about time, for mrs. ellsworth, up in the bare suite, and mrs. van kamp, down in the draughty barn, both wrapped up to the chin and both still chilly, had about reached the limit of patience and endurance.
"why can't we make things a little more comfortable for all concerned?"
suggested mr. van kamp.
"suppose, as a starter, that we have mrs. van kamp give a shiver party down in the barn?"
"good idea," agreed mr. ellsworth.
"a little diplomacy will do it.
each one of us will have to tell his wife that the other fellow made the first abject overtures."
mr. van kamp grinned understandingly, and agreed to the infamous ruse.
"by the way," continued mr. ellsworth, with a still happier thought, "you must allow mrs. ellsworth to furnish the dinner for mrs. van kamp's shiver party."
"dinner!"
gasped mr. van kamp.
"by all means!"
both men felt an anxious yawning in the region of the appetite, and a yearning moisture wetted their tongues.
they looked at the slumbering uncle billy and decided to see mrs. tutt themselves about a good, hot dinner for six.
"law me!"
exclaimed aunt margaret when they appeared at the kitchen door.
"i swan i thought you folks 'u'd never come to yore senses.
here i've had a big pot o' stewed chicken ready on the stove fer two mortal hours.
i kin give ye that, an' smashed taters an' chicken gravy, an'
dried corn, an' hot corn-pone, an' currant jell, an' strawberry preserves, an' my own cannin' o' peaches, an' pumpkin-pie an' coffee.
will that do ye?"
would it do!
would it do!
!
as aunt margaret talked, the kitchen door swung wide, and the two men were stricken speechless with astonishment.
there, across from each other at the kitchen table, sat the utterly selfish and traitorous younger members of the rival houses of ellsworth and van kamp, deep in the joys of chicken, and mashed potatoes, and gravy, and hot corn-pone, and all the other "fixings," laughing and chatting gaily like chums of years' standing.
they had seemingly just come to an agreement about something or other, for evelyn, waving the shorter end of a broken wishbone, was vivaciously saying to ralph:
"a bargain's a bargain, and i always stick to one i make."
a call
by grace macgowan cooke (1863- )
[from harper's magazine, august, 1906. copyright, 1906, by harper &
brothers.
republished by the author's permission.]
a boy in an unnaturally clean, country-laundered collar walked down a long white road.
he scuffed the dust up wantonly, for he wished to veil the all-too-brilliant polish of his cowhide shoes.
also the memory of the whiteness and slipperiness of his collar oppressed him.
he was fain to look like one accustomed to social diversions, a man hurried from hall to hall of pleasure, without time between to change collar or polish boot.
he stooped and rubbed a crumb of earth on his overfresh neck-linen.
this did not long sustain his drooping spirit.
he was mentally adrift upon the hints and helps to young men in business and social relations, which had suggested to him his present enterprise, when the appearance of a second youth, taller and broader than himself, with a shock of light curling hair and a crop of freckles that advertised a rich soil threw him a lifeline.
he put his thumbs to his lips and whistled in a peculiarly ear-splitting way.
the two boys had sat on the same bench at sunday-school not three hours before; yet what a change had come over the world for one of them since then!
"hello!
where you goin', ab?"
asked the newcomer, gruffly.
"callin'," replied the boy in the collar, laconically, but with carefully averted gaze.
"on the girls?"
inquired the other, awestruck.
in mount pisgah you saw the girls home from night church, socials, or parties; you could hang over the gate; and you might walk with a girl in the cemetery of a sunday afternoon; but to ring a front-door bell and ask for miss heart's desire one must have been in long trousers at least three years and the two boys confronted in the dusty road had worn these dignifying garments barely six months.
"girls," said abner, loftily; "i don't know about girls i'm just going to call on one girl champe claiborne."
he marched on as though the conversation was at an end; but ross hung upon his flank.
ross and champe were neighbors, comrades in all sorts of mischief; he was in doubt whether to halt abner and pummel him, or propose to enlist under his banner.
"do you reckon you could?"
he debated, trotting along by the irresponsive jilton boy.
"run home to your mother," growled the originator of the plan, savagely.
"you ain't old enough to call on girls; anybody can see that; but i am, and i'm going to call on champe claiborne."
again the name acted as a spur on ross.
"with your collar and boots all dirty?"
he jeered.
"they won't know you're callin'."
the boy in the road stopped short in his dusty tracks.
he was an intense creature, and he whitened at the tragic insinuation, longing for the wholesome stay and companionship of freckle-faced ross.
"i put the dirt on o' purpose so's to look kind of careless," he half whispered, in an agony of doubt.
"s'pose i'd better go into your house and try to wash it off?
reckon your mother would let me?"
"i've got two clean collars," announced the other boy, proudly generous.
"i'll lend you one.
you can put it on while i'm getting ready.
i'll tell mother that we're just stepping out to do a little calling on the girls."
here was an ally worthy of the cause.
abner welcomed him, in spite of certain jealous twinges.
he reflected with satisfaction that there were two claiborne girls, and though alicia was so stiff and prim that no boy would ever think of calling on her, there was still the hope that she might draw ross's fire, and leave him, abner, to make the numerous remarks he had stored up in his mind from hints and helps to young men in social and business relations to champe alone.
mrs. pryor received them with the easy-going kindness of the mother of one son.
she followed them into the dining-room to kiss and feed him, with an absent "howdy, abner; how's your mother?"
abner, big with the importance of their mutual intention, inclined his head stiffly and looked toward ross for explanation.
he trembled a little, but it was with delight, as he anticipated the effect of the speech ross had outlined.
but it did not come.
"i'm not hungry, mother," was the revised edition which the freckle-faced boy offered to the maternal ear.
"i we are going over to mr. claiborne's on er on an errand for abner's father."
the black-eyed boy looked reproach as they clattered up the stairs to ross's room, where the clean collar was produced and a small stock of ties.
"you'd wear a necktie wouldn't you?"
ross asked, spreading them upon the bureau-top.
"yes.
but make it fall carelessly over your shirt-front," advised the student of hints and helps.
"your collar is miles too big for me.
say!
i've got a wad of white chewing-gum; would you flat it out and stick it over the collar button?
maybe that would fill up some.
you kick my foot if you see me turning my head so's to knock it off."
"better button up your vest," cautioned ross, laboring with the "careless" fall of his tie.
"huh-uh!
i want 'that easy air which presupposes familiarity with society' that's what it says in my book," objected abner.
"sure!"
ross returned to his more familiar jeering attitude.
"loosen up all your clothes, then.
why don't you untie your shoes?
flop a sock down over one of 'em that looks 'easy' all right."
abner buttoned his vest.
"it gives a man lots of confidence to know he's good-looking," he remarked, taking all the room in front of the mirror.
ross, at the wash-stand soaking his hair to get the curl out of it, grumbled some unintelligible response.
the two boys went down the stairs with tremulous hearts.
"why, you've put on another clean shirt, rossie!"
mrs. pryor called from her chair mothers' eyes can see so far!
"well don't get into any dirty play and soil it."
the boys walked in silence but it was a pregnant silence; for as the roof of the claiborne house began to peer above the crest of the hill, ross plumped down on a stone and announced, "i ain't goin'."
"come on," urged the black-eyed boy.
"it'll be fun and everybody will respect us more.
champe won't throw rocks at us in recess-time, after we've called on her.
she couldn't."
"called!"
grunted ross.
"i couldn't make a call any more than a cow.
what'd i say?
what'd i do?
i can behave all right when you just go to people's houses but a call!"
abner hesitated.
should he give away his brilliant inside information, drawn from the hints and helps book, and be rivalled in the glory of his manners and bearing?
why should he not pass on alone, perfectly composed, and reap the field of glory unsupported?
his knees gave way and he sat down without intending it.
"don't you tell anybody and i'll put you on to exactly what grown-up gentlemen say and do when they go calling on the girls," he began.
"fire away," retorted ross, gloomily.
"nobody will find out from me.
dead men tell no tales.
if i'm fool enough to go, i don't expect to come out of it alive."
abner rose, white and shaking, and thrusting three fingers into the buttoning of his vest, extending the other hand like an orator, proceeded to instruct the freckled, perspiring disciple at his feet.
"'hang your hat on the rack, or give it to a servant.'"
ross nodded intelligently.
he could do that.
"'let your legs be gracefully disposed, one hand on the knee, the other '"
abner came to an unhappy pause.
"i forget what a fellow does with the other hand.
might stick it in your pocket, loudly, or expectorate on the carpet.
indulge in little frivolity.
let a rich stream of conversation flow.'"
ross mentally dug within himself for sources of rich streams of conversation.
he found a dry soil.
"what you goin' to talk about?"
he demanded, fretfully.
"i won't go a step farther till i know what i'm goin' to say when i get there."
abner began to repeat paragraphs from hints and helps.
"'it is best to remark,'" he opened, in an unnatural voice, "'how well you are looking!'
although fulsome compliments should be avoided.
when seated ask the young lady who her favorite composer is.'"
"what's a composer?"
inquired ross, with visions of soothing-syrup in his mind.
"a man that makes up music.
don't butt in that way; you put me all out 'composer is.
name yours.
ask her what piece of music she likes best.
name yours.
if the lady is musical, here ask her to play or sing.'"
this chanted recitation seemed to have a hypnotic effect on the freckled boy; his big pupils contracted each time abner came to the repetend, "name yours."
"i'm tired already," he grumbled; but some spell made him rise and fare farther.
when they had entered the claiborne gate, they leaned toward each other like young saplings weakened at the root and locking branches to keep what shallow foothold on earth remained.
"you're goin' in first," asserted ross, but without conviction.
it was his custom to tear up to this house a dozen times a week, on his father's old horse or afoot; he was wont to yell for champe as he approached, and quarrel joyously with her while he performed such errand as he had come upon; but he was gagged and hamstrung now by the hypnotism of abner's scheme.
"'walk quietly up the steps; ring the bell and lay your card on the servant,'" quoted abner, who had never heard of a server.
"'lay your card on the servant!'"
echoed ross.
"cady'd dodge.
there's a porch to cross after you go up the steps does it say anything about that?"
"it says that the card should be placed on the servant," abner reiterated, doggedly.
"if cady dodges, it ain't any business of mine.
there are no porches in my book.
just walk across it like anybody.
we'll ask for miss champe claiborne."
"we haven't got any cards," discovered ross, with hope.
"i have," announced abner, pompously.
"i had some struck off in chicago.
i ordered 'em by mail.
they got my name pillow, but there's a scalloped gilt border around it.
you can write your name on my card.
got a pencil?"
he produced the bit of cardboard; ross fished up a chewed stump of lead pencil, took it in cold, stiff fingers, and disfigured the square with eccentric scribblings.
"they'll know who it's meant for," he said, apologetically, "because i'm here.
what's likely to happen after we get rid of the card?"
"i told you about hanging your hat on the rack and disposing your legs."
"i remember now," sighed ross.
they had been going slower and slower.
the angle of inclination toward each other became more and more pronounced.
"we must stand by each other," whispered abner.
"i will if i can stand at all," murmured the other boy, huskily.
"oh, lord!"
they had rounded the big clump of evergreens and found aunt missouri claiborne placidly rocking on the front porch!
directed to mount steps and ring bell, to lay cards upon the servant, how should one deal with a rosy-faced, plump lady of uncertain years in a rocking-chair.
what should a caller lay upon her?
a lion in the way could not have been more terrifying.
even retreat was cut off.
aunt missouri had seen them.
"howdy, boys; how are you?"
she said, rocking peacefully.
the two stood before her like detected criminals.
then, to ross's dismay, abner sank down on the lowest step of the porch, the westering sun full in his hopeless eyes.
he sat on his cap.
it was characteristic that the freckled boy remained standing.
he would walk up those steps according to plan and agreement, if at all.
he accepted no compromise.
folding his straw hat into a battered cone, he watched anxiously for the delivery of the card.
he was not sure what aunt missouri's attitude might be if it were laid on her.
he bent down to his companion.
"go ahead," he whispered.
"lay the card."
abner raised appealing eyes.
"in a minute.
give me time," he pleaded.
"mars' ross mars' ross!
head 'em off!"
sounded a yell, and babe, the house-boy, came around the porch in pursuit of two half-grown chickens.
"help him, rossie," prompted aunt missouri, sharply.
"you boys can stay to supper and have some of the chicken if you help catch them."
had ross taken time to think, he might have reflected that gentlemen making formal calls seldom join in a chase after the main dish of the family supper.
but the needs of babe were instant.
the lad flung himself sidewise, caught one chicken in his hat, while babe fell upon the other in the manner of a football player.
ross handed the pullet to the house-boy, fearing that he had done something very much out of character, then pulled the reluctant negro toward to the steps.
"babe's a servant," he whispered to abner, who had sat rigid through the entire performance.
"i helped him with the chickens, and he's got to stand gentle while you lay the card on."
confronted by the act itself, abner was suddenly aware that he knew not how to begin.
he took refuge in dissimulation.
"hush!"
he whispered back.
"don't you see mr. claiborne's come out?
he's going to read something to us."
ross plumped down beside him.
"never mind the card; tell 'em," he urged.
"tell 'em yourself."
"no let's cut and run."
"i i think the worst of it is over.
when champe sees us she'll "
mention of champe stiffened ross's spine.
if it had been glorious to call upon her, how very terrible she would make it should they attempt calling, fail, and the failure come to her knowledge!
some things were easier to endure than others; he resolved to stay till the call was made.
for half an hour the boys sat with drooping heads, and the old gentleman read aloud, presumably to aunt missouri and themselves.
finally their restless eyes discerned the two claiborne girls walking serene in sunday trim under the trees at the edge of the lawn.
arms entwined, they were whispering together and giggling a little.
a caller, ross dared not use his voice to shout nor his legs to run toward them.
"why don't you go and talk to the girls, rossie?"
aunt missouri asked, in the kindness of her heart.
"don't be noisy it's sunday, you know and don't get to playing anything that'll dirty up your good clothes."
ross pressed his lips hard together; his heart swelled with the rage of the misunderstood.
had the card been in his possession, he would, at that instant, have laid it on aunt missouri without a qualm.
"what is it?"
demanded the old gentleman, a bit testily.
"the girls want to hear you read, father," said aunt missouri, shrewdly; and she got up and trotted on short, fat ankles to the girls in the arbor.
the three returned together, alicia casting curious glances at the uncomfortable youths, champe threatening to burst into giggles with every breath.
abner sat hard on his cap and blushed silently.
ross twisted his hat into a three-cornered wreck.
the two girls settled themselves noisily on the upper step.
the old man read on and on.
the sun sank lower.
the hills were red in the west as though a brush fire flamed behind their crests.
abner stole a furtive glance at his companion in misery, and the dolor of ross's countenance somewhat assuaged his anguish.
the freckle-faced boy was thinking of the village over the hill, a certain pleasant white house set back in a green yard, past whose gate, the two-plank sidewalk ran.
he knew lamps were beginning to wink in the windows of the neighbors about, as though the houses said, "our boys are all at home but ross pryor's out trying to call on the girls, and can't get anybody to understand it."
oh, that he were walking down those two planks, drawing a stick across the pickets, lifting high happy feet which could turn in at that gate!
he wouldn't care what the lamps said then.
he wouldn't even mind if the whole claiborne family died laughing at him if only some power would raise him up from this paralyzing spot and put him behind the safe barriers of his own home!
the old man's voice lapsed into silence; the light was becoming too dim for his reading.
aunt missouri turned and called over her shoulder into the shadows of the big hall: "you babe!
go put two extra plates on the supper-table."
the boys grew red from the tips of their ears, and as far as any one could see under their wilting collars.
abner felt the lump of gum come loose and slip down a cold spine.
had their intentions but been known, this inferential invitation would have been most welcome.
it was but to rise up and thunder out, "we came to call on the young ladies."
they did not rise.
they did not thunder out anything.
babe brought a lamp and set it inside the window, and mr. claiborne resumed his reading.
champe giggled and said that alicia made her.
alcia drew her skirts about her, sniffed, and looked virtuous, and said she didn't see anything funny to laugh at.
the supper-bell rang.
the family, evidently taking it for granted that the boys would follow, went in.
alone for the first time, abner gave up.
"this ain't any use," he complained.
"we ain't calling on anybody."
"why didn't you lay on the card?"
demanded ross, fiercely.
"why didn't you say: 'we've-just-dropped-into-call-on-miss-champe.
it's-a -pleasant-evening.
we-feel-we-must-be-going,' like you said you would?
then we could have lifted our hats and got away decently."
abner showed no resentment.
"oh, if it's so easy, why didn't you do it yourself?"
he groaned.
"somebody's coming," ross muttered, hoarsely.
"say it now.
say it quick."
the somebody proved to be aunt missouri, who advanced only as far as the end of the hall and shouted cheerfully: "the idea of a growing boy not coming to meals when the bell rings!
i thought you two would be in there ahead of us.
come on."
and clinging to their head-coverings as though these contained some charm whereby the owners might be rescued, the unhappy callers were herded into the dining-room.
there were many things on the table that boys like.
both were becoming fairly cheerful, when aunt missouri checked the biscuit-plate with: "i treat my neighbors' children just like i'd want children of my own treated.
if your mothers let you eat all you want, say so, and i don't care; but if either of them is a little bit particular, why, i'd stop at six!"
still reeling from this blow, the boys finally rose from the table and passed out with the family, their hats clutched to their bosoms, and clinging together for mutual aid and comfort.
during the usual sunday-evening singing champe laughed till aunt missouri threatened to send her to bed.
abner's card slipped from his hand and dropped face up on the floor.
he fell upon it and tore it into infinitesimal pieces.
"that must have been a love-letter," said aunt missouri, in a pause of the music.
"you boys are getting 'most old enough to think about beginning to call on the girls."
her eyes twinkled.
ross growled like a stoned cur.
abner took a sudden dive into hints and helps, and came up with, "you flatter us, miss claiborne,"
whereat ross snickered out like a human boy.
they all stared at him.
"it sounds so funny to call aunt missouri 'mis' claiborne,'" the lad of the freckles explained.
"funny?"
aunt missouri reddened.
"i don't see any particular joke in my having my maiden name."
abner, who instantly guessed at what was in ross's mind, turned white at the thought of what they had escaped.
suppose he had laid on the card and asked for miss claiborne!
"what's the matter, champe?"
inquired ross, in a fairly natural tone.
the air he had drawn into his lungs when he laughed at abner seemed to relieve him from the numbing gentility which had bound his powers since he joined abner's ranks.
"nothing.
i laughed because you laughed," said the girl.
the singing went forward fitfully.
servants traipsed through the darkened yard, going home for sunday night.
aunt missouri went out and held some low-toned parley with them.
champe yawned with insulting enthusiasm.
presently both girls quietly disappeared.
aunt missouri never returned to the parlor evidently thinking that the girls would attend to the final amenities with their callers.
they were left alone with old mr. claiborne.
they sat as though bound in their chairs, while the old man read in silence for a while.
finally he closed his book, glanced about him, and observed absently:
"so you boys were to spend the night?"
then, as he looked at their startled faces: "i'm right, am i not?
you are to spent the night?"
oh, for courage to say: "thank you, no.
we'll be going now.
we just came over to call on miss champe."
but thought of how this would sound in face of the facts, the painful realization that they dared not say it because they had not said it, locked their lips.
their feet were lead; their tongues stiff and too large for their mouths.
like creatures in a nightmare, they moved stiffly, one might have said creakingly, up the stairs and received each a bedroom candle!
"good night, children," said the absent-minded old man.
the two gurgled out some sounds which were intended for words and doged behind the bedroom door.
"they've put us to bed!"
abner's black eyes flashed fire.
his nervous hands clutched at the collar ross had lent him.
"that's what i get for coming here with you, ross pryor!"
and tears of humiliation stood in his eyes.
in his turn ross showed no resentment.
"what i'm worried about is my mother," he confessed.
"she's so sharp about finding out things.
she wouldn't tease me she'd just be sorry for me.
but she'll think i went home with you."
"i'd like to see my mother make a fuss about my calling on the girls!"
growled abner, glad to let his rage take a safe direction.
"calling on the girls!
have we called on any girls?"
demanded clear-headed, honest ross.
"not exactly yet," admitted abner, reluctantly.
"come on let's go to bed.
mr. claiborne asked us, and he's the head of this household.
it isn't anybody's business what we came for."
"i'll slip off my shoes and lie down till babe ties up the dog in the morning," said ross.
"then we can get away before any of the family is up."
oh, youth youth youth, with its rash promises!
worn out with misery the boys slept heavily.
the first sound that either heard in the morning was babe hammering upon their bedroom door.
they crouched guiltily and looked into each other's eyes.
"let pretend we ain't here and he'll go away," breathed abner.
but babe was made of sterner stuff.
he rattled the knob.
he turned it.
he put in a black face with a grin which divided it from ear to ear.
"cady say i mus' call dem fool boys to breakfus'," he announced.
"i never named you-all dat.
cady, she say dat."
"breakfast!"
echoed ross, in a daze.
"yessuh, breakfus'," reasserted babe, coming entirely into the room and looking curiously about him.
"ain't you-all done been to bed at all?"
wrapping his arms about his shoulders and shaking with silent ecstasies of mirth.
the boys threw themselves upon him and ejected him.
"sent up a servant to call us to breakfast," snarled abner.
"if they'd only sent their old servant to the door in the first place, all this wouldn't 'a' happened.
i'm just that way when i get thrown off the track.
you know how it was when i tried to repeat those things to you i had to go clear back to the beginning when i got interrupted."
"does that mean that you're still hanging around here to begin over and make a call?"
asked ross, darkly.
"i won't go down to breakfast if you are."
abner brightened a little as he saw ross becoming wordy in his rage.
"i dare you to walk downstairs and say, 'we-just-dropped-in-to-call-on-miss-champe'!"
he said.
"i oh i darn it all!
there goes the second bell.
we may as well trot down."
"don't leave me, ross," pleaded the jilton boy.
"i can't stay here and i can't go down."
the tone was hysterical.
the boy with freckles took his companion by the arm without another word and marched him down the stairs.
"we may get a chance yet to call on champe all by herself out on the porch or in the arbor before she goes to school," he suggested, by way of putting some spine into the black-eyed boy.
an emphatic bell rang when they were half-way down the stairs.
clutching their hats, they slunk into the dining-room.
even mr.
claiborne seemed to notice something unusual in their bearing as they settled into the chairs assigned to them, and asked them kindly if they had slept well.
it was plain that aunt missouri had been posting him as to her understanding of the intentions of these young men.
the state of affairs gave an electric hilarity to the atmosphere.
babe travelled from the sideboard to the table, trembling like chocolate pudding.
cady insisted on bringing in the cakes herself, and grinned as she whisked her starched blue skirts in and out of the dining-room.
a dimple even showed itself at the corners of pretty alicia's prim little mouth.
champe giggled, till ross heard cady whisper:
"now you got one dem snickerin' spells agin.
you gwine bust yo' dress buttons off in the back ef you don't mind."
as the spirits of those about them mounted, the hearts of the two youths sank if it was like this among the claibornes, what would it be at school and in the world at large when their failure to connect intention with result became village talk?
ross bit fiercely upon an unoffending batter-cake, and resolved to make a call single-handed before he left the house.
they went out of the dining-room, their hats as ever pressed to their breasts.
with no volition of their own, their uncertain young legs carried them to the porch.
the claiborne family and household followed like small boys after a circus procession.
when the two turned, at bay, yet with nothing between them and liberty but a hypnotism of their own suggestion, they saw the black faces of the servants peering over the family shoulders.
ross was the boy to have drawn courage from the desperation of their case, and made some decent if not glorious ending.
but at the psychological moment there came around the corner of the house that most contemptible figure known to the southern plantation, a shirt-boy a creature who may be described, for the benefit of those not informed, as a pickaninny clad only in a long, coarse cotton shirt.
while all eyes were fastened upon him this inglorious ambassador bolted forth his message:
"yo' ma say" his eyes were fixed upon abner "ef yo' don' come home, she gwine come after yo' an' cut yo' into inch pieces wid a rawhide when she git yo'.
dat jest what miss hortense say."
as though such a book as hints and helps had never existed, abner shot for the gate he was but a hobbledehoy fascinated with the idea of playing gentleman.
but in ross there were the makings of a man.
for a few half-hearted paces, under the first impulse of horror, he followed his deserting chief, the laughter of the family, the unrestrainable guffaws of the negroes, sounding in the rear.
but when champe's high, offensive giggle, topping all the others, insulted his ears, he stopped dead, wheeled, and ran to the porch faster than he had fled from it.
white as paper, shaking with inexpressible rage, he caught and kissed the tittering girl, violently, noisily, before them all.
the negroes fled they dared not trust their feelings; even alicia sniggered unobtrusively; grandfather claiborne chuckled, and aunt missouri frankly collapsed into her rocking-chair, bubbling with mirth, crying out:
"good for you, ross!
seems you did know how to call on the girls, after all."
but ross, paying no attention, walked swiftly toward the gate.
he had served his novitiate.
he would never be afraid again.
with cheerful alacrity he dodged the stones flung after him with friendly, erratic aim by the girl upon whom, yesterday afternoon, he had come to make a social call.
how the widow won the deacon
by william james lampton ( -1917)
[from harper's bazaar, april, 1911; copyright, 1911, by harper &
brothers; republished by permission.]
of course the widow stimson never tried to win deacon hawkins, nor any other man, for that matter.
a widow doesn't have to try to win a man; she wins without trying.
still, the widow stimson sometimes wondered why the deacon was so blind as not to see how her fine farm adjoining his equally fine place on the outskirts of the town might not be brought under one management with mutual benefit to both parties at interest.
which one that management might become was a matter of future detail.
the widow knew how to run a farm successfully, and a large farm is not much more difficult to run than one of half the size.
she had also had one husband, and knew something more than running a farm successfully.
of all of which the deacon was perfectly well aware, and still he had not been moved by the merging spirit of the age to propose consolidation.
this interesting situation was up for discussion at the wednesday afternoon meeting of the sisters' sewing society.
"for my part," sister susan spicer, wife of the methodist minister, remarked as she took another tuck in a fourteen-year-old girl's skirt for a ten-year-old "for my part, i can't see why deacon hawkins and kate stimson don't see the error of their ways and depart from them."
"i rather guess she has," smiled sister poteet, the grocer's better half, who had taken an afternoon off from the store in order to be present.
"or is willing to," added sister maria cartridge, a spinster still possessing faith, hope, and charity, notwithstanding she had been on the waiting list a long time.
"really, now," exclaimed little sister green, the doctor's wife, "do you think it is the deacon who needs urging?"
"it looks that way to me," sister poteet did not hesitate to affirm.
"well, i heard sister clark say that she had heard him call her 'kitty' one night when they were eating ice-cream at the mite society," sister candish, the druggist's wife, added to the fund of reliable information on hand.
"'kitty,' indeed!"
protested sister spicer.
"the idea of anybody calling kate stimson 'kitty'!
the deacon will talk that way to 'most any woman, but if she let him say it to her more than once, she must be getting mighty anxious, i think."
"oh," sister candish hastened to explain, "sister clark didn't say she had heard him say it twice.'"
"well, i don't think she heard him say it once," sister spicer asserted with confidence.
"i don't know about that," sister poteet argued.
"from all i can see and hear i think kate stimson wouldn't object to 'most anything the deacon would say to her, knowing as she does that he ain't going to say anything he shouldn't say."
"and isn't saying what he should," added sister green, with a sly snicker, which went around the room softly.
"but as i was saying " sister spicer began, when sister poteet, whose rocker, near the window, commanded a view of the front gate, interrupted with a warning, "'sh-'sh."
"why shouldn't i say what i wanted to when " sister spicer began.
"there she comes now," explained sister poteet, "and as i live the deacon drove her here in his sleigh, and he's waiting while she comes in.
i wonder what next," and sister poteet, in conjunction with the entire society, gasped and held their eager breaths, awaiting the entrance of the subject of conversation.
sister spicer went to the front door to let her in, and she was greeted with the greatest cordiality by everybody.
"we were just talking about you and wondering why you were so late coming," cried sister poteet.
"now take off your things and make up for lost time.
there's a pair of pants over there to be cut down to fit that poor little snithers boy."
the excitement and curiosity of the society were almost more than could be borne, but never a sister let on that she knew the deacon was at the gate waiting.
indeed, as far as the widow could discover, there was not the slightest indication that anybody had ever heard there was such a person as the deacon in existence.
"oh," she chirruped, in the liveliest of humors, "you will have to excuse me for today.
deacon hawkins overtook me on the way here, and here said i had simply got to go sleigh-riding with him.
he's waiting out at the gate now."
"is that so?"
exclaimed the society unanimously, and rushed to the window to see if it were really true.
"well, did you ever?"
commented sister poteet, generally.
"hardly ever," laughed the widow, good-naturedly, "and i don't want to lose the chance.
you know deacon hawkins isn't asking somebody every day to go sleighing with him.
i told him i'd go if he would bring me around here to let you know what had become of me, and so he did.
now, good-by, and i'll be sure to be present at the next meeting.
i have to hurry because he'll get fidgety."
the widow ran away like a lively schoolgirl.
all the sisters watched her get into the sleigh with the deacon, and resumed the previous discussion with greatly increased interest.
but little recked the widow and less recked the deacon.
he had bought a new horse and he wanted the widow's opinion of it, for the widow stimson was a competent judge of fine horseflesh.
if deacon hawkins had one insatiable ambition it was to own a horse which could fling its heels in the face of the best that squire hopkins drove.
in his early manhood the deacon was no deacon by a great deal.
but as the years gathered in behind him he put off most of the frivolities of youth and held now only to the one of driving a fast horse.
no other man in the county drove anything faster except squire hopkins, and him the deacon had not been able to throw the dust over.
the deacon would get good ones, but somehow never could he find one that the squire didn't get a better.
the squire had also in the early days beaten the deacon in the race for a certain pretty girl he dreamed about.
but the girl and the squire had lived happily ever after and the deacon, being a philosopher, might have forgotten the squire's superiority had it been manifested in this one regard only.
but in horses, too that graveled the deacon.
"how much did you give for him?"
was the widow's first query, after they had reached a stretch of road that was good going and the deacon had let him out for a length or two.
"well, what do you suppose?
you're a judge."
"more than i would give, i'll bet a cookie."
"not if you was as anxious as i am to show hopkins that he can't drive by everything on the pike."
"i thought you loved a good horse because he was a good horse," said the widow, rather disapprovingly.
"i do, but i could love him a good deal harder if he would stay in front of hopkins's best."
"does he know you've got this one?"
"yes, and he's been blowing round town that he is waiting to pick me up on the road some day and make my five hundred dollars look like a pewter quarter."
"so you gave five hundred dollars for him, did you?"
laughed the widow.
"is it too much?"
"um-er," hesitated the widow, glancing along the graceful lines of the powerful trotter, "i suppose not if you can beat the squire."
"right you are," crowed the deacon, "and i'll show him a thing or two in getting over the ground," he added with swelling pride.
"well, i hope he won't be out looking for you today, with me in your sleigh," said the widow, almost apprehensively, "because, you know, deacon, i have always wanted you to beat squire hopkins."
the deacon looked at her sharply.
there was a softness in her tones that appealed to him, even if she had not expressed such agreeable sentiments.
just what the deacon might have said or done after the impulse had been set going must remain unknown, for at the crucial moment a sound of militant bells, bells of defiance, jangled up behind them, disturbing their personal absorption, and they looked around simultaneously.
behind the bells was the squire in his sleigh drawn by his fastest stepper, and he was alone, as the deacon was not.
the widow weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, net which is weighting a horse in a race rather more than the law allows.
but the deacon never thought of that.
forgetting everything except his cherished ambition, he braced himself for the contest, took a twist hold on the lines, sent a sharp, quick call to his horse, and let him out for all that was in him.
the squire followed suit and the deacon.
the road was wide and the snow was worn down smooth.
the track couldn't have been in better condition.
the hopkins colors were not five rods behind the hawkins colors as they got away.
for half a mile it was nip and tuck, the deacon encouraging his horse and the widow encouraging the deacon, and then the squire began creeping up.
the deacon's horse was a good one, but he was not accustomed to hauling freight in a race.
a half-mile of it was as much as he could stand, and he weakened under the strain.
not handicapped, the squire's horse forged ahead, and as his nose pushed up to the dashboard of the deacon's sleigh, that good man groaned in agonized disappointment and bitterness of spirit.
the widow was mad all over that squire hopkins should take such a mean advantage of his rival.
why didn't he wait till another time when the deacon was alone, as he was?
if she had her way she never would, speak to squire hopkins again, nor to his wife, either.
but her resentment was not helping the deacon's horse to win.
slowly the squire pulled closer to the front; the deacon's horse, realizing what it meant to his master and to him, spurted bravely, but, struggle as gamely as he might, the odds were too many for him, and he dropped to the rear.
the squire shouted in triumph as he drew past the deacon, and the dejected hawkins shrivelled into a heap on the seat, with only his hands sufficiently alive to hold the lines.
he had been beaten again, humiliated before a woman, and that, too, with the best horse that he could hope to put against the ever-conquering squire.
here sank his fondest hopes, here ended his ambition.
from this on he would drive a mule or an automobile.
the fruit of his desire had turned to ashes in his mouth.
but no.
what of the widow?
she realized, if the deacon did not, that she, not the squire's horse, had beaten the deacon's, and she was ready to make what atonement she could.
as the squire passed ahead of the deacon she was stirred by a noble resolve.
a deep bed of drifted snow lay close by the side of the road not far in front.
it was soft and safe and she smiled as she looked at it as though waiting for her.
without a hint of her purpose, or a sign to disturb the deacon in his final throes, she rose as the sleigh ran near its edge, and with a spring which had many a time sent her lightly from the ground to the bare back of a horse in the meadow, she cleared the robes and lit plump in the drift.
the deacon's horse knew before the deacon did that something had happened in his favor, and was quick to respond.
with his first jump of relief the deacon suddenly revived, his hopes came fast again, his blood retingled, he gathered himself, and, cracking his lines, he shot forward, and three minutes later he had passed the squire as though he were hitched to the fence.
for a quarter of a mile the squire made heroic efforts to recover his vanished prestige, but effort was useless, and finally concluding that he was practically left standing, he veered off from the main road down a farm lane to find some spot in which to hide the humiliation of his defeat.
the deacon, still going at a clipping gait, had one eye over his shoulder as wary drivers always have on such occasions, and when he saw the squire was off the track he slowed down and jogged along with the apparent intention of continuing indefinitely.
presently an idea struck him, and he looked around for the widow.
she was not where he had seen her last.
where was she?
in the enthusiasm of victory he had forgotten her.
he was so dejected at the moment she had leaped that he did not realize what she had done, and two minutes later he was so elated that, shame on him!
he did not care.
with her, all was lost; without her, all was won, and the deacon's greatest ambition was to win.
but now, with victory perched on his horse-collar, success his at last, he thought of the widow, and he did care.
he cared so much that he almost threw his horse off his feet by the abrupt turn he gave him, and back down the pike he flew as if a legion of squires were after him.
he did not know what injury she might have sustained; she might have been seriously hurt, if not actually killed.
and why?
simply to make it possible for him to win.
the deacon shivered as he thought of it, and urged his horse to greater speed.
the squire, down the lane, saw him whizzing along and accepted it profanely as an exhibition for his especial benefit.
the deacon now had forgotten the squire as he had only so shortly before forgotten the widow.
two hundred yards from the drift into which she had jumped there was a turn in the road, where some trees shut off the sight, and the deacon's anxiety increased momentarily until he reached this point.
from here he could see ahead, and down there in the middle of the road stood the widow waving her shawl as a banner of triumph, though she could only guess at results.
the deacon came on with a rush, and pulled up alongside of her in a condition of nervousness he didn't think possible to him.
"hooray!
hooray!"
shouted the widow, tossing her shawl into the air.
"you beat him.
i know you did.
didn't you?
i saw you pulling ahead at the turn yonder.
where is he and his old plug?"
"oh, bother take him and his horse and the race and everything.
are you hurt?"
gasped the deacon, jumping out, but mindful to keep the lines in his hand.
"are you hurt?"
he repeated, anxiously, though she looked anything but a hurt woman.
"if i am," she chirped, cheerily, "i'm not hurt half as bad as i would have been if the squire had beat you, deacon.
now don't you worry about me.
let's hurry back to town so the squire won't get another chance, with no place for me to jump."
and the deacon?
well, well, with the lines in the crook of his elbow the deacon held out his arms to the widow and  .
the sisters at the next meeting of the sewing society were unanimously of the opinion that any woman who would risk her life like that for a husband was mighty anxious.
gideon
by wells hastings (1878- )
[from the century magazine, april, 1914; copyright, 1914, by the century co.; republished by the author's permission.]
"an' de next' frawg dat houn' pup seen, he pass him by wide."
the house, which had hung upon every word, roared with laughter, and shook with a storming volley of applause.
gideon bowed to right and to left, low, grinning, assured comedy obeisances; but as the laughter and applause grew he shook his head, and signaled quietly for the drop.
he had answered many encores, and he was an instinctive artist.
it was part of the fuel of his vanity that his audience had never yet had enough of him.
dramatic judgment, as well as dramatic sense of delivery, was native to him, qualities which the shrewd felix stuhk, his manager and exultant discoverer, recognized and wisely trusted in.
off stage gideon was watched over like a child and a delicate investment, but once behind the footlights he was allowed to go his own triumphant gait.
it was small wonder that stuhk deemed himself one of the cleverest managers in the business; that his narrow, blue-shaven face was continually chiseled in smiles of complacent self-congratulation.
he was rapidly becoming rich, and there were bright prospects of even greater triumphs, with proportionately greater reward.
he had made gideon a national character, a headliner, a star of the first magnitude in the firmament of the vaudeville theater, and all in six short months.
or, at any rate, he had helped to make him all this; he had booked him well and given him his opportunity.
to be sure, gideon had done the rest; stuhk was as ready as any one to do credit to gideon's ability.
still, after all, he, stuhk, was the discoverer, the theatrical columbus who had had the courage and the vision.
a now-hallowed attack of tonsilitis had driven him to florida, where presently gideon had been employed to beguile his convalescence, and guide him over the intricate shallows of that long lagoon known as the indian river in search of various fish.
on days when fish had been reluctant gideon had been lured into conversation, and gradually into narrative and the relation of what had appeared to gideon as humorous and entertaining; and finally felix, the vague idea growing big within him, had one day persuaded his boatman to dance upon the boards of a long pier where they had made fast for lunch.
there, with all the sudden glory of crystallization, the vague idea took definite form and became the great inspiration of stuhk's career.
gideon had grown to be to vaudeville much what uncle remus is to literature: there was virtue in his very simplicity.
his artistry itself was native and natural.
he loved a good story, and he told it from his own sense of the gleeful morsel upon his tongue as no training could have made him.
he always enjoyed his story and himself in the telling.
tales never lost their savor, no matter how often repeated; age was powerless to dim the humor of the thing, and as he had shouted and gurgled and laughed over the fun of things when all alone, or holding forth among the men and women and little children of his color, so he shouted and gurgled and broke from sonorous chuckles to musical, falsetto mirth when he fronted the sweeping tiers of faces across the intoxicating glare of the footlights.
he had that rare power of transmitting something of his own enjoyments.
when gideon was on the stage, stuhk used to enjoy peeping out at the intent, smiling faces of the audience, where men and women and children, hardened theater-goers and folk fresh from the country, sat with moving lips and faces lit with an eager interest and sympathy for the black man strutting in loose-footed vivacity before them.
"he's simply unique," he boasted to wondering local managers "unique, and it took me to find him.
there he was, a little black gold-mine, and all of 'em passed him by until i came.
some eye?
what?
i guess you'll admit you have to hand it some to your uncle felix.
if that coon's health holds out, we'll have all the money there is in the mint."
that was felix's real anxiety "if his health holds out."
gideon's health was watched over as if he had been an ailing prince.
his bubbling vivacity was the foundation upon which his charm and his success were built.
stuhk became a sort of vicarious neurotic, eternally searching for symptoms in his protégé; gideon's tongue, gideon's liver, gideon's heart were matters to him of an unfailing and anxious interest.
and of late of course it might be imagination  gideon had shown a little physical falling off.
he ate a bit less, he had begun to move in a restless way, and, worst of all, he laughed less frequently.
as a matter of fact, there was ground for stuhk's apprehension.
it was not all a matter of managerial imagination: gideon was less himself.
physically there was nothing the matter with him; he could have passed his rigid insurance scrutiny as easily as he had done months before, when his life and health had been insured for a sum that made good copy for his press-agent.
he was sound in every organ, but there was something lacking in general tone.
gideon felt it himself, and was certain that a "misery," that embracing indisposition of his race, was creeping upon him.
he had been fed well, too well; he was growing rich, too rich; he had all the praise, all the flattery that his enormous appetite for approval desired, and too much of it.
white men sought him out and made much of him; white women talked to him about his career; and wherever he went, women of color black girls, brown girls, yellow girls wrote him of their admiration, whispered, when he would listen, of their passion and hero-worship.
"city niggers" bowed down before him; the high gallery was always packed with them.
musk-scented notes scrawled upon barbaric, "high-toned" stationery poured in upon him.
even a few white women, to his horror and embarrassment, had written him of love, letters which he straightway destroyed.
his sense of his position was strong in him; he was proud of it.
there might be "folks outer their haids," but he had the sense to remember.
for months he had lived in a heaven of gratified vanity, but at last his appetite had begun to falter.
he was sated; his soul longed to wipe a spiritual mouth on the back of a spiritual hand, and have done.
his face, now that the curtain was down and he was leaving the stage, was doleful, almost sullen.
stuhk met him anxiously in the wings, and walked with him to his dressing-room.
he felt suddenly very weary of stuhk.
"nothing the matter, gideon, is there?
not feeling sick or anything?"
"no, misteh stuhk; no, seh.
jes don' feel extry pert, that's all."
"but what is it anything bothering you?"
gideon sat gloomily before his mirror.
"misteh stuhk," he said at last, "i been steddyin' it oveh, and i about come to the delusion that i needs a good po'k-chop.
seems foolish, i know, but it do' seem as if a good po'k-chop, fried jes right, would he'p consid'able to disumpate this misery feelin' that's crawlin' and creepin' round my sperit."
stuhk laughed.
"pork-chop, eh?
is that the best you can think of?
i know what you mean, though.
i've thought for some time that you were getting a little overtrained.
what you need is let me see yes, a nice bottle of wine.
that's the ticket; it will ease things up and won't do you any harm.
i'll go, with you.
ever had any champagne, gideon?"
gideon struggled for politeness.
"yes, seh, i's had champagne, and it's a nice kind of lickeh sho enough; but, misteh stuhk, seh, i don' want any of them high-tone drinks to-night, an' ef yo' don' mind, i'd rather amble off 'lone, or mebbe eat that po'k-chop with some otheh cullud man, ef i kin fin' one that ain' one of them no-'count carolina niggers.
do you s'pose yo'
could let me have a little money to-night, misteh stuhk?"
stuhk thought rapidly.
gideon had certainly worked hard, and he was not dissipated.
if he wanted to roam the town by himself, there was no harm in it.
the sullenness still showed in the black face; heaven knew what he might do if he suddenly began to balk.
stuhk thought it wise to consent gracefully.
"good!"
he said.
"fly to it.
how much do you want?
a hundred?"
"how much is coming to me?"
"about a thousand, gideon."
"well, i'd moughty like five hun'red of it, ef that's 'greeable to yo'."
felix whistled.
"five hundred?
pork-chops must be coming high.
you don't want to carry all that money around, do you?"
gideon did not answer; he looked very gloomy.
stuhk hastened to cheer him.
"of course you can have anything you want.
wait a minute, and i will get it for you.
"i'll bet that coon's going to buy himself a ring or something," he reflected as he went in search of the local manager and gideon's money.
but stuhk was wrong.
gideon had no intention of buying himself a ring.
for the matter of that, he had several that were amply satisfactory.
they had size and sparkle and luster, all the diamond brilliance that rings need to have; and for none of them had he paid much over five dollars.
he was amply supplied with jewelry in which he felt perfect satisfaction.
his present want was positive, if nebulous; he desired a fortune in his pocket, bulky, tangible evidence of his miraculous success.
ever since stuhk had found him, life had had an unreal quality for him.
his monte cristo wealth was too much like a fabulous, dream-found treasure, money that could not be spent without danger of awakening.
and he had dropped into the habit of storing it about him, so that in any pocket into which he plunged his hand he might find a roll of crisp evidence of reality.
he liked his bills to be of all denominations, and some so large as exquisitely to stagger imagination, others charming by their number and crispness the dignified, orange paper of a man of assured position and wealth-crackling greenbacks the design of which tinged the whole with actuality.
he was specially partial to engravings of president lincoln, the particular savior and patron of his race.
this five hundred dollars he was adding to an unreckoned sum of about two thousand, merely as extra fortification against a growing sense of gloom.
he wished to brace his flagging spirits with the gay wine of possession, and he was glad, when the money came, that it was in an elastic-bound roll, so bulky that it was pleasantly uncomfortable in his pocket as he left his manager.
as he turned into the brilliantly lighted street from the somber alleyway of the stage entrance, he paused for a moment to glance at his own name, in three-foot letters of red, before the doors of the theater.
he could read, and the large block type always pleased him.
"this week: gideon."
that was all.
none of the fulsome praise, the superlative, necessary definition given to lesser performers.
he had been, he remembered, "gideon, america's foremost native comedian," a title that was at once boast and challenge.
that necessity was now past, for he was a national character; any explanatory qualification would have been an insult to the public intelligence.
to the world he was just "gideon"; that was enough.
it gave him pleasure, as he sauntered along, to see the announcement repeated on window cards and hoardings.
presently he came to a window before which he paused in delighted wonder.
it was not a large window; to the casual eye of the passer-by there was little to draw attention.
by day it lighted the fractional floor space of a little stationer, who supplemented a slim business by a sub-agency for railroad and steamship lines; but to-night this window seemed the framework of a marvel of coincidence.
on the broad, dusty sill inside were propped two cards: the one on the left was his own red-lettered announcement for the week; the one at the right oh, world of wonders!
was a photogravure of that exact stretch of the inner coast of florida which gideon knew best, which was home.
there it was, the indian river, rippling idly in full sunlight, palmettos leaning over the water, palmettos standing as irregular sentries along the low, reeflike island which stretched away out of the picture.
there was the gigantic, lonely pine he knew well, and, yes he could just make it out there was his own ramshackle little pier, which stretched in undulating fashion, like a long-legged, wading caterpillar, from the abrupt shore-line of eroded coquina into deep water.
he thought at first that this picture of his home was some new and delicate device put forth by his press-agent.
his name on one side of a window, his birthplace upon the other what could be more tastefully appropriate?
therefore, as he spelled out the reading-matter beneath the photogravure, he was sharply disappointed.
it read:
spend this winter in balmy florida.
come to the land of perpetual sunshine.
golf, tennis, driving, shooting, boating, fishing, all of the best.
there was more, but he had no heart for it; he was disappointed and puzzled.
this picture had, after all, nothing to do with him.
it was a chance, and yet, what a strange chance!
it troubled and upset him.
his black, round-featured face took on deep wrinkles of perplexity.
the "misery" which had hung darkly on his horizon for weeks engulfed him without warning.
but in the very bitterness of his melancholy he knew at last his disease.
it was not champagne or recreation that he needed, not even a "po'k-chop," although his desire for it had been a symptom, a groping for a too homeopathic remedy: he was homesick.
easy, childish tears came into his eyes, and ran over his shining cheeks.
he shivered forlornly with a sudden sense of cold, and absently clutched at the lapels of his gorgeous, fur-lined ulster.
then in abrupt reaction he laughed aloud, so that the shrill, musical falsetto startled the passers-by, and in another moment a little semicircle of the curious watched spellbound as a black man, exquisitely appareled, danced in wild, loose grace before the dull background of a somewhat grimy and apparently vacant window.
a newsboy recognized him.
he heard his name being passed from mouth to mouth, and came partly to his senses.
he stopped dancing, and grinned at them.
"say, you are gideon, ain't you?"
his discoverer demanded, with a sort of reverent audacity.
"yaas, seh," said gideon; "that's me.
yo' shu got it right."
he broke into a joyous peal of laughter the laughter that had made him famous, and bowed deeply before him.
"gideon posi-tive-ly his las'
puffawmunce."
turning, he dashed for a passing trolley, and, still laughing, swung aboard.
he was naturally honest.
in a land of easy morality his friends had accounted him something of a paragon; nor had stuhk ever had anything but praise for him.
but now he crushed aside the ethics of his intent without a single troubled thought.
running away has always been inherent in the negro.
he gave one regretful thought to the gorgeous wardrobe he was leaving behind him; but he dared not return for it.
stuhk might have taken it into his head to go back to their rooms.
he must content himself with the reflection that he was at that moment wearing his best.
the trolley seemed too slow for him, and, as always happened nowadays, he was recognized; he heard his name whispered, and was aware of the admiring glances of the curious.
even popularity had its drawbacks.
he got down in front of a big hotel and chose a taxicab from the waiting rank, exhorting the driver to make his best speed to the station.
leaning back in the soft depths of the cab, he savored his independence, cheered already by the swaying, lurching speed.
at the station he tipped the driver in lordly fashion, very much pleased with himself and anxious to give pleasure.
only the sternest prudence and an unconquerable awe of uniform had kept him from tossing bills to the various traffic policemen who had seemed to smile upon his hurry.
no through train left for hours; but after the first disappointment of momentary check, he decided that he was more pleased than otherwise.
it would save embarrassment.
he was going south, where his color would be more considered than his reputation, and on the little local he chose there was a "jim crow" car one, that is, specially set aside for those of his race.
that it proved crowded and full of smoke did not trouble him at all, nor did the admiring pleasantries which the splendor of his apparel immediately called forth.
no one knew him; indeed, he was naturally enough mistaken for a prosperous gambler, a not unflattering supposition.
in the yard, after the train pulled out, he saw his private car under a glaring arc light, and grinned to see it left behind.
he spent the night pleasantly in a noisy game of high-low-jack, and the next morning slept more soundly than he had slept for weeks, hunched upon a wooden bench in the boxlike station of a north carolina junction.
the express would have brought him to jacksonville in twenty-four hours; the journey, as he took it, boarding any local that happened to be going south, and leaving it for meals or sometimes for sleep or often as the whim possessed him, filled five happy days.
there he took a night train, and dozed from jacksonville until a little north of new smyrna.
he awoke to find it broad daylight, and the car half empty.
the train was on a siding, with news of a freight wreck ahead.
gideon stretched himself, and looked out of the window, and emotion seized him.
for all his journey the south had seemed to welcome him, but here at last was the country he knew.
he went out upon the platform and threw back his head, sniffing the soft breeze, heavy with the mysterious thrill of unplowed acres, the wondrous existence of primordial jungle, where life has rioted unceasingly above unceasing decay.
it was dry with the fine dust of waste places, and wet with the warm mists of slumbering swamps; it seemed to gideon to tremble with the songs of birds, the dry murmur of palm leaves, and the almost inaudible whisper of the gray moss that festooned the live-oaks.
"um-m-m," he murmured, apostrophizing it, "yo' 's the right kind o'
breeze, yo' is.
yo'-all's healthy."
still sniffing, he climbed down to the dusty road-bed.
the negroes who had ridden with him were sprawled about him on the ground; one of them lay sleeping, face up, in the sunlight.
the train had evidently been there for some time, and there were no signs of an immediate departure.
he bought some oranges of a little, bowlegged black boy, and sat down on a log to eat them and to give up his mind to enjoyment.
the sun was hot upon him, and his thoughts were vague and drowsy.
he was glad that he was alive, glad to be back once more among familiar scenes.
down the length of the train he saw white passengers from the pullmans restlessly pacing up and down, getting into their cars and out of them, consulting watches, attaching themselves with gesticulatory expostulation to various officials; but their impatience found no echo in his thought.
what was the hurry?
there was plenty of time.
it was sufficient to have come to his own land; the actual walls of home could wait.
the delay was pleasant, with its opportunity for drowsy sunning, its relief from the grimy monotony of travel.
he glanced at the orange-colored "jim crow" with distaste, and inspiration, dawning slowly upon him, swept all other thought before it in its great and growing glory.
a brakeman passed, and gideon leaped to his feet and pursued him.
"misteh, how long yo'-all reckon this train goin' to be?"
"about an hour."
the question had been a mere matter of form.
gideon had made up his mind, and if he had been told that they started in five minutes he would not have changed it.
he climbed back into the car for his coat and his hat, and then almost furtively stole down the steps again and slipped quietly into the palmetto scrub.
"'most made the mistake of ma life," he chuckled, "stickin' to that ol' train foheveh.
't isn't the right way at, all foh gideon to come home."
the river was not far away.
he could catch the dancing blue of it from time to time in ragged vista, and for this beacon he steered directly.
his coat was heavy on his arm, his thin patent-leather ties pinched and burned and demanded detours around swampy places, but he was happy.
as he went along, his plan perfected itself.
he would get into loose shoes again, old ones, if money could buy them, and old clothes, too.
the bull-briers snatching at his tailored splendor suggested that.
he laughed when the florida partridge, a small quail, whirred up from under his feet; he paused to exchange affectionate mockery with red squirrels; and once, even when he was brought up suddenly to a familiar and ominous, dry reverberation, the small, crisp sound of the rolling drums of death, he did not look about him for some instrument of destruction, as at any other time he would have done, but instead peered cautiously over the log before him, and spoke in tolerant admonition:
"now, misteh rattlesnake, yo' jes min' yo' own business.
nobody's goin' step on yo', ner go triflin' roun' yo' in no way whatsomeveh.
yo' jes lay there in the sun an' git 's fat 's yo' please.
don' yo'
tu'n yo' weeked li'l' eyes on gideon.
he's jes goin' 'long home, an'
ain' lookin' foh no muss."
he came presently to the water, and, as luck would have it, to a little group of negro cabins, where he was able to buy old clothes and, after much dickering, a long and somewhat leaky rowboat rigged out with a tattered leg-of-mutton sail.
this he provisioned with a jug of water, a starch box full of white corn-meal, and a wide strip of lean razorback bacon.
as he pushed out from shore and set his sail to the small breeze that blew down from the north, an absolute contentment possessed him.
the idle waters of the lagoon, lying without tide or current in eternal indolence, rippled and sparkled in breeze and sunlight with a merry surface activity, and seemed to lap the leaky little boat more swiftly on its way.
mosquito inlet opened broadly before him, and skirting the end of merritt's island he came at last into that longest lagoon, with which he was most familiar, the indian river.
here the wind died down to a mere breath, which barely kept his boat in motion; but he made no attempt to row.
as long as he moved at all, he was satisfied.
he was living the fulfilment of his dreams in exile, lounging in the stern in the ancient clothes he had purchased, his feet stretched comfortably before him in their broken shoes, one foot upon a thwart, the other hanging overside so laxly that occasional ripples lapped the run-over heel.
from time to time he scanned shore and river for familiar points of interest some remembered snag that showed the tip of one gnarled branch.
or he marked a newly fallen palmetto, already rotting in the water, which must be added to that map of vast detail that he carried in his head.
but for the most part his broad black face was turned up to the blue brilliance above him in unblinking contemplation; his keen eyes, brilliant despite their sun-muddied whites, reveled in the heights above him, swinging from horizon to horizon in the wake of an orderly file of little bluebill ducks, winging their way across the river, or brightening with interest at the rarer sight of a pair of mallards or redheads, lifting with the soaring circles of the great bald-headed eagle, or following the scattered squadron of heron white heron, blue heron, young and old, trailing, sunlit, brilliant patches, clear even against the bright white and blue of the sky above them.
often he laughed aloud, sending a great shout of mirth across the water in fresh relish of those comedies best known and best enjoyed.
it was as excruciatingly funny as it had ever been, when his boat nosed its way into a great flock of ducks idling upon the water, to see the mad paddling haste of those nearest him, the reproachful turn of their heads, or, if he came too near, their spattering run out of water, feet and wings pumping together as they rose from the surface, looking for all the world like fat little women, scurrying with clutched skirts across city streets.
the pelicans, too, delighted him as they perched with pedantic solemnity upon wharf-piles, or sailed in hunched and huddled gravity twenty feet above the river's surface in swift, dignified flight, which always ended suddenly in an abrupt, up-ended plunge that threw dignity to the winds in its greedy haste, and dropped them crashing into the water.
when darkness came suddenly at last, he made in toward shore, mooring to the warm-fretted end of a fallen and forgotten landing.
a straggling orange-grove was here, broken lines of vanquished cultivation, struggling little trees swathed and choked in the festooning gray moss, still showing here and there the valiant golden gleam of fruit.
gideon had seen many such places, had seen settlers come and clear themselves a space in the jungle, plant their groves, and live for a while in lazy independence; and then for some reason or other they would go, and before they had scarcely turned their backs, the jungle had crept in again, patiently restoring its ancient sovereignty.
the place was eery with the ghost of dead effort; but it pleased him.
he made a fire and cooked supper, eating enormously and with relish.
his conscience did not trouble him at all.
stuhk and his own career seemed already distant; they took small place in his thoughts, and served merely as a background for his present absolute content.
he picked some oranges, and ate them in meditative enjoyment.
for a while he nodded, half asleep, beside his fire, watching the darkened river, where the mullet, shimmering with phosphorescence, still leaped starkly above the surface, and fell in spattering brilliance.
midnight found him sprawled asleep beside his fire.
once he awoke.
the moon had risen, and a little breeze waved the hanging moss, and whispered in the glossy foliage of orange and palmetto with a sound like falling rain.
gideon sat up and peered about him, rolling his eyes hither and thither at the menacing leap and dance of the jet shadows.
his heart was beating thickly, his muscles twitched, and the awful terrors of night pulsed and shuddered over him.
nameless specters peered at him from every shadow, ingenerate familiars of his wild, forgotten blood.
he groaned aloud in a delicious terror; and presently, still twitching and shivering, fell asleep again.
it was as if something magical had happened; his fear remembered the fear of centuries, and yet with the warm daylight was absolutely forgotten.
he got up a little after sunrise, and went down to the river to bathe, diving deep with a joyful sense of freeing himself from the last alien dust of travel.
once ashore again, however, he began to prepare his breakfast with some haste.
for the first time in his journey he was feeling a sense of loneliness and a longing for his kind.
he was still happy, but his laughter began to seem strange to him in the solitude.
he tried the defiant experiment of laughing for the effect of it, an experiment which brought him to his feet in startled terror; for his laughter was echoed.
as he stood peering about him, the sound came again, not laughter this time, but a suppressed giggle.
it was human beyond a doubt.
gideon's face shone with relief and sympathetic amusement; he listened for a moment, and then strode surely forward toward a clump of low palms.
there he paused, every sense alert.
his ear caught a soft rustle, a little gasp of fear; the sound of a foot moved cautiously.
"missy," he said tentatively, "i reckon yo'-all's come jes 'bout 'n time foh breakfus.
yo' betteh have some.
ef yo' ain' too white to sit down with a black man."
the leaves parted, and a smiling face as black as gideon's own regarded him in shy amusement.
"who is yo', man?"
"i mought be king of kongo," he laughed, "but i ain't.
yo' see befo'
yo' jes gideon at yo'r 'steemed sehvice."
he bowed elaborately in the mock humility of assured importance, watching her face in pleasant anticipation.
but neither awe nor rapture dawned there.
she repeated the name, inclining her head coquettishly; but it evidently meant nothing to her.
she was merely trying its sound.
"gideon, gideon.
i don' call to min' any sech name ez that.
yo'-all's f'om up no'th likely."
he was beyond the reaches of fame.
"no," said gideon, hardly knowing whether he was glad or sorry "no, i live south of heah.
what-all's yo' name?"
the girl giggled deliciously.
"man," she said, "i shu got the mos' reediculoustest name you eveh did heah.
they call me vashti yo' bacon's bu'nin'."
she stepped out, and ran past him to snatch his skillet deftly from the fire.
"vashti" a strange and delightful name.
gideon followed her slowly.
her romantic coming and her romantic name pleased him; and, too, he thought her beautiful.
she was scarcely more than a girl, slim and strong and almost of his own height.
she was barefooted, but her blue-checked gingham was clean and belted smartly about a small waist.
he remembered only one woman who ran as lithely as she did, one of the numerous "diving beauties" of the vaudeville stage.
she cooked their breakfast, but he served her with an elaborate gallantry, putting forward all his new and foreign graces, garnishing his speech with imposing polysyllables, casting about their picnic breakfast a radiant aura of grandeur borrowed from the recent days of his fame.
and he saw that he pleased her, and with her open admiration essayed still greater flights of polished manner.
he made vague plans for delaying his journey as they sat smoking in pleasant conversational ease; and when an interruption came it vexed him.
"vashty!
vashty!"
a woman's voice sounded thin and far away.
"vashty-y!
yo' heah me, chile?"
vashti rose to her feet with a sigh.
"that's my ma," she said regretfully.
"what do yo' care?"
asked gideon.
"let her yell awhile."
the girl shook her head.
"ma's a moughty pow'ful 'oman, and she done got a club 'bout the size o' my wrist."
she moved off a step or so, and glanced back at him.
gideon leaped to his feet.
"when yo' comin' back?
yo' yo' ain' goin' without  " he held out his arms to her, but she only giggled and began to walk slowly away.
with a bound he was after her, one hand catching her lightly by the shoulder.
he felt suddenly that he must not lose sight of her.
"let me go!
tu'n me loose, yo'!"
the girl was still laughing, but evidently troubled.
she wrenched herself away with an effort, only to be caught again a moment later.
she screamed and struck at him as he kissed her; for now she was really in terror.
the blow caught gideon squarely in the mouth, and with such force that he staggered back, astonished, while the girl took wildly to her heels.
he stood for a moment irresolute, for something was happening to him.
for months he had evaded love with a gentle embarrassment; now, with the savage crash of that blow, he knew unreasoningly that he had found his woman.
he leaped after her again, running as he had not run in years, in savage, determined pursuit, tearing through brier and scrub, tripping, falling, rising, never losing sight of the blue-clad figure before him until at last she tripped and fell, and he stood panting above her.
he took a great breath or so, and leaned over and picked her up in his arms, where she screamed and struck and scratched at him.
he laughed, for he felt no longer sensible to pain, and, still chuckling, picked his way carefully back to the shore, wading deep into the water to unmoor his boat.
then with a swift movement he dropped the girl into the bow, pushed free, and clambered actively aboard.
the light, early morning breeze had freshened, and he made out well toward the middle of the river, never even glancing around at the sound of the hallooing he now heard from shore.
his exertions had quickened his breathing, but he felt strong and joyful.
vashti lay a huddle of blue in the bow, crouched in fear and desolation, shaken and torn with sobbing; but he made no effort to comfort her.
he was untroubled by any sense of wrong; he was simply and unreasoningly satisfied with what he had done.
despite all his gentle, easygoing, laughter-loving existence, he found nothing incongruous or unnatural in this sudden act of violence.
he was aglow with happiness; he was taking home a wife.
the blind tumult of capture had passed; a great tenderness possessed him.
the leaky little boat was plunging and dancing in swift ecstasy of movement; all about them the little waves ran glittering in the sunlight, plashing and slapping against the boat's low side, tossing tiny crests to the following wind, showing rifts of white here and there, blowing handfuls of foam and spray.
gideon went softly about the business of shortening his small sail, and came quietly back to his steering-seat again.
soon he would have to be making for what lea the western shore offered; but he was holding to the middle of the river as long as he could, because with every mile the shores were growing more familiar, calling to him to make what speed he could.
vashti's sobbing had grown small and ceased; he wondered if she had fallen asleep.
presently, however, he saw her face raised a face still shining with tears.
she saw that he was watching her, and crouched low again.
a dash of spray spattered over her, and she looked up frightened, glancing fearfully overside; then once more her eyes came back to him, and this time she got up, still small and crouching, and made her way slowly and painfully down the length of the boat, until at last gideon moved aside for her, and she sank in the bottom beside him, hiding her eyes in her gingham sleeve.
gideon stretched out a broad hand and touched her head lightly; and with a tiny gasp her fingers stole up to his.
"honey," said gideon "honey, yo' ain' mad, is yo'?"
she shook her head, not looking at him.
"yo' ain' grievin' foh yo' ma?"
again she shook her head.
"because," said gideon, smiling down at her, "i ain' got no beeg club like she has."
a soft and smothered giggle answered him, and this time vashti looked up and laid her head against him with a small sigh of contentment.
gideon felt very tender, very important, at peace with himself and all the world.
he rounded a jutting point, and stretched out a black hand, pointing.
hindu tales from the sanskrit
the magic pitcher.
long, long ago there lived far away in india a woodcutter called subha datta and his family, who were all very happy together.
the father went every day to the forest near his home to get supplies of wood, which he sold to his neighbours, earning by that means quite enough to give his wife and children all that they needed.
sometimes he took his three boys with him, and now and then, as a special treat, his two little girls were allowed to trot along beside him.
the boys longed to be allowed to chop wood for themselves, and their father told them that as soon as they were old enough he would give each of them a little axe of his own.
the girls, he said, must be content with breaking off small twigs from the branches he cut down, for he did not wish them to chop their own fingers off.
this will show you what a kind father he was, and you will be very sorry for him when you hear about his troubles.
all went well with subha datta for a long time.
each of the boys had his own little axe at last, and each of the girls had a little pair of scissors to cut off twigs; and very proud they all were when they brought some wood home to their mother to use in the house.
one day, however, their father told them they could none of them come with him, for he meant to go a very long way into the forest, to see if he could find better wood there than nearer home.
vainly the boys entreated him to take them with him.
"not to-day," he said, "you would be too tired to go all the way, and would lose yourselves coming back alone.
you must help your mother to-day and play with your sisters."
they had to be content, for although hindu children are as fond of asking questions as english boys and girls, they are very obedient to their parents and do all they are told without making any fuss about it.
of course, they expected their father would come back the day he started for the depths of the forest, although they knew he would be late.
what then was their surprise when darkness came and there was no sign of him!
again and again their mother went to the door to look for him, expecting every moment to see him coming along the beaten path which led to their door.
again and again she mistook the cry of some night-bird for his voice calling to her.
she was obliged at last to go to bed with a heavy heart, fearing some wild beast had killed him and that she would never see him again.
1. what do you think had become of subha datta?
2. what would you have done when he did not come back?
when subha datta started for the forest, he fully intended to come back the same evening; but as he was busy cutting down a tree, he suddenly had a feeling that he was no longer alone.
he looked up, and there, quite close to him, in a little clearing where the trees had been cut down by some other woodcutter, he saw four beautiful young girls looking like fairies in their thin summer dresses and with their long hair flowing down their backs, dancing round and round, holding each other's hands.
subha datta was so astonished at the sight that he let his axe fall, and the noise startled the dancers, who all four stood still and stared at him.
the woodcutter could not say a word, but just gazed and gazed at them, till one of them said to him: "who are you, and what are you doing in the very depths of the forest where we have never before seen a man?"
"i am only a poor woodcutter," he replied, "come to get some wood to sell, so as to give my wife and children something to eat and some clothes to wear."
"that is a very stupid thing to do," said one of the girls.
"you can't get much money that way.
if you will only stop with us we will have your wife and children looked after for you much better than you can do it yourself."
3. what would you have said if you had been the woodcutter?
4. do you think the fairies really meant that they could do as they offered?
subha datta, though he certainly did love his wife and children, was so tempted at the idea of stopping in the forest with the beautiful girls that, after hesitating a little while, he said, "yes, i will stop with you, if you are quite sure all will be well with my dear ones."
"you need not be afraid about that," said another of the girls.
"we are fairies, you see, and we can do all sorts of wonderful things.
it isn't even necessary for us to go where your dear ones are.
we shall just wish them everything they want, and they will get it.
and the first thing to be done is to give you some food.
you must work for us in return, of course."
subha datta at once replied, "i will do anything you wish."
"well, begin by sweeping away all the dead leaves from the clearing, and then we will all sit down and eat together."
subha datta was very glad that what he was asked to do was so easy.
he began by cutting a branch from a tree, and with it he swept the floor of what was to be the dining-room.
then he looked about for the food, but he could see nothing but a great big pitcher standing in the shade of a tree, the branches of which hung over the clearing.
so he said to one of the fairies, "will you show me where the food is, and exactly where you would like me to set it out?"
at these questions all the fairies began to laugh, and the sound of their laughter was like the tinkling of a number of bells.
5. what was there to laugh at in the questions of subha datta?
6. what is your idea of a fairy?
when the fairies saw how astonished subha datta was at the way they laughed, it made them laugh still more, and they seized each other's hands again and whirled round and round, laughing all the time.
poor subha datta, who was very tired and hungry, began to get unhappy and to wish he had gone straight home after all.
he stooped down to pick up his axe, and was just about to turn away with it, when the fairies stopped their mad whirl and cried to him to stop.
so he waited, and one of them said:
"we don't have to bother about fetching this and fetching that.
you see that big pitcher.
well, we get all our food and everything else we want out of it.
we just have to wish as we put our hands in, and there it is.
it's a magic pitcher the only one there is in the whole wide world.
you get the food you would like to have first, and then we'll tell you what we want."
subha datta could hardly believe his ears when he heard that.
down he threw his axe, and hastened to put his hand in the pitcher, wishing for the food he was used to.
he loved curried rice and milk, lentils, fruit and vegetables, and very soon he had a beautiful meal spread out for himself on the ground.
then the fairies called out, one after the other, what they wanted for food, things the woodcutter had never heard of or seen, which made him quite discontented with what he had chosen for himself.
7. what would you have wished for if you had had a magic pitcher?
8. would it be a good thing, do you think, to be able to get food without working for it or paying for it?
the next few days passed away like a dream, and at first subha datta thought he had never been so happy in his life.
the fairies often went off together leaving him alone, only coming back to the clearing when they wanted something out of the pitcher.
the woodcutter got all kinds of things he fancied for himself, but presently he began to wish he had his wife and children with him to share his wonderful meals.
he began to miss them terribly, and he missed his work too.
it was no good cutting trees down and chopping up wood when all the food was ready cooked.
sometimes he thought he would slip off home when the fairies were away, but when he looked at the pitcher he could not bear the thought of leaving it.
9. what sort of man do you think subha datta was from what this story tells you about him?
10. what do you think was the chief cause of his becoming discontented after he had been in the service of the fairies for a few days?
soon subha datta could not sleep well for thinking of the wife and children he had deserted.
suppose they were hungry when he had plenty to eat!
it even came into his head that he might steal the pitcher and take it home with him when the fairies were away.
but he had not after all the courage to do this; for even when the beautiful girls were not in sight, he had a feeling that they would know if he tried to go off with the pitcher, and that they would be able to punish him in some terrible way.
one night he had a dream that troubled him very much.
he saw his wife sitting crying bitterly in the little home he used to love, holding the youngest child on her knee whilst the other three stood beside her looking at her very, very sadly.
he started up from the ground on which he lay, determined to go home at once; but at a little distance off he saw the fairies dancing in the moonlight, and somehow he felt again he could not leave them and the pitcher.
the next day, however, he was so miserable that the fairies noticed it, and one of them said to him: "whatever is the matter?
we don't care to keep unhappy people here.
if you can't enjoy life as we do, you had better go home."
then subha datta was very much frightened lest they should really send him away; so he told them about his dream and that he was afraid his dear ones were starving for want of the money lie used to earn for them.
"don't worry about them," was the reply: "we will let your wife know what keeps you away.
we will whisper in her ear when she is asleep, and she will be so glad to think of your happiness that she will forget her own troubles."
11. do you think what the fairies said to the woodcutter was likely to comfort him about his wife and children?
12. if you had been in subha datta's place what would you have said to the fairies when they made this promise?
subha datta was very much cheered by the sympathy of the fairies, so much so that he decided to stop with them for a little longer at least.
now and then he felt restless, but on the whole the time passed pleasantly, and the pitcher was a daily delight to him.
meanwhile his poor wife was at her wits' end how to feed her dear children.
if it had not been that the two boys were brave, plucky little chaps, she really would have been in despair.
when their father did not come back and all their efforts to find him were in vain, these boys set to work to help their mother.
they could not cut down trees, but they could climb them and chop off small branches with their axes; and this they did, making up bundles of faggots and selling them to their neighbours.
these neighbours were touched by the courage they showed, and not only paid them well for the wood but often gave them milk and rice and other little things to help them.
in time they actually got used to being without subha datta, and the little girls nearly forgot all about him.
little did they dream of the change that was soon to come into their lives.
13. was it a good or a bad thing for the boys that their father did not come back?
14. if you think it was a good thing, will you explain why?
and if it was a bad thing, why you think it was?
a month passed peacefully away in the depths of the forest, subha datta waiting on the fairies and becoming every day more selfish and bent on enjoying himself.
then he had another dream, in which he saw his wife and children in the old home with plenty of food, and evidently so happy without him that he felt quite determined to go and show them he was still alive.
when he woke he said to the fairies, "i will not stop with you any longer.
i have had a good time here, but i am tired of this life away from my own people."
the fairies saw he was really in earnest this time, so they consented to let him go; but they were kind-hearted people and felt they ought to pay him in some way for all he had done for them.
they consulted together, and then one of them told him they wished to make him a present before he went away, and they would give him whatever he asked for.
15. what do you think it was that made subha datta determine to go home when he found his wife and children could do without him?
16. what would you have chosen if the fairies had told you you could have anything you liked?
directly the woodcutter heard he could have anything he asked for, he cried, "i will have the magic pitcher."
you can just imagine what a shock this was to the fairies!
you know, of course, that fairies always keep their word.
if they could not persuade subha datta to choose something else, they would have to give him their beloved, their precious pitcher and would have to seek their food for themselves.
they all tried all they could to persuade the woodcutter to choose something else.
they took him to their own secret treasure-house, in an old, old tree with a hollow trunk, even the entrance to which no mortal had ever been allowed to see.
they blindfolded him before they started, so that he could never reveal the way, and one of them led him by the hand, telling him where the steps going down from the tree began.
when at last the bandage was taken from his eyes, he found himself in a lofty hall with an opening in the roof through which the light came.
piled up on the floor were sparkling stones worth a great deal of gold and silver money, and on the walls hung beautiful robes.
subha datta was quite dazed with all lie saw, but he was only an ignorant woodcutter and did not realize the value of the jewels and clothes.
so when the fairies, said to him, "choose anything you like here and let us keep our pitcher," he shook his head and said: "no!
no!
no!
the pitcher!
i will have the pitcher!"
one fairy after another picked up the rubies and diamonds and other precious stones and held them in the light, that the woodcutter might see how lovely they were; and when he still only shook his head, they got down the robes and tried to make him put one of them on.
"no!
the pitcher!
the pitcher!"
he said, and at last they had to give it up.
they bound his eyes again and led him back to the clearing and the pitcher.
17. would you have been tempted to give up the pitcher when you saw the jewels and the robes?
18. what made subha datta so determined to have the pitcher?
even when they were all back again in the clearing the fairies did not quite give up hope of keeping their pitcher.
this time they gave other reasons why subha datta should not have it.
"it will break very easily," they told him, "and then it will be no good to you or any one else.
but if you take some of the money, you can buy anything you like with it.
if you take some of the jewels you can sell them for lots of money."
"no!
no!
no!"
cried the woodcutter.
"the pitcher!
the pitcher!
i will have the pitcher!"
"very well then, take, the pitcher," they sadly answered, "and never let us see your face again!"
so subha datta took the pitcher, carrying it very, very carefully, lest he should drop it and break it before he got home.
he did not think at all of what a cruel thing it was to take it away from the fairies, and leave them either to starve or to seek for food for themselves.
the poor fairies watched him till he was out of sight, and then they began to weep and wring their hands.
"he might at least have waited whilst we got some food out for a few days," one of them said.
"he was too selfish to think of that," said another.
"come, let us forget all about him and go and look for some fruit."
so they all left off crying and went away hand in hand.
fairies do not want very much to eat.
they can live on fruit and dew, and they never let anything make them sad for long at a time.
they go out of this story now, but you need not be unhappy about them, because you may be very sure that they got no real harm from their generosity to subha datta in letting him take the pitcher.
19. do you think the woodcutter was wrong to ask for the pitcher?
20. what would have been the best thing for subha datta to ask for, if he had decided to let the fairies keep their pitcher?
you can just imagine what a surprise it was to subha datta's wife and children when they saw him coming along the path leading to his home.
he did not bring the pitcher with him, but had hidden it in a hollow tree in the wood near his cottage, for he did not mean any one to know that he had it.
he told his wife that he had lost his way in the forest, and had been afraid he would never see her or his children again, but he said nothing about the fairies.
when his wife asked him how he had got food, he told her a long story about the fruits he had found, and she believed all he said, and determined to make up to him now for all she thought he had suffered.
when she called the little girls to come and help her get a nice meal for their father, subha datta said: "oh, don't bother about that!
i've brought something back with me.
i'll go and fetch it, but no one is to come with me."
subha datta's wife was sorely disappointed at this, because she loved her husband so much that it was a joy to her to work for him.
the children too wanted, of course, to go with their father, but he ordered them to stop where they were.
he seized a big basket which was fall of fuel for the fire, tumbled all the wood in it on the floor, and went off alone to the pitcher.
very soon he was back again with his basket full of all sorts of good things, the very names of which his wife and children had no idea of.
"there!"
he cried; "what do you think of that?
am i not a clever father to have found all that in the forest?
those are the 'fruits' i meant when i told mother about them."
21. what would you have thought about this wonderful supply of food, if you had been one of the woodcutter's children?
22. was it a good thing for those children to have all this food without working for it?
if not, why was it not a good thing?
life was now, of course, completely changed for the family in the forest.
subha datta no longer went to cut wood to be sold, and the boys also left off doing so.
every day their father fetched food for them all, and the greatest desire of each one of the family was to find out where it came from.
they never could do so, for subha datta managed to make them afraid to follow him when he went forth with his basket.
the secret he kept from the wife to whom he used to tell everything soon began to spoil the happiness of the home.
the children who had no longer anything to do quarrelled with each other.
their mother got sadder and sadder, and at last decided to tell subha datta that, unless he would let her know where the food came from, she would go away from him and take her little girls with her.
she really did mean to do this, but something soon happened to change everything again.
of course, the neighbours in the wood, who had bought the fuel from the boys and helped them by giving them fruit and rice, heard of the return of their father and of the wonderful change in their lot.
now the whole family had plenty to eat every day, though none of them knew where it all came from.
subha datta was very fond of showing off what he could do, and sometimes asked his old friends amongst the woodcutters to come and have a meal with him.
when they arrived they would find all sorts of good things spread out on the ground and different kinds of wines in beautiful bottles.
this went on for some months, subha datta getting prouder and prouder of all that he could do, and it seemed likely that his secret would never be discovered.
everybody tried to find it out, and many followed him secretly when he set forth into the woods; but he was very clever at dodging them, hiding his treasure constantly in a new place in the dead of the night.
if he had only been content with getting food out of his pitcher and drinking pure water, all would most likely have been well with him.
but that was just what he could not do.
till he had his pitcher he had never drunk anything but water, but now he often took too much wine.
it was this which led to the misfortune of losing his beloved pitcher.
he began to boast of his cleverness, telling his friends there was nothing they wanted that he could not get for them; and one day when he had given them a very grand feast, in which were several rare kinds of food they had asked for, he drank too much wine so much that he no longer knew what he was saying.
this was the chance his guests wanted.
they began teasing him, telling him they believed he was really a wicked robber, who had stolen the food or the money to buy it.
he got angry, and at last was actually silly enough to tell them all to come with him, and he would show them he was no robber.
when his wife heard this, she was half pleased to think that now at last the secret would come out of where the food came from, and half afraid that something terrible would happen.
the children too were greatly excited, and went with the rest of the party, who followed their father to the last hiding-place of the precious pitcher.
when, they all got very near the place, however, some idea began to come into subha datta's head that he was doing a very foolish thing.
he stopped suddenly, turned round facing the crowd that followed him, and said he would not go a step further till they all went back to the cottage.
his wife begged him to let her at least go with him, and the children all clamoured not to be sent back, but it was no good.
back they all had to go, the woodcutter watching till they were out of sight.
23. would subha datta have been wise if he had told has wife about the pitcher?
24. do you think it would have been a good or a bad thing for the secret to be found out?
when the woodcutter was quite sure that every one was gone and nobody could see where he had hidden the pitcher, he took it from the hole in which it lay and carried it carefully to his home.
you can imagine how everybody rushed out to meet him when he came in sight, and crowded round him, so that there was danger of the pitcher being thrown to the ground and broken.
subha datta however managed to get into the cottage without any accident, and then he began to take things out of the pitcher and fling them on the ground, shouting, "am i a robber?
am i a robber?
who dared to call me a robber?"
then, getting more and more excited, he picked up the pitcher, and holding it on his shoulder began to dance wildly about.
his wife called out to him, "oh, take care, take care!
you will drop it!"
but he paid no attention to her.
suddenly, however, he began to feel giddy and fell to the ground, dropping the pitcher as he did so.
it was broken to pieces, and a great cry of sorrow went up from all who saw the accident.
the woodcutter himself was broken-hearted, for he knew that he had done the mischief himself, and that if only he had resisted the temptation to drink the wine he would still have his treasure.
he was going to pick up the pieces to see if they could be stuck together, but to his very great surprise lie could not touch them.
he heard a silvery laugh, and what sounded like children clapping their hands, and he thought he also heard the words, "our pitcher is ours again!"
could it all have been a dream?
no: for there on the ground were the fruits and cakes that had been in the pitcher, and there were his wife, his children and his friends, all looking sadly and angrily at him.
one by one the friends went away, leaving subha datta alone with his family.
25. if you had been subha datta's wife, what would you have done when this misfortune came to her husband?
26. what would you have done if you had been the woodcutter?
this is the end of the story of the magic pitcher, but it was the beginning of a new
27. what lesson can be learnt from this story?
28. do you think it is easier for a boy or a girl to keep a secret?
29. why is it wrong to let out a secret you have been told?
30. what do you think was the chief fault in the character of subha datta?
story ii
the story of a cat, a mouse, a lizard and an owl.
this is the story of four creatures, none of whom loved each other, who lived in the same banyan tree in a forest in india.
banyan trees are very beautiful and very useful, and get their name from the fact that "banians," as merchants are called in india, often gather together in their shade to sell their goods.
banyan trees grow to a very great height, spreading their branches out so widely that many people can stand beneath them.
from those branches roots spring forth, which, when they reach the ground, pierce it, and look like, columns holding up a roof.
if you have never seen a banyan tree, you can easily find a picture of one in some dictionary; and when you have done so, you will understand that a great many creatures can live in one without seeing much of each other.
in an especially fine banyan tree, outside the walls of a town called vidisa, a cat, an owl, a lizard and a mouse, had all taken up their abode.
the cat lived in a big hole in the trunk some little distance from the ground, where she could sleep very cosily, curled up out of sight with her head resting on her forepaws, feeling perfectly safe from harm; for no other creature, she thought, could possibly discover her hiding-place.
the owl roosted in a mass of foliage at the top of the tree, near the nest in which his wife had brought up their children, before those children flew away to seek mates for themselves.
he too felt pretty secure as long as he remained up there; but he had seen the cat prowling about below him more than once, and was very sure that, if she should happen to catch sight of him when he was off his guard seeking his prey and obliged to give all his attention to what he was doing, she might spring out upon him and kill him.
cats do not generally attack such big birds as owls, but they will sometimes kill a mother sitting in her nest, as well as the little ones, if the father is too far off to protect them.
the lizard loved to lie and bask in the sunshine, catching the flies on which he lived, lying so still that they did not notice him, and darting out his long tongue suddenly to suck them into his mouth.
yet he hid from the owl and the cat, because he knew full well that, tough though he was, they would gobble him up if they happened to be hungry.
he made his home amongst the roots on the south side of the tree where it was hottest, but the mouse had his hole on the other side amongst damp moss and dead leaves.
the mouse was in constant fear of the cat and the owl.
he knew that both of them could see in the dark, and he would have no chance of escape if they once caught sight of him.
1. which of these four creatures do you think was most to be pitied?
2. do you think that animals ever hate or love each as human creatures do?
the lizard and the mouse could only get food in daylight; but the lizard did not have to go far for the flies on which he lived, whilst the mouse had a very dangerous journey to take to his favourite feeding place.
this was a barley field a short distance from the banyan tree, where he loved to nibble the full ears, running up the stalks to get at them.
the mouse was the only one of the four creatures in the banyan tree who did not feed on others; for, like the rest of his family, he was a vegetarian, that is to say, he ate nothing but vegetables and fruit.
now the cat knew full well how fond the mouse was of the barley-field, and she used to keep watch amongst the tall stems, creeping stealthily about with her tail in the air and her green eyes glistening, expecting any moment to see the poor little mouse darting hastily along.
the cat never dreamt that any danger could come to her, and she trod down the barley, making quite a clear path through it.
she was quite wrong in thinking herself so safe, for that path got her into very serious trouble.
it so happened that a hunter, whose great delight was to kill wild creatures, and who was very clever in finding them, noticing every little thing which could shew him where they had passed by, came one day into the barley-field.
he spied the path directly and cried, "ha!
ha!
some wild animal has been here; not a very big one; let's have a look for the footprints!"
so he stooped down to the ground, and very soon saw the marks of pussy's feet.
"a cat, i do believe,"
he said to himself, "spoiling the barley she doesn't want to eat herself.
i'll soon pay her out."
the hunter waited until the evening lest the creature should see what he was going to do, and then in the twilight he set snares all over the barley-field.
a snare, you know, is a string with a slip-knot at the end of it; and if an animal puts his head or one of his paws into this slip-knot and goes on without noticing it, the string is pulled tight and the poor creature cannot get free.
3. was it right or wrong of the hunter to set the snare?
4. do you think the cat was wrong to lie in wait for the mouse?
exactly what the hunter expected happened.
the cat came as usual to watch for the mouse, and caught sight of him running across the end of the path.
puss dashed after him; and just as she thought she really had got him this time, she found herself caught by the neck, for she had put her head into one of the snares.
she was nearly strangled and could scarcely even mew.
the mouse was so close that he heard the feeble mew, and in a terrible fright, thinking the cat was after him, he peeped through the stems of the barley to make sure which way to run to get away from her.
what was his delight when he saw his enemy in such trouble and quite unable to do him any harm!
now it so happened that the owl and the lizard were also in the barley-field, not very far away from the cat, and they too saw the distress their hated enemy was in.
they also caught sight of the little mouse peeping through the barley; and the owl thought to himself, "i'll have you, my little friend, now puss cannot do me any harm,"
whilst the lizard darted away into the sunshine, feeling glad that the cat and the owl were neither of them now likely to trouble their heads about him.
the owl flew quietly to a tree hard by to watch what would happen, feeling so sure of having the mouse for his dinner that he was in no hurry to catch him.
5. what would you have done if you had been the mouse, when you saw the cat in the snare?
6. was the owl wise or foolish to wait before he caught the mouse?
the mouse, small and helpless though he was, was a wise little creature.
he saw the owl fly up into the tree, and knew quite well that if he did not take care he would serve as dinner to that great strong bird.
he knew too that, if he went within reach of the claws of the cat, he would suffer for it.
"how i do wish," he thought to himself, "i could make friends with the cat, now she is in distress, and get her to promise not to hurt me if ever she gets free.
as long as i am near the cat, the owl will not dare to come after me."
as he thought and thought, his eyes got brighter and brighter, and at last he decided what he would do.
he had, you see, kept his presence of mind; that is to say, he did not let his fright of the cat or the owl prevent him from thinking clearly.
he now ventured forth from amongst the barley, and coming near enough to the cat for her to see him quite clearly, but not near enough for her to reach him with her claws, or far enough away for the owl to get him without danger from those terrible claws, he said to the cat in a queer little squeaky voice:
"dear puss, i do not like to see you in such a fix.
it is true we have never been exactly friends, but i have always looked up to you as a strong and noble enemy.
if you will promise never to do me any harm, i will do my best to help you.
i have very sharp teeth, and i might perhaps be able to nibble through the string round your beautiful neck and set you free.
what do you think about it?"
7. do you think there was any chance of a cat and a mouse becoming real friends?
8. can you give two or three instances you know of presence of mind in danger?
when the cat heard what the mouse said, she could hardly believe her ears.
she was of course ready to promise anything to anyone who would help her, so she said at once:
"you dear little mouse, to wish to help me.
if only you will nibble through that string which is killing me, i promise that i will always love you, always be your friend, and however hungry i may be, i will starve rather than hurt your tender little body."
on hearing this, the mouse, without hesitating a moment, climbed up on to the cat's back, and cuddled down in the soft fur near her neck, feeling very safe and warm there.
the owl would certainly not attack him there, he thought, and the cat could not possibly hurt him.
it was one thing to pounce down on a defenceless little creature running on the ground amongst the barley, quite another to try and snatch him from the very neck of a cat.
the cat of course expected the mouse to begin to nibble through the string at once, and became very uneasy when she felt the little creature nestle down as if to go to sleep, instead of helping her.
poor pussy could not turn her head so as to see the mouse without drawing the string tighter, and she did not dare to speak angrily lest she should offend him.
"my dear little friend," she said, "do you not think it is high time to keep your promise and set me free?"
hearing this, the mouse pretended to bite the string, but took care not to do so really; and the cat waited and waited, getting more miserable every minute.
all through the long night the same thing went on:
the mouse taking a little nap now and then, the cat getting weaker and weaker.
"oh," she thought to herself, "if only i could get free, the first thing i would do would be to gobble up that horrid little mouse."
the moon rose, the stars came out, the wind murmured amongst the branches of the banyan tree, making the unfortunate cat long to be safe in her cosy home in the trunk.
the cries of the wild animals which prowl about at night seeking their food were heard, and the cat feared one of them might find her and kill her.
a mother tiger perhaps would snatch her, and take her to her hungry cubs, hidden away in the deep forest, or a bird of prey might swoop down on her and grip her in his terrible claws.
again and again she entreated the mouse to be quick, promising that, if only he would set her at liberty, she would never, never, never forget it or do any harm to her beloved friend.
9. what do you suppose the mouse was thinking all this time?
10. if you had been the mouse, would you have trusted to what the cat said in her misery?
it was not until the moon had set and the light of the dawn had put out that of the stars that the mouse, made any real effort to help the cat.
by this time the hunter who had set the snare came to see if he had caught the cat; and the poor cat, seeing him in the distance, became so wild with terror that she nearly killed herself in the struggle to get away.
"keep still!
keep still," cried the mouse, "and i will really save you."
then with a few quick bites with his sharp teeth he cut through the string, and the next moment the cat was hidden amongst the barley, and the mouse was running off in the opposite direction, determined to keep well out of sight of the creature he had kept in such misery for so many hours.
full well he knew that all the cat's promises would be forgotten, and that she would eat him up if she could catch him.
the owl too flew away, and the lizard went off to hunt flies in the sunshine, and there was not a sign of any of the four inhabitants of the banyan tree when the hunter reached the snare.
he was very much surprised and puzzled to find the string hanging loose in two pieces, and no sign of there having been anything caught in it, except two white hairs lying on the ground close to the trap.
he had a good look round, and then went home without having found out anything.
when the hunter was quite out of sight, the cat came forth from the barley, and hastened back to her beloved home in the banyan tree.
on her way there she spied the mouse also hurrying along in the same direction, and at first she felt inclined to hunt him and eat him then and there.
on second thoughts however she decided to try and keep friends with him, because he might help her again if she got caught a second time.
so she took no notice of the mouse until the next day, when she climbed down the tree and went to the roots in which she knew the mouse was hidden.
there she began to purr as loud as she could, to show the mouse she was in a good humour, and called out, "dear good little mouse, come out of your hole and let me tell you how very, very grateful i am to you for saving my life.
there is nothing in the world i will not do for you, if you will only be friends with me."
the mouse only squeaked in answer to this speech, and took very good care not to show himself, till he was quite sure the cat was gone beyond reach of him.
he stayed quietly in his hole, and only ventured forth after he had heard the cat climb up into the tree again.
"it is all very well," thought the mouse, "to pretend to make friends with an enemy when that enemy is helpless, but i should indeed be a silly mouse to trust a cat when she is free to kill me."
the cat made a good many other efforts to be friends with the mouse, but they were all unsuccessful.
in the end the owl caught the mouse, and the cat killed the lizard.
the owl and the cat both lived for the rest of their lives in the banyan tree, and died in the end at a good old age.
11. do you think it is ever possible to make a real friend of an enemy?
12. what do you think the mouse deserved most praise for in his behaviour?
13. which of the four animals in this story do you like best and which do you dislike most?
14. can an animal be blamed for acting according to its nature?
for instance, can you call it cruel for a cat or an owl to kill and eat a mouse?
15. is it always right to forgive an injury?
16. can you give an example from history of the forgiveness of an injury?
story iii
a royal thief-catcher.
in one of the smaller cities of india called sravasti the people gathered together on a very hot day to stare at and talk about a stranger, who had come in to the town, looking very weary and walking with great difficulty because his feet were sore with tramping for a long distance on the rough roads.
he was a brahman, that is to say, a man who devoted his whole life to prayer, and had promised to give up everything for the sake of pleasing the god in whom he believed, and to care nothing for comfort, for riches, or for good food.
this brahman carried nothing with him but a staff to help him along, and a bowl in which to receive the offerings of those who thought it their duty to help him and hoped by doing so to win favour in the sight of god.
he was naked, except for a cloth worn about his loins, and his long hair was all matted together for want of combing and brushing.
he made his way very slowly and painfully through the crowds, till he came to a shady corner, and there he sank down exhausted, holding out his bowl for the gifts of the people.
very soon his bowl would have been full of all sorts of good things, but he made it clear that he would accept nothing to eat except rice still in the husk, and nothing to drink but pure water.
he was however willing to take money; and when the people who wished to help him found that out, they brought him a good many silver and gold pieces.
some who had no money to spare gave him jewels and other things which could be sold for money.
1. can you explain why the brahman would only accept such food as rice in the husk and water?
2. do you think it was right or wrong of the brahman to take money and jewels?
as time went on, the brahman became very well known in sravasti.
his fame indeed spread far beyond the town, and people came from far away to consult him about all sorts of things, and he gave them good advice, for he was a very wise man.
those who wanted him to tell them what to do paid him for his advice, and as some of them had plenty of money and were glad to help him, he soon became quite rich.
he might have done a great deal of good with all this money by helping the poor and suffering, but unfortunately he never thought of doing so.
instead of that, he got to love the money for its own sake.
at night, when all those who had come to see him had gone to rest, and there was no fear of his being found out, he used to steal away into the forest, and there he dug a deep hole at the root of a great tree, to which he took all his money and jewels.
in india everybody has a siesta, that is to say, a sleep in the middle of the day, because the heat is so great it is difficult to keep well and strong without this extra rest.
so, although it is quite light at the time, the streets are deserted, except for the dogs who prowl about, trying to find something to eat.
now the brahman loved his money and other treasures so much, that he used very often to do without this siesta and go to the forest to enjoy the pleasure of looking at them.
when he got to the tree, he would bend down, clear away the earth and leaves with which he had hidden his secret hole, take out the money and let it slip through his fingers, and hold up the jewels to the light, to watch how they gleamed and glistened.
he was never so happy as when he was alone with his riches, and it was all he could do to tear himself away from them when the time came to go back to his shady corner.
in fact he was becoming a selfish miser instead of the holy man the people of sravasti thought he was.
by the time the siesta was over he was always back again in his place beneath the tree, holding out his bowl and looking as poor and thin as ever, so that nobody had the least idea of the truth.
3. why was it wrong for the brahman to hide away his money and jewels?
4. can anyone be a miser about other things as well as money and jewels?
if so, what other things?
for many months the brahman led this double life; until one day, when he went as usual to his hiding-place, he saw at once that some one had been there before him.
eagerly he knelt down, full of fear of exactly what had actually happened.
all his care in concealing the hole had been wasted, for it was quite empty.
the poor man could not at first believe his own eyes.
he rubbed them hard, thinking that there was something the matter with them.
then he felt round and round the hole, hoping that after all he was mistaken; and when at last he was obliged to believe the terrible truth that there really was not a sign of his money and jewels, he became almost mad with misery.
he began to run from tree to tree, peering into their roots, and when there was nothing to be seen, he rushed back again to his empty hole, to look into it once more.
then he wept and tore at his hair, stamped about and cried aloud to all the gods he believed in, making all kinds of promises, of what he would do if only they would give him back his treasures.
no answer came, and he began to wonder who could have done such a terrible thing.
it must, he felt sure, have been one of the people of sravasti; and he now remembered he had noticed that a good many of them had looked into his bowl with longing eyes, when they saw the money and precious stones in it.
"what horrible, wicked people they are," he said to himself.
"i hate them.
i should like to hurt them as they have hurt me."
as he thought in this way he got more and more angry, until he became quite worn out with giving way to his rage.
5. what would you have done if you had been the brahman when he lost his treasure?
6. is it wrong to be angry when any one has done you an injury?
after roaming about in the forest for a long time, the brahman went back to the house in sravasti where some kind people had lent him a room, glad and proud to have such a holy man, as they thought he was, living under their roof.
he felt sure they had had nothing to do with the loss of his treasure, because they had given him many proofs of their goodness and honesty.
soon he was pouring out all his grief to them, and they did all they could to comfort him, telling him that he would very soon have plenty more money and jewels.
they let him see however that they thought it was mean of him to hide away his riches, instead of using them to help the poor and suffering; and this added very much to his rage.
at last he lost all self-control and cried, "it is not worth while for me to live any longer.
i will go to some holy place of pilgrimage by the banks of the river, and there i will starve myself to death."
a place of pilgrimage, you know, is one where some great event, generally connected with religion, has taken place, to which pilgrims go to pray in the hope of winning some special favour from god.
the word pilgrim means a wanderer, but it has come in course of time to signify any traveller who comes from a distance to some such place.
benares in india is a very famous place of pilgrimage, because it is on the river ganges, which the hindus worship and love, believing that its waters can wash away their sins.
hundreds and thousands of hindus go there every year to bathe in it, and many who know that they have not long to live wait on its banks to die, so that after their bodies have been burnt, as is the custom with the hindus, their ashes may be thrown into the sacred stream.
7. can you name two other places of pilgrimage, one held sacred by christians and one by hindus?
8. will you explain exactly why the two places you have thought of are considered holy?
the news of the brahman's loss spread very quickly through sravasti; and as is so often the case, every one who told the story made it a little different, so that it became very difficult to know what the truth really was.
there was great distress in the town, because the people thought the brahman would go away, and they did not want him to do that.
they were proud of having a man they thought so holy, living amongst them, and ashamed that he should have been robbed whilst he was with them.
when they heard that he meant to starve himself to death, they were dreadfully shocked, and determined to do all they possibly could to prevent it.
one after another of the chief men of sravasti came to see him, and entreated him not to be in such a hurry to be sure that his treasure would never be found.
they said they would all do everything they possibly could to get it back for him.
some of them thought it was very wrong of him to make such a fuss about it, and blamed him for being a miser.
they told him it was foolish to care so much for what he could not take with him when he died, and one specially wise old man gave him a long lecture on the wickedness of taking away the life which had been given to him by god to prepare for that in the other world.
"put the idea of starving yourself out of your head," he said, "and whilst we are seeking your treasure, go on as you did before you lost it.
next time you have any money and jewels, turn them to good account instead of hoarding them up."
9. do you think the brahman was of any real use to the people of sravasti?
10. in what qualities do you think the brahman was wanting when he made up his mind to starve himself to death?
in spite of all that any one could say to him, the brahman was quite determined that he would not live any longer.
he set off to the place of pilgrimage he had chosen, taking no notice of any one he met, but just marching steadily on.
at first a number of people followed him, but by degrees they left off doing so, and soon he was quite alone.
presently however he could not help noticing a man approaching from the direction in which he was going.
very tall, very handsome, very dignified, this man was one whom no one could fail to admire, even if he had been only an ordinary person.
but he was the king of the whole country, whose name was prasnajit; and a little distance behind him were a number of his attendants, waiting to obey his orders.
everybody, even the brahman, loved the king, because he took such a very great interest in his people and was always trying to do them good.
he had heard all about the loss of the money, and was very much vexed that such a thing should have happened in his land.
he had also heard that the brahman meant to kill himself, and this distressed him more than anything else, because he thought it a very wicked and terrible thing to do.
the king stood so exactly in the path of the brahman that it was impossible to pass him by without taking any notice of him, and the unhappy man stood still, hanging down his head and looking very miserable.
without waiting for a moment, prasnajit said to the brahman:
"do not grieve any more.
i will find your treasure for you, and give it back to you; or if i fail to do so i will pay you as much as it was worth out of my own purse: for i cannot bear to think of your killing yourself.
now tell me very carefully where you hid your gold and jewels, and everything about the place, to help me to make sure of it."
the brahman was greatly delighted to hear this, because he knew full well that the king would keep his word, and that, even if his own treasure was never found, he would have plenty of money given to him by the king.
he at once told prasnajit exactly where he had put his store, and offered to take him there.
the king agreed to go with him at once, and he and the brahman went straight away to the big hole in the forest, the attendants following them a little way behind.
11. if you had been the king, how would you have set about finding the treasure?
12. was it a good or a bad thing for the brahman to have secured the help of the king?
after the king had seen the big empty hole, and noticed exactly where it was, and the nearest way to it from the town, he returned to his palace, first telling the brahman to go back to the house he lived in, and wait there till he received a message from him.
he promised to see that he wanted for nothing, and sent one of his attendants to a rich merchant of sravasti, who had already done a good deal for the brahman, to order him to supply the holy man with all he needed.
very glad that after all he was not going to die, the brahman obeyed willingly, and for the next few days he was taken care of by the merchant, who supplied him with plenty of food.
as soon as prasnajit was back in his palace, he pretended that he was taken suddenly ill. his head ached badly, he said, and he could not make out what was the matter with him.
he ordered a proclamation to be sent all round the town, telling all the doctors to come to the palace to see him.
all the doctors in the place at once hastened to obey, each of them hoping that he would be the one to cure the king and win a great reward.
so many were they that the big reception room was full of them, and they all glared at each other so angrily that the attendants kept careful watch lest they should begin to fight.
one at a time they were taken to the king's private room, but very much to their surprise and disappointment he seemed quite well and in no need of help from them.
instead of talking about his own illness, he asked each doctor who his patients were in the town, and what medicines he was giving to them.
of course prasnajit's questions were carefully answered; but the king said nothing more, just waving his hand to shew that the interview was at an end.
then the attendants led the visitor out.
at last however a doctor came, who said something which led the king to keep him longer than he had kept any of the others.
this doctor was a very famous healer who had saved the lives of many of prasnajit's subjects.
he told the king that a merchant named matri-datta was very ill, suffering greatly, but that he hoped to cure him by giving him the juice of a certain plant called nagaballa.
at the time this story was written, doctors in india did not give their patients medicine, or write prescriptions for them to take to chemists to be made up, because there were no chemists in those days, such as there are in all the towns of europe, who keep the materials in stock for making medicines.
a doctor just said to his patient, "you must take the juice of this or that plant"; and the suffering person had to go into the fields or woods to find the plant or else to send a servant to do so.
when the king heard that the doctor had ordered matri-datta to take the juice of the nagaballa plant, he cried "no more doctors need come to see me!"
and after sending away the one who had told him what he wanted to know, he gave orders that matri-datta should be sent for at once.
13. can you guess why the king sent for the doctors?
14. do you think matri-datta had anything to do with stealing the brahman's treasure?
ill and suffering though he was, matri-datta did not dare disobey the king: so he came at once.
as soon as he appeared, prasnajit asked him how he was, and said he was sorry to have to make him leave his home when he was ill, but the matter on which he wished to see him was of very great importance.
then he suddenly added: "when your doctor ordered you to take the juice of the nagaballa plant whom did you send to find it?"
to this matri-datta replied trembling with fear: "my servant, o king, sought it in the forest; and having found it, brought it to me."
"go back and send that servant to me immediately," was the reply; and the merchant hurried away, wondering very much why the king wanted to see the man, and hoping that he himself would not get into disgrace on account of anything he had done to make prasnajit angry.
15. have you any idea why the king wanted the servant sent to him?
16. from what the story tells you so far, do you think prasnajit was a good ruler of his kingdom?
when matri-datta told his servant that he was to go to the palace to see the king, the man was dreadfully frightened, and begged his master not to make him go.
this made matri-datta pretty sure that he had done something wrong and was afraid of being found out.
"go at once," he said, "and whatever you do, speak the truth to the king.
that will be your only chance if you have offended him."
again and again the servant entreated matri-datta not to insist, and when he found it was no good, he asked him at least to come with him to the palace and plead for him with prasnajit.
the merchant knew then for certain that something was seriously wrong, and he consented to go to the palace with his servant, partly out of curiosity and partly out of fear for himself.
when the two got to the palace, the attendants at once led the servant to the presence of the king, but they would not let the master go with him.
directly the servant entered the room and saw the king sitting on his throne, he fell upon his face at the foot of the steps, crying, "mercy!
mercy!"
he was right to be afraid, for prasnajit said to him in a loud voice: "where are the gold and the jewels you took from the hole in the roots of a tree when you went to find the nagaballa plant for your master?"
the servant, who really had taken the money and jewels, was so terrified when he found that the king knew the truth, that he had not a word to say at first, but just remained lying on the ground, trembling all over.
prasnajit too was silent, and the attendants waiting for orders behind the throne looked on, wondering what would happen now.
17. have you guessed what the nagaballa plant had to do with finding out who had stolen the money and jewels?
18. if you had been the king, what punishment would you have ordered for the thief?
when the silence had lasted about ten minutes, the thief raised his head from the ground and looked at the king, who still said not a word.
something in his face however made the wicked servant hope that he would not be punished by death in spite of the great wrong he had done.
the king looked very stern, it is true, but not enraged against him.
so the servant rose to his feet, and clasping his hands together as he held them up to prasnajit, said in a trembling voice: "i will fetch the treasure, i will fetch the treasure."
"go then at once,"
said the king, "and bring it here": and as he said it, there was a beautiful expression in his eyes, which made the thief more sorry for what he had done than he would have been if prasnajit had said, "off with his head!"
or had ordered him to be beaten.
19. what do you think is the best way to make wicked people good?
20. what is the most powerful reason a man or woman or a child can have for trying to be good?
as soon as the king said, "go at once," the servant started to his feet and hastened away, as eager now to restore what he had stolen as he had been to hide it.
he had put it in another hole in the very depths of the forest; and it was a long time before he got back to the palace with it, for it was very heavy.
he had thought the king would send some guards with him, to see that he did not run away, and that they would have helped him to carry the sack full of gold and jewels; but nobody followed him.
it was hard work to drag the heavy load all the way alone; but at last, quite late in the evening, he was back at the palace gates.
the soldiers standing there let him pass without a word, and soon he was once more in the room in which the king had received him.
prasnajit still sat on his throne, and the attendants still waited behind him, when the thief, so tired he could hardly stand, once more lay prostrate at the bottom of the steps leading up to the throne, with the sack beside him.
how his heart did beat as he waited for what the king would say!
it seemed a very long time before prasnajit spoke, though it was only two or three minutes; and when he did, this is what he said, "go back to your home now, and be a thief no more."
very, very thankfully the man obeyed, scarcely able to believe that he was free to go and that he was not to be terribly punished.
never again in the rest of his life did he take what did not belong to him, and he was never tired of telling his children and his friends of the goodness of the king who had forgiven him.
21. do you think it would have been better for the thief to have been punished?
22. what lesson did the thief learn from what had happened to him?
the brahman, who had spent the time of waiting in prayers that his treasure should be given back to him, and was still determined that, if it were not, he would starve himself to death, was full of delight when he heard that it had been found.
he hastened to the palace and was taken before the king, who said to him: "there is your treasure.
take it away, and make a better use of it than before.
if you lose it again, i shall not try to recover it for you."
the brahman, glad as he was to have his money and jewels restored, did not like to be told by the king to make a better use of them.
besides this he wanted to have the thief punished; and he began talking about that, instead of thanking prasnajit and promising to follow his advice.
the king looked at him much as he had looked at the thief and said: "the matter is ended so far as i have anything to do with it:
go in peace."
the brahman, who was accustomed to be honoured by every one from the king on his throne to the beggars in the street, was astonished at the way in which prasnajit spoke to him.
he would have said more, but the king made a sign to his attendants, two of whom dragged the sack to the entrance of the palace and left it there, so that there was nothing for the brahman to do but to take it away with him.
every one who has read this wonderful story would, of courses like to know what became of him after that, but nothing more is told about him.
the magic shoes and staff.
far, far away in a town of india called chinchini, where in days long gone by the ancient gods in whom the people believed are said sometimes to have appeared to those who called upon them for help, there lived three brothers of noble birth, who had never known what it was to want for food, or clothes, or a house to live in.
each was married to a wife he loved, and for many years they were all as happy as the day was long.
presently however a great misfortune in which they all shared befell their native country.
there was no rain for many, many weeks; and this is a very serious thing in a hot country like india, because, when it does not rain for a long time, the ground becomes so parched and hard that nothing can grow in it.
the sun is very much stronger in india than it is in england; and it sent forth its burning rays, drying up all the water in the tanks and changing what had been, a beautiful country, covered with green crops good for food, into a dreary desert, where neither men nor animals could get anything to eat.
the result of this was that there was a terrible famine, in which hundreds of people and animals died, little children being the first to suffer.
now the three brothers, who had none of them any children, got frightened at the state of things, and thought to themselves, "if we do not escape from this dreadful land, we shall die."
they said to each other: "let us flee away from here, and go somewhere where we are sure of being able to get plenty to eat and drink.
we will not take our wives with us; they would only make things worse for us; let us leave them to look after themselves."
1. what do you think of the behaviour of the three brothers?
was there any excuse for their leaving their wives behind them?
2. do you think the wives themselves can have been to blame in any way in the matter?
so the three wives were deserted, and had to manage as best they could without their husbands, who did not even trouble to wish them goodbye.
the wives were at first very sad and lonely, but presently a great joy came to one of them which made the other two very happy as well.
this joy was the birth of a little boy, whose two aunts loved him almost as much as his mother did.
the story does not tell how they all got food whilst the famine was going on, though it is very evident that they were not starved, for the baby boy grew fast and was a strong healthy little fellow.
one night all the three wives had the same dream, a very wonderful one, in which the god siva, who is very much honoured in india, appeared to them.
he told them that, looking down from heaven, he had noticed how tenderly they cared for the new-born baby, and that he wished them to call him putraka.
besides this he astonished them by adding that, as a reward for the unselfish way in which they had behaved, they would find one hundred thousand gold pieces under the little child's pillow every morning, and that one day that little child would be a king.
3. do you think the three women wanted to be rewarded for loving the baby?
4. is it a good thing to have a great deal of money?
the wonderful dream was fulfilled, and the mother and aunts called the boy putraka.
every morning they found the gold pieces under his pillow, and they took care of the money for him, so that when he grew up he was the very richest man in the whole country.
he had a happy childhood and boyhood, his only trouble being that he did not like having never seen his father.
his mother told him about the famine before he was born, and how his father and uncles had gone away and never come back.
he often said, "when i am a man i will find my father and bring him home again."
he used his money to help others, and one of the best things he did was to irrigate the land; that is to say, he made canals into which water was made to flow in times when there was plenty of rain, so that there was no danger of there being another famine, such as that which had driven his father and uncles away.
the country in which he lived became very fruitful; everybody had enough to eat and drink; and putraka was very much loved, especially by the poor and unhappy.
when the king who ruled over the land died, everybody wanted putraka to take his place, and he was chosen at once.
5. will you describe the kind of man you think putraka was?
6. do you know of any other country besides india in which everything depends on irrigation?
one of the other wise things putraka did, when he became king, was to make great friends with his brahman subjects.
brahmans are always very fond of travelling, and putraka thought, if he were good and generous to them, they would talk about him wherever they went, and that perhaps through them his father and uncles would hear about him.
he felt sure that, if they knew he was now a king ruling over their native land, they would want to come back.
he gave the brahmans plenty of money, and told them to try and find his father and uncles.
if they did, they were to say how anxious he was to see them, and promise them everything they wanted, if only they would return.
7. do you think it was wise of putraka to be so anxious to get his father and uncles back, when he knew how selfish they had been in leaving his mother and aunts behind them?
8. can you suggest anything else putraka might have done in the matter?
just what the young king hoped came to pass.
wherever the brahmans went they talked about the country they came from and the wonderful young king who ruled over it.
putraka's father and uncles, who were after all not so very far off, heard the stories about him, and asked the brahmans many questions.
the answers made them very eager to see putraka, but they did not at first realize that he was closely related to them.
only when they heard the name of his mother did they guess the truth.
putraka's father knew, when he deserted his wife, that god was going to give her a child soon; which made it even more wicked of him to leave her.
now, however, he forgot all about that, only thinking how he could make as much use as possible of the son who had become a king.
he wanted to go back at once alone, but the uncles were not going to allow that.
they meant to get all they could out of putraka too; and the three selfish men, who were now quite old, set off together for the land they had left so long ago.
they arrived safely, and made their way to the palace, where they were received, with great rejoicings.
none of the wives, said a word of reproach to, the husbands who had deserted them; and as for putraka, he was so overjoyed at having his father back, that he gave him a beautiful house to live in and a great deal of money.
he was very good to his uncles too, and felt that he had now really nothing left to wish for.
9. do you think putraka showed strength or weakness of character in the way he received the travellers?
10. how do you think the king ought to have behaved to his father and uncles?
the three wives very soon had good reason to wish their husbands had stayed away.
instead of being grateful for all putraka's generosity, they were very unkind and exacting, never pleased with anything; and whatever they had given them, they were always trying to get more.
in fact, they were silly as well as wicked; for they did not realize that this was not the way to make the king love them or wish to keep them with him.
presently they became jealous of putraka, and began to wish to get rid of him.
his father hated to feel that his son was king, whilst he was only one of that king's subjects; and he made up his mind to kill him, hoping that if he could only get rid of him he might rule over the country in his stead.
he thought and thought how best to manage this, and did not at first mean to tell his brothers anything about it; but in the end he decided he had better have them on his side.
so he invited them to go with him to a secret place to talk the matter over.
11. what qualities did putraka's father show in this plot against his son?
12. was there any other way in which the king's father could have gained a share in governing the land?
after many meetings the three wicked men decided that they would pay some one to kill the king, first making the murderer they chose swear that he would never tell who had ordered him to do the terrible deed.
it was not very difficult to find a man bad enough to take money for such an evil purpose, and the next thing to do was to decide where and when the deed was to be done.
putraka had been very well brought up by his mother, and he often went to a beautiful temple near his palace to pray alone.
he would sometimes stop there a long time, winning fresh wisdom and strength to do the work he was trusted with, and praying not only for himself, but for his father, his mother, his aunts and uncles, and for the people he loved so much.
the murderer was told to wait in this temple, and when the young king was absorbed in prayer, to fall suddenly upon him and kill him.
then, when putraka was dead, he was to take his body and bury it far away in the depths of the forest where it could never be found.
at first it seemed likely that this cruel plot would succeed.
to make quite sure, the murderer got two other men as wicked as himself to come and help him, promising to give them a share in the reward.
but the god who had taken care of putraka ever since he was born, did not forget him now.
as the young king prayed, forgetting everything in his earnest pleading for those he loved, he did not see or hear the evil men drawing stealthily close to him.
their arms were uplifted to slay him, and the gleam of the weapons in the light that was always kept burning flashed upon him, when suddenly the heavenly guardian of the temple, who never left it day or night, but was generally invisible, appeared and cast a spell upon the wicked men, whose hands were arrested in the very act to strike.
what a wonderful sight that must have been, when putraka, disturbed in his prayers, looked round and saw the men who had come to kill him, with the shadowy form of the guardian threatening them!
he knew at once that he had been saved from a dreadful death by a messenger from the god he had been worshipping.
as he gazed at the men, the guardian faded away and he was left alone with them.
slowly the spell cast on them was broken, and they dropped their weapons, prostrated themselves, and clasped their hands in an appeal for mercy to the man they had meant to destroy.
putraka looked at them quietly and sadly.
he felt no anger against them, only a great thankfulness for his escape.
he spoke to the men very sternly, asking them why they wished to harm him; and the chief murderer told him who had sent them.
the knowledge that his father wished to kill him shocked and grieved the young long terribly, but he controlled himself even when he learnt the sad truth.
he told the men that he forgave them, for they were not the most to blame; and he made them promise never to betray who had bribed them to kill him.
he then gave them some money and told them to leave him.
13. what do you think the most beautiful incident in this account of the scene in the temple?
14. what do you suppose were the thoughts of the murderers when they left the temple after putraka forgave them?
when putraka was alone, he threw himself upon the ground and wept very bitterly.
he felt that he could never be happy again, never trust anyone again.
he had so loved his father and uncles.
it had been such a joy to him to give them pleasure, and yet they hated him and wished to kill him.
he wondered whether he was himself to blame for what had happened, and began to think he was not worthy to be king, if he could make such a mistake as he now feared he had made in being so generous to those who could have such hard thoughts of him as to want to take his life.
perhaps after all it would be better for his country to have another king.
he did not feel as if he could go back to his palace and meet his father and uncles again.
"what shall i do?
what shall i do?"
he cried, his sobs choking his voice.
never in all his life had he thought it possible to be so miserable as he was now.
everything seemed changed and he felt as if he were himself a different person.
the only thing that comforted him at all was the thought of his mother, whose love had never failed him; but even that was spoiled by the remembrance that it was her husband who had wished to kill him.
she must never know that, for it would break her heart:
yet how could he keep it from her?
then the idea came to him that the best thing he could do would be to go away and never see his own people again.
15. what do you think was wrong in putraka's way of looking at the past?
16. was his idea of leaving his country and his people a sign of weakness or of strength?
in the end the poor young king decided that he would go right away as his father and uncles had done; and his mind being made up, he became more cheerful and began to think he might meet with some interesting adventures in a new country, where nobody knew anything about him.
as soon as it was light, he wandered off into the forest, feeling, it is true, very lonely, but at the same time taking a certain pleasure in being entirely his own master; which a king can never really be, because he has to consider so many other people and to keep so many rules.
after all putraka did not find the forest so very lonely; for he had not gone far in it before his sad thoughts were broken in upon by his coming suddenly to a little clearing, where the trees had been cut down and two strong-looking men were wrestling together, the king watched them for a little while, wondering what they were fighting about.
then he called out, "what are you doing here?
what are you quarrelling about?"
the men were greatly surprised to hear putraka's voice, for they thought that they were quite alone.
they stopped fighting for a minute or two, and one of them said: "we are fighting for three very precious things which were left behind him by our father."
"what are those things?"
asked putraka.
"a bowl, a stick and a pair of shoes," was the reply.
"whoever wins the fight will get them all.
there they lie on the ground."
"well, i never!"
cried the king, laughing as he looked at the things, which seemed to him worth very little.
"i shouldn't trouble to fight about such trifles, if i were you."
"trifles!"
exclaimed one of the men angrily.
"you don't know what you are talking about.
they are worth more than their weight in gold.
whoever gets the bowl will find plenty of food in it whenever he wants it; the owner of the stick has only to write his wishes on the ground with it and he will get them; and whoever puts on the shoes can fly through the air in them to any distance."
17. which of these things would you rather have had?
18. what lesson do you learn from what the men said about the things on the ground?
when putraka heard the wonders which, could be done with what he had thought not worth having, he determined to get possession of the three treasures for himself; not considering that it would he very wrong to take what did not belong to him.
"it seems a pity to fight," he said, "why don't you race for the things, and let whichever wins the race have them?
that banyan tree over there would make a good winning post and i will be the umpire."
instead of guessing what putraka had in his mind, the brothers, who were very simple fellows, said at once: "all right.
we won't fight, we'll race instead, and you can give us the start."
putraka agreed, and directly they were off he lost not a moment, but picked up the bowl and the staff, put on the shoes, and flew straight up into the air with the treasures.
when the brothers came back, disputing about which of them had won, there was not a sign of putraka, the bowl, the stick, or the shoes.
they guessed at once what had happened; and after staring up in the air for a long time, they went home, feeling very much enraged with the man who had cheated them, and ashamed of having been so stupid as to trust him.
19. what do you think of putraka's behaviour in this matter?
20. if you could have had one of the three things putraka stole, which would you have chosen?
on and on flew putraka, full of eager delight in the new power of flight.
how he loved rushing through the air, cleaving it like a bird on the wing!
all he wanted to make him perfectly happy was someone to enjoy his new powers with him.
presently he found himself above a beautiful city with towers and pinnacles and minarets gleaming in the sunshine.
"ah!"
he thought, "that is the place for me.
i will go down there, and see if i can find a nice house to live in, and some people to make friends with, who will not try to kill me or to cheat me, but love me and be grateful to me for any kindness i show them."
as putraka was hovering in the air above the town to which he had taken such a fancy, he noticed a little house which rather pleased him; for though it was poor-looking, there was something cheerful and home-like about it.
down he sped and alighted at the door.
only one poor old woman lived in the house, and when putraka knocked and asked if he might come in, she said "yes" at once.
he gave her some money, and told her he would like to live with her, if she would let him do so.
she was only too glad to consent, for she was very lonely; and the two lived happily together for a long time.
21. do you think that if putraka had flown home on his wonderful shoes, taking his staff and bowl with him, his, father and uncles would still have tried to kill him?
22. how could putraka have prevented them from doing him harm if he had returned to his home?
the old woman grew very fond of putraka, caring for him and waiting on him as if he had been her own son.
she was so anxious that he should be happy that she became afraid he would become tired of living alone with her.
so she said to him one day: "my dear adopted son, you ought to have a wife to keep you company.
i know the very one for you, the only one really worthy of you.
she is a princess, and her name is patala.
she is so very lovely that every man who sees her falls in love with her and wants to carry her off.
so she is most carefully guarded in the top rooms of a great palace, as high as the summits of the loftiest mountains."
when putraka heard this he was all eagerness to see the princess, and at once determined to go forth to seek her.
he was more than ever glad now that he had stolen the shoes, because he knew that they would carry him even to the top of the highest mountains.
23. what qualities did the old woman show when she told putraka about the princess?
24. what faults of character did the young king show when he decided at once to leave the old woman who had been so good to him?
the very evening of the day when putraka heard about the princess, he started on his journey, taking with him his bowl and staff.
the old woman gave him very careful instructions which way to go, and begged him to come back to tell her how he had got on.
he promised he would, thanked her for all she had done for him, and flew away in a great state of excitement.
she watched him till he was quite out of sight, and then went sadly into her lonely home, wondering if she would ever see him again.
it was not long before putraka came in sight of the palace.
it was a beautiful night, and the moon was shining full upon the room in which the princess was asleep.
it was a very big one, with costly furniture and priceless tapestry hung round the walls, and there were doors behind the tapestry leading to other apartments, in some of which the attendants on patala slept, whilst others kept watch lest anyone should intrude upon their mistress.
no one thought of guarding the windows, for they were so high up that only a bird could reach them.
the young king alighted on the ledge of the window of the princess'
room, and looked in.
there, on a golden bed, amongst soft cushions and embroidered coverings, lay the most lovely creature he had ever beheld, so lovely that he fell in love with her at once and gave a loud cry of delight.
this woke the princess, who started up and was about to scream out aloud in her terror at seeing a man looking in at the window, when putraka with the aid of his magic staff made himself invisible.
then, thinking she had been dreaming, patala lay down again, and the king began talking to her in a low voice, telling her he had heard of her beauty and had flown from far away to see her.
he begged her to allow him to show himself to her, and added:
"i will go away again directly afterwards if you wish it."
putraka's voice was so gentle, and it seemed to patala so wonderful that a man could fly and make himself invisible, that she was full of curiosity to see him and find out all about him.
so she gave her consent, and immediately afterwards the young king stood within the room, looking so noble and so handsome that she too fell in love at first sight.
putraka told her all about his life and adventures, which interested her very much.
she was glad, she said, that he was a king; but she would have loved him just as well, whoever he might have been.
after a long talk, patala begged him to leave her for fear her attendants should discover him and tell her father about him.
"my father would never let me marry you," she declared, "unless you were to come with many followers as a king to ask my hand; and how can you do that when you are only a wandering exile?"
25. was there any reason to fear that putraka would be discovered when he could make himself invisible at any moment?
26. what do you think would have been the right thing for putraka and patala to do when they found out that they loved each other?
it was very difficult to persuade putraka to go, but at last he flew away.
every night after that, however, he came to see patala, spending the days sometimes in one place, sometimes in another, and using his magic bowl to supply himself with food.
alas, he forgot all about the dear old woman to whom he owed all his happiness, and she slowly gave up hope of ever seeing him again.
he might quite easily have flown to her cottage and cheered her with his presence; but he was so wrapped up in his love for patala that everything else went out of his head.
this selfishness on his part presently got him into serious trouble, for he became careless about making himself invisible when he flew up to the princess' window.
so that one night he was discovered by a guardian of the palace.
the matter was at once reported to the king, who could not at first believe such a thing was possible.
the man must have seen a big bird, that was all.
the king, however, ordered one of his daughter's ladies to keep watch every night in an ante-room, leaving the door open with the tapestry, in which there was a slit, drawn carefully over it, and to come and tell him in the morning if she had seen or heard anything unusual.
now the lady chosen loved the princess, and, like many of her fellow-attendants, thought it was very cruel of the king to punish his own child for being so beautiful, by shutting her up as he did.
it so happened that the very first night she was on guard, putraka had flown a very, very long way, not noticing where he was going, because he was thinking so earnestly of patala.
when at last he flew in at her window, he was so weary that he sank down on a couch and fell fast asleep.
the princess too was tired, because she had lain awake talking to her lover so many nights running that she had had hardly any rest.
so when the lady peeped through the slit in the tapestry, there, by the light of the night lamp, she saw the young king lying unconscious, whilst the princess also was asleep.
very cautiously the attendant crept to the side of putraka, and took a long, long look at him.
she noticed how handsome he was, and that he was dressed in beautiful clothes.
she especially remarked the turban he wore, because in india the rank to which men belong is shown by the kind of turbans they wear.
"this is no common man," she thought, "but a prince or king in disguise.
what shall i do now?
i will not raise an alarm which might lead to this beautiful young lover being killed and the heart of my dear mistress broken."
27. if you had been the lady who found putraka in patala's room, what would you have done?
28. what could putraka have done to guard against being discovered?
after hesitating a long time, the lady made up her mind that she would only put some mark in the turban of putraka, so that he could be known again, and let him escape that night at least.
so she stole back to her room, fetched a tiny, brooch, and fastened it in the folds of the turban, where the wearer was not likely to notice it himself.
this done, she went back to listen at the door.
it was nearly morning when putraka woke up, very much surprised at finding himself lying on the couch, for he did not remember throwing himself down on it.
starting up, he woke patala, who was terribly frightened, for she expected her ladies to come in any minute to help her to dress.
she entreated putraka to make himself invisible and fly away at once.
he did so; and, as usual, wandered about until the time should come to go back to the palace.
but he still felt too tired to fly, and instead walked about in the town belonging to patala's father.
the lady who had been on guard had half a mind to tell her mistress that her secret was discovered.
but before she could get a chance to do so, she was sent for by the king, who asked her if she had seen or heard anything during the night.
she tried very hard to escape from betraying patala; but she hesitated so much in her answers that the king guessed there was something she wanted to hide, and told her, if she did not reveal the whole truth, he would have her head shaved and send her to prison.
so she told how she had found a handsome man, beautifully dressed, fast asleep in patala's room; but she did not believe her mistress knew anything about it, because she too was asleep.
the king was of course in a terrible rage, and the lady was afraid he would order her to be punished; but he only went on questioning her angrily about what the man was like, so that he might be found and brought before him.
then the lady confessed that she had put the brooch in the turban, comforting herself with the thought that, when the king saw putraka and knew that patala loved him, he might perhaps relent and let them be married.
when the king heard about the brooch, he was greatly pleased; and instead of ordering the lady to be punished, he told her that, when the man who had dared to approach his daughter was found, he would give her a great reward.
he then sent forth hundreds of spies to hunt for the man with a brooch in his turban, and putraka was very soon found, strolling quietly about in the market-place.
he was so taken by surprise that, though he had his staff in his hand and his shoes and bowl in the pocket of his robes, he had no time to write his wishes with the staff, or to put on the shoes, so he was obliged to submit to be dragged to the palace.
he did all he could to persuade those who had found him to let him go, telling them he was a king and would reward them well.
they only laughed at him and dragged him along with them to the palace, where he was at once taken before the king, who was sitting on his throne, surrounded by his court, in a great hall lined with soldiers.
the big windows were wide open; and noticing this, putraka did not feel at all afraid, for he knew he had only to slip on his shoes and fly out of one of the windows, if he could not persuade the king to let him marry patala.
so he stood quietly at the foot of the throne, and looked bravely into the face of his dear one's father.
this only made the king more angry, and he began calling putraka all manner of names and asking him how he dared to enter the room of his daughter.
putraka answered quietly that he loved patala and wished to marry her.
he was himself a king, and would give her all she had been used to.
but it was all no good, for it only made the king more angry.
he rose from his throne, and stretching out his hand, he cried:
"let him be scourged and placed in close confinement!"
then putraka with his staff wrote rapidly on the ground his wish that no one should be able to touch him, and stooping down slipped on his magic shoes.
the king, the courtiers and the soldiers all remained exactly as they were, staring at him in astonishment, as he rose up in the air and flew out of one of the windows.
straight away he sped to the palace of patala and into her room, where she was pacing to and fro in an agony of anxiety about him; for she had heard of his having been taken prisoner and feared that her father would order him to be killed.
29. what do you think would have been the best thing for the king to do when putraka was brought before him?
30. if putraka had not had his shoes with him, how could he have escaped from the king's palace?
great indeed was the delight of patala when her beloved putraka once more flew in at her window; but she was still trembling with fear for him and begged him to go away back to his own land as quickly as possible.
"i will not go without you," replied putraka.
"wrap yourself up warmly, for it is cold flying through the air, and we will go away together, and your cruel father shall never see you again."
patala wept at hearing this, for it seemed terrible to her to have to choose between the father she loved and putraka.
but in the end her lover got his own way, and just as those who were seeking him were heard approaching, he seized his dear one in his arms and flew off with her.
he did not return to his own land even then, but directed his course to the ganges, the grand and beautiful river which the people of india love and worship, calling it their mother ganga.
by the banks of the sacred stream the lovers rested, and with the aid of his magic bowl putraka soon had a good and delicious meal ready, which they both enjoyed very much.
as they ate, they consulted together what they had better do now, and patala, who was as clever as she was beautiful, said:
"would it not be a good thing to build a new city in this lovely place?
you could do it with your marvellous staff, could you not?"
"why, of course, i could," said putraka laughing.
"why didn't i think of it myself?"
very soon a wonderful town rose up, which the young king wished to be as much as possible like the home he had left, only larger and fuller of fine buildings than it.
when the town was made, he wished it to be full of happy inhabitants, with temples in which they might worship, priests to teach them how to be good, markets in which food and all that was needed could be bought, tanks and rivulets full of pure water, soldiers and officers to defend the gates, elephants on which he and his wife could ride, everything in fact that the heart of man or woman could desire.
the first thing putraka and patala did after the rise of their own town, which they named patali-putra [1] after themselves, was to get married in accordance with the rites of their religion; and for many, many years they reigned wisely over their people, who loved them and their children with all their hearts.
amongst the attendants on those children was the old woman who had shown kindness to putraka in his loneliness and trouble.
for when he told patala the story of his life, she reproached him for his neglect of one to whom he owed so much.
she made him feel quite ashamed of himself, and he flew away and brought the dear old lady back with him, to her very great delight.
31. which of the people in this story do you like best?
32. do you think putraka deserved all the happiness which came to him through stealing the wand, the shoes and the bowl?
33. can you suggest any way in which he could have atoned for the wrong he did to the brothers whose property he took?
34. what is the chief lesson to be learnt from this story?
story v
the jewelled arrow.
in the city of vardhamana in india there lived a powerful king named vira-bhuja, who, as was the custom in his native land, had many wives, each of whom had several sons.
of all his wives this king loved best the one named guna-vara, and of all his sons her youngest-born, called sringa-bhuja, was his favourite.
guna-vara was not only very beautiful but very good.
she was so patient that nothing could make her angry, so unselfish that she always thought of others before herself, and so wise that she was able to understand how others were feeling, however different their natures were from her own.
sringa-bhuja, the son of guna-vara, resembled his mother in her beauty and her unselfishness; he was also very strong and very clever, whilst his brothers were quite unlike him.
they wanted to have everything their own way, and they were very jealous indeed of their father's love for him.
they were always trying to do him harm, and though they often quarrelled amongst themselves, they would band together to try and hurt him.
it was very much the same with the king's wives.
they hated guna-vara, because their husband loved her more than he did them, and they constantly came to him with stories they had made up of the wicked things she had done.
amongst other things they told the king that guna-vara did not really love him but cared more for some one else than she did for him.
the most bitter of all against her was the wife called ayasolekha, who was cunning enough to know what sort of tale the king was likely to believe.
the very fact that vira-bhuja loved guna-vara so deeply made him more ready to think that perhaps after all she did not return his affection, and he longed to find out the truth.
so he in his turn made up a story, thinking by its means to find out how she felt for him.
he therefore went one day to her private apartments, and having sent all her attendants away, he told her he had some very sad news for her which he had heard from his chief astrologer.
astrologers, you know, are wise men, who are supposed to be able to read the secrets of the stars, and learn from them things which are hidden from ordinary human beings.
guna-vara therefore did not doubt that what her husband was about to tell her was true, and she listened eagerly, her heart beating very fast in her fear that some trouble was coming to those she loved.
great indeed was her sorrow and surprise, when vira-bhuja went on to say that the astrologer had told him that a terrible misfortune threatened him and his kingdom and the only way to prevent it was to shut guna-vara up in prison for the rest of her life.
the poor queen could hardly believe that she had heard rightly.
she knew she had done no wrong, and could not understand how putting her in prison could help anybody.
she was quite sure that her husband loved her, and no words could have expressed her pain at the thought of being sent away from him and her dear son.
yet she made no resistance, not even asking vira-bhuja to let her see sringa-bhuja again.
she just bowed her beautiful head and said: "be it unto me as my lord wills.
if he wishes my death, i am ready to lay down my life."
this submission made the king feel even more unhappy than before.
he longed to take his wife in his arms and tell her he would never let her go; and perhaps if she had looked at him then, he would have seen all her love for him in her eyes, but she remained perfectly still with bowed head, waiting to hear what her fate was to be.
then the thought entered vira-bhuja's mind: "she is afraid to look at me:
what ayasolekha said was true."
1. can true love suspect the loved one of evil?
2. is true love ever jealous?
so the king summoned his guards and ordered them to take his wife to a strong prison and leave her there.
she went with them without making any resistance, only turning once to look lovingly at her husband as she was led away.
vira-bhuja returned to his own palace and had not been there very long when he got a message from ayasolekha, begging him to give her an interview, for she had something of very great importance to tell him.
the king consented at once, thinking to himself, "perhaps she has found out that what she told me about my dear guna-vara is not true."
great then was his disappointment when the wicked woman told him she had discovered a plot against his life.
the son of guna-vara and some of the chief men of the kingdom, she said, had agreed together to kill him, so that sringa-bhuja might reign in his stead.
she and some of the other wives had overheard conversations between them, and were terrified lest their beloved lord should be hurt.
the young prince, she declared, had had some trouble in persuading the nobles to help him, but he had succeeded at last.
vira-bhuja simply could not believe this story, for he trusted his son as much as he loved him; and he sent the mischief maker away, telling her not to dare to enter his presence again.
for all that he could not get the matter out of his head.
he had sringa-bhuja carefully watched; and as nothing against him was found out, he was beginning to feel more easy in his mind, and even to think of going to see guna-vara in her prison to ask her to confide in him, when something happened which led him to fear that after all his dear son was not true to him.
this was what made him uneasy.
he had a wonderful arrow, set with precious jewels, which had been given to him by a magician, and had the power of hitting without fail whatever it was aimed at from however great a distance.
the very day he had meant to visit his ill-treated wife, he missed this arrow from the place in which he kept it concealed.
this distressed him very much; and after seeking it in vain, he summoned all those who were employed in the palace to his presence, and asked if any of them knew anything about the arrow.
he promised that he would forgive any one who helped him to get it back, even if it were the thief himself; but added that, if it was not found in three days, he would have all the servants beaten until the one who had stolen it confessed.
3. do you think this was the best way to find out who had taken the arrow?
4. how would you have set about learning the truth if you had been the king?
now the fact of the matter was that ayasolekha, who had told the wicked story about guna-vara, knew where the king kept the arrow, had taken it to her private rooms, and had sent for her own sons and those of the other wives, all of whom hated sringa-bhuja, to tell them of a plot to get their brother into disgrace, "you know,"
she said to them, "how much better your father loves sringa-bhuja than he does any of you; and that, when be dies, he will leave the kingdom and all his money to him.
now i will help you to prevent this by getting rid of sringa-bhuja.
"you must have a great shooting match, in which your brother will be delighted to take part, for he is very proud of his skill with the bow and arrow.
on the day of the match, i will send for him and give him the jewelled arrow belonging to your father to shoot with, telling him the king had said i might lend it to him.
your father will then think he stole it and order him to be killed."
the brothers were all delighted at what they thought a very clever scheme, and did just what ayasolekha advised.
when the day came, great crowds assembled to see the shooting at a large target set up near the palace.
the king himself and all his court were watching the scene from the walls, and it was difficult for the guards to keep the course clear.
the brothers, beginning at the eldest, all pretended to try and hit the target; but none of them really wished to succeed, because they thought that, when sringa-bhuja's turn came, as their father's youngest son, he would win the match with the jewelled arrow.
then the king would order him to be brought before him, and he would be condemned to death or imprisonment for life.
now, as very often happens, something no one in the least expected upset the carefully planned plot.
just as sringa-bhuja was about to shoot at the target, a big crane flew on to the ground between him and it, so that it was impossible for him to take proper aim.
the brothers, seeing the bird and anxious to shoot it for themselves, all began to clamour that they should be allowed to shoot again.
nobody made any objection, and sringa-bhuja stood aside, with the jewelled arrow in the bow, waiting to see what they would do, but feeling sure that he would be the one to kill the bird.
brother after brother tried, but the great creature still remained untouched, when a travelling mendicant stepped forward and cried aloud:
"that is no bird, but an evil magician who has taken that form to deceive you all.
if he is not killed before he takes his own form again, he will bring misery and ruin upon this town and the surrounding country."
you know perhaps that mendicants or beggars in india are often holy men whose advice even kings are glad to listen to; so that, when everyone heard what this beggar said, there was great excitement and terror.
for many were the stories told of the misfortunes rakshas or evil magicians had brought on other cities.
the brothers all wanted to try their luck once more, but the beggar checked them, saying:
"no, no.
where is your youngest brother sringa-bhuja?
he alone will be able to save your homes, your wives and your children, from destruction,"
then sringa-bhuja came forward; and as the sun flashed upon the jewels in the stolen arrow, revealing to the watching king that it was his own beloved son who had taken it, the young prince let it fly straight for the bird.
it wounded but did not kill the crane, which flew off with the arrow sticking in its breast, the blood dripping from it in its flight, which became gradually slower and slower.
at the sight of the bird going off with the precious jewelled arrow, the king was filled with rage, and sent orders that sringa-bhuja should be fetched to his presence immediately.
but before the messengers reached him, he had started in pursuit of the bird, guided by the blood-drops on the ground.
5. did the brothers show wisdom in the plot they laid against their brother?
6. what do you think from this story, so far as you have read it, were the chief qualities of sringa-bhuja?
as sringa-bhuja sped along after the crane, the beggar made some strange signs in the air with the staff he used to help him along; and such clouds of dust arose that no one could see in which direction the young prince had gone.
the brothers and ayasolekha were very much dismayed at the way things had turned out, and greatly feared that the king's anger would vent itself on them, now that sringa-bhuja had disappeared.
vira-bhuja did send for them, and asked them many questions; but they all kept the secret of how sringa-bhuja had got the arrow, and promised to do all they could to help to get it back.
again the king thought he would go and see the mother of his dear youngest son; but again something held him back, and poor guna-vara was left alone, no one ever going near her except the gaoler who took her her daily food.
after trying everything possible to find out where sringa-bhuja had gone, the king began to show special favour to another of his sons; and as the months passed by, it seemed as if the young prince and the jewelled arrow were both forgotten.
meanwhile sringa-bhuja travelled on and on in the track of the drops of blood, till he came to the outskirts of a fine forest, through which many beaten paths led to a very great city.
he sat down to rest at the foot of a wide-spreading tree, and was gazing up at the towers and pinnacles of the town, rising far upwards towards the sky, when he had a feeling that he was no longer alone.
he was right:
for, coming slowly along one of the paths, was a lovely young girl, singing softly to herself in a beautiful voice.
her eyes were like those of a young doe, and her features were perfect in their form and expression, reminding sringa-bhuja of his mother, whom he was beginning to fear he would never see again.
when the young girl was quite close to him, he startled her by saying, "can you tell me what is the name of this city?"
"of course, i can," she replied, "for i live in it.
it is called dhuma-pura, and it belongs to my father: he is a great magician named agni-sikha, who loves not strangers.
now tell me who you are and whence you come?"
then sringa-bhuja told the maiden all about himself, and why he was wandering so far from home.
the girl, whose name was rupa-sikha, listened very attentively; and when he came to the shooting of the crane, and how he had followed the bleeding bird in the hope of getting back his father's jewelled arrow, she began to tremble.
"alas, alas!"
she said.
"the bird you shot was my father, who can take any form he chooses.
he returned home but yesterday, and i drew the arrow from his wound and dressed the hurt myself.
he gave me the jewelled arrow to keep, and i will never part with it.
as for you, the sooner you depart the better; for my father never forgives, and he is so powerful that you would have no chance of escape if he knew you were here."
hearing this, sringa-bhuja became very sad, not because he was afraid of agni-sikha, but because he knew that he already loved the fair maiden who stood beside him, and was resolved to make her his wife.
she too felt drawn towards him and did not like to think of his going away.
besides this, she had much to fear from her father, who was as cruel as he was mighty, and had caused the death already of many lovers who had wished to marry her.
she had never cared for any of them, and had been content to live without a husband, spending her life in wandering about near her home and winning the love of all who lived near her, even that of the wild creatures of the forest, who would none of them dream of hurting her.
often and often she stood between the wrath of her father and those he wished to injure; for, wicked as he was, he loved her and wanted her to be happy,
7. do you think that a really wicked man is able to love any one truly?
8. what would have been the best thing for sringa-bhuja to do, when he found out who the bird he had shot really was?
rupa-sikha did not take long to decide what was best for her to do.
she said to the prince, "i will give you back your golden arrow, and you must make all possible haste out of our country before my father discovers you are here."
"no!
no!
no!
a thousand times no!"
cried the prince.
"now i have once seen you, i can never, never leave you.
can you not learn to love me and be my wife?"
then he fell prostrate at her feet, and looked up into her face so lovingly that she could not resist him.
she bent down towards him, and the next moment they were clasped in each other's arms, quite forgetting all the dangers that threatened them.
rupa-sikha was the first to remember her father, and drawing herself away from her lover, she said to him:
"listen to me, and i will tell you what we must do.
my father is a magician, it is true, but i am his daughter, and i inherit some of his powers.
if only you will promise to do exactly as i tell you, i think i may be able to save you, and perhaps even become your wife.
i am the youngest of a large family and my father's favourite.
i will go and tell him that a great and mighty prince, hearing of his wonderful gifts, has come to our land to ask for an interview with him.
then i will tell him that i have seen you, fallen in love with you, and want to marry you.
he will be flattered to think his fame has spread so far, and will want to see you, even if he refuses to let me be your wife.
i will lead you to his presence and leave you with him alone.
if you really love me, you will find the way to win his consent; but you must keep out of his sight till i have prepared the way for you.
come with me now, and i will show you a hiding-place."
rupa-sikha then led the prince far away into the depths of the forest, and showed him a large tree, the wide-spreading branches of which touched the ground, completely hiding the trunk, in which there was an opening large enough for a man to pass through.
steps cut in the inside of the trunk led down to a wide space underground; and there the magician's daughter told her lover to wait for her return.
"before i go," she said, "i will tell you my own password, which will save you from death if you should be discovered.
it is lotus flower; and everyone to whom you say it, will know that you are under my protection."
when rupa-sikha reached the palace she found her father in a very bad humour, because she had not been to ask how the wound in his breast was getting on.
she did her best to make up for her neglect; and when she had dressed the wound very carefully, she prepared a dainty meal for her father with her own hands, waiting upon him herself whilst he ate it.
all this pleased him, and he was in quite an amiable mood when she said to him:
"now i must tell you that i too have had an adventure.
as i was gathering herbs in the forest, i met a man i had never seen before, a tall handsome young fellow looking like a prince, who told me he was seeking the palace of a great and wonderful magician, of whose marvellous deeds he had heard.
who could that magician have been but you, my father?"
she added, "i told him i was your daughter, and he entreated me to ask you to grant him an interview."
agni-sikha listened to all this without answering a word.
he was pleased at this fresh proof that his fame had spread far and wide; but he guessed at once that rupa-sikha had not told him the whole truth.
he waited for her to go on, and as she said no more, he suddenly turned angrily upon her and in a loud voice asked her:
"and what did my daughter answer?"
then rupa-sikha knew that her secret had been discovered.
and rising to her full height, she answered proudly, "i told him i would seek you and ask you to receive him.
and now i will tell you, my father, that i have seen the only man i will ever marry; and if you forbid me to do so, i will take my own life, for i cannot live without him."
"send for the man immediately," cried the magician, "and you shall hear my answer when he appears before me."
"i cannot send," replied rupa-sikha, "for none knows where i have left him; nor will i fetch him till you promise that no evil shall befall him."
at first agni-sikha laughed aloud and declared that he would do no such thing.
but his daughter was as obstinate as he was; and finding that he could not get his own way unless he yielded to her, he said crossly:
"he shall keep his fine head on his shoulders, and leave the palace alive; but that is all i will say."
"but that is not enough," said rupa-sikha.
"say after me, not a hair of his head shall be harmed, and i will treat him as an honoured guest, or your eyes will never rest on him."
at last the magician promised, thinking to himself that he would find some way of disposing of sringa-bhuja, if he did not fancy him for a son-in-law.
the words she wanted to hear were hardly out of her father's mouth before rupa-sikha sped away, as if on the wings of the wind, full of hope that all would be well.
she found her lover anxiously awaiting her, and quickly explained how matters stood.
"you had better say nothing about me to my father at first," she said; "but only talk about him and all you have heard of him.
if only you could get him to like you and want to keep you with him, it would help us very much.
then you could pretend that you must go back to your own land; and rather than allow you to do so, he will be anxious for us to be married and to live here with him."
9. do you think the advice rupa-sikha gave to sringa-bhuja was good?
10. can you suggest anything else she might have done?
sringa-bhuja loved rupa-sikha so much that he was ready to obey her in whatever she asked.
so he at once went with her to the palace.
on every side he saw signs of the strength and power of the magician.
each gate was guarded by tall soldiers in shining armour, who saluted rupa-sikha but scowled fiercely at him.
he knew full well that, if he had tried to pass alone, they would have prevented him from doing so.
at last the two came to the great hall, where the magician was walking backwards and forwards, working himself into a rage at being kept waiting.
directly he looked at the prince, he knew him for the man who had shot the jewelled arrow at him when he had taken the form of a crane, and he determined that he would be revenged.
he was too cunning to let sringa-bhuja guess that he knew him, and pretended to be very glad to see him.
he even went so far as to say that he had long wished to find a prince worthy to wed his youngest and favourite daughter.
"you," he added, "seem to me the very man, young, handsome and to judge from the richness of your dress and jewels able to give my beloved one all she needs."
the prince could hardly believe his ears, and rupa-sikha also was very much surprised.
she guessed however that her father had some evil purpose in what he said, and looked earnestly at sringa-bhuja in the hope of making him understand.
but the prince was so overjoyed at the thought that she was to be his wife that he noticed nothing.
so when agni-sikha added, "i only make one condition: you must promise that you will never disobey my commands, but do whatever i tell you without a moment's hesitation," sringa-bhuja, without waiting to think, said at once, "only give me your daughter and i will serve you in any way you wish."
"that's settled then!"
cried the magician, and he clapped his hands together.
in a moment a number of attendants appeared, and their master ordered them to lead the prince to the best apartments in the palace, to prepare a bath for him, and do everything he asked them.
11. what great mistake did the prince make when he gave this promise?
12. what answer should he have made?
as sringa-bhuja followed the servants, rupa-sikha managed to whisper to him, "beware!
await a message from me!"
when he had bathed and was arraying himself in fresh garments provided by his host, waited on, hand and foot, by servants who treated him with the greatest respect, a messenger arrived, bearing a sealed letter which he reverently handed to the prince.
sringa-bhuja guessed at once from whom it came; and anxious to read it alone, he hastily finished his toilette and dismissed the attendants.
"my beloved," said the letter which was, of course, from rupa-sikha "my father is plotting against you; and very foolish were you to promise you would obey him in all things.
i have ten sisters all exactly like me, all wearing dresses and necklaces which are exact copies of each other, so that few can tell me from the others, soon you will be sent for to the great hall and we shall all be together there.
my father will bid you choose your bride from amongst us; and if you make a mistake all will be over for us.
but i will wear my necklace on my head instead of round my neck, and thus will you know your own true love.
and remember, my dearest, to obey no future command without hearing from me, for i alone am able to outwit my terrible father,"
everything happened exactly as rupa-sikha described.
the prince was sent for by agni-sikha, who, as soon as he appeared, gave him a garland of flowers and told him to place it round the neck of the maiden who was his promised bride.
without a moment's hesitation sringa-bhuja picked out the right sister; and the magician, though inwardly enraged, pretended to be so delighted at this proof of a lover's clear-sightedness that he cried:
"you are the son-in-law for me!
the wedding shall take place to-morrow!"
13. can you understand how it was that the magician did not notice the trick rupa-sikha had played upon him?
14. what fault blinds people to the truth more than any other?
when sringa-bhuja heard what agni-sikha said, he was full of joy; but rupa-sikha knew well that her father did not mean a word of it.
she waited quietly beside her lover, till the magician bade all the sisters but herself leave the hall.
then the magician, with a very wicked look on his face, said:
"before the ceremony there is just one little thing you must do for me, dear son-in-law that is to be.
go outside the town, and near the most westerly tower you will find a team of oxen and a plough awaiting you.
close to them is a pile of three hundred bushels of sesame seed.
this you must sow this very day, or instead of a bridegroom you will be a dead man to-morrow."
great was the dismay of sringa-bhuja when he heard this.
but rupa-sikha whispered to him, "fear not, for i will help you."
sadly the prince left the palace alone, to seek the field outside the city; the guards, who knew he was the accepted lover of their favourite mistress, letting him pass unhindered.
there, sure enough, near the western tower were the oxen, the plough and a great pile of seed.
never before had poor sringa-bhuja had to work for himself, but his great love for rupa-sikha made him determine to do his best.
so he was about to begin to guide the oxen across the field, when, behold, all was suddenly changed.
instead of an unploughed tract of land, covered with weeds, was a field with rows and rows of regular furrows.
the piles of seed were gone, and flocks of birds were gathering in the hope of securing some of it as it lay in the furrows.
as sringa-bhuja was staring in amazement at this beautiful scene, he saw rupa-sikha, looking more lovely than ever, coming towards him.
"not in vain," she said to him, "am i my father's daughter.
i too know how to compel even nature to do my will; but the danger is not over yet.
go quickly back to the palace, and tell agni-sikha that his wishes are fulfilled."
15. can the laws of nature ever really be broken?
16. what is the only way in which man can conquer nature?
the magician was very angry indeed when he heard that the field was ploughed and the seed sown.
he knew at once that some magic had been at work, and suspected that rupa-sikha was the cause of his disappointment.
without a moment's hesitation he said to the prince:
"no sooner were you gone than i decided not to have that seed sown.
go back at once, and pile it up where it was before."
this time sringa-bhuja felt no fear or hesitation, for he was sure of the power and will to help him of his promised bride.
so back he went to the field, and there he found the whole vast space covered with millions and millions of ants, busily collecting the seed and piling it up against the wall of the town.
again rupa-sikha came to cheer him, and again she warned him that their trials were not yet over.
she feared, she said, that her father might prove stronger than herself; for he had many allies at neighbouring courts ready to help him in his evil purposes.
"whatever else he orders you to do, you must see me before you leave the palace.
i will send my faithful messenger to appoint a meeting in some secret place."
agni-sikha was not much surprised when the prince told him that his last order had been obeyed, and thought to himself, "i must get this tiresome fellow out of my domain, where that too clever child of mine will not be able to help him."
"well," he said, "i suppose the wedding must take place to-morrow after all, for i am a man of my word.
we must now set about inviting the guests.
you shall have the pleasure of doing this yourself: then my friends will know beforehand what a handsome young son-in-law i shall have.
the first person to summon to the wedding is my brother dhuma sikha, who has taken up his abode in a deserted temple a few miles from here.
you must ride at once to that temple, rein up your steed opposite it, and cry, 'dhuma sikha, your brother agni-sikha has sent me hither to invite you to witness my marriage with his daughter rupa-sikha to-morrow.
come without delay!'
your message given, ride back to me; and i will tell you what farther tasks you must perform before the happy morrow dawns."
when sringa-bhuja left the palace, he knew not where to seek a horse to bear him on this new errand.
but as he was nearing the gateway by which he had gone forth to sow the field with seed, a handsome boy approached him and said, "if my lord will follow me, i will tell him what to do."
somehow the voice sounded familiar; and when the guards were left far enough behind to be out of hearing, the boy looked up at sringa-bhuja with a smile that revealed rupa-sikha herself.
"come with me," she said; and taking his hand, she led him to a tree beneath which stood a noble horse, richly caparisoned, which pawed the ground and whinnied to its mistress, as she drew near.
"you must ride this horse," said rupa-sikha, "who will obey you if you but whisper in his ear; and you must take earth, water, wood and fire with you, which i will give you.
you must go straight to the temple, and when you have called out your message, turn without a moment's delay, and ride for your life as swiftly as your steed will go, looking behind you all the time.
no guidance will be necessary; for marut that is my horse's name knows well what he has to do."
then rupa-sikha gave sringa-bhuja a bowl of earth, a jar of water, a bundle of thorns and a brazier full of burning charcoal, hanging them by strong thongs upon the front of his saddle so that he could reach them easily.
"my father," she told him, "has given my uncle instructions to kill you, and he will follow you upon his swift arab steed.
when you hear him behind you, fling earth in his path; if that does not stop him, pour out some of the water; and if he still perseveres, scatter the burning charcoal before him."
17. can you discover any hidden meaning in the use of earth, water, thorns and fire, to stop the course of the wicked magician?
18. do you think the prince loved rupa-sikha better than he loved himself?
away went the prince after he had received these instructions; and very soon he found himself opposite the temple, with the images of three of the gods worshipped in india to prove that it had been a sanctuary before the magician took up his abode in it.
directly sringa-bhuja shouted out his message to dhuma-sikha, the wicked dweller in the temple came rushing forth from the gateway, mounted on a huge horse, which seemed to be belching forth flames from its nostrils as it bounded along.
for one terrible moment sringa-bhuja feared that he was lost; but marut, putting forth all his strength, kept a little in advance of the enemy, giving the prince time to scatter earth behind him.
immediately a great mountain rose up, barring the road, and sringa-bhuja felt that he was saved.
he was mistaken: for, as he looked back, he saw dhuma-sikha coming over the top of the mountain.
the next moment the magician was close upon him.
so he emptied his bowl of water: and, behold, a huge river with great waves hid pursuer and pursued from each other.
even this did not stop the mighty arab horse, which swam rapidly across, the rider loudly shouting out orders to the prince to stop.
when the prince heard the hoofs striking on the dry ground behind him again, he threw out the thorns, and a dense wood sprouted up as if by magic, which for a few moments gave fresh hope of safety to sringa-bhuja; for it seemed as if even the powerful magician would be unable to get through it.
he did succeed however; but his clothes were nearly torn off his back, and his horse was bleeding from many wounds made by the cruel thorns.
sringa-bhuja too was getting weary, and remembered that he had only one more chance of checking his relentless enemy.
he could almost feel the breath of the panting steed as it drew near; and with a loud cry to his beloved rupa-sikha, he threw the burning charcoal on the road.
in an instant the grass by the wayside, the trees overshadowing it, and the magic wood which had sprung from the thorns, were alight, burning so fiercely that no living thing could approach them safely.
the wicked magician was beaten at last, and was soon himself fleeing away, as fast as he could, with the flames following after him as if they were eager to consume him.
whether his enemy ever got back to his temple, sringa-bhuja never knew.
exhausted with all he had been through, the young prince was taken back to the palace by the faithful marut, and there he found his dear rupa-sikha awaiting him.
she told him that her father had promised her that, if the prince came back, he would oppose her marriage no longer.
"for," he said, "if he can escape your uncle, he must be more than mortal, and worthy even of my daughter."
"he does not in the least expect to see you again," added rupa-sikha; "and even if he allows us to marry, he will never cease to hate you; for i am quite sure he knows that you shot the jewelled arrow at him when he was in the form of a crane.
if i ever am your wife, he will try to punish you through me.
but have no fear: i shall know how to manage him.
fresh powers have been lately given to me by another uncle whose magic is stronger than that of any of my other relations."
when sringa-bhuja had bathed and rested, he robed himself once more in the garments he had worn the day he first saw rupa-sikha; and together the lovers went to the great hall to seek an interview with agni-sikha.
the magician, who had made quite sure that he had now got rid of the unwelcome suitor for his daughter's hand, could not contain his rage, at seeing him walk in with her as if the two were already wedded.
he stamped about, pouring out abuse, until he had quite exhausted himself, the lovers looking on quietly without speaking.
at last, coming close to them, agni-sikha shouted, in a loud harsh voice:
"so you have not obeyed my orders.
you have not bid my brother to the wedding.
your life is forfeit, and you will die to-morrow instead of marrying rupa-sikha.
describe the temple in which dhuma sikha lives and the appearance of its owner."
then sringa-bhuja gave such an exact account of the temple, naming the gods whose images still adorned it, and of the terrible man riding the noble steed who had pursued him, that the magician was convinced against his will; and knowing that he must keep his word to rupa-sikha, he gave his consent for the preparations for the marriage on the morrow to begin.
19. what is your opinion of the character of agni-sikha?
20. do you think he was at all justified in the way in which he treated his daughter and sringa-bhuja?
the marriage was celebrated the next day with very great pomp; and a beautiful suite of rooms was given to the bride and bridegroom, who could not in spite of this feel safe or happy, because they knew full well that agni-sikha hated them.
the prince soon began to feel home-sick and anxious to introduce his beautiful wife to his own people.
he remembered that he had left his dear mother in prison, and reproached himself for having forgotten her for so long.
so he said to rupa-sikha:
"let us go, beloved, to my native city, vardhamana.
my heart yearns after my dear ones there, and i would fain introduce you to them."
"my lord," replied rupa-sikha, "i will go with you whither you will, were it even to the ends of the earth.
but we must not let my father guess we mean to go; for he would forbid us to leave the country and set spies to watch our every movement.
we will steal away secretly, riding together on my faithful marut and taking with us only what we can carry."
"and my jewelled arrow," said the prince, "that i may give it back to my father and explain to him how i lost it.
then shall i be restored to his favour, and maybe he will forgive my mother also."
"have no fear," answered rupa-sikha: "all will surely go well with us.
forget not that new powers have been given to me, which will save us from my father and aid me to rescue my dear one's mother from her evil fate."
before the dawn broke on the next day, the two set forth unattended, marut seeming to take pride in his double burden and bearing them along so swiftly that they had all but reached the bounds of the country under the dominion of agni-sikha as the sun rose.
just as they thought they were safe from pursuit, they heard a loud rushing noise behind; and looking round, they saw the father of the bride close upon them on his arab steed, with sword uplifted in his hand to strike.
"fear not,"
whispered rupa-sikha to her husband.
"i will show you now what i can do."
and waving her arms to and fro, as she muttered some strange words, she changed herself into an old woman and sringa-bhuja into an old man, whilst marut became a great pile of wood by the road-side.
when the angry father reached the spot, the bride and bridegroom were busily gathering sticks to add to the pile, seemingly too absorbed in their work to take any notice of the angry magician, who shouted out to them:
"have you seen a man and a woman pass along this way?"
the old woman straightened herself, and peering, up into his face, said:
"no; we are too busy over our work to notice anything else."
"and what, pray, are you doing in my wood?"
asked agni-sikha.
"we are helping to collect the fuel for the pyre of the great magician agni-sikha."
answered rupa-sikha.
"do you not know that he died yesterday?"
the hindus of india do not bury but burn the dead; so that it was quite a natural thing for the people of the land over which the magician ruled to collect the materials for the pyre or heap of wood on which his body would be laid to be burnt.
what surprised agni-sikha, and in fact nearly took his breath away, was to be quietly told that he was dead.
he began to think that he was dreaming, and said to himself, "i cannot really be dead without knowing it, so i must be asleep."
and he quietly turned his horse round and rode slowly home again.
this was just what his daughter wanted; and as soon as he was out of sight, she turned herself, her husband and marut, into their natural forms again, laughing merrily, as she did so, at the thought of the ease with which she had got rid of her father.
21. do you think it was clever of rupa-sikha to make up this story?
22. do you think it is better to believe all that you are told or to be more ready to doubt when anything you hear seems to be unusual?
once more the bride and bridegroom set forth on their way, and once more they soon heard agni-sikha coming after them.
for when he got back to his palace, and the servants hastened out to take his horse, he guessed that a trick had been played on him.
he did not even dismount, but just turned his horse's head round and galloped back again.
"if ever," he thought to himself, "i catch those two young people, i'll make them wish they had obeyed me.
yes, they shall suffer for it.
i am not going to stand being defied like this."
this time rupa-sikha contented herself with making her husband and marut invisible, whilst she changed herself into a letter-carrier, hurrying along the road as if not a moment was to be lost.
she took no notice of her father, till he reined up his steed and shouted to her:
"have you seen a man and woman on horseback pass by?"
"no, indeed," she said: "i have a very important letter to deliver, and could think of nothing but making all the haste possible."
"and what is this important letter about?"
asked agni-sikha.
"can you tell me that?"
"oh, yes, i can tell you that," she said.
"but where can you have been, not to have heard the terrible news about the ruler of this land?"
"you can't tell me anything i don't know about him," answered the magician, "for he is my greatest friend."
"then you know that he is dying from a wound he got in a battle with his enemies only yesterday.
i am to take this letter to his brother dhuma-sikha, bidding him come to see him before the end."
again agni-sikha wondered if he were dreaming, or if he were under some strange spell and did not really know who he was?
being able, as he was, to cast spells on other people, he was ready to fancy the same thing had befallen him.
he said nothing when he heard that he was wounded, and was about to turn back again when rupa-sikha said to him:
"as you are on horseback and can get to dhuma-sikha's temple quicker than i can, will you carry the message of his brother's approaching death to him for me, and bid him make all possible haste if he would see him alive?"
this was altogether too much for the magician, who became sure that there was something very wrong about him.
he knew he was not wounded or dying, but he thought he must be ill of fever, fancying he heard what he did not.
he stared fixedly at his daughter, and she stared up at him, half-afraid he might find out who she was, but he never guessed.
"do your own errands," he said at last; and slashing his poor innocent horse with his whip, he wheeled round and dashed home again as fast as he could.
again his servants ran out to receive him, and he gloomily dismounted, telling them to send his chief councillor to him in his private apartments.
shut up with him, he poured out all his troubles, and the councillor advised him to see his physician without any delay, for he felt sure that these strange fancies were caused by illness.
the doctor, when he came, was very much puzzled, but he looked as wise as he could, ordered perfect rest and all manner of disagreeable medicines.
he was very much surprised at the change he noticed in his patient, who, instead of angrily declaring that there was nothing the matter with him, was evidently in a great fright about his health.
he shut himself up for many days, and it was a long time before he got over the shock he had received, and then it was too late for him to be revenged or the lovers.
23. can you explain what casting a spell means?
24. can you give an instance of a spell being cast on any one you have heard of?
having really got rid of agni-sikha, rupa-sikha and her husband were very soon out of his reach and in the country belonging to sringa-bhuja's father, who had bitterly mourned the loss of his favourite son.
when the news was brought to him that two strangers, a handsome young man and a beautiful woman, who appeared to be husband and wife, had entered his capital, he hastened forth to meet them, hoping that perhaps they could give him news of sringa-bhuja.
what was his joy when he recognised his dear son, holding the jewelled arrow, which had led him into such trouble, in his right hand, as he guided marat with his left!
the king flung himself from his horse, and sringa-bhuja, giving the reins to rupa-sikha, also dismounted.
the next moment he was in his father's arms, everything forgotten and forgiven in the happy reunion.
great was the rejoicing over sringa-bhuja's return and hearty was the welcome given to his beautiful bride, who quickly won all hearts but those of the wicked wives and sons who had tried to harm her husband and his mother.
they feared the anger of the king, when he found out how they had deceived him, and they were right to fear.
sringa-bhuja's very first act was to plead for his mother to be set free.
he would not tell any of his adventures, he said, till she could hear them too; and the king, full of remorse for the way he had treated her, went with him to the prison in which she had been shut up all this time.
what was poor guna-vara's joy, when the two entered the place in which she had shed so many tears!
she could not at first believe her eyes or ears, but soon she realised that her sufferings were indeed over.
she could not be quite happy till her beloved husband said he knew she had never loved any one but him.
she had been accused falsely, she said, and she wanted the woman who had told a lie about her to be made to own the truth.
this was done in the presence of the whole court, and when judgment had been passed upon ayasolekha, the brothers of sringa-bhuja were also brought before their father, who charged them with having deceived him.
they too were condemned, and all the culprits would have been taken to prison and shut up for the rest of their lives, if those they had injured had not pleaded for their forgiveness.
guna-vara and her son prostrated themselves at the foot of the throne, and would not rise till they had won pardon for their enemies.
ayasolekha and the brothers were allowed to go free; but sringa-bhuja, though he was the youngest of all the princes, was proclaimed heir to the crown after his father's death.
his brothers, however, never ceased to hate him; and when he came to the throne, they gave him a great deal of trouble.
he had many years of happiness with his wife and parents before that, and never regretted the mistake about the jewelled arrow; since but for it he would, he knew, never have seen his beloved rupa-sikha.
25. what is the chief lesson to be learnt from this story?
26. do yon think it was good for those who had told lies about guna-vara and her son to be forgiven so easily?
27. can you give any instances of good coming out of evil and of evil coming out of what seemed good?
28. do you think rupa-sikha deserved all the happiness that came to her?
story vi
the beetle and the silken thread.
[2]
the strange adventures related in the story of the beetle and the silken thread took place in the town of allahabad, "the city of god,"
so called because it is situated near the point of meeting of the two sacred rivers of india, the ganges, which the hindus lovingly call mother ganga because they believe its waters can wash away their sins, and the jumna, which they consider scarcely less holy.
the ruler of allahabad was a very selfish and hot-tempered raja named surya pratap, signifying "powerful as the sun," who expected everybody to obey him without a moment's delay, and was ready to punish in a very cruel manner those who hesitated to do so.
he would never listen to a word of explanation, or own that he had been mistaken, even when he knew full well that he was in the wrong.
he had a mantri, that is to say, a chief vizier or officer, whom he greatly trusted, and really seemed to be fond of, for he liked to have him always near him.
the vizier was called dhairya-sila, or "the patient one," because he never lost his temper, no matter what provocation he received.
he had a beautiful house, much money and many jewels, carriages to drive about in, noble horses to ride and many servants to wait upon him, all given to him by his master.
but what he loved best of all was his faithful wife, buddhi-mati, or "the sensible one," whom he had chosen for himself, and who would have died for him.
many of the raja's subjects were jealous of dhairya-sila, and constantly brought accusations against him, of none of which his master took any notice, except to punish those who tried to set him against his favourite.
it really seemed as if nothing would ever bring harm to dhairya-sila; but he often told his wife that such good fortune was not likely to last, and that she must be prepared for a change before long.
it turned out that he was right.
for one day surya pratap ordered him to do what he considered would be a shameful deed.
he refused; telling his master that he was wrong to think of such a thing, and entreating him to give up his purpose.
"all your life long," he said, "you will wish you had listened to me; for your conscience will never let you rest!"
on hearing these brave words, surya pratap flew into a terrible rage, summoned his guards, and ordered them to take dhairya-sila outside the city to a very lofty tower, and leave him at the top of it, without shelter from the sun and with nothing to eat or drink.
the guards were at first afraid to touch the vizier, remembering how others had been punished for only speaking against him.
seeing their unwillingness, the raja got more and more angry; but dhairya-sila himself kept quite calm, and said to the soldiers:
"i go with you gladly.
it is for the master to command and for me to obey."
1. what is the best way to learn to keep calm in an emergency?
2. why does too much power have a bad influence on those who have it?
the guards were relieved to find they need not drag the vizier away; for they admired his courage and felt sure that the raja would soon find he could not get on without him.
it might go hardly with them if he suffered harm at their hands.
so they only closed in about him; and holding himself very upright, dhairya-sila walked to the tower as if he were quite glad to go.
in his heart however he knew full well that it would need all his skill to escape with his life.
when her husband did not come home at night, buddhi-mati was very much distressed.
she guessed at once that something had gone wrong, and set forth to try and find out what had happened.
this was easy enough; for as she crept along, with her veil closely held about her lest she should be recognised, she passed groups of people discussing the terrible fate that had befallen the favourite.
she decided that she must wait until midnight, when the streets would be deserted and she could reach the tower unnoticed.
it was almost dark when she got there, but in the dim light of the stars she made out the form of him she loved better than herself, leaning over the edge of the railing at the top.
"is my dear lord still alive?"
she whispered, "and is there anything i can do to help him?"
"you can do everything that is needed to help me," answered dhairya-sila quietly, "if you only obey every direction i give you.
do not for one moment suppose that i am in despair.
i am more powerful even now than my master, who has but shown his weakness by attempting to harm me.
now listen to me.
come to-morrow night at this very hour, bringing with you the following things: first, a beetle; secondly, sixty yards of the finest silk thread, as thin as a spider's web; thirdly, sixty yards of cotton thread, as thin as you can get it, but very strong; fourthly, sixty yards of good stout twine; fifthly, sixty yards of rope, strong enough to carry my weight; and last, but certainly not least, one drop of the purest bees' honey."
3. do you think the vizier thought of all these things before or after he was taken to the tower?
4. what special quality did he display in the way in which he faced his position on the tower?
buddhi-mati listened very attentively to these strange instructions, and began to ask questions about them.
"why do you want the beetle?
why do you want the honey?"
and so on.
but her husband checked her.
"i have no strength to waste in explanations," he said.
"go home in peace, sleep well, and dream of me."
so the anxious wife went meekly away; and early the next day she set to work to obey the orders she had received.
she had some trouble in obtaining fine enough silk, so very, very thin it had to be, like a spider's web; but the cotton, twine and rope were easily bought; and to her surprise she was not asked what she wanted them for.
it took her a good while to choose the beetle.
for though she had a vague kind of idea that the silk, the cotton, twine, and rope, were to help her husband get down from the tower, she could not imagine what share the beetle and the honey were to take.
in the end she chose a very handsome, strong-looking, brilliantly coloured fellow who lived in the garden of her home and whom she knew to be fond of honey.
5. can you guess how the beetle and the honey were to help in saving dhairya-sila?
6. do you think it would have been better if the vizier had told his wife how all the things he asked for were to be used?
all the time buddhi-mati was at work for her husband, she was thinking of him and looking forward to the happy day of his return home.
she had such faith in him that she did not for a moment doubt that he would escape; but she was anxious about the future, feeling sure that the raja would never forgive dhairya-sila for being wiser than himself.
exactly at the time fixed the faithful wife appeared at the foot of the tower, with all the things she had been told to bring with her.
"is all well with my lord?"
she whispered, as she gazed up through the darkness.
"i have the silken thread as fine as gossamer, the cotton thread, the twine, the rope, the beetle and the honey."
"yes," answered dhairya-sila, "all is still well with me.
i have slept well, feeling confident that my dear one would bring all that is needed for my safety; but i dread the great heat of another day, and we must lose no time in getting away from this terrible tower.
now attend most carefully to all i bid you do; and remember not to speak loud, or the sentries posted within hearing will take alarm and drive you away.
first of all, tie the end of the silken thread round the middle of the beetle, leaving all its legs quite free.
then rub the drop of honey on its nose, and put the little creature on the wall, with its nose turned upwards towards me.
it will smell the honey, but will not guess that it carries it itself, and it will crawl upwards in the hope of getting to the hive from which that honey came.
keep the rest of the silk firmly held, and gradually unwind it as the beetle climbs up.
mind you do not let it slip, for my very life depends on that slight link with you."
7. which do you think had the harder task to perform the husband at the top of the tower or the wife at the foot of it?
8. do you think the beetle was likely to imagine it was on the way to a hive of bees when it began to creep up the tower?
buddhi-mati, though her hands shook and her heart beat fast as she realized all that depended on her, kept the silk from becoming entangled; and when it was nearly all unwound, she heard her husband's voice saying to her: "now tie the cotton thread to the end of the silk that you hold, and let it gradually unwind."
she obeyed, fully understanding now what all these preparations were for.
when the little messenger of life reached the top of the tower, dhairya-sila took it up in his hand and very gently unfastened the silken thread from its body.
then he placed the beetle carefully in a fold of his turban, and began to pull the silken thread up very, very slowly, for if it had broken, his wonderful scheme would have come to an end.
presently he had the cotton thread in his fingers, and he broke off the silk, wound it up, and placed it too in his turban.
it had done its duty well, and he would not throw it away.
"half the work is done now," he whispered to his faithful wife.
"you have all but saved me now.
take the twine and tie it to the end of the cotton thread."
very happily buddhi-mati obeyed once more; and soon the cotton thread and twine were also laid aside, and the strong rope tied to the last was being quickly dragged up by the clever vizier, who knew that all fear of death from sunstroke or hunger was over.
when he had all the rope on the tower, he fastened one end of it to the iron railing which ran round the platform on which he stood, and very quickly slid down to the bottom, where his wife was waiting for him, trembling with joy.
9. do you see anything very improbable in the account of what the beetle did?
10. if the beetle had not gone straight up the tower, what do you think would have happened?
after embracing his wife and thanking her for saving him, the vizier said to her: "before we return home, let us give thanks to the great god who helped me in my need by putting into my head the device by which i escaped."
the happy pair then prostrated themselves on the ground, and in fervent words of gratitude expressed their sense of what the god they worshipped had done for them.
"and now,"
said dhairya-sila, "the next thing we have to do is to take the dear little beetle which was the instrument of my rescue back to the place it came from."
and taking off his turban, he showed his wife the tiny creature lying in the soft folds.
buddhi-mati led her husband to the garden where she had found the beetle, and dhairya-sila laid it tenderly on the ground, fetched some food for it, such as he knew it loved, and there left it to take up its old way of life.
the rest of the day he spent quietly in his own home with his wife, keeping out of sight of his servants, lest they should report his return to his master.
"you must never breathe a word to any one of how i escaped," dhairya-sila said, and his wife promised that she never would.
11. when the vizier got this promise, what did he forget which could betray how he got down from the tower, if any one went to look at it?
12. do you think there was any need for the vizier to tell his wife to keep his secret?
all this time the raja was feeling very unhappy, for he thought he had himself caused the death of the one man he could trust.
he was too proud to let anybody know that he missed dhairya-sila, and was longing to send for him from the tower before it was too late.
what then was his relief and surprise when a message was brought to him that the vizier was at the door of the palace and begged for an interview.
"bring him in at once," cried surya pratap.
and the next moment dhairya-sila stood before his master, his hands folded on his breast and his head bent in token of his submission.
the attendants looked on, eager to know how he had got down from the tower, some of them anything but glad to see him back.
the raja took care not to show how delighted he was to see him, and pretending to be angry, he said:
"how dare you come into my presence, and which of my subjects has ventured to help you to escape the death on the tower you so richly deserved?"
"none of your subjects, great and just and glorious ruler," replied dhairya-sila, "but the god who created us both, making you my master and me your humble servant.
it was that god," he went on, "who saved me, knowing that i was indeed guiltless of any crime against you.
i had not been long on the tower when help came to me in the form of a great and noble eagle, which appeared above me, hovering with outspread wings, as if about to swoop down upon me and tear me limb from limb.
i trembled greatly, but i need have had no fear; for instead of harming me, the bird suddenly lifted me up in its talons and, flying rapidly through the air, landed me upon the balcony of my home and disappeared.
great indeed was the joy of my wife at my rescue from what seemed to be certain death; but i tore myself away from her embraces, to come and tell my lord how heaven had interfered to prove my innocence."
fully believing that a miracle had taken place, surya pratap asked no more questions, but at once restored dhairya-sila to his old place as vizier, taking care not again to ill-treat the man he now believed to be under the special care of god.
though he certainly did not deserve it, the vizier prospered greatly all the rest of his life and as time went on he became the real ruler of the kingdom, for the raja depended on his advice in everything.
he grew richer and richer, but he was never really happy again, remembering the lie he had told to the master to whom he owed so much.
buddhi-mati could never understand why he made up the story about the eagle, and constantly urged him to tell the truth.
she thought it was really far more wonderful that a little beetle should have been the means of rescuing him, than that a strong bird should have done so; and she wanted everyone to know what a very clever husband she had.
she kept her promise never to tell anyone what really happened, but the secret came out for all that.
by the time it was known, however, dhairya-sila was so powerful that no one could harm him, and when he died his son took his place as vizier,
13. what lessons can be learnt from this story?
14. what do you think was dhairya-sila's motive for telling the raja the lie about the eagle?
15. what did surya pratap's ready belief in the story show?
16. how do you think the secret the husband and wife kept so well was discovered?
story vii
a crow and his three friends
in the branches of a great tree, in a forest in india, lived a wise old crow in a very comfortable, well-built nest.
his wife was dead, and all his children were getting their own living; so he had nothing to do but to look after himself.
he led a very easy existence, but took a great interest in the affairs of his neighbours.
one day, popping his head over the edge of his home, he saw a fierce-looking man stalking along, carrying a stick in one hand and a net in the other.
"that fellow is up to some mischief, i'll be bound," thought the crow:
"i will keep my eye on him."
the man stopped under the tree, spread the net on the ground; and taking a bag of rice out of his pocket, he scattered the grains amongst the meshes of the net.
then he hid himself behind the trunk of the tree from which the crow was watching, evidently intending to stop there and see what would happen.
the crow felt pretty gore that the stranger had designs against birds, and that the stick had something to do with the matter.
he was quite right; and it was not long before just what he expected came to pass.
a flock of pigeons, led by a specially fine bird who had been chosen king because of his size and the beauty of his plumage, came flying rapidly along, and noticed the white rice, but did not see the net, because it was very much the same colour as the ground.
down swooped the king, and down swept all the other pigeons, eager to enjoy a good meal without any trouble to themselves.
alas, their joy was short lived!
they were all caught in the net and began struggling to escape, beating the air with their wings and uttering loud cries of distress.
the crow and the man behind the tree kept very quiet, watching them; the man with his stick ready to beat the poor helpless birds to death, the crow watching out of mere curiosity.
now a very strange and wonderful thing came to pass.
the king of the pigeons, who had his wits about him, said to the imprisoned birds:
"take the net up in your beaks, all of you spread out your wings at once, and fly straight up into the air as quickly as possible."
1. what special qualities did the king display when he gave these orders to his subjects?
2. can you think of any other advice the king might have given?
in a moment all the pigeons, who were accustomed to obey their leader, did as they were bid; each little bird seized a separate thread of the net in his beak and up, up, up, they all flew, looking very beautiful with the sunlight gleaming on their white wings.
very soon they were out of sight; and the man, who thought he had hit upon a very clever plan, came forth from his hiding-place, very much surprised at what had happened.
he stood gazing up after his vanished net for a little time, and then went away muttering to himself, whilst the wise old crow laughed at him.
when the pigeons had flown some distance, and were beginning to get exhausted, for the net was heavy and they were quite unused to carrying loads, the king bade them rest awhile in a clearing of the forest; and as they all lay on the ground panting for breath, with the cruel net still hampering them, he said:
"what we must do now is to take this horrible net to my old friend hiranya the mouse, who will, i am quite sure, nibble through the strings for me and set us all free.
he lives, as you all know, near the tree where the net was spread, deep underground; but there are many passages leading to his home, and we shall easily find one of the openings.
once there, we will all lift up our voices, and call to him at once, when he will be sure to hear us."
so the weary pigeons took up their burden once more, and sped back whence they had come, greatly to the surprise of the crow, who wondered at their coming back to the very place where misfortune had overtaken them.
he very soon learnt the reason, and got so excited watching what was going on, that he hopped out of his nest and perched upon a branch where he could see better.
presently a great clamour arose, one word being repeated again and again: "hiranya!
hiranya!
hiranya."
"why, that's the name of the mouse who lives down below there!"
thought the crow.
"now, what good can he do?
i know, i know," he added, as he remembered the sharp teeth of hiranya.
"that king of the pigeons is a sensible fellow.
i must make friends with him."
very soon, as the pigeons lay fluttering and struggling outside one of the entrances to hiranya's retreat, the mouse came out.
he didn't even need to be told what was wanted, but at once began to nibble the string, first setting free the king, and then all the rest of the birds.
"a friend in need is a friend indeed," cried the king; "a thousand thousand thanks!"
and away he flew up into the beautiful free air of heaven, followed by the happy pigeons, none of them ever likely to forget the adventure or to pick up food from the ground without a good look at it first.
3. what was the chief virtue displayed by the mouse on this occasion?
4. do you think it is easier to obey than to command?
the mouse did not at once return to his hole when the birds were gone, but went for a little stroll, which brought him to the ground still strewn with rice, which he began to eat with great relish.
"it's an ill wind," he said to himself, "which brings nobody any good.
there's many a good meal for my whole family here."
presently he was joined by the old crow, who had flown down from his perch unnoticed by hiranya, and now addressed him in his croaky voice:
"hiranya," he said, "for that i know is your name, i am called laghupatin and i would gladly have you for a friend.
i have seen all that you did for the pigeons, and have come to the conclusion that you are a mouse of great wisdom, ready to help those who are in trouble, without any thought of yourself."
"you are quite wrong," squeaked hiranya.
"i am not so silly as you make out.
i have no wish to be your friend.
if you were hungry, you wouldn't hesitate to gobble me up.
i don't care for that sort of affection."
with that hiranya whisked away to his hole, pausing at the entrance, when he knew the crow could not get at him, to cry, "you be off to your nest and leave me alone!"
the feelings of the crow were very much hurt at this speech, the more that he knew full well it was not exactly love for the mouse, which had led him to make his offer, but self-interest: for who could tell what difficulties he himself might some day be in, out of which the mouse might help him?
instead of obeying hiranya, and going back to his nest, he hopped to the mouse's hole, and putting his head on one side in what he thought was a very taking manner, he said:
"pray do not misjudge me so.
never would i harm you!
even if i did not wish to have you for a friend, i should not dream of gobbling you up, as you say, however hungry i might be.
surely you are aware that i am a strict vegetarian, and never eat the flesh of other creatures.
at least give me a trial.
let us share a meal together, and talk the matter over."
5. can a friendship be a true one if the motive for it is self-interest?
6. would it have been wise or foolish for the mouse to agree to be friends with the crow?
hiranya, on hearing the last remark of laghupatin, hesitated, and in the end he agreed that he would have supper with the crow that very evening.
"there is plenty of rice here," he said, "which we can eat on the spot.
it would be impossible for you to get into my hole, and i am certainly not disposed to visit you in your nest."
so the two at once began their meal, and before it was over they had become good friends.
not a day passed without a meeting, and when all the rice was eaten up, each of the two would bring something to the feast.
this had gone on for some little time, when the crow, who was fond of adventure and change, said one day to the mouse:
"don't you think we might go somewhere else for a time?
i am rather tired of this bit of the forest, every inch of which we both know well.
i've got another great friend who lives beside a fine river a few miles away, a tortoise named mandharaka; a thoroughly good, trustworthy fellow he is, though rather slow and cautious in his ways.
i should like to introduce you to him.
there are quantities of food suitable for us both where he lives, for it is a very fruitful land.
what do you say to coming with me to pay him a visit?"
"how in the world should i get there?"
answered hiranya.
"it's all very well for you, who can fly.
i can't walk for miles and miles.
for all that i too am sick of this place and would like a change."
"oh, there's no difficulty about that," replied laghupatin.
"i will carry you in my beak, and you will get there without any fatigue at all."
to this hiranya consented, and very early one morning the two friends started off together.
7. is love of change a good or a bad thing?
8. what did hiranya's readiness to let laghupatin carry him show?
after flying along for several hours, the crow began to feel very tired.
he was seized too with a great desire to hear his own voice again.
so he flew to the ground, laid his little companion gently down, and gave vent to a number of hoarse cries, which quite frightened hiranya, who timidly asked him what was the matter.
"nothing whatever," answered laghupatin, "except that you are not quite so light as i thought you were, and that i need a rest; besides which, i am hungry and i expect you are.
we had better stop here for the night, and start again early to-morrow morning."
hiranya readily agreed to this, and after a good meal, which was easily found, the two settled down to sleep, the crow perched in a tree, the mouse hidden amongst its roots.
very early the next day they were off again, and soon arrived at the river, where they were warmly welcomed by the tortoise.
the three had a long talk together, and agreed never to part again.
the tortoise, who had lived a great deal longer than either the mouse or the crow, was a very pleasant companion; and even laghupatin, who was very fond of talking himself, liked to listen to his stories of long ago.
"i wonder," said the tortoise, whose name was mandharaka, to the mouse, "that you are not afraid to travel about as you have done, with your soft little body unprotected by any armour.
look how different it is for me; it is almost impossible for any of the wild creatures who live near this river to hurt me, and they know it full well.
see how thick and strong my armour is.
the claws even of a tiger, a wild cat or an eagle, could not penetrate it.
i am very much afraid, my little friend, that you will be gobbled up some fine day, and laghupatin and i will seek for you in vain."
"of course," said the mouse, "i know the truth of what you say; but i can very easily hide from danger much more easily than you or laghupatin.
a tuft of moss or a few dead leaves are shelter enough for me, but big fellows like you and the crow can be quite easily seen.
nobody saw me when the pigeons were all caught except laghupatin; and i would have kept out of his sight if i had not known that he did not care to eat mice."
in spite of the fears of mandharaka, the mouse and the crow lived as his guests for a long time without any accident; and one day they were suddenly joined by a new companion, a creature as unlike any one of the three friends as could possibly be imagined.
this was a very beautiful deer, who came bounding out of the forest, all eager to escape from the hunters, by whom he had been pursued, but too weary to reach the river, across which he had hoped to be able to swim to safety.
just as he reached the three friends, he fell to the ground, almost crushing the mouse, who darted away in the nick of time.
strange to say, the hunters did not follow the deer; and it was evident that they had not noticed the way he had gone.
the tortoise, the crow and the mouse were all very sorry for the deer, and, as was always the case, the crow was the first to speak.
"whatever has happened to you?"
he asked.
and the deer made answer:
"i thought my last hour had come this time, for the hunters were close upon me; and even now i do not feel safe."
"i'll fly up and take a look 'round," said laghupatin; and off he went to explore, coming back soon, to say he had seen the hunters disappearing a long distance off, going in quite another direction from the river.
gradually the deer was reassured, and lay still where he had fallen; whilst the three friends chatted away to him, telling him of their adventures.
"what you had better do," said the tortoise, "is to join us.
when you have had a good meal, and a drink from the river, you will feel a different creature.
my old friend laghupatin will be the one to keep watch for us all, and warn us of any danger approaching; i will give you the benefit of my long experience; and little hiranya, though he is not likely to be of any use to you, will certainly never do you any harm."
9. is it a good thing to make friends easily?
10. what was the bond of union between the crow, the mouse, the tortoise and the deer?
the deer was so touched by the kind way in which he had been received, that he agreed to stop with the three friends; and for some weeks after his arrival all went well.
each member of the party went his own way during the day-time, but all four met together in the evening, and took it in turns to tell their adventures.
the crow always had the most to say, and was very useful to the deer in warning him of the presence of hunters in the forest.
one beautiful moonlight night the deer did not come back as usual, and the other three became very anxious about him.
the crow flew up to the highest tree near and eagerly sought for some sign of his lost friend, of whom he had grown very fond.
presently he noticed a dark mass by the river-side, just where the deer used to go down to drink every evening.
"that must be he," thought the crow; and very soon he was hovering above the deer, who had been caught in a net and was struggling in vain to get free.
the poor deer was very glad indeed to see the crow, and cried to him in a piteous voice: "be quick, be quick, and help me, before the terrible hunters find me and kill me."
"i can do nothing for you myself," said the crow, "but i know who can.
remember who saved the pigeons!"
and away he flew to fetch little hiranya, who with the tortoise was anxiously awaiting his return.
very soon laghupatin was back by the river-side with the little mouse in his beak; and it did not take long for hiranya, who had been despised by the deer and the tortoise as a feeble little thing, to nibble through the cords and save the life of the animal a hundred times as big as himself.
how happy the deer was when the cruel cords were loosed and he could stretch out his limbs again!
he bounded up, but took great care not to crush the mouse, who had done him such a service.
"never, never, never," he said, "shall i forget what you have done for me.
ask anything in my power, and i will do it."
"i want nothing," said hixanya, "except the joyful thought of having saved you."
by this time the tortoise had crept to the river-bank, and he too was glad that the deer had been saved.
he praised the mouse, and declared that he would never again look down upon him.
then the four started to go back to their usual haunt in the forest; the deer, the crow, and the mouse soon arriving there quite safely, whilst the tortoise, who could only get along very slowly, lagged behind.
now came the time for him to find out that armour was not the only thing needed to save him from danger.
he had not got very far from the riverbank before the cruel hunter who had set the net to catch the deer, came to see if he had succeeded.
great was his rage when he found the net lying on the ground, but not exactly where he had left it.
he guessed at once that some animal had been caught in it and escaped after a long struggle.
he looked carefully about and noticed that the cords had been bitten through here and there.
so he suspected just what had happened, and began to search about for any creature who could have done the mischief.
there was not a sign of the mouse, but the slow-moving tortoise was soon discovered, and pouncing down upon him, the hunter rolled him up in another net he had with him, and carried him off, "it's not much of a prize," said the hunter to himself, "but better than nothing.
i'll have my revenge on the wretched creature anyhow, as i have lost the prey i sought."
11. which of the four friends concerned in this adventure do you admire most?
12. what was the chief mistake made by the tortoise?
when the tortoise in his turn did not come home, the deer, the crow and the mouse were very much concerned.
they talked the matter over together and decided that, however great the risk to themselves, they must go back and see what had become of their friend.
this time the mouse travelled in one of the eats of the deer, from which he peeped forth with his bright eyes, hoping to see the tortoise toiling along in his usual solemn manner; whilst the crow, also on the watch, flew along beside them.
great was the surprise and terror of all three when, as they came out of the forest, they saw the hunter striding along towards them, with the tortoise in the net under his arm.
once more the little mouse showed his wisdom.
without a moment's hesitation he said to the deer: "throw yourself on the ground and pretend to be dead; and you," he added to the crow, "perch on his head and bend over as if you were going to peck out his eyes."
without any idea what hiranya meant by these strange orders, but remembering how he had helped in other dangers, the two did as they were told; the poor deer feeling anything but happy lying still where his enemy was sure to see him, and thereby proving what a noble creature he was.
the hunter did, see him very soon, and thinking to himself, "after all i shall get that deer," he let the tortoise fall, and came striding along as fast as he could.
up jumped the deer without waiting to see what became of the tortoise, and sped away like the wind.
the hunter rushed after him, and the two were soon out of sight.
the tortoise, whose armour had saved him from being hurt by his fall, was indeed pleased when he saw little hiranya running towards him.
"be quick, be quick!"
he cried, "and set me free."
very soon the sharp teeth of the mouse had bitten through the meshes of the net, and before the hunter came back, after trying in vain to catch the deer, the tortoise was safely swimming across the river, leaving the net upon the ground, whilst the crow and the mouse were back in the shelter of the forest.
"there's some magic at work here," said the hunter when, expecting to find the tortoise where he had left him, he discovered that his prisoner had escaped.
"the stupid beast could not have got out alone,"
he added, as he picked up the net and walked off with it.
"but he wasn't worth keeping anyhow."
that evening the four friends met once more, and talked over all they had gone through together.
the deer and the tortoise were full of gratitude to the mouse, and could not say enough in his praise, but the crow was rather sulky, and remarked: "if it had not been for me, neither of you would ever have seen hiranya.
he was my friend before he was yours."
"you are right," said the tortoise, "and you must also remember that it was my armour which saved me from being killed in that terrible fall."
"your armour would not have been of much use to you, if the hunter had been allowed to carry you to his home," said the deer.
"in my opinion you and i both owe our lives entirely to hiranya.
he is small and weak, it is true, but he has better brains than any of the rest of us, and i for one admire him with all my heart.
i am glad i trusted him and obeyed him, when he ordered me to pretend to be dead, for i had not the least idea how that could help the tortoise."
"have it your own way," croaked the crow, "but i keep my own opinion all the same.
but for me you would never have known my dear little hiranya."
in spite of this little dispute the four friends were soon as happy together as before the adventure of the tortoise.
they once more agreed never to part and lived happily together for many years, as they had done ever since they first met.
13. what were the chief differences in the characters of the four friends?
14. are those who are alike or unlike in character more likely to remain friends?
15. how would you describe a true friend?
16. what fault is more likely than any other to lead to loss of friendship?
story viii
a clever thief.
a certain man, named hari-sarman, who lived in a little village in india, where there were no rich people and everyone had to work hard to get his daily bread, got very weary of the life he had to lead.
he had a wife whose name was vidya, and a large family; and even if he had been very industrious it would have been difficult for him to get enough food for them all.
unfortunately he was not a bit industrious, but very lazy, and so was his wife.
neither of them made any attempt to teach their boys and girls to earn their own living; and if the other poor people in the village had not helped them, they would have starved.
hari-sarman used to send his children out in different directions to beg or steal, whilst he and vidya stayed at home doing nothing.
one day he said to his wife: "let us leave this stupid place, and go to some big city where we can pick up a living of some kind.
i will pretend to be a wise man, able to find out secrets; and you can say that you know all about children, having had so many of your own."
vidya gladly agreed to this, and the whole party set out, carrying the few possessions they had with them.
in course of time they came to a big town, and hari-sarman went boldly to the chief house in it, leaving his wife and children outside.
he asked to see the master, and was taken into his presence.
this master was a very rich merchant, owning large estates in the country; but he cannot have been very clever, for he was at once quite taken in by the story hari-sarman told him.
he said that he would find work for him and his wife, and that the children could be sent to a farm he had, in the country, where they could be made very useful.
overjoyed at this, hari-sarman hastened out to tell his wife the good news; and the two were at once received into the grand residence, in which a small room was given to them for their own, whilst the children were taken away to the farm, fall of eager delight at the change from the wretched life they had been leading.
1. would it have been better for hari-sarman and vidya if their neighbours had not helped them?
2. do you think hari-sarman was the only person to blame for his poverty?
soon after the arrival of the husband and wife at the merchant's house, a very important event took place, namely, the marriage of the eldest daughter.
great were the preparations beforehand, in which vidya took her full share, helping in the kitchen to make all manner of delicious dishes, and living in great luxury herself.
for there was no stint in the wealthy home; even the humblest servants were well cared for.
vidya was happier than she had ever been before, now that she had plenty to do and plenty of good food.
she became in fact quite a different creature, and began to wish she had been a better mother to her children.
"when the wedding is over," she thought, "i will go and see how they are getting on."
on the other hand she forgot all about her husband and scarcely ever saw him.
it was all very different with hari-sarman himself.
he had no special duties to perform and nobody seemed to want him.
if he went into the kitchen, the busy servants ordered him to get out of their way; and he was not made welcome by the owner of the house or his guests.
the merchant too forgot all about him, and he felt very lonely and miserable.
he had been thinking to himself how much he would enjoy all the delicious food he would get after the wedding; and now he began to grumble: "i'm starving in the midst of plenty, that's what i am.
something will have to be done to change this horrible state of things."
whilst the preparations for the wedding were going on, vidya never came near her husband, and he lay awake a long time thinking, "what in the world can i do to make the master send for me?"
all of a sudden an idea came into his head.
"i'll steal something valuable, and hide it away; and when everyone is being asked about the loss, the merchant will remember the man who can reveal secrets.
now what can i take that is sure to be missed?
i know, i know!"
and springing out of bed, he hastily dressed himself and crept out of the house.
3. what would you have done if you had been hari-sarman?
4. do you think vidya ever had any real love for her husband?
this was what hari-sarman decided to do.
the merchant had a great many very beautiful horses, which lived in splendid stables and were taken the greatest possible care of.
amongst them was a lovely little arab mare, the special favourite of the bride, who often went to pet it and give it sugar.
"i'll steal that mare and hide it away in the forest,"
said the wicked man to himself.
"then, when every one is hunting for her, the master will remember the man who can reveal secrets and send for me.
ah!
ah!
what a clever fellow i am!
ah the stablemen and grooms are feasting, i know; for i saw them myself when i tried to get hold of my wife.
i can climb through a window that is always left open."
it turned out that he was right.
he met no one on his way to the stables, which ware quite deserted.
he got in easily, opened, the door from inside, and led out the little mare, which made no resistance; she had always been so kindly treated that she was not a bit afraid.
he took the beautiful creature far into the depths of the forest, tied her up there, and got safely back to his own room without being seen.
early the next morning the merchant's daughter, attended by her maidens, went to see her dear little mare, taking with her an extra supply of sugar.
what was her distress when she found the stall empty!
she guessed at once that a thief had got in during the night, and hurried home to tell her father, who was very, very angry with the stablemen who had deserted their posts, and declared they should all be flogged for it.
"but the first thing to do is to get the mare back,"
he said; and he ordered messengers to be sent in every direction, promising a big reward to anyone who brought news of the mare.
vidya of course heard all there was to hear, and at once suspected that hari-sarman had had something to do with the matter.
"i expect he has hidden the mare," she thought to herself, "and means to get the reward for finding it."
so she asked to see the master of the house, and when leave was granted to her she said to him:
"why do you not send for my husband, the man who can reveal secrets, because of the wonderful power that has been given him of seeing what is hidden from others?
many a time has he surprised me by what he has been able to do."
5. do you think vidya had any wish to help hari-sarman for his own sake?
6. is there anything you think she should have done before seeing the master?
on hearing what vidya said, the merchant at once told her to go and fetch her husband.
but to her surprise hari-sarman refused to go back with her.
"you can tell the master what you like," he said, angrily.
"you all forgot me entirely yesterday; and now you want me to help you, you suddenly remember my existence.
i am not going to be at your beck and call or anyone else's."
vidya entreated him to listen to reason, but it was no good.
she had to go back and tell the merchant that he would not come.
instead of being made angry by this, however, the master surprised her by saying:
"your husband is right.
i have treated him badly.
go and tell him i apologise, and will reward him well, if only he will come and help me."
back again went vidya and this time she was more successful.
but though hari-sarman said he would go back with her, he was very sulky and would not answer any of her questions.
she could not understand him, and wished she had not left him to himself for so long.
he behaved very strangely too when the master, who received him very kindly, asked him if he could tell him where the mare was.
"i know," he said, "what a wise and clever man you are."
"it didn't seem much like it yesterday," grumbled hari-sarman.
"nobody took any notice of me then, but now you want something of me, you find out that i am wise and clever.
i am just the same person, that i was yesterday."
"i know, i know," said the merchant, "and i apologise for my neglect; but when a man's daughter is going to be married, it's no wonder some one gets neglected."
7. do yon think hari-sarman was wise to treat his wife and the merchant as he did?
8. if the mare had been found whilst hari-sarman was talking to the master, what effect do you think the discovery would have had upon them both?
hari-sarman now thought it was time to take a different tone.
so he put his hand in his pocket, and brought out a map he had got ready whilst waiting to be sent for, as he had felt sure he would be.
he spread it out before the merchant, and pointed to a dark spot in the midst of many lines crossing each other in a bewildering manner, which he explained were pathways through the forest.
"under a tree, where that dark spot is, you will find the mare," he said.
overjoyed at the good news, the merchant at once sent a trusted servant to test the truth; and when the mare was brought back, nothing seemed too good for the man who had led to her recovery.
at the wedding festivities hari-sarman was treated as an honoured guest, and no longer had he any need to complain of not having food enough.
his wife of course thought he would forgive her now for having neglected him.
but not a bit of it: he still sulked with her, and she could never feel quite sure what the truth was about the mare.
all went well with hari-sarman for a long time.
but presently something happened which seemed likely to get him into very great trouble.
a quantity of gold and many valuable jewels disappeared in the palace of the king of the country; and when the thief could not be discovered, some one told the king the story of the stolen mare, and how a man called hari-sarman, living in the house of a rich merchant in the chief city, had found her when everyone else had failed.
"fetch that man here at once," ordered the king, and very soon hari-sarman was brought before him.
"i hear you are so wise, you can reveal all secrets," said the king.
"now tell me immediately who has stolen the gold and jewels and where they are to be found."
poor hari-sarman did not know what to say or do.
"give me till to-morrow," he replied in a faltering voice; "i must have a little time to think."
"i will not give you a single hour," answered the king.
for seeing the man before him was frightened, he began to suspect he was a deceiver.
"if you do not at once tell me where the gold and jewels are, i will have you flogged until you find your tongue."
hearing this, hari-sarman, though more terrified than ever, saw that his only chance of gaining time to make up some story was to get the king to believe in him.
so he drew himself up and answered:
"the wisest magicians need to employ means to find out the truth.
give me twenty-four hours, and i will name the thieves."
"you are not much of a magician if you cannot find out such a simple thing as i ask of you," said the king.
and turning to the guards, he ordered them to take hari-sarman to prison, and shut him up there without food or drink till he came to his senses.
the man was dragged away, and very soon he found himself alone in a dark and gloomy room from which he saw no hope of escape.
he was in despair and walked up and down, trying in vain to think of some way of escape.
"i shall die here of starvation, unless my wife finds some means of setting me free," he said.
"i wish i had treated her better instead of being so sulky with her."
he tried the bars of the window, but they were very strong: he could not hope to move them.
and he beat against the door, but no notice was taken of that.
9. what lesson does the trouble hari-sarman was in teach?
10. do you think it would have been better for him to tell the king he could not reveal secrets?
when it got quite dark in the prison, hari-sarman began to talk to himself aloud.
"oh," he said, "i wish i had bitten my tongue out before i told that lie about the mare.
it is all my foolish tongue which has got me into this trouble.
tongue!
tongue!"
he went on, "it is all your fault."
now a very strange thing happened.
the money and jewels had been stolen by a man, who had been told where they were by a young servant girl in the palace whose name was jihva, which is the sanskrit word for tongue; and this girl was in a great fright when she heard that a revealer of secrets had been taken before the king.
"he will tell of my share in the matter," she thought, "and i shall get into trouble,"
it so happened that the guard at the prison door was fond of her, as well as the thief who had stolen the money and jewels.
so when all was quiet in the palace, jihva slipped away to see if she could get that guard to let her see the prisoner.
"if i promise to give him part of the money," she thought, "he will undertake not to betray me."
the guard was glad enough when jihva came to talk to him, and he let her listen at the key-hole to what hari-sarman was saying.
just imagine her astonishment when she heard him repeating her name again and again.
"jihva!
jihva!
thou," he cried, "art the cause of this suffering.
why didst thou behave in such a foolish manner, just for the sake of the good things of this life?
never can i forgive thee, jihva, thou wicked, wicked one!"
"oh!
oh!"
cried jihva in an agony of terror, "he knows the truth; he knows that i helped the thief."
and she entreated the guard to let her into the prison that she might plead with hari-sarman.
not to tell the king what she had done.
the man hesitated at first, but in the end she persuaded him to consent by promising him a large reward.
when the key grated in the lock, hari-sarman stopped talking aloud, wondering whether what he had been saying had been overheard by the guard, and half hoping that his wife had got leave to come and see him.
as the door opened and he saw a woman coming in by the light of a lantern held up by the guard, he cried, "vidya my beloved!"
but he soon realized that it was a stranger.
he was indeed surprised and relieved, when jihva suddenly threw herself at his feet and, clinging to his knees, began to weep and moan "oh, most holy man," she cried between her sobs, "who knowest the very secrets of the heart, i have come to confess that it was indeed i, jihva, your humble servant, who aided the thief to take the jewels and the gold and to hide them beneath the big pomegranate tree behind the palace."
"rise," replied hari-sarman, overjoyed at hearing this.
"you have told me nothing that i did not know, for no secret is hidden from me.
what reward will you give me if i save you from the wrath of the king?"
"i will give you all the money i have," said jihva; "and that is not a little."
"that also i knew," said hari-sarman.
"for you have good wages, and many a time you have stolen money that did not belong to you.
go now and fetch it all, and have no fear that i will betray you."
11. what mistakes do you think jihva made in what she said to hari-sarman?
12. what would have been the best thing for her to do when she thought she was found out?
without waiting a moment jihva hurried away to fetch the money; but when she got back with it, the man on guard, who had heard everything that had passed between her and hari-sarman, would not let her in to the prison again till she gave him ten gold pieces.
thinking that hari-sarman really knew exactly how much money she had, jihva was afraid he would be angry when he missed some of it; and again she let out the truth, which he might never have guessed.
for she began at once to say, "i brought all i had, but the man at the door has taken ten pieces."
this did vex hari-sarman very much, and he told her he would let the king know what she had done, unless she fetched the thief who had taken the money and jewels.
"i cannot do that," said jihva, "for he is very far away.
he lives with his brother, indra datta, in the forest beyond the river, more than a day's journey from here."
"i did but try you," said the clever hari-sarman, who now knew who the thief was; "for i can see him where he is at this moment.
now go home and wait there till i send for you."
but jihva, who loved the thief and did not want him to be punished, refused to go until hari-sarman promised that he would not tell the king who the man was or where he lived.
"i would rather," she said, "bear all the punishment than that he should suffer."
even hari-sarman was touched at this, and fearing that if he kept jihva longer, she would be found in the prison by messengers from the king, he promised that no harm should come to her or the thief, and let her go.
very soon after this, messengers came to take hari-sarman once more before the king; who received him very coldly and began at once to threaten him with a terrible punishment, if he did not say who the thief was, and where the gold and jewels were.
even now hari-sarman pretended to be unwilling to speak.
but when he saw that the king would put up with no more delay, he said, "i will lead you to the spot where the treasure is buried, but the name of the thief, though i know it, i will never betray."
the king, who did not really care much who the thief was, so long as he got back his money, lost not a moment, but ordered his attendants to get spades and follow him.
very soon hari-sarman brought them to the pomegranate tree.
and there, sure enough, deep down in the ground, was all that had been lost.
nothing was now too good for hari-sarman: the king was greatly delighted, and heaped riches and honours upon him.
but some of the wise men at the court suspected that he was really a deceiver, and set about trying to find out all they could about him.
they sent for the man who had been on guard at the prison, and asked him many questions.
he did not dare tell the truth, for he knew he would be terribly punished if he let out that jihva had been allowed to see his prisoner; but he hesitated so much that the wise men knew he was not speaking the truth.
one of them, whom the king loved, and trusted very much, whose name was deva-jnanin, said to his master:
"i do not like to see that man, about whom we really know nothing, treated as he is.
he might easily have found out where the treasure was hidden without any special power.
will you not test him in some other way in my presence and that of your chief advisers?"
the king, who was always ready to listen to reason, agreed to this; and after a long consultation with deva-jnanin, he decided on a very clever puzzle with which to try hari-sarman.
a live frog was put into a pitcher; the lid was shut down, and the man who pretended to know everything was brought into the great reception room, where all the wise men of the court were gathered together round the throne, on which sat the king in his royal robes.
deva-jnanin had been chosen by his master to speak for him; and coming forward, he pointed to the small pitcher on the ground, and said: "great as are the honours already bestowed on you, they shall be increased if you can say at once what is in that pitcher."
13. what kind of man do you think the king was from his behaviour to hari-sarman?
14. was it wise or foolish of hari-sarman to remain in the city after his very narrow escape?
hari-sarman thought whan he looked at the pitcher: "alas, alas, it is all over with me now!
never can i find out what is in it.
would that i had left this town with the money i had from jihva before it was too late!"
then he began to mutter to himself, as it was always his habit to do when he was in trouble.
it so happened that, when he was a little boy, his father used to call him frog, and now his thoughts went back to the time when he was a happy innocent child, and he said aloud: "oh, frog, what trouble has come to you!
that pitcher will be the death of you!"
even deva-jnanin was astonished when he heard that; and so were all the other wise men.
the king was delighted to find that after all he had made no mistake; and all the people who had been allowed to come in to see the trial were greatly excited.
shouting for joy the king called hari-sarman to come to the foot of the throne, and told him he would never, never doubt him again.
he should have yet more money, a beautiful house in the country as well as the one he already had in the town, and his children should be brought from the farm to live with him and their mother, who should have lovely dresses and ornaments to wear.
nobody was more surprised than hari-sarman himself.
he guessed, of course, that there was a frog in the pitcher.
and when the king had ended his speech, he said: "one thing i ask in addition to all that has been given me, that i may keep the pitcher in memory of this day, when my truth has been proved once more beyond a doubt."
his request was, of course, granted; and he went off with the pitcher under his arm, full of rejoicing over his narrow escape.
at the same time he was also full of fear for the future.
he knew only too well that it had only been by a lucky chance that he had used the word jihva in his first danger and frog in the second.
he was not likely to get off a third time; and he made up his mind that he would skip away some dark night soon, with all the money and jewels he could carry, and be seen no more where such strange adventures had befallen him.
he did not even tell his wife what he meant to do, but pretended to have forgiven her entirely for the way she had neglected him when he was poor, and to be glad that their children were to be restored to them.
before they came from the farm their father had disappeared, and nobody ever found out what had become of him; but the king let his family keep what had been given to him, and to the end believed he really had been what he had pretended to be.
only deva-jnanin had his doubts; but he kept them to himself, for he thought, "now the man is gone, it really does not matter who or what he was."
15. what is the chief lesson to be learnt from this story?
16. what do you think it was that made hari-sarman think of his boyhood when he was in trouble?
17. do you think he took the pitcher and frog with him when he left the city?
18. do you think there was anything good in the character of hari-sarman?
story ix
the hermit's daughter.
near a town in india called ikshumati, on a beautiful wide river, with trees belonging to a great forest near its banks, there dwelt a holy man named mana kanaka, who spent a great part of his life praying to god.
he had lost his wife when his only child, a lovely girl called kadali-garbha, was only a few months old.
kadali-garbha was a very happy girl, with many friends in the woods round her home, not children like herself, but wild creatures, who knew she would not do them any harm.
they loved her and she loved them.
the birds were so tame that they would eat out of her hand, and the deer used to follow her about in the hope of getting the bread she carried in her pocket for them.
her father taught her all she knew, and that was a great deal; for she could read quite learned books in the ancient language of her native land.
better even than what she found out in those books was what mana kanaka told her about the loving god of all gods who rules the world and all that live in it.
kadali-garbha also learnt a great deal through her friendship with wild animals.
she knew where the birds built their nests, where the baby deer were born, where the squirrels hid their nuts, and what food all the dwellers in the forest liked best.
she helped her father to work in their garden in which all their own food was grown; and she loved to cook the fruit and vegetables for mana kanaka and herself.
her clothes were made of the bark of the trees in the forest, which she herself wove into thin soft material suitable for wearing in a hot climate.
1. what do you think it was which made the animals trust kadali-garbha?
2. could you have been happy in the forest with no other children to play with?
kadali-garbha never even thought about other children, because she had not been used to having them with her.
she was just as happy as the day was long, and never wished for any change.
but when she was about sixteen something happened which quite altered her whole life.
one day her father had gone into the forest to cut wood, and had left her alone.
she had finished tidying the house, and got everything ready for the midday meal, and was sitting at the door of her home, reading to herself, with birds fluttering about her head and a pet doe lying beside her, when she heard the noise of a horse's feet approaching.
she looked up, and there on the other side of the fence was a very handsome young man seated on a great black horse, which he had reined up when he caught sight of her.
he looked at her without speaking, and she looked back at him with her big black eyes full of surprise at his sudden appearance.
she made a beautiful picture, with the green creepers covering the hut behind her, and the doe, which had started up in fear of the horse, pressing against her.
the man was the king of the country, whose name was dridha-varman.
he had been hunting and had got separated from his attendants.
he was very much surprised to find anyone living in the very depths of the forest, and was going to ask the young girl who she was, when kadali-garbha saw her father coming along the path leading to his home.
jumping up, she ran to meet him, glad that he had come; for she had never before seen a young man and was as shy as any of the wild creatures of the woods.
now that mana kanaka was with her, she got over her fright, and felt quite safe, clinging to his arm as he and the king talked together.
3. can you describe just how kadali-garbha felt when she saw the king?
4. do you think it would have been a good or a bad thing for her to live all the rest of her life in the forest?
mana kanaka knew at once that the man on the horse was the king; and a great fear entered his heart when he saw how dridha-varman looked at his beloved only child.
"who are you, and who is that lovely girl?"
asked the king.
and mana kanaka answered, "i am only a humble woodcutter; and this is my only child, whose mother has long been dead."
"her mother must have been a very lovely woman, if her daughter is like her," said the king.
"never before have i seen such perfect beauty."
"her mother," replied mana kanaka, "was indeed what you say; and her soul was as beautiful as the body in which it dwelt all too short a time."
"i would have your daughter for my wife," said the king; "and if you will give her to me, she shall have no wish ungratified.
she shall have servants to wait on her and other young girls to be her companions; beautiful clothes to wear, the best of food to eat, horses and carriages as many as she will, and no work to do with her own hands."
5. if you had been kadali-garbha, what would you have said when you heard all these promises?
6. of all the things the king said she should have, which would you have liked best?
what kadali-garbha did was to cling closely to her father, hiding her face on his arm and whispering, "i will not leave you: do not send me away from you, dear father."
mana kanaka stroked her hair, and said in a gentle voice:
"but, dear child, your father is old, and must leave you soon.
it is a great honour for his little girl to be chosen by the king for his bride.
do not be afraid, but look at him and see how handsome he is and how kind he looks."
then kadali-garbha looked at the king, who smiled at her and looked so charming that her fear began to leave her.
she still clung to her father, but no longer hid her face; and mana kanaka begged kadali-garbha to let him send her away, so that he might talk with the king alone about the wish he had expressed to marry her.
the king consented to this, and kadali-garbha gladly ran away.
but when she reached the door of her home, she looked back, and knew in her heart that she already loved the king and did not want him to go away.
it did not take long for the matter of the marriage to be settled.
for mana kanaka, sad though he was to lose his dear only child, was glad that she should be a queen, and have some one to take care of her when he was gone.
after this first visit to the little house in the forest the king came every day to see kadali-garbha, bringing all kinds of presents for her.
she learnt to love him so much that she became as eager as he was for the wedding to be soon.
when the day was fixed, the king sent several ladies of his court to dress the bride in clothes more beautiful that she had ever dreamt of; and in them she looked more lovely even than the first day her lover had seen her.
now amongst these ladies was a very wise woman who could see what was going to happen; and she knew that there would be troubles for the young queen in the palace, because many would be jealous of her happiness.
she was very much taken with the beautiful innocent girl, and wanted to help her so much that she managed to get her alone for a few minutes, when she said to her: "i want you to promise me something.
it is to take this packet of mustard seeds, hide it in the bosom of your dress, and when you ride to the palace with your husband, strew the seed along the path as you go.
you know how quickly mustard grows.
well, it will spring up soon; and if you want to come home again, you can easily find the way by following the green shoots.
alas, i fear they will not have time to wither before you need their help!"
kadali-garbha laughed when the wise woman talked about trouble coming to her.
she was so happy, she could not believe she would want to come home again so soon.
"my father can come to me when i want him,"
she said.
"i need only tell my dear husband to send for him."
but for all that she took the packet of seeds and hid it in her dress.
7. would you have done as the wise woman told you if you had been the bride?
8. ought kadali-garbha to have told the king about the mustard seed?
after the wedding was over, the king mounted his beautiful horse, and bending down, took his young wife up before him.
holding her close to him with his right arm, he held the reins in his left hand; and away they went, soon leaving all the attendants far behind them, the queen scattering the mustard seed as she had promised to do.
when they arrived at the palace there were great rejoicings, and everybody seemed charmed with the queen, who was full of eager interest in all that she saw.
for several weeks there was nobody in the wide world so happy and light-hearted as the bride.
the king spent many hours a day with her, and was never tired of listening to all she had to tell him about her life in the forest with her father.
every day he gave her some fresh proof of his love, and he never refused to do anything she asked him to do.
but presently a change came.
amongst the ladies of the court there was a beautiful woman, who had hoped to be queen herself, and hated kadali-garbha so much that she made up her mind to get her into disgrace with the king.
she asked first one powerful person and then another to help her; but everybody loved the queen, and the wicked woman began to be afraid that those she had told about her wish to harm her would warn the king.
so she sought about for some one who did not know kadali-garbha, and suddenly remembered a wise woman named asoka-mala, who lived in a cave not far from the town, to whom many people used to go for advice in their difficulties.
she went to this woman one night, and told her a long story in which there was not one word of truth.
the young queen, she said, did not really love the king; and with the help of her father, who was a magician, she meant to poison him.
how could this terrible thing be prevented, she asked; and she promised that if only asoka-mala would help to save dridha-varman, she would give her a great deal of money.
asoka-mala guessed at once that the story was not true, and that it was only because the woman was jealous of the beautiful young queen that she wished to hurt her.
but she loved money very much.
instead therefore of at once refusing to have anything to do with the matter, she said: "bring me fifty gold pieces now, and promise me another fifty when the queen is sent away from the palace, and i will tell you what to do."
the wicked woman promised all this at once.
the very next night she brought the first fifty pieces of gold to the cave, and asoka-mala told her that she must get the barber, who saw the king alone every day, to tell him he had found out a secret about the queen.
"you must tell the barber all you have already told me.
but be very careful to give some proof of your story.
for if you do not do so, you will only have wasted the fifty gold pieces you have already given to me; and, more than that, you will be terribly punished for trying to hurt the queen, whom everybody loves."
9. do you think this plot against kadali-garbha was likely to succeed?
10. can you think of any way in which the wise woman might have helped the queen and also have gained a reward for herself?
the wicked woman went back to the palace, thinking all the way to herself, "how can i get a proof of what is not true?"
at last an idea came into her head.
she knew that the queen loved to wander in the forest, and that she was not afraid of the wild creatures, but seemed to understand their language.
she would tell the barber that kadali-garbha was a witch and knew the secrets of the woods; that she had been seen gathering wild herbs, some of them poisonous, and had been heard muttering strange words to herself as she did so.
early the next morning the cruel woman went to see the barber, and promised him a reward if he would tell the king what she had found out about his wife.
"he won't believe you at first," she said; "but you must go on telling him till he does.
you are clever, enough,"
she added, "to make up something he will believe if what i have thought of is no good."
the barber, who had served the king for many years, would not at first agree to help to make him unhappy.
but he too liked money very much, and in the end he promised to see what he could do if he was well paid for it.
he was, as the wicked woman had said, clever enough; and he knew from long experience just how to talk to his master.
he began by asking the king if he had heard of the lovely woman who was sometimes seen by the woodmen wandering about alone in the forest, with wild creatures following her.
remembering how he had first seen kadali-garbha, dridha-varman at once guessed that she was the lovely woman.
but he did not tell the barber so; for he was so proud of his dear wife's beauty that he liked to hear her praised, and wanted the man to go on talking about her.
he just said: "what is she like?
is she tall or short, fair or dark?"
the barber answered the questions readily.
then he went on to say that it was easy to see that the lady was as clever as she was beautiful; for she knew not only all about animals but also about plants.
"every day," he said, "she gathers quantities of herbs, and i have been told she makes healing medicines of them.
some even go so far as to say she also makes poisons.
but, for my part, i do not believe that; she is too beautiful to be wicked."
the king listened, and a tiny little doubt crept into his mind about his wife.
she had never told him about the herbs she gathered, although she often chattered about her friends in the forest.
perhaps after all it was not kadali-garbha the barber was talking about.
he would ask her if she knew anything about making medicines from herbs.
he did so when they were alone together, and she said at once, "oh, yes!
my father taught me.
but i have never made any since i was married."
"are you sure?"
asked the king; and she answered laughing, "of course, i am: how could i be anything but sure?
i have no need to think of medicine-making, now i am the queen."
dridha-varman said no more at the time.
but he was troubled; and when the barber came again, he began at once to ask about the woman who had been seen in the woods.
the wicked man was delighted, and made up a long story.
he said one of the waiting women had told him of what she had seen.
the woman, he said, had followed the lady home one day, and that home was not far from the palace.
she had seen her bending over a fire above which hung a great sauce-pan full of water, into which she flung some of the herbs she had gathered, singing as she did so, in a strange language.
"could it possibly be," thought the king, "that kadali-garbha had deceived him?
was she perhaps a witch after all?"
he remembered that he really did not know who she was, or who her father was.
he had loved her directly he saw her, just because she was so beautiful.
what was he to do now?
he was quite sure, from the description the barber had given of the woman in the forest, that she was his wife.
he would watch her himself in future, and say nothing to her that would make her think he was doing so.
11. what should the king have done when he heard the barber's story?
12. can you really love anybody truly whom you do not trust?
although the king said nothing to his wife about what the barber had told him, he could not treat her exactly as he did before he heard it, and she very soon began to wonder what she had done to vex him.
the first thing she noticed was that one of the ladies of the court always followed her when she went into the forest.
she did not like this; because she so dearly loved to be alone with the wild creatures, and they did not come to her when any one else was near.
she told the lady to go away, and she pretended to do so; but she only kept a little further off.
and though the queen could no longer see her, she knew she was there, and so did the birds and the deer.
this went on for a little time; and then kadali-garbha asked her husband to tell every one that she was not to be disturbed when she went to see her friends in the forest.
"i am afraid," said the king, "that some harm will come to you.
there are wild beasts in the depths of the wood who might hurt you.
and what should i do if any harm came to my dear one?"
kadali-garbha was grieved when dridha-varman said this, for she knew it was not true; and she looked at him so sadly that he felt ashamed of having doubted her.
all would perhaps have been well even now, if he had told her of the story he had heard about her, because then she could have proved that it was not true.
but he did not do that; he only said, "i cannot let you be alone so far from home.
why not be content with the lovely gardens all round the palace?
if you still wish to go to the woods, i will send one of the game-keepers with you instead of the lady who has been watching you.
then he can protect you if any harmful creature should approach."
"if my lord does not wish me to be alone in the forest," answered the queen, "i will be content with the gardens.
for no birds or animals would come near me if one of their enemies were with me.
but," she added, as her eyes filled with tears, "will not my lord tell me why he no longer trusts his wife, who loves him with all her heart?"
the king was very much touched by what kadali-garbha said, but still could not make up his mind to tell her the truth.
so he only embraced her fondly, and said she was a good little wife to be so ready to obey him.
the queen went away very sadly, wondering to herself what she could do to prove to her dear lord that she loved him as much as ever.
she took care never to go outside the palace gardens, but she longed very much for her old freedom, and began to grow pale and thin.
the wicked woman who had tried to do her harm was very much disappointed that she had only succeeded in making her unhappy; so she went again to asoka-mala, and promised her more money if only she would think of some plan to get the king to send his wife away.
the wise woman considered a long time, and then she said: "you must use the barber again.
he goes from house to house, and he must tell the king that the beautiful woman, who used to roam about in the forest collecting herbs, has been seen there again in the dead of the night, when she could be sure no one would find out what she was doing."
now it so happened that kadali-garbha was often unable to sleep because of her grief that the king did not love her so much as he used to do.
one night she got so tired of lying awake that she got up very quietly, so as not to disturb her husband, and putting on her sari, she went out into the gardens, hoping that the fresh air might help her to sleep.
presently the king too woke up, and finding that his wife was no longer beside him, he became very uneasy, and was about to go and seek her, when she came back.
he asked her where she had been; and she told him exactly what had happened, but she did not explain why she could not sleep.
13. what mistake did the queen make in her treatment of the king?
14. do you think it is more hurtful to yourself and to others to talk too much or too little?
when the barber was shaving the king the next morning, he told him he had heard that people were saying the beautiful woman had been seen again one night, gathering herbs and muttering to herself.
"they talk, my lord," said the man, "of your own name having been on her lips; and those who love and honour you are anxious for your safety.
maybe the woman is indeed a witch, who for some reason of her own will try to poison you."
now dridha-varman remembered that kadali-garbha had left him the night before, "and perhaps," he thought, "at other times when i was asleep."
he could scarcely wait until the barber had finished shaving him, so eager was he to find out the truth.
he hurried to his wife's private room, but she was not there; and her ladies told him she had not been seen by them that day.
this troubled him terribly, and he roused the whole palace to seek her.
messengers were soon hurrying to and fro, but not a trace of her could be found.
dridha-varman was now quite sure that the woman the barber had talked about was kadali-garbha, the wife he had so loved and trusted.
"perhaps," he thought, "she has left poison in my food, and has gone away so as not to see me die."
he would neither eat nor drink, and he ordered all the ladies whose duty it was to wait on the queen to be locked up till she was found.
amongst them was the wicked woman who had done all the mischief because of her jealousy of the beautiful young queen, and very much she wished she had never tried to harm her.
15. where do you suppose the queen had gone?
16. what mistake did the king make when he heard the queen was missing?
in her trouble about the loss of the king's love kadali-garbha longed for her father, for she felt sure he would be able to help her.
so she determined to go to him.
with the aid of the wise woman who had given her the packet of mustard seed, and who had been her best friend at court, she disguised herself as a messenger, and, mounted on a strong little pony, she sped along the path marked out by the young shoots of mustard, reaching her old home in the forest before the night fell.
great indeed was the joy of mana kanaka at the sight of his beloved child, and very soon she had poured out all her sorrow to him.
the hermit was at first very much enraged with his son-in-law for the way in which he had treated kadali-garbha, and declared that he would use all the powers he had to punish him.
"never," he said, "shall he see your dear face again; but i will go to him and call down on him all manner of misfortunes.
you know not, dear child, i have never wished you to know, that i am a magician and can make the very beasts of the field and the winds of heaven obey me.
i know full well who has made this mischief between you and your husband, and i will see that punishment overtakes them."
"no, no, father," cried kadali-garbha; "i will not have any harm done to my dear one, for i love him with all my heart.
all i ask of you is to prove to him that i am innocent of whatever fault he thinks i have committed, and to make him love and trust me again."
it was hard work to persuade mana kanaka to promise not to harm the king, but in the end he yielded.
together the father and daughter rode back to the palace, and together they were brought before dridha-varman, who, in spite of the anger he had felt against his wife, was overjoyed to see her.
when he looked at her clinging to mana kanaka's arm, as she had done the first time they met, all his old love returned, and he would have taken her in his arms and told her so before the whole court, if she had not drawn back.
it was mana kanaka who was the first to speak.
drawing himself up to his full height, and pointing to the king, he charged him with having broken his vow to love and protect his wife.
"you have listened to lying tongues,"
he said, "and i will tell you to whom those tongues belong, that justice may be done to them."
once more kadali-garbha interfered.
"no, father," she said; "let their names be forgotten: only prove to my lord that i am his loving faithful wife, and i will be content."
"i need no proof," cried dridha-varman; "but lest others should follow their evil example, i will have vengeance on the slanderers.
name them, and their doom shall be indeed a terrible one."
then mana kanaka told the king the whole sad story; and when it was ended the wicked woman who had first thought of injuring the queen, and the barber who had helped her, were sent for to hear their doom, which was -to be shut up for the rest of their lives in prison.
this was changed to two years only, because kadali-garbha was generous enough to plead for them.
as for the third person in the plot, the old witch of the cave, not a word was said about her by anybody.
mana kanaka knew well enough what her share in the matter had been; but magicians and witches are careful not to make enemies of each other, and so he held his peace.
dridha-varman was so grateful to his father-in-law for bringing his wife back to him, that he wanted him to stop at court, and said he would give him a very high position there.
but mana kanaka refused every reward, declaring that he loved his little home in the forest better than the grand rooms he might have had in the palace.
"all i wish for," he said, "is my dear child's happiness.
i hope you will never again listen to stories against your wife.
if you do, you may be very sure that i shall hear of it; and next time i know that you have been unkind to her i will punish you as you deserve."
the king was obliged to let mana kanaka go, but after this he took kadali-garbha to see her father in the forest very often.
later, when the queen had some children of her own, their greatest treat was to go to the little home, in the depths of the wood.
they too learnt to love animals, and had a great many pets, but none of those pets were kept in cages.
the tale of johnny town-mouse
new york
1918
to aesop in the shadows
johnny town-mouse was born in a cupboard.
timmy willie was born in a garden.
timmy willie was a little country mouse who went to town by mistake in a hamper.
the gardener sent vegetables to town once a week by carrier; he packed them in a big hamper.
the gardener left the hamper by the garden gate, so that the carrier could pick it up when he passed.
timmy willie crept in through a hole in the wicker-work, and after eating some peas timmy willie fell fast asleep.
he awoke in a fright, while the hamper was being lifted into the carrier's cart.
then there was a jolting, and a clattering of horse's feet; other packages were thrown in; for miles and miles jolt jolt jolt!
and timmy willie trembled amongst the jumbled up vegetables.
at last the cart stopped at a house, where the hamper was taken out, carried in, and set down.
the cook gave the carrier sixpence; the back door banged, and the cart rumbled away.
but there was no quiet; there seemed to be hundreds of carts passing.
dogs barked; boys whistled in the street; the cook laughed, the parlour maid ran up and down-stairs; and a canary sang like a steam engine.
timmy willie, who had lived all his life in a garden, was almost frightened to death.
presently the cook opened the hamper and began to unpack the vegetables.
out sprang the terrified timmy willie.
up jumped the cook on a chair, exclaiming "a mouse!
a mouse!
call the cat!
fetch me the poker, sarah!"
timmy willie did not wait for sarah with the poker; he rushed along the skirting board till he came to a little hole, and in he popped.
he dropped half a foot, and crashed into the middle of a mouse dinner party, breaking three glasses.
"who in the world is this?"
inquired johnny town-mouse.
but after the first exclamation of surprise he instantly recovered his manners.
with the utmost politeness he introduced timmy willie to nine other mice, all with long tails and white neckties.
timmy willie's own tail was insignificant.
johnny town-mouse and his friends noticed it; but they were too well bred to make personal remarks; only one of them asked timmy willie if he had ever been in a trap?
the dinner was of eight courses; not much of anything, but truly elegant.
all the dishes were unknown to timmy willie, who would have been a little afraid of tasting them; only he was very hungry, and very anxious to behave with company manners.
the continual noise upstairs made him so nervous, that he dropped a plate.
"never mind, they don't belong to us," said johnny.
"why don't those youngsters come back with the dessert?"
it should be explained that two young mice, who were waiting on the others, went skirmishing upstairs to the kitchen between courses.
several times they had come tumbling in, squeaking and laughing; timmy willie learnt with horror that they were being chased by the cat.
his appetite failed, he felt faint.
"try some jelly?"
said johnny town-mouse.
"no?
would you rather go to bed?
i will show you a most comfortable sofa pillow."
the sofa pillow had a hole in it.
johnny town-mouse quite honestly recommended it as the best bed, kept exclusively for visitors.
but the sofa smelt of cat.
timmy willie preferred to spend a miserable night under the fender.
it was just the same next day.
an excellent breakfast was provided for mice accustomed to eat bacon; but timmy willie had been reared on roots and salad.
johnny town-mouse and his friends racketted about under the floors, and came boldly out all over the house in the evening.
one particularly loud crash had been caused by sarah tumbling downstairs with the tea-tray; there were crumbs and sugar and smears of jam to be collected, in spite of the cat.
timmy willie longed to be at home in his peaceful nest in a sunny bank.
the food disagreed with him; the noise prevented him from sleeping.
in a few days he grew so thin that johnny town-mouse noticed it, and questioned him.
he listened to timmy willie's story and inquired about the garden.
"it sounds rather a dull place?
what do you do when it rains?"
"when it rains, i sit in my little sandy burrow and shell corn and seeds from my autumn store.
i peep out at the throstles and blackbirds on the lawn, and my friend cock robin.
and when the sun comes out again, you should see my garden and the flowers roses and pinks and pansies no noise except the birds and bees, and the lambs in the meadows."
"there goes that cat again!"
exclaimed johnny town-mouse.
when they had taken refuge in the coal-cellar he resumed the conversation; "i confess i am a little disappointed; we have endeavoured to entertain you, timothy william."
"oh yes, yes, you have been most kind; but i do feel so ill," said timmy willie.
"it may be that your teeth and digestion are unaccustomed to our food; perhaps it might be wiser for you to return in the hamper."
"oh?
oh!"
cried timmy willie.
"why of course for the matter of that we could have sent you back last week," said johnny rather huffily "did you not know that the hamper goes back empty on saturdays?"
so timmy willie said good-bye to his new friends, and hid in the hamper with a crumb of cake and a withered cabbage leaf; and after much jolting, he was set down safely in his own garden.
sometimes on saturdays he went to look at the hamper lying by the gate, but he knew better than to get in again.
and nobody got out, though johnny town-mouse had half promised a visit.
the winter passed; the sun came out again; timmy willie sat by his burrow warming his little fur coat and sniffing the smell of violets and spring grass.
he had nearly forgotten his visit to town.
when up the sandy path all spick and span with a brown leather bag came johnny town-mouse!
timmy willie received him with open arms.
"you have come at the best of all the year, we will have herb pudding and sit in the sun."
"h'm'm!
it is a little damp," said johnny town-mouse, who was carrying his tail under his arm, out of the mud.
"what is that fearful noise?"
he started violently.
"that?"
said timmy willie, "that is only a cow; i will beg a little milk, they are quite harmless, unless they happen to lie down upon you.
how are all our friends?"
johnny's account was rather middling.
he explained why he was paying his visit so early in the season; the family had gone to the sea-side for easter; the cook was doing spring cleaning, on board wages, with particular instructions to clear out the mice.
there were four kittens, and the cat had killed the canary.
"they say we did it; but i know better," said johnny town-mouse.
"whatever is that fearful racket?"
"that is only the lawn-mower; i will fetch some of the grass clippings presently to make your bed.
i am sure you had better settle in the country, johnny."
"h'm'm we shall see by tuesday week; the hamper is stopped while they are at the sea-side."
"i am sure you will never want to live in town again," said timmy willie.
but he did.
he went back in the very next hamper of vegetables; he said it was too quiet!
!
one place suits one person, another place suits another person.
for my part i prefer to live in the country, like timmy willie.
the little red hen
a little red hen lived in a barnyard.
she spent almost all of her time walking about the barnyard in her picketty-pecketty fashion, scratching everywhere for worms.
she dearly loved fat, delicious worms and felt they were absolutely necessary to the health of her children.
as often as she found a worm she would call "chuck-chuck-chuck!"
to her chickies.
when they were gathered about her, she would distribute choice morsels of her tid-bit.
a busy little body was she!
a cat usually napped lazily in the barn door, not even bothering herself to scare the rat who ran here and there as he pleased.
and as for the pig who lived in the sty he did not care what happened so long as he could eat and grow fat.
one day the little red hen found a seed.
it was a wheat seed, but the little red hen was so accustomed to bugs and worms that she supposed this to be some new and perhaps very delicious kind of meat.
she bit it gently and found that it resembled a worm in no way whatsoever as to taste although because it was long and slender, a little red hen might easily be fooled by its appearance.
carrying it about, she made many inquiries as to what it might be.
she found it was a wheat seed and that, if planted, it would grow up and when ripe it could be made into flour and then into bread.
when she discovered that, she knew it ought to be planted.
she was so busy hunting food for herself and her family that, naturally, she thought she ought not to take time to plant it.
so she thought of the pig upon whom time must hang heavily and of the cat who had nothing to do, and of the great fat rat with his idle hours, and she called loudly:
"who will plant the seed?"
but the pig said, "not i," and the cat said, "not i," and the rat said, "not i."
"well, then," said the little red hen, "i will."
and she did.
then she went on with her daily duties through the long summer days, scratching for worms and feeding her chicks, while the pig grew fat, and the cat grew fat, and the rat grew fat, and the wheat grew tall and ready for harvest.
so one day the little red hen chanced to notice how large the wheat was and that the grain was ripe, so she ran about calling briskly:
"who will cut the wheat?"
the pig said, "not i," the cat said, "not i," and the rat said, "not i."
"well, then," said the little red hen, "i will."
and she did.
she got the sickle from among the farmer's tools in the barn and proceeded to cut off all of the big plant of wheat.
on the ground lay the nicely cut wheat, ready to be gathered and threshed, but the newest and yellowest and downiest of mrs. hen's chicks set up a "peep-peep-peeping" in their most vigorous fashion, proclaiming to the world at large, but most particularly to their mother, that she was neglecting them.
poor little red hen!
she felt quite bewildered and hardly knew where to turn.
her attention was sorely divided between her duty to her children and her duty to the wheat, for which she felt responsible.
so, again, in a very hopeful tone, she called out, "who will thresh the wheat?"
but the pig, with a grunt, said, "not i,"
and the cat, with a meow, said, "not i," and the rat, with a squeak, said, "not i."
so the little red hen, looking, it must be admitted, rather discouraged, said, "well, i will, then."
and she did.
of course, she had to feed her babies first, though, and when she had gotten them all to sleep for their afternoon nap, she went out and threshed the wheat.
then she called out: "who will carry the wheat to the mill to be ground?"
turning their backs with snippy glee, that pig said, "not i,"
and that cat said, "not i," and that rat said, "not i."
so the good little red hen could do nothing but say, "i will then."
and she did.
carrying the sack of wheat, she trudged off to the distant mill.
there she ordered the wheat ground into beautiful white flour.
when the miller brought her the flour she walked slowly back all the way to her own barnyard in her own picketty-pecketty fashion.
she even managed, in spite of her load, to catch a nice juicy worm now and then and had one left for the babies when she reached them.
those cunning little fluff-balls were so glad to see their mother.
for the first time, they really appreciated her.after this really strenuous day mrs. hen retired to her slumbers earlier than usual indeed, before the colors came into the sky to herald the setting of the sun, her usual bedtime hour.
she would have liked to sleep late in the morning, but her chicks, joining in the morning chorus of the hen yard, drove away all hopes of such a luxury.
even as she sleepily half opened one eye, the thought came to her that to-day that wheat must, somehow, be made into bread.
she was not in the habit of making bread, although, of course, anyone can make it if he or she follows the recipe with care, and she knew perfectly well that she could do it if necessary.
so after her children were fed and made sweet and fresh for the day, she hunted up the pig, the cat and the rat.
still confident that they would surely help her some day she sang out, "who will make the bread?"
alas for the little red hen!
once more her hopes were dashed!
for the pig said, "not i,"the cat said, "not i," and the rat said, "not i."
so the little red hen said once more, "i will then," and she did.
feeling that she might have known all the time that she would have to do it all herself, she went and put on a fresh apron and spotless cook's cap.
first of all she set the dough, as was proper.
when it was time she brought out the moulding board and the baking tins, moulded the bread, divided it into loaves, and put them into the oven to bake.
all the while the cat sat lazily by, giggling and chuckling.and close at hand the vain rat powdered his nose and admired himself in a mirror.
in the distance could be heard the long-drawn snores of the dozing pig.
at last the great moment arrived.
a delicious odor was wafted upon the autumn breeze.
everywhere the barnyard citizens sniffed the air with delight.
the red hen ambled in her picketty-pecketty way toward the source of all this excitement.
although she appeared to be perfectly calm, in reality she could only with difficulty restrain an impulse to dance and sing, for had she not done all the work on this wonderful bread?
small wonder that she was the most excited person in the barnyard!
she did not know whether the bread would be fit to eat, but joy of joys!
when the lovely brown loaves came out of the oven, they were done to perfection.
then, probably because she had acquired the habit, the red hen called:
"who will eat the bread?"
all the animals in the barnyard were watching hungrily and smacking their lips in anticipation, and the pig said, "i will," the cat said, "i will," the rat said, "i will."
but the little red hen said,
"no, you won't.
i will."
and she did.
old tales from the north
east of the sun and west of the moon
once on a time there was a poor husbandman who had so many children that he hadn't much of either food or clothing to give them.
pretty children they all were, but the prettiest was the youngest daughter, who was so lovely there was no end to her loveliness.
so one day, 'twas on a thursday evening late at the fall of the year, the weather was so wild and rough outside, and it was so cruelly dark, and rain fell and wind blew, till the walls of the cottage shook again.
there they all sat round the fire, busy with this thing and that.
but just then, all at once something gave three taps on the window-pane.
then the father went out to see what was the matter; and, when he got out of doors, what should he see but a great big white bear.
"good-evening to you!"
said the white bear.
"the same to you!"
said the man.
"will you give me your youngest daughter?
if you will, i'll make you as rich as you are now poor," said the bear.
well, the man would not be at all sorry to be so rich; but still he thought he must have a bit of a talk with his daughter first; so he went in and told them how there was a great white bear waiting outside, who had given his word to make them so rich if he could only have the youngest daughter.
the lassie said "no!"
outright.
nothing could get her to say anything else; so the man went out and settled it with the white bear that he should come again the next thursday evening and get an answer.
meantime he talked his daughter over, and kept on telling her of all the riches they would get, and how well off she would be herself; and so at last she thought better of it, and washed and mended her rags, made herself as smart as she could, and was ready to start.
i can't say her packing gave her much trouble.
next thursday evening came the white bear to fetch her, and she got upon his back with her bundle, and off they went.
so, when they had gone a bit of the way, the white bear said:
"are you afraid?"
"no," she wasn't.
"well!
mind and hold tight by my shaggy coat, and then there's nothing to fear," said the bear.
so she rode a long, long way, till they came to a great steep hill.
there, on the face of it, the white bear gave a knock, and a door opened, and they came into a castle where there were many rooms all lit up; rooms gleaming with silver and gold; and there, too, was a table ready laid, and it was all as grand as grand could be.
then the white bear gave her a silver bell; and when she wanted anything, she was only to ring it, and she would get it at once.
well, after she had eaten and drunk, and evening wore on, she got sleepy after her journey, and thought she would like to go to bed, so she rang the bell; and she had scarce taken hold of it before she came into a chamber where there was a bed made, as fair and white as any one would wish to sleep in, with silken pillows and curtains and gold fringe.
all that was in the room was gold or silver; but when she had gone to bed and put out the light, a man came and laid himself alongside her.
that was the white bear, who threw off his beast shape at night; but she never saw him, for he always came after she had put out the light, and before the day dawned he was up and off again.
so things went on happily for a while, but at last she began to get silent and sorrowful; for there she went about all day alone, and she longed to go home to see her father and mother and brothers and sisters.
so one day, when the white bear asked what it was that she lacked, she said it was so dull and lonely there, and how she longed to go home to see her father and mother and brothers and sisters, and that was why she was so sad and sorrowful, because she couldn't get to them.
"well, well!"
said the bear, "perhaps there's a cure for all this; but you must promise me one thing, not to talk alone with your mother, but only when the rest are by to hear; for she'll take you by the hand and try to lead you into a room alone to talk; but you must mind and not do that, else you'll bring bad luck on both of us."
so one sunday the white bear came and said, now they could set off to see her father and mother.
well, off they started, she sitting on his back; and they went far and long.
at last they came to a grand house, and there her brothers and sisters were running about out of doors at play, and everything was so pretty, 'twas a joy to see.
"this is where your father and mother live now," said the white bear; "but don't forget what i told you, else you'll make us both unlucky."
"no!
bless her, she'd not forget;" and when she had reached the house, the white bear turned right about and left her.
then, when she went in to see her father and mother, there was such joy, there was no end to it.
none of them thought they could thank her enough for all she had done for them.
now, they had everything they wished, as good as good could be, and they all wanted to know how she got on where she lived.
well, she said, it was very good to live where she did; she had all she wished.
what she said beside i don't know, but i don't think any of them had the right end of the stick, or that they got much out of her.
but so, in the afternoon, after they had done dinner, all happened as the white bear had said.
her mother wanted to talk with her alone in her bedroom; but she minded what the white bear had said, and wouldn't go upstairs.
"oh!
what we have to talk about will keep!"
she said, and put her mother off.
but, somehow or other, her mother got round her at last, and she had to tell her the whole story.
so she said, how every night when she had gone to bed a man came and lay down beside her as soon as she had put out the light; and how she never saw him, because he was always up and away before the morning dawned; and how she went about woeful and sorrowing, for she thought she should so like to see him; and how all day long she walked about there alone; and how dull and dreary and lonesome it was.
"my!"
said her mother; "it may well be a troll you slept with!
but now i'll teach you a lesson how to set eyes on him.
i'll give you a bit of candle, which you can carry home in your bosom; just light that while he is asleep, but take care not to drop the tallow on him."
yes!
she took the candle and hid it in her bosom, and as night drew on, the white bear came and fetched her away.
but when they had gone a bit of the way, the white bear asked if all hadn't happened as he had said.
"well, she couldn't say it hadn't."
"now, mind," said he, "if you have listened to your mother's advice, you have brought bad luck on us both, and then, all that has passed between us will be as nothing."
"no," she said, "she hadn't listened to her mother's advice."
so when she reached home, and had gone to bed, it was the old story over again.
there came a man and lay down beside her; but at dead of night, when she heard he slept, she got up and struck a light, lit the candle, and let the light shine on him, and so she saw that he was the loveliest prince one ever set eyes on, and she fell so deep in love with him on the spot, that she thought she couldn't live if she didn't give him a kiss there and then.
and so she did; but as she kissed him, she dropped three hot drops of tallow on his shirt, and he woke up.
"what have you done?"
he cried; "now you have made us both unlucky, for had you held out only this one year, i had been freed.
for i have a step-mother who has bewitched me, so that i am a white bear by day, and a man by night.
but now all ties are snapt between us; now i must set off from you to her.
she lives in a castle which stands east of the sun and west of the moon, and there, too, is a princess, with a nose three ells long, and she's the wife i must have now."
she wept and took it ill, but there was no help for it; go he must.
then she asked if she mightn't go with him.
no, she mightn't.
"tell me the way, then," she said, "and i'll search you out; that surely i may get leave to do."
"yes," she might do that, he said; "but there was no way to that place.
it lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and thither she'd never find her way."
so next morning, when she woke up, both prince and castle were gone, and then she lay on a little green patch, in the midst of the gloomy thick wood, and by her side lay the same bundle of rags she had brought with her from her old home.
so when she had rubbed the sleep out of her eyes, and wept till she was tired, she set out on her way, and walked many, many days, till she came to a lofty crag.
under it sat an old hag, and played with a gold apple which she tossed about.
here the lassie asked if she knew the way to the prince, who lived with his step-mother in the castle, that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and who was to marry the princess with a nose three ells long.
"how did you come to know about him?"
asked the old hag; "but maybe you are the lassie who ought to have had him?"
yes, she was.
"so, so; it's you, is it?"
said the old hag.
"well, all i know about him is, that he lives in the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and thither you'll come, late or never; but still you may have the loan of my horse, and on him you can ride to my next neighbour.
maybe she'll be able to tell you; and when you get there, just give the horse a switch under the left ear, and beg him to be off home; and, stay, this gold apple you may take with you."
so she got upon the horse, and rode a long, long time, till she came to another crag, under which sat another old hag, with a gold carding-comb.
here the lassie asked if she knew the way to the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, and she answered, like the first old hag, that she knew nothing about it, except it was east of the sun and west of the moon.
"and thither you'll come, late or never, but you shall have the loan of my horse to my next neighbour; maybe she'll tell you all about it; and when you get there, just switch the horse under the left ear, and beg him to be off home."
and this old hag gave her the golden carding-comb; it might be she'd find some use for it, she said.
so the lassie got up on the horse, and rode a far, far way, and a weary time; and so at last she came to another great crag, under which sat another old hag, spinning with a golden spinning-wheel.
her, too, she asked if she knew the way to the prince, and where the castle was that lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
so it was the same thing over again.
"maybe it's you who ought to have had the prince?"
said the old hag.
yes, it was.
but she, too, didn't know the way a bit better than the other two.
"east of the sun and west of the moon it was," she knew that was all.
"and thither you'll come, late or never; but i'll lend you my horse, and then i think you'd best ride to the east wind and ask him; maybe he knows those parts, and can blow you thither.
but when you get to him, you need only give the horse a switch under the left ear, and he'll trot home of himself."
and so, too, she gave her the gold spinning-wheel.
"maybe you'll find a use for it," said the old hag.
then on she rode many many days, a weary time, before she got to the east wind's house, but at last she did reach it, and then she asked the east wind if he could tell her the way to the prince who dwelt east of the sun and west of the moon.
yes, the east wind had often heard tell of it, the prince and the castle, but he couldn't tell the way, for he had never blown so far.
"but, if you will, i'll go with you to my brother the west wind, maybe he knows, for he's much stronger.
so, if you will just get on my back, i'll carry you thither."
yes, she got on his back, and i should just think they went briskly along.
so when they got there, they went into the west wind's house, and the east wind said the lassie he had brought was the one who ought to have had the prince who lived in the castle east of the sun and west of the moon; and so she had set out to seek him, and how he had come with her, and would be glad to know if the west wind knew how to get to the castle.
"nay," said the west wind, "so far i've never blown; but if you will, i'll go with you to our brother the south wind, for he's much stronger than either of us, and he has flapped his wings far and wide.
maybe he'll tell you.
you can get on my back, and i'll carry you to him."
yes!
she got on his back, and so they travelled to the south wind, and weren't so very long on the way, i should think.
when they got there, the west wind asked him if he could tell her the way to the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon, for it was she who ought to have had the prince who lived there.
"you don't say so!
that's she, is it?"
said the south wind.
"well, i have blustered about in most places in my time, but so far have i never blown; but if you will, i'll take you to my brother the north wind; he is the oldest and strongest of the whole lot of us, and if he don't know where it is, you'll never find any one in the world to tell you.
you can get on my back, and i'll carry you thither."
yes!
she got on his back, and away he went from his house at a fine rate.
and this time, too, she wasn't long on her way.
so when they got to the north wind's house, he was so wild and cross, cold puffs came from him a long way off.
"blast you both, what do you want?"
he roared out to them ever so far off, so that it struck them with an icy shiver.
"well," said the south wind, "you needn't be so foul-mouthed, for here i am, your brother, the south wind, and here is the lassie who ought to have had the prince who dwells in the castle that lies east of the sun and west of the moon, and now she wants to ask you if you ever were there, and can tell her the way, for she would be so glad to find him again."
"yes, i know well enough where it is," said the north wind; "once in my life i blew an aspen-leaf thither, but, i was so tired i couldn't blow a puff for ever so many days, after.
but if you really wish to go thither, and aren't afraid to come along with me, i'll take you on my back and see if i can blow you thither."
yes!
with all her heart; she must and would get thither if it were possible in any way; and as for fear, however madly he went, she wouldn't be at all afraid.
"very well, then," said the north wind, "but you must sleep here to-night, for we must have the whole day before us, if we're to get thither at all."
early next morning the north wind woke her, and puffed himself up, and blew himself out, and made himself so stout and big, 'twas gruesome to look at him; and so off they went high up through the air, as if they would never stop till they got to the world's end.
down here below there was such a storm; it threw down long tracts of wood and many houses, and when it swept over the great sea, ships foundered by hundreds.
so they tore on and on no one can believe how far they went and all the while they still went over the sea, and the north wind got more and more weary, and so out of breath he could scarce bring out a puff, and his wings drooped and drooped, till at last he sunk so low that the crests of the waves dashed over his heels.
"are you afraid?"
said the north wind.
"no!"
she wasn't.
but they weren't very far from land; and the north wind had still so much strength left in him that he managed to throw her up on the shore under the windows of the castle which lay east of the sun and west of the moon; but then he was so weak and worn out, he had to stay there and rest many days before he could get home again.
next morning the lassie sat down under the castle window, and began to play with the gold apple; and the first person she saw was the long-nose who was to have the prince.
"what do you want for your gold apple, you lassie?"
said the long-nose, and threw up the window.
"it's not for sale, for gold or money," said the lassie.
"if it's not for sale for gold or money, what is it that you will sell it for?
you may name your own price," said the princess.
"well!
if i may get to the prince, who lives here, and be with him to-night, you shall have it," said the lassie whom the north wind had brought.
yes!
she might; that could be done.
so the princess got the gold apple; but when the lassie came up to the prince's bed-room at night he was fast asleep; she called him and shook him, and between whiles she wept sore; but all she could do she couldn't wake him up.
next morning, as soon as day broke, came the princess with the long nose, and drove her out again.
so in the daytime she sat down under the castle windows and began to card with her carding-comb, and the same thing happened.
the princess asked what she wanted for it; and she said it wasn't for sale for gold or money, but if she might get leave to go up to the prince and be with him that night, the princess should have it.
but when she went up she found him fast asleep again, and all she called, and all she shook, and wept, and prayed, she couldn't get life into him; and as soon as the first gray peep of day came, then came the princess with the long nose, and chased her out again.
so, in the daytime, the lassie sat down outside under the castle window, and began to spin with her golden spinning-wheel, and that, too, the princess with the long nose wanted to have.
so she threw up the window and asked what she wanted for it.
the lassie said, as she had said twice before, it wasn't for sale for gold or money; but if she might go up to the prince who was there, and be with him alone that night, she might have it.
yes!
she might do that and welcome.
but now you must know there were some christian folk who had been carried off thither, and as they sat in their room, which was next the prince, they had heard how a woman had been in there, and wept and prayed, and called to him two nights running, and they told that to the prince.
that evening, when the princess came with her sleepy drink, the prince made as if he drank, but threw it over his shoulder, for he could guess it was a sleepy drink.
so, when the lassie came in, she found the prince wide awake; and then she told him the whole story how she had come thither.
"ah," said the prince, "you've just come in the very nick of time, for to-morrow is to be our wedding-day; but now i won't have the long-nose, and you are the only woman in the world who can set me free.
i'll say i want to see what my wife is fit for, and beg her to wash the shirt which has the three spots of tallow on it; she'll say yes, for she doesn't know 'tis you who put them there; but that's a work only for christian folk, and not for such a pack of trolls, and so i'll say that i won't have any other for my bride than the woman who can wash them out, and ask you to do it."
so there was great joy and love between them all that night.
but next day, when the wedding was to be, the prince said:
"first of all, i'd like to see what my bride is fit for."
"yes!"
said the step-mother, with all her heart.
"well," said the prince, "i've got a fine shirt which i'd like for my wedding shirt, but somehow or other it has got three spots of tallow on it, which i must have washed out; and i have sworn never to take any other bride than the woman who's able to do that.
if she can't, she's not worth having."
well, that was no great thing they said, so they agreed, and she with the long-nose began to wash away as hard as she could, but the more she rubbed and scrubbed, the bigger the spots grew.
"ah!"
said the old hag, her mother, "you can't wash; let me try."
but she hadn't long taken the shirt in hand before it got far worse than ever, and with all her rubbing, and wringing, and scrubbing, the spots grew bigger and blacker, and the darker and uglier was the shirt.
then all the other trolls began to wash, but the longer it lasted, the blacker and uglier the shirt grew, till at last it was as black all over as if it had been up the chimney.
"ah!"
said the prince, "you're none of you worth a straw; you can't wash. why there, outside, sits a beggar lassie, i'll be bound she knows how to wash better than the whole lot of you.
come in, lassie!"
he shouted.
well, in she came.
"can you wash this shirt clean, lassie you?"
said he.
"i don't know," she said, "but i think i can."
and almost before she had taken it and dipped it in the water, it was as white as driven snow, and whiter still.
"yes; you are the lassie for me," said the prince.
at that the old hag flew into such a rage, she burst on the spot, and the princess with the long nose after her, and the whole pack of trolls after her at least i've never heard a word about them since.
as for the prince and princess, they set free all the poor christian folk who had been carried off and shut up there; and they took with them all the silver and gold, and flitted away as far as they could from the castle that lay east of the sun and west of the moon.
the blue belt
once on a time there was an old beggar-woman, who had gone out to beg.
she had a little lad with her, and when she had got her bag full she struck across the hills towards her own home.
so when they had gone a bit up the hill-side, they came upon a little blue belt which lay where two paths met, and the lad asked his mother's leave to pick it up.
"no," said she, "maybe there's witchcraft in it;" and so with threats she forced him to follow her.
but when they had gone a bit further, the lad said he must turn aside a moment out of the road; and meanwhile his mother sat down on a tree-stump.
but the lad was a long time gone, for as soon as he got so far into the wood that the old dame could not see him, he ran off to where the belt lay, took it up, tied it round his waist, and lo!
he felt as strong as if he could lift the whole hill.
when he got back, the old dame was in a great rage, and wanted to know what he had been doing all that while.
"you don't care how much time you waste, and yet you know the night is drawing on, and we must cross the hill before it is dark!"
so on they tramped; but when they had got about half-way, the old dame grew weary, and said she must rest under a bush.
"dear mother," said the lad, "mayn't i just go up to the top of this high crag while you rest, and try if i can't see some sign of folk hereabouts?"
yes!
he might do that; so when he had got to the top he saw a light shining from the north.
so he ran down and told his mother.
"we must get on, mother; we are near a house, for i see a bright light shining quite close to us in the north."
then she rose and shouldered her bag, and set off to see; but they hadn't gone far, before there stood a steep spur of the hill, right across their path.
"just as i thought!"
said the old dame, "now we can't go a step farther; a pretty bed we shall have here!"
but the lad took the bag under one arm, and his mother under the other, and ran straight up the steep crag with them.
"now, don't you see?
don't you see that we are close to a house?
don't you see that bright light?"
but the old dame said those were no christian folk, but trolls, for she was at home in all that forest far and near, and knew there was not a living soul in it, until you were well over the ridge and had come down on the other side.
but they went on, and in a little while they came to a great house which was all painted red.
"what's the good?"
said the old dame.
"we daren't go in, for here the trolls live."
"don't say so; we must go in.
there must be men where the lights shine so," said the lad.
so in he went, and his mother after him, but he had scarce opened the door before she swooned away, for there she saw a great stout man, at least twenty feet high, sitting on the bench.
"good evening, grandfather!"
said the lad.
"well, here i've sat three hundred years," said the man who sat on the bench, "and no one has ever come and called me grandfather before."
then the lad sat down by the man's side, and began to talk to him as if they had been old friends.
"but what's come over your mother?"
said the man, after they had chatted a while.
"i think she swooned away; you had better look after her."
so the lad went and took hold of the old dame, and dragged her up the hall along the floor.
that brought her to herself, and she kicked and scratched, and flung herself about, and at last sat down upon a heap of firewood in the corner; but she was so frightened that she scarce dared to look one in the face.
after a while, the lad asked if they could spend the night there.
"yes, to be sure," said the man.
so they went on talking again, but the lad soon got hungry, and wanted to know if they could get food as well as lodging.
"of course," said the man, "that might be got too."
and after he had sat a while longer, he rose up and threw six loads of dry pitch-pine on the fire.
this made the old hag still more afraid.
"oh!
now he's going to roast us alive," she said, in the corner where she sat.
and when the wood had burned down to glowing embers, up got the man and strode out of his house.
"heaven bless and help us!
what a stout heart you have got!"
said the old dame.
"don't you see we have got amongst trolls?"
"stuff and nonsense!"
said the lad; "no harm if we have."
in a little while, back came the man with an ox so fat and big, the lad had never seen its like, and he gave it one blow with his fist under the ear, and down it fell dead on the floor.
when that was done, he took it up by all the four legs and laid it on the glowing embers, and turned it and twisted it about till it was burnt brown outside.
after that, he went to a cupboard and took out a great silver dish, and laid the ox on it; and the dish was so big that none of the ox hung over on any side.
this he put on the table, and then he went down into the cellar and fetched a cask of wine, knocked out the head, and put the cask on the table, together with two knives, which were each six feet long.
when this was done he bade them go and sit down to supper and eat.
so they went, the lad first and the old dame after, but she began to whimper and wail, and to wonder how she should ever use such knives.
but her son seized one, and began to cut slices out of the thigh of the ox, which he placed before his mother.
and when they had eaten a bit, he took up the cask with both hands, and lifted it down to the floor; then he told his mother to come and drink, but it was still so high she couldn't reach up to it; so he caught her up, and held her up to the edge of the cask while she drank; as for himself, he clambered up and hung down like a cat inside the cask while he drank.
so when he had quenched his thirst, he took up the cask and put it back on the table, and thanked the man for the good meal, and told his mother to come and thank him too, and, a-feared though she was, she dared do nothing else but thank the man.
then the lad sat down again alongside the man and began to gossip, and after they had sat a while the man said:
"well!
i must just go and get a bit of supper too;" and so he went to the table and ate up the whole ox hoofs, and horns, and all and drained the cask to the last drop, and then went back and sat on the bench.
"as for beds," he said, "i don't know what's to be done.
i've only got one bed and a cradle; but we could get on pretty well if you would sleep in the cradle, and then your mother might lie in the bed yonder."
"thank you kindly, that'll do nicely," said the lad; and with that he pulled off his clothes and lay down in the cradle; but, to tell you the truth, it was quite as big as a four-poster.
as for the old dame, she had to follow the man who showed her to bed, though she was out of her wits for fear.
"well!"
thought the lad to himself, "'twill never do to go to sleep yet.
i'd best lie awake and listen how things go as the night wears on."
so, after a while, the man began to talk to the old dame, and at last he said:
"we two might live here so happily together, could we only be rid of this son of yours."
"but do you know how to settle him?
is that what you're thinking of?"
said she.
"nothing easier," said he; at any rate he would try.
he would just say he wished the old dame would stay and keep house for him a day or two, and then he would take the lad out with him up the hill to quarry corner-stones, and roll down a great rock on him.
all this the lad lay and listened to.
next day the troll for it was a troll as clear as day asked if the old dame would stay and keep house for him a few days; and as the day went on he took a great iron crowbar, and asked the lad if he had a mind to go with him up the hill and quarry a few corner-stones.
with all his heart, he said, and went with him; and so, after they had split a few stones, the troll wanted him to go down below and look after cracks in the rock; and while he was doing this the troll worked away, and wearied himself with his crowbar till he moved a whole crag out of its bed, which came rolling right down on the place where the lad was; but he held it up till he could get on one side, and then let it roll on.
"oh!"
said the lad to the troll, "now i see what you mean to do with me.
you want to crush me to death; so just go down yourself and look after the cracks and refts in the rock, and i'll stand up above."
the troll did not dare to do otherwise than the lad bade him, and the end of it was that the lad rolled down a great rock, which fell upon the troll and broke one of his thighs.
"well!
you are in a sad plight," said the lad, as he strode down, lifted up the rock, and set the man free.
after that he had to put him on his back and carry him home; so he ran with him as fast as a horse, and shook him so that the troll screamed and screeched as if a knife were run into him.
and when he got home, they had to put the troll to bed, and there he lay in a sad pickle.
when the night wore on, the troll began to talk to the old dame again, and to wonder how ever they could be rid of the lad.
"well," said the old dame, "if you can't hit on a plan to get rid of him, i'm sure i can't."
"let me see," said the troll; "i've got twelve lions in a garden; if they could only get hold of the lad, they'd soon tear him to pieces."
so the old dame said it would be easy enough to get him there.
she would sham sick, and say she felt so poorly, nothing would do her any good but lion's milk.
all that the lad lay and listened to; and when he got up in the morning his mother said she was worse than she looked, and she thought she should never be right again unless she could get some lion's milk.
"then i'm afraid you'll be poorly a long time, mother," said the lad, "for i'm sure i don't know where any is to be got."
"oh!
if that be all," said the troll, "there's no lack of lion's milk, if we only had the man to fetch it;" and then he went on to say how his brother had a garden with twelve lions in it, and how the lad might have the key if he had a mind to milk the lions.
so the lad took the key and a milking pail, and strode off; and when he unlocked the gate and got into the garden, there stood all the twelve lions on their hind-paws, rampant and roaring at him.
but the lad laid hold of the biggest, and led him about by the fore-paws, and dashed him against stocks and stones till there wasn't a bit of him left but the two paws.
so when the rest saw that, they were so afraid that they crept up and lay at his feet like so many curs.
after that they followed him about wherever he went, and when he got home, they lay down outside the house, with their fore-paws on the door sill.
"now, mother, you'll soon be well," said the lad, when he went in, "for here is the lion's milk."
he had just milked a drop in the pail.
but the troll, as he lay in bed, swore it was all a lie.
he was sure the lad was not the man to milk lions.
when the lad heard that, he forced the troll to get out of bed, threw open the door, and all the lions rose up and seized the troll, and at last the lad had to make them leave their hold.
that night the troll began to talk to the old dame again.
"i'm sure i can't tell how to put this lad out of the way he is so awfully strong; can't you think of some way?"
"no," said the old dame, "if you can't tell, i'm sure i can't."
"well!"
said the troll, "i have two brothers in a castle; they are twelve times as strong as i am, and that's why i was turned out and had to put up with this farm.
they hold that castle, and round it there is an orchard with apples in it, and whoever eats those apples sleeps for three days and three nights.
if we could only get the lad to go for the fruit, he wouldn't be able to keep from tasting the apples, and as soon as ever he fell asleep my brothers would tear him in pieces."
the old dame said she would sham sick, and say she could never be herself again unless she tasted those apples; for she had set her heart on them.
all this the lad lay and listened to.
when the morning came the old dame was so poorly that she couldn't utter a word but groans and sighs.
she was sure she should never be well again, unless she had some of those apples that grew in the orchard near the castle where the man's brothers lived; only she had no one to send for them.
oh!
the lad was ready to go that instant; but the eleven lions went with him.
so when he came to the orchard, he climbed up into the apple tree and ate as many apples as he could, and he had scarce got down before he fell into a deep sleep; but the lions all lay round him in a ring.
the third day came the troll's brothers, but they did not come in man's shape.
they came snorting like man-eating steeds, and wondered who it was that dared to be there, and said they would tear him to pieces, so small that there should not be a bit of him left.
but up rose the lions and tore the trolls into small pieces, so that the place looked as if a dung heap had been tossed about it; and when they had finished the trolls they lay down again.
the lad did not wake till late in the afternoon, and when he got on his knees and rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, he began to wonder what had been going on, when he saw the marks of hoofs.
but when he went towards the castle, a maiden looked out of a window who had seen all that had happened, and she said:
"you may thank your stars you weren't in that tussle, else you must have lost your life."
"what!
i lose my life!
no fear of that, i think," said the lad.
so she begged him to come in, that she might talk with him, for she hadn't seen a christian soul ever since she came there.
but when she opened the door the lions wanted to go in too, but she got so frightened that she began to scream, and so the lad let them lie outside.
then the two talked and talked, and the lad asked how it came that she, who was so lovely, could put up with those ugly trolls.
she never wished it, she said; 'twas quite against her will.
they had seized her by force, and she was the king of arabia's daughter.
so they talked on, and at last she asked him what he would do; whether she should go back home, or whether he would have her to wife.
of course he would have her, and she shouldn't go home.
after that they went round the castle, and at last they came to a great hall, where the trolls' two great swords hung high up on the wall.
"i wonder if you are man enough to wield one of these," said the princess.
"who?
i?"
said the lad.
"'twould be a pretty thing if i couldn't wield one of these."
with that he put two or three chairs one a-top of the other, jumped up, and touched the biggest sword with his finger tips, tossed it up in the air, and caught it again by the hilt; leapt down, and at the same time dealt such a blow with it on the floor that the whole hall shook.
after he had thus got down, he thrust the sword under his arm and carried it about with him.
so, when they had lived a little while in the castle, the princess thought she ought to go home to her parents, and let them know what had become of her; so they loaded a ship, and she set sail from the castle.
after she had gone, and the lad had wandered about a little, he called to mind that he had been sent out on an errand thither, and had come to fetch something for his mother's health; and though he said to himself, "after all the old dame was not so bad but she's all right by this time" still he thought he ought to go and just see how she was.
so he went and found both the man and his mother quite fresh and hearty.
"what wretches you are to live in this beggarly hut," said the lad.
"come with me up to my castle, and you shall see what a fine fellow i am."
well!
they were both ready to go, and on the way his mother talked to him, and asked how it was he had got so strong.
"if you must know it came of that blue belt which lay on the hill-side that time when you and i were out begging," said the lad.
"have you got it still?"
asked she.
"yes" he had.
it was tied round his waist.
"might she see it?"
"yes" she might; and with that he pulled open his waistcoat and shirt to show it to her.
then she seized it with both hands, tore it off, and twisted it round her fist.
"now," she cried, "what shall i do with such a wretch as you?
i'll just give you one blow, and dash your brains out!"
"far too good a death for such a scamp," said the troll.
"no!
let's first burn out his eyes, and then turn him adrift in a little boat."
so they burned out his eyes and turned him adrift, in spite of his prayers and tears; but, as the boat drifted, the lions swam after, and at last they laid hold of it and dragged it ashore on an island, and placed the lad under a fir tree.
they caught game for him, and they plucked the birds and made him a bed of down; but he was forced to eat his meat raw and he was blind.
at last, one day the biggest lion was chasing a hare which was blind, for it ran straight over stock and stone, and the end was, it ran right up against a fir-stump and tumbled head over heels across the field right into a spring; but lo!
when it came out of the spring it saw its way quite plain, and so saved its life.
"so, so!"
thought the lion, and went and dragged the lad to the spring, and dipped him over head and ears in it.
so, when he had got his sight again, he went down to the shore and made signs to the lions that they should all lie close together like a raft; then he stood upon their backs while they swam with him to the mainland.
when he had reached the shore he went up into a birchen copse, and made the lions lie quiet.
then he stole up to the castle, like a thief, to see if he couldn't lay hands on his belt; and when he got to the door, he peeped through the keyhole, and there he saw his belt hanging up over a door in the kitchen.
so he crept softly in across the floor, for there was no one there; but as soon as he had got hold of the belt, he began to kick and stamp about as though he were mad.
just then his mother came rushing out:
"dear heart, my darling little boy!
do give me the belt again," she said.
"thank you kindly," said he.
"now you shall have the doom you passed on me," and he fulfilled it on the spot.
when the old troll heard that, he came in and begged and prayed so prettily that he might not be smitten to death.
"well, you may live," said the lad, "but you shall undergo the same punishment you gave me;" and so he burned out the troll's eyes, and turned him adrift on the sea in a little boat, but he had no lions to follow him.
now the lad was all alone, and he went about longing and longing for the princess; at last he could bear it no longer; he must set out to seek her, his heart was so bent on having her.
so he loaded four ships and set sail for arabia.
for some time they had fair wind and fine weather, but after that they lay wind-bound under a rocky island.
so the sailors went ashore and strolled about to spend the time, and there they found a huge egg, almost as big as a little house.
so they began to knock it about with large stones, but, after all, they couldn't crack the shell.
then the lad came up with his sword to see what all the noise was about, and when he saw the egg, he thought it a trifle to crack it; so he gave it one blow and the egg split, and out came a chicken as big as an elephant.
"now we have done wrong," said the lad; "this can cost us all our lives;" and then he asked his sailors if they were men enough to sail to arabia in four-and-twenty hours if they got a fine breeze.
yes!
they were good to do that, they said, so they set sail with a fine breeze, and got to arabia in three-and-twenty hours.
as soon as they landed, the lad ordered all the sailors to go and bury themselves up to the eyes in a sandhill, so that they could barely see the ships.
the lad and the captains climbed a high crag and sate down under a fir.
in a little while came a great bird flying with an island in its claws, and let it fall down on the fleet, and sunk every ship.
after it had done that, it flew up to the sandhill and flapped its wings, so that the wind nearly took off the heads of the sailors, and it flew past the fir with such force that it turned the lad right about, but he was ready with his sword, and gave the bird one blow and brought it down dead.
after that he went to the town, where every one was glad because the king had got his daughter back; but now the king had hidden her away somewhere himself, and promised her hand as a reward to any one who could find her, and this though she was betrothed before.
now as the lad went along he met a man who had white bear-skins for sale, so he bought one of the hides and put it on; and one of the captains was to take an iron chain and lead him about, and so he went into the town and began to play pranks.
at last the news came to the king's ears, that there never had been such fun in the town before, for here was a white bear that danced and cut capers just as it was bid.
so a messenger came to say the bear must come to the castle at once, for the king wanted to see its tricks.
so when it got to the castle every one was afraid, for such a beast they had never seen before; but the captain said there was no danger unless they laughed at it.
they mustn't do that, else it would tear them to pieces.
when the king heard that, he warned all the court not to laugh.
but while the fun was going on, in came one of the king's maids, and began to laugh and make game of the bear, and the bear flew at her and tore her, so that there was scarce a rag of her left.
then all the court began to bewail, and the captain most of all.
"stuff and nonsense," said the king; "she's only a maid, besides it's more my affair than yours."
when the show was over, it was late at night.
"it's no good your going away, when it's so late," said the king.
"the bear had best sleep here."
"perhaps it might sleep in the ingle by the kitchen fire," said the captain.
"nay," said the king, "it shall sleep up here, and it shall have pillows and cushions to sleep on."
so a whole heap of pillows and cushions was brought, and the captain had a bed in a side room.
but at midnight the king came with a lamp in his hand and a big bunch of keys, and carried off the white bear.
he passed along gallery after gallery through doors and rooms, up-stairs and down-stairs, till at last he came to a pier which ran out into the sea.
then the king began to pull and haul at posts and pins, this one up and that one down, till at last a little house floated up to the water's edge.
there he kept his daughter, for she was so dear to him that he had hid her, so that no one could find her out.
he left the white bear outside while he went in and told her how it had danced and played its pranks.
she said she was afraid, and dared not look at it; but he talked her over, saying there was no danger if she only wouldn't laugh.
so they brought the bear in, and locked the door, and it danced and played its tricks; but just when the fun was at its height, the princess's maid began to laugh.
then the lad flew at her and tore her to bits, and the princess began to cry and sob.
"stuff and nonsense," cried the king; "all this fuss about a maid!
i'll get you just as good a one again.
but now i think the bear had best stay here till morning, for i don't care to have to go and lead it along all those galleries and stairs at this time of night."
"well!"
said the princess, "if it sleeps here, i'm sure i won't."
but just then the bear curled himself up and lay down by the stove; and it was settled at last that the princess should sleep there too, with a light burning.
but as soon as the king had well gone, the white bear came and begged her to undo his collar.
the princess was so scared she almost swooned away; but she felt about till she found the collar, and she had scarce undone it before the bear pulled his head off.
then she knew him again, and was so glad there was no end to her joy, and she wanted to tell her father at once that her deliverer was come.
but the lad would not hear of it; he would earn her once more, he said.
so in the morning when they heard the king rattling at the posts outside, the lad drew on the hide and lay down by the stove.
"well, has it lain still?"
the king asked.
"i should think so," said the princess; "it hasn't so much as turned or stretched itself once."
when they got up to the castle again, the captain took the bear and led it away, and then the lad threw off the hide, and went to a tailor and ordered clothes fit for a prince; and when they were fitted on he went to the king, and said he wanted to find the princess.
"you're not the first who has wished the same thing," said the king, "but they have all lost their lives; for if any one who tries can't find her in four-and-twenty hours his life is forfeited."
yes; the lad knew all that.
still he wished to try, and if he couldn't find her, 'twas his look-out.
now in the castle there was a band that played sweet tunes, and there were fair maids to dance with, and so the lad danced away.
when twelve hours were gone, the king said:
"i pity you with all my heart.
you're so poor a hand at seeking; you will surely lose your life."
"stuff!"
said the lad; "while there's life there's hope!
so long as there's breath in the body there's no fear; we have lots of time!"
and so he went on dancing till there was only one hour left.
then he said he would begin to search.
"it's no use now," said the king; "time's up."
"light your lamp; out with your big bunch of keys," said the lad, "and follow me whither i wish to go.
there is still a whole hour left."
so the lad went the same way which the king had led him the night before, and he bade the king unlock door after door till they came down to the pier which ran out into the sea.
"it's all no use, i tell you," said the king; "time's up, and this will only lead you right out into the sea."
"still five minutes more," said the lad, as he pulled and pushed at the posts and pins, and the house floated up.
"now the time is up," bawled the king; "come hither, headsman, and take off his head."
"nay, nay!"
said the lad; "stop a bit, there are still three minutes!
out with the key, and let me get into this house."
but there stood the king and fumbled with his keys, to draw out the time.
at last he said he hadn't any key.
"well, if you haven't, i have," said the lad, as he gave the door such a kick that it flew to splinters inwards on the floor.
at the door the princess met him, and told her father this was her deliverer, on whom her heart was set.
so she had him; and this was how the beggar boy came to marry the daughter of the king of arabia.
prince lindworm
once upon a time, there was a fine young king who was married to the loveliest of queens.
they were exceedingly happy, all but for one thing they had no children.
and this often made them both sad, because the queen wanted a dear little child to play with, and the king wanted an heir to the kingdom.
one day the queen went out for a walk by herself, and she met an ugly old woman.
the old woman was just like a witch: but she was a nice kind of witch, not the cantankerous sort.
she said, "why do you look so doleful, pretty lady?"
"it's no use my telling you," answered the queen, "nobody in the world can help me."
"oh, you never know,"
said the old woman.
"just you let me hear what your trouble is, and maybe i can put things right."
"my dear woman, how can you?"
said the queen: and she told her, "the king and i have no children: that's why i am so distressed."
"well, you needn't be," said the old witch.
"i can set that right in a twinkling, if only you will do exactly as i tell you.
listen.
to-night, at sunset, take a little drinking-cup with two ears" (that is, handles), "and put it bottom upwards on the ground in the north-west corner of your garden.
then go and lift it up to-morrow morning at sunrise, and you will find two roses underneath it, one red and one white.
if you eat the red rose, a little boy will be born to you: if you eat the white rose, a little girl will be sent.
but, whatever you do, you mustn't eat both the roses, or you'll be sorry, that i warn you!
only one: remember that!"
"thank you a thousand times," said the queen, "this is good news indeed!"
and she wanted to give the old woman her gold ring; but the old woman wouldn't take it.
so the queen went home and did as she had been told: and next morning at sunrise she stole out into the garden and lifted up the little drinking-cup.
she was surprised, for indeed she had hardly expected to see anything.
but there were the two roses underneath it, one red and one white.
and now she was dreadfully puzzled, for she did not know which to choose.
"if i choose the red one," she thought, "and i have a little boy, he may grow up and go to the wars and get killed.
but if i choose the white one, and have a little girl, she will stay at home awhile with us, but later on she will get married and go away and leave us.
so, whichever it is, we may be left with no child after all."
however, at last she decided on the white rose, and she ate it.
and it tasted so sweet, that she took and ate the red one too: without ever remembering the old woman's solemn warning.
some time after this, the king went away to the wars: and while he was still away, the queen became the mother of twins.
one was a lovely baby-boy, and the other was a lindworm, or serpent.
she was terribly frightened when she saw the lindworm, but he wriggled away out of the room, and nobody seemed to have seen him but herself: so that she thought it must have been a dream.
the baby prince was so beautiful and so healthy, the queen was full of joy: and likewise, as you may suppose, was the king when he came home and found his son and heir.
not a word was said by anyone about the lindworm: only the queen thought about it now and then.
many days and years passed by, and the baby grew up into a handsome young prince, and it was time that he got married.
the king sent him off to visit foreign kingdoms, in the royal coach, with six white horses, to look for a princess grand enough to be his wife.
but at the very first cross-roads, the way was stopped by an enormous lindworm, enough to frighten the bravest.
he lay in the middle of the road with a great wide open mouth, and cried, "a bride for me before a bride for you!"
then the prince made the coach turn round and try another road: but it was all no use.
for, at the first cross-ways, there lay the lindworm again, crying out, "a bride for me before a bride for you!"
so the prince had to turn back home again to the castle, and give up his visits to the foreign kingdoms.
and his mother, the queen, had to confess that what the lindworm said was true.
for he was really the eldest of her twins: and so he ought to have a wedding first.
there seemed nothing for it but to find a bride for the lindworm, if his younger brother, the prince, were to be married at all.
so the king wrote to a distant country, and asked for a princess to marry his son (but, of course, he didn't say which son), and presently a princess arrived.
but she wasn't allowed to see her bridegroom until he stood by her side in the great hall and was married to her, and then, of course, it was too late for her to say she wouldn't have him.
but next morning the princess had disappeared.
the lindworm lay sleeping all alone: and it was quite plain that he had eaten her.
a little while after, the prince decided that he might now go journeying again in search of a princess.
and off he drove in the royal chariot with the six white horses.
but at the first cross-ways, there lay the lindworm, crying with his great wide open mouth, "a bride for me before a bride for you!"
so the carriage tried another road, and the same thing happened, and they had to turn back again this time, just as formerly.
and the king wrote to several foreign countries, to know if anyone would marry his son.
at last another princess arrived, this time from a very far distant land.
and, of course, she was not allowed to see her future husband before the wedding took place, and then, lo and behold!
it was the lindworm who stood at her side.
and next morning the princess had disappeared:
and the lindworm lay sleeping all alone; and it was quite clear that he had eaten her.
by and by the prince started on his quest for the third time: and at the first cross-roads there lay the lindworm with his great wide open mouth, demanding a bride as before.
and the prince went straight back to the castle, and told the king: "you must find another bride for my elder brother."
"i don't know where i am to find her," said the king, "i have already made enemies of two great kings who sent their daughters here as brides: and i have no notion how i can obtain a third lady.
people are beginning to say strange things, and i am sure no princess will dare to come."
now, down in a little cottage near a wood, there lived the king's shepherd, an old man with his only daughter.
and the king came one day and said to him, "will you give me your daughter to marry my son the lindworm?
and i will make you rich for the rest of your life."
"no, sire," said the shepherd, "that i cannot do.
she is my only child, and i want her to take care of me when i am old.
besides, if the lindworm would not spare two beautiful princesses, he won't spare her either.
he will just gobble her up: and she is much too good for such a fate."
but the king wouldn't take "no" for an answer: and at last the old man had to give in.
well, when the old shepherd told his daughter that she was to be prince lindworm's bride, she was utterly in despair.
she went out into the woods, crying and wringing her hands and bewailing her hard fate.
and while she wandered to and fro, an old witch-woman suddenly appeared out of a big hollow oak-tree, and asked her, "why do you look so doleful, pretty lass?"
the shepherd-girl said, "it's no use my telling you, for nobody in the world can help me."
"oh, you never know," said the old woman.
"just you let me hear what your trouble is, and maybe i can put things right."
"ah, how can you?"
said the girl, "for i am to be married to the king's eldest son, who is a lindworm.
he has already married two beautiful princesses, and devoured them: and he will eat me too!
no wonder i am distressed."
"well, you needn't be," said the witch-woman.
"all that can be set right in a twinkling: if only you will do exactly as i tell you."
so the girl said she would.
"listen, then," said the old woman.
"after the marriage ceremony is over, and when it is time for you to retire to rest, you must ask to be dressed in ten snow-white shifts.
and you must then ask for a tub full of lye," (that is, washing water prepared with wood-ashes) "and a tub full of fresh milk, and as many whips as a boy can carry in his arms, and have all these brought into your bed-chamber.
then, when the lindworm tells you to shed a shift, do you bid him slough a skin.
and when all his skins are off, you must dip the whips in the lye and whip him; next, you must wash him in the fresh milk; and, lastly, you must take him and hold him in your arms, if it's only for one moment."
"the last is the worst notion ugh!"
said the shepherd's daughter, and she shuddered at the thought of holding the cold, slimy, scaly lindworm.
"do just as i have said, and all will go well," said the old woman.
then she disappeared again in the oak-tree.
when the wedding-day arrived, the girl was fetched in the royal chariot with the six white horses, and taken to the castle to be decked as a bride.
and she asked for ten snow-white shifts to be brought her, and the tub of lye, and the tub of milk, and as many whips as a boy could carry in his arms.
the ladies and courtiers in the castle thought, of course, that this was some bit of peasant superstition, all rubbish and nonsense.
but the king said, "let her have whatever she asks for."
she was then arrayed in the most wonderful robes, and looked the loveliest of brides.
she was led to the hall where the wedding ceremony was to take place, and she saw the lindworm for the first time as he came in and stood by her side.
so they were married, and a great wedding-feast was held, a banquet fit for the son of a king.
when the feast was over, the bridegroom and bride were conducted to their apartment, with music, and torches, and a great procession.
as soon as the door was shut, the lindworm turned to her and said, "fair maiden, shed a shift!"
the shepherd's daughter answered him, "prince lindworm, slough a skin!"
"no one has ever dared tell me to do that before!"
said he.
"but i command you to do it now!"
said she.
then he began to moan and wriggle: and in a few minutes a long snake-skin lay upon the floor beside him.
the girl drew off her first shift, and spread it on top of the skin.
the lindworm said again to her, "fair maiden, shed a shift."
the shepherd's daughter answered him, "prince lindworm, slough a skin."
"no one has ever dared tell me to do that before," said he.
"but i command you to do it now," said she.
then with groans and moans he cast off the second skin: and she covered it with her second shift.
the lindworm said for the third time, "fair maiden, shed a shift."
the shepherd's daughter answered him again, "prince lindworm, slough a skin."
"no one has ever dared tell me to do that before," said he, and his little eyes rolled furiously.
but the girl was not afraid, and once more she commanded him to do as she bade.
and so this went on until nine lindworm skins were lying on the floor, each of them covered with a snow-white shift.
and there was nothing left of the lindworm but a huge thick mass, most horrible to see.
then the girl seized the whips, dipped them in the lye, and whipped him as hard as ever she could.
next, she bathed him all over in the fresh milk.
lastly, she dragged him on to the bed and put her arms round him.
and she fell fast asleep that very moment.
next morning very early, the king and the courtiers came and peeped in through the keyhole.
they wanted to know what had become of the girl, but none of them dared enter the room.
however, in the end, growing bolder, they opened the door a tiny bit.
and there they saw the girl, all fresh and rosy, and beside her lay no lindworm, but the handsomest prince that any one could wish to see.
the king ran out and fetched the queen: and after that, there were such rejoicings in the castle as never were known before or since.
the wedding took place all over again, much finer than the first, with festivals and banquets and merrymakings for days and weeks.
no bride was ever so beloved by a king and queen as this peasant maid from the shepherd's cottage.
there was no end to their love and their kindness towards her: because, by her sense and her calmness and her courage, she had saved their son, prince lindworm.
the lassie and her godmother
once on a time a poor couple lived far, far away in a great wood.
the wife was brought to bed, and had a pretty girl, but they were so poor they did not know how to get the babe christened, for they had no money to pay the parson's fees.
so one day the father went out to see if he could find any one who was willing to stand for the child and pay the fees; but though he walked about the whole day from one house to another, and though all said they were willing enough to stand, no one thought himself bound to pay the fees.
now, when he was going home again, a lovely lady met him, dressed so fine, and she looked so thoroughly good and kind; she offered to get the babe christened, but after that, she said, she must keep it for her own.
the husband answered, he must first ask his wife what she wished to do; but when he got home and told his story, the wife said, right out, "no!"
next day the man went out again, but no one would stand if they had to pay the fees; and though he begged and prayed, he could get no help.
and again as he went home, towards evening the same lovely lady met him, who looked so sweet and good, and she made him the same offer.
so he told his wife again how he had fared, and this time she said, if he couldn't get any one to stand for his babe next day, they must just let the lady have her way, since she seemed so kind and good.
the third day, the man went about, but he couldn't get any one to stand; and so when, towards evening, he met the kind lady again, he gave his word she should have the babe if she would only get it christened at the font.
so next morning she came to the place where the man lived, followed by two men to stand godfathers, took the babe and carried it to church, and there it was christened.
after that she took it to her own house, and there the little girl lived with her several years, and her foster-mother was always kind and friendly to her.
now, when the lassie had grown to be big enough to know right and wrong, her foster-mother got ready to go on a journey.
"you have my leave," she said, "to go all over the house, except those rooms which i shew you;" and when she had said that, away she went.
but the lassie could not forbear just to open one of the doors a little bit, when pop!
out flew a star.
when her foster-mother came back, she was very vexed to find that the star had flown out, and she got very angry with her foster-daughter, and threatened to send her away; but the child cried and begged so hard that she got leave to stay.
now, after a while, the foster-mother had to go on another journey; and, before she went, she forbade the lassie to go into those two rooms into which she had never been.
she promised to beware; but when she was left alone, she began to think and to wonder what there could be in the second room, and at last she could not help setting the door a little ajar, just to peep in, when pop!
out flew the moon.
when her foster-mother came home and found the moon let out, she was very downcast, and said to the lassie she must go away, she could not stay with her any longer.
but the lassie wept so bitterly, and prayed so heartily for forgiveness, that this time, too, she got leave to stay.
some time after, the foster-mother had to go away again, and she charged the lassie, who by this time was half grown up, most earnestly that she mustn't try to go into, or to peep into, the third room.
but when her foster-mother had been gone some time, and the lassie was weary of walking about alone, all at once she thought, "dear me, what fun it would be just to peep a little into that third room."
then she thought she mustn't do it for her foster-mother's sake; but when the bad thought came the second time she could hold out no longer; come what might, she must and would look into the room; so she just opened the door a tiny bit, when pop!
out flew the sun.
but when her foster-mother came back and saw that the sun had flown away, she was cut to the heart, and said, "now, there was no help for it, the lassie must and should go away; she couldn't hear of her staying any longer."
now the lassie cried her eyes out, and begged and prayed so prettily; but it was all no good.
"nay!
but i must punish you!"
said her foster-mother; "but you may have your choice, either to be the loveliest woman in the world, and not to be able to speak, or to keep your speech, and to be the ugliest of all women; but away from me you must go."
and the lassie said, "i would sooner be lovely."
so she became all at once wondrous fair; but from that day forth she was dumb.
so, when she went away from her foster-mother, she walked and wandered through a great, great wood; but the farther she went, the farther off the end seemed to be.
so, when the evening came on, she clomb up into a tall tree, which grew over a spring, and there she made herself up to sleep that night.
close by lay a castle, and from that castle came early every morning a maid to draw water to make the prince's tea, from the spring over which the lassie was sitting.
so the maid looked down into the spring, saw the lovely face in the water, and thought it was her own; then she flung away the pitcher, and ran home; and, when she got there, she tossed up her head and said, "if i'm so pretty, i'm far too good to go and fetch water."
so another maid had to go for the water, but the same thing happened to her; she went back and said she was far too pretty and too good to fetch water from the spring for the prince.
then the prince went himself, for he had a mind to see what all this could mean.
so, when he reached the spring, he too saw the image in the water; but he looked up at once, and became aware of the lovely lassie who sate there up in the tree.
then he coaxed her down and took her home; and at last made up his mind to have her for his queen, because she was so lovely; but his mother, who was still alive, was against it.
"she can't speak," she said, "and maybe she's a wicked witch."
but the prince could not be content till he got her.
so after they had lived together a while, the lassie was to have a child, and when the child came to be born, the prince set a strong watch about her; but at the birth one and all fell into a deep sleep, and her foster-mother came, cut the babe on its little finger, and smeared the queen's mouth with the blood; and said:
"now you shall be as grieved as i was when you let out the star;" and with these words she carried off the babe.
but when those who were on the watch woke, they thought the queen had eaten her own child, and the old queen was all for burning her alive, but the prince was so fond of her that at last he begged her off, but he had hard work to set her free.
so the next time the young queen was to have a child, twice as strong a watch was set as the first time, but the same thing happened over again, only this time her foster-mother said:
"now you shall be as grieved as i was when you let the moon out."
and the queen begged and prayed, and wept; for when her foster-mother was there, she could speak but it was all no good.
and now the old queen said she must be burnt, but the prince found means to beg her off.
but when the third child was to be born, a watch was set three times as strong as the first, but just the same thing happened.
her foster-mother came while the watch slept, took the babe, and cut its little finger, and smeared the queen's mouth with the blood, telling her now she should be as grieved as she had been when the lassie let out the sun.
and now the prince could not save her any longer.
she must and should be burnt.
but just as they were leading her to the stake, all at once they saw her foster-mother, who came with all three children two she led by the hand, and the third she had on her arm; and so she went up to the young queen and said:
"here are your children; now you shall have them again.
i am the virgin mary, and so grieved as you have been, so grieved was i when you let out sun, and moon, and star.
now you have been punished for what you did, and henceforth you shall have your speech."
how glad the queen and prince now were, all may easily think, but no one can tell.
after that they were always happy; and from that day even the prince's mother was very fond of the young queen.
the husband who was to mind the house
once on a time there was a man, so surly and cross, he never thought his wife did anything right in the house.
so, one evening, in haymaking time, he came home, scolding and swearing, and showing his teeth and making a dust.
"dear love, don't be so angry; there's a good man," said his goody; "to-morrow let's change our work.
i'll go out with the mowers and mow, and you shall mind the house at home."
yes!
the husband thought that would do very well.
he was quite willing, he said.
so, early next morning, his goody took a scythe over her neck, and went out into the hayfield with the mowers, and began to mow; but the man was to mind the house, and do the work at home.
first of all, he wanted to churn the butter; but when he had churned a while, he got thirsty, and went down to the cellar to tap a barrel of ale.
so, just when he had knocked in the bung, and was putting the tap into the cask, he heard overhead the pig come into the kitchen.
then off he ran up the cellar steps, with the tap in his hand, as fast as he could, to look after the pig, lest it should upset the churn; but when he got up, and saw the pig had already knocked the churn over, and stood there, routing and grunting amongst the cream which was running all over the floor, he got so wild with rage that he quite forgot the ale-barrel, and ran at the pig as hard as he could.
he caught it, too, just as it ran out of doors, and gave it such a kick, that piggy lay for dead on the spot.
then all at once he remembered he had the tap in his hand; but when he got down to the cellar, every drop of ale had run out of the cask.
then he went into the dairy and found enough cream left to fill the churn again, and so he began to churn, for butter they must have at dinner.
when he had churned a bit, he remembered that their milking cow was still shut up in the byre, and hadn't had a bit to eat or a drop to drink all the morning, though the sun was high.
then all at once he thought 'twas too far to take her down to the meadow, so he'd just get her up on the house top for the house, you must know, was thatched with sods, and a fine crop of grass was growing there.
now the house lay close up against a steep down, and he thought if he laid a plank across to the thatch at the back he'd easily get the cow up.
but still he couldn't leave the churn, for there was his little babe crawling about on the floor, and "if i leave it," he thought, "the child is safe to upset it."
so he took the churn on his back, and went out with it; but then he thought he'd better first water the cow before he turned her out on the thatch; so he took up a bucket to draw water out of the well; but, as he stooped down at the well's brink, all the cream ran out of the churn over his shoulders, and so down into the well.
now it was near dinner-time, and he hadn't even got the butter yet; so he thought he'd best boil the porridge, and filled the pot with water and hung it over the fire.
when he had done that, he thought the cow might perhaps fall off the thatch and break her legs or her neck.
so he got up on the house to tie her up.
one end of the rope he made fast to the cow's neck and the other he slipped down the chimney and tied round his own thigh; and he had to make haste, for the water now began to boil in the pot, and he had still to grind the oatmeal.
so he began to grind away; but while he was hard at it, down fell the cow off the house-top after all, and as she fell, she dragged the man up the chimney by the rope.
there he stuck fast; and as for the cow, she hung half-way down the wall, swinging between heaven and earth, for she could neither get down nor up.
and now the goody had waited seven lengths and seven breadths for her husband to come and call them home to dinner; but never a call they had.
at last she thought she'd waited long enough, and went home.
but when she got there and saw the cow hanging in such an ugly place, she ran up and cut the rope in two with her scythe.
but, as she did this, down came her husband out of the chimney; and so, when his old dame came inside the kitchen, there she found him standing on his head in the porridge pot.
the lad who went to the north wind
once on a time there was an old widow who had one son; and as she was poorly and weak, her son had to go up into the safe to fetch meal for cooking; but when he got outside the safe, and was just going down the steps, there came the north wind puffing and blowing, caught up the meal, and so away with it through the air.
then the lad went back into the safe for more; but when he came out again on the steps, if the north wind didn't come again and carry off the meal with a puff:
and, more than that, he did so the third time.
at this the lad got very angry; and as he thought it hard that the north wind should behave so, he thought he'd just look him up, and ask him to give up his meal.
so off he went, but the way was long, and he walked and walked; but at last he came to the north wind's house.
"good day!"
said the lad, "and thank you for coming to see us yesterday."
"good day!"
answered the north wind, for his voice was loud and gruff, "and thanks for coming to see me.
what do you want?"
"oh!"
answered the lad, "i only wished to ask you to be so good as to let me have back that meal you took from me on the safe steps, for we haven't much to live on; and if you're to go on snapping up the morsel we have, there'll be nothing for it but to starve."
"i haven't got your meal," said the north wind; "but if you are in such need, i'll give you a cloth which will get you everything you want, if you only say, 'cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes!'"
with this the lad was well content.
but, as the way was so long he couldn't get home in one day, so he turned into an inn on the way; and when they were going to sit down to supper he laid the cloth on a table which stood in the corner, and said:
"cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes."
he had scarce said so before the cloth did as it was bid; and all who stood by thought it a fine thing, but most of all the landlady.
so, when all were fast asleep at dead of night, she took the lad's cloth, and put another in its stead, just like the one he had got from the north wind, but which couldn't so much as serve up a bit of dry bread.
so, when the lad woke, he took his cloth and went off with it, and that day he got home to his mother.
"now," said he, "i've been to the north wind's house, and a good fellow he is, for he gave me this cloth, and when i only say to it, 'cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes,' i get any sort of food i please."
"all very true, i daresay," said his mother; "but seeing is believing, and i shan't believe it till i see it."
so the lad made haste, drew out a table, laid the cloth on it, and said:
"cloth, spread yourself, and serve up all kinds of good dishes."
but never a bit of dry bread did the cloth serve up.
"well," said the lad "there's no help for it but to go to the north wind again;" and away he went.
so he came to where the north wind lived late in the afternoon.
"good evening!"
said the lad.
"good evening!"
said the north wind.
"i want my rights for that meal of ours which you took," said the lad; "for, as for that cloth i got, it isn't worth a penny."
"i've got no meal," said the north wind; "but yonder you have a ram which coins nothing but golden ducats as soon as you say to it: 'ram, ram!
make money!'"
so the lad thought this a fine thing; but as it was too far to get home that day, he turned in for the night to the same inn where he had slept before.
before he called for anything, he tried the truth of what the north wind had said of the ram, and found it all right; but, when the landlord saw that, he thought it was a famous ram, and, when the lad had fallen asleep, he took another which couldn't coin gold ducats, and changed the two.
next morning off went the lad; and when he got home to his mother, he said:
"after all, the north wind is a jolly fellow; for now he has given me a ram which can coin golden ducats if i only say: 'ram, ram!
make money!'"
"all very true, i daresay," said his mother; "but i shan't believe any such stuff until i see the ducats made."
"ram, ram!
make money!"
said the lad; but if the ram made anything, it wasn't money.
so the lad went back again to the north wind, and blew him up, and said the ram was worth nothing, and he must have his rights for the meal.
"well!"
said the north wind; "i've nothing else to give you but that old stick in the corner yonder; but its a stick of that kind that if you say: 'stick, stick!
lay on!'
it lays on till you say: 'stick, stick!
now stop!'"
so, as the way was long, the lad turned in this night too to the landlord; but as he could pretty well guess how things stood as to the cloth and the ram, he lay down at once on the bench and began to snore, as if he were asleep.
now the landlord, who easily saw that the stick must be worth something, hunted up one which was like it, and when he heard the lad snore, was going to change the two; but, just as the landlord was about to take it, the lad bawled out:
"stick, stick!
lay on!"
so the stick began to beat the landlord, till he jumped over chairs, and tables, and benches, and yelled and roared:
"oh my!
oh my!
bid the stick be still, else it will beat me to death, and you shall have back both your cloth and your ram."
when the lad thought the landlord had got enough, he said:
"stick, stick!
now stop!"
then he took the cloth and put it into his pocket, and went home with his stick in his hand, leading the ram by a cord round its horns; and so he got his rights for the meal he had lost.
the three princesses of whiteland
once on a time there was a fisherman who lived close by a palace, and fished for the king's table.
one day when he was out fishing he just caught nothing.
do what he would however he tried with bait and angle there was never a sprat on his hook.
but when the day was far spent a head bobbed up out of the water, and said:
"if i may have what your wife bears under her girdle, you shall catch fish enough."
so the man answered boldly, "yes;" for he did not know that his wife was going to have a child.
after that, as was like enough, he caught plenty of fish of all kinds.
but when he got home at night and told his story, how he had got all that fish, his wife fell a-weeping and moaning, and was beside herself for the promise which her husband had made, for she said, "i bear a babe under my girdle."
well, the story soon spread, and came up to the castle; and when the king heard the woman's grief and its cause, he sent down to say he would take care of the child, and see if he couldn't save it.
so the months went on and on, and when her time came the fisher's wife had a boy; so the king took it at once, and brought it up as his own son, until the lad grew up.
then he begged leave one day to go out fishing with his father; he had such a mind to go, he said.
at first the king wouldn't hear of it, but at last the lad had his way, and went.
so he and his father were out the whole day, and all went right and well till they landed at night.
then the lad remembered he had left his handkerchief, and went to look for it; but as soon as ever he got into the boat, it began to move off with him at such speed that the water roared under the bow, and all the lad could do in rowing against it with the oars was no use; so he went and went the whole night, and at last he came to a white strand, far far away.
there he went ashore, and when he had walked about a bit, an old, old man met him, with a long white beard.
"what's the name of this land?"
asked the lad.
"whiteland," said the man, who went on to ask the lad whence he came, and what he was going to do.
so the lad told him all.
"aye, aye!"
said the man; "now when you have walked a little farther along the strand here, you'll come to three princesses, whom you will see standing in the earth up to their necks, with only their heads out.
then the first she is the eldest will call out and beg you so prettily to come and help her; and the second will do the same; to neither of these shall you go; make haste past them, as if you neither saw nor heard anything.
but the third you shall go to, and do what she asks.
if you do this, you'll have good luck that's all."
when the lad came to the first princess, she called out to him, and begged him so prettily to come to her, but he passed on as though he saw her not.
in the same way he passed by the second; but to the third he went straight up.
"if you'll do what i bid you," she said, "you may have which of us you please."
"yes;" he was willing enough; so she told him how three trolls had set them down in the earth there; but before they had lived in the castle up among the trees.
"now," she said, "you must go into that castle, and let the trolls whip you each one night for each of us.
if you can bear that, you'll set us free."
well, the lad said he was ready to try.
"when you go in," the princess went on to say, "you'll see two lions standing at the gate; but if you'll only go right in the middle between them they'll do you no harm.
then go straight on into a little dark room, and make your bed.
then the troll will come to whip you; but if you take the flask which hangs on the wall, and rub yourself with the ointment that's in it, wherever his lash falls, you'll be as sound as ever.
then grasp the sword that hangs by the side of the flask and strike the troll dead."
yes, he did as the princess told him; he passed in the midst between the lions, as if he hadn't seen them, and went straight into the little room, and there he lay down to sleep.
the first night there came a troll with three heads and three rods, and whipped the lad soundly; but he stood it till the troll was done; then he took the flask and rubbed himself, and grasped the sword and slew the troll.
so, when he went out next morning, the princesses stood out of the earth up to their waists.
the next night 'twas the same story over again, only this time the troll had six heads and six rods, and he whipped him far worse than the first; but when he went out next morning, the princesses stood out of the earth as far as the knee.
the third night there came a troll that had nine heads and nine rods, and he whipped and flogged the lad so long that he fainted away; then the troll took him up and dashed him against the wall; but the shock brought down the flask, which fell on the lad, burst, and spilled the ointment all over him, and so he became as strong and sound as ever again.
then he wasn't slow; he grasped the sword and slew the troll; and next morning when he went out of the castle the princesses stood before him with all their bodies out of the earth.
so he took the youngest for his queen, and lived well and happily with her for some time.
at last he began to long to go home for a little to see his parents.
his queen did not like this; but at last his heart was so set on it, and he longed and longed so much, there was no holding him back, so she said:
"one thing you must promise me.
this only to do what your father begs you to do, and not what mother wishes;" and that he promised.
then she gave him a ring, which was of that kind that any one who wore it might wish two wishes.
so he wished himself home, and when he got home his parents could not wonder enough what a grand man their son had become.
now, when he had been at home some days, his mother wished him to go up to the palace and show the king what a fine fellow he had come to be.
but his father said:
"no!
don't let him do that; if he does, we shan't have any more joy of him this time."
but it was no good, the mother begged and prayed so long that at last he went.
so when he got up to the palace he was far braver, both in clothes and array, than the other king, who didn't quite like this, and at last he said:
"all very fine; but here you can see my queen, what like she is, but i can't see yours: that i can't.
do you know, i scarce think she's so good-looking as mine."
"would to heaven," said the young king, "she were standing here, then you'd see what she was like."
and that instant there she stood before them.
but she was very woeful, and said to him:
"why did you not mind what i told you; and why did you not listen to what your father said?
now, i must away home, and as for you, you have had both your wishes."
with that she knitted a ring among his hair with her name on it, and wished herself home, and was off.
then the young king was cut to the heart, and went, day out day in, thinking and thinking how he should get back to his queen.
"i'll just try," he thought, "if i can't learn where whiteland lies;" and so he went out into the world to ask.
so when he had gone a good way, he came to a high hill, and there he met one who was lord over all the beasts of the wood, for they all came home to him when he blew his horn; so the king asked if he knew where whiteland was.
"no, i don't," said he, "but i'll ask my beasts."
then he blew his horn and called them, and asked if any of them knew where whiteland lay.
but there was no beast that knew.
so the man gave him a pair of snow-shoes.
"when you get on these," he said, "you'll come to my brother, who lives hundreds of miles off; he is lord over all the birds of the air.
ask him.
when you reach his house, just turn the shoes so that the toes point this way, and they'll come home of themselves."
so when the king reached the house, he turned the shoes as the lord of the beasts had said, and away they went home of themselves.
so he asked again after whiteland, and the man called all the birds with a blast of his horn, and asked if any of them knew where whiteland lay; but none of the birds knew.
now, long, long after the rest of the birds came an old eagle, which had been away ten round years, but he couldn't tell any more than the rest.
"well, well," said the man, "i'll lend you a pair of snow-shoes, and, when you get them on, they'll carry you to my brother, who lives hundreds of miles off; he's lord of all the fish in the sea; you'd better ask him.
but don't forget to turn the toes of the shoes this way."
the king was full of thanks, got on the shoes, and when he came to the man who was lord over the fish of the sea, he turned the toes round, and so off they went home like the other pair.
after that, he asked again after whiteland.
so the man called the fish with a blast, but no fish could tell where it lay.
at last came an old pike, which they had great work to call home, he was such a way off.
so when they asked him he said:
"know it?
i should think i did!
i've been cook there ten years, and to-morrow i'm going there again; for now the queen of whiteland, whose king is away, is going to wed another husband."
"well!"
said the man, "as this is so, i'll give you a bit of advice.
hereabouts, on a moor, stand three brothers, and here they have stood these hundred years, fighting about a hat, a cloak, and a pair of boots.
if any one has these three things he can make himself invisible, and wish himself anywhere he pleases.
you can tell them you wish to try the things, and, after that, you'll pass judgment between them, whose they shall be."
yes!
the king thanked the man, and went and did as he told him.
"what's all this?"
he said to the brothers.
"why do you stand here fighting for ever and a day?
just let me try these things, and i'll give judgment whose they shall be."
they were very willing to do this; but, as soon as he had got the hat, cloak, and boots, he said:
"when we meet next time, i'll tell you my judgment," and with these words he wished himself away.
so as he went along up in the air, he came up with the north wind.
"whither away?"
roared the north wind.
"to whiteland," said the king; and then he told him all that had befallen him.
"ah," said the north wind, "you go faster than i you do; for you can go straight, while i have to puff and blow round every turn and corner.
but when you get there, just place yourself on the stairs by the side of the door, and then i'll come storming in, as though i were going to blow down the whole castle.
and then when the prince, who is to have your queen, comes out to see what's the matter, just you take him by the collar and pitch him out of doors; then i'll look after him, and see if i can't carry him off."
well, the king did as the north wind said.
he took his stand on the stairs, and when the north wind came, storming and roaring, and took hold of the castle wall, so that it shook again, the prince came out to see what was the matter.
but as soon as ever he came, the king caught him by the collar and pitched him out of doors, and then the north wind caught him up and carried him off.
so when there was an end of him, the king went into the castle, and at first his queen didn't know him, he was so wan and thin, through wandering so far and being so woeful; but when he shewed her the ring, she was as glad as glad could be; and so the rightful wedding was held, and the fame of it spread far and wide.
soria moria castle
once on a time there was a poor couple who had a son whose name was halvor.
ever since he was a little boy he would turn his hand to nothing, but just sat there and groped about in the ashes.
his father and mother often put him out to learn this trade or that, but halvor could stay nowhere; for, when he had been there a day or two, he ran away from his master, and never stopped till he was sitting again in the ingle, poking about in the cinders.
well, one day a skipper came, and asked halvor if he hadn't a mind to be with him, and go to sea, and see strange lands.
yes, halvor would like that very much; so he wasn't long in getting himself ready.
how long they sailed i'm sure i can't tell; but the end of it was, they fell into a great storm, and when it was blown over, and it got still again, they couldn't tell where they were; for they had been driven away to a strange coast, which none of them knew anything about.
well, as there was just no wind at all, they stayed lying wind-bound there, and halvor asked the skipper's leave to go on shore and look about him; he would sooner go, he said, than lie there and sleep.
"do you think now you're fit to show yourself before folk," said the skipper, "why, you've no clothes but those rags you stand in?"
but halvor stuck to his own, and so at last he got leave, but he was to be sure and come back as soon as ever it began to blow.
so off he went and found a lovely land; wherever he came there were fine large flat cornfields and rich meads, but he couldn't catch a glimpse of a living soul.
well, it began to blow, but halvor thought he hadn't seen enough yet, and he wanted to walk a little farther just to see if he couldn't meet any folk.
so after a while he came to a broad high road, so smooth and even, you might easily roll an egg along it.
halvor followed this, and when evening drew on he saw a great castle ever so far off, from which the sunbeams shone.
so as he had now walked the whole day and hadn't taken a bit to eat with him, he was as hungry as a hunter, but still the nearer he came to the castle, the more afraid he got.
in the castle kitchen a great fire was blazing, and halvor went into it, but such a kitchen he had never seen in all his born days.
it was so grand and fine; there were vessels of silver and vessels of gold, but still never a living soul.
so when halvor had stood there a while and no one came out, he went and opened a door, and there inside sat a princess who span upon a spinning-wheel.
"nay, nay, now!"
she called out, "dare christian folk come hither?
but now you'd best be off about your business, if you don't want the troll to gobble you up; for here lives a troll with three heads."
"all one to me," said the lad, "i'd be just as glad to hear he had four heads beside; i'd like to see what kind of fellow he is.
as for going, i won't go at all.
i've done no harm; but meat you must get me, for i'm almost starved to death."
when halvor had eaten his fill, the princess told him to try if he could brandish the sword that hung against the wall; no, he couldn't brandish it, he couldn't even lift it up.
"oh!"
said the princess, "now you must go and take a pull of that flask that hangs by its side; that's what the troll does every time he goes out to use the sword."
so halvor took a pull, and in the twinkling of an eye he could brandish the sword like nothing; and now he thought it high time the troll came; and lo!
just then up came the troll puffing and blowing.
halvor jumped behind the door.
"hutetu," said the troll, as he put his head in at the door, "what a smell of christian man's blood!"
"aye," said halvor, "you'll soon know that to your cost," and with that he hewed off all his heads.
now the princess was so glad that she was free, she both danced and sang, but then all at once she called her sisters to mind, and so she said:
"would my sisters were free too!"
"where are they?"
asked halvor.
well, she told him all about it; one was taken away by a troll to his castle which lay fifty miles off, and the other by another troll to his castle which was fifty miles further still.
"but now," she said, "you must first help me to get this ugly carcass out of the house."
yes, halvor was so strong he swept everything away, and made it all clean and tidy in no time.
so they had a good and happy time of it, and next morning he set off at peep of grey dawn; he could take no rest by the way, but ran and walked the whole day.
when he first saw the castle he got a little afraid; it was far grander than the first, but here too there wasn't a living soul to be seen.
so halvor went into the kitchen, and didn't stop there either, but went straight further on into the house.
"nay, nay," called out the princess, "dare christian folk come hither?
i don't know i'm sure how long it is since i came here, but in all that time i haven't seen a christian man.
'twere best you saw how to get away as fast as you came; for here lives a troll who has six heads."
"i shan't go," said halvor, "if he has six heads besides."
"he'll take you up and swallow you down alive," said the princess.
but it was no good, halvor wouldn't go; he wasn't at all afraid of the troll, but meat and drink he must have, for he was half starved after his long journey.
well, he got as much of that as he wished, but then the princess wanted him to be off again.
"no," said halvor, "i won't go, i've done no harm, and i've nothing to be afraid about."
"he won't stay to ask that," said the princess, "for he'll take you without law or leave; but as you won't go, just try if you can brandish that sword yonder, which the troll wields in war."
he couldn't brandish it, and then the princess said he must take a pull at the flask which hung by its side, and when he had done that he could brandish it.
just then back came the troll, and he was both stout and big, so that he had to go sideways to get through the door.
when the troll got his first head in he called out:
"hutetu, what a smell of christian man's blood!"
but that very moment halvor hewed off his first head, and so on all the rest as they popped in.
the princess was overjoyed, but just then she came to think of her sisters, and wished out loud they were free.
halvor thought that might easily be done, and wanted to be off at once; but first he had to help the princess to get the troll's carcass out of the way, and so he could only set out next morning.
it was a long way to the castle, and he had to walk fast and run hard to reach it in time; but about nightfall he saw the castle, which was far finer and grander than either of the others.
this time he wasn't the least afraid, but walked straight through the kitchen, and into the castle.
there sat a princess who was so pretty, there was no end to her loveliness.
she too like the others told him there hadn't been christian folk there ever since she came thither, and bade him go away again, else the troll would swallow him alive, and do you know, she said, he has nine heads.
"aye, aye," said halvor, "if he had nine other heads, and nine other heads still, i won't go away," and so he stood fast before the stove.
the princess kept on begging him so prettily to go away, lest the troll should gobble him up, but halvor said:
"let him come as soon as he likes."
so she gave him the troll's sword, and bade him take a pull at the flask, that he might be able to brandish and wield it.
just then back came the troll puffing and blowing and tearing along.
he was far bigger and stouter than the other two, and he too had to go on one side to get through the door.
so when he got his first head in, he said as the others had said:
"hutetu, what a smell of christian man's blood!"
that very moment halvor hewed off the first head and then all the rest; but the last was the toughest of them all, and it was the hardest bit of work halvor had to do, to get it hewn off, although he knew very well he had strength enough to do it.
so all the princesses came together to that castle, which was called soria moria castle, and they were glad and happy as they had never been in all their lives before, and they all were fond of halvor and halvor of them, and he might choose the one he liked best for his bride; but the youngest was fondest of him of all the three.
but there after a while, halvor went about, and was so strange and dull and silent.
then the princesses asked him what he lacked, and if he didn't like to live with them any longer?
yes, he did, for they had enough and to spare, and he was well off in every way, but still somehow or other he did so long to go home, for his father and mother were alive, and them he had such a great wish to see.
well, they thought that might be done easily enough.
"you shall go thither and come back hither, safe and unscathed, if you will only follow our advice," said the princesses.
yes, he'd be sure to mind all they said.
so they dressed him up till he was as grand as a king's son, and then they set a ring on his finger, and that was such a ring, he could wish himself thither and hither with it; but they told him to be sure and not take it off, and not to name their names, for there would be an end of all his bravery, and then he'd never see them more.
"if i only stood at home i'd be glad," said halvor; and it was done as he had wished.
then stood halvor at his father's cottage door before he knew a word about it.
now it was about dusk at even, and so, when they saw such a grand stately lord walk in, the old couple got so afraid they began to bow and scrape.
then halvor asked if he couldn't stay there, and have a lodging there that night.
no; that he couldn't.
"we can't do it at all," they said, "for we haven't this thing or that thing which such a lord is used to have; 'twere best your lordship went up to the farm, no long way off, for you can see the chimneys, and there they have lots of everything."
halvor wouldn't hear of it he wanted to stop; but the old couple stuck to their own, that he had better go to the farmer's; there he would get both meat and drink; as for them, they hadn't even a chair to offer him to sit down on.
"no," said halvor, "i won't go up there till to-morrow early, but let me just stay here to-night; worst come to the worst, i can sit in the chimney corner."
well, they couldn't say anything against that; so halvor sat down by the ingle, and began to poke about in the ashes, just as he used to do when he lay at home in old days, and stretched his lazy bones.
well, they chattered and talked about many things; and they told halvor about this thing and that; and so he asked them if they had never had any children.
yes, yes, they had once a lad whose name was halvor, but they didn't know whither he had wandered; they couldn't even tell whether he were dead or alive.
"couldn't it be me, now?"
said halvor.
"let me see; i could tell him well enough," said the old wife, and rose up.
"our halvor was so lazy and dull, he never did a thing; and besides, he was so ragged, that one tatter took hold of the next tatter on him.
no; there never was the making of such a fine fellow in him as you are, master."
a little while after the old wife went to the hearth to poke up the fire, and when the blaze fell on halvor's face, just as when he was at home of old poking about in the ashes, she knew him at once.
"ah!
but it is you after all, halvor?"
she cried; and then there was such joy for the old couple, there was no end to it; and he was forced to tell how he had fared, and the old dame was so fond and proud of him, nothing would do but he must go up at once to the farmer's, and show himself to the lassies, who had always looked down on him.
and off she went first, and halvor followed after.
so, when she got up there, she told them all how halvor had come home again, and now they should only just see how grand he was, for, said she, "he looks like nothing but a king's son."
"all very fine," said the lassies, and tossed up their heads.
"we'll be bound he's just the same beggarly ragged boy he always was."
just then in walked halvor, and then the lassies were all so taken aback, they forgot their sarks in the ingle, where they were sitting darning their clothes, and ran out in their smocks.
well, when they were got back again, they were so shamefaced they scarce dared look at halvor, towards whom they had always been proud and haughty.
"aye, aye," said halvor, "you always thought yourselves so pretty and neat, no one could come near you; but now you should just see the eldest princess i have set free; against her you look just like milkmaids, and the midmost is prettier still; but the youngest, who is my sweetheart, she's fairer than both sun and moon.
would to heaven they were only here," said halvor, "then you'd see what you would see."
he had scarce uttered these words before there they stood, but then he felt so sorry, for now what they had said came into his mind.
up at the farm there was a great feast got ready for the princesses, and much was made of them, but they wouldn't stop there.
"no, we want to go down to your father and mother," they said to halvor; "and so we'll go out now and look about us."
so he went down with them, and they came to a great lake just outside the farm.
close by the water was such a lovely green bank; here the princesses said they would sit and rest a while; they thought it so sweet to sit down and look over the water.
so they sat down there, and when they had sat a while the youngest princess said:
"i may as well comb your hair a little, halvor."
well, halvor laid his head on her lap, and she combed his bonny locks, and it wasn't long before halvor fell fast asleep.
then she took the ring from his finger, and put another in its stead; and she said:
"now hold me all together!
and now would we were all in soria moria castle."
so when halvor woke up, he could very well tell that he had lost the princesses, and began to weep and wail; and he was so downcast, they couldn't comfort him at all.
in spite of all his father and mother said, he wouldn't stop there, but took farewell of them, and said he was safe not to see them again; for if he couldn't find the princesses again, he thought it not worth while to live.
well, he had still about sixty pounds left, so he put them into his pocket, and set out on his way.
so, when he had walked a while, he met a man with a tidy horse, and he wanted to buy it, and began to chaffer with the man.
"aye," said the man, "to tell the truth, i never thought of selling him; but if we could strike a bargain perhaps "
"what do you want for him?"
asked halvor.
"i didn't give much for him, nor is he worth much; he's a brave horse to ride, but he can't draw at all; still he's strong enough to carry your knapsack and you too, turn and turn about," said the man.
at last they agreed on the price, and halvor laid the knapsack on him, and so he walked a bit, and rode a bit, turn and turn about.
at night he came to a green plain where stood a great tree, at the roots of which he sat down.
there he let the horse loose, but he didn't lie down to sleep, but opened his knapsack and took a meal.
at peep of day off he set again, for he could take no rest.
so he rode and walked and walked and rode the whole day through the wide wood, where there were so many green spots and glades that shone so bright and lovely between the trees.
he didn't know at all where he was or whither he was going, but he gave himself no more time to rest than when his horse cropped a bit of grass, and he took a snack out of his knapsack when they came to one of those green glades.
so he went on walking and riding by turns, and as for the wood there seemed to be no end to it.
but at dusk the next day he saw a light gleaming away through the trees.
"would there were folk hereaway," thought halvor, "that i might warm myself a bit and get a morsel to keep body and soul together."
when he got up to it he saw the light came from a wretched little hut, and through the window he saw an old old, couple inside.
they were as grey-headed as a pair of doves, and the old wife had such a nose!
why, it was so long she used it for a poker to stir the fire as she sat in the ingle.
"good evening," said halvor.
"good evening," said the old wife.
"but what errand can you have in coming hither?"
she went on, "for no christian folk have been here these hundred years and more."
well, halvor told her all about himself, and how he wanted to get to soria moria castle, and asked if she knew the way thither.
"no," said the old wife, "that i don't, but see now, here comes the moon, i'll ask her, she'll know all about it, for doesn't she shine on everything?"
so when the moon stood clear and bright over the tree-tops, the old wife went out.
"thou moon, thou moon," she screamed, "canst thou tell me the way to soria moria castle?"
"no," said the moon, "that i can't, for the last time i shone there a cloud stood before me."
"wait a bit still," said the old wife to halvor, "bye and bye comes the west wind; he's sure to know it, for he puffs and blows round every corner."
"nay, nay," said the old wife when she went out again, "you don't mean to say you've got a horse too; just turn the poor beastie loose in our 'toun,' and don't let him stand there and starve to death at the door."
then she ran on:
"but won't you swop him away to me?
we've got an old pair of boots here, with which you can take twenty miles at each stride; those you shall have for your horse, and so you'll get all the sooner to soria moria castle."
that halvor was willing to do at once; and the old wife was so glad at having the horse, she was ready to dance and skip for joy.
"for now," she said, "i shall be able to ride to church.
i, too, think of that."
as for halvor, he had no rest, and wanted to be off at once, but the old wife said there was no hurry.
"lie down on the bench with you and sleep a bit, for we've no bed to offer you, and i'll watch and wake you when the west wind comes."
so after a while up came the west wind, roaring and howling along till the walls creaked and groaned again.
out ran the old wife.
"thou west wind, thou west wind!
canst thou tell me the way to soria moria castle?
here's one who wants to get thither."
"yes, i know it very well," said the west wind, "and now i'm just off thither to dry clothes for the wedding that's to be; if he's swift of foot he can go along with me."
out ran halvor.
"you'll have to stretch your legs if you mean to keep up," said the west wind.
so off he set over field and hedge, and hill and fell, and halvor had hard work to keep up.
"well," said the west wind, "now i've no time to stay with you any longer, for i've got to go away yonder and tear down a strip of spruce wood first before i go to the bleaching-ground to dry the clothes; but if you go alongside the hill you'll come to a lot of lassies standing washing clothes, and then you've not far to go to soria moria castle."
in a little while halvor came upon the lassies who stood washing, and they asked if he had seen anything of the west wind who was to come and dry the clothes for the wedding.
"aye, aye, that i have," said halvor, "he's only gone to tear down a strip of spruce wood.
it'll not be long before he's here," and then he asked them the way to soria moria castle.
so they put him into the right way, and when he got to the castle it was full of folk and horses; so full it made one giddy to look at them.
but halvor was so ragged and torn from having followed the west wind through bush and brier and bog, that he kept on one side, and wouldn't show himself till the last day when the bridal feast was to be.
so when all, as was then right and fitting, were to drink the bride and bridegroom's health and wish them luck, and when the cupbearer was to drink to them all again, both knights and squires, last of all he came in turn to halvor.
he drank their health, but let the ring which the princess had put upon his finger as he lay by the lake fall into the glass, and bade the cupbearer go and greet the bride and hand her the glass.
then up rose the princess from the board at once.
"who is most worthy to have one of us," she said, "he that has set us free, or he that here sits by me as bridegroom?"
well they all said there could be but one voice and will as to that, and when halvor heard that he wasn't long in throwing off his beggar's rags, and arraying himself as bridegroom.
"aye, aye, here is the right one after all," said the youngest princess as soon as she saw him, and so she tossed the other one out of the window, and held her wedding with halvor.
the giant who had no heart in his body
once on a time there was a king who had seven sons, and he loved them so much that he could never bear to be without them all at once, but one must always be with him.
now, when they were grown up, six were to set off to woo, but as for the youngest, his father kept him at home, and the others were to bring back a princess for him to the palace.
so the king gave the six the finest clothes you ever set eyes on, so fine that the light gleamed from them a long way off, and each had his horse, which cost many, many hundred pounds, and so they set off.
now, when they had been to many palaces, and seen many princesses, at last they came to a king who had six daughters; such lovely king's daughters they had never seen, and so they fell to wooing them, each one, and when they had got them for sweethearts, they set off home again, but they quite forgot that they were to bring back with them a sweetheart for boots, their brother, who stayed at home, for they were over head and ears in love with their own sweethearts.
but when they had gone a good bit on their way, they passed close by a steep hill-side, like a wall, where the giant's house was, and there the giant came out, and set his eyes upon them, and turned them all into stone, princes and princesses and all.
now the king waited and waited for his six sons, but the more he waited, the longer they stayed away; so he fell into great trouble, and said he should never know what it was to be glad again.
"and if i had not you left," he said to boots, "i would live no longer, so full of sorrow am i for the loss of your brothers."
"well, but now i've been thinking to ask your leave to set out and find them again; that's what i'm thinking of," said boots.
"nay, nay!"
said his father; "that leave you shall never get, for then you would stay away too."
but boots had set his heart upon it; go he would; and he begged and prayed so long that the king was forced to let him go.
now, you must know the king had no other horse to give boots but an old broken-down jade, for his six other sons and their train had carried off all his horses; but boots did not care a pin for that, he sprang up on his sorry old steed.
"farewell, father," said he; "i'll come back, never fear, and like enough i shall bring my six brothers back with me;" and with that he rode off.
so, when he had ridden a while, he came to a raven, which lay in the road and flapped its wings, and was not able to get out of the way, it was so starved.
"oh, dear friend," said the raven, "give me a little food, and i'll help you again at your utmost need."
"i haven't much food," said the prince, "and i don't see how you'll ever be able to help me much; but still i can spare you a little.
i see you want it."
so he gave the raven some of the food he had brought with him.
now, when he had gone a bit further, he came to a brook, and in the brook lay a great salmon, which had got upon a dry place and dashed itself about, and could not get into the water again.
"oh, dear friend," said the salmon to the prince; "shove me out into the water again, and i'll help you again at your utmost need."
"well!"
said the prince, "the help you'll give me will not be great, i daresay, but it's a pity you should lie there and choke;" and with that he shot the fish out into the stream again.
after that he went a long, long way, and there met him a wolf which was so famished that it lay and crawled along the road on its belly.
"dear friend, do let me have your horse," said the wolf; "i'm so hungry the wind whistles through my ribs; i've had nothing to eat these two years."
"no," said boots, "this will never do; first i came to a raven, and i was forced to give him my food; next i came to a salmon, and him i had to help into the water again; and now you will have my horse.
it can't be done, that it can't, for then i should have nothing to ride on."
"nay, dear friend, but you can help me," said graylegs the wolf; "you can ride upon my back, and i'll help you again in your utmost need."
"well!
the help i shall get from you will not be great, i'll be bound," said the prince; "but you may take my horse, since you are in such need."
so when the wolf had eaten the horse, boots took the bit and put it into the wolf's jaw, and laid the saddle on his back; and now the wolf was so strong, after what he had got inside, that he set off with the prince like nothing.
so fast he had never ridden before.
"when we have gone a bit farther," said graylegs, "i'll show you the giant's house."
so after a while they came to it.
"see, here is the giant's house," said the wolf; "and see, here are your six brothers, whom the giant has turned into stone; and see, here are their six brides, and away yonder is the door, and in that door you must go."
"nay, but i daren't go in," said the prince; "he'll take my life."
"no!
no!"
said the wolf; "when you get in you'll find a princess, and she'll tell you what to do to make an end of the giant.
only mind and do as she bids you."
well!
boots went in, but, truth to say, he was very much afraid.
when he came in the giant was away, but in one of the rooms sat the princess, just as the wolf had said, and so lovely a princess boots had never yet set eyes on.
"oh!
heaven help you!
whence have you come?"
said the princess, as she saw him; "it will surely be your death.
no one can make an end of the giant who lives here, for he has no heart in his body."
"well!
well!"
said boots; "but now that i am here, i may as well try what i can do with him; and i will see if i can't free my brothers, who are standing turned to stone out of doors; and you, too, i will try to save, that i will."
"well, if you must, you must," said the princess; "and so let us see if we can't hit on a plan.
just creep under the bed yonder, and mind and listen to what he and i talk about.
but, pray, do lie as still as a mouse."
so he crept under the bed, and he had scarce got well underneath it, before the giant came.
"ha!"
roared the giant, "what a smell of christian blood there is in the house!"
"yes, i know there is," said the princess, "for there came a magpie flying with a man's bone, and let it fall down the chimney.
i made all the haste i could to get it out, but all one can do, the smell doesn't go off so soon."
so the giant said no more about it, and when night came, they went to bed.
after they had lain a while, the princess said:
"there is one thing i'd be so glad to ask you about, if i only dared."
"what thing is that?"
asked the giant.
"only where it is you keep your heart, since you don't carry it about you," said the princess.
"ah!
that's a thing you've no business to ask about; but if you must know, it lies under the door-sill," said the giant.
"ho!
ho!"
said boots to himself under the bed, "then we'll soon see if we can't find it."
next morning the giant got up cruelly early, and strode off to the wood; but he was hardly out of the house before boots and the princess set to work to look under the door-sill for his heart; but the more they dug, and the more they hunted, the more they couldn't find it.
"he has baulked us this time," said the princess, "but we'll try him once more."
so she picked all the prettiest flowers she could find, and strewed them over the door-sill, which they had laid in its right place again; and when the time came for the giant to come home again, boots crept under the bed.
just as he was well under, back came the giant.
snuff snuff, went the giant's nose.
"my eyes and limbs, what a smell of christian blood there is in here," said he.
"i know there is," said the princess, "for there came a magpie flying with a man's bone in his bill, and let it fall down the chimney.
i made as much haste as i could to get it out, but i daresay it's that you smell."
so the giant held his peace, and said no more about it.
a little while after, he asked who it was that had strewed flowers about the door-sill.
"oh, i, of course," said the princess.
"and, pray, what's the meaning of all this?"
said the giant.
"ah!"
said the princess, "i'm so fond of you that i couldn't help strewing them, when i knew that your heart lay under there."
"you don't say so," said the giant; "but after all it doesn't lie there at all."
so when they went to bed again in the evening, the princess asked the giant again where his heart was, for she said she would so like to know.
"well," said the giant, "if you must know, it lies away yonder in the cupboard against the wall."
"so, so!"
thought boots and the princess; "then we'll soon try to find it."
next morning the giant was away early, and strode off to the wood, and so soon as he was gone boots and the princess were in the cupboard hunting for his heart, but the more they sought for it, the less they found it.
"well," said the princess, "we'll just try him once more."
so she decked out the cupboard with flowers and garlands, and when the time came for the giant to come home, boots crept under the bed again.
then back came the giant.
snuff snuff!
"my eyes and limbs, what a smell of christian blood there is in here!"
"i know there is," said the princess; "for a little while since there came a magpie flying with a man's bone in his bill, and let it fall down the chimney.
i made all the haste i could to get it out of the house again; but after all my pains, i daresay it's that you smell."
when the giant heard that, he said no more about it; but a little while after, he saw how the cupboard was all decked about with flowers and garlands; so he asked who it was that had done that?
who could it be but the princess?
"and, pray, what's the meaning of all this tomfoolery?"
asked the giant.
"oh, i'm so fond of you, i couldn't help doing it when i knew that your heart lay there," said the princess.
"how can you be so silly as to believe any such thing?"
said the giant.
"oh yes; how can i help believing it, when you say it?"
said the princess.
"you're a goose," said the giant; "where my heart is, you will never come."
"well," said the princess; "but for all that, 'twould be such a pleasure to know where it really lies."
then the poor giant could hold out no longer, but was forced to say:
"far, far away in a lake lies an island; on that island stands a church; in that church is a well; in that well swims a duck; in that duck there is an egg, and in that egg there lies my heart, you darling!"
in the morning early, while it was still grey dawn, the giant strode off to the wood.
"yes!
now i must set off too," said boots; "if i only knew how to find the way."
he took a long, long farewell of the princess, and when he got out of the giant's door, there stood the wolf waiting for him.
so boots told him all that had happened inside the house, and said now he wished to ride to the well in the church, if he only knew the way.
so the wolf bade him jump on his back, he'd soon find the way; and away they went, till the wind whistled after them, over hedge and field, over hill and dale.
after they had travelled many, many days, they came at last to the lake.
then the prince did not know how to get over it, but the wolf bade him only not be afraid, but stick on, and so he jumped into the lake with the prince on his back, and swam over to the island.
so they came to the church; but the church keys hung high, high up on the top of the tower, and at first the prince did not know how to get them down.
"you must call on the raven," said the wolf.
so the prince called on the raven, and in a trice the raven came, and flew up and fetched the keys, and so the prince got into the church.
but when he came to the well, there lay the duck, and swam about backwards and forwards, just as the giant had said.
so the prince stood and coaxed it, till it came to him, and he grasped it in his hand; but just as he lifted it up from the water the duck dropped the egg into the well, and then boots was beside himself to know how to get it out again.
"well, now you must call on the salmon to be sure," said the wolf; and the king's son called on the salmon, and the salmon came and fetched up the egg from the bottom of the well.
then the wolf told him to squeeze the egg, and as soon as ever he squeezed it the giant screamed out.
"squeeze it again," said the wolf; and when the prince did so, the giant screamed still more piteously, and begged and prayed so prettily to be spared, saying he would do all that the prince wished if he would only not squeeze his heart in two.
"tell him, if he will restore to life again your six brothers and their brides, whom he has turned to stone, you will spare his life,"
said the wolf.
yes, the giant was ready to do that, and he turned the six brothers into king's sons again, and their brides into king's daughters.
"now, squeeze the egg in two," said the wolf.
so boots squeezed the egg to pieces, and the giant burst at once.
now, when he had made an end of the giant, boots rode back again on the wolf to the giant's house, and there stood all his six brothers alive and merry, with their brides.
then boots went into the hill-side after his bride, and so they all set off home again to their father's house.
and you may fancy how glad the old king was when he saw all his seven sons come back, each with his bride "but the loveliest bride of all is the bride of boots, after all," said the king, "and he shall sit uppermost at the table, with her by his side."
so he sent out, and called a great wedding-feast, and the mirth was both loud and long, and if they have not done feasting, why, they are still at it.
the princess on the glass hill
once on a time there was a man who had a meadow, which lay high up on the hill-side, and in the meadow was a barn, which he had built to keep his hay in.
now, i must tell you, there hadn't been much in the barn for the last year or two, for every st. john's night, when the grass stood greenest and deepest, the meadow was eaten down to the very ground the next morning, just as if a whole drove of sheep had been there feeding on it over night.
this happened once, and it happened twice; so at last the man grew weary of losing his crop of hay, and said to his sons for he had three of them, and the youngest was nicknamed boots, of course that now one of them must go and sleep in the barn in the outlying field when st. john's night came, for it was too good a joke that his grass should be eaten, root and blade, this year, as it had been the last two years.
so whichever of them went must keep a sharp look-out; that was what their father said.
well, the eldest son was ready to go and watch the meadow; trust him for looking after the grass!
it shouldn't be his fault if man or beast, or the fiend himself, got a blade of grass.
so, when evening came, he set off to the barn, and lay down to sleep; but a little on in the night came such a clatter, and such an earthquake, that walls and roof shook, and groaned, and creaked; then up jumped the lad, and took to his heels as fast as ever he could; nor dared he once look round till he reached home; and as for the hay, why it was eaten up this year just as it had been twice before.
the next st. john's night, the man said again, it would never do to lose all the grass in the outlying field year after year in this way, so one of his sons must just trudge off to watch it, and watch it well too.
well, the next oldest son was ready to try his luck, so he set off, and lay down to sleep in the barn as his brother had done before him; but as the night wore on, there came on a rumbling and quaking of the earth, worse even than on the last st. john's night, and when the lad heard it, he got frightened, and took to his heels as though he were running a race.
next year the turn came to boots; but when he made ready to go, the other two began to laugh and to make game of him, saying:
"you're just the man to watch the hay, that you are; you, who have done nothing all your life but sit in the ashes and toast yourself by the fire."
but boots did not care a pin for their chattering, and stumped away as evening grew on, up the hill-side to the outlying field.
there he went inside the barn and lay down; but in about an hour's time the barn began to groan and creak, so that it was dreadful to hear.
"well," said boots to himself, "if it isn't worse than this, i can stand it well enough."
a little while after came another creak and an earthquake, so that the litter in the barn flew about the lad's ears.
"oh!"
said boots to himself, "if it isn't worse than this, i daresay i can stand it out."
but just then came a third rumbling, and a third earthquake, so that the lad thought walls and roof were coming down on his head; but it passed off, and all was still as death about him.
"it'll come again, i'll be bound," thought boots; but no, it didn't come again; still it was, and still it stayed; but after he had lain a little while, he heard a noise as if a horse were standing just outside the barn-door, and cropping the grass.
he stole to the door, and peeped through a chink, and there stood a horse feeding away.
so big, and fat, and grand a horse, boots had never set eyes on; by his side on the grass lay a saddle and bridle, and a full set of armour for a knight, all of brass, so bright that the light gleamed from it.
"ho, ho!"
thought the lad; "it's you, is it, that eats up our hay?
i'll soon put a spoke in your wheel, just see if i don't."
so he lost no time, but took the steel out of his tinder-box, and threw it over the horse; then it had no power to stir from the spot, and became so tame that the lad could do what he liked with it.
so he got on its back, and rode off with it to a place which no one knew of, and there he put up the horse.
when he got home, his brothers laughed and asked how he had fared?
"you didn't lie long in the barn, even if you had the heart to go so far as the field."
"well," said boots, "all i can say is, i lay in the barn till the sun rose, and neither saw nor heard anything; i can't think what there was in the barn to make you both so afraid."
"a pretty story," said his brothers; "but we'll soon see how you have watched the meadow;" so they set off; but when they reached it, there stood the grass as deep and thick as it had been over night.
well, the next st. john's eve it was the same story over again; neither of the elder brothers dared to go out to the outlying field to watch the crop; but boots, he had the heart to go, and everything happened just as it had happened the year before.
first a clatter and an earthquake, then a greater clatter and another earthquake, and so on a third time; only this year the earthquakes were far worse than the year before.
then all at once everything was as still as death, and the lad heard how something was cropping the grass outside the barn-door, so he stole to the door, and peeped through a chink; and what do you think he saw?
why, another horse standing right up against the wall, and chewing and champing with might and main.
it was far finer and fatter than that which came the year before, and it had a saddle on its back, and a bridle on its neck, and a full suit of mail for a knight lay by its side, all of silver, and as grand as you would wish to see.
"ho, ho!"
said boots to himself; "it's you that gobbles up our hay, is it?
i'll soon put a spoke in your wheel;" and with that he took the steel out of his tinder-box, and threw it over the horse's crest, which stood as still as a lamb.
well, the lad rode this horse, too, to the hiding-place where he kept the other one, and after that he went home.
"i suppose you'll tell us," said one of his brothers, "there's a fine crop this year too, up in the hayfield."
"well, so there is," said boots; and off ran the others to see, and there stood the grass thick and deep, as it was the year before; but they didn't give boots softer words for all that.
now, when the third st. john's eve came, the two elder brothers still hadn't the heart to lie out in the barn and watch the grass, for they had got so scared at heart the nights they lay there before, that they couldn't get over the fright; but boots, he dared to go; and, to make a very long story short, the very same thing happened this time as had happened twice before.
three earthquakes came, one after the other, each worse than the one which went before, and when the last came, the lad danced about with the shock from one barn wall to the other; and after that, all at once, it was still as death.
now when he had laid a little while, he heard something tugging away at the grass outside the barn, so he stole again to the door-chink, and peeped out, and there stood a horse close outside far, far bigger and fatter than the two he had taken before.
"ho, ho!"
said the lad to himself, "it's you, is it, that comes here eating up our hay?
i'll soon stop that i'll soon put a spoke in your wheel."
so he caught up his steel and threw it over his horse's neck, and in a trice it stood as if it were nailed to the ground, and boots could do as he pleased with it.
then he rode off with it to the hiding-place where he kept the other two, and then went home.
when he got home, his two brothers made game of him as they had done before, saying, they could see he had watched the grass well, for he looked for all the world as if he were walking in his sleep, and many other spiteful things they said, but boots gave no heed to them, only asking them to go and see for themselves; and when they went, there stood the grass as fine and deep this time as it had been twice before.
now, you must know that the king of the country where boots lived had a daughter, whom he would only give to the man who could ride up over the hill of glass, for there was a high, high hill, all of glass, as smooth and slippery as ice, close by the king's palace.
upon the tip top of the hill the king's daughter was to sit, with three golden apples in her lap, and the man who could ride up and carry off the three golden apples, was to have half the kingdom, and the princess to wife.
this the king had stuck up on all the church-doors in his realm, and had given it out in many other kingdoms besides.
now, this princess was so lovely that all who set eyes on her fell over head and ears in love with her whether they would or no.
so i needn't tell you how all the princes and knights who heard of her were eager to win her to wife, and half the kingdom beside; and how they came riding from all parts of the world on high prancing horses, and clad in the grandest clothes, for there wasn't one of them who hadn't made up his mind that he, and he alone, was to win the princess.
so when the day of trial came, which the king had fixed, there was such a crowd of princes and knights under the glass hill, that it made one's head whirl to look at them, and everyone in the country who could even crawl along was off to the hill, for they were all eager to see the man who was to win the princess.
so the two elder brothers set off with the rest; but as for boots, they said outright he shouldn't go with them, for if they were seen with such a dirty changeling, all begrimed with smut from cleaning their shoes and sifting cinders in the dust-hole, they said folk would make game of them.
"very well," said boots, "it's all one to me.
i can go alone, and stand or fall by myself."
now when the two brothers came to the hill of glass, the knights and princes were all hard at it, riding their horses till they were all in a foam; but it was no good, by my troth; for as soon as ever the horses set foot on the hill, down they slipped, and there wasn't one who could get a yard or two up; and no wonder, for the hill was as smooth as a sheet of glass, and as steep as a house-wall.
but all were eager to have the princess and half the kingdom.
so they rode and slipped, and slipped and rode, and still it was the same story over again.
at last all their horses were so weary that they could scarce lift a leg, and in such a sweat that the lather dripped from them, and so the knights had to give up trying any more.
so the king was just thinking that he would proclaim a new trial for the next day, to see if they would have better luck, when all at once a knight came riding up on so brave a steed, that no one had ever seen the like of it in his born days, and the knight had mail of brass, and the horse a brass bit in his mouth, so bright that the sunbeams shone from it.
then all the others called out to him he might just as well spare himself the trouble of riding at the hill, for it would lead to no good; but he gave no heed to them, and put his horse at the hill, and went up it like nothing for a good way, about a third of the height; and when he had got so far, he turned his horse round and rode down again.
so lovely a knight the princess thought she had never yet seen; and while he was riding, she sat and thought to herself:
"would to heaven he might only come up and down the other side."
and when she saw him turning back, she threw down one of the golden apples after him, and it rolled down into his shoe.
but when he got to the bottom of the hill, he rode off so fast that no one could tell what had become of him.
that evening all the knights and princes were to go before the king, that he who had ridden so far up the hill might show the apple which the princess had thrown, but there was no one who had anything to show.
one after the other they all came, but not a man of them could show the apple.
at even the brothers of boots came home too, and had such a long story to tell about the riding up the hill.
"first of all," they said, "there was not one of the whole lot who could get so much as a stride up; but at last came one who had a suit of brass mail, and a brass bridle and saddle, all so bright that the sun shone from them a mile off.
he was a chap to ride, just!
he rode a third of the way up the hill of glass, and he could easily have ridden the whole way up, if he chose; but he turned round and rode down, thinking, maybe, that was enough for once."
"oh!
i should so like to have seen him, that i should," said boots, who sat by the fireside, and stuck his feet into the cinders, as was his wont.
"oh!"
said his brothers, "you would, would you?
you look fit to keep company with such high lords, nasty beast that you are, sitting there amongst the ashes."
next day the brothers were all for setting off again, and boots begged them this time, too, to let him go with them and see the riding; but no, they wouldn't have him at any price, he was too ugly and nasty, they said.
"well, well!"
said boots; "if i go at all, i must go by myself.
i'm not afraid."
so when the brothers got to the hill of glass, all the princes and knights began to ride again, and you may fancy they had taken care to shoe their horses sharp; but it was no good they rode and slipped, and slipped and rode, just as they had done the day before, and there was not one who could get so far as a yard up the hill.
and when they had worn out their horses, so that they could not stir a leg, they were all forced to give it up as a bad job.
so the king thought he might as well proclaim that the riding should take place the day after for the last time, just to give them one chance more; but all at once it came across his mind that he might as well wait a little longer, to see if the knight in brass mail would come this day too.
well, they saw nothing of him; but all at once came one riding on a steed, far, far braver and finer than that on which the knight in brass had ridden, and he had silver mail, and a silver saddle and bridle, all so bright that the sunbeams gleamed and glanced from them far away.
then the others shouted out to him again, saying, he might as well hold hard, and not try to ride up the hill, for all his trouble would be thrown away; but the knight paid no heed to them, and rode straight at the hill, and right up it, till he had gone two-thirds of the way, and then he wheeled his horse round and rode down again.
to tell the truth, the princess liked him still better than the knight in brass, and she sat and wished he might only be able to come right up to the top, and down the other side; but when she saw him turning back, she threw the second apple after him, and it rolled down and fell into his shoe.
but, as soon as ever he had come down from the hill of glass, he rode off so fast that no one could see what became of him.
at even, when all were to go in before the king and the princess, that he who had the golden apple might show it, in they went, one after the other, but there was no one who had any apple to show, and the two brothers, as they had done on the former day, went home and told how things had gone, and how all had ridden at the hill, and none got up.
"but, last of all," they said, "came one in a silver suit, and his horse had a silver saddle and a silver bridle.
he was just a chap to ride; and he got two-thirds up the hill, and then turned back.
he was a fine fellow, and no mistake; and the princess threw the second gold apple to him."
"oh!"
said boots, "i should so like to have seen him too, that i should."
"a pretty story," they said.
"perhaps you think his coat of mail was as bright as the ashes you are always poking about, and sifting, you nasty dirty beast."
the third day everything happened as it had happened the two days before.
boots begged to go and see the sight, but the two wouldn't hear of his going with them.
when they got to the hill there was no one who could get so much as a yard up it; and now all waited for the knight in silver mail, but they neither saw nor heard of him.
at last came one riding on a steed, so brave that no one had ever seen his match; and the knight had a suit of golden mail, and a golden saddle and bridle, so wondrous bright that the sunbeams gleamed from them a mile off.
the other knights and princes could not find time to call out to him not to try his luck, for they were amazed to see how grand he was.
so he rode right at the hill, and tore up it like nothing, so that the princess hadn't even time to wish that he might get up the whole way.
as soon as ever he reached the top, he took the third golden apple from the princess' lap, and then turned his horse and rode down again.
as soon as he got down, he rode off at full speed, and was out of sight in no time.
now, when the brothers got home at even, you may fancy what long stories they told, how the riding had gone off that day; and amongst other things, they had a deal to say about the knight in golden mail.
"he just was a chap to ride!"
they said; "so grand a knight isn't to be found in the wide world."
"oh!"
said boots, "i should so like to have seen him, that i should."
"ah!"
said his brothers, "his mail shone a deal brighter than the glowing coals which you are always poking and digging at; nasty dirty beast that you are."
next day all the knights and princes were to pass before the king and the princess it was too late to do so the night before, i suppose that he who had the gold apple might bring it forth; but one came after another, first the princes, and then the knights, and still no one could show the gold apple.
"well," said the king, "some one must have it, for it was something we all saw with our own eyes, how a man came and rode up and bore it off."
so he commanded that every man who was in the kingdom should come up to the palace and see if they could show the apple.
well, they all came one after another, but no one had the golden apple, and after a long time the two brothers of boots came.
they were the last of all, so the king asked them if there was no one else in the kingdom who hadn't come.
"oh, yes," said they; "we have a brother, but he never carried off the golden apple.
he hasn't stirred out of the dusthole on any of the three days."
"never mind that," said the king; "he may as well come up to the palace like the rest."
so boots had to go up to the palace.
"how now," said the king; "have you got the golden apple?
speak out!"
"yes, i have," said boots; "here is the first, and here is the second, and here is the third too;" and with that he pulled all three golden apples out of his pocket, and at the same time threw off his sooty rags, and stood before them in his gleaming golden mail.
"yes!"
said the king; "you shall have my daughter, and half my kingdom, for you well deserve both her and it."
so they got ready for the wedding, and boots got the princess to wife, and there was great merry-making at the bridal-feast, you may fancy, for they could all be merry though they couldn't ride up the hill of glass; and all i can say is, if they haven't left off their merry-making yet, why, they're still at it.
the widow's son
once on a time there was a poor, poor widow, who had an only son.
she dragged on with the boy till he had been confirmed, and then she said she couldn't feed him any longer, he must just go out and earn his own bread.
so the lad wandered out into the world, and when he had walked a day or so, a strange man met him.
"whither away?"
asked the man.
"whither away?"
asked the man.]
"oh, i'm going out into the world to try and get a place," said the lad.
"will you come and serve me?"
said the man.
"oh, yes; just as soon you as any one else," said the lad.
"well, you'll have a good place with me," said the man; "for you'll only have to keep me company, and do nothing at all else beside."
so the lad stopped with him, and lived on the fat of the land, both in meat and drink, and had little or nothing to do; but he never saw a living soul in that man's house.
so one day the man said:
"now, i'm going off for eight days, and that time you'll have to spend here all alone; but you must not go into any one of these four rooms here.
if you do, i'll take your life when i come back."
"no," said the lad, he'd be sure not to do that.
but when the man had been gone three or four days, the lad couldn't bear it any longer, but went into the first room, and when he got inside he looked round, but he saw nothing but a shelf over the door where a bramble-bush rod lay.
well, indeed!
thought the lad; a pretty thing to forbid my seeing this.
so when the eight days were out, the man came home, and the first thing he said was:
"you haven't been into any of these rooms, of course."
"no, no; that i haven't," said the lad.
"i'll soon see that," said the man, and went at once into the room where the lad had been.
"nay, but you have been in here," said he; "and now you shall lose your life."
then the lad begged and prayed so hard that he got off with his life, but the man gave him a good thrashing.
and when it was over, they were as good friends as ever.
some time after the man set off again, and said he should be away fourteen days; but before he went he forbade the lad to go into any of the rooms he had not been in before; as for that he had been in, he might go into that, and welcome.
well, it was the same story over again, except that the lad stood out eight days before he went in.
in this room, too, he saw nothing but a shelf over the door, and a big stone, and a pitcher of water on it.
well, after all, there's not much to be afraid of my seeing here, thought the lad.
but when the man came back, he asked if he had been into any of the rooms.
no, the lad hadn't done anything of the kind.
"well, well; i'll soon see that," said the man; and when he saw the lad had been in them after all, he said:
"ah!
now i'll spare you no longer; now you must lose your life."
but the lad begged and prayed for himself again, and so this time too he got off with stripes; though he got as many as his skin would carry.
but when he got sound and well again, he led just as easy a life as ever, and he and the man were just as good friends.
so a while after the man was to take another journey, and now he said he should be away three weeks, and he forbade the lad anew to go into the third room, for if he went in there he might just make up his mind at once to lose his life.
then after fourteen days the lad couldn't bear it, but crept into the room, but he saw nothing at all in there but a trap door on the floor; and when he lifted it up and looked down, there stood a great copper cauldron which bubbled up and boiled away down there; but he saw no fire under it.
"well, i should just like to know if it's hot," thought the lad, and struck his finger down into the broth, and when he pulled it out again, lo!
it was gilded all over.
so the lad scraped and scrubbed it, but the gilding wouldn't go off, so he bound a piece of rag round it; and when the man came back, and asked what was the matter with his finger, the lad said he'd given it such a bad cut.
but the man tore off the rag, and then he soon saw what was the matter with the finger.
first he wanted to kill the lad outright, but when he wept, and begged, he only gave him such a thrashing that he had to keep his bed three days.
after that the man took down a pot from the wall, and rubbed him over with some stuff out of it, and so the lad was as sound and fresh as ever.
so after a while the man started off again, and this time he was to be away a month.
but before he went, he said to the lad, if he went into the fourth room he might give up all hope of saving his life.
well, the lad stood out for two or three weeks, but then he couldn't hold out any longer; he must and would go into that room, and so in he stole.
there stood a great black horse tied up in a stall by himself, with a manger of red-hot coals at his head and a truss of hay at his tail.
then the lad thought this all wrong, so he changed them about, and put the hay at his head.
then said the horse:
"since you are so good at heart as to let me have some food, i'll set you free, that i will.
for if the troll comes back and finds you here, he'll kill you outright.
but now you must go up to the room which lies just over this, and take a coat of mail out of those that hang there; and mind, whatever you do, don't take any of the bright ones, but the most rusty of all you see, that's the one to take; and sword and saddle you must choose for yourself just in the same way."
so the lad did all that; but it was a heavy load for him to carry them all down at once.
when he came back, the horse told him to pull off his clothes and get into the cauldron which stood and boiled in the other room, and bathe himself there.
"if i do," thought the lad, "i shall look an awful fright;" but for all that, he did as he was told.
so when he had taken his bath, he became so handsome and sleek, and as red and white as milk and blood, and much stronger than he had been before.
"do you feel any change?"
asked the horse.
"yes," said the lad.
"try and lift me, then," said the horse.
oh yes!
he could do that, and as for the sword, he brandished it like a feather.
"now saddle me," said the horse, "and put on the coat of mail, and then take the bramble-bush rod, and the stone, and the pitcher of water, and the pot of ointment, and then we'll be off as fast as we can."
so when the lad had got on the horse, off they went at such a rate, he couldn't at all tell how they went.
but when he had ridden awhile, the horse said, "i think i hear a noise; look round!
can you see anything?"
"yes; there are ever so many coming after us, at least a score," said the lad.
"aye, aye, that's the troll coming," said the horse; "now he's after us with his pack."
so they rode on a while, until those who followed were close behind them.
"now throw your bramble-bush rod behind you, over your shoulder," said the horse; "but mind you throw it a good way off my back."
so the lad did that, and all at once a close, thick bramblewood grew up behind them.
so the lad rode on a long, long time, while the troll and his crew had to go home to fetch something to hew their way through the wood.
but at last the horse said again:
"look behind you!
can you see anything now?"
"yes, ever so many," said the lad, "as many as would fill a large church."
"aye, aye, that's the troll and his crew," said the horse; "now he's got more to back him; but now throw down the stone, and mind you throw it far behind me."
and as soon as the lad did what the horse said, up rose a great black hill of rock behind him.
so the troll had to be off home to fetch something to mine his way through the rock; and while the troll did that, the lad rode a good bit further on.
but still the horse begged him to look behind him, and then he saw a troop like a whole army behind him, and they glistened in the sunbeams.
"aye, aye," said the horse, "that's the troll, and now he's got his whole band with him, so throw the pitcher of water behind you, but mind you don't spill any of it upon me."
so the lad did that; but in spite of all the pains he took, he still spilt one drop on the horse's flank.
so it became a great deep lake; and because of that one drop, the horse found himself far out in it, but still he swam safe to land.
but when the trolls came to the lake, they lay down to drink it dry; and so they swilled and swilled till they burst.
"now we're rid of them," said the horse.
so when they had gone a long, long while, they came to a green patch in a wood.
"now, strip off all your arms," said the horse, "and only put on your ragged clothes, and take the saddle off me, and let me loose, and hang all my clothing and your arms up inside that great hollow lime-tree yonder.
then make yourself a wig of fir-moss, and go up to the king's palace, which lies close here, and ask for a place.
whenever you need me, only come here and shake the bridle, and i'll come to you."
yes!
the lad did all his horse told him, and as soon as ever he put on the wig of moss he became so ugly, and pale, and miserable to look at, no one would have known him again.
then he went up to the king's palace and begged first for leave to be in the kitchen, and bring in wood and water for the cook, but then the kitchen-maid asked him:
"why do you wear that ugly wig?
off with it.
i won't have such a fright in here."
"no, i can't do that," said the lad; "for i'm not quite right in my head."
"do you think then i'll have you in here about the food," cried the cook.
"away with you to the coachman; you're best fit to go and clean the stable."
but when the coachman begged him to take his wig off, he got the same answer, and he wouldn't have him either.
"you'd best go down to the gardener," said he; "you're best fit to go about and dig in the garden."
so he got leave to be with the gardener, but none of the other servants would sleep with him, and so he had to sleep by himself under the steps of the summer-house.
it stood upon beams, and had a high staircase.
under that he got some turf for his bed, and there he lay as well as he could.
so, when he had been some time at the palace, it happened one morning, just as the sun rose, that the lad had taken off his wig, and stood and washed himself, and then he was so handsome, it was a joy to look at him.
so the princess saw from her window the lovely gardener's boy, and thought she had never seen any one so handsome.
then she asked the gardener why he lay out there under the steps.
"oh," said the gardener, "none of his fellow-servants will sleep with him; that's why."
"let him come up to-night, and lie at the door inside my bedroom, and then they'll not refuse to sleep with him any more," said the princess.
so the gardener told that to the lad.
"do you think i'll do any such thing?"
said the lad.
"why they'd say next there was something between me and the princess."
"yes," said the gardener, "you've good reason to fear any such thing, you who are so handsome."
"well, well," said the lad, "since it's her will, i suppose i must go."
so, when he was to go up the steps in the evening, he tramped and stamped so on the way, that they had to beg him to tread softly lest the king should come to know it.
so he came into the princess' bedroom, lay down, and began to snore at once.
then the princess said to her maid:
"go gently, and just pull his wig off;" and she went up to him.
but just as she was going to whisk it off, he caught hold of it with both hands, and said she should never have it.
after that he lay down again, and began to snore.
then the princess gave her maid a wink, and this time she whisked off the wig; and there lay the lad so lovely, and white and red, just as the princess had seen him in the morning sun.
after that the lad slept every night in the princess' bedroom.
but it wasn't long before the king came to hear how the gardener's lad slept every night in the princess' bedroom; and he got so wroth he almost took the lad's life.
he didn't do that, however, but he threw him into the prison tower; and as for his daughter, he shut her up in her own room, whence she never got leave to stir day or night.
all that she begged, and all that she prayed, for the lad and herself, was no good.
the king was only more wroth than ever.
some time after came a war and uproar in the land, and the king had to take up arms against another king who wished to take the kingdom from him.
so when the lad heard that, he begged the gaoler to go to the king and ask for a coat of mail and a sword, and for leave to go to the war.
all the rest laughed when the gaoler told his errand, and begged the king to let him have an old worn-out suit, that they might have the fun of seeing such a wretch in battle.
so he got that, and an old broken-down hack besides, which went upon three legs, and dragged the fourth after it.
then they went out to meet the foe; but they hadn't got far from the palace before the lad got stuck fast in a bog with his hack.
there he sat and dug his spurs in, and cried, "gee up!
gee up!"
to his hack.
and all the rest had their fun out of this, and laughed, and made game of the lad as they rode past him.
but they were scarcely gone, before he ran to the lime-tree, threw on his coat of mail, and shook the bridle, and there came the horse in a trice, and said: "do now your best, and i'll do mine."
but when the lad came up the battle had begun, and the king was in a sad pinch; but no sooner had the lad rushed into the thick of it than the foe was beaten back, and put to flight.
the king and his men wondered and wondered who it could be who had come to help them, but none of them got so near him as to be able to talk to him, and as soon as the fight was over he was gone.
when they went back, there sat the lad still in the bog, and dug his spurs into his three-legged hack, and they all laughed again.
"no!
only just look," they said; "there the fool sits still."
the next day when they went out to battle, they saw the lad sitting there still, so they laughed again, and made game of him; but as soon as ever they had ridden by, the lad ran again to the lime-tree, and all happened as on the first day.
every one wondered what strange champion it could be that had helped them, but no one got so near him as to say a word to him; and no one guessed it could be the lad; that's easy to understand.
so when they went home at night, and saw the lad still sitting there on his hack, they burst out laughing at him again, and one of them shot an arrow at him and hit him in the leg.
so he began to shriek and to bewail; 'twas enough to break one's heart; and so the king threw his pocket-handkerchief to him to bind his wound.
when they went out to battle the third day, the lad still sat there.
"gee up!
gee up!"
he said to his hack.
"nay, nay," said the king's men; "if he won't stick there till he's starved to death."
and then they rode on, and laughed at him till they were fit to fall from their horses.
when they were gone, he ran again to the lime, and came up to the battle just in the very nick of time.
this day he slew the enemy's king, and then the war was over at once.
when the battle was over, the king caught sight of his handkerchief, which the strange warrior had bound round his leg, and so it wasn't hard to find him out.
so they took him with great joy between them to the palace, and the princess, who saw him from her window, got so glad, no one can believe it.
"here comes my own true love," she said.
then he took the pot of ointment and rubbed himself on the leg, and after that he rubbed all the wounded, and so they all got well again in a moment.
so he got the princess to wife; but when he went down into the stable where his horse was on the day the wedding was to be, there it stood so dull and heavy, and hung its ears down, and wouldn't eat its corn.
so when the young king for he was now a king, and had got half the kingdom spoke to him, and asked what ailed him, the horse said:
"now i have helped you on, and now i won't live any longer.
so just take the sword, and cut my head off."
"no, i'll do nothing of the kind," said the young king; "but you shall have all you want, and rest all your life."
"well," said the horse, "if you don't do as i tell you, see if i don't take your life somehow."
so the king had to do what he asked; but when he swung the sword and was to cut his head off, he was so sorry he turned away his face, for he would not see the stroke fall.
but as soon as ever he had cut off the head, there stood the loveliest prince on the spot where the horse had stood.
"why, where in all the world did you come from?"
asked the king.
"it was i who was a horse," said the prince; "for i was king of that land whose king you slew yesterday.
he it was who threw this troll's shape over me, and sold me to the troll.
but now he is slain i get my own again, and you and i will be neighbour kings, but war we will never make on one another."
and they didn't either; for they were friends as long as they lived, and each paid the other very many visits.
the three billy-goats gruff
once on a time there were three billy-goats, who were to go up to the hill-side to make themselves fat, and the name of all three was "gruff."
on the way up was a bridge over a burn they had to cross; and under the bridge lived a great ugly troll, with eyes as big as saucers, and a nose as long as a poker.
so first of all came the youngest billy-goat gruff to cross the bridge.
"trip, trap!
trip, trap!"
went the bridge.
"who's that tripping over my bridge?"
roared the troll.
"oh!
it is only i, the tiniest billy-goat gruff; and i'm going up to the hill-side to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, with such a small voice.
"now, i'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"oh, no!
pray don't take me.
i'm too little, that i am," said the billy-goat; "wait a bit till the second billy-goat gruff comes, he's much bigger."
"well!
be off with you," said the troll.
a little while after came the second billy-goat gruff to cross the bridge.
"trip, trap!
trip, trap!
trip, trap!"
went the bridge.
"who's that tripping over my bridge?"
roared the troll.
"oh!
it's the second billy-goat gruff, and i'm going up to the hill-side to make myself fat," said the billy-goat, who hadn't such a small voice.
"now, i'm coming to gobble you up," said the troll.
"oh, no!
don't take me, wait a little till the big billy-goat gruff comes, he's much bigger."
"very well!
be off with you," said the troll.
but just then up came the big billy-goat gruff.
"trip, trap!
trip, trap!
trip, trap!"
went the bridge, for the billy-goat was so heavy that the bridge creaked and groaned under him.
"who's that tramping over my bridge?"
roared the troll.
"it's i!
the big billy-goat gruff," said the billy-goat, who had an ugly hoarse voice of his own.
"now, i'm coming to gobble you up," roared the troll.
"well, come along!
i've got two spears,             and i'll poke your eyeballs out at your ears;             i've got besides two curling-stones,             and i'll crush you to bits, body and bones."
that was what the big billy-goat said; and so he flew at the troll and poked his eyes out with his horns, and crushed him to bits, body and bones, and tossed him out into the burn, and after that he went up to the hill-side.
there the billy-goats got so fat they were scarce able to walk home again; and if the fat hasn't fallen off them, why they're still fat; and so:
snip, snap, snout,                         this tale's told out.
the three princesses in the blue mountain
there were once upon a time a king and queen who had no children, and they took it so much to heart that they hardly ever had a happy moment.
one day the king stood in the portico and looked out over the big meadows and all that was his.
but he felt he could have no enjoyment out of it all, since he did not know what would become of it after his time.
as he stood there pondering, an old beggar woman came up to him and asked him for a trifle in heaven's name.
she greeted him and curtsied, and asked what ailed the king, since he looked so sad.
"you can't do anything to help me, my good woman," said the king; "it's no use telling you."
"i am not so sure about that," said the beggar woman.
"very little is wanted when luck is in the way.
the king is thinking that he has no heir to his crown and kingdom, but he need not mourn on that account,"
she said.
"the queen shall have three daughters, but great care must be taken that they do not come out under the open heavens before they are all fifteen years old; otherwise a snowdrift will come and carry them away."
when the time came the queen had a beautiful baby girl; the year after she had another, and the third year she also had a girl.
the king and queen were glad beyond all measure; but although the king was very happy, he did not forget to set a watch at the palace door, so that the princesses should not get out.
as they grew up they became both fair and beautiful, and all went well with them in every way.
their only sorrow was that they were not allowed to go out and play like other children.
for all they begged and prayed their parents, and for all they besought the sentinel, it was of no avail; go out they must not before they were fifteen years old, all of them.
so one day, not long before the fifteenth birthday of the youngest princess, the king and the queen were out driving, and the princesses were standing at the window and looking out.
the sun was shining, and everything looked so green and beautiful that they felt that they must go out, happen what might.
so they begged and entreated and urged the sentinel, all three of them, that he should let them down into the garden.
"he could see for himself how warm and pleasant it was; no snowy weather could come on such a day."
well, he didn't think it looked much like it either, and if they must go they had better go, the soldier said; but it must only be for a minute, and he himself would go with them and look after them.
when they got down into the garden they ran up and down, and filled their laps with flowers and green leaves, the prettiest they could find.
at last they could manage no more, but just as they were going indoors they caught sight of a large rose at the other end of the garden.
it was many times prettier than any they had gathered, so they must have that also.
but just as they bent down to take the rose a big dense snowdrift came and carried them away.
there was great mourning over the whole country, and the king made known from all the churches that any one who could save the princesses should have half the kingdom and his golden crown and whichever princess he liked to choose.
you can well understand there were plenty who wanted to gain half the kingdom, and a princess into the bargain; so there were people of both high and low degree who set out for all parts of the country.
but there was no one who could find the princesses, or even get any tidings of them.
when all the grand and rich people in the country had had their turn, a captain and a lieutenant came to the palace, and wanted to try their luck.
the king fitted them out both with silver and gold, and wished them success on their journey.
then came a soldier, who lived with his mother in a little cottage some way from the palace.
he had dreamt one night that he also was trying to find the princesses.
when the morning came he still remembered what he had dreamt, and told his mother about it.
"some witchery must have got hold of you," said the woman, "but you must dream the same thing three nights running, else there is nothing in it."
and the next two nights the same thing happened; he had the same dream, and he felt he must go.
so he washed himself and put on his uniform, and went into the kitchen at the palace.
it was the day after the captain and the lieutenant had set out.
"you had better go home again," said the king, "the princesses are beyond your reach, i should say; and besides, i have spent so much money on outfits that i have nothing left to-day.
you had better come back another time."
"if i go, i must go to-day," said the soldier.
"money i do not want; i only need a drop in my flask and some food in my wallet," he said; "but it must be a good walletful as much meat and bacon as i can carry."
yes, that he might have if that was all he wanted.
so he set off, and he had not gone many miles before he overtook the captain and the lieutenant.
"where are you going?"
asked the captain, when he saw the man in uniform.
"i'm going to try if i can find the princesses," answered the soldier.
"so are we," said the captain, "and since your errand is the same, you may keep company with us, for if we don't find them, you are not likely to find them either, my lad," said he.
when they had gone awhile the soldier left the high road, and took a path into the forest.
"where are you going?"
said the captain; "it is best to follow the high road."
"that may be," said the soldier, "but this is my way."
he kept to the path, and when the others saw this they turned round and followed him.
away they went further and further, far across big moors and along narrow valleys.
and at last it became lighter, and when they had got out of the forest altogether they came to a long bridge, which they had to cross.
but on that bridge a bear stood on guard.
he rose on his hind legs and came towards them, as if he wanted to eat them.
"what shall we do now?"
said the captain.
"they say that the bear is fond of meat," said the soldier, and then he threw a fore quarter to him, and so they got past.
but when they reached the other end of the bridge, they saw a lion, which came roaring towards them with open jaws as if he wanted to swallow them.
"i think we had better turn right-about, we shall never be able to get past him alive," said the captain.
"oh, i don't think he is so very dangerous," said the soldier; "i have heard that lions are very fond of bacon, and i have half a pig in my wallet;" and then he threw a ham to the lion, who began eating and gnawing, and thus they got past him also.
in the evening they came to a fine big house.
each room was more gorgeous than the other; all was glitter and splendour wherever they looked; but that did not satisfy their hunger.
the captain and the lieutenant went round rattling their money, and wanted to buy some food; but they saw no people nor could they find a crumb of anything in the house, so the soldier offered them some food from his wallet, which they were not too proud to accept, nor did they want any pressing.
they helped themselves of what he had as if they had never tasted food before.
the next day the captain said they would have to go out shooting and try to get something to live upon.
close to the house was a large forest where there were plenty of hares and birds.
the lieutenant was to remain at home and cook the remainder of the food in the soldier's wallet.
in the meantime the captain and the soldier shot so much game that they were hardly able to carry it home.
when they came to the door they found the lieutenant in such a terrible plight that he was scarcely able to open the door to them.
"what is the matter with you?"
said the captain.
the lieutenant then told them that as soon as they were gone a tiny, little man, with a long beard, who went on crutches, came in and asked so plaintively for a penny; but no sooner had he got it than he let it fall on the floor, and for all he raked and scraped with his crutch he was not able to get hold of it, so stiff and stark was he.
"i pitied the poor, old body," said the lieutenant, "and so i bent down to pick up the penny, but then he was neither stiff nor stark any longer.
he began to belabour me with his crutches till very soon i was unable to move a limb."
"you ought to be ashamed of yourself!
you, one of the king's officers, to let an old cripple give you a thrashing, and then tell people of it into the bargain!"
said the captain.
"pshaw!
to-morrow i'll stop at home, and then you'll hear another story."
the next day the lieutenant and the soldier went out shooting and the captain remained at home to do the cooking and look after the house.
but if he fared no worse, he certainly fared no better than the lieutenant.
in a little while the old man came in and asked for a penny.
he let it fall as soon as he got it; gone it was and could not be found.
so he asked the captain to help him to find it, and the captain, without giving a thought, bent down to look for it.
but no sooner was he on his knees than the cripple began belabouring him with his crutches, and every time the captain tried to rise, he got a blow which sent him reeling.
when the others came home in the evening, he still lay on the same spot and could neither see nor speak.
the third day the soldier was to remain at home, while the other two went out shooting.
the captain said he must take care of himself, "for the old fellow will soon put an end to you, my lad," said he.
"oh, there can't be much life in one if such an old crook can take it," said the soldier.
they were no sooner outside the door, than the old man came in and asked for a penny again.
"money i have never owned," said the soldier, "but food i'll give you, as soon as it is ready," said he, "but if we are to get it cooked, you must go and cut the wood."
"that i can't," said the old man.
"if you can't, you must learn," said the soldier.
"i will soon show you.
come along with me down to the wood-shed."
there he dragged out a heavy log and cut a cleft in it, and drove in a wedge till the cleft deepened.
"now you must lie down and look right along the cleft, and you'll soon learn how to cut wood," said the soldier.
"in the meantime i'll show you how to use the axe."
the old man was not sufficiently cunning, and did as he was told; he lay down and looked steadily along the log.
when the soldier saw the old man's beard had got well into the cleft, he struck out the wedge; the cleft closed and the old man was caught by the beard.
the soldier began to beat him with the axe handle, and then swung the axe round his head, and vowed that he would split his skull if he did not tell him, there and then, where the princesses were.
"spare my life, spare my life, and i'll tell you!"
said the old man.
"to the east of the house there is a big mound; on top of the mound you must dig out a square piece of turf, and then you will see a big stone slab.
under that there is a deep hole through which you must let yourself down, and you'll then come to another world where you will find the princesses.
but the way is long and dark and it goes both through fire and water."
when the soldier got to know this, he released the old man, who was not long in making off.
when the captain and lieutenant came home they were surprised to find the soldier alive.
he told them what had happened from first to last, where the princesses were and how they should find them.
they became as pleased as if they had already found them, and when they had had some food, they took with them a basket and as much rope as they could find, and all three set off to the mound.
there they first dug out the turf just as the old man had told them, and underneath they found a big stone slab, which it took all their strength to turn over.
they then began to measure how deep it was; they joined on ropes both two and three times, but they were no nearer the bottom the last time than the first.
at last they had to join all the ropes they had, both the coarse and fine, and then they found it reached the bottom.
the captain was, of course, the first who wanted to descend; "but when i tug at the rope you must make haste to drag me up again," he said.
he found the way both dark and unpleasant, but he thought he would go on as long as it became no worse.
but all at once he felt ice cold water spouting about his ears; he became frightened to death and began tugging at the rope.
the lieutenant was the next to try, but it fared no better with him.
no sooner had he got through the flood of water than he saw a blazing fire yawning beneath him, which so frightened him that he also turned back.
the soldier then got into the bucket, and down he went through fire and water, right on till he came to the bottom, where it was so pitch dark that he could not see his hand before him.
he dared not let go the basket, but went round in a circle, feeling and fumbling about him.
at last he discovered a gleam of light far, far away like the dawn of day, and he went on in that direction.
when he had gone a bit it began to grow light around him, and before long he saw a golden sun rising in the sky and everything around him became as bright and beautiful as if in a fairy world.
first he came to some cattle, which were so fat that their hides glistened a long way off, and when he had got past them he came to a fine, big palace.
he walked through many rooms without meeting anybody.
at last he heard the hum of a spinning wheel, and when he entered the room he found the eldest princess sitting there spinning copper yarn; the room and everything in it was of brightly polished copper.
"oh, dear; oh, dear!
what are christian people doing here?"
said the princess.
"heaven preserve you!
what do you want?"
"i want to set you free and get you out of the mountain," said the soldier.
"pray do not stay.
if the troll comes home he will put an end to you at once; he has three heads," said she.
"i do not care if he has four," said the soldier.
"i am here, and here i shall remain."
"well, if you will be so headstrong, i must see if i can help you,"
said the princess.
she then told him to creep behind the big brewing vat which stood in the front hall; meanwhile she would receive the troll and scratch his heads till he went to sleep.
"and when i go out and call the hens you must make haste and come in,"
she said.
"but you must first try if you can swing the sword which is lying on the table."
no, it was too heavy, he could not even move it.
he had then to take a strengthening draught from the horn, which hung behind the door; after that he was just able to stir it, so he took another draught, and then he could lift it.
at last he took a right, big draught, and he could swing the sword as easily as anything.
all at once the troll came home; he walked so heavily that the palace shook.
"ugh, ugh!
i smell christian flesh and blood in my house," said he.
"yes," answered the princess, "a raven flew past here just now, and in his beak he had a human bone, which he dropped down the chimney; i threw it out and swept and cleaned up after it, but i suppose it still smells."
"so it does," said the troll.
"but come and lie down and i'll scratch your heads," said the princess; "the smell will be gone by the time you wake."
the troll was quite willing, and before long he fell asleep and began snoring.
when she saw he was sleeping soundly, she placed some stools and cushions under his heads and went to call the hens.
the soldier then stole into the room with the sword, and with one blow cut all the three heads off the troll.
the princess was as pleased as a fiddler, and went with the soldier to her sisters, so that he could also set them free.
first of all they went across a courtyard and then through many long rooms till they came to a big door.
"here you must enter: here she is," said the princess.
when he opened the door he found himself in a large hall, where everything was of pure silver; there sat the second sister at a silver spinning-wheel.
"oh, dear; oh, dear!"
she said.
"what do you want here?"
"i want to set you free from the troll," said the soldier.
"pray do not stay, but go," said the princess.
"if he finds you here he will take your life on the spot."
"that would be awkward that is if i don't take his first," said the soldier.
"well, since you will stay," she said, "you will have to creep behind the big brewing-vat in the front hall.
but you must make haste and come as soon as you hear me calling the hens."
first of all he had to try if he was able to swing the troll's sword, which lay on the table; it was much larger and heavier than the first one; he was hardly able to move it.
he then took three draughts from the horn and he could then lift it, and when he had taken three more he could handle it as if it were a rolling pin.
shortly afterwards he heard a heavy, rumbling noise that was quite terrible, and directly afterwards a troll with six heads came in.
"ugh, ugh!"
he said as soon as he got his noses inside the door.
"i smell christian blood and bone in my house."
"yes, just think!
a raven came flying past here with a thigh-bone, which he dropped down the chimney," said the princess.
"i threw it out, but the raven brought it back again.
at last i got rid of it and made haste to clean the room, but i suppose the smell is not quite gone," she said.
"no, i can smell it well," said the troll; but he was tired and put his heads in the princess's lap, and she went on scratching them till they all fell a-snoring.
then she called the hens, and the soldier came and cut off all the six heads as if they were set on cabbage stalks.
she was no less glad than her elder sister, as you may imagine, and danced and sang; but in the midst of their joy they remembered their youngest sister.
they went with the soldier across a large courtyard, and, after walking through many, many rooms, he came to the hall of gold where the third sister was.
she sat at a golden spinning-wheel spinning gold yarn, and the room from ceiling to floor glistened and glittered till it hurt one's eyes.
"heaven preserve both you and me, what do you want here?"
said the princess.
"go, go, else the troll will kill us both."
"just as well two as one," answered the soldier.
the princess cried and wept; but it was all of no use, he must and would remain.
since there was no help for it he would have to try if he could use the troll's sword on the table in the front hall.
but he was only just able to move it; it was still larger and heavier than the other two swords.
he then had to take the horn down from the wall and take three draughts from it, but was only just able to stir the sword.
when he had taken three more draughts he could lift it, and when he had taken another three he swung it as easily as if it had been a feather.
the princess then settled with the soldier to do the same as her sisters had done.
as soon as the troll was well asleep she would call the hens, and he must then make haste and come in and put an end to the troll.
all of a sudden they heard such a thundering, rambling noise, as if the walls and roof were tumbling in.
"ugh!
ugh!
i smell christian blood and bone in my house," said the troll, sniffing with all his nine noses.
"yes, you never saw the like!
just now a raven flew past here and dropped a human bone down the chimney.
i threw it out, but the raven brought it back, and this went on for some time," said the princess; but she got it buried at last, she said, and she had both swept and cleaned the place, but she supposed it still smelt.
"yes, i can smell it well," said the troll.
"come here and lie down in my lap and i will scratch your heads," said the princess.
"the smell will be all gone when you awake."
he did so, and when he was snoring at his best she put stools and cushions under the heads so that she could get away to call the hens.
the soldier then came in in his stockinged feet and struck at the troll, so that eight of the heads fell off at one blow.
but the sword was too short and did not reach far enough; the ninth head woke up and began to roar.
"ugh!
ugh!
i smell a christian."
"yes, here he is," answered the soldier, and before the troll could get up and seize hold of him the soldier struck him another blow and the last head rolled along the floor.
you can well imagine how glad the princesses became now that they no longer had to sit and scratch the trolls' heads; they did not know how they could do enough for him who had saved them.
the youngest princess took off her gold ring and knotted it in his hair.
they then took with them as much gold and silver as they thought they could carry and set off on their way home.
as soon as they tugged at the rope the captain and the lieutenant pulled up the princesses, the one after the other.
but when they were safely up, the soldier thought it was foolish of him not to have gone up before the princesses, for he had not very much belief in his comrades.
he thought he would first try them, so he put a heavy lump of gold in the basket and got out of the way.
when the basket was half-way up they cut the rope and the lump of gold fell to the bottom with such a crash that the pieces flew about his ears.
"now we are rid of him," they said, and threatened the princesses with their life if they did not say that it was they who had saved them from the trolls.
they were forced to agree to this, much against their will, and especially the youngest princess; but life was precious, and so the two who were strongest had their way.
when the captain and lieutenant got home with the princesses you may be sure there were great rejoicings at the palace.
the king was so glad he didn't know which leg to stand on; he brought out his best wine from his cupboard and wished the two officers welcome.
if they had never been honoured before they were honoured now in full measure, and no mistake.
they walked and strutted about the whole of the day, as if they were the cocks of the walk, since they were now going to have the king for father-in-law.
for it was understood they should each have whichever of the princesses they liked and half the kingdom between them.
they both wanted the youngest princess, but for all they prayed and threatened her it was of no use; she would not hear or listen to either.
they then asked the king if they might have twelve men to watch over her; she was so sad and melancholy since she had been in the mountain that they were afraid she might do something to herself.
yes, that they might have, and the king himself told the watch they must look well after her and follow her wherever she went and stood.
they then began to prepare for the wedding of the two eldest sisters; it should be such a wedding as never was heard or spoken of before, and there was no end to the brewing and the baking and the slaughtering.
in the meantime the soldier walked and strolled about down in the other world.
he thought it was hard that he should see neither people nor daylight any more; but he would have to do something, he thought, and so for many days he went about from room to room and opened all the drawers and cupboards and searched about on the shelves and looked at all the fine things that were there.
at last he came to a drawer in a table, in which there lay a golden key; he tried this key to all the locks he could find, but there was none it fitted till he came to a little cupboard over the bed, and in that he found an old rusty whistle.
"i wonder if there is any sound in it," he thought, and put it to his mouth.
no sooner had he whistled than he heard a whizzing and a whirring from all quarters, and such a large flock of birds swept down, that they blackened all the field in which they settled.
"what does our master want to-day?"
they asked.
if he were their master, the soldier said, he would like to know if they could tell him how to get up to the earth again.
no, none of them knew anything about that; "but our mother has not yet arrived," they said; "if she can't help you, no one can."
so he whistled once more, and shortly heard something flapping its wings far away, and then it began to blow so hard that he was carried away between the houses like a wisp of hay across the courtyard, and if he had not caught hold of the fence he would no doubt have been blown away altogether.
a big eagle bigger than you can imagine then swooped down in front of him.
"you come rather sharply," said the soldier.
"as you whistle so i come," answered the eagle.
so he asked her if she knew any means by which he could get away from the world in which they were.
"you can't get away from here unless you can fly," said the eagle, "but if you will slaughter twelve oxen for me, so that i can have a really good meal, i will try and help you.
have you got a knife?"
"no, but i have a sword," he said.
when the eagle had swallowed the twelve oxen she asked the soldier to kill one more for victuals on the journey.
"every time i gape you must be quick and fling a piece into my mouth," she said, "else i shall not be able to carry you up to earth."
he did as she asked him and hung two large bags of meat round her neck and seated himself among her feathers.
the eagle then began to flap her wings and off they went through the air like the wind.
it was as much as the soldier could do to hold on, and it was with the greatest difficulty he managed to throw the pieces of flesh into the eagle's mouth every time she opened it.
at last the day began to dawn, and the eagle was then almost exhausted and began flapping with her wings, but the soldier was prepared and seized the last hind quarter and flung it to her.
then she gained strength and brought him up to earth.
when she had sat and rested a while at the top of a large pine-tree she set off with him again at such a pace that flashes of lightning were seen both by sea and land wherever they went.
close to the palace the soldier got off and the eagle flew home again, but first she told him that if he at any time should want her he need only blow the whistle and she would be there at once.
in the meantime everything was ready at the palace, and the time approached when the captain and lieutenant were to be married with the two eldest princesses, who, however, were not much happier than their youngest sister; scarcely a day passed without weeping and mourning, and the nearer the wedding-day approached the more sorrowful did they become.
at last the king asked what was the matter with them; he thought it was very strange that they were not merry and happy now that they were saved and had been set free and were going to be married.
they had to give some answer, and so the eldest sister said they never would be happy any more unless they could get such checkers as they had played with in the blue mountain.
that, thought the king, could be easily managed, and so he sent word to all the best and cleverest goldsmiths in the country that they should make these checkers for the princesses.
for all they tried there was no one who could make them.
at last all the goldsmiths had been to the palace except one, and he was an old, infirm man who had not done any work for many years except odd jobs, by which he was just able to keep himself alive.
to him the soldier went and asked to be apprenticed.
the old man was so glad to get him, for he had not had an apprentice for many a day, that he brought out a flask from his chest and sat down to drink with the soldier.
before long the drink got into his head, and when the soldier saw this he persuaded him to go up to the palace and tell the king that he would undertake to make the checkers for the princesses.
he was ready to do that on the spot; he had made finer and grander things in his day, he said.
when the king heard there was some one outside who could make the checkers he was not long in coming out.
"is it true what you say, that you can make such checkers as my daughters want?"
he asked.
"yes, it is no lie," said the goldsmith; that he would answer for.
"that's well!"
said the king.
"here is the gold to make them with; but if you do not succeed you will lose your life, since you have come and offered yourself, and they must be finished in three days."
the next morning when the goldsmith had slept off the effects of the drink, he was not quite so confident about the job.
he wailed and wept and blew up his apprentice, who had got him into such a scrape while he was drunk.
the best thing would be to make short work of himself at once, he said, for there could be no hope for his life; when the best and grandest goldsmiths could not make such checkers, was it likely that he could do it?
"don't fret on that account," said the soldier, "but let me have the gold and i'll get the checkers ready in time; but i must have a room to myself to work in," he said.
this he got, and thanks into the bargain.
the time wore on, and the soldier did nothing but lounge about, and the goldsmith began to grumble, because he would not begin with the work.
"don't worry yourself about it," said the soldier, "there is plenty of time!
if you are not satisfied with what i have promised you had better make them yourself."
the same thing went on both that day and the next; and when the smith heard neither hammer nor file from the soldier's room the whole of the last day, he quite gave himself up for lost; it was now no use to think any longer about saving his life, he thought.
but when the night came on the soldier opened the window and blew his whistle.
the eagle then came and asked what he wanted.
"those gold checkers, which the princesses had in the blue mountain," said the soldier; "but you'll want something to eat first, i suppose?
i have two ox carcases lying ready for you in the hay-loft yonder; you had better finish them," he said.
when the eagle had done she did not tarry, and long before the sun rose she was back again with the checkers.
the soldier then put them under his bed and lay down to sleep.
early next morning the goldsmith came and knocked at his door.
"what are you after now again?"
asked the soldier.
"you rush about enough in the day, goodness knows!
if one cannot have peace when one is in bed, whoever would be an apprentice here?"
said he.
neither praying nor begging helped that time; the goldsmith must and would come in, and at last he was let in.
and then, you may be sure, there was soon an end to his wailing.
but still more glad than the goldsmith were the princesses, when he came up to the palace with the checkers, and gladdest of all was the youngest princess.
"have you made them yourself?"
she asked.
"no, if i must speak the truth, it is not i," he said, "but my apprentice, who has made them."
"i should like to see that apprentice," said the princess.
in fact all three wanted to see him, and if he valued his life, he would have to come.
he was not afraid, either of women-folk or grand-folk, said the soldier, and if it could be any amusement to them to look at his rags, they should soon have that pleasure.
the youngest princess recognised him at once; she pushed the soldiers aside and ran up to him, gave him her hand, and said:
"good day, and many thanks for all you have done for us.
it is he who freed us from the trolls in the mountain," she said to the king.
"he is the one i will have!"
and then she pulled off his cap and showed them the ring she had tied in his hair.
it soon came out how the captain and lieutenant had behaved, and so they had to pay the penalty of their treachery with their lives, and that was the end of their grandeur.
but the soldier got the golden crown and half the kingdom, and married the youngest princess.
at the wedding they drank and feasted both well and long; for feast they all could, even if they could not find the princesses, and if they have not yet done feasting and drinking they must be at it still.
the cat on the dovrefell
once on a time there was a man up in finnmark who had caught a great white bear, which he was going to take to the king of denmark.
now, it so fell out, that he came to the dovrefell just about christmas eve, and there he turned into a cottage where a man lived, whose name was halvor, and asked the man if he could get house-room there for his bear and himself.
"heaven never help me, if what i say isn't true!"
said the man; "but we can't give anyone house-room just now, for every christmas eve such a pack of trolls come down upon us, that we are forced to flit, and haven't so much as a house over our own heads, to say nothing of lending one to anyone else."
"oh?"
said the man, "if that's all, you can very well lend me your house; my bear can lie under the stove yonder, and i can sleep in the side-room."
well, he begged so hard, that at last he got leave to stay there; so the people of the house flitted out, and before they went, everything was got ready for the trolls; the tables were laid, and there was rice porridge, and fish boiled in lye, and sausages, and all else that was good, just as for any other grand feast.
so, when everything was ready, down came the trolls.
some were great, and some were small; some had long tails, and some had no tails at all; some, too, had long, long noses; and they ate and drank, and tasted everything.
just then one of the little trolls caught sight of the white bear, who lay under the stove; so he took a piece of sausage and stuck it on a fork, and went and poked it up against the bear's nose, screaming out:
"pussy, will you have some sausage?"
then the white bear rose up and growled, and hunted the whole pack of them out of doors, both great and small.
next year halvor was out in the wood, on the afternoon of christmas eve, cutting wood before the holidays, for he thought the trolls would come again; and just as he was hard at work, he heard a voice in the wood calling out:
"halvor!
halvor!"
"well," said halvor, "here i am."
"have you got your big cat with you still?"
"yes, that i have," said halvor; "she's lying at home under the stove, and what's more, she has now got seven kittens, far bigger and fiercer than she is herself."
"oh, then, we'll never come to see you again," bawled out the troll away in the wood, and he kept his word; for since that time the trolls have never eaten their christmas brose with halvor on the dovrefell.
one's own children are always prettiest
a sportsman went out once into a wood to shoot, and he met a snipe.
"dear friend," said the snipe, "don't shoot my children!"
"how shall i know your children?"
asked the sportsman.
"what are they like?"
"oh!"
said the snipe, "mine are the prettiest children in all the wood."
"very well," said the sportsman, "i'll not shoot them; don't be afraid."
but for all that, when he came back, there he had a whole string of young snipes in his hand which he had shot.
"oh, oh!"
said the snipe, "why did you shoot my children after all?"
"what!
these your children!"
said the sportsman; "why, i shot the ugliest i could find, that i did!"
"woe is me!"
said the snipe; "don't you know that each one thinks his own children the prettiest in the world?"
among the forest people
mr. red squirrel comes to live in the forest
life in the forest is very different from life in the meadow, and the forest people have many ways of doing which are not known in the world outside.
they are a quiet people and do not often talk or sing when there are strangers near.
you could never get acquainted with them until you had learned to be quiet also, and to walk through the underbrush without snapping twigs at every step.
then, if you were to live among them and speak their language, you would find that there are many things about which it is not polite to talk.
and there is a reason for all this.
in the meadow, although they have their quarrels and their own troubles, they always make it up again and are friendly, but in the forest there are some people who can never get along well together, and who do not go to the same parties or call upon each other.
it is not because they are cross, or selfish, or bad.
it is just because of the way in which they have to live and hunt, and they cannot help it any more than you could help having eyes of a certain color.
these are things which are all understood in the forest, and the people there are careful what they say and do, so they get on very well indeed, and have many happy times in that quiet, dusky place.
when people are born there, they learn these things without thinking about it, but when they come there from some other place it is very hard, for everybody thinks it stupid in strangers to ask about such simple matters.
when mr. red squirrel first came to the forest, he knew nothing of the way in which they do, and he afterward said that learning forest manners was even harder than running away from his old home.
you see, mr. red squirrel was born in the forest, but was carried away from there when he was only a baby.
from that time until he was grown, he had never set claw upon a tree, and all he could see of the world he had seen by peeping through the bars of a cage.
his cousins in the forest learned to frisk along the fence-tops and to jump from one swaying branch to another, but when this poor little fellow longed for a scamper he could only run around and around in a wire wheel that hummed as it turned, and this made him very dizzy.
he used to wonder if there were nothing better in life, for he had been taken from his woodland home when he was too young to remember about it.
one day he saw another squirrel outside, a dainty little one who looked as though she had never a sad thought.
that made him care more than ever to be free, and when he curled down in his cotton nest that night he dreamed about her, and that they were eating acorns together in a tall oak tree.
the next day mr. red squirrel pretended to be sick.
he would not run in the wheel or taste the food in his cage.
when his master came to look at him, he moaned pitifully and would not move one leg.
his master thought that the leg was broken, and took limp little mr. red squirrel in his hand to the window to see what was the matter.
the window was up, and when he saw his chance, mr. red squirrel leaped into the open air and was away to the forest.
his poor legs were weak from living in such a small cage, but how he ran!
his heart thumped wildly under the soft fur of his chest, and his breath came in quick gasps, and still he ran, leaping, scrambling, and sometimes falling, but always nearer the great green trees of his birthplace.
at last he was safe and sat trembling on the lowest branch of a beech-tree.
the forest was a new world to him and he asked many questions of a fat, old gray squirrel.
the gray squirrel was one of those people who know a great deal and think that they know a great, great deal, and want others to think so too.
he was so very knowing and important that, although he answered all of mr. red squirrel's questions, he really did not tell him any of the things which he most wanted to know, and this is the way in which they talked:
"what is the name of this place?"
asked mr. red squirrel.
"this?
why this is the forest, of course," answered the gray squirrel.
"we have no other name for it.
it is possible that there are other forests in the world, but they cannot be so fine as this, so we call ours 'the forest.'"
"are there pleasant neighbors here?"
asked mr. red squirrel.
"very good, very good.
my wife and i do not call on many of them, but still they are good enough people, i think."
"then why don't you call?"
"why?
why?
because they are not in our set.
it would never do."
and the gray squirrel sat up very straight indeed.
"who is that gliding fellow on the ground below?"
asked the newcomer.
"is he one of your friends?"
"that?
that is the rattlesnake.
we never speak to each other.
there has always been trouble between our families."
"who lives in that hollow tree yonder?"
"sh, sh!
that is where the great horned owl has his home.
he is asleep now and must not be awakened, for squirrels and owls cannot be friendly."
"why not?"
"because.
it has always been so."
"and who is that bird just laying an egg in her nest above us?"
"speak softly, please.
that is the cowbird, and it is not her nest.
you will get into trouble if you talk such things aloud.
she can't help it.
she has to lay her eggs in other birds' nests, but they don't like it."
mr. red squirrel tried very hard to find out the reason for this, but there are always some things for which no reason can be given; and there are many questions which can never be answered, even if one were to ask, "why?
why?
why?"
all day long.
so mr. red squirrel, being a wise little fellow, stopped asking, and thought by using his eyes and ears he would in time learn all that he needed to know.
he had good eyes and keen ears, and he learned very fast without making many mistakes.
he had a very happy life among the forest people, and perhaps that was one reason.
he learned not to say things which made his friends feel badly, and he did not ask needless questions.
and after all, you know, it would have been very foolish to ask questions which nobody could answer, and worse than foolish to ask about matters which he could find out for himself.
it is in the forest as in the world outside.
we can know that many things are, but we never know why they are.
why mr great horned owl hatched the eggs
if the rattlesnake is the king of the forest in the daytime, the great horned owl is the king at night.
indeed, he is much the more powerful of the two, for he is king of air and earth alike and can go wherever he wishes, while the snake can only rule over those who live near the ground or who are so careless as to come to him there.
there was but one pair of great horned owls in the forest, and they lived in the deepest shade, having their great clumsy nest in the hollow of a tall tree.
you might have walked past it a hundred times and never have guessed that any owls lived there, if you did not notice the round pellets of bone and hair on the grass.
they are such hungry fellows that they swallow their food with the bones in it.
then their tough little stomachs go to work, rolling all the pieces of bone and hair into balls and sending them back to be cast out of the owls' mouths to the ground.
the great horned owl was a very large bird.
his whole body was covered with brown, dull yellow, and white feathers.
even his feet and legs were covered, and all that you could see besides were his black claws and his black hooked bill.
yes, at night you could see his eyes, too, and they were wonderful great eyes that could see in the dark, but they were shut in the daytime when he was resting.
his wife, who was the queen of the forest at night, looked exactly like him, only she was larger than he.
and that is the way among owls, the wife is always larger than her husband.
every night when the sun had gone down, the great horned owl and his wife would come out of their hollow tree and sit blinking on a branch near by, waiting until it got dark enough for them to see quite plainly.
as the light faded, the little black spots in their eyes would grow bigger and bigger, and then off they would go on their great soft, noiseless wings, hunting in the grass and among the branches for the supper which they called breakfast.
mrs. owl could not be gone very long at a time, for there were two large round white eggs in the nest which must not get cold.
her husband was on the wing most of the night, and he often flew home with some tender morsel for her.
he was really a kind-hearted fellow, although you could never have made the small birds think so.
sometimes his wife would sigh and tell how tired she was of sitting still, and how glad she would be when the eggs were hatched and she could go more with him.
when she began to speak of that, the great horned owl would get ready for another flight and go off saying: "it is too bad.
i am so sorry for you.
but then, one would never have young owlets if one didn't stick to the nest."
he was always proud of his children, and he thought himself a very good husband.
perhaps he was; still he had never taken his place on the nest while his wife went hunting.
one night, after they had both been flying through forest and over field, he came back to the hollow tree to rest.
he expected to find mrs.
owl, for she had started home before he did.
she was not there and he grew quite impatient.
"i should like to know what keeps her so long," he said, fretfully.
after a while he looked into the nest and saw the two big white eggs.
"it is a shame," he said.
"our beautiful eggs will be chilled, and it will be all her fault if we have no owlets this summer."
you see, even then he did not seem to think that he could do anything to keep them warm.
but the next time he looked in, he put one feathered foot on the round eggs and was surprised to find how cool they were.
it fairly made his head feathers stand on end to think of it, and he was so frightened that he forgot to be cross, and stepped right in and covered them with his own breast.
what if they had already been left too long, and the owlets within would never hatch?
would mrs. owl ever forgive him for being so stupid?
he began to wonder if any of the other fellows would see him.
he thought it so absurd for the king of the forest to be hatching out a couple of eggs, instead of swooping around in the dark and frightening the smaller birds.
the night seemed so long, too.
it had always been short enough before, and he had often disliked to have daylight come, for then he had to go to bed.
he was very much upset, and it is no wonder that when he heard a doleful wail from a neighboring tree, and knew that his cousin, the screech owl, was near, he raised his head and called loudly, "hoo-hoo-oooo!
waugh-hoo!"
the screech owl heard him and flew at once to a branch beside the nest hollow.
he was a jolly little fellow in spite of his doleful call, and before he could talk at all he had to bend his body, look behind him, nod his head, and shake himself, as screech owls always do when they alight.
then he looked into the tree and saw his big cousin, the great horned owl, the night king of the forest, sitting on the eggs and looking very, very grumpy.
how he did laugh!
"what is the matter?"
said he.
"didn't you like your wife's way of brooding over the eggs?
or did she get tired of staying at home and make you help tend the nest?"
"matter enough," grumbled the great horned owl.
"we went hunting together at twilight and she hasn't come home yet.
i didn't get into the nest until i had to, but it was growing very cold and i wouldn't miss having our eggs hatch for anything.
ugh-whoo!
how my legs do ache!"
"well," said his cousin, "you are having a hard time.
are you hungry?"
the great horned owl said that he was, so the screech owl went hunting and brought him food.
"i will look in every night," he said, "and bring you a lunch.
i'm afraid something has happened to your wife and that she will not be back."
as he flew away he called out, "it is too bad.
i am very sorry for you.
but then, i suppose you would never have the owlets if you didn't stick to the nest."
this last remark made the great horned owl quite angry.
"much he knows about it," he said.
"i guess if he had ever tried it he would be a little more sorry for me."
and then he began to think, "who have i heard say those very words before?
who?
who?
who?"
all at once the great horned owl remembered how many times he had said just that to his patient wife, and he began to feel very uncomfortable.
his ears tingled and he felt a queer hot feeling under his face feathers.
perhaps he hadn't been acting very well after all!
he knew that even when he told her he was sorry, he had been thinking she made a great fuss.
well, if she would only come back now, that should all be changed, and he shifted his weight and wriggled around into a more comfortable position.
now, if this were just a story, one could say that mrs. owl came back and that they were all happy together; but the truth is she never did come, and nobody ever knew what became of her.
so her husband, the night king of the forest, had to keep the eggs warm and rear his own owlets.
you can imagine how glad he was on the night when he first heard them tapping on the inside of their shells, for then he knew that he would soon be free to hunt.
a finer pair of children were never hatched, and their father thought them far ahead of all his other broods.
"if only mrs. owl were here to see them, how lovely it would be!"
he said.
yet if she had been there he would never have had the pleasure of hearing their first faint cheeps, and of covering them with his soft breast feathers as he did each day.
he forgot now all the weary time when he sat with aching legs, wishing that his cousin would happen along with something to eat.
for that is always the way, when we work for those we love, the weariness is soon forgotten and only happiness remains.
it is said that the screech owl was more thoughtful of his wife after his cousin had to hatch the eggs, and it is too bad that some of the other forest people could not have learned the same lesson; but the great horned owl never told, and the screech owl kept his secret, and to this day there are many people in the forest who know nothing whatever about it.
the swaggering crow
when the crows who have been away for the winter return to the forest, all their relatives gather on the tree-tops to welcome them and tell the news.
those who have been away have also much to say, and it sometimes seems as though they were all talking at once.
they spend many days in visiting before they begin nest-building.
perhaps if they would take turns and not interrupt each other, they would get the news more quickly, for when people are interrupted they can never talk well.
sometimes, too, one hungry fellow will fly off for a few mouthfuls of grain, and get back just in time to hear the end of a story.
then he will want to hear the first part of it, and make such a fuss that they have to tell it all over again just for him.
at this time in the spring, you can hear their chatter and laughter, even when you are far away; and the song-birds of the forest look at each other and say, "dear me!
the crows are back."
they have very good reasons for disliking the crows, as any robin will tell you.
there was one great shining black crow who had the loudest voice of all, and who was not at all afraid to use it.
this spring he looked very lean and lank, for it had been a long, cold winter, and he had found but little to eat, acorns, the seeds of the wild plants, and once in a great while a frozen apple that hung from its branch in some lonely orchard.
he said that he felt as though he could reach around his body with one claw, and when a crow says that he feels exceedingly thin.
but now spring was here, and his sisters and his cousins and his aunts, yes, and his brothers and his uncles, too, had returned to the forest to live.
he had found two good dinners already, all that he could eat and more too, and he began to feel happy and bold.
the purple gloss on his feathers grew brighter every day, and he was glad to see this.
he wanted to look so handsome that a certain miss crow, a sister of one of his friends, would like him better than she did any of the others.
that was all very well, if he had been at all polite about it.
but one day he saw her visiting with another crow, and he lost his temper, and flew at him, and pecked him about the head and shoulders, and tore the long fourth feather from one of his wings, besides rumpling the rest of his coat.
then he went away.
he had beaten him by coming upon him from behind, like the sneak that he was, and he was afraid that if he waited he might yet get the drubbing he deserved.
so he flew off to the top of a hemlock-tree where the other crows were, and told them how he had fought and beaten.
you should have seen him swagger around when he told it.
each time it was a bigger story, until at last he made them think that the other crow hadn't a tail feather left.
the next day, a number of crows went to a farm not far from the forest.
miss crow was in the party.
on their way they stopped in a field where there stood a figure of a man with a dreadful stick in his hand.
everybody was frightened except mr. crow.
he wanted to show how much courage he had, so he flew right up to it.
they all thought him very brave.
they didn't know that down in his heart he was a great coward.
he wasn't afraid of this figure because he knew all about it.
he had seen it put up the day before, and he knew that there was no man under the big straw hat and the flapping coat.
he knew that, instead of a thinking, breathing person, there was only a stick nailed to a pole.
he knew that, instead of having two good legs with which to run, this figure had only the end of a pole stuck into the ground.
of course, he might have told them all, and then they could have gathered corn from the broken ground around, but he didn't want to do that.
instead, he said, "do you see that terrible great creature with a stick in his hand?
he is here just to drive us away, but he dares not touch me.
he knows i would beat him if he did."
then he flew down, and ate corn close beside the figure, while the other crows stood back and cawed with wonder.
when he went back to them, he said to miss crow, "you see how brave i am.
if i were taking care of anybody, nothing could ever harm her."
and he looked tenderly at her with his little round eyes.
but she pretended not to understand what he meant, for she did not wish to give up her pleasant life with the flock and begin nest-building just yet.
when they reached the barn-yard, there was rich picking, and mr. crow made such a clatter that you would have thought he owned it all and that the others were only his guests.
he flew down on the fence beside a couple of harmless hens, and he flapped his wings and swaggered around until they began to sidle away.
then he grew bolder (you know bullies always do if they find that people are scared), and edged up to them until they fluttered off, squawking with alarm.
next he walked into the hen-house, saying to the other crows, "you might have a good time, too, if you were not such cowards."
he had no more than gotten the words out of his bill, when the door of the hen-house blew shut and caught there.
it was a grated door and he scrambled wildly to get through the openings.
while he was trying, he heard the hoarse voice of the crow whom he had beaten the day before, saying, "thank you, we are having a fairly good time as it is"; and he saw miss crow picking daintily at some corn which the speaker had scratched up for her.
at that minute the great black brahma cock came up behind mr. crow.
he had heard from the hens how rude mr. crow had been, and he thought that as the head of the house he ought to see about it.
well!
one cannot say very much about what happened next, but the black brahma cock did see about it quite thoroughly, and when the hen-house door swung open, it was a limp, ragged, and meek-looking crow who came out, leaving many of his feathers inside.
the next morning mr. crow flew over the forest and far away.
he did not want to go back there again.
he heard voices as he passed a tall tree by the edge of the forest.
miss crow was out with the crow whom he had beaten, and they were looking for a good place in which to build.
"i don't think they will know me if they see me," said mr. crow, "and i am sure that i don't want them to."
the red-headed woodpecker children
mrs. red-headed woodpecker bent her handsome head down and listened.
"yes, it is!
it certainly is!"
she cried, as she heard for a second time the faint "tap-tap-tap" of a tiny beak rapping on the inside of an egg shell.
she hopped to one side of her nest and stood looking at the four white eggs that lay there.
soon the rapping was heard again and she saw one of them move a bit on its bed of chips.
"so it is that one," she cried.
"i thought it would be.
i was certain that i laid that one first."
and she arched her neck proudly, as the beak of her eldest child came through a crack in the shell.
now nobody else could have told one egg from another, but mothers have a way of remembering such things, and it may be because they love their children so that sometimes their sight is a little sharper, and their hearing a little keener than anybody else's.
however that may be, she stood watching while the tiny bird chipped away the shell and squeezed out of the opening he had made.
she did not even touch a piece of the shell until he was well out of it, for she knew that it is always better for children to help themselves when they can.
it makes them strong and fits them for life.
when the little red-headed woodpecker had struggled free, she took the broken pieces in her beak and carried them far from the nest before dropping them to the ground.
if she had done the easiest thing and let them fall by the foot of the hollow tree where she lived, any prowling weasel or blue jay might have seen them and watched for a chance to reach her babies.
and that would have been very sad for the babies.
the newly hatched bird was a tired little fellow, and the first thing he did was to take a nap.
he was cold, too, although the weather was fine and sunshiny.
his down was all wet from the moisture inside the egg, and you can imagine how he felt, after growing for so long inside a warm, snug shell, to suddenly be without it and know that he could never again have it around him.
even if it had been whole once more, he could not have been packed into it, for he had been stretching and growing every minute since he left it.
it is for this reason that the barn-yard people have a wise saying: "a hatched chicken never returns to his shell."
when mrs. red-headed woodpecker came back, she covered her shivering little one with her downy breast, and there he slept, while she watched for her husband's coming, and thought how pleased and proud he would be to see the baby.
they were a young couple, and this was their first child.
but who can tell what the other three children, who had not cracked the shell, were thinking?
could they remember the time when they began to be?
could they dream of what would happen after they were hatched?
could they think at all?
they were tiny, weak creatures, curled up within their shells, with food packed all around them.
there had been a time when they were only streaks in the yellow liquid of the eggs.
now they were almost ready to leave this for a fuller, freer life, where they could open their bills and flutter their wings, and stretch their legs and necks.
it had been a quiet, sheltered time in the shell; why should they leave it?
ah, but they must leave it, for they were healthy and growing, and when they had done so, they would forget all about it.
by the time they could talk, and that would be very soon, they would have forgotten all that happened before they were hatched.
that is why you can never get a bird to tell you what he thought about while in the egg.
after the young woodpecker's three sisters reached the outside world, the father and mother were kept busy hunting food for them, and they were alone much of the time.
it was not long before they knew their parents' voices, although, once in a while, before they got their eyes open, they mistook the call of the tree frog below for that of the woodpeckers.
and this was not strange, for each says, "ker-r-ruck!
ker-r-ruck!"
and when the tree frog was singing in his home at the foot of the tree, the four woodpecker children, in their nest-hollow far above his head, would be opening their bills and stretching their necks, and wondering why no juicy and delicious morsel was dropped down their throats.
when they had their eyes open there was much to be seen.
at least, they thought so.
was there not the hollow in their dear, dry old tree, a hollow four or five times as high as they could reach?
their mother had told them how their father and she had dug it out with their sharp, strong bills, making it roomy at the bottom, and leaving a doorway at the top just large enough for them to pass through.
part of the chips they had taken away, as the mother had taken the broken shells, and part had been left in the bottom of the hollow for the children to lie on.
"i don't believe in grass, hair, and down, as a bed for children," their father had said.
"nice soft chips are far better."
and the woodpecker children liked the chips, and played with them, and pretended that they were grubs to be caught with their long and bony tongues; only of course they never swallowed them.
it was an exciting time when their feathers began to grow.
until then they had been clothed in down; but now the tiny quills came pricking through their skin, and it was not so pleasant to snuggle up to each other as it had once been.
now, too, the eldest of the family began to show a great fault.
he was very vain.
you can imagine how sorry his parents were.
every morning when he awakened he looked first of all at his feathers.
those on his breast were white, and he had a white band on his wings.
his tail and back and nearly the whole of his wings were blue-black.
his head, neck, and throat were crimson.
to be sure, while the feathers were growing, the colors were not very bright, for the down was mixed with them, and the quills showed so plainly that the young birds looked rather streaked.
the sisters were getting their new suits at the same time, and there was just as much reason why they should be vain, but they were not.
they were glad (as who would not be?)
and they often said to each other: "how pretty you are growing!"
they looked exactly like their brother, for it is not with the woodpeckers as with many other birds, the sons and daughters are dressed in precisely the same way.
as for the vain young woodpecker, he had many troubles.
he was not contented to let his feathers grow as the grass and the leaves grow, without watching.
no indeed!
he looked at each one every day and a great many times every day.
then, if he thought they were not growing as fast as they should, he worried about it.
he wanted to hurry them along, and sometimes, when his sisters did not seem to be looking, he took hold of them with his bill and pulled.
of course this did not make them grow any faster and it did make his skin very sore, but how was he to know?
he had not been out of the shell long enough to be wise.
it troubled him, too, because he could not see his red feathers.
he twisted his head this way and that, and strained his eyes until they ached, trying to see his own head and neck.
it was very annoying.
he thought it would have been much nicer to have the brightest feathers in a fellow's tail, where he could see them, or at any rate on his breast; and he asked his mother why it couldn't be so.
"i once knew a young woodpecker," she said, "who thought of very little but his own beauty.
i am afraid that if he had been allowed to wear his red feathers in his tail, he would never have seen anything else in this wonderful great world, but just his own poor little tail."
she looked out of the doorway as she spoke, but he knew that she meant him.
things went on in this way until the children were ready to fly.
then there were daily lessons in flying, alighting, clinging to branches, and tapping for food on the bark of trees.
they learned, too, how to support themselves with their stiff tails when they were walking up trees or stopping to eat with their claws hooked into the bark.
then mrs.
red-headed woodpecker taught them how to tell the ripest and sweetest fruit on the trees before they tasted it.
that is something many people would like to know, but it is a forest secret, and no bird will tell anyone who cannot fly.
it was on his way back from an orchard one day, that the vain young woodpecker stopped to talk with an old gray squirrel.
it may be that the gray squirrel's sight was not good, and so he mistook the woodpecker for quite another fellow.
he was speaking of an old tree where he had spent the last winter.
"i believe a family of red-headed woodpeckers live there now," he said.
"i have met them once or twice.
the father and mother are fine people, and they have charming daughters, but their son must be a great trial to them.
he is one of these silly fellows who see the world through their own feathers."
as the young red-headed woodpecker flew away, he repeated this to himself: "a silly fellow, a silly fellow, who sees the world through his own feathers."
and he said to his father, "whose feathers must i look through?"
this puzzled his father.
"whose feathers should you look through?"
said he.
"what do you mean?"
"well," answered the son, "somebody said that i saw the world through my own feathers, and i don't see how i can get anybody else's."
how his father did laugh!
"i don't see why you should look through any feathers," said he.
"what he meant was that you thought so much of your own plumage that you did not care for anything else; and it is so.
if it were intended you should look at yourself all the time, your eyes would have been one under your chin and the other in the back of your head.
no!
they are placed right for you to look at other people, and are where they help you hunt for food."
"how often may i look at my own feathers?"
asked the young woodpecker.
he was wondering at that minute how his tail looked, but he was determined not to turn his head.
the old woodpecker's eyes twinkled.
"i should think," he said, "that since you are young and have no family to look after, you might preen your feathers in the morning and in the afternoon and when you go to sleep.
then, of course, when it is stormy, you will have to take your waterproof out of the pocket under your tail, and put it on one feather at a time, as all birds do.
that would be often enough unless something happened to rumple them."
"i will not look at them any oftener," said the young red-headed woodpecker, firmly.
"i will not be called a silly fellow."
and he was as good as his word.
his mother sighed when she heard of the change.
"i am very glad," said she.
"but isn't that always the way?
his father and i have talked and talked, and it made no difference; but let somebody else say he is silly and vain, and behold!"
the night moth with a crooked feeler
the beautiful, brilliant butterflies of the meadow had many cousins living in the forest, most of whom were night moths.
they also were very beautiful creatures, but they dressed in duller colors and did not have slender waists.
some of the butterflies, you know, wear whole gowns of black and yellow, others have stripes of black and white, while some have clear yellow with only a bit of black trimming the edges of the wings.
the moths usually wear brown and have it brightened with touches of buff or dull blue.
if they do wear bright colors, it is only on the back pair of wings, and when the moth alights, he slides his front pair of wings over these and covers all the brightness.
they do not rest with their wings folded over their heads like the butterflies, but leave them flat.
all the day long, when the sun is shining, the moths have to rest on trees and dead leaves.
if they were dressed in yellow or red, any passing bird would see them, and there is no telling what might happen.
as it is, their brown wings are so nearly the color of dead leaves or bark that you might often look right at them without seeing them.
yet even among moths there are some more brightly colored than others, and when you find part of the family quietly dressed you can know it is because they have to lay the eggs.
moths are safer in dull colors, and the egg-layers should always be the safest of all.
if anything happened to them, you know, there would be no caterpillar babies.
one day a fine-looking cecropia moth came out of her chrysalis and clung to the nearest twig while her wings grew and dried and flattened.
at first they had looked like tiny brown leaves all drenched with rain and wrinkled by somebody's stepping on them.
the fur on her fat body was matted and wet, and even her feelers were damp and stuck to her head.
her six beautiful legs were weak and trembling, and she moved her body restlessly while she tried again and again to raise her crumpled wings.
she had not been there so very long before she noticed another cecropia moth near her, clinging to the under side of a leaf.
he was also just out of the chrysalis and was drying himself.
"good morning!"
he cried.
"i think i knew you when we were caterpillars.
fine day to break the chrysalis, isn't it?"
"lovely," she answered.
"i remember you very well.
you were the caterpillar who showed me where to find food last summer when the hot weather had withered so many of the plants."
"i thought you would recall me," he said.
"and when we were spinning our chrysalides we visited together.
do you remember that also?"
miss cecropia did.
she had been thinking of that when she first spoke, but she hoped he had forgotten.
to tell the truth, he had been rather fond of her the fall before, and she, thinking him the handsomest caterpillar of her acquaintance, had smiled upon him and suggested that they spin their cocoons near together.
during the long winter she had regretted this.
"i was very foolish," she thought, "to encourage him.
when i get my wings i may meet people who are better off than he.
now i shall have to be polite to him for the sake of old friendship.
i only hope that he will make other acquaintances and leave me free.
i must get into the best society."
all this time her neighbor was thinking, "i am so glad to see her again, so glad, so glad!
when my wings are dry i will fly over to her and we will go through the forest together."
he was a kind, warm-hearted fellow, who cared more for friendship than for beauty or family.
meanwhile their wings were growing fast, and drying, and flattening, so that by noon they could begin to raise them above their heads.
they were very large moths and their wings were of a soft dust color with little clear, transparent places in them and touches of the most beautiful blue, quite the shade worn by the peacock, who lived on the farm.
there was a brown and white border to their wings, and on their bodies and legs the fur was white and dark orange.
when the cecropias rest, they spread their wings out flat, and do not slide the front pair over the others as their cousins, the sphinxes, do.
the most wonderful of all, though, are their feelers.
the butterflies have stiff feelers on their heads with little knobs on the ends, or sometimes with part of them thick like tiny clubs.
the night moths have many kinds of feelers, most of them being curved, and those of the cecropias look like reddish-brown feathers pointed at the end.
miss cecropia's feelers were perfect, and she waved them happily to and fro.
those of her friend, she was troubled to see, were not what they should have been.
one of them was all right, the other was small and crooked.
"oh dear," she said to herself, "how that does look!
i hope he will not try to be attentive to me."
he did not mind it much.
he thought about other things than looks.
as night came, a polyphemus moth fluttered past.
"good evening!"
cried he.
"are you just out?
there are a lot of cecropias coming out to-day."
miss cecropia felt quite agitated when she heard this, and wondered if she looked all right.
her friend flew over to her just as she raised her wings for flight.
"let me go with you," he said.
while she was wondering how she could answer him, several other cecropias came along.
they were all more brightly colered than she.
"hullo!"
cried one of them, as he alighted beside her.
"first-rate night, isn't it?"
he was a handsome fellow, and his feelers were perfect; but miss cecropia did not like his ways, and she drew away from him just as her friend knocked him off the branch.
while they were fighting, another of the strangers flew to her.
"may i sit here?"
he asked.
"yes," she murmured, thinking her chance had come to get into society.
"i must say that it served the fellow right for his rudeness to you,"
said the stranger, in his sweetest way; "but who is the moth who is punishing him that queer-looking one with a crooked feeler?"
"sir," said she, moving farther from him, "he is a friend of mine, and i do not think it matters to you if he is queer-looking."
"oh!"
said the stranger.
"oh!
oh!
oh!
you have a bad temper, haven't you?
but you are very good-looking in spite of that."
there is no telling what he would have said next, for at this minute miss cecropia's friend heard the mean things he was saying, and flew against him.
it was not long before this stranger also was punished, and then the moth with the crooked feeler turned to the others.
"do any of you want to try it?"
he said.
"you must understand that you cannot be rude before her."
and he pointed his right fore leg at miss cecropia as she sat trembling on the branch.
"her!"
they cried mockingly, as they flew away.
"there are prettier moths than she.
we don't care anything for her."
miss cecropia's friend would have gone after them to punish them for this impoliteness, but she clung to him and begged him not to.
"you will be killed, i know you will," she sobbed.
"and then what will become of me?"
"would you miss me?"
he asked, as he felt of one of his wings, now broken and bare.
"yes," she cried.
"you are the best friend i have.
please don't go."
"but i am such a homely fellow," he said.
"i don't see how you can like me since i broke my wing."
"well, i do like you," she said.
"your wing isn't much broken after all, and i like your crooked feeler.
it is so different from anybody else's."
miss cecropia looked very happy as she spoke, and she quite forgot how she once decided to go away from him.
there are some people, you know, who can change their minds in such a sweet and easy way that we almost love them the better for it.
one certainly could love miss cecropia for this, because it showed that she had learned to care more for a warm heart and courage than for whole wings and straight feelers.
mr. cecropia did not live long after this, unfortunately, but they were very, very happy together, and she often said to her friends, as she laid her eggs in the best places, "i only hope that when my caterpillar babies are grown and have come out of their chrysalides, they may be as good and as brave as their father was."
the bees and the kingbird
there was in the forest a great hollow tree where for years a swarm of bees had made their home.
to look at it in winter, one would never guess what a store of honey was sealed up within, but in summer the bees were always passing in and out, and it was indeed a busy place.
then the workers had to gather honey and build the cells and look out for the queen-mother's many babies.
the queen-mother had so much care of her eggs that she could really do nothing but attend to them.
after they were ready in their cells, the workers took care of them, and tucked in a lot of bread for the babies to eat when they were hatched.
then there was the bread-making to be done also, and all the workers helped bring the pollen, or flower-dust, out of which it was made.
the drones didn't do anything, not a thing, not a single thing, unless it were taking care of the queen when she flew away from the tree.
they had done that once, but it was long ago, before she had laid an egg and while she was still quite young.
they were handsome great fellows, all black and gold, and if you didn't know about them, you might have thought them the pleasantest bees in the tree.
of course you would not care for them after finding how lazy they were, for people are never liked just because they are fine-looking.
the drones always found some excuse for being idle, and like many other lazy people they wanted the busy ones to stop and visit with them.
"what is the hurry?"
they would say.
"there will be more honey that you can get to-morrow.
stop a while now."
but the workers would shake their brown heads and buzz impatiently as they answered, "we can get to-morrow's honey when to-morrow comes, but to-day's honey must be gathered to-day."
then the drones would grumble and say that they didn't see the sense of storing up so much honey anyway.
that also was like lazy people the world over, for however much they scold about getting the food, they are sure to eat just as much as anybody else.
sometimes lazy people eat even more than others, and pick for the best too.
on cloudy days, the workers did stay at home in the tree, but not to play.
they clung to the walls and to each other and made wax.
it took much patience to make wax.
when they were gathering honey there was so much that was interesting to be seen, and so many friends to meet, that it was really quite exciting; but when they made wax they had to hang for a long, long time, until the wax gathered in flakes over their bodies.
then it was ready to scrape off and shape into six-sided cells to hold honey or to be homes for the babies.
one sunshiny morning the queen-mother stopped laying her eggs and cried:
"listen!
did you hear that?"
"what?"
asked the workers, crowding around her.
"why, that noise," she said.
"it sounded like a bird calling 'kyrie!
k-y-rie!'
and i thought i heard a worker buzzing outside a minute ago, but no one has come in.
i am afraid " and here she stopped.
"of what are you afraid!"
asked the drones, who, having nothing to do but eat and sleep, were always ready to talk about anything and everything.
the great trouble with them was that if you once began to talk they did not like to have you leave and go to work.
"why," said the queen-mother, "i don't want to alarm you, but i thought it was a kingbird."
"well, what if it was?"
said a big drone.
"there is only one of him and there are a great many of us."
"yes," said the queen-mother, "but there may not be so many of us very long if he begins to watch the tree.
i have lived much longer than you and i know how kingbirds act."
this was true, for queens live to be very old, and drones never live long because they are so lazy.
"well," said the big drone, "we must find out about this.
just fly around and see if it is a kingbird," he said to a worker.
"we must know about things before we act."
"suppose you should go," she replied.
"i have my leg-pockets full of pollen, and it ought to be made into bread at once.
i never saw larvæ so hungry as these last ones are."
"i only wish that i could go," said the big drone, limping as he got out of her way; "but my fifth foot just stepped on my third foot, and i can hardly move."
when he said this, all the workers smiled, and even the queen-mother had to turn away her head.
the drones looked as solemn as possible.
it would not do for them to laugh at their brother.
they did not want him to laugh at them when they made excuses for staying at home.
they even pretended not to hear one of the workers when she said that it was funny how some people couldn't use their wings if one of their feet hurt them.
"yes," said another worker, "and it is funny, too, how some people can get along very well on three legs when they have to, while others are too helpless to do anything unless they can use the whole six."
the drones began to talk together.
"i think that the whole swarm should fly at the kingbird and sting him and drive him away," said one.
"there is no sense in allowing him to perch outside our home and catch us as we pass in and out.
i say that we should make war upon him!"
he looked very fierce as he spoke, buzzing and twitching his feelers at every step.
"exactly!"
cried another drone.
"if i had a sting, i would lead the attack.
as it is, i may be useful in guarding the comb.
it is a great pity that drones have no stings."
you would have thought, to hear him speak, that if he had been given a sting like those of the workers, not all the bees in the tree could keep him from fighting.
while the drones were talking about war, some of the workers sent to their queen for advice.
"tell us," they said, "how to drive away the kingbird.
should we try to sting him?
you know it kills a bee to sting anybody, and we don't want to if we can help it, yet we will if you say so."
the queen-mother shook her head.
"you must not bother me about such things," she said.
"i have all that i can do to get the eggs ready, and you must look after the swarm.
nobody else can do my work, and i have no time to do yours."
as she spoke, she finished the one hundred and seventeenth egg of that day's lot, and before night came she would probably have laid more than a thousand, so you can see she was quite right when she said she had no time for other things.
this left the workers to plan for themselves, and they agreed that a number of them should fly out together and see where the kingbird was.
then they could decide about attacking him later.
when one gave the signal, they dashed out as nearly together as possible.
after the workers returned with honey and pollen, the drones crowded around them, asking questions.
"where is he?
what does he look like?
did he try to catch you?"
the workers would not answer them, and said: "go and find out for yourself.
we all came back alive."
then they went about their work as usual.
"i don't see how they dared to go," said a very young bee who was just out of her cocoon and was still too weak to fly.
"pooh!"
said the big drone.
"you wouldn't see me hanging around this tree if i were not lame."
"there is no use in stopping work even if you are scared," said one of the workers.
she smiled as she spoke, and whispered something to the queen-mother as she passed her.
the queen-mother smiled also.
"why don't you drones go for honey?"
she said.
"you must be getting very hungry."
"we don't feel very well," they answered.
"perhaps it would be better for our health if we were to keep quiet for a while and save our strength.
we will lunch off some of the honey in the comb if we need food."
"not a bit of it!"
exclaimed the workers.
"stay in the tree if you want to for your health, but don't you dare touch the honey we have gathered for winter, when the day is clear and bright like this."
and whenever a drone tried to get food from the comb they drove him away.
the poor drones had a hard day of it, and at night they were so hungry they could hardly sleep.
the next morning they peeped out, and then rushed away to the flowers for their breakfast.
they stayed out all day, and when they returned at night they rushed swiftly into the tree again.
"there!"
they said; "we escaped the kingbird."
"what kingbird?"
asked a worker.
"the one who was there yesterday," answered the drones.
"has he been back to-day?"
"there was no kingbird near the tree yesterday," said the worker.
"what!"
cried the drones.
"no," said the queen-mother, "i was mistaken when i thought i heard him.
the workers told me after they had been out for honey.
perhaps they forgot to tell you."
but her eyes twinkled as she spoke, and all the workers smiled, and for some reason the drones did not know what to say.
the story of the cow bird's egg
on the edge of the forest next to the meadow, a pair of young goldfinches were about to begin housekeeping.
they were a handsome couple, and the birds who were already nesting near by were much pleased to see them tree-hunting there.
mr. goldfinch was a fine, cheerful little fellow, every feather of whose black and yellow coat was always well oiled and lying in its proper place.
his wife was dressed in a dull, greenish brown with a touch of yellow on her breast.
"bright yellow and black does very well for mr.
goldfinch," she would say, "but for one who has to sit on the nest as long as i shall have to, it would never do.
people would see me among the leaves and know just where to find my eggs."
mr. goldfinch thought that there was never a bird who had a prettier, dearer, or harder-working little wife than he, and he would wonder how he was ever happy before he knew her.
that is a way that people have of forgetting the days that are past; and the truth is that mr. goldfinch had made fun of the robins and other birds all spring, because they had to build nests and hunt worms for their babies, while he had nothing to do but sing and sleep and feed himself.
in those days the robins used to call after him as he flew away, "silly fellow!
silly fellow!
silly!"
they knew that there is something sweeter in life than just taking good care of one's self.
one afternoon mr. goldfinch saw a tiny green-brown bird on a sweetbriar bush, and as he watched her he thought her the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.
she had such a dainty way of picking out the seeds, and gave such graceful hops from one twig to another.
then mr. goldfinch fluffed up his feathers and swelled out his throat and sang her such songs as he had never sung before.
he did not want her to speak to anybody else, and yet he could not help her doing so, for goldfinches always go together in crowds until they have homes of their own, and at this time they were having concerts every morning.
he showed her where the finest dandelion seeds could be found, and one bright and sunshiny day she became mrs. goldfinch, and they went together to find a place for their home.
they began one nest and had it nearly done, when mr. goldfinch said it was not in a good place, and tore it all to pieces.
mrs. goldfinch felt very badly about this and talked it over with some of her goldfinch neighbors.
they told her not to mind it at all, that their husbands often did the same thing, and that sometimes they came to like the new place much better than the old.
at any rate, there was no use in getting cross about it, because that was something she would have to expect.
mr. goldfinch was sure that they had built too near the ground, and he had chosen a crotch above.
toward this he was dragging the bits of grape-vine and cedar-bark which were woven into their first nest.
he said they could also use some of the grasses and mosses which they had gotten together, and he even told his wife of some fine thistle-down which he could bring for the inside, where the eggs were to be laid.
mrs. goldfinch watched him tugging with bill and both feet to loosen the bits of bark, and she said to herself: "dear fellow!
what a helper he is!
i won't mind rebuilding if it makes him happy," and she went to work with a will.
when the sun went down in the west the next night the second nest was done, and it was the last thing at which the goldfinches looked before tucking their heads under their wings and going to sleep.
it was the first thing that they saw the next morning, too, and they hopped all around it and twittered with pride, and gave it little tweaks here and little pokes there before they flew away to get breakfast.
while they were gone, mrs. cowbird came walking over the grass and dry leaves to the foot of the tree.
she wagged her head at every step, and put on as many airs as though she were showily dressed, instead of wearing, as she always does, a robe of dull brownish gray.
she had seen the goldfinches fly away, and she was looking for their home.
she was a lazy creature in spite of her stirring ways, and she wished to find a nice little nest in which to lay an egg.
you know cowbirds never think of building nests.
they want all of their time to take care of themselves, which is a very foolish way of living; but then, you could never make a cowbird think so!
"that nest is exactly right," said mrs. cowbird.
"i will lay my egg there at once, and when mrs. goldfinch has laid hers she will have to hatch them all together and take care of my baby for me.
what an easy way this is to bring up one's family!
it is really no work at all!
and i am sure that my children will get along well, because i am always careful to choose the nests of small birds for them.
then they are larger and stronger than the other babies, and can get more than their share of food."
so she laid a big white egg with gray and brown spots on it in the goldfinches' new home, and then she flew off to the cowbird flock, as gay and careless as you please.
when the goldfinches came back, they saw the egg in their nest and called all their neighbors to talk it over.
"what shall i ever do?"
said mrs. goldfinch.
"i wanted my nest for my own eggs, and i meant to lay them to-morrow.
i suppose i shall have to sit on this one too, but it won't be at all comfortable."
"i wouldn't," said one of her neighbors, a yellow warbler.
"i left my nest once when such a thing happened to me, and built a new one for my own eggs."
"oh dear!"
cried mrs. goldfinch, "we have built two already, and i cannot build another."
"well, whatever you do," said a vireo, "don't hatch the big egg out with your own.
i did once, and such a time as i had!
the young cowbird pushed two of my little vireos out onto the ground, and ate so much that i was quite worn out by the work of hunting for him."
"my dear," said mr. goldfinch, "i have an excellent plan.
we will put another floor in our nest, right over this egg, and then by adding a bit all around the sides we can have plenty of room for our own children.
it will be much less work than beginning all over again, and then the cowbird's egg will be too cool to hatch."
everybody called this a most clever plan, and mr. goldfinch was very proud to have thought of it.
they went to work once more, and it was not so very long before the new floor was done and the new walls raised.
then, oh, wonder of wonders!
there were soon four tiny, pearly eggs of their own lying on the thistle-down lining of the nest.
mrs. goldfinch had to stay very closely at home now, but her husband went off with his friends a great deal.
he bathed and sang and preened his feathers and talked about his queer nest and his bright little wife, after the manner of goldfinches everywhere.
his friends laughed at him for helping so much about the nest, for, you know, goldfinches do not often help their wives about home.
he cocked his handsome head on one side and answered: "my wife seemed to need me then.
she is not so very strong.
and i do not know what she would ever have done about the strange egg, if i had not been there to advise her."
when he got back to his home that night, mrs. goldfinch said: "i have been wondering why we did not roll the cowbird's egg out on the ground, instead of going to all that trouble of building around it."
and mr. goldfinch declared that he believed she was the only bird who had ever thought of such a thing.
"it could have been done just as well as not," he said.
"i must tell that to the other birds in the morning.
how lucky i am to have such a bright wife!
it would be dreadful if such a clever fellow as i had a dull mate!"
mrs. mourning dove's housekeeping
strange as it may seem, there had never been any mourning doves in the forest until this year, and when a pair came there to live, the people were much excited.
they talked about the doves' song, so sweet and sad, and about their soft coats of brown and gray, and they wondered very much what kind of home they would build.
would it be a swinging pocket of hairs, strings, and down, like that of the orioles?
would it be stout and heavy like the nests of the robins?
or would it be a ball of leaves and grasses on the ground, with a tiny doorway in one side, like that of the ovenbird?
you can see that the forest people were really very much interested in the mourning doves, and so, perhaps, it is not strange that, when the new couple built their nest in the lower branches of a spruce tree, everybody watched it and talked about it.
"really," said one of the blackbirds, who had flown over from the swamp near by, "i never should think of calling that thing a nest!
it is nothing but a few twigs and sticks laid together.
it is just as flat as a maple-leaf, and what is to keep those poor little doves from tumbling to the ground i can't see."
"i wouldn't worry about the little doves yet," said a warbler.
"i don't think there will ever be any little doves in that nest.
the eggs will roll off of it long before they are ready to hatch, and the nest will blow to pieces in the first storm we have."
"well," said the blackbird, as she started for home, "i shall want to know how the mourning doves get on.
if any of you are over my way, stop and tell me the news."
some days after this, a quail, passing under the doves' home, happened to look up and see two white eggs in the nest.
it was so very thin that she could see them quite plainly through the openings between the twigs.
later in the day, she spoke of this to a grouse, saying, "i came by the mourning doves' nest and saw two white eggs through the bottom."
after she went away, the grouse said to a wild rabbit: "the quail told me that the mourning dove's eggs went right through the bottom of her nest, and i don't wonder.
it wasn't strong enough to hold anything."
at sunset, the rabbit had a short visit with mrs. goldfinch, as she pulled a great thistle-head to pieces and made her supper from its seeds.
he told her he had heard that the mourning dove's eggs had fallen through the bottom of the nest and broken on the ground, and mrs.
goldfinch said: "oh, that poor mrs. mourning dove!
i must go to see her in the morning."
then she fled home to her own four pearly treasures.
now, of course the rabbit was mistaken when he said anybody had told him that those two eggs were broken; just as much mistaken as the grouse was when she said somebody had told her that the eggs had fallen.
they both thought they were right, but they were careless listeners and careless talkers, and so each one had changed it a bit in the telling.
the next day it rained, and the next, and the next.
mrs. goldfinch did not dare leave her nest to make calls, lest the cold raindrops should chill and hurt the four tiny birds that lay curled up in their shells.
at last the weather was warm and sunshiny, and mrs. goldfinch and some of her bird neighbors went to call on mrs. mourning dove.
they found her just coming from a wheat-field, where she had been to get grain.
"oh, you poor creature!"
they cried.
"we have heard all about it.
your poor babies!
how sorry we are for you!"
mrs. mourning dove looked from one to another as though she did not know what to make of it.
"what do you mean?"
she cooed.
"my babies are well and doing finely.
won't you come to see them?"
then it was the turn of the other birds to be surprised.
"why," they chirped, "we heard that your eggs had fallen through your nest and had broken and killed the tiny dove babies inside.
is it true?"
"not a word of it," answered mrs. mourning dove.
"the nest is all right, and the eggs were not broken until my two little darlings broke them with their sharp beaks."
"here they are," she added, fondly.
"did you ever see such pretty ones?
see him open his bill, the dear!
and did you ever see such a neck as she has?
mr. mourning dove thinks there never were such children."
"but do you feel perfectly safe to leave them in that nest?"
asked the oriole politely.
"my babies are so restless that i should be afraid to trust them in it."
"that is what people always say," answered mrs. mourning dove, with a happy coo, "and i fear that i am a rather poor housekeeper, but it runs in our family.
mr. mourning dove and i have raised many pairs of children, and they never rolled out, or tumbled through, or blew away, and i do not worry about these.
i shall never be thrifty like you good builders, perhaps, but i'm sure you cannot love your little ones any more than i do mine.
it was very kind of you to be so sorry for me when you heard i was in trouble.
i think i have the best neighbors in the world."
when her callers went away, they could not say enough about mrs.
mourning dove's pleasant ways, and her gentle, well-behaved children.
"it is too bad she is such a poor nest-maker," the vireo said, "and i understand now what she meant when she told me that they sometimes used old robins' nests for their young.
she said they flattened them out and added a few twigs, and that they did finely.
i thought it very queer in them to do so, but perhaps if i had not been a good builder i should have done the same thing."
"perhaps we all would," the others agreed.
"she certainly is a very pleasant bird, and she is bringing up her children well.
mr. mourning dove seems to think her perfect.
we won't worry any more about her."
the young blue jay who was not brave enough to be afraid
everybody who is acquainted with the blue jays knows that they are a very brave family.
that is the best thing that you can say about them.
to be sure, they dress very handsomely, and there is no prettier sight, on a fine winter morning, than a flock of blue jays flitting from branch to branch, dining off the acorns on the oak trees, and cocking their crested heads on one side as they look over the country.
they are great talkers then, and are always telling each other just what to do; yet none of them ever do what they are told to, so they might just as well stop giving advice.
the other people of the forest do not like the blue jays at all, and if one of them gets into trouble they will not help him out.
this always has been so, and it always will be so.
if it could be winter all the time, the blue jays could be liked well enough, for in cold weather they eat seeds and nuts and do not quarrel so much with others.
it is in the summer that they become bad neighbors.
then they live in the thickest part of the woods and raise families of tiny, fuzzy babies in their great coarse nests.
it is then, too, that they change their beautiful coats, and while the old feathers are dropping off and the new ones are growing they are not at all pretty.
oh, then is the time to beware of the blue jays!
they do very little talking during the summer, and the forest people do not know when they are coming, unless they see a flutter of blue wings among the branches.
the blue jays have a reason for keeping still then.
they are doing sly things, and they do not want to be found out.
the wee babies grow fast and their mouths are always open for more food.
father and mother blue jay spend all their time in marketing, and they are not content with seeds and berries.
they visit the nests of their bird neighbors, and then something very sad happens.
when the blue jays go to a nest there may be four eggs in it; but when they go away there will not be any left, nothing but pieces of broken egg-shell.
it is very, very sad, but this is another of the things which will always be so, and all that the other birds can do is to watch and drive the jays away.
there was once a young blue jay in the forest who was larger than his brothers and sisters, and kept crowding them toward the edge of the nest.
when their father came with a bit of food for them, he would stretch his legs and flutter his wings and reach up for the first bite.
and because he was the largest and the strongest, he usually got it.
sometimes, too, the first bite was so big that there was nothing left for anyone else to bite at.
he was a very greedy fellow, and he had no right to take more than his share, just because he happened to be the first of the family to break open the shell, or because he grew fast.
this same young blue jay used to brag about what he would do when he got out of the nest, and his mother told him that he would get into trouble if he were not careful.
she said that even blue jays had to look out for danger.
"huh!"
said the young blue jay; "who's afraid?"
"now you talk like a bully," said mother blue jay, "for people who are really brave are always willing to be careful."
but the young blue jay only crowded his brothers and sisters more than usual, and thought, inside his foolish little pin-feathery head, that when he got a chance, he'd show them what courage was.
after a while his chance came.
all the small birds had learned to flutter from branch to branch, and to hop quite briskly over the ground.
one afternoon they went to a part of the forest where the ground was damp and all was strange.
the father and mother told their children to keep close together and they would take care of them; but the foolish young blue jay wanted a chance to go alone, so he hid behind a tree until the others were far ahead, and then he started off another way.
it was great fun for a time, and when the feathered folk looked down at him he raised his crest higher than ever and thought how he would scare them when he was a little older.
the young blue jay was just thinking about this when he saw something long and shining lying in the pathway ahead.
he remembered what his father had said about snakes, and about one kind that wore rattles on their tails.
he wondered if this one had a rattle, and he made up his mind to see how it was fastened on.
"i am a blue jay," he said to himself, "and i was never yet afraid of anything."
the rattlesnake, for it was he, raised his head to look at the bird.
the young blue jay saw that his eyes were very bright.
he looked right into them, and could see little pictures of himself upon their shining surfaces.
he stood still to look, and the rattlesnake came nearer.
then the young blue jay tried to see his tail, but he couldn't look away from the rattlesnake's eyes, though he tried ever so hard.
the rattlesnake now coiled up his body, flattened out his head, and showed his teeth, while all the time his queer forked tongue ran in and out of his mouth.
then the young blue jay tried to move and found that he couldn't.
all he could do was to stand there and watch those glowing eyes and listen to the song which the rattlesnake began to sing:
"through grass and fern,   with many a turn,     my shining body i draw.
in woodland shade   my home is made,     for this is the forest law.
"whoever tries   to look in my eyes     comes near to my poisoned jaw;   and birds o'erbold   i charm and hold,     for this is the forest law."
the rattlesnake drew nearer and nearer, and the young blue jay was shaking with fright, when there was a rustle of wings, and his father and mother flew down and around the rattlesnake, screaming loudly to all the other jays, and making the snake turn away from the helpless little bird he had been about to strike.
it was a long time before the forest was quiet again, and when it was, the blue jay family were safely in their nest, and the rattlesnake had gone home without his supper.
after the young blue jay got over his fright, he began to complain because he had not seen the rattlesnake's tail.
then, indeed, his patient mother gave him such a scolding as he had never had in all his life, and his father said that he deserved a sound pecking for his foolishness.
when the young blue jay showed that he was sorry for all the trouble that he had made, his parents let him have some supper and go to bed; but not until he had learned two sayings which he was always to remember.
and these were the sayings: "a really brave bird dares to be afraid of some things," and, "if you go near enough to see the tail of a danger, you may be struck by its head."
the red squirrels begin housekeeping
the first thing that mr. red squirrel did after coming to the forest and meeting the gray squirrel was to look for something to eat.
it was not a good season for a stranger who had no hidden store of nuts and seeds to draw upon.
the apples and corn were not ripe, and last year's seeds and acorns were nearly gone.
what few remained here and there had lost their sweet and wholesome taste.
poor mr. red squirrel began to wish that he had eaten breakfast before he ran away.
he even went to the edge of the forest and looked over toward the farmhouse, where his open cage hung in the sunshine.
he knew that there were nuts and a fresh bit of fruit inside of it, and his mouth watered at the thought of them, but he was a sensible young fellow, and he knew that if he went back to eat, the cage door would be snapped shut, and he would never again be free to scamper in the beautiful trees.
"i will starve first!"
he said to himself, and he was so much in earnest that he spoke quite loudly.
the words were hardly out of his mouth when "pft!"
a fat acorn came down at his feet.
he caught it up with his forepaws before looking around.
it was smooth and glossy, not at all as though it had passed a long winter on an oak branch.
he took a good nibble at it and then looked up to see if there were more on the tree above him.
you can think how surprised he was to find himself sitting beneath a maple, for in all the years since the world began no maple has ever borne acorns.
"there are no more to come," he said.
"i must take small bites and make it last as long as i can."
and he turned it around and around, clutching it tightly with his long, crooked claws, so that not the tiniest bit could be lost.
at last it was all eaten, not a crumb was left, and then "pft!"
down came a walnut.
this hit him squarely on the back, but he was too hungry to mind, and he ate it all, just stopping long enough to say:
"if this maple bears such fruit as acorns and walnuts, i should like to live in a maple grove."
next came a hazelnut, then a butternut, and last of all a fat kernel of yellow corn.
he knew now that some friend was hidden in the branches above, so he tucked the corn in one of his cheek-pockets, and scampered up the maple trunk to find out who it was.
he saw a whisking reddish-brown tail, and knew that some other red squirrel was there.
but whoever it was did not mean to be caught, and such a chase as he had!
just as he thought he had overtaken his unknown friend, he could see nothing more of her, and he was almost vexed to think how careless he must have been to miss her.
he ran up and down the tree on which he last saw her, and found a little hollow in one of its large branches.
he looked in, and there she was, the same dainty creature whom he had so often watched from his cage.
he could see that she was breathless from running so fast, yet she pretended to be surprised at seeing him.
perhaps she now thought that she had been too bold in giving him food, and so wanted him to think that it had been somebody else.
"good morning!"
said he.
"thank you very much for your kindness."
"what do you mean?"
said she.
"as though you didn't know!"
he answered.
"i never heard of a maple tree that bore acorns, nuts, and corn, and that in the springtime."
"oh, well," said she, tossing her pretty head, "you have lived in a cage and may not know what our forest trees can do."
that was a rather saucy thing to say, but mr. red squirrel knew her kind heart and that she said it only in mischief.
"how do you know i have lived in a cage?"
he asked.
"i i thought you looked like the squirrel at the farmhouse," she said; and then forgetting herself, she added, "you did look so surprised when that walnut hit you."
"where were you then?"
he asked quickly.
"oh!
i was on a branch above you," she answered, seeing that he now knew all about it.
"you looked so hungry, and i had plenty of food stored away.
you may have some whenever you wish.
it must have been dreadful in that cage."
now mr. red squirrel had loved his little friend ever since the first time he saw her on the rail fence, but he had never thought she would care for him a tired, discouraged fellow, who had passed such a sorrowful life in prison.
yet when he heard her pitying words, and saw the light in her tender eyes, he wondered if he could win her for his wife.
"i shall never be able to do anything for you," said he.
"you are young and beautiful and know the forest ways.
i am a stranger and saddened by my hard life.
i wish i could help you."
"the blue jays!
the blue jays!"
she cried, starting up.
"they have found my hidden acorns and are eating them."
and sure enough, a pair of those handsome robbers were pulling acorn after acorn out of a tree-hollow near by, and eating them as fast as they could.
you should have seen mr. red squirrel then!
he leaped from branch to branch until he reached the blue jays; then he stood by the hole where the acorns were stored, and scolded them.
"chickaree-chickaree-quilch-quilch-chickaree-chickaree!"
he said; and that in the red squirrel language is a very severe scolding.
he jumped about with his head down and his tail jerking, while his eyes gleamed like coals of fire.
the blue jays made a great fuss and called "jay!
jay!"
at him, and made fun of him for being a stranger, but they left at last, and mr. red squirrel turned to his friend.
"what would i have done without your help?"
she said.
"i was so dreadfully frightened.
don't you see how my paws are shaking still?"
and she held out the prettiest little paws imaginable for him to see.
then mr. red squirrel's heart began to thump very fast and hard beneath the white fur of his chest, and he sighed softly.
"i wish i might always help you and protect you," he said; "but i suppose there are better fellows than i who want to do that."
and he sighed again.
"yes, they might want to," she said, looking away from him and acting as though she saw another blue jay coming.
"you wouldn't be my little wife, would you?"
he asked, coming nearer to her.
"why i might!"
she answered, with a saucy flirt of her tail, and she scampered away as fast as she could.
do you think mr. red squirrel stopped then to eat his fat kernel of yellow corn?
or do you think he waited to see whether the blue jays were around?
no, indeed!
he followed as fast as his legs could carry him from tree to tree, from branch to branch, and it was not until he had reached the top of a tall beech that he overtook his little sweetheart.
they were still there when the gray squirrel happened along in the afternoon.
"ah!"
said he, squinting at mr. red squirrel, for his eyes were poor.
"you are getting acquainted, are you?
pleasant society here.
the squirrel set is very select.
you must meet some of our young people.
suppose you will begin housekeeping one of these days?"
"i have done so already, sir," answered mr. red squirrel, although his wife was nudging him with one paw and motioning him to keep quiet.
"mrs.
red squirrel and i will build our round home in the top fork of this tree.
we shall be pleased to have you call when we are settled."
"is that so?"
exclaimed the gray squirrel.
"i did not know that you were married.
i thought you came alone to the forest."
"this is my wife, sir," said mr. red squirrel, and the gray squirrel made his very best bow and looked at her as sharply as his poor eyes would let him.
"i think i must have seen you somewhere," he said; "your face is very familiar."
and he scratched his poor old puzzled head with one claw.
"why, cousin gray squirrel, don't you know bushy-tail?"
she cried.
"you lived the next tree to mine all winter."
"to be sure!"
he exclaimed.
"but isn't your marriage rather sudden?"
"no," she said, blushing under her fur.
"we have always liked each other, although we never spoke until this morning.
i used to scamper along the rail fence to see mr. red squirrel in his cage."
"did you truly come for that?"
asked her husband, after their caller had gone.
"i truly did," she answered, "but i never expected anybody to know it.
you poor fellow!
i felt so sorry for you.
i would have given every nut i had to set you free."
they were a very happy couple, and the next fall the gray squirrel watched them and their children gathering nuts for their winter stores.
mr. red squirrel, as the head of the family, planned the work, yet each did his share.
the nuts were not yet ripe, and they gnawed off the stems, then came to the ground, filled their cheek-pockets with the fallen nuts, and scampered off to hide them in many places.
they were stored in tree-hollows, under the rustling leaves which strewed the ground, in the cracks of old logs, beneath brush-heaps, and in holes in the ground.
"don't stop to think how many you need," said the little mother to her children.
"get every nut you can.
it may be a very long winter."
"and if you don't eat them all," said their hard-working father with a twinkle in his eyes, "you may want to drop a few down to some poor fellow who has none.
that was your mother's way."
"when was it her way?
what makes you smile when you say it?
mother, what does he mean?"
cried the young red squirrels all in a breath.
"i gave some nuts to a hungry squirrel once," she said, "and he was so grateful that he drove the blue jays away when they tried to rob me."
but she looked so happy as she spoke that the children knew there was more to the story.
they dared not tease her to tell, so they whispered among themselves and wondered what their father meant.
as they gathered nuts near the gray squirrel, he motioned them to come close.
"s-sh!"
said he.
"don't tell it from me, but i think the poor hungry fellow was your father, and it was a lucky thing for you that she had enough to give away."
"do you suppose that was it?"
the young red squirrels whispered to each other.
"do you really suppose so?"
the biggest little rabbit learns to see
seven little rabbits lay on their nest at the bottom of the burrow, and wriggled and squirmed and pushed their soft noses against each other all day long.
life was very easy for them, and they were contented.
the first thing that they remembered was lying on their bed of fur, hay, and dried leaves, and feeling a great, warm, soft something close beside them.
after a while they learned that this something was their mamma rabbit.
it was she who had gotten the nest ready for them and lined it with fur that she tore from her own breast.
she didn't care so much about looking beautiful as she did about making her babies comfortable.
it was their mamma rabbit, too, who fed them with warm milk from her own body until they should be old enough to go out of the burrow.
then they would nibble bark and tender young shoots from the roots of the trees, and all the fresh, green, growing things that rabbits like.
she used to tell them about this food, and they wondered and wondered how it would taste.
they began to feel very big and strong now.
the soft fur was growing on their naked little bodies and covering even the soles of their feet.
it was growing inside their cheeks, too, and that made them feel important, for papa rabbit said that he did not know any other animals that had fur inside their cheeks.
he said it was something to be very proud of, so they were very proud, although why one should want fur inside of one's cheeks it would be hard to say.
what tangles they did get into!
each little rabbit had four legs, two short ones in front, and two long ones behind to help him take long jumps from one place to another.
so, you see, there were twenty-eight legs there, pushing, catching in the hay, kicking, and sometimes just waving in the air when their tiny owners chanced to roll over on their backs and couldn't get right side up again.
then mamma rabbit would come and poke them this way and that, never hurting any of them, but getting the nest in order.
"it is a great deal of work to pick up after children," she would say with a tired little sigh, "but it will not be long before they have homes of their own and are doing the same thing."
mamma rabbit was quite right when she said that, for all of their people set up housekeeping when very young, and then the cares of life begin.
one fine morning when the children were alone in their burrow, the biggest little rabbit had a queer feeling in his face, below and in front of his long ears, and above his eager little nose.
it almost scared him at first, for he had never before felt anything at all like it.
then he guessed what it meant.
there were two bunchy places on his face, that mamma rabbit had told him were eyes.
"when you are older,"
she had said to him, "these eyes will open, and then you will see."
for the rabbit children are always blind when they are babies.
when his mother told him that, the biggest little rabbit had said, "what do you mean when you say i shall 'see'?
is it anything like eating?"
and mamma rabbit said, "no, you cannot taste things until you touch them, but you can see them when they are far away."
"then it is like smelling," said the biggest little rabbit.
"no, it is not like smelling, either, for there are many things, like stones, which one cannot smell and yet can see."
"then it surely is like hearing," said the biggest little rabbit.
"oh dear!"
exclaimed his mother, who was tired of having questions asked which could not be answered.
"it is not a bit like hearing.
you could never hear a black cloud coming across the sky, but you could see it if you were outside your burrow.
nobody can make you understand what seeing is until your eyes are open, and then you will find out for yourself without asking."
this made the biggest little rabbit lie still for a while, and then he said: "what is a black cloud, and why does it come across the sky?
and what is the sky, and why does it let the cloud come?
and what is " but he did not get any answer, for his mother ran out of the burrow as fast as she could.
and now his eyes were surely opening and he should see!
his tiny heart thumped hard with excitement, and he rubbed his face with his forepaws to make his eyes open faster.
ah!
there it was; something round and bright at the other end of the burrow, and some queer, slender things were waving across it.
he wondered if it were good to eat, but he dared not crawl toward it to see.
he did not know that the round, bright thing was just a bit of sky which he saw through the end of the burrow, and that the slender, waving ones were the branches of a dead tree tossing in the wind.
then he looked at his brothers and sisters as they lay beside him.
he would not have known what they were if he had not felt of them at the same time.
"i can see!"
he cried.
"i can see everything that there is to see!
i'm ahead of you!
don't you wish that you could see, too?"
that was not a very kind thing to say, but in a minute more his brothers and sisters had reason to be glad that they couldn't see.
even while he was speaking and looking toward the light, he saw a brown head with two round eyes look in at him, and then a great creature that he thought must surely be a dog ran in toward him.
how frightened he was then!
he pushed his nose in among his blind brothers and sisters and tried to hide himself among them.
he thought something dreadful was about to happen.
"i wish mamma rabbit would come," he squeaked, shutting his eyes as closely as he could.
"i wish mamma rabbit would come."
"why, here i am," she answered.
"what are you afraid of?"
the biggest little rabbit opened his eyes, and there was the creature who had frightened him so, and it was his own mother!
you can imagine how glad she was to see that one of her children had his eyes open.
"i will call in some of my rabbit friends," she said, "and let you see them, if you will promise not to be afraid."
the next day four of the other little rabbits had their eyes open, and the day after that they all could see each other and the shining piece of sky at the end of the burrow.
it was not so very long afterward that the rabbit family went out to dine in the forest, and this was the first time that the children had seen their father.
often when their mother left them alone in the burrow she had pulled grass and leaves over the opening to hide it from him, for rabbit fathers do not love their children until they are old enough to go out into the great world, and it would never do for them to know where their babies are kept.
then their father taught them how to gnaw tough bark to wear their teeth down, for rabbits' teeth grow all the time, and if they were to eat only soft food, their teeth would get too long.
he taught them, too, how to move their ears in the right way for keen hearing, and told them that when chased they must run for the burrow or the nearest thicket.
"then crouch down on some leaves that are the color of your fur," he said, "and you may not be seen at all."
"why should we run?"
said the biggest little rabbit.
"because you might be caught if you didn't."
"what might catch us?"
asked the biggest little rabbit.
"oh, a hawk, perhaps, or a weasel."
"what does a hawk look like?"
"like a great bird floating in the sky," said papa rabbit.
"now, don't ask me a single question more."
"does a hawk look like that bird above us?"
asked the biggest little rabbit.
his father gave one look upward.
"yes!"
he said.
"run!"
and just as the hawk swooped down toward the ground, he saw nine white-tipped tails disappear into a burrow near by.
the little bat who wouldn't go to bed
"come," said mamma bat, flying toward her home in the cave, "it is time that you children went to bed.
the eastern sky is growing bright, and i can see the fleecy clouds blush rosy red as the sun looks at them."
the little bats flitted along after her, and papa bat came behind them.
they had been flying through the starlit forest all night, chasing the many small insects that come out after the sun has gone down, and passing in and out of the tangled branches without ever touching one.
indeed, mamma bat would have been ashamed if children of hers flew against anything in the dark.
there might be some excuse for such a mistake in the daytime, for bats' eyes do not see well then, but in the night-time!
she would have scolded them well, and they would have deserved it, for bats have the most wonderful way of feeling things before they touch them, and there are no other people in the forest who can do that.
there are no other people who can tell by the feeling of the air when something is near, and the bats made much fun of their friend, the screech owl, once, when he flew against a tree and fell to the ground.
and now the night was over and their mother had called them to go home.
one of the little bats hung back with a very cross look on his face, and twice his father had to tell him to fly faster.
he was thinking how he would like to see the forest in the daytime.
he had never seen the sun rise, and he wanted to do that.
he had never seen any of the day-birds or the animals that awaken in the morning.
he thought it was pretty mean to make poor little bats go off to bed the minute the stars began to fade.
he didn't believe what his father and mother said, that he wouldn't have a good time if he did stay up.
he had coaxed and coaxed and teased and teased, but it hadn't made a bit of difference.
every morning he had to fold his wings and go to sleep in a dark crack in the rock of the cave, hanging, head downward, close to the rest of the family.
their father said that there never was a better place to sleep than in this same crack, and it certainly was easy to catch on with the hooks at the lower ends of their wings when they hung themselves up for the day.
but now he just wouldn't go to bed, so there!
"it is your turn next," said mamma bat to him, when the rest of the children had hung themselves up.
"i'm not going to bed," the little bat answered.
"not going to bed!"
said his father.
"are you crazy?"
"no," said the little bat, "i'm not."
"i don't believe the child is well," said mamma bat.
"he never acted like this before.
i'm afraid he has overeaten."
and she looked very anxious.
"i am well, and i haven't eaten too much," said the little bat.
"i think you might let a fellow have some fun once in a while.
i've never seen the sun in my life, and there are whole lots of birds and animals in the forest that i've only heard about."
papa and mamma bat looked at each other without speaking.
"i won't go to bed!"
said the little bat.
"very well," said his father.
"i shall not try to make you.
fly away at once and let us go to sleep."
after he had gone, mamma bat said, "i suppose you did right to let him go, but it seems too bad that children have to find out for themselves the trouble that comes from disobedience."
the little bat flew away feeling very brave.
he guessed he knew how to take care of himself, even in daylight.
he felt sorry for his brothers who were in the cave, but he made up his mind that he would tell them all about it the next night.
the eastern sky grew brighter and brighter.
it hurt his eyes to look at it, and he blinked and turned away.
then the song-birds awakened and began to sing.
it was very interesting, but he thought they sang too loudly.
the forest at night is a quiet place, and he didn't see the sense of shouting so, even if the sun were coming up.
the night-birds never made such a fuss over the moon, and he guessed the moon was as good as the sun.
somebody went scampering over the grass, kicking up his heels as he ran.
"that must be a rabbit," thought the little bat.
"the screech owl told me that rabbits run in that way.
i wish i could see him more plainly.
i don't know what is the matter with my eyes."
just then a sunbeam came slanting through the forest and fell on his furry coat as he clung to a branch.
"ow!"
he cried.
"ow!
how warm it is!
i don't like that.
the moonbeams do not feel so.
i must fly to a shady corner."
he started to fly.
just what was the matter, he never knew.
it may have been because he couldn't see well, it may have been because he was getting very tired, or it may have been because the strangeness of it all was beginning to frighten him; but at all events, he went down, down, down until he found himself pitching and tumbling around in the grass.
a crow had seen him fall, and cried loudly, "come!
come!
come!"
to his friends.
the rabbits, who were feeding near by, came scampering along, making great leaps in their haste to see what was the matter.
the goldfinches, the robins, the orioles, the woodpeckers, and many other birds came fluttering up.
even a blue jay sat on a branch above the bat and shrieked, "jay!
jay!
jay!"
to add to the excitement.
and last of all, the ground hog appeared, coming slowly and with dignity, as a person who can remember his grandfather should do.
"what is the cause of all this commotion?"
he asked.
he might have said, "what is the matter?"
and then they would have understood him at once, but he was too haughty for that.
he thought he had to use big words once in a while to show that he could.
if people didn't understand them, he was willing to explain what he meant.
"we've found such a queer bird, sir," said the biggest little rabbit, without waiting to find out what a "commotion" was.
"just see him tumble around!"
"bird?
that is no bird," said a woodpecker.
"look at his ears and his nose.
he hasn't even a bill."
"well, he flies," said the biggest little rabbit, "because i saw him, so he must be a bird."
"humph!"
said a chipmunk.
"so does my cousin, the flying squirrel, in a way, yet he is no more bird than i am."
"and this fellow hasn't a feather to his skin!"
cried an oriole.
"i don't say that my son is right," said papa rabbit, "but this creature has wings."
and he gave the bat a poke that made him flutter wildly for a minute.
"yes, but what kind of wings?"
asked the goldfinch.
"a pair of skinny things that grow on to his legs and have hooks on both ends."
"he must be a very stupid fellow, at all events," said the ground hog.
"he doesn't talk, or walk, or eat, or even fly well.
he must come of a very common family.
for my part, i am not interested in persons of that kind."
and he walked away with his nose in the air.
now the other forest people would have liked to watch the bat longer, but after the ground hog had gone off in this way, they thought it would show too much curiosity if they stayed.
so one after another went away, and the little bat was left alone.
he fluttered around until he reached the branch where the blue jay had been, and there he hung himself up to wait until night.
"oh dear!"
he said, "i wonder how long a day is.
i am hot and blind and sleepy, and if any more of the forest people come and talk about me, i don't know what i shall do.
they don't think me good-looking because my wings grow to my legs.
i only wish i could see what they look like.
i believe they are just as homely."
and then, because he was a very tired little bat, and cross, as people always are when they have done wrong, he began to blame somebody else for all his trouble.
"if my father and mother had cared very much about me," he said, "they would never have let me stay up all day.
guess if i were a big bat and had little bats of my own, i'd take better care of them!"
but that is always the way, and when, long afterward, he was a big bat with little bats of his own, he was a much wiser person.
a swarm leaves the bee tree
the old bee tree was becoming very crowded and the queen-mother grew restless.
there were many things to make her so.
in the tree were thousands of cells made ready for her eggs, and she had been busy for days putting one in each.
in the larger cells she laid eggs that would hatch out drones, and in the smaller ones she laid worker eggs.
she never laid any queen eggs.
perhaps she did not want any queens among her children, for there can never be two queens in one swarm, and when a new one is hatched, the queen-mother has to go away and find another home.
that is a law among the bees.
the workers, however, knew that there must be young queens growing up all the time.
supposing something should happen to the queen-mother, what would become of the swarm if there were nobody to lay eggs?
so after she had laid several thousand worker eggs, and it was time for the young ones to hatch, they decided to change some of the babies into young queens.
and this was easy enough.
when they were out for honey, they filled the pockets on their hind legs with pollen, the yellow dust that is found in flowers.
this was to be mixed with honey and water and made into bread for the babies, who were now awake, and looked like tiny white worms in the bottom of their cells.
then they made some that was almost like sour jelly, and put it in a few of the worker cells for the tiny white worms, or larvæ, to eat.
the larvæ that eat this jelly grow up to be queens, and can lay eggs.
those that eat the common bread are either drones or workers, whichever their mother had planned them to be.
after the larvæ were five or six days old, the workers shut them up in their cells and stopped feeding them.
that was because the larvæ had other things to do than eat.
they had to spin their cocoons, and lie in them until they were grown and ready to come out among the older bees.
when a larva, or bee baby, has finished its cocoon, and is lying inside, it is called a pupa, and when a pupa is full grown and has torn its way out of the cocoon and wax, it is called a drone, or a worker, or a queen.
now the queen-mother was restless.
she could hear the young queens piping in their cells, and she knew that they wanted to come out and drive her away.
she wanted to get to them and stop their piping, but the workers stood in her way and prevented her.
they knew it would not be well for the queen-mother to meet her royal children, and when these children tried to come out the workers covered the doors of their cells with another layer of wax, leaving little holes where they could put out their tongues and be fed.
this made the queen-mother more restless than ever.
"if i cannot do as i wish to with my own children," she said, "i will leave the tree."
and she began walking back and forth as fast as she could, and talked a great deal, and acted almost wild with impatience.
the workers saw how she felt, and part of them decided to go with her.
when a worker made up her mind to go with the queen-mother, she showed it by also acting wild and walking back and forth, and talking a great deal, sometimes fluttering her wings very fast.
then she would go for honey, because when bees are about to swarm they fill their honey-pockets just as full as they can.
at times the queen-mother would be quiet, and you might almost think that she had given up going.
then suddenly she would grow restless again, and all the workers who were going with her would act as she did, and they would get so warm with excitement that the air in the tree became quite hot.
at last the queen-mother thought it time to start, and her followers came around her in the tree, and were very still for a minute.
several of the workers had been flying in circles around the tree, and now they came to the doorway and called.
then all came out, and hovered in the air a few minutes before stopping to rest on a bush near by.
when they rested, the first bee held on to the bush, the next bee held on to her, and that was the way they did until they were all clinging tightly together in a squirming, dark-brown mass.
ah, then the queen-mother was happy!
she felt that she was young again, and she thought, "how they love me, these dear workers!"
she stroked her body with her legs to make herself as fine as possible, and she noticed, with pleasure, how slender she was growing.
"i had thought i should never fly again," she said, "yet this is delightful.
i believe i will go off by myself for a little while."
so she flew off by herself and was talking rather airily to a butterfly when two of the workers came after her.
"you may return to the rest," she said in a queenly way, as she motioned to them with her feelers.
"i will come by and by."
"no," said they, "you must come at once or we shall all go back to the bee tree.
you must stay with us.
you must do your part as it should be done."
and she had to go, for she knew in her heart that queens have to obey the law as well as other people.
after she had hung with the workers on the bush for some time, the ones who had gone ahead to find a new home for the swarm came back and gave the signal for the rest to follow.
they went to an old log near the river-bank, and here they began the real work.
crawling through an opening at one end, they found a roomy place within, and commenced to clean house at once.
"if there is anything i do like," said a worker, as she dropped a splinter of rotten wood outside the door, "it is house-cleaning."
"so do i," said her sister.
"but what a fuss the drones always make when we try to do anything of the sort!
a pretty-looking home we'd have if they took care of it!"
"i'm glad none of them came with us to this place," said the first worker.
"i guess they knew they were not wanted."
"there, there!"
said the queen-mother, coming up to where they were; "you must not talk in that way.
it may be that you would rather do without drones, and perhaps they would rather do without you; but i need you both and i will not have any quarreling."
when she said this she walked away with her head in the air, and the workers did not scold any more.
they knew that she was right, and, after all, she was their queen, even if she did have to obey the laws.
next they got varnish from the buds of poplar trees and varnished over all the cracks and little holes in the walls of their home, leaving open only the place where they were to go in and out.
they also covered with varnish a few heavy fragments of wood that lay on the floor of their home, and when this task was done it was all in order and ready for the furniture, that is, the comb.
you know how the comb looks, and you know how they get the wax from which to make it, but unless you are acquainted with the bees, and have seen them at work, you have no idea what busy creatures they are.
the queen-mother, as soon as the cells were ready and she could begin laying eggs again, was as contented and happy as ever.
one day, when she was walking around a corner of the comb, she ran against a sad and discouraged-looking worker.
"why, what is the matter?"
said she, kindly.
"are you sick?"
"no," answered the worker.
"i'm not sick and i'm not tired, only i want to get through."
"through with what?"
asked the queen.
"with work!
it is clean house, varnish the walls, make wax, build combs, get honey, make bread and jelly, and feed the babies.
and when they get old enough they'll have to clean house, varnish the walls, make wax, build combs, get honey, make bread and jelly, and feed the babies.
i want to know when it is going to stop, and bees can spend their time in play."
"never," said the queen-mother; and she spoke very gently, for she saw that the worker was crazy.
"it will never stop.
if you had nothing to do but play all your life you would soon want to die, and you ought to, for there is no place in this world for idlers.
you know that after a while the drones die because they do nothing, and it is right they should."
"don't you ever get tired of your eggs?"
asked the worker.
"no," answered the queen-mother, "i don't.
you see, i have so much to think about, and happy thoughts make tasks light.
and then, you know, it is not always the same kind of egg, and that makes a pleasant change for me.
i will give you a motto to remember: 'as long as a bee is well, work is pleasant when done faithfully.'"
"perhaps that is the matter with me," said the worker, raising her drooping head.
"i have been careless lately when i thought nobody was looking.
i will try your way."
when she had gone, the queen-mother smiled to herself and said: "poor child!
when work is no longer a pleasure, life is indeed sad.
but any larva should know better than to work carelessly when she is not watched."
the haughty ground hog
not far from the home of the rabbits was another burrow where the ground hog lived, and there was a very kindly feeling between the neighbors.
they liked the same food, and as there was plenty for all, they often nibbled together near the edge of the forest.
the little rabbits were fond of him and liked to listen to his stories.
once the biggest little rabbit had run into the ground hog's burrow by mistake when he was frightened, and that was the beginning of a great friendship between them.
they were a queer-looking couple, for the rabbit was small and quick and dainty, while the ground hog, with his stout body covered with thick, reddish fur, his broad, flat head, and his short legs, was a clumsy fellow.
to be sure, he could get out of sight quickly if he had to, but he never scampered around and kicked up his heels for the fun of it, as the rabbits did.
he was too dignified to do that.
he came of an old family and he could remember who his grandfather was.
there were but few people in the forest who could do that; so, of course, he could not frisk like his neighbors.
perhaps if the ground hog had not belonged to so old a family, he might have had a better time.
yet the thought that he could remember his grandfather was a great pleasure to him, and when he was talking he would often remark in the most careless way, "as my grandfather used to say"; or, "that reminds me of something my grandfather once did."
some people said that he did this to show off; but it may be that they were envious.
however that may have been, the ground hog was certainly a haughty fellow, and if he had not been so gentle and kind a neighbor people would not have liked him.
only once had he been known to get angry, and that was when a saucy young chipmunk had spoken of him as a woodchuck.
"woodchuck!
woodchuck!"
he had grunted.
"you young bushy-tail, i am a ground hog, and the ground hog family lived in this forest long before you ever opened your eyes.
people with good manners do not call us 'woodchucks.'
we do not like the name.
my grandfather could not endure it."
it was not very long after this that he told the wondering young rabbits about his grandfather.
when talking, the ground hog rested by the edge of his burrow, sitting on his haunches, and waving his queer little forepaws whenever he told anything especially important.
and this was the story:
"perhaps you may have heard me speak of my grandfather.
ah, he was a ground hog worth seeing!
he was large, and, although when i knew him the black fur on his back was streaked with gray, he was still handsome.
he was clever, too.
i have often heard my father say that he could dig the deepest and best burrow in the forest.
and then he had such fine manners!
there was not another ground hog in the country around who could eat as noisily as he, and it is said that when he was courting my grandmother she chose him because of the elegant way in which he sat up on his haunches.
i have been told, children, that i am very much like him."
just here, a red-headed woodpecker gave a loud "rat-a-tat-tat" on the tree above the ground hog's head, and there was a look around her bill as though she wanted to laugh.
the ground hog slowly turned his head to look at her as she flew away.
"quite a good-looking young person," he said, "but badly brought up.
she should know better than to disturb those who are talking.
what was i saying, children?"
"you were telling how well your grandfather sat up on his haunches,"
said the smallest little rabbit.
"so i was!
so i was!
i must tell you how my grandfather came to know the world so well.
when he was only a young fellow, he made his home for a time by a hen house, and so heard the talk of the barn-yard people.
once he heard them tell how the farmer watched on a certain winter day to see my grandfather come out of his burrow.
of course, you children all know how we ground hogs do; in the fall we are very fat, and when the cold weather comes we go to sleep in our burrows to wait for spring.
sometimes we awaken and stretch, but we go to sleep again very soon.
then, when spring comes we are slender and have healthy appetites.
"the hens treated my grandfather with great politeness, and the black brahma cock showed plainly how honored they felt to have him there.
they said that they were so glad my grandfather stayed out of his burrow awhile on this winter day when the farmer was watching, because they were in a hurry for warm weather.
my grandfather did not know what they meant by that, but he was too wise to say so, and he found out by asking questions, that if a ground hog leaves his burrow on this certain day in winter, and sees his shadow, and goes back again, it will be cold for a long time after that.
if he does not see his shadow, and stays out, it will soon be warm.
"you see now, children, how important our family is; and yet we are so modest that we had not even known that we made the weather until the hens told my grandfather.
but that is the way!
really great people often think the least of themselves."
"and do you make the weather?"
asked the smallest little rabbit.
"i suppose we do," said the ground hog, with a smile.
"it is a great care.
i often say to myself: 'shall i have it warm, or shall i have it cold?'
it worries me so that sometimes i can hardly eat."
"and how do you know when the day comes for you to make the weather?"
said the smallest little rabbit.
"ahem!
well-er!
i am sorry to say that my grandfather did not find out exactly what day it is that they watch for us, so i have to guess at that.
but to think that we ground hogs make the weather for all the other people!
it is worth a great deal to belong to such a family.
i suppose i might have been a weasel, a fox, an owl, or an oriole.
and it is a great thing to have known one's grandfather."
the little rabbits sat very still, wishing that they had known their grandfather, when suddenly the biggest one said: "if you should stay out of your burrow when that day comes, and another ground hog should go back into his burrow, how would the weather know what to do?"
"children," said the old ground hog, "i think your mother is calling to you.
you might better go to see.
good-by."
and he waved his paw politely.
the seven little rabbits scampered away, but their mother was not calling them.
she wasn't even there, and when they went back they couldn't find the ground hog.
they wondered how he happened to make such a mistake.
the red-headed woodpecker who came along at about that time, twisted her head on one side and said: "made-a-mistake!
rat-a-tat-tat!
not he!"
the undecided rattlesnake
it is not often that one of the forest people has any trouble about making up his mind, but there was one large rattlesnake who had great difficulty in doing so.
she lived in the southern edge of the forest, where the sunshine was clear and warm, and there were delightful crevices among the rocks in which she and all her friends and relatives could hide.
it seemed very strange that so old a snake should be so undecided as she was.
it must be that she had a careless mother who did not bring her up in the right way.
if that were so, one should indeed be sorry for her.
still even that would be no real excuse, for was she not old enough now to train herself?
she had seven joints in the rattle on her tail and an eighth one growing, so you can see that she was no longer young, although, being healthy, she had grown her new joints and changed her skin oftener than some of her friends.
in fact, she had grown children of her own, and if it had not been that they took after their father, they would have been a most helpless family.
fortunately for them, their father was a very decided snake.
yes, it was exceedingly lucky for them.
it may not have been so good a thing for him.
his wife was always glad to have things settled for her, and when he said, "we will do this," she answered, "yes, dear."
when he said, "we will not do that," she murmured, "no, dear."
and when he said, "what shall we do?"
she would reply, "oh, i don't know.
what do you think we might better do?"
he did not very often ask her opinion, and there were people in the forest who said he would never have talked matters over with her if he had not known that she would leave the decision to him.
now this is a bad way in which to have things go in any family, and it happened here as it would anywhere.
he grew more and more selfish from having his own way all of the time, and his wife became less and less able to take care of herself.
most people thought him a very devoted husband.
perhaps he was.
it is easy to be a devoted husband if you always have your own way.
one night mr. rattlesnake did not return to their home.
nobody ever knew what had become of him.
the red squirrel said that mrs. goldfinch said that the biggest little rabbit had told her that the ground hog had overheard mr. crow say that he thought he saw somebody that looked like mr. rattlesnake chasing a field mouse over toward the farm, but that he might have been mistaken.
this was all so uncertain that mrs.
rattlesnake knew no more than she had known before.
it was very trying.
"if i only knew positively," she said to her friend, mrs. striped snake, "i could do something, although i am sure i don't know what it would be."
mrs. striped snake tried to help her.
"why not have one of your children come home to live with you?"
she said pleasantly, for this year's children were now old enough to shift for themselves.
"i've thought of that," answered mrs. rattlesnake, "but i like a quiet life, and you know how it is.
young snakes will be young snakes.
besides, i don't think they would want to come back."
"well, why not be alone, then?"
"oh, it is so lonely," replied mrs. rattlesnake, with a sigh.
"everything reminds me so of my husband, and that makes me sad.
if i lived somewhere else it would be different."
"then why not move?"
said mrs. striped snake, briskly.
"i would do that.
find a nice crack in the rock just big enough for one, or make a cosy little hole in the ground somewhere near here.
then if he comes back he can find you easily.
i would do that.
i certainly would."
she spoke so firmly that mrs. rattlesnake said she would, she would to-morrow.
and her friend went home thinking it was all settled.
that shows how little she really knew mrs. rattlesnake.
the more mrs. rattlesnake thought it over that night, the more she dreaded moving.
"if he does not come back," she sighed, "i may marry again in the spring, and then i might have to move once more.
i believe i will ask somebody else what i ought to do."
so in the morning she began to consult her friends.
they all told her to move, and she decided to do it.
then she could not make up her mind whether to take a rock-crevice or make a hole in the ground.
it took another day of visiting to settle that it should be a hole in the ground.
a fourth day was spent in finding just the right place for her home, and on the fifth day she began work.
by the time the sun was over the tree-tops, she wished she had chosen some other place, and thought best to stop and talk to some of her friends about it.
when she returned she found herself obliged to cast her skin, which had been growing tight and dry for some time.
this was hard work, and she was too tired to go on with her home-making, so she lay in the sunshine and admired her beautiful, long, and shining body of reddish brown spotted with black.
her rattle had eight joints now, for when a rattlesnake casts the old skin a new joint is always uncovered at the end of the tail.
she waved it quickly to see how an eight-jointed rattle would sound.
"lovely!"
she said.
"lovely!
like the seeds of the wild cucumber shaking around in their dry and prickly case."
one could not tell all the things that happened that fall, or how very, very, very tired her friends became of having her ask their advice.
she changed her mind more times than there are seeds in a milkweed pod, and the only thing of which she was always sure was eating.
when there was food in sight she did not stop for anybody's advice.
she ate it as fast as she could, and if she had any doubts about the wisdom of doing so, she kept them to herself.
when winter came she had just got her new home ready, and after all she went when invited to spend the winter with a cave party of other snakes.
they coiled themselves together in a great mass and slept there until spring.
as the weather grew warmer, they began to stir, wriggling and twisting themselves free.
two bachelor snakes asked her to marry.
one was a fine old fellow with a twelve-jointed rattle.
the other was just her own age.
"to be sure i will," she cried, and the pits between her nostrils and her ears looked more like dimples than ever.
"only you must wait until i can make up my mind which one to marry."
"oh, no," they answered, "don't go to all that trouble.
we will fight and decide it for you."
it was a long fight, and the older of the two snakes had a couple of joints broken off from his rattle before it was over.
still he beat the other one and drove him away.
when he came back for his bride he found her crying.
"what is the matter?"
said he, quite sternly.
"oh, that p-poor other b-bachelor!"
she sobbed.
"i b-believe i will g-go after him.
i think p-perhaps i l-love him the b-better."
"no, you don't, mrs. rattlesnake," said the fine old fellow who had just won the fight.
"you will do no such thing.
you will marry me and never speak to him again.
when i have lost two joints of my rattle in fighting for you, i intend to have you myself, and i say that you love me very dearly.
do you hear?"
"yes, darling," she answered, as she wiped her eyes on the grass, "very dearly."
and they lived most happily together.
"he reminds me so much of the first mr. rattlesnake," she said to her friends.
"so strong, so firm, so quick to decide!"
and the friends said to each other, "well, let us be thankful he is.
we have been bothered enough by her coming to us for advice which she never followed."
the quarrelsome mole
when the first hillock of fresh brown earth was thrown up in the edge of the forest, the people who lived there said to each other.
"can it be that we have a new neighbor?"
perhaps the rabbits, the ground hogs, and the snakes cared the most, for they also made their homes in the ground; yet even the orioles wanted to know all about it.
none of them had ever been acquainted with a mole.
they had seen the ridges in the meadows beneath which the moles had their runways, and they knew that when the moles were making these long streets under ground, they had to cut an opening through the grass once in a while and throw the loose earth out.
this new mound in the forest looked exactly like those in the meadow, so they decided there must be a mole in the neighborhood.
if that were so, somebody should call upon him and get acquainted; but how could they call?
mrs. red squirrel said: "why can't some of you people who are so clever at digging, burrow down and find him?"
"yes indeed," twittered the birds; "that is a good plan."
but mr. red squirrel smiled at his wife and said: "i am afraid, bushy-tail (that was his pet name for her) that none of our friends here could overtake the mole.
you know he is a very fast runner.
if they were following they could never catch him."
"let them burrow down ahead of the place where he is working, then,"
said she.
"and the mole would turn and go another way, not knowing it was a friend looking for him."
"well, why not make an opening into one of his runways and go into it, hunting until he is found?"
said mrs. red squirrel, who was like some other people in not wishing to give up her own ideas.
"yes," cried a mischievous young woodpecker; "let the ground hog go.
you surely don't think him too fat?"
now there was no denying that the ground hog was getting too stout to look well, and people thought he would be angry at this.
perhaps he was angry.
the little rabbits were sure of it.
they said they knew by the expression of his tail.
still, you know, the ground hog came of a good family, and well-bred people do not say mean things even if they are annoyed.
he combed the fur on his face with both paws, and answered with a polite bow: "if i had the slender and graceful form of my charming friend, mrs. red squirrel, i should be delighted to do as she suggests."
that was really a very clever thing for mr. ground hog to say.
it was much more agreeable than if he had grunted out, "much she knows about it!
we burrowing people are all too large."
and now mrs. red squirrel was pleased and happy although her plan was not used.
that night mrs. ground hog said to her husband: "i didn't know you admired mrs. red squirrel so much."
and he answered: "pooh!
admire her?
she is a very good-looking person for one of her family, and i want to be polite to her for her husband's sake.
he and i have business together.
but for my part i prefer more flesh.
i could never have married a slender wife, and i am pleased to see, my dear, that you are stouter than you were."
and this also shows how clever a fellow mr.
ground hog was.
the very next night, as luck would have it, the mole came out of his runway for a scamper on the grass.
mr. ground hog saw him and made his acquaintance.
"we are glad to have you come," said he.
"you will find it a pleasant neighborhood.
people are very friendly."
"well, i'm glad of that," answered the mole.
"i don't see any sense in people being disagreeable, myself, but in the meadow which i have just left there were the worst neighbors in the world.
i stood it just as long as i could, and then i moved."
"i am sorry to hear that," said the ground hog, gently.
"i had always supposed it a pleasant place to live in."
he began to wonder what kind of fellow the mole was.
he did not like to hear him say such unkind things before a new acquaintance.
sometimes unpleasant things have to be said, but it was not so now.
"umph!"
said the mole.
"you have to live with people to know them.
of course, we moles had no friends among the insects.
we are always glad to meet them in the ground, but they do not seem so glad to meet us.
that is easily understood when you remember what hungry people moles are.
friendship is all very well, but when a fellow's stomach is empty, he can't let that stand in the way of a good dinner.
there was no such reason why the tree frog or the garter snake should dislike me."
"are you sure they did dislike you?"
"certain of it.
i remember how one night i wanted to talk with the garter snake, and asked him to come out of his hole for a visit in the moonlight.
he wouldn't come."
"what did he say?"
asked the ground hog.
"not a word!
and that was the worst of it.
think how provoking it was for me to stand there and call and call and not get any reply."
"perhaps he was not at home," suggested the ground hog.
"that's what he said when i spoke to him.
said he was spending the night down by the river.
as though i'd be likely to believe that!
i guess he saw that he couldn't fool me, though, for after i told him what i thought of him he wriggled away without saying a word."
"still he is not so disagreeable as the tree frog," said the mole, after a pause in which the ground hog had been trying not to laugh.
the ground hog said afterward that it was the funniest sight imaginable to see the stout little mole scampering back and forth in the moonlight, and stopping every few minutes to scold about the meadow people.
the twitching of his tiny tail and the jerky motions of his large, pink-palmed digging hands, showed how angry he grew in thinking of them, and his pink snout fairly quivered with rage.
"i will tell you about the tree frog," said the mole.
"he is one of these fellows who are always just so good-natured and polite.
i can't endure them.
i say it's putting on airs to act that way.
i was telling him what i thought of the garter snake, and what should he do but draw himself up and say: 'excuse me, but the garter snake is a particular friend of mine, and i do not care to hear him spoken of in that way.'
i guess i taught him one good lesson, though.
i told him he was just the kind of person i should expect the garter snake to like, and that i wished them much joy together, but that i didn't want anything to do with them.
"it was only a short time after this that i had such trouble about making my fort.
whenever i started to dig in a place i would find some other mole there ahead of me."
"and then you would have to go somewhere else, of course?"
said the ground hog.
"i'd like to know why!"
said the mole, with his glossy silver-brown fur on end.
"no indeed!
i had a perfect right to dig wherever i wished, and i would tell them so, and they would have to go elsewhere.
one mole was bad-tempered enough to say that he had as much right in the meadow as anybody, and i had to tussle with him and bite him many times before he saw his mistake.... they are disagreeable people over there, but why are you going so soon?
i thought we would have a good visit together."
"i promised to meet mrs. ground hog," said her husband, "and must go.
good-night!"
and he trotted away.
not long afterward this highly respectable couple were feeding together in the moonlight.
"what do you think of the mole?"
said she.
"well, er ahem," answered her husband.
"you know, my dear, that i do not like to talk against people, and i might better not tell you exactly what i think of him.
he is a queer-looking fellow, and i always distrust anyone who will not look me in the eye.
perhaps that is not his fault, for the fur hides his eyes and he wears his ears inside of his head; but i must say that a fiercer or more disagreeable-looking snout i never saw.
he has had trouble with all his old neighbors, and a fellow who cannot get along peaceably in one place will not in another.
he is always talking about his rights and what he thinks  "
"you have told me enough," said mrs. ground hog, interrupting him.
"nobody ever liked a person who insists on his 'rights' every time.
and such a person never enjoys life.
what a pity it is!"
and she gave a sigh that shook her fat sides.
"now, i had it all planned that he should marry and set up housekeeping, and that i should have another pleasant neighbor soon."
"ah!
mrs. ground hog," said her husband teasingly, "i knew you would be thinking of that.
you are a born matchmaker.
now i think we could stand a few bachelors around here, fine young fellows who have nothing to do but enjoy life."
and his eyes twinkled as he said it.
"as though you did not enjoy life!"
answered his wife.
"still, i could not wish any young mole such a husband as this fellow.
it is a great undertaking to marry a grumpy bachelor and teach him the happiness of living for others."
and she looked very solemn.
"i suppose you found it so?"
said mr. ground hog, sidling up toward her.
"what a tease you are!"
said his wife.
"you know that i am happy."
and really, of all the couples on whom the moon looked that night, there was not a happier one than this pair of ground hogs; and there was not a lonelier or more miserable person than the mole, who guarded his own rights and told people what he thought of them.
but it is always so.
the wild turkeys come
the wild turkeys are a wandering people, and stay in one place only long enough to rear their young.
one could hardly say that they lived in the forest, but every year when the acorns and beechnuts were ripe, they came for a visit.
it is always an exciting time when the turkeys are seen gathering on the farther side of the river and making ready to fly over.
some of the forest people have started for the warmer country in the south, and those who still remain are either talking over their plans for flight, or working hard, if they are to spend the winter in the north, to get their stores of food ready.
it was so this year.
one morning a red-headed woodpecker brought the news that the turkeys were gathering.
the ground hog heard of it just as he was going to sleep after a night of feeding and rambling in the edge of the meadow.
one of the young rabbits told him, and coaxed him to stay up to see the newcomers.
"i've never seen turkeys in my life," said the young rabbit, "and they say it is great fun to watch them.
oh, please come with me to the river-bank and see the turkeys cross over.
please do!"
"ah-h-h," yawned the ground hog.
"you might better ask somebody who has not been up all night.
i am too sleepy."
"you won't be sleepy when you reach the river-bank," said the rabbit.
"beside, i think there should be someone there to meet them."
at this, the ground hog raised his drooping head, opened his blinking eyes, and answered with great dignity: "there should indeed be someone.
i will go at once."
when they reached the river-bank there was a sight well worth seeing.
on the farther side of the water were a great many turkeys.
old gobblers were there, and the mother turkeys with their broods of children, all looking as fine as you please, in their shining black coats.
when they stood in the shadow, one might think that they wore no color but the brilliant red of their heads and necks, where there were no feathers to cover their wrinkled skin.
when they walked out into the sunshine, however, their feathers showed gleams of beautiful purple and green, and the rabbit thought them the most wonderful great creatures he had ever seen.
"look at them now!"
he cried.
"why do those largest ones walk up and down in front of the rest and scold them?"
"they are the gobblers," answered the ground hog, "and they are doing that to show that they are not afraid to cross the river.
they strut and gobble, and strut and gobble, and say: 'who's-afraid?
who's-afraid?'
until the rest are ready to fly over."
"now the others are doing the same thing," said the rabbit, as the mothers and young turkeys began to strut back and forth.
"that shows that they are willing to cross," answered the ground hog.
"now they will fly up to the very tops of the trees on the hill and visit there for a time.
it is always so.
they start from the highest point they can find.
it will be some time before they come over, and i will take a short nap.
be sure to awaken me when they start.
i want to welcome them to the forest."
and the ground hog curled himself up beside a log and went to sleep.
the rabbit wandered around and ate all the good things he could find.
then he fell to wondering how it would feel to be a bird.
he thought it would be great fun to fly.
to pass so swiftly through the air must be delightful, and then to sweep grandly down and alight softly on the ground without having people know that you were coming!
he had a good mind to try it.
there was nobody to watch him, and he crept up the trunk of a fallen tree which leaned over against its neighbors.
it was a foolish thing to do, and he knew it, but young rabbits are too full of mischief to always be wise.
"i will hold my hind legs very still," he thought, "and flap my forelegs for wings."
with that he jumped off and came crashing down upon the dry leaves.
he felt weak and dizzy, and as he picked himself up and looked around he hoped that nobody had seen him.
"it may be a great deal of fun to fly," he said, "but it is no fun alighting from your flight unless you have real feather wings.
it is too bumpy when you fly with your legs."
at this minute he heard an old gobbler call out, and saw the flock of turkeys coming toward him.
"wake up!
wake up!"
he cried to the ground hog.
but the ground hog never moved.
still the turkeys came nearer.
the rabbit could see that the fat old ones were getting ahead of the others, and that here and there a young or weak turkey had to drop into the river and swim, because his wings were tired.
they got so near that he could see the queer little tufts of wiry feathers which the gobblers wear hanging from their breast, and could see the swaying scarlet wattles under their beaks.
he called again to the ground hog, and getting no answer, poked him three times with his head.
the ground hog turned over, stretched, yawned, moved his jaws a few times as though he dreamed of eating fresh spring grass, and then fell asleep once more.
after that the rabbit left him alone.
the first to alight were the gobblers, and they began at once to strut and chatter.
next came the mother turkeys and their young, and last of all came the weak ones who swam across.
it was a fine sight to see them come in.
the swimmers spread their tails, folded their wings tightly, stretched their necks, and struck out swiftly and strongly with their feet.
the young rabbit could hear a group of mothers talking together.
"the gobblers are growing quite fond of the children," said one.
"yes," said another; "my husband told me yesterday that he was very proud of our little ones."
"well, it is the season for them to begin to walk together," said the first speaker; "but i never in my life had such a time as i had this spring.
i thought my husband would break every egg i laid."
"i had a hard time too," said the other.
"none of my eggs were broken, but after my chicks were hatched i had to hurry them out of their father's sight a dozen times a day."
"it is very trying," said a third mother turkey with a sigh; "but that is always the way with the gobblers.
i suppose the dear fellows can't help it;" and she looked lovingly over at her husband as he strutted around with his friends.
you would not have believed if you had seen her fond looks, and heard her husband's tender "gobble," that they had hardly spoken to each other all summer.
to be sure, it was not now as it had been in the springtime.
then he would have beaten any other gobbler who came near her, he loved her so; still, the rabbit could see as he watched them that when he found some very large and fine acorns, this gobbler would not eat them all, but called his wife to come and share with him; and he knew that they were happy together in their own turkey way of being happy.
at this minute the ground hog opened his eyes and staggered to his feet.
the loud talking had awakened him.
he did not look very dignified just now.
his fur was rumpled, and he blinked often from sleepiness.
there was a dry leaf caught on one of his ears, too, that made him look very odd.
the rabbit wanted to laugh, but he did not dare to do so.
the ground hog walked toward the gobblers, and raised himself on his haunches.
"good-evening, good-evening," said he (it was really morning, you know).
"we are very glad to welcome you to the forest.
make yourselves perfectly at home.
the grass is not so tender as it was a while ago, yet i think that you will find good feeding," and he waved his paws politely.
"thank-you, thank-you!"
answered the gobblers, while the mothers and young turkeys came crowding up to look at the ground hog.
"we came for the acorns and nuts.
we shall certainly enjoy ourselves."
"that is right," said the ground hog heartily.
"we have a very fine forest here.
you will pardon me for remarking it.
the pond people have a saying that is very true: 'it's a mighty poor frog that won't croak for his own puddle.'
and my grandfather used to say that if a ground hog didn't love his own home he was a very poor hog indeed.
good-night, my friends, good-night."
and he trotted happily away, followed by the rabbit.
when he was gone, the turkeys said: "how very kind of him!"
and "what fine manners!"
and the young rabbit thought to himself: "it is queer.
he was sleepy and his fur was rumpled, and that leaf bobbed around his ear when he talked.
he said 'evening' instead of 'morning,' and spoke as though turkeys came here to eat grass.
and yet they all liked him, and were pleased by what he said."
you see the young rabbit had not yet learned that the power of fine manners is more than that of looks; and that people could not think of the ground hog's mistakes in speaking because they knew his kindness of heart.
the travellers go south
one night a maple tree, the very one under which mr. red squirrel sat when he first came to the forest, dreamed of her winter resting-time, and when she awakened early in the morning she found that her leaves were turning yellow.
they were not all brightly colored, but on each was an edging, or a tip, or a splash of gold.
you may be sure that the forest people noticed it at once.
"i told you so," chirruped a robin to her mate.
"the orioles went long ago, and the bobolinks start to-day.
we must think about our trip to the south."
when she said this, she hopped restlessly from twig to twig with an air of being exceedingly busy.
her husband did not answer, but began to arrange his new coat of feathers.
perhaps he was used to her fussy ways and thought it just as well to keep still.
he knew that none of the robins would start south until the weather became much colder, and he did not think it necessary to talk about it yet.
perhaps, too, mr. robin was a trifle contrary and was all the more slow and quiet because his wife was uneasy.
in that case one could hardly blame her for talking over the family plans with the neighbors.
later in the day, a bobolink came up from the marsh to say good-by.
he had on his travelling suit of striped brown, and you would never have known him for the same gay fellow who during the spring and early summer wore black and buff and sang so heartily and sweetly.
now he did not sing at all, and slipped silently from bush to bush, only speaking when he had to.
he was a good fellow and everyone disliked to have him go.
mrs. cowbird came up while they were talking.
now that she did not care to lay any more eggs, the other birds were quite friendly with her.
they began to talk over the summer that was past, and said how finely the young birds were coming on.
"by the way," said she, in the most careless manner possible, "i ought to have a few children round here somewhere.
can anybody tell me where they are?"
mrs. goldfinch looked at her husband and he looked at the sky.
the warblers and the vireos, who had known about the strange egg in the goldfinches' nest, had already left for the winter, and there seemed to be no use in telling their secret now or quarrelling over what was past.
some of the other birds might have told mrs. cowbird a few things, but they also kept still.
"it is a shame," she said.
"i never laid a finer lot of eggs in my life, and i was very careful where i put them.
i wish i knew how many there were, but i forgot to count.
i have been watching and watching for my little birds to join our flock; i was sure i should know them if i saw them.
mothers have such fine feelings, you know, in regard to their children."
(as though she had any right to say that!)
the mourning doves were there with their young son and daughter, and you could see by looking at them that they were an affectionate family.
"we shall be the last to go south," they cooed.
"we always mean to come north in the very early spring and stay as late as possible.
this year we came much later than usual, but it could not be helped."
they had spoken so before, and rather sadly.
it was said that they could tell a sorrowful story if they would; but they did not wish to sadden others by it, and bore their troubles together bravely and lovingly.
"how do the new feathers work?"
asked a crow, flying up at this minute and looking blacker than ever in his fall coat.
then all the birds began to talk about dress.
as soon as their broods were raised, you know, their feathers had begun to drop out, and they had kept on moulting until all of the old ones were gone and the new ones on.
when birds are moulting they never feel well, and when it is over they are both happy and proud.
"i changed later than usual this year," said the crow, "and i feel that i have the very latest fashions."
this was a joke which he must have picked up among the barnyard people, and nobody knows where they got it.
fashions never change in the forest.
"i think," remarked a red-headed woodpecker, "that i have the best wing feathers now that i ever had.
they seem to be a little longer, and they hook together so well.
i almost wish i were going south to try them on a long journey."
"mr. woodpecker's wing feathers are certainly excellent," said his wife, who was always glad to see him well dressed.
"i am sure that the strongest wind will never part them.
i don't see how the owls can stand it to wear their feathers unhooked so that some of the air passes through their wings each time they flap them.
it must make flying hard."
"well, if you were an owl you would understand," chuckled the crow.
"if their great wings were like ours, the noise of their flying would scare every creature within hearing, and there would not be much fun in hunting."
and so they chatted on, while from the meadow came the sound of the happy insects piping in the sunshine.
it was chilly now at night and in the early morning, and they could give concerts only at noonday.
the next day the wild turkeys came and there was great excitement in the forest.
the squirrels were busier than ever storing up all the acorns that they could before the newcomers reached the oak trees; and the blue jays were so jealous of the turkeys that they overate every day for fear there would not be enough to go around.
as though there were any danger!
the ground hog was getting so sleepy now that he would doze off while people were talking to him, and then he would suddenly straighten up and say: "yes, yes, yes!
don't think that i was asleep, please.
the colors of the trees are so bright that they tire my eyes and i sometimes close them."
the dear old fellow really never knew how he had been nodding.
the snakes, too, were growing dull and slow of motion, while the bats talked freely of hanging themselves up for the winter.
the grouse and quail made daily trips to the edges of the grain-fields, and found rich picking among the stubble.
you could almost fancy that they came home each night fatter than when they went away in the morning.
life went on in this way for many days, and the birds had all stopped singing.
there were no more happy concerts at sunrise and no more carols at evening; only chirrupings and twitterings as the feathered people hopped restlessly from one perch to another.
all could see that they were busily thinking and had no time for music.
the truth was that each bird who was not to spend the winter in the forest felt as though something were drawing drawing drawing him southward.
it was something they could not see or hear, and yet it was drawing drawing drawing all day and all night.
they spoke of it often to each other, and the older birds told the young ones how, before long, they would all start south, and fly over land and water until they reached their winter home.
"how do we know where to go?"
asked the children.
"all that you have to do," the older ones said, "is to follow us."
"and how do you know?"
they asked.
"why, we have been there before," they answered; "and we can see the places over which we pass.
but perhaps that is not the real reason, for sometimes we fly over such great stretches of water that we can see nothing else and it all looks alike.
then we cannot see which way to go, but still we feel that we are drawn south, and we only have to think about that and fly onward.
the fathers and sons can fly the faster and will reach there first.
the mothers and daughters come a few days later.
we never make a mistake."
"it is wonderful, wonderful," thought a young rabbit on the grass below.
"i must watch them when they go."
the very next morning the forest people awakened to find a silvery frost on the grass and feel the still air stirred by the soft dropping of damp red, brown, and yellow leaves from the trees.
over the river and all the lowland near it hung a heavy veil of white mist.
"it is time!"
whispered the robins to each other.
"it is time!"
cooed the mourning doves.
"it is time!"
cried the cowbirds in their hoarse voices.
all through the forest there was restlessness and quiet haste.
the juncoes had already come from the cold northland and were resting from their long flight.
the ground hogs, the rabbits, and the squirrels were out to say good-by.
the owls peeped from their hollow trees, shading their eyes from the strong light of the sun.
and then the travellers went.
the robins started in family parties.
the mourning doves slipped quietly away.
the cowbirds went in a dashing crowd.
and the crows, after much talking and disputing on the tree-tops, took a noisy farewell of the few members of the flock who were to remain behind, and, joining other flocks from the north, flew off in a great company which darkened the sky and caused a shadow to pass over the stubble-field almost like that of a summer cloud.
"they are gone!"
sighed the ground hog and his wife.
"we shall miss them sadly.
well, we can dream about them, and that will be a comfort."
"jay!
jay!"
shrieked a handsome-crested fellow from the tree above.
"what if they are gone?
they will be back in the spring, and we have plenty to eat.
what is the use of feeling sad?
jay!
jay!"
but all people are not so heartless as the hungry blue jays, and the song-birds had many loving friends who missed them and longed for their return.
the ruffed grouse's story
the ruffed grouse cocked his crested head on one side and looked up through the bare branches to the sky.
it was a soft gray, and in the west were banks of bluish clouds.
"i think it will snow very soon," said he.
"mrs. grouse, are the children all ready for cold weather?"
"all ready," answered his cheerful little wife.
"they have had their thickest feathers on for quite a while.
the rabbits were saying the other day that they had never seen a plumper or better clothed flock than ours."
and her beautiful golden-brown eyes shone with pride as she spoke.
indeed, the young ruffed grouse were a family of whom she might well be proud.
twelve healthy and obedient children do not fall to the lot of every forest mother, and she wished with a sad little sigh that her other two eggs had hatched.
she often thought of them with longing.
how lovely it would have been to have fourteen children!
but at that moment her brood came crowding around her in fright.
"some cold white things," they said, "came tumbling down upon us and scared us.
the white things didn't say a word, but they came so fast that we think they must be alive.
tell us what to do.
must we hide?"
"why, that is snow!"
exclaimed their mother.
"it drops from the clouds up yonder quite as the leaves drop from the trees in the fall.
it will not hurt you, but we must find shelter."
"what did i tell you, mrs grouse?"
asked her husband.
"i was certain that it would snow before night.
i felt it in my quills."
and mr. grouse strutted with importance.
it always makes one feel so very knowing when he has told his wife exactly what will happen.
"how did you feel it in your quills?"
asked one of his children.
"shall i feel it in my quills when i am as old as you are?"
"perhaps," was the answer.
"but until you do feel it you can never understand it, for it is not like any other feeling that there is."
then they all started for a low clump of bushes to find shelter from the storm.
once they were frightened by seeing a great creature come tramping through the woods towards them.
"a man!"
said mr. grouse.
"hide!"
said mrs. grouse, and each little grouse hid under the leaves so quickly that nobody could see how it was done.
one might almost think that a strong wind had blown them away.
the mother pretended that she had a broken wing, and hopped away, making such pitiful sounds that the man followed to pick her up.
when she had led him far from her children, she, too, made a quick run and hid herself; and although the man hunted everywhere, he could not find a single bird.
you know that is always the way in grouse families, and even if the man's foot had stirred the leaves under which a little one was hiding, the grouse would not have moved or made a sound.
the children are brought up to mind without asking any questions.
when their mother says, "hide!"
they do it, and never once ask "why?"
or answer, "as soon as i have swallowed this berry."
it is no wonder that the older ones are proud of their children.
any mother would be made happy by having one child obey like that, and think of having twelve!
at last, the whole family reached the bushes where they were to stay, and then they began to feed near by.
"eat all you can," said mr. grouse, "before the snow gets deep.
you may not have another such good chance for many days."
so they ate until their little stomachs would not hold one more seed or evergreen bud.
all this time the snowflakes were falling, but the grouse children were no longer afraid of them.
sometimes they even chased and snapped at them as they would at a fly in summer-time.
it was then, too, that they learned to use snow-shoes.
the oldest child had made a great fuss when he found a fringe of hard points growing around his toes in the fall, and had run peeping to his mother to ask her what was the matter.
she had shown him her own feet, and had told him how all the ruffed grouse have snow-shoes of that kind grow on their feet every winter.
"we do not have to bother about them at all," she said.
"they put themselves on when the weather gets cold in the fall, and they take themselves off when spring comes.
we each have a new pair every year, and when they are grown we can walk easily over the soft snow.
without them we should sink through and flounder."
when night came they all huddled under the bushes, lying close together to keep each other warm.
the next day they burrowed into a snow-drift and made a snug place there which was even better than the one they left; the soft white coverlet kept the wind out so well.
it was hard for the little ones to keep quiet long, and to amuse them mr. grouse told how he first met their mother in the spring.
"it was a fine, sunshiny day," he said, "and everybody was happy.
i had for some time been learning to drum, and now i felt that i was as good a drummer as there was in the forest.
so i found a log (every ruffed grouse has to have his own place, you know) and i jumped up on it and strutted back and forth with my head high in the air.
it was a dusky part of the forest and i could not see far, yet i knew that a beautiful young grouse was somewhere near, and i hoped that if i drummed very well she might come to me."
"i know!"
interrupted one of the little grouse.
"it was our mother."
"well, it wasn't your mother then, my chick," said mr. grouse, "for that was long, long before you were hatched."
"she was our mother afterwards, anyway," cried the young grouse.
"i just know she was!"
mr. grouse's eyes twinkled, but he went gravely on.
"at last i flapped my wing's hard and fast, and the soft drumming sound could be heard far and near.
'thump-thump-thump-thump-thump; thump-thump-rup-rup-rup-rup-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r-r.' i waited, but nobody came.
then i drummed again, and after that i was sure that i heard a rustling in the leaves.
i drummed a third time, and then, children, there came the beautiful young grouse, breaking her way through the thicket and trying to look as though she didn't know that i was there."
"did she know?"
cried the little grouse.
"you must ask your mother that," he answered, "for it was she who came.
ah, what happy days we had together all spring!
we wandered all through this great forest and even made some journeys into the edge of the meadow.
still, there was no place we loved as we did the dusky hollow by the old log where we first met.
one day your mother told me that she must begin housekeeping and that i must keep out of the way while she was busy.
so i had to go off with a crowd of other ruffed grouse while she fixed her nest, laid her eggs, and hatched out you youngsters.
it was rather hard to be driven off in that way, but you know it is the custom among grouse.
we poor fellows had to amuse ourselves and each other until our wives called us home to help take care of the children.
we've been at that work ever since."
"oh!"
said one of the young grouse.
"oh, i am so glad that you drummed, and that she came when she heard you.
who would we have had to take care of us if it hadn't happened just so?"
that made them all feel very solemn and mr. grouse couldn't answer, and mrs. grouse couldn't answer, and none of the little grouse could answer because, you see, it is one of the questions that hasn't any answer.
still, they were all there and happy, so they didn't bother their crested heads about it very long.
a mild day in winter
it had been a cold and windy winter.
day after day the storm-clouds had piled up in the northwest and spread slowly over the sky, dropping great ragged flakes of snow down to the shivering earth.
then the forest trees were clothed in fleecy white garments, and the branches of the evergreens drooped under their heavy cloak.
then there had been other days, when a strong wind stripped the trees of their covering, and brought with it thousands of small, hard flakes.
these flakes were drier than the ragged ones had been, and did not cling so lovingly to everything they touched.
they would rather frolic on the ground, rising again and again from their resting-places to dance around with the wind, and help make great drifts and overhanging ledges of snow in the edge of the forest, where there was more open ground.
it is true that not all the winter had been cold and stormy.
there were times when the drifts melted slowly into the earth, and the grass, which last summer had been so tender and green, showed brown and matted on the ground.
still the great horned owl and his wife could not find enough to eat.
"we do not mean to complain," said he with dignity, as he scratched one ear with his feathered right foot, "but neither of us has had a meal hearty enough for a healthy robin, since the first heavy snow came."
this was when he was talking to his cousin, the screech owl.
"hearty enough for a robin!"
exclaimed mrs. great horned owl.
"i should say we hadn't.
i don't think i have had enough for a goldfinch, and that is pretty hard for a bird of my size.
i am so thin that my feathers feel loose."
"have you been so hungry that you dreamed about food?"
asked the screech owl.
"n-no, i can't say that i have," said the great horned owl, while his wife shook her head solemnly.
"ah, that is dreadful," said the screech owl.
"i have done that several times.
only yesterday, while i lay in my nest-hollow, i dreamed that i was hunting.
there was food everywhere, but just as i flew down to eat, it turned into pieces of ice.
when i awakened i was almost starved and so cold that my beak chattered."
it was only a few days after the screech owl's call upon his cousins that he awakened one night to find the weather milder, and the ground covered with only a thin coating of soft snow.
the beautiful round moon was shining down upon him, and in the western sky the clouds were still red from the rays of the setting sun.
somewhere, far beyond the fields and forests of this part of the world, day-birds were beginning to stir, and thousands of downy heads were drawn from under sheltering wings, while in the barnyards the cocks were calling their welcome to the sun.
but the screech owl did not think of this.
he aroused his wife and they went hunting.
when they came back they did not dream about food.
they had eaten all that they could, and the great horned owl and his wife had made a meal hearty enough for a dozen robins, and a whole flock of goldfinches.
it was a good thing for the day-birds that this was so, for it is said that sometimes, when food is very scarce, owls have been known to hunt by daylight.
when morning came and it was the moon's turn to sink out of sight in the west, the owls went to bed in their hollow trees, and crows, blue jays, woodpeckers, chickadees, grouse, quail, squirrels, and rabbits came out.
the goldfinches were there too, but you would never have known the husbands and fathers of the flock, unless you had seen them before in their winter clothing, which is like that worn by the wives and children.
here, too, were the winter visitors, the snow buntings and the juncos, brimming over with happiness and news of their northern homes.
this warm day made them think of the coming springtime, and they were already planning their flight.
"i wish you would stay with us all summer," said a friendly goldfinch, as he dirted the snow off from a tall brown weed and began to pick out and eat the seeds.
"stay all summer!"
exclaimed a jolly little snow bunting.
"why should we want to stay?
perhaps if you would promise to keep the snow and ice we might."
"why not ask the goldfinches to come north with us?"
suggested a junco.
"that would be much more sensible, for they can stand the cold weather as well as we, but we cannot stand warm days, such as i hear they have in this part of the country after the ice melts."
then the older people of the group began to talk of the cares of life and many other things which did not interest their children, so the younger ones wandered away from them.
"i say," called a young junco to a young snow bunting, "wouldn't you like to show some of these playmates of ours the countries where we were born?"
"yes indeed," answered the snow bunting.
"wouldn't they open their eyes, though?
i'd like to have them see the rocks up there."
"and the animals," said the junco.
"yes!
wouldn't they stare at the bears, though!"
"humph," said a blue jay.
"i wouldn't care very much about seeing bears, would you?"
and he turned to a crow near by.
"no," said the crow.
"i don't think very much of bears anyway."
he said this as though he had seen them all his life, but the chickadees say that he never saw even a cub.
"they haven't any big animals here," said the junco to the snow bunting.
"haven't we, though?"
replied the blue jay.
"guess you wouldn't say that if you saw the ground hog.
would he say that?"
he asked, turning to the young grouse, quail, woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, squirrels, and rabbits who stood around listening.
"no indeed!"
they answered, for they wanted their visitors to understand that the forest was a most wonderful place, and they really thought the ground hog very large.
"i don't believe he is as big as a bear" said the snow bunting, with his bill in the air.
"how big is he?"
asked the junco.
now the blue jay was afraid that the birds from the north were getting the better of him, and he felt very sure that they would leave before the ground hog had finished his winter sleep, so he did what no honest bird would have even thought of doing.
he held his crested head very high and said, "he is bigger than that rock, a great deal bigger."
the crow looked at the rock and gave a hoarse chuckle, for it was a hundred times larger than the ground hog.
the grouse, quail, woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, squirrels, and rabbits looked at each other without saying a word.
they knew how the blue jay had lied, and it made them ashamed.
the grouse pretended to fix their snow-shoes.
they did not want to look at the birds from the north.
the snow buntings and juncos felt that it would not do to talk about bears to people who had such a great creature as the ground hog living among them.
"he must be wonderful," they said.
"where does he sleep?"
"in the bats' cave," answered the blue jay, who having told one lie, now had to tell another to cover it up.
"he sleeps in the middle and there is just room left around the edges for the bats."
now at this very time the ground hog was awake in his burrow.
he could feel that it was warmer and he wanted room to stretch.
he thought it would seem good to have an early spring after such a cold winter, so he decided to take a walk and make the weather, as his grandfather had done.
when he came out of his burrow he heard a great chattering and went to see what was the matter.
that was how it happened that soon after the blue jay had told about the bats' cave, one wide-awake young junco saw a reddish-brown animal trotting over the grass toward them.
"who is that?"
he cried.
the grouse, quail, woodpeckers, goldfinches, chickadees, squirrels, and rabbits gave one look.
"oh, there is the ground hog!"
they cried.
then they remembered and were ashamed again because of what the blue jay had said.
"oh!"
said the snow buntings and the juncos.
"so that is the ground hog!
big as that rock, is he?
and you don't think much of bears?"
the crow pointed one claw at the blue jay.
"i never said he was as big as that rock.
he is the fellow that said it."
"i don't care," said the blue jay; "i was only fooling.
i meant to tell you after a while.
it's a good joke on you."
but he had a sneaky look around the bill as he spoke, and nobody believed him.
before long, he and the crow were glad enough to get away from the rest and go away together.
yet even then they were not happy, for each began to blame the other, and they had a most dreadful fight.
when the ground hog was told about it he said, "what foolishness it is to want to tell the biggest story!
my grandfather told us once that a lie was always a lie, and that calling it a joke didn't make it any better.
i think he was right."
and the snow buntings and juncos, who are bright and honest, nodded their dainty little heads and said, "nobody in our own dear north country ever spoke a truer word than that."
so they became firm friends of the ground hog, even if he were not so large as the rock.
the end.
true stories of wonderful deeds
the royal oak
there is in shropshire a fine oak-tree which the country people there call the "royal oak".
they say it is the great-grandson, or perhaps the great-great-grandson of another fine old oak, which more than two hundred years ago stood on the same spot, and served once as a shelter to an english king.
this king was charles ii, the son of the unlucky charles i who had his head cut off by his subjects because he was a weak and selfish ruler.
on the very day on which that unhappy king lost his head, the parliament passed a law forbidding anyone to make his son, prince charles of wales, or any other person, king of england.
but the scottish people did not obey this law.
they persuaded the young prince to sign a paper, solemnly promising to rule the country as they wished; then they crowned him king.
as soon as the parliament heard of this they sent cromwell and his ironsides against the newly-crowned king and his followers, and after several battles the scottish army was at last broken up and scattered at worcester.
charles fled and hid in a wood, where some poor wood-cutters took care of him and helped him.
he put on some of their clothes, cut his hair short, and stained his face and hands brown so that he might appear to be a sunburnt workman like them.
but it was some time before he could escape from the wood, for cromwell's soldiers were searching it in the hope of finding some of the king's men.
one day, charles and two of his friends had to climb into the tall oak to avoid being caught.
they had with them some food, which proved very useful, for they were obliged to stay in their strange hiding-place for a whole day.
the top of the oak-tree had been cut off some few years before this time, and this had made the lower branches grow thick and bushy, so that people walking below could not easily see through them.
it was a fortunate thing for charles, for while he was in the tree, he heard the soldiers beating the boughs and bushes in the wood as they searched here and there, and even caught glimpses of them through the leaves as they rode about below.
when they had gone, without even glancing up into the tall oak-tree, he came down, and rode away from the wood on an old mill-horse, with his friends the wood-cutters walking beside him to take care of him as best they could.
the saddle was a poor one, and the horse's pace jolted charles so much, that at last he cried out that he had never seen so bad a steed.
at this the owner of the horse jestingly told him that he should not find fault with the poor animal, which had never before carried the weight of three kingdoms upon its back.
he meant, of course, that charles was king of the three kingdoms of england, and scotland, and ireland.
carried by the old horse, and helped by the poor wood-cutters, charles at last reached the house of a friend.
here he hid for a time, and then went on to try and escape from the country.
this time, so that he might not be discovered, he was dressed as a servant, and rode on horseback, with a lady sitting on a cushion behind him, as was then the fashion.
after several more dangers he managed to get on board a ship and sailed away to france.
bonnie prince charlie
prince charlie was the grandson of king james ii, who was driven away from the throne of england because he was a selfish man and a bad ruler.
the young prince tried to win the crown back again.
he came over to scotland from france, with only seven followers; but soon a great many of the scots joined him, for he was so gay, and handsome, and friendly, that all who saw him loved him.
they called him "bonnie prince charlie".
but though the prince and his followers were very brave, they had no chance against the well-trained soldiers of king george of england.
they won a few victories; then they were thoroughly beaten in the battle of culloden.
thousands of brave scots were slain, and the prince had to fly for his life.
after this, for many weeks, he hid among the moors and mountains from the english soldiers who were trying to find him.
he lived in small huts, or in caves, and many times had nothing but the wild berries from the woods to eat.
once he stayed for three weeks with a band of robbers, who were very kind to him; and though the king offered a large sum of money to anyone who would give him up, not one of his poor friends was false to him.
at last, a young and beautiful scottish lady, named flora macdonald, helped him to escape.
she gave him woman's clothes, and pretended that he was her servant, called betty burke.
then she took him with her away from the place where the soldiers were searching, and after a time he reached the sea, and got safely away to france.
nelson and hardy
lord nelson was one of the greatest seamen that ever lived.
he commanded the british fleet at the battle of trafalgar, when the navies of france and spain were beaten, and england was saved from a great danger.
he did not look like a famous admiral on board his ship, the victory, that day.
he was a small man, and his clothes were shabby.
he had lost one arm and one eye in battle; but with the eye which remained he could see more than most men with two, and his brain was busy planning the course of the coming fight.
just before it began, he went over his ship, giving orders to the crew, and cheering them with kind words, which touched the hearts of the rough men, who loved their leader and were proud of him.
"england expects every man to do his duty" was the last message he sent them.
every man did his duty nobly that day, though the battle was fierce and long; but it was the last fight of the brave commander.
he was shot in the back as he walked the deck with his friend captain hardy, and was carried below.
he lay dying for several hours, but, in spite of his great pain, his one thought was of the battle.
"how goes the day with us?"
he asked of hardy; and when told that many of the enemies' ships were taken, he cried eagerly, "i am glad.
whip them, hardy, as they have never been whipped before."
later, when his friend came to tell him that the victory was won, nelson pressed his hand.
"good-bye, hardy!"
said he, "i have done my duty, and i thank god for it."
these were the last words of one of england's bravest sons.
watt and the kettle
there was once a little scotch boy named james watt.
he was not a strong child, and could not always run and play with other boys, but had often to amuse himself at home.
one holiday afternoon little james amused himself in this way.
he held a saucer over the stream of steam which came from the spout of a boiling kettle, and as he watched he saw little drops of water forming on the saucer.
he thought this was very strange, and wondered why it happened, for he did not know that steam is just water changed in form by the heat, and that as soon as it touches something cold it turns again into water.
he asked his aunt to explain it, but she only told him not to waste his time.
if she could have foreseen the work which her nephew would do when he became a man, she would not have thought he was wasting his time.
when james watt grew up, he was as much interested in steam and its wonderful power, as he had been as a boy.
he was sure it could be made of great service to men.
it was already used for driving engines, but the engines were not good, and it cost much money to work them.
watt thought they could be improved, but it was long before he found out the way to do this.
often, he sat by the fire watching the lid of the kettle as it was made to dance by the steam, and thinking of many plans; and at last a happy thought came to him.
his plan enabled great improvements to be made in the working of engines, and now steam drives our trains and ships, our mills and factories, and is one of our most useful servants.
queen victoria and her soldiers
queen victoria was always proud of her brave soldiers.
in time of war, she gave orders that news of them was to be sent to her every day, and when the generals returned home, they were commanded to visit her, and to tell her of the bravery of the troops.
during the long war with the russians in the crimea, the british soldiers suffered greatly from the freezing winds, and rain, and snow, of that cold land.
when queen victoria heard of this, she and her children worked with their own hands to make warm clothing for them.
a great many of the wounded and sick men were sent home in ships, to be nursed in the english hospitals, and the queen paid several visits to the poor fellows as they lay there.
moving from one bed to another, she cheered them with hopeful words, and listened gladly to their stories of the battles in which they had fought.
when she saw that the hospitals were crowded, and not very comfortable, she told parliament that better ones ought to be provided, and after a time this was done, and the fine hospital of netley was built, of which the queen laid the first stone.
once, queen victoria herself gave medals to some wounded and disabled soldiers who had fought very bravely.
some of these men could not raise their arms to salute their queen; some could not walk, but had to be wheeled in chairs to her side; but all were proud to receive their medals of honour from her hands.
"noble fellows," she wrote of them afterwards, "i feel as if they were my own children."
the relief of lucknow
during the time of the terrible indian mutiny, when most of the native troops rose against their british rulers, and vowed to kill every white person in the land, many cruel deeds were done.
a great number of white people were slain before the british troops could come to their rescue, but in some places they managed to hold out until help reached them.
this was the case in the city of lucknow, where the british governor with a small body of troops, and a great many women and children, took refuge in the government house from a vast host of rebels who came to attack them.
many of the brave defenders were killed by the shot and shell of the enemy.
many others, and especially the little children, fell sick and died, for the heat was very great, and there was no good water to be had.
then, after many days, a small body of white soldiers fought their way into the city, and brought help and hope to the rest of the party.
they were only just in time.
had they come a few days later they would have found the government house a heap of ruins, and their friends dead, for the rebels were making a mine under the building and meant to blow it up with gunpowder.
but alas!
the newcomers were not strong enough to fight their way out of lucknow with a crowd of helpless women and children and sick folk, so they, too were now shut in.
for two months longer they held out.
then at last, when they had almost lost hope, the great sir colin campbell with his brave highlanders and other soldiers defeated the rebels, and brought the band of sick, starving, and weary people safely away.
grace darling
on a small rocky island, off the north coast of england, there is a lighthouse.
a man named william darling was once keeper of this lighthouse, and his daughter grace lived with him.
every day grace darling helped her father to trim the lamps, so that at night they might shine brightly, and warn sailors to steer their ships away from the dangerous rocks, upon which they would have been dashed to pieces.
one stormy night grace woke with the sound of screams in her ears.
the screams came from the sea, so she knew that some ship must be in distress.
she roused her father, but they could see nothing in the darkness.
when daylight came, they found that a ship had been wrecked upon the rocks some way off, and a few people were clinging to the masts.
grace wished to go at once in a boat to save them; but at first her father hung back, for the wind and sea were wild, and he feared that the small boat would be overturned by the great waves.
then grace ran to the boat, and seized an oar, for she could not bear to let the poor men die without trying to save them; and the father could not let his brave, daughter go alone, so he followed, and they rowed off.
it was hard work pulling against the strong sea, and several times the small boat was almost sunk.
but at last it reached the wreck, and william darling managed to land upon the rock, and with great care and skill helped the half-frozen people into the small boat.
then they were taken to the lighthouse, where grace warmed and fed them, until the storm ceased, and they could return to their homes.
david livingstone
at one time many people believed that the middle of africa was a sandy desert, where nothing could live but camels and ostriches.
but they were mistaken.
the great traveller, david livingstone, journeyed into this unknown country, and he found that it was not a desert but a beautiful land, where many tribes of black people dwelt.
he also saw that these people were often seized by strangers, and taken away to be sold as slaves.
this sight filled him with sadness, and he made up his mind to put a stop to this cruel traffic.
he worked hard, tracing the courses of the rivers, finding the best tracts of land, and teaching the natives.
then he urged his countrymen to send others after him to settle in this fair country, to help the natives to learn useful trades, and to drive away the slave-merchants.
for some years he was quite alone, with his black servants, in the midst of this wild land.
his friends grew anxious, and sent mr. stanley, another great traveller, to look for him.
stanley marched for nearly a year before he found livingstone.
the old explorer was white and worn with sickness and hardship, and he was overjoyed to clasp once more the hand of a white man, and to hear again the english tongue.
but he would not return to england.
he said his work was not yet done, and he set out once more on his travels.
it was his last journey.
one morning his servants found him dead upon his bed.
since that time much has been done to make central africa a prosperous land.
other white men have followed where livingstone led, and wherever they have settled, the wicked slave-trade has been stopped.
the battle of waterloo
fields of waving corn, green woods, fruitful orchards, a pretty farmhouse and a few cottages such was the plain of waterloo.
and there, on a summer sunday, nearly a hundred years ago, was fought a famous battle, in which the british troops under the duke of wellington beat the french army, and broke the power of the great napoleon for ever.
"we have them," cried napoleon as he saw the british drawn up before him.
he thought it would be easy to destroy this army, so much smaller than his own, before their friends the prussians, who were on the way to help them, came up.
but he was mistaken.
wellington had placed his foot-soldiers in squares, and though the french horsemen, then the finest soldiers in the world, charged again and again, these little clumps of brave men stood fast.
on his favourite horse "copenhagen", wellington rode to and fro cheering his men.
"stand firm, my lads,"
cried he.
"what will they say to this in england?"
not till evening, when the prussians came, would he allow them to charge the french in their turn.
then, waving his cocked hat over his head, he gave the order, "the whole line will advance", and the impatient troops dashed forward.
the french bravely tried to stand against this terrific charge, but they were beaten back, and the battle of waterloo was ended.
sixty thousand men lay dead or wounded under the fruit-trees, and among the trampled corn and grass at the end of that terrible day.
the charge of the light brigade
forward the light!
such was the order given during a great battle to the leader of a band of six hundred british soldiers.
forward!
and there in front was a line of cannon ready to shoot them down as they came, while on the hills on either side of the valley were the guns and riflemen of the russians.
"surely someone has blundered!
my men are sent to certain death,"
thought the leader of the light brigade.
"forward!
attack!"
the order was repeated, and with the obedience of well-trained soldiers the brigade started.
"theirs not to make reply,    theirs not to reason why,    theirs but to do and die:
into the valley of death    rode the six hundred."
on every side thundered the enemy's guns, and shot and shell fell thick and fast, but on through all rode the brave horsemen, on till they reached the cannon at the end of the valley.
the smoke of the enemy's fire closed round and hid them from their watching comrades, but now and again the scarlet lines could be seen cutting down those who tried to stop their charge.
"flashed all their sabres bare,    flashed as they turned in air,    sabring the gunners there,    charging an army, while    all the world wonder'd."
and then only, when the strange order had been obeyed, when their duty had been nobly done in the face of death, did the light brigade all that was left of it turn to ride back.
alas!
there were not then six hundred.
barely two hundred brave men, wounded, and blackened by smoke and powder, reached the british camp.
the rest of the noble band lay dead or dying in the valley of death.
"when can their glory fade?
o the wild charge they made!
all the world wonder'd.
honour the charge they made!
honour the light brigade,    noble six hundred!"
the coronation of king edward vii
never had a country a more popular king than king edward vii, nor a more gracious queen than queen alexandra, and never was a happier day for the english people than that on which king edward was crowned.
a few days before the date fixed for the coronation the king suddenly became ill, and a great gloom fell over the country, for it was feared that he might never be crowned.
but though his illness was severe he soon began to get better, and when he was out of danger the hearts of his subjects were filled with joy and thankfulness.
guns were fired, church-bells pealed, and glad shouts and cheers rang out from the happy crowds which lined the streets of london, through which the king and queen, in the midst of their gay procession, drove to westminster abbey.
inside the gray old abbey was one of the most brilliant gatherings the world has ever seen.
princes and princesses from other lands were there, in their robes of state; peers and peeresses, in velvet, and ermine, and glittering diamonds; grave statesmen; and soldiers in their gay uniforms.
it was a grand and solemn scene when, before them all, the aged archbishop of canterbury drew near to the king, and with trembling hands placed the crown upon his head.
"the lord give you a fruitful country, and healthful seasons, victorious fleets and armies, and a quiet empire."
these are the words that the old man said when he had crowned the king, and each one of us will pray that all these blessings may indeed rest upon king edward vii, and the great empire over which he rules.
war.
over the broad, fair valley,     filling the heart with fear,   comes the sound of tramping horses,     and the news of danger near.
'tis the enemy approaching,     one can hear the muffled drum,   and the marching of the soldiers,     as on and on they come.
soon the air is rent in sunder,     bullets flying sharp and fast,   many stout hearts fail and tremble,     every moment seems their last.
on the ground lie dead and dying,     young and old alike must fall;   none to come and aid the sufferer,     fight they must for freedom's call.
many are the anxious loved ones     praying for the war to cease,   waiting for the right to conquer,     bringing freedom, rest, and peace.
e.s.
a boy's heroic deeds.
may 31st, 1889, is a day that will long be remembered with horror by the people in the beautiful valley of the conemaugh, in pennsylvania.
on that date occurred the terrible disaster which is known to the world and will be named in history as the "johnstown flood."
for many days previous to that date it had been raining hard, and great floods extended over a vast region of country in pennsylvania, new york and the district of columbia.
never before had there been such a fall of rain in that region within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.
the waters in the river and creeks of that beautiful valley rose rapidly and overflowed their banks, while the people looked on in wonder, but seemingly not in fear.
suddenly there appeared to their wondering gaze a great bay horse galloping at break-neck speed and bearing a rider who waved his hands to them and cried: "south fork dam will burst.
to the hills for your lives."
only a few heeded his words of warning, while many mocked and jeered.
on dashed the rider to warn still others of the impending danger, and, alas, to be himself and horse dashed to death by the massive timbers of a falling bridge.
south fork dam did break, and the mighty waters of conemaugh lake were hurled with resistless force upon the doomed people of that beautiful valley.
the terrible details of the appalling disaster would fill several volumes larger than this.
on rushed the mighty waters, sweeping onward in their flood dwellings, churches and buildings of every description, whether of wood, brick or stone, until johnstown was reached and destroyed.
the town was literally lifted from its foundations.
thousands of men, women and children were caught up and swirled away in the pitiless flood, and their agonizing but vain appeals for help could be heard amidst the mighty roar of the waters.
many acts of heroism were performed by brave men and women yes, and boys in rescuing victims of the flood.
only one of them concerns us here.
charles hepenthal, a schoolboy, seventeen years of age, who was on his way to bellefonte from his home at east liberty, pa., on the evening of the flood, stood quietly among the passengers on the express train, as they crowded to view the terrible havoc done by the flood.
as the flood reached the train, at sang hollow, a small frame house came pitching down the mad tide, an eddy floated it in, near to the train, so close that the wailing cries of an infant were heard, piercing their way through the roar.
charles hepenthal's heart was touched and his courage was equal to the emergency.
he determined to rescue that little wailing waif from a watery grave.
strong men urged him to desist, insisting that he would only sacrifice his own life for nothing that it was impossible for any one to survive in the surging waters.
but the boy was resolved.
he cut the bell cord from the cars, tied it fast to his body, and out into the whirling gulf he went; he gained the house, secured the infant and returned through the maddened waters with the rescued babe in his arms.
a shout went up from the passengers on the train.
"wait!"
he cried; "there is still another in the house, i must save her!"
and, seizing a plank to use as a support, he plunged again into the surging waters.
ah!
his struggle this time was harder, for his precious load was heavy.
in the floating house on his first visit he found a little girl, apparently ten years old, disrobed and kneeling beside her bed, on which lay the screaming infant, praying to her father in heaven to save her and her baby brother from the fury of the flood.
"god has heard my prayer," she cried, as charles entered the door.
"oh, save the baby, quick," and then fainted away on the floor.
when charles had landed the babe in safety and returned again for the girl, he found her still unconscious on the floor, and the water was fast flowing in at the door.
in another minute she would have been drowned.
but the brave boy's manly arms were soon around her, and with his precious load the young hero fought his way back to land and was given three times three cheers and a "tiger" by the passengers of the day express.
a cat's extraordinary leap.
in the latter part of 1880, at a time when the washington monument had reached a height of 160 feet, an adventurous and patriotic cat ascended the interior of the shaft by means of the ropes and tubing.
when the workmen arrived at the upper landing the next morning, and began to prepare for the day's work, pussy took fright and, springing to the outer edge, took a "header" of 160 feet to the hard earth below.
in the descent which was watched closely by two score of men, the cat spread herself out like a flying squirrel and alighted on all fours.
after turning over on the ground a few times in a dazed manner, she prepared to leave the grounds and had gotten almost beyond the shadow of the monument, when a dog belonging to one of the workmen pounced upon her and killed her, she, of course, not being in her best running trim, after performing such an extraordinary feat.
one of the men procured the body of the dead feline, smoothed out her silky coat, and turned the remains over to a representative of the smithsonian institution, who mounted the skin and placed it under a glass case.
the label on the case tells this wonderful story in a few words: "this cat on september 23, 1880, jumped from the top of washington's monument and lived."
a brave queen
long ago, when this country was a wild land, there lived a beautiful and brave queen named boadicea.
her husband, the king, was dead, but she had two daughters whom she loved very much.
boadicea was queen of a part of britain.
there were no large towns in her land, but there were forests of fine trees, and fields of corn, and wide stretches of grass-land where many cattle and sheep roamed and fed.
her people were called iceni.
they were tall and strong, with blue eyes and yellow hair.
the men were brave fighters and good hunters.
they hunted the bears and wolves which lived in the forests, and they fought the foes of their beautiful queen.
they made spears to fight with, and strange carts called war-chariots to fight in.
these chariots were drawn by swift horses, and, upon the wheels, long sharp knives were fixed.
the iceni drove the chariots very fast among their foes, and the knives cut down and killed many of them.
the romans from over the sea were the most dangerous enemies of boadicea and her people.
in those days the romans were the best fighters, and the strongest and wisest people in the world.
they came in ships to britain.
they had been told that it was a good country, and they hoped to take it for themselves.
some of them came to boadicea's land, and took a part of it and of her riches.
and when she tried to stop them from doing this, they seized her and the two princesses and beat them cruelly.
this wicked act made the iceni very angry.
from all parts of the land, fierce fighting-men came marching in haste to avenge themselves on their enemies, bringing with them their spears and their war-chariots.
when all were gathered together, they fell upon the romans.
there were so many of them, and they were so fierce, that the romans could not stand against them.
thousands were killed, and the rest ran away to their ships.
but there were many more romans in other parts of britain, and when these heard how their friends had been beaten, they came marching in haste to punish the iceni.
the iceni did their best to get ready to defend themselves, but many of their brave men had been slain and others were wounded and weary, so they could not hope again to win a victory over their strong foes.
before the battle, queen boadicea, with her fair hair waving in the wind, stood before her soldiers and spoke to them.
she told them of the wrong which the romans had done, and begged them to fight bravely for their country.
then she got into her chariot, and with her daughters lying at her feet, drove to and fro, so that all might see them.
and the soldiers shouted, and promised to fight to the end for their brave queen.
they did fight long and bravely, until most of them were killed, but their foes were too strong for them.
when queen boadicea saw that her brave soldiers were beaten, she drank some poison which killed her.
she thought it better to die than to be again taken prisoner by the cruel romans.
king alfred and the cakes
once, when good king alfred of england was forced to flee from his strong foes the danes, he hid himself in a wood.
in this wood, there was a small cottage, and alfred asked the woman who lived there if he might go in and rest.
now the woman did not know the king, but she saw that he was an english soldier, and that he was very tired, so she let him come in and sit in her kitchen.
upon the hearth before the fire, some cakes were baking, and the woman told the stranger that if he watched them, and took care that they did not burn, she would give him some supper.
then she went away to do her work.
at first, king alfred watched the cakes carefully; when they were well cooked on one side he turned the other to the fire.
but, after a time, he began to think of his country, and of his poor people, and then he forgot his task.
when the woman came back, the cakes were black and burnt.
"you are an idle fellow," cried she angrily.
"you would be quite ready to eat the cakes, but you will not take the trouble to watch them."
while she was loudly scolding, her husband came home.
he knew king alfred.
"hush, wife!"
cried he.
"it is our noble lord the king!"
when the woman heard this, she was much afraid, and she begged alfred to forgive her.
the king smiled, and said: "i will gladly forgive you for your scolding, good wife, if you will forgive me for spoiling your supper."
not angles, but angels
in old days the people of england were not all free, as they are now.
sometimes young men, and women, and little children were sold as slaves, and had to work hard for their masters.
many of these slaves were sent to rome, for the romans thought the tall, fair angles very beautiful, and liked to have them as their servants.
once, a wise and good preacher, named gregory, was walking through the market-place in rome, when he saw a group of slaves standing there, waiting to be bought.
among these slaves were some pretty boys with long yellow hair, and blue eyes, and white skin.
this was a strange sight to gregory, for most of the people in his land had dark hair, and brown skin.
"who are these boys?"
asked he of a man who was standing by.
"they are angles from over the sea," replied the man.
"surely not angles, but angels," said the preacher, looking kindly into the boys' faces.
"do they come from england?"
"from heathen england, where men do not know the true god," said the man.
"some day they shall be taught to know god, and then indeed they shall be angels," said gregory.
now gregory did not go away and forget this.
when he became a great man and bishop of rome, he sent a good preacher, named augustine, to england, to preach to the people there, and to teach them to be christians.
hereward the wake
when william of normandy came over the sea, and took the crown of england, many english people would not call him king.
the young lord hereward was one of these.
he and his men made for themselves a "camp of refuge" among the reeds and rushes on the marshes.
all day they lay there, hidden from view by the mists which rose from the watery ground, and at night they came out, and attacked the normans in their tents, and burned their towns.
hereward was called "the wake" because he was so watchful and wide-awake that the normans could not catch him.
they were always trying to find him, but they did not know the safe paths over the marshes which he and his men used, and when they tried to cross, they sank with their horses in the soft muddy ground, and had to turn back.
but at last a false friend of the english showed them the way to the "camp of refuge", and then hereward had to flee to save his life.
he went with a few friends to the sea-shore, and there he found some fishermen who were going to sell fish to the norman guards in an english town.
the fishermen took hereward and his men into their boats, and covered them with straw; then they set sail.
the norman guards bought the fish as usual, and had it served for dinner.
while they were eating it, the english soldiers came quietly from the boats, and killed most of them before they could get their swords to defend themselves.
when the english people in the place saw this, they gladly joined hereward and made him master of their town.
canute
there was once a king of england, named canute, who was a brave and clever man.
but he had many lords in his court who were very foolish.
they feared their master, and wished to please him, and because they knew that he was somewhat vain of his strength and cleverness, they thought he would like to be told that he was great, and wise, and powerful.
so they praised him every day, and told him that all he did and all he said was good.
they said he was the greatest king on earth, and there was nothing in the world too hard for him to do if he chose.
at last king canute tired of their vain words.
one day, as he walked with his lords on the sea-shore, one of them told him that even the waves would obey him.
"bring a chair," said canute, "and place it close to the water."
the chair was brought, and set upon the sand, and the king sat down and spoke to the waves.
"i command you to come no farther," cried he.
but the waves came on and on, until they wetted canute's feet, and splashed his chair.
then the king rose and went to his lords, who were standing a little way off, staring at their master, and talking in low tones about his strange conduct.
"learn from this to keep your tongues from idle praise," said he sternly.
"no king is great and powerful but god.
he only can say to the sea: 'thus far shalt thou come, and no farther.'"
the brave men of calais
many years ago, king edward iii of england took the town of calais from the french king.
he could not take it by force, for the walls were very strong, but he succeeded by another plan.
he placed his soldiers all round the walls, and would let no one go into the town to take food to the people.
inside the walls, the people waited bravely, but at last all their food was eaten, and then they knew that if they tried to hold the town any longer they would starve.
so the governor sent word to king edward that he would give up the city, and begged him to have mercy on the people.
but edward was angry.
"tell your masters," said he to the messenger, "that i will not spare the people unless six of the chief men come out to me, with their feet bare, and ropes around their necks."
at this sad news, the poor starving people cried aloud.
but soon six brave men were found who were ready to die for their countrymen, and, with their feet bare and ropes around their necks, they went out to the place where king edward was waiting, with queen philippa and the english nobles.
"great king!"
said the men, "we bring you the keys of our town, and we pray you to have mercy on us."
but the king would not listen.
"take them away and cut off their heads,"
he cried angrily.
and when his nobles begged him to spare such brave enemies he would not listen to them.
then queen philippa, whose heart was filled with pity for the poor men, fell upon her knees.
"my lord," she cried, "if you love me, give me the lives of these men."
king edward could not bear to see his beautiful queen in tears upon the ground, so he raised her, saying: "lady, i wish you had not been here, for i cannot say you nay.
take the men, they are yours."
then queen philippa joyfully led the brave men away, and gave them food and clothes, and sent them back to their friends.
so they, and all the people of calais, were saved.
wat tyler
in our days, all people in our land, except prisoners, are free to go where they will, and to do what work they please.
in olden times it was not so.
then, the poorer people were treated like slaves by the nobles; they had to work hard for their masters, and they were not allowed to move from one place to another without asking leave.
this was hard, and it made the people very angry.
in the days of the boy-king richard ii, a great many workmen made up their minds to obey the nobles no longer.
they banded themselves together in a large army, chose a man named wat tyler for their leader, and marched to london.
the mayor of london tried to stop them, by pulling up the drawbridge which crossed the river thames, but they forced him by threats to let it down again.
then they rushed through the streets of london, frightening all the people they met by their wild looks and cries.
they broke open the prisons, and set the prisoners free, and burned the palaces of the nobles, but they killed no man and robbed none.
the nobles were much alarmed.
with young king richard at their head, they rode out to meet this army, and to ask the people what they wanted.
"we want to be free, and we want our children to be free after us," said wat tyler.
"i promise you that you shall have your wish, if you will return quietly to your homes," said the king.
at this, the people shouted with joy, and all might have been well; but the mayor, seeing wat tyler raise his hand, and fearing that he was going to strike the king, drew his sword, and killed the leader of the people.
then the joyful shouts changed to cries and growls of anger.
arms were raised, and the crowd began to press forward.
in a minute the little band of nobles would have been attacked, but the boy-king saw the danger.
boldly riding to meet the angry people, he put himself at their head.
"what need ye, my masters?"
cried he.
"i am your captain and your king.
follow me."
the crowd stopped, surprised by this bold act; the loud cries ceased, and swords and staves were lowered.
these rough men did not wish to harm their young sovereign, but to free him from the nobles who gave him evil counsel.
they were greatly pleased to find him upon their side, and, with perfect trust and loyalty, they followed where he led; and so for a time the danger was past.
bruce and the spider
robert bruce, king of scotland, sad and weary, lay upon the floor of a lonely cave among the hills.
his mind was full of anxious thoughts, for he was hiding from the english soldiers, who sought to take him alive or dead to their king.
the brave scots had lost many battles, and bruce began to fear that he would never make his dear country free.
"i will give up trying," said he.
just then a spider, hanging from the roof of the cave, by a long thread, swung before the king's eyes, and he left his gloomy thoughts to see what the little creature would do.
the spider began to climb its thread slowly, pulling itself up little by little; but it had gone only a short way, when it slipped and fell to the end once more.
again and again it started to climb, and again and again it slipped back, until it had fallen six times.
"surely the silly little creature will now give up trying to climb so fine a thread," thought bruce.
but the spider did no such thing.
it started on its upward journey yet a seventh time, and this time it did not fall.
up it went, inch by inch, higher and higher, until at last it reached the roof, and was safely at home.
"bravo!"
cried the king.
"the spider has taught me a lesson.
i too will try until i win."
bruce kept his word.
he led his brave men to battle, again and again, until at last the english were driven back to their own land, and scotland was free.
richard and blondel
in a gloomy prison, in a foreign land, lay richard i, king of england.
he had been with some other kings to a great war in the holy land, where he had won battles, and taken cities, and gained much honour.
men called him richard lion-heart, because he was as brave as a lion in fighting, and his soldiers loved him and would follow him into any danger.
one strong city, called acre, held out for nearly two years against the armies of the other kings, but when richard arrived it gave way almost at once.
because of his bravery, and his many victories, all men praised king richard, and this made some of the other kings hate him, for they were jealous that he should have more honour than they.
when he was on his way back to england, one of these envious men seized him secretly, and threw him into prison.
and now poor richard could fight no more, nor could he see the blue sky, and the green fields which he loved.
one day, as he sat sad and lonely in his prison, he heard a voice singing, beneath the window.
he started.
"surely," said he, "that is the voice of my old friend blondel, and that is the song we used to sing together."
when the song was ended, the king sang it again in a low voice.
then there was a joyful cry from the man outside, and richard knew that it was indeed his friend.
blondel had journeyed many days seeking his lost master.
now he hastened to england, and told the people where to find their king, and very soon richard was set free, and went back to his own land.
the white ship
the night was dark, and a stormy wind was blowing, when the white ship set sail from the shore of france.
prince william of england and his sister and their young friends were going back to their own land, after a visit to the french king.
the english king, henry i, with his courtiers, had sailed earlier, and had now almost reached home.
but the prince would not go with them, he wished to make merry before starting.
there had been eating, and drinking, and dancing, and singing on board the white ship, and everyone was merry.
but the sailors had drunk so much wine that they could not see to steer aright.
soon there was a crash, and the ship trembled.
it had struck a rock, and was sinking.
then the sounds of merriment were changed to cries of fear.
"save us!"
shrieked the terrified people.
"save the prince," cried the captain, "the rest of us must die!"
there was only one small boat on the ship, and prince william was put into this, and rowed away.
but he had not gone far, when he heard his sister crying to him to save her.
"go back!"
shouted he.
the boat was rowed back, but when it came near the ship, so many people jumped into it, that it was overturned and all in it were drowned.
soon the white ship sank also, and of all the gay company upon it only one man was saved.
when king henry heard that his only son was dead, he was very sorrowful, and it is said that no man ever again saw a smile upon his face.
joan of arc
in a village in the green country of france, there once lived a girl named joan.
she spent her days in sewing and spinning, and in minding her father's sheep.
at that time there was a sad war in france, and the english had won many battles.
joan was grieved to hear of the trouble of her country.
she thought of it night and day, and one night she dreamt that an angel came, and told her to go and help the french prince.
when joan told her friends of this dream, they laughed at her.
"how can a poor girl help the prince?"
asked they.
"i do not know," replied joan; "but i must go, for god has sent me."
so she went to the prince, and said: "sir, my name is joan.
god has sent me to help you to win the crown of france."
they gave joan a suit of white armour, and a white horse, and set her at the head of the army.
she led the soldiers to fight, and the rough men thought she was an angel, and fought so bravely that they won many battles.
then the prince was crowned king of france.
when this was done, joan felt that her work was over.
"i would that i might go and keep sheep once more with my sisters and my brothers; they would be so glad to see me," pleaded she.
but the king would not let her go.
so joan stayed; but her time of victory was past.
soon, she was taken prisoner by the english, and cruelly burned to death.
she died as bravely as she had lived, and her name will never be forgotten.
afloat with a tiger.
a traveler in faraway india relates the following thrilling adventure with a tiger: from the heavy rain which falls upon indian mountains the low-lying country is liable to such sudden floods that every year many beasts, and even human beings, are drowned ere they can make their escape to the higher grounds.
on one occasion a terrible flood came up so suddenly that i had to spend a day and night in an open canoe in consequence, during which time i had good opportunities of seeing the good and bad effects produced by them.
i lived at the time in a mat house, situated upon a hill which i supposed was quite above high-water mark, but an old mahometan gentleman having told me that, when he was a little boy, he recollected the water once rising higher than the hill, i took the precaution of keeping a canoe in a small ditch close at hand.
the rainy season began, and daily the river rose higher.
one morning we noticed that the mountain tops were covered with heavy banks of dark clouds, though no rain fell out on the plain where we were; but we noticed many animals, a leopard among others, sneak out of the high grass and make for hilly ground.
the most curious thing, however, was the smart manner in which rats and even grasshoppers came scampering away from the threatening danger.
these latter came in such crowds toward my bungalow that not only the fowls about the premises had a good feed on them, but kites and crows began to swoop down in such numbers that the air was filled with their cries and the noise of their rushing wings.
while watching the immense destruction of these insects we were startled by the outbreak of the thunderstorm high up on the mountains, but far above the peals of thunder rose the terrible sound of rushing water.
animals now came tearing out of the lowlands too terrified to notice whither they went, so that i stood ready, gun in hand, in case any of the dangerous kind should try to seek an asylum on my particular hill; but with the exception of a huge wild boar, who had to be shot as he charged up the slope, all took refuge elsewhere.
soon the water burst through the river bank, spreading over the country, sweeping down the tall grass jungle and surging and roaring round our hill.
packing all that was valuable in small parcels, we gathered them in a heap, hoping that the flood would subside ere it reached the building.
all round about large trees, uprooted by the terrible force of the deluge, were swept along, several animals vainly trying to keep a footing among their roots and branches.
at last the water reached the steps of the house; so, pulling our boat close up, we stepped in with what we could save and hung to the wooden posts of the building, vainly trusting that the worst had come; but it was not so, for we soon had to leave go the post and pass the boat's rope round a tree.
the water then rushed in, the house toppled over, and it and its contents were swept away by the flood.
in a short time the tree began to shake and bend, so we knew that it was being uprooted; therefore, letting go the rope, we launched forth upon the seething waste of waters and were whirled away.
onward we rushed through masses of logs, branches, the remains of houses, and such like wreck, having to be very careful that our frail vessel did not get upset or crushed.
twice we made for the tops of hills that showed themselves above water, but on approaching them we found that they had been taken possession of by wild animals.
here a tiger crouched on a branch of a tree, seemingly too much alarmed at his perilous position to molest the half-dozen deer that crowded timidly together right underneath his perch.
up above him the smaller branches were stocked with monkeys, who looked very disconsolate at their enforced imprisonment.
as we swept past, the tiger raised his head, gave a deep growl and showed his teeth, then crouched down again as if fully aware of his helplessness, and we had too much to think of ourselves to interfere with him.
gaining the open country, the scene was one of desolation; but the current was not so strong, so we turned round, seeing the flood was going down, and by nightfall we had got back to where the house had stood.
every vestige of the once pretty homestead had disappeared, with sheep and cattle, though the fowls had managed to find a roost on the topmost branches of some orange trees, which alone remained to mark the spot.
as the moon rose, the mountaineers came down from the villages, and, embarking on rafts and in canoes, went round the different hills, shooting and spearing the animals that had swum there; and truly the sight of such a hunting scene was an exciting one.
here a stout stag, defending himself with his antlers as best he might against the spearsmen, kept up a gallant fight till death.
the tiger we had seen in the morning took to swimming, and on being wounded with a spear turned on the nearest canoe, upsetting the hunters into the water, where a desperate encounter took place; but he was eventually dispatched by a blow from an ax not, however, before he had clawed some of his pursuers most severely.
at daylight the water had entirely gone down, and a thick, muddy deposit covered all the lowland, while an immense number of snakes, scorpions, and other unpleasant creatures lay dead in all directions, upon which and the drowned animals vultures, crows and kites were feeding.
queen margaret and the robbers.
there were once two kings of england at the same time.
one was henry vi.
he was the rightful king, but a very weak and feeble man, and quite unfit to rule his kingdom.
the other was young edward, duke of york, called edward iv.
he was made king by some of the nobles, who grew weary of henry and his foolish deeds.
a number of the english people were faithful to king henry, but many others went over to king edward's side, and there were quarrels between the two parties, which ended in a war.
this war was called the war of the roses, because the followers of henry wore a red rose as their badge, and edward's friends wore a white one.
in one battle, fought at hexham, the white roses beat the red ones, and king henry was taken prisoner and sent to the tower of london.
his wife, queen margaret, with her little son, prince edward, escaped after the battle, and hid themselves in a wild forest.
as they wandered among the trees, seeking some place where they might be safe from their enemies, they met a band of robbers.
these rough men took away the queen's money and her jewels, tearing her necklace from her neck, and her rings from her fingers.
then they began to dispute as to who should have most of the stolen goods.
and while they quarrelled, queen margaret took her little boy by the hand and ran away to a thick part of the wood.
there they stayed until the angry voices of the robbers could no longer be heard, and then, in the growing darkness, they came stealthily from their hiding-place.
they wandered on, knowing not where to go, hoping much to meet some of their friends, and fearing still more to be found by their enemies, the soldiers of the white rose.
but, alas!
they saw no kind face, and night came on.
then, as they crept fearfully from tree to tree, they met another robber.
the poor queen was much afraid that this robber, who looked very fierce, would kill her and the prince, because she had no riches left to give him.
in despair she threw herself upon her knees before him, and said:
"my friend, this is the son of your king.
i give him into your care."
the robber was much surprised to see the queen and the prince alone, with their clothes torn and stained, and their faces white from hunger and fatigue.
but he was a kindhearted man, although his looks were rough, and before he became a robber he had been a follower of king henry, so he was quite willing to do his best for the little prince.
he took the boy in his arms, and led the way to a cave in the forest, where he lived with his wife.
and in this poor shelter, the queen and her son stayed for two days, listening to every sound, and fearing that their enemies would find them.
on the third day, however, the friendly robber met some of the lords of the red rose in the forest, and led them to the cave.
the queen and prince were overjoyed to see their friends, and soon they escaped with them to a place of safety.
their hiding-place has been called "queen margaret's cave" ever since that time.
if you go to hexham forest, you will be able to see it.
william caxton
in old days, books were not printed as they are now; they were written by hand.
this took a long time to do, so there were not many books, and they were so dear that only the rich could buy them.
but after a time, some clever men made a machine, called a printing-press, which could print letters.
about that time, an englishman, named william caxton, lived in holland, and copied books for a great lady.
he says his hand grew tired with writing, and his eyes became dim with much looking on white paper.
so he learned how to print, and had a printing-press made for himself, which he brought to england.
he set it up in a little shop in london, and then he began to print books.
he printed books of all sorts tales, and poetry, and history, and prayers, and sermons.
in the time which it had formerly taken him to write one book, he could now print thousands.
all sorts of people crowded to his shop to see caxton's wonderful press; sometimes the king went with his nobles.
many of them took written books with them, which they wished to have put into print.
some people asked caxton to use in his books the most curious words he could find; others wished him to print only old and homely words.
caxton liked best the common, simple words which men used daily in their speech.
caxton did a very good thing when he brought the printing-press to england, for, after that, books became much cheaper, so that many people could buy them, and learning spread in the land.
sir philip sidney
when elizabeth was queen of england it was a time of great deeds and great men.
the queen was brave and clever herself, so she liked to have brave and clever people around her.
great soldiers, and writers, and statesmen went to her court; and when brave seamen came back from their voyages to unknown lands far away, they were invited by the queen to visit her, and tell her of all the strange places and people they had seen.
in this elizabeth was wise, for men did their best to show themselves worthy of her favours.
among all the great men at court, none was more beloved than sir philip sidney.
he was called "the darling of the court".
at that time, there was much trouble and many wars in some other countries, where people were fighting for the right to worship god in their own way.
philip sidney heard of these things when he was a boy in his father's house, and his heart was stirred with pity.
later, when he was in france, a great number of people were cruelly killed because they would not pray in the way which the king ordered.
sidney never forgot the dreadful sights and sounds of that sad time, and when queen elizabeth sent an army to help the people of holland, who were fighting for their freedom, he asked for leave to go with it.
this was granted to him, and he was made one of the leaders.
but alas!
he went out to die.
in one battle, a small band of the english bravely attacked a large army of their enemies.
the horse which sidney was riding was killed under him, and as he mounted another, he was shot in the leg, and his thigh-bone was broken.
the horse took fright and galloped away from the fight, but its wounded and bleeding rider held to his seat, and when he reached a place of safety was lifted from his horse, and gently laid upon the ground.
he was faint from loss of blood, and in great pain, and his throat was parched with thirst.
"bring me water," said he to a friend.
this was not easy to do, for there was not a stream near at hand, and in order to get to one it would be necessary to pass where the shot from the enemy's cannons was falling fast.
but his friend was brave and went through the danger.
then he found some water, and brought it to him.
sidney eagerly held out his hand for the cup, and as he was preparing to drink, another poor wounded soldier was carried past.
this man was dying; he could not speak, but he looked with longing eyes at the water.
sir philip saw the look, and taking the cup from his own lips, passed it to the soldier, saying: "thy need is greater than mine."
the poor man quenched his thirst, and blessed him as he died.
sir philip lived on for a few weeks, growing weaker every day, but he never came back to his own land, and the many friends who loved him.
sidney was great in many ways; very fair to see, very wise and good, and very clever and witty.
he was one of the bravest fighters, one of the finest poets, and one of the best gentlemen who ever lived.
he will always be remembered for his brave deeds, and his wise sayings, but most of all do men bless his name for this act of kindness to his poor dying comrade.
the "revenge"
in the days of queen elizabeth, english sailors first began to find their way across the seas to new lands, from which they brought home many strange, and rich, and beautiful things.
the spaniards sailed across the seas too, to fetch gold and silver from the mines in mexico, which belonged to the king of spain.
sometimes the english ships met the spanish ones, and robbed them of their gold, for it was thought quite right and fair in those days to take every chance of doing harm to the enemies of england.
of course the spaniards hated the english for this, and whenever they met english ships which were weaker than theirs they attacked them, and robbed them, killing the sailors, or taking them prisoners.
once, a small ship, called the revenge, was sailing home to england, when it met with fifty great spanish vessels.
the captain of the revenge was sir richard grenville, and he had a great many sick men on board.
there was no time to escape from the spanish ships, which soon surrounded the little revenge.
so there were only two courses which sir richard could take.
one was to give up his ship to the spaniards; the other was to fight with them till his men were all killed, or his ship sank.
some of the sailors wished him to take the first course, but the others, and all the sick men, said: "nay, let us fall into the hands of god, and not into the hands of spain."
this they said because they thought it better to die, than to be made prisoners by the cruel spaniards.
sir richard made up his mind to fight.
it was after noon when the firing began, and all night long, until daylight came, the little english ship kept the fifty spanish vessels at bay.
then it was found that all the powder was gone, and all the english were dead or dying.
and then only was the flag of the revenge pulled down, to show that she surrendered to her enemies.
the brave sir richard was taken on board a spanish ship, where he soon died of his wounds.
these were his last words: "here die i, richard grenville, with a joyful and quiet mind, for i have ended my life as a good soldier ought.
i have fought for my country and my queen, for honour, and for god."
the pilgrim fathers
there was a time when the people of england were not allowed to pray to god in the way they thought right, but were punished if they did not worship as the king ordered.
this was very hard, and when james i was king, a little band of brave people, who found that they could not obey the king, left their country to make a new home across the sea, where they could be free.
they are called the "pilgrim fathers".
a hundred people men, women, and children set sail in a little ship called the mayflower for the new world which a great explorer called columbus had discovered away in the west, and which we now call america.
they had a long and stormy voyage, but at last, in mid-winter, they landed on the shores of north america, and set up their huts.
at first they had much trouble, for the ground was frozen and barren.
they suffered from hunger and sickness, and the wild indians who lived in that land came down upon them and tried to drive them away.
but the pilgrim fathers did not lose courage.
they were free, and they worked hard, and waited in patience for brighter days.
by and by other ships from england brought food to keep them alive, and more people to help them.
then they made friends with the indians, and when spring came they planted seeds and grew crops for themselves.
after a time many other englishmen, who wished to be free, followed the pilgrim fathers, and settled in america.
they founded the colonies of new england, which are now a part of the united states.
guy fawkes
in the time of james i, many of the english people were very hardly treated because of their religion.
at last they could bear the ill-usage no longer, and they thought of a plan to get rid of the king and queen and their eldest son.
many barrels of gunpowder were secretly put into a cellar under the parliament house, where james was to meet his lords and commons on november 5; and a man named guy fawkes was hired to set fire to it at the right time, and so to blow up the hall above, and all in it.
all was ready, when one of the plotters remembered that a friend of his would be at the meeting next day.
as he did not wish him to be killed, he sent him a letter, without signing his name, saying: "do not go to the house, for there shall be a sudden blow to many, and they shall not see who hurts them".
the lord who received this letter took it to the king's council, and when king james saw it, he guessed what the "sudden blow" would be.
men were sent to search the cellars, and there, on the very night before the deed was to be done, guy fawkes was found waiting till the time should come to set fire to the powder.
he was cruelly tortured to make him tell all he knew, but he was a brave man, and he died without betraying his friends.
since that time, every year, on the 5th of november, bonfires have been lighted in many places in england, and "guys" burned, to remind people how an english king was once saved from a great danger.
cromwell and his ironsides
when charles i came to the throne of england, it was soon seen that he was as bad a king as his father james i had been.
he did not care at all for the good of his country and his people, but thought only of his own pleasure.
he took away men's money and lands, and if they offended him he took their lives too.
englishmen would not bear this unjust treatment for long, and soon a war began between the king and the people, who were determined to be free.
at first the king and his men were victorious everywhere, for they were all used to horses and arms, and fought so well and so bravely that the people could not stand against them.
but at last a great leader arose among the people.
this leader, who was called oliver cromwell, was a rough man, but he was just, good, and honest.
he saw at once that the people would never gain the victory over the brave gentlemen-soldiers of king charles, unless they had obedient and well-trained men to fight for them.
so he chose a band of plain, hard-working men who feared god, and loved duty and right, and he spent all his money in fitting them with arms and horses, and in training them sternly, until they became the finest soldiers the world has ever known.
cromwell called his men his "lovely company", and others called them "ironsides", for they were strong and firm as iron, and were never beaten.
it was these brave, sober, obedient soldiers who at last defeated the king's army, and won freedom for the people of england.
the spanish armada
the armada was a great fleet which the king of spain sent to attack england, in the days of queen elizabeth.
there were more than a hundred ships, so large and high that they looked like towers on the sea; and they came sailing along arranged in the shape of a big half-moon.
the great english admiral, sir francis drake, was playing at bowls when messengers came hurrying to tell him that the armada was approaching.
he quietly finished his game, and then set sail to fight the spaniards.
his fleet was not so large as the armada, and the ships were small, but they were light and fast.
they met the armada in the english channel, and sailed round it, attacking any ship that dropped out of line, and speeding away before the clumsy spanish vessels could seize them.
in this way they did much harm to the enemy.
then, one night, when it was dark, and the spanish vessels were lying quietly at anchor, admiral drake sent eight blazing fire-ships into their midst.
in great fear, the spaniards cut their anchor-ropes, and sailed out to the open sea, and the english ships followed, firing upon them as they fled.
for two days the english chased the flying spaniards.
then their powder and shot failed, and a storm arose; so they had to go back.
the armada sailed on, hoping to escape, but the wild tempest tossed many of the great vessels on the rocks and cliffs of the coast, and dashed them to pieces.
only a few, broken and battered, with starving and weary men on board, ever reached spain again.
and so england was saved.
the defence of lathom house
lathom house is an old english castle.
when the war broke out between king charles i and his people, the earl of derby, who was the master of this castle, went away to fight for the king.
he left the countess at home with her children, with a small band of armed men to guard her and the castle.
one day an army of the people's soldiers came to the castle, and the leader of the army sent word to the countess that she must give up the castle at once.
but the countess was a brave woman.
she replied that she would rather set fire to the castle, and die with her children in the flames, than give it up to the king's enemies.
then began a fight which lasted many weeks.
the large army outside the walls did their best to break a way in, but the small company inside defended the castle bravely.
at last the leader of the besiegers brought a strong new gun, and it was soon seen that this would break down the walls.
then one night the countess sent out a party of brave men, who seized the new gun and brought it into the castle, and so the worst danger was over.
soon afterwards prince rupert, one of the king's generals, came with an army to help the countess, and lathom house was saved.
the prince drove away the soldiers of the people, and took from them twenty-two banners, which he sent as a present to the countess, to show how much he admired her bravery.
the outlawed archers.
many years ago there dwelt in the forest of inglewood, in the north country, three yeomen, who had been outlawed for killing the king's deer.
they were all famous archers, and defying every attempt to arrest them, they lived a free life in the green wood.
but finally growing tired of this dangerous life, they went to the king to sue for pardon.
it happened that the king's archers were exhibiting their skill by shooting at marks, which none of them missed.
but one of the outlawed archers, named cloudesly, made light of their skill, and told the king that he could do better than any of his archers had done.
"to prove the truth of my claim," he said, "i will take my son, who is only seven years old and is dear to me, and i will tie him to a stake, and lay an apple on his head, and go six score paces from him, and with a broad arrow i will cleave the apple in two."
"now listen," said the king, "and do as you say; but if you touch his head, or his dress, you shall be hanged all three."
"i will not go back on my word," said cloudesly; and driving a stake into the ground, he bound thereto his little son, and placed an apple on his head.
all being ready he bent his bow, the arrow flew from the string, the apple was cleft in twain, and the child was unhurt.
the king thereupon pardoned the three outlaws and received them into his service.
elizabeth and raleigh
sir walter raleigh was a favourite courtier of queen elizabeth.
an old story tells us of the way he won her favour.
one day, as the queen and her ladies were out walking, dressed in fine robes of silk and lace, they came to a miry puddle in the road.
the queen stopped in dismay, for she did not like getting her feet wet and dirty.
as she was thinking how best to step through the mud, a young man in a rich suit came along the road.
directly he saw the queen, young raleigh, for it was he, sprang forward, and, taking off his velvet cloak, spread it over the mud for her to walk upon.
elizabeth was much pleased; she rewarded raleigh with a post in the palace.
there, one day, he wrote upon a window which he knew the queen would pass: "fain would i climb, but that i fear to fall".
when elizabeth saw this, she added these words: "if thy heart fail thee, climb not at all".
however, raleigh did climb very soon to a high place, for he was clever and brave as well as polite, and he served the queen in many ways.
it is said that his ships first brought potatoes and tobacco to england from america, and that he was the first man in this country to smoke.
one day, a servant brought a jug of ale into the room where raleigh was sitting and smoking.
the man was much alarmed to see smoke coming from his master's mouth, and he quickly emptied the jug of ale over raleigh's head, to put out the fire which he thought was burning within him.
english fairy tales
tom tit tot
once upon a time there was a woman, and she baked five pies.
and when they came out of the oven, they were that overbaked the crusts were too hard to eat.
so she says to her daughter:
“darter,” says she, “put you them there pies on the shelf, and leave 'em there a little, and they'll come again.” she meant, you know, the crust would get soft.
but the girl, she says to herself: “well, if they'll come again, i'll eat 'em now.” and she set to work and ate 'em all, first and last.
well, come supper-time the woman said: “go you, and get one o' them there pies.
i dare say they've come again now.”
the girl went and she looked, and there was nothing but the dishes.
so back she came and says she: “noo, they ain't come again.”
“not one of 'em?” says the mother.
“not one of 'em,” says she.
“well, come again, or not come again,” said the woman “i'll have one for supper.”
“but you can't, if they ain't come,” said the girl.
“but i can,” says she.
“go you, and bring the best of 'em.”
“best or worst,” says the girl, “i've ate 'em all, and you can't have one till that's come again.”
well, the woman she was done, and she took her spinning to the door to spin, and as she span she sang:
“my darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day.
my darter ha' ate five, five pies to-day.”
the king was coming down the street, and he heard her sing, but what she sang he couldn't hear, so he stopped and said:
“what was that you were singing, my good woman?”
the woman was ashamed to let him hear what her daughter had been doing, so she sang, instead of that:
“my darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day.
my darter ha' spun five, five skeins to-day.”
“stars o' mine!” said the king, “i never heard tell of any one that could do that.”
then he said: “look you here, i want a wife, and i'll marry your daughter.
but look you here,” says he, “eleven months out of the year she shall have all she likes to eat, and all the gowns she likes to get, and all the company she likes to keep; but the last month of the year she'll have to spin five skeins every day, and if she don't i shall kill her.”
“all right,” says the woman; for she thought what a grand marriage that was.
and as for the five skeins, when the time came, there'd be plenty of ways of getting out of it, and likeliest, he'd have forgotten all about it.
well, so they were married.
and for eleven months the girl had all she liked to eat, and all the gowns she liked to get, and all the company she liked to keep.
but when the time was getting over, she began to think about the skeins and to wonder if he had 'em in mind.
but not one word did he say about 'em, and she thought he'd wholly forgotten 'em.
however, the last day of the last month he takes her to a room she'd never set eyes on before.
there was nothing in it but a spinning-wheel and a stool.
and says he: “now, my dear, here you'll be shut in to-morrow with some victuals and some flax, and if you haven't spun five skeins by the night, your head'll go off.”
and away he went about his business.
well, she was that frightened, she'd always been such a gatless girl, that she didn't so much as know how to spin, and what was she to do to-morrow with no one to come nigh her to help her?
she sat down on a stool in the kitchen, and law!
how she did cry!
however, all of a sudden she heard a sort of a knocking low down on the door.
she upped and oped it, and what should she see but a small little black thing with a long tail.
that looked up at her right curious, and that said:
“what are you a-crying for?”
“what's that to you?” says she.
“never you mind,” that said, “but tell me what you're a-crying for.”
“that won't do me no good if i do,” says she.
“you don't know that,” that said, and twirled that's tail round.
“well,” says she, “that won't do no harm, if that don't do no good,” and she upped and told about the pies, and the skeins, and everything.
“this is what i'll do,” says the little black thing, “i'll come to your window every morning and take the flax and bring it spun at night.”
“what's your pay?” says she.
that looked out of the corner of that's eyes, and that said: “i'll give you three guesses every night to guess my name, and if you haven't guessed it before the month's up you shall be mine.”
well, she thought she'd be sure to guess that's name before the month was up.
“all right,” says she, “i agree.”
“all right,” that says, and law!
how that twirled that's tail.
well, the next day, her husband took her into the room, and there was the flax and the day's food.
“now there's the flax,” says he, “and if that ain't spun up this night, off goes your head.” and then he went out and locked the door.
he'd hardly gone, when there was a knocking against the window.
she upped and she oped it, and there sure enough was the little old thing sitting on the ledge.
“where's the flax?” says he.
“here it be,” says she.
and she gave it to him.
well, come the evening a knocking came again to the window.
she upped and she oped it, and there was the little old thing with five skeins of flax on his arm.
“here it be,” says he, and he gave it to her.
“now, what's my name?” says he.
“what, is that bill?” says she.
“noo, that ain't,” says he, and he twirled his tail.
“is that ned?” says she.
“noo, that ain't,” says he, and he twirled his tail.
“well, is that mark?” says she.
“noo, that ain't,” says he, and he twirled his tail harder, and away he flew.
well, when her husband came in, there were the five skeins ready for him.
“i see i shan't have to kill you to-night, my dear,” says he; “you'll have your food and your flax in the morning,” says he, and away he goes.
well, every day the flax and the food were brought, and every day that there little black impet used to come mornings and evenings.
and all the day the girl sat trying to think of names to say to it when it came at night.
but she never hit on the right one.
and as it got towards the end of the month, the impet began to look so maliceful, and that twirled that's tail faster and faster each time she gave a guess.
at last it came to the last day but one.
the impet came at night along with the five skeins, and that said,
“what, ain't you got my name yet?”
“is that nicodemus?” says she.
“noo, t'ain't,” that says.
“is that sammle?” says she.
“noo, t'ain't,” that says.
“a-well, is that methusalem?” says she.
“noo, t'ain't that neither,” that says.
then that looks at her with that's eyes like a coal o' fire, and that says: “woman, there's only to-morrow night, and then you'll be mine!”
and away it flew.
well, she felt that horrid.
however, she heard the king coming along the passage.
in he came, and when he sees the five skeins, he says, says he,
“well, my dear,” says he, “i don't see but what you'll have your skeins ready to-morrow night as well, and as i reckon i shan't have to kill you, i'll have supper in here to-night.” so they brought supper, and another stool for him, and down the two sat.
well, he hadn't eaten but a mouthful or so, when he stops and begins to laugh.
“what is it?” says she.
“a-why,” says he, “i was out a-hunting to-day, and i got away to a place in the wood i'd never seen before and there was an old chalk-pit.
and i heard a kind of a sort of a humming.
so i got off my hobby, and i went right quiet to the pit, and i looked down.
well, what should there be but the funniest little black thing you ever set eyes on.
and what was that doing, but that had a little spinning-wheel, and that was spinning wonderful fast, and twirling that's tail.
and as that span that sang:
“nimmy nimmy not   my name's tom tit tot.”
well, when the girl heard this, she felt as if she could have jumped out of her skin for joy, but she didn't say a word.
next day that there little thing looked so maliceful when he came for the flax.
and when night came, she heard that knocking against the window panes.
she oped the window, and that come right in on the ledge.
that was grinning from ear to ear, and oo!
that's tail was twirling round so fast.
“what's my name?” that says, as that gave her the skeins.
“is that solomon?” she says, pretending to be afeard.
“noo, t'ain't,” that says, and that came further into the room.
“well, is that zebedee?” says she again.
“noo, t'ain't,” says the impet.
and then that laughed and twirled that's tail till you couldn't hardly see it.
“take time, woman,” that says; “next guess, and you're mine.” and that stretched out that's black hands at her.
well, she backed a step or two, and she looked at it, and then she laughed out, and says she, pointing her finger at it:
“nimmy nimmy not, your name's tom tit tot!”
well, when that heard her, that gave an awful shriek and away that flew into the dark, and she never saw it any more.
the three sillies
once upon a time there was a farmer and his wife who had one daughter, and she was courted by a gentleman.
every evening he used to come and see her, and stop to supper at the farmhouse, and the daughter used to be sent down into the cellar to draw the beer for supper.
so one evening she had gone down to draw the beer, and she happened to look up at the ceiling while she was drawing, and she saw a mallet stuck in one of the beams.
it must have been there a long, long time, but somehow or other she had never noticed it before, and she began a-thinking.
and she thought it was very dangerous to have that mallet there, for she said to herself: “suppose him and me was to be married, and we was to have a son, and he was to grow up to be a man, and come down into the cellar to draw the beer, like as i'm doing now, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!” and she put down the candle and the jug, and sat herself down and began a-crying.
well, they began to wonder upstairs how it was that she was so long drawing the beer, and her mother went down to see after her, and she found her sitting on the settle crying, and the beer running over the floor.
“why, whatever is the matter?” said her mother.
“oh, mother!”
says she, “look at that horrid mallet!
suppose we was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down to the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!” “dear, dear!
what a dreadful thing it would be!” said the mother, and she sat her down aside of the daughter and started a-crying too.
then after a bit the father began to wonder that they didn't come back, and he went down into the cellar to look after them himself, and there they two sat a-crying, and the beer running all over the floor.
“whatever is the matter?” says he.
“why,”
says the mother, “look at that horrid mallet.
just suppose, if our daughter and her sweetheart was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him, what a dreadful thing it would be!” “dear, dear, dear!
so it would!” said the father, and he sat himself down aside of the other two, and started a-crying.
now the gentleman got tired of stopping up in the kitchen by himself, and at last he went down into the cellar too, to see what they were after; and there they three sat a-crying side by side, and the beer running all over the floor.
and he ran straight and turned the tap.
then he said: “whatever are you three doing, sitting there crying, and letting the beer run all over the floor?”
“oh!” says the father, “look at that horrid mallet!
suppose you and our daughter was to be married, and was to have a son, and he was to grow up, and was to come down into the cellar to draw the beer, and the mallet was to fall on his head and kill him!” and then they all started a-crying worse than before.
but the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and reached up and pulled out the mallet, and then he said: “i've travelled many miles, and i never met three such big sillies as you three before; and now i shall start out on my travels again, and when i can find three bigger sillies than you three, then i'll come back and marry your daughter.” so he wished them good-bye, and started off on his travels, and left them all crying because the girl had lost her sweetheart.
well, he set out, and he travelled a long way, and at last he came to a woman's cottage that had some grass growing on the roof.
and the woman was trying to get her cow to go up a ladder to the grass, and the poor thing durst not go.
so the gentleman asked the woman what she was doing.
“why, lookye,” she said, “look at all that beautiful grass.
i'm going to get the cow on to the roof to eat it.
she'll be quite safe, for i shall tie a string round her neck, and pass it down the chimney, and tie it to my wrist as i go about the house, so she can't fall off without my knowing it.” “oh, you poor silly!” said the gentleman, “you should cut the grass and throw it down to the cow!” but the woman thought it was easier to get the cow up the ladder than to get the grass down, so she pushed her and coaxed her and got her up, and tied a string round her neck, and passed it down the chimney, and fastened it to her own wrist.
and the gentleman went on his way, but he hadn't gone far when the cow tumbled off the roof, and hung by the string tied round her neck, and it strangled her.
and the weight of the cow tied to her wrist pulled the woman up the chimney, and she stuck fast half-way and was smothered in the soot.
well, that was one big silly.
and the gentleman went on and on, and he went to an inn to stop the night, and they were so full at the inn that they had to put him in a double-bedded room, and another traveller was to sleep in the other bed.
the other man was a very pleasant fellow, and they got very friendly together; but in the morning, when they were both getting up, the gentleman was surprised to see the other hang his trousers on the knobs of the chest of drawers and run across the room and try to jump into them, and he tried over and over again, and couldn't manage it; and the gentleman wondered whatever he was doing it for.
at last he stopped and wiped his face with his handkerchief.
“oh dear,” he says, “i do think trousers are the most awkwardest kind of clothes that ever were.
i can't think who could have invented such things.
it takes me the best part of an hour to get into mine every morning, and i get so hot!
how do you manage yours?” so the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and showed him how to put them on; and he was very much obliged to him, and said he never should have thought of doing it that way.
so that was another big silly.
then the gentleman went on his travels again; and he came to a village, and outside the village there was a pond, and round the pond was a crowd of people.
and they had got rakes, and brooms, and pitchforks, reaching into the pond; and the gentleman asked what was the matter.
“why,” they say, “matter enough!
moon's tumbled into the pond, and we can't rake her out anyhow!” so the gentleman burst out a-laughing, and told them to look up into the sky, and that it was only the shadow in the water.
but they wouldn't listen to him, and abused him shamefully, and he got away as quick as he could.
so there was a whole lot of sillies bigger than them three sillies at home.
so the gentleman turned back home again and married the farmer's daughter, and if they didn't live happy for ever after, that's nothing to do with you or me.
the rose-tree
there was once upon a time a good man who had two children: a girl by a first wife, and a boy by the second.
the girl was as white as milk, and her lips were like cherries.
her hair was like golden silk, and it hung to the ground.
her brother loved her dearly, but her wicked stepmother hated her.
“child,” said the stepmother one day, “go to the grocer's shop and buy me a pound of candles.” she gave her the money; and the little girl went, bought the candles, and started on her return.
there was a stile to cross.
she put down the candles whilst she got over the stile.
up came a dog and ran off with the candles.
she went back to the grocer's, and she got a second bunch.
she came to the stile, set down the candles, and proceeded to climb over.
up came the dog and ran off with the candles.
she went again to the grocer's, and she got a third bunch; and just the same happened.
then she came to her stepmother crying, for she had spent all the money and had lost three bunches of candles.
the stepmother was angry, but she pretended not to mind the loss.
she said to the child: “come, lay your head on my lap that i may comb your hair.” so the little one laid her head in the woman's lap, who proceeded to comb the yellow silken hair.
and when she combed the hair fell over her knees, and rolled right down to the ground.
then the stepmother hated her more for the beauty of her hair; so she said to her, “i cannot part your hair on my knee, fetch a billet of wood.” so she fetched it.
then said the stepmother, “i cannot part your hair with a comb, fetch me an axe.” so she fetched it.
“now,” said the wicked woman, “lay your head down on the billet whilst i part your hair.”
well!
she laid down her little golden head without fear; and whist!
down came the axe, and it was off.
so the mother wiped the axe and laughed.
then she took the heart and liver of the little girl, and she stewed them and brought them into the house for supper.
the husband tasted them and shook his head.
he said they tasted very strangely.
she gave some to the little boy, but he would not eat.
she tried to force him, but he refused, and ran out into the garden, and took up his little sister, and put her in a box, and buried the box under a rose-tree; and every day he went to the tree and wept, till his tears ran down on the box.
one day the rose-tree flowered.
it was spring, and there among the flowers was a white bird; and it sang, and sang, and sang like an angel out of heaven.
away it flew, and it went to a cobbler's shop, and perched itself on a tree hard by; and thus it sang,
“my wicked mother slew me,   my dear father ate me,   my little brother whom i love   sits below, and i sing above     stick, stock, stone dead.”
“sing again that beautiful song,” asked the shoemaker.
“if you will first give me those little red shoes you are making.” the cobbler gave the shoes, and the bird sang the song; then flew to a tree in front of a watchmaker's, and sang:
“my wicked mother slew me,   my dear father ate me,   my little brother whom i love   sits below, and i sing above     stick, stock, stone dead.”
“oh, the beautiful song!
sing it again, sweet bird,” asked the watchmaker.
“if you will give me first that gold watch and chain in your hand.” the jeweller gave the watch and chain.
the bird took it in one foot, the shoes in the other, and, after having repeated the song, flew away to where three millers were picking a millstone.
the bird perched on a tree and sang:
“my wicked mother slew me,   my dear father ate me,   my little brother whom i love   sits below, and i sing above     stick!”
then one of the men put down his tool and looked up from his work,
“stock!”
then the second miller's man laid aside his tool and looked up,
“stone!”
then the third miller's man laid down his tool and looked up,
“dead!”
then all three cried out with one voice: “oh, what a beautiful song!
sing it, sweet bird, again.” “if you will put the millstone round my neck,” said the bird.
the men did what the bird wanted and away to the tree it flew with the millstone round its neck, the red shoes in one foot, and the gold watch and chain in the other.
it sang the song and then flew home.
it rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house, and the stepmother said: “it thunders.” then the little boy ran out to see the thunder, and down dropped the red shoes at his feet.
it rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house once more, and the stepmother said again: “it thunders.” then the father ran out and down fell the chain about his neck.
in ran father and son, laughing and saying, “see, what fine things the thunder has brought us!” then the bird rattled the millstone against the eaves of the house a third time; and the stepmother said: “it thunders again, perhaps the thunder has brought something for me,” and she ran out; but the moment she stepped outside the door, down fell the millstone on her head; and so she died.
the old woman and her pig
an old woman was sweeping her house, and she found a little crooked sixpence.
“what,” said she, “shall i do with this little sixpence?
i will go to market, and buy a little pig.”
as she was coming home, she came to a stile: but the piggy wouldn't go over the stile.
she went a little further, and she met a dog.
so she said to the dog:
“dog!
bite pig; piggy won't go over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the dog wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a stick.
so she said: “stick!
stick!
beat dog!
dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the stick wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a fire.
so she said: “fire!
fire!
burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the fire wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met some water.
so she said: “water, water!
quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the water wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met an ox.
so she said: “ox!
ox!
drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the ox wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a butcher.
so she said: “butcher!
butcher!
kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the butcher wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a rope.
so she said: “rope!
rope!
hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.”
but the rope wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a rat.
so she said: “rat!
rat!
gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the rat wouldn't.
she went a little further, and she met a cat.
so she said: “cat!
cat!
kill rat; rat won't gnaw rope; rope won't hang butcher; butcher won't kill ox; ox won't drink water; water won't quench fire; fire won't burn stick; stick won't beat dog; dog won't bite pig; piggy won't get over the stile; and i shan't get home to-night.” but the cat said to her, “if you will go to yonder cow, and fetch me a saucer of milk, i will kill the rat.” so away went the old woman to the cow.
but the cow said to her: “if you will go to yonder hay-stack, and fetch me a handful of hay, i'll give you the milk.” so away went the old woman to the haystack and she brought the hay to the cow.
as soon as the cow had eaten the hay, she gave the old woman the milk; and away she went with it in a saucer to the cat.
as soon as the cat had lapped up the milk, the cat began to kill the rat; the rat began to gnaw the rope; the rope began to hang the butcher; the butcher began to kill the ox; the ox began to drink the water; the water began to quench the fire; the fire began to burn the stick; the stick began to beat the dog; the dog began to bite the pig; the little pig in a fright jumped over the stile, and so the old woman got home that night.
how jack went to seek his fortune
once on a time there was a boy named jack, and one morning he started to go and seek his fortune.
he hadn't gone very far before he met a cat.
“where are you going, jack?” said the cat.
“i am going to seek my fortune.”
“may i go with you?”
“yes,” said jack, “the more the merrier.”
so on they went, jiggelty-jolt, jiggelty-jolt.
they went a little further and they met a dog.
“where are you going, jack?” said the dog.
“i am going to seek my fortune.”
“may i go with you?”
“yes,” said jack, “the more the merrier.”
so on they went, jiggelty-jolt, jiggelty-jolt.
they went a little further and they met a goat.
“where are you going, jack?” said the goat.
“i am going to seek my fortune.”
“may i go with you?”
“yes,” said jack, “the more the merrier.”
so on they went, jiggelty-jolt, jiggelty-jolt.
they went a little further and they met a bull.
“where are you going, jack?” said the bull.
“i am going to seek my fortune.”
“may i go with you?”
“yes,” said jack, “the more the merrier.”
so on they went, jiggelty-jolt, jiggelty-jolt.
they went a little further and they met a rooster.
“where are you going, jack?” said the rooster.
“i am going to seek my fortune.”
“may i go with you?”
“yes,” said jack, “the more the merrier.”
so on they went, jiggelty-jolt, jiggelty-jolt.
well, they went on till it was about dark, and they began to think of some place where they could spend the night.
about this time they came in sight of a house, and jack told them to keep still while he went up and looked in through the window.
and there were some robbers counting over their money.
then jack went back and told them to wait till he gave the word, and then to make all the noise they could.
so when they were all ready jack gave the word, and the cat mewed, and the dog barked, and the goat bleated, and the bull bellowed, and the rooster crowed, and all together they made such a dreadful noise that it frightened the robbers all away.
and then they went in and took possession of the house.
jack was afraid the robbers would come back in the night, and so when it came time to go to bed he put the cat in the rocking-chair, and he put the dog under the table, and he put the goat upstairs, and he put the bull down cellar, and the rooster flew up on to the roof, and jack went to bed.
by-and-by the robbers saw it was all dark and they sent one man back to the house to look after their money.
before long he came back in a great fright and told them his story.
“i went back to the house,” said he, “and went in and tried to sit down in the rocking-chair, and there was an old woman knitting, and she stuck her knitting-needles into me.” that was the cat, you know.
“i went to the table to look after the money and there was a shoemaker under the table, and he stuck his awl into me.” that was the dog, you know.
“i started to go upstairs, and there was a man up there threshing, and he knocked me down with his flail.” that was the goat, you know.
“i started to go down cellar, and there was a man down there chopping wood, and he knocked me up with his axe.” that was the bull, you know.
“but i shouldn't have minded all that if it hadn't been for that little fellow on top of the house, who kept a-hollering, 'chuck him up to me-e!
chuck him up to me-e!
'” of course that was the cock-a-doodle-do.
mr. vinegar
mr. and mrs. vinegar lived in a vinegar bottle.
now, one day, when mr.
vinegar was from home, mrs. vinegar, who was a very good housewife, was busily sweeping her house, when an unlucky thump of the broom brought the whole house clitter-clatter, clitter-clatter, about her ears.
in an agony of grief she rushed forth to meet her husband.
on seeing him she exclaimed, “oh, mr. vinegar, mr. vinegar, we are ruined, i have knocked the house down, and it is all to pieces!” mr.
vinegar then said: “my dear, let us see what can be done.
here is the door; i will take it on my back, and we will go forth to seek our fortune.”
they walked all that day, and at nightfall entered a thick forest.
they were both very, very tired, and mr. vinegar said: “my love, i will climb up into a tree, drag up the door, and you shall follow.” he accordingly did so, and they both stretched their weary limbs on the door, and fell fast asleep.
in the middle of the night mr. vinegar was disturbed by the sound of voices underneath, and to his horror and dismay found that it was a band of thieves met to divide their booty.
“here, jack,” said one, “here's five pounds for you; here, bill, here's ten pounds for you; here, bob, here's three pounds for you.”
mr. vinegar could listen no longer; his terror was so great that he trembled and trembled, and shook down the door on their heads.
away scampered the thieves, but mr. vinegar dared not quit his retreat till broad daylight.
he then scrambled out of the tree, and went to lift up the door.
what did he see but a number of golden guineas.
“come down, mrs. vinegar,” he cried; “come down, i say; our fortune's made, our fortune's made!
come down, i say.”
mrs. vinegar got down as fast as she could, and when she saw the money she jumped for joy.
“now, my dear,” said she, “i'll tell you what you shall do.
there is a fair at the neighbouring town; you shall take these forty guineas and buy a cow.
i can make butter and cheese, which you shall sell at market, and we shall then be able to live very comfortably.”
mr. vinegar joyfully agrees, takes the money, and off he goes to the fair.
when he arrived, he walked up and down, and at length saw a beautiful red cow.
it was an excellent milker, and perfect in every way.
“oh,” thought mr. vinegar, “if i had but that cow, i should be the happiest, man alive.”
so he offers the forty guineas for the cow, and the owner said that, as he was a friend, he'd oblige him.
so the bargain was made, and he got the cow and he drove it backwards and forwards to show it.
by-and-by he saw a man playing the bagpipes tweedle-dum tweedle-dee.
the children followed him about, and he appeared to be pocketing money on all sides.
“well,” thought mr. vinegar, “if i had but that beautiful instrument i should be the happiest man alive my fortune would be made.”
so he went up to the man.
“friend,” says he, “what a beautiful instrument that is, and what a deal of money you must make.” “why, yes,”
said the man, “i make a great deal of money, to be sure, and it is a wonderful instrument.” “oh!” cried mr. vinegar, “how i should like to possess it!” “well,” said the man, “as you are a friend, i don't much mind parting with it; you shall have it for that red cow.” “done!” said the delighted mr. vinegar.
so the beautiful red cow was given for the bagpipes.
he walked up and down with his purchase; but it was in vain he tried to play a tune, and instead of pocketing pence, the boys followed him hooting, laughing, and pelting.
poor mr. vinegar, his fingers grew very cold, and, just as he was leaving the town, he met a man with a fine thick pair of gloves.
“oh, my fingers are so very cold,” said mr. vinegar to himself.
“now if i had but those beautiful gloves i should be the happiest man alive.” he went up to the man, and said to him, “friend, you seem to have a capital pair of gloves there.” “yes, truly,” cried the man; “and my hands are as warm as possible this cold november day.” “well,” said mr. vinegar, “i should like to have them.”.
“what will you give?” said the man; “as you are a friend, i don't much mind letting you have them for those bagpipes.”
“done!” cried mr. vinegar.
he put on the gloves, and felt perfectly happy as he trudged homewards.
at last he grew very tired, when he saw a man coming towards him with a good stout stick in his hand.
“oh,” said mr. vinegar, “that i had but that stick!
i should then be the happiest man alive.” he said to the man: “friend!
what a rare good stick you have got.” “yes,” said the man; “i have used it for many a long mile, and a good friend it has been; but if you have a fancy for it, as you are a friend, i don't mind giving it to you for that pair of gloves.” mr. vinegar's hands were so warm, and his legs so tired, that he gladly made the exchange.
as he drew near to the wood where he had left his wife, he heard a parrot on a tree calling out his name: “mr.
vinegar, you foolish man, you blockhead, you simpleton; you went to the fair, and laid out all your money in buying a cow.
not content with that, you changed it for bagpipes, on which you could not play, and which were not worth one-tenth of the money.
you fool, you you had no sooner got the bagpipes than you changed them for the gloves, which were not worth one-quarter of the money; and when you had got the gloves, you changed them for a poor miserable stick; and now for your forty guineas, cow, bagpipes, and gloves, you have nothing to show but that poor miserable stick, which you might have cut in any hedge.” on this the bird laughed and laughed, and mr. vinegar, falling into a violent rage, threw the stick at its head.
the stick lodged in the tree, and he returned to his wife without money, cow, bagpipes, gloves, or stick, and she instantly gave him such a sound cudgelling that she almost broke every bone in his skin.
nix nought nothing
there once lived a king and a queen as many a one has been.
they were long married and had no children; but at last a baby-boy came to the queen when the king was away in the far countries.
the queen would not christen the boy till the king came back, and she said, “we will just call him nix nought nothing until his father comes home.” but it was long before he came home, and the boy had grown a nice little laddie.
at length the king was on his way back; but he had a big river to cross, and there was a whirlpool, and he could not get over the water.
but a giant came up to him, and said “i'll carry you over.” but the king said:
“what's your pay?” “o give me nix, nought, nothing, and i will carry you over the water on my back.” the king had never heard that his son was called nix nought nothing, and so he said: “o, i'll give you that and my thanks into the bargain.” when the king got home again, he was very happy to see his wife again, and his young son.
she told him that she had not given the child any name, but just nix nought nothing, until he should come home again himself.
the poor king was in a terrible case.
he said: “what have i done?
i promised to give the giant who carried me over the river on his back, nix nought nothing.” the king and the queen were sad and sorry, but they said: “when the giant comes we will give him the hen-wife's boy; he will never know the difference.” the next day the giant came to claim the king's promise, and he sent for the hen-wife's boy; and the giant went away with the boy on his back.
he travelled till he came to a big stone, and there he sat down to rest.
he said,
“hidge, hodge, on my back, what time of day is that?”
the poor little boy said: “it is the time that my mother, the hen-wife, takes up the eggs for the queen's breakfast.”
the giant was very angry, and dashed the boy's head on the stone and killed him.
so he went back in a tower of a temper and this time they gave him the gardener's boy.
he went off with him on his back till they got to the stone again when the giant sat down to rest.
and he said:
“hidge, hodge, on my back, what time of day do you make that?”
the gardener's boy said: “sure it's the time that my mother takes up the vegetables for the queen's dinner.” then the giant was right wild and dashed his brains out on the stone.
then the giant went back to the king's house in a terrible temper and said he would destroy them all if they did not give him nix nought nothing this time.
they had to do it; and when he came to the big stone, the giant said: “what time of day is that?” nix nought nothing said: “it is the time that my father the king will be sitting down to supper.” the giant said: “i've got the right one now;” and took nix nought nothing to his own house and brought him up till he was a man.
the giant had a bonny daughter, and she and the lad grew very fond of each other.
the giant said one day to nix nought nothing: “i've work for you to-morrow.
there is a stable seven miles long and seven miles broad, and it has not been cleaned for seven years, and you must clean it to-morrow, or i will have you for my supper.”
the giant's daughter went out next morning with the lad's breakfast, and found him in a terrible state, for always as he cleaned out a bit, it just fell in again.
the giant's daughter said she would help him, and she cried all the beasts in the field, and all the fowls of the air, and in a minute they all came, and carried away everything that was in the stable and made it all clean before the giant came home.
he said: “shame on the wit that helped you; but i have a worse job for you to-morrow.”
then he said to nix nought nothing: “there's a lake seven miles long, and seven miles deep, and seven miles broad, and you must drain it to-morrow by nightfall, or else i'll have you for my supper.” nix nought nothing began early next morning and tried to lave the water with his pail, but the lake was never getting any less, and he didn't know what to do; but the giant's daughter called on all the fish in the sea to come and drink the water, and very soon they drank it dry.
when the giant saw the work done he was in a rage, and said: “i've a worse job for you to-morrow; there is a tree, seven miles high, and no branch on it, till you get to the top, and there is a nest with seven eggs in it, and you must bring down all the eggs without breaking one, or else i'll have you for my supper.” at first the giant's daughter did not know how to help nix nought nothing; but she cut off first her fingers and then her toes, and made steps of them, and he clomb the tree and got all the eggs safe till he came just to the bottom, and then one was broken.
so they determined to run away together and after the giant's daughter had tidied up her hair a bit and got her magic flask they set out together as fast as they could run.
and they hadn't got but three fields away when they looked back and saw the giant walking along at top speed after them.
“quick, quick,” called out the giant's daughter, “take my comb from my hair and throw it down.” nix nought nothing took her comb from her hair and threw it down, and out of every one of its prongs there sprung up a fine thick briar in the way of the giant.
you may be sure it took him a long time to work his way through the briar bush and by the time he was well through nix nought nothing and his sweetheart had run on a tidy step away from him.
but he soon came along after them and was just like to catch 'em up when the giant's daughter called out to nix nought nothing, “take my hair dagger and throw it down, quick, quick.”
so nix nought nothing threw down the hair dagger and out of it grew as quick as lightning a thick hedge of sharp razors placed criss-cross.
the giant had to tread very cautiously to get through all this and meanwhile the young lovers ran on, and on, and on, till they were nearly out of sight.
but at last the giant was through, and it wasn't long before he was like to catch them up.
but just as he was stretching out his hand to catch nix nought nothing his daughter took out her magic flask and dashed it on the ground.
and as it broke out of it welled a big, big wave that grew, and that grew, till it reached the giant's waist and then his neck, and when it got to his head, he was drowned dead, and dead, and dead indeed.
so he goes out of the story.
but nix nought nothing fled on till where do you think they came to?
why, to near the castle of nix nought nothing's father and mother.
but the giant's daughter was so weary that she couldn't move a step further.
so nix nought nothing told her to wait there while he went and found out a lodging for the night.
and he went on towards the lights of the castle, and on the way he came to the cottage of the hen-wife whose boy had had his brains dashed out by the giant.
now she knew nix nought nothing in a moment, and hated him because he was the cause of her son's death.
so when he asked his way to the castle she put a spell upon him, and when he got to the castle, no sooner was he let in than he fell down dead asleep upon a bench in the hall.
the king and queen tried all they could do to wake him up, but all in vain.
so the king promised that if any lady could wake him up she should marry him.
meanwhile the giant's daughter was waiting and waiting for him to come back.
and she went up into a tree to watch for him.
the gardener's daughter, going to draw water in the well, saw the shadow of the lady in the water and thought it was herself, and said; “if i'm so bonny, if i'm so brave, why do you send me to draw water?” so she threw down her pail and went to see if she could wed the sleeping stranger.
and she went to the hen-wife, who taught her an unspelling catch which would keep nix nought nothing awake as long as the gardener's daughter liked.
so she went up to the castle and sang her catch and nix nought nothing was wakened for a bit and they promised to wed him to the gardener's daughter.
meanwhile the gardener went down to draw water from the well and saw the shadow of the lady in the water.
so he looks up and finds her, and he brought the lady from the tree, and led her into his house.
and he told her that a stranger was to marry his daughter, and took her up to the castle and showed her the man: and it was nix nought nothing asleep in a chair.
and she saw him, and cried to him: “waken, waken, and speak to me!” but he would not waken, and soon she cried:
“i cleaned the stable, i laved the lake, and i clomb the tree,   and all for the love of thee,   and thou wilt not waken and speak to me.”
the king and the queen heard this, and came to the bonny young lady, and she said:
“i cannot get nix nought nothing to speak to me for all that i can do.”
then were they greatly astonished when she spoke of nix nought nothing, and asked where he was, and she said: “he that sits there in the chair.”
then they ran to him and kissed him and called him their own dear son; so they called for the gardener's daughter and made her sing her charm, and he wakened, and told them all that the giant's daughter had done for him, and of all her kindness.
then they took her in their arms and kissed her, and said she should now be their daughter, for their son should marry her.
but they sent for the hen-wife and put her to death.
and they lived happy all their days.
jack hannaford
there was an old soldier who had been long in the wars so long, that he was quite out-at-elbows, and he did not know where to go to find a living.
so he walked up moors, down glens, till at last he came to a farm, from which the good man had gone away to market.
the wife of the farmer was a very foolish woman, who had been a widow when he married her; the farmer was foolish enough, too, and it is hard to say which of the two was the more foolish.
when you've heard my tale you may decide.
now before the farmer goes to market says he to his wife: “here is ten pounds all in gold, take care of it till i come home.” if the man had not been a fool he would never have given the money to his wife to keep.
well, off he went in his cart to market, and the wife said to herself:
“i will keep the ten pounds quite safe from thieves;” so she tied it up in a rag, and she put the rag up the parlour chimney.
“there,” said she, “no thieves will ever find it now, that is quite sure.”
jack hannaford, the old soldier, came and rapped at the door.
“who is there?” asked the wife.
“jack hannaford.”
“where do you come from?”
“paradise.”
“lord a' mercy!
and maybe you've seen my old man there,” alluding to her former husband.
“yes, i have.”
“and how was he a-doing?” asked the goody.
“but middling; he cobbles old shoes, and he has nothing but cabbage for victuals.”
“deary me!” exclaimed the woman.
“didn't he send a message to me?”
“yes, he did,” replied jack hannaford.
“he said that he was out of leather, and his pockets were empty, so you were to send him a few shillings to buy a fresh stock of leather.”
“he shall have them, bless his poor soul!” and away went the wife to the parlour chimney, and she pulled the rag with the ten pounds in it from the chimney, and she gave the whole sum to the soldier, telling him that her old man was to use as much as he wanted, and to send back the rest.
it was not long that jack waited after receiving the money; he went off as fast as he could walk.
presently the farmer came home and asked for his money.
the wife told him that she had sent it by a soldier to her former husband in paradise, to buy him leather for cobbling the shoes of the saints and angels of heaven.
the farmer was very angry, and he swore that he had never met with such a fool as his wife.
but the wife said that her husband was a greater fool for letting her have the money.
there was no time to waste words; so the farmer mounted his horse and rode off after jack hannaford.
the old soldier heard the horse's hoofs clattering on the road behind him, so he knew it must be the farmer pursuing him.
he lay down on the ground, and shading his eyes with one hand, looked up into the sky, and pointed heavenwards with the other hand.
“what are you about there?” asked the farmer, pulling up.
“lord save you!” exclaimed jack: “i've seen a rare sight.”
“what was that?”
“a man going straight up into the sky, as if he were walking on a road.”
“can you see him still?”
“yes, i can.”
“where?”
“get off your horse and lie down.”
“if you will hold the horse.”
jack did so readily.
“i cannot see him,” said the farmer.
“shade your eyes with your hand, and you'll soon see a man flying away from you.”
sure enough he did so, for jack leaped on the horse, and rode away with it.
the farmer walked home without his horse.
“you are a bigger fool than i am,” said the wife; “for i did only one foolish thing, and you have done two.”
binnorie
once upon a time there were two king's daughters lived in a bower near the bonny mill-dams of binnorie.
and sir william came wooing the eldest and won her love and plighted troth with glove and with ring.
but after a time he looked upon the youngest, with her cherry cheeks and golden hair, and his love grew towards her till he cared no longer for the eldest one.
so she hated her sister for taking away sir william's love, and day by day her hate grew upon her, and she plotted and she planned how to get rid of her.
so one fine morning, fair and clear, she said to her sister, “let us go and see our father's boats come in at the bonny mill-stream of binnorie.” so they went there hand in hand.
and when they got to the river's bank the youngest got upon a stone to watch for the coming of the boats.
and her sister, coming behind her, caught her round the waist and dashed her into the rushing mill-stream of binnorie.
“o sister, sister, reach me your hand!” she cried, as she floated away, “and you shall have half of all i've got or shall get.”
“no, sister, i'll reach you no hand of mine, for i am the heir to all your land.
shame on me if i touch the hand that has come 'twixt me and my own heart's love.”
“o sister, o sister, then reach me your glove!” she cried, as she floated further away, “and you shall have your william again.”
“sink on,” cried the cruel princess, “no hand or glove of mine you'll touch.
sweet william will be all mine when you are sunk beneath the bonny mill-stream of binnorie.” and she turned and went home to the king's castle.
and the princess floated down the mill-stream, sometimes swimming and sometimes sinking, till she came near the mill.
now the miller's daughter was cooking that day, and needed water for her cooking.
and as she went to draw it from the stream, she saw something floating towards the mill-dam, and she called out, “father!
father!
draw your dam.
there's something white a merry maid or a milk-white swan coming down the stream.” so the miller hastened to the dam and stopped the heavy cruel mill-wheels.
and then they took out the princess and laid her on the bank.
fair and beautiful she looked as she lay there.
in her golden hair were pearls and precious stones; you could not see her waist for her golden girdle; and the golden fringe of her white dress came down over her lily feet.
but she was drowned, drowned!
and as she lay there in her beauty a famous harper passed by the mill-dam of binnorie, and saw her sweet pale face.
and though he travelled on far away he never forgot that face, and after many days he came back to the bonny mill-stream of binnorie.
but then all he could find of her where they had put her to rest were her bones and her golden hair.
so he made a harp out of her breast-bone and her hair, and travelled on up the hill from the mill-dam of binnorie, till he came to the castle of the king her father.
that night they were all gathered in the castle hall to hear the great harper king and queen, their daughter and son, sir william and all their court.
and first the harper sang to his old harp, making them joy and be glad or sorrow and weep just as he liked.
but while he sang he put the harp he had made that day on a stone in the hall.
and presently it began to sing by itself, low and clear, and the harper stopped and all were hushed.
and this was what the harp sung:
“o yonder sits my father, the king,     binnorie, o binnorie;   and yonder sits my mother, the queen;     by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie,
“and yonder stands my brother hugh,     binnorie, o binnorie;   and by him, my william, false and true;     by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie.”
then they all wondered, and the harper told them how he had seen the princess lying drowned on the bank near the bonny mill-dams o'
binnorie, and how he had afterwards made this harp out of her hair and breast-bone.
just then the harp began singing again, and this was what it sang out loud and clear:
“and there sits my sister who drownèd me   by the bonny mill-dams o' binnorie.”
and the harp snapped and broke, and never sang more.
mouse and mouser
the mouse went to visit the cat, and found her sitting behind the hall door, spinning.
mouse.
what are you doing, my lady, my lady, what are you doing, my lady?
cat (sharply).
i'm spinning old breeches, good body, good body i'm spinning old breeches, good body.
mouse.
long may you wear them, my lady, my lady, long may you wear them, my lady.
cat (gruffly).
i'll wear' em and tear 'em, good body, good body.
i'll wear 'em and tear 'em, good body.
mouse.
i was sweeping my room, my lady, my lady, i was sweeping my room, my lady.
cat.
the cleaner you'd be, good body, good body, the cleaner you'd be, good body.
mouse.
i found a silver sixpence, my lady, my lady, i found a silver sixpence, my lady.
cat.
the richer you were, good body, good body, the richer you were, good body.
mouse.
i went to the market, my lady, my lady, i went to the market, my lady.
cat.
the further you went, good body, good body the further you went, good body.
mouse.
i bought me a pudding, my lady, my lady, i bought me a pudding, my lady.
cat (snarling).
the more meat you had, good body, good body, the more meat you had, good body.
mouse.
i put it in the window to cool, my lady, i put it in the window to cool.
cat.
(sharply).
the faster you'd eat it, good body, good body, the faster you'd eat it, good body.
mouse (timidly).
the cat came and ate it, my lady, my lady, the cat came and ate it, my lady.
cat (pouncingly).
and i'll eat you, good body, good body, and i'll eat you, good body.
(springs upon the mouse and kills it.)
cap o' rushes
well, there was once a very rich gentleman, and he'd three daughters, and he thought he'd see how fond they were of him.
so he says to the first, “how much do you love me, my dear?”
“why,” says she, “as i love my life.”
“that's good,” says he.
so he says to the second, “how much do you love me, my dear?”
“why,” says she, “better nor all the world.”
“that's good,” says he.
so he says to the third, “how much do you love me, my dear?”
“why, i love you as fresh meat loves salt,” says she.
well, he was that angry.
“you don't love me at all,” says he, “and in my house you stay no more.” so he drove her out there and then, and shut the door in her face.
well, she went away on and on till she came to a fen, and there she gathered a lot of rushes and made them into a kind of a sort of a cloak with a hood, to cover her from head to foot, and to hide her fine clothes.
and then she went on and on till she came to a great house.
“do you want a maid?” says she.
“no, we don't,” said they.
“i haven't nowhere to go,” says she; “and i ask no wages, and do any sort of work,” says she.
“well,” says they, “if you like to wash the pots and scrape the saucepans you may stay,” said they.
so she stayed there and washed the pots and scraped the saucepans and did all the dirty work.
and because she gave no name they called her “cap o' rushes.”
well, one day there was to be a great dance a little way off, and the servants were allowed to go and look on at the grand people.
cap o'
rushes said she was too tired to go, so she stayed at home.
but when they were gone she offed with her cap o' rushes, and cleaned herself, and went to the dance.
and no one there was so finely dressed as her.
well, who should be there but her master's son, and what should he do but fall in love with her the minute he set eyes on her.
he wouldn't dance with any one else.
but before the dance was done cap o' rushes slipt off, and away she went home.
and when the other maids came back she was pretending to be asleep with her cap o' rushes on.
well, next morning they said to her, “you did miss a sight, cap o'
rushes!”
“what was that?” says she.
“why, the beautifullest lady you ever see, dressed right gay and ga'.
the young master, he never took his eyes off her.”
“well, i should have liked to have seen her,” says cap o' rushes.
“well, there's to be another dance this evening, and perhaps she'll be there.”
but, come the evening, cap o' rushes said she was too tired to go with them.
howsoever, when they were gone, she offed with her cap o' rushes and cleaned herself, and away she went to the dance.
the master's son had been reckoning on seeing her, and he danced with no one else, and never took his eyes off her.
but, before the dance was over, she slipt off, and home she went, and when the maids came back she, pretended to be asleep with her cap o' rushes on.
next day they said to her again, “well, cap o' rushes, you should ha'
been there to see the lady.
there she was again, gay and ga', and the young master he never took his eyes off her.”
“well, there,” says she, “i should ha' liked to ha' seen her.”
“well,” says they, “there's a dance again this evening, and you must go with us, for she's sure to be there.”
well, come this evening, cap o' rushes said she was too tired to go, and do what they would she stayed at home.
but when they were gone she offed with her cap o' rushes and cleaned herself, and away she went to the dance.
the master's son was rarely glad when he saw her.
he danced with none but her and never took his eyes off her.
when she wouldn't tell him her name, nor where she came from, he gave her a ring and told her if he didn't see her again he should die.
well, before the dance was over, off she slipped, and home she went, and when the maids came home she was pretending to be asleep with her cap o'
rushes on.
well, next day they says to her, “there, cap o' rushes, you didn't come last night, and now you won't see the lady, for there's no more dances.”
“well i should have rarely liked to have seen her,” says she.
the master's son he tried every way to find out where the lady was gone, but go where he might, and ask whom he might, he never heard anything about her.
and he got worse and worse for the love of her till he had to keep his bed.
“make some gruel for the young master,” they said to the cook.
“he's dying for the love of the lady.” the cook she set about making it when cap o' rushes came in.
“what are you a-doing of?”, says she.
“i'm going to make some gruel for the young master,” says the cook, “for he's dying for love of the lady.”
“let me make it,” says cap o' rushes.
well, the cook wouldn't at first, but at last she said yes, and cap o'
rushes made the gruel.
and when she had made it she slipped the ring into it on the sly before the cook took it upstairs.
the young man he drank it and then he saw the ring at the bottom.
“send for the cook,” says he.
so up she comes.
“who made this gruel here?” says he.
“i did,” says the cook, for she was frightened.
and he looked at her,
“no, you didn't,” says he.
“say who did it, and you shan't be harmed.”
“well, then, 'twas cap o' rushes,” says she.
“send cap o' rushes here,” says he.
so cap o' rushes came.
“did you make my gruel?” says he.
“yes, i did,” says she.
“where did you get this ring?” says he.
“from him that gave it me,” says she.
“who are you, then?” says the young man.
“i'll show you,” says she.
and she offed with her cap o' rushes, and there she was in her beautiful clothes.
well, the master's son he got well very soon, and they were to be married in a little time.
it was to be a very grand wedding, and every one was asked far and near.
and cap o' rushes' father was asked.
but she never told anybody who she was.
but before the wedding she went to the cook, and says she:
“i want you to dress every dish without a mite o' salt.”
“that'll be rare nasty,” says the cook.
“that doesn't signify,” says she.
“very well,” says the cook.
well, the wedding-day came, and they were married.
and after they were married all the company sat down to the dinner.
when they began to eat the meat, that was so tasteless they couldn't eat it.
but cap o' rushes'
father he tried first one dish and then another, and then he burst out crying.
“what is the matter?” said the master's son to him.
“oh!” says he, “i had a daughter.
and i asked her how much she loved me.
and she said 'as much as fresh meat loves salt.'
and i turned her from my door, for i thought she didn't love me.
and now i see she loved me best of all.
and she may be dead for aught i know.”
“no, father, here she is!” says cap o' rushes.
and she goes up to him and puts her arms round him.
and so they were happy ever after.
teeny-tiny
once upon a time there was a teeny-tiny woman lived in a teeny-tiny house in a teeny-tiny village.
now, one day this teeny-tiny woman put on her teeny-tiny bonnet, and went out of her teeny-tiny house to take a teeny-tiny walk.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had gone a teeny-tiny way she came to a teeny-tiny gate; so the teeny-tiny woman opened the teeny-tiny gate, and went into a teeny-tiny churchyard.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had got into the teeny-tiny churchyard, she saw a teeny-tiny bone on a teeny-tiny grave, and the teeny-tiny woman said to her teeny-tiny self, “this teeny-tiny bone will make me some teeny-tiny soup for my teeny-tiny supper.” so the teeny-tiny woman put the teeny-tiny bone into her teeny-tiny pocket, and went home to her teeny-tiny house.
now when the teeny-tiny woman got home to her teeny-tiny house she was a teeny-tiny bit tired; so she went up her teeny-tiny stairs to her teeny-tiny bed, and put the teeny-tiny bone into a teeny-tiny cupboard.
and when this teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep a teeny-tiny time, she was awakened by a teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard, which said:
“give me my bone!”
and this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head under the teeny-tiny clothes and went to sleep again.
and when she had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice again cried out from the teeny-tiny cupboard a teeny-tiny louder, “give me my bone!”
this made the teeny-tiny woman a teeny-tiny more frightened, so she hid her teeny-tiny head a teeny-tiny further under the teeny-tiny clothes.
and when the teeny-tiny woman had been to sleep again a teeny-tiny time, the teeny-tiny voice from the teeny-tiny cupboard said again a teeny-tiny louder,
“give me my bone!”
and this teeny-tiny woman was a teeny-tiny bit more frightened, but she put her teeny-tiny head out of the teeny-tiny clothes, and said in her loudest teeny-tiny voice, “take it!”
jack and the beanstalk
there was once upon a time a poor widow who had an only son named jack, and a cow named milky-white.
and all they had to live on was the milk the cow gave every morning which they carried to the market and sold.
but one morning milky-white gave no milk and they didn't know what to do.
“what shall we do, what shall we do?” said the widow, wringing her hands.
“cheer up, mother, i'll go and get work somewhere,” said jack.
“we've tried that before, and nobody would take you,” said his mother; “we must sell milky-white and with the money do something, start shop, or something.”
“all right, mother,” says jack; “it's market-day today, and i'll soon sell milky-white, and then we'll see what we can do.”
so he took the cow's halter in his hand, and off he starts.
he hadn't gone far when he met a funny-looking old man who said to him: “good morning, jack.”
“good morning to you,” said jack, and wondered how he knew his name.
“well, jack, and where are you off to?” said the man.
“i'm going to market to sell our cow here.”
“oh, you look the proper sort of chap to sell cows,” said the man; “i wonder if you know how many beans make five.”
“two in each hand and one in your mouth,” says jack, as sharp as a needle.
“right you are,” said the man, “and here they are the very beans themselves,” he went on pulling out of his pocket a number of strange-looking beans.
“as you are so sharp,” says he, “i don't mind doing a swop with you your cow for these beans.”
“walker!” says jack; “wouldn't you like it?”
“ah!
you don't know what these beans are,” said the man; “if you plant them over-night, by morning they grow right up to the sky.”
“really?” says jack; “you don't say so.”
“yes, that is so, and if it doesn't turn out to be true you can have your cow back.”
“right,” says jack, and hands him over milky-white's halter and pockets the beans.
back goes jack home, and as he hadn't gone very far it wasn't dusk by the time he got to his door.
“what back, jack?” said his mother; “i see you haven't got milky-white, so you've sold her.
how much did you get for her?”
“you'll never guess, mother,” says jack.
“no, you don't say so.
good boy!
five pounds, ten, fifteen, no, it can't be twenty.”
“i told you you couldn't guess, what do you say to these beans; they're magical, plant them over-night and  ”
“what!” says jack's mother, “have you been such a fool, such a dolt, such an idiot, as to give away my milky-white, the best milker in the parish, and prime beef to boot, for a set of paltry beans.
take that!
take that!
take that!
and as for your precious beans here they go out of the window.
and now off with you to bed.
not a sup shall you drink, and not a bit shall you swallow this very night.”
so jack went upstairs to his little room in the attic, and sad and sorry he was, to be sure, as much for his mother's sake, as for the loss of his supper.
at last he dropped off to sleep.
when he woke up, the room looked so funny.
the sun was shining into part of it, and yet all the rest was quite dark and shady.
so jack jumped up and dressed himself and went to the window.
and what do you think he saw?
why, the beans his mother had thrown out of the window into the garden, had sprung up into a big beanstalk which went up and up and up till it reached the sky.
so the man spoke truth after all.
the beanstalk grew up quite close past jack's window, so all he had to do was to open it and give a jump on to the beanstalk which was made like a big plaited ladder.
so jack climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till at last he reached the sky.
and when he got there he found a long broad road going as straight as a dart.
so he walked along and he walked along and he walked along till he came to a great big tall house, and on the doorstep there was a great big tall woman.
“good morning, mum,” says jack, quite polite-like.
“could you be so kind as to give me some breakfast.” for he hadn't had anything to eat, you know, the night before and was as hungry as a hunter.
“it's breakfast you want, is it?” says the great big tall woman, “it's breakfast you'll be if you don't move off from here.
my man is an ogre and there's nothing he likes better than boys broiled on toast.
you'd better be moving on or he'll soon be coming.”
“oh!
please mum, do give me something to eat, mum.
i've had nothing to eat since yesterday morning, really and truly, mum,” says jack.
“i may as well be broiled, as die of hunger.”
well, the ogre's wife wasn't such a bad sort, after all.
so she took jack into the kitchen, and gave him a junk of bread and cheese and a jug of milk.
but jack hadn't half finished these when thump!
thump!
thump!
the whole house began to tremble with the noise of someone coming.
“goodness gracious me!
it's my old man,” said the ogre's wife, “what on earth shall i do?
here, come quick and jump in here.” and she bundled jack into the oven just as the ogre came in.
he was a big one, to be sure.
at his belt he had three calves strung up by the heels, and he unhooked them and threw them down on the table and said: “here, wife, broil me a couple of these for breakfast.
ah what's this i smell?
fee-fi-fo-fum,   i smell the blood of an englishman,   be he alive, or be he dead   i'll have his bones to grind my bread.”
“nonsense, dear,” said his wife, “you're dreaming.
or perhaps you smell the scraps of that little boy you liked so much for yesterday's dinner.
here, go you and have a wash and tidy up, and by the time you come back your breakfast'll be ready for you.”
so the ogre went off, and jack was just going to jump out of the oven and run off when the woman told him not.
“wait till he's asleep,” says she; “he always has a snooze after breakfast.”
well, the ogre had his breakfast, and after that he goes to a big chest and takes out of it a couple of bags of gold and sits down counting them till at last his head began to nod and he began to snore till the whole house shook again.
then jack crept out on tiptoe from his oven, and as he was passing the ogre he took one of the bags of gold under his arm, and off he pelters till he came to the beanstalk, and then he threw down the bag of gold which of course fell in to his mother's garden, and then he climbed down and climbed down till at last he got home and told his mother and showed her the gold and said: “well, mother, wasn't i right about the beans.
they are really magical, you see.”
so they lived on the bag of gold for some time, but at last they came to the end of that so jack made up his mind to try his luck once more up at the top of the beanstalk.
so one fine morning he got up early, and got on to the beanstalk, and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till at last he got on the road again and came to the great big tall house he had been to before.
there, sure enough, was the great big tall woman a-standing on the door-step.
“good morning, mum,” says jack, as bold as brass, “could you be so good as to give me something to eat?”
“go away, my boy,” said the big, tall woman, “or else my man will eat you up for breakfast.
but aren't you the youngster who came here once before?
do you know, that very day, my man missed one of his bags of gold.”
“that's strange, mum,” says jack, “i dare say i could tell you something about that but i'm so hungry i can't speak till i've had something to eat.”
well the big tall woman was that curious that she took him in and gave him something to eat.
but he had scarcely begun munching it as slowly as he could when thump!
thump!
thump!
they heard the giant's footstep, and his wife hid jack away in the oven.
all happened as it did before.
in came the ogre as he did before, said:
“fee-fi-fo-fum,” and had his breakfast off three broiled oxen.
then he said: “wife, bring me the hen that lays the golden eggs.” so she brought it, and the ogre said: “lay,” and it laid an egg all of gold.
and then the ogre began to nod his head, and to snore till the house shook.
then jack crept out of the oven on tiptoe and caught hold of the golden hen, and was off before you could say “jack robinson.” but this time the hen gave a cackle which woke the ogre, and just as jack got out of the house he heard him calling: “wife, wife, what have you done with my golden hen?”
and the wife said: “why, my dear?”
but that was all jack heard, for he rushed off to the beanstalk and climbed down like a house on fire.
and when he got home he showed his mother the wonderful hen and said “lay,” to it; and it laid a golden egg every time he said “lay.”
well, jack was not content, and it wasn't very long before he determined to have another try at his luck up there at the top of the beanstalk.
so one fine morning, he got up early, and went on to the beanstalk, and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed and he climbed till he got to the top.
but this time he knew better than to go straight to the ogre's house.
and when he got near it he waited behind a bush till he saw the ogre's wife come out with a pail to get some water, and then he crept into the house and got into the copper.
he hadn't been there long when he heard thump!
thump!
thump!
as before, and in come the ogre and his wife.
“fee-fi-fo-fum, i smell the blood of an englishman,” cried out the ogre; “i smell him, wife, i smell him.”
“do you, my dearie?” says the ogre's wife.
“then if it's that little rogue that stole your gold and the hen that laid the golden eggs he's sure to have got into the oven.” and they both rushed to the oven.
but jack wasn't there, luckily, and the ogre's wife said: “there you are again with your fee-fi-fo-fum.
why of course it's the laddie you caught last night that i've broiled for your breakfast.
how forgetful i am, and how careless you are not to tell the difference between a live un and a dead un.”
so the ogre sat down to the breakfast and ate it, but every now and then he would mutter: “well, i could have sworn  ” and he'd get up and search the larder and the cupboards, and everything, only luckily he didn't think of the copper.
after breakfast was over, the ogre called out: “wife, wife, bring me my golden harp.” so she brought it and put it on the table before him.
then he said: “sing!” and the golden harp sang most beautifully.
and it went on singing till the ogre fell asleep, and commenced to snore like thunder.
then jack lifted up the copper-lid very quietly and got down like a mouse and crept on hands and knees till he got to the table when he got up and caught hold of the golden harp and dashed with it towards the door.
but the harp called out quite loud: “master!
master!” and the ogre woke up just in time to see jack running off with his harp.
jack ran as fast as he could, and the ogre came rushing after, and would soon have caught him only jack had a start and dodged him a bit and knew where he was going.
when he got to the beanstalk the ogre was not more than twenty yards away when suddenly he saw jack disappear like, and when he got up to the end of the road he saw jack underneath climbing down for dear life.
well, the ogre didn't like trusting himself to such a ladder, and he stood and waited, so jack got another start.
but just then the harp cried out: “master!
master!” and the ogre swung himself down on to the beanstalk which shook with his weight.
down climbs jack, and after him climbed the ogre.
by this time jack had climbed down and climbed down and climbed down till he was very nearly home.
so he called out: “mother!
mother!
bring me an axe, bring me an axe.” and his mother came rushing out with the axe in her hand, but when she came to the beanstalk she stood stock still with fright for there she saw the ogre just coming down below the clouds.
but jack jumped down and got hold of the axe and gave a chop at the beanstalk which cut it half in two.
the ogre felt the beanstalk shake and quiver so he stopped to see what was the matter.
then jack gave another chop with the axe, and the beanstalk was cut in two and began to topple over.
then the ogre fell down and broke his crown, and the beanstalk came toppling after.
then jack showed his mother his golden harp, and what with showing that and selling the golden eggs, jack and his mother became very rich, and he married a great princess, and they lived happy ever after.
the story of the three little pigs
once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme   and monkeys chewed tobacco,   and hens took snuff to make them tough,   and ducks went quack, quack, quack, o!
there was an old sow with three little pigs, and as she had not enough to keep them, she sent them out to seek their fortune.
the first that went off met a man with a bundle of straw, and said to him:
“please, man, give me that straw to build me a house.”
which the man did, and the little pig built a house with it.
presently came along a wolf, and knocked at the door, and said:
“little pig, little pig, let me come in.”
to which the pig answered:
“no, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin.”
the wolf then answered to that:
“then i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll blow your house in.”
so he huffed, and he puffed, and he blew his house in, and ate up the little pig.
the second little pig met a man with a bundle of furze, and said:
“please, man, give me that furze to build a house.”
which the man did, and the pig built his house.
then along came the wolf, and said:
“little pig, little pig, let me come in.”
“no, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin.”
“then i'll puff, and i'll huff, and i'll blow your house in.”
so he huffed, and he puffed, and he puffed, and he huffed, and at last he blew the house down, and he ate up the little pig.
the third little pig met a man with a load of bricks, and said:
“please, man, give me those bricks to build a house with.”
so the man gave him the bricks, and he built his house with them.
so the wolf came, as he did to the other little pigs, and said:
“little pig, little pig, let me come in.”
“no, no, by the hair of my chiny chin chin.”
“then i'll huff, and i'll puff, and i'll blow your house in.”
well, he huffed, and he puffed, and he huffed and he puffed, and he puffed and huffed; but he could not get the house down.
when he found that he could not, with all his huffing and puffing, blow the house down, he said:
“little pig, i know where there is a nice field of turnips.”
“where?” said the little pig.
“oh, in mr. smith's home-field, and if you will be ready tomorrow morning i will call for you, and we will go together, and get some for dinner.”
“very well,” said the little pig, “i will be ready.
what time do you mean to go?”
“oh, at six o'clock.”
well, the little pig got up at five, and got the turnips before the wolf came (which he did about six) and who said:
“little pig, are you ready?”
the little pig said: “ready!
i have been and come back again, and got a nice potful for dinner.”
the wolf felt very angry at this, but thought that he would be up to the little pig somehow or other, so he said:
“little pig, i know where there is a nice apple-tree.”
“where?” said the pig.
“down at merry-garden,” replied the wolf, “and if you will not deceive me i will come for you, at five o'clock tomorrow and get some apples.”
well, the little pig bustled up the next morning at four o'clock, and went off for the apples, hoping to get back before the wolf came; but he had further to go, and had to climb the tree, so that just as he was coming down from it, he saw the wolf coming, which, as you may suppose, frightened him very much.
when the wolf came up he said:
“little pig, what!
are you here before me?
are they nice apples?”
“yes, very,” said the little pig.
“i will throw you down one.”
and he threw it so far, that, while the wolf was gone to pick it up, the little pig jumped down and ran home.
the next day the wolf came again, and said to the little pig:
“little pig, there is a fair at shanklin this afternoon, will you go?”
“oh yes,” said the pig, “i will go; what time shall you be ready?”
“at three,” said the wolf.
so the little pig went off before the time as usual, and got to the fair, and bought a butter-churn, which he was going home with, when he saw the wolf coming.
then he could not tell what to do.
so he got into the churn to hide, and by so doing turned it round, and it rolled down the hill with the pig in it, which frightened the wolf so much, that he ran home without going to the fair.
he went to the little pig's house, and told him how frightened he had been by a great round thing which came down the hill past him.
then the little pig said:
“hah, i frightened you, then.
i had been to the fair and bought a butter-churn, and when i saw you, i got into it, and rolled down the hill.”
then the wolf was very angry indeed, and declared he would eat up the little pig, and that he would get down the chimney after him.
when the little pig saw what he was about, he hung on the pot full of water, and made up a blazing fire, and, just as the wolf was coming down, took off the cover, and in fell the wolf; so the little pig put on the cover again in an instant, boiled him up, and ate him for supper, and lived happy ever afterwards.
the master and his pupil
there was once a very learned man in the north-country who knew all the languages under the sun, and who was acquainted with all the mysteries of creation.
he had one big book bound in black calf and clasped with iron, and with iron corners, and chained to a table which was made fast to the floor; and when he read out of this book, he unlocked it with an iron key, and none but he read from it, for it contained all the secrets of the spiritual world.
it told how many angels there were in heaven, and how they marched in their ranks, and sang in their quires, and what were their several functions, and what was the name of each great angel of might.
and it told of the demons, how many of them there were, and what were their several powers, and their labours, and their names, and how they might be summoned, and how tasks might be imposed on them, and how they might be chained to be as slaves to man.
now the master had a pupil who was but a foolish lad, and he acted as servant to the great master, but never was he suffered to look into the black book, hardly to enter the private room.
one day the master was out, and then the lad, as curious as could be, hurried to the chamber where his master kept his wondrous apparatus for changing copper into gold, and lead into silver, and where was his mirror in which he could see all that was passing in the world, and where was the shell which when held to the ear whispered all the words that were being spoken by anyone the master desired to know about.
the lad tried in vain with the crucibles to turn copper and lead into gold and silver he looked long and vainly into the mirror; smoke and clouds passed over it, but he saw nothing plain, and the shell to his ear produced only indistinct murmurings, like the breaking of distant seas on an unknown shore.
“i can do nothing,” he said; “as i don't know the right words to utter, and they are locked up in yon book.”
he looked round, and, see!
the book was unfastened; the master had forgotten to lock it before he went out.
the boy rushed to it, and unclosed the volume.
it was written with red and black ink, and much of it he could not understand; but he put his finger on a line and spelled it through.
at once the room was darkened, and the house trembled; a clap of thunder rolled through the passage and the old room, and there stood before him a horrible, horrible form, breathing fire, and with eyes like burning lamps.
it was the demon beelzebub, whom he had called up to serve him.
“set me a task!” said he, with a voice like the roaring of an iron furnace.
the boy only trembled, and his hair stood up.
“set me a task, or i shall strangle thee!”
but the lad could not speak.
then the evil spirit stepped towards him, and putting forth his hands touched his throat.
the fingers burned his flesh.
“set me a task!”
“water yon flower,” cried the boy in despair, pointing to a geranium which stood in a pot on the floor.
instantly the spirit left the room, but in another instant he returned with a barrel on his back, and poured its contents over the flower; and again and again he went and came, and poured more and more water, till the floor of the room was ankle-deep.
“enough, enough!” gasped the lad; but the demon heeded him not; the lad didn't know the words by which to send him away, and still he fetched water.
it rose to the boy's knees and still more water was poured.
it mounted to his waist, and beelzebub still kept on bringing barrels full.
it rose to his armpits, and he scrambled to the table-top.
and now the water in the room stood up to the window and washed against the glass, and swirled around his feet on the table.
it still rose; it reached his breast.
in vain he cried; the evil spirit would not be dismissed, and to this day he would have been pouring water, and would have drowned all yorkshire.
but the master remembered on his journey that he had not locked his book, and therefore returned, and at the moment when the water was bubbling about the pupil's chin, rushed into the room and spoke the words which cast beelzebub back into his fiery home.
titty mouse and tatty mouse
titty mouse and tatty mouse both lived in a house,
titty mouse went a leasing and tatty mouse went a leasing,
so they both went a leasing.
titty mouse leased an ear of corn, and tatty mouse leased an ear of corn,
so they both leased an ear of corn.
titty mouse made a pudding, and tatty mouse made a pudding,
so they both made a pudding.
and tatty mouse put her pudding into the pot to boil,
but when titty went to put hers in, the pot tumbled over, and scalded her to death.
then tatty sat down and wept; then a three-legged stool said: “tatty, why do you weep?” “titty's dead,” said tatty, “and so i weep;” “then,”
said the stool, “i'll hop,” so the stool hopped.
then a broom in the corner of the room said, “stool, why do you hop?”
“oh!” said the stool, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and so i hop;”
“then,” said the broom, “i'll sweep,” so the broom began to sweep.
“then,” said the door, “broom, why do you sweep?” “oh!” said the broom, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and so i sweep;”
“then,” said the door, “i'll jar,” so the door jarred.
“then,” said the window, “door, why do you jar?” “oh!” said the door, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, and so i jar.”
“then,” said the window, “i'll creak,” so the window creaked.
now there was an old form outside the house, and when the window creaked, the form said: “window, why do you creak?” “oh!” said the window, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and so i creak.”
“then,” said the old form, “i'll run round the house;” then the old form ran round the house.
now there was a fine large walnut-tree growing by the cottage, and the tree said to the form: “form, why do you run round the house?” “oh!” said the form, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, and the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, and so i run round the house.”
“then,” said the walnut-tree, “i'll shed my leaves,” so the walnut-tree shed all its beautiful green leaves.
now there was a little bird perched on one of the boughs of the tree, and when all the leaves fell, it said: “walnut-tree, why do you shed your leaves?” “oh!” said the tree, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, and so i shed my leaves.”
“then,” said the little bird, “i'll moult all my feathers,” so he moulted all his pretty feathers.
now there was a little girl walking below, carrying a jug of milk for her brothers and sisters' supper, and when she saw the poor little bird moult all its feathers, she said:
“little bird, why do you moult all your feathers?” “oh!” said the little bird, “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds its leaves, and so i moult all my feathers.”
“then,” said the little girl, “i'll spill the milk,” so she dropt the pitcher and spilt the milk.
now there was an old man just by on the top of a ladder thatching a rick, and when he saw the little girl spill the milk, he said: “little girl, what do you mean by spilling the milk, your little brothers and sisters must go without their supper.” then said the little girl: “titty's dead, and tatty weeps, the stool hops, and the broom sweeps, the door jars, and the window creaks, the old form runs round the house, the walnut-tree sheds all its leaves, the little bird moults all its feathers, and so i spill the milk.”
“oh!” said the old man, “then i'll tumble off the ladder and break my neck,” so he tumbled off the ladder and broke his neck; and when the old man broke his neck, the great walnut-tree fell down with a crash, and upset the old form and house, and the house falling knocked the window out, and the window knocked the door down, and the door upset the broom, and the broom upset the stool, and poor little tatty mouse was buried beneath the ruins.
jack and his golden snuff-box
once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it was neither in my time nor in your time nor in any one else's time, there was an old man and an old woman, and they had one son, and they lived in a great forest.
and their son never saw any other people in his life, but he knew that there was some more in the world besides his own father and mother, because he had lots of books, and he used to read every day about them.
and when he read about some pretty young women, he used to go mad to see some of them; till one day, when his father was out cutting wood, he told his mother that he wished to go away to look for his living in some other country, and to see some other people besides them two.
and he said, “i see nothing at all here but great trees around me; and if i stay here, maybe i shall go mad before i see anything.” the young man's father was out all this time, when this talk was going on between him and his poor old mother.
the old woman begins by saying to her son before leaving, “well, well, my poor boy, if you want to go, it's better for you to go, and god be with you.” (the old woman thought for the best when she said that.)
“but stop a bit before you go.
which would you like best for me to make you, a little cake and bless you, or a big cake and curse you?”
“dear, dear!” said he, “make me a big cake.
maybe i shall be hungry on the road.” the old woman made the big cake, and she went on top of the house, and she cursed him as far as she could see him.
he presently meets with his father, and the old man says to him: “where are you going, my poor boy?” when the son told the father the same tale as he told his mother.
“well,” says his father, “i'm sorry to see you going away, but if you've made your mind to go, it's better for you to go.”
the poor lad had not gone far, when his father called him back; then the old man drew out of his pocket a golden snuff-box, and said to him:
“here, take this little box, and put it in your pocket, and be sure not to open it till you are near your death.” and away went poor jack upon his road, and walked till he was tired and hungry, for he had eaten all his cake upon the road; and by this time night was upon him, so he could hardly see his way before him.
he could see some light a long way before him, and he made up to it, and found the back door and knocked at it, till one of the maid-servants came and asked him what he wanted.
he said that night was on him, and he wanted to get some place to sleep.
the maid-servant called him in to the fire, and gave him plenty to eat, good meat and bread and beer; and as he was eating his food by the fire, there came the young lady to look at him, and she loved him well and he loved her.
and the young lady ran to tell her father, and said there was a pretty young man in the back kitchen; and immediately the gentleman came to him, and questioned him, and asked what work he could do.
jack said, the silly fellow, that he could do anything.
(he meant that he could do any foolish bit of work, that would be wanted about the house.)
“well,” says the gentleman to him, “if you can do anything, at eight o'clock in the morning i must have a great lake and some of-the largest man-of-war vessels sailing before my mansion, and one of the largest vessels must fire a royal salute, and the last round must break the leg of the bed where my young daughter is sleeping.
and if you don't do that, you will have to forfeit your life.”
“all right,” said jack; and away he went to his bed, and said his prayers quietly, and slept till it was near eight o'clock, and he had hardly any time to think what he was to do, till all of a sudden he remembered about the little golden box that his father gave him.
and he said to himself: “well, well, i never was so near my death as i am now;”
and then he felt in his pocket, and drew the little box out.
and when he opened it, out there hopped three little red men, and asked jack: “what is your will with us?” “well,” said jack, “i want a great lake and some of the largest man-of-war vessels in the world before this mansion, and one of the largest vessels to fire a royal salute, and the last round to break one of the legs of the bed where this young lady is sleeping.”
“all right,” said the little men; “go to sleep.”
jack had hardly time to bring the words out of his mouth, to tell the little men what to do, but what it struck eight o'clock, when bang, bang went one of the largest man-of-war vessels; and it made jack jump out of bed to look through the window; and i can assure you it was a wonderful sight for him to see, after being so long with his father and mother living in a wood.
by this time jack dressed himself, and said his prayers, and came down laughing; for he was proud, he was, because the thing was done so well.
the gentleman comes to him, and says to him: “well, my young man, i must say that you are very clever indeed.
come and have some breakfast.” and the gentleman tells him, “now there are two more things you have to do, and then you shall have my daughter in marriage.” jack gets his breakfast, and has a good squint at the young lady, and also she at him.
the other thing that the gentleman told him to do was to fell all the great trees for miles around by eight o'clock in the morning; and, to make my long story short, it was done, and it pleased the gentleman well the gentleman said to him: “the other thing you have to do” (and it was the last thing) “you must get me a great castle standing on twelve golden pillars; and there must come regiments of soldiers and go through their drill.
at eight o'clock the commanding officer must say, 'shoulder up.
'” “all right,” said jack; when the third and last morning came the third great feat was finished, and he had the young daughter in marriage.
but, oh dear!
there is worse to come yet.
the gentleman now makes a large hunting party, and invites all the gentlemen around the country to it, and to see the castle as well.
and by this time jack has a beautiful horse and a scarlet dress to go with them.
on that morning his valet, when putting jack's clothes by, after changing them to go a hunting, put his hand in one of jack's waistcoat-pockets, and pulled out the little golden snuffbox, as poor jack left behind in a mistake.
and that man opened the little box, and there hopped the three little red men out, and asked him what he wanted with them.
“well,” said the valet to them, “i want this castle to be moved from this place far and far across the sea.” “all right,” said the little red men to him; “do you wish to go with it?” “yes,” said he.
“well, get up,” said they to him; and away they went far and far over the great sea.
now the grand hunting party comes back, and the castle upon the twelve golden pillars had disappeared, to the great disappointment of those gentlemen as did not see it before.
that poor silly jack is threatened by taking his beautiful young wife from him, for taking them in in the way he did.
but the gentleman at last made an agreement with him, and he is to have a twelvemonths and a day to look for it; and off he goes with a good horse and money in his pocket.
now poor jack goes in search of his missing castle, over hills, dales, valleys, and mountains, through woolly woods and sheepwalks, further than i can tell you or ever intend to tell you.
until at last he comes up to the place where lives the king of all the little mice in the world.
there was one of the little mice on sentry at the front gate going up to the palace, and did try to stop jack from going in.
he asked the little mouse: “where does the king live?
i should like to see him.”
this one sent another with him to show him the place; and when the king saw him, he called him in.
and the king questioned him, and asked him where he was going that way.
well, jack told him all the truth, that he had lost the great castle, and was going to look for it, and he had a whole twelvemonths and a day to find it out.
and jack asked him whether he knew anything about it; and the king said: “no, but i am the king of all the little mice in the world, and i will call them all up in the morning, and maybe they have seen something of it.”
then jack got a good meal and bed, and in the morning he and the king went on to the fields; and the king called all the mice together, and asked them whether they had seen the great beautiful castle standing on golden pillars.
and all the little mice said, no, there was none of them had seen it.
the old king said to him that he had two other brothers:
“one is the king of all the frogs; and my other brother, who is the oldest, he is the king of all the birds in the world.
and if you go there, may be they know something about the missing castle.” the king said to him: “leave your horse here with me till you come back, and take one of my best horses under you, and give this cake to my brother; he will know then who you got it from.
mind and tell him i am well, and should like dearly to see him.” and then the king and jack shook hands together.
and when jack was going through the gates, the little mouse asked him, should he go with him; and jack said to him: “no, i shall get myself into trouble with the king.” and the little thing told him: “it will be better for you to let me go with you; maybe i shall do some good to you some time without you knowing it.” “jump up, then.” and the little mouse ran up the horse's leg, and made it dance; and jack put the mouse in his pocket.
now jack, after wishing good morning to the king and pocketing the little mouse which was on sentry, trudged on his way; and such a long way he had to go and this was his first day.
at last he found the place; and there was one of the frogs on sentry, and gun upon his shoulder, and did try to hinder jack from going in; but when jack said to him that he wanted to see the king, he allowed him to pass; and jack made up to the door.
the king came out, and asked him his business; and jack told him all from beginning to end.
“well, well, come in.” he gets good entertainment that night; and in the morning the king made such a funny sound, and collected all the frogs in the world.
and he asked them, did they know or see anything of a castle that stood upon twelve golden pillars; and they all made a curious sound, kro-kro, kro-kro, and said, no.
jack had to take another horse, and a cake to this king's brother, who is the king of all the fowls of the air; and as jack was going through the gates, the little frog that was on sentry asked john should he go with him.
jack refused him for a bit; but at last he told him to jump up, and jack put him in his other waistcoat pocket.
and away he went again on his great long journey; it was three times as long this time as it was the first day; however, he found the place, and there was a fine bird on sentry.
and jack passed him, and he never said a word to him; and he talked with the king, and told him everything, all about the castle.
“well,” said the king to him, “you shall know in the morning from my birds, whether they know anything or not.” jack put up his horse in the stable, and then went to bed, after having something to eat.
and when he got up in the morning the king and he went on to some field, and there the king made some funny noise, and there came all the fowls that were in all the world.
and the king asked them; “did they see the fine castle?” and all the birds answered, no.
“well,” said the king, “where is the great bird?” they had to wait then for a long time for the eagle to make his appearance, when at last he came all in a perspiration, after sending two little birds high up in the sky to whistle on him to make all the haste he possibly could.
the king asked the great bird, did he see the great castle?
and the bird said: “yes, i came from there where it now is.” “well,” says the king to him; “this young gentleman has lost it, and you must go with him back to it; but stop till you get a bit of something to eat first.”
they killed a thief, and sent the best part of it to feed the eagle on his journey over the seas, and had to carry jack on his back.
now when they came in sight of the castle, they did not know what to do to get the little golden box.
well, the little mouse said to them: “leave me down, and i will get the little box for you.” so the mouse stole into the castle, and got hold of the box; and when he was coming down the stairs, it fell down, and he was very near being caught.
he came running out with it, laughing his best.
“have you got it?” jack said to him; he said: “yes;” and off they went back again, and left the castle behind.
as they were all of them (jack, mouse, frog, and eagle) passing over the great sea, they fell to quarrelling about which it was that got the little box, till down it slipped into the water.
(it was by them looking at it and handing it from one hand to the other that they dropped the little box to the bottom of the sea.)
“well, well,” said the frog, “i knew that i would have to do something, so you had better let me go down in the water.” and they let him go, and he was down for three days and three nights; and up he comes, and shows his nose and little mouth out of the water; and all of them asked him, did he get it?
and he told them, no.
“well, what are you doing there, then?” “nothing at all,” he said, “only i want my full breath;” and the poor little frog went down the second time, and he was down for a day and a night, and up he brings it.
and away they did go, after being there four days and nights; and after a long tug over seas and mountains, arrive at the palace of the old king, who is the master of all the birds in the world.
and the king is very proud to see them, and has a hearty welcome and a long conversation.
jack opens the little box, and told the little men to go back and to bring the castle here to them; “and all of you make as much haste back again as you possibly can.”
the three little men went off; and when they came near the castle they were afraid to go to it till the gentleman and lady and all the servants were gone out to some dance.
and there was no one left behind there only the cook and another maid with her; and the little red men asked them which would they rather go, or stop behind?
and they both said: “i will go with you;” and the little men told them to run upstairs quick.
they were no sooner up and in one of the drawing-rooms than here comes just in sight the gentleman and lady and all the servants; but it was too late.
off the castle went at full speed, with the women laughing at them through the window, while they made motions for them to stop, but all to no purpose.
they were nine days on their journey, in which they did try to keep the sunday holy, when one of the little men turned to be the priest, the other the clerk, and third presided at the organ, and the women were the singers, for they had a grand chapel in the castle already.
very remarkable, there was a discord made in the music, and one of the little men ran up one of the organ-pipes to see where the bad sound came from, when he found out it only happened to be that the two women were laughing at the little red man stretching his little legs full length on the bass pipes, also his two arms the same time, with his little red night-cap, which he never forgot to wear, and what they never witnessed before, could not help calling forth some good merriment while on the face of the deep.
and poor thing!
through them not going on with what they begun with, they very near came to danger, as the castle was once very near sinking in the middle of the sea.
at length, after a merry journey, they come again to jack and the king.
the king was quite struck with the sight of the castle; and going up the golden stairs, went to see the inside.
the king was very much pleased with the castle, but poor jack's time of a twelvemonths and a day was drawing to a close; and he, wishing to go home to his young wife, gives orders to the three little men to get ready by the next morning at eight o'clock to be off to the next brother, and to stop there for one night; also to proceed from there to the last or the youngest brother, the master of all the mice in the world, in such place where the castle shall be left under his care until it's sent for.
jack takes a farewell of the king, and thanks him very much for his hospitality.
away went jack and his castle again, and stopped one night in that place; and away they went again to the third place, and there left the castle under his care.
as jack had to leave the castle behind, he had to take to his own horse, which he left there when he first started.
now poor jack leaves his castle behind and faces towards home; and after having so much merriment with the three brothers every night, jack became sleepy on horseback, and would have lost the road if it was not for the little men a-guiding him.
at last he arrived weary and tired, and they did not seem to receive him with any kindness whatever, because he had not found the stolen castle; and to make it worse, he was disappointed in not seeing his young and beautiful wife to come and meet him, through being hindered by her parents.
but that did not stop long.
jack put full power on and despatched the little men off to bring the castle from there, and they soon got there.
jack shook hands with the king, and returned many thanks for his kingly kindness in minding the castle for him; and then jack instructed the little men to spur up and put speed on.
and off they went, and were not long before they reached their journey's end, when out comes the young wife to meet him with a fine lump of a young son, and they all lived happy ever afterwards.
the story of the three bears
once upon a time there were three bears, who lived together in a house of their own, in a wood.
one of them was a little, small wee bear; and one was a middle-sized bear, and the other was a great, huge bear.
they had each a pot for their porridge, a little pot for the little, small, wee bear; and a middle-sized pot for the middle bear, and a great pot for the great, huge bear.
and they had each a chair to sit in; a little chair for the little, small, wee bear; and a middle-sized chair for the middle bear; and a great chair for the great, huge bear.
and they had each a bed to sleep in; a little bed for the little, small, wee bear; and a middle-sized bed for the middle bear; and a great bed for the great, huge bear.
one day, after they had made the porridge for their breakfast, and poured it into their porridge-pots, they walked out into the wood while the porridge was cooling, that they might not burn their mouths, by beginning too soon to eat it.
and while they were walking, a little old woman came to the house.
she could not have been a good, honest old woman; for first she looked in at the window, and then she peeped in at the keyhole; and seeing nobody in the house, she lifted the latch.
the door was not fastened, because the bears were good bears, who did nobody any harm, and never suspected that anybody would harm them.
so the little old woman opened the door, and went in; and well pleased she was when she saw the porridge on the table.
if she had been a good little old woman, she would have waited till the bears came home, and then, perhaps, they would have asked her to breakfast; for they were good bears a little rough or so, as the manner of bears is, but for all that very good-natured and hospitable.
but she was an impudent, bad old woman, and set about helping herself.
so first she tasted the porridge of the great, huge bear, and that was too hot for her; and she said a bad word about that.
and then she tasted the porridge of the middle bear, and that was too cold for her; and she said a bad word about that too.
and then she went to the porridge of the little, small, wee bear, and tasted that; and that was neither too hot, nor too cold, but just right; and she liked it so well, that she ate it all up: but the naughty old woman said a bad word about the little porridge-pot, because it did not hold enough for her.
then the little old woman sate down in the chair of the great, huge bear, and that was too hard for her.
and then she sate down in the chair of the middle bear, and that was too soft for her.
and then she sate down in the chair of the little, small, wee bear, and that was neither too hard, nor too soft, but just right.
so she seated herself in it, and there she sate till the bottom of the chair came out, and down she came, plump upon the ground.
and the naughty old woman said a wicked word about that too.
then the little old woman went upstairs into the bed-chamber in which the three bears slept.
and first she lay down upon the bed of the great, huge bear; but that was too high at the head for her.
and next she lay down upon the bed of the middle bear; and that was too high at the foot for her.
and then she lay down upon the bed of the little, small, wee bear; and that was neither too high at the head, nor at the foot, but just right.
so she covered herself up comfortably, and lay there till she fell fast asleep.
by this time the three bears thought their porridge would be cool enough; so they came home to breakfast.
now the little old woman had left the spoon of the great, huge bear, standing in his porridge.
“somebody has been at my porridge!”
said the great, huge bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.
and when the middle bear looked at his, he saw that the spoon was standing in it too.
they were wooden spoons; if they had been silver ones, the naughty old woman would have put them in her pocket.
“somebody has been at my porridge!”
said the middle bear in his middle voice.
then the little, small, wee bear looked at his, and there was the spoon in the porridge-pot, but the porridge was all gone.
“somebody has been at my porridge, and has eaten it all up!”
said the little, small, wee bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
upon this the three bears, seeing that some one had entered their house, and eaten up the little, small, wee bear's breakfast, began to look about them.
now the little old woman had not put the hard cushion straight when she rose from the chair of the great, huge bear.
“somebody has been sitting in my chair!”
said the great, huge bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.
and the little old woman had squatted down the soft cushion of the middle bear.
“somebody has been sitting in my chair!”
said the middle bear, in his middle voice.
and you know what the little old woman had done to the third chair.
“somebody has been sitting in my chair and has sate the bottom out of it!”
said the little, small, wee bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
then the three bears thought it necessary that they should make farther search; so they went upstairs into their bedchamber.
now the little old woman had pulled the pillow of the great, huge bear, out of its place.
“somebody has been lying in my bed!”
said the great, huge bear, in his great, rough, gruff voice.
and the little old woman had pulled the bolster of the middle bear out of its place.
“somebody has been lying in my bed!”
said the middle bear, in his middle voice.
and when the little, small, wee bear came to look at his bed, there was the bolster in its place; and the pillow in its place upon the bolster; and upon the pillow was the little old woman's ugly, dirty head, which was not in its place, for she had no business there.
“somebody has been lying in my bed, and here she is!”
said the little, small, wee bear, in his little, small, wee voice.
the little old woman had heard in her sleep the great, rough, gruff voice of the great, huge bear; but she was so fast asleep that it was no more to her than the roaring of wind, or the rumbling of thunder.
and she had heard the middle voice, of the middle bear, but it was only as if she had heard some one speaking in a dream.
but when she heard the little, small, wee voice of the little, small, wee bear, it was so sharp, and so shrill, that it awakened her at once.
up she started; and when she saw the three bears on one side of the bed, she tumbled herself out at the other, and ran to the window.
now the window was open, because the bears, like good, tidy bears, as they were, always opened their bedchamber window when they got up in the morning.
out the little old woman jumped; and whether she broke her neck in the fall; or ran into the wood and was lost there; or found her way out of the wood, and was taken up by the constable and sent to the house of correction for a vagrant as she was, i cannot tell.
but the three bears never saw anything more of her.
jack the giant-killer
when good king arthur reigned, there lived near the land's end of england, in the county of cornwall, a farmer who had one only son called jack.
he was brisk and of a ready lively wit, so that nobody or nothing could worst him.
in those days the mount of cornwall was kept by a huge giant named cormoran.
he was eighteen feet in height, and about three yards round the waist, of a fierce and grim countenance, the terror of all the neighbouring towns and villages.
he lived in a cave in the midst of the mount, and whenever he wanted food he would wade over to the main-land, where he would furnish himself with whatever came in his way.
everybody at his approach ran out of their houses, while he seized on their cattle, making nothing of carrying half-a-dozen oxen on his back at a time; and as for their sheep and hogs, he would tie them round his waist like a bunch of tallow-dips.
he had done this for many years, so that all cornwall was in despair.
one day jack happened to be at the town-hall when the magistrates were sitting in council about the giant.
he asked: “what reward will be given to the man who kills cormoran?” “the giant's treasure,” they said, “will be the reward.” quoth jack: “then let me undertake it.”
so he got a horn, shovel, and pickaxe, and went over to the mount in the beginning of a dark winter's evening, when he fell to work, and before morning had dug a pit twenty-two feet deep, and nearly as broad, covering it over with long sticks and straw.
then he strewed a little mould over it, so that it appeared like plain ground.
jack then placed himself on the opposite side of the pit, farthest from the giant's lodging, and, just at the break of day, he put the horn to his mouth, and blew, tantivy, tantivy.
this noise roused the giant, who rushed from his cave, crying: “you incorrigible villain, are you come here to disturb my rest?
you shall pay dearly for this.
satisfaction i will have, and this it shall be, i will take you whole and broil you for breakfast.” he had no sooner uttered this, than he tumbled into the pit, and made the very foundations of the mount to shake.
“oh, giant,” quoth jack, “where are you now?
oh, faith, you are gotten now into lob's pound, where i will surely plague you for your threatening words: what do you think now of broiling me for your breakfast?
will no other diet serve you but poor jack?” then having tantalised the giant for a while, he gave him a most weighty knock with his pickaxe on the very crown of his head, and killed him on the spot.
jack then filled up the pit with earth, and went to search the cave, which he found contained much treasure.
when the magistrates heard of this they made a declaration he should henceforth be termed
jack the giant-killer
and presented him with a sword and a belt, on which were written these words embroidered in letters of gold:
“here's the right valiant cornish man,   who slew the giant cormoran.”
the news of jack's victory soon spread over all the west of england, so that another giant, named blunderbore, hearing of it, vowed to be revenged on jack, if ever he should light on him.
this giant was the lord of an enchanted castle situated in the midst of a lonesome wood.
now jack, about four months afterwards, walking near this wood in his journey to wales, being weary, seated himself near a pleasant fountain and fell fast asleep.
while he was sleeping, the giant, coming there for water, discovered him, and knew him to be the far-famed jack the giant-killer by the lines written on the belt.
without ado, he took jack on his shoulders and carried him towards his castle.
now, as they passed through a thicket, the rustling of the boughs awakened jack, who was strangely surprised to find himself in the clutches of the giant.
his terror was only begun, for, on entering the castle, he saw the ground strewed with human bones, and the giant told him his own would ere long be among them.
after this the giant locked poor jack in an immense chamber, leaving him there while he went to fetch another giant, his brother, living in the same wood, who might share in the meal on jack.
after waiting some time jack, on going to the window beheld afar off the two giants coming towards the castle.
“now,” quoth jack to himself, “my death or my deliverance is at hand.” now, there were strong cords in a corner of the room in which jack was, and two of these he took, and made a strong noose at the end; and while the giants were unlocking the iron gate of the castle he threw the ropes over each of their heads.
then he drew the other ends across a beam, and pulled with all his might, so that he throttled them.
then, when he saw they were black in the face, he slid down the rope, and drawing his sword, slew them both.
then, taking the giant's keys, and unlocking the rooms, he found three fair ladies tied by the hair of their heads, almost starved to death.
“sweet ladies,” quoth jack, “i have destroyed this monster and his brutish brother, and obtained your liberties.” this said he presented them with the keys, and so proceeded on his journey to wales.
jack made the best of his way by travelling as fast as he could, but lost his road, and was benighted, and could find any habitation until, coming into a narrow valley, he found a large house, and in order to get shelter took courage to knock at the gate.
but what was his surprise when there came forth a monstrous giant with two heads; yet he did not appear so fiery as the others were, for he was a welsh giant, and what he did was by private and secret malice under the false show of friendship.
jack, having told his condition to the giant, was shown into a bedroom, where, in the dead of night, he heard his host in another apartment muttering these words:
“though here you lodge with me this night,   you shall not see the morning light   my club shall dash your brains outright!”
“say'st thou so,” quoth jack; “that is like one of your welsh tricks, yet i hope to be cunning enough for you.” then, getting out of bed, he laid a billet in the bed in his stead, and hid himself in a corner of the room.
at the dead time of the night in came the welsh giant, who struck several heavy blows on the bed with his club, thinking he had broken every bone in jack's skin.
the next morning jack, laughing in his sleeve, gave him hearty thanks for his night's lodging.
“how have you rested?” quoth the giant; “did you not feel anything in the night?”
“no,” quoth jack, “nothing but a rat, which gave me two or three slaps with her tail.” with that, greatly wondering, the giant led jack to breakfast, bringing him a bowl containing four gallons of hasty pudding.
being loth to let the giant think it too much for him, jack put a large leather bag under his loose coat, in such a way that he could convey the pudding into it without its being perceived.
then, telling the giant he would show him a trick, taking a knife, jack ripped open the bag, and out came all the hasty pudding.
whereupon, saying, “odds splutters hur nails, hur can do that trick hurself,” the monster took the knife, and ripping open his belly, fell down dead.
now, it happened in these days that king arthur's only son asked his father to give him a large sum of money, in order that he might go and seek his fortune in the principality of wales, where lived a beautiful lady possessed with seven evil spirits.
the king did his best to persuade his son from it, but in vain; so at last gave way and the prince set out with two horses, one loaded with money, the other for himself to ride upon.
now, after several days' travel, he came to a market-town in wales, where he beheld a vast crowd of people gathered together.
the prince asked the reason of it, and was told that they had arrested a corpse for several large sums of money which the deceased owed when he died.
the prince replied that it was a pity creditors should be so cruel, and said: “go bury the dead, and let his creditors come to my lodging, and there their debts shall be paid.” they came, in such great numbers that before night he had only twopence left for himself.
now jack the giant-killer, coming that way, was so taken with the generosity of the prince, that he desired to be his servant.
this being agreed upon, the next morning they set forward on their journey together, when, as they were riding out of the town, an old woman called after the prince, saying, “he has owed me twopence these seven years; pray pay me as well as the rest.” putting his hand to his pocket, the prince gave the woman all he had left, so that after their day's food, which cost what small spell jack had by him, they were without a penny between them.
when the sun got low, the king's son said: “jack, since we have no money, where can we lodge this night?”
but jack replied: “master, we'll do well enough, for i have an uncle lives within two miles of this place; he is a huge and monstrous giant with three heads; he'll fight five hundred men in armour, and make them to fly before him.” “alas!” quoth the prince, “what shall we do there?
he'll certainly chop us up at a mouthful.
nay, we are scarce enough to fill one of his hollow teeth!”
“it is no matter for that,” quoth jack; “i myself will go before and prepare the way for you; therefore stop here and wait till i return.”
jack then rode away at full speed, and coming to the gate of the castle, he knocked so loud that he made the neighbouring hills resound.
the giant roared out at this like thunder: “who's there?”
jack answered: “none but your poor cousin jack.”
quoth he: “what news with my poor cousin jack?”
he replied: “dear uncle, heavy news, god wot!”
“prithee,” quoth the giant, “what heavy news can come to me?
i am a giant with three heads, and besides thou knowest i can fight five hundred men in armour, and make them fly like chaff before the wind.”
“oh, but,” quoth jack, “here's the king's son a-coming with a thousand men in armour to kill you and destroy all that you have!”
“oh, cousin jack,” said the giant, “this is heavy news indeed!
i will immediately run and hide myself, and thou shalt lock, bolt, and bar me in, and keep the keys until the prince is gone.” having secured the giant, jack fetched his master, when they made themselves heartily merry whilst the poor giant lay trembling in a vault under the ground.
early in the morning jack furnished his master with a fresh supply of gold and silver, and then sent him three miles forward on his journey, at which time the prince was pretty well out of the smell of the giant.
jack then returned, and let the giant out of the vault, who asked what he should give him for keeping the castle from destruction.
“why,” quoth jack, “i want nothing but the old coat and cap, together with the old rusty sword and slippers which are at your bed's head.” quoth the giant:
“you know not what you ask; they are the most precious things i have.
the coat will keep you invisible, the cap will tell you all you want to know, the sword cuts asunder whatever you strike, and the shoes are of extraordinary swiftness.
but you have been very serviceable to me, therefore take them with all my heart.” jack thanked his uncle, and then went off with them.
he soon overtook his master and they quickly arrived at the house of the lady the prince sought, who, finding the prince to be a suitor, prepared a splendid banquet for him.
after the repast was concluded, she told him she had a task for him.
she wiped his mouth with a handkerchief, saying: “you must show me that handkerchief to-morrow morning, or else you will lose your head.” with that she put it in her bosom.
the prince went to bed in great sorrow, but jack's cap of knowledge informed him how it was to be obtained.
in the middle of the night she called upon her familiar spirit to carry her to lucifer.
but jack put on his coat of darkness and his shoes of swiftness, and was there as soon as she was.
when she entered the place of the old one, she gave the handkerchief to old lucifer, who laid it upon a shelf, whence jack took it and brought it to his master, who showed it to the lady next day, and so saved his life.
on that day, she gave the prince a kiss and told him he must show her the lips to-morrow morning that she kissed last night, or lose his head.
“ah!” he replied, “if you kiss none but mine, i will.”
“that is neither here nor there,” said she; “if you do not, death's your portion!”
at midnight she went as before, and was angry with old lucifer for letting the handkerchief go.
“but now,” quoth she, “i will be too hard for the king's son, for i will kiss thee, and he is to show me thy lips.” which she did, and jack, when she was not standing by, cut off lucifer's head and brought it under his invisible coat to his master, who the next morning pulled it out by the horns before the lady.
this broke the enchantment and the evil spirit left her, and she appeared in all her beauty.
they were married the next morning, and soon after went to the court of king arthur, where jack for his many great exploits, was made one of the knights of the round table.
jack soon went searching for giants again, but he had not ridden far, when he saw a cave, near the entrance of which he beheld a giant sitting upon a block of timber, with a knotted iron club by his side.
his goggle eyes were like flames of fire, his countenance grim and ugly, and his cheeks like a couple of large flitches of bacon, while the bristles of his beard resembled rods of iron wire, and the locks that hung down upon his brawny shoulders were like curled snakes or hissing adders.
jack alighted from his horse, and, putting on the coat of darkness, went up close to the giant, and said softly: “oh!
are you there?
it will not be long before i take you fast by the beard.” the giant all this while could not see him, on account of his invisible coat, so that jack, coming up close to the monster, struck a blow with his sword at his head, but, missing his aim, he cut off the nose instead.
at this, the giant roared like claps of thunder, and began to lay about him with his iron club like one stark mad.
but jack, running behind, drove his sword up to the hilt in the giant's back, so that he fell down dead.
this done, jack cut off the giant's head, and sent it, with his brother's also, to king arthur, by a waggoner he hired for that purpose.
jack now resolved to enter the giant's cave in search of his treasure, and, passing along through a great many windings and turnings, he came at length to a large room paved with freestone, at the upper end of which was a boiling caldron, and on the right hand a large table, at which the giant used to dine.
then he came to a window, barred with iron, through which he looked and beheld a vast number of miserable captives, who, seeing him, cried out: “alas!
young man, art thou come to be one amongst us in this miserable den?”
“ay,” quoth jack, “but pray tell me what is the meaning of your captivity?”
“we are kept here,” said one, “till such time as the giants have a wish to feast, and then the fattest among us is slaughtered!
and many are the times they have dined upon murdered men!”
“say you so,” quoth jack, and straightway unlocked the gate and let them free, who all rejoiced like condemned men at sight of a pardon.
then searching the giant's coffers, he shared the gold and silver equally amongst them and took them to a neighbouring castle, where they all feasted and made merry over their deliverance.
but in the midst of all this mirth a messenger brought news that one thunderdell, a giant with two heads, having heard of the death of his kinsmen, had come from the northern dales to be revenged on jack, and was within a mile of the castle, the country people flying before him like chaff.
but jack was not a bit daunted, and said: “let him come!
i have a tool to pick his teeth; and you, ladies and gentlemen, walk out into the garden, and you shall witness this giant thunderdell's death and destruction.”
the castle was situated in the midst of a small island surrounded by a moat thirty feet deep and twenty feet wide, over which lay a drawbridge.
so jack employed men to cut through this bridge on both sides, nearly to the middle; and then, dressing himself in his invisible coat, he marched against the giant with his sword of sharpness.
although the giant could not see jack, he smelt his approach, and cried out in these words:
“fee, fi, fo, fum!
i smell the blood of an englishman!
be he alive or be he dead,   i'll grind his bones to make me bread!”
“say'st thou so,” said jack; “then thou art a monstrous miller indeed.”
the giant cried out again: “art thou that villain who killed my kinsmen?
then i will tear thee with my teeth, suck thy blood, and grind thy bones to powder.”
“you'll have to catch me first,” quoth jack, and throwing off his invisible coat, so that the giant might see him, and putting on his shoes of swiftness, he ran from the giant, who followed like a walking castle, so that the very foundations of the earth seemed to shake at every step.
jack led him a long dance, in order that the gentlemen and ladies might see; and at last to end the matter, ran lightly over the drawbridge, the giant, in full speed, pursuing him with his club.
then, coming to the middle of the bridge, the giant's great weight broke it down, and he tumbled headlong into the water, where he rolled and wallowed like a whale.
jack, standing by the moat, laughed at him all the while; but though the giant foamed to hear him scoff, and plunged from place to place in the moat, yet he could not get out to be revenged.
jack at length got a cart-rope and cast it over the two heads of the giant, and drew him ashore by a team of horses, and then cut off both his heads with his sword of sharpness, and sent them to king arthur.
after some time spent in mirth and pastime, jack, taking leave of the knights and ladies, set out for new adventures.
through many woods he passed, and came at length to the foot of a high mountain.
here, late at night, he found a lonesome house, and knocked at the door, which was opened by an aged man with a head as white as snow.
“father,” said jack, “can you lodge a benighted traveller that has lost his way?” “yes,” said the old man; “you are right welcome to my poor cottage.” whereupon jack entered, and down they sat together, and the old man began to speak as follows: “son, i see by your belt you are the great conqueror of giants, and behold, my son, on the top of this mountain is an enchanted castle, this is kept by a giant named galligantua, and he by the help of an old conjurer, betrays many knights and ladies into his castle, where by magic art they are transformed into sundry shapes and forms.
but above all, i grieve for a duke's daughter, whom they fetched from her father's garden, carrying her through the air in a burning chariot drawn by fiery dragons, when they secured her within the castle, and transformed her into a white hind.
and though many knights have tried to break the enchantment, and work her deliverance, yet no one could accomplish it, on account of two dreadful griffins which are placed at the castle gate and which destroy every one who comes near.
but you, my son, may pass by them undiscovered, where on the gates of the castle you will find engraven in large letters how the spell may be broken.” jack gave the old man his hand, and promised that in the morning he would venture his life to free the lady.
in the morning jack arose and put on his invisible coat and magic cap and shoes, and prepared himself for the fray.
now, when he had reached the top of the mountain he soon discovered the two fiery griffins, but passed them without fear, because of his invisible coat.
when he had got beyond them, he found upon the gates of the castle a golden trumpet hung by a silver chain, under which these lines were engraved:
“whoever shall this trumpet blow,   shall soon the giant overthrow,   and break the black enchantment straight;   so all shall be in happy state.”
jack had no sooner read this but he blew the trumpet, at which the castle trembled to its vast foundations, and the giant and conjurer were in horrid confusion, biting their thumbs and tearing their hair, knowing their wicked reign was at an end.
then the giant stooping to take up his club, jack at one blow cut off his head; whereupon the conjurer, mounting up into the air, was carried away in a whirlwind.
then the enchantment was broken, and all the lords and ladies who had so long been transformed into birds and beasts returned to their proper shapes, and the castle vanished away in a cloud of smoke.
this being done, the head of galligantua was likewise, in the usual manner, conveyed to the court of king arthur, where, the very next day, jack followed, with the knights and ladies who had been delivered.
whereupon, as a reward for his good services, the king prevailed upon the duke to bestow his daughter in marriage on honest jack.
so married they were, and the whole kingdom was filled with joy at the wedding.
furthermore, the king bestowed on jack a noble castle, with a very beautiful estate thereto belonging, where he and his lady lived in great joy and happiness all the rest of their days.
henny-penny
one day henny-penny was picking up corn in the cornyard when whack!
something hit her upon the head.
“goodness gracious me!”
said henny-penny; “the sky's a-going to fall; i must go and tell the king.”
so she went along and she went along and she went along till she met cocky-locky.
“where are you going, henny-penny?” says cocky-locky.
“oh!
i'm going to tell the king the sky's a-falling,” says henny-penny.
“may i come with you?” says cocky-locky.
“certainly,” says henny-penny.
so henny-penny and cocky-locky went to tell-the king the sky was falling.
they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met ducky-daddles.
“where are you going to, henny-penny and cocky-locky?”
says ducky-daddles.
“oh!
we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling,” said henny-penny and cocky-locky.
“may i come with you?”
says ducky-daddles.
“certainly,” said henny-penny and cocky-locky.
so henny-penny, cocky-locky and ducky-daddles went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
so they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met goosey-poosey, “where are you going to, henny-penny, cocky-locky and ducky-daddles?” said goosey-poosey.
“oh!
we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling,” said henny-penny and cocky-locky and ducky-daddles.
“may i come with you,” said goosey-poosey.
“certainly,”
said henny-penny, cocky-locky and ducky-daddles.
so henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles and goosey-poosey went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
so they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met turkey-lurkey.
“where are you going, henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, and goosey-poosey?” says turkey-lurkey.
“oh!
we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling,” said henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles and goosey-poosey.
“may i come with you?
henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles and goosey-poosey?” said turkey-lurkey.
“why, certainly, turkey-lurkey,” said henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, and goosey-poosey.
so henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey and turkey-lurkey all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
so they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they met foxy-woxy, and foxy-woxy said to henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey and turkey-lurkey: “where are you going, henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey?” and henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey said to foxy-woxy: “we're going to tell the king the sky's a-falling.” “oh!
but this is not the way to the king, henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey and turkey-lurkey,” says foxy-woxy; “i know the proper way; shall i show it you?” “why certainly, foxy-woxy,” said henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey.
so henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, turkey-lurkey, and foxy-woxy all went to tell the king the sky was a-falling.
so they went along, and they went along, and they went along, till they came to a narrow and dark hole.
now this was the door of foxy-woxy's cave.
but foxy-woxy said to henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey: “this is the short way to the king's palace you'll soon get there if you follow me.
i will go first and you come after, henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey.” “why of course, certainly, without doubt, why not?”
said henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey, and turkey-lurkey.
so foxy-woxy went into his cave, and he didn't go very far but turned round to wait for henny-penny, cocky-locky, ducky-daddles, goosey-poosey and turkey-lurkey.
so at last at first turkey-lurkey went through the dark hole into the cave.
he hadn't got far when “hrumph,” foxy-woxy snapped off turkey-lurkey's head and threw his body over his left shoulder.
then goosey-poosey went in, and “hrumph,” off went her head and goosey-poosey was thrown beside turkey-lurkey.
then ducky-daddles waddled down, and “hrumph,” snapped foxy-woxy, and ducky-daddles'
head was off and ducky-daddles was thrown alongside turkey-lurkey and goosey-poosey.
then cocky-locky strutted down into the cave and he hadn't gone far when “snap, hrumph!” went foxy-woxy and cocky-locky was thrown alongside of turkey-lurkey, goosey-poosey and ducky-daddles.
but foxy-woxy had made two bites at cocky-locky, and when the first snap only hurt cocky-locky, but didn't kill him, he called out to henny-penny.
so she turned tail and ran back home, so she never told the king the sky was a-falling.
childe rowland
childe rowland and his brothers twain were playing at the ball, and there was their sister burd ellen in the midst, among them all.
childe rowland kicked it with his foot   and caught it with his knee;   at last as he plunged among them all   o'er the church he made it flee.
burd ellen round about the aisle   to seek the ball is gone,   but long they waited, and longer still,   and she came not back again.
they sought her east, they sought her west,   they sought her up and down,   and woe were the hearts of those brethren,   for she was not to be found.
so at last her eldest brother went to the warlock merlin and told him all the case, and asked him if he knew where burd ellen was.
“the fair burd ellen,” said the warlock merlin, “must have been carried off by the fairies, because she went round the church 'wider shins' the opposite way to the sun.
she is now in the dark tower of the king of elfland; it would take the boldest knight in christendom to bring her back.”
“if it is possible to bring her back,” said her brother, “i'll do it, or perish in the attempt.”
“possible it is,” said the warlock merlin, “but woe to the man or mother's son that attempts it, if he is not well taught beforehand what he is to do.”
the eldest brother of burd ellen was not to be put off, by any fear of danger, from attempting to get her back, so he begged the warlock merlin to tell him what he should do, and what he should not do, in going to seek his sister.
and after he had been taught, and had repeated his lesson, he set out for elfland.
but long they waited, and longer still,     with doubt and muckle pain,   but woe were the hearts of his brethren,     for he came not back again.
then the second brother got tired and sick of waiting, and he went to the warlock merlin and asked him the same as his brother.
so he set out to find burd ellen.
but long they waited, and longer still,     with muckle doubt and pain,   and woe were his mother's and brother's heart,     for he came not back again.
and when they had waited and waited a good long time, childe rowland, the youngest of burd ellen's brothers, wished to go, and went to his mother, the good queen, to ask her to let him go.
but she would not at first, for he was the last of her children she now had, and if he was lost, all would be lost.
but he begged, and he begged, till at last the good queen let him go, and gave him his father's good brand that never struck in vain.
and as she girt it round his waist, she said the spell that would give it victory.
so childe rowland said good-bye to the good queen, his mother, and went to the cave of the warlock merlin.
“once more, and but once more,” he said to the warlock, “tell how man or mother's son may rescue burd ellen and her brothers twain.”
“well, my son,” said the warlock merlin, “there are but two things, simple they may seem, but hard they are to do.
one thing to do, and one thing not to do.
and the thing to do is this: after you have entered the land of fairy, whoever speaks to you, till you meet the burd ellen, you must out with your father's brand and off with their head.
and what you've not to do is this: bite no bit, and drink no drop, however hungry or thirsty you be; drink a drop, or bite a bit, while in elfland you be and never will you see middle earth again.”
so childe rowland said the two things over and over again, till he knew them by heart, and he thanked the warlock merlin and went on his way.
and he went along, and along, and along, and still further along, till he came to the horse-herd of the king of elfland feeding his horses.
these he knew by their fiery eyes, and knew that he was at last in the land of fairy.
“canst thou tell me,” said childe rowland to the horse-herd, “where the king of elfland's dark tower is?” “i cannot tell thee,” said the horse-herd, “but go on a little further and thou wilt come to the cow-herd, and he, maybe, can tell thee.”
then, without a word more, childe rowland drew the good brand that never struck in vain, and off went the horse-herd's head, and childe rowland went on further, till he came to the cow-herd, and asked him the same question.
“i can't tell thee,” said he, “but go on a little farther, and thou wilt come to the hen-wife, and she is sure to know.” then childe rowland out with his good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went the cow-herd's head.
and he went on a little further, till he came to an old woman in a grey cloak, and he asked her if she knew where the dark tower of the king of elfland was.
“go on a little further,” said the hen-wife, “till you come to a round green hill, surrounded with terrace-rings, from the bottom to the top; go round it three times, widershins, and each time say:
open, door!
open, door!
and let me come in.
and the third time the door will open, and you may go in.” and childe rowland was just going on, when he remembered what he had to do; so he out with the good brand, that never struck in vain, and off went the hen-wife's head.
then he went on, and on, and on, till he came to the round green hill with the terrace-rings from top to bottom, and he went round it three times, widershins, saying each time:
open, door!
open, door!
and let me come in.
and the third time the door did open, and he went in, and it closed with a click, and childe rowland was left in the dark.
it was not exactly dark, but a kind of twilight or gloaming.
there were neither windows nor candles, and he could not make out where the twilight came from, if not through the walls and roof.
these were rough arches made of a transparent rock, incrusted with sheepsilver and rock spar, and other bright stones.
but though it was rock, the air was quite warm, as it always is in elfland.
so he went through this passage till at last he came to two wide and high folding-doors which stood ajar.
and when he opened them, there he saw a most wonderful and glorious sight.
a large and spacious hall, so large that it seemed to be as long, and as broad, as the green hill itself.
the roof was supported by fine pillars, so large and lofty, that the pillars of a cathedral were as nothing to them.
they were all of gold and silver, with fretted work, and between them and around them, wreaths of flowers, composed of what do you think?
why, of diamonds and emeralds, and all manner of precious stones.
and the very key-stones of the arches had for ornaments clusters of diamonds and rubies, and pearls, and other precious stones.
and all these arches met in the middle of the roof, and just there, hung by a gold chain, an immense lamp made out of one big pearl hollowed out and quite transparent.
and in the middle of this was a big, huge carbuncle, which kept spinning round and round, and this was what gave light by its rays to the whole hall, which seemed as if the setting sun was shining on it.
the hall was furnished in a manner equally grand, and at one end of it was a glorious couch of velvet, silk and gold, and there sate burd ellen, combing her golden hair with a silver comb.
and when she saw childe rowland she stood up and said:
“god pity ye, poor luckless fool,   what have ye here to do?
“hear ye this, my youngest brother,   why didn't ye bide at home?
had you a hundred thousand lives   ye couldn't spare any a one.
“but sit ye down; but woe, o, woe,   that ever ye were born,   for come the king of elfland in,   your fortune is forlorn.”
then they sate down together, and childe rowland told her all that he had done, and she told him how their two brothers had reached the dark tower, but had been enchanted by the king of elfland, and lay there entombed as if dead.
and then after they had talked a little longer childe rowland began to feel hungry from his long travels, and told his sister burd ellen how hungry he was and asked for some food, forgetting all about the warlock merlin's warning.
burd ellen looked at childe rowland sadly, and shook her head, but she was under a spell, and could not warn him.
so she rose up, and went out, and soon brought back a golden basin full of bread and milk.
childe rowland was just going to raise it to his lips, when he looked at his sister and remembered why he had come all that way.
so he dashed the bowl to the ground, and said: “not a sup will i swallow, nor a bit will i bite, till burd ellen is set free.”
just at that moment they heard the noise of some one approaching, and a loud voice was heard saying:
“fee, fi, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of a christian man,   be he dead, be he living, with my brand,   i'll dash his brains from his brain-pan.”
and then the folding-doors of the hall were burst open, and the king of elfland rushed in.
“strike then, bogle, if thou darest,” shouted out childe rowland, and rushed to meet him with his good brand that never yet did fail.
they fought, and they fought, and they fought, till childe rowland beat the king of elfland down on to his knees, and caused him to yield and beg for mercy.
“i grant thee mercy,” said childe rowland, “release my sister from thy spells and raise my brothers to life, and let us all go free, and thou shalt be spared.” “i agree,” said the elfin king, and rising up he went to a chest from which he took a phial filled with a blood-red liquor.
with this he anointed the ears, eyelids, nostrils, lips, and finger-tips, of the two brothers, and they sprang at once into life, and declared that their souls had been away, but had now returned.
the elfin king then said some words to burd ellen, and she was disenchanted, and they all four passed out of the hall, through the long passage, and turned their back on the dark tower, never to return again.
and they reached home, and the good queen, their mother, and burd ellen never went round a church widershins again.
molly whuppie
once upon a time there was a man and a wife had too many children, and they could not get meat for them, so they took the three youngest and left them in a wood.
they travelled and travelled and could see never a house.
it began to be dark, and they were hungry.
at last they saw a light and made for it; it turned out to be a house.
they knocked at the door, and a woman came to it, who said: “what do you want?” they said:
“please let us in and give us something to eat.” the woman said: “i can't do that, as my man is a giant, and he would kill you if he comes home.” they begged hard.
“let us stop for a little while,” said they, “and we will go away before he comes.” so she took them in, and set them down before the fire, and gave them milk and bread; but just as they had begun to eat a great knock came to the door, and a dreadful voice said:
“fee, fie, fo, fum,   i smell the blood of some earthly one.
who have you there wife?” “eh,” said the wife, “it's three poor lassies cold and hungry, and they will go away.
ye won't touch 'em, man.” he said nothing, but ate up a big supper, and ordered them to stay all night.
now he had three lassies of his own, and they were to sleep in the same bed with the three strangers.
the youngest of the three strange lassies was called molly whuppie, and she was very clever.
she noticed that before they went to bed the giant put straw ropes round her neck and her sisters', and round his own lassies' necks he put gold chains.
so molly took care and did not fall asleep, but waited till she was sure every one was sleeping sound.
then she slipped out of the bed, and took the straw ropes off her own and her sisters' necks, and took the gold chains off the giant's lassies.
she then put the straw ropes on the giant's lassies and the gold on herself and her sisters, and lay down.
and in the middle of the night up rose the giant, armed with a great club, and felt for the necks with the straw.
it was dark.
he took his own lassies out of bed on to the floor, and battered them until they were dead, and then lay down again, thinking he had managed fine.
molly thought it time she and her sisters were out of that, so she wakened them and told them to be quiet, and they slipped out of the house.
they all got out safe, and they ran and ran, and never stopped until morning, when they saw a grand house before them.
it turned out to be a king's house: so molly went in, and told her story to the king.
he said: “well, molly, you are a clever girl, and you have managed well; but, if you would manage better, and go back, and steal the giant's sword that hangs on the back of his bed, i would give your eldest sister my eldest son to marry.” molly said she would try.
so she went back, and managed to slip into the giant's house, and crept in below the bed.
the giant came home, and ate up a great supper, and went to bed.
molly waited until he was snoring, and she crept out, and reached over the giant and got down the sword; but just as she got it out over the bed it gave a rattle, and up jumped the giant, and molly ran out at the door and the sword with her; and she ran, and he ran, till they came to the “bridge of one hair”; and she got over, but he couldn't, and he says, “woe worth ye, molly whuppie!
never ye come again.” and she says “twice yet, carle,” quoth she, “i'll come to spain.” so molly took the sword to the king, and her sister was married to his son.
well, the king he says: “ye've managed well, molly; but if ye would manage better, and steal the purse that lies below the giant's pillow, i would marry your second sister to my second son.” and molly said she would try.
so she set out for the giant's house, and slipped in, and hid again below the bed, and waited till the giant had eaten his supper, and was snoring sound asleep.
she slipped out, and slipped her hand below the pillow, and got out the purse; but just as she was going out the giant wakened, and ran after her; and she ran, and he ran, till they came to the “bridge of one hair,” and she got over, but he couldn't, and he said, “woe worth ye, molly whuppie!
never you come again.” “once yet, carle,” quoth she, “i'll come to spain.” so molly took the purse to the king, and her second sister was married to the king's second son.
after that the king says to molly: “molly, you are a clever girl, but if you would do better yet, and steal the giant's ring that he wears on his finger, i will give you my youngest son for yourself.” molly said she would try.
so back she goes to the giant's house, and hides herself below the bed.
the giant wasn't long ere he came home, and, after he had eaten a great big supper, he went to his bed, and shortly was snoring loud.
molly crept out and reached over the bed, and got hold of the giant's hand, and she pulled and she pulled until she got off the ring; but just as she got it off the giant got up, and gripped her by the hand, and he says: “now i have catcht you, molly whuppie, and, if i had done as much ill to you as ye have done to me, what would ye do to me?”
molly says: “i would put you into a sack, and i'd put the cat inside with you, and the dog aside you, and a needle and thread and a shears, and i'd hang you up upon the wall, and i'd go to the wood, and choose the thickest stick i could get, and i would come home, and take you down, and bang you till you were dead.”
“well, molly,” says the giant, “i'll just do that to you.”
so he gets a sack, and puts molly into it, and the cat and the dog beside her, and a needle and thread and shears, and hangs her up upon the wall, and goes to the wood to choose a stick.
molly she sings out: “oh, if ye saw what i see.”
“oh,” says the giant's wife, “what do ye see, molly?”
but molly never said a word but, “oh, if ye saw what i see!”
the giant's wife begged that molly would take her up into the sack till she would see what molly saw.
so molly took the shears and cut a hole in the sack, and took out the needle and thread with her, and jumped down and helped, the giant's wife up into the sack, and sewed up the hole.
the giant's wife saw nothing, and began to ask to get down again; but molly never minded, but hid herself at the back of the door.
home came the giant, and a great big tree in his hand, and he took down the sack, and began to batter it.
his wife cried, “it's me, man;” but the dog barked and the cat mewed, and he did not know his wife's voice.
but molly came out from the back of the door, and the giant saw her, and he after her; and he ran and she ran, till they came to the “bridge of one hair,” and she got over but he couldn't; and he said, “woe worth you, molly whuppie!
never you come again.” “never more, carle,” quoth she, “will i come again to spain.”
so molly took the ring to the king, and she was married to his youngest son, and she never saw the giant again.
the red ettin
there was once a widow that lived on a small bit of ground, which she rented from a farmer.
and she had two sons; and by-and-by it was time for the wife to send them away to seek their fortune.
so she told her eldest son one day to take a can and bring her water from the well, that she might bake a cake for him; and however much or however little water he might bring, the cake would be great or small accordingly, and that cake was to be all that she could give him when he went on his travels.
the lad went away with the can to the well, and filled it with water, and then came away home again; but the can being broken, the most part of the water had run out before he got back.
so his cake was very small; yet small as it was, his mother asked him if he was willing to take the half of it with her blessing, telling him that, if he chose rather to take the whole, he would only get it with her curse.
the young man, thinking he might have to travel a far way, and not knowing when or how he might get other provisions, said he would like to have the whole cake, come of his mother's malison what like; so she gave him the whole cake, and her malison along with it.
then he took his brother aside, and gave him a knife to keep till he should come back, desiring him to look at it every morning, and as long as it continued to be clear, then he might be sure that the owner of it was well; but if it grew dim and rusty, then for certain some ill had befallen him.
so the young man went to seek his fortune.
and he went all that day, and all the next day; and on the third day, in the afternoon, he came up to where a shepherd was sitting with a flock of sheep.
and he went up to the shepherd and asked him who the sheep belonged to; and he answered:
“the red ettin of ireland     once lived in ballygan,   and stole king malcolm's daughter     the king of fair scotland.
he beats her, he binds her,     he lays her on a band;   and every day he strikes her     with a bright silver wand.
like julian the roman,   he's one that fears no man.
it's said there's one predestinate     to be his mortal foe;   but that man is yet unborn,     and long may it be so.”
this shepherd also told him to beware of the beasts he should next meet, for they were of a very different kind from any he had yet seen.
so the young man went on, and by-and-by he saw a multitude of very dreadful beasts, with two heads, and on every head four horns.
and he was sore frightened, and ran away from them as fast as he could; and glad was he when he came to a castle that stood on a hillock, with the door standing wide open to the wall.
and he went into the castle for shelter, and there he saw an old wife sitting beside the kitchen fire.
he asked the wife if he might stay for the night, as he was tired with a long journey; and the wife said he might, but it was not a good place for him to be in, as it belonged to the red ettin, who was a very terrible beast, with three heads, that spared no living man it could get hold of.
the young man would have gone away, but he was afraid of the beasts on the outside of the castle; so he beseeched the old woman to hide him as best she could, and not tell the ettin he was there.
he thought, if he could put over the night, he might get away in the morning, without meeting with the beasts, and so escape.
but he had not been long in his hiding-hole, before the awful ettin came in; and no sooner was he in, than he was heard crying:
“snouk but and snouk ben,   i find the smell of an earthly man,   be he living, or be he dead,   his heart this night shall kitchen my bread.”
the monster soon found the poor young man, and pulled him from his hole.
and when he had got him out, he told him that if he could answer him three questions his life should be spared.
so the first head asked: “a thing without an end, what's that?” but the young man knew not.
then the second head said: “the smaller, the more dangerous, what's that?” but the young man knew it not.
and then the third head asked: “the dead carrying the living; riddle me that?” but the young man had to give it up.
the lad not being able to answer one of these questions, the red ettin took a mallet and knocked him on the head, and turned him into a pillar of stone.
on the morning after this happened, the younger brother took out the knife to look at it, and he was grieved to find it all brown with rust.
he told his mother that the time was now come for him to go away upon his travels also; so she requested him to take the can to the well for water, that she might make a cake for him.
and he went, and as he was bringing home the water, a raven over his head cried to him to look, and he would see that the water was running out.
and he was a young man of sense, and seeing the water running out, he took some clay and patched up the holes, so that he brought home enough water to bake a large cake.
when his mother put it to him to take the half cake with her blessing, he took it in preference to having the whole with her malison; and yet the half was bigger than what the other lad had got.
so he went away on his journey; and after he had travelled a far way, he met with an old woman that asked him if he would give her a bit of his johnny-cake.
and he said: “i will gladly do that,” and so he gave her a piece of the johnny-cake; and for that she gave him a magical wand, that she might yet be of service to him, if he took care to use it rightly.
then the old woman, who was a fairy, told him a great deal that would happen to him, and what he ought to do in all circumstances; and after that she vanished in an instant out of his sight.
he went on a great way farther, and then he came up to the old man herding the sheep; and when he asked whose sheep these were, the answer was:
“the red ettin of ireland     once lived in ballygan,   and stole king malcolm's daughter,     the king of fair scotland.
“he beats her, he binds her,     he lays her on a band;   and every day he strikes her     with a bright silver wand.
like julian the roman,   he's one that fears no man.
“but now i fear his end is near,     and destiny at hand;   and you're to be, i plainly see,     the heir of all his land.”
when he came to the place where the monstrous beasts were standing, he did not stop nor run away, but went boldly through amongst them.
one came up roaring with open mouth to devour him, when he struck it with his wand, and laid it in an instant dead at his feet.
he soon came to the ettin's castle, where he knocked, and was admitted.
the old woman who sat by the fire warned him of the terrible ettin, and what had been the fate of his brother; but he was not to be daunted.
the monster soon came in, saying:
“snouk but and snouk ben,   i find the smell of an earthly man;   be he living, or be he dead,   his heart shall be kitchen to my bread.”
he quickly espied the young man, and bade him come forth on the floor.
and then he put the three questions to him; but the young man had been told everything by the good fairy, so he was able to answer all the questions.
so when the first head asked, “what's the thing without an end?” he said: “a bowl.” and when the second head said: “the smaller the more dangerous; what's that?” he said at once, “a bridge.” and last, the third head said: “when does the dead carry the living, riddle me that?”
then the young man answered up at once and said: “when a ship sails on the sea with men inside her.” when the ettin found this, he knew that his power was gone.
the young man then took up an axe and hewed off the monster's three heads.
he next asked the old woman to show him where the king's daughter lay; and the old woman took him upstairs, and opened a great many doors, and out of every door came a beautiful lady who had been imprisoned there by the ettin; and one of the ladies was the king's daughter.
she also took him down into a low room, and there stood a stone pillar, that he had only to touch with his wand, when his brother started into life.
and the whole of the prisoners were overjoyed at their deliverance, for which they thanked the young man.
next day they all set out for the king's court, and a gallant company they made.
and the king married his daughter to the young man that had delivered her, and gave a noble's daughter to his brother; and so they all lived happily all the rest of their days.
the golden arm
here was once a man who travelled the land all over in search of a wife.
he saw young and old, rich and poor, pretty and plain, and could not meet with one to his mind.
at last he found a woman, young, fair, and rich, who possessed a right arm of solid gold.
he married her at once, and thought no man so fortunate as he was.
they lived happily together, but, though he wished people to think otherwise, he was fonder of the golden arm than of all his wife's gifts besides.
at last she died.
the husband put on the blackest black, and pulled the longest face at the funeral; but for all that he got up in the middle of the night, dug up the body, and cut off the golden arm.
he hurried home to hide his treasure, and thought no one would know.
the following night he put the golden arm under his pillow, and was just falling asleep, when the ghost of his dead wife glided into the room.
stalking up to the bedside it drew the curtain, and looked at him reproachfully.
pretending not to be afraid, he spoke to the ghost, and said: “what hast thou done with thy cheeks so red?”
“all withered and wasted away,” replied the ghost, in a hollow tone.
“what hast thou done with thy red rosy lips?”
“all withered and wasted away.”
“what hast thou done with thy golden hair?”
“all withered and wasted away.”
“what hast thou done with thy golden arm?”
“thou hast it!”
the history of tom thumb
in the days of the great prince arthur, there lived a mighty magician, called merlin, the most learned and skilful enchanter the world has ever seen.
this famous magician, who could take any form he pleased, was travelling about as a poor beggar, and being very tired, he stopped at the cottage of a ploughman to rest himself, and asked for some food.
the countryman bade him welcome, and his wife, who was a very good-hearted woman, soon brought him some milk in a wooden bowl, and some coarse brown bread on a platter.
merlin was much pleased with the kindness of the ploughman and his wife; but he could not help noticing that though everything was neat and comfortable in the cottage, they seemed both to be very unhappy.
he therefore asked them why they were so melancholy, and learned that they were miserable because they had no children.
the poor woman said, with tears in her eyes: “i should be the happiest creature in the world if i had a son; although he was no bigger than my husband's thumb, i would be satisfied.”
merlin was so much amused with the idea of a boy no bigger than a man's thumb, that he determined to grant the poor woman's wish.
accordingly, in a short time after, the ploughman's wife had a son, who, wonderful to relate!
was not a bit bigger than his father's thumb.
the queen of the fairies, wishing to see the little fellow, came in at the window while the mother was sitting up in the bed admiring him.
the queen kissed the child, and, giving it the name of tom thumb, sent for some of the fairies, who dressed her little godson according to her orders:
“an oak-leaf hat he had for his crown;   his shirt of web by spiders spun;   with jacket wove of thistle's down;   his trowsers were of feathers done.
his stockings, of apple-rind, they tie   with eyelash from his mother's eye   his shoes were made of mouse's skin,   tann'd with the downy hair within.”
tom never grew any larger than his father's thumb, which was only of ordinary size; but as he got older he became very cunning and full of tricks.
when he was old enough to play with the boys, and had lost all his own cherry-stones, he used to creep into the bags of his playfellows, fill his pockets, and, getting out without their noticing him, would again join in the game.
one day, however, as he was coming out of a bag of cherry-stones, where he had been stealing as usual, the boy to whom it belonged chanced to see him.
“ah, ah!
my little tommy,” said the boy, “so i have caught you stealing my cherry-stones at last, and you shall be rewarded for your thievish tricks.” on saying this, he drew the string tight round his neck, and gave the bag such a hearty shake, that poor little tom's legs, thighs, and body were sadly bruised.
he roared out with pain, and begged to be let out, promising never to steal again.
a short time afterwards his mother was making a batter-pudding, and tom, being very anxious to see how it was made, climbed up to the edge of the bowl; but his foot slipped, and he plumped over head and ears into the batter, without his mother noticing him, who stirred him into the pudding-bag, and put him in the pot to boil.
the batter filled tom's mouth, and prevented him from crying; but, on feeling the hot water, he kicked and struggled so much in the pot, that his mother thought that the pudding was bewitched, and, pulling it out of the pot, she threw it outside the door.
a poor tinker, who was passing by, lifted up the pudding, and, putting it into his budget, he then walked off.
as tom had now got his mouth cleared of the batter, he then began to cry aloud, which so frightened the tinker that he flung down the pudding and ran away.
the pudding being broke to pieces by the fall, tom crept out covered all over with the batter, and walked home.
his mother, who was very sorry to see her darling in such a woeful state, put him into a teacup, and soon washed off the batter; after which she kissed him, and laid him in bed.
soon after the adventure of the pudding, tom's mother went to milk her cow in the meadow, and she took him along with her.
as the wind was very high, for fear of being blown away, she tied him to a thistle with a piece of fine thread.
the cow soon observed tom's oak-leaf hat, and liking the appearance of it, took poor tom and the thistle at one mouthful.
while the cow was chewing the thistle tom was afraid of her great teeth, which threatened to crush him in pieces, and he roared out as loud as he could: “mother, mother!”
“where are you, tommy, my dear tommy?” said his mother.
“here, mother,” replied he, “in the red cow's mouth.”
his mother began to cry and wring her hands; but the cow, surprised at the odd noise in her throat, opened her mouth and let tom drop out.
fortunately his mother caught him in her apron as he was falling to the ground, or he would have been dreadfully hurt.
she then put tom in her bosom and ran home with him.
tom's father made him a whip of a barley straw to drive the cattle with, and having one day gone into the fields, he slipped a foot and rolled into the furrow.
a raven, which was flying over, picked him up, and flew with him over the sea, and there dropped him.
a large fish swallowed tom the moment he fell into the sea, which was soon after caught, and bought for the table of king arthur.
when they opened the fish in order to cook it, every one was astonished at finding such a little boy, and tom was quite delighted at being free again.
they carried him to the king, who made tom his dwarf, and he soon grew a great favourite at court; for by his tricks and gambols he not only amused the king and queen, but also all the knights of the round table.
it is said that when the king rode out on horseback, he often took tom along with him, and if a shower came on, he used to creep into his majesty's waistcoat-pocket, where he slept till the rain was over.
king arthur one day asked tom about his parents, wishing to know if they were as small as he was, and whether they were well off.
tom told the king that his father and mother were as tall as anybody about the court, but in rather poor circumstances.
on hearing this, the king carried tom to his treasury, the place where he kept all his money, and told him to take as much money as he could carry home to his parents, which made the poor little fellow caper with joy.
tom went immediately to procure a purse, which was made of a water-bubble, and then returned to the treasury, where he received a silver threepenny-piece to put into it.
our little hero had some difficulty in lifting the burden upon his back; but he at last succeeded in getting it placed to his mind, and set forward on his journey.
however, without meeting with any accident, and after resting himself more than a hundred times by the way, in two days and two nights he reached his father's house in safety.
tom had travelled forty-eight hours with a huge silver-piece on his back, and was almost tired to death, when his mother ran out to meet him, and carried him into the house.
but he soon returned to court.
as tom's clothes had suffered much in the batter-pudding, and the inside of the fish, his majesty ordered him a new suit of clothes, and to be mounted as a knight on a mouse.
of butterfly's wings his shirt was made,     his boots of chicken's hide;   and by a nimble fairy blade,   well learned in the tailoring trade,     his clothing was supplied.
a needle dangled by his side;   a dapper mouse he used to ride,   thus strutted tom in stately pride!
it was certainly very diverting to see tom in this dress and mounted on the mouse, as he rode out a-hunting with the king and nobility, who were all ready to expire with laughter at tom and his fine prancing charger.
the king was so charmed with his address that he ordered a little chair to be made, in order that tom might sit upon his table, and also a palace of gold, a span high, with a door an inch wide, to live in.
he also gave him a coach, drawn by six small mice.
the queen was so enraged at the honours conferred on sir thomas that she resolved to ruin him, and told the king that the little knight had been saucy to her.
the king sent for tom in great haste, but being fully aware of the danger of royal anger, he crept into an empty snail-shell, where he lay for a long time until he was almost starved with hunger; but at last he ventured to peep out, and seeing a fine large butterfly on the ground, near the place of his concealment, he got close to it and jumping astride on it, was carried up into the air.
the butterfly flew with him from tree to tree and from field to field, and at last returned to the court, where the king and nobility all strove to catch him; but at last poor tom fell from his seat into a watering-pot, in which he was almost drowned.
when the queen saw him she was in a rage, and said he should be beheaded; and he was again put into a mouse trap until the time of his execution.
however a cat, observing something alive in the trap, patted it about till the wires broke, and set thomas at liberty.
the king received tom again into favour, which he did not live to enjoy, for a large spider one day attacked him; and although he drew his sword and fought well, yet the spider's poisonous breath at last overcame him.
he fell dead on the ground where he stood,   and the spider suck'd every drop of his blood.
king arthur and his whole court were so sorry at the loss of their little favourite that they went into mourning and raised a fine white marble monument over his grave with the following epitaph:
here lies tom thumb, king arthur's knight,   who died by a spider's cruel bite.
he was well known in arthur's court,   where he afforded gallant sport;   he rode at tilt and tournament,   and on a mouse a-hunting went.
alive he filled the court with mirth;   his death to sorrow soon gave birth.
wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head   and cry, alas!
tom thumb is dead!
mr. fox
lady mary was young, and lady mary was fair.
she had two brothers, and more lovers than she could count.
but of them all, the bravest and most gallant, was a mr. fox, whom she met when she was down at her father's country-house.
no one knew who mr. fox was; but he was certainly brave, and surely rich, and of all her lovers, lady mary cared for him alone.
at last it was agreed upon between them that they should be married.
lady mary asked mr. fox where they should live, and he described to her his castle, and where it was; but, strange to say, did not ask her, or her brothers to come and see it.
so one day, near the wedding-day, when her brothers were out, and mr.
fox was away for a day or two on business, as he said, lady mary set out for mr. fox's castle.
and after many searchings, she came at last to it, and a fine strong house it was, with high walls and a deep moat.
and when she came up to the gateway she saw written on it:
be bold, be bold.
but as the gate was open, she went through it, and found no one there.
so she went up to the doorway, and over it she found written:
be bold, be bold, but not too bold.
still she went on, till she came into the hall, and went up the broad stairs till she came to a door in the gallery, over which was written:
be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart's blood should run cold.
but lady mary was a brave one, she was, and she opened the door, and what do you think she saw?
why, bodies and skeletons of beautiful young ladies all stained with blood.
so lady mary thought it was high time to get out of that horrid place, and she closed the door, went through the gallery, and was just going down the stairs, and out of the hall, when who should she see through the window, but mr. fox dragging a beautiful young lady along from the gateway to the door.
lady mary rushed downstairs, and hid herself behind a cask, just in time, as mr. fox came in with the poor young lady who seemed to have fainted.
just as he got near lady mary, mr. fox saw a diamond ring glittering on the finger of the young lady he was dragging, and he tried to pull it off.
but it was tightly fixed, and would not come off, so mr. fox cursed and swore, and drew his sword, raised it, and brought it down upon the hand of the poor lady.
the sword cut off the hand, which jumped up into the air, and fell of all places in the world into lady mary's lap.
mr. fox looked about a bit, but did not think of looking behind the cask, so at last he went on dragging the young lady up the stairs into the bloody chamber.
as soon as she heard him pass through the gallery, lady mary crept out of the door, down through the gateway, and ran home as fast as she could.
now it happened that the very next day the marriage contract of lady mary and mr. fox was to be signed, and there was a splendid breakfast before that.
and when mr. fox was seated at table opposite lady mary, he looked at her.
“how pale you are this morning, my dear.” “yes,”
said she, “i had a bad night's rest last night.
i had horrible dreams.”
“dreams go by contraries,” said mr. fox; “but tell us your dream, and your sweet voice will make the time pass till the happy hour comes.”
“i dreamed,” said lady mary, “that i went yestermorn to your castle, and i found it in the woods, with high walls, and a deep moat, and over the gateway was written:
be bold, be bold.
“but it is not so, nor it was not so,” said mr. fox.
“and when i came to the doorway over it was written:
be bold, be bold, but not too bold.
“it is not so, nor it was not so,” said mr. fox.
“and then i went upstairs, and came to a gallery, at the end of which was a door, on which was written:
be bold, be bold, but not too bold, lest that your heart's blood should run cold.
“it is not so, nor it was not so,” said mr. fox.
“and then and then i opened the door, and the room was filled with bodies and skeletons of poor dead women, all stained with their blood.”
“it is not so, nor it was not so.
and god forbid it should be so,” said mr. fox.
“i then dreamed that i rushed down the gallery, and just as i was going down the stairs, i saw you, mr. fox, coming up to the hall door, dragging after you a poor young lady, rich and beautiful.”
“it is not so, nor it was not so.
and god forbid it should be so,” said mr. fox.
“i rushed downstairs, just in time to hide myself behind a cask, when you, mr. fox, came in dragging the young lady by the arm.
and, as you passed me, mr. fox, i thought i saw you try and get off her diamond ring, and when you could not, mr. fox, it seemed to me in my dream, that you out with your sword and hacked off the poor lady's hand to get the ring.”
“it is not so, nor it was not so.
and god forbid it should be so,” said mr. fox, and was going to say something else as he rose from his seat, when lady mary cried out:
“but it is so, and it was so.
here's hand and ring i have to show,” and pulled out the lady's hand from her dress, and pointed it straight at mr. fox.
at once her brothers and her friends drew their swords and cut mr. fox into a thousand pieces.
lazy jack
once upon a time there was a boy whose name was jack, and he lived with his mother on a common.
they were very poor, and the old woman got her living by spinning, but jack was so lazy that he would do nothing but bask in the sun in the hot weather, and sit by the corner of the hearth in the winter-time.
so they called him lazy jack.
his mother could not get him to do anything for her, and at last told him, one monday, that if he did not begin to work for his porridge she would turn him out to get his living as he could.
this roused jack, and he went out and hired himself for the next day to a neighbouring farmer for a penny; but as he was coming home, never having had any money before, he lost it in passing over a brook.
“you stupid boy,” said his mother, “you should have put it in your pocket.”
“i'll do so another time,” replied jack.
on wednesday, jack went out again and hired himself to a cow-keeper, who gave him a jar of milk for his day's work.
jack took the jar and put it into the large pocket of his jacket, spilling it all, long before he got home.
“dear me!” said the old woman; “you should have carried it on your head.” “i'll do so another time,” said jack.
so on thursday, jack hired himself again to a farmer, who agreed to give him a cream cheese for his services.
in the evening jack took the cheese, and went home with it on his head.
by the time he got home the cheese was all spoilt, part of it being lost, and part matted with his hair.
“you stupid lout,” said his mother, “you should have carried it very carefully in your hands.” “i'll do so another time,” replied jack.
on friday, lazy jack again went out, and hired himself to a baker, who would give him nothing for his work but a large tom-cat.
jack took the cat, and began carrying it very carefully in his hands, but in a short time pussy scratched him so much that he was compelled to let it go.
when he got home, his mother said to him, “you silly fellow, you should have tied it with a string, and dragged it along after you.” “i'll do so another time,” said jack.
so on saturday, jack hired himself to a butcher, who rewarded him by the handsome present of a shoulder of mutton.
jack took the mutton, tied it to a string, and trailed it along after him in the dirt, so that by the time he had got home the meat was completely spoilt.
his mother was this time quite out of patience with him, for the next day was sunday, and she was obliged to make do with cabbage for her dinner.
“you ninney-hammer,” said she to her son; “you should have carried it on your shoulder.” “i'll do so another time,” replied jack.
on the next monday, lazy jack went once more, and hired himself to a cattle-keeper, who gave him a donkey for his trouble.
jack found it hard to hoist the donkey on his shoulders, but at last he did it, and began walking slowly home with his prize.
now it happened that in the course of his journey there lived a rich man with his only daughter, a beautiful girl, but deaf and dumb.
now she had never laughed in her life, and the doctors said she would never speak till somebody made her laugh.
this young lady happened to be looking out of the window when jack was passing with the donkey on his shoulders, with the legs sticking up in the air, and the sight was so comical and strange that she burst out into a great fit of laughter, and immediately recovered her speech and hearing.
her father was overjoyed, and fulfilled his promise by marrying her to lazy jack, who was thus made a rich gentleman.
they lived in a large house, and jack's mother lived with them in great happiness until she died.
johnny-cake
once upon a time there was an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy.
one morning the old woman made a johnny-cake, and put it in the oven to bake.
“you watch the johnny-cake while your father and i go out to work in the garden.” so the old man and the old woman went out and began to hoe potatoes, and left the little boy to tend the oven.
but he didn't watch it all the time, and all of a sudden he heard a noise, and he looked up and the oven door popped open, and out of the oven jumped johnny-cake, and went rolling along end over end, towards the open door of the house.
the little boy ran to shut the door, but johnny-cake was too quick for him and rolled through the door, down the steps, and out into the road long before the little boy could catch him.
the little boy ran after him as fast as he could clip it, crying out to his father and mother, who heard the uproar, and threw down their hoes and gave chase too.
but johnny-cake outran all three a long way, and was soon out of sight, while they had to sit down, all out of breath, on a bank to rest.
on went johnny-cake, and by-and-by he came to two well-diggers who looked up from their work and called out: “where ye going, johnny-cake?”
he said: “i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
“ye can, can ye?
we'll see about that?” said they; and they threw down their picks and ran after him, but couldn't catch up with him, and soon they had to sit down by the roadside to rest.
on ran johnny-cake, and by-and-by he came to two ditch-diggers who were digging a ditch.
“where ye going, johnny-cake?” said they.
he said:
“i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
“ye can, can ye?
we'll see about that!” said they; and they threw down their spades, and ran after him too.
but johnny-cake soon outstripped them also, and seeing they could never catch him, they gave up the chase and sat down to rest.
on went johnny-cake, and by-and-by he came to a bear.
the bear said:
“where are ye going, johnny-cake?”
he said: “i've outrun an old man, and an old woman and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and two ditch-diggers, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
“ye can, can ye?” growled the bear, “we'll see about that!” and trotted as fast as his legs could carry him after johnny-cake, who never stopped to look behind him.
before long the bear was left so far behind that he saw he might as well give up the hunt first as last, so he stretched himself out by the roadside to rest.
on went johnny-cake, and by-and-by he came to a wolf.
the wolf said: “where ye going, johnny-cake?” he said: “i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and two ditch-diggers and a bear, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
“ye can, can ye?” snarled the wolf, “we'll see about that!” and he set into a gallop after johnny-cake, who went on and on so fast that the wolf too saw there was no hope of overtaking him, and he too lay down to rest.
on went johnny-cake, and by-and-by he came to a fox that lay quietly in a corner of the fence.
the fox called out in a sharp voice, but without getting up: “where ye going johnny-cake?”
he said: “i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and two ditch-diggers, a bear, and a wolf, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
the fox said: “i can't quite hear you, johnny-cake, won't you come a little closer?” turning his head a little to one side.
johnny-cake stopped his race for the first time, and went a little closer, and called out in a very loud voice “i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and two ditch-diggers, and a bear, and a wolf, and i can outrun you too-o-o.”
“can't quite hear you; won't you come a little closer?” said the fox in a feeble voice, as he stretched out his neck towards johnny-cake, and put one paw behind his ear.
johnny-cake came up close, and leaning towards the fox screamed out:
i've outrun an old man, and an old woman, and a little boy, and two well-diggers, and two ditch-diggers, and a bear, and a wolf, and i can outrun you too-o-o!”
“you can, can you?” yelped the fox, and he snapped up the johnny-cake in his sharp teeth in the twinkling of an eye.
earl mar's daughter
one fine summer's day earl mar's daughter went into the castle garden, dancing and tripping along.
and as she played and sported she would stop from time to time to listen to the music of the birds.
after a while as she sat under the shade of a green oak tree she looked up and spied a sprightly dove sitting high up on one of its branches.
she looked up and said: “coo-my-dove, my dear, come down to me and i will give you a golden cage.
i'll take you home and pet you well, as well as any bird of them all.” scarcely had she said these words when the dove flew down from the branch and settled on her shoulder, nestling up against her neck while she smoothed its feathers.
then she took it home to her own room.
the day was done and the night came on and earl mar's daughter was thinking of going to sleep when, turning round, she found at her side a handsome young man.
she was startled, for the door had been locked for hours.
but she was a brave girl and said: “what are you doing here, young man, to come and startle me so?
the door was barred these hours ago; how ever did you come here?”
“hush!
hush!” the young man whispered.
“i was that cooing dove that you coaxed from off the tree.”
“but who are you then?” she said quite low; “and how came you to be changed into that dear little bird?”
“my name is florentine, and my mother is a queen, and something more than a queen, for she knows magic and spells, and because i would not do as she wished she turned me into a dove by day, but at night her spells lose their power and i become a man again.
to-day i crossed the sea and saw you for the first time and i was glad to be a bird that i could come near you.
unless you love me, i shall never be happy more.”
“but if i love you,” says she, “will you not fly away and leave me one of these fine days?”
“never, never,” said the prince; “be my wife and i'll be yours for ever.
by day a bird, by night a prince, i will always be by your side as a husband, dear.”
so they were married in secret and lived happily in the castle and no one knew that every night coo-my-dove became prince florentine.
and every year a little son came to them as bonny as bonny could be.
but as each son was born prince florentine carried the little thing away on his back over the sea to where the queen his mother lived and left the little one with her.
seven years passed thus and then a great trouble came to them.
for the earl mar wished to marry his daughter to a noble of high degree who came wooing her.
her father pressed her sore but she said: “father dear, i do not wish to marry; i can be quite happy with coo-my-dove here.”
then her father got into a mighty rage and swore a great big oath, and said: “to-morrow, so sure as i live and eat, i'll twist that birdie's neck,” and out he stamped from her room.
“oh, oh!” said coo-my-dove; “it's time that i was away,” and so he jumped upon the window-sill and in a moment was flying away.
and he flew and he flew till he was over the deep, deep sea, and yet on he flew till he came to his mother's castle.
now the queen his mother was taking her walk abroad when she saw the pretty dove flying overhead and alighting on the castle walls.
“here, dancers come and dance your jigs,” she called, “and pipers, pipe you well, for here's my own florentine, come back to me to stay for he's brought no bonny boy with him this time.”
“no, mother,” said florentine, “no dancers for me and no minstrels, for my dear wife, the mother of my seven, boys, is to be wed to-morrow, and sad's the day for me.”
“what can i do, my son?” said the queen, “tell me, and it shall be done if my magic has power to do it.”
“well then, mother dear, turn the twenty-four dancers and pipers into twenty-four grey herons, and let my seven sons become seven white swans, and let me be a goshawk and their leader.”
“alas!
alas!
my son,” she said, “that may not be; my magic reaches not so far.
but perhaps my teacher, the spaewife of ostree, may know better.” and away she hurries to the cave of ostree, and after a while comes out as white as white can be and muttering over some burning herbs she brought out of the cave.
suddenly coo-my-dove changed into a goshawk and around him flew twenty-four grey herons and above them flew seven cygnets.
without a word or a good-bye off they flew over the deep blue sea which was tossing and moaning.
they flew and they flew till they swooped down on earl mar's castle just as the wedding party were setting out for the church.
first came the men-at-arms and then the bridegroom's friends, and then earl mar's men, and then the bridegroom, and lastly, pale and beautiful, earl mar's daughter herself.
they moved down slowly to stately music till they came past the trees on which the birds were settling.
a word from prince florentine, the goshawk, and they all rose into the air, herons beneath, cygnets above, and goshawk circling above all.
the weddineers wondered at the sight when, swoop!
the herons were down among them scattering the men-at-arms.
the swanlets took charge of the bride while the goshawk dashed down and tied the bridegroom to a tree.
then the herons gathered themselves together into one feather bed and the cygnets placed their mother upon them, and suddenly they all rose in the air bearing the bride away with them in safety towards prince florentine's home.
surely a wedding party was never so disturbed in this world.
what could the weddineers do?
they saw their pretty bride carried away and away till she and the herons and the swans and the goshawk disappeared, and that very day prince florentine brought earl mar's daughter to the castle of the queen his mother, who took the spell off him and they lived happy ever afterwards.
mr. miacca
tommy grimes was sometimes a good boy, and sometimes a bad boy; and when he was a bad boy, he was a very bad boy.
now his mother used to say to him: “tommy, tommy, be a good boy, and don't go out of the street, or else mr. miacca will take you.” but still when he was a bad boy he would go out of the street; and one day, sure enough, he had scarcely got round the corner, when mr. miacca did catch him and popped him into a bag upside down, and took him off to his house.
when mr. miacca got tommy inside, he pulled him out of the bag and set him down, and felt his arms and legs.
“you're rather tough,” says he; “but you're all i've got for supper, and you'll not taste bad boiled.
but body o' me, i've forgot the herbs, and it's bitter you'll taste without herbs.
sally!
here, i say, sally!” and he called mrs. miacca.
so mrs. miacca came out of another room and said: “what d'ye want, my dear?”
“oh, here's a little boy for supper,” said mr. miacca, “and i've forgot the herbs.
mind him, will ye, while i go for them.”
“all right, my love,” says mrs. miacca, and off he goes.
then tommy grimes said to mrs. miacca: “does mr. miacca always have little boys for supper?”
“mostly, my dear,” said mrs. miacca, “if little boys are bad enough, and get in his way.”
“and don't you have anything else but boy-meat?
no pudding?” asked tommy.
“ah, i loves pudding,” says mrs. miacca.
“but it's not often the likes of me gets pudding.”
“why, my mother is making a pudding this very day,” said tommy grimes, “and i am sure she'd give you some, if i ask her.
shall i run and get some?”
“now, that's a thoughtful boy,” said mrs. miacca, “only don't be long and be sure to be back for supper.”
so off tommy pelters, and right glad he was to get off so cheap; and for many a long day he was as good as good could be, and never went round the corner of the street.
but he couldn't always be good; and one day he went round the corner, and as luck would have it, he hadn't scarcely got round it when mr. miacca grabbed him up, popped him in his bag, and took him home.
when he got him there, mr. miacca dropped him out; and when he saw him, he said: “ah, you're the youngster what served me and my missus that shabby trick, leaving us without any supper.
well, you shan't do it again.
i'll watch over you myself.
here, get under the sofa, and i'll set on it and watch the pot boil for you.”
so poor tommy grimes had to creep under the sofa, and mr. miacca sat on it and waited for the pot to boil.
and they waited, and they waited, but still the pot didn't boil, till at last mr. miacca got tired of waiting, and he said: “here, you under there, i'm not going to wait any longer; put out your leg, and i'll stop your giving us the slip.”
so tommy put out a leg, and mr. miacca got a chopper, and chopped it off, and pops it in the pot.
suddenly he calls out: “sally, my dear, sally!” and nobody answered.
so he went into the next room to look out for mrs. miacca, and while he was there, tommy crept out from under the sofa and ran out of the door.
for it was a leg of the sofa that he had put out.
so tommy grimes ran home, and he never went round the corner again till he was old enough to go alone.
whittington and his cat
in the reign of the famous king edward iii.
there was a little boy called dick whittington, whose father and mother died when he was very young.
as poor dick was not old enough to work, he was very badly off; he got but little for his dinner, and sometimes nothing at all for his breakfast; for the people who lived in the village were very poor indeed, and could not spare him much more than the parings of potatoes, and now and then a hard crust of bread.
now dick had heard a great many very strange things about the great city called london; for the country people at that time thought that folks in london were all fine gentlemen and ladies; and that there was singing and music there all day long; and that the streets were all paved with gold.
one day a large waggon and eight horses, all with bells at their heads, drove through the village while dick was standing by the sign-post.
he thought that this waggon must be going to the fine town of london; so he took courage, and asked the waggoner to let him walk with him by the side of the waggon.
as soon as the waggoner heard that poor dick had no father or mother, and saw by his ragged clothes that he could not be worse off than he was, he told him he might go if he would, so off they set together.
so dick got safe to london, and was in such a hurry to see the fine streets paved all over with gold, that he did not even stay to thank the kind waggoner; but ran off as fast as his legs would carry him, through many of the streets, thinking every moment to come to those that were paved with gold; for dick had seen a guinea three times in his own little village, and remembered what a deal of money it brought in change; so he thought he had nothing to do but to take up some little bits of the pavement, and should then have as much money as he could wish for.
poor dick ran till he was tired, and had quite forgot his friend the waggoner; but at last, finding it grow dark, and that every way he turned he saw nothing but dirt instead of gold, he, sat down in a dark corner and cried himself to sleep.
little dick was all night in the streets; and next morning, being very hungry, he got up and walked about, and asked everybody he met to give him a halfpenny to keep him from starving; but nobody stayed to answer him, and only two or three gave him a halfpenny; so that the poor boy was soon quite weak and faint for the want of victuals.
in this distress he asked charity of several people, and one of them said crossly: “go to work, for an idle rogue.” “that i will,” says dick, “i will to go work for you, if you will let me.” but the man only cursed at him and went on.
at last a good-natured looking gentleman saw how hungry he looked.
“why don't you go to work my lad?” said he to dick.
“that i would, but i do not know how to get any,” answered dick.
“if you are willing, come along with me,” said the gentleman, and took him to a hay-field, where dick worked briskly, and lived merrily till the hay was made.
after this he found himself as badly off as before; and being almost starved again, he laid himself down at the door of mr. fitzwarren, a rich merchant.
here he was soon seen by the cook-maid, who was an ill-tempered creature, and happened just then to be very busy dressing dinner for her master and mistress; so she called out to poor dick:
“what business have you there, you lazy rogue?
there is nothing else but beggars; if you do not take yourself away, we will see how you will like a sousing of some dish-water; i have some here hot enough to make you jump.”
just at that time mr. fitzwarren himself came home to dinner; and when he saw a dirty ragged boy lying at the door, he said to him: “why do you lie there, my boy?
you seem old enough to work; i am afraid you are inclined to be lazy.”
“no, indeed, sir,” said dick to him, “that is not the case, for i would work with all my heart, but i do not know anybody, and i believe i am very sick for the want of food.”
“poor fellow, get up; let me see what ails you.” dick now tried to rise, but was obliged to lie down again, being too weak to stand, for he had not eaten any food for three days, and was no longer able to run about and beg a halfpenny of people in the street.
so the kind merchant ordered him to be taken into the house, and have a good dinner given him, and be kept to do what work he was able to do for the cook.
little dick would have lived very happy in this good family if it had not been for the ill-natured cook.
she used to say: “you are under me, so look sharp; clean the spit and the dripping-pan, make the fires, wind up the jack, and do all the scullery work nimbly, or ” and she would shake the ladle at him.
besides, she was so fond of basting, that when she had no meat to baste, she would baste poor dick's head and shoulders with a broom, or anything else that happened to fall in her way.
at last her ill-usage of him was told to alice, mr. fitzwarren's daughter, who told the cook she should be turned away if she did not treat him kinder.
the behaviour of the cook was now a little better; but besides this dick had another hardship to get over.
his bed stood in a garret, where there were so many holes in the floor and the walls that every night he was tormented with rats and mice.
a gentleman having given dick a penny for cleaning his shoes, he thought he would buy a cat with it.
the next day he saw a girl with a cat, and asked her, “will you let me have that cat for a penny?” the girl said: “yes, that i will, master, though she is an excellent mouser.”
dick hid his cat in the garret, and always took care to carry a part of his dinner to her; and in a short time he had no more trouble with the rats and mice, but slept quite sound every night.
soon after this, his master had a ship ready to sail; and as it was the custom that all his servants should have some chance for good fortune as well as himself, he called them all into the parlour and asked them what they would send out.
they all had something that they were willing to venture except poor dick, who had neither money nor goods, and therefore could send nothing.
for this reason he did not come into the parlour with the rest; but miss alice guessed what was the matter, and ordered him to be called in.
she then said: “i will lay down some money for him, from my own purse;” but her father told her: “this will not do, for it must be something of his own.”
when poor dick heard this, he said: “i have nothing but a cat which i bought for a penny some time since of a little girl.”
“fetch your cat then, my lad,” said mr. fitzwarren, “and let her go.”
dick went upstairs and brought down poor puss, with tears in his eyes, and gave her to the captain; “for,” he said, “i shall now be kept awake all night by the rats and mice.” all the company laughed at dick's odd venture; and miss alice, who felt pity for him, gave him some money to buy another cat.
this, and many other marks of kindness shown him by miss alice, made the ill-tempered cook jealous of poor dick, and she began to use him more cruelly than ever, and always made game of him for sending his cat to sea.
she asked him: “do you think your cat will sell for as much money as would buy a stick to beat you?”
at last poor dick could not bear this usage any longer, and he thought he would run away from his place; so he packed up his few things, and started very early in the morning, on all-hallows day, the first of november.
he walked as far as holloway; and there sat down on a stone, which to this day is called “whittington's stone,” and began to think to himself which road he should take.
while he was thinking what he should do, the bells of bow church, which at that time were only six, began to ring, and their sound seemed to say to him:
“turn again, whittington, thrice lord mayor of london.”
“lord mayor of london!” said he to himself.
“why, to be sure, i would put up with almost anything now, to be lord mayor of london, and ride in a fine coach, when i grow to be a man!
well, i will go back, and think nothing of the cuffing and scolding of the old cook, if i am to be lord mayor of london at last.”
dick went back, and was lucky enough to get into the house, and set about his work, before the old cook came downstairs.
we must now follow miss puss to the coast of africa.
the ship with the cat on board, was a long time at sea; and was at last driven by the winds on a part of the coast of barbary, where the only people were the moors, unknown to the english.
the people came in great numbers to see the sailors, because they were of different colour to themselves, and treated them civilly; and, when they became better acquainted, were very eager to buy the fine things that the ship was loaded with.
when the captain saw this, he sent patterns of the best things he had to the king of the country; who was so much pleased with them, that he sent for the captain to the palace.
here they were placed, as it is the custom of the country, on rich carpets flowered with gold and silver.
the king and queen were seated at the upper end of the room; and a number of dishes were brought in for dinner.
they had not sat long, when a vast number of rats and mice rushed in, and devoured all the meat in an instant.
the captain wondered at this, and asked if these vermin were not unpleasant.
“oh yes,” said they, “very offensive, and the king would give half his treasure to be freed of them, for they not only destroy his dinner, as you see, but they assault him in his chamber, and even in bed, and so that he is obliged to be watched while he is sleeping, for fear of them.”
the captain jumped for joy; he remembered poor whittington and his cat, and told the king he had a creature on board the ship that would despatch all these vermin immediately.
the king jumped so high at the joy which the news gave him, that his turban dropped off his head.
“bring this creature to me,” says he; “vermin are dreadful in a court, and if she will perform what you say, i will load your ship with gold and jewels in exchange for her.”
the captain, who knew his business, took this opportunity to set forth the merits of miss puss.
he told his majesty; “it is not very convenient to part with her, as, when she is gone, the rats and mice may destroy the goods in the ship but to oblige your majesty, i will fetch her.”
“run, run!” said the queen; “i am impatient to see the dear creature.”
away went the captain to the ship, while another dinner was got ready.
he put puss under his arm, and arrived at the place just in time to see the table full of rats.
when the cat saw them, she did not wait for bidding, but jumped out of the captain's arms, and in a few minutes laid almost all the rats and mice dead at her feet.
the rest of them in their fright scampered away to their holes.
the king was quite charmed to get rid so easily of such plagues, and the queen desired that the creature who had done them so great a kindness might be brought to her, that she might look at her.
upon which the captain called: “pussy, pussy, pussy!” and she came to him.
he then presented her to the queen, who started back, and was afraid to touch a creature who had made such a havoc among the rats and mice.
however, when the captain stroked the cat and called: “pussy, pussy,” the queen also touched her and cried: “putty, putty,” for she had not learned english.
he then put her down on the queen's lap, where she purred and played with her majesty's hand, and then purred herself to sleep.
the king, having seen the exploits of mrs. puss, and being informed that her kittens would stock the whole country, and keep it free from rats, bargained with the captain for the whole ship's cargo, and then gave him ten times as much for the cat as all the rest amounted to.
the captain then took leave of the royal party, and set sail with a fair wind for england, and after a happy voyage arrived safe in london.
one morning, early, mr. fitzwarren had just come to his counting-house and seated himself at the desk, to count over the cash, and settle the business for the day, when somebody came tap, tap, at the door.
“who's there?” said mr. fitzwarren.
“a friend,” answered the other; “i come to bring you good news of your ship unicorn.” the merchant, bustling up in such a hurry that he forgot his gout, opened the door, and who should he see waiting but the captain and factor, with a cabinet of jewels, and a bill of lading; when he looked at this the merchant lifted up his eyes and thanked heaven for sending him such a prosperous voyage.
they then told the story of the cat, and showed the rich present that the king and queen had sent for her to poor dick.
as soon as the merchant heard this, he called out to his servants:
“go send him in, and tell him of his fame;   pray call him mr. whittington by name.”
mr. fitzwarren now showed himself to be a good man; for when some of his servants said so great a treasure was too much for him, he answered:
“god forbid i should deprive him of the value of a single penny, it is his own, and he shall have it to a farthing.” he then sent for dick, who at that time was scouring pots for the cook, and was quite dirty.
he would have excused himself from coming into the counting-house, saying, “the room is swept, and my shoes are dirty and full of hob-nails.” but the merchant ordered him to come in.
mr. fitzwarren ordered a chair to be set for him, and so he began to think they were making game of him, at the same time said to them: “do not play tricks with a poor simple boy, but let me go down again, if you please, to my work.”
“indeed, mr. whittington,” said the merchant, “we are all quite in earnest with you, and i most heartily rejoice in the news that these gentlemen have brought you; for the captain has sold your cat to the king of barbary, and brought you in return for her more riches than i possess in the whole world; and i wish you may long enjoy them!”
mr. fitzwarren then told the men to open the great treasure they had brought with them; and said: “mr.
whittington has nothing to do but to put it in some place of safety.”
poor dick hardly knew how to behave himself for joy.
he begged his master to take what part of it he pleased, since he owed it all to his kindness.
“no, no,” answered mr. fitzwarren, “this is all your own; and i have no doubt but you will use it well.”
dick next asked his mistress, and then miss alice, to accept a part of his good fortune; but they would not, and at the same time told him they felt great joy at his good success.
but this poor fellow was too kind-hearted to keep it all to himself; so he made a present to the captain, the mate, and the rest of mr. fitzwarren's servants; and even to the ill-natured old cook.
after this mr. fitzwarren advised him to send for a proper tailor and get himself dressed like a gentleman; and told him he was welcome to live in his house till he could provide himself with a better.
when whittington's face was washed, his hair curled, his hat cocked, and he was dressed in a nice suit of clothes he was as handsome and genteel as any young man who visited at mr. fitzwarren's; so that miss alice, who had once been so kind to him, and thought of him with pity, now looked upon him as fit to be her sweetheart; and the more so, no doubt, because whittington was now always thinking what he could do to oblige her, and making her the prettiest presents that could be.
mr. fitzwarren soon saw their love for each other, and proposed to join them in marriage; and to this they both readily agreed.
a day for the wedding was soon fixed; and they were attended to church by the lord mayor, the court of aldermen, the sheriffs, and a great number of the richest merchants in london, whom they afterwards treated with a very rich feast.
history tells us that mr. whittington and his lady liven in great splendour, and were very happy.
they had several children.
he was sheriff of london, thrice lord mayor, and received the honour of knighthood by henry v.
he entertained this king and his queen at dinner after his conquest of france so grandly, that the king said “never had prince such a subject;”
when sir richard heard this, he said: “never had subject such a prince.”
the figure of sir richard whittington with his cat in his arms, carved in stone, was to be seen till the year 1780 over the archway of the old prison of newgate, which he built for criminals.
the strange visitor
a woman was sitting at her reel one night; and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of broad broad soles, and sat down at the fireside;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of small small legs, and sat down on the broad broad soles;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of thick thick knees, and sat down on the small small legs;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of thin thin thighs, and sat down on the thick thick knees;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of huge huge hips, and sat down on the thin thin thighs;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a wee wee waist, and sat down on the huge huge hips;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of broad broad shoulders, and sat down on the wee wee waist;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of small small arms, and sat down on the broad broad shoulders;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a pair of huge huge hands, and sat down on the small small arms;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a small small neck, and sat down on the broad broad shoulders;
and still she sat, and still she reeled, and still she wished for company.
in came a huge huge head, and sat down on the small small neck.
“how did you get such broad broad feet?” quoth the woman.
“much tramping, much tramping” (gruffly).
“how did you get such small small legs?”
“aih-h-h!-late and wee-e-e moul” (whiningly).
“how did you get such thick thick knees?”
“much praying, much praying” (piously).
“how did you get such thin thin thighs?”
“aih-h-h!
late and wee-e-e moul” (whiningly).
“how did you get such big big hips?”
“much sitting, much sitting” (gruffly).
“how did you get such a wee wee waist?”
“aih-h-h!
late and wee-e-e-moul” (whiningly).
“how did you get such broad broad shoulders?”
“with carrying broom, with carrying broom” (gruffly).
“how did you get such small small arms?”
“aih-h-h!
late and wee-e-e moul” (whiningly.)
“how did you get such huge huge hands?”
“threshing with an iron flail, threshing with an iron flail”
(gruffly).
“how did you get such a small small neck?”
“aih-h-h!
late wee-e-e moul” (pitifully).
“how did you get such a huge huge head?”
“much knowledge, much knowledge” (keenly).
“what do you come for?”
“for you!” (at the top of the voice, with a wave of the arm and a stamp of the feet.)
the laidly worm of spindleston heugh
in bamborough castle once lived a king who had a fair wife and two children, a son named childe wynd and a daughter named margaret.
childe wynd went forth to seek his fortune, and soon after he had gone the queen his mother died.
the king mourned her long and faithfully, but one day while he was hunting he came across a lady of great beauty, and became so much in love with her that he determined to marry her.
so he sent word home that he was going to bring a new queen to bamborough castle.
princess margaret was not very glad to hear of her mother's place being taken, but she did not repine but did her father's bidding.
and at the appointed day came down to the castle gate with the keys all ready to hand over to her stepmother.
soon the procession drew near, and the new queen came towards princess margaret who bowed low and handed her the keys of the castle.
she stood there with blushing cheeks and eye on ground, and said: “o welcome, father dear, to your halls and bowers, and welcome to you my new mother, for all that's here is yours,” and again she offered the keys.
one of the king's knights who had escorted the new queen, cried out in admiration: “surely this northern princess is the loveliest of her kind.” at that the new queen flushed up and cried out:
“at least your courtesy might have excepted me,” and then she muttered below her breath: “i'll soon put an end to her beauty.”
that same night the queen, who was a noted witch, stole down to a lonely dungeon wherein she did her magic and with spells three times three, and with passes nine times nine she cast princess margaret under her spell.
and this was her spell:
i weird ye to be a laidly worm,     and borrowed shall ye never be,   until childe wynd, the king's own son     come to the heugh and thrice kiss thee;   until the world comes to an end,     borrowed shall ye never be.
so lady margaret went to bed a beauteous maiden, and rose up a laidly worm.
and when her maidens came in to dress her in the morning they found coiled up on the bed a dreadful dragon, which uncoiled itself and came towards them.
but they ran away shrieking, and the laidly worm crawled and crept, and crept and crawled till it reached the heugh or rock of the spindlestone, round which it coiled itself, and lay there basking with its terrible snout in the air.
soon the country round about had reason to know of the laidly worm of spindleston heugh.
for hunger drove the monster out from its cave and it used to devour everything it could come across.
so at last they went to a mighty warlock and asked him what they should do.
then he consulted his works and his familiar, and told them: “the laidly worm is really the princess margaret and it is hunger that drives her forth to do such deeds.
put aside for her seven kine, and each day as the sun goes down, carry every drop of milk they yield to the stone trough at the foot of the heugh, and the laidly worm will trouble the country no longer.
but if ye would that she be borrowed to her natural shape, and that she who bespelled her be rightly punished, send over the seas for her brother, childe wynd.”
all was done as the warlock advised, the laidly worm lived on the milk of the seven kine, and the country was troubled no longer.
but when childe wynd heard the news, he swore a mighty oath to rescue his sister and revenge her on her cruel stepmother.
and three-and-thirty of his men took the oath with him.
then they set to work and built a long ship, and its keel they made of the rowan tree.
and when all was ready, they out with their oars and pulled sheer for bamborough keep.
but as they got near the keep, the stepmother felt by her magic power that something was being wrought against her, so she summoned her familiar imps and said: “childe wynd is coming over the seas; he must never land.
raise storms, or bore the hull, but nohow must he touch shore.” then the imps went forth to meet childe wynd's ship, but when they got near, they found they had no power over the ship, for its keel was made of the rowan tree.
so back they came to the queen witch, who knew not what to do.
she ordered her men-at-arms to resist childe wynd if he should land near them, and by her spells she caused the laidly worm to wait by the entrance of the harbour.
as the ship came near, the worm unfolded its coils, and dipping into the sea, caught hold of the ship of childe wynd, and banged it off the shore.
three times childe wynd urged his men on to row bravely and strong, but each time the laidly worm kept it off the shore.
then childe wynd ordered the ship to be put about, and the witch-queen thought he had given up the attempt.
but instead of that, he only rounded the next point and landed safe and sound in budle creek, and then, with sword drawn and bow bent, rushed up followed by his men, to fight the terrible worm that had kept him from landing.
but the moment childe wynd had landed, the witch-queen's power over the laidly worm had gone, and she went back to her bower all alone, not an imp, nor a man-at-arms to help her, for she knew her hour was come.
so when childe wynd came rushing up to the laidly worm it made no attempt to stop him or hurt him, but just as he was going to raise his sword to slay it, the voice of his own sister margaret came from its jaws saying:
“o, quit your sword, unbend your bow,     and give me kisses three;   for though i am a poisonous worm,     no harm i'll do to thee.”
childe wynd stayed his hand, but he did not know what to think if some witchery were not in it.
then said the laidly worm again:
“o, quit your sword, unbend your bow,     and give me kisses three,   if i'm not won ere set of sun,     won never shall i be.”
then childe wynd went up to the laidly worm and kissed it once; but no change came over it.
then childe wynd kissed it once more; but yet no change came over it.
for a third time he kissed the loathsome thing, and with a hiss and a roar the laidly worm reared back and before childe wynd stood his sister margaret.
he wrapped his cloak about her, and then went up to the castle with her.
when he reached the keep, he went off to the witch queen's bower, and when he saw her, he touched her with a twig of a rowan tree.
no sooner had he touched her than she shrivelled up and shrivelled up, till she became a huge ugly toad, with bold staring eyes and a horrible hiss.
she croaked and she hissed, and then hopped away down the castle steps, and childe wynd took his father's place as king, and they all lived happy afterwards.
but to this day, the loathsome toad is seen at times, haunting the neighbourhood of bamborough keep, and the wicked witch-queen is a laidly toad.
the cat and the mouse
the cat and the mouse     play'd in the malt-house:
the cat bit the mouse's tail off.
“pray, puss, give me my tail.” “no,”
says the cat, “i'll not give you your tail, till you go to the cow, and fetch me some milk.”
first she leapt and then she ran,     till she came to the cow, and thus began:
“pray, cow, give me milk, that i may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again.” “no,” said the cow, “i will give you no milk, till you go to the farmer, and get me some hay.”
first she leapt, and then she ran,     till she came to the farmer and thus began:
“pray, farmer, give me hay, that i may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that i may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again.” “no,” says the farmer, “i'll give you no hay, till you go to the butcher and fetch me some meat.”
first she leapt, and then she ran,     till she came to the butcher, and thus began:
“pray, butcher, give me meat, that i may give farmer meat, that farmer may give me hay, that i may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that i may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again.” “no,”
says the butcher, “i'll give you no meat, till you go to the baker and fetch me some bread.”
first she leapt and then she ran,     till she came to the baker, and thus began:
“pray, baker, give me bread, that i may give butcher bread, that butcher may give me meat, that i may give farmer meat, that farmer may give me hay, that i may give cow hay, that cow may give me milk, that i may give cat milk, that cat may give me my own tail again.”
“yes,” says the baker, “i'll give you some bread,     but if you eat my meal, i'll cut off your head.”
then the baker gave mouse bread, and mouse gave butcher bread, and butcher gave mouse meat, and mouse gave farmer meat, and farmer gave mouse hay, and mouse gave cow hay, and cow gave mouse milk, and mouse gave cat milk, and cat gave mouse her own tail again!
the fish and the ring
once upon a time, there was a mighty baron in the north countrie who was a great magician that knew everything that would come to pass.
so one day, when his little boy was four years old, he looked into the book of fate to see what would happen to him.
and to his dismay, he found that his son would wed a lowly maid that had just been born in a house under the shadow of york minster.
now the baron knew the father of the little girl was very, very poor, and he had five children already.
so he called for his horse, and rode into york; and passed by the father's house, and saw him sitting by the door, sad and doleful.
so he dismounted and went up to him and said: “what is the matter, my good man?” and the man said:
“well, your honour, the fact is, i've five children already, and now a sixth's come, a little lass, and where to get the bread from to fill their mouths, that's more than i can say.”
“don't be downhearted, my man,” said the baron.
“if that's your trouble, i can help you.
i'll take away the last little one, and you wont have to bother about her.”
“thank you kindly, sir,” said the man; and he went in and brought out the lass and gave her to the baron, who mounted his horse and rode away with her.
and when he got by the bank of the river ouse, he threw the little, thing into the river, and rode off to his castle.
but the little lass didn't sink; her clothes kept her up for a time, and she floated, and she floated, till she was cast ashore just in front of a fisherman's hut.
there the fisherman found her, and took pity on the poor little thing and took her into his house, and she lived there till she was fifteen years old, and a fine handsome girl.
one day it happened that the baron went out hunting with some companions along the banks of the river ouse, and stopped at the fisherman's hut to get a drink, and the girl came out to give it to them.
they all noticed her beauty, and one of them said to the baron: “you can read fates, baron, whom will she marry, d'ye think?”
“oh!
that's easy to guess,” said the baron; “some yokel or other.
but i'll cast her horoscope.
come here girl, and tell me on what day you were born?”
“i don't know, sir,” said the girl, “i was picked up just here after having been brought down by the river about fifteen years ago.”
then the baron knew who she was, and when they went away, he rode back and said to the girl: “hark ye, girl, i will make your fortune.
take this letter to my brother in scarborough, and you will be settled for life.” and the girl took the letter and said she would go.
now this was what he had written in the letter:
“dear brother, take the bearer and put her to death immediately.
“yours affectionately,
“albert.”
so soon after the girl set out for scarborough, and slept for the night at a little inn.
now that very night a band of robbers broke into the inn, and searched the girl, who had no money, and only the letter.
so they opened this and read it, and thought it a shame.
the captain of the robbers took a pen and paper and wrote this letter:
“dear brother, take the bearer and marry her to my son immediately.
“yours affectionately,
“albert.”
and then he gave it to the girl, bidding her begone.
so she went on to the baron's brother at scarborough, a noble knight, with whom the baron's son was staying.
when she gave the letter to his brother, he gave orders for the wedding to be prepared at once, and they were married that very day.
soon after, the baron himself came to his brother's castle, and what was his surprise to find that the very thing he had plotted against had come to pass.
but he was not to be put off that way; and he took out the girl for a walk, as he said, along the cliffs.
and when he got her all alone, he took her by the arms, and was going to throw her over.
but she begged hard for her life.
“i have not done anything,” she said: “if you will only spare me, i will do whatever you wish.
i will never see you or your son again till you desire it.” then the baron took off his gold ring and threw it into the sea, saying: “never let me see your face till you can show me that ring;” and he let her go.
the poor girl wandered on and on, till at last she came to a great noble's castle, and she asked to have some work given to her; and they made her the scullion girl of the castle, for she had been used to such work in the fisherman's hut.
now one day, who should she see coming up to the noble's house but the baron and his brother and his son, her husband.
she didn't know what to do; but thought they would not see her in the castle kitchen.
so she went back to her work with a sigh, and set to cleaning a huge big fish that was to be boiled for their dinner.
and, as she was cleaning it, she saw something shine inside it, and what do you think she found?
why, there was the baron's ring, the very one he had thrown over the cliff at scarborough.
she was right glad to see it, you may be sure.
then she cooked the fish as nicely as she could, and served it up.
well, when the fish came on the table, the guests liked it so well that they asked the noble who cooked it.
he said he didn't know, but called to his servants: “ho, there, send up the cook that cooked that fine fish.” so they went down to the kitchen and told the girl she was wanted in the hall.
then she washed and tidied herself and put the baron's gold ring on her thumb and went up into the hall.
when the banqueters saw such a young and beautiful cook they were surprised.
but the baron was in a tower of a temper, and started up as if he would do her some violence.
so the girl went up to him with her hand before her with the ring on it; and she put it down before him on the table.
then at last the baron saw that no one could fight against fate, and he handed her to a seat and announced to all the company that this was his son's true wife; and he took her and his son home to his castle; and they all lived as happy as could be ever afterwards.
the magpie's nest
once upon a time when pigs spoke rhyme   and monkeys chewed tobacco,   and hens took snuff to make them tough,   and ducks went quack, quack, quack, o!
all the birds of the air came to the magpie and asked her to teach them how to build nests.
for the magpie is the cleverest bird of all at building nests.
so she put all the birds round her and began to show them how to do it.
first of all she took some mud and made a sort of round cake with it.
“oh, that's how it's done,” said the thrush; and away it flew, and so that's how thrushes build their nests.
then the magpie took some twigs and arranged them round in the mud.
“now i know all about it,” says the blackbird, and off he flew; and that's how the blackbirds make their nests to this very day.
then the magpie put another layer of mud over the twigs.
“oh that's quite obvious,” said the wise owl, and away it flew; and owls have never made better nests since.
after this the magpie took some twigs and twined them round the outside.
“the very thing!” said the sparrow, and off he went; so sparrows make rather slovenly nests to this day.
well, then madge magpie took some feathers and stuff and lined the nest very comfortably with it.
“that suits me,” cried the starling, and off it flew; and very comfortable nests have starlings.
so it went on, every bird taking away some knowledge of how to build nests, but, none of them waiting to the end.
meanwhile madge magpie went on working and working without, looking up till the only bird that remained was the turtle-dove, and that hadn't paid any attention all along, but only kept on saying its silly cry “take two, taffy, take two-o-o-o.”
at last the magpie heard this just as she was putting a twig across.
so she said: “one's enough.”
but the turtle-dove kept on saying: “take two, taffy, take two-o-o-o.”
then the magpie got angry and said: “one's enough i tell you.”
still the turtle-dove cried: “take two, taffy, take two-o-o-o.”
at last, and at last, the magpie looked up and saw nobody near her but the silly turtle-dove, and then she got rare angry and flew away and refused to tell the birds how to build nests again.
and that is why different birds build their nests differently.
kate crackernuts
once upon a time there was a king and a queen, as in many lands have been.
the king had a daughter, anne, and the queen had one named kate, but anne was far bonnier than the queen's daughter, though they loved one another like real sisters.
the queen was jealous of the king's daughter being bonnier than her own, and cast about to spoil her beauty.
so she took counsel of the henwife, who told her to send the lassie to her next morning fasting.
so next morning early, the queen said to anne, “go, my dear, to the henwife in the glen, and ask her for some eggs.” so anne set out, but as she passed through the kitchen she saw a crust, and she took and munched it as she went along.
when she came to the henwife's she asked for eggs, as she had been told to do; the henwife said to her, “lift the lid off that pot there and see.” the lassie did so, but nothing happened.
“go home to your minnie and tell her to keep her larder door better locked,” said the henwife.
so she went home to the queen and told her what the henwife had said.
the queen knew from this that the lassie had had something to eat, so watched the next morning and sent her away fasting; but the princess saw some country-folk picking peas by the roadside, and being very kind she spoke to them and took a handful of the peas, which she ate by the way.
when she came to the henwife's, she said, “lift the lid off the pot and you'll see.” so anne lifted the lid but nothing happened.
then the henwife was rare angry and said to anne, “tell your minnie the pot won't boil if the fire's away.” so anne went home and told the queen.
the third day the queen goes along with the girl herself to the henwife.
now, this time, when anne lifted the lid off the pot, off falls her own pretty head, and on jumps a sheep's head.
so the queen was now quite satisfied, and went back home.
her own daughter, kate, however, took a fine linen cloth and wrapped it round her sister's head and took her by the hand and they both went out to seek their fortune.
they went on, and they went on, and they went on, till they came to a castle.
kate knocked at the door and asked for a night's lodging for herself and a sick sister.
they went in and found it was a king's castle, who had two sons, and one of them was sickening away to death and no one could find out what ailed him.
and the curious thing was that whoever watched him at night was never seen any more.
so the king had offered a peck of silver to anyone who would stop up with him.
now katie was a very brave girl, so she offered to sit up with him.
till midnight all goes well.
as twelve o clock rings, however, the sick prince rises, dresses himself, and slips downstairs.
kate followed, but he didn't seem to notice her.
the prince went to the stable, saddled his horse, called his hound, jumped into the saddle, and kate leapt lightly up behind him.
away rode the prince and kate through the greenwood, kate, as they pass, plucking nuts from the trees and filling her apron with them.
they rode on and on till they came to a green hill.
the prince here drew bridle and spoke, “open, open, green hill, and let the young prince in with his horse and his hound,” and kate added, “and his lady him behind.”
immediately the green hill opened and they passed in.
the prince entered a magnificent hall, brightly lighted up, and many beautiful fairies surrounded the prince and led him off to the dance.
meanwhile, kate, without being noticed, hid herself behind the door.
there she sees the prince dancing, and dancing, and dancing, till he could dance no longer and fell upon a couch.
then the fairies would fan him till he could rise again and go on dancing.
at last the cock crew, and the prince made all haste to get on horseback; kate jumped up behind, and home they rode.
when the morning sun rose they came in and found kate sitting down by the fire and cracking her nuts.
kate said the prince had a good night; but she would not sit up another night unless she was to get a peck of gold.
the second night passed as the first had done.
the prince got up at midnight and rode away to the green hill and the fairy ball, and kate went with him, gathering nuts as they rode through the forest.
this time she did not watch the prince, for she knew he would dance and dance, and dance.
but she sees a fairy baby playing with a wand, and overhears one of the fairies say: “three strokes of that wand would make kate's sick sister as bonnie as ever she was.” so kate rolled nuts to the fairy baby, and rolled nuts till the baby toddled after the nuts and let fall the wand, and kate took it up and put it in her apron.
and at cockcrow they rode home as before, and the moment kate got home to her room she rushed and touched anne three times with the wand, and the nasty sheep's head fell off and she was her own pretty self again.
the third night kate consented to watch, only if she should marry the sick prince.
all went on as on the first two nights.
this time the fairy baby was playing with a birdie; kate heard one of the fairies say: “three bites of that birdie would make the sick prince as well as ever he was.” kate rolled all the nuts she had to the fairy baby till the birdie was dropped, and kate put it in her apron.
at cockcrow they set off again, but instead of cracking her nuts as she used to do, this time kate plucked the feathers off and cooked the birdie.
soon there arose a very savoury smell.
“oh!” said the sick prince, “i wish i had a bite of that birdie,” so kate gave him a bite of the birdie, and he rose up on his elbow.
by-and-by he cried out again:
“oh, if i had another bite of that birdie!” so kate gave him another bite, and he sat up on his bed.
then he said again: “oh!
if i only had a third bite of that birdie!” so kate gave him a third bite, and he rose quite well, dressed himself, and sat down by the fire, and when the folk came in next morning they found kate and the young prince cracking nuts together.
meanwhile his brother had seen annie and had fallen in love with her, as everybody did who saw her sweet pretty face.
so the sick son married the well sister, and the well son married the sick sister, and they all lived happy and died happy, and never drank out of a dry cappy.
the cauld lad of hilton
at hilton hall, long years ago, there lived a brownie that was the contrariest brownie you ever knew.
at night, after the servants had gone to bed, it would turn everything topsy-turvy, put sugar in the salt-cellars, pepper into the beer, and was up to all kinds of pranks.
it would throw the chairs down, put tables on their backs, rake out fires, and do as much mischief as could be.
but sometimes it would be in a good temper, and then!
“what's a brownie?” you say.
oh, it's a kind of a sort of a bogle, but it isn't so cruel as a redcap!
what!
you don't know what's a bogle or a redcap!
ah, me!
what's the world a-coming to?
of course a brownie is a funny little thing, half man, half goblin, with pointed ears and hairy hide.
when you bury a treasure, you scatter over it blood drops of a newly slain kid or lamb, or, better still, bury the animal with the treasure, and a brownie will watch over it for you, and frighten everybody else away.
where was i?
well, as i was a-saying, the brownie at hilton hall would play at mischief, but if the servants laid out for it a bowl of cream, or a knuckle cake spread with honey, it would clear away things for them, and make everything tidy in the kitchen.
one night, however, when the servants had stopped up late, they heard a noise in the kitchen, and, peeping in, saw the brownie swinging to and fro on the jack chain, and saying:
“woe's me!
woe's me!
the acorn's not yet   fallen from the tree,   that's to grow the wood,   that's to make the cradle,   that's to rock the bairn,   that's to grow to the man,   that's to lay me.
woe's me!
woe's me!”
so they took pity on the poor brownie, and asked the nearest henwife what they should do to send it away.
“that's easy enough,” said the henwife, and told them that a brownie that's paid for its service, in aught that's not perishable, goes away at once.
so they made a cloak of lincoln green, with a hood to it, and put it by the hearth and watched.
they saw the brownie come up, and seeing the hood and cloak, put them on, and frisk about, dancing on one leg and saying:
“i've taken your cloak, i've taken your hood;   the cauld lad of hilton will do no more good.”
and with that it vanished, and was never seen or heard of afterwards.
the ass, the table, and the stick
a lad named jack was once so unhappy at home through his father's ill-treatment, that he made up his mind to run away and seek his fortune in the wide world.
he ran, and he ran, till he could run no longer, and then he ran right up against a little old woman who was gathering sticks.
he was too much out of breath to beg pardon, but the woman was good-natured, and she said he seemed to be a likely lad, so she would take him to be her servant, and would pay him well.
he agreed, for he was very hungry, and she brought him to her house in the wood, where he served her for a twelvemonths and a day.
when the year had passed, she called him to her, and said she had good wages for him.
so she presented him with an ass out of the stable, and he had but to pull neddy's ears to make him begin at once to ee aw!
and when he brayed there dropped from his mouth silver sixpences, and half crowns, and golden guineas.
the lad was well pleased with the wage he had received, and away he rode till he reached an inn.
there he ordered the best of everything, and when the innkeeper refused to serve him without being paid beforehand, the boy went off to the stable, pulled the ass's ears and obtained his pocket full of money.
the host had watched all this through a crack in the door, and when night came on he put an ass of his own for the precious neddy of the poor youth.
so jack without knowing that any change had been made, rode away next morning to his father's house.
now, i must tell you that near his home dwelt a poor widow with an only daughter.
the lad and the maiden were fast friends and true loves; but when jack asked his father's leave to marry the girl, “never till you have the money to keep her,” was the reply.
“i have that, father,” said the lad, and going to the ass he pulled its long ears; well, he pulled, and he pulled, till one of them came off in his hands; but neddy, though he hee-hawed and he hee-hawed let fall no half crowns or guineas.
the father picked up a hay-fork and beat his son out of the house.
i promise you he ran.
ah!
he ran and ran till he came bang against the door, and burst it open, and there he was in a joiner's shop.
“you're a likely lad,” said the joiner; “serve me for a twelvemonths and a day and i will pay you well.
'” so he agreed, and served the carpenter for a year and a day.
“now,” said the master, “i will give you your wage;” and he presented him with a table, telling him he had but to say, “table, be covered,” and at once it would be spread with lots to eat and drink.
jack hitched the table on his back, and away he went with it till he came to the inn.
“well, host,” shouted he, “my dinner to-day, and that of the best.”
“very sorry, but there is nothing in the house but ham and eggs.”
“ham and eggs for me!” exclaimed jack.
“i can do better than that.
come, my table, be covered!”
at once the table was spread with turkey and sausages, roast mutton, potatoes, and greens.
the publican opened his eyes, but he said nothing, not he.
that night he fetched down from his attic a table very like that of jack, and exchanged the two.
jack, none the wiser, next morning hitched the worthless table on to his back and carried it home.
“now, father, may i marry my lass?” he asked.
“not unless you can keep her,” replied the father.
“look here!”
exclaimed jack.
“father, i have a table which does all my bidding.”
“let me see it,” said the old man.
the lad set it in the middle of the room, and bade it be covered; but all in vain, the table remained bare.
in a rage, the father caught the warming-pan down from the wall and warmed his son's back with it so that the boy fled howling from the house, and ran and ran till he came to a river and tumbled in.
a man picked him out and bade him assist him in making a bridge over the river; and how do you think he was doing it?
why, by casting a tree across; so jack climbed up to the top of the tree and threw his weight on it, so that when the man had rooted the tree up, jack and the tree-head dropped on the farther bank.
“thank you,” said the man; “and now for what you have done i will pay you;” so saying, he tore a branch from the tree, and fettled it up into a club with his knife.
“there,” exclaimed he; “take this stick, and when you say to it, 'up stick and bang him,' it will knock any one down who angers you.”
the lad was overjoyed to get this stick so away he went with it to the inn, and as soon as the publican, appeared, “up stick and bang him!” was his cry.
at the word the cudgel flew from his hand and battered the old publican on the back, rapped his head, bruised his arms tickled his ribs, till he fell groaning on the floor; still the stick belaboured the prostrate man, nor would jack call it off till he had got back the stolen ass and table.
then he galloped home on the ass, with the table on his shoulders, and the stick in his hand.
when he arrived there he found his father was dead, so he brought his ass into the stable, and pulled its ears till he had filled the manger with money.
it was soon known through the town that jack had returned rolling in wealth, and accordingly all the girls in the place set their caps at him.
“now,” said jack, “i shall marry the richest lass in the place; so tomorrow do you all come in front of my house with your money in your aprons.”
next morning the street was full of girls with aprons held out, and gold and silver in them; but jack's own sweetheart was among them, and she had neither gold nor silver, nought but two copper pennies, that was all she had.
“stand aside, lass;” said jack to her, speaking roughly.
“thou hast no silver nor gold stand off from the rest.” she obeyed, and the tears ran down her cheeks, and filled her apron with diamonds.
“up stick and bang them!” exclaimed jack; whereupon the cudgel leaped up, and running along the line of girls, knocked them all on the heads and left them senseless on the pavement.
jack took all their money and poured it into his truelove's lap.
“now, lass,” he exclaimed, “thou art the richest, and i shall marry thee.”
fairy ointment
dame goody was a nurse that looked after sick people, and minded babies.
one night she was woke up at midnight, and when she went downstairs, she saw a strange squinny-eyed, little ugly old fellow, who asked her to come to his wife who was too ill to mind her baby.
dame goody didn't like the look of the old fellow, but business is business; so she popped on her things, and went down to him.
and when she got down to him, he whisked her up on to a large coal-black horse with fiery eyes, that stood at the door; and soon they were going at a rare pace, dame goody holding on to the old fellow like grim death.
they rode, and they rode, till at last they stopped before a cottage door.
so they got down and went in and found the good woman abed with the children playing about; and the babe, a fine bouncing boy, beside her.
dame goody took the babe, which was as fine a baby boy as you'd wish to see.
the mother, when she handed the baby to dame goody to mind, gave her a box of ointment, and told her to stroke the baby's eyes with it as soon as it opened them.
after a while it began to open its eyes.
dame goody saw that it had squinny eyes just like its father.
so she took the box of ointment and stroked its two eyelids with it.
but she couldn't help wondering what it was for, as she had never seen such a thing done before.
so she looked to see if the others were looking, and, when they were not noticing she stroked her own right eyelid with the ointment.
no sooner had she done so, than everything seemed changed about her.
the cottage became elegantly furnished.
the mother in the bed was a beautiful lady, dressed up in white silk.
the little baby was still more beautiful than before, and its clothes were made of a sort of silvery gauze.
its little brothers and sisters around the bed were flat-nosed imps with pointed ears, who made faces at one another, and scratched their polls.
sometimes they would pull the sick lady's ears with their long and hairy paws.
in fact, they were up to all kinds of mischief; and dame goody knew that she had got into a house of pixies.
but she said nothing to nobody, and as soon as the lady was well enough to mind the baby, she asked the old fellow to take her back home.
so he came round to the door with the coal-black horse with eyes of fire, and off they went as fast as before, or perhaps a little faster, till they came to dame goody's cottage, where the squinny-eyed old fellow lifted her down and left her, thanking her civilly enough, and paying her more than she had ever been paid before for such service.
now next day happened to be market-day, and as dame goody had been away from home, she wanted many things in the house, and trudged off to get them at the market.
as she was buying the things she wanted, who should she see but the squinny-eyed old fellow who had taken her on the coal-black horse.
and what do you think he was doing?
why he went about from stall to stall taking up things from each, here some fruit, and there some eggs, and so on; and no one seemed to take any notice.
now dame goody did not think it her business to interfere, but she thought she ought not to let so good a customer pass without speaking.
so she ups to him and bobs a curtsey and said: “gooden, sir, i hopes as how your good lady and the little one are as well as  ”
but she couldn't finish what she was a-saying, for the funny old fellow started back in surprise, and he says to her, says he: “what!
do you see me today?”
“see you,” says she, “why, of course i do, as plain as the sun in the skies, and what's more,” says she, “i see you are busy too, into the bargain.”
“ah, you see too much,” said he; “now, pray, with which eye do you see all this?”
“with the right eye to be sure,” said she, as proud as can be to find him out.
“the ointment!
the ointment!” cried the old pixy thief.
“take that for meddling with what don't concern you: you shall see me no more.” and with that he struck her on her right eye, and she couldn't see him any more; and, what was worse, she was blind on the right side from that hour till the day of her death.
the well of the world's end
once upon a time, and a very good time it was, though it wasn't in my time, nor in your time, nor any one else's time, there was a girl whose mother had died, and her father had married again.
and her stepmother hated her because she was more beautiful than herself, and she was very cruel to her.
she used to make her do all the servant's work, and never let her have any peace.
at last, one day, the stepmother thought to get rid of her altogether; so she handed her a sieve and said to her: “go, fill it at the well of the world's end and bring it home to me full, or woe betide you.” for she thought she would never be able to find the well of the world's end, and, if she did, how could she bring home a sieve full of water?
well, the girl started off, and asked every one she met to tell her where was the well of the world's end.
but nobody knew, and she didn't know what to do, when a queer little old woman, all bent double, told her where it was, and how she could get to it.
so she did what the old woman told her, and at last arrived at the well of the world's end.
but when she dipped the sieve in the cold, cold water, it all ran out again.
she tried and she tried again, but every time it was the same; and at last she sate down and cried as if her heart would break.
suddenly she heard a croaking voice, and she looked up and saw a great frog with goggle eyes looking at her and speaking to her.
“what's the matter, dearie?” it said.
“oh, dear, oh dear,” she said, “my stepmother has sent me all this long way to fill this sieve with water from the well of the world's end, and i can't fill it no how at all.”
“well,” said the frog, “if you promise me to do whatever i bid you for a whole night long, i'll tell you how to fill it.”
so the girl agreed, and then the frog said:
“stop it with moss and daub it with clay,   and then it will carry the water away;”
and then it gave a hop, skip and jump, and went flop into the well of the world's end.
so the girl looked about for some moss, and lined the bottom of the sieve with it, and over that she put some clay, and then she dipped it once again into the well of the world's end; and this time, the water didn't run out, and she turned to go away.
just then the frog popped up its head out of the well of the world's end, and said: “remember your promise.”
“all right,” said the girl; for thought she, “what harm can a frog do me?”
so she went back to her stepmother, and brought the sieve full of water from the well of the world's end.
the stepmother was fine and angry, but she said nothing at all.
that very evening they heard something tap tapping at the door low down, and a voice cried out:
“open the door, my hinny, my heart,   open the door, my own darling;   mind you the words that you and i spoke,   down in the meadow, at the world's end well.”
“whatever can that be?” cried out the stepmother, and the girl had to tell her all about it, and what she had promised the frog.
“girls must keep their promises,” said the stepmother.
“go and open the door this instant.” for she was glad the girl would have to obey a nasty frog.
so the girl went and opened the door, and there was the frog from the well of the world's end.
and it hopped, and it skipped, and it jumped, till it reached the girl, and then it said:
“lift me to your knee, my hinny, my heart;   lift me to your knee, my own darling;   remember the words you and i spoke,   down in the meadow by the world's end well.”
but the girl didn't like to, till her stepmother said “lift it up this instant, you hussy!
girls must keep their promises!”
so at last she lifted the frog up on to her lap, and it lay there for a time, till at last it said:
“give me some supper, my hinny, my heart,   give me some supper, my darling;   remember the words you and i spake,   in the meadow, by the well of the world's end.”
well, she didn't mind doing that, so she got it a bowl of milk and bread, and fed it well.
and when the frog, had finished, it said:
“go with me to bed, my hinny, my heart,   go with me to bed, my own darling;   mind you the words you spake to me,   down by the cold well, so weary.”
but that the girl wouldn't do, till her stepmother said: “do what you promised, girl; girls must keep their promises.
do what you're bid, or out you go, you and your froggie.”
so the girl took the frog with her to bed, and kept it as far away from her as she could.
well, just as the day was beginning to break what should the frog say but:
“chop off my head, my hinny, my heart,   chop off my head, my own darling;   remember the promise you made to me,   down by the cold well so weary.”
at first the girl wouldn't, for she thought of what the frog had done for her at the well of the world's end.
but when the frog said the words over again, she went and took an axe and chopped off its head, and lo!
and behold, there stood before her a handsome young prince, who told her that he had been enchanted by a wicked magician, and he could never be unspelled till some girl would do his bidding for a whole night, and chop off his head at the end of it.
the stepmother was that surprised when she found the young prince instead of the nasty frog, and she wasn't best pleased, you may be sure, when the prince told her that he was going to marry her stepdaughter because she had unspelled him.
so they were married and went away to live in the castle of the king, his father, and all the stepmother had to console her was, that it was all through her that her stepdaughter was married to a prince.
master of all masters
a girl once went to the fair to hire herself for servant.
at last a funny-looking old gentleman engaged her, and took her home to his house.
when she got there, he told her that he had something to teach her, for that in his house he had his own names for things.
he said to her: “what will you call me?”
“master or mister, or whatever you please sir,” says she.
he said: “you must call me 'master of all masters.'
and what would you call this?” pointing to his bed.
“bed or couch, or whatever you please, sir.”
“no, that's my 'barnacle.'
and what do you call these?” said he pointing to his pantaloons.
“breeches or trousers, or whatever you please, sir.”
“you must call them 'squibs and crackers.'
and what would you call her?”
pointing to the cat.
“cat or kit, or whatever you please, sir.”
“you must call her 'white-faced simminy.'
and this now,” showing the fire, “what would you call this?”
“fire or flame, or whatever you please, sir.”
“you must call it 'hot cockalorum,' and what this?” he went on, pointing to the water.
“water or wet, or whatever you please, sir.”
“no, 'pondalorum' is its name.
and what do you call all this?” asked he, as he pointed to the house.
“house or cottage, or whatever you please, sir.”
“you must call it 'high topper mountain.
'”
that very night the servant woke her master up in a fright and said:
“master of all masters, get out of your barnacle and put on your squibs and crackers.
for white-faced simminy has got a spark of hot cockalorum on its tail, and unless you get some pondalorum high topper mountain will be all on hot cockalorum.” .... that's all.
the three heads of the well
long before arthur and the knights of the round table, there reigned in the eastern part of england a king who kept his court at colchester.
in the midst of all his glory, his queen died, leaving behind her an only daughter, about fifteen years of age, who for her beauty and kindness was the wonder of all that knew her.
but the king hearing of a lady who had likewise an only daughter, had a mind to marry her for the sake of her riches, though she was old, ugly, hook-nosed, and hump-backed.
her daughter was a yellow dowdy, full of envy and ill-nature; and, in short, was much of the same mould as her mother.
but in a few weeks the king, attended by the nobility and gentry, brought his deformed bride to the palace, where the marriage rites were performed.
they had not been long in the court before they set the king against his own beautiful daughter by false reports.
the young princess having lost her father's love, grew weary of the court, and one day, meeting with her father in the garden, she begged him, with tears in her eyes, to let her go and seek her fortune; to which the king consented, and ordered her mother-in-law to give her what she pleased.
she went to the queen, who gave her a canvas bag of brown bread and hard cheese, with a bottle of beer; though this was but a pitiful dowry for a king's daughter.
she took it, with thanks, and proceeded on her journey, passing through groves, woods, and valleys, till at length she saw an old man sitting on a stone at the mouth of a cave, who said: “good morrow, fair maiden, whither away so fast?”
“aged father,” says she, “i am going to seek my fortune.”
“what have you got in your bag and bottle?”
“in my bag i have got bread and cheese, and in my bottle good small beer.
would you like to have some?”
“yes,” said he, “with all my heart.”
with that the lady pulled out her provisions, and bade him eat and welcome.
he did so, and gave her many thanks, and said: “there is a thick thorny hedge before you, which you cannot get through, but take this wand in your hand, strike it three times, and say, 'pray, hedge, let me come through,' and it will open immediately; then, a little further, you will find a well; sit down on the brink of it, and there will come up three golden heads, which will speak; and whatever they require, that do.” promising she would, she took her leave of him.
coming to the hedge and using the old man's wand, it divided, and let her through; then, coming to the well, she had no sooner sat down than a golden head came up singing:
“wash me, and comb me,   and lay me down softly.
and lay me on a bank to dry,   that i may look pretty,   when somebody passes by.”
“yes,” said she, and taking it in her lap combed it with a silver comb, and then placed it upon a primrose bank.
then up came a second and a third head, saying the same as the former.
so she did the same for them, and then, pulling out her provisions, sat down to eat her dinner.
then said the heads one to another: “what shall we weird for this damsel who has used us so kindly?”
the first said: “i weird her to be so beautiful that she shall charm the most powerful prince in the world.”
the second said: “i weird her such a sweet voice as shall far exceed the nightingale.”
the third said: “my gift shall be none of the least, as she is a king's daughter, i'll weird her so fortunate that she shall become queen to the greatest prince that reigns.”
she then let them down into the well again, and so went on her journey.
she had not travelled long before she saw a king hunting in the park with his nobles.
she would have avoided him, but the king, having caught a sight of her, approached, and what with her beauty and sweet voice, fell desperately in love with her, and soon induced her to marry him.
this king finding that she was the king of colchester's daughter, ordered some chariots to be got ready, that he might pay the king, his father-in-law, a visit.
the chariot in which the king and queen rode was adorned with rich gems of gold.
the king, her father, was at first astonished that his daughter had been so fortunate, till the young king let him know of all that had happened.
great was the joy at court amongst all, with the exception of the queen and her club-footed daughter, who were ready to burst with envy.
the rejoicings, with feasting and dancing, continued many days.
then at length they returned home with the dowry her father gave her.
the hump-backed princess, perceiving that her sister had been so lucky in seeking her fortune, wanted to do the same; so she told her mother, and all preparations were made, and she was furnished with rich dresses, and with sugar, almonds, and sweetmeats, in great quantities, and a large bottle of malaga sack.
with these she went the same road as her sister; and coming near the cave, the old man said: “young woman, whither so fast?”
“what's that to you?” said she.
“then,” said he, “what have you in your bag and bottle?”
she answered: “good things, which you shall not be troubled with.”
“won't you give me some?” said he.
“no, not a bit, nor a drop, unless it would choke you.”
the old man frowned, saying: “evil fortune attend ye!”
going on, she came to the hedge, through which she espied a gap, and thought to pass through it; but the hedge closed, and the, thorns ran into her flesh, so that it was with great difficulty that she got through.
being now all over blood, she searched for water to wash herself, and, looking round, she saw the well.
she sat down on the brink of it, and one of the heads came up, saying: “wash me, comb me, and lay me down softly,” as before, but she banged it with her bottle, saying, “take that for your washing.” so the second and third heads came up, and met with no better treatment than the first.
whereupon the heads consulted among themselves what evils to plague her with for such usage.
the first said: “let her be struck with leprosy in her face.”
the second: “let her voice be as harsh as a corn-crake's.”
the third said: “let her have for husband but a poor country cobbler.”
well, she goes on till she came to a town, and it being market-day, the people looked at her, and, seeing such a mangy face, and hearing such a squeaky voice, all fled but a poor country cobbler.
now he not long before had mended the shoes of an old hermit, who, having no money gave him a box of ointment for the cure of the leprosy, and a bottle of spirits for a harsh voice.
so the cobbler having a mind to do an act of charity, was induced to go up to her and ask her who she was.
“i am,” said she, “the king of colchester's daughter-in-law.”
“well,” said the cobbler, “if i restore you to your natural complexion, and make a sound cure both in face and voice, will you in reward take me for a husband?”
“yes, friend,” replied she, “with all my heart!”
with this the cobbler applied the remedies, and they made her well in a few weeks; after which they were married, and so set forward for the court at colchester.
when the queen found that her daughter had married nothing but a poor cobbler, she hanged herself in wrath.
the death of the queen so pleased the king, who was glad to get rid of her so soon, that he gave the cobbler a hundred pounds to quit the court with his lady, and take to a remote part of the kingdom, where he lived many years mending shoes, his wife spinning the thread for him.
oyez-oyez-oyez
simla village tales or, folk tales from the himalayas
the cause of a lawsuit between the owl and the kite
the owl and the kite once went to law on these grounds.
the owl said that she was the oldest creature in the world, and that when the world was first made, she alone existed.
the kite objected.
he said that he flew in the air and lived in the trees.
to prove which was right they went to law, and the owl pleaded that, since there were no trees at the beginning of the world, the kite was wrong in saying that he had lived in trees.
the judge therefore decided in favour of the owl.
a monkey objects to criticism
a monkey once sat on a tree, shivering with cold, as rain was falling, and a little bird sat in its nest on the same tree; and, as it sat, it looked at the monkey and wondered why a creature with hands and feet like a man should shiver in the cold, while a small bird rested in comfort.
at last it expressed its thought to the monkey, who replied: "i have not strength to build myself a house, but i have strength to destroy yours," and with that he pulled to pieces the poor little bird's nest, and turned it out with its young.
the dead man's ring
a young married woman one night listened to the jackals' cry, and heard them say: "near the river lies a dead man; go and look on his finger and you will find a ring worth nine lakhs of rupees."
she therefore rose and went to the riverside, not knowing that her husband secretly followed in her footsteps.
arrived there, she found the dead man, but the ring was difficult to remove, so she drew it off with her teeth.
her husband, who did not know she had understood and acted upon the cry of the jackals, was horrified, and thought she was eating the flesh of the dead man; so he returned home, and when the morning came, took his wife to her mother, and said: "i have brought back your daughter, and refuse to live with her any longer, lest i come to some evil end."
he gave no reason for having thus said, and returned to his home.
in the evening his wife sat sorrowfully in the garden of her father's house, and the crows came to roost in the peepul trees; and as they came, they said: "in this place are buried four boxes containing hidden treasure: dig and find it, o my daughter."
the young girl called her parents and told them the message of the crows.
at first they laughed, but, after a while, they dug as she directed, and found treasure which enriched the whole family.
the girl then explained the story of the dead man's ring, and her husband gladly forgave her and received her back.
the origin of death
when god first made the world, he took two handsful of ashes and placed them in a corner and hid himself.
these became a man and a woman.
god then called the man by name, saying: "manoo," and the man replied, "hoo" instead of "ha jee" (yes life) respectfully, as he should have done.
for this reason was everlasting life denied him, and where he stood, there were his ashes when he died.
even to this day, if a man should scratch himself, a line of white ash of which he was made is seen.
if any man addresses another as "jee" it is accounted to his good.
the real mother
there was once a rajah who had seven wives; six of these were rich and dwelt in his palace, but the seventh was poor, and lived apart in a little mud hut by herself.
the rajah had one great sorrow, and that was that he had no children.
one day he went out to shikar (or hunt) and saw an old fakir lying fast asleep.
he did not know that the fakir had been asleep for twelve years; so he pressed his hands and feet, and the old man awoke.
seeing the rajah sitting beside him, he thought he had been attending him for twelve years, so he said:
"what is your wish, my son?"
and the rajah said: "i have no children.
i want neither riches nor honour, but a son."
then the old fakir gave him his staff, and said: "go to yonder mango tree and hit it twice, bring away any fruit which may fall to me."
the first time the rajah hit the tree only six mangoes fell, and the next time only one; these he carefully carried to the old fakir, who told him to take them home, and give one each to the ranees, and they would each have a son.
so the rajah returned to his palace, and gave them to his six ranees, but quite forgot the poor ranee, who lived apart by herself.
the six ranees did not believe what the old man said, so they just tasted the fruit and then threw it away; but when the poor ranee heard what had happened, she told her servant to go and look in the drain for any mangoes the others had thrown away, and bring them to her; so the servant brought them, and she carefully ate every one.
three months afterwards she sent for an old nurse, or dhai, who told her that she would soon be a mother.
the rajah was passing by when he saw the old nurse coming out of the poor ranee's hut, so he made enquiries; and, when he heard the news, there were great rejoicings in the palace.
this made the other six ranees very angry indeed, and they called the old dhai and told her that if, when the child was born, she would promise to kill it, they would give her a great reward.
when the day came the wicked old dhai who was in attendance on the ranee, said: "ranee, i must blindfold your eyes."
the ranee consented, and while thus blindfolded, became the mother of six sons and one daughter.
as soon as they were born, the old dhai carried them outside and threw them into a hole in a potter's field, and there left them to die, while she told the ranee that she had given birth to a piece of iron!
the poor ranee was terribly disappointed, and so was the rajah, but they submitted to what they thought was the will of god.
but the potter's wife found the children, and as she was childless, she carried them home and looked well after them, so that they all lived and grew.
this came to the ears of the six ranees, and they called the old dhai, and said: "what is this we hear?
you did not kill the children; they are alive and living in the house of the potter, but if you listen to us and go and kill them, we shall give you all the jewels that we possess."
so the wicked old woman made some sweet chappatis, or hand cakes, and carried them to the well where the children used to play every day.
she found them there playing with their toy horse and toy parrot, cheap toys made of clay by their foster-father, the potter, and they were soon tempted to eat her sweets.
no sooner had they done this, when all seven fell down and died.
the poor potter and his wife found them thus when they came to search for them some hours later; and, although the woman wept, the man at once set out in search of the old fakir, and as soon as he found him he told him what had happened.
the old fakir cut his finger and drew some blood: this he gave to the potter, and said:
"go quickly and sprinkle this on the children, and they will live."
the potter did as he was told, and the children came to life again, and went to live with their foster-parents as before.
this also came to the ears of the six cruel ranees, and they again called the old dhai and told her she must make another attempt to kill the children.
this time she had some difficulty in persuading them to eat her sweets, for they remembered what had happened before; but in the end she succeeded, and left them all lying dead on the ground as before.
the poor potter was quite broken-hearted, and again sought help of the old fakir.
the old fakir said: "son, i cannot raise the children to life in the same way a second time, but bring them here to me."
so he brought them, and the fakir said: "dig seven graves, and in the centre an eighth grave for me, and bury us all."
this the potter did, and lo!
after a time a mango tree sprang from the grave of each brother, a beautiful rose from the grave of the sister, and a chumpa or very sweet-flowering tree from the grave of the old fakir.
one day the servants of the rajah saw these trees, and, being struck with the beauty of the roses, went to gather some; but as they stretched out their hands to do so, the bough raised itself beyond their reach and said: "brothers, may i let them gather roses?"
and the brothers replied: "ask the old fakir."
so they asked him, and he said:
"none but thy mother may gather roses of thee."
much impressed by what had happened, the rajah's servants went and told him all they had heard and seen, and forthwith he set out to see the trees.
he too tried to gather flowers, but found he could not do so.
then he remembered the old fakir and the seven mangoes, and sent at once for his six ranees, to see if any of them could gather the strange roses.
each tried in turn, and the tree said as before:
"brothers, may i give roses to my mother?"
the brothers replied:
"ask the old fakir;" but the answer was always the same: "these are not to gather roses, they are for thy mother alone."
on this the rajah sent for the poor, neglected ranee, who, as we know, was the real mother; and as soon as she came, the rose branches spread themselves low on the ground, and she was soon covered with beautiful flowers.
when this happened the old fakir's grave opened, and he came back to life, and brought the brothers and sisters with him.
he told the whole story of the six ranees' cruelty, and the old dhai's wickedness to the rajah, who forthwith ordered them all to be killed, and lived happily ever after in his palace, with his seven children, and their mother, the once poor, neglected ranee.
the princess soorthe
two sisters, the daughters of a rajah, were betrothed to two princes, the eldest to a poor man with few followers, the youngest to a rich man with many followers.
about eight days before their marriage, the elder called the younger and said: "sister, we shall not be long together, let me comb your hair for you beside the well;" but in her heart she was jealous of her sister soorthe, and had it in her mind to kill her, for she did not wish her to marry a rich man.
now in the well were some frogs, so the elder sister said: "sister, do you see these frogs?
the name of the rajah you are about to marry is dhuddoo, or frog, and you think that he is a man, but he is, in reality, a frog."
this so alarmed soorthe that she wrote at once to the rajah to say she would not marry him, and he replied that he accepted her letter and would marry elsewhere; but he was vexed at the letter, and took good care to come in a grand procession which passed beneath the windows of the princess.
she did not know it was her former lover passing by, and asked which man in the procession was the rajah; thus was it explained to her who he really was, and how her elder sister had deceived her, and as she caught sight of him she foolishly thought he had come back for her; so she let herself down with ropes from her window: but only to fall into the hands of some thieves, who took her away, and left her in the forest, where she was found by a dhobie, or washerman, who sold her to a dancing girl.
this woman taught soorthe to dance; and, hearing that a rajah in the vicinity was entertaining a guest, and giving a feast and a nautch, the two set out.
this rajah was entertaining soorthe's father, although she did not know of it, and when he recognised his own daughter, who had been brought up in strict purdah, dancing in public, like a common dancing girl, his wrath knew no bounds.
he ordered her nose to be cut off forthwith, and had her turned out of the kingdom.
thus do the innocent sometimes fall victims to the deceit of others, and thus do they follow in the footsteps of evil associates.
the snake's bride
there was once a rajah, by name bunsi lall, who was charmed by a witch, turned into a snake, and lived under ground, but he constantly wished to go above ground and see the world.
so one day he ran away and made himself a house above ground.
now, at this time there was a girl living in that place who had a very cruel stepmother, and this woman made her spend the whole day picking up sticks in the forest.
it was there the snake met her, and was struck with her beauty, and one day he said to her: "sukkia, child of dukhia (or the one who gives you pain), will you marry me?"
but the girl was afraid, for who would marry a snake?
she did not know that the snake was rajah bunsi lall, and that he was only a snake by day, but resumed his human form at night, so she went and told her stepmother all about it; and her stepmother, who did not care what became of the girl, said: "tell him you will marry him if he fills your house with silver."
this the girl told him, and he readily agreed.
next day, when her stepmother opened the door, she found her house filled with silver, and readily gave her consent to the marriage; so sukkia became the snake's bride, and went to live in his house, where all was comfort and happiness for her.
after some time her stepmother thought she would go and find out whether the girl was still living; and when she arrived at the snake's house, she found that, contrary to her expectations, sukkia was both happy and prosperous.
now the stepmother knew the story of the enchantment of rajah bunsi lall, and also that, if he revealed his name, he would be obliged to return again to his former home under ground; and she advised sukkia to beg him to tell his name, and not to rest day or night until he had done so.
when night came, sukkia asked her husband to tell her his name; but he implored her not to, as it would bring bad luck to her, yet she persisted in asking, and would not be advised, though he turned himself into a snake and fled before her till he reached the river-side, where he again begged her to desist; but the foolish girl would not listen, till he called out: "my name is rajah bunsi lall;"
and so saying he disappeared under the water, and she saw him no more.
for days and days she wandered the streets and bazaars calling, "rajah bunsi lall, rajah bunsi lall!"
but he came not, and she was very unhappy.
in the meantime the snake had reached his own country, where arrangements were being made to marry him to another girl; and when his servants came to draw water from the well, they met sukkia and told her of it.
now sukkia still wore the ring which rajah bunsi lall had given her, and she begged them to take it to him, which they did; and when his eyes fell upon it he remembered sukkia, and all she must have suffered because of him, so he went back to the world determined to seek and find her, and then bring her to his own country.
sukkia was delighted to meet him again.
and gladly followed him; but the snake's mother soon discovered her, and made up her mind to kill her without delay, so she had a room prepared full of scorpions and snakes, and all sorts of deadly creeping things, and invited sukkia to sleep there.
this plot was discovered in time by rajah bunsi lall; and he had the creatures all removed and the room swept clean and whitewashed, thus sukkia escaped; but only for a time, for the snake's mother told her she was clever, indeed so clever that a test would be given her to prove her cleverness, and if she failed to give proof of it, she would be put to death.
the snake's mother then brought a quantity of mustard seed and strewed it on the floor beside sukkia, telling her to divide it into equal lots and carefully count each seed.
the poor girl began to cry, for she felt this task to be beyond her power, and the snake said all the trouble had been caused through asking his name, but he knew some little birds, who came when he called them by name, and they very soon divided the mustard seed, so once again sukkia escaped.
the next time she went out, it was to follow very miserably in the wedding procession of the snake; and his mother had arranged that sukkia should have torches to carry on her head and in her two hands, so that, when the wind blew towards her, she would be burnt to death.
all happened as arranged, but when sukkia cried out, "i am burning, i am burning!"
rajah bunsi lall heard her and quickly ran to her rescue.
together they ran away and escaped to the upper world, and found their former home, where they lived happily ever after.
the power of fate
there was once a rajah who had six daughters, none of whom were married, although all were grown up.
one day he called them to him, and asked each in turn whether she was satisfied with her lot in life and what fate had given to her.
five of the daughters replied: "father, our fate is in your hands: you feed and clothe us, and all that is to be provided for our future you will provide: we are well satisfied with our lot in life."
the youngest daughter alone kept silent, and this vexed her father, who enquired why she made no reply.
"my fate is in no one's hands," she said; "and whatever is to be, will be, whether so willed by my father or not."
the rajah was now angrier than before, and ordered that she should be immediately put to death; but upon second thoughts he decided to send her to a distant forest, and there leave her without food or water, so that she might either be eaten by wild beasts at night, or else die of starvation.
so she was placed in a dooly or litter and carried away.
the dooly-bearers took her to a very dense jungle, and at length arrived at a clear space, in the centre of which stood a huge oak tree.
here they determined to leave her, so they tied the dooly to the boughs of the tree, where it could swing above ground, and departed.
now the princess was very religious, so she spent her time in reading, and said her prayers five times a day, believing that if it were her fate to die she would die, but if not, some help would be sent to her.
in this way day after day passed by without any relief, and the poor princess was both hungry and cold, yet she continued to pray each day, until, on the morning of the ninth day, mahadeo (or god), who had heard her unceasing prayers, called one of his messengers and said:
"some one on the earth is in great pain and sorrow, and her prayers are ever knocking at my door; go thou to seek who it is, and bring me word."
so the messenger went forth, and found the poor princess in her dooly on the tree, so he quickly brought back the news to mahadeo, who sent him back with food and water to her relief.
after she had eaten and drunk, she washed the brass vessels in which her food had come, and continued to pray and give thanks to god.
now each day fresh food and water was sent to her, and for her faith and goodness, mahadeo determined to give her a reward.
looking out of her dooly one day, she noticed that the earth looked wet in a certain spot, so she dug there with her nails, and found water; not only did she find water, but stones, which were all of solid gold and silver.
"my fate has indeed been good," said the princess, and she forthwith determined to build herself a palace on that spot, and to surround it with a beautiful garden.
next day she heard a woodman felling trees in the forest, and called loudly to him.
the man was afraid, for it was a lonesome spot, where he had never before heard the sound of a human voice, and he thought she must be a spirit; but the princess assured him that she too was human, and a king's daughter, who had been banished, and promised that if he would only bring her wood to build with, and workmen to make her house, she would pay him in gold daily.
pleased at his luck, the woodman lost no time in calling carpenters and masons, and before long a lovely palace and garden were made in the once jungly spot, and here the princess with her servants lived a very happy life together.
one day the king, her father, riding by that way, was greatly surprised when he saw what a beautiful house and garden had been made in the midst of the jungle.
he sent his servants to enquire whose it was, and to bring word quickly concerning it.
the princess saw her father's servants, and ordered that they should be kindly treated, and fed on the best of food; so they returned well pleased, to tell the king that it was his long-lost daughter, whom he had thought was dead, that owned the palace, and she had sent a message to ask him to come and see her.
the rajah was indeed surprised, and hastened to find out for himself whether or not the news were true.
when the princess met him she reminded him of what she had said about fate, and her belief that what was to be, would be in spite of all efforts to prevent it, so that the rajah also was convinced that she was right.
after this her sisters came to visit her, and she gave them many beautiful and costly presents.
not long afterwards the rajah made up his mind to travel, and asked each of his five children what they would like him to bring her on his return.
they all wanted something different, and he had almost forgotten to ask his youngest daughter what she wanted, as she already had all that heart could wish, but he felt ashamed to leave her out, so he asked her also.
"i have all that i need, o my father, but if, in your travels, you come to a certain city where there is a little box for sale, bring it to me."
the rajah soon bought his five daughters their presents, all but the little box, so when he arrived at the city his youngest daughter had mentioned, he began to enquire if there was a little box for sale.
now it was well known in that place that a certain bunniah had in his safe keeping a magic box which contained a fan, and the soul of a king's son.
if any one waved the fan forwards, the prince would at once appear, but waved backwards he would at once disappear.
when the people heard a rajah asking for a box, they thought that it was this magic box he meant, so they directed him to the bunniah, who said he might have it for five hundred rupees.
this seemed a large sum to pay for so small, and, as it appeared to him, common a thing, yet, rather than return without it, the rajah paid the price and returned to his own country.
his five daughters were delighted with their gifts, and he sent the box to the youngest princess.
she soon opened it, took out the fan, and began to wave it.
no sooner had she done so when a fine handsome prince stood in her presence; but, when she waved in the opposite direction from herself, he disappeared.
every morning the princess summoned the prince with her fan, and during the day they spent many pleasant hours together playing pacheesee, or oriental chess: in the evening she sent him away.
the two were always happy together, and never weary of each other's presence, which, i am told, is a sign of the truest friendship.
the five sisters soon came to show their youngest sister their presents; and laughed when they saw a simple little box, asking what made her choose such a plain common thing.
upon this the foolish girl told them the whole secret of the box, and taking out the magic fan, waved it in their presence, and the prince arrived as before.
this made the five elder sisters very angry and jealous; and while they sat together playing chess, they planned mischief in their hearts; so that evening they got some glass, and pounded it into little bits, and this they spread upon the couch on which the prince was wont to take his midday rest.
next day, when he came, the bits of glass hurt the poor prince cruelly; but, being a guest, he made no remark, and in the evening departed to his home, where, before long, he became very ill indeed.
the king, his father, summoned all the cleverest hakeems, or native physicians, to his son's bedside; but they could do nothing, and day by day the poor prince lay at the point of death.
in vain the princess waved her fan; he was too ill to respond, and the five cruel sisters rejoiced to think their plan had succeeded so well.
at last the youngest princess could bear her suspense no longer; so, calling her servants together, she told them she was going by herself to a distant country on a pilgrimage, dressed like a fakir, and none must follow her.
at first her servants would not consent, and declared they would follow wherever she went, but after a time the princess had her way, and set out on her journey.
she wandered many miles that day, and at evening, weary and footsore, sat down under a tree to rest.
while she sat there an eagle and a parrot began to talk in a neighbouring branch.
"what news?"
began the parrot.
"have you not heard of the magic box, and the princess, and how her sisters placed broken glass on the couch of the prince, and how even now he lies at the point of death?"
"this is indeed sad news; and is there no remedy for his illness?"
"the remedy is simple, if they but knew it.
you have only to gather the refuse from an eagle's nest, add water to it, and apply it to the hurt, when, after three applications, the glass will come away, and the flesh speedily heal."
this conversation was eagerly listened to by the princess; and afterwards she carefully gathered the refuse beside the eagle's nest, and again started with all haste on her journey.
arrived at the town, she began to cry in the streets, "a hakeem, a hakeem!"
(or doctor), and was instantly summoned to the king's palace; for he had promised even to give up his kingdom to any one who would save his son.
so the princess in this disguise hastened into the king's presence, and there arranged to treat the prince, on condition that no other remedy should be tried by others at the same time.
at the first application of her remedy small pieces of glass were seen to drop out, at the second, still more, and, at the last, all fell out, and not one was left!
this gave the prince such relief that he opened his eyes and regained consciousness, but did not recognise in the new hakeem, dressed as a fakir, his former friend, the princess.
at last he got well, and was able to leave his room, so the princess went to the rajah, and begged permission to return to her own country.
"return to your country when i can give you land and riches and honour here!
why need you do that?
ask me for anything, o wise hakeem, even for my throne and my kingdom, and you shall have it."
"i desire nothing, o king," returned the poor hakeem, "but would crave of you a few tokens in remembrance of your son.
a handkerchief, his sword, a ring from his finger, and his bow and arrows."
"these gifts are too small a return for all you have done.
you shall have them, and much more, if you will."
but the hakeem refused, and, returning to her home with the tokens she had asked for, once more resumed the dress of a princess, and, taking out her fan, began to wave it.
immediately the prince stood in her presence, but she feigned anger with him.
"all these many days i have waved my fan, and you have not come!
why have you come to-day, o prince?"
then the prince told her of all that had happened, of her sisters'
cruelty, of his dangerous illness, and of the wonderful hakeem who had saved his life, and to whom he should ever be grateful.
the princess was glad indeed to hear all this from his own lips, and, bringing out each gift, laid it before his astonished eyes, while she confessed that it was she herself who had tended him in his illness.
the prince was overcome with joy and gratitude, and asked her to become his wife; so they were married amid great feastings and rejoicings, and lived happily ever after.
such is the power of fate.
the old witch who lived in a forest
there was once a brahmin who had five daughters, and after their mother died, he married another woman who was very unkind to them, and treated them cruelly, and starved them.
so stingy was she that, upon one occasion, she took a grain of linseed, divided it into five pieces, and gave a piece to each child.
"are you satisfied, sister?"
they asked one another, and each replied:
"i am satisfied," except the youngest, who said: "i am hungry still."
then the eldest, who had still a morsel of the linseed in her mouth, took it and gave it to her little sister.
soon after their stepmother said to her husband: "these children must be sent away, or else i will go."
he did his best to dissuade her, but she insisted; so, taking the five girls, he went with them to the river, where he suggested they should all cross over to the other side.
"father, you go first, and we will follow you."
"no, my children, you go first, and i will follow; but, if you should see this umbrella which i carry floating upon the water, you will know that i am drowned and cannot come."
so the children crossed over, and waited for him; but soon, to their grief, they saw the umbrella floating down the stream, and then they knew that their father had been drowned.
after this they wandered about for many days, and passed through many cities.
at last they came to a house in the woods, where a woman was sitting.
she seemed very pleased to meet them, and invited them indoors; they went in, little knowing that she was a witch, and meant evil.
next day she told them to go and fetch wood, but kept back the eldest to sweep the house, and to keep her company.
in the evening when the other sisters returned, they found their eldest sister was missing; and the witch, who did not wish them to know that she had eaten the child, told them that she had run back to her parents.
the next day she did the same thing, and detained the second sister, and so on until only the youngest was left.
at last the old witch told her to stay at home that day to sweep the house, and look after it while she went out.
the child swept the room, and then, out of curiosity, opened a box which stood in the corner, and, to her horror, she saw inside it the four heads of her sisters!
they were all smiling, and she said: "why do you smile, o my sisters?"
"because you will also come here to-day," they replied.
the poor child was much alarmed, and asked what she could do to escape.
"take all the things in this room, and tie them in a bundle, and as you run, throw them on the road.
when the old witch comes to look for you, she will see the things, and, while she is picking them up, you will have time to escape."
the child quickly did as the heads told her, tied the bundle, and ran away.
there was only a broom left in the room, and when the old witch returned she mounted upon it, and flew through the air in hot pursuit.
as she went along she found her things strewn on the road, and began picking them up one after another.
this gave the child time to run further and further away, until, at last, she came to a peepul tree, and said: "o tree, shelter me!"
and the tree opened, and she was hidden within it, all but her little finger, which remained outside, as the tree closed.
this the old witch saw and promptly bit off:
while she ate it, she regretted more than once that such a dainty morsel had escaped, but she knew there was no getting out the child; so she went away disappointed.
now, soon after, a man came to cut down the tree, but the child cried from inside: "cut above, and cut below, but do not touch the middle, or you will cut me in half."
the voice so amazed the man that he went and told the rajah about it; and forthwith the rajah came with all his retinue, and heard the same thing; so they did as the voice advised, and, after carefully opening the tree, found the child, a beautiful young girl, who sat with her hands folded within.
"girl," said the rajah, "will you walk up to anybody here present to whose caste you belong?"
the girl came out and walked up to a brahmin: this decided the question of her birth, and that she was fitted to become the wife of a prince.
so the rajah had her taken to his palace, where they were afterwards married with great pomp, and lived happily ever after.
note.
it may interest my readers to know that the little native girl standing beside the peepul tree in my sketch is still living.
she came to us during one of the great indian famines, and we almost despaired of her life, for although seven years old at that time, she was a living skeleton, her calf measurement being exactly three-and-a-half inches, or half of my wrist!
she is now a fine healthy child, and very devoted.
a.e.d.
kulloo, a faithful dog
a certain bunniah or merchant married a woman of his own caste, and set out to a distant city.
on the way he fell ill with a headache, so she sat by the wayside and pressed his head.
while doing so a man passed by, and asked for a little fire to light his cheelum for a smoke, but she replied: "i cannot leave my husband, for i am holding his head while he sleeps."
"put some clothes under his head, and he will sleep," advised the stranger.
this she did, but, while giving the fire to the man, he seized her, and, placing her upon his horse, rode away.
when the bunniah awoke, it was to find himself all alone but for his faithful dog kulloo.
"master," said kulloo, "let us become fakirs, and beg from door to door."
so they set out to beg, and one day came to the house of the robber who had stolen the bunniah's wife; and she, not recognising her husband or his dog, gave them money and food.
but the dog knew her, and that evening he spoke to his master, and asked him if he too had seen his wife.
the bunniah had not; and, guided by kulloo, he set out to find her.
when they arrived at the robber's house, and made themselves known, the woman was greatly vexed, for the robber was rich, and gave her a very comfortable home; but she pretended to be friendly and invited her husband to dine there that night, telling him that, afterwards, when he had the chance, he could kill the robber.
when the bunniah had gone, she and the robber arranged a trap for him.
it was a hole in the floor, very large and deep, with spikes fixed in the sides of it, so that anybody who fell in might die.
over the hole they set a large brass thalee or plate, so that, while the bunniah leaned heavily upon it to eat his food, both it and he would fall into the hole.
all happened as they anticipated; and when the poor bunniah found himself in a deep hole, full of spikes, he thought his last hour had come.
but faithful kulloo came to his rescue, and, taking out the spikes with his teeth, soon set his master free.
the bunniah then lost no time in seeking the robber, and found him lying fast asleep; so he killed him, and cut off his head, then, taking his wife with him, left the place.
kulloo followed closely, and licked up each drop of blood which fell from the robber's head, lest it might leave a trace of the deed, and get his master into trouble.
he was a wise dog, and knew the woman was wicked, so she hated him, and made up her mind that she would neither eat nor drink until he was dead.
the bunniah enquired why she would not touch any food, and she told him she would only do so if he killed kulloo.
this the man refused to do; but, after a while, he consented.
poor kulloo, when he knew his last hour had come, besought his master to bury him carefully, and to see that his head, which the bunniah meant to cut off, was buried with him, for a time was yet to come when he would again save his master's life.
after kulloo was dead and buried the wicked woman was happy, and ate and drank as before; but, after a few days, she went and gave notice at the court that the bunniah was a cruel robber, who had killed her husband, and stolen her away.
the police seized him, and he was taken up for murder; but, just as the judge was about to pronounce the sentence of death upon him, he remembered faithful kulloo; and at the same moment the dog appeared!
all were surprised when he stood before the judge, and asked leave to speak.
he then told the whole story of the robber and the wicked woman; and thus, for a second time, saved his master's life, but, having said his say, poor kulloo disappeared and was never seen again.
the story of ghose
there was once a ranee who had no children, so she made a great pet of a young squirrel, and fed it day after day.
one day it entered her head to deceive the rajah, so she told him that, before the end of the year, an heir would be born in the palace.
on the appointed day she sent her own nurse (whom she had bribed) to tell the rajah that the child was born, and was a daughter.
the old brahmin of the palace hastened to see the young princess, who was, in reality, no child, but the tame squirrel; so the ranee persuaded him to go and tell the rajah that he was now the father of a most lovely daughter: but the stars pointed out that he must not look on her face for twelve years, for, if she looked at him, he would die, and, if he looked at her, she would die.
the poor rajah had no choice but to agree, and thus the ranee kept up her deception for twelve years, and hid her pet squirrel from everybody.
at last, when the twelve years were over, she said one day to her husband: "do not look upon your daughter's face till she is married, lest evil come upon her, but go you and make arrangements to marry her to a prince of good family."
so they sent the old brahmin to seek for a husband for her; and he went from place to place, until he came to a city where there was a rajah who had seven sons, all of whom were married but the youngest, whose name was shahzadah; so the brahmin chose him, and all was prepared for the marriage.
there was a great feast held, and great rejoicings daily took place in the palace.
when at last the dooly or litter came, for the bride to be carried to her home, the ranee hid the squirrel inside it, and nobody guessed that there was, in reality, no bride.
on reaching his home the young bridegroom had the dooly placed at the door of his zenana, according to oriental custom, so that none might see his bride enter; and great indeed was his surprise, when he looked inside, to find nobody there but a squirrel.
for very shame he held his peace, and told nobody of it, but gave orders in the palace that he and his wife would live apart by themselves; and she would be in such strict purdah, that even the women of the household would not be allowed to visit her.
this gave great offence to everybody; but they put it down to his jealousy, owing to his wife's great beauty, and obeyed.
at last his other brother's wife rebelled, and said: "i refuse to do all the household work; your wife must also take her share in it."
shahzadah was now very sad, for he felt the time had come for his secret to be discovered, and he would become the laughing-stock of the whole palace.
the squirrel, who was a great favourite of his, noticed his sadness, and asked him the cause of it.
"why are you sad, o prince?"
"i am sad because they say you must do some of the household work; and how are you to do it, being only a squirrel?"
"what is it they want me to do?"
"to leepo or plaster the floor."
"well, tell them to do their own portion of the work, and leave me to do mine at my leisure."
this was done, and at night the squirrel went and dipped her tail into the limewash and plaster, and soon had the room better done than the other ranees.
in the morning all the household were surprised to see the clever way in which shahzadah's wife had done her work, and they said:
"no wonder you hide your wife, when she is so clever."
the next day the task was to grind some corn, and again shahzadah's heart was heavy, for how could a squirrel turn a heavy stone handmill, and grind corn?
but the squirrel said as before: "tell them to do their work, and to leave mine alone.
i will do it when i have finished my bath."
when night came, she went into the room, and with her sharp little teeth, kutter, kutter, kutter, soon reduced the corn to powder.
shahzadah was very pleased with her, and so were they all, and nothing more was said until the next day, when the allotted task was to make a native dish called goolgoolahs.
this is done by mixing goor, or molasses, with flour and water, and frying it in ghee, or oil, like fritters.
the poor little squirrel was indeed at her wits' end how to perform the task, for how could so small an animal make so difficult a dish?
she tried, and she tried, but failed each time in her attempts, until it was nearly morning.
just then the god mahadeo and his wife parbatti were taking a walk in the dawning light of day.
parbatti saw the poor little squirrel's efforts, and said to mahadeo: "i will not rest content till you turn that small creature into a human being, so that she can perform her task."
at first mahadeo refused, but, after a time, he took out a knife, and, making a cut in his finger, took the blood from it, and sprinkled it upon the squirrel, who forthwith turned into a most beautiful princess.
just then, as she sat finishing her task, other members of the royal family awoke, and came in; they were greatly amazed at her beauty, and led her by the hand to their own apartments.
meantime, shahzadah, her husband, was stricken with grief, thinking his poor little squirrel had been burnt to death.
he sought her everywhere, and when he could not find her, began to cry: "o my ghose, my ghose, where are you?"
the women standing there scolded him for this, and said: "why do you call your beautiful wife a young squirrel?
she is not dead, but has at last been found by us, and is with the other princesses in the palace."
but shahzadah, who knew nothing of what had happened, only wept the more, for he thought they were making fun of him, so he went to his own room, where he flung himself on his couch, and continued to weep.
at last he looked up and saw, standing beside him, a beautiful girl, who said: "do not weep, o prince, for i am your squirrel."
then she told him all that had happened.
this was indeed good news, and it was not long before the grateful princess wrote to her foster-mother, who had been so good and kind to her when she was only a helpless little creature, and invited her and her father the rajah to come on a visit.
this was the first time the rajah had seen or kissed his daughter, and he was indeed pleased to find she was so beautiful.
so there were great rejoicings in the palace, and they all lived happily ever after.
the vizier's son and the rajah's son
the vizier's and the rajah's son were great friends, and always together.
this made the rajah very jealous, and he called an old woman whom he knew, and asked her to separate the two.
this was a difficult task, as they were such fast friends, but the old woman was anxious to gain a reward, and said she would do it; so she called the vizier's son, and when he asked her what she required, remained silent.
then she called the rajah's son, and did the same.
after she had gone, the two questioned each other as to what she had said, and neither would believe the other when he declared she had said nothing at all; so they began to suspect one another of deceit, and quarrelled.
thus the old woman sowed dissension in their hearts, and after a time, instead of being friends, they became bitter enemies.
the rajah's son said he insisted on knowing what the old woman had said to the vizier's son, and if he would not tell it, he must be put to death at the hands of a sweeper, or, in india, low-caste man.
the sweeper was just about to do this cruel deed, when the goddess parbatti saw him, and implored of mahadeo, her husband, to intercede; so he sent a large stag to the jungle, and it stood near at hand.
when the sweeper saw it, he killed it instead with the bow and arrows, and, taking out its eyes, carried them to the rajah, and said they were the eyes of the vizier's son.
thus the prince was appeased, and again ate, drank, and was merry, until one day, walking in the garden, he saw an earthen vessel, and in it a lock of hair and a small lamp.
this, he felt sure, had some significance, so he longed to ask the vizier's son, who was clever, and would have told him all about it; but he remembered that the vizier's son was taken away and killed, and he himself had seen his eyes brought back in proof of the deed.
nevertheless he wept day and night, and would not be comforted, so the rajah, his father, in great distress, sent for the sweeper who had been told to kill the vizier's son, and implored him to declare the truth concerning his end.
then the man confessed everything, and went and searched for the lad, and brought him back.
the two boys became fast friends as before, and the rajah's son enquired the meaning of the lock of woman's hair and lamp.
"it means," said the vizier's son, "the name of a beautiful princess called 'princess of the lamp,' and she lives in a distant country."
so they set out to seek her, and soon found the palace in which she lived, and outside a girl making a wreath of flowers for the princess.
the rajah's son begged the girl to let him make the hal or wreath, and, in making it, he placed a letter inside.
the princess was very angry when she found the letter, and made the girl tell her the truth; but she would not receive the prince after what he had done, so he had to return to his own country: thus was he punished for his cruelty to the vizier's son.
the rajah's son and the vizier's son
for a second time the friendship of the rajah's son and the vizier's son caused great jealousy, so a mischief-maker was called, and he promised he would do all in his power to part them.
then he ordered a dooly and followed them into the forest.
at the first opportunity he called to the eldest, who was the vizier's son, and pretended to whisper in his ear.
the rajah's son at once enquired what the man had said, and would not believe that it was nothing at all, so once again in great anger he ordered his friend to be killed.
but the vizier's son was very clever, and soon persuaded the executioner to spare his life, for he told him the rajah's son would very soon weary of being alone, and would ask for him back; and if the executioner could not bring him, he would most probably suffer death himself; thus he escaped, and went and hid himself.
in the meantime the rajah's son chanced to walk by the riverside, where he saw a very beautiful woman sitting beside her husband.
he admired the woman very much, and communicated his feelings in looks, though he dared not do so in words.
the woman replied by first spreading a little green plaster on the ground, on which she placed a brass vessel, or lota, and over that another or smaller lota, on the top of which was a looking-glass, with ashes spread upon it.
the rajah's son looked carefully at what she had done, but could not interpret its meaning, so he bitterly regretted the death of his friend, who was noted for his cleverness, and went at once to the executioner to enquire about him.
the executioner owned that he had not killed the boy, and went and called him.
then the friends went together to discover what the woman meant, nor was the vizier's son long in finding the meaning.
the green plaster meant, "in a green spot lives lota (the name of her husband), and gudba (or smaller vessel) is the name of the city where we live; the looking-glass means in a house which has many glasses in it; and the ashes mean, 'may these ashes be on your head if you fail to discover my meaning.'"
after this clue, it did not take the vizier's son long to find out where the woman lived, and he put pegs into the wall, one above the other, for his friend to climb up to her window.
but before the rajah's son could reach the top, a kotwal, or policeman, saw him, and took him away to the lock-up.
this was an unexpected turn of affairs, so the vizier's son quickly dressed himself as a beautiful woman, and asked to see his friend in the prison.
he bribed the jailer to let him in, and, once there, made his friend put on his clothes and escape, while he remained prisoner in his stead.
next day the news went abroad that the kotwal had locked up both the rajah's son and the vizier's son in the prison, and the rajah was very angry about it, and sent at once to find out the reason.
they determined to put the matter as to who was innocent and who was guilty to a test; so the kotwal had a pan of boiling oil prepared, and said who ever plunged his hand into it, who was innocent of crime, would not be burnt.
each dipped his hand in turn, the rajah's son, the vizier's son, the woman, and the kotwal himself, but only the kotwal had his hand badly burnt, so this ended the whole affair.
the rajah's son meantime had dressed himself as a woman, and taken service in the house of the beautiful woman who was the wife of a sowcar.
nobody guessed who he was, until one day the sowcar himself admired him, and tried to be friends with him, thinking he was only a pretty servant-girl; then the sowcar's wife gave her pretended servant-girl a razor, and said to keep it carefully till the next time the sowcar came to see her, and then to cut off his nose.
the rajah's son, who was tired of acting the part of a servant-girl, was only too glad to do this; and the sowcar, rather than let anybody know of his disgrace in having lost his nose, left the country, and thus his wife gained her ends.
bey huslo
bey huslo was a very extravagant woman, who was always being found fault with by her husband, who held up as her examples other women who were thrifty in their habits, and who saved money, and helped to make and build up their husbands' homes.
on hearing this bey huslo took a pick-axe, and began digging here and there like a mason.
her husband asked what she was doing, and she replied: "trying to build you a house."
he tried to explain that that was not literally meant, and explained again the duties of a wife.
"when a good wife falls short of supplies, she borrows two cuttorah's full (or small earthen vessels full)
of flour from her neighbour, and thus saves herself the expense of buying any large quantity."
that night bey huslo, who had taken this saying literally, borrowed two small earthen vessels, and, breaking them into small pieces, put them on the fire to cook!
her husband heard the sound as they grated against the cooking-pot, and asked what she was cooking that made such a noise; but he was very angry indeed when she told him, and scolded her roundly.
he told her she was perfectly useless, and that, while he had to go about without clothes, other women were able to spin and weave.
she replied that if he would only give her some wool, she could do the same.
the man was delighted, and gave her some wool; so she took it to the pond, and told the frogs and toads to weave it into cloth for her.
after some days her husband asked her if the cloth was ready, and she said: "i gave it to the frogs and toads to weave for me, and find they have not done so."
then her husband was very angry indeed, and said: "senseless one, have you ever heard of frogs and toads spinning cloth?
go out of my house this moment!"
and, with that, he turned her out, and she went and climbed up into a peepul tree.
soon after some camels came that way, and, as they stretched out their necks and ate the branches, bey huslo called out: "go away, i will not go with you; i will only go when my husband comes to fetch me."
but as the camels had only come to eat, and not to fetch her, they made no reply, and went away.
after this a dog began to bark at her, but she said again: "go away, i will not go with you; i will only go with my husband."
when night fell some thieves sat sharing their spoils under the tree, and bey huslo felt so frightened that she fell off, and dropped in their midst.
the thieves did not know what to make of it, and ran away, leaving their stolen property behind.
bey huslo soon gathered it up and returned to her husband.
"here," she said, "is more than enough for you and for me.
we will now live at our ease, and i will have no housekeeping to do, so that you can no longer call me a worthless wife."
the story of panch mar khan
there was once a weaver who had the habit of slapping his face to kill any flies that settled upon it; and it was rumoured that he killed five at every blow, so he got the name of panch mar khan, which means "a killer of five."
people did not know that this name applied to flies, but thought the weaver a brave, strong man, able to kill five of his enemies at a blow, so that he gained a reputation for bravery.
one day the rajah of that place heard some enemies were coming in force to attack his capital.
all the fighting men were required to go out and meet them on the morrow; so panch mar khan received notice to be in readiness also.
now he had never touched a weapon in his life, and was horribly frightened at the very idea, so he made up his mind to run away during the night.
he saddled his donkey, and, taking two large millstones, set out on his journey; but, as he was passing the enemy's camp, and arrived at a hill just a little above it, the donkey began to kick and to bray, and the two stones rolled down the hill into the enemy's camp with a great noise.
they thought an army was after them, and became terror-stricken, so that in the darkness and panic which ensued, many of them were killed.
panch mar khan was greatly delighted at his good luck, and, instead of running away, returned to his own home.
next morning, when the soldiers came to call him out to fight the enemy, he very proudly asked: "what enemy?
did i not go out at night, and kill hundreds of our enemies and drive the rest away?"
true enough, there was now no camp to be seen, and several dead men were found on the spot; so panch mar khan's reputation as a brave man spread far and wide, and he was handsomely rewarded by the rajah.
some days after news came that a tiger was prowling about; and a brave man was required to go out that night and kill it.
who was so brave as panch mar khan!
so he was deputed to go, but when he heard this he nearly died of fright, and made up his mind that he would run away.
so when darkness fell he crept out and caught his donkey by the ear, and led it to its stable, and there tied it to a post, to wait till he was ready to get on its back; but when he returned with a light, what was his surprise to find it was not his donkey, but the tiger that he had led by the ear and tied to a post.
such brave conduct from a mortal to a wild beast had so amazed the tiger, that it was too frightened to resist, so there it remained till morning, and panch mar khan was thought to be the bravest man alive!
next morning he got up early, and went out into the field near his house, and there he suddenly came face to face with the fierce eyes and grinning teeth of a jackal.
his other bravery was by mistake, but this was a reality, and so frightened was he, that he fell down and died on the spot.
the rabbit and the barber
there was a rabbit who asked a barber to shave him; in doing so the barber cut off his ear.
"take my ear," said the rabbit, "and i will take your razors."
a little further on he saw an old woman pulling grass with her hands.
"take this," he said, giving her the razor, "and cut grass with it, and i will take your cloth."
when she asked him why, he replied: "you have my razor and i have your chudder."
then he went a little further and saw a ghee seller.
"take my chudder and give me your ghee," said the rabbit.
so saying, he left the chudder and walked off with the ghee.
not long after he met a woman, and told her to make him some goolgoolahs, or sweets, with the ghee.
as soon as they were ready he picked them up and ran away.
a little further on was a man with a plough, a horse, and a bullock.
"take these sweets," said the rabbit, "and i will yoke your plough for you."
but, instead of doing this, he ran away with the horse, and soon after met a marriage procession, in which the bridegroom was walking beside the bride's litter or dooly.
"get on my horse: why do you walk?"
said the rabbit gaily.
so the man got on, and the rabbit ran off with the bride; but her husband ran after, and advised his wife to kill the rabbit.
when they got to a quiet place, and rested under a tree, she asked the rabbit to let her comb his hair; but as soon as he put his head down, she gave him a severe knock on it, which stunned him, and then ran back to her husband.
thus ended the adventures of the rabbit.
rupa and bisuntha
there was once a woman who had no little children of her own; every day she used to watch the sparrows building their nests, and bringing up their young, and it so happened that one day a mother bird died, leaving several young ones.
after a time a new mother bird was brought, and she was not at all good to the young fledglings.
the woman felt hurt for them, and said to her husband: "if i had children of my own, and after a time i died, would you do as the birds have done, and let my children be unkindly treated?"
but the man replied: "these are birds, and i am a man."
after some years the woman had two sons, and when they had grown to be big boys, she died.
her husband had forgotten her conversation about the birds, and he married another wife.
one day the eldest boy was playing with a ball, when it fell into his stepmother's room.
he asked if he might fetch it; but when he went inside, she made it an occasion for all sorts of complaints against him to his father, so his father turned him out of the house, and he went away with his little brother.
as they rested that night in the forest, the younger brother lay awake and overheard a conversation between two night jars.
they talked on many subjects.
at length one of the birds remarked: "how little do people guess that he who eats me will become a rajah, and he who eats you will become a prime minister."
on hearing this the youngest brother crept out of bed, and taking his gun, shot both birds and cooked them.
he ate the female himself, and kept the male for his brother.
but while he slept, a venomous snake, which lived in the tree, came down and bit him, so that he died as he slept.
in the morning his elder brother awoke, and found a meal prepared for him, so he ate the bird, and then tried to wake his companion, but soon discovered that the boy was dead.
this grieved him very much, and he wept bitterly, and determined to wait till he could return and burn his brother in a way befitting to a good caste hindu, so he placed him in the branches of the tree and went his way.
the same day mahadeo and parbatti were passing that way, and parbatti, who is ever described as a wilful goddess, always wanting her own way, asked mahadeo to see what was in the tree.
they soon found the dead boy; and parbatti insisted that he should be made alive again, so mahadeo sprinkled a few drops of blood upon him, and he sat up alive and well.
close to this place a rajah had just died, and his people placed his crown in the trunk of an elephant, leaving it to him to place it upon the head of any man there; and that man would be their future king.
the elephant looked upon them all, and then, walking up to rupa, placed the crown upon his head.
at first the people objected, because he was a stranger, and did not belong to their town, but after a while they accepted him as their king, and thus the words of the bird were fulfilled.
in the meantime, bisuntha came to the same city, and begged a night's shelter.
the people were fully aware that night after night a fierce man-eating tiger came to that town, and demanded a man to eat.
they did not wish to give one of the men belonging to the town, so bisuntha, being a stranger, was selected for the tiger, and told to go and sleep in the place where it was likely to come.
at night he lay awake thinking, and the tiger came; but bisuntha had his sword beside him, so he promptly killed the tiger, and placed its ears and whiskers in his pocket.
in the morning a sweeper came, thinking to find the stranger dead and his bones scattered about, but, instead, he found the tiger dead, and the stranger lying fast asleep; so he resolved to take all the honour of killing the tiger to himself, and went back to the city with the news that he had killed the tiger single-handed, and saved the man.
this story was believed, and the sweeper richly rewarded, but bisuntha heard nothing.
now there lived in that city a merchant who owned a ship and went to distant cities to trade, but sometimes the ship stuck in the sandbanks, and could not be moved.
at such times it was necessary to kill a man, and then the sand was pleased at the sacrifice and let the ship go.
it was always difficult to find a man for the purpose, and the rajah was often asked to select one.
bisuntha, at this time, had taken up service in the house of an oil merchant, and being a stranger, he was selected for a second time, and sent by the rajah to accompany the merchant, at the risk of his life.
at the first sandbank, when the ship was in difficulties and could not be moved, the merchant told bisuntha he must prepare to die; but bisuntha said: "you desire your ship to move, whether i die or whether i do not.
if i can make it move on for you, will you spare my life?"
to this the merchant agreed; and bisuntha cut his finger, and dropped a few drops of blood into the sea.
as soon as he did this the ship moved on, and so the merchant would not part with him, or kill him, but kept him during the whole voyage, and brought him back to the town.
rupa had half forgotten his brother all this while, but one day he was stricken with remorse, and determined to find out what had happened after he had left the forest, with the intention of burning the remains of bisuntha.
in order to get news of him, he sent out a notice that he would pay any one who would come daily and talk with him, for he hoped in the course of conversation that some one would mention the circumstance of the boy who was found dead in a tree in the forest.
at length bisuntha himself came to hear what the rajah his brother was doing, so he disguised himself as a girl, and went to the palace.
when the rajah saw him he said: "what have you to say, o my daughter?"
and bisuntha said: "do you wish me to talk on general subjects or only of myself?"
"of yourself," said rupa.
so the lad began.
"there were once two brothers, whose names were rupa and bisuntha, and they had a stepmother."
rupa's interest was now breathless, but after telling a small part of the story bisuntha said he was tired, and would tell the rest next day.
the next day he continued, and told how a snake had bitten bisuntha, and how he had died in the forest, and had been raised to life by mahadeo and parbatti.
rupa was now full of anxiety to know the rest, but bisuntha said he had forgotten it, so nothing could be done.
when he came again, he said he remembered that bisuntha came to a certain town, where the rajah ordered him to be given to a tiger; how he had escaped the tiger and all other dangers, and had in his pocket the proof.
thus saying he took out the tiger's ears and whiskers, and, as his eyes met his brother's, they recognised each other, and fell upon each other's necks.
sheik chilli
the hero of this story was one day walking along with a vessel of oil upon his head.
as he walked he kept thinking of the future.
"i will sell the oil, and with the money i shall buy a goat, and then i shall sell the kids, and then i shall buy a cow, and sell the milk, till i get a large sum of money; then i shall buy a pair of buffaloes, and a field, and plough the field, and gain more money, and build myself a house, and marry a wife, and have many sons and daughters.
and when my wife comes to call me to dinner, i'll say: 'dhur, away!
i'll come when 1 think fit!'"
and with that he held up his head suddenly, and away fell the chattie with the oil, and it was all spilt.
this upset sheik chilli so much that he began to yell: "i have lost my goats, i have lost my cows, i have lost my buffaloes, and my house, and my wife and children."
that such dire calamity should befall a man caused great pity, so the bystanders took sheik chilli to the rajah, who asked him how it had all happened.
when he heard the story he laughed, and said: "this boy has a good heart, let him be given a reward to compensate him for the loss of his oil."
sheik chilli
sheik chilli was going to be married, so his mother said: "my son, whatever your wife gives you to eat be content with your nemak panee (literally salt and water, but a native always speaks of his food as his "nemak panee"), and do not grumble, but eat uncomplaining."
so when he was married, and his wife placed his food before him, he remembered his mother's warning, and kept repeating, "nemak panee, nemak panee," till his wife was disgusted, and taking him at his word gave him salt and water to drink.
during the night he felt very hungry, and asked her to give him some food, but she said: "i am not going to get up and cook food for you at this hour of the night, but if you will go into a certain room, you will find some honey in a jar on the shelf, eat a little of that."
sheik chilli, in trying to reach the jar of honey, upset it, and it came pouring down upon him, while he kept calling out, "stop, stop, i've had enough," till at last, surfeited with honey and smeared with it from head to foot, he returned to his wife, and told her what had happened.
she advised him to go into the next room, where he would find some wool, and clean himself with it.
he tried to do this, but the wool stuck fast to the honey, and covered his body and his hands, so that he looked more like a sheep than a man, and his wife told him that he had better go and sleep with the sheep until morning, when she would prepare some warm water for him to have a wash.
that night some thieves came to steal the sheep, and in the darkness they felt each one to see which was fattest.
sheik chilli was fast asleep, and they thought he was a very fine sheep; so they put him into a bag and ran away, taking him with them.
when he awoke he kept calling out: "let me go, let me go."
this frightened the robbers, who had never heard a sheep call out before, and so they put down the bag and out dropped sheik chilli.
the robbers asked him who he was, and said: "you must come with us now, for we are just going to rob the house of a very rich bunniah; while we gather the spoils, you keep watch that he does not wake."
sheik chilli waited patiently till he thought the robbers were ready to run away; and then he dropped some hot rice, that was in the cooking pot on the fire, upon the hand of the bunniah's wife.
she awoke with a scream, and the robbers ran away.
then sheik chilli explained how he had saved the bunniah from great loss, and was allowed to go free without any more questions being asked.
when he got outside he saw a camel laden with all sorts of treasure.
the camel-driver had turned aside for a minute or so, and sheik chilli could not see him, so he lead off the camel, made over its pack to his mother, and let it walk away empty.
next day there was a great fuss made, and the town-crier went round to say that a camel had strayed, and certain valuable goods were lost.
sheik chilli's mother heard this, and knowing how simple her son was, she feared he would tell every one where the things were, so she resolved to divert his mind, and that night cooked some goolgoolahs, a very favourite native dish, like fritters, and flung them into the garden; then she woke her son and told him it was "raining goolgoolahs from the sky!"
the foolish fellow ran out and called to everybody: "it is raining goolgoolahs!
it is raining goolgoolahs!"
everybody thought him a fool, and said: "it is that mad sheik chilli; who is going to listen to him?"
next day sheik chilli heard the town-crier calling out about the camel, so he promptly said: "my mother has the things; i myself brought the camel to her."
then they all crowded to his mother's door, and she asked: "on what day did you bring the camel, my son?"
"the day it rained goolgoolahs, mother."
so the people walked away disgusted, and said: "what fool's talk is this?
who ever heard of its raining goolgoolahs?
the one statement is as false as the other."
after this his mother advised him to return to his wife, who must wonder what had become of him.
"and mind," she said, "whatever your wife may say, you must agree, and say 'acchabat'" or "quite right,"
as we english would say "good!"
or "very good news!"
so he returned to his wife, and the first piece of news she gave him was that her mother had been put into prison, to which he replied, "acchabat," or "very good."
on this his wife was exceedingly vexed, and turned him out of the house.
he returned to his mother, who asked him what had happened.
she said:
"you are indeed a foolish boy, you should have said, 'ah ha!
ah ha!
this is indeed sad news.'
i hope you will remember next time what i have told you."
so sheik chilli went back to his wife, who greeted him with the news that his mother-in-law had been released.
"ah ha!"
said sheik chilli, "this is indeed sad news."
the mother-in-law, who overheard him, said: "i have had enough of you:
take your wife, and go and live in your own mother's house."
so she turned him out.
the monkey, the tiger, and the princess
once upon a time there was a king who had seven sons, and he made up his mind that he would not let them marry unless they married seven sisters, so he sent his brahmin to seek a rajah who had seven daughters, and to bring him word.
after a time the brahmin succeeded, and found a rajah who had seven daughters; so arrangements were speedily made for their marriage.
when the time came for the seven princes to go and fetch their brides, the youngest said to his father: "if we all go, who is to look after the house, and all your property?
let me remain behind, and when my brothers return with their wives, they can bring my bride also."
his father thought this a very wise suggestion, so they set out, leaving the youngest brother at home.
after the wedding festivities were over, the seven brides were carried along in doolies, with the six princes for an escort, and they halted for the night near a tank or pond in the forest, but did not know that the place was full of tigers.
at night the tigers formed a ring round the camp, and said they would eat every one in it unless one of the princesses was given up to them.
none of the six princes would give up his wife.
at last they decided to leave the seventh princess to the tigers.
when the procession arrived at the rajah's palace, the youngest prince wondered why only six doolies had come, and asked what had become of his bride; but nobody would give him an answer.
at last an old man told him what had happened, and the young prince, who was very angry and disappointed with his brothers, at once set out to seek his bride.
on the way he met a rat and a jackal, and they said: "may we go with you?"
the prince consented, and the three set out together, and walked or rode till evening, when they were overcome with fatigue and sat down to rest.
the prince fell asleep, but the jackal said to the rat: "i am very hungry, what shall we do for food?
do you eat the prince's clothes, and i will eat his horse."
no sooner did they agree than they carried out their plan.
the rat ate all the clothes worn by the prince, and the jackal ate his horse, so that when he awoke it was to find himself alone in the forest, without either horse or clothes.
just then a monkey came down from the tree, and asked him what was the matter.
"i have told my troubles to two animals before, and do not wish to be betrayed by a third," said the prince; to which the monkey replied:
"a rat is a rat, and a jackal is a jackal, but i am a monkey; come with me and i will help you out of your troubles."
then they went to the bazaar, where the monkey gave his friend the prince some money, and told him to buy himself clothes.
when he had bought the clothes, he gave him some more money and said to buy himself a sword and ornaments, and lastly to buy himself a horse, and the monkey advised that it should be a thin horse, fleet of limb.
then the two mounted the horse and rode into the forest, where they soon found the princess sitting tied up in a den, with an old blind tiger in charge of her.
the blind tiger held two strings; one was attached to the girl, and the other to a large tiger who had gone out with the rest of the tigers, but who, at the slightest pull of the string, was ready to return to give any assistance required of him.
the monkey whispered to the girl to try and free herself, and meantime, he began to sweep the room, and busy himself, so that the old blind tiger might think the girl was busy at her household work.
after a time the girl managed to get away, and she fled with the prince, until the monkey thought they were at a safe distance; then he turned round and dealt several blows to the old blind tiger, who, in her turn, pulled the string.
a great big tiger at once came to her assistance, and asked what had happened, but he was enraged to find that the girl had gone, and beat the old tiger soundly, before setting off in hot pursuit.
on the way he saw a man, who was in reality the monkey in disguise, sitting beside a funeral pyre.
"what is this for?"
asked the tiger.
"a certain tiger," said the monkey, "has killed his mother to-day, and this is to burn her upon."
the tiger felt remorse, for he had not meant to kill the old tiger, so he rushed back to the den, and this gave the fugitives time to escape yet further; but when the tiger found his mother alive and well, he was so angry that he dragged her out of the den by her feet and threw her on the ground.
then he ran back to where the monkey was sitting and found him still busy with the funeral pyre, for he said that an old woman had been dragged out by her feet that day, and she was even now being carried to be burnt.
the tiger was filled with remorse at what he had done, and for a second time ran back to the den.
by this time both the prince and the princess had escaped in safety, and the monkey joined them.
they were always good to him, but he pined for the woods and the forests; yet, whenever he asked to be allowed to return, they would not allow it.
so one day he determined to make the princess so angry that she would herself turn him out.
he awaited his opportunity, and broke all the thread as she was spinning.
the princess threw something heavy at his head, and he feigned to fall down dead.
great were the lamentations over the faithful monkey, and he was carried in solemn ceremony to be burnt, just as though he were a rajah's son; but the moment they laid him upon the fire, up he jumped, and ran off.
the princess scolded him for causing her such sorrow, but he explained that since there was no other way of getting back into the forest and regaining his liberty, he had thought this the best way.
then they all came home, and let the monkey sport in the forest as before.
the jackal and the guana
a jackal once made itself a throne of bones near the river-side, and levied toll on all the animals that came there to drink water, making each say in turn these words:
"golden is your throne,     silver is its plaster,     in your ears are golden earrings,     and you sit like a rajah."
this praise pleased the jackal, and he was puffed up with his own importance.
one day a guana, or iguana, a very large lizard, called by the natives "go," came to the river, but when the jackal asked it to repeat the words, it said: "let me drink first, for i am dying of thirst;"
so he let it drink, and when it had finished, it said:
"bones are your throne,     with cow dung are they plastered,     in your ears are shoes,     and you sit like a jackal."
this made the jackal wild with anger, so he ran after the go to kill it, and caught its tail in his teeth, just as the go was getting into a hole.
"hoo hoo," said the jackal.
"don't say hoo, say ha," called the go; so the jackal said "ha!"
and in order to say it, had to open his mouth, so the go escaped!
the story of the black cow
there was a certain brahmin whose wife died leaving him one little son.
for some time the two lived happily together, but at last the brahmin married for a second time, and the woman, who had a daughter of her own, was very unkind to her little stepson.
each day the two children went out together to attend to the cattle, and at night they returned home to eat their food.
but the cakes made by the brahmin's wife for her stepson were of ashes, with just a little flour mixed in to give them the appearance of food, that the brahmin might not notice; and the child ate in silence, for he was afraid to complain, yet, when he was alone in the forest he wept from hunger, and a black cow, one of the herd, saw this, and asked him what was the matter.
the boy told her everything, and presently she beat her hoofs upon the ground.
as she did so, sweets of all kinds appeared, which the child ate greedily, and shared with his little sister, warning her the while not to mention at home what the black cow had done, lest the stepmother should be angry.
the stepmother meanwhile wondered to see how well the boy looked, and she resolved to keep watch, for she suspected that he drank the milk while tending her cows; so she told her little daughter to keep a good look-out on all his doings, and to let her know.
at last the girl confessed that they ate sweets every day, and the black cow provided the feast.
that day when the brahmin came home his wife begged him to sell the black cow, and said she would neither sleep nor eat until this was done.
the poor boy was sad indeed when he heard this, and went at once to his favourite, where, throwing himself on the black cow's neck, he wept bitterly.
"do not weep, my child, but get up on my back, and i will carry you to a place of safety where we can still be together."
so they escaped to a forest, and there lived in peace and security for many days.
now, in the forest was a hole, which led to the home of the great snake, which, together with a bull, holds up the universe.
into this hole the black cow poured five seers of milk daily to feed the snake.
this pleased the snake so much that he said one day: "i must go up into the world and see for myself the creature who is so good to me and who sends me such good milk to drink."
when he came he saw the black cow grazing with the boy beside her.
the cow asked no favours for herself, but when the snake asked what she would like, she said she would like her son, as she called the brahmin's son, to be clothed in gold from head to foot, and that all his body might shine as gold.
this wish the snake readily granted, but both cow and boy afterwards regretted their request, for they feared robbers.
one day as the boy had his bath by the river, and combed his long locks of pure gold, some of his golden hair fell into the water, and was swallowed by a fish.
this fish was caught by a fisherman, and taken for sale to the king's palace.
when they cut it open all present admired the lovely golden hair, and when the princess saw it, she said she would never be happy again until she met the owner.
the fisherman was asked where he caught the fish, and people were despatched in all directions in boats to search both far and wide.
at last a man in one of the boats espied in the distance a beautiful shining object taking a bath by the river-side.
little by little the boat came closer and closer, until it was alongside; then the man called out and asked the bather to come a little nearer.
at first the brahmin's son would not listen, but after a time he came up to the boat, when, to his surprise, he was at once seized, tied up, and carried away.
arrived at the king's palace he met the princess, who was very beautiful; and when he saw her he forgot everything else, and thought only of her.
after a short time they were married, and spent many happy days together; but some one chanced to offer them a sweet-meat made of curds, such as the black cow often gave her boy, and in a frenzy of remorse, the brahmin's son remembered his faithful friend and hastened to the place in the distant forest where he had last seen her.
arrived there he found only a few bones of dead cattle strewn about.
he was heart-broken at the sight, and gathered all the bones together into a funeral pyre, upon which he declared he would lay down his own life; but just as he was about to do this who should appear but his old friend, the black cow.
they were overjoyed to see each other, and she told him she had only kept the bones there to test his affection; but now that she was satisfied that he had not forgotten her, the meeting was full of happiness and joy, so they held a great feast for many days and then went their separate ways as before.
the brahmin and the wild geese
there was once a brahmin who had a large family, and was very poor.
every day he went out into the bazaar to beg, but whether he begged for only an hour, or for the whole day, he seldom succeeded in getting a seer of atta (two pounds of flour).
now this made his wife very angry, for she thought that the longer he begged, the more he should gain.
she suspected that he sold what he was given, instead of bringing it home for his family, so she accused him and beat him soundly.
the brahmin was deeply vexed at her treatment, and determined to go to the river and there drown himself; yet when he tried to do so, his courage failed, so he alternately threw himself into the water and then changed his mind and came out again.
his conduct attracted the attention of a couple of wild geese, who had their nest near by.
"i wonder what that man is doing; i think i will go and see," said the gander; but his wife advised him not, "for who knows the ways of human beings."
yet he would not listen, and going up to the brahmin, asked him the reason of his strange conduct.
the brahmin told him everything, and when he had done the goose said:
"shut your eyes till i tell you to open them."
the brahmin did as he was told, and on opening his eyes, the goose held out to him in its beak, a most valuable and beautiful ruby.
"take this, my friend, and sell it to a rajah, and then your troubles will be all over."
the brahmin thanked him warmly, and went off with his treasure to the nearest state; there the rajah looked at the ruby, but said he could not afford to buy so valuable a gem unless the brahmin would accept for it seven mule loads of money.
this the brahmin gladly consented to do, and returned to his home a rich man.
some time after this, the poor rajah who had bought the ruby got leprosy, and called all the physicians he could find to cure him.
one of these said he would be cured if he ate the flesh of a wild goose, and applied its fat to his hands.
that very day the rajah sent for the brahmin, and told him to go without delay and fetch him a wild goose, when he would reward him greatly.
now, the brahmin loved money, and for his greed of gold, forgot all the kindness of the wild goose, and made up his mind to secure it; so he went to the river as before, and began to try and drown himself.
the geese watched him with much concern, for they wondered what had caused this fresh trouble, after all that had been done for him.
perhaps a thief had stolen the ruby.
the old gander ran to enquire, but his wife warned him not to go.
"what is the matter, o brahmin?"
"nothing, my friend, except that i wish to behold your face again."
"well, here i am."
"ah, not so far, my friend; come nearer that i may caress you,"
cried the brahmin.
so the foolish bird came nearer, and no sooner had he done so, than the brahmin seized him and put him in a bag, with only his head out.
as they went along, the poor goose shed bitter tears of reproach, and each tear became a beautiful pearl.
the rajah's son chanced to come that way, saw the pearls, and followed in their track, until he came to the spot where the brahmin sat.
"what is in your bag?"
he asked; "and why do pearls fall from it as you walk along?"
the brahmin denied that he had anything in his bag, but the prince would not listen, and accused him of theft; so at length he opened it, and displayed the wild goose.
the poor bird told the prince of all he had done for the brahmin, and of the poor return and ingratitude he was having now.
this made the prince very angry, and he at once released the goose, who gladly flew away.
the brahmin then went to the rajah, and told him what his son had done, and orders were at once given to banish the prince from the kingdom.
then the prince went to the river and told the wild goose of his banishment, and, out of gratitude, the goose and his wife brought food and fruit daily, and placed it before him.
this went on for some time, and then the geese decided to find a wife for their visitor.
now a lovely princess lived in a palace close to that place; and one night, while she slept, the two geese joined wings under her bed, and carried her to the river.
in the morning when she awoke she was surprised to find herself in this lonely place.
but the prince met her and told her that he too was banished; and they became great friends and soon afterwards were married.
the wild geese gave them many beautiful and valuable gifts, and they went to live in the former home of the princess.
the four-gifted princess
there was once a king, who was sitting with his wife before the fire when they heard a partridge call.
the king said: "that sound comes from the left," and his wife said it came from the right, so they had a bet about it, and the rajah said: "if you are right you may have my kingdom, and i will cease to reign any longer;" so he went out, and found that his wife was right.
this being the case, he began to make preparations to leave, and to make over his kingdom to her; but, as he was about to do this, his servants, who knew of the bet, advised him not to be so foolish, but to take another wife, and to do away with this one, rather than part with the kingdom.
at first the king would not listen, but after a time he agreed to leave the matter in their hands.
that night they waited till the poor ranee lay asleep, and took her as she slept, placed her in a box, locked it up, and threw it into a river.
an old fakir was in the habit of bathing in the river very early in the morning, and when he came he found the box and opened it.
the ranee was unconscious, but not dead; so he carried her to his own home, and there looked after her until she recovered.
now the ranee was about to present the kingdom with an heir, and was very miserable to find herself deserted and in a strange home at such a time, so she cried bitterly, and three fairies were sent to her assistance.
soon after this a little daughter was born to her, and when the child was a month old, the three fairies took their leave, but, before going, each determined to leave a parting gift for the little princess.
the first said that whenever she placed her foot on a stone it would turn to either silver or gold.
the second said that whenever she laughed sweet scented flowers would fall from her lips.
the third said that whenever she cried pearls would fall from her eyes.
all these things came to pass, so in time they built a beautiful palace.
one day the rajah passed that way, and asked the brahmin how he had built such a lovely palace in the place of his old mud-hut.
the old man told him how he had found the box, and all about the queen, his wife, whom he thought was dead.
the rajah owned his sin, and implored forgiveness of his wife.
at first she refused to forgive him, but after a time she listened, and the rajah said that, if ever again he did anything to vex or hurt her, the old fakir might punish him as he thought best.
now the indian people dread the punishment of a holy fakir; so the queen returned to her former palace, and lived happily ever after.
the man who went to seek his fortune
there was once a zemindar or jhut who was very poor, and he had a brother who was very rich, but the rich brother never helped him at all and often reproached him for his poverty.
one day the poor zemindar determined to go out into the wide world to seek his fortune, and not to return until he had found it.
having thus made up his mind he set out on his journey, and the first thing he came across was a king's palace, which was in the hands of carpenters and masons; but no sooner had they built it up on one side, than the other side fell down, so that the place was at all times under repairs, and caused its owner much expense and anxiety.
as the zemindar stood watching the place, the king came out, and asked him who he was, and where he was going; so he told him that it was to seek his fortune.
"well, when you get to the place where you find it, will you think of me, and enquire the reason why my palace is constantly falling down?"
this the zemindar promised to do, and then continued on his journey.
the next place he arrived at was a river, and a turtle was on its bank.
it asked him whither he was going, and he said: "to seek my fortune."
"friend, remember me when it is found, and say that the poor turtle, although it lives in water, suffers from a severe burning sensation inwardly.
pray enquire the reason of this."
so the zemindar promised, and, as a reward, the turtle bore him across the river on its back.
after another long journey, when he was both hungry and footsore, the zemindar spied in the distance a most beautiful plum tree.
it was the season for plums, so he determined to have a good feast of the fruit, and plucked one of the largest and best, but it tasted so bitter that he quickly threw it away, and, turning to the tree in anger and disappointment, cursed it.
"you are fair to look at, but otherwise good for nothing," he cried bitterly.
"alas!"
replied the tree, "this is what all travellers say to me.
yet i cannot discover why my fruits are bitter.
will you, o traveller, find out for me in your travels, and bring me word?"
after leaving the plum tree, the zemindar went into a thick jungle, and in the midst of it found an old fakir fast asleep.
he did not know that this holy man had slept for twelve years, and was just about to awake.
while he stood there the old fakir opened his eyes, and saw him.
"son, you have looked after me while i was asleep; who are you and where are you going?"
"i am going to seek my fortune, for i am a poor man."
"go no further, but return the same way that you have come," said the old fakir.
"before i go, will you tell me, o holy fakir, why a certain rajah's house is always falling down, though he is constantly rebuilding it."
"the rajah has a daughter who is grown up but unmarried; when she is married the trouble will cease."
"a turtle is troubled with burning sensations inwardly, and would be glad to know the cause."
"the turtle is full of wisdom, but selfishly keeps all its knowledge to itself.
let it tell half it knows to another, and it will become quite well."
"there is a beautiful plum tree whose fruits are bitter to the taste.
what is the cause of this?"
"there is hidden treasure at the root of the tree, and when this is removed, the fruit will be sweet," said the old fakir.
then the zemindar thanked him, made a low salaam, and returned the same way he had come.
first he met the plum tree, and it at once enquired if he had found out why its fruit was bitter, and he told it the reason.
"it is yours to remove that cause, my friend, so dig quickly, and see what there is at my roots."
the zemindar did as he was bid, and found a box full of treasure pearls, and gold, and rubies so he tied them in his blanket, and went on his way.
at the river his friend the turtle awaited him eagerly; so the zemindar explained everything, and the turtle said: "i will impart half the knowledge to you as a reward; stoop down and listen."
the man did as he was bid, and the creature imparted great wisdom to him in whispers.
after this he met the king, who said: "well, traveller, what news?
have you found your fortune?"
"yes, o king, and the cause of your trouble is, that, until your daughter is married, your house will continue to fall down."
"will you marry her?"
said the king.
the zemindar gladly consented, and the marriage took place with great pomp.
after it he returned to his own home, and there his elder brother met him.
"you see, brother," said the zemindar, "that you said it was my fate to have but a seer of atta (flour a day), but i have found my good fortune at last."
three wise men and the king's daughter
a king had a very beautiful daughter, and was anxious that she should marry some one who had made himself famous in some particular way.
three men in the city came forward and begged the king for her hand in marriage.
"but what can you do?"
asked the king.
"i can tell if a thing is lost, where to find it," said the first, "and produce it if required."
the second said: "i can make such wonderful horses out of wood, that they can rise to any height and go anywhere."
the third said: "i can shoot with my bow any living thing."
the king was pleased, and went and told his daughter, asking her to choose which she would have as a husband.
"i will tell you to-morrow," said the girl.
the king agreed, but on the morrow she was nowhere to be found, and her father, much distressed, went to the three wise men.
"now," said he to the first, "tell me where my daughter is."
"she is with the fairies," he replied, "and unless the one in charge of her is killed, she cannot return."
then the king turned to the other two men.
to the horse-maker he said:
"go and make me a horse," and to the other: "take your bow and arrow, mount the horse, and go and shoot the fairy: bring my daughter back with you."
forthwith the men prepared: the horse was made, and mounted by the man with his bow and arrows, then they all disappeared into the skies.
there they found the king's daughter guarded by a fairy.
the third man soon shot the fairy with his bow and arrow, and, lifting the princess upon his horse, returned with her to her father.
now each man felt that he had an equal claim upon her, and had earned her as his wife; so the king asked her to decide.
"i will marry the man who shot the fairy," said she, "and no other."
this decision being final, they had a grand feast in celebration of her marriage.
moral.
those who think they have the best claim, do not always attain their desires!
barbil's son
a rajah's son once went to worship at a sacred stone; when there, he beheld a lovely young girl, so, falling on his face before the stone, he said: "if you will but give me this girl as my bride, i will give you my head as a sacrifice."
his prayer was granted, and he married the girl.
for two months he was so happy that he never remembered his vow, but at the end of that time, a brahmin came and reminded him of it.
so, after bidding his wife a loving farewell, he went sadly away, and, cutting off his head, placed it near the stone as a sacrifice.
now his father, barbil, missing him, came there to search, and was horrified to find his son's dead body with the head offered to the stone.
"what is my life worth to me now?
i will also sacrifice myself,"
said he, and forthwith he too cut off his own head and placed it beside that of his son.
the bride, finding neither father nor husband return, went forth in search of them; and, seeing what had happened, determined to add her own life to the sacrifice.
she was just about to destroy herself when a voice near by said:
"daughter, do not hurt yourself.
the heads alone are off, but if you take them and place them beside the bodies, they will unite again."
the delighted girl immediately did as she was directed, and the two heads were united to the bodies, so that she once again saw her husband and father alive.
but no sooner did they begin to speak than she found that she had made a terrible mistake, for, in her eagerness to restore the heads to their bodies again, she had not noticed that she had united her husband's head to his father's body, and barbil's head to her husband's body.
while the two men quarrelled over this mistake, the poor girl, greatly distressed, appealed to the gods to help her.
they bade her cease weeping.
"the head is the principal thing," said they; "do not mind the body:
if you were the daughter of a poor man and married a prince, barbil, having taken the form of the prince, is also of royal blood, so it matters not.
let him that has the head of your husband be your husband again, and he who has the head of the king be the king."
thus they settled the matter, and returned home.
moral.
the head ruleth the body, and not the body the head!
the tiger and the rats
an old tiger became ill in the jungles, and, being unable to use his teeth, was much troubled by rats, who used to come and eat his food before he had time to touch it.
nearly starved to death, he appealed to the fox, who said: "why do you not keep a cat?
you will then soon be rid of your trouble."
the tiger thought this an excellent idea, and immediately sent for a cat.
now the cat was a very cunning animal, and thought to herself, how nice it was to be in the service of the tiger.
"but," said she, "i will only drive away the rats, because, if i kill them, the tiger will have no further need of me, and my employment will be gone."
so she kept watching by the tiger all night and drove away the rats.
one day she said to the tiger: "to-night, if you do not mind, i'd like to take a holiday, and would like you to take care of my kitten."
"very well," said the tiger.
so the cat brought the kitten, and, leaving it with the tiger, went away.
the kitten was a splendid ratter, and, not knowing why it had been put near the tiger, was surprised and delighted to see the rats, which it speedily killed; and then arranged in a line to show its mother on her return in the morning.
but as soon as the cat saw them she grew very angry, and said:
"what have you done?
you have taken away my employment."
the poor little kitten said that it did not know that it was not to kill rats, and was very unhappy.
then the tiger came forward, and dismissed them both, saying: "i am now rid of the rats, and require your service no longer."
so they went away crestfallen.
moral.
thus do people often make a convenience of those who are their best friends!
the adventures of a bird
a small bird was once half buried in a puddle and could not escape, so it called to a passing stranger for help.
"take me out, o stranger, and as a reward, you may eat me when my feathers are dried."
so the man assisted it; but no sooner were its wings free than it flew away without expressing a word of gratitude.
after going a short distance it found a cowrie (or small shell, the smallest current coin in india, and now very rarely used), and joyously exclaimed: "i have found a cowrie, i have money i am now higher than a rajah."
a rajah hearing this, sent a man to take away the cowrie.
"see,"
said he, "that bird says it is higher than a rajah."
so he took the cowrie, and brought it to the rajah.
whereupon the bird said: "see, that rajah was hungry, so he took away my money."
this annoyed the rajah so much (as only the poorest people deal in cowries) that he immediately restored it to the bird, who, nothing daunted, replied: "see, the rajah was afraid, and so he has returned my cowrie."
this was going a little too far, and the rajah, in a rage, ordered the offender to be shot.
moral.
let well alone.
the legend of naldera temple
at a little distance beyond mushobra in the simla district, stands an old, old temple of the mongolian type, around which hangs a quaint wooden fringe, which causes a strange rattling sound on a windy day.
no priest lives within its sacred precincts, and the vicinity being the viceroy's summer camping ground, the presiding "deo," or deity, must often be disturbed by the light laughter and chatter of picnic parties from simla.
many years ago, before the present rickshaw road existed, a party of hillmen, gaily laughing and talking as they swung along, carrying a "dandy" (or kind of litter), arrived at the place.
it was about 11 a.m. on a bright october morning, and the keen wit of the men as they exchanged repartee with many bright-eyed paharee maidens, seemed in keeping with the cool, crisp air and turquoise blue sky; but suddenly a deep silence fell upon them.
they had come within sight of a number of enormous boulders which lay scattered, as though hurled by some earthquake or invisible force along the precipitous mountain side.
not a word escaped the lips of the four men till they had turned the corner which bounds naldera temple; then they took out their cheelums and smoked while they told this tale:
"years and years ago there stood in this place a beautiful and prosperous city, full of houses and people.
"the present temple stood in its midst, but the people were wicked and sinful, so one day the 'deo' arose in great wrath and hurled the entire city with its inhabitants down into the precipice, so that not one stone was left standing upon another; and the grey rocks and solitary temple alone remain to tell the tale of past splendour and prosperity."
the bunniah's wife and the thief
a bunniah, or merchant, lying awake one night, saw a thief enter the room.
so he whispered to his wife: "wife, wife, a thief is in the room; what are we to do?"
now his wife was a very clever woman, and she replied: "why are you waking me?
i was having such a fine dream."
"what did you dream?"
asked her husband.
"i dreamt that i had three fine sons, and they were named 'mugwani,'
'hajee,' and 'chor.'"
(the last name means "thief.")
"what silly names!"
said the bunniah.
"how could you call out to them?"
"by their names, of course," replied she.
"but how could you call 'chor'?
if it happened to be night, what would people think?"
"why, i would call him like this, loud: 'chor!'
'chor!'"
and she jumped up and ran out of the room, followed by her husband, the two calling "chor!
chor!"
as loudly as they could.
the thief, thinking they were only pretending, remained silent under the bed, waiting for their return.
they soon came back with a number of friends, who caught the thief and took him away to prison.
who stole the ruby?
a dying king called his three sons to him and gave each of them a ruby.
"keep this," said he, "in remembrance of your father."
the three rubies were put into a box and locked up.
some time afterwards, on opening the box, only two rubies were found in it, and the third one was missing.
now the three sons knew that had a thief been there, he would have helped himself to all the stones, so they said within themselves:
"one of our friends has done this; let us go and tell the priest."
so they started off together, and on the way met a man, who said:
"friends, have you seen my camel?"
"was it blind?"
asked the eldest brother.
"yes," said the man.
"had it no tail?"
asked the second.
"you are right," said the man.
"was it carrying vinegar?"
enquired the third.
"yes," replied the man.
"did you see it?"
"no," said the brothers; "we did not see it."
"very strange," returned the man; "you know all about it, and yet you did not see it.
i will also go to the priest and tell him about you."
so they went, and the man told the priest his story.
"how is it that you three know all about the camel, and yet you did not see it?"
said the priest.
"well," said the eldest, "i noticed that all the plants and shrubs on the way were eaten on one side only, so i concluded that the animal who had eaten them must have been blind not to see the other side."
"how did you know that it had no tail?"
"i saw the patch of mud where it sat down," replied the second brother, "and there was an imprint of a body but no tail."
the priest then asked the third boy how he knew that the camel carried vinegar.
"because all along the road were wet patches which smelt of vinegar."
these answers pleased the priest very much, and he gave a feast for the brothers.
during the feast he sat down, and, unknown to them, watched and listened to find out what they were talking about.
the eldest said: "this grain he has given us to eat was grown in a cemetery."
the second said: "and this meat is not killed meat; it is some other flesh."
the youngest said: "the priest himself is a villain."
then the priest ran out and caught the man who had sold him the grain.
"tell me at once where you gathered this grain?"
demanded he.
"from a cemetery," confessed the man.
after this the priest sought the butcher, and said: "where did you get that meat you sold me?
did you kill the sheep?"
the butcher admitted that it was the flesh of a goat which had dropped dead, and had not been killed.
going back, the priest resolved to catch the boys in their own net, and he told them a story about two men and a thief.
"now," said he, when he had finished, "which of the three do you prefer?"
the eldest boy said he liked one man, and the second the other, but the third preferred the thief!
"well," said the priest, "if you prefer the thief, you yourself must be a thief.
where is the third ruby?"
on this the boy confessed that he had stolen it; and, taking it out of his pocket, restored it to his brother.
the three went home together, and lived happily ever afterwards.
the story of vickramadit
a king once asked his daughters to tell him the reason why they were so comfortable and always clothed in fine raiment, with jewels to wear, and a palace to live in.
they all said: "it is because we are your daughters, o king!"
but the youngest said: "i am what i am through my favourable destiny, and not because i happen to be your daughter; if good fortune be destined for us we shall have it under any circumstances."
at this the king was very angry, and said: "leave my palace at once, and see what your own luck will do for you; methinks your lucky stars will cease to shine once you have left my palace."
but in order to further humiliate her, he determined to get her married to the poorest man in his kingdom, and one who was weak and sickly and about to die.
he therefore sent his servants to bring the first sickly-looking pauper they could find.
now it so happened about this time that one vickramadit, a holy mendicant, was lying outside the palace gates stricken down with great suffering, and almost at the point of death; and they brought him as the most suitable man for the young princess to marry.
the poor beggar vickramadit was in reality a great king, who once reigned over the ancient and holy city of ujjain; but he had abdicated his throne in order to become a "sanyasi," or begging fakir, and was then on a pilgrimage to kasi, the holy city of benares, where he hoped to pass the rest of his days in prayer, and the deeds of charity for which he was well known.
the sickness with which he was stricken down at the gates of the king's palace was caused through his great love of god's creatures, and happened in this way.
one day, as he was walking along footsore and tired, a snake came up to him and said: "can you give me some water to drink, for i am dying of thirst?"
vickramadit replied: "i have no water in my gourd, having just drank it; but if you will promise not to harm me, you may creep down my throat into my body, and there drink your fill and return satisfied."
this the snake promised, but, instead of returning, it remained within him and refused to come back.
all that the beggar ate passed into the mouth of the snake; and in this way he soon found himself unable to travel, and obliged to rest, suffering at the same time great agonies from starvation and thirst.
when the king's servants found and brought him to the palace, the young princess was there and then forced to marry vickramadit, and expelled from the town with her beggar husband.
both king and queen expressed a hope at parting that she would soon learn the lesson, that it was all due to them alone that she had fared so well hitherto.
as vickramadit could not travel very far owing to weakness, she took shelter in the first small hut she could find, and there stayed, trying to alleviate his sufferings.
now, near this hut was a mound of earth in which dwelt a snake.
in the evenings, as is usual in india, the snake came out of his hole and stood on the mound of earth, where he hissed violently.
the snake which lived inside vickramadit heard the sound, and hissed in reply.
then they began a conversation.
the snake on the mound said: "you traitor!
you were given permission to drink water; and this is how you treat the holy fakir, and break your promise to return without doing him any harm!
you shall now be given a certain seed to eat which will entirely destroy your body, and you will die in agonies."
the other snake replied: "you miser!
you 'dog in the manger,' who live over a mound beneath which lies vast treasures and priceless jewels!
you know that you cannot use them yourself, and yet you will allow nobody else to touch them!
your end will be that a woman will kill you by pouring boiling milk and butter over you."
the young wife heard these two snakes denouncing each other, and determined to act upon what she had overheard.
when leaving her father's house, she had managed to hide on her person a small pearl ring, and this she now pawned for a small sum of money, and purchased milk and butter.
warming these to boiling point, she went over at midday and poured them into the snake's hole in the mound.
she also sought the seed, which would kill the snake her husband had swallowed, and gave it to him to eat.
thus both snakes were killed, and all danger from them ceased to exist.
vickramadit, after the destruction of the snake, improved rapidly, and soon regained his health and strength.
the young wife now turned her attention to the mound of earth, beneath which lay buried treasures.
she employed a few men to dig, and they soon unearthed several ghurras, or earthen vessels, full of priceless gems.
with these she went away, and very soon founded a great city, over which she made her lord king.
thus vickramadit once more reigned a king; and no queen was more famous than the young princess who had been so cruelly cast adrift by her father.
the old father heard of this new king, and of all the riches and splendour of his court and queen; and he sent men to enquire if it were true that his daughter was really as great as people reported.
the men returned and said: "o king, her riches, the magnificence of her court and palace, surpass all we have heard; she is indeed a great queen, and has founded a mighty city."
the king then owned his mistake, and said: "my daughter was right when she said her greatness was due more to her individual luck than to the mere fact that she happened to be born my daughter; for has she not, in spite of all my ill-treatment of her, risen to be queen, not of a small kingdom such as mine, but of a world-renowned kingdom."
moral.
thy kismet is thy fate; when that is good, then the most unfavourable circumstances, or the deepest gloom, cannot prevent its asserting itself.
the weaver
there was a weaver who was unmarried, and all that he could earn in a day, in exchange for the cloth he wove, only amounted to two pounds of either rice or other grain.
one day he cooked some kitcherie, [1] and, placing it in a plate, left it to get cool, and went out to sell his cloth.
while he was away a jackal came and ate up the kitcherie; and on his return he found the jackal, so he tied it up and beat it severely.
then he cooked some bread, which he ate, and again beat the jackal.
the poor creature thought: "now my life will go, if this man keeps on beating me in this way."
when the man next went out to dispose of his cloth, the jackal, tied up by itself, felt very lonely, especially as it could hear its companions howling in the jungles; so it began to howl too, and, hearing it, one of its friends came to see where it was, and finding it, said: "brother, what are you doing here?"
the poor jackal, bruised all over and swollen with the beating it had received, replied: "friend, a man has caught me, and takes the greatest care of me; see how fat i have grown with eating all the hulwa-poories [2] he gives me.
if you will release me, i will tie you here, and you will get a share of the good things."
so the two exchanged places, and the first jackal ran back gladly into the jungles.
on the return of the weaver he, as usual, began to beat the poor creature, who then spoke, and said: "why are you beating me?"
the weaver, surprised, replied: "i have never heard this jackal speak before!"
"that one has gone, and he tied me here in his place, and told me i should get all sorts of good things to eat; but if you will release me, i will arrange a marriage with a king's daughter for you."
"what!"
said the man, "i am only a poor weaver, and can you really get me married to a king's daughter?"
"yes," returned the jackal.
so the weaver released it, and turning itself into a brahmin, it crossed the river and presented itself at the court of a certain rajah, to whom it said: "o king, i have found a rich weaver-caste rajah, who wishes your daughter's hand in marriage."
the rajah, much pleased, consented, and the brahmin, on getting outside the palace, once more turned into a jackal, and returned to the weaver.
"follow me," said he, "and i will take you to the king's daughter."
so the weaver took up his blanket, which was all he possessed.
on their way they met a dhobie, or washerman, carrying his bundle of clothes.
the jackal gave him a gold mohur, and told him to spread all the clean clothes he possessed upon the trees around.
further on they met a cotton-beater, or man who, in the east, beats cotton and prepares it to make up into pillows and quilts; to him they also gave a gold mohur, and asked in return for several large balls of cotton.
these they carried on a large plate to the river; and the jackal, leaving the weaver, returned as a brahmin to the rajah, who had seen the dhobie's clothes in the distance, and thought they were tents pitched by his daughter's future husband.
the jackal had told the weaver to watch, and, as soon as he saw him enter the palace, he was to take large lumps of cotton and throw them one by one into the river, so that they might be seen floating down the stream.
"the bridegroom," explained the brahmin, "has met with a terrible accident; all his possessions and his followers are lost in the river, and only he and i remain, dressed in the clothes in which we stand."
then the rajah ordered his musicians and followers to come out, and go with horses in great pomp to bring the weaver, who was forthwith married to the princess.
after the marriage the brahmin said: "this son-in-law of yours has lost all he had; what is the use of his returning to his country?
let him stay here with you."
to this the rajah, who loved his daughter, gladly consented, and gave them a fine house and grounds.
now the weaver, who was not accustomed to good society, or to living with those above his station in life, made a salaam, or obeisance, such as a poor man is wont to do, to his wife every morning, and she began to suspect that he had deceived her, and was not a real rajah.
so she asked him one day to tell her the whole truth about himself, and he did so.
"well," said she, "you have owned it to me, but do not let my father or mother know; for now that i am married to you, things cannot be altered, and it is better that they should remain in ignorance; but whatever my father may ask you to do, promise me that you will do it, always answering 'yes, i will,' to anything he may suggest."
to this the weaver agreed; and shortly afterwards the rajah called him and enquired if he was willing to help him, and, as promised, the man replied, "yes, i will."
then he went to his wife and told her, and she commended him.
next day the king told him that two brothers, by name "darya" and "barjo," threatened to fight and take his kingdom from him, and he desired his son-in-law to go to the stables and select a horse on which to ride on the morrow to battle.
in the stables was a horse that was standing on three legs.
"this,"
thought the weaver, "will just suit me, for it seems lame and has only three legs to go on, and making this an excuse, i'll keep behind all the rest, and out of danger."
now this horse [3] used to eat a quarter of a pound of opium daily, and could fly through the air, so that when the rajah heard of the selection he was very delighted, and said to himself: "what a clever man this is, that he is able to discover which is the best horse!"
the day following he had the horse brought round, and mounted it in fear and trembling, having himself securely tied on lest he should fall off, while, to weight himself equally, he fastened a small millstone on either side.
as soon as the groom released the horse, it flew up into the air, then down again, and then up through the branches of trees, which broke off and clung to the weaver's arms and body, so that he presented a strange spectacle.
he was terrified, and kept on crying out:
"o darya!
barjo!
for your sakes have i come to my death."
the two princes, darya and barjo, seeing this strange horse flying through the air, and hearing their names coming from a queer object all covered with branches of trees, were very much alarmed, and said: "if more come like this, we shall indeed be lost; one is enough for us."
so they wrote to the king, and said: "we have seen your warrior; stay in your country, and we will stay in ours: we cannot fight."
and they sent him a peace-offering.
the dog who was a rajah
a daughter was once born to a brahmin and his wife, and from the day of its birth a dog came daily and laid down in the house.
this made the mother say, in jest, when the child would not cease crying: "stop, or i shall give you to the dog."
and the brahmin added: "i will give her to the dog when she is grown up."
when the girl grew up, he said to the dog one day, in a fit of temper:
"here, take my daughter, and do as you wish with her."
the mother now regretted her jest, which had suggested this idea to her husband, and said: "here, my child, take this handful of seeds, and, as you go, strew them along the road, so that i may know where to find you."
as the girl went along she scattered the seeds, and at last she arrived at a field in which was a small baoli, or well.
here she sat down, and told the dog she was thirsty.
"go and drink from the well," said the dog.
as she approached the dog followed her, and they saw a ladder leading to the bottom of the well, so that they climbed down and came to a fine house with lovely gardens and flowers, and servants ready to receive them.
these belonged to the dog, who was in reality a rajah, and only assumed the shape of a dog when he left the well.
some time after this the brahmin expressed a wish to go and visit his daughter.
so his wife told him to follow the track of any freshly sprung-up little plants he might see.
he followed out her directions, and found the small trees led to the well; and as he felt thirsty, he looked in and saw the ladder; so he descended by it, and found the dog had become a rajah.
going round the grounds with his daughter, he noticed a house made of gold.
"what is this?"
asked he.
"it is for you, my father."
so he went in and found everything perfect, except that in one of the walls was a great crack.
"that crack," explained the rajah, who had joined them, "was caused when you first drank water at the well; and it will remain there until you undo the wrong you did your daughter in giving her to a dog, for you did not then know who he really was.
to undo the wrong you must serve me as my cowherd for twelve years, after which time the crack in the wall will close up of its own accord."
the brahmin then went to his wife and told her all that had happened; and they returned together to the rajah, whose cows he tended for twelve years, after which the crack in the golden wall came together of itself; and thus the wrong was righted.
the fourth wife is the wisest
there was a bunniah who had an only son, who had married four wives; of these, three were fools, and only one was wise.
for some reason the rajah of that country got angry with the bunniah, and said that he and all his family were to go away, for he would not permit them to remain in his kingdom any longer; also, they were not to take away any of their jewels or possessions with them, except such things as they were wearing at the time.
hearing this, the youngest of the four wives asked if she might be allowed to bake some bread, to take for them to eat on the journey.
this was permitted, and, in kneading the flour, she dropped four very valuable and beautiful rubies into it, and then having cooked the bread, showed it to the people as she left, and said: "see, i take nothing with me except this bread."
they journeyed far away into another country, and were very poor.
then the bunniah said to his youngest daughter-in-law: "daughter, what are we to do to live?
we have no money and no clothes."
she was silent for a long time, and then said: "we must sell our jewels, but in the meantime take this" giving him one of the rubies "and sell it."
now this ruby was worth a very great deal of money, and the bunniah took it gratefully, thinking all the time what a wise girl his daughter-in-law was, to think of bringing it as she had done.
he then went to a rich merchant, who in reality was not a merchant at all, but a clever thief, and who, as soon as he set eyes on the ruby, knew it to be a valuable one, and determined to have it.
"go," said he to one of his servants, "and bring me a basket full of money that i may pay for this valuable stone;" and as the servant left, he turned to the bunniah, offering him a chair, and said:
"sit down, friend."
now this chair was a specially prepared one, being kept by the thief as a trap for the unwary.
the seat was of raw cotton, under which was a great hole into which anybody who sat on the chair would fall.
it was carefully covered over with a piece of clean white cloth, so that nothing was noticed.
on it the poor bunniah sat, and as the soft cotton gave way under him, he found himself in the hole, over which the thief carefully placed a great stone and left him, while he quietly pocketed the ruby.
as the bunniah did not return to his home for many days, his daughter-in-law called her husband, and gave him the second ruby.
"go, seek thy father," said she; "and if you find him, bring me back this ruby, and buy food and clothes with one you will find with him."
the young man searched high and low for his father, but, not finding him, he decided to sell his ruby, and by ill chance went to the same merchant who had robbed the bunniah.
the thief treated him in exactly the same way, and, after having stolen the ruby, trapped him into the same hole as his father.
finding that neither husband nor father returned, the woman sold her jewels, and bought clothes and food for the rest of the family; but for herself she secretly bought the outfit of a policeman, or chowkidar, and resolved to work in that capacity.
so she presented herself at the king's court, and he, taking a fancy to the handsome face of the young man (for she was disguised as such), gave her employment.
living in the jungles near that place was a terrible "rakhas," or evil spirit, and that night, while on duty, the new policeman was startled by a roar like that of a tiger; but as soon as the "rakhas" perceived him, it assumed the form of a woman, and coming up, said weeping:
"the rajah has hanged my husband, and i wish to see him once more, but cannot reach because the gallows are high."
"climb upon my back," said the policeman.
the woman did so, but as soon as she got near enough she began to eat her supposed husband.
on this the young policeman, drawing his sword, cut off the woman's head, and as she fell, being enchanted, she disappeared, but a silver anklet from one of her feet was left behind.
next morning the policeman carried the anklet to the king, and told him what had happened, and how the strange woman had disappeared as he struck her with his sword.
the king was much pleased at the youth's bravery, and also with the silver anklet, which was full of precious stones of great value, and, turning to the policeman, he said: "ask what you will, and i will give it to you, even if you ask my daughter in marriage."
the man replied: "o king, i ask nothing; but grant me, i pray you, control over the entire bazaar, that i may kill, banish, hang, or release, and do as i like with the people who dwell there."
the king granted this request, and having discovered the thief in the supposed merchant, the policeman went to him and boldly demanded the release of his father and son.
but the thief denied all knowledge of the affair.
then the young man entered the shop, and, lifting up the great stone, beheld the two unfortunate men, who were nearly starved to death.
having released them, he took the thief to the king, and told him what had happened.
after they had hanged the wicked thief, the young policeman changed his clothes and appeared as a woman.
the king was greatly surprised, but so pleased at all she had done, that he called her his "daughter," and gave her husband, father, and other relations money and goods, so that they lived in contentment for the rest of their lives.
the story of pir sab
very, very far away in the north of india is a big river, and many years ago there lived, not very far from its banks, an old woman who had an only daughter a beautiful girl, who, when she grew up, was given in marriage to a man who lived in a village on the opposite bank of the river; and all preliminaries being arranged, a day was fixed for the marriage party with the bride to cross over.
a gay company with songs and music set out, and everything went well until they reached the middle of the stream.
the current is strong and dangerous in that place, and in less time than it takes to say it, the joyous party, with its music and songs and drummers, and the litter which held the bride, was hurled into the seething water, and every soul sank and was drowned.
the old woman alone, who had remained at home on account of her feeble age, escaped, and sad indeed was she when she came to hear of her daughter's fate.
her own home grew lonely and uncongenial to her, so, in a half-frenzied state, she betook herself to the river side, and there spent many hours every day calling to the river to give up her dead.
this went on for twenty years!
one day pir sab, a pious mahamedan, arrived there, and was about to say his prayers when the old woman attracted his attention.
"pray, why do you weep, old woman?"
he said.
"for my child, a beautiful bride who, with all her wedding guests, was drowned in this river twenty years ago."
"twenty years!
and you have mourned so long?"
thus saying, pir sab dismounted from his horse, and covering his head with a sheet, he stood by the river and cried: "o river, restore the dead!
o river, restore the dead!
o river, restore the dead!"
at the third cry a bridal party was seen to approach, and the long-lost ones, with the young bride, were restored to the old woman as unchanged as upon the day they were drowned, and in perfect ignorance of the flight of years.
a voice was then heard from the great unseen, which said: "o pir sab, i have heard your prayer.
at your first cry these restored ones came forth from the fishes, who had eaten them; at your second call i re-formed them into human form; and at your third call they went forth with life."
now, who was pir sab, and how did he possess this power?
mahamed, when he was upon earth, sometimes took flights into heaven.
on such occasions he generally called on anybody near at hand to assist him up, or give him a push upwards.
on one occasion he had called thrice for help without meeting with any response, when pir sab, a strong man, knelt before him, and with one spring from his shoulder, mahamed reached the fourth heavens!
in return for this kindness it was granted to pir sab to perform miracles.
note.
the man who related this story to me added the following modern miracle:
"during the late chitral expedition there was with umra khan's forces a remarkable man, the son of one akhum sab, who died some years ago.
now akhum sab was a devout man, who never failed to pray every friday, as all good mahamedans do, with their faces turned towards mecca, the holy city, which is four months' journey from the north of india, so that many who wish to visit it cannot.
yet this man used to enter his room, and close the door at two o'clock daily, and come out after seven minutes (you may believe me or not); but, during those seven minutes, he went to mecca, said his prayers in the holy mosque there, and returned!
this he did every friday; i have seen it with my own eyes!"
a.e.d.
the origin of a river
there stands on the old agra bombay road, between goona in central india and jhansi, a small village beside a stream, and this used to be a bathing stage for travellers in the old days, before railways were known in india.
in the village there once lived a man whose wife died, leaving an only daughter.
the girl, as she grew to womanhood, had a very bad time of it, as all the housework fell upon her shoulders.
she had to cook her father's food and carry it to him in the fields; to draw water for the cattle and look after them, besides many other things which took up her time and strength.
so she invoked the aid of the gods.
next time she went to draw water from the well, which was a very deep one, and required a long, long string for the bucket, she looked in, and lo!
the water had risen to the top, and was almost overflowing, so that there was no need to draw any; and her father's cattle stood round and drank their fill.
then she filled her chattie with water, and enjoyed a bath in the sunshine.
after a time the water sank to its usual level.
thus far all was well, but her father noticed how quickly the cattle had been watered, and how soon his daughter returned home: also he missed the long rope which she always carried on her arm.
he began to suspect that some unknown man, a stranger to himself, used to help her, and determined to watch.
a great fig tree grew beside the well; and one day he concealed himself in its branches.
as usual, his daughter came with the cattle, and all happened as before.
he was struck with wonder and amazement at what he saw.
just as the girl was about to take her usual bath, she looked up and saw him.
in a moment she felt that he had suspected her of some evil.
"father,"
cried she, "why do you look with an evil eye on your child?
do you not believe that the gods have helped her?"
but before her father could reply, she sank down to the bottom of the well with the water and never rose again, for the outraged gods took her to themselves; and, in token of their displeasure, the well was cleft from top to bottom, and hillocks formed on either side.
from this spot flows a tiny stream, which, if you follow it, becomes a mighty river.
the golden scorpions
there once lived in a certain village a poor man who went out daily to beg, carrying in his hand a small vessel made from a gourd, such as the jogis, or holy fakirs, in india use.
in it he carried home his scanty meal of flour each evening.
one day he placed the gourd, which was empty at the time, upon the ground, and went to some little distance to drink water.
on his return he was amazed to find it full of scorpions.
seizing it on one side, he carefully knocked it against a stone until the venomous things dropped off.
great indeed was his surprise to find when he next looked into his gourd, that several scorpions still clung to it, but had been transformed by the gods into pure gold, although their forms were retained.
thus the good old man was enriched, but great was his disappointment when he remembered how many scorpions he had thrown away, for these might also have turned into gold had he kept them.
moral.
there is good sometimes in even the evil things in life.
the story of a pearl
a poor workman and his wife were once almost starving.
every day the man gathered sticks and sold them, while the woman remained at home.
"wife," said the man one day, "come, we will both go and gather wood for sale to-day, so that, if we earn enough, we shall not eat rice only, but will buy a small fish, and eat that also."
at this bold reply hako's anger burst from a spark into a flame.
"dare you answer me thus?
take that," and he lunged at him with his lance.
but eiko moved quickly aside, and at the same time, raising his sword, he wounded the head of the general's horse.
obliged to dismount, hako was about to rush at his antagonist, when eiko, as quick as lightning, tore from his breast the badge of commandership and galloped away.
the action was so quick that hako stood dazed, not knowing what to do.
the empress had been a spectator of the scene, and she could not but admire the quickness of the ambitious eiko, and in order to pacify the rivals she determined to appoint them both to the generalship of the front army.
so hako was made commander of the left wing of the front army, and eiko of the right.
one hundred thousand soldiers followed them and marched to put down the rebel kokai.
within a short time the two generals reached the castle where kokai had fortified himself.
when aware of their approach, the wizard said:
"i will blow these two poor children away with one breath."
(he little thought how hard he would find the fight.)
with these words kokai seized an iron rod and mounted a black horse, and rushed forth like an angry tiger to meet his two foes.
as the two young warriors saw him tearing down upon them, they said to each other: "we must not let him escape alive," and they attacked him from the right and from the left with sword and with lance.
but the all-powerful kokai was not to be easily beaten he whirled his iron rod round like a great water-wheel, and for a long time they fought thus, neither side gaining nor losing.
at last, to avoid the wizard's iron rod, hako turned his horse too quickly; the animal's hoofs struck against a large stone, and in a fright the horse reared as straight on end as a screen, throwing his master to the ground.
thereupon kokai drew his three-edged sword and was about to kill the prostrate hako, but before the wizard could work his wicked will the brave eiko had wheeled his horse in front of kokai and dared him to try his strength with him, and not to kill a fallen man.
but kokai was tired, and he did not feel inclined to face this fresh and dauntless young soldier, so suddenly wheeling his horse round, he fled from the fray.
hako, who had been only slightly stunned, had by this time got upon his feet, and he and his comrade rushed after the retreating enemy, the one on foot and the other on horseback.
kokai, seeing that he was pursued, turned upon his nearest assailant, who was, of course, the mounted eiko, and drawing forth an arrow from the quiver at his back, fitted it to his bow and drew upon eiko.
as quick as lightning the wary eiko avoided the shaft, which only touched his helmet strings, and glancing off, fell harmless against hako's coat of armor.
the wizard saw that both his enemies remained unscathed.
he also knew that there was no time to pull a second arrow before they would be upon him, so to save himself he resorted to magic.
he stretched forth his wand, and immediately a great flood arose, and jokwa's army and her brave young generals were swept away like a falling of autumn leaves on a stream.
hako and eiko found themselves struggling neck deep in water, and looking round they saw the ferocious kokai making towards them through the water with his iron rod on high.
they thought every moment that they would be cut down, but they bravely struck out to swim as far as they could from kokai's reach.
all of a sudden they found themselves in front of what seemed to be an island rising straight out of the water.
they looked up, and there stood an old man with hair as white as snow, smiling at them.
they cried to him to help them.
the old man nodded his head and came down to the edge of the water.
as soon as his feet touched the flood it divided, and a good road appeared, to the amazement of the drowning men, who now found themselves safe.
kokai had by this time reached the island which had risen as if by a miracle out of the water, and seeing his enemies thus saved he was furious.
he rushed through the water upon the old man, and it seemed as if he would surely be killed.
but the old man appeared not in the least dismayed, and calmly awaited the wizard's onslaught.
as kokai drew near, the old man laughed aloud merrily, and turning into a large and beautiful white crane, flapped his wings and flew upwards into the heavens.
when hako and eiko saw this, they knew that their deliverer was no mere human being was perhaps a god in disguise and they hoped later on to find out who the venerable old man was.
in the meantime they had retreated, and it being now the close of day, for the sun was setting, both kokai and the young warriors gave up the idea of fighting more that day.
that night hako and eiko decided that it was useless to fight against the wizard kokai, for he had supernatural powers, while they were only human.
so they presented themselves before the empress jokwa.
after a long consultation, the empress decided to ask the fire king, shikuyu, to help her against the rebel wizard and to lead her army against him.
now shikuyu, the fire king, lived at the south pole.
it was the only safe place for him to be in, for he burnt up everything around him anywhere else, but it was impossible to burn up ice and snow.
to look at he was a giant, and stood thirty feet high.
his face was just like marble, and his hair and beard long and as white as snow.
his strength was stupendous, and he was master of all fire just as kokai was of water.
"surely," thought the empress, "shikuyu can conquer kokai."
so she sent eiko to the south pole to beg shikuyu to take the war against kokai into his own hands and conquer him once for all.
the fire king, on hearing the empress's request, smiled and said:
"that is an easy matter, to be sure!
it was none other than i who came to your rescue when you and your companion were drowning in the flood raised by kokai!"
eiko was surprised at learning this.
he thanked the fire king for coming to the rescue in their dire need, and then besought him to return with him and lead the war and defeat the wicked kokai.
shikuyu did as he was asked, and returned with eiko to the empress.
she welcomed the fire king cordially, and at once told him why she had sent for him to ask him to be the generalissimo of her army.
his reply was very reassuring:
"do not have any anxiety.
i will certainly kill kokai."
shikuyu then placed himself at the head of thirty thousand soldiers, and with hako and eiko showing him the way, marched to the enemy's castle.
the fire king knew the secret of kokai's power, and he now told all the soldiers to gather a certain kind of shrub.
this they burned in large quantities, and each soldier was then ordered to fill a bag full of the ashes thus obtained.
kokai, on the other hand, in his own conceit, thought that shikuyu was of inferior power to himself, and he murmured angrily:
"even though you are the fire king, i can soon extinguish you."
then he repeated an incantation, and the water-floods rose and welled as high as mountains.
shikuyu, not in the least frightened, ordered his soldiers to scatter the ashes which he had caused them to make.
every man did as he was bid, and such was the power of the plant that they had burned, that as soon as the ashes mingled with the water a stiff mud was formed, and they were all safe from drowning.
now kokai the wizard was dismayed when he saw that the fire king was superior in wisdom to himself, and his anger was so great that he rushed headlong towards the enemy.
eiko rode to meet him, and the two fought together for some time.
they were well matched in a hand-to-hand combat.
hako, who was carefully watching the fray, saw that eiko began to tire, and fearing that his companion would be killed, he took his place.
but kokai had tired as well, and feeling him self unable to hold out against hako, he said artfully:
"you are too magnanimous, thus to fight for your friend and run the risk of being killed.
i will not hurt such a good man."
and he pretended to retreat, turning away the head of his horse.
his intention was to throw hako off his guard and then to wheel round and take him by surprise.
but shikuyu understood the wily wizard, and he spoke at once:
"you are a coward!
you cannot deceive me!"
saying this, the fire king made a sign to the unwary hako to attack him.
kokai now turned upon shikuyu furiously, but he was tired and unable to fight well, and he soon received a wound in his shoulder.
he now broke from the fray and tried to escape in earnest.
while the fight between their leaders had been going on the two armies had stood waiting for the issue.
shikuyu now turned and bade jokwa's soldiers charge the enemy's forces.
this they did, and routed them with great slaughter, and the wizard barely escaped with his life.
it was in vain that kokai called upon the water devil to help him, for shikuyu knew the counter-charm.
the wizard found that the battle was against him.
mad with pain, for his wound began to trouble him, and frenzied with disappointment and fear, he dashed his head against the rocks of mount shu and died on the spot.
there was an end of the wicked kokai, but not of trouble in the empress jokwa's kingdom, as you shall see.
the force with which the wizard fell against the rocks was so great that the mountain burst, and fire rushed out from the earth, and one of the pillars upholding the heavens was broken so that one corner of the sky dropped till it touched the earth.
shikuyu, the fire king, took up the body of the wizard and carried it to the empress jokwa, who rejoiced greatly that her enemy was vanquished, and her generals victorious.
she showered all manner of gifts and honors upon shikuyu.
but all this time fire was bursting from the mountain broken by the fall of kokai.
whole villages were destroyed, rice-fields burnt up, river beds filled with the burning lava, and the homeless people were in great distress.
so the empress left the capital as soon as she had rewarded the victor shikuyu, and journeyed with all speed to the scene of disaster.
she found that both heaven and earth had sustained damage, and the place was so dark that she had to light her lamp to find out the extent of the havoc that had been wrought.
having ascertained this, she set to work at repairs.
to this end she ordered her subjects to collect stones of five colors blue, yellow, red, white and black.
when she had obtained these, she boiled them with a kind of porcelain in a large caldron, and the mixture became a beautiful paste, and with this she knew that she could mend the sky.
now all was ready.
summoning the clouds that were sailing ever so high above her head, she mounted them, and rode heavenwards, carrying in her hands the vase containing the paste made from the stones of five colors.
she soon reached the corner of the sky that was broken, and applied the paste and mended it.
having done this, she turned her attention to the broken pillar, and with the legs of a very large tortoise she mended it.
when this was finished she mounted the clouds and descended to the earth, hoping to find that all was now right, but to her dismay she found that it was still quite dark.
neither the sun shone by day nor the moon by night.
greatly perplexed, she at last called a meeting of all the wise men of the kingdom, and asked their advice as to what she should do in this dilemma.
two of the wisest said:
"the roads of heaven have been damaged by the late accident, and the sun and moon have been obliged to stay at home.
neither the sun could make his daily journey nor the moon her nightly one because of the bad roads.
the sun and moon do not yet know that your majesty has mended all that was damaged, so we will go and inform them that since you have repaired them the roads are safe."
the empress approved of what the wise men suggested, and ordered them to set out on their mission.
but this was not easy, for the palace of the sun and moon was many, many hundreds of thousands of miles distant into the east.
if they traveled on foot they might never reach the place, they would die of old age on the road.
but jokwa had recourse to magic.
she gave her two ambassadors wonderful chariots which could whirl through the air by magic power a thousand miles per minute.
they set out in good spirits, riding above the clouds, and after many days they reached the country where the sun and the moon were living happily together.
the two ambassadors were granted an interview with their majesties of light and asked them why they had for so many days secluded themselves from the universe?
did they not know that by doing so they plunged the world and all its people into uttermost darkness both day and night?
replied the sun and the moon:
"surely you know that mount shu has suddenly burst forth with fire, and the roads of heaven have been greatly damaged!
i, the sun, found it impossible to make my daily journey along such rough roads and certainly the moon could not issue forth at night!
so we both retired into private life for a time."
then the two wise men bowed themselves to the ground and said:
"our empress jokwa has already repaired the roads with the wonderful stones of five colors, so we beg to assure your majesties that the roads are just as they were before the eruption took place."
but the sun and the moon still hesitated, saying that they had heard that one of the pillars of heaven had been broken as well, and they feared that, even if the roads had been remade, it would still be dangerous for them to sally forth on their usual journeys.
"you need have no anxiety about the broken pillar," said the two ambassadors.
"our empress restored it with the legs of a great tortoise, and it is as firm as ever it was."
then the sun and moon appeared satisfied, and they both set out to try the roads.
they found that what the empress's deputies had told them was correct.
after the examination of the heavenly roads, the sun and moon again gave light to the earth.
all the people rejoiced greatly, and peace and prosperity were secured in china for a long time under the reign of the wise empress jokwa.
the end.
plain tales of the north
i know a lonely grave far north in saskatchewan.
it lies on a high bank, facing a small lake, under a cluster of old jack-pines.
there is no cross on that grave, neither is there a name.
four logs, nailed in a square and half-buried in the grey moss, mark the spot where fifteen years ago two old indians, man and wife, dug a hole six by four and laid to rest a white woman, a mere girl, a bride of a few months.
fifteen years have passed.
but after all these years her memory still lingers with the few indians who saw her come into the wilderness, wither under the fierce blast of the arctic winter and die as the snow left the ground and spring came.
she was an american of gentle birth, refined and delicate.
her husband brought her there in a spirit of adventure.
he was a strong man, rough and accustomed to the north.
she loved him.
she struggled bravely through the winter, but the fierce arctic climate, the utter solitude, the coarse food—these she could not stand.
at length, while the man was away for several days tending his traps, she laid herself on the rude cabin bunk and died, all alone.
there the indians found her white and still, and buried her a few hundred yards from the shack, on the edge of the lake.
the man came back later—then left at once.
he is a squaw man now—trapping and hunting in the neighborhood.
each year his sleigh and his canoe pass along the lake, a stone’s throw from where she lies under the jack-pines.
not once has he stopped even to glance at the spot where she bravely lived with him and died alone.
you will find crosses, inscriptions, some kind of token of remembrance on all the indian graves.
her grave alone, in the far north, bears neither cross nor name—just four logs, nailed together in a square, half-buried in the grey moss.
it was my lot, a long time ago, to bring down a school mistress to one of the protestant missionary settlements of the far north.
her luggage was going by steamer, but she chose the canoe route as it was much the shorter way.
her passage had been booked before hand in one of our canoes.
the lady, who was middle aged and very short sighted, had never before left her home town in the south.
she arrived at the end of the railroad punctually on time, and dressed severely in black with white celluloid collar and cuffs.
she wore ordinary laced boots and cotton gloves and was armed with an umbrella and a small hand bag which could not have contained much more than a toothbrush.
she refused the loan of any more apparel, such as a raincoat or high boots, and took her place in the canoe without a word.
the mosquitoes were terrible.
inside of two hours the poor woman was bitten to such an extent that it hurt us to look at her.
at the first camp fire she took off her glasses, sat on them and smashed them to bits.
they were her only pair.
after that she had to be led by the hand through the portages and from her tent to the canoe.
we had no trouble in getting her out in time for breakfast at 4 a. m.
each morning.
one yell from one of us and she was scrambling out of her tent fully dressed and with her hat on.
long afterwards, we found out that she did not even dare take her boots off at night.
she was so stiff and bruised that she was afraid she might not be able to put them on again the next morning.
nothing seemed to surprise nor frighten her.
we had one very bad rapid to run.
her canoe was the last one.
we waited anxiously to see how she would stand the ordeal.
down the rapid she came; her two indian guides yelling; her canoe shipping a lot of water by the bow.
she was calmly sitting on the little seat we had made for her.
her umbrella was opened and she was gazing at the sky.
to this day we believe that she never saw the rapid which was about one mile long.
when we reached our destination, sunburn and mosquitoes had changed her face to such an extent that the missionaries hardly recognized her.
her clothes were in rags.
she was covered with mud from head to foot.
but her celluloid collar and cuffs were white.
she used to wash them by trailing them in the water over the side of her canoe.
i don’t think she spoke ten words during the entire seven days of her trip.
among several hundred “husky” dogs, which i have had occasion to watch during my trips north, i remember one particularly well.
his name was spot.
grey like a timber wolf with funny pale circles round his eyes, he was faster and stronger than any of the team.
although too young yet to be promoted to be leader, he showed greater intelligence than any of the other dogs.
he made a point to be always on the best terms with his driver and showed great friendliness in camp as soon as he was out of harness.
he never shirked his work and was exceedingly jealous of any dog who managed to slack in harness without being seen and punished by the driver.
one day, when hauling as number two behind the leader, he noticed that the latter would slack his traces as soon as he reached the back of the preceding sleigh, travelling in the same direction on the same trail.
spot, raging at the idea that the rest of the team was still pulling while the leader, resting his head on the preceding sleigh, was loafing, would immediately seize the trace with his teeth and throw himself on the snow, obliging the leader by the weight of his dragging body to fall back.
he would remain in that position until a gap of thirty feet at least had opened between the two teams.
then, knowing that the leader had to start pulling his own share again if he did not want to be noticed and punished by the driver, spot would jump to his feet and proceed with his own work with great energy and triumphant howls of joy.
at all times he was a great fighter and would often get wounded, even if he did succeed in thrashing his opponent.
one day, i doctored his wounds with iodine.
ever after, as soon as he was bitten or cut, he would come up and beg for treatment.
i often tried to fool him by applying plain warm water to his wounds.
i never succeeded.
he would remain whining until some kind of medicine, which he could smell and taste, was rubbed on the sore spot.
anything would do—listerine, alcohol, even tooth paste.
as soon as his nose and tongue satisfied him that he had been properly treated with something that he couldn’t smell and lick without distaste, he would wag his bushy tail and saunter away quite satisfied.
i know hundreds of indians who live so far north that they have never in their lives seen a motor car, a steamer, a railway or an electric light.
a few years ago one of our best hunters asked us, as a great favor, to be allowed to go through to the line as one of the crew of the mail canoes which our trader sends twice a year to the nearest town four hundred miles away.
the man had never been there and was very keen to see the white man’s land.
when he reached the frontier town at the head of the railway he showed no surprise.
he inspected thoroughly all that was to be seen and kept his mouth obstinately closed.
after a while, knowing that the canoes could not leave before a week, the indian asked permission to go to montreal with the mail clerk.
the latter, who knew him well and who spoke cree fluently, undertook to look after him.
he traveled for two days and two nights in a day coach and, outside of the fact that he absolutely refused to leave the train at any moment for fear of seeing it go off without him, he appeared to enjoy the trip.
in montreal he seemed to fight shy of the streets and preferred to remain in the lobby of the small hotel where a room had been reserved for him.
he sat there all day, looking through the window.
on his return to the hunting grounds, he met me on my way south and told me how much he had liked his journey to the big city.
through sheer curiosity, i asked him then what had surprised him the most while he was in civilization.
was it the sight of the trains, motor cars, street cars, the telephone, the electric lights or the stone houses?
no, none of these things seemed to have impressed him in the slightest.
finally he admitted that there was one thing that had astonished him, and that was the people in the street in front of his hotel.
all those people walking so fast and passing one another without a sign.
people who never stopped to speak.
people who did not seem to know one another.
that, he could not fathom at all.
into the lower part of ungava bay flows a vicious, treacherous, steel grey river called the koksoak.
fifteen miles up that river there lies a big trading station which deals with eskimos from the barren lands and with the nascopi indians from the interior of labrador.
tides in ungava bay vary from twenty to thirty feet.
a 3,000-ton steamer can reach the station safely, but she must steam up the river on the flood of the tide two or three hours after the turn.
the native pilot alone, through certain land marks known to him, can judge the exact time when to start.
he alone can steer the ship’s course through the winding narrow channel which, amidst whirlpools and rapids, between rocks and through narrow gorges, leads to a safe anchorage fifteen miles inland in front of the post.
at first, and during several years afterwards, we had used a small 100-ton auxiliary schooner to bring in the yearly supplies.
finally we decided to take the risk of calling at fort chimo, for such is the name of the post, with our new steamer of 1,000 tons.
that year when we anchored at the mouth of the river, we did not see the familiar face of our pilot.
several eskimos climbed on board and with them stood a little lad aged about 12, who, although of sturdy build, was no bigger than a boy of 9 or 10. the natives explained to us that the pilot had died that winter and that the boy, his son, who had always accompanied his father in his piloting up and down the river, would take the steamer to the post.
we received the news with consternation.
we also argued the point.
they all claimed that they did not know the river as well as the boy.
furthermore, as piloting seemed to be a family affair, going from father to son, none of them wanted to commit a breach of etiquette by taking the lad’s place.
during the heated conversation the little chap remained aloof, calm and unconcerned.
he had never seen a steamer in his life, and seemed interested not only in the length of the ship but in the height of the captain’s bridge above the water line.
we were drawing eighteen feet at the stern.
we could not conceive that a boy of that age would be able to realize how deep a channel we needed.
we measured out twenty-four feet with a rope and showed it to him.
he glanced at it and nodded.
in the end we gave in and told him to take charge.
he was so small that we had to bring a chair on the captain’s bridge for him to stand on so that he could see above the railing.
he did not know a word of english.
for two hours he looked at the shore with a little telescope which he had brought with him.
finally, satisfied with what he saw, he motioned to us to weigh anchor.
he had never seen a telegraph but he guessed at once what half or full speed ahead meant.
for a long time he kept us going at half.
each time the skipper, frightened by the eddies which made the ship sag a little in her course, would ring full speed, the boy would motion violently to slow her down.
he understood the steering gear.
for starboard or port he would look around at the man at the wheel, a big burly newfoundlander with a grey beard, and make signs with his hand either to the right or to the left.
then he would glance quickly at the bow, judge the swing, and call for “steady your helm” by putting his arm straight above his head.
for two hours he steered us without a second of hesitation.
he swung our course from one side of the river to the other.
we passed at times thirty feet from a cliff on the shore or an ugly rock showing its head just above the water.
there wasn’t a buoy or beacon in sight anywhere on the river.
the lad had his own land marks somewhere and took his bearings from them.
we reached the post safely and dropped anchor exactly where he told us to.
as soon as his job was over he ran down the ladder to the galley, where the cook gave him a small pot of jam which he hastily emptied with the help of his fingers.
the boy is a grown up man now.
he still pilots our ship up and down the koksoak river.
anyone who knows eskimos well, and who has also traveled in the far east, cannot but notice that the rugged, stocky men of the arctic have many characteristics of the asiatics.
their talent of imitation is one of them.
their complete lack of sense of danger when facing a white man’s invention that is absolutely new to them, is another.
twenty years ago, i recall, a belgian engineer on the hankow-pekin railway complained to me of the utter recklessness of the chinese in the company’s employ.
the line had been running hardly a year then, and scores of chinese were being trained to take the place of high-class european laborers—such as engine drivers.
according to the harassed official, all the chinese were willing workers, exceedingly adaptable and absolutely fearless.
they learned the practical side of their job far quicker than a white man would, but they had no notion of what danger was so far as the engine they were entrusted with was concerned.
they knew, for instance, that they could obtain a certain speed which they could judge by a certain instrument with an arrow, the figures of which they could not, of course, read.
they also knew that they were not allowed to let the arrow go further on the dial than a given point.
but at the beginning they could not see the difference between a straight railway track and a curved one.
in consequence, they would never slow up at a sharp curve.
when the engine happened to be running at sixty miles per hour—off the track she would go with disastrous results.
if by any chance the chinese engine driver escaped without injury, he had learned his lesson and would not make the same mistake twice.
but a lot of them were killed.
furthermore, the engines were invariably smashed.
it was very costly to the company.
as the belgian official said, “an asiatic can learn only through bitter personal experience.”
the same applies to eskimos.
here is one of many examples.
one year our steamer brought a gasoline launch to one of our trading posts in hudson bay.
we wished to use her for towing the barges, full of cargo, ashore.
the skipper chose an intelligent looking eskimo from the crowd and, in a couple of hours, had taught him how to run the engine.
the husky had never in his life seen a gasoline launch before but he tackled his new job with high glee and no signs of nervousness whatsoever.
the first time he was alone in charge, he ran the engine beautifully.
he towed a string of barges to the shore but, having no idea of speed, he slipped his tow too late.
the result was that when he was going around at full speed and heading back for the steamer, the heavy barges, which had too much way on, crashed into the wharf, knocked it down and threw fifty eskimos or so into the icy water—happily without fatal results.
meanwhile our husky friend, who had seen the accident but who did not have time to work out in his head the pros and cons of the question, was reaching the ship head-on at ten knots an hour.
heedless of our shouts of warning, he stopped his engine, then reversed her when he was exactly two feet from the steamer’s side.
there was an awful crash, a cloud of smoke and our new gasoline launch disappeared to the bottom like a stone.
the only thing that was left was a thoroughly frightened eskimo floating aimlessly on the troubled waters, whom we fished out with the help of one of the winches.
when the world war broke out in the centre of civilization, news spread quickly until it got to the wilderness.
after that it traveled more and more slowly, but in the end it reached the remotest parts of the earth.
in the far north of canada it took months and months for the news to filter through the barren lands.
in a lonely outpost on hudson bay, the one white man who lived there heard of the war, for the first time, eight months later—in march, 1915, to be exact.
it was only a rumor and for a long time he could not understand clearly what had happened.
a tribe of eskimos hunting south had met some coast indians who had been trading, at christmas, at fort george in james bay.
the crees had tried to explain to the huskies what the missionaries and white traders had told them, but the peace-loving eskimos could not realize what the word “war” meant.
furthermore, their knowledge of the cree language was very confused.
they told our man that there were a lot of dead people in the white man’s land, far away over the sea; that the noise was terrible and that the white men’s igloos were all destroyed.
they did not mention the words—war, shell, gas—which the more civilized indians knew from hearsay and had told to them.
they just repeated what had struck their imagination.
in other words, what they had understood.
the trader pondered for months over that rumor.
in the end he came to the conclusion that there had been a great earthquake somewhere in europe, like the one in california in 1906, and dismissed the matter from his mind.
he never thought of war.
it was in summer, when the supply ship reached his post, that he learned what had really happened.
he left at once to join the french army and was killed a year later at verdun.
a canoe, may she be a 16-foot cruiser or a 22-foot freighter, is at all times a small craft, especially on a lake when the nearest shore happens to be a very long distance off.
men who live in the far north pass all their time on the water as soon as the ice disappears in the spring.
they are so accustomed to their cranky canoes that it never occurs to them to bother about what they should do if, by any chance, something unusual happens.
but in case of emergency they think and act very quickly.
i had an example of it a few years ago on abitibi lake.
two indians were freighting a heavy load of hardware in a birch bark canoe.
they had a head wind and the waves were pretty high.
the man at the bow thought the canoe was packed too much by the stern and shouted over his shoulder to the steersman to shift some of the load forward.
the latter, from his seat in the stern, seized a 25-pound bag of shot at his feet and threw it five feet or so in front of him towards the middle of the canoe.
the bag landed in an empty space right at the bottom of the canoe.
the craft was old and rotten.
the bag of shot simply broke the ribs, tore a gaping hole in the birch bark and disappeared straight down to the bottom of the lake.
instantly the water started pouring in.
one mile from shore, a nasty sea running and a leak larger than a man’s head which would fill and sink any canoe in a few minutes.
the steersman gave one yell and then jumped like a huge frog, landing in a sitting position right in the middle of that hole.
he stuck there, shivering, with water to his waist, until the bowman, realizing the danger and paddling madly for shore, succeeded at last in beaching the canoe high and dry.
in the far north, even now in the days of fox farming, a silver fox means a small fortune to the lucky trapper.
men will often risk their lives to bring an exceptionally fine pelt back to the trader.
some years ago in the ungava district, two eskimos, brothers, caught a beautiful silver fox late in march.
they decided to bring it back to the post at once.
they had not caught anything before that and were half starved.
the men had to travel on the ice along the sea coast.
in their anxiety to reach the trader, they cut across a bay during a blizzard.
the eskimo who was breaking the trail ahead of the dogs walked on some thin ice and fell through; team and sleigh following him into the gaping hole.
man and dogs drowned although the other eskimo, who was behind them and had stopped in time, made every effort to save them.
the lone man who was carrying the silver fox in a bag slung on his back kept on and managed to reach the post, covering the last few miles literally on his hands and knees through sheer weakness and exhaustion.
the silver fox was shown to us at the station next summer.
it was a wonderful skin—three quarter neck fresh silvered, without a blemish.
it had one distinctive and very rare mark—a small tuft of white silver hair on the center of the forehead slightly above the eyes.
the fox eventually reached our new york house and was sold during the winter.
a few months later in a well known night restaurant, a lady with a party of friends got up from her table to leave.
the waiter picked up and handed to her a silver fox scarf which had slipped from her chair and had been lying unnoticed on the floor under the table.
it was the ungava fox with the little white mark between the eyes.
it was a bleak, dreary, wind-swept morning in february.
we had broken camp at the faint flush of dawn, after remaining helplessly caught for two days in our tent by a raging blizzard.
it had ceased snowing and the thermometer was going down like a piece of lead.
the snow, although hardening under the intense cold, was deep.
there was no trail.
an indian was struggling ahead of the dogs.
everywhere silence.
now and then a mass of snow would slide down noiselessly from the overhanging branch of a spruce tree.
there was no sign of animal life.
not a track anywhere.
not even a bird on the wing in the sullen grey sky.
we were following a coulée between two high ridges thickly covered with trees.
at a bend of the small valley the indian, looking ahead, stopped dead.
so did the team of huskies.
a few hundred yards away we saw a lone dog, standing erect, keeping guard beside what looked like a mound covered with snow.
the nearer we approached, the plainer we saw what it was.
it was a sleigh with its load lashed on and, on the top, what seemed to us like a human body stretched out, rigid under its white mantle.
the dog traces were hanging loose.
the harness had been chewed and broken.
the team, tired of waiting, had escaped—going back somewhere to an unknown camp.
alone, the leader had chosen to remain beside the sleigh.
he was weak from hunger but still faithful to his charge.
he faced us squarely with his shaggy coat bristling, swaying slightly on his legs and snarling his deep, wolf snarl.
when we heard it, we knew it was the death song of a dog who was defending the dead body of his master.
the indian cautiously lassoed him and tied him up.
he made a good fight for it but the snow was too deep and his strength was far gone.
we gently brushed away the snow from the top of the sleigh and looked at the man.
he was lying on his back, a smile on his white face, his light blue eyes staring far away into the sky.
a stranger, a prospector from somewhere south, lost in the wilderness and at the end of his rations.
caught in the blizzard, too weak to pitch camp, frozen to death while his dogs wandered in the blinding storm.
north of 53, during the winter, i have seen sleighs drawn by horses, mules, dogs of every breed and description and even men.
but once i saw the strangest outfit of all.
we were sitting beside a fire on the bank of a river only a few miles from the railway line when we heard a yell and a strange noise which appeared to be a combination of a bellow and a howl.
we got up and, to our astonishment, we saw, racing up the river on the ice in a smother of snow, a small sleigh drawn by a large yellow dog and a very small red bull.
the dog was in the lead, tied to the sleigh by at least twelve yards of rope.
the bull, harnessed to the sleigh by two leather traces, with his head down and his tail in the air was charging full tilt at the dog who was scampering down the trail as fast as he could lay his four paws on the snow.
on the sleigh was a load of pressed hay and, on the top of it, clung a fat man with a bushy beard and a very white face.
before we could say a word, man, bull and dog vanished round a bend of the river.
later on we found out that the man was a russian squatter, living three hundred miles north of the line, who wanted to try to raise cattle on the churchill river.
the bull was the first animal of the prospective herd.
as it was impossible for him to freight any cattle by canoe in summer, he had hit on the idea of taking the little bull up there in winter, on foot.
the hay on the sleigh was to feed the poor animal on the trip.
the most remarkable part of this story is that, eventually, man, bull and dog reached their destination safely.
throughout the first day, the bull made wild rushes at the dog who took great care to keep a distance between himself and his enemy.
but after covering twenty miles or so, the little bull gave it up as a bad job and settled down.
very soon he became friendly with his new harness companion; both animals finally drawing the sleigh slowly and peacefully to the end of their journey.
it never pays to take any liberties with a wild animal when one believes that the latter is at one’s mercy.
in 1908 two indians, when crossing a large lake in northern ontario in a small canoe, came across a big bull moose swimming from an island to the mainland.
they needed the meat but preferred waiting until the animal was near land before shooting it.
they accordingly decided to have some fun!
the man at the bow found a rope, lassoed the moose by its antlers, then tied the other end of the rope to the front thwart.
after that the two indians squatted down at the bottom of the canoe, yelling sarcastic remarks to the poor wild-eyed animal which was towing them with the strength of a good sized tug.
when this strange outfit drew near the shore, the man in the bow picked up his rifle.
it was an old, single barrel muzzle loader.
he aimed carefully and pressed the trigger, but the weapon missed fire.
pulling up the hammer, he repeated the performance with the same result.
meanwhile, the moose was touching bottom.
the indian, realizing that the cap in his gun was wet, began to search frantically for a new one.
in his excitement he forgot to pull out his knife and cut the rope.
at that spot, the bottom of the lake sloped up abruptly.
before the man could find a new cap, the moose was halfway up to his shoulders in the water.
with an angry shake of the head and a loud snort, the enraged animal bounded forward.
in a second the canoe upset, pitching men and freight into six feet of icy cold water.
when the two indians came up to the surface, the first thing they saw was the stern of their canoe vanishing in the bush.
that was also the last they ever saw of either moose or canoe.
crestfallen, shivering and hungry, they reached the trading station one day later—sadder, wiser and on foot.
in the northwest territories over the divide, where all vegetation dwindles down to nothing as one approaches the barren lands, i know a small lake nestling in the hollow of three hills.
the traveller reaches it on one side by a trail.
on the other, a swift creek is the only outlet.
protected from the wind, the trees which surround it have grown to giant size.
they stand closely packed right to the edge of the water.
the little lake with its circle of vegetation does not cover more than an acre.
from the top of the hills, one peers down on it as on a small oasis lost in the desert.
amidst the savage, grey boulders of the surrounding country, one looks lovingly on the splash of color which strikes the eye.
the dark green of the murmuring jack-pines; the sapphire blue of the still, icy waters.
a little later, when the canoe has been launched on the lake and has drifted towards the center, the traveller gazes over the side in amazement.
the water is as pure as crystal and deep as a well.
far down at the bottom of the lake, countless springs are scattered everywhere among the rocks.
each spring sends a column of white, foaming water up towards the surface and each column of white foam spreads and dissolves itself into millions of bubbles which dance about—mounting, ever mounting—until they burst and become part of the sapphire blue of the lake itself.
few white men have been there—but those few cannot forget the beauty of the lonely spot.
the indians call it “the well with the white smoke”.
in the company, we call it simply “the little blue lake”.
forest fires are the scourge of the wilderness.
certain years, in the late spring or during the summer, when the weather has been unusually dry, a mere spark may start a blazing tornado which will lay utter waste throughout thousands and thousands of acres of timber.
the carelessness of a trapper throwing a lighted match on the ground.
the thoughtlessness of a traveller going to sleep or breaking camp without putting out his fire.
lightning striking a tree.
an ordinary piece of glass lying on dry moss and catching the rays of the sun.
any of these is sufficient to kindle a fire which may burn fiercely for weeks, reaching the tops of the highest trees, smouldering underground amidst the roots and the muskeg, reaching over rivers and lakes, blazing its erratic way through the bush according to the changes of the wind.
in the solitude of the far north, where men are scattered a hundred miles from one another, no help can be secured to fight the red evil.
only heavy rain or a complete shift of wind, blowing the flames back over the already burnt area, may stop the scourge.
meanwhile all vegetation vanishes and wild animals die.
beavers, otters, mink, muskrats, that live in the water have a fair chance of escape, but nearly all the other wild folk fall victim to the deadly sheet of flames.
foxes, badgers, coyotes, ground hogs, chipmunks, wolverines, porcupines, take refuge in their holes underground where the smoke, curling lazily down and down, eventually reaches them and smothers them with their young.
lynx, marten, squirrels, wild cats, seek safety in the trees, hiding either in their holes or on the highest branch they can find until the flames find them in their lair, or the unbearable heat, scorching them, unloosens their mad grip and precipitates them into the furnace below.
wolves, bears, caribou, deer and moose take to flight.
but the great tragedy is that, in this season, all animals have their young.
the little ones get exhausted in the mad scramble through dense bush and stifling smoke.
they cannot keep pace with the flames.
little by little they fall back.
then the parents return to them and remain at their side until it is too late.
a few animals, through sheer luck or by keeping their wits, manage to escape.
now and then one may find on a sandy point, reaching far out in a lake, a motley crowd of animals of all breeds, huddled together on the edge of the water or in the water itself.
perfectly indifferent to one another, their only thought is to keep away from the flames.
the nearer the latter comes, the further the animals crawl and the deeper they crouch in the water.
in such cases it is a common occurrence to see a dozen rabbits sitting solemnly in the water, their heads alone showing.
a little further out, two bear cubs may be grovelling on their bellies like two children at play on the seashore.
while the mother swims about angrily, taking no notice of a cow-moose and her calf, both motionless in the water ... the little one standing, the mother lying down, their shoulders completely covered.
a little to one side a red fox, a vixen, has carried her young, one by one, to the edge of the lake.
the pups are too young yet to have sense to crawl in.
so the mother has dropped them in the water and, crouching between them and the shore, keeps them huddled, whimpering and frightened, safe from the heat and the sparks.
one evening a few years ago, i was sitting alone at a small trading station on the edge of a lake in north saskatchewan.
a northeast wind was blowing and the grey water was lashed into angry white caps that raced madly one after the other.
i was watching an 18-foot canvas canoe manned by two indians who were paddling straight for me.
they were having a hard time in making the shore and seemed worried by the load they were freighting.
from where i sat i could not make out what sort of cargo they carried, but i could see that it was placed amidship and stuck out on each side well over the gunwales.
i thought at first it was a log, although i was at a loss to understand why they had not placed it lengthwise under the thwarts.
i finally realized, with a certain amount of astonishment, that the two men were freighting in a large coffin, the weight and the dimensions of which prevented them placing it anywhere else than above deck, so to speak, and crosswise.
i sauntered down to the beach and gave them a hand in unloading their burden.
they told me that it was their father who had died a considerable time ago and they were absolutely obliged to bury him as soon as possible.
being catholics, they had to bring the body for burial to the priest whom the bad weather had kept on his side of the lake.
an hour or so later i heard the screech of a violin.
going out to investigate, i found my two indians in a shack close by, receiving visitors from the neighborhood and whiling away the time by an impromptu dance.
meanwhile, the coffin had been dragged outside to make more room.
it lay, grim and dark, on the right side of the door along the wall of the cabin.
all the dogs of the village, one by one, their tails curled up and their ears pointed, were passing in front of it in a solemn procession.
i watched them from a distance.
each dog stopped—sniffed at one corner of the coffin, went to the other—sniffed again and then, slowly and religiously, cocked up one hind leg and remained there, motionless for a few seconds.
meanwhile the wind wailed across the lake as if striving to drown the whining of the fiddle.
when men have no knowledge whatsoever of the danger they run, they are liable to do the most foolhardy thing imaginable and come out of it safely—to the utter astonishment of all old timers.
here is a striking example of that, which happened a few years ago:
we were forging ahead through the ice of hudson straits on an auxiliary schooner.
there were on board a lot of “husky” dogs which we were transferring from one trading station to another.
one morning the man in the crow’s nest saw a small herd of walrus asleep on the ice.
creeping up slowly, we got up to a hundred yards from them before they took any notice of the ship.
the meat was needed for the dogs.
firing a volley, we killed two of the huge animals outright.
the rest of the herd dived and scattered.
manoeuvring alongside the pan, we put one man of the crew overboard to rope the carcasses to be hoisted on deck with the winch.
it happened that the sailor who went over the side was an italian who had never been in the north.
he was very keen and excited.
while he was busy tying a rope round each animal’s head under the tusks, a big bull walrus, which had probably been wounded in the body a few minutes before, suddenly came up to the surface beside the pan.
with one heave, the enormous animal jumped clean out of the water to the ice a few feet from the sailor whose back was turned.
everyone on board was terrified.
nobody dared to shoot for fear of hitting the man.
the walrus shook his head and seemed ready to plunge his tusks right in the middle of the man’s back.
he weighed over fifteen hundred pounds.
feeling the animal’s breath on him, the italian turned round.
“get out of here, you ugly thing!” he shouted in his own language, and with that he slapped him right across the jaw with the back of his hand.
the walrus gave a grunt, slid backwards over the edge of the pan and vanished in the depths of the sea.
the sailor calmly turned back to his job, while on board we breathed a prayer of thankfulness.
mohican was a large timber wolf, grown wise through years of bitter experience in the canadian north.
during the winter he probably roamed through the wilderness as the head of his own pack seeking the caribou.
but each spring he would come back to the country of small lakes near the eastern shores of hudson bay, where he ranged until fall in complete solitude.
mohican was known to many indians who recognized his enormous tracks on all the little sandy beaches of the lakes.
but no one bothered him until, one day, he developed a keen taste for white fish and started breaking all rules by interfering with the red men.
in some way or other, the lone wolf had discovered that nets were made to catch fish.
after that, for many weeks, each time he felt like it, he would search along the banks until he found the stake of a net.
then he would take to the water and swim to the net itself.
poking his head under the water he would choose the best looking white fish, leaving severely alone suckers, pickerel and such small fry, tear his prey out of the mesh, bring it back to shore and eat it at his leisure.
so far, so good.
little harm was done.
but mohican was intensely practical and like all wild animals, believed in simplifying matters as much as he could.
one day he hit on the plan of dragging the net to the bank instead of swimming out to it.
he therefore caught in his jaw the stout rope where it was tied to the stake.
then, proceeding backwards slowly but surely, pulled the whole net clean out of the water to the shore where he ate what he liked, leaving the rest of the catch to die and spoil in the sun.
from that day on, he pulled at all the nets which he found and his strength was enormous.
few stakes, however deeply they were driven in the mud, could resist the strain and prevent him doing all the mischief he wished.
poor old mohican!
his cunning and intelligence were great, but he had committed the unpardonable sin of robbing the red man of his food.
one day at dawn he was seen by an indian.
the lone, old wolf was sitting on his haunches, tugging hard at the net’s rope.
the rifle cracked from behind a spruce tree, but mohican never knew what hit him.
it was a long shot, a pretty shot so far as that goes—four hundred yards—right across a small bay of the lake.
he had to pay the price of his sin.
such is the law of the wilderness.
in the dead of winter a few years ago, two eskimo women, mother and daughter, were starving in their igloo on the shores of baffin land.
the rest of the tribe had gone inland searching for caribou.
the older woman, who was lame, had been left behind with her daughter to look after her.
they had been provided with a supply of food but the hunters were late in coming back and it had dwindled, little by little, to nothing.
in the end the two women had killed and eaten the only dog that had remained with them.
they were now helpless, waiting for death, without food of any sort, without fishing tackle and without firearms.
the third day after they had eaten their last scrap of dog meat, the younger woman caught sight of a large seal which was lying on the ice, parallel to the shore about two miles off.
the floe had moved a little.
long lanes of clear water had opened up enabling the seal to climb out.
it was resting with its head on the edge of the pan ready to dive at the first sign of danger.
to the starving women the seal, weighing four hundred pounds, meant food and life.
their only weapons were a knife and a hatchet.
the daughter decided to stalk the seal while the mother, holding the hatchet, squatted on the beach and watched.
to that effect the younger woman, knife in hand, walked along the beach for about three miles.
after that, certain to be far enough behind the quarry not to be seen, she walked out on the ice the same distance as it was from shore.
having reached that point, she began stalking the seal in earnest.
it lay with its hind flippers towards her, but every minute or so it would raise its head for a few seconds to scan the horizon.
then the woman, crawling on her hands and knees, would have to remain motionless, lying flat on the ice.
little by little she crept nearer, using every small pinnacle, every little ridge and rough edge of the pans, as a shield.
she was already weak from hunger.
the constant strain began to tell on her.
the nearer she crawled to the animal, the longer she had to rest and regain her breath.
seals have good ears.
the slightest sound of panting would have driven the animal head first into the water.
it took her all day to cover the two miles.
during all that time she was in agony at the thought that the seal, tired of dozing, would dive into the sea again before she could reach it.
still, she could not take the risk of hurrying.
finally, only four feet separated her from the quarry.
with the superb self control of the savage she waited several minutes, then, when the seal lowered its head again on the pan, she sprung at it, driving her knife clear through the hind flippers deep into the ice.
with the whole weight of her body thrown on the handle she remained there, pinning the huge animal on the floe.
as long as the knife held, the seal, head and shoulders over the edge, could not dive.
the infuriated animal tried to turn around and baring its cruel fangs, snapped at her.
its bulk was so huge that the yellow teeth just failed to reach her face.
for an hour the woman and the beast strained against one another.
meanwhile the mother, who had been keeping watch on the shore, was hobbling over the ice towards them in a frenzy of excitement.
she knew that her daughter’s strength would have to give way sooner or later and that the time had now come for her to hasten to the rescue.
screaming shrilly, scrambling from pan to pan, she covered the distance as fast as she could in spite of her lameness.
when she reached the seal she attacked it fearlessly.
with a few shrewd blows of her hatchet on the head, she dropped it dead in its tracks.
just in time, for her daughter’s hands, bleeding and frozen, were already slipping on the knife’s handle and relaxing their hold.
few persons know how much water there is in northern canada.
even fewer people realize what enormous distances all animals have to swim in quest of food or to escape from danger.
moose and caribou will not hesitate to cross lakes several miles wide, and for no apparent reason but to change from one feeding ground to another.
i have often seen them swim over four miles in the bitterest cold weather in the early spring or late in the fall when the snow was on the ground and the temperature at freezing point.
black bears will swim for miles; young cubs barely four months old keeping up with their mothers.
lynx, although hating water like all the cat tribe, will cross the widest river when migrating.
small animals, such as porcupines and squirrels, are often found swimming a mile or so from shore.
two years ago when paddling down the churchill river, we found a fat old porcupine leisurely crossing the river where it was over a mile wide.
he was then about eight hundred yards from where he wanted to land and his speed must have averaged one mile per hour.
he took absolutely no notice of us.
at each stroke of his short foreleg he grunted loudly.
now and then he would lift his quills and shake them so as to get some of the weight of the water off his back.
squirrels, i have noticed, always swim with the wind in their backs and invariably carry their tails straight up in the air out of the water.
the indians maintain that they only take to water when the wind is favorable as they know that their tail, acting like a sail, will help them along.
white bears, of course, are the best swimmers of all the non-amphibious mammals.
they can swim for a whole day, resting now and then on their backs like sleeping seals.
in 1908, we saw a white bear yearling cub swimming towards shore at least fifteen miles out from cape churchill in hudson bay.
the nearest ice was then forty-five miles from the spot where we found him.
there was absolutely no doubt that our bear had undertaken a sixty-mile swim to reach land.
the eastern hair seals roam between the coasts of newfoundland and greenland.
unlike the fur seals of the pacific, they are valuable only for their fat and the leather of their pelts.
the best oil is obtained from the young pups which are born on the ice in february.
young seals do not know how to swim at birth and the hardy fishermen of newfoundland hunt them before they have taken to the water.
every day of the week the crew of each vessel leaves its ship and on foot, through fog and blizzards, scours the bleak wilderness of the ice floes.
but the hunt stops on sunday—even if the vessels happen to be in the midst of thousands of seals.
from saturday midnight to monday one o’clock, all the men remain idle.
one sunday morning in march, 1908, i was on board a sealer.
i happened to look over the side and saw a young seal sound asleep on the ice a few hundred yards from the ship.
with the idea of taking it on board so as to photograph it on deck, i slipped over the side.
walking up to the pup i caught it by the hind flippers, swung it over my shoulder and started carrying it to the vessel.
although i followed my footsteps on the ice, i suddenly broke through and found myself plunged into the bitterly cold water.
the little seal followed me in my downfall.
we both came up to the surface at the same time, with only one idea in our heads—to get out as quickly as possible.
i tried hard to climb out on the ice.
so did the pup.
the hole in which we were floundering was very small.
the young seal floated like an empty bottle, his body half out of the water.
in his efforts to get a hold on the edge of the pan, he flapped his front flippers like a pair of fans.
each flipper was armed with five claws as hard as steel.
my face got in the way of one flipper and instantly i came to the conclusion that i had better wait until my companion got out first.
patiently and courteously i waited until the little pup, with a lot of snorting and splashing, slowly but stubbornly wriggled himself out of the water.
when my turn came i was half dead with cold, and barely managed to pull myself on the ice in safety.
leaving the seal where he was, i tottered back to the ship.
i found the skipper very unsympathetic.
the only thing he had to say was: “serves you right.
this is sunday.”
during the filming of “nanook of the north”, in the winter of 1921, we decided to take a scene of a white bear hunt at close quarters on land.
in a genuine film like ours, where one must take “close ups” of wild animals, the difficulty lies not only in approaching them sufficiently near so as not to have to use telescopic lens, but also in keeping the animals more or less on the same spot in front of the camera.
consequently, after studying the matter carefully, we concluded that the only way we could film the white bear hunt was to find in the early spring a “she” bear with cubs in her den.
the idea was that the bear would refuse to leave her young, would make a stand right away and give battle on the spot, thereby allowing the cameraman to crank away to his heart’s content.
we sent, accordingly, a few eskimos to scour the country.
after a few weeks they reported having found a bear asleep in a snow bank under a cliff on the seashore, about seventy-five miles north from where we were.
we were certain that the animal was a “she” bear, as the males do not hibernate but roam all winter on the ice far out to sea.
we made the trip at once with six eskimos, three sleighs and twenty-two dogs, and built our igloos two miles away from where the bear had been found.
then we went out on foot to reconnoiter.
we found the bear’s den easily.
a large yellow spot on the snow, from which rose a slight vapor coming from the animal’s breath, plainly showed that someone was at home.
we carefully chose the best spot to place our one and only camera and rehearsed the whole scene.
one eskimo was to climb above the den and rouse the bear with a long pole.
the others standing in front of the den were to let the dogs go as soon as the brute appeared.
we knew that the huskies would surround the bear; and we had no doubt that she would immediately make a stand in front of her cubs and fight.
we had to wait after that for three days until the weather was clear and fine.
in the end the hour came.
at first, everything went off beautifully.
the bear was roused out of her lair by a few vigorous pokes of the pole but, instead of showing her head out of the snow and then emerging to give battle, she burst out of her den like a rabbit from its hold.
it was a “she” bear all right, but it happened that she had no cubs.
in a flash she was through the pack of dogs and away!
before the cameraman could start cranking she was already fifty yards off, racing for the sea with all the huskies after her.
we tried to lift the camera, carry it and follow, but it was useless.
the bear never stopped for at least a mile.
after that, when it was much too late, she turned around, fought the dogs for a few minutes—scattering them easily—then went on her way and disappeared finally over the icy horizon.
we never found another bear in her den that year.
such was the way mr. r. j. flaherty missed the only scene from “nanook of the north”.
“alex is a doggoned fool.” ... the speaker, a middle-aged yankee trapper, spat thoughtfully on the red hot stove, then gazed inquiringly at his audience.
we were four, in a log cabin on the banks of the churchill river.
it was night—late in the fall—and already cold.
inside, the atmosphere was oppressive, reeking with tobacco smoke, sweat, fish scales, and grease.
outside, the wind blew in great, uneven gusts and the shack creaked like the timbers of a labouring ship at sea.
i finally inquired why alex was a fool, and promptly heard the following story:
“one evening last june, alex blew in with a couple of chippewayan indians.
he had a load of fur in his canoe and was hurrying to the line to sell it and get drunk.
alex wanted me to lend him a shirt.
he was as lousy as a pet coon, and said he didn’t have time to wash his shirt.
i had only one shirt, a clean one i had only worn a few times, and i was thinking of using it myself when i moved south.
so i said ‘no’, and advised him to take his shirt off and lay it on an ant heap.
alex didn’t like the idea, but i told him the ants would clean up every insect.
he did what i said.
“when the time came to leave, there was a fair wind down the stretch so they put up a sail in a hurry.
alex grabbed his shirt and they left.
“i saw alex again last week.
he said when he put on his shirt the vermin were gone, but he forgot to shake it first and the ants were still there!
you know the kind, boys!
the little red ones!
and they sure did bite like hell before he could strip again!”
every spring, a lot of greenhorns go north, either in hope of making their living, or in a spirit of adventure.
a few struggle through and succeed.
a lot meet with accidents.
all of them run appalling risks.
some years ago—before the war—there was a mild stampede on the chamuchuan river in the province of quebec.
gold was reported to have been found.
as soon as the ice had gone, several hundred men started north, plunging into the wilderness in quest of fortune.
a few weeks later we were poling up that same river on our way to mistassini lake.
we reached a long straight rapid and were unloading our canoe before portaging.
one of the indians noticed, two miles away at the head of the rapid, right in the middle of the foaming river, a dark speck on a flat rock.
one man said it was a bear because it moved.
what a black bear could be doing in such a spot was a problem in itself, but we let it go at that and started packing our loads.
i happened to be the first one over the portage.
throwing down my load, i looked instinctively at the river.
there was a man squatting dismally on a small flat rock right in the middle of the current, fifty yards or so below where the portage stopped and the rapid began.
so that was the black bear seen an hour ago!
when the stranger saw us, he scrambled to his feet and started gesticulating wildly.
we could not understand how he got there.
he had no canoe.
the rock was about three foot square.
on both sides of it the river rushed down in a blind torrent of foam.
we considered a way to rescue him.
the idea of running down in a canoe was out of the question.
even if we succeeded in getting him on board—we would have to go on and there was a ten foot fall a few hundred yards further down which meant immediate disaster.
we hit on the following plan.
we found a good sized log, tied to it all the ropes we had in one single line, paddled as far down near the head of the rapid as we dared, anchored our canoe with a huge stone taken from shore and then paid out the rope, the log floating ahead of it towards the man on the rock.
we managed to let the log pass more or less alongside the stranger!
but for a long time the man appeared frightened.
each time he missed his chance of catching hold of the log.
and we had to hand it up again thirty yards or so to be able to give it the proper direction so that it would pass as near as possible to the rock.
finally, the stranger decided to take a chance.
he waved at us as if he were taking a last farewell, then jumped boldly—head first and arm extended—straight for that log.
there was quite a splash and for a second we could not see whether he had succeeded in getting hold of the stump.
our rope was tight.
we had reached the end of it.
we hauled in.
in a few minutes we knew we had our man at the end of our line.
we got occasional glimpses of him, although he was all the time half way under water.
he was lying on the log—clasping it with both arms—straddling it with both legs.
little by little we got him alongside.
he was nearly drowned and quite speechless.
with an effort we got him on board.
then letting the log go after cutting the rope—we paddled ashore.
an hour later our new acquaintance was able to talk and tell us his story.
he was a student and had gone with a party to the upper end of the river in search of gold.
disgusted with the life, homesick, weak from lack of food and from mosquito bites, he had decided to run away and reach the line.
stealing a canoe, he had started alone on his journey.
he had never been in the woods before.
when he reached the rapid he missed the portage.
in a second he found himself helpless in the first whirlpool.
by sheer luck his canoe was thrown against that lonely flat rock.
when it hit, he let his paddle go and jumped, landing safely on the big stone.
the canoe, of course, disappeared in the swirl.
he had been there—squatting helplessly right in the middle of that rapid—for thirty-six hours when we happened to pass that way and rescue him.
when and wherever a man tells a fishing story, there is a deep-rooted feeling among everyone listening that the man is far from being truthful.
that is a handicap for any one trying to describe how large fish do run in canada north of 53. nevertheless the fact remains that in labrador as well as in the west, pickerel, muskellunge and lake trout grow to enormous size.
three years ago on reindeer lake, in a net placed under the ice, our men caught a trout which tipped the beam at fifty-three pounds.
in the same lake, when trolling the following july, we caught one weighing thirty-five pounds.
we showed it to an indian camped near by.
he told us that a few days before he had netted one much larger, which he had given to his dogs to eat.
to prove the truth of his statement he hunted around the bush, found the trout’s head and brought it to us.
we measured it with the head of our own fish.
it was, more or less, twice as large.
muskellunge up to forty pounds are common in the big lakes.
some are bigger.
these fish, when hungry, are vicious and often go for quarry which they can hardly swallow.
a squirrel swimming across a river is snapped up like a minnow.
so are young ducklings, if they venture too far out from shore.
in several instances we have seen a much larger bird successfully pulled down by a big pickerel.
last summer when paddling near a small island on bear lake, we noticed three young gulls take fright, leave their nest on the rocks, and swim directly away from us.
they were full grown, although they had not yet learned how to fly.
one of those gulls was pulled down three times in front of us by a muskellunge.
each time it remained under water almost a minute.
the fish finally gave it up as a bad job; but we marvelled at the endurance of that young bird.
it did not seem the worse for its submarine encounter.
railways may extend their lines far away in the north; civilization may wipe out huge slices of wilderness; the remaining indians, in spite of all their faults intensified by the contact with white men, are still at heart wild men whose sole aim in life is to hunt and to kill.
whatever may be their calling, there is one thing which no indian man, woman or child can resist.
it’s to try to lay low big game.
in other words, to try to secure red meat each time the occasion arises.
last summer, near where we were camped, a very old squaw took her granddaughter, aged ten, to look over her nets.
the child was in the bow of the canoe.
suddenly they came across a big bull moose swimming the river.
they had no rifle and there was no time to return to camp to fetch one.
the old woman did not hesitate.
with one sweep of her paddle she steered the small canoe straight for the moose, while she screamed to the little girl to pick up the small axe which they were using to drive in the stakes of their nets.
the child was frightened but she answered the call of the blood.
she seized the axe and, when her grandmother fearlessly paddled the canoe alongside the huge horns of the moose, she struck with all her might.
she was too young to know how to use her small weapon.
instead of aiming between the animal’s ears with the head of the axe, she struck blindly with the blade.
she missed several times, wounding the big moose in the neck.
the infuriated animal roared, shook his head, lunged out with his front paws, narrowly missing the canoe.
the little girl kept on savagely.
finally, she buried her axe in the bull’s huge back.
she did not have the strength to wrench it out.
the moose reached the shore, staggered up the bank and disappeared in the bush.... we found it an hour later, dead, a few hundred yards away.
there was a silent but proud little indian girl in camp that night.
the bull moose must have weighed over twelve hundred pounds, while the axe measured exactly three feet long.
the barren lands ... far away, north of the trees.
wind-swept, rock strewn, colorless.
an undulating desert with huge boulders, grey moss, little patches of scrub willows nestling in the hollows of the hills.
thousands of small streams and lakes.
far away on the edge of the arctic.
bleaker than the northern moors of scotland shorn of their native heather.
the feeding ground of the wandering herds of caribou.
the nestling place of all water fowl.
far away, skirting the frozen seas.
a land of waste lying on the top of the world.
scarred and twisted by some gigantic earthquake hundreds of centuries ago.
blasted eternally by the icy breath of the pole.
the barren lands.
the last refuge for the criminal unmercifully tracked by the law.
northward—ever northward—the man has fled from civilization.
downstream—ever downstream—he has paddled madly through the forest, seeking safety in the unknown.
leaving the trees behind him he has at last reached his goal.
the barren lands.
but fear urges him on.
he leaves his useless canoe and blindly staggers north on foot.
north, north, into the heart of the land of waste from which there is no outlet.
the weaker he gets the more he longs to go further.
his food is nearly gone.
on the top of the hills he scans the horizon.
south, the line of trees has disappeared.
north, nothing but the rolling desert of moss and rock.
on and on he staggers for days.
he is starving now, although he is able to quench his thirst at the small icy creeks which wind their way towards the sea.
it is night.
the man suddenly hears a dull moaning sound, the everlasting breaking of the surf against the shore.
he has reached the end of the barren lands.
he finds himself staggering down a rocky beach.
his eyes are staring ahead of him.
nothing but a grey, unlimited ocean, dotted with icebergs.
for the first time he realizes the hopelessness of his flight.
he remains a few seconds swaying on his feet.
then his brain gives way.
with a scream, he tosses his hands above his head and, lurching forward, falls dead, his face in the foam of the waves.
high up in the sky, over barren lands and arctic ocean, the northern lights reel, twist and swirl, in their eternal dance of madness.
now and then in the far north, a trader adopts an eskimo boy, always an orphan, and brings him up at the station.
when the boy reaches manhood he generally remains at the post, acting as a general servant and interpreter.
while his usefulness as a “jack of all trades” is great, his efficiency in english is invariably poor.
no pure eskimo can understand and speak fluently any other language but his own, and, although he is quite capable of remembering hundreds of foreign words, he has a very hazy notion of what these words really mean.
i remember well a certain post servant called “nero”.
no one knew how he got that strange name.
he was about sixty years old and thought himself head and shoulders above any other native in the country.
wise to the ways of white men, the equal of any other eskimo in traveling and hunting, he was a well known character within a radius of five hundred miles.
one summer i was traveling with him along the eastern coast of hudson bay.
the weather was clear and we were sailing in a little schooner a few hundred yards off shore.
everywhere, eskimos have a habit of erecting cairns of rocks on all the cliffs and high spots so as to have land marks when traveling in winter, especially during stormy weather.
i happened to notice one of those cairns which was of unusual size.
the rocks, which had been piled very neatly and carefully one on top of the other, were enormous.
it must have taken several men quite a few days of labor to put it up.
i called nero’s attention to the cairn, and added that it looked very old and i wondered how long it had been there.
nero, never at a loss for an answer, nodded cheerfully and replied “yes, much old—thousand years.”
i grinned and remarked, “how do you know it has been there so long?”
nero hesitated a few seconds then retorted brightly, “yes, thousand years.
i know.
it was here when i a little boy.
i saw her, thousand years.”
after that answer, i gave it up and changed the subject of conversation.
indians have the reputation of being always of a serious turn of mind.
my experience is to the contrary.
they talk incessantly, laugh at any joke and love to play tricks on each other.
one night on isle a la crosse lake, we had pitched camp near the tepee of a chippewayan family.
the weather was beautiful, the mosquitoes were gone—there was not a cloud in the sky.
the father, an old indian with long, grey hair, decided to sleep in the open.
he rolled himself up in his blanket in the bottom of his canoe and was soon asleep—snoring peacefully under a full moon, millions of stars and the shimmer of the northern lights low down on the horizon.
as soon as my two indians saw that, they crept to the lake, filled a large kettle full of water, returned noiselessly and poured the contents of the kettle very gently in the canoe.
three times they did that without waking the sleeper.
then they hid in the bush and waited.
in a few minutes the old man grunted, shifted, turned round again, and then sat up hurriedly.
first, he felt the bottom of the canoe with both hands and discovered several inches of water that had soaked through his blankets and clothes.
after that, he looked up towards the sky.
he searched silently for clouds and signs of rain.
the moon was still there—as brilliant as ever.
so were the stars!
he got out of the canoe, felt himself all over again, bent down a second time to feel the water then, walking away a few paces, he gazed long and searchingly above him and turned around so as to inspect thoroughly the four points of the compass.
that was too much for the two indians hiding in the bush.
one started to grunt, the other to groan.
in a second the old man understood the joke and burst out laughing, slapping his wet thighs with his two bony hands.
two hours later the three men were squatting in front of a fire, drinking tea and talking.
every now and again i would hear a peal of laughter.
they were still making merry over the joke.
far away in the sub-arctic, the sturdy eskimos live happily—hunting and fishing for food, trapping for furs to trade for clothing, ammunition and for such luxuries as tea, sugar, tobacco and jam.
they speak only their own language, and their idea of quantities or numbers is always very hazy.
some tribes do not seem to be able to count more than ten.
but their remarkable intelligence offsets this weakness.
one year i told an eskimo, who hunted two hundred miles north of one of our stations, to report to me, the next summer, how many sea trout he had caught that spring at the mouth of a certain river where we thought of establishing an outpost.
the native borrowed a pencil and a sheet of paper from the trader and departed.
the next year he brought in the paper, very much soiled, but showing exactly how many fish he had killed—1132.
for each trout the eskimo had drawn a line, varying in length according to the size of the fish, and for each ten trout he had scrawled a double line.
nobody had ever taught him that.
another instance of mathematics was reported to me in the northwest two years ago.
at a certain post, we were using an eskimo to trade with a far away tribe which we could not get in touch with otherwise.
in the fall our trader would put on the man’s sleigh so many articles, telling him how many articles he ought to give out for each skin.
the next spring the man would return and faithfully turn over the furs with the balance of the untraded goods.
there never was a mistake.
but a year later, our trader noticed that the eskimo brought back a bundle of furs of his own which he would trade with us afterwards, and for which it was difficult to account as the balance of the merchandise returned was correct and the native himself was not supposed to trap.
the trader finally asked him how it happened, and the husky’s answer plainly proved that he had found out by himself the secret of division.
for instance, each article, that ought to have been given out for fur, the eskimo cut in two; keeping one half for himself so as to trade it later on against fur on his own account.
thus our native friend would trade one-half a pound of sugar instead of a whole one; half a stick of tobacco, and so on.
he went so far as filing an ordinary file in two, trading one-half for us and the other for himself.
when our trader told him that he was not very fair to his northern brothers, he laughed and answered, “they have not learned how to count.
i have.”
in the northwest of canada, far away from civilization, there still exist huge herds of caribou that roam by tens of thousands.
in summer, they are to be found on the barren lands; in winter, through the wooded wilderness around reindeer lake.
the main body of the herd seems to follow a steady routine of migration.
each year the natives know exactly where to find it.
the eskimos follow the caribou during the summer.
the chippewayans lie in wait for them on their way south in the early fall.
from then on until spring those indians live on the herd, using the meat for food and the leather for clothing.
at all times during the year, the grey timber wolves hover around, cutting out and pulling down the young, the maimed and the weak.
still, the caribou ranks never seem to dwindle.
in countless numbers each year they move north or south, according to the season, obeying the law of their kind.
in winter, when one travels through that enormous country which lies between cree lake and pakatawagan, through bear lake, wollaston lake, further north to nueltin lake, further southeast to reindeer lake, one is liable to meet, any day, hundreds and hundreds of these deer.
in the depth of the bush one seldom sees them.
but they seem to have a fondness for lakes, over the ice of which they roam aimlessly, in the open, milling like sheep at the slightest sign of danger.
all men who travel in those regions depend on these deer for food, not only for themselves but for their dogs.
each team of “huskies” is wise to what a herd of caribou means as soon as it is sighted.
when the traveller reaches a lake and sees the deer far away on the ice, the dogs realize what is going to happen, and strain silently and excitedly in their traces.
the deer, foolishly, look around, run about, stop and stare.
little by little, the sleigh drawn by the straining dogs gets nearer and nearer.
finally the man with one short word stops the team, then steps out of the sleigh, aims and fires.
instantly the dogs are off, baying like maniacs.
the man makes a flying leap, grabs the sleigh and scrambles on board.
the seven dogs are racing madly towards the deer who are running around in circles.
if the man’s aim has been true, in a few minutes the team of “huskies”
has reached its prey and, in a mad leap, is worrying its throat.
if he has missed, the man calls out a second time.
the dogs stop dead and the rifle barks again.
in pre-war days in siberia, traveling on the railway was easy; but as soon as one left it, one was liable to meet with a certain amount of adventures.
one night in the middle of winter, i landed at the station of omsk.
no one was there to meet me and i did not know a word of russian.
i was told that the town was at least six miles away and that to reach it one had to travel through a wild, empty country of rolling plain and small bush.
furthermore, quite a few russians in moscow and on the train had entertained me in french with terrible stories of escaped convicts, brigands, hold-ups and murders.
in fact, only that week before my arrival, a traveler was supposed to have been shot and robbed on the same road that i had to take to go to town.
after a lot of trouble, i found a “troika” drawn by the usual three horses and was able to make the driver understand where i wanted to go.
i snuggled down under the fur robes and pulled out a revolver which i kept in my hand ready for any emergency.
we started slowly through very bad roads.
the cold was intense.
in a little while, just as i was thinking that i had never seen such a beautifully lonely country to commit wholesale murder in, we heard a shout ahead of us.
at that time we were half way up a small hill and, on the top of it hardly one hundred yards from us, plainly visible on the sky line, was a man on horseback.
i could distinguish his big shaggy fur cap and a rifle which he held in his right hand with the stock resting on his thigh, the barrel sticking up.
in a flash i thought of the russians’ stories which i had disbelieved.
i was being held up after all.
i jerked out my gun from under the furs.
i was desperate and had made up my mind to shoot first, trusting to luck.
just then the solitary cavalier shouted something in russian, which, of course, i did not understand.
my driver, with a yell to his horses, swung them frantically to the right and, in a second, the sleigh was in the deep snow out of the trail, half turned over on its side in a ditch.
i clutched the sides so as not to be pitched out.
at the same moment a tornado seemed to be upon us.
i vaguely realized in the darkness that there were wild looking men on horseback.
some had drawn swords, others lances.
there must have been one hundred of them.
but instead of stopping—they swept downhill, past us, in a mad gallop.
before i could press the trigger everything was over.
the road was empty, the night was silent and my driver was coaxing his horse back on the trail.
as soon as i reached omsk i told our man, there, what had happened and asked for further information.
“why, that was his imperial majesty’s mail going to the station to catch the midnight train for the east.
it is always surrounded by a squadron of cavalry with one or two scouts ahead to clear the road.”
my brigands were the regular cossacks of the czar.
to this day, i feel a cold shudder at the thought of what would have happened if i had fired my revolver in their midst.
talk of past murders on that lonely siberian road!
picnics compared to what mine would have been!
windswept, bleak and ragged, savagely beautiful in their utter desolation, the mighty shores of labrador tower over the racing tides of hudson straits.
far out on the horizon a bank of mist hangs low, blending itself with the steel grey of the sea.
close by at the foot of the cliffs, a line of white foam everlastingly coils and uncoils itself, surging angrily against the glittering walls of granite.
in between, scattered over the grey waters, hundreds of icebergs are floating.
in all shapes and sizes, these grim fragments of the eternal arctic glaciers seem to keep guard over the sea.
like sentinels on the edge of the polar regions they drift slowly back and forth in the straits, obedient to tide and wind, leaving behind them a long wake of swirling eddies and floating cakes of ice.
above all a grey, cloudless, cold sky.
everywhere silence.
a silence which grips one’s heart.
a silence which no earthly sound would seem able to shatter.
a silence which one hears.
on the very edge of the highest cliff, a man stands alone.
dressed in seal skin, bare-headed, his long, coarse black hair thrown back and mingling with the dog fur trimming of his hood—the eskimo hunter is watching the sea.
his weather-beaten face is inscrutable.
with slanting eyelids narrowed, his black eyes stare into space without a quiver of an eyelash.
his square jaw is closed tightly.
one hand is holding by the barrel a rifle in its greasy case.
the other clutches a rawhide cartridge pouch.
the man has been there every day for weeks.
today, after two hours’
watch, he suddenly wheels around, drops his cartridge pouch, picks a handful of cartridges and loads his rifle.
his task finished, he looks again towards the sea for a full minute.
then, satisfied, he raises the rifle to his shoulder and fires six shots at regular intervals.
the crack of the winchester shatters the silence—echoes along the cliff—sending down towards the sea wave after wave of sound which, in turn, is picked up and flung back by each gully and by each cave throughout the mass of granite.
startled from its nest, an eagle dashes from the cliff, sweeps up to the level of the man, remains motionless for a fraction of a second poised in midair—then uttering a shrill cry, lashes with its wings and dives into space.
far down on the beach, amid the rocks which form a natural slide to the sea, tiny specks appear moving hurriedly back and forth.
these are eskimos, comrades of the man who stands guard hundreds of feet above them.
their skin tents, huddled together in the chaotic mass of stone, remain invisible to the eye.
they have heard the signal and their excitement is great.
smaller specks run about the beach.
some dash even into the icy water which flings them back in a blind, white smother of foam.
these are the dogs, the sleigh huskies, the faithful companions of the natives.
their short, wolf-like howl rises above the general confusion.
in a few minutes a white puff of smoke is seen, followed shortly by the quick bark of the rifle.
then another explosion is heard until the spluttering of a general fusillade rends the air ... answering the six shots fired from the top of the cliff.
far out at sea, looming ghostlike through the fog, threading her cautious way amidst the icebergs—a three-masted auxiliary schooner appears.
on her foremast flies the revillon frères flag.
it is the supply ship which, once a year, calls on those desolate regions.
in northern canada, birds migrate south as soon as the winter sets in.
the only ones who remain throughout the entire cold season are the ravens, the little arctic owls and the jays which are known from the atlantic to the pacific as whiskey jacks.
the latter can be found everywhere in the bush.
although they shun the most northern villages and settlements, still they can not live far away from the haunts of men.
therefore one sees them hovering around every likely spot along all the trails, either on land or by the water, in the neighborhood of lumber camps, trapping shacks, hunting caches and portages.
as soon as the traveler appears in one of those places, a small flock of whiskey jacks appear flitting from one tree top to another, calling, shrieking, whistling, ever on the lookout for any sign of food.
there is a superstition in the north which claims that the killing of a whiskey jack brings bad luck.
no one, even an indian, would ever think of harming them.
the result is that, being very tame, they often prove themselves regular pests in camp.
their only idea seems to be to hoard food for winter use.
and from early spring until late fall one can see them picking up any available scrap which they stow away in various tree holes.
their boldness is always a source of amusement to the traveler.
i have seen whiskey jacks pounce on a piece of bacon in the frying pan and succeed in carrying it away; others raid an empty tent and steal any small thing they can find.
they often get in trouble—the unlucky one then uttering the most extraordinary shrieks which are always taken up by all the other birds.
it is a common occurrence to see one poke its head into an empty tin and have a great deal of difficulty in getting it out.
some, raiding a tent, get their claws caught in the mosquito net, while others hovering around a camp fire singe their tails and wings in a mad scramble for some half cooked tidbit.
the funniest jam i ever saw a whiskey jack get into was when the bird found a bowl on the ground filled with pieces of bannock soaked in rum.
the bird was hungry and gobbled five or six pieces before the old prospector found out that his favorite evening dish was in danger.
whiskey jack flew a few feet away and settled on a branch of a tree.
but in a few minutes the liquor took effect.
he began giving a series of dismal squawks, cocking his head on one side then on the other, swaying more and more until he actually fell down on the ground, where he lay unable to get up but screeching madly all the time.
the bird was all right again in an hour or so and went on flying around in search of more food, but he obstinately refused any more bannock from any one’s hands.
makejo, a full-grown red fox, was born on the marshy shores of james bay.
originally, he belonged to a litter of six pups which a cree indian had dug up in the spring and given to our trader at moose factory.
the pups were still blind and helpless when they reached human hands.
they took kindly to the bottle, but the mixture of condensed milk and plain water on which our man tried to raise them proved a failure.
one little fox alone survived the ordeal.
that was makejo.
although undersized and weak at first, he grew amazingly fast soon after he was weaned.
when i saw him two years later he was larger and heavier than any fox of that region.
blood red, with a mask fringed with black and a large white tip at the end of his brush, he was as tame as a dog and as mischevious as a monkey.
he lived in the trader’s house, slept in a box, and came instantly at the call of his name.
he was a great mouser.
now and again the trader would lock him up in the storeroom at night where he would kill dozens of mice, which he would invariably eat—barring the tails.
he would play with the children by the hour and had taught himself any amount of tricks while running madly up and down the house.
his chief stunt was a back somersault.
he had started doing it while leaping against the wall of the room but ended by doing it at any moment, even from a standing position.
in summer, he was allowed to use a hole cut out for him on one of the windows on the ground floor.
he would get out through this to a small ledge, four feet above the ground, where he would pass hours sunning himself and keeping an eye on everything that was going on.
his chief delight was to torment the twenty-odd post dogs which were always loafing in the neighborhood.
they all belonged to the malamute breed and would have killed him instantly had they been able to catch him.
but they never did.
makejo, from his ledge, would watch the dogs until they were asleep.
then, jumping down like a streak of lightning, he would flash through the pack yelping.
in a second every husky was after him.
his speed was so marvelous, his eye so quick and his judgment of distance so uncanny, that he would remain several minutes tearing in and out of the dogs with perfect impunity until, with one leap, he would jump on his ledge again and disappear in the house through his little hole.
for all i know, makejo may still be living happily where i saw him last.
hundreds of stories could be told regarding the hardships which form part of the daily life of the canadian eskimos, also their resourcefulness and their endurance.
five years ago in august, near cape dufferin, two eskimos started paddling in their kayaks along the shore.
each man in his little craft had his son—one five years old, the other seven.
after a few hours, they decided to go to some islands six miles off shore to look for sea gulls’
eggs.
not caring to take the two children out so far, in case a storm came up, they left them on the beach and told them to wait.
the two little boys remained there all day.
night came.
they huddled together, shivering, in the lee of a rock.
when dawn appeared there were no signs of the two men.
another day and another night passed; still the children waited, feeding on seaweed and small shell fish which they found along the beach.
when the third day came they decided to walk back, following the shore, to the tribe.
going round the bays, climbing up and down huge slides of rocks, walking inland each time they found rivers they could not swim until they discovered a place to ford them, those two boys—aged five and seven, respectively—never lost heart.
picking up on the beach what they could find to eat, they eventually got back to the tribe after two days and nights of constant traveling.
they were footsore, wet to the bone, and famished.
they gave the alarm and a small party of men paddled immediately to the islands.
there they found the two men marooned amidst hundreds of nests on which they had been feeding.
it appears that on their arrival, four days before, they had at first gone to sleep on the beach in the sun, leaving their kayaks partly out of the water.
the tide rose and the two kayaks drifted out of sight.
they had suffered no hardships—having plenty of food and being confident that eventually some one would come to look for them.
furthermore, they did not feel anxious about the children.
in their minds, a thirty mile walk alone on the rugged seashore, the fording of three swift rivers, and the lack of food and the exposure during four consecutive days and nights, could not possibly harm two little eskimo boys of five and seven.
it was late in the fall of 1916, in the somme, during the war.
the canadian army in junction with one of the french army corps at its right had gone over the top and brilliantly carried an enemy’s strong position, two miles deep.
the inevitable counter attack had been repulsed and, although the shelling was still vicious, one felt that the show was over for that day.
the wounded were streaming out of the communication trenches towards the rear.
a few dead bodies were lying about in small groups.
i was passing along quickly, following a sunken road, when i noticed a swarthy canadian soldier on the ground, apparently dying of his wounds.
i happened to be glancing towards him when he looked up, saw me, and, making a sign of the hand, called out clearly, “nipi.” i recognized the word at once and stopped in amazement.
the man was a full-blooded cree indian.
he must have volunteered somewhere in northern canada, gone overseas, fought, and was now dying all alone in the mud of the somme.
he did not seem to be able to speak a word of english.
i knelt beside him and put my water bottle to his lips.
meanwhile i racked my brain for the few words of cree i still knew.
when he had finished drinking i began slowly to tell him, one by one, all the words i remembered.
i said in cree, “lake, fire, bear, moose, tent, axe, canoe.” what else, i do not recall.
dozens of cree words—one after the other.
then i named in indian, all the northern places i knew from labrador to yukon.
as soon as the cree warrior heard my first words, he caught hold of my hands with both of his own and held on to them like a drowning man.
he looked at me with a startled face, then his expression changed little by little.
he was far gone then but he could still hear and understand the words of his native tongue.
a far away look came into his dying eyes, his features relaxed and a smile hovered on his lips.
he had forgotten the battlefield.
his thoughts were away, far away, in some part of the canadian wilderness which he and i knew.
it was all over in a few seconds.
he opened his mouth as if he wanted to say something and then his soul went west; suddenly, without a flutter, straight to the happy hunting grounds of his ancestors.
jack was a little grey donkey, a genuine little burro owned by the cook of a lumber camp in northern british columbia.
he was used for odd jobs around the men’s quarters and, when off duty, roamed about aimlessly at his own free will.
he was old, tame as a dog and very wise.
we hired him one day to carry our grub and blankets on a fishing expedition.
we had no fixed place to go.
we simply cut across country through bush and hills, stopping to fish at every likely stream, camping when we felt like it.
jack behaved perfectly for three days.
he carried his little load quietly and steered his way through any kind of ground according to our instructions, which we telegraphed to him from behind with a tap of the hand or an occasional shove.
on the third day at sundown, we pitched our tent on an old camping ground and found there two large cans of tomatoes which someone had left behind.
the next morning, we loaded the little burro and placed the two cans on the top of his pack.
jack gave a grunt and promptly lay down.
nothing would induce him to rise until one of us thought of taking the two cans off.
then he proceeded on his way as if nothing had happened.
for at least two hours we tried to fool him with those two tomato tins—but failed utterly.
each time we laid them on his pack, ever so gently from behind, he would stop dead and lie down again.
finally we had to give it up and throw the two cans away.
when the time came to return to the lumber camp, we were not certain of our way.
in fact, we had only had a very hazy idea of our direction as we had been travelling in a round about sort of way in a very hilly country thickly covered with large trees.
we decided to put our faith in jack.
he seemed to understand that we were going home.
he took us back, foot by foot, exactly the same way we had come.
his memory was uncanny.
all the unnecessary little detours we had made, around a bush or a rock on our way up, he scrupulously made again on the way down.
he never changed his pace once.
he just jogged along with his head down and his eyes half closed.
but nothing would make him step out of what he thought was the proper trail.
two miles from camp, when we could already see the tents in the valley, we tried to make him take a short cut.
he absolutely refused and showed the usual signs of lying down.
he had been in charge all the way back and intended remaining so until we arrived.
early one spring, i stopped at an indian’s tepee for a cup of tea, a smoke and a little chat.
in front of the tent, a few yards away, stood the usual platform which all trappers build on four long, vertical piles so as to keep their stock of fish, meat, leather and pelts out of the reach of the dogs.
i was travelling with a team of six huskies drawing a light sledge and had been making good time on the glare ice of the lakes and rivers.
for, although the snow was nearly all gone in the bush, it still froze hard each night.
before leaving the camp i asked the indian to sell me some white fish for dog feed, of which i was short.
he had plenty of it.
i knew that he kept the frozen fish on the platform.
he readily granted my request and while he busied himself dis-entangling the traces of my leader, which had got mixed up with a stump, i climbed on an empty box so as to reach the rack and get the fish.
just at that moment the indian shouted to me to take twenty fish which were already wrapped up in a dunnage bag, ready for packing on a sleigh.
i glanced around, saw a brown package about two feet long and, without bothering to lift it, with one hand i pushed it so that it fell off the platform on to the ground.
as soon as it hit the frozen earth i noticed the peculiar sound it made—a crack like the branch of a tree snapping in the frost.
jumping down, i opened the parcel.
there lay the dead body of a six months old child.
it was the indian’s youngest baby.
it had died at christmas time and the man had stored it on the rack, far out of reach of the prowling dogs, until the summer came and the ground thawed out sufficiently to enable him to dig its little grave.
late one evening in august, our ship was plowing her way through a sea of slushy ice and small pans in hudson straits.
the weather was dead calm.
ahead of us, to the northwest, the sun was sinking over the horizon, staining sky and ice in crimson.
astern—to starboard—miles away, the rugged coast of baffin land loomed up, faint and dark.
the only sound which struck the ear was the steady droning of the engine; while now and then a pan of ice, cut in two by the ship’s stem, cracked under the impact, then groaned and grinded as it slid and was crushed under the keel.
suddenly a sharp cry rang out from the crow’s nest, “white bear ahead—a she bear with two cubs.
two points at starboard.” instantly every one rushed to the bow.
five hundred yards away, floundering through the ice, in and out of the water, was a great big bear.
she had seen us and was trying to get away.
a few yards in front of her were two small cubs—four months old—struggling hard to keep ahead of their mother.
the whole crew was in a turmoil of excitement.
the skipper already had a rifle in his hands.
so had the cook and one of the sailors.
for a long time the bears were able to keep their distance.
the pans of ice were large and fairly close together.
mother and cubs would climb on one—race a few hundred yards—dive, swim a few feet—then get out of the water and run again.
meanwhile the ship had to wind her way between the ice, or butt the heaviest pans which sometimes slowed her down completely.
we reached, at last, a spot where the ice was scattered.
huge lakes separated each pan.
although the bears swam bravely, the ship was gaining on them.
in a few minutes we were almost on top of them—just as they reached some more ice and climbed on it.
the young animals were now getting exhausted.
the cubs, their tongues out, were giving signs of distress.
their only idea was to stop, lie down, bury their heads in their front paws and rest.
but the old mother was undaunted.
she turned around, faced the ship, rose on her hind legs and gazed steadily at us towering above her.
then, turning around like a flash, she lifted each grovelling cub with a jerk of her snout, cuffed its hind quarters hard with a swift tap of her front paw and launched both of them again ahead of her in full flight.
this she repeated time and again.
her courage was so amazing that no one fired a shot.
finally we reached a last pan of ice on the very edge of the floe.
further on was the open sea.
mother and cubs scrambled on that piece of ice a few yards in front of the steamer which had been put down to “dead slow”.
the little cubs “were done”.
they just lay on the ice and panted.
the mother could have taken to the water—dived like a duck—made a bid for her life.
but she remained beside her young, facing the ship squarely, silently, fearlessly.
her jaws were half open in a snarl.
now and then she would lift a front paw and cuff the air as if she wanted to show how hard she could hit our steel stern if ever our vessel touched her.
there was silence on board.
suddenly our skipper’s voice rang out: “hard over at port,” while the telegraph rang, “full speed ahead.” the same voice called out again.
“leave those bears alone, you sons of....”
as the ship swung over—gathered way and passed the pan of ice—three blasts of the steamer’s foghorn blared out in a salute!
it was the old newfoundland master.
he was leaning over the side of his bridge, waving to the old she bear who still stood, undaunted, right over the bodies of her two little cubs.
fifteen years or so ago, i knew an old trader, a scotchman, who had then lived forty years in the far north.
his only link with civilization was the supply ship which called at his post, once a year, in summer.
in those days radios were unknown.
the man was content with one mail a year.
as soon as the vessel had left his station, he was entirely cut off from the rest of the world until the next summer.
he worked for a rival company and for several years i never had an occasion to meet him, although we had a trading station of our own a few miles down the coast.
in 1911, our steamer was passing his post when we saw a whale boat, manned by four eskimos, coming out to meet us.
in the stern sat the old man.
knowing that our ship was the first in that year, we slowed down expecting that the trader was in some kind of trouble.
as soon as he got within hailing distance he stood up, put his hands to his mouth and shouted: “good morning!
who won the fight?” for a few seconds we were so surprised that none of us could speak.
meanwhile, the small boat remained bobbing up and down on the swell; the old man still standing and looking up toward the bridge.
suddenly it dawned upon the skipper that the old scotchman was one year back in his news, and that he was inquiring about the famous “jim jeffries-jack johnson” fight which had taken place exactly thirteen months before!
our ship being the first in, he could not wait until his own vessel arrived, bringing him a whole year’s collection of daily newspapers.
he simply had to satisfy his craving for news of that fight over which he had pondered, alone, during twelve long months.
“jack johnson won by a knock-out,” we all shouted down to him.
he heard us the first time.
lifting his hand over his head as a sign of thanks, he sat down without a word and motioned the esquimos to row back to shore.
meanwhile our skipper telegraphed “full speed ahead” and we proceeded on our way.
the wolverine has an exceedingly bad reputation among all men, white or red, who make their living by trapping in the far north.
if one believed the stories of some of the older indians, one would think that the animal had a superhuman intelligence added to a positive mania for destruction.
to look at, the wolverine is not very formidable.
i heard, one day, a white trapper describe him as an overgrown badger that could not grunt quite as well as a pig but could climb trees far more easily than a bear.
discarding the exaggeration which generally goes with all tales concerning the animal, there is no doubt that the wolverine is very cunning and is inclined to be mischevious as far as traps and supplies are concerned.
i know of one authentic case where an indian had to change his trap lines; in fact, quit the country altogether and go elsewhere because of a wolverine who had made up his mind to dodge his footsteps all winter and feed on his baits and game.
that animal would follow the man’s trail, starting a few hours behind him.
each time he got to a trap he would find it, although the tell-tale signs had been brushed off the snow.
he would then, through smell, locate the chain, dig it up, jerk it with his teeth, spring the trap and eat the bait.
for weeks the indian tried to shoot that wolverine, but failed.
when the man, knowing through experience that he was followed, turned back suddenly in his footsteps or remained hidden on his own trail, the wolverine, sensing the danger, would stop and vanish for the time being.
as soon as the trapper proceeded on his way, the animal would follow and resume his mischief.
once in labrador, i had a cache raided by a wolverine during the summer.
we had left some grub, clothing and cooking utensils in a waterproof bag securely lashed to the branch of a tree.
when we returned, the bag was gone.
the wolverine had managed to crawl down the branch and cut the rope.
after that he had torn everything open, eaten every piece of food he could get his teeth in and destroyed or defiled all the clothing.
but what really made us mad was the fact that he had carried away and hidden the tins of pork and beans and lard which he could not have opened anyway, however strong were his jaws.
the only thing which we recovered intact was a brand new kettle—and then we had to climb a tree for it.
the wolverine had carried it half way up a spruce and left it wedged between two branches.
i have already spoken about that dog.
i had him on my team six winters.
he was the most human “husky” i have ever known.
in the spring when the ice begins to cut all dogs’ feet, he would always be the first to ask for his moccasins.
he would not sulk, go lame, whimper or run out of the trail.
he would stop dead in his tracks, lie on his back, stretch and wave his four legs straight in the air and howl until each moccasin was fastened securely to each foot.
in camp at nights if he was not tied up, he would burrow in the snow until he was completely hidden, and remain there out of sight until the team was ready to leave.
no amount of calling and coaxing would induce him to leave his hole, which was generally so well hidden that it was impossible to find it.
but as soon as he felt the other six dogs in harness ready to go, he would burst out of the snow and slip on his own collar with a toss of his nose while he looked around anxiously to see if the driver was coming to fasten his girth.
poor, dear, old spot!
he died in 1913, in harness.
he was getting old and the last trip was too much for him.
after a week of bitter suffering, he fell in the traces.
we put him on the sleigh.
his pride forbade him to be drawn by the team.
he rolled off in the snow and tried to get back to his place in the lead.
he was very weak but he still snarled defiance at the young dogs who were doing the work without him.
little by little, even out of harness, he could not follow the pace.
he fell back on the trail.
all day he struggled behind us.
that night he joined the camp two hours after dark.
he refused his food but, heartbroken, insisted upon searching for his harness which had been put aside on the sleigh.
early the next morning before anyone stirred in camp, my man shot him in his sleep.
we could not leave him behind us to eat his heart out in the wilderness, then fall the prey to a roaming pack of timber wolves.
poor, dear, old spot!
“scotty” was a little clerk in one of our most northern indian trading stations.
he had applied for a position with us in inverness and had come over in steerage to halifax.
from there he had traveled by train to montreal, then to winnipeg, prince albert and le pas.
finally he had been transported by canoe five hundred miles to his new post.
he landed one afternoon in august and introduced himself to the trader.
i happened to be there at the time.
his luggage consisted of a small hand bag, much the worse for the wear, and a large flat wooden box.
he was very silent during the evening meal and left us immediately afterwards.
an hour or so later, just as night was falling, a weird scream smote our ears.
it came from somewhere in the bush and sounded like the haunting wail of something inhuman.
“god, a banshee!” murmured the trader, crossing himself.
i thought of a strange night bird—a prowling wolf—a lonely indian dog.
then it came again, this time louder.
we left the shack and walked in the direction of the noise.
meanwhile the wail, after echoing faster and faster, had changed into one continuous screech.
indians—men, women and children—were turning out of their tepees and running towards the sound.
we finally reached a small clearing and halted in front of a large spruce tree.
we knew instinctively that the thing—whatever it was—was there.
it had ceased wailing a few seconds, and we were anxiously peering into the shadows.
suddenly something moved in front of us and we held our breath.
then a small figure, which had been crouching unseen at the foot of the tree, rose, and a savage burst of wild music rang out.
it was “scotty”, marching out of the darkness, blowing a huge bagpipe clasped in his arms.
his face was purple and his eyes were half closed.
round and round he marched, oblivious of everything, while the indians, stupefied by such an instrument and such a noise, milled around like staring sheep and followed each one of his movements.
for a half hour we listened to the little man.
not once did he stop.
his homesick soul was singing through those blood-curdling, shrieking pipes.
late into the night, after turning in, we still heard him.
followed by the entire native population and surrounded by at least a hundred howling dogs, he was marching away from the post, following the edge of the lake and playing “the campbells are coming”.
last summer i happened to notice an eskimo woman striving to stop a dog fight.
there was nothing very unusual in the sight.
huskies, running loose in a camp, keep up a constant warfare and invariably pile on the top of any unlucky dog which has been pulled down by a stronger one.
what really attracted my attention was the way the woman undertook to save the life of the under dog.
instead of screaming shrilly and using a club of some sort to hit impartially at any head or back she could reach in the writhing, snarling knot of fighting animals, she was hopping around watching for a chance to grab a tail.
then, with a heave and a twist of her body, she would drag one dog out of the scrimmage and fling it over her shoulder, ten feet or so behind her.
the unlucky animal generally landed on his head or back, which seemed to surprise and scare it far more than any kind of a blow.
considering that a husky weighs at least 75 pounds and that it took the woman only a few minutes to put an end to that dog fight, i could not help being duly impressed with the feat.
i pointed her out to our trader.
such was the way i met gotehe, wife of enekatcha, on the bleak shores of enendeia lake.
“four months ago she would not have had the strength to separate two hard tacks,” was the man’s comment as she walked away.
scenting a story, i waited.
it appears that gotehe, last february, was travelling with her husband somewhere north of where we were.
one morning, when time came to break camp, she plodded on alone to make the trail.
such is the custom.
meanwhile, enekatcha proceeded to ice the runners of the sleigh before harnessing the dogs.
it was blowing hard and snowing.
when the man had travelled an hour he missed his wife’s tracks.
before he could find them again, a blizzard came down.
he wandered aimlessly all day, vainly searching.
night came.
the blizzard showed no signs of lifting.
enekatcha, believing that his wife had turned south—her back to the gale—and made for our station twenty miles away, went there.
nobody had seen her.
the blizzard raged for nine days.
three times, search parties went out and came back without any news.
on the tenth day the weather cleared at dawn.
at noon, enekatcha found gotehe a few miles from where he had missed her trail.
she was squatting patiently behind the shelter of a rock, having “dug herself in” the snow.
when she had left camp nine days ago she had nothing with her but a pocket knife and a plug of tobacco.
she had munched and swallowed the latter while she had used her knife to cut strips off her deerskin boots to chew.
during that time she hadn’t had a fire.
there was no wood to burn even if she had had matches.
“she was pretty weak,” added the trader.
“so weak that she couldn’t cut in two the frozen fish which her husband handed her.
the little hatchet was too heavy for her to lift.
but she wasn’t even frost bitten.
she was all right—just hungry.
three days at the post and she was off again with enekatcha as if nothing had happened.”
i have met in the wilderness several white men whose hobby was to raise strange pets, either for their own pleasure or to add a little to what ever income they derived from the country they lived in.
but old c...
was the star of them all.
during all the years i have known him, i have never seen him once without some peculiar animal at his door step.
first it was a bear.
the brute was full grown and tied to a tree by a chain.
it allowed his master to stroke him but was dangerous to anyone else.
it had made friends with a little indian dog and used to sleep with the pup clasped between its front paws.
after that, it was a family of skunks—a mother and five young ones.
they were as tame as cats and roamed in and out of the shack at their own free will.
it was a good thing that the neighbors were few and far between for, if the wood pussies did not pay the slightest attention to c..., on the other hand they resented bitterly the presence of any stranger on the premises.
later on, my friend tried his hand at wild lynx.
there had been a great migration of those animals that summer and he was able to lasso eighteen as they swam across the lakes and rivers in the neighborhood.
he put the whole lot in an old bunk house near his shack and used to feed them once a day on fish.
it was a great sight.
the old man would enter most unconcernedly while the eighteen lynx hurled themselves from one end of the bunk house to the other, clawing their way up the walls, jumping from one beam to the other, spitting, yowling and letting out the most blood curdling shrieks imaginable.
the last time i visited c... he was raising house cats on a large scale.
i had not heard of his new venture but, although i fully expected to find something unusual in his household, i was not exactly prepared for what i saw.
half a mile before reaching his home i knew something was up.
i could smell it; but when the shack came into sight, i had to stop to believe my eyes.
c... was walking back from his fishing hole in the ice of the lake.
he was carrying a heavy bag of fish on his shoulder and was followed by 300 cats of all sizes, color and description.
they were marching behind him in mixed formation, picking their way daintily in the snow and carrying their tails straight up in the air.
their fur was long and silky but they had no ears to speak of, for the tips, frostbitten time and again, had shrivelled off, giving their heads an uncanny, bullet-like, appearance.
but what impressed me the most, in the dead calm of that january evening, was the sound of their voices.
it was dinner time and the fact seemed to fill each cat with intense joy, for the 300 of them were singing a chorus, a peculiar throaty sing-song which they kept up without a break during the whole procession, from the fishing hole to the door step where eventually c... fed them carefully one by one.
many years ago, on one of my first trips to the north, i once asked a white man what impression the barren lands had made upon him the first time he saw them in the winter.
the man was one of the toughest specimens of a trapper one could ever hope to meet anywhere.
he had roamed north of the trees for twenty years.
he was illiterate, coarse and hardened to an unbelievable extent by the life he had led, but he had a kind of passionate love for the desolate country he knew so well.
he looked at me in a startled way, scratched his head and pondered.
“that’s a pretty hard thing to say,” he answered, “for i have no education.
i guess a city guy could, if ever he was able to get there.
when i reached the barrens for the first time, i gave them one good look from the top of a hill.
the only thing i remember thinking to myself was—hell!
what’s the use of swearing now?”
several years later i was travelling in the same country in the heart of winter, and i thought of what my friend the trapper had told me.
no other words could have described better what i felt at that moment.
the cold was intense.
the wind blew in savage gusts, lashing the snow in a stinging, powdery smother.
nothing in sight but rolling hills of glaring ice, with a few bare boulders showing their dark heads above the white desert.
nothing to break the awful monotony of that god forsaken country.
not a tree.
not even a shrub.
not a sign of animal life.
not a track.
in winter everything goes south—the birds, the wolves, the foxes, even the caribou.
white men alone in their restlessness venture northward.
“the more fools are they,” i reflected bitterly as i plodded behind my sleigh in the teeth of the gale.
since dawn we had fought our way, mile by mile, across those everlasting hills.
i say “we”, for i had a companion and a guide, an eskimo who drove his own team of dogs while i looked after my own.
unable to understand one another, except by signs, we made a strange pair struggling through the wilderness.
after the noon meal, the native iced the runners of my sleigh then motioned to me to go on, pointing the direction towards a high hill which one could dimly see on the horizon.
meanwhile, he proceeded to ice his own runners in the usual leisurely manner of all eskimos to whom time, weather and hardship mean nothing.
for three hours i kept on my way without being caught up by my guide.
darkness was fast approaching and the gale increased, turning into a regular blizzard.
tired out, anxious to make camp, i began to worry seriously about my companion.
i was certain that i had not strayed from the route he had shown me, but i was afraid something might have happened to him somewhere behind me.
seeing a small depression behind a rocky ridge where i knew i would find a certain amount of shelter, i drove my dogs to it and unhitched.
still no sign of my man!
leaving my dogs curled up beside the sleigh i started back on the trail.
i walked for about ten minutes, stopping now and then to listen.
nothing but the wailing of the wind and the angry hiss of the driven snow.
i was frightened!
suddenly, a strange noise reached my ears through the howling gale.
i thought i heard someone singing!
in a few minutes the song increased in volume.
i waited!
then i saw, emerging from the depths of the swirling snow, a team of five dogs, straining at a sledge.
on the top of the load sat my eskimo friend apparently oblivious to his surroundings.
he was singing at the top of his voice and the words i heard, distinctly, were english—“it’s a long, long way to tipperary, it’s a long way to go.” i stood there paralyzed with astonishment until he saw me, stopped and gave me a lift to camp.
as soon as i recovered from my surprise i started to question him in english.
not an answer could i get from him, except a chuckle and the same words i heard him singing.
two weeks or so later, on our return trip, we stopped at one of our outposts.
our trader was entertaining a small group of natives with a gramophone and the tune was “tipperary”.
then, and only then, did i get the explanation of my eskimo’s sudden but limited outburst in english.
he had listened so often to the well-known tune that he had eventually mastered the words of the chorus which he could repeat by heart.
he had no idea of their meaning and those words were the only ones he actually could pronounce in the english language.
kakarmick is a full blooded inland eskimo.
he is supposed to live somewhere on the shores of enendeia lake in the northwest territories of canada, but every two years or so he seems to grow restless and pitches off hurriedly at a moment’s notice for new fields of action.
he has travelled as far south as brochet on reindeer lake and white partridge lake further west.
he is known in hudson bay at fort churchill—chesterfield inlet—repulse bay.
he has roamed as far as bothnia in the north, along the banks of the copper mine river—as far west as fond du lac and great bear lake.
i have known him for several years.
kakarmick is the most independent native i know.
contrary to the immemorial custom of his kind, he does not follow the caribou the year round.
when he feels like it, he deliberately turns his back on the immense supply of food which providence has given him and, fearlessly risking starvation, strikes straight through the barren lands towards his new goal.
now and then he outfits at one of our posts, for he is a born trader and we know that he can reach certain eskimos which we could not get at otherwise.
however small the catch may have been in fish, fur or fresh meat, kakarmick always seems prosperous and happy.
however long may have been his absence from one station, he is certain to appear some day, a year or so later, with a complete load of fur for the patiently expectant trader.
he has a wife, taitna, who everlastingly and cheerfully travels with her lord and master through the thousands of miles of bleak wilderness which they both seem to know like a book.
she is a big woman for that part of the country; 5 foot 3, two inches taller than her husband.
when one sees her stalking up to you, one knows instinctively that she is the wife of an important person.
she shakes hands with a prize fighter’s grip and her deerskin coat seems to weigh a ton.
it has wonderful designs of thousands of multi-colored beads.
she even wears a thick border of empty cartridge cases at the bottom, which shine when the sun is out and clink merrily at each step.
notwithstanding her appearance, kakarmick rules her with a rod of iron.
the last time i saw them it was on the frozen shores of windy lake.
they were both sitting on the top of their sleigh and their five dogs were plainly tired.
the man had lost his whip but held, instead, a short thick piece of hard wood about three feet in length.
every hundred yards or so, he hurled that strange missile straight at one of the dog’s backs.
i never saw him miss once.
but what impressed me more was taitna.
each time her husband threw that stick, she would jump off the sleigh, retrieve it and jump on again.
meanwhile, kakarmick remained sitting astride his load, paying absolutely no attention to the exertions of his wife.
last summer i met a very old catholic missionary whom i have known for years.
we were both on an inspection trip in the depths of the canadian wilderness.
our reasons for roaming so far north from civilization were absolutely different.
still we both had one main interest at heart, that of the indian; and, instinctively, we chose that topic of conversation while we sat smoking around the camp-fire that evening.
wise to the ways of the natives, broad-minded like all the missionaries of the old school, the father was in a reminiscent mood.
his stories referred chiefly to his early days when many chippewayans were still pagans, refusing to accept christianity, although allowing their children to listen to the missionaries and follow some of their instructions.
the following story, among many others, appealed to me the most.
in a certain district, not so far from where we were, the father, forty years ago, was endeavoring to convert the last “die hards” of a small tribe.
he had, then, a rival in the person of an english anglican missionary, who happened also to speak the native language well and to be a great traveller.
both men, strange to say, were the best of friends.
for economic reasons, they often joined forces by canoe and dog-sleigh, and during their hundreds of miles of travelling invariably compared notes on their religious achievements.
each baptism that one missionary added to his list spurred the other one to greater efforts.
it was a close race with honors about evenly divided for, where one missionary failed, the other one was almost certain to succeed.
one indian alone had withstood the assault of both religions, refusing steadfastly to give up his old beliefs.
he was a venerable great grandfather, the nominal head of a large family whose members had all been converted one way or the other.
he always received the priest and the clergyman with great friendliness but invariably turned a deaf ear to all their arguments.
the more both missionaries agreed that the old pagan was “unconvertible”, the keener each one felt to achieve the impossible and win a triumph over the other.
one day, in winter, my friend the father was travelling alone when he heard that the old chippewayan was dying.
instantly he swung out of his road and raced to the indian’s camp.
he found him lying peacefully on a bed of spruce, very weak and surrounded by several of his children.
to quote the priest’s own words, “the time had come.
surely the old indian would not refuse to be baptized at death’s door.” accordingly, he asked him if he could pray for him at the foot of his bed.
the indian opened his eyes for an instant, recognized the priest and nodded.
the father started praying out loud in chippewayan.
he prayed and prayed with all his might while he watched the dying man’s face.
after a long time, the shadow of a smile hovered on the latter’s lips.
the missionary thought that he was at last making an impression on the old native and resumed his prayers with even more fervor.
finally he stopped exhausted.
surely victory was his.
he got up on his feet and gently touched the man’s hand.
the old indian opened his eyes and looked up at the priest steadily.
his lips moved and the father bent forward to listen.
his hour had come at last he thought!
his religion had won!
“my!
but there was a lot of lynx last winter—a lot of lynx—a lot of lynx...!”
the words rang out clearly through the silence of the tepee.
then the grey-haired pagan closed his eyes.
he smiled once or twice softly to himself, and then died suddenly without a quiver.
all indians are born liars when it comes to getting the better of a white trader.
but outside of business, they are strictly truthful, especially when telling stories about animal life.
a few years ago, a chippewayan told me the following yarn, which i believe is true.
one winter, the indian was on his way to his trapline on snow-shoes when he came across a medium sized fisher and a porcupine.
he watched them at a distance without being seen.
the porcupine was huddled in a ball, every quill sticking out.
the fisher, mad with hunger, was circling around, unable to find a weak spot in the prickly armor.
after a while, the fisher chose a spot a few feet away from the porcupine and began digging a hole or tunnel through the snow, straight for its quarry.
every few minutes, the fisher would stop, go to the porcupine, run around it, and even scratch snow on its back so as to show that he was still there and prevent the other animal from moving away.
that went on for a long time.
finally, the tunnel was ended.
with unerring instinct the fisher had stopped his digging when he felt that he had reached a spot exactly beneath the porcupine’s neck.
with a jerk upwards of his hard little snout, the fisher pierced the crust of snow, and before poor “porky” could guess what was happening, he had him by the throat, far from the reach of the murderous quills.
you men who live in cities—who toil, day in and day out, in the thick of noisy, teeming multitudes, under artificial lights, under roofs, behind glass, in offices and factories far away from the sun and the air, the light and the wind—don’t you feel at times something tugging at your heart-strings?
don’t you feel a great longing for something new, something clean, something different from what you have been accustomed to?
don’t you hear, now and then, a whispering coming from nowhere in particular and calling you?
calling and calling in the middle of the night when you lie awake; in the flush of dawn when you catch a gleam of the sky from your open window; in the evening when your work is done and when you find yourself going home?
do you know what i mean?
have you felt it?
it is the “call of the wild”, the oldest call of all—the call coming to you through generations and generations who have ignored it.
some people may laugh; others may wonder.
but the man who has answered that call will never forget it.
he may return to civilization.
he may cling to the memory of the discomforts and hardships only.
he may endeavor not to wipe out of his mind the haunting feeling of solitude and loneliness which gripped him at times in the bleak wilderness through which he roamed.
but sooner or later, the longing to go back there will come to him again and, if he cannot do so, he will always regret it.
utter freedom!
a camp pitched here, a meal cooked there.
the sun rising while the crimson of sunset is still glowing in the west.
the dull roar of the rapid in the distance.
the sharp howl of the hunting wolf.
the shimmer of the birch leaves.
the hammering of the woodpecker.
the splash of the fish rising to the surface of the lake.
the plaintive call of the reed-warbler.
the murmuring of the jack-pines.
the northern lights dancing silently in the sky.
peace and utter freedom!
the wind in the willows
i. the river bank
the mole had been working very hard all the morning, spring-cleaning his little home.
first with brooms, then with dusters; then on ladders and steps and chairs, with a brush and a pail of whitewash; till he had dust in his throat and eyes, and splashes of whitewash all over his black fur, and an aching back and weary arms.
spring was moving in the air above and in the earth below and around him, penetrating even his dark and lowly little house with its spirit of divine discontent and longing.
it was small wonder, then, that he suddenly flung down his brush on the floor, said ‘bother!’ and ‘o blow!’ and also ‘hang spring-cleaning!’
and bolted out of the house without even waiting to put on his coat.
something up above was calling him imperiously, and he made for the steep little tunnel which answered in his case to the gravelled carriage-drive owned by animals whose residences are nearer to the sun and air.
so he scraped and scratched and scrabbled and scrooged and then he scrooged again and scrabbled and scratched and scraped, working busily with his little paws and muttering to himself, ‘up we go!
up we go!’ till at last, pop!
his snout came out into the sunlight, and he found himself rolling in the warm grass of a great meadow.
‘this is fine!’ he said to himself.
‘this is better than whitewashing!’
the sunshine struck hot on his fur, soft breezes caressed his heated brow, and after the seclusion of the cellarage he had lived in so long the carol of happy birds fell on his dulled hearing almost like a shout.
jumping off all his four legs at once, in the joy of living and the delight of spring without its cleaning, he pursued his way across the meadow till he reached the hedge on the further side.
‘hold up!’ said an elderly rabbit at the gap.
‘sixpence for the privilege of passing by the private road!’ he was bowled over in an instant by the impatient and contemptuous mole, who trotted along the side of the hedge chaffing the other rabbits as they peeped hurriedly from their holes to see what the row was about.
‘onion-sauce!
onion-sauce!’ he remarked jeeringly, and was gone before they could think of a thoroughly satisfactory reply.
then they all started grumbling at each other.
‘how stupid you are!
why didn’t you tell him  ’ ‘well, why didn’t you say  ’ ‘you might have reminded him  ’ and so on, in the usual way; but, of course, it was then much too late, as is always the case.
it all seemed too good to be true.
hither and thither through the meadows he rambled busily, along the hedgerows, across the copses, finding everywhere birds building, flowers budding, leaves thrusting everything happy, and progressive, and occupied.
and instead of having an uneasy conscience pricking him and whispering ‘whitewash!’
he somehow could only feel how jolly it was to be the only idle dog among all these busy citizens.
after all, the best part of a holiday is perhaps not so much to be resting yourself, as to see all the other fellows busy working.
he thought his happiness was complete when, as he meandered aimlessly along, suddenly he stood by the edge of a full-fed river.
never in his life had he seen a river before this sleek, sinuous, full-bodied animal, chasing and chuckling, gripping things with a gurgle and leaving them with a laugh, to fling itself on fresh playmates that shook themselves free, and were caught and held again.
all was a-shake and a-shiver glints and gleams and sparkles, rustle and swirl, chatter and bubble.
the mole was bewitched, entranced, fascinated.
by the side of the river he trotted as one trots, when very small, by the side of a man who holds one spell-bound by exciting stories; and when tired at last, he sat on the bank, while the river still chattered on to him, a babbling procession of the best stories in the world, sent from the heart of the earth to be told at last to the insatiable sea.
as he sat on the grass and looked across the river, a dark hole in the bank opposite, just above the water’s edge, caught his eye, and dreamily he fell to considering what a nice snug dwelling-place it would make for an animal with few wants and fond of a bijou riverside residence, above flood level and remote from noise and dust.
as he gazed, something bright and small seemed to twinkle down in the heart of it, vanished, then twinkled once more like a tiny star.
but it could hardly be a star in such an unlikely situation; and it was too glittering and small for a glow-worm.
then, as he looked, it winked at him, and so declared itself to be an eye; and a small face began gradually to grow up round it, like a frame round a picture.
a brown little face, with whiskers.
a grave round face, with the same twinkle in its eye that had first attracted his notice.
small neat ears and thick silky hair.
it was the water rat!
then the two animals stood and regarded each other cautiously.
‘hullo, mole!’ said the water rat.
‘hullo, rat!’ said the mole.
‘would you like to come over?’ enquired the rat presently.
‘oh, its all very well to talk,’ said the mole, rather pettishly, he being new to a river and riverside life and its ways.
the rat said nothing, but stooped and unfastened a rope and hauled on it; then lightly stepped into a little boat which the mole had not observed.
it was painted blue outside and white within, and was just the size for two animals; and the mole’s whole heart went out to it at once, even though he did not yet fully understand its uses.
the rat sculled smartly across and made fast.
then he held up his forepaw as the mole stepped gingerly down.
‘lean on that!’ he said.
‘now then, step lively!’ and the mole to his surprise and rapture found himself actually seated in the stern of a real boat.
‘this has been a wonderful day!’ said he, as the rat shoved off and took to the sculls again.
‘do you know, i’ve never been in a boat before in all my life.’
‘what?’ cried the rat, open-mouthed: ‘never been in a you never well i what have you been doing, then?’
‘is it so nice as all that?’ asked the mole shyly, though he was quite prepared to believe it as he leant back in his seat and surveyed the cushions, the oars, the rowlocks, and all the fascinating fittings, and felt the boat sway lightly under him.
‘nice?
it’s the only thing,’ said the water rat solemnly, as he leant forward for his stroke.
‘believe me, my young friend, there is nothing absolute nothing half so much worth doing as simply messing about in boats.
simply messing,’ he went on dreamily:
‘messing about in boats; messing  ’
‘look ahead, rat!’ cried the mole suddenly.
it was too late.
the boat struck the bank full tilt.
the dreamer, the joyous oarsman, lay on his back at the bottom of the boat, his heels in the air.
‘ about in boats or with boats,’ the rat went on composedly, picking himself up with a pleasant laugh.
‘in or out of ‘em, it doesn’t matter.
nothing seems really to matter, that’s the charm of it.
whether you get away, or whether you don’t; whether you arrive at your destination or whether you reach somewhere else, or whether you never get anywhere at all, you’re always busy, and you never do anything in particular; and when you’ve done it there’s always something else to do, and you can do it if you like, but you’d much better not.
look here!
if you’ve really nothing else on hand this morning, supposing we drop down the river together, and have a long day of it?’
the mole waggled his toes from sheer happiness, spread his chest with a sigh of full contentment, and leaned back blissfully into the soft cushions.
‘what a day i’m having!’ he said.
‘let us start at once!’
‘hold hard a minute, then!’ said the rat.
he looped the painter through a ring in his landing-stage, climbed up into his hole above, and after a short interval reappeared staggering under a fat, wicker luncheon-basket.
‘shove that under your feet,’ he observed to the mole, as he passed it down into the boat.
then he untied the painter and took the sculls again.
‘what’s inside it?’ asked the mole, wriggling with curiosity.
‘there’s cold chicken inside it,’ replied the rat briefly; ‘coldtonguecoldhamcoldbeefpickledgherkinssaladfrenchrollscresssan-
dwichespottedmeatgingerbeerlemonadesodawater  ’
‘o stop, stop,’ cried the mole in ecstacies: ‘this is too much!’
‘do you really think so?’ enquired the rat seriously.
‘it’s only what i always take on these little excursions; and the other animals are always telling me that i’m a mean beast and cut it very fine!’
the mole never heard a word he was saying.
absorbed in the new life he was entering upon, intoxicated with the sparkle, the ripple, the scents and the sounds and the sunlight, he trailed a paw in the water and dreamed long waking dreams.
the water rat, like the good little fellow he was, sculled steadily on and forebore to disturb him.
‘i like your clothes awfully, old chap,’ he remarked after some half an hour or so had passed.
‘i’m going to get a black velvet smoking-suit myself some day, as soon as i can afford it.’
‘i beg your pardon,’ said the mole, pulling himself together with an effort.
‘you must think me very rude; but all this is so new to me.
so this is a river!’
‘the river,’ corrected the rat.
‘and you really live by the river?
what a jolly life!’
‘by it and with it and on it and in it,’ said the rat.
‘it’s brother and sister to me, and aunts, and company, and food and drink, and (naturally) washing.
it’s my world, and i don’t want any other.
what it hasn’t got is not worth having, and what it doesn’t know is not worth knowing.
lord!
the times we’ve had together!
whether in winter or summer, spring or autumn, it’s always got its fun and its excitements.
when the floods are on in february, and my cellars and basement are brimming with drink that’s no good to me, and the brown water runs by my best bedroom window; or again when it all drops away and, shows patches of mud that smells like plum-cake, and the rushes and weed clog the channels, and i can potter about dry shod over most of the bed of it and find fresh food to eat, and things careless people have dropped out of boats!’
‘but isn’t it a bit dull at times?’ the mole ventured to ask.
‘just you and the river, and no one else to pass a word with?’
‘no one else to well, i mustn’t be hard on you,’ said the rat with forbearance.
‘you’re new to it, and of course you don’t know.
the bank is so crowded nowadays that many people are moving away altogether: o no, it isn’t what it used to be, at all.
otters, kingfishers, dabchicks, moorhens, all of them about all day long and always wanting you to do something as if a fellow had no business of his own to attend to!’
‘what lies over there’ asked the mole, waving a paw towards a background of woodland that darkly framed the water-meadows on one side of the river.
‘that?
o, that’s just the wild wood,’ said the rat shortly.
‘we don’t go there very much, we river-bankers.’
‘aren’t they aren’t they very nice people in there?’ said the mole, a trifle nervously.
‘w-e-ll,’ replied the rat, ‘let me see.
the squirrels are all right.
and the rabbits some of ‘em, but rabbits are a mixed lot.
and then there’s badger, of course.
he lives right in the heart of it; wouldn’t live anywhere else, either, if you paid him to do it.
dear old badger!
nobody interferes with him.
they’d better not,’ he added significantly.
‘why, who should interfere with him?’ asked the mole.
‘well, of course there are others,’ explained the rat in a hesitating sort of way.
‘weasels and stoats and foxes and so on.
they’re all right in a way i’m very good friends with them pass the time of day when we meet, and all that but they break out sometimes, there’s no denying it, and then well, you can’t really trust them, and that’s the fact.’
the mole knew well that it is quite against animal-etiquette to dwell on possible trouble ahead, or even to allude to it; so he dropped the subject.
‘and beyond the wild wood again?’ he asked: ‘where it’s all blue and dim, and one sees what may be hills or perhaps they mayn’t, and something like the smoke of towns, or is it only cloud-drift?’
‘beyond the wild wood comes the wide world,’ said the rat.
‘and that’s something that doesn’t matter, either to you or me.
i’ve never been there, and i’m never going, nor you either, if you’ve got any sense at all.
don’t ever refer to it again, please.
now then!
here’s our backwater at last, where we’re going to lunch.’
leaving the main stream, they now passed into what seemed at first sight like a little land-locked lake.
green turf sloped down to either edge, brown snaky tree-roots gleamed below the surface of the quiet water, while ahead of them the silvery shoulder and foamy tumble of a weir, arm-in-arm with a restless dripping mill-wheel, that held up in its turn a grey-gabled mill-house, filled the air with a soothing murmur of sound, dull and smothery, yet with little clear voices speaking up cheerfully out of it at intervals.
it was so very beautiful that the mole could only hold up both forepaws and gasp, ‘o my!
o my!
o my!’
the rat brought the boat alongside the bank, made her fast, helped the still awkward mole safely ashore, and swung out the luncheon-basket.
the mole begged as a favour to be allowed to unpack it all by himself; and the rat was very pleased to indulge him, and to sprawl at full length on the grass and rest, while his excited friend shook out the table-cloth and spread it, took out all the mysterious packets one by one and arranged their contents in due order, still gasping, ‘o my!
o my!’ at each fresh revelation.
when all was ready, the rat said, ‘now, pitch in, old fellow!’ and the mole was indeed very glad to obey, for he had started his spring-cleaning at a very early hour that morning, as people will do, and had not paused for bite or sup; and he had been through a very great deal since that distant time which now seemed so many days ago.
‘what are you looking at?’ said the rat presently, when the edge of their hunger was somewhat dulled, and the mole’s eyes were able to wander off the table-cloth a little.
‘i am looking,’ said the mole, ‘at a streak of bubbles that i see travelling along the surface of the water.
that is a thing that strikes me as funny.’
‘bubbles?
oho!’ said the rat, and chirruped cheerily in an inviting sort of way.
a broad glistening muzzle showed itself above the edge of the bank, and the otter hauled himself out and shook the water from his coat.
‘greedy beggars!’ he observed, making for the provender.
‘why didn’t you invite me, ratty?’
‘this was an impromptu affair,’ explained the rat.
‘by the way my friend mr. mole.’
‘proud, i’m sure,’ said the otter, and the two animals were friends forthwith.
‘such a rumpus everywhere!’ continued the otter.
‘all the world seems out on the river to-day.
i came up this backwater to try and get a moment’s peace, and then stumble upon you fellows!
at least i beg pardon i don’t exactly mean that, you know.’
there was a rustle behind them, proceeding from a hedge wherein last year’s leaves still clung thick, and a stripy head, with high shoulders behind it, peered forth on them.
‘come on, old badger!’ shouted the rat.
the badger trotted forward a pace or two; then grunted, ‘h’m!
company,’
and turned his back and disappeared from view.
‘that’s just the sort of fellow he is!’ observed the disappointed rat.
‘simply hates society!
now we shan’t see any more of him to-day.
well, tell us, who’s out on the river?’
‘toad’s out, for one,’ replied the otter.
‘in his brand-new wager-boat; new togs, new everything!’
the two animals looked at each other and laughed.
‘once, it was nothing but sailing,’ said the rat, ‘then he tired of that and took to punting.
nothing would please him but to punt all day and every day, and a nice mess he made of it.
last year it was house-boating, and we all had to go and stay with him in his house-boat, and pretend we liked it.
he was going to spend the rest of his life in a house-boat.
it’s all the same, whatever he takes up; he gets tired of it, and starts on something fresh.’
‘such a good fellow, too,’ remarked the otter reflectively: ‘but no stability especially in a boat!’
from where they sat they could get a glimpse of the main stream across the island that separated them; and just then a wager-boat flashed into view, the rower a short, stout figure splashing badly and rolling a good deal, but working his hardest.
the rat stood up and hailed him, but toad for it was he shook his head and settled sternly to his work.
‘he’ll be out of the boat in a minute if he rolls like that,’ said the rat, sitting down again.
‘of course he will,’ chuckled the otter.
‘did i ever tell you that good story about toad and the lock-keeper?
it happened this way.
toad....’
an errant may-fly swerved unsteadily athwart the current in the intoxicated fashion affected by young bloods of may-flies seeing life.
a swirl of water and a ‘cloop!’ and the may-fly was visible no more.
neither was the otter.
the mole looked down.
the voice was still in his ears, but the turf whereon he had sprawled was clearly vacant.
not an otter to be seen, as far as the distant horizon.
but again there was a streak of bubbles on the surface of the river.
the rat hummed a tune, and the mole recollected that animal-etiquette forbade any sort of comment on the sudden disappearance of one’s friends at any moment, for any reason or no reason whatever.
‘well, well,’ said the rat, ‘i suppose we ought to be moving.
i wonder which of us had better pack the luncheon-basket?’ he did not speak as if he was frightfully eager for the treat.
‘o, please let me,’ said the mole.
so, of course, the rat let him.
packing the basket was not quite such pleasant work as unpacking’ the basket.
it never is.
but the mole was bent on enjoying everything, and although just when he had got the basket packed and strapped up tightly he saw a plate staring up at him from the grass, and when the job had been done again the rat pointed out a fork which anybody ought to have seen, and last of all, behold!
the mustard pot, which he had been sitting on without knowing it still, somehow, the thing got finished at last, without much loss of temper.
the afternoon sun was getting low as the rat sculled gently homewards in a dreamy mood, murmuring poetry-things over to himself, and not paying much attention to mole.
but the mole was very full of lunch, and self-satisfaction, and pride, and already quite at home in a boat (so he thought) and was getting a bit restless besides: and presently he said, ‘ratty!
please, i want to row, now!’
the rat shook his head with a smile.
‘not yet, my young friend,’ he said ‘wait till you’ve had a few lessons.
it’s not so easy as it looks.’
the mole was quiet for a minute or two.
but he began to feel more and more jealous of rat, sculling so strongly and so easily along, and his pride began to whisper that he could do it every bit as well.
he jumped up and seized the sculls, so suddenly, that the rat, who was gazing out over the water and saying more poetry-things to himself, was taken by surprise and fell backwards off his seat with his legs in the air for the second time, while the triumphant mole took his place and grabbed the sculls with entire confidence.
‘stop it, you silly ass!’ cried the rat, from the bottom of the boat.
‘you can’t do it!
you’ll have us over!’
the mole flung his sculls back with a flourish, and made a great dig at the water.
he missed the surface altogether, his legs flew up above his head, and he found himself lying on the top of the prostrate rat.
greatly alarmed, he made a grab at the side of the boat, and the next moment sploosh!
over went the boat, and he found himself struggling in the river.
o my, how cold the water was, and o, how very wet it felt.
how it sang in his ears as he went down, down, down!
how bright and welcome the sun looked as he rose to the surface coughing and spluttering!
how black was his despair when he felt himself sinking again!
then a firm paw gripped him by the back of his neck.
it was the rat, and he was evidently laughing the mole could feel him laughing, right down his arm and through his paw, and so into his the mole’s neck.
the rat got hold of a scull and shoved it under the mole’s arm; then he did the same by the other side of him and, swimming behind, propelled the helpless animal to shore, hauled him out, and set him down on the bank, a squashy, pulpy lump of misery.
when the rat had rubbed him down a bit, and wrung some of the wet out of him, he said, ‘now, then, old fellow!
trot up and down the towing-path as hard as you can, till you’re warm and dry again, while i dive for the luncheon-basket.’
so the dismal mole, wet without and ashamed within, trotted about till he was fairly dry, while the rat plunged into the water again, recovered the boat, righted her and made her fast, fetched his floating property to shore by degrees, and finally dived successfully for the luncheon-basket and struggled to land with it.
when all was ready for a start once more, the mole, limp and dejected, took his seat in the stern of the boat; and as they set off, he said in a low voice, broken with emotion, ‘ratty, my generous friend!
i am very sorry indeed for my foolish and ungrateful conduct.
my heart quite fails me when i think how i might have lost that beautiful luncheon-basket.
indeed, i have been a complete ass, and i know it.
will you overlook it this once and forgive me, and let things go on as before?’
‘that’s all right, bless you!’ responded the rat cheerily.
‘what’s a little wet to a water rat?
i’m more in the water than out of it most days.
don’t you think any more about it; and, look here!
i really think you had better come and stop with me for a little time.
it’s very plain and rough, you know not like toad’s house at all but you haven’t seen that yet; still, i can make you comfortable.
and i’ll teach you to row, and to swim, and you’ll soon be as handy on the water as any of us.’
the mole was so touched by his kind manner of speaking that he could find no voice to answer him; and he had to brush away a tear or two with the back of his paw.
but the rat kindly looked in another direction, and presently the mole’s spirits revived again, and he was even able to give some straight back-talk to a couple of moorhens who were sniggering to each other about his bedraggled appearance.
when they got home, the rat made a bright fire in the parlour, and planted the mole in an arm-chair in front of it, having fetched down a dressing-gown and slippers for him, and told him river stories till supper-time.
very thrilling stories they were, too, to an earth-dwelling animal like mole.
stories about weirs, and sudden floods, and leaping pike, and steamers that flung hard bottles at least bottles were certainly flung, and from steamers, so presumably by them; and about herons, and how particular they were whom they spoke to; and about adventures down drains, and night-fishings with otter, or excursions far a-field with badger.
supper was a most cheerful meal; but very shortly afterwards a terribly sleepy mole had to be escorted upstairs by his considerate host, to the best bedroom, where he soon laid his head on his pillow in great peace and contentment, knowing that his new-found friend the river was lapping the sill of his window.
this day was only the first of many similar ones for the emancipated mole, each of them longer and full of interest as the ripening summer moved onward.
he learnt to swim and to row, and entered into the joy of running water; and with his ear to the reed-stems he caught, at intervals, something of what the wind went whispering so constantly among them.
ii.
the open road
‘ratty,’ said the mole suddenly, one bright summer morning, ‘if you please, i want to ask you a favour.’
the rat was sitting on the river bank, singing a little song.
he had just composed it himself, so he was very taken up with it, and would not pay proper attention to mole or anything else.
since early morning he had been swimming in the river, in company with his friends the ducks.
and when the ducks stood on their heads suddenly, as ducks will, he would dive down and tickle their necks, just under where their chins would be if ducks had chins, till they were forced to come to the surface again in a hurry, spluttering and angry and shaking their feathers at him, for it is impossible to say quite all you feel when your head is under water.
at last they implored him to go away and attend to his own affairs and leave them to mind theirs.
so the rat went away, and sat on the river bank in the sun, and made up a song about them, which he called
‘ducks’ ditty.’
all along the backwater,           through the rushes tall,           ducks are a-dabbling,           up tails all!
ducks’ tails, drakes’ tails,           yellow feet a-quiver,           yellow bills all out of sight           busy in the river!
slushy green undergrowth           where the roach swim
here we keep our larder,           cool and full and dim.
everyone for what he likes!
we like to be           heads down, tails up,           dabbling free!
high in the blue above           swifts whirl and call
we are down a-dabbling           uptails all!
‘i don’t know that i think so very much of that little song, rat,’
observed the mole cautiously.
he was no poet himself and didn’t care who knew it; and he had a candid nature.
‘nor don’t the ducks neither,’ replied the rat cheerfully.
‘they say, “why can’t fellows be allowed to do what they like when they like and as they like, instead of other fellows sitting on banks and watching them all the time and making remarks and poetry and things about them?
what nonsense it all is!” that’s what the ducks say.’
‘so it is, so it is,’ said the mole, with great heartiness.
‘no, it isn’t!’ cried the rat indignantly.
‘well then, it isn’t, it isn’t,’ replied the mole soothingly.
‘but what i wanted to ask you was, won’t you take me to call on mr. toad?
i’ve heard so much about him, and i do so want to make his acquaintance.’
‘why, certainly,’ said the good-natured rat, jumping to his feet and dismissing poetry from his mind for the day.
‘get the boat out, and we’ll paddle up there at once.
it’s never the wrong time to call on toad.
early or late he’s always the same fellow.
always good-tempered, always glad to see you, always sorry when you go!’
‘he must be a very nice animal,’ observed the mole, as he got into the boat and took the sculls, while the rat settled himself comfortably in the stern.
‘he is indeed the best of animals,’ replied rat.
‘so simple, so good-natured, and so affectionate.
perhaps he’s not very clever we can’t all be geniuses; and it may be that he is both boastful and conceited.
but he has got some great qualities, has toady.’
rounding a bend in the river, they came in sight of a handsome, dignified old house of mellowed red brick, with well-kept lawns reaching down to the water’s edge.
‘there’s toad hall,’ said the rat; ‘and that creek on the left, where the notice-board says, “private.
no landing allowed,” leads to his boat-house, where we’ll leave the boat.
the stables are over there to the right.
that’s the banqueting-hall you’re looking at now very old, that is.
toad is rather rich, you know, and this is really one of the nicest houses in these parts, though we never admit as much to toad.’
they glided up the creek, and the mole shipped his sculls as they passed into the shadow of a large boat-house.
here they saw many handsome boats, slung from the cross beams or hauled up on a slip, but none in the water; and the place had an unused and a deserted air.
the rat looked around him.
‘i understand,’ said he.
‘boating is played out.
he’s tired of it, and done with it.
i wonder what new fad he has taken up now?
come along and let’s look him up.
we shall hear all about it quite soon enough.’
they disembarked, and strolled across the gay flower-decked lawns in search of toad, whom they presently happened upon resting in a wicker garden-chair, with a pre-occupied expression of face, and a large map spread out on his knees.
‘hooray!’ he cried, jumping up on seeing them, ‘this is splendid!’ he shook the paws of both of them warmly, never waiting for an introduction to the mole.
‘how kind of you!’ he went on, dancing round them.
‘i was just going to send a boat down the river for you, ratty, with strict orders that you were to be fetched up here at once, whatever you were doing.
i want you badly both of you.
now what will you take?
come inside and have something!
you don’t know how lucky it is, your turning up just now!’
‘let’s sit quiet a bit, toady!’ said the rat, throwing himself into an easy chair, while the mole took another by the side of him and made some civil remark about toad’s ‘delightful residence.’
‘finest house on the whole river,’ cried toad boisterously.
‘or anywhere else, for that matter,’ he could not help adding.
here the rat nudged the mole.
unfortunately the toad saw him do it, and turned very red.
there was a moment’s painful silence.
then toad burst out laughing.
‘all right, ratty,’ he said.
‘it’s only my way, you know.
and it’s not such a very bad house, is it?
you know you rather like it yourself.
now, look here.
let’s be sensible.
you are the very animals i wanted.
you’ve got to help me.
it’s most important!’
‘it’s about your rowing, i suppose,’ said the rat, with an innocent air.
‘you’re getting on fairly well, though you splash a good bit still.
with a great deal of patience, and any quantity of coaching, you may  ’
‘o, pooh!
boating!’ interrupted the toad, in great disgust.
silly boyish amusement.
i’ve given that up long ago.
sheer waste of time, that’s what it is.
it makes me downright sorry to see you fellows, who ought to know better, spending all your energies in that aimless manner.
no, i’ve discovered the real thing, the only genuine occupation for a life time.
i propose to devote the remainder of mine to it, and can only regret the wasted years that lie behind me, squandered in trivialities.
come with me, dear ratty, and your amiable friend also, if he will be so very good, just as far as the stable-yard, and you shall see what you shall see!’
he led the way to the stable-yard accordingly, the rat following with a most mistrustful expression; and there, drawn out of the coach house into the open, they saw a gipsy caravan, shining with newness, painted a canary-yellow picked out with green, and red wheels.
‘there you are!’ cried the toad, straddling and expanding himself.
‘there’s real life for you, embodied in that little cart.
the open road, the dusty highway, the heath, the common, the hedgerows, the rolling downs!
camps, villages, towns, cities!
here to-day, up and off to somewhere else to-morrow!
travel, change, interest, excitement!
the whole world before you, and a horizon that’s always changing!
and mind!
this is the very finest cart of its sort that was ever built, without any exception.
come inside and look at the arrangements.
planned ‘em all myself, i did!’
the mole was tremendously interested and excited, and followed him eagerly up the steps and into the interior of the caravan.
the rat only snorted and thrust his hands deep into his pockets, remaining where he was.
it was indeed very compact and comfortable.
little sleeping bunks a little table that folded up against the wall a cooking-stove, lockers, bookshelves, a bird-cage with a bird in it; and pots, pans, jugs and kettles of every size and variety.
‘all complete!’ said the toad triumphantly, pulling open a locker.
‘you see biscuits, potted lobster, sardines everything you can possibly want.
soda-water here baccy there letter-paper, bacon, jam, cards and dominoes you’ll find,’ he continued, as they descended the steps again, ‘you’ll find that nothing what ever has been forgotten, when we make our start this afternoon.’
‘i beg your pardon,’ said the rat slowly, as he chewed a straw, ‘but did i overhear you say something about “we,” and “start,” and “this afternoon?”’
‘now, you dear good old ratty,’ said toad, imploringly, ‘don’t begin talking in that stiff and sniffy sort of way, because you know you’ve got to come.
i can’t possibly manage without you, so please consider it settled, and don’t argue it’s the one thing i can’t stand.
you surely don’t mean to stick to your dull fusty old river all your life, and just live in a hole in a bank, and boat?
i want to show you the world!
i’m going to make an animal of you, my boy!’
‘i don’t care,’ said the rat, doggedly.
‘i’m not coming, and that’s flat.
and i am going to stick to my old river, and live in a hole, and boat, as i’ve always done.
and what’s more, mole’s going to stick to me and do as i do, aren’t you, mole?’
‘of course i am,’ said the mole, loyally.
‘i’ll always stick to you, rat, and what you say is to be has got to be.
all the same, it sounds as if it might have been well, rather fun, you know!’ he added, wistfully.
poor mole!
the life adventurous was so new a thing to him, and so thrilling; and this fresh aspect of it was so tempting; and he had fallen in love at first sight with the canary-coloured cart and all its little fitments.
the rat saw what was passing in his mind, and wavered.
he hated disappointing people, and he was fond of the mole, and would do almost anything to oblige him.
toad was watching both of them closely.
‘come along in, and have some lunch,’ he said, diplomatically, ‘and we’ll talk it over.
we needn’t decide anything in a hurry.
of course, i don’t really care.
i only want to give pleasure to you fellows.
“live for others!” that’s my motto in life.’
during luncheon which was excellent, of course, as everything at toad hall always was the toad simply let himself go.
disregarding the rat, he proceeded to play upon the inexperienced mole as on a harp.
naturally a voluble animal, and always mastered by his imagination, he painted the prospects of the trip and the joys of the open life and the roadside in such glowing colours that the mole could hardly sit in his chair for excitement.
somehow, it soon seemed taken for granted by all three of them that the trip was a settled thing; and the rat, though still unconvinced in his mind, allowed his good-nature to over-ride his personal objections.
he could not bear to disappoint his two friends, who were already deep in schemes and anticipations, planning out each day’s separate occupation for several weeks ahead.
when they were quite ready, the now triumphant toad led his companions to the paddock and set them to capture the old grey horse, who, without having been consulted, and to his own extreme annoyance, had been told off by toad for the dustiest job in this dusty expedition.
he frankly preferred the paddock, and took a deal of catching.
meantime toad packed the lockers still tighter with necessaries, and hung nosebags, nets of onions, bundles of hay, and baskets from the bottom of the cart.
at last the horse was caught and harnessed, and they set off, all talking at once, each animal either trudging by the side of the cart or sitting on the shaft, as the humour took him.
it was a golden afternoon.
the smell of the dust they kicked up was rich and satisfying; out of thick orchards on either side the road, birds called and whistled to them cheerily; good-natured wayfarers, passing them, gave them ‘good-day,’
or stopped to say nice things about their beautiful cart; and rabbits, sitting at their front doors in the hedgerows, held up their fore-paws, and said, ‘o my!
o my!
o my!’
late in the evening, tired and happy and miles from home, they drew up on a remote common far from habitations, turned the horse loose to graze, and ate their simple supper sitting on the grass by the side of the cart.
toad talked big about all he was going to do in the days to come, while stars grew fuller and larger all around them, and a yellow moon, appearing suddenly and silently from nowhere in particular, came to keep them company and listen to their talk.
at last they turned in to their little bunks in the cart; and toad, kicking out his legs, sleepily said, ‘well, good night, you fellows!
this is the real life for a gentleman!
talk about your old river!’
‘i don’t talk about my river,’ replied the patient rat.
‘you know i don’t, toad.
but i think about it,’ he added pathetically, in a lower tone: ‘i think about it all the time!’
the mole reached out from under his blanket, felt for the rat’s paw in the darkness, and gave it a squeeze.
‘i’ll do whatever you like, ratty,’
he whispered.
‘shall we run away to-morrow morning, quite early very early and go back to our dear old hole on the river?’
‘no, no, we’ll see it out,’ whispered back the rat.
‘thanks awfully, but i ought to stick by toad till this trip is ended.
it wouldn’t be safe for him to be left to himself.
it won’t take very long.
his fads never do.
good night!’
the end was indeed nearer than even the rat suspected.
after so much open air and excitement the toad slept very soundly, and no amount of shaking could rouse him out of bed next morning.
so the mole and rat turned to, quietly and manfully, and while the rat saw to the horse, and lit a fire, and cleaned last night’s cups and platters, and got things ready for breakfast, the mole trudged off to the nearest village, a long way off, for milk and eggs and various necessaries the toad had, of course, forgotten to provide.
the hard work had all been done, and the two animals were resting, thoroughly exhausted, by the time toad appeared on the scene, fresh and gay, remarking what a pleasant easy life it was they were all leading now, after the cares and worries and fatigues of housekeeping at home.
they had a pleasant ramble that day over grassy downs and along narrow by-lanes, and camped as before, on a common, only this time the two guests took care that toad should do his fair share of work.
in consequence, when the time came for starting next morning, toad was by no means so rapturous about the simplicity of the primitive life, and indeed attempted to resume his place in his bunk, whence he was hauled by force.
their way lay, as before, across country by narrow lanes, and it was not till the afternoon that they came out on the high-road, their first high-road; and there disaster, fleet and unforeseen, sprang out on them disaster momentous indeed to their expedition, but simply overwhelming in its effect on the after-career of toad.
they were strolling along the high-road easily, the mole by the horse’s head, talking to him, since the horse had complained that he was being frightfully left out of it, and nobody considered him in the least; the toad and the water rat walking behind the cart talking together at least toad was talking, and rat was saying at intervals, ‘yes, precisely; and what did you say to him?’ and thinking all the time of something very different, when far behind them they heard a faint warning hum; like the drone of a distant bee.
glancing back, they saw a small cloud of dust, with a dark centre of energy, advancing on them at incredible speed, while from out the dust a faint ‘poop-poop!’ wailed like an uneasy animal in pain.
hardly regarding it, they turned to resume their conversation, when in an instant (as it seemed) the peaceful scene was changed, and with a blast of wind and a whirl of sound that made them jump for the nearest ditch, it was on them!
the ‘poop-poop’ rang with a brazen shout in their ears, they had a moment’s glimpse of an interior of glittering plate-glass and rich morocco, and the magnificent motor-car, immense, breath-snatching, passionate, with its pilot tense and hugging his wheel, possessed all earth and air for the fraction of a second, flung an enveloping cloud of dust that blinded and enwrapped them utterly, and then dwindled to a speck in the far distance, changed back into a droning bee once more.
the old grey horse, dreaming, as he plodded along, of his quiet paddock, in a new raw situation such as this simply abandoned himself to his natural emotions.
rearing, plunging, backing steadily, in spite of all the mole’s efforts at his head, and all the mole’s lively language directed at his better feelings, he drove the cart backwards towards the deep ditch at the side of the road.
it wavered an instant then there was a heartrending crash and the canary-coloured cart, their pride and their joy, lay on its side in the ditch, an irredeemable wreck.
the rat danced up and down in the road, simply transported with passion.
‘you villains!’ he shouted, shaking both fists, ‘you scoundrels, you highwaymen, you you roadhogs!
i’ll have the law of you!
i’ll report you!
i’ll take you through all the courts!’ his home-sickness had quite slipped away from him, and for the moment he was the skipper of the canary-coloured vessel driven on a shoal by the reckless jockeying of rival mariners, and he was trying to recollect all the fine and biting things he used to say to masters of steam-launches when their wash, as they drove too near the bank, used to flood his parlour-carpet at home.
toad sat straight down in the middle of the dusty road, his legs stretched out before him, and stared fixedly in the direction of the disappearing motor-car.
he breathed short, his face wore a placid satisfied expression, and at intervals he faintly murmured ‘poop-poop!’
the mole was busy trying to quiet the horse, which he succeeded in doing after a time.
then he went to look at the cart, on its side in the ditch.
it was indeed a sorry sight.
panels and windows smashed, axles hopelessly bent, one wheel off, sardine-tins scattered over the wide world, and the bird in the bird-cage sobbing pitifully and calling to be let out.
the rat came to help him, but their united efforts were not sufficient to right the cart.
‘hi!
toad!’ they cried.
‘come and bear a hand, can’t you!’
the toad never answered a word, or budged from his seat in the road; so they went to see what was the matter with him.
they found him in a sort of a trance, a happy smile on his face, his eyes still fixed on the dusty wake of their destroyer.
at intervals he was still heard to murmur ‘poop-poop!’
the rat shook him by the shoulder.
‘are you coming to help us, toad?’ he demanded sternly.
‘glorious, stirring sight!’ murmured toad, never offering to move.
‘the poetry of motion!
the real way to travel!
the only way to travel!
here to-day in next week to-morrow!
villages skipped, towns and cities jumped always somebody else’s horizon!
o bliss!
o poop-poop!
o my!
o my!’
‘o stop being an ass, toad!’ cried the mole despairingly.
‘and to think i never knew!’ went on the toad in a dreamy monotone.
‘all those wasted years that lie behind me, i never knew, never even dreamt!
but now but now that i know, now that i fully realise!
o what a flowery track lies spread before me, henceforth!
what dust-clouds shall spring up behind me as i speed on my reckless way!
what carts i shall fling carelessly into the ditch in the wake of my magnificent onset!
horrid little carts common carts canary-coloured carts!’
‘what are we to do with him?’ asked the mole of the water rat.
‘nothing at all,’ replied the rat firmly.
‘because there is really nothing to be done.
you see, i know him from of old.
he is now possessed.
he has got a new craze, and it always takes him that way, in its first stage.
he’ll continue like that for days now, like an animal walking in a happy dream, quite useless for all practical purposes.
never mind him.
let’s go and see what there is to be done about the cart.’
a careful inspection showed them that, even if they succeeded in righting it by themselves, the cart would travel no longer.
the axles were in a hopeless state, and the missing wheel was shattered into pieces.
the rat knotted the horse’s reins over his back and took him by the head, carrying the bird cage and its hysterical occupant in the other hand.
‘come on!’ he said grimly to the mole.
‘it’s five or six miles to the nearest town, and we shall just have to walk it.
the sooner we make a start the better.’
‘but what about toad?’ asked the mole anxiously, as they set off together.
‘we can’t leave him here, sitting in the middle of the road by himself, in the distracted state he’s in!
it’s not safe.
supposing another thing were to come along?’
‘o, bother toad,’ said the rat savagely; ‘i’ve done with him!’
they had not proceeded very far on their way, however, when there was a pattering of feet behind them, and toad caught them up and thrust a paw inside the elbow of each of them; still breathing short and staring into vacancy.
‘now, look here, toad!’ said the rat sharply: ‘as soon as we get to the town, you’ll have to go straight to the police-station, and see if they know anything about that motor-car and who it belongs to, and lodge a complaint against it.
and then you’ll have to go to a blacksmith’s or a wheelwright’s and arrange for the cart to be fetched and mended and put to rights.
it’ll take time, but it’s not quite a hopeless smash.
meanwhile, the mole and i will go to an inn and find comfortable rooms where we can stay till the cart’s ready, and till your nerves have recovered their shock.’
‘police-station!
complaint!’ murmured toad dreamily.
‘me complain of that beautiful, that heavenly vision that has been vouchsafed me!
mend the cart!
i’ve done with carts for ever.
i never want to see the cart, or to hear of it, again.
o, ratty!
you can’t think how obliged i am to you for consenting to come on this trip!
i wouldn’t have gone without you, and then i might never have seen that that swan, that sunbeam, that thunderbolt!
i might never have heard that entrancing sound, or smelt that bewitching smell!
i owe it all to you, my best of friends!’
the rat turned from him in despair.
‘you see what it is?’ he said to the mole, addressing him across toad’s head: ‘he’s quite hopeless.
i give it up when we get to the town we’ll go to the railway station, and with luck we may pick up a train there that’ll get us back to riverbank to-night.
and if ever you catch me going a-pleasuring with this provoking animal again!’ he snorted, and during the rest of that weary trudge addressed his remarks exclusively to mole.
on reaching the town they went straight to the station and deposited toad in the second-class waiting-room, giving a porter twopence to keep a strict eye on him.
they then left the horse at an inn stable, and gave what directions they could about the cart and its contents.
eventually, a slow train having landed them at a station not very far from toad hall, they escorted the spell-bound, sleep-walking toad to his door, put him inside it, and instructed his housekeeper to feed him, undress him, and put him to bed.
then they got out their boat from the boat-house, sculled down the river home, and at a very late hour sat down to supper in their own cosy riverside parlour, to the rat’s great joy and contentment.
the following evening the mole, who had risen late and taken things very easy all day, was sitting on the bank fishing, when the rat, who had been looking up his friends and gossiping, came strolling along to find him.
‘heard the news?’ he said.
‘there’s nothing else being talked about, all along the river bank.
toad went up to town by an early train this morning.
and he has ordered a large and very expensive motor-car.’
iii.
the wild wood
the mole had long wanted to make the acquaintance of the badger.
he seemed, by all accounts, to be such an important personage and, though rarely visible, to make his unseen influence felt by everybody about the place.
but whenever the mole mentioned his wish to the water rat he always found himself put off.
‘it’s all right,’ the rat would say.
‘badger’ll turn up some day or other he’s always turning up and then i’ll introduce you.
the best of fellows!
but you must not only take him as you find him, but when you find him.’
‘couldn’t you ask him here dinner or something?’ said the mole.
‘he wouldn’t come,’ replied the rat simply.
‘badger hates society, and invitations, and dinner, and all that sort of thing.’
‘well, then, supposing we go and call on him?’ suggested the mole.
‘o, i’m sure he wouldn’t like that at all,’ said the rat, quite alarmed.
‘he’s so very shy, he’d be sure to be offended.
i’ve never even ventured to call on him at his own home myself, though i know him so well.
besides, we can’t.
it’s quite out of the question, because he lives in the very middle of the wild wood.’
‘well, supposing he does,’ said the mole.
‘you told me the wild wood was all right, you know.’
‘o, i know, i know, so it is,’ replied the rat evasively.
‘but i think we won’t go there just now.
not just yet.
it’s a long way, and he wouldn’t be at home at this time of year anyhow, and he’ll be coming along some day, if you’ll wait quietly.’
the mole had to be content with this.
but the badger never came along, and every day brought its amusements, and it was not till summer was long over, and cold and frost and miry ways kept them much indoors, and the swollen river raced past outside their windows with a speed that mocked at boating of any sort or kind, that he found his thoughts dwelling again with much persistence on the solitary grey badger, who lived his own life by himself, in his hole in the middle of the wild wood.
in the winter time the rat slept a great deal, retiring early and rising late.
during his short day he sometimes scribbled poetry or did other small domestic jobs about the house; and, of course, there were always animals dropping in for a chat, and consequently there was a good deal of story-telling and comparing notes on the past summer and all its doings.
such a rich
with illustrations so numerous and so very highly coloured!
the pageant of the river bank had marched steadily along, unfolding itself in scene-pictures that succeeded each other in stately procession.
purple loosestrife arrived early, shaking luxuriant tangled locks along the edge of the mirror whence its own face laughed back at it.
willow-herb, tender and wistful, like a pink sunset cloud, was not slow to follow.
comfrey, the purple hand-in-hand with the white, crept forth to take its place in the line; and at last one morning the diffident and delaying dog-rose stepped delicately on the stage, and one knew, as if string-music had announced it in stately chords that strayed into a gavotte, that june at last was here.
one member of the company was still awaited; the shepherd-boy for the nymphs to woo, the knight for whom the ladies waited at the window, the prince that was to kiss the sleeping summer back to life and love.
but when meadow-sweet, debonair and odorous in amber jerkin, moved graciously to his place in the group, then the play was ready to begin.
and what a play it had been!
drowsy animals, snug in their holes while wind and rain were battering at their doors, recalled still keen mornings, an hour before sunrise, when the white mist, as yet undispersed, clung closely along the surface of the water; then the shock of the early plunge, the scamper along the bank, and the radiant transformation of earth, air, and water, when suddenly the sun was with them again, and grey was gold and colour was born and sprang out of the earth once more.
they recalled the languorous siesta of hot mid-day, deep in green undergrowth, the sun striking through in tiny golden shafts and spots; the boating and bathing of the afternoon, the rambles along dusty lanes and through yellow cornfields; and the long, cool evening at last, when so many threads were gathered up, so many friendships rounded, and so many adventures planned for the morrow.
there was plenty to talk about on those short winter days when the animals found themselves round the fire; still, the mole had a good deal of spare time on his hands, and so one afternoon, when the rat in his arm-chair before the blaze was alternately dozing and trying over rhymes that wouldn’t fit, he formed the resolution to go out by himself and explore the wild wood, and perhaps strike up an acquaintance with mr.
badger.
it was a cold still afternoon with a hard steely sky overhead, when he slipped out of the warm parlour into the open air.
the country lay bare and entirely leafless around him, and he thought that he had never seen so far and so intimately into the insides of things as on that winter day when nature was deep in her annual slumber and seemed to have kicked the clothes off.
copses, dells, quarries and all hidden places, which had been mysterious mines for exploration in leafy summer, now exposed themselves and their secrets pathetically, and seemed to ask him to overlook their shabby poverty for a while, till they could riot in rich masquerade as before, and trick and entice him with the old deceptions.
it was pitiful in a way, and yet cheering even exhilarating.
he was glad that he liked the country undecorated, hard, and stripped of its finery.
he had got down to the bare bones of it, and they were fine and strong and simple.
he did not want the warm clover and the play of seeding grasses; the screens of quickset, the billowy drapery of beech and elm seemed best away; and with great cheerfulness of spirit he pushed on towards the wild wood, which lay before him low and threatening, like a black reef in some still southern sea.
there was nothing to alarm him at first entry.
twigs crackled under his feet, logs tripped him, funguses on stumps resembled caricatures, and startled him for the moment by their likeness to something familiar and far away; but that was all fun, and exciting.
it led him on, and he penetrated to where the light was less, and trees crouched nearer and nearer, and holes made ugly mouths at him on either side.
everything was very still now.
the dusk advanced on him steadily, rapidly, gathering in behind and before; and the light seemed to be draining away like flood-water.
then the faces began.
it was over his shoulder, and indistinctly, that he first thought he saw a face; a little evil wedge-shaped face, looking out at him from a hole.
when he turned and confronted it, the thing had vanished.
he quickened his pace, telling himself cheerfully not to begin imagining things, or there would be simply no end to it.
he passed another hole, and another, and another; and then yes!
no!
yes!
certainly a little narrow face, with hard eyes, had flashed up for an instant from a hole, and was gone.
he hesitated braced himself up for an effort and strode on.
then suddenly, and as if it had been so all the time, every hole, far and near, and there were hundreds of them, seemed to possess its face, coming and going rapidly, all fixing on him glances of malice and hatred: all hard-eyed and evil and sharp.
if he could only get away from the holes in the banks, he thought, there would be no more faces.
he swung off the path and plunged into the untrodden places of the wood.
then the whistling began.
very faint and shrill it was, and far behind him, when first he heard it; but somehow it made him hurry forward.
then, still very faint and shrill, it sounded far ahead of him, and made him hesitate and want to go back.
as he halted in indecision it broke out on either side, and seemed to be caught up and passed on throughout the whole length of the wood to its farthest limit.
they were up and alert and ready, evidently, whoever they were!
and he he was alone, and unarmed, and far from any help; and the night was closing in.
then the pattering began.
he thought it was only falling leaves at first, so slight and delicate was the sound of it.
then as it grew it took a regular rhythm, and he knew it for nothing else but the pat-pat-pat of little feet still a very long way off.
was it in front or behind?
it seemed to be first one, and then the other, then both.
it grew and it multiplied, till from every quarter as he listened anxiously, leaning this way and that, it seemed to be closing in on him.
as he stood still to hearken, a rabbit came running hard towards him through the trees.
he waited, expecting it to slacken pace, or to swerve from him into a different course.
instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring.
‘get out of this, you fool, get out!’ the mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump and disappeared down a friendly burrow.
the pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry leaf-carpet spread around him.
the whole wood seemed running now, running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or somebody?
in panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not whither.
he ran up against things, he fell over things and into things, he darted under things and dodged round things.
at last he took refuge in the deep dark hollow of an old beech tree, which offered shelter, concealment perhaps even safety, but who could tell?
anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he was safe for a time.
and as he lay there panting and trembling, and listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at last, in all its fullness, that dread thing which other little dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as their darkest moment that thing which the rat had vainly tried to shield him from the terror of the wild wood!
meantime the rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside.
his paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of dream-rivers.
then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a spurt of flame, and he woke with a start.
remembering what he had been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored over them for a minute, and then looked round for the mole to ask him if he knew a good rhyme for something or other.
but the mole was not there.
he listened for a time.
the house seemed very quiet.
then he called ‘moly!’ several times, and, receiving no answer, got up and went out into the hall.
the mole’s cap was missing from its accustomed peg.
his goloshes, which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.
the rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of the ground outside, hoping to find the mole’s tracks.
there they were, sure enough.
the goloshes were new, just bought for the winter, and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp.
he could see the imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful, leading direct to the wild wood.
the rat looked very grave, and stood in deep thought for a minute or two.
then he re-entered the house, strapped a belt round his waist, shoved a brace of pistols into it, took up a stout cudgel that stood in a corner of the hall, and set off for the wild wood at a smart pace.
it was already getting towards dusk when he reached the first fringe of trees and plunged without hesitation into the wood, looking anxiously on either side for any sign of his friend.
here and there wicked little faces popped out of holes, but vanished immediately at sight of the valorous animal, his pistols, and the great ugly cudgel in his grasp; and the whistling and pattering, which he had heard quite plainly on his first entry, died away and ceased, and all was very still.
he made his way manfully through the length of the wood, to its furthest edge; then, forsaking all paths, he set himself to traverse it, laboriously working over the whole ground, and all the time calling out cheerfully, ‘moly, moly, moly!
where are you?
it’s me it’s old rat!’
he had patiently hunted through the wood for an hour or more, when at last to his joy he heard a little answering cry.
guiding himself by the sound, he made his way through the gathering darkness to the foot of an old beech tree, with a hole in it, and from out of the hole came a feeble voice, saying ‘ratty!
is that really you?’
the rat crept into the hollow, and there he found the mole, exhausted and still trembling.
‘o rat!’ he cried, ‘i’ve been so frightened, you can’t think!’
‘o, i quite understand,’ said the rat soothingly.
‘you shouldn’t really have gone and done it, mole.
i did my best to keep you from it.
we river-bankers, we hardly ever come here by ourselves.
if we have to come, we come in couples, at least; then we’re generally all right.
besides, there are a hundred things one has to know, which we understand all about and you don’t, as yet.
i mean passwords, and signs, and sayings which have power and effect, and plants you carry in your pocket, and verses you repeat, and dodges and tricks you practise; all simple enough when you know them, but they’ve got to be known if you’re small, or you’ll find yourself in trouble.
of course if you were badger or otter, it would be quite another matter.’
‘surely the brave mr. toad wouldn’t mind coming here by himself, would he?’ inquired the mole.
‘old toad?’ said the rat, laughing heartily.
‘he wouldn’t show his face here alone, not for a whole hatful of golden guineas, toad wouldn’t.’
the mole was greatly cheered by the sound of the rat’s careless laughter, as well as by the sight of his stick and his gleaming pistols, and he stopped shivering and began to feel bolder and more himself again.
‘now then,’ said the rat presently, ‘we really must pull ourselves together and make a start for home while there’s still a little light left.
it will never do to spend the night here, you understand.
too cold, for one thing.’
‘dear ratty,’ said the poor mole, ‘i’m dreadfully sorry, but i’m simply dead beat and that’s a solid fact.
you must let me rest here a while longer, and get my strength back, if i’m to get home at all.’
‘o, all right,’ said the good-natured rat, ‘rest away.
it’s pretty nearly pitch dark now, anyhow; and there ought to be a bit of a moon later.’
so the mole got well into the dry leaves and stretched himself out, and presently dropped off into sleep, though of a broken and troubled sort; while the rat covered himself up, too, as best he might, for warmth, and lay patiently waiting, with a pistol in his paw.
when at last the mole woke up, much refreshed and in his usual spirits, the rat said, ‘now then!
i’ll just take a look outside and see if everything’s quiet, and then we really must be off.’
he went to the entrance of their retreat and put his head out.
then the mole heard him saying quietly to himself, ‘hullo!
hullo!
here is a go!’
‘what’s up, ratty?’ asked the mole.
‘snow is up,’ replied the rat briefly; ‘or rather, down.
it’s snowing hard.’
the mole came and crouched beside him, and, looking out, saw the wood that had been so dreadful to him in quite a changed aspect.
holes, hollows, pools, pitfalls, and other black menaces to the wayfarer were vanishing fast, and a gleaming carpet of faery was springing up everywhere, that looked too delicate to be trodden upon by rough feet.
a fine powder filled the air and caressed the cheek with a tingle in its touch, and the black boles of the trees showed up in a light that seemed to come from below.
‘well, well, it can’t be helped,’ said the rat, after pondering.
‘we must make a start, and take our chance, i suppose.
the worst of it is, i don’t exactly know where we are.
and now this snow makes everything look so very different.’
it did indeed.
the mole would not have known that it was the same wood.
however, they set out bravely, and took the line that seemed most promising, holding on to each other and pretending with invincible cheerfulness that they recognized an old friend in every fresh tree that grimly and silently greeted them, or saw openings, gaps, or paths with a familiar turn in them, in the monotony of white space and black tree-trunks that refused to vary.
an hour or two later they had lost all count of time they pulled up, dispirited, weary, and hopelessly at sea, and sat down on a fallen tree-trunk to recover their breath and consider what was to be done.
they were aching with fatigue and bruised with tumbles; they had fallen into several holes and got wet through; the snow was getting so deep that they could hardly drag their little legs through it, and the trees were thicker and more like each other than ever.
there seemed to be no end to this wood, and no beginning, and no difference in it, and, worst of all, no way out.
‘we can’t sit here very long,’ said the rat.
‘we shall have to make another push for it, and do something or other.
the cold is too awful for anything, and the snow will soon be too deep for us to wade through.’ he peered about him and considered.
‘look here,’ he went on, ‘this is what occurs to me.
there’s a sort of dell down here in front of us, where the ground seems all hilly and humpy and hummocky.
we’ll make our way down into that, and try and find some sort of shelter, a cave or hole with a dry floor to it, out of the snow and the wind, and there we’ll have a good rest before we try again, for we’re both of us pretty dead beat.
besides, the snow may leave off, or something may turn up.’
so once more they got on their feet, and struggled down into the dell, where they hunted about for a cave or some corner that was dry and a protection from the keen wind and the whirling snow.
they were investigating one of the hummocky bits the rat had spoken of, when suddenly the mole tripped up and fell forward on his face with a squeal.
‘o my leg!’ he cried.
‘o my poor shin!’ and he sat up on the snow and nursed his leg in both his front paws.
‘poor old mole!’ said the rat kindly.
‘you don’t seem to be having much luck to-day, do you?
let’s have a look at the leg.
yes,’ he went on, going down on his knees to look, ‘you’ve cut your shin, sure enough.
wait till i get at my handkerchief, and i’ll tie it up for you.’
‘i must have tripped over a hidden branch or a stump,’ said the mole miserably.
‘o, my!
o, my!’
‘it’s a very clean cut,’ said the rat, examining it again attentively.
‘that was never done by a branch or a stump.
looks as if it was made by a sharp edge of something in metal.
funny!’ he pondered awhile, and examined the humps and slopes that surrounded them.
‘well, never mind what done it,’ said the mole, forgetting his grammar in his pain.
‘it hurts just the same, whatever done it.’
but the rat, after carefully tying up the leg with his handkerchief, had left him and was busy scraping in the snow.
he scratched and shovelled and explored, all four legs working busily, while the mole waited impatiently, remarking at intervals, ‘o, come on, rat!’
suddenly the rat cried ‘hooray!’ and then ‘hooray-oo-ray-oo-ray-oo-ray!’
and fell to executing a feeble jig in the snow.
‘what have you found, ratty?’ asked the mole, still nursing his leg.
‘come and see!’ said the delighted rat, as he jigged on.
the mole hobbled up to the spot and had a good look.
‘well,’ he said at last, slowly, ‘i see it right enough.
seen the same sort of thing before, lots of times.
familiar object, i call it.
a door-scraper!
well, what of it?
why dance jigs around a door-scraper?’
‘but don’t you see what it means, you you dull-witted animal?’ cried the rat impatiently.
‘of course i see what it means,’ replied the mole.
‘it simply means that some very careless and forgetful person has left his door-scraper lying about in the middle of the wild wood, just where it’s sure to trip everybody up.
very thoughtless of him, i call it.
when i get home i shall go and complain about it to to somebody or other, see if i don’t!’
‘o, dear!
o, dear!’ cried the rat, in despair at his obtuseness.
‘here, stop arguing and come and scrape!’ and he set to work again and made the snow fly in all directions around him.
after some further toil his efforts were rewarded, and a very shabby door-mat lay exposed to view.
‘there, what did i tell you?’ exclaimed the rat in great triumph.
‘absolutely nothing whatever,’ replied the mole, with perfect truthfulness.
‘well now,’ he went on, ‘you seem to have found another piece of domestic litter, done for and thrown away, and i suppose you’re perfectly happy.
better go ahead and dance your jig round that if you’ve got to, and get it over, and then perhaps we can go on and not waste any more time over rubbish-heaps.
can we eat a doormat?
or sleep under a door-mat?
or sit on a door-mat and sledge home over the snow on it, you exasperating rodent?’
‘do you mean to say,’ cried the excited rat, ‘that this door-mat doesn’t tell you anything?’
‘really, rat,’ said the mole, quite pettishly, ‘i think we’d had enough of this folly.
who ever heard of a door-mat telling anyone anything?
they simply don’t do it.
they are not that sort at all.
door-mats know their place.’
‘now look here, you you thick-headed beast,’ replied the rat, really angry, ‘this must stop.
not another word, but scrape scrape and scratch and dig and hunt round, especially on the sides of the hummocks, if you want to sleep dry and warm to-night, for it’s our last chance!’
the rat attacked a snow-bank beside them with ardour, probing with his cudgel everywhere and then digging with fury; and the mole scraped busily too, more to oblige the rat than for any other reason, for his opinion was that his friend was getting light-headed.
some ten minutes’ hard work, and the point of the rat’s cudgel struck something that sounded hollow.
he worked till he could get a paw through and feel; then called the mole to come and help him.
hard at it went the two animals, till at last the result of their labours stood full in view of the astonished and hitherto incredulous mole.
in the side of what had seemed to be a snow-bank stood a solid-looking little door, painted a dark green.
an iron bell-pull hung by the side, and below it, on a small brass plate, neatly engraved in square capital letters, they could read by the aid of moonlight mr. badger.
the mole fell backwards on the snow from sheer surprise and delight.
‘rat!’ he cried in penitence, ‘you’re a wonder!
a real wonder, that’s what you are.
i see it all now!
you argued it out, step by step, in that wise head of yours, from the very moment that i fell and cut my shin, and you looked at the cut, and at once your majestic mind said to itself, “door-scraper!” and then you turned to and found the very door-scraper that done it!
did you stop there?
no.
some people would have been quite satisfied; but not you.
your intellect went on working.
“let me only just find a door-mat,” says you to yourself, “and my theory is proved!” and of course you found your door-mat.
you’re so clever, i believe you could find anything you liked.
“now,” says you, “that door exists, as plain as if i saw it.
there’s nothing else remains to be done but to find it!” well, i’ve read about that sort of thing in books, but i’ve never come across it before in real life.
you ought to go where you’ll be properly appreciated.
you’re simply wasted here, among us fellows.
if i only had your head, ratty  ’
‘but as you haven’t,’ interrupted the rat, rather unkindly, ‘i suppose you’re going to sit on the snow all night and talk?
get up at once and hang on to that bell-pull you see there, and ring hard, as hard as you can, while i hammer!’
while the rat attacked the door with his stick, the mole sprang up at the bell-pull, clutched it and swung there, both feet well off the ground, and from quite a long way off they could faintly hear a deep-toned bell respond.
iv.
mr. badger
they waited patiently for what seemed a very long time, stamping in the snow to keep their feet warm.
at last they heard the sound of slow shuffling footsteps approaching the door from the inside.
it seemed, as the mole remarked to the rat, like some one walking in carpet slippers that were too large for him and down at heel; which was intelligent of mole, because that was exactly what it was.
there was the noise of a bolt shot back, and the door opened a few inches, enough to show a long snout and a pair of sleepy blinking eyes.
‘now, the very next time this happens,’ said a gruff and suspicious voice, ‘i shall be exceedingly angry.
who is it this time, disturbing people on such a night?
speak up!’
‘oh, badger,’ cried the rat, ‘let us in, please.
it’s me, rat, and my friend mole, and we’ve lost our way in the snow.’
‘what, ratty, my dear little man!’ exclaimed the badger, in quite a different voice.
‘come along in, both of you, at once.
why, you must be perished.
well i never!
lost in the snow!
and in the wild wood, too, and at this time of night!
but come in with you.’
the two animals tumbled over each other in their eagerness to get inside, and heard the door shut behind them with great joy and relief.
the badger, who wore a long dressing-gown, and whose slippers were indeed very down at heel, carried a flat candlestick in his paw and had probably been on his way to bed when their summons sounded.
he looked kindly down on them and patted both their heads.
‘this is not the sort of night for small animals to be out,’ he said paternally.
‘i’m afraid you’ve been up to some of your pranks again, ratty.
but come along; come into the kitchen.
there’s a first-rate fire there, and supper and everything.’
he shuffled on in front of them, carrying the light, and they followed him, nudging each other in an anticipating sort of way, down a long, gloomy, and, to tell the truth, decidedly shabby passage, into a sort of a central hall; out of which they could dimly see other long tunnel-like passages branching, passages mysterious and without apparent end.
but there were doors in the hall as well stout oaken comfortable-looking doors.
one of these the badger flung open, and at once they found themselves in all the glow and warmth of a large fire-lit kitchen.
the floor was well-worn red brick, and on the wide hearth burnt a fire of logs, between two attractive chimney-corners tucked away in the wall, well out of any suspicion of draught.
a couple of high-backed settles, facing each other on either side of the fire, gave further sitting accommodations for the sociably disposed.
in the middle of the room stood a long table of plain boards placed on trestles, with benches down each side.
at one end of it, where an arm-chair stood pushed back, were spread the remains of the badger’s plain but ample supper.
rows of spotless plates winked from the shelves of the dresser at the far end of the room, and from the rafters overhead hung hams, bundles of dried herbs, nets of onions, and baskets of eggs.
it seemed a place where heroes could fitly feast after victory, where weary harvesters could line up in scores along the table and keep their harvest home with mirth and song, or where two or three friends of simple tastes could sit about as they pleased and eat and smoke and talk in comfort and contentment.
the ruddy brick floor smiled up at the smoky ceiling; the oaken settles, shiny with long wear, exchanged cheerful glances with each other; plates on the dresser grinned at pots on the shelf, and the merry firelight flickered and played over everything without distinction.
the kindly badger thrust them down on a settle to toast themselves at the fire, and bade them remove their wet coats and boots.
then he fetched them dressing-gowns and slippers, and himself bathed the mole’s shin with warm water and mended the cut with sticking-plaster till the whole thing was just as good as new, if not better.
in the embracing light and warmth, warm and dry at last, with weary legs propped up in front of them, and a suggestive clink of plates being arranged on the table behind, it seemed to the storm-driven animals, now in safe anchorage, that the cold and trackless wild wood just left outside was miles and miles away, and all that they had suffered in it a half-forgotten dream.
when at last they were thoroughly toasted, the badger summoned them to the table, where he had been busy laying a repast.
they had felt pretty hungry before, but when they actually saw at last the supper that was spread for them, really it seemed only a question of what they should attack first where all was so attractive, and whether the other things would obligingly wait for them till they had time to give them attention.
conversation was impossible for a long time; and when it was slowly resumed, it was that regrettable sort of conversation that results from talking with your mouth full.
the badger did not mind that sort of thing at all, nor did he take any notice of elbows on the table, or everybody speaking at once.
as he did not go into society himself, he had got an idea that these things belonged to the things that didn’t really matter.
(we know of course that he was wrong, and took too narrow a view; because they do matter very much, though it would take too long to explain why.)
he sat in his arm-chair at the head of the table, and nodded gravely at intervals as the animals told their story; and he did not seem surprised or shocked at anything, and he never said, ‘i told you so,’ or, ‘just what i always said,’ or remarked that they ought to have done so-and-so, or ought not to have done something else.
the mole began to feel very friendly towards him.
when supper was really finished at last, and each animal felt that his skin was now as tight as was decently safe, and that by this time he didn’t care a hang for anybody or anything, they gathered round the glowing embers of the great wood fire, and thought how jolly it was to be sitting up so late, and so independent, and so full; and after they had chatted for a time about things in general, the badger said heartily, ‘now then!
tell us the news from your part of the world.
how’s old toad going on?’
‘oh, from bad to worse,’ said the rat gravely, while the mole, cocked up on a settle and basking in the firelight, his heels higher than his head, tried to look properly mournful.
‘another smash-up only last week, and a bad one.
you see, he will insist on driving himself, and he’s hopelessly incapable.
if he’d only employ a decent, steady, well-trained animal, pay him good wages, and leave everything to him, he’d get on all right.
but no; he’s convinced he’s a heaven-born driver, and nobody can teach him anything; and all the rest follows.’
‘how many has he had?’ inquired the badger gloomily.
‘smashes, or machines?’ asked the rat.
‘oh, well, after all, it’s the same thing with toad.
this is the seventh.
as for the others you know that coach-house of his?
well, it’s piled up literally piled up to the roof with fragments of motor-cars, none of them bigger than your hat!
that accounts for the other six so far as they can be accounted for.’
‘he’s been in hospital three times,’ put in the mole; ‘and as for the fines he’s had to pay, it’s simply awful to think of.’
‘yes, and that’s part of the trouble,’ continued the rat.
‘toad’s rich, we all know; but he’s not a millionaire.
and he’s a hopelessly bad driver, and quite regardless of law and order.
killed or ruined it’s got to be one of the two things, sooner or later.
badger!
we’re his friends oughtn’t we to do something?’
the badger went through a bit of hard thinking.
‘now look here!’ he said at last, rather severely; ‘of course you know i can’t do anything now?’
his two friends assented, quite understanding his point.
no animal, according to the rules of animal-etiquette, is ever expected to do anything strenuous, or heroic, or even moderately active during the off-season of winter.
all are sleepy some actually asleep.
all are weather-bound, more or less; and all are resting from arduous days and nights, during which every muscle in them has been severely tested, and every energy kept at full stretch.
‘very well then!’ continued the badger.
‘but, when once the year has really turned, and the nights are shorter, and halfway through them one rouses and feels fidgety and wanting to be up and doing by sunrise, if not before you know!
’
both animals nodded gravely.
they knew!
‘well, then,’ went on the badger, ‘we that is, you and me and our friend the mole here we’ll take toad seriously in hand.
we’ll stand no nonsense whatever.
we’ll bring him back to reason, by force if need be.
we’ll make him be a sensible toad.
we’ll you’re asleep, rat!’
‘not me!’ said the rat, waking up with a jerk.
‘he’s been asleep two or three times since supper,’ said the mole, laughing.
he himself was feeling quite wakeful and even lively, though he didn’t know why.
the reason was, of course, that he being naturally an underground animal by birth and breeding, the situation of badger’s house exactly suited him and made him feel at home; while the rat, who slept every night in a bedroom the windows of which opened on a breezy river, naturally felt the atmosphere still and oppressive.
‘well, it’s time we were all in bed,’ said the badger, getting up and fetching flat candlesticks.
‘come along, you two, and i’ll show you your quarters.
and take your time tomorrow morning breakfast at any hour you please!’
he conducted the two animals to a long room that seemed half bedchamber and half loft.
the badger’s winter stores, which indeed were visible everywhere, took up half the room piles of apples, turnips, and potatoes, baskets full of nuts, and jars of honey; but the two little white beds on the remainder of the floor looked soft and inviting, and the linen on them, though coarse, was clean and smelt beautifully of lavender; and the mole and the water rat, shaking off their garments in some thirty seconds, tumbled in between the sheets in great joy and contentment.
in accordance with the kindly badger’s injunctions, the two tired animals came down to breakfast very late next morning, and found a bright fire burning in the kitchen, and two young hedgehogs sitting on a bench at the table, eating oatmeal porridge out of wooden bowls.
the hedgehogs dropped their spoons, rose to their feet, and ducked their heads respectfully as the two entered.
‘there, sit down, sit down,’ said the rat pleasantly, ‘and go on with your porridge.
where have you youngsters come from?
lost your way in the snow, i suppose?’
‘yes, please, sir,’ said the elder of the two hedgehogs respectfully.
‘me and little billy here, we was trying to find our way to school mother would have us go, was the weather ever so and of course we lost ourselves, sir, and billy he got frightened and took and cried, being young and faint-hearted.
and at last we happened up against mr.
badger’s back door, and made so bold as to knock, sir, for mr. badger he’s a kind-hearted gentleman, as everyone knows  ’
‘i understand,’ said the rat, cutting himself some rashers from a side of bacon, while the mole dropped some eggs into a saucepan.
‘and what’s the weather like outside?
you needn’t “sir” me quite so much?’ he added.
‘o, terrible bad, sir, terrible deep the snow is,’ said the hedgehog.
‘no getting out for the likes of you gentlemen to-day.’
‘where’s mr. badger?’ inquired the mole, as he warmed the coffee-pot before the fire.
‘the master’s gone into his study, sir,’ replied the hedgehog, ‘and he said as how he was going to be particular busy this morning, and on no account was he to be disturbed.’
this explanation, of course, was thoroughly understood by every one present.
the fact is, as already set forth, when you live a life of intense activity for six months in the year, and of comparative or actual somnolence for the other six, during the latter period you cannot be continually pleading sleepiness when there are people about or things to be done.
the excuse gets monotonous.
the animals well knew that badger, having eaten a hearty breakfast, had retired to his study and settled himself in an arm-chair with his legs up on another and a red cotton handkerchief over his face, and was being ‘busy’ in the usual way at this time of the year.
the front-door bell clanged loudly, and the rat, who was very greasy with buttered toast, sent billy, the smaller hedgehog, to see who it might be.
there was a sound of much stamping in the hall, and presently billy returned in front of the otter, who threw himself on the rat with an embrace and a shout of affectionate greeting.
‘get off!’ spluttered the rat, with his mouth full.
‘thought i should find you here all right,’ said the otter cheerfully.
‘they were all in a great state of alarm along river bank when i arrived this morning.
rat never been home all night nor mole either something dreadful must have happened, they said; and the snow had covered up all your tracks, of course.
but i knew that when people were in any fix they mostly went to badger, or else badger got to know of it somehow, so i came straight off here, through the wild wood and the snow!
my!
it was fine, coming through the snow as the red sun was rising and showing against the black tree-trunks!
as you went along in the stillness, every now and then masses of snow slid off the branches suddenly with a flop!
making you jump and run for cover.
snow-castles and snow-caverns had sprung up out of nowhere in the night and snow bridges, terraces, ramparts i could have stayed and played with them for hours.
here and there great branches had been torn away by the sheer weight of the snow, and robins perched and hopped on them in their perky conceited way, just as if they had done it themselves.
a ragged string of wild geese passed overhead, high on the grey sky, and a few rooks whirled over the trees, inspected, and flapped off homewards with a disgusted expression; but i met no sensible being to ask the news of.
about halfway across i came on a rabbit sitting on a stump, cleaning his silly face with his paws.
he was a pretty scared animal when i crept up behind him and placed a heavy forepaw on his shoulder.
i had to cuff his head once or twice to get any sense out of it at all.
at last i managed to extract from him that mole had been seen in the wild wood last night by one of them.
it was the talk of the burrows, he said, how mole, mr. rat’s particular friend, was in a bad fix; how he had lost his way, and “they” were up and out hunting, and were chivvying him round and round.
“then why didn’t any of you do something?” i asked.
“you mayn’t be blest with brains, but there are hundreds and hundreds of you, big, stout fellows, as fat as butter, and your burrows running in all directions, and you could have taken him in and made him safe and comfortable, or tried to, at all events.”
“what, us?” he merely said: “do something?
us rabbits?” so i cuffed him again and left him.
there was nothing else to be done.
at any rate, i had learnt something; and if i had had the luck to meet any of “them”
i’d have learnt something more or they would.’
‘weren’t you at all er nervous?’ asked the mole, some of yesterday’s terror coming back to him at the mention of the wild wood.
‘nervous?’ the otter showed a gleaming set of strong white teeth as he laughed.
‘i’d give ‘em nerves if any of them tried anything on with me.
here, mole, fry me some slices of ham, like the good little chap you are.
i’m frightfully hungry, and i’ve got any amount to say to ratty here.
haven’t seen him for an age.’
so the good-natured mole, having cut some slices of ham, set the hedgehogs to fry it, and returned to his own breakfast, while the otter and the rat, their heads together, eagerly talked river-shop, which is long shop and talk that is endless, running on like the babbling river itself.
a plate of fried ham had just been cleared and sent back for more, when the badger entered, yawning and rubbing his eyes, and greeted them all in his quiet, simple way, with kind enquiries for every one.
‘it must be getting on for luncheon time,’ he remarked to the otter.
‘better stop and have it with us.
you must be hungry, this cold morning.’
‘rather!’ replied the otter, winking at the mole.
‘the sight of these greedy young hedgehogs stuffing themselves with fried ham makes me feel positively famished.’
the hedgehogs, who were just beginning to feel hungry again after their porridge, and after working so hard at their frying, looked timidly up at mr. badger, but were too shy to say anything.
‘here, you two youngsters be off home to your mother,’ said the badger kindly.
‘i’ll send some one with you to show you the way.
you won’t want any dinner to-day, i’ll be bound.’
he gave them sixpence apiece and a pat on the head, and they went off with much respectful swinging of caps and touching of forelocks.
presently they all sat down to luncheon together.
the mole found himself placed next to mr. badger, and, as the other two were still deep in river-gossip from which nothing could divert them, he took the opportunity to tell badger how comfortable and home-like it all felt to him.
‘once well underground,’ he said, ‘you know exactly where you are.
nothing can happen to you, and nothing can get at you.
you’re entirely your own master, and you don’t have to consult anybody or mind what they say.
things go on all the same overhead, and you let ‘em, and don’t bother about ‘em.
when you want to, up you go, and there the things are, waiting for you.’
the badger simply beamed on him.
‘that’s exactly what i say,’ he replied.
‘there’s no security, or peace and tranquillity, except underground.
and then, if your ideas get larger and you want to expand why, a dig and a scrape, and there you are!
if you feel your house is a bit too big, you stop up a hole or two, and there you are again!
no builders, no tradesmen, no remarks passed on you by fellows looking over your wall, and, above all, no weather.
look at rat, now.
a couple of feet of flood water, and he’s got to move into hired lodgings; uncomfortable, inconveniently situated, and horribly expensive.
take toad.
i say nothing against toad hall; quite the best house in these parts, as a house.
but supposing a fire breaks out where’s toad?
supposing tiles are blown off, or walls sink or crack, or windows get broken where’s toad?
supposing the rooms are draughty i hate a draught myself where’s toad?
no, up and out of doors is good enough to roam about and get one’s living in; but underground to come back to at last that’s my idea of home.’
the mole assented heartily; and the badger in consequence got very friendly with him.
‘when lunch is over,’ he said, ‘i’ll take you all round this little place of mine.
i can see you’ll appreciate it.
you understand what domestic architecture ought to be, you do.’
after luncheon, accordingly, when the other two had settled themselves into the chimney-corner and had started a heated argument on the subject of eels, the badger lighted a lantern and bade the mole follow him.
crossing the hall, they passed down one of the principal tunnels, and the wavering light of the lantern gave glimpses on either side of rooms both large and small, some mere cupboards, others nearly as broad and imposing as toad’s dining-hall.
a narrow passage at right angles led them into another corridor, and here the same thing was repeated.
the mole was staggered at the size, the extent, the ramifications of it all; at the length of the dim passages, the solid vaultings of the crammed store-chambers, the masonry everywhere, the pillars, the arches, the pavements.
‘how on earth, badger,’ he said at last, ‘did you ever find time and strength to do all this?
it’s astonishing!’
‘it would be astonishing indeed,’ said the badger simply, ‘if i had done it.
but as a matter of fact i did none of it only cleaned out the passages and chambers, as far as i had need of them.
there’s lots more of it, all round about.
i see you don’t understand, and i must explain it to you.
well, very long ago, on the spot where the wild wood waves now, before ever it had planted itself and grown up to what it now is, there was a city a city of people, you know.
here, where we are standing, they lived, and walked, and talked, and slept, and carried on their business.
here they stabled their horses and feasted, from here they rode out to fight or drove out to trade.
they were a powerful people, and rich, and great builders.
they built to last, for they thought their city would last for ever.’
‘but what has become of them all?’ asked the mole.
‘who can tell?’ said the badger.
‘people come they stay for a while, they flourish, they build and they go.
it is their way.
but we remain.
there were badgers here, i’ve been told, long before that same city ever came to be.
and now there are badgers here again.
we are an enduring lot, and we may move out for a time, but we wait, and are patient, and back we come.
and so it will ever be.’
‘well, and when they went at last, those people?’ said the mole.
‘when they went,’ continued the badger, ‘the strong winds and persistent rains took the matter in hand, patiently, ceaselessly, year after year.
perhaps we badgers too, in our small way, helped a little who knows?
it was all down, down, down, gradually ruin and levelling and disappearance.
then it was all up, up, up, gradually, as seeds grew to saplings, and saplings to forest trees, and bramble and fern came creeping in to help.
leaf-mould rose and obliterated, streams in their winter freshets brought sand and soil to clog and to cover, and in course of time our home was ready for us again, and we moved in.
up above us, on the surface, the same thing happened.
animals arrived, liked the look of the place, took up their quarters, settled down, spread, and flourished.
they didn’t bother themselves about the past they never do; they’re too busy.
the place was a bit humpy and hillocky, naturally, and full of holes; but that was rather an advantage.
and they don’t bother about the future, either the future when perhaps the people will move in again for a time as may very well be.
the wild wood is pretty well populated by now; with all the usual lot, good, bad, and indifferent i name no names.
it takes all sorts to make a world.
but i fancy you know something about them yourself by this time.’
‘i do indeed,’ said the mole, with a slight shiver.
‘well, well,’ said the badger, patting him on the shoulder, ‘it was your first experience of them, you see.
they’re not so bad really; and we must all live and let live.
but i’ll pass the word around to-morrow, and i think you’ll have no further trouble.
any friend of mine walks where he likes in this country, or i’ll know the reason why!’
when they got back to the kitchen again, they found the rat walking up and down, very restless.
the underground atmosphere was oppressing him and getting on his nerves, and he seemed really to be afraid that the river would run away if he wasn’t there to look after it.
so he had his overcoat on, and his pistols thrust into his belt again.
‘come along, mole,’ he said anxiously, as soon as he caught sight of them.
‘we must get off while it’s daylight.
don’t want to spend another night in the wild wood again.’
‘it’ll be all right, my fine fellow,’ said the otter.
‘i’m coming along with you, and i know every path blindfold; and if there’s a head that needs to be punched, you can confidently rely upon me to punch it.’
‘you really needn’t fret, ratty,’ added the badger placidly.
‘my passages run further than you think, and i’ve bolt-holes to the edge of the wood in several directions, though i don’t care for everybody to know about them.
when you really have to go, you shall leave by one of my short cuts.
meantime, make yourself easy, and sit down again.’
the rat was nevertheless still anxious to be off and attend to his river, so the badger, taking up his lantern again, led the way along a damp and airless tunnel that wound and dipped, part vaulted, part hewn through solid rock, for a weary distance that seemed to be miles.
at last daylight began to show itself confusedly through tangled growth overhanging the mouth of the passage; and the badger, bidding them a hasty good-bye, pushed them hurriedly through the opening, made everything look as natural as possible again, with creepers, brushwood, and dead leaves, and retreated.
they found themselves standing on the very edge of the wild wood.
rocks and brambles and tree-roots behind them, confusedly heaped and tangled; in front, a great space of quiet fields, hemmed by lines of hedges black on the snow, and, far ahead, a glint of the familiar old river, while the wintry sun hung red and low on the horizon.
the otter, as knowing all the paths, took charge of the party, and they trailed out on a bee-line for a distant stile.
pausing there a moment and looking back, they saw the whole mass of the wild wood, dense, menacing, compact, grimly set in vast white surroundings; simultaneously they turned and made swiftly for home, for firelight and the familiar things it played on, for the voice, sounding cheerily outside their window, of the river that they knew and trusted in all its moods, that never made them afraid with any amazement.
as he hurried along, eagerly anticipating the moment when he would be at home again among the things he knew and liked, the mole saw clearly that he was an animal of tilled field and hedge-row, linked to the ploughed furrow, the frequented pasture, the lane of evening lingerings, the cultivated garden-plot.
for others the asperities, the stubborn endurance, or the clash of actual conflict, that went with nature in the rough; he must be wise, must keep to the pleasant places in which his lines were laid and which held adventure enough, in their way, to last for a lifetime.
v. dulce domum
the sheep ran huddling together against the hurdles, blowing out thin nostrils and stamping with delicate fore-feet, their heads thrown back and a light steam rising from the crowded sheep-pen into the frosty air, as the two animals hastened by in high spirits, with much chatter and laughter.
they were returning across country after a long day’s outing with otter, hunting and exploring on the wide uplands where certain streams tributary to their own river had their first small beginnings; and the shades of the short winter day were closing in on them, and they had still some distance to go.
plodding at random across the plough, they had heard the sheep and had made for them; and now, leading from the sheep-pen, they found a beaten track that made walking a lighter business, and responded, moreover, to that small inquiring something which all animals carry inside them, saying unmistakably, ‘yes, quite right; this leads home!’
‘it looks as if we were coming to a village,’ said the mole somewhat dubiously, slackening his pace, as the track, that had in time become a path and then had developed into a lane, now handed them over to the charge of a well-metalled road.
the animals did not hold with villages, and their own highways, thickly frequented as they were, took an independent course, regardless of church, post office, or public-house.
‘oh, never mind!’ said the rat.
‘at this season of the year they’re all safe indoors by this time, sitting round the fire; men, women, and children, dogs and cats and all.
we shall slip through all right, without any bother or unpleasantness, and we can have a look at them through their windows if you like, and see what they’re doing.’
the rapid nightfall of mid-december had quite beset the little village as they approached it on soft feet over a first thin fall of powdery snow.
little was visible but squares of a dusky orange-red on either side of the street, where the firelight or lamplight of each cottage overflowed through the casements into the dark world without.
most of the low latticed windows were innocent of blinds, and to the lookers-in from outside, the inmates, gathered round the tea-table, absorbed in handiwork, or talking with laughter and gesture, had each that happy grace which is the last thing the skilled actor shall capture the natural grace which goes with perfect unconsciousness of observation.
moving at will from one theatre to another, the two spectators, so far from home themselves, had something of wistfulness in their eyes as they watched a cat being stroked, a sleepy child picked up and huddled off to bed, or a tired man stretch and knock out his pipe on the end of a smouldering log.
but it was from one little window, with its blind drawn down, a mere blank transparency on the night, that the sense of home and the little curtained world within walls the larger stressful world of outside nature shut out and forgotten most pulsated.
close against the white blind hung a bird-cage, clearly silhouetted, every wire, perch, and appurtenance distinct and recognisable, even to yesterday’s dull-edged lump of sugar.
on the middle perch the fluffy occupant, head tucked well into feathers, seemed so near to them as to be easily stroked, had they tried; even the delicate tips of his plumped-out plumage pencilled plainly on the illuminated screen.
as they looked, the sleepy little fellow stirred uneasily, woke, shook himself, and raised his head.
they could see the gape of his tiny beak as he yawned in a bored sort of way, looked round, and then settled his head into his back again, while the ruffled feathers gradually subsided into perfect stillness.
then a gust of bitter wind took them in the back of the neck, a small sting of frozen sleet on the skin woke them as from a dream, and they knew their toes to be cold and their legs tired, and their own home distant a weary way.
once beyond the village, where the cottages ceased abruptly, on either side of the road they could smell through the darkness the friendly fields again; and they braced themselves for the last long stretch, the home stretch, the stretch that we know is bound to end, some time, in the rattle of the door-latch, the sudden firelight, and the sight of familiar things greeting us as long-absent travellers from far over-sea.
they plodded along steadily and silently, each of them thinking his own thoughts.
the mole’s ran a good deal on supper, as it was pitch-dark, and it was all a strange country for him as far as he knew, and he was following obediently in the wake of the rat, leaving the guidance entirely to him.
as for the rat, he was walking a little way ahead, as his habit was, his shoulders humped, his eyes fixed on the straight grey road in front of him; so he did not notice poor mole when suddenly the summons reached him, and took him like an electric shock.
we others, who have long lost the more subtle of the physical senses, have not even proper terms to express an animal’s inter-communications with his surroundings, living or otherwise, and have only the word ‘smell,’ for instance, to include the whole range of delicate thrills which murmur in the nose of the animal night and day, summoning, warning, inciting, repelling.
it was one of these mysterious fairy calls from out the void that suddenly reached mole in the darkness, making him tingle through and through with its very familiar appeal, even while yet he could not clearly remember what it was.
he stopped dead in his tracks, his nose searching hither and thither in its efforts to recapture the fine filament, the telegraphic current, that had so strongly moved him.
a moment, and he had caught it again; and with it this time came recollection in fullest flood.
home!
that was what they meant, those caressing appeals, those soft touches wafted through the air, those invisible little hands pulling and tugging, all one way!
why, it must be quite close by him at that moment, his old home that he had hurriedly forsaken and never sought again, that day when he first found the river!
and now it was sending out its scouts and its messengers to capture him and bring him in.
since his escape on that bright morning he had hardly given it a thought, so absorbed had he been in his new life, in all its pleasures, its surprises, its fresh and captivating experiences.
now, with a rush of old memories, how clearly it stood up before him, in the darkness!
shabby indeed, and small and poorly furnished, and yet his, the home he had made for himself, the home he had been so happy to get back to after his day’s work.
and the home had been happy with him, too, evidently, and was missing him, and wanted him back, and was telling him so, through his nose, sorrowfully, reproachfully, but with no bitterness or anger; only with plaintive reminder that it was there, and wanted him.
the call was clear, the summons was plain.
he must obey it instantly, and go.
‘ratty!’ he called, full of joyful excitement, ‘hold on!
come back!
i want you, quick!’
‘oh, come along, mole, do!’ replied the rat cheerfully, still plodding along.
‘please stop, ratty!’ pleaded the poor mole, in anguish of heart.
‘you don’t understand!
it’s my home, my old home!
i’ve just come across the smell of it, and it’s close by here, really quite close.
and i must go to it, i must, i must!
oh, come back, ratty!
please, please come back!’
the rat was by this time very far ahead, too far to hear clearly what the mole was calling, too far to catch the sharp note of painful appeal in his voice.
and he was much taken up with the weather, for he too could smell something something suspiciously like approaching snow.
‘mole, we mustn’t stop now, really!’ he called back.
‘we’ll come for it to-morrow, whatever it is you’ve found.
but i daren’t stop now it’s late, and the snow’s coming on again, and i’m not sure of the way!
and i want your nose, mole, so come on quick, there’s a good fellow!’ and the rat pressed forward on his way without waiting for an answer.
poor mole stood alone in the road, his heart torn asunder, and a big sob gathering, gathering, somewhere low down inside him, to leap up to the surface presently, he knew, in passionate escape.
but even under such a test as this his loyalty to his friend stood firm.
never for a moment did he dream of abandoning him.
meanwhile, the wafts from his old home pleaded, whispered, conjured, and finally claimed him imperiously.
he dared not tarry longer within their magic circle.
with a wrench that tore his very heartstrings he set his face down the road and followed submissively in the track of the rat, while faint, thin little smells, still dogging his retreating nose, reproached him for his new friendship and his callous forgetfulness.
with an effort he caught up to the unsuspecting rat, who began chattering cheerfully about what they would do when they got back, and how jolly a fire of logs in the parlour would be, and what a supper he meant to eat; never noticing his companion’s silence and distressful state of mind.
at last, however, when they had gone some considerable way further, and were passing some tree-stumps at the edge of a copse that bordered the road, he stopped and said kindly, ‘look here, mole old chap, you seem dead tired.
no talk left in you, and your feet dragging like lead.
we’ll sit down here for a minute and rest.
the snow has held off so far, and the best part of our journey is over.’
the mole subsided forlornly on a tree-stump and tried to control himself, for he felt it surely coming.
the sob he had fought with so long refused to be beaten.
up and up, it forced its way to the air, and then another, and another, and others thick and fast; till poor mole at last gave up the struggle, and cried freely and helplessly and openly, now that he knew it was all over and he had lost what he could hardly be said to have found.
the rat, astonished and dismayed at the violence of mole’s paroxysm of grief, did not dare to speak for a while.
at last he said, very quietly and sympathetically, ‘what is it, old fellow?
whatever can be the matter?
tell us your trouble, and let me see what i can do.’
poor mole found it difficult to get any words out between the upheavals of his chest that followed one upon another so quickly and held back speech and choked it as it came.
‘i know it’s a shabby, dingy little place,’ he sobbed forth at last, brokenly: ‘not like your cosy quarters or toad’s beautiful hall or badger’s great house but it was my own little home and i was fond of it and i went away and forgot all about it and then i smelt it suddenly on the road, when i called and you wouldn’t listen, rat and everything came back to me with a rush and i wanted it!
o dear, o dear!
and when you wouldn’t turn back, ratty and i had to leave it, though i was smelling it all the time i thought my heart would break.
we might have just gone and had one look at it, ratty only one look it was close by but you wouldn’t turn back, ratty, you wouldn’t turn back!
o dear, o dear!’
recollection brought fresh waves of sorrow, and sobs again took full charge of him, preventing further speech.
the rat stared straight in front of him, saying nothing, only patting mole gently on the shoulder.
after a time he muttered gloomily, ‘i see it all now!
what a pig i have been!
a pig that’s me!
just a pig a plain pig!’
he waited till mole’s sobs became gradually less stormy and more rhythmical; he waited till at last sniffs were frequent and sobs only intermittent.
then he rose from his seat, and, remarking carelessly, ‘well, now we’d really better be getting on, old chap!’ set off up the road again, over the toilsome way they had come.
‘wherever are you (hic) going to (hic), ratty?’ cried the tearful mole, looking up in alarm.
‘we’re going to find that home of yours, old fellow,’ replied the rat pleasantly; ‘so you had better come along, for it will take some finding, and we shall want your nose.’
‘oh, come back, ratty, do!’ cried the mole, getting up and hurrying after him.
‘it’s no good, i tell you!
it’s too late, and too dark, and the place is too far off, and the snow’s coming!
and and i never meant to let you know i was feeling that way about it it was all an accident and a mistake!
and think of river bank, and your supper!’
‘hang river bank, and supper too!’ said the rat heartily.
‘i tell you, i’m going to find this place now, if i stay out all night.
so cheer up, old chap, and take my arm, and we’ll very soon be back there again.’
still snuffling, pleading, and reluctant, mole suffered himself to be dragged back along the road by his imperious companion, who by a flow of cheerful talk and anecdote endeavoured to beguile his spirits back and make the weary way seem shorter.
when at last it seemed to the rat that they must be nearing that part of the road where the mole had been ‘held up,’ he said, ‘now, no more talking.
business!
use your nose, and give your mind to it.’
they moved on in silence for some little way, when suddenly the rat was conscious, through his arm that was linked in mole’s, of a faint sort of electric thrill that was passing down that animal’s body.
instantly he disengaged himself, fell back a pace, and waited, all attention.
the signals were coming through!
mole stood a moment rigid, while his uplifted nose, quivering slightly, felt the air.
then a short, quick run forward a fault a check a try back; and then a slow, steady, confident advance.
the rat, much excited, kept close to his heels as the mole, with something of the air of a sleep-walker, crossed a dry ditch, scrambled through a hedge, and nosed his way over a field open and trackless and bare in the faint starlight.
suddenly, without giving warning, he dived; but the rat was on the alert, and promptly followed him down the tunnel to which his unerring nose had faithfully led him.
it was close and airless, and the earthy smell was strong, and it seemed a long time to rat ere the passage ended and he could stand erect and stretch and shake himself.
the mole struck a match, and by its light the rat saw that they were standing in an open space, neatly swept and sanded underfoot, and directly facing them was mole’s little front door, with ‘mole end’ painted, in gothic lettering, over the bell-pull at the side.
mole reached down a lantern from a nail on the wall and lit it... and the rat, looking round him, saw that they were in a sort of fore-court.
a garden-seat stood on one side of the door, and on the other a roller; for the mole, who was a tidy animal when at home, could not stand having his ground kicked up by other animals into little runs that ended in earth-heaps.
on the walls hung wire baskets with ferns in them, alternating with brackets carrying plaster statuary garibaldi, and the infant samuel, and queen victoria, and other heroes of modern italy.
down on one side of the forecourt ran a skittle-alley, with benches along it and little wooden tables marked with rings that hinted at beer-mugs.
in the middle was a small round pond containing gold-fish and surrounded by a cockle-shell border.
out of the centre of the pond rose a fanciful erection clothed in more cockle-shells and topped by a large silvered glass ball that reflected everything all wrong and had a very pleasing effect.
mole’s face-beamed at the sight of all these objects so dear to him, and he hurried rat through the door, lit a lamp in the hall, and took one glance round his old home.
he saw the dust lying thick on everything, saw the cheerless, deserted look of the long-neglected house, and its narrow, meagre dimensions, its worn and shabby contents and collapsed again on a hall-chair, his nose to his paws.
‘o ratty!’ he cried dismally, ‘why ever did i do it?
why did i bring you to this poor, cold little place, on a night like this, when you might have been at river bank by this time, toasting your toes before a blazing fire, with all your own nice things about you!’
the rat paid no heed to his doleful self-reproaches.
he was running here and there, opening doors, inspecting rooms and cupboards, and lighting lamps and candles and sticking them, up everywhere.
‘what a capital little house this is!’ he called out cheerily.
‘so compact!
so well planned!
everything here and everything in its place!
we’ll make a jolly night of it.
the first thing we want is a good fire; i’ll see to that i always know where to find things.
so this is the parlour?
splendid!
your own idea, those little sleeping-bunks in the wall?
capital!
now, i’ll fetch the wood and the coals, and you get a duster, mole you’ll find one in the drawer of the kitchen table and try and smarten things up a bit.
bustle about, old chap!’
encouraged by his inspiriting companion, the mole roused himself and dusted and polished with energy and heartiness, while the rat, running to and fro with armfuls of fuel, soon had a cheerful blaze roaring up the chimney.
he hailed the mole to come and warm himself; but mole promptly had another fit of the blues, dropping down on a couch in dark despair and burying his face in his duster.
‘rat,’ he moaned, ‘how about your supper, you poor, cold, hungry, weary animal?
i’ve nothing to give you nothing not a crumb!’
‘what a fellow you are for giving in!’ said the rat reproachfully.
‘why, only just now i saw a sardine-opener on the kitchen dresser, quite distinctly; and everybody knows that means there are sardines about somewhere in the neighbourhood.
rouse yourself!
pull yourself together, and come with me and forage.’
they went and foraged accordingly, hunting through every cupboard and turning out every drawer.
the result was not so very depressing after all, though of course it might have been better; a tin of sardines a box of captain’s biscuits, nearly full and a german sausage encased in silver paper.
‘there’s a banquet for you!’ observed the rat, as he arranged the table.
‘i know some animals who would give their ears to be sitting down to supper with us to-night!’
‘no bread!’ groaned the mole dolorously; ‘no butter, no  ’
‘no pate de foie gras, no champagne!’ continued the rat, grinning.
‘and that reminds me what’s that little door at the end of the passage?
your cellar, of course!
every luxury in this house!
just you wait a minute.’
he made for the cellar-door, and presently reappeared, somewhat dusty, with a bottle of beer in each paw and another under each arm, ‘self-indulgent beggar you seem to be, mole,’ he observed.
‘deny yourself nothing.
this is really the jolliest little place i ever was in.
now, wherever did you pick up those prints?
make the place look so home-like, they do.
no wonder you’re so fond of it, mole.
tell us all about it, and how you came to make it what it is.’
then, while the rat busied himself fetching plates, and knives and forks, and mustard which he mixed in an egg-cup, the mole, his bosom still heaving with the stress of his recent emotion, related somewhat shyly at first, but with more freedom as he warmed to his subject how this was planned, and how that was thought out, and how this was got through a windfall from an aunt, and that was a wonderful find and a bargain, and this other thing was bought out of laborious savings and a certain amount of ‘going without.’ his spirits finally quite restored, he must needs go and caress his possessions, and take a lamp and show off their points to his visitor and expatiate on them, quite forgetful of the supper they both so much needed; rat, who was desperately hungry but strove to conceal it, nodding seriously, examining with a puckered brow, and saying, ‘wonderful,’ and ‘most remarkable,’ at intervals, when the chance for an observation was given him.
at last the rat succeeded in decoying him to the table, and had just got seriously to work with the sardine-opener when sounds were heard from the fore-court without sounds like the scuffling of small feet in the gravel and a confused murmur of tiny voices, while broken sentences reached them ‘now, all in a line hold the lantern up a bit, tommy clear your throats first no coughing after i say one, two, three.
where’s young bill?
here, come on, do, we’re all a-waiting  ’
‘what’s up?’ inquired the rat, pausing in his labours.
‘i think it must be the field-mice,’ replied the mole, with a touch of pride in his manner.
‘they go round carol-singing regularly at this time of the year.
they’re quite an institution in these parts.
and they never pass me over they come to mole end last of all; and i used to give them hot drinks, and supper too sometimes, when i could afford it.
it will be like old times to hear them again.’
‘let’s have a look at them!’ cried the rat, jumping up and running to the door.
it was a pretty sight, and a seasonable one, that met their eyes when they flung the door open.
in the fore-court, lit by the dim rays of a horn lantern, some eight or ten little fieldmice stood in a semicircle, red worsted comforters round their throats, their fore-paws thrust deep into their pockets, their feet jigging for warmth.
with bright beady eyes they glanced shyly at each other, sniggering a little, sniffing and applying coat-sleeves a good deal.
as the door opened, one of the elder ones that carried the lantern was just saying, ‘now then, one, two, three!’ and forthwith their shrill little voices uprose on the air, singing one of the old-time carols that their forefathers composed in fields that were fallow and held by frost, or when snow-bound in chimney corners, and handed down to be sung in the miry street to lamp-lit windows at yule-time.
carol
villagers all, this frosty tide,           let your doors swing open wide,           though wind may follow, and snow beside,            yet draw us in by your fire to bide;              joy shall be yours in the morning!
here we stand in the cold and the sleet,           blowing fingers and stamping feet,           come from far away you to greet
you by the fire and we in the street
bidding you joy in the morning!
for ere one half of the night was gone,           sudden a star has led us on,           raining bliss and benison
bliss to-morrow and more anon,             joy for every morning!
goodman joseph toiled through the snow
saw the star o’er a stable low;           mary she might not further go
welcome thatch, and litter below!
joy was hers in the morning!
and then they heard the angels tell           ‘who were the first to cry nowell?
animals all, as it befell,            in the stable where they did dwell!
joy shall be theirs in the morning!’
the voices ceased, the singers, bashful but smiling, exchanged sidelong glances, and silence succeeded but for a moment only.
then, from up above and far away, down the tunnel they had so lately travelled was borne to their ears in a faint musical hum the sound of distant bells ringing a joyful and clangorous peal.
‘very well sung, boys!’ cried the rat heartily.
‘and now come along in, all of you, and warm yourselves by the fire, and have something hot!’
‘yes, come along, field-mice,’ cried the mole eagerly.
‘this is quite like old times!
shut the door after you.
pull up that settle to the fire.
now, you just wait a minute, while we o, ratty!’ he cried in despair, plumping down on a seat, with tears impending.
‘whatever are we doing?
we’ve nothing to give them!’
‘you leave all that to me,’ said the masterful rat.
‘here, you with the lantern!
come over this way.
i want to talk to you.
now, tell me, are there any shops open at this hour of the night?’
‘why, certainly, sir,’ replied the field-mouse respectfully.
‘at this time of the year our shops keep open to all sorts of hours.’
‘then look here!’ said the rat.
‘you go off at once, you and your lantern, and you get me  ’
here much muttered conversation ensued, and the mole only heard bits of it, such as ‘fresh, mind!
no, a pound of that will do see you get buggins’s, for i won’t have any other no, only the best if you can’t get it there, try somewhere else yes, of course, home-made, no tinned stuff well then, do the best you can!’ finally, there was a chink of coin passing from paw to paw, the field-mouse was provided with an ample basket for his purchases, and off he hurried, he and his lantern.
the rest of the field-mice, perched in a row on the settle, their small legs swinging, gave themselves up to enjoyment of the fire, and toasted their chilblains till they tingled; while the mole, failing to draw them into easy conversation, plunged into family history and made each of them recite the names of his numerous brothers, who were too young, it appeared, to be allowed to go out a-carolling this year, but looked forward very shortly to winning the parental consent.
the rat, meanwhile, was busy examining the label on one of the beer-bottles.
‘i perceive this to be old burton,’ he remarked approvingly.
‘sensible mole!
the very thing!
now we shall be able to mull some ale!
get the things ready, mole, while i draw the corks.’
it did not take long to prepare the brew and thrust the tin heater well into the red heart of the fire; and soon every field-mouse was sipping and coughing and choking (for a little mulled ale goes a long way) and wiping his eyes and laughing and forgetting he had ever been cold in all his life.
‘they act plays too, these fellows,’ the mole explained to the rat.
‘make them up all by themselves, and act them afterwards.
and very well they do it, too!
they gave us a capital one last year, about a field-mouse who was captured at sea by a barbary corsair, and made to row in a galley; and when he escaped and got home again, his lady-love had gone into a convent.
here, you!
you were in it, i remember.
get up and recite a bit.’
the field-mouse addressed got up on his legs, giggled shyly, looked round the room, and remained absolutely tongue-tied.
his comrades cheered him on, mole coaxed and encouraged him, and the rat went so far as to take him by the shoulders and shake him; but nothing could overcome his stage-fright.
they were all busily engaged on him like watermen applying the royal humane society’s regulations to a case of long submersion, when the latch clicked, the door opened, and the field-mouse with the lantern reappeared, staggering under the weight of his basket.
there was no more talk of play-acting once the very real and solid contents of the basket had been tumbled out on the table.
under the generalship of rat, everybody was set to do something or to fetch something.
in a very few minutes supper was ready, and mole, as he took the head of the table in a sort of a dream, saw a lately barren board set thick with savoury comforts; saw his little friends’ faces brighten and beam as they fell to without delay; and then let himself loose for he was famished indeed on the provender so magically provided, thinking what a happy home-coming this had turned out, after all.
as they ate, they talked of old times, and the field-mice gave him the local gossip up to date, and answered as well as they could the hundred questions he had to ask them.
the rat said little or nothing, only taking care that each guest had what he wanted, and plenty of it, and that mole had no trouble or anxiety about anything.
they clattered off at last, very grateful and showering wishes of the season, with their jacket pockets stuffed with remembrances for the small brothers and sisters at home.
when the door had closed on the last of them and the chink of the lanterns had died away, mole and rat kicked the fire up, drew their chairs in, brewed themselves a last nightcap of mulled ale, and discussed the events of the long day.
at last the rat, with a tremendous yawn, said, ‘mole, old chap, i’m ready to drop.
sleepy is simply not the word.
that your own bunk over on that side?
very well, then, i’ll take this.
what a ripping little house this is!
everything so handy!’
he clambered into his bunk and rolled himself well up in the blankets, and slumber gathered him forthwith, as a swathe of barley is folded into the arms of the reaping machine.
the weary mole also was glad to turn in without delay, and soon had his head on his pillow, in great joy and contentment.
but ere he closed his eyes he let them wander round his old room, mellow in the glow of the firelight that played or rested on familiar and friendly things which had long been unconsciously a part of him, and now smilingly received him back, without rancour.
he was now in just the frame of mind that the tactful rat had quietly worked to bring about in him.
he saw clearly how plain and simple how narrow, even it all was; but clearly, too, how much it all meant to him, and the special value of some such anchorage in one’s existence.
he did not at all want to abandon the new life and its splendid spaces, to turn his back on sun and air and all they offered him and creep home and stay there; the upper world was all too strong, it called to him still, even down there, and he knew he must return to the larger stage.
but it was good to think he had this to come back to; this place which was all his own, these things which were so glad to see him again and could always be counted upon for the same simple welcome.
vi.
mr. toad
it was a bright morning in the early part of summer; the river had resumed its wonted banks and its accustomed pace, and a hot sun seemed to be pulling everything green and bushy and spiky up out of the earth towards him, as if by strings.
the mole and the water rat had been up since dawn, very busy on matters connected with boats and the opening of the boating season; painting and varnishing, mending paddles, repairing cushions, hunting for missing boat-hooks, and so on; and were finishing breakfast in their little parlour and eagerly discussing their plans for the day, when a heavy knock sounded at the door.
‘bother!’ said the rat, all over egg.
‘see who it is, mole, like a good chap, since you’ve finished.’
the mole went to attend the summons, and the rat heard him utter a cry of surprise.
then he flung the parlour door open, and announced with much importance, ‘mr.
badger!’
this was a wonderful thing, indeed, that the badger should pay a formal call on them, or indeed on anybody.
he generally had to be caught, if you wanted him badly, as he slipped quietly along a hedgerow of an early morning or a late evening, or else hunted up in his own house in the middle of the wood, which was a serious undertaking.
the badger strode heavily into the room, and stood looking at the two animals with an expression full of seriousness.
the rat let his egg-spoon fall on the table-cloth, and sat open-mouthed.
‘the hour has come!’ said the badger at last with great solemnity.
‘what hour?’ asked the rat uneasily, glancing at the clock on the mantelpiece.
‘whose hour, you should rather say,’ replied the badger.
‘why, toad’s hour!
the hour of toad!
i said i would take him in hand as soon as the winter was well over, and i’m going to take him in hand to-day!’
‘toad’s hour, of course!’ cried the mole delightedly.
‘hooray!
i remember now!
we’ll teach him to be a sensible toad!’
‘this very morning,’ continued the badger, taking an arm-chair, ‘as i learnt last night from a trustworthy source, another new and exceptionally powerful motor-car will arrive at toad hall on approval or return.
at this very moment, perhaps, toad is busy arraying himself in those singularly hideous habiliments so dear to him, which transform him from a (comparatively) good-looking toad into an object which throws any decent-minded animal that comes across it into a violent fit.
we must be up and doing, ere it is too late.
you two animals will accompany me instantly to toad hall, and the work of rescue shall be accomplished.’
‘right you are!’ cried the rat, starting up.
‘we’ll rescue the poor unhappy animal!
we’ll convert him!
he’ll be the most converted toad that ever was before we’ve done with him!’
they set off up the road on their mission of mercy, badger leading the way.
animals when in company walk in a proper and sensible manner, in single file, instead of sprawling all across the road and being of no use or support to each other in case of sudden trouble or danger.
they reached the carriage-drive of toad hall to find, as the badger had anticipated, a shiny new motor-car, of great size, painted a bright red (toad’s favourite colour), standing in front of the house.
as they neared the door it was flung open, and mr. toad, arrayed in goggles, cap, gaiters, and enormous overcoat, came swaggering down the steps, drawing on his gauntleted gloves.
‘hullo!
come on, you fellows!’ he cried cheerfully on catching sight of them.
‘you’re just in time to come with me for a jolly to come for a jolly for a er jolly  ’
his hearty accents faltered and fell away as he noticed the stern unbending look on the countenances of his silent friends, and his invitation remained unfinished.
the badger strode up the steps.
‘take him inside,’ he said sternly to his companions.
then, as toad was hustled through the door, struggling and protesting, he turned to the chauffeur in charge of the new motor-car.
‘i’m afraid you won’t be wanted to-day,’ he said.
‘mr.
toad has changed his mind.
he will not require the car.
please understand that this is final.
you needn’t wait.’ then he followed the others inside and shut the door.
‘now then!’ he said to the toad, when the four of them stood together in the hall, ‘first of all, take those ridiculous things off!’
‘shan’t!’ replied toad, with great spirit.
‘what is the meaning of this gross outrage?
i demand an instant explanation.’
‘take them off him, then, you two,’ ordered the badger briefly.
they had to lay toad out on the floor, kicking and calling all sorts of names, before they could get to work properly.
then the rat sat on him, and the mole got his motor-clothes off him bit by bit, and they stood him up on his legs again.
a good deal of his blustering spirit seemed to have evaporated with the removal of his fine panoply.
now that he was merely toad, and no longer the terror of the highway, he giggled feebly and looked from one to the other appealingly, seeming quite to understand the situation.
‘you knew it must come to this, sooner or later, toad,’ the badger explained severely.
you’ve disregarded all the warnings we’ve given you, you’ve gone on squandering the money your father left you, and you’re getting us animals a bad name in the district by your furious driving and your smashes and your rows with the police.
independence is all very well, but we animals never allow our friends to make fools of themselves beyond a certain limit; and that limit you’ve reached.
now, you’re a good fellow in many respects, and i don’t want to be too hard on you.
i’ll make one more effort to bring you to reason.
you will come with me into the smoking-room, and there you will hear some facts about yourself; and we’ll see whether you come out of that room the same toad that you went in.’
he took toad firmly by the arm, led him into the smoking-room, and closed the door behind them.
‘that’s no good!’ said the rat contemptuously.
‘talking to toad’ll never cure him.
he’ll say anything.’
they made themselves comfortable in armchairs and waited patiently.
through the closed door they could just hear the long continuous drone of the badger’s voice, rising and falling in waves of oratory; and presently they noticed that the sermon began to be punctuated at intervals by long-drawn sobs, evidently proceeding from the bosom of toad, who was a soft-hearted and affectionate fellow, very easily converted for the time being to any point of view.
after some three-quarters of an hour the door opened, and the badger reappeared, solemnly leading by the paw a very limp and dejected toad.
his skin hung baggily about him, his legs wobbled, and his cheeks were furrowed by the tears so plentifully called forth by the badger’s moving discourse.
‘sit down there, toad,’ said the badger kindly, pointing to a chair.
‘my friends,’ he went on, ‘i am pleased to inform you that toad has at last seen the error of his ways.
he is truly sorry for his misguided conduct in the past, and he has undertaken to give up motor-cars entirely and for ever.
i have his solemn promise to that effect.’
‘that is very good news,’ said the mole gravely.
‘very good news indeed,’ observed the rat dubiously, ‘if only if only  ’
he was looking very hard at toad as he said this, and could not help thinking he perceived something vaguely resembling a twinkle in that animal’s still sorrowful eye.
‘there’s only one thing more to be done,’ continued the gratified badger.
‘toad, i want you solemnly to repeat, before your friends here, what you fully admitted to me in the smoking-room just now.
first, you are sorry for what you’ve done, and you see the folly of it all?’
there was a long, long pause.
toad looked desperately this way and that, while the other animals waited in grave silence.
at last he spoke.
‘no!’ he said, a little sullenly, but stoutly; ‘i’m not sorry.
and it wasn’t folly at all!
it was simply glorious!’
‘what?’ cried the badger, greatly scandalised.
‘you backsliding animal, didn’t you tell me just now, in there  ’
‘oh, yes, yes, in there,’ said toad impatiently.
‘i’d have said anything in there.
you’re so eloquent, dear badger, and so moving, and so convincing, and put all your points so frightfully well you can do what you like with me in there, and you know it.
but i’ve been searching my mind since, and going over things in it, and i find that i’m not a bit sorry or repentant really, so it’s no earthly good saying i am; now, is it?’
‘then you don’t promise,’ said the badger, ‘never to touch a motor-car again?’
‘certainly not!’ replied toad emphatically.
‘on the contrary, i faithfully promise that the very first motor-car i see, poop-poop!
off i go in it!’
‘told you so, didn’t i?’ observed the rat to the mole.
‘very well, then,’ said the badger firmly, rising to his feet.
‘since you won’t yield to persuasion, we’ll try what force can do.
i feared it would come to this all along.
you’ve often asked us three to come and stay with you, toad, in this handsome house of yours; well, now we’re going to.
when we’ve converted you to a proper point of view we may quit, but not before.
take him upstairs, you two, and lock him up in his bedroom, while we arrange matters between ourselves.’
‘it’s for your own good, toady, you know,’ said the rat kindly, as toad, kicking and struggling, was hauled up the stairs by his two faithful friends.
‘think what fun we shall all have together, just as we used to, when you’ve quite got over this this painful attack of yours!’
‘we’ll take great care of everything for you till you’re well, toad,’
said the mole; ‘and we’ll see your money isn’t wasted, as it has been.’
‘no more of those regrettable incidents with the police, toad,’ said the rat, as they thrust him into his bedroom.
‘and no more weeks in hospital, being ordered about by female nurses, toad,’ added the mole, turning the key on him.
they descended the stair, toad shouting abuse at them through the keyhole; and the three friends then met in conference on the situation.
‘it’s going to be a tedious business,’ said the badger, sighing.
‘i’ve never seen toad so determined.
however, we will see it out.
he must never be left an instant unguarded.
we shall have to take it in turns to be with him, till the poison has worked itself out of his system.’
they arranged watches accordingly.
each animal took it in turns to sleep in toad’s room at night, and they divided the day up between them.
at first toad was undoubtedly very trying to his careful guardians.
when his violent paroxysms possessed him he would arrange bedroom chairs in rude resemblance of a motor-car and would crouch on the foremost of them, bent forward and staring fixedly ahead, making uncouth and ghastly noises, till the climax was reached, when, turning a complete somersault, he would lie prostrate amidst the ruins of the chairs, apparently completely satisfied for the moment.
as time passed, however, these painful seizures grew gradually less frequent, and his friends strove to divert his mind into fresh channels.
but his interest in other matters did not seem to revive, and he grew apparently languid and depressed.
one fine morning the rat, whose turn it was to go on duty, went upstairs to relieve badger, whom he found fidgeting to be off and stretch his legs in a long ramble round his wood and down his earths and burrows.
‘toad’s still in bed,’ he told the rat, outside the door.
‘can’t get much out of him, except, “o leave him alone, he wants nothing, perhaps he’ll be better presently, it may pass off in time, don’t be unduly anxious,” and so on.
now, you look out, rat!
when toad’s quiet and submissive and playing at being the hero of a sunday-school prize, then he’s at his artfullest.
there’s sure to be something up.
i know him.
well, now, i must be off.’
‘how are you to-day, old chap?’ inquired the rat cheerfully, as he approached toad’s bedside.
he had to wait some minutes for an answer.
at last a feeble voice replied, ‘thank you so much, dear ratty!
so good of you to inquire!
but first tell me how you are yourself, and the excellent mole?’
‘o, we’re all right,’ replied the rat.
‘mole,’ he added incautiously, ‘is going out for a run round with badger.
they’ll be out till luncheon time, so you and i will spend a pleasant morning together, and i’ll do my best to amuse you.
now jump up, there’s a good fellow, and don’t lie moping there on a fine morning like this!’
‘dear, kind rat,’ murmured toad, ‘how little you realise my condition, and how very far i am from “jumping up” now if ever!
but do not trouble about me.
i hate being a burden to my friends, and i do not expect to be one much longer.
indeed, i almost hope not.’
‘well, i hope not, too,’ said the rat heartily.
‘you’ve been a fine bother to us all this time, and i’m glad to hear it’s going to stop.
and in weather like this, and the boating season just beginning!
it’s too bad of you, toad!
it isn’t the trouble we mind, but you’re making us miss such an awful lot.’
‘i’m afraid it is the trouble you mind, though,’ replied the toad languidly.
‘i can quite understand it.
it’s natural enough.
you’re tired of bothering about me.
i mustn’t ask you to do anything further.
i’m a nuisance, i know.’
‘you are, indeed,’ said the rat.
‘but i tell you, i’d take any trouble on earth for you, if only you’d be a sensible animal.’
‘if i thought that, ratty,’ murmured toad, more feebly than ever, ‘then i would beg you for the last time, probably to step round to the village as quickly as possible even now it may be too late and fetch the doctor.
but don’t you bother.
it’s only a trouble, and perhaps we may as well let things take their course.’
‘why, what do you want a doctor for?’ inquired the rat, coming closer and examining him.
he certainly lay very still and flat, and his voice was weaker and his manner much changed.
‘surely you have noticed of late  ’ murmured toad.
‘but, no why should you?
noticing things is only a trouble.
to-morrow, indeed, you may be saying to yourself, “o, if only i had noticed sooner!
if only i had done something!” but no; it’s a trouble.
never mind forget that i asked.’
‘look here, old man,’ said the rat, beginning to get rather alarmed, ‘of course i’ll fetch a doctor to you, if you really think you want him.
but you can hardly be bad enough for that yet.
let’s talk about something else.’
‘i fear, dear friend,’ said toad, with a sad smile, ‘that “talk” can do little in a case like this or doctors either, for that matter; still, one must grasp at the slightest straw.
and, by the way while you are about it i hate to give you additional trouble, but i happen to remember that you will pass the door would you mind at the same time asking the lawyer to step up?
it would be a convenience to me, and there are moments perhaps i should say there is a moment when one must face disagreeable tasks, at whatever cost to exhausted nature!’
‘a lawyer!
o, he must be really bad!’ the affrighted rat said to himself, as he hurried from the room, not forgetting, however, to lock the door carefully behind him.
outside, he stopped to consider.
the other two were far away, and he had no one to consult.
‘it’s best to be on the safe side,’ he said, on reflection.
‘i’ve known toad fancy himself frightfully bad before, without the slightest reason; but i’ve never heard him ask for a lawyer!
if there’s nothing really the matter, the doctor will tell him he’s an old ass, and cheer him up; and that will be something gained.
i’d better humour him and go; it won’t take very long.’ so he ran off to the village on his errand of mercy.
the toad, who had hopped lightly out of bed as soon as he heard the key turned in the lock, watched him eagerly from the window till he disappeared down the carriage-drive.
then, laughing heartily, he dressed as quickly as possible in the smartest suit he could lay hands on at the moment, filled his pockets with cash which he took from a small drawer in the dressing-table, and next, knotting the sheets from his bed together and tying one end of the improvised rope round the central mullion of the handsome tudor window which formed such a feature of his bedroom, he scrambled out, slid lightly to the ground, and, taking the opposite direction to the rat, marched off lightheartedly, whistling a merry tune.
it was a gloomy luncheon for rat when the badger and the mole at length returned, and he had to face them at table with his pitiful and unconvincing story.
the badger’s caustic, not to say brutal, remarks may be imagined, and therefore passed over; but it was painful to the rat that even the mole, though he took his friend’s side as far as possible, could not help saying, ‘you’ve been a bit of a duffer this time, ratty!
toad, too, of all animals!’
‘he did it awfully well,’ said the crestfallen rat.
‘he did you awfully well!’ rejoined the badger hotly.
‘however, talking won’t mend matters.
he’s got clear away for the time, that’s certain; and the worst of it is, he’ll be so conceited with what he’ll think is his cleverness that he may commit any folly.
one comfort is, we’re free now, and needn’t waste any more of our precious time doing sentry-go.
but we’d better continue to sleep at toad hall for a while longer.
toad may be brought back at any moment on a stretcher, or between two policemen.’
so spoke the badger, not knowing what the future held in store, or how much water, and of how turbid a character, was to run under bridges before toad should sit at ease again in his ancestral hall.
meanwhile, toad, gay and irresponsible, was walking briskly along the high road, some miles from home.
at first he had taken by-paths, and crossed many fields, and changed his course several times, in case of pursuit; but now, feeling by this time safe from recapture, and the sun smiling brightly on him, and all nature joining in a chorus of approval to the song of self-praise that his own heart was singing to him, he almost danced along the road in his satisfaction and conceit.
‘smart piece of work that!’ he remarked to himself chuckling.
‘brain against brute force and brain came out on the top as it’s bound to do.
poor old ratty!
my!
won’t he catch it when the badger gets back!
a worthy fellow, ratty, with many good qualities, but very little intelligence and absolutely no education.
i must take him in hand some day, and see if i can make something of him.’
filled full of conceited thoughts such as these he strode along, his head in the air, till he reached a little town, where the sign of ‘the red lion,’ swinging across the road halfway down the main street, reminded him that he had not breakfasted that day, and that he was exceedingly hungry after his long walk.
he marched into the inn, ordered the best luncheon that could be provided at so short a notice, and sat down to eat it in the coffee-room.
he was about half-way through his meal when an only too familiar sound, approaching down the street, made him start and fall a-trembling all over.
the poop-poop!
drew nearer and nearer, the car could be heard to turn into the inn-yard and come to a stop, and toad had to hold on to the leg of the table to conceal his over-mastering emotion.
presently the party entered the coffee-room, hungry, talkative, and gay, voluble on their experiences of the morning and the merits of the chariot that had brought them along so well.
toad listened eagerly, all ears, for a time; at last he could stand it no longer.
he slipped out of the room quietly, paid his bill at the bar, and as soon as he got outside sauntered round quietly to the inn-yard.
‘there cannot be any harm,’ he said to himself, ‘in my only just looking at it!’
the car stood in the middle of the yard, quite unattended, the stable-helps and other hangers-on being all at their dinner.
toad walked slowly round it, inspecting, criticising, musing deeply.
‘i wonder,’ he said to himself presently, ‘i wonder if this sort of car starts easily?’
next moment, hardly knowing how it came about, he found he had hold of the handle and was turning it.
as the familiar sound broke forth, the old passion seized on toad and completely mastered him, body and soul.
as if in a dream he found himself, somehow, seated in the driver’s seat; as if in a dream, he pulled the lever and swung the car round the yard and out through the archway; and, as if in a dream, all sense of right and wrong, all fear of obvious consequences, seemed temporarily suspended.
he increased his pace, and as the car devoured the street and leapt forth on the high road through the open country, he was only conscious that he was toad once more, toad at his best and highest, toad the terror, the traffic-queller, the lord of the lone trail, before whom all must give way or be smitten into nothingness and everlasting night.
he chanted as he flew, and the car responded with sonorous drone; the miles were eaten up under him as he sped he knew not whither, fulfilling his instincts, living his hour, reckless of what might come to him.
* * * * * *
‘to my mind,’ observed the chairman of the bench of magistrates cheerfully, ‘the only difficulty that presents itself in this otherwise very clear case is, how we can possibly make it sufficiently hot for the incorrigible rogue and hardened ruffian whom we see cowering in the dock before us.
let me see: he has been found guilty, on the clearest evidence, first, of stealing a valuable motor-car; secondly, of driving to the public danger; and, thirdly, of gross impertinence to the rural police.
mr. clerk, will you tell us, please, what is the very stiffest penalty we can impose for each of these offences?
without, of course, giving the prisoner the benefit of any doubt, because there isn’t any.’
the clerk scratched his nose with his pen.
‘some people would consider,’
he observed, ‘that stealing the motor-car was the worst offence; and so it is.
but cheeking the police undoubtedly carries the severest penalty; and so it ought.
supposing you were to say twelve months for the theft, which is mild; and three years for the furious driving, which is lenient; and fifteen years for the cheek, which was pretty bad sort of cheek, judging by what we’ve heard from the witness-box, even if you only believe one-tenth part of what you heard, and i never believe more myself those figures, if added together correctly, tot up to nineteen years  ’
‘first-rate!’ said the chairman.
‘ so you had better make it a round twenty years and be on the safe side,’ concluded the clerk.
‘an excellent suggestion!’ said the chairman approvingly.
‘prisoner!
pull yourself together and try and stand up straight.
it’s going to be twenty years for you this time.
and mind, if you appear before us again, upon any charge whatever, we shall have to deal with you very seriously!’
then the brutal minions of the law fell upon the hapless toad; loaded him with chains, and dragged him from the court house, shrieking, praying, protesting; across the marketplace, where the playful populace, always as severe upon detected crime as they are sympathetic and helpful when one is merely ‘wanted,’ assailed him with jeers, carrots, and popular catch-words; past hooting school children, their innocent faces lit up with the pleasure they ever derive from the sight of a gentleman in difficulties; across the hollow-sounding drawbridge, below the spiky portcullis, under the frowning archway of the grim old castle, whose ancient towers soared high overhead; past guardrooms full of grinning soldiery off duty, past sentries who coughed in a horrid, sarcastic way, because that is as much as a sentry on his post dare do to show his contempt and abhorrence of crime; up time-worn winding stairs, past men-at-arms in casquet and corselet of steel, darting threatening looks through their vizards; across courtyards, where mastiffs strained at their leash and pawed the air to get at him; past ancient warders, their halberds leant against the wall, dozing over a pasty and a flagon of brown ale; on and on, past the rack-chamber and the thumbscrew-room, past the turning that led to the private scaffold, till they reached the door of the grimmest dungeon that lay in the heart of the innermost keep.
there at last they paused, where an ancient gaoler sat fingering a bunch of mighty keys.
‘oddsbodikins!’ said the sergeant of police, taking off his helmet and wiping his forehead.
‘rouse thee, old loon, and take over from us this vile toad, a criminal of deepest guilt and matchless artfulness and resource.
watch and ward him with all thy skill; and mark thee well, greybeard, should aught untoward befall, thy old head shall answer for his and a murrain on both of them!’
the gaoler nodded grimly, laying his withered hand on the shoulder of the miserable toad.
the rusty key creaked in the lock, the great door clanged behind them; and toad was a helpless prisoner in the remotest dungeon of the best-guarded keep of the stoutest castle in all the length and breadth of merry england.
vii.
the piper at the gates of dawn
the willow-wren was twittering his thin little song, hidden himself in the dark selvedge of the river bank.
though it was past ten o’clock at night, the sky still clung to and retained some lingering skirts of light from the departed day; and the sullen heats of the torrid afternoon broke up and rolled away at the dispersing touch of the cool fingers of the short midsummer night.
mole lay stretched on the bank, still panting from the stress of the fierce day that had been cloudless from dawn to late sunset, and waited for his friend to return.
he had been on the river with some companions, leaving the water rat free to keep a engagement of long standing with otter; and he had come back to find the house dark and deserted, and no sign of rat, who was doubtless keeping it up late with his old comrade.
it was still too hot to think of staying indoors, so he lay on some cool dock-leaves, and thought over the past day and its doings, and how very good they all had been.
the rat’s light footfall was presently heard approaching over the parched grass.
‘o, the blessed coolness!’ he said, and sat down, gazing thoughtfully into the river, silent and pre-occupied.
‘you stayed to supper, of course?’ said the mole presently.
‘simply had to,’ said the rat.
‘they wouldn’t hear of my going before.
you know how kind they always are.
and they made things as jolly for me as ever they could, right up to the moment i left.
but i felt a brute all the time, as it was clear to me they were very unhappy, though they tried to hide it.
mole, i’m afraid they’re in trouble.
little portly is missing again; and you know what a lot his father thinks of him, though he never says much about it.’
‘what, that child?’ said the mole lightly.
‘well, suppose he is; why worry about it?
he’s always straying off and getting lost, and turning up again; he’s so adventurous.
but no harm ever happens to him.
everybody hereabouts knows him and likes him, just as they do old otter, and you may be sure some animal or other will come across him and bring him back again all right.
why, we’ve found him ourselves, miles from home, and quite self-possessed and cheerful!’
‘yes; but this time it’s more serious,’ said the rat gravely.
‘he’s been missing for some days now, and the otters have hunted everywhere, high and low, without finding the slightest trace.
and they’ve asked every animal, too, for miles around, and no one knows anything about him.
otter’s evidently more anxious than he’ll admit.
i got out of him that young portly hasn’t learnt to swim very well yet, and i can see he’s thinking of the weir.
there’s a lot of water coming down still, considering the time of the year, and the place always had a fascination for the child.
and then there are well, traps and things you know.
otter’s not the fellow to be nervous about any son of his before it’s time.
and now he is nervous.
when i left, he came out with me said he wanted some air, and talked about stretching his legs.
but i could see it wasn’t that, so i drew him out and pumped him, and got it all from him at last.
he was going to spend the night watching by the ford.
you know the place where the old ford used to be, in by-gone days before they built the bridge?’
‘i know it well,’ said the mole.
‘but why should otter choose to watch there?’
‘well, it seems that it was there he gave portly his first swimming-lesson,’ continued the rat.
‘from that shallow, gravelly spit near the bank.
and it was there he used to teach him fishing, and there young portly caught his first fish, of which he was so very proud.
the child loved the spot, and otter thinks that if he came wandering back from wherever he is if he is anywhere by this time, poor little chap he might make for the ford he was so fond of; or if he came across it he’d remember it well, and stop there and play, perhaps.
so otter goes there every night and watches on the chance, you know, just on the chance!’
they were silent for a time, both thinking of the same thing the lonely, heart-sore animal, crouched by the ford, watching and waiting, the long night through on the chance.
‘well, well,’ said the rat presently, ‘i suppose we ought to be thinking about turning in.’ but he never offered to move.
‘rat,’ said the mole, ‘i simply can’t go and turn in, and go to sleep, and do nothing, even though there doesn’t seem to be anything to be done.
we’ll get the boat out, and paddle up stream.
the moon will be up in an hour or so, and then we will search as well as we can anyhow, it will be better than going to bed and doing nothing.’
‘just what i was thinking myself,’ said the rat.
‘it’s not the sort of night for bed anyhow; and daybreak is not so very far off, and then we may pick up some news of him from early risers as we go along.’
they got the boat out, and the rat took the sculls, paddling with caution.
out in midstream, there was a clear, narrow track that faintly reflected the sky; but wherever shadows fell on the water from bank, bush, or tree, they were as solid to all appearance as the banks themselves, and the mole had to steer with judgment accordingly.
dark and deserted as it was, the night was full of small noises, song and chatter and rustling, telling of the busy little population who were up and about, plying their trades and vocations through the night till sunshine should fall on them at last and send them off to their well-earned repose.
the water’s own noises, too, were more apparent than by day, its gurglings and ‘cloops’ more unexpected and near at hand; and constantly they started at what seemed a sudden clear call from an actual articulate voice.
the line of the horizon was clear and hard against the sky, and in one particular quarter it showed black against a silvery climbing phosphorescence that grew and grew.
at last, over the rim of the waiting earth the moon lifted with slow majesty till it swung clear of the horizon and rode off, free of moorings; and once more they began to see surfaces meadows wide-spread, and quiet gardens, and the river itself from bank to bank, all softly disclosed, all washed clean of mystery and terror, all radiant again as by day, but with a difference that was tremendous.
their old haunts greeted them again in other raiment, as if they had slipped away and put on this pure new apparel and come quietly back, smiling as they shyly waited to see if they would be recognised again under it.
fastening their boat to a willow, the friends landed in this silent, silver kingdom, and patiently explored the hedges, the hollow trees, the runnels and their little culverts, the ditches and dry water-ways.
embarking again and crossing over, they worked their way up the stream in this manner, while the moon, serene and detached in a cloudless sky, did what she could, though so far off, to help them in their quest; till her hour came and she sank earthwards reluctantly, and left them, and mystery once more held field and river.
then a change began slowly to declare itself.
the horizon became clearer, field and tree came more into sight, and somehow with a different look; the mystery began to drop away from them.
a bird piped suddenly, and was still; and a light breeze sprang up and set the reeds and bulrushes rustling.
rat, who was in the stern of the boat, while mole sculled, sat up suddenly and listened with a passionate intentness.
mole, who with gentle strokes was just keeping the boat moving while he scanned the banks with care, looked at him with curiosity.
‘it’s gone!’ sighed the rat, sinking back in his seat again.
‘so beautiful and strange and new.
since it was to end so soon, i almost wish i had never heard it.
for it has roused a longing in me that is pain, and nothing seems worth while but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to it for ever.
no!
there it is again!’ he cried, alert once more.
entranced, he was silent for a long space, spellbound.
‘now it passes on and i begin to lose it,’ he said presently.
‘o mole!
the beauty of it!
the merry bubble and joy, the thin, clear, happy call of the distant piping!
such music i never dreamed of, and the call in it is stronger even than the music is sweet!
row on, mole, row!
for the music and the call must be for us.’
the mole, greatly wondering, obeyed.
‘i hear nothing myself,’ he said, ‘but the wind playing in the reeds and rushes and osiers.’
the rat never answered, if indeed he heard.
rapt, transported, trembling, he was possessed in all his senses by this new divine thing that caught up his helpless soul and swung and dandled it, a powerless but happy infant in a strong sustaining grasp.
in silence mole rowed steadily, and soon they came to a point where the river divided, a long backwater branching off to one side.
with a slight movement of his head rat, who had long dropped the rudder-lines, directed the rower to take the backwater.
the creeping tide of light gained and gained, and now they could see the colour of the flowers that gemmed the water’s edge.
‘clearer and nearer still,’ cried the rat joyously.
‘now you must surely hear it!
ah at last i see you do!’
breathless and transfixed the mole stopped rowing as the liquid run of that glad piping broke on him like a wave, caught him up, and possessed him utterly.
he saw the tears on his comrade’s cheeks, and bowed his head and understood.
for a space they hung there, brushed by the purple loose-strife that fringed the bank; then the clear imperious summons that marched hand-in-hand with the intoxicating melody imposed its will on mole, and mechanically he bent to his oars again.
and the light grew steadily stronger, but no birds sang as they were wont to do at the approach of dawn; and but for the heavenly music all was marvellously still.
on either side of them, as they glided onwards, the rich meadow-grass seemed that morning of a freshness and a greenness unsurpassable.
never had they noticed the roses so vivid, the willow-herb so riotous, the meadow-sweet so odorous and pervading.
then the murmur of the approaching weir began to hold the air, and they felt a consciousness that they were nearing the end, whatever it might be, that surely awaited their expedition.
a wide half-circle of foam and glinting lights and shining shoulders of green water, the great weir closed the backwater from bank to bank, troubled all the quiet surface with twirling eddies and floating foam-streaks, and deadened all other sounds with its solemn and soothing rumble.
in midmost of the stream, embraced in the weir’s shimmering arm-spread, a small island lay anchored, fringed close with willow and silver birch and alder.
reserved, shy, but full of significance, it hid whatever it might hold behind a veil, keeping it till the hour should come, and, with the hour, those who were called and chosen.
slowly, but with no doubt or hesitation whatever, and in something of a solemn expectancy, the two animals passed through the broken tumultuous water and moored their boat at the flowery margin of the island.
in silence they landed, and pushed through the blossom and scented herbage and undergrowth that led up to the level ground, till they stood on a little lawn of a marvellous green, set round with nature’s own orchard-trees crab-apple, wild cherry, and sloe.
‘this is the place of my song-dream, the place the music played to me,’
whispered the rat, as if in a trance.
‘here, in this holy place, here if anywhere, surely we shall find him!’
then suddenly the mole felt a great awe fall upon him, an awe that turned his muscles to water, bowed his head, and rooted his feet to the ground.
it was no panic terror indeed he felt wonderfully at peace and happy but it was an awe that smote and held him and, without seeing, he knew it could only mean that some august presence was very, very near.
with difficulty he turned to look for his friend and saw him at his side cowed, stricken, and trembling violently.
and still there was utter silence in the populous bird-haunted branches around them; and still the light grew and grew.
perhaps he would never have dared to raise his eyes, but that, though the piping was now hushed, the call and the summons seemed still dominant and imperious.
he might not refuse, were death himself waiting to strike him instantly, once he had looked with mortal eye on things rightly kept hidden.
trembling he obeyed, and raised his humble head; and then, in that utter clearness of the imminent dawn, while nature, flushed with fullness of incredible colour, seemed to hold her breath for the event, he looked in the very eyes of the friend and helper; saw the backward sweep of the curved horns, gleaming in the growing daylight; saw the stern, hooked nose between the kindly eyes that were looking down on them humourously, while the bearded mouth broke into a half-smile at the corners; saw the rippling muscles on the arm that lay across the broad chest, the long supple hand still holding the pan-pipes only just fallen away from the parted lips; saw the splendid curves of the shaggy limbs disposed in majestic ease on the sward; saw, last of all, nestling between his very hooves, sleeping soundly in entire peace and contentment, the little, round, podgy, childish form of the baby otter.
all this he saw, for one moment breathless and intense, vivid on the morning sky; and still, as he looked, he lived; and still, as he lived, he wondered.
‘rat!’ he found breath to whisper, shaking.
‘are you afraid?’
‘afraid?’ murmured the rat, his eyes shining with unutterable love.
‘afraid!
of him?
o, never, never!
and yet and yet o, mole, i am afraid!’
then the two animals, crouching to the earth, bowed their heads and did worship.
sudden and magnificent, the sun’s broad golden disc showed itself over the horizon facing them; and the first rays, shooting across the level water-meadows, took the animals full in the eyes and dazzled them.
when they were able to look once more, the vision had vanished, and the air was full of the carol of birds that hailed the dawn.
as they stared blankly in dumb misery deepening as they slowly realised all they had seen and all they had lost, a capricious little breeze, dancing up from the surface of the water, tossed the aspens, shook the dewy roses and blew lightly and caressingly in their faces; and with its soft touch came instant oblivion.
for this is the last best gift that the kindly demi-god is careful to bestow on those to whom he has revealed himself in their helping: the gift of forgetfulness.
lest the awful remembrance should remain and grow, and overshadow mirth and pleasure, and the great haunting memory should spoil all the after-lives of little animals helped out of difficulties, in order that they should be happy and lighthearted as before.
mole rubbed his eyes and stared at rat, who was looking about him in a puzzled sort of way.
‘i beg your pardon; what did you say, rat?’ he asked.
‘i think i was only remarking,’ said rat slowly, ‘that this was the right sort of place, and that here, if anywhere, we should find him.
and look!
why, there he is, the little fellow!’ and with a cry of delight he ran towards the slumbering portly.
but mole stood still a moment, held in thought.
as one wakened suddenly from a beautiful dream, who struggles to recall it, and can re-capture nothing but a dim sense of the beauty of it, the beauty!
till that, too, fades away in its turn, and the dreamer bitterly accepts the hard, cold waking and all its penalties; so mole, after struggling with his memory for a brief space, shook his head sadly and followed the rat.
portly woke up with a joyous squeak, and wriggled with pleasure at the sight of his father’s friends, who had played with him so often in past days.
in a moment, however, his face grew blank, and he fell to hunting round in a circle with pleading whine.
as a child that has fallen happily asleep in its nurse’s arms, and wakes to find itself alone and laid in a strange place, and searches corners and cupboards, and runs from room to room, despair growing silently in its heart, even so portly searched the island and searched, dogged and unwearying, till at last the black moment came for giving it up, and sitting down and crying bitterly.
the mole ran quickly to comfort the little animal; but rat, lingering, looked long and doubtfully at certain hoof-marks deep in the sward.
‘some great animal has been here,’ he murmured slowly and thoughtfully; and stood musing, musing; his mind strangely stirred.
‘come along, rat!’ called the mole.
‘think of poor otter, waiting up there by the ford!’
portly had soon been comforted by the promise of a treat a jaunt on the river in mr. rat’s real boat; and the two animals conducted him to the water’s side, placed him securely between them in the bottom of the boat, and paddled off down the backwater.
the sun was fully up by now, and hot on them, birds sang lustily and without restraint, and flowers smiled and nodded from either bank, but somehow so thought the animals with less of richness and blaze of colour than they seemed to remember seeing quite recently somewhere they wondered where.
the main river reached again, they turned the boat’s head upstream, towards the point where they knew their friend was keeping his lonely vigil.
as they drew near the familiar ford, the mole took the boat in to the bank, and they lifted portly out and set him on his legs on the tow-path, gave him his marching orders and a friendly farewell pat on the back, and shoved out into mid-stream.
they watched the little animal as he waddled along the path contentedly and with importance; watched him till they saw his muzzle suddenly lift and his waddle break into a clumsy amble as he quickened his pace with shrill whines and wriggles of recognition.
looking up the river, they could see otter start up, tense and rigid, from out of the shallows where he crouched in dumb patience, and could hear his amazed and joyous bark as he bounded up through the osiers on to the path.
then the mole, with a strong pull on one oar, swung the boat round and let the full stream bear them down again whither it would, their quest now happily ended.
‘i feel strangely tired, rat,’ said the mole, leaning wearily over his oars as the boat drifted.
‘it’s being up all night, you’ll say, perhaps; but that’s nothing.
we do as much half the nights of the week, at this time of the year.
no; i feel as if i had been through something very exciting and rather terrible, and it was just over; and yet nothing particular has happened.’
‘or something very surprising and splendid and beautiful,’ murmured the rat, leaning back and closing his eyes.
‘i feel just as you do, mole; simply dead tired, though not body tired.
it’s lucky we’ve got the stream with us, to take us home.
isn’t it jolly to feel the sun again, soaking into one’s bones!
and hark to the wind playing in the reeds!’
‘it’s like music far away music,’ said the mole nodding drowsily.
‘so i was thinking,’ murmured the rat, dreamful and languid.
‘dance-music the lilting sort that runs on without a stop but with words in it, too it passes into words and out of them again i catch them at intervals then it is dance-music once more, and then nothing but the reeds’ soft thin whispering.’
‘you hear better than i,’ said the mole sadly.
‘i cannot catch the words.’
‘let me try and give you them,’ said the rat softly, his eyes still closed.
‘now it is turning into words again faint but clear lest the awe should dwell and turn your frolic to fret you shall look on my power at the helping hour but then you shall forget!
now the reeds take it up forget, forget, they sigh, and it dies away in a rustle and a whisper.
then the voice returns
‘lest limbs be reddened and rent i spring the trap that is set as i loose the snare you may glimpse me there for surely you shall forget!
row nearer, mole, nearer to the reeds!
it is hard to catch, and grows each minute fainter.
‘helper and healer, i cheer small waifs in the woodland wet strays i find in it, wounds i bind in it bidding them all forget!
nearer, mole, nearer!
no, it is no good; the song has died away into reed-talk.’
‘but what do the words mean?’ asked the wondering mole.
‘that i do not know,’ said the rat simply.
‘i passed them on to you as they reached me.
ah!
now they return again, and this time full and clear!
this time, at last, it is the real, the unmistakable thing, simple passionate perfect  ’
‘well, let’s have it, then,’ said the mole, after he had waited patiently for a few minutes, half-dozing in the hot sun.
but no answer came.
he looked, and understood the silence.
with a smile of much happiness on his face, and something of a listening look still lingering there, the weary rat was fast asleep.
viii.
toad’s adventures
when toad found himself immured in a dank and noisome dungeon, and knew that all the grim darkness of a medieval fortress lay between him and the outer world of sunshine and well-metalled high roads where he had lately been so happy, disporting himself as if he had bought up every road in england, he flung himself at full length on the floor, and shed bitter tears, and abandoned himself to dark despair.
‘this is the end of everything’ (he said), ‘at least it is the end of the career of toad, which is the same thing; the popular and handsome toad, the rich and hospitable toad, the toad so free and careless and debonair!
how can i hope to be ever set at large again’ (he said), ‘who have been imprisoned so justly for stealing so handsome a motor-car in such an audacious manner, and for such lurid and imaginative cheek, bestowed upon such a number of fat, red-faced policemen!’ (here his sobs choked him.)
‘stupid animal that i was’ (he said), ‘now i must languish in this dungeon, till people who were proud to say they knew me, have forgotten the very name of toad!
o wise old badger!’ (he said), ‘o clever, intelligent rat and sensible mole!
what sound judgments, what a knowledge of men and matters you possess!
o unhappy and forsaken toad!’ with lamentations such as these he passed his days and nights for several weeks, refusing his meals or intermediate light refreshments, though the grim and ancient gaoler, knowing that toad’s pockets were well lined, frequently pointed out that many comforts, and indeed luxuries, could by arrangement be sent in at a price from outside.
now the gaoler had a daughter, a pleasant wench and good-hearted, who assisted her father in the lighter duties of his post.
she was particularly fond of animals, and, besides her canary, whose cage hung on a nail in the massive wall of the keep by day, to the great annoyance of prisoners who relished an after-dinner nap, and was shrouded in an antimacassar on the parlour table at night, she kept several piebald mice and a restless revolving squirrel.
this kind-hearted girl, pitying the misery of toad, said to her father one day, ‘father!
i can’t bear to see that poor beast so unhappy, and getting so thin!
you let me have the managing of him.
you know how fond of animals i am.
i’ll make him eat from my hand, and sit up, and do all sorts of things.’
her father replied that she could do what she liked with him.
he was tired of toad, and his sulks and his airs and his meanness.
so that day she went on her errand of mercy, and knocked at the door of toad’s cell.
‘now, cheer up, toad,’ she said, coaxingly, on entering, ‘and sit up and dry your eyes and be a sensible animal.
and do try and eat a bit of dinner.
see, i’ve brought you some of mine, hot from the oven!’
it was bubble-and-squeak, between two plates, and its fragrance filled the narrow cell.
the penetrating smell of cabbage reached the nose of toad as he lay prostrate in his misery on the floor, and gave him the idea for a moment that perhaps life was not such a blank and desperate thing as he had imagined.
but still he wailed, and kicked with his legs, and refused to be comforted.
so the wise girl retired for the time, but, of course, a good deal of the smell of hot cabbage remained behind, as it will do, and toad, between his sobs, sniffed and reflected, and gradually began to think new and inspiring thoughts: of chivalry, and poetry, and deeds still to be done; of broad meadows, and cattle browsing in them, raked by sun and wind; of kitchen-gardens, and straight herb-borders, and warm snap-dragon beset by bees; and of the comforting clink of dishes set down on the table at toad hall, and the scrape of chair-legs on the floor as every one pulled himself close up to his work.
the air of the narrow cell took a rosy tinge; he began to think of his friends, and how they would surely be able to do something; of lawyers, and how they would have enjoyed his case, and what an ass he had been not to get in a few; and lastly, he thought of his own great cleverness and resource, and all that he was capable of if he only gave his great mind to it; and the cure was almost complete.
when the girl returned, some hours later, she carried a tray, with a cup of fragrant tea steaming on it; and a plate piled up with very hot buttered toast, cut thick, very brown on both sides, with the butter running through the holes in it in great golden drops, like honey from the honeycomb.
the smell of that buttered toast simply talked to toad, and with no uncertain voice; talked of warm kitchens, of breakfasts on bright frosty mornings, of cosy parlour firesides on winter evenings, when one’s ramble was over and slippered feet were propped on the fender; of the purring of contented cats, and the twitter of sleepy canaries.
toad sat up on end once more, dried his eyes, sipped his tea and munched his toast, and soon began talking freely about himself, and the house he lived in, and his doings there, and how important he was, and what a lot his friends thought of him.
the gaoler’s daughter saw that the topic was doing him as much good as the tea, as indeed it was, and encouraged him to go on.
‘tell me about toad hall,’ said she.
‘it sounds beautiful.’
‘toad hall,’ said the toad proudly, ‘is an eligible self-contained gentleman’s residence very unique; dating in part from the fourteenth century, but replete with every modern convenience.
up-to-date sanitation.
five minutes from church, post-office, and golf-links, suitable for  ’
‘bless the animal,’ said the girl, laughing, ‘i don’t want to take it.
tell me something real about it.
but first wait till i fetch you some more tea and toast.’
she tripped away, and presently returned with a fresh trayful; and toad, pitching into the toast with avidity, his spirits quite restored to their usual level, told her about the boathouse, and the fish-pond, and the old walled kitchen-garden; and about the pig-styes, and the stables, and the pigeon-house, and the hen-house; and about the dairy, and the wash-house, and the china-cupboards, and the linen-presses (she liked that bit especially); and about the banqueting-hall, and the fun they had there when the other animals were gathered round the table and toad was at his best, singing songs, telling stories, carrying on generally.
then she wanted to know about his animal-friends, and was very interested in all he had to tell her about them and how they lived, and what they did to pass their time.
of course, she did not say she was fond of animals as pets, because she had the sense to see that toad would be extremely offended.
when she said good night, having filled his water-jug and shaken up his straw for him, toad was very much the same sanguine, self-satisfied animal that he had been of old.
he sang a little song or two, of the sort he used to sing at his dinner-parties, curled himself up in the straw, and had an excellent night’s rest and the pleasantest of dreams.
they had many interesting talks together, after that, as the dreary days went on; and the gaoler’s daughter grew very sorry for toad, and thought it a great shame that a poor little animal should be locked up in prison for what seemed to her a very trivial offence.
toad, of course, in his vanity, thought that her interest in him proceeded from a growing tenderness; and he could not help half-regretting that the social gulf between them was so very wide, for she was a comely lass, and evidently admired him very much.
one morning the girl was very thoughtful, and answered at random, and did not seem to toad to be paying proper attention to his witty sayings and sparkling comments.
‘toad,’ she said presently, ‘just listen, please.
i have an aunt who is a washerwoman.’
‘there, there,’ said toad, graciously and affably, ‘never mind; think no more about it.
i have several aunts who ought to be washerwomen.’
‘do be quiet a minute, toad,’ said the girl.
‘you talk too much, that’s your chief fault, and i’m trying to think, and you hurt my head.
as i said, i have an aunt who is a washerwoman; she does the washing for all the prisoners in this castle we try to keep any paying business of that sort in the family, you understand.
she takes out the washing on monday morning, and brings it in on friday evening.
this is a thursday.
now, this is what occurs to me: you’re very rich at least you’re always telling me so and she’s very poor.
a few pounds wouldn’t make any difference to you, and it would mean a lot to her.
now, i think if she were properly approached squared, i believe is the word you animals use you could come to some arrangement by which she would let you have her dress and bonnet and so on, and you could escape from the castle as the official washerwoman.
you’re very alike in many respects particularly about the figure.’
‘we’re not,’ said the toad in a huff.
‘i have a very elegant figure for what i am.’
‘so has my aunt,’ replied the girl, ‘for what she is.
but have it your own way.
you horrid, proud, ungrateful animal, when i’m sorry for you, and trying to help you!’
‘yes, yes, that’s all right; thank you very much indeed,’ said the toad hurriedly.
‘but look here!
you wouldn’t surely have mr. toad of toad hall, going about the country disguised as a washerwoman!’
‘then you can stop here as a toad,’ replied the girl with much spirit.
‘i suppose you want to go off in a coach-and-four!’
honest toad was always ready to admit himself in the wrong.
‘you are a good, kind, clever girl,’ he said, ‘and i am indeed a proud and a stupid toad.
introduce me to your worthy aunt, if you will be so kind, and i have no doubt that the excellent lady and i will be able to arrange terms satisfactory to both parties.’
next evening the girl ushered her aunt into toad’s cell, bearing his week’s washing pinned up in a towel.
the old lady had been prepared beforehand for the interview, and the sight of certain gold sovereigns that toad had thoughtfully placed on the table in full view practically completed the matter and left little further to discuss.
in return for his cash, toad received a cotton print gown, an apron, a shawl, and a rusty black bonnet; the only stipulation the old lady made being that she should be gagged and bound and dumped down in a corner.
by this not very convincing artifice, she explained, aided by picturesque fiction which she could supply herself, she hoped to retain her situation, in spite of the suspicious appearance of things.
toad was delighted with the suggestion.
it would enable him to leave the prison in some style, and with his reputation for being a desperate and dangerous fellow untarnished; and he readily helped the gaoler’s daughter to make her aunt appear as much as possible the victim of circumstances over which she had no control.
‘now it’s your turn, toad,’ said the girl.
‘take off that coat and waistcoat of yours; you’re fat enough as it is.’
shaking with laughter, she proceeded to ‘hook-and-eye’ him into the cotton print gown, arranged the shawl with a professional fold, and tied the strings of the rusty bonnet under his chin.
‘you’re the very image of her,’ she giggled, ‘only i’m sure you never looked half so respectable in all your life before.
now, good-bye, toad, and good luck.
go straight down the way you came up; and if any one says anything to you, as they probably will, being but men, you can chaff back a bit, of course, but remember you’re a widow woman, quite alone in the world, with a character to lose.’
with a quaking heart, but as firm a footstep as he could command, toad set forth cautiously on what seemed to be a most hare-brained and hazardous undertaking; but he was soon agreeably surprised to find how easy everything was made for him, and a little humbled at the thought that both his popularity, and the sex that seemed to inspire it, were really another’s.
the washerwoman’s squat figure in its familiar cotton print seemed a passport for every barred door and grim gateway; even when he hesitated, uncertain as to the right turning to take, he found himself helped out of his difficulty by the warder at the next gate, anxious to be off to his tea, summoning him to come along sharp and not keep him waiting there all night.
the chaff and the humourous sallies to which he was subjected, and to which, of course, he had to provide prompt and effective reply, formed, indeed, his chief danger; for toad was an animal with a strong sense of his own dignity, and the chaff was mostly (he thought) poor and clumsy, and the humour of the sallies entirely lacking.
however, he kept his temper, though with great difficulty, suited his retorts to his company and his supposed character, and did his best not to overstep the limits of good taste.
it seemed hours before he crossed the last courtyard, rejected the pressing invitations from the last guardroom, and dodged the outspread arms of the last warder, pleading with simulated passion for just one farewell embrace.
but at last he heard the wicket-gate in the great outer door click behind him, felt the fresh air of the outer world upon his anxious brow, and knew that he was free!
dizzy with the easy success of his daring exploit, he walked quickly towards the lights of the town, not knowing in the least what he should do next, only quite certain of one thing, that he must remove himself as quickly as possible from the neighbourhood where the lady he was forced to represent was so well-known and so popular a character.
as he walked along, considering, his attention was caught by some red and green lights a little way off, to one side of the town, and the sound of the puffing and snorting of engines and the banging of shunted trucks fell on his ear.
‘aha!’ he thought, ‘this is a piece of luck!
a railway station is the thing i want most in the whole world at this moment; and what’s more, i needn’t go through the town to get it, and shan’t have to support this humiliating character by repartees which, though thoroughly effective, do not assist one’s sense of self-respect.’
he made his way to the station accordingly, consulted a time-table, and found that a train, bound more or less in the direction of his home, was due to start in half-an-hour.
‘more luck!’ said toad, his spirits rising rapidly, and went off to the booking-office to buy his ticket.
he gave the name of the station that he knew to be nearest to the village of which toad hall was the principal feature, and mechanically put his fingers, in search of the necessary money, where his waistcoat pocket should have been.
but here the cotton gown, which had nobly stood by him so far, and which he had basely forgotten, intervened, and frustrated his efforts.
in a sort of nightmare he struggled with the strange uncanny thing that seemed to hold his hands, turn all muscular strivings to water, and laugh at him all the time; while other travellers, forming up in a line behind, waited with impatience, making suggestions of more or less value and comments of more or less stringency and point.
at last somehow he never rightly understood how he burst the barriers, attained the goal, arrived at where all waistcoat pockets are eternally situated, and found not only no money, but no pocket to hold it, and no waistcoat to hold the pocket!
to his horror he recollected that he had left both coat and waistcoat behind him in his cell, and with them his pocket-book, money, keys, watch, matches, pencil-case all that makes life worth living, all that distinguishes the many-pocketed animal, the lord of creation, from the inferior one-pocketed or no-pocketed productions that hop or trip about permissively, unequipped for the real contest.
in his misery he made one desperate effort to carry the thing off, and, with a return to his fine old manner a blend of the squire and the college don he said, ‘look here!
i find i’ve left my purse behind.
just give me that ticket, will you, and i’ll send the money on to-morrow?
i’m well-known in these parts.’
the clerk stared at him and the rusty black bonnet a moment, and then laughed.
‘i should think you were pretty well known in these parts,’
he said, ‘if you’ve tried this game on often.
here, stand away from the window, please, madam; you’re obstructing the other passengers!’
an old gentleman who had been prodding him in the back for some moments here thrust him away, and, what was worse, addressed him as his good woman, which angered toad more than anything that had occurred that evening.
baffled and full of despair, he wandered blindly down the platform where the train was standing, and tears trickled down each side of his nose.
it was hard, he thought, to be within sight of safety and almost of home, and to be baulked by the want of a few wretched shillings and by the pettifogging mistrustfulness of paid officials.
very soon his escape would be discovered, the hunt would be up, he would be caught, reviled, loaded with chains, dragged back again to prison and bread-and-water and straw; his guards and penalties would be doubled; and o, what sarcastic remarks the girl would make!
what was to be done?
he was not swift of foot; his figure was unfortunately recognisable.
could he not squeeze under the seat of a carriage?
he had seen this method adopted by schoolboys, when the journey-money provided by thoughtful parents had been diverted to other and better ends.
as he pondered, he found himself opposite the engine, which was being oiled, wiped, and generally caressed by its affectionate driver, a burly man with an oil-can in one hand and a lump of cotton-waste in the other.
‘hullo, mother!’ said the engine-driver, ‘what’s the trouble?
you don’t look particularly cheerful.’
‘o, sir!’ said toad, crying afresh, ‘i am a poor unhappy washerwoman, and i’ve lost all my money, and can’t pay for a ticket, and i must get home to-night somehow, and whatever i am to do i don’t know.
o dear, o dear!’
‘that’s a bad business, indeed,’ said the engine-driver reflectively.
‘lost your money and can’t get home and got some kids, too, waiting for you, i dare say?’
‘any amount of ‘em,’ sobbed toad.
‘and they’ll be hungry and playing with matches and upsetting lamps, the little innocents!
and quarrelling, and going on generally.
o dear, o dear!’
‘well, i’ll tell you what i’ll do,’ said the good engine-driver.
‘you’re a washerwoman to your trade, says you.
very well, that’s that.
and i’m an engine-driver, as you well may see, and there’s no denying it’s terribly dirty work.
uses up a power of shirts, it does, till my missus is fair tired of washing of ‘em.
if you’ll wash a few shirts for me when you get home, and send ‘em along, i’ll give you a ride on my engine.
it’s against the company’s regulations, but we’re not so very particular in these out-of-the-way parts.’
the toad’s misery turned into rapture as he eagerly scrambled up into the cab of the engine.
of course, he had never washed a shirt in his life, and couldn’t if he tried and, anyhow, he wasn’t going to begin; but he thought: ‘when i get safely home to toad hall, and have money again, and pockets to put it in, i will send the engine-driver enough to pay for quite a quantity of washing, and that will be the same thing, or better.’
the guard waved his welcome flag, the engine-driver whistled in cheerful response, and the train moved out of the station.
as the speed increased, and the toad could see on either side of him real fields, and trees, and hedges, and cows, and horses, all flying past him, and as he thought how every minute was bringing him nearer to toad hall, and sympathetic friends, and money to chink in his pocket, and a soft bed to sleep in, and good things to eat, and praise and admiration at the recital of his adventures and his surpassing cleverness, he began to skip up and down and shout and sing snatches of song, to the great astonishment of the engine-driver, who had come across washerwomen before, at long intervals, but never one at all like this.
they had covered many and many a mile, and toad was already considering what he would have for supper as soon as he got home, when he noticed that the engine-driver, with a puzzled expression on his face, was leaning over the side of the engine and listening hard.
then he saw him climb on to the coals and gaze out over the top of the train; then he returned and said to toad: ‘it’s very strange; we’re the last train running in this direction to-night, yet i could be sworn that i heard another following us!’
toad ceased his frivolous antics at once.
he became grave and depressed, and a dull pain in the lower part of his spine, communicating itself to his legs, made him want to sit down and try desperately not to think of all the possibilities.
by this time the moon was shining brightly, and the engine-driver, steadying himself on the coal, could command a view of the line behind them for a long distance.
presently he called out, ‘i can see it clearly now!
it is an engine, on our rails, coming along at a great pace!
it looks as if we were being pursued!’
the miserable toad, crouching in the coal-dust, tried hard to think of something to do, with dismal want of success.
‘they are gaining on us fast!’ cried the engine-driver.
and the engine is crowded with the queerest lot of people!
men like ancient warders, waving halberds; policemen in their helmets, waving truncheons; and shabbily dressed men in pot-hats, obvious and unmistakable plain-clothes detectives even at this distance, waving revolvers and walking-sticks; all waving, and all shouting the same thing “stop, stop, stop!”’
then toad fell on his knees among the coals and, raising his clasped paws in supplication, cried, ‘save me, only save me, dear kind mr.
engine-driver, and i will confess everything!
i am not the simple washerwoman i seem to be!
i have no children waiting for me, innocent or otherwise!
i am a toad the well-known and popular mr. toad, a landed proprietor; i have just escaped, by my great daring and cleverness, from a loathsome dungeon into which my enemies had flung me; and if those fellows on that engine recapture me, it will be chains and bread-and-water and straw and misery once more for poor, unhappy, innocent toad!’
the engine-driver looked down upon him very sternly, and said, ‘now tell the truth; what were you put in prison for?’
‘it was nothing very much,’ said poor toad, colouring deeply.
‘i only borrowed a motorcar while the owners were at lunch; they had no need of it at the time.
i didn’t mean to steal it, really; but people especially magistrates take such harsh views of thoughtless and high-spirited actions.’
the engine-driver looked very grave and said, ‘i fear that you have been indeed a wicked toad, and by rights i ought to give you up to offended justice.
but you are evidently in sore trouble and distress, so i will not desert you.
i don’t hold with motor-cars, for one thing; and i don’t hold with being ordered about by policemen when i’m on my own engine, for another.
and the sight of an animal in tears always makes me feel queer and softhearted.
so cheer up, toad!
i’ll do my best, and we may beat them yet!’
they piled on more coals, shovelling furiously; the furnace roared, the sparks flew, the engine leapt and swung but still their pursuers slowly gained.
the engine-driver, with a sigh, wiped his brow with a handful of cotton-waste, and said, ‘i’m afraid it’s no good, toad.
you see, they are running light, and they have the better engine.
there’s just one thing left for us to do, and it’s your only chance, so attend very carefully to what i tell you.
a short way ahead of us is a long tunnel, and on the other side of that the line passes through a thick wood.
now, i will put on all the speed i can while we are running through the tunnel, but the other fellows will slow down a bit, naturally, for fear of an accident.
when we are through, i will shut off steam and put on brakes as hard as i can, and the moment it’s safe to do so you must jump and hide in the wood, before they get through the tunnel and see you.
then i will go full speed ahead again, and they can chase me if they like, for as long as they like, and as far as they like.
now mind and be ready to jump when i tell you!’
they piled on more coals, and the train shot into the tunnel, and the engine rushed and roared and rattled, till at last they shot out at the other end into fresh air and the peaceful moonlight, and saw the wood lying dark and helpful upon either side of the line.
the driver shut off steam and put on brakes, the toad got down on the step, and as the train slowed down to almost a walking pace he heard the driver call out, ‘now, jump!’
toad jumped, rolled down a short embankment, picked himself up unhurt, scrambled into the wood and hid.
peeping out, he saw his train get up speed again and disappear at a great pace.
then out of the tunnel burst the pursuing engine, roaring and whistling, her motley crew waving their various weapons and shouting, ‘stop!
stop!
stop!’ when they were past, the toad had a hearty laugh for the first time since he was thrown into prison.
but he soon stopped laughing when he came to consider that it was now very late and dark and cold, and he was in an unknown wood, with no money and no chance of supper, and still far from friends and home; and the dead silence of everything, after the roar and rattle of the train, was something of a shock.
he dared not leave the shelter of the trees, so he struck into the wood, with the idea of leaving the railway as far as possible behind him.
after so many weeks within walls, he found the wood strange and unfriendly and inclined, he thought, to make fun of him.
night-jars, sounding their mechanical rattle, made him think that the wood was full of searching warders, closing in on him.
an owl, swooping noiselessly towards him, brushed his shoulder with its wing, making him jump with the horrid certainty that it was a hand; then flitted off, moth-like, laughing its low ho!
ho!
ho; which toad thought in very poor taste.
once he met a fox, who stopped, looked him up and down in a sarcastic sort of way, and said, ‘hullo, washerwoman!
half a pair of socks and a pillow-case short this week!
mind it doesn’t occur again!’ and swaggered off, sniggering.
toad looked about for a stone to throw at him, but could not succeed in finding one, which vexed him more than anything.
at last, cold, hungry, and tired out, he sought the shelter of a hollow tree, where with branches and dead leaves he made himself as comfortable a bed as he could, and slept soundly till the morning.
ix.
wayfarers all
the water rat was restless, and he did not exactly know why.
to all appearance the summer’s pomp was still at fullest height, and although in the tilled acres green had given way to gold, though rowans were reddening, and the woods were dashed here and there with a tawny fierceness, yet light and warmth and colour were still present in undiminished measure, clean of any chilly premonitions of the passing year.
but the constant chorus of the orchards and hedges had shrunk to a casual evensong from a few yet unwearied performers; the robin was beginning to assert himself once more; and there was a feeling in the air of change and departure.
the cuckoo, of course, had long been silent; but many another feathered friend, for months a part of the familiar landscape and its small society, was missing too and it seemed that the ranks thinned steadily day by day.
rat, ever observant of all winged movement, saw that it was taking daily a southing tendency; and even as he lay in bed at night he thought he could make out, passing in the darkness overhead, the beat and quiver of impatient pinions, obedient to the peremptory call.
nature’s grand hotel has its season, like the others.
as the guests one by one pack, pay, and depart, and the seats at the table-d’hote shrink pitifully at each succeeding meal; as suites of rooms are closed, carpets taken up, and waiters sent away; those boarders who are staying on, en pension, until the next year’s full re-opening, cannot help being somewhat affected by all these flittings and farewells, this eager discussion of plans, routes, and fresh quarters, this daily shrinkage in the stream of comradeship.
one gets unsettled, depressed, and inclined to be querulous.
why this craving for change?
why not stay on quietly here, like us, and be jolly?
you don’t know this hotel out of the season, and what fun we have among ourselves, we fellows who remain and see the whole interesting year out.
all very true, no doubt the others always reply; we quite envy you and some other year perhaps but just now we have engagements and there’s the bus at the door our time is up!
so they depart, with a smile and a nod, and we miss them, and feel resentful.
the rat was a self-sufficing sort of animal, rooted to the land, and, whoever went, he stayed; still, he could not help noticing what was in the air, and feeling some of its influence in his bones.
it was difficult to settle down to anything seriously, with all this flitting going on.
leaving the water-side, where rushes stood thick and tall in a stream that was becoming sluggish and low, he wandered country-wards, crossed a field or two of pasturage already looking dusty and parched, and thrust into the great sea of wheat, yellow, wavy, and murmurous, full of quiet motion and small whisperings.
here he often loved to wander, through the forest of stiff strong stalks that carried their own golden sky away over his head a sky that was always dancing, shimmering, softly talking; or swaying strongly to the passing wind and recovering itself with a toss and a merry laugh.
here, too, he had many small friends, a society complete in itself, leading full and busy lives, but always with a spare moment to gossip, and exchange news with a visitor.
today, however, though they were civil enough, the field-mice and harvest-mice seemed preoccupied.
many were digging and tunnelling busily; others, gathered together in small groups, examined plans and drawings of small flats, stated to be desirable and compact, and situated conveniently near the stores.
some were hauling out dusty trunks and dress-baskets, others were already elbow-deep packing their belongings; while everywhere piles and bundles of wheat, oats, barley, beech-mast and nuts, lay about ready for transport.
‘here’s old ratty!’ they cried as soon as they saw him.
‘come and bear a hand, rat, and don’t stand about idle!’
‘what sort of games are you up to?’ said the water rat severely.
‘you know it isn’t time to be thinking of winter quarters yet, by a long way!’
‘o yes, we know that,’ explained a field-mouse rather shamefacedly; ‘but it’s always as well to be in good time, isn’t it?
we really must get all the furniture and baggage and stores moved out of this before those horrid machines begin clicking round the fields; and then, you know, the best flats get picked up so quickly nowadays, and if you’re late you have to put up with anything; and they want such a lot of doing up, too, before they’re fit to move into.
of course, we’re early, we know that; but we’re only just making a start.’
‘o, bother starts,’ said the rat.
‘it’s a splendid day.
come for a row, or a stroll along the hedges, or a picnic in the woods, or something.’
‘well, i think not to-day, thank you,’ replied the field-mouse hurriedly.
‘perhaps some other day when we’ve more time  ’
the rat, with a snort of contempt, swung round to go, tripped over a hat-box, and fell, with undignified remarks.
‘if people would be more careful,’ said a field-mouse rather stiffly, ‘and look where they’re going, people wouldn’t hurt themselves and forget themselves.
mind that hold-all, rat!
you’d better sit down somewhere.
in an hour or two we may be more free to attend to you.’
‘you won’t be “free” as you call it much this side of christmas, i can see that,’ retorted the rat grumpily, as he picked his way out of the field.
he returned somewhat despondently to his river again his faithful, steady-going old river, which never packed up, flitted, or went into winter quarters.
in the osiers which fringed the bank he spied a swallow sitting.
presently it was joined by another, and then by a third; and the birds, fidgeting restlessly on their bough, talked together earnestly and low.
‘what, already,’ said the rat, strolling up to them.
‘what’s the hurry?
i call it simply ridiculous.’
‘o, we’re not off yet, if that’s what you mean,’ replied the first swallow.
‘we’re only making plans and arranging things.
talking it over, you know what route we’re taking this year, and where we’ll stop, and so on.
that’s half the fun!’
‘fun?’ said the rat; ‘now that’s just what i don’t understand.
if you’ve got to leave this pleasant place, and your friends who will miss you, and your snug homes that you’ve just settled into, why, when the hour strikes i’ve no doubt you’ll go bravely, and face all the trouble and discomfort and change and newness, and make believe that you’re not very unhappy.
but to want to talk about it, or even think about it, till you really need  ’
‘no, you don’t understand, naturally,’ said the second swallow.
‘first, we feel it stirring within us, a sweet unrest; then back come the recollections one by one, like homing pigeons.
they flutter through our dreams at night, they fly with us in our wheelings and circlings by day.
we hunger to inquire of each other, to compare notes and assure ourselves that it was all really true, as one by one the scents and sounds and names of long-forgotten places come gradually back and beckon to us.’
‘couldn’t you stop on for just this year?’ suggested the water rat, wistfully.
‘we’ll all do our best to make you feel at home.
you’ve no idea what good times we have here, while you are far away.’
‘i tried “stopping on” one year,’ said the third swallow.
‘i had grown so fond of the place that when the time came i hung back and let the others go on without me.
for a few weeks it was all well enough, but afterwards, o the weary length of the nights!
the shivering, sunless days!
the air so clammy and chill, and not an insect in an acre of it!
no, it was no good; my courage broke down, and one cold, stormy night i took wing, flying well inland on account of the strong easterly gales.
it was snowing hard as i beat through the passes of the great mountains, and i had a stiff fight to win through; but never shall i forget the blissful feeling of the hot sun again on my back as i sped down to the lakes that lay so blue and placid below me, and the taste of my first fat insect!
the past was like a bad dream; the future was all happy holiday as i moved southwards week by week, easily, lazily, lingering as long as i dared, but always heeding the call!
no, i had had my warning; never again did i think of disobedience.’
‘ah, yes, the call of the south, of the south!’ twittered the other two dreamily.
‘its songs its hues, its radiant air!
o, do you remember  ’
and, forgetting the rat, they slid into passionate reminiscence, while he listened fascinated, and his heart burned within him.
in himself, too, he knew that it was vibrating at last, that chord hitherto dormant and unsuspected.
the mere chatter of these southern-bound birds, their pale and second-hand reports, had yet power to awaken this wild new sensation and thrill him through and through with it; what would one moment of the real thing work in him one passionate touch of the real southern sun, one waft of the authentic odor?
with closed eyes he dared to dream a moment in full abandonment, and when he looked again the river seemed steely and chill, the green fields grey and lightless.
then his loyal heart seemed to cry out on his weaker self for its treachery.
‘why do you ever come back, then, at all?’ he demanded of the swallows jealously.
‘what do you find to attract you in this poor drab little country?’
‘and do you think,’ said the first swallow, ‘that the other call is not for us too, in its due season?
the call of lush meadow-grass, wet orchards, warm, insect-haunted ponds, of browsing cattle, of haymaking, and all the farm-buildings clustering round the house of the perfect eaves?’
‘do you suppose,’ asked the second one, that you are the only living thing that craves with a hungry longing to hear the cuckoo’s note again?’
‘in due time,’ said the third, ‘we shall be home-sick once more for quiet water-lilies swaying on the surface of an english stream.
but to-day all that seems pale and thin and very far away.
just now our blood dances to other music.’
they fell a-twittering among themselves once more, and this time their intoxicating babble was of violet seas, tawny sands, and lizard-haunted walls.
restlessly the rat wandered off once more, climbed the slope that rose gently from the north bank of the river, and lay looking out towards the great ring of downs that barred his vision further southwards his simple horizon hitherto, his mountains of the moon, his limit behind which lay nothing he had cared to see or to know.
to-day, to him gazing south with a new-born need stirring in his heart, the clear sky over their long low outline seemed to pulsate with promise; to-day, the unseen was everything, the unknown the only real fact of life.
on this side of the hills was now the real blank, on the other lay the crowded and coloured panorama that his inner eye was seeing so clearly.
what seas lay beyond, green, leaping, and crested!
what sun-bathed coasts, along which the white villas glittered against the olive woods!
what quiet harbours, thronged with gallant shipping bound for purple islands of wine and spice, islands set low in languorous waters!
he rose and descended river-wards once more; then changed his mind and sought the side of the dusty lane.
there, lying half-buried in the thick, cool under-hedge tangle that bordered it, he could muse on the metalled road and all the wondrous world that it led to; on all the wayfarers, too, that might have trodden it, and the fortunes and adventures they had gone to seek or found unseeking out there, beyond beyond!
footsteps fell on his ear, and the figure of one that walked somewhat wearily came into view; and he saw that it was a rat, and a very dusty one.
the wayfarer, as he reached him, saluted with a gesture of courtesy that had something foreign about it hesitated a moment then with a pleasant smile turned from the track and sat down by his side in the cool herbage.
he seemed tired, and the rat let him rest unquestioned, understanding something of what was in his thoughts; knowing, too, the value all animals attach at times to mere silent companionship, when the weary muscles slacken and the mind marks time.
the wayfarer was lean and keen-featured, and somewhat bowed at the shoulders; his paws were thin and long, his eyes much wrinkled at the corners, and he wore small gold ear rings in his neatly-set well-shaped ears.
his knitted jersey was of a faded blue, his breeches, patched and stained, were based on a blue foundation, and his small belongings that he carried were tied up in a blue cotton handkerchief.
when he had rested awhile the stranger sighed, snuffed the air, and looked about him.
‘that was clover, that warm whiff on the breeze,’ he remarked; ‘and those are cows we hear cropping the grass behind us and blowing softly between mouthfuls.
there is a sound of distant reapers, and yonder rises a blue line of cottage smoke against the woodland.
the river runs somewhere close by, for i hear the call of a moorhen, and i see by your build that you’re a freshwater mariner.
everything seems asleep, and yet going on all the time.
it is a goodly life that you lead, friend; no doubt the best in the world, if only you are strong enough to lead it!’
‘yes, it’s the life, the only life, to live,’ responded the water rat dreamily, and without his usual whole-hearted conviction.
‘i did not say exactly that,’ replied the stranger cautiously; ‘but no doubt it’s the best.
i’ve tried it, and i know.
and because i’ve just tried it six months of it and know it’s the best, here am i, footsore and hungry, tramping away from it, tramping southward, following the old call, back to the old life, the life which is mine and which will not let me go.’
‘is this, then, yet another of them?’ mused the rat.
‘and where have you just come from?’ he asked.
he hardly dared to ask where he was bound for; he seemed to know the answer only too well.
‘nice little farm,’ replied the wayfarer, briefly.
‘upalong in that direction’ he nodded northwards.
‘never mind about it.
i had everything i could want everything i had any right to expect of life, and more; and here i am!
glad to be here all the same, though, glad to be here!
so many miles further on the road, so many hours nearer to my heart’s desire!’
his shining eyes held fast to the horizon, and he seemed to be listening for some sound that was wanting from that inland acreage, vocal as it was with the cheerful music of pasturage and farmyard.
‘you are not one of us,’ said the water rat, ‘nor yet a farmer; nor even, i should judge, of this country.’
‘right,’ replied the stranger.
‘i’m a seafaring rat, i am, and the port i originally hail from is constantinople, though i’m a sort of a foreigner there too, in a manner of speaking.
you will have heard of constantinople, friend?
a fair city, and an ancient and glorious one.
and you may have heard, too, of sigurd, king of norway, and how he sailed thither with sixty ships, and how he and his men rode up through streets all canopied in their honour with purple and gold; and how the emperor and empress came down and banqueted with him on board his ship.
when sigurd returned home, many of his northmen remained behind and entered the emperor’s body-guard, and my ancestor, a norwegian born, stayed behind too, with the ships that sigurd gave the emperor.
seafarers we have ever been, and no wonder; as for me, the city of my birth is no more my home than any pleasant port between there and the london river.
i know them all, and they know me.
set me down on any of their quays or foreshores, and i am home again.’
‘i suppose you go great voyages,’ said the water rat with growing interest.
‘months and months out of sight of land, and provisions running short, and allowanced as to water, and your mind communing with the mighty ocean, and all that sort of thing?’
‘by no means,’ said the sea rat frankly.
‘such a life as you describe would not suit me at all.
i’m in the coasting trade, and rarely out of sight of land.
it’s the jolly times on shore that appeal to me, as much as any seafaring.
o, those southern seaports!
the smell of them, the riding-lights at night, the glamour!’
‘well, perhaps you have chosen the better way,’ said the water rat, but rather doubtfully.
‘tell me something of your coasting, then, if you have a mind to, and what sort of harvest an animal of spirit might hope to bring home from it to warm his latter days with gallant memories by the fireside; for my life, i confess to you, feels to me to-day somewhat narrow and circumscribed.’
‘my last voyage,’ began the sea rat, ‘that landed me eventually in this country, bound with high hopes for my inland farm, will serve as a good example of any of them, and, indeed, as an epitome of my highly-coloured life.
family troubles, as usual, began it.
the domestic storm-cone was hoisted, and i shipped myself on board a small trading vessel bound from constantinople, by classic seas whose every wave throbs with a deathless memory, to the grecian islands and the levant.
those were golden days and balmy nights!
in and out of harbour all the time old friends everywhere sleeping in some cool temple or ruined cistern during the heat of the day feasting and song after sundown, under great stars set in a velvet sky!
thence we turned and coasted up the adriatic, its shores swimming in an atmosphere of amber, rose, and aquamarine; we lay in wide land-locked harbours, we roamed through ancient and noble cities, until at last one morning, as the sun rose royally behind us, we rode into venice down a path of gold.
o, venice is a fine city, wherein a rat can wander at his ease and take his pleasure!
or, when weary of wandering, can sit at the edge of the grand canal at night, feasting with his friends, when the air is full of music and the sky full of stars, and the lights flash and shimmer on the polished steel prows of the swaying gondolas, packed so that you could walk across the canal on them from side to side!
and then the food do you like shellfish?
well, well, we won’t linger over that now.’
he was silent for a time; and the water rat, silent too and enthralled, floated on dream-canals and heard a phantom song pealing high between vaporous grey wave-lapped walls.
‘southwards we sailed again at last,’ continued the sea rat, ‘coasting down the italian shore, till finally we made palermo, and there i quitted for a long, happy spell on shore.
i never stick too long to one ship; one gets narrow-minded and prejudiced.
besides, sicily is one of my happy hunting-grounds.
i know everybody there, and their ways just suit me.
i spent many jolly weeks in the island, staying with friends up country.
when i grew restless again i took advantage of a ship that was trading to sardinia and corsica; and very glad i was to feel the fresh breeze and the sea-spray in my face once more.’
‘but isn’t it very hot and stuffy, down in the hold, i think you call it?’ asked the water rat.
the seafarer looked at him with the suspicion of a wink.
‘i’m an old hand,’ he remarked with much simplicity.
‘the captain’s cabin’s good enough for me.’
‘it’s a hard life, by all accounts,’ murmured the rat, sunk in deep thought.
‘for the crew it is,’ replied the seafarer gravely, again with the ghost of a wink.
‘from corsica,’ he went on, ‘i made use of a ship that was taking wine to the mainland.
we made alassio in the evening, lay to, hauled up our wine-casks, and hove them overboard, tied one to the other by a long line.
then the crew took to the boats and rowed shorewards, singing as they went, and drawing after them the long bobbing procession of casks, like a mile of porpoises.
on the sands they had horses waiting, which dragged the casks up the steep street of the little town with a fine rush and clatter and scramble.
when the last cask was in, we went and refreshed and rested, and sat late into the night, drinking with our friends, and next morning i took to the great olive-woods for a spell and a rest.
for now i had done with islands for the time, and ports and shipping were plentiful; so i led a lazy life among the peasants, lying and watching them work, or stretched high on the hillside with the blue mediterranean far below me.
and so at length, by easy stages, and partly on foot, partly by sea, to marseilles, and the meeting of old shipmates, and the visiting of great ocean-bound vessels, and feasting once more.
talk of shell-fish!
why, sometimes i dream of the shell-fish of marseilles, and wake up crying!’
‘that reminds me,’ said the polite water rat; ‘you happened to mention that you were hungry, and i ought to have spoken earlier.
of course, you will stop and take your midday meal with me?
my hole is close by; it is some time past noon, and you are very welcome to whatever there is.’
‘now i call that kind and brotherly of you,’ said the sea rat.
‘i was indeed hungry when i sat down, and ever since i inadvertently happened to mention shell-fish, my pangs have been extreme.
but couldn’t you fetch it along out here?
i am none too fond of going under hatches, unless i’m obliged to; and then, while we eat, i could tell you more concerning my voyages and the pleasant life i lead at least, it is very pleasant to me, and by your attention i judge it commends itself to you; whereas if we go indoors it is a hundred to one that i shall presently fall asleep.’
‘that is indeed an excellent suggestion,’ said the water rat, and hurried off home.
there he got out the luncheon-basket and packed a simple meal, in which, remembering the stranger’s origin and preferences, he took care to include a yard of long french bread, a sausage out of which the garlic sang, some cheese which lay down and cried, and a long-necked straw-covered flask wherein lay bottled sunshine shed and garnered on far southern slopes.
thus laden, he returned with all speed, and blushed for pleasure at the old seaman’s commendations of his taste and judgment, as together they unpacked the basket and laid out the contents on the grass by the roadside.
the sea rat, as soon as his hunger was somewhat assuaged, continued the history of his latest voyage, conducting his simple hearer from port to port of spain, landing him at lisbon, oporto, and bordeaux, introducing him to the pleasant harbours of cornwall and devon, and so up the channel to that final quayside, where, landing after winds long contrary, storm-driven and weather-beaten, he had caught the first magical hints and heraldings of another spring, and, fired by these, had sped on a long tramp inland, hungry for the experiment of life on some quiet farmstead, very far from the weary beating of any sea.
spell-bound and quivering with excitement, the water rat followed the adventurer league by league, over stormy bays, through crowded roadsteads, across harbour bars on a racing tide, up winding rivers that hid their busy little towns round a sudden turn; and left him with a regretful sigh planted at his dull inland farm, about which he desired to hear nothing.
by this time their meal was over, and the seafarer, refreshed and strengthened, his voice more vibrant, his eye lit with a brightness that seemed caught from some far-away sea-beacon, filled his glass with the red and glowing vintage of the south, and, leaning towards the water rat, compelled his gaze and held him, body and soul, while he talked.
those eyes were of the changing foam-streaked grey-green of leaping northern seas; in the glass shone a hot ruby that seemed the very heart of the south, beating for him who had courage to respond to its pulsation.
the twin lights, the shifting grey and the steadfast red, mastered the water rat and held him bound, fascinated, powerless.
the quiet world outside their rays receded far away and ceased to be.
and the talk, the wonderful talk flowed on or was it speech entirely, or did it pass at times into song chanty of the sailors weighing the dripping anchor, sonorous hum of the shrouds in a tearing north-easter, ballad of the fisherman hauling his nets at sundown against an apricot sky, chords of guitar and mandoline from gondola or caique?
did it change into the cry of the wind, plaintive at first, angrily shrill as it freshened, rising to a tearing whistle, sinking to a musical trickle of air from the leech of the bellying sail?
all these sounds the spell-bound listener seemed to hear, and with them the hungry complaint of the gulls and the sea-mews, the soft thunder of the breaking wave, the cry of the protesting shingle.
back into speech again it passed, and with beating heart he was following the adventures of a dozen seaports, the fights, the escapes, the rallies, the comradeships, the gallant undertakings; or he searched islands for treasure, fished in still lagoons and dozed day-long on warm white sand.
of deep-sea fishings he heard tell, and mighty silver gatherings of the mile-long net; of sudden perils, noise of breakers on a moonless night, or the tall bows of the great liner taking shape overhead through the fog; of the merry home-coming, the headland rounded, the harbour lights opened out; the groups seen dimly on the quay, the cheery hail, the splash of the hawser; the trudge up the steep little street towards the comforting glow of red-curtained windows.
lastly, in his waking dream it seemed to him that the adventurer had risen to his feet, but was still speaking, still holding him fast with his sea-grey eyes.
‘and now,’ he was softly saying, ‘i take to the road again, holding on southwestwards for many a long and dusty day; till at last i reach the little grey sea town i know so well, that clings along one steep side of the harbour.
there through dark doorways you look down flights of stone steps, overhung by great pink tufts of valerian and ending in a patch of sparkling blue water.
the little boats that lie tethered to the rings and stanchions of the old sea-wall are gaily painted as those i clambered in and out of in my own childhood; the salmon leap on the flood tide, schools of mackerel flash and play past quay-sides and foreshores, and by the windows the great vessels glide, night and day, up to their moorings or forth to the open sea.
there, sooner or later, the ships of all seafaring nations arrive; and there, at its destined hour, the ship of my choice will let go its anchor.
i shall take my time, i shall tarry and bide, till at last the right one lies waiting for me, warped out into midstream, loaded low, her bowsprit pointing down harbour.
i shall slip on board, by boat or along hawser; and then one morning i shall wake to the song and tramp of the sailors, the clink of the capstan, and the rattle of the anchor-chain coming merrily in.
we shall break out the jib and the foresail, the white houses on the harbour side will glide slowly past us as she gathers steering-way, and the voyage will have begun!
as she forges towards the headland she will clothe herself with canvas; and then, once outside, the sounding slap of great green seas as she heels to the wind, pointing south!
‘and you, you will come too, young brother; for the days pass, and never return, and the south still waits for you.
take the adventure, heed the call, now ere the irrevocable moment passes!’ ‘tis but a banging of the door behind you, a blithesome step forward, and you are out of the old life and into the new!
then some day, some day long hence, jog home here if you will, when the cup has been drained and the play has been played, and sit down by your quiet river with a store of goodly memories for company.
you can easily overtake me on the road, for you are young, and i am ageing and go softly.
i will linger, and look back; and at last i will surely see you coming, eager and light-hearted, with all the south in your face!’
the voice died away and ceased as an insect’s tiny trumpet dwindles swiftly into silence; and the water rat, paralysed and staring, saw at last but a distant speck on the white surface of the road.
mechanically he rose and proceeded to repack the luncheon-basket, carefully and without haste.
mechanically he returned home, gathered together a few small necessaries and special treasures he was fond of, and put them in a satchel; acting with slow deliberation, moving about the room like a sleep-walker; listening ever with parted lips.
he swung the satchel over his shoulder, carefully selected a stout stick for his wayfaring, and with no haste, but with no hesitation at all, he stepped across the threshold just as the mole appeared at the door.
‘why, where are you off to, ratty?’ asked the mole in great surprise, grasping him by the arm.
‘going south, with the rest of them,’ murmured the rat in a dreamy monotone, never looking at him.
‘seawards first and then on shipboard, and so to the shores that are calling me!’
he pressed resolutely forward, still without haste, but with dogged fixity of purpose; but the mole, now thoroughly alarmed, placed himself in front of him, and looking into his eyes saw that they were glazed and set and turned a streaked and shifting grey not his friend’s eyes, but the eyes of some other animal!
grappling with him strongly he dragged him inside, threw him down, and held him.
the rat struggled desperately for a few moments, and then his strength seemed suddenly to leave him, and he lay still and exhausted, with closed eyes, trembling.
presently the mole assisted him to rise and placed him in a chair, where he sat collapsed and shrunken into himself, his body shaken by a violent shivering, passing in time into an hysterical fit of dry sobbing.
mole made the door fast, threw the satchel into a drawer and locked it, and sat down quietly on the table by his friend, waiting for the strange seizure to pass.
gradually the rat sank into a troubled doze, broken by starts and confused murmurings of things strange and wild and foreign to the unenlightened mole; and from that he passed into a deep slumber.
very anxious in mind, the mole left him for a time and busied himself with household matters; and it was getting dark when he returned to the parlour and found the rat where he had left him, wide awake indeed, but listless, silent, and dejected.
he took one hasty glance at his eyes; found them, to his great gratification, clear and dark and brown again as before; and then sat down and tried to cheer him up and help him to relate what had happened to him.
poor ratty did his best, by degrees, to explain things; but how could he put into cold words what had mostly been suggestion?
how recall, for another’s benefit, the haunting sea voices that had sung to him, how reproduce at second-hand the magic of the seafarer’s hundred reminiscences?
even to himself, now the spell was broken and the glamour gone, he found it difficult to account for what had seemed, some hours ago, the inevitable and only thing.
it is not surprising, then, that he failed to convey to the mole any clear idea of what he had been through that day.
to the mole this much was plain: the fit, or attack, had passed away, and had left him sane again, though shaken and cast down by the reaction.
but he seemed to have lost all interest for the time in the things that went to make up his daily life, as well as in all pleasant forecastings of the altered days and doings that the changing season was surely bringing.
casually, then, and with seeming indifference, the mole turned his talk to the harvest that was being gathered in, the towering wagons and their straining teams, the growing ricks, and the large moon rising over bare acres dotted with sheaves.
he talked of the reddening apples around, of the browning nuts, of jams and preserves and the distilling of cordials; till by easy stages such as these he reached midwinter, its hearty joys and its snug home life, and then he became simply lyrical.
by degrees the rat began to sit up and to join in.
his dull eye brightened, and he lost some of his listening air.
presently the tactful mole slipped away and returned with a pencil and a few half-sheets of paper, which he placed on the table at his friend’s elbow.
‘it’s quite a long time since you did any poetry,’ he remarked.
‘you might have a try at it this evening, instead of well, brooding over things so much.
i’ve an idea that you’ll feel a lot better when you’ve got something jotted down if it’s only just the rhymes.’
the rat pushed the paper away from him wearily, but the discreet mole took occasion to leave the room, and when he peeped in again some time later, the rat was absorbed and deaf to the world; alternately scribbling and sucking the top of his pencil.
it is true that he sucked a good deal more than he scribbled; but it was joy to the mole to know that the cure had at least begun.
x. the further adventures of toad
the front door of the hollow tree faced eastwards, so toad was called at an early hour; partly by the bright sunlight streaming in on him, partly by the exceeding coldness of his toes, which made him dream that he was at home in bed in his own handsome room with the tudor window, on a cold winter’s night, and his bedclothes had got up, grumbling and protesting they couldn’t stand the cold any longer, and had run downstairs to the kitchen fire to warm themselves; and he had followed, on bare feet, along miles and miles of icy stone-paved passages, arguing and beseeching them to be reasonable.
he would probably have been aroused much earlier, had he not slept for some weeks on straw over stone flags, and almost forgotten the friendly feeling of thick blankets pulled well up round the chin.
sitting up, he rubbed his eyes first and his complaining toes next, wondered for a moment where he was, looking round for familiar stone wall and little barred window; then, with a leap of the heart, remembered everything his escape, his flight, his pursuit; remembered, first and best thing of all, that he was free!
free!
the word and the thought alone were worth fifty blankets.
he was warm from end to end as he thought of the jolly world outside, waiting eagerly for him to make his triumphal entrance, ready to serve him and play up to him, anxious to help him and to keep him company, as it always had been in days of old before misfortune fell upon him.
he shook himself and combed the dry leaves out of his hair with his fingers; and, his toilet complete, marched forth into the comfortable morning sun, cold but confident, hungry but hopeful, all nervous terrors of yesterday dispelled by rest and sleep and frank and heartening sunshine.
he had the world all to himself, that early summer morning.
the dewy woodland, as he threaded it, was solitary and still: the green fields that succeeded the trees were his own to do as he liked with; the road itself, when he reached it, in that loneliness that was everywhere, seemed, like a stray dog, to be looking anxiously for company.
toad, however, was looking for something that could talk, and tell him clearly which way he ought to go.
it is all very well, when you have a light heart, and a clear conscience, and money in your pocket, and nobody scouring the country for you to drag you off to prison again, to follow where the road beckons and points, not caring whither.
the practical toad cared very much indeed, and he could have kicked the road for its helpless silence when every minute was of importance to him.
the reserved rustic road was presently joined by a shy little brother in the shape of a canal, which took its hand and ambled along by its side in perfect confidence, but with the same tongue-tied, uncommunicative attitude towards strangers.
‘bother them!’ said toad to himself.
‘but, anyhow, one thing’s clear.
they must both be coming from somewhere, and going to somewhere.
you can’t get over that.
toad, my boy!’ so he marched on patiently by the water’s edge.
round a bend in the canal came plodding a solitary horse, stooping forward as if in anxious thought.
from rope traces attached to his collar stretched a long line, taut, but dipping with his stride, the further part of it dripping pearly drops.
toad let the horse pass, and stood waiting for what the fates were sending him.
with a pleasant swirl of quiet water at its blunt bow the barge slid up alongside of him, its gaily painted gunwale level with the towing-path, its sole occupant a big stout woman wearing a linen sun-bonnet, one brawny arm laid along the tiller.
‘a nice morning, ma’am!’ she remarked to toad, as she drew up level with him.
‘i dare say it is, ma’am!’ responded toad politely, as he walked along the tow-path abreast of her.
‘i dare it is a nice morning to them that’s not in sore trouble, like what i am.
here’s my married daughter, she sends off to me post-haste to come to her at once; so off i comes, not knowing what may be happening or going to happen, but fearing the worst, as you will understand, ma’am, if you’re a mother, too.
and i’ve left my business to look after itself i’m in the washing and laundering line, you must know, ma’am and i’ve left my young children to look after themselves, and a more mischievous and troublesome set of young imps doesn’t exist, ma’am; and i’ve lost all my money, and lost my way, and as for what may be happening to my married daughter, why, i don’t like to think of it, ma’am!’
‘where might your married daughter be living, ma’am?’ asked the barge-woman.
‘she lives near to the river, ma’am,’ replied toad.
‘close to a fine house called toad hall, that’s somewheres hereabouts in these parts.
perhaps you may have heard of it.’
‘toad hall?
why, i’m going that way myself,’ replied the barge-woman.
‘this canal joins the river some miles further on, a little above toad hall; and then it’s an easy walk.
you come along in the barge with me, and i’ll give you a lift.’
she steered the barge close to the bank, and toad, with many humble and grateful acknowledgments, stepped lightly on board and sat down with great satisfaction.
‘toad’s luck again!’ thought he.
‘i always come out on top!’
‘so you’re in the washing business, ma’am?’ said the barge-woman politely, as they glided along.
‘and a very good business you’ve got too, i dare say, if i’m not making too free in saying so.’
‘finest business in the whole country,’ said toad airily.
‘all the gentry come to me wouldn’t go to any one else if they were paid, they know me so well.
you see, i understand my work thoroughly, and attend to it all myself.
washing, ironing, clear-starching, making up gents’ fine shirts for evening wear everything’s done under my own eye!’
‘but surely you don’t do all that work yourself, ma’am?’ asked the barge-woman respectfully.
‘o, i have girls,’ said toad lightly: ‘twenty girls or thereabouts, always at work.
but you know what girls are, ma’am!
nasty little hussies, that’s what i call ‘em!’
‘so do i, too,’ said the barge-woman with great heartiness.
‘but i dare say you set yours to rights, the idle trollops!
and are you very fond of washing?’
‘i love it,’ said toad.
‘i simply dote on it.
never so happy as when i’ve got both arms in the wash-tub.
but, then, it comes so easy to me!
no trouble at all!
a real pleasure, i assure you, ma’am!’
‘what a bit of luck, meeting you!’ observed the barge-woman, thoughtfully.
‘a regular piece of good fortune for both of us!’
‘why, what do you mean?’ asked toad, nervously.
‘well, look at me, now,’ replied the barge-woman.
‘i like washing, too, just the same as you do; and for that matter, whether i like it or not i have got to do all my own, naturally, moving about as i do.
now my husband, he’s such a fellow for shirking his work and leaving the barge to me, that never a moment do i get for seeing to my own affairs.
by rights he ought to be here now, either steering or attending to the horse, though luckily the horse has sense enough to attend to himself.
instead of which, he’s gone off with the dog, to see if they can’t pick up a rabbit for dinner somewhere.
says he’ll catch me up at the next lock.
well, that’s as may be i don’t trust him, once he gets off with that dog, who’s worse than he is.
but meantime, how am i to get on with my washing?’
‘o, never mind about the washing,’ said toad, not liking the subject.
‘try and fix your mind on that rabbit.
a nice fat young rabbit, i’ll be bound.
got any onions?’
‘i can’t fix my mind on anything but my washing,’ said the barge-woman, ‘and i wonder you can be talking of rabbits, with such a joyful prospect before you.
there’s a heap of things of mine that you’ll find in a corner of the cabin.
if you’ll just take one or two of the most necessary sort i won’t venture to describe them to a lady like you, but you’ll recognise them at a glance and put them through the wash-tub as we go along, why, it’ll be a pleasure to you, as you rightly say, and a real help to me.
you’ll find a tub handy, and soap, and a kettle on the stove, and a bucket to haul up water from the canal with.
then i shall know you’re enjoying yourself, instead of sitting here idle, looking at the scenery and yawning your head off.’
‘here, you let me steer!’ said toad, now thoroughly frightened, ‘and then you can get on with your washing your own way.
i might spoil your things, or not do ‘em as you like.
i’m more used to gentlemen’s things myself.
it’s my special line.’
‘let you steer?’ replied the barge-woman, laughing.
‘it takes some practice to steer a barge properly.
besides, it’s dull work, and i want you to be happy.
no, you shall do the washing you are so fond of, and i’ll stick to the steering that i understand.
don’t try and deprive me of the pleasure of giving you a treat!’
toad was fairly cornered.
he looked for escape this way and that, saw that he was too far from the bank for a flying leap, and sullenly resigned himself to his fate.
‘if it comes to that,’ he thought in desperation, ‘i suppose any fool can wash!’
he fetched tub, soap, and other necessaries from the cabin, selected a few garments at random, tried to recollect what he had seen in casual glances through laundry windows, and set to.
a long half-hour passed, and every minute of it saw toad getting crosser and crosser.
nothing that he could do to the things seemed to please them or do them good.
he tried coaxing, he tried slapping, he tried punching; they smiled back at him out of the tub unconverted, happy in their original sin.
once or twice he looked nervously over his shoulder at the barge-woman, but she appeared to be gazing out in front of her, absorbed in her steering.
his back ached badly, and he noticed with dismay that his paws were beginning to get all crinkly.
now toad was very proud of his paws.
he muttered under his breath words that should never pass the lips of either washerwomen or toads; and lost the soap, for the fiftieth time.
a burst of laughter made him straighten himself and look round.
the barge-woman was leaning back and laughing unrestrainedly, till the tears ran down her cheeks.
‘i’ve been watching you all the time,’ she gasped.
‘i thought you must be a humbug all along, from the conceited way you talked.
pretty washerwoman you are!
never washed so much as a dish-clout in your life, i’ll lay!’
toad’s temper which had been simmering viciously for some time, now fairly boiled over, and he lost all control of himself.
‘you common, low, fat barge-woman!’ he shouted; ‘don’t you dare to talk to your betters like that!
washerwoman indeed!
i would have you to know that i am a toad, a very well-known, respected, distinguished toad!
i may be under a bit of a cloud at present, but i will not be laughed at by a bargewoman!’
the woman moved nearer to him and peered under his bonnet keenly and closely.
‘why, so you are!’ she cried.
‘well, i never!
a horrid, nasty, crawly toad!
and in my nice clean barge, too!
now that is a thing that i will not have.’
she relinquished the tiller for a moment.
one big mottled arm shot out and caught toad by a fore-leg, while the other-gripped him fast by a hind-leg.
then the world turned suddenly upside down, the barge seemed to flit lightly across the sky, the wind whistled in his ears, and toad found himself flying through the air, revolving rapidly as he went.
the water, when he eventually reached it with a loud splash, proved quite cold enough for his taste, though its chill was not sufficient to quell his proud spirit, or slake the heat of his furious temper.
he rose to the surface spluttering, and when he had wiped the duck-weed out of his eyes the first thing he saw was the fat barge-woman looking back at him over the stern of the retreating barge and laughing; and he vowed, as he coughed and choked, to be even with her.
he struck out for the shore, but the cotton gown greatly impeded his efforts, and when at length he touched land he found it hard to climb up the steep bank unassisted.
he had to take a minute or two’s rest to recover his breath; then, gathering his wet skirts well over his arms, he started to run after the barge as fast as his legs would carry him, wild with indignation, thirsting for revenge.
the barge-woman was still laughing when he drew up level with her.
‘put yourself through your mangle, washerwoman,’ she called out, ‘and iron your face and crimp it, and you’ll pass for quite a decent-looking toad!’
toad never paused to reply.
solid revenge was what he wanted, not cheap, windy, verbal triumphs, though he had a thing or two in his mind that he would have liked to say.
he saw what he wanted ahead of him.
running swiftly on he overtook the horse, unfastened the towrope and cast off, jumped lightly on the horse’s back, and urged it to a gallop by kicking it vigorously in the sides.
he steered for the open country, abandoning the tow-path, and swinging his steed down a rutty lane.
once he looked back, and saw that the barge had run aground on the other side of the canal, and the barge-woman was gesticulating wildly and shouting, ‘stop, stop, stop!’ ‘i’ve heard that song before,’ said toad, laughing, as he continued to spur his steed onward in its wild career.
the barge-horse was not capable of any very sustained effort, and its gallop soon subsided into a trot, and its trot into an easy walk; but toad was quite contented with this, knowing that he, at any rate, was moving, and the barge was not.
he had quite recovered his temper, now that he had done something he thought really clever; and he was satisfied to jog along quietly in the sun, steering his horse along by-ways and bridle-paths, and trying to forget how very long it was since he had had a square meal, till the canal had been left very far behind him.
he had travelled some miles, his horse and he, and he was feeling drowsy in the hot sunshine, when the horse stopped, lowered his head, and began to nibble the grass; and toad, waking up, just saved himself from falling off by an effort.
he looked about him and found he was on a wide common, dotted with patches of gorse and bramble as far as he could see.
near him stood a dingy gipsy caravan, and beside it a man was sitting on a bucket turned upside down, very busy smoking and staring into the wide world.
a fire of sticks was burning near by, and over the fire hung an iron pot, and out of that pot came forth bubblings and gurglings, and a vague suggestive steaminess.
also smells warm, rich, and varied smells that twined and twisted and wreathed themselves at last into one complete, voluptuous, perfect smell that seemed like the very soul of nature taking form and appearing to her children, a true goddess, a mother of solace and comfort.
toad now knew well that he had not been really hungry before.
what he had felt earlier in the day had been a mere trifling qualm.
this was the real thing at last, and no mistake; and it would have to be dealt with speedily, too, or there would be trouble for somebody or something.
he looked the gipsy over carefully, wondering vaguely whether it would be easier to fight him or cajole him.
so there he sat, and sniffed and sniffed, and looked at the gipsy; and the gipsy sat and smoked, and looked at him.
presently the gipsy took his pipe out of his mouth and remarked in a careless way, ‘want to sell that there horse of yours?’
toad was completely taken aback.
he did not know that gipsies were very fond of horse-dealing, and never missed an opportunity, and he had not reflected that caravans were always on the move and took a deal of drawing.
it had not occurred to him to turn the horse into cash, but the gipsy’s suggestion seemed to smooth the way towards the two things he wanted so badly ready money, and a solid breakfast.
‘what?’ he said, ‘me sell this beautiful young horse of mine?
o, no; it’s out of the question.
who’s going to take the washing home to my customers every week?
besides, i’m too fond of him, and he simply dotes on me.’
‘try and love a donkey,’ suggested the gipsy.
‘some people do.’
‘you don’t seem to see,’ continued toad, ‘that this fine horse of mine is a cut above you altogether.
he’s a blood horse, he is, partly; not the part you see, of course another part.
and he’s been a prize hackney, too, in his time that was the time before you knew him, but you can still tell it on him at a glance, if you understand anything about horses.
no, it’s not to be thought of for a moment.
all the same, how much might you be disposed to offer me for this beautiful young horse of mine?’
the gipsy looked the horse over, and then he looked toad over with equal care, and looked at the horse again.
‘shillin’ a leg,’ he said briefly, and turned away, continuing to smoke and try to stare the wide world out of countenance.
‘a shilling a leg?’ cried toad.
‘if you please, i must take a little time to work that out, and see just what it comes to.’
he climbed down off his horse, and left it to graze, and sat down by the gipsy, and did sums on his fingers, and at last he said, ‘a shilling a leg?
why, that comes to exactly four shillings, and no more.
o, no; i could not think of accepting four shillings for this beautiful young horse of mine.’
‘well,’ said the gipsy, ‘i’ll tell you what i will do.
i’ll make it five shillings, and that’s three-and-sixpence more than the animal’s worth.
and that’s my last word.’
then toad sat and pondered long and deeply.
for he was hungry and quite penniless, and still some way he knew not how far from home, and enemies might still be looking for him.
to one in such a situation, five shillings may very well appear a large sum of money.
on the other hand, it did not seem very much to get for a horse.
but then, again, the horse hadn’t cost him anything; so whatever he got was all clear profit.
at last he said firmly, ‘look here, gipsy!
i tell you what we will do; and this is my last word.
you shall hand me over six shillings and sixpence, cash down; and further, in addition thereto, you shall give me as much breakfast as i can possibly eat, at one sitting of course, out of that iron pot of yours that keeps sending forth such delicious and exciting smells.
in return, i will make over to you my spirited young horse, with all the beautiful harness and trappings that are on him, freely thrown in.
if that’s not good enough for you, say so, and i’ll be getting on.
i know a man near here who’s wanted this horse of mine for years.’
the gipsy grumbled frightfully, and declared if he did a few more deals of that sort he’d be ruined.
but in the end he lugged a dirty canvas bag out of the depths of his trouser pocket, and counted out six shillings and sixpence into toad’s paw.
then he disappeared into the caravan for an instant, and returned with a large iron plate and a knife, fork, and spoon.
he tilted up the pot, and a glorious stream of hot rich stew gurgled into the plate.
it was, indeed, the most beautiful stew in the world, being made of partridges, and pheasants, and chickens, and hares, and rabbits, and pea-hens, and guinea-fowls, and one or two other things.
toad took the plate on his lap, almost crying, and stuffed, and stuffed, and stuffed, and kept asking for more, and the gipsy never grudged it him.
he thought that he had never eaten so good a breakfast in all his life.
when toad had taken as much stew on board as he thought he could possibly hold, he got up and said good-bye to the gipsy, and took an affectionate farewell of the horse; and the gipsy, who knew the riverside well, gave him directions which way to go, and he set forth on his travels again in the best possible spirits.
he was, indeed, a very different toad from the animal of an hour ago.
the sun was shining brightly, his wet clothes were quite dry again, he had money in his pocket once more, he was nearing home and friends and safety, and, most and best of all, he had had a substantial meal, hot and nourishing, and felt big, and strong, and careless, and self-confident.
as he tramped along gaily, he thought of his adventures and escapes, and how when things seemed at their worst he had always managed to find a way out; and his pride and conceit began to swell within him.
‘ho, ho!’
he said to himself as he marched along with his chin in the air, ‘what a clever toad i am!
there is surely no animal equal to me for cleverness in the whole world!
my enemies shut me up in prison, encircled by sentries, watched night and day by warders; i walk out through them all, by sheer ability coupled with courage.
they pursue me with engines, and policemen, and revolvers; i snap my fingers at them, and vanish, laughing, into space.
i am, unfortunately, thrown into a canal by a woman fat of body and very evil-minded.
what of it?
i swim ashore, i seize her horse, i ride off in triumph, and i sell the horse for a whole pocketful of money and an excellent breakfast!
ho, ho!
i am the toad, the handsome, the popular, the successful toad!’ he got so puffed up with conceit that he made up a song as he walked in praise of himself, and sang it at the top of his voice, though there was no one to hear it but him.
it was perhaps the most conceited song that any animal ever composed.
‘the world has held great heroes,             as history-books have showed;           but never a name to go down to fame             compared with that of toad!
‘the clever men at oxford             know all that there is to be knowed.
but they none of them know one half as much             as intelligent mr. toad!
‘the animals sat in the ark and cried,             their tears in torrents flowed.
who was it said, “there’s land ahead?”
encouraging mr. toad!
‘the army all saluted             as they marched along the road.
was it the king?
or kitchener?
no.
it was mr. toad.
‘the queen and her ladies-in-waiting             sat at the window and sewed.
she cried, “look!
who’s that handsome man?”
they answered, “mr.
toad.”’
there was a great deal more of the same sort, but too dreadfully conceited to be written down.
these are some of the milder verses.
he sang as he walked, and he walked as he sang, and got more inflated every minute.
but his pride was shortly to have a severe fall.
after some miles of country lanes he reached the high road, and as he turned into it and glanced along its white length, he saw approaching him a speck that turned into a dot and then into a blob, and then into something very familiar; and a double note of warning, only too well known, fell on his delighted ear.
‘this is something like!’ said the excited toad.
‘this is real life again, this is once more the great world from which i have been missed so long!
i will hail them, my brothers of the wheel, and pitch them a yarn, of the sort that has been so successful hitherto; and they will give me a lift, of course, and then i will talk to them some more; and, perhaps, with luck, it may even end in my driving up to toad hall in a motor-car!
that will be one in the eye for badger!’
he stepped confidently out into the road to hail the motor-car, which came along at an easy pace, slowing down as it neared the lane; when suddenly he became very pale, his heart turned to water, his knees shook and yielded under him, and he doubled up and collapsed with a sickening pain in his interior.
and well he might, the unhappy animal; for the approaching car was the very one he had stolen out of the yard of the red lion hotel on that fatal day when all his troubles began!
and the people in it were the very same people he had sat and watched at luncheon in the coffee-room!
he sank down in a shabby, miserable heap in the road, murmuring to himself in his despair, ‘it’s all up!
it’s all over now!
chains and policemen again!
prison again!
dry bread and water again!
o, what a fool i have been!
what did i want to go strutting about the country for, singing conceited songs, and hailing people in broad day on the high road, instead of hiding till nightfall and slipping home quietly by back ways!
o hapless toad!
o ill-fated animal!’
the terrible motor-car drew slowly nearer and nearer, till at last he heard it stop just short of him.
two gentlemen got out and walked round the trembling heap of crumpled misery lying in the road, and one of them said, ‘o dear!
this is very sad!
here is a poor old thing a washerwoman apparently who has fainted in the road!
perhaps she is overcome by the heat, poor creature; or possibly she has not had any food to-day.
let us lift her into the car and take her to the nearest village, where doubtless she has friends.’
they tenderly lifted toad into the motor-car and propped him up with soft cushions, and proceeded on their way.
when toad heard them talk in so kind and sympathetic a way, and knew that he was not recognised, his courage began to revive, and he cautiously opened first one eye and then the other.
‘look!’ said one of the gentlemen, ‘she is better already.
the fresh air is doing her good.
how do you feel now, ma’am?’
‘thank you kindly, sir,’ said toad in a feeble voice, ‘i’m feeling a great deal better!’ ‘that’s right,’ said the gentleman.
‘now keep quite still, and, above all, don’t try to talk.’
‘i won’t,’ said toad.
‘i was only thinking, if i might sit on the front seat there, beside the driver, where i could get the fresh air full in my face, i should soon be all right again.’
‘what a very sensible woman!’ said the gentleman.
‘of course you shall.’
so they carefully helped toad into the front seat beside the driver, and on they went again.
toad was almost himself again by now.
he sat up, looked about him, and tried to beat down the tremors, the yearnings, the old cravings that rose up and beset him and took possession of him entirely.
‘it is fate!’ he said to himself.
‘why strive?
why struggle?’ and he turned to the driver at his side.
‘please, sir,’ he said, ‘i wish you would kindly let me try and drive the car for a little.
i’ve been watching you carefully, and it looks so easy and so interesting, and i should like to be able to tell my friends that once i had driven a motor-car!’
the driver laughed at the proposal, so heartily that the gentleman inquired what the matter was.
when he heard, he said, to toad’s delight, ‘bravo, ma’am!
i like your spirit.
let her have a try, and look after her.
she won’t do any harm.’
toad eagerly scrambled into the seat vacated by the driver, took the steering-wheel in his hands, listened with affected humility to the instructions given him, and set the car in motion, but very slowly and carefully at first, for he was determined to be prudent.
the gentlemen behind clapped their hands and applauded, and toad heard them saying, ‘how well she does it!
fancy a washerwoman driving a car as well as that, the first time!’
toad went a little faster; then faster still, and faster.
he heard the gentlemen call out warningly, ‘be careful, washerwoman!’
and this annoyed him, and he began to lose his head.
the driver tried to interfere, but he pinned him down in his seat with one elbow, and put on full speed.
the rush of air in his face, the hum of the engines, and the light jump of the car beneath him intoxicated his weak brain.
‘washerwoman, indeed!’ he shouted recklessly.
‘ho!
ho!
i am the toad, the motor-car snatcher, the prison-breaker, the toad who always escapes!
sit still, and you shall know what driving really is, for you are in the hands of the famous, the skilful, the entirely fearless toad!’
with a cry of horror the whole party rose and flung themselves on him.
‘seize him!’ they cried, ‘seize the toad, the wicked animal who stole our motor-car!
bind him, chain him, drag him to the nearest police-station!
down with the desperate and dangerous toad!’
alas!
they should have thought, they ought to have been more prudent, they should have remembered to stop the motor-car somehow before playing any pranks of that sort.
with a half-turn of the wheel the toad sent the car crashing through the low hedge that ran along the roadside.
one mighty bound, a violent shock, and the wheels of the car were churning up the thick mud of a horse-pond.
toad found himself flying through the air with the strong upward rush and delicate curve of a swallow.
he liked the motion, and was just beginning to wonder whether it would go on until he developed wings and turned into a toad-bird, when he landed on his back with a thump, in the soft rich grass of a meadow.
sitting up, he could just see the motor-car in the pond, nearly submerged; the gentlemen and the driver, encumbered by their long coats, were floundering helplessly in the water.
he picked himself up rapidly, and set off running across country as hard as he could, scrambling through hedges, jumping ditches, pounding across fields, till he was breathless and weary, and had to settle down into an easy walk.
when he had recovered his breath somewhat, and was able to think calmly, he began to giggle, and from giggling he took to laughing, and he laughed till he had to sit down under a hedge.
‘ho, ho!’ he cried, in ecstasies of self-admiration, ‘toad again!
toad, as usual, comes out on the top!
who was it got them to give him a lift?
who managed to get on the front seat for the sake of fresh air?
who persuaded them into letting him see if he could drive?
who landed them all in a horse-pond?
who escaped, flying gaily and unscathed through the air, leaving the narrow-minded, grudging, timid excursionists in the mud where they should rightly be?
why, toad, of course; clever toad, great toad, good toad!’
then he burst into song again, and chanted with uplifted voice
‘the motor-car went poop-poop-poop,             as it raced along the road.
who was it steered it into a pond?
ingenious mr. toad!
o, how clever i am!
how clever, how clever, how very clev  ’
a slight noise at a distance behind him made him turn his head and look.
o horror!
o misery!
o despair!
about two fields off, a chauffeur in his leather gaiters and two large rural policemen were visible, running towards him as hard as they could go!
poor toad sprang to his feet and pelted away again, his heart in his mouth.
o, my!’ he gasped, as he panted along, ‘what an ass i am!
what a conceited and heedless ass!
swaggering again!
shouting and singing songs again!
sitting still and gassing again!
o my!
o my!
o my!’
he glanced back, and saw to his dismay that they were gaining on him.
on he ran desperately, but kept looking back, and saw that they still gained steadily.
he did his best, but he was a fat animal, and his legs were short, and still they gained.
he could hear them close behind him now.
ceasing to heed where he was going, he struggled on blindly and wildly, looking back over his shoulder at the now triumphant enemy, when suddenly the earth failed under his feet, he grasped at the air, and, splash!
he found himself head over ears in deep water, rapid water, water that bore him along with a force he could not contend with; and he knew that in his blind panic he had run straight into the river!
he rose to the surface and tried to grasp the reeds and the rushes that grew along the water’s edge close under the bank, but the stream was so strong that it tore them out of his hands.
‘o my!’ gasped poor toad, ‘if ever i steal a motor-car again!
if ever i sing another conceited song’ then down he went, and came up breathless and spluttering.
presently he saw that he was approaching a big dark hole in the bank, just above his head, and as the stream bore him past he reached up with a paw and caught hold of the edge and held on.
then slowly and with difficulty he drew himself up out of the water, till at last he was able to rest his elbows on the edge of the hole.
there he remained for some minutes, puffing and panting, for he was quite exhausted.
as he sighed and blew and stared before him into the dark hole, some bright small thing shone and twinkled in its depths, moving towards him.
as it approached, a face grew up gradually around it, and it was a familiar face!
brown and small, with whiskers.
grave and round, with neat ears and silky hair.
it was the water rat!
xi.
‘like summer tempests came his tears’
the rat put out a neat little brown paw, gripped toad firmly by the scruff of the neck, and gave a great hoist and a pull; and the water-logged toad came up slowly but surely over the edge of the hole, till at last he stood safe and sound in the hall, streaked with mud and weed to be sure, and with the water streaming off him, but happy and high-spirited as of old, now that he found himself once more in the house of a friend, and dodgings and evasions were over, and he could lay aside a disguise that was unworthy of his position and wanted such a lot of living up to.
‘o, ratty!’ he cried.
‘i’ve been through such times since i saw you last, you can’t think!
such trials, such sufferings, and all so nobly borne!
then such escapes, such disguises such subterfuges, and all so cleverly planned and carried out!
been in prison got out of it, of course!
been thrown into a canal swam ashore!
stole a horse sold him for a large sum of money!
humbugged everybody made ‘em all do exactly what i wanted!
oh, i am a smart toad, and no mistake!
what do you think my last exploit was?
just hold on till i tell you  ’
‘toad,’ said the water rat, gravely and firmly, ‘you go off upstairs at once, and take off that old cotton rag that looks as if it might formerly have belonged to some washerwoman, and clean yourself thoroughly, and put on some of my clothes, and try and come down looking like a gentleman if you can; for a more shabby, bedraggled, disreputable-looking object than you are i never set eyes on in my whole life!
now, stop swaggering and arguing, and be off!
i’ll have something to say to you later!’
toad was at first inclined to stop and do some talking back at him.
he had had enough of being ordered about when he was in prison, and here was the thing being begun all over again, apparently; and by a rat, too!
however, he caught sight of himself in the looking-glass over the hat-stand, with the rusty black bonnet perched rakishly over one eye, and he changed his mind and went very quickly and humbly upstairs to the rat’s dressing-room.
there he had a thorough wash and brush-up, changed his clothes, and stood for a long time before the glass, contemplating himself with pride and pleasure, and thinking what utter idiots all the people must have been to have ever mistaken him for one moment for a washerwoman.
by the time he came down again luncheon was on the table, and very glad toad was to see it, for he had been through some trying experiences and had taken much hard exercise since the excellent breakfast provided for him by the gipsy.
while they ate toad told the rat all his adventures, dwelling chiefly on his own cleverness, and presence of mind in emergencies, and cunning in tight places; and rather making out that he had been having a gay and highly-coloured experience.
but the more he talked and boasted, the more grave and silent the rat became.
when at last toad had talked himself to a standstill, there was silence for a while; and then the rat said, ‘now, toady, i don’t want to give you pain, after all you’ve been through already; but, seriously, don’t you see what an awful ass you’ve been making of yourself?
on your own admission you have been handcuffed, imprisoned, starved, chased, terrified out of your life, insulted, jeered at, and ignominiously flung into the water by a woman, too!
where’s the amusement in that?
where does the fun come in?
and all because you must needs go and steal a motor-car.
you know that you’ve never had anything but trouble from motor-cars from the moment you first set eyes on one.
but if you will be mixed up with them as you generally are, five minutes after you’ve started why steal them?
be a cripple, if you think it’s exciting; be a bankrupt, for a change, if you’ve set your mind on it: but why choose to be a convict?
when are you going to be sensible, and think of your friends, and try and be a credit to them?
do you suppose it’s any pleasure to me, for instance, to hear animals saying, as i go about, that i’m the chap that keeps company with gaol-birds?’
now, it was a very comforting point in toad’s character that he was a thoroughly good-hearted animal and never minded being jawed by those who were his real friends.
and even when most set upon a thing, he was always able to see the other side of the question.
so although, while the rat was talking so seriously, he kept saying to himself mutinously, ‘but it was fun, though!
awful fun!’ and making strange suppressed noises inside him, k-i-ck-ck-ck, and poop-p-p, and other sounds resembling stifled snorts, or the opening of soda-water bottles, yet when the rat had quite finished, he heaved a deep sigh and said, very nicely and humbly, ‘quite right, ratty!
how sound you always are!
yes, i’ve been a conceited old ass, i can quite see that; but now i’m going to be a good toad, and not do it any more.
as for motor-cars, i’ve not been at all so keen about them since my last ducking in that river of yours.
the fact is, while i was hanging on to the edge of your hole and getting my breath, i had a sudden idea a really brilliant idea connected with motor-boats there, there!
don’t take on so, old chap, and stamp, and upset things; it was only an idea, and we won’t talk any more about it now.
we’ll have our coffee, and a smoke, and a quiet chat, and then i’m going to stroll quietly down to toad hall, and get into clothes of my own, and set things going again on the old lines.
i’ve had enough of adventures.
i shall lead a quiet, steady, respectable life, pottering about my property, and improving it, and doing a little landscape gardening at times.
there will always be a bit of dinner for my friends when they come to see me; and i shall keep a pony-chaise to jog about the country in, just as i used to in the good old days, before i got restless, and wanted to do things.’
‘stroll quietly down to toad hall?’ cried the rat, greatly excited.
‘what are you talking about?
do you mean to say you haven’t heard?’
‘heard what?’ said toad, turning rather pale.
‘go on, ratty!
quick!
don’t spare me!
what haven’t i heard?’
‘do you mean to tell me,’ shouted the rat, thumping with his little fist upon the table, ‘that you’ve heard nothing about the stoats and weasels?’
what, the wild wooders?’ cried toad, trembling in every limb.
‘no, not a word!
what have they been doing?’
‘ and how they’ve been and taken toad hall?’ continued the rat.
toad leaned his elbows on the table, and his chin on his paws; and a large tear welled up in each of his eyes, overflowed and splashed on the table, plop!
plop!
‘go on, ratty,’ he murmured presently; ‘tell me all.
the worst is over.
i am an animal again.
i can bear it.’
‘when you got into that that trouble of yours,’ said the rat, slowly and impressively; ‘i mean, when you disappeared from society for a time, over that misunderstanding about a a machine, you know ’
toad merely nodded.
‘well, it was a good deal talked about down here, naturally,’ continued the rat, ‘not only along the river-side, but even in the wild wood.
animals took sides, as always happens.
the river-bankers stuck up for you, and said you had been infamously treated, and there was no justice to be had in the land nowadays.
but the wild wood animals said hard things, and served you right, and it was time this sort of thing was stopped.
and they got very cocky, and went about saying you were done for this time!
you would never come back again, never, never!’
toad nodded once more, keeping silence.
‘that’s the sort of little beasts they are,’ the rat went on.
‘but mole and badger, they stuck out, through thick and thin, that you would come back again soon, somehow.
they didn’t know exactly how, but somehow!’
toad began to sit up in his chair again, and to smirk a little.
‘they argued from history,’ continued the rat.
‘they said that no criminal laws had ever been known to prevail against cheek and plausibility such as yours, combined with the power of a long purse.
so they arranged to move their things in to toad hall, and sleep there, and keep it aired, and have it all ready for you when you turned up.
they didn’t guess what was going to happen, of course; still, they had their suspicions of the wild wood animals.
now i come to the most painful and tragic part of my story.
one dark night it was a very dark night, and blowing hard, too, and raining simply cats and dogs a band of weasels, armed to the teeth, crept silently up the carriage-drive to the front entrance.
simultaneously, a body of desperate ferrets, advancing through the kitchen-garden, possessed themselves of the backyard and offices; while a company of skirmishing stoats who stuck at nothing occupied the conservatory and the billiard-room, and held the french windows opening on to the lawn.
‘the mole and the badger were sitting by the fire in the smoking-room, telling stories and suspecting nothing, for it wasn’t a night for any animals to be out in, when those bloodthirsty villains broke down the doors and rushed in upon them from every side.
they made the best fight they could, but what was the good?
they were unarmed, and taken by surprise, and what can two animals do against hundreds?
they took and beat them severely with sticks, those two poor faithful creatures, and turned them out into the cold and the wet, with many insulting and uncalled-for remarks!’
here the unfeeling toad broke into a snigger, and then pulled himself together and tried to look particularly solemn.
‘and the wild wooders have been living in toad hall ever since,’
continued the rat; ‘and going on simply anyhow!
lying in bed half the day, and breakfast at all hours, and the place in such a mess (i’m told)
it’s not fit to be seen!
eating your grub, and drinking your drink, and making bad jokes about you, and singing vulgar songs, about well, about prisons and magistrates, and policemen; horrid personal songs, with no humour in them.
and they’re telling the tradespeople and everybody that they’ve come to stay for good.’
‘o, have they!’ said toad getting up and seizing a stick.
‘i’ll jolly soon see about that!’
‘it’s no good, toad!’ called the rat after him.
‘you’d better come back and sit down; you’ll only get into trouble.’
but the toad was off, and there was no holding him.
he marched rapidly down the road, his stick over his shoulder, fuming and muttering to himself in his anger, till he got near his front gate, when suddenly there popped up from behind the palings a long yellow ferret with a gun.
‘who comes there?’ said the ferret sharply.
‘stuff and nonsense!’ said toad, very angrily.
‘what do you mean by talking like that to me?
come out of that at once, or i’ll  ’
the ferret said never a word, but he brought his gun up to his shoulder.
toad prudently dropped flat in the road, and bang!
a bullet whistled over his head.
the startled toad scrambled to his feet and scampered off down the road as hard as he could; and as he ran he heard the ferret laughing and other horrid thin little laughs taking it up and carrying on the sound.
he went back, very crestfallen, and told the water rat.
‘what did i tell you?’ said the rat.
‘it’s no good.
they’ve got sentries posted, and they are all armed.
you must just wait.’
still, toad was not inclined to give in all at once.
so he got out the boat, and set off rowing up the river to where the garden front of toad hall came down to the waterside.
arriving within sight of his old home, he rested on his oars and surveyed the land cautiously.
all seemed very peaceful and deserted and quiet.
he could see the whole front of toad hall, glowing in the evening sunshine, the pigeons settling by twos and threes along the straight line of the roof; the garden, a blaze of flowers; the creek that led up to the boat-house, the little wooden bridge that crossed it; all tranquil, uninhabited, apparently waiting for his return.
he would try the boat-house first, he thought.
very warily he paddled up to the mouth of the creek, and was just passing under the bridge, when ... crash!
a great stone, dropped from above, smashed through the bottom of the boat.
it filled and sank, and toad found himself struggling in deep water.
looking up, he saw two stoats leaning over the parapet of the bridge and watching him with great glee.
‘it will be your head next time, toady!’ they called out to him.
the indignant toad swam to shore, while the stoats laughed and laughed, supporting each other, and laughed again, till they nearly had two fits that is, one fit each, of course.
the toad retraced his weary way on foot, and related his disappointing experiences to the water rat once more.
‘well, what did i tell you?’ said the rat very crossly.
‘and, now, look here!
see what you’ve been and done!
lost me my boat that i was so fond of, that’s what you’ve done!
and simply ruined that nice suit of clothes that i lent you!
really, toad, of all the trying animals i wonder you manage to keep any friends at all!’
the toad saw at once how wrongly and foolishly he had acted.
he admitted his errors and wrong-headedness and made a full apology to rat for losing his boat and spoiling his clothes.
and he wound up by saying, with that frank self-surrender which always disarmed his friend’s criticism and won them back to his side, ‘ratty!
i see that i have been a headstrong and a wilful toad!
henceforth, believe me, i will be humble and submissive, and will take no action without your kind advice and full approval!’
‘if that is really so,’ said the good-natured rat, already appeased, ‘then my advice to you is, considering the lateness of the hour, to sit down and have your supper, which will be on the table in a minute, and be very patient.
for i am convinced that we can do nothing until we have seen the mole and the badger, and heard their latest news, and held conference and taken their advice in this difficult matter.’
‘oh, ah, yes, of course, the mole and the badger,’ said toad, lightly.
‘what’s become of them, the dear fellows?
i had forgotten all about them.’
‘well may you ask!’ said the rat reproachfully.
‘while you were riding about the country in expensive motor-cars, and galloping proudly on blood-horses, and breakfasting on the fat of the land, those two poor devoted animals have been camping out in the open, in every sort of weather, living very rough by day and lying very hard by night; watching over your house, patrolling your boundaries, keeping a constant eye on the stoats and the weasels, scheming and planning and contriving how to get your property back for you.
you don’t deserve to have such true and loyal friends, toad, you don’t, really.
some day, when it’s too late, you’ll be sorry you didn’t value them more while you had them!’
‘i’m an ungrateful beast, i know,’ sobbed toad, shedding bitter tears.
‘let me go out and find them, out into the cold, dark night, and share their hardships, and try and prove by  hold on a bit!
surely i heard the chink of dishes on a tray!
supper’s here at last, hooray!
come on, ratty!’
the rat remembered that poor toad had been on prison fare for a considerable time, and that large allowances had therefore to be made.
he followed him to the table accordingly, and hospitably encouraged him in his gallant efforts to make up for past privations.
they had just finished their meal and resumed their arm-chairs, when there came a heavy knock at the door.
toad was nervous, but the rat, nodding mysteriously at him, went straight up to the door and opened it, and in walked mr. badger.
he had all the appearance of one who for some nights had been kept away from home and all its little comforts and conveniences.
his shoes were covered with mud, and he was looking very rough and touzled; but then he had never been a very smart man, the badger, at the best of times.
he came solemnly up to toad, shook him by the paw, and said, ‘welcome home, toad!
alas!
what am i saying?
home, indeed!
this is a poor home-coming.
unhappy toad!’ then he turned his back on him, sat down to the table, drew his chair up, and helped himself to a large slice of cold pie.
toad was quite alarmed at this very serious and portentous style of greeting; but the rat whispered to him, ‘never mind; don’t take any notice; and don’t say anything to him just yet.
he’s always rather low and despondent when he’s wanting his victuals.
in half an hour’s time he’ll be quite a different animal.’
so they waited in silence, and presently there came another and a lighter knock.
the rat, with a nod to toad, went to the door and ushered in the mole, very shabby and unwashed, with bits of hay and straw sticking in his fur.
‘hooray!
here’s old toad!’ cried the mole, his face beaming.
‘fancy having you back again!’ and he began to dance round him.
‘we never dreamt you would turn up so soon!
why, you must have managed to escape, you clever, ingenious, intelligent toad!’
the rat, alarmed, pulled him by the elbow; but it was too late.
toad was puffing and swelling already.
‘clever?
o, no!’ he said.
‘i’m not really clever, according to my friends.
i’ve only broken out of the strongest prison in england, that’s all!
and captured a railway train and escaped on it, that’s all!
and disguised myself and gone about the country humbugging everybody, that’s all!
o, no!
i’m a stupid ass, i am!
i’ll tell you one or two of my little adventures, mole, and you shall judge for yourself!’
‘well, well,’ said the mole, moving towards the supper-table; ‘supposing you talk while i eat.
not a bite since breakfast!
o my!
o my!’ and he sat down and helped himself liberally to cold beef and pickles.
toad straddled on the hearth-rug, thrust his paw into his trouser-pocket and pulled out a handful of silver.
‘look at that!’ he cried, displaying it.
‘that’s not so bad, is it, for a few minutes’ work?
and how do you think i done it, mole?
horse-dealing!
that’s how i done it!’
‘go on, toad,’ said the mole, immensely interested.
‘toad, do be quiet, please!’ said the rat.
‘and don’t you egg him on, mole, when you know what he is; but please tell us as soon as possible what the position is, and what’s best to be done, now that toad is back at last.’
‘the position’s about as bad as it can be,’ replied the mole grumpily; ‘and as for what’s to be done, why, blest if i know!
the badger and i have been round and round the place, by night and by day; always the same thing.
sentries posted everywhere, guns poked out at us, stones thrown at us; always an animal on the look-out, and when they see us, my!
how they do laugh!
that’s what annoys me most!’
‘it’s a very difficult situation,’ said the rat, reflecting deeply.
‘but i think i see now, in the depths of my mind, what toad really ought to do.
i will tell you.
he ought to  ’
‘no, he oughtn’t!’ shouted the mole, with his mouth full.
‘nothing of the sort!
you don’t understand.
what he ought to do is, he ought to  ’
‘well, i shan’t do it, anyway!’ cried toad, getting excited.
‘i’m not going to be ordered about by you fellows!
it’s my house we’re talking about, and i know exactly what to do, and i’ll tell you.
i’m going to  ’
by this time they were all three talking at once, at the top of their voices, and the noise was simply deafening, when a thin, dry voice made itself heard, saying, ‘be quiet at once, all of you!’ and instantly every one was silent.
it was the badger, who, having finished his pie, had turned round in his chair and was looking at them severely.
when he saw that he had secured their attention, and that they were evidently waiting for him to address them, he turned back to the table again and reached out for the cheese.
and so great was the respect commanded by the solid qualities of that admirable animal, that not another word was uttered until he had quite finished his repast and brushed the crumbs from his knees.
the toad fidgeted a good deal, but the rat held him firmly down.
when the badger had quite done, he got up from his seat and stood before the fireplace, reflecting deeply.
at last he spoke.
‘toad!’ he said severely.
‘you bad, troublesome little animal!
aren’t you ashamed of yourself?
what do you think your father, my old friend, would have said if he had been here to-night, and had known of all your goings on?’
toad, who was on the sofa by this time, with his legs up, rolled over on his face, shaken by sobs of contrition.
‘there, there!’ went on the badger, more kindly.
‘never mind.
stop crying.
we’re going to let bygones be bygones, and try and turn over a new leaf.
but what the mole says is quite true.
the stoats are on guard, at every point, and they make the best sentinels in the world.
it’s quite useless to think of attacking the place.
they’re too strong for us.’
‘then it’s all over,’ sobbed the toad, crying into the sofa cushions.
‘i shall go and enlist for a soldier, and never see my dear toad hall any more!’
‘come, cheer up, toady!’ said the badger.
‘there are more ways of getting back a place than taking it by storm.
i haven’t said my last word yet.
now i’m going to tell you a great secret.’
toad sat up slowly and dried his eyes.
secrets had an immense attraction for him, because he never could keep one, and he enjoyed the sort of unhallowed thrill he experienced when he went and told another animal, after having faithfully promised not to.
‘there is an underground passage,’ said the badger, impressively, ‘that leads from the river-bank, quite near here, right up into the middle of toad hall.’
‘o, nonsense!
badger,’ said toad, rather airily.
‘you’ve been listening to some of the yarns they spin in the public-houses about here.
i know every inch of toad hall, inside and out.
nothing of the sort, i do assure you!’
‘my young friend,’ said the badger, with great severity, ‘your father, who was a worthy animal a lot worthier than some others i know was a particular friend of mine, and told me a great deal he wouldn’t have dreamt of telling you.
he discovered that passage he didn’t make it, of course; that was done hundreds of years before he ever came to live there and he repaired it and cleaned it out, because he thought it might come in useful some day, in case of trouble or danger; and he showed it to me.
“don’t let my son know about it,” he said.
“he’s a good boy, but very light and volatile in character, and simply cannot hold his tongue.
if he’s ever in a real fix, and it would be of use to him, you may tell him about the secret passage; but not before.”’
the other animals looked hard at toad to see how he would take it.
toad was inclined to be sulky at first; but he brightened up immediately, like the good fellow he was.
‘well, well,’ he said; ‘perhaps i am a bit of a talker.
a popular fellow such as i am my friends get round me we chaff, we sparkle, we tell witty stories and somehow my tongue gets wagging.
i have the gift of conversation.
i’ve been told i ought to have a salon, whatever that may be.
never mind.
go on, badger.
how’s this passage of yours going to help us?’
‘i’ve found out a thing or two lately,’ continued the badger.
‘i got otter to disguise himself as a sweep and call at the back-door with brushes over his shoulder, asking for a job.
there’s going to be a big banquet to-morrow night.
it’s somebody’s birthday the chief weasel’s, i believe and all the weasels will be gathered together in the dining-hall, eating and drinking and laughing and carrying on, suspecting nothing.
no guns, no swords, no sticks, no arms of any sort whatever!’
‘but the sentinels will be posted as usual,’ remarked the rat.
‘exactly,’ said the badger; ‘that is my point.
the weasels will trust entirely to their excellent sentinels.
and that is where the passage comes in.
that very useful tunnel leads right up under the butler’s pantry, next to the dining-hall!’
‘aha!
that squeaky board in the butler’s pantry!’ said toad.
‘now i understand it!’
‘we shall creep out quietly into the butler’s pantry ’ cried the mole.
‘ with our pistols and swords and sticks ’ shouted the rat.
‘ and rush in upon them,’ said the badger.
‘ and whack ‘em, and whack ‘em, and whack ‘em!’ cried the toad in ecstasy, running round and round the room, and jumping over the chairs.
‘very well, then,’ said the badger, resuming his usual dry manner, ‘our plan is settled, and there’s nothing more for you to argue and squabble about.
so, as it’s getting very late, all of you go right off to bed at once.
we will make all the necessary arrangements in the course of the morning to-morrow.’
toad, of course, went off to bed dutifully with the rest he knew better than to refuse though he was feeling much too excited to sleep.
but he had had a long day, with many events crowded into it; and sheets and blankets were very friendly and comforting things, after plain straw, and not too much of it, spread on the stone floor of a draughty cell; and his head had not been many seconds on his pillow before he was snoring happily.
naturally, he dreamt a good deal; about roads that ran away from him just when he wanted them, and canals that chased him and caught him, and a barge that sailed into the banqueting-hall with his week’s washing, just as he was giving a dinner-party; and he was alone in the secret passage, pushing onwards, but it twisted and turned round and shook itself, and sat up on its end; yet somehow, at the last, he found himself back in toad hall, safe and triumphant, with all his friends gathered round about him, earnestly assuring him that he really was a clever toad.
he slept till a late hour next morning, and by the time he got down he found that the other animals had finished their breakfast some time before.
the mole had slipped off somewhere by himself, without telling any one where he was going to.
the badger sat in the arm-chair, reading the paper, and not concerning himself in the slightest about what was going to happen that very evening.
the rat, on the other hand, was running round the room busily, with his arms full of weapons of every kind, distributing them in four little heaps on the floor, and saying excitedly under his breath, as he ran, ‘here’s-a-sword-for-the-rat, here’s-a-sword-for-the mole, here’s-a-sword-for-the-toad, here’s-a-sword-for-the-badger!
here’s-a-pistol-for-the-rat, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-mole, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-toad, here’s-a-pistol-for-the-badger!’ and so on, in a regular, rhythmical way, while the four little heaps gradually grew and grew.
‘that’s all very well, rat,’ said the badger presently, looking at the busy little animal over the edge of his newspaper; ‘i’m not blaming you.
but just let us once get past the stoats, with those detestable guns of theirs, and i assure you we shan’t want any swords or pistols.
we four, with our sticks, once we’re inside the dining-hall, why, we shall clear the floor of all the lot of them in five minutes.
i’d have done the whole thing by myself, only i didn’t want to deprive you fellows of the fun!’
‘it’s as well to be on the safe side,’ said the rat reflectively, polishing a pistol-barrel on his sleeve and looking along it.
the toad, having finished his breakfast, picked up a stout stick and swung it vigorously, belabouring imaginary animals.
‘i’ll learn ‘em to steal my house!’ he cried.
‘i’ll learn ‘em, i’ll learn ‘em!’
‘don’t say “learn ‘em,” toad,’ said the rat, greatly shocked.
‘it’s not good english.’
‘what are you always nagging at toad for?’ inquired the badger, rather peevishly.
‘what’s the matter with his english?
it’s the same what i use myself, and if it’s good enough for me, it ought to be good enough for you!’
‘i’m very sorry,’ said the rat humbly.
‘only i think it ought to be “teach ‘em,” not “learn ‘em.”’
‘but we don’t want to teach ‘em,’ replied the badger.
‘we want to learn ‘em learn ‘em, learn ‘em!
and what’s more, we’re going to do it, too!’
‘oh, very well, have it your own way,’ said the rat.
he was getting rather muddled about it himself, and presently he retired into a corner, where he could be heard muttering, ‘learn ‘em, teach ‘em, teach ‘em, learn ‘em!’ till the badger told him rather sharply to leave off.
presently the mole came tumbling into the room, evidently very pleased with himself.
‘i’ve been having such fun!’ he began at once; ‘i’ve been getting a rise out of the stoats!’
‘i hope you’ve been very careful, mole?’ said the rat anxiously.
‘i should hope so, too,’ said the mole confidently.
‘i got the idea when i went into the kitchen, to see about toad’s breakfast being kept hot for him.
i found that old washerwoman-dress that he came home in yesterday, hanging on a towel-horse before the fire.
so i put it on, and the bonnet as well, and the shawl, and off i went to toad hall, as bold as you please.
the sentries were on the look-out, of course, with their guns and their “who comes there?” and all the rest of their nonsense.
“good morning, gentlemen!” says i, very respectful.
“want any washing done to-day?”
‘they looked at me very proud and stiff and haughty, and said, “go away, washerwoman!
we don’t do any washing on duty.” “or any other time?” says i. ho, ho, ho!
wasn’t i funny, toad?’
‘poor, frivolous animal!’ said toad, very loftily.
the fact is, he felt exceedingly jealous of mole for what he had just done.
it was exactly what he would have liked to have done himself, if only he had thought of it first, and hadn’t gone and overslept himself.
‘some of the stoats turned quite pink,’ continued the mole, ‘and the sergeant in charge, he said to me, very short, he said, “now run away, my good woman, run away!
don’t keep my men idling and talking on their posts.” “run away?” says i; “it won’t be me that’ll be running away, in a very short time from now!”’
‘o moly, how could you?’ said the rat, dismayed.
the badger laid down his paper.
‘i could see them pricking up their ears and looking at each other,’
went on the mole; ‘and the sergeant said to them, “never mind her; she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”’
‘“o!
don’t i?”’ said i.
‘“well, let me tell you this.
my daughter, she washes for mr. badger, and that’ll show you whether i know what i’m talking about; and you’ll know pretty soon, too!
a hundred bloodthirsty badgers, armed with rifles, are going to attack toad hall this very night, by way of the paddock.
six boatloads of rats, with pistols and cutlasses, will come up the river and effect a landing in the garden; while a picked body of toads, known at the die-hards, or the death-or-glory toads, will storm the orchard and carry everything before them, yelling for vengeance.
there won’t be much left of you to wash, by the time they’ve done with you, unless you clear out while you have the chance!” then i ran away, and when i was out of sight i hid; and presently i came creeping back along the ditch and took a peep at them through the hedge.
they were all as nervous and flustered as could be, running all ways at once, and falling over each other, and every one giving orders to everybody else and not listening; and the sergeant kept sending off parties of stoats to distant parts of the grounds, and then sending other fellows to fetch ‘em back again; and i heard them saying to each other, “that’s just like the weasels; they’re to stop comfortably in the banqueting-hall, and have feasting and toasts and songs and all sorts of fun, while we must stay on guard in the cold and the dark, and in the end be cut to pieces by bloodthirsty badgers!’”
‘oh, you silly ass, mole!’ cried toad, ‘you’ve been and spoilt everything!’
‘mole,’ said the badger, in his dry, quiet way, ‘i perceive you have more sense in your little finger than some other animals have in the whole of their fat bodies.
you have managed excellently, and i begin to have great hopes of you.
good mole!
clever mole!’
the toad was simply wild with jealousy, more especially as he couldn’t make out for the life of him what the mole had done that was so particularly clever; but, fortunately for him, before he could show temper or expose himself to the badger’s sarcasm, the bell rang for luncheon.
it was a simple but sustaining meal bacon and broad beans, and a macaroni pudding; and when they had quite done, the badger settled himself into an arm-chair, and said, ‘well, we’ve got our work cut out for us to-night, and it will probably be pretty late before we’re quite through with it; so i’m just going to take forty winks, while i can.’
and he drew a handkerchief over his face and was soon snoring.
the anxious and laborious rat at once resumed his preparations, and started running between his four little heaps, muttering, ‘here’s-a-belt-for-the-rat, here’s-a-belt-for-the-mole, here’s-a-belt-for-the-toad, here’s-a-belt-for-the-badger!’ and so on, with every fresh accoutrement he produced, to which there seemed really no end; so the mole drew his arm through toad’s, led him out into the open air, shoved him into a wicker chair, and made him tell him all his adventures from beginning to end, which toad was only too willing to do.
the mole was a good listener, and toad, with no one to check his statements or to criticise in an unfriendly spirit, rather let himself go.
indeed, much that he related belonged more properly to the category of what-might-have-happened-had-i-only-thought-of-it-in-time-instead-of ten-minutes-afterwards.
those are always the best and the raciest adventures; and why should they not be truly ours, as much as the somewhat inadequate things that really come off?
xii.
the return of ulysses
when it began to grow dark, the rat, with an air of excitement and mystery, summoned them back into the parlour, stood each of them up alongside of his little heap, and proceeded to dress them up for the coming expedition.
he was very earnest and thoroughgoing about it, and the affair took quite a long time.
first, there was a belt to go round each animal, and then a sword to be stuck into each belt, and then a cutlass on the other side to balance it.
then a pair of pistols, a policeman’s truncheon, several sets of handcuffs, some bandages and sticking-plaster, and a flask and a sandwich-case.
the badger laughed good-humouredly and said, ‘all right, ratty!
it amuses you and it doesn’t hurt me.
i’m going to do all i’ve got to do with this here stick.’ but the rat only said, ‘please, badger.
you know i shouldn’t like you to blame me afterwards and say i had forgotten anything!’
when all was quite ready, the badger took a dark lantern in one paw, grasped his great stick with the other, and said, ‘now then, follow me!
mole first, ‘cos i’m very pleased with him; rat next; toad last.
and look here, toady!
don’t you chatter so much as usual, or you’ll be sent back, as sure as fate!’
the toad was so anxious not to be left out that he took up the inferior position assigned to him without a murmur, and the animals set off.
the badger led them along by the river for a little way, and then suddenly swung himself over the edge into a hole in the river-bank, a little above the water.
the mole and the rat followed silently, swinging themselves successfully into the hole as they had seen the badger do; but when it came to toad’s turn, of course he managed to slip and fall into the water with a loud splash and a squeal of alarm.
he was hauled out by his friends, rubbed down and wrung out hastily, comforted, and set on his legs; but the badger was seriously angry, and told him that the very next time he made a fool of himself he would most certainly be left behind.
so at last they were in the secret passage, and the cutting-out expedition had really begun!
it was cold, and dark, and damp, and low, and narrow, and poor toad began to shiver, partly from dread of what might be before him, partly because he was wet through.
the lantern was far ahead, and he could not help lagging behind a little in the darkness.
then he heard the rat call out warningly, ‘come on, toad!’ and a terror seized him of being left behind, alone in the darkness, and he ‘came on’ with such a rush that he upset the rat into the mole and the mole into the badger, and for a moment all was confusion.
the badger thought they were being attacked from behind, and, as there was no room to use a stick or a cutlass, drew a pistol, and was on the point of putting a bullet into toad.
when he found out what had really happened he was very angry indeed, and said, ‘now this time that tiresome toad shall be left behind!’
but toad whimpered, and the other two promised that they would be answerable for his good conduct, and at last the badger was pacified, and the procession moved on; only this time the rat brought up the rear, with a firm grip on the shoulder of toad.
so they groped and shuffled along, with their ears pricked up and their paws on their pistols, till at last the badger said, ‘we ought by now to be pretty nearly under the hall.’
then suddenly they heard, far away as it might be, and yet apparently nearly over their heads, a confused murmur of sound, as if people were shouting and cheering and stamping on the floor and hammering on tables.
the toad’s nervous terrors all returned, but the badger only remarked placidly, ‘they are going it, the weasels!’
the passage now began to slope upwards; they groped onward a little further, and then the noise broke out again, quite distinct this time, and very close above them.
‘ooo-ray-ooray-oo-ray-ooray!’ they heard, and the stamping of little feet on the floor, and the clinking of glasses as little fists pounded on the table.
‘what a time they’re having!’ said the badger.
‘come on!’ they hurried along the passage till it came to a full stop, and they found themselves standing under the trap-door that led up into the butler’s pantry.
such a tremendous noise was going on in the banqueting-hall that there was little danger of their being overheard.
the badger said, ‘now, boys, all together!’ and the four of them put their shoulders to the trap-door and heaved it back.
hoisting each other up, they found themselves standing in the pantry, with only a door between them and the banqueting-hall, where their unconscious enemies were carousing.
the noise, as they emerged from the passage, was simply deafening.
at last, as the cheering and hammering slowly subsided, a voice could be made out saying, ‘well, i do not propose to detain you much longer’ (great applause) ‘but before i resume my seat’ (renewed cheering) ‘i should like to say one word about our kind host, mr. toad.
we all know toad!’ (great laughter) ‘good toad, modest toad, honest toad!’ (shrieks of merriment).
‘only just let me get at him!’ muttered toad, grinding his teeth.
‘hold hard a minute!’ said the badger, restraining him with difficulty.
‘get ready, all of you!’
‘ let me sing you a little song,’ went on the voice, ‘which i have composed on the subject of toad’ (prolonged applause).
then the chief weasel for it was he began in a high, squeaky voice
‘toad he went a-pleasuring           gaily down the street ’
the badger drew himself up, took a firm grip of his stick with both paws, glanced round at his comrades, and cried
‘the hour is come!
follow me!’
and flung the door open wide.
my!
what a squealing and a squeaking and a screeching filled the air!
well might the terrified weasels dive under the tables and spring madly up at the windows!
well might the ferrets rush wildly for the fireplace and get hopelessly jammed in the chimney!
well might tables and chairs be upset, and glass and china be sent crashing on the floor, in the panic of that terrible moment when the four heroes strode wrathfully into the room!
the mighty badger, his whiskers bristling, his great cudgel whistling through the air; mole, black and grim, brandishing his stick and shouting his awful war-cry, ‘a mole!
a mole!’ rat; desperate and determined, his belt bulging with weapons of every age and every variety; toad, frenzied with excitement and injured pride, swollen to twice his ordinary size, leaping into the air and emitting toad-whoops that chilled them to the marrow!
‘toad he went a-pleasuring!’ he yelled.
‘i’ll pleasure ‘em!’ and he went straight for the chief weasel.
they were but four in all, but to the panic-stricken weasels the hall seemed full of monstrous animals, grey, black, brown and yellow, whooping and flourishing enormous cudgels; and they broke and fled with squeals of terror and dismay, this way and that, through the windows, up the chimney, anywhere to get out of reach of those terrible sticks.
the affair was soon over.
up and down, the whole length of the hall, strode the four friends, whacking with their sticks at every head that showed itself; and in five minutes the room was cleared.
through the broken windows the shrieks of terrified weasels escaping across the lawn were borne faintly to their ears; on the floor lay prostrate some dozen or so of the enemy, on whom the mole was busily engaged in fitting handcuffs.
the badger, resting from his labours, leant on his stick and wiped his honest brow.
‘mole,’ he said,’ ‘you’re the best of fellows!
just cut along outside and look after those stoat-sentries of yours, and see what they’re doing.
i’ve an idea that, thanks to you, we shan’t have much trouble from them to-night!’
the mole vanished promptly through a window; and the badger bade the other two set a table on its legs again, pick up knives and forks and plates and glasses from the debris on the floor, and see if they could find materials for a supper.
‘i want some grub, i do,’ he said, in that rather common way he had of speaking.
‘stir your stumps, toad, and look lively!
we’ve got your house back for you, and you don’t offer us so much as a sandwich.’ toad felt rather hurt that the badger didn’t say pleasant things to him, as he had to the mole, and tell him what a fine fellow he was, and how splendidly he had fought; for he was rather particularly pleased with himself and the way he had gone for the chief weasel and sent him flying across the table with one blow of his stick.
but he bustled about, and so did the rat, and soon they found some guava jelly in a glass dish, and a cold chicken, a tongue that had hardly been touched, some trifle, and quite a lot of lobster salad; and in the pantry they came upon a basketful of french rolls and any quantity of cheese, butter, and celery.
they were just about to sit down when the mole clambered in through the window, chuckling, with an armful of rifles.
‘it’s all over,’ he reported.
‘from what i can make out, as soon as the stoats, who were very nervous and jumpy already, heard the shrieks and the yells and the uproar inside the hall, some of them threw down their rifles and fled.
the others stood fast for a bit, but when the weasels came rushing out upon them they thought they were betrayed; and the stoats grappled with the weasels, and the weasels fought to get away, and they wrestled and wriggled and punched each other, and rolled over and over, till most of ‘em rolled into the river!
they’ve all disappeared by now, one way or another; and i’ve got their rifles.
so that’s all right!’
‘excellent and deserving animal!’ said the badger, his mouth full of chicken and trifle.
‘now, there’s just one more thing i want you to do, mole, before you sit down to your supper along of us; and i wouldn’t trouble you only i know i can trust you to see a thing done, and i wish i could say the same of every one i know.
i’d send rat, if he wasn’t a poet.
i want you to take those fellows on the floor there upstairs with you, and have some bedrooms cleaned out and tidied up and made really comfortable.
see that they sweep under the beds, and put clean sheets and pillow-cases on, and turn down one corner of the bed-clothes, just as you know it ought to be done; and have a can of hot water, and clean towels, and fresh cakes of soap, put in each room.
and then you can give them a licking a-piece, if it’s any satisfaction to you, and put them out by the back-door, and we shan’t see any more of them, i fancy.
and then come along and have some of this cold tongue.
it’s first rate.
i’m very pleased with you, mole!’
the goodnatured mole picked up a stick, formed his prisoners up in a line on the floor, gave them the order ‘quick march!’ and led his squad off to the upper floor.
after a time, he appeared again, smiling, and said that every room was ready, and as clean as a new pin.
‘and i didn’t have to lick them, either,’ he added.
‘i thought, on the whole, they had had licking enough for one night, and the weasels, when i put the point to them, quite agreed with me, and said they wouldn’t think of troubling me.
they were very penitent, and said they were extremely sorry for what they had done, but it was all the fault of the chief weasel and the stoats, and if ever they could do anything for us at any time to make up, we had only got to mention it.
so i gave them a roll a-piece, and let them out at the back, and off they ran, as hard as they could!’
then the mole pulled his chair up to the table, and pitched into the cold tongue; and toad, like the gentleman he was, put all his jealousy from him, and said heartily, ‘thank you kindly, dear mole, for all your pains and trouble tonight, and especially for your cleverness this morning!’ the badger was pleased at that, and said, ‘there spoke my brave toad!’ so they finished their supper in great joy and contentment, and presently retired to rest between clean sheets, safe in toad’s ancestral home, won back by matchless valour, consummate strategy, and a proper handling of sticks.
the following morning, toad, who had overslept himself as usual, came down to breakfast disgracefully late, and found on the table a certain quantity of egg-shells, some fragments of cold and leathery toast, a coffee-pot three-fourths empty, and really very little else; which did not tend to improve his temper, considering that, after all, it was his own house.
through the french windows of the breakfast-room he could see the mole and the water rat sitting in wicker-chairs out on the lawn, evidently telling each other stories; roaring with laughter and kicking their short legs up in the air.
the badger, who was in an arm-chair and deep in the morning paper, merely looked up and nodded when toad entered the room.
but toad knew his man, so he sat down and made the best breakfast he could, merely observing to himself that he would get square with the others sooner or later.
when he had nearly finished, the badger looked up and remarked rather shortly: ‘i’m sorry, toad, but i’m afraid there’s a heavy morning’s work in front of you.
you see, we really ought to have a banquet at once, to celebrate this affair.
it’s expected of you in fact, it’s the rule.’
‘o, all right!’ said the toad, readily.
‘anything to oblige.
though why on earth you should want to have a banquet in the morning i cannot understand.
but you know i do not live to please myself, but merely to find out what my friends want, and then try and arrange it for ‘em, you dear old badger!’
‘don’t pretend to be stupider than you really are,’ replied the badger, crossly; ‘and don’t chuckle and splutter in your coffee while you’re talking; it’s not manners.
what i mean is, the banquet will be at night, of course, but the invitations will have to be written and got off at once, and you’ve got to write ‘em.
now, sit down at that table there’s stacks of letter-paper on it, with “toad hall” at the top in blue and gold and write invitations to all our friends, and if you stick to it we shall get them out before luncheon.
and i’ll bear a hand, too; and take my share of the burden.
i’ll order the banquet.’
‘what!’ cried toad, dismayed.
‘me stop indoors and write a lot of rotten letters on a jolly morning like this, when i want to go around my property, and set everything and everybody to rights, and swagger about and enjoy myself!
certainly not!
i’ll be i’ll see you  stop a minute, though!
why, of course, dear badger!
what is my pleasure or convenience compared with that of others!
you wish it done, and it shall be done.
go, badger, order the banquet, order what you like; then join our young friends outside in their innocent mirth, oblivious of me and my cares and toils.
i sacrifice this fair morning on the altar of duty and friendship!’
the badger looked at him very suspiciously, but toad’s frank, open countenance made it difficult to suggest any unworthy motive in this change of attitude.
he quitted the room, accordingly, in the direction of the kitchen, and as soon as the door had closed behind him, toad hurried to the writing-table.
a fine idea had occurred to him while he was talking.
he would write the invitations; and he would take care to mention the leading part he had taken in the fight, and how he had laid the chief weasel flat; and he would hint at his adventures, and what a career of triumph he had to tell about; and on the fly-leaf he would set out a sort of a programme of entertainment for the evening something like this, as he sketched it out in his head:
speech.
.
.
.
by toad.
(there will be other speeches by toad during the evening.)
address.
.
.
by toad
synopsis our prison system the waterways of old   england horse-dealing, and how to deal property,   its rights and its duties back to the land
a typical english squire.
song.
.
.
.
by toad.
(composed by himself.)
other compositions.
by toad   will be sung in the course of the evening   by the.
.
.
composer.
the idea pleased him mightily, and he worked very hard and got all the letters finished by noon, at which hour it was reported to him that there was a small and rather bedraggled weasel at the door, inquiring timidly whether he could be of any service to the gentlemen.
toad swaggered out and found it was one of the prisoners of the previous evening, very respectful and anxious to please.
he patted him on the head, shoved the bundle of invitations into his paw, and told him to cut along quick and deliver them as fast as he could, and if he liked to come back again in the evening, perhaps there might be a shilling for him, or, again, perhaps there mightn’t; and the poor weasel seemed really quite grateful, and hurried off eagerly to do his mission.
when the other animals came back to luncheon, very boisterous and breezy after a morning on the river, the mole, whose conscience had been pricking him, looked doubtfully at toad, expecting to find him sulky or depressed.
instead, he was so uppish and inflated that the mole began to suspect something; while the rat and the badger exchanged significant glances.
as soon as the meal was over, toad thrust his paws deep into his trouser-pockets, remarked casually, ‘well, look after yourselves, you fellows!
ask for anything you want!’ and was swaggering off in the direction of the garden, where he wanted to think out an idea or two for his coming speeches, when the rat caught him by the arm.
toad rather suspected what he was after, and did his best to get away; but when the badger took him firmly by the other arm he began to see that the game was up.
the two animals conducted him between them into the small smoking-room that opened out of the entrance-hall, shut the door, and put him into a chair.
then they both stood in front of him, while toad sat silent and regarded them with much suspicion and ill-humour.
‘now, look here, toad,’ said the rat.
‘it’s about this banquet, and very sorry i am to have to speak to you like this.
but we want you to understand clearly, once and for all, that there are going to be no speeches and no songs.
try and grasp the fact that on this occasion we’re not arguing with you; we’re just telling you.’
toad saw that he was trapped.
they understood him, they saw through him, they had got ahead of him.
his pleasant dream was shattered.
‘mayn’t i sing them just one little song?’ he pleaded piteously.
‘no, not one little song,’ replied the rat firmly, though his heart bled as he noticed the trembling lip of the poor disappointed toad.
‘it’s no good, toady; you know well that your songs are all conceit and boasting and vanity; and your speeches are all self-praise and and well, and gross exaggeration and and  ’
‘and gas,’ put in the badger, in his common way.
‘it’s for your own good, toady,’ went on the rat.
‘you know you must turn over a new leaf sooner or later, and now seems a splendid time to begin; a sort of turning-point in your career.
please don’t think that saying all this doesn’t hurt me more than it hurts you.’
toad remained a long while plunged in thought.
at last he raised his head, and the traces of strong emotion were visible on his features.
‘you have conquered, my friends,’ he said in broken accents.
‘it was, to be sure, but a small thing that i asked merely leave to blossom and expand for yet one more evening, to let myself go and hear the tumultuous applause that always seems to me somehow to bring out my best qualities.
however, you are right, i know, and i am wrong.
hence forth i will be a very different toad.
my friends, you shall never have occasion to blush for me again.
but, o dear, o dear, this is a hard world!’
and, pressing his handkerchief to his face, he left the room, with faltering footsteps.
‘badger,’ said the rat, ‘i feel like a brute; i wonder what you feel like?’
‘o, i know, i know,’ said the badger gloomily.
‘but the thing had to be done.
this good fellow has got to live here, and hold his own, and be respected.
would you have him a common laughing-stock, mocked and jeered at by stoats and weasels?’
‘of course not,’ said the rat.
‘and, talking of weasels, it’s lucky we came upon that little weasel, just as he was setting out with toad’s invitations.
i suspected something from what you told me, and had a look at one or two; they were simply disgraceful.
i confiscated the lot, and the good mole is now sitting in the blue boudoir, filling up plain, simple invitation cards.’
* * * * *
at last the hour for the banquet began to draw near, and toad, who on leaving the others had retired to his bedroom, was still sitting there, melancholy and thoughtful.
his brow resting on his paw, he pondered long and deeply.
gradually his countenance cleared, and he began to smile long, slow smiles.
then he took to giggling in a shy, self-conscious manner.
at last he got up, locked the door, drew the curtains across the windows, collected all the chairs in the room and arranged them in a semicircle, and took up his position in front of them, swelling visibly.
then he bowed, coughed twice, and, letting himself go, with uplifted voice he sang, to the enraptured audience that his imagination so clearly saw.
toad’s last little song!
the toad came home!
there was panic in the parlours and howling in the halls,   there was crying in the cow-sheds and shrieking in the stalls,   when the toad came home!
when the toad came home!
there was smashing in of window and crashing in of door,   there was chivvying of weasels that fainted on the floor,   when the toad came home!
bang!
go the drums!
the trumpeters are tooting and the soldiers are saluting,   and the cannon they are shooting and the motor-cars are hooting,   as the hero comes!
shout hoo-ray!
and let each one of the crowd try and shout it very loud,   in honour of an animal of whom you’re justly proud,   for it’s toad’s great day!
he sang this very loud, with great unction and expression; and when he had done, he sang it all over again.
then he heaved a deep sigh; a long, long, long sigh.
then he dipped his hairbrush in the water-jug, parted his hair in the middle, and plastered it down very straight and sleek on each side of his face; and, unlocking the door, went quietly down the stairs to greet his guests, who he knew must be assembling in the drawing-room.
all the animals cheered when he entered, and crowded round to congratulate him and say nice things about his courage, and his cleverness, and his fighting qualities; but toad only smiled faintly, and murmured, ‘not at all!’ or, sometimes, for a change, ‘on the contrary!’ otter, who was standing on the hearthrug, describing to an admiring circle of friends exactly how he would have managed things had he been there, came forward with a shout, threw his arm round toad’s neck, and tried to take him round the room in triumphal progress; but toad, in a mild way, was rather snubby to him, remarking gently, as he disengaged himself, ‘badger’s was the mastermind; the mole and the water rat bore the brunt of the fighting; i merely served in the ranks and did little or nothing.’ the animals were evidently puzzled and taken aback by this unexpected attitude of his; and toad felt, as he moved from one guest to the other, making his modest responses, that he was an object of absorbing interest to every one.
the badger had ordered everything of the best, and the banquet was a great success.
there was much talking and laughter and chaff among the animals, but through it all toad, who of course was in the chair, looked down his nose and murmured pleasant nothings to the animals on either side of him.
at intervals he stole a glance at the badger and the rat, and always when he looked they were staring at each other with their mouths open; and this gave him the greatest satisfaction.
some of the younger and livelier animals, as the evening wore on, got whispering to each other that things were not so amusing as they used to be in the good old days; and there were some knockings on the table and cries of ‘toad!
speech!
speech from toad!
song!
mr. toad’s song!’ but toad only shook his head gently, raised one paw in mild protest, and, by pressing delicacies on his guests, by topical small-talk, and by earnest inquiries after members of their families not yet old enough to appear at social functions, managed to convey to them that this dinner was being run on strictly conventional lines.
he was indeed an altered toad!
* * * * *
after this climax, the four animals continued to lead their lives, so rudely broken in upon by civil war, in great joy and contentment, undisturbed by further risings or invasions.
toad, after due consultation with his friends, selected a handsome gold chain and locket set with pearls, which he dispatched to the gaoler’s daughter with a letter that even the badger admitted to be modest, grateful, and appreciative; and the engine-driver, in his turn, was properly thanked and compensated for all his pains and trouble.
under severe compulsion from the badger, even the barge-woman was, with some trouble, sought out and the value of her horse discreetly made good to her; though toad kicked terribly at this, holding himself to be an instrument of fate, sent to punish fat women with mottled arms who couldn’t tell a real gentleman when they saw one.
the amount involved, it was true, was not very burdensome, the gipsy’s valuation being admitted by local assessors to be approximately correct.
sometimes, in the course of long summer evenings, the friends would take a stroll together in the wild wood, now successfully tamed so far as they were concerned; and it was pleasing to see how respectfully they were greeted by the inhabitants, and how the mother-weasels would bring their young ones to the mouths of their holes, and say, pointing, ‘look, baby!
there goes the great mr. toad!
and that’s the gallant water rat, a terrible fighter, walking along o’ him!
and yonder comes the famous mr.
mole, of whom you so often have heard your father tell!’ but when their infants were fractious and quite beyond control, they would quiet them by telling how, if they didn’t hush them and not fret them, the terrible grey badger would up and get them.
this was a base libel on badger, who, though he cared little about society, was rather fond of children; but it never failed to have its full effect.
a supplementary reader for the fourth year of school
i.
a christmas dream, and how it came true.
"i'm so tired of christmas i wish there never would be another one!"
exclaimed a discontented-looking little girl, as she sat idly watching her mother arrange a pile of gifts two days before they were to be given.
"why, effie, what a dreadful thing to say!
you are as bad as old scrooge; and i'm afraid something will happen to you, as it did to him, if you don't care for dear christmas," answered mamma, almost dropping the silver horn she was filling with delicious candies.
"who was scrooge?
what happened to him?"
asked effie, with a glimmer of interest in her listless face, as she picked out the sourest lemon-drop she could find; for nothing sweet suited her just then.
"he was one of dickens's best people, and you can read the charming story some day.
he hated christmas until a strange dream showed him how dear and beautiful it was, and made a better man of him."
"i shall read it; for i like dreams, and have a great many curious ones myself.
but they don't keep me from being tired of christmas," said effie, poking discontentedly among the sweeties for something worth eating.
"why are you tired of what should be the happiest time of all the year?"
asked mamma, anxiously.
"perhaps i shouldn't be if i had something new.
but it is always the same, and there isn't any more surprise about it.
i always find heaps of goodies in my stocking.
don't like some of them, and soon get tired of those i do like.
we always have a great dinner, and i eat too much, and feel ill next day.
then there is a christmas tree somewhere, with a doll on top, or a stupid old santa claus, and children dancing and screaming over bonbons and toys that break, and shiny things that are of no use.
really, mamma, i've had so many christmases all alike that i don't think i can bear another one."
and effie laid herself flat on the sofa, as if the mere idea was too much for her.
her mother laughed at her despair, but was sorry to see her little girl so discontented, when she had everything to make her happy, and had known but ten christmas days.
"suppose we don't give you any presents at all, how would that suit you?"
asked mamma, anxious to please her spoiled child.
"i should like one large and splendid one, and one dear little one, to remember some very nice person by," said effie, who was a fanciful little body, full of odd whims and notions, which her friends loved to gratify, regardless of time, trouble, or money; for she was the last of three little girls, and very dear to all the family.
"well, my darling, i will see what i can do to please you, and not say a word until all is ready.
if i could only get a new idea to start with!"
and mamma went on tying up her pretty bundles with a thoughtful face, while effie strolled to the window to watch the rain that kept her in-doors and made her dismal.
"seems to me poor children have better times than rich ones.
i can't go out, and there is a girl about my age splashing along, without any maid to fuss about rubbers and cloaks and umbrellas and colds.
i wish i was a beggar-girl."
"would you like to be hungry, cold, and ragged, to beg all day, and sleep on an ash-heap at night?"
asked mamma, wondering what would come next.
"cinderella did, and had a nice time in the end.
this girl out here has a basket of scraps on her arm, and a big old shawl all round her, and doesn't seem to care a bit, though the water runs out of the toes of her boots.
she goes paddling along, laughing at the rain, and eating a cold potato as if it tasted nicer than the chicken and ice-cream i had for dinner.
yes, i do think poor children are happier than rich ones."
"so do i, sometimes.
at the orphan asylum today i saw two dozen merry little souls who have no parents, no home, and no hope of christmas beyond a stick of candy or a cake.
i wish you had been there to see how happy they were, playing with the old toys some richer children had sent them."
"you may give them all mine; i'm so tired of them i never want to see them again," said effie, turning from the window to the pretty baby-house full of everything a child's heart could desire.
"i will, and let you begin again with something you will not tire of, if i can only find it."
and mamma knit her brows trying to discover some grand surprise for this child who didn't care for christmas.
nothing more was said then; and wandering off to the library, effie found "a christmas carol," and curling herself up in the sofa corner, read it all before tea.
some of it she did not understand; but she laughed and cried over many parts of the charming story, and felt better without knowing why.
all the evening she thought of poor tiny tim, mrs. cratchit with the pudding, and the stout old gentleman who danced so gayly that "his legs twinkled in the air."
presently bedtime arrived.
"come, now, and toast your feet," said effie's nurse, "while i do your pretty hair and tell stories."
"i'll have a fairy tale to-night, a very interesting one," commanded effie, as she put on her blue silk wrapper and little fur-lined slippers to sit before the fire and have her long curls brushed.
so nursey told her best tales; and when at last the child lay down under her lace curtains, her head was full of a curious jumble of christmas elves, poor children, snow-storms, sugarplums, and surprises.
so it is no wonder that she dreamed all night; and this was the dream, which she never quite forgot.
she found herself sitting on a stone, in the middle of a great field, all alone.
the snow was falling fast, a bitter wind whistled by, and night was coming on.
she felt hungry, cold, and tired, and did not know where to go nor what to do.
"i wanted to be a beggar-girl, and now i am one; but i don't like it, and wish somebody would come and take care of me.
i don't know who i am, and i think i must be lost," thought effie, with the curious interest one takes in one's self in dreams.
but the more she thought about it, the more bewildered she felt.
faster fell the snow, colder blew the wind, darker grew the night; and poor effie made up her mind that she was quite forgotten and left to freeze alone.
the tears were chilled on her cheeks, her feet felt like icicles, and her heart died within her, so hungry, frightened, and forlorn was she.
laying her head on her knees, she gave herself up for lost, and sat there with the great flakes fast turning her to a little white mound, when suddenly the sound of music reached her, and starting up, she looked and listened with all her eyes and ears.
far away a dim light shone, and a voice was heard singing.
she tried to run toward the welcome glimmer, but could not stir, and stood like a small statue of expectation while the light drew nearer, and the sweet words of the song grew clearer.
from our happy home     through the world we roam   one week in all the year,     making winter spring     with the joy we bring,   for christmas-tide is here.
now the eastern star     shines from afar   to light the poorest home;     hearts warmer grow,     gifts freely flow,   for christmas-tide has come.
now gay trees rise     before young eyes,   abloom with tempting cheer;     blithe voices sing,     and blithe bells ring,   for christmas-tide is here.
oh, happy chime,     oh, blessed time,   that draws us all so near!
"welcome, dear day,"
all creatures say,   for christmas-tide is here.
a child's voice sang, a child's hand carried the little candle; and in the circle of soft light it shed, effie saw a pretty child coming to her through the night and snow.
a rosy, smiling creature, wrapped in white fur, with a wreath of green and scarlet holly on its shining hair, the magic candle in one hand, and the other outstretched as if to shower gifts and warmly press all other hands.
effie forgot to speak as this bright vision came nearer, leaving no trace of footsteps in the snow, only lighting the way with its little candle, and filling the air with the music of its song.
"dear child, you are lost, and i have come to find you," said the stranger, taking effie's cold hands in his, with a smile like sunshine, while every holly berry glowed like a little fire.
"do you know me?"
asked effie, feeling no fear, but a great gladness, at his coming.
"i know all children, and go to find them; for this is my holiday, and i gather them from all parts of the world to be merry with me once a year."
"are you an angel?"
asked effie, looking for the wings.
"no; i am a christmas spirit, and live with my mates in a pleasant place, getting ready for our holiday, when we are let out to roam about the world, helping make this a happy time for all who will let us in.
will you come and see how we work?"
"i will go anywhere with you.
don't leave me again," cried effie, gladly.
"first i will make you comfortable.
that is what we love to do.
you are cold, and you shall be warm, hungry, and i will feed you; sorrowful, and i will make you gay."
with a wave of his candle all three miracles were wrought, for the snow-flakes turned to a white fur cloak and hood on effie's head and shoulders, a bowl of hot soup came sailing to her lips, and vanished when she had eagerly drunk the last drop; and suddenly the dismal field changed to a new world so full of wonders that all her troubles were forgotten in a minute.
bells were ringing so merrily that it was hard to keep from dancing.
green garlands hung on the walls, and every tree was a christmas tree full of toys, and blazing with candles that never went out.
in one place many little spirits sewed like mad on warm clothes, turning off work faster than any sewing-machine ever invented, and great piles were made ready to be sent to poor people.
other busy creatures packed money into purses, and wrote checks which they sent flying away on the wind, a lovely kind of snow-storm to fall into a world below full of poverty.
older and graver spirits were looking over piles of little books, in which the records of the past year were kept, telling how different people had spent it, and what sort of gifts they deserved.
some got peace, some disappointment, some remorse and sorrow, some great joy and hope.
the rich had generous thoughts sent them; the poor, gratitude and contentment.
children had more love and duty to parents; and parents renewed patience, wisdom, and satisfaction for and in their children.
no one was forgotten.
"please tell me what splendid place this is?"
asked effie, as soon as she could collect her wits after the first look at all these astonishing things.
"this is the christmas world; and here we work all the year round, never tired of getting ready for the happy day.
see, these are the saints just setting off; for some have far to go, and the children must not be disappointed."
as he spoke the spirit pointed to four gates, out of which four great sleighs were just driving, laden with toys, while a jolly old santa claus sat in the middle of each, drawing on his mittens and tucking up his wraps for a long cold drive.
"why, i thought there was only one santa claus, and even he was a humbug," cried effie, astonished at the sight.
"never give up your faith in the sweet old stones, even after you come to see that they are only the pleasant shadow of a lovely truth."
just then the sleighs went off with a great jingling of bells and pattering of reindeer hoofs, while all the spirits gave a cheer that was heard in the lower world, where people said, "hear the stars sing."
"i never will say there isn't any santa claus again.
now, show me more."
"you will like to see this place, i think, and may learn something here perhaps"
the spirit smiled as he led the way to a little door, through which effie peeped into a world of dolls.
baby-houses were in full blast, with dolls of all sorts going on like live people.
waxen ladies sat in their parlors elegantly dressed; black dolls cooked in the kitchens; nurses walked out with the bits of dollies; and the streets were full of tin soldiers marching, wooden horses prancing, express wagons rumbling, and little men hurrying to and fro.
shops were there, and tiny people buying legs of mutton, pounds of tea, mites of clothes, and everything dolls use or wear or want.
but presently she saw that in some ways the dolls improved upon the manners and customs of human beings, and she watched eagerly to learn why they did these things.
a fine paris doll driving in her carriage took up a black worsted dinah who was hobbling along with a basket of clean clothes, and carried her to her journey's end, as if it were the proper thing to do.
another interesting china lady took off her comfortable red cloak and put it round a poor wooden creature done up in a paper shift, and so badly painted that its face would have sent some babies into fits.
"seems to me i once knew a rich girl who didn't give her things to poor girls.
i wish i could remember who she was, and tell her to be as kind as that china doll," said effie, much touched at the sweet way the pretty creature wrapped up the poor fright, and then ran off in her little gray gown to buy a shiny fowl stuck on a wooden platter for her invalid mother's dinner.
"we recall these things to people's minds by dreams.
i think the girl you speak of won't forget this one."
and the spirit smiled, as if he enjoyed some joke which she did not see.
a little bell rang as she looked, and away scampered the children into the red-and-green school-house with the roof that lifted up, so one could see how nicely they sat at their desks with mites of books, or drew on the inch-square blackboards with crumbs of chalk.
"they know their lessons very well, and are as still as mice.
we make a great racket at our school, and get bad marks every day.
i shall tell the girls they had better mind what they do, or their dolls will be better scholars than they are," said effie, much impressed, as she peeped in and saw no rod in the hand of the little mistress, who looked up and shook her head at the intruder, as if begging her to go away before the order of the school was disturbed.
effie retired at once, but could not resist one look in at the window of a fine mansion, where the family were at dinner, the children behaved so well at table, and never grumbled a bit when their mamma said they could not have any more fruit.
"now, show me something else," she said, as they came again to the low door that led out of doll-land.
"you have seen how we prepare for christmas; let me show you where we love best to send our good and happy gifts," answered the spirit, giving her his hand again.
"i know.
i've seen ever so many," began effie, thinking of her own christmases.
"no, you have never seen what i will show you.
come away, and remember what you see to-night."
like a flash that bright world vanished, and effie found herself in a part of the city she had never seen before.
it was far away from the gayer places, where every store was brilliant with lights and full of pretty things, and every house wore a festival air, while people hurried to and fro with merry greetings.
it was down among the dingy streets where the poor lived, and where there was no making ready for christmas.
hungry women looked in at the shabby shops, longing to buy meat and bread, but empty pockets forbade.
tipsy men drank up their wages in the bar-rooms; and in many cold dark chambers little children huddled under the thin blankets, trying to forget their misery in sleep.
no nice dinners filled the air with savory smells, no gay trees dropped toys and bonbons into eager hands, no little stockings hung in rows beside the chimney-piece ready to be filled, no happy sounds of music, gay voices, and dancing feet were heard; and there were no signs of christmas anywhere.
"don't they have any in this place?"
asked effie, shivering, as she held fast the spirit's hand, following where he led her.
"we come to bring it.
let me show you our best workers."
and the spirit pointed to some sweet-faced men and women who came stealing into the poor houses, working such beautiful miracles that effie could only stand and watch.
some slipped money into the empty pockets, and sent the happy mothers to buy all the comforts they needed; others led the drunken men out of temptation, and took them home to find safer pleasures there.
fires were kindled on cold hearths, tables spread as if by magic, and warm clothes wrapped round shivering limbs.
flowers suddenly bloomed in the chambers of the sick; old people found themselves remembered; sad hearts were consoled by a tender word, and wicked ones softened by the story of him who forgave all sin.
but the sweetest work was for the children; and effie held her breath to watch these human fairies hang up and fill the little stockings without which a child's christmas is not perfect, putting in things that once she would have thought very humble presents, but which now seemed beautiful and precious because these poor babies had nothing.
"that is so beautiful!
i wish i could make merry christmases as these good people do, and be loved and thanked as they are," said effie, softly, as she watched the busy men and women do their work and steal away without thinking of any reward but their own satisfaction.
"you can if you will.
i have shown you the way.
try it, and see how happy your own holiday will be hereafter."
as he spoke, the spirit seemed to put his arms about her, and vanished with a kiss.
"oh, stay and show me more!"
cried effie, trying to hold him fast.
"darling, wake up, and tell me why you are smiling in your sleep," said a voice in her ear; and opening her eyes, there was mamma bending over her, and morning sunshine streaming into the room.
"are they all gone?
did you hear the bells?
wasn't it splendid?"
she asked, rubbing her eyes, and looking about her for the pretty child who was so real and sweet.
"you have been dreaming at a great rate, talking in your sleep, laughing, and clapping your hands as if you were cheering some one.
tell me what was so splendid," said mamma, smoothing the tumbled hair and lifting up the sleepy head.
then, while she was being dressed, effie told her dream, and nursey thought it very wonderful; but mamma smiled to see how curiously things the child had thought, read, heard, and seen through the day were mixed up in her sleep.
"the spirit said i could work lovely miracles if i tried; but i don't know how to begin, for i have no magic candle to make feasts appear, and light up groves of christmas trees, as he did," said effie, sorrowfully.
"yes, you have.
we will do it!
we will do it!"
and clapping her hands, mamma suddenly began to dance all over the room as if she had lost her wits.
"how?
how?
you must tell me, mamma," cried effie, dancing after her, and ready to believe anything possible when she remembered the adventures of the past night.
"i've got it!
i've got it!
the new idea.
a splendid one, if i can only carry it out!"
and mamma waltzed the little girl round till her curls flew wildly in the air, while nursey laughed as if she would die.
"tell me!
tell me!"
shrieked effie.
"no, no; it is a surprise, a grand surprise for christmas day!"
sung mamma, evidently charmed with her happy thought.
"now, come to breakfast; for we must work like bees if we want to play spirits tomorrow.
you and nursey will go out shopping, and get heaps of things, while i arrange matters behind the scenes."
they were running downstairs as mamma spoke, and effie called out breathlessly,
"it won't be a surprise; for i know you are going to ask some poor children here, and have a tree or something.
it won't be like my dream; for they had ever so many trees, and more children than we can find anywhere."
"there will be no tree, no party, no dinner, in this house at all, and no presents for you.
won't that be a surprise?"
and mamma laughed at effie's bewildered face.
"do it.
i shall like it, i think; and i won't ask any questions, so it will all burst upon me when the time comes," she said; and she ate her breakfast thoughtfully, for this really would be a new sort of christmas.
all that morning effie trotted after nursey in and out of shops, buying dozens of barking dogs, woolly lambs, and squeaking birds; tiny tea-sets, gay picture-books, mittens and hoods, dolls and candy.
parcel after parcel was sent home; but when effie returned she saw no trace of them, though she peeped everywhere.
nursey chuckled, but wouldn't give a hint, and went out again in the afternoon with a long list of more things to buy; while effie wandered forlornly about the house, missing the usual merry stir that went before the christmas dinner and the evening fun.
as for mamma, she was quite invisible all day, and came in at night so tired that she could only lie on the sofa to rest, smiling as if some very pleasant thought made her happy in spite of weariness.
"is the surprise going on all right?"
asked effie, anxiously; for it seemed an immense time to wait till another evening came.
"beautifully!
better than i expected; for several of my good friends are helping, or i couldn't have done it as i wish.
i know you will like it, dear, and long remember this new way of making christmas merry."
mamma gave her a very tender kiss, and effie went to bed.
the next day was a very strange one; for when she woke there was no stocking to examine, no pile of gifts under her napkin, no one said "merry christmas!"
to her, and the dinner was just as usual to her.
mamma vanished again, and nursey kept wiping her eyes and saying: "the dear things!
it's the prettiest idea i ever heard of.
no one but your blessed ma could have done it."
"do stop, nursey, or i shall go crazy because i don't know the secret!"
cried effie, more than once; and she kept her eye on the clock, for at seven in the evening the surprise was to come off.
the longed-for hour arrived at last, and the child was too excited to ask questions when nurse put on her cloak and hood, led her to the carriage, and they drove away, leaving their house the one dark and silent one in the row.
"i feel like the girls in the fairy tales who are led off to strange places and see fine things," said effie, in a whisper, as they jingled through the gay streets.
"ah, my deary, it is like a fairy tale, i do assure you, and you will see finer things than most children will tonight.
steady, now, and do just as i tell you, and don't say one word whatever you see,"
answered nursey, quite quivering with excitement as she patted a large box in her lap, and nodded and laughed with twinkling eyes.
they drove into a dark yard, and effie was led through a back door to a little room, where nurse coolly proceeded to take off not only her cloak and hood, but her dress and shoes also.
effie stared and bit her lips, but kept still until out of the box came a little white fur coat and boots, a wreath of holly leaves and berries, and a candle with a frill of gold paper round it.
a long "oh!"
escaped her then; and when she was dressed and saw herself in the glass, she started back, exclaiming, "why, nursey, i look like the spirit in my dream!"
"so you do; and that's the part you are to play, my pretty!
now whist, while i blind your eyes and put you in your place."
"shall i be afraid?"
whispered effie, full of wonder; for as they went out she heard the sound of many voices, the tramp of many feet, and, in spite of the bandage, was sure a great light shone upon her when she stopped.
"you needn't be; i shall stand close by, and your ma will be there."
after the handkerchief was tied about her eyes, nurse led effie up some steps, and placed her on a high platform, where something like leaves touched her head, and the soft snap of lamps seemed to fill the air.
music began as soon as nurse clapped her hands, the voices outside sounded nearer, and the tramp was evidently coming up the stairs.
"now, my precious, look and see how you and your dear ma have made a merry christmas for them that needed it!"
off went the bandage; and for a minute effie really did think she was asleep again, for she actually stood in "a grove of christmas trees,"
all gay and shining as in her vision.
twelve on a side, in two rows down the room, stood the little pines, each on its low table; and behind effie a taller one rose to the roof, hung with wreaths of popcorn, apples, oranges, horns of candy, and cakes of all sorts, from sugary hearts to gingerbread jumbos.
on the smaller trees she saw many of her own discarded toys and those nursey bought, as well as heaps that seemed to have rained down straight from that delightful christmas country where she felt as if she was again.
"how splendid!
who is it for?
what is that noise?
where is mamma?"
cried effie, pale with pleasure and surprise, as she stood looking down the brilliant little street from her high place.
before nurse could answer, the doors at the lower end flew open, and in marched twenty-four little blue-gowned orphan girls, singing sweetly, until amazement changed the song to cries of joy and wonder as the shining spectacle appeared.
while they stood staring with round eyes at the wilderness of pretty things about them, mamma stepped up beside effie, and holding her hand fast to give her courage, told the story of the dream in a few simple words, ending in this way:
"so my little girl wanted to be a christmas spirit too, and make this a happy day for those who had not as many pleasures and comforts as she has.
she likes surprises, and we planned this for you all.
she shall play the good fairy, and give each of you something from this tree, after which every one will find her own name on a small tree, and can go to enjoy it in her own way.
march by, my dears, and let us fill your hands."
nobody told them to do it, but all the hands were clapped heartily before a single child stirred; then one by one they came to look up wonderingly at the pretty giver of the feast as she leaned down to offer them great yellow oranges, red apples, bunches of grapes, bonbons, and cakes, till all were gone, and a double row of smiling faces turned toward her as the children filed back to their places in the orderly way they had been taught.
then each was led to her own tree by the good ladies who had helped mamma with all their hearts; and the happy hubbub that arose would have satisfied even santa claus himself, shrieks of joy, dances of delight, laughter and tears (for some tender little things could not bear so much pleasure at once, and sobbed with mouths full of candy and hands full of toys).
how they ran to show one another the new treasures!
how they peeped and tasted, pulled and pinched, until the air was full of queer noises, the floor covered with papers, and the little trees left bare of all but candles!
"i don't think heaven can be any gooder than this," sighed one small girl, as she looked about her in a blissful maze, holding her full apron with one hand, while she luxuriously carried sugar-plums to her mouth with the other.
"is that a truly angel up there?"
asked another, fascinated by the little white figure with the wreath on its shining hair, who in some mysterious way had been the cause of all this merry-making.
"i wish i dared to go and kiss her for this splendid party," said a lame child, leaning on her crutch, as she stood near the steps, wondering how it seemed to sit in a mother's lap, as effie was doing, while she watched the happy scene before her.
effie heard her, and remembering tiny tim, ran down and put her arms about the pale child, kissing the wistful face, as she said sweetly, "you may; but mamma deserves the thanks.
she did it all; i only dreamed about it."
lame katy felt as if "a truly angel" was embracing her, and could only stammer out her thanks, while the other children ran to see the pretty spirit, and touch her soft dress, until she stood in a crowd of blue gowns laughing as they held up their gifts for her to see and admire.
mamma leaned down and whispered one word to the older girls; and suddenly they all took hands to dance round effie, singing as they skipped.
it was a pretty sight, and the ladies found it hard to break up the happy revel; but it was late for small people, and too much fun is a mistake.
so the girls fell into line, and marched before effie and mamma again, to say goodnight with such grateful little faces that the eyes of those who looked grew dim with tears.
mamma kissed every one; and many a hungry childish heart felt as if the touch of those tender lips was their best gift.
effie shook so many small hands that her own tingled; and when katy came she pressed a small doll into effie's hand, whispering, "you didn't have a single present, and we had lots.
do keep that; it's the prettiest thing i got."
"i will," answered effie, and held it fast until the last smiling face was gone, the surprise all over, and she safe in her own bed, too tired and happy for anything but sleep.
"mamma, it was a beautiful surprise, and i thank you so much!
i don't see how you did it; but i like it best of all the christmases i ever had, and mean to make one every year.
i had my splendid big present, and here is the dear little one to keep for love of poor katy; so even that part of my wish came true."
and effie fell asleep with a happy smile on her lips, her one humble gift still in her hand, and a new love for christmas in her heart that never changed through a long life spent in doing good.
ii.
the candy country.
"i shall take mamma's red sun-umbrella, it is so warm, and none of the children at school will have one like it," said lily, one day, as she went through the hall.
"the wind is very high; i'm afraid you'll be blown away if you carry that big thing," called nurse from the window, as the red umbrella went bobbing down the garden walk with a small girl under it.
"i wish it would; i always wanted to go up in a balloon," answered lily, as she struggled out of the gate.
she got on very well till she came to the bridge and stopped to look over the railing at the water running by so fast, and the turtles sunning themselves on the rocks.
lily was fond of throwing stones at them; it was so funny to watch them tumble, heels over head, splash into the water.
now, when she saw three big fellows close by, she stooped for a stone, and just at that minute a gale of wind nearly took the umbrella out of her hand.
she clutched it fast; and away she went like a thistle-down, right up in the air, over river and hill, houses and trees, faster and faster, till her head spun round, her breath was all gone, and she had to let go.
the dear red umbrella flew away like a leaf; and lily fell down, down, till she went crash into a tree which grew in such a curious place that she forgot her fright as she sat looking about her, wondering what part of the world it could be.
the tree looked as if made of glass or colored sugar; for she could see through the red cherries, the green leaves, and the brown branches.
an agreeable smell met her nose; and she said at once, as any child would, "i smell candy!"
she picked a cherry and ate it.
oh, how good it was!
all sugar and no stone.
the next discovery was such a delightful one that she nearly fell off her perch; for by touching her tongue here and there, she found that the whole tree was made of candy.
think what fun to sit and break off twigs of barley sugar, candied cherries, and leaves that tasted like peppermint and sassafras!
lily rocked and ate till she finished the top of the little tree; then she climbed down and strolled along, making more surprising and agreeable discoveries as she went.
what looked like snow under her feet was white sugar; the rocks were lumps of chocolate, the flowers of all colors and tastes; and every sort of fruit grew on these delightful trees.
little white houses soon appeared; and here lived the dainty candy-people, all made of the best sugar, and painted to look like real people.
dear little men and women, looking as if they had stepped off of wedding cakes and bonbons, went about in their gay sugar clothes, laughing and talking in the sweetest voices.
bits of babies rocked in open-work cradles, and sugar boys and girls played with sugar toys in the most natural way.
carriages rolled along the jujube streets, drawn by the red and yellow barley horses we all love so well; cows fed in the green fields, and sugar birds sang in the trees.
lily listened, and in a moment she understood what the song said,
"sweet!
sweet!
come, come and eat,   dear little girls   with yellow curls;   for here you'll find   sweets to your mind.
on every tree   sugar-plums you'll see;   in every dell   grows the caramel.
over every wall   gum-drops fall;   molasses flows   where our river goes   under your feet   lies sugar sweet;   over your head   grow almonds red.
our lily and rose   are not for the nose;   our flowers we pluck   to eat or suck   and, oh!
what bliss   when two friends kiss,   for they honey sip   from lip to lip!
and all you meet,   in house or street,   at work or play,   sweethearts are they.
so, little dear,   pray feel no fear;   go where you will;   eat, eat your fill.
here is a feast   from west to east;   and you can say,   ere you go away,   'at last i stand   in dear candy-land,   and no more can stuff;   for once i've enough.'
sweet!
sweet!
tweet!
tweet!
tweedle-dee!
tweedle-dee!"
"that is the most interesting song i ever heard," said lily, clapping her sticky hands and dancing along toward a fine palace of white cream candy, with pillars of striped peppermint stick, and a roof of frosting that made it look like the milan cathedral.
"i'll live here, and eat candy all day long, with no tiresome school or patchwork to spoil my fun," said lily.
so she ran up the chocolate steps into the pretty rooms, where all the chairs and tables were of different colored candies, and the beds of spun sugar.
a fountain of lemonade supplied drink; and floors of ice-cream that never melted kept people and things from sticking together, as they would have done had it been warm.
for a long while lily was quite happy, going about tasting so many different kinds of sweeties, talking to the little people, who were very amiable, and finding out curious things about them and their country.
the babies were made of plain sugar, but the grown people had different flavors.
the young ladies were flavored with violet, rose, and orange; the gentlemen were apt to have cordials of some sort inside of them, as she found when she ate one now and then slyly, and got her tongue bitten by the hot, strong taste as a punishment the old people tasted of peppermint, clove, and such comfortable things, good for pain; but the old maids had lemon, hoarhound, flag-root, and all sorts of sour, bitter things in them, and did not get eaten much.
lily soon learned to know the characters of her new friends by a single taste, and some she never touched but once.
the dear babies melted in her mouth, and the delicately flavored young ladies she was very fond of.
dr. ginger was called to her more than once when so much candy made her teeth ache, and she found him a very hot-tempered little man; but he stopped the pain, so she was glad to see him.
a lime-drop boy and a little pink checker-berry girl were her favorite playmates; and they had fine times making mud-pies by scraping the chocolate rocks and mixing this dust with honey from the wells near by.
these they could eat; and lily thought this much better than throwing away the pies, as she had to do at home.
they had candy-pulls very often, and made swings of long loops of molasses candy, and bird's-nests with almond eggs, out of which came birds who sang sweetly.
they played football with big bull's-eyes, sailed in sugar boats on lakes of syrup, fished in rivers of molasses, and rode the barley horses all over the country.
lily discovered that it never rained, but snowed white sugar.
there was no sun, as it would have been too hot; but a large yellow lozenge made a nice moon, and red and white comfits were the stars.
the people all lived on sugar, and never quarrelled.
no one was ill; and if any got broken, as sometimes happened with such brittle creatures, they just stuck the parts together and were all right again.
the way they grew old was to get thinner and thinner till there was danger of their vanishing.
then the friends of the old person put him in a neat coffin, and carried him to the great golden urn which stood in their largest temple, always full of a certain fine syrup; and here he was dipped and dipped till he was stout and strong again, and went home to enjoy himself for a long time as good as new.
this was very interesting to lily, and she went to many funerals.
but the weddings were better still; for the lovely white brides were so sweet lily longed to eat them.
the feasts were delicious; and everybody went in their best clothes, and danced at the ball till they got so warm half-a-dozen would stick together and have to be taken to the ice-cream room to cool off.
then the little pair would drive away in a fine carriage with white horses to a new palace in some other part of the country, and lily would have another pleasant place to visit.
but by and by, when she had seen everything, and eaten so much sweet stuff that at last she longed for plain bread and butter, she began to get cross, as children always do when they live on candy; and the little people wished she would go away, for they were afraid of her.
no wonder, when she would catch up a dear sugar baby and eat him, or break some respectable old grandmamma all into bits because she reproved her for naughty ways.
lily calmly sat down on the biggest church, crushing it flat, and even tried to poke the moon out of the sky in a pet one day.
the king ordered her to go home; but she said, "i won't!"
and bit his head off, crown and all.
such a wail went up at this awful deed that she ran away out of the city, fearing some one would put poison in her candy, since she had no other food.
"i suppose i shall get somewhere if i keep walking; and i can't starve, though i hate the sight of this horrid stuff," she said to herself, as she hurried over the mountains of gibraltar rock that divided the city of saccharissa from the great desert of brown sugar that lay beyond.
lily marched bravely on for a long time, and saw at last a great smoke in the sky, smelt a spicy smell, and felt a hot wind blowing toward her.
"i wonder if there are sugar savages here, roasting and eating some poor traveller like me," she said, thinking of robinson crusoe and other wanderers in strange lands.
she crept carefully along till she saw a settlement of little huts very like mushrooms, for they were made of cookies set on lumps of the brown sugar; and queer people, looking as if made of gingerbread, were working very busily round several stoves which seemed to bake at a great rate.
"i'll creep nearer and see what sort of people they are before i show myself," said lily, going into a grove of spice-trees, and sitting down on a stone which proved to be the plummy sort of cake we used to call brighton rock.
presently one of the tallest men came striding toward the trees with a pan, evidently after spice; and before she could run, he saw lily.
"hollo, what do you want?"
he asked, staring at her with his black currant eyes, while he briskly picked the bark off a cinnamon-tree.
"i'm travelling, and would like to know what place this is, if you please," answered lily, very politely, being a little frightened.
"cake-land.
where do you come from?"
asked the gingerbread man, in a crisp tone of voice.
"i was blown into the candy country, and have been there a long time; but i got tired of it, and ran away to find something better."
"sensible child!"
and the man smiled till lily thought his cheeks would crumble.
"you'll get on better here with us brownies than with the lazy bonbons, who never work and are all for show.
they won't own us, though we are all related through our grandparents sugar and molasses.
we are busy folks; so they turn up their noses and don't speak when we meet at parties.
poor creatures, silly and sweet and unsubstantial!
i pity 'em."
"could i make you a visit?
i'd like to see how you live, and what you do.
i'm sure it must be interesting," said lily, picking herself up after a tumble, having eaten nearly all the stone, she was so hungry.
"i know you will.
come on!
i can talk while i work."
and the funny gingerbread man trotted off toward his kitchen, full of pans, rolling-pins, and molasses jugs.
"sit down.
i shall be at leisure as soon as this batch is baked.
there are still some wise people down below who like gingerbread, and i have my hands full," he said, dashing about, stirring, rolling out, and slapping the brown dough into pans, which he whisked into the oven and out again so fast that lily knew there must be magic about it somewhere.
every now and then he threw her a delicious cooky warm from the oven.
she liked the queer fellow, and presently began to talk, being very curious about this country.
"what is your name, sir?"
"ginger snap."
lily thought it a good one; for he was very quick, and she fancied he could be short and sharp if he liked.
"where does all this cake go to?"
she asked, after watching the other kitchens full of workers, who were all of different kinds of cake, and each set of cooks made its own sort.
"i'll show you by and by," answered snap, beginning to pile up the heaps of gingerbread on a little car that ran along a track leading to some unknown storeroom, lily thought.
"don't you get tired of doing this all the time?"
"yes; but i want to be promoted, and i never shall be till i've done my best, and won the prize here."
"oh, tell me about it!
what is the prize, and how are you promoted?
is this a cooking-school?"
"yes; the prize for best gingerbread is a cake of condensed yeast.
that puts a soul into me, and i begin to rise till i am able to go over the hills yonder into the blessed land of bread, and be one of the happy creatures who are always wholesome, always needed, and without which the world below would be in a bad way."
"bless me!
that is the queerest thing i've heard yet.
but i don't wonder you want to go; i'm tired of sweets myself, and long for a good piece of bread, though i used to want cake and candy at home."
"ah, my dear, you'll learn a good deal here; and you are lucky not to have got into the clutches of giant dyspepsia, who always gets people if they eat too much of such rubbish and scorn wholesome bread.
i leave my ginger behind when i go, and get white and round and beautiful, as you will see.
the gingerbread family have never been as foolish as some of the other cakes.
wedding is the worst; such extravagance in the way of wine and spice and fruit i never saw, and such a mess to eat when it's done!
i don't wonder people get sick; serves 'em right."
and snap flung down a pan with such a bang that it made lily jump.
"sponge cake isn't bad, is it?
mamma lets me eat it, but i like frosted pound better," she said, looking over to the next kitchen, where piles of that sort of cake were being iced.
"poor stuff.
no substance.
ladies' fingers will do for babies, but pound has too much butter ever to be healthy.
let it alone, and eat cookies or seed-cakes, my dear.
now, come along; i'm ready."
and snap trundled away his car-load at a great pace.
lily ran behind to pick up whatever fell, and looked about her as she went, for this was certainly a very queer country.
lakes of eggs all beaten up, and hot springs of saleratus foamed here and there ready for use.
the earth was brown sugar or ground spice; and the only fruits were raisins, dried currants, citron, and lemon peel.
it was a very busy place; for every one cooked all the time, and never failed and never seemed tired, though they got so hot that they only wore sheets of paper for clothes.
there were piles of it to put over the cake, so that it shouldn't burn; and they made cook's white caps and aprons of it, and looked very nice.
a large clock made of a flat pancake, with cloves to mark the hours and two toothpicks for hands, showed them how long to bake things; and in one place an ice wall was built round a lake of butter, which they cut in lumps as they wanted it.
"here we are.
now, stand away while i pitch 'em down," said snap, stopping at last before a hole in the ground where a dumbwaiter hung ready, with a name over it.
there were many holes all round, and many waiters, each with its name; and lily was amazed when she read "weber," "copeland," "dooling," and others, which she knew very well.
over snap's place was the name "newmarch;" and lily said, "why, that's where mamma gets her hard gingerbread, and weber's is where we go for ice-cream.
do you make cake for them?"
"yes, but no one knows it.
it's one of the secrets of the trade.
we cook for all the confectioners, and people think the good things come out of the cellars under their saloons.
good joke, isn't it?"
and snap laughed till a crack came in his neck and made him cough.
lily was so surprised she sat down on a warm queen's cake that happened to be near, and watched snap send down load after load of gingerbread to be eaten by children, who would have liked it much better if they had only known where it came from, as she did.
as she sat, the clatter of many spoons, the smell of many dinners, and the sound of many voices calling, "one vanilla, two strawberries, and a charlotte russe," "three stews, cup coffee, dry toast," "roast chicken and apple without," came up the next hole, which was marked "copeland."
"dear me!
it seems as if i was there," said lily, longing to hop down, but afraid of the bump at the other end.
"i'm done.
come along, i'll ride you back," called snap, tossing the last cooky after the dumb-waiter as it went slowly out of sight with its spicy load.
"i wish you'd teach me to cook.
it looks great fun, and mamma wants me to learn; only our cook hates to have me mess round, and is so cross that i don't like to try at home," said lily, as she went trundling back.
"better wait till you get to bread-land, and learn to make that.
it's a great art, and worth knowing.
don't waste your time on cake, though plain gingerbread isn't bad to have in the house.
i'll teach you that in a jiffy, if the clock doesn't strike my hour too soon," answered snap, helping her down.
"what hour?"
"why, of my freedom.
i never know when i've done my task till i'm called by the chimes and go to get my soul," said snap, turning his currant eyes anxiously to the clock.
"i hope you will have time."
and lily fell to work with all her might, after snap had put on her a paper apron and a cap like his.
it was not hard; for when she was going to make a mistake a spark flew out of the fire and burnt her in time to remind her to look at the receipt, which was a sheet of gingerbread in a frame of pie-crust hung up before her, with the directions written while it was soft and baked in.
the third sheet she made came out of the oven spicy, light, and brown; and snap, giving it one poke, said, "that's all right.
now you know.
here's your reward."
he handed her a receipt-book made of thin sheets of sugar-gingerbread held together by a gelatine binding, with her name stamped on the back, and each leaf crimped with a cake-cutter in the most elegant manner.
lily was charmed with it, but had no time to read all it contained; for just then the clock began to strike, and a chime of bells to ring,
"gingerbread,   go to the head.
your task is done;   a soul is won.
take it and go   where muffins grow,   where sweet loaves rise   to the very skies,   and biscuits fair   perfume the air.
away, away!
make no delay;   in the sea of flour   plunge this hour.
safe in your breast   let the yeast-cake rest,   till you rise in joy,   a white bread boy!"
"ha, ha!
i'm free!
i'm free!"
cried snap, catching up the silver-covered square that seemed to fall from heaven; and running to a great white sea of flour, he went in head first, holding the yeast-cake clasped to his breast as if his life depended on it.
lily watched breathlessly, while a curious working and bubbling went on, as if snap was tumbling about down there like a small earthquake.
the other cake-folk stood round the shore with her; for it was a great event, and all were glad that the dear fellow was promoted so soon.
suddenly a cry was heard, and up rose a beautiful white figure on the farther side of the sea.
it moved its hand, as if saying "good-by," and ran over the hills so fast they had only time to see how plump and fair he was, with a little knob on the top of his head like a crown.
"he's gone to the happy land, and we shall miss him; but we'll follow his example and soon find him again," said a gentle sponge cake, with a sigh, as all went back to their work; while lily hurried after snap, eager to see the new country, which was the best of all.
a delicious odor of fresh bread blew up from the valley as she stood on the hill-top and looked down on the peaceful scene below.
fields of yellow grain waved in the breeze; hop-vines grew from tree to tree; and many windmills whirled their white sails as they ground the different grains into fresh, sweet meal, for the loaves of bread that built the houses like bricks and paved the streets, or in many shapes formed the people, furniture, and animals.
a river of milk flowed through the peaceful land, and fountains of yeast rose and fell with a pleasant foam and fizz.
the ground was a mixture of many meals, and the paths were golden indian, which gave a very gay look to the scene.
buckwheat flowers bloomed on their rosy stems, and tall corn-stalks rustled their leaves in the warm air that came from the ovens hidden in the hillsides; for bread needs a slow fire, and an obliging volcano did the baking here.
"what a lovely place!"
cried lily, feeling the charm of the homelike landscape, in spite of the funny plump people moving about.
two of these figures came running to meet her as she slowly walked down the yellow path from the hill.
one was a golden boy, with a beaming face; the other a little girl in a shiny brown cloak, who looked as if she would taste very nice.
they each put a warm hand into lily's, and the boy said,
"we are glad to see you.
muffin told us you were coming."
"thank you.
who is muffin?"
asked lily, feeling as if she had seen both these little people before, and liked them.
"he was ginger snap once, but he's a muffin now.
we begin in that way, and work up to the perfect loaf by degrees.
my name is johnny cake, and she's sally lunn.
you know us; so come on and have a race."
lily burst out laughing at the idea of playing with these old friends of hers; and all three ran away as fast as they could tear, down the hill, over a bridge, into the middle of the village, where they stopped, panting, and sat down on some very soft rolls to rest.
"what do you all do here?"
asked lily, when she got her breath again.
"we farm, we study, we bake, we brew, and are as merry as grigs all day long.
it's school-time now, and we must go; will you come?"
said sally, jumping up as if she liked it.
"our schools are not like yours; we only study two things, grain and yeast.
i think you'll like it.
we have yeast to-day, and the experiments are very jolly," added johnny, trotting off to a tall brown tower of rye and indian bread, where the school was kept.
lily never liked to go to school, but she was ashamed to own it; so she went along with sally, and was so amused with all she saw that she was glad she came.
the brown loaf was hollow, and had no roof; and when she asked why they used a ruin, sally told her to wait and see why they chose strong walls and plenty of room overhead.
all round was a circle of very small biscuits like cushions, and on these the bread-children sat.
a square loaf in the middle was the teacher's desk, and on it lay an ear of wheat, with several bottles of yeast well corked up.
the teacher was a pleasant, plump lady from vienna, very wise, and so famous for her good bread that she was a professor of grainology.
when all were seated, she began with the wheat ear, and told them all about it in such an interesting way that lily felt as if she had never known anything about the bread she ate before.
the experiments with the yeast were quite exciting, for fraulein pretzel showed them how it would work till it blew the cork out, and go fizzing up to the sky if it was kept too long; how it would turn sour or flat, and spoil the bread if care was not taken to use it just at the right moment; and how too much would cause the loaf to rise till there was no substance to it.
the children were very bright; for they were fed on the best kinds of oatmeal and graham bread, with very little white bread or hot cakes to spoil their young stomachs.
hearty, happy boys and girls they were, and their yeasty souls were very lively in them; for they danced and sung, and seemed as bright and gay as if acidity, heaviness, and mould were quite unknown.
lily was very happy with them, and when school was done went home with sally and ate the best bread and milk for dinner that she ever tasted.
in the afternoon johnny took her to the cornfield, and showed her how they kept the growing ears free from mildew and worms.
then she went to the bakehouse; and here she found her old friend muffin hard at work making parker house rolls, for he was such a good cook he was set to work at once on the lighter kinds of bread.
"well, isn't this better than candy-land or saccharissa?"
he asked, as he rolled and folded his bits of dough with a dab of butter tucked inside.
"ever so much!"
cried lily.
"i feel better already, and mean to learn all i can.
mamma will be so pleased if i can make good bread when i go home.
she is rather old-fashioned, and likes me to be a nice housekeeper.
i didn't think bread interesting then, but i do now; and johnny's mother is going to teach me to make indian cakes to-morrow."
"glad to hear it.
learn all you can, and tell other people how to make healthy bodies and happy souls by eating good plain food.
not like this, though these rolls are better than cake.
i have to work my way up to the perfect loaf, you know; and then, oh, then, i'm a happy thing."
"what happens then?
do you go on to some other wonderful place?"
asked lily, as muffin paused with a smile on his face.
"yes; i am eaten by some wise, good human being, and become a part of him or her.
that is immortality and heaven; for i may nourish a poet and help him sing, or feed a good woman who makes the world better for being in it, or be crumbed into the golden porringer of a baby prince who is to rule a kingdom.
isn't that a noble way to live, and an end worth working for?"
asked muffin, in a tone that made lily feel as if some sort of fine yeast had got into her, and was setting her brain to work with new thoughts.
"yes, it is.
i suppose all common things are made for that purpose, if we only knew it; and people should be glad to do anything to help the world along, even making good bread in a kitchen," answered lily, in a sober way that showed that her little mind was already digesting the new food it had got.
she stayed in bread-land a long time, and enjoyed and learned a great deal that she never forgot.
but at last, when she had made the perfect loaf, she wanted to go home, that her mother might see and taste it.
"i've put a good deal of myself into it, and i'd love to think i had given her strength or pleasure by my work," she said, as she and sally stood looking at the handsome loaf.
"you can go whenever you like; just take the bread in your hands and wish three times, and you'll be wherever you say.
i'm sorry to have you go, but i don't wonder you want to see your mother.
don't forget what you have learned, and you will always be glad you came to us," said sally, kissing her good-by.
"where is muffin?
i can't go without seeing him, my dear old friend,"
answered lily, looking round for him.
"he is here," said sally, touching the loaf.
"he was ready to go, and chose to pass into your bread rather than any other; for he said he loved you and would be glad to help feed so good a little girl."
"how kind of him!
i must be careful to grow wise and excellent, else he will be disappointed and have died in vain," said lily, touched by his devotion.
then, bidding them all farewell, she hugged her loaf close, wished three times to be in her own home, and like a flash she was there.
whether her friends believed the wonderful tale of her adventures i cannot tell; but i know that she was a nice little housekeeper from that day, and made such good bread that other girls came to learn of her.
she also grew from a sickly, fretful child into a fine, strong woman, because she ate very little cake and candy, except at christmas time, when the oldest and the wisest love to make a short visit to candy-land.
iii.
naughty jocko.
"a music-man!
a music-man!
run quick, and see if he has got a monkey on his organ," cried little neddy, running to the window in a great hurry one day.
yes; there was the monkey in his blue and red suit, with a funny little cap, and the long tail trailing behind.
but he didn't seem to be a lively monkey; for he sat in a bunch, with his sad face turned anxiously to his master, who kept pulling the chain to make him dance.
the stiff collar had made his neck sore; and when the man twitched, the poor thing moaned and put up his little hand to hold the chain.
he tried to dance, but was so weak he could only hop a few steps, and stop panting for breath.
the cruel man wouldn't let him rest till neddy called out,
"don't hurt him; let him come up here and get this cake, and rest while you play.
i've got some pennies for you."
so poor jocko climbed slowly up the trellis, and sat on the window-ledge trying to eat; but he was so tired he went to sleep, and when the man pulled to wake him up, he slipped and fell, and lay as if he were dead.
neddy and his aunt ran down to see if he was killed.
the cross man scolded and shook him; but he never moved, and the man said,
"he is dead.
i don't want him.
i will sell him to some one to stuff."
"no; his heart beats a little.
leave him here a few days, and we will take care of him; and if he gets well, perhaps we will buy him," said aunt jane, who liked to nurse even a sick monkey.
the man said he was going on for a week through the towns near by, and would call and see about it when he came back.
then he went away; and neddy and aunty put jocko in a nice basket, and carried him in.
the minute the door was shut and he felt safe, the sly fellow peeped out with one eye, and seeing only the kind little boy began to chatter and kick off the shawl; for he was not much hurt, only tired and hungry, and dreadfully afraid of the cruel man who beat and starved him.
neddy was delighted, and thought it very funny, and helped his aunt take off the stiff collar and put some salve on the sore neck.
then they got milk and cake; and when he had eaten a good dinner, jocko curled himself up and slept till the next day.
he was quite lively in the morning; for when aunt jane went to call neddy, jocko was not in his basket, and looking round the room for him, she saw the little black thing lying on the boy's pillow, with his arm round neddy's neck like a queer baby.
"my patience!
i can't allow that," said the old lady, and went to pull jocko out.
but he slipped away like an eel, and crept chattering and burrowing down to the bottom of the bed, holding on to neddy's toes, till he waked up, howling that crabs were nipping him.
then they had a great frolic; and jocko climbed all over the bed, up on the tall wardrobe, and the shelf over the door, where the image of an angel stood.
he patted it, and hugged it, and looked so very funny with his ugly black face by the pretty white one, that neddy rolled on the floor, and aunt jane laughed till her glasses flew off.
by and by he came down, and had a nice breakfast, and let them tie a red ribbon over the bandage on his neck.
he liked the gay color, and kept going to look in the glass, and grin and chatter at his own image, which he evidently admired.
"now, he shall go to walk with me, and all the children shall see my new pet," said neddy, as he marched off with jock on his shoulder.
every one laughed at the funny little fellow with his twinkling eyes, brown hands, and long tail, and neddy felt very grand till they got to the store; then troubles began.
he put jocko on a table near the door, and told him to stay there while he did his errands.
now, close by was the place where the candy was kept, and jocko loved sweeties like any girl; so he hopped along, and began to eat whatever he liked.
some boys tried to stop him; and then he got angry at them for pulling his tail, and threw handfuls of sugarplums at them.
that was great fun; and the more they laughed and scrambled and poked at him, the faster he showered chocolates, caramels, and peppermints over them, till it looked as if it had rained candy.
the man was busy with neddy at the other end of the store; but when he heard the noise, both ran to see what was the matter.
neither of them could stop naughty jocko, who liked this game, and ran up on the high shelves among the toys.
then down came little tubs and dolls' stoves, tin trumpets and cradles, while boxes of leaden soldiers and whole villages flew through the air, smash, bang, rattle, bump, all over the floor.
the man scolded, neddy cried, the boys shouted, and there was a lively time in that shop till a good slapping with a long stick made jock tumble into a tub of water where some curious fishes lived, and then they caught him.
neddy was much ashamed, and told the man his aunt would pay for all the broken things.
then he took his naughty pet, and started to go home and tie him up, for it was plain this monkey was not to be trusted.
but as soon as they got out, jocko ran up a tree and dropped on to a load of hay passing underneath.
here he danced and pranced, and had a fine time, throwing off the man's coat and rake, and eating some of the dinner tied up in a cloth.
the crusts of bread and the bones he threw at the horse; this new kind of whip frightened the horse, and he ran away down a steep hill, and upset the hay and broke the cart.
oh, such a time!
it was worse than the candy scrape; for the man swore, and the horse was hurt, and people said the monkey ought to be shot, he did so much mischief.
jocko didn't care a bit; he sat high up in a tree, and chattered and scolded, and swung by his tail, and was so droll that people couldn't help laughing at him.
poor neddy cried again, and went home to tell his troubles to aunt jane, fearing that it would take all the money in his bank to pay for the damage the bad monkey had done in one hour.
as soon as he was alone jocko came skipping along, and jumped on his back, and peeped at him, and patted his cheeks, and was so cunning and good neddy couldn't whip him; but he shut him up in a closet to punish him.
jocko was tired; so he went to sleep, and all was quiet till dinner-time.
they were ready for the pudding, and neddy had saved a place for a good plateful, as he liked snow-pudding, when shrieks were heard in the kitchen, and mary the maid rushed in to say,
"oh, ma'am, that horrid beast has spoilt the pudding, and is scaring katy out of her life!"
they all ran; and there sat that naughty monkey on the table, throwing the nice white snow all over poor cook, till her face looked as if she was ready to be shaved.
his own face looked the same, for he had eaten all he wanted while the pudding stood cooling in the pantry.
he had crept out of a window in the closet, and had a fine rummage among the sugar-buckets, butter-boxes, and milk-pans.
kate wailed, and mary scolded; but aunt jane and grandpa laughed, and neddy chased jock into the garden with the broom.
they had to eat bread and jelly for dessert, and it took the girls a long time to clear up the mess the rascal made.
"we will put his collar and chain on again, and keep him tied up all the time till the man comes," said aunt jane.
"but i can't catch him," sighed neddy, watching the little imp whisk about in the garden among the currant-bushes, chasing hens and tossing green apples round in high glee.
"sit quietly down somewhere and wait till he is tired; then he will come to you, and you can hold him fast," said aunt jane.
so neddy waited; and though he was much worried at his new pet's naughtiness, he enjoyed his pranks like a boy.
grandpa took naps in the afternoon on the piazza, and he was dozing comfortably when jocko swung down from the grape-vine by his long tail, and tickled the old gentleman on the nose with a straw.
grandpa sneezed, and opened one eye to brush away the fly as he supposed.
then he went to sleep again, and jocko dropped a caterpillar on his bald head; this made him open the other eye to see what that soft, creepy thing could be.
neddy couldn't help laughing, for he often wanted to do just such things, but never dared, because grandpa was a very stern old gentleman, and no one took liberties with him.
jocko wasn't afraid, however; and presently he crept to the table, stole the glasses lying there, put them on, and taking up the paper held it before him, chattering as if he were reading it, as he had seen people do.
neddy laughed out loud at this, and clapped his hands, jocko looked so like a little old man, in spite of the tail curled up behind.
this time grandpa opened both eyes at once, and stared as if he saw a hobgoblin before him; then he snatched off the spectacles, and caught up his cane, crying angrily,
"you rascal, how dare you!"
but jocko tossed the paper in his face, and with one jump lighted on the back of old tom, the big yellow cat, who lay asleep close by.
scared half out of his wits, tom spit and bounced; but jocko held fast to his collar, and had a fine race round the garden, while the girls laughed at the funny sight, and neddy shouted, "it's a circus; and there's the monkey and the pony."
even grandpa smiled, especially when puss dashed up a tree, and jock tumbled off.
he chased him, and they had a great battle; but tom's claws were sharp, and the monkey got a scratch on the nose, and ran crying to neddy for comfort.
"now, you naughty fellow, i'll chain you up, and stop these dreadful tricks.
but you are great fun, and i can't whip you," said the boy; for he knew what it was to enjoy a holiday, and poor jocko had not had one for a long time.
jocko ate some lunch, took a nap in the grass, and then was ready for more frolics.
neddy had fastened him to a tree in the garden, so that he could enjoy the sun and air, and catch grasshoppers if he liked.
but jocko wanted something more; and presently neddy, who was reading in his hammock on the piazza, heard a great cackling among the hens, and looked up to see the monkey swinging by his tail from a bough, holding the great cock-a-doodle by his splendid tail, while all the twenty hens clucked and cackled with wrath and fear at such a dreadful prank.
"now, that's too bad; i will slap him this time," said neddy, running to save his handsome bird from destruction.
but before he got there poor cocky had pulled his fine tail-feathers all out in his struggles, and when set free was so frightened and mortified that he ran away and hid in the bushes, and the hens went to comfort him.
neddy gave jocko a good whipping, and left him looking as meek as a baby, all cuddled up in a little bunch, with his head in his hands as if crying for his naughtiness.
but he wasn't sorry.
oh, dear, no!
for in half an hour he had picked every one of the sweet peas aunt jane was so fond of, thrown all the tomatoes over the fence, and let the parrot out of his cage.
the sight of polly walking into the parlor with a polite "how are you, ma'am?"
sent aunt jane to see what was going on.
neddy was fast asleep in the hammock, worn out with his cares; and jocko, having unhooked his chain, was sitting on the chimney-top of a neighbor's house, eating corn.
"we shall not live to the end of the week if this sort of thing goes on.
i don't know what to do with the little beast; he's as bad as an elephant to take care of," said the poor lady, in despair, as she saw jocko throw his corncob down on the minister's hat as that stately gentleman went by.
as none of them could catch him, miss jane let him alone till neddy waked up and could go and find some of the big boys to help him.
jocko soon left the roof, and skipped in at a window that stood open.
it was little nelly brown's play-room, and she had left her pet doll maud mabel rose matilda very ill in the best bed, while she went down to get a poppy leaf to rub the darling's cheeks with, because she had a high fever.
jocko took a fancy to the pretty bed, and after turning the play-house topsy-turvy, he pulled poor maud mabel rose matilda out by her flaxen hair, and stuffing her into the water-pitcher upside down, got into the bed, drew the lace curtains, and prepared to doze deliciously under the pink silk bed-cover.
up came nelly, and went at once to the dear invalid, saying in her motherly little voice,
"now, my darling child, lie quite still, and i won't hurt you one bit."
but when she drew the curtain, instead of the lovely yellow-haired doll in her ruffled nightcap, she saw an ugly little black face staring at her, and a tiny hand holding the sheet fast.
nelly gave one scream, and flew downstairs into the parlor where the sewing-circle was at work, frightening twenty-five excellent ladies by her cries, as she clung to her mother, wailing,
"a bogie!
a bogie!
i saw him, all black; and he snarled at me, and my dolly is gone!
what shall i do?
oh, what shall i do?"
there was great confusion, for all the ladies talked at once; and it so happened that none of them knew anything about the monkey, therefore they all agreed that nelly was a foolish child, and had made a fuss about nothing.
she cried dismally, and kept saying to her mother,
"go and see; it's in my dolly's bed, i found it there, and darling maudie is gone."
"we will go and see," said mrs. moses merryweather, a stout old lady, who kept her six girls in such good order that they would never have dared to cry if ten monkeys had popped out at them.
miss hetty bumpus, a tall thin maiden lady, with a sharp eye and pointed nose, went with her; but at the door that led to the dining-room both stopped short, and after one look came flying back, calling out together,
"mrs. brown, your supper is spoilt!
a dreadful beast has ruined it all!"
then twenty-five excited ladies flew across the hall to behold jocko sitting on the great cake in the middle of the table, his feet bathed in cream from the overturned pitcher, while all around lay the ruins of custards, tarts, biscuits, and sauce, not to mention nice napkins made into hay-cocks, spoons, knives, and forks, on the floor, and the best silver teapot in the fireplace.
while nelly told her tale and the ladies questioned and comforted her, this bad monkey had skipped downstairs and had a delightful party all by himself.
he was just scraping the jelly out of a tart when they disturbed him; and knowing that more slaps were in store for him if he stayed, he at once walked calmly down the ravaged table, and vanished out of the window carrying the silver tea-strainer with him to play with.
the ladies had no supper that night; and poor mrs. brown sent a note to aunt jane, telling her the sad story, and adding that nelly was quite ill with the fright and the loss of dear maud mabel rose matilda, drowned in the water-pitcher and forever spoilt.
"john shall go after that man to-morrow, and bring him back to carry this terrible monkey away.
i can't live with him a week; he will cost me a fortune, and wear us all out," said aunt jane, when jocko was safely shut up in the cellar, after six boys had chased him all over the neighborhood before they caught him.
neddy was quite willing to let him go; but john was saved his journey, for in the morning poor jocko was found dead in a trap, where his inquisitive head had been poked to see what the cheese tasted like.
so he was buried by the river, and every one felt much relieved; for the man never came back, thinking jocko dead when he left him.
but he had not lived in vain; for after this day of trial, mischievous neddy behaved much better, and aunt jane could always calm his prankish spirit by saying, as her finger pointed to a little collar and chain hanging on the wall,
"if you want to act like naughty jocko, say so, and i'll tie you up.
one monkey is enough for this family."
iv.
the skipping shoes.
once there was a little girl, named kitty, who never wanted to do what people asked her.
she said "i won't" and "i can't," and did not run at once pleasantly, as obliging children do.
one day her mother gave her a pair of new shoes; and after a fuss about putting them on, kitty said, as she lay kicking on the floor,
"i wish these were seven-leagued boots, like jack the giant killer's, then it would be easy to run errands all the time.
now, i hate to keep trotting, and i don't like new shoes, and i won't stir a step."
just as she said that, the shoes gave a skip, and set her on her feet so suddenly that it scared all the naughtiness out of her.
she stood looking at these curious shoes; and the bright buttons on them seemed to wink at her like eyes, while the heels tapped on the floor a sort of tune.
before she dared to stir, her mother called from the next room,
"kitty, run and tell the cook to make a pie for dinner; i forgot it."
"i don't want to," began kitty, with a whine as usual.
but the words were hardly out of her mouth when the shoes gave one jump, and took her downstairs, through the hall, and landed her at the kitchen door.
her breath was nearly gone; but she gave the message, and turned round, trying to see if the shoes would let her walk at all.
they went nicely till she wanted to turn into the china-closet where the cake was.
she was forbidden to touch it, but loved to take a bit when she could.
now she found that her feet were fixed fast to the floor, and could not be moved till her father said, as he passed the window close by,
"you will have time to go to the post-office before school and get my letters."
"i can't," began kitty; but she found she could, for away went the shoes, out of the house at one bound, and trotted down the street so fast that the maid who ran after her with her hat could not catch her.
"i can't stop!"
cried kitty; and she did not till the shoes took her straight into the office.
"what's the hurry to-day?"
asked the man, as he saw her without any hat, all rosy and breathless, and her face puckered up as if she did not know whether to laugh or to cry.
"i won't tell any one about these dreadful shoes, and i'll take them off as soon as i get home.
i hope they will go back slowly, or people will think i'm crazy," said kitty to herself, as she took the letters and went away.
the shoes walked nicely along till she came to the bridge; and there she wanted to stop and watch some boys in a boat, forgetting school and her father's letters.
but the shoes wouldn't stop, though she tried to make them, and held on to the railing as hard as she could.
her feet went on; and when she sat down they still dragged her along so steadily that she had to go, and she got up feeling that there was something very strange about these shoes.
the minute she gave up, all went smoothly, and she got home in good time.
"i won't wear these horrid things another minute," said kitty, sitting on the doorstep and trying to unbutton the shoes.
but not a button could she stir, though she got red and angry struggling to do it.
"time for school; run away, little girl," called mamma from upstairs, as the clock struck nine.
"i won't!"
said kitty, crossly.
but she did; for those magic shoes danced her off, and landed her at her desk in five minutes.
"well, i'm not late; that's one comfort," she thought, wishing she had come pleasantly, and not been whisked away without any luncheon.
her legs were so tired with the long skips that she was glad to sit still; and that pleased the teacher, for generally she was fussing about all lesson time.
but at recess she got into trouble again; for one of the children knocked down the house of corn-cobs she had built, and made her angry.
"now, i'll kick yours down, and see how you like it, dolly."
up went her foot, but it didn't come down; it stayed in the air, and there she stood looking as if she were going to dance.
the children laughed to see her, and she could do nothing till she said to dolly in a great hurry,
"never mind; if you didn't mean to, i'll forgive you."
then the foot went down, and kitty felt so glad about it that she tried to be pleasant, fearing some new caper of those dreadful shoes.
she began to see how they worked, and thought she would try if she had any power over them.
so, when one of the children wanted his ball, which had bounced over the hedge, she said kindly, "perhaps i can get it for you, willy."
and over she jumped as lightly as if she too were an india-rubber ball.
"how could you do it?"
cried the boys, much surprised; for not one of them dared try such a high leap.
kitty laughed, and began to dance, feeling pleased and proud to find there was a good side to the shoes after all.
such twirlings and skippings as she made, such pretty steps and airy little bounds it was pretty to see; for it seemed as if her feet were bewitched, and went of themselves.
the little girls were charmed, and tried to imitate her, but no one could, and they stood in a circle watching her dance till the bell rang, then all rushed in to tell about it.
kitty said it was her new shoes, and never told how queerly they acted, hoping to have good times now.
but she was mistaken.
on the way home she wanted to stop and see her friend bell's new doll, but at the gate her feet stuck fast, and she had to give up her wishes and go straight on, as mamma had told her always to do.
"run and pick a nice little dish of strawberries for dinner," said her sister, as she went in.
"i'm too ti " there was no time to finish, for the shoes landed her in the middle of the strawberry bed at one jump.
"i might as well be a grasshopper if i'm to skip round like this," she said, forgetting to feel tired out there in the pleasant garden, with the robins picking berries close by, and a cool wind lifting the leaves to show here the reddest and ripest ones hid.
the little dish was soon filled, and she wanted to stay and eat a few, warm and sweet from the vines; but the bell rang, and away she went, over the wood-pile, across the piazza, and into the dining-room before the berry in her mouth was half eaten.
"how this child does rush about to-day!"
said her mother.
"it is so delightful to have such a quick little errand-girl that i shall get her to carry some bundles to my poor people this afternoon.
"oh, dear me!
i do hate to lug those old clothes and bottles and baskets of cold victuals round.
must i do it?"
sighed kitty, dismally, while the shoes tapped on the floor under the table, as if to remind her that she must, whether she liked it or not.
"it would be right and kind, and would please me very much.
but you may do as you choose about it.
i am very tired, and some one must go; for the little bryan baby is sick and needs what i send," said mamma, looking disappointed.
kitty sat very still and sober for some time, and no one spoke to her.
she was making up her mind whether she would go pleasantly or be whisked about like a grasshopper against her will.
when dinner was over, she said in a cheerful voice,
"i'll go, mamma; and when all the errands are done, may i come back through fairyland, as we call the little grove where the tall ferns grow?"
"yes, dear; when you oblige me, i am happy to please you."
"i'm glad i decided to be good; now i shall have a lovely time," said kitty to herself, as she trotted away with a basket in one hand, a bundle in the other, and some money in her pocket for a poor old woman who needed help.
the shoes went quietly along, and seemed to know just where to stop.
the sick baby's mother thanked her for the soft little nightgowns; the lame girl smiled when she saw the books; the hungry children gathered round the basket of food, like young birds eager to be fed; and the old woman gave her a beautiful pink shell that her sailor son brought home from sea.
when all the errands were done kitty skipped away to fairyland, feeling very happy, as people always do when they have done kind things.
it was a lovely place; for the ferns made green arches tall enough for little girls to sit under, and the ground was covered with pretty green moss and wood-flowers.
birds flew about in the pines, squirrels chattered in the oaks, butterflies floated here and there, and from the pond near by came the croak of frogs sunning their green backs on the mossy stones.
"i wonder if the shoes will let me stop and rest; it is so cool here, and i'm so tired," said kitty, as she came to a cosey nook at the foot of a tree.
the words were hardly out of her mouth when her feet folded under her, and there she sat on a cushion of moss, like the queen of the wood on her throne.
something lighted with a bump close by her; and looking down she saw a large black cricket with a stiff tail, staring at her curiously.
"bless my heart!
i thought you were some relation of my cousin grasshopper's.
you came down the hill with long leaps just like him; so i stopped to say, how d' ye do," said the cricket, in its creaky voice.
"i'm not a grasshopper; but i have on fairy shoes to-day, and so do many things that i never did before," answered kitty, much surprised to be able to understand what the cricket said.
"it is midsummer day, and fairies can play whatever pranks they like.
if you didn't have those shoes on, you couldn't understand what i say.
hark, and hear those squirrels talk, and the birds, and the ants down here.
make the most of this chance; for at sunset your shoes will stop skipping, and the fun all be over."
while the cricket talked kitty did hear all sorts of little voices, singing, laughing, chatting in the gayest way, and understood every word they said.
the squirrels called to one another as they raced about,
"here's a nut, there's a nut;     hide it quick away,   in a hole, under leaves,     to eat some winter day.
acorns sweet are plenty,     we will have them all:
skip and scamper lively     till the last ones fall."
the birds were singing softly,
"rock a bye, babies,     your cradle hangs high;   soft down your pillow,     your curtain the sky.
father will feed you,     while mother will sing,   and shelter our darlings     with her warm wing."
and the ants were saying to one another as they hurried in and out of their little houses,
"work, neighbor, work!
do not stop to play;   wander far and wide,     gather all you may.
we are never like     idle butterflies,   but like the busy bees,     industrious and wise."
"ants always were dreadfully good, but butterflies are ever so much prettier," said kitty, listening to the little voices with wonder and pleasure.
"hello!
hello!
come down below,   it's lovely and cool   out here in the pool;   on a lily-pad float   for a nice green boat.
here we sit and sing   in a pleasant ring;   or leap frog play,   in the jolliest way.
our games have begun,   come join in the fun."
"dear me!
what could i do over there in the mud with the queer green frogs?"
laughed kitty, as this song was croaked at her.
"no, no, come and fly   through the sunny sky,   or honey sip   from the rose's lip,   or dance in the air,   like spirits fair.
come away, come away;   'tis our holiday."
a cloud of lovely yellow butterflies flew up from a wild-rose bush, and went dancing away higher and higher, till they vanished in the light beyond the wood.
"that is better than leap-frog.
i wish my skipping shoes would let me fly up somewhere, instead of carrying me on errands and where i ought to go all the time," said kitty, watching the pretty things glitter as they flew.
just at that minute a clock struck, and away went the shoes over the pool, the hill, the road, till they pranced in at the gate as the tea-bell rang.
kitty amused the family by telling what she had done and seen; but no one believed the fairyland part, and her father said, laughing,
"go on, my dear, making up little stories, and by and by you may be as famous as hans christian andersen, whose books you like so well."
"the sun will soon set, and then my fun will be over; so i must skip while i can," thought kitty, and went waltzing round the lawn so prettily that all the family came to see her.
"she dances so well that she shall go to dancing-school," said her mother, pleased with the pretty antics of her little girl.
kitty was delighted to hear that; for she had longed to go, and went on skipping as hard as she could, that she might learn some of the graceful steps the shoes took before the day was done.
"come, dear, stop now, and run up to your bath and bed.
it has been a long hot day, and you are tired; so get to sleep early, for nursey wants to go out," said her mother, as the sun went down behind the hills with a last bright glimmer, like the wink of a great sleepy eye.
"oh, please, a few minutes more," began kitty, but was off like a flash; for the shoes trotted her upstairs so fast that she ran against old nursey, and down she went, splashing the water all over the floor, and scolding in such a funny way that it made kitty laugh so that she could hardly pick her up again.
by the time she was ready to undress the sun was quite gone, and the shoes she took off were common ones again, for midsummer day was over.
but kitty never forgot the little lessons she had learned: she tried to run willingly when spoken to; she remembered the pretty steps and danced like a fairy; and best of all, she always loved the innocent and interesting little creatures in the woods and fields, and whenever she was told she might go to play with them, she hurried away almost as quickly as if she still wore the skipping shoes.
v.
cockyloo.
in the barnyard a gray hen sat on her nest, feeling very happy because it was time for her eggs to hatch, and she hoped to have a fine brood of chickens.
presently crack, crack, went the shells, "peep, peep!"
cried the chicks; "cluck, cluck!"
called the hen; and out came ten downy little things one after the other, all ready to run and eat and scratch, for chickens are not like babies, and don't have to be tended at all.
there were eight little hens and two little cockerels, one black and one as white as snow, with yellow legs, bright eyes, and a tiny red comb on his head.
this was cockyloo, the good chick; but the black one was named peck, and was a quarrelsome bad fowl, as we shall see.
mrs. partlet, the mamma, was very proud of her fine family; for the eight little daughters were all white and very pretty.
she led them out into the farmyard, clucking and scratching busily; for all were hungry, and ran chirping round her to pick up the worms and seeds she found for them.
cocky soon began to help take care of his sisters; and when a nice corn or a fat bug was found, he would step back and let little downy or snowball have it.
but peck would run and push them away, and gobble up the food greedily.
he chased them away from the pan where the meal was, and picked the down off their necks if they tried to get their share.
his mother scolded him when the little ones ran to hide under her wings; but he didn't care, and was very naughty.
cocky began to crow when he was very young, and had such a fine voice that people liked to hear his loud, clear "cock-a-doodle-doo!"
early in the morning; for he woke before the sun was up, and began his song.
peck used to grumble at being roused at dawn, for he was lazy; but the hens bustled up, and were glad to get out of the hen-house.
the father cock had been killed by a dog; so they made cocky king of the farmyard, and peck was very jealous of him.
"i came out of the shell first, and i am the oldest; so i ought to be king," he said.
"but we don't like you, because you are selfish, cross, and lazy.
we want cocky; he is so lively, kind, and brave.
he will make a splendid bird, and he must be our king," answered the hens; and peck had to mind, or they would have pulled every feather out of his little tail.
he resolved to do some harm to his good brother, and plagued him all he could.
one day, when cocky was swinging with three of his sisters on a bush that hung over the brook, peck asked a stupid donkey feeding near to come and put his heavy foot on the bush.
he did it, and crack went the branch, splash went the poor chicks into the water, and all were drowned but cocky, who flew across and was saved.
poor little hop, chirp, and downy went floating down the brook like balls of white foam, and were never seen again.
all the hens mourned for them, and put a black feather in their heads to show how sorry they were.
mamma partlet was heart-broken to lose three darlings at once; but cocky comforted her, and never told how it happened, because he was ashamed to have people know what a bad bird peck was.
a butterfly saw it all, and he told granny cockletop about it; and the hens were so angry that they turned peck out of the barnyard, and he had to go and live in the woods alone.
he said he didn't care; but he did, and was very unhappy, and used to go and peep into the pleasant field where the fowls scratched and talked together.
he dared not show himself, for they would have driven him out.
but kind cocky saw him, and would run with some nice bit and creep through the fence into the wood, saying, "poor brother, i'm sorry for you, and i'll come and play with you, and tell you the news."
now in this wood lived a fox, and he had been planning to eat peck as soon as he was fat; for he missed the good corn and meal he used to have, and grew very thin living on grasshoppers and berries.
while he waited the sly fellow made friends with peck, though the bird knew that foxes ate hens.
"i'm not afraid, and i don't believe old granny cockletop's tales.
i can take care of myself, i guess," he said, and went on playing with the fox, who got him to tell all about the hen-house, how the door was fastened, and where the plump chickens roosted, and what time they went to bed, so that he could creep in and steal a good supper by and by.
silly peck never guessed what harm he was doing, and only laughed when cocky said,
"you will be sorry if you play with the fox.
he is a bad fellow; so be careful and sleep on a high branch, and keep out of his way, as i do."
cocky was fat and large, and the fox longed to eat him, but never could, because he wisely ran home whenever he saw the rogue hiding in the wood.
this made peck angry, for he wanted his brother to stay and play; and so one day, when cocky ran off in the midst of a nice game, peck said to the fox,
"see here, if you want to catch that fellow, i'll tell you how to do it.
he has promised to bring me some food to-night, when all the rest are at roost.
he will hide and not get shut up; then, when those cross old biddies are asleep, he will cluck softly, and i am to go in and eat all i want out of the pan.
you hide on the top of the hen-house; and while he talks to me, you can pounce on him.
then i shall be the only cock here, and they will have to make me king."
"all right," said the fox, much pleased with the plan, and very glad that peck had a chance to get fatter.
so when it was night, peck crept through the broken paling and waited till he heard the signal.
now, good cocky had saved up nice bits from his own dinner, and put them in a paper hidden under a bush.
he spread them all out in the barnyard and called; and peck came in a great hurry to eat them, never stopping to say, "thank you."
cocky stood by talking pleasantly till a little shower came up.
"peck, dear, put this nice thick paper over you; then you will be dry, and can go on eating.
i'll step under that burdock leaf and wait till you are done," said cocky; and peck was too busy gobbling up the food to remember anything else.
now the fox had just crept up on the hen-house roof; and when he peeped down, there was just light enough to see a white thing bobbing about.
"ah, ha!
that's cockyloo; now for a good supper!"
and with a jump he seized peck by the head before he could explain the mistake.
one squawk, and the naughty bird was dead; but though the paper fell off, and the fox saw what he had done, it was too late, and he began to eat peck up, while cocky flew into a tree and crowed so loud that the farmer ran with his gun and shot the fox before he could squeeze through the hole in the fence with the fowl in his mouth.
after that the hens felt safe, for there were no more foxes; and when they heard about peck they did not mourn at all, but liked cocky better than ever, and lived happily together, with nothing to trouble them.
king cockyloo grew to be a splendid bird, pure white, with a tall red comb on his head, long spurs on his yellow legs, many fine feathers in his tail, and eyes that shone like diamonds.
his crow was so loud that it could be heard all over the neighborhood, and people used to say, "hark!
hear farmer hunt's cock crow.
isn't it a sweet sound to wake us in the dawn?"
all the other cocks used to answer him, and there was a fine matinee concert every day.
he was a good brother, and led his five little sisters all about the field, feeding, guarding, and amusing them; for mamma was lame now, and could not stir far from the yard.
it was a pretty sight to see cocky run home with a worm in his bill or a nice berry, and give it to his mother, who was very proud of her handsome son.
even old granny cockletop, who scolded about everything, liked him; and often said, as the hens sat scuffling in the dust,
"a fine bird, my dears, a very fine bird, and i know he will do something remarkable before he dies."
she was right for once; and this is what he did.
one day the farmer had to go away and stay all night, leaving the old lady alone with two boys.
they were not afraid; for they had a gun, and quite longed for a chance to fire it.
now it happened that the farmer had a good deal of money in the house, and some bad men knew it; so they waited for him to go away that they might steal it.
cocky was picking about in the field when he heard voices behind the wall, and peeping through a hole saw two shabby men hiding there.
"at twelve, to-night, when all are asleep, we will creep in at the kitchen window and steal the money.
you shall watch on the outside and whistle if any one comes along while i'm looking for the box where the farmer keeps it," said one man.
"you needn't be afraid; there is no dog, and no one to wake the family, so we are quite safe," said the other man; and then they both went to sleep till night came.
cocky was much troubled, and didn't know what to do.
he could not tell the old lady about it; for he could only cackle and crow, and she would not understand that language.
so he went about all day looking very sober, and would not chase grasshoppers, play hide-and-seek under the big burdock leaves, or hunt the cricket with his sisters.
at sunset he did not go into the hen-house with the rest, but flew up to the shed roof over the kitchen, and sat there in the cold ready to scare the robbers with a loud crow, as he could do nothing else.
at midnight the men came creeping along; one stopped outside, and the other went in.
presently he handed a basket of silver out, and went back for the money.
just as he came creeping along with the box, cocky gave a loud, long crow, that frightened the robbers and woke the boys.
the man with the basket ran away in such a hurry that he tumbled into a well; the other was going to get out of the window, when cocky flew down and picked at his eyes and flapped his wings in his face, so that he turned to run some other way, and met the boys, who fired at him and shot him in the legs.
the old lady popped her head out of the upper window and rang the dinner-bell, and called "fire!
fire!"
so loud that it roused the neighbors, who came running to see what the trouble could be.
they fished one man out of the well and picked up the wounded one, and carried them both off to prison.
"who caught them?"
asked the people.
"we did," cried the boys, very proud of what they had done; "but we shouldn't have waked if our good cocky had not crowed, and scared the rascals.
he deserves half the praise, for this is the second time he has caught a thief."
so cocky was brought in, and petted, and called a fine fellow; and his family were so proud of him they clucked about it for weeks afterward.
when the robbers were tried, it was found that they were the men who had robbed the bank, and taken a great deal of money; so every one was glad to have them shut up for twenty years.
it made a great stir, and people would go to see cocky and tell how he helped catch the men; and he was so brave and handsome, they said at last,
"we want a new weather-cock on our court-house, and instead of an arrow let us have a cock; and he shall look like this fine fellow."
"yes, yes," cried the young folks, much pleased; for they thought cocky ought to be remembered in some way.
so a picture was taken, and cocky stood very still, with his bright eye on the man; then one like it was made of brass, and put high up on the court-house, where all could see the splendid bird shining like gold, and twirling about to tell which way the wind was.
the children were never tired of admiring him; and all the hens and chickens went in a procession one moonlight night to see it, yes, even mamma partlet and granny cockletop, though one was lame and the other very old, so full of pride were they in the great honor done king cockyloo.
this was not the end of his good deeds; and the last was the best of all, though it cost him his life.
he ruled for some years, and kept his kingdom in good order; for no one would kill him, when many of the other fowls were taken for thanksgiving and christmas dinners.
but he did die at last; and even then he was good and brave, as you shall hear.
one of the boys wanted to smoke a pipe, and went behind the hen-house, so nobody should see him do such a silly thing.
he thought he heard his father coming, and hid the pipe under the house.
some straw and dry leaves lay about, and took fire, setting the place in a blaze; for the boy ran away when he saw the mischief he had done, and the fire got to burning nicely before the cries of the poor hens called people to help.
the door was locked, and could not be opened, because the key was in the pocket of the naughty boy; so the farmer got an axe and chopped down the wall, letting the poor biddies fly out, squawking and smoking.
"where is cocky?"
cried the other boy, as he counted the hens and missed the king of the farmyard.
"burnt up, i'm afraid," said the farmer, who was throwing water on the flames.
alas!
yes, he was: for when the fire was out they found good old cocky sitting on a nest, with his wide wings spread over some little chicks whose mother had left them.
they were too small to run away, and sat chirping sadly till cocky covered and kept them safe, though the smoke choked him to death.
every one was very sorry; and the children gave the good bird a fine funeral, and buried him in the middle of the field, with a green mound over him, and a white stone, on which was written,
here lies the bravest cock that ever crew:
we mourn for him with sorrow true.
now nevermore at dawn his music shall we hear,   waking the world like trumpet shrill and clear.
the hens all hang their heads, the chickens sadly peep;   the boys look sober, and the girls all weep.
good-by, dear cocky: sleep and rest,   with grass and daisies on your faithful breast;   and when you wake, brave bird, so good and true,   clap your white wings and crow, "cock-a-doodle-doo."
vi.
rosy's journey.
rosy was a nice little girl who lived with her mother in a small house in the woods.
they were very poor, for the father had gone away to dig gold, and did not come back; so they had to work hard to get food to eat and clothes to wear.
the mother spun yarn when she was able, for she was often sick, and rosy did all she could to help.
she milked the red cow and fed the hens; dug the garden, and went to town to sell the yarn and the eggs.
she was very good and sweet, and every one loved her; but the neighbors were all poor, and could do little to help the child.
so, when at last the mother died, the cow and hens and house had to be sold to pay the doctor and the debts.
then rosy was left all alone, with no mother, no home, and no money to buy clothes and dinners with.
"what will you do?"
said the people, who were very sorry for her.
"i will go and find my father," answered rosy, bravely.
"but he is far away, and you don't know just where he is, up among the mountains.
stay with us and spin on your little wheel, and we will buy the yarn, and take care of you, dear little girl," said the kind people.
"no, i must go; for mother told me to, and my father will be glad to have me.
i'm not afraid, for every one is good to me," said rosy, gratefully.
then the people gave her a warm red cloak, and a basket with a little loaf and bottle of milk in it, and some pennies to buy more to eat when the bread was gone.
they all kissed her, and wished her good luck; and she trotted away through the wood to find her father.
for some days she got on very well; for the wood-cutters were kind, and let her sleep in their huts, and gave her things to eat.
but by and by she came to lonely places, where there were no houses; and then she was afraid, and used to climb up in the trees to sleep, and had to eat berries and leaves, like the children in the wood.
she made a fire at night, so wild beasts would not come near her; and if she met other travellers, she was so young and innocent no one had the heart to hurt her.
she was kind to everything she met; so all little creatures were friends to her, as we shall see.
one day, as she was resting by a river, she saw a tiny fish on the bank, nearly dead for want of water.
"poor thing!
go and be happy again," she said, softly taking him up, and dropping him into the nice cool river.
"thank you, dear child; i'll not forget, but will help you some day,"
said the fish, when he had taken a good drink, and felt better.
"why, how can a tiny fish help such a great girl as i am?"
laughed rosy.
"wait and see," answered the fish, as he swam away with a flap of his little tail.
rosy went on her way, and forgot all about it.
but she never forgot to be kind; and soon after, as she was looking in the grass for strawberries, she found a field-mouse with a broken leg.
"help me to my nest, or my babies will starve," cried the poor thing.
"yes, i will; and bring these berries so that you can keep still till your leg is better, and have something to eat."
rosy took the mouse carefully in her little hand, and tied up the broken leg with a leaf of spearmint and a blade of grass.
then she carried her to the nest under the roots of an old tree, where four baby mice were squeaking sadly for their mother.
she made a bed of thistledown for the sick mouse, and put close within reach all the berries and seeds she could find, and brought an acorn-cup of water from the spring, so they could be comfortable.
"good little rosy, i shall pay you for all this kindness some day," said the mouse, when she was done.
"i'm afraid you are not big enough to do much," answered rosy, as she ran off to go on her journey.
"wait and see," called the mouse; and all the little ones squeaked, as if they said the same.
some time after, as rosy lay up in a tree, waiting for the sun to rise, she heard a great buzzing close by, and saw a fly caught in a cobweb that went from one twig to another.
the big spider was trying to spin him all up, and the poor fly was struggling to get away before his legs and wings were helpless.
rosy put up her finger and pulled down the web, and the spider ran away at once to hide under the leaves.
but the happy fly sat on rosy's hand, cleaning his wings, and buzzing so loud for joy that it sounded like a little trumpet.
"you've saved my life, and i'll save yours, if i can," said the fly, twinkling his bright eye at rosy.
"you silly thing, you can't help me," answered rosy, climbing down, while the fly buzzed away, saying, like the mouse and fish,
"wait and see; wait and see."
rosy trudged on and on, till at last she came to the sea.
the mountains were on the other side; but how should she get over the wide water?
no ships were there, and she had no money to hire one if there had been any; so she sat on the shore, very tired and sad, and cried a few big tears as salt as the sea.
"hullo!"
called a bubbly sort of voice close by; and the fish popped up his head.
rosy ran to see what he wanted.
"i've come to help you over the water," said the fish.
"how can you, when i want a ship, and some one to show me the way?"
answered rosy.
"i shall just call my friend the whale, and he will take you over better than a ship, because he won't get wrecked.
don't mind if he spouts and flounces about a good deal, he is only playing; so you needn't be frightened."
down dived the little fish, and rosy waited to see what would happen; for she didn't believe such a tiny thing could really bring a whale to help her.
presently what looked like a small island came floating through the sea; and turning round, so that its tail touched the shore, the whale said, in a roaring voice that made her jump,
"come aboard, little girl, and hold on tight.
i'll carry you wherever you like."
it was rather a slippery bridge, and rosy was rather scared at this big, strange boat; but she got safely over, and held on fast; then, with a roll and a plunge, off went the whale, spouting two fountains, while his tail steered him like the rudder of a ship.
rosy liked it, and looked down into the deep sea, where all sorts of queer and lovely things were to be seen.
great fishes came and looked at her; dolphins played near to amuse her; the pretty nautilus sailed by in its transparent boat; and porpoises made her laugh with their rough play.
mermaids brought her pearls and red coral to wear, sea-apples to eat, and at night sung her to sleep with their sweet lullabies.
so she had a very pleasant voyage, and ran on shore with many thanks to the good whale, who gave a splendid spout, and swam away.
then rosy travelled along till she came to a desert.
hundreds of miles of hot sand, with no trees or brooks or houses.
"i never can go that way," she said; "i should starve, and soon be worn out walking in that hot sand.
what shall i do?"
"quee, quee!
wait and see:
you were good to me;   so here i come,   from my little home,   to help you willingly,"
said a friendly voice; and there was the mouse, looking at her with its bright eyes full of gratitude.
"why, you dear little thing, i'm very glad to see you; but i'm sure you can't help me across this desert," said rosy, stroking its soft back.
"that's easy enough," answered the mouse, rubbing its paws briskly.
"i'll just call my friend the lion; he lives here, and he'll take you across with pleasure."
"oh, i'm afraid he'd rather eat me.
how dare you call that fierce beast?"
cried rosy, much surprised.
"i gnawed him out of a net once, and he promised to help me.
he is a noble animal, and he will keep his word."
then the mouse sang, in its shrill little voice,
"o lion, grand,     come over the sand,   and help me now, i pray!
here's a little lass,     who wants to pass;   please carry her on her way."
in a moment a loud roar was heard, and a splendid yellow lion, with fiery eyes and a long mane, came bounding over the sand to meet them.
"what can i do for you, tiny friend?"
he said, looking at the mouse, who was not a bit frightened, though rosy hid behind a rock, expecting every moment to be eaten.
mousie told him, and the good lion said pleasantly,
"i'll take the child along.
come on, my dear; sit on my back and hold fast to my mane, for i'm a swift horse, and you might fall off."
then he crouched down like a great cat, and rosy climbed up, for he was so kind she could not fear him; and away they went, racing over the sand till her hair whistled in the wind.
as soon as she got her breath, she thought it great fun to go flying along, while other lions and tigers rolled their fierce eyes at her, but dared not touch her; for this lion was king of all, and she was quite safe.
they met a train of camels with loads on their backs; and the people travelling with them wondered what queer thing was riding that fine lion.
it looked like a very large monkey in a red cloak, but went so fast they never saw that it was a little girl.
"how glad i am that i was kind to the mouse; for if the good little creature had not helped me, i never could have crossed this desert,"
said rosy, as the lion walked awhile to rest himself.
"and if the mouse had not gnawed me out of the net i never should have come at her call.
you see, little people can conquer big ones, and make them gentle and friendly by kindness," answered the lion.
then away they went again, faster than ever, till they came to the green country.
rosy thanked the good beast, and he ran back, for if any one saw him, they would try to catch him.
"now i have only to climb up these mountains and find father," thought rosy, as she saw the great hills before her, with many steep roads winding up to the top, and far, far away rose the smoke from the huts where the men lived and dug for gold.
she started off bravely, but took the wrong road, and after climbing a long while found the path ended in rocks over which she could not go.
she was very tired and hungry; for her food was gone, and there were no houses in this wild place.
night was coming on, and it was so cold she was afraid she would freeze before morning, but dared not go on lest she should fall down some steep hole and be killed.
much discouraged, she lay down on the moss and cried a little; then she tried to sleep, but something kept buzzing in her ear, and looking carefully she saw a fly prancing about on the moss, as if anxious to make her listen to his song,
"rosy, my dear,     don't cry, i'm here   to help you all i can.
i'm only a fly,     but you'll see that i   will keep my word like a man."
rosy couldn't help laughing to hear the brisk little fellow talk as if he could do great things; but she was very glad to see him and hear his cheerful song, so she held out her finger, and while he sat there told him all her troubles.
"bless your heart!
my friend the eagle will carry you right up the mountains and leave you at your father's door," cried the fly; and he was off with a flirt of his gauzy wings, for he meant what he said.
rosy was ready for her new horse, and not at all afraid after the whale and the lion; so when a great eagle swooped down and alighted near her, she just looked at his sharp claws, big eyes, and crooked beak as coolly as if he had been a cock-robin.
he liked her courage, and said kindly in his rough voice,
"hop up, little girl, and sit among my feathers.
hold me fast round the neck, or you may grow dizzy and get a fall."
rosy nestled down among the thick gray feathers, and put both arms round his neck; and whiz they went, up, up, up, higher and higher, till the trees looked like grass, they were so far below.
at first it was very cold, and rosy cuddled deeper into her feather bed; then, as they came nearer to the sun, it grew warm, and she peeped out to see the huts standing in a green spot on the top of the mountain.
"here we are.
you'll find all the men are down in the mine at this time.
they won't come up till morning; so you will have to wait for your father.
good-by; good luck, my dear."
and the eagle soared away, higher still, to his nest among the clouds.
it was night now, but fires were burning in all the houses; so rosy went from hut to hut trying to find her father's, that she might rest while she waited: at last in one the picture of a pretty little girl hung on the wall, and under it was written, "my rosy."
then she knew that this was the right place; and she ate some supper, put on more wood, and went to bed, for she wanted to be fresh when her father came in the morning.
while she slept a storm came on, thunder rolled and lightning flashed, the wind blew a gale, and rain poured, but rosy never waked till dawn, when she heard men shouting outside,
"run, run!
the river is rising!
we shall all be drowned!"
rosy ran out to see what was the matter, though the wind nearly blew her away; she found that so much rain had made the river overflow till it began to wash the banks away.
"what shall i do?
what shall i do?"
cried rosy, watching the men rush about like ants, getting their bags of gold ready to carry off before the water swept them away, if it became a flood.
as if in answer to her cry, rosy heard a voice say close by,
"splash, dash!
rumble and crash!
here come the beavers gay;     see what they do,     rosy, for you,   because you helped me one day."
and there in the water was the little fish swimming about, while an army of beavers began to pile up earth and stones in a high bank to keep the river back.
how they worked, digging and heaping with teeth and claws, and beating the earth hard with their queer tails like shovels!
rosy and the men watched them work, glad to be safe, while the storm cleared up; and by the time the dam was made, all danger was over.
rosy looked into the faces of the rough men, hoping her father was there, and was just going to ask about him, when a great shouting rose again, and all began to run to the pit hole, saying,
"the sand has fallen in!
the poor fellows will be smothered!
how can we get them out?
how can we get them out?"
rosy ran too, feeling as if her heart would break; for her father was down in the mine, and would die soon if air did not come to him.
the men dug as hard as they could; but it was a long job, and they feared they would not be in time.
suddenly hundreds of moles came scampering along, and began to burrow down through the earth, making many holes for air to go in; for they know how to build galleries through the ground better than men can.
every one was so surprised they stopped to look on; for the dirt flew like rain as the busy little fellows scratched and bored as if making an underground railway.
"what does it mean?"
said the men.
"they work faster than we can, and better; but who sent them?
is this strange little girl a fairy?"
before rosy could speak, all heard a shrill, small voice singing,
"they come at my call;     and though they are small,   they'll dig the passage clear:
i never forget;     we'll save them yet,   for love of rosy dear."
then all saw a little gray mouse sitting on a stone, waving her tail about, and pointing with her tiny paw to show the moles where to dig.
the men laughed; and rosy was telling them who she was, when a cry came from the pit, and they saw that the way was clear so they could pull the buried men up.
in a minute they got ropes, and soon had ten poor fellows safe on the ground; pale and dirty, but all alive, and all shouting as if they were crazy,
"tom's got it!
tom's got it!
hooray for tom!"
"what is it?"
cried the others; and then they saw tom come up with the biggest lump of gold ever found in the mountains.
every one was glad of tom's luck; for he was a good man, and had worked a long time, and been sick, and couldn't go back to his wife and child.
when he saw rosy, he dropped the lump, and caught her up, saying,
"my little girl!
she's better than a million pounds of gold."
then rosy was very happy, and went back to the hut, and had a lovely time telling her father all about her troubles and her travels.
he cried when he heard that the poor mother was dead before she could have any of the good things the gold would buy them.
"we will go away and be happy together in the pleasantest home i can find, and never part any more, my darling," said the father, kissing rosy as she sat on his knee with her arms round his neck.
she was just going to say something very sweet to comfort him, when a fly lit on her arm and buzzed very loud,
"don't drive me away,     but hear what i say:
bad men want the gold;     they will steal it to-night,     and you must take flight;   so be quiet and busy and bold."
"i was afraid some one would take my lump away.
i'll pack up at once, and we will creep off while the men are busy at work; though i'm afraid we can't go fast enough to be safe, if they miss us and come after,"
said tom, bundling his gold into a bag and looking very sober; for some of the miners were wild fellows, and might kill him for the sake of that great lump.
but the fly sang again,
"slip away with me,     and you will see   what a wise little thing am i;     for the road i show     no man can know,   since it's up in the pathless sky."
then they followed buzz to a quiet nook in the wood; and there were the eagle and his mate waiting to fly away with them so fast and so far that no one could follow.
rosy and the bag of gold were put on the mother eagle; tom sat astride the king bird; and away they flew to a great city, where the little girl and her father lived happily together all their lives.
vii.
how they ran away.
two little boys sat on the fence whittling arrows one fine day.
said one little boy to the other little boy,
"let's do something jolly."
"all right.
what will we do?"
"run off to the woods and be hunters."
"what can we hunt?"
"bears and foxes."
"mullin says there ain't any round here."
"well, we can shoot squirrels and snare wood-chucks."
"haven't got any guns and trap."
"we've got our bows, and i found an old trap behind the barn."
"what will we eat?"
"here's our lunch; and when that's gone we can roast the squirrels and cook the fish on a stick.
i know how."
"where will you get the fire?"
"got matches in my pocket."
"i've got a lot of things we could use.
let's see."
and as if satisfied at last, cautious billy displayed his treasures, while bold tommy did the same.
besides the two knives there were strings, nails, matches, a piece of putty, fish-hooks, and two very dirty handkerchiefs.
"there, sir, that's a first-rate fit-out for hunters; and with the jolly basket of lunch mrs. mullin gave us, we can get on tip-top for two or three days," said tommy, eager to be off.
"where shall we sleep?"
asked billy, who liked to be comfortable both night and day.
"oh, up in trees or on beds of leaves, like the fellows in our books.
if you are afraid, stay at home; i'm going to have no end of a good time."
and tommy crammed the things back into his pockets as if there were no time to lose.
"pooh!
i ain't afraid.
come on!"
and jumping down billy caught up his rod, rather ashamed of his many questions.
no one was looking at them, and they might have walked quietly off; but that the "running away" might be all right, both raced down the road, tumbled over a wall, and dashed into the woods as if a whole tribe of wild indians were after them.
"do you know the way?"
panted billy, when at last they stopped for breath.
"yes, it winds right up the mountain; but we'd better not keep to it, or some one will see us and take us back.
we are going to be real hunters and have adventures; so we must get lost, and find our way by the sun and the stars," answered tommy, who had read so many boys' books his little head was a jumble of texan rangers, african explorers, and buffalo bills; and he burned to outdo them all.
"what will our mothers say if we really get lost?"
asked billy, always ready with a question.
"mine won't fuss.
she lets me do what i like."
that was true; for tommy's poor mamma was tired of trying to keep the lively little fellow in order, and had got used to seeing him come out of all his scrapes without much harm.
"mine will be scared; she's always afraid i'm going to get hurt, so i'm careful.
but i guess i'll risk it, and have some fun to tell about when we go home," said billy, trudging after captain tommy, who always took the lead.
these eleven-year-old boys were staying with their mothers at a farm-house up among the mountains; and having got tired of the tame bears, the big barn, the trout brook, the thirty colts at pasture, and the society of the few little girls and younger boys at the hotel near by, these fine fellows longed to break loose and "rough it in the bush,"
as the hunters did in their favorite stories.
away they went, deeper and deeper into the great forest that covered the side of the mountain.
a pleasant place that august day; for it was cool and green, with many brooks splashing over the rocks, or lying in brown pools under the ferns.
squirrels chattered and raced in the tall pines; now and then a gray rabbit skipped out of sight among the brakes, or a strange bird flew by.
here and there blackberries grew in the open places, sassafras bushes were plentiful, and black-birch bark was ready for chewing.
"don't you call this nice?"
asked tommy, pausing at last in a little dell where a noisy brook came tumbling down the mountain side, and the pines sung overhead.
"yes; but i'm awful hungry.
let's rest and eat our lunch," said billy, sitting down on a cushion of moss.
"you always want to be stuffing and resting," answered sturdy tommy, who liked to be moving all the time.
he took the fishing-basket, which hung over his shoulder by a strap, and opened it carefully; for good mrs. mullin had packed a nice lunch of bread and butter, cake and peaches, with a bottle of milk, and two large pickles slipped in on the sly to please the boys.
tommy's face grew very sober as he looked in, for all he saw was a box of worms for bait and an old jacket.
"by george!
we've got the wrong basket.
this is mullin's, and he's gone off with our prog.
won't he be mad?"
"not as mad as i am.
why didn't you look?
you are always in such a hurry to start.
what shall we do now without anything to eat?"
whined billy; for losing his lunch was a dreadful blow to him.
"we shall have to catch some fish and eat blackberries.
which will you do, old cry-baby?"
said tommy, laughing at the other boy's dismal face.
"i'll fish; i'm so tired i can't go scratching round after berries.
i don't love 'em, either."
and billy began to fix his line and bait his hook.
"lucky we got the worms; you can eat 'em if you can't wait for fish,"
said tommy, bustling about to empty the basket and pile up their few possessions in a heap.
"there's a quiet pool below here, you go and fish there.
i'll pick the berries, and then show you how to get dinner in the woods.
this is our camp; so fly round and do your best."
then tommy ran off to a place near by where he had seen the berries, while billy found a comfortable nook by the pool, and sat scowling at the water so crossly, it was a wonder any trout came to his hook.
but the fat worms tempted several small ones, and he cheered up at the prospect of food.
tommy whistled while he picked, and in half an hour came back with two quarts of nice berries and an armful of dry sticks for the fire.
"we'll have a jolly dinner, after all," he said, as the flames went crackling up, and the dry leaves made a pleasant smell.
"got four, but don't see how we'll ever cook 'em; no frying-pan,"
grumbled billy, throwing down the four little trout, which he had half cleaned.
"don't want any.
broil 'em on the coals, or toast 'em on a forked stick.
i'll show you how," said cheerful tommy, whittling away, and feeding his fire as much like a real hunter as a small boy could be.
while he worked, billy ate berries and sighed for bread and butter.
at last, after much trouble, two of the trout were half cooked and eagerly eaten by the hungry boys.
but they were very different from the nice brown ones mrs. mullin gave them; for in spite of tommy's struggles they would fall in the ashes, and there was no salt to eat with them.
by the time the last were toasted, the young hunters were so hungry they could have eaten anything, and not a berry was left.
"i set the trap down there, for i saw a hole among the vines, and i shouldn't wonder if we got a rabbit or something," said tommy, when the last bone was polished.
"you go and catch some more fish, and i'll see if i have caught any old chap as he went home to dinner."
off ran tommy; and the other boy went slowly back to the brook, wishing with all his might he was at home eating sweet corn and berry pie.
the trout had evidently gone to their dinners, for not one bite did poor billy get; and he was just falling asleep when a loud shout gave him such a fright that he tumbled into the brook up to his knees.
"i've got him!
come and see!
he's a bouncer," roared tommy, from the berry bushes some way off.
billy scrambled out, and went as fast as his wet boots would let him, to see what the prize was.
he found tommy dancing wildly round a fat gray animal, who was fighting to get his paws out of the trap, and making a queer noise as he struggled about.
"what is it?"
asked billy, getting behind a tree as fast as possible, for the thing looked fierce, and he was very timid.
"a raccoon, i guess, or a big woodchuck.
won't his fur make a fine cap?
i guess the other fellows will wish they'd come with us."
said tommy, prancing to and fro, without the least idea what to do with the creature.
"he'll bite.
we'd better run away and wait till he's dead," said billy.
"wish he'd got his head in, then i could carry him off; but he does look savage, so we'll have to leave him awhile, and get him when we come back.
but he's a real beauty."
and tommy looked proudly at the bunch of gray fur scuffling in the sand.
"can we ever eat him?"
asked hungry billy, ready for a fried crocodile if he could get it.
"if he's a raccoon, we can; but i don't know about woodchucks.
the fellows in my books don't seem to have caught any.
he's nice and fat; we might try him when he's dead," said tommy, who cared more for the skin to show than the best meal ever cooked.
the sound of a gun echoing through the wood gave tommy a good idea,
"let's find the man and get him to shoot this chap; then we needn't wait, but skin him right away, and eat him too."
off they went to the camp; and catching up their things, the two hunters hurried away in the direction of the sound, feeling glad to know that some one was near them, for two or three hours of wood life made them a little homesick.
they ran and scrambled, and listened and called; but not until they had gone a long way up the mountain did they find the man, resting in an old hut left by the lumbermen.
the remains of his dinner were spread on the floor, and he lay smoking, and reading a newspaper, while his dog dozed at his feet, close to a well-filled game-bag.
he looked surprised when two dirty, wet little boys suddenly appeared before him, one grinning cheerfully, the other looking very dismal and scared as the dog growled and glared at them as if they were two rabbits.
"hollo!"
said the man
"hollo!"
answered tommy.
"who are you?"
asked the man.
"hunters," said tommy.
"had good luck?"
and the man laughed.
"first-rate.
got a raccoon in our trap, and we want you to come and shoot him," answered tommy, proudly.
"sure?"
said the man, looking interested as well as amused.
"no, but i think so."
"what's he like?"
tommy described him, and was much disappointed when the man lay down again, saying, with another laugh,
"it's a woodchuck; he's no good."
"but i want the skin."
"then don't shoot him, let him die; that's better for the skin," said the man, who was tired and didn't want to stop for such poor game.
all this time billy had been staring hard at the sandwiches and bread and cheese on the floor, and sniffing at them, as the dog sniffed at him.
"want some grub?"
asked the man, seeing the hungry look.
"i just do!
we left our lunch, and i've only had two little trout and some old berries since breakfast," answered billy, with tears in his eyes and a hand on his stomach.
"eat away then; i'm done, and don't want the stuff."
and the man took up his paper as if glad to be let alone.
it was lucky that the dog had been fed, for in ten minutes nothing was left but the napkin; and the boys sat picking up the crumbs, much refreshed, but ready for more.
"better be going home, my lads; it's pretty cold on the mountain after sunset, and you are a long way from town," said the man, who had peeped at them over his paper now and then, and saw, in spite of the dirt and rips, that they were not farmer boys.
"we don't live in town; we are at mullin's, in the valley.
no hurry; we know the way, and we want to have some sport first.
you seem to have done well," answered tommy, looking enviously from the gun to the game-bag, out of which hung a rabbit's head and a squirrel's tail.
"pretty fair; but i want a shot at the bear.
people tell me there is one up here, and i'm after him; for he kills the sheep, and might hurt some of the young folks round here," said the man, loading his gun with a very sober air; for he wanted to get rid of the boys and send them home.
billy looked alarmed; but tommy's brown face beamed with joy as he said eagerly,
"i hope you'll get him.
i'd rather shoot a bear than any other animal but a lion.
we don't have those here, and bears are scarce.
mullin said he hadn't heard of one for a long time; so this must be a young one, for they killed the big one two years ago."
that was true, and the man knew it.
he did not really expect or want to meet a bear, but thought the idea of one would send the little fellows home at once.
finding one of them was unscared, he laughed, and said with a nod to tommy,
"if i had time i'd take you along, and show you how to hunt; but this fat friend of yours couldn't rough it with us, and we can't leave him alone; so go ahead your own way.
only i wouldn't climb any higher, for among the rocks you are sure to get hurt or lost."
"oh, i say, let's go!
such fun, billy!
i know you'll like it.
a real gun and dog and hunter!
come on, and don't be a molly-coddle," cried tommy, wild to go.
"i won't!
i'm tired, and i'm going home; you can go after your old bears if you want to.
i don't think much of hunting anyway, and wish i hadn't come," growled billy, very cross at being left out, yet with no desire to scramble any more.
"can't stop.
good-by.
get along home, and some day i'll come and take you out with me, little leatherstocking," said the man, striding off with the dear gun and dog and bag, leaving billy to wonder what he meant by that queer name, and tommy to console himself with the promise made him.
"let's go and see how old chucky gets on," he said good-naturedly, when the man vanished.
"not till i'm rested.
i can get a good nap on this pile of hay; then we'll go home before it's late," answered lazy billy, settling himself on the rough bed the lumbermen had used.
"i just wish i had a boy with some go in him; you ain't much better than a girl," sighed tommy, walking off to a pine-tree where some squirrels seemed to be having a party, they chattered and raced up and down at such a rate.
he tried his bow and shot all his arrows many times in vain, for the lively creatures gave him no chance.
he had better luck with a brown bird who sat in a bush and was hit full in the breast with the sharpest arrow.
the poor thing fluttered and fell, and its blood wet the green leaves as it lay dying on the grass.
tommy was much pleased at first; but as he stood watching its bright eye grow dim and its pretty brown wings stop fluttering, he felt sorry that its happy little life was so cruelly ended, and ashamed that his thoughtless fun had given so much pain.
"i'll never shoot another bird except hawks after chickens, and i won't brag about this one.
it was so tame, and trusted me, i was very mean to kill it."
as he thought this, tommy smoothed the ruffled feathers of the dead thrush, and, making a little grave under the pine, buried it wrapped in green leaves, and left it there where its mate could sing over it, and no rude hands disturb its rest.
"i'll tell mamma and she will understand: but i won't tell billy.
he is such a greedy old chap he'll say i ought to have kept the poor bird to eat," thought tommy, as he went back to the hut, and sat there, restringing his bow, till billy woke up, much more amiable for his sleep.
they tried to find the woodchuck, but lost their way, and wandered deeper into the great forest till they came to a rocky place and could go no farther.
they climbed up and tumbled down, turned back and went round, looked at the sun and knew it was late, chewed sassafras bark and checkerberry leaves for supper, and grew more and more worried and tired as hour after hour went by and they saw no end to woods and rocks.
once or twice they heard the hunter's gun far away, and called and tried to find him.
tommy scolded billy for not going with the man, who knew his way and was probably safe in the valley when the last faint shot came up to them.
billy cried, and reproached tommy for proposing to run away; and both felt very homesick for their mothers and their good safe beds at farmer mullin's.
the sun set, and found them in a dreary place full of rocks and blasted trees half-way up the mountain.
they were so tired they could hardly walk, and longed to lie down anywhere to sleep; but, remembering the hunter's story of the bear, they were afraid to do it, till tommy suggested climbing a tree, after making a fire at the foot of it to scare away the bear, lest he climb too and get them.
but, alas!
the matches were left in their first camp; so they decided to take turns to sleep and watch, since it was plain that they must spend the night there.
billy went up first, and creeping into a good notch of the bare tree tried to sleep, while brave tommy, armed with a big stick, marched to and fro below.
every few minutes a trembling voice would call from above, "is anything coming?"
and an anxious voice would answer from below, "not yet.
hurry up and go to sleep!
i want my turn."
at last billy began to snore, and then tommy felt so lonely he couldn't bear it; so he climbed to a lower branch, and sat nodding and trying to keep watch, till he too fell fast asleep, and the early moon saw the poor boys roosting there like two little owls.
a loud cry, a scrambling overhead, and then a great shaking and howling waked tommy so suddenly that he lost his wits for a moment and did not know where he was.
"the bear!
the bear!
don't let him get me!
tommy, tommy, come and make him let go," cried billy, filling the quiet night with dismal howls.
tommy looked up, expecting to behold a large bear eating his unhappy friend; but the moonlight showed him nothing but poor billy dangling from a bough, high above the ground, caught by his belt when he fell.
he had been dreaming of bears, and rolled off his perch; so there he hung, kicking and wailing, half awake, and so scared it was long before tommy could make him believe that he was quite safe.
how to get him down was the next question.
the branch was not strong enough to bear tommy, though he climbed up and tried to unhook poor billy.
the belt was firmly twisted at the back, and billy could not reach to undo it, nor could he get his legs round the branch to pull himself up.
there seemed no way but to unbuckle the belt and drop.
that he was afraid to try; for the ground was hard, and the fall a high one.
fortunately both belt and buckle were strong; so he hung safely, though very uncomfortably, while tommy racked his boyish brain to find a way to help him.
billy had just declared that he should be cut in two very soon if something was not done for him, and tommy was in despair, when they thought they heard a far-off shout, and both answered it till their throats were nearly split with screaming.
"i seem to see a light moving round down that way," cried billy from his hook, pointing toward the valley.
"they are looking for us, but they won't hear us.
i'll run and holler louder, and bring 'em up here," answered tommy, glad to do anything that would put an end to this dreadful state of things.
"don't leave me!
i may fall and be killed!
the bear might come!
don't go!
don't go!"
wailed billy, longing to drop, but afraid.
"i won't go far, and i'll come back as quick as i can.
you are safe up there.
hold on, and we'll soon get you down," answered tommy, rushing away helter-skelter, never minding where he went, and too much excited to care for any damage.
the moon was bright on the blasted trees; but when he came down among the green pines, it grew dark, and he often stumbled and fell.
never minding bumps and bruises, he scrambled over rocks, leaped fallen trunks, floundered through brooks, and climbed down steep places, till, with a reckless jump, he went heels over head into a deep hole, and lay there for a moment stunned by the fall.
it was an old bear-trap, long unused, and fortunately well carpeted with dead leaves, or poor tommy would have broken his bones.
when he came to himself he was so used up that he lay still for some time in a sort of daze, too tired to know or care about anything, only dimly conscious that somebody was lost in a tree or a well, and that, on the whole, running away was not all fun.
by and by the sound of a gun roused him; and remembering poor billy, he tried to get out of the pit, for the moon showed him where he was.
but it was too deep, and he was too stiff with weariness and the fall to be very nimble.
so he shouted, and whistled, and raged about very like a little bear caught in the pit.
it is very difficult to find a lost person on these great mountains, and many wander for hours not far from help, bewildered by the thick woods, the deep ravines, and precipices which shut them in.
some have lost their lives; and as tommy lay on the leaves used up by his various struggles, he thought of all the stories he had lately heard at the farm, and began to wonder how it would feel to starve to death down there, and to wish poor billy could come to share his prison, that they might die together, like the babes in the wood, or better still the boy scouts lost on the prairies in that thrilling story, "bill boomerang, the wild hunter of the west."
"i guess mother is worried this time, because i never stayed out all night before, and i never will again without leave.
it's rather good fun, though, if they only find me.
i ain't afraid, and it isn't very cold.
i always wanted to sleep out, and now i'm doing it.
wish poor billy was safely down and in this good bed with me.
won't he be scared all alone there?
maybe the belt will break and he get hurt bumping down.
sorry now i left him, he's such a 'fraid-cat.
there's the gun again!
guess it's that man after us.
hi!
hollo!
here i am!
whoop!
hurrah!
hi!
hi!
hi!"
tommy's meditations ended in a series of yells as loud as his shrill little voice could make them, and he thought some one answered.
but it must have been an echo, for no one came; and after another rampage round his prison, the poor boy nestled down among the leaves, and went fast asleep because there was nothing else to do.
so there they were, the two young hunters, lost at midnight on the mountain, one hanging like an apple on the old tree, and the other sound asleep in a bear-pit.
their distracted mothers meantime were weeping and wringing their hands at the farm, while all the men in the neighborhood were out looking for the lost boys.
the hunter on his return to the hotel had reported meeting the runaways and his effort to send them home in good season; so people knew where to look, and, led by the man and dog, up the mountain went mr. mullin with his troop.
it was a mild night, and the moon shone high and clear; so the hunt was, on the whole, rather easy and pleasant at first, and lanterns flashed through the dark forest like fireflies, the lonely cliffs seemed alive with men, and voices echoed in places where usually only the brooks babbled and the hawks screamed.
but as time went on, and no sign of the boys appeared, the men grew anxious, and began to fear some serious harm had come to the runaways.
"i can't go home without them little shavers no way, 'specially tommy,"
said mr. mullin, as they stopped to rest after a hard climb through the blasted grove.
"he's a boy after my own heart, spry as a chipmunk, smart as a young cockerel, and as full of mischief as a monkey.
he ain't afraid of anything, and i shouldn't be a mite surprised to find him enjoyin' himself first-rate, and as cool as a coocumber."
"the fat boy won't take it so easily, i fancy.
if it hadn't been for him i'd have kept the lively fellow with me, and shown him how to hunt.
sorry now i didn't take them both home," said the man with the gun, seeing his mistake too late, as people often do.
"maybe they've fell down a precipice and got killed, like moses warner, when he was lost," suggested a tall fellow, who had shouted himself hoarse.
"hush up, and come on!
the dog is barkin' yonder, and he may have found 'em," said the farmer, hurrying toward the place where the hound was baying at something in a tree.
it was poor billy, hanging there still, half unconscious with weariness and fear.
the belt had slipped up under his arms, so he could breathe easily; and there he was, looking like a queer sort of cone on the blasted pine.
"wal, i never!"
exclaimed the farmer, as the tall lad climbed up, and, unhooking billy, handed him down like a young bird, into the arms held up to catch him.
"he's all right, only scared out of his wits.
come along and look for the other one.
i'll warrant he went for help, and may be half-way home by this time," said the hunter, who didn't take much interest in the fat boy.
tommy's hat lay on the ground; and showing it to the dog, his master told him to find the boy.
the good hound sniffed about, and then set off with his nose to the ground, following the zigzag track tommy had taken in his hurry.
the hunter and several of the men went after him, leaving the farmer with the others to take care of billy.
presently the dog came to the bear-pit, and began to bark again.
"he's got him!"
cried the men, much relieved; and rushing on soon saw the good beast looking down at a little white object in one corner of the dark hole.
it was tommy's face in the moonlight, for the rest of him was covered up with leaves.
the little round face seemed very quiet; and for a moment the men stood quite still, fearing that the fall might have done the boy some harm.
then the hunter leaped down, and gently touched the brown cheek.
it was warm, and a soft snore from the pug nose made the man call out, much relieved,
"he's all right.
wake up here, little chap; you are wanted at home.
had hunting enough for this time?"
as he spoke, tommy opened his eyes, gave a stretch, and said, "hollo, billy," as calmly as if in his own bed at home.
then the rustle of the leaves, the moonlight in his face, and the sight of several men staring down at him startled him wide awake.
"did you shoot the big bear?"
he asked, looking up at the hunter with a grin.
"no; but i caught a little one, and here he is," answered the man, giving tommy a roll in the leaves, much pleased because he did not whine or make a fuss.
"got lost, didn't we?
oh, i say, where's billy?
i left him up a tree like a coon, and he wouldn't come down," laughed tommy, kicking off his brown bed-clothes, and quite ready to get up now.
they all laughed with him; and presently, when the story was told, they pulled the boy out of the pit, and went back to join the other wanderer, who was now sitting up eating the bread and butter mrs. mullin sent for their very late supper.
the men roared again, as the two boys told their various tribulations; and when they had been refreshed, the party started for home, blowing the tin horns, and firing shot after shot to let the scattered searchers know that the lost children were found.
billy was very quiet, and gladly rode on the various broad backs offered for his use, but tommy stoutly refused to be carried, and with an occasional "boost" over a very rough place, walked all the way down on his own sturdy legs.
he was the hero of the adventure, and was never tired of relating how he caught the woodchuck, cooked the fish, slid down the big rock, and went to bed in the old bear-pit.
but in his own little mind he resolved to wait till he was older before he tried to be a hunter; and though he caught several wood-chucks that summer, he never shot another harmless little bird.
viii.
the fairy box.
"i wish i had a magic bracelet like rosamond's, that would prick me when i was going to do wrong," said little may, as she put down the story she had been reading.
there was no one else in the room, but she heard a sweet voice sing these words close to her ear:
"now hark, little may,     if you want to do right,   under your pillow     just look every night.
if you have been good     all through the day,   a gift you will find,     useful or gay;   but if you have been     cross, selfish, or wild,   a bad thing will come     for the naughty child.
so try, little dear,     and soon you will see   how easy and sweet     to grow good it will be."
may was very much surprised at this, and looked everywhere to see who spoke, but could find no one.
"i guess i dreamed it; but my eyes are wide open, and i can't make up poetry, asleep or awake."
as she said that, some one laughed; and the same voice sang again,
"ha, ha, you can't see,     although i am here;   but listen to what     i say in your ear.
tell no one of this.
because, if you do,   my fun will be spoilt,     and so will yours too.
but if you are good,     and patient, and gay,   a real fairy will come     to see little may."
"oh, how splendid that will be!
i'll try hard, and be as good as an angel if i can only get one peep at a live fairy.
i always said there were such people, and now i shall know how they look," cried the little girl, so pleased that she danced all about the room, clapping her hands.
something bright darted out of the window from among the flowers that stood there, and no more songs were heard; so may knew that the elf had gone.
"i've got a fine secret all to myself, and i'll keep it carefully.
i wonder what present will come to-night," she said, thinking this a very interesting play.
she was very good all day, and made no fuss about going to bed, though usually she fretted, and wanted to play, and called for water, and plagued poor nursey in many ways.
she got safely into her little nest, and then was in such a hurry to see what was under her pillow that she forgot, and called out crossly,
"do hurry and go away.
don't wait to hang up my clothes, you slow old thing!
go, go!"
that hurt nurse's feelings, and she went away without her good-night kiss.
but may didn't care, and felt under her pillow the minute the door was shut.
a lamp was always left burning; so she could see the little gold box she drew out.
"how pretty!
i hope there is some candy in it," she said, opening it very carefully.
oh, dear!
what do you think happened?
a wasp flew out and stung her lips; then both wasp and box vanished, and may was left to cry alone, with a sharp pain in the lips that said the unkind words.
"what a dreadful present!
i don't like that spiteful fairy who sends such horrid things," she sobbed.
then she lay still and thought about it; for she dared not call any one, because nobody must guess the secret.
she knew in her own little heart that the cross words hurt nursey as the sting did her lips, and she felt sorry.
at once the smart got better, and by the time she had resolved to ask the good old woman to forgive her, it was all gone.
next morning she kissed nursey and begged pardon, and tried hard to be good till tea-time; then she ran to see what nice things they were going to have to eat, though she had often been told not to go into the dining-room.
no one was there; and on the table stood a dish of delicious little cakes, all white like snowballs.
"i must have just a taste, and i'll tell mamma afterward," she said; and before she knew it one little cake was eaten all up.
"nobody will miss it, and i can have another at tea.
now, a lump of sugar and a sip of cream before mamma comes, i so like to pick round."
having done one wrong thing, may felt like going on; so she nibbled and meddled with all sorts of forbidden things till she heard a step, then she ran away; and by and by, when the bell rang, came in with the rest as prim and proper as if she did not know how to play pranks.
no one missed the cake, and her mother gave her another, saying,
"there, dear, is a nice plummy one for my good child."
may turned red, and wanted to tell what she had done, but was ashamed because there was company; and people thought she blushed like a modest little girl at being praised.
but when she went to bed she was almost afraid to look under the pillow, knowing that she had done wrong.
at last she slowly drew out the box, and slowly opened it, expecting something to fly at her.
all she saw was a tiny black bag, that began at once to grow larger, till it was big enough to hold her two hands.
then it tied itself tight round her wrists, as if to keep these meddlesome hands out of mischief.
"well, this is very queer, but not so dreadful as the wasp.
i hope no one will see it when i'm asleep.
i do wish i'd let those cakes and things alone," sighed may, looking at the black bag, and vainly trying to get her hands free.
she cried herself to sleep, and when she woke the bag was gone.
no one had seen it; but she told her mamma about the cake, and promised not to do so any more.
"now this shall be a truly good day, every bit of it," she said, as she skipped away, feeling as light as a feather after she had confessed her little sins.
but, alas!
it is so easy to forget and do wrong, that may spoilt her day before dinner by going to the river and playing with the boats, in spite of many orders not to do it.
she did not tell of it, and went to a party in the afternoon, where she was so merry she never remembered the naughty thing till she was in bed and opened the fairy box.
a little chain appeared, which in a flash grew long and large, and fastened round her ankles as if she were a prisoner.
may liked to tumble about, and was much disgusted to be chained in this way; but there was no help for it, so she lay very still and had plenty of time to be sorry.
"it is a good punishment for me, and i deserve it.
i won't cry, but i will i will remember."
and may said her prayers very soberly, really meaning to keep her word this time.
all the next day she was very careful to keep her lips from cross words, her hands from forbidden things, and her feet from going wrong.
nothing spoilt this day, she watched so well; and when mamma gave the good-night kiss, she said,
"what shall i give my good little daughter, who has been gentle, obedient, and busy all day?"
"i want a white kitty, with blue eyes, and a pink ribbon on its neck,"
answered may.
"i'll try and find one.
now go to bed, deary, and happy dreams!"
said mamma, with many kisses on the rosy cheeks, and the smile that was a reward.
may was so busy thinking about the kitty and the good day that she forgot the box till she heard a little "mew, mew!"
under her pillow.
"mercy me!
what's that?"
and she popped up her head to see.
out came the box; off flew the lid, and there, on a red cushion, lay a white kit about two inches long.
may couldn't believe that it was alive till it jumped out of its nest, stretched itself, and grew all at once just the right size to play with and be pretty.
its eyes were blue, its tail like a white plume, and a sweet pink bow was on its neck.
it danced all over the bed, ran up the curtains, hid under the clothes, nipped may's toes, licked her face, patted her nose with its soft paw, and winked at her in such a funny way that she laughed for joy at having such a dear kitty.
presently, as if it knew that bed was the place to lie quiet in, puss cuddled down in a little bunch and purred may to sleep.
"i suppose that darling kit will be gone like all the other things,"
said may, as she waked up and looked round for her first pretty gift.
no; there was the lovely thing sitting in the sun among the flower-pots, washing her face and getting ready for play.
what a fine frolic they had; and how surprised every one was to see just the pussy may wanted!
they supposed it came as kitties often come; and may never told them it was a fairy present, because she had promised not to.
she was so happy with little puss that she was good all day; and when she went to bed she thought,
"i wish i had a dog to play with darling snowdrop, and run with me when i go to walk."
"bow, wow, wow!"
came from under the pillow; and out of the box trotted a curly black dog, with long ears, a silver collar, and such bright, kind eyes may was not a bit afraid of him, but loved him at once, and named him floss, he was so soft and silky.
pussy liked him too; and when may was sleepy they both snuggled down in the same basket like two good babies, and went to by-low.
"well, i never!
what shall we find next?"
said nurse, when she saw the dog in the morning.
"perhaps it will be an elephant, to fill the whole house, and scare you out of your wits," laughed may, dancing about with snowdrop chasing her bare toes, while floss shook and growled over her shoes as if they were rats.
"if your cousin john wants to give you any more animals, i wish he'd send a pony to take you to school, and save my old legs the pain of trotting after you," said nurse; for may did have a rich cousin who was very fond of her, and often gave her nice things.
"perhaps he will," laughed may, much tickled with the idea that it was a fairy, and not cousin john, who sent the cunning little creatures to her.
but she didn't get the pony that night; for in the afternoon her mother told her not to sit on the lawn, because it was damp, and may did not mind, being busy with a nice story.
so when she took up her box, a loud sneeze seemed to blow the lid off, and all she saw was a bit of red flannel.
"what is this for?"
she asked, much disappointed; and as if to answer, the strip of flannel wrapped itself round her neck.
"there!
my throat is sore, and i am hoarse.
i wonder how that fairy knew i sat on the damp grass.
i'm so sorry; for i did want a pony, and might have had it if i'd only minded," said may, angry with herself for spoiling all her fun.
it was spoilt; for she had such a cold next day she couldn't go out at all, but had to take medicine and keep by the fire, while the other children had a lovely picnic.
"i won't wish for anything to-night; i don't deserve a present, i was so disobedient.
but i have tried to be patient," said may, feeling for the box.
the fairy had not forgotten her, and there was a beautiful picture-book, full of new, nice stories printed in colored ink.
"how splendid to read to-morrow while i'm shut up!"
she said, and went to sleep very happily.
all the next day she enjoyed the pretty pictures and funny tales, and never complained or fretted at all, but was so much better the doctor said she could go out to-morrow, if it was fine.
"now i will wish for the pony," said may, in her bed.
but there was nothing in the box except a little red-silk rope, like a halter.
she did not know what to do with it that night, but she did the next morning; for just as she was dressed her brother called from the garden,
"may, look out and see what we found in the stable.
none of us can catch him, so do come and see if you can; your name is on the card tied to his mane."
may looked, and there was a snow-white pony racing about the yard as if he was having a fine frolic.
then she knew the halter was for him, and ran down to catch him.
the minute she appeared, the pony went to her and put his nose in her hand, neighing, as if he said,
"this is my little mistress; i will mind her and serve her well."
may was delighted, and very proud when the pony let her put on the saddle and bridle that lay in the barn all ready to use.
she jumped up and rode gayly down the road; and will and mamma and all the maids and floss and snowdrop ran to see the pretty sight.
the children at school were much excited when she came trotting up, and all wanted to ride prince.
he was very gentle, and every one had a ride; but may had the best fun, for she could go every day for long trots by the carriage when mamma and will drove out.
a blue habit and a hat with a long feather were bought that afternoon; and may was so happy and contented at night that she said to herself as she lay in bed,
"i'll wish for something for will now, and see if i get it.
i don't want any more presents yet; i've had my share, and i'd love to give away to other people who have no fairy box."
so she wished for a nice boat, and in the box lay a key with the name "water lily" on it.
she guessed what it meant, and in the morning told her brother to come to the river and see what she had for him.
there lay a pretty green and white boat, with cushioned seats, a sail all spread, and at the mast-head a little flag flying in the wind, with the words "water lily" on it in gold letters.
will was so surprised and pleased to find that it was his, he turned heels over head on the grass, kissed may, and skipped into his boat, crying, "all aboard!"
as if eager to try it at once.
may followed, and they sailed away down the lovely river, white with real lilies, while the blackbirds sang in the green meadows on either side, and boys and girls stopped on the bridges to see them pass.
after that may kept on trying to be good, and wishing for things for herself and other people, till she forgot how to be naughty, and was the sweetest little girl in the world.
then there was no need of fairies to help her; and one night the box was not under the pillow.
"well, i've had my share of pretty things, and must learn to do without.
i'm glad i tried; for now it is easy to be good, and i don't need to be rewarded," said may, as she fell asleep, quite happy and contented, though she did wish she could have seen the fairy just once.
next morning the first thing she saw was a beautiful bracelet, shining on the table; and while she stood admiring it, she heard the little voice sing,
"here is the bracelet     for good little may   to wear on her arm     by night and by day.
when it shines like the sun,     all's going well;   but when you are bad,     a sharp prick will tell.
farewell, little girl,     for now we must part.
make a fairy-box, dear,     of your own happy heart;   and take out for all     sweet gifts every day,   till all the year round     is like beautiful may."
as the last words were sung, right before her eyes she saw a tiny creature swinging on the rose that stood there in a vase, a lovely elf, with wings like a butterfly, a gauzy dress, and a star on her forehead.
she smiled, and waved her hand as she slowly rose and fluttered away into the sunshine, till she vanished from sight, leaving may with the magic bracelet on her arm, and the happy thought that at last she had really seen a fairy.
ix.
a hole in the wall.
part i.
if any one had asked johnny morris who were his best friends, he would have answered,
"the sun and the wind, next to mother."
johnny lived in a little court that led off from one of the busiest streets in the city, a noisy street, where horse-car bells tinkled and omnibuses rumbled all day long, going and coming from several great depots near by.
the court was a dull place, with only two or three shabby houses in it, and a high blank wall at the end.
the people who hurried by were too busy to do more than to glance at the lame boy who sat in the sunshine against the wall, or to guess that there was a picture-gallery and a circulating-library in the court.
but johnny had both, and took such comfort in them that he never could be grateful enough to the wind that brought him his books and pictures, nor to the sun that made it possible for him to enjoy them in the open air, far more than richer folk enjoy their fine galleries and libraries.
a bad fall, some months before the time this story begins, did something to johnny's back which made his poor legs nearly useless, and changed the lively, rosy boy into a pale cripple.
his mother took in fine washing, and worked hard to pay doctors' bills and feed and clothe her boy, who could no longer run errands, help with the heavy tubs, or go to school.
he could only pick out laces for her to iron, lie on his bed in pain for hours, and, each fair day, hobble out to sit in a little old chair between the water-butt and the leaky tin boiler in which he kept his library.
but he was a happy boy, in spite of poverty and pain; and the day a great gust came blowing fragments of a gay placard and a dusty newspaper down the court to his feet, was the beginning of good fortune for patient johnny.
there was a theatre in the street beyond, and other pictured bits found their way to him; for the frolicsome wind liked to whisk the papers around the corner, and chase them here and there till they settled under the chair or flew wildly over the wall.
faces, animals, people, and big letters, all came to cheer the boy, who was never tired of collecting these waifs and strays; cutting out the big pictures to paste on the wall with the leavings of mother's starch, and the smaller in the scrap-book he made out of stout brown wrappers or newspapers, when he had read the latter carefully.
soon it was a very gay wall; for mother helped, standing on a chair, to put the large pictures up, when johnny had covered all the space he could reach.
the books were laid carefully away in the boiler, after being smoothly ironed out and named to suit johnny's fancy by pasting letters on the back.
this was the circulating library; for not only did the papers whisk about the court to begin with, but the books they afterward made went the rounds among the neighbors till they were worn out.
the old cobbler next door enjoyed reading the anecdotes on sunday when he could not work; the pale seamstress upstairs liked to look over advertisements of the fine things which she longed for; and patsey flynn, the newsboy, who went by each day to sell his papers at the station, often paused to look at the play-bills, for he adored the theatre, and entertained johnny with descriptions of the splendors there to be beheld, till he felt as if he had really been, and had known all the famous actors, from humpty dumpty to the great salvini.
now and then a flock of dirty children would stray into the court and ask to see the "pretty picters."
then johnny was a proud and happy boy; for, armed with a clothes-pole, he pointed out and explained the beauties of his gallery, feeling that he was a public benefactor when the poor babies thanked him warmly, and promised to come again and bring all the nice papers they could pick up.
these were johnny's pleasures: but he had two sorrows, one, a very real one, his aching back; and the other, a boyish longing to climb the wall and see what was on the other side, for it seemed a most wonderful and delightful place to the poor child, shut up in that dismal court, with no playmates and few comforts.
he amused himself with imagining how it looked over there, and nearly every night added some new charm to this unseen country, when his mother told him fairy tales to get him to sleep.
he peopled it with the dear old characters all children know and love.
the white cat that sat on the wall was puss in boots to him, or whittington's good friend.
blue-beard's wives were hidden in the house of whose upper windows the boy could just catch glimpses.
red riding-hood met the wolf in the grove of chestnuts that rustled over there; and jack's beanstalk grew up just such a wall as that, he was sure.
but the story he liked best was the "sleeping beauty in the wood;" for he was sure some lovely creature lived in that garden, and he longed to get in to find and play with her.
he actually planted a bean in a bit of damp earth behind the water-barrel, and watched it grow, hoping for as strong a ladder as jack's.
but the vine grew very slowly, and johnny was so impatient that he promised patsey his best book "for his ownty-donty," if he would climb up and report what was to be seen in that enchanted garden.
"faix, and i will, thin."
and up went good-natured pat, after laying an old board over the hogshead to stand on; for there were spikes all along the top of the wall, and only cats and sparrows could walk there.
alas for johnny's eager hopes, and alas for pat's sunday best!
the board broke, and splash went the climber, with a wild irish howl that startled johnny half out of his wits and brought both mrs. morris and the cobbler to the rescue.
after this sad event pat kept away for a time in high dudgeon, and johnny was more lonely than ever.
but he was a cheery little soul, so he was grateful for what joys he had, and worked away at his wall, for the march winds had brought him many treasures, and after april rains were over, may sunshine made the court warm enough for him to be out nearly all day.
"i'm so sorry pat is mad, 'cause he saw this piece and told me about it, and he'd like to help me put up these pictures," said johnny to himself, one breezy morning, as he sat examining a big poster which the wind had sent flying into his lap a few minutes before.
the play was "monte cristo," and the pictures represented the hero getting out of prison by making holes in the wall, among other remarkable performances.
"this is a jolly red one!
now, where will i put it to show best and not spoil the other beauties?"
as he spoke, johnny turned his chair around and surveyed his gallery with as much pride and satisfaction as if it held all the wonders of art.
it really was quite splendid; for every sort of picture shone in the sun, simpering ladies, tragic scenes, circus parades, labels from tin cans, rosy tomatoes, yellow peaches, and purple plums, funny advertisements, and gay bills of all kinds.
none were perfect, but they were arranged with care; and the effect was very fine, johnny thought.
presently his eyes wandered from these treasures to the budding bushes that nodded so tantalizingly over the wall.
a grape-vine ran along the top, trying to hide the sharp spikes; lilacs tossed their purple plumes above it, and several tall chestnuts rose over all, making green tents with their broad leaves, where spires of blossom began to show like candles on a mammoth christmas tree.
sparrows were chirping gayly everywhere; the white cat, with a fresh blue bow, basked on the coping of the wall, and from the depths of the enchanted garden came a sweet voice singing,
"and she bids you to come in,     with a dimple in your chin,      billy boy, billy boy."
johnny smiled as he listened, and put his finger to the little dent in his own chin, wishing the singer would finish this pleasing song.
but she never did, though he often heard that, as well as other childish ditties, sung in the same gay voice, with bursts of laughter and the sound of lively feet tripping up and down the boarded walks.
johnny longed intensely to know who the singer was; for her music cheered his solitude, and the mysterious sounds he heard in the garden increased his wonder and his longing day by day.
sometimes a man's voice called, "fay, where are you?"
and johnny was sure "fay" was short for fairy.
another voice was often heard talking in a strange, soft language, full of exclamations and pretty sounds.
a little dog barked, and answered to the name pippo.
canaries carolled, and some elfish bird scolded, screamed, and laughed so like a human being, that johnny felt sure that magic of some sort was at work next door.
a delicious fragrance was now wafted over the wall as of flowers, and the poor boy imagined untold loveliness behind that cruel wall, as he tended the dandelions his mother brought him from the common, when she had time to stop and gather them; for he loved flowers dearly, and tried to make them out of colored paper, since he could have no sweeter sort.
now and then a soft, rushing sound excited his curiosity to such a pitch that once he hobbled painfully up the court till he could see into the trees; and once his eager eyes caught glimpses of a little creature, all blue and white and gold, who peeped out from the green fans, and nodded, and tried to toss him a cluster of the chestnut flowers.
he stretched his hands to her with speechless delight, forgetting his crutches, and would have fallen if he had not caught by the shutter of a window so quickly that he gave the poor back a sad wrench; and when he could look up again, the fairy had vanished, and nothing was to be seen but the leaves dancing in the wind.
johnny dared not try this again for fear of a fall, and every step cost him a pang; but he never forgot it, and was thinking of it as he sat staring at the wall on that memorable may day.
"how i should like to peek in and see just how it all really looks!
it sounds and smells so summery and nice in there.
i know it must be splendid.
i say, pussy, can't you tell a feller what you see?"
johnny laughed as he spoke, and the white cat purred politely; for she liked the boy who never threw stones at her, nor disturbed her naps.
but puss could not describe the beauties of the happy hunting-ground below; and, to console himself for the disappointment, johnny went back to his new picture.
"now, if this man in the play dug his way out through a wall ten feet thick with a rusty nail and a broken knife, i don't see why i couldn't pick away one brick and get a peek.
it's all quiet in there now; here's a good place, and nobody will know, if i stick a picture over the hole.
and i'll try it, i declare i will!"
fired with the idea of acting monte cristo on a small scale, johnny caught up the old scissors in his lap, and began to dig out the mortar around a brick already loose, and crumbling at the corners.
his mother smiled at his energy, then sighed and said, as she clapped her laces with a heavy heart,
"ah, poor dear, if he only had his health he'd make his way in the world.
but now he's like to find a blank wall before him while he lives, and none to help him over."
puss, in her white boots, sat aloft and looked on, wise as the cat in the story, but offered no advice.
the toad who lived behind the water-barrel hopped under the few leaves of the struggling bean, like jack waiting to climb; and just then the noon bells began to ring as if they sang clear and loud,
"turn again, whittington, lord mayor of london."
so, cheered by his friends, johnny scraped and dug vigorously till the old brick fell out, showing another behind it.
only pausing to take breath, he caught up his crutch and gave two or three hearty pokes, which soon cleared the way and let the sunshine stream through, while the wind tossed the lilacs like triumphal banners, and the jolly sparrows chirped,
"hail, the conquering hero comes!"
rather scared by his unexpected success, the boy sat silent for a moment to see what would happen.
but all was still; and presently, with a beating heart, johnny leaned forward to enjoy the long-desired "peek."
he could not see much; but that little increased his curiosity and delight, for it seemed like looking into fairy-land, after the dust and noise and dingy houses of the court.
a bed of splendid tulips tossed their gay garments in the middle of a grass-plot; a strange and brilliant bird sat dressing its feathers on a golden cage; a little white dog dozed in the sun; and on a red carpet under the trees lay the princess, fast asleep.
"it's all right," said johnny, with a long sigh of pleasure; "that's the sleeping beauty, sure enough.
there's the blue gown, the white fur-cloak sweeping round, the pretty hair, and yes there's the old nurse, spinning and nodding, just as she did in the picture-book mother got me when i cried because i couldn't go to see the play."
this last discovery really did bewilder johnny, and make him believe that fairy tales might be true, after all, for how could he know that the strange woman was an italian servant, in her native dress, with a distaff in her hand?
after pausing a moment, to rub his eyes, he took another look, and made fresh discoveries by twisting his head about.
a basket of oranges stood near the princess, a striped curtain hung from a limb of the tree to keep the wind off, and several books fluttered their pictured leaves temptingly before johnny's longing eyes.
"oh, if i could only go in and eat 'em and read 'em and speak to 'em and see all the splendid things!"
thought the poor boy, as he looked from one delight to another, and felt shut out from all.
"i can't go and wake her like the prince did, but i do wish she'd get up and do something, now i can see.
i daren't throw a stone, it might hit some one, or holler, it might scare her.
pussy won't help, and the sparrows are too busy scolding one another.
i know!
i'll fly a kite over, and that will please her any way.
don't believe she has kites; girls never do."
eager to carry out his plan, johnny tied a long string to his gayest poster, and then fastening it to the pole with which he sometimes fished in the water-cask, held it up to catch the fresh breezes blowing down the court.
his good friend, the wind, soon caught the idea, and with a strong breath sent the red paper whisking over the wall, to hang a moment on the trees and then drop among the tulips, where its frantic struggles to escape waked the dog, and set him to racing and barking, as johnny hurriedly let the string go, and put his eye to his peep-hole.
the eyes of the princess were wide open now, and she clapped her hands when pippo brought the gay picture for her to see; while the old woman, with a long yawn, went away, carrying her distaff, like a gun, over her shoulder.
"she likes it!
i'm so glad.
wish i had some more to send over.
this will come off, i'll poke it through, and maybe she will see it."
very much excited, johnny recklessly tore from the wall his most cherished picture, a gay flower-piece, just put up; and folding it, he thrust it through the hole and waited to see what followed.
nothing but a rustle, a bark, and a queer croak from the splendid bird, which set the canaries to trilling sweetly.
"she don't see, maybe she will hear," said johnny.
and he began to whistle like a mocking-bird; for this was his one accomplishment, and he was proud of it.
presently he heard a funny burst of laughter from the parrot, and then the voice said,
"no, polly, you can't sing like that bird.
i wonder where he is?
among the bushes over there, i think.
come, pippo, let us go and find him."
"now she's coming!"
and johnny grew red in the face trying to give his best trills and chirrups.
nearer and nearer came the steps, the lilacs rustled as if shaken, and presently the roll of paper vanished.
a pause, and then the little voice exclaimed, in a tone of great surprise,
"why, there's a hole!
i never saw it before.
oh!
i can see the street.
how nice!
how nice!"
"she likes the hole!
i wonder if she will like me?"
and, emboldened by these various successes, johnny took another peep.
this was the most delicious one of all; for he looked right into a great blue eye, with glimpses of golden hair above, a little round nose in the middle, and red lips below.
it was like a flash of sunshine, and johnny winked, as if dazzled; for the eye sparkled, the nose sniffed daintily, and the pretty mouth broke into a laugh as the voice cried out delightedly,
"i see some one!
who are you?
come and tell me!"
"i'm johnny morris," answered the boy, quite trembling with pleasure.
"did you make this nice hole?"
"i just poked a brick, and it fell out."
"papa won't mind.
is that your bird?"
"no; it's me.
i whistled."
"it's very pretty.
do it again," commanded the voice, as if used to give orders.
johnny obeyed; and when he paused, out of breath, a small hand came through the hole, grasping as many lilies of the valley as it could hold, and the princess graciously expressed her pleasure by saying,
"i like it; you shall do it again, by and by.
here are some flowers for you.
now we will talk.
are you a nice boy?"
this was a poser; and johnny answered meekly, with his nose luxuriously buried in the lovely flowers,
"not very, i'm lame; i can't play like other fellers."
"porverino!"
sighed the little voice, full of pity; and, in a moment, three red-and-yellow tulips fell at johnny's feet, making him feel as if he really had slipped into fairy-land through that delightful hole.
"oh, thank you!
aren't they just elegant?
i never see such beauties,"
stammered the poor boy, grasping his treasures as if he feared they might vanish away.
"you shall have as many as you like.
nanna will scold, but papa won't mind.
tell me more.
what do you do over there?"
asked the child, eagerly.
"nothing but paste pictures and make books, when i don't ache too bad.
i used to help mother; but i got hurt, and i can't do much now," answered the boy, ashamed to mention how many laces he patiently picked or clapped, since it was all he could do to help.
"if you like pictures, you shall come and see mine some day.
i do a great many.
papa shows me how.
his are splendid.
do you draw or paint yours?"
"i only cut 'em out of papers, and stick 'em on this wall or put 'em in scrap-books.
i can't draw, and i haven't got no paints," answered johnny.
"you should say 'haven't any paints.'
i will come and see you some day; and if i like you, i will let you have my old paint-box.
do you want it?"
"guess i do!"
"i think i shall like you; so i'll bring it when i come.
do you ache much?"
"awfully, sometimes.
have to lay down all day, and can't do a thing."
"do you cry?"
"no!
i'm too big for that.
i whistle."
"i know i shall like you, because you are brave!"
cried the impetuous voice, with its pretty accent; and then an orange came tumbling through the hole, as if the new acquaintance longed to do something to help the "ache."
"isn't that a rouser!
i do love 'em, but mother can't afford 'em often."
and johnny took one delicious taste on the spot.
"then i shall give you many.
we have loads at home, much finer than these.
ah, you should see our garden there!"
"where do you live?"
johnny ventured to ask; for there was a homesick sound to the voice as it said those last words.
"in rome.
here we only stay a year, while papa arranges his affairs; then we go back, and i am happy."
"i should think you'd be happy in there.
it looks real splendid to me, and i've been longing to see it ever since i could come out."
"it's a dull place to me.
i like better to be where it's always warm, and people are more beautiful than here.
are you beautiful?"
"what queer questions she does ask!"
and poor johnny was so perplexed he could only stammer, with a laugh,
"i guess not.
boys don't care for looks."
"peep, and let me see.
i like pretty persons," commanded the voice.
"don't she order round?"
thought johnny, as he obeyed.
but he liked it, and showed such a smiling face at the peep-hole, that princess fay was pleased to say, after a long look at him,
"no, you are not beautiful; but your eyes are bright, and you look pleasant, so i don't mind the freckles on your nose and the whiteness of your face.
i think you are good.
i am sorry for you, and i shall lend you a book to read when the pain comes."
"i couldn't wait for that if i had a book.
i do love so to read!"
and johnny laughed out from sheer delight at the thought of a new book; for he seldom got one, being too poor to buy them, and too helpless to enjoy the free libraries of the city.
"then you shall have it now."
and there was another quick rush in the garden, followed by the appearance of a fat little book, slowly pushed through the hole in the wall.
"this is the only one that will pass.
you will like hans andersen's fairy tales, i know.
keep it as long as you please.
i have many more."
"you're so good!
i wish i had something for you," said the boy, quite overcome by this sweet friendliness.
"let me see one of your books.
they will be new to me.
i'm tired of all mine."
quick as a flash, off went the cover of the old boiler, and out came half-a-dozen of johnny's best works, to be crammed through the wall, with the earnest request,
"keep 'em all; they're not good for much, but they're the best i've got.
i'll do some prettier ones as soon as i can find more nice pictures and pieces."
"they look very interesting.
i thank you.
i shall go and read them now, and then come and talk again.
addio, giovanni."
"good-by, miss."
thus ended the first interview of little pyramus and thisbe through the hole in the wall, while puss sat up above and played moonshine with her yellow eyes.
part ii.
after that day a new life began for johnny, and he flourished like a poor little plant that has struggled out of some dark corner into the sunshine.
all sorts of delightful things happened, and good times really seemed to have come.
the mysterious papa made no objection to the liberties taken with his wall, being busy with his own affairs, and glad to have his little girl happy.
old nanna, being more careful, came to see the new neighbors, and was disarmed at once by the affliction of the boy and the gentle manners of the mother.
she brought all the curtains of the house for mrs. morris to do up, and in her pretty broken english praised johnny's gallery and library, promising to bring fay to see him some day.
meantime the little people prattled daily together, and all manner of things came and went between them.
flowers, fruit, books, and bonbons kept johnny in a state of bliss, and inspired him with such brilliant inventions that the princess never knew what agreeable surprise would come next.
astonishing kites flew over the wall, and tissue balloons exploded in the flower-beds.
all the birds of the air seemed to live in that court; for the boy whistled and piped till he was hoarse, because she liked it.
the last of the long-hoarded cents came out of his tin bank to buy paper and pictures for the gay little books he made for her.
his side of the wall was ravaged that hers might be adorned; and, as the last offering his grateful heart could give, he poked the toad through the hole, to live among the lilies and eat the flies that began to buzz about her highness when she came to give her orders to her devoted subjects.
she always called the lad giovanni, because she thought it a prettier name than john; and she was never tired of telling stories, asking questions, and making plans.
the favorite one was what they would do when johnny came to see her, as she had been promised he should when papa was not too busy to let them enjoy the charms of the studio; for fay was a true artist's child, and thought nothing so lovely as pictures.
johnny thought so, too, and dreamed of the happy day when he should go and see the wonders his little friend described so well.
"i think it will be to-morrow; for papa has a lazy fit coming on, and then he always plays with me and lets me rummage where i like, while he goes out or smokes in the garden.
so be ready; and if he says you can come, i will have the flag up early and you can hurry."
these agreeable remarks were breathed into johnny's willing ear about a fortnight after the acquaintance began; and he hastened to promise, adding soberly, a minute after,
"mother says she's afraid it will be too much for me to go around and up steps, and see new things; for i get tired so easy, and then the pain comes on.
but i don't care how i ache if i can only see the pictures and you."
"won't you ever be any better?
nanna thinks you might."
"so does mother, if we had money to go away in the country, and eat nice things; and have doctors.
but we can't; so it's no use worrying."
and johnny gave a great sigh.
"i wish papa was rich, then he would give you money.
he works hard to make enough to go back to italy, so i cannot ask him; but perhaps i can sell my pictures also, and get a little.
papa's friends often offer me sweets for kisses; i will have money instead, and that will help.
yes, i shall do it."
and fay clapped her hands decidedly.
"don't you mind about it.
i'm going to learn to mend shoes.
mr. pegget says he'll teach me.
that doesn't need legs, and he gets enough to live on very well."
"it isn't pretty work.
nanna can teach you to braid straw as she did at home; that is easy and nice, and the baskets sell very well, she says.
i shall speak to her about it, and you can try to-morrow when you come."
"i will.
do you really think i can come, then?"
and johnny stood up to try his legs; for he dreaded the long walk, as it seemed to him.
"i will go at once and ask papa."
away flew fay, and soon came back with a glad "yes!"
that sent johnny hobbling in to tell his mother, and beg her to mend the elbows of his only jacket; for, suddenly, his old clothes looked so shabby he feared to show himself to the neighbors he so longed to see.
"hurrah!
i'm really going to-morrow.
and you, too, mammy dear," cried the boy, waving his crutch so vigorously that he slipped and fell.
"never mind; i'm used to it.
pull me up, and i'll rest while we talk about it," he said cheerily, as his mother helped him to the bed, where he forgot his pain in thinking of the delights in store for him.
next day, the flag was flying from the wall, and fay early at the hole, but no johnny came; and when nanna went to see what kept him, she returned with the sad news that the poor boy was suffering much, and would not be able to stir for some days.
"let me go and see him," begged fay, imploringly.
"cara mia, it is no place for you.
so dark, so damp, so poor, it is enough to break the heart," said nanna, decidedly.
"if papa was here, he would let me go.
i shall not play; i shall sit here and make some plans for my poor boy."
nanna left her indignant little mistress, and went to cook a nice bowl of soup for johnny; while fay concocted a fine plan, and, what was more remarkable, carried it out.
for a week it rained, for a week johnny lay in pain, and for a week fay worked quietly at her little easel in the corner of the studio, while her father put the last touches to his fine picture, too busy to take much notice of the child.
on saturday the sun shone, johnny was better, and the great picture was done.
so were the small ones; for as her father sat resting after his work, fay went to him, with a tired but happy face, and, putting several drawings into his hand, told her cherished plan.
"papa, you said you would pay me a dollar for every good copy i made of the cast you gave me.
i tried very hard, and here are three.
i want some money very, very much.
could you pay for these?"
"they are excellent," said the artist, after carefully looking at them.
"you have tried, my good child, and here are your well-earned dollars.
what do you want them for?"
"to help my boy.
i want him to come in here and see the pictures, and let nanna teach him to plait baskets; and he can rest, and you will like him, and he might get well if he had some money, and i have three quarters the friends gave me instead of bonbons.
would that be enough to send poor giovanni into the country and have doctors?"
no wonder fay's papa was bewildered by this queer jumble, because, being absorbed in his work, he had never heard half the child had told him, and had forgotten all about johnny.
now he listened with half an ear, studying the effect of sunshine upon his picture meantime, while fay told him the little story, and begged to know how much money it would take to make johnny's back well.
"bless your sweet soul, my darling, it would need more than i can spare or you earn in a year.
by and by, when i am at leisure, we will see what can be done," answered papa, smoking comfortably, as he lay on the sofa in the large studio at the top of the house.
"you say that about a great many things, papa.
'by and by' won't be long enough to do all you promise then.
i like now much better, and poor giovanni needs the country more than you need cigars or i new frocks,"
said fay, stroking her father's tired forehead and looking at him with an imploring face.
"my dear, i cannot give up my cigar, for in this soothing smoke i find inspiration, and though you are a little angel, you must be clothed; so wait a bit, and we will attend to the boy later."
he was going to say "by and by" again, but paused just in time, with a laugh.
"then i shall take him to the country all myself.
i cannot wait for this hateful 'by and by.'
i know how i shall do it, and at once.
now, now!"
cried fay, losing patience; and with an indignant glance at the lazy papa, who seemed going to sleep, she dashed out of the room, down many stairs, through the kitchen, startling nanna and scattering the salad as if a whirlwind had gone by, and never paused for breath till she stood before the garden wall with a little hatchet in her hand.
"this shall be the country for him till i get enough money to send him away.
i will show what i can do.
he pulled out two bricks.
i will beat down the wall, and he shall come in at once," panted fay; and she gave a great blow at the bricks, bent on having her will without delay, for she was an impetuous little creature, full of love and pity for the poor boy pining for the fresh air and sunshine, of which she had so much.
bang, bang, went the little hatchet, and down came one brick after another, till the hole was large enough for fay to thrust her head through; and being breathless by that time, she paused to rest and take a look at johnny's court.
meanwhile nanna, having collected her lettuce leaves and her wits, went to see what the child was about; and finding her at work like a little fury, the old woman hurried up to tell "the signor," fay's papa, that his little daughter was about to destroy the garden and bury herself under the ruins of the wall.
this report, delivered with groans and wringing of the hands, roused the artist and sent him to the rescue, as he well knew that his angel was a very energetic one, and capable of great destruction.
when he arrived, he beheld a cloud of dust, a pile of bricks among the lilies, and the feet of his child sticking out of a large hole in the wall, while her head and shoulders were on the other side.
much amused, yet fearful that the stone coping might come down on her, he pulled her back with the assurance that he would listen and help her now immediately, if there was such need of haste.
but he grew sober when he saw fay's face; for it was bathed in tears, her hands were bleeding, and dust covered her from head to foot.
"my darling, what afflicts you?
tell papa, and he will do anything you wish."
"no, you will forget, you will say 'wait;' and now that i have seen it all, i cannot stop till i get him out of that dreadful place.
look, look, and see if it is not sad to live there all in pain and darkness, and so poor."
as she spoke, fay urged her father toward the hole; and to please her he looked, seeing the dull court, the noisy street beyond, and close by the low room, where johnny's mother worked all day, while the poor boy's pale face was dimly seen as he lay on his bed waiting for deliverance.
"well, well, it is a pitiful case; and easily mended, since fay is so eager about it.
hope the lad is all she says, and nothing catching about his illness.
nanna can tell me."
then he drew back his head, and leading fay to the seat, took her on his knee, all flushed, dirty, and tearful as she was, soothing her by saying tenderly,
"now let me hear all about it, and be sure i'll not forget.
what shall i do to please you, dear, before you pull down the house about my ears?"
then fay told her tale all over again; and being no longer busy, her father found it very touching, with the dear, grimy little face looking into his, and the wounded hands clasped beseechingly as she pleaded for poor johnny.
"god bless your tender heart, child; you shall have him in here to-morrow, and we will see what can be done for those pathetic legs of his.
but listen, fay, i have an easier way to do it than yours, and a grand surprise for the boy.
time is short, but it can be done; and to show you that i am in earnest, i will go this instant and begin the work.
come and wash your face while i get on my boots, and then we will go together."
at these words fay threw her arms about papa's neck and gave him many grateful kisses, stopping in the midst to ask,
"truly, now?"
"see if it is not so."
and putting her down, papa went off with great strides, while she ran laughing after him, all her doubts set at rest by this agreeable energy on his part.
if johnny had not been asleep in the back room, he would have seen strange and pleasant sights that afternoon and evening; for something went on in the court that delighted his mother, amused the artist, and made fay the happiest child in boston.
no one was to tell till the next day, that johnny's surprise might be quite perfect, and mrs. morris sat up till eleven to get his old clothes in order; for fay's papa had been to see her, and became interested in the boy, as no one could help being when they saw his patient little face.
so hammers rang, trowels scraped, shovels dug, and wonderful changes were made, while fay danced about in the moonlight, like puck intent upon some pretty prank, and papa quoted snout, the tinker's parting words, as appropriate to the hour,
"thus have i, wall, my part dischargèd so;   and, being done, thus wall away doth go."
part iii.
a lovely sunday morning dawned without a cloud; and even in the dingy court the may sunshine shone warmly, and the spring breezes blew freshly from green fields far away.
johnny begged to go out; and being much better, his mother consented, helping him to dress with such a bright face and eager hands that the boy said innocently,
"how glad you are when i get over a bad turn!
i don't know what you'd do if i ever got well."
"my poor dear, i begin to think you will pick up, now the good weather has come and you have got a little friend to play with.
god bless her!"
why his mother should suddenly hug him tight, and then brush his hair so carefully, with tears in her eyes, he did not understand; but was in such a hurry to get out, he could only give her a good kiss, and hobble away to see how his gallery fared after the rain, and to take a joyful "peek" at the enchanted garden.
mrs. morris kept close behind him, and it was well she did; for he nearly tumbled down, so great was his surprise when he beheld the old familiar wall after the good fairies love and pity had worked their pretty miracle in the moonlight.
the ragged hole had changed to a little arched door, painted red.
on either side stood a green tub, with a tall oleander in full bloom; from the arch above hung a great bunch of gay flowers; and before the threshold lay a letter directed to "signor giovanni morris," in a childish hand.
as soon as he recovered from the agreeable shock of this splendid transformation scene, johnny sank into his chair, where a soft cushion had been placed, and read his note, with little sighs of rapture at the charming prospect opening before him.
dear giovanni, papa has made this nice gate, so you can come     in when you like and not be tired.
we are to have two keys, and no one     else can open it.
a little bell is to ring when we pull the cord, and     we can run and see what we want.
the paint is wet.
papa did it,     and the men put up the door last night.
i helped them, and did not go     in my bed till ten.
it was very nice to do it so.
i hope you will like     it.
come in as soon as you can; i am all ready.
your friend,
fay.
"mother, she must be a real fairy to do all that, mustn't she?"
said johnny, leaning back to look at the dear door behind which lay such happiness for him.
"yes, my sonny, she is the right sort of good fairy, and i just wish i could do her washing for love the rest of her blessed little life,"
answered mrs. morris, in a burst of grateful ardor.
"you shall!
you shall!
do come in!
i cannot wait another minute!"
cried an eager little voice as the red door flew open; and there stood fay, looking very like a happy elf in her fresh white frock, a wreath of spring flowers on her pretty hair, and a tall green wand in her hand, while the brilliant bird sat on her shoulder, and the little white dog danced about her feet.
"so she bids you to come in,    with a dimple in your chin,      billy boy, billy boy,"
sung the child, remembering how johnny liked that song; and waving her wand, she went slowly backward as the boy, with a shining face, passed under the blooming arch into a new world, full of sunshine, liberty, and sweet companionship.
neither johnny nor his mother ever forgot that happy day, for it was the beginning of help and hope to both just when life seemed hardest and the future looked darkest.
papa kept out of sight, but enjoyed peeps at the little party as they sat under the chestnuts, nanna and fay doing the honors of the garden to their guests with italian grace and skill, while the poor mother folded her tired hands with unutterable content, and the boy looked like a happy soul in heaven.
sabbath silence, broken only by the chime of bells and the feet of church-goers, brooded over the city; sunshine made golden shadows on the grass; the sweet wind brought spring odors from the woods; and every flower seemed to nod and beckon, as if welcoming the new playmate to their lovely home.
while the women talked together, fay led johnny up and down her little world, showing all her favorite nooks, making him rest often on the seats that stood all about, and amusing him immensely by relating the various fanciful plays with which she beguiled her loneliness.
"now we can have much nicer ones; for you will tell me yours, and we can do great things," she said, when she had displayed her big rocking-horse, her grotto full of ferns, her mimic sea, where a fleet of toy boats lay at anchor in the basin of an old fountain, her fairy-land under the lilacs, with paper elves sitting among the leaves, her swing, that tossed one high up among the green boughs, and the basket of white kittens, where topaz, the yellow-eyed cat, now purred with maternal pride.
books were piled on the rustic table, and all the pictures fay thought worthy to be seen.
here also appeared a nice lunch, before the visitors could remember it was noon and tear themselves away.
such enchanted grapes and oranges johnny never ate before; such delightful little tarts and italian messes of various sorts; even the bread and butter seemed glorified because served in a plate trimmed with leaves and cut in dainty bits.
coffee that perfumed the air put heart into poor mrs. morris, who half starved herself that the boy might be fed; and he drank milk till nanna said, laughing, as she refilled the pitcher,
"he takes more than both the blessed lambs we used to feed for saint agnes in the convent at home.
and he is truly welcome, the dear child, to the best we have; for he is as innocent and helpless as they."
"what does she mean?"
whispered johnny to fay, rather abashed at having forgotten his manners in the satisfaction which three mugfuls of good milk had given him.
so, sitting in the big rustic chair beside him, fay told the pretty story of the lambs who are dedicated to saint agnes, with ribbons tied to their snowy wool, and then raised with care till their fleeces are shorn to make garments for the pope.
a fit tale for the day, the child thought, and went on to tell about the wonders of rome till johnny's head was filled with a splendid confusion of new ideas, in which saint peter's and apple-tarts, holy lambs and red doors, ancient images and dear little girls, were delightfully mixed.
it all seemed like a fairy tale, and nothing was too wonderful or lovely to happen on that memorable day.
so when fay's papa at last appeared, finding it impossible to keep away from the happy little party any longer, johnny decided at once that the handsome man in the velvet coat was the king of the enchanted land, and gazed at him with reverence and awe.
a most gracious king he proved to be; for after talking pleasantly to mrs. morris, and joking fay on storming the walls, he proposed to carry johnny off, and catching him up, strode away with the astonished boy on his shoulder, while the little girl danced before to open doors and clear the way.
johnny thought he couldn't be surprised any more; but when he had mounted many stairs and found himself in a great room with a glass roof, full of rich curtains, strange armor, pretty things, and pictures everywhere, he just sat in the big chair where he was placed, and stared in silent delight.
"this is papa's studio, and that the famous picture, and here is where i work; and isn't it pleasant?
and aren't you glad to see it?"
said fay, skipping about to do the honors of the place.
"i don't believe heaven is beautifuller," answered johnny, in a low tone, as his eyes went from the green tree-tops peeping in at the windows to the great sunny picture of a roman garden, with pretty children at play among the crumbling statues and fountains.
"i'm glad you like it, for we mean to have you come here a great deal.
i sit to papa very often, and get so tired; and you can talk to me, and then you can see me draw and model in clay, and then we'll go in the garden, and nanna will show you how to make baskets, and then we'll play."
johnny nodded and beamed at this charming prospect, and for an hour explored the mysteries of the studio, with fay for a guide and papa for an amused spectator.
he liked the boy more and more, and was glad fay had so harmless a playmate to expend her energies and compassion upon.
he assented to every plan proposed, and really hoped to be able to help these poor neighbors; for he had a kind heart, and loved his little daughter even more than his art.
when at last mrs. morris found courage to call johnny away, he went without a word, and lay down in the dingy room, his face still shining with the happy thoughts that filled his mind, hungry for just such pleasures, and never fed before.
after that day everything went smoothly, and both children blossomed like the flowers in that pleasant garden, where the magic of love and pity, fresh air and sunshine, soon worked miracles.
fay learned patience and gentleness from johnny; he grew daily stronger on the better food nanna gave him, and the exercise he was tempted to take; and both spent very happy days working and playing, sometimes under the trees, where the pretty baskets were made, or in the studio, where both pairs of small hands modelled graceful things in clay, or daubed amazing pictures with the artist's old brushes and discarded canvases.
mrs. morris washed everything washable in the house, and did up fay's frocks so daintily that she looked more like an elf than ever when her head shone out from the fluted frills, like the yellow middle of a daisy with its white petals all spread.
as he watched the children playing together, the artist, having no great work in hand, made several pretty sketches of them, and then had a fine idea of painting the garden scene where fay first talked to johnny.
it pleased his fancy, and the little people sat for him nicely; so he made a charming thing of it, putting in the cat, dog, bird, and toad as the various characters in shakspeare's lovely play, while the flowers were the elves, peeping and listening in all manner of merry, pretty ways.
he called it "little pyramus and thisbe," and it so pleased a certain rich lady that she paid a large price for it; and then, discovering that it told a true story, she generously added enough to send johnny and his mother to the country, when fay and her father were ready to go.
but it was to a lovelier land than the boy had ever read of in his fairy books, and to a happier life than mending shoes in the dingy court.
in the autumn they all sailed gayly away together, to live for years in sunny italy, where johnny grew tall and strong, and learned to paint with a kind master and a faithful young friend, who always rejoiced that she found and delivered him, thanks to the wonderful hole in the wall.
x.
the piggy girl.
"i won't be washed!
i won't be washed!"
screamed little betty, kicking and slapping the maid who undressed her one night.
"you'd better go and live with the pigs, dirty child," said maria, scrubbing away at two very grubby hands.
"i wish i could!
i love to be dirty, i will be dirty!"
roared betty, throwing the sponge out of the window and the soap under the table.
maria could do nothing with her; so she bundled her into bed half wiped, telling her to go to sleep right away.
"i won't!
i'll go and live with mrs. gleason's pigs, and have nothing to do but eat and sleep, and roll in the dirt, and never, never be washed any more," said betty to herself.
she lay thinking about it and blinking at the moon for a while; then she got up very softly, and crept down the back stairs, through the garden, to the sty where two nice little pigs were fast asleep among the straw in their small house.
they only grunted when betty crept into a corner, laughing at the fun it would be to play piggy and live here with no maria to wash her and no careful mamma to keep saying,
"put on a clean apron, dear!"
next morning she was waked up by hearing mrs. gleason pour milk into the trough.
she lay very still till the woman was gone; then she crept out and drank all she wanted, and took the best bits of cold potato and bread for her breakfast, and the lazy pigs did not get up till she was done.
while they ate and rooted in the dirt, betty slept as long as she liked, with no school, no errands, no patchwork to do.
she liked it, and kept hidden till night; then she went home, and opened the little window in the store closet, and got in and took as many good things to eat and carry away as she liked.
she had a fine walk in her nightgown, and saw the flowers asleep, heard the little birds chirp in the nest, and watched the fireflies and moths at their pretty play.
no one saw her but the cats; and they played with her, and hopped at her toes, in the moonlight, and had great fun.
when she was tired she went to sleep with the pigs, and dozed all the next day, only coming out to eat and drink when the milk was brought and the cold bits; for mrs. gleason took good care of her pigs, and gave them clean straw often, and kept them as nice as she could.
betty lived in this queer way a long time, and soon looked more like a pig than a little girl; for her nightgown got dirty, her hair was never combed, her face was never washed, and she loved to dig in the mud till her hands looked like paws.
she never talked, but began to grunt as the pigs did, and burrowed into the straw to sleep, and squealed when they crowded her, and quarrelled over the food, eating with her nose in the trough like a real pig.
at first she used to play about at night, and steal things to eat; and people set traps to catch the thief in their gardens, and the cook in her own house scolded about the rats that carried off the cake and pies out of her pantry.
but by and by she got too lazy and fat to care for anything but sleeping and eating, and never left the sty.
she went on her hands and knees now, and began to wonder if a little tail wouldn't grow and her nose change to a snout.
all summer she played be a pig, and thought it good fun; but when the autumn came it was cold, and she longed for her nice warm flannel nightgown, and got tired of cold victuals, and began to wish she had a fire to sit by and good buckwheat cakes to eat.
she was ashamed to go home, and wondered what she should do after this silly frolic.
she asked the pigs how they managed in winter; but they only grunted, and she could not remember what became of them, for the sty was always empty in cold weather.
one dreadful night she found out.
she was smuggled down between the great fat piggies to keep warm; but her toes were cold, and she was trying to pull the straw over them when she heard mr. gleason say to his boy,
"we must kill those pigs to-morrow.
they are fat enough; so come and help me sharpen the big knife."
"oh, dear, what will become of me?"
thought betty, as she heard the grindstone go round and round as the knife got sharper and sharper.
"i look so like a pig they will kill me too, and make me into sausages if i don't run away.
i'm tired of playing piggy, and i'd rather be washed a hundred times a day than be put in a pork barrel."
so she lay trembling till morning; then she ran through the garden and found the back door open.
it was very early, and no one saw her, for the cook was in the shed getting wood to make her fire; so betty slipped upstairs to the nursery and was going to whisk into bed, when she saw in the glass an ugly black creature, all rags and dirt, with rumpled hair, and a little round nose covered with mud.
"can it be me?"
she said.
"how horrid i am!"
and she could not spoil her nice white bed, but hopped into the bathtub and had a good scrubbing.
next she got a clean nightgown, and brushed her hair, and cut her long nails, and looked like a tidy little girl again.
then she lay down in her cosey crib with the pink cover and the lace curtains, and fell fast asleep, glad to have clean sheets, soft blankets, and her own little pillow once more.
"come, darling, wake up and see the new frock i have got for you, and the nice ruffled apron.
it's thanksgiving day, and all the cousins are coming to dinner," said her mamma, with a soft kiss on the rosy cheek.
betty started up, screaming,
"don't kill me!
oh, please don't!
i'm not a truly pig, i'm a little girl; and if you'll let me run home, i'll never fret when i'm washed again."
"what is the dear child afraid of?"
said mamma, cuddling her close, and laughing to see betty stare wildly about for the fat pigs and the stuffy sty.
she told her mother all about the queer time she had had, and was much surprised to hear mamma say,
"it was all a dream, dear; you have been safely asleep in your little bed ever since you slapped poor maria last night."
"well, i'm glad i dreamed it, for it has made me love to be clean.
come, maria, soap and scrub as much as you like, i won't kick and scream ever any more," cried betty, skipping about, glad to be safe in her pleasant home and no longer a dirty, lazy piggy girl.
a wonder book for girls & boys
the gorgon's head
tanglewood porch
introductory to the gorgon's head
beneath the porch of the country-seat called tanglewood, one fine autumnal morning, was assembled a merry party of little folks, with a tall youth in the midst of them.
they had planned a nutting expedition, and were impatiently waiting for the mists to roll up the hill-slopes, and for the sun to pour the warmth of the indian summer over the fields and pastures, and into the nooks of the many-colored woods.
there was a prospect of as fine a day as ever gladdened the aspect of this beautiful and comfortable world.
as yet, however, the morning mist filled up the whole length and breadth of the valley, above which, on a gently sloping eminence, the mansion stood.
this body of white vapor extended to within less than a hundred yards of the house.
it completely hid everything beyond that distance, except a few ruddy or yellow tree-tops, which here and there emerged, and were glorified by the early sunshine, as was likewise the broad surface of the mist.
four or five miles off to the southward rose the summit of monument mountain, and seemed to be floating on a cloud.
some fifteen miles farther away, in the same direction, appeared the loftier dome of taconic, looking blue and indistinct, and hardly so substantial as the vapory sea that almost rolled over it.
the nearer hills, which bordered the valley, were half submerged, and were specked with little cloud-wreaths all the way to their tops.
on the whole, there was so much cloud, and so little solid earth, that it had the effect of a vision.
the children above-mentioned, being as full of life as they could hold, kept overflowing from the porch of tanglewood, and scampering along the gravel-walk, or rushing across the dewy herbage of the lawn.
i can hardly tell how many of these small people there were; not less than nine or ten, however, nor more than a dozen, of all sorts, sizes, and ages, whether girls or boys.
they were brothers, sisters, and cousins, together with a few of their young acquaintances, who had been invited by mr. and mrs. pringle to spend some of this delightful weather with their own children at tanglewood.
i am afraid to tell you their names, or even to give them any names which other children have ever been called by; because, to my certain knowledge, authors sometimes get themselves into great trouble by accidentally giving the names of real persons to the characters in their books.
for this reason i mean to call them primrose, periwinkle, sweet fern, dandelion, blue eye, clover, huckleberry, cowslip, squash-blossom, milkweed, plantain, and buttercup; although, to be sure, such titles might better suit a group of fairies than a company of earthly children.
it is not to be supposed that these little folks were to be permitted by their careful fathers and mothers, uncles, aunts, or grandparents, to stray abroad into the woods and fields, without the guardianship of some particularly grave and elderly person.
oh, no, indeed!
in the first sentence of my book, you will recollect that i spoke of a tall youth, standing in the midst of the children.
his name (and i shall let you know his real name, because he considers it a great honor to have told the stories that are here to be printed) his name was eustace bright.
he was a student at williams college, and had reached, i think, at this period, the venerable age of eighteen years; so that he felt quite like a grandfather towards periwinkle, dandelion, huckleberry, squash-blossom, milkweed, and the rest, who were only half or a third as venerable as he.
a trouble in his eyesight (such as many students think it necessary to have, nowadays, in order to prove their diligence at their books) had kept him from college a week or two after the beginning of the term.
but, for my part, i have seldom met with a pair of eyes that looked as if they could see farther or better than those of eustace bright.
this learned student was slender, and rather pale, as all yankee students are; but yet of a healthy aspect, and as light and active as if he had wings to his shoes.
by the by, being much addicted to wading through streamlets and across meadows, he had put on cowhide boots for the expedition.
he wore a linen blouse, a cloth cap, and a pair of green spectacles, which he had assumed, probably, less for the preservation of his eyes than for the dignity that they imparted to his countenance.
in either case, however, he might as well have let them alone; for huckleberry, a mischievous little elf, crept behind eustace as he sat on the steps of the porch, snatched the spectacles from his nose, and clapped them on her own; and as the student forgot to take them back, they fell off into the grass, and lay there till the next spring.
now, eustace bright, you must know, had won great fame among the children, as a narrator of wonderful stories; and though he sometimes pretended to be annoyed, when they teased him for more, and more, and always for more, yet i really doubt whether he liked anything quite so well as to tell them.
you might have seen his eyes twinkle, therefore, when clover, sweet fern, cowslip, buttercup, and most of their playmates, besought him to relate one of his stories, while they were waiting for the mist to clear up.
"yes, cousin eustace," said primrose, who was a bright girl of twelve, with laughing eyes, and a nose that turned up a little, "the morning is certainly the best time for the stories with which you so often tire out our patience.
we shall be in less danger of hurting your feelings, by falling asleep at the most interesting points, as little cowslip and i did last night!"
"naughty primrose," cried cowslip, a child of six years old; "i did not fall asleep, and i only shut my eyes, so as to see a picture of what cousin eustace was telling about.
his stories are good to hear at night, because we can dream about them asleep; and good in the morning, too, because then we can dream about them awake.
so i hope he will tell us one this very minute."
"thank you, my little cowslip," said eustace; "certainly you shall have the best story i can think of, if it were only for defending me so well from that naughty primrose.
but, children, i have already told you so many fairy tales, that i doubt whether there is a single one which you have not heard at least twice over.
i am afraid you will fall asleep in reality, if i repeat any of them again."
"no, no, no!"
cried blue eye, periwinkle, plantain, and half a dozen others.
"we like a story all the better for having heard it two or three times before."
and it is a truth, as regards children, that a story seems often to deepen its mark in their interest, not merely by two or three, but by numberless repetitions.
but eustace bright, in the exuberance of his resources, scorned to avail himself of an advantage which an older story-teller would have been glad to grasp at.
"it would be a great pity," said he, "if a man of my learning (to say nothing of original fancy) could not find a new story every day, year in and year out, for children such as you.
i will tell you one of the nursery tales that were made for the amusement of our great old grandmother, the earth, when she was a child in frock and pinafore.
there are a hundred such; and it is a wonder to me that they have not long ago been put into picture-books for little girls and boys.
but, instead of that, old gray-bearded grandsires pore over them in musty volumes of greek, and puzzle themselves with trying to find out when, and how, and for what they were made."
"well, well, well, well, cousin eustace!"
cried all the children at once; "talk no more about your stories, but begin."
"sit down, then, every soul of you," said eustace bright, "and be all as still as so many mice.
at the slightest interruption, whether from great, naughty primrose, little dandelion, or any other, i shall bite the story short off between my teeth, and swallow the untold part.
but, in the first place, do any of you know what a gorgon is?"
"i do," said primrose.
"then hold your tongue!"
rejoined eustace, who had rather she would have known nothing about the matter.
"hold all your tongues, and i shall tell you a sweet pretty story of a gorgon's head."
and so he did, as you may begin to read on the next page.
working up his sophomorical erudition with a good deal of tact, and incurring great obligations to professor anthon, he, nevertheless, disregarded all classical authorities, whenever the vagrant audacity of his imagination impelled him to do so.
the gorgon's head
perseus was the son of danaë, who was the daughter of a king.
and when perseus was a very little boy, some wicked people put his mother and himself into a chest, and set them afloat upon the sea.
the wind blew freshly, and drove the chest away from the shore, and the uneasy billows tossed it up and down; while danaë clasped her child closely to her bosom, and dreaded that some big wave would dash its foamy crest over them both.
the chest sailed on, however, and neither sank nor was upset; until, when night was coming, it floated so near an island that it got entangled in a fisherman's nets, and was drawn out high and dry upon the sand.
the island was called seriphus, and it was reigned over by king polydectes, who happened to be the fisherman's brother.
this fisherman, i am glad to tell you, was an exceedingly humane and upright man.
he showed great kindness to danaë and her little boy; and continued to befriend them, until perseus had grown to be a handsome youth, very strong and active, and skillful in the use of arms.
long before this time, king polydectes had seen the two strangers the mother and her child who had come to his dominions in a floating chest.
as he was not good and kind, like his brother the fisherman, but extremely wicked, he resolved to send perseus on a dangerous enterprise, in which he would probably be killed, and then to do some great mischief to danaë herself.
so this bad-hearted king spent a long while in considering what was the most dangerous thing that a young man could possibly undertake to perform.
at last, having hit upon an enterprise that promised to turn out as fatally as he desired, he sent for the youthful perseus.
the young man came to the palace, and found the king sitting upon his throne.
"perseus," said king polydectes, smiling craftily upon him, "you are grown up a fine young man.
you and your good mother have received a great deal of kindness from myself, as well as from my worthy brother the fisherman, and i suppose you would not be sorry to repay some of it."
"please your majesty," answered perseus, "i would willingly risk my life to do so."
"well, then," continued the king, still with a cunning smile on his lips, "i have a little adventure to propose to you; and, as you are a brave and enterprising youth, you will doubtless look upon it as a great piece of good luck to have so rare an opportunity of distinguishing yourself.
you must know, my good perseus, i think of getting married to the beautiful princess hippodamia; and it is customary, on these occasions, to make the bride a present of some far-fetched and elegant curiosity.
i have been a little perplexed, i must honestly confess, where to obtain anything likely to please a princess of her exquisite taste.
but, this morning, i flatter myself, i have thought of precisely the article."
"and can i assist your majesty in obtaining it?"
cried perseus, eagerly.
"you can, if you are as brave a youth as i believe you to be," replied king polydectes, with the utmost graciousness of manner.
"the bridal gift which i have set my heart on presenting to the beautiful hippodamia is the head of the gorgon medusa with the snaky locks; and i depend on you, my dear perseus, to bring it to me.
so, as i am anxious to settle affairs with the princess, the sooner you go in quest of the gorgon, the better i shall be pleased."
"i will set out to-morrow morning," answered perseus.
"pray do so, my gallant youth," rejoined the king.
"and, perseus, in cutting off the gorgon's head, be careful to make a clean stroke, so as not to injure its appearance.
you must bring it home in the very best condition, in order to suit the exquisite taste of the beautiful princess hippodamia."
perseus left the palace, but was scarcely out of hearing before polydectes burst into a laugh; being greatly amused, wicked king that he was, to find how readily the young man fell into the snare.
the news quickly spread abroad that perseus had undertaken to cut off the head of medusa with the snaky locks.
everybody was rejoiced; for most of the inhabitants of the island were as wicked as the king himself, and would have liked nothing better than to see some enormous mischief happen to danaë and her son.
the only good man in this unfortunate island of seriphus appears to have been the fisherman.
as perseus walked along, therefore, the people pointed after him, and made mouths, and winked to one another, and ridiculed him as loudly as they dared.
"ho, ho!"
cried they; "medusa's snakes will sting him soundly!"
now, there were three gorgons alive at that period; and they were the most strange and terrible monsters that had ever been since the world was made, or that have been seen in after days, or that are likely to be seen in all time to come.
i hardly know what sort of creature or hobgoblin to call them.
they were three sisters, and seem to have borne some distant resemblance to women, but were really a very frightful and mischievous species of dragon.
it is, indeed, difficult to imagine what hideous beings these three sisters were.
why, instead of locks of hair, if you can believe me, they had each of them a hundred enormous snakes growing on their heads, all alive, twisting, wriggling, curling, and thrusting out their venomous tongues, with forked stings at the end!
the teeth of the gorgons were terribly long tusks; their hands were made of brass; and their bodies were all over scales, which, if not iron, were something as hard and impenetrable.
they had wings, too, and exceedingly splendid ones, i can assure you; for every feather in them was pure, bright, glittering, burnished gold, and they looked very dazzlingly, no doubt, when the gorgons were flying about in the sunshine.
but when people happened to catch a glimpse of their glittering brightness, aloft in the air, they seldom stopped to gaze, but ran and hid themselves as speedily as they could.
you will think, perhaps, that they were afraid of being stung by the serpents that served the gorgons instead of hair, or of having their heads bitten off by their ugly tusks, or of being torn all to pieces by their brazen claws.
well, to be sure, these were some of the dangers, but by no means the greatest, nor the most difficult to avoid.
for the worst thing about these abominable gorgons was, that, if once a poor mortal fixed his eyes full upon one of their faces, he was certain, that very instant, to be changed from warm flesh and blood into cold and lifeless stone!
thus, as you will easily perceive, it was a very dangerous adventure that the wicked king polydectes had contrived for this innocent young man.
perseus himself, when he had thought over the matter, could not help seeing that he had very little chance of coming safely through it, and that he was far more likely to become a stone image than to bring back the head of medusa with the snaky locks.
for, not to speak of other difficulties, there was one which it would have puzzled an older man than perseus to get over.
not only must he fight with and slay this golden-winged, iron-scaled, long-tusked, brazen-clawed, snaky-haired monster, but he must do it with his eyes shut, or, at least, without so much as a glance at the enemy with whom he was contending.
else, while his arm was lifted to strike, he would stiffen into stone, and stand with that uplifted arm for centuries, until time, and the wind and weather, should crumble him quite away.
this would be a very sad thing to befall a young man who wanted to perform a great many brave deeds, and to enjoy a great deal of happiness, in this bright and beautiful world.
so disconsolate did these thoughts make him, that perseus could not bear to tell his mother what he had undertaken to do.
he therefore took his shield, girded on his sword, and crossed over from the island to the mainland, where he sat down in a solitary place, and hardly refrained from shedding tears.
but, while he was in this sorrowful mood, he heard a voice close beside him.
"perseus," said the voice, "why are you sad?"
he lifted his head from his hands, in which he had hidden it, and, behold!
all alone as perseus had supposed himself to be, there was a stranger in the solitary place.
it was a brisk, intelligent, and remarkably shrewd-looking young man, with a cloak over his shoulders, an odd sort of cap on his head, a strangely twisted staff in his hand, and a short and very crooked sword hanging by his side.
he was exceedingly light and active in his figure, like a person much accustomed to gymnastic exercises, and well able to leap or run.
above all, the stranger had such a cheerful, knowing, and helpful aspect (though it was certainly a little mischievous, into the bargain), that perseus could not help feeling his spirits grow livelier as he gazed at him.
besides, being really a courageous youth, he felt greatly ashamed that anybody should have found him with tears in his eyes, like a timid little schoolboy, when, after all, there might be no occasion for despair.
so perseus wiped his eyes, and answered the stranger pretty briskly, putting on as brave a look as he could.
"i am not so very sad," said he, "only thoughtful about an adventure that i have undertaken."
"oho!"
answered the stranger.
"well, tell me all about it, and possibly i may be of service to you.
i have helped a good many young men through adventures that looked difficult enough beforehand.
perhaps you may have heard of me.
i have more names than one; but the name of quicksilver suits me as well as any other.
tell me what the trouble is, and we will talk the matter over, and see what can be done."
the stranger's words and manner put perseus into quite a different mood from his former one.
he resolved to tell quicksilver all his difficulties, since he could not easily be worse off than he already was, and, very possibly, his new friend might give him some advice that would turn out well in the end.
so he let the stranger know, in few words, precisely what the case was, how that king polydectes wanted the head of medusa with the snaky locks as a bridal gift for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and how that he had undertaken to get it for him, but was afraid of being turned into stone.
"and that would be a great pity," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile.
"you would make a very handsome marble statue, it is true, and it would be a considerable number of centuries before you crumbled away; but, on the whole, one would rather be a young man for a few years than a stone image for a great many."
"oh, far rather!"
exclaimed perseus, with the tears again standing in his eyes.
"and, besides, what would my dear mother do, if her beloved son were turned into a stone?"
"well, well, let us hope that the affair will not turn out so very badly," replied quicksilver, in an encouraging tone.
"i am the very person to help you, if anybody can.
my sister and myself will do our utmost to bring you safe through the adventure, ugly as it now looks."
"your sister?"
repeated perseus.
"yes, my sister," said the stranger.
"she is very wise, i promise you; and as for myself, i generally have all my wits about me, such as they are.
if you show yourself bold and cautious, and follow our advice, you need not fear being a stone image yet awhile.
but, first of all, you must polish your shield, till you can see your face in it as distinctly as in a mirror."
this seemed to perseus rather an odd beginning of the adventure; for he thought it of far more consequence that the shield should be strong enough to defend him from the gorgon's brazen claws, than that it should be bright enough to show him the reflection of his face.
however, concluding that quicksilver knew better than himself, he immediately set to work, and scrubbed the shield with so much diligence and good-will, that it very quickly shone like the moon at harvest-time.
quicksilver looked at it with a smile, and nodded his approbation.
then, taking off his own short and crooked sword, he girded it about perseus, instead of the one which he had before worn.
"no sword but mine will answer your purpose," observed he; "the blade has a most excellent temper, and will cut through iron and brass as easily as through the slenderest twig.
and now we will set out.
the next thing is to find the three gray women, who will tell us where to find the nymphs."
"the three gray women!"
cried perseus, to whom this seemed only a new difficulty in the path of his adventure; "pray who may the three gray women be?
i never heard of them before."
"they are three very strange old ladies," said quicksilver, laughing.
"they have but one eye among them, and only one tooth.
moreover, you must find them out by starlight, or in the dusk of the evening; for they never show themselves by the light either of the sun or moon."
"but," said perseus, "why should i waste my time with these three gray women?
would it not be better to set out at once in search of the terrible gorgons?"
"no, no," answered his friend.
"there are other things to be done, before you can find your way to the gorgons.
there is nothing for it but to hunt up these old ladies; and when we meet with them, you may be sure that the gorgons are not a great way off.
come, let us be stirring!"
perseus, by this time, felt so much confidence in his companion's sagacity, that he made no more objections, and professed himself ready to begin the adventure immediately.
they accordingly set out, and walked at a pretty brisk pace; so brisk, indeed, that perseus found it rather difficult to keep up with his nimble friend quicksilver.
to say the truth, he had a singular idea that quicksilver was furnished with a pair of winged shoes, which, of course, helped him along marvelously.
and then, too, when perseus looked sideways at him, out of the corner of his eye, he seemed to see wings on the side of his head; although if he turned a full gaze, there were no such things to be perceived, but only an odd kind of cap.
but, at all events, the twisted staff was evidently a great convenience to quicksilver, and enabled him to proceed so fast, that perseus, though a remarkably active young man, began to be out of breath.
"here!"
cried quicksilver, at last, for he knew well enough, rogue that he was, how hard perseus found it to keep pace with him, "take you the staff, for you need it a great deal more than i. are there no better walkers than yourself in the island of seriphus?"
"i could walk pretty well," said perseus, glancing slyly at his companion's feet, "if i had only a pair of winged shoes."
"we must see about getting you a pair," answered quicksilver.
but the staff helped perseus along so bravely that he no longer felt the slightest weariness.
in fact, the stick seemed to be alive in his hand, and to lend some of its life to perseus.
he and quicksilver now walked onward at their ease, talking very sociably together; and quicksilver told so many pleasant stories about his former adventures, and how well his wits had served him on various occasions, that perseus began to think him a very wonderful person.
he evidently knew the world; and nobody is so charming to a young man as a friend who has that kind of knowledge.
perseus listened the more eagerly, in the hope of brightening his own wits by what he heard.
at last, he happened to recollect that quicksilver had spoken of a sister, who was to lend her assistance in the adventure which they were now bound upon.
"where is she?"
he inquired.
"shall we not meet her soon?"
"all at the proper time," said his companion.
"but this sister of mine, you must understand, is quite a different sort of character from myself.
she is very grave and prudent, seldom smiles, never laughs, and makes it a rule not to utter a word unless she has something particularly profound to say.
neither will she listen to any but the wisest conversation."
"dear me!"
ejaculated perseus; "i shall be afraid to say a syllable."
"she is a very accomplished person, i assure you," continued quicksilver, "and has all the arts and sciences at her fingers' ends.
in short, she is so immoderately wise that many people call her wisdom personified.
but, to tell you the truth, she has hardly vivacity enough for my taste; and i think you would scarcely find her so pleasant a traveling companion as myself.
she has her good points, nevertheless; and you will find the benefit of them, in your encounter with the gorgons."
by this time it had grown quite dusk.
they were now come to a very wild and desert place, overgrown with shaggy bushes, and so silent and solitary that nobody seemed ever to have dwelt or journeyed there.
all was waste and desolate, in the gray twilight, which grew every moment more obscure.
perseus looked about him, rather disconsolately, and asked quicksilver whether they had a great deal farther to go.
"hist!
hist!"
whispered his companion.
"make no noise!
this is just the time and place to meet the three gray women.
be careful that they do not see you before you see them; for, though they have but a single eye among the three, it is as sharp-sighted as half a dozen common eyes."
"but what must i do," asked perseus, "when we meet them?"
quicksilver explained to perseus how the three gray women managed with their one eye.
they were in the habit, it seems, of changing it from one to another, as if it had been a pair of spectacles, or which would have suited them better a quizzing-glass.
when one of the three had kept the eye a certain time, she took it out of the socket and passed it to one of her sisters, whose turn it might happen to be, and who immediately clapped it into her own head, and enjoyed a peep at the visible world.
thus it will easily be understood that only one of the three gray women could see, while the other two were in utter darkness; and, moreover, at the instant when the eye was passing from hand to hand, neither of the poor old ladies was able to see a wink.
i have heard of a great many strange things, in my day, and have witnessed not a few; but none, it seems to me, that can compare with the oddity of these three gray women, all peeping through a single eye.
so thought perseus, likewise, and was so astonished that he almost fancied his companion was joking with him, and that there were no such old women in the world.
"you will soon find whether i tell the truth or no," observed quicksilver.
"hark!
hush!
hist!
hist!
there they come, now!"
perseus looked earnestly through the dusk of the evening, and there, sure enough, at no great distance off, he descried the three gray women.
the light being so faint, he could not well make out what sort of figures they were; only he discovered that they had long gray hair; and, as they came nearer, he saw that two of them had but the empty socket of an eye, in the middle of their foreheads.
but, in the middle of the third sister's forehead, there was a very large, bright, and piercing eye, which sparkled like a great diamond in a ring; and so penetrating did it seem to be, that perseus could not help thinking it must possess the gift of seeing in the darkest midnight just as perfectly as at noonday.
the sight of three persons' eyes was melted and collected into that single one.
thus the three old dames got along about as comfortably, upon the whole, as if they could all see at once.
she who chanced to have the eye in her forehead led the other two by the hands, peeping sharply about her, all the while; insomuch that perseus dreaded lest she should see right through the thick clump of bushes behind which he and quicksilver had hidden themselves.
my stars!
it was positively terrible to be within reach of so very sharp an eye!
but, before they reached the clump of bushes, one of the three gray women spoke.
"sister!
sister scarecrow!"
cried she, "you have had the eye long enough.
it is my turn now!"
"let me keep it a moment longer, sister nightmare," answered scarecrow.
"i thought i had a glimpse of something behind that thick bush."
"well, and what of that?"
retorted nightmare, peevishly.
"can't i see into a thick bush as easily as yourself?
the eye is mine as well as yours; and i know the use of it as well as you, or may be a little better.
i insist upon taking a peep immediately!"
but here the third sister, whose name was shakejoint, began to complain, and said that it was her turn to have the eye, and that scarecrow and nightmare wanted to keep it all to themselves.
to end the dispute, old dame scarecrow took the eye out of her forehead, and held it forth in her hand.
"take it, one of you," cried she, "and quit this foolish quarreling.
for my part, i shall be glad of a little thick darkness.
take it quickly, however, or i must clap it into my own head again!"
accordingly, both nightmare and shakejoint put out their hands, groping eagerly to snatch the eye out of the hand of scarecrow.
but, being both alike blind, they could not easily find where scarecrow's hand was; and scarecrow, being now just as much in the dark as shakejoint and nightmare, could not at once meet either of their hands, in order to put the eye into it.
thus (as you will see, with half an eye, my wise little auditors), these good old dames had fallen into a strange perplexity.
for, though the eye shone and glistened like a star, as scarecrow held it out, yet the gray women caught not the least glimpse of its light, and were all three in utter darkness, from too impatient a desire to see.
quicksilver was so much tickled at beholding shakejoint and nightmare both groping for the eye, and each finding fault with scarecrow and one another, that he could scarcely help laughing aloud.
"now is your time!"
he whispered to perseus.
"quick, quick!
before they can clap the eye into either of their heads.
rush out upon the old ladies, and snatch it from scarecrow's hand!"
in an instant, while the three gray women were still scolding each other, perseus leaped from behind the clump of bushes, and made himself master of the prize.
the marvelous eye, as he held it in his hand, shone very brightly, and seemed to look up into his face with a knowing air, and an expression as if it would have winked, had it been provided with a pair of eyelids for that purpose.
but the gray women knew nothing of what had happened; and, each supposing that one of her sisters was in possession of the eye, they began their quarrel anew.
at last, as perseus did not wish to put these respectable dames to greater inconvenience than was really necessary, he thought it right to explain the matter.
"my good ladies," said he, "pray do not be angry with one another.
if anybody is in fault, it is myself; for i have the honor to hold your very brilliant and excellent eye in my own hand!"
"you!
you have our eye!
and who are you?"
screamed the three gray women, all in a breath; for they were terribly frightened, of course, at hearing a strange voice, and discovering that their eyesight had got into the hands of they could not guess whom.
"oh, what shall we do, sisters?
what shall we do?
we are all in the dark!
give us our eye!
give us our one, precious, solitary eye!
you have two of your own!
give us our eye!"
"tell them," whispered quicksilver to perseus, "that they shall have back the eye as soon as they direct you where to find the nymphs who have the flying slippers, the magic wallet, and the helmet of darkness."
"my dear, good, admirable old ladies," said perseus, addressing the gray women, "there is no occasion for putting yourselves into such a fright.
i am by no means a bad young man.
you shall have back your eye, safe and sound, and as bright as ever, the moment you tell me where to find the nymphs."
"the nymphs!
goodness me!
sisters, what nymphs does he mean?"
screamed scarecrow.
"there are a great many nymphs, people say; some that go a-hunting in the woods, and some that live inside of trees, and some that have a comfortable home in fountains of water.
we know nothing at all about them.
we are three unfortunate old souls, that go wandering about in the dusk, and never had but one eye amongst us, and that one you have stolen away.
oh, give it back, good stranger!
whoever you are, give it back!"
all this while the three gray women were groping with their outstretched hands, and trying their utmost to get hold of perseus.
but he took good care to keep out of their reach.
"my respectable dames," said he, for his mother had taught him always to use the greatest civility, "i hold your eye fast in my hand, and shall keep it safely for you, until you please to tell me where to find these nymphs.
the nymphs, i mean, who keep the enchanted wallet, the flying slippers, and the what is it?
the helmet of invisibility."
"mercy on us, sisters!
what is the young man talking about?"
exclaimed scarecrow, nightmare, and shakejoint, one to another, with great appearance of astonishment.
"a pair of flying slippers, quoth he!
his heels would quickly fly higher than his head, if he were silly enough to put them on.
and a helmet of invisibility!
how could a helmet make him invisible, unless it were big enough for him to hide under it?
and an enchanted wallet!
what sort of a contrivance may that be, i wonder?
no, no, good stranger!
we can tell you nothing of these marvelous things.
you have two eyes of your own, and we have but a single one amongst us three.
you can find out such wonders better than three blind old creatures, like us."
perseus, hearing them talk in this way, began really to think that the gray women knew nothing of the matter; and, as it grieved him to have put them to so much trouble, he was just on the point of restoring their eye and asking pardon for his rudeness in snatching it away.
but quicksilver caught his hand.
"don't let them make a fool of you!"
said he.
"these three gray women are the only persons in the world that can tell you where to find the nymphs; and, unless you get that information, you will never succeed in cutting off the head of medusa with the snaky locks.
keep fast hold of the eye, and all will go well."
as it turned out, quicksilver was in the right.
there are but few things that people prize so much as they do their eyesight; and the gray women valued their single eye as highly as if it had been half a dozen, which was the number they ought to have had.
finding that there was no other way of recovering it, they at last told perseus what he wanted to know.
no sooner had they done so, than he immediately, and with the utmost respect, clapped the eye into the vacant socket in one of their foreheads, thanked them for their kindness, and bade them farewell.
before the young man was out of hearing, however, they had got into a new dispute, because he happened to have given the eye to scarecrow, who had already taken her turn of it when their trouble with perseus commenced.
it is greatly to be feared that the three gray women were very much in the habit of disturbing their mutual harmony by bickerings of this sort; which was the more pity, as they could not conveniently do without one another, and were evidently intended to be inseparable companions.
as a general rule, i would advise all people, whether sisters or brothers, old or young, who chance to have but one eye amongst them, to cultivate forbearance, and not all insist upon peeping through it at once.
quicksilver and perseus, in the mean time, were making the best of their way in quest of the nymphs.
the old dames had given them such particular directions, that they were not long in finding them out.
they proved to be very different persons from nightmare, shakejoint, and scarecrow; for, instead of being old, they were young and beautiful; and instead of one eye amongst the sisterhood, each nymph had two exceedingly bright eyes of her own, with which she looked very kindly at perseus.
they seemed to be acquainted with quicksilver; and, when he told them the adventure which perseus had undertaken, they made no difficulty about giving him the valuable articles that were in their custody.
in the first place, they brought out what appeared to be a small purse, made of deerskin and curiously embroidered, and bade him be sure and keep it safe.
this was the magic wallet.
the nymphs next produced a pair of shoes, or slippers, or sandals, with a nice little pair of wings at the heel of each.
"put them on, perseus," said quicksilver.
"you will find yourself as light-heeled as you can desire for the remainder of our journey."
so perseus proceeded to put one of the slippers on, while he laid the other on the ground by his side.
unexpectedly, however, this other slipper spread its wings, fluttered up off the ground, and would probably have flown away, if quicksilver had not made a leap, and luckily caught it in the air.
"be more careful," said he, as he gave it back to perseus.
"it would frighten the birds, up aloft, if they should see a flying slipper amongst them."
when perseus had got on both of these wonderful slippers, he was altogether too buoyant to tread on earth.
making a step or two, lo and behold!
upward he popped into the air, high above the heads of quicksilver and the nymphs, and found it very difficult to clamber down again.
winged slippers, and all such high-flying contrivances, are seldom quite easy to manage until one grows a little accustomed to them.
quicksilver laughed at his companion's involuntary activity, and told him that he must not be in so desperate a hurry, but must wait for the invisible helmet.
the good-natured nymphs had the helmet, with its dark tuft of waving plumes, all in readiness to put upon his head.
and now there happened about as wonderful an incident as anything that i have yet told you.
the instant before the helmet was put on, there stood perseus, a beautiful young man, with golden ringlets and rosy cheeks, the crooked sword by his side, and the brightly polished shield upon his arm, a figure that seemed all made up of courage, sprightliness, and glorious light.
but when the helmet had descended over his white brow, there was no longer any perseus to be seen!
nothing but empty air!
even the helmet, that covered him with its invisibility, had vanished!
"where are you, perseus?"
asked quicksilver.
"why, here, to be sure!"
answered perseus, very quietly, although his voice seemed to come out of the transparent atmosphere.
"just where i was a moment ago.
don't you see me?"
"no, indeed!"
answered his friend.
"you are hidden under the helmet.
but, if i cannot see you, neither can the gorgons.
follow me, therefore, and we will try your dexterity in using the winged slippers."
with these words, quicksilver's cap spread its wings, as if his head were about to fly away from his shoulders; but his whole figure rose lightly into the air, and perseus followed.
by the time they had ascended a few hundred feet, the young man began to feel what a delightful thing it was to leave the dull earth so far beneath him, and to be able to flit about like a bird.
it was now deep night.
perseus looked upward, and saw the round, bright, silvery moon, and thought that he should desire nothing better than to soar up thither, and spend his life there.
then he looked downward again, and saw the earth, with its seas and lakes, and the silver courses of its rivers, and its snowy mountain-peaks, and the breadth of its fields, and the dark cluster of its woods, and its cities of white marble; and, with the moonshine sleeping over the whole scene, it was as beautiful as the moon or any star could be.
and, among other objects, he saw the island of seriphus, where his dear mother was.
sometimes he and quicksilver approached a cloud that, at a distance, looked as if it were made of fleecy silver; although, when they plunged into it, they found themselves chilled and moistened with gray mist.
so swift was their flight, however, that, in an instant, they emerged from the cloud into the moonlight again.
once, a high-soaring eagle flew right against the invisible perseus.
the bravest sights were the meteors, that gleamed suddenly out, as if a bonfire had been kindled in the sky, and made the moonshine pale for as much as a hundred miles around them.
as the two companions flew onward, perseus fancied that he could hear the rustle of a garment close by his side; and it was on the side opposite to the one where he beheld quicksilver, yet only quicksilver was visible.
"whose garment is this," inquired perseus, "that keeps rustling close beside me in the breeze?"
"oh, it is my sister's!"
answered quicksilver.
"she is coming along with us, as i told you she would.
we could do nothing without the help of my sister.
you have no idea how wise she is.
she has such eyes, too!
why, she can see you, at this moment, just as distinctly as if you were not invisible; and i'll venture to say, she will be the first to discover the gorgons."
by this time, in their swift voyage through the air, they had come within sight of the great ocean, and were soon flying over it.
far beneath them, the waves tossed themselves tumultuously in mid-sea, or rolled a white surf-line upon the long beaches, or foamed against the rocky cliffs, with a roar that was thunderous, in the lower world; although it became a gentle murmur, like the voice of a baby half asleep, before it reached the ears of perseus.
just then a voice spoke in the air close by him.
it seemed to be a woman's voice, and was melodious, though not exactly what might be called sweet, but grave and mild.
"perseus," said the voice, "there are the gorgons."
"where?"
exclaimed perseus.
"i cannot see them."
"on the shore of that island beneath you," replied the voice.
"a pebble, dropped from your hand, would strike in the midst of them."
"i told you she would be the first to discover them," said quicksilver to perseus.
"and there they are!"
straight downward, two or three thousand feet below him, perseus perceived a small island, with the sea breaking into white foam all around its rocky shore, except on one side, where there was a beach of snowy sand.
he descended towards it, and, looking earnestly at a cluster or heap of brightness, at the foot of a precipice of black rocks, behold, there were the terrible gorgons!
they lay fast asleep, soothed by the thunder of the sea; for it required a tumult that would have deafened everybody else to lull such fierce creatures into slumber.
the moonlight glistened on their steely scales, and on their golden wings, which drooped idly over the sand.
their brazen claws, horrible to look at, were thrust out, and clutched the wave-beaten fragments of rock, while the sleeping gorgons dreamed of tearing some poor mortal all to pieces.
the snakes that served them instead of hair seemed likewise to be asleep; although, now and then, one would writhe, and lift its head, and thrust out its forked tongue, emitting a drowsy hiss, and then let itself subside among its sister snakes.
the gorgons were more like an awful, gigantic kind of insect, immense, golden-winged beetles, or dragon-flies, or things of that sort, at once ugly and beautiful, than like anything else; only that they were a thousand and a million times as big.
and, with all this, there was something partly human about them, too.
luckily for perseus, their faces were completely hidden from him by the posture in which they lay; for, had he but looked one instant at them, he would have fallen heavily out of the air, an image of senseless stone.
"now," whispered quicksilver, as he hovered by the side of perseus, "now is your time to do the deed!
be quick; for, if one of the gorgons should awake, you are too late!"
"which shall i strike at?"
asked perseus, drawing his sword and descending a little lower.
"they all three look alike.
all three have snaky locks.
which of the three is medusa?"
it must be understood that medusa was the only one of these dragon-monsters whose head perseus could possibly cut off.
as for the other two, let him have the sharpest sword that ever was forged, and he might have hacked away by the hour together, without doing them the least harm.
"be cautious," said the calm voice which had before spoken to him.
"one of the gorgons is stirring in her sleep, and is just about to turn over.
that is medusa.
do not look at her!
the sight would turn you to stone!
look at the reflection of her face and figure in the bright mirror of your shield."
perseus now understood quicksilver's motive for so earnestly exhorting him to polish his shield.
in its surface he could safely look at the reflection of the gorgon's face.
and there it was, that terrible countenance, mirrored in the brightness of the shield, with the moonlight falling over it, and displaying all its horror.
the snakes, whose venomous natures could not altogether sleep, kept twisting themselves over the forehead.
it was the fiercest and most horrible face that ever was seen or imagined, and yet with a strange, fearful, and savage kind of beauty in it.
the eyes were closed, and the gorgon was still in a deep slumber; but there was an unquiet expression disturbing her features, as if the monster was troubled with an ugly dream.
she gnashed her white tusks, and dug into the sand with her brazen claws.
the snakes, too, seemed to feel medusa's dream, and to be made more restless by it.
they twined themselves into tumultuous knots, writhed fiercely, and uplifted a hundred hissing heads, without opening their eyes.
"now, now!"
whispered quicksilver, who was growing impatient.
"make a dash at the monster!"
"but be calm," said the grave, melodious voice at the young man's side.
"look in your shield, as you fly downward, and take care that you do not miss your first stroke."
perseus flew cautiously downward, still keeping his eyes on medusa's face, as reflected in his shield.
the nearer he came, the more terrible did the snaky visage and metallic body of the monster grow.
at last, when he found himself hovering over her within arm's length, perseus uplifted his sword, while, at the same instant, each separate snake upon the gorgon's head stretched threateningly upward, and medusa unclosed her eyes.
but she awoke too late.
the sword was sharp; the stroke fell like a lightning-flash; and the head of the wicked medusa tumbled from her body!
"admirably done!"
cried quicksilver.
"make haste, and clap the head into your magic wallet."
to the astonishment of perseus, the small embroidered wallet, which he had hung about his neck, and which had hitherto been no bigger than a purse, grew all at once large enough to contain medusa's head.
as quick as thought, he snatched it up, with the snakes still writhing upon it, and thrust it in.
"your task is done," said the calm voice.
"now fly; for the other gorgons will do their utmost to take vengeance for medusa's death."
it was, indeed, necessary to take flight; for perseus had not done the deed so quietly but that the clash of his sword, and the hissing of the snakes, and the thump of medusa's head as it tumbled upon the sea-beaten sand, awoke the other two monsters.
there they sat, for an instant, sleepily rubbing their eyes with their brazen fingers, while all the snakes on their heads reared themselves on end with surprise, and with venomous malice against they knew not what.
but when the gorgons saw the scaly carcass of medusa, headless, and her golden wings all ruffled, and half spread out on the sand, it was really awful to hear what yells and screeches they set up.
and then the snakes!
they sent forth a hundred-fold hiss, with one consent, and medusa's snakes answered them out of the magic wallet.
no sooner were the gorgons broad awake than they hurtled upward into the air, brandishing their brass talons, gnashing their horrible tusks, and flapping their huge wings so wildly that some of the golden feathers were shaken out, and floated down upon the shore.
and there, perhaps, those very feathers lie scattered, till this day.
up rose the gorgons, as i tell you, staring horribly about, in hopes of turning somebody to stone.
had perseus looked them in the face, or had he fallen into their clutches, his poor mother would never have kissed her boy again!
but he took good care to turn his eyes another way; and, as he wore the helmet of invisibility, the gorgons knew not in what direction to follow him; nor did he fail to make the best use of the winged slippers, by soaring upward a perpendicular mile or so.
at that height, when the screams of those abominable creatures sounded faintly beneath him, he made a straight course for the island of seriphus, in order to carry medusa's head to king polydectes.
i have no time to tell you of several marvelous things that befell perseus, on his way homeward; such as his killing a hideous sea-monster, just as it was on the point of devouring a beautiful maiden; nor how he changed an enormous giant into a mountain of stone, merely by showing him the head of the gorgon.
if you doubt this latter story, you may make a voyage to africa, some day or other, and see the very mountain, which is still known by the ancient giant's name.
finally, our brave perseus arrived at the island, where he expected to see his dear mother.
but, during his absence, the wicked king had treated danaë so very ill that she was compelled to make her escape, and had taken refuge in a temple, where some good old priests were extremely kind to her.
these praiseworthy priests, and the kind-hearted fisherman, who had first shown hospitality to danaë and little perseus when he found them afloat in the chest, seem to have been the only persons on the island who cared about doing right.
all the rest of the people, as well as king polydectes himself, were remarkably ill-behaved, and deserved no better destiny than that which was now to happen.
not finding his mother at home, perseus went straight to the palace, and was immediately ushered into the presence of the king.
polydectes was by no means rejoiced to see him; for he had felt almost certain, in his own evil mind, that the gorgons would have torn the poor young man to pieces, and have eaten him up, out of the way.
however, seeing him safely returned, he put the best face he could upon the matter and asked perseus how he had succeeded.
"have you performed your promise?"
inquired he.
"have you brought me the head of medusa with the snaky locks?
if not, young man, it will cost you dear; for i must have a bridal present for the beautiful princess hippodamia, and there is nothing else that she would admire so much."
"yes, please your majesty," answered perseus, in a quiet way, as if it were no very wonderful deed for such a young man as he to perform.
"i have brought you the gorgon's head, snaky locks and all!"
"indeed!
pray let me see it," quoth king polydectes.
"it must be a very curious spectacle, if all that travelers tell about it be true!"
"your majesty is in the right," replied perseus.
"it is really an object that will be pretty certain to fix the regards of all who look at it.
and, if your majesty think fit, i would suggest that a holiday be proclaimed, and that all your majesty's subjects be summoned to behold this wonderful curiosity.
few of them, i imagine, have seen a gorgon's head before, and perhaps never may again!"
the king well knew that his subjects were an idle set of reprobates, and very fond of sight-seeing, as idle persons usually are.
so he took the young man's advice, and sent out heralds and messengers, in all directions, to blow the trumpet at the street-corners, and in the market-places, and wherever two roads met, and summon everybody to court.
thither, accordingly, came a great multitude of good-for-nothing vagabonds, all of whom, out of pure love of mischief, would have been glad if perseus had met with some ill-hap in his encounter with the gorgons.
if there were any better people in the island (as i really hope there may have been, although the story tells nothing about any such), they stayed quietly at home, minding their business, and taking care of their little children.
most of the inhabitants, at all events, ran as fast as they could to the palace, and shoved, and pushed, and elbowed one another, in their eagerness to get near a balcony, on which perseus showed himself, holding the embroidered wallet in his hand.
on a platform, within full view of the balcony, sat the mighty king polydectes, amid his evil counselors, and with his flattering courtiers in a semicircle round about him.
monarch, counselors, courtiers, and subjects, all gazed eagerly towards perseus.
"show us the head!
show us the head!"
shouted the people; and there was a fierceness in their cry as if they would tear perseus to pieces, unless he should satisfy them with what he had to show.
"show us the head of medusa with the snaky locks!"
a feeling of sorrow and pity came over the youthful perseus.
"o king polydectes," cried he, "and ye many people, i am very loath to show you the gorgon's head!"
"ah, the villain and coward!"
yelled the people, more fiercely than before.
"he is making game of us!
he has no gorgon's head!
show us the head, if you have it, or we will take your own head for a football!"
the evil counselors whispered bad advice in the king's ear; the courtiers murmured, with one consent, that perseus had shown disrespect to their royal lord and master; and the great king polydectes himself waved his hand, and ordered him, with the stern, deep voice of authority, on his peril, to produce the head.
"show me the gorgon's head, or i will cut off your own!"
and perseus sighed.
"this instant," repeated polydectes, "or you die!"
"behold it, then!"
cried perseus, in a voice like the blast of a trumpet.
and, suddenly holding up the head, not an eyelid had time to wink before the wicked king polydectes, his evil counselors, and all his fierce subjects were no longer anything but the mere images of a monarch and his people.
they were all fixed, forever, in the look and attitude of that moment!
at the first glimpse of the terrible head of medusa, they whitened into marble!
and perseus thrust the head back into his wallet, and went to tell his dear mother that she need no longer be afraid of the wicked king polydectes.
tanglewood porch
after the story
"was not that a very fine story?"
asked eustace.
"oh, yes, yes!"
cried cowslip, clapping her hands.
"and those funny old women, with only one eye amongst them!
i never heard of anything so strange."
"as to their one tooth, which they shifted about," observed primrose, "there was nothing so very wonderful in that.
i suppose it was a false tooth.
but think of your turning mercury into quicksilver, and talking about his sister!
you are too ridiculous!"
"and was she not his sister?"
asked eustace bright.
"if i had thought of it sooner, i would have described her as a maiden lady, who kept a pet owl!"
"well, at any rate," said primrose, "your story seems to have driven away the mist."
and, indeed, while the tale was going forward, the vapors had been quite exhaled from the landscape.
a scene was now disclosed which the spectators might almost fancy as having been created since they had last looked in the direction where it lay.
about half a mile distant, in the lap of the valley, now appeared a beautiful lake, which reflected a perfect image of its own wooded banks, and of the summits of the more distant hills.
it gleamed in glassy tranquillity, without the trace of a winged breeze on any part of its bosom.
beyond its farther shore was monument mountain, in a recumbent position, stretching almost across the valley.
eustace bright compared it to a huge, headless sphinx, wrapped in a persian shawl; and, indeed, so rich and diversified was the autumnal foliage of its woods, that the simile of the shawl was by no means too high-colored for the reality.
in the lower ground, between tanglewood and the lake, the clumps of trees and borders of woodland were chiefly golden-leaved or dusky brown, as having suffered more from frost than the foliage on the hill-sides.
over all this scene there was a genial sunshine, intermingled with a slight haze, which made it unspeakably soft and tender.
oh, what a day of indian summer was it going to be!
the children snatched their baskets, and set forth, with hop, skip, and jump, and all sorts of frisks and gambols; while cousin eustace proved his fitness to preside over the party, by outdoing all their antics, and performing several new capers, which none of them could ever hope to imitate.
behind went a good old dog, whose name was ben.
he was one of the most respectable and kind-hearted of quadrupeds, and probably felt it to be his duty not to trust the children away from their parents without some better guardian than this feather-brained eustace bright.
the golden touch
shadow brook
introductory to the golden touch
at noon, our juvenile party assembled in a dell, through the depths of which ran a little brook.
the dell was narrow, and its steep sides, from the margin of the stream upward, were thickly set with trees, chiefly walnuts and chestnuts, among which grew a few oaks and maples.
in the summer time, the shade of so many clustering branches, meeting and intermingling across the rivulet, was deep enough to produce a noontide twilight.
hence came the name of shadow brook.
but now, ever since autumn had crept into this secluded place, all the dark verdure was changed to gold, so that it really kindled up the dell, instead of shading it.
the bright yellow leaves, even had it been a cloudy day, would have seemed to keep the sunlight among them; and enough of them had fallen to strew all the bed and margin of the brook with sunlight, too.
thus the shady nook, where summer had cooled herself, was now the sunniest spot anywhere to be found.
the little brook ran along over its pathway of gold, here pausing to form a pool, in which minnows were darting to and fro; and then it hurried onward at a swifter pace, as if in haste to reach the lake; and, forgetting to look whither it went, it tumbled over the root of a tree, which stretched quite across its current.
you would have laughed to hear how noisily it babbled about this accident.
and even after it had run onward, the brook still kept talking to itself, as if it were in a maze.
it was wonder-smitten, i suppose, at finding its dark dell so illuminated, and at hearing the prattle and merriment of so many children.
so it stole away as quickly as it could, and hid itself in the lake.
in the dell of shadow brook, eustace bright and his little friends had eaten their dinner.
they had brought plenty of good things from tanglewood, in their baskets, and had spread them out on the stumps of trees and on mossy trunks, and had feasted merrily, and made a very nice dinner indeed.
after it was over, nobody felt like stirring.
"we will rest ourselves here," said several of the children, "while cousin eustace tells us another of his pretty stories."
cousin eustace had a good right to be tired, as well as the children, for he had performed great feats on that memorable forenoon.
dandelion, clover, cowslip, and buttercup were almost persuaded that he had winged slippers, like those which the nymphs gave perseus; so often had the student shown himself at the tiptop of a nut-tree, when only a moment before he had been standing on the ground.
and then, what showers of walnuts had he sent rattling down upon their heads, for their busy little hands to gather into the baskets!
in short, he had been as active as a squirrel or a monkey, and now, flinging himself down on the yellow leaves, seemed inclined to take a little rest.
but children have no mercy nor consideration for anybody's weariness; and if you had but a single breath left, they would ask you to spend it in telling them a story.
"cousin eustace," said cowslip, "that was a very nice story of the gorgon's head.
do you think you could tell us another as good?"
"yes, child," said eustace, pulling the brim of his cap over his eyes, as if preparing for a nap.
"i can tell you a dozen, as good or better, if i choose."
"o primrose and periwinkle, do you hear what he says?"
cried cowslip, dancing with delight.
"cousin eustace is going to tell us a dozen better stories than that about the gorgon's head!"
"i did not promise you even one, you foolish little cowslip!"
said eustace, half pettishly.
"however, i suppose you must have it.
this is the consequence of having earned a reputation!
i wish i were a great deal duller than i am, or that i had never shown half the bright qualities with which nature has endowed me; and then i might have my nap out, in peace and comfort!"
but cousin eustace, as i think i have hinted before, was as fond of telling his stories as the children of hearing them.
his mind was in a free and happy state, and took delight in its own activity, and scarcely required any external impulse to set it at work.
how different is this spontaneous play of the intellect from the trained diligence of maturer years, when toil has perhaps grown easy by long habit, and the day's work may have become essential to the day's comfort, although the rest of the matter has bubbled away!
this remark, however, is not meant for the children to hear.
without further solicitation, eustace bright proceeded to tell the following really splendid story.
it had come into his mind as he lay looking upward into the depths of a tree, and observing how the touch of autumn had transmuted every one of its green leaves into what resembled the purest gold.
and this change, which we have all of us witnessed, is as wonderful as anything that eustace told about in the story of midas.
the golden touch
once upon a time, there lived a very rich man, and a king besides, whose name was midas; and he had a little daughter, whom nobody but myself ever heard of, and whose name i either never knew, or have entirely forgotten.
so, because i love odd names for little girls, i choose to call her marygold.
this king midas was fonder of gold than of anything else in the world.
he valued his royal crown chiefly because it was composed of that precious metal.
if he loved anything better, or half so well, it was the one little maiden who played so merrily around her father's footstool.
but the more midas loved his daughter, the more did he desire and seek for wealth.
he thought, foolish man!
that the best thing he could possibly do for this dear child would be to bequeath her the immensest pile of yellow, glistening coin, that had ever been heaped together since the world was made.
thus, he gave all his thoughts and all his time to this one purpose.
if ever he happened to gaze for an instant at the gold-tinted clouds of sunset, he wished that they were real gold, and that they could be squeezed safely into his strong box.
when little marygold ran to meet him, with a bunch of buttercups and dandelions, he used to say, "poh, poh, child!
if these flowers were as golden as they look, they would be worth the plucking!"
and yet, in his earlier days, before he was so entirely possessed of this insane desire for riches, king midas had shown a great taste for flowers.
he had planted a garden, in which grew the biggest and beautifullest and sweetest roses that any mortal ever saw or smelt.
these roses were still growing in the garden, as large, as lovely, and as fragrant, as when midas used to pass whole hours in gazing at them, and inhaling their perfume.
but now, if he looked at them at all, it was only to calculate how much the garden would be worth if each of the innumerable rose-petals were a thin plate of gold.
and though he once was fond of music (in spite of an idle story about his ears, which were said to resemble those of an ass), the only music for poor midas, now, was the chink of one coin against another.
at length (as people always grow more and more foolish, unless they take care to grow wiser and wiser), midas had got to be so exceedingly unreasonable, that he could scarcely bear to see or touch any object that was not gold.
he made it his custom, therefore, to pass a large portion of every day in a dark and dreary apartment, under ground, at the basement of his palace.
it was here that he kept his wealth.
to this dismal hole for it was little better than a dungeon midas betook himself, whenever he wanted to be particularly happy.
here, after carefully locking the door, he would take a bag of gold coin, or a gold cup as big as a washbowl, or a heavy golden bar, or a peck-measure of gold-dust, and bring them from the obscure corners of the room into the one bright and narrow sunbeam that fell from the dungeon-like window.
he valued the sunbeam for no other reason but that his treasure would not shine without its help.
and then would he reckon over the coins in the bag; toss up the bar, and catch it as it came down; sift the gold-dust through his fingers; look at the funny image of his own face, as reflected in the burnished circumference of the cup; and whisper to himself, "o midas, rich king midas, what a happy man art thou!"
but it was laughable to see how the image of his face kept grinning at him, out of the polished surface of the cup.
it seemed to be aware of his foolish behavior, and to have a naughty inclination to make fun of him.
midas called himself a happy man, but felt that he was not yet quite so happy as he might be.
the very tiptop of enjoyment would never be reached, unless the whole world were to become his treasure-room, and be filled with yellow metal which should be all his own.
now, i need hardly remind such wise little people as you are, that in the old, old times, when king midas was alive, a great many things came to pass, which we should consider wonderful if they were to happen in our own day and country.
and, on the other hand, a great many things take place nowadays, which seem not only wonderful to us, but at which the people of old times would have stared their eyes out.
on the whole, i regard our own times as the strangest of the two; but, however that may be, i must go on with my story.
midas was enjoying himself in his treasure-room, one day, as usual, when he perceived a shadow fall over the heaps of gold; and, looking suddenly up, what should he behold but the figure of a stranger, standing in the bright and narrow sunbeam!
it was a young man, with a cheerful and ruddy face.
whether it was that the imagination of king midas threw a yellow tinge over everything, or whatever the cause might be, he could not help fancying that the smile with which the stranger regarded him had a kind of golden radiance in it.
certainly, although his figure intercepted the sunshine, there was now a brighter gleam upon all the piled-up treasures than before.
even the remotest corners had their share of it, and were lighted up, when the stranger smiled, as with tips of flame and sparkles of fire.
as midas knew that he had carefully turned the key in the lock, and that no mortal strength could possibly break into his treasure-room, he, of course, concluded that his visitor must be something more than mortal.
it is no matter about telling you who he was.
in those days, when the earth was comparatively a new affair, it was supposed to be often the resort of beings endowed with supernatural power, and who used to interest themselves in the joys and sorrows of men, women, and children, half playfully and half seriously.
midas had met such beings before now, and was not sorry to meet one of them again.
the stranger's aspect, indeed, was so good-humored and kindly, if not beneficent, that it would have been unreasonable to suspect him of intending any mischief.
it was far more probable that he came to do midas a favor.
and what could that favor be, unless to multiply his heaps of treasure?
the stranger gazed about the room; and when his lustrous smile had glistened upon all the golden objects that were there, he turned again to midas.
"you are a wealthy man, friend midas!"
he observed.
"i doubt whether any other four walls, on earth, contain so much gold as you have contrived to pile up in this room."
"i have done pretty well, pretty well," answered midas, in a discontented tone.
"but, after all, it is but a trifle, when you consider that it has taken me my whole life to get it together.
if one could live a thousand years, he might have time to grow rich!"
"what!"
exclaimed the stranger.
"then you are not satisfied?"
midas shook his head.
"and pray what would satisfy you?"
asked the stranger.
"merely for the curiosity of the thing, i should be glad to know."
midas paused and meditated.
he felt a presentiment that this stranger, with such a golden lustre in his good-humored smile, had come hither with both the power and the purpose of gratifying his utmost wishes.
now, therefore, was the fortunate moment, when he had but to speak, and obtain whatever possible, or seemingly impossible thing, it might come into his head to ask.
so he thought, and thought, and thought, and heaped up one golden mountain upon another, in his imagination, without being able to imagine them big enough.
at last, a bright idea occurred to king midas.
it seemed really as bright as the glistening metal which he loved so much.
raising his head, he looked the lustrous stranger in the face.
"well, midas," observed his visitor, "i see that you have at length hit upon something that will satisfy you.
tell me your wish."
"it is only this," replied midas.
"i am weary of collecting my treasures with so much trouble, and beholding the heap so diminutive, after i have done my best.
i wish everything that i touch to be changed to gold!"
the stranger's smile grew so very broad, that it seemed to fill the room like an outburst of the sun, gleaming into a shadowy dell, where the yellow autumnal leaves for so looked the lumps and particles of gold lie strewn in the glow of light.
"the golden touch!"
exclaimed he.
"you certainly deserve credit, friend midas, for striking out so brilliant a conception.
but are you quite sure that this will satisfy you?"
"how could it fail?"
said midas.
"and will you never regret the possession of it?"
"what could induce me?"
asked midas.
"i ask nothing else, to render me perfectly happy."
"be it as you wish, then," replied the stranger, waving his hand in token of farewell.
"to-morrow, at sunrise, you will find yourself gifted with the golden touch."
the figure of the stranger then became exceedingly bright, and midas involuntarily closed his eyes.
on opening them again, he beheld only one yellow sunbeam in the room, and, all around him, the glistening of the precious metal which he had spent his life in hoarding up.
whether midas slept as usual that night, the story does not say.
asleep or awake, however, his mind was probably in the state of a child's, to whom a beautiful new plaything has been promised in the morning.
at any rate, day had hardly peeped over the hills, when king midas was broad awake, and, stretching his arms out of bed, began to touch the objects that were within reach.
he was anxious to prove whether the golden touch had really come, according to the stranger's promise.
so he laid his finger on a chair by the bedside, and on various other things, but was grievously disappointed to perceive that they remained of exactly the same substance as before.
indeed, he felt very much afraid that he had only dreamed about the lustrous stranger, or else that the latter had been making game of him.
and what a miserable affair would it be, if, after all his hopes, midas must content himself with what little gold he could scrape together by ordinary means, instead of creating it by a touch!
all this while, it was only the gray of the morning, with but a streak of brightness along the edge of the sky, where midas could not see it.
he lay in a very disconsolate mood, regretting the downfall of his hopes, and kept growing sadder and sadder, until the earliest sunbeam shone through the window, and gilded the ceiling over his head.
it seemed to midas that this bright yellow sunbeam was reflected in rather a singular way on the white covering of the bed.
looking more closely, what was his astonishment and delight, when he found that this linen fabric had been transmuted to what seemed a woven texture of the purest and brightest gold!
the golden touch had come to him with the first sunbeam!
midas started up, in a kind of joyful frenzy, and ran about the room, grasping at everything that happened to be in his way.
he seized one of the bed-posts, and it became immediately a fluted golden pillar.
he pulled aside a window-curtain, in order to admit a clear spectacle of the wonders which he was performing; and the tassel grew heavy in his hand, a mass of gold.
he took up a book from the table.
at his first touch, it assumed the appearance of such a splendidly bound and gilt-edged volume as one often meets with, nowadays; but, on running his fingers through the leaves, behold!
it was a bundle of thin golden plates, in which all the wisdom of the book had grown illegible.
he hurriedly put on his clothes, and was enraptured to see himself in a magnificent suit of gold cloth, which retained its flexibility and softness, although it burdened him a little with its weight.
he drew out his handkerchief, which little marygold had hemmed for him.
that was likewise gold, with the dear child's neat and pretty stitches running all along the border, in gold thread!
somehow or other, this last transformation did not quite please king midas.
he would rather that his little daughter's handiwork should have remained just the same as when she climbed his knee and put it into his hand.
but it was not worth while to vex himself about a trifle.
midas now took his spectacles from his pocket, and put them on his nose, in order that he might see more distinctly what he was about.
in those days, spectacles for common people had not been invented, but were already worn by kings; else, how could midas have had any?
to his great perplexity, however, excellent as the glasses were, he discovered that he could not possibly see through them.
but this was the most natural thing in the world; for, on taking them off, the transparent crystal turned out to be plates of yellow metal, and, of course, were worthless as spectacles, though valuable as gold.
it struck midas as rather inconvenient that, with all his wealth, he could never again be rich enough to own a pair of serviceable spectacles.
"it is no great matter, nevertheless," said he to himself, very philosophically.
"we cannot expect any great good, without its being accompanied with some small inconvenience.
the golden touch is worth the sacrifice of a pair of spectacles, at least, if not of one's very eyesight.
my own eyes will serve for ordinary purposes, and little marygold will soon be old enough to read to me."
wise king midas was so exalted by his good fortune, that the palace seemed not sufficiently spacious to contain him.
he therefore went downstairs, and smiled, on observing that the balustrade of the staircase became a bar of burnished gold, as his hand passed over it, in his descent.
he lifted the door-latch (it was brass only a moment ago, but golden when his fingers quitted it), and emerged into the garden.
here, as it happened, he found a great number of beautiful roses in full bloom, and others in all the stages of lovely bud and blossom.
very delicious was their fragrance in the morning breeze.
their delicate blush was one of the fairest sights in the world; so gentle, so modest, and so full of sweet tranquillity, did these roses seem to be.
but midas knew a way to make them far more precious, according to his way of thinking, than roses had ever been before.
so he took great pains in going from bush to bush, and exercised his magic touch most indefatigably; until every individual flower and bud, and even the worms at the heart of some of them, were changed to gold.
by the time this good work was completed, king midas was summoned to breakfast; and as the morning air had given him an excellent appetite, he made haste back to the palace.
what was usually a king's breakfast in the days of midas, i really do not know, and cannot stop now to investigate.
to the best of my belief, however, on this particular morning, the breakfast consisted of hot cakes, some nice little brook trout, roasted potatoes, fresh boiled eggs, and coffee, for king midas himself, and a bowl of bread and milk for his daughter marygold.
at all events, this is a breakfast fit to set before a king; and, whether he had it or not, king midas could not have had a better.
little marygold had not yet made her appearance.
her father ordered her to be called, and, seating himself at table, awaited the child's coming, in order to begin his own breakfast.
to do midas justice, he really loved his daughter, and loved her so much the more this morning, on account of the good fortune which had befallen him.
it was not a great while before he heard her coming along the passageway crying bitterly.
this circumstance surprised him, because marygold was one of the cheerfullest little people whom you would see in a summer's day, and hardly shed a thimbleful of tears in a twelvemonth.
when midas heard her sobs, he determined to put little marygold into better spirits, by an agreeable surprise; so, leaning across the table, he touched his daughter's bowl (which was a china one, with pretty figures all around it), and transmuted it to gleaming gold.
meanwhile, marygold slowly and disconsolately opened the door, and showed herself with her apron at her eyes, still sobbing as if her heart would break.
"how now, my little lady!"
cried midas.
"pray what is the matter with you, this bright morning?"
marygold, without taking the apron from her eyes, held out her hand, in which was one of the roses which midas had so recently transmuted.
"beautiful!"
exclaimed her father.
"and what is there in this magnificent golden rose to make you cry?"
"ah, dear father!"
answered the child, as well as her sobs would let her; "it is not beautiful, but the ugliest flower that ever grew!
as soon as i was dressed i ran into the garden to gather some roses for you; because i know you like them, and like them the better when gathered by your little daughter.
but, oh dear, dear me!
what do you think has happened?
such a misfortune!
all the beautiful roses, that smelled so sweetly and had so many lovely blushes, are blighted and spoilt!
they are grown quite yellow, as you see this one, and have no longer any fragrance!
what can have been the matter with them?"
"poh, my dear little girl, pray don't cry about it!"
said midas, who was ashamed to confess that he himself had wrought the change which so greatly afflicted her.
"sit down and eat your bread and milk!
you will find it easy enough to exchange a golden rose like that (which will last hundreds of years) for an ordinary one which would wither in a day."
"i don't care for such roses as this!"
cried marygold, tossing it contemptuously away.
"it has no smell, and the hard petals prick my nose!"
the child now sat down to table, but was so occupied with her grief for the blighted roses that she did not even notice the wonderful transmutation of her china bowl.
perhaps this was all the better; for marygold was accustomed to take pleasure in looking at the queer figures, and strange trees and houses, that were painted on the circumference of the bowl; and these ornaments were now entirely lost in the yellow hue of the metal.
midas, meanwhile, had poured out a cup of coffee, and, as a matter of course, the coffee-pot, whatever metal it may have been when he took it up, was gold when he set it down.
he thought to himself, that it was rather an extravagant style of splendor, in a king of his simple habits, to breakfast off a service of gold, and began to be puzzled with the difficulty of keeping his treasures safe.
the cupboard and the kitchen would no longer be a secure place of deposit for articles so valuable as golden bowls and coffee-pots.
amid these thoughts, he lifted a spoonful of coffee to his lips, and, sipping it, was astonished to perceive that, the instant his lips touched the liquid, it became molten gold, and, the next moment, hardened into a lump!
"ha!"
exclaimed midas, rather aghast.
"what is the matter, father?"
asked little marygold, gazing at him, with the tears still standing in her eyes.
"nothing, child, nothing!"
said midas.
"eat your milk, before it gets quite cold."
he took one of the nice little trouts on his plate, and, by way of experiment, touched its tail with his finger.
to his horror, it was immediately transmuted from an admirably fried brook-trout into a gold-fish, though not one of those gold-fishes which people often keep in glass globes, as ornaments for the parlor.
no; but it was really a metallic fish, and looked as if it had been very cunningly made by the nicest goldsmith in the world.
its little bones were now golden wires; its fins and tail were thin plates of gold; and there were the marks of the fork in it, and all the delicate, frothy appearance of a nicely fried fish, exactly imitated in metal.
a very pretty piece of work, as you may suppose; only king midas, just at that moment, would much rather have had a real trout in his dish than this elaborate and valuable imitation of one.
"i don't quite see," thought he to himself, "how i am to get any breakfast."
he took one of the smoking-hot cakes, and had scarcely broken it, when, to his cruel mortification, though, a moment before, it had been of the whitest wheat, it assumed the yellow hue of indian meal.
to say the truth, if it had really been a hot indian cake, midas would have prized it a good deal more than he now did, when its solidity and increased weight made him too bitterly sensible that it was gold.
almost in despair, he helped himself to a boiled egg, which immediately underwent a change similar to those of the trout and the cake.
the egg, indeed, might have been mistaken for one of those which the famous goose, in the story-book, was in the habit of laying; but king midas was the only goose that had anything to do with the matter.
"well, this is a quandary!"
thought he, leaning back in his chair, and looking quite enviously at little marygold, who was now eating her bread and milk with great satisfaction.
"such a costly breakfast before me, and nothing that can be eaten!"
hoping that, by dint of great dispatch, he might avoid what he now felt to be a considerable inconvenience, king midas next snatched a hot potato, and attempted to cram it into his mouth, and swallow it in a hurry.
but the golden touch was too nimble for him.
he found his mouth full, not of mealy potato, but of solid metal, which so burnt his tongue that he roared aloud, and, jumping up from the table, began to dance and stamp about the room, both with pain and affright.
"father, dear father!"
cried little marygold, who was a very affectionate child, "pray what is the matter?
have you burnt your mouth?"
"ah, dear child," groaned midas, dolefully, "i don't know what is to become of your poor father!"
and, truly, my dear little folks, did you ever hear of such a pitiable case in all your lives?
here was literally the richest breakfast that could be set before a king, and its very richness made it absolutely good for nothing.
the poorest laborer, sitting down to his crust of bread and cup of water, was far better off than king midas, whose delicate food was really worth its weight in gold.
and what was to be done?
already, at breakfast, midas was excessively hungry.
would he be less so by dinner time?
and how ravenous would be his appetite for supper, which must undoubtedly consist of the same sort of indigestible dishes as those now before him!
how many days, think you, would he survive a continuance of this rich fare?
these reflections so troubled wise king midas, that he began to doubt whether, after all, riches are the one desirable thing in the world, or even the most desirable.
but this was only a passing thought.
so fascinated was midas with the glitter of the yellow metal, that he would still have refused to give up the golden touch for so paltry a consideration as a breakfast.
just imagine what a price for one meal's victuals!
it would have been the same as paying millions and millions of money (and as many millions more as would take forever to reckon up) for some fried trout, an egg, a potato, a hot cake, and a cup of coffee!
"it would be quite too dear," thought midas.
nevertheless, so great was his hunger, and the perplexity of his situation, that he again groaned aloud, and very grievously too.
our pretty marygold could endure it no longer.
she sat, a moment, gazing at her father, and trying, with all the might of her little wits, to find out what was the matter with him.
then, with a sweet and sorrowful impulse to comfort him, she started from her chair, and, running to midas, threw her arms affectionately about his knees.
he bent down and kissed her.
he felt that his little daughter's love was worth a thousand times more than he had gained by the golden touch.
"my precious, precious marygold!"
cried he.
but marygold made no answer.
alas, what had he done?
how fatal was the gift which the stranger bestowed!
the moment the lips of midas touched marygold's forehead, a change had taken place.
her sweet, rosy face, so full of affection as it had been, assumed a glittering yellow color, with yellow tear-drops congealing on her cheeks.
her beautiful brown ringlets took the same tint.
her soft and tender little form grew hard and inflexible within her father's encircling arms.
oh, terrible misfortune!
the victim of his insatiable desire for wealth, little marygold was a human child no longer, but a golden statue!
yes, there she was, with the questioning look of love, grief, and pity, hardened into her face.
it was the prettiest and most woeful sight that ever mortal saw.
all the features and tokens of marygold were there; even the beloved little dimple remained in her golden chin.
but the more perfect was the resemblance, the greater was the father's agony at beholding this golden image, which was all that was left him of a daughter.
it had been a favorite phrase of midas, whenever he felt particularly fond of the child, to say that she was worth her weight in gold.
and now the phrase had become literally true.
and now, at last, when it was too late, he felt how infinitely a warm and tender heart, that loved him, exceeded in value all the wealth that could be piled up betwixt the earth and sky!
it would be too sad a story, if i were to tell you how midas, in the fullness of all his gratified desires, began to wring his hands and bemoan himself; and how he could neither bear to look at marygold, nor yet to look away from her.
except when his eyes were fixed on the image, he could not possibly believe that she was changed to gold.
but, stealing another glance, there was the precious little figure, with a yellow tear-drop on its yellow cheek, and a look so piteous and tender, that it seemed as if that very expression must needs soften the gold, and make it flesh again.
this, however, could not be.
so midas had only to wring his hands, and to wish that he were the poorest man in the wide world, if the loss of all his wealth might bring back the faintest rose-color to his dear child's face.
while he was in this tumult of despair, he suddenly beheld a stranger standing near the door.
midas bent down his head, without speaking; for he recognized the same figure which had appeared to him, the day before, in the treasure-room, and had bestowed on him this disastrous faculty of the golden touch.
the stranger's countenance still wore a smile, which seemed to shed a yellow lustre all about the room, and gleamed on little marygold's image, and on the other objects that had been transmuted by the touch of midas.
"well, friend midas," said the stranger, "pray how do you succeed with the golden touch?"
midas shook his head.
"i am very miserable," said he.
"very miserable, indeed!"
exclaimed the stranger.
"and how happens that?
have i not faithfully kept my promise with you?
have you not everything that your heart desired?"
"gold is not everything," answered midas.
"and i have lost all that my heart really cared for."
"ah!
so you have made a discovery, since yesterday?"
observed the stranger.
"let us see, then.
which of these two things do you think is really worth the most, the gift of the golden touch, or one cup of clear cold water?"
"o blessed water!"
exclaimed midas.
"it will never moisten my parched throat again!"
"the golden touch," continued the stranger, "or a crust of bread?"
"a piece of bread," answered midas, "is worth all the gold on earth!"
"the golden touch," asked the stranger, "or your own little marygold, warm, soft, and loving as she was an hour ago?"
"oh, my child, my dear child!"
cried poor midas, wringing his hands.
"i would not have given that one small dimple in her chin for the power of changing this whole big earth into a solid lump of gold!"
"you are wiser than you were, king midas!"
said the stranger, looking seriously at him.
"your own heart, i perceive, has not been entirely changed from flesh to gold.
were it so, your case would indeed be desperate.
but you appear to be still capable of understanding that the commonest things, such as lie within everybody's grasp, are more valuable than the riches which so many mortals sigh and struggle after.
tell me, now, do you sincerely desire to rid yourself of this golden touch?"
"it is hateful to me!"
replied midas.
a fly settled on his nose, but immediately fell to the floor; for it, too, had become gold.
midas shuddered.
"go, then," said the stranger, "and plunge into the river that glides past the bottom of your garden.
take likewise a vase of the same water, and sprinkle it over any object that you may desire to change back again from gold into its former substance.
if you do this in earnestness and sincerity, it may possibly repair the mischief which your avarice has occasioned."
king midas bowed low; and when he lifted his head, the lustrous stranger had vanished.
you will easily believe that midas lost no time in snatching up a great earthen pitcher (but, alas me!
it was no longer earthen after he touched it), and hastening to the river-side.
as he scampered along, and forced his way through the shrubbery, it was positively marvelous to see how the foliage turned yellow behind him, as if the autumn had been there, and nowhere else.
on reaching the river's brink, he plunged headlong in, without waiting so much as to pull off his shoes.
"poof!
poof!
poof!"
snorted king midas, as his head emerged out of the water.
"well; this is really a refreshing bath, and i think it must have quite washed away the golden touch.
and now for filling my pitcher!"
as he dipped the pitcher into the water, it gladdened his very heart to see it change from gold into the same good, honest earthen vessel which it had been before he touched it.
he was conscious, also, of a change within himself.
a cold, hard, and heavy weight seemed to have gone out of his bosom.
no doubt, his heart had been gradually losing its human substance, and transmuting itself into insensible metal, but had now softened back again into flesh.
perceiving a violet, that grew on the bank of the river, midas touched it with his finger, and was overjoyed to find that the delicate flower retained its purple hue, instead of undergoing a yellow blight.
the curse of the golden touch had, therefore, really been removed from him.
king midas hastened back to the palace; and, i suppose, the servants knew not what to make of it when they saw their royal master so carefully bringing home an earthen pitcher of water.
but that water, which was to undo all the mischief that his folly had wrought, was more precious to midas than an ocean of molten gold could have been.
the first thing he did, as you need hardly be told, was to sprinkle it by handfuls over the golden figure of little marygold.
no sooner did it fall on her than you would have laughed to see how the rosy color came back to the dear child's cheek!
and how she began to sneeze and sputter!
and how astonished she was to find herself dripping wet, and her father still throwing more water over her!
"pray do not, dear father!"
cried she.
"see how you have wet my nice frock, which i put on only this morning!"
for marygold did not know that she had been a little golden statue; nor could she remember anything that had happened since the moment when she ran with outstretched arms to comfort poor king midas.
her father did not think it necessary to tell his beloved child how very foolish he had been, but contented himself with showing how much wiser he had now grown.
for this purpose, he led little marygold into the garden, where he sprinkled all the remainder of the water over the rose-bushes, and with such good effect that above five thousand roses recovered their beautiful bloom.
there were two circumstances, however, which, as long as he lived, used to put king midas in mind of the golden touch.
one was, that the sands of the river sparkled like gold; the other, that little marygold's hair had now a golden tinge, which he had never observed in it before she had been transmuted by the effect of his kiss.
this change of hue was really an improvement, and made marygold's hair richer than in her babyhood.
when king midas had grown quite an old man, and used to trot marygold's children on his knee, he was fond of telling them this marvelous story, pretty much as i have now told it to you.
and then would he stroke their glossy ringlets, and tell them that their hair, likewise, had a rich shade of gold, which they had inherited from their mother.
"and to tell you the truth, my precious little folks," quoth king midas, diligently trotting the children all the while, "ever since that morning, i have hated the very sight of all other gold, save this!"
shadow brook after the story
"well, children," inquired eustace, who was very fond of eliciting a definite opinion from his auditors, "did you ever, in all your lives, listen to a better story than this of 'the golden touch'?"
"why, as to the story of king midas," said saucy primrose, "it was a famous one thousands of years before mr. eustace bright came into the world, and will continue to be so long after he quits it.
but some people have what we may call 'the leaden touch,' and make everything dull and heavy that they lay their fingers upon."
"you are a smart child, primrose, to be not yet in your teens," said eustace, taken rather aback by the piquancy of her criticism.
"but you well know, in your naughty little heart, that i have burnished the old gold of midas all over anew, and have made it shine as it never shone before.
and then that figure of marygold!
do you perceive no nice workmanship in that?
and how finely i have brought out and deepened the moral!
what say you, sweet fern, dandelion, clover, periwinkle?
would any of you, after hearing this story, be so foolish as to desire the faculty of changing things to gold?"
"i should like," said periwinkle, a girl of ten, "to have the power of turning everything to gold with my right forefinger; but, with my left forefinger, i should want the power of changing it back again, if the first change did not please me.
and i know what i would do, this very afternoon!"
"pray tell me," said eustace.
"why," answered periwinkle, "i would touch every one of these golden leaves on the trees with my left forefinger, and make them all green again; so that we might have the summer back at once, with no ugly winter in the mean time."
"o periwinkle!"
cried eustace bright, "there you are wrong, and would do a great deal of mischief.
were i midas, i would make nothing else but just such golden days as these over and over again, all the year throughout.
my best thoughts always come a little too late.
why did not i tell you how old king midas came to america, and changed the dusky autumn, such as it is in other countries, into the burnished beauty which it here puts on?
he gilded the leaves of the great volume of nature."
"cousin eustace," said sweet fern, a good little boy, who was always making particular inquiries about the precise height of giants and the littleness of fairies, "how big was marygold, and how much did she weigh after she was turned to gold?"
"she was about as tall as you are," replied eustace, "and, as gold is very heavy, she weighed at least two thousand pounds, and might have been coined into thirty or forty thousand gold dollars.
i wish primrose were worth half as much.
come, little people, let us clamber out of the dell, and look about us."
they did so.
the sun was now an hour or two beyond its noontide mark, and filled the great hollow of the valley with its western radiance, so that it seemed to be brimming with mellow light, and to spill it over the surrounding hill-sides, like golden wine out of a bowl.
it was such a day that you could not help saying of it, "there never was such a day before!"
although yesterday was just such a day, and to-morrow will be just such another.
ah, but there are very few of them in a twelvemonth's circle!
it is a remarkable peculiarity of these october days, that each of them seems to occupy a great deal of space, although the sun rises rather tardily at that season of the year, and goes to bed, as little children ought, at sober six o'clock, or even earlier.
we cannot, therefore, call the days long; but they appear, somehow or other, to make up for their shortness by their breadth; and when the cool night comes, we are conscious of having enjoyed a big armful of life, since morning.
"come, children, come!"
cried eustace bright.
"more nuts, more nuts, more nuts!
fill all your baskets; and, at christmas time, i will crack them for you, and tell you beautiful stories!"
so away they went; all of them in excellent spirits, except little dandelion, who, i am sorry to tell you, had been sitting on a chestnut-bur, and was stuck as full as a pincushion of its prickles.
dear me, how uncomfortably he must have felt!
the paradise of children
tanglewood play-room.
introductory to the paradise of children
the golden days of october passed away, as so many other octobers have, and brown november likewise, and the greater part of chill december, too.
at last came merry christmas, and eustace bright along with it, making it all the merrier by his presence.
and, the day after his arrival from college, there came a mighty snow-storm.
up to this time, the winter had held back, and had given us a good many mild days, which were like smiles upon its wrinkled visage.
the grass had kept itself green, in sheltered places, such as the nooks of southern hill-slopes, and along the lee of the stone fences.
it was but a week or two ago, and since the beginning of the month, that the children had found a dandelion in bloom, on the margin of shadow brook, where it glides out of the dell.
but no more green grass and dandelions now.
this was such a snow-storm!
twenty miles of it might have been visible at once, between the windows of tanglewood and the dome of taconic, had it been possible to see so far among the eddying drifts that whitened all the atmosphere.
it seemed as if the hills were giants, and were flinging monstrous handfuls of snow at one another, in their enormous sport.
so thick were the fluttering snow-flakes, that even the trees, midway down the valley, were hidden by them the greater part of the time.
sometimes, it is true, the little prisoners of tanglewood could discern a dim outline of monument mountain, and the smooth whiteness of the frozen lake at its base, and the black or gray tracts of woodland in the nearer landscape.
but these were merely peeps through the tempest.
nevertheless, the children rejoiced greatly in the snow-storm.
they had already made acquaintance with it, by tumbling heels over head into its highest drifts, and flinging snow at one another, as we have just fancied the berkshire mountains to be doing.
and now they had come back to their spacious play-room, which was as big as the great drawing-room, and was lumbered with all sorts of playthings, large and small.
the biggest was a rocking-horse, that looked like a real pony; and there was a whole family of wooden, waxen, plaster, and china dolls, besides rag-babies; and blocks enough to build bunker hill monument, and nine-pins, and balls, and humming-tops, and battledores, and grace-sticks, and skipping-ropes, and more of such valuable property than i could tell of in a printed page.
but the children liked the snow-storm better than them all.
it suggested so many brisk enjoyments for to-morrow, and all the remainder of the winter.
the sleigh-ride; the slides down hill into the valley; the snow-images that were to be shaped out; the snow-fortresses that were to be built; and the snowballing to be carried on!
so the little folks blessed the snow-storm, and were glad to see it come thicker and thicker, and watched hopefully the long drift that was piling itself up in the avenue, and was already higher than any of their heads.
"why, we shall be blocked up till spring!"
cried they, with the hugest delight.
"what a pity that the house is too high to be quite covered up!
the little red house, down yonder, will be buried up to its eaves."
"you silly children, what do you want of more snow?"
asked eustace, who, tired of some novel that he was skimming through, had strolled into the play-room.
"it has done mischief enough already, by spoiling the only skating that i could hope for through the winter.
we shall see nothing more of the lake till april; and this was to have been my first day upon it!
don't you pity me, primrose?"
"oh, to be sure!"
answered primrose, laughing.
"but, for your comfort, we will listen to another of your old stories, such as you told us under the porch, and down in the hollow, by shadow brook.
perhaps i shall like them better now, when there is nothing to do, than while there were nuts to be gathered, and beautiful weather to enjoy."
hereupon, periwinkle, clover, sweet fern, and as many others of the little fraternity and cousinhood as were still at tanglewood, gathered about eustace, and earnestly besought him for a story.
the student yawned, stretched himself, and then, to the vast admiration of the small people, skipped three times back and forth over the top of a chair, in order, as he explained to them, to set his wits in motion.
"well, well, children," said he, after these preliminaries, "since you insist, and primrose has set her heart upon it, i will see what can be done for you.
and, that you may know what happy days there were before snow-storms came into fashion, i will tell you a story of the oldest of all old times, when the world was as new as sweet fern's bran-new humming-top.
there was then but one season in the year, and that was the delightful summer; and but one age for mortals, and that was childhood."
"i never heard of that before," said primrose.
"of course, you never did," answered eustace.
"it shall be a story of what nobody but myself ever dreamed of, a paradise of children, and how, by the naughtiness of just such a little imp as primrose here, it all came to nothing."
so eustace bright sat down in the chair which he had just been skipping over, took cowslip upon his knee, ordered silence throughout the auditory, and began a story about a sad naughty child, whose name was pandora, and about her playfellow epimetheus.
you may read it, word for word, in the pages that come next.
the paradise of children
long, long ago, when this old world was in its tender infancy, there was a child, named epimetheus, who never had either father or mother; and, that he might not be lonely, another child, fatherless and motherless like himself, was sent from a far country, to live with him, and be his playfellow and helpmate.
her name was pandora.
the first thing that pandora saw, when she entered the cottage where epimetheus dwelt, was a great box.
and almost the first question which she put to him, after crossing the threshold, was this,
"epimetheus, what have you in that box?"
"my dear little pandora," answered epimetheus, "that is a secret, and you must be kind enough not to ask any questions about it.
the box was left here to be kept safely, and i do not myself know what it contains."
"but who gave it to you?"
asked pandora.
"and where did it come from?"
"that is a secret, too," replied epimetheus.
"how provoking!"
exclaimed pandora, pouting her lip.
"i wish the great ugly box were out of the way!"
"oh come, don't think of it any more," cried epimetheus.
"let us run out of doors, and have some nice play with the other children."
it is thousands of years since epimetheus and pandora were alive; and the world, nowadays, is a very different sort of thing from what it was in their time.
then, everybody was a child.
there needed no fathers and mothers to take care of the children; because there was no danger, nor trouble of any kind, and no clothes to be mended, and there was always plenty to eat and drink.
whenever a child wanted his dinner, he found it growing on a tree; and, if he looked at the tree in the morning, he could see the expanding blossom of that night's supper; or, at eventide, he saw the tender bud of to-morrow's breakfast.
it was a very pleasant life indeed.
no labor to be done, no tasks to be studied; nothing but sports and dances, and sweet voices of children talking, or carolling like birds, or gushing out in merry laughter, throughout the livelong day.
what was most wonderful of all, the children never quarreled among themselves; neither had they any crying fits; nor, since time first began, had a single one of these little mortals ever gone apart into a corner, and sulked.
oh, what a good time was that to be alive in!
the truth is, those ugly little winged monsters, called troubles, which are now almost as numerous as mosquitoes, had never yet been seen on the earth.
it is probable that the very greatest disquietude which a child had ever experienced was pandora's vexation at not being able to discover the secret of the mysterious box.
this was at first only the faint shadow of a trouble; but, every day, it grew more and more substantial, until, before a great while, the cottage of epimetheus and pandora was less sunshiny than those of the other children.
"whence can the box have come?"
pandora continually kept saying to herself and to epimetheus.
"and what in the world can be inside of it?"
"always talking about this box!"
said epimetheus, at last; for he had grown extremely tired of the subject.
"i wish, dear pandora, you would try to talk of something else.
come, let us go and gather some ripe figs, and eat them under the trees, for our supper.
and i know a vine that has the sweetest and juiciest grapes you ever tasted."
"always talking about grapes and figs!"
cried pandora, pettishly.
"well, then," said epimetheus, who was a very good-tempered child, like a multitude of children in those days, "let us run out and have a merry time with our playmates."
"i am tired of merry times, and don't care if i never have any more!"
answered our pettish little pandora.
"and, besides, i never do have any.
this ugly box!
i am so taken up with thinking about it all the time.
i insist upon your telling me what is inside of it."
"as i have already said, fifty times over, i do not know!"
replied epimetheus, getting a little vexed.
"how, then, can i tell you what is inside?"
"you might open it," said pandora, looking sideways at epimetheus, "and then we could see for ourselves."
"pandora, what are you thinking of?"
exclaimed epimetheus.
and his face expressed so much horror at the idea of looking into a box, which had been confided to him on the condition of his never opening it, that pandora thought it best not to suggest it any more.
still, however, she could not help thinking and talking about the box.
"at least," said she, "you can tell me how it came here."
"it was just left at the door," replied epimetheus, "just before you came, by a person who looked very smiling and intelligent, and who could hardly forbear laughing as he put it down.
he was dressed in an odd kind of a cloak, and had on a cap that seemed to be made partly of feathers, so that it looked almost as if it had wings."
"what sort of a staff had he?"
asked pandora.
"oh, the most curious staff you ever saw!"
cried epimetheus.
"it was like two serpents twisting around a stick, and was carved so naturally that i, at first, thought the serpents were alive."
"i know him," said pandora, thoughtfully.
"nobody else has such a staff.
it was quicksilver; and he brought me hither, as well as the box.
no doubt he intended it for me; and, most probably, it contains pretty dresses for me to wear, or toys for you and me to play with, or something very nice for us both to eat!"
"perhaps so," answered epimetheus, turning away.
"but until quicksilver comes back and tells us so, we have neither of us any right to lift the lid of the box."
"what a dull boy he is!"
muttered pandora, as epimetheus left the cottage.
"i do wish he had a little more enterprise!"
for the first time since her arrival, epimetheus had gone out without asking pandora to accompany him.
he went to gather figs and grapes by himself, or to seek whatever amusement he could find, in other society than his little playfellow's.
he was tired to death of hearing about the box, and heartily wished that quicksilver, or whatever was the messenger's name, had left it at some other child's door, where pandora would never have set eyes on it.
so perseveringly as she did babble about this one thing!
the box, the box, and nothing but the box!
it seemed as if the box were bewitched, and as if the cottage were not big enough to hold it, without pandora's continually stumbling over it, and making epimetheus stumble over it likewise, and bruising all four of their shins.
well, it was really hard that poor epimetheus should have a box in his ears from morning till night; especially as the little people of the earth were so unaccustomed to vexations, in those happy days, that they knew not how to deal with them.
thus, a small vexation made as much disturbance then, as a far bigger one would in our own times.
after epimetheus was gone, pandora stood gazing at the box.
she had called it ugly, above a hundred times; but, in spite of all that she had said against it, it was positively a very handsome article of furniture, and would have been quite an ornament to any room in which it should be placed.
it was made of a beautiful kind of wood, with dark and rich veins spreading over its surface, which was so highly polished that little pandora could see her face in it.
as the child had no other looking-glass, it is odd that she did not value the box, merely on this account.
the edges and corners of the box were carved with most wonderful skill.
around the margin there were figures of graceful men and women, and the prettiest children ever seen, reclining or sporting amid a profusion of flowers and foliage; and these various objects were so exquisitely represented, and were wrought together in such harmony, that flowers, foliage, and human beings seemed to combine into a wreath of mingled beauty.
but here and there, peeping forth from behind the carved foliage, pandora once or twice fancied that she saw a face not so lovely, or something or other that was disagreeable, and which stole the beauty out of all the rest.
nevertheless, on looking more closely, and touching the spot with her finger, she could discover nothing of the kind.
some face, that was really beautiful, had been made to look ugly by her catching a sideway glimpse at it.
the most beautiful face of all was done in what is called high relief, in the centre of the lid.
there was nothing else, save the dark, smooth richness of the polished wood, and this one face in the centre, with a garland of flowers about its brow.
pandora had looked at this face a great many times, and imagined that the mouth could smile if it liked, or be grave when it chose, the same as any living mouth.
the features, indeed, all wore a very lively and rather mischievous expression, which looked almost as if it needs must burst out of the carved lips, and utter itself in words.
had the mouth spoken, it would probably have been something like this:
"do not be afraid, pandora!
what harm can there be in opening the box?
never mind that poor, simple epimetheus!
you are wiser than he, and have ten times as much spirit.
open the box, and see if you do not find something very pretty!"
the box, i had almost forgotten to say, was fastened; not by a lock, nor by any other such contrivance, but by a very intricate knot of gold cord.
there appeared to be no end to this knot, and no beginning.
never was a knot so cunningly twisted, nor with so many ins and outs, which roguishly defied the skillfullest fingers to disentangle them.
and yet, by the very difficulty that there was in it, pandora was the more tempted to examine the knot, and just see how it was made.
two or three times, already, she had stooped over the box, and taken the knot between her thumb and forefinger, but without positively trying to undo it.
"i really believe," said she to herself, "that i begin to see how it was done.
nay, perhaps i could tie it up again, after undoing it.
there would be no harm in that, surely.
even epimetheus would not blame me for that.
i need not open the box, and should not, of course, without the foolish boy's consent, even if the knot were untied."
it might have been better for pandora if she had had a little work to do, or anything to employ her mind upon, so as not to be so constantly thinking of this one subject.
but children led so easy a life, before any troubles came into the world, that they had really a great deal too much leisure.
they could not be forever playing at hide-and-seek among the flower-shrubs, or at blind-man's-buff with garlands over their eyes, or at whatever other games had been found out, while mother earth was in her babyhood.
when life is all sport, toil is the real play.
there was absolutely nothing to do.
a little sweeping and dusting about the cottage, i suppose, and the gathering of fresh flowers (which were only too abundant everywhere), and arranging them in vases, and poor little pandora's day's work was over.
and then, for the rest of the day, there was the box!
after all, i am not quite sure that the box was not a blessing to her in its way.
it supplied her with such a variety of ideas to think of, and to talk about, whenever she had anybody to listen!
when she was in good-humor, she could admire the bright polish of its sides, and the rich border of beautiful faces and foliage that ran all around it.
or, if she chanced to be ill-tempered, she could give it a push, or kick it with her naughty little foot.
and many a kick did the box (but it was a mischievous box, as we shall see, and deserved all it got) many a kick did it receive.
but, certain it is, if it had not been for the box, our active-minded little pandora would not have known half so well how to spend her time as she now did.
for it was really an endless employment to guess what was inside.
what could it be, indeed?
just imagine, my little hearers, how busy your wits would be, if there were a great box in the house, which, as you might have reason to suppose, contained something new and pretty for your christmas or new year's gifts.
do you think that you should be less curious than pandora?
if you were left alone with the box, might you not feel a little tempted to lift the lid?
but you would not do it.
oh, fie!
no, no!
only, if you thought there were toys in it, it would be so very hard to let slip an opportunity of taking just one peep!
i know not whether pandora expected any toys; for none had yet begun to be made, probably, in those days, when the world itself was one great plaything for the children that dwelt upon it.
but pandora was convinced that there was something very beautiful and valuable in the box; and therefore she felt just as anxious to take a peep as any of these little girls, here around me, would have felt.
and, possibly, a little more so; but of that i am not quite so certain.
on this particular day, however, which we have so long been talking about, her curiosity grew so much greater than it usually was, that, at last, she approached the box.
she was more than half determined to open it, if she could.
ah, naughty pandora!
first, however, she tried to lift it.
it was heavy; quite too heavy for the slender strength of a child, like pandora.
she raised one end of the box a few inches from the floor, and let it fall again, with a pretty loud thump.
a moment afterwards, she almost fancied that she heard something stir inside of the box.
she applied her ear as closely as possible, and listened.
positively, there did seem to be a kind of stifled murmur, within!
or was it merely the singing in pandora's ears?
or could it be the beating of her heart?
the child could not quite satisfy herself whether she had heard anything or no.
but, at all events, her curiosity was stronger than ever.
as she drew back her head, her eyes fell upon the knot of gold cord.
"it must have been a very ingenious person who tied this knot," said pandora to herself.
"but i think i could untie it nevertheless.
i am resolved, at least, to find the two ends of the cord."
so she took the golden knot in her fingers, and pried into its intricacies as sharply as she could.
almost without intending it, or quite knowing what she was about, she was soon busily engaged in attempting to undo it.
meanwhile, the bright sunshine came through the open window; as did likewise the merry voices of the children, playing at a distance, and perhaps the voice of epimetheus among them.
pandora stopped to listen.
what a beautiful day it was!
would it not be wiser, if she were to let the troublesome knot alone, and think no more about the box, but run and join her little playfellows, and be happy?
all this time, however, her fingers were half unconsciously busy with the knot; and happening to glance at the flower-wreathed face on the lid of the enchanted box, she seemed to perceive it slyly grinning at her.
"that face looks very mischievous," thought pandora.
"i wonder whether it smiles because i am doing wrong!
i have the greatest mind in the world to run away!"
but just then, by the merest accident, she gave the knot a kind of a twist, which produced a wonderful result.
the gold cord untwined itself, as if by magic, and left the box without a fastening.
"this is the strangest thing i ever knew!"
said pandora.
"what will epimetheus say?
and how can i possibly tie it up again?"
she made one or two attempts to restore the knot, but soon found it quite beyond her skill.
it had disentangled itself so suddenly that she could not in the least remember how the strings had been doubled into one another; and when she tried to recollect the shape and appearance of the knot, it seemed to have gone entirely out of her mind.
nothing was to be done, therefore, but to let the box remain as it was until epimetheus should come in.
"but," said pandora, "when he finds the knot untied, he will know that i have done it.
how shall i make him believe that i have not looked into the box?"
and then the thought came into her naughty little heart, that, since she would be suspected of having looked into the box, she might just as well do so at once.
oh, very naughty and very foolish pandora!
you should have thought only of doing what was right, and of leaving undone what was wrong, and not of what your playfellow epimetheus would have said or believed.
and so perhaps she might, if the enchanted face on the lid of the box had not looked so bewitchingly persuasive at her, and if she had not seemed to hear, more distinctly than before, the murmur of small voices within.
she could not tell whether it was fancy or no; but there was quite a little tumult of whispers in her ear, or else it was her curiosity that whispered,
"let us out, dear pandora, pray let us out!
we will be such nice pretty playfellows for you!
only let us out!"
"what can it be?"
thought pandora.
"is there something alive in the box?
well!
yes!
i am resolved to take just one peep!
only one peep; and then the lid shall be shut down as safely as ever!
there cannot possibly be any harm in just one little peep!"
but it is now time for us to see what epimetheus was doing.
this was the first time, since his little playmate had come to dwell with him, that he had attempted to enjoy any pleasure in which she did not partake.
but nothing went right; nor was he nearly so happy as on other days.
he could not find a sweet grape or a ripe fig (if epimetheus had a fault, it was a little too much fondness for figs); or, if ripe at all, they were over-ripe, and so sweet as to be cloying.
there was no mirth in his heart, such as usually made his voice gush out, of its own accord, and swell the merriment of his companions.
in short, he grew so uneasy and discontented, that the other children could not imagine what was the matter with epimetheus.
neither did he himself know what ailed him, any better than they did.
for you must recollect that, at the time we are speaking of, it was everybody's nature, and constant habit, to be happy.
the world had not yet learned to be otherwise.
not a single soul or body, since these children were first sent to enjoy themselves on the beautiful earth, had ever been sick or out of sorts.
at length, discovering that, somehow or other, he put a stop to all the play, epimetheus judged it best to go back to pandora, who was in a humor better suited to his own.
but, with a hope of giving her pleasure, he gathered some flowers, and made them into a wreath, which he meant to put upon her head.
the flowers were very lovely, roses, and lilies, and orange-blossoms, and a great many more, which left a trail of fragrance behind, as epimetheus carried them along; and the wreath was put together with as much skill as could reasonably be expected of a boy.
the fingers of little girls, it has always appeared to me, are the fittest to twine flower-wreaths; but boys could do it, in those days, rather better than they can now.
and here i must mention that a great black cloud had been gathering in the sky, for some time past, although it had not yet overspread the sun.
but, just as epimetheus reached the cottage door, this cloud began to intercept the sunshine, and thus to make a sudden and sad obscurity.
he entered softly; for he meant, if possible, to steal behind pandora, and fling the wreath of flowers over her head, before she should be aware of his approach.
but, as it happened, there was no need of his treading so very lightly.
he might have trod as heavily as he pleased, as heavily as a grown man, as heavily, i was going to say, as an elephant, without much probability of pandora's hearing his footsteps.
she was too intent upon her purpose.
at the moment of his entering the cottage, the naughty child had put her hand to the lid, and was on the point of opening the mysterious box.
epimetheus beheld her.
if he had cried out, pandora would probably have withdrawn her hand, and the fatal mystery of the box might never have been known.
but epimetheus himself, although he said very little about it, had his own share of curiosity to know what was inside.
perceiving that pandora was resolved to find out the secret, he determined that his playfellow should not be the only wise person in the cottage.
and if there were anything pretty or valuable in the box, he meant to take half of it to himself.
thus, after all his sage speeches to pandora about restraining her curiosity, epimetheus turned out to be quite as foolish, and nearly as much in fault, as she.
so, whenever we blame pandora for what happened, we must not forget to shake our heads at epimetheus likewise.
as pandora raised the lid, the cottage grew very dark and dismal; for the black cloud had now swept quite over the sun, and seemed to have buried it alive.
there had, for a little while past, been a low growling and muttering, which all at once broke into a heavy peal of thunder.
but pandora, heeding nothing of all this, lifted the lid nearly upright, and looked inside.
it seemed as if a sudden swarm of winged creatures brushed past her, taking flight out of the box, while, at the same instant, she heard the voice of epimetheus, with a lamentable tone, as if he were in pain.
"oh, i am stung!"
cried he.
"i am stung!
naughty pandora!
why have you opened this wicked box?"
pandora let fall the lid, and, starting up, looked about her, to see what had befallen epimetheus.
the thunder-cloud had so darkened the room that she could not very clearly discern what was in it.
but she heard a disagreeable buzzing, as if a great many huge flies, or gigantic mosquitoes, or those insects which we call dor-bugs, and pinching-dogs, were darting about.
and, as her eyes grew more accustomed to the imperfect light, she saw a crowd of ugly little shapes, with bats' wings, looking abominably spiteful, and armed with terribly long stings in their tails.
it was one of these that had stung epimetheus.
nor was it a great while before pandora herself began to scream, in no less pain and affright than her playfellow, and making a vast deal more hubbub about it.
an odious little monster had settled on her forehead, and would have stung her i know not how deeply, if epimetheus had not run and brushed it away.
now, if you wish to know what these ugly things might be, which had made their escape out of the box, i must tell you that they were the whole family of earthly troubles.
there were evil passions; there were a great many species of cares; there were more than a hundred and fifty sorrows; there were diseases, in a vast number of miserable and painful shapes; there were more kinds of naughtiness than it would be of any use to talk about.
in short, everything that has since afflicted the souls and bodies of mankind had been shut up in the mysterious box, and given to epimetheus and pandora to be kept safely, in order that the happy children of the world might never be molested by them.
had they been faithful to their trust, all would have gone well.
no grown person would ever have been sad, nor any child have had cause to shed a single tear, from that hour until this moment.
but and you may see by this how a wrong act of any one mortal is a calamity to the whole world by pandora's lifting the lid of that miserable box, and by the fault of epimetheus, too, in not preventing her, these troubles have obtained a foothold among us, and do not seem very likely to be driven away in a hurry.
for it was impossible, as you will easily guess, that the two children should keep the ugly swarm in their own little cottage.
on the contrary, the first thing that they did was to fling open the doors and windows, in hopes of getting rid of them; and, sure enough, away flew the winged troubles all abroad, and so pestered and tormented the small people, everywhere about, that none of them so much as smiled for many days afterwards.
and, what was very singular, all the flowers and dewy blossoms on earth, not one of which had hitherto faded, now began to droop and shed their leaves, after a day or two.
the children, moreover, who before seemed immortal in their childhood, now grew older, day by day, and came soon to be youths and maidens, and men and women by and by, and aged people, before they dreamed of such a thing.
meanwhile, the naughty pandora, and hardly less naughty epimetheus, remained in their cottage.
both of them had been grievously stung, and were in a good deal of pain, which seemed the more intolerable to them, because it was the very first pain that had ever been felt since the world began.
of course, they were entirely unaccustomed to it, and could have no idea what it meant.
besides all this, they were in exceedingly bad humor, both with themselves and with one another.
in order to indulge it to the utmost, epimetheus sat down sullenly in a corner with his back towards pandora; while pandora flung herself upon the floor and rested her head on the fatal and abominable box.
she was crying bitterly, and sobbing as if her heart would break.
suddenly there was a gentle little tap on the inside of the lid.
"what can that be?"
cried pandora, lifting her head.
but either epimetheus had not heard the tap, or was too much out of humor to notice it.
at any rate, he made no answer.
"you are very unkind," said pandora, sobbing anew, "not to speak to me!"
again the tap!
it sounded like the tiny knuckles of a fairy's hand, knocking lightly and playfully on the inside of the box.
"who are you?"
asked pandora, with a little of her former curiosity.
"who are you, inside of this naughty box?"
a sweet little voice spoke from within,
"only lift the lid, and you shall see."
"no, no," answered pandora, again beginning to sob, "i have had enough of lifting the lid!
you are inside of the box, naughty creature, and there you shall stay!
there are plenty of your ugly brothers and sisters already flying about the world.
you need never think that i shall be so foolish as to let you out!"
she looked towards epimetheus, as she spoke, perhaps expecting that he would commend her for her wisdom.
but the sullen boy only muttered that she was wise a little too late.
"ah," said the sweet little voice again, "you had much better let me out.
i am not like those naughty creatures that have stings in their tails.
they are no brothers and sisters of mine, as you would see at once, if you were only to get a glimpse of me.
come, come, my pretty pandora!
i am sure you will let me out!"
and, indeed, there was a kind of cheerful witchery in the tone, that made it almost impossible to refuse anything which this little voice asked.
pandora's heart had insensibly grown lighter at every word that came from within the box.
epimetheus, too, though still in the corner, had turned half round, and seemed to be in rather better spirits than before.
"my dear epimetheus," cried pandora, "have you heard this little voice?"
"yes, to be sure i have," answered he, but in no very good humor as yet.
"and what of it?"
"shall i lift the lid again?"
asked pandora.
"just as you please," said epimetheus.
"you have done so much mischief already, that perhaps you may as well do a little more.
one other trouble, in such a swarm as you have set adrift about the world, can make no very great difference."
"you might speak a little more kindly!"
murmured pandora, wiping her eyes.
"ah, naughty boy!"
cried the little voice within the box, in an arch and laughing tone.
"he knows he is longing to see me.
come, my dear pandora, lift up the lid.
i am in a great hurry to comfort you.
only let me have some fresh air, and you shall soon see that matters are not quite so dismal as you think them!"
"epimetheus," exclaimed pandora, "come what may, i am resolved to open the box!"
"and as the lid seems very heavy," cried epimetheus, running across the room, "i will help you!"
so, with one consent, the two children again lifted the lid.
out flew a sunny and smiling little personage, and hovered about the room, throwing a light wherever she went.
have you never made the sunshine dance into dark corners, by reflecting it from a bit of looking-glass?
well, so looked the winged cheerfulness of this fairy-like stranger, amid the gloom of the cottage.
she flew to epimetheus, and laid the least touch of her finger on the inflamed spot where the trouble had stung him, and immediately the anguish of it was gone.
then she kissed pandora on the forehead, and her hurt was cured likewise.
after performing these good offices, the bright stranger fluttered sportively over the children's heads, and looked so sweetly at them, that they both began to think it not so very much amiss to have opened the box, since, otherwise, their cheery guest must have been kept a prisoner among those naughty imps with stings in their tails.
"pray, who are you, beautiful creature?"
inquired pandora.
"i am to be called hope!"
answered the sunshiny figure.
"and because i am such a cheery little body, i was packed into the box, to make amends to the human race for that swarm of ugly troubles, which was destined to be let loose among them.
never fear!
we shall do pretty well in spite of them all."
"your wings are colored like the rainbow!"
exclaimed pandora.
"how very beautiful!"
"yes, they are like the rainbow," said hope, "because, glad as my nature is, i am partly made of tears as well as smiles."
"and will you stay with us," asked epimetheus, "forever and ever?"
"as long as you need me," said hope, with her pleasant smile, "and that will be as long as you live in the world, i promise never to desert you.
there may come times and seasons, now and then, when you will think that i have utterly vanished.
but again, and again, and again, when perhaps you least dream of it, you shall see the glimmer of my wings on the ceiling of your cottage.
yes, my dear children, and i know something very good and beautiful that is to be given you hereafter!"
"oh, tell us," they exclaimed, "tell us what it is!"
"do not ask me," replied hope, putting her finger on her rosy mouth.
"but do not despair, even if it should never happen while you live on this earth.
trust in my promise, for it is true."
"we do trust you!"
cried epimetheus and pandora, both in one breath.
and so they did; and not only they, but so has everybody trusted hope, that has since been alive.
and to tell you the truth, i cannot help being glad (though, to be sure, it was an uncommonly naughty thing for her to do) but i cannot help being glad that our foolish pandora peeped into the box.
no doubt no doubt the troubles are still flying about the world, and have increased in multitude, rather than lessened, and are a very ugly set of imps, and carry most venomous stings in their tails.
i have felt them already, and expect to feel them more, as i grow older.
but then that lovely and lightsome little figure of hope!
what in the world could we do without her?
hope spiritualizes the earth; hope makes it always new; and, even in the earth's best and brightest aspect, hope shows it to be only the shadow of an infinite bliss hereafter.
tanglewood play-room
after the story
"primrose," asked eustace, pinching her ear, "how do you like my little pandora?
don't you think her the exact picture of yourself?
but you would not have hesitated half so long about opening the box."
"then i should have been well punished for my naughtiness," retorted primrose, smartly; "for the first thing to pop out, after the lid was lifted, would have been mr. eustace bright, in the shape of a trouble."
"cousin eustace," said sweet fern, "did the box hold all the trouble that has ever come into the world?"
"every mite of it!"
answered eustace.
"this very snow-storm, which has spoiled my skating, was packed up there."
"and how big was the box?"
asked sweet fern.
"why, perhaps three feet long," said eustace, "two feet wide, and two feet and a half high."
"ah," said the child, "you are making fun of me, cousin eustace!
i know there is not trouble enough in the world to fill such a great box as that.
as for the snow-storm, it is no trouble at all, but a pleasure; so it could not have been in the box."
"hear the child!"
cried primrose, with an air of superiority.
"how little he knows about the troubles of this world!
poor fellow!
he will be wiser when he has seen as much of life as i have."
so saying, she began to skip the rope.
meantime, the day was drawing towards its close.
out of doors the scene certainly looked dreary.
there was a gray drift, far and wide, through the gathering twilight; the earth was as pathless as the air; and the bank of snow over the steps of the porch proved that nobody had entered or gone out for a good many hours past.
had there been only one child at the window of tanglewood, gazing at this wintry prospect, it would perhaps have made him sad.
but half a dozen children together, though they cannot quite turn the world into a paradise, may defy old winter and all his storms to put them out of spirits.
eustace bright, moreover, on the spur of the moment, invented several new kinds of play, which kept them all in a roar of merriment till bedtime, and served for the next stormy day besides.
the three golden apples
tanglewood fireside
introductory to the 3 golden apples
the snow-storm lasted another day; but what became of it afterwards, i cannot possibly imagine.
at any rate, it entirely cleared away during the night; and when the sun arose the next morning, it shone brightly down on as bleak a tract of hill-country here in berkshire, as could be seen anywhere in the world.
the frost-work had so covered the window-panes that it was hardly possible to get a glimpse at the scenery outside.
but, while waiting for breakfast, the small populace of tanglewood had scratched peep-holes with their finger-nails, and saw with vast delight that unless it were one or two bare patches on a precipitous hill-side, or the gray effect of the snow, intermingled with the black pine forest all nature was as white as a sheet.
how exceedingly pleasant!
and, to make it all the better, it was cold enough to nip one's nose short off!
if people have but life enough in them to bear it, there is nothing that so raises the spirits, and makes the blood ripple and dance so nimbly, like a brook down the slope of a hill, as a bright, hard frost.
no sooner was breakfast over, than the whole party, well muffled in furs and woolens, floundered forth into the midst of the snow.
well, what a day of frosty sport was this!
they slid down hill into the valley, a hundred times, nobody knows how far; and, to make it all the merrier, upsetting their sledges, and tumbling head over heels, quite as often as they came safely to the bottom.
and, once, eustace bright took periwinkle, sweet fern, and squash-blossom, on the sledge with him, by way of insuring a safe passage; and down they went, full speed.
but, behold, halfway down, the sledge hit against a hidden stump, and flung all four of its passengers into a heap; and, on gathering themselves up, there was no little squash-blossom to be found!
why, what could have become of the child?
and while they were wondering and staring about, up started squash-blossom out of a snow-bank, with the reddest face you ever saw, and looking as if a large scarlet flower had suddenly sprouted up in midwinter.
then there was a great laugh.
when they had grown tired of sliding down hill, eustace set the children to digging a cave in the biggest snow-drift that they could find.
unluckily, just as it was completed, and the party had squeezed themselves into the hollow, down came the roof upon their heads, and buried every soul of them alive!
the next moment, up popped all their little heads out of the ruins, and the tall student's head in the midst of them, looking hoary and venerable with the snow-dust that had got amongst his brown curls.
and then, to punish cousin eustace for advising them to dig such a tumble-down cavern, the children attacked him in a body, and so bepelted him with snowballs that he was fain to take to his heels.
so he ran away, and went into the woods, and thence to the margin of shadow brook, where he could hear the streamlet grumbling along, under great overhanging banks of snow and ice, which would scarcely let it see the light of day.
there were adamantine icicles glittering around all its little cascades.
thence he strolled to the shore of the lake, and beheld a white, untrodden plain before him, stretching from his own feet to the foot of monument mountain.
and, it being now almost sunset, eustace thought that he had never beheld anything so fresh and beautiful as the scene.
he was glad that the children were not with him; for their lively spirits and tumble-about activity would quite have chased away his higher and graver mood, so that he would merely have been merry (as he had already been, the whole day long), and would not have known the loveliness of the winter sunset among the hills.
when the sun was fairly down, our friend eustace went home to eat his supper.
after the meal was over, he betook himself to the study with a purpose, i rather imagine, to write an ode, or two or three sonnets, or verses of some kind or other, in praise of the purple and golden clouds which he had seen around the setting sun.
but, before he had hammered out the very first rhyme, the door opened, and primrose and periwinkle made their appearance.
"go away, children!
i can't be troubled with you now!"
cried the student, looking over his shoulder, with the pen between his fingers.
"what in the world do you want here?
i thought you were all in bed!"
"hear him, periwinkle, trying to talk like a grown man!"
said primrose.
"and he seems to forget that i am now thirteen years old, and may sit up almost as late as i please.
but, cousin eustace, you must put off your airs, and come with us to the drawing-room.
the children have talked so much about your stories, that my father wishes to hear one of them, in order to judge whether they are likely to do any mischief."
"poh, poh, primrose!"
exclaimed the student, rather vexed.
"i don't believe i can tell one of my stories in the presence of grown people.
besides, your father is a classical scholar; not that i am much afraid of his scholarship, neither, for i doubt not it is as rusty as an old case-knife by this time.
but then he will be sure to quarrel with the admirable nonsense that i put into these stories, out of my own head, and which makes the great charm of the matter for children, like yourself.
no man of fifty, who has read the classical myths in his youth, can possibly understand my merit as a reinventor and improver of them."
"all this may be very true," said primrose, "but come you must!
my father will not open his book, nor will mamma open the piano, till you have given us some of your nonsense, as you very correctly call it.
so be a good boy, and come along."
whatever he might pretend, the student was rather glad than otherwise, on second thoughts, to catch at the opportunity of proving to mr.
pringle what an excellent faculty he had in modernizing the myths of ancient times.
until twenty years of age, a young man may, indeed, be rather bashful about showing his poetry and his prose; but, for all that, he is pretty apt to think that these very productions would place him at the tiptop of literature, if once they could be known.
accordingly, without much more resistance, eustace suffered primrose and periwinkle to drag him into the drawing-room.
it was a large, handsome apartment, with a semi-circular window at one end, in the recess of which stood a marble copy of greenough's angel and child.
on one side of the fireplace there were many shelves of books, gravely but richly bound.
the white light of the astral-lamp, and the red glow of the bright coal-fire, made the room brilliant and cheerful; and before the fire, in a deep arm-chair, sat mr. pringle, looking just fit to be seated in such a chair, and in such a room.
he was a tall and quite a handsome gentleman, with a bald brow; and was always so nicely dressed, that even eustace bright never liked to enter his presence without at least pausing at the threshold to settle his shirt-collar.
but now, as primrose had hold of one of his hands, and periwinkle of the other, he was forced to make his appearance with a rough-and-tumble sort of look, as if he had been rolling all day in a snow-bank.
and so he had.
mr. pringle turned towards the student benignly enough, but in a way that made him feel how uncombed and unbrushed he was, and how uncombed and unbrushed, likewise, were his mind and thoughts.
"eustace," said mr. pringle, with a smile, "i find that you are producing a great sensation among the little public of tanglewood, by the exercise of your gifts of narrative.
primrose here, as the little folks choose to call her, and the rest of the children, have been so loud in praise of your stories, that mrs. pringle and myself are really curious to hear a specimen.
it would be so much the more gratifying to myself, as the stories appear to be an attempt to render the fables of classical antiquity into the idiom of modern fancy and feeling.
at least, so i judge from a few of the incidents which have come to me at second hand."
"you are not exactly the auditor that i should have chosen, sir,"
observed the student, "for fantasies of this nature."
"possibly not," replied mr. pringle.
"i suspect, however, that a young author's most useful critic is precisely the one whom he would be least apt to choose.
pray oblige me, therefore."
"sympathy, methinks, should have some little share in the critic's qualifications," murmured eustace bright.
"however, sir, if you will find patience, i will find stories.
but be kind enough to remember that i am addressing myself to the imagination and sympathies of the children, not to your own."
accordingly, the student snatched hold of the first theme which presented itself.
it was suggested by a plate of apples that he happened to spy on the mantel-piece.
the three golden apples
did you ever hear of the golden apples, that grew in the garden of the hesperides?
ah, those were such apples as would bring a great price, by the bushel, if any of them could be found growing in the orchards of nowadays!
but there is not, i suppose, a graft of that wonderful fruit on a single tree in the wide world.
not so much as a seed of those apples exists any longer.
and, even in the old, old, half-forgotten times, before the garden of the hesperides was overrun with weeds, a great many people doubted whether there could be real trees that bore apples of solid gold upon their branches.
all had heard of them, but nobody remembered to have seen any.
children, nevertheless, used to listen, open-mouthed, to stories of the golden apple-tree, and resolved to discover it, when they should be big enough.
adventurous young men, who desired to do a braver thing than any of their fellows, set out in quest of this fruit.
many of them returned no more; none of them brought back the apples.
no wonder that they found it impossible to gather them!
it is said that there was a dragon beneath the tree, with a hundred terrible heads, fifty of which were always on the watch, while the other fifty slept.
in my opinion it was hardly worth running so much risk for the sake of a solid golden apple.
had the apples been sweet, mellow, and juicy, indeed that would be another matter.
there might then have been some sense in trying to get at them, in spite of the hundred-headed dragon.
but, as i have already told you, it was quite a common thing with young persons, when tired of too much peace and rest, to go in search of the garden of the hesperides.
and once the adventure was undertaken by a hero who had enjoyed very little peace or rest since he came into the world.
at the time of which i am going to speak, he was wandering through the pleasant land of italy, with a mighty club in his hand, and a bow and quiver slung across his shoulders.
he was wrapt in the skin of the biggest and fiercest lion that ever had been seen, and which he himself had killed; and though, on the whole, he was kind, and generous, and noble, there was a good deal of the lion's fierceness in his heart.
as he went on his way, he continually inquired whether that were the right road to the famous garden.
but none of the country people knew anything about the matter, and many looked as if they would have laughed at the question, if the stranger had not carried so very big a club.
so he journeyed on and on, still making the same inquiry, until, at last, he came to the brink of a river where some beautiful young women sat twining wreaths of flowers.
"can you tell me, pretty maidens," asked the stranger, "whether this is the right way to the garden of the hesperides?"
the young women had been having a fine time together, weaving the flowers into wreaths, and crowning one another's heads.
and there seemed to be a kind of magic in the touch of their fingers, that made the flowers more fresh and dewy, and of brighter hues, and sweeter fragrance, while they played with them, than even when they had been growing on their native stems.
but, on hearing the stranger's question, they dropped all their flowers on the grass, and gazed at him with astonishment.
"the garden of the hesperides!"
cried one.
"we thought mortals had been weary of seeking it, after so many disappointments.
and pray, adventurous traveler, what do you want there?"
"a certain king, who is my cousin," replied he, "has ordered me to get him three of the golden apples."
"most of the young men who go in quest of these apples," observed another of the damsels, "desire to obtain them for themselves, or to present them to some fair maiden whom they love.
do you, then, love this king, your cousin, so very much?"
"perhaps not," replied the stranger, sighing.
"he has often been severe and cruel to me.
but it is my destiny to obey him."
"and do you know," asked the damsel who had first spoken, "that a terrible dragon, with a hundred heads, keeps watch under the golden apple-tree?"
"i know it well," answered the stranger, calmly.
"but, from my cradle upwards, it has been my business, and almost my pastime, to deal with serpents and dragons."
the young women looked at his massive club, and at the shaggy lion's skin which he wore, and likewise at his heroic limbs and figure; and they whispered to each other that the stranger appeared to be one who might reasonably expect to perform deeds far beyond the might of other men.
but, then, the dragon with a hundred heads!
what mortal, even if he possessed a hundred lives, could hope to escape the fangs of such a monster?
so kind-hearted were the maidens, that they could not bear to see this brave and handsome traveler attempt what was so very dangerous, and devote himself, most probably, to become a meal for the dragon's hundred ravenous mouths.
"go back," cried they all, "go back to your own home!
your mother, beholding you safe and sound, will shed tears of joy; and what can she do more, should you win ever so great a victory?
no matter for the golden apples!
no matter for the king, your cruel cousin!
we do not wish the dragon with the hundred heads to eat you up!"
the stranger seemed to grow impatient at these remonstrances.
he carelessly lifted his mighty club, and let it fall upon a rock that lay half buried in the earth, near by.
with the force of that idle blow, the great rock was shattered all to pieces.
it cost the stranger no more effort to achieve this feat of a giant's strength than for one of the young maidens to touch her sister's rosy cheek with a flower.
"do you not believe," said he, looking at the damsels with a smile, "that such a blow would have crushed one of the dragon's hundred heads?"
then he sat down on the grass, and told them the story of his life, or as much of it as he could remember, from the day when he was first cradled in a warrior's brazen shield.
while he lay there, two immense serpents came gliding over the floor, and opened their hideous jaws to devour him; and he, a baby of a few months old, had griped one of the fierce snakes in each of his little fists, and strangled them to death.
when he was but a stripling, he had killed a huge lion, almost as big as the one whose vast and shaggy hide he now wore upon his shoulders.
the next thing that he had done was to fight a battle with an ugly sort of monster, called a hydra, which had no less than nine heads, and exceedingly sharp teeth in every one.
"but the dragon of the hesperides, you know," observed one of the damsels, "has a hundred heads!"
"nevertheless," replied the stranger, "i would rather fight two such dragons than a single hydra.
for, as fast as i cut off a head, two others grew in its place; and, besides, there was one of the heads that could not possibly be killed, but kept biting as fiercely as ever, long after it was cut off.
so i was forced to bury it under a stone, where it is doubtless alive to this very day.
but the hydra's body, and its eight other heads, will never do any further mischief."
the damsels, judging that the story was likely to last a good while, had been preparing a repast of bread and grapes, that the stranger might refresh himself in the intervals of his talk.
they took pleasure in helping him to this simple food; and, now and then, one of them would put a sweet grape between her rosy lips, lest it should make him bashful to eat alone.
the traveler proceeded to tell how he had chased a very swift stag, for a twelvemonth together, without ever stopping to take breath, and had at last caught it by the antlers, and carried it home alive.
and he had fought with a very odd race of people, half horses and half men, and had put them all to death, from a sense of duty, in order that their ugly figures might never be seen any more.
besides all this, he took to himself great credit for having cleaned out a stable.
"do you call that a wonderful exploit?"
asked one of the young maidens, with a smile.
"any clown in the country has done as much!"
"had it been an ordinary stable," replied the stranger, "i should not have mentioned it.
but this was so gigantic a task that it would have taken me all my life to perform it, if i had not luckily thought of turning the channel of a river through the stable-door.
that did the business in a very short time!"
seeing how earnestly his fair auditors listened, he next told them how he had shot some monstrous birds, and had caught a wild bull alive and let him go again, and had tamed a number of very wild horses, and had conquered hippolyta, the warlike queen of the amazons.
he mentioned, likewise, that he had taken off hippolyta's enchanted girdle, and had given it to the daughter of his cousin, the king.
"was it the girdle of venus," inquired the prettiest of the damsels, "which makes women beautiful?"
"no," answered the stranger.
"it had formerly been the sword-belt of mars; and it can only make the wearer valiant and courageous."
"an old sword-belt!"
cried the damsel, tossing her head.
"then i should not care about having it!"
"you are right," said the stranger.
going on with his wonderful narrative, he informed the maidens that as strange an adventure as ever happened was when he fought with geryon, the six-legged man.
this was a very odd and frightful sort of figure, as you may well believe.
any person, looking at his tracks in the sand or snow, would suppose that three sociable companions had been walking along together.
on hearing his footsteps at a little distance, it was no more than reasonable to judge that several people must be coming.
but it was only the strange man geryon clattering onward, with his six legs!
six legs, and one gigantic body!
certainly, he must have been a very queer monster to look at; and, my stars, what a waste of shoe-leather!
when the stranger had finished the story of his adventures, he looked around at the attentive faces of the maidens.
"perhaps you may have heard of me before," said he, modestly.
"my name is hercules!"
"we had already guessed it," replied the maidens; "for your wonderful deeds are known all over the world.
we do not think it strange, any longer, that you should set out in quest of the golden apples of the hesperides.
come, sisters, let us crown the hero with flowers!"
then they flung beautiful wreaths over his stately head and mighty shoulders, so that the lion's skin was almost entirely covered with roses.
they took possession of his ponderous club, and so entwined it about with the brightest, softest, and most fragrant blossoms, that not a finger's breadth of its oaken substance could be seen.
it looked all like a huge bunch of flowers.
lastly, they joined hands, and danced around him, chanting words which became poetry of their own accord, and grew into a choral song, in honor of the illustrious hercules.
and hercules was rejoiced, as any other hero would have been, to know that these fair young girls had heard of the valiant deeds which it had cost him so much toil and danger to achieve.
but, still, he was not satisfied.
he could not think that what he had already done was worthy of so much honor, while there remained any bold or difficult adventure to be undertaken.
"dear maidens," said he, when they paused to take breath, "now that you know my name, will you not tell me how i am to reach the garden of the hesperides?"
"ah!
must you go so soon?"
they exclaimed.
"you that have performed so many wonders, and spent such a toilsome life cannot you content yourself to repose a little while on the margin of this peaceful river?"
hercules shook his head.
"i must depart now," said he.
"we will then give you the best directions we can," replied the damsels.
"you must go to the sea-shore, and find out the old one, and compel him to inform you where the golden apples are to be found."
"the old one!"
repeated hercules, laughing at this odd name.
"and, pray, who may the old one be?"
"why, the old man of the sea, to be sure!"
answered one of the damsels.
"he has fifty daughters, whom some people call very beautiful; but we do not think it proper to be acquainted with them, because they have sea-green hair, and taper away like fishes.
you must talk with this old man of the sea.
he is a sea-faring person, and knows all about the garden of the hesperides; for it is situated in an island which he is often in the habit of visiting."
hercules then asked whereabouts the old one was most likely to be met with.
when the damsels had informed him, he thanked them for all their kindness, for the bread and grapes with which they had fed him, the lovely flowers with which they had crowned him, and the songs and dances wherewith they had done him honor, and he thanked them, most of all, for telling him the right way, and immediately set forth upon his journey.
but, before he was out of hearing, one of the maidens called after him.
"keep fast hold of the old one, when you catch him!"
cried she, smiling, and lifting her finger to make the caution more impressive.
"do not be astonished at anything that may happen.
only hold him fast, and he will tell you what you wish to know."
hercules again thanked her, and pursued his way, while the maidens resumed their pleasant labor of making flower-wreaths.
they talked about the hero, long after he was gone.
"we will crown him with the loveliest of our garlands," said they, "when he returns hither with the three golden apples, after slaying the dragon with a hundred heads."
meanwhile, hercules traveled constantly onward, over hill and dale, and through the solitary woods.
sometimes he swung his club aloft, and splintered a mighty oak with a downright blow.
his mind was so full of the giants and monsters with whom it was the business of his life to fight, that perhaps he mistook the great tree for a giant or a monster.
and so eager was hercules to achieve what he had undertaken, that he almost regretted to have spent so much time with the damsels, wasting idle breath upon the story of his adventures.
but thus it always is with persons who are destined to perform great things.
what they have already done seems less than nothing.
what they have taken in hand to do seems worth toil, danger, and life itself.
persons who happened to be passing through the forest must have been affrighted to see him smite the trees with his great club.
with but a single blow, the trunk was riven as by the stroke of lightning, and the broad boughs came rustling and crashing down.
hastening forward, without ever pausing or looking behind, he by and by heard the sea roaring at a distance.
at this sound, he increased his speed, and soon came to a beach, where the great surf-waves tumbled themselves upon the hard sand, in a long line of snowy foam.
at one end of the beach, however, there was a pleasant spot, where some green shrubbery clambered up a cliff, making its rocky face look soft and beautiful.
a carpet of verdant grass, largely intermixed with sweet-smelling clover, covered the narrow space between the bottom of the cliff and the sea.
and what should hercules espy there, but an old man, fast asleep!
but was it really and truly an old man?
certainly, at first sight, it looked very like one; but, on closer inspection, it rather seemed to be some kind of a creature that lived in the sea.
for, on his legs and arms there were scales, such as fishes have; he was web-footed and web-fingered, after the fashion of a duck; and his long beard, being of a greenish tinge, had more the appearance of a tuft of sea-weed than of an ordinary beard.
have you never seen a stick of timber, that has been long tossed about by the waves, and has got all overgrown with barnacles, and, at last drifting ashore, seems to have been thrown up from the very deepest bottom of the sea?
well, the old man would have put you in mind of just such a wave-tost spar!
but hercules, the instant he set eyes on this strange figure, was convinced that it could be no other than the old one, who was to direct him on his way.
yes, it was the selfsame old man of the sea whom the hospitable maidens had talked to him about.
thanking his stars for the lucky accident of finding the old fellow asleep, hercules stole on tiptoe towards him, and caught him by the arm and leg.
"tell me," cried he, before the old one was well awake, "which is the way to the garden of the hesperides?"
as you may easily imagine, the old man of the sea awoke in a fright.
but his astonishment could hardly have been greater than was that of hercules, the next moment.
for, all of a sudden, the old one seemed to disappear out of his grasp, and he found himself holding a stag by the fore and hind leg!
but still he kept fast hold.
then the stag disappeared, and in its stead there was a sea-bird, fluttering and screaming, while hercules clutched it by the wing and claw!
but the bird could not get away.
immediately afterwards, there was an ugly three-headed dog, which growled and barked at hercules, and snapped fiercely at the hands by which he held him!
but hercules would not let him go.
in another minute, instead of the three-headed dog, what should appear but geryon, the six-legged man-monster, kicking at hercules with five of his legs, in order to get the remaining one at liberty!
but hercules held on.
by and by, no geryon was there, but a huge snake, like one of those which hercules had strangled in his babyhood, only a hundred times as big; and it twisted and twined about the hero's neck and body, and threw its tail high into the air, and opened its deadly jaws as if to devour him outright; so that it was really a very terrible spectacle!
but hercules was no whit disheartened, and squeezed the great snake so tightly that he soon began to hiss with pain.
you must understand that the old man of the sea, though he generally looked so much like the wave-beaten figure-head of a vessel, had the power of assuming any shape he pleased.
when he found himself so roughly seized by hercules, he had been in hopes of putting him into such surprise and terror, by these magical transformations, that the hero would be glad to let him go.
if hercules had relaxed his grasp, the old one would certainly have plunged down to the very bottom of the sea, whence he would not soon have given himself the trouble of coming up, in order to answer any impertinent questions.
ninety-nine people out of a hundred, i suppose, would have been frightened out of their wits by the very first of his ugly shapes, and would have taken to their heels at once.
for, one of the hardest things in this world is, to see the difference between real dangers and imaginary ones.
but, as hercules held on so stubbornly, and only squeezed the old one so much the tighter at every change of shape, and really put him to no small torture, he finally thought it best to reappear in his own figure.
so there he was again, a fishy, scaly, web-footed sort of personage, with something like a tuft of sea-weed at his chin.
"pray, what do you want with me?"
cried the old one, as soon as he could take breath; for it is quite a tiresome affair to go through so many false shapes.
"why do you squeeze me so hard?
let me go, this moment, or i shall begin to consider you an extremely uncivil person!"
"my name is hercules!"
roared the mighty stranger.
"and you will never get out of my clutch, until you tell me the nearest way to the garden of the hesperides!"
when the old fellow heard who it was that had caught him, he saw, with half an eye, that it would be necessary to tell him everything that he wanted to know.
the old one was an inhabitant of the sea, you must recollect, and roamed about everywhere, like other sea-faring people.
of course, he had often heard of the fame of hercules, and of the wonderful things that he was constantly performing, in various parts of the earth, and how determined he always was to accomplish whatever he undertook.
he therefore made no more attempts to escape, but told the hero how to find the garden of the hesperides, and likewise warned him of many difficulties which must be overcome, before he could arrive thither.
"you must go on, thus and thus," said the old man of the sea, after taking the points of the compass, "till you come in sight of a very tall giant, who holds the sky on his shoulders.
and the giant, if he happens to be in the humor, will tell you exactly where the garden of the hesperides lies."
"and if the giant happens not to be in the humor," remarked hercules, balancing his club on the tip of his finger, "perhaps i shall find means to persuade him!"
thanking the old man of the sea, and begging his pardon for having squeezed him so roughly, the hero resumed his journey.
he met with a great many strange adventures, which would be well worth your hearing, if i had leisure to narrate them as minutely as they deserve.
it was in this journey, if i mistake not, that he encountered a prodigious giant, who was so wonderfully contrived by nature, that every time he touched the earth he became ten times as strong as ever he had been before.
his name was antæus.
you may see, plainly enough, that it was a very difficult business to fight with such a fellow; for, as often as he got a knock-down blow, up he started again, stronger, fiercer, and abler to use his weapons, than if his enemy had let him alone.
thus, the harder hercules pounded the giant with his club, the further he seemed from winning the victory.
i have sometimes argued with such people, but never fought with one.
the only way in which hercules found it possible to finish the battle, was by lifting antæus off his feet into the air, and squeezing, and squeezing, and squeezing him, until, finally, the strength was quite squeezed out of his enormous body.
when this affair was finished, hercules continued his travels, and went to the land of egypt, where he was taken prisoner, and would have been put to death, if he had not slain the king of the country, and made his escape.
passing through the deserts of africa, and going as fast as he could, he arrived at last on the shore of the great ocean.
and here, unless he could walk on the crests of the billows, it seemed as if his journey must needs be at an end.
nothing was before him, save the foaming, dashing, measureless ocean.
but, suddenly, as he looked towards the horizon, he saw something, a great way off, which he had not seen the moment before.
it gleamed very brightly, almost as you may have beheld the round, golden disk of the sun, when it rises or sets over the edge of the world.
it evidently drew nearer; for, at every instant, this wonderful object became larger and more lustrous.
at length, it had come so nigh that hercules discovered it to be an immense cup or bowl, made either of gold or burnished brass.
how it had got afloat upon the sea is more than i can tell you.
there it was, at all events, rolling on the tumultuous billows, which tossed it up and down, and heaved their foamy tops against its sides, but without ever throwing their spray over the brim.
"i have seen many giants, in my time," thought hercules, "but never one that would need to drink his wine out of a cup like this!"
and, true enough, what a cup it must have been!
it was as large as large but, in short, i am afraid to say how immeasurably large it was.
to speak within bounds, it was ten times larger than a great mill-wheel; and, all of metal as it was, it floated over the heaving surges more lightly than an acorn-cup adown the brook.
the waves tumbled it onward, until it grazed against the shore, within a short distance of the spot where hercules was standing.
as soon as this happened, he knew what was to be done; for he had not gone through so many remarkable adventures without learning pretty well how to conduct himself, whenever anything came to pass a little out of the common rule.
it was just as clear as daylight that this marvelous cup had been set adrift by some unseen power, and guided hitherward, in order to carry hercules across the sea, on his way to the garden of the hesperides.
accordingly, without a moment's delay, he clambered over the brim, and slid down on the inside, where, spreading out his lion's skin, he proceeded to take a little repose.
he had scarcely rested, until now, since he bade farewell to the damsels on the margin of the river.
the waves dashed, with a pleasant and ringing sound, against the circumference of the hollow cup; it rocked lightly to and fro, and the motion was so soothing that it speedily rocked hercules into an agreeable slumber.
his nap had probably lasted a good while, when the cup chanced to graze against a rock, and, in consequence, immediately resounded and reverberated through its golden or brazen substance, a hundred times as loudly as ever you heard a church-bell.
the noise awoke hercules, who instantly started up and gazed around him, wondering whereabouts he was.
he was not long in discovering that the cup had floated across a great part of the sea, and was approaching the shore of what seemed to be an island.
and, on that island, what do you think he saw?
no; you will never guess it, not if you were to try fifty thousand times!
it positively appears to me that this was the most marvelous spectacle that had ever been seen by hercules, in the whole course of his wonderful travels and adventures.
it was a greater marvel than the hydra with nine heads, which kept growing twice as fast as they were cut off; greater than the six-legged man-monster; greater than antæus; greater than anything that was ever beheld by anybody, before or since the days of hercules, or than anything that remains to be beheld, by travelers in all time to come.
it was a giant!
but such an intolerably big giant!
a giant as tall as a mountain; so vast a giant, that the clouds rested about his midst, like a girdle, and hung like a hoary beard from his chin, and flitted before his huge eyes, so that he could neither see hercules nor the golden cup in which he was voyaging.
and, most wonderful of all, the giant held up his great hands and appeared to support the sky, which, so far as hercules could discern through the clouds, was resting upon his head!
this does really seem almost too much to believe.
meanwhile, the bright cup continued to float onward, and finally touched the strand.
just then a breeze wafted away the clouds from before the giant's visage, and hercules beheld it, with all its enormous features; eyes each of them as big as yonder lake, a nose a mile long, and a mouth of the same width.
it was a countenance terrible from its enormity of size, but disconsolate and weary, even as you may see the faces of many people, nowadays, who are compelled to sustain burdens above their strength.
what the sky was to the giant, such are the cares of earth to those who let themselves be weighed down by them.
and whenever men undertake what is beyond the just measure of their abilities, they encounter precisely such a doom as had befallen this poor giant.
poor fellow!
he had evidently stood there a long while.
an ancient forest had been growing and decaying around his feet; and oak-trees, of six or seven centuries old, had sprung from the acorn, and forced themselves between his toes.
the giant now looked down from the far height of his great eyes, and, perceiving hercules, roared out, in a voice that resembled thunder, proceeding out of the cloud that had just flitted away from his face.
"who are you, down at my feet there?
and whence do you come, in that little cup?"
"i am hercules!"
thundered back the hero, in a voice pretty nearly or quite as loud as the giant's own.
"and i am seeking for the garden of the hesperides!"
"ho!
ho!
ho!"
roared the giant, in a fit of immense laughter.
"that is a wise adventure, truly!"
"and why not?"
cried hercules, getting a little angry at the giant's mirth.
"do you think i am afraid of the dragon with a hundred heads!"
just at this time, while they were talking together, some black clouds gathered about the giant's middle, and burst into a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning, causing such a pother that hercules found it impossible to distinguish a word.
only the giant's immeasurable legs were to be seen, standing up into the obscurity of the tempest; and, now and then, a momentary glimpse of his whole figure, mantled in a volume of mist.
he seemed to be speaking, most of the time; but his big, deep, rough voice chimed in with the reverberations of the thunder-claps, and rolled away over the hills, like them.
thus, by talking out of season, the foolish giant expended an incalculable quantity of breath, to no purpose; for the thunder spoke quite as intelligibly as he.
at last, the storm swept over, as suddenly as it had come.
and there again was the clear sky, and the weary giant holding it up, and the pleasant sunshine beaming over his vast height, and illuminating it against the background of the sullen thunder-clouds.
so far above the shower had been his head, that not a hair of it was moistened by the rain-drops!
when the giant could see hercules still standing on the sea-shore, he roared out to him anew.
"i am atlas, the mightiest giant in the world!
and i hold the sky upon my head!"
"so i see," answered hercules.
"but, can you show me the way to the garden of the hesperides?"
"what do you want there?"
asked the giant.
"i want three of the golden apples," shouted hercules, "for my cousin, the king."
"there is nobody but myself," quoth the giant, "that can go to the garden of the hesperides, and gather the golden apples.
if it were not for this little business of holding up the sky, i would make half a dozen steps across the sea, and get them for you."
"you are very kind," replied hercules.
"and cannot you rest the sky upon a mountain?"
"none of them are quite high enough," said atlas, shaking his head.
"but, if you were to take your stand on the summit of that nearest one, your head would be pretty nearly on a level with mine.
you seem to be a fellow of some strength.
what if you should take my burden on your shoulders, while i do your errand for you?"
hercules, as you must be careful to remember, was a remarkably strong man; and though it certainly requires a great deal of muscular power to uphold the sky, yet, if any mortal could be supposed capable of such an exploit, he was the one.
nevertheless, it seemed so difficult an undertaking, that, for the first time in his life, he hesitated.
"is the sky very heavy?"
he inquired.
"why, not particularly so, at first," answered the giant, shrugging his shoulders.
"but it gets to be a little burdensome, after a thousand years!"
"and how long a time," asked the hero, "will it take you to get the golden apples?"
"oh, that will be done in a few moments," cried atlas.
"i shall take ten or fifteen miles at a stride, and be at the garden and back again before your shoulders begin to ache."
"well, then," answered hercules, "i will climb the mountain behind you there, and relieve you of your burden."
the truth is, hercules had a kind heart of his own, and considered that he should be doing the giant a favor, by allowing him this opportunity for a ramble.
and, besides, he thought that it would be still more for his own glory, if he could boast of upholding the sky, than merely to do so ordinary a thing as to conquer a dragon with a hundred heads.
accordingly, without more words, the sky was shifted from the shoulders of atlas, and placed upon those of hercules.
when this was safely accomplished, the first thing that the giant did was to stretch himself; and you may imagine what a prodigious spectacle he was then.
next, he slowly lifted one of his feet out of the forest that had grown up around it; then, the other.
then, all at once, he began to caper, and leap, and dance, for joy at his freedom; flinging himself nobody knows how high into the air, and floundering down again with a shock that made the earth tremble.
then he laughed ho!
ho!
ho!
with a thunderous roar that was echoed from the mountains, far and near, as if they and the giant had been so many rejoicing brothers.
when his joy had a little subsided, he stepped into the sea; ten miles at the first stride, which brought him midleg deep; and ten miles at the second, when the water came just above his knees; and ten miles more at the third, by which he was immersed nearly to his waist.
this was the greatest depth of the sea.
hercules watched the giant, as he still went onward; for it was really a wonderful sight, this immense human form, more than thirty miles off, half hidden in the ocean, but with his upper half as tall, and misty, and blue, as a distant mountain.
at last the gigantic shape faded entirely out of view.
and now hercules began to consider what he should do, in case atlas should be drowned in the sea, or if he were to be stung to death by the dragon with the hundred heads, which guarded the golden apples of the hesperides.
if any such misfortune were to happen, how could he ever get rid of the sky?
and, by the by, its weight began already to be a little irksome to his head and shoulders.
"i really pity the poor giant," thought hercules.
"if it wearies me so much in ten minutes, how must it have wearied him in a thousand years!"
o my sweet little people, you have no idea what a weight there was in that same blue sky, which looks so soft and aerial above our heads!
and there, too, was the bluster of the wind, and the chill and watery clouds, and the blazing sun, all taking their turns to make hercules uncomfortable!
he began to be afraid that the giant would never come back.
he gazed wistfully at the world beneath him, and acknowledged to himself that it was a far happier kind of life to be a shepherd at the foot of a mountain, than to stand on its dizzy summit, and bear up the firmament with his might and main.
for, of course, as you will easily understand, hercules had an immense responsibility on his mind, as well as a weight on his head and shoulders.
why, if he did not stand perfectly still, and keep the sky immovable, the sun would perhaps be put ajar!
or, after nightfall, a great many of the stars might be loosened from their places, and shower down, like fiery rain, upon the people's heads!
and how ashamed would the hero be, if, owing to his unsteadiness beneath its weight, the sky should crack, and show a great fissure quite across it!
i know not how long it was before, to his unspeakable joy, he beheld the huge shape of the giant, like a cloud, on the far-off edge of the sea.
at his nearer approach, atlas held up his hand, in which hercules could perceive three magnificent golden apples, as big as pumpkins, all hanging from one branch.
"i am glad to see you again," shouted hercules, when the giant was within hearing.
"so you have got the golden apples?"
"certainly, certainly," answered atlas; "and very fair apples they are.
i took the finest that grew on the tree, i assure you.
ah!
it is a beautiful spot, that garden of the hesperides.
yes; and the dragon with a hundred heads is a sight worth any man's seeing.
after all, you had better have gone for the apples yourself."
"no matter," replied hercules.
"you have had a pleasant ramble, and have done the business as well as i could.
i heartily thank you for your trouble.
and now, as i have a long way to go, and am rather in haste, and as the king, my cousin, is anxious to receive the golden apples, will you be kind enough to take the sky off my shoulders again?"
"why, as to that," said the giant, chucking the golden apples into the air twenty miles high, or thereabouts, and catching them as they came down, "as to that, my good friend, i consider you a little unreasonable.
cannot i carry the golden apples to the king, your cousin, much quicker than you could?
as his majesty is in such a hurry to get them, i promise you to take my longest strides.
and, besides, i have no fancy for burdening myself with the sky, just now."
here hercules grew impatient, and gave a great shrug of his shoulders.
it being now twilight, you might have seen two or three stars tumble out of their places.
everybody on earth looked upward in affright, thinking that the sky might be going to fall next.
"oh, that will never do!"
cried giant atlas, with a great roar of laughter.
"i have not let fall so many stars within the last five centuries.
by the time you have stood there as long as i did, you will begin to learn patience!"
"what!"
shouted hercules, very wrathfully, "do you intend to make me bear this burden forever?"
"we will see about that, one of these days," answered the giant.
"at all events, you ought not to complain, if you have to bear it the next hundred years, or perhaps the next thousand.
i bore it a good while longer, in spite of the back-ache.
well, then, after a thousand years, if i happen to feel in the mood, we may possibly shift about again.
you are certainly a very strong man, and can never have a better opportunity to prove it.
posterity will talk of you, i warrant it!"
"pish!
a fig for its talk!"
cried hercules, with another hitch of his shoulders.
"just take the sky upon your head one instant, will you?
i want to make a cushion of my lion's skin, for the weight to rest upon.
it really chafes me, and will cause unnecessary inconvenience in so many centuries as i am to stand here."
"that's no more than fair, and i'll do it!"
quoth the giant; for he had no unkind feeling towards hercules, and was merely acting with a too selfish consideration of his own ease.
"for just five minutes, then, i'll take back the sky.
only for five minutes, recollect!
i have no idea of spending another thousand years as i spent the last.
variety is the spice of life, say i."
ah, the thick-witted old rogue of a giant!
he threw down the golden apples, and received back the sky, from the head and shoulders of hercules, upon his own, where it rightly belonged.
and hercules picked up the three golden apples, that were as big or bigger than pumpkins, and straightway set out on his journey homeward, without paying the slightest heed to the thundering tones of the giant, who bellowed after him to come back.
another forest sprang up around his feet, and grew ancient there; and again might be seen oak-trees, of six or seven centuries old, that had waxed thus aged betwixt his enormous toes.
and there stands the giant to this day; or, at any rate, there stands a mountain as tall as he, and which bears his name; and when the thunder rumbles about its summit, we may imagine it to be the voice of giant atlas, bellowing after hercules!
tanglewood fireside
after the story
"cousin eustace," demanded sweet fern, who had been sitting at the story-teller's feet, with his mouth wide open, "exactly how tall was this giant?"
"o sweet fern, sweet fern!"
cried the student.
"do you think that i was there, to measure him with a yard-stick?
well, if you must know to a hair's-breadth, i suppose he might be from three to fifteen miles straight upward, and that he might have seated himself on taconic, and had monument mountain for a footstool."
"dear me!"
ejaculated the good little boy, with a contented sort of a grunt, "that was a giant, sure enough!
and how long was his little finger?"
"as long as from tanglewood to the lake," said eustace.
"sure enough, that was a giant!"
repeated sweet fern, in an ecstasy at the precision of these measurements.
"and how broad, i wonder, were the shoulders of hercules?"
"that is what i have never been able to find out," answered the student.
"but i think they must have been a great deal broader than mine, or than your father's, or than almost any shoulders which one sees nowadays."
"i wish," whispered sweet fern, with his mouth close to the student's ear, "that you would tell me how big were some of the oak-trees that grew between the giant's toes."
"they were bigger," said eustace, "than the great chestnut-tree which stands beyond captain smith's house."
"eustace," remarked mr. pringle, after some deliberation, "i find it impossible to express such an opinion of this story as will be likely to gratify, in the smallest degree, your pride of authorship.
pray let me advise you never more to meddle with a classical myth.
your imagination is altogether gothic, and will inevitably gothicize everything that you touch.
the effect is like bedaubing a marble statue with paint.
this giant, now!
how can you have ventured to thrust his huge, disproportioned mass among the seemly outlines of grecian fable, the tendency of which is to reduce even the extravagant within limits, by its pervading elegance?"
"i described the giant as he appeared to me," replied the student, rather piqued.
"and, sir, if you would only bring your mind into such a relation with these fables as is necessary in order to remodel them, you would see at once that an old greek had no more exclusive right to them than a modern yankee has.
they are the common property of the world, and of all time.
the ancient poets remodeled them at pleasure, and held them plastic in their hands; and why should they not be plastic in my hands as well?"
mr. pringle could not forbear a smile.
"and besides," continued eustace, "the moment you put any warmth of heart, any passion or affection, any human or divine morality, into a classic mould, you make it quite another thing from what it was before.
my own opinion is, that the greeks, by taking possession of these legends (which were the immemorial birthright of mankind), and putting them into shapes of indestructible beauty, indeed, but cold and heartless, have done all subsequent ages an incalculable injury."
"which you, doubtless, were born to remedy," said mr. pringle, laughing outright.
"well, well, go on; but take my advice, and never put any of your travesties on paper.
and, as your next effort, what if you should try your hand on some one of the legends of apollo?"
"ah, sir, you propose it as an impossibility," observed the student, after a moment's meditation; "and, to be sure, at first thought, the idea of a gothic apollo strikes one rather ludicrously.
but i will turn over your suggestion in my mind, and do not quite despair of success."
during the above discussion, the children (who understood not a word of it) had grown very sleepy, and were now sent off to bed.
their drowsy babble was heard, ascending the staircase, while a northwest wind roared loudly among the tree-tops of tanglewood, and played an anthem around the house.
eustace bright went back to the study, and again endeavored to hammer out some verses, but fell asleep between two of the rhymes.
the miraculous pitcher
the hill-side
introductory to the miraculous pitcher
and when, and where, do you think we find the children next?
no longer in the winter-time, but in the merry month of may.
no longer in tanglewood play-room, or at tanglewood fireside, but more than halfway up a monstrous hill, or a mountain, as perhaps it would be better pleased to have us call it.
they had set out from home with the mighty purpose of climbing this high hill, even to the very tiptop of its bald head.
to be sure, it was not quite so high as chimborazo or mont blanc, and was even a good deal lower than old graylock.
but, at any rate, it was higher than a thousand ant-hillocks or a million of mole-hills; and, when measured by the short strides of little children, might be reckoned a very respectable mountain.
and was cousin eustace with the party?
of that you may be certain; else how could the book go on a step farther?
he was now in the middle of the spring vacation, and looked pretty much as we saw him four or five months ago, except that, if you gazed quite closely at his upper lip, you could discern the funniest little bit of a mustache upon it.
setting aside this mark of mature manhood, you might have considered cousin eustace just as much a boy as when you first became acquainted with him.
he was as merry, as playful, as good-humored, as light of foot and of spirits, and equally a favorite with the little folks, as he had always been.
this expedition up the mountain was entirely of his contrivance.
all the way up the steep ascent, he had encouraged the elder children with his cheerful voice; and when dandelion, cowslip, and squash-blossom grew weary, he had lugged them along, alternately, on his back.
in this manner, they had passed through the orchards and pastures on the lower part of the hill, and had reached the wood, which extends thence towards its bare summit.
the month of may, thus far, had been more amiable than it often is, and this was as sweet and genial a day as the heart of man or child could wish.
in their progress up the hill, the small people had found enough of violets, blue and white, and some that were as golden as if they had the touch of midas on them.
that sociablest of flowers, the little houstonia, was very abundant.
it is a flower that never lives alone, but which loves its own kind, and is always fond of dwelling with a great many friends and relatives around it.
sometimes you see a family of them, covering a space no bigger than the palm of your hand; and sometimes a large community, whitening a whole tract of pasture, and all keeping one another in cheerful heart and life.
within the verge of the wood there were columbines, looking more pale than red, because they were so modest, and had thought proper to seclude themselves too anxiously from the sun.
there were wild geraniums, too, and a thousand white blossoms of the strawberry.
the trailing arbutus was not yet quite out of bloom; but it hid its precious flowers under the last year's withered forest-leaves, as carefully as a mother-bird hides its little young ones.
it knew, i suppose, how beautiful and sweet-scented they were.
so cunning was their concealment, that the children sometimes smelt the delicate richness of their perfume before they knew whence it proceeded.
amid so much new life, it was strange and truly pitiful to behold, here and there, in the fields and pastures, the hoary periwigs of dandelions that had already gone to seed.
they had done with summer before the summer came.
within those small globes of winged seeds it was autumn now!
well, but we must not waste our valuable pages with any more talk about the spring-time and wild flowers.
there is something, we hope, more interesting to be talked about.
if you look at the group of children, you may see them all gathered around eustace bright, who, sitting on the stump of a tree, seems to be just beginning a story.
the fact is, the younger part of the troop have found out that it takes rather too many of their short strides to measure the long ascent of the hill.
cousin eustace, therefore, has decided to leave sweet fern, cowslip, squash-blossom, and dandelion, at this point, midway up, until the return of the rest of the party from the summit.
and because they complain a little, and do not quite like to stay behind, he gives them some apples out of his pocket, and proposes to tell them a very pretty story.
hereupon they brighten up, and change their grieved looks into the broadest kind of smiles.
as for the story, i was there to hear it, hidden behind a bush, and shall tell it over to you in the pages that come next.
the miraculous pitcher
one evening, in times long ago, old philemon and his old wife baucis sat at their cottage-door, enjoying the calm and beautiful sunset.
they had already eaten their frugal supper, and intended now to spend a quiet hour or two before bedtime.
so they talked together about their garden, and their cow, and their bees, and their grapevine, which clambered over the cottage-wall, and on which the grapes were beginning to turn purple.
but the rude shouts of children and the fierce barking of dogs, in the village near at hand, grew louder and louder, until, at last, it was hardly possible for baucis and philemon to hear each other speak.
"ah, wife," cried philemon, "i fear some poor traveler is seeking hospitality among our neighbors yonder, and, instead of giving him food and lodging, they have set their dogs at him, as their custom is!"
"well-a-day!"
answered old baucis, "i do wish our neighbors felt a little more kindness for their fellow-creatures.
and only think of bringing up their children in this naughty way, and patting them on the head when they fling stones at strangers!"
"those children will never come to any good," said philemon, shaking his white head.
"to tell you the truth, wife, i should not wonder if some terrible thing were to happen to all the people in the village unless they mend their manners.
but, as for you and me, so long as providence affords us a crust of bread, let us be ready to give half to any poor, homeless stranger that may come along and need it."
"that's right, husband!"
said baucis.
"so we will!"
these old folks, you must know, were quite poor, and had to work pretty hard for a living.
old philemon toiled diligently in his garden, while baucis was always busy with her distaff, or making a little butter and cheese with their cow's milk, or doing one thing and another about the cottage.
their food was seldom anything but bread, milk, and vegetables, with sometimes a portion of honey from their beehive, and now and then a bunch of grapes, that had ripened against the cottage wall.
but they were two of the kindest old people in the world, and would cheerfully have gone without their dinners, any day, rather than refuse a slice of their brown loaf, a cup of new milk, and a spoonful of honey, to the weary traveler who might pause before their door.
they felt as if such guests had a sort of holiness, and that they ought, therefore, to treat them better and more bountifully than their own selves.
their cottage stood on a rising ground, at some short distance from a village, which lay in a hollow valley, that was about half a mile in breadth.
this valley, in past ages, when the world was new, had probably been the bed of a lake.
there, fishes had glided to and fro in the depths, and water-weeds had grown along the margin, and trees and hills had seen their reflected images in the broad and peaceful mirror.
but, as the waters subsided, men had cultivated the soil, and built houses on it, so that it was now a fertile spot, and bore no traces of the ancient lake, except a very small brook, which meandered through the midst of the village, and supplied the inhabitants with water.
the valley had been dry land so long, that oaks had sprung up, and grown great and high, and perished with old age, and been succeeded by others, as tall and stately as the first.
never was there a prettier or more fruitful valley.
the very sight of the plenty around them should have made the inhabitants kind and gentle, and ready to show their gratitude to providence by doing good to their fellow-creatures.
but, we are sorry to say, the people of this lovely village were not worthy to dwell in a spot on which heaven had smiled so beneficently.
they were a very selfish and hard-hearted people, and had no pity for the poor, nor sympathy with the homeless.
they would only have laughed, had anybody told them that human beings owe a debt of love to one another, because there is no other method of paying the debt of love and care which all of us owe to providence.
you will hardly believe what i am going to tell you.
these naughty people taught their children to be no better than themselves, and used to clap their hands, by way of encouragement, when they saw the little boys and girls run after some poor stranger, shouting at his heels and pelting him with stones.
they kept large and fierce dogs, and whenever a traveler ventured to show himself in the village street, this pack of disagreeable curs scampered to meet him, barking, snarling, and showing their teeth.
then they would seize him by his leg, or by his clothes, just as it happened; and if he were ragged when he came, he was generally a pitiable object before he had time to run away.
this was a very terrible thing to poor travelers, as you may suppose, especially when they chanced to be sick, or feeble, or lame, or old.
such persons (if they once knew how badly these unkind people, and their unkind children and curs, were in the habit of behaving) would go miles and miles out of their way, rather than try to pass through the village again.
what made the matter seem worse, if possible, was that when rich persons came in their chariots, or riding on beautiful horses, with their servants in rich liveries attending on them, nobody could be more civil and obsequious than the inhabitants of the village.
they would take off their hats, and make the humblest bows you ever saw.
if the children were rude, they were pretty certain to get their ears boxed; and as for the dogs, if a single cur in the pack presumed to yelp, his master instantly beat him with a club, and tied him up without any supper.
this would have been all very well, only it proved that the villagers cared much about the money that a stranger had in his pocket, and nothing whatever for the human soul, which lives equally in the beggar and the prince.
so now you can understand why old philemon spoke so sorrowfully, when he heard the shouts of the children and the barking of the dogs, at the farther extremity of the village street.
there was a confused din, which lasted a good while, and seemed to pass quite through the breadth of the valley.
"i never heard the dogs so loud!"
observed the good old man.
"nor the children so rude!"
answered his good old wife.
they sat shaking their heads, one to another, while the noise came nearer and nearer; until, at the foot of the little eminence on which their cottage stood, they saw two travelers approaching on foot.
close behind them came the fierce dogs, snarling at their very heels.
a little farther off, ran a crowd of children, who sent up shrill cries, and flung stones at the two strangers, with all their might.
once or twice, the younger of the two men (he was a slender and very active figure) turned about and drove back the dogs with a staff which he carried in his hand.
his companion, who was a very tall person, walked calmly along, as if disdaining to notice either the naughty children, or the pack of curs, whose manners the children seemed to imitate.
both of the travelers were very humbly clad, and looked as if they might not have money enough in their pockets to pay for a night's lodging.
and this, i am afraid, was the reason why the villagers had allowed their children and dogs to treat them so rudely.
"come, wife," said philemon to baucis, "let us go and meet these poor people.
no doubt, they feel almost too heavy-hearted to climb the hill."
"go you and meet them," answered baucis, "while i make haste within doors, and see whether we can get them anything for supper.
a comfortable bowl of bread and milk would do wonders towards raising their spirits."
accordingly, she hastened into the cottage.
philemon, on his part, went forward, and extended his hand with so hospitable an aspect that there was no need of saying what nevertheless he did say, in the heartiest tone imaginable,
"welcome, strangers!
welcome!"
"thank you!"
replied the younger of the two, in a lively kind of way, notwithstanding his weariness and trouble.
"this is quite another greeting than we have met with yonder in the village.
pray, why do you live in such a bad neighborhood?"
"ah!"
observed old philemon, with a quiet and benign smile, "providence put me here, i hope, among other reasons, in order that i may make you what amends i can for the inhospitality of my neighbors."
"well said, old father!"
cried the traveler, laughing; "and, if the truth must be told, my companion and myself need some amends.
those children (the little rascals!)
have bespattered us finely with their mud-balls; and one of the curs has torn my cloak, which was ragged enough already.
but i took him across the muzzle with my staff; and i think you may have heard him yelp, even thus far off."
philemon was glad to see him in such good spirits; nor, indeed, would you have fancied, by the traveler's look and manner, that he was weary with a long day's journey, besides being disheartened by rough treatment at the end of it.
he was dressed in rather an odd way, with a sort of cap on his head, the brim of which stuck out over both ears.
though it was a summer evening, he wore a cloak, which he kept wrapt closely about him, perhaps because his under garments were shabby.
philemon perceived, too, that he had on a singular pair of shoes; but, as it was now growing dusk, and as the old man's eyesight was none the sharpest, he could not precisely tell in what the strangeness consisted.
one thing, certainly, seemed queer.
the traveler was so wonderfully light and active, that it appeared as if his feet sometimes rose from the ground of their own accord, or could only be kept down by an effort.
"i used to be light-footed, in my youth," said philemon to the traveler.
"but i always found my feet grow heavier towards nightfall."
"there is nothing like a good staff to help one along," answered the stranger; "and i happen to have an excellent one, as you see."
this staff, in fact, was the oddest-looking staff that philemon had ever beheld.
it was made of olive-wood, and had something like a little pair of wings near the top.
two snakes, carved in the wood, were represented as twining themselves about the staff, and were so very skillfully executed that old philemon (whose eyes, you know, were getting rather dim) almost thought them alive, and that he could see them wriggling and twisting.
"a curious piece of work, sure enough!"
said he.
"a staff with wings!
it would be an excellent kind of stick for a little boy to ride astride of!"
by this time, philemon and his two guests had reached the cottage door.
"friends," said the old man, "sit down and rest yourselves here on this bench.
my good wife baucis has gone to see what you can have for supper.
we are poor folks; but you shall be welcome to whatever we have in the cupboard."
the younger stranger threw himself carelessly on the bench, letting his staff fall, as he did so.
and here happened something rather marvelous, though trifling enough, too.
the staff seemed to get up from the ground of its own accord, and, spreading its little pair of wings, it half hopped, half flew, and leaned itself against the wall of the cottage.
there it stood quite still, except that the snakes continued to wriggle.
but, in my private opinion, old philemon's eyesight had been playing him tricks again.
before he could ask any questions, the elder stranger drew his attention from the wonderful staff, by speaking to him.
"was there not," asked the stranger, in a remarkably deep tone of voice, "a lake, in very ancient times, covering the spot where now stands yonder village?"
"not in my day, friend," answered philemon; "and yet i am an old man, as you see.
there were always the fields and meadows, just as they are now, and the old trees, and the little stream murmuring through the midst of the valley.
my father, nor his father before him, ever saw it otherwise, so far as i know; and doubtless it will still be the same, when old philemon shall be gone and forgotten!"
"that is more than can be safely foretold," observed the stranger; and there was something very stern in his deep voice.
he shook his head, too, so that his dark and heavy curls were shaken with the movement.
"since the inhabitants of yonder village have forgotten the affections and sympathies of their nature, it were better that the lake should be rippling over their dwellings again!"
the traveler looked so stern that philemon was really almost frightened; the more so, that, at his frown, the twilight seemed suddenly to grow darker, and that, when he shook his head, there was a roll as of thunder in the air.
but, in a moment afterwards, the stranger's face became so kindly and mild that the old man quite forgot his terror.
nevertheless, he could not help feeling that this elder traveler must be no ordinary personage, although he happened now to be attired so humbly and to be journeying on foot.
not that philemon fancied him a prince in disguise, or any character of that sort; but rather some exceedingly wise man, who went about the world in this poor garb, despising wealth and all worldly objects, and seeking everywhere to add a mite to his wisdom.
this idea appeared the more probable, because, when philemon raised his eyes to the stranger's face, he seemed to see more thought there, in one look, than he could have studied out in a lifetime.
while baucis was getting the supper, the travelers both began to talk very sociably with philemon.
the younger, indeed, was extremely loquacious, and made such shrewd and witty remarks, that the good old man continually burst out a-laughing, and pronounced him the merriest fellow whom he had seen for many a day.
"pray, my young friend," said he, as they grew familiar together, "what may i call your name?"
"why, i am very nimble, as you see," answered the traveler.
"so, if you call me quicksilver, the name will fit tolerably well."
"quicksilver?
quicksilver?"
repeated philemon, looking in the traveler's face, to see if he were making fun of him.
"it is a very odd name!
and your companion there?
has he as strange a one?"
"you must ask the thunder to tell it you!"
replied quicksilver, putting on a mysterious look.
"no other voice is loud enough."
this remark, whether it were serious or in jest, might have caused philemon to conceive a very great awe of the elder stranger, if, on venturing to gaze at him, he had not beheld so much beneficence in his visage.
but, undoubtedly, here was the grandest figure that ever sat so humbly beside a cottage door.
when the stranger conversed, it was with gravity, and in such a way that philemon felt irresistibly moved to tell him everything which he had most at heart.
this is always the feeling that people have, when they meet with any one wise enough to comprehend all their good and evil, and to despise not a tittle of it.
but philemon, simple and kind-hearted old man that he was, had not many secrets to disclose.
he talked, however, quite garrulously, about the events of his past life, in the whole course of which he had never been a score of miles from this very spot.
his wife baucis and himself had dwelt in the cottage from their youth upward, earning their bread by honest labor, always poor, but still contented.
he told what excellent butter and cheese baucis made, and how nice were the vegetables which he raised in his garden.
he said, too, that, because they loved one another so very much, it was the wish of both that death might not separate them, but that they should die, as they had lived, together.
as the stranger listened, a smile beamed over his countenance, and made its expression as sweet as it was grand.
"you are a good old man," said he to philemon, "and you have a good old wife to be your helpmeet.
it is fit that your wish be granted."
and it seemed to philemon, just then, as if the sunset clouds threw up a bright flash from the west, and kindled a sudden light in the sky.
baucis had now got supper ready, and, coming to the door, began to make apologies for the poor fare which she was forced to set before her guests.
"had we known you were coming," said she, "my good man and myself would have gone without a morsel, rather than you should lack a better supper.
but i took the most part of to-day's milk to make cheese; and our last loaf is already half eaten.
ah me!
i never feel the sorrow of being poor, save when a poor traveler knocks at our door."
"all will be very well; do not trouble yourself, my good dame,"
replied the elder stranger, kindly.
"an honest, hearty welcome to a guest works miracles with the fare, and is capable of turning the coarsest food to nectar and ambrosia."
"a welcome you shall have," cried baucis, "and likewise a little honey that we happen to have left, and a bunch of purple grapes besides."
"why, mother baucis, it is a feast!"
exclaimed quicksilver, laughing, "an absolute feast!
and you shall see how bravely i will play my part at it!
i think i never felt hungrier in my life."
"mercy on us!"
whispered baucis to her husband.
"if the young man has such a terrible appetite, i am afraid there will not be half enough supper!"
they all went into the cottage.
and now, my little auditors, shall i tell you something that will make you open your eyes very wide?
it is really one of the oddest circumstances in the whole story.
quicksilver's staff, you recollect, had set itself up against the wall of the cottage.
well; when its master entered the door, leaving this wonderful staff behind, what should it do but immediately spread its little wings, and go hopping and fluttering up the door-steps!
tap, tap, went the staff, on the kitchen floor; nor did it rest until it had stood itself on end, with the greatest gravity and decorum, beside quicksilver's chair.
old philemon, however, as well as his wife, was so taken up in attending to their guests, that no notice was given to what the staff had been about.
as baucis had said, there was but a scanty supper for two hungry travelers.
in the middle of the table was the remnant of a brown loaf, with a piece of cheese on one side of it, and a dish of honeycomb on the other.
there was a pretty good bunch of grapes for each of the guests.
a moderately sized earthen pitcher, nearly full of milk, stood at a corner of the board; and when baucis had filled two bowls, and set them before the strangers, only a little milk remained in the bottom of the pitcher.
alas!
it is a very sad business, when a bountiful heart finds itself pinched and squeezed among narrow circumstances.
poor baucis kept wishing that she might starve for a week to come, if it were possible, by so doing, to provide these hungry folks a more plentiful supper.
and, since the supper was so exceedingly small, she could not help wishing that their appetites had not been quite so large.
why, at their very first sitting down, the travelers both drank off all the milk in their two bowls, at a draught.
"a little more milk, kind mother baucis, if you please," said quicksilver.
"the day has been hot, and i am very much athirst."
"now, my dear people," answered baucis, in great confusion, "i am so sorry and ashamed!
but the truth is, there is hardly a drop more milk in the pitcher.
o husband!
husband!
why didn't we go without our supper?"
"why, it appears to me," cried quicksilver, starting up from table and taking the pitcher by the handle, "it really appears to me that matters are not quite so bad as you represent them.
here is certainly more milk in the pitcher."
so saying, and to the vast astonishment of baucis, he proceeded to fill, not only his own bowl, but his companion's likewise, from the pitcher, that was supposed to be almost empty.
the good woman could scarcely believe her eyes.
she had certainly poured out nearly all the milk, and had peeped in afterwards, and seen the bottom of the pitcher, as she set it down upon the table.
"but i am old," thought baucis to herself, "and apt to be forgetful.
i suppose i must have made a mistake.
at all events, the pitcher cannot help being empty now, after filling the bowls twice over."
"what excellent milk!"
observed quicksilver, after quaffing the contents of the second bowl.
"excuse me, my kind hostess, but i must really ask you for a little more."
now baucis had seen, as plainly as she could see anything, that quicksilver had turned the pitcher upside down, and consequently had poured out every drop of milk, in filling the last bowl.
of course, there could not possibly be any left.
however, in order to let him know precisely how the case was, she lifted the pitcher, and made a gesture as if pouring milk into quicksilver's bowl, but without the remotest idea that any milk would stream forth.
what was her surprise, therefore, when such an abundant cascade fell bubbling into the bowl, that it was immediately filled to the brim, and overflowed upon the table!
the two snakes that were twisted about quicksilver's staff (but neither baucis nor philemon happened to observe this circumstance)
stretched out their heads, and began to lap up the spilt milk.
and then what a delicious fragrance the milk had!
it seemed as if philemon's only cow must have pastured, that day, on the richest herbage that could be found anywhere in the world.
i only wish that each of you, my beloved little souls, could have a bowl of such nice milk, at supper-time!
"and now a slice of your brown loaf, mother baucis," said quicksilver, "and a little of that honey!"
baucis cut him a slice, accordingly; and though the loaf, when she and her husband ate of it, had been rather too dry and crusty to be palatable, it was now as light and moist as if but a few hours out of the oven.
tasting a crumb, which had fallen on the table, she found it more delicious than bread ever was before, and could hardly believe that it was a loaf of her own kneading and baking.
yet, what other loaf could it possibly be?
but, oh the honey!
i may just as well let it alone, without trying to describe how exquisitely it smelt and looked.
its color was that of the purest and most transparent gold; and it had the odor of a thousand flowers; but of such flowers as never grew in an earthly garden, and to seek which the bees must have flown high above the clouds.
the wonder is, that, after alighting on a flower-bed of so delicious fragrance and immortal bloom, they should have been content to fly down again to their hive in philemon's garden.
never was such honey tasted, seen, or smelt.
the perfume floated around the kitchen, and made it so delightful, that, had you closed your eyes, you would instantly have forgotten the low ceiling and smoky walls, and have fancied yourself in an arbor, with celestial honeysuckles creeping over it.
although good mother baucis was a simple old dame, she could not but think that there was something rather out of the common way, in all that had been going on.
so, after helping the guests to bread and honey, and laying a bunch of grapes by each of their plates, she sat down by philemon, and told him what she had seen, in a whisper.
"did you ever hear the like?"
asked she.
"no, i never did," answered philemon, with a smile.
"and i rather think, my dear old wife, you have been walking about in a sort of a dream.
if i had poured out the milk, i should have seen through the business at once.
there happened to be a little more in the pitcher than you thought, that is all."
"ah, husband," said baucis, "say what you will, these are very uncommon people."
"well, well," replied philemon, still smiling, "perhaps they are.
they certainly do look as if they had seen better days; and i am heartily glad to see them making so comfortable a supper."
each of the guests had now taken his bunch of grapes upon his plate.
baucis (who rubbed her eyes, in order to see the more clearly) was of opinion that the clusters had grown larger and richer, and that each separate grape seemed to be on the point of bursting with ripe juice.
it was entirely a mystery to her how such grapes could ever have been produced from the old stunted vine that climbed against the cottage wall.
"very admirable grapes these!"
observed quicksilver, as he swallowed one after another, without apparently diminishing his cluster.
"pray, my good host, whence did you gather them?"
"from my own vine," answered philemon.
"you may see one of its branches twisting across the window, yonder.
but wife and i never thought the grapes very fine ones."
"i never tasted better," said the guest.
"another cup of this delicious milk, if you please, and i shall then have supped better than a prince."
this time, old philemon bestirred himself, and took up the pitcher; for he was curious to discover whether there was any reality in the marvels which baucis had whispered to him.
he knew that his good old wife was incapable of falsehood, and that she was seldom mistaken in what she supposed to be true; but this was so very singular a case, that he wanted to see into it with his own eyes.
on taking up the pitcher, therefore, he slyly peeped into it, and was fully satisfied that it contained not so much as a single drop.
all at once, however, he beheld a little white fountain, which gushed up from the bottom of the pitcher, and speedily filled it to the brim with foaming and deliciously fragrant milk.
it was lucky that philemon, in his surprise, did not drop the miraculous pitcher from his hand.
"who are ye, wonder-working strangers?"
cried he, even more bewildered than his wife had been.
"your guests, my good philemon, and your friends," replied the elder traveler, in his mild, deep voice, that had something at once sweet and awe-inspiring in it.
"give me likewise a cup of the milk; and may your pitcher never be empty for kind baucis and yourself, any more than for the needy wayfarer!"
the supper being now over, the strangers requested to be shown to their place of repose.
the old people would gladly have talked with them a little longer, and have expressed the wonder which they felt, and their delight at finding the poor and meagre supper prove so much better and more abundant than they hoped.
but the elder traveler had inspired them with such reverence, that they dared not ask him any questions.
and when philemon drew quicksilver aside, and inquired how under the sun a fountain of milk could have got into an old earthen pitcher, this latter personage pointed to his staff.
"there is the whole mystery of the affair," quoth quicksilver; "and if you can make it out, i'll thank you to let me know.
i can't tell what to make of my staff.
it is always playing such odd tricks as this; sometimes getting me a supper, and, quite as often, stealing it away.
if i had any faith in such nonsense, i should say the stick was bewitched!"
he said no more, but looked so slyly in their faces, that they rather fancied he was laughing at them.
the magic staff went hopping at his heels, as quicksilver quitted the room.
when left alone, the good old couple spent some little time in conversation about the events of the evening, and then lay down on the floor, and fell fast asleep.
they had given up their sleeping-room to the guests, and had no other bed for themselves, save these planks, which i wish had been as soft as their own hearts.
the old man and his wife were stirring betimes in the morning, and the strangers likewise arose with the sun, and made their preparations to depart.
philemon hospitably entreated them to remain a little longer, until baucis could milk the cow, and bake a cake upon the hearth, and, perhaps, find them a few fresh eggs, for breakfast.
the guests, however, seemed to think it better to accomplish a good part of their journey before the heat of the day should come on.
they, therefore, persisted in setting out immediately, but asked philemon and baucis to walk forth with them a short distance, and show them the road which they were to take.
so they all four issued from the cottage, chatting together like old friends.
it was very remarkable, indeed, how familiar the old couple insensibly grew with the elder traveler, and how their good and simple spirits melted into his, even as two drops of water would melt into the illimitable ocean.
and as for quicksilver, with his keen, quick, laughing wits, he appeared to discover every little thought that but peeped into their minds, before they suspected it themselves.
they sometimes wished, it is true, that he had not been quite so quick-witted, and also that he would fling away his staff, which looked so mysteriously mischievous, with the snakes always writhing about it.
but then, again, quicksilver showed himself so very good-humored, that they would have been rejoiced to keep him in their cottage, staff, snakes, and all, every day, and the whole day long.
"ah me!
well-a-day!"
exclaimed philemon, when they had walked a little way from their door.
"if our neighbors only knew what a blessed thing it is to show hospitality to strangers, they would tie up all their dogs, and never allow their children to fling another stone."
"it is a sin and shame for them to behave so, that it is!"
cried good old baucis, vehemently.
"and i mean to go this very day, and tell some of them what naughty people they are!"
"i fear," remarked quicksilver, slyly smiling, "that you will find none of them at home."
the elder traveler's brow, just then, assumed such a grave, stern, and awful grandeur, yet serene withal, that neither baucis nor philemon dared to speak a word.
they gazed reverently into his face, as if they had been gazing at the sky.
"when men do not feel towards the humblest stranger as if he were a brother," said the traveler, in tones so deep that they sounded like those of an organ, "they are unworthy to exist on earth, which was created as the abode of a great human brotherhood!"
"and, by the by, my dear old people," cried quicksilver, with the liveliest look of fun and mischief in his eyes, "where is this same village that you talk about?
on which side of us does it lie?
methinks i do not see it hereabouts."
philemon and his wife turned towards the valley, where, at sunset, only the day before, they had seen the meadows, the houses, the gardens, the clumps of trees, the wide, green-margined street, with children playing in it, and all the tokens of business, enjoyment, and prosperity.
but what was their astonishment!
there was no longer any appearance of a village!
even the fertile vale, in the hollow of which it lay, had ceased to have existence.
in its stead, they beheld the broad, blue surface of a lake, which filled the great basin of the valley from brim to brim, and reflected the surrounding hills in its bosom with as tranquil an image as if it had been there ever since the creation of the world.
for an instant, the lake remained perfectly smooth.
then, a little breeze sprang up, and caused the water to dance, glitter, and sparkle in the early sunbeams, and to dash, with a pleasant rippling murmur, against the hither shore.
the lake seemed so strangely familiar, that the old couple were greatly perplexed, and felt as if they could only have been dreaming about a village having lain there.
but, the next moment, they remembered the vanished dwellings, and the faces and characters of the inhabitants, far too distinctly for a dream.
the village had been there yesterday, and now was gone!
"alas!"
cried these kind-hearted old people, "what has become of our poor neighbors?"
"they exist no longer as men and women," said the elder traveler, in his grand and deep voice, while a roll of thunder seemed to echo it at a distance.
"there was neither use nor beauty in such a life as theirs; for they never softened or sweetened the hard lot of mortality by the exercise of kindly affections between man and man.
they retained no image of the better life in their bosoms; therefore, the lake, that was of old, has spread itself forth again, to reflect the sky!"
"and as for those foolish people," said quicksilver, with his mischievous smile, "they are all transformed to fishes.
there needed but little change, for they were already a scaly set of rascals, and the coldest-blooded beings in existence.
so, kind mother baucis, whenever you or your husband have an appetite for a dish of broiled trout, he can throw in a line, and pull out half a dozen of your old neighbors!"
"ah," cried baucis, shuddering, "i would not, for the world, put one of them on the gridiron!"
"no," added philemon, making a wry face, "we could never relish them!"
"as for you, good philemon," continued the elder traveler, "and you, kind baucis, you, with your scanty means, have mingled so much heartfelt hospitality with your entertainment of the homeless stranger, that the milk became an inexhaustible fount of nectar, and the brown loaf and the honey were ambrosia.
thus, the divinities have feasted, at your board, off the same viands that supply their banquets on olympus.
you have done well, my dear old friends.
wherefore, request whatever favor you have most at heart, and it is granted."
philemon and baucis looked at one another, and then, i know not which of the two it was who spoke, but that one uttered the desire of both their hearts.
"let us live together, while we live, and leave the world at the same instant, when we die!
for we have always loved one another!"
"be it so!"
replied the stranger, with majestic kindness.
"now, look towards your cottage!"
they did so.
but what was their surprise on beholding a tall edifice of white marble, with a wide-open portal, occupying the spot where their humble residence had so lately stood!
"there is your home," said the stranger, beneficently smiling on them both.
"exercise your hospitality in yonder palace as freely as in the poor hovel to which you welcomed us last evening."
the old folks fell on their knees to thank him; but, behold!
neither he nor quicksilver was there.
so philemon and baucis took up their residence in the marble palace, and spent their time, with vast satisfaction to themselves, in making everybody jolly and comfortable who happened to pass that way.
the milk-pitcher, i must not forget to say, retained its marvelous quality of being never empty, when it was desirable to have it full.
whenever an honest, good-humored, and free-hearted guest took a draught from this pitcher, he invariably found it the sweetest and most invigorating fluid that ever ran down his throat.
but, if a cross and disagreeable curmudgeon happened to sip, he was pretty certain to twist his visage into a hard knot, and pronounce it a pitcher of sour milk!
thus the old couple lived in their palace a great, great while, and grew older and older, and very old indeed.
at length, however, there came a summer morning when philemon and baucis failed to make their appearance, as on other mornings, with one hospitable smile overspreading both their pleasant faces, to invite the guests of over-night to breakfast.
the guests searched everywhere, from top to bottom of the spacious palace, and all to no purpose.
but, after a great deal of perplexity, they espied, in front of the portal, two venerable trees, which nobody could remember to have seen there the day before.
yet there they stood, with their roots fastened deep into the soil, and a huge breadth of foliage overshadowing the whole front of the edifice.
one was an oak, and the other a linden-tree.
their boughs it was strange and beautiful to see were intertwined together, and embraced one another, so that each tree seemed to live in the other tree's bosom much more than in its own.
while the guests were marveling how these trees, that must have required at least a century to grow, could have come to be so tall and venerable in a single night, a breeze sprang up, and set their intermingled boughs astir.
and then there was a deep, broad murmur in the air, as if the two mysterious trees were speaking.
"i am old philemon!"
murmured the oak.
"i am old baucis!"
murmured the linden-tree.
but, as the breeze grew stronger, the trees both spoke at once, "philemon!
baucis!
baucis!
philemon!"
as if one were both and both were one, and talking together in the depths of their mutual heart.
it was plain enough to perceive that the good old couple had renewed their age, and were now to spend a quiet and delightful hundred years or so, philemon as an oak, and baucis as a linden-tree.
and oh, what a hospitable shade did they fling around them.
whenever a wayfarer paused beneath it, he heard a pleasant whisper of the leaves above his head, and wondered how the sound should so much resemble words like these:
"welcome, welcome, dear traveler, welcome!"
and some kind soul, that knew what would have pleased old baucis and old philemon best, built a circular seat around both their trunks, where, for a great while afterwards, the weary, and the hungry, and the thirsty used to repose themselves, and quaff milk abundantly out of the miraculous pitcher.
and i wish, for all our sakes, that we had the pitcher here now!
the hill-side
after the story
"how much did the pitcher hold?"
asked sweet fern.
"it did not hold quite a quart," answered the student; "but you might keep pouring milk out of it, till you should fill a hogshead, if you pleased.
the truth is, it would run on forever, and not be dry even at midsummer, which is more than can be said of yonder rill, that goes babbling down the hill-side."
"and what has become of the pitcher now?"
inquired the little boy.
"it was broken, i am sorry to say, about twenty-five thousand years ago," replied cousin eustace.
"the people mended it as well as they could, but, though it would hold milk pretty well, it was never afterwards known to fill itself of its own accord.
so, you see, it was no better than any other cracked earthen pitcher."
"what a pity!"
cried all the children at once.
the respectable dog ben had accompanied the party, as did likewise a half-grown newfoundland puppy, who went by the name of bruin, because he was just as black as a bear.
ben, being elderly, and of very circumspect habits, was respectfully requested, by cousin eustace, to stay behind with the four little children, in order to keep them out of mischief.
as for black bruin, who was himself nothing but a child, the student thought it best to take him along, lest, in his rude play with the other children, he should trip them up, and send them rolling and tumbling down the hill.
advising cowslip, sweet fern, dandelion, and squash-blossom to sit pretty still, in the spot where he left them, the student, with primrose and the elder children, began to ascend, and were soon out of sight among the trees.
the chimæra
bald summit
introductory to the chimæra
upward, along the steep and wooded hill-side, went eustace bright and his companions.
the trees were not yet in full leaf, but had budded forth sufficiently to throw an airy shadow, while the sunshine filled them with green light.
there were moss-grown rocks, half hidden among the old, brown, fallen leaves; there were rotten tree-trunks, lying at full length where they had long ago fallen; there were decayed boughs, that had been shaken down by the wintry gales, and were scattered everywhere about.
but still, though these things looked so aged, the aspect of the wood was that of the newest life; for, whichever way you turned your eyes, something fresh and green was springing forth, so as to be ready for the summer.
at last, the young people reached the upper verge of the wood, and found themselves almost at the summit of the hill.
it was not a peak, nor a great round ball, but a pretty wide plain, or table-land, with a house and barn upon it, at some distance.
that house was the home of a solitary family; and oftentimes the clouds, whence fell the rain, and whence the snow-storm drifted down into the valley, hung lower than this bleak and lonely dwelling-place.
on the highest point of the hill was a heap of stones, in the centre of which was stuck a long pole, with a little flag fluttering at the end of it.
eustace led the children thither, and bade them look around, and see how large a tract of our beautiful world they could take in at a glance.
and their eyes grew wider as they looked.
monument mountain, to the southward, was still in the centre of the scene, but seemed to have sunk and subsided, so that it was now but an undistinguished member of a large family of hills.
beyond it, the taconic range looked higher and bulkier than before.
our pretty lake was seen, with all its little bays and inlets; and not that alone, but two or three new lakes were opening their blue eyes to the sun.
several white villages, each with its steeple, were scattered about in the distance.
there were so many farm-houses, with their acres of woodland, pasture, mowing-fields, and tillage, that the children could hardly make room in their minds to receive all these different objects.
there, too, was tanglewood, which they had hitherto thought such an important apex of the world.
it now occupied so small a space, that they gazed far beyond it, and on either side, and searched a good while with all their eyes, before discovering whereabout it stood.
white, fleecy clouds were hanging in the air, and threw the dark spots of their shadow here and there over the landscape.
but, by and by, the sunshine was where the shadow had been, and the shadow was somewhere else.
far to the westward was a range of blue mountains, which eustace bright told the children were the catskills.
among those misty hills, he said, was a spot where some old dutchmen were playing an everlasting game of nine-pins, and where an idle fellow, whose name was rip van winkle, had fallen asleep, and slept twenty years at a stretch.
the children eagerly besought eustace to tell them all about this wonderful affair.
but the student replied that the story had been told once already, and better than it ever could be told again; and that nobody would have a right to alter a word of it, until it should have grown as old as "the gorgon's head," and "the three golden apples," and the rest of those miraculous legends.
"at least," said periwinkle, "while we rest ourselves here, and are looking about us, you can tell us another of your own stories."
"yes, cousin eustace," cried primrose, "i advise you to tell us a story here.
take some lofty subject or other, and see if your imagination will not come up to it.
perhaps the mountain air may make you poetical, for once.
and no matter how strange and wonderful the story may be, now that we are up among the clouds, we can believe anything."
"can you believe," asked eustace, "that there was once a winged horse?"
"yes," said saucy primrose; "but i am afraid you will never be able to catch him."
"for that matter, primrose," rejoined the student, "i might possibly catch pegasus, and get upon his back, too, as well as a dozen other fellows that i know of.
at any rate, here is a story about him; and, of all places in the world, it ought certainly to be told upon a mountain-top."
so, sitting on the pile of stones, while the children clustered themselves at its base, eustace fixed his eyes on a white cloud that was sailing by, and began as follows.
the chimæra
once, in the old, old times (for all the strange things which i tell you about happened long before anybody can remember), a fountain gushed out of a hill-side, in the marvelous land of greece.
and, for aught i know, after so many thousand years, it is still gushing out of the very selfsame spot.
at any rate, there was the pleasant fountain, welling freshly forth and sparkling adown the hill-side, in the golden sunset, when a handsome young man named bellerophon drew near its margin.
in his hand he held a bridle, studded with brilliant gems, and adorned with a golden bit.
seeing an old man, and another of middle age, and a little boy, near the fountain, and likewise a maiden, who was dipping up some of the water in a pitcher, he paused, and begged that he might refresh himself with a draught.
"this is very delicious water," he said to the maiden as he rinsed and filled her pitcher, after drinking out of it.
"will you be kind enough to tell me whether the fountain has any name?"
"yes; it is called the fountain of pirene," answered the maiden; and then she added, "my grandmother has told me that this clear fountain was once a beautiful woman; and when her son was killed by the arrows of the huntress diana, she melted all away into tears.
and so the water, which you find so cool and sweet, is the sorrow of that poor mother's heart!"
"i should not have dreamed," observed the young stranger, "that so clear a well-spring, with its gush and gurgle, and its cheery dance out of the shade into the sunlight, had so much as one tear-drop in its bosom!
and this, then, is pirene?
i thank you, pretty maiden, for telling me its name.
i have come from a far-away country to find this very spot."
a middle-aged country fellow (he had driven his cow to drink out of the spring) stared hard at young bellerophon, and at the handsome bridle which he carried in his hand.
"the water-courses must be getting low, friend, in your part of the world," remarked he, "if you come so far only to find the fountain of pirene.
but, pray, have you lost a horse?
i see you carry the bridle in your hand; and a very pretty one it is with that double row of bright stones upon it.
if the horse was as fine as the bridle, you are much to be pitied for losing him."
"i have lost no horse," said bellerophon, with a smile.
"but i happen to be seeking a very famous one, which, as wise people have informed me, must be found hereabouts, if anywhere.
do you know whether the winged horse pegasus still haunts the fountain of pirene, as he used to do in your forefathers' days?"
but then the country fellow laughed.
some of you, my little friends, have probably heard that this pegasus was a snow-white steed, with beautiful silvery wings, who spent most of his time on the summit of mount helicon.
he was as wild, and as swift, and as buoyant, in his flight through the air, as any eagle that ever soared into the clouds.
there was nothing else like him in the world.
he had no mate; he never had been backed or bridled by a master; and, for many a long year, he led a solitary and a happy life.
oh, how fine a thing it is to be a winged horse!
sleeping at night, as he did, on a lofty mountain-top, and passing the greater part of the day in the air, pegasus seemed hardly to be a creature of the earth.
whenever he was seen, up very high above people's heads, with the sunshine on his silvery wings, you would have thought that he belonged to the sky, and that, skimming a little too low, he had got astray among our mists and vapors, and was seeking his way back again.
it was very pretty to behold him plunge into the fleecy bosom of a bright cloud, and be lost in it, for a moment or two, and then break forth from the other side.
or, in a sullen rain-storm, when there was a gray pavement of clouds over the whole sky, it would sometimes happen that the winged horse descended right through it, and the glad light of the upper region would gleam after him.
in another instant, it is true, both pegasus and the pleasant light would be gone away together.
but any one that was fortunate enough to see this wondrous spectacle felt cheerful the whole day afterwards, and as much longer as the storm lasted.
in the summer-time, and in the beautifullest of weather, pegasus often alighted on the solid earth, and, closing his silvery wings, would gallop over hill and dale for pastime, as fleetly as the wind.
oftener than in any other place, he had been seen near the fountain of pirene, drinking the delicious water, or rolling himself upon the soft grass of the margin.
sometimes, too (but pegasus was very dainty in his food), he would crop a few of the clover-blossoms that happened to be sweetest.
to the fountain of pirene, therefore, people's great-grandfathers had been in the habit of going (as long as they were youthful, and retained their faith in winged horses), in hopes of getting a glimpse at the beautiful pegasus.
but, of late years, he had been very seldom seen.
indeed, there were many of the country folks, dwelling within half an hour's walk of the fountain, who had never beheld pegasus, and did not believe that there was any such creature in existence.
the country fellow to whom bellerophon was speaking chanced to be one of those incredulous persons.
and that was the reason why he laughed.
"pegasus, indeed!"
cried he, turning up his nose as high as such a flat nose could be turned up, "pegasus, indeed!
a winged horse, truly!
why, friend, are you in your senses?
of what use would wings be to a horse?
could he drag the plow so well, think you?
to be sure, there might be a little saving in the expense of shoes; but then, how would a man like to see his horse flying out of the stable window?
yes, or whisking up him above the clouds, when he only wanted to ride to mill?
no, no!
i don't believe in pegasus.
there never was such a ridiculous kind of a horse-fowl made!"
"i have some reason to think otherwise," said bellerophon, quietly.
and then he turned to an old, gray man, who was leaning on a staff, and listening very attentively, with his head stretched forward, and one hand at his ear, because, for the last twenty years, he had been getting rather deaf.
"and what say you, venerable sir?"
inquired he.
"in your younger days, i should imagine, you must frequently have seen the winged steed!"
"ah, young stranger, my memory is very poor!"
said the aged man.
"when i was a lad, if i remember rightly, i used to believe there was such a horse, and so did everybody else.
but, nowadays, i hardly know what to think, and very seldom think about the winged horse at all.
if i ever saw the creature, it was a long, long while ago; and, to tell you the truth, i doubt whether i ever did see him.
one day, to be sure, when i was quite a youth, i remember seeing some hoof-tramps round about the brink of the fountain.
pegasus might have made those hoof-marks; and so might some other horse."
"and have you never seen him, my fair maiden?"
asked bellerophon of the girl, who stood with the pitcher on her head, while this talk went on.
"you certainly could see pegasus, if anybody can, for your eyes are very bright."
"once i thought i saw him," replied the maiden, with a smile and a blush.
"it was either pegasus, or a large white bird, a very great way up in the air.
and one other time, as i was coming to the fountain with my pitcher, i heard a neigh.
oh, such a brisk and melodious neigh as that was!
my very heart leaped with delight at the sound.
but it startled me, nevertheless; so that i ran home without filling my pitcher."
"that was truly a pity!"
said bellerophon.
and he turned to the child, whom i mentioned at the beginning of the story, and who was gazing at him, as children are apt to gaze at strangers, with his rosy mouth wide open.
"well, my little fellow," cried bellerophon, playfully pulling one of his curls, "i suppose you have often seen the winged horse."
"that i have," answered the child, very readily.
"i saw him yesterday, and many times before."
"you are a fine little man!"
said bellerophon, drawing the child closer to him.
"come, tell me all about it."
"why," replied the child, "i often come here to sail little boats in the fountain, and to gather pretty pebbles out of its basin.
and sometimes, when i look down into the water, i see the image of the winged horse, in the picture of the sky that is there.
i wish he would come down, and take me on his back, and let me ride him up to the moon!
but, if i so much as stir to look at him, he flies far away out of sight."
and bellerophon put his faith in the child, who had seen the image of pegasus in the water, and in the maiden, who had heard him neigh so melodiously, rather than in the middle-aged clown, who believed only in cart-horses, or in the old man who had forgotten the beautiful things of his youth.
therefore, he haunted about the fountain of pirene for a great many days afterwards.
he kept continually on the watch, looking upward at the sky, or else down into the water, hoping forever that he should see either the reflected image of the winged horse, or the marvelous reality.
he held the bridle, with its bright gems and golden bit, always ready in his hand.
the rustic people, who dwelt in the neighborhood, and drove their cattle to the fountain to drink, would often laugh at poor bellerophon, and sometimes take him pretty severely to task.
they told him that an able-bodied young man, like himself, ought to have better business than to be wasting his time in such an idle pursuit.
they offered to sell him a horse, if he wanted one; and when bellerophon declined the purchase, they tried to drive a bargain with him for his fine bridle.
even the country boys thought him so very foolish, that they used to have a great deal of sport about him, and were rude enough not to care a fig, although bellerophon saw and heard it.
one little urchin, for example, would play pegasus, and cut the oddest imaginable capers, by way of flying; while one of his schoolfellows would scamper after him, holding forth a twist of bulrushes, which was intended to represent bellerophon's ornamental bridle.
but the gentle child, who had seen the picture of pegasus in the water, comforted the young stranger more than all the naughty boys could torment him.
the dear little fellow, in his play-hours, often sat down beside him, and, without speaking a word, would look down into the fountain and up towards the sky, with so innocent a faith, that bellerophon could not help feeling encouraged.
now you will, perhaps, wish to be told why it was that bellerophon had undertaken to catch the winged horse.
and we shall find no better opportunity to speak about this matter than while he is waiting for pegasus to appear.
if i were to relate the whole of bellerophon's previous adventures, they might easily grow into a very long story.
it will be quite enough to say, that, in a certain country of asia, a terrible monster, called a chimæra, had made its appearance, and was doing more mischief than could be talked about between now and sunset.
according to the best accounts which i have been able to obtain, this chimæra was nearly, if not quite, the ugliest and most poisonous creature, and the strangest and unaccountablest, and the hardest to fight with, and the most difficult to run away from, that ever came out of the earth's inside.
it had a tail like a boa-constrictor; its body was like i do not care what; and it had three separate heads, one of which was a lion's, the second a goat's, and the third an abominably great snake's.
and a hot blast of fire came flaming out of each of its three mouths!
being an earthly monster, i doubt whether it had any wings; but, wings or no, it ran like a goat and a lion, and wriggled along like a serpent, and thus contrived to make about as much speed as all the three together.
oh, the mischief, and mischief, and mischief that this naughty creature did!
with its flaming breath, it could set a forest on fire, or burn up a field of grain, or, for that matter, a village, with all its fences and houses.
it laid waste the whole country round about, and used to eat up people and animals alive, and cook them afterwards in the burning oven of its stomach.
mercy on us, little children, i hope neither you nor i will ever happen to meet a chimæra!
while the hateful beast (if a beast we can anywise call it) was doing all these horrible things, it so chanced that bellerophon came to that part of the world, on a visit to the king.
the king's name was iobates, and lycia was the country which he ruled over.
bellerophon was one of the bravest youths in the world, and desired nothing so much as to do some valiant and beneficent deed, such as would make all mankind admire and love him.
in those days, the only way for a young man to distinguish himself was by fighting battles, either with the enemies of his country, or with wicked giants, or with troublesome dragons, or with wild beasts, when he could find nothing more dangerous to encounter.
king iobates, perceiving the courage of his youthful visitor, proposed to him to go and fight the chimæra, which everybody else was afraid of, and which, unless it should be soon killed, was likely to convert lycia into a desert.
bellerophon hesitated not a moment, but assured the king that he would either slay this dreaded chimæra, or perish in the attempt.
but, in the first place, as the monster was so prodigiously swift, he bethought himself that he should never win the victory by fighting on foot.
the wisest thing he could do, therefore, was to get the very best and fleetest horse that could anywhere be found.
and what other horse, in all the world, was half so fleet as the marvelous horse pegasus, who had wings as well as legs, and was even more active in the air than on the earth?
to be sure, a great many people denied that there was any such horse with wings, and said that the stories about him were all poetry and nonsense.
but, wonderful as it appeared, bellerophon believed that pegasus was a real steed, and hoped that he himself might be fortunate enough to find him; and, once fairly mounted on his back, he would be able to fight the chimæra at better advantage.
and this was the purpose with which he had traveled from lycia to greece, and had brought the beautifully ornamented bridle in his hand.
it was an enchanted bridle.
if he could only succeed in putting the golden bit into the mouth of pegasus, the winged horse would be submissive, and would own bellerophon for his master, and fly whithersoever he might choose to turn therein.
but, indeed, it was a weary and anxious time, while bellerophon waited and waited for pegasus, in hopes that he would come and drink at the fountain of pirene.
he was afraid lest king iobates should imagine that he had fled from the chimæra.
it pained him, too, to think how much mischief the monster was doing, while he himself, instead of fighting with it, was compelled to sit idly poring over the bright waters of pirene, as they gushed out of the sparkling sand.
and as pegasus came thither so seldom in these latter years, and scarcely alighted there more than once in a lifetime, bellerophon feared that he might grow an old man, and have no strength left in his arms nor courage in his heart, before the winged horse would appear.
oh, how heavily passes the time, while an adventurous youth is yearning to do his part in life, and to gather in the harvest of his renown!
how hard a lesson it is to wait!
our life is brief, and how much of it is spent in teaching us only this!
well was it for bellerophon that the gentle child had grown so fond of him, and was never weary of keeping him company.
every morning the child gave him a new hope to put in his bosom, instead of yesterday's withered one.
"dear bellerophon," he would cry, looking up hopefully into his face, "i think we shall see pegasus to-day!"
and, at length, if it had not been for the little boy's unwavering faith, bellerophon would have given up all hope, and would have gone back to lycia, and have done his best to slay the chimæra without the help of the winged horse.
and in that case poor bellerophon would at least have been terribly scorched by the creature's breath, and would most probably have been killed and devoured.
nobody should ever try to fight an earth-born chimæra, unless he can first get upon the back of an aerial steed.
one morning the child spoke to bellerophon even more hopefully than usual.
"dear, dear bellerophon," cried he, "i know not why it is, but i feel as if we should certainly see pegasus to-day!"
and all that day he would not stir a step from bellerophon's side; so they ate a crust of bread together, and drank some of the water of the fountain.
in the afternoon, there they sat, and bellerophon had thrown his arm around the child, who likewise had put one of his little hands into bellerophon's.
the latter was lost in his own thoughts, and was fixing his eyes vacantly on the trunks of the trees that overshadowed the fountain, and on the grapevines that clambered up among their branches.
but the gentle child was gazing down into the water; he was grieved, for bellerophon's sake, that the hope of another day should be deceived, like so many before it; and two or three quiet tear-drops fell from his eyes, and mingled with what were said to be the many tears of pirene, when she wept for her slain children.
but, when he least thought of it, bellerophon felt the pressure of the child's little hand, and heard a soft, almost breathless, whisper.
"see there, dear bellerophon!
there is an image in the water!"
the young man looked down into the dimpling mirror of the fountain, and saw what he took to be the reflection of a bird which seemed to be flying at a great height in the air, with a gleam of sunshine on its snowy or silvery wings.
"what a splendid bird it must be!"
said he.
"and how very large it looks, though it must really be flying higher than the clouds!"
"it makes me tremble!"
whispered the child.
"i am afraid to look up into the air!
it is very beautiful, and yet i dare only look at its image in the water.
dear bellerophon, do you not see that it is no bird?
it is the winged horse pegasus!"
bellerophon's heart began to throb!
he gazed keenly upward, but could not see the winged creature, whether bird or horse; because, just then, it had plunged into the fleecy depths of a summer cloud.
it was but a moment, however, before the object reappeared, sinking lightly down out of the cloud, although still at a vast distance from the earth.
bellerophon caught the child in his arms, and shrank back with him, so that they were both hidden among the thick shrubbery which grew all around the fountain.
not that he was afraid of any harm, but he dreaded lest, if pegasus caught a glimpse of them, he would fly far away, and alight in some inaccessible mountain-top.
for it was really the winged horse.
after they had expected him so long, he was coming to quench his thirst with the water of pirene.
nearer and nearer came the aerial wonder, flying in great circles, as you may have seen a dove when about to alight.
downward came pegasus, in those wide, sweeping circles, which grew narrower, and narrower still, as he gradually approached the earth.
the nigher the view of him, the more beautiful he was, and the more marvelous the sweep of his silvery wings.
at last, with so light a pressure as hardly to bend the grass about the fountain, or imprint a hoof-tramp in the sand of its margin, he alighted, and, stooping his wild head, began to drink.
he drew in the water, with long and pleasant sighs, and tranquil pauses of enjoyment; and then another draught, and another, and another.
for, nowhere in the world, or up among the clouds, did pegasus love any water as he loved this of pirene.
and when his thirst was slaked, he cropped a few of the honey-blossoms of the clover, delicately tasting them, but not caring to make a hearty meal, because the herbage, just beneath the clouds, on the lofty sides of mount helicon, suited his palate better than this ordinary grass.
after thus drinking to his heart's content, and, in his dainty fashion, condescending to take a little food, the winged horse began to caper to and fro, and dance as it were, out of mere idleness and sport.
there never was a more playful creature made than this very pegasus.
so there he frisked, in a way that it delights me to think about, fluttering his great wings as lightly as ever did a linnet, and running little races, half on earth and half in air, and which i know not whether to call a flight or a gallop.
when a creature is perfectly able to fly, he sometimes chooses to run, just for the pastime of the thing; and so did pegasus, although it cost him some little trouble to keep his hoofs so near the ground.
bellerophon, meanwhile, holding the child's hand, peeped forth from the shrubbery, and thought that never was any sight so beautiful as this, nor ever a horse's eyes so wild and spirited as those of pegasus.
it seemed a sin to think of bridling him and riding on his back.
once or twice, pegasus stopped, and snuffed the air, pricking up his ears, tossing his head, and turning it on all sides, as if he partly suspected some mischief or other.
seeing nothing, however, and hearing no sound, he soon began his antics again.
at length not that he was weary, but only idle and luxurious pegasus folded his wings, and lay down on the soft green turf.
but, being too full of aerial life to remain quiet for many moments together, he soon rolled over on his back, with his four slender legs in the air.
it was beautiful to see him, this one solitary creature, whose mate had never been created, but who needed no companion, and, living a great many hundred years, was as happy as the centuries were long.
the more he did such things as mortal horses are accustomed to do, the less earthly and the more wonderful he seemed.
bellerophon and the child almost held their breath, partly from a delightful awe, but still more because they dreaded lest the slightest stir or murmur should send him up, with the speed of an arrow-flight, into the farthest blue of the sky.
finally, when he had had enough of rolling over and over, pegasus turned himself about, and, indolently, like any other horse, put out his fore legs, in order to rise from the ground; and bellerophon, who had guessed that he would do so, darted suddenly from the thicket, and leaped astride of his back.
yes, there he sat, on the back of the winged horse!
but what a bound did pegasus make, when, for the first time, he felt the weight of a mortal man upon his loins!
a bound, indeed!
before he had time to draw a breath, bellerophon found himself five hundred feet aloft, and still shooting upward, while the winged horse snorted and trembled with terror and anger.
upward he went, up, up, up, until he plunged into the cold misty bosom of a cloud, at which, only a little while before, bellerophon had been gazing, and fancying it a very pleasant spot.
then again, out of the heart of the cloud, pegasus shot down like a thunderbolt, as if he meant to dash both himself and his rider headlong against a rock.
then he went through about a thousand of the wildest caprioles that had ever been performed either by a bird or a horse.
i cannot tell you half that he did.
he skimmed straight forward, and sideways, and backward.
he reared himself erect, with his fore legs on a wreath of mist, and his hind legs on nothing at all.
he flung out his heels behind, and put down his head between his legs, with his wings pointing right upward.
at about two miles' height above the earth, he turned a somerset, so that bellerophon's heels were where his head should have been, and he seemed to look down into the sky, instead of up.
he twisted his head about, and, looking bellerophon in the face, with fire flashing from his eyes, made a terrible attempt to bite him.
he fluttered his pinions so wildly that one of the silver feathers was shaken out, and, floating earthward, was picked up by the child, who kept it as long as he lived, in memory of pegasus and bellerophon.
but the latter (who, as you may judge, was as good a horseman as ever galloped) had been watching his opportunity, and at last clapped the golden bit of the enchanted bridle between the winged steed's jaws.
no sooner was this done, than pegasus became as manageable as if he had taken food, all his life, out of bellerophon's hand.
to speak what i really feel, it was almost a sadness to see so wild a creature grow suddenly so tame.
and pegasus seemed to feel it so, likewise.
he looked round to bellerophon, with the tears in his beautiful eyes, instead of the fire that so recently flashed from them.
but when bellerophon patted his head, and spoke a few authoritative, yet kind and soothing words, another look came into the eyes of pegasus; for he was glad at heart, after so many lonely centuries, to have found a companion and a master.
thus it always is with winged horses, and with all such wild and solitary creatures.
if you can catch and overcome them, it is the surest way to win their love.
while pegasus had been doing his utmost to shake bellerophon off his back, he had flown a very long distance; and they had come within sight of a lofty mountain by the time the bit was in his mouth.
bellerophon had seen this mountain before, and knew it to be helicon, on the summit of which was the winged horse's abode.
thither (after looking gently into his rider's face, as if to ask leave) pegasus now flew, and, alighting, waited patiently until bellerophon should please to dismount.
the young man, accordingly, leaped from his steed's back, but still held him fast by the bridle.
meeting his eyes, however, he was so affected by the gentleness of his aspect, and by the thought of the free life which pegasus had heretofore lived, that he could not bear to keep him a prisoner, if he really desired his liberty.
obeying this generous impulse he slipped the enchanted bridle off the head of pegasus, and took the bit from his mouth.
"leave me, pegasus!"
said he.
"either leave me, or love me."
in an instant, the winged horse shot almost out of sight, soaring straight upward from the summit of mount helicon.
being long after sunset, it was now twilight on the mountain-top, and dusky evening over all the country round about.
but pegasus flew so high that he overtook the departed day, and was bathed in the upper radiance of the sun.
ascending higher and higher, he looked like a bright speck, and, at last, could no longer be seen in the hollow waste of the sky.
and bellerophon was afraid that he should never behold him more.
but, while he was lamenting his own folly, the bright speck reappeared, and drew nearer and nearer, until it descended lower than the sunshine; and, behold, pegasus had come back!
after this trial there was no more fear of the winged horse's making his escape.
he and bellerophon were friends, and put loving faith in one another.
that night they lay down and slept together, with bellerophon's arm about the neck of pegasus, not as a caution, but for kindness.
and they awoke at peep of day, and bade one another good morning, each in his own language.
in this manner, bellerophon and the wondrous steed spent several days, and grew better acquainted and fonder of each other all the time.
they went on long aerial journeys, and sometimes ascended so high that the earth looked hardly bigger than the moon.
they visited distant countries, and amazed the inhabitants, who thought that the beautiful young man, on the back of the winged horse, must have come down out of the sky.
a thousand miles a day was no more than an easy space for the fleet pegasus to pass over.
bellerophon was delighted with this kind of life, and would have liked nothing better than to live always in the same way, aloft in the clear atmosphere; for it was always sunny weather up there, however cheerless and rainy it might be in the lower region.
but he could not forget the horrible chimæra, which he had promised king iobates to slay.
so, at last, when he had become well accustomed to feats of horsemanship in the air, and could manage pegasus with the least motion of his hand, and had taught him to obey his voice, he determined to attempt the performance of this perilous adventure.
at daybreak, therefore, as soon as he unclosed his eyes, he gently pinched the winged horse's ear, in order to arouse him.
pegasus immediately started from the ground, and pranced about a quarter of a mile aloft, and made a grand sweep around the mountain-top, by way of showing that he was wide awake, and ready for any kind of an excursion.
during the whole of this little flight, he uttered a loud, brisk, and melodious neigh, and finally came down at bellerophon's side, as lightly as ever you saw a sparrow hop upon a twig.
"well done, dear pegasus!
well done, my sky-skimmer!"
cried bellerophon, fondly stroking the horse's neck.
"and now, my fleet and beautiful friend, we must break our fast.
to-day we are to fight the terrible chimæra."
as soon as they had eaten their morning meal, and drank some sparkling water from a spring called hippocrene, pegasus held out his head, of his own accord, so that his master might put on the bridle.
then, with a great many playful leaps and airy caperings, he showed his impatience to be gone; while bellerophon was girding on his sword, and hanging his shield about his neck, and preparing himself for battle.
when everything was ready, the rider mounted, and (as was his custom, when going a long distance) ascended five miles perpendicularly, so as the better to see whither he was directing his course.
he then turned the head of pegasus towards the east, and set out for lycia.
in their flight they overtook an eagle, and came so nigh him, before he could get out of their way, that bellerophon might easily have caught him by the leg.
hastening onward at this rate, it was still early in the forenoon when they beheld the lofty mountains of lycia, with their deep and shaggy valleys.
if bellerophon had been told truly, it was in one of those dismal valleys that the hideous chimæra had taken up its abode.
being now so near their journey's end, the winged horse gradually descended with his rider; and they took advantage of some clouds that were floating over the mountain-tops, in order to conceal themselves.
hovering on the upper surface of a cloud, and peeping over its edge, bellerophon had a pretty distinct view of the mountainous part of lycia, and could look into all its shadowy vales at once.
at first there appeared to be nothing remarkable.
it was a wild, savage, and rocky tract of high and precipitous hills.
in the more level part of the country, there were the ruins of houses that had been burnt, and, here and there, the carcasses of dead cattle, strewn about the pastures where they had been feeding.
"the chimæra must have done this mischief," thought bellerophon.
"but where can the monster be?"
as i have already said, there was nothing remarkable to be detected, at first sight, in any of the valleys and dells that lay among the precipitous heights of the mountains.
nothing at all; unless, indeed, it were three spires of black smoke, which issued from what seemed to be the mouth of a cavern, and clambered sullenly into the atmosphere.
before reaching the mountain-top, these three black smoke-wreaths mingled themselves into one.
the cavern was almost directly beneath the winged horse and his rider, at the distance of about a thousand feet.
the smoke, as it crept heavily upward, had an ugly, sulphurous, stifling scent, which caused pegasus to snort and bellerophon to sneeze.
so disagreeable was it to the marvelous steed (who was accustomed to breathe only the purest air), that he waved his wings, and shot half a mile out of the range of this offensive vapor.
but, on looking behind him, bellerophon saw something that induced him first to draw the bridle, and then to turn pegasus about.
he made a sign, which the winged horse understood, and sunk slowly through the air, until his hoofs were scarcely more than a man's height above the rocky bottom of the valley.
in front, as far off as you could throw a stone, was the cavern's mouth, with the three smoke-wreaths oozing out of it.
and what else did bellerophon behold there?
there seemed to be a heap of strange and terrible creatures curled up within the cavern.
their bodies lay so close together, that bellerophon could not distinguish them apart; but, judging by their heads, one of these creatures was a huge snake, the second a fierce lion, and the third an ugly goat.
the lion and the goat were asleep; the snake was broad awake, and kept staring around him with a great pair of fiery eyes.
but and this was the most wonderful part of the matter the three spires of smoke evidently issued from the nostrils of these three heads!
so strange was the spectacle, that, though bellerophon had been all along expecting it, the truth did not immediately occur to him, that here was the terrible three-headed chimæra.
he had found out the chimæra's cavern.
the snake, the lion, and the goat, as he supposed them to be, were not three separate creatures, but one monster!
the wicked, hateful thing!
slumbering as two thirds of it were, it still held, in its abominable claws, the remnant of an unfortunate lamb, or possibly (but i hate to think so) it was a dear little boy, which its three mouths had been gnawing, before two of them fell asleep!
all at once, bellerophon started as from a dream, and knew it to be the chimæra.
pegasus seemed to know it, at the same instant, and sent forth a neigh, that sounded like the call of a trumpet to battle.
at this sound the three heads reared themselves erect, and belched out great flashes of flame.
before bellerophon had time to consider what to do next, the monster flung itself out of the cavern and sprung straight towards him, with its immense claws extended, and its snaky tail twisting itself venomously behind.
if pegasus had not been as nimble as a bird, both he and his rider would have been overthrown by the chimæra's headlong rush, and thus the battle have been ended before it was well begun.
but the winged horse was not to be caught so.
in the twinkling of an eye he was up aloft, halfway to the clouds, snorting with anger.
he shuddered, too, not with affright, but with utter disgust at the loathsomeness of this poisonous thing with three heads.
the chimæra, on the other hand, raised itself up so as to stand absolutely on the tip-end of its tail, with its talons pawing fiercely in the air, and its three heads spluttering fire at pegasus and his rider.
my stars, how it roared, and hissed, and bellowed!
bellerophon, meanwhile, was fitting his shield on his arm, and drawing his sword.
"now, my beloved pegasus," he whispered in the winged horse's ear, "thou must help me to slay this insufferable monster; or else thou shalt fly back to thy solitary mountain-peak without thy friend bellerophon.
for either the chimæra dies, or its three mouths shall gnaw this head of mine, which has slumbered upon thy neck!"
pegasus whinnied, and, turning back his head, rubbed his nose tenderly against his rider's cheek.
it was his way of telling him that, though he had wings and was an immortal horse, yet he would perish, if it were possible for immortality to perish, rather than leave bellerophon behind.
"i thank you, pegasus," answered bellerophon.
"now, then, let us make a dash at the monster!"
uttering these words, he shook the bridle; and pegasus darted down aslant, as swift as the flight of an arrow, right towards the chimæra's three-fold head, which, all this time, was poking itself as high as it could into the air.
as he came within arm's-length, bellerophon made a cut at the monster, but was carried onward by his steed, before he could see whether the blow had been successful.
pegasus continued his course, but soon wheeled round, at about the same distance from the chimæra as before.
bellerophon then perceived that he had cut the goat's head of the monster almost off, so that it dangled downward by the skin, and seemed quite dead.
but, to make amends, the snake's head and the lion's head had taken all the fierceness of the dead one into themselves, and spit flame, and hissed, and roared, with a vast deal more fury than before.
"never mind, my brave pegasus!"
cried bellerophon.
"with another stroke like that, we will stop either its hissing or its roaring."
and again he shook the bridle.
dashing aslantwise, as before, the winged horse made another arrow-flight towards the chimæra, and bellerophon aimed another downright stroke at one of the two remaining heads, as he shot by.
but this time, neither he nor pegasus escaped so well as at first.
with one of its claws, the chimæra had given the young man a deep scratch in his shoulder, and had slightly damaged the left wing of the flying steed with the other.
on his part, bellerophon had mortally wounded the lion's head of the monster, insomuch that it now hung downward, with its fire almost extinguished, and sending out gasps of thick black smoke.
the snake's head, however (which was the only one now left), was twice as fierce and venomous as ever before.
it belched forth shoots of fire five hundred yards long, and emitted hisses so loud, so harsh, and so ear-piercing, that king iobates heard them, fifty miles off, and trembled till the throne shook under him.
"well-a-day!"
thought the poor king; "the chimæra is certainly coming to devour me!"
meanwhile pegasus had again paused in the air, and neighed angrily, while sparkles of a pure crystal flame darted out of his eyes.
how unlike the lurid fire of the chimæra!
the aerial steed's spirit was all aroused, and so was that of bellerophon.
"dost thou bleed, my immortal horse?"
cried the young man, caring less for his own hurt than for the anguish of this glorious creature, that ought never to have tasted pain.
"the execrable chimæra shall pay for this mischief with his last head!"
then he shook the bridle, shouted loudly, and guided pegasus, not aslantwise as before, but straight at the monster's hideous front.
so rapid was the onset, that it seemed but a dazzle and a flash before bellerophon was at close gripes with his enemy.
the chimæra, by this time, after losing its second head, had got into a red-hot passion of pain and rampant rage.
it so flounced about, half on earth and partly in the air, that it was impossible to say which element it rested upon.
it opened its snake-jaws to such an abominable width, that pegasus might almost, i was going to say, have flown right down its throat, wings outspread, rider and all!
at their approach it shot out a tremendous blast of its fiery breath, and enveloped bellerophon and his steed in a perfect atmosphere of flame, singeing the wings of pegasus, scorching off one whole side of the young man's golden ringlets, and making them both far hotter than was comfortable, from head to foot.
but this was nothing to what followed.
when the airy rush of the winged horse had brought him within the distance of a hundred yards, the chimæra gave a spring, and flung its huge, awkward, venomous, and utterly detestable carcass right upon poor pegasus, clung round him with might and main, and tied up its snaky tail into a knot!
up flew the aerial steed, higher, higher, higher, above the mountain-peaks, above the clouds, and almost out of sight of the solid earth.
but still the earth-born monster kept its hold, and was borne upward, along with the creature of light and air.
bellerophon, meanwhile, turning about, found himself face to face with the ugly grimness of the chimæra's visage, and could only avoid being scorched to death, or bitten right in twain, by holding up his shield.
over the upper edge of the shield, he looked sternly into the savage eyes of the monster.
but the chimæra was so mad and wild with pain, that it did not guard itself so well as might else have been the case.
perhaps, after all, the best way to fight a chimæra is by getting as close to it as you can.
in its efforts to stick its horrible iron claws into its enemy, the creature left its own breast quite exposed; and perceiving this, bellerophon thrust his sword up to the hilt into its cruel heart.
immediately the snaky tail untied its knot.
the monster let go its hold of pegasus, and fell from that vast height, downward; while the fire within its bosom, instead of being put out, burned fiercer than ever, and quickly began to consume the dead carcass.
thus it fell out of the sky, all a-flame, and (it being nightfall before it reached the earth) was mistaken for a shooting star or a comet.
but, at early sunrise, some cottagers were going to their day's labor, and saw, to their astonishment, that several acres of ground were strewn with black ashes.
in the middle of a field, there was a heap of whitened bones, a great deal higher than a haystack.
nothing else was ever seen of the dreadful chimæra!
and when bellerophon had won the victory, he bent forward and kissed pegasus, while the tears stood in his eyes.
"back now, my beloved steed!"
said he.
"back to the fountain of pirene!"
pegasus skimmed through the air, quicker than ever he did before, and reached the fountain in a very short time.
and there he found the old man leaning on his staff, and the country fellow watering his cow, and the pretty maiden filling her pitcher.
"i remember now," quoth the old man, "i saw this winged horse once before, when i was quite a lad.
but he was ten times handsomer in those days."
"i own a cart-horse, worth three of him!"
said the country fellow.
"if this pony were mine, the first thing i should do would be to clip his wings!"
but the poor maiden said nothing, for she had always the luck to be afraid at the wrong time.
so she ran away, and let her pitcher tumble down, and broke it.
"where is the gentle child," asked bellerophon, "who used to keep me company, and never lost his faith, and never was weary of gazing into the fountain?"
"here am i, dear bellerophon!"
said the child, softly.
for the little boy had spent day after day, on the margin of pirene, waiting for his friend to come back; but when he perceived bellerophon descending through the clouds, mounted on the winged horse, he had shrunk back into the shrubbery.
he was a delicate and tender child, and dreaded lest the old man and the country fellow should see the tears gushing from his eyes.
"thou hast won the victory," said he, joyfully, running to the knee of bellerophon, who still sat on the back of pegasus.
"i knew thou wouldst."
"yes, dear child!"
replied bellerophon, alighting from the winged horse.
"but if thy faith had not helped me, i should never have waited for pegasus, and never have gone up above the clouds, and never have conquered the terrible chimæra.
thou, my beloved little friend, hast done it all.
and now let us give pegasus his liberty."
so he slipped off the enchanted bridle from the head of the marvelous steed.
"be free, forevermore, my pegasus!"
cried he, with a shade of sadness in his tone.
"be as free as thou art fleet!"
but pegasus rested his head on bellerophon's shoulder, and would not be persuaded to take flight.
"well then," said bellerophon, caressing the airy horse, "thou shalt be with me, as long as thou wilt; and we will go together, forthwith, and tell king iobates that the chimæra is destroyed."
then bellerophon embraced the gentle child, and promised to come to him again, and departed.
but, in after years, that child took higher flights upon the aerial steed than ever did bellerophon, and achieved more honorable deeds than his friend's victory over the chimæra.
for, gentle and tender as he was, he grew to be a mighty poet!
bald summit
after the story
eustace bright told the legend of bellerophon with as much fervor and animation as if he had really been taking a gallop on the winged horse.
at the conclusion, he was gratified to discern, by the glowing countenances of his auditors, how greatly they had been interested.
all their eyes were dancing in their heads, except those of primrose.
in her eyes there were positively tears; for she was conscious of something in the legend which the rest of them were not yet old enough to feel.
child's story as it was, the student had contrived to breathe through it the ardor, the generous hope, and the imaginative enterprise of youth.
"i forgive you, now, primrose," said he, "for all your ridicule of myself and my stories.
one tear pays for a great deal of laughter."
"well, mr. bright," answered primrose, wiping her eyes, and giving him another of her mischievous smiles, "it certainly does elevate your ideas, to get your head above the clouds.
i advise you never to tell another story, unless it be, as at present, from the top of a mountain."
"or from the back of pegasus," replied eustace, laughing.
"don't you think that i succeeded pretty well in catching that wonderful pony?"
"it was so like one of your madcap pranks!"
cried primrose, clapping her hands.
"i think i see you now on his back, two miles high, and with your head downward!
it is well that you have not really an opportunity of trying your horsemanship on any wilder steed than our sober davy, or old hundred."
"for my part, i wish i had pegasus here, at this moment," said the student.
"i would mount him forthwith, and gallop about the country, within a circumference of a few miles, making literary calls on my brother-authors.
dr. dewey would be within my reach, at the foot of taconic.
in stockbridge, yonder, is mr. james, conspicuous to all the world on his mountain-pile of history and romance.
longfellow, i believe, is not yet at the ox-bow, else the winged horse would neigh at the sight of him.
but, here in lenox, i should find our most truthful novelist, who has made the scenery and life of berkshire all her own.
on the hither side of pittsfield sits herman melville, shaping out the gigantic conception of his 'white whale,' while the gigantic shape of graylock looms upon him from his study-window.
another bound of my flying steed would bring me to the door of holmes, whom i mention last, because pegasus would certainly unseat me, the next minute, and claim the poet as his rider."
"have we not an author for our next neighbor?"
asked primrose.
"that silent man, who lives in the old red house, near tanglewood avenue, and whom we sometimes meet, with two children at his side, in the woods or at the lake.
i think i have heard of his having written a poem, or a romance, or an arithmetic, or a school-history, or some other kind of a book."
"hush, primrose, hush!"
exclaimed eustace, in a thrilling whisper, and putting his finger on his lip.
"not a word about that man, even on a hill-top!
if our babble were to reach his ears, and happen not to please him, he has but to fling a quire or two of paper into the stove, and you, primrose, and i, and periwinkle, sweet fern, squash-blossom, blue eye, huckleberry, clover, cowslip, plantain, milkweed, dandelion, and buttercup, yes, and wise mr. pringle, with his unfavorable criticisms on my legends, and poor mrs. pringle, too, would all turn to smoke, and go whisking up the funnel!
our neighbor in the red house is a harmless sort of person enough, for aught i know, as concerns the rest of the world; but something whispers to me that he has a terrible power over ourselves, extending to nothing short of annihilation."
"and would tanglewood turn to smoke, as well as we?"
asked periwinkle, quite appalled at the threatened destruction.
"and what would become of ben and bruin?"
"tanglewood would remain," replied the student, "looking just as it does now, but occupied by an entirely different family.
and ben and bruin would be still alive, and would make themselves very comfortable with the bones from the dinner-table, without ever thinking of the good times which they and we have had together!"
"what nonsense you are talking!"
exclaimed primrose.
with idle chat of this kind, the party had already begun to descend the hill, and were now within the shadow of the woods.
primrose gathered some mountain-laurel, the leaf of which, though of last year's growth, was still as verdant and elastic as if the frost and thaw had not alternately tried their force upon its texture.
of these twigs of laurel she twined a wreath, and took off the student's cap, in order to place it on his brow.
"nobody else is likely to crown you for your stories," observed saucy primrose, "so take this from me."
"do not be too sure," answered eustace, looking really like a youthful poet, with the laurel among his glossy curls, "that i shall not win other wreaths by these wonderful and admirable stories.
i mean to spend all my leisure, during the rest of the vacation, and throughout the summer term at college, in writing them out for the press.
mr.
j.t.
fields (with whom i became acquainted when he was in berkshire, last summer, and who is a poet, as well as a publisher) will see their uncommon merit at a glance.
he will get them illustrated, i hope, by billings, and will bring them before the world under the very best of auspices, through the eminent house of ticknor & co. in about five months from this moment, i make no doubt of being reckoned among the lights of the age!"
"poor boy!"
said primrose, half aside.
"what a disappointment awaits him!"
descending a little lower, bruin began to bark, and was answered by the graver bow-wow of the respectable ben.
they soon saw the good old dog, keeping careful watch over dandelion, sweet fern, cowslip, and squash-blossom.
these little people, quite recovered from their fatigue, had set about gathering checkerberries, and now came clambering to meet their playfellows.
thus reunited, the whole party went down through luther butler's orchard, and made the best of their way home to tanglewood.
tanglewood tales
by nathaniel hawthorne
the wayside.
introductory.
a short time ago, i was favored with a flying visit from my young friend eustace bright, whom i had not before met with since quitting the breezy mountains of berkshire.
it being the winter vacation at his college, eustace was allowing himself a little relaxation, in the hope, he told me, of repairing the inroads which severe application to study had made upon his health; and i was happy to conclude, from the excellent physical condition in which i saw him, that the remedy had already been attended with very desirable success.
he had now run up from boston by the noon train, partly impelled by the friendly regard with which he is pleased to honor me, and partly, as i soon found, on a matter of literary business.
it delighted me to receive mr. bright, for the first time, under a roof, though a very humble one, which i could really call my own.
nor did i fail (as is the custom of landed proprietors all about the world) to parade the poor fellow up and down over my half a dozen acres; secretly rejoicing, nevertheless, that the disarray of the inclement season, and particularly the six inches of snow then upon the ground, prevented him from observing the ragged neglect of soil and shrubbery into which the place had lapsed.
it was idle, however, to imagine that an airy guest from monument mountain, bald summit, and old graylock, shaggy with primeval forests, could see anything to admire in my poor little hillside, with its growth of frail and insect-eaten locust trees.
eustace very frankly called the view from my hill top tame; and so, no doubt, it was, after rough, broken, rugged, headlong berkshire, and especially the northern parts of the county, with which his college residence had made him familiar.
but to me there is a peculiar, quiet charm in these broad meadows and gentle eminences.
they are better than mountains, because they do not stamp and stereotype themselves into the brain, and thus grow wearisome with the same strong impression, repeated day after day.
a few summer weeks among mountains, a lifetime among green meadows and placid slopes, with outlines forever new, because continually fading out of the memory such would be my sober choice.
i doubt whether eustace did not internally pronounce the whole thing a bore, until i led him to my predecessor's little ruined, rustic summer house, midway on the hillside.
it is a mere skeleton of slender, decaying tree trunks, with neither walls nor a roof; nothing but a tracery of branches and twigs, which the next wintry blast will be very likely to scatter in fragments along the terrace.
it looks, and is, as evanescent as a dream; and yet, in its rustic network of boughs, it has somehow enclosed a hint of spiritual beauty, and has become a true emblem of the subtile and ethereal mind that planned it.
i made eustace bright sit down on a snow bank, which had heaped itself over the mossy seat, and gazing through the arched windows opposite, he acknowledged that the scene at once grew picturesque.
"simple as it looks," said he, "this little edifice seems to be the work of magic.
it is full of suggestiveness, and, in its way, is as good as a cathedral.
ah, it would be just the spot for one to sit in, of a summer afternoon, and tell the children some more of those wild stories from the classic myths!"
"it would, indeed," answered i.
"the summer house itself, so airy and so broken, is like one of those old tales, imperfectly remembered; and these living branches of the baldwin apple tree, thrusting so rudely in, are like your unwarrantable interpolations.
but, by the by, have you added any more legends to the series, since the publication of the 'wonder-book'?"
"many more," said eustace; "primrose, periwinkle, and the rest of them, allow me no comfort of my life unless i tell them a story every day or two.
i have run away from home partly to escape the importunity of these little wretches!
but i have written out six of the new stories, and have brought them for you to look over."
"are they as good as the first?"
i inquired.
"better chosen, and better handled," replied eustace bright.
"you will say so when you read them."
"possibly not," i remarked.
"i know from my own experience, that an author's last work is always his best one, in his own estimate, until it quite loses the red heat of composition.
after that, it falls into its true place, quietly enough.
but let us adjourn to my study, and examine these new stories.
it would hardly be doing yourself justice, were you to bring me acquainted with them, sitting here on this snow bank!"
so we descended the hill to my small, old cottage, and shut ourselves up in the south-eastern room, where the sunshine comes in, warmly and brightly, through the better half of a winter's day.
eustace put his bundle of manuscript into my hands; and i skimmed through it pretty rapidly, trying to find out its merits and demerits by the touch of my fingers, as a veteran story-teller ought to know how to do.
it will be remembered that mr. bright condescended to avail himself of my literary experience by constituting me editor of the "wonder-book."
as he had no reason to complain of the reception of that erudite work by the public, he was now disposed to retain me in a similar position with respect to the present volume, which he entitled tanglewood tales.
not, as eustace hinted, that there was any real necessity for my services as introducer, inasmuch as his own name had become established in some good degree of favor with the literary world.
but the connection with myself, he was kind enough to say, had been highly agreeable; nor was he by any means desirous, as most people are, of kicking away the ladder that had perhaps helped him to reach his present elevation.
my young friend was willing, in short, that the fresh verdure of his growing reputation should spread over my straggling and half-naked boughs; even as i have sometimes thought of training a vine, with its broad leafiness, and purple fruitage, over the worm-eaten posts and rafters of the rustic summer house.
i was not insensible to the advantages of his proposal, and gladly assured him of my acceptance.
merely from the title of the stories i saw at once that the subjects were not less rich than those of the former volume; nor did i at all doubt that mr. bright's audacity (so far as that endowment might avail)
had enabled him to take full advantage of whatever capabilities they offered.
yet, in spite of my experience of his free way of handling them, i did not quite see, i confess, how he could have obviated all the difficulties in the way of rendering them presentable to children.
these old legends, so brimming over with everything that is most abhorrent to our christianized moral sense some of them so hideous, others so melancholy and miserable, amid which the greek tragedians sought their themes, and moulded them into the sternest forms of grief that ever the world saw; was such material the stuff that children's playthings should be made of!
how were they to be purified?
how was the blessed sunshine to be thrown into them?
but eustace told me that these myths were the most singular things in the world, and that he was invariably astonished, whenever he began to relate one, by the readiness with which it adapted itself to the childish purity of his auditors.
the objectionable characteristics seem to be a parasitical growth, having no essential connection with the original fable.
they fall away, and are thought of no more, the instant he puts his imagination in sympathy with the innocent little circle, whose wide-open eyes are fixed so eagerly upon him.
thus the stories (not by any strained effort of the narrator's, but in harmony with their inherent germ) transform themselves, and re-assume the shapes which they might be supposed to possess in the pure childhood of the world.
when the first poet or romancer told these marvellous legends (such is eustace bright's opinion), it was still the golden age.
evil had never yet existed; and sorrow, misfortune, crime, were mere shadows which the mind fancifully created for itself, as a shelter against too sunny realities; or, at most, but prophetic dreams to which the dreamer himself did not yield a waking credence.
children are now the only representatives of the men and women of that happy era; and therefore it is that we must raise the intellect and fancy to the level of childhood, in order to re-create the original myths.
i let the youthful author talk as much and as extravagantly as he pleased, and was glad to see him commencing life with such confidence in himself and his performances.
a few years will do all that is necessary towards showing him the truth in both respects.
meanwhile, it is but right to say, he does really appear to have overcome the moral objections against these fables, although at the expense of such liberties with their structure as must be left to plead their own excuse, without any help from me.
indeed, except that there was a necessity for it and that the inner life of the legends cannot be come at save by making them entirely one's own property there is no defense to be made.
eustace informed me that he had told his stories to the children in various situations in the woods, on the shore of the lake, in the dell of shadow brook, in the playroom, at tanglewood fireside, and in a magnificent palace of snow, with ice windows, which he helped his little friends to build.
his auditors were even more delighted with the contents of the present volume than with the specimens which have already been given to the world.
the classically learned mr. pringle, too, had listened to two or three of the tales, and censured them even more bitterly than he did the three golden apples; so that, what with praise, and what with criticism, eustace bright thinks that there is good hope of at least as much success with the public as in the case of the "wonderbook."
i made all sorts of inquiries about the children, not doubting that there would be great eagerness to hear of their welfare, among some good little folks who have written to me, to ask for another volume of myths.
they are all, i am happy to say (unless we except clover), in excellent health and spirits.
primrose is now almost a young lady, and, eustace tells me, is just as saucy as ever.
she pretends to consider herself quite beyond the age to be interested by such idle stories as these; but, for all that, whenever a story is to be told, primrose never fails to be one of the listeners, and to make fun of it when finished.
periwinkle is very much grown, and is expected to shut up her baby house and throw away her doll in a month or two more.
sweet fern has learned to read and write, and has put on a jacket and pair of pantaloons all of which improvements i am sorry for.
squash blossom, blue eye, plantain, and buttercup have had the scarlet fever, but came easily through it.
huckleberry, milkweed, and dandelion were attacked with the whooping cough, but bore it bravely, and kept out of doors whenever the sun shone.
cowslip, during the autumn, had either the measles, or some eruption that looked very much like it, but was hardly sick a day.
poor clover has been a good deal troubled with her second teeth, which have made her meagre in aspect and rather fractious in temper; nor, even when she smiles, is the matter much mended, since it discloses a gap just within her lips, almost as wide as the barn door.
but all this will pass over, and it is predicted that she will turn out a very pretty girl.
as for mr. bright himself, he is now in his senior year at williams college, and has a prospect of graduating with some degree of honorable distinction at the next commencement.
in his oration for the bachelor's degree, he gives me to understand, he will treat of the classical myths, viewed in the aspect of baby stories, and has a great mind to discuss the expediency of using up the whole of ancient history, for the same purpose.
i do not know what he means to do with himself after leaving college, but trust that, by dabbling so early with the dangerous and seductive business of authorship, he will not be tempted to become an author by profession.
if so i shall be very sorry for the little that i have had to do with the matter, in encouraging these first beginnings.
i wish there were any likelihood of my soon seeing primrose, periwinkle, dandelion, sweet fern, clover plantain, huckleberry, milkweed, cowslip, buttercup, blue eye, and squash blossom again.
but as i do not know when i shall re-visit tanglewood, and as eustace bright probably will not ask me to edit a third "wonderbook," the public of little folks must not expect to hear any more about those dear children from me.
heaven bless them, and everybody else, whether grown people or children!
the minotaur.
in the old city of troezene, at the foot of a lofty mountain, there lived, a very long time ago, a little boy named theseus.
his grandfather, king pittheus, was the sovereign of that country, and was reckoned a very wise man; so that theseus, being brought up in the royal palace, and being naturally a bright lad, could hardly fail of profiting by the old king's instructions.
his mother's name was aethra.
as for his father, the boy had never seen him.
but, from his earliest remembrance, aethra used to go with little theseus into a wood, and sit down upon a moss-grown rock, which was deeply sunken into the earth.
here she often talked with her son about his father, and said that he was called aegeus, and that he was a great king, and ruled over attica, and dwelt at athens, which was as famous a city as any in the world.
theseus was very fond of hearing about king aegeus, and often asked his good mother aethra why he did not come and live with them at troezene.
"ah, my dear son," answered aethra, with a sigh, "a monarch has his people to take care of.
the men and women over whom he rules are in the place of children to him; and he can seldom spare time to love his own children as other parents do.
your father will never be able to leave his kingdom for the sake of seeing his little boy."
"well, but, dear mother," asked the boy, "why cannot i go to this famous city of athens, and tell king aegeus that i am his son?"
"that may happen by and by," said aethra.
"be patient, and we shall see.
you are not yet big and strong enough to set out on such an errand."
"and how soon shall i be strong enough?"
theseus persisted in inquiring.
"you are but a tiny boy as yet," replied his mother.
"see if you can lift this rock on which we are sitting?"
the little fellow had a great opinion of his own strength.
so, grasping the rough protuberances of the rock, he tugged and toiled amain, and got himself quite out of breath, without being able to stir the heavy stone.
it seemed to be rooted into the ground.
no wonder he could not move it; for it would have taken all the force of a very strong man to lift it out of its earthy bed.
his mother stood looking on, with a sad kind of a smile on her lips and in her eyes, to see the zealous and yet puny efforts of her little boy.
she could not help being sorrowful at finding him already so impatient to begin his adventures in the world.
"you see how it is, my dear theseus," said she.
"you must possess far more strength than now before i can trust you to go to athens, and tell king aegeus that you are his son.
but when you can lift this rock, and show me what is hidden beneath it, i promise you my permission to depart."
often and often, after this, did theseus ask his mother whether it was yet time for him to go to athens; and still his mother pointed to the rock, and told him that, for years to come, he could not be strong enough to move it.
and again and again the rosy-checked and curly-headed boy would tug and strain at the huge mass of stone, striving, child as he was, to do what a giant could hardly have done without taking both of his great hands to the task.
meanwhile the rock seemed to be sinking farther and farther into the ground.
the moss grew over it thicker and thicker, until at last it looked almost like a soft green seat, with only a few gray knobs of granite peeping out.
the overhanging trees, also, shed their brown leaves upon it, as often as the autumn came; and at its base grew ferns and wild flowers, some of which crept quite over its surface.
to all appearance, the rock was as firmly fastened as any other portion of the earth's substance.
but, difficult as the matter looked, theseus was now growing up to be such a vigorous youth, that, in his own opinion, the time would quickly come when he might hope to get the upper hand of this ponderous lump of stone.
"mother, i do believe it has started!"
cried he, after one of his attempts.
"the earth around it is certainly a little cracked!"
"no, no, child!"
his mother hastily answered.
"it is not possible you can have moved it, such a boy as you still are!"
nor would she be convinced, although theseus showed her the place where he fancied that the stem of a flower had been partly uprooted by the movement of the rock.
but aethra sighed, and looked disquieted; for, no doubt, she began to be conscious that her son was no longer a child, and that, in a little while hence, she must send him forth among the perils and troubles of the world.
it was not more than a year afterwards when they were again sitting on the moss-covered stone.
aethra had once more told him the oft-repeated story of his father, and how gladly he would receive theseus at his stately palace, and how he would present him to his courtiers and the people, and tell them that here was the heir of his dominions.
the eyes of theseus glowed with enthusiasm, and he would hardly sit still to hear his mother speak.
"dear mother aethra," he exclaimed, "i never felt half so strong as now!
i am no longer a child, nor a boy, nor a mere youth!
i feel myself a man!
it is now time to make one earnest trial to remove the stone."
"ah, my dearest theseus," replied his mother "not yet!
not yet!"
"yes, mother," said he, resolutely, "the time has come!"
then theseus bent himself in good earnest to the task, and strained every sinew, with manly strength and resolution.
he put his whole brave heart into the effort.
he wrestled with the big and sluggish stone, as if it had been a living enemy.
he heaved, he lifted, he resolved now to succeed, or else to perish there, and let the rock be his monument forever!
aethra stood gazing at him, and clasped her hands, partly with a mother's pride, and partly with a mother's sorrow.
the great rock stirred!
yes, it was raised slowly from the bedded moss and earth, uprooting the shrubs and flowers along with it, and was turned upon its side.
theseus had conquered!
while taking breath, he looked joyfully at his mother, and she smiled upon him through her tears.
"yes, theseus," she said, "the time has come, and you must stay no longer at my side!
see what king aegeus, your royal father, left for you beneath the stone, when he lifted it in his mighty arms, and laid it on the spot whence you have now removed it."
theseus looked, and saw that the rock had been placed over another slab of stone, containing a cavity within it; so that it somewhat resembled a roughly-made chest or coffer, of which the upper mass had served as the lid.
within the cavity lay a sword, with a golden hilt, and a pair of sandals.
"that was your father's sword," said aethra, "and those were his sandals.
when he went to be king of athens, he bade me treat you as a child until you should prove yourself a man by lifting this heavy stone.
that task being accomplished, you are to put on his sandals, in order to follow in your father's footsteps, and to gird on his sword, so that you may fight giants and dragons, as king aegeus did in his youth."
"i will set out for athens this very day!"
cried theseus.
but his mother persuaded him to stay a day or two longer, while she got ready some necessary articles for his journey.
when his grandfather, the wise king pittheus, heard that theseus intended to present himself at his father's palace, he earnestly advised him to get on board of a vessel, and go by sea; because he might thus arrive within fifteen miles of athens, without either fatigue or danger.
"the roads are very bad by land," quoth the venerable king; "and they are terribly infested with robbers and monsters.
a mere lad, like theseus, is not fit to be trusted on such a perilous journey, all by himself.
no, no; let him go by sea."
but when theseus heard of robbers and monsters, he pricked up his ears, and was so much the more eager to take the road along which they were to be met with.
on the third day, therefore, he bade a respectful farewell to his grandfather, thanking him for all his kindness; and, after affectionately embracing his mother, he set forth with a good many of her tears glistening on his cheeks, and some, if the truth must be told, that had gushed out of his own eyes.
but he let the sun and wind dry them, and walked stoutly on, playing with the golden hilt of his sword, and taking very manly strides in his father's sandals.
i cannot stop to tell you hardly any of the adventures that befell theseus on the road to athens.
it is enough to say, that he quite cleared that part of the country of the robbers about whom king pittheus had been so much alarmed.
one of these bad people was named procrustes; and he was indeed a terrible fellow, and had an ugly way of making fun of the poor travelers who happened to fall into his clutches.
in his cavern he had a bed, on which, with great pretense of hospitality, he invited his guests to lie down; but, if they happened to be shorter than the bed, this wicked villain stretched them out by main force; or, if they were too tall, he lopped off their heads or feet, and laughed at what he had done, as an excellent joke.
thus, however weary a man might be, he never liked to lie in the bed of procrustes.
another of these robbers, named scinis, must likewise have been a very great scoundrel.
he was in the habit of flinging his victims off a high cliff into the sea; and, in order to give him exactly his deserts, theseus tossed him off the very same place.
but if you will believe me, the sea would not pollute itself by receiving such a bad person into its bosom; neither would the earth, having once got rid of him, consent to take him back; so that, between the cliff and the sea, scinis stuck fast in the air, which was forced to bear the burden of his naughtiness.
after these memorable deeds, theseus heard of an enormous sow, which ran wild, and was the terror of all the farmers round about; and, as he did not consider himself above doing any good thing that came in his way, he killed this monstrous creature, and gave the carcass to the poor people for bacon.
the great sow had been an awful beast, while ramping about the woods and fields, but was a pleasant object enough when cut up into joints, and smoking on i know not how many dinner tables.
thus, by the time he reached his journey's end, theseus had done many valiant feats with his father's golden-hilted sword, and had gained the renown of being one of the bravest young men of the day.
his fame traveled faster than he did, and reached athens before him.
as he entered the city, he heard the inhabitants talking at the street corners, and saying that hercules was brave, and jason too, and castor and pollux likewise, but that theseus, the son of their own king, would turn out as great a hero as the best of them.
theseus took longer strides on hearing this, and fancied himself sure of a magnificent reception at his father's court, since he came thither with fame to blow her trumpet before him, and cry to king aegeus, "behold your son!"
he little suspected, innocent youth that he was, that here, in this very athens, where his father reigned, a greater danger awaited him than any which he had encountered on the road.
yet this was the truth.
you must understand that the father of theseus, though not very old in years, was almost worn out with the cares of government, and had thus grown aged before his time.
his nephews, not expecting him to live a very great while, intended to get all the power of the kingdom into their own hands.
but when they heard that theseus had arrived in athens, and learned what a gallant young man he was, they saw that he would not be at all the kind of a person to let them steal away his father's crown and scepter, which ought to be his own by right of inheritance.
thus these bad-hearted nephews of king aegeus, who were the own cousins of theseus, at once became his enemies.
a still more dangerous enemy was medea, the wicked enchantress; for she was now the king's wife, and wanted to give the kingdom to her son medus, instead of letting it be given to the son of aethra, whom she hated.
it so happened that the king's nephews met theseus, and found out who he was, just as he reached the entrance of the royal palace.
with all their evil designs against him, they pretended to be their cousin's best friends, and expressed great joy at making his acquaintance.
they proposed to him that he should come into the king's presence as a stranger, in order to try whether aegeus would discover in the young man's features any likeness either to himself or his mother aethra, and thus recognize him for a son.
theseus consented; for he fancied that his father would know him in a moment, by the love that was in his heart.
but, while he waited at the door, the nephews ran and told king aegeus that a young man had arrived in athens, who, to their certain knowledge, intended to put him to death, and get possession of his royal crown.
"and he is now waiting for admission to your majesty's presence," added they.
"aha!"
cried the old king, on hearing this.
"why, he must be a very wicked young fellow indeed!
pray, what would you advise me to do with him?"
in reply to this question, the wicked medea put in her word.
as i have already told you, she was a famous enchantress.
according to some stories, she was in the habit of boiling old people in a large caldron, under pretense of making them young again; but king aegeus, i suppose, did not fancy such an uncomfortable way of growing young, or perhaps was contented to be old, and therefore would never let himself be popped into the caldron.
if there were time to spare from more important matters, i should be glad to tell you of medea's fiery chariot, drawn by winged dragons, in which the enchantress used often to take an airing among the clouds.
this chariot, in fact, was the vehicle that first brought her to athens, where she had done nothing but mischief ever since her arrival.
but these and many other wonders must be left untold; and it is enough to say, that medea, amongst a thousand other bad things, knew how to prepare a poison, that was instantly fatal to whomsoever might so much as touch it with his lips.
so, when the king asked what he should do with theseus, this naughty woman had an answer ready at her tongue's end.
"leave that to me, please your majesty," she replied.
"only admit this evil-minded young man to your presence, treat him civilly, and invite him to drink a goblet of wine.
your majesty is well aware that i sometimes amuse myself by distilling very powerful medicines.
here is one of them in this small phial.
as to what it is made of, that is one of my secrets of state.
do but let me put a single drop into the goblet, and let the young man taste it; and i will answer for it, he shall quite lay aside the bad designs with which he comes hither."
as she said this, medea smiled; but, for all her smiling face, she meant nothing less than to poison the poor innocent theseus, before his father's eyes.
and king aegeus, like most other kings, thought any punishment mild enough for a person who was accused of plotting against his life.
he therefore made little or no objection to medea's scheme, and as soon as the poisonous wine was ready, gave orders that the young stranger should be admitted into his presence.
the goblet was set on a table beside the king's throne; and a fly, meaning just to sip a little from the brim, immediately tumbled into it, dead.
observing this, medea looked round at the nephews, and smiled again.
when theseus was ushered into the royal apartment, the only object that he seemed to behold was the white-bearded old king.
there he sat on his magnificent throne, a dazzling crown on his head, and a scepter in his hand.
his aspect was stately and majestic, although his years and infirmities weighed heavily upon him, as if each year were a lump of lead, and each infirmity a ponderous stone, and all were bundled up together, and laid upon his weary shoulders.
the tears both of joy and sorrow sprang into the young man's eyes; for he thought how sad it was to see his dear father so infirm, and how sweet it would be to support him with his own youthful strength, and to cheer him up with the alacrity of his loving spirit.
when a son takes a father into his warm heart it renews the old man's youth in a better way than by the heat of medea's magic caldron.
and this was what theseus resolved to do.
he could scarcely wait to see whether king aegeus would recognize him, so eager was he to throw himself into his arms.
advancing to the foot of the throne, he attempted to make a little speech, which he had been thinking about, as he came up the stairs.
but he was almost choked by a great many tender feelings that gushed out of his heart and swelled into his throat, all struggling to find utterance together.
and therefore, unless he could have laid his full, over-brimming heart into the king's hand, poor theseus knew not what to do or say.
the cunning medea observed what was passing in the young man's mind.
she was more wicked at that moment than ever she had been before; for (and it makes me tremble to tell you of it) she did her worst to turn all this unspeakable love with which theseus was agitated to his own ruin and destruction.
"does your majesty see his confusion?"
she whispered in the king's ear.
"he is so conscious of guilt, that he trembles and cannot speak.
the wretch lives too long!
quick!
offer him the wine!"
now king aegeus had been gazing earnestly at the young stranger, as he drew near the throne.
there was something, he knew not what, either in his white brow, or in the fine expression of his mouth, or in his beautiful and tender eyes, that made him indistinctly feel as if he had seen this youth before; as if, indeed, he had trotted him on his knee when a baby, and had beheld him growing to be a stalwart man, while he himself grew old.
but medea guessed how the king felt, and would not suffer him to yield to these natural sensibilities; although they were the voice of his deepest heart, telling him as plainly as it could speak, that here was our dear son, and aethra's son, coming to claim him for a father.
the enchantress again whispered in the king's ear, and compelled him, by her witchcraft, to see everything under a false aspect.
he made up his mind, therefore, to let theseus drink off the poisoned wine.
"young man," said he, "you are welcome!
i am proud to show hospitality to so heroic a youth.
do me the favor to drink the contents of this goblet.
it is brimming over, as you see, with delicious wine, such as i bestow only on those who are worthy of it!
none is more worthy to quaff it than yourself!"
so saying, king aegeus took the golden goblet from the table, and was about to offer it to theseus.
but, partly through his infirmities, and partly because it seemed so sad a thing to take away this young man's life, however wicked he might be, and partly, no doubt, because his heart was wiser than his head, and quaked within him at the thought of what he was going to do for all these reasons, the king's hand trembled so much that a great deal of the wine slopped over.
in order to strengthen his purpose, and fearing lest the whole of the precious poison should be wasted, one of his nephews now whispered to him:
"has your majesty any doubt of this stranger's guilt?
this is the very sword with which he meant to slay you.
how sharp, and bright, and terrible it is!
quick!
let him taste the wine; or perhaps he may do the deed even yet."
at these words, aegeus drove every thought and feeling out of his breast, except the one idea of how justly the young man deserved to be put to death.
he sat erect on his throne, and held out the goblet of wine with a steady hand, and bent on theseus a frown of kingly severity; for, after all, he had too noble a spirit to murder even a treacherous enemy with a deceitful smile upon his face.
"drink!"
said he, in the stern tone with which he was wont to condemn a criminal to be beheaded.
"you have well deserved of me such wine as this!"
theseus held out his hand to take the wine.
but, before he touched it, king aegeus trembled again.
his eyes had fallen on the gold-hilted sword that hung at the young man's side.
he drew back the goblet.
"that sword!"
he exclaimed: "how came you by it?"
"it was my father's sword," replied theseus, with a tremulous voice.
"these were his sandals.
my dear mother (her name is aethra) told me his story while i was yet a little child.
but it is only a month since i grew strong enough to lift the heavy stone, and take the sword and sandals from beneath it, and come to athens to seek my father."
"my son!
my son!"
cried king aegeus, flinging away the fatal goblet, and tottering down from the throne to fall into the arms of theseus.
"yes, these are aethra's eyes.
it is my son."
i have quite forgotten what became of the king's nephews.
but when the wicked medea saw this new turn of affairs, she hurried out of the room, and going to her private chamber, lost no time to setting her enchantments to work.
in a few moments, she heard a great noise of hissing snakes outside of the chamber window; and behold!
there was her fiery chariot, and four huge winged serpents, wriggling and twisting in the air, flourishing their tails higher than the top of the palace, and all ready to set off on an aerial journey.
medea staid only long enough to take her son with her, and to steal the crown jewels, together with the king's best robes, and whatever other valuable things she could lay hands on; and getting into the chariot, she whipped up the snakes, and ascended high over the city.
the king, hearing the hiss of the serpents, scrambled as fast as he could to the window, and bawled out to the abominable enchantress never to come back.
the whole people of athens, too, who had run out of doors to see this wonderful spectacle, set up a shout of joy at the prospect of getting rid of her.
medea, almost bursting with rage, uttered precisely such a hiss as one of her own snakes, only ten times more venomous and spiteful; and glaring fiercely out of the blaze of the chariot, she shook her hands over the multitude below, as if she were scattering a million of curses among them.
in so doing, however, she unintentionally let fall about five hundred diamonds of the first water, together with a thousand great pearls, and two thousand emeralds, rubies, sapphires, opals, and topazes, to which she had helped herself out of the king's strong box.
all these came pelting down, like a shower of many-colored hailstones, upon the heads of grown people and children, who forthwith gathered them up, and carried them back to the palace.
but king aegeus told them that they were welcome to the whole, and to twice as many more, if he had them, for the sake of his delight at finding his son, and losing the wicked medea.
and, indeed, if you had seen how hateful was her last look, as the flaming chariot flew upward, you would not have wondered that both king and people should think her departure a good riddance.
and now prince theseus was taken into great favor by his royal father.
the old king was never weary of having him sit beside him on his throne (which was quite wide enough for two), and of hearing him tell about his dear mother, and his childhood, and his many boyish efforts to lift the ponderous stone.
theseus, however, was much too brave and active a young man to be willing to spend all his time in relating things which had already happened.
his ambition was to perform other and more heroic deeds, which should be better worth telling in prose and verse.
nor had he been long in athens before he caught and chained a terrible mad bull, and made a public show of him, greatly to the wonder and admiration of good king aegeus and his subjects.
but pretty soon, he undertook an affair that made all his foregone adventures seem like mere boy's play.
the occasion of it was as follows:
one morning, when prince theseus awoke, he fancied that he must have had a very sorrowful dream, and that it was still running in his mind, even now that his eyes were opened.
for it appeared as if the air was full of a melancholy wail; and when he listened more attentively, he could hear sobs, and groans, and screams of woe, mingled with deep, quiet sighs, which came from the king's palace, and from the streets, and from the temples, and from every habitation in the city.
and all these mournful noises, issuing out of thousands of separate hearts, united themselves into one great sound of affliction, which had startled theseus from slumber.
he put on his clothes as quickly as he could (not forgetting his sandals and gold-hilted sword), and, hastening to the king, inquired what it all meant.
"alas!
my son," quoth king aegeus, heaving a long sigh, "here is a very lamentable matter in hand!
this is the wofulest anniversary in the whole year.
it is the day when we annually draw lots to see which of the youths and maids of athens shall go to be devoured by the horrible minotaur!"
"the minotaur!"
exclaimed prince theseus; and like a brave young prince as he was, he put his hand to the hilt of his sword.
"what kind of a monster may that be?
is it not possible, at the risk of one's life, to slay him?"
but king aegeus shook his venerable head, and to convince theseus that it was quite a hopeless case, he gave him an explanation of the whole affair.
it seems that in the island of crete there lived a certain dreadful monster, called a minotaur, which was shaped partly like a man and partly like a bull, and was altogether such a hideous sort of a creature that it is really disagreeable to think of him.
if he were suffered to exist at all, it should have been on some desert island, or in the duskiness of some deep cavern, where nobody would ever be tormented by his abominable aspect.
but king minos, who reigned over crete, laid out a vast deal of money in building a habitation for the minotaur, and took great care of his health and comfort, merely for mischief's sake.
a few years before this time, there had been a war between the city of athens and the island of crete, in which the athenians were beaten, and compelled to beg for peace.
no peace could they obtain, however, except on condition that they should send seven young men and seven maidens, every year, to be devoured by the pet monster of the cruel king minos.
for three years past, this grievous calamity had been borne.
and the sobs, and groans, and shrieks, with which the city was now filled, were caused by the people's woe, because the fatal day had come again, when the fourteen victims were to be chosen by lot; and the old people feared lest their sons or daughters might be taken, and the youths and damsels dreaded lest they themselves might be destined to glut the ravenous maw of that detestable man-brute.
but when theseus heard the story, he straightened himself up, so that he seemed taller than ever before; and as for his face it was indignant, despiteful, bold, tender, and compassionate, all in one look.
"let the people of athens this year draw lots for only six young men, instead of seven," said he, "i will myself be the seventh; and let the minotaur devour me if he can!"
"o my dear son," cried king aegeus, "why should you expose yourself to this horrible fate?
you are a royal prince, and have a right to hold yourself above the destinies of common men."
"it is because i am a prince, your son, and the rightful heir of your kingdom, that i freely take upon me the calamity of your subjects,"
answered theseus, "and you, my father, being king over these people, and answerable to heaven for their welfare, are bound to sacrifice what is dearest to you, rather than that the son or daughter of the poorest citizen should come to any harm."
the old king shed tears, and besought theseus not to leave him desolate in his old age, more especially as he had but just begun to know the happiness of possessing a good and valiant son.
theseus, however, felt that he was in the right, and therefore would not give up his resolution.
but he assured his father that he did not intend to be eaten up, unresistingly, like a sheep, and that, if the minotaur devoured him, it should not be without a battle for his dinner.
and finally, since he could not help it, king aegeus consented to let him go.
so a vessel was got ready, and rigged with black sails; and theseus, with six other young men, and seven tender and beautiful damsels, came down to the harbor to embark.
a sorrowful multitude accompanied them to the shore.
there was the poor old king, too, leaning on his son's arm, and looking as if his single heart held all the grief of athens.
just as prince theseus was going on board, his father bethought himself of one last word to say.
"my beloved son," said he, grasping the prince's hand, "you observe that the sails of this vessel are black; as indeed they ought to be, since it goes upon a voyage of sorrow and despair.
now, being weighed down with infirmities, i know not whether i can survive till the vessel shall return.
but, as long as i do live, i shall creep daily to the top of yonder cliff, to watch if there be a sail upon the sea.
and, dearest theseus, if by some happy chance, you should escape the jaws of the minotaur, then tear down those dismal sails, and hoist others that shall be bright as the sunshine.
beholding them on the horizon, myself and all the people will know that you are coming back victorious, and will welcome you with such a festal uproar as athens never heard before."
theseus promised that he would do so.
then going on board, the mariners trimmed the vessel's black sails to the wind, which blew faintly off the shore, being pretty much made up of the sighs that everybody kept pouring forth on this melancholy occasion.
but by and by, when they had got fairly out to sea, there came a stiff breeze from the north-west, and drove them along as merrily over the white-capped waves as if they had been going on the most delightful errand imaginable.
and though it was a sad business enough, i rather question whether fourteen young people, without any old persons to keep them in order, could continue to spend the whole time of the voyage in being miserable.
there had been some few dances upon the undulating deck, i suspect, and some hearty bursts of laughter, and other such unseasonable merriment among the victims, before the high blue mountains of crete began to show themselves among the far-off clouds.
that sight, to be sure, made them all very grave again.
theseus stood among the sailors, gazing eagerly towards the land; although, as yet, it seemed hardly more substantial than the clouds, amidst which the mountains were looming up.
once or twice, he fancied that he saw a glare of some bright object, a long way off, flinging a gleam across the waves.
"did you see that flash of light?"
he inquired of the master of the vessel.
"no, prince; but i have seen it before," answered the master.
"it came from talus, i suppose."
as the breeze came fresher just then, the master was busy with trimming his sails, and had no more time to answer questions.
but while the vessel flew faster and faster towards crete, theseus was astonished to behold a human figure, gigantic in size, which appeared to be striding, with a measured movement, along the margin of the island.
it stepped from cliff to cliff, and sometimes from one headland to another, while the sea foamed and thundered on the shore beneath, and dashed its jets of spray over the giant's feet.
what was still more remarkable, whenever the sun shone on this huge figure, it flickered and glimmered; its vast countenance, too, had a metallic lustre, and threw great flashes of splendor through the air.
the folds of its garments, moreover, instead of waving in the wind, fell heavily over its limbs, as if woven of some kind of metal.
the nigher the vessel came, the more theseus wondered what this immense giant could be, and whether it actually had life or no.
for, though it walked, and made other lifelike motions, there yet was a kind of jerk in its gait, which, together with its brazen aspect, caused the young prince to suspect that it was no true giant, but only a wonderful piece of machinery.
the figure looked all the more terrible because it carried an enormous brass club on its shoulder.
"what is this wonder?"
theseus asked of the master of the vessel, who was now at leisure to answer him.
"it is talus, the man of brass," said the master.
"and is he a live giant, or a brazen image?"
asked theseus.
"that, truly," replied the master, "is the point which has always perplexed me.
some say, indeed, that this talus was hammered out for king minos by vulcan himself, the skilfullest of all workers in metal.
but who ever saw a brazen image that had sense enough to walk round an island three times a day, as this giant walks round the island of crete, challenging every vessel that comes nigh the shore?
and, on the other hand, what living thing, unless his sinews were made of brass, would not be weary of marching eighteen hundred miles in the twenty-four hours, as talus does, without ever sitting down to rest?
he is a puzzler, take him how you will."
still the vessel went bounding onward; and now theseus could hear the brazen clangor of the giant's footsteps, as he trod heavily upon the sea-beaten rocks, some of which were seen to crack and crumble into the foaming waves beneath his weight.
as they approached the entrance of the port, the giant straddled clear across it, with a foot firmly planted on each headland, and uplifting his club to such a height that its butt-end was hidden in the cloud, he stood in that formidable posture, with the sun gleaming all over his metallic surface.
there seemed nothing else to be expected but that, the next moment, he would fetch his great club down, slam bang, and smash the vessel into a thousand pieces, without heeding how many innocent people he might destroy; for there is seldom any mercy in a giant, you know, and quite as little in a piece of brass clockwork.
but just when theseus and his companions thought the blow was coming, the brazen lips unclosed themselves, and the figure spoke.
"whence come you, strangers?"
and when the ringing voice ceased, there was just such a reverberation as you may have heard within a great church bell, for a moment or two after the stroke of the hammer.
"from athens!"
shouted the master in reply.
"on what errand?"
thundered the man of brass.
and he whirled his club aloft more threateningly than ever, as if he were about to smite them with a thunderstroke right amidships, because athens, so little while ago, had been at war with crete.
"we bring the seven youths and the seven maidens," answered the master, "to be devoured by the minotaur!"
"pass!"
cried the brazen giant.
that one loud word rolled all about the sky, while again there was a booming reverberation within the figure's breast.
the vessel glided between the headlands of the port, and the giant resumed his march.
in a few moments, this wondrous sentinel was far away, flashing in the distant sunshine, and revolving with immense strides round the island of crete, as it was his never-ceasing task to do.
no sooner had they entered the harbor than a party of the guards of king minos came down to the water side, and took charge of the fourteen young men and damsels.
surrounded by these armed warriors, prince theseus and his companions were led to the king's palace, and ushered into his presence.
now, minos was a stern and pitiless king.
if the figure that guarded crete was made of brass, then the monarch, who ruled over it, might be thought to have a still harder metal in his breast, and might have been called a man of iron.
he bent his shaggy brows upon the poor athenian victims.
any other mortal, beholding their fresh and tender beauty, and their innocent looks, would have felt himself sitting on thorns until he had made every soul of them happy by bidding them go free as the summer wind.
but this immitigable minos cared only to examine whether they were plump enough to satisfy the minotaur's appetite.
for my part, i wish he himself had been the only victim; and the monster would have found him a pretty tough one.
one after another, king minos called these pale, frightened youths and sobbing maidens to his footstool, gave them each a poke in the ribs with his sceptre (to try whether they were in good flesh or no), and dismissed them with a nod to his guards.
but when his eyes rested on theseus, the king looked at him more attentively, because his face was calm and brave.
"young man," asked he, with his stern voice, "are you not appalled at the certainty of being devoured by this terrible minotaur?"
"i have offered my life in a good cause," answered theseus, "and therefore i give it freely and gladly.
but thou, king minos, art thou not thyself appalled, who, year after year, hast perpetrated this dreadful wrong, by giving seven innocent youths and as many maidens to be devoured by a monster?
dost thou not tremble, wicked king, to turn thine eyes inward on thine own heart?
sitting there on thy golden throne, and in thy robes of majesty, i tell thee to thy face, king minos, thou art a more hideous monster than the minotaur himself!"
"aha!
do you think me so?"
cried the king, laughing in his cruel way.
"to-morrow, at breakfast time, you shall have an opportunity of judging which is the greater monster, the minotaur or the king!
take them away, guards; and let this free-spoken youth be the minotaur's first morsel."
near the king's throne (though i had no time to tell you so before)
stood his daughter ariadne.
she was a beautiful and tender-hearted maiden, and looked at these poor doomed captives with very different feelings from those of the iron-breasted king minos.
she really wept indeed, at the idea of how much human happiness would be needlessly thrown away, by giving so many young people, in the first bloom and rose blossom of their lives, to be eaten up by a creature who, no doubt, would have preferred a fat ox, or even a large pig, to the plumpest of them.
and when she beheld the brave, spirited figure of prince theseus bearing himself so calmly in his terrible peril, she grew a hundred times more pitiful than before.
as the guards were taking him away, she flung herself at the king's feet, and besought him to set all the captives free, and especially this one young man.
"peace, foolish girl!"
answered king minos.
"what hast thou to do with an affair like this?
it is a matter of state policy, and therefore quite beyond thy weak comprehension.
go water thy flowers, and think no more of these athenian caitiffs, whom the minotaur shall as certainly eat up for breakfast as i will eat a partridge for my supper."
so saying, the king looked cruel enough to devour theseus and all the rest of the captives himself, had there been no minotaur to save him the trouble.
as he would hear not another word in their favor, the prisoners were now led away, and clapped into a dungeon, where the jailer advised them to go to sleep as soon as possible, because the minotaur was in the habit of calling for breakfast early.
the seven maidens and six of the young men soon sobbed themselves to slumber.
but theseus was not like them.
he felt conscious that he was wiser, and braver, and stronger than his companions, and that therefore he had the responsibility of all their lives upon him, and must consider whether there was no way to save them, even in this last extremity.
so he kept himself awake, and paced to and fro across the gloomy dungeon in which they were shut up.
just before midnight, the door was softly unbarred, and the gentle ariadne showed herself, with a torch in her hand.
"are you awake, prince theseus?"
she whispered.
"yes," answered theseus.
"with so little time to live, i do not choose to waste any of it in sleep."
"then follow me," said ariadne, "and tread softly."
what had become of the jailer and the guards, theseus never knew.
but, however that might be, ariadne opened all the doors, and led him forth from the darksome prison into the pleasant moonlight.
"theseus," said the maiden, "you can now get on board your vessel, and sail away for athens."
"no," answered the young man; "i will never leave crete unless i can first slay the minotaur, and save my poor companions, and deliver athens from this cruel tribute."
"i knew that this would be your resolution," said ariadne.
"come, then, with me, brave theseus.
here is your own sword, which the guards deprived you of.
you will need it; and pray heaven you may use it well."
then she led theseus along by the hand until they came to a dark, shadowy grove, where the moonlight wasted itself on the tops of the trees, without shedding hardly so much as a glimmering beam upon their pathway.
after going a good way through this obscurity, they reached a high marble wall, which was overgrown with creeping plants, that made it shaggy with their verdure.
the wall seemed to have no door, nor any windows, but rose up, lofty, and massive, and mysterious, and was neither to be clambered over, nor, as far as theseus could perceive, to be passed through.
nevertheless, ariadne did but press one of her soft little fingers against a particular block of marble and, though it looked as solid as any other part of the wall, it yielded to her touch, disclosing an entrance just wide enough to admit them they crept through, and the marble stone swung back into its place.
"we are now," said ariadne, "in the famous labyrinth which daedalus built before he made himself a pair of wings, and flew away from our island like a bird.
that daedalus was a very cunning workman; but of all his artful contrivances, this labyrinth is the most wondrous.
were we to take but a few steps from the doorway, we might wander about all our lifetime, and never find it again.
yet in the very center of this labyrinth is the minotaur; and, theseus, you must go thither to seek him."
"but how shall i ever find him," asked theseus, "if the labyrinth so bewilders me as you say it will?"
just as he spoke, they heard a rough and very disagreeable roar, which greatly resembled the lowing of a fierce bull, but yet had some sort of sound like the human voice.
theseus even fancied a rude articulation in it, as if the creature that uttered it were trying to shape his hoarse breath into words.
it was at some distance, however, and he really could not tell whether it sounded most like a bull's roar or a man's harsh voice.
"that is the minotaur's noise," whispered ariadne, closely grasping the hand of theseus, and pressing one of her own hands to her heart, which was all in a tremble.
"you must follow that sound through the windings of the labyrinth, and, by and by, you will find him.
stay!
take the end of this silken string; i will hold the other end; and then, if you win the victory, it will lead you again to this spot.
farewell, brave theseus."
so the young man took the end of the silken string in his left hand, and his gold-hilted sword, ready drawn from its scabbard, in the other, and trod boldly into the inscrutable labyrinth.
how this labyrinth was built is more than i can tell you.
but so cunningly contrived a mizmaze was never seen in the world, before nor since.
there can be nothing else so intricate, unless it were the brain of a man like daedalus, who planned it, or the heart of any ordinary man; which last, to be sure, is ten times as great a mystery as the labyrinth of crete.
theseus had not taken five steps before he lost sight of ariadne; and in five more his head was growing dizzy.
but still he went on, now creeping through a low arch, now ascending a flight of steps, now in one crooked passage and now in another, with here a door opening before him, and there one banging behind, until it really seemed as if the walls spun round, and whirled him round along with them.
and all the while, through these hollow avenues, now nearer, now farther off again, resounded the cry of the minotaur; and the sound was so fierce, so cruel, so ugly, so like a bull's roar, and withal so like a human voice, and yet like neither of them, that the brave heart of theseus grew sterner and angrier at every step; for he felt it an insult to the moon and sky, and to our affectionate and simple mother earth, that such a monster should have the audacity to exist.
as he passed onward, the clouds gathered over the moon, and the labyrinth grew so dusky that theseus could no longer discern the bewilderment through which he was passing.
he would have left quite lost, and utterly hopeless of ever again walking in a straight path, if, every little while, he had not been conscious of a gentle twitch at the silken cord.
then he knew that the tender-hearted ariadne was still holding the other end, and that she was fearing for him, and hoping for him, and giving him just as much of her sympathy as if she were close by his side.
o, indeed, i can assure you, there was a vast deal of human sympathy running along that slender thread of silk.
but still he followed the dreadful roar of the minotaur, which now grew louder and louder, and finally so very loud that theseus fully expected to come close upon him, at every new zizgag and wriggle of the path.
and at last, in an open space, at the very center of the labyrinth, he did discern the hideous creature.
sure enough, what an ugly monster it was!
only his horned head belonged to a bull; and yet, somehow or other, he looked like a bull all over, preposterously waddling on his hind legs; or, if you happened to view him in another way, he seemed wholly a man, and all the more monstrous for being so.
and there he was, the wretched thing, with no society, no companion, no kind of a mate, living only to do mischief, and incapable of knowing what affection means.
theseus hated him, and shuddered at him, and yet could not but be sensible of some sort of pity; and all the more, the uglier and more detestable the creature was.
for he kept striding to and fro, in a solitary frenzy of rage, continually emitting a hoarse roar, which was oddly mixed up with half-shaped words; and, after listening a while, theseus understood that the minotaur was saying to himself how miserable he was, and how hungry, and how he hated everybody, and how he longed to eat up the human race alive.
ah!
the bull-headed villain!
and o, my good little people, you will perhaps see, one of these days, as i do now, that every human being who suffers any thing evil to get into his nature, or to remain there, is a kind of minotaur, an enemy of his fellow-creatures, and separated from all good companionship, as this poor monster was.
was theseus afraid?
by no means, my dear auditors.
what!
a hero like theseus afraid!
not had the minotaur had twenty bull-heads instead of one.
bold as he was, however, i rather fancy that it strengthened his valiant heart, just at this crisis, to feel a tremulous twitch at the silken cord, which he was still holding in his left hand.
it was as if ariadne were giving him all her might and courage; and much as he already had, and little as she had to give, it made his own seem twice as much.
and to confess the honest truth, he needed the whole; for now the minotaur, turning suddenly about, caught sight of theseus, and instantly lowered his horribly sharp horns, exactly as a mad bull does when he means to rush against an enemy.
at the same time, he belched forth a tremendous roar, in which there was something like the words of human language, but all disjointed and shaken to pieces by passing through the gullet of a miserably enraged brute.
theseus could only guess what the creature intended to say, and that rather by his gestures than his words; for the minotaur's horns were sharper than his wits, and of a great deal more service to him than his tongue.
but probably this was the sense of what he uttered:
"ah, wretch of a human being!
i'll stick my horns through you, and toss you fifty feet high, and eat you up the moment you come down."
"come on, then, and try it!"
was all that theseus deigned to reply; for he was far too magnanimous to assault his enemy with insolent language.
without more words on either side, there ensued the most awful fight between theseus and the minotaur that ever happened beneath the sun or moon.
i really know not how it might have turned out, if the monster, in his first headlong rush against theseus, had not missed him, by a hair's breadth, and broken one of his horns short off against the stone wall.
on this mishap, he bellowed so intolerably that a part of the labyrinth tumbled down, and all the inhabitants of crete mistook the noise for an uncommonly heavy thunder storm.
smarting with the pain, he galloped around the open space in so ridiculous a way that theseus laughed at it, long afterwards, though not precisely at the moment.
after this, the two antagonists stood valiantly up to one another, and fought, sword to horn, for a long while.
at last, the minotaur made a run at theseus, grazed his left side with his horn, and flung him down; and thinking that he had stabbed him to the heart, he cut a great caper in the air, opened his bull mouth from ear to ear, and prepared to snap his head off.
but theseus by this time had leaped up, and caught the monster off his guard.
fetching a sword stroke at him with all his force, he hit him fair upon the neck, and made his bull head skip six yards from his human body, which fell down flat upon the ground.
so now the battle was ended.
immediately the moon shone out as brightly as if all the troubles of the world, and all the wickedness and the ugliness that infest human life, were past and gone forever.
and theseus, as he leaned on his sword, taking breath, felt another twitch of the silken cord; for all through the terrible encounter, he had held it fast in his left hand.
eager to let ariadne know of his success, he followed the guidance of the thread, and soon found himself at the entrance of the labyrinth.
"thou hast slain the monster," cried ariadne, clasping her hands.
"thanks to thee, dear ariadne," answered theseus, "i return victorious."
"then," said ariadne, "we must quickly summon thy friends, and get them and thyself on board the vessel before dawn.
if morning finds thee here, my father will avenge the minotaur."
to make my story short, the poor captives were awakened, and, hardly knowing whether it was not a joyful dream, were told of what theseus had done, and that they must set sail for athens before daybreak.
hastening down to the vessel, they all clambered on board, except prince theseus, who lingered behind them on the strand, holding ariadne's hand clasped in his own.
"dear maiden," said he, "thou wilt surely go with us.
thou art too gentle and sweet a child for such an iron-hearted father as king minos.
he cares no more for thee than a granite rock cares for the little flower that grows in one of its crevices.
but my father, king aegeus, and my dear mother, aethra, and all the fathers and mothers in athens, and all the sons and daughters too, will love and honor thee as their benefactress.
come with us, then; for king minos will be very angry when he knows what thou hast done."
now, some low-minded people, who pretend to tell the story of theseus and ariadne, have the face to say that this royal and honorable maiden did really flee away, under cover of the night, with the young stranger whose life she had preserved.
they say, too, that prince theseus (who would have died sooner than wrong the meanest creature in the world)
ungratefully deserted ariadne, on a solitary island, where the vessel touched on its voyage to athens.
but, had the noble theseus heard these falsehoods, he would have served their slanderous authors as he served the minotaur!
here is what ariadne answered, when the brave prince of athens besought her to accompany him:
"no, theseus," the maiden said, pressing his hand, and then drawing back a step or two, "i cannot go with you.
my father is old, and has nobody but myself to love him.
hard as you think his heart is, it would break to lose me.
at first, king minos will be angry; but he will soon forgive his only child; and, by and by, he will rejoice, i know, that no more youths and maidens must come from athens to be devoured by the minotaur.
i have saved you, theseus, as much for my father's sake as for your own.
farewell!
heaven bless you!"
all this was so true, and so maiden-like, and was spoken with so sweet a dignity, that theseus would have blushed to urge her any longer.
nothing remained for him, therefore, but to bid ariadne an affectionate farewell, and to go on board the vessel, and set sail.
in a few moments the white foam was boiling up before their prow, as prince theseus and his companions sailed out of the harbor, with a whistling breeze behind them.
talus, the brazen giant, on his never-ceasing sentinel's march, happened to be approaching that part of the coast; and they saw him, by the glimmering of the moonbeams on his polished surface, while he was yet a great way off.
as the figure moved like clockwork, however, and could neither hasten his enormous strides nor retard them, he arrived at the port when they were just beyond the reach of his club.
nevertheless, straddling from headland to headland, as his custom was, talus attempted to strike a blow at the vessel, and, overreaching himself, tumbled at full length into the sea, which splashed high over his gigantic shape, as when an iceberg turns a somerset.
there he lies yet; and whoever desires to enrich himself by means of brass had better go thither with a diving bell, and fish up talus.
on the homeward voyage, the fourteen youths and damsels were in excellent spirits, as you will easily suppose.
they spent most of their time in dancing, unless when the sidelong breeze made the deck slope too much.
in due season, they came within sight of the coast of attica, which was their native country.
but here, i am grieved to tell you, happened a sad misfortune.
you will remember (what theseus unfortunately forgot) that his father, king aegeus, had enjoined it upon him to hoist sunshiny sails, instead of black ones, in case he should overcome the minotaur, and return victorious.
in the joy of their success, however, and amidst the sports, dancing, and other merriment, with which these young folks wore away the time, they never once thought whether their sails were black, white, or rainbow colored, and, indeed, left it entirely to the mariners whether they had any sails at all.
thus the vessel returned, like a raven, with the same sable wings that had wafted her away.
but poor king aegeus, day after day, infirm as he was, had clambered to the summit of a cliff that overhung the sea, and there sat watching for prince theseus, homeward bound; and no sooner did he behold the fatal blackness of the sails, than he concluded that his dear son, whom he loved so much, and felt so proud of, had been eaten by the minotaur.
he could not bear the thought of living any longer; so, first flinging his crown and sceptre into the sea (useless baubles that they were to him now), king aegeus merely stooped forward, and fell headlong over the cliff, and was drowned, poor soul, in the waves that foamed at its base!
this was melancholy news for prince theseus, who, when he stepped ashore, found himself king of all the country, whether he would or no; and such a turn of fortune was enough to make any young man feel very much out of spirits.
however, he sent for his dear mother to athens, and, by taking her advice in matters of state, became a very excellent monarch, and was greatly beloved by his people.
the pygmies.
a great while ago, when the world was full of wonders, there lived an earth-born giant, named antaeus, and a million or more of curious little earth-born people, who were called pygmies.
this giant and these pygmies being children of the same mother (that is to say, our good old grandmother earth), were all brethren, and dwelt together in a very friendly and affectionate manner, far, far off, in the middle of hot africa.
the pygmies were so small, and there were so many sandy deserts and such high mountains between them and the rest of mankind, that nobody could get a peep at them oftener than once in a hundred years.
as for the giant, being of a very lofty stature, it was easy enough to see him, but safest to keep out of his sight.
among the pygmies, i suppose, if one of them grew to the height of six or eight inches, he was reckoned a prodigiously tall man.
it must have been very pretty to behold their little cities, with streets two or three feet wide, paved with the smallest pebbles, and bordered by habitations about as big as a squirrel's cage.
the king's palace attained to the stupendous magnitude of periwinkle's baby house, and stood in the center of a spacious square, which could hardly have been covered by our hearth-rug.
their principal temple, or cathedral, was as lofty as yonder bureau, and was looked upon as a wonderfully sublime and magnificent edifice.
all these structures were built neither of stone nor wood.
they were neatly plastered together by the pygmy workmen, pretty much like birds' nests, out of straw, feathers, egg shells, and other small bits of stuff, with stiff clay instead of mortar; and when the hot sun had dried them, they were just as snug and comfortable as a pygmy could desire.
the country round about was conveniently laid out in fields, the largest of which was nearly of the same extent as one of sweet fern's flower beds.
here the pygmies used to plant wheat and other kinds of grain, which, when it grew up and ripened, overshadowed these tiny people as the pines, and the oaks, and the walnut and chestnut trees overshadow you and me, when we walk in our own tracts of woodland.
at harvest time, they were forced to go with their little axes and cut down the grain, exactly as a woodcutter makes a clearing in the forest; and when a stalk of wheat, with its overburdened top, chanced to come crashing down upon an unfortunate pygmy, it was apt to be a very sad affair.
if it did not smash him all to pieces, at least, i am sure, it must have made the poor little fellow's head ache.
and o, my stars!
if the fathers and mothers were so small, what must the children and babies have been?
a whole family of them might have been put to bed in a shoe, or have crept into an old glove, and played at hide-and-seek in its thumb and fingers.
you might have hidden a year-old baby under a thimble.
now these funny pygmies, as i told you before, had a giant for their neighbor and brother, who was bigger, if possible, than they were little.
he was so very tall that he carried a pine tree, which was eight feet through the butt, for a walking stick.
it took a far-sighted pygmy, i can assure you, to discern his summit without the help of a telescope; and sometimes, in misty weather, they could not see his upper half, but only his long legs, which seemed to be striding about by themselves.
but at noonday in a clear atmosphere, when the sun shone brightly over him, the giant antaeus presented a very grand spectacle.
there he used to stand, a perfect mountain of a man, with his great countenance smiling down upon his little brothers, and his one vast eye (which was as big as a cart wheel, and placed right in the center of his forehead) giving a friendly wink to the whole nation at once.
the pygmies loved to talk with antaeus; and fifty times a day, one or another of them would turn up his head, and shout through the hollow of his fists, "halloo, brother antaeus!
how are you, my good fellow?"
and when the small distant squeak of their voices reached his ear, the giant would make answer, "pretty well, brother pygmy, i thank you," in a thunderous roar that would have shaken down the walls of their strongest temple, only that it came from so far aloft.
it was a happy circumstance that antaeus was the pygmy people's friend; for there was more strength in his little finger than in ten million of such bodies as this.
if he had been as ill-natured to them as he was to everybody else, he might have beaten down their biggest city at one kick, and hardly have known that he did it.
with the tornado of his breath, he could have stripped the roofs from a hundred dwellings and sent thousands of the inhabitants whirling through the air.
he might have set his immense foot upon a multitude; and when he took it up again, there would have been a pitiful sight, to be sure.
but, being the son of mother earth, as they likewise were, the giant gave them his brotherly kindness, and loved them with as big a love as it was possible to feel for creatures so very small.
and, on their parts, the pygmies loved antaeus with as much affection as their tiny hearts could hold.
he was always ready to do them any good offices that lay in his power; as for example, when they wanted a breeze to turn their windmills, the giant would set all the sails a-going with the mere natural respiration of his lungs.
when the sun was too hot, he often sat himself down, and let his shadow fall over the kingdom, from one frontier to the other; and as for matters in general, he was wise enough to let them alone, and leave the pygmies to manage their own affairs which, after all, is about the best thing that great people can do for little ones.
in short, as i said before, antaeus loved the pygmies, and the pygmies loved antaeus.
the giant's life being as long as his body was large, while the lifetime of a pygmy was but a span, this friendly intercourse had been going on for innumerable generations and ages.
it was written about in the pygmy histories, and talked about in their ancient traditions.
the most venerable and white-bearded pygmy had never heard of a time, even in his greatest of grandfathers' days, when the giant was not their enormous friend.
once, to be sure (as was recorded on an obelisk, three feet high, erected on the place of the catastrophe), antaeus sat down upon about five thousand pygmies, who were assembled at a military review.
but this was one of those unlucky accidents for which nobody is to blame; so that the small folks never took it to heart, and only requested the giant to be careful forever afterwards to examine the acre of ground where he intended to squat himself.
it is a very pleasant picture to imagine antaeus standing among the pygmies, like the spire of the tallest cathedral that ever was built, while they ran about like pismires at his feet; and to think that, in spite of their difference in size, there were affection and sympathy between them and him!
indeed, it has always seemed to me that the giant needed the little people more than the pygmies needed the giant.
for, unless they had been his neighbors and well wishers, and, as we may say, his playfellows, antaeus would not have had a single friend in the world.
no other being like himself had ever been created.
no creature of his own size had ever talked with him, in thunder-like accents, face to face.
when he stood with his head among the clouds, he was quite alone, and had been so for hundreds of years, and would be so forever.
even if he had met another giant, antaeus would have fancied the world not big enough for two such vast personages, and, instead of being friends with him, would have fought him till one of the two was killed.
but with the pygmies he was the most sportive and humorous, and merry-hearted, and sweet-tempered old giant that ever washed his face in a wet cloud.
his little friends, like all other small people, had a great opinion of their own importance, and used to assume quite a patronizing air towards the giant.
"poor creature!"
they said one to another.
"he has a very dull time of it, all by himself; and we ought not to grudge wasting a little of our precious time to amuse him.
he is not half so bright as we are, to be sure; and, for that reason, he needs us to look after his comfort and happiness.
let us be kind to the old fellow.
why, if mother earth had not been very kind to ourselves, we might all have been giants too."
on all their holidays, the pygmies had excellent sport with antaeus.
he often stretched himself out at full length on the ground, where he looked like the long ridge of a hill; and it was a good hour's walk, no doubt, for a short-legged pygmy to journey from head to foot of the giant.
he would lay down his great hand flat on the grass, and challenge the tallest of them to clamber upon it, and straddle from finger to finger.
so fearless were they, that they made nothing of creeping in among the folds of his garments.
when his head lay sidewise on the earth, they would march boldly up, and peep into the great cavern of his mouth, and take it all as a joke (as indeed it was meant) when antaeus gave a sudden snap of his jaws, as if he were going to swallow fifty of them at once.
you would have laughed to see the children dodging in and out among his hair, or swinging from his beard.
it is impossible to tell half of the funny tricks that they played with their huge comrade; but i do not know that anything was more curious than when a party of boys were seen running races on his forehead, to try which of them could get first round the circle of his one great eye.
it was another favorite feat with them to march along the bridge of his nose, and jump down upon his upper lip.
if the truth must be told, they were sometimes as troublesome to the giant as a swarm of ants or mosquitoes, especially as they had a fondness for mischief, and liked to prick his skin with their little swords and lances, to see how thick and tough it was.
but antaeus took it all kindly enough; although, once in a while, when he happened to be sleepy, he would grumble out a peevish word or two, like the muttering of a tempest, and ask them to have done with their nonsense.
a great deal oftener, however, he watched their merriment and gambols until his huge, heavy, clumsy wits were completely stirred up by them; and then would he roar out such a tremendous volume of immeasurable laughter, that the whole nation of pygmies had to put their hands to their ears, else it would certainly have deafened them.
"ho!
ho!
ho!"
quoth the giant, shaking his mountainous sides.
"what a funny thing it is to be little!
if i were not antaeus, i should like to be a pygmy, just for the joke's sake."
the pygmies had but one thing to trouble them in the world.
they were constantly at war with the cranes, and had always been so, ever since the long-lived giant could remember.
from time to time, very terrible battles had been fought in which sometimes the little men won the victory, and sometimes the cranes.
according to some historians, the pygmies used to go to the battle, mounted on the backs of goats and rams; but such animals as these must have been far too big for pygmies to ride upon; so that, i rather suppose, they rode on squirrel-back, or rabbit-back, or rat-back, or perhaps got upon hedgehogs, whose prickly quills would be very terrible to the enemy.
however this might be, and whatever creatures the pygmies rode upon, i do not doubt that they made a formidable appearance, armed with sword and spear, and bow and arrow, blowing their tiny trumpet, and shouting their little war cry.
they never failed to exhort one another to fight bravely, and recollect that the world had its eyes upon them; although, in simple truth, the only spectator was the giant antaeus, with his one, great, stupid eye in the middle of his forehead.
when the two armies joined battle, the cranes would rush forward, flapping their wings and stretching out their necks, and would perhaps snatch up some of the pygmies crosswise in their beaks.
whenever this happened, it was truly an awful spectacle to see those little men of might kicking and sprawling in the air, and at last disappearing down the crane's long, crooked throat, swallowed up alive.
a hero, you know, must hold himself in readiness for any kind of fate; and doubtless the glory of the thing was a consolation to him, even in the crane's gizzard.
if antaeus observed that the battle was going hard against his little allies, he generally stopped laughing, and ran with mile-long strides to their assistance, flourishing his club aloft and shouting at the cranes, who quacked and croaked, and retreated as fast as they could.
then the pygmy army would march homeward in triumph, attributing the victory entirely to their own valor, and to the warlike skill and strategy of whomsoever happened to be captain general; and for a tedious while afterwards, nothing would be heard of but grand processions, and public banquets, and brilliant illuminations, and shows of wax-work, with likenesses of the distinguished officers, as small as life.
in the above-described warfare, if a pygmy chanced to pluck out a crane's tail feather, it proved a very great feather in his cap.
once or twice, if you will believe me, a little man was made chief ruler of the nation for no other merit in the world than bringing home such a feather.
but i have now said enough to let you see what a gallant little people these were, and how happily they and their forefathers, for nobody knows how many generations, had lived with the immeasurable giant antaeus.
in the remaining part of the story, i shall tell you of a far more astonishing battle than any that was fought between the pygmies and the cranes.
one day the mighty antaeus was lolling at full length among his little friends.
his pine-tree walking stick lay on the ground, close by his side.
his head was in one part of the kingdom, and his feet extended across the boundaries of another part; and he was taking whatever comfort he could get, while the pygmies scrambled over him, and peeped into his cavernous mouth, and played among his hair.
sometimes, for a minute or two, the giant dropped asleep, and snored like the rush of a whirlwind.
during one of these little bits of slumber, a pygmy chanced to climb upon his shoulder, and took a view around the horizon, as from the summit of a hill; and he beheld something, a long way off, which made him rub the bright specks of his eyes, and look sharper than before.
at first he mistook it for a mountain, and wondered how it had grown up so suddenly out of the earth.
but soon he saw the mountain move.
as it came nearer and nearer, what should it turn out to be but a human shape, not so big as antaeus, it is true, although a very enormous figure, in comparison with pygmies, and a vast deal bigger than the men we see nowadays.
when the pygmy was quite satisfied that his eyes had not deceived him, he scampered, as fast as his legs would carry him, to the giant's ear, and stooping over its cavity, shouted lustily into it:
"halloo, brother antaeus!
get up this minute, and take your pine-tree walking stick in your hand.
here comes another giant to have a tussle with you."
"poh, poh!"
grumbled antaeus, only half awake.
"none of your nonsense, my little fellow!
don't you see i'm sleepy?
there is not a giant on earth for whom i would take the trouble to get up."
but the pygmy looked again, and now perceived that the stranger was coming directly towards the prostrate form of antaeus.
with every step, he looked less like a blue mountain, and more like an immensely large man.
he was soon so nigh, that there could be no possible mistake about the matter.
there he was, with the sun flaming on his golden helmet, and flashing from his polished breastplate; he had a sword by his side, and a lion's skin over his back, and on his right shoulder he carried a club, which looked bulkier and heavier than the pine-tree walking stick of antaeus.
by this time, the whole nation of the pygmies had seen the new wonder, and a million of them set up a shout all together; so that it really made quite an audible squeak.
"get up, antaeus!
bestir yourself, you lazy old giant!
here comes another giant, as strong as you are, to fight with you."
"nonsense, nonsense!"
growled the sleepy giant.
"i'll have my nap out, come who may."
still the stranger drew nearer; and now the pygmies could plainly discern that, if his stature were less lofty than the giant's, yet his shoulders were even broader.
and, in truth, what a pair of shoulders they must have been!
as i told you, a long while ago, they once upheld the sky.
the pygmies, being ten times as vivacious as their great numskull of a brother, could not abide the giant's slow movements, and were determined to have him on his feet.
so they kept shouting to him, and even went so far as to prick him with their swords.
"get up, get up, get up," they cried.
"up with you, lazy bones!
the strange giant's club is bigger than your own, his shoulders are the broadest, and we think him the stronger of the two."
antaeus could not endure to have it said that any mortal was half so mighty as himself.
this latter remark of the pygmies pricked him deeper than their swords; and, sitting up, in rather a sulky humor, he gave a gape of several yards wide, rubbed his eyes, and finally turned his stupid head in the direction whither his little friends were eagerly pointing.
no sooner did he set eyes on the stranger, than, leaping on his feet, and seizing his walking stick, he strode a mile or two to meet him; all the while brandishing the sturdy pine tree, so that it whistled through the air.
"who are you?"
thundered the giant.
"and what do you want in my dominions?"
there was one strange thing about antaeus, of which i have not yet told you, lest, hearing of so many wonders all in a lump, you might not believe much more than half of them.
you are to know, then, that whenever this redoubtable giant touched the ground, either with his hand, his foot, or any other part of his body, he grew stronger than ever he had been before.
the earth, you remember, was his mother, and was very fond of him, as being almost the biggest of her children; and so she took this method of keeping him always in full vigor.
some persons affirm that he grew ten times stronger at every touch; others say that it was only twice as strong.
but only think of it!
whenever antaeus took a walk, supposing it were but ten miles, and that he stepped a hundred yards at a stride, you may try to cipher out how much mightier he was, on sitting down again, than when he first started.
and whenever he flung himself on the earth to take a little repose, even if he got up the very next instant, he would be as strong as exactly ten just such giants as his former self.
it was well for the world that antaeus happened to be of a sluggish disposition and liked ease better than exercise; for, if he had frisked about like the pygmies, and touched the earth as often as they did, he would long ago have been strong enough to pull down the sky about people's ears.
but these great lubberly fellows resemble mountains, not only in bulk, but in their disinclination to move.
any other mortal man, except the very one whom antaeus had now encountered, would have been half frightened to death by the giant's ferocious aspect and terrible voice.
but the stranger did not seem at all disturbed.
he carelessly lifted his club, and balanced it in his hand, measuring antaeus with his eye, from head to foot, not as if wonder-smitten at his stature, but as if he had seen a great many giants before, and this was by no means the biggest of them.
in fact, if the giant had been no bigger than the pygmies (who stood pricking up their ears, and looking and listening to what was going forward), the stranger could not have been less afraid of him.
"who are you, i say?"
roared antaeus again.
"what's your name?
why do you come hither?
speak, you vagabond, or i'll try the thickness of your skull with my walking-stick!"
"you are a very discourteous giant," answered the stranger quietly, "and i shall probably have to teach you a little civility, before we part.
as for my name, it is hercules.
i have come hither because this is my most convenient road to the garden of the hesperides, whither i am going to get three of the golden apples for king eurystheus."
"caitiff, you shall go no farther!"
bellowed antaeus, putting on a grimmer look than before; for he had heard of the mighty hercules, and hated him because he was said to be so strong.
"neither shall you go back whence you came!"
"how will you prevent me," asked hercules, "from going whither i please?"
"by hitting you a rap with this pine tree here," shouted antaeus, scowling so that he made himself the ugliest monster in africa.
"i am fifty times stronger than you; and now that i stamp my foot upon the ground, i am five hundred times stronger!
i am ashamed to kill such a puny little dwarf as you seem to be.
i will make a slave of you, and you shall likewise be the slave of my brethren here, the pygmies.
so throw down your club and your other weapons; and as for that lion's skin, i intend to have a pair of gloves made of it."
"come and take it off my shoulders, then," answered hercules, lifting his club.
then the giant, grinning with rage, strode tower-like towards the stranger (ten times strengthened at every step), and fetched a monstrous blow at him with his pine tree, which hercules caught upon his club; and being more skilful than antaeus, he paid him back such a rap upon the sconce, that down tumbled the great lumbering man-mountain, flat upon the ground.
the poor little pygmies (who really never dreamed that anybody in the world was half so strong as their brother antaeus) were a good deal dismayed at this.
but no sooner was the giant down, than up he bounced again, with tenfold might, and such a furious visage as was horrible to behold.
he aimed another blow at hercules, but struck awry, being blinded with wrath, and only hit his poor innocent mother earth, who groaned and trembled at the stroke.
his pine tree went so deep into the ground, and stuck there so fast, that, before antaeus could get it out, hercules brought down his club across his shoulders with a mighty thwack, which made the giant roar as if all sorts of intolerable noises had come screeching and rumbling out of his immeasurable lungs in that one cry.
away it went, over mountains and valleys, and, for aught i know, was heard on the other side of the african deserts.
as for the pygmies, their capital city was laid in ruins by the concussion and vibration of the air; and, though there was uproar enough without their help, they all set up a shriek out of three millions of little throats, fancying, no doubt, that they swelled the giant's bellow by at least ten times as much.
meanwhile, antaeus had scrambled upon his feet again, and pulled his pine tree out of the earth; and, all aflame with fury, and more outrageously strong than ever, he ran at hercules, and brought down another blow.
"this time, rascal," shouted he, "you shall not escape me."
but once more hercules warded off the stroke with his club, and the giant's pine tree was shattered into a thousand splinters, most of which flew among the pygmies, and did them more mischief than i like to think about.
before antaeus could get out of the way, hercules let drive again, and gave him another knock-down blow, which sent him heels over head, but served only to increase his already enormous and insufferable strength.
as for his rage, there is no telling what a fiery furnace it had now got to be.
his one eye was nothing but a circle of red flame.
having now no weapons but his fists, he doubled them up (each bigger than a hogshead), smote one against the other, and danced up and down with absolute frenzy, flourishing his immense arms about, as if he meant not merely to kill hercules, but to smash the whole world to pieces.
"come on!"
roared this thundering giant.
"let me hit you but one box on the ear, and you'll never have the headache again."
now hercules (though strong enough, as you already know, to hold the sky up) began to be sensible that he should never win the victory, if he kept on knocking antaeus down; for, by and by, if he hit him such hard blows, the giant would inevitably, by the help of his mother earth, become stronger than the mighty hercules himself.
so, throwing down his club, with which he had fought so many dreadful battles, the hero stood ready to receive his antagonist with naked arms.
"step forward," cried he.
"since i've broken your pine tree, we'll try which is the better man at a wrestling match."
"aha!
then i'll soon satisfy you," shouted the giant; for, if there was one thing on which he prided himself more than another, it was his skill in wrestling.
"villain, i'll fling you where you can never pick yourself up again."
on came antaeus, hopping and capering with the scorching heat of his rage, and getting new vigor wherewith to wreak his passion, every time he hopped.
but hercules, you must understand, was wiser than this numskull of a giant, and had thought of a way to fight him huge, earth-born monster that he was and to conquer him too, in spite of all that his mother earth could do for him.
watching his opportunity, as the mad giant made a rush at him, hercules caught him round the middle with both hands, lifted him high into the air, and held him aloft overhead.
just imagine it, my dear little friends.
what a spectacle it must have been, to see this monstrous fellow sprawling in the air, face downwards, kicking out his long legs and wriggling his whole vast body, like a baby when its father holds it at arm's length towards the ceiling.
but the most wonderful thing was, that, as soon as antaeus was fairly off the earth, he began to lose the vigor which he had gained by touching it.
hercules very soon perceived that his troublesome enemy was growing weaker, both because he struggled and kicked with less violence, and because the thunder of his big voice subsided into a grumble.
the truth was that unless the giant touched mother earth as often as once in five minutes, not only his overgrown strength, but the very breath of his life, would depart from him.
hercules had guessed this secret; and it may be well for us all to remember it, in case we should ever have to fight a battle with a fellow like antaeus.
for these earth-born creatures are only difficult to conquer on their own ground, but may easily be managed if we can contrive to lift them into a loftier and purer region.
so it proved with the poor giant, whom i am really a little sorry for, notwithstanding his uncivil way of treating strangers who came to visit him.
when his strength and breath were quite gone, hercules gave his huge body a toss, and flung it about a mile off, where it fell heavily, and lay with no more motion than a sand hill.
it was too late for the giant's mother earth to help him now; and i should not wonder if his ponderous bones were lying on the same spot to this very day, and were mistaken for those of an uncommonly large elephant.
but, alas me!
what a wailing did the poor little pygmies set up when they saw their enormous brother treated in this terrible manner!
if hercules heard their shrieks, however, he took no notice, and perhaps fancied them only the shrill, plaintive twittering of small birds that had been frightened from their nests by the uproar of the battle between himself and antaeus.
indeed, his thoughts had been so much taken up with the giant, that he had never once looked at the pygmies, nor even knew that there was such a funny little nation in the world.
and now, as he had traveled a good way, and was also rather weary with his exertions in the fight, he spread out his lion's skin on the ground, and, reclining himself upon it, fell fast asleep.
as soon as the pygmies saw hercules preparing for a nap, they nodded their little heads at one another, and winked with their little eyes.
and when his deep, regular breathing gave them notice that he was asleep, they assembled together in an immense crowd, spreading over a space of about twenty-seven feet square.
one of their most eloquent orators (and a valiant warrior enough, besides, though hardly so good at any other weapon as he was with his tongue) climbed upon a toadstool, and, from that elevated position, addressed the multitude.
his sentiments were pretty much as follows; or, at all events, something like this was probably the upshot of his speech:
"tall pygmies and mighty little men!
you and all of us have seen what a public calamity has been brought to pass, and what an insult has here been offered to the majesty of our nation.
yonder lies antaeus, our great friend and brother, slain, within our territory, by a miscreant who took him at disadvantage, and fought him (if fighting it can be called) in a way that neither man, nor giant, nor pygmy ever dreamed of fighting, until this hour.
and, adding a grievous contumely to the wrong already done us, the miscreant has now fallen asleep as quietly as if nothing were to be dreaded from our wrath!
it behooves you, fellow-countrymen, to consider in what aspect we shall stand before the world, and what will be the verdict of impartial history, should we suffer these accumulated outrages to go unavenged.
"antaeus was our brother, born of that same beloved parent to whom we owe the thews and sinews, as well as the courageous hearts, which made him proud of our relationship.
he was our faithful ally, and fell fighting as much for our national rights and immunities as for his own personal ones.
we and our forefathers have dwelt in friendship with him, and held affectionate intercourse as man to man, through immemorial generations.
you remember how often our entire people have reposed in his great shadow, and how our little ones have played at hide-and-seek in the tangles of his hair, and how his mighty footsteps have familiarly gone to and fro among us, and never trodden upon any of our toes.
and there lies this dear brother this sweet and amiable friend this brave and faithful ally -this virtuous giant this blameless and excellent antaeus dead!
dead!
silent!
powerless!
a mere mountain of clay!
forgive my tears!
nay, i behold your own.
were we to drown the world with them, could the world blame us?
"but to resume: shall we, my countrymen, suffer this wicked stranger to depart unharmed, and triumph in his treacherous victory, among distant communities of the earth?
shall we not rather compel him to leave his bones here on our soil, by the side of our slain brother's bones?
so that, while one skeleton shall remain as the everlasting monument of our sorrow, the other shall endure as long, exhibiting to the whole human race a terrible example of pygmy vengeance!
such is the question.
i put it to you in full confidence of a response that shall be worthy of our national character, and calculated to increase, rather than diminish, the glory which our ancestors have transmitted to us, and which we ourselves have proudly vindicated in our warfare with the cranes."
the orator was here interrupted by a burst of irrepressible enthusiasm; every individual pygmy crying out that the national honor must be preserved at all hazards.
he bowed, and, making a gesture for silence, wound up his harangue in the following admirable manner:
"it only remains for us, then, to decide whether we shall carry on the war in our national capacity one united people against a common enemy or whether some champion, famous in former fights, shall be selected to defy the slayer of our brother antaeus to single combat.
in the latter case, though not unconscious that there may be taller men among you, i hereby offer myself for that enviable duty.
and believe me, dear countrymen, whether i live or die, the honor of this great country, and the fame bequeathed us by our heroic progenitors, shall suffer no diminution in my hands.
never, while i can wield this sword, of which i now fling away the scabbard never, never, never, even if the crimson hand that slew the great antaeus shall lay me prostrate, like him, on the soil which i give my life to defend."
so saying, this valiant pygmy drew out his weapon (which was terrible to behold, being as long as the blade of a penknife), and sent the scabbard whirling over the heads of the multitude.
his speech was followed by an uproar of applause, as its patriotism and self-devotion unquestionably deserved; and the shouts and clapping of hands would have been greatly prolonged, had they not been rendered quite inaudible by a deep respiration, vulgarly called a snore, from the sleeping hercules.
it was finally decided that the whole nation of pygmies should set to work to destroy hercules; not, be it understood, from any doubt that a single champion would be capable of putting him to the sword, but because he was a public enemy, and all were desirous of sharing in the glory of his defeat.
there was a debate whether the national honor did not demand that a herald should be sent with a trumpet, to stand over the ear of hercules, and after blowing a blast right into it, to defy him to the combat by formal proclamation.
but two or three venerable and sagacious pygmies, well versed in state affairs, gave it as their opinion that war already existed, and that it was their rightful privilege to take the enemy by surprise.
moreover, if awakened, and allowed to get upon his feet, hercules might happen to do them a mischief before he could be beaten down again.
for, as these sage counselors remarked, the stranger's club was really very big, and had rattled like a thunderbolt against the skull of antaeus.
so the pygmies resolved to set aside all foolish punctilios, and assail their antagonist at once.
accordingly, all the fighting men of the nation took their weapons, and went boldly up to hercules, who still lay fast asleep, little dreaming of the harm which the pygmies meant to do him.
a body of twenty thousand archers marched in front, with their little bows all ready, and the arrows on the string.
the same number were ordered to clamber upon hercules, some with spades to dig his eyes out, and others with bundles of hay, and all manner of rubbish with which they intended to plug up his mouth and nostrils, so that he might perish for lack of breath.
these last, however, could by no means perform their appointed duty; inasmuch as the enemy's breath rushed out of his nose in an obstreperous hurricane and whirlwind, which blew the pygmies away as fast as they came nigh.
it was found necessary, therefore, to hit upon some other method of carrying on the war.
after holding a council, the captains ordered their troops to collect sticks, straws, dry weeds, and whatever combustible stuff they could find, and make a pile of it, heaping it high around the head of hercules.
as a great many thousand pygmies were employed in this task, they soon brought together several bushels of inflammatory matter, and raised so tall a heap, that, mounting on its summit, they were quite upon a level with the sleeper's face.
the archers, meanwhile, were stationed within bow shot, with orders to let fly at hercules the instant that he stirred.
everything being in readiness, a torch was applied to the pile, which immediately burst into flames, and soon waxed hot enough to roast the enemy, had he but chosen to lie still.
a pygmy, you know, though so very small, might set the world on fire, just as easily as a giant could; so that this was certainly the very best way of dealing with their foe, provided they could have kept him quiet while the conflagration was going forward.
but no sooner did hercules begin to be scorched, than up he started, with his hair in a red blaze.
"what's all this?"
he cried, bewildered with sleep, and staring about him as if he expected to see another giant.
at that moment the twenty thousand archers twanged their bowstrings, and the arrows came whizzing, like so many winged mosquitoes, right into the face of hercules.
but i doubt whether more than half a dozen of them punctured the skin, which was remarkably tough, as you know the skin of a hero has good need to be.
"villain!"
shouted all the pygmies at once.
"you have killed the giant antaeus, our great brother, and the ally of our nation.
we declare bloody war against you, and will slay you on the spot."
surprised at the shrill piping of so many little voices, hercules, after putting out the conflagration of his hair, gazed all round about, but could see nothing.
at last, however, looking narrowly on the ground, he espied the innumerable assemblage of pygmies at his feet.
he stooped down, and taking up the nearest one between his thumb and finger, set him on the palm of his left hand, and held him at a proper distance for examination.
it chanced to be the very identical pygmy who had spoken from the top of the toadstool, and had offered himself as a champion to meet hercules in single combat.
"what in the world, my little fellow," ejaculated hercules, "may you be?"
"i am your enemy," answered the valiant pygmy, in his mightiest squeak.
"you have slain the enormous antaeus, our brother by the mother's side, and for ages the faithful ally of our illustrious nation.
we are determined to put you to death; and for my own part, i challenge you to instant battle, on equal ground."
hercules was so tickled with the pygmy's big words and warlike gestures, that he burst into a great explosion of laughter, and almost dropped the poor little mite of a creature off the palm of his hand, through the ecstasy and convulsion of his merriment.
"upon my word," cried he, "i thought i had seen wonders before to-day hydras with nine heads, stags with golden horns, six-legged men, three-headed dogs, giants with furnaces in their stomachs, and nobody knows what besides.
but here, on the palm of my hand, stands a wonder that outdoes them all!
your body, my little friend, is about the size of an ordinary man's finger.
pray, how big may your soul be?"
"as big as your own!"
said the pygmy.
hercules was touched with the little man's dauntless courage, and could not help acknowledging such a brotherhood with him as one hero feels for another.
"my good little people," said he, making a low obeisance to the grand nation, "not for all the world would i do an intentional injury to such brave fellows as you!
your hearts seem to me so exceedingly great, that, upon my honor, i marvel how your small bodies can contain them.
i sue for peace, and, as a condition of it, will take five strides, and be out of your kingdom at the sixth.
good-bye.
i shall pick my steps carefully, for fear of treading upon some fifty of you, without knowing it.
ha, ha, ha!
ho, ho, ho!
for once, hercules acknowledges himself vanquished."
some writers say, that hercules gathered up the whole race of pygmies in his lion's skin, and carried them home to greece, for the children of king eurystheus to play with.
but this is a mistake.
he left them, one and all, within their own territory, where, for aught i can tell, their descendants are alive to the present day, building their little houses, cultivating their little fields, spanking their little children, waging their little warfare with the cranes, doing their little business, whatever it may be, and reading their little histories of ancient times.
in those histories, perhaps, it stands recorded, that, a great many centuries ago, the valiant pygmies avenged the death of the giant antaeus by scaring away the mighty hercules.
the dragon's teeth.
cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, the three sons of king agenor, and their little sister europa (who was a very beautiful child), were at play together near the seashore in their father's kingdom of phoenicia.
they had rambled to some distance from the palace where their parents dwelt, and were now in a verdant meadow, on one side of which lay the sea, all sparkling and dimpling in the sunshine, and murmuring gently against the beach.
the three boys were very happy, gathering flowers, and twining them into garlands, with which they adorned the little europa.
seated on the grass, the child was almost hidden under an abundance of buds and blossoms, whence her rosy face peeped merrily out, and, as cadmus said, was the prettiest of all the flowers.
just then, there came a splendid butterfly, fluttering along the meadow; and cadmus, phoenix, and cilix set off in pursuit of it, crying out that it was a flower with wings.
europa, who was a little wearied with playing all day long, did not chase the butterfly with her brothers, but sat still where they had left her, and closed her eyes.
for a while, she listened to the pleasant murmur of the sea, which was like a voice saying "hush!"
and bidding her go to sleep.
but the pretty child, if she slept at all, could not have slept more than a moment, when she heard something trample on the grass, not far from her, and, peeping out from the heap of flowers, beheld a snow-white bull.
and whence could this bull have come?
europa and her brothers had been a long time playing in the meadow, and had seen no cattle, nor other living thing, either there or on the neighboring hills.
"brother cadmus!"
cried europa, starting up out of the midst of the roses and lilies.
"phoenix!
cilix!
where are you all?
help!
help!
come and drive away this bull!"
but her brothers were too far off to hear; especially as the fright took away europa's voice, and hindered her from calling very loudly.
so there she stood, with her pretty mouth wide open, as pale as the white lilies that were twisted among the other flowers in her garlands.
nevertheless, it was the suddenness with which she had perceived the bull, rather than anything frightful in his appearance, that caused europa so much alarm.
on looking at him more attentively, she began to see that he was a beautiful animal, and even fancied a particularly amiable expression in his face.
as for his breath the breath of cattle, you know, is always sweet it was as fragrant as if he had been grazing on no other food than rosebuds, or at least, the most delicate of clover blossoms.
never before did a bull have such bright and tender eyes, and such smooth horns of ivory, as this one.
and the bull ran little races, and capered sportively around the child; so that she quite forgot how big and strong he was, and, from the gentleness and playfulness of his actions, soon came to consider him as innocent a creature as a pet lamb.
thus, frightened as she at first was, you might by and by have seen europa stroking the bull's forehead with her small white hand, and taking the garlands off her own head to hang them on his neck and ivory horns.
then she pulled up some blades of grass, and he ate them out of her hand, not as if he were hungry, but because he wanted to be friends with the child, and took pleasure in eating what she had touched.
well, my stars!
was there ever such a gentle, sweet, pretty, and amiable creature as this bull, and ever such a nice playmate for a little girl?
when the animal saw (for the bull had so much intelligence that it is really wonderful to think of), when he saw that europa was no longer afraid of him, he grew overjoyed, and could hardly contain himself for delight.
he frisked about the meadow, now here, now there, making sprightly leaps, with as little effort as a bird expends in hopping from twig to twig.
indeed, his motion was as light as if he were flying through the air, and his hoofs seemed hardly to leave their print in the grassy soil over which he trod.
with his spotless hue, he resembled a snow drift, wafted along by the wind.
once he galloped so far away that europa feared lest she might never see him again; so, setting up her childish voice, called him back.
"come back, pretty creature!"
she cried.
"here is a nice clover blossom."
and then it was delightful to witness the gratitude of this amiable bull, and how he was so full of joy and thankfulness that he capered higher than ever.
he came running, and bowed his head before europa, as if he knew her to be a king's daughter, or else recognized the important truth that a little girl is everybody's queen.
and not only did the bull bend his neck, he absolutely knelt down at her feet, and made such intelligent nods, and other inviting gestures, that europa understood what he meant just as well as if he had put it in so many words.
"come, dear child," was what he wanted to say, "let me give you a ride on my back."
at the first thought of such a thing, europa drew back.
but then she considered in her wise little head that there could be no possible harm in taking just one gallop on the back of this docile and friendly animal, who would certainly set her down the very instant she desired it.
and how it would surprise her brothers to see her riding across the green meadow!
and what merry times they might have, either taking turns for a gallop, or clambering on the gentle creature, all four children together, and careering round the field with shouts of laughter that would be heard as far off as king agenor's palace!
"i think i will do it," said the child to herself.
and, indeed, why not?
she cast a glance around, and caught a glimpse of cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, who were still in pursuit of the butterfly, almost at the other end of the meadow.
it would be the quickest way of rejoining them, to get upon the white bull's back.
she came a step nearer to him therefore; and sociable creature that he was he showed so much joy at this mark of her confidence, that the child could not find in her heart to hesitate any longer.
making one bound (for this little princess was as active as a squirrel), there sat europa on the beautiful bull, holding an ivory horn in each hand, lest she should fall off.
"softly, pretty bull, softly!"
she said, rather frightened at what she had done.
"do not gallop too fast."
having got the child on his back, the animal gave a leap into the air, and came down so like a feather that europa did not know when his hoofs touched the ground.
he then began a race to that part of the flowery plain where her three brothers were, and where they had just caught their splendid butterfly.
europa screamed with delight; and phoenix, cilix, and cadmus stood gaping at the spectacle of their sister mounted on a white bull, not knowing whether to be frightened or to wish the same good luck for themselves.
the gentle and innocent creature (for who could possibly doubt that he was so?)
pranced round among the children as sportively as a kitten.
europa all the while looked down upon her brothers, nodding and laughing, but yet with a sort of stateliness in her rosy little face.
as the bull wheeled about to take another gallop across the meadow, the child waved her hand, and said, "good-bye,"
playfully pretending that she was now bound on a distant journey, and might not see her brothers again for nobody could tell how long.
"good-bye," shouted cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, all in one breath.
but, together with her enjoyment of the sport, there was still a little remnant of fear in the child's heart; so that her last look at the three boys was a troubled one, and made them feel as if their dear sister were really leaving them forever.
and what do you think the snowy bull did next?
why, he set off, as swift as the wind, straight down to the seashore, scampered across the sand, took an airy leap, and plunged right in among the foaming billows.
the white spray rose in a shower over him and little europa, and fell spattering down upon the water.
then what a scream of terror did the poor child send forth!
the three brothers screamed manfully, likewise, and ran to the shore as fast as their legs would carry them, with cadmus at their head.
but it was too late.
when they reached the margin of the sand, the treacherous animal was already far away in the wide blue sea, with only his snowy head and tail emerging, and poor little europa between them, stretching out one hand towards her dear brothers, while she grasped the bull's ivory horn with the other.
and there stood cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, gazing at this sad spectacle, through their tears, until they could no longer distinguish the bull's snowy head from the white-capped billows that seemed to boil up out of the sea's depths around him.
nothing more was ever seen of the white bull nothing more of the beautiful child.
this was a mournful story, as you may well think, for the three boys to carry home to their parents.
king agenor, their father, was the ruler of the whole country; but he loved his little daughter europa better than his kingdom, or than all his other children, or than anything else in the world.
therefore, when cadmus and his two brothers came crying home, and told him how that a white bull had carried off their sister, and swam with her over the sea, the king was quite beside himself with grief and rage.
although it was now twilight, and fast growing dark, he bade them set out instantly in search of her.
"never shall you see my face again," he cried, "unless you bring me back my little europa, to gladden me with her smiles and her pretty ways.
begone, and enter my presence no more, till you come leading her by the hand."
as king agenor said this, his eyes flashed fire (for he was a very passionate king), and he looked so terribly angry that the poor boys did not even venture to ask for their suppers, but slunk away out of the palace, and only paused on the steps a moment to consult whither they should go first.
while they were standing there, all in dismay, their mother, queen telephassa (who happened not to be by when they told the story to the king), came hurrying after them, and said that she too would go in quest of her daughter.
"o, no, mother!"
cried the boys.
"the night is dark, and there is no knowing what troubles and perils we may meet with."
"alas!
my dear children," answered poor queen telephassa; weeping bitterly, "that is only another reason why i should go with you.
if i should lose you, too, as well as my little europa, what would become of me!"
"and let me go likewise!"
said their playfellow thasus, who came running to join them.
thasus was the son of a seafaring person in the neighborhood; he had been brought up with the young princes, and was their intimate friend, and loved europa very much; so they consented that he should accompany them.
the whole party, therefore, set forth together.
cadmus, phoenix, cilix, and thasus clustered round queen telephassa, grasping her skirts, and begging her to lean upon their shoulders whenever she felt weary.
in this manner they went down the palace steps, and began a journey, which turned out to be a great deal longer than they dreamed of.
the last that they saw of king agenor, he came to the door, with a servant holding a torch beside him, and called after them into the gathering darkness:
"remember!
never ascend these steps again without the child!"
"never!"
sobbed queen telephassa; and the three brothers and thasus answered, "never!
never!
never!
never!"
and they kept their word.
year after year, king agenor sat in the solitude of his beautiful palace, listening in vain for their returning footsteps, hoping to hear the familiar voice of the queen, and the cheerful talk of his sons and their playfellow thasus, entering the door together, and the sweet, childish accents of little europa in the midst of them.
but so long a time went by, that, at last, if they had really come, the king would not have known that this was the voice of telephassa, and these the younger voices that used to make such joyful echoes, when the children were playing about the palace.
we must now leave king agenor to sit on his throne, and must go along with queen telephassa, and her four youthful companions.
they went on and on, and traveled a long way, and passed over mountains and rivers, and sailed over seas.
here, and there, and everywhere, they made continual inquiry if any person could tell them what had become of europa.
the rustic people, of whom they asked this question, paused a little while from their labors in the field, and looked very much surprised.
they thought it strange to behold a woman in the garb of a queen (for telephassa in her haste had forgotten to take off her crown and her royal robes), roaming about the country, with four lads around her, on such an errand as this seemed to be.
but nobody could give them any tidings of europa; nobody had seen a little girl dressed like a princess, and mounted on a snow-white bull, which galloped as swiftly as the wind.
i cannot tell you how long queen telephassa, and cadmus, phoenix, and cilix, her three sons, and thasus, their playfellow, went wandering along the highways and bypaths, or through the pathless wildernesses of the earth, in this manner.
but certain it is, that, before they reached any place of rest, their splendid garments were quite worn out.
they all looked very much travel-stained, and would have had the dust of many countries on their shoes, if the streams, through which they waded, had not washed it all away.
when they had been gone a year, telephassa threw away her crown, because it chafed her forehead.
"it has given me many a headache," said the poor queen, "and it cannot cure my heartache."
as fast as their princely robes got torn and tattered, they exchanged them for such mean attire as ordinary people wore.
by and by, they come to have a wild and homeless aspect; so that you would much sooner have taken them for a gypsy family than a queen and three princes, and a young nobleman, who had once a palace for a home, and a train of servants to do their bidding.
the four boys grew up to be tall young men, with sunburnt faces.
each of them girded on a sword, to defend themselves against the perils of the way.
when the husbandmen, at whose farmhouses they sought hospitality, needed their assistance in the harvest field, they gave it willingly; and queen telephassa (who had done no work in her palace, save to braid silk threads with golden ones)
came behind them to bind the sheaves.
if payment was offered, they shook their heads, and only asked for tidings of europa.
"there are bulls enough in my pasture," the old farmers would reply; "but i never heard of one like this you tell me of.
a snow-white bull with a little princess on his back!
ho!
ho!
i ask your pardon, good folks; but there never such a sight seen hereabouts."
at last, when his upper lip began to have the down on it, phoenix grew weary of rambling hither and thither to no purpose.
so one day, when they happened to be passing through a pleasant and solitary tract of country, he sat himself down on a heap of moss.
"i can go no farther," said phoenix.
"it is a mere foolish waste of life, to spend it as we do, always wandering up and down, and never coming to any home at nightfall.
our sister is lost, and never will be found.
she probably perished in the sea; or, to whatever shore the white bull may have carried her, it is now so many years ago, that there would be neither love nor acquaintance between us, should we meet again.
my father has forbidden us to return to his palace, so i shall build me a hut of branches, and dwell here."
"well, son phoenix," said telephassa, sorrowfully, "you have grown to be a man, and must do as you judge best.
but, for my part, i will still go in quest of my poor child."
"and we three will go along with you!"
cried cadmus and cilix, and their faithful friend thasus.
but, before setting out, they all helped phoenix to build a habitation.
when completed, it was a sweet rural bower, roofed overhead with an arch of living boughs.
inside there were two pleasant rooms, one of which had a soft heap of moss for a bed, while the other was furnished with a rustic seat or two, curiously fashioned out of the crooked roots of trees.
so comfortable and home-like did it seem, that telephassa and her three companions could not help sighing, to think that they must still roam about the world, instead of spending the remainder of their lives in some such cheerful abode as they had here built for phoenix.
but, when they bade him farewell, phoenix shed tears, and probably regretted that he was no longer to keep them company.
however, he had fixed upon an admirable place to dwell in.
and by and by there came other people, who chanced to have no homes; and, seeing how pleasant a spot it was, they built themselves huts in the neighborhood of phoenix's habitation.
thus, before many years went by, a city had grown up there, in the center of which was seen a stately palace of marble, wherein dwelt phoenix, clothed in a purple robe, and wearing a golden crown upon his head.
for the inhabitants of the new city, finding that he had royal blood in his veins, had chosen him to be their king.
the very first decree of state which king phoenix issued was, that, if a maiden happened to arrive in the kingdom, mounted on a snow-white bull, and calling herself europa, his subjects should treat her with the greatest kindness and respect, and immediately bring her to the palace.
you may see, by this, that phoenix's conscience never quite ceased to trouble him, for giving up the quest of his dear sister, and sitting himself down to be comfortable, while his mother and her companions went onward.
but often and often, at the close of a weary day's journey, did telephassa and cadmus, cilix, and thasus, remember the pleasant spot in which they had left phoenix.
it was a sorrowful prospect for these wanderers, that on the morrow they must again set forth, and that, after many nightfalls, they would perhaps be no nearer the close of their toilsome pilgrimage than now.
these thoughts made them all melancholy at times, but appeared to torment cilix more than the rest of the party.
at length, one morning, when they were taking their staffs in hand to set out, he thus addressed them:
"my dear mother, and you, good brother cadmus, and my friend thasus, methinks we are like people in a dream.
there is no substance in the life which we are leading.
it is such a dreary length of time since the white bull carried off my sister europa, that i have quite forgotten how she looked, and the tones of her voice, and, indeed, almost doubt whether such a little girl ever lived in the world.
and whether she once lived or no, i am convinced that she no longer survives, and that therefore it is the merest folly to waste our own lives and happiness in seeking her.
were we to find her, she would now be a woman grown, and would look upon us all as strangers.
so, to tell you the truth, i have resolved to take up my abode here; and i entreat you, mother, brother, and friend, to follow my example."
"not i, for one," said telephassa; although the poor queen, firmly as she spoke, was so travel-worn that she could hardly put her foot to the ground.
"not i, for one!
in the depths of my heart, little europa is still the rosy child who ran to gather flowers so many years ago.
she has not grown to womanhood, nor forgotten me.
at noon, at night, journeying onward, sitting down to rest, her childish voice is always in my ears, calling, 'mother!
mother!'
stop here who may, there is no repose for me."
"nor for me," said cadmus, "while my dear mother pleases to go onward."
and the faithful thasus, too, was resolved to bear them company.
they remained with cilix a few days, however, and helped him to build a rustic bower, resembling the one which they had formerly built for phoenix.
when they were bidding him farewell cilix burst into tears, and told his mother that it seemed just as melancholy a dream to stay there, in solitude, as to go onward.
if she really believed that they would ever find europa, he was willing to continue the search with them, even now.
but telephassa bade him remain there, and be happy, if his own heart would let him.
so the pilgrims took their leave of him, and departed, and were hardly out of sight before some other wandering people came along that way, and saw cilix's habitation, and were greatly delighted with the appearance of the place.
there being abundance of unoccupied ground in the neighborhood, these strangers built huts for themselves, and were soon joined by a multitude of new settlers, who quickly formed a city.
in the middle of it was seen a magnificent palace of colored marble, on the balcony of which, every noontide, appeared cilix, in a long purple robe, and with a jeweled crown upon his head; for the inhabitants, when they found out that he was a king's son, had considered him the fittest of all men to be a king himself.
one of the first acts of king cilix's government was to send out an expedition, consisting of a grave ambassador, and an escort of bold and hardy young men, with orders to visit the principal kingdoms of the earth, and inquire whether a young maiden had passed through those regions, galloping swiftly on a white bull.
it is, therefore, plain to my mind, that cilix secretly blamed himself for giving up the search for europa, as long as he was able to put one foot before the other.
as for telephassa, and cadmus, and the good thasus, it grieves me to think of them, still keeping up that weary pilgrimage.
the two young men did their best for the poor queen, helping her over the rough places, often carrying her across rivulets in their faithful arms and seeking to shelter her at nightfall, even when they themselves lay on the ground.
sad, sad it was to hear them asking of every passer-by if he had seen europa, so long after the white bull had carried her away.
but, though the gray years thrust themselves between, and made the child's figure dim in their remembrance, neither of these true-hearted three ever dreamed of giving up the search.
one morning, however, poor thasus found that he had sprained his ankle, and could not possibly go a step farther.
"after a few days, to be sure," said he, mournfully, "i might make shift to hobble along with a stick.
but that would only delay you, and perhaps hinder you from finding dear little europa, after all your pains and trouble.
do you go forward, therefore, my beloved companions, and leave me to follow as i may."
"thou hast been a true friend, dear thasus," said queen telephassa, kissing his forehead.
"being neither my son, nor the brother of our lost europa, thou hast shown thyself truer to me and her than phoenix and cilix did, whom we have left behind us.
without thy loving help, and that of my son cadmus, my limbs could not have borne me half so far as this.
now, take thy rest, and be at peace.
for and it is the first time i have owned it to myself i begin to question whether we shall ever find my beloved daughter in this world."
saying this, the poor queen shed tears, because it was a grievous trial to the mother's heart to confess that her hopes were growing faint.
from that day forward, cadmus noticed that she never traveled with the same alacrity of spirit that had heretofore supported her.
her weight was heavier upon his arm.
before setting out, cadmus helped thasus build a bower; while telephassa, being too infirm to give any great assistance, advised them how to fit it up and furnish it, so that it might be as comfortable as a hut of branches could.
thasus, however, did not spend all his days in this green bower.
for it happened to him, as to phoenix and cilix, that other homeless people visited the spot, and liked it, and built themselves habitations in the neighborhood.
so here, in the course of a few years, was another thriving city, with a red freestone palace in the center of it, where thasus sat upon a throne, doing justice to the people, with a purple robe over his shoulders, a sceptre in his hand, and a crown upon his head.
the inhabitants had made him king, not for the sake of any royal blood (for none was in his veins), but because thasus was an upright, true-hearted, and courageous man, and therefore fit to rule.
but when the affairs of his kingdom were all settled, king thasus laid aside his purple robe and crown, and sceptre, and bade his worthiest subjects distribute justice to the people in his stead.
then, grasping the pilgrim's staff that had supported him so long, he set forth again, hoping still to discover some hoof-mark of the snow-white bull, some trace of the vanished child.
he returned after a lengthened absence, and sat down wearily upon his throne.
to his latest hour, nevertheless, king thasus showed his true-hearted remembrance of europa, by ordering that a fire should always be kept burning in his palace, and a bath steaming hot, and food ready to be served up, and a bed with snow-white sheets, in case the maiden should arrive, and require immediate refreshment.
and, though europa never came, the good thasus had the blessings of many a poor traveler, who profited by the food and lodging which were meant for the little playmate of the king's boyhood.
telephassa and cadmus were now pursuing their weary way, with no companion but each other.
the queen leaned heavily upon her son's arm, and could walk only a few miles a day.
but for all her weakness and weariness, she would not be persuaded to give up the search.
it was enough to bring tears into the eyes of bearded men to hear the melancholy tone with which she inquired of every stranger whether he could not tell her any news of the lost child.
"have you seen a little girl no, no, i mean a young maiden of full growth passing by this way, mounted on a snow-white bull, which gallops as swiftly as the wind?"
"we have seen no such wondrous sight," the people would reply; and very often, taking cadmus aside, they whispered to him, "is this stately and sad-looking woman your mother?
surely she is not in her right mind; and you ought to take her home, and make her comfortable, and do your best to get this dream out of her fancy."
"it is no dream," said cadmus.
"everything else is a dream, save that."
but, one day, telephassa seemed feebler than usual, and leaned almost her whole weight on the arm of cadmus, and walked more slowly than ever before.
at last they reached a solitary spot, where she told her son that she must needs lie down, and take a good long rest.
"a good long rest!"
she repeated, looking cadmus tenderly in the face.
"a good long rest, thou dearest one!"
"as long as you please, dear mother," answered cadmus.
telephassa bade him sit down on the turf beside her, and then she took his hand.
"my son," said she, fixing her dim eyes most lovingly upon him, "this rest that i speak of will be very long indeed!
you must not wait till it is finished.
dear cadmus, you do not comprehend me.
you must make a grave here, and lay your mother's weary frame into it.
my pilgrimage is over."
cadmus burst into tears, and, for a long time, refused to believe that his dear mother was now to be taken from him.
but telephassa reasoned with him, and kissed him, and at length made him discern that it was better for her spirit to pass away out of the toil, the weariness, and grief, and disappointment which had burdened her on earth, ever since the child was lost.
he therefore repressed his sorrow, and listened to her last words.
"dearest cadmus," said she, "thou hast been the truest son that ever mother had, and faithful to the very last.
who else would have borne with my infirmities as thou hast!
it is owing to thy care, thou tenderest child, that my grave was not dug long years ago, in some valley, or on some hillside, that lies far, far behind us.
it is enough.
thou shalt wander no more on this hopeless search.
but, when thou hast laid thy mother in the earth, then go, my son, to delphi, and inquire of the oracle what thou shalt do next."
"o mother, mother," cried cadmus, "couldst thou but have seen my sister before this hour!"
"it matters little now," answered telephassa, and there was a smile upon her face.
"i go now to the better world, and, sooner or later, shall find my daughter there."
i will not sadden you, my little hearers, with telling how telephassa died and was buried, but will only say, that her dying smile grew brighter, instead of vanishing from her dead face; so that cadmus left convinced that, at her very first step into the better world, she had caught europa in her arms.
he planted some flowers on his mother's grave, and left them to grow there, and make the place beautiful, when he should be far away.
after performing this last sorrowful duty, he set forth alone, and took the road towards the famous oracle of delphi, as telephassa had advised him.
on his way thither, he still inquired of most people whom he met whether they had seen europa; for, to say the truth, cadmus had grown so accustomed to ask the question, that it came to his lips as readily as a remark about the weather.
he received various answers.
some told him one thing, and some another.
among the rest, a mariner affirmed, that, many years before, in a distant country, he had heard a rumor about a white bull, which came swimming across the sea with a child on his back, dressed up in flowers that were blighted by the sea water.
he did not know what had become of the child or the bull; and cadmus suspected, indeed, by a queer twinkle in the mariner's eyes, that he was putting a joke upon him, and had never really heard anything about the matter.
poor cadmus found it more wearisome to travel alone than to bear all his dear mother's weight, while she had kept him company.
his heart, you will understand, was now so heavy that it seemed impossible, sometimes, to carry it any farther.
but his limbs were strong and active, and well accustomed to exercise.
he walked swiftly along, thinking of king agenor and queen telephassa, and his brothers, and the friendly thasus, all of whom he had left behind him, at one point of his pilgrimage or another, and never expected to see them any more.
full of these remembrances, he came within sight of a lofty mountain, which the people thereabouts told him was called parnassus.
on the slope of mount parnassus was the famous delphi, whither cadmus was going.
this delphi was supposed to be the very midmost spot of the whole world.
the place of the oracle was a certain cavity in the mountain side, over which, when cadmus came thither, he found a rude bower of branches.
it reminded him of those which he had helped to build for phoenix and cilix, and afterwards for thasus.
in later times, when multitudes of people came from great distances to put questions to the oracle, a spacious temple of marble was erected over the spot.
but in the days of cadmus, as i have told you, there was only this rustic bower, with its abundance of green foliage, and a tuft of shrubbery, that ran wild over the mysterious hole in the hillside.
when cadmus had thrust a passage through the tangled boughs, and made his way into the bower, he did not at first discern the half-hidden cavity.
but soon he felt a cold stream of air rushing out of it, with so much force that it shook the ringlets on his cheek.
pulling away the shrubbery which clustered over the hole, he bent forward, and spoke in a distinct but reverential tone, as if addressing some unseen personage inside of the mountain.
"sacred oracle of delphi," said he, "whither shall i go next in quest of my dear sister europa?"
there was at first a deep silence, and then a rushing sound, or a noise like a long sigh, proceeding out of the interior of the earth.
this cavity, you must know, was looked upon as a sort of fountain of truth, which sometimes gushed out in audible words; although, for the most part, these words were such a riddle that they might just as well have staid at the bottom of the hole.
but cadmus was more fortunate than many others who went to delphi in search of truth.
by and by, the rushing noise began to sound like articulate language.
it repeated, over and over again, the following sentence, which, after all, was so like the vague whistle of a blast of air, that cadmus really did not quite know whether it meant anything or not:
"seek her no more!
seek her no more!
seek her no more!"
"what, then, shall i do?"
asked cadmus.
for, ever since he was a child, you know, it had been the great object of his life to find his sister.
from the very hour that he left following the butterfly in the meadow, near his father's palace, he had done his best to follow europa, over land and sea.
and now, if he must give up the search, he seemed to have no more business in the world.
but again the sighing gust of air grew into something like a hoarse voice.
"follow the cow!"
it said.
"follow the cow!
follow the cow!"
and when these words had been repeated until cadmus was tired of hearing them (especially as he could not imagine what cow it was, or why he was to follow her), the gusty hole gave vent to another sentence.
"where the stray cow lies down, there is your home."
these words were pronounced but a single time, and died away into a whisper before cadmus was fully satisfied that he had caught the meaning.
he put other questions, but received no answer; only the gust of wind sighed continually out of the cavity, and blew the withered leaves rustling along the ground before it.
"did there really come any words out of the hole?"
thought cadmus; "or have i been dreaming all this while?"
he turned away from the oracle, and thought himself no wiser than when he came thither.
caring little what might happen to him, he took the first path that offered itself, and went along at a sluggish pace; for, having no object in view, nor any reason to go one way more than another, it would certainly have been foolish to make haste.
whenever he met anybody, the old question was at his tongue's end.
"have you seen a beautiful maiden, dressed like a king's daughter, and mounted on a snow-white bull, that gallops as swiftly as the wind?"
but, remembering what the oracle had said, he only half uttered the words, and then mumbled the rest indistinctly; and from his confusion, people must have imagined that this handsome young man had lost his wits.
i know not how far cadmus had gone, nor could he himself have told you, when at no great distance before him, he beheld a brindled cow.
she was lying down by the wayside, and quietly chewing her cud; nor did she take any notice of the young man until he had approached pretty nigh.
then, getting leisurely upon her feet, and giving her head a gentle toss, she began to move along at a moderate pace, often pausing just long enough to crop a mouthful of grass.
cadmus loitered behind, whistling idly to himself, and scarcely noticing the cow; until the thought occurred to him, whether this could possibly be the animal which, according to the oracle's response, was to serve him for a guide.
but he smiled at himself for fancying such a thing.
he could not seriously think that this was the cow, because she went along so quietly, behaving just like any other cow.
evidently she neither knew nor cared so much as a wisp of hay about cadmus, and was only thinking how to get her living along the wayside, where the herbage was green and fresh.
perhaps she was going home to be milked.
"cow, cow, cow!"
cried cadmus.
"hey, brindle, hey!
stop, my good cow!"
he wanted to come up with the cow, so as to examine her, and see if she would appear to know him, or whether there were any peculiarities to distinguish her from a thousand other cows, whose only business is to fill the milk-pail, and sometimes kick it over.
but still the brindled cow trudged on, whisking her tail to keep the flies away, and taking as little notice of cadmus as she well could.
if he walked slowly, so did the cow, and seized the opportunity to graze.
if he quickened his pace, the cow went just so much the faster; and once, when cadmus tried to catch her by running, she threw out her heels, stuck her tail straight on end, and set off at a gallop, looking as queerly as cows generally do, while putting themselves to their speed.
when cadmus saw that it was impossible to come up with her, he walked on moderately, as before.
the cow, too, went leisurely on, without looking behind.
wherever the grass was greenest, there she nibbled a mouthful or two.
where a brook glistened brightly across the path, there the cow drank, and breathed a comfortable sigh, and drank again, and trudged onward at the pace that best suited herself and cadmus.
"i do believe," thought cadmus, "that this may be the cow that was foretold me.
if it be the one, i suppose she will lie down somewhere hereabouts."
whether it were the oracular cow or some other one, it did not seem reasonable that she should travel a great way farther.
so, whenever they reached a particularly pleasant spot on a breezy hillside, or in a sheltered vale, or flowery meadow, on the shore of a calm lake, or along the bank of a clear stream, cadmus looked eagerly around to see if the situation would suit him for a home.
but still, whether he liked the place or no, the brindled cow never offered to lie down.
on she went at the quiet pace of a cow going homeward to the barn yard; and, every moment, cadmus expected to see a milkmaid approaching with a pail, or a herdsman running to head the stray animal, and turn her back towards the pasture.
but no milkmaid came; no herdsman drove her back; and cadmus followed the stray brindle till he was almost ready to drop down with fatigue.
"o brindled cow," cried he, in a tone of despair, "do you never mean to stop?"
he had now grown too intent on following her to think of lagging behind, however long the way, and whatever might be his fatigue.
indeed, it seemed as if there were something about the animal that bewitched people.
several persons who happened to see the brindled cow, and cadmus following behind, began to trudge after her, precisely as he did.
cadmus was glad of somebody to converse with, and therefore talked very freely to these good people.
he told them all his adventures, and how he had left king agenor in his palace, and phoenix at one place, and cilix at another, and thasus at a third, and his dear mother, queen telephassa, under a flowery sod; so that now he was quite alone, both friendless and homeless.
he mentioned, likewise, that the oracle had bidden him be guided by a cow, and inquired of the strangers whether they supposed that this brindled animal could be the one.
"why, 'tis a very wonderful affair," answered one of his new companions.
"i am pretty well acquainted with the ways of cattle, and i never knew a cow, of her own accord, to go so far without stopping.
if my legs will let me, i'll never leave following the beast till she lies down."
"nor i!"
said a second.
"nor i!"
cried a third.
"if she goes a hundred miles farther, i am determined to see the end of it."
the secret of it was, you must know, that the cow was an enchanted cow, and that, without their being conscious of it, she threw some of her enchantment over everybody that took so much as half a dozen steps behind her.
they could not possibly help following her, though all the time they fancied themselves doing it of their own accord.
the cow was by no means very nice in choosing her path; so that sometimes they had to scramble over rocks, or wade through mud and mire, and all in a terribly bedraggled condition, and tired to death, and very hungry, into the bargain.
what a weary business it was!
but still they kept trudging stoutly forward, and talking as they went.
the strangers grew very fond of cadmus, and resolved never to leave him, but to help him build a city wherever the cow might lie down.
in the center of it there should be a noble palace, in which cadmus might dwell, and be their king, with a throne, a crown, a sceptre, a purple robe, and everything else that a king ought to have; for in him there was the royal blood, and the royal heart, and the head that knew how to rule.
while they were talking of these schemes, and beguiling the tediousness of the way with laying out the plan of the new city, one of the company happened to look at the cow.
"joy!
joy!"
cried he, clapping his hands.
"brindle is going to lie down."
they all looked; and, sure enough, the cow had stopped, and was staring leisurely about her, as other cows do when on the point of lying down.
and slowly, slowly did she recline herself on the soft grass, first bending her forelegs, and then crouching her hind ones.
when cadmus and his companions came up with her, there was the brindled cow taking her ease, chewing her cud, and looking them quietly in the face; as if this was just the spot she had been seeking for, and as if it were all a matter of course.
"this, then," said cadmus, gazing around him, "this is to be my home."
it was a fertile and lovely plain, with great trees flinging their sun-speckled shadows over it, and hills fencing it in from the rough weather.
at no great distance, they beheld a river gleaming in the sunshine.
a home feeling stole into the heart of poor cadmus.
he was very glad to know that here he might awake in the morning without the necessity of putting on his dusty sandals to travel farther and farther.
the days and the years would pass over him, and find him still in this pleasant spot.
if he could have had his brothers with him, and his friend thasus, and could have seen his dear mother under a roof of his own, he might here have been happy after all their disappointments.
some day or other, too, his sister europa might have come quietly to the door of his home, and smiled round upon the familiar faces.
but, indeed, since there was no hope of regaining the friends of his boyhood, or ever seeing his dear sister again, cadmus resolved to make himself happy with these new companions, who had grown so fond of him while following the cow.
"yes, my friends," said he to them, "this is to be our home.
here we will build our habitations.
the brindled cow, which has led us hither, will supply us with milk.
we will cultivate the neighboring soil and lead an innocent and happy life."
his companions joyfully assented to this plan; and, in the first place, being very hungry and thirsty, they looked about them for the means of providing a comfortable meal.
not far off they saw a tuft of trees, which appeared as if there might be a spring of water beneath them.
they went thither to fetch some, leaving cadmus stretched on the ground along with the brindled cow; for, now that he had found a place of rest, it seemed as if all the weariness of his pilgrimage, ever since he left king agenor's palace, had fallen upon him at once.
but his new friends had not long been gone, when he was suddenly startled by cries, shouts, and screams, and the noise of a terrible struggle, and in the midst of it all, a most awful hissing, which went right through his ears like a rough saw.
running towards the tuft of trees, he beheld the head and fiery eyes of an immense serpent or dragon, with the widest jaws that ever a dragon had, and a vast many rows of horribly sharp teeth.
before cadmus could reach the spot, this pitiless reptile had killed his poor companions, and was busily devouring them, making but a mouthful of each man.
it appears that the fountain of water was enchanted, and that the dragon had been set to guard it, so that no mortal might ever quench his thirst there.
as the neighboring inhabitants carefully avoided the spot, it was now a long time (not less than a hundred years or thereabouts) since the monster had broken his fast; and, as was natural enough, his appetite had grown to be enormous, and was not half satisfied by the poor people whom he had just eaten up.
when he caught sight of cadmus, therefore, he set up another abominable hiss, and flung back his immense jaws, until his mouth looked like a great red cavern, at the farther end of which were seen the legs of his last victim, whom he had hardly had time to swallow.
but cadmus was so enraged at the destruction of his friends that he cared neither for the size of the dragon's jaws nor for his hundreds of sharp teeth.
drawing his sword, he rushed at the monster, and flung himself right into his cavernous mouth.
this bold method of attacking him took the dragon by surprise; for, in fact, cadmus had leaped so far down into his throat, that the rows of terrible teeth could not close upon him, nor do him the least harm in the world.
thus, though the struggle was a tremendous one, and though the dragon shattered the tuft of trees into small splinters by the lashing of his tail, yet, as cadmus was all the while slashing and stabbing at his very vitals, it was not long before the scaly wretch bethought himself of slipping away.
he had not gone his length, however, when the brave cadmus gave him a sword thrust that finished the battle; and creeping out of the gateway of the creature's jaws, there he beheld him still wriggling his vast bulk, although there was no longer life enough in him to harm a little child.
but do not you suppose that it made cadmus sorrowful to think of the melancholy fate which had befallen those poor, friendly people, who had followed the cow along with him?
it seemed as if he were doomed to lose everybody whom he loved, or to see them perish in one way or another.
and here he was, after all his toils and troubles, in a solitary place, with not a single human being to help him build a hut.
"what shall i do?"
cried he aloud.
"it were better for me to have been devoured by the dragon, as my poor companions were."
"cadmus," said a voice but whether it came from above or below him, or whether it spoke within his own breast, the young man could not tell "cadmus, pluck out the dragon's teeth, and plant them in the earth."
this was a strange thing to do; nor was it very easy, i should imagine, to dig out all those deep-rooted fangs from the dead dragon's jaws.
but cadmus toiled and tugged, and after pounding the monstrous head almost to pieces with a great stone, he at last collected as many teeth as might have filled a bushel or two.
the next thing was to plant them.
this, likewise, was a tedious piece of work, especially as cadmus was already exhausted with killing the dragon and knocking his head to pieces, and had nothing to dig the earth with, that i know of, unless it were his sword blade.
finally, however, a sufficiently large tract of ground was turned up, and sown with this new kind of seed; although half of the dragon's teeth still remained to be planted some other day.
cadmus, quite out of breath, stood leaning upon his sword, and wondering what was to happen next.
he had waited but a few moments, when he began to see a sight, which was as great a marvel as the most marvelous thing i ever told you about.
the sun was shining slantwise over the field, and showed all the moist, dark soil just like any other newly-planted piece of ground.
all at once, cadmus fancied he saw something glisten very brightly, first at one spot, then at another, and then at a hundred and a thousand spots together.
soon he perceived them to be the steel heads of spears, sprouting up everywhere like so many stalks of grain, and continually growing taller and taller.
next appeared a vast number of bright sword blades, thrusting themselves up in the same way.
a moment afterwards, the whole surface of the ground was broken by a multitude of polished brass helmets, coming up like a crop of enormous beans.
so rapidly did they grow, that cadmus now discerned the fierce countenance of a man beneath every one.
in short, before he had time to think what a wonderful affair it was, he beheld an abundant harvest of what looked like human beings, armed with helmets and breastplates, shields, swords, and spears; and before they were well out of the earth, they brandished their weapons, and clashed them one against another, seeming to think, little while as they had yet lived, that they had wasted too much of life without a battle.
every tooth of the dragon had produced one of these sons of deadly mischief.
up sprouted also a great many trumpeters; and with the first breath that they drew, they put their brazen trumpets to their lips, and sounded a tremendous and ear-shattering blast, so that the whole space, just now so quiet and solitary, reverberated with the clash and clang of arms, the bray of warlike music, and the shouts of angry men.
so enraged did they all look, that cadmus fully expected them to put the whole world to the sword.
how fortunate would it be for a great conqueror, if he could get a bushel of the dragon's teeth to sow!
"cadmus," said the same voice which he had before heard, "throw a stone into the midst of the armed men."
so cadmus seized a large stone, and flinging it into the middle of the earth army, saw it strike the breastplate of a gigantic and fierce-looking warrior.
immediately on feeling the blow, he seemed to take it for granted that somebody had struck him; and, uplifting his weapon, he smote his next neighbor a blow that cleft his helmet asunder, and stretched him on the ground.
in an instant, those nearest the fallen warrior began to strike at one another with their swords, and stab with their spears.
the confusion spread wider and wider.
each man smote down his brother, and was himself smitten down before he had time to exult in his victory.
the trumpeters, all the while, blew their blasts shriller and shriller; each soldier shouted a battle cry, and often fell with it on his lips.
it was the strangest spectacle of causeless wrath, and of mischief for no good end, that had ever been witnessed; but, after all, it was neither more foolish nor more wicked than a thousand battles that have since been fought, in which men have slain their brothers with just as little reason as these children of the dragon's teeth.
it ought to be considered, too, that the dragon people were made for nothing else; whereas other mortals were born to love and help one another.
well, this memorable battle continued to rage until the ground was strewn with helmeted heads that had been cut off.
of all the thousands that began the fight, there were only five left standing.
these now rushed from different parts of the field, and, meeting in the middle of it, clashed their swords, and struck at each other's hearts as fiercely as ever.
"cadmus," said the voice again, "bid those five warriors sheathe their swords.
they will help you to build the city."
without hesitating an instant, cadmus stepped forward, with the aspect of a king and a leader, and extending his drawn sword amongst them, spoke to the warriors in a stern and commanding voice.
"sheathe your weapons!"
said he.
and forthwith, feeling themselves bound to obey him, the five remaining sons of the dragon's teeth made him a military salute with their swords, returned them to the scabbards, and stood before cadmus in a rank, eyeing him as soldiers eye their captain, while awaiting the word of command.
these five men had probably sprung from the biggest of the dragon's teeth, and were the boldest and strongest of the whole army.
they were almost giants indeed, and had good need to be so, else they never could have lived through so terrible a fight.
they still had a very furious look, and, if cadmus happened to glance aside, would glare at one another, with fire flashing out of their eyes.
it was strange, too, to observe how the earth, out of which they had so lately grown, was incrusted, here and there, on their bright breastplates, and even, begrimed their faces; just as you may have seen it clinging to beets and carrots, when pulled out of their native soil.
cadmus hardly knew whether to consider them as men, or some odd kind of vegetable; although, on the whole, he concluded that there was human nature in them, because they were so fond of trumpets and weapons, and so ready to shed blood.
they looked him earnestly in the face, waiting for his next order, and evidently desiring no other employment than to follow him from one battlefield to another, all over the wide world.
but cadmus was wiser than these earth-born creatures, with the dragon's fierceness in them, and knew better how to use their strength and hardihood.
"come!"
said he.
"you are sturdy fellows.
make yourselves useful!
quarry some stones with those great swords of yours, and help me to build a city."
the five soldiers grumbled a little, and muttered that it was their business to overthrow cities, not to build them up.
but cadmus looked at them with a stern eye, and spoke to them in a tone of authority, so that they knew him for their master, and never again thought of disobeying his commands.
they set to work in good earnest, and toiled so diligently, that, in a very short time, a city began to make its appearance.
at first, to be sure, the workmen showed a quarrelsome disposition.
like savage beasts, they would doubtless have done one another a mischief, if cadmus had not kept watch over them, and quelled the fierce old serpent that lurked in their hearts, when he saw it gleaming out of their wild eyes.
but, in course of time, they got accustomed to honest labor, and had sense enough to feel that there was more true enjoyment in living at peace, and doing good to one's neighbor, than in striking at him with a two-edged sword.
it may not be too much to hope that the rest of mankind will by and by grow as wise and peaceable as these five earth-begrimed warriors, who sprang from the dragon's teeth.
and now the city was built, and there was a home in it for each of the workmen.
but the palace of cadmus was not yet erected, because they had left it till the last, meaning to introduce all the new improvements of architecture, and make it very commodious, as well as stately and beautiful.
after finishing the rest of their labors, they all went to bed betimes, in order to rise in the gray of the morning, and get at least the foundation of the edifice laid before nightfall.
but, when cadmus arose, and took his way towards the site where the palace was to be built, followed by his five sturdy workmen marching all in a row, what do you think he saw?
what should it be but the most magnificent palace that had ever been seen in the world.
it was built of marble and other beautiful kinds of stone, and rose high into the air, with a splendid dome and a portico along the front, and carved pillars, and everything else that befitted the habitation of a mighty king.
it had grown up out of the earth in almost as short a time as it had taken the armed host to spring from the dragon's teeth; and what made the matter more strange, no seed of this stately edifice ever had been planted.
when the five workmen beheld the dome, with the morning sunshine making it look golden and glorious, they gave a great shout.
"long live king cadmus," they cried, "in his beautiful palace."
and the new king, with his five faithful followers at his heels, shouldering their pickaxes and marching in a rank (for they still had a soldier-like sort of behavior, as their nature was), ascended the palace steps.
halting at the entrance, they gazed through a long vista of lofty pillars, that were ranged from end to end of a great hall.
at the farther extremity of this hall, approaching slowly towards him, cadmus beheld a female figure, wonderfully beautiful, and adorned with a royal robe, and a crown of diamonds over her golden ringlets, and the richest necklace that ever a queen wore.
his heart thrilled with delight.
he fancied it his long-lost sister europa, now grown to womanhood, coming to make him happy, and to repay him with her sweet sisterly affection, for all those weary wonderings in quest of her since he left king agenor's palace for the tears that he had shed, on parting with phoenix, and cilix, and thasus for the heart-breakings that had made the whole world seem dismal to him over his dear mother's grave.
but, as cadmus advanced to meet the beautiful stranger, he saw that her features were unknown to him, although, in the little time that it required to tread along the hall, he had already felt a sympathy betwixt himself and her.
"no, cadmus," said the same voice that had spoken to him in the field of the armed men, "this is not that dear sister europa whom you have sought so faithfully all over the wide world.
this is harmonia, a daughter of the sky, who is given you instead of sister, and brothers, and friend, and mother.
you will find all those dear ones in her alone."
so king cadmus dwelt in the palace, with his new friend harmonia, and found a great deal of comfort in his magnificent abode, but would doubtless have found as much, if not more, in the humblest cottage by the wayside.
before many years went by, there was a group of rosy little children (but how they came thither has always been a mystery to me)
sporting in the great hall, and on the marble steps of the palace, and running joyfully to meet king cadmus when affairs of state left him at leisure to play with them.
they called him father, and queen harmonia mother.
the five old soldiers of the dragon's teeth grew very fond of these small urchins, and were never weary of showing them how to shoulder sticks, flourish wooden swords, and march in military order, blowing a penny trumpet, or beating an abominable rub-a-dub upon a little drum.
but king cadmus, lest there should be too much of the dragon's tooth in his children's disposition, used to find time from his kingly duties to teach them their a b c which he invented for their benefit, and for which many little people, i am afraid, are not half so grateful to him as they ought to be.
circe's palace.
some of you have heard, no doubt, of the wise king ulysses, and how he went to the siege of troy, and how, after that famous city was taken and burned, he spent ten long years in trying to get back again to his own little kingdom of ithaca.
at one time in the course of this weary voyage, he arrived at an island that looked very green and pleasant, but the name of which was unknown to him.
for, only a little while before he came thither, he had met with a terrible hurricane, or rather a great many hurricanes at once, which drove his fleet of vessels into a strange part of the sea, where neither himself nor any of his mariners had ever sailed.
this misfortune was entirely owing to the foolish curiosity of his shipmates, who, while ulysses lay asleep, had untied some very bulky leathern bags, in which they supposed a valuable treasure to be concealed.
but in each of these stout bags, king aeolus, the ruler of the winds, had tied up a tempest, and had given it to ulysses to keep in order that he might be sure of a favorable passage homeward to ithaca; and when the strings were loosened, forth rushed the whistling blasts, like air out of a blown bladder, whitening the sea with foam, and scattering the vessels nobody could tell whither.
immediately after escaping from this peril, a still greater one had befallen him.
scudding before the hurricane, he reached a place, which, as he afterwards found, was called laestrygonia, where some monstrous giants had eaten up many of his companions, and had sunk every one of his vessels, except that in which he himself sailed, by flinging great masses of rock at them, from the cliffs along the shore.
after going through such troubles as these, you cannot wonder that king ulysses was glad to moor his tempest-beaten bark in a quiet cove of the green island, which i began with telling you about.
but he had encountered so many dangers from giants, and one-eyed cyclops, and monsters of the sea and land, that he could not help dreading some mischief, even in this pleasant and seemingly solitary spot.
for two days, therefore, the poor weather-worn voyagers kept quiet, and either staid on board of their vessel, or merely crept along under the cliffs that bordered the shore; and to keep themselves alive, they dug shellfish out of the sand, and sought for any little rill of fresh water that might be running towards the sea.
before the two days were spent, they grew very weary of this kind of life; for the followers of king ulysses, as you will find it important to remember, were terrible gormandizers, and pretty sure to grumble if they missed their regulars meals, and their irregular ones besides.
their stock of provisions was quite exhausted, and even the shellfish began to get scarce, so that they had now to choose between starving to death or venturing into the interior of the island, where perhaps some huge three-headed dragon, or other horrible monster, had his den.
such misshapen creatures were very numerous in those days; and nobody ever expected to make a voyage, or take a journey, without running more or less risk of being devoured by them.
but king ulysses was a bold man as well as a prudent one; and on the third morning he determined to discover what sort of a place the island was, and whether it were possible to obtain a supply of food for the hungry mouths of his companions.
so, taking a spear in his hand, he clambered to the summit of a cliff, and gazed round about him.
at a distance, towards the center of the island, he beheld the stately towers of what seemed to be a palace, built of snow-white marble, and rising in the midst of a grove of lofty trees.
the thick branches of these trees stretched across the front of the edifice, and more than half concealed it, although, from the portion which he saw, ulysses judged it to be spacious and exceedingly beautiful, and probably the residence of some great nobleman or prince.
a blue smoke went curling up from the chimney, and was almost the pleasantest part of the spectacle to ulysses.
for, from the abundance of this smoke, it was reasonable to conclude that there was a good fire in the kitchen, and that, at dinner-time, a plentiful banquet would be served up to the inhabitants of the palace, and to whatever guests might happen to drop in.
with so agreeable a prospect before him, ulysses fancied that he could not do better than go straight to the palace gate, and tell the master of it that there was a crew of poor shipwrecked mariners, not far off, who had eaten nothing for a day or two, save a few clams and oysters, and would therefore be thankful for a little food.
and the prince or nobleman must be a very stingy curmudgeon, to be sure, if, at least, when his own dinner was over, he would not bid them welcome to the broken victuals from the table.
pleasing himself with this idea, king ulysses had made a few steps in the direction of the palace, when there was a great twittering and chirping from the branch of a neighboring tree.
a moment afterwards, a bird came flying towards him, and hovered in the air, so as almost to brush his face with its wings.
it was a very pretty little bird, with purple wings and body, and yellow legs, and a circle of golden feathers round its neck, and on its head a golden tuft, which looked like a king's crown in miniature.
ulysses tried to catch the bird.
but it fluttered nimbly out of his reach, still chirping in a piteous tone, as if it could have told a lamentable story, had it only been gifted with human language.
and when he attempted to drive it away, the bird flew no farther than the bough of the next tree, and again came fluttering about his head, with its doleful chirp, as soon as he showed a purpose of going forward.
"have you anything to tell me, little bird?"
asked ulysses.
and he was ready to listen attentively to whatever the bird might communicate; for, at the siege of troy, and elsewhere, he had known such odd things to happen, that he would not have considered it much out of the common run had this little feathered creature talked as plainly as himself.
"peep!"
said the bird, "peep, peep, pe weep!"
and nothing else would it say, but only, "peep, peep, pe weep!"
in a melancholy cadence, and over and over and over again.
as often as ulysses moved forward, however, the bird showed the greatest alarm, and did its best to drive him back, with the anxious flutter of its purple wings.
its unaccountable behavior made him conclude, at last, that the bird knew of some danger that awaited him, and which must needs be very terrible, beyond all question, since it moved even a little fowl to feel compassion for a human being.
so he resolved, for the present, to return to the vessel, and tell his companions what he had seen.
this appeared to satisfy the bird.
as soon as ulysses turned back, it ran up the trunk of a tree, and began to pick insects out of the bark with its long, sharp bill; for it was a kind of woodpecker, you must know, and had to get its living in the same manner as other birds of that species.
but every little while, as it pecked at the bark of the tree, the purple bird bethought itself of some secret sorrow, and repeated its plaintive note of "peep, peep, pe weep!"
on his way to the shore, ulysses had the good luck to kill a large stag by thrusting his spear into his back.
taking it on his shoulders (for he was a remarkably strong man), he lugged it along with him, and flung it down before his hungry companions.
i have already hinted to you what gormandizers some of the comrades of king ulysses were.
from what is related of them, i reckon that their favorite diet was pork, and that they had lived upon it until a good part of their physical substance was swine's flesh, and their tempers and dispositions were very much akin to the hog.
a dish of venison, however, was no unacceptable meal to them, especially after feeding so long on oysters and clams.
so, beholding the dead stag, they felt of its ribs, in a knowing way, and lost no time in kindling a fire of driftwood, to cook it.
the rest of the day was spent in feasting; and if these enormous eaters got up from table at sunset, it was only because they could not scrape another morsel off the poor animal's bones.
the next morning, their appetites were as sharp as ever.
they looked at ulysses, as if they expected him to clamber up the cliff again, and come back with another fat deer upon his shoulders.
instead of setting out, however, he summoned the whole crew together, and told them it was in vain to hope that he could kill a stag every day for their dinner, and therefore it was advisable to think of some other mode of satisfying their hunger.
"now," said he, "when i was on the cliff, yesterday, i discovered that this island is inhabited.
at a considerable distance from the shore stood a marble palace, which appeared to be very spacious, and had a great deal of smoke curling out of one of its chimneys."
"aha!"
muttered some of his companions, smacking their lips.
"that smoke must have come from the kitchen fire.
there was a good dinner on the spit; and no doubt there will be as good a one to-day."
"but," continued the wise ulysses, "you must remember, my good friends, our misadventure in the cavern of one-eyed polyphemus, the cyclops!
instead of his ordinary milk diet, did he not eat up two of our comrades for his supper, and a couple more for breakfast, and two at his supper again?
methinks i see him yet, the hideous monster, scanning us with that great red eye, in the middle of his forehead, to single out the fattest.
and then, again, only a few days ago, did we not fall into the hands of the king of the laestrygons, and those other horrible giants, his subjects, who devoured a great many more of us than are now left?
to tell you the truth, if we go to yonder palace, there can be no question that we shall make our appearance at the dinner table; but whether seated as guests, or served up as food, is a point to be seriously considered."
"either way," murmured some of the hungriest of the crew; "it will be better than starvation; particularly if one could be sure of being well fattened beforehand, and daintily cooked afterwards."
"that is a matter of taste," said king ulysses, "and, for my own part, neither the most careful fattening nor the daintiest of cookery would reconcile me to being dished at last.
my proposal is, therefore, that we divide ourselves into two equal parties, and ascertain, by drawing lots, which of the two shall go to the palace, and beg for food and assistance.
if these can be obtained, all is well.
if not, and if the inhabitants prove as inhospitable as polyphemus, or the laestrygons, then there will but half of us perish, and the remainder may set sail and escape."
as nobody objected to this scheme, ulysses proceeded to count the whole band, and found that there were forty-six men, including himself.
he then numbered off twenty-two of them, and put eurylochus (who was one of his chief officers, and second only to himself in sagacity) at their head.
ulysses took command of the remaining twenty-two men, in person.
then, taking off his helmet, he put two shells into it, on one of which was written, "go," and on the other "stay."
another person now held the helmet, while ulysses and eurylochus drew out each a shell; and the word "go" was found written on that which eurylochus had drawn.
in this manner, it was decided that ulysses and his twenty-two men were to remain at the seaside until the other party should have found out what sort of treatment they might expect at the mysterious palace.
as there was no help for it, eurylochus immediately set forth at the head of his twenty-two followers, who went off in a very melancholy state of mind, leaving their friends in hardly better spirits than themselves.
no sooner had they clambered up the cliff, than they discerned the tall marble towers of the palace, ascending, as white as snow, out of the lovely green shadow of the trees which surrounded it.
a gush of smoke came from a chimney in the rear of the edifice.
this vapor rose high in the air, and, meeting with a breeze, was wafted seaward, and made to pass over the heads of the hungry mariners.
when people's appetites are keen, they have a very quick scent for anything savory in the wind.
"that smoke comes from the kitchen!"
cried one of them, turning up his nose as high as he could, and snuffing eagerly.
"and, as sure as i'm a half-starved vagabond, i smell roast meat in it."
"pig, roast pig!"
said another.
"ah, the dainty little porker.
my mouth waters for him."
"let us make haste," cried the others, "or we shall be too late for the good cheer!"
but scarcely had they made half a dozen steps from the edge of the cliff, when a bird came fluttering to meet them.
it was the same pretty little bird, with the purple wings and body, the yellow legs, the golden collar round its neck, and the crown-like tuft upon its head, whose behavior had so much surprised ulysses.
it hovered about eurylochus, and almost brushed his face with its wings.
"peep, peep, pe weep!"
chirped the bird.
so plaintively intelligent was the sound, that it seemed as if the little creature were going to break its heart with some mighty secret that it had to tell, and only this one poor note to tell it with.
"my pretty bird," said eurylochus for he was a wary person, and let no token of harm escape his notice "my pretty bird, who sent you hither?
and what is the message which you bring?"
"peep, peep, pe weep!"
replied the bird, very sorrowfully.
then it flew towards the edge of the cliff, and looked around at them, as if exceedingly anxious that they should return whence they came.
eurylochus and a few of the others were inclined to turn back.
they could not help suspecting that the purple bird must be aware of something mischievous that would befall them at the palace, and the knowledge of which affected its airy spirit with a human sympathy and sorrow.
but the rest of the voyagers, snuffing up the smoke from the palace kitchen, ridiculed the idea of returning to the vessel.
one of them (more brutal than his fellows, and the most notorious gormandizer in the crew) said such a cruel and wicked thing, that i wonder the mere thought did not turn him into a wild beast, in shape, as he already was in his nature.
"this troublesome and impertinent little fowl," said he, "would make a delicate titbit to begin dinner with.
just one plump morsel, melting away between the teeth.
if he comes within my reach, i'll catch him, and give him to the palace cook to be roasted on a skewer."
the words were hardly out of his mouth, before the purple bird flew away, crying, "peep, peep, pe weep," more dolorously than ever.
"that bird," remarked eurylochus, "knows more than we do about what awaits us at the palace."
"come on, then," cried his comrades, "and we'll soon know as much as he does."
the party, accordingly, went onward through the green and pleasant wood.
every little while they caught new glimpses of the marble palace, which looked more and more beautiful the nearer they approached it.
they soon entered a broad pathway, which seemed to be very neatly kept, and which went winding along, with streaks of sunshine falling across it and specks of light quivering among the deepest shadows that fell from the lofty trees.
it was bordered, too, with a great many sweet-smelling flowers, such as the mariners had never seen before.
so rich and beautiful they were, that, if the shrubs grew wild here, and were native in the soil, then this island was surely the flower garden of the whole earth; or, if transplanted from some other clime, it must have been from the happy islands that lay towards the golden sunset.
"there has been a great deal of pains foolishly wasted on these flowers," observed one of the company; and i tell you what he said, that you may keep in mind what gormandizers they were.
"for my part, if i were the owner of the palace, i would bid my gardener cultivate nothing but savory pot herbs to make a stuffing for roast meat, or to flavor a stew with."
"well said!"
cried the others.
"but i'll warrant you there's a kitchen garden in the rear of the palace."
at one place they came to a crystal spring, and paused to drink at it for want of liquor which they liked better.
looking into its bosom, they beheld their own faces dimly reflected, but so extravagantly distorted by the gush and motion of the water, that each one of them appeared to be laughing at himself and all his companions.
so ridiculous were these images of themselves, indeed, that they did really laugh aloud, and could hardly be grave again as soon as they wished.
and after they had drank, they grew still merrier than before.
"it has a twang of the wine cask in it," said one, smacking his lips.
"make haste!"
cried his fellows: "we'll find the wine cask itself at the palace, and that will be better than a hundred crystal fountains."
then they quickened their pace, and capered for joy at the thought of the savory banquet at which they hoped to be guests.
but eurylochus told them that he felt as if he were walking in a dream.
"if i am really awake," continued he, "then, in my opinion, we are on the point of meeting with some stranger adventure than any that befell us in the cave of polyphemus, or among the gigantic man-eating laestrygons, or in the windy palace of king aeolus, which stands on a brazen-walled island.
this kind of dreamy feeling always comes over me before any wonderful occurrence.
if you take my advice, you will turn back."
"no, no," answered his comrades, snuffing the air, in which the scent from the palace kitchen was now very perceptible.
"we would not turn back, though we were certain that the king of the laestrygons, as big as a mountain, would sit at the head of the table, and huge polyphemus, the one-eyed cyclops, at its foot."
at length they came within full sight of the palace, which proved to be very large and lofty, with a great number of airy pinnacles upon its roof.
though it was midday, and the sun shone brightly over the marble front, yet its snowy whiteness, and its fantastic style of architecture, made it look unreal, like the frost work on a window pane, or like the shapes of castles which one sees among the clouds by moonlight.
but, just then, a puff of wind brought down the smoke of the kitchen chimney among them, and caused each man to smell the odor of the dish that he liked best; and, after scenting it, they thought everything else moonshine, and nothing real save this palace, and save the banquet that was evidently ready to be served up in it.
so they hastened their steps towards the portal, but had not got half way across the wide lawn, when a pack of lions, tigers, and wolves came bounding to meet them.
the terrified mariners started back, expecting no better fate than to be torn to pieces and devoured.
to their surprise and joy, however, these wild beasts merely capered around them, wagging their tails, offering their heads to be stroked and patted, and behaving just like so many well-bred house dogs, when they wish to express their delight at meeting their master, or their master's friends.
the biggest lion licked the feet of eurylochus; and every other lion, and every wolf and tiger, singled out one of his two and twenty followers, whom the beast fondled as if he loved him better than a beef bone.
but, for all that, eurylochus imagined that he saw something fierce and savage in their eyes; nor would he have been surprised, at any moment, to feel the big lion's terrible claws, or to see each of the tigers make a deadly spring, or each wolf leap at the throat of the man whom he had fondled.
their mildness seemed unreal, and a mere freak; but their savage nature was as true as their teeth and claws.
nevertheless, the men went safely across the lawn with the wild beasts frisking about them, and doing no manner of harm; although, as they mounted the steps of the palace, you might possibly have heard a low growl, particularly from the wolves; as if they thought it a pity, after all, to let the strangers pass without so much as tasting what they were made of.
eurylochus and his followers now passed under a lofty portal, and looked through the open doorway into the interior of the palace.
the first thing that they saw was a spacious hall, and a fountain in the middle of it, gushing up towards the ceiling out of a marble basin, and falling back into it with a continual plash.
the water of this fountain, as it spouted upward, was constantly taking new shapes, not very distinctly, but plainly enough for a nimble fancy to recognize what they were.
now it was the shape of a man in a long robe, the fleecy whiteness of which was made out of the fountain's spray; now it was a lion, or a tiger, or a wolf, or an ass, or, as often as anything else, a hog, wallowing in the marble basin as if it were his sty.
it was either magic or some very curious machinery that caused the gushing waterspout to assume all these forms.
but, before the strangers had time to look closely at this wonderful sight, their attention was drawn off by a very sweet and agreeable sound.
a woman's voice was singing melodiously in another room of the palace, and with her voice was mingled the noise of a loom, at which she was probably seated, weaving a rich texture of cloth, and intertwining the high and low sweetness of her voice into a rich tissue of harmony.
by and by, the song came to an end; and then, all at once, there were several feminine voices, talking airily and cheerfully, with now and then a merry burst of laughter, such as you may always hear when three or four young women sit at work together.
"what a sweet song that was!"
exclaimed one of the voyagers.
"too sweet, indeed," answered eurylochus, shaking his head.
"yet it was not so sweet as the song of the sirens, those bird-like damsels who wanted to tempt us on the rocks, so that our vessel might be wrecked, and our bones left whitening along the shore."
"but just listen to the pleasant voices of those maidens, and that buzz of the loom, as the shuttle passes to and fro," said another comrade.
"what a domestic, household, home-like sound it is!
ah, before that weary siege of troy, i used to hear the buzzing loom and the women's voices under my own roof.
shall i never hear them again?
nor taste those nice little savory dishes which my dearest wife knew how to serve up?"
"tush!
we shall fare better here," said another.
"but how innocently those women are babbling together, without guessing that we overhear them!
and mark that richest voice of all, so pleasant and so familiar, but which yet seems to have the authority of a mistress among them.
let us show ourselves at once.
what harm can the lady of the palace and her maidens do to mariners and warriors like us?"
"remember," said eurylochus, "that it was a young maiden who beguiled three of our friends into the palace of the king of the laestrygons, who ate up one of them in the twinkling of an eye."
no warning or persuasion, however, had any effect on his companions.
they went up to a pair of folding doors at the farther end of the hall, and throwing them wide open, passed into the next room.
eurylochus, meanwhile, had stepped behind a pillar.
in the short moment while the folding doors opened and closed again, he caught a glimpse of a very beautiful woman rising from the loom, and coming to meet the poor weather-beaten wanderers, with a hospitable smile, and her hand stretched out in welcome.
there were four other young women, who joined their hands and danced merrily forward, making gestures of obeisance to the strangers.
they were only less beautiful than the lady who seemed to be their mistress.
yet eurylochus fancied that one of them had sea-green hair, and that the close-fitting bodice of a second looked like the bark of a tree, and that both the others had something odd in their aspect, although he could not quite determine what it was, in the little while that he had to examine them.
the folding doors swung quickly back, and left him standing behind the pillar, in the solitude of the outer hall.
there eurylochus waited until he was quite weary, and listened eagerly to every sound, but without hearing anything that could help him to guess what had become of his friends.
footsteps, it is true, seemed to be passing and repassing, in other parts of the palace.
then there was a clatter of silver dishes, or golden ones, which made him imagine a rich feast in a splendid banqueting hall.
but by and by he heard a tremendous grunting and squealing, and then a sudden scampering, like that of small, hard hoofs over a marble floor, while the voices of the mistress and her four handmaidens were screaming all together, in tones of anger and derision.
eurylochus could not conceive what had happened, unless a drove of swine had broken into the palace, attracted by the smell of the feast.
chancing to cast his eyes at the fountain, he saw that it did not shift its shape, as formerly, nor looked either like a long-robed man, or a lion, a tiger, a wolf, or an ass.
it looked like nothing but a hog, which lay wallowing in the marble basin, and filled it from brim to brim.
but we must leave the prudent eurylochus waiting in the outer hall, and follow his friends into the inner secrecy of the palace.
as soon as the beautiful woman saw them, she arose from the loom, as i have told you, and came forward, smiling, and stretching out her hand.
she took the hand of the foremost among them, and bade him and the whole party welcome.
"you have been long expected, my good friends," said she.
"i and my maidens are well acquainted with you, although you do not appear to recognize us.
look at this piece of tapestry, and judge if your faces must not have been familiar to us."
so the voyagers examined the web of cloth which the beautiful woman had been weaving in her loom; and, to their vast astonishment, they saw their own figures perfectly represented in different colored threads.
it was a life-like picture of their recent adventures, showing them in the cave of polyphemus, and how they had put out his one great moony eye; while in another part of the tapestry they were untying the leathern bags, puffed out with contrary winds; and farther on, they beheld themselves scampering away from the gigantic king of the laestrygons, who had caught one of them by the leg.
lastly, there they were, sitting on the desolate shore of this very island, hungry and downcast, and looking ruefully at the bare bones of the stag which they devoured yesterday.
this was as far as the work had yet proceeded; but when the beautiful woman should again sit down at her loom, she would probably make a picture of what had since happened to the strangers, and of what was now going to happen.
"you see," she said, "that i know all about your troubles; and you cannot doubt that i desire to make you happy for as long a time as you may remain with me.
for this purpose, my honored guests, i have ordered a banquet to be prepared.
fish, fowl, and flesh, roasted, and in luscious stews, and seasoned, i trust, to all your tastes, are ready to be served up.
if your appetites tell you it is dinner time, then come with me to the festal saloon."
at this kind invitation, the hungry mariners were quite overjoyed; and one of them, taking upon himself to be spokesman, assured their hospitable hostess that any hour of the day was dinner time with them, whenever they could get flesh to put in the pot, and fire to boil it with.
so the beautiful woman led the way; and the four maidens (one of them had sea-green hair, another a bodice of oak bark, a third sprinkled a shower of water drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth had some other oddity, which i have forgotten), all these followed behind, and hurried the guests along, until they entered a magnificent saloon.
it was built in a perfect oval, and lighted from a crystal dome above.
around the walls were ranged two and twenty thrones, overhung by canopies of crimson and gold, and provided with the softest of cushions, which were tasselled and fringed with gold cord.
each of the strangers was invited to sit down; and there they were, two and twenty storm-beaten mariners, in worn and tattered garb, sitting on two and twenty cushioned and canopied thrones, so rich and gorgeous that the proudest monarch had nothing more splendid in his stateliest hall.
then you might have seen the guests nodding, winking with one eye, and leaning from one throne to another, to communicate their satisfaction in hoarse whispers.
"our good hostess has made kings of us all," said one.
"ha!
do you smell the feast?
i'll engage it will be fit to set before two and twenty kings."
"i hope," said another, "it will be, mainly, good substantial joints, sirloins, spareribs, and hinder quarters, without too many kickshaws.
if i thought the good lady would not take it amiss, i should call for a fat slice of fried bacon to begin with."
ah, the gluttons and gormandizers!
you see how it was with them.
in the loftiest seats of dignity, on royal thrones, they could think of nothing but their greedy appetite, which was the portion of their nature that they shared with wolves and swine; so that they resembled those vilest of animals far more than they did kings if, indeed, kings were what they ought to be.
but the beautiful woman now clapped her hands; and immediately there entered a train of two and twenty serving men, bringing dishes of the richest food, all hot from the kitchen fire, and sending up such a steam that it hung like a cloud below the crystal dome of the saloon.
an equal number of attendants brought great flagons of wine, of various kinds, some of which sparkled as it was poured out, and went bubbling down the throat; while, of other sorts, the purple liquor was so clear that you could see the wrought figures at the bottom of the goblet.
while the servants supplied the two and twenty guests with food and drink, the hostess and her four maidens went from one throne to another, exhorting them to eat their fill, and to quaff wine abundantly, and thus to recompense themselves, at this one banquet, for the many days when they had gone without a dinner.
but whenever the mariners were not looking at them (which was pretty often, as they looked chiefly into the basins and platters), the beautiful woman and her damsels turned aside, and laughed.
even the servants, as they knelt down to present the dishes, might be seen to grin and sneer, while the guests were helping themselves to the offered dainties.
and, once in a while, the strangers seemed to taste something that they did not like.
"here is an odd kind of spice in this dish," said one.
"i can't say it quite suits my palate.
down it goes, however."
"send a good draught of wine down your throat," said his comrade on the next throne.
"that is the stuff to make this sort of cookery relish well.
though i must needs say, the wine has a queer taste too.
but the more i drink of it, the better i like the flavor."
whatever little fault they might find with the dishes, they sat at dinner a prodigiously long while; and it would really have made you ashamed to see how they swilled down the liquor and gobbled up the food.
they sat on golden thrones, to be sure; but they behaved like pigs in a sty; and, if they had had their wits about them, they might have guessed that this was the opinion of their beautiful hostess and her maidens.
it brings a blush into my face to reckon up, in my own mind, what mountains of meat and pudding, and what gallons of wine, these two and twenty guzzlers and gormandizers ate and drank.
they forgot all about their homes, and their wives and children, and all about ulysses, and everything else, except this banquet, at which they wanted to keep feasting forever.
but at length they began to give over, from mere incapacity to hold any more.
"that last bit of fat is too much for me," said one.
"and i have not room for another morsel," said his next neighbor, heaving a sigh.
"what a pity!
my appetite is as sharp as ever."
in short, they all left off eating, and leaned back on their thrones, with such a stupid and helpless aspect as made them ridiculous to behold.
when their hostess saw this, she laughed aloud; so did her four damsels; so did the two and twenty serving men that bore the dishes, and their two and twenty fellows that poured out the wine.
and the louder they all laughed, the more stupid and helpless did the two and twenty gormandizers look.
then the beautiful woman took her stand in the middle of the saloon, and stretching out a slender rod (it had been all the while in her hand, although they never noticed it till this moment), she turned it from one guest to another, until each had felt it pointed at himself.
beautiful as her face was, and though there was a smile on it, it looked just as wicked and mischievous as the ugliest serpent that ever was seen; and fat-witted as the voyagers had made themselves, they began to suspect that they had fallen into the power of an evil-minded enchantress.
"wretches," cried she, "you have abused a lady's hospitality; and in this princely saloon your behavior has been suited to a hog-pen.
you are already swine in everything but the human form, which you disgrace, and which i myself should be ashamed to keep a moment longer, were you to share it with me.
but it will require only the slightest exercise of magic to make the exterior conform to the hoggish disposition.
assume your proper shapes, gormandizers, and begone to the sty!"
uttering these last words, she waved her wand; and stamping her foot imperiously, each of the guests was struck aghast at beholding, instead of his comrades in human shape, one and twenty hogs sitting on the same number of golden thrones.
each man (as he still supposed himself to be)
essayed to give a cry of surprise, but found that he could merely grunt, and that, in a word, he was just such another beast as his companions.
it looked so intolerably absurd to see hogs on cushioned thrones, that they made haste to wallow down upon all fours, like other swine.
they tried to groan and beg for mercy, but forthwith emitted the most awful grunting and squealing that ever came out of swinish throats.
they would have wrung their hands in despair, but, attempting to do so, grew all the more desperate for seeing themselves squatted on their hams, and pawing the air with their fore trotters.
dear me!
what pendulous ears they had!
what little red eyes, half buried in fat!
and what long snouts, instead of grecian noses!
but brutes as they certainly were, they yet had enough of human nature in them to be shocked at their own hideousness; and still intending to groan, they uttered a viler grunt and squeal than before.
so harsh and ear-piercing it was, that you would have fancied a butcher was sticking his knife into each of their throats, or, at the very least, that somebody was pulling every hog by his funny little twist of a tail.
"begone to your sty!"
cried the enchantress, giving them some smart strokes with her wand; and then she turned to the serving men "drive out these swine, and throw down some acorns for them to eat."
the door of the saloon being flung open, the drove of hogs ran in all directions save the right one, in accordance with their hoggish perversity, but were finally driven into the back yard of the palace.
it was a sight to bring tears into one's eyes (and i hope none of you will be cruel enough to laugh at it), to see the poor creatures go snuffing along, picking up here a cabbage leaf and there a turnip top, and rooting their noses in the earth for whatever they could find.
in their sty, moreover, they behaved more piggishly than the pigs that had been born so; for they bit and snorted at one another, put their feet in the trough, and gobbled up their victuals in a ridiculous hurry; and, when there was nothing more to be had, they made a great pile of themselves among some unclean straw, and fell fast asleep.
if they had any human reason left, it was just enough to keep them wondering when they should be slaughtered, and what quality of bacon they should make.
meantime, as i told you before, eurylochus had waited, and waited, and waited, in the entrance hall of the palace, without being able to comprehend what had befallen his friends.
at last, when the swinish uproar resounded through the palace, and when he saw the image of a hog in the marble basin, he thought it best to hasten back to the vessel, and inform the wise ulysses of these marvelous occurrences.
so he ran as fast as he could down the steps, and never stopped to draw breath till he reached the shore.
"why do you come alone?"
asked king ulysses, as soon as he saw him.
"where are your two and twenty comrades?"
at these questions, eurylochus burst into tears.
"alas!"
he cried, "i greatly fear that we shall never see one of their faces again."
then he told ulysses all that had happened, as far as he knew it, and added that he suspected the beautiful woman to be a vile enchantress, and the marble palace, magnificent as it looked, to be only a dismal cavern in reality.
as for his companions, he could not imagine what had become of them, unless they had been given to the swine to be devoured alive.
at this intelligence, all the voyagers were greatly affrighted.
but ulysses lost no time in girding on his sword, and hanging his bow and quiver over his shoulders, and taking a spear in his right hand.
when his followers saw their wise leader making these preparations, they inquired whither he was going, and earnestly besought him not to leave them.
"you are our king," cried they; "and what is more, you are the wisest man in the whole world, and nothing but your wisdom and courage can get us out of this danger.
if you desert us, and go to the enchanted palace, you will suffer the same fate as our poor companions, and not a soul of us will ever see our dear ithaca again."
"as i am your king," answered ulysses, "and wiser than any of you, it is therefore the more my duty to see what has befallen our comrades, and whether anything can yet be done to rescue them.
wait for me here until tomorrow.
if i do not then return, you must hoist sail, and endeavor to find your way to our native land.
for my part, i am answerable for the fate of these poor mariners, who have stood by my side in battle, and been so often drenched to the skin, along with me, by the same tempestuous surges.
i will either bring them back with me, or perish."
had his followers dared, they would have detained him by force.
but king ulysses frowned sternly on them, and shook his spear, and bade them stop him at their peril.
seeing him so determined, they let him go, and sat down on the sand, as disconsolate a set of people as could be, waiting and praying for his return.
it happened to ulysses, just as before, that, when he had gone a few steps from the edge of the cliff, the purple bird came fluttering towards him, crying, "peep, peep, pe weep!"
and using all the art it could to persuade him to go no farther.
"what mean you, little bird?"
cried ulysses.
"you are arrayed like a king in purple and gold, and wear a golden crown upon your head.
is it because i too am a king, that you desire so earnestly to speak with me?
if you can talk in human language, say what you would have me do."
"peep!"
answered the purple bird, very dolorously.
"peep, peep, pe we e!"
certainly there lay some heavy anguish at the little bird's heart; and it was a sorrowful predicament that he could not, at least, have the consolation of telling what it was.
but ulysses had no time to waste in trying to get at the mystery.
he therefore quickened his pace, and had gone a good way along the pleasant wood path, when there met him a young man of very brisk and intelligent aspect, and clad in a rather singular garb.
he wore a short cloak and a sort of cap that seemed to be furnished with a pair of wings; and from the lightness of his step, you would have supposed that there might likewise be wings on his feet.
to enable him to walk still better (for he was always on one journey or another) he carried a winged staff, around which two serpents were wriggling and twisting.
in short, i have said enough to make you guess that it was quicksilver; and ulysses (who knew him of old, and had learned a great deal of his wisdom from him) recognized him in a moment.
"whither are you going in such a hurry, wise ulysses?"
asked quicksilver.
"do you not know that this island is enchanted?
the wicked enchantress (whose name is circe, the sister of king aetes) dwells in the marble palace which you see yonder among the trees.
by her magic arts she changes every human being into the brute, beast, or fowl whom he happens most to resemble."
"that little bird, which met me at the edge of the cliff," exclaimed ulysses; "was he a human being once?"
"yes," answered quicksilver.
"he was once a king, named picus, and a pretty good sort of a king, too, only rather too proud of his purple robe, and his crown, and the golden chain about his neck; so he was forced to take the shape of a gaudy-feathered bird.
the lions, and wolves, and tigers, who will come running to meet you, in front of the palace, were formerly fierce and cruel men, resembling in their disposition the wild beasts whose forms they now rightfully wear."
"and my poor companions," said ulysses.
"have they undergone a similar change, through the arts of this wicked circe?"
"you well know what gormandizers they were," replied quicksilver; and rogue that he was, he could not help laughing at the joke.
"so you will not be surprised to hear that they have all taken the shapes of swine!
if circe had never done anything worse, i really should not think her so very much to blame."
"but can i do nothing to help them?"
inquired ulysses.
"it will require all your wisdom," said quicksilver, "and a little of my own into the bargain, to keep your royal and sagacious self from being transformed into a fox.
but do as i bid you; and the matter may end better than it has begun."
while he was speaking, quicksilver seemed to be in search of something; he went stooping along the ground, and soon laid his hand on a little plant with a snow-white flower, which he plucked and smelt of.
ulysses had been looking at that very spot only just before; and it appeared to him that the plant had burst into full flower the instant when quicksilver touched it with his fingers.
"take this flower, king ulysses," said he.
"guard it as you do your eyesight; for i can assure you it is exceedingly rare and precious, and you might seek the whole earth over without ever finding another like it.
keep it in your hand, and smell of it frequently after you enter the palace, and while you are talking with the enchantress.
especially when she offers you food, or a draught of wine out of her goblet, be careful to fill your nostrils with the flower's fragrance.
follow these directions, and you may defy her magic arts to change you into a fox."
quicksilver then gave him some further advice how to behave, and bidding him be bold and prudent, again assured him that, powerful as circe was, he would have a fair prospect of coming safely out of her enchanted palace.
after listening attentively, ulysses thanked his good friend, and resumed his way.
but he had taken only a few steps, when, recollecting some other questions which he wished to ask, he turned round again, and beheld nobody on the spot where quicksilver had stood; for that winged cap of his, and those winged shoes, with the help of the winged staff, had carried him quickly out of sight.
when ulysses reached the lawn, in front of the palace, the lions and other savage animals came bounding to meet him, and would have fawned upon him and licked his feet.
but the wise king struck at them with his long spear, and sternly bade them begone out of his path; for he knew that they had once been bloodthirsty men, and would now tear him limb from limb, instead of fawning upon him, could they do the mischief that was in their hearts.
the wild beasts yelped and glared at him, and stood at a distance, while he ascended the palace steps.
on entering the hall, ulysses saw the magic fountain in the center of it.
the up-gushing water had now again taken the shape of a man in a long, white, fleecy robe, who appeared to be making gestures of welcome.
the king likewise heard the noise of the shuttle in the loom and the sweet melody of the beautiful woman's song, and then the pleasant voices of herself and the four maidens talking together, with peals of merry laughter intermixed.
but ulysses did not waste much time in listening to the laughter or the song.
he leaned his spear against one of the pillars of the hall, and then, after loosening his sword in the scabbard, stepped boldly forward, and threw the folding doors wide open.
the moment she beheld his stately figure standing in the doorway, the beautiful woman rose from the loom, and ran to meet him with a glad smile throwing its sunshine over her face, and both her hands extended.
"welcome, brave stranger!"
cried she.
"we were expecting you."
and the nymph with the sea-green hair made a courtesy down to the ground, and likewise bade him welcome; so did her sister with the bodice of oaken bark, and she that sprinkled dew-drops from her fingers' ends, and the fourth one with some oddity which i cannot remember.
and circe, as the beautiful enchantress was called (who had deluded so many persons that she did not doubt of being able to delude ulysses, not imagining how wise he was), again addressed him:
"your companions," said she, "have already been received into my palace, and have enjoyed the hospitable treatment to which the propriety of their behavior so well entitles them.
if such be your pleasure, you shall first take some refreshment, and then join them in the elegant apartment which they now occupy.
see, i and my maidens have been weaving their figures into this piece of tapestry."
she pointed to the web of beautifully-woven cloth in the loom.
circe and the four nymphs must have been very diligently at work since the arrival of the mariners; for a great many yards of tapestry had now been wrought, in addition to what i before described.
in this new part, ulysses saw his two and twenty friends represented as sitting on cushions and canopied thrones, greedily devouring dainties, and quaffing deep draughts of wine.
the work had not yet gone any further.
o, no, indeed.
the enchantress was far too cunning to let ulysses see the mischief which her magic arts had since brought upon the gormandizers.
"as for yourself, valiant sir," said circe, "judging by the dignity of your aspect, i take you to be nothing less than a king.
deign to follow me, and you shall be treated as befits your rank."
so ulysses followed her into the oval saloon, where his two and twenty comrades had devoured the banquet, which ended so disastrously for themselves.
but, all this while, he had held the snow-white flower in his hand, and had constantly smelt of it while circe was speaking; and as he crossed the threshold of the saloon, he took good care to inhale several long and deep snuffs of its fragrance.
instead of two and twenty thrones, which had before been ranged around the wall, there was now only a single throne, in the center of the apartment.
but this was surely the most magnificent seat that ever a king or an emperor reposed himself upon, all made of chased gold, studded with precious stones, with a cushion that looked like a soft heap of living roses, and overhung by a canopy of sunlight which circe knew how to weave into drapery.
the enchantress took ulysses by the hand, and made him sit down upon this dazzling throne.
then, clapping her hands, she summoned the chief butler.
"bring hither," said she, "the goblet that is set apart for kings to drink out of.
and fill it with the same delicious wine which my royal brother, king aetes, praised so highly, when he last visited me with my fair daughter medea.
that good and amiable child!
were she now here, it would delight her to see me offering this wine to my honored guest."
but ulysses, while the butler was gone for the wine, held the snow-white flower to his nose.
"is it a wholesome wine?"
he asked.
at this the four maidens tittered; whereupon the enchantress looked round at them, with an aspect of severity.
"it is the wholesomest juice that ever was squeezed out of the grape,"
said she; "for, instead of disguising a man, as other liquor is apt to do, it brings him to his true self, and shows him as he ought to be."
the chief butler liked nothing better than to see people turned into swine, or making any kind of a beast of themselves; so he made haste to bring the royal goblet, filled with a liquid as bright as gold, and which kept sparkling upward, and throwing a sunny spray over the brim.
but, delightfully as the wine looked, it was mingled with the most potent enchantments that circe knew how to concoct.
for every drop of the pure grape juice there were two drops of the pure mischief; and the danger of the thing was, that the mischief made it taste all the better.
the mere smell of the bubbles, which effervesced at the brim, was enough to turn a man's beard into pig's bristles, or make a lion's claws grow out of his fingers, or a fox's brush behind him.
"drink, my noble guest," said circe, smiling, as she presented him with the goblet.
"you will find in this draught a solace for all your troubles."
king ulysses took the goblet with his right hand, while with his left he held the snow-white flower to his nostrils, and drew in so long a breath that his lungs were quite filled with its pure and simple fragrance.
then, drinking off all the wine, he looked the enchantress calmly in the face.
"wretch," cried circe, giving him a smart stroke with her wand, "how dare you keep your human shape a moment longer!
take the form of the brute whom you most resemble.
if a hog, go join your fellow-swine in the sty; if a lion, a wolf, a tiger, go howl with the wild beasts on the lawn; if a fox, go exercise your craft in stealing poultry.
thou hast quaffed off my wine, and canst be man no longer."
but, such was the virtue of the snow-white flower, instead of wallowing down from his throne in swinish shape, or taking any other brutal form, ulysses looked even more manly and king-like than before.
he gave the magic goblet a toss, and sent it clashing over the marble floor to the farthest end of the saloon.
then, drawing his sword, he seized the enchantress by her beautiful ringlets, and made a gesture as if he meant to strike off her head at one blow.
"wicked circe," cried he, in a terrible voice, "this sword shall put an end to thy enchantments.
thou shalt die, vile wretch, and do no more mischief in the world, by tempting human beings into the vices which make beasts of them."
the tone and countenance of ulysses were so awful, and his sword gleamed so brightly, and seemed to have so intolerably keen an edge, that circe was almost killed by the mere fright, without waiting for a blow.
the chief butler scrambled out of the saloon, picking up the golden goblet as he went; and the enchantress and the four maidens fell on their knees, wringing their hands, and screaming for mercy.
"spare me!"
cried circe.
"spare me, royal and wise ulysses.
for now i know that thou art he of whom quicksilver forewarned me, the most prudent of mortals, against whom no enchantments can prevail.
thou only couldst have conquered circe.
spare me, wisest of men.
i will show thee true hospitality, and even give myself to be thy slave, and this magnificent palace to be henceforth thy home."
the four nymphs, meanwhile, were making a most piteous ado; and especially the ocean nymph, with the sea-green hair, wept a great deal of salt water, and the fountain nymph, besides scattering dewdrops from her fingers' ends, nearly melted away into tears.
but ulysses would not be pacified until circe had taken a solemn oath to change back his companions, and as many others as he should direct, from their present forms of beast or bird into their former shapes of men.
"on these conditions," said he, "i consent to spare your life.
otherwise you must die upon the spot."
with a drawn sword hanging over her, the enchantress would readily have consented to do as much good as she had hitherto done mischief, however little she might like such employment.
she therefore led ulysses out of the back entrance of the palace, and showed him the swine in their sty.
there were about fifty of these unclean beasts in the whole herd; and though the greater part were hogs by birth and education, there was wonderfully little difference to be seen betwixt them and their new brethren, who had so recently worn the human shape.
to speak critically, indeed, the latter rather carried the thing to excess, and seemed to make it a point to wallow in the miriest part of the sty, and otherwise to outdo the original swine in their own natural vocation.
when men once turn to brutes, the trifle of man's wit that remains in them adds tenfold to their brutality.
the comrades of ulysses, however, had not quite lost the remembrance of having formerly stood erect.
when he approached the sty, two and twenty enormous swine separated themselves from the herd, and scampered towards him, with such a chorus of horrible squealing as made him clap both hands to his ears.
and yet they did not seem to know what they wanted, nor whether they were merely hungry, or miserable from some other cause.
it was curious, in the midst of their distress, to observe them thrusting their noses into the mire, in quest of something to eat.
the nymph with the bodice of oaken bark (she was the hamadryad of an oak)
threw a handful of acorns among them; and the two and twenty hogs scrambled and fought for the prize, as if they had tasted not so much as a noggin of sour milk for a twelvemonth.
"these must certainly be my comrades," said ulysses.
"i recognize their dispositions.
they are hardly worth the trouble of changing them into the human form again.
nevertheless, we will have it done, lest their bad example should corrupt the other hogs.
let them take their original shapes, therefore, dame circe, if your skill is equal to the task.
it will require greater magic, i trow, than it did to make swine of them."
so circe waved her wand again, and repeated a few magic words, at the sound of which the two and twenty hogs pricked up their pendulous ears.
it was a wonder to behold how their snouts grew shorter and shorter, and their mouths (which they seemed to be sorry for, because they could not gobble so expeditiously) smaller and smaller, and how one and another began to stand upon his hind legs, and scratch his nose with his fore trotters.
at first the spectators hardly knew whether to call them hogs or men, but by and by came to the conclusion that they rather resembled the latter.
finally, there stood the twenty-two comrades of ulysses, looking pretty much the same as when they left the vessel.
you must not imagine, however, that the swinish quality had entirely gone out of them.
when once it fastens itself into a person's character, it is very difficult getting rid of it.
this was proved by the hamadryad, who, being exceedingly fond of mischief, threw another handful of acorns before the twenty-two newly-restored people; whereupon down they wallowed in a moment, and gobbled them up in a very shameful way.
then, recollecting themselves, they scrambled to their feet, and looked more than commonly foolish.
"thanks, noble ulysses!"
they cried.
"from brute beasts you have restored us to the condition of men again."
"do not put yourselves to the trouble of thanking me," said the wise king.
"i fear i have done but little for you."
to say the truth, there was a suspicious kind of a grunt in their voices, and, for a long time afterwards, they spoke gruffly, and were apt to set up a squeal.
"it must depend on your own future behavior," added ulysses, "whether you do not find your way back to the sty."
at this moment, the note of a bird sounded from the branch of a neighboring tree.
"peep, peep, pe wee e!"
it was the purple bird, who, all this while, had been sitting over their heads, watching what was going forward, and hoping that ulysses would remember how he had done his utmost to keep him and his followers out of harm's way.
ulysses ordered circe instantly to make a king of this good little fowl, and leave him exactly as she found him.
hardly were the words spoken, and before the bird had time to utter another "pe weep,"
king picus leaped down from the bough of a tree, as majestic a sovereign as any in the world, dressed in a long purple robe and gorgeous yellow stockings, with a splendidly wrought collar about his neck, and a golden crown upon his head.
he and king ulysses exchanged with one another the courtesies which belong to their elevated rank.
but from that time forth, king picus was no longer proud of his crown and his trappings of royalty, nor of the fact of his being a king; he felt himself merely the upper servant of his people, and that it must be his life-long labor to make them better and happier.
as for the lions, tigers, and wolves (though circe would have restored them to their former shapes at his slightest word), ulysses thought it advisable that they should remain as they now were, and thus give warning of their cruel dispositions, instead of going about under the guise of men, and pretending to human sympathies, while their hearts had the blood-thirstiness of wild beasts.
so he let them howl as much as they liked, but never troubled his head about them.
and, when everything was settled according to his pleasure, he sent to summon the remainder of his comrades, whom he had left at the sea-shore.
these being arrived, with the prudent eurylochus at their head, they all made themselves comfortable in circe's enchanted palace, until quite rested and refreshed from the toils and hardships of their voyage.
the pomegranate seeds.
mother ceres was exceedingly fond of her daughter proserpina, and seldom let her go alone into the fields.
but, just at the time when my story begins, the good lady was very busy, because she had the care of the wheat, and the indian corn, and the rye and barley and, in short, of the crops of every kind, all over the earth; and as the season had thus far been uncommonly backward, it was necessary to make the harvest ripen more speedily than usual.
so she put on her turban, made of poppies (a kind of flower which she was always noted for wearing), and got into her car drawn by a pair of winged dragons, and was just ready to set off.
"dear mother," said proserpina, "i shall be very lonely while you are away.
may i not run down to the shore, and ask some of the sea nymphs to come up out of the waves and play with me?"
"yes, child," answered mother ceres.
"the sea nymphs are good creatures, and will never lead you into any harm.
but you must take care not to stray away from them, nor go wandering about the fields by yourself.
young girls, without their mothers to take care of them, are very apt to get into mischief."
the child promised to be as prudent as if she were a grown-up woman; and, by the time the winged dragons had whirled the car out of sight, she was already on the shore, calling to the sea nymphs to come and play with her.
they knew proserpina's voice, and were not long in showing their glistening faces and sea-green hair above the water, at the bottom of which was their home.
they brought along with them a great many beautiful shells; and sitting down on the moist sand, where the surf wave broke over them, they busied themselves in making a necklace, which they hung round proserpina's neck.
by way of showing her gratitude, the child besought them to go with her a little way into the fields, so that they might gather abundance of flowers, with which she would make each of her kind playmates a wreath.
"o no, dear proserpina," cried the sea nymphs; "we dare not go with you upon the dry land.
we are apt to grow faint, unless at every breath we can snuff up the salt breeze of the ocean.
and don't you see how careful we are to let the surf wave break over us every moment or two, so as to keep ourselves comfortably moist?
if it were not for that, we should look like bunches of uprooted seaweed dried in the sun.
"it is a great pity," said proserpina.
"but do you wait for me here, and i will run and gather my apron full of flowers, and be back again before the surf wave has broken ten times over you.
i long to make you some wreaths that shall be as lovely as this necklace of many colored shells."
"we will wait, then," answered the sea nymphs.
"but while you are gone, we may as well lie down on a bank of soft sponge under the water.
the air to-day is a little too dry for our comfort.
but we will pop up our heads every few minutes to see if you are coming."
the young proserpina ran quickly to a spot where, only the day before, she had seen a great many flowers.
these, however, were now a little past their bloom; and wishing to give her friends the freshest and loveliest blossoms, she strayed farther into the fields, and found some that made her scream with delight.
never had she met with such exquisite flowers before violets so large and fragrant roses with so rich and delicate a blush such superb hyacinths and such aromatic pinks and many others, some of which seemed to be of new shapes and colors.
two or three times, moreover, she could not help thinking that a tuft of most splendid flowers had suddenly sprouted out of the earth before her very eyes, as if on purpose to tempt her a few steps farther.
proserpina's apron was soon filled, and brimming over with delightful blossoms.
she was on the point of turning back in order to rejoin the sea nymphs, and sit with them on the moist sands, all twining wreaths together.
but, a little farther on, what should she behold?
it was a large shrub, completely covered with the most magnificent flowers in the world.
"the darlings!"
cried proserpina; and then she thought to herself, "i was looking at that spot only a moment ago.
how strange it is that i did not see the flowers!"
the nearer she approached the shrub, the more attractive it looked, until she came quite close to it; and then, although its beauty was richer than words can tell, she hardly knew whether to like it or not.
it bore above a hundred flowers of the most brilliant hues, and each different from the others, but all having a kind of resemblance among themselves, which showed them to be sister blossoms.
but there was a deep, glossy luster on the leaves of the shrub, and on the petals of the flowers, that made proserpina doubt whether they might not be poisonous.
to tell you the truth, foolish as it may seem, she was half inclined to turn round and run away.
"what a silly child i am!"
thought she, taking courage.
"it is really the most beautiful shrub that ever sprang out of the earth.
i will pull it up by the roots, and carry it home, and plant it in my mother's garden."
holding up her apron full of flowers with her left hand, proserpina seized the large shrub with the other, and pulled, and pulled, but was hardly able to loosen the soil about its roots.
what a deep-rooted plant it was!
again the girl pulled with all her might, and observed that the earth began to stir and crack to some distance around the stem.
she gave another pull, but relaxed her hold, fancying that there was a rumbling sound right beneath her feet.
did the roots extend down into some enchanted cavern?
then laughing at herself for so childish a notion, she made another effort: up came the shrub, and proserpina staggered back, holding the stem triumphantly in her hand, and gazing at the deep hole which its roots had left in the soil.
much to her astonishment, this hole kept spreading wider and wider, and growing deeper and deeper, until it really seemed to have no bottom; and all the while, there came a rumbling noise out of its depths, louder and louder, and nearer and nearer, and sounding like the tramp of horses'
hoofs and the rattling of wheels.
too much frightened to run away, she stood straining her eyes into this wonderful cavity, and soon saw a team of four sable horses, snorting smoke out of their nostrils, and tearing their way out of the earth with a splendid golden chariot whirling at their heels.
they leaped out of the bottomless hole, chariot and all; and there they were, tossing their black manes, flourishing their black tails, and curvetting with every one of their hoofs off the ground at once, close by the spot where proserpina stood.
in the chariot sat the figure of a man, richly dressed, with a crown on his head, all flaming with diamonds.
he was of a noble aspect, and rather handsome, but looked sullen and discontented; and he kept rubbing his eyes and shading them with his hand, as if he did not live enough in the sunshine to be very fond of its light.
as soon as this personage saw the affrighted proserpina, he beckoned her to come a little nearer.
"do not be afraid," said he, with as cheerful a smile as he knew how to put on.
"come!
will you not like to ride a little way with me, in my beautiful chariot?"
but proserpina was so alarmed, that she wished for nothing but to get out of his reach.
and no wonder.
the stranger did not look remarkably good-natured, in spite of his smile; and as for his voice, its tones were deep and stern, and sounded as much like the rumbling of an earthquake underground than anything else.
as is always the case with children in trouble, proserpina's first thought was to call for her mother.
"mother, mother ceres!"
cried she, all in a tremble.
"come quickly and save me."
but her voice was too faint for her mother to hear.
indeed, it is most probable that ceres was then a thousand miles off, making the corn grow in some far distant country.
nor could it have availed her poor daughter, even had she been within hearing; for no sooner did proserpina begin to cry out, than the stranger leaped to the ground, caught the child in his arms, and again mounted the chariot, shook the reins, and shouted to the four black horses to set off.
they immediately broke into so swift a gallop, that it seemed rather like flying through the air than running along the earth.
in a moment, proserpina lost sight of the pleasant vale of enna, in which she had always dwelt.
another instant, and even the summit of mount aetna had become so blue in the distance, that she could scarcely distinguish it from the smoke that gushed out of its crater.
but still the poor child screamed, and scattered her apron full of flowers along the way, and left a long cry trailing behind the chariot; and many mothers, to whose ears it came, ran quickly to see if any mischief had befallen their children.
but mother ceres was a great way off, and could not hear the cry.
as they rode on, the stranger did his best to soothe her.
"why should you be so frightened, my pretty child?"
said he, trying to soften his rough voice.
"i promise not to do you any harm.
what!
you have been gathering flowers?
wait till we come to my palace, and i will give you a garden full of prettier flowers than those, all made of pearls, and diamonds, and rubies.
can you guess who i am?
they call my name pluto; and i am the king of diamonds and all other precious stones.
every atom of the gold and silver that lies under the earth belongs to me, to say nothing of the copper and iron, and of the coal mines, which supply me with abundance of fuel.
do you see this splendid crown upon my head?
you may have it for a plaything.
o, we shall be very good friends, and you will find me more agreeable than you expect, when once we get out of this troublesome sunshine."
"let me go home!"
cried proserpina.
"let me go home!"
"my home is better than your mother's," answered king pluto.
"it is a palace, all made of gold, with crystal windows; and because there is little or no sunshine thereabouts, the apartments are illuminated with diamond lamps.
you never saw anything half so magnificent as my throne.
if you like, you may sit down on it, and be my little queen, and i will sit on the footstool."
"i don't care for golden palaces and thrones," sobbed proserpina.
"oh, my mother, my mother!
carry me back to my mother!"
but king pluto, as he called himself, only shouted to his steeds to go faster.
"pray do not be foolish, proserpina," said he, in rather a sullen tone.
"i offer you my palace and my crown, and all the riches that are under the earth; and you treat me as if i were doing you an injury.
the one thing which my palace needs is a merry little maid, to run upstairs and down, and cheer up the rooms with her smile.
and this is what you must do for king pluto."
"never!"
answered proserpina, looking as miserable as she could.
"i shall never smile again till you set me down at my mother's door."
but she might just as well have talked to the wind that whistled past them, for pluto urged on his horses, and went faster than ever.
proserpina continued to cry out, and screamed so long and so loudly that her poor little voice was almost screamed away; and when it was nothing but a whisper, she happened to cast her eyes over a great broad field of waving grain and whom do you think she saw?
who, but mother ceres, making the corn grow, and too busy to notice the golden chariot as it went rattling along.
the child mustered all her strength, and gave one more scream, but was out of sight before ceres had time to turn her head.
king pluto had taken a road which now began to grow excessively gloomy.
it was bordered on each side with rocks and precipices, between which the rumbling of the chariot wheels was reverberated with a noise like rolling thunder.
the trees and bushes that grew in the crevices of the rocks had very dismal foliage; and by and by, although it was hardly noon, the air became obscured with a gray twilight.
the black horses had rushed along so swiftly, that they were already beyond the limits of the sunshine.
but the duskier it grew, the more did pluto's visage assume an air of satisfaction.
after all, he was not an ill-looking person, especially when he left off twisting his features into a smile that did not belong to them.
proserpina peeped at his face through the gathering dusk, and hoped that he might not be so very wicked as she at first thought him.
"ah, this twilight is truly refreshing," said king pluto, "after being so tormented with that ugly and impertinent glare of the sun.
how much more agreeable is lamplight or torchlight, more particularly when reflected from diamonds!
it will be a magnificent sight, when we get to my palace."
"is it much farther?"
asked proserpina.
"and will you carry me back when i have seen it?"
"we will talk of that by and by," answered pluto.
"we are just entering my dominions.
do you see that tall gateway before us?
when we pass those gates, we are at home.
and there lies my faithful mastiff at the threshold.
cerberus!
cerberus!
come hither, my good dog!"
so saying, pluto pulled at the reins, and stopped the chariot right between the tall, massive pillars of the gateway.
the mastiff of which he had spoken got up from the threshold, and stood on his hinder legs, so as to put his fore paws on the chariot wheel.
but, my stars, what a strange dog it was!
why, he was a big, rough, ugly-looking monster, with three separate heads, and each of them fiercer than the two others; but fierce as they were, king pluto patted them all.
he seemed as fond of his three-headed dog as if it had been a sweet little spaniel, with silken ears and curly hair.
cerberus, on the other hand, was evidently rejoiced to see his master, and expressed his attachment, as other dogs do, by wagging his tail at a great rate.
proserpina's eyes being drawn to it by its brisk motion, she saw that this tail was neither more nor less than a live dragon, with fiery eyes, and fangs that had a very poisonous aspect.
and while the three-headed cerberus was fawning so lovingly on king pluto, there was the dragon tail wagging against its will, and looking as cross and ill-natured as you can imagine, on its own separate account.
"will the dog bite me?"
asked proserpina, shrinking closer to pluto.
"what an ugly creature he is!"
"o, never fear," answered her companion.
"he never harms people, unless they try to enter my dominions without being sent for, or to get away when i wish to keep them here.
down, cerberus!
now, my pretty proserpina, we will drive on."
on went the chariot, and king pluto seemed greatly pleased to find himself once more in his own kingdom.
he drew proserpina's attention to the rich veins of gold that were to be seen among the rocks, and pointed to several places where one stroke of a pickaxe would loosen a bushel of diamonds.
all along the road, indeed, there were sparkling gems, which would have been of inestimable value above ground, but which here were reckoned of the meaner sort and hardly worth a beggar's stooping for.
not far from the gateway, they came to a bridge, which seemed to be built of iron.
pluto stopped the chariot, and bade proserpina look at the stream which was gliding so lazily beneath it.
never in her life had she beheld so torpid, so black, so muddy-looking a stream; its waters reflected no images of anything that was on the banks, and it moved as sluggishly as if it had quite forgotten which way it ought to flow, and had rather stagnate than flow either one way or the other.
"this is the river lethe," observed king pluto.
"is it not a very pleasant stream?"
"i think it a very dismal one," answered proserpina.
"it suits my taste, however," answered pluto, who was apt to be sullen when anybody disagreed with him.
"at all events, its water has one excellent quality; for a single draught of it makes people forget every care and sorrow that has hitherto tormented them.
only sip a little of it, my dear proserpina, and you will instantly cease to grieve for your mother, and will have nothing in your memory that can prevent your being perfectly happy in my palace.
i will send for some, in a golden goblet, the moment we arrive."
"o, no, no, no!"
cried proserpina, weeping afresh.
"i had a thousand times rather be miserable with remembering my mother, than be happy in forgetting her.
that dear, dear mother!
i never, never will forget her."
"we shall see," said king pluto.
"you do not know what fine times we will have in my palace.
here we are just at the portal.
these pillars are solid gold, i assure you."
he alighted from the chariot, and taking proserpina in his arms, carried her up a lofty flight of steps into the great hall of the palace.
it was splendidly illuminated by means of large precious stones, of various hues, which seemed to burn like so many lamps, and glowed with a hundred-fold radiance all through the vast apartment.
and yet there was a kind of gloom in the midst of this enchanted light; nor was there a single object in the hall that was really agreeable to behold, except the little proserpina herself, a lovely child, with one earthly flower which she had not let fall from her hand.
it is my opinion that even king pluto had never been happy in his palace, and that this was the true reason why he had stolen away proserpina, in order that he might have something to love, instead of cheating his heart any longer with this tiresome magnificence.
and, though he pretended to dislike the sunshine of the upper world, yet the effect of the child's presence, bedimmed as she was by her tears, was as if a faint and watery sunbeam had somehow or other found its way into the enchanted hall.
pluto now summoned his domestics, and bade them lose no time in preparing a most sumptuous banquet, and above all things, not to fail of setting a golden beaker of the water of lethe by proserpina's plate.
"i will neither drink that nor anything else," said proserpina.
"nor will i taste a morsel of food, even if you keep me forever in your palace."
"i should be sorry for that," replied king pluto, patting her cheek; for he really wished to be kind, if he had only known how.
"you are a spoiled child, i perceive, my little proserpina; but when you see the nice things which my cook will make for you, your appetite will quickly come again."
then, sending for the head cook, he gave strict orders that all sorts of delicacies, such as young people are usually fond of, should be set before proserpina.
he had a secret motive in this; for, you are to understand, it is a fixed law, that when persons are carried off to the land of magic, if they once taste any food there, they can never get back to their friends.
now, if king pluto had been cunning enough to offer proserpina some fruit, or bread and milk (which was the simple fare to which the child had always been accustomed), it is very probable that she would soon have been tempted to eat it.
but he left the matter entirely to his cook, who, like all other cooks, considered nothing fit to eat unless it were rich pastry, or highly-seasoned meat, or spiced sweet cakes things which proserpina's mother had never given her, and the smell of which quite took away her appetite, instead of sharpening it.
but my story must now clamber out of king pluto's dominions, and see what mother ceres had been about, since she was bereft of her daughter.
we had a glimpse of her, as you remember, half hidden among the waving grain, while the four black steeds were swiftly whirling along the chariot, in which her beloved proserpina was so unwillingly borne away.
you recollect, too, the loud scream which proserpina gave, just when the chariot was out of sight.
of all the child's outcries, this last shriek was the only one that reached the ears of mother ceres.
she had mistaken the rumbling of the chariot wheels for a peal of thunder, and imagined that a shower was coming up, and that it would assist her in making the corn grow.
but, at the sound of proserpina's shriek, she started, and looked about in every direction, not knowing whence it came, but feeling almost certain that it was her daughter's voice.
it seemed so unaccountable, however, that the girl should have strayed over so many lands and seas (which she herself could not have traversed without the aid of her winged dragons), that the good ceres tried to believe that it must be the child of some other parent, and not her own darling proserpina, who had uttered this lamentable cry.
nevertheless, it troubled her with a vast many tender fears, such as are ready to bestir themselves in every mother's heart, when she finds it necessary to go away from her dear children without leaving them under the care of some maiden aunt, or other such faithful guardian.
so she quickly left the field in which she had been so busy; and, as her work was not half done, the grain looked, next day, as if it needed both sun and rain, and as if it were blighted in the ear, and had something the matter with its roots.
the pair of dragons must have had very nimble wings; for, in less than an hour, mother ceres had alighted at the door of her home, and found it empty.
knowing, however, that the child was fond of sporting on the sea-shore, she hastened thither as fast as she could, and there beheld the wet faces of the poor sea nymphs peeping over a wave.
all this while, the good creatures had been waiting on the bank of sponge, and once, every half minute or so, had popped up their four heads above water, to see if their playmate were yet coming back.
when they saw mother ceres, they sat down on the crest of the surf wave, and let it toss them ashore at her feet.
"where is proserpina?"
cried ceres.
"where is my child?
tell me, you naughty sea nymphs, have you enticed her under the sea?"
"o, no, good mother ceres," said the innocent sea nymphs, tossing back their green ringlets, and looking her in the face.
"we never should dream of such a thing.
proserpina has been at play with us, it is true; but she left us a long while ago, meaning only to run a little way upon the dry land, and gather some flowers for a wreath.
this was early in the day, and we have seen nothing of her since."
ceres scarcely waited to hear what the nymphs had to say, before she hurried off to make inquiries all through the neighborhood.
but nobody told her anything that would enable the poor mother to guess what had become of proserpina.
a fisherman, it is true, had noticed her little footprints in the sand, as he went homeward along the beach with a basket of fish; a rustic had seen the child stooping to gather flowers; several persons had heard either the rattling of chariot wheels, or the rumbling of distant thunder; and one old woman, while plucking vervain and catnip, had heard a scream, but supposed it to be some childish nonsense, and therefore did not take the trouble to look up.
the stupid people!
it took them such a tedious while to tell the nothing that they knew, that it was dark night before mother ceres found out that she must seek her daughter elsewhere.
so she lighted a torch, and set forth, resolving never to come back until proserpina was discovered.
in her haste and trouble of mind, she quite forgot her car and the winged dragons; or, it may be, she thought that she could follow up the search more thoroughly on foot.
at all events, this was the way in which she began her sorrowful journey, holding her torch before her, and looking carefully at every object along the path.
and as it happened, she had not gone far before she found one of the magnificent flowers which grew on the shrub that proserpina had pulled up.
"ha!"
thought mother ceres, examining it by torchlight.
"here is mischief in this flower!
the earth did not produce it by any help of mine, nor of its own accord.
it is the work of enchantment, and is therefore poisonous; and perhaps it has poisoned my poor child."
but she put the poisonous flower in her bosom, not knowing whether she might ever find any other memorial of proserpina.
all night long, at the door of every cottage and farm-house, ceres knocked, and called up the weary laborers to inquire if they had seen her child; and they stood, gaping and half-asleep, at the threshold, and answered her pityingly, and besought her to come in and rest.
at the portal of every palace, too, she made so loud a summons that the menials hurried to throw open the gate, thinking that it must be some great king or queen, who would demand a banquet for supper and a stately chamber to repose in.
and when they saw only a sad and anxious woman, with a torch in her hand and a wreath of withered poppies on her head, they spoke rudely, and sometimes threatened to set the dogs upon her.
but nobody had seen proserpina, nor could give mother ceres the least hint which way to seek her.
thus passed the night; and still she continued her search without sitting down to rest, or stopping to take food, or even remembering to put out the torch although first the rosy dawn, and then the glad light of the morning sun, made its red flame look thin and pale.
but i wonder what sort of stuff this torch was made of; for it burned dimly through the day, and, at night, was as bright as ever, and never was extinguished by the rain or wind, in all the weary days and nights while ceres was seeking for proserpina.
it was not merely of human beings that she asked tidings of her daughter.
in the woods and by the streams, she met creatures of another nature, who used, in those old times, to haunt the pleasant and solitary places, and were very sociable with persons who understood their language and customs, as mother ceres did.
sometimes, for instance, she tapped with her finger against the knotted trunk of a majestic oak; and immediately its rude bark would cleave asunder, and forth would step a beautiful maiden, who was the hamadryad of the oak, dwelling inside of it, and sharing its long life, and rejoicing when its green leaves sported with the breeze.
but not one of these leafy damsels had seen proserpina.
then, going a little farther, ceres would, perhaps, come to a fountain, gushing out of a pebbly hollow in the earth, and would dabble with her hand in the water.
behold, up through its sandy and pebbly bed, along with the fountain's gush, a young woman with dripping hair would arise, and stand gazing at mother ceres, half out of the water, and undulating up and down with its ever-restless motion.
but when the mother asked whether her poor lost child had stopped to drink out of the fountain, the naiad, with weeping eyes (for these water-nymphs had tears to spare for everybody's grief), would answer "no!"
in a murmuring voice, which was just like the murmur of the stream.
often, likewise, she encountered fauns, who looked like sunburnt country people, except that they had hairy ears, and little horns upon their foreheads, and the hinder legs of goats, on which they gamboled merrily about the woods and fields.
they were a frolicsome kind of creature but grew as sad as their cheerful dispositions would allow, when ceres inquired for her daughter, and they had no good news to tell.
but sometimes she same suddenly upon a rude gang of satyrs, who had faces like monkeys, and horses' tails behind them, and who were generally dancing in a very boisterous manner, with shouts of noisy laughter.
when she stopped to question them, they would only laugh the louder, and make new merriment out of the lone woman's distress.
how unkind of those ugly satyrs!
and once, while crossing a solitary sheep pasture, she saw a personage named pan, seated at the foot of a tall rock, and making music on a shepherd's flute.
he, too, had horns, and hairy ears, and goats'
feet; but, being acquainted with mother ceres, he answered her question as civilly as he knew how, and invited her to taste some milk and honey out of a wooden bowl.
but neither could pan tell her what had become of proserpina, any better than the rest of these wild people.
and thus mother ceres went wandering about for nine long days and nights, finding no trace of proserpina, unless it were now and then a withered flower; and these she picked up and put in her bosom, because she fancied that they might have fallen from her poor child's hand.
all day she traveled onward through the hot sun; and, at night again, the flame of the torch would redden and gleam along the pathway, and she continued her search by its light, without ever sitting down to rest.
on the tenth day, she chanced to espy the mouth of a cavern within which (though it was bright noon everywhere else) there would have been only a dusky twilight; but it so happened that a torch was burning there.
it flickered, and struggled with the duskiness, but could not half light up the gloomy cavern with all its melancholy glimmer.
ceres was resolved to leave no spot without a search; so she peeped into the entrance of the cave, and lighted it up a little more, by holding her own torch before her.
in so doing, she caught a glimpse of what seemed to be a woman, sitting on the brown leaves of the last autumn, a great heap of which had been swept into the cave by the wind.
this woman (if woman it were)
was by no means so beautiful as many of her sex; for her head, they tell me, was shaped very much like a dog's, and, by way of ornament, she wore a wreath of snakes around it.
but mother ceres, the moment she saw her, knew that this was an odd kind of a person, who put all her enjoyment in being miserable, and never would have a word to say to other people, unless they were as melancholy and wretched as she herself delighted to be.
"i am wretched enough now," thought poor ceres, "to talk with this melancholy hecate, were she ten times sadder than ever she was yet."
so she stepped into the cave, and sat down on the withered leaves by the dog-headed woman's side.
in all the world, since her daughter's loss, she had found no other companion.
"o hecate," said she, "if ever you lose a daughter, you will know what sorrow is.
tell me, for pity's sake, have you seen my poor child proserpina pass by the mouth of your cavern?"
"no," answered hecate, in a cracked voice, and sighing betwixt every word or two; "no, mother ceres, i have seen nothing of your daughter.
but my ears, you must know, are made in such a way, that all cries of distress and affright all over the world are pretty sure to find their way to them; and nine days ago, as i sat in my cave, making myself very miserable, i heard the voice of a young girl, shrieking as if in great distress.
something terrible has happened to the child, you may rest assured.
as well as i could judge, a dragon, or some other cruel monster, was carrying her away."
"you kill me by saying so," cried ceres, almost ready to faint.
"where was the sound, and which way did it seem to go?"
"it passed very swiftly along," said hecate, "and, at the same time, there was a heavy rumbling of wheels towards the eastward.
i can tell you nothing more, except that, in my honest opinion, you will never see your daughter again.
the best advice i can give you is, to take up your abode in this cavern, where we will be the two most wretched women in the world."
"not yet, dark hecate," replied ceres.
"but do you first come with your torch, and help me to seek for my lost child.
and when there shall be no more hope of finding her (if that black day is ordained to come), then, if you will give me room to fling myself down, either on these withered leaves or on the naked rock, i will show what it is to be miserable.
but, until i know that she has perished from the face of the earth, i will not allow myself space even to grieve."
the dismal hecate did not much like the idea of going abroad into the sunny world.
but then she reflected that the sorrow of the disconsolate ceres would be like a gloomy twilight round about them both, let the sun shine ever so brightly, and that therefore she might enjoy her bad spirits quite as well as if she were to stay in the cave.
so she finally consented to go, and they set out together, both carrying torches, although it was broad daylight and clear sunshine.
the torchlight seemed to make a gloom; so that the people whom they met, along the road, could not very distinctly see their figures; and, indeed, if they once caught a glimpse of hecate, with the wreath of snakes round her forehead, they generally thought it prudent to run away, without waiting for a second glance.
as the pair traveled along in this woe-begone manner, a thought struck ceres.
"there is one person," she exclaimed, "who must have seen my poor child, and can doubtless tell what has become of her.
why did not i think of him before?
it is phoebus."
"what," said hecate, "the young man that always sits in the sunshine?
o, pray do not think of going near him.
he is a gay, light, frivolous young fellow, and will only smile in your face.
and besides, there is such a glare of the sun about him, that he will quite blind my poor eyes, which i have almost wept away already."
"you have promised to be my companion," answered ceres.
"come, let us make haste, or the sunshine will be gone, and phoebus along with it."
accordingly, they went along in quest of phoebus, both of them sighing grievously, and hecate, to say the truth, making a great deal worse lamentation than ceres; for all the pleasure she had, you know, lay in being miserable, and therefore she made the most of it.
by and by, after a pretty long journey, they arrived at the sunniest spot in the whole world.
there they beheld a beautiful young man, with long, curling ringlets, which seemed to be made of golden sunbeams; his garments were like light summer clouds; and the expression of his face was so exceedingly vivid, that hecate held her hands before her eyes, muttering that he ought to wear a black veil.
phoebus (for this was the very person whom they were seeking) had a lyre in his hands, and was making its chords tremble with sweet music; at the same time singing a most exquisite song, which he had recently composed.
for, beside a great many other accomplishments, this young man was renowned for his admirable poetry.
as ceres and her dismal companion approached him, phoebus smiled on them so cheerfully that hecate's wreath of snakes gave a spiteful hiss, and hecate heartily wished herself back in her cave.
but as for ceres, she was too earnest in her grief either to know or care whether phoebus smiled or frowned.
"phoebus!"
exclaimed she, "i am in great trouble, and have come to you for assistance.
can you tell me what has become of my dear child proserpina?"
"proserpina!
proserpina, did you call her name?"
answered phoebus, endeavoring to recollect; for there was such a continual flow of pleasant ideas in his mind, that he was apt to forget what had happened no longer ago than yesterday.
"ah, yes, i remember her now.
a very lovely child, indeed.
i am happy to tell you, my dear madam, that i did see the little proserpina not many days ago.
you may make yourself perfectly easy about her.
she is safe, and in excellent hands."
"o, where is my dear child?"
cried ceres, clasping her hands, and flinging herself at his feet.
"why," said phoebus and as he spoke he kept touching his lyre so as to make a thread of music run in and out among his words "as the little damsel was gathering flowers (and she has really a very exquisite taste for flowers), she was suddenly snatched up by king pluto, and carried off to his dominions.
i have never been in that part of the universe; but the royal palace, i am told, is built in a very noble style of architecture, and of the most splendid and costly materials.
gold, diamonds, pearls, and all manner of precious stones will be your daughter's ordinary playthings.
i recommend to you, my dear lady, to give yourself no uneasiness.
proserpina's sense of beauty will be duly gratified, and even in spite of the lack of sunshine, she will lead a very enviable life."
"hush!
say not such a word!"
answered ceres, indignantly.
"what is there to gratify her heart?
what are all the splendors you speak of without affection?
i must have her back again.
will you go with me you go with me, phoebus, to demand my daughter of this wicked pluto?"
"pray excuse me," replied phoebus, with an elegant obeisance.
"i certainly wish you success, and regret that my own affairs are so immediately pressing that i cannot have the pleasure of attending you.
besides, i am not upon the best of terms with king pluto.
to tell you the truth, his three-headed mastiff would never let me pass the gateway; for i should be compelled to take a sheaf of sunbeams along with me, and those, you know, are forbidden things in pluto's kingdom."
"ah, phoebus," said ceres, with bitter meaning in her words, "you have a harp instead of a heart.
farewell."
"will not you stay a moment," asked phoebus, "and hear me turn the pretty and touching story of proserpina into extemporary verses?"
but ceres shook her head, and hastened away, along with hecate.
phoebus (who, as i have told you, was an exquisite poet) forthwith began to make an ode about the poor mother's grief; and, if we were to judge of his sensibility by this beautiful production, he must have been endowed with a very tender heart.
but when a poet gets into the habit of using his heartstrings to make chords for his lyre, he may thrum upon them as much as he will, without any great pain to himself.
accordingly, though phoebus sang a very sad song, he was as merry all the while as were the sunbeams amid which he dwelt.
poor mother ceres had now found out what had become of her daughter, but was not a whit happier than before.
her case, on the contrary, looked more desperate than ever.
as long as proserpina was above ground, there might have been hopes of regaining her.
but now that the poor child was shut up within the iron gates of the king of the mines, at the threshold of which lay the three-headed cerberus, there seemed no possibility of her ever making her escape.
the dismal hecate, who loved to take the darkest view of things, told ceres that she had better come with her to the cavern, and spend the rest of her life in being miserable.
ceres answered, that hecate was welcome to go back thither herself, but that, for her part, she would wander about the earth in quest of the entrance to king pluto's dominions.
and hecate took her at her word, and hurried back to her beloved cave, frightening a great many little children with a glimpse of her dog's face as she went.
poor mother ceres!
it is melancholy to think of her, pursuing her toilsome way, all alone, and holding up that never-dying torch, the flame of which seemed an emblem of the grief and hope that burned together in her heart.
so much did she suffer, that, though her aspect had been quite youthful when her troubles began, she grew to look like an elderly person in a very brief time.
she cared not how she was dressed, nor had she ever thought of flinging away the wreath of withered poppies, which she put on the very morning of proserpina's disappearance.
she roamed about in so wild a way, and with her hair so disheveled, that people took her for some distracted creature, and never dreamed that this was mother ceres, who had the oversight of every seed which the husbandman planted.
nowadays, however, she gave herself no trouble about seed time nor harvest, but left the farmers to take care of their own affairs, and the crops to fade or flourish, as the case might be.
there was nothing, now, in which ceres seemed to feel an interest, unless when she saw children at play, or gathering flowers along the wayside.
then, indeed, she would stand and gaze at them with tears in her eyes.
the children, too, appeared to have a sympathy with her grief, and would cluster themselves in a little group about her knees, and look up wistfully in her face; and ceres, after giving them a kiss all round, would lead them to their homes, and advise their mothers never to let them stray out of sight.
"for if they do," said she, "it may happen to you, as it has to me, that the iron-hearted king pluto will take a liking to your darlings, and snatch them up in his chariot, and carry them away."
one day, during her pilgrimage in quest of the entrance to pluto's kingdom, she came to the palace of king cereus, who reigned at eleusis.
ascending a lofty flight of steps, she entered the portal, and found the royal household in very great alarm about the queen's baby.
the infant, it seems, was sickly (being troubled with its teeth, i suppose), and would take no food, and was all the time moaning with pain.
the queen her name was metanira was desirous of funding a nurse; and when she beheld a woman of matronly aspect coming up the palace steps, she thought, in her own mind, that here was the very person whom she needed.
so queen metanira ran to the door, with the poor wailing baby in her arms, and besought ceres to take charge of it, or, at least, to tell her what would do it good.
"will you trust the child entirely to me?"
asked ceres.
"yes, and gladly, too," answered the queen, "if you will devote all your time to him.
for i can see that you have been a mother."
"you are right," said ceres.
"i once had a child of my own.
well; i will be the nurse of this poor, sickly boy.
but beware, i warn you, that you do not interfere with any kind of treatment which i may judge proper for him.
if you do so, the poor infant must suffer for his mother's folly."
then she kissed the child, and it seemed to do him good; for he smiled and nestled closely into her bosom.
so mother ceres set her torch in a corner (where it kept burning all the while), and took up her abode in the palace of king cereus, as nurse to the little prince demophoon.
she treated him as if he were her own child, and allowed neither the king nor the queen to say whether he should be bathed in warm or cold water, or what he should eat, or how often he should take the air, or when he should be put to bed.
you would hardly believe me, if i were to tell how quickly the baby prince got rid of his ailments, and grew fat, and rosy, and strong, and how he had two rows of ivory teeth in less time than any other little fellow, before or since.
instead of the palest, and wretchedest, and puniest imp in the world (as his own mother confessed him to be, when ceres first took him in charge), he was now a strapping baby, crowing, laughing, kicking up his heels, and rolling from one end of the room to the other.
all the good women of the neighborhood crowded to the palace, and held up their hands, in unutterable amazement, at the beauty and wholesomeness of this darling little prince.
their wonder was the greater, because he was never seen to taste any food; not even so much as a cup of milk.
"pray, nurse," the queen kept saying, "how is it that you make the child thrive so?"
"i was a mother once," ceres always replied; "and having nursed my own child, i know what other children need."
but queen metanira, as was very natural, had a great curiosity to know precisely what the nurse did to her child.
one night, therefore, she hid herself in the chamber where ceres and the little prince were accustomed to sleep.
there was a fire in the chimney, and it had now crumbled into great coals and embers, which lay glowing on the hearth, with a blaze flickering up now and then, and flinging a warm and ruddy light upon the walls.
ceres sat before the hearth with the child in her lap, and the firelight making her shadow dance upon the ceiling overhead.
she undressed the little prince, and bathed him all over with some fragrant liquid out of a vase.
the next thing she did was to rake back the red embers, and make a hollow place among them, just where the backlog had been.
at last, while the baby was crowing, and clapping its fat little hands, and laughing in the nurse's face (just as you may have seen your little brother or sister do before going into its warm bath), ceres suddenly laid him, all naked as he was, in the hollow among the red-hot embers.
she then raked the ashes over him, and turned quietly away.
you may imagine, if you can, how queen metanira shrieked, thinking nothing less than that her dear child would be burned to a cinder.
she burst forth from her hiding-place, and running to the hearth, raked open the fire, and snatched up poor little prince demophoon out of his bed of live coals, one of which he was gripping in each of his fists.
he immediately set up a grievous cry, as babies are apt to do, when rudely startled out of a sound sleep.
to the queen's astonishment and joy, she could perceive no token of the child's being injured by the hot fire in which he had lain.
she now turned to mother ceres, and asked her to explain the mystery.
"foolish woman," answered ceres, "did you not promise to intrust this poor infant entirely to me?
you little know the mischief you have done him.
had you left him to my care, he would have grown up like a child of celestial birth, endowed with superhuman strength and intelligence, and would have lived forever.
do you imagine that earthly children are to become immortal without being tempered to it in the fiercest heat of the fire?
but you have ruined your own son.
for though he will be a strong man and a hero in his day, yet, on account of your folly, he will grow old, and finally die, like the sons of other women.
the weak tenderness of his mother has cost the poor boy an immortality.
farewell."
saying these words, she kissed the little prince demophoon, and sighed to think what he had lost, and took her departure without heeding queen metanira, who entreated her to remain, and cover up the child among the hot embers as often as she pleased.
poor baby!
he never slept so warmly again.
while she dwelt in the king's palace, mother ceres had been so continually occupied with taking care of the young prince, that her heart was a little lightened of its grief for proserpina.
but now, having nothing else to busy herself about, she became just as wretched as before.
at length, in her despair, she came to the dreadful resolution that not a stalk of grain, nor a blade of grass, not a potato, nor a turnip, nor any other vegetable that was good for man or beast to eat, should be suffered to grow until her daughter were restored.
she even forbade the flowers to bloom, lest somebody's heart should be cheered by their beauty.
now, as not so much as a head of asparagus ever presumed to poke itself out of the ground, without the especial permission of ceres, you may conceive what a terrible calamity had here fallen upon the earth.
the husbandmen plowed and planted as usual; but there lay the rich black furrows, all as barren as a desert of sand.
the pastures looked as brown in the sweet month of june as ever they did in chill november.
the rich man's broad acres and the cottager's small garden patch were equally blighted.
every little girl's flower bed showed nothing but dry stalks.
the old people shook their white heads, and said that the earth had grown aged like themselves, and was no longer capable of wearing the warm smile of summer on its face.
it was really piteous to see the poor, starving cattle and sheep, how they followed behind ceres, lowing and bleating, as if their instinct taught them to expect help from her; and everybody that was acquainted with her power besought her to have mercy on the human race, and, at all events, to let the grass grow.
but mother ceres, though naturally of an affectionate disposition, was now inexorable.
"never," said she.
"if the earth is ever again to see any verdure, it must first grow along the path which my daughter will tread in coming back to me."
finally, as there seemed to be no other remedy, our old friend quicksilver was sent post-haste to king pluto, in hopes that he might be persuaded to undo the mischief he had done, and to set everything right again, by giving up proserpina.
quicksilver accordingly made the best of his way to the great gate, took a flying leap right over the three-headed mastiff, and stood at the door of the palace in an inconceivably short time.
the servants knew him both by his face and garb; for his short cloak, and his winged cap and shoes, and his snaky staff had often been seen thereabouts in times gone by.
he requested to be shown immediately into the king's presence; and pluto, who heard his voice from the top of the stairs, and who loved to recreate himself with quicksilver's merry talk, called out to him to come up.
and while they settle their business together, we must inquire what proserpina had been doing ever since we saw her last.
the child had declared, as you may remember, that she would not taste a mouthful of food as long as she should be compelled to remain in king pluto's palace.
how she contrived to maintain her resolution, and at the same time to keep herself tolerably plump and rosy, is more than i can explain; but some young ladies, i am given to understand, possess the faculty of living on air, and proserpina seems to have possessed it too.
at any rate, it was now six months since she left the outside of the earth; and not a morsel, so far as the attendants were able to testify, had yet passed between her teeth.
this was the more creditable to proserpina, inasmuch as king pluto had caused her to be tempted day by day, with all manner of sweetmeats, and richly-preserved fruits, and delicacies of every sort, such as young people are generally most fond of.
but her good mother had often told her of the hurtfulness of these things; and for that reason alone, if there had been no other, she would have resolutely refused to taste them.
all this time, being of a cheerful and active disposition, the little damsel was not quite so unhappy as you may have supposed.
the immense palace had a thousand rooms, and was full of beautiful and wonderful objects.
there was a never-ceasing gloom, it is true, which half hid itself among the innumerable pillars, gliding before the child as she wandered among them, and treading stealthily behind her in the echo of her footsteps.
neither was all the dazzle of the precious stones, which flamed with their own light, worth one gleam of natural sunshine; nor could the most brilliant of the many-colored gems, which proserpina had for playthings, vie with the simple beauty of the flowers she used to gather.
but still, whenever the girl went among those gilded halls and chambers, it seemed as if she carried nature and sunshine along with her, and as if she scattered dewy blossoms on her right hand and on her left.
after proserpina came, the palace was no longer the same abode of stately artifice and dismal magnificence that it had before been.
the inhabitants all felt this, and king pluto more than any of them.
"my own little proserpina," he used to say.
"i wish you could like me a little better.
we gloomy and cloudy-natured persons have often as warm hearts, at bottom, as those of a more cheerful character.
if you would only stay with me of your own accord, it would make me happier than the possession of a hundred such palaces as this."
"ah," said proserpina, "you should have tried to make me like you before carrying me off.
and the best thing you can now do is, to let me go again.
then i might remember you sometimes, and think that you were as kind as you knew how to be.
perhaps, too, one day or other, i might come back, and pay you a visit."
"no, no," answered pluto, with his gloomy smile, "i will not trust you for that.
you are too fond of living in the broad daylight, and gathering flowers.
what an idle and childish taste that is!
are not these gems, which i have ordered to be dug for you, and which are richer than any in my crown are they not prettier than a violet?"
"not half so pretty," said proserpina, snatching the gems from pluto's hand, and flinging them to the other end of the hall.
"o my sweet violets, shall i never see you again?"
and then she burst into tears.
but young people's tears have very little saltness or acidity in them, and do not inflame the eyes so much as those of grown persons; so that it is not to be wondered at, if, a few moments afterwards, proserpina was sporting through the hall almost as merrily as she and the four sea nymphs had sported along the edge of the surf wave.
king pluto gazed after her, and wished that he, too, was a child.
and little proserpina, when she turned about, and beheld this great king standing in his splendid hall, and looking so grand, and so melancholy, and so lonesome, was smitten with a kind of pity.
she ran back to him, and, for the first time in all her life, put her small, soft hand in his.
"i love you a little," whispered she, looking up in his face.
"do you, indeed, my dear child?"
cried pluto, bending his dark face down to kiss her; but proserpina shrank away from the kiss, for, though his features were noble, they were very dusky and grim.
"well, i have not deserved it of you, after keeping you a prisoner for so many months, and starving you besides.
are you not terribly hungry?
is there nothing which i can get you to eat?"
in asking this question, the king of the mines had a very cunning purpose; for, you will recollect, if proserpina tasted a morsel of food in his dominions, she would never afterwards be at liberty to quit them.
"no indeed," said proserpina.
"your head cook is always baking, and stewing, and roasting, and rolling out paste, and contriving one dish or another, which he imagines may be to my liking.
but he might just as well save himself the trouble, poor, fat little man that he is.
i have no appetite for anything in the world, unless it were a slice of bread, of my mother's own baking, or a little fruit out of her garden."
when pluto heard this, he began to see that he had mistaken the best method of tempting proserpina to eat.
the cook's made dishes and artificial dainties were not half so delicious, in the good child's opinion, as the simple fare to which mother ceres had accustomed her.
wondering that he had never thought of it before, the king now sent one of his trusty attendants with a large basket, to get some of the finest and juiciest pears, peaches, and plums which could anywhere be found in the upper world.
unfortunately, however, this was during the time when ceres had forbidden any fruits or vegetables to grow; and, after seeking all over the earth, king pluto's servant found only a single pomegranate, and that so dried up as not to be worth eating.
nevertheless, since there was no better to be had, he brought this dry, old withered pomegranate home to the palace, put it on a magnificent golden salver, and carried it up to proserpina.
now, it happened, curiously enough, that, just as the servant was bringing the pomegranate into the back door of the palace, our friend quicksilver had gone up the front steps, on his errand to get proserpina away from king pluto.
as soon as proserpina saw the pomegranate on the golden salver, she told the servant he had better take it away again.
"i shall not touch it, i assure you," said she.
"if i were ever so hungry, i should never think of eating such a miserable, dry pomegranate as that."
"it is the only one in the world," said the servant.
he set down the golden salver, with the wizened pomegranate upon it, and left the room.
when he was gone, proserpina could not help coming close to the table, and looking at this poor specimen of dried fruit with a great deal of eagerness; for, to say the truth, on seeing something that suited her taste, she felt all the six months' appetite taking possession of her at once.
to be sure, it was a very wretched-looking pomegranate, and seemed to have no more juice in it than an oyster shell.
but there was no choice of such things in king pluto's palace.
this was the first fruit she had seen there, and the last she was ever likely to see; and unless she ate it up immediately, it would grow drier than it already was, and be wholly unfit to eat.
"at least, i may smell it," thought proserpina.
so she took up the pomegranate, and applied it to her nose; and, somehow or other, being in such close neighborhood to her mouth, the fruit found its way into that little red cave.
dear me!
what an everlasting pity!
before proserpina knew what she was about, her teeth had actually bitten it, of their own accord.
just as this fatal deed was done, the door of the apartment opened, and in came king pluto, followed by quicksilver, who had been urging him to let his little prisoner go.
at the first noise of their entrance, proserpina withdrew the pomegranate from her mouth.
but quicksilver (whose eyes were very keen, and his wits the sharpest that ever anybody had) perceived that the child was a little confused; and seeing the empty salver, he suspected that she had been taking a sly nibble of something or other.
as for honest pluto, he never guessed at the secret.
"my little proserpina," said the king, sitting down, and affectionately drawing her between his knees, "here is quicksilver, who tells me that a great many misfortunes have befallen innocent people on account of my detaining you in my dominions.
to confess the truth, i myself had already reflected that it was an unjustifiable act to take you away from your good mother.
but, then, you must consider, my dear child, that this vast palace is apt to be gloomy (although the precious stones certainly shine very bright), and that i am not of the most cheerful disposition, and that therefore it was a natural thing enough to seek for the society of some merrier creature than myself.
i hoped you would take my crown for a plaything, and me ah, you laugh, naughty proserpina me, grim as i am, for a playmate.
it was a silly expectation."
"not so extremely silly," whispered proserpina.
"you have really amused me very much, sometimes."
"thank you," said king pluto, rather dryly.
"but i can see plainly enough, that you think my palace a dusky prison, and me the iron-hearted keeper of it.
and an iron heart i should surely have, if i could detain you here any longer, my poor child, when it is now six months since you tasted food.
i give you your liberty.
go with quicksilver.
hasten home to your dear mother."
now, although you may not have supposed it, proserpina found it impossible to take leave of poor king pluto without some regrets, and a good deal of compunction for not telling him about the pomegranate.
she even shed a tear or two, thinking how lonely and cheerless the great palace would seem to him, with all its ugly glare of artificial light, after she herself his one little ray of natural sunshine, whom he had stolen, to be sure, but only because he valued her so much after she should have departed.
i know not how many kind things she might have said to the disconsolate king of the mines, had not quicksilver hurried her way.
"come along quickly," whispered he in her ear, "or his majesty may change his royal mind.
and take care, above all things, that you say nothing of what was brought you on the golden salver."
in a very short time, they had passed the great gateway (leaving the three-headed cerberus, barking, and yelping, and growling, with threefold din, behind them), and emerged upon the surface of the earth.
it was delightful to behold, as proserpina hastened along, how the path grew verdant behind and on either side of her.
wherever she set her blessed foot, there was at once a dewy flower.
the violets gushed up along the wayside.
the grass and the grain began to sprout with tenfold vigor and luxuriance, to make up for the dreary months that had been wasted in barrenness.
the starved cattle immediately set to work grazing, after their long fast, and ate enormously, all day, and got up at midnight to eat more.
but i can assure you it was a busy time of year with the farmers, when they found the summer coming upon them with such a rush.
nor must i forget to say, that all the birds in the whole world hopped about upon the newly-blossoming trees, and sang together, in a prodigious ecstasy of joy.
mother ceres had returned to her deserted home, and was sitting disconsolately on the doorstep, with her torch burning in her hand.
she had been idly watching the flame for some moments past, when, all at once, it flickered and went out.
"what does this mean?"
thought she.
"it was an enchanted torch, and should have kept burning till my child came back."
lifting her eyes, she was surprised to see a sudden verdure flashing over the brown and barren fields, exactly as you may have observed a golden hue gleaming far and wide across the landscape, from the just risen sun.
"does the earth disobey me?"
exclaimed mother ceres, indignantly.
"does it presume to be green, when i have bidden it be barren, until my daughter shall be restored to my arms?"
"then open your arms, dear mother," cried a well-known voice, "and take your little daughter into them."
and proserpina came running, and flung herself upon her mother's bosom.
their mutual transport is not to be described.
the grief of their separation had caused both of them to shed a great many tears; and now they shed a great many more, because their joy could not so well express itself in any other way.
when their hearts had grown a little more quiet, mother ceres looked anxiously at proserpina.
"my child," said she, "did you taste any food while you were in king pluto's palace?"
"dearest mother," exclaimed proserpina, "i will tell you the whole truth.
until this very morning, not a morsel of food had passed my lips.
but to-day, they brought me a pomegranate (a very dry one it was, and all shriveled up, till there was little left of it but seeds and skin), and having seen no fruit for so long a time, and being faint with hunger, i was tempted just to bite it.
the instant i tasted it, king pluto and quicksilver came into the room.
i had not swallowed a morsel; but dear mother, i hope it was no harm but six of the pomegranate seeds, i am afraid, remained in my mouth."
"ah, unfortunate child, and miserable me!"
exclaimed ceres.
"for each of those six pomegranate seeds you must spend one month of every year in king pluto's palace.
you are but half restored to your mother.
only six months with me, and six with that good-for-nothing king of darkness!"
"do not speak so harshly of poor king pluto," said prosperina, kissing her mother.
"he has some very good qualities; and i really think i can bear to spend six months in his palace, if he will only let me spend the other six with you.
he certainly did very wrong to carry me off; but then, as he says, it was but a dismal sort of life for him, to live in that great gloomy place, all alone; and it has made a wonderful change in his spirits to have a little girl to run up stairs and down.
there is some comfort in making him so happy; and so, upon the whole, dearest mother, let us be thankful that he is not to keep me the whole year round."
the golden fleece.
when jason, the son of the dethroned king of iolchos, was a little boy, he was sent away from his parents, and placed under the queerest schoolmaster that ever you heard of.
this learned person was one of the people, or quadrupeds, called centaurs.
he lived in a cavern, and had the body and legs of a white horse, with the head and shoulders of a man.
his name was chiron; and, in spite of his odd appearance, he was a very excellent teacher, and had several scholars, who afterwards did him credit by making a great figure in the world.
the famous hercules was one, and so was achilles, and philoctetes likewise, and aesculapius, who acquired immense repute as a doctor.
the good chiron taught his pupils how to play upon the harp, and how to cure diseases, and how to use the sword and shield, together with various other branches of education, in which the lads of those days used to be instructed, instead of writing and arithmetic.
i have sometimes suspected that master chiron was not really very different from other people, but that, being a kind-hearted and merry old fellow, he was in the habit of making believe that he was a horse, and scrambling about the schoolroom on all fours, and letting the little boys ride upon his back.
and so, when his scholars had grown up, and grown old, and were trotting their grandchildren on their knees, they told them about the sports of their school days; and these young folks took the idea that their grandfathers had been taught their letters by a centaur, half man and half horse.
little children, not quite understanding what is said to them, often get such absurd notions into their heads, you know.
be that as it may, it has always been told for a fact (and always will be told, as long as the world lasts), that chiron, with the head of a schoolmaster, had the body and legs of a horse.
just imagine the grave old gentleman clattering and stamping into the schoolroom on his four hoofs, perhaps treading on some little fellow's toes, flourishing his switch tail instead of a rod, and, now and then, trotting out of doors to eat a mouthful of grass!
i wonder what the blacksmith charged him for a set of iron shoes?
so jason dwelt in the cave, with this four-footed chiron, from the time that he was an infant, only a few months old, until he had grown to the full height of a man.
he became a very good harper, i suppose, and skilful in the use of weapons, and tolerably acquainted with herbs and other doctor's stuff, and, above all, an admirable horseman; for, in teaching young people to ride, the good chiron must have been without a rival among schoolmasters.
at length, being now a tall and athletic youth, jason resolved to seek his fortune in the world, without asking chiron's advice, or telling him anything about the matter.
this was very unwise, to be sure; and i hope none of you, my little hearers, will ever follow jason's example.
but, you are to understand, he had heard how that he himself was a prince royal, and how his father, king jason, had been deprived of the kingdom of iolchos by a certain pelias, who would also have killed jason, had he not been hidden in the centaur's cave.
and, being come to the strength of a man, jason determined to set all this business to rights, and to punish the wicked pelias for wronging his dear father, and to cast him down from the throne, and seat himself there instead.
with this intention, he took a spear in each hand, and threw a leopard's skin over his shoulders, to keep off the rain, and set forth on his travels, with his long yellow ringlets waving in the wind.
the part of his dress on which he most prided himself was a pair of sandals, that had been his father's.
they were handsomely embroidered, and were tied upon his feet with strings of gold.
but his whole attire was such as people did not very often see; and as he passed along, the women and children ran to the doors and windows, wondering whither this beautiful youth was journeying, with his leopard's skin and his golden-tied sandals, and what heroic deeds he meant to perform, with a spear in his right hand and another in his left.
i know not how far jason had traveled, when he came to a turbulent river, which rushed right across his pathway, with specks of white foam among its black eddies, hurrying tumultuously onward, and roaring angrily as it went.
though not a very broad river in the dry seasons of the year, it was now swollen by heavy rains and by the melting of the snow on the sides of mount olympus; and it thundered so loudly, and looked so wild and dangerous, that jason, bold as he was, thought it prudent to pause upon the brink.
the bed of the stream seemed to be strewn with sharp and rugged rocks, some of which thrust themselves above the water.
by and by, an uprooted tree, with shattered branches, came drifting along the current, and got entangled among the rocks.
now and then, a drowned sheep, and once the carcass of a cow, floated past.
in short, the swollen river had already done a great deal of mischief.
it was evidently too deep for jason to wade, and too boisterous for him to swim; he could see no bridge; and as for a boat, had there been any, the rocks would have broken it to pieces in an instant.
"see the poor lad," said a cracked voice close to his side.
"he must have had but a poor education, since he does not know how to cross a little stream like this.
or is he afraid of wetting his fine golden-stringed sandals?
it is a pity his four-footed schoolmaster is not here to carry him safely across on his back!"
jason looked round greatly surprised, for he did not know that anybody was near.
but beside him stood an old woman, with a ragged mantle over her head, leaning on a staff, the top of which was carved into the shape of a cuckoo.
she looked very aged, and wrinkled, and infirm; and yet her eyes, which were as brown as those of an ox, were so extremely large and beautiful, that, when they were fixed on jason's eyes, he could see nothing else but them.
the old woman had a pomegranate in her hand, although the fruit was then quite out of season.
"whither are you going, jason?"
she now asked.
she seemed to know his name, you will observe; and, indeed, those great brown eyes looked as if they had a knowledge of everything, whether past or to come.
while jason was gazing at her, a peacock strutted forward, and took his stand at the old woman's side.
"i am going to iolchos," answered the young man, "to bid the wicked king pelias come down from my father's throne, and let me reign in his stead."
"ah, well, then," said the old woman, still with the same cracked voice, "if that is all your business, you need not be in a very great hurry.
just take me on your back, there's a good youth, and carry me across the river.
i and my peacock have something to do on the other side, as well as yourself."
"good mother," replied jason, "your business can hardly be so important as the pulling down a king from his throne.
besides, as you may see for yourself, the river is very boisterous; and if i should chance to stumble, it would sweep both of us away more easily than it has carried off yonder uprooted tree.
i would gladly help you if i could; but i doubt whether i am strong enough to carry you across."
"then," said she, very scornfully, "neither are you strong enough to pull king pelias off his throne.
and, jason, unless you will help an old woman at her need, you ought not to be a king.
what are kings made for, save to succor the feeble and distressed?
but do as you please.
either take me on your back, or with my poor old limbs i shall try my best to struggle across the stream."
saying this, the old woman poked with her staff in the river, as if to find the safest place in its rocky bed where she might make the first step.
but jason, by this time, had grown ashamed of his reluctance to help her.
he felt that he could never forgive himself, if this poor feeble creature should come to any harm in attempting to wrestle against the headlong current.
the good chiron, whether half horse or no, had taught him that the noblest use of his strength was to assist the weak; and also that he must treat every young woman as if she were his sister, and every old one like a mother.
remembering these maxims, the vigorous and beautiful young man knelt down, and requested the good dame to mount upon his back.
"the passage seems to me not very safe," he remarked.
"but as your business is so urgent, i will try to carry you across.
if the river sweeps you away, it shall take me too."
"that, no doubt, will be a great comfort to both of us," quoth the old woman.
"but never fear.
we shall get safely across."
so she threw her arms around jason's neck; and lifting her from the ground, he stepped boldly into the raging and foaming current, and began to stagger away from the shore.
as for the peacock, it alighted on the old dame's shoulder.
jason's two spears, one in each hand, kept him from stumbling, and enabled him to feel his way among the hidden rocks; although every instant, he expected that his companion and himself would go down the stream, together with the driftwood of shattered trees, and the carcasses of the sheep and cow.
down came the cold, snowy torrent from the steep side of olympus, raging and thundering as if it had a real spite against jason, or, at all events, were determined to snatch off his living burden from his shoulders.
when he was half way across, the uprooted tree (which i have already told you about) broke loose from among the rocks, and bore down upon him, with all its splintered branches sticking out like the hundred arms of the giant briareus.
it rushed past, however, without touching him.
but the next moment his foot was caught in a crevice between two rocks, and stuck there so fast, that, in the effort to get free, he lost one of his golden-stringed sandals.
at this accident jason could not help uttering a cry of vexation.
"what is the matter, jason?"
asked the old woman.
"matter enough," said the young man.
"i have lost a sandal here among the rocks.
and what sort of a figure shall i cut, at the court of king pelias, with a golden-stringed sandal on one foot, and the other foot bare!"
"do not take it to heart," answered his companion cheerily.
"you never met with better fortune than in losing that sandal.
it satisfies me that you are the very person whom the speaking oak has been talking about."
there was no time, just then, to inquire what the speaking oak had said.
but the briskness of her tone encouraged the young man; and, besides, he had never in his life felt so vigorous and mighty as since taking this old woman on his back.
instead of being exhausted, he gathered strength as he went on; and, struggling up against the torrent, he at last gained the opposite shore, clambered up the bank, and set down the old dame and her peacock safely on the grass.
as soon as this was done, however, he could not help looking rather despondently at his bare foot, with only a remnant of the golden string of the sandal clinging round his ankle.
"you will get a handsomer pair of sandals by and by," said the old woman, with a kindly look out of her beautiful brown eyes.
"only let king pelias get a glimpse of that bare foot, and you shall see him turn as pale as ashes, i promise you.
there is your path.
go along, my good jason, and my blessing go with you.
and when you sit on your throne remember the old woman whom you helped over the river."
with these words, she hobbled away, giving him a smile over her shoulder as she departed.
whether the light of her beautiful brown eyes threw a glory round about her, or whatever the cause might be, jason fancied that there was something very noble and majestic in her figure, after all, and that, though her gait seemed to be a rheumatic hobble, yet she moved with as much grace and dignity as any queen on earth.
her peacock, which had now fluttered down from her shoulder, strutted behind her in a prodigious pomp, and spread out its magnificent tail on purpose for jason to admire it.
when the old dame and her peacock were out of sight, jason set forward on his journey.
after traveling a pretty long distance, he came to a town situated at the foot of a mountain, and not a great way from the shore of the sea.
on the outside of the town there was an immense crowd of people, not only men and women, but children too, all in their best clothes, and evidently enjoying a holiday.
the crowd was thickest towards the sea-shore; and in that direction, over the people's heads, jason saw a wreath of smoke curling upward to the blue sky.
he inquired of one of the multitude what town it was near by, and why so many persons were here assembled together.
"this is the kingdom of iolchos," answered the man, "and we are the subjects of king pelias.
our monarch has summoned us together, that we may see him sacrifice a black bull to neptune, who, they say, is his majesty's father.
yonder is the king, where you see the smoke going up from the altar."
while the man spoke he eyed jason with great curiosity; for his garb was quite unlike that of the iolchians, and it looked very odd to see a youth with a leopard's skin over his shoulders, and each hand grasping a spear.
jason perceived, too, that the man stared particularly at his feet, one of which, you remember, was bare, while the other was decorated with his father's golden-stringed sandal.
"look at him!
only look at him!"
said the man to his next neighbor.
"do you see?
he wears but one sandal!"
upon this, first one person, and then another, began to stare at jason, and everybody seemed to be greatly struck with something in his aspect; though they turned their eyes much oftener towards his feet than to any other part of his figure.
besides, he could hear them whispering to one another.
"one sandal!
one sandal!"
they kept saying.
"the man with one sandal!
here he is at last!
whence has he come?
what does he mean to do?
what will the king say to the one-sandaled man?"
poor jason was greatly abashed, and made up his mind that the people of iolchos were exceedingly ill-bred, to take such public notice of an accidental deficiency in his dress.
meanwhile, whether it were that they hustled him forward, or that jason, of his own accord, thrust a passage through the crowd, it so happened that he soon found himself close to the smoking altar, where king pelias was sacrificing the black bull.
the murmur and hum of the multitude, in their surprise at the spectacle of jason with his one bare foot, grew so loud that it disturbed the ceremonies; and the king, holding the great knife with which he was just going to cut the bull's throat, turned angrily about, and fixed his eyes on jason.
the people had now withdrawn from around him, so that the youth stood in an open space, near the smoking altar, front to front with the angry king pelias.
"who are you?"
cried the king, with a terrible frown.
"and how dare you make this disturbance, while i am sacrificing a black bull to my father neptune?"
"it is no fault of mine," answered jason.
"your majesty must blame the rudeness of your subjects, who have raised all this tumult because one of my feet happens to be bare."
when jason said this, the king gave a quick startled glance down at his feet.
"ha!"
muttered he, "here is the one-sandaled fellow, sure enough!
what can i do with him?"
and he clutched more closely the great knife in his hand, as if he were half a mind to slay jason, instead of the black bull.
the people round about caught up the king's words, indistinctly as they were uttered; and first there was a murmur amongst them, and then a loud shout.
"the one-sandaled man has come!
the prophecy must be fulfilled!"
for you are to know, that, many years before, king pelias had been told by the speaking oak of dodona, that a man with one sandal should cast him down from his throne.
on this account, he had given strict orders that nobody should ever come into his presence, unless both sandals were securely tied upon his feet; and he kept an officer in his palace, whose sole business it was to examine people's sandals, and to supply them with a new pair, at the expense of the royal treasury, as soon as the old ones began to wear out.
in the whole course of the king's reign, he had never been thrown into such a fright and agitation as by the spectacle of poor jason's bare foot.
but, as he was naturally a bold and hard-hearted man, he soon took courage, and began to consider in what way he might rid himself of this terrible one-sandaled stranger.
"my good young man," said king pelias, taking the softest tone imaginable, in order to throw jason off his guard, "you are excessively welcome to my kingdom.
judging by your dress, you must have traveled a long distance, for it is not the fashion to wear leopard skins in this part of the world.
pray what may i call your name?
and where did you receive your education?"
"my name is jason," answered the young stranger.
"ever since my infancy, i have dwelt in the cave of chiron the centaur.
he was my instructor, and taught me music, and horsemanship, and how to cure wounds, and likewise how to inflict wounds with my weapons!"
"i have heard of chiron the schoolmaster," replied king pelias, "and how that there is an immense deal of learning and wisdom in his head, although it happens to be set on a horse's body.
it gives me great delight to see one of his scholars at my court.
but to test how much you have profited under so excellent a teacher, will you allow me to ask you a single question?"
"i do not pretend to be very wise," said jason.
"but ask me what you please, and i will answer to the best of my ability."
now king pelias meant cunningly to entrap the young man, and to make him say something that should be the cause of mischief and distraction to himself.
so, with a crafty and evil smile upon his face, he spoke as follows:
"what would you do, brave jason," asked he, "if there were a man in the world, by whom, as you had reason to believe, you were doomed to be ruined and slain what would you do, i say, if that man stood before you, and in your power?"
when jason saw the malice and wickedness which king pelias could not prevent from gleaming out of his eyes, he probably guessed that the king had discovered what he came for, and that he intended to turn his own words against himself.
still he scorned to tell a falsehood.
like an upright and honorable prince as he was, he determined to speak out the real truth.
since the king had chosen to ask him the question, and since jason had promised him an answer, there was no right way save to tell him precisely what would be the most prudent thing to do, if he had his worst enemy in his power.
therefore, after a moment's consideration, he spoke up, with a firm and manly voice.
"i would send such a man," said he, "in quest of the golden fleece!"
this enterprise, you will understand, was, of all others, the most difficult and dangerous in the world.
in the first place it would be necessary to make a long voyage through unknown seas.
there was hardly a hope, or a possibility, that any young man who should undertake this voyage would either succeed in obtaining the golden fleece, or would survive to return home, and tell of the perils he had run.
the eyes of king pelias sparkled with joy, therefore, when he heard jason's reply.
"well said, wise man with the one sandal!"
cried he.
"go, then, and at the peril of your life, bring me back the golden fleece."
"i go," answered jason, composedly.
"if i fail, you need not fear that i will ever come back to trouble you again.
but if i return to iolchos with the prize, then, king pelias, you must hasten down from your lofty throne, and give me your crown and sceptre."
"that i will," said the king, with a sneer.
"meantime, i will keep them very safely for you."
the first thing that jason thought of doing, after he left the king's presence, was to go to dodona, and inquire of the talking oak what course it was best to pursue.
this wonderful tree stood in the center of an ancient wood.
its stately trunk rose up a hundred feet into the air, and threw a broad and dense shadow over more than an acre of ground.
standing beneath it, jason looked up among the knotted branches and green leaves, and into the mysterious heart of the old tree, and spoke aloud, as if he were addressing some person who was hidden in the depths of the foliage.
"what shall i do," said he, "in order to win the golden fleece?"
at first there was a deep silence, not only within the shadow of the talking oak, but all through the solitary wood.
in a moment or two, however, the leaves of the oak began to stir and rustle, as if a gentle breeze were wandering amongst them, although the other trees of the wood were perfectly still.
the sound grew louder, and became like the roar of a high wind.
by and by, jason imagined that he could distinguish words, but very confusedly, because each separate leaf of the tree seemed to be a tongue, and the whole myriad of tongues were babbling at once.
but the noise waxed broader and deeper, until it resembled a tornado sweeping through the oak, and making one great utterance out of the thousand and thousand of little murmurs which each leafy tongue had caused by its rustling.
and now, though it still had the tone of a mighty wind roaring among the branches, it was also like a deep bass voice, speaking as distinctly as a tree could be expected to speak, the following words:
"go to argus, the shipbuilder, and bid him build a galley with fifty oars."
then the voice melted again into the indistinct murmur of the rustling leaves, and died gradually away.
when it was quite gone, jason felt inclined to doubt whether he had actually heard the words, or whether his fancy had not shaped them out of the ordinary sound made by a breeze, while passing through the thick foliage of the tree.
but on inquiry among the people of iolchos, he found that there was really a man in the city, by the name of argus, who was a very skilful builder of vessels.
this showed some intelligence in the oak; else how should it have known that any such person existed?
at jason's request, argus readily consented to build him a galley so big that it should require fifty strong men to row it; although no vessel of such a size and burden had heretofore been seen in the world.
so the head carpenter and all his journeymen and apprentices began their work; and for a good while afterwards, there they were, busily employed, hewing out the timbers, and making a great clatter with their hammers; until the new ship, which was called the argo, seemed to be quite ready for sea.
and, as the talking oak had already given him such good advice, jason thought that it would not be amiss to ask for a little more.
he visited it again, therefore, and standing beside its huge, rough trunk, inquired what he should do next.
this time, there was no such universal quivering of the leaves, throughout the whole tree, as there had been before.
but after a while, jason observed that the foliage of a great branch which stretched above his head had begun to rustle, as if the wind were stirring that one bough, while all the other boughs of the oak were at rest.
"cut me off!"
said the branch, as soon as it could speak distinctly; "cut me off!
cut me off!
and carve me into a figure-head for your galley."
accordingly, jason took the branch at its word, and lopped it off the tree.
a carver in the neighborhood engaged to make the figurehead.
he was a tolerably good workman, and had already carved several figure-heads, in what he intended for feminine shapes, and looking pretty much like those which we see nowadays stuck up under a vessel's bowsprit, with great staring eyes, that never wink at the dash of the spray.
but (what was very strange) the carver found that his hand was guided by some unseen power, and by a skill beyond his own, and that his tools shaped out an image which he had never dreamed of.
when the work was finished, it turned out to be the figure of a beautiful woman, with a helmet on her head, from beneath which the long ringlets fell down upon her shoulders.
on the left arm was a shield, and in its center appeared a lifelike representation of the head of medusa with the snaky locks.
the right arm was extended, as if pointing onward.
the face of this wonderful statue, though not angry or forbidding, was so grave and majestic, that perhaps you might call it severe; and as for the mouth, it seemed just ready to unclose its lips, and utter words of the deepest wisdom.
jason was delighted with the oaken image, and gave the carver no rest until it was completed, and set up where a figure-head has always stood, from that time to this, in the vessel's prow.
"and now," cried he, as he stood gazing at the calm, majestic face of the statue, "i must go to the talking oak and inquire what next to do."
"there is no need of that, jason," said a voice which, though it was far lower, reminded him of the mighty tones of the great oak.
"when you desire good advice, you can seek it of me."
jason had been looking straight into the face of the image when these words were spoken.
but he could hardly believe either his ears or his eyes.
the truth was, however, that the oaken lips had moved, and, to all appearance, the voice had proceeded from the statue's mouth.
recovering a little from his surprise, jason bethought himself that the image had been carved out of the wood of the talking oak, and that, therefore, it was really no great wonder, but on the contrary, the most natural thing in the world, that it should possess the faculty of speech.
it would have been very odd, indeed, if it had not.
but certainly it was a great piece of good fortune that he should be able to carry so wise a block of wood along with him in his perilous voyage.
"tell me, wondrous image," exclaimed jason, "since you inherit the wisdom of the speaking oak of dodona, whose daughter you are, tell me, where shall i find fifty bold youths, who will take each of them an oar of my galley?
they must have sturdy arms to row, and brave hearts to encounter perils, or we shall never win the golden fleece."
"go," replied the oaken image, "go, summon all the heroes of greece."
and, in fact, considering what a great deed was to be done, could any advice be wiser than this which jason received from the figure-head of his vessel?
he lost no time in sending messengers to all the cities, and making known to the whole people of greece, that prince jason, the son of king jason, was going in quest of the fleece of gold, and that he desired the help of forty-nine of the bravest and strongest young men alive, to row his vessel and share his dangers.
and jason himself would be the fiftieth.
at this news, the adventurous youths, all over the country, began to bestir themselves.
some of them had already fought with giants, and slain dragons; and the younger ones, who had not yet met with such good fortune, thought it a shame to have lived so long without getting astride of a flying serpent, or sticking their spears into a chimaera, or, at least, thrusting their right arms down a monstrous lion's throat.
there was a fair prospect that they would meet with plenty of such adventures before finding the golden fleece.
as soon as they could furbish up their helmets and shields, therefore, and gird on their trusty swords, they came thronging to iolchos, and clambered on board the new galley.
shaking hands with jason, they assured him that they did not care a pin for their lives, but would help row the vessel to the remotest edge of the world, and as much farther as he might think it best to go.
many of these brave fellows had been educated by chiron, the four-footed pedagogue, and were therefore old schoolmates of jason, and knew him to be a lad of spirit.
the mighty hercules, whose shoulders afterwards upheld the sky, was one of them.
and there were castor and pollux, the twin brothers, who were never accused of being chicken-hearted, although they had been hatched out of an egg; and theseus, who was so renowned for killing the minotaur, and lynceus, with his wonderfully sharp eyes, which could see through a millstone, or look right down into the depths of the earth, and discover the treasures that were there; and orpheus, the very best of harpers, who sang and played upon his lyre so sweetly, that the brute beasts stood upon their hind legs, and capered merrily to the music.
yes, and at some of his more moving tunes, the rocks bestirred their moss-grown bulk out of the ground, and a grove of forest trees uprooted themselves, and, nodding their tops to one another, performed a country dance.
one of the rowers was a beautiful young woman, named atalanta, who had been nursed among the mountains by a bear.
so light of foot was this fair damsel, that she could step from one foamy crest of a wave to the foamy crest of another, without wetting more than the sole of her sandal.
she had grown up in a very wild way, and talked much about the rights of women, and loved hunting and war far better than her needle.
but in my opinion, the most remarkable of this famous company were two sons of the north wind (airy youngsters, and of rather a blustering disposition) who had wings on their shoulders, and, in case of a calm, could puff out their cheeks, and blow almost as fresh a breeze as their father.
i ought not to forget the prophets and conjurors, of whom there were several in the crew, and who could foretell what would happen to-morrow or the next day, or a hundred years hence, but were generally quite unconscious of what was passing at the moment.
jason appointed tiphys to be helmsman because he was a star-gazer, and knew the points of the compass.
lynceus, on account of his sharp sight, was stationed as a look-out in the prow, where he saw a whole day's sail ahead, but was rather apt to overlook things that lay directly under his nose.
if the sea only happened to be deep enough, however, lynceus could tell you exactly what kind of rocks or sands were at the bottom of it; and he often cried out to his companions, that they were sailing over heaps of sunken treasure, which yet he was none the richer for beholding.
to confess the truth, few people believed him when he said it.
well!
but when the argonauts, as these fifty brave adventurers were called, had prepared everything for the voyage, an unforeseen difficulty threatened to end it before it was begun.
the vessel, you must understand, was so long, and broad, and ponderous, that the united force of all the fifty was insufficient to shove her into the water.
hercules, i suppose, had not grown to his full strength, else he might have set her afloat as easily as a little boy launches his boat upon a puddle.
but here were these fifty heroes, pushing, and straining, and growing red in the face, without making the argo start an inch.
at last, quite wearied out, they sat themselves down on the shore exceedingly disconsolate, and thinking that the vessel must be left to rot and fall in pieces, and that they must either swim across the sea or lose the golden fleece.
all at once, jason bethought himself of the galley's miraculous figure-head.
"o, daughter of the talking oak," cried he, "how shall we set to work to get our vessel into the water?"
"seat yourselves," answered the image (for it had known what had ought to be done from the very first, and was only waiting for the question to be put), "seat yourselves, and handle your oars, and let orpheus play upon his harp."
immediately the fifty heroes got on board, and seizing their oars, held them perpendicularly in the air, while orpheus (who liked such a task far better than rowing) swept his fingers across the harp.
at the first ringing note of the music, they felt the vessel stir.
orpheus thrummed away briskly, and the galley slid at once into the sea, dipping her prow so deeply that the figure-head drank the wave with its marvelous lips, and rising again as buoyant as a swan.
the rowers plied their fifty oars; the white foam boiled up before the prow; the water gurgled and bubbled in their wake; while orpheus continued to play so lively a strain of music, that the vessel seemed to dance over the billows by way of keeping time to it.
thus triumphantly did the argo sail out of the harbor, amidst the huzzas and good wishes of everybody except the wicked old pelias, who stood on a promontory, scowling at her, and wishing that he could blow out of his lungs the tempest of wrath that was in his heart, and so sink the galley with all on board.
when they had sailed above fifty miles over the sea, lynceus happened to cast his sharp eyes behind, and said that there was this bad-hearted king, still perched upon the promontory, and scowling so gloomily that it looked like a black thunder-cloud in that quarter of the horizon.
in order to make the time pass away more pleasantly during the voyage, the heroes talked about the golden fleece.
it originally belonged, it appears, to a boeotian ram, who had taken on his back two children, when in danger of their lives, and fled with them over land and sea as far as colchis.
one of the children, whose name was helle, fell into the sea and was drowned.
but the other (a little boy, named phrixus) was brought safe ashore by the faithful ram, who, however, was so exhausted that he immediately lay down and died.
in memory of this good deed, and as a token of his true heart, the fleece of the poor dead ram was miraculously changed to gold, and became one of the most beautiful objects ever seen on earth.
it was hung upon a tree in a sacred grove, where it had now been kept i know not how many years, and was the envy of mighty kings, who had nothing so magnificent in any of their palaces.
if i were to tell you all the adventures of the argonauts, it would take me till nightfall, and perhaps a great deal longer.
there was no lack of wonderful events, as you may judge from what you have already heard.
at a certain island, they were hospitably received by king cyzicus, its sovereign, who made a feast for them, and treated them like brothers.
but the argonauts saw that this good king looked downcast and very much troubled, and they therefore inquired of him what was the matter.
king cyzicus hereupon informed them that he and his subjects were greatly abused and incommoded by the inhabitants of a neighboring mountain, who made war upon them, and killed many people, and ravaged the country.
and while they were talking about it, cyzicus pointed to the mountain, and asked jason and his companions what they saw there.
"i see some very tall objects," answered jason; "but they are at such a distance that i cannot distinctly make out what they are.
to tell your majesty the truth, they look so very strangely that i am inclined to think them clouds, which have chanced to take something like human shapes."
"i see them very plainly," remarked lynceus, whose eyes, you know, were as far-sighted as a telescope.
"they are a band of enormous giants, all of whom have six arms apiece, and a club, a sword, or some other weapon in each of their hands."
"you have excellent eyes," said king cyzicus.
"yes; they are six-armed giants, as you say, and these are the enemies whom i and my subjects have to contend with."
the next day, when the argonauts were about setting sail, down came these terrible giants, stepping a hundred yards at a stride, brandishing their six arms apiece, and looking formidable, so far aloft in the air.
each of these monsters was able to carry on a whole war by himself, for with one arm he could fling immense stones, and wield a club with another, and a sword with a third, while the fourth was poking a long spear at the enemy, and the fifth and sixth were shooting him with a bow and arrow.
but, luckily, though the giants were so huge, and had so many arms, they had each but one heart, and that no bigger nor braver than the heart of an ordinary man.
besides, if they had been like the hundred-armed briareus, the brave argonauts would have given them their hands full of fight.
jason and his friends went boldly to meet them, slew a great many, and made the rest take to their heels, so that if the giants had had six legs apiece instead of six arms, it would have served them better to run away with.
another strange adventure happened when the voyagers came to thrace, where they found a poor blind king, named phineus, deserted by his subjects, and living in a very sorrowful way, all by himself.
on jason's inquiring whether they could do him any service, the king answered that he was terribly tormented by three great winged creatures, called harpies, which had the faces of women, and the wings, bodies, and claws of vultures.
these ugly wretches were in the habit of snatching away his dinner, and allowed him no peace of his life.
upon hearing this, the argonauts spread a plentiful feast on the sea-shore, well knowing, from what the blind king said of their greediness, that the harpies would snuff up the scent of the victuals, and quickly come to steal them away.
and so it turned out; for, hardly was the table set, before the three hideous vulture women came flapping their wings, seized the food in their talons, and flew off as fast as they could.
but the two sons of the north wind drew their swords, spread their pinions, and set off through the air in pursuit of the thieves, whom they at last overtook among some islands, after a chase of hundreds of miles.
the two winged youths blustered terribly at the harpies (for they had the rough temper of their father), and so frightened them with their drawn swords, that they solemnly promised never to trouble king phineus again.
then the argonauts sailed onward and met with many other marvelous incidents, any one of which would make a story by itself.
at one time they landed on an island, and were reposing on the grass, when they suddenly found themselves assailed by what seemed a shower of steel-headed arrows.
some of them stuck in the ground, while others hit against their shields, and several penetrated their flesh.
the fifty heroes started up, and looked about them for the hidden enemy, but could find none, nor see any spot, on the whole island, where even a single archer could lie concealed.
still, however, the steel-headed arrows came whizzing among them; and, at last, happening to look upward, they beheld a large flock of birds, hovering and wheeling aloft, and shooting their feathers down upon the argonauts.
these feathers were the steel-headed arrows that had so tormented them.
there was no possibility of making any resistance; and the fifty heroic argonauts might all have been killed or wounded by a flock of troublesome birds, without ever setting eyes on the golden fleece, if jason had not thought of asking the advice of the oaken image.
so he ran to the galley as fast as his legs would carry him.
"o, daughter of the speaking oak," cried he, all out of breath, "we need your wisdom more than ever before!
we are in great peril from a flock of birds, who are shooting us with their steel-pointed feathers.
what can we do to drive them away?"
"make a clatter on your shields," said the image.
on receiving this excellent counsel, jason hurried back to his companions (who were far more dismayed than when they fought with the six-armed giants), and bade them strike with their swords upon their brazen shields.
forthwith the fifty heroes set heartily to work, banging with might and main, and raised such a terrible clatter, that the birds made what haste they could to get away; and though they had shot half the feathers out of their wings, they were soon seen skimming among the clouds, a long distance off, and looking like a flock of wild geese.
orpheus celebrated this victory by playing a triumphant anthem on his harp, and sang so melodiously that jason begged him to desist, lest, as the steel-feathered birds had been driven away by an ugly sound, they might be enticed back again by a sweet one.
while the argonauts remained on this island, they saw a small vessel approaching the shore, in which were two young men of princely demeanor, and exceedingly handsome, as young princes generally were, in those days.
now, who do you imagine these two voyagers turned out to be?
why, if you will believe me, they were the sons of that very phrixus, who, in his childhood, had been carried to colchis on the back of the golden-fleeced ram.
since that time, phrixus had married the king's daughter; and the two young princes had been born and brought up at colchis, and had spent their play-days in the outskirts of the grove, in the center of which the golden fleece was hanging upon a tree.
they were now on their way to greece, in hopes of getting back a kingdom that had been wrongfully taken from their father.
when the princes understood whither the argonauts were going, they offered to turn back, and guide them to colchis.
at the same time, however, they spoke as if it were very doubtful whether jason would succeed in getting the golden fleece.
according to their account, the tree on which it hung was guarded by a terrible dragon, who never failed to devour, at one mouthful, every person who might venture within his reach.
"there are other difficulties in the way," continued the young princes.
"but is not this enough?
ah, brave jason, turn back before it is too late.
it would grieve us to the heart, if you and your nine and forty brave companions should be eaten up, at fifty mouthfuls, by this execrable dragon."
"my young friends," quietly replied jason, "i do not wonder that you think the dragon very terrible.
you have grown up from infancy in the fear of this monster, and therefore still regard him with the awe that children feel for the bugbears and hobgoblins which their nurses have talked to them about.
but, in my view of the matter, the dragon is merely a pretty large serpent, who is not half so likely to snap me up at one mouthful as i am to cut off his ugly head, and strip the skin from his body.
at all events, turn back who may, i will never see greece again, unless i carry with me the golden fleece."
"we will none of us turn back!"
cried his nine and forty brave comrades.
"let us get on board the galley this instant; and if the dragon is to make a breakfast of us, much good may it do him."
and orpheus (whose custom it was to set everything to music) began to harp and sing most gloriously, and made every mother's son of them feel as if nothing in this world were so delectable as to fight dragons, and nothing so truly honorable as to be eaten up at one mouthful, in case of the worst.
after this (being now under the guidance of the two princes, who were well acquainted with the way), they quickly sailed to colchis.
when the king of the country, whose name was aetes, heard of their arrival, he instantly summoned jason to court.
the king was a stern and cruel looking potentate; and though he put on as polite and hospitable an expression as he could, jason did not like his face a whit better than that of the wicked king pelias, who dethroned his father.
"you are welcome, brave jason," said king aetes.
"pray, are you on a pleasure voyage?
or do you meditate the discovery of unknown islands?
or what other cause has procured me the happiness of seeing you at my court?"
"great sir," replied jason, with an obeisance for chiron had taught him how to behave with propriety, whether to kings or beggars "i have come hither with a purpose which i now beg your majesty's permission to execute.
king pelias, who sits on my father's throne (to which he has no more right than to the one on which your excellent majesty is now seated), has engaged to come down from it, and to give me his crown and sceptre, provided i bring him the golden fleece.
this, as your majesty is aware, is now hanging on a tree here at colchis; and i humbly solicit your gracious leave to take it away."
in spite of himself, the king's face twisted itself into an angry frown; for, above all things else in the world, he prized the golden fleece, and was even suspected of having done a very wicked act, in order to get it into his own possession.
it put him into the worst possible humor, therefore, to hear that the gallant prince jason, and forty-nine of the bravest young warriors of greece, had come to colchis with the sole purpose of taking away his chief treasure.
"do you know," asked king aetes, eyeing jason very sternly, "what are the conditions which you must fulfill before getting possession of the golden fleece?"
"i have heard," rejoined the youth, "that a dragon lies beneath the tree on which the prize hangs, and that whoever approaches him runs the risk of being devoured at a mouthful."
"true," said the king, with a smile that did not look particularly good-natured.
"very true, young man.
but there are other things as hard, or perhaps a little harder, to be done before you can even have the privilege of being devoured by the dragon.
for example, you must first tame my two brazen-footed and brazen-lunged bulls, which vulcan, the wonderful blacksmith, made for me.
there is a furnace in each of their stomachs; and they breathe such hot fire out of their mouths and nostrils, that nobody has hitherto gone nigh them without being instantly burned to a small, black cinder.
what do you think of this, my brave jason?"
"i must encounter the peril," answered jason, composedly, "since it stands in the way of my purpose."
"after taming the fiery bulls," continued king aetes, who was determined to scare jason if possible, "you must yoke them to a plow, and must plow the sacred earth in the grove of mars, and sow some of the same dragon's teeth from which cadmus raised a crop of armed men.
they are an unruly set of reprobates, those sons of the dragon's teeth; and unless you treat them suitably, they will fall upon you sword in hand.
you and your nine and forty argonauts, my bold jason, are hardly numerous or strong enough to fight with such a host as will spring up."
"my master chiron," replied jason, "taught me, long ago, the story of cadmus.
perhaps i can manage the quarrelsome sons of the dragon's teeth as well as cadmus did."
"i wish the dragon had him," muttered king aetes to himself, "and the four-footed pedant, his schoolmaster, into the bargain.
why, what a foolhardy, self-conceited coxcomb he is!
we'll see what my fire-breathing bulls will do for him.
well, prince jason," he continued, aloud, and as complaisantly as he could, "make yourself comfortable for to-day, and to-morrow morning, since you insist upon it, you shall try your skill at the plow."
while the king talked with jason, a beautiful young woman was standing behind the throne.
she fixed her eyes earnestly upon the youthful stranger, and listened attentively to every word that was spoken; and when jason withdrew from the king's presence, this young woman followed him out of the room.
"i am the king's daughter," she said to him, "and my name is medea.
i know a great deal of which other young princesses are ignorant, and can do many things which they would be afraid so much as to dream of.
if you will trust to me, i can instruct you how to tame the fiery bulls, and sow the dragon's teeth, and get the golden fleece."
"indeed, beautiful princess," answered jason, "if you will do me this service, i promise to be grateful to you my whole life long."
gazing at medea, he beheld a wonderful intelligence in her face.
she was one of those persons whose eyes are full of mystery; so that, while looking into them, you seem to see a very great way, as into a deep well, yet can never be certain whether you see into the farthest depths, or whether there be not something else hidden at the bottom.
if jason had been capable of fearing anything, he would have been afraid of making this young princess his enemy; for, beautiful as she now looked, she might, the very next instant, become as terrible as the dragon that kept watch over the golden fleece.
"princess," he exclaimed, "you seem indeed very wise and very powerful.
but how can you help me to do the things of which you speak?
are you an enchantress?"
"yes, prince jason," answered medea, with a smile, "you have hit upon the truth.
i am an enchantress.
circe, my father's sister, taught me to be one, and i could tell you, if i pleased, who was the old woman with the peacock, the pomegranate, and the cuckoo staff, whom you carried over the river; and, likewise, who it is that speaks through the lips of the oaken image, that stands in the prow of your galley.
i am acquainted with some of your secrets, you perceive.
it is well for you that i am favorably inclined; for, otherwise, you would hardly escape being snapped up by the dragon."
"i should not so much care for the dragon," replied jason, "if i only knew how to manage the brazen-footed and fiery-lunged bulls."
"if you are as brave as i think you, and as you have need to be," said medea, "your own bold heart will teach you that there is but one way of dealing with a mad bull.
what it is i leave you to find out in the moment of peril.
as for the fiery breath of these animals, i have a charmed ointment here, which will prevent you from being burned up, and cure you if you chance to be a little scorched."
so she put a golden box into his hand, and directed him how to apply the perfumed unguent which it contained, and where to meet her at midnight.
"only be brave," added she, "and before daybreak the brazen bulls shall be tamed."
the young man assured her that his heart would not fail him.
he then rejoined his comrades, and told them what had passed between the princess and himself, and warned them to be in readiness in case there might be need of their help.
at the appointed hour he met the beautiful medea on the marble steps of the king's palace.
she gave him a basket, in which were the dragon's teeth, just as they had been pulled out of the monster's jaws by cadmus, long ago.
medea then led jason down the palace steps, and through the silent streets of the city, and into the royal pasture ground, where the two brazen-footed bulls were kept.
it was a starry night, with a bright gleam along the eastern edge of the sky, where the moon was soon going to show herself.
after entering the pasture, the princess paused and looked around.
"there they are," said she, "reposing themselves and chewing their fiery cuds in that farthest corner of the field.
it will be excellent sport, i assure you, when they catch a glimpse of your figure.
my father and all his court delight in nothing so much as to see a stranger trying to yoke them, in order to come at the golden fleece.
it makes a holiday in colchis whenever such a thing happens.
for my part, i enjoy it immensely.
you cannot imagine in what a mere twinkling of an eye their hot breath shrivels a young man into a black cinder."
"are you sure, beautiful medea," asked jason, "quite sure, that the unguent in the gold box will prove a remedy against those terrible burns?"
"if you doubt, if you are in the least afraid," said the princess, looking him in the face by the dim starlight, "you had better never have been born than to go a step nigher to the bulls."
but jason had set his heart steadfastly on getting the golden fleece; and i positively doubt whether he would have gone back without it, even had he been certain of finding himself turned into a red-hot cinder, or a handful of white ashes, the instant he made a step farther.
he therefore let go medea's hand, and walked boldly forward in the direction whither she had pointed.
at some distance before him he perceived four streams of fiery vapor, regularly appearing and again vanishing, after dimly lighting up the surrounding obscurity.
these, you will understand, were caused by the breath of the brazen bulls, which was quietly stealing out of their four nostrils, as they lay chewing their cuds.
at the first two or three steps which jason made, the four fiery streams appeared to gush out somewhat more plentifully; for the two brazen bulls had heard his foot tramp, and were lifting up their hot noses to snuff the air.
he went a little farther, and by the way in which the red vapor now spouted forth, he judged that the creatures had got upon their feet.
now he could see glowing sparks, and vivid jets of flame.
at the next step, each of the bulls made the pasture echo with a terrible roar, while the burning breath, which they thus belched forth, lit up the whole field with a momentary flash.
one other stride did bold jason make; and, suddenly as a streak of lightning, on came these fiery animals, roaring like thunder, and sending out sheets of white flame, which so kindled up the scene that the young man could discern every object more distinctly than by daylight.
most distinctly of all he saw the two horrible creatures galloping right down upon him, their brazen hoofs rattling and ringing over the ground, and their tails sticking up stiffly into the air, as has always been the fashion with angry bulls.
their breath scorched the herbage before them.
so intensely hot it was, indeed, that it caught a dry tree under which jason was now standing, and set it all in a light blaze.
but as for jason himself (thanks to medea's enchanted ointment), the white flame curled around his body, without injuring him a jot more than if he had been made of asbestos.
greatly encouraged at finding himself not yet turned into a cinder, the young man awaited the attack of the bulls.
just as the brazen brutes fancied themselves sure of tossing him into the air, he caught one of them by the horn, and the other by his screwed-up tail, and held them in a gripe like that of an iron vice, one with his right hand, the other with his left.
well, he must have been wonderfully strong in his arms, to be sure.
but the secret of the matter was, that the brazen bulls were enchanted creatures, and that jason had broken the spell of their fiery fierceness by his bold way of handling them.
and, ever since that time, it has been the favorite method of brave men, when danger assails them, to do what they call "taking the bull by the horns"; and to gripe him by the tail is pretty much the same thing that is, to throw aside fear, and overcome the peril by despising it.
it was now easy to yoke the bulls, and to harness them to the plow, which had lain rusting on the ground for a great many years gone by; so long was it before anybody could be found capable of plowing that piece of land.
jason, i suppose, had been taught how to draw a furrow by the good old chiron, who, perhaps, used to allow himself to be harnessed to the plow.
at any rate, our hero succeeded perfectly well in breaking up the greensward; and, by the time that the moon was a quarter of her journey up the sky, the plowed field lay before him, a large tract of black earth, ready to be sown with the dragon's teeth.
so jason scattered them broadcast, and harrowed them into the soil with a brush-harrow, and took his stand on the edge of the field, anxious to see what would happen next.
"must we wait long for harvest time?"
he inquired of medea, who was now standing by his side.
"whether sooner or later, it will be sure to come," answered the princess.
"a crop of armed men never fails to spring up, when the dragon's teeth have been sown."
the moon was now high aloft in the heavens, and threw its bright beams over the plowed field, where as yet there was nothing to be seen.
any farmer, on viewing it, would have said that jason must wait weeks before the green blades would peep from among the clods, and whole months before the yellow grain would be ripened for the sickle.
but by and by, all over the field, there was something that glistened in the moonbeams, like sparkling drops of dew.
these bright objects sprouted higher, and proved to be the steel heads of spears.
then there was a dazzling gleam from a vast number of polished brass helmets, beneath which, as they grew farther out of the soil, appeared the dark and bearded visages of warriors, struggling to free themselves from the imprisoning earth.
the first look that they gave at the upper world was a glare of wrath and defiance.
next were seen their bright breastplates; in every right hand there was a sword or a spear, and on each left arm a shield; and when this strange crop of warriors had but half grown out of the earth, they struggled such was their impatience of restraint and, as it were, tore themselves up by the roots.
wherever a dragon's tooth had fallen, there stood a man armed for battle.
they made a clangor with their swords against their shields, and eyed one another fiercely; for they had come into this beautiful world, and into the peaceful moonlight, full of rage and stormy passions, and ready to take the life of every human brother, in recompense of the boon of their own existence.
there have been many other armies in the world that seemed to possess the same fierce nature with the one which had now sprouted from the dragon's teeth; but these, in the moonlit field, were the more excusable, because they never had women for their mothers.
and how it would have rejoiced any great captain, who was bent on conquering the world, like alexander or napoleon, to raise a crop of armed soldiers as easily as jason did!
for a while, the warriors stood flourishing their weapons, clashing their swords against their shields, and boiling over with the red-hot thirst for battle.
then they began to shout "show us the enemy!
lead us to the charge!
death or victory!"
"come on, brave comrades!
conquer or die!"
and a hundred other outcries, such as men always bellow forth on a battle field, and which these dragon people seemed to have at their tongues' ends.
at last, the front rank caught sight of jason, who, beholding the flash of so many weapons in the moonlight, had thought it best to draw his sword.
in a moment all the sons of the dragon's teeth appeared to take jason for an enemy; and crying with one voice, "guard the golden fleece!"
they ran at him with uplifted swords and protruded spears.
jason knew that it would be impossible to withstand this blood-thirsty battalion with his single arm, but determined, since there was nothing better to be done, to die as valiantly as if he himself had sprung from a dragon's tooth.
medea, however, bade him snatch up a stone from the ground.
"throw it among them quickly!"
cried she.
"it is the only way to save yourself."
the armed men were now so nigh that jason could discern the fire flashing out of their enraged eyes, when he let fly the stone, and saw it strike the helmet of a tall warrior, who was rushing upon him with his blade aloft.
the stone glanced from this man's helmet to the shield of his nearest comrade, and thence flew right into the angry face of another, hitting him smartly between the eyes.
each of the three who had been struck by the stone took it for granted that his next neighbor had given him a blow; and instead of running any farther towards jason, they began to fight among themselves.
the confusion spread through the host, so that it seemed scarcely a moment before they were all hacking, hewing, and stabbing at one another, lopping off arms, heads, and legs and doing such memorable deeds that jason was filled with immense admiration; although, at the same time, he could not help laughing to behold these mighty men punishing each other for an offense which he himself had committed.
in an incredibly short space of time (almost as short, indeed, as it had taken them to grow up), all but one of the heroes of the dragon's teeth were stretched lifeless on the field.
the last survivor, the bravest and strongest of the whole, had just force enough to wave his crimson sword over his head and give a shout of exultation, crying, "victory!
victory!
immortal fame!"
when he himself fell down, and lay quietly among his slain brethren.
and there was the end of the army that had sprouted from the dragon's teeth.
that fierce and feverish fight was the only enjoyment which they had tasted on this beautiful earth.
"let them sleep in the bed of honor," said the princess medea, with a sly smile at jason.
"the world will always have simpletons enough, just like them, fighting and dying for they know not what, and fancying that posterity will take the trouble to put laurel wreaths on their rusty and battered helmets.
could you help smiling, prince jason, to see the self-conceit of that last fellow, just as he tumbled down?"
"it made me very sad," answered jason, gravely.
"and, to tell you the truth, princess, the golden fleece does not appear so well worth the winning, after what i have here beheld!"
"you will think differently in the morning," said medea.
"true, the golden fleece may not be so valuable as you have thought it; but then there is nothing better in the world; and one must needs have an object, you know.
come!
your night's work has been well performed; and to-morrow you can inform king aetes that the first part of your allotted task is fulfilled."
agreeably to medea's advice, jason went betimes in the morning to the palace of king aetes.
entering the presence chamber, he stood at the foot of the throne, and made a low obeisance.
"your eyes look heavy, prince jason," observed the king; "you appear to have spent a sleepless night.
i hope you have been considering the matter a little more wisely, and have concluded not to get yourself scorched to a cinder, in attempting to tame my brazen-lunged bulls."
"that is already accomplished, may it please your majesty," replied jason.
"the bulls have been tamed and yoked; the field has been plowed; the dragon's teeth have been sown broadcast, and harrowed into the soil; the crop of armed warriors have sprung up, and they have slain one another, to the last man.
and now i solicit your majesty's permission to encounter the dragon, that i may take down the golden fleece from the tree, and depart, with my nine and forty comrades."
king aetes scowled, and looked very angry and excessively disturbed; for he knew that, in accordance with his kingly promise, he ought now to permit jason to win the fleece, if his courage and skill should enable him to do so.
but, since the young man had met with such good luck in the matter of the brazen bulls and the dragon's teeth, the king feared that he would be equally successful in slaying the dragon.
and therefore, though he would gladly have seen jason snapped up at a mouthful, he was resolved (and it was a very wrong thing of this wicked potentate) not to run any further risk of losing his beloved fleece.
"you never would have succeeded in this business, young man," said he, "if my undutiful daughter medea had not helped you with her enchantments.
had you acted fairly, you would have been, at this instant, a black cinder, or a handful of white ashes.
i forbid you, on pain of death, to make any more attempts to get the golden fleece.
to speak my mind plainly, you shall never set eyes on so much as one of its glistening locks."
jason left the king's presence in great sorrow and anger.
he could think of nothing better to be done than to summon together his forty-nine brave argonauts, march at once to the grove of mars, slay the dragon, take possession of the golden fleece, get on board the argo, and spread all sail for iolchos.
the success of this scheme depended, it is true, on the doubtful point whether all the fifty heroes might not be snapped up, at so many mouthfuls, by the dragon.
but, as jason was hastening down the palace steps, the princess medea called after him, and beckoned him to return.
her black eyes shone upon him with such a keen intelligence, that he felt as if there were a serpent peeping out of them; and, although she had done him so much service only the night before, he was by no means very certain that she would not do him an equally great mischief before sunset.
these enchantresses, you must know, are never to be depended upon.
"what says king aetes, my royal and upright father?"
inquired medea, slightly smiling.
"will he give you the golden fleece, without any further risk or trouble?"
"on the contrary," answered jason, "he is very angry with me for taming the brazen bulls and sowing the dragon's teeth.
and he forbids me to make any more attempts, and positively refuses to give up the golden fleece, whether i slay the dragon or no."
"yes, jason," said the princess, "and i can tell you more.
unless you set sail from colchis before to-morrow's sunrise, the king means to burn your fifty-oared galley, and put yourself and your forty-nine brave comrades to the sword.
but be of good courage.
the golden fleece you shall have, if it lies within the power of my enchantments to get it for you.
wait for me here an hour before midnight."
at the appointed hour you might again have seen prince jason and the princess medea, side by side, stealing through the streets of colchis, on their way to the sacred grove, in the center of which the golden fleece was suspended to a tree.
while they were crossing the pasture ground, the brazen bulls came towards jason, lowing, nodding their heads, and thrusting forth their snouts, which, as other cattle do, they loved to have rubbed and caressed by a friendly hand.
their fierce nature was thoroughly tamed; and, with their fierceness, the two furnaces in their stomachs had likewise been extinguished, insomuch that they probably enjoyed far more comfort in grazing and chewing their cuds than ever before.
indeed, it had heretofore been a great inconvenience to these poor animals, that, whenever they wished to eat a mouthful of grass, the fire out of their nostrils had shriveled it up, before they could manage to crop it.
how they contrived to keep themselves alive is more than i can imagine.
but now, instead of emitting jets of flame and streams of sulphurous vapor, they breathed the very sweetest of cow breath.
after kindly patting the bulls, jason followed medea's guidance into the grove of mars, where the great oak trees, that had been growing for centuries, threw so thick a shade that the moonbeams struggled vainly to find their way through it.
only here and there a glimmer fell upon the leaf-strewn earth, or now and then a breeze stirred the boughs aside, and gave jason a glimpse of the sky, lest, in that deep obscurity, he might forget that there was one, overhead.
at length, when they had gone farther and farther into the heart of the duskiness, medea squeezed jason's hand.
"look yonder," she whispered.
"do you see it?"
gleaming among the venerable oaks, there was a radiance, not like the moonbeams, but rather resembling the golden glory of the setting sun.
it proceeded from an object, which appeared to be suspended at about a man's height from the ground, a little farther within the wood.
"what is it?"
asked jason.
"have you come so far to seek it," exclaimed medea, "and do you not recognize the meed of all your toils and perils, when it glitters before your eyes?
it is the golden fleece."
jason went onward a few steps farther, and then stopped to gaze.
o, how beautiful it looked, shining with a marvelous light of its own, that inestimable prize which so many heroes had longed to behold, but had perished in the quest of it, either by the perils of their voyage, or by the fiery breath of the brazen-lunged bulls.
"how gloriously it shines!"
cried jason, in a rapture.
"it has surely been dipped in the richest gold of sunset.
let me hasten onward, and take it to my bosom."
"stay," said medea, holding him back.
"have you forgotten what guards it?"
to say the truth, in the joy of beholding the object of his desires, the terrible dragon had quite slipped out of jason's memory.
soon, however, something came to pass, that reminded him what perils were still to be encountered.
an antelope, that probably mistook the yellow radiance for sunrise, came bounding fleetly through the grove.
he was rushing straight towards the golden fleece, when suddenly there was a frightful hiss, and the immense head and half the scaly body of the dragon was thrust forth (for he was twisted round the trunk of the tree on which the fleece hung), and seizing the poor antelope, swallowed him with one snap of his jaws.
after this feat, the dragon seemed sensible that some other living creature was within reach, on which he felt inclined to finish his meal.
in various directions he kept poking his ugly snout among the trees, stretching out his neck a terrible long way, now here, now there, and now close to the spot where jason and the princess were hiding behind an oak.
upon my word, as the head came waving and undulating through the air, and reaching almost within arm's length of prince jason, it was a very hideous and uncomfortable sight.
the gape of his enormous jaws was nearly as wide as the gateway of the king's palace.
"well, jason," whispered medea (for she was ill natured, as all enchantresses are, and wanted to make the bold youth tremble), "what do you think now of your prospect of winning the golden fleece?"
jason answered only by drawing his sword, and making a step forward.
"stay, foolish youth," said medea, grasping his arm.
"do not you see you are lost, without me as your good angel?
in this gold box i have a magic potion, which will do the dragon's business far more effectually than your sword."
the dragon had probably heard the voices; for swift as lightning, his black head and forked tongue came hissing among the trees again, darting full forty feet at a stretch.
as it approached, medea tossed the contents of the gold box right down the monster's wide-open throat.
immediately, with an outrageous hiss and a tremendous wriggle flinging his tail up to the tip-top of the tallest tree, and shattering all its branches as it crashed heavily down again the dragon fell at full length upon the ground, and lay quite motionless.
"it is only a sleeping potion," said the enchantress to prince jason.
"one always finds a use for these mischievous creatures, sooner or later; so i did not wish to kill him outright.
quick!
snatch the prize, and let us begone.
you have won the golden fleece."
jason caught the fleece from the tree, and hurried through the grove, the deep shadows of which were illuminated as he passed by the golden glory of the precious object that he bore along.
a little way before him, he beheld the old woman whom he had helped over the stream, with her peacock beside her.
she clapped her hands for joy, and beckoning him to make haste, disappeared among the duskiness of the trees.
espying the two winged sons of the north wind (who were disporting themselves in the moonlight, a few hundred feet aloft), jason bade them tell the rest of the argonauts to embark as speedily as possible.
but lynceus, with his sharp eyes, had already caught a glimpse of him, bringing the golden fleece, although several stone walls, a hill, and the black shadows of the grove of mars, intervened between.
by his advice, the heroes had seated themselves on the benches of the galley, with their oars held perpendicularly, ready to let fall into the water.
as jason drew near, he heard the talking image calling to him with more than ordinary eagerness, in its grave, sweet voice:
"make haste, prince jason!
for your life, make haste!"
with one bound, he leaped aboard.
at sight of the glorious radiance of the golden fleece, the nine and forty heroes gave a mighty shout, and orpheus, striking his harp, sang a song of triumph, to the cadence of which the galley flew over the water, homeward bound, as if careering along with wings!
the pig brother
there was once a child who was untidy.
he left his books on the floor, and his muddy shoes on the table; he put his fingers in the jam-pots, and spilled ink on his best pinafore; there was really no end to his untidiness.
one day the tidy angel came into his nursery.
"this will never do!"
said the angel.
"this is really shocking.
you must go out and stay with your brother while i set things to rights here."
"i have no brother!"
said the child.
"yes, you have!"
said the angel.
"you may not know him, but he will know you.
go out in the garden and watch for him, and he will soon come."
"i don't know what you mean!"
said the child; but he went out into the garden and waited.
presently a squirrel came along, whisking his tail.
"are you my brother?"
asked the child.
the squirrel looked him over carefully.
"well, i should hope not!"
he said.
"my fur is neat and smooth, my nest is handsomely made, and in perfect order, and my young ones are properly brought up.
why do you insult me by asking such a question?"
he whisked off, and the child waited.
presently a wren came hopping by.
"are you my brother?"
asked the child.
"no indeed!"
said the wren.
"what impertinence!
you will find no tidier person than i in the whole garden.
not a feather is out of place, and my eggs are the wonder of all for smoothness and beauty.
brother, indeed!"
he hopped off, ruffling his feathers, and the child waited.
by and by a large tommy cat came along.
"are you my brother?"
asked the child.
"go and look at yourself in the glass," said the tommy cat haughtily, "and you will have your answer.
i have been washing myself in the sun all the morning, while it is clear that no water has come near you for a long time.
there are no such creatures as you in my family, i am humbly thankful to say."
he walked on, waving his tail, and the child waited.
presently a pig came trotting along.
the child did not wish to ask the pig if he were his brother, but the pig did not wait to be asked.
"hallo, brother!"
he grunted.
"i am not your brother!"
said the child.
"oh, yes, you are!"
said the pig.
"i confess i am not proud of you, but there is no mistaking the members of our family.
come along, and have a good roll in the barnyard!
there is some lovely black mud there."
"i don't like to roll in mud!"
said the child.
"tell that to the hens!"
said the pig brother.
"look at your hands, and your shoes, and your pinafore!
come along, i say!
you may have some of the pig-wash for supper, if there is more than i want."
"i don't want pig-wash!"
said the child; and he began to cry.
just then the tidy angel came out.
"i have set everything to rights," she said, "and so it must stay.
now, will you go with the pig brother, or will you come back with me, and be a tidy child?"
"with you, with you!"
cried the child; and he clung to the angel's dress.
the pig brother grunted.
"small loss!"
he said.
"there will be all the more wash for me!"
and he trotted on.
the golden windows
all day long the little boy worked hard, in field and barn and shed, for his people were poor farmers, and could not pay a workman; but at sunset there came an hour that was all his own, for his father had given it to him.
then the boy would go up to the top of a hill and look across at another hill that rose some miles away.
on this far hill stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamonds.
they shone and blazed so that it made the boy wink to look at them: but after a while the people in the house put up shutters, as it seemed, and then it looked like any common farmhouse.
the boy supposed they did this because it was supper-time; and then he would go into the house and have his supper of bread and milk, and so to bed.
one day the boy's father called him and said: "you have been a good boy, and have earned a holiday.
take this day for your own; but remember that god gave it, and try to learn some good thing."
the boy thanked his father and kissed his mother; then he put a piece of bread in his pocket, and started off to find the house with the golden windows.
it was pleasant walking.
his bare feet made marks in the white dust, and when he looked back, the footprints seemed to be following him, and making company for him.
his shadow, too, kept beside him, and would dance or run with him as he pleased; so it was very cheerful.
by and by he felt hungry; and he sat down by a brown brook that ran through the alder hedge by the roadside, and ate his bread, and drank the clear water.
then he scattered the crumbs for the birds, as his mother had taught him to do, and went on his way.
after a long time he came to a high green hill; and when he had climbed the hill, there was the house on the top; but it seemed that the shutters were up, for he could not see the golden windows.
he came up to the house, and then he could well have wept, for the windows were of clear glass, like any others, and there was no gold anywhere about them.
a woman came to the door, and looked kindly at the boy, and asked him what he wanted.
"i saw the golden windows from our hilltop," he said, "and i came to see them, but now they are only glass."
the woman shook her head and laughed.
"we are poor farming people," she said, "and are not likely to have gold about our windows; but glass is better to see through."
she bade the boy sit down on the broad stone step at the door, and brought him a cup of milk and a cake, and bade him rest; then she called her daughter, a child of his own age, and nodded kindly at the two, and went back to her work.
the little girl was barefooted like himself, and wore a brown cotton gown, but her hair was golden like the windows he had seen, and her eyes were blue like the sky at noon.
she led the boy about the farm, and showed him her black calf with the white star on its forehead, and he told her about his own at home, which was red like a chestnut, with four white feet.
then when they had eaten an apple together, and so had become friends, the boy asked her about the golden windows.
the little girl nodded, and said she knew all about them, only he had mistaken the house.
"you have come quite the wrong way!"
she said.
"come with me, and i will show you the house with the golden windows, and then you will see for yourself."
they went to a knoll that rose behind the farmhouse, and as they went the little girl told him that the golden windows could only be seen at a certain hour, about sunset.
"yes, i know that!"
said the boy.
when they reached the top of the knoll, the girl turned and pointed; and there on a hill far away stood a house with windows of clear gold and diamond, just as he had seen them.
and when they looked again, the boy saw that it was his own home.
then he told the little girl that he must go; and he gave her his best pebble, the white one with the red band, that he had carried for a year in his pocket; and she gave him three horse-chestnuts, one red like satin, one spotted, and one white like milk.
he kissed her, and promised to come again, but he did not tell her what he had learned; and so he went back down the hill, and the little girl stood in the sunset light and watched him.
the way home was long, and it was dark before the boy reached his father's house; but the lamplight and firelight shone through the windows, making them almost as bright as he had seen them from the hilltop; and when he opened the door, his mother came to kiss him, and his little sister ran to throw her arms about his neck, and his father looked up and smiled from his seat by the fire.
"have you had a good day?"
asked his mother.
yes, the boy had had a very good day.
"and have you learned anything?"
asked his father.
"yes!"
said the boy.
"i have learned that our house has windows of gold and diamond."
the coming of the king
some children were at play in their play-ground one day, when a herald rode through the town, blowing a trumpet, and crying aloud, "the king!
the king passes by this road to-day.
make ready for the king!"
the children stopped their play, and looked at one another.
"did you hear that?"
they said.
"the king is coming.
he may look over the wall and see our playground; who knows?
we must put it in order."
the playground was sadly dirty, and in the corners were scraps of paper and broken toys, for these were careless children.
but now, one brought a hoe, and another a rake, and a third ran to fetch the wheelbarrow from behind the garden gate.
they labored hard, till at length all was clean and tidy.
"now it is clean!"
they said; "but we must make it pretty, too, for kings are used to fine things; maybe he would not notice mere cleanness, for he may have it all the time."
then one brought sweet rushes and strewed them on the ground; and others made garlands of oak leaves and pine tassels and hung them on the walls; and the littlest one pulled marigold buds and threw them all about the playground, "to look like gold," he said.
when all was done the playground was so beautiful that the children stood and looked at it, and clapped their hands with pleasure.
"let us keep it always like this!"
said the littlest one; and the others cried, "yes!
yes!
that is what we will do."
they waited all day for the coming of the king, but he never came; only, towards sunset, a man with travel-worn clothes, and a kind, tired face passed along the road, and stopped to look over the wall.
"what a pleasant place!"
said the man.
"may i come in and rest, dear children?"
the children brought him in gladly, and set him on the seat that they had made out of an old cask.
they had covered it with the old red cloak to make it look like a throne, and it made a very good one.
"it is our playground!"
they said.
"we made it pretty for the king, but he did not come, and now we mean to keep it so for ourselves."
"that is good!"
said the man.
"because we think pretty and clean is nicer than ugly and dirty!"
said another.
"that is better!"
said the man.
"and for tired people to rest in!"
said the littlest one.
"that is best of all!"
said the man.
he sat and rested, and looked at the children with such kind eyes that they came about him, and told him all they knew; about the five puppies in the barn, and the thrush's nest with four blue eggs, and the shore where the gold shells grew; and the man nodded and understood all about it.
by and by he asked for a cup of water, and they brought it to him in the best cup, with the gold sprigs on it: then he thanked the children, and rose and went on his way; but before he went he laid his hand on their heads for a moment, and the touch went warm to their hearts.
the children stood by the wall and watched the man as he went slowly along.
the sun was setting, and the light fell in long slanting rays across the road.
"he looks so tired!"
said one of the children.
"but he was so kind!"
said another.
"see!"
said the littlest one.
"how the sun shines on his hair!
it looks like a crown of gold."
swing song
as i swing, as i swing,     here beneath my mother's wing,     here beneath my mother's arm,     never earthly thing can harm.
up and down, to and fro,     with a steady sweep i go,     like a swallow on the wing,     as i swing, as i swing.
as i swing, as i swing,     honey-bee comes murmuring,     humming softly in my ear,     "come away with me, my dear!
in the tiger-lily's cup     sweetest honey we will sup."
go away, you velvet thing!
i must swing!
i must swing!
as i swing, as i swing,     butterfly comes fluttering,     "little child, now come away     'mid the clover-blooms to play;     clover-blooms are red and white,     sky is blue and sun is bright.
why then thus, with folded wing,     sit and swing, sit and swing?"
as i swing, as i swing,     oriole comes hovering.
"see my nest in yonder tree!
little child, come work with me.
learn to make a perfect nest,     that of all things is the best.
come!
nor longer loitering     sit and swing, sit and swing!"
as i swing, as i swing,     though i have not any wing,     still i would not change with you,     happiest bird that ever flew.
butterfly and honey-bee,     sure 't is you must envy me,     safe beneath my mother's wing     as i swing, as i swing.
the great feast
once the play angel came into a nursery where four little children sat on the floor with sad and troubled faces.
"what is the matter, dears?"
asked the play angel.
"we wanted to have a grand feast!"
said the child whose nursery it was.
"yes, that would be delightful!"
said the play angel.
"but there is only one cooky!"
said the child whose nursery it was.
"and it is a very small cooky!"
said the child who was a cousin, and therefore felt a right to speak.
"not big enough for myself!"
said the child whose nursery it was.
the other two children said nothing, because they were not relations; but they looked at the cooky with large eyes, and their mouths went up in the middle and down at the sides.
"well," said the play angel, "suppose we have the feast just the same!
i think we can manage it."
she broke the cooky into four pieces, and gave one piece to the littlest child.
"see!"
she said.
"this is a roast chicken, a brown bantam.
it is just as brown and crispy as it can be, and there is cranberry sauce on one side, and on the other a little mountain of mashed potato; it must be a volcano, it smokes so.
do you see?"
"yes!"
said the littlest one; and his mouth went down in the middle and up at the corners.
the play angel gave a piece to the next child.
"here," she said, "is a little pie!
outside, as you see, it is brown and crusty, with a wreath of pastry leaves round the edge and 'for you' in the middle; but inside it is all chicken and ham and jelly and hard-boiled eggs.
did ever you see such a pie?"
"never i did!"
said the child.
"now here," said the angel to the third child, "is a round cake.
look at it!
the frosting is half an inch thick, with candied rose-leaves and angelica laid on in true-lovers' knots; and inside there are chopped-up almonds, and raisins, and great slices of citron.
it is the prettiest cake i ever saw, and the best."
"so it is i did!"
said the third child.
then the angel gave the last piece to the child whose nursery it was.
"my dear!"
she said.
"just look!
here is an ice-cream rabbit.
he is snow-white outside, with eyes of red barley sugar; see his ears, and his little snubby tail!
but inside, i think you will find him pink.
now, when i clap my hands and count one, two, three, you must eat the feast all up.
one two three!"
so the children ate the feast all up.
"there!"
said the angel.
"did ever you see such a grand feast?"
"no, never we did!"
said all the four children together.
"and there are some crumbs left over," said the angel.
"come, and we will give them to the brother birds!"
"but you didn't have any!"
said the child whose nursery it was.
"oh, yes!"
said the angel.
"i had it all!"
the owl and the eel and the warming-pan
the owl and the eel and the warming-pan,     they went to call on the soap-fat man.
the soap-fat man he was not within:
he'd gone for a ride on his rolling-pin.
so they all came back by the way of the town,     and turned the meeting-house upside down.
the wheat-field
some children were set to reap in a wheat-field.
the wheat was yellow as gold, the sun shone gloriously, and the butterflies flew hither and thither.
some of the children worked better, and some worse; but there was one who ran here and there after the butterflies that fluttered about his head, and sang as he ran.
by and by evening came, and the angel of the wheat-field called to the children and said, "come now to the gate, and bring your sheaves with you."
so the children came, bringing their sheaves.
some had great piles, laid close and even, so that they might carry more; some had theirs laid large and loose, so that they looked more than they were; but one, the child that had run to and fro after the butterflies, came empty-handed.
the angel said to this child, "where are your sheaves?"
the child hung his head.
"i do not know!"
he said.
"i had some, but i have lost them, i know not how."
"none enter here without sheaves," said the angel.
"i know that," said the child.
"but i thought i would like to see the place where the others were going; besides, they would not let me leave them."
then all the other children cried out together.
one said, "dear angel, let him in!
in the morning i was sick, and this child came and played with me, and showed me the butterflies, and i forgot my pain.
also, he gave me one of his sheaves, and i would give it to him again, but i cannot tell it now from my own."
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another said, "dear angel, let him in!
at noon the sun beat on my head so fiercely that i fainted and fell down like one dead; and this child came running by, and when he saw me he brought water to revive me, and then he showed me the butterflies, and was so glad and merry that my strength returned; to me also he gave one of his sheaves, and i would give it to him again, but it is so like my own that i cannot tell it."
and a third said, "just now, as evening was coming, i was weary and sad, and had so few sheaves that it seemed hardly worth my while to go on working; but this child comforted me, and showed me the butterflies, and gave me of his sheaves.
look!
it may be that this was his; and yet i cannot tell, it is so like my own."
and all the children said, "we also had sheaves of him, dear angel; let him in, we pray you!"
the angel smiled, and reached his hand inside the gate and brought out a pile of sheaves; it was not large, but the glory of the sun was on it, so that it seemed to lighten the whole field.
"here are his sheaves!"
said the angel.
"they are known and counted, every one."
and he said to the child, "lead the way in!"
about angels
"mother," said the child; "are there really angels?"
"the good book says so," said the mother.
"yes," said the child; "i have seen the picture.
but did you ever see one, mother?"
"i think i have," said the mother; "but she was not dressed like the picture."
"i am going to find one!"
said the child.
"i am going to run along the road, miles, and miles, and miles, until i find an angel."
"that will be a good plan!"
said the mother.
"and i will go with you, for you are too little to run far alone."
"i am not little any more!"
said the child.
"i have trousers; i am big."
"so you are!"
said the mother.
"i forgot.
but it is a fine day, and i should like the walk."
"but you walk so slowly, with your lame foot."
"i can walk faster than you think!"
said the mother.
so they started, the child leaping and running, and the mother stepping out so bravely with her lame foot that the child soon forgot about it.
the child danced on ahead, and presently he saw a chariot coming towards him, drawn by prancing white horses.
in the chariot sat a splendid lady in velvet and furs, with white plumes waving above her dark hair.
as she moved in her seat, she flashed with jewels and gold, but her eyes were brighter than her diamonds.
"are you an angel?"
asked the child, running up beside the chariot.
the lady made no reply, but stared coldly at the child: then she spoke a word to her coachman, and he flicked his whip, and the chariot rolled away swiftly in a cloud of dust, and disappeared.
the dust filled the child's eyes and mouth, and made him choke and sneeze.
he gasped for breath, and rubbed his eyes; but presently his mother came up, and wiped away the dust with her blue gingham apron.
"that was not an angel!"
said the child.
"no, indeed!"
said the mother.
"nothing like one!"
the child danced on again, leaping and running from side to side of the road, and the mother followed as best she might.
by and by the child met a most beautiful maiden, clad in a white dress.
her eyes were like blue stars, and the blushes came and went in her face like roses looking through snow.
"i am sure you must be an angel!"
cried the child.
the maiden blushed more sweetly than before.
"you dear little child!"
she cried.
"some one else said that, only last evening.
do i really look like an angel?"
"you are an angel!"
said the child.
the maiden took him up in her arms and kissed him, and held him tenderly.
"you are the dearest little thing i ever saw!"
she said.
"tell me what makes you think so!"
but suddenly her face changed.
"oh!"
she cried.
"there he is, coming to meet me!
and you have soiled my white dress with your dusty shoes, and pulled my hair all awry.
run away, child, and go home to your mother!"
she set the child down, not unkindly, but so hastily that he stumbled and fell; but she did not see that, for she was hastening forward to meet her lover, who was coming along the road.
(now if the maiden had only known, he thought her twice as lovely with the child in her arms; but she did not know.)
the child lay in the dusty road and sobbed, till his mother came along and picked him up, and wiped away the tears with her blue gingham apron.
"i don't believe that was an angel, after all," he said.
"no!"
said the mother.
"but she may be one some day.
she is young yet."
"i am tired!"
said the child.
"will you carry me home, mother?"
"why, yes!"
said the mother.
"that is what i came for."
the child put his arms round his mother's neck, and she held him tight and trudged along the road, singing the song he liked best.
suddenly he looked up in her face.
"mother," he said; "i don't suppose you could be an angel, could you?"
"oh, what a foolish child!"
said the mother.
"who ever heard of an angel in a blue gingham apron?"
and she went on singing, and stepped out so bravely on her lame foot that no one would ever have known she was lame.
the apron-string
once upon a time a boy played about the house, running by his mother's side; and as he was very little, his mother tied him to the string of her apron.
"now," she said, "when you stumble, you can pull yourself up by the apron-string, and so you will not fall."
the boy did that, and all went well, and the mother sang at her work.
by and by the boy grew so tall that his head came above the window-sill; and looking through the window, he saw far away green trees waving, and a flowing river that flashed in the sun, and rising above all, blue peaks of mountains.
"oh, mother," he said; "untie the apron-string and let me go!"
but the mother said, "not yet, my child!
only yesterday you stumbled, and would have fallen but for the apron-string.
wait yet a little, till you are stronger."
so the boy waited, and all went as before; and the mother sang at her work.
but one day the boy found the door of the house standing open, for it was spring weather; and he stood on the threshold and looked across the valley, and saw the green trees waving, and the swift-flowing river with the sun flashing on it, and the blue mountains rising beyond; and this time he heard the voice of the river calling, and it said "come!"
then the boy started forward, and as he started, the string of the apron broke.
"oh!
how weak my mother's apron-string is!"
cried the boy; and he ran out into the world, with the broken string hanging beside him.
the mother gathered up the other end of the string and put it in her bosom, and went about her work again; but she sang no more.
the boy ran on and on, rejoicing in his freedom, and in the fresh air and the morning sun.
he crossed the valley, and began to climb the foothills among which the river flowed swiftly, among rocks and cliffs.
now it was easy climbing, and again it was steep and craggy, but always he looked upward at the blue peaks beyond, and always the voice of the river was in his ears, saying "come!"
by and by he came to the brink of a precipice, over which the river dashed in a cataract, foaming and flashing, and sending up clouds of silver spray.
the spray filled his eyes, so that he did not see his footing clearly; he grew dizzy, stumbled, and fell.
but as he fell, something about him caught on a point of rock at the precipice-edge, and held him, so that he hung dangling over the abyss; and when he put up his hand to see what held him, he found that it was the broken string of the apron, which still hung by his side.
"oh!
how strong my mother's apron-string is!"
said the boy: and he drew himself up by it, and stood firm on his feet, and went on climbing toward the blue peaks of the mountains.
the shadow
an angel heard a child crying one day, and came to see what ailed it.
he found the little one sitting on the ground, with the sun at its back (for the day was young), looking at its own shadow, which lay on the ground before it, and weeping bitterly.
"what ails you, little one?"
asked the angel.
"the world is so dark!"
said the child.
"see, it is all dusky gray, and there is no beauty in it.
why must i stay in this sad, gray world?"
"do you not hear the birds singing, and the other children calling at their play?"
asked the angel.
"yes," said the child; "i hear them, but i do not know where they are.
i cannot see them, i see only the shadow.
moreover, if they saw it, they would not sing and call, but would weep as i do."
the angel lifted the child, and set it on its feet, with its face to the early sun.
"look!"
said the angel.
the child brushed away the tears from its eyes and looked.
before them lay the fields all green and gold, shining with dewdrops, and the other children were running to and fro, laughing and shouting, and crowning one another with blossoms.
"why, there are the children!"
said the little one.
"yes," said the angel; "there they are."
"and the sun is shining!"
cried the child.
"yes," said the angel; "it was shining all the time."
"and the shadow is gone!"
"oh, no!"
said the angel; "the shadow is behind you, where it belongs.
run, now, and gather flowers for the littlest one, who sits in the grass there!"
the sailor man
once upon a time two children came to the house of a sailor man, who lived beside the salt sea; and they found the sailor man sitting in his doorway knotting ropes.
"how do you do?"
asked the sailor man.
"we are very well, thank you," said the children, who had learned manners, "and we hope you are the same.
we heard that you had a boat, and we thought that perhaps you would take us out in her, and teach us how to sail, for that is what we wish most to know."
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"all in good time," said the sailor man.
"i am busy now, but by and by, when my work is done, i may perhaps take one of you if you are ready to learn.
meantime here are some ropes that need knotting; you might be doing that, since it has to be done."
and he showed them how the knots should be tied, and went away and left them.
when he was gone the first child ran to the window and looked out.
"there is the sea," he said.
"the waves come up on the beach, almost to the door of the house.
they run up all white, like prancing horses, and then they go dragging back.
come and look!"
"i cannot," said the second child.
"i am tying a knot."
"oh!"
cried the first child, "i see the boat.
she is dancing like a lady at a ball; i never saw such a beauty.
come and look!"
"i cannot," said the second child.
"i am tying a knot."
"i shall have a delightful sail in that boat," said the first child.
"i expect that the sailor man will take me, because i am the eldest and i know more about it.
there was no need of my watching when he showed you the knots, because i knew how already."
just then the sailor man came in.
"well," he said, "my work is over.
what have you been doing in the meantime?"
"i have been looking at the boat," said the first child.
"what a beauty she is!
i shall have the best time in her that ever i had in my life."
"i have been tying knots," said the second child.
"come, then," said the sailor man, and he held out his hand to the second child.
"i will take you out in the boat, and teach you to sail her."
"but i am the eldest," cried the first child, "and i know a great deal more than she does."
"that may be," said the sailor man; "but a person must learn to tie a knot before he can learn to sail a boat."
"but i have learned to tie a knot," cried the child.
"i know all about it!"
"how can i tell that?"
asked the sailor man.
"go" and "come"
"little boy," said the nurse one day, "you would be far better at work.
your garden needs weeding sadly; go now and weed it, like a good child!"
but the little boy did not feel like weeding that day.
"i can't do it," he said.
"oh!
yes, you can," said the nurse.
"well, i don't want to," said the little boy.
"but you must!"
said the nurse.
"don't be naughty, but go at once and do your work as i bid you!"
she went away about her own work, for she was very industrious; but the little boy sat still, and thought himself ill-used.
by and by his mother came into the room and saw him.
"what is the matter, little boy?"
she asked; for he looked like a three-days' rain.
"nurse told me to weed my garden," said the little boy.
"oh," said his mother, "what fun that will be!
i love to weed, and it is such a fine day!
mayn't i come and help?"
"why, yes," said the little boy.
"you may."
and they weeded the garden beautifully, and had a glorious time.
child's play
once a child was sitting on a great log that lay by the roadside, playing; and another child came along, and stopped to speak to him.
"what are you doing?"
asked the second child.
"i am sailing to the southern seas," replied the first, "to get a cargo of monkeys, and elephant tusks, and crystal balls as large as oranges.
come up here, and you may sail with me if you like."
so the second child climbed upon the log.
"look!"
said the first child.
"see how the foam bubbles up before the ship, and trails and floats away behind!
look!
the water is so clear that we can see the fishes swimming about, blue and red and green.
there goes a parrot-fish; my father told me about them.
i should not wonder if we saw a whale in about a minute."
"what are you talking about?"
asked the second child, peevishly.
"there is no water here, only grass; and anyhow this is nothing but a log.
you cannot get to islands in this way."
"but we have got to them," cried the first child.
"we are at them now.
i see the palm-trees waving, and the white sand glittering.
look!
there are the natives gathering to welcome us on the beach.
they have feather cloaks, and necklaces, and anklets of copper as red as gold.
oh!
and there is an elephant coming straight toward us."
"i should think you would be ashamed," said the second child.
"that is widow slocum."
"it's all the same," said the first child.
presently the second child got down from the log.
"i am going to play stick-knife," he said.
"i don't see any sense in this.
i think you are pretty dull to play things that aren't really there."
and he walked slowly away.
the first child looked after him a moment.
"i think you are pretty dull," he said to himself, "to see nothing but what is under your nose."
but he was too well-mannered to say this aloud; and having taken in his cargo, he sailed for another port.
little john bottlejohn
little john bottlejohn lived on the hill,       and a blithe little man was he.
and he won the heart of a pretty mermaid       who lived in the deep blue sea.
and every evening she used to sit       and sing on the rocks by the sea,     "oh!
little john bottlejohn, pretty john bottlejohn,       won't you come out to me?"
little john bottlejohn heard her song,       and he opened his little door.
and he hopped and he skipped, and he skipped and he hopped,       until he came down to the shore.
and there on the rocks sat the little mermaid,       and still she was singing so free,     "oh!
little john bottlejohn, pretty john bottlejohn,       won't you come out to me?"
little john bottlejohn made a bow,       and the mermaid, she made one too,     and she said, "oh!
i never saw any one half       so perfectly sweet as you!
in my lovely home 'neath the ocean foam,       how happy we both might be!
oh!
little john bottlejohn, pretty john bottlejohn,       won't you come down with me?"
little john bottlejohn said, "oh yes!
i'll willingly go with you.
and i never shall quail at the sight of your tail,       for perhaps i may grow one too."
so he took her hand, and he left the land,       and plunged in the foaming main.
and little john bottlejohn, pretty john bottlejohn,       never was seen again.
a fortune
one day a man was walking along the street, and he was sad at heart.
business was dull; he had set his desire upon a horse that cost a thousand dollars, and he had only eight hundred to buy it with.
there were other things, to be sure, that might be bought with eight hundred dollars, but he did not want those; so he was sorrowful, and thought the world a bad place.
as he walked, he saw a child running toward him; it was a strange child, but when he looked at it, its face lightened like sunshine, and broke into smiles.
the child held out its closed hand.
"guess what i have!"
it cried gleefully.
"something fine, i am sure!"
said the man.
the child nodded and drew nearer; then opened its hand.
"look!"
it said; and the street rang with its happy laughter.
the man looked, and in the child's hand lay a penny.
"hurrah!"
said the child.
"hurrah!"
said the man.
then they parted, and the child went and bought a stick of candy, and saw all the world red and white in stripes.
the man went and put his eight hundred dollars in the savings-bank, all but fifty cents, and with the fifty cents he bought a hobby-horse for his own little boy, and the little boy saw all the world brown, with white spots.
"is this the horse you wanted so to buy, father?"
asked the little boy.
"it is the horse i have bought!"
said the man.
"hurrah!"
said the little boy.
"hurrah!"
said the man.
and he saw that the world was a good place after all.
the stars
a little dear child lay in its crib and sobbed, because it was afraid of the dark.
and its father, in the room below, heard the sobs, and came up, and said,
"what ails you, my dearie, and why do you cry?"
and the child said, "oh, father, i am afraid of the dark.
nurse says i am too big to have a taper; but all the corners are full of dreadful blackness, and i think there are things in them with eyes, that would look at me if i looked at them; and if they looked at me i should die.
oh, father, why is it dark?
why is there such a terrible thing as darkness?
why cannot it be always day?"
the father took the child in his arms and carried it downstairs and out into the summer night.
"look up, dearie!"
he said, in his strong, kind voice.
"look up, and see god's little lights!"
the little one looked up, and saw the stars, spangling the blue veil of the sky; bright as candles they burned, and yellow as gold.
"oh, father," cried the child; "what are those lovely things?"
"those are stars," said the father.
"those are god's little lights."
"but why have i never seen them before?"
"because you are a very little child, and have never been out in the night before."
"can i see the stars only at night, father?"
"only at night, my child!"
"do they only come then, father?"
"no; they are always there, but we cannot see them when the sun is shining."
"but, father, the darkness is not terrible here, it is beautiful!"
"yes, dearie; the darkness is always beautiful, if we will only look up at the stars, instead of into the corners."
buttercup gold
oh!
the cupperty-buts!
and oh!
the cupperty-buts!
out in the meadow, shining under the trees, and sparkling over the lawn, millions and millions of them, each one a bit of purest gold from mother nature's mint.
jessy stood at the window, looking out at them, and thinking, as she often had thought before, that there were no flowers so beautiful.
"cupperty-buts," she had been used to call them, when she was a wee baby-girl and could not speak without tumbling over her words and mixing them up in the queerest fashion; and now that she was a very great girl, actually six years old, they were still cupperty-buts to her, and would never be anything else, she said.
there was nothing she liked better than to watch the lovely golden things, and nod to them as they nodded to her; but this morning her little face looked anxious and troubled, and she gazed at the flowers with an intent and inquiring look, as if she had expected them to reply to her unspoken thoughts.
what these thoughts were i am going to tell you.
half an hour before, she had called to her mother, who was just going out, and begged her to come and look at the cupperty-buts.
"they are brighter than ever, mamma!
do just come and look at them!
golden, golden, golden!
there must be fifteen thousand million dollars' worth of gold just on the lawn, i should think."
and her mother, pausing to look out, said, very sadly,
"ah, my darling!
if i only had this day a little of that gold, what a happy woman i should be!"
and then the good mother went out, and there little jessy stood, gazing at the flowers, and repeating the words to herself, over and over again,
"if i only had a little of that gold!"
she knew that her mother was very, very poor, and had to go out to work every day to earn food and clothes for herself and her little daughter; and the child's tender heart ached to think of the sadness in the dear mother's look and tone.
suddenly jessy started, and the sunshine flashed into her face.
"why!"
she exclaimed, "why shouldn't i get some of the gold from the cupperty-buts?
i believe i could get some, perfectly well.
when mamma wants to get the juice out of anything, meat, or fruit, or anything of that sort, she just boils it.
and so, if i should boil the cupperty-buts, wouldn't all the gold come out?
of course it would!
oh, joy!
how pleased mamma will be!"
jessy's actions always followed her thoughts with great rapidity.
in five minutes she was out on the lawn, with a huge basket beside her, pulling away at the buttercups with might and main.
oh!
how small they were, and how long it took even to cover the bottom of the basket.
but jessy worked with a will, and at the end of an hour she had picked enough to make at least a thousand dollars, as she calculated.
that would do for one day, she thought; and now for the grand experiment!
before going out she had with much labor filled the great kettle with water, so now the water was boiling, and she had only to put the buttercups in and put the cover on.
when this was done, she sat as patiently as she could, trying to pay attention to her knitting, and not to look at the clock oftener than every two minutes.
"they must boil for an hour," she said; "and by that time all the gold will have come out."
well, the hour did pass, somehow or other, though it was a very long one; and at eleven o'clock, jessy, with a mighty effort, lifted the kettle from the stove and carried it to the open door, that the fresh air might cool the boiling water.
at first, when she lifted the cover, such a cloud of steam came out that she could see nothing; but in a moment the wind blew the steam aside, and then she saw, oh, poor little jessy!
she saw a mass of weeds floating about in a quantity of dirty, greenish water, and that was all.
not the smallest trace of gold, even in the buttercups themselves, was to be seen.
poor little jessy!
she tried hard not to cry, but it was a bitter disappointment; the tears came rolling down her cheeks faster and faster, till at length she sat down by the kettle, and, burying her face in her apron, sobbed as if her heart would break.
presently, through her sobs, she heard a kind voice saying, "what is the matter, little one?
why do you cry so bitterly?"
she looked up and saw an old gentleman with white hair and a bright, cheery face, standing by her.
at first, jessy could say nothing but "oh!
the cupperty-buts!
oh!
the cupperty-buts!"
but, of course, the old gentleman didn't know what she meant by that, so, as he urged her to tell him about her trouble, she dried her eyes, and told him the melancholy little story: how her mother was very poor, and said she wished she had some gold; and how she herself had tried to get the gold out of the buttercups by boiling them.
"i was so sure i could get it out," she said, "and i thought mamma would be so pleased!
and now "
here she was very near breaking down again; but the gentleman patted her head and said, cheerfully, "wait a bit, little woman!
don't give up the ship yet.
you know that gold is heavy, very heavy indeed, and if there were any it would be at the very bottom of the kettle, all covered with the weeds, so that you could not see it.
i should not be at all surprised if you found some, after all.
run into the house and bring me a spoon with a long handle, and we will fish in the kettle, and see what we can find."
jessy's face brightened, and she ran into the house.
if any one had been standing near just at that moment, i think it is possible that he might have seen the old gentleman's hand go into his pocket and out again very quickly, and might have heard a little splash in the kettle; but nobody was near, so, of course, i cannot say anything about it.
at any rate, when jessy came out with the spoon, he was standing with both hands in his pockets, looking in the opposite direction.
he took the great iron spoon and fished about in the kettle for some time.
at last there was a little clinking noise, and the old gentleman lifted the spoon.
oh, wonder and delight!
in it lay three great, broad, shining pieces of gold!
jessy could hardly believe her eyes.
she stared and stared; and when the old gentleman put the gold into her hand, she still stood as if in a happy dream, gazing at it.
suddenly she started, and remembered that she had not thanked her kindly helper.
she looked up, and began, "thank you, sir;" but the old gentleman was gone.
well, the next question was, how could jessy possibly wait till twelve o'clock for her mother to come home?
knitting was out of the question.
she could do nothing but dance and look out of window, and look out of window and dance, holding the precious coins tight in her hand.
at last, a well-known footstep was heard outside the door, and mrs. gray came in, looking very tired and worn.
she smiled, however, when she saw jessy, and said,
"well, my darling, i am glad to see you looking so bright.
how has the morning gone with my little housekeeper?"
"oh, mother!"
cried jessy, hopping about on one foot, "it has gone very well!
oh, very, very, very well!
oh, my mother dear, what do you think i have got in my hand?
what do you think?
oh, what do you think?"
and she went dancing round and round, till poor mrs. gray was quite dizzy with watching her.
at last she stopped, and holding out her hand, opened it and showed her mother what was in it.
mrs.
gray was really frightened.
"jessy, my child!"
she cried, "where did you get all that money?"
"out of the cupperty-buts, mamma!"
said jessy, "out of the cupperty-buts!
and it's all for you, every bit of it!
dear mamma, now you will be happy, will you not?"
"jessy," said mrs. gray, "have you lost your senses, or are you playing some trick on me?
tell me all about this at once, dear child, and don't talk nonsense."
"but it isn't nonsense, mamma!"
cried jessy, "and it did come out of the cupperty-buts!"
and then she told her mother the whole story.
the tears came into mrs.
gray's eyes, but they were tears of joy and gratitude.
"jessy dear," she said, "when we say our prayers at night, let us never forget to pray for that good gentleman.
may heaven bless him and reward him!
for if it had not been for him, jessy dear, i fear you would never have found the 'buttercup gold.'"
the patient cat
when the spotted cat first found the nest, there was nothing in it, for it was only just finished.
so she said, "i will wait!"
for she was a patient cat, and the summer was before her.
she waited a week, and then she climbed up again to the top of the tree, and peeped into the nest.
there lay two lovely blue eggs, smooth and shining.
the spotted cat said, "eggs may be good, but young birds are better.
i will wait."
so she waited; and while she was waiting, she caught mice and rats, and washed herself and slept, and did all that a spotted cat should do to pass the time away.
when another week had passed, she climbed the tree again and peeped into the nest.
this time there were five eggs.
but the spotted cat said again, "eggs may be good, but young birds are better.
i will wait a little longer!"
so she waited a little longer and then went up again to look.
ah!
there were five tiny birds, with big eyes and long necks, and yellow beaks wide open.
then the spotted cat sat down on the branch, and licked her nose and purred, for she was very happy.
"it is worth while to be patient!"
she said.
but when she looked again at the young birds, to see which one she should take first, she saw that they were very thin, oh, very, very thin they were!
the spotted cat had never seen anything so thin in her life.
"now," she said to herself, "if i were to wait only a few days longer, they would grow fat.
thin birds may be good, but fat birds are much better.
i will wait!"
so she waited; and she watched the father-bird bringing worms all day long to the nest, and said, "aha!
they must be fattening fast!
they will soon be as fat as i wish them to be.
aha!
what a good thing it is to be patient."
at last, one day she thought, "surely, now they must be fat enough!
i will not wait another day.
aha!
how good they will be!"
so she climbed up the tree, licking her chops all the way and thinking of the fat young birds.
and when she reached the top and looked into the nest, it was empty!
!
then the spotted cat sat down on the branch and spoke thus, "well, of all the horrid, mean, ungrateful creatures i ever saw, those birds are the horridest, and the meanest, and the most ungrateful!
mi-a-u-ow!!!!"
alice's supper
far down in the meadow the wheat grows green,     and the reapers are whetting their sickles so keen;     and this is the song that i hear them sing,     while cheery and loud their voices ring:
"'tis the finest wheat that ever did grow!
and it is for alice's supper, ho!
ho!"
far down in the valley the old mill stands,     and the miller is rubbing his dusty white hands;     and these are the words of the miller's lay,     as he watches the millstones a-grinding away:
"'tis the finest flour that money can buy,     and it is for alice's supper, hi!
hi!"
downstairs in the kitchen the fire doth glow,     and maggie is kneading the soft white dough,     and this is the song that she's singing to-day,     while merry and busy she's working away:
"'tis the finest dough, by near or by far,     and it is for alice's supper, ha!
ha!"
and now to the nursery comes nannie at last,     and what in her hand is she bringing so fast?
'tis a plate full of something all yellow and white,     and she sings as she comes with her smile so bright:
"'tis the best bread-and-butter i ever did see!
and it is for alice's supper, he!
he!"
the quacky duck
the quacky duck stood on the bank of the stream.
and the frogs came and sat on stones and insulted him.
now the words which the frogs used were these,
"ya!
ha!
he hasn't any hind-legs!
ya!
ha!
he hasn't any fore-legs!
oh!
what horrid luck     to be a quacky duck!"
these were not pleasant words.
and when the quacky duck heard them, he considered within himself whether it would not be best for him to eat the frogs.
"two good things would come of it," he said.
"i should have a savoury meal, and their remarks would no longer be audible."
so he fell upon the frogs, and they fled before him.
and one jumped into the water, and one jumped on the land, and another jumped into the reeds; for such is their manner.
but one of them, being in fear, saw not clearly the way he should go, and jumped even upon the back of the quacky duck.
now, this displeased the quacky duck, and he said, "if you will remove yourself from my person, we will speak further of this."
so the frog, being also willing, strove to remove himself, and the result was that they two, being on the edge of the bank, fell into the water.
then the frog departed swiftly, saying, "solitude is best for meditation."
but the quacky duck, having hit his head against a stone, sank to the bottom of the pond, where he found himself in the frogs' kitchen.
and there he spied a fish, which the frogs had caught for their dinner, intending to share it in a brotherly manner, for it was a savoury fish.
when the quacky duck saw it, he was glad; and he said, "fish is better than frog" (for he was an english duck)!
and, taking the fish, he swam with speed to the shore.
now the frogs lamented when they saw him go, for they said, "he has our savoury fish!"
and they wept, and reviled the quacky duck.
but he said, "be comforted!
for if i had not found the fish, i should assuredly have eaten you.
therefore, say now, which is the better for you?"
and he ate the fish, and departed joyful.
at the little boy's home
it was a very hot day, and the little boy was lying on his stomach under the big linden tree, reading the "scottish chiefs."
"little boy," said his mother, "will you please go out in the garden and bring me a head of lettuce?"
"oh, i can't!"
said the little boy.
"i'm too hot!"
the little boy's father happened to be close by, weeding the geranium bed; and when he heard this, he lifted the little boy gently by his waistband, and dipped him in the great tub of water that stood ready for watering the plants.
"there, my son!"
said the father.
"now you are cool enough to go and get the lettuce; but remember next time that it will be easier to go at once when you are told, as then you will not have to change your clothes."
the little boy went drip, drip, dripping out into the garden and brought the lettuce; then he went drip, drip, dripping into the house and changed his clothes; but he said never a word, for he knew there was nothing to say.
that is the way they do things where the little boy lives.
would you like to live there?
perhaps not; yet he is a happy little boy, and he is learning the truth of the old saying,
"come when you're called, do as you're bid,     shut the door after you, and you'll never be chid."
new year
the little sweet child tied on her hood, and put on her warm cloak and mittens.
"i am going to the wood," she said, "to tell the creatures all about it.
they cannot understand about christmas, mamma says, and of course she knows, but i do think they ought to know about new year!"
out in the wood the snow lay light and powdery on the branches, but under foot it made a firm, smooth floor, over which the child could walk lightly without sinking in.
she saw other footprints beside her own, tiny bird-tracks, little hopping marks, which showed where a rabbit had taken his way, traces of mice and squirrels and other little wild-wood beasts.
the child stood under a great hemlock-tree, and looked up toward the clear blue sky, which shone far away beyond the dark tree-tops.
she spread her hands abroad and called, "happy new year!
happy new year to everybody in the wood, and all over the world!"
a rustling was heard in the hemlock branches, and a striped squirrel peeped down at her.
"what do you mean by that, little child?"
he asked.
and then from all around came other squirrels, came little field-mice, and hares swiftly leaping, and all the winter birds, titmouse and snow-bird, and many another; and they all wanted to know what the child meant by her greeting, for they had never heard the words before.
"it means that god is giving us another year!"
said the child.
"four more seasons, each lovelier than the last, just as it was last year.
flowers will bud, and then they will blossom, and then the fruit will hang all red and golden on the branches, for birds and men and little children to eat."
"and squirrels, too!"
cried the chipmunk, eagerly.
"of course!"
said the child.
"squirrels, too, and every creature that lives in the good green wood.
and this is not all!
we can do over again the things that we tried to do last year, and perhaps failed in doing.
we have another chance to be good and kind, to do little loving things that help, and to cure ourselves of doing naughty things.
our hearts can have lovely new seasons, like the flowers and trees and all the sweet things that grow and bear leaves and fruit.
i thought i would come and tell you all this, because sometimes one does not think of things till one hears them from another's lips.
are you glad i came?
if you are glad, say happy new year!
each in his own way!
i say it to you all now in my way.
happy new year!
happy new year!"
such a noise as broke out then had never been heard in the wood since the oldest hemlock was a baby, and that was a long time ago.
chirping, twittering, squeaking, chattering!
the wood-doves lit on the child's shoulder and cooed in her ear, and she knew just what they said.
the squirrels made a long speech, and meant every word of it, which is more than people always do; the field-mouse said that she was going to turn over a new leaf, the very biggest cabbage-leaf she could find; while the titmouse invited the whole company to dine with him, a thing he had never done in his life before.
when the child turned to leave the wood, the joyful chorus followed her, and she went, smiling, home and told her mother all about it.
"and, mother," she said, "i should not be surprised if they had got a little bit of christmas, after all, along with their new year!"
jacky frost
jacky frost, jacky frost,       came in the night;     left the meadows that he crossed       all gleaming white.
painted with his silver brush       every window-pane;     kissed the leaves and made them blush,       blush and blush again.
jacky frost, jacky frost,       crept around the house,     sly as a silver fox,       still as a mouse.
out little jenny came,       blushing like a rose;     up jumped jacky frost,       and pinched her little nose.
the cake
once a cake would go seek his fortune in the world, and he took his leave of the pan he was baked in.
"i know my destiny," said the cake.
"i must be eaten, since to that end i was made; but i am a good cake, if i say it who should not, and i would fain choose the persons i am to benefit."
"i don't see what difference it makes to you!"
said the pan.
"but imagination is hardly your strong point!"
said the cake.
"huh!"
said the pan.
the cake went on his way, and soon he passed by a cottage door where sat a woman spinning, and her ten children playing about her.
"oh!"
said the woman, "what a beautiful cake!"
and she put out her hand to take him.
"be so good as to wait a moment!"
said the cake.
"will you kindly tell me what you would do with me if i should yield myself up to you?"
"i shall break you into ten pieces," said the woman, "and give one to each of my ten children.
so you will give ten pleasures, and that is a good thing."
"oh, that would be very nice, i am sure," said the cake; "but if you will excuse me for mentioning it, your children seem rather dirty, especially their hands, and i confess i should like to keep my frosting unsullied, so i think i will go a little further."
"as you will!"
said the woman.
"after all, the brown loaf is better for the children."
so the cake went further, and met a fair child, richly dressed, with coral lips and eyes like sunlit water.
when the child saw the cake, he said like the woman, "oh, what a beautiful cake!"
and put out his hand to take it.
"i am sure i should be most happy!"
said the cake.
"and you will not take it amiss, i am confident, if i ask with whom you will share me."
"i shall not share you with any one!"
said the child.
"i shall eat you myself, every crumb.
what do you take me for?"
"good gracious!"
cried the cake.
"this will never do.
consider my size, and yours!
you would be very ill!"
"i don't care!"
said the child.
"i'd rather be ill than give any away."
and he fixed greedy eyes on the cake, and stretched forth his hand again.
"this is really terrible!"
cried the cake.
"what is one's frosting to this?
i will go back to the woman with the ten children."
he turned and ran back, leaving the child screaming with rage and disappointed greed.
but as he ran, a hungry puppy met him, and swallowed him at a gulp, and went on licking his chops and wagging his tail.
"huh!"
said the pan.
"oh, dear!"
chimborazo was a very unhappy boy.
he pouted, and he sulked, and he said, "oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!"
he said it till everybody was tired of hearing it.
"chimborazo," his mother would say, "please don't say, 'oh, dear!'
any more.
it is very annoying.
say something else."
"oh, dear!"
the boy would answer, "i can't!
i don't know anything else to say.
oh, dear!
oh, dear!!
oh, dear!!!"
one day his mother could not bear it any longer, and she sent for his fairy godmother, and told her all about it.
"humph!"
said the fairy godmother.
"i will see to it.
send the boy to me!"
so chimborazo was sent for, and came, hanging his head as usual.
when he saw his fairy godmother, he said, "oh, dear!"
for he was rather afraid of her.
"'oh, dear!'
it is!"
said the godmother sharply; and she put on her spectacles and looked at him.
"do you know what a bell-punch is?"
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo.
"no, ma'am, i don't!"
"well," said the godmother, "i am going to give you one."
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo, "i don't want one."
"probably not," replied she, "but that doesn't make much difference.
you have it now, in your jacket pocket."
chimborazo felt in his pocket, and took out a queer-looking instrument of shining metal.
"oh, dear!"
he said.
"'oh, dear!'
it is!"
said the fairy godmother.
"now," she continued, "listen to me, chimborazo!
i am going to put you on an allowance of 'oh, dears.'
this is a self-acting bell-punch, and it will ring whenever you say 'oh, dear!'
how many times do you generally say it in the course of the day?"
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo, "i don't know.
oh, dear!"
"ting!
ting!"
the bell-punch rang twice sharply; and looking at it in dismay, he saw two little round holes punched in a long slip of pasteboard which was fastened to the instrument.
"exactly!"
said the fairy.
"that is the way it works, and a very pretty way, too.
now, my boy, i am going to make you a very liberal allowance.
you may say 'oh, dear!'
forty-five times a day.
there's liberality for you!"
"oh, dear!"
cried chimborazo, "i  "
"ting!"
said the bell-punch.
"you see!"
observed the fairy.
"nothing could be prettier.
you have now had three of this day's allowance.
it is still some hours before noon, so i advise you to be careful.
if you exceed the allowance  "
here she paused, and glowered through her spectacles in a very dreadful manner.
"oh, dear!"
cried chimborazo.
"what will happen then?"
"you will see!"
said the fairy godmother, with a nod.
"something will happen, you may be very sure of that.
good-by.
remember, only forty-five!"
and away she flew out of the window.
"oh, dear!"
cried chimborazo, bursting into tears.
"i don't want it!
i won't have it!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!!!"
"ting!
ting!
ting-ting-ting-ting!"
said the bell-punch; and now there were ten round holes in the strip of pasteboard.
chimborazo was now really frightened.
he was silent for some time; and when his mother called him to his lessons he tried very hard not to say the dangerous words.
but the habit was so strong that he said them unconsciously.
by dinnertime there were twenty-five holes in the cardboard strip; by tea-time there were forty!
poor chimborazo!
he was afraid to open his lips, for whenever he did the words would slip out in spite of him.
"well, chimbo," said his father after tea, "i hear you have had a visit from your fairy godmother.
what did she say to you, eh?"
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo, "she said oh, dear!
i've said it again!"
"she said, 'oh, dear!
i've said it again!'"
repeated his father.
"what do you mean by that?"
"oh, dear!
i didn't mean that," cried chimborazo hastily; and again the inexorable bell rang, and he knew that another hole was punched in the fatal cardboard.
he pressed his lips firmly together, and did not open them again except to say "good-night," until he was safe in his own room.
then he hastily drew the hated bell-punch from his pocket, and counted the holes in the strip of cardboard; there were forty-three!
"oh, dear!"
cried the boy, forgetting himself again in his alarm, "only two more!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
i've done it again!
oh  " "ting!
ting!"
went the bell-punch; and the cardboard was punched to the end.
"oh, dear!"
cried chimborazo, now beside himself with terror.
"oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!
oh, dear!!
what will become of me?"
a strange whirring noise was heard, then a loud clang; and the next moment the bell-punch, as if it were alive, flew out of his hand, out of the window, and was gone!
chimborazo stood breathless with terror for a few minutes, momentarily expecting that the roof would fall in on his head, or the floor blow up under his feet, or some appalling catastrophe of some kind follow; but nothing followed.
everything was quiet, and there seemed to be nothing to do but go to bed; and so to bed he went, and slept, only to dream that he was shot through the head with a bell-punch, and died saying, "oh, dear!"
the next morning, when chimborazo came downstairs, his father said, "my boy, i am going to drive over to your grandfather's farm this morning; would you like to go with me?"
a drive to the farm was one of the greatest pleasures chimborazo had, so he answered promptly, "oh, dear!"
"oh, very well!"
said his father, looking much surprised.
"you need not go, my son, if you do not want to.
i will take robert instead."
poor chimborazo!
he had opened his lips to say, "thank you, papa.
i should like to go very much!"
and, instead of these words, out had popped, in his most doleful tone, the now hated "oh, dear!"
he sat amazed; but was roused by his mother's calling him to breakfast.
"come, chimbo," she said.
"here are sausages and scrambled eggs: and you are very fond of both of them.
which will you have?"
chimborazo hastened to say, "sausages, please, mamma," that is, he hastened to try to say it; but all his mother heard was, "oh, dear!"
his father looked much displeased.
"give the boy some bread and water, wife," he said sternly.
"if he cannot answer properly, he must be taught.
i have had enough of this 'oh, dear!'
business."
poor chimborazo!
he saw plainly enough now what his punishment was to be; and the thought of it made him tremble.
he tried to ask for some more bread, but only brought out his "oh, dear!"
in such a lamentable tone that his father ordered him to leave the room.
he went out into the garden, and there he met john the gardener, carrying a basket of rosy apples.
oh!
how good they looked!
"i am bringing some of the finest apples up to the house, little master," said john.
"will you have one to put in your pocket?"
"oh, dear!"
was all the poor boy could say, though he wanted an apple, oh, so much!
and when john heard that he put the apple back in his basket, muttering something about ungrateful monkeys.
poor chimborazo!
i will not give the whole history of that miserable day, a miserable day it was from beginning to end.
he fared no better at dinner than at breakfast; for at the second "oh, dear!"
his father sent him up to his room, "to stay there until he knew how to take what was given him, and be thankful for it."
he knew well enough by this time; but he could not tell his father so.
he went to his room, and sat looking out of the window, a hungry and miserable boy.
in the afternoon his cousin will came up to see him.
"why, chimbo!"
he cried.
"why do you sit moping here in the house, when all the boys are out?
come and play marbles with me on the piazza.
ned and harry are out there waiting for you.
come on!"
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo.
"what's the matter?"
asked will.
"haven't you any marbles?
never mind.
i'll give you half of mine, if you like.
come!"
"oh, dear!"
said chimborazo.
"well," said will, "if that's all you have to say when i offer you marbles, i'll keep them myself.
i suppose you expected me to give you all of them, did you?
i never saw such a fellow!"
and off he went in a huff.
"well, chimborazo," said the fairy godmother, "what do you think of 'oh, dear!'
now?"
chimborazo looked at her beseechingly, but said nothing.
"finding that forty-five times was not enough for you yesterday, i thought i would let you have all you wanted to-day, you see," said the fairy wickedly.
the boy still looked imploringly at her, but did not open his lips.
"well, well," she said at last, touching his lips with her wand, "i think that is enough in the way of punishment, though i am sorry you broke the bell-punch.
good-by!
i don't believe you will say 'oh, dear!'
any more."
and he didn't.
the useful coal
there was once a king whose name was sligo.
he was noted both for his riches and his kind heart.
one evening, as he sat by his fireside, a coal fell out on the hearth.
the king took up the tongs, intending to put it back on the fire, but the coal said:
"if you will spare my life, and do as i tell you, i will save your treasure three times, and tell you the name of the thief who steals it."
these words gave the king great joy, for much treasure had been stolen from him of late, and none of his officers could discover the culprit.
so he set the coal on the table, and said:
"pretty little black and red bird, tell me, what shall i do?"
"put me in your waistcoat-pocket," said the coal, "and take no more thought for to-night."
accordingly the king put the coal in his pocket, and then, as he sat before the warm fire, he grew drowsy, and presently fell fast asleep.
when he had been asleep some time, the door opened, very softly, and the high cellarer peeped cautiously in.
this was the one of the king's officers who had been most eager in searching for the thief.
he now crept softly, softly, toward the king, and seeing that he was fast asleep, put his hand into his waistcoat-pocket; for in that waistcoat-pocket king sligo kept the key of his treasure-chamber, and the high cellarer was the thief.
he put his hand into the waistcoat-pocket.
s-s-s-s-s!
the coal burned it so frightfully that he gave a loud shriek, and fell on his knees on the hearth.
"what is the matter?"
cried the king, waking with a start.
"alas!
your majesty," said the high cellarer, thrusting his burnt fingers into his bosom, that the king might not see them.
"you were just on the point of falling forward into the fire, and i cried out, partly from fright and partly to waken you."
the king thanked the high cellarer, and gave him a ruby ring as a reward.
but when he was in his chamber, and making ready for bed, the coal said to him:
"once already have i saved your treasure, and to-night i shall save it again.
only put me on the table beside your bed, and you may sleep with a quiet heart."
so the king put the coal on the table, and himself into the bed, and was soon sound asleep.
at midnight the door of the chamber opened very softly, and the high cellarer peeped in again.
he knew that at night king sligo kept the key under his pillow, and he was coming to get it.
he crept softly, softly, toward the bed, but as he drew near it, the coal cried out:
"one eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes!
one eye sleeps, but the other eye wakes!
who is this comes creeping, while honest men are sleeping?"
the high cellarer looked about him in affright, and saw the coal burning fiery red in the darkness, and looking for all the world like a great flaming eye.
in an agony of fear he fled from the chamber, crying,
"black and red!
black and red!
the king has a devil to guard his bed."
and he spent the rest of the night shivering in the farthest garret he could find.
the next morning the coal said to the king:
"again this night have i saved your treasure, and mayhap your life as well.
yet a third time i shall do it, and this time you shall learn the name of the thief.
but if i do this, you must promise me one thing, and that is that you will place me in your royal crown and wear me as a jewel.
will you do this?"
"that will i, right gladly!"
replied king sligo, "for a jewel indeed you are."
"that is well!"
said the coal.
"it is true that i am dying; but no matter.
it is a fine thing to be a jewel in a king's crown, even if one is dead.
now listen, and follow my directions closely.
as soon as i am quite black and dead, which will be in about ten minutes from now, you must take me in your hand and rub me all over and around the handle of the door of the treasure-chamber.
a good part of me will be rubbed off, but there will be enough left to put in your crown.
when you have thoroughly rubbed the door, lay the key of the treasure-chamber on your table, as if you had left it there by mistake.
you may then go hunting or riding, but not for more than an hour; and when you return, you must instantly call all your court together, as if on business of the greatest importance.
invent some excuse for asking them to raise their hands, and then arrest the man whose hands are black.
do you understand?"
"i do!"
replied king sligo, fervently, "i do, and my warmest thanks, good coal, are due to you for this "
but here he stopped, for already the coal was quite black, and in less than ten minutes it was dead and cold.
then the king took it and rubbed it carefully over the door of the treasure-chamber, and laying the key of the door in plain sight on his dressing-table, he called his huntsmen together, and mounting his horse, rode away to the forest.
as soon as he was gone, the high cellarer, who had pleaded a headache when asked to join the hunt, crept softly to the king's room, and to his surprise found the key on the table.
full of joy, he sought the treasure-chamber at once, and began filling his pockets with gold and jewels, which he carried to his own apartment, returning greedily for more.
in this way he opened and closed the door many times.
suddenly, as he was stooping over a silver barrel containing sapphires, he heard the sound of a trumpet, blown once, twice, thrice.
the wicked thief started, for it was the signal for the entire court to appear instantly before the king, and the penalty of disobedience was death.
hastily cramming a handful of sapphires into his pocket, he stumbled to the door, which he closed and locked, putting the key also in his pocket, as there was no time to return it.
he flew to the presence-chamber, where the lords of the kingdom were hastily assembling.
the king was seated on his throne, still in his hunting-dress, though he had put on his crown over his hat, which presented a peculiar appearance.
it was with a majestic air, however, that he rose and said:
"nobles, and gentlemen of my court!
i have called you together to pray for the soul of my lamented grandmother, who died, as you may remember, several years ago.
in token of respect, i desire you all to raise your hands to heaven."
the astonished courtiers, one and all, lifted their hands high in air.
the king looked, and, behold!
the hands of the high cellarer were as black as soot!
the king caused him to be arrested and searched, and the sapphires in his pocket, besides the key of the treasure-chamber, gave ample proof of his guilt.
his head was removed at once, and the king had the useful coal, set in sapphires, placed in the very front of his crown, where it was much admired and praised as a black diamond.
song of the little winds
the birdies may sleep, but the winds must wake     early and late, for the birdies' sake.
kissing them, fanning them, soft and sweet,     e'en till the dark and the dawning meet.
the flowers may sleep, but the winds must wake     early and late, for the flowers' sake.
rocking the buds on the rose-mother's breast,     swinging the hyacinth-bells to rest.
the children may sleep, but the winds must wake     early and late, for the children's sake.
singing so sweet in each little one's ear,     he thinks his mother's own song to hear.
the three remarks
there was once a princess, the most beautiful princess that ever was seen.
her hair was black and soft as the raven's wing; her eyes were like stars dropped in a pool of clear water, and her speech like the first tinkling cascade of the baby nile.
she was also wise, graceful, and gentle, so that one would have thought she must be the happiest princess in the world.
but, alas!
there was one terrible drawback to her happiness.
she could make only three remarks.
no one knew whether it was the fault of her nurse, or a peculiarity born with her; but the sad fact remained, that no matter what was said to her, she could only reply in one of three phrases.
the first was,
"what is the price of butter?"
the second, "has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?"
and the third, "with all my heart!"
you may well imagine what a great misfortune this was to a young and lively princess.
how could she join in the sports and dances of the noble youths and maidens of the court?
she could not always be silent, neither could she always say, "with all my heart!"
though this was her favorite phrase, and she used it whenever she possibly could; and it was not at all pleasant, when some gallant knight asked her whether she would rather play croquet or aunt sally, to be obliged to reply, "what is the price of butter?"
on certain occasions, however, the princess actually found her infirmity of service to her.
she could always put an end suddenly to any conversation that did not please her, by interposing with her first or second remark; and they were also a very great assistance to her when, as happened nearly every day, she received an offer of marriage.
emperors, kings, princes, dukes, earls, marquises, viscounts, baronets, and many other lofty personages knelt at her feet, and offered her their hands, hearts, and other possessions of greater or less value.
but for all her suitors the princess had but one answer.
fixing her deep radiant eyes on them, she would reply with thrilling earnestness, "has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?"
and this always impressed the suitors so deeply that they retired, weeping, to a neighboring monastery, where they hung up their armor in the chapel, and taking the vows, passed the remainder of their lives mostly in flogging themselves, wearing hair shirts, and putting dry toast-crumbs in their beds.
now, when the king found that all his best nobles were turning into monks, he was greatly displeased, and said to the princess:
"my daughter, it is high time that all this nonsense came to an end.
the next time a respectable person asks you to marry him, you will say, 'with all my heart!'
or i will know the reason why."
but this the princess could not endure, for she had never yet seen a man whom she was willing to marry.
nevertheless, she feared her father's anger, for she knew that he always kept his word; so that very night she slipped down the back stairs of the palace, opened the back door, and ran away out into the wide world.
she wandered for many days, over mountain and moor, through fen and through forest, until she came to a fair city.
here all the bells were ringing, and the people shouting and flinging caps into the air; for their old king was dead, and they were just about to crown a new one.
the new king was a stranger, who had come to the town only the day before; but as soon as he heard of the old monarch's death, he told the people that he was a king himself, and as he happened to be without a kingdom at that moment, he would be quite willing to rule over them.
the people joyfully assented, for the late king had left no heir; and now all the preparations had been completed.
the crown had been polished up, and a new tip put on the sceptre, as the old king had quite spoiled it by poking the fire with it for upwards of forty years.
when the people saw the beautiful princess, they welcomed her with many bows, and insisted on leading her before the new king.
"who knows but that they may be related?"
said everybody.
"they both came from the same direction, and both are strangers."
accordingly the princess was led to the market-place, where the king was sitting in royal state.
he had a fat, red, shining face, and did not look like the kings whom she had been in the habit of seeing; but nevertheless the princess made a graceful courtesy, and then waited to hear what he would say.
the new king seemed rather embarrassed when he saw that it was a princess who appeared before him; but he smiled graciously, and said, in a smooth oily voice,
"i trust your 'ighness is quite well.
and 'ow did yer 'ighness leave yer pa and ma?"
at these words the princess raised her head and looked fixedly at the red-faced king; then she replied, with scornful distinctness,
"what is the price of butter?"
at these words an alarming change came over the king's face.
the red faded from it, and left it a livid green; his teeth chattered; his eyes stared, and rolled in their sockets; while the sceptre dropped from his trembling hand and fell at the princess's feet.
for the truth was, this was no king at all, but a retired butterman, who had laid by a little money at his trade, and had thought of setting up a public house; but chancing to pass through this city at the very time when they were looking for a king, it struck him that he might just as well fill the vacant place as any one else.
no one had thought of his being an impostor; but when the princess fixed her clear eyes on him and asked him that familiar question, which he had been in the habit of hearing many times a day for a great part of his life, the guilty butterman thought himself detected, and shook in his guilty shoes.
hastily descending from his throne, he beckoned the princess into a side-chamber, and closing the door, besought her in moving terms not to betray him.
"here," he said, "is a bag of rubies as big as pigeon's eggs.
there are six thousand of them, and i 'umbly beg your 'ighness to haccept them as a slight token hof my hesteem, if your 'ighness will kindly consent to spare a respeckable tradesman the disgrace of being hexposed."
the princess reflected, and came to the conclusion that, after all, a butterman might make as good a king as any one else; so she took the rubies with a gracious little nod, and departed, while all the people shouted, "hooray!"
and followed her, waving their hats and kerchiefs, to the gates of the city.
with her bag of rubies over her shoulder, the fair princess now pursued her journey, and fared forward over heath and hill, through brake and through brier.
after several days she came to a deep forest, which she entered without hesitation, for she knew no fear.
she had not gone a hundred paces under the arching limes, when she was met by a band of robbers, who stopped her and asked what she did in their forest, and what she carried in her bag.
they were fierce, black-bearded men, armed to the teeth with daggers, cutlasses, pistols, dirks, hangers, blunderbusses, and other defensive weapons; but the princess gazed calmly on them, and said haughtily,
"has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?"
the effect was magical.
the robbers started back in dismay, crying, "the countersign!"
then they hastily lowered their weapons, and assuming attitudes of abject humility, besought the princess graciously to accompany them to their master's presence.
with a lofty gesture she signified assent, and the cringing, trembling bandits led her on through the forest till they reached an open glade, into which the sunbeams glanced right merrily.
here, under a broad oak-tree which stood in the centre of the glade, reclined a man of gigantic stature and commanding mien, with a whole armory of weapons displayed upon his person.
hastening to their chief, the robbers conveyed to him, in agitated whispers, the circumstance of their meeting the princess, and of her unexpected reply to their questions.
hardly seeming to credit their statement, the gigantic chieftain sprang to his feet, and advancing toward the princess with a respectful reverence, begged her to repeat the remark which had so disturbed his men.
with a royal air, and in clear and ringing tones, the princess repeated,
"has your grandmother sold her mangle yet?"
and gazed steadfastly at the robber chief.
he turned deadly pale, and staggered against a tree, which alone prevented him from falling.
"it is true!"
he gasped.
"we are undone!
the enemy is without doubt close at hand, and all is over.
yet," he added with more firmness, and with an appealing glance at the princess, "yet there may be one chance left for us.
if this gracious lady will consent to go forward, instead of returning through the wood, we may yet escape with our lives.
noble princess!"
and here he and the whole band assumed attitudes of supplication, "consider, i pray you, whether it would really add to your happiness to betray to the advancing army a few poor foresters, who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow.
here," he continued, hastily drawing something from a hole in the oak-tree, "is a bag containing ten thousand sapphires, each as large as a pullet's egg.
if you will graciously deign to accept them, and to pursue your journey in the direction i shall indicate, the red chief of the rustywhanger will be your slave forever."
the princess, who of course knew that there was no army in the neighborhood, and who moreover did not in the least care which way she went, assented to the red chief's proposition, and taking the bag of sapphires, bowed her farewell to the grateful robbers, and followed their leader down a ferny path which led to the farther end of the forest.
when they came to the open country, the robber chieftain took his leave of the princess, with profound bows and many protestations of devotion, and returned to his band, who were already preparing to plunge into the impenetrable thickets of the midforest.
the princess, meantime, with her two bags of gems on her shoulders, fared forward with a light heart, by dale and by down, through moss and through meadow.
by-and-by she came to a fair high palace, built all of marble and shining jasper, with smooth lawns about it, and sunny gardens of roses and gillyflowers, from which the air blew so sweet that it was a pleasure to breathe it.
the princess stood still for a moment, to taste the sweetness of this air, and to look her fill at so fair a spot; and as she stood there, it chanced that the palace-gates opened, and the young king rode out with his court, to go a-catching of nighthawks.
now when the king saw a right fair princess standing alone at his palace-gate, her rich garments dusty and travel-stained, and two heavy sacks hung upon her shoulders, he was filled with amazement; and leaping from his steed, like the gallant knight that he was, he besought her to tell him whence she came and whither she was going, and in what way he might be of service to her.
but the princess looked down at her little dusty shoes, and answered never a word; for she had seen at the first glance how fair and goodly a king this was, and she would not ask him the price of butter, nor whether his grandmother had sold her mangle yet.
but she thought in her heart, "now, i have never, in all my life, seen a man to whom i would so willingly say, 'with all my heart!'
if he should ask me to marry him."
the king marvelled much at her silence, and presently repeated his questions, adding, "and what do you carry so carefully in those two sacks, which seem over-heavy for your delicate shoulders?"
still holding her eyes downcast, the princess took a ruby from one bag, and a sapphire from the other, and in silence handed them to the king, for she willed that he should know she was no beggar, even though her shoes were dusty.
thereat all the nobles were filled with amazement, for no such gems had ever been seen in that country.
but the king looked steadfastly at the princess, and said, "rubies are fine, and sapphires are fair; but, maiden, if i could but see those eyes of yours, i warrant that the gems would look pale and dull beside them."
at that the princess raised her clear dark eyes, and looked at the king and smiled; and the glance of her eyes pierced straight to his heart, so that he fell on his knees and cried:
"ah!
sweet princess, now do i know that thou art the love for whom i have waited so long, and whom i have sought through so many lands.
give me thy white hand, and tell me, either by word or by sign, that thou wilt be my queen and my bride!"
and the princess, like a right royal maiden as she was, looked him straight in the eyes, and giving him her little white hand, answered bravely, "with all my heart!"
hokey pokey
hokey pokey was the youngest of a large family of children.
his elder brothers, as they grew up, all became either butchers or bakers or makers of candle-sticks, for such was the custom of the family.
but hokey pokey would be none of these things; so when he was grown to be a tall youth he went to his father and said, "give me my fortune."
"'will you be a butcher?'
asked his father.
"'no,' said hokey pokey.
"'will you be a baker?'
"'no, again.'
"'will you make candlesticks?'
"'nor that either.'
"'then,' said his father, 'this is the only fortune i can give you;' and with that he took up his cudgel and gave the youth a stout beating.
'now you cannot complain that i gave you nothing,' said he.
"'that is true,' said hokey pokey.
'but give me also the wooden mallet which lies on the shelf, and i will make my way through the world.'
"his father gave him the mallet, glad to be so easily rid of him, and hokey pokey went out into the world to seek his fortune.
he walked all day, and at nightfall he came to a small village.
feeling hungry, he went into a baker's shop, intending to buy a loaf of bread for his supper.
there was a great noise and confusion in the back part of the shop; and on going to see what was the matter, he found the baker on his knees beside a large box or chest, which he was trying with might and main to keep shut.
but there was something inside the box which was trying just as hard to get out, and it screamed and kicked, and pushed the lid up as often as the baker shut it down.
"'what have you there in the box?'
asked hokey pokey.
"'i have my wife,' replied the baker.
'she is so frightfully ill-tempered that whenever i am going to bake bread i am obliged to shut her up in this box, lest she push me into the oven and bake me with the bread, as she has often threatened to do.
but to-day she has broken the lock of the box, and i know not how to keep her down.'
"'that is easily managed,' said hokey pokey.
'do you but tell her, when she asks who i am, that i am a giant with three heads, and all will be well.'
so saying, he took his wooden mallet and dealt three tremendous blows on the box, saying in a loud voice,
'hickory hox!
i sit by the box,     waiting to give you a few of my knocks.'
"'husband, husband!
whom have you there?'
cried the wife in terror.
"'alas!'
said the baker; 'it is a frightful giant with three heads.
he is sitting by the box, and if you open it so much as the width of your little finger, he will pull you out and beat you to powder.'
"when the wife heard that she crouched down in the box, and said never a word, for she was afraid of her life.
"the baker then took hokey pokey into the other part of the shop, thanked him warmly, and gave him a good supper and a bed.
the next morning he gave him for a present the finest loaf of bread in his shop, which was shaped like a large round ball; and hokey pokey, after knocking once more on the lid of the box, continued his travels.
"he had not gone far before he came to another village, and wishing to inquire his way he entered the first shop he came to, which proved to be that of a confectioner.
the shop was full of the most beautiful sweetmeats imaginable, and everything was bright and gay; but the confectioner himself sat upon a bench, weeping bitterly.
"'what ails you, friend?'
asked hokey pokey; 'and why do you weep, when you are surrounded by the most delightful things in the world?'
"'alas!'
replied the confectioner.
'that is just the cause of my trouble.
the sweetmeats that i make are so good that their fame has spread far and wide, and the rat king, hearing of them, has taken up his abode in my cellar.
every night he comes up and eats all the sweetmeats i have made the day before.
there is no comfort in my life, and i am thinking of becoming a rope-maker and hanging myself with the first rope i make.'
"'why don't you set a trap for him?'
asked hokey pokey.
"'i have set fifty-nine traps,' replied the confectioner, 'but he is so strong that he breaks them all.'
"'poison him,' suggested hokey pokey.
"'he dislikes poison,' said the confectioner, 'and will not take it in any form.'
"'in that case,' said hokey pokey, 'leave him to me.
go away, and hide yourself for a few minutes, and all will be well.'
"the confectioner retired behind a large screen, having first showed hokey pokey the hole of the rat king, which was certainly a very large one.
hokey pokey sat down by the hole, with his mallet in his hand, and said in a squeaking voice,
'ratly king!
kingly rat!
here your mate comes pit-a-pat.
come and see; the way is free;     hear my signal: one!
two!
three!'
and he scratched three times on the floor.
almost immediately the head of a rat popped up through the hole.
he was a huge rat, quite as large as a cat; but his size was no help to him, for as soon as he appeared, hokey pokey dealt him such a blow with his mallet that he fell down dead without even a squeak.
then hokey pokey called the confectioner, who came out from behind the screen and thanked him warmly; he also bade him choose anything he liked in the shop, in payment for his services.
"'can you match this?'
asked hokey pokey, showing his round ball of bread.
"'that can i!'
said the confectioner; and he brought out a most beautiful ball, twice as large as the loaf, composed of the finest sweetmeats in the world, red and yellow and white.
hokey pokey took it with many thanks, and then went on his way.
"the next day he came to a third village in the streets of which the people were all running to and fro in the wildest confusion.
"'what is the matter?'
asked hokey pokey, as one man ran directly into his arms.
"'alas!'
replied the man.
'a wild bull has got into the principal china-shop, and is breaking all the beautiful dishes.'
"'why do you not drive him out?'
asked hokey pokey.
"'we are afraid to do that,' said the man; 'but we are running up and down to express our emotion and sympathy, and that is something.'
"'show me the china-shop,' said hokey pokey.
"so the man showed him the china-shop; and there, sure enough, was a furious bull, making most terrible havoc.
he was dancing up and down on a dresden dinner set, and butting at the chinese mandarins, and switching down finger-bowls and teapots with his tail, bellowing meanwhile in the most outrageous manner.
the floor was covered with broken crockery, and the whole scene was melancholy to behold.
"now when hokey pokey saw this, he said to the owner of the china-shop, who was tearing his hair in a frenzy of despair, 'stop tearing your hair, which is indeed a senseless occupation, and i will manage this matter for you.
bring me a red cotton umbrella, and all will yet be well.'
"so the china-shop man brought him a red cotton umbrella, and hokey pokey began to open and shut it violently in front of the door.
when the bull saw that, he stopped dancing on the dresden dinner set and came charging out of the shop, straight towards the red umbrella.
when he came near enough, hokey pokey dropped the umbrella, and raising his wooden mallet hit the bull such a blow on the muzzle that he fell down dead, and never bellowed again.
"the people all flung up their hats, and cheered, and ran up and down all the more, to express their gratification.
as for the china-shop man, he threw his arms round hokey pokey's neck, called him his cherished preserver, and bade him choose anything that was left in his shop in payment for his services.
"'can you match these?'
asked hokey pokey, holding up the loaf of bread and the ball of sweetmeats.
"'that can i,' said the shop-man; and he brought out a huge ball of solid ivory, inlaid with gold and silver, and truly lovely to behold.
it was very heavy, being twice as large as the ball of sweetmeats; but hokey pokey took it, and, after thanking the shop-man and receiving his thanks in return, he proceeded on his way.
"after walking for several days, he came to a fair, large castle, in front of which sat a man on horseback.
when the man saw hokey pokey, he called out,
"'who are you, and what do you bring to the mighty dragon, lord of this castle?'
"'hokey pokey is my name,' replied the youth, 'and strange things do i bring.
but what does the mighty dragon want, for example?'
"'he wants something new to eat,' said the man on horseback.
'he has eaten of everything that is known in the world, and pines for something new.
he who brings him a new dish, never before tasted by him, shall have a thousand crowns and a new jacket; but he who fails, after three trials, shall have his jacket taken away from him, and his head cut off besides.'
"'i bring strange food,' said hokey pokey.
'let me pass in, that i may serve the mighty dragon.'
"then the man on horseback lowered his lance, and let him pass in, and in short space he came before the mighty dragon.
the dragon sat on a silver throne, with a golden knife in one hand, and a golden fork in the other.
around him were many people, who offered him dishes of every description; but he would none of them, for he had tasted them all before; and he howled with hunger on his silver throne.
then came forward hokey pokey, and said boldly,
"'here come i, hokey pokey, bringing strange food for the mighty dragon.'
"the dragon howled again, and waving his knife and fork, bade hokey pokey give the food to the attendants, that they might serve him.
"'not so,' said hokey pokey.
'i must serve you myself, most mighty dragon, else you shall not taste of my food.
therefore put down your knife and fork, and open your mouth, and you shall see what you shall see.'
"so the dragon, after summoning the man-with-the-thousand-crowns and the man-with-the-new-jacket to one side of his throne, and the man-to-take-away-the old-jacket and the executioner to the other, laid down his knife and fork and opened his mouth.
hokey pokey stepped lightly forward, and dropped the round loaf down the great red throat.
the dragon shut his jaws together with a snap, and swallowed the loaf in two gulps.
"'that is good,' he said; 'but it is not new.
i have eaten much bread, though never before in a round loaf.
have you anything more?
or shall the man take away your jacket?'
"'i have this, an it please you,' said hokey pokey; and he dropped the ball of sweetmeats into the dragon's mouth.
"when the dragon tasted this, he rolled his eyes round and round, and was speechless with delight for some time.
at length he said, 'worthy youth, this is very good; it is extremely good; it is better than anything i ever tasted.
nevertheless, it is not new; for i have tasted the same kind of thing before, only not nearly so good.
and now, unless you are positively sure that you have something new for your third trial, you really might as well take off your jacket; and the executioner shall take off your head at the same time, as it is getting rather late.
executioner, do your '
"'craving your pardon, most mighty dragon,' said hokey pokey, 'i will first make my third trial;' and with that he dropped the ivory ball into the dragon's mouth.
"'gug-wugg-gllll-grrr!'
said the dragon, for the ball had stuck fast, being too big for him to swallow.
"then hokey pokey lifted his mallet and struck one tremendous blow upon the ball, driving it far down the throat of the monster, and killing him most fatally dead.
he rolled off the throne like a scaly log, and his crown fell off and rolled to hokey pokey's feet.
the youth picked it up and put it on his own head, and then called the people about him and addressed them.
"'people,' he said, 'i am hokey pokey, and i have come from a far land to rule over you.
your dragon have i slain, and now i am your king; and if you will always do exactly what i tell you to do, you will have no further trouble.'
"so the people threw up their caps and cried, 'long live hokey pokey!'
and they always did exactly as he told them, and had no further trouble.
"and hokey pokey sent for his three brothers, and made them chief butcher, chief baker, and chief candlestick-maker of his kingdom.
but to his father he sent a large cudgel made of pure gold, with these words engraved on it: 'now you cannot complain that i have given you nothing!'"
the tangled skein
"my dear child," said the angel-who-attends-to things, "why are you crying so very hard?"
"oh dear!
oh dear!"
said the child.
"no one ever had such a dreadful time before, i do believe, and it all comes of trying to be good.
oh dear!
oh dear!
i wish i was bad; then i should not have all this trouble."
"yes, you would," said the angel; "a great deal worse.
now tell me what is the matter!"
"look!"
said the child.
"mother gave me this skein to wind, and i promised to do it.
but then father sent me on an errand, and it was almost school-time, and i was studying my lesson and going on the errand and winding the skein, all at the same time, and now i have got all tangled up in the wool, and i cannot walk either forward or back, and oh!
dear me, what ever shall i do?"
"sit down!"
said the angel.
"but it is school-time!"
said the child.
"sit down!"
said the angel.
"but father sent me on an errand!"
said the child.
"sit down!"
said the angel; and he took the child by her shoulders and set her down.
"now sit still!"
he said, and he began patiently to wind up the skein.
it was wofully tangled, and knotted about the child's hands and feet; it was a wonder she could move at all; but at last it was all clear, and the angel handed her the ball.
"i thank you so very much!"
said the child.
"i was not naughty, was i?"
"not naughty, only foolish; but that does just as much harm sometimes."
"but i was doing right things!"
said the child.
"but you were doing them in the wrong way!"
said the angel.
"it is good to do an errand, and it is good to go to school, but when you have a skein to wind you must sit still."
a song for hal
once i saw a little boat, and a pretty, pretty boat,     when daybreak the hills was adorning,     and into it i jumped, and away i did float,     so very, very early in the morning.
chorus
and every little wave had its nightcap on,     its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on.
and every little wave had its nightcap on,     so very, very early in the morning.
all the fishes were asleep in their caves cool and deep,     when the ripple round my keel flashed a warning.
said the minnow to the skate, "we must certainly be late,     though i thought 't was very early in the morning."
chorus
for every little wave has its nightcap on,     its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on.
for every little wave has its nightcap on,     so very, very early in the morning.
the lobster darkly green soon appeared upon the scene,     and pearly drops his claws were adorning.
quoth he, "may i be boiled, if i'll have my slumber spoiled,     so very, very early in the morning!"
chorus
for every little wave has its nightcap on,     its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on,     for every little wave has its nightcap on,     so very, very early in the morning.
said the sturgeon to the eel, "just imagine how i feel,     thus roused without a syllable of warning.
people ought to let us know when a-sailing they would go,     so very, very early in the morning."
chorus
when every little wave has its nightcap on,     its nightcap, white cap, nightcap on.
when every little wave has its nightcap on,     so very, very early in the morning.
just then up jumped the sun, and the fishes every one     for their laziness at once fell a-mourning.
but i stayed to hear no more, for my boat had reached the shore,     so very, very early in the morning.
chorus
and every little wave took its nightcap off,     its nightcap, white cap, nightcap off.
and every little wave took its nightcap off,     and courtesied to the sun in the morning.
for you and me
"i have come to speak to you about your work," said the angel-who-attends-to-things.
"it appears to be unsatisfactory."
"indeed!"
said the man.
"i hardly see how that can be.
perhaps you will explain."
"i will!"
said the angel.
"to begin with, the work is slovenly."
"i was born heedless," said the man.
"it is a family failing which i have always regretted."
"it is ill put together, too;" said the angel.
"the parts do not fit."
"i never had any eye for proportion," said the man; "i admit it is unfortunate."
"the whole thing is a botch," said the angel.
"you have put neither brains nor heart into it, and the result is ridiculous failure.
what do you propose to do about it?"
"i credited you with more comprehension," said the man.
"my faults, such as they are, were born with me.
i am sorry that you do not approve of me, but this is the way i was made; do you see?"
"i see!"
said the angel.
he put out a strong white hand, and taking the man by the collar, tumbled him neck and crop into the ditch.
"what is the meaning of this?"
cried the man, as he scrambled out breathless and dripping.
"i never saw such behavior.
do you see what you have done?
you have ruined my clothes, and nearly drowned me beside."
"oh yes!"
said the angel: "this is the way i was made."
the burning house
some neighbours were walking together in the cool of the day, watching the fall of the twilight, and talking of this and that; and as they walked, they saw at a little distance a light, as it were a house on fire.
"from the direction, that must be our neighbour william's house," said one.
"ought we not to warn him of the danger?"
"i see only a little flame," said another; "perchance it may go out of itself, and no harm done."
"i should be loth to carry ill news," said a third; "it is always a painful thing to do."
"william is not a man who welcomes interference," said a fourth.
"i should not like to be the one to intrude upon his privacy; probably he knows about the fire, and is managing it in his own way."
while they were talking, the house burned up.
the naughty comet
the door of the comet house was open.
in the great court-yard stood hundreds of comets, of all sizes and shapes.
some were puffing and blowing, and arranging their tails, all ready to start; others had just come in, and looked shabby and forlorn after their long journeyings, their tails drooping disconsolately; while others still were switched off on side-tracks, where the tinker and the tailor were attending to their wants, and setting them to rights.
in the midst of all stood the comet master, with his hands behind him, holding a very long stick with a very sharp point.
the comets knew just how the point of that stick felt, for they were prodded with it whenever they misbehaved themselves; accordingly, they all remained very quiet, while he gave his orders for the day.
in a distant corner of the court-yard lay an old comet, with his tail comfortably curled up around him.
he was too old to go out, so he enjoyed himself at home in a quiet way.
beside him stood a very young comet, with a very short tail.
he was quivering with excitement, and occasionally cast sharp impatient glances at the comet master.
"will he never call me?"
he exclaimed, but in an undertone, so that only his companion could hear.
"he knows i am dying to go out, and for that very reason he pays no attention to me.
i dare not leave my place, for you know what he is."
"ah!"
said the old comet, slowly, "if you had been out as often as i have, you would not be in such a hurry.
hot, tiresome work, i call it.
and what does it all amount to?"
"ay, that's the point!"
exclaimed the young comet.
"what does it all amount to?
that is what i am determined to find out.
i cannot understand your going on, travelling and travelling, and never finding out why you do it.
i shall find out, you may be very sure, before i have finished my first journey."
"better not!
better not!"
answered the old comet.
"you'll only get into trouble.
nobody knows except the comet master and the sun.
the master would cut you up into inch pieces if you asked him, and the sun "
"well, what about the sun?"
asked the young comet, eagerly.
"short-tailed comet no.
73!"
rang suddenly, clear and sharp, through the court-yard.
the young comet started as if he had been shot, and in three bounds he stood before the comet master, who looked fixedly at him.
"you have never been out before," said the master.
"no, sir!"
replied no.
73; and he knew better than to add another word.
"you will go out now," said the comet master.
"you will travel for thirteen weeks and three days, and will then return.
you will avoid the neighborhood of the sun, the earth, and the planet bungo.
you will turn to the left on meeting other comets, and you are not allowed to speak to meteors.
these are your orders.
go!"
at the word, the comet shot out of the gate and off into space, his short tail bobbing as he went.
ah!
here was something worth living for.
no longer shut up in that tiresome court-yard, waiting for one's tail to grow, but out in the free, open, boundless realm of space, with leave to shoot about here and there and everywhere well, nearly everywhere for thirteen whole weeks!
ah, what a glorious prospect!
how swiftly he moved!
how well his tail looked, even though it was still rather short!
what a fine fellow he was, altogether!
for two or three weeks our comet was the happiest creature in all space; too happy to think of anything except the joy of frisking about.
but by-and-by he began to wonder about things, and that is always dangerous for a comet.
"i wonder, now," he said, "why i may not go near the planet bungo.
i have always heard that he was the most interesting of all the planets.
and the sun!
how i should like to know a little more about the sun!
and, by the way, that reminds me that all this time i have never found out why i am travelling.
it shows how i have been enjoying myself, that i have forgotten it so long; but now i must certainly make a point of finding out.
hello!
there comes long-tail no.
45. i mean to ask him."
so he turned out to the left, and waited till no.
45 came along.
the latter was a middle-aged comet, very large, and with an uncommonly long tail, quite preposterously long, our little no.
73 thought, as he shook his own tail and tried to make as much of it as possible.
"good morning, mr.
long-tail!"
he said as soon as the other was within speaking distance.
"would you be so very good as to tell me what you are travelling for?"
"for six months," answered no.
45 with a puff and a snort.
"started a month ago; five months still to go."
"oh, i don't mean that!"
exclaimed short-tail no.
73.
"i mean why are you travelling at all?"
"comet master sent me!"
replied no.
45, briefly.
"but what for?"
persisted the little comet.
"what is it all about?
what good does it do?
why do we travel for weeks and months and years?
that's what i want to find out."
"don't know, i'm sure!"
said the elder, still more shortly.
"what's more, don't care!"
the little comet fairly shook with amazement and indignation.
"you don't care!"
he cried.
"is it possible?
and how long, may i ask, have you been travelling hither and thither through space, without knowing or caring why?"
"long enough to learn not to ask stupid questions!"
answered long-tail no.
45.
"good morning to you!"
and without another word he was off, with his preposterously long tail spreading itself like a luminous fan behind him.
the little comet looked after him for some time in silence.
at last he said:
"well, i call that simply disgusting!
an ignorant, narrow-minded old "
"hello, cousin!"
called a clear merry voice just behind him.
"how goes it with you?
shall we travel together?
our roads seem to go in the same direction."
the comet turned and saw a bright and sparkling meteor.
"i i must not speak to you!"
said no.
73, confusedly.
"not speak to me!"
exclaimed the meteor, laughing.
"why, what's the matter?
what have i done?
i never saw you before in my life."
"n-nothing that i know of," answered no.
73, still more confused.
"then why mustn't you speak to me?"
persisted the meteor, giving a little skip and jump.
"eh?
tell me that, will you?
why mustn't you?"
"i don't know!"
answered the little comet, slowly, for he was ashamed to say boldly, as he ought to have done, that it was against the orders of the comet master.
"oh, gammon!"
cried the meteor, with another skip.
"i know!
comet master, eh?
but a fine high-spirited young fellow like you isn't going to be afraid of that old tyrant.
come along, i say!
if there were any real reason why you should not speak to me "
"that's just what i say," interrupted the comet, eagerly.
"what is the reason?
why don't they tell it to me?"
"'cause there isn't any!"
rejoined the meteor.
"come along!"
after a little more hesitation, the comet yielded, and the two frisked merrily along, side by side.
as they went, no.
73 confided all his vexations to his new friend, who sympathized warmly with him, and spoke in most disrespectful terms of the comet master.
"a pretty sort of person to dictate to you, when he hasn't the smallest sign of a tail himself!
i wouldn't submit to it!"
cried the meteor.
"as to the other orders, some of them are not so bad.
of course, nobody would want to go near that stupid, poky earth, if he could possibly help it; and the planet bungo is ah is not a very nice planet, i believe."
[the fact is, the planet bungo contains a large reform-school for unruly meteors, but our friend made no mention of that.]
"but as for the sun, the bright, jolly, delightful sun, why, i am going to take a nearer look at him myself.
come on!
we will go together, in spite of the comet master."
again the little comet hesitated and demurred; but after all, he had already broken one rule, and why not another?
he would be punished in any case, and he might as well get all the pleasure he could.
reasoning thus, he yielded once more to the persuasions of the meteor, and together they shot through the great space-world, taking their way straight toward the sun.
when the sun saw them coming, he smiled and seemed much pleased.
he stirred his fire, and shook his shining locks, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter.
the heat seemed to have a strange effect on the comet, for he began to go faster and faster.
"hold on!"
said the meteor.
"why are you hurrying so?
i cannot keep up with you."
"i cannot stop myself!"
cried no.
73.
"something is drawing me forward, faster and faster!"
on he went at a terrible rate, the meteor following as best he might.
several planets that he passed shouted to him in warning tones, but he could not hear what they said.
the sun stirred his fire again, and blazed brighter and brighter, hotter and hotter; and onward rushed the wretched little comet, faster and faster, faster and faster!
"catch hold of my tail and stop me!"
he shrieked to the meteor.
"i am shrivelling, burning up, in this fearful heat!
stop me, for pity's sake!"
but the meteor was already far behind, and had stopped short to watch his companion's headlong progress.
and now, ah, me!
now the sun opened his huge fiery mouth.
the comet made one desperate effort to stop himself, but it was in vain.
an awful, headlong plunge through the intervening space; a hissing and crackling; a shriek, and the fiery jaws had closed on short-tail no.
73 forever!
"dear me!"
said the meteor.
"how very shocking!
i quite forgot that the sun ate comets.
i must be off, or i shall get an æon in the reform school for this.
i am really very sorry, for he was a nice little comet!"
and away frisked the meteor, and soon forgot all about it.
but in the great court-yard in front of the comet house, the master took a piece of chalk, and crossed out no.
73 from the list of short-tailed comets on the slate that hangs on the door.
then he called out, "no.
1 express, come forward!"
and the swiftest of all the comets stood before him, brilliant and beautiful, with a bewildering magnificence of tail.
the comet master spoke sharply and decidedly, as usual, but not unkindly.
"no.
73, short-tail," he said, "has disobeyed orders, and has in consequence been devoured by the sun."
here there was a great sensation among the comets.
"no.
1," continued the master, "you will start immediately, and travel until you find a runaway meteor, with a red face and blue hair.
you are permitted to make inquiries of respectable bodies, such as planets or satellites.
when found, you will arrest him and take him to the planet bungo.
my compliments to the meteor keeper, and i shall be obliged if he will give this meteor two æons in the reform school.
i trust," he continued, turning to the assembled comets, "that this will be a lesson to all of you!"
and i believe it was.
day dreams
white wings over the water,     fluttering, fluttering over the sea,     white wings over the water,     what are you bringing to me?
a fairy prince in a golden boat,     with golden ringlets that fall and float,     a velvet cap, and a taffety cloak,     this you are bringing to me.
fairy, fairy princekin,     sailing, sailing hither to me,     silk and satin and velvet,     what are you coming to see?
a little girl in a calico gown,     with hair and eyes of dusky brown,     who sits on the wharf of the fishing-town.
looking away to sea.
golden, golden sunbeams,     touch me now with your wands of gold;     make me a beautiful princess,     radiant to behold.
blue and silver and ermine fine,     diamond drops that flash and shine;     so shall i meet this prince of mine,     fairer than may be told.
white wings over the water,     fluttering ever farther away;     dark clouds shrouding the sunbeams,     sullen and cold and gray.
back i go in my calico gown,     back to the hut in the fishing-town.
and oh, but the night shuts darkly down     after the summer day!
the world's greatest books
i. the mighty hunter at home
i remember my first visit to tartarin of tarascon as clearly as if it had been yesterday, though it is now more than a dozen years ago.
when you had passed into his back garden, you would never have fancied yourself in france.
every tree and plant had been brought from foreign climes; he was such a fellow for collecting the curiosities of nature, this wonderful tartarin.
his garden boasted, for instance, an example of the baobab, that giant of the vegetable world, but tartarin's specimen was only big enough to occupy a mignonette pot.
he was mightily proud of it, all the same.
the great sight of his place, however, was the hero's private den at the bottom of the garden.
picture to yourself a large hall gleaming from top to bottom with firearms and weapons of all sorts: carbines, rifles, blunderbusses, bowie-knives, revolvers, daggers, flint-arrows in a word, examples of the deadly weapons of all races used by man in all parts of the world.
everything was neatly arranged, and labelled as if it were in a public museum.
"poisoned arrows.
please do not touch!"
was the warning on one of the cards.
"weapons loaded.
have a care!"
greeted you from another.
my word, it required some pluck to move about in the den of the great tartarin.
there were books of travel and adventure, books about mighty hunting on the table in the centre of the room; and seated at the table was a short and rather fat, red-haired fellow of about forty-five, with a closely-
trimmed beard and a pair of bright eyes.
he was in his shirtsleeves, reading a book held in one hand while he gesticulated wildly with a large pipe in the other tartarin!
he was evidently imagining himself the daring hero of the story.
now you must know that the people of tarascon were tremendously keen on hunting, and tartarin was the chief of the hunters.
you may think this funny when you know there was not a living thing to shoot at within miles of tarascon; scarcely a sparrow to attract local sportsmen.
ah, but you don't know how ingenious they are down there.
every sunday morning off the huntsmen sallied with their guns and ammunition, the hounds yelping at their heels.
each man as he left in the morning took with him a brand new cap, and when they got well into the country and were ready for sport, they took their caps off, threw then high in the air, and shot at them as they fell.
in the evening you would see them returning with their riddled caps stuck on the points of their guns, and of all these brave men tartarin was the most admired, as he always swung into town with the most hopeless rag of a cap at the end of a day's sport.
there's no mistake, he was a wonder!
but for all his adventurous spirit, he had a certain amount of caution.
there were really two men inside the skin of tartarin.
the one tartarin said to him, "cover yourself with glory."
the other said to him, "cover yourself with flannel."
the one, imagining himself fighting red indians, would call for "an axe!
an axe!
somebody give me an axe!"
the other, knowing that he was cosy by his fireside, would ring the bell and say, "jane, my coffee."
one evening at costecalde's, the gunsmith's, when tartarin was explaining some mechanism of a rifle, the door was opened and an excited voice announced, "a lion!
a lion!"
the news seemed incredible, but you can imagine the terror that seized the little group at the gunsmith's as they asked for more news.
it appeared that the lion was to be seen in a travelling menagerie newly arrived from beaucaire.
a lion at last, and here in tarascon!
suddenly, when the full truth had dawned upon tartarin, he shouldered his gun, and, turning to major bravida, "let us go to see him!"
he thundered.
following him went the cap-hunters.
arrived at the menagerie, where many tarasconians were already wandering from cage to cage, tartarin entered with his gun over his shoulder to make inquiries about the king of beasts.
his entrance was rather a wet blanket on the other visitors, who, seeing their hero thus armed, thought there might be danger, and were about to flee.
but the proud bearing of the great man reassured them, and tartarin continued his round of the booth until he faced the lion from the atlas mountains.
here he stood carefully studying the creature, who sniffed and growled in surly temper, and then, rising, shook his mane and gave vent to a terrible, roar, directed full at tartarin.
tartarin alone stood his ground, stern and immovable, in front of the cage, and the valiant cap-hunters, somewhat reassured by his bravery, again drew near and heard him murmur, as he gazed on the lion, "ah, yes, there's a hunt for you!"
not another word did tartarin utter that day.
yet next day nothing was spoken about in the town but his intention to be off to algeria to hunt the lions of the atlas mountains.
when asked if this were true his pride would not let him deny it, and he pretended that it might be true.
so the notion grew, until that night at his club tartarin announced, amid tremendous cheering, that he was sick of cap-hunting, and meant very soon to set forth in pursuit of the lions of the atlas.
now began a great struggle between the two tartarins.
while the one was strongly in favour of the adventure, the other was strongly opposed to leaving his snug little baobab villa and the safety of tarascon.
but he had let himself in for this, and felt he would have to see it through.
so he began reading up the books of african travel, and found from these how some of the explorers had trained themselves for the work by enduring hunger, thirst, and other privations before they set out.
tartarin began cutting down his food, taking very watery soup.
early in the morning, too, he walked round the town seven or eight times, and at nights he would stay in the garden from ten till eleven o'clock, alone with his gun, to inure himself to night chills; while, so long as the menagerie remained in tarascon, a strange figure might have been seen in the dark, prowling around the tent, listening to the growling of the lion.
this was tartarin, accustoming himself to be calm when the king of beasts was raging.
the feeling began to grow, however, that the hero was shirking.
he showed no haste to be off.
at length, one night major bravida went to baobab villa and said very solemnly, "tartarin, you must go!"
it was a terrible moment for tartarin, but he realised the solemnity of the words, and, looking around his cosy little den with a moist eye, he replied at length in a choking voice, "bravida, i shall go!"
having made this irrevocable decision, he now pushed ahead his final preparations with some show of haste.
from bompard's he had two large trunks, one inscribed with "tartarin of tarascon.
case of arms," and he sent to marseilles all manner of provisions of travel, including a patent camp-tent of the latest style.
ii.
tartarin sets off to lion-land
then the great day of his departure arrived.
all the town was agog.
the neighbourhood of baobab villa was crammed with spectators.
about ten o'clock the bold hero issued forth.
"he's a turk!
he's wearing spectacles!"
this was the astonished cry of the beholders, and, sure enough, tartarin had thought it his duty to don algerian costume because he was going to algeria.
he also carried two heavy rifles, one on each shoulder, a huge hunting-knife at his waist and a revolver in a leather case.
a pair of large blue spectacles were worn by him, for the sun in algeria is terribly strong, you know.
at the station the doors of the waiting-room had to be closed to keep the crowd out, while the great man took leave of his friends, making promises to each, and jotting down notes on his tablets of the various people to whom he would send lion-skins.
oh, that i had the brush of an artist, that i might paint you some pictures of tartarin during his three days aboard the zouave on the voyage from marseilles!
but i have no facility with the brush, and mere words cannot convey how he passed from the proudly heroic to the hopelessly miserable in the course of the journey.
worst of all, while he was groaning in his stuffy bunk, he knew that a very merry party of passengers were enjoying themselves in the saloon.
he was still in his bunk when the ship came to her moorings at algiers, and he got up with a sudden jerk, under the impression that the zouave was sinking.
seizing his many weapons, he rushed on deck, to find it was not foundering, but only arriving.
soon after tartarin had set foot on shore, following a great negro porter, he was almost stupefied by the babel of tongues; but, fortunately, a policeman took him in hand and had him directed, together with his enormous collection of luggage, to the european hotel.
on arriving at his hotel, he was so fatigued that his marvellous collection of weapons had to be taken from him, and he had to be carried to bed, where he snored very soundly until it was striking three o'clock.
he had slept all the evening, through the night and morning, and well into the next afternoon!
he awakened refreshed, and the first thought in his mind was, "i'm in lion-land at last!"
but the thought sent a cold shiver through him, and he dived under the bedclothes.
a moment later he determined to be up.
exclaiming, "now for the lions!"
he jumped on the floor and began his preparations.
his plan was to get out at once into the country, take ambush for the night, shoot the first lion that came along, and then back to the hotel for breakfast.
so off he went, carrying not only his usual arsenal, but the marvellous patent tent strapped to his back.
he attracted no little attention as he trudged along, and catching sight of a very fine camel, his heart beat fast, for he thought the lions could not be far off now.
it was quite dark by the time he had got only a little way beyond the outskirts of the town, scrambling over ditches and bramble-hedges.
after much hard work of this kind, the mighty hunter suddenly stopped, whispering to himself, "i seem to smell a lion hereabouts."
he sniffed keenly in all directions.
to his excited imagination, it seemed a likely place for a lion; so, dropping on one knee, and laying one of his guns in front of him, he waited.
he waited very patiently.
one hour, two hours; but nothing stirred.
then he suddenly remembered that great lion-hunters take a little young goat with them to attract the lion by its bleating.
having forgotten to supply himself with one, tartarin conceived the happy idea of bleating like a kid.
he started softly, calling, "meh, meh!"
he was really afraid that a lion might hear him, but as no lion seemed to be paying attention, he became bolder in his "mehs," until the noise he made was more like the bellowing of a bull.
but hush!
what was that?
a huge black object had for the moment loomed up against the dark blue sky.
it stooped, sniffing the ground; then seemed to move away again, only to return suddenly.
it must be the lion at last; so, taking a steady aim, bang went the gun of tartarin, and a terrible howling came in response.
clearly his shot had told; the wounded lion had made off.
he would now wait for the female to appear, as he had read in books.
but two or more hours passed, and she did not come; and the ground was damp, and the night air cold, so the hunter thought he would camp for the night.
after much struggling, he could not get his patent tent to open.
finally, he threw it on the ground in a rage, and lay on the top of it.
thus he slept until the bugles in the barracks near by wakened him in the morning.
for behold, instead of finding himself out on the sahara, he was in the kitchen garden of some suburban algerian!
"these people are mad," he growled to himself, "to plant their artichokes where lions are roaming about.
surely i have been dreaming.
lions do come here; there's proof positive."
from artichoke to artichoke, from field to field, he followed the thin trail of blood, and came at length to a poor little donkey he had wounded!
tartarin's first feeling was one of vexation.
there is such a difference between a lion and an ass, and the poor little creature looked so innocent.
the great hunter knelt down and tried to stanch the donkey's wounds, and it seemed grateful to him, for it feebly flapped its long ears two or three times before it lay still for ever.
suddenly a voice was heard calling, "noiraud!
noiraud!"
it was "the female."
she came in the form of an old french woman with a large red umbrella, and it would have been better for tartarin to have faced a female lion.
when the unhappy man tried to explain how he had mistaken her little donkey for a lion, she thought he was making fun of her, and belaboured him with her umbrella.
when her husband came on the scene the matter was soon adjusted by tartarin agreeing to pay eight pounds for the damage he had done, the price of the donkey being really something like eight shillings.
the donkey owner was an inn-keeper, and the sight of tartarin's money made him quite friendly.
he invited the lion-hunter to have some food at the inn with him before he left.
and as they walked thither he was amazed to be told by the inn-keeper that he had never seen a lion there in twenty years!
clearly, the lions were to be looked for further south.
"i'll make tracks for the south, too," said tartarin to himself.
but he first of all returned to his hotel in an omnibus.
think of it!
but before he was to go south on the high adventure, he loafed about the city of algiers for some time, going to the theatres and other places of amusement, where he met prince gregory of montenegro, with whom he made friends.
one day the captain of the zouave came across him in the town, and showed him a note about himself in a tarascon newspaper.
this spoke of the uncertainty that prevailed as to the fate of the great hunter, and wound up with these words:
"some negro traders state, however, that they met in the open desert a european whose description answers to that of tartarin, and who was making tracks for timbuctoo.
may heaven guard for us our hero!"
tartarin went red and white by turns as he read this, and realised that he was in for it.
he very much wished to return to his beloved tarascon, but to go there without having shot some lions one at least was impossible, and so it was southward ho!
iii.
tartarin's adventures in the desert
the lion-hunter was keenly disappointed, after a very long journey in the stage-coach, to be told that there was not a lion left in all algeria, though a few panthers might still be found worth shooting.
he got out at the town of milianah, and let the coach go on, as he thought he might as well take things easily if, after all, there were no lions to be shot.
to his amazement, however, he came across a real live lion at the door of a café.
"what made them say there were no more lions?"
he cried, astounded at the sight.
the lion lifted in its mouth a wooden bowl from the pavement, and a passing arab threw a copper in the bowl, at which the lion wagged its tail.
suddenly the truth dawned on tartarin.
he was a poor, blind, tame lion, which a couple of negroes were taking through the streets, just like a performing dog.
his blood was up at the very idea.
shouting, "you scoundrels, to humiliate these noble beasts so!"
he rushed and took the degrading bowl from the royal jaws of the lion.
this led to a quarrel with the negroes, at the height of which prince gregory of montenegro came upon the scene.
the prince told him a most untrue story about a convent in the north of africa where lions were kept, to be sent out with priests to beg for money.
he also assured him that there were lots of lions in algeria, and that he would join him in his hunt.
thus it was in the company of prince gregory, and with a following of half a dozen negro porters, that tartarin set off early next morning for the shereef plain; but they very soon had trouble, both with the porters and with the provisions tartarin had brought for his great journey.
the prince suggested dismissing the negroes and buying a couple of donkeys, but tartarin could not bear the thought of donkeys, for a reason with which we are acquainted.
he readily agreed, however, to the purchase of a camel, and when he was safely helped up on its hump, he sorely wished the people of tarascon could see him.
but his pride speedily had a fall, for he found the movement of the camel worse than that of the boat in crossing the mediterranean.
he was afraid he might disgrace france.
indeed, if truth must out, france was disgraced!
so, for the remainder of their expedition, which lasted nearly a month, tartarin preferred to walk on foot and lead the camel.
one night in the desert, tartarin was sure he heard sounds just like those he had studied at the back of the travelling menagerie at tarascon.
he was positive they were in the neighbourhood of a lion at last.
he prepared to go forward and stalk the beast.
the prince offered to accompany him, but tartarin resolutely refused.
he would meet the king of beasts alone!
entrusting his pocket-book, full of precious documents and bank-notes, to the prince, in case he might lose it in a tussle with the lion, he moved forward.
his teeth were chattering in his head when he lay down, trembling, to await the lion.
it must have been two hours before he was sure that the beast was moving quite near him in the dry bed of a river.
firing two shots in the direction whence the sound came, he got up and bolted back to where he had left the camel and the prince but there was only the camel there now!
the prince had waited a whole month for such a chance!
in the morning he realised that he had been robbed by a thief who pretended to be a prince.
and here he was in the heart of savage africa with a little pocket money only, much useless luggage, a camel, and not a single lion-skin for all his trouble.
sitting on one of the desert-tombs erected over pious mohammedans, the great man fell to weeping bitterly.
but, even as he wept the bushes were pushed aside a little in front of him, and a huge lion presented itself.
to his honour, be it said, tartarin never moved a muscle, but, breathing a fervent "at last!"
he leapt to his feet, and, levelling his rifle, planted two explosive bullets in the lion's head.
all was over in a moment, for he had nearly blown the king of beasts to pieces!
but in another moment he saw two tall, enraged negroes bearing down upon him.
he had seen them before at milianah, and this was their poor blind lion!
fortunately for tartarin, he was not so deeply in the desert as he had thought, but merely outside the town of orleansville, and a policeman now came up, attracted by the firing, and took full particulars.
the upshot of it was that he had to suffer much delay in orleansville, and was eventually fined one hundred pounds.
how to pay this was a problem which he solved by selling all his extensive outfit, bit by bit.
when his debts were paid, he had nothing but the lion's skin and the camel.
the former he dispatched to major bravida at tarascon.
nobody would buy the camel, and its master had to face all the journey back to algiers in short stages on foot.
iv.
the home-coming of the hero
the camel showed a curious affection for him, and followed him as faithfully as a dog.
when, at the end of eight days' weary tramping, he came at last to algiers, he did all he could to lose the animal, and hoped he had succeeded.
he met the captain of the zouave, who told him that all algiers had been laughing at the story of how he had killed the blind lion, and he offered tartarin a free passage home.
the zouave was getting up steam next day as the dejected tartarin had just stepped into the captain's long-boat, when, lo!
his faithful camel came tearing down the quay and gazed affectionately at its friend.
tartarin pretended not to notice it; but the animal seemed to implore him with his eyes to be taken away.
"you are the last turk," it seemed to say, "i am the last camel.
let us never part again, o my tartarin!"
but the lion-hunter pretended to know nothing of this ship of the desert.
as the boat pulled off to the zouave, the camel jumped into the water and swam after it, and was taken aboard.
at last tartarin had the joy of hearing the zouave cast anchor at marseilles, and, having no luggage to trouble him, he rushed off the boat at once and hastened through the town to the railway station, hoping to get ahead of the camel.
he booked third class, and quickly hid himself in a carriage.
off went the train.
but it had not gone far when everybody was looking out of the windows and laughing.
behind the train ran the camel holding his own, too!
what a humiliating home-coming!
all his weapons of the chase left on moorish soil, not a lion with him, nothing but a silly camel!
"tarascon!
tarascon!"
shout the porters as the train slows up at the station, and the hero gets out.
he had hoped to slink home unobserved; but, to his amazement, he is received with shouts of "long live tartarin!"
"three cheers for the lion-slayer!"
the people are waving their caps in the air; it is no joke, they are serious.
there is major bravida, and there the more noteworthy cap-hunters, who cluster round their chief and carry him in triumph down the stairs.
now, all this was the result of sending home the skin of the blind lion.
but the climax was reached when, following the crowd down the stairs of the station, limping from his long run, came the camel.
even this tartarin turned to good account.
he reassured his fellow-citizens, patting the camel's hump.
"this is my camel; a noble beast!
it has seen me kill all my lions."
and so, linking his arm with the worthy major, he calmly wended his way to baobab villa, amid the ringing cheers of the populace.
on the road he began a recital of his hunts.
"picture to yourself," he said, "a certain evening in the open sahara  "
*       *       *        *        *
thomas day
sandford and merton
thomas day was born in london on june 22, 1748, and educated      at the charterhouse and at corpus christi college, oxford.
entering the middle temple in 1765, he was called to the bar      ten years later, but never practised.
a contemporary and      disciple of rousseau, he convinced himself that human      suffering was, in the main, the result of the artificial      arrangements of society, and inheriting a fortune at an early      age he spent large sums in philanthropy.
a poem written by him      in 1773, entitled "the dying negro," has been described as      supplying the keynote of the anti-slavery movement.
his      "history of sandford and merton," published in three volumes      between the years 1783 and 1789, provided a channel through      which many generations of english people have imbibed a kind      of refined rousseauism.
it retains its interest for the      philosophic mind, despite the burlesque of punch and its      waning popularity as a book for children.
thomas day died      through a fall from his horse on september 28, 1789.
i. mr. barlow and his pupils
in the western part of england lived a gentleman of a large fortune, whose name was merton.
he had a great estate in jamaica, but had determined to stay some years in england for the education of his only son.
when tommy merton came from jamaica he was six years old.
naturally very good-natured, he had been spoiled by indulgence.
his mother was so fond of him that she gave him everything he cried for, and would not let him learn to read because he complained that it made his head ache.
the consequence was that, though master merton had everything he wanted, he was fretful and unhappy, made himself disagreeable to everybody, and often met with very dangerous accidents.
he was also so delicately brought up that he was perpetually ill.
very near to mr. merton's seat lived a plain, honest farmer named sandford, whose only son, harry, was not much older than master merton, but who, as he had always been accustomed to run about in the fields, to follow the labourers when they were ploughing, and to drive the sheep to their pasture, was active, strong, hardy, and fresh-coloured.
harry had an honest, good-natured countenance, was never out of humour, and took the greatest pleasure in obliging others, in helping those less fortunate than himself, and in being kind to every living thing.
harry was a great favourite, particularly with mr. barlow, the clergyman of the parish, who taught him to read and write, and had him almost always with him.
one summer morning, while master merton and a maid were walking in the fields, a large snake suddenly started up and curled itself round tommy's leg.
the maid ran away, shrieking for help, whilst the child, in his terror, dared not move.
harry, who happened to be near, ran up, and seizing the snake by the neck, tore it from tommy's leg, and threw it to a great distance.
mrs. merton wished to adopt the boy who had so bravely saved her son, and harry's intelligence so appealed to mr. merton that he thought it would be an excellent thing if tommy could also benefit by mr. barlow's instruction.
with this view he decided to propose to the farmer to pay for the board and education of harry that he might be a constant companion to tommy.
mr. barlow, on being consulted, agreed to take tommy for some months under his care; but refused any monetary recompense.
the day after tommy went to mr. barlow's the clergyman took his two pupils into the garden, and, taking a spade in his own hand, and giving harry a hoe, they both began to work.
"everybody that eats," he said, "ought to assist in procuring food.
this is my bed, and that is harry's.
if, tommy, you choose to join us, i will mark you out a piece of ground, all the produce of which shall be your own."
"no, indeed," said tommy; "i am a gentleman, and don't choose to slave like a ploughboy."
"just as you please, mr. gentleman," said mr. barlow.
and tommy, not being asked to share the plate of ripe cherries with which mr. barlow and harry refreshed themselves after their labour, wandered disconsolately about the garden, surprised and vexed to find himself in a place where nobody felt any concern whether he was pleased or not.
meanwhile, harry, after a few words of advice from mr. barlow, read aloud the story of "the ants and the flies," in which it is related how the flies perished for lack of laying up provisions for the winter, whereas the industrious ants, by working during the summer, provided for their maintenance when the bad weather came.
mr. barlow and harry then rambled into the fields, where mr. barlow pointed out the several kinds of plants to be seen, and told his little companion the name and nature of each.
when they returned to dinner tommy, who had been skulking about all day, came in, and being very hungry, was going to sit down to the table, when mr. barlow said, "no, sir; though you are too much of a gentleman to work, we, who are not so proud, do not choose to work for the idle!"
upon this tommy retired into a corner, crying as if his heart would break; when harry, who could not bear to see his friend so unhappy, looked up, half-crying, into mr. barlow's face, and said, "pray, sir, may i do as i please with my dinner?"
"yes, to be sure, my boy," was the reply.
"why, then," said harry, "i will give it to poor tommy, who wants it more than i do."
tommy took it and thanked harry; but without turning his eyes from the ground.
"i see," said mr. barlow, "that though certain gentlemen are too proud to be of any use to themselves, they are not above taking the bread that other people have been working hard for."
at this tommy cried more bitterly than before.
the next day, when they went into the garden, tommy begged that he might have a hoe, too, and, having been shown how to use it, soon worked with the greatest pleasure, which was much increased when he was asked to share the fruit provided after the work was done.
it seemed to him the most delicious fruit that he had ever tasted.
harry read as before, the story this time being about the gentleman and the basket-maker.
it described how a rich man, jealous of the happiness of a poor basket-maker, destroyed the latter's means of livelihood, and was sent by a magistrate with his humble victim to an island, where the two were made to serve the natives.
on this island the rich man, because he possessed neither talents to please nor strength to labour, was condemned to be the basket-maker's servant.
when they were recalled, the rich man, having acquired wisdom by his misfortunes, not only treated the basket-maker as a friend during the rest of his life, but employed his riches in relieving the poor.
ii.
gentleman tommy learns to read
from this time forward mr. barlow and his two pupils used to work in their garden every morning; and when they were fatigued they retired to the summer-house, where harry, who improved every day in reading, used to entertain them with some pleasant story.
then harry went home for a week, and the morning after, when tommy expected that mr. barlow would read to him as usual, he found to his great disappointment, that gentleman was busy and could not.
the same thing happening the next day and the day after, tommy said to himself, "now, if i could but read like harry, i should not need to ask anybody to do it for me."
so when harry returned, tommy took an early opportunity of asking him how he came to be able to read.
"why," said harry, "mr. barlow taught me my letters; and then, by putting syllables together, i learnt to read."
"and could you not show me my letters?"
asked tommy.
"very willingly," was harry's reply.
and the lessons proceeded so well that tommy, who learned the whole alphabet at the very first lesson, at the end of two months was able to read aloud to mr. barlow "the history of the two dogs," which shows how vain it is to expect courage in those who lead a life of indolence and repose, and that constant exercise and proper discipline are frequently able to change contemptible characters into good ones.
later, harry read the story of androcles and the lion, and asked how it was that one person should be the servant of another and bear so much ill-treatment.
"as to that," said tommy, "some folks are born gentlemen, and then they must command others; and some are born servants, and they must do as they are bid."
and he recalled how the black men and women in jamaica had to wait upon him, and how he used to beat them when he was angry.
but when mr. barlow asked him how these people came to be slaves, he could only say that his father had bought them, and that he was born a gentleman.
"then," said mr. barlow, "if you were no longer to have a fine house, nor fine clothes, nor a great deal of money, somebody that had all these things might make you a slave, and use you ill, and do whatever he liked with you."
seeing that he could not but admit this, tommy became convinced that no one should make a slave, of another, and decided that for the future he would never use their black william ill.
some days after this tommy became interested in the growing of corn, and harry promising to get some seed from his father, tommy got up early and, having dug very perseveringly in a corner of his garden to prepare the ground for the seed, asked mr. barlow if this was not very good of him.
"that," said mr. barlow, "depends upon the use you intend to make of the corn when you have raised it.
where," he asked, "will be the great goodness in your sowing corn for your own eating?
that is no more than all the people round here continually do.
and if they did not do it, they would be obliged to fast."
"but then," said tommy, "they are not gentlemen, as i am."
"what," answered mr. barlow, "must not gentlemen eat as well as others; and therefore, is it not for their interest to know how to procure food as well as other people?"
"yes, sir," answered tommy; "but they can have other people to raise it for them."
"how does that happen?"
"why they pay other people to work for them, or buy bread when it is made."
"then they pay for it with money?"
"yes, sir."
"then they must have money before they can buy corn?"
"certainly, sir."
"but have all gentlemen money?"
tommy hesitated some time, and at last said, "i believe not always, sir."
"why, then," said mr. barlow, "if they have not money, they will find it difficult to procure corn, unless they raise it for themselves."
and he proceeded to recount the history of the two brothers, pizarro and alonzo, the former of whom, setting out on a gold-hunting expedition, prevailed upon the latter to accompany him, and became dependent upon alonzo, who, instead of taking gold-seeking implements, provided himself with the necessaries for stocking a farm.
iii.
town life and country life
this story was followed by others, describing life in different and distant parts of the world; and in addition to the knowledge they acquired in this way, tommy and harry, in their intercourse with their neighbours and in the cultivation of their gardens, learned a great deal.
tommy in particular, growing much kinder towards the poor and towards dumb animals, as well as growing in physical well-being.
mr. barlow's young pupils were gradually taught many interesting and useful facts about natural history.
they learned to cultivate their powers of observation also by studying the heavens.
from a study of the stars their tutor drew them on to an acquaintance with the compass, the telescope, the magic lantern, the magnet, and the wonders of arithmetic.
the stories of foreign lands were interspersed with others illustrating the habits of society; one for example, told how a certain rich man was cured of the gout, showing how, while most of the diseases of the poor originate in the want of food and necessaries, the rich are generally the victims of their own sloth and intemperance.
"dear me," said tommy on one occasion, "what a number of accidents people are subject to in this world."
"it is very true," said mr. barlow; "but as that is the case, it is necessary to improve ourselves in every manner, that we may be able to struggle against them."
tommy: indeed, sir, i begin to believe it is; for when i was younger than i am now, i remember i was always fretful and hurting myself, though i had two or three people constantly to take care of me.
at present i seem quite another thing, i do not mind falling down and hurting myself, or cold, or scarcely anything that happens.
mr. barlow: and which do you prefer to be as you are now, or as you were before?
tommy: as i am now, a great deal, sir; for then i always had something or another the matter with me.
at present i think i am ten times stronger and healthier than ever i was in my life.
all the same, tommy found it difficult at first to understand how people who lived in countries where they had to undergo great hardships could be so attached to their own land as to prefer it to any other country in the world.
"i have," he said, "seen a great many ladies and little misses at our house, and whenever they were talking of the places where they should like to live, i have always heard them say that they hated the country of all things, though they were born and bred there."
mr. barlow: and yet there are thousands who bear to live in it all their lives, and have no desire to change.
should you, harry, like to go to live in some town?
harry: indeed, sir, i should not, for then i must leave everything i love in the world.
tommy: and have you ever been in any large town?
harry: once i was in exeter, but i did not much like it.
the houses seemed to me to stand too thick and close, and then there are little, narrow alleys where the poor live, and the houses are so high that neither light nor air can ever get to them.
and they most of them appeared so dirty and unhealthy that it made my heart ache to look at them.
i went home the next day, and never was better pleased in my life.
when i came to the top of the great hill, from which you have a prospect of our house, i really thought i should have cried with joy.
the fields looked all so pleasant, and the very cattle, when i went about to see them, all seemed glad that i was come home again.
mr. barlow: you see by this that it is very possible for people to like the country, and to be happy in it.
but as to the fine young ladies you talk of, the truth is that they neither love nor would be contented in any place.
it is no wonder they dislike the country, where they find neither employment nor amusement.
they wish to go to london, because they there meet with numbers of people as idle and as frivolous as themselves; and these people assist each other to talk about trifles and to waste their time.
tommy: that is true, sir, really; for when we have a great deal of company, i have often observed that they never talk about anything but eating or dressing, or men and women that are paid to make faces at the playhouse or a great room called ranelagh, where everybody goes to meet their friends.
which discourse led on to a story of the ancient spartans, and their superiority to the luxury-loving persians.
iv.
the bull-baiting
the time had now arrived when tommy was by appointment to go home and spend some time with his parents.
mr. barlow had been long afraid of this visit, as he knew his pupil would meet a great deal of company there who would give him impressions of a nature very different from those he had, with so much assiduity, been labouring to excite.
however, the visit was unavoidable, and mrs. merton sent so pressing an invitation for harry to accompany his friend, after having obtained the consent of his father, that mr. barlow, with much regret, took leave of his pupils.
when the boys arrived at mr. merton's they were introduced into a crowded drawing-room full of the most elegant company which that part of the country afforded, among whom were several young gentlemen and ladies of different ages who had been purposely invited to spend their holidays with master merton.
as soon as master merton entered, every tongue was let loose in his praise.
as to harry, he had the good fortune to be taken notice of by nobody except mr. merton, who received him with great cordiality, and a miss simmons, who had been brought up by an uncle who endeavoured, by a hardy and robust education, to prevent in his niece that sickly delicacy which is considered so great an ornament in fashionable life.
harry and this young lady became great friends, though to a considerable extent they were the butt of the others.
a lady who sat by mrs. merton, asked her, in a whisper loud enough to be heard all over the room, whether (indicating harry) that was the little ploughboy whom she had heard mr. barlow was attempting to bring up like a gentleman?
mrs. merton answered "yes."
"indeed," said the lady, "i should have thought so by his plebeian look and vulgar air.
but i wonder, my dear madam, that you will suffer your son, who, without flattery, is one of the most accomplished children i ever saw, with quite the air of fashion, to keep such company."
whilst tommy was being estranged from his friend by a constant succession of flattery from his elders and the example of others of his own age, harry, who never said any of those brilliant things that render a boy the darling of the ladies, and who had not that vivacity, or rather impertinence, which frequently passes for wit with superficial people, paid the greatest attention to what was said to him, and made the most judicious observations upon subjects he understood.
for this reason, miss simmons, although much older and better informed, received great satisfaction from conversing with him, and thought him infinitely more agreeable and sensible than any of the smart young gentlemen she had hitherto seen.
one morning the young gentlemen agreed to take a walk in the country.
harry went with them.
as they walked across a common they saw a great number of people moving forward towards a bull-baiting.
instantly they were seized with a desire to see the diversion.
one obstacle alone presented itself.
their parents, particularly mrs. merton, had made them promise to avoid every kind of danger.
however, all except harry, agreed to go, insisting among themselves that there was no danger.
"master harry," said one, "has not said a word.
surely he will not tell of us."
harry said he did not wish to tell; but if, he added, he were asked, he would have to tell the truth.
a quarrel followed, in which tommy struck his friend in the face with his fist.
this, added to tommy's recent conduct towards him, caused the tears to start to harry's eyes, whereupon the others assailed him with cries of "coward!"
"blackguard!"
and so on.
master mash went further and slapped him in the face.
harry, though master mash's inferior in size and strength, returned this by a punch, and a fight ensued, from which, though severely punished himself, harry emerged the victor, to be assailed with a chorus of congratulation from those who before were loading him with taunts and outrages.
the young gentlemen persisting in their intention to see the bull-baiting, harry followed at some distance, deciding not to quit his friend till he had once more seen him in a place of safety.
as it happened, the bull, after disposing of his early tormentors, broke loose when three fierce dogs were set upon it at once.
in the stampede little tommy fell right in the path of the infuriated animal, and would have lost his life had not harry, with a courage and presence of mind above his years, suddenly seized a prong which one of the fugitives had dropped, and, at the very moment when the bull was stopping to gore his defenceless friend, advanced and wounded it in the flank.
the bull turned, and with redoubled rage made at his new assailant, and it is probable that, notwithstanding his intrepidity, harry would have paid with his own life the price of his assistance to his friend had not a poor negro, whom he had helped earlier in the day, come opportunely to his aid, and by his promptitude and address secured the animal.
the gratitude of mr. merton for his son's escape was unbounded, and even mrs. merton was ashamed of her disparaging remarks about harry.
as for tommy, he went to his friend's home to seek reconciliation, reflecting with shame and contempt upon the ridiculous prejudices he had once entertained.
he had now learned to consider all men as his brethren, not forgetting the poor negro; and that, as he said, it is much better to be useful than rich or fine.
daniel defoe
robinson crusoe
daniel defoe, english novelist, historian and pamphleteer,      was born in 1660 or 1661, in london, the son of james foe, a      butcher, and only assumed the name of de foe, or defoe, in      middle life.
he was brought up as a dissenter, and became a      dealer in hosiery in the city.
he early began to publish his      opinions on social and political questions, and was an      absolutely fearless writer, audacious and independent, so that      he twice suffered imprisonment for his daring.
the immortal      "robinson crusoe" was published on april 25, 1719. defoe was      already fifty-eight years of age.
it was the first english      work of fiction that represented the men and manners of its      own time as they were.
it appeared in several parts, and the      first part, which is here epitomised, was so successful that      no fewer than four editions were printed in as many months.
"robinson crusoe" was widely pirated, and its authorship gave      rise to absurd rumours.
some claimed it had been written by      lord oxford in the tower; others that defoe had appropriated      alexander selkirk's papers.
the latter idea was only justified      inasmuch as the story was partly founded on selkirk's      adventures and partly on dampier's voyages.
defoe died on      april 26, 1731.
i. i go to sea
i was born of a good family in the city of york, where my father a foreigner, of bremen settled after having retired from business.
my father had given me a competent share of learning and designed me for the law; but i would be satisfied in nothing but going to sea.
my mind was filled with thoughts of seeing the world, and nothing could persuade me to give up my desire.
at length, on september 1, 1651, i left home, and went on board a ship bound for london.
the ship was no sooner out of the humber than the wind began to blow and the sea to rise in a most frightful manner; and as i had never been at sea before, i was most inexpressibly sick in body and terrified in mind.
the next day, however, the wind abated, and for several days the weather continued calm.
my fears being forgotten, and the current of my desires returned, i entirely forgot the vows to return home that i made in my distress.
the sixth day of our being at sea we came into yarmouth roads and cast anchor.
our troubles were not yet over, however, for a few days later the wind increased till it blew a terrible storm indeed.
i began to see terror in the faces even of the seamen themselves; and as the captain passed me, i could hear him softly to himself say, several times, "we shall be all lost!"
my horror of mind put me into such a condition that i can by no words describe it.
the storm increased, and the seamen every now and then cried out the ship would founder.
one of the men cried out that we had sprung a leak, and all hands were called to the pumps; but the water increasing in the hold, it was apparent that the ship would founder.
we fired guns for help, and a ship who had rid it out just ahead of us ventured a boat out.
it was with the utmost hazard the boat came near us, but at last we got all into it, and got into shore, though not without much difficulty, and walked afterwards on foot to yarmouth.
having some money in my pocket, i travelled to london, and there got acquainted with the master of a ship which traded on the coast of guinea.
this captain, taking a fancy to my conversation, told me if i would make a voyage with him i might do some trading on my own account.
i embraced the offer, and went the voyage with him.
with the help of some of my relations i raised £40, which i laid out in toys, beads, and such trifles as my friend the captain said were most in demand on the guinea coast.
it was a prosperous voyage.
it made me both a sailor and a merchant, for my adventure yielded me on my return to london almost £300, and this filled me with those aspiring thoughts which have since so completed my ruin.
i was now set up as a guinea trader, and made up my mind to go the same voyage again in the same ship; but this was the unhappiest voyage ever man made, for as we were off the african shore we were surprised by a moorish rover of salee, who gave chase with all sail.
about three in the afternoon he came up with us, and after a great fight we were forced to yield, and were carried all prisoners into the port of salee, where we were sold as slaves.
i was fortunate enough to fall into the hands of a master who treated me with no little kindness.
he frequently went fishing, and as i was dexterous in catching fish, he never went without me.
one day he sent me out with a moor to catch fish for him.
then notions of deliverance darted into my thoughts, and i prepared not for fishing, but for a voyage.
when everything was ready, we sailed away to the fishing-grounds.
purposely catching nothing, i said we had better go farther out.
the moor agreed, and i ran the boat out near a league farther; then i brought to as if i would fish.
instead of that, however, i stepped forward, and, stooping behind the moor, took him by surprise and tossed him overboard.
he rose to the surface, and called on me to take him in.
for reply i presented a gun at him, and told him if he came nearer the boat i would shoot him, and that as the sea was calm, he might easily swim ashore.
so he turned about, and swam for the shore, and i make no doubt but he reached it with ease.
about ten days afterwards, as i was steering out to double a cape, i came in sight of a portuguese ship.
on coming nearer, they hailed me, but i understood not a word.
at last a scotch sailor called to me, and i answered i was an englishman, and had made my escape from the moors of salee.
they then bade me come on board, and very kindly took me in, with all my goods.
we had a very good voyage to the brazils, and when we reached our destination the captain recommended me to an honest man who had a sugar plantation.
here i settled down for a while, and learned the planting of sugar.
then i took a piece of land, and became a planter myself.
my affairs prospered, and had i continued in the station i was now in, i had room for many happy things to have yet befallen me; but i was still to be the agent of my own miseries.
ii.
lord of an island and alone
some of my neighbours, hearing that i had a knowledge of guinea trading, proposed to fit out a vessel and send her to the coast of guinea to purchase negroes to work in our plantations.
i was well pleased with the idea; and when they asked me to go to manage the trading part, i forgot all the perils and hardships of the sea, and agreed to go.
a ship being fitted out, we set sail on september 1, 1659.
we had very good weather for twelve days, but after crossing the line, violent hurricanes took us, and drove us out of the way of all human commerce.
in this distress, one morning, there was a cry of "land!"
and almost at the same moment the ship struck against a sandbank.
we took to a boat, and worked towards the land; but before we could reach it, a raging wave came rolling astern of us, and overset the boat.
we were all thrown into the sea, and out of fifteen who were on board, none escaped but myself.
i managed, somehow, to scramble to shore, and clambered up the cliffs, and sat me down on the grass half-dead.
night coming on me, i took up my lodging in a tree.
when i waked, it was broad day, the weather clear, and the storm abated.
what surprised me most was that in the night the ship had been lifted from the bank by the swelling tide, and driven ashore almost as far as the place where i had landed.
i saw that if we had all kept on board we had been all safe, and i had not been so miserable as to be left entirely destitute of all company as i now was.
i swam out to the ship, and found that her stern lay lifted up on the bank.
all the ship's provisions were dry, and, being well disposed to eat, i filled my pockets and ate as i went about other things, for i had no time to lose.
we had several spare yards and planks, and with these i made a raft.
i emptied three of the seamen's chests, and let them down upon the raft, and filled them with provisions.
i also let down the carpenter's chest, and some arms and ammunition all of which, after much labour, i got safely to land.
my next work was to view the country.
where i was i yet knew not, but after i had with great labour got to the top of a hill which rose up very steep and high, i saw my fate, to my great affliction viz., that i was in an island, uninhabited except by wild beasts.
i now began to consider that i might yet get a great many things out of the ship which would be useful to me; so every day at low water i went on board, and brought away something or other until i had the biggest magazine that was ever laid up, i believe, for one man.
i verily believe, had the calm weather held, i should have brought away the whole ship piece by piece; but on the fourteenth day it blew a storm, and next morning, behold, no more ship was to be seen.
i must not forget that i brought on shore two cats and a dog.
he was a trusty servant to me many years.
i wanted nothing that he could fetch me, nor any company.
i only wanted him to talk to me, but that he could not do.
later, i managed to catch a parrot, which did much to cheer my loneliness.
i taught him to speak, and it would have done your heart good to have heard the pitying tones in which he used to say, "robin poor robin crusoe!"
i now went in search of a place where to fix my dwelling.
i found a little plain on the side of a rising hill, which was there as steep as a house-side, so that nothing could come down on me from the top.
on the side of this rock was a hollow space like the entrance of a cave, before which i resolved to pitch my tent.
before i set up my tent, i drew a half-circle before the hollow place, which extended backwards about twenty yards.
in this half-circle i planted two rows of strong stakes, driving them into the ground like piles, above five feet and a half high, and sharpened at the top.
then i took some pieces of cable i had found in the ship, and laid them in rows one upon another between the stakes; and this fence was so strong that neither man nor beast could get into it or over it.
the entrance i made to be by a short ladder to go over the top, and when i was in i lifted the ladder after me.
inside the fence, with infinite labour, i carried all my riches, provisions, ammunition, and stores.
and i made me a large tent, also, to preserve me from the rains.
when i had done this i began to work my way into the rock.
all the earth and stones i dug out i laid up within my fence, and thus i made me a cave just behind my tent which served me like a cellar.
in the middle of my labours it happened that, rummaging in my things, i found a little bag with but husks of corn and dust in it.
wishing to make use of the bag, i shook it out on one side of my fortification.
it was a little before the great rains that i threw this stuff away, not remembering that i had thrown anything there; about a month after, i saw some green stalks shooting up.
i was perfectly astonished when, after a little longer time, i saw ten or twelve ears of barley.
i knew not how it came there.
at last it occurred to me that i had shaken out the bag there.
besides the barley there were also a few stalks of rice.
i carefully saved the ears of this corn, you may be sure, and resolved to sow them all again.
when my corn was ripe, i used a cutlass as a scythe, and cut off the ears, and rubbed them out with my hands.
at the end of my harvesting i had nearly two bushels of rice, and two bushels and a half of barley.
i kept all this for seed, and bore the want of bread with patience.
i soon found that i needed many things to make me comfortable.
first i wanted a chair and a table, for without them i must live like a savage.
so i set to work.
i had never handled a tool in my life, but i had a saw, an axe, and several hatchets, and i soon learned to use them all.
if i wanted a board, i had to chop down a tree.
from the trunk of the tree i cut a log of the length my board was to be.
then i split the log, and, with infinite labour, hewed it flat till it was as thin as a board.
i made myself a table and a chair out of short pieces of board, and from the large boards i made some wide shelves.
on these i laid my tools and other things.
from time to time i made many useful things.
from a piece of ironwood, cut in the forest with great labour, i made a spade to dig with.
then i wanted a pick-axe, but for long i could not think how i was to get one.
at length i made use of crowbars from the wreck.
these i heated in the fire, and, little by little, shaped them till i made a pick-axe, proper enough, though heavy.
at first i felt the need of baskets in which to carry things, so i set to work as a basket-maker.
it came to my mind that the twigs of the tree whence i cut my stakes might serve.
i found them to my purpose as much as i could desire, and, during the next rainy season, i employed myself in making a great many baskets.
though i did not finish them handsomely, yet i made them sufficiently serviceable.
i had, however, one want greater than all the others bread.
my barley was very fine, the grains were large and smooth; but before i could make bread i must grind the grains into flour.
i spent many a day to find out a stone to cut hollow and make fit for a mortar, and could find none; nor were the rocks of the island of hardness sufficient.
so i gave it over and rounded a great block of hard wood and, with the help of fire and great labour, made a hollow in it.
i made a great heavy pestle of the wood called ironwood.
the baking part was the next thing to be considered; for, first, i had no yeast.
as to that, there was no supplying the want, so i did not concern myself much about it.
but for an oven i was indeed in great pain.
at length i found out an experiment for that also.
i made some earthen vessels, broad but not deep, about two feet across, and about nine inches deep.
these i burned in the fire till they were as hard as nails and as red as tiles, and when i wanted to bake i made a great fire upon a hearth which i paved with some square tiles of my own making.
when the fire had all burned i drew the embers forward upon my hearth, and let them be there till the hearth was very hot.
my loaves being ready, i swept the hearth and set them on the hottest part of it.
over each loaf i placed one of the large earthen pots, and drew the embers all round to keep in and add to the heat.
and thus i baked my barley loaves and became, in a little time, a good pastrycook into the bargain.
it need not be wondered at if all these things took up most of the third year of my abode in the island.
i had now brought my state of life to be much easier than it was at first, and i learned to look more upon the bright side of my condition and less on the dark.
had anyone in england met such a man as i was, it must have frightened them, or raised great laughter.
on my head i wore a great, high, shapeless cap of goat's skin.
stockings and shoes i had none, but i had made a pair of somethings, i scarce knew what to call them, to slip over my legs; a jacket, with the skirts coming down to the middle of my thighs, and a pair of open-kneed breeches of the same, completing my outfit.
i had a broad belt of goat's skin, and in this i hung, on one side, a saw, on the other, a hatchet.
under my arm hung two pouches for shot and powder; at my back i carried my basket, on my shoulder my gun, and over my head a great clumsy goat's skin umbrella.
a stoic would have smiled to have seen me at dinner.
there was my majesty, prince and lord of the whole island.
how like a king i dined, too, all alone, attended by my servants!
poll, my parrot, as if he had been my favourite, was the only person permitted to talk to me.
my old dog sat at my right hand, and two cats on each side of the table, expecting a bit from my hand as a mark of special favour.
iii.
the footprint
it was my custom to make daily excursions to some part of the island.
one day, walking along the beach, i was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man's naked foot plainly impressed on the sand.
i stood like one thunderstruck.
i listened, i looked around, but i could hear nothing nor see anything.
i went up to a rising ground to look further; i walked backwards and forwards on the shore, but i could see only that one impression.
i went to it again.
there was exactly a foot toes, heel, and every part of a foot.
how it came thither i knew not; but i hurried home, looking behind me at every two or three steps, and mistaking every bush and tree, fancying every stump to be a man.
i had no sleep that night; but my terror gradually wore off, and after some days i ventured down to the beach to take measure of the footprint by my own.
i found it much larger!
this filled me again with all manner of fears, and when i went home i began to prepare against an attack.
i got out my muskets, loaded them, and went to an enormous amount of labour and trouble all because i had seen the print of a naked foot on the sand.
there seemed to me then no labour too great, no task too toilsome, and i made me a second fortification, and planted a vast number of stakes on the outside of my outer wall, which grew and became a thick grove of trees, entirely concealing the place of my retreat, and adding greatly to my security.
i had now been twenty-two years on the island, and had grown so accustomed to the place that, had i felt myself secure from the attack by savages, i fancied i could have been contented to remain there till i died of old age.
for many months the perturbation of my mind was very great; in the day great troubles overwhelmed me, and in the night i dreamed often of killing savages.
about two years after i first knew these fears, i was surprised one morning by seeing five canoes on the shore.
i could not tell what to think of it, so went and lay in my castle perplexed and discomforted.
at length, becoming very impatient, i clambered up to the top of the hill and perceived, by the help of my perspective glass, no less than thirty men dancing round a fire with barbarous gestures.
while i was looking, two miserable wretches were dragged from the boats.
one was immediately knocked down, while the other, seeing himself a little at liberty, started away from them and ran along the sands directly towards me.
i was dreadfully frightened, that i must acknowledge, when i perceived him run my way, especially when, as i thought, i saw him pursued by the whole body.
but my spirits began to recover when i found that but three men followed him, and that he outstripped them exceedingly, in running.
presently he came to a creek and, making nothing of it, plunged in, landed, and ran on with exceeding strength.
two of the pursuers swam the creek, but the third went no farther, and soon after went back again.
i immediately took my two guns, ran down the hill and clapped myself in the way between the pursuers and the pursued, hallooing aloud to him that fled.
then, rushing on the foremost of the pursuers, i knocked him down with the stock of my piece.
the other stopped, as if frightened, but as i came nearer, i perceived he was fitting a bow and arrow to shoot at me; so i was then obliged to shoot at him first, which i did and killed him.
the poor savage who fled was so frightened with the noise of my piece that he seemed inclined still to fly.
i gave him all the signs of encouragement i could think of, and he came nearer, kneeling down every ten or twelve steps.
i took him up and made much of him, and comforted him.
then, beckoning him to follow me, i took him to my cave on the farther part of the island.
here, having refreshed him, i made signs for him to lie down to sleep, which the poor creature did.
after he had slumbered about half an hour, he came out of the cave, running to me, laying himself down and setting my foot upon his head to let me know he would serve me so long as he lived.
in a little time i began to speak to him and teach him to speak to me; and, first, i let him know his name should be friday, which was the day i saved his life.
i likewise taught him to say "master," and then let him know that was to be my name.
i made a little tent for him, and took in my ladders at night, so that he could no way come at me.
but i needed not this precaution, for never man had a more faithful, loving servant than friday was to me.
i made it my business to teach him everything that was proper to make him useful, especially to make him speak, and he was the aptest scholar that ever was.
indeed, this was the pleasantest year of all the life i led in this place.
i began now to have some use for my tongue again, and, besides the pleasure of talking to friday, i had a singular satisfaction in the fellow himself.
his simple, unfeigned honesty appeared to me more and more every day, and i began really to love the creature; and i believe he loved me more than it was possible for him ever to love anything before.
iv.
the end of captivity
i was now entered on the seven-and-twentieth year of my captivity on the island.
one morning i bade friday go to the seashore and see if he could find a turtle.
he had not been gone long when he came running back like one that felt not the ground, or the steps he set his feet on, and cries out to me, "o master!
o sorrow!
o bad!"
"what's the matter, friday?"
said i.
"o yonder, there," says he; "one, two, three canoes!"
"well," says i, "do not be frightened."
however, i saw the poor fellow was most terribly scared, for nothing ran in his head but that the savages were come back to look for him, and would cut him in pieces and eat him.
i comforted him, and told him i was in as much danger as he.
then i went up the hill and found quickly by my glass that there were one-and-twenty savages, whose business seemed to be a triumphant banquet upon three human bodies.
i came down again to friday and, going towards the wretches, sent friday a little ahead to see what they were doing.
he came back and told me that they were eating the flesh of one of their prisoners, and that a bearded man lay bound, whom he said they would kill next.
this fired the very soul within me, and, going to a little rising ground, i turned to friday and said, "now, friday, do exactly as you see me do."
so, with a musket, i took aim at the savages; friday did the like, and we fired, killing three of them and wounding five more.
they were in a dreadful consternation, and after we fired again among the amazed wretches, i made directly towards the poor victim who was lying upon the beach.
loosing him, i found he was a spaniard.
he took pistol and sword from me thankfully, and flew upon his murderers, and, friday, pursuing the flying wretches, in the end but four of the twenty-one escaped in a canoe.
i was minded to pursue them lest they should return with a greater force and devour us by mere multitude.
so, running to a canoe, i bade friday follow me, but was surprised to find another poor creature lying therein, bound hand and foot.
i immediately cut his fastenings and bade friday tell him of his deliverance.
but when friday came to hear him speak and to look in his face, it would have moved anyone to tears to have seen how friday kissed him, embraced him, hugged him, cried, danced, sung, and then cried again.
it was a good while before i could make him tell me what was the matter, but when he came a little to himself, he told me it was his father.
he sat down by the old man a long while, and took his arms and ankles, which were numbed with the binding, and chafed and rubbed them with his hands.
my island was now peopled, and i thought myself rich in subjects.
the spaniard and the old savage had been with us about seven months, sharing in our labours, when, being unable to keep means of deliverance out of my thoughts, i gave them leave to go over in one of the canoes to the mainland, where some of the spaniard's shipmates were cast away, giving them provisions sufficient for themselves and all the spaniards, for eight days.
it was no less than eight days i had waited for their return when friday came to me and called aloud, "master, master, they are come!"
i jumped up and climbed to the top of the hill, and with my glass plainly made out an english ship, and its long-boat standing in for the shore.
i cannot express the joy i was in at seeing a ship, and one that was manned by my own countrymen; but yet i had some secret doubts, bidding me keep on my guard.
presently the boat was run upon the beach, and in all eleven men landed, whereof three were unarmed and bound, whom i could perceive using passionate gestures of entreaty and despair.
presently the seamen were all gone straggling in the woods, leaving the three distressed men under a tree a little distance from me.
i resolved to discover myself to them, and marched with friday towards them, and called aloud in spanish, "what are ye, gentlemen?"
they started up at the noise, and i perceived them about to fly from me, when i spoke to them in english.
"gentlemen," says i, "do not be surprised at me; perhaps you may have a friend near, when you did not expect it.
can you not put a stranger in the way to help you?"
one of them, looking like one astonished, returned, "sir, i was captain of that ship; my men have mutinied against me, and have set me on shore in this desolate place with these two men my mate and a passenger."
he then told me that if two among the mutineers, who were desperate villains, were secured, he believed the rest on shore would return to their duty.
he anticipated my proposals in venturing their deliverance by telling me that both he and the ship, if recovered, should be wholly directed by me in everything.
then i gave them muskets, and the mutineers returning, the two villains were killed, and the rest begged for mercy, and joined us.
more of them coming ashore, we fell upon them at night, so that at the captain's call they laid down their arms, trusting to the mercy of the governor of the island, for such they supposed me to be.
it now occurred to me that the time of my deliverance was come, and that it would be easy to bring these fellows in to be hearty in getting possession of the ship.
and so it proved, for, the ship being boarded next morning, and the new rebel captain shot, the rest yielded without any more lives lost.
when i saw my deliverance then put visibly into my hands, i was ready to sink down with the surprise, and it was a good while before i could speak a word to the captain, who was in as great an ecstasy as i. after some time, i came dressed in a new habit of the captain's, being still called governor.
being all met, and the captain with me, i caused the prisoners to be brought before me, told them i had got a full account of their villainous behaviour to the captain, and asked of them what they had to say why i should not execute them as pirates.
i told them i had resolved to quit the island, but that they, if they went, could only go as prisoners in irons; so that i could not tell what was the best for them, unless they had a mind to take their fate in the island.
they seemed thankful for this, and said they would much rather venture to stay than be carried to england to be hanged.
so i left it on that issue.
when the captain was gone i sent for the men up to me in my apartment and let them into the story of my living there; showed them my fortifications, the way i made my bread, planted my corn; and, in a word, all that was necessary to make them easy.
i told them the story, also of the spaniards that were to be expected, and made them promise to treat them in common with themselves.
i left the next day and went on board the ship with friday.
and thus i left the island the 19th of december, in the year 1686, after eight and twenty years, and, after a long voyage, i arrived in england, the 11th of june, 1687, having been thirty-five years absent.
captain singleton
defoe was fifty-nine when he published this remarkable book,      in 1720.
"robinson crusoe" had appeared in the previous year,      and "moll flanders" came out in 1722. shrewdness and wit, the      study of character, vividness of imagination, and, beyond      these, the pure literary style, make "captain singleton" a      classic in english literature.
william the quaker, the first      quaker in english fiction, has never been surpassed in any      later novel, and remains an immortal creation.
the clear      common sense of this man, the combination of business ability      and a real humaneness, the quiet humour which prevails over      the stupid barbarity of his pirate companions who but defoe      could have drawn such a character as the guide, philosopher,      and friend of a crew of pirates?
bob singleton himself, who      tells the story with a frankness of extraordinary charm,      confessing his willingness for evil courses as readily as his      later repentance, is no less striking a personality.
by sheer      imagination the genius of defoe makes singleton's adventures,      including the impossible journey across central africa, real      and credible.
the book is a model of fine narrative.
i. sailing with the devil
if i may believe the woman whom i was taught to call mother, i was a little boy about two years old, very well dressed, and had a nurse-maid to attend me, who took me out on a fine summer's evening into the fields towards islington, to give the child some air; a little girl being with her, of twelve or fourteen years old, that lived in the neighbourhood.
the maid meets with a fellow, her sweetheart; he carries her into a public-house, and while they are toying in there the girl plays about with me in her hand, sometimes in sight, sometimes out of sight, thinking no harm.
then comes by one of those sort of people who make it their business to spirit away little children, a trade chiefly practised where they found little children well dressed, and for bigger children, to sell them to the plantations.
the woman, pretending to take me up in her arms and play with me, draws the girl a good way from the house, and then bids her go back to the maid, and tell her that a gentlewoman had taken a fancy to the child.
and so, while the girl went, she carries me quite away.
from that time, it seems, i was disposed of to a beggar woman, and after that to a gipsy, till i was about six years old.
and this gipsy, though i was continually dragged about with her from one part of the country to the other, never let me want for anything.
i called her mother, but she told me at last she was not my mother, but that she bought me for twelve shillings, and that my name was bob singleton, not robert, but plain bob.
who my father and mother really were i have never learnt.
when my gipsy mother happened in process of time to be hanged, i was sent to a parish school; and then i was moved from one parish to another, and at bussleton, near southampton, the master of a ship took a fancy to me, and though i was not above twelve years old, he carried me to sea with him on a voyage to newfoundland.
i went several voyages with him, when, coming home from newfoundland about the year 1695, we were taken by an algerine rover, which was in its turn taken by two great portuguese men-of-war.
we were carried into lisbon, and there my master, the only friend i had in the world, dying of his wounds, i was left starving in a foreign country where i knew nobody, and could not speak a word of the language.
however, an old pilot found me, and, speaking in broken english, asked me if i would go with him.
"yes," said i, "with all my heart."
for two years i lived with him, and then he got to be master under don garcia de carravallas, captain of a portuguese galleon, which was bound to goa in the east indies.
on this voyage i began to get a smattering of the portuguese tongue and a superficial knowledge of navigation.
i also learnt to be an arrant thief and a bad sailor.
i was reputed as mighty diligent and faithful to my master, but i was very far from honest.
indeed, i had no sense of virtue or religion in me, never having heard much of either, and was growing up apace to be as wicked as anybody could be.
thieving, lying, swearing, forswearing, joined to the most abominable lewdness, was the stated practice of the ship's crew; adding to it that, with the most insufferable boasts of their own courage, they were, generally speaking, the most complete cowards that i ever met with.
and i was exactly fitted for their society.
according to the english proverb, he that is shipped with the devil must sail with the devil; i was among them, and i managed myself as well as i could.
when we came to anchor on the coast of madagascar to repair some damage to the ship, there happened a most desperate mutiny among the men upon account of a deficiency in their allowance, and i, being full of mischief in my head, readily joined.
though i was but a boy, as they called me, yet i prompted the mischief all i could, and embarked in it so openly that i escaped very little being hanged in the first and most early part of my life.
for the captain, getting wind of the plot, brought two fellows to confess the particulars, and presently no less than sixteen men were seized and put into irons, whereof i was one.
the captain, who was made desperate by his danger, tried us all, and we were all condemned to die.
the gunner and purser were hanged immediately, and i expected it with the rest.
i do not remember any great concern i was under about it, only that i cried very much; for i knew little then of this world, and nothing at all of the next.
however, the captain contented himself with executing these two, and some of the rest, upon their humble submission, were pardoned; but five were ordered to be set on shore on the island and left there, of which i was one.
at our first coming into the island we were terrified exceedingly with the sight of the barbarous people; but when we came to converse with them awhile, we found they were not cannibals, as was reported, but they came and sat down by us, and wondered much at our clothes and arms.
nor did we suffer any harm from them during our whole stay on the island.
before the ship sailed twenty-three of the crew decided to join us, and the captain, not unwilling to lose them, sent us two barrels of powder, and shot and lead, as well as a great bag of bread.
being now a considerable number, and in condition to defend ourselves, the first thing we did was to give everyone his hand that we would not separate from one another, but that we would live and die together, that we would be in all things guided by the majority, that we would appoint a captain among us to be our leader, and that we would obey him on pain of death.
ii.
a mad venture
for two years we remained on the island of madagascar, for at the beginning we had no vessel large enough to pass the ocean.
i never proposed to speak in the general consultations, but one day i told the company that our best plan was to cruise along the coast in canoes, and seize upon the first vessel we could get that was better than our own, and so from that to another, till perhaps we might at last get a good ship to carry us wherever we pleased to go.
"excellent advice," says one of them.
"admirable advice," says another.
"yes, yes," says the third (which was a gunner), "the english dog has given excellent advice, but it is just the way to bring us all to the gallows.
to go a-thieving, till from a little vessel we come to a great ship, and so shall we turn downright pirates, the end of which is to be hanged."
"you may call us pirates," says another, "if you will, and if we fall into bad hands we may be used like pirates; but i care not for that.
i'll be a pirate or anything, rather than starve here!"
and so they cried all, "let us have a canoe!"
the gunner, overruled by the rest, submitted; but as we broke up the council, he came to me and very gravely.
"my lad," says he, "thou art born to do a world of mischief; thou hast commenced pirate very young; but have a care of the gallows, young man; have a care, i say, for thou wilt be an eminent thief."
i laughed at him, and told him i did not know what i might come to hereafter; but as our case was now, i should make no scruple to take the first ship i came at to get our liberty.
i only wished we could see one, and come at her.
when we had made three canoes of some size, we set out on as odd a voyage as ever man went.
we were a little fleet of three ships, and an army of between twenty and thirty as dangerous fellows as ever lived.
we were bound somewhere and nowhere, for though we knew what we intended to do, we really did not know what we were doing.
we cruised up and down the coast, but no ship came in sight, and at last, with more courage than discretion, more resolution than judgment, we launched for the main coast of africa.
the voyage was much longer than we expected, and when we were landed upon the continent it seemed the most desolate, desert, and inhospitable country in the world.
it was here that we took one of the rashest and wildest and most desperate resolutions that ever was taken by man; this was to travel overland through the heart of the country, from the coast of mozambique to the coast of angola or guinea, a continent of land of at least 1,800 miles, in which journey we had excessive heats to support, impassable deserts to go over, no carriages, camels, or beasts of any kind to carry our baggage, innumerable wild and ravenous beasts to encounter, such as lions, leopards, tigers, lizards, and elephants; we had nations of savages to encounter, barbarous and brutish to the last degree; hunger and thirst to struggle with, and, in one word, terrors enough to have daunted the stoutest hearts that ever were placed in cases of flesh and blood.
yet, fearless of all these, we resolved to adventure, and not only did we accomplish our journey, but we came to a river where there were vast quantities of gold.
the hardships and difficulties of our march were much mitigated by a method which i proposed and was found very convenient.
this was to quarrel with some of the negro natives, take them as prisoners, and binding them, as slaves, cause them to travel with us and make them carry our baggage.
accordingly, we secured about sixty lusty young fellows as prisoners, for the natives stood in great awe of us because of our firearms, and they not only served us faithfully the more so as we treated them without harshness but were of great help in showing us the way, and in conversing with the savages we afterwards met.
when we reached the country where the gold was, we at once agreed, in order that the good harmony and friendship of our company might be maintained, that however much gold was gotten, it should be brought into one common stock, and equally divided at last, the negroes sharing with the rest.
this was done, and at the end of our long journey we found each man's share amounted to many pounds of gold.
we also got a cargo of elephants'
teeth.
we parted at the gold coast from our black companions on the best of terms.
then most of my comrades went off to the portuguese factories near gambia, and i went to cape coast castle, and got passage for, england, where i arrived in september.
iii.
quaker and pirate
i had neither friend nor relation in england, though it was my native country; i had not a person to trust with what i had, or to counsel me to secure or save it; but falling into ill company, and trusting the keeper of a public-house in rotherhithe with a great part of my money, all that great sum, which i got with so much pains and hazard, was gone in little more than two years' time spent in all kinds of folly and wickedness.
then i began to see it was time to think of further adventures, and i next shipped myself, in an evil hour to be sure, on a voyage to cadiz.
on the coast of spain i fell in with some masters of mischief, and, among them, one, forwarder than the rest, named harris, who began an intimate confidence with me, so that we called one another brothers.
this harris was afterwards captured by an english man-of-war, and, being laid in irons, died of grief and anger.
when we were together, he asked me if i had a mind for an adventure that might make amends for all past misfortunes.
i told him, yes, with all my heart; for i did not care where i went, having nothing to lose, and no one to leave behind me.
he told me, then, there was a brave fellow, whose name was wilmot, in another english ship which rode in the harbour, who had resolved to mutiny the next morning, and run away with the ship; and that if we could get strength enough among our ship's company, we might do the same.
i liked the proposal very well, but we could not bring our part to perfection.
for there were but eleven in our ship who were in the conspiracy, nor could we get any more that we could trust.
so that when wilmot began his work, and secured the ship, and gave the signal to us, we all took a boat and went off to join him.
being well prepared for all manner of roguery, without the least checks of conscience, i thus embarked with this crew, which at last brought me to consort with the most famous pirates of the age.
i, that was an original thief, and a pirate even by inclination before, was now in my element, and never undertook anything in my life with more particular satisfaction.
captain wilmot for so we now called him at once stood out for sea, steering for the canaries, and thence onward to the west indies.
our ship had twenty-two guns, and we obtained plenty of ammunition from the spaniards in exchange for bales of english cloth.
we cruised near two years in those seas of the west indies, chiefly upon the spaniards not that we made any difficulty of taking english ships, or dutch, or french, if they came in our way.
but the reason why we meddled as little with english vessels as we could was, first, because if they were ships of any force, we were sure of more resistance from them; and, secondly, because we found the english ships had less booty when taken; for the spaniards generally had money on board, and that was what we best knew what to do with.
we increased our stock considerably in these two years, having taken 60,000 pieces of gold in one vessel, and 100,000 in another; and being thus first grown rich, we resolved to be strong, too, for we had taken a brigantine, an excellent sea-boat, able to carry twelve guns, and a large spanish frigate-built ship, which afterwards, by the help of good carpenters, we fitted up to carry twenty-eight guns.
we had also taken two or three sloops from new england and new york, laden with flour, peas, and barrelled beef and pork, going for jamaica and barbados, and for more beef we went on shore on the island of cuba, where we killed as many black cattle as we pleased, though we had very little salt to cure them.
out of all the prizes we took here we took their powder and bullets, their small-arms and cutlasses; and as for their men, we always took the surgeon and the carpenter, as persons who were of particular use to us upon many occasions; nor were they always unwilling to go with us.
we had one very merry fellow here, a quaker, whose name was william walters, whom we took out of a sloop bound from pennsylvania to barbados.
he was a surgeon and they called him doctor, and we made him go with us, and take all his implements with him.
he was a comic fellow indeed, a man of very good solid sense, and an excellent surgeon; but, what was worth all, very good-humoured and pleasant in his conversation, and a bold, stout, brave fellow too, as any we had among us.
i found william not very averse to go along with us, and yet resolved to do it so that it might be apparent he was taken away by force.
"friend,"
he says, "thou sayest i must go with thee, and it is not in my power to resist thee if i would; but i desire thou wilt oblige the master of the sloop to certify under his hand that i was taken away by force, and against my will."
so i drew up a certificate myself, wherein i wrote that he was taken away by main force, as a prisoner, by a pirate ship; and this was signed by the master and all his men.
"thou hast dealt friendly by me," says he, when we had brought him aboard, "and i will be plain with thee, whether i came willingly to thee or not.
but thou knowest it is not my business to meddle when thou art to fight."
"no, no," says the captain, "but you may meddle a little when we share the money."
"those things are useful to furnish a surgeon's chest," says william, and smiled, "but i shall be moderate."
in short, william was a most agreeable companion; but he had the better of us in this part, that if we were taken we were sure to be hanged, and he was sure to escape.
but he was a sprightly fellow, and fitter to be captain than any of us.
iv.
a respectable merchant
we cruised the seas for many years, and after a time william and i had a ship to ourselves with 400 men in authority under us.
as for captain wilmot, we left him with a large company at madagascar, while we went on to the east indies.
at last we had gotten so rich, for we traded in cloves and spices to the merchants, that william one day proposed to me that we should give up the kind of life we had been leading.
we were then off the coast of persia.
"most people," said william, "leave off trading when they are satisfied of getting, and are rich enough; for nobody trades for the sake of trading; much less do men rob for the sake of thieving.
it is natural for men that are abroad to desire to come home again at last, especially when they are grown rich, and so rich as they would know not what to do with more if they had it."
"well, william," said i, "but you have not explained what you mean by home.
why, man, i am at home; here is my habitation; i never had any other in my lifetime; i was a kind of charity school-boy; so that i can have no desire of going anywhere for being rich or poor; for i have nowhere to go."
"why," says william, looking a little confused, "hast thou no relatives or friends in england?
no acquaintance; none that thou hast any kindness or any remains of respect for?"
"not i, william," said i, "no more than i have in the court of the great mogul.
yet i do not say i like this roving, cruising life so well as never to give it over.
say anything to me, i will take it kindly."
for i could see he was troubled, and i began to be moved by his gravity.
"there is something to be thought of beyond this way of life," says william.
"why, what is that," said i, "except it be death?"
"it is repentance."
"why," says i, "did you ever know a pirate repent?"
at this he was startled a little, and returned.
"at the gallows i have known one, and i hope thou wilt be the second."
he spoke this very affectionately, with an appearance of concern for me.
"my proposal," william went on, "is for thy good as well as my own.
we may put an end to this kind of life, and repent."
"look you, william," says i, "let me have your proposal for putting an end to our present way of living first, and you and i will talk of the other afterwards."
"nay," says william, "thou art in the right there; we must never talk of repenting while we continue pirates."
"well," says i, "william, that's what i meant; for if we must not reform, as well as be sorry for what is done, i have no notion what repentance means: the nature of the thing seems to tell me that the first step we have to take is to break off this wretched course.
dost thou think it practicable for us to put an end to our unhappy way of living, and get off?"
"yes," says he, "i think it very practicable."
we were then anchored off the city of bassorah, and one night william and i went ashore, and sent a note to the boatswain telling him we were betrayed and bidding him make off with the ship.
by this means we frighted the rogues our comrades; and we had nothing to do then but to consider how to convert our treasure into things proper to make us look like merchants, as we were now to be, and not like freebooters, as we really had been.
then we clothed ourselves like armenian merchants, and after many days reached venice; and at last we agreed to go to london.
for william had a sister whom he was anxious to see once more.
so we came to england, and some time later i married william's sister, with whom i am much more happy than i deserve.
charles dickens
barnaby rudge
charles dickens, son of a clerk in the navy pay office, was      born at landport on february 7, 1812. soon afterwards the      family removed to chatham and then to london.
with all their      efforts, they failed to keep out of distress, and at the age      of nine dickens was employed at a blacking factory.
with the      coming of brighter days, he was sent back to school;      afterwards a place was found for him in a solicitor's office.
in the meantime, his father had obtained a position as      reporter on the "morning herald," and dickens, too, resolved      to try his fortune in that direction.
teaching himself      shorthand, and studying diligently at the british museum, at      the age of twenty-two he secured permanent employment on the      staff of a london paper.
"barnaby rudge," the fifth of      dickens's novels, appeared serially in "master humphrey's      clock" during 1841. it thus followed "the old curiosity shop,"
the character of master humphrey being revived merely to      introduce the new story, and on its conclusion "the clock" was      stopped for ever.
in 1849 "barnaby rudge" was published in      book form.
written primarily to express the author's      abhorrence of capital punishment, from the use he made of the      gordon riots of 1780, "barnaby rudge," like "a tale of two      cities," may be considered an historical work.
it is more of a      story than any of its predecessors.
lord george gordon, the      instigator of the riots, died a prisoner in the tower of      london, after making public renunciation of christianity in      favour of the jewish religion.
"the raven in this story," said      dickens, "is a compound of two originals, of whom i have been      the proud possessor."
dickens died at gad's hill on june 9,      1870, having written fourteen novels and a great number of      short stories and sketches.
i. barnaby and the robber
in the year 1775 there stood upon the borders of epping forest, in the village of chigwell, about twelve miles from london, a house of public entertainment called the maypole, kept by john willet, a large-headed man with a fat face, of profound obstinacy and slowness of apprehension, combined with a very strong reliance upon his own merits.
from this inn, gabriel varden, stout-hearted old locksmith of clerkenwell, jogged steadily home on a chaise, half sleeping and half waking, on a certain rough evening in march.
a loud cry roused him with a start, just where london begins, and he descried a man extended in an apparently lifeless state wounded upon the pathway, and, hovering round him, another person, with a torch in his hand, which he waved in the air with a wild impatience.
"what's here to do?"
said the old locksmith.
"how's this?
what, barnaby!
you know me, barnaby?"
the bearer of the torch nodded, not once or twice, but a score of times, with a fantastic exaggeration.
"how came it here?"
demanded varden, pointing to the body.
"steel, steel, steel!"
barnaby replied fiercely, imitating the thrust of a sword.
"is he robbed?"
said the blacksmith.
barnaby caught him by the arm, and nodded "yes," pointing towards the city.
"oh!"
said the old man.
"the robber made off that way, did he?
now let's see what can be done."
they covered the wounded man with varden's greatcoat, and carried him to mrs. rudge's house hard by.
on his way home gabriel congratulated himself on having an adventure which would silence mrs. varden on the subject of the maypole for that night, or there was no faith in woman.
but mrs. varden was a lady of uncertain temper, and she was on this occasion so ill-tempered, and put herself to so much anxiety and agitation, aided and abetted by her shrewish hand-maiden, miggs, that next morning she was, she said, too much indisposed to rise.
the disconsolate locksmith had, therefore, to deliver himself of his story of the night's experiences to his daughter, buxom, bewitching dolly, the very pink and pattern of good looks, and the despair of the youth of the neighbourhood.
calling next day in the evening, gabriel varden learnt the wounded man was better, and would shortly be removed.
varden chatted as an old friend with barnaby's mother.
he knew the maypole story of the widow rudge how her husband, employed at chigwell, and his master had been murdered; and how her son, born upon the very day the deed was known, bore upon his wrist a smear of blood but half washed out.
"why, what's that?"
said the locksmith suddenly.
"is that barnaby tapping at the door?"
"no," returned the widow; "it was in the street, i think.
hark!
'tis someone knocking softly at the shutter."
"some thief or ruffian," said the locksmith.
"give me a light."
"no, no," she returned hastily.
"i would rather go myself, alone."
she left the room, and varden heard the sound of whispers without.
then the words "my god!"
came, tittered in a voice dreadful to hear.
varden rushed out.
a look of terror was on the woman's face, and before her stood a man, of sinister appearance, whom the locksmith had passed on the road from chigwell the previous night.
the man fled, but the locksmith was after him and would have held him but for the widow, who clutched his arms.
"the other way the other way!"
she cried.
"do not touch him, on your life!
he carries other lives besides his own.
don't ask what it means.
he is not to be followed or stopped!
come back!"
"the other way!"
said the locksmith.
"why, there he goes!"
the old man looked at her in wonder, and let her draw him into the house.
still that look of terror was on her face, as she implored him not to question her.
presently she withdrew, and left him in his perplexity alone, and barnaby came in.
"i have been asleep," said the idiot, with widely opened eyes.
"there have been great faces coming and going close to my face, and then a mile away.
that's sleep, eh?
i dreamed just now that something it was in the shape of a man followed me and wouldn't let me be.
it came creeping on to worry me, nearer and nearer.
i ran faster, leaped, sprang out of bed and to the window, and there in the street below "
"halloa, halloa, halloa!
bow, wow, wow!"
cried a hoarse voice.
"what's the matter here?
halloa!"
the locksmith started, and there was grip, a large raven, barnaby's close companion, perched on the top of a chair.
"halloa, halloa, halloa!
keep up your spirits!
never say die!"
the bird went on, in a hoarse voice.
"bow, wow, wow!"
and then he began to whistle.
the locksmith said "good-night," and went his way home, disturbed in thought.
"in league with that ill-looking figure that might have fallen from a gibbet.
he listening and hiding here.
barnaby first upon the spot last night.
can she, who has always borne so fair a name, be guilty of such crimes in secret?"
said the locksmith, musing.
"heaven forgive me if i am wrong, and send me just thoughts."
ii barnaby is enrolled
it is seven in the forenoon, on june 2, 1780, and barnaby and his mother, who had travelled to london to escape that unwelcome visitor whom varden had noticed, were resting in one of the recesses of westminster bridge.
a vast throng of persons were crossing the river to the surrey shore in unusual haste and excitement, and nearly every man in this great concourse wore in his hat a blue cockade.
when the bridge was clear, which was not till nearly two hours had elapsed, the widow inquired of an old man what was the meaning of the great assemblage.
"why, haven't you heard?"
he returned.
"this is the day lord george gordon presents the petition against the catholics, and his lordship has declared he won't present it to the house of commons at all unless it is attended to the door by forty thousand good men and true, at least.
there's a crowd for you!"
"a crowd, indeed!"
said barnaby.
"do you hear that, mother?
that's a brave crowd he talks of.
come!"
"not to join it!"
cried his mother.
"you don't know what mischief they may do, or where they may lead you.
dear barnaby, for my sake  "
"for your sake!"
he answered.
"it is for your sake, mother.
here's a brave crowd!
come or wait till i come back!
yes, yes, wait here!"
a stranger gave barnaby a blue cockade and bade him wear it, and while he was still fixing it in his hat lord gordon and his secretary, gashford, passed, and then turned back.
"you lag behind, friend, and are late," said lord george.
"it's past ten now.
didn't you know the hour of assemblage was ten o'clock?"
barnaby shook his head, and looked vacantly from one to the other.
"he cannot tell you, sir," the widow interposed.
"it's no use to ask him.
we know nothing of these matters.
this is my son my poor, afflicted son, dearer to me than my own life.
he is not in his right senses he is not, indeed."
"he has surely no appearance," said lord george, whispering in his secretary's ear, "of being deranged.
we must not construe any trifling peculiarity into madness.
you desire to make one of this body?"
he added, addressing barnaby.
"and intended to make one, did you?"
"yes, yes," said barnaby, with sparkling eyes.
"to be sure, i did.
i told her so myself."
"then follow me."
replied lord george, "and you shall have your wish."
barnaby kissed his mother tenderly, and telling her their fortunes were made now, did as he was desired.
they hastened on to st. george's fields, where the vast army of men was drawn up in sections.
doubtless there were honest zealots sprinkled here and there, but for the most part the throng was composed of the very scum and refuse of london.
barnaby was acclaimed by a man in the ranks, hugh, the rough hostler of the maypole, whom barnaby in his frequent wanderings had long known.
"what!
you wear the colour, do you?
fall in, barnaby.
you shall march between me and dennis, and you shall carry," said hugh, taking a flag from the hand of a tired man, "the gayest silken streamer in this valiant army."
"in the name of god, no!"
shrieked the widow, who had followed in pursuit and now darted forward.
"barnaby, my lord, he'll come back barnaby!"
"women in the field!"
cried hugh, stepping between them, and holding her off with his outstretched hand.
"it's against all orders ladies carrying off our gallant soldiers from their duty.
give the word of command, captain."
the words, "form!
march!"
rang out.
she was thrown to the ground; the whole field was in motion; barnaby was whirled away into the heart of a dense mass of men, and the widow saw him no more.
barnaby himself, heedless of the weight of the great banner he carried, marched proud, happy, and elated past all telling.
hugh was at his side, and next to hugh came a squat, thick-set personage called dennis, who, unknown to his companions, was no other than the public hangman.
"i wish i could see her somewhere," said barnaby, looking anxiously around.
"she would be proud to see me now, eh, hugh?
she'd cry with joy, i know she would."
"why, what palaver's this?"
asked mr. dennis, with supreme disdain.
"we ain't got no sentimental members among us, i hope."
"don't be uneasy, brother," cried hugh, "he's only talking of his mother."
"his mother!"
growled mr. dennis, with a strong oath, and in tones of deep disgust.
"and have i combined myself with this here section, and turned out on this here memorable day, to hear men talk about their mothers?"
"barnaby's right," cried hugh, with a grin, "and i say it.
lookee, bold lad, if she's not here to see it's because i've provided for her, and sent half-a-dozen gentlemen, every one of 'em with a blue flag, to take her to a grand house all hung round with gold and silver banners, where she'll wait till you come and want for nothing.
and we'll get money for her.
money, cocked hats, and gold lace will all belong to us if we are true to that noble gentleman, if we carry our flags and keep 'em safe.
that's all we've got to do.
"don't you see, man," hugh whispered to dennis, "that the lad's a natural, and can be got to do anything if you take him the right way?
he's worth a dozen men in earnest, as you'd find if you tried a fall with him.
you'll soon see whether he's of use or not."
mr. dennis received this explanation with many nods and winks, and softened his behaviour towards barnaby from that moment.
hugh was right.
it was barnaby who stood his ground, and grasped his pole more firmly when the guards came out to clear the mob away from westminster.
one soldier came spurring on, cutting at the hands of those who would have forced his charger back, and still barnaby, without retreating an inch, waited for his coming.
some called to him to fly, when the pole swept the air above the people's heads, and the man's saddle was empty in an instant.
then he and hugh turned and fled, the crowd opening and closing so quickly that there was no clue to the course they had taken.
iii.
the storming of newgate
for several days london was in the hands of the rioters.
catholic chapels were burned, the private residences of catholics were sacked.
from the moment of the first outbreak at westminster every symptom of order vanished.
fifty resolute men might have turned the rioters; a single company of soldiers could have scattered them like dust; but no man interposed, no authority restrained them.
but barnaby, bold barnaby, had been taken.
left behind at the resort of the rioters by hugh, who led a body of men to chigwell, he had been captured by the soldiers, a proclamation of the privy council having at last encouraged the magistrates to set the military in motion for the arrest of certain ringleaders.
he was placed in newgate and heavily ironed, and presently grip, with drooping head and plumes rough and tumbled, was thrust into his cell.
another man was also taken and placed in newgate on that day, and presently he and barnaby stood staring at each other, face to face.
suddenly barnaby laid hands upon him, and cried, "ah, i know!
you are the robber!"
the other struggled with him silently, but finding the young man too strong for him, raised his eyes and said, "i am your father."
barnaby released his hold, fell back, and looked at him aghast.
then he sprang towards him, put his arms about his neck, and pressed his head against his cheek.
he never learnt that his father, supposed to have been murdered, was himself a murderer.
this was the widow's dreadful secret.
and now hugh, with a huge army, was at the gates of newgate, bent on rescue.
he had returned, to find barnaby taken, and at once announced that the prison must be stormed.
in vain the military commanders tried to rouse the magistrates, and in particular the lord mayor; no orders were given, and the soldiers could do nothing within the precincts of the city without the warrant of the civil authorities.
in a dense mass the rioters halted before the prison-gate.
all those who had already been conspicuous were there, and others who had friends or relatives within the jail hastened to the attack.
hugh had brought, by force, old gabriel varden to pick the lock of the great door, but this the sturdy locksmith resolutely refused to do.
"you have got some friends of ours in your custody, master," hugh called out to the head jailer, who had appeared on the roof.
"deliver up our friends, and you may keep the rest."
"it's my duty to keep them all.
i shall do my duty," replied the jailer, firmly.
a shower of stones compelled the keeper of the jail to retire.
gabriel varden was urged by blows, by offers of reward, and by threats of instant death to do the office the rioters required of him, and all in vain.
he was knocked down, was up again, buffeting with a score of them.
he had never loved his life so well as then, but nothing could move him.
the cry was raised, "you lose time.
remember the prisoners!
remember barnaby!"
and the crowd left the locksmith, to gather fuel, for an entrance was to be forced by fire.
furniture from the prison lodge was piled up in a monstrous heap and set blazing, oil was poured on, and at last the great gate yielded to the flames.
it settled deeper in the red-hot cinders, tottered, and was down.
hugh leaped upon the blazing heap, and dashed into the jail.
the hangman followed.
and then so many rushed upon their track that the fire got trodden down.
there was no need of it now, for, inside and out, the prison was soon in flames.
barnaby and his father were quickly released, and passed from hand to hand into the street.
soon all the wretched inmates of the jail were free, except four condemned to die whom dennis kept under guard.
and these hugh roughly insisted on liberating, to the sullen anger of the hangman.
"you won't let these men alone, and leave 'em to me?
you've no respect for nothing, haven't you?"
said dennis, and with a scowl he disappeared.
three hundred prisoners in all were released from newgate, and many of these returned to haunt the place of their captivity, and were retaken.
the day after the storming of newgate, the mob having now had london at its mercy for a week, the authorities at last took serious action, and at nightfall the military held the streets.
hugh and barnaby and old rudge had taken refuge in a rough out-house in the outskirts of london, where they were wont to rest, when dennis stood before them; he had not been seen since the storming of newgate.
a few minutes later, and the shed was filled with soldiers, while a body of horse galloping into the field drew op before it.
"here!"
said dennis, "it's them two young ones, gentlemen, that the proclamation puts a price on.
this other's an escaped felon.
i'm sorry for it, brother," he added, addressing himself to hugh; "but you've brought it on yourself; you forced me to do it; you wouldn't respect the soundest constitutional principles, you know; you went and wiolated the wery framework of society."
barnaby and his father were carried off by one road in the centre of a body of foot-soldiers; hugh, fast bound upon a horse, was taken by another.
iv.
the fate of the rioters
the riots had been stamped out, and once more the city was quiet.
barnaby sat in his dungeon.
beside him, with his hand in hers, sat his mother; worn and altered, full of grief, and heavy-hearted, but the same to him.
"mother," he said, "how long how many days and nights shall i be kept here?"
"not many, dear.
i hope not many."
"if they kill me they may; i heard it said what will become of grip?"
the sound of the word suggested to the raven his old phrase, "never say die!"
but he stopped short in the middle of it as if he lacked the heart to get through the shortest sentence.
"will they take his life as well as mine?"
said barnaby.
"i wish they would.
if you and i and he could die together, there would be none to feel sorry, or to grieve for us.
don't you cry for me.
they said that i am bold, and so i am, and so i will be."
the turnkey came to close the cells for the night, the widow tore herself away, and barnaby was alone.
he was to die.
there was no hope.
they had tried to save him.
the locksmith had carried petitions and memorials to the fountain-head with his own hands.
but the well was not one of mercy, and barnaby was to die.
from the first, his mother had never left him, save at night; and, with her beside him, he was contented.
"they call me silly, mother.
they shall see to-morrow."
dennis and hugh were in the courtyard.
"no reprieve, no reprieve!
nobody comes near us.
there's only the night left now!"
moaned dennis.
"do you think they'll reprieve me in the night, brother?
i've known reprieves come in the night afore now.
don't you think there's a good chance yet?
don't you?
say you do."
"you ought to be the best instead of the worst," said hugh, stopping before him.
"ha, ha, ha!
see the hangman when it comes home to him."
the clock struck.
barnaby looked in his mother's face, and saw that the time had come.
after a long embrace he rushed away, and they carried her away, insensible.
"see the hangman when it comes home to him!"
cried hugh, as dennis, still moaning, fell down in a fit.
"courage, bold barnaby, what care we?
a man can die but once.
if you wake in the night, sing that out lustily, and fall asleep again."
the time wore on.
five o'clock had struck six seven and eight.
they were to die at noon, and in the crowd without it was said they could tell the hangman, when he came out, by his being the shorter one, and that the man who was to suffer with him was named hugh; and that it was barnaby rudge who would be hanged in bloomsbury square.
at the first stroke of twelve the prison bell began to toll, and the three were brought forth into the yard together.
barnaby was the only one who had washed or trimmed himself that morning.
he still wore the broken peacock's feathers in his hat; and all his usual scraps of finery were carefully disposed about his person.
"what cheer, barnaby?
", cried hugh.
"don't be downcast, lad.
leave that to him," he added, with a nod in the direction of dennis, held up between two men.
"bless you!"
cried barnaby, "i'm not frightened, hugh.
i'm quite happy.
look at me!
am i afraid to die?
will they see me tremble?"
"i'd say this," said hugh, wringing barnaby by the hand, and looking round at the officers and functionaries gathered in the yard, "that if i had ten lives to lose i'd lay them all down to save this one.
this one that will be lost through mine!"
"not through you," said barnaby mildly.
"don't say that.
you were not to blame.
you have always been very good to me.
hugh, we shall know what makes the stars shine now!"
hugh spoke no more, but moved onward in his place with a careless air, listening as he went to the service for the dead.
as soon as he had passed the door, his miserable associate was carried out; and the crowd beheld the rest.
barnaby would have mounted the steps at the same time, but he was restrained, as he was to undergo the sentence elsewhere.
it was only just when the cart was starting that the courier reached the jail with the reprieve.
all night gabriel varden and his friends had been at work; they had gone to the young prince of wales, and even to the ante-chamber of the king himself.
successful, at last, in awakening an interest in his favour, they had an interview with the minister in his bed as late as eight o'clock that morning.
the result of a searching inquiry was that, between eleven and twelve o'clock, a free pardon to barnaby rudge was made out and signed, and gabriel varden had the grateful task of bringing him home in triumph with an enthusiastic mob.
"i needn't say," observed the locksmith, when his house in clerkenwell was reached at last, and he and barnaby were safe within, "that, except among ourselves, i didn't want to make a triumph of it.
but directly we got into the street, we were known, and the hub-bub began.
of the two, and after experience of both, i think i'd rather be taken out of my house by a crowd of enemies than escorted home by a mob of friends!"
at last the crowd dispersed.
and barnaby stretched himself on the ground beside his mother's couch, and fell into a deep sleep.
bleak house
"bleak house," a story with a purpose, like most of dickens's      works, was published when the author was forty years old.
the      object of the story was to ventilate the monstrous injustice      wrought by delays in the old court of chancery, which defeated      all the purposes of a court of justice.
many of the      characters, who, though famous, are not essential to the      development of the story, were drawn from real life.
turveydrop was suggested by george iv., and inspector bucket      was a friend of the author in the metropolitan police force.
harold skimpole was identified with leigh hunt.
dickens      himself admitted the resemblance; but only in so far as none      of skimpole's vices could be attributed to his prototype.
the      original of bleak house was a country mansion in      hertfordshire, near st. albans, though it is usually said to      be a summer residence of the novelist at broadstairs.
i. in chancery
london.
implacable november weather.
the lord chancellor sitting in lincoln's inn hall.
fog everywhere, and at the very heart of the fog sits the lord high chancellor in his high court of chancery.
the case of jarndyce and jarndyce drones on.
no man alive knows what it means.
it has passed into a joke.
it has been death to many, but it is a joke in the profession.
mr. kenge (of kenge and carboy, solicitors, lincoln's inn) first mentioned jarndyce and jarndyce to me, and told me that the costs already amounted to from sixty to seventy thousand pounds.
my godmother, who brought me up, was just dead, and mr. kenge came to tell me that mr. jarndyce proposed, knowing my desolate position, that i should go to a first-rate school, where my education should be completed and my comfort secured.
what did i say to this?
what could i say but accept the proposal thankfully?
i passed at this school six happy, quiet years, and then one day came a note from kenge and carboy, mentioning that their client, mr. jarndyce, being in the house, desired my services as an eligible companion to this young lady.
so i said good-bye to the school and went to london, and was driven to mr. kenge's office.
he was not altered, but he was surprised to see how altered i was, and appeared quite pleased.
"as you are going to be the companion of the young lady who is now in the chancellor's private room, miss summerson," he said, "we thought it well that you should be in attendance also."
mr. kenge gave me his arm, and we went out of his office and into the court, and then into a comfortable sort of room where a young lady and a young gentleman were standing talking.
they looked up when i came in, and i saw in the young lady a beautiful girl, with rich golden hair, and a bright, innocent, trusting face.
"miss ada," said mr. kenge, "this is miss summerson."
she came to meet me with a smile of welcome and her hand extended, but seemed to change her mind in a moment, and kissed me.
the young gentleman was her distant cousin, she told me, and his name richard carstone.
he was a handsome youth, and after she had called him up to where we sat, he stood by us, talking gaily, like a light-hearted boy.
he was very young, not more than nineteen then, but nearly two years older than she was.
they were both orphans, and had never met before that day.
our all three coming together for the first time in such an unusual place was a thing to talk about, and we talked about it.
presently we heard a bustle, and mr. kenge said that the court had risen, and soon after we all followed him into the next room.
there was the lord chancellor sitting in an armchair at the table, and his manner was both courtly and kind.
"miss clare," said his lordship.
"miss ada clare?"
mr. kenge presented her.
"the jarndyce in question," said the lord chancellor, turning over papers, "is jarndyce of bleak house a dreary name."
"but not a dreary place, my lord," said mr. kenge.
"mr. jarndyce of bleak house is not married?"
said his lordship.
"he is not, my lord," said mr. kenge.
"young mr. richard carstone is present?"
said the lord chancellor.
richard bowed and stepped forward.
"mr. jarndyce of bleak house, my lord," mr. kenge observed, "if i may venture to remind your lordship, provides a suitable companion for  "
"for mr. richard carstone!"
i thought i heard his lordship say in a low voice.
"for miss ada clare.
this is the young lady, miss esther summerson."
"miss summerson is not related to any party in the cause, i think."
"no, my lord."
"very well," said his lordship, after taking miss ada aside and asking her if she thought she would be happy at bleak house.
"i shall make the order.
mr. jarndyce of bleak house has chosen, so far as i may judge, a very good companion for the young lady, and the arrangement seems the best of which the circumstances admit."
he dismissed us pleasantly and we all went out.
as we stood for a minute, waiting for mr. kenge, a curious little old woman, miss flite, in a squeezed bonnet, and carrying a reticule, came curtsying and smiling up to us, with an air of great ceremony.
"oh!"
said she, "the wards in jarndyce.
very happy, i am sure, to have the honour.
it is a good omen for youth, and hope, and beauty when they find themselves in this place, and don't know what's to come of it."
"mad!"
whispered richard, not thinking she could hear him.
"right!
mad, young gentleman," she returned quickly.
"i was a ward myself.
i was not mad at that time.
i had youth and hope; i believe beauty.
it matters very little now.
neither of the three served, or saved me.
i have the honour to attend court regularly.
i expect a judgment.
on the day of judgment.
i have discovered that the sixth seal mentioned in the revelations is the great seal.
pray accept my blessing."
mr. kenge coming up, the poor old lady went on.
"i shall confer estates on both.
shortly.
on the day of judgment.
this is a good omen for you.
accept my blessing."
we left her at the bottom of the stairs.
she was still saying, with a curtsy, and a smile between every little sentence, "youth.
and hope.
and beauty.
and chancery."
the morning after, walking out early, we met the old lady again, smiling and saying in her air of patronage, "the wards in jarndyce!
ve-ry happy, i am sure!
pray come and see my lodgings.
it will be a good omen for me.
youth, and hope, and beauty, are very seldom there."
she took my hand and beckoned richard and ada to come too, and in a few moments she was at home.
she had stopped at a shop over which was written, "krook, rag and bottle warehouse."
inside was an old man in spectacles and a hair cap, and entering the shop the little old lady presented him to us.
"my landlord, krook," she said.
"he is called among the neighbours the lord chancellor.
his shop is called the court of chancery."
she lived at the top of the house in a room from which she had a glimpse of the roof of lincoln's inn hall, and this seemed to be her principal inducement for living there.
ii.
bleak house
we drove down to bleak house, in hertfordshire, next day, and all three of us were anxious and nervous when the night closed in, and the driver, pointing to a light sparkling on the top of a hill, cried, "that's bleak house!"
"ada, my love, esther, my dear, you are welcome.
rick, if i had a hand to spare at present i would give it you!"
the gentleman who said these words in a clear, hospitable voice, kissed us both in a fatherly way, and bore us across the hall into a ruddy little room, all in a glow with a blazing fire.
"now, rick!"
said he, "i have a hand at liberty.
a word in earnest is as good as a speech.
i am heartily glad to see you.
you are at home.
warm yourself!"
while he spoke i glanced at his face.
it was a handsome face, full of change and motion; and his hair was a silvered iron grey.
i took him to be nearer sixty than fifty, but he was upright, hearty, and robust.
so this was our coming to bleak house.
the very next morning i was installed as housekeeper and presented with two bunches of keys a large bunch for the housekeeping and a little bunch for the cellars.
i could not help trembling when i met mr.
jarndyce, for i knew it was he who had done everything for me since my godmother's death.
"nonsense!"
he said.
"i hear of a good little orphan girl without a protector, and i take it into my head to be that protector.
she grows up, and more than justifies my good opinion, and i remain her guardian and her friend.
what is there in all this?"
he soon began to talk to me confidentially as if i had been in the habit of conversing with him every morning for i don't know how long.
"of course, esther," he said, "you don't understand this chancery business?"
i shook my head.
"i don't know who does," he returned.
"the lawyers have twisted it into such a state of bedevilment that the original merits of the case have long disappeared.
its about a will, and the trusts under a will or it was once.
it's about nothing but costs now.
it was about a will when it was about anything.
a certain jarndyce, in an evil hour, made a great fortune and made a great will.
in the question how the trusts under that will are to be administered, the fortune left by the will is squandered away; the legatees under the will are reduced to such a miserable condition that they would be sufficiently punished if they had committed an enormous crime in having money left them, and the will itself is made a dead letter.
all through the deplorable cause everybody must have copies, over and over again, of everything that has accumulated about it in the way of cartloads of papers, and must go down the middle and up again, through such an infernal country-dance of costs and fees and nonsense and corruption as was never dreamed of in the wildest visions of a witch's sabbath.
and we can't get out of the suit on any terms, for we are made parties to it, and must be parties to it, whether we like it or not.
but it won't do to think of it!
thinking of it drove my great-uncle, poor tom jarndyce, to blow his brains out."
"i hope sir " said i.
"i think you had better call me guardian, my dear."
"i hope, guardian," said i, giving the housekeeping keys the least shake in the world, "that you may not be trusting too much to my discretion.
i am not clever, and that's the truth."
"you are clever enough to be the good little woman of our lives here, my dear," he returned playfully; "the little old woman of the rhyme, who sweeps the cobwebs of the sky, and you will sweep them out of our sky in the course of your housekeeping, esther."
this was the beginning of my being called old woman, and mother hubbard, and dame durden, and so many names of that sort, that my own soon became quite lost.
one of the things i noticed from the first about my guardian was that, though he was always doing a thousand acts of kindness, he could not bear any acknowledgments.
we had somehow got to see more of miss flite on our visits to london:
for the lord chancellor always had to be consulted before richard could settle in any profession, and as richard first wanted to be a doctor and then tired of that in favour of the army, there were several consultations.
i remember one visit because it was the first time we met mr. woodcourt.
my guardian and ada and i heard of miss flite having been ill, and when we called we found a medical gentleman attending her in her garret in lincoln's inn.
miss flite dropped a general curtsy.
"honoured, indeed," she said, "by another visit from the wards in jarndyce!
very happy to receive jarndyce of bleak house beneath my humble roof!"
"has she been very ill?"
asked mr. jarndyce in a whisper of the doctor.
"oh, decidedly unwell!"
she answered confidentially.
"not pain, you know trouble.
only mr. woodcourt knows how much.
my physician, mr.
woodcourt" with great stateliness "the wards in jarndyce; jarndyce of bleak house.
the kindest physician in the college," she whispered to me.
"i expect a judgment.
on the day of judgment.
and shall then confer estates."
"she will be as well, in a day or two," said mr. woodcourt, with an observant smile, "as she ever will be.
have you heard of her good fortune?"
"most extraordinary!"
said miss flite.
"every saturday kenge and carboy place a paper of shillings in my hand.
always the same number.
one for every day in the week.
i think that the lord chancellor forwards them.
until the judgment i expect is given."
my guardian was contemplating miss flite's birds, and i had no need to look beyond him.
iii.
i am made happy
i sometimes thought that mr. woodcourt loved me, and that, if he had been richer, he would perhaps have told me that he loved me before he went away.
i had thought sometimes that if he had done so i should have been glad.
as it was, he went to the east indies, and later we read in the papers of a great shipwreck, that allan woodcourt had worked like a hero to save the drowning, and succour the survivors.
i had been ill when my dear guardian asked me one day if i would care to read something he had written, and i said "yes."
there was estrangement at that time between richard and mr. jarndyce, for the unhappy boy had taken it into his head that the case of jarndyce and jarndyce would yet be settled, and would bring him fortune, and this kept him from devoting himself seriously to any profession.
of course, he and my darling ada had fallen in love, and my guardian insisting on their waiting till richard was earning some income before any engagement could be recognised, increased the estrangement.
i knew, to my distress, that richard suspected my guardian of having a conflicting claim in the horrible lawsuit and this made him think unjustly of mr. jarndyce.
i read the letter.
it was so impressive in its love for me, and in the unselfish caution it gave me, that my eyes were too often blinded to read much at a time.
but i read it through three times before i laid it down.
it asked me would i be the mistress of bleak house.
it was not a love-letter, though it expressed so much love, but was written just as he would at any time have spoken to me.
i felt that to devote my life to his happiness was to thank him poorly for all he had done for me.
still i cried very much; not only in the fulness of my heart after reading the letter, but as if something for which there was no name or distinct idea were lost to me.
i was very happy, very thankful, very hopeful, but i cried very much.
on entering the breakfast-room next morning i found my guardian just as usual; quite as frank, as open, as free.
i thought he might speak to me about the letter, but he never did.
at the end of a week i went to him and said, rather hesitating and trembling, "guardian, when would you like to have the answer to the letter?"
"when it's ready, my dear," he replied.
"i think it's ready," said i, "and i have brought it myself."
i put my two arms around his neck and kissed him, and he said was this the mistress of bleak house?
and i said "yes," and it made no difference presently, and i said nothing to my pet, ada, about it.
it was a few days after this, when mr. vholes, the attorney whom richard employed to watch his interests, called at bleak house, and told us that his client was very embarrassed financially, and so thought of throwing up his commission in the army.
to avert this i went down to deal and found richard alone in the barracks.
he was writing at a table, with a great confusion of clothes, tin cases, books, boots, and brushes strewn all about the floor.
so worn and haggard he looked, even in the fulness of his handsome youth!
my mission was quite fruitless.
"no, dame durden!
two subjects i forbid.
the first is john jarndyce.
the second, you know what.
call it madness, and i tell you i can't help it now, and can't be sane.
but it is no such thing; it is the one object i have to pursue."
he went on to tell me that it was impossible to remain a soldier; that, apart from debts and duns, he took no interest in his employment and was not fit for it.
he showed me papers to prove that his retirement was arranged.
knowing i had done no good by coming down, i prepared to return to london on the morrow.
there was some excitement in the town by reason of the arrival of a big indiaman, and, as it happened, amongst those who came on shore from the ship was mr. allan woodcourt.
i met him in the hotel where i was staying, and he seemed quite pleased to see me.
he was glad to meet richard again, too, and promised, on my asking him, to befriend richard in london.
iv.
end of jarndyce and jarndyce
richard always declared that it was ada he meant to see righted, no less than himself, and his anxiety on that point so impressed mr. woodcourt that he told me about it.
it revived a fear i had had before, that my dear girl's little property might be absorbed by mr. vholes, and that richard's justification to himself would be this.
so i went up to london to see richard, who now lived in symond's inn, and my darling ada went with me.
he was poring over a table covered with dusty papers, but he received us very affectionately.
i noticed, as he passed his two hands over his head, how sunken and how large his eyes appeared, and how dry his lips were.
he spoke of the case half-hopefully, half-despondently, "either the suit must be ended, esther, or the suitor.
but it shall be the suit the suit."
then he took a few turns up and down, and sank upon the sofa.
"i get so tired," he said gloomily.
"it is such weary, weary work."
"esther, dear," ada said, very quietly, "i am not going home again.
never any more.
i am going to stay with my dear husband.
we have been married above two months.
go home without me, my own esther; i shall never go home any more."
i often came to richard and his wife, and i often met mr. woodcourt there.
richard still suspected my guardian, and refused to see him, and when i said this was so unreasonable, my guardian only said, "what shall we find reasonable in jarndyce and jarndyce?
unreason and injustice from beginning to end, if it ever has an end.
how should poor rick, always hovering near it, pluck reason out of it?"
it was some months after this when mr. woodcourt asked me to be his wife, and i had to tell him i was not free.
but i had to tell him that i could never forget how proud and glad i was at having been beloved by him.
he took my hand and kissed it, and was like himself again.
all this time my guardian had never referred to his letter or my answer, so i said to him next morning i would be the mistress of bleak house whenever he pleased.
"next month?"
my guardian said gaily.
"next month, dear guardian."
at the end of the month my guardian went away to yorkshire, and asked me to follow him.
i was very much surprised, and when the journey was over my guardian explained that he had asked me to come down to see a house he had bought for mr. woodcourt, with whom he was always very pleased.
it was a beautiful summer morning when we went out to look at the house, and there over the porch was written.
"bleak house."
he led me to a seat, and sitting down beside me, said:
"when i wrote you the letter to which you brought the answer" my guardian smiled as he referred to it "i had my own happiness too much in view; but i had yours, too.
hear me, my love, but do not speak.
when woodcourt came home, i saw that there was other happiness for you; i saw with whom you would be happier.
well, i have long been in allan woodcourt's confidence, although he was not, until yesterday, in mine.
one more last word.
when allan woodcourt spoke to you, my dear, he spoke with my knowledge and consent.
but i gave him no encouragement; not i, for these surprises were my great reward, and i was too miserly to part with a scrap of it.
he was to come and tell me all that passed, and he did.
i have no more to say.
this is bleak house.
this day i give this house its little mistress, and before god it is the brightest day in all my life."
he rose, and raised me with him.
we were no longer alone.
my husband i have called him by that name full seven happy years now stood at my side.
"allan," said my guardian, "take from me the best wife that ever man had.
what more can i say for you than that i know you deserve her?"
he kissed me once again.
and now the tears were in his eyes as he said, more softly, "esther, my dearest, after so many years, there is a kind of parting in this too.
i know that my mistake has caused you some distress.
forgive your old guardian in restoring him to his old place in your affections.
allan, take my dear."
we all three went home together next day.
we had an intimation from mr.
kenge that the case would come on at westminster in two days, and that a certain will had been found which might end the suit in richard's favour.
allan took me down to westminster, and when we came to westminster hall we found that the court of chancery was full, and that something unusual had occurred.
we asked a gentleman by us if he knew what case was on.
he told us jarndyce and jarndyce, and that, as well as he could make out, it was over.
over for the day?
"no," he said; "over for good."
in a few minutes a crowd came streaming out, and we saw mr. kenge.
he told us that jarndyce and jarndyce was a monument of chancery practice, and in a good many words that the case was over because the whole estate was found to have been absorbed in costs.
we hurried away, first to my guardian, and then to ada and richard.
richard was lying on the sofa with his eyes closed when i went in.
when he opened them, i fully saw, for the first time, how worn he was.
but he spoke cheerfully, and said how glad he was to think of our intended marriage.
in the evening my guardian came in and laid his hand softly on richard's.
"oh, sir," said richard, "you are a good man, a good man!"
and burst into tears.
my guardian sat down beside him, keeping his hand on richard's.
"my dear rick," he said, "the clouds have cleared away, and it is bright now.
we can see now.
and how are you, my dear boy?"
"i am very weak, sir, but i hope i shall be stronger.
i have to begin the world."
he sought to raise himself a little.
"ada, my darling!"
allan raised him, so that she could hold him on her bosom.
"i have done you many wrongs, my own.
i have married you to poverty and trouble, i have scattered your means to the winds.
you will forgive me all this, my ada, before i begin the world?"
a smile lit up his face as she bent to kiss him.
he slowly laid his face upon her bosom, drew his arms closer round her neck, and with one parting sob began the world.
not this oh, not this!
the world that sets this right.
david copperfield
"david copperfield" published in 1849-50 will always be      acclaimed by many as the best of all dickens's books.
it was      its author's favourite, and its universal and lasting      popularity is entirely deserved.
"david copperfield" is      especially remarkable for the autobiographical element, not      only in the wretched days of childhood at the wine merchant's,      but in the shorthand-reporting in the house of commons.
dickens never forgot his early degradation, as it seemed to      him, in the blacking warehouse at hungerford stairs, or quite      forgave those who sent him to an occupation he so loathed.
much of "david copperfield" is familiar in our mouths as      household words, and swinburne has maintained that micawber      ranks with dick swiveller as one of the greatest characters in      all dickens's novels.
"copperfield" comes midway in the great      list of works by charles dickens.
i. my early childhood
i was born (as i have been informed and believe) on a friday, at twelve o'clock at night, at blunderstone, in suffolk.
i was a posthumous child.
my father's eyes had been closed upon the light of this world six months when mine opened upon it.
miss betsey trotwood, an aunt of my father's, and consequently a great-aunt of mine, arrived on the afternoon of the day i was born, and explained to my mother (who was very much afraid of her) that she meant to provide for her child, which was to be a girl.
my aunt said never a word when she learnt that it was a boy, and not a girl, but took her bonnet by the strings in the manner of a sling, aimed a blow at the doctor's head with it, put it on bent, walked out, and never came back.
she vanished like a discontented fairy.
the first objects that assume a distinct presence before me, as i look far back into the blank of my infancy, are my mother, with her pretty air and youthful shape, and peggotty, my old nurse, with no shape at all, and with cheeks and arms so red and hard that i wondered the birds didn't peck her in preference to apples.
i remember a few years later, a gentleman with beautiful black hair and whiskers walking home from church on sunday with us; and, somehow, i didn't like him or his deep voice, and i was jealous that his hand should touch my mother's in touching me which it did.
it must have been about this time that, waking up from an uncomfortable doze one night, i found peggotty and my mother both in tears, and both talking.
"not such a one as this mr. copperfield wouldn't have liked," said peggotty.
"that i say, and that i swear!"
"good heavens!"
cried my mother.
"you'll drive me mad!
how can you have the heart to say such bitter things to me, when you are well aware that out of this place i haven't a single friend to turn to?"
but the following sunday i saw the gentleman with the black whiskers again, and he walked home from church with us, and gradually i became used to seeing him and knowing him as mr. murdstone.
i liked him no better than at first, and had the same uneasy jealousy of him.
it was on my return from a visit to yarmouth, where i went with peggotty to spend a fortnight at her brother's, that i found my mother married to mr. murdstone.
they were sitting by the fire in the best parlour when i came in.
i gave him my hand.
after a moment of suspense, i went and kissed my mother.
i could not look at her, i could not look at him; i knew quite well he was looking at us both.
as soon as i could creep away, i crept upstairs, and cried myself to sleep.
a word of encouragement, of pity for my childish ignorance, of welcome home, of reassurance to me that it was home, might have made me dutiful to him in my heart henceforth, instead of in my hypocritical outside, and might have made me respect instead of hating him.
miss murdstone arrived next day; she was dark, like her brother, and greatly resembled him in face and voice.
firmness was the grand quality on which both of them took their stand.
i soon fell into disgrace over my lessons.
i never could do them with my mother satisfactorily with the murdstones sitting by; their influence upon me was like the fascination of two snakes on a wretched young bird.
one dreadful morning, when the lessons had turned out even more badly than usual, mr. murdstone seized hold of me and twisted my head under his arm preparatory to beating me with a cane.
at the first stroke i caught the hand with which he held me, in my mouth, between my teeth, and bit it through.
he beat me then as if he would have beaten me to death.
and when he had gone, i was kept a close prisoner in my room, and was not allowed to see my mother, and was only permitted to walk in the garden for half an hour every day.
miss murdstone acted as gaoler, and after five days of this confinement, she told me i was to be sent away to school to salem house school, blackheath.
i saw my mother before i left.
they had persuaded her i was a wicked fellow, and she was more sorry for that than for my going.
ii.
i begin life on my own account
i was doing my second term at school when i was told that my mother was dead, and that i was to go home to the funeral.
i never returned to salem house.
mr. murdstone and his sister left me to myself, and i could see that mr. murdstone liked me less than ever.
at odd times i speculated on the possibility of not being taught any more or cared for any more, and growing up to be a shabby, moody man, lounging an idle life away about the village.
peggotty was under notice to quit, and thought of going to live with her brother at yarmouth; but as it turned out, she didn't do this, but married the old carrier barkis instead.
"young or old, davy dear, as long as i am alive, and have this house over my head," said peggotty to me on the day she was married, "you shall find it as if i expected you here directly.
i shall keep it every day, as i used to keep your old little room, my darling."
the solitary condition i now fell into for some weeks was ended one day by mr. murdstone telling me that i was to be put into the business of murdstone and grinby.
"you will earn enough to provide for your eating and drinking, and pocket money," said mr. murdstone.
"your lodging, which i have arranged for, will be paid by me.
so will your washing, and your clothes will be looked after for you, too.
you are now going to london, david, to begin the world on your own account."
"in short, you are provided for," observed his sister, "and will please to do your duty."
so i became, at ten years old, a little labouring hind in the service of murdstone and grinby.
murdstone and grinby's warehouse was at the waterside, down in blackfriars, and an important branch of their trade was the supply of wines and spirits to certain packet ships.
a great many empty bottles were one of the consequences of this traffic, and a certain number of men and boys, of whom i was one, were employed to rinse and wash them.
when the empty bottles ran short, there were labels to be pasted on full ones, or corks to be fitted to them, or finished bottles to be packed in casks.
there were three or four boys, counting me.
mick walker was the name of the oldest; he wore a ragged apron, and a paper cap.
the next boy was introduced to me under the extraordinary name of mealy potatoes, which had been bestowed upon him on account of his complexion, which was pale, or mealy.
no words can express the secret agony of my soul as i sunk into this companionship, and compared these associates with those of my happier childhood, with the boys at salem house.
often in the early morning, when i was alone, i mingled my tears with the water in which i was washing the bottles, and sobbed as if there were a flaw in my breast, and it were in danger of bursting.
my salary was six or seven shillings a week i think it was six at first, and seven afterwards and i had to support myself on that money all the week.
my breakfast was a penny loaf and a pennyworth of milk, and i kept another small loaf and a modicum of cheese to make my supper on at night.
i was so young and childish, and so little qualified to undertake the whole charge of my existence, that often of a morning i could not resist the stale pastry put out for sale at half price at the pastry-cooks'
doors, and spent on that the money i should have kept for my dinner.
on those days i either went without my dinner, or bought a roll or a slice of pudding.
i was such a child, and so little, that frequently when i went into the bar of a strange public-house for a glass of ale or porter to moisten what i had for dinner, they were afraid to give it me.
i know i do not exaggerate the scantiness of my resources or the difficulties of my life.
i know that if a shilling were given me at any time, i spent it in a dinner or a tea.
i know that i worked from morning until night, a shabby child, and that i lounged about the streets, insufficiently and unsatisfactorily fed.
i know that, but for the mercy of god, i might easily have been, for any care that was taken of me, a little robber or a little vagabond.
arrangements had been made by mr. murdstone for my lodging with mr.
micawber who took orders on commission for murdstone and grinby and mr. micawber himself escorted me to his house in windsor terrace, city road.
mr. micawber was a stoutish, middle-aged person, in a brown surtout, with no more hair upon his head than there is upon an egg, and with a very extensive face.
his clothes were shabby, but he wore an imposing shirt-collar.
he carried a jaunty sort of a stick, with a large pair of rusty tassels to it; and an eyeglass hung outside his coat for ornament, i afterwards found, as he very seldom looked through it, and couldn't see anything when he did.
arrived at his house in windsor terrace which, i noticed, was shabby, like himself, but also, like himself, made all the show it could he presented me to mrs. micawber, a thin and faded lady, not at all young.
"i never thought," said mrs. micawber, as she showed me my room at the top of the house at the back, "before i was married that i should ever find it necessary to take a lodger.
but mr. micawber being in difficulties, all considerations of private feeling must give way."
i said, "yes, ma'am."
"mr. micawber's difficulties are almost overwhelming just at present,"
said mrs. micawber, "and whether it is possible to bring him through them i don't know.
if mr. micawber's creditors will not give him time, they must take the consequences."
in my forlorn state, i soon became quite attached to this family, and when mr. micawber's difficulties came to a crisis, and he was arrested and carried to the king's bench prison in the borough, and mrs. micawber shortly afterwards followed him, i hired a little room in the neighbourhood of that institution.
mr. micawber was in due time released under the insolvent debtors' act, and it was decided that he should go down to plymouth, where mrs.
micawber held that her family had influence.
my own mind was now made up.
i had resolved to run away to go by some means or other down into the country, to the only relation i had in the world, and tell my story to my aunt, miss betsey.
i knew from peggotty that miss betsey lived near dover, but whether at dover itself, at hythe, sandgate, or folkstone, she could not say.
one of our men, however, informing me on my asking him about these places that they were all close together, i deemed this enough for my object; and after seeing the micawbers off at the coach office, i set off.
iii.
my aunt provides for me
it was on the sixth day of my flight that i reached the wide downs near dover and set foot in the town.
i had walked every step of the way, sleeping under haystacks at night.
fortunately, it was summer weather, for i was obliged to part with coat and waistcoat to buy food.
my shoes were in a woeful condition, and my hat which had served me for a nightcap, too was so crushed and bent that no old battered saucepan on the dunghill need have been ashamed to vie with it.
my shirt and trousers, stained with heat, dew, grass, and the kentish soil on which i had slept, might have frightened the birds from my aunt's garden as i stood at the gate.
my hair had known no comb or brush since i left london.
in this plight i waited to introduce myself to my formidable aunt.
as i stood there, a lady came out of the house, with a handkerchief over her cap, a pair of gardening gloves on her hands and carrying a great knife.
i was sure she must be miss betsey from her walk, for my mother had often described the way my aunt came to the house when i was born.
"go away!"
said miss betsey, shaking her head.
"go along!
no boys here!"
i watched her as she marched to a corner of the garden, and then, in desperation, i went softly and stood beside her.
"if you please, ma'am if you please, aunt, i am your nephew."
"oh, lord!"
said my aunt, and sat flat down in the garden path.
"i am david copperfield, of blunderstone, in suffolk, where you came when i was born.
i have been very unhappy since my mother died.
i have been taught nothing and put to work not fit for me.
it made me run away to you, and i have walked all the way, and have never slept in bed since i began the journey."
here my self-support gave way all at once, and i broke into a passion of crying.
thereupon, my aunt got up in a great hurry, collared me, and took me into the parlour.
the first thing my aunt did was to pour the contents of several bottles down my throat.
i think they must have been taken out at random, for i am sure i tasted aniseed water, anchovy sauce, and salad dressing.
then she put me on the sofa, and, acting on the advice of a pleasant-looking, grey-headed gentleman, whom she called "mr. dick," heated a bath for me.
after that i was enrobed in a shirt and trousers belonging to mr. dick, tied up in two or three great shawls, and fell asleep.
that was the beginning of my aunt's adoption of me.
she wrote to mr.
murdstone, and he and his sister arrived a few days later, and were routed by my aunt.
mr. murdstone said, finally, he would only take me back unconditionally, and that if i did not return there and then his doors would be shut against me henceforth.
"and what does the boy say?"
said my aunt.
"are you ready to go, david?"
i answered "no," and entreated her not to let me go.
i begged and prayed my aunt to befriend and protect me, for my father's sake.
"mr. dick," said my aunt, "what shall i do with this child?"
mr. dick considered, hesitated, brightened, and rejoined, "have him measured for a suit of clothes directly!"
"mr. dick," said my aunt, "give me your hand, for your commonsense is invaluable."
she pulled me towards her, and said to mr. murdstone, "you can go when you like; i'll take my chance with the boy!"
when they had gone my aunt announced that mr. dick would be joint guardian of me, with herself, and that i should be called trotwood copperfield.
thus i began my new life, in a new name, and with everything new about me.
my aunt sent me to school at canterbury, and, there being no room at the school for boarders, settled that i should board with her old lawyer, mr. wickfield.
my aunt was as happy as i was in this arrangement.
for mr. wickfield's house was quiet and still; and mr. wickfield's little housekeeper was his only daughter, agnes, a child of about my own age, whose face, so bright and happy, was the child likeness of a woman's portrait that was on the staircase.
there was a tranquility about the house, and about agnes, a good, calm spirit, that i have never forgotten and never shall.
the school i now went to was better in every way than salem house.
it seemed to me so long, however, since i had been among any companions of my own age, except mick walker and mealy potatoes, that i felt very strange at first.
whatever i had learnt had so slipped away from me that when i was examined about what i knew, i knew nothing, and was put in the lowest form of the school.
but i got a little the better of my uneasiness when i went to school the next day, and a good deal the better the day after, and so shook it off, by degrees, that in less than a fortnight i was quite at home, and happy among my new companions.
"trot," said my aunt, when she left me at mr. wickfield's, "be a credit to yourself, to me, and mr. dick, and heaven be with you!
never be mean in anything; never be false; never be cruel.
avoid these vices, trot, and i can always be hopeful of you.
and now the pony's at the door, and i am off!"
she embraced me hastily, and went out of the house, shutting the door after her.
when i looked into the street i noticed how dejectedly she got into the chaise, and that she drove away without looking up.
iv.
uriah heep and mr. micawber
i first saw uriah heep on the day my aunt introduced me to mr.
wickfield's house.
he was then a red-haired youth of fifteen, but looking much older, whose hair was cropped as close as the closest stubble; who had hardly any eyebrows and no eyelashes, and eyes of a red-brown.
he was high-shouldered and bony; dressed in decent black, with a white wisp of a neck-cloth; buttoned up to the throat; and had a long, lank, skeleton hand.
heep was mr. wickfield's clerk, and i often saw him of an evening in the little round office reading, and from time to time strayed in to talk to him.
he told me, one night, he was not doing office work, but was improving his legal knowledge.
"i suppose you are quite a great lawyer?"
i said, after looking at him for some time.
"me, master copperfield?"
said uriah.
"oh, no!
i'm a very 'umble person.
i am well aware that i am the 'umblest person going, let the other be where he may.
my mother is likewise a very 'umble person.
we live in a 'umble abode, master copperfield, but have much to be thankful for.
my father's former calling was 'umble; he was a sexton."
"what is he now?"
i asked.
"he is a partaker of glory at present, master copperfield," said uriah heep.
"but we have much to be thankful for.
how much have i to be thankful for in living with mr.
wickfield!"
i asked uriah if he had been with mr. wickfield long.
"i have been with him going on four years, master copperfield," said uriah, "since a year after my father's death.
how much i have to be thankful for in that!
how much have i to be thankful for in mr.
wickfield's kind intention to give me my articles, which would otherwise not lay within the 'umble means of mother and self!"
"perhaps, when you're a regular lawyer, you'll be a partner in mr.
wickfield's business, one of these days," i said to make myself agreeable; "and it will be wickfield and heep or heep late wickfield."
"oh, no, master copperfield," returned uriah, shaking his head, "i am much too 'umble for that!"
it must have been five or six years later, when i was in london, that uriah recalled my prophecy to me.
agnes had noticed as i had noticed, long before this, a gradual alteration in mr. wickfield.
he sat longer and longer over his wine, and it was at such times, when his hands trembled, and his speech was not plain, that uriah was most certain to want him on some business.
so it came about that agnes had to tell me that uriah had made himself indispensable to her father.
"he is subtle and watchful," she said.
"he has mastered papa's weaknesses, fostered them, and taken advantage of them, until papa is afraid of him."
if i was indignant to hear that uriah had wormed himself into such promotion, i restrained my feelings when we met, for agnes had bidden me not to repel him, for her father's sake, and for her own.
"what a prophet you have shown yourself, master copperfield!"
said uriah, reminding me of my early words.
"you may not recollect it; but when a person is 'umble, a person treasures such things up.
but the 'umblest persons, master copperfield, may be instruments of good.
i am glad to think i have been the instrument of good to mr. wickfield, and that i may be more so.
oh, what a worthy man he is; but how imprudent he has been!"
when the rascal went on to tell me confidentially that he "loved the ground his agnes walked on," and that he thought she might come to be kind to him, knowing his usefulness to her father, i had a delirious idea of seizing the red-hot poker out of the fire and running him through with it.
however, i thought of agnes, and could say nothing.
in the end all the evil machinations of uriah heep were frustrated by my old friend mr. micawber, who, visiting canterbury on the chance of something suitable turning up, and meeting me in heep's company, was subsequently engaged by heep as a clerk at twenty-two and sixpence per week.
it was only after micawber had found that uriah heep had forged mr.
wickfield's name to various documents, and had fraudulently speculated with moneys entrusted by my aunt, amongst others, to his partner, that he turned upon him and denounced him, and accomplished what he called "the final pulverisation of keep."
mr. micawber being once more "in pecuniary shackles," my aunt, so grateful, as we all were, for the services he had rendered, suggested emigration to australia to him; he at once responded to the idea.
"the climate, i believe, is healthy," said mrs. micawber.
"then the question arises: now, are the circumstances of the country such that a man of mr. micawber's abilities would have a fair chance of rising?
i will not say, at present, to be governor or anything of that sort; but would there be a reasonable opening for his talents to develop themselves?
if so, it is evident to me that australia is the legitimate sphere of action for mr.
micawber."
"i entertain the conviction," said mr. micawber, "that it is, under existing circumstances, the land, the only land, for myself and family; and that something of an extraordinary nature will turn up on that shore."
but the defeat of heep and micawber's departure belong to the days of my manhood.
let me look back at intervening years.
v. i achieve manhood
my school-days!
the silent gliding on of my existence the unseen, unfelt progress of my life from childhood up to youth!
time has stolen on unobserved, and i am the head boy now in the school, and look down on the line of boys below me with a condescending interest in such of them as bring to my mind the boy i was myself when i first came here.
that little fellow seems to be no part of me; i remember him as something left behind upon the road of life, and almost think of him as of someone else.
and the little girl i saw on that first day at mr. wickfield's, where is she?
gone also.
in her stead, the perfect likeness of the picture, a child likeness no more, moves about the house; and agnes my sweet sister, as i call her in my thoughts, my counsellor and friend the better angel of the lives of all who come within her calm, good, self-denying influence is quite a woman.
it is time for me to have a profession, and my aunt proposes that i should be a proctor in doctors' commons.
i learn that the proctors are a sort of solicitors, and that the doctors' commons is a faded court held near st. paul's churchyard, where people's marriages and wills are disposed of and disputes about ships and boats are settled.
so i am articled, and later, when my aunt has lost her money, through no fault of her own, but through the rascality of uriah heep, and i seek mr. spenlow to know if it is possible for my articles to be cancelled, it is, i am assured, mr. jorkins who is inexorable.
"if it had been my lot to have my hands unfettered, if i had not a partner mr. jorkins," says mr. spenlow.
"but i know my partner, copperfield.
mr. jorkins is not a man to respond to a proposition of this peculiar nature.
mr. jorkins is very difficult to move from the beaten track."
the years pass.
i have come legally to man's estate.
i have attained the dignity of twenty-one.
let me think what i have achieved.
determined to do something to bring in money, i have mastered the savage mystery of shorthand, and make a respectable income by reporting the debates in parliament for a morning newspaper.
night after night i record predictions that never come to pass, professions that are never fulfilled, explanations that are only meant to mystify.
i have come out in another way.
i have taken, with fear and trembling, to authorship.
i wrote a little something in secret, and sent it to a magazine, and it was published.
since then i have taken heart to write a good many trifling pieces.
my record is nearly finished.
peggotty, a widow, is with my aunt, and mr. dick is in the room.
"goodness me!"
said my aunt, "who's this you're bringing home?"
"agnes," said i.
we were to be married within a fortnight.
it was not till i had told agnes of my love that i learnt from her, as she laid her gentle hands upon my shoulders and looked calmly in my face, that she had loved me all my life.
let me look back once more, for the last time, before i close these leaves.
i have advanced in fame and fortune.
i have been married ten years, and i see my children playing in the room.
here is my aunt, in stronger spectacles, an old woman of fourscore years and more, but upright yet, and godmother to a real, living betsey trotwood.
always with her, here comes peggotty, my good old nurse, likewise in spectacles.
a newspaper from australia tells me that mr.
micawber is now a magistrate and a rising townsman at port middlebay.
one face is above all these and beyond them all.
i turn my head and see it, in its beautiful serenity, beside me.
so may thy face be by me, agnes, when i close my life; and when realities are melting from me, may i still find thee near me, pointing upward!
dombey and son
the publication of "dombey and son" began in october, 1846,      and the story was completed in twenty monthly parts at one      shilling each, the last number being issued in april, 1848.
its success was striking and immediate, the sale of its first      number exceeding that of "martin chuzzlewit" by more than      12,000 copies a remarkable thing considering the immense      superiority of "chuzzlewit."
"dombey and son," indeed, is by      no means one of dickens's best books; though little paul will      always retain the sympathies of the reader, and the story of      his short life for ever move us with its pathos.
the      popularity of "dombey and son" provoked an impudent      publication called "dombey and daughter," which was started in      january, 1847, and was issued monthly at a penny.
two stage      versions of "dombey" appeared in london in 1873, and in new      york in 1888, but in neither case was the adaptation      particularly successful.
"what are the wild waves saying?"
was      made the subject of a song a duet which at one time was      widely sung, but is now, happily forgotten.
i. dombey and son
dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great armchair by the bedside, and son lay tucked up warm in a little basket-bedstead.
dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age; son about eight-and-forty minutes.
dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome, well-made man, too stern and pompous in appearance to be prepossessing.
son was very bald, and very red, and somewhat crushed and spotted in his general effect, as yet.
"the house will once again, mrs. dombey," said mr. dombey, "be not only in name, but in fact, dombey and son; dombey and son!
he will be christened paul, mrs. dombey, of course!"
the sick lady feebly echoed, "of course," and closed her eyes again.
"his father's name, mrs. dombey, and his grandfather's!
i wish his grandfather were alive this day."
and again he said "dombey and son" in exactly the same tone as before, and then went downstairs to learn what that fashionable physician, dr. parker peps, had to say, for mrs. dombey lay very weak and still.
"dombey and son" those three words conveyed the idea of mr. dombey's life.
the earth was made for dombey and son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give them light.
he had risen, as his father had before him, in the course of life and death, from son to dombey, and for nearly twenty years had been the sole representative of the firm.
of those years he had been married ten married, as some said, to a lady with no heart to give him.
but such idle talk never reached the ears of mr. dombey.
dombey and son often dealt in hides, never in hearts.
mr. dombey would have reasoned that a matrimonial alliance with himself must, in the nature of things, be gratifying and honourable to any woman of commonsense.
one drawback only could be admitted.
until the present day there had been no issue to speak of.
there had been a girl some six years before, a child who now crouched by her mother's bed, unobserved.
but what was that girl to dombey and son?
"nature must be called upon to make a vigorous effort in this instance!"
said doctor parker peps, referring to mrs. dombey.
mrs. chick, mr. dombey's married sister, emphasised this opinion.
"now my dear paul," said mrs. chick, "you may rest assured that there is nothing wanting but an effort on fanny's part."
they returned to the sick-room and its stillness.
in vain mrs. chick exhorted her sister-in-law to make an effort; no sound came in answer but the loud ticking of mr. dombey's watch and dr. parker pep's watch, which seemed in the silence to be running a race.
"fanny!"
said mrs. chick, "only look at me.
only open your eyes to show me that you hear and understand me."
still no answer.
mrs. dombey lay motionless, clasping her little daughter to her breast.
"mamma!"
cried the child, sobbing aloud.
"oh, dear mamma!"
thus clinging fast to that slight spar within her arms, the mother drifted out upon the dark and unknown sea that rolls round all the world.
mr. dombey, in the days to come, could not forget that closing scene
that he had had no part in it; that he had stood a mere spectator while those two figures lay clasped in each other's arms.
his previous feelings of indifference towards his little daughter florence changed into an uneasiness of an extraordinary kind.
he had never conceived an aversion to her; it had not been worth his while or in his humour.
but now he was ill at ease about her.
he read nothing in her glance, when he saw her later in the solemn house, of the passionate desire to run clinging to him, and the dread of a repulse; the pitiable need in which she stood of some assurance and encouragement.
he saw nothing of this.
ii.
mrs. pipchin's
in spite of his early promise, all the vigilance and care bestowed upon him could not make little paul a thriving boy.
there was something wan and wistful in his look, and he had a strange, old-fashioned, thoughtful way of sitting brooding in his miniature armchair.
the medical practitioner recommended sea-air, and mrs. pipchin, who conducted an infantile boarding house of a very select description at brighton, and whose scale of charges was high, was entrusted with the care of paul's health when he was little more than five years old.
mrs. pipchin was a marvellous ill-favoured, ill-conditioned old lady, with a mottled face like bad marble, a hook nose, and a hard grey eye.
it was generally said that mrs. pipchin was a woman of system with children, and no doubt she was.
certainly the wild ones went home tame enough, after sojourning for a few months beneath her hospitable roof.
at this exemplary old lady paul would sit staring in his little armchair by the fire for any length of time.
he was not fond of her, he was not afraid of her.
once she asked him, when they were alone, what he was thinking about.
"you," said paul, without the least reserve.
"i'm thinking how old you must be."
"you mustn't say such things as that, young gentleman," returned the dame.
"why not?"
asked paul.
"because it's not polite!"
said mrs. pipchin, snappishly.
"not polite?"
said paul.
"no!
and remember the story of the little boy that was gored to death by a mad bull for asking questions!"
"if the bull was mad," said paul, "how did he know that the boy had asked questions?
nobody can go and whisper secrets to a mad bull.
i don't believe that story."
"you don't believe it, sir?"
"no," said paul.
"not if it should happen to have been a tame bull, you little infidel?"
said mrs. pipchin.
as paul had not considered the subject in that light, he allowed himself to be put down for the present.
mr. dombey came down to brighton every sunday, and florence was her brother's constant companion.
at first, paul got no stronger, and a little carriage was procured for him, in which he could lie at his ease and be wheeled down to the sea-side; there he would sit or lie for hours together; never so distressed as by the company of children florence alone excepted, always.
"go away, if you please," he would say to any child who came up to him.
"thank you, but i don't want you.
i think you had better go and play, if you please."
his favourite spot was quite a lonely one, far away from most loungers; and, with florence sitting by his side, and the wind blowing on his face, and the water near the wheels of his bed, he wanted nothing more.
"i want to know what it says," he said once, looking steadily in her face.
"the sea, floy, what is it that it keeps on saying?"
she told him that it was only the noise of the rolling waves.
"yes, yes," he said.
"but i know that they are always saying something.
always the same thing.
what place is over there?"
he rose up, looking eagerly at the horizon.
she told him that there was another country opposite, but he said he didn't mean that; he meant farther away farther away!
very often afterwards, in the midst of their talk, he would break off, to try to understand what it was that the waves were always saying, and would rise up on his couch to look at that invisible region far away.
at the end of twelve months at mrs. pipchin's, paul had grown strong enough to dispense with his little carriage, though he still looked thin and delicate.
mr. dombey therefore decided to remove him, not from brighton, but to doctor blimber's educational establishment.
"i fear," said mr. dombey, addressing mrs. pipchin, "that my son in his studies is behind many children of his age.
now instead of being behind his peers, my son ought to be before them far before them.
there is an eminence ready for him to mount upon.
the education of my son must not be delayed.
it must not be left imperfect."
doctor blimber only undertook the charge of ten young gentlemen, and his establishment was a great hot-house, in which there was a forcing apparatus incessantly at work.
florence would remain at mrs. pipchin's, and for the first six months paul would return there for the sunday.
"now, paul," said mr. dombey exultingly, when they stood on the doctor's doorsteps, "this is the way, indeed, to be dombey and son, and have money.
you are almost a man already."
"almost," returned the child.
iii.
doctor blimber's academy
the doctor was a portly gentleman in a suit of black, with strings at his knees, and stockings below them.
he had a bald head, highly polished, a deep voice, and a chin so very double that it was a wonder how he ever managed to shave into the creases.
mrs. blimber was not learned herself, but she pretended to be, and that did quite as well.
as to miss blimber, there was no light nonsense about her.
she was dry and sandy with working in the graves of dead languages.
mr. feeder, b.a., dr. blimber's assistant, was a kind of human barrel-
organ, with a list of tunes at which he was continually working, over and over again, without any variation.
under the forcing system at dr. blimber's a young gentleman usually took leave of his spirits in three weeks; he had all the cares of the world on his head in three months, and he conceived bitter sentiments against his parents or guardians in four.
the doctor was sitting in his study when mr. dombey and paul arrived.
"and how do you do, sir?"
he said to mr. dombey.
"and how is my little friend?"
it seemed to paul as if the great clock in the hall took this up, and went on saying, "how, is, my, lit-tle friend?
how, is, my, lit-tle friend?"
over and over again.
paul was handed over to miss blimber at once to be "brought on."
"cornelia," said the doctor.
"dombey will be your charge at first.
bring him on, cornelia, bring him on."
it was hard work, for no sooner had paul mastered subject a than he was immediately provided with subject b, from which we passed to c, and even d. often he felt giddy and confused, and drowsy and dull.
but there were always the saturdays when florence came at noon to fetch him, and never would she, in any weather, stay away.
florence brought the school-books he was studying, and every saturday night would patiently assist him through so much as they could anticipate together of his next week's work.
and this saved him, possibly, from sinking underneath the burden which the fair cornelia blimber piled upon his back.
it was not that miss blimber meant to be too hard upon him, or that dr.
blimber meant to bear too heavily on the young gentlemen in general.
but when dr. blimber said that paul made great progress, and was naturally clever, mr. dombey was more bent than ever on his being forced and crammed.
such spirits as he had at the outset paul soon lost, of course.
but he retained all that was strange, and odd, and thoughtful in his character; and mrs. blimber thought him "odd," and whispered that he was "old fashioned," and that was all.
between little paul dombey the youngest, and mr. toots, the oldest of dr. blimber's young gentlemen, a strong attachment existed.
toots had "gone through" so much, that he had left off growing, and was free to pursue his own course of study, which was chiefly to write long letters to himself from persons of distinction, addressed "p. toots, esquire, brighton," to preserve them in his desk with great care.
"how are you?"
toots would say to paul, fifty times a day.
"quite well, sir, thank you," paul would answer.
"shake hands," would be toot's next advance.
which paul, of course, would immediately do.
"i say!"
cried toots one evening, finding paul looking out of the window.
"i say, what do you think about?"
"oh, i think about a great many things," replied paul.
"do you, though?"
said toots, appearing to consider that fact in itself surprising.
"if you had to die," said paul, "don't you think you would rather die on a moonlight night, when the sky is quite clear, and the wind blowing, as it did last night?"
mr. toots, looking doubtfully at paul, said he didn't know about that.
"it was a beautiful night," said paul.
"there was a boat over there, in the full light of the moon, a boat with a sail."
mr. toots, feeling called upon to say something, suggested "smugglers,"
and then added, "or preventive."
"a boat with a sail," repeated paul.
"it went away into the distance, and what do you think it seemed to do as it moved with the waves?"
"pitch!"
said mr. toots.
"it seemed to beckon," said the child; "to beckon me to come."
certainly people found him an "old-fashioned" child.
at the end of the term dr. and mrs. blimber gave an early party to their pupils and their parents and guardians, and it was a day or two before this event when paul was taken ill. this illness released him from his books, and made him think the more of florence.
they all loved "dombey's sister" at that party, and paul, sitting in a cushioned corner, heard her praises constantly.
there was a half-intelligible sentiment, too, diffused around, referring to florence and himself, and breathing sympathy for both, that soothed and touched him.
he did not know why, but it seemed to have something to do with his "old-fashioned" reputation.
the time arrived for taking leave.
"good-bye, doctor blimber," said paul, stretching out his hand.
"good-bye, my little friend," returned the doctor.
"dombey, dombey, you have always been my favourite pupil."
"god bless you!"
said cornelia, taking both paul's hands in hers.
and it showed, paul thought, how easily one might do injustice to a person; for miss blimber meant it though she was a forcer and felt it.
there was a general move after paul and florence down the staircase, in which the whole blimber family were included.
such a circumstance, mr.
feeder said aloud, as has never happened in the case of any former young gentleman within his experience.
the servants, with the butler a stern man at their head, had all an interest in seeing little dombey go; while the young gentlemen pressed to shake hands with him, crying individually "dombey, don't forget me!"
once for a last look, paul turned and gazed upon the faces addressed to him, and from that time whenever he thought of dr. blimber's it came back as he had seen it in this last view; and it never seemed to be a real place, but always a dream, full of faces.
iv.
paul goes out with the stream
from the night they brought him home from dr. blimber's paul had never risen from his little bed.
he lay there, listening to the noises in the street, quite tranquilly; not caring much how the time went, but watching it, and watching everywhere about him with observing eyes.
when the sunbeams struck into his room through the rustling blinds, and quivered on the opposite wall like golden water, he knew that evening was coming on.
by little and little he got tired of the bustle of the day, the noise of the carriages and carts, and people passing and repassing; and would fall asleep or be troubled with a restless and uneasy sense of a rushing river.
"why will it never stop, floy?"
he would sometimes ask her.
"it is bearing me away, i think!"
but floy could always soothe him.
he was visited by as many as three grave doctors, and the room was so quiet, and paul was so observant of them, that he even knew the difference in the sound of their watches.
but his interest centred in sir parker peps; for paul had heard them say long ago that that gentleman had been with his mamma when she clasped florence in her arms and died.
and he could not forget it now.
he liked him for it.
he was not afraid.
the people in the room were always changing, and in the night-time paul began to wonder languidly who the figure was, with its head upon its hand, that returned so often and remained so long.
"floy," he said, "what is that there at the bottom of the bed?"
"there's nothing there except papa."
the figure lifted up its head and rose, and said, "my own boy!
don't you know me?"
paul looked it in the face, and thought, was that his father?
the next time he observed the figure at the bottom of the bed, he called to it.
"don't be sorry for me, dear papa.
indeed, i am quite happy."
that was the beginning of his always saying in the morning that he was a great deal better, and that they were to tell his father so.
how many times the golden water danced upon the wall, how many nights the dark, dark river rolled towards the sea, paul never counted, never sought to know.
one night he had been thinking of his mother, and her picture in the drawing-room downstairs.
"floy, did i ever see mamma?"
"no, darling."
the river was running very fast now, and confusing his mind.
paul fell asleep, and when he awoke the sun was high.
"floy, come close to me, and let me see you."
sister and brother wound their arms around each other, and the golden light came streaming in, and fell upon them locked together.
"how fast the river runs between its green banks and the rushes, floy!
but it's very near the sea.
i hear the waves.
they always said so."
presently he told her that the motion of the boat upon the stream was lulling him to rest, now the boat was out at sea but gliding smoothly on.
and now there was a shore before him.
who stood on the bank?
he put his hands together, as he had been used to do at his prayers.
he did not remove his arms to do it, but they saw him fold them so behind her neck.
"mamma is like you, floy.
i know her by the face!
the light about her head is shining on me as i go."
the golden ripple on the wall came back again, and nothing else stirred in the room.
the old, old fashion!
the fashion that came in with our first parents, and will last unchanged until our race has run its course, and the wide firmament is rolled up like a scroll.
the old, old fashion death!
v. the end of dombey and son
the stonemason to whom mr. dombey gave his order for a tablet in the church, in memory of little paul, called his attention to the inscription "beloved and only child," and said, "it should be 'son,' i think, sir?"
"you are right, of course.
make the correction."
and there came a time when it was to florence, and florence only, that mr. dombey turned.
for the great house of dombey and son fell, and in the crash its proud head became a ruined man, ruined beyond recovery.
bankrupt in purse, his personal pride was yet further humbled.
for mr.
dombey had married again, a loveless match, and his wife deserted him.
in the hour when he discovered that desertion he had driven his daughter florence from the house.
he was fallen now never to be raised up any more.
for the night of his worldly ruin there was no to-morrow's sun, for the stain of his domestic shame there was no purification.
in his pride for he was proud yet he let the world go from him freely.
as it fell away, he shook it off.
he knew, now, what it was to be rejected and deserted.
dombey and son was no more his children no more.
his daughter florence had married married a young sailor once a boy in the office of dombey and son and thinking of her, dombey, in the solitude of his dismantled home, remembered that she had never changed to him through all those years; and the mist through which he had seen her, cleared, and showed him her true self.
he wandered through the rooms, and thought of suicide; a guilty hand was grasping what was in his breast.
it was arrested by a cry a wild, loud, loving, rapturous cry, and he saw his daughter.
"papa!
dearest papa!"
unchanged still.
of all the world unchanged.
he tottered to his chair.
he felt her draw his arms about her neck.
he felt her kisses on his face, he felt oh, how deeply!
all that he had done.
she laid his face, now covered with his hands, against the heart that he had almost broken, and said, sobbing, "papa, love, i am a mother.
papa, dear, oh, say god bless me and my little child!"
his head, now grey, was encircled by her arm, and he groaned to think that never, never had it rested so before.
"my little child was born at sea, papa.
i prayed to god to spare me that i might come.
the moment i could land i came to you.
never let us be parted any more, papa!"
he kissed her on the lips, and lifting up his eyes, said, "oh, my god, forgive me, for i need it very much!"
great expectations
"great expectations," first published as a serial in "all the      year round," in 1861, is one of dickens's finest works.
it is      rounded off so completely and the characters are so admirably      drawn that, as a finished work of art, it is hard to say where      the genius of its author has surpassed it.
if there is less of      the exuberance of "pickwick," there is also less of the      characteristic exaggeration of dickens; and the pathos of the      ex-convict's return is far deeper than the pathos of      children's death-beds, so frequently exhibited by the author.
"great expectations," for all its rare qualities, has never      achieved the wide popularity of the novels of charles dickens      that preceded it.
we are not generally familiar with any name      in the story, as we are with at least one name in all the      other novels.
yet, pip, as a study of child-life, youth, and      early manhood, is as excellent as anything in the whole range      of english fiction.
i. in the marshes
my father's family name being pirrip, and my christian name philip, i called myself with my infant tongue pip, and came to be called pip.
my first most vivid impression of things seems to me to have been gained on a memorable raw afternoon, one christmas eve.
ours was the marsh country, down the river, within twenty miles of the sea; and i had wandered into a bleak place overgrown with nettles called a churchyard.
"hold your noise," cried a terrible voice, as a man started up from among the graves at the side of the church porch.
"keep still, you little devil, or i'll cut your throat!"
a fearful man, all in coarse grey, with a great iron on his leg.
a man who had been soaked in water, and smothered in mud, and cut by stones; who limped and shivered, and glared and growled.
"oh!
don't cut my throat, sir," i pleaded in terror.
"pray don't do it, sir."
"tell us your name!
quick!"
"pip, sir."
"show us where you live," said the man.
"p'int out the place.
who d'ye live with?"
i pointed to where our village was, and said, "with my sister, sir mrs.
joe gargery wife of joe gargery, the blacksmith, sir."
"blacksmith, eh?"
said he, and looked down at his leg.
then he took me by the arms.
"now lookee here.
you know what a file is?"
"yes, sir."
"and you know what wittles is?"
"yes, sir."
"you get me a file, and you get me wittles.
you bring 'em both to me, or i'll have your heart and liver out.
you bring the lot to me, to-morrow morning early, that file and them wittles you bring the lot to me at that old battery over yonder.
you do it, and you never dare to say a word concerning your having seen me, and you shall be let to live.
you fail, or you go from my words in any partickler, no matter how small it is, and your heart and your liver shall be tore out, roasted, and ate.
now what do you say?"
i said that i would get him the file, and i would get him what broken bits of food i could, and i would come to him at the battery, early in the morning.
as soon as the darkness outside my little window was shot with grey, i got up and went downstairs.
i stole some bread, some rind of cheese, about half a jar of mincemeat (which i tied up in my pocket handkerchief), some brandy from a stone bottle (which i decanted into a glass bottle i had used for spanish liquorice water up in my room), a meat bone with very little on it, and a beautiful round pork pie.
there was a door in the kitchen communicating with the forge; i unlocked and unbolted that door, got a file from among joe's tools, put the fastenings as i had found them, and ran for the marshes.
it was a rainy morning, and very damp.
i knew my way to the battery, for i had been down there on a sunday with joe, and had just scrambled up the mound beyond the ditch when i saw the man sitting before me with his back toward me.
i touched him on the shoulder, and he instantly jumped up, and it was not the same man, but another man dressed in coarse grey, too, with a great iron on his leg.
he aimed a blow at me, and then ran into the mist, stumbling as he went, and i lost him.
i was soon at the battery after that, and there was the right man waiting for me.
he was awfully cold.
and his eyes looked awfully hungry.
he devoured the food, mincemeat, meatbone, bread, cheese, and pork pie, all at once more like a man who was putting it away somewhere in a violent hurry, than a man who was eating it, only stopping from time to time to listen.
"you're not a deceiving imp?
you brought no one with you?"
"no, sir!
no!"
"well," said he, "i believe you.
you'd be but a fierce young hound indeed if at your time of life you could help to hunt a wretched varmint, hunted as near death and dunghill as this poor wretched varmint is."
while he was eating i mentioned that i had just seen another man dressed like him, and with a badly bruised face.
"not here?"
he exclaimed, striking his left cheek.
"yes, there!"
he swore he would pull him down like a bloodhound, and then crammed what little food was left into the breast of his grey jacket, and began to file at his iron like a madman; so i thought the best thing that i could do was to slip off home.
ii.
i meet estella
i must have been about ten years old when i went to miss havisham's, and first met estella.
my uncle pumblechook, who kept a cornchandler's shop in the high-street of the town, took me to the large old, dismal house, which had all its windows barred.
for miles round everybody had heard of miss havisham as an immensely rich and grim lady who led a life of seclusion; and everybody soon knew that mr. pumblechook had been commissioned to bring her a boy.
he left me at the courtyard, and a young lady, who was very pretty and seemed very proud, let me in, and i noticed that the passages were all dark, and that there was a candle burning.
my guide, who called me "boy," but was really about my own age, was as scornful of me as if she had been one-and-twenty, and a queen.
she led me to miss havisham's room, and there, in an armchair, with her elbow resting on the table, sat the strangest lady i have ever seen, or shall ever see.
she was dressed in rich materials satins and lace and silks all of white or rather, which had been white, but, like all else in the room, were now faded yellow.
her shoes were white, and she had a long white veil dependent from her hair, and bridal flowers in her hair; but her hair was white.
i saw that the bride within the bridal dress had withered like the dress.
"who is it?"
said the lady at the table.
"pip, ma'am.
mr. pumblechook's boy."
"come nearer; let me look at you; come close.
you are not afraid of a woman who has never seen the sun since you were born?"
"no, ma'am."
"do you know what i touch here?"
she said, laying her hands, one upon the other, on her left side.
"yes, ma'am; your heart."
"broken!"
she was silent for a little while, and then added, "i am tired; i want diversion.
play, play, play!"
what was an unfortunate boy to do?
i didn't know how to play.
"call estella," said the lady.
"call estella, at the door."
it was a dreadful thing to be bawling "estella" to a scornful young lady in a mysterious passage in an unknown house, but i had to do it.
and estella came, and i heard her say, in answer to miss havisham, "play with this boy!
why, he is a common labouring boy!"
i thought i overheard miss havisham answer, "well?
you can break his heart."
we played at beggar my neighbour, and before the game was out estella said disdainfully, "he calls the knaves jacks, this boy!
and what coarse hands he has!
and what thick boots!"
i was very glad to get away.
my coarse hands and my common boots had never troubled me before; but they troubled me now, and i determined to ask joe why he had taught me to call those picture cards jacks which ought to be called knaves.
for a long time i went once a week to this strange, gloomy house it was called satis house and once estella told me i might kiss her.
and then miss havisham decided i was to be apprenticed to joe, and gave him £25 for the purpose; and i left off going to see her, and helped joe in the forge.
but i didn't like joe's trade, and i was afflicted by that most miserable thing to feel ashamed of home.
i couldn't resist paying miss havisham a visit; and, not seeing estella, stammered that i hoped she was well.
"abroad," said miss havisham; "educating for a lady; far out of reach; prettier than ever; admired by all who see her.
do you feel that you have lost her?"
i was spared the trouble of answering by being dismissed, and went home dissatisfied and uncomfortable, thinking myself coarse and common, and wanting to be a gentleman.
it was in the fourth year of my apprenticeship when, one saturday night, joe and i were up at the three jolly bargemen, according to our custom.
a stranger, who did not recognise me, but whom i recognised as a gentleman i had met on the stairs at miss havisham's, was in the room; and on his asking for a blacksmith named gargery and his apprentice named pip, and, being answered, said he wanted to have a private conference with us two.
joe took him home, and the stranger told us his name was jaggers, and that he was a lawyer in london.
"now, joseph gargery, i am the bearer of an offer to relieve you of this young fellow, your apprentice.
you would not object to cancel his indentures at his request and for his good?"
"no," said joe.
"the communication i have got to make to this young fellow is that he has great expectations."
joe and i gasped, and looked at one another.
"i am instructed to tell him," said mr. jaggers, "that he will come into a handsome property.
further, it is the desire of the present possessor of that property that he be immediately removed from his present sphere of life and be brought up as a gentleman, and that he always bear the name of pip.
now, you are to understand that the name of the person who is your liberal benefactor remains a profound secret until the person chooses to reveal it, and you are most positively prohibited from making any inquiry on this head.
if you have a suspicion, keep it in your own breast."
mr. jaggers went on to say that if i accepted the expectations on these terms, there was already money in hand for my education and maintenance, and that one mr. matthew pocket, in london (whom i knew to be a relation of miss havisham's), could be my tutor if i was willing to go to him, say in a week's time.
of course i accepted this wonderful good fortune, and had no doubt in my own mind that miss havisham was my benefactress.
when mr. jaggers asked joe whether he desired any compensation, joe laid his hand upon my shoulder with the touch of a woman.
"pip is that hearty welcome," said joe, "to go free with his services, to honour and fortun', as no words can tell him.
but if you think as money can make compensation to me for the loss of the little child what come to the forge and ever the best of friends!"
he scooped his eyes with his disengaged hand, but said not another word.
iii.
i know my benefactor
i went to london, and studied with mr. matthew pocket, and shared rooms with his son herbert (who, knowing my earlier life, decided to call me handel), first in barnard's inn and later in the temple.
on my twenty-first birthday i received £500, and this (unknown to herbert) i managed to make over to my friend in order to secure him a managership in a business house.
my studies were not directed in any professional channel, but were pursued with a view to my being equal to any emergency when my expectations, which i had been told to look forward to, were fulfilled.
estella was often in london, and i met her at many houses, and was desperately in love with her.
but though she treated me with friendship, she was proud and capricious as ever, and a few years later married a man whom i knew and detested a mr. bentley drummle, a bully and a scoundrel.
when i was three-and-twenty i happened to be alone one night in our chambers reading, for i had a taste for books.
herbert was away at marseilles on a business journey.
the clocks had struck eleven, and i closed my books.
i was still listening to the clocks, when i heard a footstep on the staircase, and started.
the staircase lights were blown out by the wind, and i took my reading-lamp and went out to see who it was.
"there is someone there, is there not?"
i called out.
"what floor do you want?"
"the top mr.
pip."
"that is my name.
there is nothing the matter?"
"nothing the matter," returned the voice.
and the man came on.
i made out that the man was roughly but substantially dressed; that he had iron-grey hair; that his age was about sixty; that he was a muscular man, hardened by exposure to weather.
i saw nothing that in the least explained him, but i saw that he was holding out both his hands to me.
i could not recall a single feature, but i knew him.
no need to take a file from his pocket and show it to me.
i knew my convict, in spite of the intervening years, as distinctly as i knew him in the churchyard when we first stood face to face.
he sat down on a chair that stood before the fire, and covered his forehead with his large brown hands.
"you acted nobly, my boy," said he.
i told him that i hoped he had mended his way of life, and was doing well.
"i've done wonderful well," he said.
and then he asked me if i was doing well.
and when i mentioned that i had been chosen to succeed to some property, he asked whose property?
and, after that, if my lawyer-guardian's name began with "j."
all the truth of my position came flashing on me, and quickly i understood that miss havisham's intentions towards me were all a mere dream.
"yes, pip, dear boy, i've made a gentleman on you.
it's me wot has done it!
i swore that time, sure as ever i earned a guinea, that guinea should go to you.
i swore afterwards, sure as ever i spec'lated and got rich, that you should get rich.
look 'ee here, pip.
i'm your second father.
you're my son more to me nor any son.
i've put away money, only for you to spend.
you ain't looked slowly forward to this as i have.
you wasn't prepared for this as i wos.
it warn't easy, pip, for me to leave them parts, nor it wasn't safe.
look 'ee here, dear boy; caution is necessary."
"how do you mean?"
i said.
"caution?"
"i was sent for life.
it's death to come back.
there's been overmuch coming back of late years, and i should of a certainty be hanged if took."
as herbert was away, i put the man in the spare room, and gave out that he was my uncle.
he told me something of his story next day, and when herbert came back and we had found a bed-room for our visitor in essex street, he told us all of it.
his name was magwitch abel magwitch he called himself provis now and he had been left by a travelling tinker to grow up alone.
"in jail and out of jail, in jail and out of jail that's my life pretty much, down to such times as i got shipped off, arter pip stood my friend."
but there was a man who "set up fur a gentleman, named compeyson," and this compeyson's business was swindling, forging, and stolen banknote passing.
magwitch became his servant, and when both men were arrested, compeyson turned round on the man whom he had employed, and got off with seven years to magwitch's fourteen.
compeyson was the second convict of my childhood.
on consideration of the case, and after consultation with mr. jaggers, who corroborated the statement that a colonist named abel magwitch, of new south wales, was my benefactor, and admitted that a mr. provis had written to him on behalf of magwitch, concerning my address, we decided that the best thing to be done was to take a lodging for mr. provis on the riverside below the pool, at mill pond bank.
it was out of the way, and in case of danger it would be easy to get away by a packet steamer.
the only danger was from compeyson for he had gone in terror of his life, and feared the vengeance of the man he had betrayed.
iv my fortune
we were soon warned that compeyson was aware of the return of his enemy, and that flight was necessary.
both herbert and i noticed how quickly provis had become softened, and on the night when we were to take him on board a hamburg steamer he was very gentle.
we were out in mid-stream in a small rowing boat, moving quietly with the tide, when, just as the hamburg steamer came in sight, a four-oared galley ran aboard of us, and the man who held the lines in it called out, "you have a returned transport there.
that's the man wrapped in the cloak.
his name is abel magwitch otherwise provis.
i call upon him to surrender, and you to assist."
at once there was great confusion.
the steamer was right upon us, and i heard the order given to stop the paddles.
in the same moment i saw the steersman of the galley lay his hand on the prisoner's shoulder, and the prisoner start up, lean across his captor, and pull the cloak from the neck of a shrinking man in the galley.
still in the same moment i saw that the face disclosed was the face of the other convict of long ago, and white terror was on it.
then i heard a cry, and a loud splash in the water, and for an instant i seemed to struggle with a thousand mill weirs; the instant past, i was taken on board the galley.
herbert was there, but our boat was gone, and the two convicts were gone.
presently we saw a man swimming, but not swimming easily, and knew him to be magwitch.
he was taken on board, and instantly menacled at the wrists and ankles.
it was not till we had pulled up, and had landed at the riverside, that i could get some comforts for magwitch, who had received injury in the chest, and a deep cut in the head.
he told me that he believed himself to have gone under the keel of the steamer, and to have been struck on the head in rising.
the injury to his chest he thought he had received against the side of the galley.
he added that compeyson, in the moment of his laying his hand on his cloak to identify him, had staggered up, and back, and they had both gone overboard together, locked in each other's arms.
he had disengaged himself under water, and swam away.
he was taken to the police-court next day, and committed for trial at the, next session, which would come on in a month.
"dear boy," he said.
"look 'ee, here.
it's best as a gentleman should not be knowed to belong to me now."
"i will never stir from your side," said i, "when i am suffered to be near you.
please god, i will be as true to you as you have been to me!"
when the sessions came round, the trial was very short and very clear, and the capital sentence was pronounced.
but the prisoner was very ill.
two of his ribs had been broken, and one of his lungs seriously injured, and ten days before the date fixed for his execution death set him free.
"dear boy," he said, as i sat down by his bed on that last day.
"i thought you was late.
but i knowed you couldn't be that.
you've never deserted me, dear boy."
i pressed his hand in silence.
"and what's the best of all," he said, "you've been more comfortable along of me since i was under a dark cloud than when the sun shone.
that's best of all."
he had spoken his last words, and, holding my hand in his, passed away.
and with his death ended my expectations, for the pocket-book containing his wealth went to the crown.
herbert took me into his business, and i became a clerk, and afterwards went abroad to take charge of the eastern branch, and when many a year had gone round, became a partner.
it was eleven years later when i was down in the marshes again.
i had been to see joe gargery, who was as friendly as ever, and had strolled on to where satis house once stood.
i had been told of miss havisham's death, and also of the death of estella's husband.
nothing was left of the old house but the garden wall, and as i stood looking along the desolate garden walk a solitary figure came up.
i saw it stop, and half turn away, and then let me come up to it.
it faltered as if much surprised, and uttered my name, and i cried out, "estella!"
i took her hand in mine, and we went out of the ruined place; and as the morning mists had risen long ago when i first left the forge, so the evening mists were rising now, and in all the broad expanse of tranquil light they showed to me i saw no shadow of another parting from her.
*       *       *       *        *
hard times
"hard times" is not one of the longest, but it is one of the      most powerful of dickens's works.
john ruskin went so far as      to call it "in several respects the greatest" book dickens had      written.
it is, of course, a fierce attack on the early      victorian school of political economists.
the bounderbys and      gradgrinds are typical of certain characters, and, though they      change their form of speech, are still recognisable to-day.
as      a study of social and industrial life in england in the      manufacturing districts fifty years ago, "hard times" will      always be valuable, though allowance must be made here as      elsewhere for the novelist's tendency to      exaggeration exaggeration of virtue no less than of vice or      weakness.
in josiah bounderby and stephen blackpool this      characteristic is pronounced.
the first, according to john      ruskin, being a dramatic monster, and the second a dramatic      perfection.
the story first appeared serially in "household      words" between april 1 and august 12, 1854.
i. mr. thomas gradgrind
"thomas gradgrind, sir.
a man of facts and calculations.
with a rule and a pair of scales, and the multiplication table always in his pocket, sir, ready to weigh and measure any parcel of human nature, and tell you exactly what it comes to."
in such terms mr. gradgrind always mentally introduced himself, whether to his private circle of acquaintance or to the public in general.
in such terms thomas gradgrind presented himself to the schoolmaster and children before him.
it was his school, and he intended it to be a model.
"now, what i want is facts.
teach these boys and girls nothing but facts.
facts alone are wanted in life.
you can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon facts.
this is the principle on which i bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which i bring up these children.
stick to facts, sir."
mr. gradgrind, having waited to hear a model lesson delivered by the school master, walked home in a considerable state of satisfaction.
there were five young gradgrinds, and they were models every one.
they had been lectured at from their tenderest years; coursed, like little hares, almost as soon as they could run, they had been made to run to the lecture-room.
to his matter-of-fact home, which was called stone lodge, mr. gradgrind directed his steps.
the house was situated on a moor, within a mile or two of a great town, called coketown.
on the outskirts of this town a travelling circus ("sleary's horse-riding") had pitched its tent, and, to his amazement, mr.
gradgrind observed his two eldest children trying to obtain a peep, at the back of the booth, of the hidden glories within.
mr. gradgrind laid his hand upon the shoulder of each erring child, and said, "louisa!
thomas!"
"i wanted to see what it was like," said louisa shortly.
"i brought him, i was tired, father.
i have been tired a long time."
"tired?
of what?"
asked the astonished father.
"i don't know of what of everything, i think."
they walked on in silence for some half a mile before mr. gradgrind gravely broke out with, "what would your best friends say, louisa?
what would mr. bounderby say?"
all the way to stone lodge he repeated at intervals, "what would mr.
bounderby say?"
at the first mention of the name his daughter, a child of fifteen or sixteen now, but at no distant day to become a woman, all at once, stole a look at him, remarkable for its intense and searching character.
he saw nothing of it, for before he looked at her, she had again cast down her eyes.
mr. bounderby was at stone lodge when they arrived.
he stood before the fire on the hearth rug, delivering some observations to mrs. gradgrind on the circumstance of its being his birthday.
it was a commanding position from which to subdue mrs. gradgrind.
he stopped in his harangue, which was entirely concerned with the story of his early disadvantages, at the entrance of his eminently practical friend and the two young culprits.
"well!"
blustered mr. bounderby, "what's the matter?
what is young thomas in the dumps about?"
he spoke of young thomas, but he looked at louisa.
"we were peeping at the circus," muttered louisa haughtily; "and father caught us."
"and, mrs. gradgrind," said her husband, in a lofty manner, "i should as soon have expected to find my children reading poetry."
"dear me!"
whimpered mrs. gradgrind.
"how can you, louisa and thomas?
i wonder at you.
i declare you're enough to make one regret ever having had a family at all.
i have a great mind to say i wish i hadn't.
then what would you have done, i should like to know?
as if, with my head in its present throbbing state, you couldn't go and look at the shells and minerals and things provided for you, instead of circuses.
i'm sure you have enough to do if that's what you want.
with my head in its present state i couldn't remember the mere names of half the facts you have got to attend to."
"that's the reason," pouted louisa.
"don't tell me that's the reason, because it can be nothing of the sort," said mrs. gradgrind.
"go and be something logical directly."
mrs. gradgrind, not being a scientific character, usually dismissed her children to their studies with the general injunction that they were to choose their own pursuit.
ii.
mr. bounderby of coketown
mr. josiah bounderby was as near being mr. gradgrind's bosom friend as a man perfectly devoid of sentiment can be to another man perfectly devoid of sentiment.
he was a rich man banker, merchant, manufacturer, and what not.
a big, loud man, with a stare and a metallic laugh.
a man who could never sufficiently vaunt himself a self-made man.
a man who was always proclaiming, through that brassy speaking-trumpet of a voice of his, his early ignorance and poverty.
a man who was the bully of humility.
he was fond of telling, was mr. bounderby, how he was born in a ditch, and, abandoned by his mother, how he ran away from his grandmother, who starved and ill-used him, and so became a vagabond.
"i pulled through it," he would say, "though nobody threw me out a rope.
vagabond, errand-boy, labourer, porter, clerk, chief manager, small partner josiah bounderby, of coketown."
this myth of his early life was dissipated later; and it turned out that his mother, a respectable old woman, whom bounderby pensioned off with thirty pounds a year on condition she never came near him, had pinched herself to help him out in life, and put him as apprentice to a trade.
from this apprenticeship he had steadily risen to riches.
mr. bounderby held strong views about the people who worked for him, the "hands" he called them; and found, whenever they complained of anything, that they always expected to be set up in a coach and six, and to be fed on turtle soup and venison, with a gold spoon.
as time went on, and young thomas gradgrind became old enough to go into bounderby's bank, bounderby decided that louisa was old enough to be married.
mr. gradgrind, now member of parliament for coketown, mentioned the matter to his daughter.
"louisa, my dear, you are the subject of a proposal of marriage that has been made to me."
he waited, as if he would have been glad that she said something.
strange to relate mr. gradgrind was not so collected at this moment as his daughter was.
"i have undertaken to let you know that in short, that mr. bounderby has long hoped that the time might arrive when he should offer you his hand in marriage.
that time has now come, and mr. bounderby has made his proposal to me, and has entreated me to make it known to you."
"father," said louisa, "do you think i love mr.
bounderby?"
mr. gradgrind was extremely discomforted by this unexpected question.
"well, my child," he returned, "i really cannot take upon myself to say."
"father," pursued louisa, in exactly the same voice as before, "do you ask me to love mr.
bounderby?"
"my dear louisa, no.
no, i ask nothing."
"father, does mr. bounderby ask me to love him?"
"really, my dear, it is difficult to answer your question.
because the reply depends so materially, louisa, on the sense in which we use the expression.
mr. bounderby does not pretend to anything sentimental.
now, i should advise you to consider this question simply as one of fact.
now, what are the facts of this case?
you are, we will say in round numbers, twenty years of age.
mr. bounderby is, we will say in round numbers, fifty.
there is some disparity in your respective years, but in your means and position there is none; on the contrary, there is a great suitability.
confining yourself rigidly to fact, the questions of fact are: 'does mr. bounderby ask me to marry him?'
'yes, he does.'
and, 'shall i marry him?'"
"shall i marry him?"
repeated louisa, with great deliberation.
there was silence between the two before louisa spoke again.
she thought of the shortness of life, of how her brother tom had said it would be a good thing for him if she made up her mind to do she knew what.
"while it lasts," she said aloud, "i would like to do the little i can, and the little i am fit for.
what does it matter?
mr. bounderby asks me to marry him.
let it be so.
since mr. bounderby likes to take me thus, i am satisfied to accept his proposal.
tell him, father, as soon as you please, that this was my answer.
repeat it, word for word, if you can, because i should wish him to know what i said."
"it is quite right, my dear," retorted her father approvingly, "to be exact i will observe your very proper request.
have you any wish in reference to the period of your marriage, my child?"
"none, father.
what does it matter?"
they went into the drawing-room, and mr. gradgrind presented louisa to his wife as mrs. bounderby.
"oh!"
said mrs. gradgrind.
"so you have settled it.
i am sure i give you joy, my dear, and i hope you may turn all your ological studies to good account.
and now, you see, i shall be worrying myself morning, noon, and night, to know what i am to call him!"
"mrs. gradgrind," said her husband solemnly, "what do you mean?"
"whatever am i to call him when he is married to louisa?
i must call him something.
it's impossible to be constantly addressing him, and never giving him a name.
i cannot call him josiah, for the name is insupportable to me.
you yourself wouldn't hear of joe, you very well know.
am i to call my own son-in-law 'mister?'
i believe not, unless the time has arrived when i am to be trampled upon by my relations.
then, what am i to call him?"
there being no answer to this conundrum, mrs. gradgrind retired to bed.
the day of the marriage came, and after the wedding-breakfast the bridegroom addressed the company an improving party, there was no nonsense about any of them in the following terms.
"ladies and gentlemen, i am josiah bounderby, of coketown.
since you have done my wife and myself the honour of drinking our healths and happiness, i suppose i must acknowledge the same.
if you want a speech, my friend and father-in-law, tom gradgrind, is a member of parliament, and you know where to get it.
now, you have mentioned that i am this day married to tom gradgrind's daughter.
i am very glad to be so.
it has long been my wish to be so.
i have watched her bringing up, and i believe she is worthy of me.
at the same time, i believe i am worthy of her.
so i thank you for the goodwill you have shown towards us."
shortly after which oration, as they were going on a nuptial trip to lyons, in order that mr. bounderby might see how the hands got on in those parts, and whether they, too, required to be fed with gold spoons, the happy pair departed for the railroad.
as the bride passed downstairs her brother tom whispered to her.
"what a game girl you are, to be such a first-rate sister, too!"
she clung to him as she would have clung to some far better nature that day, and was shaken in her composure for the first time.
iii.
mr. james harthouse
the gradgrind party wanting assistance in the house of commons, mr.
james harthouse, who was of good family and appearance, and had tried most things and found them a bore, was sent down to coketown to study the neighbourhood with a view to entering parliament.
mr. bounderby at once pounced upon him, and james harthouse was introduced to mrs. bounderby and her brother.
tom gradgrind, junior, brought up under a continuous system of restraint, was a hypocrite, a thief, and, to mr. james harthouse, a whelp.
yet the visitor saw at once that the whelp was the only creature mrs.
bounderby cared for, and it occurred to him, as time went on, that to win mrs. bounderby's affection (for he made no secret of his contempt for politics), he must devote himself to the whelp.
mr. bounderby was proud to have mr. james harthouse under his roof, proud to show off his greatness and self-importance to this gentleman from london.
"you're a gentleman, and i don't pretend to be one.
you're a man of family.
i am a bit of dirty riff-raff, and a genuine scrap of rag, tag, and bobtail," said mr. bounderby.
at the same time mr. bounderby blustered at his wife and bullied his hands, so that mr. harthouse might understand his independence.
one of these hands, stephen blackpool, an old, steady, faithful workman, who had been boycotted by his fellows for refusing to join a trade union, was summoned to mr. bounderby's presence in order that harthouse might see a specimen of the people that had to be dealt with.
blackpool said he had nought to say about the trade union business; he had given a promise not to join, that was all.
"not to me, you know!"
said bounderby.
"oh, no sir; not to you!"
"here's a gentleman from london present," mr. bounderby said, pointing at harthouse.
"a parliament gentleman.
now, what do you complain of?"
"i ha' not come here, sir, to complain.
i were sent for.
indeed, we are in a muddle, sir.
look round town so rich as 'tis.
look how we live, and where we live, an' in what numbers; and look how the mills is always a-goin', and how they never works us no nigher to any distant object, 'cepting always, death.
sir, i cannot, wi' my little learning, tell the gentleman what will better this; though some working men o' this town could.
but the strong hand will never do't; nor yet lettin' alone will never do't.
ratin' us as so much power and reg'latin' us as if we was figures in a sum, will never do't."
"now, it's clear to me," said mr. bounderby, "that you are one of those chaps who have always got a grievance.
and you are such a raspish, ill-conditioned chap that even your own union the men who know you best will have nothing to do with you.
and i tell you what, i go so far along with them for a novelty, that i'll have nothing to do with you either.
you can finish off what you're at, and then go elsewhere."
thus james harthouse learnt how mr. bounderby dealt with hands.
mr. harthouse, however, only felt bored, and took the earliest opportunity to explain to mrs. bounderby that he really had no opinions, and that he was going in for her father's opinions, because he might as well back them as anything else.
"the side that can prove anything in a line of units, tens, hundreds, and thousands, mrs. bounderby, seems to me to afford the most fun and to give a man the best chance.
i am quite ready to go in for it to the same extent as if i believed it.
and what more could i possibly do if i did believe it?
".
"you are a singular politician," said louisa.
"pardon me; i have not even that merit.
we are the largest party in the state, i assure you, if we all fell out of our adopted ranks and were reviewed together."
the more mr. harthouse's interest waned in politics the greater became his interest in mrs. bounderby.
and he cultivated the whelp, cultivated him earnestly, and by so doing learnt from the graceless youth that "loo never cared anything for old bounderby," and had married him to please her brother.
gradually, bit by bit, james harthouse established a confidence with the whelp's sister from which her husband was excluded.
he established a confidence with her that absolutely turned upon her indifference towards her husband, and the absence at all times of any congeniality between them.
he had artfully, but plainly, assured her that he knew her heart in its last most delicate recesses, and the barrier behind which she lived had melted away.
and yet he had not, even now, any earnest wickedness of purpose in him.
so drifting icebergs, setting with a current, wreck the ships.
iv.
mr. gradgrind and his daughter
mrs. gradgrind died while her husband was up in london, and louisa was with her mother when death came.
"you learnt a great deal, louisa, and so did your brother," said mrs.
gradgrind, when she was dying.
"ologies of all kinds from morning to night.
but there is something not an ology at all that your father has missed, or forgotten.
i don't know what it is; i shall never get its name now.
but your father may.
it makes me restless.
i want to write to him to find out, for god's sake, what it is."
it was shortly after mrs. gradgrind's death that mr. bounderby was called away from home on business for a few days; and mr. james harthouse, still not sure at times of his purpose, found himself alone with mrs. bounderby.
they were in the garden, and harthouse implored her to accept him as her lover.
she urged him to go away, she commanded him to go away; but she neither turned her face to him nor raised it, but sat as still as though she were a statue.
harthouse declared that she was the stake for which he ardently desired to play away all that he had in life; that the objects he had lately pursued turned worthless beside her; the success that was almost within his grasp he flung away from him, like the dirt it was, compared with her.
all this, and more, he said, and pleaded for a further meeting.
"not here," louisa said calmly.
they parted at the beginning of a heavy shower of rain, and the fall james harthouse had ridden for was averted.
mrs. bounderby left her husband's house, left it for good; not to share mr. harthouse's life, but to return to her father.
mr. gradgrind, released from parliament for a time, was alone in his study, when his eldest daughter entered.
"what is the matter, louisa?"
"father, i want to speak to you.
you have trained me from my cradle?"
"yes, louisa."
"i curse the hour in which i was born to such a destiny.
how could you give me life, and take from me all the things that raise it from the state of conscious death?
now, hear what i have come to say.
with a hunger and a thirst upon me, father, which have never been for a moment appeased, in a condition where it seemed nothing could be worth the pain and trouble of a contest, you proposed my husband to me."
"i never knew you were unhappy, my child!"
"i took him.
i never made a pretence to him or you that i loved him.
i knew, and, father you knew, and he knew, that i never did.
i was not wholly indifferent, for i had a hope of being pleasant and useful to tom.
but tom had been the subject of all the little tenderness of my life, perhaps he became so because i knew so well how to pity him.
it matters little now, except as it may dispose you to think more leniently of his errors."
"what can i do, child?
ask me what you will."
"i am coming to it.
father, chance has thrown into my way a new acquaintance; a man such as i had had no experience of light, polished, easy.
i only wondered it should be worth his while, who cared for nothing else, to care so much for me.
it matters little how he gained my confidence.
father, he did gain it.
what you know of the story of my marriage he soon knew just as well."
her father's face was ashy white.
"i have done no worse; i have not disgraced you.
this night, my husband being away, he has been with me.
this minute he expects me, for i could release myself of his presence by no other means.
i do not know that i am sorry or ashamed.
all that i know is, your philosophy and your teaching will not save me.
father, you have brought me to this.
save me by some other means?"
she fell insensible, and he saw the pride of his heart and the triumph of his system lying at his feet.
and it came to thomas gradgrind that night and on the morrow when he sat beside his daughter's bed, that there was a wisdom of the heart no less than a wisdom of the head; and that in supposing the latter to be all sufficient, he had erred.
but no such change of mind took place in mr. bounderby.
finding his wife absent, he went at once to stone lodge, and blustered in his usual way.
mr. gradgrind tried to make him understand that the best thing to do was to leave things as they were for a time, and that louisa, who had been so tried, should stay on a visit to her father, and be treated with tenderness and consideration.
it was all wasted on blunderby.
"now, i don't want to quarrel with you, tom gradgrind!"
he retorted.
"if your daughter, whom i made loo bounderby, and might have done better by leaving loo gradgrind, don't come home at noon to-morrow, i shall understand that she prefers to stay away, and you'll take charge of her in future.
what i shall say to people in general of the incompatibility that led to my so laying down the law will be this: i am josiah bounderby, she's the daughter of tom gradgrind; and the two horses wouldn't pull together.
i am pretty well known to be rather an uncommon man, and most people will understand that it must be a woman rather out of the common who would come up to my mark.
i have got no more to say.
good-night!"
at five minutes past twelve next day, mr. bounderby directed his wife's property to be carefully packed up and sent to tom gradgrind's, and then resumed a bachelor's life.
mr. james harthouse, learning from louisa's maid a young woman greatly attached to her mistress that his attentions were altogether undesirable, and that he would never see mrs. bounderby again, decided to throw up politics and leave coketown at once.
which he did.
into how much of futurity did mr. bounderby see as he sat alone?
had he any prescience of the day, five years to come, when josiah bounderby, of coketown, was to die in a fit in the coketown street?
could he foresee mr. gradgrind, a white-haired man, making his facts and figures subservient to faith, hope, and charity, and no longer trying to grind that heavenly trio in his dusty little mills?
these things were to be.
could louisa, sitting alone in her father's house and gazing into the fire, foresee the childless years before her?
could she picture a lonely brother, flying from england after robbery, and dying in a strange land, conscious of his want of love and penitent?
these things were to be.
herself again a wife a mother lovingly watchful of her children, ever careful that they should have a childhood of the mind no less than a childhood of the body, as knowing it to be an even more beautiful thing, and a possession any hoarded scrap of which is a blessing and happiness to the wisest?
such a thing was never to be.
little dorrit
"little dorrit" was written at a time when the author was      busying himself not only with other literary work, but also      with semi-private theatricals.
john forster, charles dickens's      biographer and friend, even had some sort of fear at that time      that dickens was in danger of adopting the stage as a      profession.
domestic troubles, culminating a year later in the      separation from his wife, also explain the restlessness and      general dissatisfaction which affected the great novelist in      the years 1855-57, when this story appeared.
hence there is no      surprise that "little dorrit" added but little to its author's      reputation.
it is a very long book, but it will never take a      front-rank place.
the story, however, on its appearance in      monthly parts, the first of which was published in january      1856, and the completed work in 1857, was enormously      successful, beating, in dickens's own words, "'bleak house'
out of the field."
popular with the public, it has never won      the critics.
i. the father of the marshalsea
thirty years ago there stood, a few doors short of the church of saint george, in the borough of southwark, on the left-hand side of the way going southward, the marshalsea prison.
it had stood there many years before, and it remained there some years afterwards; but it is gone now, and the world is none the worse without it.
a debtor had been taken to the marshalsea prison, a very amiable and very helpless middle-aged gentleman who was perfectly clear "like all the rest of them," the turnkey on the lock said that he was going out again directly.
the affairs of this debtor, a shy, retiring man, with a mild voice and irresolute hands, were perplexed by a partnership, of which he knew no more than that he had invested money in it.
"out?"
said the turnkey.
"he'll never get out unless his creditors take him by the shoulders and shove him out!"
the next day the debtor's wife came to the marshalsea, bringing with her a little boy of three, and a little girl of two.
"two children," the turnkey observed to himself.
"and you another, which makes three; and your wife another, which makes four."
six months later a little girl was born to the debtor, and when this child was eight years old, her mother, who had long been languishing, died.
the debtor had long grown accustomed to the place.
crushed at first by his imprisonment, he had soon found a dull relief in it.
his elder children played regularly about the yard.
if he had been a man with strength of purpose, he might have broken the net that held him, or broken his heart; but being what he was, he slipped easily into this smooth descent, and never more took one step upward.
the shabby old debtor with the soft manners and the white hair became the father of the marshalsea.
and he grew to be proud of the title.
all newcomers were presented to him.
he was punctilious in the exaction of this ceremony.
they were welcome to the marshalsea, he would tell them.
it became a not unusual circumstance for letters to be put under his door at night enclosing half-a-crown, two half-crowns, now and then, at long intervals, even half a sovereign, for the father of the marshalsea, "with the compliments of a collegian taking leave."
he received the gifts as tributes to a public character.
later he established the custom of attending collegians of a certain standing to the gate, and taking leave of them there.
the collegian under treatment would often wrap up something in a paper and give it to him, "for the father of the marshalsea."
ii.
the child of the marshalsea
the youngest child of the father of the marshalsea, born within the jail, was a very, very little creature indeed when she gained the knowledge that while her own light steps were free to pass beyond the prison gate, her father's feet must never cross that line.
at thirteen she could read and keep accounts that is, could put down in words and figures how much the bare necessaries they needed would cost, and how much less they had to buy them with.
from the first she was inspired to be something which was not what the rest were, and to be that something for the sake of the rest.
recognised as useful, even indispensable, she took the place of eldest of the three in all but precedence; was the head of the fallen family, and bore, in her own heart, its anxieties and shames.
she had been, by snatches of a few weeks at a time, to an evening school outside, and got her sister and brother sent to day schools by desultory starts, during three or four years.
there was no instruction for any of them at home; but she knew well no one better that a man so broken as to be the father of the marshalsea could be no father to his own children.
to these scanty means of improvement she added others.
her sister fanny, having a great desire to learn dancing, the child of the marshalsea persuaded a dancing-master, detained for a short time, to teach her.
and fanny became a dancer.
there was a ruined uncle in the family group, ruined by his brother, the father of the marshalsea, and knowing no more how than his ruiner did, on whom fanny's protection devolved.
naturally a retired and simple man, he had shown no particular sense of being ruined, further than that he left off washing when the shock was announced, and never took to that luxury any more.
having been a very indifferent musical amateur in his better days, when he fell with his brother he resorted for support to playing a clarionet in a small theatre orchestra.
it was the theatre in which his niece became a dancer, and he accepted the task of serving as her escort and guardian.
to get her brother christened edward, but called tip out of the prison was a more difficult task.
every post she obtained for him he always gave up, returning with the announcement that he was tired of it, and had cut it.
one day he came back, and said he was in for good, that he had been taken for forty pounds odd.
for the first time in all those years, she sank under her cares.
it was so hard to make tip understand that the father of the marshalsea must not know the truth about his son.
for, the father of the marshalsea, as he grew more dependent on the contributions of his changing family, made the greater stand by his forlorn gentility.
so the pretence had to be kept up that neither of his daughters earned their bread.
the child of the marshalsea learned needlework of an insolvent milliner, and went out daily to work for a mrs. clennam.
this was the life and this the history of the child of the marshalsea at twenty-two.
worldly wise in hard and poor necessities, she was innocent in all things else.
this was the life, and this the history of little dorrit, now going home upon a dull september evening, and observed at a distance by arthur clennam.
arthur clennam had returned to his mother's house a dark and gloomy place from the far east.
he had noticed that little dorrit appeared at eight, and left at eight.
she let herself out to do needlework, he was told.
what became of her between the two eights was a mystery.
it was not easy for arthur clennam to make out little dorrit's face; she plied her needle in such retired corners.
but it seemed to be a pale, transparent face, quick in expression, though not beautiful in feature.
a delicately bent head, a tiny form, a quick little pair of busy hands, and a shabby dress shabby but very neat were little dorrit as she sat at work.
arthur clennam watched little dorrit disappear within the outer gate of the marshalsea, and presently stopped an old man to ask what place it was.
"this is the marshalsea, sir."
"can anyone go in here?"
"anyone can go in," replied the old man, plainly implying, "but it is not everyone who can go out."
"pardon me once more.
i am not impertinently curious.
but are you familiar with the place?
do you know the name of dorrit here?"
"my name, sir," replied the old man, "is dorrit."
clennam explained that he had seen a young woman working at his mother's, spoken of as little dorrit, and had noticed her come in here, and that he was sincerely interested in her, and wanted to know something about her.
"i know very little of the world, sir," replied the old man, "it would not be worth while to mislead me.
the young woman whom you saw go in is my brother's child.
you say you have seen her at your mother's, and have felt an interest in her, and wish to know what she does here.
come and see."
arthur clennam followed his guide to the room of the father of the marshalsea.
"i found this gentleman," said the uncle "mr. clennam, william, son of amy's friend at the outer gate, wishful, as he was going by, of paying his respects.
this is my brother william, sir."
"mr. clennam," said william dorrit, "you are welcome, sir; pray sit down.
i have welcomed many visitors here."
the father of the marshalsea went on to mention that he had been gratified by the testimonials of his visitors the "very acceptable testimonials."
when clennam left he presented his testimonial, and the next morning found him there again.
he went out with little dorrit alone; asked her if she had ever heard his mother's name before.
"no, sir."
"i am not asking from any reason that can cause you anxiety.
you think that at no time of your father's life was my name of clennam ever familiar to him?"
"no, sir.
and, oh, i hope you will not misunderstand my father!
don't judge him, sir, as you would judge others outside the gates.
he has been there so long."
they had walked some way before they returned.
she was not working at mrs. clennam's that day.
the courtyard received them at last, and there he said good-bye to little dorrit.
little as she had always looked, she looked less than ever when he saw her going into the marshalsea lodge passage.
aware that his mother might have once averted the ruin of the dorrit family, clennam returned more than once to the marshalsea.
no word of love crossed his lips; he told little dorrit to think of him as an old man, old enough to be her father, and he besought her only to let him know if at any time he could do her service.
"i press for no confidence now.
i only ask you to repose unhesitating trust in me," he said.
"can i do less than that when you are so good?"
"then you will trust me fully?
will have no secret unhappiness or anxiety concealed from me?"
"almost none."
but if arthur clennam kept silent, little dorrit was not without a lover.
years ago young john chivery, the sentimental son of the turnkey, had eyed her with admiring wonder.
there seemed to young john a fitness in the attachment.
she, the child of the marshalsea; he, the lock-keeper.
every sunday young john presented cigars to the father of the marshalsea who was glad to get them and one particular sunday afternoon he mustered up courage to urge his suit.
little dorrit was out, walking on the iron bridge, when young john found her.
"miss amy," he stammered, "i have had for a long time ages they seem to me a heart-cherished wish to say something to you.
may i say it?
may i, miss amy?
i but ask the question humbly may i say it?
i know very well your family is far above mine.
it were vain to conceal it.
i know very well that your high-souled brother, and likewise your spirited sister, spurn me from a height."
"if you please, john chivery," little dorrit answered, in a quiet way, "since you are so considerate as to ask me whether you shall say any more if you please, no."
"never, miss amy?"
"no, if you please.
never."
"oh, lord!"
gasped young john.
"when you think of us, john i mean, my brother and sister and me don't think of us as being any different from the rest; for whatever we once were we ceased to be long ago, and never can be any more.
and, good-bye, john.
and i hope you will have a good wife one day, and be a happy man.
i am sure you will deserve to be happy, and you will be, john."
"good-bye, miss amy.
good-bye!"
iii.
the marshalsea becomes an orphan
it turned out that mr. dorrit, being of the dorrits of dorsetshire, was heir-at-law to a great fortune.
inquiries and investigations confirmed it.
arthur clennam broke the news to little dorrit, and together they went to the, marshalsea.
william dorrit was sitting in his old grey gown and his old black cap in the sunlight by the window when they entered.
"father, mr. clennam has brought me such joyful and wonderful intelligence about you!"
her agitation was great, and the old man put his hand suddenly to his heart, and looked at clennam.
"tell me, mr. dorrit, what surprise would be the most unlocked for and the most acceptable to you.
do not be afraid to imagine it, or to say what it would be."
he looked steadfastly at clennam, and, so looking at him, seemed to change into a very old, haggard man.
the sun was bright upon the wall beyond the window, and on the spikes at the top.
he slowly stretched out the hand that had been upon his heart, and pointed at the wall.
"it is down," said clennam.
"gone!
and in its place are the means to possess and enjoy the utmost that they have so long shut out.
mr.
dorrit, there is not the smallest doubt that within a few days you will be free and highly prosperous."
they had to fetch wine for the old man, and when he had swallowed a little he leaned back in his chair and cried.
but he quickly recovered, and announced that everybody concerned should be nobly rewarded.
"no one, my dear sir, shall say that he has an unsatisfied claim against me.
everybody shall be remembered.
i will not go away from here in anybody's debt.
i particularly wish to act munificently, mr.
clennam."
clennam's offer of money for present contingencies was at once accepted.
"i am obliged to you for the temporary accommodation, sir.
exceedingly temporary, but well timed well timed.
be so kind, sir, as to add the amount to former advances."
he grew more composed presently, and then when he seemed to be falling asleep unexpectedly sat up and said, "mr. clennam, am i to understand, my dear sir, that i could pass through the lodge at this moment, and take a walk?"
"i think not, mr. dorrit," was the unwilling reply.
"there are certain forms to be completed.
it is but a few hours now."
"a few hours, sir!"
he returned in a sudden passion.
"you talk very easily of hours, sir!
how long do you suppose, sir, that an hour is to a man who is choking; for want of air?"
it was his last demonstration for that time, but in the interval before the day of his departure he was very imperious with the lawyers concerned in his release, and a good deal of business was transacted.
mr. arthur clennam received a cheque for £24 93.
8d.
from the solicitors of edward dorrit, esq.
once "tip" with a note that the favour of the advance now repaid had not been asked of him.
to the applications made by collegians within the so-soon-to-be-orphaned marshalsea for small sums of money, mr. dorrit responded with the greatest liberality.
he also invited the whole college to a comprehensive entertainment in the yard, and went about among the company on that occasion, and took notice of individuals, like a baron of the olden time, in a rare good humour.
and now the final hour arrived when he and his family were to leave the prison for ever.
the carriage was reported ready in the outer courtyard.
mr. dorrit and his brother proceeded arm in arm, edward dorrit, esq., and his sister fanny followed, also arm in arm.
there was not a collegian within doors, nor a turnkey absent, as they crossed the yard.
mr. dorrit whose meat and drink had many a time been bought with money presented by some of those who stood to watch him go yielding to the vast speculation how the poor creatures were to get on without him, was great, and sad, but not absorbed.
he patted children on the head like sir roger de coverley going to church, spoke to people in the background by their christian names, and condescended to all present.
at last three honest cheers announced that he had passed the gate, and that the marshalsea was an orphan.
only when the family had got into their carriage, and not before, miss fanny exclaimed, "good gracious i where's amy?"
her father had thought she was with her sister.
her sister had thought she was somewhere or other.
they had all trusted to find her, as they had always done, quietly in the right place at the right moment.
this going away was, perhaps, the very first action of their joint lives that they had got through without her.
"now i do say, pa," cried miss fanny, flushed and indignant, "that this is disgraceful!
here is that child, amy, in her ugly old shabby dress.
disgracing us at the last moment by being carried out in that dress after all.
and by that mr. clennam too!"
clennam appeared at the carriage-door, bearing the little insensible figure in his arms.
"she has been forgotten," he said.
"i ran up to her room, and found the door open, and that she had fainted on the floor."
they received her in the carriage, and the attendant, getting between clennam and the carriage-door, with a sharp "by your leave, sir!"
bundled up the steps, and drove away.
iv.
another prisoner in the marshalsea
the dorrit family travelled abroad in handsome style, and in due time miss fanny married.
a sudden seizure carried off old mr. dorrit, and he died thinking himself back in the marshalsea.
his brother frederick, stricken with grief, did not long survive him.
arthur clennam, who had gone into partnership with a friend named doyce, unfortunately invested his money in the financial schemes of mr. merdle, the greatest swindler of the day, and when the crash came and merdle committed suicide, clennam with hundreds of other innocent persons was involved in the general ruin.
doyce was working at the time in germany, and it was some weeks before he could be found; in the meantime, clennam, being insolvent, was taken to the marshalsea.
mr. chivery was on the lock and young john was in the lodge when the marshalsea was reached.
the elder mr. chivery shook hands with him in a shamefaced kind of way, and said, "i don't call to mind, sir, as i was ever less glad to see you."
the prisoner followed young john up the old staircase into the old room.
"i thought you'd like the room, and here it is for you," said young john.
young john waited upon him; and it was young john who explained that he did this not on the ground of the prisoner's merits, but because of the merits of another, of one who loved the prisoner.
clennam tried to argue to himself the improbability of little dorrit loving him, but he wasn't altogether successful.
he fell ill, and it was little dorrit whose living presence first cheered him when he returned from the world of feverish dreams and shadows.
he did his best to dissuade her from coming.
he was a ruined man, and the time when little dorrit and the prison had anything in common had long gone by.
but still she came and often read to him.
and one day she told him that all her money had gone as his had gone, lost in the merdle whirlpool, and that her sister fanny's was lost, too, in the same way.
"i have nothing in the world.
i am as poor as when i lived here.
when papa came over to england, just before his death, he confided everything he had to the same hands, and it is all swept away.
oh, my dearest and best, are you quite sure you will not share my fortune with me?"
locked in his arms, held to his heart, she drew the slight hand round his neck, and clasped it in its fellow-hand.
of course, when doyce, who was a thoroughly good fellow, and successful to boot, found out his partner's plight, he came back and put things right, and the business was soon set going again.
and on the very day of his release, arthur clennam and little dorrit went into the neighbouring church of st. george, and were married, doyce giving the bride away.
little dorrit and her husband walked out of the church alone when the signing of the register was done.
they paused for a moment on the steps of the portico, and then went down into the roaring streets, inseparable and blessed.
martin chuzzlewit
on its monthly publication, in 1843-44, "martin chuzzlewit"
was, pecuniarily, the least successful of dickens's serials,      though popular as a book.
it was his first novel after his      american tour, and the storm of resentment that had hailed the      appearance of "american notes," in 1842, was intensified by      his merciless satire of american characteristics and      institutions in "martin chuzzlewit."
despite all adverse      criticism, however, "chuzzlewit" is worthy to rank with      anything that ever came from the pen of the great victorian      novelist.
it is a very long story, and a very full one; the      canvas is crowded with a gallery of typical dickensian people.
through mrs. gamp, dickens dealt a death-blow to the drunken      nurse of the period.
the name pecksniff has become synonymous      with a certain type of hypocrite, and the adjective      pecksniffian is in common use wherever the english language is      spoken.
charged with exaggeration regarding mr. pecksniff,      dickens wrote in the preface to "martin chuzzlewit," "all the      pecksniff family upon earth are quite agreed, i believe, that      no such character ever existed.
i will not offer any plea on      his behalf to so powerful and genteel a body."
mrs. gamp,      though one of the humorous types that have, perhaps,      contributed most largely to the fame of dickens, does not      appear in this epitome, the character being a minor one in the      development of the story.
i. mr. pecksniff's new pupil
mr. pecksniff lived in a little wiltshire village within an easy journey of salisbury.
the brazen plate upon his door bore the inscription, "pecksniff, architect," to which mr. pecksniff, on his cards of business, added, "and land surveyor."
of his architectural doings nothing was clearly known, except that he had never designed or built anything.
mr. pecksniff's professional engagements, indeed, were almost, if not entirely, confined to the reception of pupils.
his genius lay in ensnaring parents and guardians and pocketing premiums.
mr. pecksniff was a moral man.
perhaps there never was a more moral man than mr. pecksniff, especially in his conversation and correspondence.
some people likened him to a direction-post, which is always telling the way to a place, and never goes there; but these were his enemies.
into mr. pecksniff's house came young martin chuzzlewit, a relation of the architect's.
tom pinch, mr. pecksniff's assistant, had driven over to salisbury for the new pupil, and had already discoursed to martin on mr. pecksniff and his family (for mr. pecksniff had two daughters mercy, and charity), in whose good qualities he had a profound and pathetic belief.
festive preparations on a rather extensive scale were already completed for martin's benefit on the night of his arrival.
there were two bottles of currant wine, white and red; a dish of sandwiches, very long, and very slim; another of apples; another of captain's biscuits; a plate of oranges cut up small and gritty with powdered sugar; and a highly geological home-made cake.
the magnitude of these preparations quite took away tom pinch's breath, for though the new pupils were usually let down softly, particularly in the wine department, still this was a banquet, a sort of lord mayor's feast in private life, a something to think of, and hold on by afterwards.
to this entertainment mr. pecksniff besought the company to do full justice.
"martin," he said, addressing his daughters, "will seat himself between you two, my dears, and mr. pinch will come by me.
this is a mingling that repays one for much disappointment and vexation.
let us be merry."
here he took a captain's biscuit.
"it is a poor heart that never rejoices; and our hearts are not poor.
no!"
the following morning mr. pecksniff announced that he must go to london.
"on professional business, my dear martin; strictly on professional business; and i promised my girls long ago that they should accompany me.
we shall go forth to-night by the heavy coach like the dove of old, my dear martin and it will be a week before we again deposit, our olive-branches in the passage.
when i say olive branches," observed mr.
pecksniff, in explanation, "i mean our unpretending luggage."
"and now let me see," said mr. pecksniff presently, "how can you best employ yourself, martin, while i am absent.
suppose you were to give me your idea of a monument to a lord mayor of london, or a tomb for a sheriff, or your notion of a cow-house to be erected in a nobleman's park.
a pump is a very chaste practice.
i have found that a lamp-post is calculated to refine the mind and give it a classical tendency.
an ornamental turnpike has a remarkable effect upon the imagination.
what do you say to beginning with an ornamental turnpike?"
"whatever mr. pecksniff pleased," said martin doubtfully.
"stay," said that gentleman.
"come!
as you're ambitious, and are a very neat draughtsman, you shall try your hand on these proposals for a grammar-school.
when your mind requires to be refreshed by change of occupation, thomas pinch will instruct you in the art of surveying the back-garden, or in ascertaining the dead level of the road between this house and the finger-post, or in any other practical and pleasing pursuit.
there is a cart-load of loose bricks, and a score or two of old flower-pots in the back-yard.
if you could pile them up, my dear martin, into any form which would remind me on my return, say, of st. peter's at rome, or the mosque of st. sophia at constantinople, it would be at once improving to you and agreeable to my feelings."
the coach having rolled away, with the olive-branches in the boot and the family of doves inside, martin chuzzlewit and tom pinch were left together.
now, there was something in the very simplicity of pinch that invited confidences, and young martin could not refrain from telling his story.
"i must talk openly to somebody," he began, "i'll talk openly to you.
you must know, then, that i have been bred up from childhood with great expectations, and have always been taught to believe that one day i should be very rich.
certain things, however, have led to my being disinherited."
"by your father?"
inquired tom.
"by my grandfather.
i have had no parents these many years.
now, my grandfather has a great many good points, but he has two very great faults, which are the staple of his bad side.
he has the most confirmed obstinacy of character, and he is most abominably selfish; i have heard that these are failings of our family, and i have to be very thankful that they haven't descended to me.
now i come to the cream of my story, and the occasion of my being here.
i am in love, pinch.
i am in love with one of the most beautiful girls the sun ever shone upon.
but she is wholly and entirely dependent upon the pleasure of my grandfather; and if he were to know that she favoured my passion, she would lose her home and everything she possesses in the world.
my grandfather, although i had conducted myself from the first with the utmost circumspection, is full of jealousy and mistrust, and suspected me of loving her.
he said nothing to her, but attacked me in private, and charged me with designing to corrupt the fidelity to himself observe his selfishness
of a young creature who was his only disinterested and faithful companion.
the upshot of it was that i was to renounce her or be renounced by him.
of course, i was not going to yield to him, and here i am!"
mr. pinch, after staring at the fire, said, "pecksniff, of course, you knew before?"
"only by name.
my grandfather kept not only himself, but me, aloof from all his relations.
but our separation took place in a town in the neighbouring county.
i saw pecksniff's advertisement in the paper when i was at salisbury, and answered it, having always had some natural taste in the matters to which it referred.
i was doubly bent on coming to him if possible, on account of his being "
"such an excellent man," interposed tom, rubbing his hands.
"why, not so much on that account," returned martin, "as because my grandfather has an inveterate dislike to him, and after the old man's arbitrary treatment of me, i had a natural desire to run as directly counter to all his opinions as i could."
ii.
mr. pecksniff discharges his duty
mr. pecksniff and his daughters took up their lodging in london at mrs.
todgers's commercial boarding house, and it was at that favoured abode that old martin chuzzlewit, whose grandson had just entered mr.
pecksniff's house, sought him out.
"i very much regret," said old martin, "that you and i held such a conversation as we did when we met awhile since.
the intentions that i bear towards you now are of another kind.
deserted by all in whom i have ever trusted; hoodwinked and beset by all who should help and sustain me, i fly to you for refuge.
i confide in you to be my ally; to attach yourself to me by ties of interest and expectations.
i regret having been severed from you so long."
mr. pecksniff looked up to the ceiling, and clasped his hands in rapture.
"i fear you don't know what an old man's humours are," resumed old martin.
"you don't know what it is to be required to court his likings and dislikings; to do his bidding, be it what it may.
you have a new inmate in your house.
he must quit it."
"for for yours?"
asked mr. pecksniff.
"for any shelter he can find.
he has deceived you."
"i hope not," said mr. pecksniff eagerly, "i trust not.
i have been extremely well disposed towards that young man.
deceit deceit, my dear mr. chuzzlewit, would be final.
i should hold myself bound, on proof of deceit, to renounce him instantly."
"of course, you know that he has made his matrimonial choice?"
"surely not without his grandfather's consent and approbation, my dear sir?"
cried mr. pecksniff.
"don't tell me that.
for the honour of human nature say you're not about to tell me that!"
"i thought he had suppressed it."
the indignation felt by mr. pecksniff at this terrible disclosure was only to be equalled by the kindling anger of his daughters.
what, had they taken to their hearth and home a secretely contracted serpent?
horrible!
old martin then went on to inquire when they would be returning home; and, after relieving mr. pecksniff's unexpressed anxiety by mentioning that mary graham, the young lady whom the old man had adopted, would receive nothing at his death, announced that they might expect to see him before long.
with a hasty farewell, the old man left the house, followed to the door by mr. pecksniff and his daughters.
a few days later the pecksniffs set out for home.
tom pinch and martin were both out in the lane to meet the coach, but mr. pecksniff pointedly ignored martin's presence, even when the house had been reached; and it was not till martin sharply demanded an explanation that he addressed him.
"you have deceived me," said mr. pecksniff.
"you have imposed upon a nature which you knew to be confiding and unsuspicious.
this lowly roof, sir, must not be contaminated by the presence of one who has, further, deceived and cruelly deceived an honourable and venerable gentleman, and who wisely suppressed that deceit from me when he sought my protection.
i weep for your depravity.
i mourn over your corruption, but i cannot have a leper and a serpent for an inmate!
go forth," said mr.
pecksniff, stretching out his hand, "go forth, young man!
like all who know you, i renounce you!"
martin made a stride forward at these words, and mr. pecksniff stepped back so hastily that he missed his footing, tumbled over a chair, and fell in a sitting posture on the ground, where he remained, perhaps considering it the safest place.
"look at him, pinch," said martin, "as he lies there a cloth for dirty hands, a mat for dirty feet, a lying, fawning, servile hound!
and, mark me, pinch, the day will come when even you will find him out!"
he pointed at him as he spoke with unutterable contempt, and flinging his hat upon his head, walked from the house.
he went on so rapidly that he was clear of the village before tom pinch overtook him.
"are you going?"
cried tom.
"yes," he answered sternly, "i am."
"where?"
asked tom.
"i don't know.
yes, i do to america."
iii.
new eden
martin did not go to america alone, for mark tapley, formerly of the blue dragon, an inn in the village where mr. pecksniff resided, insisted on accompanying him.
"now, sir, here am i, without a sitiwation," mr. tapley put it, "without any want of wages for a year to come for i saved up (i didn't mean to do it, but i couldn't help it) at the dragon; here am i with a liking for what's wentersome, and a liking for you, and a wish to come out strong under circumstances as would keep other men down and will you take me, or will you leave me?"
once landed in the united states, the question of what to do arose, and martin decided to invest his savings in buying land in the rising township of new eden.
"mark, you shall be a partner in the business," said martin (mark having invested £37 to martin's £8); "an equal partner with myself.
we are no longer master and servant.
i will put in, as my additional capital, my professional knowledge, and half the annual profits, as long as it is carried on, shall be yours.
our business shall be commenced, as soon as we get to new eden, under the name of chuzzlewit and tapley."
"lord love you, sir," cried mark, "don't have my name in it!
i must be 'co.,' i must."
"you shall have your own way, mark."
"thank 'ee sir!
if any country gentleman thereabouts in the public way wanted such a thing as a skittle-ground made, i could take that part of the bis'ness, sir."
it was a long steamboat journey, but at last they stopped at eden.
the waters of the deluge might have left it but a week ago, so choked with slime and matted growth was the hideous swamp which bore that name.
a man advanced towards them when they landed, walking slowly, leaning on a stick.
"strangers!"
he exclaimed.
"the very same," said mark.
"how are you, sir?"
"i've had the fever very bad," he answered faintly.
"i haven't stood upright these many weeks.
my eldest son has a chill upon him.
my youngest died last week."
"i'm sorry for it, governor, with all my heart!"
said mark.
"the goods is safe enough," he added, turning to martin, and pointing to their boxes.
"there ain't many people about to make away with 'em.
what a comfort that is!"
"no," cried the man; "we've buried most of 'em.
the rest have gone away.
them that we have here don't come out at night."
"the night air ain't quite wholesome, i suppose?"
said mark.
"it's deadly poison," was the answer.
mark showed no more uneasiness than if it had been commended to him as ambrosia; but he gave the man his arm, and as they went along explained the nature of their purchase, and inquired where it lay.
close to his own log-house, he said.
it was a miserable cabin, rudely constructed of the trunks of trees, the door of which had either fallen down or been carried away.
when they had brought up their chest, martin gave way, and lay down on the ground, and wept aloud.
"lord love you, sir," cried mr. tapley.
"don't do that.
anything but that!
it never helped man, woman, or child over the lowest fence yet, sir, and it never will."
mark stole out gently in the morning while his companion slept, and took a rough survey of the settlement.
there were not above a score of cabins in the whole, and half of these appeared untenanted.
their own land was mere forest.
he went down to the landing-place, where they had left their goods, and there he found some half a dozen men, wan and forlorn, who helped him to carry them to the log-house.
martin was by this time stirring, but he had greatly changed, even in one night.
he was very pale and languid, and spoke of pains and weakness.
"don't give in, sir," said mr. tapley.
"why, you must be ill. wait half a minute, till i run up to one of our neighbours and find out what's best to be took."
martin was soon dangerously ill, very near his death.
mark, fatigued in mind and body, working all the day and sitting up at night, worn by hard living, surrounded by dismal and discouraging circumstances, never complained or yielded in the least degree.
and then, when martin was better, mark was taken ill. he fought against it; but the malady fought harder, and his efforts were vain.
"floored for the present, sir," he said one morning, sinking back upon his bed, "but jolly."
and now it was martin's turn to work and sit beside the bed and watch, and listen through the long, long nights to every sound in the gloomy wilderness.
martin's reflections in those days slowly showed him his own selfishness, and when mark tapley recovered, he found a singular alteration in his companion.
"i don't know what to make of him," he thought one night.
"he don't think of himself half as much as he did.
it's a swindle.
there'll be no credit in being jolly with him!"
the settlement was deserted.
the only thing to be done was to return to england.
iv.
the downfall of pecksniff
old martin chuzzlewit had for some time taken up his residence at mr.
pecksniff's, and martin and mark tapley went to the blue dragon on their return.
martin at once sought out his grandfather, and marched into the house resolved on reconciliation.
the old man listened to his appeal in silence; but mr. pecksniff spoke for him, and bade the young man begone.
but old martin was awake to pecksniff's character, and resolved to set mr. pecksniff right, and mr. pecksniff's victims, too.
mark tapley was the first person old martin invited to see him.
the old man had gone to london, and his grandson, mary graham, and tom pinch were all summoned to wait on him at a certain hour.
from mark, old martin learnt that his grandson was an altered man.
"there was always a deal of good in him," said mr. tapley, "but a little of it got crusted over somehow.
i can't say who rolled the paste of that 'ere paste, but well, i think it may have been you, sir."
"so you think," said martin, "that his old faults are in some degree of my creation?"
"well, sir, i'm very sorry, but i can't unsay it.
i don't believe that neither of you ever gave the other a fair chance."
presently came a knock at the door, and young martin entered.
the old man pointed to a distant chair.
then came tom pinch and his sister, ruth; and mary graham; and mrs. lupin, the landlady of the blue dragon; and john westlock, an old friend of tom pinch's.
"set the door open, mark!"
said mr. chuzzlewit.
the last appointed footstep sounded now upon the stairs.
they all knew it.
it was mr. pecksniff's; and mr. pecksniff was in a hurry, too, for he came bounding up with such uncommon expedition that he stumbled once or twice.
"where is my venerable friend?"
he cried upon the upper landing.
and then, darting in and catching sight of old martin, "my venerable friend is well?"
mr. pecksniff looked round upon the assembled group, and shook his head reproachfully.
"oh, vermin!"
said mr. pecksniff.
"oh bloodsuckers!
horde of unnatural plunderers and robbers!
leave him!
leave him, i say!
begone!
abscond!
you had better be off!
wander over the face of the earth, young sirs, and do not presume to remain in a spot which is hallowed by the grey hairs of the patriarchal gentleman to whose tottering limbs i have the honour to act as an unworthy, but i hope an unassuming, prop and staff."
he advanced, with outstretched arms, to take the old man's hand; but he had not seen how the hand clasped and clutched the stick within its grasp.
as he came smiling on, and got within his reach, old martin, burning with indignation, rose up and struck him to the ground.
"drag him away!
take him out of my reach!"
said martin.
and mr. tapley actually did drag him away, and struck him upon the floor with his back against the opposite wall.
"hear me, rascal!"
said mr. chuzzlewit.
"i have summoned you here to witness your own work.
come hither, my dear martin!
why did we ever part?
how could we ever part?
how could you fly from me to him?
the fault was mine no less than yours.
mark has told me so, and i have known it long.
mary, my love, come here."
she trembled, and was very pale; but he sat her in his own chair, and stood beside it holding her hand, martin standing by him.
"the curse of our house," said the old man, looking kindly down upon her, "has been the love of self has ever been the love of self."
he drew one hand through martin's arm, and standing so, between them, proceeded, "what's this?
her hand is trembling strangely.
see if you can hold it."
hold it!
if he clasped it half as tightly as he did her waist well, well!
but it was good in him that even then, in high fortune and happiness, he had still a hand left to stretch out to tom pinch.
nicholas nickleby
writing in 1848, charles dickens declared that when "nicholas      nickleby" was begun in 1838 "there were then a good many-cheap      yorkshire schools in existence.
there are very few now."
in      the preface to the completed book the author mentioned that      more than one yorkshire schoolmaster laid claim to be the      original of squeers, and he had reason to believe "one worthy      has actually consulted authorities learned in the law as to      his having good grounds on which to rest an action for libel."
but squeers, as dickens insisted, was the representative of a      class, and not an individual.
the brothers cheeryble were "no      creations of the author's brain" dickens also wrote; and in      consequence of this statement "hundreds upon hundreds of      letters from all sorts of people" poured in upon him to be      forwarded "to the originals of the brothers cheeryble."
they      were the brothers grant, cotton-spinners, near manchester.
"nicholas nickleby" was completed in october, 1839.
i. a yorkshire schoolmaster
mr. nickleby, a country gentleman of small estate, having endeavoured to increase his scanty fortune by speculation, found himself ruined; he took to his bed (apparently resolved to keep that, at all events), and, after embracing his wife and children, very soon departed this life.
so mrs. nickleby went to london to wait upon her brother-in-law, mr. ralph nickleby, and with her two children, nicholas, then nineteen, and kate, a year or two younger, took lodgings in the strand.
it was to these apartments that ralph nickleby, a hard, unscrupulous, cunning money-lender, came on receipt of the widow's note.
"are you willing to work, sir?"
said ralph, frowning at his nephew.
"of course i am," replied nicholas haughtily.
"then see here," said his uncle.
"this caught my eyes this morning, and you may thank your stars for it."
with that mr. ralph nickleby took a newspaper from his pocket and read the following advertisement.
"education.
at mr. wackford squeers' academy, dotheboys hall, at the delightful village of dotheboys, in yorkshire, youths are boarded, clothed, booked, furnished with pocket-money, instructed in all languages living or dead, mathematics, orthography, geometry, trigonometry, the use of the globes, algebra, single-stick (if required), writing, arithmetic, fortification, and every other branch of classic literature.
terms, twenty guineas per annum.
no extras, no vacations, and diet unparalleled.
mr. squeers is in town, and attends daily from one till four, at the saracen's head, snow hill.
n.b.
an able assistant wanted.
annual salary, £5, a master of arts would be preferred."
"there!"
said ralph, folding the paper again.
"let him get that situation and his fortune's made.
if he don't like that, let him get one for himself."
"i am ready to do anything you wish me," said nicholas, starting gaily up.
"let us try our fortune with mr. squeers at once; he can but refuse."
"he won't do that," said ralph.
"he will be glad to have you on my recommendation.
make yourself of use to him, and you'll rise to be a partner in the establishment in no time."
nicholas, having taken down the address of mr. wackford squeers, the uncle and nephew at once went forth in quest of that accomplished gentleman.
"perhaps you recollect me?"
said ralph, looking narrowly at the schoolmaster, as the saracen's head.
"you paid me a small account at each of my half-yearly visits to town for some years, i think, sir," replied squeers, "for the parents of a boy who, unfortunately  "
"unfortunately died at dotheboys hall," said ralph, finishing the sentence.
"and now let us come to business.
you have advertised for an assistant.
do you really want one?"
"certainly," answered squeers.
"here he is!"
said ralph.
"my nephew nicholas, hot from school, is just the man you want."
"i am afraid," said squeers, perplexed with such an application from a youth of nicholas's figure "i am afraid the young man won't suit me."
"i fear, sir," said nicholas, "that you object to my youth, and to not being a master of arts?"
"the absence of the college degree is an objection."
replied squeers, considerably puzzled by the contrast between the simplicity of the nephew and the shrewdness of the uncle.
"let me have two words with you," said ralph.
the two words were had apart; in a couple of minutes mr. wackford squeers' announced that mr.
nicholas nickleby was from that moment installed in the office of first assistant master at dotheboys hall.
"at eight o'clock to-morrow morning, mr. nickleby," said squeers, "the coach starts.
you must be here at a quarter before, as we take some boys with us."
"and your fare down i have paid," growled ralph.
"so you'll have nothing to do but keep yourself warm."
ii.
at dotheboys hall
"past seven, nickleby," said mr. squeers on the first morning after the arrival at dotheboys hall.
"come, tumble up.
here's a pretty go, the pump's froze.
you can't wash yourself this morning, so you must be content with giving yourself a dry polish till we break the ice in the well, and can get a bucketful out for the boys."
nicholas huddled on his clothes and followed squeers across a yard to the school-room.
"there," said the schoolmaster, as they stepped in together, "this is our shop."
it was a bare and dirty room, the windows mostly stopped up with old copybooks and paper, and nicholas looked with dismay at the old rickety desks and forms.
but the pupils!
pale and haggard faces, lank and bony figures, boys of stunted growth, and others whose long and meagre legs would hardly bear their stooping bodies.
faces that told of young lives which from infancy had been one horrible endurance of cruelty and neglect.
little faces that should have been handsome, darkened with the scowl of sullen, dogged suffering.
and yet, painful as the scene was, it had its grotesque features.
mrs. squeers, wearing a beaver bonnet of some antiquity on the top of a nightcap, stood at the desk, presiding over an immense basin of brimstone and treacle.
this compound she administered to each boy in succession, using an enormous wooden spoon for the purpose.
"we purify the boys' blood now and then, nickleby," said squeers, when the operation was over.
a meagre breakfast followed; and then mr. squeers made his way to his desk, and called up the first class.
"this is the first class in english spelling and philosophy, nickleby,"
said squeers, beckoning nicholas to stand beside him.
"now then, where's the first boy?"
"please, sir, he's cleaning the back parlour window."
"so he is, to be sure," replied squeers.
"we go upon the practical mode of teaching, nickleby; the regular education system.
c-l-e-a-n, clean, verb active, to make bright.
w-i-n, win; d-e-r, winder, a casement.
when the boy knows this out of a book, he goes and does it.
where's the second boy?"
"please, sir, he's weeding the garden."
"so he is," said squeers.
b-o-t, bot; t-i-n, bottin; n-e-y, ney, bottiney, noun substantive, a knowledge of plants.
when he has learned that bottiney means a knowledge of plants, he goes and knows 'em.
that's our system, nickleby.
third boy, what's a horse?"
"a beast, sir," replied the boy.
"so it is," said squeers.
"a horse is a quadruped, and quadruped's latin for beast, as everybody that's gone through the grammar knows.
as you're perfect in that, go and look after my horse, and rub him down well, or i'll rub you down.
the rest of the class go and draw water up, till somebody tells you to leave off, for it's washing day to-morrow, and they want the coppers filled."
the deficiencies of mr. squeers' scholastic methods were made up by lavish punishments, and nicholas was compelled to stand by every day and see the unfortunate pupils of dotheboys hall beaten without mercy, and know that he could do nothing to alleviate their misery.
in particular the plight of one poor boy, older than the rest, called smike, a drudge whom starvation and ill-treatment had rendered dull and slow-witted, aroused all nicholas's pity.
it was smike who was the cause of nicholas leaving yorkshire.
nicholas could endure the coarse and brutal language of squeers, the displeasure of mrs. squeers (who decided that the new usher was "a proud, haughty, consequential, turned-up-nosed peacock," and that "she'd bring his pride down"), and the petty indignities this lady could inflict upon him.
he bore with the bad food, dirty lodging, and daily round of squalid misery in the school.
but there came a day when smike, unable to face his tormentors any longer, ran away.
he was taken within four-and-twenty hours, and brought back, bedabbled with mud and rain, haggard and worn to all appearance more dead than alive.
the work this unhappy drudge performed would have cost the establishment some ten or twelve shillings a week in the way of wages, and squeers, who, as a matter of policy, made severe examples of all runaways from dotheboys hall, prepared to take full vengeance on smike.
at the first blow smike uttered a shriek of pain, and nicholas nickleby started up from his desk, and cried "stop!"
in a furious voice.
"touch that boy at your peril.
i will not stand by and see it done."
he had scarcely spoken, when squeers, in a violent outbreak of wrath, spat upon him, and struck him across the face with his cane.
all nicholas's feelings of rage, scorn, and indignation were concentrated into that moment, and, smarting at the blow, he sprang upon the schoolmaster, wrested the weapon from him, and, pinning him by the throat, beat the ruffian until he roared for mercy.
mrs. squeers, with many shrieks for aid, hung on to the tail of her partner's coat, and tried to drag him from his infuriated adversary.
with the result that when nicholas, having thrown all his remaining strength into a half dozen finishing cuts, flung the schoolmaster from him with all the force he could muster, mrs. squeers was precipitated over an adjacent form; and squeers, striking his head against it in his descent, lay at full length on the ground, stunned and motionless.
nicholas, assured that squeers was only stunned, and not dead, left the room, packed up his few clothes in a small leathern valise, marched boldly out by the front door, and struck into the road for london.
iii.
brighter days for nicholas
after many adventures in the quest of fortune, nicholas, who had spurned all further connection with his uncle, stood one day outside a registry office in london.
and as he stood there looking at the various placards in the window, an old gentleman, a sturdy old fellow in broad-skirted blue coat, happened to stop too.
nicholas caught the old gentleman's eye, and began to wonder whether the stranger could by any possibility be looking for a clerk or secretary.
as the old gentleman moved away he noticed that nicholas was about to speak, and good-naturedly stood still.
"i was only going to say," said nicholas, "that i hoped you had some object in consulting those advertisements in the window."
"ay, ay; what object now?"
returned the old gentleman.
"did you think i wanted a situation now, eh?
i thought the same of you, at first, upon my word i did."
"if you had thought so at last, too, sir, you would not have been far from the truth," rejoined nicholas.
"the kindness of your face and manner both so unlike any i have ever seen tempt me to speak in a way i should never dream of doing to a stranger in this wilderness of london."
"wilderness!
yes, it is; it is.
it was a wilderness to me once.
i came here barefoot i have never forgotten it.
what's the matter, how did it all come about?"
said the old man, laying his hand on the shoulder of nicholas, and walking him up the street.
"in mourning, too, eh?"
laying his finger on the sleeve of his black coat.
"my father," replied nicholas.
"bad thing for a young man to lose his father.
widowed mother, perhaps?"
nicholas nodded.
"brothers and sisters, too, eh?"
"one sister."
"poor thing, poor thing!
you're a scholar too, i dare say.
education's a great thing.
i never had any.
i admire it the more in others.
a very fine thing.
tell me more of your history, all of it.
no impertinent curiosity no, no!"
there was something so earnest and guileless in the way this was said that nicholas could not resist it.
so he told his story, and, at the end, the old gentleman carried him straight off to the city, where they emerged in a quiet, shady square.
the old gentleman led the way into some business premises, which had the inscription, "cheeryble brothers,"
on the doorpost, and stopped to speak to an elderly, large-faced clerk in the counting-house.
"is my brother in his room, tim?"
said mr. cheeryble.
"yes, he is, sir," said the clerk.
what was the amazement of nicholas when his conductor took him into a room and presented him to another old gentleman, the very type and model of himself the same face and figure, the same clothes.
nobody could have doubted their being twin brothers.
"brother ned," said nicholas's friend, "here is a young friend of mine that we must assist."
then brother charles related what nicholas had told him.
and, after that, and some conversation between the brothers, tim linkinwater was called in, and brother ned whispered a few words in his ear.
"tim," said brother charles, "you understand that we have an intention of taking this young gentleman into the counting-house."
brother ned remarked that tim quite approved of it, and tim, having nodded, said, with resolution, "but i'm not coming an hour later in the morning, you know.
i'm not going to the country either.
it's forty-four years since i first kept the books of cheeryble brothers.
i've opened the safe all that time every morning at nine, and i've never slept out of the back attic one single night.
this ain't the first time you've talked about superannuating me, mr. edwin and mr. charles; but, if you please, we'll make it the last, and drop the subject for evermore."
with which words tim linkinwater stalked out, with the air of a man who was thoroughly resolved not to be put down.
the brothers coughed.
"he must be done something with, brother ned.
we must, disregard his scruples; he must be made a partner."
"quite right, quite right, brother charles.
if he won't listen to reason, we must do it against his will.
but, in the meantime, we are keeping our young friend, and the poor lady and her daughter will be anxious for his return.
so let us say good-bye for the present."
and at that the brothers hurried nicholas out of the office, shaking hands with him all the way.
that was the beginning of brighter days for nicholas and for mrs.
nickleby and kate.
the brothers cheeryble not only took nicholas into their office, but a small cottage at bow, then quite out in the country, was found for the widow and her children.
there never was such a week of discoveries and surprises as the first week at that cottage.
every night when nicholas came home, something new had been found.
one day it was a grape-vine, and another day it was a boiler, and another day it was the key of the front parlour cupboard at the bottom of the water-butt, and so on through a hundred items.
as for nicholas's work in the counting-house, tim linkinwater was satisfied with the young man the very first day.
tim turned pale and stood watching with breathless anxiety when nicholas made his first entry in the books of cheeryble brothers, while the two brothers looked on with smiling faces.
presently the old clerk nodded his head, signifying "he'll do."
but when nicholas stopped to refer to some other page, tim linkinwater, unable to restrain his satisfaction any longer, descended from his stool, and caught him rapturously by the hand.
"he has done it!"
said tim, looking round triumphantly at his employers.
"his capital 'b's' and 'd's' are exactly like mine; he dots his small 'i's' and crosses every 't.'
there ain't such a young man in all london.
the city can't produce his equal.
i challenge the city to do it!"
iv.
the brothers cheeryble
in course of time the brothers cheeryble, in their frequent visits to the cottage at bow, often took with them their nephew frank; and it also happened that miss madeline bray, a ward of the brothers, was taken to the cottage to recover from a serious illness.
nicholas, from the first time he had seen madeline in the office of cheeryble brothers, had fallen in love with her; but he decided that as an honourable man no word of love must pass his lips.
while kate nickleby had been equally firm in declining to listen to any proposal from frank.
it was some time after madeline had left the cottage, and nicholas and kate had begun to try in good earnest to stifle their own regrets, and to live for each other and for their mother, when there came one evening, per mr. linkinwater, an invitation from the brothers to dinner on the next day but one.
"you may depend on it that this means something besides dinner," said mrs. nickleby solemnly.
when the great day arrived who should be there at the house of the brothers but frank and madeline.
"young men," said brother charles, "shake hands."
"i need no bidding to do that," said nicholas.
"nor i," rejoined frank, and the two young men clasped hands heartily.
the old gentleman took them aside.
"i wish to see you friends close and firm friends.
frank, look here!
mrs. nickleby, will you come on the other side?
this is a copy of the will of madeline's grandfather, bequeathing her the sum of £12,000.
now, frank, you were largely instrumental in recovering this document.
the fortune is but a small one, but we love madeline.
will you become a suitor for her hand?"
"no, sir.
i interested myself in the recovery of that instrument, believing that her hand was already pledged elsewhere.
in this, it seems, i judged hastily."
"as you always do, sir!"
cried brother charles.
"how dare you think, frank, that we could have you marry for money?
how dare you go and make love to mr. nickleby's sister without telling us first, and letting us speak for you.
mr. nickleby, sir, frank judged hastily, but he judged, for once, correctly.
madeline's heart is occupied give me your hand it is occupied by you and worthily.
she chooses you, mr. nickleby, as we, her dearest friends, would have her choose.
frank chooses as we would have him choose.
he should have your sister's little hand, sir, if she had refused it a score of times ay, he should, and he shall!
what?
you are the children of a worthy gentleman.
the time was, sir, when my brother ned and i were two poor, simple-hearted boys, wandering almost barefoot to seek bur fortunes.
oh, ned, ned, ned, what a happy day this is for you and me!
if our poor mother had only lived to see us now, ned, how proud it would have made her dear heart at last!"
so madeline gave her heart and fortune to nicholas, and on the same day, and at the same time, kate became mrs. frank cheeryble.
madeline's money was invested in the firm of cheeryble brothers, in which nicholas had become a partner, and before many years elapsed the business was carried on in the names of "cheeryble and nickleby."
tim linkinwater condescended, after much entreating and brow-beating, to accept a share in the house; but he could never be prevailed upon to suffer the publication of his name as partner, and always persisted in the punctual and regular discharge of his clerkly duties.
the twin brothers retired.
who needs to be told that they were happy?
the first act of nicholas, when he became a rich and prosperous merchant, was to buy his father's old house.
as time crept on, and there came gradually about him a group of lovely children, it was altered and enlarged; but no tree was rooted up, nothing with which there was any association of bygone times was ever removed or changed.
mr. squeers, having come within the meshes of the law over some nefarious scheme of ralph nickleby's, suffered transportation beyond the seas, and with his disappearance dotheboys hall was broken up for good.
oliver twist
"the adventures of oliver twist," published serially in      "bentley's miscellany," 1837-39, and in book form in 1838, was      the second of dickens's novels.
it lacks the exuberance of      "pickwick," and is more limited in its scenes and characters      than any other novel he wrote, excepting "hard times" and      "great expectations."
but the description of the workhouse,      its inmates and governors, is done in dickens's best style,      and was a frontal attack on the poor law administration of the      time.
bumble, indeed, has passed into common use as the      typical workhouse official of the least satisfactory sort.
no      less powerful than the picture of oliver's wretched childhood      is the description of the thieves' kitchen, presided over by      fagin.
bill sikes and the artful dodger are household words      for criminals, and the character of fagin is drawn with      wonderful skill in this terrible view of the underworld of      london.
i. the parish boy
oliver was born in the workhouse, and his mother died the same night.
not even a promised reward of £10 could produce any information as to the boy's father or the mother's name.
the woman was young, frail, and delicate a stranger to the parish.
"how comes he to have any name at all, then?"
said mrs. mann (who was responsible for the early bringing up of the workhouse children) to mr.
bumble, the parish beadle.
the beadle drew himself up with great pride, and said, "i invented it.
we name our foundings in alphabetical order.
the last was a s; swubble i named him.
this was a t; twist i named him.
i have got names ready made to the end of the alphabet, and all the way through it again, when we come to z."
"why, you're quite a literary character, sir," said mrs. mann.
oliver, being now nine years old, was removed from the tender mercies of mrs. mann, in whose wretched home not one kind word or look had ever lighted the gloom of his infant years, and was taken into the workhouse.
now the members of the board, who were long-headed men, had just established the rule that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they) of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or by a quick one out of it.
all relief was inseparable from the workhouse, and the thin gruel issued three times a day to its inmates.
the system was in full operation for the first six months after oliver twist's admission, and boys having generally excellent appetites, oliver twist and his companions suffered the tortures of slow starvation.
each boy had one porringer of gruel, and no more.
at last the boys got so voracious and wild with hunger, that one, who was tall for his age and hadn't been used to that sort of thing (for his father had kept a small cook's shop), hinted darkly to his companions that unless he had another basin of gruel per diem he was afraid he might some night happen to eat the boy who slept next him, a weakly youth of tender age.
he had a wild, hungry eye, and they implicitly believed him.
a council was held, lots were cast who should walk up to the master after supper that evening and ask for more, and it fell to oliver twist.
the evening arrived, the boys took their places.
the master, in his cook's uniform, stationed himself at the copper to ladle out the gruel; his pauper assistants ranged themselves behind him, the gruel was served out, and a long grace was said over the short commons.
the gruel disappeared, the boys whispered to each other, and winked at oliver, while his next neighbours nudged him.
child as he was, he was desperate with hunger, and reckless with misery.
he rose from the table, and advancing to the master, basin and spoon in hand, said, somewhat alarmed at his own temerity, "please, sir, i want some more."
the master was a fat, healthy man, but he turned very pale.
he gazed in stupified astonishment on the small rebel for some seconds, and then said, "what!"
"please, sir," replied oliver, "i want some more."
the master aimed a blow at oliver's head with the ladle, pinioned him in his arms, and shrieked aloud for the beadle.
the board were sitting in solemn conclave when mr. bumble rushed into the room in great excitement, and addressing a gentleman in a high chair, said, "mr. limbkins, i beg your pardon, sir!
oliver twist has asked for more!"
there was a general start.
horror was depicted on every countenance.
"for more?"
said the chairman.
"compose yourself, bumble, and answer me distinctly.
do i understand that he asked for more, after he had eaten the supper allotted by the dietary?"
"he did, sir," replied bumble.
"that boy will be hung," said a gentleman in a white waistcoat.
"i know that boy will be hung."
nobody disputed the opinion.
oliver was ordered into instant confinement, and a bill was next morning pasted on the outside of the workhouse gate, offering a reward of five pounds to anybody who would take oliver twist off their hands.
in other words, five pounds and oliver twist were offered to any man or woman who wanted an apprentice to any trade, business, or calling.
mr. gamfield, the chimney sweep, was the first to respond to this offer.
"it's a nasty trade," said the chairman of the board.
"young boys have been smothered in chimneys before now," said another member.
"that's because they damped the straw afore they lit it in the chimbley to make 'em come down again," said gamfield.
"that's all smoke, and no blaze; vereas smoke only sinds him to sleep, and that ain't no use in making a boy come down.
boys is wery obstinite and wery lazy, gen'l'men, and there's nothink like a good hot blaze to make 'em come down with a run.
it's humane, too, gen'l'men, acause, even if they've stuck in the chimbley, roasting their feet makes 'em struggle to hextricate theirselves."
the board consented to hand over oliver to the chimney-sweep (the premium being reduced to £3 10s.
), but the magistrates declined to sanction the indentures, and it was mr. sowerberry, the undertaker, who finally relieved the board of their responsibility.
mrs. sowerberry's ill-treatment drove oliver to flight.
he left the house in the early morning before anyone was stirring, struck across fields, and gained the high road outside the town.
a milestone intimated that it was seventy miles to london.
in london he would be beyond the reach of mr. bumble; to london he would trudge.
ii.
the artful dodger
it was on the seventh morning after he had left his native place that oliver limped slowly into the town of barnet.
tired and hungry he sat down on a doorstep, and presently was roused by the question "hallo, my covey, what's the row?"
the boy who addressed this inquiry to the young wayfarer was about his own age, but one of the queerest-looking boys that oliver had ever seen.
he was short for his age, and dirty, and he had about him all the airs and manners of a man.
he wore a man's coat which reached nearly to his heels, and he had turned the cuffs back half-way up his arm to get his hands out of the sleeves.
altogether he was as roystering and swaggering a young gentleman as ever stood four feet six in his bluchers.
"you want grub," said this strange boy, helping oliver to rise; "and you shall have it.
i'm at low-watermark myself, only one bob and a magpie; but as far as it goes, i'll fork out and stump."
"going to london?"
said the strange boy, while they sat and finished a meal in a small public-house.
"yes."
"got any lodgings?"
"no."
"money?"
"no."
the strange boy whistled.
"i suppose you want some place to sleep in to-night, don't you?
well, i've got to be in london to-night, and i know a 'spectable old genelman as lives there, wot'll give you lodgings for nothink, and never ask for the change that is, if any genelman he knows interduces you."
this unexpected offer of shelter was too tempting to be resisted, and on the way to london, where they arrived at nightfall, oliver learnt that his friend's name was jack dawkins, but that he was known among his intimates as "the artful dodger."
in field lane, in the slums of saffron hill, the dodger pushed open the door of a house, and drew oliver within.
"now, then," cried a voice, in reply to his whistle.
"plummy and slam," said the dodger.
this seemed to be a watchword, for a man at once appeared with a candle.
"there's two on you," said the man.
"who's the t'other one, and where does he come from?"
"a new pal from greenland," replied jack dawkins.
"is fagin upstairs?"
"yes, he's sortin the wipes.
up with you."
the room that oliver was taken into was black with age and dirt.
several rough beds, made of old sacks, were huddled side by side on the floor.
seated round the table were four or five boys, none older than the dodger, smoking long clay pipes, and drinking spirits with the air of middle-aged men.
an old shrivelled jew, of repulsive face, was standing over the fire, dividing his attention between a frying-pan and a clothes-horse full of silk handkerchiefs.
the dodger whispered a few words to the jew, and then said aloud, "this is him, fagin, my friend oliver twist."
the jew grinned.
"we are very glad to see you, oliver very."
a good supper oliver had that night, and a heavy sleep, and a hearty breakfast next morning.
when the breakfast was cleared away, fagin, who was quite a merry old gentleman, and the dodger and another boy named charley bates, played at a very curious game.
the merry old gentleman, placing a snuffbox in one pocket of his trousers, a note-book in the other, and a watch in his waistcoat, and sticking a mock diamond pin in his shirt, and spectacle-case and handkerchief in his coat-pocket, trotted up and down the room in imitation of the manner in which old gentlemen walk about the streets; while the dodger and charley bates had to get all these things out of his pockets without being observed.
it was so very funny that oliver laughed till the tears ran down his face.
a few days later, and he understood the full meaning of the game.
the dodger and charley bates had taken oliver out for a walk, and after sauntering along, they suddenly pulled up short on clerkenwell green, at the sight of an old gentleman reading at a bookstall.
so intent was he over his book that he might have been sitting in an easy chair in his study.
to oliver's horror, the dodger plunged his hand into the gentleman's pocket, drew out a handkerchief, and handed it to bates.
then both boys ran away round the corner at full speed.
oliver, frightened at what he had seen, ran off, too; the old gentleman, at the same moment missing his handkerchief, and seeing oliver scudding off, concluded he was the thief, and gave chase, still holding his book in his hand.
the cry of "stop thief!"
was raised.
oliver was knocked down, captured, and taken to the police-station by a constable.
the magistrate was still sitting, and oliver would have been convicted there and then but for the arrival of the bookseller.
"stop, stop!
don't take him away!
i saw it all!
i keep the bookstall,"
cried the man.
"i saw three boys, two others, and the prisoner here.
the robbery was committed by another boy.
i saw that this one was amazed by it."
oliver was acquitted.
but he had fainted.
mr. brownlow, for that was the name of the old gentleman, shocked and moved at the boy's deathly whiteness, straightway carried the boy off in a cab to his own house in a quiet, shady street near pentonville.
iii.
back in fagin's den
for many days oliver remained insensible to the goodness of his new friends.
but all that careful nursing could do was done, and he slowly and surely recovered.
mr. brownlow, a kind-hearted old bachelor, took the greatest interest in his protégé, and oliver implored him not to turn him out of doors to wander in the streets.
"my dear child," said the old gentleman, moved by the warmth of oliver's appeal, "you need not be afraid of my deserting you.
i have been deceived before in people i have endeavored to benefit, but i feel strongly disposed to trust you, nevertheless; and i am more interested in your behalf than i can well account for.
let me hear your story; speak the truth to me, and you shall not be friendless while i am alive."
a certain unmistakable likeness in oliver to a lady's portrait that was on the wall of the room struck mr. brownlow.
what connection could there be between the original of the portrait, and this poor child?
but before mr. brownlow had heard oliver's story he had lost the boy.
for fagin, horribly uneasy lest oliver should be the means of betraying his late companions, resolved to get him back as quickly as possible.
to accomplish his evil purpose, nancy, a young woman who belonged to fagin's gang, and who had seen oliver, was prevailed upon to undertake the commission.
now, the very evening before oliver was to tell his story to mr.
brownlow, the boy, anxious to prove his honesty, had set out with some books on an errand to the bookseller at clerkenwell green.
"you are to say," said mr. brownlow, "that you have brought these books back, and that you have come to pay the four pound ten i owe him.
this is a five-pound note, so you will have to bring me back ten shillings change."
"i won't be ten minutes, sir," replied oliver eagerly.
he was walking briskly along, thinking how happy and contented he ought to feel, when he was startled by a young woman screaming out very loud, "oh, my dear brother!"
he had hardly looked up when he was stopped by having a pair of arms thrown tight round his neck.
"don't!"
cried oliver, struggling.
"let go of me.
who is it?
what are you stopping me for?"
the only reply to this was a great number of loud lamentations from the young woman who had embraced him.
"i've found him!
oh, oliver, oliver!
oh, you naughty boy to make me suffer such distress on your account!
come home, dear, come.
oh, i've found him!
thank gracious goodness heavens, i've found him!"
the young woman burst out crying, and a couple of women standing by asked what was the matter.
"oh, ma'am," replied the young woman, "he ran away from his parents, and went and joined a set of thieves and bad characters, and almost broke his mother's heart."
"young wretch!"
said one woman.
"go home, do, you little brute," said the other.
"i'm not," replied oliver, greatly alarmed.
"i don't know her.
i haven't any sister or father or mother.
i'm an orphan; i live at pentonville."
"oh, only hear him, how he braves it out," cried the young woman.
"make him come home, or he'll kill his dear mother and father, and break my heart!"
"what the devil's this?"
said a man, bursting out of a beer-shop, with a white dog at his heels.
"young oliver!
come home to your poor mother, you young dog!"
"i don't belong to them.
i don't know them!
help, help!"
cried oliver, struggling in the man's powerful grasp.
"help!"
repeated the man.
"yes, i'll help you, you young rascal!
what books are these?
you've been a-stealin' 'em, have you?
give 'em here!"
with these words the man tore the volumes from his grasp, and struck him on the head.
weak with recent illness, stupefied by the blows and the suddenness of the attack, terrified by the brutality of the man who was none other than bill sikes, the roughest of all fagin's pupils what could one poor child do?
darkness had set in; it was a low neighbourhood; resistance was useless.
sikes and nancy hurried the boy on between them through courts and alleys till, once more, he was within the dreadful house where the dodger had first brought him.
long after the gas-lamps were lighted, mr. brownlow sat waiting in his parlour.
the servant had run up the street twenty times to see if there were any traces of oliver.
the housekeeper had waited anxiously at the open door.
but no oliver returned.
iv.
oliver falls among friends
mr. bill sikes having an important house-breaking engagement with his fellow-robber, mr. toby crackit, at shepperton, decided that oliver must accompany him.
it was a detached house, and the night was dark as pitch when sikes and crackit, dragging oliver along, climbed the wall and approached a narrow, shuttered window.
in vain oliver implored them to let him go.
"listen, you young limb," whispered sikes, when a crowbar had overcome the shutter, and the lattice had been opened.
"i'm going to put you through there."
drawing a dark lantern from his pocket, he added, "take this light; go softly up the steps straight afore you, and along the hall to the street door; unfasten it, and let us in."
the boy was put through the window, and sikes, pointing to the door with his pistol, told him if he faltered he would shoot him.
hardly had oliver advanced a few yards before sikes called out, "back!
back!"
startled, the boy dropped the lantern, uncertain whether to advance or fly.
the cry was repeated a light appeared a vision of two terrified, half-dressed men at the top of the stairs swam before his eyes a flash a loud noise and he staggered back.
sikes got him out of the window before the smoke cleared away, and fired his pistol after the men, who were already in retreat.
"clasp your arm tighter," said sikes.
"give me a shawl here.
they've hit him.
quick!
the boy is bleeding."
then came the loud ringing of a bell, and the shouts of men, and the sensation of being carried over uneven ground at a rapid pace.
and then the noises grew confused in the distance, and oliver saw and heard no more.
sikes, finding the chase too hot, was compelled to leave oliver in a ditch and make his escape with his friend crackit.
it was morning when oliver awoke.
his left arm was rudely bandaged in a shawl, and the bandage was saturated with blood.
weak and dizzy, he yet felt that if he remained where he was he would surely die, and so he staggered to his feet.
the only house in sight was the one he had entered a few hours earlier, and he bent his steps towards it.
he pushed against the garden-gate it was unlocked.
he tottered across the lawn, climbed the steps, knocked faintly at the door, and, his whole strength failing him, sank down against the little portico.
mr. giles, the butler and general steward of the house, who had fired the shot and led the pursuit, was just explaining the exciting events of the night to his fellow-servants of the kitchen when oliver's knock was heard.
with considerable reluctance the door was opened, and then the group, peeping timorously over each other's shoulders, beheld no more formidable object than poor little oliver twist, speechless and exhausted.
"here he is!"
bawled giles.
"here's one of the, thieves, ma'am!
wounded, miss!
i shot him!"
they lugged the fainting boy into the hall, and then in the midst of all the noise and commotion, there was heard a sweet and gentle voice, which quelled it in an instant.
"giles!"
whispered the voice from the stairhead.
"hush!
you frighten my aunt as much as the thieves did.
is the poor creature much hurt?"
"wounded desperate, miss," replied giles.
after a hasty consultation with her aunt, the same gentle speaker bade them carry the wounded person upstairs, and send to chertsey at all speed for a constable and a doctor.
the latter arrived when the young lady and her aunt, mrs. maylie, were at breakfast, and his visit to the sick-room changed the state of affairs.
on his return he begged mrs.
maylie and her niece to accompany him upstairs.
in lieu of the dogged, black-visaged ruffian they had expected to see, there lay a mere child, sunk in a deep sleep.
the ladies could not believe this delicate boy was a criminal, and when, on waking up, he told them his simple history, they were determined to prevent his arrest.
the doctor undertook to save the boy, and to that end entered the kitchen where mr. giles, brittles, his assistant, and the constable were regaling themselves with ale.
"how is the patient, sir?"
asked giles.
"so-so," returned the doctor.
"i'm afraid you've got yourself into a scrape there, mr. giles.
are you a protestant?
and what are you?"
turning sharply on brittles.
"yes, sir; i hope so," faltered mr. giles, turning very pale, for the doctor spoke with strange severity.
"i'm the same as mr. giles, sir," said brittles, starting violently.
"then tell me this, both of you," said the doctor.
"are you going to take upon yourselves to swear that that boy upstairs is the boy that was put through the little window last night?
come, out with it!
pay attention to the reply, constable.
here's a house broken into, and a couple of men catch a moment's glimpse of a boy in the midst of gunpowder-smoke, and in all the distraction of alarm and darkness.
here's a boy comes to that very same house next morning, and because he happens to have his arm tied up, these men lay violent hands upon him, place his life in danger, and swear he is the thief.
i ask you again,"
thundered the doctor, "are you, on your solemn oaths, able to identify that boy?"
of course, under these circumstances, as mr. giles and brittles couldn't identify the boy, the constable retired, and the attempted robbery was followed by no arrests.
oliver twist grew up in the peaceful and happy home of mrs. maylie, under the tender affection of two good women.
later on, mr. brownlow was found, and oliver's character restored.
it was proved, too, that the portrait mr. brownlow possessed was that of oliver's mother, whom its owner had once esteemed dearly.
betrayed by fate, the unhappy woman had sought refuge in the workhouse, only to die in giving birth to her son.
in that same workhouse, where his authority had formerly been so considerable, mr. bumble came as a pauper to die.
tragic was the fate of poor nancy.
suspected by fagin of plotting against her accomplices, the jew so worked on sikes that the savage housebreaker murdered her.
but neither fagin nor sikes escaped.
for the jew was taken and condemned to death, and in the condemned cell came the recollection to him of all the men he had known who had died upon the scaffold, some of them through his means.
sikes, when the news of nancy's murder got abroad, was hunted by a furious crowd.
he had taken refuge in an old, disreputable uninhabited house, known to his accomplices, which stood right over the thames, in jacob's island, not far from dockhead; but the pursuit was hot, and the only chance of safety lay in getting to the river.
at the very moment when the crowd was forcing its way into the house, sikes made a running noose to slip beneath his arm-pits, and so lower himself to a ditch beneath.
he was out on the roof, and then, when the loop was over his head, the face of the murdered girl seemed to stare at him.
"the eyes again!"
he cried, in an unearthly screech, and threw up his arms in horror.
staggering, as if struck by lightning, he lost his balance and tumbled over the parapet.
the noose was on his neck.
it ran up with his weight, tight as a bowstring.
he fell for five-and-thirty feet, and then, after a sudden jerk, and a terrible convulsion of the limbs, swung lifeless against the wall.
old curiosity shop
"the old curiosity shop" was begun by dickens in his new      weekly publication called "master humphrey's clock," in 1840,      and its early
which had been printed in connection with it, to be      cancelled."
"the old curiosity shop" won a host of friends for      the author; a.c. swinburne even declared little nell equal to      any character in fiction.
the lonely figure of the child with      grotesque and wild, but not impossible, companions, took the      hearts of all readers by storm, and the death of little nell      moved thousands to tears.
while the story was appearing, tom      hood, then unknown to dickens, wrote an essay "tenderly      appreciative" of little nell, "and of all her shadowy kith and      kin."
the immense and deserved popularity of the book is shown      by the universal acquaintance with mrs. jarley, and the common      use of the phrase "codlin's the friend not short."
i. little nell and her grandfather
the shop was one of those receptacles for old and curious things which seem to crouch in odd corners of london.
there were suits of mail standing like ghosts in armour, rusty weapons of various kinds, tapestry, and strange furniture that might have been designed in dreams.
the haggard aspect of a little old man, with long grey hair, who stood within, was wonderfully suited to the place.
nothing in the whole collection looked older or more worn than he.
confronting the old man was a young man of dissipated appearance, and high words were taking place.
"i tell you again i want to see my sister," said the younger man.
"you can't change the relationship, you know.
if you could, you'd have done it long ago.
but as i may have to wait some time i'll call in a friend of mine, with your leave."
at this he brought in a companion of even more dissolute appearance than himself.
"there, it's dick swiveller," said the young fellow, pushing him in.
"but is the old min agreeable?"
said mr. swiveller in an undertone.
"what is the odds so long as the fire of soul is kindled at the taper of conviviality, and the wing of friendship never moults a feather!
but, only one little whisper, fred is the old min friendly?"
mr. swiveller then leaned back in his chair and relapsed into silence; only to break it by observing, "gentlemen, how does the case stand?
here is a jolly old grandfather, and here is a wild young grandson.
the jolly old grandfather says to the wild young grandson, 'i have brought you up and educated you, fred; you have bolted a little out of the course, and you shall never have another chance.'
the wild young grandson makes answer, 'you're as rich as can be, why can't you stand a trifle for your grown up relation?'
then the plain question is, ain't it a pity this state of things should continue, and how much better it would be for the old gentleman to hand over a reasonable amount of tin, and make it all right and comfortable?"
"why do you persecute me?"
said the old man, turning to his grandson.
"why do you bring your profligate companions here?
i am poor.
you have chosen your own path, follow it.
leave nell and me to toil and work."
"nell will be a woman soon," returned the other; "she'll forget her brother unless he shows himself sometimes."
the door opened, and the child herself appeared, followed by an elderly man so low in stature as to be quite a dwarf, though his head and face were large enough for the body of a giant.
mr. swiveller turned to the dwarf and, stooping down, whispered audibly in his ear.
"the watchword to the old min is fork."
"is what?"
demanded quilp, for that daniel quilp was the dwarf's name.
"is fork, sir, fork," replied mr. swiveller, slapping his pocket.
"you are awake, sir?"
the dwarf nodded; the grandson, having announced his intention of repeating his visit, left the house accompanied by his friend.
"so much for dear relations," said quilp, with a sour look.
he put his hand into his breast, and pulled out a bag.
"here, i brought it myself, as, being in gold, it was too large and heavy for nell to carry.
i would i knew in what good investment all these supplies are sunk.
but you are a deep man, and keep your secret close."
"my secret!"
said the old man, with a haggard look.
"yes, you're right i keep it close very close."
he said no more, but, taking the money, locked it in an iron safe.
that night, as on many a night previous, nell's grandfather went out, leaving the child in the strange house alone, to return in the early morning.
quilp, to whom the old man had again applied for money, learnt of these nocturnal expeditions, and sent no answer, but came in person to the old curiosity shop.
the old man was feverish and excited as he impatiently addressed the dwarf.
"have you brought me any money?"
"no," returned quilp.
"then," said the old man, clenching his hands, "the child and i are lost.
no recompense for the time and money lost!"
"neighbour," said quilp, "you have no secret from me now.
i know that all those sums of money you have had from me have found their way to the gamingtable."
"i never played for gain of mine, or love of play," cried the old man fiercely.
"my winnings would have been bestowed to the last farthing on a young sinless child, whose life they would have sweetened and made happy.
but i never won."
"dear me!"
said quilp.
"the last advance was £70, and it went in one night.
and so it comes to pass that i hold every security you could scrape together, and a bill of sale upon the stock and property."
so saying, he nodded, deaf to all entreaties for further loans, and took his leave.
the house was no longer theirs.
mr. quilp encamped on the premises, and the goods were sold.
a day was fixed for their removal.
"grandfather, let us begone from this place," said little nell; "let us wander barefoot through the world, rather than linger here."
"we will," answered the old man.
"we will travel afoot through the fields and woods, and by the side of rivers and trust ourselves to god.
thou and i together, nell, may be cheerful and happy yet, and learn to forget this time, as if it had never been."
ii.
messrs. codlin and short
the sun was setting when little nell and her grandfather, who had been wandering many days, reached the wicket gate of a country churchyard.
two men were seated in easy attitudes on the grass by the church two men of the class of itinerant showmen, exhibitors of the freaks of punch and they had come there to make needful repairs in the stage arrangements, for one was engaged in binding together a small gallows with thread, while the other was fixing a new black wig upon the head of a puppet.
"are you going to show 'em to-night?
are you?"
said the old man.
"that's the intention, governor, and unless i'm much mistaken, my partner, tommy codlin, is a-calculating at this minute what we've lost through your coming upon us.
cheer up, tommy, it can't be much."
to this mr. codlin replied in a surly, grumbling manner, "i don't care if we haven't lost a farden, but you're too free.
if you stood in front of the curtain, and see the public's faces as i do, you'd know human natur' better."
"ah!
it's been the spoiling of you, tommy, your taking to that branch,"
rejoined his companion.
"when you played the ghost in the reg'lar drama in the fairs, you believed in everything except ghosts.
but now you're a universal mistruster."
"never mind," said mr. codlin, with the air of a discontented philosopher; "i know better now; p'r'aps i'm sorry for it.
look here, here's all this judy's clothes falling to pieces again."
the child, seeing they were at a loss for a needle and thread, timidly proposed to mend it for them, and even mr. codlin had nothing to urge against a proposal so reasonable.
"if you're wanting a place to stop at," said short, "i should advise you to take up at the same house with us.
that's it, the long, low, white house there.
it's very cheap."
the public-house was kept by a fat old landlord and landlady, who made no objection to receiving their new guests, but praised nelly's beauty, and were at once prepossessed in her behalf.
"we're going on to the races," said short next morning to the travellers.
"if that's your way, and you'd like to have us for company, let us go together.
if you prefer going alone, only say the word, and we shan't trouble you."
"we'll go with you," said the old man.
"nell with them, with them."
they stopped that night at an ancient roadside inn called the jolly sandboys, and supper being in preparation, nelly and her grandfather had not long taken their seats by the kitchen fire before they fell asleep.
"who are they?"
whispered the landlord.
"no-good, i suppose," said mr. codlin.
"they're no harm," said short, "depend upon that.
it's very plain, besides, that they're not used to this way of life.
don't tell me that handsome child has been in the habit of prowling about as she's done these last two or three days.
i know better.
the old man ain't in his right mind.
haven't you noticed how anxious he is always to get on furder away furder away?
mind what i say, he has given his friends the slip, and persuaded this delicate young creatur all along of her fondness for him to be his guide where to, he knows no more than the man in the moon.
i'm not a-going to stand that!"
"you're not a-going to stand that!"
cried mr. codlin, glancing at the clock, and counting the minutes to supper time.
"i," repeated short, emphatically and slowly, "am not a-going to stand it.
i am not a-going to see this fair young child a-falling into bad hands.
therefore, when they develop an intention of parting company from us, i shall take measures for detaining of 'em, and restoring 'em to their friends, who, i dare say, have had their disconsolation pasted up on every wall in london by this time."
"short," said mr. codlin, looking up with eager eyes, "it's possible there may be uncommon good sense in what you've said.
if there should be a reward, short, remember that we're partners in everything!"
before nell retired to rest in her poor garret she was a little startled by the appearance of mr. thomas codlin at her door.
"nothing's the matter, my dear; only i'm your friend.
perhaps you haven't thought so, but it's me that's your friend not him.
i'm the real, open-hearted man.
short's very well, and seems kind, but he overdoes it.
now, i don't."
the child was puzzled, and could not tell what to say.
"take my advice; as long as you travel with us, keep as near me as you can.
recollect the friend.
codlin's the friend, not short.
short's very well as far as he goes, but the real friend is codlin not short."
iii.
jarley's waxwork
codlin and short stuck so close to nell and her grandfather that the child grew frightened, especially at the unwonted attentions of mr.
thomas codlin.
the bustle of the racecourse enabled them to escape, and once more the travellers were alone.
it was a few days later when, as the afternoon was wearing away, they came upon a caravan drawn up by the roadside.
it was a smart little house upon wheels, not a gipsy caravan, for at the open door sat a christian lady, stout and comfortable, taking her tea upon a drum covered with a white napkin.
"hey!"
cried the lady of the caravan, seeing the old man and the child walking slowly by.
"yes, to be sure i saw you there with my own eyes!
and very sorry i was to see you in company with a punch; a low, practical, wulgar wretch that people should scorn to look at."
"i was not there by choice," returned the child.
"we don't know our way, and the two men were very kind to us, and let us travel with them.
do you know them, ma'am?"
"know 'em, child!
know them!
but you're young and inexperienced.
do i look as if i knowed 'em?
does the caravan look as if it knowed 'em?"
"no, ma'am, no.
i beg your pardon."
it was granted immediately.
and then the lady of the caravan, finding the travellers were hungry, handed them a tea-tray with bread-and-butter and a knuckle of ham; and finding they were tired, took them into the caravan, which was bound for the nearest town, some eight miles off.
as the caravan moved slowly along, its owner began to talk to nell, and presently pulled out a large roll of canvas.
"there child," she said, "read that!"
nell read aloud the inscription, "jarley's waxwork."
"that's me," said the lady complacently.
"i never saw any waxwork, ma'am," said nell.
"is it funnier than punch?"
"funnier!"
said mrs. jarley, in a shrill voice.
"it is not funny at all.
it's calm and what's that word again critical?
no classical, that's it it's calm and classical."
in the course of the journey mrs. jarley was so taken with the child that she proposed to engage her, and as nell would not be separated from her grandfather, he was included in the agreement.
"what i want your granddaughter for," said mrs. jarley, "is to point 'em out to the company, for she has a way with her that people wouldn't think unpleasant.
it's not a common offer, bear in mind; it's jarley's waxwork.
the duty's very light and genteel, the exhibition takes place in assembly rooms or town halls.
there is none of your open-air wagrancy at jarley's, remember.
and the price of admission is only sixpence."
"we are very much obliged to you, ma'am," said nell, speaking for her grandfather, "and thankfully accept your offer."
"and you'll never be sorry for it," returned mrs. jarley.
"so, as that's all settled, let us have a bit of supper."
the next morning, the caravan having arrived at the town, and the waxworks having been unpacked in the town hall, mrs. jarley sat down in an armchair in the centre of the room, and began to instruct nell in her duty.
"that," said mrs. jarley in her exhibition tone, "is an unfortunate maid of honour in the time of queen elizabeth, who died from pricking her finger in consequence of working on a sunday.
observe the blood which is trickling from her finger, also the gold-eyed needle of the period, with which she is at work."
nell found in the lady of the caravan a kind and considerate person, who had not only a peculiar relish for being comfortable herself, but for making everybody about her comfortable also.
but the child noticed that her grandfather grew more and more listless and vacant, and soon a greater sorrow was to come.
the passion for gambling revived in the old man one evening, when he and nell, out walking in the country, took passing shelter from a storm in a small public-house.
he saw men playing cards, and, allowed to join them, lost.
the next night he went off alone, and nell, finding him gone, followed.
her grandfather was with the card-players near an encampment of gypsies, and, to her horror, he promised to bring more money.
flight was now the only thing possible, before her grandfather should steal.
how else could he get the money?
iv.
beyond the pale
flight by water!
for two days they travelled on a barge, nell sitting with her grandfather in the boat.
rugged and noisy fellows were the bargemen, and quite brutal among themselves, though civil enough to their passengers.
the barge floated into the wharf to which it belonged, and now came flight by land through a strange, unfriendly town.
the travellers were penniless, and at nightfall took refuge in a deep doorway.
a man, miserably clad and begrimed with smoke, found them here, and, learning they were homeless, promised them shelter by the fire of a great furnace.
a dark and blackened region was this they were in.
on every side tall chimneys poured out their plague of smoke, and at night the smoke was changed to fire, and chimneys spurted flame.
struggling vegetation sickened and sank under the hot breath of kiln and furnace.
the people men, women, and children wan in their looks and ragged in their attire, tended the engines, or scowled, half naked, from the doorless houses.
that night nell and her grandfather lay down with nothing between them and the sky.
a penny loaf was all they had had that day, and very weak and spent the child felt.
with morning she was weaker still, and a loathing of food prevented her sharing the loaf bought with their last penny.
still she dragged her weary feet on, and only at the very end of the town fell senseless to the ground.
once in their earlier wanderings they had made friends with a village schoolmaster, and now, when all hope seemed gone, it was this schoolmaster who brought the travellers into a peaceful haven.
for it was he who passed along when little nell fell fainting to the ground, and it was he who carried her into a small inn hard by.
a day's rest brought some recovery to the child, and in the evening she was able to sit up.
"i have made my fortune since i saw you last," said the schoolmaster.
"i have been appointed clerk and schoolmaster to a village a long way from here at five-and-thirty pounds a year."
then the schoolmaster insisted they must come with him, and make the journey by waggons, and that when they reached the village some occupation should be found by which they could subsist.
they agreed to go, and when the village was reached the efforts of the good schoolmaster procured a post for nell.
someone was wanted to keep the keys of the church and show it to strangers, and the old clergyman yielded to the schoolmaster's petition.
"but an old church is a dull and gloomy place for one so young as you, my child," said the old clergyman, laying his hand upon her head and smiling sadly, "i would rather see her dancing on the green at nights than have her sitting in the shadow of our mouldering arches."
it was very peaceful in the old church, and the village children soon grew to love little nell.
at last nell and her grandfather were beyond the need of flight.
but the child's strength was failing, and in the winter came her death.
dear, gentle, patient, noble nell was dead.
the traces of her early cares, her sufferings, and fatigues were gone.
she had died with her arms round her grandfather's neck and "god bless you!"
on her lips.
the old man never realised that she was dead.
"she is asleep," he said.
"she will come to-morrow."
and thenceforth every day, and all day long he waited at her grave.
and people would hear him whisper, "lord, let her come to-morrow."
the last time was on a genial day in spring.
he did not return at the usual hour, and they went to seek him, and found him lying dead upon the stone.
they laid by the side of her whom he had loved so well; and in the church where they had often lingered hand in hand the child and the old man slept together.
our mutual friend
"our mutual friend" was the last long complete novel dickens      wrote, and, like all his books, it first appeared in monthly      parts.
it was so published in 1864-65. after three numbers had      appeared, the author wrote: "i have grown hard to satisfy, and      write very slowly.
although i have not been wanting in      industry, i have been wanting in imagination."
in his      "postscript in lieu of preface," the author points out in      answer to those who had disputed the probability of harmon's      will "that there are hundreds of will cases far more      remarkable than that fancied in this book."
in this same      postscript dickens also renewed his attack on poor law      administration, begun in "oliver twist."
though "our mutual      friend" is not one of the greatest or most famous of dickens's      works, for it is somewhat loosely constructed as a story, and      shows signs of laboured composition, it abounds in scenes of      real dickensian character, and is not without touches of the      genius which had made its author the foremost novelist of his      time, and one of the greatest writers of all ages.
i. the man from somewhere
it was at a dinner-party that mortimer lightwood, solicitor, at the request of lady tippins, told the story of the man from somewhere.
"upon my life," says mortimer languidly, "i can't fix him with a local habitation; but he comes from the place, the name of which escapes me, where they make the wine.
"the man," mortimer goes on, "whose name is harmon, was the only son of a tremendous old rascal, who made his money by dust, as a dust contractor.
this venerable parent, displeased with his son, turns him out of doors.
the boy takes flight, gets aboard ship, turns up on dry land among the cape wine; small proprietor, farmer, grower whatever you like to call it.
venerable parent dies.
his will is found.
it leaves the lowest of a range of dust mountains, with a dwelling-house, to an old servant, who is sole executor.
and that's all, except that the son's inheritance is made conditional on his marrying a girl, at the date of the will a child four or five years old, who is now a marriageable young woman.
advertisement and inquiry discovered the son in the man from somewhere, and he is now on his way home, after fourteen years' absence, to succeed to a very large fortune, and to take a wife."
mortimer, being asked what would become of the fortune in the event of the marriage condition not being fulfilled, replies that by a clause in the will it would then go to the old servant above-mentioned, passing over and excluding the son; also, that if the son had not been living, the same old servant would have been sole residuary legatee.
it is just when the ladies are retiring that mortimer receives a note from the butler.
"this really arrives in an extraordinarily opportune manner," says mortimer, after reading the paper presented to him.
"this is the conclusion of the story of the identical man.
man's drowned!"
the dinner being over, mortimer lightwood and his friend eugene wrayburn interviewed the boy who had brought the note, and then set out in a cab to the riverside quarter of wapping.
the cab dismissed, a little winding through some muddy alleys brings then to the bright lamp of a police-station, where they find the night-inspector.
he takes a bull's-eye, and mortimer and eugene follow him to a cool grot at the end of the yard.
they quickly come out again.
"no clue, gentlemen," says the inspector, "as to how the body came into river.
very often no clue.
steward of ship, in which gentleman came home passenger, had been round to view, and could swear to identity.
likewise could swear to clothes.
inquest to-morrow, and no doubt open verdict."
a stranger who had entered the station with lightwood and wrayburn attracts mr. inspector's attention.
"turned you faint, sir?
you expected to identify?"
"it's a horrible sight," says the stranger.
"no, i can't identify."
"you missed a friend, you know; or you missed a foe, or you wouldn't have come here, you know.
well, then, ain't it reasonable to ask, who was it?"
thus mr. inspector.
"at least, you won't object to write down your name and address?"
the stranger took the pen and wrote down, "mr. julius handford, exchequer coffee house, palace yard, westminster."
at the coroner's inquest next day, mr. mortimer lightwood watched the proceedings on behalf of the representatives of the deceased; and mr.
julius handford having given his right address, had no summons to appear.
upon the evidence before them, the jury found that mr. john harmon had come by his death under suspicious circumstances, though by whose act there was no evidence to show.
within eight-and-forty hours a reward of one hundred pounds was proclaimed by the home office, and for a time public interest in the harmon murder, as it came to be called, ran high.
ii.
the golden dustman
mr. boffin, a broad, round-shouldered, one-sided old fellow in mourning, dressed in a pea overcoat, and wearing thick leather gaiters, and gloves like a hedger's, came ambling towards the street corner where silas wegg sat at his stall.
a few small lots of fruits and sweets, and a choice collection of halfpenny ballads, comprised mr. wegg's stock, and assuredly it was the hardest little stall of all the sterile little stalls in london.
"morning, morning!"
said the old fellow.
"good-morning to you, sir!"
said mr. wegg.
the old fellow paused, and then startled mr. wegg with the question, "how did you get your wooden leg?"
"in an accident."
"do you like it?"
"well, i haven't got to keep it warm," mr. wegg answered desperately.
"did you ever hear of the name of boffin?
and do you like it?"
"why, no," said mr. wegg, growing restive; "i can't say that i do."
"my name's boffin," said the old fellow, smiling.
"but there's another chance for you.
do you like the name of nicodemus?
think it over.
nick or noddy.
noddy boffin, that's my name."
"it is not, sir," said mr. wegg, in a tone of resignation, "a name as i could wish anyone to call me by, but there may be persons that would not view it with the same objections.
silas wegg is my name.
i don't know why silas, and i don't know why wegg."
"now, wegg," said mr. boffin, "i came by here one morning and heard you reading through your ballads to a butcher-boy.
i thought to myself, 'here's a literary man with a wooden leg, and all print is open to him!
and here am i without a wooden leg, and all print is shut to me.'"
"i believe you couldn't show me the piece of english print that i wouldn't be equal to collaring and throwing," mr. wegg admitted modestly.
"now i want some reading, and i must pay a man so much an hour to come and do it for me.
say two hours a night at twopence-halfpenny.
half-a-
crown a week.
what do you think of the terms, wegg?"
"mr. boffin, i never did 'aggle, and i never will 'aggle.
i meet you at once, free and fair, with  done, for double the money!"
from that night silas wegg came to read at boffin's bower or harmony jail, as the house was formerly called and he soon learnt that his employer was no other than the inheritor of old harmon's property, and that he was known as the golden dustman.
it was not long after silas wegg's appointment that mr. boffin was accosted by a strange gentleman, who gave his name as john rokesmith, and proposed his services as private secretary.
mr. rokesmith mentioned that he lodged at one mr. wilfer's, in holloway.
mr. boffin stared.
"father of miss bella wilfer?"
"my landlord has a daughter named bella."
"well, to tell you the truth, i don't know what to say," said mr.
boffin; "but call at the bower, though i don't know that i shall ever be in want of a secretary."
so to the bower came mr. john rokesmith, but not before the boffins had called at the wilfers' and seen the young lady destined by old harmon for his son's bride.
"noddy," said mrs. boffin, "i have been thinking early and late of that girl, bella wilfer, who was so cruelly disappointed both of her husband and his riches.
don't you think we might do something for her?
have her to live with us?
and, noddy, i tell you what i want i want society.
we have come into a great fortune, and we must act up to it.
it's never been acted up to, and consequently no good has come of it."
it was agreed that they should move into a good house in a good neighbourhood, and that a visit should be paid to mr. wilfer at once.
mrs. wilfer received them with a tragic air.
"mrs. boffin and me, ma'am," said mr. boffin, "are plain people, and we make this call to say we shall be glad to have the honour and pleasure of your daughter's acquaintance, and that we shall be rejoiced if your daughter will come to consider our house in the light of her home equally with this."
"i am much obliged to you i am sure," said miss bella, coldly shaking her curls, "but i doubt if i have the inclination to go out at all."
"bella," mrs. wilfer admonished her solemnly, "you must conquer this!"
"yes, do what your ma says, and conquer it, my dear," urged mrs. boffin, "because we shall be so glad to have you, and because you are much too pretty to keep yourself shut up."
with that mrs. boffin gave her a kiss, which bella frankly returned; and it was settled that bella should be sent for as soon as they were ready to receive her.
"by the bye, ma'am," said mr. boffin, as he was leaving, "you have a lodger?"
"a gentleman," mrs. wilfer answered, "undoubtedly occupies our first floor."
"i may call him our mutual friend," said mr. boffin.
"what sort of fellow is our mutual friend, now?
do you like him?"
"mr. rokesmith is very punctual, very quiet a very eligible inmate."
the boffins drove away, and mr. rokesmith, coming to the bower, extricated mr. boffin from a mass of disordered papers, and gave such satisfaction that his services were accepted, and he took up the secretaryship.
ii.
the golden dustman deteriorates
miss bella wilfer was conscious that she was growing mercenary.
she admitted as much to her father.
there were several other secrets she had to impart beyond her own lack of improvement.
"mr. rokesmith has made an offer to me, pa, and i told him i thought it a betrayal of trust on his part, and an affront to me.
mrs. boffin has herself told me, with her own kind lips, that they wish to see me well married; and that when i marry, with their consent, they will portion me most handsomely.
that is another secret.
and now there is only one more, and it is very hard to tell it.
but mr. boffin is being spoilt by prosperity, and is changing for the worse every day.
not to me he is always the same to me but to others about him.
he grows suspicious, hard, and unjust.
if ever a good man were ruined by good fortune, it is my benefactor."
bella parted from her father, and returned to the boffins, to find fresh proofs of the deterioration of the golden dustman.
"now, rokesmith," mr. boffin was saying, "it's time to settle about your wages.
a man of property like me is bound to consider the market price.
if i pay for a sheep, i buy it out and out.
similarly, if i pay for a secretary, i buy him out and out.
it's convenient to have you at all times ready on the premises."
the secretary bowed and withdrew.
bella's eyes followed him to the door.
she felt that mrs. boffin was uncomfortable.
"noddy," said mrs. boffin thoughtfully, "haven't you been a little strict with mr. rokesmith to-night?
haven't you been just a little not quite like your own old self?"
"why, old woman, i hope so," said mr. boffin cheerfully.
"our old selves wouldn't do here, old lady.
our old selves would be fit for nothing but to be imposed upon.
our old selves weren't people of fortune.
our new selves are.
it's a great difference."
very uncomfortable was bella that night, and very uneasy was she as the days went by, for mr. boffin made a point of hunting up old books that gave the lives of misers, and the more enjoyment he seemed to get out of this literature, the harder he became to the secretary.
somehow, the worse mr. boffin treated his secretary, the more bella felt drawn to the man whose offer of marriage she had refused.
the crisis came one morning when the golden dustman's bearing towards rokesmith was even more arrogant and offensive than it had been before.
mrs. boffin was seated on a sofa, and mr. boffin had bella on his arm.
"don't be alarmed, my dear," he said gently.
"i'm going to see you righted."
then he turned to his secretary.
"now, sir, look at this young lady.
how dare you come out of your station to pester this young lady with your impudent addresses?
this young lady, who was far above you.
this young lady was looking about for money, and you had no money."
bella hung her head, and mrs. boffin broke out crying.
"this rokesmith is a needy young man," mr. boffin went on unmoved.
"he gets acquainted with my affairs and gets to know that i mean to settle a sum of money upon this young lady."
"i indignantly deny it!"
said the secretary quietly.
"but our connection being at an end, it matters little what i say."
"i discharge you," mr. boffin retorted.
"there's your money."
"mrs. boffin," said rokesmith, "for your unvarying kindness i thank you with the warmest gratitude.
miss wilfer, good-bye."
"oh, mr. rokesmith," said bella in her tears, "hear one word from me before you go.
i am deeply sorry for the reproaches you have borne on my account.
out of the depths of my heart i beg your pardon."
she gave him her hand, and he put it to his lips and said, "god bless you!"
"there was a time when i deserved to be 'righted,' as mr. boffin has done," bella went on, "but i hope that i shall never deserve it again."
once more john rokesmith put her hand to his lips, and then relinquished it, and left the room.
bella threw her arms round mrs. boffin's neck.
"he has been most shamefully abused and driven away, and i am the cause of it.
i must go home; i am very grateful for all you have done for me, but i can't stay here."
"now, bella," said mr. boffin, "look before you leap.
go away, and you can never come back.
and you mustn't expect that i'm a-going to settle money on you if you leave me like this, because i'm not.
not one brass farthing."
"no power on earth could make me take it now," said bella haughtily.
then she broke into sobs over saying good-bye to mrs. boffin, said a last word to mr. boffin, and ran upstairs.
a few minutes later she went out of the house.
"that was well done," said bella when she was in the street, "and now i'll go and see my dear, darling pa in the city."
iv.
the runaway marriage
bella found her way to her father's office in the city.
it was after hours, and the little man was alone, having tea on a small cottage loaf and a pennyworth of milk, for r. wilfer was but a clerk on a small income.
he immediately fetched another loaf and another pennyworth of milk, and then, before she could tell him she had left the boffins, who should come along but john rokesmith.
and john rokesmith not only came in, but he caught bella in his arms, and she was content to leave her head on his breast as if that were her head's chosen and lasting resting place.
"i knew you would come to him, and i followed you," said rokesmith.
"you are mine."
"yes, i am yours if you think me worth taking," bella responded.
then bella's father had to hear what had happened, and said his daughter had done well.
"to think," said wilfer, looking round the office, "that anything of a tender nature should come off here is what tickles me."
a few weeks later and bella and her father went out early one morning and took the steamer to greenwich.
and at greenwich there was john rokesmith, and presently in a church john and bella were joined together in wedlock.
they had been married a year, and lived in a little house at blackheath.
john rokesmith went up to the city every day, and explained that he was "in a china house."
from time to time he would ask her, "would you like to be rich now, my darling?"
and got for answer, "dear john, am i not rich?"
but for all that a change came in their affairs.
for mortimer lightwood, who had met bella at the boffins', seeing her walking with her husband, recognised him as julius handford; and as mr. inspector had never discovered what became of mr. julius handford, he must needs pay mr.
rokesmith a visit.
and then it turned out that john rokesmith was not only julius handford, but john harmon himself, much to mr. inspector's astonishment.
more surprises were to follow, for when john came home next day he told bella that he had left the china house, and was better off.
"we must have our headquarters in london now, my dear, and there's a house ready for us."
and the house which john and bella visited next day was none other than the boffins', and when they arrived, there were mr. and mrs. boffin beaming at them.
mrs. boffin told bella that john rokesmith was john harmon, and how, remembering him as a small boy, she had guessed it quite early.
then mrs. boffin admitted that john, despairing of winning bella's heart, and determined that there should be no question of money in the marriage, he was for going away, and that noddy said he would prove that she loved him.
"we was all of us in it, my beauty," mrs.
boffin concluded, "and when you was married there was we hid up in the church organ by this husband of yours, for he wouldn't let us out with it then, as was first meant.
but it was noddy who said that he would prove you had a true heart of gold.
'if she was to stand up for you when you was slighted,' he said to john, 'and if she was to do that against her own interest, how would that do?'
'do?'
says john, 'it would raise me to the skies.'
'then,' says my noddy, 'get ready for the ascent, john, for up you go.
look out for being slighted and oppressed.'
and then he began.
and how he did begin, didn't he?"
"it looks as if old harmon's spirit had found rest at last, and as if his money had turned bright again after a long rust in the dark," said mrs. boffin to her husband that night.
"yes, old lady."
the mystery of the harmon murder is yet to be explained.
john harmon, going on shore with a fellow passenger, who greatly resembled him, was drugged and robbed of his money in a house near the river by this man.
but the robber, who had taken harmon's clothes, was himself robbed and thrown into the water, and harmon recovered consciousness and made his escape just at the time when the body of his assailant was recovered.
in this state of strange excitement he turned up at the police station, and, unwilling to reveal his identity at the moment, passed himself off as julius handford.
pickwick papers
dickens first became known to the public through the famous      "sketches by boz," which appeared in the "monthly magazine" in      december, 1833, the complete series being collected and      published in volume form three years later.
this was followed      by the immortal "posthumous papers of the pickwick club" in      1836, which soon placed dickens in the front rank of english      novelists.
frankly humorous as "pickwick" is, dickens, in a      preface to a later edition, recorded with satisfaction that      "legal reforms had pared the claws of messrs. dodson and      fogg," that the laws relating to imprisonment for debt had      been altered, and the fleet prison pulled down.
i. mr. pickwick engages sam weller
mr. pickwick's apartments in goswell street were of a very neat and comfortable description, peculiarly adapted for a man of his genius and observation, and importance as general chairman of the world-famed pickwick club.
his landlady, mrs. bardell, was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural gift for cooking.
cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house, and in it mr. pickwick's will was law.
to anyone acquainted with these things and with mr. pickwick's admirably regulated mind, his conduct on the morning previous to his setting out for eatanswill seemed most mysterious and unaccountable.
he paced the room, popped his head out of the window, and constantly referred to his watch.
it was evident to mrs. bardell, who was dusting the apartment, that something of importance was in contemplation.
"mrs. bardell," said mr. pickwick at last, "your little boy is a very long time gone."
"why, it's a good long way to the borough, sir!"
remonstrated mrs.
bardell.
"very true; so it is.
mrs. bardell do you think it's a much greater expense to keep two people than to keep one?"
"la, mr.
pickwick!"
said mrs. bardell, colouring, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger.
"la, mr. pickwick, what a question!"
"well, but do you?"
inquired mr. pickwick.
"that depends," said mrs. bardell, "a good deal upon the person, you know, mr. pickwick; and whether it's a saving and careful person, sir."
"that's very true," said mr. pickwick; "but the person i have in my eye (here he looked very hard at mrs. bardell) i think possesses these qualities.
to tell you the truth, i have made up my mind.
you'll think it very strange now that i never consulted you about this matter till i sent your little boy out this morning, eh?"
mrs. bardell had long worshipped mr. pickwick at a distance, and now she thought he was going to propose.
a deliberate plan, too sent her little boy to the borough to get him out of the way!
how thoughtful!
how considerate!
"it'll save you a good deal of trouble, won't it?"
said mr. pickwick.
"and when i am in town you'll always have somebody to sit with you."
mr.
pickwick smiled placidly.
"i'm sure i ought to be a very happy woman," said mrs. bardell, trembling with agitation.
"oh, you kind, good, playful dear!"
and, without more ado, she flung her arms round mr. pickwick's neck.
"bless my soul!"
cried the astonished mr. pickwick.
"mrs. bardell, my good woman!
dear me, what a situation!
pray consider if anybody should come!"
"oh, let them come!"
exclaimed mrs. bardell frantically.
"i'll never leave you, dear, kind soul!"
and she clung the tighter.
"mercy upon me," said mr. pickwick, struggling; "i hear somebody coming upstairs!
don't, there's a good creature, don't!"
but mrs. bardell had fainted in his arms, and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, master bardell entered the room, followed by mr. pickwick's friends mr. tupman, mr. winkle, and mr. snodgrass.
"what is the matter?"
said the three pickwickians.
"i don't know!"
replied mr. pickwick; while the ever gallant mr. tupman led mrs. bardell, who said she was better, downstairs.
"i cannot conceive what has been the matter with the woman.
i merely told her of my intention of keeping a manservant, when she fell into an extraordinary paroxysm.
very remarkable thing."
"very," said his three friends.
"there's a man in the passage now," said mr. tupman.
"it's the man i've sent for from the borough," said mr. pickwick.
"have the goodness to call him up."
mr. samuel weller forthwith presented himself, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside.
"ta'nt a wery good 'un to look at," said sam, "but it's an astonishin'
'un to wear.
and afore the brim went it was a wery handsome tile."
"now, with regard to the matter on which i sent for you," said mr.
pickwick.
"that's the pint, sir; out vith it, as the father said to the child ven he swallowed a farden."
"we want to know, in the first place," said mr. pickwick, "whether you are discontented with your present situation?"
"afore i answers that 'ere question," replied mr. weller, "i should like to know whether you're a-goin' to purwide me vith a better."
mr. pickwick smiled benevolently as he said: "i have half made up my mind to engage you myself."
"have you though?"
said sam.
"wages?"
"twelve pounds a year."
"clothes?"
"two suits."
"work?"
"to attend upon me, and travel about with me and these gentlemen here."
"take the bill down," said sam emphatically.
"i'm let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.
if the clothes fit me half as well as the place, they'll do."
ii.
bardell vs. pickwick
acting on the advice of messrs. dodson & fogg, solicitors, mrs. bardell brought an action for breach of promise of marriage against mr.
pickwick, and the damages were laid at £1,500.
february 14 was the day fixed for the memorable trial.
when mr. pickwick and his friends reached the court, and the judge mr.
justice stareleigh had taken his place, it was found that only ten of the special jury were present, and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught from the common jury to make up the number.
"i beg this court's pardon," said the chemist, "but i hope this court will excuse my attendance.
i have no assistant, and i can't afford to hire one."
"then you ought to be able to afford it," said the judge, a most particularly short man, and so fat that he seemed all face and waistcoat.
"very well, my lord," replied the chemist, "then there'll be murder before this trial's over, that's all.
i've left nobody, but an errand-
boy in my shop, and i know that he thinks epsom salts means oxalic acid, and syrup of senna, laudanum; that's all, my lord."
mr. pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror when mrs. bardell, supported by her friend, mrs. cluppins, was led into court.
then sergeant buzfuz opened the case for the plaintiff, and when he had finished elizabeth cluppins was called.
"do you recollect, mrs. cluppins," said sergeant buzfuz, "do you recollect being in mrs. bardell's back room on one particular morning last july, when she was dusting pickwick's apartment?"
"yes, my lord and jury, i do," replied mrs. cluppins.
"what were you doing in the back room, ma'am?"
inquired the little judge.
"my lord and jury," said mrs. cluppins, "i will not deceive you."
"you had better not, ma'am," said the little judge.
"i was there," resumed mrs. cluppins, "unbeknown to mrs. bardell; i had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pounds of red kidney pertaties, which was tuppence ha'penny, when i see mrs. bardell's street-door on the jar."
"on the what?"
exclaimed the little judge.
"partly open, my lord."
"she said on the jar," said the little judge, with a cunning look.
"i walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin', and went in a permiscuous manner upstairs, and into the back room.
there was a sound of voices in the front room, very loud, and forced themselves upon my ear."
mrs. cluppins then related the conversation we have already heard between mr. pickwick and mrs. bardell.
the next witness was mr. winkle, and after him came mr. tupman, and mr.
snodgrass, all of whom appeared on subpoena by the plaintiff's lawyers.
sergeant buzfuz then rose and said, with considerable importance, "call samuel weller."
it was quite unnecessary to call him, for samuel weller stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced.
"what's your name, sir?"
inquired the judge.
"sam weller, my lord."
"do you spell it with a 'v or a 'w?"
inquired the judge.
"that depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my lord," replied sam, "but i spells it with a 'v.'"
here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, "quite right, too, samuel; quite right.
put it down a we, my lord, put it down a we."
"who is that that dares to address the court?"
said the little judge, looking up.
"i rayther suspect it was my father, my lord," replied sam.
"do you see him here now?"
said the judge.
"no, i don't my lord," replied sam, staring right up in the roof of the court.
"if you could have pointed him out, i would have committed him instantly," said the judge.
sam bowed his acknowledgments.
"now, mr. weller," said sergeant buzfuz, "i believe you are in the service of mr. pickwick; speak up, if you please."
"i mean to speak up, sir," replied sam.
"i am in the service o' that 'ere gen'l'man, and a wery good service it is."
"little to do, and plenty to get, i suppose?"
said sergeant buzfuz.
"oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes," replied sam.
"you must not tell us what the soldier said," interposed the judge, "it's not evidence."
"wery good, my lord."
"now, mr. weller," said sergeant buzfuz, "do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by the defendant?"
"yes, i do, sir.
i had a reg'lar new fit-out o' clothes that mornin', and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in those days."
"do you mean to tell me, mr. weller, that you saw nothing of the fainting of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant?"
"certainly not; i was in the passage till they called me up, and then the old lady wasn't there."
"have you a pair of eyes, mr.
weller?"
"yes, that's just it," replied sam.
"if they was a pair o' patent double million magnifyin' gas microscopes of hextra power, p'raps i might be able to see through a flight o' stairs and a deal door, but bein' only eyes, you see, my wision's limited."
"do you remember going up to mrs. bardell's house one night last november?
i suppose you went to have a little talk about this trial, eh, mr.
weller?"
said sergeant buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury.
"i went up to pay the rent," said sam; "but the ladies gets into a wery great state of admiration at the honourable conduct o' mr. dodson and fogg, and said what a wery gen'rous thing it was o' them to have taken up the case on spec., and to have charged nothin' at all for costs, unless they got 'em out of mr.
pickwick."
at this very unexpected reply the spectators tittered, and mr. sergeant buzfuz said curtly, "stand down, sir."
sergeant snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant, and after that mr. justice stareleigh summed up.
at the end of a quarter of an hour the jury brought in a verdict for the plaintiff with £750 damages.
in the court-room mr. pickwick encountered messrs. dodson and fogg, rubbing their hands with satisfaction.
"not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get out of me, if i spend the rest of my existence in a debtor's prison," said mr. pickwick.
"we shall see about that," said mr. fogg grinning.
outside mr. pickwick and his friends made their way to a hackney coach, and sam weller was just preparing to jump upon the box when his father stood before him.
the old gentleman shook his head gravely and said in warning accents, "i know'd what 'ud come o' this here mode o' doin'
bisness.
oh, sammy, sammy, vy worn't there a alleybi?"
"but surely, my dear sir," said perker to his client the following morning, "you don't really mean, seriously now, that you won't pay these costs and damages?"
"not one halfpenny," said mr. pickwick.
"hooroar for the principle, as the money-lender said ven he vouldn't renew the bill," observed mr. samuel weller.
iii.
in the fleet prison
two months later mr. pickwick was arrested for the non-payment of costs and damages and taken to the fleet prison.
and so, for the first time in his life, mr. pickwick found himself within the walls of a debtor's prison.
"where am i to sleep to-night?"
inquired mr. pickwick of the turnkey, and after some discussion it was discovered there was a bed to let.
"it ain't a large 'un, but it's an out-and-outer to sleep in.
this way, sir," said the turnkey.
mr. pickwick, accompanied by sam weller, followed his guide up a staircase and along a gallery; at the end of this was an apartment containing eight or nine iron bedsteads.
mr. pickwick felt very low-spirited and uncomfortable when he was left alone, and he went slowly to bed.
he was awakened from his slumbers by the noise of his bed-fellows, one of whom, wearing grey cotton stockings, was performing a hornpipe; while another, evidently very drunk, was warbling as much as he could recollect of a comic song; the third, a man with thick, bushy whiskers, was applauding both performers.
"my name is smangle, sir," said the man with the whiskers to mr.
pickwick.
"mine is mivins," said the man in the stockings.
"well; but come," said mr. smangle, after assuring mr. pickwick a great many times that he entertained a very high respect for the feelings of a gentleman, "this is but dry work.
let's rinse our mouths with a drop of burnt sherry; the last-comer shall stand it, mivins shall fetch it, and i'll help to drink it.
that's a fair and gentleman-like division of labour, anyhow."
mr. pickwick, unwilling to hazard a quarrel, gladly assented to the proposition.
when mr. pickwick opened his eyes next morning, the first object upon which they rested was samuel weller, seated upon a small black portmanteau.
he soon learnt that money was in the fleet just what money was out of it; and that if he wished it he could have a room to himself, if he was willing to pay for it.
"there's a capital room up in the coffee-room flight that belongs to a chancery prisoner," said the turnkey.
"it'll stand you in a pound a week.
lord!
why didn't you say at first that you was willing to come down handsome?"
the matter was soon arranged, and in a short time the room was furnished.
"sam," said mr. pickwick, when his servant had done his best to make the apartment comfortable, and was now inspecting the arrangements, "i have felt from the first that this is not the place to bring a young man to."
"nor an old 'un neither, sir."
"you're quite right, sam," said mr. pickwick.
"but old men may come here through their own heedlessness and unsuspicion.
do you understand me, sam?"
"vell, sir," rejoined sam, after a pause, "i think i see your drift, and it's my 'pinion that you're a-comin' it a great deal too strong, as the mail-coachman said to the snowstorm ven it overtook him."
"for the time that i remain here," said mr. pickwick, "you must leave me, sam."
"now, i tell you vot it is," said mr. weller, in a grave and solemn voice.
"this here sort o' thing won't do at all, so don't let's hear no more about it."
"i am serious, sam," said mr. pickwick.
"you air, air you, sir?"
inquired mr. weller.
"wery good, sir.
then so am i."
with that mr. weller fixed his hat on his head with great precision and left the room.
having found his father, sam explained to the elder mr.
weller that mr. pickwick must not be left alone in the fleet.
"vy, they'll eat him up alive, sammy!"
exclaimed the elder mr. weller.
"stop there by himself, poor creetur, without nobody to take his part!
it can't be done, samivel, it can't be done!"
"o' course it can't," asserted sam.
"well, then, i tell you wot it is.
i'll trouble you for the loan of five-and-twenty pound.
p'raps you may ask for it five minits artervards, p'raps i may say i von't pay, and cut up rough.
you von't think o' arrestin' your own son for the money, and sendin' him off to the fleet, will you, you unnat'ral wagabone?"
the elder mr. weller, having grasped the idea, laughed till he was purple.
in the course of the day sam was duly arrested at the suit of his father, and sam, having been formally delivered into the warden's custody, passed at once into the prison, and went straight to his master's room.
"i'm a pris'ner, sir," said sam.
"i was arrested this here wery arternoon for debt, and the man as put me in 'ull never let me out till you go yourself."
"bless my heart and soul!"
ejaculated mr. pickwick.
"what do you mean?"
"wot i say, sir," rejoined sam.
"if it's forty year to come, i shall be a pris'ner, and i'm very glad on it.
he's a malicious, bad-disposed, vorldly-minded, windictive creetur wot's put me in, with a hard heart as there ain't no soft'nin', as the wirtuous clergyman remarked of the old gen'l'm'n with a dropsy, ven he said that upon the whole he thought he'd rather leave his property to his vife than build a chapel with it."
in vain mr. pickwick remonstrated.
"i takes my determination on principle, sir," remarked sam, "and you takes yours on the same ground; vich puts me in mind o' the man as killed hisself on principle."
iv.
mr. pickwick leaves the fleet
those enterprising lawyers, messrs. dodson and fogg, having obtained no money from mr. pickwick, proceeded in july to arrest mrs. bardell, who, as a matter of form, had given them a cognovit for the amount of their costs.
mr. pickwick was taking his evening walk in the grounds of the fleet when mrs. bardell was brought in, and sam weller, seeing the lady, took off his hat in mock reverence.
mr. pickwick turned indignantly away.
"don't bother the woman," said the turnkey to weller; "she's just come in."
"a pris'ner!"
said sam.
"who's the plaintives?
what for?
speak up, old feller!"
"dodson and fogg," replied the man.
"here, job, job!"
shouted sam, dashing into the passage, and calling for a man who went errands for the prisoners.
"run to mr. perker's, job; i want him directly.
i see some good in this.
here's a game!
hooray!"
mr. perker was in mr. pickwick's room betimes next morning.
"well, now, my dear sir," said perker, "the first question i have to ask is whether this woman is to remain here?
it rests solely and wholly and entirely with you."
"with me!"
ejaculated mr. pickwick.
"nobody but you can rescue her from this den of wretchedness, to which no man, and still more no woman, should ever be consigned if i had my will," resumed mr. perker.
"i have seen the woman this morning.
by paying the costs, you can obtain a full release and discharge from the damages; and, further, a voluntary statement, under her hand, that this business was from the very first fomented and encouraged by these men, dodson and fogg.
she entreats me to intercede with you, and implores your pardon."
before mr. pickwick could reply, there was a low murmuring of voices outside, and a hesitating knock at the door; and mr. winkle, mr. tupman, and mr. snodgrass entering most opportunely, at last, by their united pleadings, mr. pickwick was fairly argued out of his resolutions.
at three o'clock that afternoon mr. pickwick took a last look at his little room, and made his way as well as he could through the throng of debtors who pressed eagerly forward to shake him by the hand, until he reached the lodge steps.
he turned here to look about him, and his eye brightened as he did so.
in all the crowd of wan, emaciated faces, he saw not one which was not the happier for his sympathy and charity.
as for sam weller, having dispatched job trotter to procure his formal discharge, his next proceeding was to invest his whole stock of ready money in the purchase of five-and-twenty gallons of mild porter, which he himself dispensed on the racket-ground to everybody who would partake of it.
this done, he hurra'd in divers parts of the building until he lost his voice, and then quietly relapsed into his usual collected and philosophical condition, and followed his master out of the prison.
tale of two cities
the french revolution has been the subject of more books than      any secular event that ever occurred, and two books by english      writers have brought the passion, the cruelty, and the horror      of it for all time within the shuddering comprehension of      english-speaking people.
one is a history that is more than a      history; the other a tale that is more than a tale.
dickens,      no doubt, owed much of his inspiration to carlyle's tremendous      prose epic.
but the genius that depicted a moving and tragic      story upon the red background of the terror was dickens's own,      and the "tale of two cities" was final proof that its author      could handle a great theme in a manner that was worthy of its      greatness.
the work was one of the novelist's later      writings it was published in 1859 and is in many respects      distinct from all his others.
it stands by itself among      dickens's masterpieces, in sombre and splendid loneliness a      detached glory to its author, and to his country's literature.
i. recalled to life
a large cask of wine had been dropped and broken in the street.
all the people within reach had suspended their business, or their idleness, to run to the spot and drink the wine.
some kneeled down, made scoops of their two hands joined, and tried to sip before the wine had all run out between their fingers.
others dipped in the puddles with little mugs of mutilated earthenware, or even with handkerchiefs from women's heads.
a shrill sound of laughter resounded in the street while this wine game lasted.
the wine was red wine, and had stained the ground of the narrow street in the suburb of saint antoine, in paris, where it was spilled.
it had stained many hands, too, and many faces, and many naked feet, and many wooden shoes.
one tall joker so besmirched scrawled upon a wall, with his finger dipped in muddy wine lees, "blood!"
and now that the cloud settled on saint antoine, which a momentary gleam had driven from his sacred countenance, the darkness of it was heavy
cold, dirt, sickness, ignorance, and want were the lords in waiting on the saintly presence.
the children had ancient faces and grave voices; and upon them, and upon the grown faces, and ploughed into every furrow of age, and coming up afresh, was the sign hunger.
the master of the wine-shop outside of which the cask had been broken turned back to his shop when the struggle for the wine was ended.
monsieur defarge was a dark, bull-necked man, good-humoured-looking on the whole, but implacable-looking, too.
three men who had been drinking at the counter paid for their wine, and left.
an elderly gentleman, who had been sitting in a corner with a young lady, advanced, introduced himself as mr. jarvis lorry, of tellson's bank, london, and begged the favour of a word.
the conference was very short, but very decided.
it had not lasted a minute, when monsieur defarge nodded and went out, followed by mr. lorry and the young lady.
he led them through a stinking little black courtyard, and up a staircase to a dim garret, where a white-haired man sat on a low bench, stooping and very busy, making shoes.
"you are still hard at work, i see," said monsieur defarge.
a pair of haggard eyes looked at the questioner, and a very faint voice replied, "yes, i am working."
"here is a visitor.
show him that shoe and tell him the maker's name."
there was a long pause, and the shoemaker asked, "what did you say?"
defarge repeated his words.
"it is a lady's shoe," answered the shoemaker.
"and the maker's name?"
"one hundred and five, north tower."
"dr. manette," said mr. lorry, looking steadfastly at him, "do you remember nothing of me?
do you remember nothing of defarge your old servant?"
as the bastille captive of many years gazed at them, marks of intelligence forced themselves through the mist that had fallen on him.
they were fainter; they were gone, but they had been there.
the young lady moved forward, with tears streaming from her eyes, and kissed him.
he took up her golden hair, and looked at it; then drew from his breast a folded rag, and opened it carefully.
it contained a little quantity of hair.
he took the girl's hair into his hand again.
"it is the same!
how can it be?
she had a fear of my going that night.
was it you?"
he turned upon her with frightful suddenness.
but his vigour swiftly died out, and he gloomily shook his head.
"no, no, no!
it can't be!"
she fell on her knees and clasped his neck.
"if you hear in my voice any resemblance to a voice that was once sweet music to your ears, weep for it weep for it!
thank god!"
she cried.
"i feel his sacred tears upon my face!
leave us here," she said.
and, as the darkness closed in, they left father and daughter together.
they came back at night.
a coach stood outside the courtyard, and the lately released prisoner, in scared, blank wonder, began the journey that was to end in england and rest.
ii.
the jackal
in the dimly-lighted passages of the old bailey, dr. manette, his daughter, and mr. lorry stood by mr. charles darnay just acquitted on a charge of high treason congratulating him on his escape from death.
it was not difficult to recognise in dr. manette, intellectual of face and upright in bearing, the shoemaker of the garret in paris.
he and his daughter had been unwilling witnesses for the prosecution, called to give evidence that might be distorted into corroboration of a paid spy's falsehoods as to darnay's dealings with the french king.
darnay kissed lucie manette's hand fervently and gratefully, and warmly thanked his counsel, mr. stryver.
as he watched them go, a person who had been leaning against the wall stepped up to him.
it was mr. carton, a barrister, who had sat throughout the trial with his whole attention seemingly concentrated upon the ceiling of the court.
everybody had been struck with the extraordinary resemblance, cleverly used by the defending counsel to confound a witness, between mr. carton and mr.
darnay.
mr. carton was shabbily dressed, and did not appear to be quite sober.
"this must be a strange sight to you," said carton, with a laugh.
"i hardly seem yet," returned darnay, "to belong to this world again."
"then why the devil don't you dine?"
he led him to a tavern, where darnay recruited his strength with a good, plain dinner.
carton drank, but ate nothing.
"now your dinner is done," carton presently said, "why don't you give your toast?"
"what toast?"
"why, it's on the tip of your tongue."
"miss manette, then!"
carton drank the toast, and flung his glass over his shoulder against the wall, where it shivered in pieces.
after darnay had gone, carton drank and slept till ten o'clock, and then walked to the chambers of mr. stryver.
mr. stryver was a glib man, and an unscrupulous, and a bold, and was fast shouldering his way to a lucrative practice; but it had been noted that he had not the striking and necessary faculty of extracting evidence from a heap of statements.
a remarkable improvement, however, came upon him as to this.
sydney carton, idlest and most unpromising of men, was his great ally.
what the two drank together would have floated a king's ship.
stryver never had a case in hand but what carton was there, with his hands in his pockets, staring at the ceiling.
at last it began to get about that, although sydney carton would never be a lion, he was an amazingly good jackal, and that he rendered service to stryver in that humble capacity.
folding wet towels on his head in a manner hideous to behold, the jackal began the "boiling down" of cases, while stryver reclined before the fire.
each had bottles and glasses ready to his hand.
the work was not done until the clocks were striking three.
climbing to a high chamber in a well of houses, carton threw himself down in his clothes on a neglected bed.
sadly, sadly the sun rose.
it rose upon no sadder sight than the man of good abilities and good emotions, incapable of his own help and his own happiness, sensible of the blight upon him, and resigning himself to let it eat him away.
iii.
the loadstone rock
"dear dr. manette," said charles darnay, "i love your daughter fondly, devotedly.
if ever there were love in the world, i love her!"
dr. manette turned towards him in his chair, but did not look at him or raise his eyes.
"have you spoken to lucie?"
he asked.
"no."
the doctor looked up; a struggle was evidently in his face a struggle with that look he still sometimes wore, with a tendency in it to dark doubt and dread.
"if lucie should ever tell me," he said, "that you are essential to her perfect happiness, i will give her to you."
"your confidence in me," answered darnay, relieved, "ought to be returned with full confidence on my part.
i am, as you know, like yourself, a voluntary exile from france.
the name i bear at present is not my own.
i wish to tell you what that is, and why i am in england."
"stop!"
the doctor laid his two hands on darnay's lips.
"tell me when i ask you, not now.
go!
god bless you!"
on a day shortly before the marriage, while lucie was sitting at her work alone, sydney carton entered.
"i fear you are not well, mr. carton," she said, looking up at him.
"no; but the life i lead is not conducive to health."
"is it not forgive me a pity to live no better life?"
"it is too late for that."
he covered her eyes with his hand.
"will you hear me?"
he continued.
"since i have known you, i have been troubled by a remorse that i thought would never reproach me again.
a dream, all a dream, that ends in nothing; but let me carry through the rest of my misdirected life the remembrance that i opened my heart to you, last of all the world."
"mr. carton," she answered, after an agitated pause, "i promise to respect your secret."
"god bless you!
my last application is this, that you will believe that for you, and for any dear to you, i would do anything.
oh, miss manette, think now and then that there is a man who would give his life to keep a life you love beside you!"
he said "farewell!"
and left her.
a wonderful corner for echoes was the quiet street-corner near soho square, where dr. manette lived with his daughter and her husband.
but lucie heard in the echoes none but friendly and soothing sounds.
her husband's step was strong and prosperous among them; her father's firm and equal.
the time came when a little lucie lay on her bosom.
but there were other echoes that rumbled menacingly in the distance, with a sound as of a great storm in france, with a dreadful sea rising.
it was august of the year 1792. charles darnay talked in a low voice with mr. lorry in tellson's bank.
the bank had a branch in paris, and the london establishment was the headquarters of the aristocratic emigrants who had fled from france.
"and do you really go to paris to-night?"
asked darnay.
"i do.
you can have no conception of the peril in which our books and papers over yonder are involved, and the getting them out of harm's way is in the power of scarcely anyone but myself."
as mr. lorry spoke a letter was laid before him.
darnay saw the direction it was to himself.
"to monsieur heretofore the marquis st.
evrémonde."
horrified at the oppression and cruelty of his family towards the people, darnay had left his native country and had never used the title that had, some years before, fallen to him by inheritance.
he had told his secret to dr. manette on the wedding morning, and to none other.
"i know the man," he said.
"will you take charge of the letter and deliver it?"
asked mr. lorry.
"i will."
when alone, darnay opened the letter.
it was from the steward of his french estate.
the man had been charged with acting for an emigrant against the people.
it was in vain he had urged that by the marquis's instructions he had acted for the people had remitted all rents and imposts.
the only response was that he had acted for an emigrant.
nothing but the marquis's personal testimony could save him from execution.
could he resist his old servant's appeal?
he knew the peril of it, but his honour was at stake; he must go.
that evening he wrote two letters explaining his purpose, one to lucie, one to the doctor.
on the next night he went out, pretending he would be back by-and-by.
the two letters he left with the trusty porter to be delivered before midnight; and, with a heavy heart, leaving all that was dear on earth behind him, he journeyed on drawn, like the mariner in the old story, to the loadstone rock.
iv.
the track of a storm
in the buildings of tellson's bank in paris, mr. lorry sat by a wood fire (it was early september, but the blighted year was prematurely cold), and on his honest face there was a deeper shade than the pendant lamp could throw a shade of horror.
by him sat dr. manette; lucie and her child were in an inner room.
they had hastened after darnay to paris.
dr. manette knew that as a bastille prisoner he bore a charmed life in revolutionary france, and that if darnay was in danger he could help him.
darnay was indeed in danger.
he had been arrested as an aristocrat and an enemy of the republic.
from the streets there came the usual night hum of the city, with now and then an indescribable ring in it, weird and unearthly, as if some unwonted sounds of a terrible nature were going up to heaven.
a loud noise of feet and voices came pouring into the courtyard.
mr.
lorry put his hand on the doctor's arm, and they looked out.
a throng of men and women crowded round a grindstone.
turning madly at its double handle were two men, whose faces were more horrible and cruel than the visages of the wildest savages.
the eye could not detect one creature in the surrounding group free from the smear of blood.
shouldering one another to get next at the sharpening-stone were men with the stain all over their limbs and bodies; hatchets, knives, bayonets, swords, all were red with it.
"they are murdering the prisoners," whispered mr. lorry.
dr. manette hastened out of the room, and down into the courtyard.
there was a pause, a murmur, and the sound of his voice.
then mr. lorry saw him, surrounded by all, hurried out with cries of "live the bastille prisoner!
help for the bastille prisoner's kindred in la force!"
it was long ere he returned.
he had presented himself at the prison before the self-appointed tribunal that was consigning the prisoners to massacre, and had announced himself as a victim of the bastille.
one member of the tribunal had identified him; the member was defarge.
he had pleaded hard for his son-in-law's life, and had been informed that the prisoner must remain in custody; but should, for the doctor's sake, be held in safe custody.
for fifteen months charles darnay remained in prison.
during all that time lucie was never sure but that her husband's head would be struck off next day.
when at length arraigned as an emigrant whose life was forfeit to the republic, he pleaded that he had come back to save a citizen's life.
that night he sat by the fire with his family, a free man.
lucie at last was at ease.
"what is that?"
she cried suddenly.
there was a knock at the door; four armed men in red caps entered the room.
"evrémonde," said the first, "you are again the prisoner of the republic!"
"why?"
he asked, with his wife and child clinging to him.
"you will know to-morrow."
"one word," entreated the doctor, "who has denounced him?"
"the citizen defarge, and another."
"what other?"
"citizen," said the man, with a strange look, "you will be answered to-morrow."
v. condemned
the news that darnay had been again arrested was brought to mr. lorry later in the evening, and the man who brought it was sydney carton.
he had come to paris, he said, on business; his business was now completed, he was about to return, and he had obtained his leave to pass.
"darnay," he said, "cannot escape condemnation this time."
"i fear not," answered mr. lorry.
"i have found," continued carton, "that the old bailey spy who charged darnay with high treason years ago is now in the service of the republic and is a turnkey at the prison of the conciergerie where darnay is confined.
by threatening to denounce him as a spy of pitt, i have secured that i shall gain access to darnay in the prison if the trial should go against him."
"but access to him," said mr. lorry, "will not save him."
"i never said it would."
mr. lorry looked at him mystified, and once more noted his strange resemblance to the man whose fate was to be decided on the morrow.
carton stood next day in an obscure corner among the crowd when charles evrémonde, called darnay, appeared again before the judges.
"who denounces the accused?"
asked the president.
"ernest defarge, wine-vendor."
"good."
"alexandre manette, physician."
"president," cried the doctor, pale and trembling, "i indignantly protest to you."
"citizen manette, be silent!
call citizen defarge."
rapidly defarge told his story.
he had been among the leaders in the taking of the bastille.
when the citadel had fallen, he had gone to the cell one hundred and five, north tower, and had searched it.
in a hole in the chimney he had found a paper in the handwriting of dr. manette.
"let it be read," said the president.
in this paper dr. manette had written the history of his imprisonment.
in the year 1757 he had been taken secretly by two nobles to visit two poor people who were on the point of death.
one was a woman whom one of the nobles had forcibly carried off from her husband; the other, her brother, whom the seducer had mortally wounded.
the doctor had come too late; both the woman and her brother died.
the doctor refused a fee, and, to relieve his mind, wrote privately to the government stating the circumstances of the crime.
one night he was called out of his home on a false pretext, and taken to the bastille.
the nobles were the marquis de st. evrémonde and his brother; and the marquis was the father of charles darnay.
a terrible sound arose in the court when the reading was done.
the voting of the jury was unanimous, and at every vote there was a roar.
death in twenty-four hours!
that night carton again came to mr. lorry.
between the two men, as they spoke, a figure on a chair rocked itself to and fro, moaning.
it was dr.
manette.
"he and lucie and her child must leave paris to-morrow," said carton.
"they are in danger of being denounced.
it is a capital crime to mourn for, or sympathise with, a victim of the guillotine.
be ready to start at two o'clock to-morrow afternoon.
see them into their seats; take your own seat.
the moment i come to you, take me in, and drive away.
"it shall be done."
carton turned to the couch where lucie lay unconscious, prostrated with utter grief.
he bent down, touched her face with his lips, and murmured some words.
little lucie told them afterwards that she heard him say, "a life you love."
vi.
the guillotine
in the black prison of the conciergerie, the doomed of the day awaited their fate.
fifty-two persons were to roll that afternoon on the life-tide of the city to the boundless, everlasting sea.
the hours went on as darnay walked to and fro in his cell, and the clocks struck the numbers he would never hear again.
the final hour, he knew, was three, and he expected to be summoned at two.
the clocks struck one.
"there is but another now," he thought.
he heard footsteps.
the door was opened, and there stood before him, quiet, intent, and smiling, sydney carton.
"darnay," he said, "i bring you a request from your wife."
"what is it?"
"there is no time you must comply.
take off your boots and coat, and put on mine."
"carton, there is no escaping from this place.
it is madness."
"do i ask you to escape?"
said carton, forcing the changes upon him.
"now sit at the table and write what i dictate."
"to whom do i address it?"
"to no one."
"if you remember," said carton, dictating, "the words that passed between us long ago, you will comprehend this when you see it.
i am thankful that the time has come when i can prove them."
carton's hand was withdrawn from his breast, and slowly and softly moved down the writer's face.
for a few seconds darnay struggled faintly, carton's hand held firmly at his nostrils; then he fell senseless to the ground.
carton called quietly to the turnkey, who looked in and went again as carton was putting the paper in darnay's breast.
he came back with two men.
they raised the unconscious figure and carried it away.
the door closed, and carton was left alone.
straining his powers of listening to the utmost, he listened for any sound that might denote suspicion or alarm.
there was none.
presently his door opened, and a gaoler looked in, merely saying: "follow me," whereupon carton followed him into a dark room.
as he stood by the wall in a dim corner, a young woman, with a slight, girlish figure, came to speak to him.
"citizen evrémonde," she said, "i am a poor little seamstress, who was with you in la force."
he murmured an answer.
"i heard you were released."
"i was, and was taken again and condemned."
"if i may ride with you, will you let me hold your hand?"
as the patient eyes were lifted to his face, he saw a sudden doubt in them.
"are you dying for him?"
she whispered.
"oh, you will let me hold your hand?"
"hush!
yes, my poor sister, to the last."
that afternoon a coach going out of paris drove up to the barrier.
"papers!"
demanded the guard.
the papers are handed out and read.
"alexandre manette, lucie manette, her child.
jarvis lorry, banker, english.
sydney carton, advocate, english.
which is he?"
he lies here, in a corner, apparently in a swoon.
he is in bad health.
"behold your papers, countersigned."
"one can depart, citizen?"
"one can depart."
the ministers of sainte guillotin are robed and ready.
crash!
and the women who sit with their knitting in front of the guillotine count one.
crash!
and the women count two.
the supposed evrémonde descends with the seamstress from the tumbril, and joins the fast-thinning throng of victims before the crashing engine that constantly whirrs up and falls.
the spare hand does not tremble as he grasps it.
she goes next before him is gone.
the knitting women count twenty-two.
the murmuring of many voices, the pressing on of many footsteps in the outskirts of the crowd, so that it swells forward like one great heave of water, all flashes away.
twenty-three.
they said of him about the city that night that it was the peacefulest man's face ever beheld there.
had he given utterance to his thoughts at the foot of the scaffold, they would have been these:
"i see the lives for which i lay down my life, peaceful, useful, prosperous, and happy in that england which i shall see no more.
i see her with a child upon her bosom, who bears my name.
i see that i hold a sanctuary in their hearts, and in the hearts of their descendants, generations hence.
"it is a far, far better thing that i do than i have ever done; it is a far, far better rest that i go to than i have ever known."
benjamin disraeli
coningsby
benjamin disraeli, earl of beaconsfield, was not only a great      figure in english politics in the nineteenth century; he was      also a novelist of brilliant powers.
born in london on      december 21, 1804, the son of isaac d'israeli, the future      prime minister of england was first articled to a solicitor;      but he quickly turned from this to politics.
disraeli was      leader of the conservative party in the house of commons in      1847; he was twice prime minister.
in 1876 he was created earl      of beaconsfield.
disraeli's novels especially the famous      trilogy of "coningsby," 1844, "sybil," 1845, and "tancred,"
1846 are remarkable chiefly for the view they give of      contemporary political life, and for the definite political      philosophy of their author.
neither the earlier      novels "vivian grey", 1826, "contarini fleming," "alroy,"
1832, "henrietta temple" and "venetia," 1837 nor the later      ones "lothair," 1870, and "endymion," 1874 are to be ranked      with "coningsby" and "sybil."
many characters in "coningsby"
are well-known men.
lord monmouth is lord hertford, whom      thackeray depicted as the marquess of steyne, rigby is john      wilson croker, oswald millbank is mr. gladstone, lord h.
sydney is lord john manners, sidonia is baron alfred de      rothschild, and coningsby is lord lyttelton.
lord beaconsfield      died in london on april 19, 1881.
i. the hero of eton
coningsby was the orphan child of the younger of the two sons of lord monmouth.
it was a family famous for its hatreds.
the elder son hated his father, and lived at naples, maintaining no connection either with his parent or his native country.
on the other hand, lord monmouth hated his younger son, who had married against his consent a woman to whom that son was devoted.
persecuted by his father, he died abroad, and his widow returned to england.
not having a relation, and scarcely an acquaintance, in the world, she made an appeal to her husband's father, the wealthiest noble in england, and a man who was often prodigal, and occasionally generous, who respected law, and despised opinion.
lord monmouth decided that, provided she gave up her child, and permanently resided in one of the remotest counties, he would make her a yearly allowance of three hundred pounds.
necessity made the victim yield; and three years later, mrs. coningsby died, the same day that her father-
in-law was made a marquess.
coningsby was then not more than nine years of age; and when he attained his twelfth year an order was received from lord monmouth, who was at rome, that he should go at once to eton.
coningsby had never seen his grandfather.
it was mr. rigby who made arrangements for his education.
this mr. rigby was the manager of lord monmouth's parliamentary influence and the auditor of his vast estates.
he was a member for one of lord monmouth's boroughs, and, in fact, a great personage.
lord monmouth had bought him, and it was a good purchase.
in the spring of 1832, when the country was in the throes of agitation over the reform bill, lord monmouth returned to england, accompanied by the prince and princess colonna and the princess lucretia, the prince's daughter by his first wife.
coningsby was summoned from eton to monmouth house, and returned to school in the full favour of the marquess.
coningsby was the hero of eton; everybody was proud of him, talked of him, quoted him, imitated him.
but the ties of friendship bound coningsby to henry sydney and oswald millbank above all companions.
lord henry sydney was the son of a duke, and millbank was the son of one of the wealthiest manufacturers in lancashire.
once, on the river, coningsby saved millbank's life; and this was the beginning of a close and ardent friendship.
coningsby liked very much to talk politics with millbank.
he heard things from millbank which were new to him.
politics had, as yet, appeared to him a struggle whether the country was to be governed by whig nobles or tory nobles; and coningsby, a high tory as he supposed himself to be, thought it very unfortunate that he should probably have to enter life with his friends out of power and his family boroughs destroyed.
but, in conversing with millbank, he heard for the first time of influential classes in the country who were not noble, and were yet determined to acquire power.
generally, at that time, among the upper boys at eton there was a reigning inclination for political discussion, and a feeling in favour of "conservative principles."
a year later, and in 1836, gradually the inquiry fell upon attentive ears as to what these conservative principles were.
before coningsby and his friends left eton coningsby for cambridge, and millbank for oxford they were resolved to contend for political faith rather than for mere partisan success or personal ambition.
ii.
a portrait of a lady
on his way to coningsby castle, in lancashire, where the marquess of monmouth was living in state feasting the county, patronising the borough, and diffusing confidence in the conservative party in order that the electors of dartford might return his man, mr. rigby, once more for parliament our hero halted for the night at manchester.
in the coffee-room at the hotel a stranger, loud in praise of the commercial enterprise of the neighbourhood, advised coningsby, if he wanted to see something tip-top in the way of cotton works, to visit millbank of millbank's; and thus it came about that coningsby first met edith millbank.
oswald was abroad; and mr. millbank, when he heard the name of his visitor, was only distressed that the sudden arrival left no time for adequate welcome.
"my visit to manchester, which led to this, was quite accidental," said coningsby.
"i am bound for the other division of the county, to pay a visit to my grandfather, lord monmouth, but an irresistible desire came over me during my journey to view this famous district of industry."
a cloud passed over the countenance of millbank as the name of lord monmouth was mentioned; but he said nothing, only turning towards coningsby, with an air of kindness, to beg him, since to stay longer was impossible, to dine with him.
coningsby gladly agreed to this and the village clock was striking five when mr. millbank and his guest entered the gardens of his mansion and proceeded to the house.
the hall was capacious and classic; and as they approached the staircase the sweetest and the clearest voice exclaimed from above: "papa, papa!"
and instantly a young girl came bounding down the stairs; but suddenly, seeing a stranger with her father, she stopped upon the landing-place.
mr. millbank beckoned her, and she came down slowly; at the foot of the stairs her father said briefly: "a friend you have often heard of, edith this is mr.
coningsby."
she started, blushed very much, and then put forth her hand.
"how often have we all wished to see and to thank you!"
miss edith millbank remarked in tones of sensibility.
opposite coningsby at dinner that night was a portrait which greatly attracted his attention.
it represented a woman extremely young and of a rare beauty.
the face was looking out of the canvas, and the gaze of this picture disturbed the serenity of coningsby.
on rising to leave the table he said to mr. millbank, "by whom is that portrait, sir?"
the countenance of millbank became disturbed; his expression was agitated, almost angry.
"oh!
that is by a country artist," he said, "of whom you never heard."
iii.
the course of true love
the princess colonna resolved that an alliance should take place between coningsby and her step-daughter.
but the plans of the princess, imparted to mr. rigby that she might gain his assistance in achieving them, were doomed to frustration.
coningsby fell deeply in love with miss millbank; and lord monmouth himself decided to marry lucretia.
it was in paris that coningsby, on a visit to his grandfather, woke to the knowledge of his love for edith millbank.
they met at a brilliant party, miss millbank in the care of her aunt, lady wallinger.
"miss millbank says that you have quite forgotten her," said a mutual friend.
coningsby started, advanced, coloured a little, could not conceal his surprise.
the lady, too, though more prepared, was not without confusion.
coningsby recalled at that moment the beautiful, bashful countenance that had so charmed him at millbank; but two years had effected a wonderful change, and transformed the silent, embarrassed girl into a woman of surpassing beauty.
that night the image of edith millbank was the last thought of coningsby as he sank into an agitated slumber.
in the morning his first thought was of her of whom he had dreamed.
the light had dawned on his soul.
coningsby loved.
the course of true love was not to run smoothly with our hero.
within a few days he heard rumours that miss millbank was to be married to sidonia, a wealthy and gifted man of the jewish race, the friend of lord monmouth.
often had coningsby admired the wisdom and the abilities of sidonia; against such a rival he felt powerless, and, without mustering courage to speak, left hastily for england.
but coningsby had been deceived the gossip was without foundation; and once more he was to meet edith millbank.
this time, however, it was mr.
millbank himself who vetoed the courtship.
oswald had invited his friend to millbank; and coningsby, having learnt the baselessness of the report that had driven him from paris, gladly accepted.
coningsby castle was near to hellingsley; and this estate mr.
millbank had purchased, outbidding lord monmouth.
bitter enmity existed between the great marquess and the famous manufacturer an old, implacable hatred.
mr. millbank now resided at hellingsley; and coningsby left the castle rejoicing to meet his old eton friend again, and still more the beautiful sister of his old friend.
mr. millbank was from home when he arrived; and coningsby and miss millbank walked in the park, and rested by the margin of a stream.
assuredly a maiden and a youth more beautiful and engaging had seldom met in a scene more fresh and fair.
coningsby gazed on the countenance of his companion.
she turned her head, and met his glance.
"edith," he said, in a tone of tremulous passion, "let me call you edith!
yes," he continued, gently taking her hand; "let me call you my edith!
i love you!"
she did not withdraw her hand; but turned away a face flushed as the impending twilight.
the lovers returned late for dinner to find that mr. millbank was at home.
next morning, in mr. millbank's room, coningsby learnt that the marriage he looked forward to with all the ardour of youth was quite impossible.
"the sacrifices and the misery of such a marriage are certain and inseparable," said mr. millbank gravely, but without harshness.
"you are the grandson of lord monmouth; at present enjoying his favour, but dependent on his bounty.
you may be the heir of his wealth to-morrow and to-morrow you may be the object of his hatred and persecution.
your grandfather and myself are foes to the death.
it is idle to mince phrases.
i do not vindicate our mutual feelings; i may regret that they have ever arisen, especially at this exigency.
lord monmouth would crush me, had he the power, like a worm; and i have curbed his proud fortunes often.
these feelings of hatred may be deplored, but they do not exist; and now you are to go to this man, and ask his sanction to marry my daughter!"
"i would appease these hatreds," retorted coningsby, "the origin of which i know not.
i would appeal to my grandfather.
i would show him edith."
"he has looked upon as fair even as edith," said mr. millbank.
"and did that melt his heart?
my daughter and yourself can meet no more."
in vain coningsby pleaded his suit.
it was not till mr. millbank told that he, too, had suffered that he had loved coningsby's own mother, and that she gave her heart to another, to die afterwards solitary and forsaken, tortured by lord monmouth that coningsby was silent.
it was his mother's portrait he had looked upon that night at millbank; and he understood the cause of the hatred.
he wrung mr. millbank's hand, and left hellingsley in despair.
but oswald overtook him in the park; and, leaning on his friend's arm, coningsby poured forth a hurried, impassioned, and incoherent strain
all that had occurred, all that he had dreamed, his baffled bliss, his actual despair, his hopeless outlook.
a thunderstorm overtook them; and oswald took refuge from the elements at the castle.
there, as they sat together, pledging their faithful friendship, the door opened, and mr. rigby appeared.
iv.
coningsby's political faith
lord monmouth banished the princess colonna from his presence, and married lucretia.
coningsby returned to cambridge, and continued to enjoy his grandfather's hospitality whenever lord monmouth was in london.
mr. millbank had, in the meantime, become a member of parliament, having defeated mr. rigby in the contest for the representation of dartford.
in the year 1840 a general election was imminent, and lord monmouth returned to london.
he was weary of paris; every day he found it more difficult to be amused.
lucretia had lost her charm: they had been married nearly three years.
the marquess, from whom nothing could be concealed, perceived that often, while she elaborately attempted to divert him, her mind was wandering elsewhere.
he fell into the easy habit of dining in his private rooms, sometimes tête-à-tête with villebecque, his private secretary, a cosmopolitan theatrical manager, whose tales and adventures about a kind of society which lord monmouth had always preferred to the polished and somewhat insipid circles in which he was born, had rendered him the prime favourite of his great patron.
villebecque's step-daughter flora, a modest and retiring maiden, waited on lucretia.
back in london, lord monmouth, on the day of his arrival, welcomed coningsby to his room, and at a sign from his master villebecque left the apartment.
"you see, harry," said lord monmouth, "that i am much occupied to-day, yet the business on which i wish to communicate with you is so pressing that it could not be postponed.
these are not times when young men should be out of sight.
your public career will commence immediately.
the government have resolved on a dissolution.
my information is from the highest quarter.
the whigs are going to dissolve their own house of commons.
notwithstanding this, we can beat them, but the race requires the finest jockeying.
we can't give a point.
now, if we had a good candidate, we could win dartford.
but rigby won't do.
he is too much of the old clique used up a hack; besides, a beaten horse.
we are assured the name of coningsby would be a host; there is a considerable section who support the present fellow who will not vote against a coningsby.
they have thought of you as a fit person; and i have approved of the suggestion.
you will, therefore, be the candidate for dartford with my entire sanction and support; and i have no doubt you will be successful."
to coningsby the idea was appalling.
to be the rival of mr. millbank on the hustings of dartford!
vanquished or victorious, equally a catastrophe.
he saw edith canvassing for her father and against him.
besides, to enter the house of commons a slave and a tool of party!
strongly anti-whig, coningsby distrusted the conservative party, and looked for a new party of men who shared his youthful convictions and high political principles.
lord monmouth, however, brushed aside his grandson's objections.
"you are certainly still young; but i was younger by nearly two years when i first went in, and i found no difficulty.
as for your opinions, you have no business to have any other than those i uphold.
i want to see you in parliament.
i tell you what it is, harry," lord monmouth concluded, very emphatically, "members of this family may think as they like, but they must act as i please.
you must go down on friday to dartford and declare yourself a candidate for the town, or i shall reconsider our mutual positions."
coningsby left monmouth house in dejection, but to his solemn resolution of political faith he remained firm.
he would not stand for dartford against mr. millbank as the nominee of a party he could not follow.
in terms of tenderness and humility he wrote to his grandfather that he positively declined to enter parliament except as the master of his own conduct.
in the same hour of his distress coningsby overheard in his club two men discussing the engagement of miss millbank to the marquess of beaumanoir, the elder brother of his school friend, henry sydney.
edith millbank, too, had heard news at a london assembly of wealth and fashion that coningsby was engaged to be married to lady theresa sydney.
so easily does rumour spin her stories and smite her victims with sadness.
v. lady monmouth's departure
it was flora, to whom coningsby had been always kind and courteous, who told lucretia that lord monmouth was displeased with his grandson.
"my lord is very angry with mr. coningsby," she said, shaking her head mournfully.
"my lord told m. villebecque that perhaps mr. coningsby would never enter the house again."
lucretia immediately dispatched a note to mr. rigby, and, on the arrival of that gentleman, told him all she had learnt of the contention between harry coningsby and her husband.
"i told you to beware of him long ago," said lady monmouth.
"he has ever been in the way of both of us."
"he is in my power," said rigby.
"we can crush him.
he is in love with the daughter of millbank, the man who bought hellingsley.
i found the younger millbank quite domiciliated at the castle, a fact which of itself, if known to lord monmouth, would ensure the lad's annihilation."
"the time is now most mature for this.
let us not conceal it from ourselves that since this grandson's first visit to coningsby castle we have neither of us really been in the same position with my lord which we then occupied, or believed we should occupy.
go now; the game is before you!
rid me of this coningsby, and i will secure all that you want."
"it shall be done," said rigby, "it must be done."
lady monmouth bade mr. rigby hasten at once to the marquess and bring her news of the interview.
she awaited with some excitement his return.
her original prejudice against coningsby and jealousy of his influence had been aggravated by the knowledge that, although after her marriage lord monmouth had made a will which secured to her a very large portion of his great wealth, the energies and resources of the marquess had of late been directed to establish coningsby in a barony.
two hours elapsed before mr. rigby returned.
there was a churlish and unusual look about him.
"lord monmouth suggests that, as you were tired of paris, your ladyship might find the german baths at kissingen agreeable.
a paragraph in the 'morning post' would announce that his lordship was about to join you; and even if his lordship did not ultimately reach you, an amicable separation would be effected."
in vain lucretia stormed.
mr. rigby mentioned that lord monmouth had already left the house and would not return, and finally announced that lucretia's letters to a certain prince trautsmandorff were in his lordship's possession.
a few days later, and coningsby read in the papers of lady monmouth's departure to kissingen.
he called at monmouth house, to find the place empty, and to learn from the porter that lord monmouth was about to occupy a villa at richmond.
coningsby entertained for his grandfather a sincere affection.
with the exception of their last unfortunate interview, he had experienced nothing but kindness from lord monmouth.
he determined to pay him a visit at richmond.
lord monmouth, who was entertaining two french ladies at his villa, recoiled from grandsons and relations and ties of all kinds; but coningsby so pleasantly impressed his fair visitors that lord monmouth decided to ask him to dinner.
thus, in spite of the combinations of lucretia and mr. rigby, and his grandfather's resentment, within a month of the memorable interview at monmouth house, coningsby found himself once more a welcome guest at lord monmouth's table.
in that same month other important circumstances also occurred.
at a fête in some beautiful gardens on the banks of the thames, coningsby and edith millbank were both present.
the announcement was made of the forthcoming marriage of lady theresa sydney to mr. eustace lyle, a friend of mr. coningsby; and later, from the lips of lady wallinger herself, miss millbank's aunt, coningsby learnt how really groundless was the report of lord beaumanoir's engagement.
"lord beaumanoir admires her has always admired her," lady wallinger explained to coningsby; "but edith has given him no encouragement whatever."
at the end of the terrace edith and coningsby met.
he seized the occasion to walk some distance by her side.
"how could you ever doubt me?"
said coningsby, after some time.
"i was unhappy."
"and now we are to each other as before."
"and will be, come what may," said edith.
vi.
lord monmouth's money
in the midst of christmas-revels at the country house of mr. eustace lyle, surrounded by the duke and duchess and their children the sydneys coningsby was called away by a messenger, who brought news of the sudden death of lord monmouth.
the marquess had died at supper at his richmond villa, with no persons near him but those who were very amusing.
the body had been removed to monmouth house; and after the funeral, in the principal saloon of monmouth house, the will was eventually read.
the date of the will was 1829; and by this document the sum of £10,000 was left to coningsby, who at that time was unknown to his grandfather.
but there were many codicils.
in 1832, the £10,000 was increased to £50,000.
in 1836, after coningsby's visit to the castle, £50,000 was left to the princess lucretia, and coningsby was left sole residuary legatee.
after the marriage, an estate of £9,000 a year was left to coningsby, £20,000 to mr. rigby, and the whole of the residue went to issue by lady monmouth.
in the event of there being no issue, the whole of the estate was to be divided equally between lady monmouth and coningsby.
in 1839, mr. rigby was reduced to £10,000, lady monmouth was to receive £3,000 per annum, and the rest, without reserve, went absolutely to coningsby.
the last codicil was dated immediately after the separation with lady monmouth.
all dispositions in favour of coningsby were revoked, and he was left with the interest of the original £10,000, the executors to invest the money as they thought best for his advancement, provided it were not placed in any manufactory.
mr. rigby received £5,000, m. villebecque £30,000, and all the rest, residue and remainder, to flora, commonly called flora villebecque, step-child of armand villebecque, "but who is my natural daughter by an actress at the théâtre français in the years 1811-15, by the name of stella."
sidonia lightened the blow for coningsby as far as philosophy could be of use.
"i ask you," he said, "which would you have rather lost your grandfather's inheritance or your right leg?"
"most certainly my inheritance."
"or your left arm?"
"still the inheritance."
"would you have given up a year of your life for that fortune trebled?"
"even at twenty-three i would have refused the terms."
"come, then, coningsby, the calamity cannot be very great.
you have health, youth, good looks, great abilities, considerable knowledge, a fine courage, and no contemptible experience.
you can live on £300 a year.
read for the bar."
"i have resolved," said coningsby.
"i will try for the great seal!"
next morning came a note from flora, begging mr. coningsby to call upon her.
it was an interview he would rather have avoided.
but flora had not injured him, and she was, after all, his kin.
she was alone when coningsby entered the room.
"i have robbed you of your inheritance."
"it was not mine by any right, legal or moral.
the fortune is yours, dear flora, by every right; and there is no one who wishes more fervently that it may contribute to your happiness than i do."
"it is killing me," said flora mournfully.
"i must tell you what i feel.
this fortune is yours.
i never thought to be so happy as i shall be if you will generously accept it."
"you are, as i have ever thought you, the kindest and most tender-hearted of beings," said coningsby, much moved; "but the custom of the world does not permit such acts to either of us as you contemplate.
have confidence in yourself.
you will be happy."
"when i die, these riches will be yours; that, at all events, you cannot prevent," were flora's last generous words.
vii.
on life's threshold
coningsby established himself in the temple to read law; and lord henry sydney, oswald millbank, and other old eton friends rallied round their early leader.
"i feel quite convinced that coningsby will become lord chancellor,"
henry sydney said gravely, after leaving the temple.
the general election of 1841, which lord monmouth had expected a year before, found coningsby a solitary student in his lonely chambers in the temple.
all his friends and early companions were candidates, and with sanguine prospects.
they sent their addresses to coningsby, who, deeply interested, traced in them the influence of his own mind.
then, in the midst of the election, one evening in july, coningsby, catching up a third edition of the "sun," was startled by the word "dartford" in large type.
below it were the headlines:
"extraordinary affair!
withdrawal of the liberal candidate!
two tory candidates in the field!"
mr. millbank, at the last moment, had retired, and had persuaded his supporters to nominate harry coningsby in his place.
the fight was between coningsby and rigby.
oswald millbank, who had just been returned to parliament, came up to london; and from him, as they travelled to dartford, coningsby grasped the change of events.
sidonia had explained to lady wallinger the cause of coningsby's disinheritance.
lady wallinger had told oswald and edith; and oswald had urged on his father the recognition of his friend's affection for his sister.
on his own impulse mr. millbank decided that coningsby should contest dartford.
mr. rigby was beaten; and coningsby arrived at dartford in time to receive the cheers of thousands.
from the hustings he gave his first address to a public assembly; and by general agreement no such speech had ever been heard in the borough before.
early in the autumn harry and edith were married at millbank, and they passed their first moon at hellingsley.
the death of flora, who had bequeathed the whole of her fortune to the husband of edith, took place before the end of the year, hastened by the fatal inheritance which disturbed her peace and embittered her days, haunting her heart with the recollection that she had been the instrument of injuring the only being whom she loved.
coningsby passed his next christmas in his own hall, with his beautiful and gifted wife by his side, and surrounded by the friends of his heart and his youth.
the young couple stand now on the threshold of public life.
what will be their fate?
will they maintain in august assemblies and high places the great truths, which, in study and in solitude, they have embraced?
or will vanity confound their fortunes, and jealousy wither their sympathies?
sybil, or the two nations
"sybil, or the two nations" was published in 1845, a year      after "coningsby," and in it the novelist "considered the      condition of the people."
the author himself, writing in 1870      of this novel, said: "at that time the chartist agitation was      still fresh in the public memory, and its repetition was far      from improbable.
i had visited and observed with care all the      localities introduced, and as an accurate and never      exaggerated picture of a remarkable period in our domestic      history, and of a popular organisation which in its extent and      completeness has perhaps never been equalled, the pages of      "sybil" may, i venture to believe, be consulted with      confidence."
"sybil," indeed, is not only an extremely      interesting novel; but as a study of social life in england it      is of very definite historical value.
i. hard times for the poor
it was derby day, 1837. charles egremont was in the ring at epsom with a band of young patricians.
groups surrounded the betting post, and the odds were shouted lustily by a host of horsemen.
egremont had backed caravan to win, and caravan lost by half a length.
charles egremont was the younger brother of the earl of marney; he had received £15,000 on the death of his father, and had spent it.
disappointed in love at the age of twenty-four, egremont left england, to return after eighteen months' absence a much wiser man.
he was now conscious that he wanted an object, and, musing over action, was ignorant how to act.
the morning after the derby, egremont, breakfasting with his mother, learnt that king william iv.
was dying, and that a dissolution of parliament was at hand.
lady marney was a great stateswoman, a leader in fashionable politics.
"charles," said lady marney, "you must stand for the old borough, for marbury.
no doubt the contest will be very expensive, but it will be a happy day for me to see you in parliament, and marney will, of course, supply the funds.
i shall write to him, and perhaps you will do so yourself."
the election took place, and egremont was returned.
then he paid a visit to his brother at marney abbey, and an old estrangement between the two was ended.
marney abbey was as remarkable for its comfort and pleasantness of accommodation as for its ancient state and splendour.
it had been a religious house.
the founder of the marney family, a confidential domestic of one of the favourites of henry viii., had contrived by unscrupulous zeal to obtain the grant of the abbey lands, and in the reign of elizabeth came a peerage.
the present lord marney upheld the workhouse, hated allotments and infant schools, and declared the labourers on his estate to be happy and contented with a wage of seven shillings a week.
the burning of hayricks on the abbey farm at the time of egremont's visit showed that the torch of the incendiary had been introduced and that a beacon had been kindled in the agitated neighbourhood.
for misery lurked in the wretched tenements of the town of marney, and fever was rife.
the miserable hovels of the people had neither windows nor doors, and were unpaved, and looked as if they could scarcely hold together.
there were few districts in the kingdom where the rate of wages was more depressed.
"what do you think of this fire?"
said egremont to a labourer at the abbey farm.
"i think 'tis hard times for the poor, sir," was the reply, given with a shake of the head.
ii.
the old tradition
"why was england not the same land as in the days of his light-hearted youth?"
charles egremont mused, as he wandered among the ruins of the ancient abbey.
"why were these hard times for the poor?"
brooding over these questions, he observed two men hard by in the old cloister garden, one of lofty stature, nearer forty than fifty years of age, the other younger and shorter, with a pale face redeemed from ugliness by its intellectual brow.
egremont joined the strangers, and talked.
"our queen reigns over two nations, between whom there is no intercourse and no sympathy the rich and the poor," said the younger stranger.
as he spoke, from the lady chapel rose the evening hymn to the virgin in tones of almost supernatural tenderness.
the melody ceased; and egremont beheld a female form, a countenance youthful, and of a beauty as rare as it was choice.
the two men joined the beautiful maiden; and the three quitted the abbey grounds together without another word, and pursued their way to the railway station.
"i have seen the tomb of the last abbot of marney, and i marked your name on the stone, my father," said the maiden.
"you must regain our lands for us, stephen," she added to the younger man.
"i can't understand why you lost sight of those papers, walter," said stephen morley.
"you see, friend, they were never in my possession; they were not mine when i saw them.
they were my father's.
he was a small yeoman, well-to-do in the world, but always hankering after the old tradition that the lands were ours.
this hatton got hold of him; he did his work well, i have heard.
it is twenty-five years since my father brought his writ of right, and though baffled, he was not beaten.
then he died; his affairs were in great confusion; he had mortgaged his land for his writ.
there were debts that could not be paid.
i had no capital.
i would not sink to be a labourer.
i had heard much of the high wages of this new industry; i left the land."
"and the papers?"
"i never thought of them, or thought of them with disgust, as the cause of my ruin.
of hatton, i have not heard since my father's death.
he had quitted mowbray, and none could give me tidings of him.
when you came and showed me in a book that the last abbot of marney was a walter gerard, the old feeling stirred again, and though i am but the overlooker at mr. trafford's mill, i could not help telling you that my fathers fought at agincourt."
they approached the station, entered the train, and two hours later arrived at mowbray.
gerard and morley left their companion at a convent gate in the suburbs of the manufacturing town.
the two men made their way through the streets and entered a prominent public house.
here they sought an interview with the landlord, and from him got information of hatton's brother.
"you have heard of a place called hell-house yard?"
said the publican.
"well, he lives there, and his name is simon, and that's all i know about him."
iii.
the gulf impassable
when it came to the point, lord marney very much objected to paying egremont's election expenses, and proposed instead that he should accompany him to mowbray castle, and marry earl mowbray's daughter, lady joan fitz-warene.
lord mowbray was the grandson of a waiter, who had gone out to india a gentleman's valet, and returned a nabob.
lord mowbray's two daughters
he had no sons were great heiresses.
lady joan was doctrinal; lady maud inquisitive.
egremont fell in love with neither, and the visit was a failure.
lord marney declined to pay the election expenses.
the brothers parted in anger; and egremont took up his abode in a cottage in mowedale, a few miles outside the town of mowbray.
he was drawn to this by the knowledge that walter gerard and his daughter sybil, and their friend stephen morley, lived close by.
of egremont's rank these three were ignorant.
sybil had met him with mr. st. lys, the good vicar of mowbray, relieving the misery of a poor weaver's family in the town, and at mowedale he passed as mr. franklin, a journalist.
for some weeks egremont enjoyed the peace of rural life, and the intercourse with the gerards ripened into friendship.
when the time came for parting, for egremont had to take his seat in parliament, it was a tender farewell on both sides.
egremont, embarrassed by his deception, could not only speak vaguely of their meeting again soon.
the thought of parting from sybil nearly overwhelmed him.
when he met gerard and morley again it was in london, and disguise was no longer possible.
gerard and morley came as delegates to the chartist national convention in 1839, and, deputed by their fellows to interview charles egremont, m.p., came face to face with "mr.
franklin."
the general misery in the country at that time was appalling.
weavers and miners were starving, agricultural labourers were driven into the new workhouses, and riots were of common occurrence.
the chartists believed their proposals would improve matters, other working-class leaders believed that a general stoppage of work would be more effective.
sybil, in london with her father, ardently supported the popular movement.
meeting egremont near westminster abbey on the very day after gerard and morley had waited upon him, she allowed him to escort her home.
then, for the first time, she learnt that her friend "mr.
franklin" was the brother of lord marney.
it was in vain egremont urged that they might still be friends, that the gulf between rich and poor was not impassable.
"oh, sir," said sybil haughtily, "i am one of those who believe the gulf is impassable yes, utterly impassable!"
iv.
plotting against lord de mowbray
stephen morley was the editor of the "mowbray phoenix," a teetotaler, a vegetarian, a believer in moral force.
the friend of gerard, and in love with sybil, stephen looked with no favour on egremont.
although a delegate to the chartist convention, stephen had not forgotten the claims of gerard to landed estate, and had pursued his inquiries as to the whereabouts of hatton with some success.
first stephen had journeyed to woodgate, commonly known as hell-house yard, a wild and savage place, the abode of a lawless race of men who fashioned locks and instruments of iron.
here he had found simon hatton, who knew nothing of his brother's residence.
by accident stephen discovered that the man he sought lived in the temple.
baptist hatton at that time was the most famous of heraldic antiquaries.
not a pedigree in dispute, not a peerage in abeyance, but it was submitted to his consideration.
a solitary man was baptist hatton, wealthy and absorbed in his pursuits.
the meeting with morley excited him, and he turned over the matter anxiously in his mind as he sat alone.
"the son of walter gerard, a chartist delegate!
the best blood in england!
those infernal papers!
they made my fortune; and yet the deed has cost me many a pang.
it seemed innoxious; the old man dead, insolvent; myself starving; his son ignorant of all to whom could they be of use, for it required thousands to work them?
and yet with all my wealth and power what memory shall i leave?
not a relative in the world, except a barbarian.
ah!
had i a child like the beautiful daughter of gerard.
i have seen her.
he must be a fiend who could injure her.
i am that fiend.
let me see what can be done.
what if i married her?"
but hatton did not offer marriage to sybil.
he did much to make her stay in london pleasant; but there was something about the maiden that awed while it fascinated him.
a catholic himself, hatton was not surprised to hear from gerard of sybil's wish to enter a convent.
"and to my mind she is right.
my daughter cannot look to marriage; no man that she could marry would be worthy of her."
this did not deter hatton from considering how the papers relating to gerard's lost estates could be recovered.
the first move was an action entered against lord de mowbray, and this brought that distinguished peer to mr. hatton's chambers in the temple, for hatton was at that time advising lord de mowbray in the matter of reviving an ancient barony.
hatton easily quieted his client.
"mr. walter gerard can do nothing without the deed of '77.
your documents you say are all secure?"
"they are at this moment in the muniment room of the tower of mowbray castle."
"keep them; this action is a feint."
as for mr. baptist hatton, the next time we see him a few months had elapsed.
he is at the principal hotel in mowbray in consultation with stephen morley.
a great labour demonstration had taken place the previous night on the moors outside the town, and gerard had been acclaimed as a popular hero.
"documents are in existence," said hatton, "which prove the title of walter gerard to the proprietorship of this great district.
two hundred thousand human beings yesterday acknowledged the supremacy of gerard.
suppose they had known that within the walls of mowbray castle were contained the proofs that walter gerard was the lawful possessor of the lands on which they live?
moral force is a fine thing, friend morley, but the public spirit is inflamed here.
you are a leader of the people.
let us have another meeting on the moor!
you can put your fingers in a trice on the man who will do our work.
mowbray castle in their possession, a certain iron chest, painted blue, and blazoned with the shield of valence, would be delivered to you.
you shall have £10,000 down and i will take you back to london besides."
"the effort would fail," said stephen morley.
"wages must drop still more, and the discontent here be deeper.
but i will keep the secret; i will treasure it up."
v. liberty at a price
while mr. baptist hatton and stephen morley discussed the possible recovery of the papers, much happened in london.
gerard became a marked man in the chartist convention, a member of a small but resolute committee.
egremont, now deeply in love with sybil, declared his suit.
"from the first moment i beheld you in the starlit arch of marney, your image has never been absent from my consciousness.
do not reject my love; it is deep as your nature, and fervent as my own.
banish those prejudices that have embittered your existence.
if i be a noble, i have none of the accidents of nobility.
i cannot offer you wealth, splendour, and power; but i can offer you the devotion of an entranced being, aspirations that you shall guide, an ambition that you shall govern."
"these words are mystical and wild," said sybil in amazement.
"you are lord marney's brother; i learnt it but yesterday.
retain your hand, and share your life and fortunes!
you forget what i am.
no, no, kind friend for such i'll call you your opinion of me touches me deeply.
i am not used to such passages in life.
a union between the child and brother of nobles and a daughter of the people is impossible.
it would mean estrangement from your family, their hopes destroyed, their pride outraged.
believe me, the gulf is impassable."
the chartist petition was rejected by the house of commons contemptuously.
riots took place in birmingham.
sybil grew anxious for her father's safety.
egremont's speech in parliament on the presentation of the national petition created some perplexity among his aristocratic relatives and acquaintances.
it was free from the slang of faction the voice of a noble who had upheld the popular cause, who had pronounced that the rights of labour were as sacred as those of property, that the social happiness of the millions should be the statesman's first object.
sybil, enjoying the calm of st. james's park on a summer morning, read the speech with emotion, and while she still held the paper the orator himself stood before her.
she smiled without distress, and presently confided to egremont that she was unhappy, about her father.
"i honour your father," said egremont "counsel him to return to mowbray.
exert every energy to get him to leave london at once to-night if possible.
after this business at birmingham the government will strike at the convention.
if your father returns to mowbray and is quiet, he has a chance of not being disturbed."
sybil returned and warned her father.
"you are in danger," she cried, "great and immediate.
let us quit this city to-night."
"to-morrow, my child," walter gerard assured her, "we will return to mowbray.
to-night our council meets, and we have work of utmost importance.
we must discountenance scenes of violence.
the moment our council is over i will come back to you."
but walter gerard did not return.
while sybil sat and waited, stephen morley entered the room.
his manner was strange and unusual.
"your father is in danger; time is precious.
i can endure no longer the anguish of my life.
i love you, and if you will not be mine, i care for no one's fate.
i can save your father.
if i see him before eight o'clock, i can convince him that the government knows of his intentions, and will arrest him to-night.
i am ready to do this service to save the father from death and the daughter from despair, if she would but only say to me: 'i have but one reward, and it is yours.'"
"it is bitter, this," said sybil, "bitter for me and mine; but for you pollution, this bargaining of blood.
in the name of the holy virgin i answer you no!"
morley rushed frantically from the room.
sybil, in despair, made her way to a coffee-house near charing cross, which she knew had been much frequented by members of the chartist convention.
here, after some delay, she was given the fatal address in hunt street, seven dials.
sybil arrived at the meeting a few minutes before the police raided the premises.
she was found with her father, and taken with him and six other men to bow street police station.
a note to egremont procured her release in the early hours of the morning.
walter gerard in due time was sent to trial, convicted and sentenced to eighteen month's confinement in york castle.
vi.
within the castle walls
in 1842 came the great stoppage of work.
the mills ceased; the miners went "to play," despairing of a fair day's wage for a fair day's work; and the inhabitants of woodgate the hell-cats, as they were called
stirred up by a chartist delegate, sallied forth with simon hatton, named the "liberator," at their head to deal ruthlessly with all "oppressors of the people."
they sacked houses, plundered cellars, ravaged provision shops, destroyed gas-works and stormed workhouses.
in time they came to mowbray.
there the liberator came face to face with baptist hatton without recognising his brother.
stephen morley and baptist hatton were in close conference.
"the times are critical," said hatton.
"mowbray may be burnt to the ground before the troops arrive," morley replied.
"and the castle, too," said hatton quietly.
"i was thinking only yesterday of a certain box of papers.
to business, friend morley.
this savage relative of mine cannot be quiet.
if he does not destroy trafford's mill it will be the castle.
why not the castle instead of the mill?"
trafford's mill was saved by the direct intervention of walter gerard.
all the people of mowbray knew the good reputation of the traffords, and gerard's eloquence turned the mob from the attack.
while the liberator and the hell-cats hesitated, a man named dandy mick, prompted by morley, urged that a walk should be taken in lord de mowbray's park.
the proposition was received with shouts of approbation.
gerard succeeded in detaching a number of mowbray men, but the hell-cats, armed with bludgeons, poured into the park and on to the castle.
lady de mowbray and her friends made their escape, taking sybil, who had sought refuge from the mob, with them.
mr. st. lys gathered a body of men in defence of the castle, but came too late to prevent the entrance of the hell-cats.
singularly enough, morley and one or two of his followers entered with the liberator.
the first great rush was to the cellars, and the invaders were quickly at work knocking off the heads of bottles, and brandishing torches.
morley and his lads traced their way down a corridor to the winding steps of the round tower, and forced their way into the muniment room of the castle.
it was not till his search had nearly been abandoned in despair that he found the small blue box blazoned with the arms of valence.
he passed it hastily to a trusted companion, dandy mick, and bade him deliver it to sybil gerard at the convent.
at this moment the noise of musketry was heard; the yeomanry were on the scene.
morley, cut off from flight by the military, was shot, pistol in hand, with the name of sybil on his lips.
"the world will misjudge me," he thought "they will call me hypocrite, but the world is wrong."
the man with the box escaped through the window, and in spite of the fire, troopers, and mob, reached the convent in safety.
the castle was burnt to the ground by the torches of the hell-cats.
sybil, separated from her friends, found herself surrounded by a band of drunken ruffians.
she was rescued by a yeomanry officer, who pressed her to his heart.
"never to part again," said egremont.
under egremont's protection, sybil returned to the convent, and there in the courtyard they found dandy mick, who had refused to deliver his charge, and was lying down with the blue box for his pillow.
he had fulfilled his mission.
sybil, too agitated to perceive all its import, delivered the box into the custody of egremont, who, bidding farewell to sybil, bade mick follow him to his hotel.
while these events were happening, lord marney, hearing an alarmed and exaggerated report of the insurrection, and believing that egremont's forces were by no means equal to the occasion, had set out for mowbray with his own troop of yeomanry.
crossing the moor, he encountered walter gerard with a great multitude, whom gerard headed for purposes of peace.
his mind inflamed, and hating at all times any popular demonstration, lord marney hastily read the riot act, and the people were fired on and sabred.
the indignant spirit of gerard resisted, and the father of sybil was shot dead.
instantly arose a groan, and a feeling of frenzy came over the people.
armed only with stones and bludgeons they defied the troopers, and rushed at the horsemen; a shower of stones rattled without ceasing on the helmet of lord marney, nor did the people rest till lord marney fell lifeless on mowbray moor, stoned to death.
the writ of right against lord de mowbray proved successful in the courts, and his lordship died of the blow.
for a long time after the death of her father sybil remained in helpless woe.
the widowed lady marney, however, came over one day, and carried her back to marney abbey, never again to quit it until the bridal day, when the earl and countess of marney departed for italy.
though the result was not what mr. hatton had once anticipated, the idea that he had deprived sybil of her inheritance had, ever since he had become acquainted with her, been the plague-spot of hatton's life, and there was nothing he desired more than to see her restored to those rights, and to be instrumental in that restoration.
dandy mick was rewarded for all the dangers he had encountered in the service of sybil, and was set up in business by lord marney.
a year after the burning of mowbray castle, on the return of the earl and countess of marney to england, the romantic marriage and the enormous wealth of lord and lady marney were still the talk in fashionable circles.
tancred, or the new crusade
"tancred," published in 1847, completes the trilogy, which      began with "coningsby" in 1844, and had its second volume in      "sybil" in 1845. in these three novels disraeli gave to the      world his political, social, and religious philosophy.
"coningsby" was mainly political, "sybil" mainly social, and      in "tancred," as the author tells us, disraeli dealt with the      origin of the christian church of england and its relation to      the hebrew race whence christianity sprang.
"public opinion      recognized the truth and sincerity of these views," although      their general spirit ran counter to current liberal      utilitarianism.
although "tancred" lacks the vigour of "sibyl"
and the wit of "coningsby," it is full of the colour of the      east, and the satire and irony in the part relating to      tancred's life in england are vastly entertaining.
as in      others of disraeli's novels, many of the characters here are      portraits of real personages.
i. tancred goes forth on his quest
tancred, the marquis of montacute, was certainly strangely distracted on his twenty-first birthday.
he stood beside his father, the duke of bellamont, in the famous crusaders' gallery in the castle of montacute, listening to the congratulations which the mayor and corporation of montacute town were addressing to him; but all the time he kept his eyes fixed on the magnificent tapestries from which the name of the gallery was derived.
his namesake, tancred of montacute, had distinguished himself in the third crusade by saving the life of king richard at the siege of ascalon, and his exploits were depicted on the fine gobelins work hanging on the walls of the great hall.
oblivious of the gorgeous ceremony in which he was playing the principal part, the young marquis of montacute stared at the pictures of the crusader, and a wild, fantastical idea took hold of him.
he was the only child of the duke of bellamont, and all the high nobility of england were assembled to celebrate his coming of age.
everything that fortune could bestow seemed to have been given to him.
he was the heir of the greatest and richest of english dukes, and his life was made smooth and easy.
his father had got a seat in parliament waiting for him, and his mother had already selected a noble and beautiful young lady for his wife.
neither of them had yet consulted their son, but tancred was so sweet and gentle a boy that they did not dream he would oppose their wishes.
they had planned out his life for him ever since he was born, with the view to educating him for the position which he was to occupy in the english aristocracy, and he had always taken the path which they had chosen for him.
in the evening, the duke summoned his son into his library.
"my dear tancred," he said, "i have a piece of good news for you on your birthday.
hungerford feels that he cannot represent our constituency now that you have come of age, and, with great kindness, he is resigning his seat in your favour.
he says that the marquis of montacute ought to stand for the town of montacute, so you will be able to enter parliament at once."
"but i do not wish to enter parliament," said tancred.
the duke leant back from his desk with a look of painful surprise on his face.
"not enter parliament?"
he exclaimed.
"every lord montacute has gone into the house of commons before taking his seat in the house of lords.
it is an excellent training."
"i am not anxious to enter the house of lords either," said tancred.
"and i hope, my dear father," he added, with a smile that lit up his young, grave, beautiful face, "that it will be very, very long before i succeed to your place there."
"what, then, do you intend to do, my boy?"
said bellamont, in intense perplexity.
"you are the heir to one of the greatest positions in the state, and you have duties to perform.
how are you going to fit yourself for them?"
"that is what i have been thinking of for years," said tancred.
"oh, my dear father, if you knew how long and earnestly i have prayed for guidance!
yes, i have duties to perform!
but in this wild, confused, and aimless age of ours, what man can see what his duties are?
for my part, i cannot find that it is my duty to maintain the present order of things.
in nothing in our religion, our government, our manners, do i find faith.
and if there is no faith, how can there be any duty?
we have ceased to be a nation.
we are a mere crowd, kept from utter anarchy by the remains of an old system which we are daily destroying."
"but what would you do, my dear boy?"
said the duke, pale with anxiety.
"have you found any remedy?"
"no," said tancred mournfully.
"there is no remedy to be found in england.
oh, let me save myself, father!
let me save our people from the corruption and ruin that threaten us!"
"but what do you want to do?
where do you want to go?"
said the duke.
"i want to go to god!"
cried the young nobleman, his blue eyes flaming with a strange light "how is it that the almighty power does not send down his angels to enlighten us in our perplexities?
where is the paraclete, the comforter who was promised us?
i must go and seek him."
"you are a visionary, my boy," said the duke, gazing at him in blank astonishment.
"was the montacute that fought by the side of king richard in the holy land a visionary?"
said tancred.
"all i ask is to be allowed to follow in his footsteps.
for three days and three nights he knelt in prayer at the tomb of his redeemer.
six centuries and more have gone by since then.
it is high time that we renewed our intercourse with the most high in the country of his chosen people.
i, too, would kneel at that tomb.
i, too, surrounded by the holy hills and groves of jerusalem, would lift my voice to heaven, and ask for inspiration."
"but surely god will hear your prayers in england as well as in palestine?"
"no," said his son.
"he has never raised up a prophet or a great saint in this country.
if we want him to speak to us as he spoke to the men of old, we must go, like the crusaders, to the holy land."
finding that he could not turn his son from the strange course on which he was bent, the duke got a great prelate to try and persuade him that all was for the best in the best of all possible worlds.
"we live in an age of progress," reasoned the philosophic bishop.
"religion is spreading with the spread of civilisation.
how all our towns are growing!
we shall soon see a bishop in manchester."
"i want to see an angel in manchester," replied tancred.
it was no use arguing with a man who talked in this way, and the duke gave tancred permission to set out on his new crusade.
ii.
the vigil by the tomb
the moon sank behind the mount of olives, leaving the towers, minarets, and domes of jerusalem in deep shadow; the lamps in the city went out, and every outline was lost in gloom; but the church of the holy sepulchre still shone in the darkness like a beacon light.
there, while every soul in jerusalem slumbered, tancred knelt in prayer by the tomb of christ, under the lighted dome, waiting for the fire from heaven to strike into his soul.
his strange vigil was the talk of syria.
it is remarkable how quickly news travels in the east.
"do you know," said besso, rothschild's agent, to his foster-son fakredeen, an emir of lebanon, as they sat talking in a house near the gate of sion, "the young englishman has brought me such a letter that if he were to tell me to rebuild solomon's temple, i must do it!"
"he must be fabulously rich!"
said fakredeen, with a sigh.
"what has he come here for?
the english do not come on pilgrimages.
they are all infidels."
"well, he has come on a pilgrimage," said besso, "and he is the greatest of english princes.
he kneels all night and day in the church over there."
yes, after a week of solitude, fasting, and prayer, tancred was keeping vigil before the empty sepulchre, where tancred of montacute had knelt six hundred years before.
day after day, night after night, he prayed for inspiration, but no divine voice broke in upon his impassioned reveries.
it was for him that alonzo lara, the prior of terra santa, kept the light burning all night long at the holy sepulchre, for the spaniard had been moved by the deep faith of the young english nobleman.
and one day he said to him:
"sinai led to calvary.
i think it would be wise for you to trace the path backward from calvary to sinai."
it was extremely perilous at that time to adventure into the great desert, for the wild bedouin tribes were encamped there.
but, in spite of this, tancred made arrangements with an arabian chief, sheikh hassan, and set out for sinai at the head of a well-armed band of arabs.
"ah!"
said the sheikh, as they entered the mountainous country, after a three days' march across the wilderness.
"look at these tracks of horses and camels in the defile.
the marks are fresh.
see that your guns are primed!"
he cried to his men.
as he spoke a troop of wild horsemen galloped down the ravine.
"hassan," one of them shouted, "is that the brother of the queen of the english with you?
let him ride with us, and you may return in peace."
"he is my brother, too," said hassan.
"stand aside, you sons of eblis, or you shall bite the earth."
a wild shout from every height of the defile was the answer.
tancred looked up.
the crest on either side was lined with bedouins, each with his musket levelled.
"there is only one thing for us to do," said tancred to hassan.
"let us charge through the defile, and die like men!"
seizing his pistols, he shot the first horseman through the head, and disabled another.
then he charged down the ravine, and hassan and his men followed, and scattered the horsemen before them.
the bedouins fired down on them from the crests, and, in a few moments, the place was filled with smoke, and tancred could not see a yard around him.
still he galloped on, and the smoke suddenly drifted, and he found himself at the mouth of the defile, with a few followers behind him.
a crowd of bedouins were waiting for him.
"die fighting!
die fighting!"
he shouted.
then his horse stumbled, stabbed from beneath by a bedouin dagger, and fell in the sand.
before he could get his feet out of the stirrups, he was overpowered and bound.
"don't hurt him," said the bedouin chief.
"every drop of his blood is worth ten thousand piastres."
late that night, as amalek, the great rechabite bedouin sheikh, was sitting before his tent, a horseman rode up to him.
"salaam," he cried.
"sheikh of sheikhs, it is done!
the brother of the queen of england is your slave!"
"good!"
said amalek.
"may your mother eat the hump of a young camel!
is the brother of the queen with sheikh salem?"
"no," said the horseman, "sheikh salem is in paradise, and many of our men are with him.
the brother of the queen of the english is a mighty warrior.
he fought like a lion, but we brought his horse down at last and took him alive."
"good!"
said amalek.
"camels shall be given to all the widows of the men he has killed, and i will find them new husbands.
go and tell fakredeen the good news!"
amalek and fakredeen would not have cared had they lost a hundred men in the affair.
the bedouin chief and the emir of lebanon could bring into the field more than twenty thousand lances, and the capture of tancred was part of a political scheme which they were engineering for the conquest of syria.
they knew from besso that the young english prince was fabulously rich, and, as they wanted arms, they meant to hold him to the extraordinary ransom of two million piastres.
"my foster father will pay it," said fakredeen.
"he told me that he would have to rebuild solomon's temple if the english prince asked him to.
we will get him to help us rebuild solomon's empire."
iii.
the vision on the mount
on the wild granite scarp of mount sinai, about seven thousand feet above the blue seas that lave its base, is a small plain hemmed in by pinnacles of rock.
in the centre of the plain are a cypress tree and a fountain.
this is the traditional scene of the greatest event in the history of mankind.
it was here that moses received the divine laws on which the civilisation of the world is based.
tancred of montacute knelt down on the sacred soil, and bowed his head in prayer.
far below him, in one of the green-valleys sloping down to the sea, fakredeen and a band of bedouins pitched their tents for the night, and talked in awed tones of their strange companion.
wonderful is the power of soul with which a great idea endues a man.
the young emir of lebanon and his men were no longer the captors of tancred, but his followers.
he had preached to them with the eyes of flame and the words of fire of a prophet; and they now asked of him, not a ransom, but a revelation.
they wanted him to bring down from sinai the new word of power, which would bind their scattered tribes into a mighty nation, with a divine mission for all the world.
what was this word to be?
tancred did not know any more than his followers, and he knelt all day long under the arabian sun, waiting for the divine revelation.
the sunlight faded, and the shadows fell around him, and he still remained bowed in a strange, quiet ecstasy of expectation.
but at last, lifting up his eyes to the clear, starry sky of arabia, he prayed:
"o lord god of israel, i come to thine ancient dwelling-place to pour forth the heart of tortured europe.
why does no impulse from thy renovating will strike again into the soul of man?
faith fades and duty dies, and a profound melancholy falls upon the world.
our kings cannot rule, our priests doubt, and our multitudes toil and moan, and call in their madness upon unknown gods.
if this transfigured mount may not again behold thee, if thou wilt not again descend to teach and console us, send, oh send, one of the starry messengers that guard thy throne, to save thy creatures from their terrible despair!"
as he prayed all the stars of arabia grew strangely dim.
the wild peaks of sinai, standing sharp and black in the lucid, purple air, melted into shadowy, changing masses.
the huge branches of the cypress-tree moved mysteriously above his head, and he fell upon the earth senseless and in a trance.
it seemed to tancred that a mighty form was bending over him with a countenance like an oriental night, dark yet lustrous, mystical yet clear.
the solemn eyes of the shadowy apparition were full of the brightness and energy of youth and the calm wisdom of the ages.
"i am the angel of arabia," said the spectral figure, waving a sceptre fashioned like a palm-tree, "the guardian spirit of the land which governs the world; for its power lies neither in the sword nor in the shield, for these pass away, but in ideas which are divine.
all the thoughts of every nation come from a higher power than man, but the thoughts of arabia come directly from the most high.
you want a new revelation to christendom?
listen to the ancient message of arabia!
"your people now hanker after other gods than the god of sinai and calvary.
but the eternal principles of that arabian faith, which moulded them from savages into civilised men when they descended from their northern forests fifteen hundred years ago, and spread all over the world, can alone breathe new vigour into them, now that they are decaying in the dust and fever of their great cities.
tell them that they must cease from seeking in their vain philosophies for the solution of their social problems.
their, longing for the brotherhood of mankind can only be satisfied when they acknowledge the sway of a common father.
tell them that they are the children of god.
announce the sublime and solacing doctrine of theocratic equality.
fear not, falter not.
obey the impulse of thine own spirit, and find a ready instrument in every human being."
a sound as of thunder roused tancred from his trance.
above him the mountains rose sharp and black in the clear purple air, and the arabian stars shone with undimmed brightness; but the voice of the angel still lingered in his ear.
he went down the mountain; at its base he found his followers sleeping amid their camels.
he aroused fakredeen, and told him that he had received the word which would bind together the warring nations of arabia and palestine, and reshape the earth.
iv.
the mystic queen
"it has been a great day," said tancred to fakredeen, as they were sitting some months afterwards in the castle of the young emir of lebanon, where all the princes of syria had assembled to discuss the foundation of the new empire.
"if your friends will only work together as they promise, syria is ours."
"even lebanon," said fakredeen, "can send forth more than fifty thousand well-armed footmen, and amalek is gathering all the horsemen of the desert, from petraea to yemen, under our banner.
if we can only win over the ansarey," he continued, "we shall have all syria and arabia as a base for our operations."
"the ansarey?"
exclaimed tancred.
"they hold the mountains around antioch, which are the key of palestine, don't they?
what is their religion?
do you think that the doctrine of theocratic equality would appeal to them as it did to the arabians?"
"i don't know," said the emir.
"they never allow strangers to enter their country.
they are a very ancient people, and they fight so well in their mountains that even the turks have not been able to conquer them."
"but can't we make overtures?"
said tancred.
"that is what i have done," said fakredeen.
"the queen of the ansarey has heard about you, and i have arranged that we should go and see her as soon as the syrian assembly was over.
everything is ready for our journey, so, if you like, we will start at once."
it was a difficult expedition, as the queen of the ansarey was then waging war on the turkish pasha of aleppo.
happily, the travellers came upon a band of ansareys who were raiding the turkish province, and were led by them through their black ravines to the fortress palace of the queen.
she received them, sitting on her divan, clothed in a purple robe, and shrouded in a long veil.
this she took off when tancred came towards her, and he marvelled at the strangeness of her beauty.
there was nothing oriental about her.
she was a greek girl of the ancient type, with violet eyes, fair cheeks, and dark hair.
"prince," she said, "we are a people who wish neither to see nor to be seen.
we do not care what goes on in the world around.
our mountains are wild and barren, but while apollo dwells among us, we do not care for gold, or silk, or jewels."
"apollo!"
cried tancred.
"are the gods of olympus still worshipped on earth?"
"yes, apollo still lives among us, and another greater than apollo,"
said the young queen, looking at tancred long and earnestly.
"follow me, and you shall now behold the secret of the ansarey."
her maidens adorned her with a garland of roses, and put a garland on the head of tancred, and she led him through a portal of bronze, down an underground passage, into an ionic temple, filled with the white and lovely forms of the gods of ancient greece.
"do you know this?"
said the queen to tancred, looking at a statue in golden ivory, and then at the young englishman, whose clear-cut features and hyacinthine locks curiously resembled those of the carven image.
"it is phoebus apollo," said tancred, and, moved by admiration at the beauty of the figure, he murmured some lines of homer.
"ah, you know all!"
cried the queen.
"you know our secret language.
yes, this is phoebus apollo.
he used to stand in antioch in the ancient days before the christians drove us into the mountains.
and look," she said, pointing to the statue beside apollo, "here is the syrian goddess before whom the pilgrims of the world once knelt.
she is named astarte, and i am called after her."
"oh, angels watch over me!"
said tancred to himself as queen astarte fixed her violet eyes upon him with a glance of love that could not be mistaken, and led him back into the hall of audience.
there he saw fakredeen bending over a maiden with a flower-like face, and large, dark, lustrous eyes.
"she is my foster-sister, eva," said fakredeen.
"the ansareys captured her on the plain of aleppo."
tancred had met eva at the house of besso in jerusalem, but she did not then exercise over him the strange charm which now drew him to her side.
it seemed to him that the beautiful jewish girl had been sent to help him in his struggle against the heathen spells of astarte.
as he was meditating how he could rescue her, a messenger came in, and announced that the pasha of aleppo had invaded the mountains at the head of 5,000 troops.
"ah!"
cried astarte.
"few of them will ever see aleppo again.
i have 25,000 men under arms, and you, my prince," she said, turning to tancred, "shall command them."
tancred had learnt something of the arts of mountain warfare from sheikh amalek.
he allowed the turkish troops to penetrate into the heart of the wild hills, and then, as they were marching down a long defile, he attacked them from the crests above, shooting them down like sheep and burying them in avalanches of rolling rock.
instead of returning to the fortress palace, he sent his men on ahead, and rode out alone into the desert, and went through the syrian wilderness back to jerusalem.
riding up to the door of besso's house by sion gate, he asked if there were any news of eva.
a negro led him into a garden, and there, sitting by the side of a fountain, was the lovely jewish maiden.
"so fakredeen brought you safely away, eva," he said tenderly.
"i was afraid that astarte meant to harm you."
"she would have killed me," said eva, "if she could.
i am afraid that your faith in your idea of theocratic equality has been destroyed by the ansareys.
how can you build up an empire in a land divided by so many jarring creeds?
do you still believe in arabia?"
"i believe in arabia," cried tancred, kneeling down at her feet, "because i believe in you.
you are the angel of arabia, and the angel of my life.
you cannot guess what influence you have had on my fate.
you came into my life like another messenger from god.
thanks to you, my faith has never faltered.
will you not share it, dearest?"
he clasped her hand, and gazed with passionate adoration into her face.
as her head fell upon his shoulder, the negro came running to the fountain.
"the duke of bellamont!"
he said to tancred.
tancred looked up, and saw the duke of bellamont coming through the pomegranate trees of the garden.
"father," he said, advancing towards the duke, "i have found my mission in life, and i am going to marry this lady."
alexandre dumas
marguerite de valois
alexandre dumas, père (to distinguish him from his son of      the same name), early became known as a talented writer, and      especially as a poet and dramatist.
his first published work      appeared in 1823; then came volumes of poems in 1825, 1826,      and the drama of "henry iii."
in 1828. in "marguerite de      valois," published in 1845, the first of the "valois" series      of historical romances, dumas takes us back from the days of      richelieu and the "three musketeers" to the preceding century      and the early struggles of catholic and huguenot.
it was a      stirring time in france, full of horrors and bloodshed, plots      and intrigues, when marguerite de valois married henry of      navarre, and alexandre dumas gives us, in his wonderfully,      vivid and attractive style, a great picture of the french      court in the time of charles ix.
little affection existed      between henry and his bride, but strong ties of interest and      ambition bound them together, and for a long time they both      adhered loyally to the treaty of political alliance they had      drawn up for their mutual advantage.
dumas died on december 5,      1870, after experiencing many changes of fortune.
his son also      won considerable reputation as a dramatist and novelist.
i. henry of navarre and marguerite
on monday, august 18, 1572, a great festival was held in the palace of the louvre.
it was to celebrate the marriage of henry of navarre and marguerite de valois, a marriage that perplexed a good many people, and alarmed others.
for henry de bourbon, king of navarre, was the leader of the huguenot party, and marguerite was the daughter of catherine de medici, and the sister of the king, charles ix., and this alliance between a protestant and a catholic, it seemed, was to end the strife that rent the nation.
the king, too, had set his heart on this marriage, and the huguenots were somewhat reassured by the king's declaration that catholic and huguenot alike were now his subjects, and were equally beloved by him.
still, there were many on both sides who feared and distrusted the alliance.
at midnight, six days later, on august 24, the tocsin sounded, and the massacre of st. bartholomew began.
the marriage, indeed, was in no sense a love match; but henry succeeded at once in making marguerite his friend, for he was alive to the dangers that surrounded him.
"madame," he said, presenting himself at marguerite's rooms on the night of the wedding festival, "whatever many persons may have said, i think our marriage is a good marriage.
i stand well with you you stand well with me.
therefore, we ought to act towards each other like good allies, since to-day we have been allied in the sight of god!
don't you think so?"
"without question, sir!"
"i know, madame, that the ground at court is full of dangerous abysses; and i know that, though i am young and have never injured any person, i have many enemies.
the king hates me, his brothers, the duke of anjou and the duke d'alençon, hate me.
catherine de medici hated my mother too much not to hate me.
well, against these menaces, which must soon become attacks, i can only defend myself by your aid, for you are beloved by all those who hate me!"
"i?"
said marguerite.
"yes, you!"
replied henry.
"and if you will i do not say love me but if you will be my ally i can brave anything; while, if you become my enemy, i am lost."
"your enemy!
never, sir!"
exclaimed marguerite.
"and my ally."
"most decidedly!"
and marguerite turned round and presented her hand to the king.
"it is agreed," she said.
"political alliance, frank and loyal?"
asked henry.
"frank and loyal," was the answer.
at the door henry turned and said softly, "thanks, marguerite; thanks!
you are a true daughter of france.
lacking your love, your friendship will not fail me.
i rely on you, as you, for your part, may rely on me.
adieu, madame."
he kissed his wife's hand; and then, with a quick step, the king went down the corridor to his own apartment.
"i have more need of fidelity in politics than in love," he said to himself.
if on both sides there was little attempt at fidelity in love, there was an honourable alliance, which was maintained unbroken and saved the life of henry of navarre from his enemies on more than one occasion.
on the day of the st. bartholomew massacre, while the huguenots were being murdered throughout paris, charles ix., instigated by his mother, summoned henry of navarre to the royal armoury, and called upon him to turn catholic or die.
"will you kill me, sire me, your brother-in-law?"
exclaimed henry.
charles ix.
turned away to the open window.
"i must kill someone," he cried, and firing his arquebuse, struck a man who was passing.
then, animated by a murderous fury, charles loaded and fired his arquebuse without stopping, shouting with joy when his aim was successful.
"it's all over with me!"
said henry to himself.
"when he sees no one else to kill, he will kill me!"
catherine de medici entered as the king fired his last shot.
"is it done?"
she said, anxiously.
"no," the king exclaimed, throwing his arquebuse on the floor.
"no; the obstinate blockhead will not consent!"
catherine gave a glance at henry which charles understood perfectly, and which said, "why, then, is he alive?"
"he lives," said the king, "because he is my relative."
henry felt that it was with catherine he had to contend.
"madame," he said, addressing her, "i can see quite clearly that all this comes from you and not from brother-in-law charles.
it was you who planned this massacre to ensnare me into a trap which was to destroy us all.
it was you who made your daughter the bait.
it has been you who have separated me now from my wife, that she might not see me killed before her eyes!"
"yes; but that shall not be!"
cried another voice; and marguerite, breathless and impassioned, burst into the room.
"sir," said marguerite to henry, "your last words were an accusation, and were both right and wrong.
they have made me the means for attempting to destroy you, but i was ignorant that in marrying me you were going to destruction.
i myself owe my life to chance, for this very night they all but killed me in seeking you.
directly i knew of your danger i sought you.
if you are exiled, sir, i will be exiled too; if they imprison you they shall imprison me also; if they kill you, i will also die!"
she gave her hand to her husband and he seized it eagerly.
"brother," cried marguerite to charles ix., "remember, you made him my husband!"
"faith, margot is right, and henry is my brother-in-law," said the king.
ii.
the boar hunt
as time went on, if catherine's hatred of henry of navarre did not diminish, charles ix.
certainly became more friendly.
catherine was for ever intriguing and plotting for the fortune of her sons and the downfall of her son-in-law, but henry always managed to evade the webs she wove.
at a certain boar-hunt charles was indebted to henry for his life.
it was at the time when the king's brother d'anjou had accepted the crown of poland, and the second brother, d'alençon, a weak-minded, ambitious man, was secretly hoping for a crown somewhere, that henry paid his debt for the king's mercy to him on the night of st.
bartholomew.
charles was an intrepid hunter, but the boar had swerved as the king's spear was aimed at him, and, maddened with rage, the animal had rushed at him.
charles tried to draw his hunting-knife but the sheath was so tight it was impossible.
"the boar!
the boar!"
shouted the king.
"help, d'alençon, help!"
d'alençon was ghastly white as he placed his arquebuse to his shoulder and fired.
the ball, instead of hitting the boar, felled the king's horse.
"i think," d'alençon murmured to himself, "that d'anjou is king of france, and i king of poland."
the boar's tusk had indeed grazed the king's thigh when a hand in an iron glove dashed itself against the mouth of the beast, and a knife was plunged into its shoulder.
charles rose with difficulty, and seemed for a moment as if about to fall by the dead boar.
then he looked at henry of navarre, and for the first time in four-and-twenty years his heart was touched.
"thanks, harry!"
he said.
"d'alençon, for a first-rate marksman you made a most curious shot."
on marguerite coming up to congratulate the king and thank her husband, charles added, "margot, you may well thank him.
but for him henry iii.
would be king of france."
"alas, madame," returned henry, "m. d'anjou, who is always my enemy, will now hate me more than ever; but everyone has to do what he can."
had charles ix.
been killed, the duke d'anjou would have been king of france, and d'alençon most probably king of poland.
henry of navarre would have gained nothing by this change of affairs.
instead of charles ix.
who tolerated him, he would have had the duke d'anjou on the throne, who, being absolutely at one with his mother, catherine, had sworn his death, and would have kept his oath.
these ideas were in his brain when the wild boar rushed on charles, and like lightning he saw that his own existence was bound up with the life of charles ix.
but the king knew nothing of the spring and motive of the devotion which had saved his life, and on the following day he showed his gratitude to henry by carrying him off from his apartments, and out of the louvre.
catherine, in her fear lest henry of navarre should be some day king of france, had arranged the assassination of her son-in-
law; and charles, getting wind of this, warned him that the air of the louvre was not good for him that night, and kept him in his company.
instead of henry, it was one of his followers who was killed.
iii.
the poisoned book
once more catherine resolved to destroy henry.
the huguenots had plotted with d'alençon that he should be king of navarre, since henry not only abjured protestantism but remained in paris, being kept there indeed by the will of charles ix.
catherine, aware of d'alençon's scheme, assured her son that henry was suffering from an incurable disease, and must be taken away from paris when d'alençon started for navarre.
"are you sure that henry will die?"
asked d'alençon.
"the physician who gave me a certain book assured me of it."
"and where is this book?
what is it?"
catherine brought the book from her cabinet.
"here it is.
it is a treatise on the art of rearing and training falcons by an italian.
give it to henry, who is going hawking with the king to-day, and will not fail to read it."
"i dare not!"
said d'alençon, shuddering.
"nonsense!"
replied catherine.
"it is a book like any other, only the leaves have a way of sticking together.
don't attempt to read it yourself, for you will have to wet the finger in turning over each leaf, which takes up so much time."
"oh," said d'alençon, "henry is with the court!
give me the book, and while he is away i will put it in his room."
d'alençon's hand was trembling as he took the book from the queen-mother, and with some hesitation and fear he entered henry's apartment and placed the volume, open at the title-page.
but it was not henry, but charles, seeking his brother-in-law, who found the book and carried it off to his own room.
d'alençon found the king reading.
"by heavens, this is an admirable book!"
cried charles.
"only it seems as if they had stuck the leaves together on purpose to conceal the wonders it contains."
d'alençon's first thought was to snatch the book from his brother, but he hesitated.
the king again moistened his finger and turned over a page.
"let me finish this
"he must have tasted the poison five-and-twenty times," thought d'alençon.
"he is a dead man!"
the poison did its deadly work.
charles was taken ill while out hunting, and returned to find his dog dead, and in its mouth pieces of paper from the precious book on falconry.
the king turned pale.
the book was poisoned!
many things flashed across his memory, and he knew his life was doomed.
charles summoned renè, a florentine, the court perfumer to catherine de medici, to his presence, and bade him examine the dog.
"sire," said renè, after a close investigation, "the dog has been poisoned by arsenic."
"he has eaten a leaf of this book," said charles; "and if you do not tell me whose book it is i will have your flesh torn from your bones by red-hot pincers."
"sire," stammered the florentine, "this book belongs to me!"
"and how did it leave your hands?"
"her majesty the queen-mother took it from my house."
"why did she do that?"
"i believe she intended sending it to the king of navarre, who had asked for a book on hawking."
"ah," said charles, "i understand it all!
the book was in harry's room.
it is destiny; i must yield to it.
tell me," he went on, turning to renè, "this poison does not always kill at once?"
"no, sire; but it kills surely.
it is a matter of time."
"is there no remedy?"
"none, sire, unless it be instantly administered."
charles compelled the wretched man to write in the fatal volume, "this book was given by me to the queen-mother, catherine de medici.
renè,"
and then dismissed him.
henry, at his own prayer and for his personal safety, was confined in the prison of vincennes by the king's order.
charles grew worse, and the physicians discussed his malady without daring to guess at the truth.
then catherine came one day and explained to the king the cause of his disease.
"listen, my son; you believe in magic?"
"oh, fully," said charles, repressing his smile of incredulity.
"well," continued catherine, "all your sufferings proceed from magic.
an enemy afraid to attack you openly has done so in secret; a terrible conspiracy has been directed against your majesty.
you doubt it, perhaps, but i know it for a certainty."
"i never doubt what you tell me," replied the king sarcastically.
"i am curious to know how they have sought to kill me."
"by magic.
look here."
the queen drew from under her mantle a figure of yellow wax about ten inches high, wearing a robe covered with golden stars, and over this a royal mantle.
"see, it has on its head a crown," said catherine, "and there is a needle in its heart.
now do you recognise yourself?"
"myself?"
"yes, in your royal robes, with the crown on your head."
"and who made this figure?"
asked-the king, weary of the wretched farce.
"the king of navarre, of course!"
"no, sire; he did not actually make it, but it was found in the rooms of m. de la mole, who serves the king of navarre."
"so, then, the person who seeks to kill me is m. de la mole?"
said charles.
"he is only the instrument, and behind the instrument is the hand that directs it," replied catherine.
"this, then, is the cause of my illness.
and now what must i do for i know nothing of sorcery?"
"the death of the conspirator destroys the charm.
its power ends with his life.
you are convinced now, are you not, of the cause of your illness?"
"oh, certainly," charles answered ironically.
"and i am to punish m. de la mole, as you say he is the guilty party?"
"i say he is the instrument, and," muttered catherine, "we have infallible means for making him confess the name of his principal."
catherine left hurriedly without understanding the sardonic laughter of the king, and as she went out marguerite appeared.
"oh, sire sire," cried marguerite, "you know what she says is false.
it is terrible to accuse anyone's own mother, but she only lives to persecute the man who is devoted to you, henry your henry and i swear to you that what she says is false!"
"i think so, too, margot.
but henry is safe.
safer in disgrace in vincennes than in favour at the louvre."
"oh, thanks, thanks!
but there is another person in whose welfare i am interested, whom i hardly dare mention to my brother, much less to my king."
"m. de la mole, is it not?
but do you know that a figure dressed in royal robes and pierced to the heart was found in his rooms?"
"i know it; but it was the figure of a woman, not of a man."
"and the needle?"
"was a charm not to kill a man, but to make a woman love him."
"what was the name of this woman?"
"marguerite!"
cried the queen, throwing herself down and bathing the king's hand in her tears.
"margot, what if i know the real author of the crime?
for a crime has been committed, and i have not three months to live.
i am poisoned, but it must be thought i die by magic."
"you know who is guilty?"
"yes; but it must be kept from the world, and so it must be believed i die of magic, and by the agency of him they accuse."
"but it is monstrous!"
exclaimed marguerite.
"you know he is innocent.
pardon him pardon him!"
"i know it, but the world must believe him guilty.
let your friend die.
his death alone can save the honour of our family.
i am dying that the secret may be preserved."
m. de la mole, after enduring excruciating tortures at the hand of catherine, without making any admissions, died on the scaffold.
iv "the bourbon shall not reign!"
before he died charles showed catherine the poisoned book, which he had kept under lock and key.
"and now burn it, madame.
i read this book too much, so fond was i of the chase.
and the world must not know the weaknesses of kings.
when it is burnt, please summon my brother henry.
i wish to speak to him about the regency."
catherine brought henry of navarre to the king, and warned him that if he accepted the regency he was a dead man.
charles, however, though on his death-bed, declared henry should be regent.
"madame," he said, addressing his mother, "if i had a son he would be king, and you would be regent.
in your stead, did you decline, the king of poland would be regent; and in his stead, d'alençon.
but i have no son, and therefore the throne belongs to d'anjou, who is absent.
to make d'alençon regent is to invite civil war.
i have therefore chosen the fittest person for regent salute him, madame; salute him, d'alençon.
it is the king of navarre!"
"never," cried catherine, "shall my race yield to a foreign one!
never shall a bourbon reign while a valois lives!"
she left the room, followed by d'alençon.
"henry," said charles, "after my death you will be great and powerful.
d'anjou will not leave poland they will not let him.
d'alençon is a traitor.
you alone are capable of governing.
it is not the regency only, but the throne i give you."
a stream of blood choked his speech.
"the fatal moment is come," said henry.
"am i to reign, or to live?"
"live, sire!"
a voice answered, and renè appeared.
"the queen has sent me to ruin you, but i have faith in your star.
it is foretold that you shall be king.
do you know that the king of poland will be here very soon?
he has been summoned by the queen.
a messenger has come from warsaw.
you shall be king, but not yet."
"what shall i do, then?"
"fly instantly to where your friends wait for you."
henry stooped and kissed his brother's forehead, then disappeared down a secret passage, passed through the postern, and, springing on his horse, galloped off.
"he flies!
the king of navarre flies!"
cried the sentinels.
"fire on him!
fire!"
said the queen.
the sentinels levelled their pieces, but the king was out of reach.
"he flies!"
muttered d'alençon.
"i am king, then!"
at the same moment the drawbridge was hastily lowered, and henry d'anjou galloped into the court, followed by four knights, crying, "france!
france!"
"my son!"
cried catherine joyfully.
"am i too late?"
said d'anjou.
"no.
you are just in time.
listen!"
the captain of the king's guards appeared at the balcony of the king's apartment.
he broke the wand he held in two places, and holding a piece in either hand, called out three times, "king charles the ninth is dead!"
king charles the ninth is dead!
king charles the ninth is dead!"
"charles the ninth is dead!"
said catherine, crossing herself.
"god save henry the third!"
all repeated the cry.
"i have conquered," said catherine, "and the odious bourbon shall not reign!"
the black tulip
"the black tulip," published in 1850, was the last of      alexandre dumas' more famous stories, and ranks deservedly      high among the short novels of its prolific author.
dumas      visited holland in may, 1849, in order to be present at the      coronation of william iii.
at amsterdam, and according to      flotow, the composer, it was the king himself who told dumas      the story of "the black tulip," and mentioned that none of the      author's romances were concerned with the dutch.
dumas,      however, never gave any credit to this anecdote, and others      have alleged that paul lacroix, the bibliophile, who was      assisting dumas with his novels at that time, is responsible      for the plot.
the question can never be answered, for who can      disentangle the work of dumas from that of his army of      helpers?
a feature of "the black tulip" is that in it is the      bulb, and not a human being, that is the real centre of      interest.
the fate of the bulb is made of first importance,      and the fortunes of cornelius van baerle, the tulip fancier,      of boxtel, and of rosa, the gaoler's daughter, exciting though      they are, take second place.
i. mob vengeance
on the 20th of august, 1672, the city of the hague was crowded in every street with a mob of people, all armed with knives, muskets, or sticks, and all hurrying towards the buytenhof.
within that terrible prison was cornelius de witt, brother of john de witt, the ex-grand pensionary of holland.
these brothers de witt had long served the united provinces of the dutch republic, and the people had grown tired of the republic, and wanted william, prince of orange, for stadtholder.
john de witt had signed the act re-establishing the stadtholderate, but cornelius had only signed it under the compulsion of an orange mob that attacked his house at dordrecht.
this was the first count against the de witts their objection to a stadtholder.
the second count was that the de witts had always done their best to keep at peace with france.
they knew that war with france meant ruin to holland, but the more violent orangists still believed that such a war would bring honour to the dutch.
hence the popular hatred against the de witts.
a miscreant named tyckelaer fanned the flame against cornelius by declaring that he had bribed him to assassinate william, the newly-elected stadtholder.
cornelius was arrested, brought to trial, and tortured on the rack, but no confession of guilt could be wrung from the innocent, high-souled man.
then the judges acquitted tyckelaer, deprived cornelius of all his offices, and passed sentence of banishment.
john de witt had already resigned the office of grand pensionary.
on the 20th of august, cornelius was to leave his prison for exile, and a fierce orangist populace, incited to violence by the harangues of tyckelaer, was rushing to the buytenhof prepared to do murder, and fearful lest the prisoner should escape alive.
"to the gaol!
to the gaol!"
yelled the mob.
but outside the prison was a line of cavalry drawn up under the command of captain tilly with orders to guard the buytenhof, and while the populace stood in hesitation, not daring to attack the soldiers, john de witt had quietly driven up to the prison, and had been admitted by the gaoler.
the shouts and clamour of the people could be heard within the prison as john de witt, accompanied by gryphus the gaoler, made his way to his brother's cell.
cornelius learnt there was no time to be lost, but there was a question of certain correspondence between john de witt and m. de louvois of france to be discussed.
these letters, entirely creditable though they were to the statesmanship of the grand pensionary, would have been accepted as evidence of treason by the maddened orangists, and cornelius, instead of burning them, had left them in the keeping of his godson, van baerle, a quiet, scholarly young man of dordrecht, who was utterly unaware of the nature of the packet.
"they will kill us if these papers are found," said john de witt, and opening the window, they heard the mob shouting, "death to traitors!"
in spite of fingers and wrists broken by the rack, cornelius managed to write a note.
dear godson: burn the packet i gave you, burn without opening      or looking at it, so that you may not know the contents.
the      secrets it contains bring death.
burn it, and you will have      saved both john and cornelius.
farewell, from your affectionate
cornelius de witt.
then a letter was given to craeke, john de witt's faithful servant, who at once set off for dordrecht, and within a few minutes the two brothers were driving away to the city gate.
rosa, the gaoler's daughter, unknown to her father, had opened the postern, and had herself bidden de witt's coachman drive round to the rear of the prison, and by this means the fury of the mob was, for the moment, evaded.
and now the clamour of the orangists was at the prison door, for tilly's horse had withdrawn on an order signed by the deputies in the town hall, and the people were raging to get within the buytenhof.
the mob burst open the great gate, and yelling, "death to the traitors!
to the gallows with cornelius de witt!"
poured in, only to find the prisoner had escaped.
but the escape was but from the prison, for the city gate was locked when the carriage of the de witts drove up, locked by order of the deputies of the town hall, and a certain young man who was none other than william, prince of orange held the key.
before another gate could be reached the mob, streaming from the buytenhof, had overtaken the carriage, and the de witts were at its mercy.
the two men, whose lives had been spent in the welfare of their country, were massacred with unspeakable savagery, and their bodies, stripped, and hacked almost beyond recognition, were then strung up on a hastily erected gibbet in the market-place.
when the worst had been done, the young man, who had secretly watched the proceedings from the window of a neighbouring house, returned the key to the gatekeeper.
then the prince mounted a horse which an equerry held in waiting for him, and galloped off to camp to await the message of the states.
he galloped proudly, for the burghers of the hague had made of the corpses of the de witts a stepping stone to power for william of orange.
ii.
betrayed for his bulbs
doctor cornelius van baerle, the godson of cornelius de witt, was in his twenty-eighth year, an orphan, but nevertheless, a really happy man.
his father had amassed a fortune of 400,000 guilders in trade with the indies, and an estate brought him in 10,000 guilders a year.
he was blessed with the love of a peaceful life with good nerves, ample wealth, and a philosophic mind.
left alone in the big house at dordrecht, he steadily resisted all temptations to public life.
he took up the study of botany, and then, not knowing what to do with his time and money, decided to go in for one of the most extravagant hobbies of the time the cultivation of his favourite flower, the tulip.
the fame of mynheer van baerle's tulips soon spread in the district, and while cornelius de witt had roused deadly hatred by sowing the seeds of political passion, van baerle with his tulips won general goodwill.
yet, all unknowingly, van baerle had made an enemy, an implacable, relentless enemy.
this was his neighbour, isaac boxtel, who lived next door to him in dordrecht.
boxtel, from childhood, had been a passionate tulip-grower.
he had even produced a tulip of his own, and the boxtel had won wide admiration.
one day, to his horror, boxtel discovered that his next-door neighbour, the wealthy mynheer van baerle, was also a tulip-grower.
in bitter anguish boxtel foresaw that he had a rival who, with all the resources at his command, might equal and possibly surpass the famous boxtel creations.
he almost choked with envy, and from the moment of his discovery lived under continual fear.
the healthy pastime of tulip growing became, under these conditions, a morbid and evil occupation for boxtel, while van baerle, on the other hand, totally unaware of the enmity brewing, threw himself into the business with the keenest zest, taking for his motto the old aphorism, "to despise flowers is to insult god."
so fierce was the envy that seized boxtel that though he would have shrunk from the infamy of destroying a tulip, he would have killed the man who grew them.
his own plants were neglected; it was useless and hopeless to contend against so wealthy a rival.
then boxtel, fascinated by his evil passion, bought a telescope, and, perched on a ladder, studied van baerle's tulip beds and the drying-room, the tulip-grower's sacred place.
one night he lost all moral control, and tying the hind legs of two cats together with a piece of string, he flung the animals into van baerle's garden.
to boxtel's bitter mortification the cats, though they made havoc of many precious plants before they broke the string, left the four finest tulips untouched.
shortly afterwards the haarlem tulip society offered a prize of 100,000 guilders to whomsoever should produce a large black tulip, without spot or blemish.
van baerle at once thought out the idea of the black tulip.
he had already achieved a dark brown one, while boxtel, who had only managed to produce a light brown one, gave up the quest as impossible, and could do nothing but spy on his neighbour's activities.
one evening in january 1672, cornelius de witt came to see his grandson, cornelius van baerle, and went with him alone into the sacred drying-
room, the laboratory of the tulip-grower.
boxtel, with his telescope, recognised the well-known features of the statesman, and presently he saw him hand his godson a packet, which the latter put carefully away in a cabinet.
this packet contained the correspondence of john de witt and m. de louvois.
cornelius drove away, and boxtel wondered what the packet contained.
it could hardly be bulbs; it must be secret papers.
it was not till august, as we know, that craeke was despatched to van baerle with the note bidding him destroy the packet.
craeke arrived just when van baerle was nursing his precious bulbs the bulbs of the black tulip and his sudden entrance rudely disturbed the tulip-grower.
he had not time to read the note; indeed, he was too much concerned with the welfare of his three particular bulbs to trouble about it, before a magistrate and some soldiers entered to arrest him.
van baerle wrapped up the bulbs in the note from his godfather, and was sent off under close custody to the hague.
the magistrate carried off the packet from the cabinet.
all this was boxtel's work.
it was he who had reported to the magistrate the visit of de witt and the placing of the packet in a cabinet.
and now, with van baerle out of the house as a prisoner, boxtel in the dead of night broke into his neighbour's house, to secure the priceless bulbs of the black tulip.
he had made out where they were growing, and he plunged his hands into the soft soil only to find nothing.
then the wretched man guessed that the bulbs had gone with the prisoner to the hague, and decided to go in pursuit.
van baerle could only keep them while he was alive, and then they should be his, isaac boxtel's.
iii.
the theft of the tulip
van baerle was placed in the cell occupied by cornelius de witt in the buytenhof.
outside, in the market-place, the bodies of the de witts were hanging, and van baerle read with horror the inscription, "here hang that great rascal john de witt and the little rascal cornelius de witt, enemies of their country."
gryphus laughed when the prisoner asked him what it meant, and replied, "that's what happens to those that write secret letters to the enemies of the prince of orange."
a terrible despair fell on van baerle, but he refused to escape when rosa, the gaoler's beautiful daughter, suggested it to him.
he was brought to trial, and though he denied all knowledge of the correspondence, his goods were confiscated, and he was condemned to death.
he bequeathed his three tulip bulbs to rosa, explained how she must get a certain soil from dordrecht, and went out calmly to die.
on the scaffold van baerle was reprieved and sentenced to perpetual imprisonment, for the prince of orange shrank from further bloodshed.
one spectator in the crowd was bitterly disappointed.
this was boxtel, who had bribed the headsman to let him have van baerle's clothes, believing that he would thus obtain the priceless bulbs.
van baerle was sent to the prison of loewenstein, and in february 1673, when he was thinking his tulips lost for ever, he heard rosa's voice.
gryphus had applied for the gaolership of loewenstein, and had been appointed.
nothing could persuade him that if van baerle was not a traitor he was certainly in league with the devil, like all learned men, and he did all he could to mortify and annoy his prisoner.
but rosa would come every night when her father, stupefied by gin, was asleep, and talk to cornelius through the barred grating of his cell door.
he taught her to read, and together they planned how the tulip bulbs should be brought to flower.
one bulb rosa was to plant, the second van baerle would cultivate in his cell with soil placed in an old water jug, and the third was to be kept in reserve.
once more hope revived in baerle's mind, but rosa often suffered vexation because cornelius thought more of his black tulip than of her.
in the meantime boxtel, under the assumed name of jacob gisels, had made his way to loewenstein in pursuit of the bulbs, and had ingratiated himself with gryphus, offering to marry his daughter.
rosa's tulip had to be guarded from gisels, who was always spying on her movements.
she kept it in her room for safety, but boxtel had a key made, and the day the tulip flowered, and arose a spotless black, he resolved to take it at once, and rush to haarlem and claim the prize.
the day came.
rosa described to cornelius the wonderful black tulip, and they drew up a letter to the president of the horticultural society at haarlem, begging him to come and fetch the wonderful flower.
that very night while cornelius and rosa rejoiced as lovers for now even rosa was convinced of the prisoner's love for her over the happiness of the flowering tulip, boxtel crept into her room, and carried off the black tulip to haarlem.
as for van baerle, he was beside himself with the rage of desperation when rosa told him that the black tulip had been stolen.
rosa, bent on recovering the tulip, and certain in her own mind as to the thief, hastened away from loewenstein the next day without a word, gryphus was mad when he learnt his daughter was nowhere to be found, and put down the mysterious disappearance of jacob gisels and rosa to the work of the devil, and was convinced that van baerle was the devil's agent.
the third day after the theft gryphus, armed with a stick and a knife, attacked cornelius, calling out, "give me back my daughter."
cornelius got hold of the stick, forced gryphus to drop the knife, and then proceeded to give the gaoler a thrashing.
the noise brought in turnkeys and guards, who speedily carried off the wounded gaoler and arrested van baerle.
to comfort the prisoner they assured him he would certainly be shot within twelve hours.
then an officer, an aide-de-camp of the prince of orange, entered, escorted van baerle to the prison gate, and bade him enter a carriage.
believing himself about to die, he thought sadly of rosa and of the tulip he was never to see again.
the carriage rolled off, and they travelled all that day and night until the journey ended at haarlem.
iv.
the triumph of the tulip
rosa reached haarlem just four hours after boxtel's arrival, and she went at once to seek an interview with mynheer van systens, the president of the horticultural society.
immediate admittance was granted on her mentioning the magic words "black tulip."
"sir, the black tulip has been stolen from me," said rosa.
"but i only saw it two hours ago!"
replied the president.
"you saw it where?"
"why, at your master's!
are you not in the service of mynheer isaac boxtel?"
"i, sir?
certainly not!
but this isaac boxtel, is he a thin, bald-headed, bow-legged, crook-backed, haggard-looking man?"
"you have described him exactly."
"he is the thief; he stole the black tulip from me."
"well, go and find mynheer boxtel he is at the white swan inn, and settle it with him."
and with that the president took up his pen and went on writing, for he was busy over his report.
but rosa still implored him, and while she was speaking the prince of orange entered the building.
rosa told everything, how she had received the bulb from the prisoner at loewenstein, and how she had first seen the prisoner at the hague.
then boxtel was sent for.
he was ready with his tale.
the girl had plotted with her lover, the state prisoner, cornelius van baerle, and had stolen his boxtel's black tulip, which he had unwisely mentioned.
however, he had recovered it.
a thought struck rosa.
"there were three bulbs.
what has become of the others?"
she asked.
"one failed, the second produced the black tulip, and the third is at home at dordrecht," said boxtel uneasily.
"you lie; it is here!"
cried rosa.
and she drew from her bosom the third bulb, still wrapped in the same paper van baerle had so hastily put round the bulbs on his flight.
"take it, my lord," she said, handing it to the prince.
and then, glancing at the paper for the first time, she added, "oh, my lord, read this!"
william passed the third bulb to the president, and read the paper carefully.
it was cornelius de witt's letter to his godson, exhorting him to burn the packet without opening it.
it was the proof of van baerle's innocence and of his ownership of the bulbs.
"go, mynheer boxtel; you shall have justice.
and you, mynheer van systens, take care of this maiden and of the tulip," said the prince.
that same evening the prince summoned rosa to the town hall, and talked to her.
rosa did not deny her love for cornelius.
"but what is the good of loving a man condemned to live and die in prison?"
the prince asked.
"i can help him to live and die," came the answer.
the prince sealed a letter, and sent it off to loewenstein by colonel van deken.
then he turned to rosa, and said, "the day after to-morrow is sunday, and it will be the festival of the tulip.
take these 500 guilders, and dress yourself in the costume of a friesland bride, for i want it to be a grand festival for you."
sunday came, may 15, 1673, and all haarlem gathered to do honour to the black tulip.
boxtel was in the crowd, feasting his eyes on the sacred flower, which was born aloft in a litter.
the procession stopped, and the flower was placed on a pedestal, while the people cheered with wild enthusiasm.
at the solemn moment when the prince of orange was to acclaim the triumphant owner of the black tulip and present the prize of 100,000 guilders, the coach with the unhappy prisoner cornelius van baerle drew up in the market-place.
cornelius, hearing that the celebration of the black tulip was actually proceeding, besought his guard to let him have one glimpse of the flower; and the petition was granted by the prince of orange.
from a distance of six paces van baerle gazed at the black tulip, and then he, with the multitude, turned his eyes towards the prince.
in dead silence the prince declared the occasion of the festival, the discovery of the wonderful black tulip, and concluded, "let the owner of the black tulip approach."
cornelius made an involuntary movement.
boxtel and rosa rushed forward from the crowd.
the prince turned to rosa.
"this tulip is yours, is it not?"
he said.
"yes, my lord," she answered softly.
and general applause came from the crowd.
"this tulip will henceforth bear the name of its producer, and will be called tulipa nigra rosa baerttensis, because van baerle is to be the married name of this damsel," the prince announced; and at the same time he took rosa's hand and placed it within the hand of the prisoner, who had rushed forward at the words he had heard.
boxtel fell down in a fit, and when they raised him up he was dead.
the procession returned to the town hall, the prince declared rosa the prizewinner, and informed cornelius that, having been wrongfully condemned, his property was restored to him.
then he entered his coach, and was driven away.
cornelius and rosa departed for dordrecht, and van baerle remained ever faithful to his wife and his tulips.
as for old gryphus, after being the roughest gaoler of men, he lived to be the fiercest guardian of tulips at dordrecht.
the corsican brothers
"the corsican brothers" is one of the most famous of dumas'
shorter stories.
it was published in 1845, when the author was      at the height of his powers, and is remarkable not only for      its strong dramatic interest, but for its famous account of      old corsican manners and customs, being inspired by a visit to      corsica in 1834. the scenery of the island, and the life of      the inhabitants, the survival of the vendetta, and the fierce      family feuds, all made strong appeal to his imaginative mind.
several versions of the story have been dramatised for the      english stage, and as a play "the corsican brothers" has      enjoyed a long popularity; but dumas himself, who was fond of      adapting his works to the stage, never dramatised this story.
i. the twins
i was travelling in corsica early in march 1841. corsica is a french department, but it is by no means french, and italian is the language commonly spoken.
it is free from robbers, but it is still the land of the vendetta, and the province of sartene, wherein i was travelling, is the home of family feuds, which last for years and are always accompanied by loss of life.
i was travelling alone across the island, but i had been obliged to take a guide; and when at five o'clock we halted on a hill overlooking the village of sullacro, my guide asked me where i would like to stay for the night.
there were, perhaps, one hundred and twenty houses in sullacro for me to choose from, so after looking out carefully for the one that promised the most comfort, i decided in favour of a strong, fortified, squarely-built house.
"certainly," said my guide.
"that is the house of madame savilia de franchi.
your honour has chosen wisely."
i was a little uncertain whether it was quite the right thing for me to seek hospitality at a house belonging to a lady, for, being only thirty-six, i considered myself a young man.
but i found it quite impossible to make my guide understand my feelings.
the notion that my staying a night could give occasion for gossip concerning my hostess, or that it made any difference whether i was old or young, was unintelligible to a corsican.
madame savilia, i learnt from the guide, was about forty, and had two sons twins twenty-one years old.
one lived with his mother, and was a corsican; the other was in paris, preparing to be a lawyer.
we soon arrived at the house we sought.
my guide knocked vigorously at the door, which was promptly opened by a man in velvet waistcoat and breeches and leather gaiters.
i explained that i sought hospitality, and was answered in return that the house was honoured by my request.
my luggage was carried off, and i entered.
in the corridor a beautiful woman, tall, and dressed in black, met me.
she bade me welcome, and promised me that of her son, telling me that the house was at my service.
a maid-servant was called to conduct me to the room of m. louis, and as supper would be served in an hour, i went upstairs.
my room was evidently that of the absent son, and the most comfortable in the house.
its furniture was all modern, and there was a well-filled bookcase.
i hastily looked at the volumes; they denoted a student of liberal mind.
a few minutes later, and my host, m. lucien de franchi, entered.
i observed that he was young, of sunburnt complexion, well made, and fearless and resolute in his bearing.
"i am anxious to see that you have all you need," he said, "for we corsicans are still savages, and this old hospitality, which is almost the only tradition of our forefathers left, has its shortcomings for the french."
i assured him that the apartment was far from suggesting savagery.
"my brother louis likes to live after the french fashion," lucien answered.
he went on to speak of his brother, for whom he had a profound affection.
they had already been parted for ten months, and it was three or four years before louis was expected home.
as for lucien, nothing, he said, would make him leave corsica.
he belonged to the island, and could not live without its torrents, its rocks, and its forests.
the physical resemblance between himself and his brother, he told me, was very great; but there was considerable difference of temperament.
having completed my own change of dress, i went into lucien's room, at his suggestion.
it was a regular armoury, and all the furniture was at least 300 years old.
while my host put on the dress of a mountaineer, for he mentioned to me that he had to attend a meeting after supper, he told me the history of some of the carbines and daggers that hung round the room.
of a truth, he came of an utterly fearless stock, to whom death was of small account by the side of courage and honour.
at supper, madame de franchi could not help expressing her anxiety for her absent son.
no letter had been received, but lucien for days had been feeling wretched and depressed.
"we are twins," he said simply, "and however greatly we are separated, we have one and the same body, as we had at our birth.
when anything happens to one of us, be it physical or mental, it at once affects the other.
i know that louis is not dead, for i should have seen him again in that case."
"you would have told me if he had come?"
said madame de franchi anxiously.
"at the very moment, mother."
i was amazed.
neither of them seemed to express the slightest doubt or surprise at this extraordinary statement.
lucien went on to regret the passing of the old customs of corsica.
his very brother had succumbed to the french spirit, and on his return would settle down as an advocate at ajaccio, and probably prosecute men who killed their enemies in a vendetta.
"and i, too, am engaged in affairs unworthy of a de franchi," he concluded.
"you have come to corsica with curiosity about its inhabitants.
if you care to set out with me after supper, i will show you a real bandit."
i accepted the invitation with pleasure.
ii.
m. luden de franchi
lucien explained to me the object of our expedition.
for ten years the village of sullacro had been divided over the quarrel of two families, the orlandi and the colona a quarrel that had originated in the seizure of a paltry hen belonging to the orlandi, which had flown into the poultry-yard of the colonas.
nine people had already been killed in this feud, and now lucien, as arbitrator, was to bring it to an end.
the local prefect had written to paris that one word from de franchi would end the dispute, and louis had appealed to him.
to-night lucien was to arrange matters with orlandi, as he had already done with colona, and the meeting-place was at the ruins of the castle of vicentello d'istria.
it was a steep ascent, but we arrived in good time, and while we sat and waited, lucien told me terrible stories of feuds and vengeance.
orlandi made his appearance exactly at nine o'clock, and after some discussion agreed to lucien's terms.
i found that i was expected to act as surety for orlandi, and accepted the responsibility.
"you will now be able to tell my brother, on your return to paris, that it's all been settled as he wished," said lucien.
on our way home lucien showed wonderful marksmanship with his gun, and admitted he was equally skillful with the pistol.
his brother louis, on the other hand, had never touched either gun or pistol.
next morning came the grand reconciliation of orlandi and colona, in the market square in the presence of the mayor and the notary.
the mayor compelled the belligerents to shake hands, a document was signed declaring the vendetta at an end, and everybody went to mass.
later in the day i was compelled to bid good-bye to madame de franchi and her son, and set out for paris; but before i left lucien told me how in his family his father had appeared to him on his death-bed, and that, not only at death, but at any great crisis in life, an apparition appeared.
he was certain by his own depression that his brother louis was suffering.
lucien told me his brother's address, 7, rue du helder, and gave me a letter which i undertook to deliver personally.
we parted with great cordiality, and a week later i was back in paris.
iii.
the fate of louis
i was startled by the extraordinary resemblance of m. louis de franchi, whom i had at once called upon, to his brother.
i was relieved to find that he was not suffering from illness, and i told him of the anxiety of his family concerning his health.
m. de franchi replied that he had not been ill, but that he had been suffering from a very bitter disappointment, aggravated by the knowledge that his own suffering caused his brother to suffer, too.
he hoped, however, that time would heal the wound in his heart.
we agreed to meet the following night at the opera ball at midnight, on the young lawyer's suggestion.
i rallied him on his recovery from his sorrow, but louis only said mournfully that he was driven by fate, dragged against his will.
"i am quite sure," he said, "that it would be better for me not to go, but nevertheless i am going."
louis was too pre-occupied to talk when we met at the masked ball, and he suddenly left me for a lady carrying violets.
later he rejoined me, and together we set off to supper at three o'clock in the morning.
it was my friend d  's supper party, and he had included louis in the invitation.
we found our friends waiting supper, and d   announced that the only person who had not arrived was château-renard.
it seemed there was a wager on that m. de château-renard would not arrive with a certain lady whom he had undertaken to bring to supper.
louis, who was as pale as death, implored d   not to mention the lady's name, and our host acceded to the request.
"only as her husband is at smyrna, or in india or mexico or somewhere, and in such a case it's the same as if the lady wasn't married," d
observed.
"i assure you her husband is coming back soon, and he is such a good fellow he would be horribly mortified to hear his wife had done anything silly in his absence."
château-renard had till four o'clock to save his bet.
at five minutes to four he had not arrived, and louis smiled at me over his wine.
at that very moment the bell rang.
d   went to the door, and we could hear some argument going on in the hall.
then a lady entered with obvious reluctance, escorted by d   and château-renard.
"it's not yet four," said château-renard to d  .
"quite right, my boy," the other answered.
"you've won your bet."
"no, hardly yet, sir," said the unknown lady.
"now i know why you were so persistent.
you have wagered to bring me here to supper, and i supposed you were taking me to sup with one of my own friends."
both château-renard and d   besought the lady to stay, but the fair unknown, after expressing her thanks to d   for his welcome, turned to m. louis de franchi, and asked him to escort her home.
louis at once sprang forward.
château-renard, furious, insisted that he would know whom to hold accountable.
"if i am the person meant," said louis, with great dignity, "you will find me at home at 7, rue du helder all day to-morrow."
louis departed with his fair companion, and though château-renard was ostentatiously cheerful, the end of the supper-party was not at all a festive business.
at ten o'clock the same morning i arrived at the rooms of m. louis de franchi.
the seconds of château-renard had already called, and i passed them on the stairs.
louis had written me a note; with another friend, baron giordano martelli, the affair was to be arranged with baron de châteaugrand, and m. de boissy, the gentleman i had met on the stairs.
i looked at the cards of these two men, and asked louis if the matter was of any great seriousness.
louis replied by telling the story of the quarrel.
a friend of his, a sea captain, had married a beautiful woman, so beautiful and so young that louis could not help falling in love with her.
as an honourable man he had kept away from the house, and then on being reproached by his friend, had frankly told him the reason.
in return, his friend, who was just setting off for mexico, commended his wife, emilie, whom he adored and trusted absolutely, to his care, and asked his wife to consider louis de franchi as her brother.
for six months the captain had been away, and emilie had been living at her mother's.
to this house, among other visitors, had come m. de château-
renard, and from the first, this typical man of the world had been an object of dislike to louis.
emilie's flirtations with château-renard at last provoked a remonstrance from louis, and in return the lady told him that he was in love with her himself, and that he was absurd in his notions.
after that louis had left off calling on emilie, but gossip was soon busy with the lady's name.
an anonymous letter had made an appointment for louis with the lady of the violets at the masked ball, and from this person he was informed again not only of emilie's infidelity, but further, that m. de château-renard had wagered he would bring her to supper at d  's.
the rest i knew, and i could only assent mournfully that things must go on, and that the proposals of château-renard's seconds could not be declined.
but m. louis de franchi had never touched sword or pistol in his life!
however, there was nothing for it but to return m. de châteaugrand's call.
martelli and i found that château-renard's two supporters were both polite men of the world.
they were as indifferent as louis was to the choice of weapons, and by a spin of a coin it was decided that pistols were to be used.
the place agreed upon for the duel was the bois de vincennes, and the time nine o'clock the following morning.
i called in the evening on louis to ask him if he had any instructions for me; but his only reply was "counsel comes with the night," so i waited on him next morning.
he was just finishing a letter when i entered, and he bade his servant joseph leave us undisturbed for ten minutes.
"i am anxious," said louis, "that my friend giordano martelli, who is a corsican, should not know of this letter.
but you must promise to carry out my wishes, and then my family may be saved a second misfortune.
now, please read the letter."
i read the letter louis had written.
it was to his mother, and it said that he was dying of brain fever.
her son, writing in a lucid interval, was beyond hope of recovery.
it would be posted to her a quarter of an hour after his death.
there was an affectionate postscript to lucien.
"what does this mean?
i don't understand it," i said.
"it means that at ten minutes past nine i shall be dead.
i have been forewarned, that is all.
my father appeared to me last night and announced my death."
he spoke so simply of this visit, that if it was an illusion it was as terribly convincing as the truth.
"there is one thing more," said louis.
"if my brother was to hear that i had been killed in a duel, he would at once leave sullacro to come and fight the man who had killed me.
and then if he were killed in his turn my mother would be thrice widowed.
to prevent that i have written this letter.
if it is believed that i have died of brain fever no one can be blamed."
he paused.
"unless, unless but no, that must not be."
i knew that my own strange fear was his.
on the way to vincennes baron giordano stopped to get a case of pistols, powder, and balls, and we arrived at our destination just as m. de château-renard's carriage drove up.
at m. de châteaugrand's suggestion we all made our way to a certain glade away from the public pathway.
martelli and châteaugrand measured, the distance together, while louis bade me farewell, asking me to accept his watch, and begging me to keep the duel out of the papers, and to prevail upon giordano not to let any word of the matter reach sullacro.
m. château-renard was at his post.
baron giordano gave louis his pistol.
châteaugrand called out, "gentlemen, are you ready?"
then he clapped his hands "one, two, three."
two shots went off at the same moment, and louis de franchi fell.
his opponent was unhurt.
i rushed to louis and raised him up.
blood came to his lips.
it was useless to send for a surgeon.
château-renard had withdrawn, but his seconds hastened to express their horror at the fatal ending of the combat.
châteaugrand added that he hoped m. de franchi bore no malice against his opponent.
"no, no, i forgive him!"
said louis.
"but tell him to leave paris.
he must go."
the dying man spoke with difficulty.
he reminded me of my promise, and asked me, as he fell back, to look at my watch.
it was exactly ten minutes past nine, and louis was dead.
we carried the body back to the house, and giordano made the required statement to the district commissioner of police.
then the house was sealed by the police, and louis de franchi was laid to rest in père-la-chaise.
but m. de château-renard could not be persuaded to leave paris, though mm.
de boissy and de châteaugrand both did their best to induce him to go.
iv.
lucien takes vengeance
one night, five days after the funeral, i was working late at my writing-table, when my servant entered, and told me in a frightened tone that m. de franchi wanted to speak to me.
"who?"
i said, in astonishment.
"m. de franchi, sir, your friend the gentleman who has been here once or twice to see you."
"you must be out of your senses, victor!
don't you know that he died five days ago?"
"yes, sir; and that's why i am so upset.
i heard a ring at the bell, and when i opened the door, he walked in, asked if you were at home, and told me to tell you that m. de franchi desired to speak with you."
"are you out of your mind, my good man?
i suppose the hall is badly lit, and you were half-asleep and heard the name wrong.
go back and ask the name again."
"no, sir, i will swear that i'm not mistaken.
i'm sure i heard and saw perfectly."
"very well, then, show him in."
victor went back to the door, trembling all the time, and said, "please step in, sir."
my hasty sensation of terror was quickly dispelled.
it was lucien who was apologising to me for disturbing me at such an hour.
"the fact is," he said, "i only arrived ten minutes ago, and you will understand how impossible it was not to come and see you at once."
i at once thought of the letter i had sent.
in five days it could not have reached sullacro.
"good heaven!"
i cried.
"nothing is known to you?"
"everything is known," he said quietly.
lucien mentioned that on going to his brother's house, the people were so panic-stricken that they refused the door to him.
"tell me," i said, when we were alone.
"you must have been on your way here when you heard the fatal news?"
"on the contrary, i was at sullacro.
have you for-forgotten what i told you about the apparitions in my family?"
"has your brother appeared to you?"
i cried.
"yes.
he told me he had been killed in a duel by m. de château-renard.
i saw my brother in his room the day he was killed," lucien went on, "and that night in a dream i saw the place where the duel was fought, and heard the name of m. de château-renard.
and i have come to paris to kill the man who killed my brother.
my brother had never touched a pistol in his life, and it was as easy to kill him as to kill a tame stag.
my mother knows why i have come.
she is a true corsican, and she kissed me on the forehead and said 'go!'"
the next morning lucien wrote to giordano and sent a challenge to château-renard.
then he went with me to vincennes, and, though he had never been there in his life before, lucien walked straight to the spot where his brother had fallen.
he turned round, walked twenty paces, and said, "this is where the villain stood, and to-morrow he will lie here."
lucien predicted with absolute confidence the death of château-renard.
the challenge was accepted, the same seconds acted, and on the morrow we assembled in the fatal glade.
château-renard was obviously uneasy.
the signal was given, both men fired, and, sure enough, château-renard fell, shot through the temple as lucien had foretold.
then, for the first time since louis' death, lucien burst into tears.
he dropped his pistol and threw himself into my arms.
"my brother, my dear brother!"
he cried.
the count of monte cristo
"the count of monte cristo" appeared in 1844, when dumas had      been writing plays and stories for twenty years, and at a      period when he was most extraordinarily prolific.
in that      year, assisted by his staff of compilers and transcribers, he      is said to have turned out something like forty volumes!
"monte cristo" first gave dumas' novels a world-wide audience.
its unflagging spirit, the endless surprises, and the air of      reality which was cast over the most extravagant situations      made the work worthy of the popularity it enjoyed in almost      every country in the world.
the island from which it takes its      name is a barren rock rising 2,000 feet out of the sea a few      miles south of elba.
dumas attempted to emulate scott, and      built a château near st. germain, which he called monte      cristo, costing over $125,000.
it was afterwards sold for a      tenth of that sum to pay his debts.
i. the conspiracy of envy
on february 28, 1815, the three-masted pharaon arrived at marseilles from smyrna, commanded by the first mate, young edmond dantès, the captain having died on the voyage.
he had left a package for the maréchal bertrand on the isle of elba, which dantès had duly delivered, conversing with the exiled emperor napoleon himself.
the shipowner, m. morrel, confirmed young dantès in the command, and, overjoyed, he hastened to his father, and then to the village of the catalans, near marseilles, where the dark-eyed mercédès, his betrothed, impatiently awaited him.
but his good fortune excited envy.
danglars, the supercargo of the pharaon, wanted the command for himself, and fernand, the catalan cousin of mercédès, hated dantès because he had won her heart.
fernand's jealousy so took possession of him that he fell in willingly with a scheme which the envious danglars proposed.
making use of dantès'
compromising visit to elba, they addressed an anonymous denunciation to the procureur du roi, which, in this period of bonapartist plots, was indeed a formidable matter.
caderousse, a boon companion, was at first taken into their confidence, but as he came to think it a dangerous trick to play the young captain, he refused to take part in it.
on the morrow the wedding-feast took place, and at two o'clock dantès, radiant with joy and happiness, prepared to accompany his bride to the hotel de ville for the civil ceremony.
but at that moment the measured tread of soldiery was heard on the stairs, and a magistrate presented himself, bearing an order for the arrest of edmond dantès.
resistance or remonstrance was useless, and dantès suffered himself to be taken to marseilles, where he was examined by the deputy procureur du roi, m.
de villefort.
to him, on demand, he recounted the story of his visit to elba.
"ah!"
said villefort, "if you have been culpable it was imprudence.
give up this letter you have brought from elba, and go and rejoin your friends."
"you have it already," cried dantès.
villefort glanced at it, and sank into his seat, stupefied.
it was addressed to m. noirtier, a staunch bonapartist.
"oh, if he knew the contents of this," murmured he, "and that noirtier is father of villefort, i am lost!"
he approached the fire, and cast the fatal letter in.
"sir," said he, "i shall detail you till this evening in the palais de justice.
should anyone else interrogate you do not breathe a word of this letter."
"i promise."
it was villefort who seemed to entreat, and the prisoner to reassure him.
but the doom of edmond dantès was cast.
sacrificed to villefort's ambition, he was lodged the same night in a dungeon of the gloomy fortress-prison of the château d'if, while villefort posted to paris to warn the king that the usurper bonaparte was meditating a landing in france.
napoleon returned.
there followed the hundred days, and louis xviii.
again mounted the throne.
m. morrel's intercessions during napoleon's brief triumph for the release of dantès but served, on the restoration of louis, to compromise further the unhappy prisoner, who languished in a foul prison in the depths of the château d'if.
in the cell next to dantès was another political prisoner, the abbé faria.
he had been in the château four years when dantès was immured, and, with marvellously contrived tools and incredible toil, had burrowed a tunnel through the rock fifty feet long, only to find that, instead of leading to the outer wall of the château, whence he could have flung himself into the sea, it led to the cell of another prisoner dantès.
he penetrated it after dantès had been solitary six years.
the prisoners met every day between the visits of their gaolers.
faria showed dantès the products of his industry and ingenuity his books, written on the linen of shirts, his fish-bone pens and needles, knives, and matches, all accomplished secretly; and beguiled much of the weariness of confinement by educating dantès in the sciences, history, and languages.
dantès possessed a prodigious memory, combined with readiness of conception, and his studies progressed rapidly.
soon dantès told the abbé his story, and the abbé had little difficulty in opening the eyes of the astonished dantès to the villainy of his supposed friends and the deputy procurer.
thus was instilled into his heart a new passion vengeance.
ii.
the cemetery of the château d'if
more than seven years passed thus when coming into the abbé's dungeon one night, dantès found him stricken with paralysis.
his right arm and leg remained paralysed after the seizure.
when dantès next visited him the abbé showed him a paper, half-burnt, and rolled in a cylinder.
"this paper," said faria, "is my treasure; and if i have not been allowed to possess it, you will.
who knows if another attack may not come, and all be finished?"
the abbé had been secretary to the last of the counts of spada, one of the most powerful families of mediaeval italy, and he, dying in poverty, had left faria an old breviary, which had been in the family since the days of the borgias.
in this, by chance, faria found a piece of yellowed paper, on which, when put in the fire, writing began to appear.
from the remains of the paper he made out during the early days of his imprisonment, that a cardinal spada, at the end of the fifteenth century, fearing poisoning at the hands of pope alexander vi., had buried in the island of monte cristo, a rock between corsica and elba, all his ingots, gold, money, and jewels, amounting then to nearly two million roman crowns.
"the last count of spada made me his heir," said the abbé.
"the treasure now amounts to nearly thirteen millions of money!"
the abbé remained paralysed, and had given up all hope of enjoying the treasure himself; and presently another seizure took him, and one night dantès was alone with the corpse.
next morning the preparations for burying the dead man were made, the body being placed in a sack and left in the cell till the evening.
dantès came into the cell again.
"ah!"
he muttered.
"since the dead leave this dungeon, let me assume the place of the dead!"
opening the sack, he took out the dead body of his friend, and dragged it through the tunnel to his own cell.
placing it on his own bed, he covered it with the rags he wore himself.
then he sewed himself in the sack with one of the abbé's needles.
in his hand he held the dead man's knife, and with palpitating heart awaited events.
slowly the hours dragged on, until at length he heard the heavy footsteps of the gaolers descending to the cell.
they lifted the sack, and carried him on a bier through the castle passages, until they came to a door, which was opened.
on passing through this, the noise of the waves was heard as they dashed on the rocks below.
then dantès felt that they took him by the head and by the heels, and flung him into the sea, into whose depths he was dragged by a thirty-
six-pound shot tied to his feet.
the sea is the cemetery of château d'if!
although giddy, and almost suffocated, he had yet sufficient presence of mind to hold his breath; and as his right hand held his knife, he rapidly ripped up the sack, extricated his arm, and then, by a desperate effort, severed the cord that bound his legs at the moment he was suffocating.
with a vigorous spring he rose to the surface, paused to breathe, and then dived again, in order to avoid being seen.
when he rose again, he struck boldly out to sea, and, fortunately, was picked up by a sailing-vessel.
now at liberty, fourteen years after his arrest, he renewed an oath of implacable vengeance against danglars, fernand, and villefort.
nor was it long before he had discovered the secret cave in the island of monte cristo, with all its dazzling wealth, as the abbe faria had truly foretold.
he now stood possessed of such means of vengeance as never in his wildest dreams had any innocent prisoner hoped to be able to command.
iii.
vengeance begins
some two years later caspar caderousse, the keeper of an inn near beaucaire, was lounging listlessly at his door, when a traveller on horseback dismounted at his door and entered.
the visitor monte cristo gave the name of abbe busoni, and astonished caderousse by showing a minute knowledge of his earlier history.
the abbé explained that he had been present at the death of edmond dantès in prison, and said that even in his dying moments the prisoner had protested he was utterly ignorant of the cause of his imprisonment.
"and so he was!"
exclaimed caderousse.
"how should he have been otherwise?"
the abbè had heard of the death of edmond's aged father, and now he was told the old man had died of starvation.
"thus heaven recompenses virtue," said caderousse.
"i am in destitution and shall die of hunger, as old dantès did, whilst fernand and danglars roll in wealth.
all their malpractices have turned to luck.
danglars speculated and made a fortune.
he is a millionaire, and now count danglars.
fernand played traitor at the battle of ligny, and that served for his recommendation to the bourbons.
afterwards he became count de morcerf, and got a considerable sum by the betrayal of ali pasha in the greek war of independence."
the abbé, making an effort, said, "and mercédès she disappeared?"
"yes, as the sun, to rise next day with more splendour.
she is rich, the countess de morcerf she waited two hopeless years for dantès and yet i am sure she is not happy."
"and m. de villefort?"
asked the abbé.
"some time after having arrested dantès, he married and left marseilles; no doubt but he has been as lucky as the rest."
"god may seem sometimes to forget for a time," said the abbé, "while his justice reposes, but there always comes a moment when he remembers."
early in 1838 a certain count of monte cristo became a great figure in the life of paris.
his name awakened thoughts of romance and dazzling wealth in the minds of all.
it was albert, the son of the count de morcerf, who first introduced the count of monte cristo to the high society of paris.
they had become acquainted at rome, where monte cristo had been able to render a great service to the viscount albert de morcerf and his friend, the baron franz d'epinay.
all sorts of stories were afloat in paris as to the history of this count of monte cristo.
when he went to the opera he was accompanied by a beautiful greek girl, named haidée, whose guardian he was.
but nothing ruffled monte cristo.
calmness and deliberation marked all his movements; in some respects he was more like a machine than a human being.
everything he said he would do was done precisely.
and now the schemes he had long studied in secret he had begun to carry through as certainly and relentlessly as fate.
m. de villefort, now procureur du roi, had a daughter by his first wife, for he had married a second time.
her name was valentine, and at the command of her father, but not by her own wish, she was engaged to the baron franz d'epinay.
she loved a young military officer named maximilian morrel, a son of the marseilles shipowner.
but neither of them had dared to avow their affection for each other to valentine's father.
meanwhile, the tide of fortune seemed to have turned with baron danglars.
his business had suffered many losses, but his greatest loss of all was due to some false news about the price of shares which had been telegraphed to paris by means which monte cristo could have explained.
the baron's daughter was engaged to albert de morcerf, but the count of morcerf had now come under a cloud, for his betrayal of ali pasha had been made public; and perhaps the count of monte cristo could have told how the truth came out at last.
so the baron did not hesitate to break the engagement, and to accept as the suitor for his daughter a dashing young man known as count cavalcanti, who had been introduced to paris by monte cristo, but concerning whose antecedents nothing seemed to be known.
the count de morcerf was tried for his betrayal of ali, and seemed likely to be acquitted, when a veiled woman was brought to the place of trial, and testified before the committee that she was the daughter of ali pasha, and that morcerf had not only betrayed her father to the turks, but had sold her and her mother into slavery.
the veiled woman was haidée, the ward of monte cristo.
the count was now a ruined man, and when his son albert discovered the part that monte cristo had played, he publicly insulted the count at the opera.
a duel was averted, for albert publicly apologised to the count when he learned the reasons for his actions.
furious that he had not been avenged by his son, morcerf rushed to the house of monte cristo.
"i came to tell you," said morcerf, "that as the young people of the present day will not fight, it remains for us to do it."
"so much the better," said monte cristo.
"are you prepared?"
"yes, sir; and witnesses are unnecessary, as we know each other so little."
"truly they are unnecessary," said monte cristo, "but for the reason that we know each other well.
are you not the soldier fernand who deserted on the eve of waterloo?
are you not the lieutenant fernand who served as guide and spy to the french army in spain?
are you not the captain fernand who betrayed, sold, and murdered his benefactor, ali?"
"oh," cried the general, "wretch, to reproach me with my shame!
tell me your real name that i may pronounce it when i plunge my sword through your heart."
at this monte cristo, bounding to a dressing room near, quickly pulled off his coat, and waistcoat, and, donning a sailor's jacket and hat, was back in an instant.
gazing for a moment in terror at this man who seemed to have risen from the dead to avenge his wrongs, morcerf turned, seeking the wall to support him, and went out by the door uttering the cry "edmond dantès!"
events marched rapidly now, and paris had scarcely ceased talking of the suicide of the count de morcerf, when cavalcanti, identified as a former galley-slave named benedetto, was arrested for the murder of a fellow-
convict.
danglars fled from france, his great business in ruin.
with him he took a large sum of money belonging to paris hospitals, which, however, was taken from him near rome by brigands controlled by monte cristo.
iv.
vengeance is complete
in the household of villefort, monte cristo had done nothing to bring vengeance on that evil man.
he had seen from the first that villefort's second wife was studying the art of poisoning, and he felt that revenge was already at work here.
there had already been three mysterious deaths in the house, and now the beautiful valentine seemed to be suffering from the early effects of some slow poison.
maximilian morrel, in despair of valentine's life, rushed to monte cristo for his advice and assistance.
"must i let one of the accursed race escape?"
monte cristo asked himself, but decided, for maxmilian's sake, that he would save valentine.
he had bought the house adjoining that of villefort, and, clearing out the tenants, had engaged workmen to remove so much of the old wall between the two houses that it was a simple matter for him to take out the remaining stones and pass into a large cupboard in valentine's room.
here the count watched while valentine was asleep, and saw madame de villefort creep into the room and substitute for the medicine in valentine's glass a dose of poison.
he then entered the room and threw half the draught into the fireplace, leaving the rest in the glass.
when valentine awoke he gave her a pellet of hashish, which made her sink into a deathlike sleep.
next morning the doctor declared that valentine was dead.
in the glass he discovered poison, and as the same poison was found in madame's laboratory, there was no doubt of her guilt.
she admitted all, and confessed that her object had been to make her own son sole heir to villefort's fortune.
madame de villefort fell at her husband's feet.
he addressed her with passionate words of reproach as he turned to leave her.
"think of it, madame," he said; "if on my return justice has not been satisfied, i will denounce you with my own mouth, and arrest you with my own hands!
i am going to the court to pronounce sentence of death on a murderer.
if i find you alive on my return, you shall sleep to-night in gaol."
madame sighed, her nerves gave way, and she sank on the carpet.
but villefort little knew at the moment he spoke these burning words to the woman who was his wife that he himself was not going out to condemn a fellow-sinner, but to be himself condemned.
for the man to whom he referred as a murderer was the so-called count cavalcanti, really benedetto, who now turned out to be an illegitimate son of villefort's whom he had endeavoured to bury alive as an infant in the garden of a house at auteuil.
the night before the criminal had had a long interview with monte cristo's steward, who had disclosed to the prisoner the secret of his birth, and in court he declared his father was villefort, the public prosecutor!
this statement made a great commotion in the court, and all eyes were on villefort, while benedetto continued to answer the questions of the president, and proved that he was the child whom villefort would have buried alive years before.
the public prosecutor himself confirmed the prisoner's story by admitting his guilt, and staggering from the court.
when villefort arrived at his own house he found everything in confusion.
making his way to his wife's apartments, he had the horror of meeting her while she still lived, just at the very instant when the poison she had taken did its work, and of finding a moment or two after that she had poisoned his little son edward.
this was more than the brain of man could endure, and villefort turned from the tragic scene a raving madman, rushing wildly to the garden, and beginning to dig with a spade.
the vengeance of edmond dantès, so long delayed, so carefully and laboriously planned, was now complete, and it only remained for him to perform the last of his marvels, at the same time giving proof of his boundless generosity.
valentine de villefort had been buried, and maximilian was in despair; but monte cristo urged the young man to have patience and hope.
it seemed a strange thing to ask a lover whose sweetheart had been placed within the tomb to have hope and to come to monte cristo in one month.
but this was the bargain they made.
when the month had passed, maximilian came to the isle of monte cristo.
"i have your word," he said to the count, "that you would help me die or give me valentine!"
"ah!
a miracle alone can save you the resurrection of valentine!
thus do i fulfil my promise!"
monte cristo turned to a jewelled cabinet, and took from it a tube of greenish paste.
maximilian swallowed some of the mysterious substance, which was but hashish.
he sat down and waited.
"monte cristo," he said, "i feel that i am dying good-bye!"
meanwhile, monte cristo had opened a door from which a great light streamed.
maximilian opened his eyes, looked towards the light; and then he saw valentine!
then monte cristo spoke.
"he calls you, valentine, even as he thinks he dies by his own will.
but even as i saved you from the tomb, so have i saved him.
i feared for his reason if he saw you, except in a trance
from his trance he will wake to happiness!"
next morning valentine and maximilian were walking on the beach, when jacopo, the captain of monte cristo's yacht, gave them a letter.
as they looked on the superscription they cried, simultaneously, "gone!"
in his letter, monte cristo, said: "all that is in this grotto, my friend, my house in the champs elysées, and my château at tréport, are the marriage gifts bestowed by edmond dantès upon the son of his old master, morrel.
mademoiselle de villefort will share them with you; for i entreat her to give to the poor the immense fortune reverting to her from her father, now a madman, and her brother, who died last september with his mother."
"but where is the count?"
asked morrel eagerly.
jacopo pointed towards the horizon, where a white sail was visible.
"and where is haidée?"
asked valentine.
jacopo still pointed towards the sail.
the three musketeers
it was not till the publication of "the three musketeers," in      1844, that the amazing gifts of dumas were fully recognised.
from 1844 till 1850, the literary output of novels, plays, and      historical memoirs was enormous, and so great was the demand      for dumas' work that he made no attempt to supply his      customers single-handed, but engaged a host of assistants, and      was content to revise and amend or in some cases only to      sign their productions.
"the three musketeers" was followed      by its sequel, "twenty years after," in 1845, and the story      was continued still further in the "vicomte de bragelonne."
the "valois" series of novels, "monte cristo," and the      "memoirs of a physician," were all published before 1850, in      addition to many dramatised versions of stories.
i. the musketeer's apprenticeship
d'artagnan was without acquaintances in paris, and now on the very day of his arrival he was committed to fight with three of the most distinguished of the king's musketeers.
coming from gascony, a youth with all the pride and ambition of his race, d'artagnan had brought no money; with him, but only a letter of introduction from his father to m. de treville, captain of the musketeers.
but he had been taught that by courage alone could a man now make his way to fortune, and that he was to bear nothing, save from the cardinal the great cardinal richelieu, or from the king louis xiii.
it was immediately after his interview with m. de treville that d'artagnan, well trained at home as a swordsman, quarrelled with the three musketeers.
first, on the palace stairs, he ran violently into athos, who was suffering from a wounded shoulder.
"excuse me," said d'artagnan.
"excuse me, but i am in a hurry."
"you are in a hurry?"
said the musketeer, pale as a sheet.
"under that pretence, you run against me; you say 'excuse me!'
and you think that sufficient.
you are not polite; it is easy to see that you are from the country."
d'artagnan had already passed on, but this remark made him stop short.
"however far i may come it is not you, monsieur, who can give me a lesson in manners, i warn you."
"perhaps," said athos, "you are in a hurry now, but you can find me without running after me.
do you understand me."
"where, and when?"
said d'artagnan.
"near the carmes-deschaux at noon," replied athos.
"and please do not keep me waiting, for at a quarter past twelve i will cut off your ears if you run."
"good!"
cried d'artagnan.
"i will be there at ten minutes to twelve."
at the street gate porthos was talking with the soldiers on guard.
between the two there was just room for a man to pass, and d'artagnan hurried on, only to find himself enveloped in the long velvet cloak of porthos, which the wind had blown out.
"the fellow must be mad," said porthos, "to run against people in this manner!
do you always forget your eyes when you happen to be in a hurry?"
"no," replied d'artagnan, who, in extricating himself from the cloak, had observed that the handsome cloth of gold coat worn by porthos was only gold in front and plain buff at the back, "no, and thanks to my eyes, i can see what others cannot see."
"monsieur," said porthos angrily, "you stand a chance of getting chastised if you run against musketeers in this fashion.
i shall look for you, at one o'clock behind the luxembourg."
"very well, at one o'clock then," replied d'artagnan, turning into the street.
a few minutes later d'artagnan annoyed aramis, the third musketeer, who was chatting with some gentleman of the king's musketeers.
as d'artagnan came up aramis accidentally dropped an embroidered pocket-handkerchief and covered it at once with his foot to prevent observation.
d'artagnan, conscious of a certain want of politeness in his treatment of athos and porthos, and determined to be more obliging in future, stooped and picked up the handkerchief much to the vexation of aramis, who denied all claim to the delicate piece of cambric.
d'artagnan not taking the rebukes of aramis in good part, they fixed two o'clock as the hour of meeting.
the two young men bowed and separated, aramis going up the street which led to the luxembourg, whilst d'artagnan, finding that it was near noon, took the road to the carmes-deschaux, saying to himself, "decidedly i can't draw back; but at least if i am killed, i shall be killed by a musketeer."
knowing nobody in paris, d'artagnan went to his appointment without a second.
it was just striking twelve when he arrived on the ground, and athos, still suffering from his old wound on the shoulder, was already waiting for his adversary.
athos explained with all politeness that his seconds had not yet arrived.
"if you are in great haste, monsieur," said d'artagnan, "and if it be your will to despatch me at once, do not inconvenience yourself.
i am ready.
but if you would wait three days till your shoulder is healed, i have a miraculous balsam given me by my mother, and i am sure this balsam will cure your wound.
at the end of three days it would still do me a great honour to be your man."
"that is well said," said athos, "and it pleases me.
thus spoke the gallant knights of charlemagne.
monsieur, i love men of your stamp, and i can tell that if we don't kill each other, i shall enjoy your society.
but here comes my seconds."
"what!"
cried d'artagnan as porthos and aramis appeared.
"are these gentlemen your seconds?"
"yes," replied athos.
"are you not aware that we are never seen one without the others, and that we are called the three inseparables?"
"what does this mean?"
said porthos, who had now come up and stood astonished.
"this is the gentleman i am to fight with," said athos, pointing to d'artagnan and saluting him.
"why i am also going to fight with him," said porthos.
"but not before one o'clock," replied d'artagnan.
"well, and i also am going to fight with that gentleman," said aramis.
"but not till two o'clock," said d'artagnan calmly.
"and now you are all assembled, gentleman, permit me to offer you my excuses."
at this word "excuses" a cloud passed over the brow of athos, a haughty smile curled the lip of porthos, and a negative sign was the reply of aramis.
"you do not understand me, gentleman," said d'artagnan, throwing up his head.
"i ask to be excused in case i should not be able to discharge my debt to all three; for m. athos has the right to kill me first.
and now, gentleman, i repeat, excuse me, but on that account only, and guard!"
at these words d'artagnan drew his sword, and at that moment so elated was he that he would have drawn his sword against all the musketeers in the kingdom.
scarcely had the two rapiers sounded on meeting, when a company of the cardinal's guards appeared on the scene.
at that time there was not only a standing feud between the king's musketeers and the guards of cardinal richelieu, there was also a prohibition against duelling.
"the cardinal's guards!
the cardinal's guards!"
cried aramis and porthos at the same time.
"sheathe swords, gentlemen!
sheathe swords!"
but it was too late.
jussac, commander of the guards, had seen the combatants in a position which could not be mistaken.
"hullo, musketeers," he called out; "fighting, are you, in spite of the edicts?
well, duty before everything.
sheathe your swords, please, and follow us."
"that is quite impossible," said aramis politely.
"the best thing you can do is to pass on your way."
"we shall charge upon you, then," said jussac.
"if you disobey."
"there are five of them," said athos, "and we are but three.
we shall be beaten, and must die on the spot, for on my part i will never face my captain as a conquered man."
athos, porthos, and aramis instantly closed in, and jussac drew up his soldiers.
in that short interval d'artagnan determined on the part he was to take; it was a decision of life-long importance.
he had to choose between the king and the cardinal, and the choice made, it must be persisted in.
he turned towards athos and his friends.
"gentlemen," said he, "allow me to correct your words.
you said you were but three, but it appears to me we are four.
i do not wear the uniform, but my heart is that of a musketeer."
"withdraw, young man, and save your skin!"
cried jussac.
the three musketeers thought of d'artagnan's youth, and dreaded his inexperience.
"try me, gentlemen," said d'artagnan, "and i swear to you that i will never go hence if we are conquered."
athos pressed the young man's hand, and exclaimed, "well, then!
athos, porthos, aramis, and d'artagnan, forward!"
the nine combatants rushed upon each other with fury, and the battle ended in the utter discomfiture of the cardinal's guards, one of whom was slain and three badly wounded.
the musketeers returned walking arm in arm.
d'artagnan marched between athos and porthos, his heart full of delight.
"if i am not yet a musketeer," said he to his new friends, "at least, i have entered upon my apprenticeship, haven't i?"
ii.
the queen's diamonds
the king, always jealous of richelieu's guards, was extremely pleased when he heard from m. de treville of the fight that had taken place.
he gave d'artagnan a handful of gold, and promised him a place in the ranks of the musketeers at the first vacancy; in the meantime he was to join a company of royal guards.
from this time the life of the four young men became common, for d'artagnan fell quite easily into the habits of his three friends.
athos, who was scarcely thirty years old, was of great personal beauty and intelligence of mind.
he never spoke of women, he never laughed, rarely smiled, and his reserved and silent habits seemed to make him a much older man.
porthos was exactly the opposite of athos.
he not only talked much, but he talked loudly, not caring whether anyone listened to him.
he would talk about anything except the sciences, alleging that from childhood dated his inveterate hatred of learning.
the physical strength of porthos was enormous, and with all the vanity of a child he was a thoroughly loyal and brave man.
as for aramis, he always gave out that he intended to take orders in the church, and was merely a musketeer for the time being.
aramis revelled in intrigues and mysteries.
what the real names of his comrades were d'artagnan had no idea.
that the names they bore had been assumed was all he knew.
the motto of the four was "all for one, one for all."
d'artagnan had already earned the dislike of cardinal richelieu by his part in the fight with the cardinal's guards; it was not long before his daring gave greater cause for offence.
the king suspected his wife, anne of austria, of being in love with the duke of buckingham, and the cardinal suspected the queen of intriguing with buckingham against france.
now, a secret interview had taken place at the palace between buckingham and the queen, and the cardinal, who employed spies everywhere, found out this as he found out everything, and determined to destroy the queen's reputation, for there was deadly enmity between anne of austria and richelieu.
buckingham had received from the queen a set of diamond studs a present from the king as a keepsake; so the cardinal despatched a certain lady, a woman of rare beauty, known as "milady," to england, to get hold of two of these studs.
then the cardinal, by fostering the royal suspicion, persuaded the king to give a grand ball whereat the queen should wear the diamond studs.
by this means louis would be convinced of buckingham's visit, for the set of studs would be incomplete.
the queen was in dispair.
it was d'artagnan and the three musketeers who saved her honour.
d'artagnan loved madame bonacieux, a confidential dressmaker of the queen's; and this woman, devoted to her royal mistress, gave d'artagnan a secret note from the queen to buckingham.
d'artagnan went at once to m. de treville, obtained leave of absence for himself and his friends, and set out for england.
it was not a minute too soon, for the cardinal had already made plans to prevent any such counter-move, giving orders that no one was to sail from france without a permit.
between paris and calais, porthos, aramis, and athos were all left behind, wounded by richelieu's guards, and d'artagnan only effected a passage to dover by fighting and nearly killing a young noble who held a permit from the cardinal to leave france.
once in england, d'artagnan hastened to find buckingham.
the latter discovered, to his horror, that milady had already become possessed cunningly of two of the precious studs, and d'artagnan had to wait while the skill of the first english jeweller made good the loss beyond detection.
he returned to paris with the twelve studs in time for the royal ball.
milady had already given the two she had stolen to the cardinal, who had passed them on to the king.
"what does this mean, monsieur le cardinal?"
said the king severely, when in the middle of the ball he found, to his joy, that the queen was already wearing twelve diamonds.
"it means, sire," the cardinal replied, with vexation, "that i was anxious to present her majesty with two studs, but did not dare to offer them myself."
"i am very grateful," said anne of austria, fully alive to the cardinal's defeat, "only i am afraid these two studs must have cost your eminence as much as all the others cost his majesty."
the man, d'artagnan, to whom the queen owed this extraordinary triumph over her enemy, stood unknown in the crowd that gathered round the doors.
it was only when the queen retired that someone touched him on the shoulder and bade him follow.
he readily obeyed; d'artagnan waited in an ante-room of the queen's apartments; he could hear voices within, and presently a hand and an arm, marvellously white and beautiful, came through the tapestry.
d'artagnan felt that this was his reward.
he dropped on his knees, seized the hand, and touched it modestly with his lips.
then the hand was withdrawn, and in his own a ring was left.
the tapestry closed, and his guide, no other than bonacieux, reappeared and escorted him hastily to the corridor.
iii.
the musketeers at la rochelle
the siege of la rochelle was an important affair, one of the chief political events of the reign of louis xiii.
for a time d'artagnan was separated from his friends, for the musketeers were escorting the king to the seat of war, and our intrepid gascon was with the main army.
it was now that d'artagnan began to realise that he had attracted, not only the displeasure of the cardinal, but also the deadly hatred of milady, the cardinal's secret agent, whose overtures at friendship, made in the cardinal's interest, he had insulted before leaving paris, and whose secret shame he had discovered.
twice his life was nearly taken by hired assassins, and the third time a present of wine turned out to be poisoned.
to add to his natural discomfort, madame bonacieux had disappeared from paris, and probably was in prison.
the arrival of the musketeers restored his spirits, and the four were again inseparable.
one drawback to their intercourse was the fact that the cardinal and his spies were all over the camp, and that, consequently, it was difficult to talk confidentially without being overheard.
in order to secure privacy for a conference, they decided to go and breakfast in a bastion near the enemy's lines, and wagered with some officers they would stay there an hour.
it was a position of terrible danger, but the feat was accomplished, and the wild undertaking of the musketeers was acclaimed with tremendous enthusiasm in the french camp.
the noise reached the cardinal's ears, and he inquired its meaning.
"monseigneur," said the officer, "three musketeers and a guard laid a wager that they would go and breakfast in the bastion st. gervais, and they breakfasted and held it for two hours against the enemy, killing i don't know how many rochellais."
"did you inquire the names of those three musketeers?"
"yes, monseigneur.
mm.
athos, porthos, and aramis."
"still the three braves!"
muttered the cardinal.
"and the guard?"
"m.
d'artagnan!"
"still my reckless young friend!
i must have these four men as my own."
that same night the cardinal spoke to m. de treville of the episode of the bastion, and gave permission for d'artagnan to become a musketeer, "for such men should be in the same company," he said.
one night during the siege, the three musketeers, seeking d'artagnan, were met in a country lane by the cardinal, travelling, as he often did, with a single attendant.
athos recognised him, and the cardinal bade the three men escort him to a lonely inn.
at the door they all alighted.
the landlord of the inn received the cardinal, for he had been expecting an officer to visit a lady who was within.
the three musketeers were accommodated in a large room on the ground floor, and the cardinal passed up the staircase as a man who knew his road.
porthos and aramis sat down at the table to dice, while athos walked up and down the room in a thoughtful mood.
to his astonishment, athos found that, the stovepipe being broken, he could hear all that was passing in the room above.
"listen, milady," the cardinal was saying, "this affair is of utmost importance.
a small vessel is waiting for you at the mouth of the river.
you will go on board to-night and set sail to-morrow morning for england.
half an hour after i have gone, you will leave here.
when you reach england, you will seek the duke of buckingham, explain to him that i have proofs of his secret interviews with the queen, and tell him that if england moves in support of the besieged in la rochelle, i will at once ruin the queen."
"but what if he persists in spite of this in making war?"
said milady.
"if he persists?
why, then he must be got rid of.
some woman doubtless exists, handsome, young, and clever, who has a grievance against the duke; and some fanatic can be found to be her instrument."
"the woman exists, and the fanatic will be found," returned milady.
"and now, will monseigneur permit me to speak of my enemies, as we have spoken of yours?"
"your enemies?
who are they?"
asked richelieu.
"first, there is a meddlesome little woman called bonacieux.
she was in prison at nantes, but has been conveyed to a convent by an order which the queen obtained from the king.
will your eminence find out where that convent is?"
"i don't object to that."
"then i have a much more dangerous enemy than the little bonacieux, and that is her lover, the wretch d'artagnan.
i will get you a thousand proofs that he has conspired with buckingham."
"very well; get me proof, and i will send him to the bastille."
for a few seconds there was silence while the cardinal was writing a note.
athos at once got up and told his companions he would go out to see if the road was safe, and left the house.
the cardinal gave his final instructions to milady, and departed with porthos and aramis.
no sooner had they turned an angle of the road than athos re-entered the inn, marched boldly upstairs, and before he had been seen, had bolted the door.
milady turned round, and became exceedingly white.
"the count de la fère!"
she said.
"yes, milady, the count de la fère in person.
you believed him dead, did you not, as i believed you to be?"
"what do you want?
why do you come here?"
said milady in a hollow voice.
"i have followed your actions," said athos sternly.
"it was you who had madame bonacieux carried off; it was you who sent assassins after d'artagnan, and poisoned his wine.
only to-night you have agreed to assassinate the duke of buckingham, and expect d'artagnan to be slain in return.
now, i care nothing about the duke of buckingham; he is an englishman, but d'artagnan is my friend."
"m. d'artagnan insulted me," said milady.
"is it possible to insult you?"
said athos.
he drew out a pistol and cocked it.
"madame, you will instantly deliver to me the paper you have received from the cardinal; or, upon my soul, i will blow out your brains."
athos slowly raised his pistol until the weapon almost touched the woman's forehead.
milady knew too well that with this terrible man death would certainly come unless she yielded.
she drew the paper out of her bosom and handed it to athos.
"take it," she said, "and be accursed."
athos returned the pistol to his belt, unfolded the paper, and read:
it is by my order, and for the good of the state, that the      bearer of this has done what he has done.
dec. 3rd, 1627.
richelieu.
athos, without looking at the woman, left the inn, mounted his horse, and galloping across country, managed to get in front, on the road, before the cardinal had passed.
for a second, milady thought of pursuing the cardinal in order to denounce athos; but unpleasant revelations might be made, and it seemed best to carry out her mission in england, and then, when she had satisfied the cardinal, to claim her revenge.
iv.
the doom of milady
milady accomplished the assassination of the duke of buckingham at portsmouth, and richelieu was relieved of the fear of english intervention at la rochelle.
but the doom of milady was at hand.
the king, weary of the siege, had gone to spend a few days quietly at st. germains, taking for an escort only twenty of the musketeers, and at paris the four friends had obtained from m. de treville a few days'
leave of absence.
aramis had discovered the convent where madame bonacieux was confined; it was at bethune, and thither the musketeers hastened.
unfortunately, milady reached bethune first.
she had come there to await the cardinal's orders, and having ingratiated herself with the abbess, learnt that d'artagnan was on his way with an order from the queen to take madame bonacieux to paris.
milady immediately dispatched a messenger to the cardinal, and at the very moment when the musketeers were at the front entrance, she poured a powder into a glass of wine and bade madame bonacieux drink.
"it is not the way i meant to avenge myself," said milady, as she hastily left the convent by the back gate, "but, ma foi, we do what we must!"
the deadly poison did its work.
constance bonacieux expired in d'artagnan's arms.
then the four musketeers, joined by lord de winter, who had arrived from england in hot pursuit of milady, his sister-in-law, set out to overtake the woman who had wrought so much evil.
they came up with milady at a solitary house near the village of erquinheim.
the four servants of the musketeers guarded the house; athos, d'artagnan, aramis, porthos, and de winter entered.
"what do you want?"
screamed milady.
"we want charlotte backson, first called countess de la fère, and afterwards lady de winter," said athos.
"m. d'artagnan, it is for you to accuse her first."
"i accuse this woman of having poisoned constance bonacieux, and of having attempted to poison me, and i accuse her of having engaged assassins to shoot me," said d'artagnan.
"i accuse this woman of having procured the assassination of the duke of buckingham," said lord de winter.
"moreover, my brother, who made her his heiress, died suddenly of a strange disease."
"i married this woman and gave her my name and wealth, and found afterwards she was branded as a felon," said athos.
the musketeers and lord de winter passed sentence of death upon the miserable woman.
she was taken out to the river bank, and beheaded, and her body dropped into the middle of the stream.
"let the justice of heaven be done!"
they cried in a loud voice.
within three days the musketeers were back in paris, ready to return with the king to la rochelle.
then the cardinal summoned d'artagnan to his presence.
"you are charged with having corresponded with the enemies of france, with having surprised state secrets, and with having attempted to thwart the plans of your general," said the cardinal.
"the woman who charges me a branded felon milady de winter, is dead,"
replied d'artagnan.
"dead!"
exclaimed the cardinal.
"dead!"
"we have tried her and condemned her," said d'artagnan.
then he told the cardinal of the poisoning of madame bonacieux, and of the subsequent trial and execution.
the cardinal shuddered before he answered quietly, "you will be tried and condemned."
"monseigneur," said d'artagnan, "though i have the pardon in my pocket i am willing to die."
"what pardon?"
said the cardinal, in astonishment.
"from the king?"
"no, a pardon signed by your eminence."
d'artagnan produced the precious paper which athos had forced milady to give him before her journey to england.
for a time the cardinal sat looking at the paper before him.
then he slowly tore it up.
"now i am lost."
thought d'artagnan.
"but he shall see how a gentleman can die."
the cardinal went to a table, and wrote a few lines on a parchment.
"here, monsieur," he said; "i have taken away from you one paper; i give you another.
only the name is wanting in this commission, and you must fill that up."
d'artagnan took the document with hesitation.
he looked at it, saw it was a lieutenant's commission in the musketeers, and fell at the cardinal's feet.
"monseigneur, my life is yours.
dispose of it as you will.
but i do not deserve this.
i have three friends, all more worthy  "
the cardinal interrupted him.
"you are a brave young man, d'artagnan.
fill up this commission as you will."
d'artagnan sought out his friends, and offered the commission to them in turn.
but each declined, and athos filled in the name of d'artagnan on the commission.
"i shall soon have no more friends.
nothing but bitter recollections!"
said d'artagnan, thinking of madame bonacieux.
"you are young yet," athos answered.
"in time these bitter recollections will give way to sweet remembrances."
twenty years after
in this first-rate romance, which is a sequel to "the three      musketeers," and was published in 1845, we have d'artagnan and      the three musketeers in the prime of middle life.
their      efforts on behalf of charles i. are amazing, worthy of      anything done when they were twenty years younger.
all the      characters introduced are for the most part historical, and      they are all drawn with spirit, so that our interest in them      never flags.
a remarkable point in regard to these historical      romances of dumas is that, in spite of their enormous length,      no superfluous dialogue or long descriptions prolong them.
dumas took considerable liberties with the facts of history in      several places, as, for instance, in the introduction of      d'artagnan and his friends to charles i., and in making his      trial and execution follow as quickly on his surrender as we      are made to believe in "twenty years after."
the story is      further continued in "the vicomte de bragelonne."
i. the parsimony of mazarin
the great richelieu was dead, and his successor, cardinal mazarin, a cunning and parsimonious italian, was chief minister of france.
paris, torn and distracted by civil dissension, and impoverished by heavy taxation, was seething with revolt, and mazarin was the object of popular hatred, anne of austria, the queen-mother (for louis xiv.
was but a child), sharing his disfavour with the people.
it was under these circumstances that the queen recalled how faithfully d'artagnan had once served her, and reminded mazarin of that gallant officer, and of his three friends.
mazarin sent for d'artagnan, who for twenty years had remained a lieutenant of musketeers, and asked him what had become of his friends.
"i want you and your three friends to be of use to me," said the cardinal.
"where are your friends?"
"i do not know, my lord.
we parted company long ago; all three have left the service."
"where can you find them, then?"
"i can find them wherever they are.
it would be my business."
"and what are the conditions for finding them?"
"money, my lord; as much money as the undertaking may require.
travelling is dear, and i am only a poor lieutenant in the musketeers."
"you will be at my service when they are found?"
asked mazarin.
"what are we to do?"
"don't trouble about that.
when the time for action arrives you shall learn all that i require of you.
wait till that comes, and find out where your friends are."
mazarin gave d'artagnan a bag of money, and the latter withdrew, to discover in the courtyard that the bag contained silver and not gold.
"crown pieces only, silver!"
exclaimed d'artagnan; "i guessed as much.
ah, mazarin, mazarin, you have no real confidence in me.
so much the worse for you!"
but the cardinal was rubbing his hands, and congratulating himself that he had discovered a secret for a tenth of the coin richelieu would have spent on the matter.
d'artagnan first sought for aramis, who was now an abbé, and lived in a convent and wrote sermons.
but the heart of aramis was not in religion, and when d'artagnan found him, and the two had sat talking for some time, d'artagnan said, "my friend, it seems to me that when you were a musketeer you were always thinking of the church, and now that you are an abbé you are always longing to be a musketeer."
"it's true," said aramis.
"man is a strange bundle of inconsistencies.
since i became an abbé i dream of nothing but battles, and i practise shooting all day long here with an excellent master."
aramis indeed had both retained his swordsmanship and his interest in public affairs.
but when d'artagnan mentioned mazarin, and the serious crisis in the state, aramis declared that mazarin was an upstart with only the queen on his side; and that the young king, the nobles, and princes, were all against him.
aramis was already on the side of mazarin's enemies.
he could not pledge himself to anyone, and the two separated.
d'artagnan went on to find porthos, whose address he had learnt from aramis.
porthos, who now called himself de valon after the name of his estate, lived at ease as a country gentleman should; he was a widower and wealthy, but he was mortified because his neighbours were of ancient family and ignored him.
he received d'artagnan with open arms, and when at breakfast he confessed his weariness, d'artagnan at once invited him to join him again and promised that he would get a barony for his services.
"go into harness again!"
cried d'artagnan.
"gird on your sword, and win a coronet.
you want a title; i want money; the cardinal wants our help."
"for my part," said the gigantic porthos, "i certainly want to be made a baron."
they talked of athos, who lived on his estate at bragelonne, and was now the count de la fère.
and porthos mentioned that athos had an adopted son.
"if we can get athos, all will be well," said d'artagnan.
"if we cannot, we must do without him.
we two are worth a dozen."
"yes," said porthos, smiling at the remembrance of their old exploits; "but we four would be equal to thirty-six."
"i have your word, then?"
said d'artagnan.
"yes.
i will fight heart and soul for the cardinal; but but he must make me a baron."
"oh, that's settled already!"
said d'artagnan.
"i'll answer for your barony."
with that he had his horse saddled, and rode on to the castle of bragelonne.
athos was visibly moved at the sight of d'artagnan, and rushed towards him and clasped him in his arms.
d'artagnan, equally moved, held him closely, while tears stood in his eyes.
athos seemed scarcely aged at all, in spite of his eight-and-forty years; but there was a greater dignity about his face.
formerly, too, he had been a heavy drinker, but now no signs of excess disturbed the calm serenity of his countenance.
the presence of his son, whom he called raoul a boy of fifteen seemed to explain to d'artagnan the regenerated existence of athos.
deeply as the heart of athos was stirred at meeting his old comrade-in-arms, and sincere as his attachment was to d'artagnan, the count de la fère would have nothing to do with any plan for helping mazarin.
d'artagnan returned alone to await porthos in paris.
the same night athos and his son also left for paris.
ii.
the four set out for england
queen henrietta of england, daughter of henry iv.
of france and wife of king charles i., was lodged in the louvre, while her husband lost his crown in the civil war.
the queen had appealed to mazarin either to send assistance to charles i., or to receive him in france, and the cardinal had declined both propositions.
then it was that an englishman, lord de winter, who had come to paris to get help, appealed to athos, whom he had known twenty years earlier, to come to england and fight for the king.
athos and aramis at once responded, and waited on the queen, who received them in the large empty rooms left unfurnished by the avarice of the cardinal allotted to her in the louvre.
"gentlemen," said the queen, "a few years ago i had around me knights, treasure, and armies.
to-day look around, and know that in order to accomplish a plan which is dearer to me than life i have only lord de winter, the friend of twenty years, and you, gentlemen, whom i see for the first time, and whom i know but as my countrymen."
"it is enough," said athos, bowing low, "if the life of three men can purchase yours, madame."
"i thank you, gentlemen.
but hear me.
my husband, king of england, is leading so wretched a life that death would be a welcome exchange for him.
he has asked for the hospitality of france, and it has been refused him."
"what is to be done?"
said athos.
"i have the honour to inquire from your majesty what you desire monsieur d'herblay (as aramis was named)
and myself to do in your service.
we are ready."
"i, madame," said aramis, "follow m. de la fère wherever he leads, even to death, without demanding any reason; but when it concerns your majesty's service, no one precedes me."
"well, then, gentlemen," said the queen, "since it is thus, and since you are willing to devote yourselves to the service of a poor princess whom everybody has forsaken, this is what must be done for me.
the king is alone with a few gentlemen whom he may lose any day, and he is surrounded by the scotch, whom he distrusts.
i ask much, too much, perhaps, for i have no title to ask it.
go to england, join the king, be his friends, his bodyguard; be with him on the field of battle and in his house.
gentlemen, in exchange i can only promise you my love; next to my husband and my children, and before everyone else, you will have my prayers and a sister's love."
"madame," said athos, "when must we set out?
we are ready!"
the queen, moved to tears, held out her hand, which they kissed, and then, after receiving letters for the king, they withdrew.
"well," said aramis, when they were alone, "what do you think of this business, my dear count?"
"bad!"
replied athos.
"very bad!"
"but you entered on it with enthusiasm."
"as i shall ever do when a great principle is to be defended.
kings are only strong by the aid of the aristocracy; but aristocracy cannot exist without kings.
let us then support monarchy in order to support ourselves."
"we shall be murdered there," said aramis.
"i hate the english they are so coarse, like all people who drink beer."
"would it be better to remain here?"
said athos.
"and take a turn in the bastille, by the cardinal's order?
believe me, aramis, there is little left to regret.
we avoid imprisonment, and we take the part of heroes
the choice is easy!"
while athos and aramis were preparing to go to england on behalf of the king, mazarin had decided to employ d'artagnan and porthos as his envoys to oliver cromwell.
"monsieur d'artagnan," said the cardinal, "do you wish to become a captain?"
"yes, my lord."
"your friend wishes to be made a baron?"
"at this very moment, my lord, he's dreaming that he is one."
"then," said mazarin, "take this dispatch, carry it to england, and when you get to london, tear off the outer envelope."
"and on our return, may we, my friend and i, rely on getting our promotion he his barony, i my captaincy?"
"on the honour of mazarin, yes."
"i would rather have another sort of oath than that," said d'artagnan to himself as he went out.
just as they were leaving paris, a letter came from athos, who had already gone.
"dear d'artagnan, dear porthos, my friends, perhaps this is the last time you will hear from me.
i entrust certain papers which are at bragelonne to your keeping; if in three months you do not hear of me, take possession of them.
may god and the remembrance of our friendship support you always.
your devoted friend, athos."
iii.
in england
athos and aramis were with charles i. at newcastle.
the king had been sold by the scotch to the english parliament, and on the approach of cromwell's army the king's troops refused to fight.
only fifteen men stood round the king when cromwell's cavalry came charging down.
lord de winter was shot dead by his own nephew, who was in cromwell's army.
"come, aramis, now for the honour of france," said athos, and the two englishmen who were nearest to them fell mortally wounded.
at the same instant a tremendous shout filled the air, and thirty swords flashed before them.
suddenly a man sprang out of the english ranks, fell upon athos, wound his muscular arms round him, and tearing his sword from him, said in his ear, "silence!
yield you yield to me, don't you?"
a giant from the english ranks at the same moment seized aramis by the wrists, who struggled in vain to get free.
"i yield myself prisoner," said aramis, giving up his sword to porthos.
"d'art  " exclaimed athos; but the musketeer covered his mouth with his hand.
the ranks opened.
d'artagnan held the bridle of athos' horse, and porthos that of aramis, and they led their prisoners off the field.
"we are all four lost if you give the least sign you know us," said d'artagnan.
"the king where is the king?"
athos exclaimed anxiously.
"ah!
we have got him!"
"yes," said aramis; "through a base act of treachery!"
porthos pressed his friend's hand, and answered, "yes; all is fair in war stratagem as well as force.
look yonder!"
the squadron, which ought to have protected the king, was advancing to meet the english regiments.
the king, who was entirely surrounded, walked alone on foot.
he caught sight of athos and aramis, and greeted them.
"farewell, messieurs.
the day has been unfortunate, but it is not your fault, thank god!
but where is my old friend winter?"
"look for him with strafford," said a voice.
charles shuddered.
he saw a corpse at his feet.
it was winter's.
that hour messengers were sent off in every direction over england and europe to announce that charles stuart was now the prisoner of oliver cromwell.
d'artagnan not only accomplished the release of the prisoners, he also joined with his friends in a bold attempt to rescue charles from his captors.
d'artagnan at first naturally assumed they would all four return to france as quickly as possible; but athos declared that he could not abandon the king, and still meant to save him if it were possible.
"but what can you do in a foreign land; in an enemy's country?"
said d'artagnan.
"did you promise the queen to storm the tower of london?
come, porthos, what do you think of this business?"
"nothing good," said porthos.
"friend," said athos, "our minds are made up!
ah, if we had you with us!
with you, d'artagnan, and you, porthos all four, and reunited for the first time for twenty years we would dare, not only england but the three kingdoms together!"
"very well," cried d'artagnan furiously, "very well, since you wish it, let us leave our bones in this horrible land, where it is always cold, where the fine weather comes after a fog, and the fog after rain; in truth, whether we die here or elsewhere matters little, since we must die sooner or later."
"but your future career, d'artagnan?
your ambition, porthos?"
said athos.
"our future, our ambition!"
replied d'artagnan bitterly.
"what do we need to think of that for, if we are to save the king?
the king saved, we shall assemble our friends together, reconquer england, and place him securely on the throne."
"and he shall make us dukes and peers," said porthos joyfully at this cheerful prospect.
"or he will forget us," added d'artagnan.
"then," said athos, offering his hand to d'artagnan, "i swear to you, my friend, by the god who hears us, i believe there is a power watching over us, and i look forward to our all meeting in france again."
"so be it!"
said d'artagnan; "but i confess i have quite a contrary conviction.
however, 'tis settled; but i stay in england only on one condition, that i don't have to learn the language."
the attempt to rescue charles from his guards on the way to london was only frustrated by the sudden arrival of general harrison, with a large body of soldiers, and d'artagnan and his friends made their escape by a hasty flight, and followed to london.
"we must see this tragedy played out to the end," said athos.
"do not let us leave england while any hope remains."
and the others agreed.
iv.
at whitehall
the intrepid four were present at the trial of charles i., and it was the voice of athos that called out, "you lie!"
when the prosecutor declared that the accusation against the king was put forward by the english people.
fortunately, d'artagnan managed to get athos out of the court quickly, and then, followed by porthos and aramis, they mingled in the crowd outside undetected.
sentence having been pronounced against the king, the only thing to be done by the four was to get rid of the london executioner; this meant at least a few days delay while another executioner was being procured.
d'artagnan undertook this difficult task, while aramis was to personate bishop juxon, the royal chaplain, and explain to charles the attempt being made to save him.
athos engaged to get everything ready for leaving england.
on the very night before the execution aramis brought the king a message from d'artagnan, "tell the king that to-morrow, at ten o'clock at night, we shall carry him off."
aramis added, "he has said it, and he will do it."
the scaffold was already being constructed in whitehall as he spoke, but d'artagnan had the london executioner fast bound under lock and key in a cellar, and athos had a light skiff waiting at greenwich.
not only this, but at midnight these four wonderful men, thanks to athos, who spoke excellent english, were also at work at the scaffold having bribed the carpenter in charge to let them assist and at the same time boring a hole in the wall.
the scaffold, which had two lower stories, and was covered with black serge, was at the height of twenty feet, on a level with the window in the king's room; and the hole communicated with a narrow loft, between the floor of the king's room, and the ceiling of the one below it.
the plan was to pass through the hole into the loft, and cut out from below a piece of the flooring of the king's room, so as to form a kind of trap-door.
the king was to escape through this on the following night, and, hidden by the black covering of the scaffold, was then to change his dress for that of a workman, and so pass the sentinels on duty, and reach the skiff that was waiting for him at greenwich.
at nine o'clock in the morning aramis, this time in attendance on bishop juxon, was once more in the king's room.
"sire," he said, "you are saved!
the london executioner has vanished, and there is no executioner nearer at hand than bristol.
the count de la fère is two feet below you; take the poker from the fireplace, and strike three times on the floor.
he will answer you.
he has the path ready for your majesty to escape by."
the king did as aramis suggested, and in reply came three dull knocks from below.
"the count de la fère," said aramis.
all was ready; nothing as far as d'artagnan and athos could see, had been overlooked; twenty-four hours hence would see the king beyond the reach of his adversaries.
and then just as charles had satisfied himself that his life was saved, a parliamentary officer and a file of soldiers entered the king's room to announce his immediate execution.
"then it is for to-day?"
asked the king.
"were not you warned that it was to take place this morning?"
"then i must die like a common criminal by the hand of the london executioner?"
"the london executioner has disappeared, but a man has offered his services instead.
the execution will, therefore, take place at the appointed hour."
a fanatical puritan, nephew of lord de winter whom he slew at newcastle and a trusted lieutenant of cromwell's did the work of the headsman, and upon athos, waiting in concealment beneath the scaffold, fell drops of the king's blood.
when all was over the four hastened away in deep dejection to the skiff at greenwich, and so to france.
but when they had landed at dunkirk it was plain to d'artagnan that their troubles were not yet at an end.
"porthos and i were sent by cardinal mazarin to fight for cromwell; instead of fighting for cromwell, we have served charles i.; that's not the same thing at all."
however, d'artagnan and porthos, on their return to paris, rendered such signal service to mazarin and to the queen, by guarding them from the violence of the mob, and by quelling a riot, that d'artagnan received his commission as captain of musketeers, and porthos his barony.
the four old friends met once more in paris before they separated.
aramis was returning to his convent, athos and porthos to their estates.
as war had just broken out in flanders, d'artagnan made ready to go thither.
then all four embraced, with tears in their eyes.
and after that they departed on their various ways, not knowing whether they were ever to see each other again.
goody two-shoes
chap.
i.
how and about little margery and her brother.
care and discontent shortened the days of little margery's father.
he was forced from his family, and seized with a violent fever in a place where dr. james's powder was not to be had, and where he died miserably.
margery's poor mother survived the loss of her husband but a few days, and died of a broken heart, leaving margery and her little brother to the wide world; but, poor woman, it would have melted your heart to have seen how frequently she heaved up her head, while she lay speechless, to survey with languishing looks her little orphans, as much as to say, do tommy, do margery, come with me.
they cried, poor things, and she sighed away her soul; and i hope is happy.
it would both have excited your pity, and have done your heart good, to have seen how fond these two little ones were of each other, and how, hand in hand, they trotted about.
pray see them.
they were both very ragged, and tommy had two shoes, but margery had but one.
they had nothing, poor things, to support them (not being in their own parish) but what they picked from the hedges, or got from the poor people, and they lay every night in a barn.
their relations took no notice of them; no, they were rich, and ashamed to own such a poor little ragged girl as margery, and such a dirty little curl-pated boy as tommy.
our relations and friends seldom take notice of us when we are poor; but as we grow rich they grow fond.
and this will always be the case, while people love money better than virtue, or better than they do god almighty.
but such wicked folks, who love nothing but money, and are proud and despise the poor, never come to any good in the end, as we shall see by and by.
chap.
ii.
how and about mr. smith.
mr. smith was a very worthy clergyman, who lived in the parish where little margery and tommy were born; and having a relation come to see him, who was a charitable good man, he sent for these children to him.
the gentleman ordered little margery a new pair of shoes, gave mr. smith some money to buy her cloathes; and said, he would take tommy and make him a little sailor; and accordingly had a jacket and trowsers made for him, in which he now appears.
pray look at him.
after some days the gentleman intended to go to london, and take little tommy with him, of whom you will know more by and by, for we shall at a proper time present you with some part of his history, his travels and adventures.
the parting between these two little children was very affecting, tommy cried, and margery cried, and they kissed each other an hundred times.
at last tommy thus wiped off her tears with the end of his jacket, and bid her cry no more, for that he would come to her again, when he returned from sea.
however, as they were so very fond, the gentleman would not suffer them to take leave of each other; but told tommy he should ride out with him, and come back at night.
when night came, little margery grew very uneasy about her brother, and after sitting up as late as mr. smith would let her, she went crying to bed.
chap.
iii.
how little margery obtained the name of         goody two-shoes, and what happened in the parish.
as soon as little margery got up in the morning, which was very early, she ran all round the village, crying for her brother; and after some time returned greatly distressed.
however, at this instant, the shoemaker very opportunely came in with the new shoes, for which she had been measured by the gentleman's order.
nothing could have supported little margery under the affliction she was in for the loss of her brother, but the pleasure she took in her two shoes.
she ran out to mrs. smith as soon as they were put on, and stroking down her ragged apron thus, cried out, two shoes, mame, see two shoes.
and so she behaved to all the people she met, and by that means obtained the name of goody two-shoes, though her playmates called her old goody two-shoes.
little margery was very happy in being with mr. and mrs.
smith, who were very charitable and good to her, and had agreed to breed her up with their family; but as soon as that tyrant of the parish, that graspall, heard of her being there, he applied first to mr. smith, and threatened to reduce his tythes if he kept her; and after that he spoke to sir timothy, who sent mr.
smith a peremptory message by his servant, that he should send back meanwell's girl to be kept by her relations, and not harbour her in the parish.
this so distressed mr. smith that he shed tears, and cried, lord have mercy on the poor!
the prayers of the righteous fly upwards, and reach unto the throne of heaven, as will be seen in the sequel.
mrs. smith was also greatly concerned at being thus obliged to discard poor little margery.
she kissed her and cried; as also did mr. smith, but they were obliged to send her away; for the people who had ruined her father could at any time have ruined them.
chap.
iv.
how little margery learned to read,                   and by degrees taught others.
little margery saw how good, and how wise mr. smith was, and concluded, that this was owing to his great learning, therefore she wanted of all things to learn to read.
for this purpose she used to meet the little boys and girls as they came from school, borrow their books, and sit down and read till they returned;
by this means she soon got more learning than any of her playmates, and laid the following scheme for instructing those who were more ignorant than herself.
she found, that only the following letters were required to spell all the words in the world; but as some of these letters are large and some small, she with her knife cut out of several pieces of wood ten setts of each of these:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o                     p q r  (s)  s t u v w x y z.
[post-processor's note: (s) is an old-english style non-terminating letter "s".]
and six setts of these:
a b c d e f g h i k l m n o                         p q r s t u v w x y z.
and having got an old spelling-book, she made her companions set up all the words they wanted to spell, and after that she taught them to compose sentences.
you know what a sentence is, my dear, i will be good, is a sentence; and is made up, as you see, of several words.
the usual manner of spelling, or carrying on the game, as they called it, was this: suppose the word to be spelt was plumb pudding (and who can suppose a better) the children were placed in a circle, and the first brought the letter p, the next l, the next u, the next m, and so on till the whole was spelt; and if any one brought a wrong letter, he was to pay a fine, or play no more.
this was at their play; and every morning she used to go round to teach the children with these rattle-traps in a basket, as you see in the print.
i once went her rounds with her, and was highly diverted, as you may be, if you please to look into the next
chap.
v.
how little two-shoes became a trotting tutoress                 and how she taught her young pupils.
it was about seven o'clock in the morning when we set out on this important business, and the first house we came to was farmer wilson's.
see here it is.
here margery stopped, and ran up to the door, tap, tap, tap.
who's there?
only little goody two-shoes, answered margery, come to teach billy.
oh little goody, says mrs. wilson, with pleasure in her face, i am glad to see you, billy wants you sadly, for he has learned all his lesson.
then out came the little boy.
how do doody two-shoes, says he, not able to speak plain.
yet this little boy had learned all his letters; for she threw down this alphabet mixed together thus:
b d f h k m o q s u w y z [f]
a c e g i l n p r t v x j
and he picked them up, called them by their right names, and put them all in order thus:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m n o                     p q r  (s)  s t u v w x y z.
she then threw down the alphabet of capital letters in the manner you here see them.
b d f h k m o q s u w y z                       a c e g i l n p r t v x j.
and he picked them all up, and having told their names, placed them thus:
a b c d e f g h i j k l m                       n o p q r s t u v w x y z.
now, pray little reader, take this bodkin, and see if you can point out the letters from these mixed alphabets, and tell how they should be placed as well as little boy billy.
the next place we came to was farmer simpson's, and here it is.
bow wow, wow, says the dog at the door.
sirrah, says his mistress, what do you bark at little two-shoes.
come in madge; here, sally wants you sadly, she has learned all her lesson.
then out came the little one: so madge!
say she; so sally!
answered the other, have you learned your lesson?
yes, that's what i have, replied the little one in the country manner; and immediately taking the letters she set up these syllables:
ba be bi bo bu, ca ce ci co cu                     da de di do du, fa fe fi so fu.
and gave them their exact sounds as she composed them; after which she set up the following;
ac ec ic oc uc, ad ed id od ud                     af ef if of uf, ag eg ig og ug.
and pronounced them likewise.
she then sung the cuzz's chorus (which may be found in the little pretty play thing, published by mr.
newbery) and to the same tune to which it is there set.
after this, little two-shoes taught her to spell words of one syllable, and she soon set up pear, plumb.
top, ball, pin, puss, dog, hog, fawn, buck, doe, lamb, sheep, ram, cow, bull, cock, hen, and many more.
the next place we came to was gaffer cook's cottage; there you see it before you.
here a number of poor children were met to learn; who all came round little margery at once; and, having pulled out her letters, she asked the little boy next her, what he had for dinner?
who answered, bread.
(the poor children in many places live very hard) well then, says she, set the first letter.
he put up the letter b, to which the next added r, and the next e, the next a, the next d, and it stood thus, bread.
and what had you polly comb for your dinner?
apple-pye answered the little girl: upon which the next in turn set up a great a, the two next a p each, and so on till the two words apple and pye were united and stood thus, apple-pye.
the next had potatoes, the next beef and turnip which were spelt with many others, till the game of spelling was finished.
she then set them another task, and we proceeded.
the next place we came to was farmer thompson's, where there were a great many little ones waiting for her.
so little mrs. goody two-shoes, says one of them, where have you been so long?
i have been teaching, says she, longer than i intended, and am afraid i am come too soon for you now.
no, but indeed you are not, replied the other; for i have got my lesson, and so has sally dawson, and so has harry wilson, and so we have all; and they capered about as if they were overjoyed to see her.
why then, says she, you are all very good, and god almighty will love you; so let us begin our lessons.
they all huddled round her, and though at the other place they were employed about words and syllables, here we had people of much greater understanding who dealt only in sentences.
the letters being brought upon the table, one of the little ones set up the following sentence.
the lord have mercy upon me, and grant that i may be always good, and say my prayers, and love the lord my god with all my heart, with all my soul, and with all my strength; and honour the king, and all good men in authority under him.
then the next took the letters, and composed this sentence.
lord have mercy upon me, and grant that i may love my neighbour as myself, and do unto all men as i would have them do unto me, and tell no lies; but be honest and just in all my dealings.
the third composed the following sentence.
the lord have mercy upon me, and grant that i may honour my father and mother, and love my brothers and sisters, relations and friends, and all my playmates, and every body, and endeavour to make them happy.
the fourth composed the following.
i pray god to bless this whole company, and all our friends, and all our enemies.
to this last polly sullen objected, and said, truly, she did not know why she should pray for her enemies?
not pray for your enemies, says little margery; yes, you must, you are no christian, if you don't forgive your enemies, and do good for evil.
polly still pouted; upon which little margery said, though she was poor, and obliged to lie in a barn, she would not keep company with such a naughty, proud, perverse girl as polly; and was going away; however the difference was made up, and she set them to compose the following
lessons
for the conduct of life.
lesson i.
he that will thrive,   must rise by five.
he that hath thriv'n,   may lie till seven.
truth may be blam'd,   but cannot be sham'd.
tell me with whom you go;   and i'll tell what you do.
a friend in your need,   is a friend indeed.
they ne'er can be wise,   who good counsel despise.
lesson ii.
a wise head makes a close mouth.
don't burn your lips with another man's broth.
wit is folly, unless a wise man hath the keeping of it.
use soft words and hard arguments.
honey catches more flies than vinegar.
to forget a wrong is the best revenge.
patience is a plaister for all sores.
where pride goes, shame will follow.
when vice enters the room, vengeance is near the door.
industry is fortune's right hand, and frugality her left.
make much of three-pence, or you ne'er will be worth a groat.
lesson iii.
a lie stands upon one leg, but truth upon two.
when a man talks much, believe but half what he says.
fair words butter no parsnips.
bad company poisons the mind.
a covetous man is never satisfied.
abundance, like want, ruins many.
contentment is the best fortune.
a contented mind is a continual feast.
a lesson in religion.
love god, for he is good.
fear god, for he is just.
pray to god, for all good things come from him.
praise god, for great is his mercy towards us, and wonderful     are all his works.
those who strive to be good, have god on their side.
those who have god for their friend, shall want nothing.
confess your sins to god, and if you repent he will forgive you.
remember that all you do, is done in the presence of god.
the time will come, my friends, when we must give   account to god, how we on earth did live.
a moral lesson.
a good boy will make a good man.
honour your parents, and the world will honour you.
love your friends, and your friends will love you.
he that swims in sin, will sink in sorrow.
learn to live, as you would wish to die.
as you expect all men should deal by you:
so deal by them, and give each man his due.
as we were returning home, we saw a gentleman, who was very ill, sitting under a shady tree at the corner of his rookery.
though ill, he began to joke with little margery, and said, laughingly, so, goody two-shoes, they tell me you are a cunning little baggage; pray, can you tell me what i shall do to get well?
yes, sir, says she, go to bed when your rooks do.
you see they are going to rest already:
do you so likewise, and get up with them in the morning; earn, as they do, every day what you eat, and eat and drink no more than you earn; and you'll get health and keep it.
what should induce the rooks to frequent gentlemens houses only, but to tell them how to lead a prudent life?
they never build over cottages or farm-houses, because they see, that these people know how to live without their admonition.
thus health and wit you may improve,   taught by the tenants of the grove.
the gentleman laughing gave margery sixpence; and told her she was a sensible hussey.
chap.
vi.
how the whole parish was frighted.
who does not know lady ducklington, or who does not know that she was buried at this parish church?
well, i never saw so grand a funeral in all my life; but the money they squandered away, would have been better laid out in little books for children, or in meat, drink, and cloaths for the poor.
this if a fine hearse indeed, and the nodding plumes on the horses look very grand; but what end does that answer, otherwise than to display the pride of the living, or the vanity of the dead.
fie upon such folly, say i, and heaven grant that those who want more sense may have it.
but all the country round came to see the burying, and it was late before the corpse was interred.
after which, in the night, or rather about four o'clock in the morning, the bells were heard to jingle in the steeple, which frightened the people prodigiously, who all thought it was lady ducklington's ghost dancing among the bell-ropes.
the people flocked to will dobbins the clerk, and wanted him to go and see what it was; but william said, he was sure it was a ghost, and that he would not offer to open the door.
at length mr.
long the rector, hearing such an uproar in the village, went to the clerk, to know why he did not go into the church; and see who was there.
i go, sir, says william, why the ghost would frighten me out of my wits.
mrs. dobbins too cried, and laying hold of her husband said, he should not be eat up by the ghost.
a ghost, you blockheads, says mr. long in a pet, did either of you ever see a ghost, or know any body that did?
yes, says the clerk, my father did once in the shape of a windmill, and it walked all round the church in a white sheet, with jack boots on, and had a gun by its side instead of a sword.
a fine picture of a ghost truly, says mr. long, give me the key of the church, you monkey; for i tell you there is no such thing now, whatever may have been formerly.
then taking the key, he went to the church, all the people following him.
as soon as he had opened the door, what sort of a ghost do ye think appeared?
why little two-shoes, who being weary, had fallen asleep in one of the pews during the funeral service, and was shut in all night.
she immediately asked mr. long's pardon for the trouble she had given him, told him, she had been locked into the church, and said, she should not have rung the bells, but that she was very cold, and hearing farmer boult's man go whistling by with his horses, she was in hopes he would have went to the clerk for the key to let her out.
chap.
vii.
containing an account of all the spirits,                  or ghosts, she saw in the church.
the people were ashamed to ask little madge any questions before mr. long, but as soon as he was gone, they all got round her to satisfy their curiousity, and desired she would give them a particular account of all that she had heard and seen.
her tale.
i went to the church, said she, as most of you did last night, to see the burying, and being very weary, i sate me down in mr.
jones's pew, and fell fast asleep.
at eleven of the clock i awoke; which i believe was in some measure occasioned by the clock's striking, for i heard it.
i started up, and could not at first tell where i was; but after some time i recollected the funeral, and soon found that i was shut in the church.
it was dismal dark, and i could see nothing; but while i was standing in the pew, something jumped up upon me behind, and laid, as i thought, its hands over my shoulders.
i own, i was a little afraid at first; however, i considered that i had always been constant at prayers and at church, and that i had done nobody any harm, but had endeavoured to do what good i could; and then, thought i, what have i to fear?
yet i kneeled down to say my prayers.
as soon as i was on my knees something very cold, as cold as marble, ay, as cold as ice, touched my neck, which made me start; however, i continued my prayers, and having begged protection from almighty god, i found my spirits come, and i was sensible that i had nothing to fear; for god almighty protects not only all those who are good, but also all those who endeavour to be good.
nothing can withstand the power, and exceed the goodness of god almighty.
armed with the confidence of his protection, i walked down the church isle, when i heard something, pit pat, pit pat, pit pat, come after me, and something touched my hand, which seemed as cold as a marble monument.
i could not think what this was, yet i knew it could not hurt me, and therefore i made myself easy, but being very cold, and the church being paved with stone, which was very damp, i felt my way as well as i could to the pulpit, in doing which something brushed by me, and almost threw me down.
however i was not frightened, for i knew, that god almighty would suffer nothing to hurt me.
at last, i found out the pulpit, and having shut too the door, i laid me down on the mat and cushion to sleep; when something thrust and pulled the door, as i thought for admittance, which prevented my going to sleep.
at last it cries, bow, wow, wow; and i concluded it must be mr. saunderson's dog, which had followed me from their house to church, so i opened the door, and called snip, snip, and the dog jumped up upon me immediately.
after this snip and i lay down together, and had a most comfortable nap; for when i awoke again it was almost light.
i then walked up and down all the isles of the church to keep myself warm; and though i went into the vault, and trod on lady ducklington's coffin, i saw no ghost, and i believe it was owing to the reason mr. long has given you, namely, that there is no such thing to be seen.
as to my part, i would as soon lie all night in the church as in any other place; and i am sure that any little boy or girl, who is good, and loves god almighty, and keeps his commandments, may as safely lie in the church, or the church-yard, as any where else, if they take care not to get cold; for i am sure there are no ghosts, either to hurt, or to frighten them; though any one possessed of fear might have taken neighbour saunderson's dog with his cold nose for a ghost; and if they had not been undeceived, as i was, would never have thought otherwise.
all the company acknowledged the justness of the observation, and thanked little two-shoes for her advice.
reflection.
after this, my dear children, i hope you will not believe any foolish stories that ignorant, weak, or designing people may tell you about ghosts; for the tales of ghosts, witches, and fairies, are the frolicks of a distempered brain.
no wise man ever saw either of them.
little margery you see was not afraid; no, she had good sense, and a good conscience, which is a cure for all these imaginary evils.
chap.
viii.
of something which happened to little two-shoes         in a barn, more dreadful than the ghost in the church;     and how she returned good for evil to her enemy sir timothy.
some days after this a more dreadful accident befel little madge.
she happened to be coming late from teaching, when it rained, thundered, and lightened, and therefore she took shelter in a farmer's barn at a distance from the village.
soon after, the tempest drove in four thieves, who, not seeing such a little creep-mouse girl as two-shoes, lay down on the hay next to her, and began to talk over their exploits, and to settle plans for future robberies.
little margery on hearing them, covered herself with straw.
to be sure she was sadly frighted, but her good sense taught her, that the only security she had was in keeping herself concealed; therefore she laid very still, and breathed very softly.
about four o'clock these wicked people came to a resolution to break both sir william dove's house, and sir timothy gripe's, and by force of arms to carry off all their money, plate and jewels; but as it was thought then too late, they agreed to defer it till the next night.
after laying this scheme they all set out upon their pranks, which greatly rejoiced margery, as it would any other little girl in her situation.
early in the morning she went to sir william, and told him the whole of their conversation.
upon which, he asked her name, gave her something, and bid her call at his house the day following.
she also went to sir timothy notwithstanding standing he had used her so ill; for she knew it was her duty to do good for evil.
as soon as he was informed who she was, he took no notice of her; upon which she desired to speak to lady gripe; and having informed her ladyship of the affair, she went her way.
this lady had more sense than her husband, which indeed is not a singular case; for instead of despising little margery and her information, she privately set people to guard the house.
the robbers divided themselves, and went about the time mentioned to both houses, and were surprized by the guards, and taken.
upon examining these wretches, one of which turned evidence, both sir william and sir timothy found that they owed their lives to the discovery made by little margery, and the first took great notice of her, and would no longer let her lie in a barn; but sir timothy only said, that he was ashamed to owe his life to the daughter of one who was his enemy; so true it is, that a proud man seldom forgives those he has injured.
chap.
ix.
how little margery was made                    principal of a country college.
mrs. williams, of whom i have given a particular account in my new year's gift, and who kept a college for instructing little gentlemen and ladies in the science of a, b, c, was at this time very old and infirm, and wanted to decline that important trust.
this being told to sir william dove, who lived in the parish, he sent for mrs.
williams, and desired she would examine little two-shoes, and see whether she was qualified for the office.
this was done, and mrs.
williams made the following report in her favour, namely, that little margery was the best scholar, and had the best head, and the best heart of any one she had examined.
all the country had a great opinion of mrs. williams, and this character gave them also a great opinion of mrs. margery; for so we must now call her.
this mrs. margery thought the happiest period of her life; but more happiness was in store for her.
god almighty heaps up blessings for all those who love him, and though for a time he may suffer them to be poor and distressed, and hide his good purposes from human sight, yet in the end they are generally crowned with happiness here, and no one can doubt of their being so hereafter.
on this occasion the following hymn, or rather a translation of the twenty-third psalm, is said to have been written, and was soon after published in the spectator.
i.
the lord my pasture shall prepare,   and feed me with a shepherd's care:
his presence shall my wants supply,   and guard me with a watchful eye;   my noon-day walks he shall attend,   and all my midnight hours defend.
ii.
when in the sultry glebe i faint,   or on the thirsty mountain pant;   to fertile vales and dewy meads,   my weary wand'ring steps he leads;   where peaceful rivers, soft and slow,   amid the verdant landskip flow.
iii.
tho' in the paths of death i tread,   with gloomy horrors overspread,   my stedfast heart shall fear no ill,   for thou, o lord, art with me still;   thy friendly crook shall give me aid,   and guide me thro' the dreadful shade.
iv.
tho' in a bare and rugged way,   thro' devious lonely wilds i stray,   thy bounty shall my pains beguile:
the barren wilderness shall smile,   with sudden greens & herbage crown'd,   and streams shall murmur all around.
here ends the history of little two shoes.
those who would know how she behaved after she came to be mrs. margery two-shoes must read the second part of this work, in which an account of the remainder of her life, her marriage, and death are set forth at large, according to act of parliament.
the renowned
history
of
mrs. margery two-shoes.
part ii.
introduction.
in the first part of this work, the young student has read, and i hope with pleasure and improvement, the history of this lady, while she was known and distinguished by the name of little two-shoes; we are now come to a period of her life when that name was discarded, and a more eminent one bestowed upon her, i mean i mean that of mrs.
margery two-shoes: for as she was now president of the a, b, c college, it became necessary to exalt her in title as well as in place.
no sooner was she settled in this office, but she laid every possible scheme to promote the welfare and happiness of all her neighbours, and especially of the little ones, in whom she took great delight, and all those whose parents could not afford to pay for their education, she taught for nothing, but the pleasure she had in their company, for you are to observe, that they were very good, or were soon made so by her good management.
chap.
i.
of her school, her ushers, or assistants,                     and her manner of teaching.
we have already informed the reader, that the school where she taught, was that which was before kept by mrs. williams, whose character you may find in my new year's gift.
the room was large, and as she knew, that nature intended children should be always in action, she placed her different letters, or alphabets, all round the school, so that every one was obliged to get up to fetch a letter, or to spell a word, when it came to their turn; which not only kept them in health, but fixed the letters and points firmly in their minds.
she had the following assistants or ushers to help her, and i will tell you how she came by them.
mrs. margery, you must know, was very humane and compassionate; and her tenderness extended not only to all mankind, but even to all animals that were not noxious; as your's ought to do, if you would be happy here, and go to heaven hereafter.
these are god almighty's creatures as well as we.
he made both them and us; and for wise purposes, best known to himself, placed them in this world to live among us; so that they are our fellow tenants of the globe.
how then can people dare to torture and wantonly destroy god almighty's creatures?
they as well as you are capable of feeling pain, and of receiving pleasure, and how can you, who want to be made happy yourself, delight in making your fellow creatures miserable?
do you think the poor birds, whose nest and young ones that wicked boy dick wilson ran away with yesterday, do not feel as much pain, as your father and mother would have felt, had any one pulled down their house and ran away with you?
to be sure they do.
mrs.
two-shoes used to speak of those things, and of naughty boys throwing at cocks, torturing flies, and whipping horses and dogs, with tears in her eyes, and would never suffer any one to come to her school who did so.
one day, as she was going through the next village, she met with some wicked boys who had got a young raven, which they were going to throw at, she wanted to get the poor creature out of their cruel hands, and therefore gave them a penny for him, and brought him home.
she called his name ralph, and a fine bird he is.
do look at him and remember what solomon says, the eye that despiseth his father, and regardeth not the distress of his mother, the ravens of the valley shall peck it out, and the young eagles eat it.
now this bird she taught to speak, to spell and to read; and as he was particularly fond of playing with the large letters, the children used to call this ralph'a alphabet.
a b c d e f g h i j k l m                       n o p q r s t u v w x y z.
he always sat at her elbow, as you see in the first picture, and when any of the children were wrong, she used to call out, put them right ralph, and a fine bird he is.
do look at him.
some days after she had met with the raven, as she was walking in the fields, she saw some naughty boys, who had taken a pidgeon, and tied a string to its leg, in order to let it fly, and draw it back again when they pleased; and by this means they tortured the poor animal with the hopes of liberty and repeated disappointment.
this pidgeon she also bought, and taught him how to spell and read, though not to talk, and he performed all those extraordinary things which are recorded of the famous bird, that was some time since advertised in the haymarket, and visited by most of the great people in the kingdom.
this pidgeon was a very pretty fellow, and she called him tom.
see here he is.
and as the raven ralph was fond of the large letters, tom the pidgeon took care of the small ones, of which he composed this alphabet.
a b c d e f g h i j k l m                       n o p q r s t u v w x y z.
the neighbours knowing that mrs. two shoes was very good, as to be sure nobody was better, made her a present of a little sky-lark, and a fine bird he is.
now as many people, even at that time had learned to lie in bed long in the morning, she thought the lark might be of use to her and her pupils, and tell them when to get up.
for be that is fond of his bed, and lays 'till noon, lives but half his days, the rest being lost in sleep, which is a kind of death.
some time after this a poor lamb had lost its dam, and the farmer being about to kill it, she bought it of him, and brought it home with her to play with the children, and teach them when to go to bed; for it was a rule with the wise men of that age (and a very good one, let me tell you) to
rise with the lark, and lie down with the lamb.
this lamb she called will, and a pretty fellow he is; do, look at him.
no sooner was tippy the lark and will the ba-lamb brought into the school, but that sensible rogue ralph, the raven, composed the following verse, which every little good boy and girl should get by heart.
early to bed, and early to rise;   is the way to be healthy, and wealthy, and wise.
a sly rogue; but it is true enough; for those who do not go to bed early cannot rise early; and those who do not rise early cannot do much business.
pray, let this be told at the court, and to people who have routs and rackets.
soon after this, a present was made to mrs. margery of little dog jumper, and a pretty dog he is.
pray, look at him.
jumper, jumper, jumper!
he is always in a good humour, and playing and jumping about, and therefore he was called jumper.
the place assigned for jumper was that of keeping the door, so that he may be called the porter of the college, for he would let nobody go out, or any one come in, without the leave of his mistress.
see how he sits, a saucy rogue.
billy the ba-lamb was a chearful fellow, and all the children were fond of him, wherefore mrs. two-shoes made it a rule, that those who behaved best should have will home with them at night to carry their satchel or basket at his back, and bring it in the morning.
see what a fine fellow he is, and how he trudges along.
chap.
ii.
a scene of distress; in the school.
it happened one day, when mrs. two-shoes was diverting the children after dinner, as she usually did with some innocent games, or entertaining and instructive stories, that a man arrived with the melancholy news of sally jones's father being thrown from his horse, and thought past all recovery; nay, the messenger said, that he was seemingly dying, when he came away.
poor sally was greatly distressed, as indeed were all the school, for she dearly loved her father, and mrs. two-shoes, and all the children dearly loved her.
it is generally said, that we never know the real value of our parents or friends till we have lost them; but poor sally felt this by affection, and her mistress knew it by experience.
all the school were in tears, and the messenger was obliged to return; but before he went, mrs. two-shoes, unknown to the children, ordered tom pidgeon to go home with the man, and bring a letter to inform her how mr. jones did.
they set out together, and the pidgeon rode on the man's head, (as you see here) for the man was able to carry the pidgeon, though the pidgeon was not able to carry the man, if he had, they would have been there much sooner, for tom pidgeon was very good, and never staid on an errand.
soon after the man was gone the pidgeon was lost, and the concern the children were under for mr. jones and little sally was in some measure diverted, and part of their attention turned after tom, who was a great favourite, and consequently much bewailed.
mrs. margery, who knew the great use and necessity of teaching children to submit chearfully to the will of providence, bid them wipe away their tears, and then kissing sally, you must be a good girl, says she, and depend upon god almighty for his blessing and protection; for he is a father to the fatherless, and defendeth all those who put their trust in him.
she then told them a story, which i shall relate in as few words as possible.
the history of mr. lovewell, father                           to lady lucy.
mr. lovewell was born at bath, and apprenticed to a laborious trade in london, which being too hard for him, he parted with his master by consent, and hired himself as a common servant to a merchant in the city.
here he spent his leisure hours not as servants too frequently do, in drinking and schemes of pleasure, but in improving his mind; and among other acquirements, he made himself a complete master of accompts.
his sobriety, honesty, and the regard he paid to his master's interest, greatly recommended him in the whole family, and he had several offices of trust committed to his charge, in which he acquitted himself so well, that the merchant removed him from the stable into the counting-house.
here he soon made himself master of the business, and became so useful to the merchant, that in regard to his faithful services, and the affection he had for him, he married him to his own niece, a prudent agreeable young lady; and gave him a share in the business.
see what honesty and industry will do for us.
half the great men in london, i am told, have made themselves by this means, and who would but be honest and industrious, when it is so much our interest and our duty.
after some years the merchant died, and left mr. lovewell possessed of many fine ships at sea, and much money, and he was happy in a wife, who had brought him a son and two daughters, all dutiful and obedient.
the treasures and good things, however, of this life are so uncertain, that a man can never be happy, unless he lays the foundation for it in his own mind.
so true is that copy in our writing books, which tells us, that a contented mind is a continual feast.
after some years successful trade, he thought his circumstances sufficient to insure his own ships, or, in other words, to send his ships and goods to sea without being insured by others, as is customary among merchants; when, unfortunately for him, four of them richly laden were lost at sea.
this he supported with becoming resolution; but the next mail brought him advice, that nine others were taken by the french, with whom we were then at war; and this, together with the failure of three foreign merchants whom he had trusted, compleated his ruin.
he was then obliged to call his creditors together, who took his effects, and being angry with him for the imprudent step of not insuring his ships, left him destitute of all subsistence.
nor did the flatterers of his fortune, those who had lived by his bounty when in his prosperity, pay the least regard either to him or his family.
so true is another copy, that you will find in your writing book, which says, misfortune tries our friends.
all these slights of his pretended friends, and the ill usage of his creditors, both he and his family bore with christian fortitude; but other calamities fell upon him, which he felt more sensibly.
in his distress, one of his relations, who lived at florence, offered to take his son; and another, who lived at barbadoes, sent for one of his daughters.
the ship which his son sailed in was cast away, and all the crew supposed to be lost; and the ship, in which his daughter went a passenger, was taken by pyrates, and one post brought the miserable father an account of the loss of his two children.
this was the severest stroke of all: it made him compleatly wretched, and he knew it must have a dreadful effect on his wife and daughter; he therefore endeavoured to conceal it from them.
but the perpetual anxiety he was in, together with the loss of his appetite and want of rest, soon alarmed his wife.
she found something was labouring in his breast, which was concealed from her; and one night being disturbed in a dream, with what was ever in his thoughts, and calling out upon his dear children; she awoke him, and insisted upon knowing the cause of his inquietude.
nothing, my dear, nothing, says he, the lord gave, and the lord hath taken away, blessed be the name of the lord.
this was sufficient to alarm the poor woman; she lay till his spirits were composed, and as she thought asleep, then stealing out of bed, got the keys and opened his bureau, where she found the fatal account.
in the height of her distractions, she flew to her daughter's room, and waking her with her shrieks, put the letters into her hands.
the young lady, unable to support this load of misery, fell into a fit, from which it was thought she never could have been recovered.
however, at last she revived; but the shock was so great, that it entirely deprived her of her speech.
thus loaded with misery, and unable to bear the slights and disdain of those who had formerly professed themselves friends, this unhappy family retired into a country, where they were unknown, in order to hide themselves from the world; when, to support their independency, the father laboured as well as he could at husbandry, and the mother and daughter sometimes got spinning and knitting work, to help to furnish the means of subsistence; which however was so precarious and uncertain, that they often, for many weeks together, lived on nothing but cabbage and bread boiled in water.
but god never forsaketh the righteous, nor suffereth those to perish who put their trust in him.
at this time a lady, who was just come to england, sent to take a pleasant seat ready furnished in that neighbourhood, and the person who was employed for the purpose, was ordered to deliver a bank note of an hundred pounds to mr.
lovewell, another hundred to his wife, and fifty to the daughter, desiring them to take possession of the house, and get it well aired against she came down, which would be in two or three days at most.
this, to people who were almost starving, was a sweet and seasonable relief, and they were all sollicitous to know their benefactress, but of that the messenger himself was too ignorant to inform them.
however, she came down sooner than was expected, and with tears embraced them again and again: after which she told the father and mother she had heard from their daughter, who was her acquaintance, and that she was well and on her return to england.
this was the agreeable subject of their conversation till after dinner, when drinking their healths, she again with tears saluted them, and falling upon her knees asked their blessings.
tis impossible to express the mutual joy which this occasioned.
their conversation was made up of the most endearing expressions, intermingled with tears and caresses.
their torrent of joy, however, was for a moment interrupted, by a chariot which stopped at the gate, and which brought as they thought a very unseasonable visitor, and therefore she sent to be excused from seeing company.
but this had no effect, for a gentleman richly dressed jumped out of the chariot, and pursuing the servant into the parlour saluted them round, who were all astonished at his behaviour.
but when the tears trickled from his cheeks, the daughter, who had been some years dumb, immediately cried out, my brother!
my brother!
my brother!
and from that instant recovered her speech.
the mutual joy which this occasioned, is better felt than expressed.
those who have proper sentiments of humanity, gratitude, and filial piety will rejoice at the event, and those who have a proper idea of the goodness of god, and his gracious providence, will from this, as well as other instances of his goodness and mercy, glorify his holy name, and magnify his wisdom and power, who is a shield to the righteous, and defendeth all those who put their trust in him.
as you, my dear children, may be sollicitous to know how this happy event was brought about, i must inform you, that mr. lovewell's son, when the ship foundered, had with some others got into the long boat, and was taken up by a ship at sea, and carried to the east indies, where in a little time he made a large fortune; and the pirates who took his daughter, attempted to rob her of her chastity; but finding her inflexible, and determined to die rather than to submit, some of them behaved to her in a very cruel manner; but others, who had more honour and generosity, became her defenders; upon which a quarrel arose between them, and the captain, who was the worst of the gang, being killed, the rest of the crew carried the ship into a port of the manilla islands, belonging to the spaniards; where, when her story was known, she was treated with great respect, and courted by a young gentleman, who was taken ill of a fever, and died before the marriage was agreed on, but left her his whole fortune.
you see, my dear sally, how wonderfully these people were preserved, and made happy after such extreme distress; we are therefore never to despair, even under the greatest misfortunes, for god almighty is all-powerful and can deliver us at any time.
remember job, but i think you have not read so far, take the bible, billy jones, and read the history of that good and patient man.
at this instant something was heard to slap at the window, wow, wow, wow, says jumper, and attempted to leap up and open the door, at which the children were surprized; but mrs. margery knowing what it was, opened the casement, as noah did the window of the ark, and drew in tom pidgeon with a letter, and see here he is.
as soon as he was placed on the table, he walked up to little sally, and dropping the letter, cried, co, co, coo, as much as to say, there read it.
now this poor pidgeon had travelled fifty miles in about an hour, to bring sally this letter, and who would destroy such pretty creatures.
but let us read the letter.
my dear sally,
god almighty has been very merciful, and restored your pappa to us again, who is now so well as to be able to sit up.
i hear you are a good girl, my dear, and i hope you will never forget to praise the lord for this his great goodness and mercy to us what a sad thing it would have been if your father had died, and left both you and me, and little tommy in distress, and without a friend: your father sends his blessing with mine be good, my dear child, and god almighty will also bless you, whose blessing is above all things.
i am, my dear sally,
your ever affectionate mother,
martha jones.
chap.
iii.
of the amazing sagacity and instincts                          of a little dog.
soon after this, a dreadful accident happened in the school.
it was on a thursday morning, i very well remember, when the children having learned their lessons soon, she had given them leave to play, and they were all running about the school, and diverting themselves with the birds and the lamb; at this time the dog, all of a sudden, laid hold of his mistress's apron, and endeavoured to pull her out of the school.
she was at first surprized, however, she followed him to see what he intended.
no sooner had he led her into the garden, but he ran back, and pulled out one of the children in the same manner; upon which she ordered them all to leave the school immediately, and they had not been out five minutes, before the top of the house fell in.
what a miraculous deliverance was here!
how gracious!
how good was god almighty, to save all these children from destruction, and to make use of such an instrument, as a little sagacious animal to accomplish his divine will.
i should have observed, that as soon as they were all in the garden, the dog came leaping round them to express his joy, and when the house was fallen, laid himself down quietly by his mistress.
some of the neighbours, who saw the school fall, and who were in great pain for margery and the little ones, soon spread the news through the village, and all the parents, terrified for their children, came crowding in abundance; they had, however, the satisfaction to find them all safe, and upon their knees, with their mistress, giving god thanks for their happy deliverance.
advice from the man in the moon.
jumper, jumper, jumper, what a pretty dog he is, and how sensible?
had mankind half the sagacity of jumper, they would guard against accidents of this sort, by having a public survey, occasionally made of all the houses in every parish (especially of those, which are old and decayed) and not suffer them to remain in a crazy state, 'till they fall down on the heads of the poor inhabitants, and crush them to death.
why, it was but yesterday, that a whole house fell down in grace-church-street, and another in queen's-street, and an hundred more are to tumble, before this time twelve months; so friends, take care of yourselves, and tell the legislature, they ought to take care for you.
how can you be so careless?
most of your evils arise from carelesness and extravagance, and yet you excuse yourselves, and lay the fault upon fortune.
fortune is a fool, and you are a blockhead, if you put it in her power to play tricks with you.
yours,
the man in the moon.
you are not to wonder, my dear reader, that this little dog should have more sense than you, or your father, or your grandfather.
though god almighty has made man the lord of the creation, and endowed him with reason, yet in many respects, he has been altogether as bountiful to other creatures of his forming.
some of the senses of other animals are more acute than ours, as we find by daily experience.
you know this little bird, sweet jug, jug, jug, 'tis a nightingale.
this little creature, after she has entertained us with her songs all the spring, and bred up her little ones, flies into a foreign country, and finds her way over the great sea, without any of the instruments and helps which men are obliged to make use of for that purpose.
was you as wise as the nightingale, you might make all the sailors happy, and have twenty thousand pounds for teaching them the longitude.
you would not think ralph the raven half so wise and so good as he is, though you see him here reading his book.
yet when the prophet elijah, was obliged to fly from ahab king of israel, and hide himself in a cave, the ravens, at the command of god almighty, fed him every day, and preserved his life.
and the word of the lord came unto elijah, saying, hide thyself by the brook cherith, that is before jordan, and i have commanded the ravens to feed thee there.
and the ravens brought him bread and flesh in the morning, and bread and flesh in the evening, and he drank of the brook, kings, b.i.c.
17.
and the pretty pidgeon when the world was drowned, and he was confined with noah in the ark, was sent forth by him to see whether the waters were abated, and he sent forth a dove from him, to see if the waters were abated from off the face of the ground.
and the dove came in to him in the evening, and lo, in her mouth was an olive leaf plucked off: so noah knew that the waters were abated from off the earth.
gen. viii.
8.
11.
as these, and other animals, are so sensible and kind to us, we ought to be tender and good to them, and not beat them about, and kill them, and take away their young ones, as many wicked boys do.
does not the horse and the ass carry you and your burthens; don't the ox plough your ground, the cow give you milk, the sheep cloath your back, the dog watch your house, the goose find you in quills to write with, the hen bring eggs for your custards and puddings, and the cock call you up in the morning, when you are lazy, and like to hurt yourselves by laying too long in bed?
if so, how can you be so cruel to them, and abuse god almighty's good creatures?
go, naughty boy, go; be sorry for what you have done, and do so no more, that god almighty may forgive you.
amen, say i, again and again.
god will bless you, but not unless you are merciful and good.
the downfal of the school, was a great misfortune to mrs.
margery; for she not only lost all her books, but was destitute of a place to teach in; but sir william dove, being informed of this, ordered the house to be built at his own expence, and 'till that could be done, farmer grove was so kind, as to let her have his large hall to teach in.
the house built by sir william, had a statue erected over the door of a boy sliding on the ice, and under it were these lines, written by mrs. two-shoes, and engraved at her expence.
on sin.
a simile.
as a poor urchin on the ice,   when he has tumbl'd once or twice,   with cautious step, and trembling goes,   the drop-stile pendant on his nose,   and trudges on to seek the shore,   resolv'd to trust the ice no more:
but meeting with a daring mate,   who often us'd to slide and scate,   again is into danger led,   and falls again, and breaks his head.
so youth when first they're drawn to sin,   and see the danger they are in,   would gladly quit the thorney way,   and think it is unsafe to stay;   but meeting with their wicked train,   return with them to sin again:
with them the paths of vice explore;   with them are ruin'd ever more.
chap.
iv.
what happened at farmer grove's;                 and how she gratified him for the use                            of his room.
while at mr. grove's, which was in the heart of the village, she not only taught the children in the day time, but the farmer's servants, and all the neighbours, to read and write in the evening; and it was a constant practice before they went away, to make them all go to prayers, and sing psalms.
by this means, the people grew extremely regular, his servants were always at home, instead of being at the ale-house, and he had more work done than ever.
this gave not only mr. grove, but all the neighbours, an high opinion of her good sense and prudent behaviour: and she was so much esteemed, that most of the differences in the parish were left to her decision; and if a man and wife quarrelled (which sometimes happened in that part of the kingdom) both parties certainly came to her for advice.
every body knows, that martha wilson was a passionate scolding jade, and that john her husband, was a surly ill-tempered fellow.
these were one day brought by the neighbours for margery to talk to them, when they fairly quarrelled before her, and were going to blows; but she stepping between them, thus addressed the husband; john, says she, you are a man, and ought to have more sense than to fly in a passion, at every word that is said amiss by your wife; and martha, says she, you ought to know your duty better, than to say any thing to aggravate your husband's resentment.
these frequent quarrels, arise from the indulgence of your violent passions; for i know, you both love one another, notwithstanding what has passed between you.
now, pray tell me john, and tell me martha, when you have had a quarrel the over night, are you not both sorry for it the next day?
they both declared that they were: why then, says she, i'll tell you how to prevent this for the future, if you will both promise to take my advice.
they both promised her.
you know, says she, that a small spark will set fire to tinder, and that tinder properly placed will fire a house; an angry word is with you as that spark, for you are both as touchy as tinder, and very often make your own house too hot to hold you.
to prevent this, therefore, and to live happily for the future, you must solemnly agree, that if one speaks an angry word, the other will not answer, 'till he or she has distinctly called over all the letters in the alphabet, and the other not reply, 'till he has told twenty; by this means your passions will be stifled, and reason will have time to take the rule.
this is the best recipe that was ever given for a married couple to live in peace: though john and his wife frequently attempted to quarrel afterwards, they never could get their passions to any considerable height, for there was something so droll in thus carrying on the dispute, that before they got to the end of the argument, they saw the absurdity of it, laughed, kissed, and were friends.
just as mrs. margery had settled this difference between john and his wife, the children (who had been sent out to play, while that business was transacting) returned some in tears, and others very disconsolate, for the loss of a little dormouse they were very fond of, and which was just dead.
mrs. margery, who had the art of moralizing and drawing instructions from every accident, took this opportunity of reading them a lecture on the uncertainty of life, and the necessity of being always prepared for death.
you should get up in the morning, says she, and to conduct yourselves, as if that day was to be your last, and lie down at night, as if you never expected to see this world any more.
this may be done, says she, without abating of your chearfulness, for you are not to consider death as an evil, but as a convenience, as an useful pilot, who is to convey you to a place of greater happiness: therefore, play my dear children, and be merry; but be innocent and good.
the good man sets death at defiance, for his darts are only dreadful to the wicked.
after this, she permitted the children to bury the little dormouse, and desired one of them to write his epitaph, and here it is.
epitaph on a dormouse, really      written by a little boy.
i.
in paper case,   hard by this place, dead a poor dormouse lies;   and soon or late,   summon'd by fate, each prince, each monarch dies.
ii.
ye sons of verse,   while i rehearse, attend instructive rhyme;   no sins had dor,   to answer for, repent of yours in time.
chap.
v.
the whole history of the considering cap, set forth         at large for the benefit of all whom it may concern.
the great reputation mrs. margery acquired by composing differences in families, and especially, between man and wife, induced her to cultivate that part of her system of morality and economy, in order to render it more extensively useful.
for this purpose, she contrived what she called a charm for the passions; which was a considering cap, almost as large as a grenadier's, but of three equal sides; on the first of which was written, i may be wrong; on the second, it is fifty to one but you are; and on the third, i'll consider of it.
the other parts on the out-side, were filled with odd characters, as unintelligible as the writings of the old egyptians; but within side there was a direction for its use, of the utmost consequence; for it strictly enjoined the possessor to put on the cap, whenever he found his passions begin to grow turbulent, and not to deliver a word whilst it was on, but with great coolness and moderation.
as this cap was an universal cure for wrong-headedness, and prevented numberless disputes and quarrels, it greatly hurt the trade of the poor lawyers, but was of the utmost service to the rest of the community.
they were bought by husbands and wives, who had themselves frequent occasion for them, and sometimes lent them to their children: they were also purchased in large quantities by masters and servants; by young folks, who were intent on matrimony, by judges, jurymen, and even physicians and divines; nay, if we may believe history, the legislators of the land did not disdain the use of them; and we are told, that when any important debate arose, cap, was the word, and each house looked like a grand synod of egyptian priests.
nor was this cap of less use to partners in trade, for with these, as well as with husband and wife, if one was out of humour, the other threw him the cap, and he was obliged to put it on, and keep it till all was quiet.
i myself saw thirteen caps worn at a time in one family, which could not have subsisted an hour without them; and i was particularly pleased at sir humphry huffum's, to hear a little girl, when her father was out of humour, ask her mamma, if she should reach down the cap?
these caps, indeed, were of such utility, that people of sense never went without them; and it was common in the country, when a booby made his appearance, and talked nonsense, to say, he had no cap in his pocket.
advice from friar bacon.
what was fortunatus's wishing cap, when compared to this?
that cap, is said to have conveyed people instantly from one place to another; but, as the change of place does not change the temper and disposition of the mind, little benefit can be expected from it; nor indeed is much to be hoped from his famous purse: that purse, it is said, was never empty, and such a purse, may be sometimes convenient; but as money will not purchase peace, it is not necessary for a man to encumber himself with a great deal of it.
peace and happiness depend so much upon the state of a man's own mind, and upon the use of the considering cap, that it is generally his own fault, if he is miserable.
one of these caps will last a man his whole life, and is a discovery of much greater importance to the public than the philosopher's stone.
remember what was said by my brazen head, time is, time was, time is past: now the time is, therefore buy the cap immediately, and make a proper use of it, and be happy before the time is past.
yours roger bacon.
chap.
vi.
how mrs. margery was taken up for a witch,                 and what happened on that occasion.
and so it is true?
and they have taken up mrs. margery then, and accused her of being a witch, only because she was wiser than some of her neighbours!
mercy upon me!
people stuff children's heads with stories of ghosts, faries, witches, and such nonsense when they are young, and so they continue fools all their days.
the whole world ought to be made acquainted with her case, and here it is at their service.
the case of mrs. margery.
mrs. margery, as we have frequently observed, was always doing good, and thought she could never sufficiently gratify those who had done any thing to serve her.
these generous sentiments, naturally led her to consult the interest of mr. grove, and the rest of her neighbours; and as most of their lands were meadow, and they depended much on their hay, which had been for many years greatly damaged by wet weather, she contrived an instrument to direct them when to mow their grass with safety, and prevent their hay being spoiled.
they all came to her for advice, and by that means got in their hay without damage, while most of that in the neighbouring villages was spoiled.
this made a great noise in the country, and so provoked were the people in the other parishes, that they accused her of being a witch, and sent gasser goosecap, a busy fellow in other people's concerns, to find out evidence against her.
this wiseacre happened to come to her school, when she was walking about with the raven on one shoulder, the pidgeon on the other, the lark on her hand, and the lamb and the dog by her side; which indeed made a droll figure, and so surprized the that he cried out, a witch!
a witch!
upon this she laughing, answered, a conjurer!
a conjurer!
and so they parted; but it did not end thus, for a warrant was issued out against mrs.
margery, and she was carried to a meeting of the justices, whither all the neighbours followed her.
at the meeting, one of the justices, who knew little of life, and less of the law, behaved very idly; and though no body was able to prove any thing against her, asked, who she could bring to her character?
who can you bring against my character, sir, says she, there are people enough who would appear in my defence, were it necessary; but i never supposed that any one here could be so weak, as to believe there was any such thing as a witch.
if i am a witch, this is my charm, and (laying a barometer or weather glass on the table) it is with this, says she, that i have taught my neighbours to know the state of the weather.
all the company laughed, and sir william dove, who was on the bench, asked her accusers, how they could be such fools, as to think there was any such thing as a witch.
it is true, continued he, many innocent and worthy people have been abused and even murdered on this absurd and foolish supposition; which is a scandal to our religion, to our laws, to our nation, and to common sense; but i will tell you a story.
there was in the west of england a poor industrious woman, who laboured under the same evil report, which this good woman is accused of.
every hog that died with the murrain, every cow that slipt her calf, she was accountable for: if a horse had the staggers, she was supposed to be in his head; and whenever the wind blew a little harder than ordinary, goody giles was playing her tricks, and riding upon a broomstick in the air.
these, and a thousand other phantasies, too ridiculous to recite, possessed the pates of the common people:
horse-shoes were nailed with the heels upwards, and many tricks made use of, to mortify the poor creature; and such was their rage against her, that they petitioned mr. williams, the parson of the parish, not to let her come to church; and at last, even insisted upon it: but this he over-ruled, and allowed the poor old woman a nook in one of the isles to herself, where she muttered over her prayers in the best manner she could.
the parish, thus disconcerted and enraged, withdrew the small pittance they allowed for her support, and would have reduced her to the necessity of starving, had she not been still assisted by the benevolent mr. williams.
but i hasten to the sequel of my story, in which you will find, that the true source from whence witchcraft springs is poverty, age, and ignorance; and that it is impossible for a woman to pass for a witch, unless she is very poor, very old, and lives in a neighbourhood where the people are void of common sense.
some time after, a brother of her's died in london, who, though he would not part with a farthing while he lived, at his death was obliged to leave her five thousand pounds, that he could not carry with him.
this altered the face of jane's affairs prodigiously:
she was no longer jane, alias joan giles, the ugly old witch, but madam giles; her old ragged garb was exchanged for one that was new and genteel; her greatest enemies made their court to her, even the justice himself came to wish her joy; and though several hogs and horses died, and the wind frequently blew afterwards, yet madam giles was never supposed to have a hand in it; and from hence it is plain, as i observed before, that a woman must be very poor, very old, and live in a neighbourhood, where the people are very stupid, before she can possibly pass for a witch.
'twas a saying of mr. williams, who would sometimes be jocose, and had the art of making even satire agreeable; that if ever jane deserved the character of a witch, it was after this money was left her; for that with her five thousand pounds, she did more acts of charity and friendly offices, than all the people of fortune within fifty miles of the place.
after this, sir william inveighed against the absurd and foolish notions, which the country people had imbibed concerning witches, and witchcraft, and having proved that there was no such thing, but that all were the effects of folly and ignorance, he gave the court such an account of mrs. margery, and her virtue, good sense, and prudent behaviour, that the gentlemen present were enamoured with her, and returned her public thanks for the great service she had done the country.
one gentleman in particular, i mean sir charles jones, had conceived such an high opinion of her, that he offered her a considerable sum to take the care of his family, and the education of his daughter, which, however, she refused; but this gentleman, sending for her afterwards when he had a dangerous fit of illness, she went, and behaved so prudently in the family, and so tenderly to him and his daughter, that he would not permit her to leave his house, but soon after made her proposals of marriage.
she was truly sensible of the honour he intended her, but, though poor, she would not consent to be made a lady, till he had effectually provided for his daughter; for she told him, that power was a dangerous thing to be trusted with, and that a good man or woman would never throw themselves into the road of temptation.
all things being settled, and the day fixed, the neighbours came in crouds to see the wedding; for they were all glad, that one who had been such a good little girl, and was become such a virtuous and good woman, was going to be made a lady; but just as the clergyman had opened his book, a gentleman richly dressed ran into the church, and cry'd, stop!
stop!
this greatly alarmed the congregation, particularly the intended bride and bridegroom, whom he first accosted, and desired to speak with them apart.
after they had been talking some little time, the people were greatly surprized to see sir charles stand motionless, and his bride cry, and faint away in the stranger's arms.
this seeming grief, however, was only a prelude to a flood of joy, which immediately succeeded; for you must know, gentle reader, that this gentleman, so richly dressed and bedizened with lace, was that identical little boy, whom you before saw in the sailor's habit; in short, it was little tom two shoes, mrs. margery's brother, who was just come from beyond sea, where he had made a large fortune, and hearing, as soon as he landed, of his sister's intended wedding, had rode post, to see that a proper settlement was made on her; which he thought she was now intitled to, as he himself was both able and willing to give her an ample fortune.
they soon returned to the communion-table, and were married in tears, but they were tears of joy.
there is something wonderful in this young gentleman's preservation and success in life; which we shall acquaint the reader of, in the history of his life and adventures, which will soon be published.
chap.
vii.
and last.
the true use of riches.
the harmony and affection that subsisted between this happy couple, is inexpressible; but time, which dissolves the closest union, after six years, severed sir charles from his lady; for being seized with a violent fever he died, and left her full of grief, tho' possessed of a large fortune.
we forgot to remark, that after her marriage, lady jones (for so we must now call her) ordered the chappel to be fitted up, and allowed the chaplain a considerable sum out of her own private purse, to visit the sick, and say prayers every day to all the people that could attend.
she also gave mr. johnson ten guineas a year, to preach a sermon, annually, on the necessity and duties of the marriage state, and on the decease of sir charles; she gave him ten more, to preach yearly on the subject of death; she had put all the parish into mourning for the loss of her husband; and to those men who attended this yearly service, she gave harvest gloves, to their wives shoes and stockings, and to all the children little books and plumb-cakes: we must also observe, that she herself wove a chaplet of flowers, and before the service, placed it on his grave-stone; and a suitable psalm was always sung by the congregation.
about this time, she heard that mr. smith was oppressed by sir timothy gripe, the justice, and his friend graspall, who endeavoured to deprive him of part of his tythes; upon which she, in conjunction with her brother, defended him, and the cause was tried in westminster-hall, where mr. smith gained a verdict; and it appearing that sir timothy had behaved most scandalously, as a justice of the peace, he was struck off the list, and no longer permitted to act in that capacity.
this was a cut to a man of his imperious disposition, and this was followed by one yet more severe; for a relation of his, who had an undoubted right to the mouldwell estate, finding that it was possible to get the better at law of a rich man, laid claim to it, brought his action, and recovered the whole manor of mouldwell, and being afterwards inclined to sell it, he, in consideration of the aid lady margery had lent him during his distress, made her the first offer, and she purchased the whole, and threw it into different farms, that the poor might be no longer under the dominion of two over-grown men.
this was a great mortification to sir timothy, as well as to his friend graspall, who from this time experienced nothing but misfortunes, and was in a few years so dispossessed of his ill-gotten wealth, that his family were reduced to seek subsistance from the parish, at which those who had felt the weight of his iron hand rejoiced; but lady margery desired, that his children might be treated with care and tenderness; for they, says she, are no ways accountable for the actions of their father.
at her first coming into power, she took care to gratify her old friends, especially mr. and mrs. smith, whose family she made happy.
she paid great regard to the poor, made their interest her own, and to induce them to come regularly to church, she ordered a loaf, or the price of a loaf, to be given to every one who would accept of it.
this brought many of them to church, who by degrees learned their duty, and then came on a more noble principle.
she also took care to encourage matrimony; and in order to induce her tenants and neighbours to enter into that happy state, she always gave the young couple something towards house-keeping; and stood godmother to all their children, whom she had in parties, every sunday evening, to teach them their catechism, and lecture them in religion and morality; after which she treated them with a supper, gave them such books as they wanted, and then dispatched them with her blessing.
nor did she forget them at her death, but left each a legacy, as will be seen among other charitable donations when we publish her will, which we may do in some future volume.
there is one request however so singular, that we cannot help taking some notice of it in this place; which is, that of her giving so many acres of land to be planted yearly with potatoes, for all the poor of any parish who would come and fetch them for the use of their families; but if any took them to sell they were deprived of that privilege ever after.
and these roots were planted and raised from the rent arising from a farm which she had assigned over for that purpose.
in short, she was a mother to the poor, a physician to the sick, and a friend to all who were in distress.
her life was the greatest blessing, and her death the greatest calamity that ever was felt in the neighbourhood.
a monument, but without inscription, was erected to her memory in the church-yard, over which the poor as they pass weep continually, so that the stone is ever bathed in tears.
on this occasion the following lines were spoken extempore by a young gentleman.
how vain the tears that fall from you,   and here supply the place of dew?
how vain to weep the happy dead,   who now to heavenly realms are fled?
repine no more, your plaints forbear,   and all prepare to meet them there.
the end.
the marvelous exploits of paul bunyan
paul bunyan
scholars say he is the only american myth.
paul bunyan is the hero of lumbercamp whoppers that have been handed down for generations.
these stories, never heard outside the haunts of the lumberjack until recent years, are now being collected by learned educators and literary authorities who declare that paul bunyan is "the only american myth."
the best authorities never recounted paul bunyan's exploits in narrative form.
they made their statements more impressive by dropping them casually, in an off hand way, as if in reference to actual events of common knowledge.
to overawe the greenhorn in the bunkshanty, or the paper-collar stiffs and home guards in the saloons, a group of lumberjacks would remember meeting each other in the camps of paul bunyan.
with painful accuracy they established the exact time and place, "on the big onion the winter of the blue snow" or "at shot gunderson's camp on the tadpole the year of the sourdough drive."
they elaborated on the old themes and new stories were born in lying contests where the heights of extemporaneous invention were reached.
in these conversations the lumberjack often took on the mannerisms of the french canadian.
this was apparently done without special intent and no reason for it can be given except for a similarity in the mock seriousness of their statements and the anti-climax of the bulls that were made, with the braggadocio of the habitant.
some investigators trace the origin of paul bunyan to eastern canada.
who can say?
paul bunyan came to westwood, california, in 1913 at the suggestion of some of the most prominent loggers and lumbermen in the country.
when the red river lumber company announced their plans for opening up their forests of sugar pine and california white pine, friendly advisors shook their heads and said,
"better send for paul bunyan."
apparently here was the job for a superman, quality-and-quantity-production on a big scale and great engineering difficulties to be overcome.
why not paul bunyan?
this is a white pine job and here in the high sierras the winter snows lie deep, just like the country where paul grew up.
here are trees that dwarf the largest "cork pine" of the lake states and many new stunts were planned for logging, milling and manufacturing a product of supreme quality just the job for paul bunyan.
the red river people had been cutting white pine in minnesota for two generations; the crews that came west with them were old heads and every one knew paul bunyan of old.
paul had followed the white pine from the atlantic seaboard west to the jumping-off place in minnesota, why not go the rest of the way?
paul bunyan's picture had never been published until he joined red river and this likeness, first issued in 1914 is now the red river trademark.
it stands for the quality and service you have the right to expect from paul bunyan.
when and where did this mythical hero get his start?
paul bunyan is known by his mighty works, his antecedents and personal history are lost in doubt.
you can prove that paul logged off north dakota and grubbed the stumps, not only by the fact that there are no traces of pine forests in that state, but by the testimony of oldtimers who saw it done.
on the other hand, paul's parentage and birth date are unknown.
like topsy, he jes' growed.
nobody cared to know his origin until the professors got after him.
as long as he stayed around the camps his previous history was treated with the customary consideration and he was asked no questions, but when he broke into college it was all off.
then he had to have ancestors, a birthday and all sorts of vital statistics.
now paul is a regular myth and students of folklore make scientific research of "the paul bunyan legend".
his first appearance in print was in the booklets published by the red river lumber company in 1914 and 1916, these stories are reprinted in the present volume, with additions.
paul has followed the wanderings of pioneering workmen and performed new wonders in the oil fields, on big construction jobs and in the wheat fields but the stories in this book deal only with his work in the white pine camps where he was born and raised.
care has been taken to preserve the atmosphere of the old style camps.
so now we will get on with paul's doings and in the language of the four-horse skinner, "let's dangle!"
babe, the big blue ox constituted paul bunyan's assets and liabilities.
history disagrees as to when, where and how paul first acquired this bovine locomotive but his subsequent record is reliably established.
babe could pull anything that had two ends to it.
babe was seven axehandles wide between the eyes according to some authorities; others equally dependable say forty-two axehandles and a plug of tobacco.
like other historical contradictions this comes from using different standards.
seven of paul's axehandles were equal to a little more than forty-two of the ordinary kind.
when cost sheets were figured on babe, johnny inkslinger found that upkeep and overhead were expensive but the charges for operation and depreciation were low and the efficiency was very high.
how else could paul have hauled logs to the landing a whole section (640 acres) at a time?
he also used babe to pull the kinks out of the crooked logging roads and it was on a job of this kind that babe pulled a chain of three-inch links out into a straight bar.
they could never keep babe more than one night at a camp for he would eat in one day all the feed one crew could tote to camp in a year.
for a snack between meals he would eat fifty bales of hay, wire and all and six men with picaroons were kept busy picking the wire out of his teeth.
babe was a great pet and very docile as a general thing but he seemed to have a sense of humor and frequently got into mischief, he would sneak up behind a drive and drink all the water out of the river, leaving the logs high and dry.
it was impossible to build an ox-sling big enough to hoist babe off the ground for shoeing, but after they logged off dakota there was room for babe to lie down for this operation.
once in a while babe would run away and be gone all day roaming all over the northwestern country.
his tracks were so far apart that it was impossible to follow him and so deep that a man falling into one could only be hauled out with difficulty and a long rope.
once a settler and his wife and baby fell into one of these tracks and the son got out when he was fifty-seven years old and reported the accident.
these tracks, today form the thousands of lakes in the "land of the sky-blue water."
because he was so much younger than babe and was brought to camp when a small calf, benny was always called the little blue ox although he was quite a chunk of an animal.
benny could not, or rather, would not haul as much as babe nor was he as tractable but he could eat more.
paul got benny for nothing from a farmer near bangor, maine.
there was not enough milk for the little fellow so he had to be weaned when three days old.
the farmer only had forty acres of hay and by the time benny was a week old he had to dispose of him for lack of food.
the calf was undernourished and only weighed two tons when paul got him.
paul drove from bangor out to his headquarters camp near devil's lake, north dakota that night and led benny behind the sleigh.
western air agreed with the little calf and every time paul looked back at him he was two feet taller.
when they arrived at camp benny was given a good feed of buffalo milk and flapjacks and put into a barn by himself.
next morning the barn was gone.
later it was discovered on benny's back as he scampered over the clearings.
he had outgrown his barn in one night.
benny was very notional and would never pull a load unless there was snow on the ground so after the spring thaws they had to white wash the logging roads to fool him.
gluttony killed benny.
he had a mania for pancakes and one cook crew of two hundred men was kept busy making cakes for him.
one night he pawed and bellowed and threshed his tail about till the wind of it blew down what pine paul had left standing in dakota.
at breakfast time he broke loose, tore down the cook shanty and began bolting pancakes.
in his greed he swallowed the red-hot stove.
indigestion set in and nothing could save him.
what disposition was made of his body is a matter of dispute.
one oldtimer claims that the outfit he works for bought a hind quarter of the carcass in 1857 and made corned beef of it.
he thinks they have several carloads of it, left.
another authority states that the body of benny was dragged to a safe distance from the north dakota camp and buried.
when the earth was shoveled back it made a mound that formed the black hills in south dakota.
the custodian and chaperon of babe, the big blue ox, was brimstone bill.
he knew all the tricks of that frisky giant before they happened.
"i know oxen," the old bullwhacker used to say, "i've worked 'em and fed 'em and doctored 'em ever since the ox was invented.
and babe, i know that pernicious old reptyle same as if i'd abeen through him with a lantern."
bill compiled "the skinner's dictionary," a hand book for teamsters, and most of the terms used in directing draft animals (except mules)
originated with him.
his early religious training accounts for the fact that the technical language of the teamster contains so many names of places and people spoken of in the bible.
the buckskin harness used on babe and benny when the weather was rainy was made by brimstone bill.
when this harness got wet it would stretch so much that the oxen could travel clear to the landing and the load would not move from the skidway in the woods.
brimstone would fasten the harness with an anchor big ole made for him and when the sun came out and the harness shrunk the load would be pulled to the landing while bill and the oxen were busy at some other job.
the winter of the blue snow, the pacific ocean froze over and bill kept the oxen busy hauling regular white snow over from china.
m. h. keenan can testify to the truth of this as he worked for paul on the big onion that winter.
it must have been about this time that bill made the first ox yokes out of cranberry wood.
feeding paul bunyan's crews was a complicated job.
at no two camps were conditions the same.
the winter he logged off north dakota he had 300 cooks making pancakes for the seven axemen and the little chore-boy.
at headquarters on the big onion he had one cook and 462 cookees feeding a crew so big that paul himself never knew within several hundred either way, how many men he had.
at big onion camp there was a lot of mechanical equipment and the trouble was a man who could handle the machinery cooked just like a machinist too.
one cook got lost between the flour bin and the root cellar and nearly starved to death before he was found.
cooks came and went.
some were good and others just able to get by.
paul never kept a poor one, very long.
there was one jigger who seemed to have learned to do nothing but boil.
he made soup out of everything and did most of his work with a dipper.
when the big tote-sled broke through the ice on bull frog lake with a load of split peas, he served warmed up, lake water till the crew struck.
his idea of a lunch box was a jug or a rope to freeze soup onto like a candle.
some cooks used too much grease.
it was said of one of these that he had to wear calked shoes to keep from sliding out of the cook-shanty and rub sand on his hands when he picked anything up.
there are two kinds of camp cooks, the baking powder bums and the sourdough stiffs.
sourdough sam belonged to the latter school.
he made everything but coffee out of sourdough.
he had only one arm and one leg, the other members having been lost when his sourdough barrel blew up.
sam officiated at tadpole river headquarters, the winter shot gunderson took charge.
after all others had failed at big onion camp, paul hired his cousin big joe who came from three weeks below quebec.
this boy sure put a mean scald on the chuck.
he was the only man who could make pancakes fast enough to feed the crew.
he had big ole, the blacksmith, make him a griddle that was so big you couldn't see across it when the steam was thick.
the batter, stirred in drums like concrete mixers was poured on with cranes and spouts.
the griddle was greased by colored boys who skated over the surface with hams tied to their feet.
they had to have colored boys to stand the heat.
at this camp the flunkeys wore roller skates and an idea of the size of the tables is gained from the fact that they distributed the pepper with four-horse teams.
sending out lunch and timing the meals was rendered difficult by the size of the works which required three crews one going to work, one on the job and one coming back.
joe had to start the bull-cook out with the lunch sled two weeks ahead of dinner time.
to call the men who came in at noon was another problem.
big ole made a dinner horn so big that no one could blow it but big joe or paul himself.
the first time joe blew it be blew down ten acres of pine.
the red river people wouldn't stand for that so the next time he blew straight up but this caused severe cyclones and storms at sea so paul had to junk the horn and ship it east where later it was made into a tin roof for a big union depot.
when big joe came to westwood with paul, he started something.
about that time you may have read in the papers about a volcanic eruption at mt.
lassen, heretofore extinct for many years.
that was where big joe dug his bean-hole and when the steam worked out of the bean kettle and up through the ground, everyone thought the old hill had turned volcano.
every time joe drops a biscuit they talk of earthquakes.
it was always thought that the quality of the food at paul's camps had a lot to do with the strength and endurance of the men.
no doubt it did, but they were a husky lot to start with.
as the feller said about fish for a brain food, "it won't do you no good unless there is a germ there to start with."
there must have been something to the food theory for the chipmunks that ate the prune pits got so big they killed all the wolves and years later the settlers shot them for tigers.
a visitor at one of paul's camps was astonished to see a crew of men unloading four-horse logging sleds at the cook-shanty.
they appeared to be rolling logs into a trap door from which poured clouds of steam.
"that's a heck of a place to land logs," he remarked.
"them ain't logs," grinned a bull-cook, "them's sausages for the teamsters' breakfast."
at paul's camp up where the little gimlet empties into the big auger, newcomers used to kick because they were never served beans.
the bosses and the men could never be interested in beans.
e. e. terrill tells us the reason:
once when the cook quit they had to detail a substitute to the job temporarily.
there was one man who was no good anywhere.
he had failed at every job.
chris crosshaul, the foreman, acting on the theory that every man is good somewhere, figured that this guy must be a cook, for it was the only job he had not tried.
so he was put to work and the first thing he tackled was beans.
he filled up a big kettle with beans and added some water.
when the heat took hold the beans swelled up till they lifted off the roof and bulged out the walls.
there was no way to get into the place to cook anything else, so the whole crew turned in to eat up the half cooked beans.
by keeping at it steady they cleaned them up in a week and rescued the would-be-cook.
after that no one seemed to care much for beans.
it used to be a big job to haul prune pits and coffee grounds away from paul's camps.
it required a big crew of men and either babe or benny to do the hauling.
finally paul decided it was cheaper to build new camps and move every month.
the winter paul logged off north dakota with the seven axemen, the little chore boy and the 300 cooks, he worked the cooks in three shifts one for each meal.
the seven axemen were hearty eaters; a portion of bacon was one side of a 1600-pound pig.
paul shipped a stern-wheel steamboat up red river and they put it in the soup kettle to stir the soup.
like other artists, cooks are temperamental and some of them are full of cussedness but the only ones who could sass paul bunyan and get away with it were the stars like big joe and sourdough sam.
the lunch sled, mostpopular institution in the lumber industry!
its arrival at, the noon rendezvous has been hailed with joy by hungry men on every logging job since paul invented it.
what if the warm food freezes on your tin plate, the keen cold air has sharpened your appetite to enjoy it.
the crew that toted lunch for paul bunyan had so far to travel and so many to feed they hauled a complete kitchen on the lunch sled, cooks and all.
when paul invented logging he had to invent all the tools and figure out all his own methods.
there were no precedents.
at the start his outfit consisted of babe and his big axe.
no two logging jobs can be handled exactly the same way so paul adapted his operations to local conditions.
in the mountains he used babe to pull the kinks out of the crooked logging roads; on the big onion he began the system of hauling a section of land at a time to the landings and in north dakota he used the seven axemen.
at that time marking logs was not thought of, paul had no need for identification when there were no logs but his own.
about the time he started the atlantic ocean drive others had come into the industry and although their combined cut was insignificant compared to paul's, there was danger of confusion, and paul had most to lose.
at first paul marked his logs by pinching a piece out of each log.
when his cut grew so large that the marking had to be detailed to the crews, the "scalp" on each log was put on with an axe, for even in those days not every man could nip out the chunk with his fingers.
the grindstone was invented by paul the winter he logged off north dakota.
before that paul's axemen had to sharpen their axes by rolling rocks down hill and running along side of them.
when they got to "big dick," as the lumberjacks called dakota, hills and rocks were so hard to find that paul rigged up the revolving rock.
this was much appreciated by the seven axemen as it enabled them to grind an axe in a week, but the grindstone was not much of a hit with the little chore boy whose job it was to turn it.
the first stone was so big that working at full speed, every time it turned around once it was payday.
the little chore boy led a strenuous life.
he was only a kid and like all youngsters putting in their first winter in the woods, he was put over the jumps by the oldtimers.
his regular work was heavy enough, splitting all the wood for the camp, carrying water and packing lunch to the men, but his hazers sent him on all kinds of wild goose errands to all parts of the works, looking for a "left-handed peavy" or a "bundle of cross-hauls."
he had to take a lot of good natured roughneck wit about his size for he only weighed 800 pounds and a couple of surcingles made a belt for him.
what he lacked in size he made up in grit and the men secretly respected his gameness.
they said he might make a pretty good man if he ever got any growth, and considered it a necessary education to give him a lot of extra chores.
often in the evening, after his day's work and long hours put in turning the grindstone and keeping up fires in the camp stoves that required four cords of wood apiece to kindle a fire, he could be found with one of big ole's small 600-pound anvils in his lap pegging up shoes with railroad spikes.
it was a long time before they solved the problem of turning logging sleds around in the road.
when a sled returned from the landing and put on a load they had to wait until paul came along to pick up the four horses and the load and head them the other way.
judson m. goss says he worked for paul the winter he invented the round turn.
all of paul's inventions were successful except when he decided to run three ten-hour shifts a day and installed the aurora borealis.
after a number of trials the plan was abandoned because the lights were not dependable.
"the seven axemen of the red river" they were called because they had a camp on red river with the three-hundred cooks and the little chore boy.
the whole state was cut over from the one camp and the husky seven chopped from dark to dark and walked to and from work.
their axes were so big it took a week to grind one of them.
each man had three axes and two helpers to carry the spare axes to the river when they got red hot from chopping.
even in those days they had to watch out for forest fires.
the axes were hung on long rope handles.
each axeman would march through the timber whirling his axe around him till the hum of it sounded like one of paul's for-and-aft mosquitoes, and at every step a quarter-section of timber was cut.
the height, weight and chest measurement of the seven axemen are not known.
authorities differ.
history agrees that they kept a cord of four-foot wood on the table for toothpicks.
after supper they would sit on the deacon seat in the bunk shanty and sing "shanty boy" and "bung yer eye" till the folks in the settlements down on the atlantic would think another nor'wester was blowing up.
some say the seven axemen were bay chaleur men; others declare they were all cousins and came from down machias way.
where they came from or where they went to blow their stake after leaving paul's camp no one knows but they are remembered as husky lads and good fellows around camp.
after the seven axemen had gone down the tote road, never to return, paul bunyan was at a loss to find a method of cutting down trees that would give him anything like the output he had been getting.
many trials and experiments followed and then paul invented the two-man saw.
the first saw was made from a strip trimmed off in making big joe's dinner horn and was long enough to reach across a quarter section, for paul could never think in smaller units.
this saw worked all right in a level country, in spite of the fact that all the trees fell back on the saw, but in rough country only the trees on the hill tops were cut.
trees in the valleys were cut off in the tops and in the pot holes the saw passed over the trees altogether.
it took a good man to pull this saw in heavy timber when paul was working on the other end.
paul used to say to his fellow sawyer, "i don't care if you ride the saw, but please don't drag your feet."
a couple of cousins of big ole's were given the job and did so well that ever afterward in the lake states the saw crews have generally been scandinavians.
it was after this that paul had big ole make the "down-cutter."
this was a rig like a mowing machine.
they drove around eight townships and cut a swath 500 feet wide.
paul bunyan's trained ants are proving so successful that they may replace donkeys and tractors on the rugged slopes of the sierras.
inspired by his success with bees and mosquitoes, paul has developed a breed of ants that stand six feet tall and weigh 200 pounds.
to overcome their habit of hibernating all winter, paul supplied the ants with mackinaws made with three pairs of sleeves or legs.
they eat nothing but copenhagen snuff.
the ants (or uncles as they prefer to be called) can run to the westwood shops with a damaged locomotive quicker than the wrecking crew can come out.
they do not patronize bootleggers or require time off to fix their automobiles.
lucy, paul bunyan's cow was not, so far as we can learn, related to either babe or benny.
statements that she was in any way their mother are without basis in fact.
the two oxen had been in paul's possession for a long time before lucy arrived on the scene.
no reliable data can be found as to the pedigree of this remarkable dairy animal.
there are no official records of her butterfat fat production nor is it known where or how paul got her.
paul always said that lucy was part jersey and part wolf.
maybe so.
her actions and methods of living seemed to justify the allegation of wolf ancestry, for she had an insatiable appetite and a roving disposition.
lucy ate everything in sight and could never be fed at the same camp with babe or benny.
in fact, they quit trying to feed her at all but let her forage her own living.
the winter of the deep snow, when even the tallest white pines were buried, brimstone bill outfitted lucy with a set of babe's old snowshoes and a pair of green goggles and turned her out to graze on the snowdrifts.
at first she had some trouble with the new foot gear but once she learned to run them and shift gears without wrecking herself, she answered the call of the limitless snow fields and ran away all over north america until paul decorated her with a bell borrowed from a buried church.
in spite of short rations she gave enough milk to keep six men busy skimming the cream.
if she had been kept in a barn and fed regularly she might have made a milking record.
when she fed on the evergreen trees and her milk got so strong of white pine and balsam that the men used it for cough medicine and liniment, they quit serving the milk on the table and made butter out of it.
by using this butter, to grease the logging roads when the snow and ice thawed off, paul was able to run big logging sleds all summer.
the family life of paul bunyan, from all accounts, has been very happy.
a charming glimpse of mrs. bunyan is given by mr. e. s. shepard of rhinelander, wis., who tells of working in paul's camp on round river in '62, the winter of the black snow.
paul put him wheeling prune pits away from the cook camp.
after he had worked at this job for three months paul had him haul them back again as mrs. bunyan, who was cooking at the camp, wanted to use them to make the hot fires necessary to cook her famous soft nosed pancakes.
mrs. bunyan, at this time used to call the men to dinner by blowing into a woodpecker hole in an old hollow stub that stood near the door.
in this stub there was a nest of owls that had one short wing and flew in circles.
when mr. shepard made a sketch of paul, mrs. bunyan, with wifely solicitude for his appearance, parted paul's hair with a handaxe and combed it with an old cross-cut saw.
from other sources we have fragmentary glimpses of jean, paul's youngest son.
when jean was three weeks old he jumped from his cradle one night and seizing an axe, chopped the four posts out from under his father's bed.
the incident greatly tickled paul, who used to brag about it to any one who would listen to him.
"the boy is going to be a great logger some day," he would declare with fatherly pride.
the last we heard of jean he was working for a lumber outfit in the south, lifting logging trains past one another on a single track railroad.
what is camp without a dog?
paul bunyan loved dogs as well as the next man but never would have one around that could not earn its keep.
paul's dogs had to work, hunt or catch rats.
it took a good dog to kill the rats and mice in paul's camp for the rodents picked up scraps of the buffalo milk pancakes and grew to be as big as two year old bears.
elmer, the moose terrier, practiced up on the rats when he was a small pup and was soon able to catch a moose on the run and finish it with one shake.
elmer loafed around the cook camp and if the meat supply happened to run low the cook would put the dog out the door and say, "bring in a moose."
elmer would run into the timber, catch a moose and bring it in and repeat the performance until, after a few minutes work, the cook figured he had enough for a mess and would call the dog in.
sport, the reversible dog was really the best hunter.
he was part wolf and part elephant hound and was raised on bear milk.
one night when sport was quite young, he was playing around in the horse barn and paul, mistaking him for a mouse, threw a band axe at him.
the axe cut the dog in two but paul, instantly realizing what had happened, quickly stuck the two halves together, gave the pup first aid and bandaged him up.
with careful nursing the dog soon recovered and then it was seen that paul in his haste had twisted the two halves so that the hind legs pointed straight up.
this proved to be an advantage for the dog learned to run on one pair of legs for a while and then flop over without loss of speed and run on the other pair.
because of this he never tired and anything he started after got caught.
sport never got his full growth.
while still a pup he broke through four feet of ice on lake superior and was drowned.
as a hunter, paul would make old nimrod himself look like a city dude lost from his guide.
he was also a good fisherman.
old-timers tell of seeing paul as a small boy, fishing off the atlantic coast.
he would sail out early in the morning in his three-mast schooner and wade back before breakfast with his boat full of fish on his shoulder.
about this time he got his shot gun that required four dishpans full of powder and a keg of spikes to load each barrel.
with this gun he could shoot geese so high in the air they would spoil before reaching the ground.
tracking was paul's favorite sport and no trail was too old or too dim for him to follow.
he once came across the skeleton of a moose that had died of old age and, just for curiosity, picked up the tracks of the animal and spent the whole afternoon following its trail back to the place where it was born.
the shaggy dog that spent most of his time pretending to sleep in front of johnny inkslinger's counter in the camp office was fido, the watch dog.
fido was the bug-bear (not bearer, just bear) of the greenhorns.
they were told that paul starved fido all winter and then, just before payday, fed him all the swampers, barn boys, and student bullcooks.
the very marrow was frozen in their heads at the thought of being turned into dog food.
their fears were groundless for paul would never let a dog go hungry or mistreat a human being.
fido was fed all the watch peddlers, tailors' agents, and camp inspectors and thus served a very useful purpose.
it is no picnic to tackle the wilderness and turn the very forest itself into a commercial commodity delivered at the market.
a logger needs plenty of brains and back bone.
paul bunyan had his setbacks the same as every logger only his were worse.
being a pioneer he had to invent all his stuff as he went along.
many a time his plans were upset by the mistakes of some swivel-headed strawboss or incompetent foreman.
the winter of the blue snow, shot gunderson had charge in the big tadpole river country.
he landed all of his logs in a lake and in the spring when ready to drive he boomed the logs three times around the lake before he discovered there was no outlet to it.
high hills surrounded the lake and the drivable stream was ten miles away.
apparently the logs were a total loss.
then paul came on the job himself and got busy.
calling in sourdough sam, the cook who made everything but coffee out of sourdough, he ordered him to mix enough sourdough to fill the big watertank.
hitching babe to the tank he hauled it over and dumped it into the lake.
when it "riz," as sam said, a mighty lava-like stream poured forth and carried the logs over the hills to the river.
there is a landlocked lake in northern minnesota that is called "sourdough lake" to this day.
chris crosshaul was a careless cuss.
he took a big drive down the mississippi for paul and when the logs were delivered in the new orleans boom it was found that he had driven the wrong logs.
the owners looked at the barkmarks and refused to accept them.
it was up to paul to drive them back upstream.
no one but paul bunyan would ever tackle a job like that.
to drive logs upstream is impossible, but if you think a little thing like an impossibility could stop him, you don't know paul bunyan.
he simply fed babe a good big salt ration and drove him to the upper mississippi to drink.
babe drank the river dry and sucked all the water upstream.
the logs came up river faster than they went down.
big ole was the blacksmith at paul's headquarters camp on the big onion.
ole had a cranky disposition but he was a skilled workman.
no job in iron or steel was too big or too difficult for him.
one of the cooks used to make doughnuts and have ole punch the holes.
he made the griddle on which big joe cast his pancakes and the dinner horn that blew down ten acres of pine.
ole was the only man who could shoe babe or benny.
every time he made a set of shoes for babe they had to open up another minnesota iron mine.
ole once carried a pair of these shoes a mile and sunk knee deep into solid rock at every step.
babe cast a shoe while making a hard pull one day, and it was hurled for a mile and tore down forty acres of pine and injured eight swedes that were swamping out skidways.
ole was also a mechanic and built the downcutter, a rig like a mowing machine that cut down a swath of trees 500 feet wide.
in the early days, whenever paul bunyan was broke between logging seasons, he traveled around like other lumberjacks doing any kind of pioneering work he could find.
he showed up in washington about the time the puget construction co. was building puget sound and billy puget was making records moving dirt with droves of dirt throwing badgers.
paul and billy got into an argument over who had shoveled the most.
paul got mad and said he'd show billy puget and started to throw the dirt back again.
before billy stopped him he had piled up the san juan islands.
when a man gets the reputation in the woods of being a "good man" it refers only to physical prowess.
frequently he is challenged to fight by "good men" from other communities.
there was pete mufraw.
"you know joe mufraw?"
"oui, two joe mufraw, one named pete."
that's the fellow.
after pete had licked everybody between quebec and bay chaleur he started to look for paul bunyan.
he bragged all over the country that he had worn out six pair of shoe-pacs looking for paul.
finally he met up with him.
paul was plowing with two yoke of steers and pete mufraw stopped at the brush-fence to watch the plow cut its way right through rocks and stumps.
when they reached the end of the furrow paul picked up the plow and the oxen with one arm and turned them around.
pete took one look and then wandered off down the trail muttering, "hox an' hall!
she's lift hox an' hall."
paul bunyan started traveling before the steam cars were invented.
he developed his own means of transportation and the railroads have never been able to catch up.
time is so valuable to paul he has no time to fool around at sixty miles an hour.
in the early days he rode on the back of babe, the big blue ox.
this had its difficulties because he had to use a telescope to keep babe's hind legs in view and the hooves of the ox created such havoc that after the settlements came into different parts of the country there were heavy damage claims to settle every trip.
snowshoes were useful in winter but one trip on the webs cured paul of depending upon them for transcontinental hikes.
he started from minnesota for westwood one spring morning.
there was still snow in the woods so paul wore his snowshoes.
he soon ran out of the snow belt but kept right on without reducing speed.
crossing the desert the heat became oppressive, his mackinaws grew heavy and the snowshoes dragged his feet but it was too late to turn back.
when he arrived in california he discovered that the sun and hot sand had warped one of his shoes and pulled one foot out of line at every step, so instead of traveling on a bee line and hitting westwood exactly, he came out at san francisco.
this made it necessary for him to travel an extra three hundred miles north.
it was late that night when he pulled into westwood and he had used up a whole day coming from minnesota.
paul's fast foot work made him a "good man on the round stuff" and in spite of his weight he had no trouble running around on the floating logs, even the small ones.
it was said that paul could spin a log till the bark came off and then run ashore on the bubbles.
he once threw a peavy handle into the mississippi at st. louis and standing on it, poled up to brainerd, minnesota.
paul was a "white water bucko" and rode water so rough it would tear an ordinary man in two to drink out of the river.
johnny inkslinger was paul's headquarters clerk.
he invented bookkeeping about the time paul invented logging.
he was something of a genius and perfected his own office appliances to increase efficiency.
his fountain pen was made by running a hose from a barrel of ink and with it he could "daub out a walk" quicker than the recipient of the pay-off could tie the knot in his tussick rope.
one winter johnny left off crossing the "t's" and dotting the "i's" and saved nine barrels of ink.
the lumberjacks accused him of using a split pencil to charge up the tobacco and socks they bought at the wanagan but this was just bunkshanty talk (is this the origin of the classic term "the bunk"?)
for johnny never cheated anyone.
have you ever encountered the mosquito of the north country?
you thought they were pretty well developed animals with keen appetites, didn't you?
then you can appreciate what paul bunyan was up against when he was surrounded by the vast swarms of the giant ancestors of the present race of mosquitoes, getting their first taste of human victims.
the present mosquito is but a degenerate remnant of the species.
now they rarely weigh more than a pound or measure more than fourteen or fifteen inches from tip to tip.
paul had to keep his men and oxen in the camps with doors and windows barred.
men armed with pikepoles and axes fought off the insects that tore the shakes off the roof in their efforts to gain entrance.
the big buck mosquitoes fought among themselves and trampled down the weaker members of the swarm and to this alone paul bunyan and his crew owe their lives.
paul determined to conquer the mosquitoes before another season arrived.
he thought of the big bumble bees back home and sent for several yoke of them.
these, he hoped would destroy the mosquitoes.
sourdough sam brought out two pair of bees, overland on foot.
there was no other way to travel for the flight of the beasts could not be controlled.
their wings were strapped with surcingles, they checked their stingers with sam and walking shoes were provided for them.
sam brought them through without losing a bee.
the cure was worse than the original trouble.
the mosquitoes and the bees made a hit with each other.
they soon intermarried and their off-spring, as often happens, were worse than their parents.
they had stingers fore-and-aft and could get you coming or going.
their bee blood caused their downfall in the long run.
their craving for sweets could only be satisfied by sugar and molasses in large quantities, for what is a flower to an insect with a ten-gallon stomach?
one day the whole tribe flew across lake superior to attack a fleet of ships bringing sugar to paul's camps.
they destroyed the ships but ate so much sugar they could not fly and all were drowned.
one pair of the original bees were kept at headquarters camp and provided honey for the pancakes for many years.
if paul bunyan did not invent geography be created a lot of it.
the great lakes were first constructed to provide a water hole for babe the big blue ox.
just what year his work was done is not known but they were in use prior to the year of the two winters.
the winter paul bunyan logged off north dakota he hauled water for his ice roads from the great lakes.
one day when brimstone bill had babe hitched to one of the old water tanks and was making his early morning trip, the tank sprung a leak when they were half way across minnesota.
bill saved himself from drowning by climbing babe's tail but all efforts to patch up the tank were in vain so the old tank was abandoned and replaced by one of the new ones.
this was the beginning of the mississippi river and the truth of this is established by the fact that the old mississippi is still flowing.
the cooks in paul's camps used a lot of water and to make things handy, they used to dig wells near the cook shanty.
at headquarters on the big auger, on top of the hill near the mouth of the little gimlet, paul dug a well so deep that it took all day for the bucket to fall to the water, and a week to haul it up.
they had to run so many buckets that the well was forty feet in diameter.
it was shored up with tamarac poles and when the camp was abandoned paul pulled up this cribbing.
travelers who have visited the spot say that the sand has blown away until 178 feet of the well is sticking up into the air, forming a striking landmark.
the winter of the deep snow everything was buried.
paul had to dig down to find the tops of the tallest white pines.
he had the snow dug away around them and lowered his sawyers down to the base of the trees.
when the tree was cut off he hauled it to the surface with a long parbuckle chain to which babe, mounted on snowshoes, was hitched.
it was impossible to get enough stove pipe to reach to the top of the snow, so paul had big ole make stovepipe by boring out logs with a long six-inch auger.
the year of the two winters they had winter all summer and then in the fall it turned colder.
one day big joe set the boiling coffeepot on the stove and it froze so quick that the ice was hot.
that was right after paul had built the great lakes and that winter they froze clear to the bottom.
they never would have thawed out if paul had not chopped out the ice and hauled it out on shore for the sun to melt.
he finally got all the ice thawed but he had to put in all new fish.
the next spring was the year the rain came up from china.
it rained so hard and so long that the grass was all washed out by the roots and paul had a great time feeding his cattle.
babe had to learn to eat pancakes like benny.
that was the time paul used the straw hats for an emergency ration.
when paul's drive came down, folks in the settlements were astonished to see all the river-pigs wearing huge straw hats.
the reason for this was soon apparent.
when the fodder ran out every man was politely requested to toss his hat into the ring.
hundreds of straw hats were used to make a lunch for babe.
when paul bunyan took up efficiency engineering he went at the the job with all his customary thoroughness.
he did not fool around clocking the crew with a stop watch, counting motions and deducting the ones used for borrowing chews, going for drinks, dodging the boss and preparing for quitting time.
he decided to cut out labor altogether.
"what's the use," said paul, "of all this sawing, swamping, skidding, decking, grading and icing roads, loading, hauling and landing?
the object of the game is to get the trees to the landing, ain't it?
well, why not do it and get it off your mind?"
so he hitched babe to a section of land and snaked in the whole 640 acres at one drag.
at the landing the trees were cut off just like shearing a sheep and the denuded section hauled back to its original place.
this simplified matters and made the work a lot easier.
six trips a day, six days a week just cleaned up a township for section 37 was never hauled back to the woods on saturday night but was left on the landing to wash away in the early spring when the drive went out,
documentary evidence of the truth of this is offered by the united states government surveys.
look at any map that shows the land subdivisions and you will never find a township with more than thirty-six sections.
the foregoing statement, previously published, has caused some controversy.
mr. t. s. sowell of miami, florida wrote to us citing the townships in his state that have sections numbered 37 to 40. he said that the government survey had been complicated by the old spanish land grants.
we put the matter up to paul bunyan and from his camp near westwood came this reply:
red river advertising department.
dear sir: yes sir, i remember those sections and a lot of bother they made me too.
one winter when i was starting the white pine business and snaking sections down to the atlantic ocean, a man from florida came along and ordered a bunch of sections delivered down to his place.
he wanted to see if he could grow the same kind of white pine down there.
i yarded out a nice bunch of sections and next summer when my drive was in and i wasn't busy i took a crew of canada boys and mainites and poled them down the coast.
when i come to collect they said this man was gone looking for a fountain of youth or some fool thing.
i don't know what luck he had with his white pine ranch.
i never seen them again.
i had a lot of other things to tend to and clean forgot it till you sent me mr. sowell's letter.
maybe that man was a spaniard i don't know.
yours respectively,   p. bunyan.
from 1917 to 1920 paul bunyan was busy toting the supplies and building camps for a bunch of husky young fellow-americans who had a contract on the other side of the atlantic, showing a certain prominent european (who is now logging in holland) how they log in the united states.
after his service overseas with the a. e. f., paul couldn't get back to the states quick enough.
airplanes were too slow so paul embarked in his bark canoe, the one he used on the big onion the year he drove logs upstream.
when he threw the old paddle into high he sure rambled and the sea was covered with dead fish that broke their backs trying to watch him coming and going.
as he shoved off from france, paul sent a wireless to new york but passed the statue of liberty three lengths ahead of the message.
from new york to westwood he traveled on skis.
when the home folks asked him if the allegheney mountains and the rockies had bothered him, paul replied, "i didn't notice any mountains but the trail was a little bumpy in a couple of spots."
in the forests of the red river lumber company paul bunyan can cut his lumber for many future years in the region where nature found conditions exactly suited to the growth of pine of the finest texture and largest size.
early in the closing decade of the nineteenth century the red river people took a long look into the future.
foreseeing the exhaustion of their minnesota white pine, which came a quarter of a century later, they set out to find the pine that would take its place.
their search covered several years and reached all the important stands in the western states.
this was well in advance of the westward movement of the industry and red river had the pioneer's opportunity for choice and rejection.
sugar pine, "cork pine's big brother," is botanically and physically true white pine, with all the family virtues.
it is the largest of all pines.
california pine is the trade name for pinus ponderosa or western yellow pine from certain regions where conditions of growth have so modified the nature of the wood that it is more like white pine than it is like its botanical brothers that grow elsewhere.
some say this change is due to volcanic soil.
whatever the cause, california pine from red river's forest is exceptionally light, brightly colored, soft and even textured and second only to sugar pine in size.
red river "paul bunyan's" california pine and sugar pine meet the strict requirements of trades that have made white pine their standard.
where freedom from distortion is essential, as for example piano actions, organ pipes, foundry patterns and the best sash and doors, red river pines are used.
they finish economically with paints, stains and enamels and are highly valued as cores for fine hardwood veneers.
they work easily, smoothly and cleanly with edged tools and do not nail-split.
the durability of these california pines is shown by their sound condition in california buildings that have stood for generations, many of them in regions where climatic conditions are more conducive to decay than in the middle western and eastern states.
paul bunyan tackled a real problem when he came to westwood.
the site of the mill and town was unbroken forest in 1913, sixty mountainous miles from the nearest railroad.
trails were graded into passable roads and materials and machinery were freighted in.
when the railroad arrived in 1914 the first mill was in operation and the town well under construction.
town and plant had been detailed on the drafting boards in minneapolis.
sanitary sewers, water system, electric lights and telephones were extended as the forest was cleared and westwood, with a population of 5,000, enjoys all the facilities of a modern american community.
the electrically operated sawmill has an annual capacity of 250 million board feet.
dry kilns, one of the largest plywood factories in the country, sash and door factory and re-manufacturing departments round out production of a complete line of lumber products.
red river operates its own logging railroad, 20 miles of which are electrified, hydro-electric plants and the foundry and machine shops, where many units of the logging and plant machinery are designed and built.
back in the early days, when his camps were so far from any where that the wolves following the tote-teams got lost in the woods, paul bunyan made no attempt to keep in touch with the trade.
what's the use when every letter that comes in is about things that happened the year before?
since he came to westwood paul has renewed old friendships, formed new ones and kept close contact with the world.
everyone expects great things of paul bunyan and with the red river outfit back of him he has the chance of his life to make good.
continuous production keeps a full assortment of stock on hand.
customers in all parts of america find westwood a dependable source of supply.
here is an instance.
this old friend of paul's a prominent furniture manufacturer in the lake states, was disappointed because an item he wanted for immediate shipment was not in stock in the grade and thickness required.
he wrote the letter shown below and was given an explanation of the facts in the case in the accompanying reply.
paul bunyan makes plywood
paul bunyan says that making plywood reminds him of the way mrs. bunyan made pies during the hard times of pioneer days.
she would take pancakes, spread molasses between and sew around the edges with yarn.
plywood panels differ from other wall coverings in that the natural texture of the wood is not altered.
while the lathe-cut sheets are thin, they are solid wood with the cell structure just the same as it grew in the tree.
in making plywood the inside sheets are placed crossgrained with the face sheets.
these sheets are then united with a glue bond that is stronger than the wood itself.
this cross-grained construction prevents splitting and produces a panel much stronger than solid wood of the same thickness.
paul bunyan's california pines give red river plywood's a distinctive character.
they carry the qualities that have given "old-fashioned white pine" its long-established preference by craftsmen and builders.
the soft, even texture takes up paints, stains and enamels economically and gives a fine finish, unmarred by checking and "grainraising" when properly handled.
red river construction embodies special features in the process of re-drying and in cutting for straight grain.
the latest and best developments in the manufacture of glues and in their scientific application are utilized.
painstaking workmanship and careful inspection and grading make red river plywood's outstanding in quality.
plywood panels have revolutionized the use of wood in building and in industry.
from the growing list of industrial uses we might note the following as typical: trunks, concrete forms, furniture backs, drawer bottoms and cores for fine hardwood veneers; cabinets, car bodies, boxes, table and counter tops, door panels, signs, toys and ship bulkheads.
builders use plywood panels for interior walls and ceilings and for insulation, sub-floors, sheathing, shelving, cupboards and built-in units.
the richness of wood-paneled rooms can now be enjoyed at a cost that compares favorably with other wall coverings.
the paneled interiors do not go out of style or require redecoration.
they are not damaged by water or shock and ordinary breakage.
they do not crack or peel.
christmas every day and other stories
[page 130.]
christmas every day and other stories told for children
by w. d. howells
new york and london harper & brothers publishers
copyright, 1892, by w. d. howells.
all rights reserved.
contents
christmas every day                                                    3
turkeys turning the tables                                            25
the pony engine and the pacific express                               51
the pumpkin-glory                                                     71
butterflyflutterby and flutterbybutterfly                            111
illustrations
page
"having bonfires in the back yard of the palace"          frontispiece
"the old gobbler 'first premium' said they were going to turn the tables now"                                                 35
two little pumpkin seeds                                            75
took the first premium at the county fair                           83
"'here's that little fool pumpkin,' said the farmer"                85
"caught his trousers on a shingle-nail, and stuck"                  93
"'my sakes!
it's comin' to life!'"
103
tail-piece                                                         107
"'fix dusters!
make ready!
aim!
dust!'"
121
"the general-in-chief used to go behind the church and cry"                                                                125
"the young khan and khant entered the kingdom with a magnificent retinue"                                                131
"she was going to take the case into her own hands"                135
"the imam put his head to the floor"                               139
"they began to scream, 'oh, the cow!
the cow!'"
143
christmas every day.
the little girl came into her papa's study, as she always did saturday morning before breakfast, and asked for a story.
he tried to beg off that morning, for he was very busy, but she would not let him.
so he began:
"well, once there was a little pig "
she put her hand over his mouth and stopped him at the word.
she said she had heard little pig-stories till she was perfectly sick of them.
"well, what kind of story shall i tell, then?"
"about christmas.
it's getting to be the season.
it's past thanksgiving already."
"it seems to me," her papa argued, "that i've told as often about christmas as i have about little pigs."
"no difference!
christmas is more interesting."
"well!"
her papa roused himself from his writing by a great effort.
"well, then, i'll tell you about the little girl that wanted it christmas every day in the year.
how would you like that?"
"first-rate!"
said the little girl; and she nestled into comfortable shape in his lap, ready for listening.
"very well, then, this little pig oh, what are you pounding me for?"
"because you said little pig instead of little girl."
"i should like to know what's the difference between a little pig and a little girl that wanted it christmas every day!"
"papa," said the little girl, warningly, "if you don't go on, i'll give it to you!"
and at this her papa darted off like lightning, and began to tell the story as fast as he could.
well, once there was a little girl who liked christmas so much that   she wanted it to be christmas every day in the year; and as soon as   thanksgiving was over she began to send postal-cards to the old   christmas fairy to ask if she mightn't have it.
but the old fairy   never answered any of the postals; and after a while the little girl   found out that the fairy was pretty particular, and wouldn't notice   anything but letters not even correspondence cards in envelopes; but   real letters on sheets of paper, and sealed outside with a   monogram or your initial, anyway.
so, then, she began to send her   letters; and in about three weeks or just the day before christmas,   it was she got a letter from the fairy, saying she might have it   christmas every day for a year, and then they would see about having   it longer.
the little girl was a good deal excited already, preparing for the   old-fashioned, once-a-year christmas that was coming the next day, and   perhaps the fairy's promise didn't make such an impression on her as   it would have made at some other time.
she just resolved to keep it to   herself, and surprise everybody with it as it kept coming true; and   then it slipped out of her mind altogether.
she had a splendid christmas.
she went to bed early, so as to let   santa claus have a chance at the stockings, and in the morning she was   up the first of anybody and went and felt them, and found hers all   lumpy with packages of candy, and oranges and grapes, and pocket-books   and rubber balls, and all kinds of small presents, and her big   brother's with nothing but the tongs in them, and her young lady   sister's with a new silk umbrella, and her papa's and mamma's with   potatoes and pieces of coal wrapped up in tissue-paper, just as they   always had every christmas.
then she waited around till the rest of   the family were up, and she was the first to burst into the library,   when the doors were opened, and look at the large presents laid out on   the library-table books, and portfolios, and boxes of stationery, and   breastpins, and dolls, and little stoves, and dozens of handkerchiefs,   and ink-stands, and skates, and snow-shovels, and photograph-frames,   and little easels, and boxes of water-colors, and turkish paste, and   nougat, and candied cherries, and dolls' houses, and waterproofs and   the big christmas-tree, lighted and standing in a waste-basket in the   middle.
she had a splendid christmas all day.
she ate so much candy that she   did not want any breakfast; and the whole forenoon the presents kept   pouring in that the expressman had not had time to deliver the night   before; and she went round giving the presents she had got for other   people, and came home and ate turkey and cranberry for dinner, and   plum-pudding and nuts and raisins and oranges and more candy, and then   went out and coasted, and came in with a stomach-ache, crying; and her   papa said he would see if his house was turned into that sort of   fool's paradise another year; and they had a light supper, and pretty   early everybody went to bed cross.
here the little girl pounded her papa in the back, again.
"well, what now?
did i say pigs?"
"you made them act like pigs."
"well, didn't they?"
"no matter; you oughtn't to put it into a story."
"very well, then, i'll take it all out."
her father went on:
the little girl slept very heavily, and she slept very late, but she   was wakened at last by the other children dancing round her bed with   their stockings full of presents in their hands.
"what is it?"
said the little girl, and she rubbed her eyes and tried   to rise up in bed.
"christmas!
christmas!
christmas!"
they all shouted, and waved their   stockings.
"nonsense!
it was christmas yesterday."
her brothers and sisters just laughed.
"we don't know about that.
it's   christmas to-day, anyway.
you come into the library and see."
then all at once it flashed on the little girl that the fairy was   keeping her promise, and her year of christmases was beginning.
she   was dreadfully sleepy, but she sprang up like a lark a lark that had   overeaten itself and gone to bed cross and darted into the library.
there it was again!
books, and portfolios, and boxes of stationery,   and breastpins
"you needn't go over it all, papa; i guess i can remember just what was there," said the little girl.
well, and there was the christmas-tree blazing away, and the family   picking out their presents, but looking pretty sleepy, and her father   perfectly puzzled, and her mother ready to cry.
"i'm sure i don't see   how i'm to dispose of all these things," said her mother, and her   father said it seemed to him they had had something just like it the   day before, but he supposed he must have dreamed it.
this struck the   little girl as the best kind of a joke; and so she ate so much candy   she didn't want any breakfast, and went round carrying presents, and   had turkey and cranberry for dinner, and then went out and coasted,   and came in with a
"papa!"
"well, what now?"
"what did you promise, you forgetful thing?"
"oh!
oh yes!"
well, the next day, it was just the same thing over again, but   everybody getting crosser; and at the end of a week's time so many   people had lost their tempers that you could pick up lost tempers   anywhere; they perfectly strewed the ground.
even when people tried to   recover their tempers they usually got somebody else's, and it made   the most dreadful mix.
the little girl began to get frightened, keeping the secret all to   herself; she wanted to tell her mother, but she didn't dare to; and   she was ashamed to ask the fairy to take back her gift, it seemed   ungrateful and ill-bred, and she thought she would try to stand it,   but she hardly knew how she could, for a whole year.
so it went on and   on, and it was christmas on st. valentine's day and washington's   birthday, just the same as any day, and it didn't skip even the first   of april, though everything was counterfeit that day, and that was   some little relief.
after a while coal and potatoes began to be awfully scarce, so many   had been wrapped up in tissue-paper to fool papas and mammas with.
turkeys got to be about a thousand dollars apiece
"papa!"
"well, what?"
"you're beginning to fib."
"well, two thousand, then."
and they got to passing off almost anything for turkeys half-grown   humming-birds, and even rocs out of the arabian nights the real   turkeys were so scarce.
and cranberries well, they asked a diamond   apiece for cranberries.
all the woods and orchards were cut down for   christmas-trees, and where the woods and orchards used to be it   looked just like a stubble-field, with the stumps.
after a while they   had to make christmas-trees out of rags, and stuff them with bran,   like old-fashioned dolls; but there were plenty of rags, because   people got so poor, buying presents for one another, that they   couldn't get any new clothes, and they just wore their old ones to   tatters.
they got so poor that everybody had to go to the poor-house,   except the confectioners, and the fancy-store keepers, and the   picture-book sellers, and the expressmen; and they all got so rich   and proud that they would hardly wait upon a person when he came to   buy.
it was perfectly shameful!
well, after it had gone on about three or four months, the little   girl, whenever she came into the room in the morning and saw those   great ugly, lumpy stockings dangling at the fire-place, and the   disgusting presents around everywhere, used to just sit down and   burst out crying.
in six months she was perfectly exhausted; she   couldn't even cry any more; she just lay on the lounge and rolled her   eyes and panted.
about the beginning of october she took to sitting   down on dolls wherever she found them french dolls, or any kind she   hated the sight of them so; and by thanksgiving she was crazy, and   just slammed her presents across the room.
by that time people didn't carry presents around nicely any more.
they   flung them over the fence, or through the window, or anything; and,   instead of running their tongues out and taking great pains to write   "for dear papa," or "mamma," or "brother," or "sister," or "susie," or   "sammie," or "billie," or "bobbie," or "jimmie," or "jennie," or   whoever it was, and troubling to get the spelling right, and then   signing their names, and "xmas, 18 ," they used to write in the   gift-books, "take it, you horrid old thing!"
and then go and bang it   against the front door.
nearly everybody had built barns to hold their   presents, but pretty soon the barns overflowed, and then they used to   let them lie out in the rain, or anywhere.
sometimes the police used   to come and tell them to shovel their presents off the sidewalk, or   they would arrest them.
"i thought you said everybody had gone to the poor-house," interrupted the little girl.
"they did go, at first," said her papa; "but after a while the poor-houses got so full that they had to send the people back to their own houses.
they tried to cry, when they got back, but they couldn't make the least sound."
"why couldn't they?"
"because they had lost their voices, saying 'merry christmas' so much.
did i tell you how it was on the fourth of july?"
"no; how was it?"
and the little girl nestled closer, in expectation of something uncommon.
well, the night before, the boys stayed up to celebrate, as they   always do, and fell asleep before twelve o'clock, as usual, expecting   to be wakened by the bells and cannon.
but it was nearly eight o'clock   before the first boy in the united states woke up, and then he found   out what the trouble was.
as soon as he could get his clothes on he   ran out of the house and smashed a big cannon-torpedo down on the   pavement; but it didn't make any more noise than a damp wad of paper;   and after he tried about twenty or thirty more, he began to pick them   up and look at them.
every single torpedo was a big raisin!
then he   just streaked it up-stairs, and examined his fire-crackers and   toy-pistol and two-dollar collection of fireworks, and found that they   were nothing but sugar and candy painted up to look like fireworks!
before ten o'clock every boy in the united states found out that his   fourth of july things had turned into christmas things; and then they   just sat down and cried they were so mad.
there are about twenty   million boys in the united states, and so you can imagine what a noise   they made.
some men got together before night, with a little powder   that hadn't turned into purple sugar yet, and they said they would   fire off one cannon, anyway.
but the cannon burst into a thousand   pieces, for it was nothing but rock-candy, and some of the men nearly   got killed.
the fourth of july orations all turned into christmas   carols, and when anybody tried to read the declaration, instead of   saying, "when in the course of human events it becomes necessary," he   was sure to sing, "god rest you, merry gentlemen."
it was perfectly   awful.
the little girl drew a deep sigh of satisfaction.
"and how was it at thanksgiving?"
her papa hesitated.
"well, i'm almost afraid to tell you.
i'm afraid you'll think it's wicked."
"well, tell, anyway," said the little girl.
well, before it came thanksgiving it had leaked out who had caused all   these christmases.
the little girl had suffered so much that she had   talked about it in her sleep; and after that hardly anybody would play   with her.
people just perfectly despised her, because if it had not   been for her greediness it wouldn't have happened; and now, when it   came thanksgiving, and she wanted them to go to church, and have   squash-pie and turkey, and show their gratitude, they said that all   the turkeys had been eaten up for her old christmas dinners, and if   she would stop the christmases, they would see about the gratitude.
wasn't it dreadful?
and the very next day the little girl began to   send letters to the christmas fairy, and then telegrams, to stop it.
but it didn't do any good; and then she got to calling at the fairy's   house, but the girl that came to the door always said, "not at home,"
or "engaged," or "at dinner," or something like that; and so it went   on till it came to the old once-a-year christmas eve.
the little girl   fell asleep, and when she woke up in the morning
"she found it was all nothing but a dream," suggested the little girl.
"no, indeed!"
said her papa.
"it was all every bit true!"
"well, what did she find out, then?"
"why, that it wasn't christmas at last, and wasn't ever going to be, any more.
now it's time for breakfast."
the little girl held her papa fast around the neck.
"you sha'n't go if you're going to leave it so!"
"how do you want it left?"
"christmas once a year."
"all right," said her papa; and he went on again.
well, there was the greatest rejoicing all over the country, and it   extended clear up into canada.
the people met together everywhere, and   kissed and cried for joy.
the city carts went around and gathered up   all the candy and raisins and nuts, and dumped them into the river;   and it made the fish perfectly sick; and the whole united states, as   far out as alaska, was one blaze of bonfires, where the children were   burning up their gift-books and presents of all kinds.
they had the   greatest time!
the little girl went to thank the old fairy because she had stopped   its being christmas, and she said she hoped she would keep her promise   and see that christmas never, never came again.
then the fairy   frowned, and asked her if she was sure she knew what she meant; and   the little girl asked her, why not?
and the old fairy said that now   she was behaving just as greedily as ever, and she'd better look out.
this made the little girl think it all over carefully again, and she   said she would be willing to have it christmas about once in a   thousand years; and then she said a hundred, and then she said ten,   and at last she got down to one.
then the fairy said that was the good   old way that had pleased people ever since christmas began, and she   was agreed.
then the little girl said, "what're your shoes made of?"
and the fairy said, "leather."
and the little girl said, "bargain's   done forever," and skipped off, and hippity-hopped the whole way home,   she was so glad.
"how will that do?"
asked the papa.
"first-rate!"
said the little girl; but she hated to have the story stop, and was rather sober.
however, her mamma put her head in at the door, and asked her papa:
"are you never coming to breakfast?
what have you been telling that child?"
"oh, just a moral tale."
the little girl caught him around the neck again.
"we know!
don't you tell what, papa!
don't you tell what!"
turkeys turning the tables.
"well, you see," the papa began, on christmas morning, when the little girl had snuggled in his lap into just the right shape for listening, "it was the night after thanksgiving, and you know how everybody feels the night after thanksgiving."
"yes; but you needn't begin that way, papa," said the little girl; "i'm not going to have any moral to it this time."
"no, indeed!
but it can be a true story, can't it?"
"i don't know," said the little girl; "i like made-up ones."
"well, this is going to be a true one, anyway, and it's no use talking."
all the relations in the neighborhood had come to dinner, and then   gone back to their own houses, but some of the relations had come from   a distance, and these had to stay all night at the grandfather's.
but   whether they went or whether they stayed, they all told the   grandmother that they did believe it was the best thanksgiving dinner   they had ever eaten in their born days.
they had had cranberry sauce,   and they'd had mashed potato, and they'd had mince-pie and pandowdy,   and they'd had celery, and they'd had hubbard squash, and they'd had   tea and coffee both, and they'd had apple-dumpling with hard sauce,   and they'd had hot biscuit and sweet pickle, and mangoes, and frosted   cake, and nuts, and cauliflower
"don't mix them all up so!"
pleaded the little girl.
"it's perfectly confusing.
i can't hardly tell what they had now."
"well, they mixed them up just in the same way, and i suppose that's one of the reasons why it happened."
whenever a child wanted to go back from dumpling and frosted cake to   mashed potato and hubbard squash they were old-fashioned kind of   people, and they had everything on the table at once, because the   grandmother and the aunties cooked it, and they couldn't keep jumping   up all the time to change the plates and its mother said it   shouldn't, its grandmother said, indeed it should, then, and helped it   herself; and the child's father would say, well, he guessed he would   go back, too, for a change; and the child's mother would say, she   should think he would be ashamed; and then they would get to going   back, till everything was perfectly higgledy-piggledy.
"oh, shouldn't you like to have been there, papa?"
sighed the little girl.
"you mustn't interrupt.
where was i?"
"higgledy-piggledy."
"oh yes!"
well, but the greatest thing of all was the turkey that they had.
it   was a gobbler, i tell you, that was nearly as big as a giraffe.
"papa!"
it took the premium at the county fair, and when it was dressed it   weighed fifteen pounds well, maybe twenty and it was so heavy that   the grandmothers and the aunties couldn't put it on the table, and   they had to get one of the papas to do it.
you ought to have heard the   hurrahing when the children saw him coming in from the kitchen with   it.
it seemed as if they couldn't hardly talk of anything but that   turkey the whole dinner-time.
the grandfather hated to carve, and so one of the papas did it; and   whenever he gave anybody a piece, the grandfather would tell some new   story about the turkey, till pretty soon the aunties got to saying,   "now, father, stop!"
and one of them said it made it seem as if the   gobbler was walking about on the table, to hear so much about him, and   it took her appetite all away; and that made the papas begin to ask   the grandfather more and more about the turkey.
"yes," said the little girl, thoughtfully; "i know what papas are."
"yes, they're pretty much all alike."
and the mammas began to say they acted like a lot of silly boys; and   what would the children think?
but nothing could stop it; and all   through the afternoon and evening, whenever the papas saw any of the   aunties or mammas round, they would begin to ask the grandfather more   particulars about the turkey.
the grandfather was pretty forgetful,   and he told the same things right over.
well, and so it went on till   it came bedtime, and then the mammas and aunties began to laugh and   whisper together, and to say they did believe they should dream about   that turkey; and when the papas kissed the grandmother good-night,   they said, well, they must have his mate for christmas; and then they   put their arms round the mammas and went out haw-hawing.
"i don't think they behaved very dignified," said the little girl.
"well, you see, they were just funning, and had got going, and it was thanksgiving, anyway."
well, in about half an hour everybody was fast asleep and dreaming
"is it going to be a dream?"
asked the little girl, with some reluctance.
"didn't i say it was going to be a true story?"
"yes."
"how can it be a dream, then?"
"you said everybody was fast asleep and dreaming."
"well, but i hadn't got through.
everybody except one little girl."
"now, papa!"
"what?"
"don't you go and say her name was the same as mine, and her eyes the same color."
"what an idea!"
this was a very good little girl, and very respectful to her papa,   and didn't suspect him of tricks, but just believed everything he   said.
and she was a very pretty little girl, and had red eyes, and   blue cheeks, and straight hair, and a curly nose
"now, papa, if you get to cutting up "
"well, i won't, then!"
well, she was rather a delicate little girl, and whenever she   over-ate, or anything,
"have bad dreams!
aha!
i told you it was going to be a dream."
"you wait till i get through."
she was apt to lie awake thinking, and some of her thinks were pretty   dismal.
well, that night, instead of thinking and tossing and turning,   and counting a thousand, it seemed to this other little girl that she   began to see things as soon as she had got warm in bed, and before,   even.
and the first thing she saw was a large,  bronze-colored
"turkey gobbler!"
"no, ma'am.
turkey gobbler's ghost."
"foo!"
said the little girl, rather uneasily; "whoever heard of a turkey's ghost, i should like to know?"
"never mind, that," said the papa.
"if it hadn't been a ghost, could the moonlight have shone through it?
no, indeed!
the stuffing wouldn't have let it.
so you see it must have been a ghost."
it had a red pasteboard placard round its neck, with first premium   printed on it, and so she knew that it was the ghost of the very   turkey they had had for dinner.
it was perfectly awful when it put up   its tail, and dropped its wings, and strutted just the way the   grandfather said it used to do.
it seemed to be in a wide pasture,   like that back of the house, and the children had to cross it to get   home, and they were all afraid of the turkey that kept gobbling at   them and threatening them, because they had eaten him up.
at last one   of the boys it was the other little girl's brother said he would   run across and get his papa to come out and help them, and the first   thing she knew the turkey was after him, gaining, gaining, gaining,   and all the grass was full of hen-turkeys and turkey chicks, running   after him, and gaining, gaining, gaining, and just as he was getting   to the wall he tripped and fell over a turkey-pen, and all at once she   was in one of the aunties' room, and the aunty was in bed, and the   turkeys were walking up and down over her, and stretching out their   wings, and blaming her.
two of them carried a platter of chicken pie,   and there was a large pumpkin jack-o'-lantern hanging to the bedpost   to light the room, and it looked just like the other little girl's   brother in the face, only perfectly ridiculous.
then the old gobbler, first premium, clapped his wings, and said,   "come on, chick-chickledren!"
and then they all seemed to be in her   room, and she was standing in the middle of it in her night-gown,   and tied round and round with ribbons, so she couldn't move hand or   foot.
the old gobbler, first premium, said they were going to turn the   tables now, and she knew what he meant, for they had had that in the   reader at school just before vacation, and the teacher had explained   it.
he made a long speech, with his hat on, and kept pointing at her   with one of his wings, while he told the other turkeys that it was her   grandfather who had done it, and now it was their turn.
he said that   human beings had been eating turkeys ever since the discovery of   america, and it was time for the turkeys to begin paying them back, if   they were ever going to.
he said she was pretty young, but she was as   big as he was, and he had no doubt they would enjoy her.
the other little girl tried to tell him that she was not to blame, and   that she only took a very, very little piece.
"but it was right off the breast," said the gobbler, and he shed   tears, so that the other little girl cried, too.
she didn't have much   hopes, they all seemed so spiteful, especially the little turkey   chicks; but she told them that she was very tender-hearted, and never   hurt a single thing, and she tried to make them understand that there   was a great difference between eating people and just eating turkeys.
"what difference, i should like to know?"
says the old hen-turkey,   pretty snappishly.
"people have got souls, and turkeys haven't," says the other little   girl.
"i don't see how that makes it any better," says the old hen-turkey.
"it don't make it any better for the turkeys.
if we haven't got any   souls, we can't live after we've been eaten up, and you can."
the other little girl was awfully frightened to have the hen-turkey   take that tack.
"i should think she would 'a' been," said the little girl; and she cuddled snugger into her papa's arms.
"what could she say?
ugh!
go on."
well, she didn't know what to say, that's a fact.
you see, she never   thought of it in that light before.
all she could say was, "well,   people have got reason, anyway, and turkeys have only got instinct; so   there!"
"you'd better look out," says the old hen-turkey; and all the little   turkey chicks got so mad they just hopped, and the oldest little   he-turkey, that was just beginning to be a gobbler, he dropped his   wings and spread his tail just like his father, and walked round the   other little girl till it was perfectly frightful.
"i should think they would 'a' been ashamed."
well, perhaps old first premium was a little; because he stopped   them.
"my dear," he says to the old hen-turkey, and chick-chickledren,   "you forget yourselves; you should have a little consideration.
perhaps you wouldn't behave much better yourselves if you were just   going to be eaten."
and they all began to scream and to cry, "we've been eaten, and   we're nothing but turkey ghosts."
"there, now, papa," says the little girl, sitting up straight, so as to argue better, "i knew it wasn't true, all along.
how could turkeys have ghosts if they don't have souls, i should like to know?"
"oh, easily," said the papa.
"tell how," said the little girl.
"now look here," said the papa, "are you telling this story, or am i?"
"you are," said the little girl, and she cuddled down again.
"go on."
"well, then, don't you interrupt.
where was i?
oh yes."
well, he couldn't do anything with them, old first premium couldn't.
they acted perfectly ridiculous, and one little brat of a spiteful   little chick piped out, "i speak for a drumstick, ma!"
and then they   all began: "i want a wing, ma!"
and "i'm going to have the wish-bone!"
and "i shall have just as much stuffing as ever i please, shan't i,   ma?"
till the other little girl was perfectly disgusted with them; she   thought they oughtn't to say it before her, anyway; but she had hardly   thought this before they all screamed out, "they used to say it before   us," and then she didn't know what to say, because she knew how   people talked before animals.
"i don't believe i ever did," said the little girl.
"go on."
well, old first premium tried to quiet them again, and when he   couldn't he apologized to the other little girl so nicely that she   began to like him.
he said they didn't mean any harm by it; they were   just excited, and chickledren would be chickledren.
"yes," said the other little girl, "but i think you might take some   older person to begin with.
it's a perfect shame to begin with a   little girl."
"begin!"
says old first premium.
"do you think we're just beginning?
why, when do you think it is?"
"the night after thanksgiving."
"what year?"
"1886."
they all gave a perfect screech.
"why, it's christmas eve, 1900, and   every one of your friends has been eaten up long ago," says old first   premium, and he began to cry over her, and the old hen-turkey and the   little turkey chicks began to wipe their eyes on the backs of their   wings.
"i don't think they were very neat," said the little girl.
well, they were kind-hearted, anyway, and they felt sorry for the other little girl.
and she began to think she had made some little impression on them, when she noticed the old hen-turkey beginning to untie her bonnet strings, and the turkey chicks began to spread round her in a circle, with the points of their wings touching, so that she couldn't get out, and they commenced dancing and singing, and after a while that little he-turkey says, "who's it?"
and the other little girl, she didn't know why, says, "i'm it," and old first premium says, "do you promise?"
and the other little girl says, "yes, i promise," and she knew she was promising, if they would let her go, that people should never eat turkeys any more.
and the moon began to shine brighter and brighter through the turkeys, and pretty soon it was the sun, and then it was not the turkeys, but the window-curtains it was one of those old farm-houses where they don't have blinds and the other little girl
"woke up!"
shouted the little girl.
"there now, papa, what did i tell you?
i knew it was a dream all along."
"no, she didn't," said the papa; "and it wasn't a dream."
"what was it, then?"
"it was a trance."
the little girl turned round, and knelt in her papa's lap, so as to take him by the shoulders and give him a good shaking.
that made him promise to be good, pretty quick, and, "very well, then," says the little girl; "if it wasn't a dream, you've got to prove it."
"but how can i prove it?"
says the papa.
"by going on with the story," says the little girl, and she cuddled down again.
"oh, well, that's easy enough."
as soon as it was light in the room, the other little girl could see   that the place was full of people, crammed and jammed, and they were   all awfully excited, and kept yelling, "down with the traitress!"
"away with the renegade!"
"shame on the little sneak!"
till it was   worse than the turkeys, ten times.
she knew that they meant her, and she tried to explain that she just   had to promise, and that if they had been in her place they would   have promised too; and of course they could do as they pleased about   keeping her word, but she was going to keep it, anyway, and never,   never, never eat another piece of turkey either at thanksgiving or at   christmas.
"very well, then," says an old lady, who looked like her grandmother,   and then began to have a crown on, and to turn into queen victoria,   "what can we have?"
"well," says the other little girl, "you can have oyster soup."
"what else?"
"and you can have cranberry sauce."
"what else?"
"you can have mashed potatoes, and hubbard squash, and celery, and   turnip, and cauliflower."
"what else?"
"you can have mince-pie, and pandowdy, and plum-pudding."
"and not a thing on the list," says the queen, "that doesn't go with   turkey!
now you see."
the papa stopped.
"go on," said the little girl.
"there isn't any more."
the little girl turned round, got up on her knees, took him by the shoulders, and shook him fearfully.
"now, then," she said, while the papa let his head wag, after the shaking, like a chinese mandarin's, and it was a good thing he did not let his tongue stick out.
"now, will you go on?
what did the people eat in place of turkey?"
"i don't know."
"you don't know, you awful papa!
well, then, what did the little girl eat?"
"she?"
the papa freed himself, and made his preparation to escape.
"why she oh, she ate goose.
goose is tenderer than turkey, anyway, and more digestible; and there isn't so much of it, and you can't overeat yourself, and have bad "
"dreams!"
cried the little girl.
"trances," said the papa, and she began to chase him all round the room.
the pony engine and the pacific express.
christmas eve, after the children had hung up their stockings and got all ready for st. nic, they climbed up on the papa's lap to kiss him good-night, and when they both got their arms round his neck, they said they were not going to bed till he told them a christmas story.
then he saw that he would have to mind, for they were awfully severe with him, and always made him do exactly what they told him; it was the way they had brought him up.
he tried his best to get out of it for a while; but after they had shaken him first this side, and then that side, and pulled him backward and forward till he did not know where he was, he began to think perhaps he had better begin.
the first thing he said, after he opened his eyes, and made believe he had been asleep, or something, was, "well, what did i leave off at?"
and that made them just perfectly boiling, for they understood his tricks, and they knew he was trying to pretend that he had told part of the story already; and they said he had not left off anywhere because he had not commenced, and he saw it was no use.
so he commenced.
"once there was a little pony engine that used to play round the fitchburg depot on the side tracks, and sleep in among the big locomotives in the car-house "
the little girl lifted her head from the papa's shoulder, where she had dropped it.
"is it a sad story, papa?"
"how is it going to end?"
asked the boy.
"well, it's got a moral," said the papa.
"oh, all right, if it's got a moral," said the children; they had a good deal of fun with the morals the papa put to his stories.
the boy added, "go on," and the little girl prompted, "car-house."
the papa said, "now every time you stop me i shall have to begin all over again."
but he saw that this was not going to spite them any, so he went on: "one of the locomotives was its mother, and she had got hurt once in a big smash-up, so that she couldn't run long trips any more.
she was so weak in the chest you could hear her wheeze as far as you could see her.
but she could work round the depot, and pull empty cars in and out, and shunt them off on the side tracks; and she was so anxious to be useful that all the other engines respected her, and they were very kind to the little pony engine on her account, though it was always getting in the way, and under their wheels, and everything.
they all knew it was an orphan, for before its mother got hurt its father went through a bridge one dark night into an arm of the sea, and was never heard of again; he was supposed to have been drowned.
the old mother locomotive used to say that it would never have happened if she had been there; but poor dear no.
236 was always so venturesome, and she had warned him against that very bridge time and again.
then she would whistle so dolefully, and sigh with her air-brakes enough to make anybody cry.
you see they used to be a very happy family when they were all together, before the papa locomotive got drowned.
he was very fond of the little pony engine, and told it stories at night after they got into the car-house, at the end of some of his long runs.
it would get up on his cow-catcher, and lean its chimney up against his, and listen till it fell asleep.
then he would put it softly down, and be off again in the morning before it was awake.
i tell you, those were happy days for poor no.
236. the little pony engine could just remember him; it was awfully proud of its papa."
the boy lifted his head and looked at the little girl, who suddenly hid her face in the papa's other shoulder.
"well, i declare, papa, she was putting up her lip."
"i wasn't, any such thing!"
said the little girl.
"and i don't care!
so!"
and then she sobbed.
"now, never you mind," said the papa to the boy.
"you'll be putting up your lip before i'm through.
well, and then she used to caution the little pony engine against getting in the way of the big locomotives, and told it to keep close round after her, and try to do all it could to learn about shifting empty cars.
you see, she knew how ambitious the little pony engine was, and how it wasn't contented a bit just to grow up in the pony-engine business, and be tied down to the depot all its days.
once she happened to tell it that if it was good and always did what it was bid, perhaps a cow-catcher would grow on it some day, and then it could be a passenger locomotive.
mammas have to promise all sorts of things, and she was almost distracted when she said that."
"i don't think she ought to have deceived it, papa," said the boy.
"but it ought to have known that if it was a pony engine to begin with, it never could have a cow-catcher."
"couldn't it?"
asked the little girl, gently.
"no; they're kind of mooley."
the little girl asked the papa, "what makes pony engines mooley?"
for she did not choose to be told by her brother; he was only two years older than she was, anyway.
"well; it's pretty hard to say.
you see, when a locomotive is first hatched "
"oh, are they hatched, papa?"
asked the boy.
"well, we'll call it hatched," said the papa; but they knew he was just funning.
"they're about the size of tea-kettles at first; and it's a chance whether they will have cow-catchers or not.
if they keep their spouts, they will; and if their spouts drop off, they won't."
"what makes the spout ever drop off?"
"oh, sometimes the pip, or the gapes "
the children both began to shake the papa, and he was glad enough to go on sensibly.
"well, anyway, the mother locomotive certainly oughtn't to have deceived it.
still she had to say something, and perhaps the little pony engine was better employed watching its buffers with its head-light, to see whether its cow-catcher had begun to grow, than it would have been in listening to the stories of the old locomotives, and sometimes their swearing."
"do they swear, papa?"
asked the little girl, somewhat shocked, and yet pleased.
"well, i never heard them, near by.
but it sounds a good deal like swearing when you hear them on the up-grade on our hill in the night.
where was i?"
"swearing," said the boy.
"and please don't go back, now, papa."
"well, i won't.
it'll be as much as i can do to get through this story, without going over any of it again.
well, the thing that the little pony engine wanted to be, the most in this world, was the locomotive of the pacific express, that starts out every afternoon at three, you know.
it intended to apply for the place as soon as its cow-catcher was grown, and it was always trying to attract the locomotive's attention, backing and filling on the track alongside of the train; and once it raced it a little piece, and beat it, before the express locomotive was under way, and almost got in front of it on a switch.
my, but its mother was scared!
she just yelled to it with her whistle; and that night she sent it to sleep without a particle of coal or water in its tender.
"but the little pony engine didn't care.
it had beaten the pacific express in a hundred yards, and what was to hinder it from beating it as long as it chose?
the little pony engine could not get it out of its head.
it was just like a boy who thinks he can whip a man."
the boy lifted his head.
"well, a boy can, papa, if he goes to do it the right way.
just stoop down before the man knows it, and catch him by the legs and tip him right over."
"ho!
i guess you see yourself!"
said the little girl, scornfully.
"well, i could!"
said the boy; "and some day i'll just show you."
"now, little cock-sparrow, now!"
said the papa; and he laughed.
"well, the little pony engine thought he could beat the pacific express, anyway; and so one dark, snowy, blowy afternoon, when his mother was off pushing some empty coal cars up past the know-nothing crossing beyond charlestown, he got on the track in front of the express, and when he heard the conductor say 'all aboard,' and the starting gong struck, and the brakemen leaned out and waved to the engineer, he darted off like lightning.
he had his steam up, and he just scuttled.
"well, he was so excited for a while that he couldn't tell whether the express was gaining on him or not; but after twenty or thirty miles, he thought he heard it pretty near.
of course the express locomotive was drawing a heavy train of cars, and it had to make a stop or two at charlestown, and at concord junction, and at ayer so the pony engine did really gain on it a little; and when it began to be scared it gained a good deal.
but the first place where it began to feel sorry, and to want its mother, was in hoosac tunnel.
it never was in a tunnel before, and it seemed as if it would never get out.
it kept thinking, what if the pacific express was to run over it there in the dark, and its mother off there at the fitchburg depot, in boston, looking for it among the side-tracks?
it gave a perfect shriek; and just then it shot out of the tunnel.
there were a lot of locomotives loafing around there at north adams, and one of them shouted out to it as it flew by, 'what's your hurry, little one?'
and it just screamed back, 'pacific express!'
and never stopped to explain.
they talked in locomotive language "
"oh, what did it sound like?"
the boy asked.
"well, pretty queer; i'll tell you some day.
it knew it had no time to fool away, and all through the long, dark night, whenever, a locomotive hailed it, it just screamed, 'pacific express!'
and kept on.
and the express kept gaining on it.
some of the locomotives wanted to stop it, but they decided they had better not get in its way, and so it whizzed along across new york state and ohio and indiana, till it got to chicago.
and the express kept gaining on it.
by that time it was so hoarse it could hardly whisper, but it kept saying, 'pacific express!
pacific express!'
and it kept right on till it reached the mississippi river.
there it found a long train of freight cars before it on the bridge.
it couldn't wait, and so it slipped down from the track to the edge of the river and jumped across, and then scrambled up the embankment to the track again."
"papa!"
said the little girl, warningly.
"truly it did," said the papa.
"ho!
that's nothing," said the boy.
"a whole train of cars did it in that jules verne book."
"well," the papa went on, "after that it had a little rest, for the express had to wait for the freight train to get off the bridge, and the pony engine stopped at the first station for a drink of water and a mouthful of coal, and then it flew ahead.
there was a kind old locomotive at omaha that tried to find out where it belonged, and what its mother's name was, but the pony engine was so bewildered it couldn't tell.
and the express kept gaining on it.
on the plains it was chased by a pack of prairie wolves, but it left them far behind; and the antelopes were scared half to death.
but the worst of it was when the nightmare got after it."
"the nightmare?
goodness!"
said the boy.
"i've had the nightmare," said the little girl.
"oh yes, a mere human nightmare," said the papa.
"but a locomotive nightmare is a very different thing."
"why, what's it like?"
asked the boy.
the little girl was almost afraid to ask.
"well, it has only one leg, to begin with."
"pshaw!"
"wheel, i mean.
and it has four cow-catchers, and four head-lights, and two boilers, and eight whistles, and it just goes whirling and screeching along.
of course it wobbles awfully; and as it's only got one wheel, it has to keep skipping from one track to the other."
"i should think it would run on the cross-ties," said the boy.
"oh, very well, then!"
said the papa.
"if you know so much more about it than i do!
who's telling this story, anyway?
now i shall have to go back to the beginning.
once there was a little pony en "
they both put their hands over his mouth, and just fairly begged him to go on, and at last he did.
"well, it got away from the nightmare about morning, but not till the nightmare had bitten a large piece out of its tender, and then it braced up for the home-stretch.
it thought that if it could once beat the express to the sierras, it could keep the start the rest of the way, for it could get over the mountains quicker than the express could, and it might be in san francisco before the express got to sacramento.
the express kept gaining on it.
but it just zipped along the upper edge of kansas and the lower edge of nebraska, and on through colorado and utah and nevada, and when it got to the sierras it just stooped a little, and went over them like a goat; it did, truly; just doubled up its fore wheels under it, and jumped.
and the express kept gaining on it.
by this time it couldn't say 'pacific express' any more, and it didn't try.
it just said 'express!
express!'
and then ''press!
'press!'
and then ''ess!
'ess!'
and pretty soon only ''ss!
'ss!'
and the express kept gaining on it.
before they reached san francisco, the express locomotive's cow-catcher was almost touching the pony engine's tender; it gave one howl of anguish as it felt the express locomotive's hot breath on the place where the nightmare had bitten the piece out, and tore through the end of the san francisco depot, and plunged into the pacific ocean, and was never seen again.
there, now,"
said the papa, trying to make the children get down, "that's all.
go to bed."
the little girl was crying, and so he tried to comfort her by keeping her in his lap.
the boy cleared his throat.
"what is the moral, papa?"
he asked, huskily.
"children, obey your parents," said the papa.
"and what became of the mother locomotive?"
pursued the boy.
"she had a brain-fever, and never quite recovered the use of her mind again."
the boy thought awhile.
"well, i don't see what it had to do with christmas, anyway."
"why, it was christmas eve when the pony engine started from boston, and christmas afternoon when it reached san francisco."
"ho!"
said the boy.
"no locomotive could get across the continent in a day and a night, let alone a little pony engine."
"but this pony engine had to.
did you never hear of the beaver that clomb the tree?"
"no!
tell "
"yes, some other time."
"but how could it get across so quick?
just one day!"
"well, perhaps it was a year.
maybe it was the next christmas after that when it got to san francisco."
the papa set the little girl down, and started to run out of the room, and both of the children ran after him, to pound him.
when they were in bed the boy called down-stairs to the papa, "well, anyway, i didn't put up my lip."
the pumpkin-glory
the papa had told the story so often that the children knew just exactly what to expect the moment he began.
they all knew it as well as he knew it himself, and they could keep him from making mistakes, or forgetting.
sometimes he would go wrong on purpose, or would pretend to forget, and then they had a perfect right to pound him till he quit it.
he usually quit pretty soon.
the children liked it because it was very exciting, and at the same time it had no moral, so that when it was all over, they could feel that they had not been excited just for the moral.
the first time the little girl heard it she began to cry, when it came to the worst part; but the boy had heard it so much by that time that he did not mind it in the least, and just laughed.
the story was in season any time between thanksgiving and new years; but the papa usually began to tell it in the early part of october, when the farmers were getting in their pumpkins, and the children were asking when they were going to have any squash pies, and the boy had made his first jack-o'-lantern.
"well," the papa said, "once there were two little pumpkin seeds, and one was a good little pumpkin seed, and the other was bad very proud, and vain, and ambitious."
the papa had told them what ambitious was, and so the children did not stop him when he came to that word; but sometimes he would stop of his own accord, and then if they could not tell what it meant, he would pretend that he was not going on; but he always did go on.
"well, the farmer took both the seeds out to plant them in the home-patch, because they were a very extra kind of seeds, and he was not going to risk them in the cornfield, among the corn.
so before he put them in the ground, he asked each one of them what he wanted to be when he came up, and the good little pumpkin seed said he wanted to come up a pumpkin, and be made into a pie, and be eaten at thanksgiving dinner; and the bad little pumpkin seed said he wanted to come up a morning-glory.
"'morning-glory!'
says the farmer.
'i guess you'll come up a pumpkin-glory, first thing you know,' and then he haw-hawed, and told his son, who was helping him to plant the garden, to keep watch of that particular hill of pumpkins, and see whether that little seed came up a morning-glory or not; and the boy stuck a stick into the hill so he could tell it.
but one night the cow got in, and the farmer was so mad, having to get up about one o'clock in the morning to drive the cow out, that he pulled up the stick, without noticing, to whack her over the back with it, and so they lost the place.
"but the two little pumpkin seeds, they knew where they were well enough, and they lay low, and let the rain and the sun soak in and swell them up; and then they both began to push, and by-and-by they got their heads out of the ground, with their shells down over their eyes like caps, and as soon as they could shake them off and look round, the bad little pumpkin vine said to his brother:
"'well, what are you going to do now?'
"the good little pumpkin vine said, 'oh, i'm just going to stay here, and grow and grow, and put out all the blossoms i can, and let them all drop off but one, and then grow that into the biggest and fattest and sweetest pumpkin that ever was for thanksgiving pies.'
"'well, that's what i am going to do, too,' said the bad little pumpkin vine, 'all but the pies; but i'm not going to stay here to do it.
i'm going to that fence over there, where the morning-glories were last summer, and i'm going to show them what a pumpkin-glory is like.
i'm just going to cover myself with blossoms; and blossoms that won't shut up, either, when the sun comes out, but 'll stay open, as if they hadn't anything to be ashamed of, and that won't drop off the first day, either.
i noticed those morning-glories all last summer, when i was nothing but one of the blossoms myself, and i just made up my mind that as soon as ever i got to be a vine, i would show them a thing or two.
maybe i can't be a morning-glory, but i can be a pumpkin-glory, and i guess that's glory enough.'
"it made the cold chills run over the good little vine to hear its brother talk like that, and it begged him not to do it; and it began to cry
"what's that?"
the papa stopped short, and the boy stopped whispering in his sister's ear, and she answered:
"he said he bet it was a girl!"
the tears stood in her eyes, and the boy said:
"well, anyway, it was like a girl."
"very well, sir!"
said the papa.
"and supposing it was?
which is better:
to stay quietly at home, and do your duty, and grow up, and be eaten in a pie at thanksgiving, or go gadding all over the garden, and climbing fences, and everything?
the good little pumpkin vine was perfectly right, and the bad little pumpkin would have been saved a good deal if it had minded its little sister.
"the farmer was pretty busy that summer, and after the first two or three hoeings he had to leave the two pumpkin vines to the boy that had helped him to plant the seed, and the boy had to go fishing so much, and then in swimming, that he perfectly neglected them, and let them run wild, if they wanted to; and if the good little pumpkin vine had not been the best little pumpkin vine that ever was, it would have run wild.
but it just stayed where it was, and thickened up, and covered itself with blossoms, till it was like one mass of gold.
it was very fond of all its blossoms, and it couldn't bear hardly to think of losing any of them; but it knew they couldn't every one grow up to be a very large pumpkin, and so it let them gradually drop off till it only had one left, and then it just gave all its attention to that one, and did everything it could to make it grow into the kind of pumpkin it said it would.
"all this time the bad little pumpkin vine was carrying out its plan of being a pumpkin-glory.
in the first place it found out that if it expected to get through by fall it couldn't fool much putting out a lot of blossoms and waiting for them to drop off, before it began to devote itself to business.
the fence was a good piece off, and it had to reach the fence in the first place, for there wouldn't be any fun in being a pumpkin-glory down where nobody could see you, or anything.
so the bad little pumpkin vine began to pull and stretch towards the fence, and sometimes it thought it would surely snap in two, it pulled and stretched so hard.
but besides the pulling and stretching, it had to hide, and go round, because if it had been seen it wouldn't have been allowed to go to the fence.
it was a good thing there were so many weeds, that the boy was too lazy to pull up, and the bad little pumpkin vine could hide among.
but then they were a good deal of a hinderance, too, because they were so thick it could hardly get through them.
it had to pass some rows of pease that were perfectly awful; they tied themselves to it and tried to keep it back; and there was one hill of cucumbers that acted ridiculously; they said it was a cucumber vine running away from home, and they would have kept it from going any farther, if it hadn't tugged with all its might and main, and got away one night when the cucumbers were sleeping; it was pretty strong, anyway.
when it got to the fence at last, it thought it was going to die.
it was all pulled out so thin that it wasn't any thicker than a piece of twine in some places, and its leaves just hung in tatters.
it hadn't had time to put out more than one blossom, and that was such a poor little sickly thing that it could hardly hang on.
the question was, how can a pumpkin vine climb a fence, anyway?
"its knees and elbows were all worn to strings getting there, or that's what the pumpkin thought, till it wound one of those tendrils round a splinter of the fence, without thinking, and happened to pull, and then it was perfectly surprised to find that it seemed to lift itself off the ground a little.
it said to itself, 'let's try a few more,' and it twisted some more of the tendrils round some more splinters, and this time it fairly lifted itself off the ground.
it said, 'ah, i see!'
as if it had somehow expected to do something of the kind all along; but it had to be pretty careful getting up the fence not to knock its blossom off, for that would have been the end of it; and when it did get up among the morning-glories it almost killed the poor thing, keeping it open night and day, and showing it off in the hottest sun, and not giving it a bit of shade, but just holding it out where it could be seen the whole time.
it wasn't very much of a blossom compared with the blossoms on the good little pumpkin vine, but it was bigger than any of the morning-glories, and that was some satisfaction, and the bad little pumpkin vine was as proud as if it was the largest blossom in the world.
"when the blossom's leaves dropped off, and a little pumpkin began to grow on in its place, the vine did everything it could for it; just gave itself up to it, and put all its strength into it.
after all, it was a pretty queer-looking pumpkin, though.
it had to grow hanging down, and not resting on anything, and after it started with a round head, like other pumpkins, its neck began to pull out, and pull out, till it looked like a gourd or a big pear.
that's the way it looked in the fall, hanging from the vine on the fence, when the first light frost came and killed the vine.
it was the day when the farmer was gathering his pumpkins in the cornfield, and he just happened to remember the seeds he had planted in the home-patch, and he got out of his wagon to see what had become of them.
he was perfectly astonished to see the size of the good little pumpkin; you could hardly get it into a bushel basket, and he gathered it, and sent it to the county fair, and took the first premium with it."
"how much was the premium?"
asked the boy.
he yawned; he had heard all these facts so often before.
"it was fifty cents; but you see the farmer had to pay two dollars to get a chance to try for the premium at the fair; and so it was some satisfaction.
anyway, he took the premium, and he tried to sell the pumpkin, and when he couldn't, he brought it home and told his wife they must have it for thanksgiving.
the boy had gathered the bad little pumpkin, and kept it from being fed to the cow, it was so funny-looking; and the day before thanksgiving the farmer found it in the barn, and he said,
"'hollo!
here's that little fool pumpkin.
wonder if it thinks it's a morning-glory yet?'
"and the boy said, 'oh, father, mayn't i have it?'
"and the father said, 'guess so.
what are you going to do with it?'
"but the boy didn't tell, because he was going to keep it for a surprise; but as soon as his father went out of the barn, he picked up the bad little pumpkin by its long neck, and he kind of balanced it before him, and he said, 'well, now, i'm going to make a pumpkin-glory out of you!'
"and when the bad little pumpkin heard that, all its seeds fairly rattled in it for joy.
the boy took out his knife, and the first thing the pumpkin knew he was cutting a kind of lid off the top of it; it was like getting scalped, but the pumpkin didn't mind it, because it was just the same as war.
and when the boy got the top off he poured the seeds out, and began to scrape the inside as thin as he could without breaking through.
it hurt awfully, and nothing but the hope of being a pumpkin-glory could have kept the little pumpkin quiet; but it didn't say a word, even after the boy had made a mouth for it, with two rows of splendid teeth, and it didn't cry with either of the eyes he made for it; just winked at him with one of them, and twisted its mouth to one side, so as to let him know it was in the joke; and the first thing it did when it got one was to turn up its nose at the good little pumpkin, which the boy's mother came into the barn to get."
"show how it looked," said the boy.
and the papa twisted his mouth, and winked with one eye, and wrinkled his nose till the little girl begged him to stop.
then he went on:
"the boy hid the bad pumpkin behind him till his mother was gone, because he didn't want her in the secret; and then he slipped into the house, and put it under his bed.
it was pretty lonesome up there in the boy's room he slept in the garret, and there was nothing but broken furniture besides his bed; but all day long it could smell the good little pumpkin, boiling and boiling for pies; and late at night, after the boy had gone to sleep, it could smell the hot pies when they came out of the oven.
they smelt splendid, but the bad little pumpkin didn't envy them a bit; it just said, 'pooh!
what's twenty pumpkin pies to one pumpkin-glory?'"
"it ought to have said 'what are,' oughtn't it, papa?"
asked the little girl.
"it certainly ought," said the papa.
"but if nothing but it's grammar had been bad, there wouldn't have been much to complain of about it."
"i don't suppose it had ever heard much good grammar from the farmer's family," suggested the boy.
"farmers always say cowcumbers instead of cucumbers."
"oh, do tell us about the cowcumber, and the bullcumber, and the little calfcumbers, papa!"
the little girl entreated, and she clasped her hands, to show how anxious she was.
"what!
and leave off at the most exciting part of the pumpkin-glory?"
the little girl saw what a mistake she had made; the boy just gave her one look, and she cowered down into the papa's lap, and the papa went on.
"well, they had an extra big thanksgiving at the farmer's that day.
lots of the relations came from out west; the grandmother, who was living with the farmer, was getting pretty old, and every year or two she thought she wasn't going to live very much longer, and she wrote to the relations in wisconsin, and everywhere, that if they expected to see her alive again, they had better come this time, and bring all their families.
she kept doing it till she was about ninety, and then she just concluded to live along and not mind how old she was.
but this was just before her eighty-ninth birthday, and she had drummed up so many sons and sons-in-law, and daughters and daughters-in-law, and grandsons and great-grandsons, and granddaughters and great-granddaughters, that the house was perfectly packed with them.
they had to sleep on the floor, a good many of them, and you could hardly step for them; the boys slept in the barn, and they laughed and cut up so the whole night that the roosters thought it was morning, and kept crowing till they made their throats sore, and had to wear wet compresses round them every night for a week afterwards."
when the papa said anything like this the children had a right to pound him, but they were so anxious not to have him stop, that this time they did not do it.
they said, "go on, go on!"
and the little girl said, "and then the tables!"
"tables?
well, i should think so!
they got all the tables there were in the house, up stairs and down, for dinner thanksgiving day, and they took the grandmother's work-stand and put it at the head, and she sat down there; only she was so used to knitting by that table that she kept looking for her knitting-needles all through dinner, and couldn't seem to remember what it was she was missing.
the other end of the table was the carpenter's bench that they brought in out of the barn, and they put the youngest and funniest papa at that.
the tables stretched from the kitchen into the dining-room, and clear through that out into the hall, and across into the parlor.
they hadn't table-cloths enough to go the whole length, and the end of the carpenter's bench, where the funniest papa sat, was bare, and all through dinner-time he kept making fun.
the vise was right at the corner, and when he got his help of turkey, he pretended that it was so tough he had to fasten the bone in the vise, and cut the meat off with his knife like a draw-shave."
"it was the drumstick, i suppose, papa?"
said the boy.
"a turkey's drumstick is all full of little wooden splinters, anyway."
"and what did the mamma say?"
asked the little girl.
"oh, she kept saying, 'now you behave!'
and, 'well, i should think you'd be ashamed!'
but the funniest papa didn't mind her a bit; and everybody laughed till they could hardly stand it.
all this time the boys were out in the barn, waiting for the second table, and playing round.
the farmer's boy went up to his room over the wood-shed, and got in at the garret window, and brought out the pumpkin-glory.
only he began to slip when he was coming down the roof, and he'd have slipped clear off if he hadn't caught his trousers on a shingle-nail, and stuck.
it made a pretty bad tear, but the other boys pinned it up so that it wouldn't show, and the pumpkin-glory wasn't hurt a bit.
they all said that it was about the best jack-o'-lantern they almost ever saw, on account of the long neck there was to it; and they made a plan to stick the end of the neck into the top of the pump, and have fun hearing what the folks would say when they came out after dark and saw it all lit up; and then they noticed the pigpen at the corner of the barn, and began to plague the pig, and so many of them got up on the pen that they broke the middle board off; and they didn't like to nail it on again because it was thanksgiving day, and you mustn't hammer or anything; so they just stuck it up in its place with a piece of wood against it, and the boy said he would fix it in the morning.
"the grown folks stayed so long at the table that it was nearly dark when the boys got to it, and they would have been almost starved if the farm-boy hadn't brought out apples and doughnuts every little while.
as it was, they were pretty hungry, and they began on the pumpkin pie at once, so as to keep eating till the mother and the other mothers that were helping could get some of the things out of the oven that they had been keeping hot for the boys.
the pie was so nice that they kept eating at it all along, and the mother told them about the good little pumpkin that it was made of, and how the good little pumpkin had never had any wish from the time it was nothing but a seed, except to grow up and be made into pies and eaten at thanksgiving; and they must all try to be good, too, and grow up and do likewise.
the boys didn't say anything, because their mouths were so full, but they looked at each other and winked their left eyes.
there were about forty or fifty of them, and when they all winked their left eyes it made it so dark you could hardly see; and the mother got the lamp; but the other mothers saw what the boys were doing, and they just shook them till they opened their eyes and stopped their mischief."
"show how they looked!"
said the boy.
"i can't show how fifty boys looked," said the papa.
"but they looked a good deal like the pumpkin-glory that was waiting quietly in the barn for them to get through, and come out and have some fun with it.
when they had all eaten so much that they could hardly stand up, they got down from the table, and grabbed their hats, and started for the door.
but they had to go out the back way, because the table took up the front entry, and that gave the farmer's boy a chance to find a piece of candle out in the kitchen and some matches; and then they rushed to the barn.
it was so dark there already that they thought they had better light up the pumpkin-glory and try it.
they lit it up, and it worked splendidly; but they forgot to put out the match, and it caught some straw on the barn floor, and a little more and it would have burnt the barn down.
the boys stamped the fire out in about half a second; and after that they waited till it was dark outside before they lit up the pumpkin-glory again.
then they all bent down over it to keep the wind from blowing the match anywhere, and pretty soon it was lit up, and the farmer's boy took the pumpkin-glory by its long neck, and stuck the point in the hole in the top of the pump; and just then the funniest papa came round the corner of the wood-house, and said:
"'what have you got there, boys?
jack-o'-lantern?
well, well.
that's a good one!'
"he came up and looked at the pumpkin-glory, and he bent back and he bent forward, and he doubled down and he straightened up, and laughed till the boys thought he was going to kill himself.
"they had all intended to burst into an indian yell, and dance round the pumpkin-glory; but the funniest papa said, 'now all you fellows keep still half a minute,' and the next thing they knew he ran into the house, and came out, walking his wife before him with both his hands over her eyes.
then the boys saw he was going to have some fun with her, and they kept as still as mice, and waited till he walked her up to the pumpkin-glory; and she was saying all the time, 'now, john, if this is some of your fooling, i'll give it to you.'
when he got her close up he took away his hands, and she gave a kind of a whoop, and then she began to laugh, the pumpkin-glory was so funny, and to chase the funniest papa all round the yard to box his ears, and as soon as she had boxed them she said, 'now let's go in and send the rest out,' and in about a quarter of a second all the other papas came out, holding their hands over the other mothers' eyes till they got them up to the pumpkin-glory; and then there was such a yelling and laughing and chasing and ear-boxing that you never heard anything like it; and all at once the funniest papa hallooed out: 'where's gramma?
gramma's got to see it!
grandma'll enjoy it.
it's just gramma's kind of joke,' and then the mothers all got round him and said he shouldn't fool the grandmother, anyway; and he said he wasn't going to: he was just going to bring her out and let her see it; and his wife went along with him to watch that he didn't begin acting up.
"the grandmother had been sitting all alone in her room ever since dinner; because she was always afraid somehow that if you enjoyed yourself it was a sign you were going to suffer for it, and she had enjoyed herself a good deal that day, and she was feeling awfully about it.
when the funniest papa and his wife came in she said, 'what is it?
what is it?
is the world a-burnin' up?
well, you got to wrap up warm, then, or you'll ketch your death o' cold runnin' and then stoppin' to rest with your pores all open!'
"the funniest papa's wife she went up and kissed her, and said, 'no, grandmother, the world's all right,' and then she told her just how it was, and how they wanted her to come out and see the jack-o'-lantern, just to please the children; and she must come, anyway; because it was the funniest jack-o'-lantern there ever was, and then she told how the funniest papa had fooled her, and then how they had got the other papas to fool the other mothers, and they had all had the greatest fun then you ever saw.
all the time she kept putting on her things for her, and the grandmother seemed to get quite in the notion, and she laughed a little, and they thought she was going to enjoy it as much as anybody; they really did, because they were all very tender of her, and they wouldn't have scared her for anything, and everybody kept cheering her up and telling her how much they knew she would like it, till they got her to the pump.
the little pumpkin-glory was feeling awfully proud and self-satisfied; for it had never seen any flower or any vegetable treated with half so much honor by human beings.
it wasn't sure at first that it was very nice to be laughed at so much, but after a while it began to conclude that the papas and the mammas were just laughing at the joke of the whole thing.
when the old grandmother got up close, it thought it would do something extra to please her; or else the heat of the candle had dried it up so that it cracked without intending to.
anyway, it tried to give a very broad grin, and all of a sudden it split its mouth from ear to ear."
"you didn't say it had any ears before," said the boy.
"no; it had them behind," said the papa; and the boy felt like giving him just one pound; but he thought it might stop the story, and so he let the papa go on.
"as soon as the grandmother saw it open its mouth that way she just gave one scream, 'my sakes!
it's comin' to life!'
and she threw up her arms, and she threw up her feet, and if the funniest papa hadn't been there to catch her, and if there hadn't been forty or fifty other sons and daughters, and grandsons and daughters, and great-grandsons and great-granddaughters, very likely she might have fallen.
as it was, they piled round her, and kept her up; but there were so many of them they jostled the pump, and the first thing the pumpkin-glory knew, it fell down and burst open; and the pig that the boys had plagued, and that had kept squealing all the time because it thought that the people had come out to feed it, knocked the loose board off its pen, and flew out and gobbled the pumpkin-glory up, candle and all, and that was the end of the proud little pumpkin-glory."
"and when the pig ate the candle it looked like the magician when he puts burning tow in his mouth," said the boy.
"exactly," said the papa.
the children were both silent for a moment.
then the boy said, "this story never had any moral, i believe, papa?"
"not a bit," said the papa.
"unless," he added, "the moral was that you had better not be ambitious, unless you want to come to the sad end of this proud little pumpkin-glory."
"why, but the good little pumpkin was eaten up, too," said the boy.
"that's true," the papa acknowledged.
"well," said the little girl, "there's a great deal of difference between being eaten by persons and eaten by pigs."
"all the difference in the world," said the papa; and he laughed, and ran out of the library before the boy could get at him.
butterflyflutterby and flutterbybutterfly
one morning when the papa was on a visit to the grandfather, the nephew and the niece came rushing into his room and got into bed with him.
he pretended to be asleep, and even when they grabbed hold of him and shook him, he just let his teeth clatter, and made no sign of waking up.
but they knew he was fooling, and they kept shaking him till he opened his eyes and looked round, and said, "oh, oh!
where am i?"
as if he were all bewildered.
"you're in bed with us!"
they shouted; and they acted as if they were afraid he would try to get away from them by the way they held on to his arms.
but he lay quite still, and he only said, "i should say you were in bed with me.
it seems to be my bed."
"it's the same thing!"
said the nephew.
"how do you make that out?"
asked the papa.
"it's the same thing if it's enchantment.
but if it isn't, it isn't."
the niece said, "what enchantment?"
for she thought that would be a pretty good chance to get what they had come for.
she was perfectly delighted, and gave a joyful thrill all over when the papa said, "oh, that's a long story."
"well, the longer the better, i should say; shouldn't you, brother?"
she returned.
the nephew hemmed twice in his throat, and asked, drowsily, "is it a little-pig story, or a fairy-prince story?"
for he had heard from his cousins that their papa would tell you a little-pig story if he got the chance; and you had to look out and ask him which it was going to be beforehand.
"well, i can't tell," said the papa.
"it's a fairy-prince story to begin with, but it may turn out a little-pig story before it gets to the end.
it depends upon how the prince behaves.
but i'm not anxious to tell it," and the papa put his face into the pillow and pretended to fall instantly asleep again.
"now, brother, you see!"
said the niece.
"being so particular!"
"well, sister," said the nephew, "it wasn't my fault.
i had to ask him.
you know what they said."
"well, i suppose we've got to wake him up all over again," said the niece, with a little sigh; and they began to pull at the papa this way and that, but they could not budge him.
as soon as they stopped, he opened his eyes.
"now don't say, 'where am i?'"
said the niece.
the papa could not help laughing, because that was just the very thing he was going to say.
"well, all right!
what about that story?
do you want to hear it, and take your chances of its being a prince to the end?"
"i suppose we'll have to; won't we, sister?"
"yes, we'll leave it all to you, uncle," said the niece; and she thought she would coax him up a little, and so she went on: "i know you won't be mean about it.
will he, brother?"
"no," said the nephew.
"i'll bet the prince will keep a prince all the way through.
what'll you bet, sister?"
"i won't bet anything," said the niece, and she put her arm round the papa's neck, and pressed her cheek up against his.
"i'll just leave it to uncle, and if it does turn into a little-pig story, it'll be for the moral."
the nephew was not quite sure what a moral was; but at the bottom of his heart he would just as soon have it a little-pig story as not.
he had got to thinking how funny a little pig would look in a prince's clothes, and he said, "yes, it'll be for the moral."
the papa was very contrary that morning.
"well," said he, "i don't know about that.
i'm not sure there's going to be any moral."
"oh, goody!"
said the niece, and she clapped her hands in great delight.
"then it's going to be a prince story all through!"
"if you interrupt me in that way, it's not going to be any story at all."
"i didn't know you had begun it, uncle," pleaded the niece.
"well, i hadn't.
but i was just going to."
the papa lay quiet a while.
the fact is, he had not thought up any story at all; and he was so tired of all the stories he used to tell his own children that he could not bear to tell one of them, though he knew very well that the niece and nephew would be just as glad of it as if it were new, and maybe gladder; for they had heard a great deal about these stories, how perfectly splendid they were like the pumpkin-glory, and the little pig that took the poison pills, and the proud little horse-car that fell in love with the pullman sleeper, and jap doll hopsing's adventures in crossing the continent, and the enchantment of the greedy travellers, and the little boy whose legs turned into bicycle wheels.
at last the papa said, "this is a very peculiar kind of a story.
it's about a prince and a princess."
"oh!"
went both of the children; and then they stopped themselves, and stuffed the covering into their mouths.
the papa lifted himself on his elbow and stared severely at them, first at one, and then at the other.
"have you finished?"
he asked, as if they had interrupted him; but he really wanted to gain time, so as to think up a story of some kind.
the children were afraid to say anything, and the papa went on with freezing politeness: "because if you have, i might like to say something myself.
this story is about a prince and a princess, but the thing of it is that they had names almost exactly alike.
they were twins; the prince was a boy and the princess was a girl; that was a point that their fairy godmother carried against the wicked enchantress who tried to have it just the other way; but it made the wicked enchantress so mad that the fairy godmother had to give in to her a little, and let them be named almost exactly alike."
here the papa stopped, and after waiting for him to go on, the nephew ventured to ask, very respectfully indeed, "would you mind telling us what their names were, uncle?"
the papa rubbed his forehead.
"i have such a bad memory for names.
hold on!
wait a minute!
i remember now!
their names were butterflyflutterby and flutterbybutterfly."
of course he had just thought up the names.
"and which was which, uncle dear?"
asked the niece, not only very respectfully, but very affectionately, too; she was so afraid he would get mad again, and stop altogether.
"why, i should think you would know a girl's name when you heard it.
butterflyflutterby was the prince and flutterbybutterfly was the princess."
"i don't see how we're ever going to keep them apart," sighed the niece.
"you've got to keep them apart," said the papa.
"because it's the great thing about the story that if you can't remember which is the prince and which is the princess whenever i ask you, the story has to stop.
it can't help it, and i can't help it."
they knew he was just setting a trap for them, and the same thought struck them both at once.
they rose up and leaned over the papa, with their arms across and their fluffy heads together in the form of a capital letter a, and whispered in each other's ears, "you say it's one, and i'll say it's the other, and then we'll have it right between us."
they dropped back and pulled the covering up to their chins, and shouted, "don't you tell!
don't you tell!"
and just perfectly wriggled with triumph.
the papa had heard every word; they were laughing so that they whispered almost as loud as talking; but he pretended that he had not understood, and he made up his mind that he would have them yet.
"a little and a more," he said, "and i should never have gone on again."
"go on!
go on!"
they called out, and then they wriggled and giggled till anybody would have thought they were both crazy.
"well, where was i?"
this was another of the papa's tricks to gain time.
whenever he could not think of anything more, he always asked, "well, where was i?"
he now added: "oh yes!
i remember!
well, once there were a prince and a princess, and their names were butterflyflutterby and flutterbybutterfly; and they were both twins, and both orphans; but they made their home with their fairy godmother as long as they were little, and they used to help her about the house for part board, and she helped them about their kingdom, and kept it in good order for them, and left them plenty of time to play and enjoy themselves.
she was the greatest person for order there ever was; and if she found a speck of dust or dirt on the kingdom anywhere, she would have out the whole army and make them wash it up, and then sand-paper the place, and polish it with a coarse towel till it perfectly glistened.
the father of the prince and princess had taken the precaution, before he died, to subdue all his enemies; and the consequence was that the longest kind of peace had set in, and the army had nothing to do but keep the kingdom clean.
that was the reason why the fairy godmother had made the general-in-chief take their guns away, and arm them with long feather-dusters.
they marched with the poles on their shoulders, and carried the dusters in their belts, like bayonets; and whenever they came to a place that the fairy godmother said needed dusting she always went along with them in a diamond chariot she made the general halloo out: 'fix dusters!
make ready!
aim!
dust!'
and then the place would be cleaned up.
but the general-in-chief used to go out behind the church and cry, it mortified him so to have to give such orders, and it reminded him so painfully of the good old times when he would order his men to charge the enemy, and cover the field with gore and blood, instead of having it so awfully spick-and-span as it was now.
still he did what the fairy godmother told him, because he said it was his duty; and he kept his troops supplied with sudsine and dustene, to clean up with, and brushes and towels.
the fairy godmother "
"excuse me, uncle," said the nephew, with extreme deference, "but i should just like to ask you one question.
will you let me?"
"what is it?"
said the papa, in the grimmest kind of manner he could put on.
"ah, brother!"
murmured the niece; for she knew that he was rather sarcastic, and she was afraid that something ironical was coming.
"well, i just wanted to ask whether this story was about the fairy godmother, or about the prince and princess."
"very well, now," said the papa.
"you've asked your question.
i didn't promise to answer it, and i'm happy to say it stops the story.
i'll guess i'll go to sleep again.
i don't like being waked up this way in the middle of the night, anyhow."
"now, brother, i hope you're satisfied!"
said the niece.
the nephew evaded the point.
he said: "well, sister, if the story really isn't going on, i should like to ask uncle another question.
how big was the fairy godmother's diamond chariot?"
"it was the usual sized chariot," answered the papa.
"whew!
it must have been a pretty big diamond, then!"
"it was a very big diamond," said the papa; and he seemed to forget all about being mad, or else he had thought up some more of the story to tell, for he went on just as if nothing had happened.
"the fairy godmother was so severe with the dirt she found because it was a royal prerogative that is, nobody but the king, or the king's family, had a right to make a mess, and if other people did it, they were infringing on the royal prerogative.
"you know," the papa explained, "that in old times and countries the royal family have been allowed to do things that no other family would have been associated with if they had done them.
that is about the only use there is in having a royal family.
but the fairy godmother of prince "
"butterflyflutterby," said the niece.
"and princess "
"flutterbybutterfly," said the nephew.
"correct," said the papa.
the children rose up into a capital a again, and whispered, "he didn't catch us that time," and fell back, laughing, and the papa had to go on.
"the fairy godmother thought she would try to bring up the prince and princess rather better than most princes and princesses were brought up, and so she said that the only thing they should be allowed to do different from other people was to make a mess.
if any other persons were caught making a mess they were banished; and there was another law that was perfectly awful."
"what-was-it-go-ahead?"
said the nephew, running all his words together, he was so anxious to know.
"why, if any person was found clearing up anywhere, and it turned out to be a mess that the royal twins had made, the person was thrown from a tower."
"did it kill them?"
the niece inquired, rather faintly.
"well, no, it didn't kill them exactly, but it bounced them up pretty high.
you see, they fell on a bed of india-rubber about twenty feet deep.
it gave them a good scare; and that's the great thing in throwing persons from a high tower."
the nephew hastened to improve the opportunity which seemed to be given for asking questions.
"what do you mean exactly by making a mess, uncle?"
"oh, scattering scraps of paper about, or scuffing the landscape, or getting jam or molasses on the face of nature, or having bonfires in the back yard of the palace, or leaving dolls around on the throne.
but what did i say about asking questions?
now there's another thing about this story: when it comes to the exciting part, if you move the least bit, or even breathe loud, the story stops, just as if you didn't know which was the prince and which was the princess.
now do you understand?"
the children both said "yes" in a very small whisper, and cowered down almost under the clothing, and held on tight, so as to keep from stirring.
the papa went on: "well, about the time they had got these two laws in full force, and forty or fifty thousand boys and girls had been banished for making a mess, and pretty nearly all the neat old ladies in the kingdom had been thrown from a high tower for cleaning up after the prince and princess butterflyflutterby and flutterbybutterfly, the young khan and khant of tartary entered the kingdom with a magnificent retinue of followers, to select a bride and groom from the children of the royal family.
as there were no children in the royal family except the twins, the choice of the khan and khant naturally fell upon the prince "
"butterflyflutterby!"
"and the princess "
"flutterbybutterfly!"
"correct.
it also happened that the khan and the khant were brother and sister; but if you can't tell which was the brother and which was the sister, the story stops at this point."
"why, but, uncle," said the little girl, reproachfully, "you haven't ever told us which is which yourself yet!"
"i know it.
because i'm waiting to find out.
you see, with these asiatic names it's impossible sometimes to tell which is which.
you have to wait and see how they will act.
if there had been a battle anywhere, and one of them had screamed, and run away, then i suppose i should have been pretty sure it was the sister; but even then i shouldn't know which was the khan and which was the khant."
"well, what are we going to do about it, then?"
asked the nephew.
"i don't know," said the papa.
"we shall just have to keep on and see.
perhaps when they meet the prince and princess we shall find out.
i don't suppose a boy would fall in love with a boy."
"no," said the niece; "but he might want to go off with him and have fun, or something."
"that's true," said the papa.
"we've got to all watch out.
of course the khan and the khant scuffed the landscape awfully, as they came along through the kingdom, and got the face of nature all daubed up with marmalade they were the greatest persons for marmalade and when they reached the palace of the prince and princess they had to camp out in the back yard, and they had to have bonfires to cook by, and they made a frightful mess.
"well, there was the greatest excitement about it that there ever was.
the general-in-chief kept his men under arms night and day, and the fairy godmother was so worked up she almost had a brain-fever; and if she had not taken six of aconite every night when she went to bed she would have had.
you see, the question was what to do about the mess that the khan and khant made.
they were visitors, and it wouldn't have been polite to banish them; and they belonged to a royal family, and so nobody dared to clean up after them.
the whole kingdom was in the most disgusting state, and whenever the fairy godmother looked into the back yard of the palace she felt as if she would go through the floor.
"well, it kept on going from bad to worse.
the only person that enjoyed herself was the wicked enchantress; she never had such a good time in her life; and when the fairy godmother got hold of the grand vizier and the cadi, and told them to make a new law so as to allow the army to clean up after royal visitors, without being thrown from a high tower, the wicked enchantress enchanted the whole mess, so that the army could not tell which the prince and princess had made, and which the khan and khant had made; they were all four always playing together, anyway.
"it seemed as if the poor old fairy godmother would go perfectly wild, and she almost made the general crazy giving orders in one breath, and taking them back in the next.
she said that now something had got to be done; she had stood it long enough; and she was going to take the case into her own hands.
she saw that she should have no peace of her life till the prince and princess and the khan and khant were married.
she sent for the head imam, and told him to bring those children right in and marry them, and she would be responsible.
"the imam put his head to the floor and it was pretty hard on him, for he was short and stout, and he had to do it kind of sideways and said to hear was to obey; but he could not marry them unless he knew which was which.
"the fairy godmother screamed out: 'i don't care which is which!
marry them all, just as they are!'
"but when she came to think it over, she saw that this would not do, and so she tried to invent some way out of the trouble.
one morning she woke up with a splendid idea, and she could hardly wait to have breakfast before she sent for the general-in-chief.
her nerves were all gone, and as soon as she saw him, she yelled at him: 'a sham battle to-day now this very instant!
right away, right away, right away!'
"the general got her to explain herself, and then he understood that she wanted him to have a grand review and sham battle of all the troops, in honor of the khan and khant; and the whole court had to be present, and especially the timidest of the ladies, that would almost scare a person to death by the way they screamed when they were frightened.
the general was just going to say that the guns and cannon had all got rusty, and the powder was spoiled from not having been used for so long, with the everlasting cleaning up that had been going on; but the fairy godmother stamped her foot and sent him flying.
so the only thing he could do was to set all the gnomes at work making guns and cannon and powder, and about twelve o'clock they had them ready, and just after lunch the sham battle began.
"the troops marched and counter-marched, and fired away the whole afternoon, and sprang mines and blew up magazines, and threw cannon crackers and cannon torpedoes.
there was such an awful din and racket that you couldn't hear yourself think, and some of the court ladies were made perfectly sick by it.
they all asked to be excused, but the fairy godmother wouldn't excuse one of them.
she just kept them there on the seats round the battle-field, and let them shriek themselves hoarse.
so many of them fainted that they had to have the garden hose brought, and they kept it sprinkling away on their faces all the afternoon.
"but it was a failure as far as the khan and the khant were concerned.
the fairy godmother expected that as soon as the loudest firing began, the girl, whichever it was, would scream, and so they would know which was which.
but the khan and khant's father had been a famous warrior, and he had been in the habit of taking his children to battle with him from their earliest years, partly because his wife was dead and he didn't dare trust them with the careless nurse at home, and partly because he wanted to harden their nerves.
so now they just clapped their hands, and enjoyed the sham battle down to the ground.
"about sunset the fairy godmother gave it up.
she had to, anyway.
the troops had shot away all their powder, and the gnomes couldn't make any more till the next day.
so she set out to return to the city, with all the court following her diamond chariot, and i can tell you she felt pretty gloomy.
she told the grand vizier that now she didn't see any end to the trouble, and she was just going into hysterics when a barefooted boy came along driving his cow home from the pasture.
the fairy godmother didn't mind it much, for she was in her chariot; but the court ladies were on foot, and they began to scream, 'oh, the cow!
the cow!'
and to take hold of the knights, and to get on to the fence, till it was perfectly packed with them; and who do you think the fairy godmother found had scrambled up on top of her chariot?"
the nephew and niece were afraid to risk a guess, and the papa had to say:
"the khant!
the fairy godmother pulled her inside and hugged her and kissed her, she was so glad to find out that she was the one; and she stopped the procession on the spot, and she called up the imam, and he married the khant to prince "
the papa stopped, and as the niece and nephew hesitated, he said, very sternly, "well?"
the fact is, they had got so mixed up about the khan and the khant of tartary that they had forgotten which was butterflyflutterby and which was flutterbybutterfly.
they tried, shouting out one the one and the other the other, but the papa said:
"oh no!
that won't work.
i've had that sort of thing tried on me before, and it never works.
i heard you whispering what you would do, and you have simply added the crime of double-dealing to the crime of inattention.
the story has stopped, and stopped forever."
the nephew stretched himself and then sat up in bed.
"well, it had got to the end, anyway."
"oh, had it?
what became of the wicked enchantress?"
the nephew lay down again, in considerable dismay.
"uncle," said the niece, very coaxingly, "i didn't say it had come to the end."
"but it has," said the papa.
"and i'm mighty glad you forgot the prince's name, for the rule of this story is that it has to go on as long as any one listening remembers, and it might have gone on forever."
"i suppose," the nephew said, "a person may guess?"
"he may, if he guesses right.
if he guesses wrong, he has to be thrown from a high tower the same one the wicked enchantress was thrown from."
"there!"
shouted the nephew; "you said you wouldn't tell.
how high was the tower, anyway, uncle?
as high as the eiffel tower in paris?"
"not quite.
it was three feet and five inches high."
"ho!
then the enchantress was a dwarf!"
"who said she was a dwarf?"
"there wouldn't be any use throwing her from the tower if she wasn't."
"i didn't say it was any use.
they just did it for ornament."
this made the nephew so mad that he began to dig the papa with his fist, and the papa began to laugh.
he said, as well as he could for laughing:
"you see, the trouble was to keep her from bouncing up higher than the top of the tower.
she was light weight, anyway, because she was a witch; and after the first bounce they had to have two executioners to keep throwing her down a day executioner and a night executioner; and she went so fast up and down that she was just like a solid column of enchantress.
she enjoyed it first-rate, but it kept her out of mischief."
"now, uncle," said the niece, "you're just letting yourself go.
what did the fairy godmother do after they all got married?"
"well, the story don't say exactly.
but there's a report that when she became a fairy grandgodmother, she was not half so severe about cleaning up, and let the poor old general-in-chief have some peace of his life or some war.
there was a rebellion among the genii not long afterwards, and the general was about ten or fifteen years putting them down."
the nephew had been lying quiet a moment.
now he began to laugh.
"what are you laughing at?"
demanded his uncle.
"the way that khant scrambled up on top of the chariot when the cow came along.
just like a girl.
they're all afraid of cows."
the tears came into the niece's eyes; she had a great many feelings, and they were easily hurt, especially her feelings about girls.
"well, she wasn't afraid of the cannon, anyway."
"that is a very just remark," said the uncle.
"and now what do you say to breakfast?"
the children sprang out of bed, and tried which could beat to the door.
they forgot to thank the uncle, but he did not seem to have expected any thanks.
the children's book of thanksgiving stories
the country of the greedy, well known in history, was ruled by a king who had much trouble.
his subjects were well behaved, but they had one sad fault: they were too fond of pies and tarts.
it was as disagreeable to them to swallow a spoonful of soup as if it were so much sea water, and it would take a policeman to make them open their mouths for a bit of meat, either boiled or roasted.
this deplorable taste made the fortunes of the pastry cooks, but also of the apothecaries.
families ruined themselves in pills and powders; camomile, rhubarb, and peppermint trebled in price, as well as other disagreeable remedies, such as castor  which i will not name.
the king of the greedy sought long for the means of correcting this fatal passion for sweets, but even the faculty were puzzled.
"your majesty," said the great court doctor, olibriers, at his last audience, "your people look like putty!
they are incurable; their senseless love for good eating will bring them all to the grave."
this view of things did not suit the king.
he was wise, and saw very plainly that a monarch without subjects would be but a sorry king.
happily, after this utter failure of the doctors, there came into the mind of his majesty a first-class idea: he telegraphed for mother mitchel, the most celebrated of all pastry cooks.
mother mitchel soon arrived, with her black cat, fanfreluche, who accompanied her everywhere.
he was an incomparable cat.
he had not his equal as an adviser and a taster of tarts.
mother mitchel having respectfully inquired what she and her cat could do for his majesty, the king demanded of the astonished pastry cook a tart as big as the capitol bigger even, if possible, but no smaller!
when the king uttered this astounding order, deep emotion was shown by the chamberlains, the pages, and lackeys.
nothing but the respect due to his presence prevented them from crying "long live your majesty!"
in his very ears.
but the king had seen enough of the enthusiasm of the populace, and did not allow such sounds in the recesses of his palace.
the king gave mother mitchel one month to carry out his gigantic project.
"it is enough," she proudly replied, brandishing her crutch.
then, taking leave of the king, she and her cat set out for their home.
on the way mother mitchel arranged in her head the plan of the monument which was to immortalize her, and considered the means of executing it.
as to its form and size, it was to be as exact a copy of the capitol as possible, since the king had willed it; but its outside crust should have a beauty all its own.
the dome must be adorned with sugarplums of all colours, and surmounted by a splendid crown of macaroons, spun sugar, chocolate, and candied fruits.
it was no small affair.
mother mitchel did not like to lose her time.
her plan of battle once formed, she recruited on her way all the little pastry cooks of the country, as well as all the tiny six-year-olds who had a sincere love for the noble callings of scullion and apprentice.
there were plenty of these, as you may suppose, in the country of the greedy; mother mitchel had her pick of them.
mother mitchel, with the help of her crutch and of fanfreluche, who miaowed loud enough to be heard twenty miles off, called upon all the millers of the land, and commanded them to bring together at a certain time as many sacks of fine flour as they could grind in a week.
there were only windmills in that country; you may easily believe how they all began to go.
b-r-r-r-r-r!
what a noise they made!
the clatter was so great that all the birds flew away to other climes, and even the clouds fled from the sky.
at the call of mother mitchel all the farmers' wives were set to work; they rushed to the hencoops to collect the seven thousand fresh eggs that mother mitchel wanted for her great edifice.
deep was the emotion of the fowls.
the hens were inconsolable, and the unhappy creatures mourned upon the palings for the loss of all their hopes.
the milkmaids were busy from morning till night in milking the cows.
mother mitchel must have twenty thousand pails of milk.
all the little calves were put on half rations.
this great work was nothing to them, and they complained pitifully to their mothers.
many of the cows protested with energy against this unreasonable tax, which made their young families so uncomfortable.
there were pails upset, and even some milkmaids went head over heels.
but these little accidents did not chill the enthusiasm of the labourers.
and now mother mitchel called for a thousand pounds of the best butter.
all the churns for twenty miles around began to work in the most lively manner.
their dashers dashed without ceasing, keeping perfect time.
the butter was tasted, rolled into pats, wrapped up, and put into baskets.
such energy had never been known before.
mother mitchel passed for a sorceress.
it was all because of her cat, fanfreluche, with whom she had mysterious doings and pantomimes, and with whom she talked in her inspired moments, as if he were a real person.
certainly, since the famous "puss in boots," there had never been an animal so extraordinary; and credulous folks suspected him of being a magician.
some curious people had the courage to ask fanfreluche if this were true; but he had replied by bristling, and showing his teeth and claws so fiercely, that the conversation had ended there.
sorceress or not, mother mitchel was always obeyed.
no one else was ever served so punctually.
on the appointed day all the millers arrived with their asses trotting in single file, each laden with a great sack of flour.
mother mitchel, after having examined the quality of the flour, had every sack accurately weighed.
this was head work and hard work, and took time; but mother mitchel was untiring, and her cat, also, for while the operation lasted he sat on the roof watching.
it is only just to say that the millers of the greedy kingdom brought flour not only faultless but of full weight.
they knew that mother mitchel was not joking when she said that others must be as exact with her as she was with them.
perhaps also they were a little afraid of the cat, whose great green eyes were always shining upon them like two round lamps, and never lost sight of them for one moment.
all the farmers' wives arrived in turn, with baskets of eggs upon their heads.
they did not load their donkeys with them, for fear that in jogging along they would become omelettes on the way.
mother mitchel received them with her usual gravity.
she had the patience to look through every egg to see if it were fresh.
she did not wish to run the risk of having young chickens in a tart that was destined for those who could not bear the taste of any meat however tender and delicate.
the number of eggs was complete, and again mother mitchel and her cat had nothing to complain of.
this greedy nation, though carried away by love of good eating, was strictly honest.
it must be said that where nations are patriotic, desire for the common good makes them unselfish.
mother mitchel's tart was to be the glory of the country, and each one was proud to contribute to such a great work.
and now the milkmaids with their pots and pails of milk, and the buttermakers with their baskets filled with the rich yellow pats of butter, filed in long procession to the right and left of the cabin of mother mitchel.
there was no need for her to examine so carefully the butter and the milk.
she had such a delicate nose that if there had been a single pat of ancient butter or a pail of sour milk she would have pounced upon it instantly.
but all was perfectly fresh.
in that golden age they did not understand the art, now so well known, of making milk out of flour and water.
real milk was necessary to make cheesecakes and ice cream and other delicious confections much adored in the greedy kingdom.
if any one had made such a despicable discovery, he would have been chased from the country as a public nuisance.
then came the grocers, with their aprons of coffee bags, and with the jolly, mischievous faces the rogues always have.
each one clasped to his heart a sugar loaf nearly as large as himself, whose summit, without its paper cap, looked like new-fallen snow upon a pyramid.
mother mitchel, with her crutch for a baton, saw them all placed in her storerooms upon shelves put up for the purpose.
she had to be very strict, for some of the little fellows could hardly part from their merchandise, and many were indiscreet, with their tongues behind their great mountains of sugar.
if they had been let alone, they would never have stopped till the sugar was all gone.
but they had not thought of the implacable eye of old fanfreluche, who, posted upon a water spout, took note of all their misdeeds.
from another quarter came a whole army of country people, rolling wheelbarrows and carrying huge baskets, all filled with cherries, plums, peaches, apples, and pears.
all these fruits were so fresh, in such perfect condition, with their fair shining skins, that they looked like wax or painted marble, but their delicious perfume proved that they were real.
some little people, hidden in the corners, took pains to find this out.
between ourselves, mother mitchel made believe not to see them, and took the precaution of holding fanfreluche in her arms so that he could not spring upon them.
the fruits were all put into bins, each kind by itself.
and now the preparations were finished.
there was no time to lose before setting to work.
the spot which mother mitchel had chosen for her great edifice was a pretty hill on which a plateau formed a splendid site.
this hill commanded the capital city, built upon the slope of another hill close by.
after having beaten down the earth till it was as smooth as a floor, they spread over it loads of bread crumbs, brought from the baker's, and levelled it with rake and spade, as we do gravel in our garden walks.
little birds, as greedy as themselves, came in flocks to the feast, but they might eat as they liked, it would never be missed, so thick was the carpet.
it was a great chance for the bold little things.
all the ingredients for the tart were now ready.
upon order of mother mitchel they began to peel the apples and pears and to take out the pips.
the weather was so pleasant that the girls sat out of doors, upon the ground, in long rows.
the sun looked down upon them with a merry face.
each of the little workers had a big earthen pan, and peeled incessantly the apples which the boys brought them.
when the pans were full, they were carried away and others were brought.
they had also to carry away the peels, or the girls would have been buried in them.
never was there such a peeling before.
not far away, the children were stoning the plums, cherries, and peaches.
this work, being the easiest, was given to the youngest and most inexperienced hands, which were all first carefully washed, for mother mitchel, though not very particular about her own toilet, was very neat in her cooking.
the schoolhouse, long unused (for in the country of the greedy they had forgotten everything), was arranged for this second class of workers, and the cat was their inspector.
he walked round and round, growling if he saw the fruit popping into any of the little mouths.
if they had dared, how they would have pelted him with plum stones!
but no one risked it.
fanfreluche was not to be trifled with.
in those days powdered sugar had not been invented, and to grate it all was no small affair.
it was the work that the grocers used to dislike the most; both lungs and arms were soon tired.
but mother mitchel was there to sustain them with her unequalled energy.
she chose the labourers from the most robust of the boys.
with mallet and knife she broke the cones into round pieces, and they grated them till they were too small to hold.
the bits were put into baskets to be pounded.
one would never have expected to find all the thousand pounds of sugar again.
but a new miracle was wrought by mother mitchel.
it was all there!
it was then the turn of the ambitious scullions to enter the lists and break the seven thousand eggs for mother mitchel.
it was not hard to break them any fool could do that; but to separate adroitly the yolks and the whites demands some talent, and, above all, great care.
we dare not say that there were no accidents here, no eggs too well scrambled, no baskets upset.
but the experience of mother mitchel had counted upon such things, and it may truly be said that there were never so many eggs broken at once, or ever could be again.
to make an omelette of them would have taken a saucepan as large as a skating pond, and the fattest cook that ever lived could not hold the handle of such a saucepan.
but this was not all.
now that the yolks and whites were once divided, they must each be beaten separately in wooden bowls, to give them the necessary lightness.
the egg beaters were marshalled into two brigades, the yellow and the white.
every one preferred the white, for it was much more amusing to make those snowy masses that rose up so high than to beat the yolks, which knew no better than to mix together like so much sauce.
mother mitchel, with her usual wisdom, had avoided this difficulty by casting lots.
thus, those who were not on the white side had no reason to complain of oppression.
and truly, when all was done, the whites and the yellows were equally tired.
all had cramps in their hands.
now began the real labour of mother mitchel.
till now she had been the commander-in-chief the head only; now she put her own finger in the pie.
first, she had to make sweetmeats and jam out of all the immense quantity of fruit she had stored.
for this, as she could only do one kind at a time, she had ten kettles, each as big as a dinner table.
during forty-eight hours the cooking went on; a dozen scullions blew the fire and put on the fuel.
mother mitchel, with a spoon that four modern cooks could hardly lift, never ceased stirring and trying the boiling fruit.
three expert tasters, chosen from the most dainty, had orders to report progress every half hour.
it is unnecessary to state that all the sweetmeats were perfectly successful, or that they were of exquisite consistency, colour, and perfume.
with mother mitchel there was no such word as fail.
when each kind of sweetmeat was finished, she skimmed it, and put it away to cool in enormous bowls before potting.
she did not use for this the usual little glass or earthen jars, but great stone ones, like those in the "forty thieves."
not only did these take less time to fill, but they were safe from the children.
the scum and the scrapings were something, to be sure.
but there was little toto, who thought this was not enough.
he would have jumped into one of the bowls if they had not held him.
mother mitchel, who thought of everything, had ordered two hundred great kneading troughs, wishing that all the utensils of this great work should be perfectly new.
these two hundred troughs, like her other materials, were all delivered punctually and in good order.
the pastry cooks rolled up their sleeves and began to knead the dough with cries of "hi!
hi!"
that could be heard for miles.
it was odd to see this army of bakers in serried ranks, all making the same gestures at once, like well-disciplined soldiers, stooping and rising together in time, so that a foreign ambassador wrote to his court that he wished his people could load and fire as well as these could knead.
such praise a people never forgets.
when each troughful of paste was approved it was moulded with care into the form of bricks, and with the aid of the engineer-in-chief, a young genius who had gained the first prize in the school of architecture, the majestic edifice was begun.
mother mitchel herself drew the plan; in following her directions, the young engineer showed himself modest beyond all praise.
he had the good sense to understand that the architecture of tarts and pies had rules of its own, and that therefore the experience of mother mitchel was worth all the scientific theories in the world.
the inside of the monument was divided into as many compartments as there were kinds of fruits.
the walls were no less than four feet thick.
when they were finished, twenty-four ladders were set up, and twenty-four experienced cooks ascended them.
these first-class artists were each of them armed with an enormous cooking spoon.
behind them, on the lower rounds of the ladders, followed the kitchen boys, carrying on their heads pots and pans filled to the brim with jam and sweetmeats, each sort ready to be poured into its destined compartment.
this colossal labour was accomplished in one day, and with wonderful exactness.
when the sweetmeats were used to the last drop, when the great spoons had done all their work, the twenty-four cooks descended to earth again.
the intrepid mother mitchel, who had never quitted the spot, now ascended, followed by the noble fanfreluche, and dipped her finger into each of the compartments, to assure herself that everything was right.
this part of her duty was not disagreeable, and many of the scullions would have liked to perform it.
but they might have lingered too long over the enchanting task.
as for mother mitchel, she had been too well used to sweets to be excited now.
she only wished to do her duty and to insure success.
all went on well.
mother mitchel had given her approbation.
nothing was needed now but to crown the sublime and delicious edifice by placing upon it the crust that is, the roof, or dome.
this delicate operation was confided to the engineer-in-chief who now showed his superior genius.
the dome, made beforehand of a single piece, was raised in the air by means of twelve balloons, whose force of ascension had been carefully calculated.
first it was directed, by ropes, exactly over the top of the tart; then at the word of command it gently descended upon the right spot.
it was not a quarter of an inch out of place.
this was a great triumph for mother mitchel and her able assistant.
but all was not over.
how should this colossal tart be cooked?
that was the question that agitated all the people of the greedy country, who came in crowds lords and commons to gaze at the wonderful spectacle.
some of the envious or ill-tempered declared it would be impossible to cook the edifice which mother mitchel had built; and the doctors were, no one knows why, the saddest of all.
mother mitchel, smiling at the general bewilderment, mounted the summit of the tart; she waved her crutch in the air, and while her cat miaowed in his sweetest voice, suddenly there issued from the woods a vast number of masons, drawing wagons of well-baked bricks, which they had prepared in secret.
this sight silenced the ill-wishers and filled the hearts of the greedy with hope.
in two days an enormous furnace was built around and above the colossal tart, which found itself shut up in an immense earthen pot.
thirty huge mouths, which were connected with thousands of winding pipes for conducting heat all over the building, were soon choked with fuel, by the help of two hundred charcoal burners, who, obeying a private signal, came forth in long array from the forest, each carrying his sack of coal.
behind them stood mother mitchel with a box of matches, ready to fire each oven as it was filled.
of course the kindlings had not been forgotten, and was all soon in a blaze.
when the fire was lighted in the thirty ovens, when they saw the clouds of smoke rolling above the dome, that announced that the cooking had begun, the joy of the people was boundless.
poets improvised odes, and musicians sung verses without end, in honour of the superb prince who had been inspired to feed his people in so dainty a manner, when other rulers could not give them enough even of dry bread.
the names of mother mitchel and of the illustrious engineer were not forgotten in this great glorification.
next to his majesty, they were certainly the first of mankind, and their names were worthy of going down with his to the remotest posterity.
all the envious ones were thunderstruck.
they tried to console themselves by saying that the work was not yet finished, and that an accident might happen at the last moment.
but they did not really believe a word of this.
notwithstanding all their efforts to look cheerful, it had to be acknowledged that the cooking was possible.
their last resource was to declare the tart a bad one, but that would be biting off their own noses.
as for declining to eat it, envy could never go so far as that in the country of the greedy.
after two days, the unerring nose of mother mitchel discovered that the tart was cooked to perfection.
the whole country was perfumed with its delicious aroma.
nothing more remained but to take down the furnaces.
mother mitchel made her official announcement to his majesty, who was delighted, and complimented her upon her punctuality.
one day was still wanting to complete the month.
during this time the people gave their eager help to the engineer in the demolition, wishing to have a hand in the great national work and to hasten the blessed moment.
in the twinkling of an eye the thing was done.
the bricks were taken down one by one, counted carefully, and carried into the forest again, to serve for another occasion.
the tart, unveiled, appeared at last in all its majesty and splendour.
the dome was gilded, and reflected the rays of the sun in the most dazzling manner.
the wildest excitement and rapture ran through the land of the greedy.
each one sniffed with open nostrils the appetizing perfume.
their mouths watered, their eyes filled with tears, they embraced, pressed each other's hands, and indulged in touching pantomimes.
then the people of town and country, united by one rapturous feeling, joined hands, and danced in a ring around the grand confection.
no one dared to touch the tart before the arrival of his majesty.
meanwhile, something must be done to allay the universal impatience, and they resolved to show mother mitchel the gratitude with which all hearts were filled.
she was crowned with the laurel of conquerors, which is also the laurel of sauce, thus serving a double purpose.
then they placed her, with her crutch and her cat, upon a sort of throne, and carried her all round her vast work.
before her marched all the musicians of the town, dancing, drumming, fifing, and tooting upon all instruments, while behind her pressed an enthusiastic crowd, who rent the air with their plaudits and filled it with a shower of caps.
her fame was complete, and a noble pride shone on her countenance.
the royal procession arrived.
a grand stairway had been built, so that the king and his ministers could mount to the summit of this monumental tart.
thence the king, amid a deep silence, thus addressed his people:
"my children," said he, "you adore tarts.
you despise all other food.
if you could, you would even eat tarts in your sleep.
very well.
eat as much as you like.
here is one big enough to satisfy you.
but know this, that while there remains a single crumb of this august tart, from the height of which i am proud to look down on you, all other food is forbidden you on pain of death.
while you are here, i have ordered all the pantries to be emptied and, all the butchers, bakers, pork milk dealers, and fishmongers to shut up their shops.
why leave them open?
why indeed?
have you not here at discretion what you love best, and enough to last you ever, ever so long?
devote yourselves to it with all your hearts.
i do not wish you to be bored with the sight of any other food.
"greedy ones!
behold your tart!"
what enthusiastic applause.
what frantic hurrahs rent the air, in answer to this eloquent speech from the throne!
"long live the king, mother mitchel, and her cat!
long live the tart!
down with soup!
down with bread!
to the bottom of the sea with all beefsteaks, mutton chops, and roasts!"
such cries came from every lip.
old men gently stroked their chops, children patted their little stomachs, and the crowd licked its thousand lips with eager joy.
even the babies danced in their nurses'
arms, so precocious was the passion for tarts in this singular country.
grave professors, skipping like kids, declaimed latin verses in honour of his majesty and mother mitchel, and the shyest young girls opened their mouths like the beaks of little birds.
as for the doctors, they felt a joy beyond expression.
they had reflected.
they understood.
but my friends!
at last the signal was given.
a detachment of the engineer corps arrived, armed with pick and cutlass, and marched in good order to the assault.
a breach was soon opened, and the distribution began.
the king smiled at the opening in the tart; though vast, it hardly showed more than a mouse hole in the monstrous wall.
the king stroked his beard grandly.
"all goes well," said he, "for him who knows how to wait."
who can tell how long the feast would have lasted if the king had not given his command that it should cease?
once more they expressed their gratitude with cries so stifled that they resembled grunts, and then rushed to the river.
never had a nation been so besmeared.
some were daubed to the eyes, others had their ears and hair all sticky.
as for the little ones, they were marmalade from head to foot.
when they had finished their toilets, the river ran all red and yellow and was sweetened for several hours, to the great surprise of all the fishes.
before returning home, the people presented themselves before the king to receive his commands.
"children!"
said he, "the feast will begin again exactly at six o'clock.
give time to wash the dishes and change the tablecloths, and you may once more give yourselves over to pleasure.
you shall feast twice a day as long as the tart lasts.
do not forget.
yes!
if there is not enough in this one, i will even order another from mother mitchel; for you know that great woman is indefatigable.
your happiness is my only aim."
(marks of universal joy and emotion.)
"you understand?
noon, and six o'clock!
there is no need for me to say be punctual!
go, then, my children be happy!"
the second feast was as gay as the first, and as long.
a pleasant walk in the suburbs first exercise then a nap, had refreshed their appetites and unlimbered their jaws.
but the king fancied that the breach made in the tart was a little smaller than that of the morning.
"'tis well!"
said he, "'tis well!
wait till to-morrow, my friends; yes, till day after to-morrow, and next week!"
the next day the feast still went on gayly; yet at the evening meal the king noticed some empty seats.
"why is this?"
said he, with pretended indifference, to the court physician.
"your majesty," said the great olibriers, "a few weak stomachs; that is all."
on the next day there were larger empty spaces.
the enthusiasm visibly abated.
the eighth day the crowd had diminished one half; the ninth, three quarters; the tenth day, of the thousand who came at first, only two hundred remained; on the eleventh day only one hundred; and on the twelfth alas!
who would have thought it?
a single one answered to the call.
truly he was big enough.
his body resembled a hogshead, his mouth an oven, and his lips we dare not say what.
he was known in the town by the name of patapouf.
they dug out a fresh lump for him from the middle of the tart.
it quickly vanished in his vast interior, and he retired with great dignity, proud to maintain the honour of his name and the glory of the greedy kingdom.
but the next day, even he, the very last, appeared no more.
the unfortunate patapouf had succumbed, and, like all the other inhabitants of the country, was in a very bad way.
in short, it was soon known that the whole town had suffered agonies that night from too much tart.
let us draw a veil over those hours of torture.
mother mitchel was in despair.
those ministers who had not guessed the secret dared not open their lips.
all the city was one vast hospital.
no one was seen in the streets but doctors and apothecaries' boys, running from house to house in frantic haste.
it was dreadful!
doctor olibriers was nearly knocked out.
as for the king, he held his tongue and shut himself up in his palace, but a secret joy shone in his eyes, to the wonder of every one.
he waited three days without a word.
the third day, the king said to his ministers:
"let us go now and see how my poor people are doing, and feel their pulse a little."
the good king went to every house, without forgetting a single one.
he visited small and great, rich and poor.
"oh, oh!
your majesty," said all, "the tart was good, but may we never see it again!
plague on that tart!
better were dry bread.
your majesty, for mercy's sake, a little dry bread!
oh, a morsel of dry bread, how good it would be!"
"no, indeed," replied the king.
"there is more of that tart!"
"what!
your majesty, must we eat it all?"
"you must!"
sternly replied the king; "you must!
by the immortal beefsteaks!
not one of you shall have a slice of bread, and not a loaf shall be baked in the kingdom while there remains a crumb of that excellent tart!"
"what misery!"
thought these poor people.
"that tart forever!"
the sufferers were in despair.
there was only one cry through all the town: "ow!
ow!
ow!"
for even the strongest and most courageous were in horrible agonies.
they twisted, they writhed, they lay down, they got up.
always the inexorable colic.
the dogs were not happier than their masters; even they had too much tart.
the spiteful tart looked in at all the windows.
built upon a height, it commanded the town.
the mere sight of it made everybody ill, and its former admirers had nothing but curses for it now.
unhappily, nothing they could say or do made it any smaller; still formidable, it was a frightful joke for those miserable mortals.
most of them buried their heads in their pillows, drew their nightcaps over their eyes, and lay in bed all day to shut out the sight of it.
but this would not do; they knew, they felt it was there.
it was a nightmare, a horrible burden, a torturing anxiety.
in the midst of this terrible consternation the king remained inexorable during eight days.
his heart bled for his people, but the lesson must sink deep if it were to bear fruit in future.
when their pains were cured, little by little, through fasting alone, and his subjects pronounced these trembling words, "we are hungry!"
the king sent them trays laden with the inevitable tart.
"ah!"
cried they, with anguish, "the tart again!
always the tart, and nothing but the tart!
better were death!"
a few, who were almost famished, shut their eyes, and tried to eat a bit of the detested food; but it was all in vain they could not swallow a mouthful.
at length came the happy day when the king, thinking their punishment had been severe enough and could never be forgotten, believed them at length cured of their greediness.
that day he ordered mother mitchel to make in one of her colossal pots a super-excellent soup of which a bowl was sent to every family.
they received it with as much rapture as the hebrews did the manna in the desert.
they would gladly have had twice as much, but after their long fast it would not have been prudent.
it was a proof that they had learned something already, that they understood this.
the next day, more soup.
this time the king allowed slices of bread in it.
how this good soup comforted all the town!
the next day there was a little more bread in it and a little soup meat.
then for a few days the kind prince gave them roast beef and vegetables.
the cure was complete.
the joy over this new diet was as great as ever had been felt for the tart.
it promised to last longer.
they were sure to sleep soundly, and to wake refreshed.
it was pleasant to see in every house tables surrounded with happy, rosy faces, and laden with good nourishing food.
the greedy people never fell back into their old ways.
their once puffed-out, sallow faces shone with health; they became, not fat, but muscular, ruddy, and solid.
the butchers and bakers reopened their shops; the pastry cooks and confectioners shut theirs.
the country of the greedy was turned upside down, and if it kept its name, it was only from habit.
as for the tart, it was forgotten.
to-day, in that marvellous country, there cannot be found a paper of sugarplums or a basket of cakes.
it is charming to see the red lips and the beautiful teeth of the people.
if they have still a king, he may well be proud to be their ruler.
does this story teach that tarts and pies should never be eaten?
no; but there is reason in all things.
the doctors alone did not profit by this great revolution.
they could not afford to drink wine any longer in a land where indigestion had become unknown.
the apothecaries were no less unhappy, spiders spun webs over their windows, and their horrible remedies were no longer of use.
ask no more about mother mitchel.
she was ridiculed without measure by those who had adored her.
to complete her misfortune, she lost her cat.
alas for mother mitchel!
the king received the reward of his wisdom.
his grateful people called him neither charles the bold, nor peter the terrible, nor louis the great, but always by the noble name of prosper i, the reasonable.
thankful[1]
by mary e. wilkins freeman.
this tale is evidence that mrs. freeman understands     the children of new england as well as she knows their     parents.
there is a doll in the story, but boys will     not mind this as there are also two turkey-gobblers and     a pewter dish full of revolutionary bullets.
submit thompson sat on the stone wall; sarah adams, an erect, prim little figure, ankle-deep in dry grass, stood beside it, holding thankful.
thankful was about ten inches long, made of the finest linen, with little rosy cheeks, and a fine little wig of flax.
she wore a blue wool frock and a red cloak.
sarah held her close.
she even drew a fold of her own blue homespun blanket around her to shield her from the november wind.
the sky was low and gray; the wind blew from the northeast, and had the breath of snow in it.
submit on the wall drew her quilted petticoats close down over her feet, and huddled herself into a small space, but her face gleamed keen and resolute out of the depths of a great red hood that belonged to her mother.
her eyes were fixed upon a turkey-gobbler ruffling and bobbing around the back door of the adams house.
the two gambrel-roofed thompson and adams houses were built as close together as if the little village of bridgewater were a city.
acres of land stretched behind them and at the other sides, but they stood close to the road, and close to each other.
the narrow space between them was divided by a stone wall which was submit's and sarah's trysting-place.
they met there every day and exchanged confidences.
they loved each other like sisters neither of them had an own sister but to-day a spirit of rivalry had arisen.
the tough dry blackberry vines on the wall twisted around submit; she looked, with her circle of red petticoat, like some strange late flower blooming out on the wall.
"i know he don't, sarah adams," said she.
"father said he'd weigh twenty pounds," returned sarah, in a small, weak voice, which still had persistency in it.
"i don't believe he will.
our thanksgiving turkey is twice as big.
you know he is, sarah adams."
"no, i don't, submit thompson."
"yes, you do."
sarah lowered her chin, and shook her head with a decision that was beyond words.
she was a thin, delicate-looking little girl, her small blue-clad figure bent before the wind, but there was resolution in her high forehead and her sharp chin.
submit nodded violently.
sarah shook her head again.
she hugged thankful, and shook her head, with her eyes still staring defiantly into submit's hood.
submit's black eyes in the depths of it were like two sparks.
she nodded vehemently; the gesture was not enough for her; she nodded and spoke together.
"sarah adams," said she, "what will you give me if our turkey is bigger than your turkey?"
"it ain't."
"what will you give me if it is?"
sarah stared at submit.
"i don't know what you mean, submit thompson,"
said she, with a stately and puzzled air.
"well, i'll tell you.
if your turkey weighs more than ours i'll give you i'll give you my little work-box with the picture on the top, and if our turkey weighs more than yours you give me   what will you give me, sarah adams?"
sarah hung her flaxen head with a troubled air.
"i don't know," said she.
"i don't believe i've got anything mother would be willing to have me give away."
"there's thankful.
your mother wouldn't care if you gave her away."
sarah started, and hugged thankful closer.
"yes, my mother would care, too," said she.
"don't you know my aunt rose from boston made her and gave her to me?"
sarah's beautiful young aunt rose from boston was the special admiration of both the little girls.
submit was ordinarily impressed by her name, but now she took it coolly.
"what if she did?"
she returned.
"she can make another.
it's just made out of a piece of old linen, anyhow.
my work-box is real handsome; but you can do just as you are a mind to."
"do you mean i can have the work-box to keep?"
inquired sarah.
"course i do, if your turkey's bigger."
sarah hesitated.
"our turkey is bigger anyhow," she murmured.
"don't you think i ought to ask mother, submit?"
she inquired suddenly.
"no!
what for?
i don't see anything to ask your mother for.
she won't care anything about that rag doll."
"ain't you going to ask your mother about the work-box?"
"no," replied submit stoutly.
"it's mine; my grandmother gave it to me."
sarah reflected.
"i know our turkey is the biggest," she said, looking lovingly at thankful, as if to justify herself to her.
"well, i don't care," she added, finally.
"will you?"
"yes."
"when's yours going to be killed?"
"this afternoon."
"so's ours.
then we'll find out."
sarah tucked thankful closer under her shawl.
"i know our turkey is biggest," said she.
she looked very sober, although her voice was defiant.
just then the great turkey came swinging through the yard.
he held up his head proudly and gobbled.
his every feather stood out in the wind.
he seemed enormous a perfect giant among turkeys.
"look at him!"
said sarah, edging a little closer to the wall; she was rather afraid of him.
"he ain't half so big as ours," returned submit, stoutly; but her heart sank.
the thompson turkey did look very large.
"submit!
submit!"
called a voice from the thompson house.
submit slowly got down from the wall.
"his feathers are a good deal thicker than ours," she said, defiantly, to sarah.
"submit," called the voice, "come right home!
i want you to pare apples for the pies.
be quick!"
"yes, marm," submit answered back, in a shrill voice; "i'm coming!"
then she went across the yard and into the kitchen door of the thompson house, like a red robin into a nest.
submit had been taught to obey her mother promptly.
mrs. thompson was a decided woman.
sarah looked after submit, then she gathered thankful closer, and also went into the house.
her mother, as well as mrs. thompson, was preparing for thanksgiving.
the great kitchen was all of a pleasant litter with pie plates and cake pans and mixing bowls, and full of warm, spicy odours.
the oven in the chimney was all heated and ready for a batch of apple and pumpkin pies.
mrs. adams was busy sliding them in, but she stopped to look at sarah and thankful.
sarah was her only child.
"why, what makes you look so sober?"
said she.
"nothing," replied sarah.
she had taken off her blanket, and sat in one of the straight-backed kitchen chairs, holding thankful.
"you look dreadful sober," said her mother.
"are you tired?"
"no, marm."
"i'm afraid you've got cold standing out there in the wind.
do you feel chilly?"
"no, marm.
mother, how much do you suppose our turkey weighs?"
"i believe father said he'd weigh about twenty pounds.
you are sure you don't feel chilly?"
"no, marm.
mother, do you suppose our turkey weighs more than submit's?"
"how do you suppose i can tell?
i ain't set eyes on their turkey lately.
if you feel well, you'd better sit up to the table and stone that bowl of raisins.
put your dolly away, and get your apron."
but sarah stoned raisins with thankful in her lap, hidden under her apron.
she was so full of anxiety that she could not bear to put her away.
suppose the thompson turkey should be larger, and she should lose thankful thankful that her beautiful aunt rose had made for her?
submit, over in the thompson house, had sat down at once to her apple paring.
she had not gone into the best room to look at the work-box whose possession she had hazarded.
it stood in there on the table, made of yellow satiny wood, with a sliding lid ornamented with a beautiful little picture.
submit had a certain pride in it, but her fear of losing it was not equal to her hope of possessing thankful.
submit had never had a doll, except a few plebeian ones, manufactured secretly out of corncobs, whom it took more imagination than she possessed to admire.
gradually all emulation over the turkeys was lost in the naughty covetousness of her little friend and neighbour's doll.
submit felt shocked and guilty, but she sat there paring the baldwin apples, and thinking to herself: "if our turkey is only bigger, if it only is, then i shall have thankful."
her mouth was pursed up and her eyes snapped.
she did not talk at all, but pared very fast.
her mother looked at her.
"if you don't take care, you'll cut your fingers," said she.
"you are in too much of a hurry.
i suppose you want to get out and gossip with sarah again at the wall, but i can't let you waste any more time to-day.
there, i told you you would!"
submit had cut her thumb quite severely.
she choked a little when her mother tied it up, and put on some balm of gilead, which made it smart worse.
"don't cry!"
said her mother.
"you'll have to bear more than a cut thumb if you live."
and submit did not let the tears fall.
she came from a brave race.
her great-grandfather had fought in the revolution; his sword and regimentals were packed in the fine carved chest in the best room.
over the kitchen shelf hung an old musket with which her great-grandmother, guarding her home and children, had shot an indian.
in a little closet beside the chimney was an old pewter dish full of homemade revolutionary bullets, which submit and her brothers had for playthings.
a little girl who played with revolutionary bullets ought not to cry over a cut thumb.
submit finished paring the apples after her thumb was tied up, although she was rather awkward about it.
then she pounded spices in the mortar, and picked over cranberries.
her mother kept her busy every minute until dinnertime.
when submit's father and her two brothers, thomas and jonas, had come in, she began on the subject nearest her heart.
"father," said she, "how much do you think our thanksgiving turkey will weigh?"
mr. thompson was a deliberate man.
he looked at her a minute before replying.
"seventeen or eighteen pounds," replied he.
"oh, father!
don't you think he will weigh twenty?"
mr. thompson shook his head.
"he don't begin to weigh so much as the adams' turkey," said jonas.
"their turkey weighs twenty pounds."
"oh, thomas!
do you think their turkey weighs more than ours?"
cried submit.
thomas was her elder brother; he had a sober, judicial air like his father.
"their turkey weighs considerable more than ours," said he.
submit's face fell.
"you are not showing a right spirit," said her mother, severely.
"why should you care if the adams' turkey does weigh more?
i am ashamed of you!"
submit said no more.
she ate her dinner soberly.
afterward she wiped dishes while her mother washed.
all the time she was listening.
her father and brothers had gone out; presently she started.
"oh, mother, they're killing the turkey!"
said she.
"well, don't stop while the dishes are hot, if they are," returned her mother.
submit wiped obediently, but as soon as the dishes were set away, she stole out in the barn where her father and brothers were picking the turkey.
"father, when are you going to weigh him?"
she asked timidly.
"not till to-night," said her father.
"submit!"
called her mother.
submit went in and swept the kitchen floor.
it was an hour after that, when her mother was in the south room, getting it ready for her grandparents, who were coming home to thanksgiving they had been on a visit to their youngest son that submit crept slyly into the pantry.
the turkey lay there on the broad shelf before the window.
submit looked at him.
she thought he was small.
"he was 'most all feathers,"
she whispered, ruefully.
she stood looking disconsolately at the turkey.
suddenly her eyes flashed and a red flush came over her face.
it was as if satan, coming into that godly new england home three days before thanksgiving, had whispered in her ear.
presently submit stole softly back into the kitchen, set a chair before the chimney cupboard, climbed up, and got the pewter dish full of revolutionary bullets.
then she stole back to the pantry and emptied the bullets into the turkey's crop.
then she got a needle and thread from her mother's basket, sewed up the crop carefully, and set the empty dish back in the cupboard.
she had just stepped down out of the chair when her brother jonas came in.
"submit," said he, "let's have one game of odd or even with the bullets."
"i am too busy," said submit.
"i've got to spin my stint."
"just one game.
mother won't care."
"no; i can't."
submit flew to her spinning wheel in the corner.
jonas, still remonstrating, strolled into the pantry.
"i don't believe mother wants you in there," submit said anxiously.
"see here, submit," jonas called out in an eager voice, "i'll get the steelyards, and we'll weigh the turkey.
we can do it as well as anybody."
submit left her spinning wheel.
she was quite pale with trepidation when jonas and she adjusted the turkey in the steelyards.
what if those bullets should rattle out?
but they did not.
"he weighs twenty pounds and a quarter," announced jonas, with a gasp, after peering anxiously at the figures.
"he's the biggest turkey that was ever raised in these parts."
jonas exulted a great deal, but submit did not say much.
as soon as jonas had laid the turkey back on the shelf and gone out, she watched her chance and removed the bullets, replacing them in the pewter dish.
when mr. thompson and thomas came home at twilight there was a deal of talk over the turkey.
"the adams' turkey doesn't weigh but nineteen pounds," jonas announced.
"sarah was out there when they weighed him, and she 'most cried."
"i think sarah and submit and all of you are very foolish about it,"
said mrs. thompson severely.
"what difference does it make if one weighs a pound or two more than the other, if there is enough to go round?"
"submit looks as if she was sorry ours weighed the most now," said jonas.
"my thumb aches," said submit.
"go and get the balm of gilead bottle, and put some more on," ordered her mother.
that night when she went to bed she could not say her prayers.
when she woke in the morning it was with a strange, terrified feeling, as if she had climbed a wall into some unknown dreadful land.
she wondered if sarah would bring thankful over; she dreaded to see her coming, but she did not come.
submit herself did not stir out of the house all that day or the next, and sarah did not bring thankful until next morning.
they were all out in the kitchen about an hour before dinner.
grandfather thompson sat in his old armchair at one corner of the fireplace, grandmother thompson was knitting, and jonas and submit were cracking butternuts.
submit was a little happier this morning.
she thought sarah would never bring thankful, and so she had not done so much harm by cheating in the weight of the turkey.
there was a tug at the latch of the kitchen door; it was pushed open slowly and painfully, and sarah entered with thankful in her arms.
she said not a word to anybody, but her little face was full of woe.
she went straight to submit, and laid thankful in her lap; then she turned and fled with a great sob.
the door slammed after her.
all the thompsons stopped and looked at submit.
"submit, what does this mean?"
her father asked.
submit looked at him, trembling.
"speak," said he.
"submit, mind your father," said mrs. thompson.
"what did she bring you the doll baby for?"
asked grandmother thompson.
"sarah -was going to give me thankful if -our turkey weighed most, and i was going to -give her my -work-box if hers weighed most," said submit jerkily.
her lips felt stiff.
her father looked very sober and stern.
he turned to his father.
when grandfather thompson was at home, every one deferred to him.
even at eighty he was the recognized head of the house.
he was a wonderful old man, tall and soldierly, and full of a grave dignity.
he looked at submit, and she shrank.
"do you know," said he, "that you have been conducting yourself like unto the brawlers in the taverns and ale-houses?"
"yes, sir," murmured submit, although she did not know what he meant.
"no godly maid who heeds her elders will take part in any such foolish and sinful wager," her grandfather continued.
submit arose, hugging thankful convulsively.
she glanced wildly at her great-grandmother's musket over the shelf.
the same spirit that had aimed it at the indian possessed her, and she spoke out quite clearly:
"our turkey didn't weigh the most," said she.
"i put the revolutionary bullets in his crop."
there was silence.
submit's heart beat so hard that thankful quivered.
"go upstairs to your chamber, submit," said her mother, "and you need not come down to dinner.
jonas, take that doll and carry it over to the adams' house."
submit crept miserably out of the room, and jonas carried thankful across the yard to sarah.
submit crouched beside her little square window set with tiny panes of glass, and watched him.
she did not cry.
she was very miserable, but confession had awakened a salutary smart in her soul, like the balm of gilead on her cut thumb.
she was not so unhappy as she had been.
she wondered if her father would whip her, and she made up her mind not to cry if he did.
after jonas came back she still crouched at the window.
exactly opposite in the adams' house was another little square window, and that lighted sarah's chamber.
all of a sudden sarah's face appeared there.
the two little girls stared pitifully at each other.
presently sarah raised her window, and put a stick under it; then submit did the same.
they put their faces out, and looked at each other a minute before speaking.
sarah's face was streaming with tears.
"what you crying for?"
called submit softly.
"father sent me up here 'cause it is sinful to make bets, and aunt rose has come, and i can't have any thanksgiving dinner," wailed sarah.
"i'm wickeder than you," said submit.
"i put the revolutionary bullets in the turkey to make it weigh more than yours.
yours weighed the most.
if mother thinks it's right, i'll give you the work-box."
"i don't want it," sobbed sarah.
"i'm dreadful sorry you've got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner, submit."
answering tears sprang to submit's eyes.
"i'm dreadful sorry you've got to stay up there, and can't have any dinner," she sobbed back.
there was a touch on her shoulder.
she looked around and there stood the grandmother.
she was trying to look severe, but she was beaming kindly on her.
her fat, fair old face was as gentle as the mercy that tempers justice; her horn spectacles and her knitting needles and the gold beads on her neck all shone in the sunlight.
"you had better come downstairs, child," said she.
"dinner's 'most ready, and mebbe you can help your mother.
your father isn't going to whip you this time, because you told the truth about it, but you mustn't ever do such a dreadful wicked thing again."
"no, i won't," sobbed submit.
she looked across, and there beside sarah's face in the window was another beautiful smiling one.
it had pink cheeks and sweet black eyes and black curls, among which stood a high tortoise-shell comb.
"oh, submit!"
sarah called out, joyfully, "aunt rose says i can go down to dinner!"
"grandmother says i can!"
called back submit.
the beautiful smiling face opposite leaned close to sarah's for a minute.
"oh, submit!"
cried sarah, "aunt rose says she will make you a doll baby like thankful, if your mother's willing!"
"i guess she'll be willing if she's a good girl," called grandmother thompson.
submit looked across a second in speechless radiance.
then the faces vanished from the two little windows, and submit and sarah went down to their thanksgiving dinners.
beetle ring's thanksgiving mascot
by sheldon c. stoddard.
beetle ring had the reputation of being the toughest     lumber camp on the river.
the boys were certainly     rough, and rather hard drinkers, but their hearts were     in the right place, after all.
six months of idleness following a long run of fever, a lost position, and consequent discouragement had brought poverty and wretchedness to joe bennett.
the lumber camp on the featherstone, where he had been at work, had broken up and gone, and an old shack, deserted by some hunter, and now standing alone in the great woods, was the only home he could provide for his little family.
it had answered its purpose as a makeshift in the warm weather, but now, in late november, and with the terrible northern winter coming swiftly on, it was small wonder the young lumberman had been discouraged as he tried to forecast the future.
his strength had returned, however, and lately something of his old courage, for he had found work.
it was fifteen miles away, to be sure, and in "beetle ring" lumber camp, the camp that bore the reputation of being the roughest on the featherstone, but it was work.
he was earning something, and might hope soon to move his family into a habitable house and civilization.
but his position at beetle ring was not an enviable one.
the men took scant pains to conceal their dislike for the young fellow who steadfastly refused to "chip in" when the camp jug was sent to the skylark, the nearest saloon, some miles down the river, and who invariably declined to join in the camp's numerous sprees.
but bennett worked on quietly.
and in the meantime to the old shack in the woods the baby had come in the bleak november weather.
night was settling down over the woods.
an old half-breed woman was tending the fire in the one room of the shack, and on the wretched bed lay a fair-faced woman, the young wife and mother, who looked wistfully out at the bleak woods, white with the first snow, then turned her wan, pale face toward the tiny bundle at her side.
"your pappy will come to-night, baby," she said, softly.
"it's saturday, and your pappy will come to-night, sure."
she drew the covers more closely, and tucked them carefully about the small figure.
"mend the fire, lisette, please.
it's cold.
and, lisette, please watch out down the road.
sometimes joe comes early saturdays."
the old woman shook her head and muttered over the little pile of wood, but she fed the fire, and then turned and looked down the long white trail.
"no joe yet," she said, with a sympathetic glance toward the bed.
she looked at the thick gray clouds, and added, "heap snow soon."
but the night came down and the evening passed, while the women waited anxiously.
it was near midnight when the wife's face lighted up suddenly at a sound outside, and directly there was a pounding, uncertain step on the threshold.
the door opened and bennett came in clumsily.
the woman's little glad cry of welcome was changed to one of apprehension at her husband's appearance.
the resolute swing and bearing of the lumberman that had returned as he regained his strength were gone.
he clumped across the room unsteadily on a pair of rude crutches, his left foot swathed in bandages a big, ungainly bundle.
"what is it, joe?"
the wife asked anxiously.
"just more of my precious luck, that's all, nannie."
he threw off the old box coat and heavy cap, brushed the melting snow from his hair and beard, and without waiting to warm his chilled hands at the fire, hobbled to the bed and bent over the woman and the tiny bundle.
"are you all right, nan?"
he asked anxiously.
"all right, joe; but i've been so worried!"
"and the baby, nan?"
the wife gently pushed back the covers and proudly brought to view a tiny pink and puckered face.
"fine, joe.
she's just as fine, isn't she?"
a proud, happy light flickered for a moment in the man's eyes as he stooped to kiss the tiny face; then he shut his teeth hard and swallowed suddenly.
"what is it, joe?"
his wife asked, looking at the rudely bandaged foot.
"cut it nigh half off, and hurt the bone.
it'll be weeks before i can do a stroke of work again.
it means i don't know what, and i daren't think what, nannie.
the cook sewed it up."
he glowered at the injured member savagely.
his wife's face grew paler still, but she only asked tenderly, "how did you ever get here, joe?"
"rode one of pose breem's hosses his red roan."
"fifteen miles on horseback with that foot?
i should have thought it would have killed you, joe."
"i had to come, nan," said the lumberman.
"i didn't know how you were getting on, and i had to come."
"i didn't suppose they'd let you have a horse, any of 'em, now sleighing's come."
"they wouldn't if i'd asked 'em.
they don't seem to like me very well, and i didn't ask."
his wife's big, wistful eyes were turned upon him in quick alarm.
"i'm scared, joe, if you took a horse without asking.
what'll they think?
where is it, joe?"
"don't ye worry, nan.
i've sent the horse back by pikepole pete.
he'll have him back before morning pose won't miss him till then and i wrote a note explaining.
pose will be mad some, but he'll get over it."
the young lumberman listened uneasily to the storm, which was increasing, looked at his wife's pale face a moment, and added:
"i had to come, nan.
i just had to."
but the woman was only half reassured.
"if anything should happen," she said, "if he shouldn't get it back, they'd think you you stole it, and  "
"there, there, nan!"
broke in her husband, "don't be crossing bridges.
pete'll take the horse back.
i've done the fellow lots of favours, and he won't go back on me.
don't worry, girl!"
he moved the bandaged foot and winced, but not from the pain of the wound.
the hard look grew deeper on his face.
"i'm down on my luck, nan," he said, hopelessly.
"there's no use trying.
everything's against me, everything following me like grim death.
and grim death," he jerked the words out harshly, "is like to be the end of it, here in this old shack that's not fit to winter hogs in, let alone humans.
there's not wood enough cut to last a week.
you'll freeze, nan, you and the baby, and i'm just nothing."
he took two silver dollars from his pocket, and said, almost savagely, "there's what we've got to winter on, and me crippled."
but his wife put her hand on his softly.
"don't you give up so, joe,"
she said.
and presently she added: "next thursday's thanksgiving.
we've seen hard times, and we may see harder, but i never knew thanksgiving to come yet without something to be thankful for never."
outside the storm continued, fine snow sifting down rapidly.
"pikepole pete" found stiff work facing it, and bent low over the red roan's neck.
"blue blazes!"
he muttered.
"bennett's a good fellow all right, and he's hurt; but if he hadn't nigh saved my life twice he could get this critter back himself fer all of me!"
he glanced at the dark woods and drew up suddenly.
"the road forks here, and turner's is yonder less than a mile.
i'll hitch in his barn a spell and go on later," and he took the turner fork.
but at turner's pete found two or three congenial spirits and a jug; and a few hours later the easy-going fellow was deep in a tipsy sleep that would last for hours.
the following sunday morning came bright and clear upon freshly fallen snow that softened all the ruder outlines of town and field and woods.
beetle ring camp lay wrapped in fleecy whiteness.
the camp was late astir, for sunday was beetle ring's day not of rest, but of carousal.
two men had started out rather early the camp's jug delegation to the skylark.
presently the men began to straggle out to the snug row of sheds where the horses were kept.
posey breem yawned lazily as he threw open the door of his particular stall, then suddenly brought himself together with a jerk and stared fixedly.
"what ails you now, pose?
seen a ghost?"
"skid" thomson stopped with the big measure of feed which he was carrying.
"no, i've seen no ghost," said breem slowly, still staring.
"look here, skid!"
thomson looked into the stall, and nearly dropped the measure.
"by george, pose!"
he said.
"by george!"
the news flew over the camp like wildfire.
posey breem's red roan, the best horse in the camp, had been stolen!
the burly lumbermen came hurrying from all directions.
there was no doubt about it the horse was gone, and the snow had covered every trace.
there was absolutely no clue to follow.
silently and sullenly the men filed in to breakfast.
in a lumberman's eyes hardly a crime could exceed that of horse stealing.
"what i want to know is," said breem, as he glanced sharply round the long room of the camp, "what's become of that yellow-haired jay bennett?"
"by george!"
said skid thomson, "that's right!
where is the critter?"
"skipped!"
said bill bates, sententiously, after a quick search had been made.
"it's all plain enough now.
i never liked the close-fisted critter."
"nor i, either!"
growled skid.
"never chipped in with the boys, but was laying low just the same."
"you won't catch him, either," said bates.
"they're sharp that kind.
the critter knew 'twould snow and hide his tracks."
"and i'd just sewed up his blamed foot!"
muttered the cook in disgust.
"maybe we'll catch him.
up to fat pine two years ago," began breem, reminiscently, "big donovan had a horse stole.
they caught the fellow."
"yes, i remember," said skid thomson.
"i was there.
we caught him up north."
the men nodded understandingly and approvingly.
"wuth a hundred and fifty dollars, the roan was," said breem.
beetle ring camp passed an uneasy day, the "jug" for once receiving scant attention.
late in the afternoon "trapper john," an old half-breed who hunted and trapped about the woods, stopped at the camp to get warm.
"didn't see anybody with a horse last night or this morning, eh, john?"
asked posey breem.
"um, yes," responded the old trapper, quickly.
"saw um horse las'
night man ride big foot so."
old john held out his arms in exaggerated illustration.
beetle ring rose to its feet as one man.
"what colour was the horse, john?"
asked breem softly.
"huh!
can't see good after dark, but think um roan."
breem looked slowly round the silent camp, and beetle ring grimly made ready for business.
it was evening when the men stopped a few rods below the shack.
a light shone out from a window, lighting up a little space in the sombre woods.
"the fellow's got pals prob'bly," said posey breem.
"you wait here while i do a little scouting."
breem crept cautiously into the circle of light, and glancing through the uncurtained window, saw his man with his "pals."
he saw upon the miserable bed a woman with a thin, pale face and sad, wistful eyes, eyes that yet lighted up with a beautiful pride as they rested upon the man, who sat close by, holding a tiny bundle in his arms.
the man shifted his position a little, so that the light fell upon the bundle, and then the watcher outside saw the sleeping face of a baby.
there was a rumour in the camp that posey breem had not always been the man that he was that a woman had once blessed his life.
but since they had carried the young mother away, with her dead baby on her breast, to place the two in one deep grave together, he had gone steadily downward.
with hungry eyes breem gazed at the scene in the poor little house, his thoughts flying backward over the years.
a sudden sharp, impatient whistle roused him, and he strode hastily back to the waiting men.
"well, pose?"
interrogated skid impatiently.
"he's there, all right," said breem, in a peculiar tone.
"i ain't overmuch given to advising prowling round folks' houses, but you fellows just look in yonder."
he jerked his head toward the shack.
and a line of big, rough-looking men filed into the little illumined space, to come back presently silent and subdued.
"now let's go home," said breem, turning his horse toward camp.
"and your horse, pose?"
questioned bates.
"burn the horse!"
said breem quickly.
"d'ye think the like of yonder's a horse thief?
i ain't worrying 'bout the horse."
and the men rode back to camp silently.
the next morning, when breem swung open the door of the stall, he was not surprised to find the red roan standing quietly by the side of his mate.
a bit of crumpled paper was pinned to the blanket.
breem read:
i rode your horse.
i had to.
i'll surely make it right.
bennett.
"course he had to!"
growled the lumberman, and he passed the paper round.
"oncommon peart baby," said skid, at last.
"dreadful cold shack, though!"
muttered bates, conveying a quarter of a griddlecake to his mouth.
"that's just it," said pose, scowling.
"just let a stiff nip of winter come, and the woman yonder and the little critter, they'd freeze, that's what they'd do, in that old rattletrap."
the men looked at one another in solemn assent.
"and i've been thinking," continued breem, "since bennett there belonged to the camp, and since we kind of misused the fellow for being stingy for which we ought to have been smashed with logs that we have a kind of a claim on 'em, as 'twere, and they on us.
and we must get 'em out of that yonder before they freeze plumb solid."
he stopped inquiringly.
"right as right," assented several.
"and i've been thinking," said bates suddenly, "about that storeroom of ours.
it's snug and warm, and there's a lot of room in it, and we can put a stove into it and  " but the rest of bates's suggestion was drowned in a round of applause.
"and i've been thinking, just a little," put in skid thomson, "and if i've figured correct, next thursday's thanksgiving don't know as i've thought of it in ten years and if we stir round sharp we can get things ready by then, and well, 'twouldn't hurt beetle ring to celebrate for once  " but skid was also interrupted by a cheer.
"and it's my firm belief," reflected bates with an air of profound conviction, "that that baby of bennett's was designed special and, as you might say, providential, for to be beetle ring's mascot.
fat pine and horseshoe have 'em mascots to bring luck, and i've noticed beetle ring ain't had the luck lately it should have."
bates paused, and the camp meditated in silent delight.
thanksgiving morning was a cold one, but clear.
more snow had fallen, and the deep, feathery whiteness stretched away until lost in the dark background of the pines and spruces.
a wavering line of smoke rose over the roof of the little old shack in the woods.
bennett was winding rags round the armpieces of the rough crutches.
he had dragged in some short limbs the day before for fuel, but in so doing had broken open the wound, which gave him excruciating pain.
"joe," said his wife, suddenly, "where are you going?"
"i'm going to try for help, nan.
we're out of nigh everything, and my foot no better."
"you can't do it, joe.
you you'll die, if you try, joe, alone in the woods.
oh, joe!"
the look of hope that had never wholly left the woman's eyes was slowly fading out.
"we'll all die if i don't try, nannie.
i'm  "
"huh!"
suddenly exclaimed the old woman, peering out of the little window.
"heap men, heap horses!
look, see 'em come!"
bennett turned hastily, and saw a long line of stalwart men and sturdy horses threshing resolutely through the deep snow and heading directly for the shack.
he looked keenly at the men, and his face paled a little, but he said steadily, "it's the beetle ring men, nan."
his wife gave a sharp cry.
"it's the horse, joe!
it's the horse!
they're after you, joe, sure!"
she caught her husband's arm.
the men were now filling up the little space before the shack.
directly there came a sounding knock.
bennett opened the door to admit the burly frame of posey breem.
he said quietly:
"i'm here all right, pose, and i took your horse, but  "
"burn the hoss!"
said breem explosively.
"that's all right.
shake, pard!"
he held out a brawny hand.
bennett "shook" wonderingly.
"wife, pard?"
asked breem, gently, nodding toward the bed.
bennett hastily introduced him.
"kid, pard?"
breem pointed a stubby finger at the little bundle.
bennett nodded.
the lumberman grinned delightedly, then coughed a little, and began awkwardly:
"pard, th' boys over at beetle ring heard as you might say, accidental" breem coughed into his big hand "about your folks over here, your wife and the baby.
they were powerful interested, specially about the baby.
why, pard, some of the boys hain't seen a baby in ten years, and we thought as you belonged to the camp, maybe you and your wife would allow that the camp had a sort of claim on the little critter yonder."
he eyed the tiny bundle wistfully.
"and another thing that hit the boys, pard," he went on.
"up at fat pine they got what they call a mascot, bein' a tame b'ar; an' up at horseshoe they got a mascot, bein' a goat.
lots of camps have 'em fetches luck.
and the boys are sure that this baby of yours was designed special to be beetle ring's mascot.
now, pard, beetle ring, as you know, ain't what you'd call a sunday-school, but the boys they'll behave.
they fixed up that storeroom to beat all, nice bed, big stove, and lots of wood, and so on, and we've got a cow for the woman and baby.
say, we want you powerful.
got a sleigh fixed, hemlock boughs and a cover of robes and blankets, and skid'll drive careful.
he's a master at drivin', skid is.
you'll come, won't you?
the boys are waitin'."
big tears were in the woman's eyes as she turned toward her husband.
"oh, joe," she said, and choked suddenly; but she pressed the baby tightly to her breast.
"i knew 'twould come thanksgiving."
"there, pard," said breem, after blowing his nose explosively, "you just see to wrappin' up the woman and the kid, and me and skid, being as you're hurt, you know, 'll tote 'em out to the sleigh."
the young mother was soon placed carefully in the sleigh, the old woman following.
but when skid thomson appeared in the door of the old shack, bearing a tiny form muffled up with wondrous care, the whole of beetle ring shouted.
breem led up a spare horse for bennett's use.
the latter stopped short, with a curious expression on his face.
the horse was the red roan.
but breem only said, his keen eyes twinkling:
"under such circumstances as these, pard, you're welcome to all the hosses in beetle ring."
with steady, practiced hand skid thomson guided his powerful team through the deep snow, over the rough forest road; and sometimes brawny arms carried the sleigh bodily over the roughest places.
at the close of the day an anxious consultation took place in the big main room of beetle ring, and presently two men appeared outside.
they walked slowly toward what had been the camp's storeroom, but halted before the door hesitatingly.
"you go in ahead, skid, and ask 'em," said breem, earnestly, to his companion.
"no, go ahead yourself, pose.
i'd be sure to calk a hoss or split a runner, or somethin'.
go on!"
breem knocked, and both went in.
"all right, pard?"
"right as right, pose," said joe bennett.
"wife all right?"
breem turned toward the bed, and mrs. bennett smiled up at him with happy eyes, and with a bit of colour already showing in her pale face.
breem smiled back broadly.
then he asked, "and, pard, the baby?"
"peart as peart, pose."
breem waited a little, twirling his cap, but receiving a sharp thump from thomson, went on:
"the boys, pard, are anxious about the little critter.
they're kind of hankering, pard, and, mum, if you are willin', and ain't 'fraid to trust her with us, why, we'd be mighty glad to tote her just for a few minutes over to camp.
the boys are stiddy, all of 'em, stiddy as churches.
they hain't soaked a mite to-day, mum, and they ain't goin'
to; they've hove the jug into a snowdrift, and they'd take it kind, mum if you are willin'."
the woman, still smiling happily, was already wrapping up the baby.
breem held up a warning finger when he returned a little later, and again smiled delightedly.
"went to sleep a-totin' if you'll believe it, the burned little critter!"
he said, softly.
"and," he added, "the boys, pard, are mighty pleased; and, mum, they thank you kindly.
they say, the boys do, there ain't such a mascot as theirs in five hundred miles; they see luck comin', chunks of it, pard, already."
and the big fellow went out and closed the door gently.
mistress esteem elliott's molasses cake
the story of a postponed thanksgiving
older boys and girls who are familiar with "the     courtship of miles standish" will enjoy the colonial     flavour of this tale of 1705.
"obed!"
called mistress achsah ely from her front porch, "step thee over to squire belding's, quick!
here's a teacup!
ask mistress belding for the loan of some molasses.
nothing but molasses and hot water helps the baby when he is having such a turn of colic.
beseems me he will have a fit!
make haste, obed!"
at that very moment squire belding's little daughter hitty was travelling toward mistress ely's for the purpose of borrowing molasses wherewith to sweeten a ginger cake.
hitty and obed, who were of an age, met, compared notes, and then returned to their respective homes.
shortly afterward both of them darted forth again, bound on the same errands as before, only in different directions.
mr. chapin, the storekeeper, hadn't "set eyes on any molasses for a week.
the river's frozen over so mean and solid," he said, "there's no knowing when there'll be any molasses in town."
there had been very peculiar weather in colchester during this month of october, 1705. first, on the 13th (old style), an unprecedently early date, had come a "terrible cold snap," lasting three days.
this was followed by two days of phenomenal mildness.
the river had frozen over during the "cold snap," and the ice had melted during the warm days, until, on the 19th, it was breaking up and preparing to go out to sea.
in the night of the 19th had descended a frigid blast, colder than the original one.
this had arrested the broken ice, piled it up in all sorts of fantastic forms, and congealed it till it looked like a rough alaskan glacier.
after the cold wind had come a heavy snowstorm.
all colchester lay under three feet of snow.
footpaths and roads were broken out somewhat in the immediate village, but no farther.
it was most unusual to have the river closed so early in the season, and consequently the winter supplies, which were secured from new london and norwich, had not been laid in.
even mr. chapin, the storekeeper, was but poorly supplied with staples of which he ordinarily kept an abundance on hand.
therefore when obed and hitty had made the tour of the neighbourhood they found but one family, that of deacon esteem elliott, the richest man in the place, which had any molasses.
mistress elliott, in spite of her wealth, was said to be "none too free with her stuff," and she was not minded to lend any molasses under the circumstances, for "a trifling foolish" cake.
obed's representation of the distress of the ely baby, however, appealed even to her, and she lent him a large spoonful of the precious liquid.
that afternoon there was as much visiting about among the colchester housewives as the drifts permitted.
such a state of things had never been known since the town was settled.
no molasses!
and thanksgiving appointed for the first thursday in november!
pray what would thanksgiving amount to, they inquired, with no pumpkin pies, no baked beans, no molasses cake, no proper sweetening for the rum so freely used in those days?
mistress esteem elliott was even more troubled than the rest of colchester, for was not her buxom daughter, and only child, prudence ann, to be married on thanksgiving day to the son of a great magnate in the neighbouring town of hebron?
and was it not the intention to invite all of the aristocracy of both towns to be present at the marriage feast?
mistress elliott accordingly pursued her way upon this tuesday afternoon, october 19, 1705, over to mistress achsah ely's.
there she found mistress belding, who, remembering mistress elliott's refusal to lend her molasses, was naturally somewhat chill in her manner.
mistress elliott had scarcely pulled off her homespun leggings (made with stout and ample feet) and pulled out her knitting work, when mistress camberly, the parson's wife, a lady of robust habit and voluble tongue, came in.
"and what are we going to do, mistress ely?"
she burst out, as soon as the door was opened at her knock.
"not a drop of molasses to be had for love nor money, and thanksgiving day set for the 4th of november!"
"mistress elliott has a-plenty of molasses," affirmed mistress belding, with a haughty look at her unaccommodating neighbour.
"i'd have you to know, mistress betty belding," retorted mistress elliott, "that i have a bare quart or so in my jug, and, so far as i can learn, that is all that the whole town of colchester has got to depend upon till the roads or the river can be broken to norwich."
mistress ely well understood this little passage-at-arms, for obed had told her the whole story; but as her baby had been cured by mistress elliott's molasses, she did not think it proper to interfere in the matter.
neither did the good parson's wife, although she could not comprehend the rights of the case.
she simply repeated her first question: "what are we going to do about it, i should like to know?"
"i wonder if thanksgiving day could not be put off a week," suggested mistress belding, who had a good head, and was even reported to give such advice to her husband that he always thought best to heed it.
"such a thing was never heard of!"
cried mistress elliott.
"but there's no law against it," insisted mistress belding boldly.
"by a week from the set day there will surely be some means of getting about the country, and then we can have a thanksgiving that's worth the setting down to."
after a long talk the good women separated in some doubt, but as squire belding and mr. ely were two of the three selectmen, they were soon acquainted with the drift of the afternoon's discussion.
the result of it all is thus chronicled in the town records of colchester:
"at a legal town-meeting held in colchester, october     29, 1705, it was voted that whereas there was a     thanksgiving appointed to be held on the first thursday     in november, and our present circumstances being     such that it cannot with convenience be attended on     that day, it is therefore voted and agreed by the     inhabitants as aforesaid (concluding the thing will     not be otherwise than well resented) that the second     thursday of november aforesaid shall be set aside for     that service."
this proceeding was, on the whole, as the selectmen had hoped that it would be, "well resented" among the colchester people, but there was one household in which there was rebellion at the mandate.
in the great sanded kitchen of deacon esteem elliott pretty, spoilt prudence ann was fairly raging over it.
"i had set my heart on being married on thanksgiving day," she sobbed.
"and here it won't be thanksgiving day at all!
and as for putting off a wedding, everybody knows there is no surer way of bringing ill luck down than that!
i say i won't have it put off!
but we can't have any party with no molasses in town!
oh, dear!
i might as well be married in the back kitchen with a linsey gown on, as if i were the daughter of old betty, the pie woman!
there!"
then the proud girl would break into fresh sobs, and vow vengeance upon the selectmen of colchester.
she even sent her father to expostulate with them, but it was of no use.
they had known all along that the elliotts did not want the festival day put off, but nobody in colchester minded very much if the elliotts were a little crossed.
prudence ann would not face the reality till after the sabbath was past.
on that day the expectant bridegroom managed to break his way through the drifts from hebron, and he was truly grieved, as he should have been, at the very unhappy state of mind of his betrothed.
he avowed himself, however, in a way which augured well for the young people's future, ready to do just what prudence ann and her family decided was best.
on monday morning mistress elliott sat down with her unreasonable daughter and had a serious talk with her.
"now, prudence ann," she began, "you must give up crying and fretting.
if you are going to be married on thursday, we have got a great deal of work to do between now and then.
if you are going to wait till next week, i want to know it.
of course you can't have a large party, if you choose to be married on the 4th, but we will ask john's folks and aunt susanna and uncle martin and parson camberley and his wife.
we can bake enough for them with what's in the house.
if you wait another week, you can probably have a better party and now you have it all in a nutshell."
prudence ann was hysterical even yet, but at last her terror of a postponed wedding overcame every other consideration.
the day was set for the 4th, and the few guests were bidden accordingly.
on the morning of the wedding, on a neat shelf in the back kitchen of the elliott residence, various delicacies were resting, which had been baked for the banquet.
mistress elliott's molasses had sufficed to make a vast cake and several pumpkin pies.
these, hot from the oven, had been placed in the coolness of the back kitchen until they should be ready for eating.
it so happened that miss hitty belding's sharp eyes, as she passed mistress elliott's back door, bound on an errand to the house of the neighbour living just beyond, fell upon the rich golden brown of this wonderful cake.
as such toothsome dainties were rare in colchester at just this time, it is not strange that her childish soul coveted it, for hitty was but ten years old.
as she walked on she met obed ely.
"i tell you what, obed," said miss hitty, "you ought to see the great molasses cake which mistress elliott has made for prudence ann's wedding.
it is in her back kitchen.
i saw it right by the door.
mean old thing!
she wouldn't lend my mother any molasses to make us a cake.
i wish i had hers!"
"so do i!"
rejoined obed, with watering lips.
"i'm going to peek in and see it."
obed went and "peeked," while hitty sauntered slowly on.
the contemplation of the cake under the circumstances was too much for even so well-brought-up a boy as obed.
without stopping to really think what he was doing, he unwound from his neck his great woollen "comforter," wrapped it hastily around the cake, and was walking with it beside hitty in the lonely, drifted country road five minutes later.
the hearts of the two little conspirators for they felt guilty enough beat very hard, but they could not help thinking how good that cake would taste.
a certain goodsir canty's cornhouse stood near them in a clump of trees beside the road, and as the door was open they crept in, gulped down great "chunks" of cake, distributed vast slices of what was left about their persons, obed taking by far the lion's share, and then they parted, vowing eternal secrecy.
nobody had seen them, and something which happened just after they had left mistress eliott's back kitchen directed suspicion to an entirely different quarter.
not two minutes after obed's "comforter" had been thrown around the great cake a beautiful calf, the pride of mistress elliott's heart, and which was usually kept tied in the barn just beyond the back kitchen, somehow unfastened her rope and came strolling along past the open back door.
the odour of the pumpkin pies naturally interested her, and she proceeded to lick up the delicious creamy filling of one after another with great zest.
just as she was finishing the very last one of the four or five which had stood there, mistress elliott appeared upon the scene, to find her precious dainties faded like the baseless fabric of a vision, leaving behind them only a few broken bits of pie crust.
a series of "short, sharp shocks" (as described in "the mikado") then rent the air, summoning prudence ann and delcy, the maid, to the scene of the calamity.
let us draw a veil over the succeeding ten minutes.
at the end of that time prudence ann lay upon the sitting-room lounge (or "settle," as they called it then) passing from one fainting fit into another, and delcy was out in search of the doctor and such family friends as were likely to be of service in this unexpected dilemma.
it was, of course, supposed that the calf had devoured the whole of the mighty cake as well as the pies.
it was lucky for obed and hitty that the poor beast could not speak.
as it was, nobody so much as thought of accusing them of the theft, though there were plenty of crumbs in their pockets, while the death of the innocent heifer was loudly demanded by the angry prudence ann.
it was only by artifice and diplomacy that mistress elliott was able to preserve the life of her favourite, which, if it had really eaten the cake, must surely have perished.
the wedding finally came off on the 4th, though there was a pouting bride, and nuts, apples, and cider were said to be the chief refreshments.
prudence ann, however, probably secured the "good luck"
for which she was so anxious, for there is no record nor tradition to the contrary in all colchester.
nothing would probably ever have been known of the real fate of the famous cake if the tale had not been told by mistress hitty in her old age to her grandchildren, with appropriate warnings to them never to commit similar misdemeanours themselves.
little obed ely, the active agent in the theft, died not long after it.
his tombstone, very black and crumbled, stands in one of the old burying grounds of the town, but nothing is carved upon it as to the cause of his early death.
the story of the colchester molasses famine, and the consequent postponement of their thanksgiving, naturally spread throughout all the surrounding towns.
it was said that in one of these a party of roguish boys loaded an old cannon with molasses and fired it in the direction of colchester.
how they did this has not been stated, and some irreverent disbelievers in the more uncommon of our grandfathers'
stories have profanely declared it a myth.
the first thanksgiving
a story of the time long ago when the pilgrims of     plymouth invited the indian chief massasoit and his     followers to share their feast.
all through the first summer and the early part of autumn the pilgrims were busy and happy.
they had planted and cared for their first fields of corn.
they had found wild strawberries in the meadows, raspberries on the hillsides, and wild grapes in the woods.
in the forest just back of the village wild turkeys and deer were easily shot.
in the shallow waters of the bay there was plenty of fish, clams, and lobsters.
the summer had been warm, with a good deal of rain and much sunshine; and so when the autumn came there was a fine crop of corn.
"let us gather the fruits of our first labours and rejoice together,"
said governor bradford.
"yes," said elder brewster, "let us take a day upon which we may thank god for all our blessings, and invite to it our indian friends who have been so kind to us."
the pilgrims said that one day was not enough; so they planned to have a celebration for a whole week.
this took place most likely in october.
the great indian chief, massasoit, came with ninety of his bravest warriors, all gayly dressed in deerskins, feathers, and foxtails, with their faces smeared with red, white, and yellow paint.
as a sign of rank, massasoit wore round his neck a string of bones and a bag of tobacco.
in his belt he carried a long knife.
his face was painted red, and his hair was so daubed with oil that governor bradford said he "looked greasily."
now there were only eleven buildings in the whole of plymouth village, four log storehouses and seven little log dwelling-houses; so the indian guests ate and slept out of doors.
this was no matter, for it was one of those warm weeks in the season we call indian summer.
to supply meat for the occasion four men had already been sent out to hunt wild turkeys.
they killed enough in one day to last the whole company almost a week.
massasoit helped the feast along by sending some of his best hunters into the woods.
they killed five deer, which they gave to their paleface friends, that all might have enough to eat.
under the trees were built long, rude tables on which were piled baked clams, broiled fish, roast turkey, and deer meat.
the young pilgrim women helped serve the food to the hungry redskins.
let us remember two of the fair girls who waited on the tables.
one was mary chilton, who leaped from the boat at plymouth rock; the other was mary allerton.
she lived for seventy-eight years after this first thanksgiving, and of those who came over in the mayflower she was the last to die.
what a merry time everybody had during that week!
it may be they joked governor bradford about stepping into a deer trap set by the indians and being jerked up by the leg.
how the women must have laughed as they told about the first monday morning at cape cod, when they all went ashore to wash their clothes!
it must have been a big washing, for there had been no chance to do it at sea, so stormy had been the long voyage of sixty-three days.
they little thought that monday would afterward be kept as washday.
then there was young john howland, who in mid-ocean fell overboard but was quick enough to catch hold of a trailing rope.
perhaps after dinner he invited elizabeth tilley, whom he afterward married, to sail over to clarke's island and return by moonlight.
with them, it may be, went john alden and priscilla mullins, whose love story is so sweetly told by longfellow.
one proud mother, we may be sure, showed her bright-eyed boy, peregrine white.
and so the fun went on.
in the daytime the young men ran races, played games, and had a shooting match.
every night the indians sang and danced for their friends; and to make things still more lively they gave every now and then a shrill war whoop that made the woods echo in the still night air.
the indians had already learned to love and fear captain miles standish.
some of them called him "boiling water" because he was easily made angry.
others called him "captain shrimp," on account of his small size.
every morning the shrewd captain put on his armour and paraded his little company of a dozen or more soldiers; and when he fired off the cannon on burial hill the indians must have felt that the english were men of might thus to harness up thunder and lightning.
during this week of fun and frolic it was a wonder if young jack billington did not play some prank on the indians.
he was the boy who fired off his father's gun one day, close to a keg of gunpowder, in the crowded cabin of the mayflower.
the third day came.
massasoit had been well treated, and no doubt would have liked to stay longer, but he had said he could stay only three days.
so the pipe of peace was silently passed around.
then, taking their presents of glass beads and trinkets, the indian king and his warriors said farewell to their english friends and began their long tramp through the woods to their wigwams on mount hope bay.
on the last day of this thanksgiving party the pilgrims had a service of prayer and praise.
elder brewster preached the first thanksgiving sermon.
after thanking god for all his goodness, he did not forget the many loved ones sleeping on the hillside.
he spoke of noble john carver, the first governor, who had died of worry and overwork.
nor was rose standish forgotten, the lovely young wife of captain miles standish, whose death was caused by cold and lack of good food.
and then there was gentle dorothy, wife of governor bradford, who had fallen overboard from the mayflower in provincetown harbour while her husband was coasting along the bleak shore in search of a place for a home.
the first thanksgiving took place nearly three hundred years ago.
since that time, almost without interruption, thanksgiving has been kept by the people of new england as the great family festival of the year.
at this time children and grandchildren return to the old home, the long table is spread, and brothers and sisters, separated often by many miles, again sit side by side.
to-day thanksgiving is observed in nearly all the states of the union, a season of sweet and blessed memories.
thanksgiving at todd's asylum
many a chuckle lies in wait for the reader in the pages     of this story.
and the humour is of the sweet, mellow     sort that sometimes brings moisture to the eyes as well     as laughter to the lips.
people said that if it had not been for that annuity eph todd would have been at the poor farm himself instead of setting up a rival to it; but there was the annuity, and that was the beginning of todd's asylum.
no matter who or what you were, if you were in hard luck, todd's asylum was open to you.
the no.
4 district schoolhouse clock was a sample.
for thirty years it had smiled from the wall upon successive generations of scholars, until, one day, bowed with years and infirmities, it had ceased to tick.
it had been taken gently down, laid out on a desk in state for a day or two, and finally was in funeral procession to the rubbish heap when eph todd appeared.
"you're not going to throw that good old clock away?"
eph had asked of the committeeman who acted as bearer.
"guess i'll have to," replied the other.
"i've wound it up tight, put 'most a pint of kerosene in it, and shook it till i'm dizzy, and it won't tick a bit.
guess the old clock's done for."
"now see here," said eph; "you just let me have a try at it.
let me take it home a spell."
"oh, for that matter i'll give it to you," the committeeman replied.
"we've bought another for the schoolhouse."
a day or two after the old clock ticked away as soberly as ever on the wall of the todd kitchen.
"took it home and boiled it in potash," eph used to say; "and there it is, just as good as it was thirty years ago."
this was true, with restrictions, for enough enamel was gone from the face to make the exact location of the hour an uncertain thing; and there were days, when the wind was in the east, when the hour hand needed periodical assistance.
"it wasn't much of a job," as eph said, "to reach up once an hour and send the hand along one space, and aunt tildy had to have something to look forward to."
aunt tildy was the first inmate at todd's, and if eph had possessed no other recommendation to eternal beatitude, surely aunt tildy's prayers had been sufficient.
she passed his house on her way to the poor farm on the very day that news of the legacy arrived, and eph had stopped the carriage and begged the overseer to leave her with him.
"are you sure you can take care of her?"
asked the overseer, doubtfully.
"sure?"
echoed eph with delight.
"of course i'm sure.
ain't i got four hundred dollars a year for the rest of my natural born days?"
"he's a good fellow, eph todd," mused the overseer as he drove away, "but i never heard of his having any money."
next day the news of the legacy was common property, and aunt tildy had been an inmate at todd's ever since.
her gratitude knew no bounds, and she really managed to keep the house after a fashion, her chief care being the clock.
then there was the heaven-born inventor.
he had dissipated his substance in inventing an incubator that worked with wonderful success till the day the chickens were to come out, when it took fire and burned up, taking with it chickens, barn, house, and furniture, leaving the heaven-born inventor standing in the field, thinly clad, and with nothing left in the world but another incubator.
with this he had shown up promptly at todd's, and there he had dwelt thenceforth, using a pretty fair portion of the annuity in further incubator experiments.
with excellent sagacity, for him, eph had obliged the heaven-born inventor to keep his machine in a little shed behind the barn, so that when this one burned up there was time to get the horse and cow out before the barn burned, and the village fire department managed to save the house.
repairing this loss made quite a hole in the annuity, and all the heaven-born inventor had to show for it was miltiades.
he had put a single turkey's egg in with a previous hatch, and though he had raised nary chicken, and it was contrary to all rhyme and reason, the turkey's egg had hatched and the chick had grown up to be miltiades.
miltiades was a big gobbler now, and had a right to be named ishmael, for his hand was against all men.
he took care of himself, was never shut up nor handled, and led a wild, nomadic life.
last of all came fisherman jones.
he was old now and couldn't see very well, unable to go to the brook or pond to fish, but he still started out daily with the fine new rod and reel which the annuity had bought for him, and would sit out in the sun, joint his rod together, and fish in the dry pasture with perfect contentment.
you would not think fisherman jones of much use, but it was he who caught miltiades and made the thanksgiving dinner possible.
the new barn had exhausted the revenues completely, and there would be no more income until january 1st; but one must have a turkey for thanksgiving, and there was miltiades.
to catch miltiades became the household problem, and the heaven-born inventor set wonderful traps for him, which caught almost everything but miltiades, who easily avoided them.
eph used to go out daily before breakfast and chase miltiades, but he might as well have chased a government position.
the turkey scorned him, and grew only wilder and tougher, till he had a lean and hungry look that would have shamed cassius.
the day before thanksgiving it looked as if there would be no turkey dinner at todd's, but here fisherman jones stepped into the breach.
it was a beautiful indian-summer day, and he hobbled out into the field for an afternoon's fishing.
here he sat on a log, and began to make casts in the open.
nearby, under a savin bush, lurked miltiades, and viewed these actions with the scorn of long familiarity.
by and by fisherman jones kicked up a loose bit of bark, and disclosed beneath it a fine fat white grub, of the sort which blossoms into june beetles with the coming of spring.
he was not so blind but that he saw this, and with a chuckle at the thoughts it called up, he baited his hook with it.
a moment after, eph todd, coming out of the new barn, heard the click of a reel, and was astonished to see fisherman jones standing almost erect, his eyes blazing with the old-time fire, his rod bent, his reel buzzing, while at the end of a good forty feet of line was miltiades rushing in frantic strides for the woods.
"good land!"
said eph; "it's the turkey!
snub him," he yelled.
"don't let him get all the line on you!
he's hooked!
snub him!
snub him!"
the whir of the reel deadened now, and the stride of miltiades was perceptibly lessened and then became but a vigorous up-and-down hop, while the tense line sang in the gentle autumn breeze.
"eph todd!"
gasped fisherman jones, "this is the whoppingest old bass i ever hooked onto yet.
beeswax, how he does pull!"
and with the words fisherman jones went backward over the log, waving the pole and a pair of stiff legs in air.
the turkey had suddenly slackened the line.
"give him the butt!
give him the butt!"
roared eph, rushing up.
even where he lay the fisherman blood in fisherman jones responded to this stirring appeal, and as the rod bent in a tense half circle a race began such as no elderly fisherman was ever the centre of before.
round and round went miltiades, with the white grub in his crop, and the line above it gripped tightly in his strong beak; and round and round went eph todd, his outstretched arms waving like the turkey's wings, and his big boots denting the soft pasture turf with the vigour of his gallop.
in the centre fisherman jones, too nearsighted to see what he had hooked, had risen on one knee, and revolved with the coursing bird, his soul wrapped in one idea: to keep the butt of his rod aimed at the whirling game.
"hang to him!
reel him in!
we'll get him!"
shouted eph; and, with the word, he caught his toe and vanished into the prickly depths of the savin bush, just as the heaven-born inventor came over the hill.
it would be interesting to know just what scheme the heaven-born inventor would have put in motion for the capture of miltiades, but just then he stepped into one of his own extraordinary traps, set for the turkey of course, and, with one foot held fast, began to flounder about with cries of rage and dismay.
this brought eph's head above the fringe of savin bush again, and now he beheld a wonderful sight.
fisherman jones was again on his feet, staring in wild surprise at miltiades, whom he sighted for the first time, within ten feet of him.
there was no pressure on the reel, and miltiades was swallowing the line in big gulps, evidently determined to have not only the white grub, but all that went with it.
fisherman jones's cry of dismay was almost as bitter as that of the heaven-born inventor, who still writhed in his own trap.
"oh, eph!
eph!"
he whimpered, "he's eating up my tackle!
he's eating up my tackle!"
"never mind!"
shouted eph.
"don't be afraid!
i reckon he'll stop when he gets to the pole!"
those of us who knew miltiades at his best have doubts as to this, but, fortunately, it was not put to the test.
eph scrambled out of his bush, and, taking up the chase once more, soon brought it to an end, for fisherman jones, his nerve completely gone, could only stand and mumble sadly to himself, "he's eating up my tackle!
he's eating up my tackle!"
and the line, wrapping about his motionless form, led eph and the turkey in a brief spiral which ended in the conjunction of the three.
it was not until the turkey was decapitated that eph remembered the heaven-born inventor and hastened to his rescue.
he was still in the trap, but he was quite content, for he was figuring out a plan for an automatic release from the same, something which should hold the captive so long and then let him go in the interests of humanity.
he found the trap from the captive's point of view very interesting and instructive.
the tenacity of miltiades's make-up was further shown by the difficulty eph and fisherman jones had in separating him from his feathers that evening; and aunt tildy was so interested in the project of the heaven-born inventor to raise featherless turkeys that she forgot the yeast cake she had put to soak until it had been boiling merrily for some time.
everything seemed to go wrong-end-to, and they all sat up so late that mrs. simpkins, across the way, was led to observe that "either some one was dead over at todd's or else they were having a family party"; and in a certain sense she was right both ways.
the crowning misadventure came next morning.
eph started for the village with his mind full of commissions from aunt tildy, some of which he was sure to forget, and in a great hurry lest he forget them all.
he threw the harness hastily upon dobbin, hitched him into the wagon which had stood out on the soft ground overnight, and with an eager "get up, there!"
gave him a slap with the reins.
next moment there was a ripping sound, and the heaven-born inventor came to the door just in time to see the horse going out of the yard on a run, with eph following, still clinging to the reins, and taking strides much like those of baron munchausen's courier.
"here, here!"
called the inventor, "you've forgot the wagon.
come back, eph!
you've forgot the wagon!"
"jeddediah jodkins!"
said eph, as he swung an eccentric curve about the gatepost; "do you whoa!
suppose i'm such a whoa!
whoa!
fool that i don't know that i'm not riding whoa!
in a whoa!
whoa!
wagon?"
and with this eph vanished up street in the wake of the galloping horse, still clinging valiantly to the reins.
"i believe he did forget that wagon," said the heaven-born inventor; "he's perfectly capable of it."
but when he reached the barn he saw the trouble.
the ground had frozen hard overnight, and the wagon wheels sunken in it were held as in a vise.
eph had started the horse suddenly, and the obedient animal had walked right out of the shafts, harness and all.
a half hour later eph was back with dobbin, unharmed but a trifle weary.
it took an hour more and all aunt tildy's hot water to thaw out the wheels, and when it was done eph was so confused that he drove to the village and back and forgot every one of his commissions.
and in the midst of all this the clock stopped.
that settled the matter for aunt tildy.
she neglected the pudding, she forgot the pies, and she let the turkey bake and bake in the overheated oven while she fretted about that clock; and when it was finally set going, after long and careful investigation by eph, and frantic but successful attempts on the part of aunt tildy to keep the heaven-born inventor from ruining it forever, it was the dinner hour.
poor aunt tildy!
that dinner was the crowning sorrow of her life.
the vegetables were cooked to rags, the pies were charcoal shells, and the pudding had not been made.
as for miltiades, he was ten times tougher than in life, and eph's carving knife slipped from his form without making a dent.
aunt tildy wept at this, and fisherman jones and the inventor looked blank enough, but there was no sorrow in the countenance of eph.
he cheered aunt tildy, and he cracked jokes that made even fisherman jones laugh.
"why, bless you!"
he said, "ever since i was a boy i've been looking for a chance to make a thanksgiving dinner out of bread and milk.
and now i've got it.
why, i wouldn't have missed this for anything!"
and there came a knock at the door.
even eph looked a trifle blank at this.
if it should be company!
"come in!"
he called.
the door was pushed aside and a big, steaming platter entered.
it was upheld by a small boy, who stammered diffidently, "my moth-moth-mother thaid she wanted you to try thum of her nith turkey."
"well, well!"
said eph; "aunt tildy has cooked a turkey for us to-day, and she's a main good cook" eph did not appear to see the signs the heaven-born inventor was making to him "but i've heard that your mother does things pretty well, too.
we're greatly obliged."
and eph put the steaming platter on the table.
"she thays you c-c-can thend the platter home to-morrow," stammered the boy, and stammering himself out, he ran into another.
the other held high a big dish of plum pudding, from which a spicy aroma filled the room.
again the heaven-born inventor made signs to eph.
"our folks told me to ask if you wouldn't try this plum pudding," said the newcomer.
"they made an extra one, and the cousins we expected didn't come, so we can spare it just as well as not."
it seemed as if eph hesitated a moment, and the inventor's face became a panorama.
then he took the boy by the hand, and there was an odd shake in his voice as he said:
"i'm greatly obliged to you.
we all are.
something happened to our plum pudding, and we didn't have any.
tell your ma we send our thanks."
there was a sound of voices greeting in the hallway, and two young girls entered, each laden with a basket.
"oh, mr. todd," they both said at once, "we couldn't wait to knock.
we want you to try some of our thanksgiving.
it was mother's birthday, and we cooked extra for that, and we've got so much.
we can't get all ours onto the table.
she'll feel real hurt if you don't."
somehow eph couldn't say a word, but there was nothing the matter with the heaven-born inventor.
his speech of delighted acceptance was such a good one that before he was half done the girls had loaded the table with good things, and, with smiles and nods and "good-byes," slipped out as rapidly and as gayly as they had come in.
it was like a gust of wind from a summer garden.
the table, but now so bare, fairly sagged and steamed with offerings of thanksgiving.
somehow the steam got into eph's eyes and made them wet, till all he could do was to say whimsically:
"there goes my last chance at a bread-and-milk thanksgiving."
but now aunt tildy had the floor, with her faded face all alight.
"eph todd," she said, "you needn't look so flustrated.
it's nothing more than you deserve and not half so much either.
ain't you the kindest man yourself that ever lived?
ain't you always doing something for everybody, and helping every one of these neighbours in all sorts of ways?
i'd like to know what the whole place would do without you!
and now, just because they remember you on thanksgiving day, you look like  "
the steam had got into aunt tildy's eyes now, and she sat down again just as there came another knock at the door, a timid sort of knock this time.
the heaven-born inventor's face widened in beatified smiles of expectation at this, but eph looked him sternly in the eye.
"jeddediah jodkins!"
he said; "if that is any more people bringing things to eat to this house, they'll have to go away.
we can't have it.
we've got enough here now to feed a a boarding school."
the heaven-born inventor sprang eagerly to his feet.
"don't you do it, eph," he said, "don't you do it.
i've just thought of a way to can it."
a thinly clad man and woman stood at the door which eph opened.
both looked pale and tired, and the woman shivered.
"can you tell me where i can get work," asked the man, doggedly, "so that i can earn a little something to eat?
we are not beggars" he flushed a little through his pallor "but i have had no work lately, and we have eaten nothing since yesterday.
we are looking  "
the man stopped, and well he might, for eph was dancing wildly about the two, and hustling them into the house.
"come in!"
he shouted.
"come in!
come in!
you're the folks we are waiting for!
eat?
why, goodness gra-cious!
we've got so much to eat we don't know what to do with it."
he had them in chairs in a moment and was piling steaming roast turkey on their plates.
"there!"
he said, "don't you say another word till you have filled up on that.
folks" and he returned to the others "here's two friends that have come to stay a week with us and help eat turkey.
fall to!
this is going to be the pleasantest thanksgiving we've had yet."
and thus two new inmates were added to todd's asylum.
how we kept thanksgiving at oldtown
the old-time new england thanksgiving has been described many times, but never better then by the author of "uncle tom's cabin" in her less successful     but more artistic novel, "oldtown folks," from which     book the following narrative has been adapted.
when the apples were all gathered and the cider was all made, and the yellow pumpkins were rolled in from many a hill in billows of gold, and the corn was husked, and the labours of the season were done, and the warm, late days of indian summer came in, dreamy and calm and still, with just frost enough to crisp the ground of a morning, but with warm trances of benignant, sunny hours at noon, there came over the community a sort of genial repose of spirit a sense of something accomplished, and of a new golden mark made in advance on the calendar of life and the deacon began to say to the minister, of a sunday, "i suppose it's about time for the thanksgiving proclamation."
conversation at this time began to turn on high and solemn culinary mysteries and receipts of wondrous power and virtue.
new modes of elaborating squash pies and quince tarts were now ofttimes carefully discussed at the evening firesides by aunt lois and aunt keziah, and notes seriously compared with the experiences of certain other aunties of high repute in such matters.
i noticed that on these occasions their voices often fell into mysterious whispers, and that receipts of especial power and sanctity were communicated in tones so low as entirely to escape the vulgar ear.
i still remember the solemn shake of the head with which my aunt lois conveyed to miss mehitable rossiter the critical properties of mace, in relation to its powers of producing in corn fritters a suggestive resemblance to oysters.
as ours was an oyster-getting district, and as that charming bivalve was perfectly easy to come at, the interest of such an imitation can be accounted for only by the fondness of the human mind for works of art.
for as much as a week beforehand, "we children" were employed in chopping mince for pies to a most wearisome fineness, and in pounding cinnamon, allspice, and cloves in a great lignum-vitæ mortar; and the sound of this pounding and chopping reëchoed through all the rafters of the old house with a hearty and vigorous cheer most refreshing to our spirits.
in those days there were none of the thousand ameliorations of the labours of housekeeping which have since arisen no ground and prepared spices and sweet herbs; everything came into our hands in the rough, and in bulk, and the reducing of it into a state for use was deemed one of the appropriate labours of childhood.
even the very salt that we used in cooking was rock salt, which we were required to wash and dry and pound and sift before it became fit for use.
at other times of the year we sometimes murmured at these labours, but those that were supposed to usher in the great thanksgiving festival were always entered into with enthusiasm.
there were signs of richness all around us stoning of raisins, cutting of citron, slicing of candied orange peel.
yet all these were only dawnings and intimations of what was coming during the week of real preparation, after the governor's proclamation had been read.
the glories of that proclamation!
we knew beforehand the sunday it was to be read, and walked to church with alacrity, filled with gorgeous and vague expectations.
the cheering anticipation sustained us through what seemed to us the long waste of the sermon and prayers; and when at last the auspicious moment approached when the last quaver of the last hymn had died out the whole house rippled with a general movement of complacency, and a satisfied smile of pleased expectation might be seen gleaming on the faces of all the young people, like a ray of sunshine through a garden of flowers.
thanksgiving now was dawning!
we children poked one another, and fairly giggled with unreproved delight as we listened to the crackle of the slowly unfolding document.
that great sheet of paper impressed us as something supernatural, by reason of its mighty size and by the broad seal of the state affixed thereto; and when the minister read therefrom, "by his excellency, the governor of the commonwealth of massachusetts, a proclamation," our mirth was with difficulty repressed by admonitory glances from our sympathetic elders.
then, after a solemn enumeration of the benefits which the commonwealth had that year received at the hands of divine providence, came at last the naming of the eventful day, and, at the end of all, the imposing heraldic words, "god save the commonwealth of massachusetts."
and then, as the congregation broke up and dispersed, all went their several ways with schemes of mirth and feasting in their heads.
and now came on the week in earnest.
in the very watches of the night preceding monday morning a preternatural stir below stairs and the thunder of the pounding barrel announced that the washing was to be got out of the way before daylight, so as to give "ample scope and room enough" for the more pleasing duties of the season.
the making of pies at this period assumed vast proportions that verged upon the sublime.
pies were made by forties and fifties and hundreds, and made of everything on the earth and under the earth.
the pie is an english institution, which, planted on american soil, forthwith ran rampant and burst forth into an untold variety of genera and species.
not merely the old traditional mince pie, but a thousand strictly american seedlings from that main stock, evinced the power of american housewives to adapt old institutions to new uses.
pumpkin pies, cranberry pies, huckleberry pies, cherry pies, green-currant pies, peach, pear, and plum pies, custard pies, apple pies, marlborough-pudding pies pies with top crusts and pies without pies adorned with all sorts of fanciful flutings and architectural strips laid across and around, and otherwise varied, attested the boundless fertility of the feminine mind when once let loose in a given direction.
fancy the heat and vigour of the great pan formation, when aunt lois and aunt keziah, and my mother and grandmother, all in ecstasies of creative inspiration, ran, bustled, and hurried mixing, rolling, tasting, consulting alternately setting us children to work when anything could be made of us, and then chasing us all out of the kitchen when our misinformed childhood ventured to take too many liberties with sacred mysteries.
then out we would all fly at the kitchen door, like sparks from a blacksmith's window.
on these occasions, as there was a great looseness in the police department over us children, we usually found a ready refuge at miss mehitable's with tina,[8] who, confident of the strength of her position with polly, invited us into the kitchen, and with the air of a mistress led us around to view the proceedings there.
a genius for entertaining was one of tina's principal characteristics; and she did not fail to make free with raisins, or citrons, or whatever came to hand, in a spirit of hospitality at which polly seriously demurred.
that worthy woman occasionally felt the inconvenience of the state of subjugation to which the little elf had somehow or other reduced her, and sometimes rattled her chains fiercely, scolding with a vigour which rather alarmed us, but which tina minded not a whit.
confident of her own powers, she would, in the very midst of her wrath, mimic her to her face with such irresistible drollery as to cause the torrent of reproof to end in a dissonant laugh, accompanied by a submissive cry for quarter.
"i declare, tina percival," she said to her one day, "you're saucy enough to physic a horn bug!
i never did see the beater of you!
if miss mehitable don't keep you in better order, i don't see what's to become of any of us!"
"why, what did 'come of you before i came?"
was the undismayed reply.
"you know, polly, you and aunty both were just as lonesome as you could be till i came here, and you never had such pleasant times in your life as you've had since i've been here.
you're a couple of old beauties, both of you, and know just how to get along with me.
but come, boys, let's take our raisins and go up into the garret and play thanksgiving."
in the corner of the great kitchen, during all these days, the jolly old oven roared and crackled in great volcanic billows of flame, snapping and gurgling as if the old fellow entered with joyful sympathy into the frolic of the hour; and then, his great heart being once warmed up, he brooded over successive generations of pies and cakes, which went in raw and came out cooked, till butteries and dressers and shelves and pantries were literally crowded with a jostling abundance.
a great cold northern chamber, where the sun never shone, and where in winter the snow sifted in at the window cracks, and ice and frost reigned with undisputed sway, was fitted up to be the storehouse of these surplus treasures.
there, frozen solid, and thus well preserved in their icy fetters, they formed a great repository for all the winter months; and the pies baked at thanksgiving often came out fresh and good with the violets of april.
during this eventful preparation week all the female part of my grandmother's household, as i have before remarked, were at a height above any ordinary state of mind; they moved about the house rapt in a species of prophetic frenzy.
it seemed to be considered a necessary feature of such festivals that everybody should be in a hurry, and everything in the house should be turned bottom upwards with enthusiasm so at least we children understood it, and we certainly did our part to keep the ball rolling.
at this period the constitutional activity of uncle fliakim increased to a degree that might fairly be called preternatural.
thanksgiving time was the time for errands of mercy and beneficence through the country; and uncle fliakim's immortal old rubber horse and rattling wagon were on the full jump in tours of investigation into everybody's affairs in the region around.
on returning, he would fly through our kitchen like the wind, leaving open the doors, upsetting whatever came in his way now a pan of milk, and now a basin of mince talking rapidly, and forgetting only the point in every case that gave it significance, or enabled any one to put it to any sort of use.
when aunt lois checked his benevolent effusions by putting the test questions of practical efficiency, uncle fliakim always remembered that he'd "forgotten to inquire about that," and skipping through the kitchen, and springing into his old wagon, would rattle off again on a full tilt to correct and amend his investigations.
moreover, my grandmother's kitchen at this time began to be haunted by those occasional hangers-on and retainers, of uncertain fortunes, whom a full experience of her bountiful habits led to expect something at her hand at this time of the year.
all the poor, loafing tribes, indian and half-indian, who at other times wandered, selling baskets and other light wares, were sure to come back to oldtown a little before thanksgiving time, and report themselves in my grandmother's kitchen.
the great hogshead of cider in the cellar, which my grandfather called the indian hogshead, was on tap at all hours of the day; and many a mugful did i draw and dispense to the tribes that basked in the sunshine at our door.
aunt lois never had a hearty conviction of the propriety of these arrangements; but my grandmother, who had a prodigious verbal memory, bore down upon her with such strings of quotations from the old testament that she was utterly routed.
"now," says my aunt lois, "i s'pose we've got to have betty poganut and sally wonsamug, and old obscue and his wife, and the whole tribe down, roosting around our doors till we give 'em something.
that's just mother's way; she always keeps a whole generation at her heels."
"how many times must i tell you, lois, to read your bible?"
was my grandmother's rejoinder; and loud over the sound of pounding and chopping in the kitchen could be heard the voice of her quotations: "if there be among you a poor man in any of the gates of the land which the lord thy god giveth thee, thou shalt not harden thy heart, nor shut thy hand, from thy poor brother.
thou shalt surely give him; and thy heart shall not be grieved when thou givest to him, because that for this thing the lord thy god shall bless thee in all thy works; for the poor shall never cease from out of the land."
these words seemed to resound like a sort of heraldic proclamation to call around us all that softly shiftless class, who, for some reason or other, are never to be found with anything in hand at the moment that it is wanted.
"there, to be sure," said aunt lois, one day when our preparations were in full blast; "there comes sam lawson down the hill, limpsy as ever; now he'll have his doleful story to tell, and mother'll give him one of the turkeys."
and so, of course, it fell out.
sam came in with his usual air of plaintive assurance, and seated himself a contemplative spectator in the chimney corner, regardless of the looks and signs of unwelcome on the part of aunt lois.
"lordy massy, how prosperous everything does seem here!"
he said in musing tones, over his inevitable mug of cider; "so different from what 'tis t' our house.
there's hepsey, she's all in a stew, an' i've just been an' got her thirty-seven cents' wuth o' nutmegs, yet she says she's sure she don't see how she's to keep thanksgiving, an' she's down on me about it, just as ef 'twas my fault.
yeh see, last winter our old gobbler got froze.
you know, mis' badger, that 'ere cold night we hed last winter.
wal, i was off with jake marshall that night; ye see, jake, he had to take old general dearborn's corpse into boston, to the family vault, and jake, he kind o' hated to go alone; 'twas a drefful cold time, and he ses to me, 'sam, you jes' go 'long with me'; so i was sort o' sorry for him, and i kind o' thought i'd go 'long.
wal, come 'long to josh bissel's tahvern, there at the halfway house, you know, 'twas so swingeing cold we stopped to take a little suthin'
warmin', an' we sort o' sot an' sot over the fire, till, fust we knew, we kind o' got asleep; an' when we woke up we found we'd left the old general hitched up t' th' post pretty much all night.
wal, didn't hurt him none, poor man; 'twas allers a favourite spot o' his'n.
but, takin'
one thing with another, i didn't get home till about noon next day, an' i tell you, hepsey she was right down on me.
she said the baby was sick, and there hadn't been no wood split, nor the barn fastened up, nor nuthin'.
lordy massy, i didn't mean no harm; i thought there was wood enough, and i thought likely hepsey'd git out an' fasten up the barn.
but hepsey, she was in one o' her contrary streaks, an' she wouldn't do a thing; an' when i went out to look, why, sure 'nuff, there was our old tom-turkey froze as stiff as a stake his claws jist a stickin' right straight up like this."
here sam struck an expressive attitude, and looked so much like a frozen turkey as to give a pathetic reality to the picture.
"well, now, sam, why need you be off on things that's none of your business?"
said my grandmother.
"i've talked to you plainly about that a great many times, sam," she continued, in tones of severe admonition.
"hepsey is a hard-working woman, but she can't be expected to see to everything, and you oughter 'ave been at home that night to fasten up your own barn and look after your own creeturs."
sam took the rebuke all the more meekly as he perceived the stiff black legs of a turkey poking out from under my grandmother's apron while she was delivering it.
to be exhorted and told of his shortcomings, and then furnished with a turkey at thanksgiving, was a yearly part of his family program.
in time he departed, not only with the turkey, but with us boys in procession after him, bearing a mince and a pumpkin pie for hepsey's children.
"poor things!"
my grandmother remarked; "they ought to have something good to eat thanksgiving day; 'tain't their fault that they've got a shiftless father."
sam, in his turn, moralized to us children, as we walked beside him:
"a body'd think that hepsey'd learn to trust in providence," he said, "but she don't.
she allers has a thanksgiving dinner pervided; but that 'ere woman ain't grateful for it, by no manner o' means.
now she'll be jest as cross as she can be, 'cause this 'ere ain't our turkey, and these 'ere ain't our pies.
folks doos lose so much that hes sech dispositions."
a multitude of similar dispensations during the course of the week materially reduced the great pile of chickens and turkeys which black cæsar's efforts in slaughtering, picking, and dressing kept daily supplied....
great as the preparations were for the dinner, everything was so contrived that not a soul in the house should be kept from the morning service of thanksgiving in the church, and from listening to the thanksgiving sermon, in which the minister was expected to express his views freely concerning the politics of the country and the state of things in society generally, in a somewhat more secular vein of thought than was deemed exactly appropriate to the lord's day.
but it is to be confessed that, when the good man got carried away by the enthusiasm of his subject to extend these exercises beyond a certain length, anxious glances, exchanged between good wives, sometimes indicated a weakness of the flesh, having a tender reference to the turkeys and chickens and chicken pies which might possibly be overdoing in the ovens at home.
but your old brick oven was a true puritan institution, and backed up the devotional habits of good housewives by the capital care which he took of whatever was committed to his capacious bosom.
a truly well-bred oven would have been ashamed of himself all his days and blushed redder than his own fires, if a god-fearing house matron, away at the temple of the lord, should come home and find her pie crust either burned or underdone by his over or under zeal; so the old fellow generally managed to bring things out exactly right.
when sermons and prayers were all over, we children rushed home to see the great feast of the year spread.
what chitterings and chatterings there were all over the house, as all the aunties and uncles and cousins came pouring in, taking off their things, looking at one another's bonnets and dresses, and mingling their comments on the morning sermon with various opinions on the new millinery outfits, and with bits of home news and kindly neighbourhood gossip.
uncle bill, whom the cambridge college authorities released, as they did all the other youngsters of the land, for thanksgiving day, made a breezy stir among them all, especially with the young cousins of the feminine gender.
the best room on this occasion was thrown wide open, and its habitual coldness had been warmed by the burning down of a great stack of hickory logs, which had been heaped up unsparingly since morning.
it takes some hours to get a room warm where a family never sits, and which therefore has not in its walls one particle of the genial vitality which comes from the indwelling of human beings.
but on thanksgiving day, at least, every year this marvel was effected in our best room.
although all servile labour and vain recreation on this day were by law forbidden, according to the terms of the proclamation, it was not held to be a violation of the precept that all the nice old aunties should bring their knitting work and sit gently trotting their needles around the fire; nor that uncle bill should start a full-fledged romp among the girls and children, while the dinner was being set on the long table in the neighbouring kitchen.
certain of the good elderly female relatives, of serious and discreet demeanour, assisted at this operation.
but who shall do justice to the dinner, and describe the turkey, and chickens, and chicken pies, with all that endless variety of vegetables which the american soil and climate have contributed to the table, and which, without regard to the french doctrine of courses, were all piled together in jovial abundance upon the smoking board?
there was much carving and laughing and talking and eating, and all showed that cheerful ability to despatch the provisions which was the ruling spirit of the hour.
after the meat came the plum puddings, and then the endless array of pies, till human nature was actually bewildered and overpowered by the tempting variety; and even we children turned from the profusion offered to us, and wondered what was the matter that we could eat no more.
when all was over, my grandfather rose at the head of the table, and a fine venerable picture he made as he stood there, his silver hair flowing in curls down each side of his clear, calm face, while, in conformity to the old puritan custom, he called their attention to a recital of the mercies of god in his dealings with their family.
it was a sort of family history, going over and touching upon the various events which had happened.
he spoke of my father's death, and gave a tribute to his memory; and closed all with the application of a time-honoured text, expressing the hope that as years passed by we might "so number our days as to apply our hearts unto wisdom"; and then he gave out that psalm which in those days might be called the national hymn of the puritans.
"let children hear the mighty deeds        which god performed of old,      which in our younger years we saw,        and which our fathers told.
"he bids us make his glories known,        his works of power and grace.
and we'll convey his wonders down        through every rising race.
"our lips shall tell them to our sons,        and they again to theirs;      that generations yet unborn        may teach them to their heirs.
"thus shall they learn in god alone        their hope securely stands;      that they may ne'er forget his works,        but practise his commands."
this we all united in singing to the venerable tune of st. martin's, an air which, the reader will perceive, by its multiplicity of quavers and inflections gave the greatest possible scope to the cracked and trembling voices of the ancients, who united in it with even more zeal than the younger part of the community.
uncle fliakim sheril, furbished up in a new crisp black suit, and with his spindleshanks trimly incased in the smoothest of black silk stockings, looking for all the world just like an alert and spirited black cricket, outdid himself on this occasion in singing counter, in that high, weird voice that he must have learned from the wintry winds that usually piped around the corners of the old house.
but any one who looked at him, as he sat with his eyes closed, beating time with head and hand, and, in short, with every limb of his body, must have perceived the exquisite satisfaction which he derived from this mode of expressing himself.
i much regret to be obliged to state that my graceless uncle bill, taking advantage of the fact that the eyes of all his elders were devotionally closed, stationing himself a little in the rear of my uncle fliakim, performed an exact imitation of his counter with such a killing facility that all the younger part of the audience were nearly dead with suppressed laughter.
aunt lois, who never shut her eyes a moment on any occasion, discerned this from a distant part of the room, and in vain endeavoured to stop it by vigorously shaking her head at the offender.
she might as well have shaken it at a bobolink tilting on a clover top.
in fact, uncle bill was aunt lois's weak point, and the corners of her own mouth were observed to twitch in such a suspicious manner that the whole moral force of her admonition was destroyed.
and now, the dinner being cleared away, we youngsters, already excited to a tumult of laughter, tumbled into the best room, under the supervision of uncle bill, to relieve ourselves with a game of "blindman's bluff," while the elderly women washed up the dishes and got the house in order, and the men folks went out to the barn to look at the cattle, and walked over the farm and talked of the crops.
in the evening the house was all open and lighted with the best of tallow candles, which aunt lois herself had made with especial care for this illumination.
it was understood that we were to have a dance, and black cæsar, full of turkey and pumpkin pie, and giggling in the very jollity of his heart, had that afternoon rosined his bow, and tuned his fiddle, and practised jigs and virginia reels, in a way that made us children think him a perfect orpheus....
you may imagine the astounding wassail among the young people.... my uncle bill related the story of "the wry-mouth family," with such twists and contortions and killing extremes of the ludicrous as perfectly overcame even the minister; and he was to be seen, at one period of the evening, with a face purple with laughter and the tears actually rolling down over his well-formed cheeks, while some of the more excitable young people almost fell in trances and rolled on the floor in the extreme of their merriment.
in fact, the assemblage was becoming so tumultuous, that the scrape of cæsar's violin and the forming of sets for a dance seemed necessary to restore the peace....
uncle bill would insist on leading out aunt lois, and the bright colour rising to her thin cheeks brought back a fluttering image of what might have been beauty in some fresh, early day.
ellery davenport insisted upon leading forth miss deborah kittery, notwithstanding her oft-repeated refusals and earnest protestations to the contrary.
as to uncle fliakim, he jumped and frisked and gyrated among the single sisters and maiden aunts, whirling them into the dance as if he had been the little black gentleman himself.
with that true spirit of christian charity which marked all his actions, he invariably chose out the homeliest and most neglected, and thus worthy aunt keziah, dear old soul, was for a time made quite prominent by his attentions....
grandmother's face was radiant with satisfaction, as the wave of joyousness crept up higher and higher round her, till the elders, who stood keeping time with their heads and feet, began to tell one another how they had danced with their sweethearts in good old days gone by, and the elder women began to blush and bridle, and boast of steps that they could take in their youth, till the music finally subdued them, and into the dance they went.
"well, well!"
quoth my grandmother; "they're all at it so hearty i don't see why i shouldn't try it myself."
and into the virginia reel she went, amid screams of laughter from all the younger members of the company.
but i assure you my grandmother was not a woman to be laughed at; for whatever she once set on foot she "put through" with a sturdy energy befitting a daughter of the puritans.
"why shouldn't i dance?"
she said, when she arrived red and resplendent at the bottom of the set.
"didn't mr. despondency and miss muchafraid and mr. readytohalt all dance together in the 'pilgrim's progress?'"
and the minister in his ample flowing wig, and my lady in her stiff brocade, gave to my grandmother a solemn twinkle of approbation.
as nine o'clock struck, the whole scene dissolved and melted; for what well-regulated village would think of carrying festivities beyond that hour?
and so ended our thanksgiving at oldtown.
wishbone valley
a thanksgiving ghost story about a boy who dined not wisely but too well.
the thanksgiving feast had just ended, and only donald and his little sister grace remained at the table, looking drowsily at the plum pudding that they couldn't finish, but which they disliked to leave on their plates.
when the plates had been removed, and the plum-pudding taken to the kitchen and placed beside the well-carved gobbler, donald and grace were too tired to rise from their chairs to have their faces washed.
they seemed lost in a roseate repose, until grace finally thought of the wishbone that they intended to break after dinner.
"come, now, donald," she said, "let's break the old gobbler's wishbone."
"all right," replied donald, opening his eyes slowly, and unwrapping the draperies of his sweet plum-pudding dreams from about him, "let's do it now."
so he held up the wishbone, and grace took hold of the other end of it with a merry laugh.
"here, you must not take hold so far from the end, because i have a fine wish to make, and want to get the big half if possible."
"so have i a nice wish to make," replied grace, with a sigh, "and i also want the big end."
and so they argued for a few minutes, until their mother entered the room and told them that if they could not stop quarrelling over the wishbone she would take it from them and throw it into the fire.
so they lost no time in taking it by the ends and snapping it asunder.
"hurrah!"
exclaimed donald, observing grace's expression of disappointment.
"i've got it!"
"well, i've made a wish, too," said grace.
"but it won't come true," replied donald, "because you have the little end."
and then donald thought he would go out in the air and play, because his great dinner made him feel very uncomfortable.
when he was out in the barnyard it was just growing dusk, and donald, through his half-closed eyes, observed a gobbler strutting about.
to his great surprise the gobbler approached him instead of running away.
"i thought we had you for dinner to-day," said donald.
"you did," replied the gobbler coldly, "and you had a fine old time, didn't you?"
"yes," said donald, "you made a splendid dinner, and you ought to be pleased to think you made us all so happy.
your second joints were very sweet and juicy, and your drumsticks were like sticks of candy."
"and you broke my poor old wishbone with your little sister, didn't you?"
"i did."
"and what did you wish?"
asked the gobbler.
"you mustn't ask me that," replied donald, "because, you know, if i tell you the wish i made it would not come true."
"but it was my wishbone," persisted the gobbler, "and i think i ought to know something about it."
"you have rights, i suppose, and your argument is not without force,"
replied donald, with calm dignity.
the gobbler was puzzled at so lofty a reply, and not understanding it, said:
"i am only the ghost, or spirit, of the gobbler you ate to-day, but still i remember how one day last summer you threw a pan of water on me, and alluded to my wattles as a red necktie, and called me 'old harvard.'
now, come along!"
"where?"
asked donald.
"to wishbone valley, where you will see the spirits of my ancestors eaten by your family."
it was now dusk, and donald didn't like the idea of going to such a place.
he was a brave, courageous boy, on most occasions, but the idea of going to wishbone valley when the stars were appearing filled him with a dread that he didn't like to acknowledge even to the ghost of a gobbler.
"i can't go with you now, mr. gobbler," he said, "because i have a lot of lessons to study for next monday; wait until to-morrow, and i will gladly go with you."
"come along," replied the gobbler, with a provoked air, "and let your lessons go until to-morrow, when you will have plenty of light."
thereupon the gobbler extended his wing and took donald by the hand, and started on a trot.
"not so fast," protested donald.
"why not?"
demanded the gobbler in surprise.
"because," replied donald, with a groan, "i have just had my dinner, and i'm too full of you to run."
so the gobbler kindly and considerately slackened his pace to a walk, and the two proceeded out of the barnyard and across a wide meadow to a little valley surrounded by a dense thicket.
the moon was just rising and the thicket was silvered by its light, while the dry leaves rustled weirdly in the cold crisp air.
"this," said the gobbler, "is wishbone valley.
look and see."
donald strained his eyes, and, sure enough, there were wishbones sticking out of the ground in every direction.
he thought they looked like little croquet hoops, but he made no comments, for fear of offending the old gobbler.
but he felt that he must say something to make the gobbler think that he was not frightened, so he remarked, in an offhand way:
"let's break one and make a wish."
the ghost of the old gobbler frowned, drew himself up, and uttered a ghostly whistle that seemed to cut the air.
as he did so, the ghosts of the other turkeys long since eaten popped out of the thickets with a great flapping of wings, and each one perched upon a wishbone and gazed upon poor donald, who was so frightened that his collar flew into a standing position, while he stood upon his toes, with his knees knocking together at a great rate.
every turkey fixed its eyes upon the trembling boy, who was beside himself with fear.
"what shall we do with him, grandpapa?"
asked the gobbler of an ancient bird that could scarcely contain itself and remain on its wishbone.
"i cannot think of anything terrible enough, willie," replied the grandparent.
"it almost makes my ghostship boil when i think of the way in which he used to amuse himself by making me a target for his bean shooter.
often when i was asleep in the button-ball he would fetch me one on the side of the head that would give me an earache for a week.
but now it is our turn."
here the other turkeys broke into a wild chorus of approval.
"take his bean shooter from his pocket," suggested another bird, "and let's have a shot at him."
donald was compelled to hand out his bean shooter, and the grandparent took it, lay on his back, and with the handle of the bean shooter in one claw and the missile end in the other began to send pebbles at donald at a great rate.
he could hear them whistling past his ears, but could not see them to dodge.
fortunately none struck him, and when the turkeys felt that they had had fun enough of that kind at his expense the bean shooter was returned to him.
"now, then," said the gobbler's aunt fanny, "he once gave me a string of yellow beads for corn."
"what shall we do to him for that?"
asked the gobbler.
"make him eat a lot of yellow beads," said the chorus.
"but we have no beads," said the gobbler sadly.
"then let's poke him with a stick," suggested the gobbler's granduncle sylvester; "he used to do that to us."
so they all took up their wishbones and poked donald until he was sore.
sometimes they would hit him in a ticklish spot, and throw him into such a fit of laughter that they thought he was enjoying it all and chaffing them.
so they stuck their wishbones into the ground, and took their positions on them once more, to take a needed rest, for the poor ghosts were greatly exhausted.
there was one quiet turkey who had taken no part in the proceedings.
"why don't you suggest something?"
demanded uncle sylvester.
"because," replied the quiet turkey, "donald never did anything to me, and i must treat him accordingly.
i was raised and killed a long way from here, and canned.
donald's father bought me at a store.
to be a ghost in good standing i should be on the farm where i was killed, and really i don't know why i should be here."
"then you should be an impartial judge," said aunt fanny.
"now what shall we do with him?"
"tell them to let me go home," protested donald, "and i'll agree never to molest or eat turkey again; i will give them all the angleworms i can dig every day, and on thanksgiving day i'll ask my father to have roast beef."
"i think," replied the impartial canned ghost, "that as all boys delight in chasing turkeys with sticks, it would be eminently just and proper for us, with the exception of myself, to chase this boy and beat him with our wishbones, to let him learn by experience that which he could scarcely learn by observation."
"what could i do but eat turkey when it was put on the table?"
protested donald.
"but you could help chasing us around with sticks," sang the chorus.
they thereupon descended from the wishbones upon which they had been perching, and flying after him, they darted the wishbones, which they held in their beaks, into his back and neck as hard as they could.
donald ran up and down wishbone valley, calling upon them to stop, and declaring that if turkey should ever be put upon the table again he would eat nothing but the stuffing.
when donald found that the wishbones were sticking into his neck like so many hornet stings, he made up his mind that he would run for the house.
finally the wishbone tattoo stopped, and when he looked around, the gobbler, who was twenty feet away, said: "when a thanksgiving turkey dies, his ghost comes down here to wishbone valley to join his ancestors, and it never after leaves the valley.
you will now know why every spring the turkeys steal down here to hatch their little ones.
as you are now over the boundary line you are safe."
"thank you," said donald gratefully.
"good-bye," sang all the ghosts in chorus.
there was then a great ghostly flapping and whistling, and the turkeys and wishbones all vanished from sight.
donald ran home as fast as his trembling legs could carry him, and he fancied that the surviving turkeys on the place made fun of him as he passed on his way.
when he reached the house he was very happy, but made no allusion to his experience in wishbone valley, for fear of being laughed at.
"come, donald," said his mother, shortly after his arrival, "it is almost bedtime; you had better eat that drumstick and retire."
"i think i have had turkey enough for to-day," replied donald, with a shudder, "and if it is just the same, i would rather have a nice thick piece of pumpkin pie."
so the girl placed a large piece of pie before him; and while he was eating with the keen appetite given him by the crisp air of wishbone valley, he heard a great clattering of hoofs coming down the road.
these sounds did not stop until the express wagon drew up in front of the house, and the driver brought in a large package for donald.
"hurrah!"
shouted donald, in boundless glee.
"uncle arthur has sent me a nice bicycle!
wasn't it good of him?"
"didn't you wish for a bicycle to-day, when you got the big end of the wishbone?"
asked his little sister grace.
"what makes you think so?"
asked donald, with a laugh.
"oh, i knew it all the time; and my wish came true, too."
"how could your wish come true?"
asked donald, with a puzzled look, "when you got the little half of the wishbone?"
"i don't know," replied grace, "but my wish did come true."
"and what did you wish?"
"why," said grace, running up and kissing her little brother affectionately, "i wished your wish would come true, of course."
patem's salmagundi
new york boys, especially, will enjoy this tale of     the doings of a group of dutch schoolboys in old new     amsterdam.
little patem onderdonk meant mischief.
there was a snap in his eyes and a look on his face that were certain proof of this.
i am bound to say, however, that there was nothing new or strange in this, for little patem onderdonk generally did mean mischief.
whenever any one's cow was found astray beyond the limits, or any one's bark gutter laid askew so that the roof-water dripped on the passer's head, or whenever the dominie's dog ran howling down the heeren graaft with a battered pypken cover tied to his suffering tail, the goode vrouws in the neighbourhood did not stop to wonder who could have done it; they simply raised both hands in a sort of injured resignation and exclaimed:
"ach so; what's gone of patem's elishamet's patem?"
so you see little patem onderdonk was generally at the bottom of whatever mischief was afoot in those last dutch days of new amsterdam on the island of manhattan.
but this time he was conjuring a more serious bit of mischief than even he usually attempted.
this was plain from the appearance of the startled but deeply interested faces of the half-dozen boys gathered around him on the bridge.
"but i say, patem," queried young teuny vanderbreets, who was always ready to second any of patem's plans, "how can we come it over the dominie as you would have us?"
"so then, teuny," cried patem, in his highest key of contempt, "did your wits blow away with your hat out of heer snediker's nut tree yesterday?
do not you know that the heer governor is at royal odds with dominie curtius because the skinflint old dominie will not pay the taxes due the town?
why, lad, the heer governor will back us up!"
"and why will he not pay the taxes, patem?"
asked jan hooglant, the tanner's son.
"because he's a skinflint, i tell you," asserted patem, "though i do believe he says that he was brought here from holland as one of the company's men, and ought not therefore pay taxes to the company.
that's what i did hear them say at the stadt huys this morning, and heer vanderveer, the schepen, said there, too, that dominie curtius was not worth one of the five hundred guilders which he doth receive for our teaching.
and sure, if the burgomaster and schepens will have none of the old dominie, why then no more will we who know how stupid are his lessons, and how his switch doth sting.
so, hoy, lads, let's turn him out."
and with that little patem onderdonk gave teuny vanderbreets' broad back a sounding slap with his battered horn book and crying, "come on, lads," headed his mutinous companions on a race for the rickety little schoolhouse near the fort.
it was hard lines for dominie curtius all that day at school.
the boys had never been so unruly; the girls never so inattentive.
rebellion seemed in the air, and the dominie, never a patient or gentle-mannered man, grew harsher and more exacting as the session advanced.
his reign as master of the latin school of new amsterdam had not been a successful one, and his dispute with the town officers as to his payment of taxes had so angered him that, as patem declared, "he seemed moved to avenge himself upon the town's children."
this being the state of affairs, dominie curtius's mood this day was not a pleasant one, and the school exercises had more to do with the whipping horse and the birch twigs than with the horn book and the latin conjugations.
the boys, i regret to say, were hardened to this, because of much practice, but when the dominie, enraged at some fresh breach of rigid discipline, glared savagely over his big spectacles and then swooped down upon pretty little antje adrianse who had done nothing whatever, the whole school broke into open rebellion.
horn books, and every possible missile that the boys had at hand, went flying at the master's head, and the young rebels, led on by patem and teuny, charged down upon the unprepared dominie, rescued trembling little antje from his clutch, and then one and all rushed pell-mell from the school with shouts of triumph and derision.
but when the first flush of their victory was over, the boys realized that they had done a very daring and risky thing.
it was no small matter in those days of stern authority and strict home government for girls and boys to resist the commands of their elders; and to run away from school was one of the greatest of crimes.
so they all looked at patem in much anxiety.
"well," cried several of the boys almost in a breath, "and now what shall we do, patem?
you have us in a pretty fix."
patem waved his hand like a young napoleon.
"ach!
ye are all cowards," he cried shrilly.
"what will we do?
why, then we will but do as if we were burgomasters and schepens as we will be some day.
we will to the heer governor straight, and lay our demands before him."
well, well; this was bold talk!
the heer governor!
not a boy in all new amsterdam but would sooner face a gray wolf in the sapokanican woods than the heer governor stuyvesant.
"so then, patem onderdonk," they cried, "you may do it yourself, for, good faith, we will not."
"why," said jan hooglant, "why, patem, the heer governor will have us rated soundly over the ears for daring such a thing; and we will all catch more of it when we get home.
demand of the heer governor indeed!
why, boy, you must be crazy!"
but patem was not crazy.
he was simply determined; and at last, by threats and arguments and coaxing words, he gradually won over a half-dozen of the boldest spirits to his side and, without more ado, started with them to interview the heer governor.
but, quickly as they acted, the schoolmaster was still more prompt in action.
defeated and deserted by his scholars, dominie curtius had raged about the schoolroom for a while, spluttering angrily in mingled dutch and polish, and then, clapping his broad black hat upon his head, marched straight to the fort to lay his grievance before the heer governor.
the heer petrus stuyvesant, director general for the dutch west india company in their colony of new netherlands, walked up and down the governor's chamber in the fort at new amsterdam wofully perplexed.
the heer governor was not a patient man, and a combination of annoyances was hedging him about and making his government of his island province anything but pleasant work.
the "malignant english" of the massachusetts and hartford colonies were pressing their claim to the ownership of the new netherlands, just as, to the south, the settlers on lord de la ware's patent were also doing; the "people called quakers," whom the heer governor had publicly whipped for heresy and sent a-packing, were spreading their "pernicious doctrine" through long island and other outer edges of the colony, and the indians around esopus, the little settlement which the province had planted midway on the hudson between new amsterdam and beaverwyck (now albany), were growing restless and defiant.
thump, thump, thump, across the floor went the wooden leg with its silver bands, and with every thump the heer governor grew still more puzzled and angered.
for the heer governor could not bear to have things go wrong.
suddenly, with scant ceremony and but the apology of a request for admittance, there came into the heer governor's presence the dominie doctor alexander carolus curtius, master of the latin school.
"here is a pretty pass, heer governor!"
he cried excitedly.
"my pupils of the latin school have turned upon me in revolt and have deserted me in a body."
"ach; then you are rightly served for a craven and a miser, sir!"
burst out the angry governor, turning savagely upon the surprised schoolmaster.
this was a most unexpected reception for doctor and dominie curtius.
but, as it happened, the heer governor stuyvesant was just now particularly vexed with the objectionable dominie.
at much trouble and after much solicitation on his part the heer governor had prevailed upon his superiors and the proprietors of the province, the dutch west india company, to send from holland a schoolmaster or "rector" for the children of their town of new amsterdam, and the company had sent over dominie curtius.
the heer governor had entertained great hopes of what the new schoolmaster was to do, and now to find him a subject of complaint from both the parents of the scholars and the officials of the town made the hasty governor doubly dissatisfied.
the dominie's intrusion, therefore, at just this stage of all his perplexities gave the heer governor a most convenient person on whom to vent his bad feelings.
"yes, sirrah, a craven and a miser!"
continued the angry governor, stamping upon the floor with both wooden leg and massive cane.
"you, who can neither govern our children nor pay your just dues to the town, can be no fit master for our youth.
no words, sirrah, no words," he added, as the poor dominie tried to put in a word in his defence, "no words, sir; you are discharged from further labour in this province.
i will see that one who can rule wisely and pay his just dues shall be placed here in your stead."
protests and appeals, explanations and arguments, were of no avail.
when the heer governor stuyvesant said a thing, he meant it, and it was useless for any one to hope for a change.
the unpopular dominie curtius must go and go he did.
but, as he left, the delegation of boys, headed by young patem onderdonk, came into the fort and sought to interview the heer governor.
the sentry at the door would have sent them off without further ado, but, hearing their noise, the heer governor came to the door.
"so, so, young rapscallions," he cried, "you, too, must needs disturb the peace and push yourself forward into public quarrels!
get you gone!
i will have none of your words.
is it not enough that i must needs send the schoolmaster a-packing, without being worried by graceless young varlets as you?"
"and hath the dominie curtius gone indeed, heer governor?"
patem dared to ask.
"hath he, hath he, boy?"
echoed the governor, turning upon his audacious young questioner with uplifted cane.
"said i not so, and will you dare doubt my word, rascal?
begone from the fort, all of you, ere i do put you all in limbo, or send word to your good folk to give you the floggings you do no doubt all so richly deserve."
discretion is the better part of valour, and the boyish delegation hastily withdrew.
but when once they were safely out of hearing of the heer governor, beyond the land gate at the broad way, they took breath and indulged in a succession of boyish shouts.
"and that doth mean no school, too!"
cried young patem onderdonk, flinging his cap in air.
"huzzoy for that, lads; huzzoy for that!"
and the "huzzoys" came with right good-will from every boy of the group.
within less than a week the whole complexion of affairs in that little island city was entirely changed.
both the massachusetts and the maryland claimants ceased, for a time at least, their unfounded demands.
a treaty at hartford settled the disputed question of boundary-lines, and the maryland governor declared "that he had not intended to meddle with the government of manhattan."
added to this, sewackenamo, chief of the esopus indians, came to the fort at new amsterdam and "gave the right hand of friendship" to the heer governor, and by the interchange of presents a treaty of peace was ratified.
so, one by one, the troubles of the heer governor melted away, his brow became clear and, "partaking of the universal satisfaction," so says the historian, "he proclaimed a day of general thanksgiving."
thanksgiving in the colonies was a matter of almost yearly occurrence.
since the first thanksgiving day on american shores, when, in 1621, the massachusetts colony, at the request of governor bradford, rejoiced, "after a special manner after we had gathered the fruit of our labours," the observance of days of thanksgiving for mercies and benefits had been frequent.
but the day itself dates still further back.
the states of holland after establishing their freedom from spain had, in the year 1609, celebrated their deliverance from tyranny "by thanksgiving and hearty prayers," and had thus really first instituted the custom of an official thanksgiving.
and the dutch colonists in america followed the customs of the fatherland quite as piously and fervently as did the english colonists.
so, when the proclamation of the heer governor stuyvesant for a day of thanksgiving was made known, in this year of mercies, 1659, all the townfolk of new amsterdam made ready to keep it.
but young people are often apt to think that the world moves for them alone.
the boys of this little dutch town at the mouth of the hudson were no different from other boys, and cared less for treaties and indians and boundary questions than for their own matters.
they, therefore, concluded that the heer governor had proclaimed a thanksgiving because, as young patem onderdonk declared, "he had gotten well rid of dominie curtius and would have no more schoolmasters in the colony."
"and so, lads," cried the exuberant young knickerbocker, "let us wisely celebrate the thanksgiving.
i will even ask the mother to make for me a rare salmagundi which we lads, who were so rated by the heer governor, will ourselves give to him as our thanksgiving offering, for the heer governor, so folk do say, doth rarely like the salmagundi."
now the salmagundi was (to some palates) a most appetizing mixture, compounded of salted mackerel, or sometimes of chopped meat, seasoned with oil and vinegar, pepper and raw onions not an altogether attractive dish to read of, but welcome to and dearly loved by many an old knickerbocker even up to a recent date.
its name, too, as most of you bright boys and girls doubtless know, furnished the title for one of the works of washington irving, best loved of all the knickerbockers.
thanksgiving day came around, and so did patem's salmagundi, as highly seasoned and appetizing a one as the goode vrouw onderdonk could make.
the lengthy prayers and lengthier sermon of good dominie megapolensis in the fort church were over and the thanksgiving dinners were very nearly ready when up to the heer governor's house came a half-dozen boys, with patem onderdonk at their head bearing a neatly covered dish.
patem had well considered and formed in his mind what he deemed just the speech of presentation to please the heer governor, but when the time came to face that awful personage his valour and his eloquence alike began to ooze away.
and, it must be confessed, the heer governor stuyvesant did not understand boys, nor did he particularly favour them.
he was hasty and overbearing though high-minded, loyal, and brave, but he never could "get on" with the ways and pranks of boys.
and as for the boys themselves, when once they stood in the presence of the greatest dignitary in the province, patem's ready tongue seemed to cleave to the roof of his mouth, and he hummed and hawed and hesitated until the worthy heer governor lost patience and broke in:
"well, well, boys; what is the stir?
speak quick if at all, for when a man's dinner waiteth he hath scant time for stammering boys."
then patem spoke up.
"heer governor," he said, "the boys hereabout, remembering your goodness in sending away our most pestilential master, the dominie curtius, and in proclaiming a thanksgiving for his departure and for the ending of our schooling  "
"what, what, boy!"
cried the heer governor, "art crazy then, or would you seek to make sport of me, your governor?
thanksgiving for the breaking up of school!
out on you for a set of malapert young knaves!
do you think the world goeth but for your pleasures alone?
why, this is ribald talk!
i made no thanksgiving for your convenience, rascals, but because that the lord in his grace hath relieved the town from danger  "
"of which, heer governor," broke in the most impolitic patem, "we did think the dominie curtius and his school were part.
and so we have brought to you this salmagundi as our thanksgiving offering to you for thus freeing us of a pest and a sorrow  "
"how now, how now, sirrah!"
again came the interruption from the scandalized heer governor when he could recover from his surprise, "do you then dare to call your schooling a pest and a sorrow?
why, you graceless young varlets, i do not seek to free you from schooling.
i do even now seek to bring you speedily the teaching you do so much stand in need of.
even now, within the week forthcoming, the good dominie luyck, the tutor of mine own household, will see to the training and teaching of this town, and so i will warrant to the flogging, too, of all you sad young rapscallions who even now by this your wicked talk do show your need both of teaching and of flogging."
and then, forgetful of the boys' thanksgiving offering and in high displeasure at what he deemed their wilful and deliberate ignorance, the heer governor turned the delegation into the street and hastened back to his waiting dinner.
"ach, so," cried young teuny vanderbreets, as the disgusted and disconsolate six gathered in the roadway and looked at one another ruefully.
"here is a fine mix-up a regular salmagundi, patem onderdonk, and no question.
and you did say that this thanksgiving was all our work.
out upon you, say i!
here are we to be saddled with a worse master than before.
hermanus smeeman did tell me that nick stuyvesant did tell him that dominie luyck is a most hard and worryful master."
there was a universal groan of disappointment and disgust, and then patem said philosophically:
"well, lads, what's done is done and what is to be will be.
let us eat the salmagundi anyhow and cry, 'confusion to dominie luyck.'"
and they did eat it, then and there, for indigestion had no terror to those lads of hardy stomachs.
but as for the toast of "confusion to dominie luyck," that came to naught.
for dominie aegidius luyck proved a most efficient and skilful teacher.
under his rule the latin school of new amsterdam became famous throughout the colonies, so that scholars came to it for instruction from beaverwyck and south river and even from distant virginia.
so the thanksgiving of the boys of new amsterdam became a day of mourning, and patem's influence as a leader and an oracle suffered sadly for a while.
five years after, on a sad monday morning in september, 1664, the little city was lost to the dutch west india company and, spite of the efforts and protests of its sturdy governor, the red, white, and blue banner of the netherlands gave place to the flag of england.
and when that day came the young fellows who then saw the defeat and disappointment of the heer governor stuyvesant were not so certain that patem onderdonk was wrong when he claimed that it was all a just and righteous judgment on the heer governor for his refusal of the boys' request for no school, and for his treatment of them on that sad thanksgiving day when he so harshly rebuked their display of gratitude and lost forever his chance to partake of patem's salmagundi.
mrs. november's dinner party
an amusing allegorical fantasy.
all the most     interesting days, grandchildren of mother year, came to     mrs. november's dinner party, to honour the birthday of     her daughter, thanksgiving.
the widow november was very busy indeed this year.
what with elections and harvest homes, her hands were full to overflowing; for she takes great interest in politics, besides being a social body, without whom no apple bee or corn husking is complete.
still, worn out as she was, when her thirty sons and daughters clustered round, and begged that they might have their usual family dinner on thanksgiving day, she could not find it in her hospitable heart to refuse, and immediately invitations were sent to her eleven brothers and sisters, old father time, and mother year, to come with all their families and celebrate the great american holiday.
then what a busy time ensued!
what a slaughter of unhappy barnyard families turkeys, ducks, and chickens!
what a chopping of apples and boiling of doughnuts!
what a picking of raisins and rolling of pie crust, until every nook and corner of the immense storeroom was stocked with "savoury mince and toothsome pumpkin pies," while so great was the confusion that even the stolid red-hued servant, indian summer, lost his head, and smoked so continually he always appeared surrounded by a blue mist, as he piled logs upon the great bonfires in the yard, until they lighted up the whole country for miles around.
but at length all was ready; the happy day had come, and all the little novembers, in their best "bib and tucker," were seated in a row, awaiting the arrival of their uncles, aunts, and cousins, while their mother, in russet-brown silk trimmed with misty lace, looked them over, straightening guy fawkes's collar, tying thanksgiving's neck ribbon, and settling a dispute between two little presidential candidates as to which should sit at the head of the table.
soon a merry clashing of bells, blowing of horns, and mingling of voices were heard outside, sleighs and carriages dashed up to the door, and in came, "just in season," grandpa time, with grandma year leaning on his arm, followed by all their children and grandchildren, and were warmly welcomed by the hostess and her family.
"oh, how glad i am we could all come to-day!"
said mr. january, in his crisp, clear tones, throwing off his great fur coat, and rushing to the blazing fire.
"there is nothing like the happy returns of these days."
"nothing, indeed," simpered mrs. february, the poetess.
"if i had had time i should have composed some verses for the occasion; but my son valentine has brought a sugar heart, with a sweet sentiment on it, to his cousin thanksgiving.
i, too, have taken the liberty of bringing a sort of adopted child of mine, young leap year, who makes us a visit every four years."
"he is very welcome, i am sure," said mrs. november, patting leap year kindly on the head.
"and, sister march, how have you been since we last met?"
"oh!
we have had the north, south, east, and west winds all at our house, and they have kept things breezy, i assure you.
but i really feared we should not get here to-day; for when we came to dress i found nearly everything we had was lent; so that must account for our shabby appearance."
"he!
he!
he!"
tittered little april fool.
"what a sell!"
and he shook until the bells on his cap rang; at which his father ceased for a moment showering kisses on his nieces and nephews, and boxed his ears for his rudeness.
"oh, aunt may!
do tell us a story," clamoured the younger children, and dragging her into a corner she was soon deep in such a moving tale that they were all melted to tears, especially the little aprils, who cry very easily.
meanwhile, mrs. june, assisted by her youngest daughter, a "sweet girl graduate," just from school, was engaged in decking the apartment with roses and lilies and other fragrant flowers that she had brought from her extensive gardens and conservatories, until the room was a perfect bower of sweetness and beauty; while mr. july draped the walls with flags and banners, lighted the candles, and showed off the tricks of his pet eagle, yankee doodle, to the great delight of the little ones.
madam august, who suffers a great deal with the heat, found a seat on a comfortable sofa, as far from the fire as possible, and waved a huge feather fan back and forth, while her thirty-one boys and girls, led by the two oldest, holiday and vacation, ran riot through the long rooms, picking at their aunt june's flowers, and playing all sorts of pranks, regardless of tumbled hair and torn clothes, while they shouted, "hurrah for fun!"
and behaved like a pack of wild colts let loose in a green pasture, until their uncle september called them, together with his own children, into the library, and persuaded them to read some of the books with which the shelves were filled, or play quietly with the game of authors and the dissected maps.
"for," said mr. september to mrs. october, "i think sister august lets her children romp too much.
i always like improving games for mine, although i have great trouble to make equinox toe the line as he should."
"that is because you are a schoolmaster," laughed mrs. october, shaking her head, adorned with a wreath of gayly tinted leaves; "but where is my baby?"
at that moment a cry was heard without, and indian summer came running in to say that little all hallows had fallen into a tub of water while trying to catch an apple that was floating on top, and mrs. october, rushing off to the kitchen, returned with her youngest in a very wet and dripping condition, and screaming at the top of his lusty little lungs, and could only be consoled by a handful of chestnuts, which his nurse, miss frost, cracked open for him.
the little novembers, meanwhile, were having a charming time with their favourite cousins, the decembers, who were always so gay and jolly, and had such a delightful papa.
he came with his pockets stuffed full of toys and sugarplums, which he drew out from time to time, and gave to his best-loved child, merry christmas, to distribute amongst the children, who gathered eagerly around their little cousin, saying:
"christmas comes but once a year,      but when she comes she brings good cheer."
at which merry laughed gayly, and tossed her golden curls, in which were twined sprays of holly and clusters of brilliant scarlet berries.
at last the great folding-doors were thrown open.
indian summer announced that dinner was served, and a long procession of old and young being quickly formed, led by mrs. november and her daughter thanksgiving, whose birthday it was, they filed into the spacious dining-room, where stood the long table groaning beneath its weight of good things, while four servants ran continually in and out bringing more substantials and delicacies to grace the board and please the appetite.
winter staggered beneath great trenchers of meat and poultry, pies and puddings; spring brought the earliest and freshest vegetables; summer, the richest creams and ices; while autumn served the guests with fruit, and poured the sparkling wine.
all were gay and jolly, and many a joke was cracked as the contents of each plate and dish melted away like snow before the sun; and the great fires roared in the wide chimneys as though singing a glad thanksgiving song.
new year drank everybody's health, and wished them "many happy returns of the day," while twelfth night ate so much cake he made himself quite ill, and had to be put to bed.
valentine sent mottoes to all the little girls, and praised their bright eyes and glossy curls.
"for," said his mother, "he is a sad flatterer, and not nearly so truthful, i am sorry to say, as his brother, george washington, who never told a lie."
at which grandfather time gave george a quarter, and said he should always remember what a good boy he was.
after dinner the fun increased, all trying to do something for the general amusement.
mrs. march persuaded her son, st. patrick, to dance an irish jig, which he did to the tune of the "wearing of the green,"
which his brothers, windy and gusty, blew and whistled on their fingers.
easter sang a beautiful song, the little mays "tripped the light fantastic toe" in a pretty fancy dance, while the junes sat by so smiling and sweet it was a pleasure to look at them.
independence, the fourth child of mr. july, who is a bold little fellow, and a fine speaker, gave them an oration he had learned at school; and the augusts suggested games of tag and blindman's buff, which they all enjoyed heartily.
mr. september tried to read an instructive story aloud, but was interrupted by equinox, april fool, and little all hallows, who pinned streamers to his coat tails, covered him with flour, and would not let him get through a line; at which mrs. october hugged her tricksy baby, and laughed until she cried, and mr. september retired in disgust.
"that is almost too bad," said mrs. november, as she shook the popper vigorously in which the corn was popping and snapping merrily; "but, thanksgiving, you must not forget to thank your cousins for all they have done to honour your birthday."
at which the demure little maiden went round to each one, and returned her thanks in such a charming way it was quite captivating.
grandmother year at last began to nod over her teacup in the chimney corner.
"it is growing late," said grandpa time.
"but we must have a virginia reel before we go," said mr. december.
"oh, yes, yes!"
cried all the children.
merry christmas played a lively air on the piano, and old and young took their positions on the polished floor with grandpa and grandma at the head.
midsummer danced with happy new year, june's commencement with august's holiday, leap year with may day, and all "went merry as a marriage bell."
the fun was at its height when suddenly the clock in the corner struck twelve.
grandma year motioned all to stop, and grandfather time, bowing his head, said softly, "hark!
my children, thanksgiving day is ended."
the visit
a story of the children of the tower
the children went back to spend thanksgiving at     grandfather's farm.
they got into some trouble and were     afraid that they would miss their dinner.
early one morning grandmother grey got up, opened the windows and doors of the farmhouse, and soon everybody on the place was stirring.
the cook hurried breakfast, and no sooner was it over than grandfather grey went out to the barn and hitched the two horses to the wagon.
"get up, robin and dobbin!"
he said, as he drove through the big gate.
"if you knew who were coming back in this wagon you would not be stepping so slowly."
the old horses pricked up their ears when they heard this, and trotted away as fast as they could down the country road until they came to town.
just as they got to the railway station the train came whizzing in.
"all off!"
cried the conductor, as the train stopped; and out came a group of children who were, every one of them, grandfather and grandmother grey's grandchildren.
they had come to spend thanksgiving day on the farm.
there was john, who was named for grandfather and looked just like him, and the twins, teddie and pat, who looked like nobody but each other; their papa was grandfather's oldest son.
then there was louisa, who had a baby sister at home, and then mary virginia martin, who was her mamma's only child.
"i tell you," said grandfather, as he helped them into the wagon, "your grandmother will be glad to see you!"
and so she was.
she was watching at the window for them when they drove up, and when the children spied her they could scarcely wait for grandfather to stop the wagon before they scrambled out.
"dear me, dear me!"
said grandmother, as they all tried to kiss her at the same time, "how you have grown."
"i am in the first grade," said john, hugging her with all his might.
"so am i," cried louisa.
"we are going to be," chimed in the twins; and then they all talked at once, till grandmother could not hear herself speak.
then, after they had told her all about their mammas and papas, and homes, and cats and dogs, they wanted to go and say "how do you do" to everything on the place.
"take care of yourselves," called grandmother, "for i don't want to send any broken bones home to your mothers."
"i can take care of myself," said john.
"so can we," said the rest; and off they ran.
first they went to the kitchen where mammy 'ria was getting ready to cook the thanksgiving dinner; then out to the barnyard, where there were two new red calves, and five little puppies belonging to juno, the dog, for them to see.
then they climbed the barnyard fence and made haste to the pasture where grandfather kept his woolly sheep.
"baa-a!"
said the sheep when they saw the children; but then, they always said that, no matter what happened.
there were cows in this pasture, too, and mary virginia was afraid of them, even though she knew that they were the mothers of the calves she had seen in the barnyard.
"silly mary virginia!"
said john, and mary virginia began to cry.
"don't cry," said louisa.
"let's go to the hickory-nut tree."
this pleased them all, and they hurried off; but on the way they came to the big shed where grandfather kept his plows and reaper and threshing machine and all his garden tools.
the shed had a long, wide roof, and there was a ladder leaning against it.
when john saw that, he thought he must go up on the roof; and then, of course, the twins went, too.
then louisa and mary virginia wanted to go, and although john insisted that girls could not climb, they managed to scramble up the ladder to where the boys were.
and there they all sat in a row on the roof.
"grandmother doesn't know how well we can take care of ourselves," said john.
"but i am such a big boy that i can do anything.
i can ride a bicycle and go on errands  "
"so can i," said louisa.
"we can ride on the trolley!"
cried the twins.
"mamma and i go anywhere by ourselves," said mary virginia.
"moo!"
said something down below; and when they looked, there was one of the cows rubbing her head against the ladder.
"don't be afraid, mary virginia," said louisa.
"cows can't climb ladders."
"don't be afraid, mary virginia," said john.
"i'll drive her away."
so he kicked his feet against the shed roof and called, "go away!
go away!"
the twins kicked their feet, too, and called, "go away!
go away!"
and somebody, i don't know who, kicked the ladder and it fell down and lay in the dry grass.
and the cow walked peacefully on, thinking about her little calf.
"there, now!"
exclaimed louisa, "how shall we ever get down?"
"oh, that's nothing," said john.
"all i'll have to do is to stand up on the roof and call grandfather.
just watch me do it."
so he stood up and called, "grandfather!
grandfather!
grandfather!"
till he was tired; but no grandfather answered.
then the twins called, "grandfather!
grandmother!"
"baa," said the sheep, as if beginning to think that somebody ought to answer all that calling.
then they all called together: "grandfather!
grandfather!
grandfather!"
and when nobody heard that, they began to feel frightened and lonely.
"i want to go home to my mother!
i wish i hadn't come!"
wailed mary virginia.
"it's thanksgiving dinner time, too," said john, "and there's turkey for dinner, for i saw it in the oven."
"pie, too," said louisa.
"dear, dear!"
cried the twins.
and then they all called together once more, but this time with such a weak little cry that not even the sheep heard it.
the sun grew warmer and the shadows straighter as they sat there, and grandmother's house seemed miles away when john stood up to look at it.
"they've eaten dinner by this time, i know," he said as he sat down again; "and grandfather and grandmother have forgotten all about us."
but grandfather and grandmother had not forgotten them, for just about then grandmother was saying to grandfather: "you had better see where the children are, for thanksgiving dinner will soon be ready and i know that they are hungry."
so grandfather went out to look for them.
he did not find them in the kitchen nor the barnyard, so he called, "johnnie!
johnnie!"
and when nobody answered he made haste to the pasture.
the children saw him coming, and long before he had reached the gate they began to call with all their might.
this time grandfather answered, "i'm coming!"
and i cannot tell you how glad they were.
in another minute he had set the ladder up again and they all came down.
mary virginia came first because she was the youngest girl, and john came last because he was the biggest boy.
grandfather put his arms around each one as he helped them down, and carried mary virginia home on his back.
when they got to the house dinner was just ready.
the turkey was brown, the potatoes were sweet,     the sauce was so spicy, the biscuits were beat,     the great pumpkin pie was as yellow as gold,     and the apples were red as the roses, i'm told.
it was such a good dinner that i had to tell you about it in rhyme!
and i'm sure you'll agree,     with the children and me,     that there's never a visit so pleasant to pay     as a visit to grandma on thanksgiving day.
the story of ruth and naomi
ruth's story is one of the most beautiful ones to be found in the old book.
as a tale of the harvest, it deserves to be included in this collection.
now it came to pass, many hundreds of years ago, that there was a good woman named naomi who lived in the land of the moabites.
she had once been very rich and happy, but now her husband was dead and her two sons also, and she had left only orpah and ruth, the wives of her sons.
there was a famine in the land.
naomi could find no grain in the fields to beat into flour.
she and orpah and ruth were lonely and sad and very hungry.
but naomi heard there was a land where the lord had visited his people and given them bread; so she went forth from the place where she was, and her two daughters with her, to the land called judah.
it was a long, hard way to go.
there were rough roads to travel and steep hills to climb.
their feet grew so weary they could scarcely walk, and at last naomi said:
"go, return each to your father's house.
the lord deal kindly with you as you have dealt with me.
the lord grant you that you may find rest."
then she kissed them, and orpah kissed her and left her, but ruth would not leave naomi.
and naomi said to ruth:
"behold, thy sister is gone back unto her own people; return thou!"
but ruth clung to naomi more closely, as she said:
"entreat me not to leave thee, or to return from following after thee:
for whither thou goest, there will i go; and where thou lodgest, there will i lodge.
thy people shall be my people, and thy god my god."
when naomi saw that ruth loved her so much, she forgot how tired and hungry she was, and the two journeyed on together until they came to bethlehem in judah in the beginning of the barley harvest.
there was no famine in bethlehem.
the fields were full of waving grain, and busy servants were reaping it and gathering it up to bind into sheaves.
above all were the fields of the rich man, boaz, shining with barley and corn.
naomi and ruth came to the edge of the fields and watched the busy reapers.
they saw that after each sheaf was bound, and each pile of corn was stacked, a little grain fell, unnoticed, to the ground.
ruth said to naomi: "let me go to the field and glean the ears of corn after them."
and naomi said to her, "go, my daughter."
and she went, and came and gleaned in the field after the reapers.
and boaz came from bethlehem, and said to his reapers: "whose damsel is this?"
for he saw how very beautiful ruth was, and how busily she was gleaning.
the reapers said: "it is the damsel that came back with naomi out of the land of the moabites."
and ruth ran up to boaz, crying: "i pray you, let me glean and gather after the reapers among the sheaves."
and boaz, who was good and kind, said to ruth:
"hearest thou not, my daughter?
go not to glean in any other field, but abide here."
then ruth bowed herself to the ground, and said: "why have i found such favour in thine eyes, seeing i am a stranger?"
and boaz answered her: "it hath been showed me all that thou hast done to thy mother."
so, all day, ruth gleaned in boaz's fields.
at noon she ate bread and parched corn with the others.
boaz commanded his reapers to let fall large handfuls of grain, as they worked, for ruth to gather, and at night she took it all home to naomi.
"where hast thou gleaned to-day?"
asked naomi, when she saw the food that ruth had brought to her.
"the man's name with whom i wrought to-day is boaz," said ruth.
and naomi said: "blessed be he of the lord the man is near of kin unto us."
so ruth gleaned daily, and at the end of the barley harvest the good man boaz took ruth and naomi to live with him in his own house forever.
bert's thanksgiving
bert is a manly, generous, warm-hearted fellow.
other     boys will like to read how good luck began to come his     way on a certain memorable thanksgiving day.
at noon, on a dreary november day, a lonesome little fellow, looking very red about the ears and very blue about the mouth, stood kicking his heels at the door of a cheap eating house in boston, and offering a solitary copy of a morning paper for sale to the people passing.
but there were really not many people passing, for it was thanksgiving day, and the shops were shut, and everybody who had a home to go to and a dinner to eat seemed to have gone home to eat that dinner, while bert hampton, the newsboy, stood trying in vain to sell the last "extry"
left on his hands by the dull business of the morning.
an old man, with a face that looked pinched, and who was dressed in a seedy black coat and a much-battered stovepipe hat, stopped at the same doorway, and, with one hand on the latch, appeared to hesitate between hunger and a sense of poverty before going in.
it was possible, however, that he was considering whether he could afford himself the indulgence of a morning paper (seeing it was thanksgiving day); so, at least, bert thought, and accosted him accordingly.
"buy a paper, sir?
all about the fire in east boston, and arrest of safe-burglars in springfield.
only two cents!"
the little old man looked at the boy with keen gray eyes, which seemed to light up the pinched and skinny face, and answered in a shrill voice that whistled through white front teeth:
"you ought to come down in your price this time of day.
you can't expect to sell a morning paper at twelve o'clock for full price."
"well, give me a cent then," said bert.
"that's less'n cost; but never mind; i'm bound to sell out anyhow."
"you look cold," said the old man.
"cold?"
replied bert; "i'm froze.
and i want my dinner.
and i'm going to have a big dinner, too, seeing it's thanksgiving day."
"ah!
lucky for you, my boy!"
said the old man.
"you've a home to go to, and friends, too, i hope?"
"no, sir; nary home, and nary friend; only my mother" bert hesitated, and grew serious; then suddenly changed his tone "and hop houghton.
i told him to meet me here, and we'd have a first-rate thanksgiving dinner together; for it's no fun to be eatin' alone thanksgiving day!
it sets a feller thinking of everything, if he ever had a home and then hain't got a home any more."
"it's more lonesome not to eat at all," said the old man, his gray eyes twinkling.
"and what can a boy like you have to think of?
here, i guess i can find one cent for you, though there's nothing in the paper, i know."
the old man spoke with some feeling, his fingers trembled, and somehow he dropped two cents instead of one into bert's hand.
"here!
you've made a mistake!"
cried bert.
"a bargain's a bargain.
you've given me a cent too much."
"no, i didn't.
i never give anybody a cent too much."
"but, see here!"
and bert showed the two cents, offering to return one.
"no matter," said the old man, "it will be so much less for my dinner, that's all."
bert had instinctively pocketed the pennies when, on a moment's reflection, his sympathies were excited.
"poor old man!"
he thought; "he's seen better days i guess.
perhaps he's no home.
a boy like me can stand it, but i guess it must be hard for him.
he meant to give me the odd cent all the while; and i don't believe he has had a decent dinner for many a day."
all this, which i have been obliged to write out slowly in words, went through bert's mind like a flash.
he was a generous little fellow, and any kindness shown him, no matter how trifling, made his heart overflow.
"look here!"
he cried, "where are you going to get your dinner to-day?"
"i can get a bite here as well as anywhere.
it don't matter much to me," replied the old man.
"dine with me," said bert, laughing.
"i'd like to have you."
"i'm afraid i couldn't afford to dine as you are going to," said the man, with a smile, his eyes twinkling again and his white front teeth shining.
"i'll pay for your dinner!"
bert exclaimed.
"come!
we don't have a thanksgiving but once a year, and a feller wants a good time then."
"but you are waiting for another boy."
"oh, hop houghton!
he won't come now, it's so late.
he's gone to a place down in north street, i guess a place i don't like: there's so much tobacco smoked and so much beer drank there."
bert cast a final glance up the street.
"no, he won't come now.
so much the worse for him!
he likes the men down there; i don't."
"ah!"
said the man, taking off his hat, and giving it a brush with his elbow, as they entered the restaurant, as if trying to appear as respectable as he could in the eyes of a newsboy of such fastidious tastes.
to make him feel quite comfortable in his mind on that point, bert hastened to say:
"i mean rowdies, and such.
poor people, if they behave themselves, are just as respectable to me as rich folks.
i ain't the least mite aristocratic."
"ah, indeed!"
and the old man smiled again, and seemed to look relieved.
"i'm very glad to hear it."
he placed his hat on the floor and took a seat opposite bert at a little table, which they had all to themselves.
bert offered him the bill of fare.
"no, i must ask you to choose for me; but nothing very extravagant, you know.
i'm used to plain fare."
"so am i. but i'm going to have a good dinner for once in my life, and so shall you!"
cried bert, generously.
"what do you say to chicken soup, and then wind up with a thumping big piece of squash pie?
how's that for a thanksgiving dinner?"
"sumptuous!"
said the old man, appearing to glow with the warmth of the room and the prospect of a good dinner.
"but won't it cost you too much?"
"too much?
no, sir!"
laughed bert.
"chicken soup, fifteen cents; pie they give tremendous pieces here; thick, i tell you ten cents.
that's twenty-five cents; half a dollar for two.
of course, i don't do this way every day in the year.
but mother's glad to have me, once in a while.
here, waiter!"
and bert gave his princely order as if it were no very great thing for a liberal young fellow like him, after all.
"where is your mother?
why don't you dine with her?"
the little man asked.
bert's face grew sober in a moment.
"that's the question: why don't i?
i'll tell you why i don't.
i've got the best mother in the world.
what i'm trying to do is to make a home for her, so we can live together and eat our thanksgiving dinners together some time.
some boys want one thing, some another.
there's one goes in for good times; another's in such a hurry to get rich he don't care much how he does it; but what i want most of anything is to be with my mother and my two sisters again, and i ain't ashamed to say so."
bert's eyes grew very tender, and he went on, while his companion across the table watched him with a very gentle, searching look.
"i haven't been with her now for two years, hardly at all since father died.
when his business was settled up he kept a little grocery store on hanover street it was found he hadn't left us anything.
we had lived pretty well up to that time, and i and my two sisters had been to school; but then mother had to do something, and her friends got her places to go out nursing, and she's a nurse now.
everybody likes her, and she has enough to do.
we couldn't be with her, of course.
she got us boarded at a good place, but i saw how hard it was going to be for her to support us, so i said, 'i'm a boy; i can do something for myself.
you just pay their board, and keep 'em to school, and i'll go to work, and maybe help you a little, besides taking care of myself.'"
"what could you do?"
said the little old man.
"that's it.
i was only 'leven years old, and what could i?
what i should have liked would have been some nice place where i could do light work, and stand a chance of learning a good business.
but beggars mustn't be choosers.
i couldn't find such a place; and i wasn't going to be loafing about the streets, so i went to selling newspapers.
i've sold newspapers ever since, and i shall be twelve years old next month."
"you like it?"
said the old man.
"i like to get my own living," replied bert, proudly, "but what i want is to learn some trade, or regular business, and settle down, and make a home for   but there's no use talking about that.
make the best of things, that's my motto.
don't this soup smell good?
and don't it taste good, too?
they haven't put so much chicken in yours as they have in mine.
if you don't mind my having tasted it, we'll change."
the old man declined this liberal offer, took bert's advice to help himself freely to bread, which "didn't cost anything," and ate his soup with prodigious relish, as it seemed to bert, who grew more and more hospitable and patronizing as the repast proceeded.
"come, now, won't you have something between the soup and the pie?
don't be afraid: i'll pay for it.
thanksgiving don't come but once a year.
you won't?
a cup of tea, then, to go with your pie?"
"i think i will have a cup of tea; you are so kind," said the old man.
"all right!
here, waiter!
two pieces of your fattest and biggest squash pie; and a cup of tea, strong, for this gentleman."
"i've told you about myself," added bert; "suppose, now, you tell me something."
"about myself?"
"yes.
i think that would go pretty well with the pie."
but the man shook his head.
"i could go back and tell about my plans and hopes when i was a lad of your age, but it would be too much like your own story over again.
life isn't what we think it will be when we are young.
you'll find that out soon enough.
i am all alone in the world now, and i am sixty-seven years old."
"have some cheese with your pie, won't you?
it must be so lonely at your age!
what do you do for a living?"
"i have a little place in devonshire street.
my name is crooker.
you'll find me up two flights of stairs, back room, at the right.
come and see me, and i'll tell you all about my business, and perhaps help you to such a place as you want, for i know several business men.
now don't fail."
and mr. crooker wrote his address with a little stub of a pencil on a corner of the newspaper which had led to their acquaintance, tore it off carefully, and gave it to bert.
thereupon the latter took a card from his pocket, not a very clean one, i must say (i am speaking of the card, though the remark will apply equally well to the pocket) and handed it across the table to his new friend.
"herbert hampton, dealer in newspapers," the old man read, with his sharp gray eyes, which glanced up funnily at bert, seeming to say, "isn't this rather aristocratic for a twelve-year-old newsboy?"
bert blushed, and explained: "got up for me by a printer's boy i know.
i'd done some favours for him, so he made me a few cards.
handy to have sometimes, you know."
"well, herbert," said the little old man, "i'm glad to have made your acquaintance.
the pie was excellent not any more, thank you and i hope you'll come and see me.
you'll find me in very humble quarters; but you are not aristocratic, you say.
now won't you let me pay for my dinner?
i believe i have money enough.
let me see."
bert would not hear of such a thing, but walked up to the desk and settled the bill with the air of a person who did not regard a trifling expense.
when he looked around again the little old man was gone.
"never mind, i'll go and see him the first chance i have," said bert, as he looked at the pencilled strip of newspaper margin again before putting it into his pocket.
he then went round to his miserable quarters, in the top of a cheap lodging-house, where he made himself ready, by means of soap and water and a broken comb, to walk five miles into the suburbs and get a sight, if only for five minutes, of his mother.
on the following monday bert, having a leisure hour, went to call on his new acquaintance in devonshire street.
having climbed the two flights, he found the door of the back room at the right ajar, and looking in, saw mr. crooker at a desk, in the act of receiving a roll of money from a well-dressed visitor.
bert entered unnoticed and waited till the money was counted and a receipt signed.
then, as the visitor departed, old mr. crooker looked round and saw bert.
he offered him a chair, then turned to lock up the money in a safe.
"so this is your place of business?"
said bert, glancing about the plain office room.
"what do you do here?"
"i buy real estate sometimes sell rent and so forth."
"who for?"
asked bert.
"for myself," said little old mr. crooker, with a smile.
bert stared, perfectly aghast at the situation.
this, then, was the man whom he had invited to dinner, and treated so patronizingly the preceding thursday!
"i i thought you was a poor man."
"i am a poor man," said mr. crooker, locking his safe.
"money doesn't make a man rich.
i've money enough.
i own houses in the city.
they give me something to think of, and so keep me alive.
i had truer riches once, but i lost them long ago."
from the way the old man's voice trembled and eyes glistened, bert thought he must have meant by these riches friends he had lost wife and children, perhaps.
"to think of me inviting you to dinner!"
the boy cried, abashed and ashamed.
"it was odd."
and mr. crooker showed his white front teeth with a smile.
"but it may turn out to have been a lucky circumstance for both of us.
i like you; i believe in you; and i've an offer to make to you:
i want a trusty, bright boy in this office, somebody i can bring up to my business, and leave it with, as i get too old to attend to it myself.
what do you say?"
what could bert say?
again that afternoon he walked or rather, ran to his mother, and after consulting with her, joyfully accepted mr. crooker's offer.
interviews between his mother and his employer soon followed, resulting in something for which at first the boy had not dared to hope.
the lonely, childless old man, who owned so many houses, wanted a home; and one of these houses he offered to mrs. hampton, with ample support for herself and her children, if she would also make it a home for him.
of course this proposition was accepted; and bert soon had the satisfaction of seeing the great ambition of his youth accomplished.
he had employment which promised to become a profitable business (as indeed it did in a few years, he and the old man proved so useful to each other); and, more than that, he was united once more with his mother and sisters in a happy home where he has since had a good many thanksgiving dinners.
a thanksgiving story
a three-minute story for the littlest boys and girls.
it was nearly time for thanksgiving day.
the rosy apples and golden pumpkins were ripe, and the farmers were bringing them into the markets.
one day when two little children, named john and minnie, were going to school, they saw the turkeys and chickens and pumpkins in the window of a market, and they exclaimed, "oh, thanksgiving day!
oh, thanksgiving day!"
after school was over, they ran home to their mother, and asked her when thanksgiving day would be.
she told them in about two weeks; then they began to talk about what they wanted for dinner, and asked their mother a great many questions.
she told them she hoped they would have turkey and even the pumpkin pie they wanted so much, but that thanksgiving day was not given us so that we might have a good dinner, but that god had been a great many days and weeks preparing for thanksgiving.
he had sent the sunshine and the rain and caused the grains and fruits and vegetables to grow.
and thanksgiving day was for glad and happy thoughts about god, as well as for good things to eat.
not long after, when john and minnie were playing, john said to minnie, "i wish i could do something to tell god how glad i am about thanksgiving."
"i wish so, too," said minnie.
just then some little birds came flying down to the ground, and minnie said: "oh, i know."
then she told john, but they agreed to keep it a secret till the day came.
now what do you think they did?
well, i will tell you.
they saved their pennies, and bought some corn, and early thanksgiving day, before they had their dinner, they went out into the street near their home, and scattered corn in a great many places.
what for?
why, for the birds.
while they were doing it, john said, "i know, minnie, why you thought of the birds: because they do not have any papas and mammas after they are grown up to get a dinner for them on thanksgiving day."
"yes, that is why," said minnie.
by and by the birds came and found such a feast, and perhaps they knew something about thanksgiving day and must have sung and chirped happily all day.
john inglefield's thanksgiving
a sad thanksgiving story is a rarity indeed.
but     the one which follows reminds us that the puritans,     although they originated our thanksgiving festival,     were after all a sombre people, seldom free from a     realizing sense of the imminence of sin.
nathaniel     hawthorne, a genuine product of puritanism, inherited     a full share of his forefathers' constitutional     melancholy and preoccupation with the darker aspects of     life as this story bears witness.
on the evening of thanksgiving day, john inglefield, the blacksmith, sat in his elbow-chair among those who had been keeping festival at his board.
being the central figure of the domestic circle, the fire threw its strongest light on his massive and sturdy frame, reddening his rough visage so that it looked like the head of an iron statue, all aglow, from his own forge, and with its features rudely fashioned on his own anvil.
at john inglefield's right hand was an empty chair.
the other places round the hearth were filled by the members of the family, who all sat quietly, while, with a semblance of fantastic merriment, their shadows danced on the wall behind them.
one of the group was john inglefield's son, who had been bred at college, and was now a student of theology at andover.
there was also a daughter of sixteen, whom nobody could look at without thinking of a rosebud almost blossomed.
the only other person at the fireside was robert moore, formerly an apprentice of the blacksmith, but now his journeyman, and who seemed more like an own son of john inglefield than did the pale and slender student.
only these four had kept new england's festival beneath that roof.
the vacant chair at john inglefield's right hand was in memory of his wife, whom death had snatched from him since the previous thanksgiving.
with a feeling that few would have looked for in his rough nature, the bereaved husband had himself set the chair in its place next his own; and often did his eye glance hitherward, as if he deemed it possible that the cold grave might send back its tenant to the cheerful fireside, at least for that one evening.
thus did he cherish the grief that was clear to him.
but there was another grief which he would fain have torn from his heart; or, since that could never be, have buried it too deep for others to behold, or for his own remembrance.
within the past year another member of his household had gone from him, but not to the grave.
yet they kept no vacant chair for her.
while john inglefield and his family were sitting round the hearth with the shadows dancing behind them on the wall, the outer door was opened, and a light footstep came along the passage.
the latch of the inner door was lifted by some familiar hand, and a young girl came in, wearing a cloak and hood, which she took off and laid on the table beneath the looking-glass.
then, after gazing a moment at the fireside circle, she approached, and took the seat at john inglefield's right hand, as if it had been reserved on purpose for her.
"here i am, at last, father," said she.
"you ate your thanksgiving dinner without me, but i have come back to spend the evening with you."
yes, it was prudence inglefield.
she wore the same neat and maidenly attire which she had been accustomed to put on when the household work was over for the day, and her hair was parted from her brow in the simple and modest fashion that became her best of all.
if her cheek might otherwise have been pale, yet the glow of the fire suffused it with a healthful bloom.
if she had spent the many months of her absence in guilt and infamy, yet they seemed to have left no traces on her gentle aspect.
she could not have looked less altered had she merely stepped away from her father's fireside for half an hour, and returned while the blaze was quivering upward from the same brands that were burning at her departure.
and to john inglefield she was the very image of his buried wife, such as he remembered on the first thanksgiving which they had passed under their own roof.
therefore, though naturally a stern and rugged man, he could not speak unkindly to his sinful child, nor yet could he take her to his bosom.
"you are welcome home, prudence," said he, glancing sideways at her, and his voice faltered.
"your mother would have rejoiced to see you, but she has been gone from us these four months."
"i know, father, i know it," replied prudence quickly.
"and yet, when i first came in, my eyes were so dazzled by the firelight that she seemed to be sitting in this very chair!"
by this time, the other members of the family had begun to recover from their surprise, and became sensible that it was no ghost from the grave, nor vision of their vivid recollections, but prudence, her own self.
her brother was the next that greeted her.
he advanced and held out his hand affectionately, as a brother should; yet not entirely like a brother, for, with all his kindness, he was still a clergyman and speaking to a child of sin.
"sister prudence," said he, earnestly, "i rejoice that a merciful providence hath turned your steps homeward in time for me to bid you a last farewell.
in a few weeks, sister, i am to sail as a missionary to the far islands of the pacific.
there is not one of these beloved faces that i shall ever hope to behold again on this earth.
oh, may i see all of them yours and all beyond the grave!"
a shadow flitted across the girl's countenance.
"the grave is very dark, brother," answered she, withdrawing her hand somewhat hastily from his grasp.
"you must look your last at me by the light of this fire."
while this was passing, the twin girl the rosebud that had grown on the same stem with the castaway stood gazing at her sister, longing to fling herself upon her bosom, so that the tendrils of their hearts might intertwine again.
at first she was restrained by mingled grief and shame, and by a dread that prudence was too much changed to respond to her affection, or that her own purity would be felt as a reproach by the lost one.
but, as she listened to the familiar voice, while the face grew more and more familiar, she forgot everything save that prudence had come back.
springing forward she would have clasped her in a close embrace.
at that very instant, however, prudence started from her chair and held out both her hands with a warning gesture.
"no, mary, no, my sister," cried she, "do not you touch me!
your bosom must not be pressed to mine!"
mary shuddered and stood still, for she felt that something darker than the grave was between prudence and herself, though they seemed so near each other in the light of their father's hearth, where they had grown up together.
meanwhile prudence threw her eyes around the room in search of one who had not yet bidden her welcome.
he had withdrawn from his seat by the fireside and was standing near the door, with his face averted so that his features could be discerned only by the flickering shadow of the profile upon the wall.
but prudence called to him in a cheerful and kindly tone:
"come, robert," said she, "won't you shake hands with your old friend?"
robert moore held back for a moment, but affection struggled powerfully and overcame his pride and resentment; he rushed toward prudence, seized her hand, and pressed it to his bosom.
"there, there, robert," said she, smiling sadly, as she withdrew her hand, "you must not give me too warm a welcome."
and now, having exchanged greetings with each member of the family, prudence again seated herself in the chair at john inglefield's right hand.
she was naturally a girl of quick and tender sensibilities, gladsome in her general mood, but with a bewitching pathos interfused among her merriest words and deeds.
it was remarked of her, too, that she had a faculty, even from childhood, of throwing her own feelings like a spell over her companions.
such as she had been in her days of innocence, so did she appear this evening.
her friends, in the surprise and bewilderment of her return, almost forgot that she had ever left them, or that she had forfeited any of her claims to their affection.
in the morning, perhaps, they might have looked at her with altered eyes, but by the thanksgiving fireside they felt only that their own prudence had come back to them, and were thankful.
john inglefield's rough visage brightened with the glow of his heart, as it grew warm and merry within him; once or twice, even, he laughed till the room rang again, yet seemed startled by the echo of his own mirth.
the brave young minister became as frolicsome as a schoolboy.
mary, too, the rosebud, forgot that her twin-blossom had ever been torn from the stem and trampled in the dust.
and as for robert moore, he gazed at prudence with the bashful earnestness of love new-born, while she, with sweet maiden coquetry, half smiled upon and half discouraged him.
in short, it was one of those intervals when sorrow vanishes in its own depth of shadow, and joy starts forth in transitory brightness.
when the clock struck eight, prudence poured out her father's customary draught of herb tea, which had been steeping by the fireside ever since twilight.
"god bless you, child," said john inglefield, as he took the cup from her hand; "you have made your old father happy again.
but we miss your mother sadly, prudence, sadly.
it seems as if she ought to be here now."
"now, father, or never," replied prudence.
it was now the hour for domestic worship.
but while the family were making preparations for this duty, they suddenly perceived that prudence had put on her cloak and hood, and was lifting the latch of the door.
"prudence, prudence!
where are you going?"
cried they all with one voice.
as prudence passed out of the door, she turned toward them and flung back her hand with a gesture of farewell.
but her face was so changed that they hardly recognized it.
sin and evil passions glowed through its comeliness, and wrought a horrible deformity; a smile gleamed in her eyes, as of triumphant mockery, at their surprise and grief.
"daughter," cried john inglefield, between wrath and sorrow, "stay and be your father's blessing, or take his curse with you!"
for an instant prudence lingered and looked back into the fire-lighted room, while her countenance wore almost the expression as if she were struggling with a fiend who had power to seize his victim even within the hallowed precincts of her father's hearth.
the fiend prevailed, and prudence vanished into the outer darkness.
when the family rushed to the door, they could see nothing, but heard the sound of wheels rattling over the frozen ground.
that same night, among the painted beauties at the theatre of a neighbouring city, there was one whose dissolute mirth seemed inconsistent with any sympathy for pure affections, and for the joys and griefs which are hallowed by them.
yet this was prudence inglefield.
her visit to the thanksgiving fireside was the realization of one of those waking dreams in which the guilty soul will sometimes stray back to its innocence.
but sin, alas!
is careful of her bondslaves; they hear her voice, perhaps, at the holiest moment, and are constrained to go whither she summons them.
the same dark power that drew prudence inglefield from her father's hearth the same in its nature, though heightened then to a dread necessity would snatch a guilty soul from the gate of heaven, and make its sin and its punishment alike eternal.
how obadiah brought about a thanksgiving[16]
by emily hewitt leland.
the waddle family had very bad luck on their farm in     the west.
and they certainly were homesick!
but obadiah     and his uncle, between them, found means to mend     matters.
that an innocent and helpless baby should be named obadiah waddle was an outrage which the infant unceasingly resented from the time he got old enough to realize the awful gulf that lay between his name and those of his more fortunate mates.
the experiences of his first day at school were branded into his soul; and although he made friends by his bright face and kind and honest nature, scarcely a day passed during his six years of village schooling without his absurd name flying out at him from some unsuspected ambush and making him wince.
it was bad enough when the guying came from a boy, but when a girl took to punning, jeering, or giggling at him it seemed as if his burden was greater than he could bear.
then he would go home through the woods and fields to avoid human beings, so hurt and unhappy that nothing but his mother's greeting and the smell of a good supper could cheer him.
at home he had no trouble.
his mother and his baby sister called him obie, and sweet was his name on their lips.
his father, who had objected to "obadiah" from the first, called him bub or bubby; but one can bear almost any name when it comes with a loving smile or a pat on the shoulder, which was mr. waddle's way of addressing his only son.
very early in life it had been explained to obadiah that he was named for his mother's favourite brother, who went to california to live, after hanging a silver dollar on a black silk cord round the neck of his little namesake.
obadiah often looked at this dollar, which was kept in a little box with a broken earring, a hair chain, a glass breastpin, and an ancient "copper"; and sometimes on circus days or on the fourth of july he wished there was no hole in it that he might expend it on sideshows and lemonade or on monstrous firecrackers.
but he knew that his mother valued it highly because uncle obie gave it to him and because there were little dents in it made by his vigorous first teeth; so he always returned it to the box with a sigh of resignation, and made the most of the twenty-five cents given him by his father on the great days of the year.
when he was eleven years old the waddle family moved west, and the last thing obadiah heard as the train pulled away from the little station of his native town was this verse, lustily shouted from a group of schoolmates assembled to bid him good-bye:
"oh, obadiah, you're going west,      where the prairie winds don't have no rest,      you'll have to waddle your level best.
good-bye, my lover, good-bye!"
ill-fortune attended the waddles in their western home.
to be sure, they had their rich, broad acres, with never a stone or a stump to hinder the smooth cutting plow, but a frightful midsummer storm in the second year literally wiped out crops and cattle, and left them with their bare lives in their lowly sod house.
"drought first year, tornado second.
if next year's a failure, we'll go back if we can raise money enough to go with.
three times and then out!"
said mr. waddle.
mrs. waddle broke down and wept.
it scared the children to learn that their mother could cry their mother, who was always so bright and cheerful and who always laughed away their griefs!
mr. waddle was scared, too.
he bent down and patted her shoulder his favourite way of soothing beast or human being.
"now, mary, mary!
don't you go back on us.
we can stand everything as long as you are all right.
don't feel bad!
we'll pick up again.
there's time enough yet to grow turnips and fodder corn."
"but what will we fodder it to?"
wailed mrs. waddle.
mr. waddle could not answer, thinking of his splendid horses, and of his pure jersey cows that would never answer to his call again.
"well, i am ashamed of myself!"
said mrs. waddle, after a few moments, bravely drying her eyes.
"and i'm wicked, too!
i've just wished that something would happen so we'd have to go back east, and it's happened; and we might have all been killed.
and i'm going to stop just where i am.
i don't care where we live or how we live so long as we are all together and well and there's a crust in the house and water to drink."
rising, she seized the broom and began vigorously to sweep together the leaves and grass which the cyclone had cast in through the open door.
"i declare, mary!"
said mr. waddle.
"do you mean to say you've been homesick all this time?"
"i'd give more for the north side of one of those old vermont hills than i would for the whole prairie!"
was the emphatic reply.
"but i'm not going to say another single word."
mr. waddle felt a thrill of comfort in knowing he was not alone in his yearning for the old home.
it was singular that these two, who loved each other so truly, could so hide their inmost feelings.
each had feared to appear weak to the other.
mr. waddle looked at his wife with almost a radiant smile.
"well, mary, we'll go back in the fall if we can sell.
i guess we can hire the deacon elbridge place i see by last week's paper it's still for sale or rent, and carpenter work in old hartbridge is about as profitable for me as farming out west."
"i'm glad you wouldn't mind going back, homer," said mrs. waddle, and they looked at each other as in the days of their courtship.
but selling the farm was not easy, and october found the waddles in painful straits.
"what will we have for thanksgiving, ma?"
asked obadiah.
"oh, a pair of nice prairie chickens, mashed turnips, hot biscuits, and melted sugar," cheerfully replied mrs. waddle.
"that sounds pretty good," said obadiah; but when he got out of doors he said to himself that you could not shoot prairie chickens without ammunition, and that he had no bait even if he tried to use his quail traps.
he also reflected that his mother looked thin and pale, that sister ellie needed shoes, and that plum pudding and mince pie used to be on thanksgiving tables.
but this was the day for his story paper post-office day which seemed to cheer things up somehow.
when he went to town for the mail he would see if his father, who was at work carpentering on a barn, could not spare a dime for a little powder and shot.
so the boy trudged away on his long walk, with his empty gun on his shoulder and the hope of youth in his heart.
his father, busy at work, greeted him cheerily, but had no dime for powder and shot.
pay for the work was not to be had until the first of december, and meanwhile every penny must be saved for coal and for ellie's shoes.
"it leaves thanksgiving out in the cold, doesn't it, bub?
but we'll make it up at christmas, maybe," said mr. waddle, as obadiah turned to go.
"here's three cents for a bite of candy for sis, and take good care of mother.
i'll be home day after to-morrow, likely."
obadiah jingled the three pennies in his pocket as he walked to the combined store and post-office.
three cents!
they would buy a charge or two of powder and shot, and he still had a few caps.
and candy was not good for people anyhow!
he wished he had asked his father if he might buy ammunition instead.
"but i'll not bother him again," he decided, "and sis will be glad enough of the candy."
he would not buy rashly.
he looked over the jars of striped sticks, peppermint drops, chocolate mice, and mixed varieties.
then he sat down on a nail keg to await the distribution of the mail.
he watched the people standing by for the opening of the delivery window.
it was a rare thing for his family to get a letter, but then they seldom sent one.
once in a while a newspaper came from uncle obadiah, but only one letter in two years.
perhaps if he knew what hard luck they were having he would write oftener.
the boy had heard his mother say only the week before that she wanted to write to brother obie, but was no hand at letters, especially when there was no good news to write.
a thought now came to young obadiah.
he would write to his uncle to-morrow, and his brain began fairly to hum with what he would say.
when his time came he invested one cent in a clean white stick of candy and the remaining two in a postage stamp.
"i'll pay two cents back to pa as soon as i get the answer," he said confidently to his questioning conscience.
his walk home abounded in exasperations.
never had game appeared so plentiful.
three separate flocks of prairie chickens flew directly over his head, a rabbit scurried across his path, and in the stubble of the ruined grainfields rose and fell little clouds of quail.
"they just know it ain't loaded!"
grumbled obadiah, trudging with his empty gun.
that night, after sis had gone to sleep, and his mother had lain down beside her, cheerfully remarking that bed was cheaper than fire, and that she was glad there was a good wood lot on the elbridge place, obadiah, behind the sheltering canvas partition that separated the kitchen from the bedrooms, wrote the following letter:
dear uncle: last year our crops were burned up by the     drought and this year they were swept away by a cyclone     and all the stock was killed, and father will not get     his pay for carpenter work until december.
if there was     no hole in the dollar you gave me when i was a baby i     would take it and buy something for thanksgiving.
i     wish you would send me a dollar without a hole in it as     soon as you can and i will send you the one with a hole     in it.
i would send it now but i have not got stamps     enough.
i hope you are well.
we are all well, only ma     is homesick.
your sincere nephew,
obadiah waddle.
p. s. please send your answer right to me, because i     want to surprise ma with some things for thanksgiving.
the next morning he set off to look at his most distant quail traps, found them empty, and circled round to the village, where he posted his letter.
the days crept slowly by, and times grew more and more uncomfortable in the little sod house.
often when obadiah was doing his "sums" his pencil would shy off to a corner of his slate and scribble a list of items something like this:
2 cents to pa                           $.02     stamps and paper (to send the d)         .06     powder and shot                          .10     tea and sugar for ma                     .30     1 lb.
raisens                            .15     6 eggs                                   .08     1 lb.
butter                             .20                                              -
.91     more powder                              .09                                              -
$1.00
sometimes he would set down half a pound of "raisens" and add "candy for sis, .05," but this was in his reckless moments.
sober second thought always convinced him that "raisens" would bring the greatest good to the greatest number about thanksgiving time.
he casually asked his mother how long it took people to go to california.
"well, uncle obie's newspapers always get here about four or five days after they are printed.
dear me!
i must write to your uncle obie just as soon as we can spare the money for paper and stamps.
he'll be glad to know we are all alive and well, and that's about all i can tell him."
obadiah smiled broadly behind his geography and began reckoning the days.
the answer might arrive about the 18th, but he heroically waited until the 21st before going to ask for it.
he reached the village long before mail time, but saw so many things to consider in the grocery and provision line that he was almost surprised when the rattle of the "mail rig" and an ingathering of people told that the important time had arrived.
the waddles had given up their box, so he could not expect to see his letter until it should be handed out to him from the general "w" pile.
he waited patiently.
the fortunate owners of lock boxes took out their letters with a proud air while the distributing was still going on.
others, who had mere open boxes, drew close and tried to read inverted superscriptions with poor success.
others who never had either letters or papers, but who came in at this hour from force of habit, stood near the stove or leaned on the counters and spoke of the weather and swapped feeble jokes.
finally the small wooden window was flung open.
the little group got its papers and letters and gradually retired.
"any letter for me?"
cried obadiah, his heart jumping.
"nope; your pa got your papers last saturday."
"but ain't there a letter for me?"
the man hastily ran over the half-dozen "w" missives.
"nope."
obadiah's heart was heavy as lead now.
he went out into the sleety weather and faced the long walk home.
his eyes were so blurred with tears he could hardly see and his feet came near slipping.
a derisive shout came from across the street: "hallo!
pretty bad 'waddling' this weather!"
obadiah pulled his hat over his eyes and tramped on in scornful silence.
and now another voice called out to him, a voice from the rear: "oh, say!
waddle!
come back here package for ye!"
obadiah hastily went back, his heart leaping.
"registered package," explained the postmaster.
"'most forgot it.
sign your name on that line.
odd name you've got.
no danger your mail going to some other fellow."
obadiah laughed and said he guessed not, and hardly believing his senses, again started for home, and soon struck out upon the far-stretching road.
in the privacy of the great prairie he looked at the package again.
how heavy it was for such a small one, and how important looked the long row of stamps; and there was uncle obadiah's name in one corner, proving that it was truly the answer!
there must be a jackknife in it, or something besides the dollar.
he cut the stout twine, removed the wrapper, and lifted the cover of a strong paper box.
there was something wrapped in neat white paper and feeling very solid.
obadiah removed the paper, and a heavy, handsome and very fat leather purse slipped into his hand.
he opened it.
it had several compartments, and in each one were three or more hard, flat, round objects wrapped in more white paper to keep them from jingling, very likely.
obadiah unwrapped one of these round, flat objects, and even in the dull light of the drizzling and fading november day he could see that it was a bright, clean, shining silver dollar and had no hole in it.
with hands fairly shaking with joy, he returned the purse to the box and sped homeward.
he ran all the way, only slowing up for breath now and then, but it was dark, and the poor little supper was waiting when he reached the house.
the small lamp did not shed a very brilliant light, but a mother does not need an electric glare in order to read her child's face.
"well, obie, what's happened?"
asked his mother as soon as he was inside the door.
"have you caught a whole flock of quails?"
"something better'n quails!
guess again, ma!"
"three nice fat prairie hens then."
"something better'n prairie hens."
and then obie could wait no longer.
he pulled the package from under his coat and tossed it down beside the poor old teapot, which had known little but hot water these many weeks.
"why, it's from brother obie to you!"
exclaimed his mother, while his father drew near and said, "well, well!"
"and look inside!
i haven't half looked yet," said obie, "but you look, ma!
i just want you to look!"
ma opened the box, and then the purse, and then the fourteen round objects wrapped in white paper.
and they made a fine glitter on the red tablecloth.
"well, well!"
repeated mr. waddle.
"and here's something written," said mrs. waddle, taking a paper from a pocket at the back of the purse.
"read it, ma out loud!
i don't care," said obie generously.
so ma read it in a voice that trembled a little:
my dear nephew: if i count rightly, it is thirteen     years since your good mother labelled you obadiah.
i'm     not near enough to give you thirteen slaps i wish i     were so i send you thirteen dollars, and one to grow     on.
never mind returning the dollar with the hole in     it keep it for your grandchildren to cut their teeth     on.
give my love to your parents and little sister; and     if you look the purse through closely, i think you will     find something of interest to your mother.
it is about     time she paid our old vermont a visit.
be a good boy.
your affectionate uncle,                                           obadiah brown.
"oh, that blessed brother!"
cried mrs. waddle, wiping her eyes with her apron.
obie seized the purse and examined it on all sides.
it was a very wizard of a purse, for another little flat pocket was found in its inmost centre, and from it obie drew out another bit of folded paper and opened it.
"why, it's a check!"
shouted mr. waddle.
"a check for you, mary, for two hundred dollars!
my!
there's a brother for you!"
"oh, not two hundred it must be twenty it can't be  " faltered mrs. waddle, wiping her eyes to look at the paper.
then she gave a little cry and fell to hugging all her family.
"we can all go back we can go next week!"
and she almost danced up and down on the unresponsive clay floor.
"i owe you two cents, pa, and i'll pay it back to you just as soon as i can get a dollar changed," said obadiah proudly, fingering the shining coins.
"how's that, bubby?"
then obadiah explained.
"i hope you didn't complain, obie," said his mother, her happy face clouding.
"well, i told him about the drought and the cyclone.
i guess if i was a near relation i wouldn't call that complaining.
and then i asked him if he wouldn't swap dollars with me, so i could have one without a hole in it to get something for thanks  "
mr. waddle broke in with a shout of laughter, and mrs. waddle kissed her son once more, and laughed, too, although her eyes were full of tears.
and then obadiah knew everything was all right.
"we can have thanksgiving now, can't we, ma?"
he asked.
"it's so near; and i'm going to get all the things.
we'll have chicken pie tame chicken pie and plum pudding and butter and cream for the coffee and cranberries and lump sugar and pumpkin pie and  "
"oh, me wants supper!"
exclaimed sis.
and then they laughed again, and fell upon the cooling cornbread and molasses and melancholy bits of fried pork and the thin ghost of tea as if they were already engaged in a feast of thanksgiving.
and so they were.
the white turkey's wing
priscilla, the big white hen turkey, deserved a better fate than to be eaten on thanksgiving day, and minty and jason contrived to save her.
mary ellen was coming home from her school teaching at the falls, and nahum from 'tending in blodgett's store at edom four corners, and uncle and aunt piper with mirandy and augustus and the twins were coming from juniper hill, and there was every prospect of as merry a thanksgiving as one could wish to see.
and thanksgivings were always merry at the kittredge farm on red hill.
uncle kittredge might be a trifle over thrift a leetle nigh, his neighbours called him but there was no stinting at thanksgiving, and when a boy is accustomed to perpetual cornbread and sausages, he knows how to appreciate unlimited turkey and plum pudding; and when he is used to gloomy evenings, in which uncle kittredge holds the one feeble kerosene lamp between himself and a newspaper, aunt kittredge knits in silent meditation on blue yarn stockings, he knows how good it is to have the house filled with lights and people, jolly games going on in the parlour, and candy-pulling in the kitchen.
all these delights were directly before jason kittredge as he dangled his legs from the stone wall and whittled away at the skewers which clorinda, the "hired girl," had demanded of him, and yet his heart was as heavy as lead.
he did not even look up when his sister minty came up the hill toward him.
he knew it was minty, because she was hop-skipping and humming, and he knew that aunt kittredge had sent her to mrs. deacon preble's to get a recipe for snow pudding; she had said she "must have something real stylish, because she had invited the new minister and his daughter to dinner."
"oh, jason, don't you wish it was always going to be thanksgiving day after to-morrow?"
minty continued her hop-skipping; she went to and fro before the dejected figure on the wall.
minty was tall for twelve, and she had a very high forehead, which made aunt kittredge think that she was going to be "smart."
aunt kittredge made her comb her hair straight back from the high forehead, and fasten it with a round comb; not a vestige of hair showed under minty's blue hood, and her forehead looked bleak and cold, and her pale blue eyes were watery, and her new teeth were large and overlapped each other; but aunt kittredge said it was no matter, if she was only good and "smart."
"why, jason, is anything the matter?"
minty stopped, breathless, and the joy faded out of her face.
jason continued to whittle in gloomy silence.
his hands were almost purple with cold, and the wind flapped his large pantaloons they were uncle kittredge's old ones, and aunt kittredge never thought it worth the while to consider the fit if they were turned up so that he could walk in them.
"you don't care because the new minister and his daughter are coming?"
pursued minty.
jason's tastes, as she well knew, did not incline to ministers and schoolmasters as companions in merrymaking.
"she's a big girl, almost sixteen, and she will go with mary ellen, and we shall have mirandy and augustus and the twins; and the sedgell girls and nehemiah ham are coming in the evening, and we shall have such fun, and such lots to eat!"
"that's just like you.
you're friv'lous.
you don't know what an awful hard world it is.
you haven't got a realizing sense," said jason crushingly.
this last accusation was one with which aunt kittredge was accustomed to overwhelm clorinda when she burned the pies or wore her best bonnet to evening meeting.
minty's face grew so long that it looked like the reflection of a face in a spoon, and the tears came into her eyes.
it must be a hard world, since jason found it so.
he was much stouter-hearted than she; his round, snub-nosed, freckled face was generally as cheerful as the sunshine.
jason had his troubles minty well knew what they were but he bore them manfully.
he didn't like to have clorinda use his hens' eggs when he was saving them to sell, and perhaps it was even more trying to be at school when the eggs man came around, and have aunt kittredge sell his eggs and put the money into her pocket.
jason wished to go into business for himself, and he had a high opinion of the poultry business for a beginning.
cyrus, their "hired man," had once lived with a man at north edom who made fabulous sums by raising poultry.
but aunt kittredge's peculiar views of the rights of boys interfered with his accumulation of the necessary capital.
all these troubles jason bore bravely.
it must be some great misfortune that caused him to look so utterly despairing, and to accuse her of such dreadful things, thought poor minty.
jason took pity on her woful face.
"p'raps you're not so much to blame, mint.
you don't know," he said, in a somewhat softened tone.
"it's aunt kittredge."
minty heaved a long, long sigh.
it generally was aunt kittredge.
"she's told cyrus to kill the the white turkey!"
continued jason, with almost a break in his voice.
"to kill priscilla!"
gasped minty.
"she couldn't she wouldn't!
oh, jason, cyrus won't do it, will he?"
"hasn't he got to if she says so?"
demanded jason grimly.
"but priscilla is yours," said minty stoutly.
"she says she only let me call her mine.
just as if i didn't save her out of that weak brood when all the rest were killed by the thunderstorm!
and brought her up in cotton behind the kitchen stove, no matter how much clorinda scolded!
and found her nest with thirty-one eggs in it in the old pine stump!
and she knows me and follows me round."
"i shouldn't think aunt kittredge would want to," said minty reflectively.
"she wants a big turkey, because the minister and his daughter are coming to dinner, and she doesn't want to have one of the young ones killed, because she is too stin  "
"i wouldn't care if i were you.
after all, priscilla is only a turkey,"
said minty, attempting to be cheerful.
but this well-meant effort at consolation aroused jason's wrath.
"that's just like a girl!"
he cried.
"what do you care if you only have blue beads and lots of candy?"
poor minty's face lengthened again, and her jaw fell.
"there's my two dollars and thirty cents, jason," she said anxiously.
jason started; a ray of hope flushed his freckled face.
"we can buy a big turkey over at jonas hicks's for all that money,"
continued minty.
and then she drew nearer to jason, and added a thrilling whisper, "and we can hide priscilla!"
jason stared at her in amazement.
he had never expected minty to come to the front in an emergency.
perhaps the high forehead meant something after all.
"she'll be after you about the money, you know," he said, with a significant nod toward the house.
"it's my own.
i earned it picking berries and weeding old mrs.
jackman's garden.
it's in my bank, and the bank won't open till there's five dollars in it."
jason's face darkened.
"but we can smash it," said minty calmly.
certainly the high forehead meant something.
priscilla was hidden.
the "smashing" was done in extreme privacy behind the stone wall of the pasture.
cyrus was bound over to secrecy, as was also jonas hicks, who, after some haggling, sold them his finest turkey for two dollars and thirty cents.
"cyrus is gettin' real handy and accommodatin'," said clorinda the next morning, when they were all in the kitchen, and jason, ignobly arrayed in clorinda's kitchen-belle apron, was chopping, and minty was seeding raisins.
"i expected nothin' but what i'd got to pick the white turkey, and he's fetched her in all picked and drawed."
"she don't weigh quite so much as i expected," said uncle kittredge, as he suspended the turkey on the hook of the old steelyards.
jason and minty slyly exchanged anxious glances.
neither of them had looked at the turkey, and minty's face was suffused with red even to the roots of her tow-coloured hair.
mary ellen and nahum came that night, and bright and early on the morning of thanksgiving day came uncle and aunt piper with mirandy and augustus and the twins, and the house was full of noise and jollity.
jason was obliged to go to church in the morning with the grown people, but minty stayed at home to help clorinda, and after much manoeuvring she found an opportunity to run down to the shanty in the logging road and feed the white turkey.
the new minister and his daughter came to dinner, and jason and minty were glad that the children had seats at the far end of the table.
the minister's daughter was sixteen, and looked very stylish, and aunt kittredge said she was glad enough that they had the snow pudding, and that she had asked aunt piper to bring her sauce dishes.
it had begun to be very merry at the far end of the table, in a quiet way, for aunt kittredge's stern eye wandered constantly in that direction, and jason and minty had almost forgotten that there were trials and difficulties in life, when suddenly aunt piper's loud voice sounded across the table, striking terror to their souls:
"you don't say that this is the white turkey?
seems kind of a pity to kill her, she was so handsome.
but she eats real well.
now, you mustn't forget to let me take a wing home to sabriny.
you know you always promised her a wing for her hat when the white turkey was killed."
sabriny was aunt piper's niece, who had been left at home to keep house.
"sure enough i did," said aunt kittredge.
"jason, you go out to the barn and get cyrus to give you one of the white turkey's wings; and minty, you wrap it up nice, so it will be handy for your aunt to carry.
go as soon as you've ate your dinner, so's to have it ready, for uncle piper has got to get home before sundown."
"yes'm," answered jason hoarsely, without lifting his eyes from his plate.
he could scarcely eat another mouthful, and minty found it unexpectedly easy to obey aunt kittredge's injunction to decline snow pudding lest there should not be "enough to go round."
"what are you going to do?"
asked minty, overtaking jason, as he walked dejectedly through the woodshed as soon as dinner was over.
"i don't know; run away and be a cowboy like hiram trickey, i guess."
minty's heart gave a great throb.
hiram trickey had sent home a photograph, which showed him to have become very like the picture of a pirate in cyrus's old book, with pistols and a dirk at his belt.
"jason, the new minister's daughter has got a white gull's wing on her hat, and it's up in the spare chamber on the bed, and i don't think sabriny would ever know the difference."
jason stared in mild-eyed speechless wonder.
minty had never shown herself a leading spirit before.
"it will be dark before the minister's daughter goes, and there's a veil over the hat, and if we put a little something white on it i'm sure she won't notice.
and when she does notice she won't know what became of it.
and we can save up and buy her another gull's wing."
"sabriny'll know," said jason, but there was an accent of hope in his voice.
"they don't have turkeys, and they know that priscilla wasn't a common turkey; perhaps they won't know the difference," said minty.
"anyway, it will give us time to get priscilla out of the way.
if aunt kittredge finds out, she will have her killed right away."
"you go and get the wing off the minister's daughter's hat, mint,"
directed jason firmly.
minty worked with trembling fingers in the chilly seclusion of the spare chamber, but she made a neat package.
and she stuck on to the hat in place of the wing some feathers from the white rooster.
there was an awful moment as uncle and aunt piper were leaving.
"just let me see whether he's got a real handsome wing," said aunt kittredge, taking the package which minty had put into aunt piper's hand.
"malachi is in considerable of a hurry, and they've done it up so nice," said aunt piper.
"there!
i 'most forgot my sauce dishes, and sabriny's going to have company to-morrow!"
minty drew a long breath of relief as the carriage disappeared down the lane, and jason privately confided to her his opinion that she was "an orfle smart girl."
there was another dreadful moment when the minister's daughter went home.
they had played games until a very late hour, for corinna, and she dressed so hurriedly that she did not observe that anything had happened to her hat, but as she went down the garden walk jason and minty saw in the moonlight the rooster's feathers blowing from it.
the next morning, in the privacy afforded by the great woodpile, to which jason had gone to chop his daily stint, the children debated the advisability of committing the white turkey to the care of lot rankin, who lived with his widowed mother on the edge of the woods.
"it's hard to get a chance to feed her," said jason, "and she may squawk."
"lot rankin may tell," suggested minty.
and she heaved a great sigh.
conspiracy came hard to minty.
just then the voice of the new minister's daughter came to their ears.
she was talking with aunt kittredge on the other side of the woodpile.
"there was a high wind last night when i went home, and i suppose it blew away.
i am very sorry to lose it, because it was so pretty, and it was a present, too," she said.
"maybe the children have found it; they're round everywhere," said aunt kittredge.
and then she called shrilly to jason.
minty shrank down in a little heap behind a huge log as jason stepped bravely out from behind the woodpile, and answered promptly that he had not seen the gull's wing.
that was literally true; but how she was going to answer, minty did not know.
it was so great a relief that tears sprang to minty's eyes when, after a little more conversation, the minister's daughter went away.
aunt kittredge had taken it for granted that, as she remarked, "if one of them young ones didn't know anything about it the other didn't."
minty felt her burden of guilt to be greater than she could bear.
and there was no way in which she could earn money enough to buy the minister's daughter a new feather until berries were ripe and the weeds grew in old mrs. jackman's garden.
minty racked her brains to think of something she could give the minister's daughter to ease her troubled conscience.
there was her bunker hill monument, made of shells, her most precious treasure; she would gladly have parted with even that, but it stood upon the table in the parlour, and aunt kittredge would discover so soon that it had gone.
and aunt kittredge was quite capable of asking the minister's daughter to return it.
minty felt, despairingly, that this atonement was impossible.
but suddenly a bright idea struck her.
the feather on her summer sunday hat!
it was blue it had been white originally, but aunt kittredge had thriftily had it dyed when it became soiled.
blue would be very becoming to the minister's daughter, and perhaps she would like it as well as her gull's wing.
there was another sly visit to the chilly spare chamber.
minty took the summer sunday hat from its bandbox in the closet, and carefully abstracted the blue feather.
it was slightly faded, and there were some traces of the wetting it had received in a thunderstorm in spite of the handkerchief which aunt kittredge carefully pinned over it; but minty thought it still a very beautiful feather.
she put it into a little pasteboard box, wrote the minister's daughter's name on it, placed it on her doorstep at dusk, rang the bell, and ran away.
it was nearly a week before she could find this opportunity to present the feather, for aunt kittredge didn't allow her to go out after dark; and in all that time they had not been able to negotiate with lot rankin, for lot had the mumps on both sides at once, and could not be seen.
but the very next day after the minister's daughter received her feather as if things were all coming right, thought minty hopefully uncle kittredge sent her down to lot rankin's to find out when he would be strong enough to help cyrus in the logging camp; and jason gave her many charges concerning the contract she was to make with lot.
but as she was going out of the house, there stood the minister's daughter in the doorway, talking with aunt kittredge.
"i shouldn't have known where it came from if miss plympton, the milliner, hadn't happened to come in," the young girl was saying.
"she said at once, 'it's minty kittredge's feather.
i had it dyed for her last summer, and there's the little tag from the dye-house on it now.'
i can't think why she sent it to me."
aunt kittredge turned to the shrinking figure behind her, holding the blue feather accusingly in her hand.
"araminta kittredge, what does this mean?"
she demanded sternly.
"i i she felt so bad about her gull's wing, and and  " a rising sob fairly choked minty.
"please don't scold her.
i'm sure she can explain," pleaded the minister's daughter.
"it's my duty to find out just what this means," said aunt kittredge severely.
"i never heard of a child doing such a high-handed thing!
you can do your errand now, because your uncle wants you to, but when you come back i shall have a settlement with you."
poor minty!
she ran fast, never looking back, although the minister's daughter called to her in kindliest tones.
there was no hope of keeping a secret from aunt kittredge when once she had discovered that there was one.
the only chance of saving priscilla's life lay in persuading lot rankin to care for and conceal her.
but, alas!
she found that lot was not to be persuaded.
he was going into the woods to work, and his mother was "set against turkeys."
moreover, she was "so lonesome most of the time that when folks did come along she told 'em all she knew."
jason, who had been very anxious, met her at the corner.
perhaps it was not to be wondered at that jason was somewhat cross and unreasonable.
he said only a girl would be so foolish as to send that feather to the minister's daughter.
girls were all silly, even those who had high foreheads, and he would never trust one again.
he hoped she was going to have sense enough not to tell, no matter what aunt kittredge did.
poor minty felt herself to be quite unequal to resisting aunt kittredge, but she swallowed a lump in her throat and said firmly that she would try to have sense enough.
as they passed the blacksmith's shop, liphlet, uncle piper's man, called out to them: "mebbe i shan't have time to go up to your house.
the blacksmith is sick, so i had to come over here to get the mare shod, and i wish you'd tell your aunt that sabriny says 'twan't no turkey's wing that she sent her: 'twas some kind of a sea-bird's wing, and it come off of somebody's bunnit, and she's a-goin' to fetch it back!"
minty and jason answered not a word, but as they went on they looked at each other despairingly.
"we should have been found out anyway," said minty.
her pitifully white face seemed to touch jason and arouse a spark of manly courage in his bosom.
"i'll stand by you, mint, feather and all.
you can't help being a girl," he said magnanimously.
"and i won't run away to be a cowboy like hiram trickey."
minty gave him a little grateful glance, but she could not speak.
it did not seem so dreadful now about hiram trickey.
she wished that a girl could run away to be a cowboy.
as they slowly and dejectedly drew near the house, they saw a horse and a farm wagon at the door, and through the window they discovered that uncle and aunt kittredge, clorinda, and cyrus were all in the kitchen.
there was a visitor.
here was at least a slight reprieve.
they went around through the woodshed; it seemed advisable to approach aunt kittredge with caution, even in the presence of a visitor.
"well, i must say i'm consid'able disappointed," the visitor was saying, as they softly opened the door.
he was a bluff, burly man, who sat with his tall whip between his knees.
"i ought to 'a' stopped when i see her out there top of the stone wall the last time i come by the handsomest turkey cretur i ever did see, and i've been in the poultry business this twenty years.
i knew in a minute she belonged to that breed that old mis' joskins had; she fetched 'em from york state.
she moved away before i knew it, and carried 'em all with her."
"i bought some eggs of her, and 'most all of 'em hatched, but that white turkey was the only one that lived," said aunt kittredge.
"i declare if i'd known she was anything more'n common, and worthy of havin' her picture in a book  "
"you'd ought to have known it, maria!"
said uncle kittredge testily.
"i wa'n't for havin' her killed, and you'd ought to have heard to me!"
"i was calc'latin' to hev her picter right in the front of my new poultry book," continued the visitor, whom the children now recognized as the distinguished poultry dealer of north edom for whom cyrus had once worked.
"and i was going to have printed under it, 'from the farm of abner kittredge, esq., corinna.'
be kind of a boom for you 'n'
corinna, too see?
and if you didn't want to sell her right out, i was calc'latin' to make you a handsome offer for all the eggs she laid."
"there!
now you see what you've done, maria!
i declare i wouldn't gredge givin' a twenty dollar bill to fetch that white turkey back!"
exclaimed uncle kittredge.
"oh, oh!
uncle kittredge!"
minty broke away from jason, who would have held her back, not feeling sure that it was quite time to speak, and rushed into the room.
"you needn't give twenty dollars!
priscilla is down in the little shanty in the logging wood!
we saved her jason and i and we bought a turkey of jonas hicks instead.
i paid with my own money, aunt kittredge!
and then i i took the gull's wing off the minister's daughter's hat to send to sabriny, and and so that's why i sent her the blue feather, and and sabriny's going to send the gull's wing back  "
"jason, you go and fetch that turkey home!"
said uncle kittredge.
"and, maria, don't you blame them children one mite!"
"i never heard of such high-handed doin's!"
gasped aunt kittredge.
"i expect i shall have to send you children each a copy of my book with the picter of that turkey in it," said the poultry dealer.
"and maybe the boy and i can make kind of a contract about eggs and chickens."
the minister's daughter wore her gull's wing to church the next sunday, and she privately confided to minty that she "didn't blame her one bit."
aunt kittredge looked at minty somewhat severely for several days but only as she looked at her when she turned around in church or fidgeted in the long prayer.
and after the poultry book came out with priscilla's photograph as a frontispiece, and people began to make pilgrimages to the red hill farm to see the poultry, she was heard to say several times that "it was wonderful to see how a smart boy like jason could make turkey raising pay," and that "as for minty, she always knew that high forehead of hers wasn't for nothing."
the thanksgiving goose
how a little boy learned to be thankful.
a charming     story even though it has a moral.
"but i don't like roast goose," said guy, pouting.
"i'd rather have turkey.
turkey is best for thanksgiving, anyway.
goose is for christmas."
guy's mother did not answer.
he watched her while she carefully wrote g. t. w. on the corner of a pretty new red-bordered handkerchief.
five others, all alike, and all marked alike, lay beside it.
the initials were his own.
"why didn't you buy some blue ones?
i'd rather have them different," he said.
mrs. wright smiled a queer little smile, but did not answer.
she lighted a large lamp and held the marked corner of one of the handkerchiefs against the hot chimney.
the heat made the indelible ink turn dark, although the writing had been so faint guy hardly could see it before.
"oh, dear," he cried, "there's a little blot at the top of that t!
i don't want to carry a handkerchief that has a blot on it."
"very well," said his mother.
"i'll put them away, and you may carry your old ones until you ask me to let you carry this one.
i don't care to furnish new things for a boy who doesn't appreciate them."
"i don't like old  "
"that'll do, guy.
never mind the rest of the things that you don't like.
i want you to take this dollar down to mrs. burns.
tell her that i shall have a day's work for her on friday, and i thought she might like to have part of the pay in advance to help make thanksgiving with.
please go now."
"but a dollar won't help much.
she won't like that.
she always acts just as if she was as happy as anybody.
i don't want to go there on such an errand as that."
mrs. wright smiled again, but her tone was very grave.
"mrs. burns is 'as happy as anybody,' guy, and she has the best-behaved children in the neighbourhood.
the little ones almost never cry, and i never have seen the older ones quarrel.
but there are eight children, and mr. burns has only one arm, so he can't earn much money.
mrs. burns has to turn her hands to all sorts of things to keep the children clothed and fed.
she'll be thankful to get the dollar you see if she isn't!
and tell her if she is making mince pies to sell this year, i'll take three."
guy walked very slowly down the street until he came to the little house where the burns family lived.
"i'd hate to live here," he thought.
"i don't see where they all sleep.
my room isn't big enough, but i don't believe there's a room in this house as big as mine.
i shouldn't have a bit of fun, ever, if i lived here.
and i'd hate to have my mother make pies and send me about to sell them."
then he knocked on the front door, for there was no bell.
no one came.
he could hear people talking in the distance, so he knew some of the family were at home.
some one always was at home here to look after the little children.
he walked around to the kitchen door: it stood open.
the children were talking so fast they did not hear his knock.
they were very busy.
katie, the eleven-year-old, and malcolm, ten, guy's age, were cutting citron into long, thin strips, piling it on a big blue plate.
mary and james, the eight-year-old twins, were paring apples with a paring machine.
the long, curling skins fell in a large stone jar standing on a clean paper, spread on the floor.
charlie, who was only four years old, was watching to see that none of the parings fell over the edge of the jar.
susan, who was seven, was putting raisins, a few at a time, into a meat chopper screwed down on the kitchen table.
george, three years old, was turning the handle of the chopper to grind the raisins.
baby joe was creeping about the kitchen floor after a kitten.
mrs. burns was taking a great piece of meat from a steaming kettle on the back of the stove.
every one was working, except the baby and the kitten, but all seemed to be having a glorious time.
what they were saying seemed so funny it was some time before guy could understand it.
at last he was sure it was some kind of a game.
"mice?"
asked susan.
mary squealed, and they all laughed.
"because they're small," said mary.
"snakes?"
"they can't climb trees," mrs. burns called out from the pantry.
the children fairly roared at that.
"a pantry with no window in it?"
"oh, we've had that before," katie answered.
"i know what you say.
it's a good place to ripen pears in when mrs. wright gives us some."
guy knocked very loudly at that.
he had not thought that he was listening.
the children started, but did not leave their work.
they looked at their mother.
"jamie," she said.
then jamie came to meet guy, and invited him to walk in.
"what game is it?"
asked guy, forgetting his errand.
"making mince pies," said jamie.
"it's lots of fun.
don't you want to play?
i'll let you turn the paring machine if you'd like that best."
guy said "thank you" and began to turn the parer eagerly.
"but i don't mean what you are doin'," said guy.
"i knew that was mince pies.
i thought that was work.
i meant what you were saying.
it sounds so funny!
i never heard it before."
"mamma made it up," explained malcolm.
"it's great fun.
we always play it at thanksgiving time.
you think of something that people don't like, and the one who can think first tells what he is thankful for about it.
we call it 'thanksgiving.'"
guy stayed for an hour, and played both games.
then, quite to his surprise, the twelve o'clock whistles blew, and he had to go home.
but he remembered his errands and did them, to the great pleasure of the whole burns family.
in the afternoon guy spent some time writing a note to his mother.
it was badly written, but it made his mother happy.
it read:
dear mother: i am thankful the blot isent any bigger.
i am thankful the hankershefs isent black on the     borders.
i would like that one with the blot on to put     in my pocket when you read this.
but my old ones are     nice.
the burnses dont have things to be thankful for     but they are thankful just the same.
i am thankful for the goose we are going to have.
the     best is i am thankful i am not a goose myself, for if i     was i wouldent know enough to be thankful.
respectfully yours,                                         guy theodore wright.
an english dinner of thanksgiving
americans are not the only people who hold a feast each year after the crops are gathered into barns.
the older boys and girls who wish to know more of the     jolly english farmer, martin poyser, and his household,     will enjoy reading about them in george eliot's great     novel, "adam bede."
it was a goodly sight that table, with martin poyser's round good-humoured face and large person at the head of it, helping his servants to the fragrant roast beef, and pleased when the empty plates came again.
martin, though usually blest with a good appetite, really forgot to finish his own beef to-night it was so pleasant to him to look on in the intervals of carving, and see how the others enjoyed their supper; for were they not men who, on all the days of the year except christmas day and sundays, ate their cold dinner, in a makeshift manner, under the hedgerows, and drank their beer out of wooden bottles with relish certainly, but with their mouths toward the zenith, after a fashion more endurable to ducks than to human bipeds.
martin poyser had some faint conception of the flavour such men must find in hot roast beef and fresh-drawn ale.
he held his head on one side, and screwed up his mouth, as he nudged bartle massey, and watched half-witted tom tholer, otherwise known as "tom saft," receiving his second plateful of beef.
a grin of delight broke over tom's face as the plate was set down before him, between his knife and fork, which he held erect, as if they had been sacred tapers; but the delight was too strong to continue smouldering in a grin it burst out the next moment in a long-drawn "haw, haw!"
followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork darted down on the prey.
martin poyser's large person shook with his silent unctuous laugh; he turned toward mrs. poyser to see if she, too, had been observant of tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of good-natured amusement.
but now the roast beef was finished and the cloth was drawn, leaving a fair large deal table for the bright drinking cans, and the foaming brown jugs, and the bright brass candlesticks, pleasant to behold.
now the great ceremony of the evening was to begin the harvest song, in which every man must join; he might be in tune, if he liked to be singular, but he must not sit with closed lips.
the movement was obliged to be in triple time; the rest was ad libitum.
as to the origin of this song whether it came in its actual state from the brain of a single rhapsodist, or was gradually perfected by a school or succession of rhapsodists, i am ignorant.
there is a stamp of unity, of individual genius upon it, which inclines me to the former hypothesis, though i am not blind to the consideration that this unity may rather have arisen from that consensus of many minds which was a condition of primitive thought foreign to our modern consciousness.
some will perhaps think that they detect in the first quatrain an indication of a lost line, which later rhapsodists, failing in imaginative vigour, have supplied by the feeble device of iteration; others, however, may rather maintain that this very iteration is an original felicity to which none but the most prosaic minds can be insensible.
the ceremony connected with the song was a drinking ceremony.
(that is perhaps a painful fact, but then, you know, we cannot reform our forefathers.)
during the first and second quatrain, sung decidedly forte, no can was filled:
"here's a health unto our master,        the founder of the feast;      here's a health unto our master        and to our mistress!
"and may his doings prosper,        whate'er he takes in hand,      for we are all his servants,        and are at his command."
but now, immediately before the third quatrain or chorus, sung fortissimo, with emphatic raps on the table, which gave the effect of cymbals and drum together, alick's can was filled, and he was bound to empty it before the chorus ceased.
"then drink, boys, drink!
and see ye do not spill,      for if ye do, ye shall drink two,        for 'tis our master's will."
when alick had gone successfully through this test of steady-handed manliness, it was the turn of old kester, at his right hand and so on, till every man had drunk his initiatory pint under the stimulus of the chorus.
tom saft the rogue took care to spill a little by accident; but mrs. poyser (too officiously, tom thought) interfered to prevent the exaction of the penalty.
to any listener outside the door it would have been the reverse of obvious why the "drink, boys, drink!"
should have such an immediate and often-repeated encore; but once entered, he would have seen that all faces were at present sober, and most of them serious; it was the regular and respectable thing for those excellent farm-labourors to do, as much as for elegant ladies and gentlemen to smirk and bow over their wine glasses.
bartle massey, whose ears were rather sensitive, had gone out to see what sort of evening it was at an early stage in the ceremony; and had not finished his contemplation, until a silence of five minutes declared that "drink, boys, drink!"
was not likely to begin again for the next twelve-month.
much to the regret of the boys and totty; on them the stillness fell rather flat, after that glorious thumping of the table, toward which totty, seated on her father's knee, contributed with her small might and small fist.
when bartle reëntered, however, there appeared to be a general desire for solo music after the choral.
nancy declared that tim the wagoner knew a song and was "allays singing like a lark i' the stable"; whereupon mr. poyser said encouragingly, "come, tim, lad, let's hear it."
tim looked sheepish, tucked down his head, and said he couldn't sing; but this encouraging invitation of the master's was echoed all round the table.
it was a conversational opportunity: everybody could say, "come, tim" except alick, who never relaxed into the frivolity of unnecessary speech.
at last tim's next neighbour, ben tholoway, began to give emphasis to his speech by nudges, at which tim, growing rather savage, said, "let me alooan, will ye?
else i'll ma' ye sing a toon ye wonna like."
a good-tempered wagoner's patience has limits, and tim was not to be urged further.
"well, then, david, ye're the lad to sing," said ben, willing to show that he was not discomfited by this check.
"sing 'my loove's a roos wi'out a thorn.'"
the amatory david was a young man of an unconscious abstracted expression, which was due probably to a squint of superior intensity rather than to any mental characteristic; for he was not indifferent to ben's invitation, but blushed and laughed and rubbed his sleeve over his mouth in a way that was regarded as a symptom of yielding.
and for some time the company appeared to be much in earnest about the desire to hear david's song.
but in vain.
the lyrism of the evening was in the cellar at present, and was not to be drawn from that retreat just yet....
a novel postman
a little country girl made known her wants in a decidedly original way.
a small boy in the city did     his best to satisfy them.
this is at once a story of     thanksgiving and of christmas.
"oh, mother!
what do you suppose ellen found in the turkey?
you never could guess.
it's a letter yes, a real letter just stuffed inside see!"
and freddie held before his mother's wondering eyes a soiled and crumpled envelope which seemed to contain a letter.
freddie had been in the kitchen all the morning watching the various operations for the thanksgiving dinner which was "to come off" the next day, when all the "sisters, cousins, and aunts" of the family were to assemble, as was their custom each year, and great was the commotion in the kitchen and much there was for master fred to inspect.
when ellen put her hand into the turkey to arrange him for the stuffing, great was her astonishment at finding a piece of paper.
drawing it quickly out she called, "freddie, freddie, see here!
see what i've found in the turkey!
i declare if he isn't a new kind of a postman, for sure as you're born this is a letter, come from somewhere, in the turkey.
my!
who ever heard of such a thing?"
freddie, standing with eyes and mouth wide open, finally said, "why, ellen, do you believe it is a letter?"
"why, of course it is!
don't you see it's in a' envelope and all sealed and everything?"
"yes, but it hasn't any stamp and how could a turkey bring it how did it get in him?"
"oh," laughed ellen, "that's the question!
you'd better take it right up to your mother and get her to read it to you and perhaps it will tell."
so freddie, all excitement, rushed upstairs and into his mother's room, shouting as we have read.
his mother took the letter from him.
"where did you get this, freddie what do you mean by finding it in the turkey?"
"why, ellen found it in the turkey when she was fixing him, and i don't see how it got there."
mrs. page turned the envelope and slowly read, "to the lady who buys this turkey," written with a pencil and in rather crooked letters on the outside; then opening the envelope she found, surely enough, a letter within, also written in pencil, in rather uncertain letters, some large, some quite small, some on the line, others above or below, but all bearing sufficient relation to one another for her finally to decipher the following:
nov. 20,                               mad river village, n. h.
dere lady i doo want a dol for christmas orful and     mother says that sante claws is so busy in the city     that she gueses he forgits the cuntry and for me to     rite to the city lady who buys our turkey and ask her     if she will pleas to ask sante claws if he could send     a dol way up here in the cuntry to me.
i will hang my     stockin in the chimly and he cannot mistake the house     becaus it is the only house that is black in the hole     place.
i have prayed to him lots of times to give me     a dol but i gues he does not mind prayers much from a     little girl so far away so will you pleas to ask him     for me and oblige
lucy tillage.
p. s. i hope the turkey will be good to eat, he is our     very best one and i was sorry to have him killed, but i     never had a dol.
freddie listened, very much interested, sometimes helping to make out the letters while his mother read this remarkable letter.
at its conclusion he dropped upon a chair in deep thought while in his imagination he saw a small black house surrounded by turkeys running wildly about while a little girl tried to catch the largest.
"oh, mother," at length he sighed, "only think of a girl who never had a doll, and beth has so many she don't know what to do with them all shall you ask santa claus to send her one?"
"well," said mrs. page, who also had been in deep thought, "do you think we better ask santa claus to send her one, or send her one ourselves?
you and beth might send her one for a christmas present."
at once freddie became fired with the desire to rush to a store, purchase a doll, and send it off to the little "black house."
he seemed to think the house was little because the girl was little.
"no, no, freddie, not so fast," said mrs. page.
"i think we better wait till papa comes home and then we will ask his advice about it: first, if he knows of a town in new hampshire of this name, and then if he thinks there may really be a little girl there who has such an odd name i shouldn't be surprised if papa could find out all about her."
freddie thought it was hard to wait until his father came home before something was done about securing a doll; still he knew his mother was right and tried to be patient, wishing beth would come home, wondering how the little girl looked, and if she had any brothers who wanted something, and fifty other things, till he heard his father's key in the front door; then down he rushed, flourishing the open sheet in his hand, and gave him a most bewildering and rapid account of the letter and the finding it in the turkey, ending with, "now, papa, do you know of any such town, and did you ever hear of lucy tillage before, or of anybody's turkey having a letter sent in him, and don't you think we might send her the doll right away so's she might have it for christmas sure don't you, papa?
and if we can't get a new one won't you tell beth to send one of hers?
i know she won't want so many and  "
"oh!
stop, my boy," said mr. page, laughing heartily; "wait a moment, fred, i don't half understand what this is all about a letter and a turkey and a little girl with a doll and a turkey in a black house  "
"now, papa, you're getting it all mixed up; you read the letter yourself, please."
so mr. page read the letter and heard about finding it in the turkey, and then talked it over with his wife and freddie and beth, who had come in from her play, and it was decided that he should write to the postmaster and minister in mad river village asking them if they knew of any family in the place of the name of tillage, and if they did, whether they were a poor family, and how many children they had, and anything else they might know of them.
there was no time to lose if the doll was to be sent for christmas, so both letters were written that very evening and freddie begged to put them in the post box himself that there might be no mistake in that.
then came a long time of waiting for master fred.
at first he thought one day would be enough for the letter to find its way to mad river village; but upon a solemn consultation with the cousins and aunts who came to the thanksgiving party, it was decided that three days, at least, ought to be allowed for a letter to reach a place that none of them had ever heard of, and perhaps there was not such a village anywhere after all; but freddie had made up his mind that there was somewhere, and so each morning found him watching for the postman and each night he went to bed disappointed, saying, "oh!
i hope there is a truly mad village."
beth was almost as much excited as fred about lucy's letter, but still she laughed at him as older sisters sometimes seem to take pleasure in doing, saying, "i guess it's a delicious wonderland kind of a letter, and that the people up there are mad people to be sending letters in turkeys!"
"well, you just wait, beth, and see if they are," answered fred; and sure enough, after ten days of waiting freddie was rewarded by receiving from the postman a yellow envelope with "mad river village"
printed in large, clear letters "right side of the stamp."
he ran as fast as he could with it to his father, shouting to beth by the way to "come and see if there isn't a mad village and a lucy tillage."
mr. page was never given so short a time before to open a letter and adjust his glasses, but then a letter had never before been received under such circumstances.
it proved to be from the postmaster at mad river village, and ran as follows:
mad river village, n. h.
mr. page of boston: i rec.
your letter a day or two     since and hasten to ans.
it right away, as you wish,     by this morning's mail which i must put up pretty soon     so this letter must be short.
yes sir i do know a     family in this town by the name of tillage and they're     a good respectable family too.
they live a mile or     two out of the village on a farm his father left him     and i guess they have pretty hard times making both     ends meet there ain't much sale up here for farm     things, you know, and it costs a heap to send them     to boston but they do say that of late he's raised     lots of chickens and turkeys to send to boston for     thanksgiving.
last year he and his wife started in on     taking summer boarders and i guess they done first     rate.
they're young folks, got three children, a     little girl a small boy and a baby and i guess they'll     do as well as any one can on that farm, it's a likely     place but his father ain't been dead long and geo.
didn't have no show while the old man was alive.
he     buys his flour and groceries of me and i call him a     honest fellow and i guess you'd like to board with them     if you want to try them next summer.
i don't think of     anything more to say so will close.
yours respt.
josiah safford.
p. s. his name and address are george tillage,     intervale farm, mad river village, n. h.
this was a highly satisfactory letter, especially to master fred who had shouted gleefully to beth, "i told you so!"
"i do know a family of the name of tillage," and when his father read "three children, a little girl, etc.," he nearly turned a somersault in his excitement, dancing about and saying, "that's lucy!
that's lucy!"
mr. page turned smilingly to his wife, saying, "well, my dear, this does not sound so much like a fairy tale after all, and i really think you and the children must play santa claus and send lucy a doll."
"oh, yes, papa, of course we must!
yes, do, mamma!"
shouted both children at once.
"it'll be such fun and she won't know where it comes from."
mrs. page was only too willing, so she promised, only adding that she hoped the minister would give an equally good account.
the children, however, were quite satisfied with the postmaster's letter and began preparations the very next morning to secure the doll and her "fit out" as beth called it.
first, beth's dolls were looked at to see if one of them would do to take a trip into the country, but although there were quite a number of them none seemed to just suit their ideas of what lucy's doll should be.
so mamma was appealed to and in consequence a visit was paid to partridge's store by mrs. page, accompanied by beth and master fred.
here such a bewildering array of dolls was presented to the children that it was with difficulty they finally decided upon one with blue eyes and short golden hair, and real hair that curled bewitchingly.
then came the selection of the "fit out."
freddie thought she should have skates and a watch and bracelets and one of the cunning waterproof cloaks and a trunk in fact, everything that could be bought for a doll (and in these days that means all articles of apparel, whether for use or ornament, that could be bought for a real person); but mrs. page explained that she would not need so many things in mad river village, so he was contented with a trunk which he selected himself, while his mother and beth bought a little hat and cloak, shoes, stockings, and a pretty sunshade the dresses and underclothing beth thought she could make with the aid of her mother's seamstress, and she was very ambitious to try.
freddie thought the "small boy" and the "baby" ought to have presents sent to them also; so he was allowed to select a drum, which he was sure the boy "would like best of anything," and a pretty rattle and a rubber cow for the baby.
it was a very busy season of the year for the pages as well as for other people, and beth had many presents to think about, but she kept the little dresses and clothes for lucy's doll in mind and worked and planned with a will all the time she could spare for them, and mary, the seamstress, sewed and sewed, and as she knew how to cut dresses as well as make them, in about two weeks they had, as beth said, "a lovely fit out," even to a tiny muff and collar made from some bits of fur mamma had and a sweet little hood made just like beth's own.
then miss doll was dressed in her travelling suit, muff and all, her other dresses and clothing packed in the little trunk, and she herself carefully tucked in on top, then beth shut the cover and locked it, tying the key to one of the buckles of the side strap a box had been procured and into it was packed the trunk, the drum, and the presents for the baby, supplemented by freddie with a ball which he had found among his own playthings and two cornucopias of candy which he had purchased himself, saying that "christmas won't be christmas if they don't have some candy."
mrs. page "filled in the nooks and corners just to steady the whole," as she modestly said, with a pair of strong warm mittens for mr. tillage, some magazines and books, several pairs of long thick stockings which freddie had outgrown but not worn out, and over the whole a beautiful warm shawl.
then beth and fred composed a letter together which beth wrote and they both signed:
dear lucy tillage: the turkey brought the letter     safely to us and we wanted to be santa claus ourselves     and so send the doll and the other things for a     christmas present to you and your brother and the baby.
we wish you all a merry christmas and a happy new year.
beth page,                                              fred page.
this they neatly folded, put in an envelope addressed to miss lucy tillage, mad river village, and placed on the shawl where it might be seen the moment the box was opened.
they felt very proud and happy when the box was finally nailed up and directed in clear printed letters to
george tillage,       intervale farm,           mad river village,                new hampshire.
freddie insisted that lucy's name ought to be put on, too, as she was the one who had written the letter and to whom the box was really sent; so "for lucy" was printed across one corner and underlined that her father might see it was sent particularly to her.
it all seemed so mysterious, sending presents to people they did not know, and so delightful, that they thought this the best christmas they had ever known and only wished that they could be in the little "black house"
when the box was opened, to see lucy's face as she caught sight of the cunning trunk and then the doll which she had so longed for.
the very day the box was sent on its way there came a letter from a minister in the town in which mad river village was located, saying that he "did not know any family of the name of tillage, but upon inquiry he had found that there was a family of that name living on the other side of the river, but as they did not go to his church he was not acquainted with them; he was sorry, etc., etc."
but the children cared little for this letter; their faith in lucy was not shaken, and they were very happy that they had answered her letter.
ezra's thanksgivin' out west
a kansas settler's recollections of an oldtime     thanksgiving in western massachusetts.
older boys and     girls will best appreciate the tender sentiment of the     picture which eugene field has painted so vividly by     his masterly use of homely dialect.
ezra had written a letter to the home folks, and in it he had complained that never before had he spent such a weary, lonesome day as this thanksgiving day had been.
having finished this letter, he sat for a long time gazing idly into the open fire that snapped cinders all over the hearthstone and sent its red forks dancing up the chimney to join the winds that frolicked and gambolled across the kansas prairies that raw november night.
it had rained hard all day, and was cold; and although the open fire made every honest effort to be cheerful, ezra, as he sat in front of it in the wooden rocker and looked down into the glowing embers, experienced a dreadful feeling of loneliness and homesickness.
"i'm sick o' kansas," said ezra to himself.
"here i've been in this plaguey country for goin' on a year, and yes, i'm sick of it, powerful sick of it.
what a miser'ble thanksgivin' this has been!
they don't know what thanksgivin' is out this way.
i wish i was back in ol'
mass'chusetts that's the country for me, and they hev the kind o'
thanksgivin' i like!"
musing in this strain, while the rain went patter-patter on the windowpanes, ezra saw a strange sight in the fireplace yes, right among the embers and the crackling flames ezra saw a strange, beautiful picture unfold and spread itself out like a panorama.
"how very wonderful!"
murmured the young man.
yet he did not take his eyes away, for the picture soothed him and he loved to look upon it.
"it is a pictur' of long ago," said ezra softly.
"i had like to forgot it, but now it comes back to me as nat'ral-like as an ol' friend.
an' i seem to be a part of it, an' the feelin' of that time comes back with the pictur', too."
ezra did not stir.
his head rested upon his hand, and his eyes were fixed upon the shadows in the firelight.
"it is a pictur' of the ol' home," said ezra to himself.
"i am back there in belchertown, with the holyoke hills up north an' the berkshire mountains a-loomin' up gray an' misty-like in the western horizon.
seems as if it wuz early mornin'; everything is still, and it is so cold when we boys crawl out o' bed that, if it wuzn't thanksgivin'
mornin', we'd crawl back again an' wait for mother to call us.
but it is thanksgivin' mornin', and we're goin' skatin' down on the pond.
the squealin' o' the pigs has told us it is five o'clock, and we must hurry; we're goin' to call by for the dickerson boys an' hiram peabody, an' we've got to hyper!
brother amos gets on about half o' my clothes, and i get on 'bout half o' his, but it's all the same; they are stout, warm clo'es, and they're big enough to fit any of us boys mother looked out for that when she made 'em.
when we go downstairs, we find the girls there, all bundled up nice an' warm mary an' helen an'
cousin irene.
they're going with us, an' we all start out tiptoe and quiet-like so's not to wake up the ol' folks.
the ground is frozen hard; we stub our toes on the frozen ruts in the road.
when we come to the minister's house, laura is standin' on the front stoop a-waitin'
for us.
laura is the minister's daughter.
she's a friend o' sister helen's pretty as a dagerr'otype, an' gentle-like and tender.
laura lets me carry her skates, an' i'm glad of it, although i have my hands full already with the lantern, the hockies, and the rest.
hiram peabody keeps us waitin', for he has overslept himself, an' when he comes trottin' out at last the girls make fun of him all except sister mary, an' she sort o' sticks up for hiram, an' we're all so 'cute we kind o'
calc'late we know the reason why.
"and now," said ezra softly, "the pictur' changes: seems as if i could see the pond.
the ice is like a black lookin'-glass, and hiram peabody slips up the first thing, an' down he comes, lickety-split, an' we all laugh except sister mary, an' she says it is very imp'lite to laugh at other folks' misfortunes.
ough!
how cold it is, and how my fingers ache with the frost when i take off my mittens to strap on laura's skates!
but, oh, how my cheeks burn!
and how careful i am not to hurt laura, an' how i ask her if that's 'tight enough,' an' how she tells me 'jist a little tighter' and how we two keep foolin' along till the others hev gone an' we are left alone!
an' how quick i get my own skates strapped on none o' your new-fangled skates with springs an'
plates an' clamps an' such, but honest, ol'-fashioned wooden ones with steel runners that curl up over my toes an' have a bright brass button on the end!
how i strap 'em and lash 'em and buckle 'em on!
an' laura waits for me an' tells me to be sure to get 'em on tight enough why, bless me!
after i once got 'em strapped on, if them skates hed come off, the feet wud ha' come with 'em!
an' now away we go laura and me.
around the bend near the medder where si barker's dog killed a woodchuck last summer we meet the rest.
we forget all about the cold.
we run races an' play snap the whip, an' cut all sorts o' didoes, an'
we never mind the pick'rel weed that is froze in on the ice an' trips us up every time we cut the outside edge; an' then we boys jump over the air holes, an' the girls stan' by an' scream an' tell us they know we're agoin' to drownd ourselves.
so the hours go, an' it is sun-up at last, an' sister helen says we must be gettin' home.
when we take our skates off, our feet feel as if they were wood.
laura has lost her tippet; i lend her mine, and she kind o' blushes.
the old pond seems glad to have us go, and the fire-hangbird's nest in the willer tree waves us good-bye.
laura promises to come over to our house in the evenin', and so we break up.
"seems now," continued ezra musingly, "seems now as if i could see us all at breakfast.
the race on the pond has made us hungry, and mother says she never knew anybody else's boys that had such capac'ties as hers.
it is the yankee thanksgivin' breakfast sausages an' fried potatoes, an' buckwheat cakes, an' syrup maple syrup, mind ye, for father has his own sugar bush, and there was a big run o' sap last season.
mother says, 'ezry an' amos, won't you never get through eatin'?
we want to clear off the table, fer there's pies to make, and nuts to crack, and laws sakes alive!
the turkey's got to be stuffed yet!'
then how we all fly around!
mother sends helen up into the attic to get a squash while mary's makin' the pie crust.
amos an' i crack the walnuts they call 'em hickory nuts out in this pesky country of sagebrush and pasture land.
the walnuts are hard, and it's all we can do to crack 'em.
ev'ry once'n a while one on 'em slips outer our fingers and goes dancin' over the floor or flies into the pan helen is squeezin' pumpkin into through the col'nder.
helen says we're shif'less an' good for nothin' but frivolin'; but mother tells us how to crack the walnuts so's not to let 'em fly all over the room, an' so's not to be all jammed to pieces like the walnuts was down at the party at the peasleys' last winter.
an' now here comes tryphena foster, with her gingham gown an' muslin apron on; her folks have gone up to amherst for thanksgivin', an' tryphena has come over to help our folks get dinner.
she thinks a great deal o' mother, 'cause mother teaches her sunday-school class an' says tryphena oughter marry a missionary.
there is bustle everywhere, the rattle uv pans an' the clatter of dishes; an'
the new kitchen stove begins to warm up an' git red, till helen loses her wits and is flustered, an' sez she never could git the hang o' that stove's dampers.
"an' now," murmured ezra gently, as a tone of deeper reverence crept into his voice, "i can see father sittin' all by himself in the parlour.
father's hair is very gray, and there are wrinkles on his honest old face.
he is lookin' through the winder at the holyoke hills over yonder, and i can guess he's thinkin' of the time when he wuz a boy like me an' amos, an' uster climb over them hills an' kill rattlesnakes an' hunt partridges.
or doesn't his eyes quite reach the holyoke hills?
do they fall kind o' lovingly but sadly on the little buryin' ground jest beyond the village?
ah, father knows that spot, an' he loves it, too, for there are treasures there whose memory he wouldn't swap for all the world could give.
so, while there is a kind o' mist in father's eyes, i can see he is dreamin'-like of sweet an'
tender things, and a-communin' with memory hearin' voices i never heard, an' feelin' the tech of hands i never pressed; an' seein'
father's peaceful face i find it hard to think of a thanksgivin'
sweeter than father's is.
"the pictur' in the firelight changes now," said ezra, "an' seems as if i wuz in the old frame meetin'-house.
the meetin'-house is on the hill, and meetin' begins at half-pas' ten.
our pew is well up in front seems as if i could see it now.
it has a long red cushion on the seat, and in the hymn-book rack there is a bible an' a couple of psalmodies.
we walk up the aisle slow, and mother goes in first; then comes mary, then me, then helen, then amos, and then father.
father thinks it is jest as well to have one o' the girls set in between me an' amos.
the meetin'-house is full, for everybody goes to meetin' thanksgivin' day.
the minister reads the proclamation an' makes a prayer, an' then he gives out a psalm, an' we all stan' up an' turn 'round an' join the choir.
sam merritt has come up from palmer to spend thanksgivin' with the ol' folks, an' he is singin' tenor to-day in his ol' place in the choir.
some folks say he sings wonderful well, but i don't like sam's voice.
laura sings soprano in the choir, and sam stands next to her an'
holds the book.
"seems as if i could hear the minister's voice, full of earnestness an'
melody, comin' from way up in his little round pulpit.
he is tellin' us why we should be thankful, an', as he quotes scriptur' an' dr. watts, we boys wonder how anybody can remember so much of the bible.
then i get nervous and worried.
seems to me the minister was never comin' to lastly, and i find myself wonderin' whether laura is listenin' to what the preachin' is about, or is writin' notes to sam merritt in the back of the tune book.
i get thirsty, too, and i fidget about till father looks at me, and mother nudges helen, and helen passes it along to me with interest.
"an' then," continues ezra in his revery, "when the last hymn is given out an' we stan' up agin an' join the choir, i am glad to see that laura is singin' outer the book with miss hubbard, the alto.
an' goin'
out o' meetin' i kind of edge up to laura and ask her if i kin have the pleasure of seein' her home.
"an' now we boys all go out on the common to play ball.
the enfield boys have come over, and, as all the hampshire county folks know, they are tough fellers to beat.
gorham polly keeps tally, because he has got the newest jackknife oh, how slick it whittles the old broom handle gorham picked up in packard's store an' brought along jest to keep tally on!
it is a great game of ball; the bats are broad and light, and the ball is small and soft.
but the enfield boys beat us at last; leastwise they make 70 tallies to our 58, when heman fitts knocks the ball over into aunt dorcas eastman's yard, and aunt dorcas comes out an' picks up the ball an' takes it into the house, an' we have to stop playin'.
then phineas owen allows he can flop any boy in belchertown, an' moses baker takes him up, an' they wrassle like two tartars, till at last moses tuckers phineas out an' downs him as slick as a whistle.
"then we all go home, for thanksgivin' dinner is ready.
two long tables have been made into one, and one of the big tablecloths gran'ma had when she set up housekeepin' is spread over 'em both.
we all set round father, mother, aunt lydia holbrook, uncle jason, mary, helen, tryphena foster, amos, and me.
how big an' brown the turkey is, and how good it smells!
there are bounteous dishes of mashed potato, turnip, an' squash, and the celery is very white and cold, the biscuits are light and hot, and the stewed cranberries are red as laura's cheeks.
amos and i get the drumsticks; mary wants the wishbone to put over the door for hiram, but helen gets it.
poor mary, she always did have to give up to 'rushin' helen,' as we call her.
the pies oh, what pies mother makes; no dyspepsia in 'em, but good nature an' good health an' hospitality!
pumpkin pies, mince, an' apple, too, and then a big dish of pippins an' russets an' bellflowers, an', last of all, walnuts with cider from the zebrina dickerson farm!
i tell ye, there's a thanksgivin' dinner for ye!
that's what we get in old belchertown; an'
that's the kind of livin' that makes the yankees so all-fired good an'
smart.
"but the best of all," said ezra very softly to himself, "oh, yes, the best scene in all the pictur' is when evenin' comes, when all the lamps are lit in the parlour, when the neighbours come in, and when there is music and singing an' games.
an' it's this part o' the pictur' that makes me homesick now and fills my heart with a longin' i never had before; an' yet it sort o' mellows and comforts me, too.
miss serena cadwell, whose beau was killed in the war, plays on the melodeon, and we all sing all on us: men, womenfolks, an' children.
sam merritt is there, and he sings a tenor song about love.
the women sort of whisper round that he's goin' to be married to a palmer lady nex' spring, an' i think to myself i never heard better singin' than sam's.
then we play games proverbs, buzz, clap-in-clap-out, copenhagen, fox-an'-geese, button-button-who's-got-the-button, spin-the-platter, go-to-jerusalem, my-ship's-come-in; and all the rest.
the ol' folks play with the young folks just as nat'ral as can be; and we all laugh when deacon hosea cowles hez to measure six yards of love ribbon with miss hepsey newton, and cut each yard with a kiss; for the deacon hez been sort o' purrin'
round miss hepsey for goin' on two years.
then, aft'r a while, when mary and helen bring in the cookies, nutcakes, cider, an' apples, mother says: 'i don't believe we're goin' to hev enough apples to go round; ezry, i guess i'll have to get you to go down cellar for some more.'
then i says: 'all right, mother, i'll go, providin' some one'll go along an' hold the candle.'
an' when i say this i look right at laura, an' she blushes.
then helen, jest for meanness, says: 'ezry, i s'pose you ain't willin' to have your fav'rite sister go down cellar with you and catch her death o' cold?'
but mary, who hez been showin'
hiram peabody the phot'graph album for more'n an hour, comes to the rescue an' makes laura take the candle, and she shows laura how to hold it so it won't go out.
"the cellar is warm an' dark.
there are cobwebs all between the rafters an' everywhere else except on the shelves where mother keeps the butter an' eggs an' other things that would freeze in the butt'ry upstairs.
the apples are in bar'ls up against the wall, near the potater bin.
how fresh an' sweet they smell!
laura thinks she sees a mouse, an' she trembles an' wants to jump up on the pork bar'l, but i tell her that there shan't no mouse hurt her while i'm around; and i mean it, too, for the sight of laura a-tremblin' makes me as strong as one of father's steers.
'what kind of apples do you like best, ezry?'
asks laura, 'russets or greenin's or crow-eggs or bellflowers or baldwins or pippins?'
'i like the baldwins best,' says i, ''coz they got red cheeks just like yours.'
'why, ezry thompson!
how you talk!'
says laura.
'you oughter be ashamed of yourself!'
but when i get the dish filled up with apples there ain't a baldwin in all the lot that can compare with the bright red of laura's cheeks.
an' laura knows it, too, an' she sees the mouse again, an' screams, and then the candle goes out, and we are in a dreadful stew.
but i, bein' almost a man, contrive to bear up under it, and knowin' she is an orph'n, i comfort an' encourage laura the best i know how, and we are almost upstairs when mother comes to the door and wants to know what has kep'
us so long.
jest as if mother doesn't know!
of course she does; an'
when mother kisses laura good-bye that night there is in the act a tenderness that speaks more sweetly than even mother's words.
"it is so like mother," mused ezra; "so like her with her gentleness an' clingin' love.
hers is the sweetest picture of all, and hers the best love."
dream on, ezra; dream of the old home with its dear ones, its holy influences, and its precious inspiration!
mother.
dream on in the faraway firelight; and as the angel hand of memory unfolds these sacred visions, with thee and them shall abide, like a divine comforter, the spirit of thanksgiving.
chip's thanksgiving
chip had plenty of nuts on thanksgiving day.
the little     lady called heart's delight saw to that.
can you guess     who chip was?
they had got "way through," as terry said, to the nuts.
it had been a beautiful thanksgiving dinner "so far."
grandmother's sweet face beamed down the length of the great table, over all the little crinkly grandheads, at grandfather's face.
everybody felt very thankful.
"i wish all the children this side o' the north pole had had some turkey, too, and squash and cram'bry and things," said silence quietly.
silence was always wishing beautiful things like that.
"an' some nuts," added terry, setting his small white teeth into the meat of a big fat walnut.
"it wouldn't seem thanksgivingy 'thout nuts."
"i know somebody who would be thankful with just nuts," smiled grandfather.
"indeed, i think he'd rather have them for all the courses of his thanksgiving dinner!"
"just nuts!
no turkey, nor puddin', nor anything?"
the crinkly grandheads all bobbed up from their plates and nut-pickers in amazement.
just nuts!
"yes.
guess who he is?"
grandfather's laughing eyes twinkled up the long table at grandmother.
"i'll give you three guesses apiece, beginning with heart's delight.
guess number one, heart's delight."
"chip," gravely.
heart's delight had guessed it the very first guess.
"chip!"
laughed all the little grand girls and boys.
why, of course!
chip!
he would rather have just nuts for thanksgiving dinner!
"i wish he had some o' mine!"
cried silence.
"an' mine!"
cried terry; and all the others wished he had some of theirs.
what a thanksgiving dinner little chip would have had!
"he's got plenty, thank you."
it was the shy little voice of heart's delight.
a soft pink colour had come into her round cheeks.
everybody looked at her inquiringly, for how did heart's delight know chip had plenty of nuts?
then terry remembered something.
"oh, that's where her nuts went to!"
he cried.
"heart's delight gave 'em to chip!
we couldn't think what she'd done with 'em all."
the pink colour was growing pinker very pink indeed.
"yes, that's where," said silence, leaning over to squeeze one of heart's delight's little hands.
and sure enough, it was.
in the beautiful nut month of october, when the children went after their winter's supply of nuts, little heart's delight had left all her little rounded heap just where bright-eyed, nut-loving squirrel chip would be sure to find them and hurry them away to his winter hole.
and chip had found them, she was sure, for not one was left when she went back to see, the next day.
"why, maybe this very minute right now chip's cracking his thanksgiving dinner!"
terry laughed.
"same as we are!
maybe he's got to the nut cour oh, they're all nut courses!
but maybe he's sittin' up to his table with the rest of the folks, thanksgiving to heart's delight," silence said.
heart's delight's little shy face nearly hid itself over her plate.
this was dreadful!
it was necessary to change the subject at once, and a dear little thought came to her aid.
"but i'm afraid he hasn't got any gran'father and gran'mother to his thanksgiving," she said softly.
"i shouldn't think anybody could thanksgive 'thout a gran'mother and gran'father."
the master of the harvest
the master of the harvest walked by the side of his cornfields in the early year, and a cloud was over his face, for there had been no rain for several weeks, and the earth was hard from the parching of the cold east winds, and the young wheat had not been able to spring up.
so, as he looked over the long ridges that lay stretched in rows before him, he was vexed, and began to grumble, and say, "the harvest would be backward, and all things would go wrong."
at the mere thought of which he frowned more and more, and uttered words of complaint against the heavens, because there was no rain; against the earth, because it was so dry and unyielding; against the corn, because it had not sprung up.
and the man's discontent was whispered all over the field, and all along the long ridges where the corn seeds lay; and when it reached them they murmured out, "how cruel to complain!
are we not doing our best?
have we let one drop of moisture pass by unused, one moment of warmth come to us in vain?
have we not seized on every chance, and striven every day to be ready for the hour of breaking forth?
are we idle?
are we obstinate?
are we indifferent?
shall we not be found waiting and watching?
how cruel to complain!"
of all this, however, the master of the harvest heard nothing, so the gloom did not pass away from his face.
on the contrary, he took it with him into his comfortable home, and repeated to his wife the dark words that all things were going wrong; that the drought would ruin the harvest, for the corn was not yet sprung.
and still thinking thus, he laid his head on his pillow, and presently fell asleep.
but his wife sat up for a while by the bedside, and opened her bible, and read, "the harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are the angels."
then she wrote this text in pencil on the flyleaf at the end of the book, and after it the date of the day, and after the date the words, "lord, the husbandman, thou waitest for the precious fruit thou hast sown, and hast long patience for it!
amen, o lord, amen!"
after which the good woman knelt down to pray, and as she prayed she wept, for she knew that she was very ill.
but what she prayed that night was heard only in heaven.
and so a few days passed on as before, and the house was gloomy with the discontent of its master; but at last one evening the wind changed, the sky became heavy with clouds, and before midnight there was rain all over the land; and when the master of the harvest came in next morning, wet from his early walk by the cornfields, he said it was well it had come at last, and that, at last, the corn had sprung up.
on which his wife looked at him with a smile, and said, "how often things came right, about which one had been anxious and disturbed."
to which her husband made no answer, but turned away and spoke of something else.
meantime, the corn seeds had been found ready and waiting when the hour came, and the young sprouts burst out at once; and very soon all along the long ridges were to be seen rows of tender blades, tinting the whole field with a delicate green.
and day by day the master of the harvest saw them and was satisfied; but because he was satisfied, and his anxiety was gone, he spoke of other things, and forgot to rejoice.
and a murmur arose among them: "should not the master have welcomed us to life?
he was angry but lately, because the seed he had sown had not yet brought forth; now that it has brought forth, why is he not glad?
what more does he want?
have we not done our best?
are we not doing it minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day?
from the morning and evening dews, from the glow of the midday sun, from the juices of the earth, from the breezes which freshen the air, even from clouds and rain, are we not taking in food and strength, warmth and life, refreshment and joy; so that one day the valleys may laugh and sing, because the good seed hath brought forth abundantly?
why does he not rejoice?"
as before, however, of all they said the master of the harvest heard nothing; and it never struck him to think of the young corn blades'
struggling life.
nay, once, when his wife asked him if the wheat was doing well, he answered, "very fairly," and nothing more.
but she then, because the evening was fine and the fairer weather had revived her failing powers, said she would walk out by the cornfields herself.
and so it came to pass that they went out together.
and together they looked all along the long green ridges of wheat, and watched the blades as they quivered and glistened in the breeze which sprang up with the setting sun.
together they walked, together they looked; looking at the same things and with the same human eyes; even as they had walked, and looked, and lived together for years, but with a world dividing their hearts; and what was ever to unite them?
even then, as they moved along, she murmured half aloud, half to herself, thinking of the anxiety that had passed away: "thou visitest the earth, and blessest it; thou makest it very plenteous."
to which he answered, if answer it may be called, "why are you always so gloomy?
why should scripture be quoted about such common things?"
and she looked in his face and smiled, but did not speak; and he could not read the smile, for the life of her heart was as hidden to him as the life of the corn blades in the field.
and so they went home together, no more being said by either; for, as she turned round, the sight of the setting sun and of the young freshly growing wheat blades brought tears into her eyes.
she might never see the harvest upon earth again; for her that other was at hand, whereof the reapers were to be angels.
and when she opened her bible that night she wrote on the flyleaf the text she had quoted to her husband, and after the text the date of the day, and after the date the words, "bless me, even me also, oh, my father, that i may bring forth fruit with patience!"
very peaceful were the next few weeks that followed, for all nature seemed to rejoice in the weather, and the corn blades shot up till they were nearly two feet high, and about them the master of the harvest had no complaints to make.
but at the end of that time, behold, the earth began to be hard and dry again, for once more rain was wanted; and by degrees the growing plants failed for want of moisture and nourishment, and lost power and colour, and became weak and yellow in hue.
and once more the husbandmen began to fear and tremble, and once more the brow of the master of the harvest was overclouded with angry apprehension.
and as the man got more and more anxious about the fate of his crops, he grew more and more irritable and distrustful, and railed as before, only louder now, against the heavens because there was no rain; against the earth because it lacked moisture; against the corn plants because they had waxed feeble.
nay, once, when his sick wife reproved him gently, praying him to remember how his fears had been turned to joy before, he reproached her in his turn for sitting in the house and pretending to judge of what she could know nothing about, and bade her come out and see for herself how all things were working together for ill.
and although he spoke it in bitter jest, and she was very ill, she said she would go, and went.
so once more they walked out together, and once more looked over the cornfields; but when he stretched out his arm and pointed to the long ridges of blades, and she saw them shrunken and faded in hue, her heart was grieved within her, and she turned aside and wept over them.
nevertheless, she said she durst not cease from hope, since an hour might renew the face of the earth, if god so willed; neither should she dare to complain, even the harvest were to fail.
at which words the master of the harvest stopped short, amazed, to look at his wife, for her soul was growing stronger as her body grew weaker, and she dared to say things now which she would have had no courage to utter before.
but of all this he knew nothing, and what he thought, as he listened, was that she was as weak in mind as in body; and what he said was that a man must be an idiot who would not complain when he saw the bread taken from under his very eyes!
and his murmurings and her tears sent a shudder all along the long ridges of sickly corn blades, and they asked one of another, "why does he murmur?
and, why does she weep?
are we not doing all we can?
do we slumber or sleep, and let opportunities pass by unused?
are we not watching and waiting against the times of refreshing?
shall we not be found ready at last?
why does he murmur?
and, why does she weep?
is she, too, fading and waiting?
has she, too, a master who has lost patience?"
meantime, when she opened her bible that night, she wrote on the flyleaf the text, "wherefore should a man complain, a man for the punishment of his sins?"
and after the text the date of the day, and after the date the words, "thou dost turn thy face from us, and we are troubled; but, lord, how long, how long?"
and by and by came on the long-delayed times of refreshing, but so slowly and imperfectly that the change in the corn could scarcely be detected for a while.
nevertheless, it told at last, and stems struggled up among the blades, and burst forth into flowers, which gradually ripened into ears of grain.
but a struggle it had been, and continued to be, for the measure of moisture was scant, and the due amount of warmth in the air was wanting.
nevertheless, by struggling and effort the young wheat advanced, little by little, in growth; preparing itself, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, as best it could, for the great day of the harvest.
as best it could!
would the master of the harvest ask more?
alas!
he had still something to find fault with, for when he looked at the ears and saw that they were small and poor, he grumbled, and said the yield would be less than it ought to be, and the harvest would be bad.
and as more weeks went on, and the same weather continued, and the progress was very, very slow, he spoke out of his vexation to his wife at home, to his friends at the market, and to the husbandmen who passed by and talked with him about the crops.
and the voice of his discontent was breathed over the cornfield, all along the long ridges where the plants were labouring, and waiting, and watching.
and they shuddered and murmured: "how cruel to complain!
had we been idle, had we been negligent, had we been indifferent, we might have passed away without bearing fruit at all.
how cruel to complain!"
but of all this the master of the harvest heard nothing, so he did not cease to complain.
meantime, another week or two went on, and people as they glanced over the land wished that a few good rainy days would come and do their work decidedly, so that the corn ears might fill.
and behold, while the wish was yet on their lips, the sky became charged with clouds, darkness spread over the country, a wild wind rose, and the growling of thunder announced a storm.
and such a storm!
people hid from it in cellars and closets and dark corners, as if now, for the first time, they believed in a god, and were trembling at the new-found fact; as if they could never discover him in his sunshine and blessings, but only thus in his tempests and wrath.
and all along the long ridges of wheat plants drove the rain-laden blast, and they bent down before it and rose up again, like the waves of a labouring sea.
ears over ears they bowed down; ears above ears they rose up.
they bowed down as if they knew that to resist was destruction; they rose up as if they had a hope beyond the storm.
only here and there, where the whirlwinds were the strongest, they fell down and could not lift themselves again.
so the damage done was but little, and the general good was great.
but when the master of the harvest saw here and there patches of overweighted corn yet dripping from the thunder showers, he grew angry for them, and forgot to think of the long ridges that stretched over his fields, where the corn ears were swelling and rejoicing.
and he came in gloomy to his home, when his wife was hoping that now, at last, all would be well; and when she looked at him the tumult of her soul grew beyond control, and she knelt down before him as he sat moody in his chair, and threw her arms round him, and cried out: "it is of the lord's mercies that we are not utterly consumed.
oh, husband!
pray for the corn and for me, that it may go well with us at the last!
carry me upstairs!"
and his anger was checked by fear, and he carried her upstairs and laid her on the bed, and said it must be the storm which had shaken her nerves.
but whether he prayed for either the corn or her that night she never knew.
and presently came a new distress: for when the days of rain had accomplished their gracious work, and every one was satisfied, behold, they did not cease.
and as hitherto the cry had gone up for water on the furrows, so now men's hearts failed them for fear lest it should continue to overflowing, and lest mildew should set in upon the full, rich ears, and the glorious crops should be lost.
and the master of the harvest walked out by his cornfields, his face darker than ever.
and he railed against the rain because it would not cease; against the sun because it would not shine; against the wheat because it might perish before the harvest.
"but why does he always and only complain?"
moaned the corn plants, as the new terror was breathed over the field.
"have we not done our best from the first?
and has not mercy been with us, sooner or later, all along?
when moisture was scant, and we throve but little, why did he not rejoice over that little, and wait, as we did, for more?
now that abundance has come, and we swell triumphant in strength and in hope, why does he not share our joy in the present, and wait in trust, as we do, for the future ripening change?
why does he always complain?
has he himself some hard master, who would fain reap where he has not sown, and gather where he has not strewed, and who has no pity for his servants who strive?"
but of all this the master of the harvest heard nothing.
and when the days of rain had rolled into weeks and the weeks into months, and the autumn set in, and the corn still stood up green in the ridges, as if it never meant to ripen at all, the boldest and most hopeful became uneasy, and the master of the harvest despaired.
but his wife had risen no more from her bed, where she lay in sickness and suffering, yet in patient trust, watching the sky through the window that faced her pillow, looking for the relief that came at last.
for even at the eleventh hour, when hope seemed almost over, and men had half learned to submit to their expected trial, the dark days began to be varied by a few hours of sunshine; and though these passed away, and the gloom and rain returned again, yet they also passed away in their turn, and the sun shone out once more.
and the poor sick wife, as she watched, said to those around her that the weather was gradually changing, and that all would come right at last; and sighing a prayer that it might be so with herself also, she had her bible brought to the bed, and wrote in the flyleaf the text, "some thirty, some sixty, some an hundredfold"; and after the text the date of the day, for on that day the sun had been shining steadily for many hours.
and after the date the words, "unto whom much is given, of him shall much be required; yet if thou, lord, be extreme to mark iniquity, o lord, who may stand?"
and day by day, the hours of sunshine were more in number, and the hours of rain and darkness fewer, and by degrees the green corn ears ripened into yellow, and the yellow turned into gold, and the harvest was ready, and the labourers not wanting.
and the bursting corn broke out into songs of rejoicing, and cried, "at least we have not waited and watched in vain!
surely goodness and mercy have followed us all the days of our life, and we are crowned with glory and honour.
where is the master of the harvest, that he may claim his own with joy?"
but the master of the harvest was bending over the bed of his dying wife.
and she whispered that her bible should be brought, and he brought it, and she said, "open it at the flyleaf at the end, and write, 'it is sown in corruption, it is raised in incorruption; it is sown in dishonour, it is raised in glory; it is sown in weakness, it is raised in power; it is sown a natural body, it is raised a spiritual body!'"
and she bade him add the date of the day, and after the date of the day, the words, "o lord, in thy mercy say of me she hath done what she could!"
and then she laid her hand in his, and so fell asleep in hope.
and the harvest of the earth was gathered into barns, and the gathering-day of rejoicing was over, and the master of it all sat alone by his fireside, with his wife's bible on his knee.
and he read the texts and the dates and the prayers, from the first day when the corn seeds were held back by drought; and as he read a new heart seemed to burst out within him from the old one a heart which the lord of the other harvest was making soft, and the springing whereof he would bless.
and henceforth, in his going out and coming in from watching the fruits of the earth, the texts and the dates and the prayers were ever present in his mind, often rising to his lips; and he murmured and complained no more, let the seasons be what they would and his fears however great; for the thought of the late-sprung seed in his own dry cold heart, and of the long suffering of him who was lord and master of all, was with him night and day.
and more and more as he prayed for help, that the weary struggle might be blessed, and the newborn watching and waiting not be in vain, so more and more there came over his spirit a yearning for that other harvest, where he and she who had gone before might be gathered in together.
and thus in one hope of their calling the long-divided hearts were united at last.
a thanksgiving dinner
ministers' sons, somehow, have a bad reputation.
little johnnie was one and he thought it pretty hard     to have to go to church on thanksgiving day.
but the     pink-frosted cakes
"oh, dear!"
puffed a certain little boy one bright thanksgiving morning, as he jerked his chubby neck into the stiffest of white collars.
"great fun, isn't it, having to sit up in meeting for a couple of hours straight as a telegraph pole when i might be playing football and beating the haddam team all to hollow!
this is what comes of your pa's being the minister, i s'pose."
but johnnie, for that was his name, continued his dressing, the ten years of his young life having taught him how useless it is to make a fuss over what has to be done.
in a few minutes he had finished, and was quite satisfied with his appearance, but for his shoes.
these he eyed for a moment, and concluding that they would not pass inspection, started for the woodshed to give them a shine.
on his way he passed the open dining-room door, and suddenly halted.
"oh!
why can't i have a nice little lunch during sermon time?"
he took a step back and peeped slyly into the room; then stole across to the old-fashioned cupboard, stealthily opening the doors, and such an array of good things you never beheld!
sally was the best cook in brockton any day, but on thanksgiving she could work wonders.
he looked with longing eyes from one dish to another.
now the big pies were out of the question, and the cranberry tarts he felt of them lovingly but no, they were altogether too sticky.
he stood on tiptoe to see what was on the second shelf.
to his delight he found a platter filled with just the daintiest little pink-frosted cakes you ever saw.
"o-oo, thimble cakes!"
he exclaimed.
"you are just the fellows i want!
i'll take you along to church with me."
he cast one quick glance around, then grabbed a handful of the tiny cakes and crammed them into his trousers' pocket.
"lucky for me ma isn't going to meeting to-day," chuckled the naughty boy, "and i don't believe grandma'd ever tell on me if i carried along the turkey!"
the early bell had now begun to ring, and johnnie started for the village church.
"come, my son," said doctor goodwin, as they entered the meeting-house, "you are to sit in the front seat with grandma this morning: she is particularly anxious to hear every word of the sermon to-day.
and where's your contribution, boy?
you haven't forgotten that?"
"no, sir," meekly answered johnnie, "it's tied up in my handkerchief."
but his heart sank the front seat!
how ever was his lunch to come in now?
the opening hymn had been sung, the prayer of thanksgiving offered, and now, as the collection was about to be taken, the pastor begged his people to be especially generous to the poor on this day.
up in the front pew sat johnnie, but never a word of the notice did he hear, so busy was he planning out his own little affair.
it wasn't such easy planning either, just supposing he got caught!
but what was that?
johnnie jumped as if he had been struck.
however, it was nothing but the money plate under his nose, and the good deacon simms standing calmly by.
to the guilty boy it seemed as if the deacon must have been waiting for ten minutes at the least, and in a great flurry he began to fumble for his handkerchief.
what had he done with it?
oh, there it was at last, way down in the depths of his right trousers' pocket.
he caught hold of the knotted corner, and out came the handkerchief with a whisk and a flourish, and scatter, rattle, helter-skelter, out flew a half-dozen pink thimble cakes, down upon the floor, back into mrs. smiley's pew, and to johnnie's horror one pat into the deacon's plate!
the good man's eyes tried not to twinkle as he removed the unusual offering, and passed on more quickly than was his wont.
miserable johnnie, with his face as red as a rooster's comb and eyes cast down in shame, saw nothing but the green squares on the carpet and the dreadful pink-frosted cakes.
he was sure that every one in the church was glaring at him; probably even grandma had forsaken him, and each moment he dreaded he knew not what.
to his surprise, the service seemed to go right on as usual.
another hymn was sung, and then there was a general settling down for the sermon.
very soon he began to grow tired of just gazing at the floor, yet he dared not look up, and by and by the heavy eyes drooped and johnny was fast asleep.
all was now quiet in the meeting-house save the calm, steady voice of the preacher.
pretty soon a wee creature dressed all in soft brown stole across the floor of a certain pew.
she was a courageous little body indeed, but what mother would not venture a good deal for her hungry babies?
such a repast as this was certainly the opportunity of a lifetime.
looking cautiously around, then concluding that all was safe, she disappeared down a hole in a corner way under the seat.
in a twinkling she was back again; this time, however, she was not alone.
four little ones pattered after mamma mouse, and eight bright eyes spied a dinner worth running for.
never mind what they did; but when johnnie awoke at the strains of the closing hymn and tried to remember what had gone wrong, he saw nothing of the pink-frosted cakes save some scattered crumbs.
what could have become of them, he thought, in bewilderment.
he hardly knew how he got out of the church that day, but he found himself rushing down the road a sadder and a wiser boy.
grandma and papa had remained to chat.
johnnie did not feel like chatting to-day.
when he reached the house he did not go in, but out to the hayloft, his favourite resort in time of trouble.
when the dinner bell sounded, notwithstanding the delicious thanksgiving odours which had been wafted even to the barn, it was an unwelcome summons; yet go he must, and walking sheepishly into the dining-room, he slunk into his chair.
"well, john," said his father, as he helped him to turkey, "i understand that you did not forget the poor to-day.
eh, my son?"
"the poor?"
what could he mean?
johnnie was too puzzled to speak.
then his father went on to tell how little mrs. mouse and her babies had nibbled a wondrous dinner of pink thimble cakes on the floor of pew number one while johnnie slept.
grandma and mrs. smiley had told him all about it on the way home; besides, he had seen enough himself from the pulpit.
johnny bravely bore the laugh at his expense, and as the merriment died away heaved a deep sigh of relief, and exclaimed, "well, i'm glad somebody had a feast, even if it wasn't the fellow 'twas meant for!
humph, 'twas quite a setup for poor church mice, wasn't it?
but they needn't be looking for another next year.
you don't catch me trying that again no-sir-ee!"
two old boys
by pauline shackleford colyar.
walter's two grandfathers were a pair of jolly chums,     as boys.
there is plenty of humour in this tale of a     turkey hunt.
"day after to-morrow will be thanksgiving," said walter, taking his seat beside grandpa davis on the top step of the front gallery.
"and no turkey for dinner, neither," retorted grandma davis, while her bright steel needles clicked in and out of the sock she was knitting.
the old man was smoking his evening pipe, and sat for a moment with his eyes fixed meditatively upon the blue hills massed in the distance.
"have we got so pore as all that, mother?"
he asked, after a while, glancing over his shoulder at his wife, who was rocking to and fro just back of him.
"i'm obleeged to own to the truth," answered the old lady dejectedly.
"what with the wild varmints in the woods and one thing an' another, i'm about cleaned out of all the poultry i ever had.
it's downright disheartenin'."
"well, then," asserted grandpa davis, with an unmirthful chuckle, "it don't appear to me as we've got so powerful much to be thankful about this year."
"why, grandpa!"
cried walter, in shocked surprise, "i never did hear you talk like that before."
"never had so much call to do it, mebbe," interposed the old man cynically.
the last rays of the setting sun touched the two silvered heads, and rested there like a benediction, before disappearing below the horizon.
silence had fallen upon the little group, and a bullfrog down in the fishpond was croaking dismally.
"why don't you go hunting, and try to kill you a turkey for thanksgiving?"
ventured walter, slipping his arm insinuatingly through his grandfather's.
"i saw a great big flock of wild ones down on the branch last week, and i got right close up to them before they flew."
"i reckon there ought to be a smart sight of game round and about them cane brakes along that branch," said the old man slowly, as though thinking aloud.
"it used to be ahead of any strip of woods in all these parts, when me and dick was boys.
but nobody ain't hunted there, to my knowledge, not sence me and him fell out."
"i wish you and grandpa dun were friends," sighed walter.
"it does seem too bad to have two grandpas living right side by side, and not speaking."
"i ain't got no ill-will in my heart for dick," replied grandpa davis, "but he is too everlastin' hard-headed to knock under, and i'll be blamed if i go more'n halfway toward makin' up."
"that's just exactly what grandpa dun says about you," walter assured him very earnestly.
"wouldn't wonder if he did," said the old man pointedly.
"dick is always ben a mighty hand to talk, and he'd drap dead in his tracks if he couldn't get in the last word."
be this as it might, the breach had begun when the davis cattle broke down the worm fence and demolished the dun crop of corn, and it widened when the dun hogs found their way through an old water gap and rooted up a field of the davis sweet potatoes.
several times similar depredations were repeated, and then shotguns were used on both sides with telling effect.
the climax was reached when john dun eloped with rebecca, the only child of the davises.
the young couple were forbidden their respective homes, though the farm they rented was scarce half a mile away, and the weeks rolled into months without sign of their parents relenting.
when walter was born, however, the two grandmothers stole over, without their husbands' knowledge, and mingled their tears in happy communion over the tiny blue-eyed mite.
it was a memorable day at each of the houses when the sturdy little fellow made his way, unbidden and unattended, to pay his first call, and ever afterward (though they would not admit it, even to themselves)
the grandfathers watched for his coming, and vied with each other in trying to win the highest place in his young affections.
he had inherited characteristics of each of his grandsires, and possessed the bold, masterful manner which was common to them both.
"say, grandpa," he urged, "go hunting to-morrow and try to kill a turkey for thanksgiving, won't you?
i know grandma would feel better to have one, and if you make a cane caller, like papa does, i'll bet you can get a shot at one sure."
the old man did not commit himself about going, but when walter saw him surreptitiously take down his gun from the pegs on the wall across which it had lain for so many years, and begin to rub the barrels and oil the hammers, he went home satisfied that he had scored another victory.
perhaps nothing less than his grandson's pleading could have induced grandpa davis to visit again the old hunting-ground which had been so dear to him in bygone days, which was so rich in hallowed memories.
it seemed almost a desecration of the happy past to hunt there now alone.
the first cold streaks of dawn were just stealing into the sky the next morning when, accoutred with shot-pouch, powder-flask, and his old double-barrelled gun, grandpa davis made his way toward the branch.
a medley of bird notes filled the air, long streamers of gray moss floated out from the swaying trees, and showers of autumn leaves fluttered down to earth.
some of the cows were grazing outside the pen, up to their hocks in lush, fresh grass, while others lay on the ground contentedly chewing their cuds.
all of them raised their heads and looked at him as he passed them by.
how like old times it was to be up at daybreak for a hunt!
the long years seemed suddenly to have rolled away, leaving him once more a boy.
he almost wondered why dick had not whistled to him as he used to do.
dick was an early riser, and somehow always got ready before he did.
there was an alertness in the old man's face and a spring in his step as he lived over in thought the joyous days of his childhood.
the clouds were flushed with pink when he came in sight of the big water oak on the margin of the stream, and recollected how he and dick had loved to go swimming in the deep, clear water beneath its shade.
"we used to run every step of the way," he soliloquized, laughing, "unbuttonin' as we went, chuck our clothes on the bank, and 'most break our necks tryin' to git in the water fust.
i've got half a notion to take a dip this mornin', if it wasn't quite so cool," he went on, but a timely twinge of rheumatism brought him to his senses, and he seated himself on the roots of a convenient tree.
cocking his gun, he laid it across his knees, and waited there motionless, imitating the yelp of a turkey the while.
three or four small canes, graduated in size, and fitted firmly one into the other, enabled him to make the note, and so expert had he become by long practice that the deception was perfect.
after a pause he repeated the call; then came another pause, another call, and over in the distance there sounded an answer.
how the blood coursed through the old man's veins as he listened!
there it was again.
it was coming nearer, but very slowly.
he wondered how many were in the flock, and called once more.
this time, to his surprise, an answer came from a different direction a long, rasping sound, a sort of cross between a cock's crow and a turkey's yelp.
he started involuntarily, and very cautiously peeped around.
hardly twenty steps from him another gray head protruded itself from the bole of another tree, and grandpa davis and grandpa dun looked into each other's eyes.
"i'll be double-jumped-up if that ain't dick!"
cried grandpa davis, under his breath.
"and there ain't a turkey as ever wore a feather that he could fool.
a minute more, and he'll spile the fun.
dick," he commanded, "stop that racket, and sneak over here by me," beckoning mysteriously.
"sh-h-h!
they are answerin' ag'in.
down on your marrow-bones whilst i call."
flattening himself upon the ground as nearly as he could, and creeping behind the undergrowth, grandpa dun made his way laboriously to the desired spot.
he had never excelled in calling turkeys, but he was a far better shot than grandpa davis.
without demur the two old boys fell naturally into the rôle of former days.
breathless and excited, they crouched there, waiting for the fateful moment.
their nerves were tense, their eyes dilated, and their hearts beating like trip-hammers.
grandpa davis had continued to call, and now the answer was very near.
"gimme the first shot, billy," whispered grandpa dun.
"i let you do the callin'; and, besides, you know you never could hit nothin' that wasn't as big as the side of a meetin'-house."
before grandpa davis had time to reply, there came the "put-put-put"
which signals possible danger.
a stately gobbler raised his head to reconnoitre; two guns were fired almost simultaneously, and, with a whir and a flutter, the flock disappeared in the cane brake.
the two old boys bounded over the intervening sticks and stumps with an agility that walter himself might have envied, and bending over the prostrate gobbler exclaimed in concert: "ain't he a dandy, though!"
they examined him critically, cutting out his beard as a trophy, and measured the spread of his wings.
"but he's yourn, after all, dick," said grandpa davis ruefully.
"these here ain't none of my shot, so i reckon i must have missed him."
"i knowed you would, billy, afore your fired," grandpa dun replied, with mock gravity, "but that don't cut no figger.
he's big enough for us to go halvers and both have plenty.
more'n that, you done the callin' anyhow."
then they laughed, and as they looked into one another's faces, each seemed to realize for the first time that his quondam chum was an old man.
a moment before they had been two rollicking boys off on a lark together playing hooky, perhaps and in the twinkling of an eye some wicked fairy had waved her wand and metamorphosed them into walter's two grandfathers, who had not spoken to each other since years before the lad was born.
yet the humour of the situation was irresistible after all, and, without knowing just how it happened, or which made the first advance, dick and billy found themselves still laughing until the tears coursed down their furrowed cheeks, and shaking hands with as much vigour as though each one had been working a pump handle.
"i'll tell you what it is, billy," said dick at last; "you all come over to my house, and we'll eat him together on thanksgivin'."
"see here, dick," suggested billy, abstracting a nickel from his trousers' pocket; "heads at your house, and tails at mine."
"all right," came the hearty response.
billy tossed the coin into the air: it struck a twig and hid itself among the fallen leaves, where they sought it in vain.
"'tain't settled yet," announced dick; "but lemme tell you what let's do.
s'posin' we all go over to-morrow it'll be thanksgivin', you know and eat him at john's house."
"good!"
cried billy, with beaming face.
"you always did have a head for thinkin' up things, dick, and this here'll sorter split the difference, and ease matters so as  "
"yes, and our two old women can draw straws, if they've got a mind to, and see which of them is obligated to make the fust call," interrupted dick.
"jist heft him, old feller," urged one of them.
"ain't he a whopper, though!"
exclaimed the other.
"have a chaw, dick?"
asked billy, offering his plug of tobacco.
"don't keer if i do," acquiesced dick, biting off a goodly mouthful.
seating themselves upon a fallen hickory log, they chewed and expectorated, recalling old times, and enjoying their laugh with the careless freedom of their childhood days.
"dick, do your ricolleck the fight you and a coon had out on the limb of that tree over yonder, one night?"
queried billy, nudging his companion in the ribs.
"he come mighty nigh gittin' the best of you."
"he tore one sleeve out of my jacket, and mammy gimme a beatin'
besides," giggled dick.
"and say, billy, wasn't it fun the day we killed old man lee's puddle ducks for wild ones?
i don't believe i ever run as fast in my life."
"and, dick, do you remember the night your pappy hung the saddle up on the head of the bed to keep you from ridin' the old gray mare to singin' school, and you rid her, bareback, anyway?
you ricolleck you was stoopin' over, blowin' the fire, next mornin', when he seen the hairs on your britches, an' come down on you with the leather strop afore you knowed it."
thus one adventure recalled another, and the two old boys laughed uproariously, clapping their hands and holding their sides, while the sun climbed up among the treetops.
"ain't we ben two old fools to stay mad all this time?"
asked one of them, and the other readily agreed that they had, as they once more grasped hands before parting.
walter had arranged the thanksgiving surprise for his parents, but when he brought home the big gobbler he was unable longer to keep the secret, and divulged his share in what had happened.
"i didn't really believe either one of them could hit a turkey," he confided to his father, "but i wanted to have them meet once more, for i knew if they did they would make friends."
the parlour was odorous with late fall roses next morning, the table set, and walter and his parents in gala attire, when two couples, walking arm in arm, appeared upon the stretch of white road leading up to the front gate.
one couple was slightly in advance of the other, and grandpa davis, who was behind, whispered to his wife:
"listen, mary, dick is actually tryin' to sing, and he never could turn a tune, but somehow it does warm up my heart to hear him: seems like old times ag'in."
after dinner was over and such a grand dinner it was grandpa davis voiced the sentiment of the rest of the happy family party when he announced, quite without warning:
"well, this here has ben the thankfulles' thanksgivin' i ever seen, and i hope the good lord will spar' us all for yet a few more."
a thanksgiving dinner that flew away
a cape cod story about a wise old gander whose     adventure on the sea insured him against the perils of     the thanksgiving hatchet.
for boys or girls.
there is one sound that i shall always remember.
it is "honk!"
i spun around like a top, one summer day when i heard it, looking nervously in every direction.
i had just come down from the city to the cape with my sister hester for my third summer vacation.
i had left the cars with my arms full of bundles, and hurried toward aunt targood's.
the cottage stood in from the road.
there was a long meadow in front of it.
in the meadow were two great oaks and some clusters of lilacs.
an old, mossy stone wall protected the grounds from the road, and a long walk ran from the old wooden gate to the door.
it was a sunny day, and my heart was light.
the orioles were flaming in the old orchards; the bobolinks were tossing themselves about in the long meadows of timothy, daisies, and patches of clover.
there was a scent of new-mown hay in the air.
in the distance lay the bay, calm and resplendent, with white sails and specks of boats.
beyond it rose martha's vineyard, green and cool and bowery, and at its wharf lay a steamer.
i was, as i said, light-hearted.
i was thinking of rides over the sandy roads at the close of the long, bright days; of excursions on the bay; of clambakes and picnics.
i was hungry, and before me rose visions of aunt targood's fish dinners, roast chickens, and berry pies.
i was thirsty, but ahead was the old well sweep, and behind the cool lattice of the dairy window were pans of milk in abundance.
i tripped on toward the door with light feet, lugging my bundles, and beaded with perspiration, but unmindful of all discomforts in the thought of the bright days and good things in store for me.
"honk!
honk!"
my heart gave a bound!
where did that sound come from?
out of a cool cluster of innocent-looking lilac bushes i saw a dark object cautiously moving.
it seemed to have no head.
i knew, however, that it had a head.
i had seen it; it had seized me once in the previous summer, and i had been in terror of it during all the rest of the season.
i looked down into the irregular grass, and saw the head and a very long neck running along on the ground, propelled by the dark body, like a snake running away from a ball.
it was coming toward me, and faster and faster as it approached.
i dropped my bundles.
in a few flying leaps i returned to the road again, and armed myself with a stick from a pile of cordwood.
"honk!
honk!
honk!"
it was a call of triumph.
the head was high in the air now.
my enemy moved grandly forward, as became the monarch of the great meadow farmyard.
i stood with beating heart, after my retreat.
it was aunt targood's gander.
how he enjoyed his triumph, and how small and cowardly he made me feel!
"honk!
honk!
honk!"
the geese came out of the lilac bushes, bowing their heads to him in admiration.
then came the goslings a long procession of awkward, half-feathered things; they appeared equally delighted.
the gander seemed to be telling his admiring audience all about it:
how a strange lad with many bundles had attempted to cross the yard; how he had driven him back, and had captured his bundles, and now was monarch of the field.
he clapped his wings when he had finished his heroic story, and sent forth such a "honk!"
as might have startled a major-general.
then he, with an air of great dignity and coolness, began to examine my baggage.
among my effects were several pounds of chocolate caramels done up in brown paper.
aunt targood liked caramels, and i brought her a large supply.
he tore off the wrappers quickly.
he bit one.
it was good.
he began to distribute the bonbons among the geese, and they, with much liberality and good-will, among the goslings.
this was too much.
i ventured through the gate, swinging my cordwood stick.
"shoo!"
he dropped his head on the ground, and drove it down the walk in a lively waddle toward me.
"shoo!"
it was aunt targood's voice at the door.
he stopped immediately.
his head was in the air again.
"shoo!"
out came aunt targood with her broom.
she always corrected the gander with her broom.
if i were to be whipped i should choose a broom not the stick.
as soon as he beheld the broom he retired, although with much offended pride and dignity, to the lilac bushes; and the geese and goslings followed him.
"hester, you dear child," she said to my sister, "come here.
i was expecting you, and had been looking out for you, but missed sight of you.
i had forgotten all about the gander."
we gathered up the bundles and the caramels.
i was light-hearted again.
how cool was the sitting-room, with the woodbine falling about the open window!
aunt brought me a pitcher of milk, and some strawberries, some bread and honey, and a fan.
while i was resting and taking my lunch, i could hear the gander discussing the affairs of the farmyard with the geese.
i did not greatly enjoy the discussion.
his tone of voice was very proud, and he did not seem to be speaking well of me.
i was suspicious that he did not think me a very brave lad.
a young person likes to be spoken well of, even by the gander.
aunt targood's gander had been the terror of many well-meaning people, and of some evildoers, for many years.
i have seen tramps and pack peddlers enter the gate, and start on toward the door, when there would sound that ringing warning like a war blast, "honk, honk!"
and in a few minutes these unwelcome people would be gone.
farmhouse boarders from the city would sometimes enter the yard, thinking to draw water by the old well sweep; in a few minutes it was customary to hear shrieks, and to see women and children flying over the walls, followed by air-rending "honks!"
and jubilant cackles from the victorious gander and his admiring family.
aunt targood sometimes took summer boarders.
among those that i remember was the rev.
mr. bonney, a fervent-souled methodist preacher.
he put the gander to flight with the cart whip, on the second day after his arrival, and seemingly to aunt's great grief; but he never was troubled by the feathered tyrant again.
young couples sometimes came to father bonney to be married; and one summer afternoon there rode up to the gate a very young couple, whom we afterward learned had "run away," or rather, had attempted to get married without their parents' approval.
the young bridegroom hitched the horse, and helped from the carriage the gayly dressed miss he expected to make his wife.
they started up the walk upon the run, as though they expected to be followed and haste was necessary to prevent the failure of their plans.
"honk!"
they stopped.
it was a voice of authority.
"just look at him!"
said the bride.
"oh, oh!"
the bridegroom cried "shoo!"
but he might as well have said "shoo"
to a steam engine.
on came the gander, with his head and neck upon the ground.
he seized the lad by the calf of his leg, and made an immediate application of his wings.
the latter seemed to think he had been attacked by dragons.
as soon as he could shake him off he ran.
so did the bride, but in another direction; and while the two were thus perplexed and discomfited, the bride's father appeared in a carriage, and gave her a most forcible invitation to ride home with him.
she accepted it without discussion.
what became of the bridegroom, or how the matter ended, we never knew.
"aunt, what makes you keep that gander year after year?"
said i one evening, as we were sitting on the lawn before the door.
"is it because he is a kind of watchdog, and keeps troublesome people away?"
"no, child, no; i do not wish to keep most people away not well-behaved people nor to distress nor annoy any one.
the fact is, there is a story about that gander that i do not like to speak of to every one something that makes me feel tender toward him; so that if he needs a whipping i would rather do it.
he knows something that no one else knows.
i could not have him killed or sent away.
you have heard me speak of nathaniel, my oldest boy?"
"yes."
"that is his picture in my room, you know.
he was a good boy to me.
he loved his mother.
i loved nathaniel you cannot think how much i loved nathaniel.
it was on my account that he went away.
"the farm did not produce enough for us all nathaniel, john, and me.
we worked hard, and had a hard time.
one year that was ten years ago we were sued for our taxes.
"'nathaniel,' said i, 'i will go to taking boarders.'
"then he looked up to me and said oh, how noble and handsome he appeared to me:
"'mother, i will go to sea.'
"'where?'
asked i, in surprise.
"'in a coaster.'
"i turned white.
how i felt!
"'you and john can manage the place,' he continued.
'one of the vessels sails next week uncle aaron's; he offers to take me.'
"it seemed best, and he made preparations to go.
"the spring before skipper ben you have met skipper ben had given me some goose eggs; he had brought them from canada, and said that they were wild goose eggs.
"i set them under hens.
in four weeks i had three goslings.
i took them into the house at first, but afterward made a pen for them out in the yard.
i brought them up myself, and one of those goslings is that gander.
"skipper ben came over to see me the day before nathaniel was to sail.
aaron came with him.
"i said to aaron:
"'what can i give nathaniel to carry to sea with him to make him think of home?
cake, preserves, apples?
i haven't got much; i have done all i can for him, poor boy.'
"brother looked at me curiously, and said:
"'give him one of those wild geese, and we will fatten it on shipboard and will have it for our thanksgiving dinner.'
"what brother aaron said pleased me.
the young gander was a noble bird, the handsomest of the lot; and i resolved to keep the geese to kill for my own use, and to give him to nathaniel.
"the next morning it was late in september i took leave of nathaniel.
i tried to be calm and cheerful and hopeful.
i watched him as he went down the walk with the gander struggling under his arms.
a stranger would have laughed, but i did not feel like laughing; it was true that the boys who went coasting were usually gone but a few months, and came home hardy and happy.
but when poverty compels a mother and son to part, after they have been true to each other, and shared their feelings in common, it seems hard, it seems hard though i do not like to murmur or complain at anything allotted to me.
"i saw him go over the hill.
on the top he stopped and held up the gander.
he disappeared; yes, my own nathaniel disappeared.
i think of him now as one who disappeared.
"november came.
it was a terrible month on the coast that year.
storm followed storm; the sea-faring people talked constantly of wrecks and losses.
i could not sleep on the nights of those high winds.
i used to lie awake thinking over all the happy hours that i had lived with nathaniel.
"thanksgiving week came.
"it was full of an indian-summer brightness after the long storms.
the nights were frosty, bright, and calm.
"i could sleep on those calm nights.
"one morning i thought i heard a strange sound in the woodland pasture.
it was like a wild goose.
i listened; it was repeated.
i was lying in bed.
i started up i thought i had been dreaming.
"on the night before thanksgiving i went to bed early, being very tired.
the moon was full; the air was calm and still.
i was thinking of nathaniel, and i wondered if he would indeed have the gander for his thanksgiving dinner, if it would be cooked as well as i would have cooked it, and if he would think of me that day.
"i was just going to sleep when suddenly i heard a sound that made me start up and hold my breath.
"'honk!'
"i thought it was a dream followed by a nervous shock.
"'honk!
honk!'
"there it was again, in the yard, i was surely awake and in my senses.
"i heard the geese cackle.
"'honk!
honk!
honk!'
"i got out of bed and lifted the curtain.
it was almost as light as day.
"instead of two geese there were three.
had one of the neighbours'
geese stolen away?
"i should have thought so, and should not have felt disturbed, but for the reason that none of the neighbours' geese had that peculiar call that hornlike tone that i had noticed in mine.
"i went out of the door.
"the third goose looked like the very gander i had given nathaniel.
could it be?
"i did not sleep.
i rose early and went to the crib for some corn.
"it was a gander a 'wild gander' that had come in the night.
he seemed to know me.
"i trembled all over as though i had seen a ghost.
i was so faint that i sat down on the meal chest.
"as i was in that place, a bill pecked against the door.
the door opened.
the strange gander came hobbling over the crib stone and went to the corn bin.
he stopped there, looked at me, and gave a sort of glad 'honk' as though he knew me and was glad to see me.
"i was certain that he was the gander i had raised and that nathaniel had lifted into the air when he gave me his last recognition from the top of the hill.
"it overcame me.
it was thanksgiving.
the church bell would soon be ringing as on sunday.
and here was nathaniel's thanksgiving dinner and brother aaron's had it flown away?
where was the vessel?
"years have passed ten.
you know i waited and waited for my boy to come back.
december grew dark with its rainy seas; the snows fell; may righted up the hills, but the vessel never came back.
nathaniel my nathaniel never returned.
"that gander knows something he could tell me if he could talk.
birds have memories.
he remembered the corncrib he remembered something else.
i wish he could talk, poor bird!
i wish he could talk.
i will never sell him, nor kill him, nor have him abused.
he knows!"
mon-daw-min, or the origin of indian corn
in times past, a poor indian was living with his wife and children in a beautiful part of the country.
he was not only poor, but inexpert in procuring food for his family, and his children were all too young to give him assistance.
although poor, he was a man of a kind and contented disposition.
he was always thankful to the great spirit for everything he received.
the same disposition was inherited by his eldest son, who had now arrived at the proper age to undertake the ceremony of the ke-ig-uish-im-o-win, or fast, to see what kind of a spirit would be his guide and guardian through life.
wunzh, for this was his name, had been an obedient boy from his infancy, and was of a pensive, thoughtful, and mild disposition, so that he was beloved by the whole family.
as soon as the first indications of spring appeared, they built him the customary little lodge at a retired spot, some distance from their own, where he would not be disturbed during this solemn rite.
in the meantime he prepared himself, and immediately went into it, and commenced his fast.
the first few days he amused himself, in the mornings, by walking in the woods and over the mountains, examining the early plants and flowers, and in this way prepared himself to enjoy his sleep, and at the same time stored his mind with pleasant ideas for his dreams.
while he rambled through the woods, he felt a strong desire to know how the plants, herbs, and berries grew without any aid from man, and why it was that some species were good to eat and others possessed medicinal or poisonous juices.
he recalled these thoughts to mind after he became too languid to walk about, and had confined himself strictly to the lodge; he wished he could dream of something that would prove a benefit to his father and family, and to all others.
"true!"
he thought, "the great spirit made all things, and it is to him that we owe our lives.
but could he not make it easier for us to get our food than by hunting animals and taking fish?
i must try to find out this in my visions."
on the third day he became weak and faint, and kept his bed.
he fancied, while thus lying, that he saw a handsome young man coming down from the sky and advancing toward him.
he was richly and gayly dressed, having on a great many garments of green and yellow colours, but differing in their deeper or lighter shades.
he had a plume of waving feathers on his head, and all his motions were graceful.
"i am sent to you, my friend," said the celestial visitor, "by that great spirit who made all things in the sky and on the earth.
he has seen and knows your motives in fasting.
he sees that it is from a kind and benevolent wish to do good to your people, and to procure a benefit for them, and that you do not seek for strength in war or the praise of warriors.
i am sent to instruct you, and show you how you can do your kindred good."
he then told the young man to arise, and prepare to wrestle with him, as it was only by this means that he could hope to succeed in his wishes.
wunzh knew he was weak from fasting, but he felt his courage rising in his heart, and immediately got up, determined to die rather than fail.
he commenced the trial, and after a protracted effort was almost exhausted when the beautiful stranger said, "my friend, it is enough for once; i will come again to try you"; and, smiling on him, he ascended in the air in the same direction from which he came.
the next day the celestial visitor reappeared at the same hour and renewed the trial.
wunzh felt that his strength was even less than the day before, but the courage of his mind seemed to increase in proportion as his body became weaker.
seeing this, the stranger again spoke to him in the same words he used before, adding, "to-morrow will be your last trial.
be strong, my friend, for this is the only way you can overcome me, and obtain the boon you seek."
on the third day he again appeared at the same time and renewed the struggle.
the poor youth was very faint in body, but grew stronger in mind at every contest, and was determined to prevail or perish in the attempt.
he exerted his utmost powers, and after the contest had been continued the usual time, the stranger ceased his efforts and declared himself conquered.
for the first time he entered the lodge, and sitting down beside the youth, he began to deliver his instructions to him, telling him in what manner he should proceed to take advantage of his victory.
"you have won your desires of the great spirit," said the stranger.
"you have wrestled manfully.
to-morrow will be the seventh day of your fasting, your father will give you food to strengthen you, and as it is the last day of trial, you will prevail.
i know this, and now tell you what you must do to benefit your family and your tribe.
to-morrow,"
he repeated, "i shall meet you and wrestle with you for the last time; and, as soon as you have prevailed against me, you will strip off my garments and throw me down, clean the earth of roots and weeds, make it soft, and bury me in the spot.
when you have done this, leave my body in the earth, and do not disturb it, but come occasionally to visit the place, to see whether i have come to life, and be careful never to let the grass or weeds grow on my grave.
once a month cover me with fresh earth.
if you follow my instructions, you will accomplish your object of doing good to your fellow-creatures by teaching them the knowledge i now teach you."
he then shook him by the hand and disappeared.
in the morning the youth's father came with some slight refreshments, saying, "my son, you have fasted long enough.
if the great spirit will favour you, he will do it now.
it is seven days since you have tasted food, and you must not sacrifice your life.
the master of life does not require that."
"my father," replied the youth, "wait till the sun goes down.
i have a particular reason for extending my fast to that hour."
"very well," said the old man.
"i shall wait till the hour arrives, and you feel inclined to eat."
at the usual hour of the day the sky visitor returned, and the trial of strength was renewed.
although the youth had not availed himself of his father's offer of food, he felt that new strength had been given to him, and that exertion had renewed his strength and fortified his courage.
he grasped his angelic antagonist with supernatural strength, threw him down, took from him his beautiful garments and plume, and finding him dead, immediately buried him on the spot, taking all the precautions he had been told of, and being very confident, at the same time, that his friend would again come to life.
he then returned to his father's lodge, and partook sparingly of the meal that had been prepared for him.
but he never for a moment forgot the grave of his friend.
he carefully visited it throughout the spring, and weeded out the grass, and kept the ground in a soft and pliant state.
very soon he saw the tops of the green plumes coming through the ground; and the more careful he was to obey his instructions in keeping the ground in order, the faster they grew.
he was, however, careful to conceal the exploit from his father.
days and weeks had passed in this way.
the summer was now drawing toward a close, when one day, after a long absence in hunting, wunzh invited his father to follow him to the quiet and lonesome spot of his former fast.
the lodge had been removed, and the weeds kept from growing on the circle where it stood, but in its place stood a tall and graceful plant, with bright coloured silken hair, surmounted with nodding plumes and stately leaves, and golden clusters on each side.
"it is my friend," shouted the lad; "it is the friend of all mankind.
it is mondawmin.
we need no longer rely on hunting alone; for, as long as this gift is cherished and taken care of, the ground itself will give us a living."
he then pulled an ear.
"see, my father," said he, "this is what i fasted for.
the great spirit has listened to my voice, and sent us something new, and henceforth our people will not alone depend upon the chase or upon the waters."
he then communicated to his father the instructions given him by the stranger.
he told him that the broad husks must be torn away, as he had pulled off the garments in his wrestling; and having done this, directed him how the ear must be held before the fire till the outer skin became brown, while all the milk was retained in the grain.
the whole family then united in feast on the newly grown ears, expressing gratitude to the merciful spirit who gave it.
so corn came into the world.
a mystery in the kitchen
the boy who has a sister and the girl who has a brother are the ones who will best like this story of the spirited twins, jessie and jack.
jessie wanted to take     music lessons and jack tried mining in colorado.
something very mysterious was going on in the jarvis kitchen.
the table was covered with all sorts of good things eggs and butter and raisins and citron and spices; and jessie, with her sleeves rolled up and a white apron on, was bustling about, measuring and weighing and chopping and beating and mixing those various ingredients in a most bewildering way.
moreover, though she was evidently working for dear life, her face was full of smiles; in fact, she seemed to have trouble to keep from laughing outright, while betty, the cook, who was washing potatoes at the sink, fairly giggled with glee every few minutes, as if the sight of miss jessie working in the kitchen was the drollest thing in the world.
it was one of the pleasantest sights that big, sunny kitchen had seen for many a day, and the only thing that appeared mysterious about it was that the two workers acted strangely like conspirators.
if they laughed as they did on the slightest provocation it was very soft and at once smothered.
jessie went often to the door leading into the hall, and listened; and if there came a knock on the floor, she snatched off her apron, hastily wiped her hands, rolled down her sleeves, asked betty if there was any flour on her, and then hurried away into another part of the house, trying to look cool and quiet, as if she had not been doing anything.
on returning from one of these excursions, as she rolled up her sleeves again, she said:
"betty, we must open the other window if it is cold.
mamma thought she smelled roast turkey!"
betty burst into a laugh which she smothered in her apron.
jessie covered her mouth and laughed, too, but the window was opened to make a draught and carry out the delicious odours, which, it must be confessed, did fill that kitchen so full that no wonder they crept through the cracks, and the keyholes, and hung about jessie's dress as she went through the hall, in a way to make one's mouth water.
"what did ye tell her?"
asked betty, as soon as she could speak.
"oh, i told her i thought potpie smelled a good deal like turkey," said jessie, and again both laughed.
"wasn't it lucky we had potpie to-day?
i don't know what i should have said if we hadn't."
well, it was not long after that when jessie lined a baking-dish with nice-looking crust, filled it with tempting looking chicken legs and wings and breasts and backs and a bowlful of broth, laid a white blanket of crust over all, tucked it in snugly around the edge, cut some holes in the top, and shoved it into the oven just after betty drew out a dripping pan in which reposed, in all the glory of rich brown skin, a beautiful turkey.
mrs. jarvis couldn't have had any nose at all if she didn't smell that.
it filled the kitchen full of nice smells, and betty hurried it into the pantry, where the window was open to cool.
then jessie returned to the spices and fruits she had been working over so long, and a few minutes later she poured a rich, dark mass into a tin pudding-dish, tied the cover on tight, and slipped it into a large kettle of boiling water on the stove.
"there!"
she said, "i hope that'll be good."
"i know it will," said betty confidently.
"that's y'r ma's best receipt."
"yes, but i never made it before," said jessie doubtfully.
"oh, i know it'll be all right, 'n' i'll watch it close," said betty; "'n' now you go'n sit with y'r ma.
i want that table to git dinner."
"but i'm going to wash all these things," said jessie.
"you go long!
i'd ruther do that myself.
'twon't take me no time," said betty.
jessie hesitated.
"but you have enough to do, betty."
"i tell you i want to do it," the girl insisted.
"oh, i know!"
said jessie; "you like to help about it.
well, you may; and i'm much obliged to you, besides."
and after a last look at the fine turkey cooling his heels (if he had any) in the pantry, jessie went into the other part of the house.
when dinner time arrived and papa came from town, there duly appeared on the table the potpie before mentioned, and various other things pleasant to eat, but nothing was seen of the turkey so carefully roasted nor of the chicken pie, nor of the pudding that caused the young cook so much anxiety.
nothing was said about them, either, and it was not thanksgiving nor christmas, though it was only a few days before the former.
it was certainly odd, and stranger things happened that night.
in the first place, jessie sat up in her room and wrote a letter; and then, after her mother was in bed and everything still, she stole down the back stairs with a candle, quietly, as though she was doing some mischief.
betty, who came down to help her, brought a box in from the woodshed; and the two plotters, very silently, with many listenings at the door to see if any one was stirring, packed that box full of good things.
in it the turkey, wrapped in a snowy napkin, found a bed, the chicken pie and the plum pudding beautiful looking as betty said it would be bore him company; and numerous small things, jam jars, fruits, etc., etc., filled the box to its very top.
then the cover, provided with screws so that no hammering need be done, was fastened on.
"now you go to bed, miss jessie," whispered betty.
"i'll wait."
"no, you must be tired," said jessie.
"i'd just as lief."
"but i'd ruther," said betty shortly "'n' i'm going to; it won't be long now."
so jessie crept quietly upstairs, and before long there was a low rap on the kitchen door.
betty opened it, and there stood a man.
"ready?"
said he.
"yes," answered betty; "but don't speak loud; miss jarvis has sharp ears, 'n' we don't want her disturbed.
here's the card to mark it by,"
and she produced a card from the table.
the man put it in his pocket, shouldered the box, and betty shut the door.
not one of those good things ever went into the jarvis dining-room!
the next morning things went on just as usual in the house.
the kitchen door was left open and mrs. jarvis was welcome to smell any of the appetizing odours that wafted out into her room.
jessie resumed her study, and especially her practice, for she hoped some day to be a great musician.
she waited on her mother and took charge of the housekeeping, so much as was necessary with the well-tried servant at the head of the kitchen.
and though she had but sixteen years over her bright brown head, she proved herself to be what in that little new england town was called "capable."
but that box of goodies!
let us see where it went.
it was thanksgiving morning in a rough-looking little mining settlement in colorado.
in a shanty rougher and more comfortless than the rest were two persons: one, a man of thirty, was deeply engaged in cleaning and oiling a gun which lay in pieces about him on the rough bench where he sat; the other, a youth of sixteen, was trying to make a fire burn in the primitive-looking affair that did duty as a stove.
both wore coarse miner's suits, and picks and other things about the room told that their business was to dig for the yellow dust we are all so greedy to have.
evidently luck had not been good, for the whole place appeared run down, and the two looked absolutely hungry.
it was thanksgiving morning, as i said, but no thankfulness shone in the two pale, thin faces.
both were sad, and the younger one almost hopeless.
"jack," said the elder, pausing in his operations, "mind you give that old hen a good boil, or we won't be able to eat it."
"it'll be better'n nothing, anyway, i suppose," said jack gloomily.
"not much.
'specially if you don't get the taste of sage brush out of it.
lucky i happened to get that shot at her, anyway," he went on, "i've seen worse dinners even thanksgiving dinners than a sage hen."
"i haven't," said jack shortly; for the mention of thanksgiving had brought up before him with startling vividness the picture of a bright dining-room in a certain town far away, a table loaded with good things, and surrounded by smiling faces, and the contrast was almost more than he could bear.
"well, don't be down on your luck, boy, so long as you can get a good fat hen to eat, if she does happen to be too fond of seasoning before she's dead!"
replied the other cheerfully; "we haven't struck it yet, but it's always darkest just before dawn, you know.
we may be millionaires before this time to-morrow."
"we may," answered jack; but he didn't look as if he had much hope of it.
a few hours later the occupants of the cabin sat down to their thanksgiving dinner.
it consisted of the hen aforesaid, cut in pieces and boiled looking very queer, too served in the kettle in which the operation had been performed.
the table was at one end of the bench, the table service two jackknives and two iron spoons absolutely nothing else.
the elder sat on the bench, the younger drew up a keg that had held powder, and the dinner was about to begin.
but that hen was destined never to be eaten, for just at that moment the door was pushed open in the rude way of the country, a box set down on the floor, and a rough voice announced:
"a box for mr. jack jones."
jack started up.
"for me, there must be a mistake!
nobody knows  " he stopped, for he had not mentioned that his name was assumed.
"likely not!"
said the man, with a knowing look, "but folks has a mighty queer way of findin' out," and he shut the door and left.
jack stood staring at the box as if he had lost his wits.
it could not be from home, for no one knew where he went when he stole out of the house one night six months ago, and ran away to seek his fortune.
not a line had he ever written not even when very ill, as he had been; not even when without a roof to cover his head, as he had been more than once; not even when he had not eaten for two days, as also, alas, had been his experience.
he had deliberately run away, because how trivial it looked to him now, and how childish seemed his conduct because he thought his father too hard on him; would not allow him enough liberty; wanted to dictate to this man of sixteen; he intended to show him that he could get on alone.
poor jack, the only comfort he had been able to extract from his hard lot these many months of wandering, of work, of suffering such as he had never dreamed of his only comfort was that his tender mother didn't know, his only sister would no more be worried by his grumbling and complaints, and his father would be convinced now that he wasn't a baby.
small comfort, too, to balance the hardships that had fallen to his lot since the money he had drawn from the savings bank his little all was used up.
"why don't you open it?"
the gruff but not unkind voice of his roommate, whom he called tom, aroused him.
"maybe there's something in it better'n sage hen," trying to raise a smile.
but no smile followed.
mechanically jack sought the tools to open it, and in a few moments the cover was off.
it was from home!
on the very top was a letter addressed to jack jarvis in a hand that he well knew.
he hastily stuffed it into his pocket unopened.
the layers of paper were removed, and as each one was thrown off, something new appeared.
not a word was spoken, but the kettle of sage hen was silently put on the floor by tom as the bench began to fill up.
a jar of cranberry sauce, another of orange marmalade, oranges and apples, a plum pudding, a chicken pie, and lastly, in its white linen wrapper, the turkey we saw browning in that far-off new england kitchen.
as one by one these things were lifted out and placed on the bench a deep silence reigned in the cabin.
jack had choked at sight of the letter, and memories of days far different from these checked even tom's usually lively tongue.
a strange unpacking it was; how different from the joyful packing at dead of night with those two laughing girl faces bending over it!
when all was done, and the silence grew painful, jack blurted out:
"help yourself," and bustled about, busily gathering up the papers and folding them, and stuffing them back in the box, as though he were the most particular housekeeper in the world.
but if jack couldn't eat, something, too, ailed tom.
he said simply:
"don't feel hungry.
believe i'll go out and see what i can find," and shouldering his gun, now cleaned and put together, he quickly went out and shut the door.
jack sat down on the keg and looked at the things which so vividly brought home, and his happy life there, before him.
he did not feel hungry, either.
he sat and stared for some time.
then he remembered his letter.
he drew it from his pocket and opened it.
it was very thick; and when he pulled it out of the envelope the first thing he saw was the smiling face of his sister jessie, his twin sister, his playmate and comrade, his confidante from the cradle.
the loss of her ever-willing sympathy had been almost more to him than all the rest of his troubles.
this was another shock that brought something to his eyes that made him see the others through a mist.
there were the pictures of his mother, whose gentle voice he could almost hear, and of his father, whose gray hairs and sad face he suddenly remembered were partly his work.
at last he read the letter.
it began:
dear jack: i've just found out where you are, and     i'm so glad.
i send you this thanksgiving dinner.
it     was too bad for you to go off so.
you don't know how     dreadful it was for mamma; she was sick a long time,     and we were scared to death about her, but she's better     now; she can sit up most all day.
oh, jack!
father cried!
i'm sure he did, and he     almost ran out of the room, and didn't say anything to     anybody all day.
but i was determined i'd find you.
i     shan't tell you how i did it, but uncle john helped     me, and now, jack, he says he wants just such a fellow     as you to learn his business, and he'll make you a very     good offer.
and, jack, that's my turkey my winnie and     nobody but betty knows anything about this box and this     letter.
i send you all my money out of the savings bank     (i didn't tell anybody that), and i want you to     come home.
you'll find the money under the cranberries.
i thought it would be safe there, and i knew you'd eat     them all, you're so fond of cranberries.
i didn't tell     anybody because i want to surprise them, and besides,     let them think you came home because you got ready.
it's nobody's business where you got the money anyway.
now do come right home, jack.
you can get here in a     week's time, i know.
your affectionate sister,                                                     jessie.
jack laid the letter down with a rush of new feelings and thoughts that overwhelmed him.
he sat there for hours; he knew nothing of time.
he had mechanically turned the cranberry jar upside down and taken from the bottom, carefully wrapped in white paper, fifty dollars.
a pang went through him.
well did he know what that money represented to his sister; by how many sacrifices she had been saving it for a year or two, with the single purpose of taking the lessons from a great master that were to fit her to teach, to take an independent position in the world, to relieve her father, who had lost a large slice of his comfortable income, and who was growing old and sad under his burden.
she had often talked it over with jack.
now she had generously given up the whole to him, all her hopes and dreams of independence; and he he who should have been the support of his sister, the right arm of his father he had basely deserted.
these thoughts and many more surged through his mind that long afternoon, and when tom returned as the shadows were growing long, he sat exactly as he had been left.
on tom's entrance he roused himself.
there was a new light in his eye.
"come, tom," he said, "dinner's waiting.
you must be hungry by this time."
"i am that," said tom, who had been through his own mental struggles meanwhile.
the two sat down once more to their thanksgiving dinner, and this time they managed to eat, though jack choked whenever he thought of tasting a bit of jessie's pet turkey, winnie; and much as he liked turkey, and a home turkey at that, he could not touch it.
after the meal, when the provisions were stored away in the cupboard (a soap box) much too small for such a supply, it had grown quite dark, and the two, still disinclined to talk, went to their beds if the rough bunks they occupied may be dignified by that name.
but not to sleep at least not jack, who tumbled and tossed all night and got up in the morning with an energy and life he had not shown for weeks.
after breakfast tom shouldered his pick and said:
"i'll go on, jack, while you clear up."
yet he felt in his heart he should never see jack again; for there was a homestruck look in his face that the man of experience in the ways of runaway boys knew well.
he was not surprised that jack did not join him, nor that when he returned at night to the cabin he found him gone and a note pinned up on the door:
i can't stand it i'm off for home.
you may have my     share of everything.
jack.
it was a cold evening in early december, and there seemed to be an undercurrent of excitement in the jarvis household.
the table was spread in the dining-room with the best silver and linen.
mrs.
jarvis was better, and had even been able to go into the kitchen to superintend the preparations for dinner.
jessie went around with a shining face that no one understood and she could not explain.
betty was strangely nervous, and had made several blunders that morning which mortified the faithful servant very much.
an air of expectancy pervaded the whole house, though the two heads of it had not a hint of the cause.
jessie heard the train she had decided to be the important one.
she could hardly contain herself for expectation.
she tried hard to sober herself now and then by the thought, "perhaps he won't come," but she couldn't stay sobered, for she felt as certain that he would as that she lived.
you all know how it happened.
the door opened and jack walked in.
one instant of blank silence, and then a grand convulsion.
jack fell on his knees with his face in his mother's lap, though he had not thought a moment before of doing any such thing.
jessie hung over him, frantically hugging him.
mr. jarvis, vainly trying to join this group, could only lay his hands on jack's head and say in a broken voice: "my son!
my son!"
while betty performed a war dance around the party, wildly brandishing a basting spoon in one hand and wiping her streaming eyes on the dishcloth which she held in the other.
it was long before a word could be spoken, and the dinner was totally ruined, as betty declared with tears (though they were not for sorrow), before any one could calm down enough to eat.
then the reaction set in, and justice was done to the dinner, while talk went on in a stream.
jack did not tell his adventures; he only said that he had come from the city, where he had made arrangements for a situation with uncle john at which jessie's eyes sparkled.
his looks, even after a week of comfort and hope, spoke for his sufferings.
there is little more to tell.
jack jarvis at seventeen was a different boy from the jack who at sixteen started out to seek his fortune.
you may be sure that jessie had her music lessons after all, and that a new winnie with a fine young brood at her heels stalked about the jarvis grounds the next spring.
who ate the dolly's dinner?
"why can't dollies have a thanksgiving dinner as well as real folks?"
asked polly pine.
"i don't know why," said mamma, laughing; "go and dress them in their best clothes, get the dolls' house swept and dusted and the table ready.
then i'll fix their dinner before we go downstairs."
"oh, how nice!"
said polly pine.
the doll house stood in the nursery.
it was very big and very beautiful.
it was painted red; it had tall chimneys, and a fine front door with r. bliss on a brass plate.
there were lace curtains at the windows, and two steps led up to the cunning little piazza.
polly pine swept the rooms with her tiny broom and dusted them.
then she set the table in the dining-room with the very best dishes and the finest silver.
she set a teeny vase in the middle of the table, with two violets in it, and she put dolly table napkins at each place.
when the house was all nice and clean she dressed lavinia in her pink muslin, and dora jane in her gray velvet, and hannah welch in her yellow silk; then she seated them around the table, each one in her own chair.
polly was just telling them about company manners, how they must not eat with their knives, or leave their teaspoons in their cups when they drank their tea, when the door opened and in came mamma with a real dolls' thanksgiving dinner.
there was a chicken bone to put on the platter before hannah welch, for hannah always did the carving.
there were cunning little dishes of mashed potato and cranberry sauce, and some celery in a tiny tumbler, and the smallest squash pie baked in a patty pan.
polly pine just hopped up and down with delight when she saw it.
she set everything on the table; then she ran away to put on her nicest muslin frock with the pink ribbons, and she went downstairs to her own dinner.
there were gentlemen there for dinner gentlemen polly was very fond of and she had a nice time visiting with one of them.
he could change his table napkin into a white rabbit, and she forgot all about the dolls' thanksgiving dinner until it was dessert-time, and the nuts and raisins came in.
then polly remembered, and she jumped down from her chair and asked mamma if she might go upstairs and see if the dolls had eaten their dinner.
when mamma told about the doll house thanksgiving, all the family wanted to go, too, to find out if the dolls had enjoyed their dinner.
the front door of the doll house was open, and there sat the dolls just as their little mistress had left them only they had eaten nearly all the dinner!
everything was gone except the potato and the cranberry sauce.
the chicken leg was picked bare, the bread was nibbled, and the little pie was eaten all around.
"well, this is funny," said papa.
just then they heard a funny, scratching noise in the doll house, and a little gray mouse jumped out from under the table.
he ran out the front door of the doll house, and over the piazza, and down the steps before you could say "jack robinson."
in a minute he was gone nobody knew where.
there was another tiny mouse in the doll house under the parlour sofa, and a third one under lavinia's bed, with a poor, frightened gray tail sticking out.
they all got away safe.
papa would not allow mamma to go for the cat.
he said:
"why can't a poor little mouse have a thanksgiving dinner as well as we?"
an old-fashioned thanksgiving
a long story about a family of hardy new england     pioneers in revolutionary days.
it will be most enjoyed     by the older children.
"pile in, hannah.
get right down 'long o' the clock, so's to kinder shore it up.
i'll fix in them pillers t'other side on't, and you can set back ag'inst the bed.
good-bye, folks!
gee up!
bright.
gee!
i tell ye, buck."
"good-bye!"
nodded hannah, from the depths of the old calash which granny had given her for a riding-hood, and her rosy face sparkled under the green shadow like a blossom under a burdock leaf.
this was their wedding journey.
thirty long miles to be travelled, at the slow pace of an oxcart, where to-day a railroad spins by, and a log hut in the dim distance.
but hannah did not cry about it.
there was a momentary choking, perhaps, in her throat, as she caught a last view of granny's mob cap and her father's rough face, with the red head of her small stepbrother between them, grouped in the doorway.
her mother had died long ago, and there was another in her place now, and a swarm of children.
hannah was going to her own home, to a much easier life, and going with john.
why should she cry?
besides, hannah was the merriest little woman in the country.
she had a laugh always lying ready in a convenient dimple.
she never knew what "blues" meant, except to dye stocking yarn.
she was sunny as a dandelion and gay as a bobolink.
her sweet good nature never failed through the long day's journey, and when night came she made a pot of tea at the campfire, roasted a row of apples, and broiled a partridge john shot by the wayside, with as much enjoyment as if this was the merriest picnic excursion, and not a solitary camp in the forest, long miles away from any human dwelling, and by no means sure of safety from some lingering savage, some beast of harmful nature, or at least a visit from a shambling black bear, for bears were plentiful enough in that region.
but none of these things worried hannah.
she ate her supper with hearty appetite, said her prayers with john, and curled down on the featherbed in the cart, while john heaped on more wood, and, shouldering his musket, went to lengthen the ropes that tethered his oxen, and then mounted guard over the camp.
hannah watched his fine, grave face, as the flickering light illuminated it, for a few minutes, and then slept tranquilly till dawn.
and by sunset next day the little party drew up at the door of the log hut they called home.
it looked very pretty to hannah.
she had the fairy gift, that is so rare among mortals, of seeing beauty in its faintest expression; and the young grass about the rough stone doorstep, the crimson cones on the great larch tree behind it, the sunlit panes of the west window, the laugh and sparkle of the brook that ran through the clearing, the blue eyes of the squirrel caps that blossomed shyly and daintily beside the stumps of new-felled trees all these she saw and delighted in.
and when the door was open, the old clock set up, the bed laid on the standing bedplace, and the three chairs and table ranged against the wall, she began her housewifery directly, singing as she went.
before john had put his oxen in the small barn, sheltered the cart and the tools in it, and shaken down hay into the manger, hannah had made a fire, hung on the kettle, spread up her bed with homespun sheets and blankets and a wonderful cover of white-and-red chintz, set the table with a loaf of bread, a square of yellow butter, a bowl of maple sugar, and a plate of cheese; and even released the cock and the hen from their uneasy prison in a splint basket, and was feeding them in the little woodshed when john came in.
his face lit up, as he entered, with that joyful sense of home so instinctive in every true man and woman.
he rubbed his hard hands together, and catching hannah as she came in at the shed door, bestowed upon her a resounding kiss.
"you're the most of a little woman i ever see, hannah, i swan to man."
hannah laughed like a swarm of spring blackbirds.
"i declare, john, you do beat all!
ain't it real pleasant here?
seems to me i never saw things so handy."
oh, hannah, what if your prophetic soul could have foreseen the conveniences of this hundred years after!
yet the shelves, the pegs, the cupboard in the corner, the broad shelf above the fire, the great pine chest under the window, and the clumsy settle, all wrought out of pine board by john's patient and skilful fingers, filled all her needs; and what can modern conveniences do more?
so they ate their supper at home for the first time, happy as new-nested birds, and far more grateful.
john had built a sawmill on the brook a little way from the house, and already owned a flourishing trade, for the settlement about the lake from which nepasset brook sprung was quite large, and till john perkins went there the lumber had been all drawn fifteen miles off, to litchfield, and his mill was only three miles from nepash village.
hard work and hard fare lay before them both, but they were not daunted by the prospect....
by and by a cradle entered the door, and a baby was laid in it....
one baby is well enough in a log cabin, with one room for all the purposes of life; but when next year brought two more, a pair of stout boys, then john began to saw lumber for his own use.
a bedroom was built on the east side of the house, and a rough stairway into the loft more room perhaps than was needed; but john was called in nepash "a dre'dful forecastin' man," and he took warning from the twins.
and timely warning it proved, for as the years slipped by, one after another, they left their arrows in his quiver till ten children bloomed about the hearth.
the old cabin had disappeared entirely.
a good-sized frame house of one story, with a high-pitched roof, stood in its stead, and a slab fence kept roving animals out of the yard and saved the apple trees from the teeth of stray cows and horses.
poor enough they were still.
the loom in the garret always had its web ready, the great wheel by the other window sung its busy song year in and year out.
dolly was her mother's right hand now; and the twins, ralph and reuben, could fire the musket and chop wood.
sylvy, the fourth child, was the odd one.
all the rest were sturdy, rosy, laughing girls and boys; but sylvy had been a pining baby, and grew up into a slender, elegant creature, with clear gray eyes, limpid as water, but bright as stars, and fringed with long golden lashes the colour of her beautiful hair locks that were coiled in fold on fold at the back of her fine head, like wreaths of undyed silk, so pale was their yellow lustre.
she bloomed among the crowd of red-cheeked, dark-haired lads and lasses, stately and incongruous as a june lily in a bed of tulips.
but sylvy did not stay at home.
the parson's lady at litchfield came to nepash one sunday, with her husband, and seeing sylvy in the square corner pew with the rest, was mightily struck by her lovely face, and offered to take her home with her the next week, for the better advantages of schooling.
hannah could not have spared dolly; but sylvia was a dreamy, unpractical child, and though all the dearer for being the solitary lamb of the flock by virtue of her essential difference from the rest, still, for that very reason, it became easier to let her go.
parson everett was childless, and in two years' time both he and his wife adored the gentle, graceful girl; and she loved them dearly.
they could not part with her, and at last adopted her formally as their daughter, with the unwilling consent of john and hannah.
yet they knew it was greatly "for sylvy's betterment," as they phrased it; so at last they let her go.
but when dolly was a sturdy young woman of twenty-five the war-trumpet blew, and john and the twins heard it effectually.
there was a sudden leaving of the plow in the furrow.
the planting was set aside for the children to finish, the old musket rubbed up, and with set lips and resolute eyes the three men walked away one may morning to join the nepash company.
hannah kept up her smiling courage through it all.
if her heart gave way, nobody knew it but god and john.
the boys she encouraged and inspired, and the children were shamed out of their childish tears by mother's bright face and cheery talk.
then she set them all to work.
there was corn to plant, wheat to sow, potatoes to set; flax and wool to spin and weave, for clothes would be needed for all, both absent and stay-at-homes.
there was no father to superintend the outdoor work; so hannah took the field, and marshalled her forces on nepasset brook much as the commander-in-chief was doing on a larger scale elsewhere.
eben, the biggest boy, and joey, who came next him, were to do all the planting; diana and sam took on themselves the care of the potato patch, the fowls, and the cow; dolly must spin and weave when mother left either the wheel or loom to attend to the general ordering of the forces; while obed and betty, the younglings of the flock, were detailed to weed, pick vegetables (such few as were raised in the small garden), gather berries, herbs, nuts, hunt the straying turkeys' nests, and make themselves generally useful.
at evening all the girls sewed; the boys mended their shoes, having learned so much from a travelling cobbler; and the mother taught them all her small stock of schooling would allow.
at least, they each knew how to read, and most of them to write, after a very uncertain fashion.
as to spelling, nobody knew how to spell in those days....
but they did know the four simple rules of arithmetic, and could say the epigrammatic rhymes of the old new england primer and the sibyllic formulas of the assembly's catechism as glibly as the child of to-day repeats "the house that jack built."
so the summer went on.
the corn tasselled, the wheat ears filled well, the potatoes hung out rich clusters of their delicate and graceful blossoms, beans straggled half over the garden, the hens did their duty bravely, and the cow produced a heifer calf.
father and the boys were fighting now, and mother's merry words were more rare, though her bright face still wore its smiling courage.
they heard rarely from the army.
now and then a post rider stopped at the nepash tavern and brought a few letters or a little news; but this was at long intervals, and women who watched and waited at home without constant mail service and telegraphic flashes, aware that news of disaster, of wounds, of illness, could only reach them too late to serve or save, and that to reach the ill or the dying involved a larger and more disastrous journey than the survey of half the world demands now these women endured pangs beyond our comprehension, and endured them with a courage and patience that might have furnished forth an army of heroes, that did go far to make heroes of that improvised, ill-conditioned, eager multitude who conquered the trained bands of their oppressors and set their sons "free and equal," to use their own dubious phraseology, before the face of humanity at large.
by and by winter came on with all its terrors.
by night wolves howled about the lonely house, and sprung back over the palings when eben went to the door with his musket.
joe hauled wood from the forest on a hand-sled, and dolly and diana took it in through the kitchen window when the drifts were so high that the woodshed door could not be opened.
besides, all the hens were gathered in there, as well for greater warmth as for convenience in feeding, and the barn was only to be reached with snowshoes and entered by the window above the manger.
hard times these were.
the loom in the garret could not be used, for even fingers would freeze in that atmosphere; so the thread was wound off, twisted on the great wheel, and knit into stockings, the boys learning to fashion their own, while hannah knit her anxiety and her hidden heartaches into socks for her soldier boys and their father.
by another spring the aching and anxiousness were a little dulled, for habit blunts even the keen edge of mortal pain.
they had news that summer that ralph had been severely wounded, but had recovered; that john had gone through a sharp attack of camp-fever; that reuben was taken prisoner, but escaped by his own wit.
hannah was thankful and grateful beyond expression.
perhaps another woman would have wept and wailed, to think all this had come to pass without her knowledge or her aid; but it was hannah's way to look at the bright side of things.
sylvia would always remember how once, when she was looking at mount tahconic, darkened by a brooding tempest, its crags frowning blackly above the dark forest at its foot and the lurid cloud above its head torn by fierce lances of light, she hid her head in her mother's checked apron, in the helpless terror of an imaginative child; but, instead of being soothed and pitied, mother had only laughed a little gay laugh, and said gently, but merrily:
"why, sylvy, the sun's right on the other side, only you don't see it."
after that she always thought her mother saw the sun when nobody else could.
and in a spiritual sense it was true.
parson everett rode over once or twice from litchfield that next summer to fetch sylvia and to administer comfort to hannah.
he was a quaint, prim little gentleman, neat as any wren, but mild-mannered as wrens never are, and in a moderate way kindly and sympathetic.
when the children had haled their lovely sister away to see their rustic possessions, parson everett would sit down in a high chair, lay aside his cocked hat, spread his silk pocket handkerchief over his knees, and prepare to console hannah.
"mistress perkins, these are trying times, trying times.
there is a sound of a going in the tops of the mulberry-trees h-m!
sea and waves roaring of a truth h-m!
h-m!
i trust, mistress perkins, you submit to the divine will with meekness."
"well, i don't know," replied hannah, with a queer little twinkle in her eye.
"i don't believe i be as meek as moses, parson.
i should like things fixed different, to speak truth."
"dear me!
dear me h-m!
h-m!
my good woman, the lord reigneth.
you must submit; you must submit.
you know it is the duty of a vessel of wrath to be broken to pieces if it glorifieth the maker."
"well, mebbe 'tis.
i don't know much about that kind o' vessel.
i've got to submit because there ain't anything else to do, as i see.
i can't say it goes easy not'n' be honest; but i try to look on the bright side, and to believe the lord'll take care of my folks better'n i could, even if they was here."
"h-m!
h-m!
well," stammered the embarrassed parson, completely at his wit's end with this cheerful theology, "well, i hope it is grace that sustains you, mistress perkins, and not the vain elation of the natural man.
the lord is in his holy temple; the earth is his footstool h-m!"
the parson struggled helplessly with a tangle of texts here; but the right one seemed to fail him, till hannah audaciously put it in:
"well, you know what it says about takin' care of sparrers, in the bible, and how we was more valerable than they be, a lot.
that kind o'
text comes home these times, i tell ye.
you fetch a person down to the bedrock, as grandsir penlyn used to say, and then they know where they be.
and ef the lord is really the lord of all, i expect he'll take care of all; 'nd i don't doubt but what he is and does.
so i can fetch up on that."
parson everett heaved a deep sigh, put on his cocked hat, and blew his nose ceremonially with the silk handkerchief.
not that he needed to:
but as a sort of shaking off of the dust of responsibility and ending the conversation, which, if it was not heterodox on hannah's part, certainly did not seem orthodox to him.... he did not try to console her any more, but contented himself with the stiller spirits in his own parish, who had grown up in and after his own fashion.
another dreadful winter settled down on nepasset township.
there was food enough in the house and firewood in the shed; but neither food nor fire seemed to assuage the terrible cold, and with decreased vitality decreased courage came to all.
hygienics were an unforeseen mystery to people of that day.
they did not know that nourishing food is as good for the brain as for the muscles.
they lived on potatoes, beets, beans, with now and then a bit of salt pork or beef boiled in the pot with the rest; and their hearts failed, as their flesh did, with this sodden and monotonous diet.
one ghastly night hannah almost despaired.
she held secret council with dolly and eben, while they inspected the potato bin and the pork barrel, as to whether it would not be best for them to break up and find homes elsewhere for the winter.
her father was old and feeble.
he would be glad to have her with him and betty.
the rest were old enough to "do chores" for their board, and there were many families where help was needed, both in nepash and litchfield, since every available man had gone to the war by this time.
but while they talked a great scuffling and squawking in the woodhouse attracted the boys upstairs.
joe seized the tongs and diana the broomstick.
an intruding weasel was pursued and slaughtered; but not till two fowls, fat and fine, had been sacrificed by the invader and the tongs together.
the children were all hungry, with the exhaustion of the cold weather, and clamoured to have these victims cooked for supper.
nor was hannah unmoved by the appeal.
her own appetite seconded.
the savoury stew came just in time.
it aroused them to new life and spirits.
hannah regained courage, wondering how she could have lost heart so far, and said to dolly, as they washed up the supper dishes:
"i guess we'll keep together, dolly.
it'll be spring after a while, and we'll stick it out together."
"i guess i would," answered dolly.
"and don't you believe we should all feel better to kill off them fowls all but two or three?
they're master hands to eat corn, and it does seem as though that biled hen done us all a sight o' good to-night.
just hear them children."
and it certainly was, as hannah said, "musical to hear 'em."
joe had a cornstalk fiddle, and eben an old singing book, which diana read over his shoulder while she kept on knitting her blue sock; and the three youngsters sam, obed, and betty with wide mouths and intent eyes, followed diana's "lining out" of that quaint hymn "the old israelites,"
dwelling with special gusto and power on two of the verses:
"we are little, 'tis true,        and our numbers are few,     and the sons of old anak are tall;        but while i see a track        i will never go back,     but go on at the risk of my all.
"the way is all new,        as it opens to view,     and behind is the foaming red sea;        so none need to speak        of the onions and leeks     or to talk about garlics to me!"
hannah's face grew brighter still.
"we'll stay right here!"
she said, adding her voice to the singular old ditty with all her power:
"what though some in the rear        preach up terror and fear,     and complain of the trials they meet,        tho' the giants before        with great fury do roar,     i'm resolved i can never retreat."
and in this spirit, sustained, no doubt, by the occasional chickens, they lived the winter out, till blessed, beneficent spring came again, and brought news, great news, with it.
not from the army, though.
there had been a post rider in nepash during the january thaw, and he brought short letters only.
there was about to be a battle, and there was no time to write more than assurances of health and good hopes for the future.
only once since had news reached them from that quarter.
a disabled man from the nepash company was brought home dying with consumption.
hannah felt almost ashamed to rejoice in the tidings he brought of john's welfare, when she heard his husky voice, saw his worn and ghastly countenance, and watched the suppressed agony in his wife's eyes.
the words of thankfulness she wanted to speak would have been so many stabs in that woman's breast.
it was only when her eight children rejoiced in the hearing that she dared to be happy.
but the other news was from sylvia.
she was promised to the schoolmaster in litchfield.
only to think of it!
our sylvy!
master loomis had been eager to go to the war; but his mother was a poor bedrid woman, dependent on him for support, and all the dignitaries of the town combined in advising and urging him to stay at home for the sake of their children, as well as his mother.
so at home he stayed, and fell into peril of heart, instead of life and limb, under the soft fire of sylvia's eyes, instead of the enemy's artillery.
parson everett could not refuse his consent, though he and madam were both loth to give up their sweet daughter.
but since she and the youth seemed to be both of one mind about the matter, and he being a godly young man, of decent parentage, and in a good way of earning his living, there was no more to be said.
they would wait a year before thinking of marriage, both for better acquaintance and on account of the troubled times.
"mayhap the times will mend, sir," anxiously suggested the schoolmaster to parson everett.
"i think not, i think not, master loomis.
there is a great blackness of darkness in hand, the philistines be upon us, and there is moving to and fro.
yea, behemoth lifteth himself and shaketh his mane h-m!
ah!
h-m!
it is not a time for marrying and giving in marriage, for playing on sackbuts and dulcimers h-m!"
a quiet smile flickered around master loomis's mouth as he turned away, solaced by a shy, sweet look from sylvia's limpid eyes, as he peeped into the keeping-room, where she sat with madam, on his way out.
he could afford to wait a year for such a spring blossom as that, surely.
and wait he did, with commendable patience, comforting his godly soul with the fact that sylvia was spared meantime the daily tendance and care of a fretful old woman like his mother; for, though master loomis was the best of sons, that did not blind him to the fact that the irritability of age and illness were fully developed in his mother, and he alone seemed to have the power of calming her.
she liked sylvia at first, but became frantically jealous of her as soon as she suspected her son's attachment.
so the summer rolled away.
hannah and her little flock tilled their small farm and gathered plenteous harvest.
mindful of last year's experience, they raised brood after brood of chickens, and planted extra acres of corn for their feeding, so that when autumn came, with its vivid, splendid days, its keen winds and turbulent skies, the new chicken yard, which the boys had worked at through the summer, with its wattled fence, its own tiny spring, and lofty covered roofs, swarmed with chickens, ducks, and turkeys.
many a dollar was brought home about thanksgiving time for the fat fowls sold in litchfield and nepash; but dollars soon vanished in buying winter clothes for so many children, or rather, in buying wool to spin and weave for them.
mahala green, the village tailoress, came to fashion the garments, and the girls sewed them.
uncouth enough was their aspect; but fashion did not yet reign in nepash, and if they were warm, who cared for elegance?
not hannah's rosy, hearty, happy brood.
they sang and whistled and laughed with a force and freedom that was kin to the birds and squirrels among whom they lived; and hannah's kindly, cheery face lit up as she heard them, while a half sigh told that her husband and her soldier boys were still wanting to her perfect contentment.
at last they were all housed snugly for winter.
the woodpile was larger than ever before, and all laid up in the shed, beyond which a rough shelter of chinked logs had been put up for the chickens, to which their roosts and nest boxes, of coarse wicker, boards nailed together, hollow bark from the hemlock logs, even worn-out tin pails, had all been transferred.
the cellar had been well banked from the outside, and its darksome cavern held good store of apples, pork, and potatoes.
there was dried beef in the stairway, squashes in the cupboard, flour in the pantry, and the great gentle black cow in the barn was a wonderful milker.
in three weeks thanksgiving would come, and even hannah's brave heart sank as she thought of her absent husband and boys; and their weary faces rose up before her as she numbered over to herself her own causes for thankfulness, as if to say: "can you keep thanksgiving without us?"
poor hannah!
she did her best to set these thankless thoughts aside, but almost dreaded the coming festival.
one night, as she sat knitting by the fire, a special messenger from litchfield rode up to the door and brought stirring news.
master loomis's mother was dead, and the master himself, seeing there was a new levy of troops, was now going to the war.
but before he went there was to be a wedding, and, in the good old fashion, it should be on thanksgiving day, and madam everett had bidden as many of sylvy's people to the feast as would come.
there was great excitement as hannah read aloud the madam's note.
the tribe of perkins shouted for joy, but a sudden chill fell on them when mother spoke:
"now, children, hush up!
i want to speak myself, ef it's a possible thing to git in a word edgeways.
we can't all go, fust and foremost.
'tain't noways possible."
"oh, mother!
why?
oh, do!
not go to sylvy's wedding?"
burst in the "infinite deep chorus" of youngsters.
"no, you can't.
there ain't no team in the county big enough to hold ye all, if ye squeeze ever so much.
i've got to go, for sylvy'd be beat out if mother didn't come.
and dolly's the oldest.
she's got a right to go."
loud protest was made against the right of primogeniture, but mother was firm.
"says so in the bible.
leastways, bible folks always acted so.
the first-born, ye know.
dolly's goin', sure.
eben's got to drive, and i must take obed.
he'd be the death of somebody, with his everlastin'
mischief, if i left him to home.
mebbe i can squeeze in betty, to keep him company.
joe and sam and dianner won't be more'n enough to take care o' the cows and chickens and fires, and all.
likewise of each other."
sam set up a sudden howl at his sentence, and kicked the mongrel yellow puppy, who leaped on him to console him, till that long-suffering beast yelped in concert.
diana sniffed and snuffled, scrubbed her eyes with her checked apron, and rocked back and forth.
"now, stop it!"
bawled joe.
"for the land's sake, quit all this noise.
we can't all on us go; 'n' for my part, i don't want to.
we'll hev a weddin' of our own some day!"
and here he gave a sly look at dolly, who seemed to understand it and blushed like an apple-blossom, while joe went on: "then we'll all stay to 't, i tell ye, and have a right down old country time."
mother had to laugh.
"so you shall, joe, and dance 'money musk' all night, if you want to same as you did to the corn huskin'.
now, let's see.
betty, she's got that chintz gown that was your sunday best, dolly the flowered one, you know, that dianner outgrowed.
we must fix them lawn ruffles into 't; and there's a blue ribbin laid away in my chest o' drawers that'll tie her hair.
it's dreadful lucky we've got new shoes all round; and obed's coat and breeches is as good as new, if they be made out of his pa's weddin' suit.
that's the good o' good cloth.
it'll last most forever.
joe hed 'em first, then sam wore 'em quite a spell, and they cut over jest right for obey.
my black paduasoy can be fixed up, i guess.
but, my stars!
dolly, what hev' you got?"
"well, mother, you know i ain't got a real good gown.
there's the black lutestring petticoat sylvy fetched me two years ago; but there ain't any gown to it.
we calculated i could wear that linsey jacket to meeting, under my coat; but 'twouldn't do rightly for a weddin'."
"that's gospel truth.
you can't wear that, anyhow.
you've got to hev somethin'.
'twon't do to go to sylvy's weddin' in linsey woolsy; but i don't believe there's more'n two hard dollars in the house.
there's a few continentals; but i don't count on them.
joe, you go over to the mill fust thing in the morning and ask sylvester to lend me his old mare a spell to-morrer, to ride over to nepash, to the store."
"why don't ye send doll?"
asked joe, with a wicked glance at the girl that set her blushing again.
"hold your tongue, joseph, 'n' mind me.
it's bedtime now, but i'll wake ye up airly," energetically remarked hannah.
and next day, equipped in cloak and hood, she climbed the old mare's fat sides and jogged off on her errand; and by noon-mark was safe and sound home again, looking a little perplexed, but by no means cast down.
"well, dolly," said she, as soon as cloak and hood were laid aside, "there's the beautifulest piece of chintz over to the store you ever see jest enough for a gown.
it's kind of buff-coloured ground, flowered all over with roses, deep-red roses, as nateral as life.
squire dart wouldn't take no money for 't.
he's awful sharp about them new bills.
sez they ain't no more'n corn husks.
well, we ain't got a great lot of 'em, so there's less to lose, and some folks will take 'em; but he'll let me have the chintz for 'leven yards o' soldier's cloth blue, ye know, like what we sent pa and the boys.
and i spent them two silver dollars on a white gauze neckkercher and a piece of red satin ribbin for ye, for i'm set on that chintz.
now hurry up 'nd fix the loom right off.
the web's ready, then we'll card the wool.
i'll lay ye a penny we'll have them 'leven yards wove by friday.
to-day's tuesday, thanksgiving comes a thursday week, an' ef we have the chintz by sundown a saturday there'll be good store of time for mahaly green and you to make it afore wednesday night.
we'll hev a kind of a thanksgiving, after all.
but i wisht your pa  " the sentence ended in hannah's apron at her eyes, and dolly looked sober; but in a minute she dimpled and brightened, for the pretty chintz gown was more to her than half a dozen costly french dresses to a girl of to-day.
but a little cloud suddenly put out the dimples.
"but, mother, if somebody else should buy it?"
"oh, they won't.
i've fixed that.
i promised to fetch the cloth inside of a week, and squire dart laid away the chintz for me till that time.
fetch the wool, dolly, before you set up the web, so's i can start."
the wool was carded, spun, washed, and put into the dye tub, one "run"
of yarn that night; and another spun and washed by next day's noon for the stuff was to be checked, and black wool needed no dyeing.
swiftly hummed the wheel, merrily flew the shuttle, and the house steamed with inodorous dye; but nobody cared for that, if the cloth could only be finished.
and finished it was the full measure and a yard over; and on saturday morning sylvester's horse was borrowed again, and hannah came back from the village beaming with pleasure, and bringing besides the chintz a yard of real cushion lace, to trim the ruffles for dolly's sleeves, for which she had bartered the over yard of cloth and two dozen fresh eggs.
then even busier times set in.
mahala green had already arrived, for she was dressmaker as well as tailoress, and was sponging and pressing over the black paduasoy that had once been dove-coloured and was hannah's sole piece of wedding finery, handed down from her grandmother's wardrobe at that.
a dark green grosgrain petticoat and white lawn ruffles made a sufficiently picturesque attire for hannah, whose well-silvered hair set off her still sparkling eyes and clear healthy skin.
she appeared in this unwonted finery on thanksgiving morning to her admiring family, having added a last touch of adornment by a quaint old jet necklace, that glittered on the pure lawn neckkerchief with as good effect as a chain of diamonds and much more fitness.
betty, in her striped blue-and-white chintz, a clean dimity petticoat, and a blue ribbon round her short brown curls, looked like a cabbage rosebud so sturdy and wholesome and rosy that no more delicate symbol suits her.
obed was dreadful in the old-fashioned costume of coat and breeches, ill-fitting and shiny with wear, and his freckled face and round shock head of tan-coloured hair thrown into full relief by a big, square collar of coarse tatten lace laid out on his shoulders like a barber's towel, and illustrating the great red ears that stood out at right angles above it.
but obed was only a boy.
he was not expected to be more than clean and speechless; and, to tell the truth, eben, being in the hobbledehoy stage of boyhood gaunt, awkward, and self-sufficient rather surpassed his small brother in unpleasant aspect and manner.
but who would look at the boys when dolly stood beside them, as she did now, tall and slender, with the free grace of an untrammelled figure, her small head erect, her eyes dark and soft as a deer's, neatly clothed feet (not too small for her height) peeping from under the black lutestring petticoat, and her glowing brunette complexion set off by the picturesque buff-and-garnet chintz gown, while her round throat and arms were shaded by delicate gauze and snowy lace, and about her neck lay her mother's gold beads, now and then tangling in the heavy black curls that, tied high on her head with a garnet ribbon, still dropped in rich luxuriance to her trim waist.
the family approved of dolly, no doubt, though their phrases of flattery were as homely as heartfelt.
"orful slick-lookin', ain't she?"
confided joe to eben; while sinful sam shrieked out: "land o' goshen!
ain't our dolly smart?
shan't i fetch sylvester over?"
for which i regret to state dolly smartly boxed his ears.
but the pung was ready, and sam's howls had to die out uncomforted.
with many parting charges from hannah about the fires and fowls, the cow, the hasty pudding, already put on for its long boil, and the turkey that hung from a string in front of the fire and must be watched well, since it was the thanksgiving dinner, the "weddingers," as joe called them, were well packed in with blankets and hot stones and set off on their long drive.
the day was fair and bright, the fields of snow purely dazzling; but the cold was fearful, and in spite of all their wraps, the keen winds that whistled over those broad hilltops where the road lay seemed to pierce their very bones, and they were heartily glad to draw up, by twelve o'clock, at the door of the parsonage and be set before a blazing fire, and revived with sundry mugs of foaming and steaming flip, made potent with a touch of old peach brandy; for in those ancient days, even in parsonages, the hot poker knew its office and sideboards were not in vain.
there was food, also, for the exhausted guests, though the refection was slight and served informally in the kitchen corner, for the ceremonial thanksgiving dinner was to be deferred till after the wedding.
and as soon as all were warmed and refreshed they were ushered into the great parlour, where a turkey carpet, amber satin curtains, spider-legged chairs and tables, and a vast carved sofa, cushioned also with amber, made a regal and luxurious show in the eyes of our rustic observers.
but when sylvy came in with the parson, who could look at furniture?
madam everett had lavished her taste and her money on the lovely creature as if she were her own daughter, for she was almost as dear to that tender, childless soul.
the girl's lustrous gold-brown hair was dressed high upon her head in soft puffs and glittering curls, and a filmy thread-lace scarf pinned across it with pearl-headed pins.
her white satin petticoat showed its rich lustre under a lutestring gown of palest rose brocaded with silver sprigs and looped with silver ribbon and pink satin roses.
costly lace clung about her neck and arms, long kid gloves covered her little hands and wrists and met the delicate sleeve ruffles, and about her white throat a great pink topaz clasped a single string of pearls.
hannah could scarce believe her eyes.
was this her sylvy?
she who even threw madam everett, with her velvet dress, powdered hair, and mechlin laces, quite into the background!
"i did not like it, mammy dear," whispered sylvy, as she clung round her astonished mother's neck.
"i wanted a muslin gown; but madam had laid this by long ago, and i could not thwart or grieve her, she is so very good to me."
"no more you could, sylvy.
the gown is amazing fine, to be sure; but as long as my sylvy's inside of it i won't gainsay the gown.
it ain't a speck too pretty for the wearer, dear."
and hannah gave her another hug.
the rest scarce dared to touch that fair face, except dolly, who threw her arms about her beautiful sister, with little thought of her garments, but a sudden passion of love and regret sending the quick blood to her dark brows and wavy hair in a scarlet glow.
master loomis looked on with tender eyes.
he felt the usual masculine conviction that nobody loved sylvy anywhere near as much as he did; but it pleased him to see that she was dear to her family.
the parson, however, abruptly put an end to the scene.
"h-m!
my dear friends, let us recollect ourselves.
there is a time for all things.
yea, earth yieldeth her increase h-m!
the lord ariseth to shake visibly the earth ahem!
sylvia, will you stand before the sophy?
master lummis on the right side.
let us pray."
but even as he spoke the words a great knocking pealed through the house: the brass lion's head on the front door beat a reveille loud and long.
the parson paused, and sylvia grew whiter than before; while decius, the parson's factotum, a highly respectable old negro (who, with his wife and daughter, sole servants of the house, had stolen in to see the ceremony), ambled out to the vestibule in most undignified haste.
there came sounds of dispute, much tramping of boots, rough voices, and quick words; then a chuckle from decius, the parlour door burst open, and three bearded, ragged, eager men rushed in upon the little ceremony.
there was a moment's pause of wonder and doubt, then a low cry from hannah, as she flew into her husband's arms; and in another second the whole family had closed around the father and brothers, and for once the hardy, stern, reticent new england nature, broken up from its foundations, disclosed its depths of tenderness and fidelity.
there were tears, choking sobs, cries of joy.
the madam held her lace handkerchief to her eyes with real need of it; master loomis choked for sympathy; and the parson blew his nose on the ceremonial bandanna like the trumpet of a cavalry charge.
"let us pray!"
said he, in a loud but broken voice; and holding fast to the back of the chair, he poured out his soul and theirs before the lord with all the fervour and the fluency of real feeling.
there was no stumbling over misapplied texts now, no awkward objections in his throat, but only glowing bible words of thankfulness and praise and joy.
and every heart was uplifted and calm as they joined in the "amen."
john's story was quickly told.
their decimated regiment was disbanded, to be reformed of fresh recruits, and a long furlough given to the faithful but exhausted remnant.
they had left at once for home, and their shortest route lay through litchfield.
night was near when they reached the town, but they must needs stop to get one glimpse of sylvy and tidings from home, for fear lay upon them lest there might be trouble there which they knew not of.
so they burst in upon the wedding.
but master loomis began to look uneasy.
old dorcas had slipped out, to save the imperilled dinner, and pokey, the maid (née pocahontas!)
could be heard clinking glass and silver and pushing about chairs; but the happy family were still absorbed in each other.
"mister everett!"
said the madam, with dignity, and the little minister trotted rapturously over to her chair to receive certain low orders.
"yes, verily, yes h-m!
a my friends, we are assembled in this place this evening  "
a sharp look from madam recalled him to the fact that this was not a prayer-meeting.
"a that is yes, of a truth our purpose this afternoon was to  "
"that's so!"
energetically put in captain john.
"right about face!
form!"
and the three continentals sprung to their feet and assumed their position, while sylvy and master loomis resumed theirs, a flitting smile in sylvia's tearful eyes making a very rainbow.
so the ceremony proceeded to the end, and was wound up with a short prayer, concerning which captain perkins irreverently remarked to his wife some days after:
"parson smelt the turkey, sure as shootin', hannah.
he shortened up so 'mazin' quick on that prayer.
i tell you i was glad on't.
i knew how he felt.
i could ha' ate a wolf myself."
then they all moved in to the dinner table a strange group, from sylvia's satin and pearls to the ragged fatigue-dress of her father and brothers; but there was no help for that now, and really it troubled nobody.
the shade of anxiety in madam's eye was caused only by a doubt as to the sufficiency of her supplies for three unexpected and ravenous guests; but a look at the mighty turkey, the crisp roast pig, the cold ham, the chicken pie, and the piles of smoking vegetables, with a long vista of various pastries, apples, nuts, and pitchers of cider on the buffet, and an inner consciousness of a big indian pudding, for twenty-four hours simmering in the pot over the fire, reassured her, and perhaps heartened up the parson, for after a long grace he still kept his feet and added, with a kindly smile:
"brethren and friends, you are heartily welcome.
eat and be glad, for seldom hath there been such cause and need to keep a thanksgiving!"
and they all said amen!
1800 and froze to death
by c. a. stephens.
an exciting story of a battle with a crazy moose.
it     has a thanksgiving flavour, too.
"what shall we have for thanksgiving dinner?"
was a question which distressed more than one household that year.
indeed, it was often a question what to have for dinner, supper, or breakfast on any day.
for that was the strangely unpropitious, unproductive season of 1816, quaintly known in local annals as "1800 and froze to death."
it was shortly after the close of the war of 1812 with england.
our country was then poor and but little cultivated.
there was no golden west to send carloads of wheat and corn; no florida or california to send fruit; there were no cars, no railroads.
what the people of the eastern states had they must raise for themselves, and that year there were no crops.
nothing grew, nothing ripened properly.
winter lingered even in the lap of may.
as late as the middle of june there was a heavy snowstorm in new england.
frosts occurred every fortnight of the season.
the seed potatoes, corn, and beans, when planted, either rotted in the ground or came up to be killed by the frosts.
the cold continued through july and august.
a little barley, still less wheat and rye, a few oats, in favourable situations, were the only cereals harvested, and these were much pinched in the kernel.
actual starvation threatened hundreds of farmers' families as this singular summer and autumn advanced.
the corn crop, then the main staple in the east, was wholly cut off.
two and three dollars a bushel equal to ten dollars to-day were paid for corn that year by those who had the money to purchase it.
many of the poorer families subsisted in part on the boiled sprouts of raspberry and other shrubs.
starving children stole forth into the fields of the less indigent farmers by night, and dug up the seed potatoes and sprouted corn to eat raw.
moreover, there appeared to be little or no game in the forest; many roving bears were seen, and wolves were bold.
all wild animals, indeed, behaved abnormally, as if they, too, felt that nature was out of joint.
the eggs of the grouse or partridge failed to hatch; even woodchucks were lean and scarce.
so of the brooding hens at the settler's barn:
the eggs would not hatch, and the hens, too, it is said, gave up laying eggs, perhaps from lack of food.
even the song birds fell into the "dumps" and neglected to rear young.
the dreary, fruitless autumn drew on; and thanksgiving day bade fair to be such a hollow mockery that in several states the governors did not issue proclamations.
maine at that time was a part of the state of massachusetts.
my impression is that the governor appointed november 28th as thanksgiving day, but i am not sure.
it is likely that not much unction attended the announcement.
the notices of it did not reach many localities in maine.
in the neighbourhood where my grandparents lived, in oxford county, nothing was heard of it; but at a schoolhouse meeting, on november 21st, our nearest neighbour, jonas edwards, made a motion "that the people of the place keep the 28th of the month as thanksgiving day the best they could."
the motion prevailed; and then the poor housewives began to ask the question, "what shall we have for thanksgiving dinner?"
at our house it is still remembered that one of my young great-uncles cried in reply, "oh, if we could only have a good big johnnycake!"
and it was either that very night, or the night after, that the exciting news came of the arrival of a shipload of corn at bath and brunswick.
at brunswick, seat of the then infant bowdoin college, freeport, topsham, and other towns near the coast of maine, where the people were interested in maritime ventures, it had become known that a surplus of corn was raised in cuba, and could be purchased at a fair price.
an old schooner, commanded by one capt.
john simmons, was fitted out to sail for a cargo of the precious cereal.
for three months not a word was heard from schooner or skipper.
captain simmons had purchased corn, however, and loaded his crazy old craft full to the deck with it.
heavy weather and head winds held him back on his voyage home.
water got to the corn, and some of it swelled to such an extent that the old schooner was like to burst.
but it got in at last, early in november, with three thousand bushels of this west india corn.
how the news of this argosy flew even to towns a day's journey up from the coast!
a great hunger for corncake swept through that part of the state; and in our own little neighbourhood a searching canvass of the resources of the five log farmhouses followed.
as a result of it, young jonathan edwards and my then equally youthful great-uncle nathaniel set off the next day to drive to brunswick with a span of old white horses hitched in a farm wagon without springs, carrying four rather poor sheep, four bushels of barley, and fifteen pounds of wool, which they hoped to exchange for five bushels of that precious corn.
on top of it all there were three large bagfuls of hay for the horses.
the boys also took an axe and an old flintlock gun, for much of the way was then through forest.
it was a long day's drive for horses in poor condition, but they reached brunswick that night.
there, however, they found the cargo of corn so nearly sold out, or bartered away, that they were able to get but three bushels to bring home.
the corn was reckoned at nine dollars, the four sheep at only six dollars, and it had been difficult "dickering" the fifteen pounds of wool and the two bushels of barley as worth three dollars more.
the extra two bushels of barley went for their keep overnight.
such was produce exchange in 1816.
the next morning they started for home, lightly loaded with their dearly bought corn.
their route lay along the androscoggin river, and they had got as far on their way as the present factory town of auburn, where the little androscoggin flows into the larger river of the same name, when they had an adventure which resulted in very materially increasing the weight of their load.
it was a raw, cloudy day, and had begun to "spit snow"; and as it drew toward noon, they stopped beside the road at a place where a large pine and several birches leaned out from the brink of the deep gorge through which the little androscoggin flows to join the larger stream.
here they fed their horses on the last of the three bagfuls of hay, but had nothing to cook or eat in the way of food themselves.
the weather was chilly, and my young great-uncle nathaniel said to jonathan:
"if you will get some dry birchbark, i will flash the pan.
we will kindle a fire and warm up."
jonathan brought the bark, and meanwhile nathaniel drew the charge from the old "queen's arm," then ignited some powder in the pan with the flintlock, and started a blaze going.
the blaze, however, had soon to be fed with dry fuel, and noticing a dead firtop lying on the ground a few steps away, jonathan took the axe and ran to break it up; and the axe strokes among the dry stuff made a considerable crackling.
throwing down the axe at last, jonathan gathered up a large armful of the dry branches, and had turned to the fire, when they both heard a strange sound, like a deep grunt, not far away, followed by sharp crashes of the brush down in the basin.
"what's that?"
nathaniel exclaimed.
"it's a bear i guess," and he snatched up the empty gun to reload it.
jonathan, too, threw down his armful of boughs and turned back to get the axe.
before they could do either, however, the strange grunts and crashes came nearer, and a moment later a pair of broad antlers and a huge black head appeared, coming up from the gorge.
at sight of the snorting beast, jonathan turned suddenly.
"it's a moose, nat!"
he cried.
"a big bull moose!
shoot him!
shoot him!"
nat was making frantic efforts, but the gun was not reloaded.
recharging an old "queen's arm" was a work of time.
fortunately for the boys, the attention of the moose was full fixed on the horses.
with another furious snort, it gained the top of the bank and bounded toward where they stood hitched, chewing their hay.
the tired white horses looked up suddenly from their hay, and perceiving this black apparition of the forest, snorted and tugged at their halters.
with a frightful bellow, half squeal, half roar, the moose rose twelve feet tall on his hind legs, and rushed at the one hitched nearest.
the horse broke its halter, ran headlong against its mate, recoiled, bumped into a tree trunk, and then the trees standing thick in front of it backed over the bank and went out of sight down the bluff, the moose bounding after it, still bellowing hoarsely.
the other horse had also broken its halter and ran off, while the two boys stood amazed and alarmed at this tremendous exhibition of animal ferocity.
"nat!
nat!
he will kill that horse!"
jonathan exclaimed, and they both ran to look over the bank.
horse and moose were now down near the water, where the river ran deep and swift under the steep bank, the horse trying vainly to escape through the tangled alder brush, the moose savagely pursuing.
the sight roused the boys to save their horse.
axe in hand, jonathan ran and slid down the bluff side, catching hold of trees and bushes as he did so, to keep from going quite into the river.
nat followed him, with the gun which he had hastily primed.
both horse and moose were now thrashing amidst the alder clumps.
"shoot him, shoot him!"
jonathan shouted.
"why don't you fire?
oh, let me have that gun!"
it is not as easy as an onlooker often thinks to shoot an animal, even a large one, in rapid motion, particularly among trees and brush; something constantly gets in the way.
both animals were now tearing along the brink of the deep stream, stumbling headlong one second, up the next, plunging on.
as often as nat tried to steady himself on the steep side of the bluff for a shot, either the horse was in the way or both animals were wholly concealed by the bushes.
moreover, the boys had to run fast through the brush to keep them in sight.
nat could not shoot with certainty, and jonathan grew wild over the delay.
"shoot him yourself, then!"
nat retorted, panting.
jonathan snatched the gun and dashed forward, nat picking up the axe and following after.
on they ran for several hundred yards, barely keeping pace with the animals.
jonathan experienced quite as much difficulty in getting a shot as nat had done.
at last he aimed and snapped and the gun did not go off.
"you never primed it!"
he exclaimed indignantly.
nat thought that he had done so, but was not wholly certain; and feeling that he must do his part somehow, he now dashed past jonathan, and running on, attempted to head the horse off at a little gully down the bank to which they had now come.
it was a brushy place; he fell headlong into it himself, and rolled down, still grasping hard at the axe.
he was close upon the horse now, within a few yards of the water, and looking up, he saw the moose's head among the alder brush.
the creature appeared to be staring at him, and regaining his feet, much excited, nat threw the axe with all his strength at the moose's head.
by chance rather than skill, the poll of the axe struck the animal just above the eyes at the root of the antlers.
it staggered, holding its head to one side a moment, as if half-stunned or in pain.
then, recovering, it snorted, and with a bound through the brush, jumped into the stream, and either swam or waded across to the low sandy bank on the other side.
there it stood, still shaking its head.
jonathan had caught up with nat by this time, and they both stood watching the moose for some moments, hoping that the mad animal had now had enough of the fracas and would go his way.
the horse was in the brush of the little gully, sticking fast there, or tired out by its exertions; and they now began considering how they could best extricate it and get it back up the bluff.
just then, however, their other horse neighed long and shrill from the top of the bank, calling to its mate.
the frightened horse beside them neighed back in reply.
these equine salutations produced an unexpected result.
another hoarse snort and a splash of the water was the response from across the stream.
"he's coming again!"
exclaimed jonathan.
"have you got the powder-horn, nat?
give it to me quick, if you've got it!"
nathaniel had had the powder-horn up on the bank, but had dropped it there, or lost it out of his pocket in his scramble down the bluff.
there was no time to search for it.
the moose was plunging through the narrow stream, and a moment later sprang ashore and came bounding up the gully toward the horse.
the boys shouted to frighten him off.
the crazy creature appeared neither to hear nor heed.
jonathan hastily took refuge behind a rock; nat jumped to cover of a tree trunk.
in his rush at the horse, the moose passed close to them.
again nat hurled the axe at the animal's side.
jonathan, snatching up a heavy stone, threw it with all his might.
the horse, too, wheeling in the narrow bed of the gully, kicked spitefully, lashing out its iron-shod hoofs again and again, planting them hard on the moose's front.
for some moments this singular combat raged there.
recovering the axe and coming up behind the animal, nat now attempted to deal a blow.
the moose wheeled, however, as if struck by sudden panic, and went clear over nat, who was thrown headlong and slid down into the water.
the moose bounded clear over him, and again went splashing through the little androscoggin to the other side, where it turned as before, shaking its antlers and rending the brush with them.
nathaniel had caught hold of a bush, and thus saved himself from going fully into the swift current.
jonathan helped him get out, and the two young fellows stared at each other.
the encounter had given them proof of the mad strength and energy of the moose.
"oh, if we could only find that powder-horn somewhere!"
jonathan exclaimed.
the horse up on the bluff sent forth again its shrill neigh, to which the one beside them responded.
and just as before, the moose, with an awful bellow, came plunging through the little river and bounding up the gully.
"my soul!
here he comes again!"
jonathan fairly yelled.
"get out o' the way!"
and nat got out of the way as quickly as possible, taking refuge behind the same rock in the side of the gully.
again the place resounded to a frightful medley of squeals, bellowings, and crashes in the brush.
this time jonathan had caught up the axe, and approaching the furious melee of whirling hoofs and gnashing teeth from one side, attempted to get in a blow.
in their wild movements the enraged animals nearly ran over him, but he struck and stumbled.
the blow missed the moose's head, but fell on the animal's foreleg, just below the knee, and broke the bone.
the moose reared, and wheeling on its hind legs, plunged down the gully, falling partly into the river, much as nat had done.
a dozen times it now struggled to get up, almost succeeding, but fell back each time.
with the ardour of battle still glowing in him, jonathan rushed forward with the axe, and finally managed to deal the moose a deathblow; with a knife they then bled it, and stood by, triumphant.
"we've muttoned him!
we've muttoned him!"
nat shouted.
"but i never had such a fight as that before."
the horse, as it proved, was not seriously injured, but they were obliged to cut away the alder brush in the gully to get the animal back up the bluff, and were occupied for fully an hour doing so.
the body of the moose was a huge one; it must have weighed fully fourteen hundred pounds.
the boys could no more have moved it than they could move a mountain.
moreover, it was now beginning to snow fine and fast.
jonathan had a fairly good knife, however, and by using the axe they succeeded in rudely butchering the carcass and dismembering it.
even then the quarters were so heavy that their full strength was required to drag them up the bluff and load them into the wagon.
the head, with its broad, branching antlers, was all that they could lift to the top of their now bulky load.
the task had taken till past four o'clock of that stormy november afternoon.
twilight was upon them, the wintry twilight of a snowstorm, before they made start; and it was long past midnight when they finally plodded home.
there were corncake and moose venison for thanksgiving dinner.
the end